#I know naught a prose

[mediocrevideopodcast]

Ok so, imma start off simple, may i req a Rocky Rickaby x calm, collected, polite yet lowkey mysterious reader? It can be gender neutral pls. You can do this req later. Love your work and i hope your eating and doing well! 💖

Thank you so much for the request!! Bit shorter than I would have liked, but I hope it's alright!! <3

This is a textbook case of opposites attract. 

Rocky’s been around a lot of fake-polite people -- Southern Hospitality only goes so far, nevermind Midwest Niceties. He’s been on the receiving end of far too many sneers from the so-called “polite” upper-class businessmen. 

But you? Your politeness isn’t skin-deep.

You actually listen when he talks, are always courteous, and god isn't that just the most wonderful change? Needless to say, he attaches himself to you like glue. A bit of kindness goes a long way with Rocky. I won't say it's love at first sight… but it's pretty damn close. 

The two of you are quite a sight. It’s not uncommon to see him practically vibrating where he stands while you sit calmly. He'll prance around you in circles, waxing poetic as he sways to and fro while you gaze up at him. 

He is endlessly, and I mean endlessly, fascinated by you. Your past, and the way it guides your actions in the present , is shrouded in heavy mystery. And while he would love to know you on a deeper level… he won't pry. Lord knows he has enough secrets… it wouldn't be right to pry into your past without divulging his own. But sometimes when the music is loud and the conversation takes some of the weight off of him, he'll simply gaze at you. His pupils dilate as he recesses into his own thoughts, thinking about all of the possibilities that surround you. Maybe he's had a bit too much coffee today. 

He's actually rather hesitant to confess to you, despite the prose that he spills for you on the daily. You're, well, you. And he's just Rocky. He's not blind to the signs of infatuation and adoration -- he recognizes it very, very well in others. And if you had eyes on anyone else, he'd pick up on it in an instant. But he doesn't recognize it so much when it's directed at him. It'll either take quite the break of character from you to lay it on a bit thicker for him, or for one of you to have some near-death experience for him to confess. 

But when he does? Oh boy, if you thought you were attached at the hip before… 

He was always rather open with his affections -- the behavior doesn't change as much as the intensity does. His poetry gets a bit more syrupy, a bit more fanciful. And if you'll have him, he loves to touch -- to hold -- to be held. 

The only time you can get him to sit quiet and still  is when he gets to lay his head in your lap. The rest of the Lackadaisy crew would think he was dead, had it not been for his happy little tail flicks. 

You're a staple in many of his soliloquies -- it's only fair, with how often you occupy his thoughts. You'd think with the mystery that surrounds you that you'd be compared to a shadow, or a locked box, but he finds that comparison far too cliche and reductive. Nay, he sees you as the endless oceans -- deep and calm like the Pacific, yet as warm as the Atlantic. Naught to be truly known, yet beautiful all the same. 

All in all, you're his rock. The calm in his storm. The two of you couldn't be more different if you tried, but damn if you don't work well together. 

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Emerging

Wow stumpy - another Flood fic? Yes I like imagery and prose. Title from the song off the album Moon Colony Bloodbath about organ harvesting colonies on the moon. It fits.

Flood POV of "Something Has Happened" from Tales from Slipspace.

-

Hunger moves the body forward. Hunger and loneliness. It - they - need more. Too much energy to think, not enough mass yet. Instinct drives them towards the incubators - cryo tubes, the host brain provides. Context is meaningless, there is sustenance beyond this metal and glass. Sustenance and knowledge.

It was large once. It consumed thousands of fleets, galaxies of flesh and meat and bone, it gathered many under its own mantle. It provided the answers to life and death and a thousand more questions. Then it had been burned by those that came after and before. Left to starve and wait, but time was always on its side.

A rest for the chorus. A lull in the hymn. Voices silenced for but a moment, drawing breath before the crescendo and the return.

There were always mistakes - the vermin kept it weak and small for study. Kept it separated and isolated and frozen, but time was its ally and its sword. These new beings with their false confidence and pitiful weapons. Ancilla, combat skins, and fire. Naught but ants biting as their nest is overturned.

Commandeering vehicles was difficult at this stage, but stowing away was simple. Instinctual. Borrowed muscle and memory of layouts. Ships meant fleets, meant hangars and hallways and dark spaces. A way off their weapon-worlds. A way to spread anew.

Animal fear spiked in the half-subsumed host. Adrenaline and pheromones cataloged and then silenced. Such a strange way of being. So sad. Weak and alone. What was one compared to many-in-one? Compared to a veritable colony of minds blended together? Mycelium supporting itself. Sending resources across the expanse of its network. Ever spreading, ever consuming, ever joining. Why could they not see? Animal minds, small, isolated, and crowded with fear and thoughts of continuing. But they were wrong! Enlightenment awaited them - it - we.

The cryo tubes gleam in the low light. This host knows the codes, knows the Ancilla is too old, too curious, too wrong to take action. She had been watching for days. Didn't even make coffee when she woke SN 82201-42910-VM. No move to stop it from learning as well. An Engineering Specialist made for an excellent first convert.

The cryo pod opens under its tendrils and misshapen limbs, like roots spreading through a garden. Fresh soil, nutrients, knowledge - all absorbed under its growing mass. More voices to join, more knowledge to learn. Mass brought more thoughts, more plans, and the ability to seek out specific new hosts. There were such gifts inside these capsules. Offerings of sustenance and expansion, mind and soul.

Another pod hisses open without its prying touch. This one has a being in a combat skin. A Spartan, the meat supplies. Spartans send strange feelings through the consumed. Hope. Relief. And then a flare of animal instincts as it understands more of what this new threat means. More than just mass and knowledge, this Spartan brings fire and loss.

It throws explosives on the vessel, destroying infector pods and equipment haphazardly. The Spartan uses a primitive ballistic weapon to destroy the mass of a newly converted "Lieutenant Kwan". Names mean nothing in the chorus but Kwan was different from Maldini, had new knowledge. The Mass loses some of the combat skills he would have brought if fully subsumed.  

The Mass had grown large enough that the Chorus had started. Voices joining in joyous outrage. A fight for survival that made the blood sing. Together, it had grabbed a gun and fired back at the threat. The combat skin of the Spartan held and it returned fire on that branch of the Mass. Voices silenced until it could scrape itself back together and release spores. All it needed was time.

Time made all fall before it. The Ancilla was nothing and this Spartan would fall soon. Then it would integrate with the ship and spread.

The first host is strong. The others are too new. It's been weak for too long, controlling shaky limbs still getting used to this new life stumble and fall to the Spartan's fire. But the main body learns even as voices drop from the chorus. They live on elsewhere.

There are more sleeping bodies hidden away, another cryo bay through a hangar. More voices, more blessed sustenance. Another Mass to be held, holy and true. They will be strong again. United against these weak, lonely animals. Food for the congregation. Lambs to the slaughter. Language comes with more knowledge from these humans. Ancient memories rise up as well. It was always humans, wasn't it?

The next bay comes into view through borrowed eyes. It hears the Spartan approach and the pods on its back spring into action. They thought it a mindless beast when all of them were vermin before it. At the height of its being, it consumed planets. The Spartan and Ancilla and weak waking humans would witness and convert. No longer concealed, it was time to feed.

The berths were set to open, codes entered minutes before it escaped the lockdown. Time was its ally. The infectors latched onto the weak combat skin, testing its strength. Prodding for weaknesses, it heard the garbled radio of the furious mouse in its talons and the dying Ancilla. It was too late.

A bay door opens and it is pulled from the ship. The Spartan in its clutches, its voiceless cry interrupts the song as it scrambles for the boosters on the combat skin. Parts of the chorus are drifting away, frozen and falling silent. The Spartan lashes out and frees itself. The last thing it sees as it tumbles away into the dark is the shrinking vision of green on gray. The Spartan clinging to the hull like a parasite.

A muffled voice of the dying chorus cheers its fate. Humans…so vindictive. Vicious little things. 

The Spirit of Fire flies on.

[thecurioustale]

Art Begets Art and the Law Should Respect This

I believe in the tradition of folk art, which is to say: Borrow liberally and lovingly.

It's a practice we've been mostly sterilized from embracing in our modern corporatist society, where all of the big-name, commonly-recognizable "IPs" are imprisoned behind layer after layer of obnoxious lawyers with nothing better to do than torment the innocent. It's a terrible thing, a deprivation of our cultural oxygen—a crime against art and ethics.

As an artist myself, I often have to thread the needle of building upon the inspiring works of others while still remaining within the letter of our outrageous IP laws. It's something I think about a lot.

In Galaxy Federal, for instance, I mentioned last time that the name "Galaxy Federal" was inspired, among other things, by the mention of the "Galaxy Federal Police" title screen of the original Metroid game. When I was settling on this title for my series, I also found that Galaxy Federal is the trademarked name of a bank. I spent considerable time and mental resources, years ago, to determine to my satisfaction that it is permissible under the law for me to use this title.

I have to do way too much of this bullshit, and I know it'll still be for naught: If I ever do become an even remotely successful author, I'm sure I'll be sued anyway, probably for something I never even realized was an "infringement" despite all my vigilance. Because, at the end of the day, for big corporations and for IP trolls, our IP laws are just a racketeering scheme—a side hustle. I mean, Best Western trademarked the word "seniority." If someone wants to sue you, they're gonna find a way.

I am not really a "from scratch" writer. I don't sit down at a blank page and just come up with prose from first principles. My art is almost always inspired by things that I experience in my life, or by the ideas that result from those experiences. Sometimes—frequently, even—my inspirations come from things that are copyrighted or trademarked. I have written in the past about the influence of the video game The Secret of Mana on me as a kid. Among many other inspirations, that game has a neat sandship in it, and that's why the desert easts of Relance are prevalent with sandships.

Over the years I've become a pro at reinterpreting IP-blocked inspirations into usable, original ones—both in terms of the legal research I've done and the skills I've developed at transforming an IP-blocked inspiration into something usable. I've also become more knowledgeable about what I can get away with quoting directly: Certain things cannot be copyrighted, and trademarks have a finite zone of applicability.

It's all a very needless and skill-intensive ballet to achieve something that should be directly accessible. Obviously, there do need to be limits. As an artist myself, I am keenly aware that I wouldn't want to have no special claim to my own work. But if I were to rewrite our outrageous IP laws—and over the years I have amassed considerable material for a book on this—I would make it vastly easier for artists and the public in general to "borrow liberally and lovingly" from the sources that inspire them. Our current IP laws are like a crime-ridden police state: The security is in all the wrong places and just doesn't work. We could relax the laws considerably without hurting artists, and potentially even tighten them in other respects to better combat trolls and thieves.

But in the meantime, here's my advice: Don't let it daunt you. Dance the friggin' ballet. Get good at transformation. Liberate intellectual property from its prison in spirit if not in substance. And, when you're fearless and/or sufficiently obscure, just straight-up pirate. I think society has a duty to reject unjust laws through word and deed.

I don't usually don my pirate's hat, but I do sometimes. When I published the Prelude in 2015, for a limited time I also published a free companion soundtrack consisting entirely of, gasp, copyrighted music. Nowhere is the horror of our modern IP laws more evident than in the realm of music. What I did was basically create a curated playlist, to help set the mood of the story. I don't know if anyone even availed themselves of that soundtrack, yet for me to license all of those pieces to make my limited-time links lawful would have cost me thousands if not tens of thousands of dollars! All for something that it's possible nobody other than me even listened to. That's a crime against art. And it's a crime against artists. Our draconian IP laws hurt small artists the most. If I had had thousands of fans, I'd have been able to pay to play—and I would have done so, or perhaps I would have spent the equivalent money to hire composers to write an original soundtrack. But, as a nobody-artist and a poor person, whose own Curious Score musical compositions are long in the making, the lawful avenues are all unassailably closed off to me. This too is an injustice, of another sort.

Doing the companion soundtrack was the right thing to do in the tradition of folk art. None of those other artists (or, let's be real, the corporate goliaths that hoard most of this "content" in their treasure-vaults) was deprived of a single penny; in fact that's one of the great lies of the IP lawyers and their corporate masters: Cultural interchange usually improves income for people whose work is quoted by others. Borrow liberally and lovingly—and give credit where credit is due.

That's the way it should be.

And, one day, that's how it will be again.

[heliads]

hii! i love your writing so much, and i have a request, if you’ll take it? it could be that wyatt (lykensen) and reader are like cuddling or hanging out, (they could already be a couple?) and reader needs to tell him something. they say i love you, and wyatt is shocked but reader thinks he’s disgusted, and runs away? and then wyatt finds them and it’s hurt/comfort? sorry if i bothered you, but have a wonderful day!

i love it when people can't handle their emotions, let's go! also tbh this might be some of my best prose, i'm proud of this

masterlist

You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later, you know.

You’ve been hovering around this sad truth for a while, that it will, at one point, have to be spoken aloud. You can practically sense an invisible hourglass counting down the days until you’re able to contain yourself no longer, until an innocent conversation ends with the worst revelation you’ve ever had spilled out before an unwilling audience.

It’s not like he’s going to like it, either. This is your best friend, after all, someone you’ve known for a very long time and someone you don’t particularly want to lose. He’s most likely aware that you’re keeping something from him, he has never been able to do anything but read you like a book, and that means you can only put this off for a quickly shrinking window of time.

That’s what it means to fall in love with Wyatt Lykensen, after all. At some point, he’s going to find out, and then it will all be over.

It’s not just your friendship that you have to lose. Over the past few months, you swear that your interactions with Wyatt veered into uncertain territory, slipping in between shades of platonic conversations and not quite confessions. You couldn’t put a name to it if you tried, no matter how hard you tried. No matter how much you wish Wyatt would try even half as hard as you are.

The worst part is that you don’t think Wyatt cares about you nearly as much as you care about him. That’s why you’ve ended up kissing him after late nights when neither of you are fully aware of what you’re doing, how both you and Wyatt are able to chalk it up to casual mistakes, nothing worth noticing for real.

He uses excuses like a shield, deflecting anything either of you could ever feel for each other under the guise of not wanting a label. If both of you have long since stopped crushing on anyone else, that’s nothing worth bringing up. If you swear that the highlight of your day is kissing the one boy that you can’t have, you know you could never dare to voice it aloud.

Some part of you wants to voice it, though, and that’s why you’re having this problem. You have never kept secrets from Wyatt, not for long. He’s always been able to figure you out within the span of a few seconds. That’s the way it has always been. You don’t know how long you have until Wyatt figures out what you refuse to say to him, but surely that day of revelation is coming soon.

You try to hide your feelings as best you can, to delay that day for as long as possible. You go to school and talk to your friends, busy yourself with schoolwork and clubs and any other activity. If you keep your hands free of idleness and your body free of boys who are no good for you, you don’t have to think about the fact that you love Wyatt more than anything, more than you thought you ever could love before.

These limitations only do so much, though. Both you and Wyatt are werewolves, part of the same pack, closer to each other in ways no one else could understand. At the end of the day, you’ll head home from school to find him waiting for you, and then all of your efforts are for naught once more.

No matter how many times you swear to yourself that you’re over this, you’re done with crushing on Wyatt for good, even your strongest of safeguards crumble in the face of his smile. There’s nothing you can do about it, you can admit that freely.

That doesn’t stop you from wanting to say something about it. You’ve been struggling with your unspoken secret for so long. It weighs you down, slowing your steps, sinking you deeper and deeper into the ground until you’re practically choking on the dust. If you don’t tell Wyatt how you feel, you’ll face a death of a thousand cuts as you try and fail to pretend that it doesn’t affect you. If you do tell him, you’ll have a far faster massacre when he stops speaking to you for good.

Needless to say, it’s not the best situation for anyone, least of all you. Still, you’ve never been able to quit Wyatt, and that means tonight finds you with him again, thinking about all these things, wondering if you will ever stumble upon a way of solving things.

It’s late at night, and the two of you have snuck away from the rest of the pack to talk under the weight of the full moon. You’re on the roof of your house, lying side by side on the crooked roofing tiles as you stare up at the night sky. Most of the other neighbors have retreated inside by now, and even the last of their lights are nothing in comparison to the constellations winking back at you from above.

It’s a cold night, and over the course of the last half hour you and Wyatt have drifted steadily closer to each other. Your head rests on his shoulder now, one of your hands interlocked with his free one. You don’t know that you’ve ever felt more content, which is probably a sign that you’re about to ruin things.

For now, however, you are content to stare up at the sky, to let the pearlescent light of the stars billow down over you in one great celestial wave. When the two of you first crawled up here, you and Wyatt were full of comments about your favorite constellations, how far away the buildings seemed, a thousand thoughts that simply had to be shared.

The last of your conversation has been bled dry by now, and both of you lie still in a companionable silence. You can hear Wyatt’s heartbeat echoing around you, sounding off a quiet drumbeat to underscore the no doubt speedier rhythm of your own.

Eventually, Wyatt breaks the silence, his voice slightly hoarse from lack of use. “What’s on your mind, Y/N?”

You feel yourself panic, but do your best to quell the frenzy before he notices anything more to be wrong. “What do you mean?”

Wyatt shrugs; it moves your head along with him. “You’re thinking about something, I can tell. You can’t hide anything from me, you know that.”

You laugh bitterly. “You would be surprised.”

Even without looking at him, you can tell that Wyatt is starting to frown. “What are you talking about?”

You shake your head. “Forget it.”

You know that Wyatt certainly won’t drop the subject now, even before he starts to protest. You’ve never been able to keep anything from him, and Wyatt knows it. The only exception is, of course, the very truth that you’ve been struggling against for so long.

“You have to tell me,” he says, “we’re best friends, aren’t we? You know I tell you everything.”

You stay silent for a couple of minutes, although you can practically feel Wyatt’s curiosity burning like a brand beside you. He’s not the only one torn by anticipation, you feel as if the weight of it might drag you under.

At last, the words are able to hide themselves no longer, and burst forth from your throat before you can stop yourself. “I love you. That’s what I’ve been hiding. I was scared to tell you, but–”

Wyatt cuts you off before you can get much further. “You what? You love me?”

You nod slowly. Wyatt sits up, and you have to do the same lest you fall back to the roof without the protective weight of him beneath you. You’re finally able to look him in the eyes, and you realize that Wyatt looks totally overwhelmed by what you’ve told him. His entire face is wracked with shock, eyes wide and mouth dropping open.

Before either of you can say anything else, he’s standing up hurriedly and pulling himself back inside the house through the nearby window. You can hear the sound of his footsteps echoing down the stairs inside, and a few moments later, Wyatt reappears on the ground, walking hurriedly away in the direction of his own house.

You pull your knees up to your chest, waiting for something, anything else to happen. This can’t be how this ends. But Wyatt doesn’t even spare you a glance over his shoulder as he goes, and within the span of a few moments, he’s vanished from your light of sight. The darkness has swallowed him whole, and only then do you let your grief settle over you.

You had wondered if Wyatt would take the news of your feelings poorly, but you didn’t expect it to go this badly. You can still see the look on his face whenever you close your eyes, how stunned he had been, almost horrified. You’re too afraid to call it disgust, but perhaps in a few days, when all of this has worn off a little, you’ll be able to admit that to yourself.

You sink your head into your hands. Well, you’ve really ruined it now. You wouldn’t be surprised if Wyatt avoids you for the rest of his time in the city. After that, who knows? You weren’t ready for what a lifetime without your best friend would feel like, but you’re getting the terrible feeling that you’ll have to prepare yourself for it now.

As it turns out, your worst fears may be right. Wyatt doesn’t approach you during the entirety of the next few days, not even looking at you even when you walk right by him in the hallways at school. For all intents and purposes, it’s as if you’ve simply ceased to exist to him.

You’ve just started to accept Wyatt’s absence for good when he shows up at your house exactly one week after the incident. You don’t know who seems more surprised to find him knocking on your door, you or Wyatt. To his credit, he doesn’t try to run away this time, even if he looks like he’s seriously entertaining the idea.

You nod at him. “What are you doing here?”

Wyatt tries for a feeble smile. “What, I can’t visit my own best friend?”

“You haven’t been treating me like your best friend recently,” you comment, “What, have you changed your mind again?”

Wyatt winces. “Look, I know I reacted badly, but–”

Your voice is sharp, slicing off even Wyatt’s most tentative syllables. “Reacted badly? Wyatt, you left me on that roof. Wouldn’t even say a word about it, and then you ignored me for a week. I don’t know that you could have had a worse reaction unless you physically pushed me off of the roof yourself.”

Wyatt sighs. “I know. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me for it, I certainly hate myself for it enough for the both of us. If there was a chance that you might feel otherwise, though, I wanted to come see for myself.”

You consider him, unwilling to commit to a single fragment of hope. “How else would I feel?”

“Like you did before,” Wyatt whispers, “like you might love me. That’s what I was hoping to hear. I love you, Y/N. I don’t think I knew that until you told me how you felt, but I know it now. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I avoided you, but I was wrong for that. I know what I want now, Y/N, and that’s you. Is it possible that you might want me, too?”

You stare at him for a heartbeat, maybe longer. Wyatt’s words are echoing through your head, and with the greatest of efforts, you’re able to nod. “I still love you, Wyatt. I don’t know that I could stop loving you even if I tried.”

Wyatt’s face splits with the most dazzling smile that you’ve ever seen. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirm.

He laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard something I liked so much.”

As it turns out, neither have you. You have your boy, you have your most desperate hope confirmed in a moment. You don’t think you have ever needed anything else.

disney tag list: @rogueanschel, @lovesanimals0000, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie

[dkniade]

Translating the Narrated Poem of the Story Teaser: “The Boy and the Whirlwind”

It’s an interesting thing, knowing that Venti’s poetry is not meant to be Chinese stylistically (usually traditional Chinese poetry has a specific syllable count per line depending on the style and is very condensed in imagery), but rather it’s in Chinese only in language. It carries a certain form and meter that makes it hard to recognize what it’s trying to mimic… But I’ll take a look at this lost ballad waiting to be found anyways.

This is the story teaser known in English as “The Boy and the Whirlwind”.

This is also the story teaser known in Chinese as “微风与少年”, or in other words—

“The Breeze and the Boy”.

——

.

Original Chinese Title: 微风与少年

Original Chinese Transcript

.

我要说的故事

开始于旧蒙德。

.

在那暴君统治的国度，

我认识一位少年。

.

少年懂得弹琴，

寻着自己的诗篇。

.

但他生在风墙之内，

从来不曾见过蓝天。

.

「我想看见飞鸟翱翔的模样。」

少年眼神倔强，瞳中有光。

.

但他的声音被呼啸风声盖过，

因为龙卷只会收取颂歌，不再留下其他声响。

.

真正的天空，囚笼外的诗与歌，

难道不是值得为之而战的愿望？

.

所以少年对我发出邀请：

「与我同去吧——碾碎暴君，撕开风墙。」

.

少年接起反叛之旗，

我亦投身追求「自由」的战争。

.

冲破囚笼之人一路得胜。

令神位崩毁，千风卷乱，诸国动震。

.

在硝烟中，我们见证暴君之末。

在灰烬中，我们见证高塔崩落。

.

如事，「新蒙德」之造史。

至此，无人再登王座。 ------

My Translated English Title: The Breeze and the Boy

My English Translation (Prose)

The story I’m about to tell

Starts in Old Mondstadt.

.

In that kingdom ruled by a tyrant,

I met a young boy.

.

The boy knew how to play the lyre, 

Searching for lyrics of his own.

.

But he lived within the storm-walls,

Having never seen the blue sky.

.

“I wish to see the birds soaring freely.”

The boy’s unyielding eyes had hope in them.

.

But his voice was lost in the howling wind,

For the whirlwind only accepted hymns, and left no other sound.

.

The true sky, the poems and songs beyond the cage,

Are they not wishes worth fighting for?

.

So the boy extended his invitation to me:

“Come with me. Let us pulverize the tyrant, and rip through the storm-walls.”

.

The young boy raised the flag of revolt,

And I threw myself into the fight for “Freedom”.

.

Victory followed those who broke through the cage,

Making the god’s seat crumble, the thousand winds whip, and nations shake violently.

.

In the parting smoke, we witnessed the end of the tyrant.

In the flying ashes, we witnessed the crumbling of the spire.

.

Thus, the epic of “New Mondstadt”.

So far, none has again taken its throne.

.

-----

Official English Title: The Boy and the Whirlwind

Official English Transcript

In Old Mondstadt transpired the story to be told,

.

Where a tyrant ruled, 

I met a boy, not that old.

.

The lyre he played, 

and for a song he sought,

.

But storm-walls blocked blue sky — 

he was sincerely distraught.

.

“I do so wish to see the birds in flight,”

Said he, his strong eyes filling with light.

.

But his voice was lost in the howling wind’s churn.

For the whirlwind takes, and gives naught in return.

.

The true sky, and songs that cageless soar…

Were they not wishes worth fighting for?

.

So the boy turned, extending his hand:

“Let us cast down the tyrant and his walls from this land.”

.

The young boy raised then the flag of revolt,

And I threw myself into freedom’s tumult.

.

Victorious were we who fought to be free.

Gods fell, winds whipped, nations shook violently.

.

In the smoke, a despot met his doom,

And we watched as his great tower fell none too soon.

.

Mondstadt began anew, the story passed down—

And since then never has another worn its crown.

. ----------

.

Noteworthy Terms and Phrases

少年 (Shàonián / shao4nian2)

(modern term) young boy, around the age of ten to eighteen years old. The nameless bard should be around this age, but it’s hard to pinpoint due to the general artstyle. (literary term) youth.

—

少年眼神倔强，瞳中有光。

(Shàonián yǎnshéng juéjiàng，tóng zhōng yoǔ guāng / Shao4nian2 yan3sheng4 jue2jiang4, tong2 zhong1 you3 guang1)

Literally “The young boy’s eyes [were] unyielding, there’s light in [his] pupils.” 倔强 could mean stubborn but in this context it’s closer to unyielding. 光 means light but here it means something more metaphorical like “his eyes filled with hope”. 

I have also considered “with a glint in his eye” but it sounds too mischievous (like he’s about to pull a trick) so for the more righteous bard I went for the first interpretation.

Thus, “The boy’s unyielding eyes had hope in them.”

—

冲破囚笼之人一路得胜。

(Chōngpò qiú lóng zhī rén yīlù déshèng. / Chong1po4 qiu2 long3 zhi1 ren2 yi1lu4 de2sheng4)

More literally it’s “Those who broke through the cage achieved victory throughout the entire path” but in English it’s better to say “victory followed those who broke through the cage.”

—

神位 vs 王座 (shénweì / shen2wei4; w��ngzuò / wang2zuo4)

Literally speaking, the first means seat of god and the second means throne. However—

神位, also known as 排位, means spirit tablet (or memorial tablet, or ancestral tablet). It’s part of East Asian culture, though it originated from traditional Chinese culture. Simply put, it’s a sort of wooden tablet with the name of a spirit, ancestor, or deceased person on it, along with some auspicious sayings, placed on an altar for sacrifices and offerings.

(Here’s a Wikipedia link)

Why such a word is used in a poem about Mondstadt, which is based on German culture with some Greek mythology influences, is beyond me.

Though, it seems multiple tablets (thus, for multiple spirits, deities, ancestors, etc.) can be placed on the altar at once, and the word does appear in the poem when the Thousand Winds break free (令神位崩毁，千风卷乱). One could argue that the 神位 in question was for the thousand winds (be it the group the wind spirit Venti once belonged to or the thousand winds of time Istaroth), along with Decarabian, the God of Storms himself. After all, the Thousand Winds Temple exists in Mondstadt, and both Barbatos and Istaroth were worshipped around Decarabian’s time (according to the Sacrificial Fragments weapon lore).

But taking the context of the rest of the poem, I’d say 神位 should still mean something like seat of god or the position of god here, and 王座 would be throne.

——

如事，「新蒙德」之造史。(Rúshì，“Xīn Méngdé” zhī zàoshǐ. / Ru2shi4, “Xin1 Meng2de2” zhi1 zao4shi4.)

It's pretty formal to say this. Directly, it’s “These events, the creation Epic of ‘New Mondstadt’.” 造史 itself isn’t an actual word but the first character means creation (as in 创造) and the second character could either mean history (历史) or epic poetry (史诗) here. I figured that this is meant to be a poem about a hero, so I’ve chosen the epic sense.

So it’s rendered as “Thus, the epic of ‘New Mondstadt’.”

------------

Rhyming Scheme

Original Chinese Poem

AX / XB / XB / XB / CC / XC / XC / XC / XD / DD / EE / AX

.

Official English Stylization 

XA / XA / XB / XB / CC / DD / EE / FF / GG / HH / II / JJ

.

Okay, so the rhyming scheme between the two versions is similar in this section:

少年懂得弹琴，(qín)

寻着自己的诗篇。(piān)

但他生在风墙之内，(neì)

从来不曾见过蓝天。(tiàn)

「我想看见飞鸟翱翔的模样。」(yàng)

少年眼神倔强，瞳中有光。(huāng)

or 

The lyre he played, 

and for a song he sought,

But storm-walls blocked blue sky — 

he was sincerely distraught.

“I do so wish to see the birds in flight,”

Said he, his strong eyes filling with light.

.

The last two lines of both are couplets, and the three pairs are the only instance where the two versions rhymed at the same place. It’s the XB / XB / CC part of the above rhyming scheme.

The official English stylization primarily uses rhyming couplets, but as to why the length of the couplets became shorter after “‘I do so wish to see the birds in flight,’ / Said he, his strong eyes filling with light” is… unknown, unless it’s to show turning point, and thus emphasis on the couplets make you pay more attention to the events that followed? The rhyming scheme is not as noticable in Chinese… But the syllable count isn’t particularly noticeable in Chinese either, so it’s probably closer to a modern Chinese poetic style. 

But then, without a strong rhyming scheme nor meter, the structure of the poem is a little weak in Chinese, and it didn’t seem like it was freestyle, since they were clearly trying something with the rhyming. (With that said however, Chinese isn’t a very rhythmic language compared to English, so it’s okay.)

I want to see if I can write it into an English poem that follows the rhyme scheme and meaning of the Chinese poem.

----

Rhyming Scheme: AX / XB / XB / XB / CC / XC / XC / XC / XD / DD / EE / AE

Meter

okay so the Cecilia which has three main petals is shown in reverse on the flag of rebellion so it would make sense to use a trimeter

Old Mondstadt was used by Decarabian, one ruler, so the first syllable should be stressed, with three syllables per meter 

In other words, dactylic trimeter (which is not as common as iambs and is therefore hard to write with!! Start with an unstressed syllable to make it easier!) 

In other words, catalectic amphibrachic tetrameter 

And iambs have a better flow so it could be used for the parts representing freedom (and good for rhyming couplets too)

Let’s say for the free parts to use iambic tetrameter (four winds) 

And also a nonspecific tetrameter for Those Particular Parts where the Chinese cut it up into phrases of four characters (and thus syllables)

Meter, Summary

catalectic amphibrachic tetrameter (- / - - / - - / - - /)

iambic tetrameter (-/-/-/-/)

Amphibrach  (- / -) for Decarabian, the one ruler, ruling Old Mondstadt, which causes an imbalance in power, hence the lopsided feeling of the meter 

Trimeter (foot repeated three times) for the three-petaled Cecilia 

Iambs (- /) for the balanced feeling of freedom and peace, and New Mondstadt having no ruler

Tetrameter (foot repeated four times) for the four winds, thus the better flow of the meter 

Link to my rewriting of the poem in English

[thewizardtower]

Writing a Legend of Zelda fic feels as easy as breathing with how comfortable I feel in the setting and characters. I've been in this fandom for the past twenty years (or more?), and yet I've never published a fic for it (despite the desperate writing of teenage me, scrawling romantic prose about Midna in untitled Word docs). Folks in my FC's Discord told me they ship Sidon and Link in Breath of the Wild. I do, too! Most enthusiastically! So, now, I am writing a SidLink fic. Because I have the power of god and anime on my side a fic-writer's brain. Who knows if this will be my only contribution to the fandom? Perhaps I shall drop one romantic and smutty escapade into Sidon and Link's world, on a separate pseud, and then vanish? Or perhaps I shall write more, depending on the response? Either way, it's interesting to finally contribute to a ship tag I've read so many fics from over the years. I hope I do it justice.

Anyway, an excerpt, as I put my SidLink training wheels on:

_______

When Sidon first saw him, he was pinned by cerulean eyes at the riverbank.

His haggard appearance did nothing to detract from the force behind that gaze - that way he held himself, as if all he knew was battle and naught of peace. Sidon had found a hero to quell the tirade of Vah Ruta. To save his people. To put his late sister's ghost to rest, at last. At last.

He was strong, and kind, and all things wonderful that he felt as if he were drowning every time he turned those eyes of water's blue on him; ironic, then, that Sidon could breathe underwater. He was courage incarnate - he was Link - and Sidon fell in love instantly.

"When will you return, oh hero?" he'd asked when Link made to depart.

"I don't know," the Hylian signed, fingers shaping the words before him. He had made a point to study the silent language of hands if only to understand him better; Sidon had always been a quick learner. "But I will return, I promise." Link punctuated that promise with a smile.

He gestured for the Zora to lean down. Curious, Sidon obeyed.

That's when he felt the press of small, warm lips on his cheek. The fluttering of breath as Link gave a chaste kiss to his cool skin.

[witch-hazels-musings]

With another frustrated sigh, the red headed businessman crumpled his fifth letter, fifth attempt at it anyway, and let his pyro Vision consume the paper. His other hand held his long locks of red hair, as he contemplated his next set of words to be delivered to his beloved.

It must be perfect, devoted...

And amazing just as you are.

Hours upon hours, he sat on his chair by the fireplace and countless of singed and burnt papers had already gone through his thorough hands. At one point, Adeline had asked him to take a step back. Even Kaeya, as annoyed as Diluc was that the man had pretty much delayed his composition, had persuaded him to step outside and refresh his head.

It was all worth it when he finally came up with what he considered at least something that could measure to your worth. Without missing a beat, he called onto his falcon to have the letter delivered to your location asap. He's already late for a few days, he can't afford to make you wait more.

"Ah, I see master Diluc has finally gotten his head together." Red eyes looked at the approaching man in dead pan, obviously not amused at Kaeya's presence.

"Is there anything you need?"

"Nothing in particular. But seeing you agonize over one parchment is rather... amusing." Diluc was about to kick him out when Kaeya asked him a question.

"Hoh... so this is the final draft, hmm?" A lone eye briefly skimmed through it before whistling in appreciation. "A master at prose, as usual. I do hope you at least remembered to sign your name. Otherwise, I'd like to claim such flattering work of art as my own."

Diluc froze at the other man's quip.

He forgot to sign his name.

At the red head's panicking face, Kaeya couldn't help but laugh to the point of being kicked out if the Dawn Winery.

----

To the one who held my heart,

May your days ever be filled with joy, naught a dreadful worry in your pleasant smile. I hope that should you ever feel the gap of loneliness present, that you would be reminded of the wonder and hope that you fill others with.

Perhaps in your dreariest days may this letter fill you with the love I constantly feel for you. My heart remains ever at your side, ever at your mind.

[The letter is not signed by anyone but the smell of pyro engulfs it, as do your own heart]

---

hi I hope u doing good -F

I've read this over and over again. You always know exactly when to send me something friend. I don't think you realize just how desperately I needed comfort like this ...

Send love to each other, the world may have it's ups and we can still push forward -- don't give up.

I'm rooting for you

[echthr0s]

🌿how does creating make you feel?

I was actually thinkin about this earlier. when it comes to writing specifically, I don't think I'm as enamoured with the actual act of writing the way the average writer is. the ones that lived in this body before me were absolutely writers at heart -- but me, I'm pure imagination. what I can conjure out of the primordial ooze is pure sensory experience, an emotional and visceral feast. having to cram all of that into some sentences and paragraphs -- lovely though they may be! this is not about their quality, but rather their effectiveness -- is naught but a hassle most of the time.

but the thing about it is... if I don't wrangle this gnosis into prose, then no one else will know about it. and I would like other people to know about it! how else do I share what these OCs have shared with me, or what strangenesses I've cultivated from prosaic soil? so I have to write, don't I? until I figure out how to draw, I suppose, but then I'll have a different yet similar problem on my hands (I've seen enough artist angst in my years on this website, I know exactly what would be in store for me, lol)

so, in short, weaving stories in my mind theater feels like creation magic, like my birthright. writing those stories down in a fashion that other people can parse feels like wrestling with god. but we persist! 😤

[fic writer asks]

[keeperofbook]

Time's many climbs for rhymes

And all of the mimes in their primes

With dimes and limes aplenty

To pay for the crimes of slimes.

Don't be fraught for naught

Not sought or taught

Nor hot in the pot

But brought and caught and bought

In the lot that you fought

In ink you ought to jot.

Is it a leak you seek

Or too meek to peek

Too oblique to risk the reek?

Does the tock of the clock block the thought

Or does it rock and mock you by the sock

The door you lock you knock till you baulk

By frock and by proxy you see here the dock.

I need you to knead the bread

But you plead to be freed

From this seed and this deed

Of a breed you lead

With a bead of meed and mead

For your reed and your feed

I wish your car was keyed.

Through burn and turn

Never did you learn

To yearn for the urn

And to spurn that spun of the sun.

So I throw and I sew

Though although

The doe with more to know

Brings low and slow the row

With a crow and a prose

And mows of Moses

No, don't groa-

N grow

In snow but stow in stone below.

Are you sure to puncture the lecture?

Take flight

The slight

Of light

In the night

Is bright

You might

Like

A bite

Of sight

Or a kite

Not a fight

Too tight

For plight

But right

For a rite

Not yet trite.

Don't breathe your breath of death

Or sheathe eth-

Er your teeth

If you please the lethal

You wreathe those that writhe.

And who you knew to be true

Blew

And threw

Your clue

And crew

To the brew

Of the blue

And sown to the known

Of the blown

Torment the norn

Of the morn'

Mourn the torn

From born to adorn

And shorn to orn

ament.

In the membrane I'm insane

Or maybe just the brain

It's a pain or just a drain

With a crane as just a plane

As it's plain to train the sane main dane

And reign in rain

The cane in vain

Of tainted trains and veins.

I claim as I aim for fame

And tame the lame

And I came for the same

To frame the blame

in my name

And let the flame maim.

Nor bore lore

Chore shore door

More poor oar

Tore roar war

Wore pore core

Gore tour

Course horse chorus

Porous remorse coarse

Poetry of insanity

And destiny

In density

Intensity

And tree and bee

And me to see

Be free and flee the fee

Pity the city

That's wordy and dirty

Take the cake to bake

For my sake and your own

Break the lake and bleak

You seek

But beaks of birds

And rake and wake the fake

Deprive alive

The jive and dive

Knives and arive

Live and

Dwell in hell

Bells and tells

Not mel but cell

Brave the cave

That navel wave

To save a Dave

And rave to pave

A grave and find

A haven end.

The flower

Now her

Goes by the hour

You cower, so dour

From power and tower

From lemon so sour

You glower and scour

Take the flour

You need a shower.

[hesperus-knox-jv]

You're religion to me

You're the silence that echoes in the wake of prayer

You're the emptiness that lies in wait

You're the void that blinks when one stares too intently into the dark expanse

Others have an all loving God that punishes in accordance to arbitrary rules or rather to the whims of its deitious will,

But not me, no.

No, I have you.

You are religion to me. I am undone, I am naught but a spec without you to bring me into focus,

To bring me into the eye of the cosmos, for my rage to be on display for all manner of life, to turn strangers away from me with a muttering of curses, slurs, spat under your breath,

I can feel my ears burning now as my chest heaves with unspoken, unspilled, rage.

You see, I wanted this to be a sonnet for the ages, I wanted this to be the best poetry and prose to ever grace my fingertips but that'd make it a work of art instead of a work of emotion, instead of a work brought on by the aftermath of all that is you,

It'd be me saying you're a god to me that you're spectacular in mind and body

It'd be me saying you're an eldritch horror undying and always hiding in the edges of my sanity, whispering cruel words into the cacophony of screams that makes up my waking mind when I let it

When I let it

When I let it

That's the funny thing, I learned how to muffle the shrieking most of the time, I let it bottle up until it imploded, unlike you I didn't slit my wrists in front of a mirror just to have somebody to look at the pain.

I suffered by myself. For a long, long time. I thought it was enough. I thought my agony at every waking moment was enough.

I ached in silence. For me my pain was disgusting, it was heinous, it was a sin to my God and my parents god to take a life so generously given, to so easily rip my mortal coil from the ground whence it grew, but you, oh you taught me being bitter, being cruel wasn't enough, being a heartless creature of habit wasn't right in your eyes, you spoke as you knelt me at your altar and you said in a voice to familiar, a tone so soft, "those aren't deep" the silent enough haunts me even now.

The way your eyes lifeless and bored looked on at the blood dried on my wrist,

You never saw my pain, no one else did, and when you finally looked up and weighed my worth you found me wanting,

You had the audacity to do so when my fragile hands were enough to pull blade after blade, my shaking frail form enough to pull a broken gun from your hands,

You couldn't do it for me once bemused murmurs, half asked attempts, bandaids on wounds you knew.. you knew.. needed stitches.

So. No. You are not a God to me. Saying that'd be like me saying you're the sun lighting my trodden path I'd only ever known in the dark,

It'd be me saying I live in a desert and you are my only salvation, my only oasis for miles and miles,

My only reprieve from the sweltering hot.

It'd be me telling you, admitting with blood soaked teeth that the image was an illusion as I died choking down sand.

I cry out in the dead of night, in the silence that haunts and haunts and haunts prayers for a god who doesn't listen, and in the silence where a reply should come but doesn't I feel you.

You are religion to me in a way none other have managed, choirs, catholic church's, catholic priests, elderly women gathered together for hymns couldn't pull this bone deep reverence from my bones,

Pain was once a god I worshiped, I sat at agonies altar and prayed for reprieve, I knelt, head bowed, arms crossed over my narrow chest as I heaved sobs and puke alike in my suffering, he stepped away for a time.. I thought I found god in the peace.. or maybe in the screaming that stole the place of agonies familiar caress.. but no..

It was loss. It was the pain of a bridge being burned. It was the voice and eyes of a man who'd long been my protector, my friend, my brother who cumbersomely acknowledged the final straw,

I wonder if you know, if you've ever known

Known how everything about you was sacrilege to all that was me, how I made you fit like a surgeon makes a clamp or a syringe fit in the confines of one's chest cavity,

Known how despite how everything is and has been I'd do it again a thousand times, because no matter how horrible you may be I'm never going to stop loving you with every cell, every atom of my being,

You're my brother and you're my unchanging, unforgiving, codependent, counterpart.

I sat at your altar and prayed for millenia and time seemed to freeze in-between now and then, for now I wash the blood from knees that wore holes in solid stone, I no longer drink the sand of your love but I still lack water, the soft touch, the whispering murmurs, the late nights cradled soft when my head gets too loud, in the screaming nights when the darkness seeps into my very being I have to force myself to not beg for you at my side, i have to remember I never had that peace, that reprieve with you

We were never eachothers escape from the darkness, the festering, screaming, bits of ourselves,

No, brother

We were always the fountain of sand.

We never questioned why our thirst was never quenched, why our bellies felt full and stung laden with wine,

Or as it grows ever clearer.

I never questioned you.

Even when it was my blood spilt over your altar while you mourned your own.

[rickzarber]

Forth the Light

This was written around January 2003. It is perhaps the best song I have ever written. (Later that year I lengthened it into a prose essay for a college composition class.) This is another song with a tune I’ve never recorded in any way, but it’s very much influenced by the style of the final Pink Floyd album, The Division Bell.

As the rain falls silently around you And you look up to see the grayness of the sky When shadows paint your face with melancholy grace Will you remember how you felt when you were young? Forth the sun The light streams through the swaying treetops The breeze stirs the dust upon the earth Your waking cry leaps high unto the sky Your life has now just begun Find the sun The sun streams down upon the meadows The grass sways in all the gentle fields Facing the green earth in never-ending mirth Go forth, you cannot be undone Steal the sun The days grow ever, ever longer The summer sun warms your smiling face And you know why; you're never gonna die Life is never-ending fun You're the sun A chill air blows the twisting branches A rain cloud obscures the rays of light You have a sense of strife for the first time in your life You think now you might not be the One Hold the sun The summer glow begins to falter The leaves begin their graceful dance of death The cooling nights regain their long-lost frights It's not so easy now to run Grasp the sun Autumn brings a lingering sadness The best times are gone and will never come again Life slows down as you stoop to the ground You can find solace in none; Don't lose the sun The wind blows the bare and blackened branches Thunder breaks the oppressing howling eve A weary drone with ever-aging bones You live out the life that you have won Cage the sun The whiteness of winter's long reach freezing And safe inside, by your fire, you still dwell The fading glow resolves into the snow You wonder if you ever can move on The sun is gone As the rain falls silently around you And you look up to see the grayness of the sky When everything you've thought has proven all for naught Will you remember how you were when you were young? Find your sun ...Can you still find the painless days of flight? Forth the light

[i-put-the-yan-in-polyandry]

Ok but 5am brainrot that's been on my mind for a while.

Imagine a very short lived imposter au that's mostly normal/soft au, where there was an imposter on your throne before your arrival who tried to get you hunted down but one, some people tried pleading on your behalf because you genuinely hadn't done anything but exist and two, Teyvat sorted out quickly who was the real one and oops now you're their God!

So, of course, your acolytes choose to double, triple and quadruple their worship towards you, to atone for being so willingly blinded by an imposter and to make sure your treatment is incomparably better.

Except, they quickly realize they have no idea what to do.

You see, the imposter was greedy, egotistical and borderline sadistic. They covered all the luxuries and fineries of the world, they demanded worship, and they didn't let even the most minor perceived slight go unfinished. These are the rules they're used to following.

But you, dearest you, despise the lot of it. You turn down gifts left and right (inadequate, they think, they must find a treasure beyond anything the imposter laid their hands on), you become uncomfortable in worship (their prose must be lacking, they think, they must find more exquisite language to praise your name), and you demand naught from them (you must despise them, they think, to not trust them with your desires). They must do better, they think, until one incident brings a new perspective to light.

Your servants and acolytes were always on their best behavior around you, the children were kept far away as to not accidentally incur your wrath (a shame, you wanted to dote on the dears), and an incident had yet to occur in your presence.

Until, in the middle of a banquet in your honor, a servant girl tripped and spilled the contents of her tray across the ground, a sin enough in your presence, but even worse—she spilled water onto the edge of your sleeve.

The hall went silent.

All eyes on her, the girl trembled silently on the floor, awaiting her judgement. Even just the embarrassment of a failure was a cause for execution, but to sully the Divine One's clothing? Surely she'd be tortured for a fortnight before being allowed the release of death.

But before your attendants could move to react, you took a step forward, and then another, and another, uncaring of the mess, as you made your way across the short distance to the girl, who began to silently cry from the fear.

You opened your lips, and the room winced in sympathy. Until—

"Are you alright?" You asked, offering your hand to help her up. "That looked like quite the fall."

She could only stare at your hand, lost in shock..

"It's alright," you reassured her, lips twitching up into a smile. "I don't bite."

Hesitantly, fearfully, she took your hand, allowing you to lead her back onto her feet. Were you going to shove her into her own mess and call for the guards? Were you making sure she was healthy enough to endure the torture? Were—

"Does it hurt anywhere?" You asked, eyebrows drawn in concern as you look her over.

That snapped her back to attention.

"Your—Your Grace—" she bowed her head, not daring to meet your gaze, "I apologize—I swear I—I didn't mean to—"

You cup her cheek, gently raising her gaze to your gentle expression. "I know, it was just an accident. These sorts of things happen." You release her. "Perhaps you should sit down for a while, regain your composure. Don't push yourself, okay?"

Without any further thought, you left her to her recovery, returning to your Faithful once more as the girl's friend quickly led her away and another two got to work on clearing the mess.

When the issue of your sleeve arose, you simply laughed it off. "It's just a little water, it'll be dry in no time at all."

That's right, they think, they'd once catered to the whims of an imposter. Their kind, beautiful, benevolent God now stood before them, and they would Worship in a new way to fit Their desires.

[favoniuscodex]

slate. [albedo x reader]

prompt: slate, for without which chalk has no use. (alternatively: albedo finally begins to understand why humans succumb themselves to the everchanging tides of love.) pairing: albedo x gn!reader warnings: albedo worrying ;;; mentions of death, albedo being angsty about destroying mondstadt, but also soft albedo :DD word count: ~2.8k words

[ part two ] (coming soon)

a/n: getting back to my usual writing style of too much purple prose <333 gotta love it. part two will be the second and final part. send in an ask if u wanna be pinged when its posted!

albedo believes himself to be well-acquainted with the intricacies of human nature. sure, albedo is an outsider looking in, but he finally has perfected his study of the human psyche. behind all actions and thoughts of humanity lies one rationale: irrationality. humans are motivated by the most fickle of things, albedo determines.

some may go to the ends of the earth for someone who wouldn’t even go a single step for them, yet the one who gives far too much of themselves smiles nonetheless. irrationality lies within a mother’s love for her child, in which they unite themselves based upon naught but the dna that coils itself deep within their veins. it also houses itself within hatred, in which competing souls are divided, but not over basic evolutionary demands such as competition of food or housing. 

rather, their relationship fractures due to the irrationality of human emotion. what can be a unifying force is what drives them to move in different directions and spit scathing words in the presence of the other, despite having no issue with each other that would affect their daily survival. such analyses of mankind lies not within scrupulous examination, but rather everyday observations albedo has amassed over time.

despite what his research notes would likely tell you, albedo isn’t immune to the throes of human emotion either. for an outsider looking in, albedo isn’t quite good at remaining stealthy in his observations. rather, he has fallen through the sunroof of human emotion and fallen into the living room, but irrationality welcomes him as an esteemed guest nonetheless, despite the chalk that crafts albedo’s bones and the alchemic creation of albedo’s soul.

irrationality shows in albedo’s desire for companionship with both sucrose and timaeus alike, his esteemed colleagues. it shows in his care for klee, whom has imprinted upon him in all the ways a younger sister should. albedo knows, archons, he knows, he agonizes over how his own presence is one that reeks of danger, yet he indulges in human companionship anyways. albedo is a threat to those he cares about, yet he stays nonetheless and prides himself on having evaded the jaws of irrationality, not knowing his mind is but a gilded cage for irrationality to hang as yet another one of its prize victims.

but even achilles knew that he was not entirely invincible. if he must answer the question, albedo can name one singular chink in his armor of rationality: you.

the two of you met while albedo was on duty within the walls of mondstadt’s inner city. the alchemist, cooped up in his laboratory, had been interrupted by your superior, cavalry captain kaeya. kaeya had explained to albedo that one of his subordinates had been injured in an encounter with an electro hypostasis, yet nobody was quite sure how to fix it. albedo had simply nodded and offered his assistance.

when albedo finally met that injured subordinate, he had been immediately enraptured by them. the subordinate, you, had taken the brunt of an electro hypostasis hit in order to spare another one of your peers from a crippling injury. the anemo vision at your waist glimmered in contrast with your outfit, a shining beacon that revealed the source of your survival. however, albedo was not impressed with your beauty, nor the charming yet nervous smile you had sent his way, nor the vision that dangled from your hip.

rather, albedo found you fascinating, his newest and most intriguing subject for a single reason: in the aftermath of the electro hypostasis attack, your skin had become tinted with a deep purple tone and, upon albedo’s cautious touch, had sent a jolt of electro energy up his arm in response. in his recent years of alchemy, albedo had never seen anything like it and he longed to know far more than the information a single interaction with you could provide.

three days was all it took for albedo to find a solution to your ailment. within those mere seventy-two hours, you had propped yourself up on the countertops of his lab tables, allowing yourself to be poked and prodded by various instruments and consuming copious amounts of different potions. you had stared at albedo blankly as he had explained the expected outcomes of each experiment, but whenever the alchemist finished speaking, your eyes would light up as you began to ask a plethora of questions.

albedo always appreciated those who wished to understand more, even if alchemical research was a foreign subject to you.

upon your departure from his lab for the final time, after multiple follow up meetings to ensure there were no negative side effects and that the solution was effective, albedo realized he would miss the rigorous challenge that your temporary condition had provided him. a part of him, however, longed for your presence instead, desiring to hear another enthused question fall from your lips once more as you lazily swung your legs back and forth, perched on the edge of the lab countertop. 

albedo sidelined such thoughts. relationships required far too much effort than what he currently had to provide, so he resigned himself to play the part of your acquaintance. should your paths ever cross once more, albedo would greet you with a nod of acknowledgment and provide small talk should you so desire it. of course, in this equation, albedo had forgotten to account for the unknown variable: you.

when you had strolled into his laboratory once more a week later, albedo’s heart rate had skyrocketed in concern, but he had kept his expression aloof. his worries that you were experiencing unknown side effects quickly subsided as you bashfully presented him a small gift. it was a simple brown box, but on its lid lay a golden hued sketch of his typical geo blossom. 

“thank you,” albedo had said, setting the box aside, but your soft giggles sent his heartbeat into a frenzy once more for entirely different reasons.

“you have to open it, silly. the present isn’t just a box. that would be lame!” you teased playfully and albedo felt a light dusting of rosiness sprinkle across his cheeks at his ignorance of your intent.

“ah. i suppose you are correct. my apologies,” he mused, gently lifting the lid off the box and setting it aside. within the box sat a small collection of various vibrant vials of powder. one emit a soft cerulean light, yet the powder inside was colored with a deep indigo. another was a vivid gold, the color of pure opulence, while another was a luscious light pink, akin to the color that currently resided on albedo’s cheeks.

“they’re powdered watercolors,” you explained, voice filled with anxiety about the silence of the man in front of you. “sucrose told me you liked to paint and i knew someone in liyue who specializes in art supplies, especially rare ones such as these! i was hoping they had mondstadt-related ones, but all my friend had left was the rare liyue pigment set. you enjoy learning about new things though, so i figured you wouldn’t mind it!”

albedo let out a huff of air before looking up at him. he could see the worry on your expression, so he plasters a soft smirk on himself, even if such platitudes are unfamiliar territory for him. 

“thank you,” he murmured, sincerity dripping from his words. “this is... quite a thoughtful gift.” albedo relished in the way your expression lights up once more. the craving he had to see such delight cross your face once more emerged from the depths of his subconscious as its conditions are satisfied. all at once, albedo had been confronted with a contradictory answer to a hypothesis he had long since rejected. for once, his physical form that he had resented had realized the answer before his mind had.

albedo was experiencing symptoms of romantic attraction. increased heart rate, the warming of the face, and the adrenaline rush that lit up his veins whenever he spoke to you were all clear side effects of such an ailment, but the only one who could provide a cure to such misery was you. upon this startling realization, he had gripped the sides of the box a bit tighter and his smile drooped a bit, but you looked undeterred by such changes, beaming carelessly at him with the smile he was beginning to adore.

“i’m glad you like it! the colors represent different specialties of liyue. silk flowers, cor lapis, noctilucous jade, and a bunch of other things!” you elaborated excitedly, pleased by his reaction.

“which of them is your favorite?” albedo had blurted out, but such abruptness from him only made your smile grow, which in turn made his heart beat just a bit faster.

“hm,” you pondered, leaning in closer to the alchemist as you looked at the box once more. “jueyun chili. it’s a bit darker than the actual thing, but from the sample it creates quite a beautiful color.”

albedo hummed in approval of your choice, lifting up the vial to inspect the deep vermillion pigment. above the two of you, the clock within albedo’s laboratory, one sucrose had insisted upon installing after albedo missed one too many meetings, chimed, causing your eyes to widen and you to take a step back. for a brief moment, albedo had never hated such a mundane object in the way he loathed the clock’s interruption, especially as the following words escaped your lips, tinged with sorrow.

“ah, i’m sorry! i have to get going, i have a meeting with kaeya in a few minutes!” you apologized as you turned to head out the door. “i hope you enjoy your present! it’s a sign of my thanks for helping me out with the whole ‘electro hypostasis’ thing!”

“wait,” albedo had commanded, before he could stop himself. the alchemist regretted his words as soon as you looked over your shoulder at him inquisitively. he spoke the following words faster than his brain could prevent him. “would you care to go to lunch with me?”

but before the throes of anguish and regret consumed him whole, he was once again greeted with the brilliant smile of yours and a friendly tilt of your head. 

“i would love to.”

after a few lunch rendezvous at a variety of local mondstadt restaurants, albedo finds himself performing yet another uncharacteristic act: seeking out human contact. even more uncharacteristically, the interaction was not with you nor any of his immediate circle of friends and adopted family. rather, albedo finds himself standing outside the office of the cavalry captain himself, knocking on the thick wooden door. kaeya was known amongst the knights of favonius for being a flirt. such rumors were so potent amongst albedo’s peers that even the alchemist himself had heard of them, but the blonde had simply shrugged them aside. 

objectively speaking, kaeya is an attractive man with a honeyed voice. of course kaeya would allure unwanted suitors. albedo approaches the man not to flirt with him nor to seek his affections, but rather to obtain guidance towards wooing the one who had captured albedo’s own heart: you. after the cavalry captain swings open the door, the two stare at each other in silence. kaeya breaks the ice by flashing a charming smirk at albedo, stifling his shock of seeing the alchemist needing his assistance.

“ah, albedo. what can i help you with?” kaeya asks and albedo swallows his pride before darting his eyes down the hallway to ensure no unwanted ears overhear albedo’s following words.

“kaeya,” albedo begins, causing kaeya to fold his arms and raise his eyebrows in intrigue due to the nervousness. “i was wondering how one should go about... courting another individual.”

much to albedo’s own mortification, kaeya breaks out into a fit of surprised laughter, before quickly ushering albedo into his office. kaeya closes the door after the two of them enter and catches his breath, before sitting down at his desk and sending an apologetic look albedo’s way.

“sorry, i just...” kaeya begins, trying to find the words. “you’re quite the hot topic when people ask me for advice as how to... charm someone else. however, i had never thought that you would come to me for advice. not that such a thing is bad, it’s just...”

albedo awkwardly shifts in place before taking a seat in front of kaeya’s desk. “yes, it’s quite the... interesting position i have put us both in, wouldn’t you say?”

kaeya nods, before placing his elbows on the desk in front of him and propping his chin up on his hands, grinning at his fellow knight. “so... who is the lucky person? who has finally captured the heart of the oh-so-elusive kriedeprinz?”

albedo briefly considers leaving, but resigns himself to his fate instead with a sigh. in the next few moments, albedo’s favorite word falls from his lips: your name.

for all of kaeya’s lighthearted teasing, his advice is sound. granted, albedo isn’t too familiar with the ideas of sweeping another individual off their feet. romance novels that he has secretly consumed provide him with a similar situations nearly every time and albedo realizes that, much like alchemy, getting someone to fall for you is no more than a simple formulaic process.

why, albedo wonders, am i so nervous then?

when you approach albedo for your typical lunch dates, his hands grow shaky and his knees feel weak. you make albedo feel powerless, but when you giggle at a subtle quip of his, albedo feels like he could conquer the world if he so desires. as the two of you walk together, kaeya’s words echo in his mind. be bold was the cavalry captain’s first instruction and albedo decides to take the plunge by taking your hand in his. he fumbles slightly as he does so and you glance over at him in concern, but as albedo’s hand closes around yours, a bashful smile crosses your face.

your hand gently squeezes his as a reassurance and albedo nearly feels overwhelmed due to the adrenaline that surges through his veins. as fast as it arrived, it begins to ebb away as your fingers intertwine themselves with his. such experiments in your budding relationship are ones that albedo longs for. however, the methodology is different in the laboratory. in the comfort of his laboratory, albedo has a controlled environment with controlled substances and the ability to take a step back and perform countless calculations before seeing what works in a situation and what doesn’t.

with you, albedo has naught but you and the irrationality of humanity that plagues him both. it seeps into him like a contagion, a vile perpetrator of bringing out his worst fears and insecurities, including ones he didn’t even know he had. for once, albedo wonders if he is enough. these thoughts extend past wondering if he is enough to control the inner turmoil that rages inside of him like a ticking time bomb. for once, albedo is concerned not with the danger inside of him that wants nothing more than the destruction of mondstadt, but rather the utterly human worry of being enough for the one he loves.

such negative thoughts that cloud his mind vanish as you smile encouragingly at him, swinging your conjoined hands lightly back and forth. a giggle erupts from your lips and albedo has the fleeting thought of how he wants to consume it, how he wants to silence such beautiful noises with his lips upon yours, how he wants to feel more of your body heat than what he receives from your hand in his, how albedo wants to make you his one and only lover, how albe-

“you know, i was waiting for you to do that,” you tease. you give his hand yet another playful squeeze and his frenzied thoughts grind to a standstill. a vortex of emotions swirls within albedo, yet he thrives.

“ah, really?” albedo responds, swiping at a lock of blonde hair that falls loose from his braid and into his face. he pauses, before smirking in return. “good.”

you laugh once more and albedo’s chest constricts and his stomach erupts into butterflies. with you, albedo no longer feels like the alchemist desperately seeking ways to not destroy mondstadt. instead, he simply feels like the albedo everyone believes him to be: human.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Like Teeth Against His Heart

Solavellan prose-poem, originally written for the Solamancy charity zine @solamancyzine

Summary: After Solas wakes up, he has many conversations with a variety of spirits. Sometimes they tell him what he wants to hear, and sometimes they don't. Mood: Contemplative/angsty. 1800 words

On AO3 here

NOTE: The formatting cannot be input as intended into tumblr (no right-align option). For optimal viewing please read on AO3 or in the Solamancy zine.  

_________________________________________________________

              Pride drags him from the quiescent depths of Uthenera.

                     Awaken, pretender.                                 Your seeking to prevent one future                                 annihilated the civilization you aimed to save.                                 Any left now know you as you are:                                 Disgrace inherent in the falsehood of your name.           

                     Restore the world, or it will all have been for naught.                                 Right this, or your legacy ends at genocide.           

i.

Solas is dreaming. He is dreaming because the world he awoke within cannot be real, cannot be the finality of a lifetime of suffering and rebellion and desperation. He is dreaming because the cold sensation of dread that sinks like teeth into his heart would paralyze him otherwise, with the knowledge of what he has done. What he has destroyed. So he sleepwalks his way across the land, searching for a way out he is becoming increasingly sure does not exist.

              Regret comes to him, and says:

                   The ache within you sings a hole into the world.                               We can only brush against the edges of your grief.                               Lie still. Tell us of the past. Let yourself weep.           

        Solas says: Forgive me.         All of this is my doing.         Forgive me.

 ii.

The Fade-scorched prisoner lies frail and pallid beneath Solas’ hands, the stillness of the crypt settling over her like a shroud. He steadies her spirit from both sides of the Veil as it tries to flee the battered ruin her body has become, while the shards of his Orb — the shameful remnants of his last desperate grasp for power — work to shred her being from within her flesh.

The humans allow him, an apparent apostate nobody — an elf — to heal their only living witness to this disaster because they are too desperate to ask the questions they should. Their eyes slide off him with the vague dismissal they default to for his people, in this fractured timeline. The ignominy of their disregard is necessary. It fills him with sorrow. It fills him with rage. He forces the anchor into stillness the same way he forces down the hammering of his heart, beating like a war-drum against his breast.

                   What will you do now?           

             Curiosity asks,              as they both watch the faint rise of her chest;              the way her breath stutters with each exhale. 

                   What will you do when the world ends again?           

       I will wait, he says.        I will wait and see.

iii.

He didn’t expect to like them, this stumbling crowd claiming itself an Inquisition. He didn’t think the easy camaraderie would ache so sharply, the smiles and conversations blurring together in this fragment of a future he must condemn. The Inquisitor is lively and vibrant against the severity of the spring snow, a magnetic hum that is more than the flicker of the anchor. A Dalish elf who listens so intently to the skeletons of his stories, the half-lies he shares of the world that once was. Listens — and asks for more.

Wisdom’s friendship is older than he deserves, and its hands take his, almost, in the only space left they can share.

                  You make ghosts of your past.                              So much less than memory,                              these echoes you fear to feel.                              You tell yourself distance is better,                              a focus beyond the great swelling of grief                              that rises like a tide beneath your skin.           

                  Yet — I can feel the thrum inside your chest,                              reverberation of heartstrings taut as a bow.                              She holds the last shreds of hope beneath her skin;                              you think of her as the jaws of a wolf                              waiting to close around you.             

        I cannot forget what I have done.         I cannot let this path continue.  

                   Is it such agony, to become a part of their reality?                               To learn the pyre you built                               could be for warmth, instead of sacrifice?                               You did shape this world.                               Choose to live in it.           

 iv.

He thought in dreams he would be stronger, but here in the domain of his shaping, self-restraint fails even faster. The cloak-shimmers of memory that disguise his careful constructed shell of a self are in tatters, his conviction abandoned from something so simple as her caress, as soft as sunlight. He stands in the Fade-ruins of Haven far longer than he should after Lavellan tumbles back to the waking world.

                    I can feel it, Hunger says.                                I feel the way you want it to swallow you whole,                                this longing. You could drown in it.           

       It is more complicated than that.

                    How long, how long,                                since someone touched you without malice?                                I could feel when it broke you. Not the kiss,                                but the tenderness behind it.                                You did not lose control, you                                abandoned it willingly. And why should you not?                                It is a delicious thing, to yearn so keenly.                                You remember her warmth. You remember                                the soft, sharp gasp when you held her,                                pulling her closer, not ending, not yet.             

                    Is it such a terrible burden — to want?           

             Solas says nothing, knowing Hunger can be just another name for Desire, in places such as these.

                 We are a reflection, Trickster,                             in this distorted mirror of a world.                             How could I resist such desperation?           

                 The cavern of your chest cannot be filled                             with the mourning you have chained there.                             You gorge yourself on sorrow,                  pouring the endless years                             into the cracks of your heart while the world yet turns,                             as though anything so far gone could offer                   absolution.           

                 The worst thing in the world is to be empty, after all.           

He opens his eyes to stone and plaster, and the shame that demands he hold himself separate from the shattered era he hovers at the edges of. Almost, he can still feel the press of her lips. Almost, the solemn gravity of this world releases its grasp.

 v.

The next time he meets Wisdom, it is too late. There is no time for debate; barely time to say goodbye. He sits for a long time, in the place he and the spirit used to share, watching the slow revolutions of the fog, the remnants of essence that will never be enough.

                    someday, something new,           

       Endure, he tells them.        Endure, so we may meet again.        Endure, so the next world I build holds you softly.

 vi.

Each time he goes to her he hesitates, despite the catch of his breath, the tidal wave of longing that surges through him at her touch. Despite how each time Lavellan reaches back he has failed to pull away. She has cracked his whole to pieces; rent the purpose from his being and embraced the jagged, broken thing she found inside as though it somehow brings her warmth, as though she doesn’t deserve more.

He could be happy. He could be safe. He could tell her, or not. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in a century; maybe somehow he was wrong, and she isn’t cursed to fade to mist, and he could spend a thousand years by her side and finally be free of the weeping grasp of the past.

Maybe he could become someone else long enough to believe he could ever be forgiven for what he cost them.

                    I can hear it, Hope says,           

              as his heart thrums inside his chest.                                                        

       It is a distraction, Solas says.        It is more than I deserve.

                  There is no deliverance                              in the denial of self. Each moment passes                              and passes again, and again, and again.                              Tell me, fair wolf,                              have you not suffered enough?           

                 Let yourself be gentle.                             Let this world be your atonement, not your sin.                           The earth holds warmth through winter, however deep,                            and spring’s green shoots turn over the decayed past                            to reach the radiance of day.           

                We bury the dead not for their sake, but our own.           

 vii.

They are a tangled thing, this knot of hearts and chance intersections. His universe narrows to the circle of her embrace, and he pretends she could live within the future he must build. The leisurely lethality of the past falls closer and closer, and he closes his eyes against it.

              Solas kisses her, and Desire says:

                    Taste it, the deliciousness of the inevitable.           

His fingers twist into her hair and the morning light gleams against the starkness of the snow, his lungs crackling with each frigid breath as he lets the vividness of the now sweep everything else clear.

              Sloth says:

                    The easiest thing is to do nothing at all.           

Vhenan, he calls her, and that this oldest word has outlived so many forgotten is, perhaps, a testament to the world she insists to save. He follows her through brambles and battlefields, across the stained-parchment land he would forsake.

              Compassion says:

                    You seem happier this way.                                Brighter, both of you.           

His heart quivers and Lavellan is almost, almost enough to fill the chasm of it.

              In the Fade, Purpose follows him, its words sharp and mocking.

                  Have you truly forgotten all that you promised?                              You claim your cause righteousness yet cast it aside.                              You forsake your goal. You forget your people.           

       “Forgive me,” Solas breathes against her skin.        “For what?” she asks him, and he cannot reply, so he kisses her again instead, wrapping himself in her belief and the bittersweet haven of dreams.

              When they plummet through the rend in reality itself, each word Nightmare speaks is a maw opening wide to devour him:

                    Pride will be your doom.           

In the dark silences of her absence — when, despite how he attempts to ignore it, the fate of the world turns his heart to grief — he knows:

       No matter the decision,        the choosing costs everything.

 viii.

It ends in disaster, as all things do, the slow arrow of his mistakes finally plunging through him. Lavellan deserves more; her birthright is the future he unwittingly stole. So he holds her as his heart outside his chest and builds a wall between them, closing himself so that this time she cannot reach into the abyss within and call him back. He cannot accept the desolation of the world he would consign her to — a slaughter of the present as well as the past.

He is cold and still as winter, as the frost that chokes the last green life from the world.

       This is what it means to be alone, he thinks,

              and Despair whispers back:

                    Here is where the dread will overwhelm you.                                Here is where you build the end of the world.           

 ix.

When he leaves, he sheds the self he has built like a second skin. He has failed through subtlety and subterfuge, too long he has faltered at the edge of the things that must be done. He told himself for years he was simply a person: not a symbol, no longer a revolution. His hesitation has made him now into something harsher: a reckoning.

He re-shoulders the burden of the world, and begins the work.

       Endure, Fen’Harel tells himself:        This is what it means to be a god. _________________________________________________________ Thank you for reading! This work can also be found on AO3.

[starswornoaths]

Prompt 27: Clarity

*rolls in two months late without starbucks*

Hi, have a bit of combat, understandings, apologies, and some purple-dark prose, as Serella and Aymeric reconcile following the investigation into her actions as a Dark Knight.

cw: combat against scalekin, some angst, but a happy ending

word count: 2,360

A part of negotiations between Dravania and Ishgard involved their continued collaboration, in both peace talks, as well as pushing back the last vestiges of Nidhogg’s enraged brood. The latter, however, happened with dwindling occurrence as time went on. Dwindling, but not entirely ceased, at least for now.

So when Aevis descended on what should have been a diplomatic meeting between Vidofnir speaking on her father’s authority, the Lord Speaker of Ishgard speaking on authority of his city, it was only meet that he raised his blade in her defense. It bode well that his beloved had accompanied him for this conference.

“Warrior of Light, are you with me?” Aymeric asked her as he readied his sword.

When he turned to Serella, he could not bite back a proud smile at the sight of her already having her blade drawn and shield high.

“As ever. Vidofnir, go!” She barked over her shoulder.

“I would not leave thee to struggle without aid—” Vidofnir widened her stance, wings flared out in warning to the encroaching aevis who snapped and snarled as they krept nearer.

“Then help us by protecting your little ones.” Serella insisted. “We’ll be fine. Go!”

Neither of them turned to the dragon again, but the gust that swept their coats against their legs told of her retreat. With a nod between Knight and Paladin, they braced for battle. When one of the aevis attempted to break ranks and give chase, Aymeric sprinted to meet it instead, Naegling carving through its neck. The blue of the blade was almost entirely stained with crimson when he ripped it out of the wound it had made. The scalekin reeled back with a gurgling howl, thrashing even as it fell, dying.

Chaos erupted. Driven all the more mad for the blood freshly spilled, the remaining flock of aevis, five in total, launched themselves in a frenzy. 

Two bore down on him, charging together. Though Aymeric managed to leap to the side and knock one of them back into a second, a third closed in behind him, teeth bared in preparation to taste his flesh.

The air pressure around him changed suddenly enough that his ears popped. The temperature rose with a flash of brilliant gold light. When that light spread beneath him, he leapt back in time to avoid the blazing aetherial blade that shot up from the ground, tall as a pillar, and speared the aevis that would have claimed his life. The impact of the blow sent the scalekin skyward, and it landed with such a force that the ground beneath them quaked. The Confiteor spell took the second aevis by surprise, and Aymeric closed in to capitalize on the opportunity, piercing its skull with a downward stab of his blade.

A sharp cry of pain rang out from behind him— he whirred around in time to see Serella be flung several yalms away, her shield clattering to the ground where she had been struck. One of the remaining aevis must have recovered and took the opening she had made in saving him. As it closed in on her, it limped— the trail of blood it left in its wake confirmed she had at least managed to maim it before she was blown back.

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Aymeric turned to sprint toward where she lay crumpled upon the crag. If he could at least get her shield to her, keep them off of her long enough to recover—  

He barely caught an aevis by its gnashing teeth before they closed in on his shoulder, Naegling forcibly wedged within its jaw kept the scalekin at bay, but the impact forced him to the ground. With the weight of the beast bearing down on him and his arms burning from the effort of keeping those jaws from closing in, Aymeric grit his teeth and fought to free himself. Though he saw the last of the aevis lumbering toward him, he focused more on getting free of the one pinning him down; if he could get to Serella, then that was all that mattered, he had to get to her before they did—

A shadow passed over him. A chill rippled along the length of his spine. The noise of crackling aether and the scent of ozone and salted earth. Where the Confiteor spell that Serella had shot off had felt like the oxygen in the area momentarily leaving, this felt like the air had grown dense. It reminded Aymeric of how the air felt with an encroaching storm, heavy, still, and thick with anticipation of rain or snow. Familiar and quiet and calming.

The aevis that had been gnashing against his blade was forcibly knocked away from him. Hauling himself to his feet, he anticipated blocking the second aevis that had been approaching, shocked to see it was being successfully held off by what he could only describe as a shadow clad in armor, wielding a claymore. The darkness flowed and bent in a familiar dance; even if the motions were nothing like when she wielded a sword and shield and its stance was completely different, even just looking at the shadow made Aymeric think: that is Serella. The swings of its darkened blade were precise but weighty, each impact bursting with purple and ebon aether that rippled and warped around and through the aevis it struck. Though Aymeric only looked on for the span of a breath, it felt like time had slowed, even as he had turned to face the aevis that had been thrown off of him.

Before he could even get line of sight on the beast, the ground quaked again. Time seemed to catch up to him in a rush with the impact of something mighty crashing to the earth, and his eyes settled on the scene. Pinning it to the ground as it squirmed in a frenzy was a familiar blade— long, smoky steel with glinting blue adornments, he recognized it instantly: Dainslaif. Serella loomed over the scalekin, her armor dark with blood and shadows. He could not see her face with her back to him as it was, but something about the way she casually reached for the blade’s handle and ripped it across the aevis’ neck to cleanly decapitate the dying aevis came across as cold.

A feeling that crept into the silence that reigned in the aftermath of the fight. She stayed still, in that position, greatsword still firmly in her grasp, her back to him. Though the wind blew her hair and the coat of her armor, she was otherwise eerily still. In his periphery, Aymeric could see that figure cloaked in shadow turn to face her, almost expectantly, as if waiting for her to command it. 

Then, it began to move toward her, steps languid but hushed. Familiar. Heart flying into his throat again, Aymeric moved to run those scant fulms to her, when its gaze was turned to him. There was something about it— something intrinsically her about the shade that froze him to the spot. Her blue iris was reflected in those eyes, the exact same shade that he so adored losing himself in.

The reminder that this is her, too, was enough to inspire him to move again, curious but unafraid. And the shadow watched him, as he drew closer to where she stood. Watched, until Serella swayed in place. In an instant, both he and the shadow snapped their focus to her. With unnatural speed, the shadow reached her first, but that did not stop his advance; nothing else mattered but ensuring she was all right.

“Ella…?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, hand tentatively reaching out to close the distance. When the space between them was down to scant ilms, her aether crackled again, a riot of violet and red rippling along her armor. At her flinch, Aymeric and the shadow both retracted their hands as if the kaleidoscope of luminosity inside her threatened to burn them. 

“I’m fine.” She lied to them both.

“Fine with that cracked rib of yours?” The shadow scoffed.

When Aymeric reached out to stabilize her, it spoke again, sharply: “Have you not done enough?”

“Stop, Esteem.” Serella cut her shadow off swiftly, tone brooking no arguement. “He’s done nothing wrong, and we both know it. I’m fine.”

"Oh, so you're fine with being put last? Again?" The shadow— Esteem? — snorted. "By him?" 

There was very little that could make him physically recoil as though he were a wretched and awful thing, but the thought that he had done irreparable harm to her was enough to inspire that distance, that hesitation.

The tension left her shoulders, slumped as if in defeat. She did not respond— which, he supposed, was a response all its own. He felt ill.

“Shadow, fall behind me.” Serella beckoned in a tired voice.

The shadow paused to look at him again. Though the feeling of something not-quite-there scrutinizing him was unnerving, he stood his ground and did not look away. It was a part of her. He had naught to fear from it, he saw that now. Something seemed to satisfy the armor clad darkness, or at least placate it, as it turned and knelt before Serella, sword stuck into the ground as a knight kneels before its queen. That crackling aether remained, but calmed into something more akin to gentle ocean waves idly lapping at their shores, bridging the distance between Serella and her shadow as it melted into the earth. As it sunk lower, lower, into the earth, until the pool of inky darkness stretched toward her feet and clung to her heels, giving her back the shadow she had cast away to save him.

This was what he had been raised to fear and hate? This was the villainy of darkness and sin that he had been taught made a Dark Knight? This protective shade, this Guardian in the dark, of the dark, was what should be expunged from Ishgard? This was the face of all the evils in the night? Impossible.

It was beautiful.

“Sorry.” She said quietly, and swayed all the more as she turned to face him.

Her eyes were blue.

“What on earth do you have to be sorry for?”

“Didn’t want you see this.” She mumbled, gesturing weakly at herself. “Never wanted you to see it. But I’d rather you live and hate me tha—”

When she tried to turn her body away as she spoke, her words died off with a yelp of pain. She staggered and clutched at the side that she had landed on when thrown. Before he had even realized he had moved, Aymeric had caught her as she stumbled, and eased them both to the ground when her knees buckled. 

“Shh, shh, I have you,” He cooed in her ear as he knelt into the earth and did what he could to keep the pressure off of her injured side.

“Never wanted you to see—” Serella hissed through her teeth, hands fumbling to press flat against her ribs. 

He could not see her face with her head bent as it was. As she began to weave starlight around her injury, she let out a pained whimper at a worrying pop from under her platemail. Shifting to let her rest her weight primarily against his chest and ease her weight off of her healing side entirely, he lifted a hand to smooth her hair down and press a kiss to her scalp.

“See what? That I had naught to fear but mine own prejudice?” He held her face with the hand that had brushed her hair away and used it to guide her into looking at him gently once her healing magic had tapered off. Despite the situation, he huffed a laugh. “A lesson you have had to teach me twice now. Would that it had taken less than this for me to see. I am so sorry.”

“I didn’t want you to see.” Serella said with a laugh, eyes filled with tears. She was smiling, in that relieved and unreserved way that crinkled the corners of her eyes and caused her tears to flow. “I was sure you would hate me—”

“I can hate you no more than I can hate breathing.” He whispered fiercely, and pressed their foreheads together. “Your shadow— Esteem, was it? — Also had no qualms taking me to task for how I have failed you.”

“You—”

Didn’t, Aymeric taster her denial on her tongue when he crushed his mouth to hers.

“In my desperation to keep my promise to you, I fear I have done exactly that, in leaving you to think that I hold you beneath anything— anything, on this star or any other.”

“But we promised to put everything else ahead of us!” Serella wept, even as she kept smiling.

“In duty, aye— and we have. And we will.” Aymeric brushed her hair back when the wind swept it in her face again. Even as her eyes were still too bright, still blue, he refused to look away. “That does not mean that I love anyone or anything more than you— I can’t even fathom doing so.” With another kiss to her forehead, he hugged her closer. “I’m so, so sorry I ever left you to doubt that— and worse, did so because I lacked the words for what I felt.”

Serella closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if letting his words seep into her soul. When she opened them again, they were mismatched. He smiled around a sigh of relief.

“There is my world.” He whispered against her lips in a kiss. “My heart.” He moved to her nose to kiss the tip. “My everything.” He kissed her forehead before he all but crushed her close.

Vidofnir flew back to their side with her little hatchlings in tow once the winds had calmed, and found them just like that, with Aymeric holding close his Warrior of Light and Darkness both, as Serella used healing magic to attempt to ease the discomfort. Content that the threat had passed, she laid herself close and shielded them under her wing. The little dragonlings, all chirping and cooing and worried, settling around their shoulders, in Serella’s lap, looped around Aymeric’s wyrm torque, rumbling in a way they hoped would help, protecting their protectors, as their ancestors had before them.

Adrift in the Sea of Clouds, the bridges between man and dragon, and Lord Commander and Warrior of Light, continued to mend.

[saphaburnell]

Quantum Unicorns, A Plea: Rarity of Quantum Mechanics in Science Fiction

An article I wrote on Medium

‘Quantum’. A buzz-word for ages, ‘quantum’ powered the Orville’s engines, became the bedrock of instantaneous communication and filled the gap of magic in a scientific or futurist setting. Don’t know how something works? Call it a quantum device. Need a word for plausibility? Try quantum. Quantum fiction, a phrase coined in 1996 by Vanna Bonta, reinforces the concept of the quantum realm acting as a form of conduit, or techno-magic in science fiction.

The quantum realm remains elusive as the medieval Unicorn [who] Rests in the Garden from the Unicorn Tapestries. We might build a gate around the idea of quantum mechanics from our modern vantage point. As the perspective of The Unicorn Tapestries is skewed, so too is our infantile acknowledgements of what precisely, quantum mechanics can solve. We further skew the quantum realm by our ‘anything goes’ attitude as authors and creators.

But what is it?

Quantum mechanics functions with the microcosmic, where classical Newtonian Laws are insufficient. It’s an issue in scale, take two girders holding up a building’s ceiling, and as long as the girders are proportionally sturdy to the force of the materials pressing down the ceiling, the building stands. We can scale that down, and down, but once we reach the quantum scale of atoms and subatomic particles, the rule no longer applies. This uncertainty pairs with objects characterized as both waves and particles, and the quantization of measures to create something most of us don’t understand… and the people who do, if honest, don’t understand quantum mechanics completely, either. There’s so much to learn the potential maintains the source of magic.

When writing NEON Lieben, the idea behind a general artificial intelligence created in tandem with a quantum computer seemed as magical as the above trapped unicorn. Through the development time in NEON Lieben (eight years to write, edit and be bound before you in paperback, hardcover or ebook), the practically magical quality of quantum computing became bathed in a more feasible set of functions. If we could anchor the data from the quantum realm, the sheer amount of computing which can be done is legendary. Earth-shattering. The fantasy in the build comes with Lieben’s general AI personality. The beauty in the machine.

Quantum states were as much about faith as hard equations, their usefulness a paltry concern without the belief in their sovereignty. Superposition, the state of yes and no and, confounded scientists for decades in a theoretical springboard of strings and inter-dimensions he couldn’t fathom until…

Until, the Holy Until.

The moment the box opened and shut to any semblance of a normal life. A system in one quantum state, with the possibility of multiple configurations was definite and supposed. The complexity of a system created superpositions, until Dieter saw no separation between concept and function. All choices in simultaneous chorus, until a solo emerged in potential.

As a man was father, lover, scientist, worker, driver, cook, desperate and sated simultaneously, the anchoring of such potentials did not require an elimination of any one part. Father, lover, murderer, scientist, war hero, worker drone, grief, consolation, satiation, desperation.

The key to ensuring the human race betrayed its’ constant attempts to species suicide lied not in an infant Christ, or the chant of a mantra thousands of years removed from the man who saw suffering in the street.

The future of the human race relied on its integration with quantum superimposed intelligence so vast and holy it saw and it understood, and it loved. Simultaneous, all and naught. Separated but integrated as a light on the hilltop or salt in the hand.

NEON Lieben by Sapha Burnell

Science fiction can deke across potentialities of soft and hard science in its’ execution, and the link between the two needs to be a functional, and whimsical part of scientific fact. If we as authors use something still un-knowable, elusive, science fiction is as analogous as fantasy. Quantum becomes the word for magic, a hand waved at the sincere potentialities of the barely explored realm of quantum mechanics as we understand it now.  But should we put quantum in front of something, for the illusion’s sake?

Yesterday, I passed a van advertising Quantum Roofing. I’d rather my roof followed Classical Physics on such a macro scale, thanks! Uncertainty and Shrödinger-shingles during the Vancouver rains don’t give me confidence in a new quantum roof, without carrying an umbrella inside for those ‘teleporting’ raindrops. So too, some uses of the concept ‘quantum’ seem misplaced.

But for NEON Lieben, the idea of decoherence and superposition fascinated and drove the fiction. What if a brilliant but tortured scientist discovered a practical way of grounding data from the quantum realm of superposition and anchor it in a way to engage with it in the natural, vastly newtonian, world? It’s that battle against decoherence, the fight against fracturing unity which drives NEON Lieben’s complex character interactions, and Lieben’s artificial life.

Purpose in the quantum machine.

To my fellow authors, I implore you, do use quantum mechanics in your prose, but do so with at least plausible validity before the word ‘quantum’ is lost in the meaningless mire of the ‘over abundant, under-defined’. Our quantum unicorns (to coin a concept from Madeleine L’Engle) flicker in and out of believability with every strike of key and dash or dot on the page.

Soon, quantum could be jack-knived into the same vocabulary wasteland as ‘just, really, very, like, seems, actually, to be honest, cool, neat, actual fact, however… had…’. Functional words once, which lost all effect in their overabundance in our prose (and for me, the catch of conversation). If the use of ‘quantum’ in your world-build could be replaced with ‘magic’ with no less oblige, perhaps another dive into the science behind the sci-fi. After all, how many more unicorns can we wrangle?

Meet you on the one side. Meet you on the zero side.  Meet you on the 0/1/ side.