#Harrow is so familiar with that sword

[jbm04]

Gideon Nav with a two-hander made of regenerating bone.

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Life's Sweet Bells

A COD Farm Sim AU with some omegeverse splashed in!

Meet the Town!

John Soap Mactavish - Clean and green, with a scent like shortbread and rose,  you can see how the wiley alpha Soap got his nickname. Soap runs the neighboring livestock farm. Soap specializes in critters big and small, from velvety eared rabbits to towering horses. He prides himself in his work, and his animals usually run best in show for the town's yearly festivals. When not at the farm, Soap can be seen chatting it up at the blacksmith's or having an evening pint at the inn. With a friendly smile and sunkissed skin, could Soap be your first friend??

John Price. Or rather Captain, formerly. John is an alpha that once ran the town's mines with a tight efficiency. Slaying the monsters therein and emerging with jewels and ores a plenty. Since the town's devastating earthquake the mines have since been closed. John stubbornly remains, clearing the mines on his own. Though his ink and coffee scent permeates the artifacts wing of the local museum, a responsibility he shares  with Alex. John is considered an expert in monsters and hidden treasures. During down time John is down at the docks with Farah and Nik.

Simon Ghost Riley. Formerly Price's right hand in the mines, and now the town's blacksmith, Ghost stands tall and aloof. Pale arms lined with scars, and soot stained fingertips. Some say his room is lined with awards for his craft. Ghost can make anything, and is responsible for a lot of specialty items for the whole village, special swords and crossbows for Price. Stronger tools and equipment for Gaz. He doesn't say much to you when you show up, and you assume the mask is to protect his face, though he never takes it off.  What's more odd is the syrupy sweet scent buried under all the brimstone. 

Kyle Gaz Garrick. Kyle is a master of his craft and does the bulk of the repairs and renovations around the village. (As well as some of its more charming cosmetics) With the help of Ghost and Price, Gaz is slowly but surely piecing the town back together after the earthquake. Kyle is renown in town for his delicate work and eye for detail. Despite popular beliefs Kyle is a calm and laid back Alpha, with a fresh and citrusy scent that's almost hypnotic. Kyle is one of the first to come to the new farm, providing a few extra tools he had laying around to help you get started. He's ecstatic to have a new face around town!

Nikolai? Nobody seems to know his last name, but he seems to be well liked in town. Nikolai was once a traveling merchant, never staying in one place for too long. He made his way by selling rare and unique wares. Since the earthquake the alpha has settled in town on a more permanent basis. Nik now runs a beautifully crafted bathhouse so those hard workers of the village can rest their weary bones, while still having a handful of new and rare items to sell each week. There seems to be more to the alpha that meets the eye. 

Kate Laswell. Kate is the town physician. A no nonsense beta who is chronically scraping townsfolk off the ground when they fail to take care of themselves properly. She's lovely, but so very tired. When Kate isn't at the clinic she assists her wife with running the inn. 

Farah is a fisherman extraordinaire, and has been a godsend with getting supplies in and out of the village while the bridges were out. While Farah doesn't brag, tales of her adventures are written on the scars on her toned tanned arms. While goods and services aren't her day to day now, Farah still heads out on her boat each day with Alex in tow.

Alex is responsible for a bulk of the collections at the museum, and when he's not there, he helps Farah out on the docks. In his downtime Alex writes stories down on the well worn pages of his journal. Harrowing tales of a strong and fearless pirate who saves the day again and again. So what if the long braided heroin resembles someone familiar?

(Not sure how deep in the weeds i'll go with this, but I'm having fun, I would love to make it a little series)

[philokaliist]

'The Night Everything Fell Apart'

Clarisse La Rue x DaughterOfApollo!Reader!

WARNINGS!!:Mentions of blood,su!c!de,r!attempts su!c!ce.Angst! (Sorry If I missed anything!)

Angst,Annabeth is the one who finds reader.Part 2 out:

A/N:Not what I usually write but one of my friends rq'd this so I gave it a try.I SUCK AT WRITING SAD/ANGSTY STUFF PLS DON'T COME FOR ME.

A usual night in camp halfblood was disrupted as all of a sudden,the silence shattered into a symphony of horror.A blood - curdling scream pierced through the night.The source of the scream was Annabeth Chase,who had a look of sheer terror etched across her face.Clarisse, shaken from her slumber, sprang to her feet, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her sword.

"What the Hades is going on?!" Clarisse barked, her eyes scanning the camp for any signs of danger as her eyes narrowed

The camp was soon alive with commotion as other demigods rushed out of their cabins, confusion etched on their faces.The source of the scream became clear as they followed the anguished cries to the scene unfolding near the cabin of Athena.

Annabeth stood frozen, her eyes wide with horror, and a chilling realization struck Clarisse - something was terribly wrong.And soon they found out what...

Clarisse's boots pounded against the dew-kissed grass as she sprinted toward the gathering crowd.The atmosphere was thick with tension,and as she pushed her way through the onlookers,her gaze fell upon the tragic sight that had elicited Annabeth's horrified scream.

There,surrounded by a growing pool of crimson,were you,a daughter of Apollo.Your normally vibrant face was drained of color, and your once-bright eyes stared dully at the sky,blood dripping from the corners of your mouth.The metallic scent of blood hung heavily in the air, and Clarisse felt a lump forming in her throat.

Annabeth knelt beside you, her hands shaking as she pressed them against the fatal wound.The sight was heart-wrenching - a stark contrast to the usually composed and strategic daughter of Athena.Clarisse, known for her tough exterior,felt a surge of sorrow welling up inside her.

Clarisse's stern facade crumbled as she beheld the harrowing sight. The daughter of Ares,almost for the first time in her life - felt a surge of helplessness.

"What happened?" Clarisse demanded,her voice betraying a vulnerability she seldom showed.

"She tried to...end it," Annabeth choked out, her words heavy with sorrow. "But she's alive.Somehow,she's alive..."

"Get Chiron! Someone, get Chiron!" A familiar voice broke - Percy - as he pleaded with the surrounding demigods. A few of them dashed off in search of the camp's wise centaur, leaving Clarisse and others to bear witness to the tragedy unfolding before them.

Chiron,the wise centaur and camp director, surveyed the scene with a heavy heart. Clarisse stood by your side, her fists clenched in a futile attempt to contain the anguish welling up inside her.

Her eyes flickered to the faces of her fellow campers, each one reflecting a mixture of shock, grief, and disbelief.The bonds forged in the heat of battles and training seemed fragile in that moment as the reality of a friend lost to despair sank in.Especially the kids of the Apollo cabin - your fellow half-siblings broke down at the sight,it was too much for them to bear.

You had always been a lively presence in camp,your laughter echoing through the training grounds.Nobody had suspected the darkness that must have gripped your soul to lead to such a tragic action on your part.The weight of the realization pressed down on Clarisse's shoulders, and she couldn't shake the heaviness in her chest.

"No..." Clarisse whispered,the weight of the revelation settling heavily on her shoulders.

"Y/n!!" Clarisse's eyes suddenly widened, her voice a choked rasp. It was a plea, a desperate call to a friend - perhaps a love,who seemed to be slipping away.Her fingers brushed against your cold skin,and a shiver ran down her spine.The air hung heavy with the unspoken fear that lingered between the demigods.

She knelt beside Annabeth - who was still crying - her sword forgotten as she reached out. The usually fierce and stoic daughter of Ares felt a surge of helplessness in the face of such pain.Clarisse couldn't shake the image of you, alone in the darkness, driven to a desperate act.

As the reality of the situation sank in,Clarisse's emotions boiled over. She clenched her fists, her knuckles turning white, and let out a primal scream that echoed through the night.The weight of the moment bore down on her, and she collapsed beside you, tears streaming down her face.

"Why?!Why would she do...this!?" Clarisse choked on the words,her voice raw with grief. She cradled you in her arms,her fingers trembling as she tried to comprehend the pain that had driven you to such desperate measures.

You were carried to the infirmary and properly taken care of.Though due to multiple factors like the obvious blood loss and the deadly wound you had inflicted upon yourself - you were still unconscious - not looking ready to wake up any time soon.

Soon enough,the infirmary door creaked open,revealing a scene that would forever be etched in Clarisse's memory.You - laying motionless on a bed,your once vibrant spirit extinguished.The room was filled with an oppressive silence,broken only by the gentle rustling of the wind.

However,Clarisse took it upon herself to visit you,her usual tough exterior softened by the gravity of the situation.The daughter of Ares sat by your bedside, words failing her as she grappled with the fragility of life as you lay unconscious.

The hours passed in a blur of anxiety and grief.The infirmary became a haven for collective sorrow,a place where the demigods faced the fragility of life in its rawest form. Clarisse, usually a pillar of strength, found herself grappling with emotions she had long kept at bay.

"You're not alone." Clarisse finally spoke, her voice wavering slightly. "We all face our demons,but we face them together.You've got people here who care about you." Even though she had no idea if you could hear her or not,she still tried to be there and encourage you - even in your state - but she hoped you could hear her,she then continued. "...I'm one of them.I care for you,I do,I swear I do,damn it!So please,please survive." Her once confident and authoritative tone was now broken and sounded more like a plea than anything.She wanted you to survive.

A/N:I have mixed feelings abt this but I wrote it bc I was in a mood and listening to spotify so ig it works.

Part two here!

[harrowharkwife]

thinking thoughts about how nona was so obsessed with crown, and crown specifically- not coronabeth. crown, with her boots and her cargo pants and her guns and her hair tied back, with all her charm and strength, all her rage and determination.

was that really just nona? or, walk with me here- is there a chance that that was actually alecto, too, bleeding through and rising to the surface?

alecto, seeing a kind of kinship in crown- in this big, tall, strong blonde with a sword strapped to her back, hot and lovely and kind and awful and powerful and perfect. this woman who refuses to give up- on her sister, on saving jody, on BOE's resistance. who's unafraid to throw one hell of a tantrum, if it means being listened to, for once. crown, who everyone thinks of as dumb, who everyone underestimates, who no one ever takes as seriously as they should, even though she's clearly capable of plenty of atrocities in her own right. this woman who's been described over and over again as someone who positively radiates life, and energy, and vitality, and strength. this woman who wanted nothing more than the chance to be herself, to be free, to serve as cavalier and guardian and protector, but was instead sentenced at birth to a life of being a princess and wearing dresses and looking pretty and loving less and staying out of the way and keeping her mouth shut and playing second fiddle to a necromancer obsessed with power and glory. familiar, no? this woman who was betrayed, left behind, left alone, and left utterly in the dark by the one person who's supposed to love her the most- only to then be told that being abandoned was in her best interest, really, for her own safety.

thinking about all the times we've seen ianthe insult crown's intelligence and praise her beauty in the same breath. you big dumb bimbo, what can you do? of all the times we've seen ianthe fussing over crown's appearance. thinking of the sister-lyctor makeover-montage ahead of dios apate minor, and how harrow hated every second of it, and how ianthe treated it like nostalgic second nature. thinking about the third house: fucked-up planet gossip-girl with all its betrayal and espionage and flesh magic and debauchery, three for the gleam of a jewel or a smile. thinking about the pressure that must have come with keeping up the double-necromancer ruse, about ianthe having successfully played the part of two necromancers from the age of six. exactly how much practice must that have taken? thinking about the casual, automatic, possessive, offhanded, violating nature of ianthe playing god and giving harrow a full head of fast-growing hair without asking, without even telling her, just to make harrow prettier, just to piss her off, just because she could. how she did it so easily, and without hesitation, almost as though she's maybe done that sort of thing before.

thinking about preservation. about a perfect body frozen in ice for a myriad, about ianthe spending all her downtime on the mithraeum figuring out how long she can keep an apple core in perfect stasis before the rot sets in.

thinking about corpse puppeting: a deceased world leader here, a trusted cavalier and friend you've known from the cradle there. about i picked you to change, and this is how you repay me? about she took babs. and who even cares about babs? babs! she could have taken me!

thinking about alecto, and hollywood hair barbie, and you have made me a hideousness.

thinking about crown, who's by her own admission boobs and hair and talk and a hell of a swordhand.

thinking about something as simple as stud earrings, and about how much grief ianthe gave her for daring to wear them.

nona loved crown.

something tells me that alecto might, too.

[chaewberry]

complete guide; how to move on from your ex (failure guaranteed!).

pairing; uchiha shisui x reader word count; 4.1k tags; breaking up and getting back together, explicit sexual content, from lovers to exs back to lovers again, humor, civilian reader. chapters; 2/5 read chapter 1

read on ao3!

Kenji was a menace both to society and to you, respectively.

You usually spend the Sundays where you didn’t have to work in a lackadaisical manner; you’d wake up early enough, your biological clock fried to shit, and put a vinyl record on while foraging whatever food you could find inside your cupboards and fridge in order to eat something resembling a nutritious meal. Like Rin would often insist on drilling into your head amidst meetings and consultations and poor attempts at cornering you in the storage room while you were busy side stepping through the chain of command just so that you could get what you needed for your patients through morally corrupt means, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day!”

After that, with music playing the background, the arduous chore of half-assedly cleaning the apartment took priority before you crashed from the lack of caffeine you were so used to having at work, all day, every day, watery and lukewarm and with the probability of someone having used a sock as a filter to make it in the breakroom. When that time came, you’d abscond into the bathtub, steeping inside the boiling water like an overpriced fucking tea-bag — you’d lay within the confines of your watery, heavy grave for an hour and then you’d get out, smelling of honey and wheat, and then you’d have the rest of the day to plan out.

 Of course, most Sundays ended up with you laying on your couch reading anything you could get your hands on; magazines, old books you had bought but never cracked open, medical essays Rin or Tsunade had left on your desk, personal essays from the multifaceted writers in the capital, poems so pretentious that they ruined your mood to read, manga you had borrowed from the library, the pages yellowed and stained with what you hoped was coffee or tea or milk. If the pages stuck a bit too much together you left the manga alone — you were around teenagers all year round in the hospital, you knew what lack of shame tasted like in the air you breathed.

Speaking of shame, or lack thereof.

“Put that back where you found it.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“Why?”

Kenji, you found, was an intricate presence in your life; you were proud to say that you had managed, in those meager six weeks of companionship, to master the whims and wills of the face behind the man. The naked truth thinly veiled behind his childish antics had you doubting his status as a formidable shinobi of the village some days, for no one should be that open about intentions and purposes.

But here Kenji was, on a Sunday morning at the crack ass of dawn, sitting on your tatami floors with nothing but a pair of black sweats on, smelling of your shampoo and soap and smiling like a little fucking kid as he played with a tanto sword harness you had forgotten at the bottom of your closet. Should you admonish him for digging around your closet? You thought of it, but then you had to keep up the ruse of pretending to care about stuff like that.

You knew you lost the privilege to indulge in self-deception when you walked in on him trying on one of your creamy, frilly bras. You had only blurted out, “you’re too busty.” before moving on from the more harrowing events of the day and onto better ones.

Even so, he kept being a meddlesome old man — you told him so.

“I’m not that old,” he refuted, not sounding insulted in the least, flinging the harness to the side. It thumped against the next to the couch you were lying on and fell down on the floor. You blinked down at it, eyes following the familiar patterns, the latch that Shisui used to fasten on his shoulder and behind his back, the marks, nicks and burns. It wasn’t unsalvageable, and the same went for his spare kunai ripping a hole in the box that you had all but shoved underneath the bed.

That bastard still hadn’t come to clean up his shit from your house — you were left with momento’s and reminders everywhere your eyes strayed.

It wasn’t until Kenji bend down to pick up the harness, a stifled sigh escaping past his lips, that you had been sitting on the couch staring at the piece of clothing like a fucking widow. Immediately, you sat back down on the pillow and resumed your reading. You could still see Kenji, feel him as he moved around the house, towards your bed. He grabbed the box without much fanfare and threw the harness inside, his posture lax as he took in the other items that you had stored in there the past few weeks you’ve been cleaning the house.

Obviously, Kenji had known all along that this was underneath your bed. He had never spoken if it; items that irrefutably belonged to someone else, the shirts that hanged too loose on your frame, the supernumerary amount of medical supplied underneath the sink in the bathroom, the scattered shinobi grade shirts and vests you had fastidiously washed the blood off and placed them in your closet, buried underneath your own clothes, one plate too many, one cup too many, extra cutlery you wouldn’t possibly used all on your own.

You had tried, meticulously so, to scrub down the traces left behind but ignored the first rule of breaking up with someone — undoubtedly, Shisui himself should have come to pick up his stuff, but, then again, he wasn’t the only one suffering through such ill-advised behaviour.

You could barely remember what it was that you had left abandoned at your ex’s house inside the Uchiha compound. Some questionable reading material you had left behind on purpose. A few plates, maybe, some vinyl records you brought with you whenever the mood hit and the two of you orchestrated a little get together amongst friends and in which afterwards Shisui would succeed fucking your brains out on his tatami floors, whatever music playing in the background mingling in with hiccuping sobs and the sound of Shisui laughing down at your face as you took and took. He’d lean down to lap at the drool at the corner of your mouth, lick away the tears clamping your eyelashes.

( “Fine; let’s break up. You’ll have to tell me why though. What am I supposed to tell our friends when they ask?”

You waited as a second passed by, two, three seconds, to feel that familiar pull in the air, the wrapping of space, for Shisui to pop up carelessly close to you and laugh at the false bravado you were putting up.

Just kidding, he’d say — but you could never predict him, even if you expected him.

Shisui was silent for a moment, black curls sticking to his forehead and nape. He smiled, “I’ve decided I don’t want to love you anymore.”)

Kenji didn’t stop there. He turned to you, casting an insolent, analytical glance from head to toe before walking back to stand over you like some sort of half dressed deity of premature ejaculations (“that was one time!)  and an outrageous amount of superior wrist game.

 “Stand up,” he said, smiling like a lunatic while looming over you.

You gulped. “Why?”

“Just stand up.”

Slowly, you did as he asked. Kenji hauled your arms up in the air. Before you could think of a response, quicker than you could blink or formulate a thought regarding his shenanigans, he grabbed the bottom of the shirt you were wearing, black, too big for you, and yanked it up and over your head, leaving you consequently naked except from the black panties you were wearing.

He left you, gaping like a fish out of water, and stalked right back towards the box, dropping in the now rumpled shirt you’ve been wearing for the past three days, before promptly kicking the box underneath the bed once again.

You crossed your arms over your bare chest. “What the hell?”

“Mn,” Kenji said, bending down to deliver a nasty, slobbering kiss on your lips. “How about we take breakfast out today?”

Taking breakfast out in Kenji’s book meant shoving you through the half rotten doors of an establishment whose mere existence should be put down on the village’s records as the source of plagues and public virus outbreaks for the last three years at the least. Once inside, you dared not open your mouth to breathe for fear of catching a fatal illness passing by with the wind. The vapors Kenji characterized as ‘old unfiltered oxygen’ were anything but.

“Can we leave?” you asked, wretched, fixing the surgical mask so it didn’t cut uncomfortably at the sensitive skin underneath your eyes.

Whoever owned this shitty backwater so called breakfast joint should cease to exist effective immediately and his existence marked down in history books for being a danger to societal hygiene and a menace in the overall health of the village.

“No.” 

Kenji shoved you into a booth, the broken, tattered leather creaking underneath your weight and his bulking form as he took a seat opposite of you. The table itself was clean, but marred with a myriad of marks and small dents you knew came from kunai being thrown. Two identical marks marred your kotatsu and even the small table in your kitchen wasn’t spared.

Fucking Uchihas.

You all but ripped the unfolded menu out of Kenji’s offering hands, skimming through the items listed with inked, smudged letters. On one side it listed a variety of breakfasts, followed by beverages. In the middle it contained foods, actual, honest to god foods one would order at a restaurant. Here, you gazed back at Kenji from the top of the menu. Already, you knew that his itching proclivities combined with his shit survival instincts would prove fatal for his future bowel movements.

As a nurse, it fell to you to suggest abstention from ordering something like food from a place such as this — as a bystander however, there would be nothing more amusing than watching Kenji form a sense of self-preservation.

Picking up a second menu off the side, Kenji seemed content in letting it lie uselessly in front of him while he swiveled his body to the side. “I thought you’d at least know about this place, you know,” the man suddenly spoke up, turning his head to address you, though his eyes seemed preoccupied with something else at the bar, the sound of glasses clinking together unmistakable.

“You thought wrong,” you drawled out. You sighed, let the worn out menu fall on the table pitifully. “I miss my kitchen.”

“You never cook,” Kenji hummed, smiling off to the side before turning back to you. He grabbed one of the two glasses left on the table and flipped it over, running a thumb over the rim. “I’ve never even seen you use the kettle - you drink everything cold because you’re a barbarian and too bored for the finer things in life.”

“That hardly proves anything.”

The bastard smiled, ever so amicable. “I’ve never seen you use any of the pots and pans either.”

“You don’t know that,” you fired back, though the lack of heat behind your words was certainly a give away. “You’re not a near constant presence in my apartment, are you?”

“Perhaps not - the frozen meals inside your fridge speak volumes, however.”

Okay. 

“Okay,” you said. A headache was beginning to throb behind your left eye. You pinched the bridge of your nose to stem it. “I take it back; I don’t miss my kitchen. There, satisfied?”

“I will never be satisfied,” Kenji shot back, unperturbed.

Kenji never reacted poorly to anything. He took everything in strides and with a less than a healthy dosage of impeccable acceptance.

“Be miserable, then,” you snapped, not knowing what else to say. 

Kenji, true to his nature, simply smiled; a crooked thing, almost full enough to be false. Kenji never smiled like he was telling a lie. It could be a show of mockery, of genuine pleasure, of trepidation, but never out of a need to plant and sow a lie. He was, in a way, surprisingly honest. It made your own lips curl upwards and your heart cry out with relief; you weren’t a heavy laying weight on his consciousness, and although he always took care of you before and after the intimate act, he took no burdens in lessening your own crisis of self.

You indulged in this depraved act together, and cast yourselves further down the path of no return, a sweet escape no more.

Your honesty never sprouted from words or even actions but only from the empty spaces in between. Kenji was a smart man; he could make up his own truths to fill in those spaces, his own lies. Your deliberate silence was your honesty.

“That’s the idea.”

He shoved a cigarette in your hands and offered you a light. You took it with grace - whatever the fuck Kenji deiced to unravel in this hole in a pile of shit diner that was sidelining as a bar had admittedly shook your own crisis to the surface. It was your last day off before you had to go back mucking up puke and blood from the floor and having to watch grateful parents wheel healthy kids past despairing ones. 

Your fingers shook. You found the urge, abruptly, to bludgeon the man to death. “What the fuck is your problem. You asked me out.”

Kenji hummed. He grabbed the jag and poured water in his glass, sliding it over to you — urging you, perhaps, to drench him with it, and staying silent.

You wanted to press him, drive him into a corner and maybe put the cigarette out in his eye in a fit of bestial rage. You only barely managed to swallow around the knot in your throat before a server came up to the table —  a boy a few years younger than you with short hair caressing the back of his neck and glasses sitting high upon his nose. He ran his slanted eyes over at Kenji, promptly ignored him, and turned to you with a thin assemblance of a smile that screamed bare minimum customer service.

“What can I get for you?”

With fire shimmering underneath your skin, you just barely managed to utter; “waffles, just put whatever on top.” before going back to stewing, opting now to bite the end of your cigarette instead of sucking out the smoke from it like a starved animal sucking out bone marrow from its most recent kill.

The boy only blinked at you, scribbled down your order and turned to Kenji, finally.

Kenji, for his part, immediately seemed to forget all about living in the thralls of misery. With a too wide smile he ordered the medium spice curry and a hot coffee to the side. He didn’t take his eyes off the waiter until he disappeared behind the kitchen door before turning back to you, blinking down at the chewed cigarette in the ashtray. “I’ve decided to apologise. I was in the wrong, please forgive me.”

“You have a personality problem, you know that?”

“Alright, alright,” he murmured in an attempt to placate you. “I’ll buy you strawberries on the way home, okay? Drink some water.”

You drank some fucking water.

“Honestly,” Kenji spoke up. “You should look to invest in some calming herbal teas.”

“You’re part of the reason I’m halfway through popping a blood vessel,” you snapped, slamming the glass on the table. “Are you my fuck buddy or a leech?”

“Is there a quota on how many times you can see your rebound in a week? Can’t I hang out with my part time lover, part time friend outside of office hours?”

Without waiting for your reply Kenji leaned forward and took the cigarette from between your fingers, stabbing it out on the ashtray just before a plate filled with spicy curry was all but unceremoniously thrown at the table. The server with the slanted eyes was looking less than pleased, pointing at the ‘No Smoking’ sticker that had seen better days glued to the glass window next to Kenji’s head.

“Ah, Satoru,” Kenji’s voice came out almost as a purr. “Please forgive me - my eyesight is not what it used to be in my old age.”

But Satoru didn’t seem to be in a particularly forgiving mood. He set down your own plate with pancakes with more grace than you probably deserved for indulging Kenji’s bullshit and took out a different notepad from the pocket of his apron, sprawling out something on a piece of paper. For a brief moment you expected Satoru the Server to slap Kenji with said paper, but the young man simply set it next to the plate of curry before placing a cup of hot coffee on top of it.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, shoving the notepad and pen back into his pocket, “be better.”

The contents of the paper had you swallowing down a fresh wave of laughter.

“Quick question,” you said, turning back to observe Kenji after Satoru stalked back into the kitchen. “You wouldn’t happen to harbor explicit thoughts about wanting to fuck our server, would you?”

He gasped. “You make me sound like the lecherous husband who prays on young boys while he leaves his wife home to rot. You wound me, beloved.”

“I hope Satoru spat in your food.”

“You think so?” Kenji asked wistfully.

Nevermind.

After that you two ate in silence. To your begrudgement, the pancakes tasted heavenly, nearly melting on your tongue. Kenji seemed to enjoy his breakfast curry for his part as well, looking all too pleased at the hastily scrawled fine he had grasped in between his fingers, eyes going over the messy spots the pen had left from the overleaking ink. You remembered what he said; in love with someone thirteen years younger than him, not knowing what to do, where to stand and when to stop, starving enough to risk snapping a bone or two to suck the marrow out.

You said nothing, scooping up a forkful of his curry, tasting it, then taking a second bite because it was fucking delicious. Kenji reached over with his spoon and took half a pancake with him, leaving behind smudges of the thick brown sauce on the corner of your plate. Surprisingly, curry with pancakes blended well inside your mouth, and perhaps your taste buds were proving to be as unrefined as you had grown to be the last few weeks.

Afterwards, a struggle ensued; both you and Kenji were drastically knocking each other down in a feud for the bill. It was no less embryonic than it was cathartic when you managed to shove the end of your spoon in a stray nostril and walked off with the bill, specks of Kenji’s blood on the outside of your palm and a litany of swears coming from behind you as you trekked towards the counter with the hard worn and torn in half bill in hand.

Satoru, for his part behind the counter, didn’t seem the least alarmed at the scuffle, nor did he spare a second glance at the bloodied bill you handed him along with the money -- he had reserved, instead, all the ensemble of life he could master behind his beautifully slanted dark eyes to scrutinize your person from head to toe. 

You did the same, though not unkindly.

Satoru appeared to be just a few years younger than you, probably just starting out his twenties, with a stubborn, childish bit of fat still hanging on to his cheeks. The antithesis of his appearance with the look he harbored inside his eyes as he scoped you out nearly made you laugh  you would have, were you any less kind.

Patiently, you waited for your change, and you waited, impassively, for a question.

Satoru handed you your change. “Tell Kenji he’ll need to go to the police station to pay off the smoking fine.”

You grinned. “I’ll tell him - sorry about that, by the way, I didn’t see the sign.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, watching you as you made to grab your wallet out of your bag, dropping it, picking it up and then dropping it again in quick succession. “Are you a family member?” he almost looked ready to hurl as he asked.

You wondered, briefly, if this was the reason Kenji brought you out to eat here today.

“No, I’m a pediatrician” you supplied helpfully, slipping the money inside your wallet along with the receipt. 

“Oh,” Satoru blinked, “right.”

“How long have you and Kenji known each other?”

“...not long; a few years, give or take.”

“Hm. What were your first impressions of him?”

This time the younger man didn’t hesitate to answer you, “a no good shinobi with too much time at his hands. He basically kidnapped me.”

“That’s just not true, my dear Satomi.” You turned to Kenji, standing behind you and smiling ludicrously wide. “I bribed you.”

Satoru’s expression soured. “Die, please.”

Kenji cooed at Satoru and the boy all but kicked you out of the establishment.

“Is romance lost on you,” you mocked now, walking side by side with Kenji on the way to your house.

“You suck.”

“You wish.”

“No wonder your last beau left if that is how you treated them,” he said, positively dismal. 

You readily agree. “Yeah, I must’ve been a pretty shitty significant other.”

Kenji insisted on walking you home after breakfast, just as he insisted on buying you ice-cream and making you wait ten steps behind him as he ruffled through the magazine stand outside the konbini near your house, cramming issues upon issues underneath his arm with a look of somber severity. He paid for them, shoved them in a plastic bag, and then jabbed the aforementioned bag in between your fingers.

He made a point by saying, “read those.” but firmly stopped you from actually doing so when you went to see what kind of perverted shit he had bought. The amount of questionable and morally bankrupt reading material you found underneath the pillows of teenagers in the hospital far surpassed whatever quota you had set for yourself in this life, and the stickiness in between some of the pages were almost enough to make you reconsider giving them some of those little shits less of their described pain medicine - but you were, above all else, a slave to your job and the oath Tsunade had made you spit out in between clacking teeth and a heavier than lead tongue that soaked in the cheap sake she kept underneath her desk for emergency celebration. Or so she said when had unceremoniously thrown you down on the couch like you were yesterday’s corner whore and shoved the bottle down your throat, shouting shrill congratulations.

Shisui had to carry you home after finding you wandering the streets like a widowed ghost. At the time, nothing more than a passing acquaintance you met through Rin and, consequently, Obito, the man had graciously ignored your comments about your taste in men in uniforms and completed his duty as an officer and safely deposited you back into the safe confines of your apartment where you spent the next day detoxing, making a blood pact with the reflection in the bathroom’s mirror to never let another drop of that toxic waste Tsunade called alcohol touch your lips, and also avoid Rin’s reasonably handsome family friend like the fucking plague and hate him on principle.

Evidently, your own self had proven to be your most wretched adversary.

“You suck,” you told Kenji, voice scratchy and eyes moist.

How very not nonchalant of you.

He planted a wet one on your cheek. “ And swallow.” 

.*.

You dumped the magazines directly on top of your bed, your hair still dripping wet after your shower, dressed in nothing but a pink fluffy towel and the slippers on your feet. You eyed the various covers with mounting interstate as you ran a towel through your hair. You nudged them away from each other to better see them with your foot and paused when one in particular caught your eyes. Dropping the towel from your head you sat down on the bed, face unconsciously pulling up into a grimace. You flipped the magazine, settling on a random page, and felt one of your bottom eyelids starting to tick.

“Trying Being FWB Before Fully Breaking-Up!”

Surely not.

You threw the offending magazine somewhere over your shoulder. You heard it hit the wall, fall down —  you didn’t concern yourself with it, only focusing on latching onto another one. There was a beautiful model splayed artistically over the cover, blonde hair curled to shit, thick and glistening against the glare of the camera and the lights. Only her mouth was visible underneath the main; small, pouty lips pushed apart for the tongue to make an appearance. You opened it right into the middle.

“It’s Time to Stop Asking for Space, and Start Ending Your Relationship.”

Next magazine, on a random page, ‘ Date Them, Even If You Know It Won’t Last Long.” , and the page after that, “The Best Sex Toys of The Year.”

You were going to fucking murder Kenji.

[kairos-polaris]

a small study on how John could have asked Kiriona to be his cavalier

it's also on ao3

---

He brings it up casually, on one of the many occasions he invited you to have tea with him (he said it’s important to spend time with your children, that he is making up for the years he didn’t know about you). John Gaius says: "What do you think about being my cav? Wouldn't it be neat for you, my kid, my heir, to be my sword?" He looks at you and smiles at you kindly, the way you always imagined your mother smiling at you as you told her all about your life on the Ninth.

It is a sudden and unexpected question that makes you want to make stupid jokes. "One flesh, one end," your foolish mouth wants to say but you choke down on the words. You think about her and the time you swore yourself to her. You think of giving her your flesh, your end and your life. So, there is no need to mention the oath God wouldn’t care for anyway, not like you have anything else to give. Everything you have is owed to him anyway.

To be his cavalier, huh. You try not to think of his previous cav, no, you remind yourself, his current one. If he is offering he must not want her anymore, right?

Your dad takes your silence as a refusal so he smiles in that awkward manner unbefitting for God, his now familiar attempts in pretending he is just a guy. He takes your hand and squeezes it gently. He says: "Of course I understand if you would rather not. I know how much Harrow means to you and how devoted you are to her. I do not mean to try to take her place in your heart."

Except he is, you think absently, God wants you to turn to him and to love him the most because he is a selfish man who has lost everyone who has ever loved him (his own fault, really an incessant voice buzzes in your head). What does he even know about the depth of your devotion to her?

Take her place.

God, your Resurrector, turned your body into a perfect construct, the final expression of the art of the Nine Houses; you are dead and you don't need to breathe nor can you cry. And the sole mention of her is enough to cause you to choke and your eyes to burn with tears they cannot shed.

"No! I would like that," you say and try to smile but the muscles in your face refuse to obey you. Your body is a construct that does not belong to you. "It would be neat," you reassure him and yourself, "to be your sword. An honour."

Your dad beams at you and holds his arms open. He is giving you a choice, he thinks, whether to accept his touch or not. But there is only one option for you. He will accept your rejection yet the sadness on his face will cause an all-devouring pit to open in your chest, a desperate need to apologise and take back your words. A need to please, to be good to your father, your God. And to avoid that feeling you are willing to accept his touch, to endure it, and to choke on the revulsion (he is your father and you love him as you know how to but he caused her pain and that you can't forgive. He was the one to say forgiveness does not exist, so maybe you can love and hate him all the same.)

And so you hug him (more like collapse into his arms and let him hold you for as long as he pleases; a pliant doll with limbs to arrange and position to his liking). It gets easier to bear with time. It's not like you don't want to be touched or hate being hugged. No, you hunger for it, crave it like a starved man craves food, dream of it like a man in a desert dreams of water. You want to be touched, even by Ianthe. It's just that there is a voice in your head that is more Gideon Nav, an indentured serf of the Ninth, than Kiriona Gaia, Her Divine Highness, the first of the Tower Princes. And that voice reminds you over and over of that night and all his lies revealed. You get better at silencing it the more time you spend with your God, your Resurrector, your father. You get better at fitting yourself into his arms. You wrap your hands around him tightly and rest your head on his shoulder.

"I would love to be your cavalier, if you'll have me," you repeat it just to hear yourself say it. You don't have to look to know he is smiling and a part of you, a treacherous, childish part of you, is happy he is pleased.

"It would be my honour," he says softly, casually and all you can do is lean into him further. "I love you," he says and all you can do is wish you could cry.

Later, he pulls away and tells you of what you will have to accomplish to become his cavalier. Open the Tomb, awaken Her and kill Her. “With your blood, you will succeed. You and only you can do it,” he says, his hand still on yours.

“You won’t be God if She dies,” you blurt out without thinking and cringe at yourself. He just laughs softly.

“I have been God for over a myriad, I am ready to become a man once again. And I don’t mind becoming mortal for you. Not God, just your father,” John says. “And your necromancer, but that’s not as important,” he adds a second later.

You feel dizzy and lightheaded. This is what you want, isn’t it? To be accepted by your father? To be chosen by someone, anyone? Your father is offering all of that and all you have to do is kill Her. Not like you haven’t thought of it already. He says, you can do it and you must believe him.

“I thought you loved her,” your foolish mouth says anyway and God sighs before you can take back your words.

“I loved her once, my Annabel Lee, but you are my daughter,” he says as if it explains anything. As if it means anything. “It is time for me to step down from the divinity she gave me and only you can make it happen. Make it quick, but kill her.”

He gently cradles your face and smiles at you. “I love you, Kiriona,” he says and, in his infinite patience, does not begrudge you when you don’t say it back.

[onefleshonepod]

ID: A digital collage of "The High Priestess” tarot card as the Body from the Locked Tomb series. The card depicts the Body as a ghostly figure with both arms raised, dressed in a diaphanous blue-white robe, standing on a large crescent. In her left hand is a sword. In her right hand is a scroll. She is crowned with the headdress of the Egyptian goddess Hathor, a red sun disc with cow horns. At the top is another representation of the Body reaching out of a river, from Mermaids by Arthur Rackham. In the background is the Bird and Pomegranate pattern by William Morris. Behind that, providing the abstract landscape, is Avignon by Ralph Hotere, an influential Māori artist. The image of the Body is from Allegory with a Woman by Luděk Marold. The left side of the card shows the upright meaning of The High Priestess and reads, “Inner Voice | Unconscious | Intuition | Mystery | Spiritual Insight in all caps. The right side of the card shows the reversed reading and reads “Repressed Feelings | Secrets | Hidden Motives | Cognitive Dissonance” in all caps. The base of the card reads "The High Priestess | The Body” in a retro 1970s-style font.

My goal with these tarot cards was to choose characters who embody the meanings of the cards when you think of them, to make the cards intuitive to grasp for Locked Tomb fans who might not be very familiar with tarot. Discussion below:

The Body haunting Harrow is quite literally an inner voice and a representation of Harrow’s subconscious. She’s the perfect figure for the High Priestess card. It’s hard to represent spiritual insight better than with. well. um. a spirit who is a religious figure who also provides insights. The nature of the Body is also one of the central mysteries of Harrow the Ninth.

Regarding the reversed meanings, the Body is also emblematic of Harrow’s secret which is hidden even from herself. My personal interpretation (along with many others') is that Harrow sublimated her forgotten and repressed feelings for Gideon onto the Body throughout Harrow the Ninth.

With my visual interpretation of this card, I tried to preserve or nod to some elements of the Rider-Waite-Smith High Priestess card. As a disclaimer, the hodge-podge orientalist imagery of the RWS deck is a shameful product of its time, but the illustrations are iconic and well known, so I wanted to acknowledge them. I also wanted to use images which evoked the dark wet ghost imagery of pre-Nona art and fanon of the Body.

The RWS High Priestess, and mine, presides over two pillars, representing the balance between them. The RWS pillars can be seen as multiple different dualities (such as good and evil), but are often called are the Pillar of Establishment and the Pillar of Strength. I interpreted the left side (with the scroll) as Harrow’s path of completing the process of Lyctorhood and becoming a fully functional tool of the empire. The right side, where the Body is holding a sword, represents Wake, Gideon, and the path of heresy. Just as the High Priestess’ role is to mediate between the two extremes, the Body’s role seems to be to help Harrow on her own chosen path.

The crescent moon at the Body’s feet, in the same place as in the RWS card, is seen also in many depictions of the Virgin Mary. This is meaningful because (as has been more thoroughly discussed elsewhere) the Ninth House’s worship of the Body and the way this is viewed as heretical and idolatrous by the other Houses can be seen as a parallel to Catholics’ veneration of Mary. I tried to continue the Marian imagery from the RWS card with a subtle blue tint to the figure’s robes.

The pomegranates in the background, also a detail preserved from the RWS card, are a symbol of — well, what aren’t they a symbol of. Many things that resonate in the Locked Tomb series. Death, eternal life, Hell, being torn between two realities… I used the William Morris pomegranates because I love his prints.

Finally, the RWS High Priestess wears the headdress of the Egyptian goddess Hathor, which I kept specifically because the cow horns are perfect: the Body being the Earth and wearing the symbol of John’s first transgression against the Earth while also trying to save it. Hathor’s domain was to help souls transition to the afterlife, and she was often depicted as a cow.

[leggerefiore]

really funny scenerio of reader whos dating cyrus getting isekai'ed and trying to not catch any feelings for cyllene because she reminds them so much of him. Reader trying to explain this to him later after getting back "I'm sorry but she was so much like you but she also had a sword"

uhh, this ended really long and heavy whoops

cw: jealousy, fluff, complicated relationships, time travelling,

pairing: Cyrus/Reader, Cyllene/Reader

Hisui had been a harrowing experience. You had not thought yourself particularly spoiled within the confines of the modern day… Though, perhaps, you should have realised that having a company president for a boyfriend whose main interest for you was keeping you pleased and at his side while not looking too much into his plans was not exactly a common thing. Sure, he would buy whatever you requested with little question, but… Well, you had not always been like that. The comfort of it was recognised and appreciated. Though, Hisui did not even compare to your life before settling into that comfort.

Life was a fleeting thing in Hisui. Modern medicine was on the precipice of its birth, but infections still were a terrifying killer for any serious injury. Pokemon were more violent and untamed. Cities were a dream of the future and barely a thing within the sparkling northern island. The bustling Jubilife of your era was now reduced to its delicate infancy. Traditional style buildings liked the streets, walls surrounded the city to keep out dangerous wild pokemon, people were flooding in from various other regions to the allure of a new life. A new life that may have called for them – Yours did not call for you.

But, you found a strange comfort in the daily struggle to survive. A strange comfort that you felt your stomach twist at the thought of sometimes. Your captain – Oh, how you had burst into tears nearly at the sight of her. Her beauty may have certainly been subjective, but so had Cyrus's own. You had managed to stop yourself then, processing this situation oddly. Her harsh words struck reality back, too. Many might have been hurt – angry, perhaps — at her manner of speaking. But… It was a familiarity. You knew how to read between the lines of that manner of speaking.

Most of your interactions with her were purely professional within the ranking of yourself as her underling, but her praise always seemed to go right to your heart. You were lonely. Dreadfully so. In Sinnoh, you had friends. Even with your difficult situation with Cyrus, you were never alone. Cynthia certainly seemed to make it her responsibility to monitor over you, so she never truly allowed room for you to linger alone. Now, however, you felt completely isolated. Othered, even. The villagers treated you like an oddity, and other members of the Galaxy Team made their distrust apparent. Harsh walls were built all around you. The cushy life you had known felt more apparent as you wept in the quiet of your quarters.

Perhaps… That was what led to you to tear up in front of Cyllene, too. A thinly veiled threat. Everything was dangled in front of you. Cyrus never did that to you. The stark contrast snapped your emotional control for a moment and brought you on the verge of a breakdown. Your lowered head prevented you from seeing the slight shift of expression that Cyllene had held. The next time you encountered her to review the pokedex, she seemed oddly softer. Her praise came through clearly, and for a moment, her hand even lingered near yours when you went to grab the research back.

Everything had seemed relatively peaceful as you completed your assigned tasks and the extra ones related to the nobles. Life almost had a rhythm to it. One that you treaded carefully – one that broke just when you believed it was all over. Kamado's orders were harsh and callous. The only kindness shown was leaving you to the whims of nature rather than the punishment of law. Cyllene even seemed to tense up at his words. Her eyes… The way her pupils shrunk while her face did not shift. Distress. You knew it all too well. Your first instinct was to reach a hand to ground her in reality, but you stopped yourself. She was not Cyrus. This was not Sinnoh.

She led you out from the village with the professor and your fellow Survey Corps member in tow. For a moment, however, she dismissed both them and the Security Corps member that had followed. A firm hand came to your shoulder instead. Her genuine words made your heart race. Then, her grip tightened. “… When… This is over, I would like to speak to you privately,” her voice was trained, careful. Your heart raced. Privately… The pang of feeling those words drew out…

When the madness came to an end, a festival followed. Somehow, you ended up alone with Cyllene in a mostly deserted part of the village. The quietness of the air was consuming. Her hand suddenly grabbed your own. The piercing blue eyes met your own. “… You stare at me with such desperation,” her words completely caught you off-guard, “I must remind you of someone, do I not? You seem utterly infatuated… It is unfair.”

Your attempts to explain would be seen as madness. Yes, Captain Cyllene, whenever I look at you, I think of your descendant from far into the future and how much I love him and how similar you are to him and how desperate I am for any form of known comfort here. You swallowed and shook your head. Her eyes closed. “Even so… I am not a fool,” she stepped closer to you, bringing a scarred hand to hold your cheek, “Please, even for just a moment, let us have each other.” You felt shocked by her proclamation. Protests were silenced when her arms came around you. For just a moment… She said for just a moment. Cyrus was so far away… You might not ever return back to Sinnoh. This may be your permanent place in the world.

For just a moment, you dropped your barriers as she did.

~

This world seemed keen to mock you, however. Volo came spouting information about a certain pokemon. Orders to collect information followed. While you had thought the blond trustworthy enough, you felt your guard on high alert even still. Cynthia had a certain ruthlessness to her… You could see a plain resemblance between the two. Whatever Volo was seeking, you could only hope his goals were something genuine.

They had not been, but you received a great power from his aid. Arceus. The being who had brought you here… And the being that would return you back from whence you came. The pokedex was completed – as were your tasks from both it and your captain. You knew that the sands of time that previously seemed impossible to work through were now pushing you away from where it previously trapped you. Staying in Hisui... You could… You had a place here now. Hailed as a hero among the very people who had accused you of trying to bring about their end. Sinnoh, however… Sinnoh called to you. The comfort of the modern era, your cushy, comfortable life called to you.

Your farewells were to a small group personally. The clan leaders, the professor, your fellow Survey Corps member… Even Kamado. The most personal, however, had been Cyllene. The captain met you at the Temple of Sinnoh. She stood firm – posture stained and perfect. You knew your time with her would never be permanent… It seemed she was aware, too. You loved her descendant, and… Well, you knew that you were not to be anywhere in Cyrus's family history. She had pressure on her shoulders to conform to greater society, as well. You wished that you could take her with you, to free her of her bindings. She would never agree, though. It was not her nature.

“… May I ask you one favour,” Cyllene spoke clearly. You listened to her carefully. “That person – The one you saw in me – Who are they?” You froze. A truthful answer left your lips. Lying was pointless at this time. Her eyes closed. A genuine laugh left her. Suddenly, the weight was gone from her. A smile was on her face. “I see… My descendant…” her voice sounded so different from the usual one that gave you orders. The face of Cyllene reserved for those closest to her. You had earned that place. “Take care of them,” she demanded, “… And, this may sound strange, but can I request that you take them to Hoenn? Specifically…” She gave a location that you quickly scribbled on your hand. Arceus let out a cry. Hurry it up, you supposed.

She stepped forward once more and embraced you. A kiss was softly pressed to your lips. Worries for judgment were useless in such an isolated location. Her hand lingered over yours for a moment. She backed away. “… Goodbye,” her head lowered, “I will remember you always.”

You bid your own parting.

Then left the lands of Hisui for good.

~

Sinnoh was as it always was. Except you were reported missing, and those around and dear to you were subsequently panicking when you simply walked in your apartment door with no explanation. None more so than Cyrus himself, who had been sitting in said apartment. He was a complete mess. You were shocked to see him without a proper shave and the apartment genuinely a mess. He was shocked that you were alive and seemingly unharmed.

A mess followed. Police questioning, Cyrus demanding to know what actually happened to you, Cynthia's presence making you feel like you were about to have Giratina sent to attack you once again. You were happy to explain that, simply, you had no recollection. There was no way anyone would believe your story. Even if you tried to use the photos of you preserved within a museum in Jubilife city, it simply was too illogical. The isolation you felt crept back in.

Yet, before you could fall too much, a hand reached out to grab you from darkening thoughts. A firm hand. A known hand. Familiar piercing eyes. Cyrus demanded to know. He brought out some old preserved family pictures, even. You gasped. An image that you and Cyllene had taken together. You almost felt tears burn your eyes. That had not been so long for you, yet… The truth was that this was an antique heirloom. You blurted out your story to him, losing any and every filter you had. Some moments made his face fall into something terrifying, while others almost brought a particular smugness to him. Particularly, those involving Volo... Though, you had him baffled when you spoke of his ancestor. So brightly and positively… Your entire self lit up.

Cyrus almost recognised that expression. He had seen it many times himself. Something inside him felt bitter jealousy sting. That fondness… That affection… He believed it was solely for him. Even glancing at the photo that you still held, he felt petty. You two were clearly far too close. Cyllene stood over you as you sat on a chair. The casual clothing reflected familiarity. His gaze met yours. Everything described was clearly the truth. You noticed his mood change. Suddenly, it hit you. At the time, you had felt uncertain if you would ever return back to here. Being with Cyllene had been easy. You were not in Hisui any more, had a very real and lengthy relationship with the man before you. The thought of him suddenly gushing about someone else to you in such a manner would sting.

“… She… She was like you,” you finally finished off everything, “Her beliefs, her attitude, her kindness… All of it was like you. I was alone, and she was the only familiar person around. In my worst moments, she still supported me… And… And well… She was kind of… er, hot when she showed off her sword.”

Cyrus's expression was fully masked. He only blinked.

“… Is that so?” the reply clearly reflected his inability to respond. You covered up your face. What had you done? He shifted his position closer to you. His hands grasped your own and revealed your gaze to him. “I did kendo during my youth,” he said, with almost a hint of pride. You fought back your laugh.

“You hated it.”

“I am competent with a sword.”

“You'll be out of practise. It's been over a decade.”

His eyes closed. You rested your forehead to his. Comfort… You had really been back into a comfortable life. There was no more harsh, dangerous work to survive… No more harsh glares and accusations levied at you. Cyllene… She had let you go with the knowledge that happiness waited for you here. Her final act of kindness had been setting you free and bidding you a farewell. You grasped his hands tightly. Cyrus… You had missed him dearly. They were similar, yet not the same.

“Hey, how do you feel about a trip to Hoenn?” you asked him.

“So soon? You should readjust to being here first… I have scheduled you a doctor's appointment as well,” Cyrus argued. His voice left little room for argument. You were not giving in, however.

“If I'm cleared, then we go,” you demanded, “I made a promise to her. She wanted you to go to Hoenn.”

“… If you get cleared, then sure,” he relented, seeing the passion burning in your eyes.

~

You were cleared.

Cyrus found Hoenn to have entirely too much water, alas, but enjoyed the hot springs in Lavaridge enough.

The location Cyllene asked specifically for was the sight of a long-destroyed village. You could only wonder what she wanted to show you by going here.

[kgetsu]

Weeks later, and the repairs to the monastery seemed to be coming along nicely. There was still a great deal of work to go, but the emptied buildings and halls were gradually beginning to fill with life once more. And with the Battle of Eagle and Lion approaching, there was even a faint spark of anticipation in the air.

It was as if they were regaining some small sense of normalcy...

If one could call battle normal. Diamant didn't think it should be, as much as a good fight did stir his blood.

The Brodian rolls his shoulder as he passes through the courtyard, muscles sore from a day of hefting around materials and supplies. Nothing a good rest couldn't fix, which was what he intended to do, before—

A familiar figure brings him to a pause. That black hair. The unique garb. Built arms, and that controlled, balanced gait...

"Kagetsu?" Diamant questions. With Ivy here, it would be no surprise to find her retainer far behind, and yet... "Is that you? It's been a while, my friend!" He can't help the smile that spreads across his face, eyes already wandering in search of the other man's sword. Spars with Kagetsu had always been some of the most challenging and thrilling.

"I take it you've come to check in on Iv—Queen Ivy?" His smile falls a bit, "I'm sure you've heard. The attack on the monastery was a... harrowing experience for us all, but rest assured: she, at least, came to no serious harm."

Soundless is Kagetsu, contrary to the great stir of his existence, how deeply his laugh fills the air like the space between heaven and earth is not enough to contain it. After all, a swordsman worth half his salts—salt? sugar? pepper?—must always step lightly. Invest too heavily in the wrong movement, focus, and pressure, and one will be too late to move - to dodge or retaliate as they should. Even a single mistake will cost them immeasurably, and Kagetsu of Pale Sands has never known defeat before he became Kagetsu of Elusia.

He has never made a mistake.

So lightly does he walk; at all times with footsteps few, measured, and calm. Then, at the call of a known voice and consequent turn of his body: measureless and abounding, as if hush lunar flowers might bloom with every step. "It is wonderful to see you once more, Prince Diamant! My friend! My prince! My friend!"

He jumps joyfully around the Brodian royal, attracting the stares of man and beast alike. A cat perched upon a half-broken stone wall looks up from its paw; a dog ceases to wag its tail; two squabbling squirrels abandon their feud over the same nut. Then he stills. Sudden sobriety hauls like a curtain over an illusive visage of youth and there is no trace of a smile.

"Ah. Forgiveness I beg. You are king now. It is King Diamant."

And the smile returns, equally friendly if more serene.

"That is indeed my reason, King Diamant, even if only half." Kagetsu of Elusia nods, observes the surrounding effects of destruction that his friend speaks of. He has discovered as much on his own and there is great cause for worry on Queen Ivy's behalf. ". . .The other half of my reason can wait. I seek for new lands and here is one before me! But it is not ready for my duels."

Fair; that is the spirit of conflict that Kagetsu seeks, opponents fought on equal footing and health. He will not strike at people plagued by misery. Instead he shall help. Equipped with the same bright, blinding grin as he wears now.

"But yes, yes. I am most pleased to hear that Queen Ivy is well. I shall see her next with my own eyes! And would give her two quizzes of joyous reunion. One from me, and another on your behalf!"

[hanayori89]

Worth Fighting For

*Ordon Village*

The atmosphere in Ordon was dense with the suspense of danger. The bitter, howling wind only helped to promote the unease in the environment. Link took a minute to recuperate, not a moment longer. If he must fight the fused shadow within Ilia, his only chance would be with the Master Sword.

That is, if it would still choose him as its master.

Link had to get to Zelda promptly. There was no telling where Ilia was lurking. Dread trickled down Link's spine as he thought of Y/N and the shadow's harrowing warning. 

As Link made his way towards Fado's ranch, he constantly found that his gaze was scattered about his surroundings. The paranoia he felt was almost as crippling as being in the presence of the shadow itself.

He approached Epona, who was peacefully tucked inside her stall. "Hey girl, I know it's late. But we have some work cut out for us. Are you ready?" Link stroked Epona's mane in that familiar way he knew always pleased her. She huffed in response. In horse lingo, this was considered a response of reluctance. The equivalent of the human response: "Oh, alright."

He gave her a few more pats of appreciation until he noticed something streak across her eyes, startling her. Without hesitation, Link pulled his sword from its sheath, swirling around and aiming his blade at Fado's throat.

He lifted his hands in surrender. "Goddesses Link!" Fado exclaimed, visibly petrified.

"Fado!" Link growled, lowering his sword. "For the love of Hylia, why are you up at this hour?"

Fado's face remained frozen in its molded expression of terror. "I couldn't sleep. I'm actually happy to see you. I haven't seen you much, what with helping Zelda and all."

He leaned closer to Link; his voice was muffled by stutters of fear. "I-I've been wanting to talk to you, L-Link. Um." Link watched as Fado's Adam's apple danced up and down his throat. It was apparent he was reluctant to say whatever was on his mind.

"Fado," Link toned down his defensiveness. "Speak whatever it is you wish to speak."

"R-right. " He rubbed his temples in exasperation. The speed at which he rubbed accelerated as he spoke. "I saw Ilia jump from your window. I saw her... bend into a creature." His gaze flickered frantically around the stable. "She ran away. Well, she didn't run. She hobbled. Goddesses, Link, I've never seen a human body contort into such a shape. On all fours, she hobbled, Link." He shivered at the ghastly image of Ilia that Link himself had just come face-to-face with.

"Did you see which direction she went?" Link thought the question silly as soon as it left his mouth. As if it weren't headed towards Y/N or Zelda. And he knew it was Zelda he must go to, not Y/N.

The shadow had to be obeyed. At least for now.

But what if he couldn't save Y/N in time? Link looked down at the unresponsive Triforce on his hand. He could feel rage tapping on the door of his heart, asking to be let into its chambers.

Why had Hylia forsaken him?

Abandon me if you must, but please, please, I beg that you protect Y/N. Do not let her meet such wickedness. She doesn't deserve it. Just like she doesn't deserve me. The failure of a hero she thinks so highly of.

He clamped his eyes shut to block the tears threatening to descend upon them.

"Link?" Fado questioned. "Did you hear me? It isn't my place, but what is going on? Things have been strange since that day. When Y/N fainted, she disappeared in front of me. No one else saw." He hesitated at his next question. "She's not one of us, is she? She's not of this world."

Link sighed. He didn't have time to explain everything to Fado. He also felt guilty on behalf of his friend's apparent disappointment. He did have a crush on Y/N. Fado wasn't even aware of Link's feelings. Would it hurt him? How many more people could he possibly hurt?

"Yes. She is a Twili." Link admitted. "Ilia is possessed by a shadow of that realm. The shadow within Ilia means Y/N harm. So, I must save them. Both.”

He put a hand on his trusting friend's shoulder. "I don't think Ilia will come back to the village. But in any case, can I count on you to watch over the kids and everyone else?"

Fado puffed his chest out, giving Link a brazen nod of his head. "Only if I can count on you to watch out for my girl. "

"Or should I say, your girl?" He smirked, jabbing him in the gut where the shadow had stepped on him. Link turned his head, hiding the grimace of pain that came over him. His face burned at the words "your girl."

"What do you-"

Fado held up a hand, silencing Link in place. "We always knew it. It's ok. As long as you're doing the right thing, I don't object. You deserve happiness. But if you ever hurt your girl, then I will gladly swoop in and make her my girl." He threw a cheeky wink his way.

"I love her, Fado." Link pounded a fist against his chest. As if he were a proud ape, demonstrating she was his territory.

He thought of the letter he wrote Y/N. At the end of it, he told her he couldn't wait until this was all over. For when it was, the words that were scribbled in secret on paper could be shouted from the treetops of Ordon.

He loved Y/N.

Sure, he fought to save Hyrule. But for the first time, he was fighting for something personal.

Something that belonged to him and only him.

He had served his time fighting for everyone else.

For the first time, he was fighting for himself.

***Castle Town***

You sat on your bed, admiring your dress from Link that was hung across the room. The bar had long closed and the party had ended, but you were very much awake.

You stared at that dress as a reflection of everything it represented. Telma had learned to surpass her fears and now look. She would reap the reward of marrying her true love.

I must go to Link.

You were grateful for the few pints of mead you consumed, because now liquid courage was coursing through your veins. You stood, ready to take action.

I want to know once and for all: does he love me or not? If he doesn't, then I can walk away with gratitude in my heart, for he's shown me something priceless.

That'll have to be enough. You nodded, satisfied with your motivation to get dressed and begin to scope out your next destination.

The Temple of Time.

But first, I will follow the advice of the sages. I will seek out Zelda and that 'achoo,' 'ocho,' or whatever they mentioned. I must work on my conversion. So that I can destroy this shadow inside of me. That way, Link will be safe.

Besides, Midna's tear told me there was danger. I don't know how long I should stay away from Link, but it said nothing about discontinuing my journey. I will move forward, and then once this shadow within me has perished, I will tell Link.

I love him.

Even if he does not love me in return.

Because I love him, my only wish is for his happiness. No matter with whom that may be.

You decided as you slipped on your dress that it didn't just take valor to be the wielder of the Triforce of Courage.

It took just as much courage to love the wielder himself.

Edited: 6/21/24

Link has set off to meet Princess Zelda, unbeknownst to you, who has also set off towards the Temple of Time. Though it seems both of your paths are destined to cross once more, for different reasons.

One of you is fighting for your love, while the other will end up fighting against it.

Trials, tribulations, and the truth lie ahead.

Check out my other completed OOT Zelda work- No Woman Beyond

[bigbrotherlouis]

top books of 2024!

i’ve been doing a lot more reading and i love talking about it so here are my faves. i tried to narrow it down to 5 and then went “well, i can’t leave THAT one off the list!” so ten fiction and five nonfiction recs for you:

fiction:

1. nettle and bone by t. kingfisher - i’m a sucker for a fairytale and this was a good one. felt very familiar and still very new all at the same time. t. kingfisher was a new to me author this year and her horror didn’t hit but all her fairytales did. this one was very good, and a princess nun on a witchy endeavor was a fun time.

2. burial rites by hannah kent - i read this in one sitting because i couldn’t put it down, and i’m still thinking about it almost a year later. the way kent changes your opinion on the characters is so skillfully done and i liked it a lot.

3. the library at mount char by scott hawkins - this is not a book for everyone but i do love a plot that makes me go “HOW did you even THINK of that?!” what WOULD you do if god went missing?? massive trigger warnings but oh so good.

4. the alice network by kate quinn - kate is my holiday read author of choice and i read this in poland in the summer and it was perfect. the rose code is still my favourite book of hers but this one ranked up there. love a good spy network.

5. beartown by fredrick backman - i loved this one but i think i would’ve loved it more if i had not read the other two. good, but after three books of that length it does drag. masterful control of perspective and of plot weaving, plus some great ruminations on hockey.

6. the six deaths of the saint by alix e. harrow - i am overjoyed that harrow is (allegedly) making this into a longer novel because i LOVED IT. the visceralness of it. the cyclical nature. the horror when you realise what’s happening. perfect.

7. when among crows by veronica roth - i’m a slut for slavic folklore and this has such a sense of both history and place that really draws you in. i cannot stop thinking about the spine sword. i wish it had been longer just to stay in the world more.

8. the english understand wool by helen dewitt- i know it’s three novellas in a row but they were GOOD!! this one was an amazing length and just a fascinating almost oceans eleven-esque unraveling of a story. i gasped.

9. normal people by sally rooney - i know I KNOW. but i went to school on the emerald isle and it just resonated in lots of ways. i fell in love with the characters and honestly? might reread this winter bc i loved the atmosphere.

10. penance by eliza clark - god. this book. brutal in the worst ways and such an insightful commentary on, well, a lot of things. true crime culture, online communities, parasocial relationships, the weirdness of girl friendships as teens. also a potential reread!

nonfiction:

1. red valkyries by kristen ghodsee - probably my favourite book i’ve read this year, just because i learned SO much!! i read it in one sitting because i was just so fascinated by these amazing women, and i walked away with a more nuanced, more positive view of lenin than before.

2. the quiet damage by jesselyn cook - possibly the best nonfiction book i have ever read? i couldn’t put it down. heartbreaking and tough to read but i think very necessary in these days.

3. war is a force that gives us meaning by chris hedges - this is very good with a disclaimer. i agreed with a lot of his overarching philosophies but i didn’t agree with his examples. it has some pitfalls, but! parts of it are essential reading for peacebuilders. if anyone wants to chat abt this one please text

4. in the dream house by carmen maria machado - this was a very good memoir and very innovative in form. i liked that part a lot but i couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this was not written for me. that’s okay! i could still see how it might be impactful and, again, i liked the playing with tropes, but didn’t hit me the way i expected after seeing other people’s reactions.

5. the sunflower by simon wiesenthal - i tell everyone to read this book if they are interested in peacebuilding at all. it’s a good commentary on forgiveness. not much else to say except it’s fascinating.

and that’s all for now! i read 62 books and am trying to read 100 in the upcoming year (about 8 a month). my personal goal is at least one nonfiction a month, but my secret goal is two with one being more memoir and one being more informative. it was fun rediscovering how to read again and i’m hoping to continue that in 2025 :)

also for the record the worst book i read this year is the idea of you which is the one that anne hathaway starred in an adaptation of. absolutely terrible.

[scvcnofswords]

i'm too tired to write up her proper bio and i haven't made her in ve ilgu ard's CC yet anyways but- Orlesian Grey Warden (Awakening) Brierley Andras is now here on the blog. I'd like to try and focus on her a little bit for a few days just to properly settle into her voice? [ her and regin, mostly, really- they're the two 'loudest' muses right now. ]

i'm also working on two major metas- one on the parallels of elvhen culture and the tuatha de danaan/celtic mythos and the importance of rebellion in thedosian narrative through those myths, and another on how honestly b iowa re leaning so hard into centrism and maintaining the status quo betrayed that/my issues with the veil/binding solas to it (as well as my own character's perspectives on that, bc that's a major thing) and i'm hoping to have at least one of them actually DONE before the weeked (lol, sure, self. sure. not like you're not even at the second settlers and you're 8 pages in to the first one and only a paragraph into the second! fml)

anyways, some quick info about brier under the cut so that if anyone would like to write with her before her bio is properly posted, they have some info to go off of!

BRIERLEY ANDRAS is sent to Ferelden as part of the Orlesian contingent of Wardens in 9:32 Dragon, one year after the Blight, to support the Hero of Ferelden as they establish Vigil's Keep as a base for Wardens, having been made Arlessa (i default to Litriu being HOF, but if you would like a HOF muse to interact with Brierley, they can be the arl/arlessa obviously). She is 25 years old and has been a Warden since she was 22.

[ trigger warning, abuse implications, character death, tranquility, implied abuse of power ]

Brierley was a city elf born in a northern province of Orlais, and sent to the White Spire when she was 9 years old- alongside her twin sister Ismay. She was a good study and deferential to the templars - in truth, rattled by them. Quiet as a mouse, in truth- Ismay was the bolder of the pair, rebellious and vivacious- but the pair were allowed, at least, to stay together rather than being separated.

Still, things were harsh at times, and there will always be contention between templars and their charges, and Ismay's rebellious nature often drew unwanted attention to both siblings. The night before their Harrowing, at age 17, the things they endured seemed to push Ismay off of a breaking point- and she attempted to kill Brierley, claiming it was 'to spare them both' from what was to come. She was hauled off of Brierley, having cut into her neck with a shard of glass [ not deep enough to kill outright] - seemingly stunned that Brier had actually fought back. Ismay then declared 'you've killed us both, then.' and impaled herself onto one of the templar's swords.

It was discussed, while Brierley was in recovery, to invoke the rite of Tranquility, in case she would prove to have the same temperament as her sister. This was very nearly carried out, stopped at the last minute by the knight-commander, as it had been his second who pushed for and moved forward with this course of action.

Brierley passed her Harrowing, withdrawing somewhat more- but her skill with enchantment and her dedication to learning ended with her serving for a time at the Orlesian court. Perhaps shockingly, here, Brier bloomed- growing confident and cunning, even playful, to a degree that many who had known her when she'd been a child didn't recognize her. She became an adept player of the Game- and was familiar with Madame de Fer, the empress' arcane advisor during her time in the Empress' court and palaces.

When she was 22, a visiting Warden ended up conscripting her when she alerted him to poison in his drink- and from then on, she was a Warden, surviving her Joining. If she'd bloomed in court, she truly blossomed with the Wardens- traveling, protecting people, forming tight bonds with the Wardens around her.

After the Fifth Blight, Brierley is the only survivor from the assault on Vigil's Keep from the intelligent darkspawn. She serves as a battlemage/force mage, and a resource for matters of politics and Warden history, traditions, and tactics.

At the end of Awakening, she remains in Vigil's Keep until recalled by the First Warden to Weisshaupt in 9:35 Dragon.

During Inquisition, Brierley Andras is one of the Orlesian Wardens in Adamant- but she can be found in the dungeons of the fortress as the Inquisitor traverses the keep and sieges it. She's been beaten and imprisoned for attempting to kill Clarel for what she's done- for she is also a blood mage, and was able to protect her mind from the control and influence of Erimond and Clarel. She is too wounded to aid during the siege, but will volunteer herself to the Inquisition's services- particularly since there's an alleged-Archdemon in Corypheus' pocket, and a Warden is needed. She WOULD immediately out Blackwall as an impostor if she is in his presence- as there's no Blight in his blood to be sensed. Whether or not she tells the Inquisitor before he does will depend on him and any conversations he may have her.

Brierley's Blight is cured before the events of Veilguard when Litriu Mahariel finds the cure to it in the Wilds of Antiva- she has since settled in Ferelden and helps to fight against the gods and protect who she can during the events of the game but could be optionally recruited, as a blood mage and battle mage with war experience, to aid Rook.

[bardic-tales]

Title: Lights and sirens

Pairing: Bianca / Sephiroth

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 936

Fandom: Final Fantasy 7

Warnings: Death, violence, emotional distress, supernatural themes, war/conflict, loss of a loved one, dystopian oppression, child endangerment, existential themes, doom/fatalism.

Summary: Bianca Moore is haunted by the death of her lover, Sephiroth, as she navigates the chaos unfolding in Midgar after multiple explosions. Plagued by his voice calling her to join him in the Reunion, she struggles with grief, loss, and her desire for release from the mortal world.

Prompt Filled: 270: Lights and sirens

Created for: @flashfictionfridayofficial

1.

Midgar, Gaia 0007

“Multiple explosions in the Mako Reactor,” the woman relayed from the tv through the quaint little room. As she sat on the armchair, Bianca Moore focused her attention on the reporter on the TV. As she leaned forward, the squeak of the chair conglomerated with the terror in the reporter’s voice.

“Come to me.” Bianca was captivated by the mesmerizing sound of a masculine voice, which seemed to caress her ears and fill the surrounding silence. In that moment, she had a fleeting sensation of someone’s presence behind her, their touch lingering on her right shoulder, but when she turned, there was no one there.

With each beat, her heart throbbed in her chest, mirroring the underlying dread carefully masked by the news anchor. Who said to come to her? Why did it sound so much like him?

In a state of confusion, Bianca’s head jerked from side to side as she tried to locate the elusive owner of the voice. It sounded like him, but it couldn’t possibly be him. Five years ago, Bianca witnessed his death, her voice echoing in despair as the spiky blond-haired trooper plunged a stolen sword into his back.

The familiar wave of sheer terror washed over her, as if five years ago was just yesterday, leaving her heart pounding in her chest. How long would it take for the grief to release its tight grip on her heart? Her rapid breaths hammered against her chest, but she leaned forward, desperately seeking comfort as she cradled her face with her shaky hands.

Her long brown hair fell gracefully down her back, dancing with the rhythm of her steps. As the past events unfolded before her mind’s eye, she attempted to avert the devastating outcome, the heartbreaking demise of the man she held dear, as madness consumed him.

As the thoughts from the past collided with the present, a sudden, forceful knock shattered the continuous hum of the television and its piercing alarm from the Emergency Broadcast System, urging everyone to remain indoors as Shinra tackled the terrorists.

She rose from the chair and sauntered to the door. Her heart still pounded, and as she reached for the doorknob, her hands trembled. It was a strange sensation: hearing the mortals crying out and watching the acrid smoke billowing in the distance like some black cloud washing over the plate, but not feeling anything except wanting the sweet release of death finally.

She, being an outsider to the Planet, experienced a paralyzing dread, knowing she could never join the Lifestream and be reunited with her departed lover. She wouldn’t rejoin the Celestial Realm either. Exiled from those lands, she bore the weight of her doomed love for the mortal man. The sensation of the Eternal Moonlight on her skin will forever remain beyond Bianca’s reach, causing her to miss out on its embrace.

If, by some tragic circumstance, she were to meet her demise, her physical being and inner essence would gradually dissipate, eventually ceasing to exist altogether. There was nothing that would prevent that fate. It was the true nature of an angel’s love for mortals and the willful defiance of divine laws. That was a fate far kinder than being trapped in the heart-wrenching memories of the harrowing events that occurred five years ago. Tears welling up in her eyes, and she quickly wiped them away.

Bianca cautiously peered through the slender gap between the slightly ajar door and the doorjamb. She watched as a swarm of people quickly dashed past her, their hurried footsteps fading into the distance. The sight of their battered bodies, wrapped tightly in thick bandages, was a sobering reminder of the violence they had experienced. Her heart sank as several more individuals walked past, their downcast eyes and slow pace echoing the weight of their sorrows. Staring forward with haunted and vacant eyes, they seemed oblivious to their surroundings.

Despite straining her eyes, she couldn’t glimpse who knocked on her door. Not a single soul stood on her stoop. As she stood there, another man hurried past, clutching a young girl tightly against his chest. The blaring sirens muffled the child’s screams and shrieking of terror, amplifying her sense of impending doom. The child’s face contorted with terror, tears streaming down her cheeks, as her wide, fearful brown eyes darted around the street, searching for the man’s reassurance as young children were apt to do.

A group of troopers, their tense bodies rigid, stood near the entrance of the Sector, the blinding beams of their spotlights scanning the crowd, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the onlookers. No one could escape their watchful eyes, but their loyalty was directly proportional to the amount of money Shinra paid them.

Shinra. She thought, as the man and young child now stood in line with everyone else who was trying to get out and away from the bombing. AVALANCE. That blond man who now pretended to be a SOLDIER. They were the source of all the terror and grief that permeated the air.

Surrounded by the pulsating blue lights of the ambulance parked next to her apartment, Bianca’s eyes welled up with tears as she bitterly observed how quickly the civilians carried on with their lives—even amid a tragedy. If he hadn’t died, he would have been sent here to help the civilians, or at the very least, she would have persuaded him to come and help her and the people who lived in the sector. Her grief weighed heavily on her shoulders. Fists clenching together, Bianca seethed with fury. How she wanted to expose the President and the board’s deceit at his supposed defeat by the monsters of Nibelheim. The fan club mourned him, but he was quickly forgotten about as they moved on to the next upcoming SOLDIER.

“It’s time, Bianca.” Once more, she heard his voice — Sephiroth’s voice— in her head. It was lulling and demanded to be heard, much like a siren luring sailors to their demise. “The Reunion where you and I will finally be one again. A melding of souls. Make your way North. Mother and I are waiting.”

For more Flash Fiction centered on Fantasy Worlds Collide, please see the tag flash fiction: fwc.

[paradoxcase]

Gideon the Ninth audiobook, to the end of Part 2

New voices:

Camilla's voice is described in the text as "low and calm" which should mean more deep-voiced women rep, but the audiobook isn't really reproducing that description well, I don't think

Palamedes' voice is not bad, although I kind of expected something clearer and lighter. I'm not sure if it's my imagination, but it almost sounds like another accent? I can't decide. It's kind of hard to tell when Moira Quirk's base accent is also foreign to me

I like Abigail's voice, it's definitely the same Welsh accent. I wonder why Moira Quirk picked that accent for the Fifth? Since they are culturally dominant, I would have expected an accent with more cultural capital IRL, but I guess the main characters are already using a standard British accent and the Fourth teens got the French, so I'm not sure what's left in that regard

There were a few words of Isaac voice, it seems fine

Magnus's voice is really growing on me... just in time to never hear it again for the rest of the book. Woe. Oh well, he'll be back in the next one

The pronunciation of Palamedes' name is also growing on me a lot faster than I predicted

Other stuff:

Gideon notes that Teacher does not eat breakfast, and guesses that he just eats it earlier in the morning. NOPE

On the possibility of Harrow being murdered: "What if the murderer was like, weird" and musings on Gideon's subsequent marriage to the murderer, and thoughts about swapping friendship bracelets with them - Cytherea is the murderer and is indeed seducing Gideon here, and this probably also foreshadows the "friendship bracelets" with Ianthe, although who knows if that's what they actually are

Harrow knew that Gideon was hanging out with Cytherea as early as when she was working in the facility by herself, which I had forgotten, and I'm wondering how she knows this. It doesn't sound like she's doing a lot of socializing and doesn't seem to know a lot about the others beyond the Sixth and the Eighth, who she considers her main competitors at this point, and I don't think either of them would know about Gideon's time spent with Cytherea, because they're also busy, and I doubt Harrow has been trading pleasantries with Cytherea herself

I still love that Gideon figures out the purpose of the Imaging/Response rooms by saying "the arms kind of look like swords, I want to fight it" after Harrow has spent literal days beating her head against it

Gideon punches the construct twice in this segment, which I think really shows the utility of her using that move against Babs earlier, and Marta's assessment that she was the better fighter for it. Babs would have been outraged that the construct didn't follow all the proper rules of dueling

I like how written notes and so forth are read in the voice of the character that wrote them (except for John's letter, I guess, but he doesn't have a voice yet); even when Gideon is reading Magnus's invitation aloud to Harrow, it's read in Magnus's voice

After the dinner party, Cytherea tells Gideon "I liked that dinner, it was useful" which is very chilling now considering I now know it made her decide to kill Abigail and Magnus first

She also says "What do [the Houses] compete for? The Emperor's favor? What does that look like?" I think it's interesting that Cytherea, who is intimately familiar with the Emperor, doesn't really know what his favor looks like, or possibly doesn't believe it exists. Or she just knows that John is shit and finds competing for his favor to be pointless and self-defeating, no doubt strengthening her commitment to murdering everyone before they can succeed

After reading the Unwanted Guest, I think I can guess that the reason Gideon sees the thanergetic signatures when she's fighting the construct is more permeability of the soul stuff - that when Harrow sits in her head, Gideon becomes enough of Harrow to see things that only Harrow can normally see? Even though they only did this for like a few minutes at this point

Gideon being completely floored by Harrow's praise of her fighting ability was fun to hear about again

And now Magnus and Abigail are dead and it's time for Part 3. I think the only voice that's left to hear for the first time is Judith, and also John will make his first appearance in the epilogue

[lastflowerofyourhouse]

tonight i bring you, a scene from a fic entitled The Saint of Awe is not Unmerciful.

i do still plan to publish it at some point, but it needs quite a bit of revising and editing. and honestly, this scene will probably be retooled a bit in the final cut. but as it stands, i already quite like it. so here it is, the scene in which harrow approaches ianthe about. ahem. sleeping together. but not like that, ew.

(to be clear, this is genuinely a safe for work fic. they are actually just sharing a bed.)

Maybe she should've kissed Harrow. But it was so hard to find an in with her. One wrong move could send the little prude running, and that might set her progress back months.

***

The electric lights were dimming on the Mithraeum, the simulated sunset turning Ianthe the First's room an odd shade of orange which glistened off the newly gilded bones of her right arm. She was practicing with it. Parry, thrust, lunge. But really, she didn't need to. It felt just like her old one, and Naberius knew what to do with it. But she liked watching it glint in the light, reveled in the easy fluidity of movement. She could've kissed Harrow. 

 But she couldn’t shake the memory of Harrow's look of intense concentration, like nothing else in the world had ever been so important to her, Harrow's bony knees poking into the tops of Ianthe's thighs and all her nerves on fire. The way Harrow's hands had moved, so gentle, so careful, like she was trying not to hurt her—or perhaps only trying not to disrupt her own progress—and yet, the brutal efficiency with which she had lobbed off the transplant arm, the absolute bloody-minded composure. The trickle of blood sweat down Harrow's temple. It had traced the curvature of Harrow's cheek and landed on her lips, red and tempting. She hadn't even paused to wipe it away. She had been too focused. Absolutely and unwaveringly focused on Ianthe.

Ianthe wasn’t even practicing what Augustine had shown her, really, she was moving just to move, slashing and stabbing like a child handling a practice sword for the first time. She could feel Naberius’s annoyance faintly tickling in the back of her skull, but she really didn’t care. There was a sheen of sweat—real sweat, not blood—building on her forehead and her arms were starting to burn. Her heart rate was picked up, it was past the point that should have been uncomfortable, but it felt clean and bright, not like a panic attack at all. Was this what Coronabeth had always been going on about? Was this what all those exalted cavaliers had signed up to die for?

There was a knock on the door. It was a familiar knock to her, short and sharp, almost perfunctory, the knocking of a girl unaccustomed to closed doors. She really could just walk in, if she wanted to. It wasn’t like Ianthe was accustomed to closed doors, either. 

She didn’t stop moving, simply shouted, “Come in,” and the door opened. 

Harrow looked better for having slept, which wasn’t to say she looked good. She still had the shifty eyes of a prey animal, and that ridiculous sword strapped to her back, which left her with a perpetual hunch. She still hadn’t washed her hair. It was such a shame. With her bone structure, her eyes, the soft ringlets that her hair was just dying to fall into, if only she would care for it properly—she could be so pretty. 

“I don’t believe that’s proper form.” 

“Oh, like you would know.” Ianthe finally came to a standstill, breathing hard, and she knew she was grinning, and she almost didn’t mind. “Harry, this is amazing. It’s—It’s mine.”

“Yes, I know it’s yours. I wish you hadn’t gone through with gilding it. It’s garish. You could’ve simply regrown the rest; it’s not like you don’t have the talent for it.”

“I didn’t want to regrow the rest of it. I wanted to gild it.” It felt so good to say. It was an exhilaration almost as good as picking up the sword for the first time. Her arm, her bones, her whims governing them. What a fucking concept. 

Harrow made no response, simply twitched an eyebrow in that way she had, as if Ianthe weren’t worth the brainpower it would take to argue with her. 

Harrow’s body language was doing something weird. She was standing in the middle of the room, looking almost aimless, as if she wasn’t certain what to say next. Quite the departure from her usual imperious self-assurance. So Ianthe prompted her, “What do you need, Harry?”

She wrinkled her nose at the nickname. “What makes you think I need something?”

“Because you’re not half so mysterious as you think you are. Out with it.”

Harrow paused, with a look on her sharp, painted face like she was swallowing bile. “I need to sleep here tonight.”

“Oh?”

“And very likely for some time after.”

“Harry, are you asking to–” “Don’t.” “–sleep with me?”

“I am begging sanctuary.” 

This caught Ianthe off-guard, almost. Harrow had straightened up a bit, jutted out her underfed little chin, and standing more than a full head shorter than Ianthe, she looked terribly young. Horrifically young. 

“You haven’t packed anything.”

“I haven’t been back to my room.”

Ianthe sighed. If Harrow would only allow herself to become a lyctor, if she would only give in, only waver for one second, this would all be over. She wasn’t going to let that fact get lost in Harrow’s big, dark, flinty eyes. No amount of poorly masked vulnerability was going to change the fact that Harrow had chosen to put herself in this position, and could get out of it just as easily. The stubborn little romantic. 

She leaned her rapier against the nightstand and crossed to the wardrobe. She didn’t own a black nightgown, and though she had been eagerly waiting to see Harrow in a color, she already knew that buttercup yellow would not be ideal. It was, however, the most modest nightdress she owned. 

She turned and tossed it to Harrow, saying, “Here, it’s got sleeves and everything. You can change in the bathroom.”

Harrow took it, only grimacing a little, and went to do so. And after the door had closed between them, Ianthe also dressed for bed. She would never get a word of thanks from Harrow, of that much she was certain, but she couldn’t say no. Or, she could, actually, but she didn’t want to.

She always felt Corona’s absence most at night. They had shared a room for their entire lives, and on nights when Coronabeth was sad or scared or simply in need of companionship, she had never gone to their parents. She had always crossed to Ianthe’s bed and snuggled in against her. Funny that Corona, in all her cavalierish muscle and bravado, had always been the one who turned to Ianthe for comfort. 

She suffered no illusions that Harrow would do the same, but still, there was an easy familiarity about this role. She knew how to provide this. And it was, maybe, close enough. 

She was finished dressing by the time Harrow emerged from the bathroom, dragging her longsword behind her in one hand and clad in a shade of yellow that absolutely did not compliment her skin tone. It made her painted face look even more ridiculous and displaced than it usually did in Ianthe’s rooms. Maybe, if this arrangement fostered any sort of closeness between them, she could convince Harrow to let her brush her hair. It was long enough now for a braid starting high on the head. And if she pushed her luck, she might be able to curl it. Not dramatically, just enough to emphasize its natural texture. Something to frame her face. 

Harrow, she noticed, was avoiding her gaze. 

“You can’t really mean to sleep in that paint, Harry, you’ll get pimples.”

“Pimples are the least of my concerns right now, Tridentarius.”

“I’ll say. But why add them to the list? I’ve already seen your bare face, anyway.”

Harrow looked startled, then confused. A drop of blood hit the carpet between her feet and she put a hand to her nose, almost absently. “Have you?”

Ianthe realized, too late, what she had said. “I visited your hospital room while you were incoherent.” It wasn’t even entirely a lie.

“Why?”

“An abiding sense of loyalty and affection.”

“Right.” Had she almost smiled?

Harrow went and climbed into bed, not laying down but sitting with her knees scrunched up and her back to the pillow, and set her sword down the middle of the mattress. Ianthe did not resent this. She had done the same thing, when they had shared the first time. 

“Well, if you’re going to insist on sleeping in greasepaint, at least let me put something down on your pillow. That’s real silk, it’ll stain.”

“Fine.” Harrow had still not looked her in the eye. 

She thought of grabbing a towel from the bathroom, but went for the wardrobe instead. She didn’t wear her clothes from home very often anymore, but there were still some decent fabrics among them. She dug around for a moment before pulling one of her old shirts from the back. It was soft enough to be comfortable, and it would cause less smearing than a towel. 

The lights were dim enough now that she would normally turn a lamp on, but Harrow seemed to be intending to sleep immediately, so Ianthe simply handed her the shirt and then lay down on the other side of their big, metallic chaperone. 

Later, in the dark, she could almost feel Harrow breathing. She wasn’t certain if Harrow was falling asleep or only, finally, relaxing. She could see her, almost. A slight up-and-down movement of the blanket, a suggestion of dark hair splayed across the white shirt. She was so small, and she slept on her back, like a corpse. 

“Ianthe.” It sounded as if she were trying not to whisper, quiet but startlingly loud in the silence. 

“What?”

“Do you ever feel like something is—missing?”

Ianthe found this question intensely interesting. She had long wondered how completely Harrow had torn out her own grief, if it had left roots. “In what respect?”

“I–Nothing. Forget I asked.” With that, she rolled over, back to Ianthe, and did not speak again. 

Soon afterwards, Ianthe fell asleep. With the sound of another person breathing evenly nearby, she slept better than she had since Canaan House. 

[neophaim]

This is Alessor "Rook" de Riva, Crow swordsman!

He ran away to join the circus as a child and was recruited to the Crows while performing on the street. While it was harrowing and not what he'd pictured, it was still a new start and he did thrive in that environment. He fought tooth and nail for over a decade to earn the respect of his House and has no regrets. He no longer holds any resentment towards House de Riva and is unwilling to unpack the messy sense of gratitude he feels towards them for taking him under their wing.

Sidenote: he had one of those unreciprocated (and deeply embarrassing in hindsight) idolization crushes on Viago as a teenager because he got directly praised exactly Once, but that thankfully faded with time and familiarity. Thankfully, only Teia knows about this phase.

Regardless, he's around 28-ish, about as well-adjusted as a Crow can be, and (predictably) fell head-over-heels for Lucanis (and, less predictably, Spite).

Fun Facts:

He still possesses the performance skills he was recruited for (acrobatics and flexibility) and further honed them as part of his Crow training. This included learning sword-swallowing.

I first played him as a warrior (I like playing warriors a lot) but he's a gifted swordsman who straddles the line between warrior and rogue so I am planning a second playthrough with him as a rogue!

He is skilled at mimicry and suppresses his accent to come across as less of a conspicuous potential threat outside of Antiva. In addition, he can speak/read multiple languages (Antivan, Trade, Tevene, Qunlat, Orlesian) and can understand "important" words/phrases from several other languages (including Elvhen, Ciriane, Dwarvish, Rivaini).

As a "favored" scion of House de Riva, Alessor participated in his mentor's paranoid mithridatism and has built up a similar level of resistance to a wide range of poisons.

He has magpie wings tattooed down both of his arms starting from his shoulder blades. He's still really amused that Varric took to calling him Rook when he already had two other corvids associated with him.

The snake tattoo on his forehead was modeled after Viago's "pet" adder and was intended to reference the fable of The Crow and the Serpent. I'm also very fond of the specific phrasing in this translation:

Also: he is transgender and GNC.