#Ward XVII

[gbhbl]

Single Slam: Casey, Mister Misery, Comastatic, Cindy-Louise, Plagues, What Will Be, Torizon, Wounded Cross, Exit Eden, Learn to Lie, Kissing Candice, Hell Can Wait, Bellwether, Diamond Construct, and Ward XVII!

This week’s single slam features Casey, Mister Misery, Comastatic, Cindy-Louise, Plagues, What Will Be, Torizon, Wounded Cross, Exit Eden, Learn to Lie, Kissing Candice, Hell Can Wait, Bellwether, Diamond Construct, and Ward XVII.

This week’s single slam features Casey, Mister Misery, Comastatic, Cindy-Louise, Plagues, What Will Be, Torizon, Wounded Cross, Exit Eden, Learn to Lie, Kissing Candice, Hell Can Wait, Bellwether, Diamond Construct, and Ward XVII. You can read our thoughts about the latest singles from these bands below. Casey – How to Disappear Welsh post-hardcore legends Casey have revealed the details of…

[lilpunkrock]

where you go (i will go) — part xvii

Summary: The Dream Lord follows through on his promise.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x f!Reader

AN: We've almost reached the end of the road, my friends. These last few chapters have been so bittersweet to write. We still have an epilogue to go! In the meantime, I love you all. x

masterlist

. . .

“How long will I love you? 

As long as stars are above you–

And longer if I can.”

How Long Will I Love You (Acoustic), Matt Johnson

. . . 

part xvii

Death of the Endless has been around for a very long time. She has welcomed each soul into the world with a knowing gaze and a warm, friendly smile. The same gaze and smile she gives those same souls when their time comes to an end. She feels the departure of each one in the very marrow of her bones, like a phantom limb, an extension of her own self. 

So, when your soul departs your body, Death knows.

Of course, just because she knows doesn’t mean that she believes it. Not at first, anyway. When she feels the shift, she’s in the middle of approaching a young man riding his bicycle down a busy street, a young man whose life is about to end too soon due to a distracted driver. When she feels that familiar sensation in her chest, like an exhalation of relief at the end of a long day, it takes her off-guard. It takes her off-guard, of course, because she’s not with whoever is departing. 

And then, like a book she’s read a thousand times, like a song she knows by heart, she knows. She knows that that soul is yours. 

But that can’t be right, of course. You’re a deity, after all. Deities rarely die. Normally, they simply fade into nothingness, disenchanted with a world that relies on them less and less frequently. While the Presence and the Endless remain, countless deities have faded over the years. You–Agape–were one of the few who remained.

As Death of the Endless comes to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk, the man on the bicycle pulls away, forgotten. Death reaches out with her senses, searching for you intently. Normally, she can feel the exact location of each soul at any given time. But no matter how far her senses stretch, she’s not sensing yours. 

Panic surges through her, white-hot and jarring. It’s been a long time since she’s felt frazzled like this. Few things disturb Death of the Endless, who has witnessed so much. 

The realization that she truly can’t find you sits in her stomach like a stone. The next thought that hits her is the thought of her brother, Dream. Of the confession he’d made to her about you. 

She needs to find him. Right now. 

When Death of the Endless appears in her gallery in the Sunless Lands, she heads for Dream’s sigil with urgency. When she takes the replica of her brother’s helm in her hands, her palms are slick with sweat. 

“Dream. Are you there? It’s me, Death,” Death of the Endless calls. There is a slight quiver in her voice, one she tries to suppress with a swallow. “I need to talk to you. Something…something’s wrong with Love.”

Death of the Endless waits. Her eyes search the dark panes of glass that would normally guard her brother’s equally-guarded gaze. She receives no response. 

“Dream, you need to answer me. We have got a serious problem.” 

Silence. What if Dream was with you when you passed? What if he was hurt? No, surely she would feel that. Surely. 

Death’s fingers grip the edges of the helm desperately, her knuckles straining, skin stretched tightly over bone. “Dream?”

Nothing. 

The huff that Death breathes is equal parts frustration and anxiety as she returns the helm to its resting place. So, Dream wasn’t available. She had to believe he was okay. She had to. But if she couldn’t go to him to see what had happened to you, what was she to do?

There’s only one other option, she thinks with conviction. The Fates. Surely they would know where you are. You were their ward, after all. 

Death of the Endless and the Three have always had a unique relationship. The Fates traditionally kept to themselves, typically interacting with others only when called upon. But Death and the Fates worked closely together–after all, their functions were directly intertwined. She was able to enter and exit their realm freely, no summoning or request for permission required. There were perks to being Death of the Endless, she supposed. 

Normally, Death would take her time looking for the Fates within their realm. After all, there was much to admire–the crystal blue sea, the impressive ancient Greek architecture, the honey-sweet air. But today, when she sees the Three standing along the shore, clothed in white silks that glow in the sunlight, she approaches them without preamble. 

“Kindly Ones,” she calls as she trudges through the sand in her black boots. 

The Three in One turn toward her in unison. Though the Crone is characteristically stiff, the Maiden and the Mother offer her pleasant smiles, as if they’ve been expecting her. 

“Death,” the Maiden sings, her brown eyes warm and kind. “What a surprise.”

As if, Death thinks as she comes to a stop in front of them. Nothing comes as a surprise to the Fates. “Something is wrong. I felt…I felt Love die, but her soul–”

“What about her soul, darling?” the Mother asks with a quirk of her brow. Her visible lack of concern makes Death’s throat grow tight with worry and confusion. 

Death swallows thickly, her dark, plush lips pursing. “I…I can’t find it.” 

There are several seconds of silence where only the whisper of sea on sand cuts the air. Finally, the Crone gives a dismissive wave of her hand. “Think nothing of it, Teleute. Our ward is well.” 

Death’s brows draw together. She gives one firm shake of her head. “I don’t understand,” she says, at a loss for further words. 

The Maiden’s smile widens, turning into something soft and sympathetic. She crosses the space that separates her from Death. When she takes the Endless’s hands into her own, her touch is warm and reassuring. “The Crone speaks the truth, Death. Love is well–or, she will be.” Her white teeth gleam in the sunlight as she gives Death’s hands a firm squeeze. “She’s coming back, darling. Just you wait.” 

. . . 

The sound of leather against wood reverberates through the night air as Dream of the Endless marches down the dock in the middle of the Dreaming’s sea. As he slips through the familiar mist of teal and lavender stardust, he can’t help but recall the countless times he’s walked this same path with you. He remembers each night so clearly–the soft gasp of awe that always passed over your lips, the glimmer that always lit your gaze when you witnessed the stardust, regardless of how many times you’d seen it before. 

You’d always cherished the simple things. You’d told him so countless times. Your passion for them was contagious. Over the months of knowing you, he’d found himself garnering a greater appreciation for simple pleasures, as well. Pleasures like the slight citrus bite of earl grey, or the soft whisper of the waves on the Dreaming’s shore, or how the air smelled a little sweeter when you walked the palace grounds with him than when he walked them alone. 

Even now, he’s not sure when he’d come to love you. The feeling had snuck up on him, like falling asleep, like slipping into a dream. Perhaps it had been the day he witnessed you bless the wedding vows in the forest, the same vows he’d now made to you. Perhaps it was the night outside Hob’s inn when he’d gifted you a piece of himself, a cloth pouch full of sand. Perhaps it had been under the midnight sky on this very dock, asking each other questions, watching stardust dance and swirl in your eyes. 

Or perhaps it had been the night you’d come to the Dreaming, worn, weary, and starved of rest. Even battered and broken, you were stronger than him. Even exhausted and hollowed, you burned with the fiercest light. Even when your face was flushed and swollen with tears, you were the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen. 

Regardless of when he’d fallen, he knows in his bones that it was the night you’d first molded his dream to fit your image that he’d made an irreversible choice. That was the moment he’d voluntarily walked into a future he couldn’t turn back from, that he didn’t want to turn back from. A future that, for the first time in millenia, he looked forward to.

He’d chosen you. You’d chosen each other. He’d given you his vow. He would wither and waste before he dared not keep it. 

When he reaches the end of the dock, he drops to his knees. When he plunges his hands into the cool waters of the Dreaming, it’s with surety, with purpose. And then, he does what he does best—his function.

. . . 

That night, humanity dreams of a woman they swear they’ve met before. Perhaps in passing on the street, or on a coffee run, or in a dream. Her smile makes them smile. Her laughter is music in their ears. 

She walks on a honey-gold beach in another world, her face upturned to a robin’s egg sky. The tide reaches for her, eager to kiss her feet. The grains of sand seem to part beneath her step. The wind dances around her, caressing every visible inch of skin, playing in her hair. When she laughs, the birds sing.

And that’s when she sees him, the tall man in the black shirt and dark jeans. The mortals think it strange of him to walk along the shoreline in boots, but the girl pays it no mind. She is sunshine when she sees him, all radiant light and warm, dripping yellow. She takes off across the shoreline like a bird takes flight, ghosting across the sand and beachrock on the breeze. He is opening his arms before she even takes her first step. 

When she reaches him, she jumps, and he sweeps her into his arms. He spins her once, twice, three times, over and over until she’s nothing but laughter and dizzy, giddy glee. When he presses his lips to hers, the whole world feels right.

“You found me,” she laughs against his skin, smiling against his lips. Her hands skim over the pale skin of his forearms, the proud column of his neck, the dark feather-soft shock of hair on his head. Like he’s the blood in her veins, the very oxygen she breathes.

“I promised,” he whispers against her eyelashes, her cheeks, the soft hollow at the base of her ear. “There is nowhere you may go that I will not follow.”

As he pulls her tightly to him, the world blurs and shifts like watercolors. When the mirage lifts, the mortals find themselves looking down upon the same girl from above. She lies on a bed of stars in a room carved from pale stone. Towering windows of stained glass cast her peaceful face in shades of sapphire, emerald, and crimson. Her body is still and lax. 

She must be sleeping, they think in unison. It’s time for her to wake. 

All at once, humanity dreams of her drawing in a long, slow breath.

On a dock in the middle of a dark, yawning sea, her lover breathes in tandem. 

Oh, yes. Humanity dreams quite well that night, indeed.

. . . 

“How long do you think it will be until we gather them all?” 

Warmth blooms over the back of your scalp as Dream chuckles softly. You feel him shift behind you, turning his attention to the pile of seashells sitting several feet away. “You are quite the tenacious scavenger. I suspect you could collect an ocean’s worth of treasure if you put your mind to it.” 

A quiet hum of contentment warms your chest as you pull his arms tighter around you. As the crystal blue tide pulls in, you stretch your legs forward, burying your toes in the soft sand. When Dream’s lips find your ear, you lean into him instinctively. “But if shell hunting is what you desire, I shall refill the ocean as many times as you like,” he murmurs softly. 

“How chivalrous of you,” you laugh, pressing your cheek to his. When your lips find the corner of his mouth, Dream’s eyes fall shut. You can’t help but smile wider. “As far as afterlifes go, shell hunting on the beach with you seems like a pretty great way to spend eternity. Even if you prefer to catch shells from the shore.”

For a brief moment, Dream goes entirely still. There is no rise and fall of his chest against your back, no ghosting of his breath across your skin. As soon as you notice it, however, he shifts, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck. His thumbs sweep over your knuckles slowly, fondly. Something about the action soothes you, mollifies your urge to question him over his brief moment of pause. Content in the silence, you lean your cheek against the soft pillow of his hair and close your eyes. 

You remain that way for a long time. 

It’s difficult to identify the exact moment you begin to feel the shift. It sneaks up on you, so much so that by the time you notice it, it seems it’s already gone too far for you to turn back from. It’s a pull in the back of your mind, a weightless feeling in your limbs, a sensation of drifting. No, rising. 

It’s familiar. You’ve felt this before, yes, back when you were alive–

In an instant, you’re coiled like a spring, eyes flying open in panic. When you jerk forward, Dream’s face lifts from your neck quickly. When you turn to look at him, you find his expression one of surprise. “Dream, something’s wrong.” 

When his hands find your upper arms, Dream’s grip is gentle, grounding. “What is wrong?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed with concern. 

You shake your head once, twice, in denial. “I– I can feel it. I can feel it inside me. Something’s taking me away. Something’s pulling me somewhere.” 

For a moment, there is nothing but the whisper of the sea behind you, the strengthening sensation of rising in your limbs, and the flicker of blue as Dream’s eyes search yours intently. When his rosebud lips part, you’re not sure if it’s in awe or horror. 

He pulls you to him then, suddenly, hastily. When you release a shuddering breath, he winds his fingers through your hair, drawing your head into his chest. “Everything will be alright,” he whispers quietly, his breath warm against your ear. 

You shake your head against the fabric of his shirt, wrapping your arms around him. You grasp at his back desperately, defiantly, as if holding on tight enough might keep you here. “No, Dream. I don’t want to go. It’s finally you and me.” Another swell of levity, calling you up, up, up. You grip him tighter. “I don’t want to leave you.” 

“You are not leaving me. You are coming back to me,” Dream murmurs against your skin. There’s something about the surety in his voice that compels the hammer of your heart to slow and soften, that quells the burn of anxiety in your chest. When his fingers knead your scalp, your grip on him eases slightly. When he draws in a deep breath, you try to do the same, following his lead. 

The first one is shaky, uncertain. But the next is easier, and so is the next. With each one, that feeling of weightlessness grows, the call in your mind becoming more insistent. 

“Everything will be alright, Love.”

Yes, you remember this feeling. This…this is what it feels like to…

“Come back to me.”

. . . 

As your mind is coaxed into the waiting embrace of your body, the first thing you register is softness. It’s all around you–a plush pillow beneath your head, silk linens beneath your fingers. The next is birdsong. A quiet chorus of it trickles in through a window beyond the curtain of your closed eyelids, awakening your mind to sound in addition to touch. You can feel a warm breeze dancing over your cheeks, can smell a familiar honey-esque sweetness in the air.

When your eyes flutter open, it feels like it’s for the very first time. The sunlight, though not overly bright, takes your eyes off-guard at first. It feels as if it’s been ages since your eyes have witnessed it. Blinking rapidly, you squint, taking note of an open window on your right, of the small bedroom you’ve found yourself in. 

For a long, peaceful moment, all is quiet and still.

“Holy shit, you’re awake!”

At first, you jump. But as the sudden exclamation rings through the air, recognition washes over you. You’d know that voice anywhere. 

In an instant, you’ve propped yourself up on your elbows. You’re lying in a bed, you quickly realize. When you turn to your left, you find the source of the exclamation perched on a small nightstand. “Matthew!”

Matthew the Raven flaps his wings emphatically, squawking happily when your lips turn upward in a smile. “Love. Holy shit. You have no idea how happy I am to be talking to you right now. I was starting to think I’d never get to do that again. ” 

A bewildered laugh escapes you as you shake your head in awe. In spite of the familiar gleam of Matthew’s dark eyes, the feeling of the sheets beneath your hands and the wind against your cheeks, everything still feels only half-real. Like a dream. “Yeah, Matthew. Likewise. You have no idea.” Your head turns, scanning the room you’ve found yourself in. It’s small and simply furnished, containing little more than a nightstand, a wardrobe, the bed you’re currently sitting in, and a chair by the bedside. You blink, eyes still adjusting to the sunlight. “Where am I?” 

“Oh, this?” Matthew says, craning his feathered head to follow your gaze around the room. “This is Dream’s quarters. He used to not have one, just hung out in the throne room all the time. But when you woke up–or, well, you didn’t ‘wake up,’ but when you went into the coma, I guess–he decided to make one. Didn’t want you to have to stay in the throne room, especially when he didn’t know how long you’d be out. Plus, I’m not sure how comfortable that bed of stars was, even though it was pretty cool. You know, from a construction standpoint.” 

You blink once, twice, three times. Your mind, still untangling itself from the remnants of unconsciousness, struggles to absorb all the information Matthew just threw at you. But one thing cuts straight through the brain fog.

Dream. 

“Dream.” Your mouth echoes your mind as adrenaline surges through you. In an instant, you bolt upright, fully prepared to throw your legs over the side of the bed and charge out of what is apparently the Dream Lord’s quarters. However, your plan backfires when a wave of vertigo washes over you, sending you tumbling back down onto the pillows. 

Matthew squawks in protest. “Hey, no, no way you’re getting up yet. You’ve been lying in this bed for weeks.” He ditches the nightstand to perch on your stomach, black eyes staring at you accusingly. “Have you lost your mind?” 

You blink rapidly, trying to shake the last of the vertigo from your mind. Though your thoughts are sluggish, your body is alive. Every nucleus, every cell, every fiber of your being urges you to get out of this bed and follow that familiar pull in your chest until you find Dream. You fist your hands in the sheets to hold yourself in place. “Dream. Where is he? I need to find him.” 

Matthew cranes his beak toward you, demanding your attention. When he speaks, his voice is stern. “Hey, you literally just got resurrected from the fucking dead, okay? So…just relax.” With a flutter of his dark wings, he takes flight, hovering in place above you. “You are staying here. I will go find Dream. Though, chances are he’s on his way here already.”

And with that, the raven soars out the open window in a flourish.

With Matthew gone, the small bedroom is still and quiet. You breathe a long, slow exhale as you lean back into the pillows and close your eyes. As you do, you shift your focus, straining to shake the last remnants of fog from your clouded brain. The more alert you become, the more you think. And the more you think, the more you remember.

You remember confronting Desire, balancing your scales, and banishing the Endless from the Realm of Attachment. You remember the feeling of being torn in two, of being burned from the inside out, and the numbness that had overtaken you after. You remember your mental goodbyes to Matthew, Lucienne, Hob, and Death. You remember the awe in Dream’s eyes when he’d seen your bonds, the agony in his eyes when he’d realized your fate. You remember the all-consuming peace of being in his arms, the arms you’d died in, and the last confession to him that had died on your lips along with you.

You had died. You were sure of it. So how could you be here, in the Dreaming, seemingly alive and well? Surely this couldn’t be some cruel joke. Some place of torment you’d been flung into when you’d been pulled from your blissful existence shell hunting with Dream on that honey-gold beach. 

Everything will be alright. Come back to me. 

Your fingers twist in the silk linens beneath you like a lifeline, desperate for confirmation that this is reality. I’m here.

Perhaps it is your call, or perhaps it was Matthew—you’re not sure. But as the words slip from your mind into the universe’s grasp, the door across the room swings open. In an instant, you’re sitting upright. This time, when the vertigo sweeps in to overtake you, you lock your elbows, determined to hold your ground.

And there he is. The Dream Lord, your Dream, a dark run of ink in the pale morning sunlight. His hair is wildly disheveled from his journey here, even more askew than normal, and his chest rises and falls quickly with eager, shallow breaths. His rosebud lips are parted in astonishment, his clear blue eyes wide as saucers, unblinking. He looks at you as if you’re a dream, or a ghost. As if you might disappear any second now.

For one long, terrifying moment, you wonder if he’s right.  “Please don’t tell me I’m dreaming,” you stammer past the vice that grips your throat. 

Something shifts in Dream at the sound of your voice. When he releases a shuddering breath, you can feel the relief that comes with it. When his blue eyes meet yours, he gazes at you in awe. “Have we not established that deities do not dream?” he murmurs, his voice low and gentle.

It’s probably the closest he’s ever come to making a joke. And it’s exactly the sort of thing that your Dream–the Dream Lord who endears you, astonishes you, amazes you–would say. 

When your body moves, it’s of its own accord. In a blink, you’re out of the bed, on your feet, moving toward him. As you move to take the first step, your knees wobble in protest, seemingly unaccustomed to bearing your weight. As you begin to stumble, Dream sweeps forward to grasp you by the elbows, catching your fall. 

The sinewy strength of him is warm, solid, and real beneath your touch. The relief that washes through you at the realization is all-encompassing, overwhelming. You think you might laugh. You think you might cry. But when you raise your eyes to hold the Dream Lord’s gaze, at first, all you can do is stare. 

When you finally find your voice, it’s scarcely more than a whisper. “Oh, Dream. What happened? Matthew said I’ve been out for…for weeks?” 

At first, Dream doesn’t answer. He takes the time to carefully return you to the bed, to ease you down onto the silk sheets with gentle hands. When you open your mouth to protest, he sits beside you, close enough that your thighs press against one another. Perhaps he knew your request without you asking. Perhaps he doesn’t want to place any unnecessary space between you, either. 

Dream’s gaze is soft as he watches you, drinking in your features in silence. After several long moments, he opens his mouth to speak. “Matthew is correct. After you…after you passed–” his eyes fall to the place where your thighs meet at that, rosebud lips pursing slightly, throat bobbing with a forceful swallow, “–I brought you to the Dreaming. Matthew or Lucienne tend to you while I perform my necessary duties.” He pauses, his ocean eyes meeting yours through thick lashes. “Your recovery has been long. You…had much to recover from.”

The care in his voice is palpable, the intentionality behind his words evident. Perhaps he’s waiting to see how much you remember. You remember everything.  “I died, Dream. There was no way to survive those injuries. I felt myself go.” You take his hands in yours with careful fingers. When you speak, your voice is earnest and entreating, desperate for answers. “How am I here?” 

Dream’s gaze falls to your joined hands. His thumbs brush over your knuckles slowly, his touch feather-light. “You have touched the soul of every living mortal. A piece of you lives on in each of them. They know and love you, even though they do not realize they do.” He pauses then, tracing the curve of your thumbs slowly, thoughtfully. “The collective unconscious is a creature of incomprehensible power. It has the ability to alter the fabric of reality, to rewrite pasts and futures, when wielded with unity and purpose. They needed only a bit of guidance.” Dream’s fingers pause. “They dreamed of a world in which you lived. And so, you did.” 

A quiet breath escapes you as your lips part–one of disbelief, one of awe. Altering reality, reversing the past, amending the future–you had never heard of anything like it. You had always known that the Endless possessed incomprehensible power, but something of this magnitude had never dared enter your mind as a possibility. You had always presumed Destiny to be the most powerful Endless, or perhaps Death, or even Desire. But now, as the full magnitude of Dream’s function dawns upon you, a new reality starts to take shape.

“Have you done that before?” you ask quietly.

“Once. A long, long time ago,” Dream answers, his gaze still affixed on your intertwined fingers. “I suspect I may have to do it again before my time is complete.” 

A tender silence falls over the room as you both sit amidst these confessions and revelations. Slowly, Dream resumes his tracing of your knuckles. His touch is tentative, as if he still can’t quite believe you’re real, as if you might break beneath his fingertips. You grasp his fingers in yours, squeezing gently, as if to say, I am. I won’t. 

“Dream.” Your voice is soft and imploring. When you raise one hand to cup his cheek, lifting his face to meet your gaze, he follows your lead without hesitation. “You saved me.”

Dream’s pale eyes search yours intently. It seems strange to think that those eyes had once seemed so guarded, so irreproachable. The dance of the stars in those eyes is a part of you know, as much a part of you as the depths of your own heart, the corners of your own soul. When they gaze into yours, you can feel everything he feels in flawless tandem. Awe. Reverence. Devotion. Adoration. Love. 

When Dream presses his lips to the skin of your palm, your heart grows three sizes. When he leans into your touch, every inch of your skin sings with contentment. “You made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure my wellbeing. It was my turn to save you.” 

The memory of lying in Dream’s arms, battered, broken, and bloodied, is seared upon your mind like a brand. You can still remember the barely-contained frenzy in his eyes as he’d assessed your injuries, the confusion that had drawn his brows together when you’d whispered to him, I saved them. I saved you. 

“I’m so sorry, Dream. For everything.” You pause, choking on the swell of emotion that grips your throat. You give his hand a firm squeeze. “I need to tell you what happened.” 

Ever curious, you expect Dream to lean into your offer, eager for answers. When he shakes his head, it takes you by surprise. “There is no need. I have spoken with Desire. I know all that I need to know.”

Now, that declaration catches your attention. “You spoke with Desire? When? What happened?” Your mind races, filtering through dozens of questions in rapid succession, unsure of where to really start. When a dreadful thought occurs to you, you grip Dream’s hand tightly enough that your knuckles pale, your voice pitching with nerves. “Please tell me you didn’t spill family blood–” 

When the pad of Dream’s thumb settles against your lips, you quiet, the nervous energy in your chest instantly soothed. His ability to calm you with a word, a touch, a look, seems to defy all comprehension. You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“There is much I can do without spilling blood,” Dream says, his voice low and sure. A shiver prickles down your spine at the seriousness in his tone, at the flicker of a single star in the dark pools of his eyes. It’s a look you’ve seen only once before, in the flickering firelight of Dream’s gallery after he’d learned about your murder at Desire’s hands. I will protect you, it says, a vow that settles in the very marrow of your bones for safekeeping. You deserve to be protected. 

Dream’s thumb drifts from your lips to the soft curve of your cheek. He closes his eyes, pressing another tender kiss to the palm of your hand. When he opens them again, his irises have lightened to their familiar, beloved ocean blue. 

“You will never have to fear them, nor any other being, ever again,” he says softly. 

It’s a peculiar thing, the feeling of being in love. Impossible to mistake for any other emotion, and yet, equally as impossible to describe. You had witnessed countless mortals attempt to do it justice throughout the millennia, striving to capture its essence in art, in song, in literature. Once, you had thought that their efforts were admirable, that they did surprisingly well conveying something that was so dynamic, all-consuming, and incomprehensible. But now, you realize just how much their attempts fall short, just how much their descriptions pale in comparison to the real thing. 

Liquid light pours into you as you lean into Dream’s touch, filling you up, up, up until there is no piece of you it has not known, no corner or nook it has not illuminated. It surges outward, consuming the room, the Dreaming, the universe, the multiverse, reaching on and on and on into oblivion. It is fire and ice, a suckerpunch and the sweetest embrace, a first and final breath, all at once. It is a joy so bright it blinds you, a peace so deep it pains you, a completeness so grounding it transcends you. 

It is boundless, uncontainable, untameable, incomparable, unchangeable. It is everything. He is everything.

I’m in love with you, Dream.

“Before…before I died, there was something I needed to tell you,” you whisper, your voice strained against the lump at the base of your throat. “I didn’t get to say it out loud—“

When Dream’s lips upturn in a small, knowing smile, it robs the breath straight from your lungs. It’s the first time you’ve witnessed a true smile from him, something more than just a quirk of his lips, or an unseen grin pressed into your hair. “It’s alright, Love. I knew.”

You blink, once, twice, three times. When you open your mouth to speak, you find that your lips have upturned in a grin, as well. “You did?” 

“Of course. I saw the attachments that bind us. Agape, eros, erotoropia, philautia, pragma, and philia, the soul tie.” The look on your face must be one of surprise, because Dream lifts his chin ever so slightly in a challenge, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What, you presumed my memory would fail me? I remember everything, from the moment you first breathed the Dreaming’s air, from the moment Lucienne escorted you into my throne room. I knew precisely what each bond meant.” 

As Dream’s words settle over you, a new memory surfaces. The memory of six attachments burning brightly between the two of you, a radiant mix of red, orange, yellow, blue, purple, and white. 

The Book of Souls had revealed that you were destined to share all seven forms of love with Dream. That left only one missing–green storge.

It had been the promise of a next, you realize. An assurance that your life was not meant to end battered and broken at the edge of your realm that day. It had been the promise of a future. You had just been too distracted to see it. 

Slowly, tenderly, Dream’s hand caresses the back of your head, fingers entangling in your hair. Your eyes flutter closed in bliss as he presses a kiss to the space between your brows, the tip of your nose, the corners of your mouth. When he draws you closer, pressing a kiss into the hollow under your ear, a soft hum of contentment escapes you, unbidden. “To be fully transparent, I find the term ‘love’ too feeble a word to describe this,” he breathes against your skin, his voice sweet as honey. “The term ‘agape’ is far superior.” 

And that’s the moment. The moment everything falls into place, the moment the joy becomes uncontainable, the moment the laughter bubbles forth from your lips like birdsong. The moment everything is exactly as it should be.

If the Dream Lord is surprised when you tackle him against the bedsheets, he gives no indication of it. If your muscles protest as you climb on top of him, weak from weeks of disuse, you pay them no mind. When Dream pulls you to him, your smiling lips finally joining, everything beyond him fades away. No, there is nothing but the warm flush of his skin beneath your fingers, the strong lines of his brow, nose, cheekbones, and jaw. There is nothing but the intoxicating hum that spills forth from his mouth into yours as you lace your fingers through his feather-soft hair and pull ever so gently, just as you did on a honey-gold beach in another world. There is nothing but the silken brush of his lips against yours, the trail of his fingers over your skin, every movement passionate, reverent, fervent, adoring. There is nothing but the th-thump, th-thump, th-thump of your hearts beating in tandem, rhythms so strong that they leap against your skin, as if longing to burrow out of your chests and meet in the middle. 

No, there is nothing but Dream. He is the past, present, and future. He is the beginning, middle, and end. He is food, water, and oxygen. He is everything. 

“I am yours,” you vow in the fleeting moments that your lips part for air. “In any time, across every realm, in every reality. I am yours. I’ve always been yours.” 

As your promise seeps into Dream’s skin, he slows, dark lashes fluttering open. He’s beautiful, you think, unbidden. When his pale eyes meet yours, every star in them burns for you. They shift and glimmer and dance, promising, s’agapo, s’agapo, s’agapo.

“How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? How long are the years until the journey ends?” Dream murmurs. When he draws you toward him, every fiber of your being sings for him. When he rests your forehead against his, looking into his eyes feels like coming home. “There is nowhere you may go that I will not follow. Not again.” 

And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? He was your dream; you were his destiny. Every breath, every step, every choice, every victory, every heartache–they had all led to this moment. This world in which you were together. This world in which you were finally, finally complete. 

Dream had spoken the truth–no matter what the future held, there was no reason to be afraid. Whatever you’d face, you’d face it together. Where you went, he would go. Where he stayed, you would stay. You no longer had to go through this life alone. Neither of you did. 

What more could one ever want?

[ask-the-crimson-king]

The Erebus Short Story

And no, it's not Child of Chaos.

This is "Visage" by Rich McCormick, the advent short story that got released earlier this month.

Welcome to my lore post/review of it. Spoilers are under the Read More.

I will say I do think this is a worthwhile read. For the basic premise, it focuses on Erebus in the aftermath of his face being skinned off in Fear to Tread by Horus, a piece of lore I never thought would get any explanation other than "he's Erebus, how do you think he got his face back?". I won't give much detail other than that, so if you're interested in learning how it was done, give it a read.

I'm going to dig a bit deeper into the story itself, so as said before, spoilers under the cut. This post also became huge because of the quotes, so I apologize.

Hello and welcome everyone who has either read this or don't care to and would like to read my ramblings on the story.

This is not going to be super concise or may not even make a lot of sense; this is mainly going to be me going over the passages I found interesting and talking about them.

First off, this scene;

‘My… lord…’ the chirurgeon managed through a constricted windpipe. ‘I am pleased… to see you have stabilised.’ He squawked – an attempt at a breath – as his face reddened to the colour of the XVII Legion’s armour. ‘Please… rest… that we may begin the process of repairing your wounds.’

Erebus’ lipless mouth was locked in a rictus grin, as if he found the situation perversely amusing.

‘No time,’ the Dark Apostle said, tendons in his cheeks visible as they worked his mouth and tongue. ‘The athame leaves its mark on those it touches.’ He raised the dagger, still clutched in his left hand, its edge hissing gently even now with its master’s own blood. ‘It is simple, chirurgeon. I need a new face,’ Erebus said, as he pulled the man closer to the ruined mask of his own. The chirurgeon could smell the Dark Apostle’s breath, hot and rancid, even over the metallic stench of blood. ‘I will take yours,’ Erebus growled.

‘But, my lord,’ the chirurgeon stammered, falling backwards as Erebus loosened his grip on his neck. He rubbed at his throat, his voice still hoarse. ‘I fear such a procedure would kill me.’

‘Then you must give thanks to the gods directly,’ Erebus said conversationally to the cowering man as he sat up on the stone slab. ‘That your sacrifice may be in my name.’

This initially caught me a bit off guard. My gut reaction was "uh. Hey, Erebus? Don't you have sorcery or something to put your face back on? Also, this is just a human. Isn't this face, y'know, not going to fit your skull??"

And luckily for me, all of these questions get answered.

Erebus examined it. It lacked the full range of intricate tattoos that had decorated his own face, but he could address that later. He could feel the athame’s effects coursing through his body: a grave-cold touch flash-freezing nerve endings as it slowly severed his physical connection to reality.

The mutilation was symbolic, as well as agonising. Stripped of his face, he was stripped also of its web of warding tattoos. Between the athame’s wounds and the constant attention of the Neverborn that he attracted, Erebus knew enough of the diabolic to understand that waiting much longer without those wards would put his life in jeopardy.

This solution would not last – a mortal’s face was not only physically smaller than a Space Marine’s, but also lacked the dense web of blood vessels – but Erebus had ensured that his acolytes were all marked with the same basic warding tattoos as he had been. The face would buy him the time to craft a more fitting solution. Perhaps he could even coerce Fabius to help him, he thought; the Chief Apothecary of the III was a skilled fleshcrafter.

First off, warding tattoos. That's cool. Also gives a bit more purpose than "this is done when one is devoted to the gods/their faith", which I also enjoy, especially because it's just more practicality. I'll definitely be incorporating that into my own lore with my Word Bearers lads moving forward.

Also, what better wards than ones literally etched into your flesh? That's metal as fuck.

Second off, hey, even Erebus acknowledges the face is too small and probably incompatible! And also he thinks about approaching Fabius again which probably would never go well for him. I don't know if he still has the leverage he thought he had now that Horus openly disgraced him. If I remember correctly, the leverage he used against Fabius in Fear to Tread was basically "I'll tell the other Legions you've been experimenting with them, too" and genuinely I don't think Erebus will be listened to by anyone at this point. Lorgar was basically done with him from the first minute he shows up in Betrayer, Horus literally flayed his face off, I think he's fallen from grace here.

And also Fabius is Fabius. I don't think he'd put Erebus's face back on unless there was a really good deal for him or truly at all as a means of

But then we get this, which is both comedic and a bit ridiculous:

For a moment, as the last needle left his body, there was no pain. Erebus allowed his hand to move to his new face, and touched its skin. It was too tight, already splitting along lines of pressure, the capillaries and blood vessels strained to bursting. Erebus smiled, or tried to; his new lips could not move.

‘Behold,’ he said. ‘The new face of your–’

Erebus screamed as his face caught fire. Black flame sparked under the new skin, turning fat and flesh to ash in an instant, a total rejection of the unwilling donor’s gift. The Dark Apostle clawed at his skull, tearing stitches and skin alike as he fought to free himself from the torture.

‘Too late!’ Erebus howled, and he ran from the agony, springing from the stone slab and staggering out of the apothecarion, still scraping with wild fingers at his flaming skull.

It's just funny. The flayed face literally bursts into flames. I don't have much other commentary other than this is ridiculous and hilarious and feels completely on-brand for Erebus. I cannot explain why. This genuinely made me laugh out loud when I read it.

He cannot smile. He can barely speak. He tries to say "behold the new face of your master" or something along those lines and it immediately catches on fire. That's hilarious. Amazing.

Afterwards, he plunges his face into a vat of old and congealed blood from Legionnaires at Isstvan [because of course it's taken from Isstvan, everything will be taken from Isstvan because Isstvan is important. Remember that from now into infinity. Black Library certainly wants you to] and then we get the Blessings of the Gods Any% Speedrun WR attempt as set by Erebus.

Now, I will say before I start yoinking a few more passages, I do not know how to fully feel about this entire thing. On the one hand, I do very much enjoy some of the descriptions used, as I will highlight, but on the other...

The first portion with him dealing with the Lord of Change [assumedly] was something that I liked. Not just because I do very much enjoy Tzeentch, but mainly due to a few key descriptions:

‘Then lend me your eyes,’ Erebus asked.

No, a million voices said. They screamed it and shouted it, bellowed it and whispered it, laughed it and sneered it and spat it.

All except one. Small, quiet, almost imperceptible in the cacophony of its peers, it spoke a different word.

Yes, it said.

If he had a face, Erebus’ mouth would have slid into a predator’s smile.

‘See, daemon? There is always another path,’ he said.

[. . .]

A bird, flying impossibly through the void, so small, so fragile against the infinite black. It beat its wings to escape, but Erebus knew the realm of daemons better than any other alive, and he caught it easily. He cradled it in his tattooed hands. It was tiny in his grasp, like a child’s toy, and he could feel its heartbeat: an irregular rhythm that was never the same twice. The bird looked at him with eyes like gemstones, one the purest blue, the other topaz yellow.

A name.

‘Your kind cannot resist sharing your knowledge,’ Erebus said. ‘So you hide it, somewhere small, somewhere hard to find.’ He stroked the bird’s plumage with his thumb. ‘But I am very good at finding things that others cannot, and I am very patient. I also know the most important question to ask.’

He asked that question now, and held the bird to his ear, to hear its answer. It spoke a single word with a single voice, as quiet as a wish.

Erebus would have smiled, had he possessed lips. Instead, with a skull’s rictus grin, he snapped the bird’s neck with two fingers, and spoke the word it had told him.

I love this description. I love the frailty of the tiny bird, I love the instance of "quiet as a wish", I love how Erebus calls out the daemon for wanting to spread information, it's wonderful. I love all of the above.

What I don't really like is that the majority of this Tzeentchian venturing has been done before. Winged Astartes through a daemon realm? Mephiston did that on Sortiarius in City of Light. The many paths thing? I think there's been at least five or six different instances of that happening. And while I do like how Erebus is presented as being a bit more savvy than others would be -- actively saying "No, I'm not choosing a path cause that damns me" -- he then kinda goes back on this?

‘You seek to contain me in a trap of my own making. I know this trick, daemon. I have walked such paths many times before, with others of your kind,’ Erebus said.

No trick, the voices chorused in return. A path to what might be – a path to what has come. We can show you the possibilities, but you must make the choice. You are the instrument.

‘Entertain me, then. How will I play your game?’ Erebus asked.

This is just weird. Why include this if he's immediately going to just... go along with what the daemon wants anyway?? To show the reader "oh he's done this before"? Maybe I'm nit-picking here, but I do consider myself a Tzeentchian connoisseur when it comes to 40k lore, and I would've liked to see something a bit different to just "walk the paths of fate, ooOoOOo" yet again. It feels a bit one-trick and, ironically enough, pigeon-holed.

I think what I would've liked to see would maybe be Erebus thrown into a facsimile of a library on Colchis, probably one of Vharadesh's archives if we want to keep the whole "your first choices were here" thing going on. Have him peruse the volumes and dig for the answers he seeks that way. It's something more associated with the Thousand Sons, but I think it could work as a better motif than the exhaustively used "walk the paths of fate and see how you failed ooga booga".

Again, might be nit-pickish, but I like Tzeentch content. And I don't hate all of this section, I do enjoy the descriptions as mentioned before. I also think the library or archive would work better since Erebus is calling out the daemon for some part of itself always wanting to share that secretive knowledge.

SOMETHING. I like playing to the knowledge aspect of Tzeentch, and I'd like to see it used outside the Thousand Sons for once.

I've gone on long enough about this, so I'm going to move on.

From Tzeentch to Khorne as Erebus comes face-to-face with a massive Bloodthirster guarding countless skulls on Terra. I don't have a lot of notes on this other than the Bloodthirster reads a lot like one of my player's character from a Black Crusade game I ran and that felt funny to me.

Also, brief aside, from basically here-on Erebus is constantly referred to as "the instrument" and due to me being strange and having internet brainrot at times, I keep associating it with the TOOL from Petscop. If you know you know.

Another aside, Erebus is completely naked in the scene for reasons that I don't really get. Maybe to show he is vulnerable? Is this a subversion of the armored warrior thing? Is it to get Erebus to admit he is vulnerable in the face of this massive daemon? It's probably something along those lines. I found it an interesting enough detail to log in my mind as he talks with the beast and eventually gets its name. I don't have much else to really say, Khorne stuff isn't my forte.

Now, I will comment before continuing; on my first read through, I thought this was not only filling in the gap of "how did Erebus get his face back?", but also filling the gap of "who are the four princes/greater daemons he summons to use against Erda in Warhawk?". I'm still 30/70 on whether these daemons are the very same, but leaning more on the "probably not, it's just a coincidence" side.

Still an interesting thought.

Okay. To preface what is next, it's time for Slaanesh. From the heavy handed, "I know many secrets", it's probably a Keeper of Secrets in the form of a snake. Hurray for fellow snake enthusiasts everywhere.

I have a lot of thoughts over the following scene, which I will try to articulate as well as I can. Due to the length of it, I'm going to showcase it in screenshots instead, with appropriate image descriptions attached.

There's a lot to go through. First of all, Erebus is told all men desire and then gets shown Horus.

That is simply funny. Erebus does like the Warmaster. But I don't buy his "he's chosen by the Pantheon so I trust him as their champion" thing. I don't think that's the true reason why he doesn't strike here. For one, he knows this is an obvious test of wills and limits, and he knows that he can't fail it or else he's probably done for. For two, if we take all that he is into account, Erebus isn't really... super into power grabs for himself. He likes to play the role of manipulator, he likes to pluck off the limbs of scorpions until he gets stung. That's how I've been reading him, anyway. He still absolutely wants power, but he knows how to get it without necessarily centering everything on him, if that makes any sense.

He says it in "Child of Chaos", how everyone will eventually turn back to him again. He KNOWS people will still need him and his abilities and expertise and that they'll always come back eventually. He'll always have a seat of power that is greater and grander than many others, they just won't know it because he knows how to veil it in the glories of another.

No idea if that made any sense, but there's more to this scene I want to unpack.

I do like the detail of Erebus's new eyes also assisting him in clearing his head. The athame -- or really the daemon -- is trying to push him to get vengeance for all the humiliation Erebus has suffered, but the eyes he received from his time with the Tzeentchian daemon helps him to see things more clearly. I like that a lot. Using the gifts of the others to better survive the next trial ahead.

I also like how Horus just completely goes for the throat with Erebus. It speaks to all his assumed insecurities, that Horus never needed him, that he's so far beneath the true chosen of the Pantheon, etc. etc. I can't really tell if these are genuine insecurities for Erebus or whether this is just the daemon assuming they are, much like we the reader may. I think Erebus is a bit more assured than this, but we don't really get much of a peak behind the curtain to how he's really thinking or feeling. I do think this is a deliberate writing choice, however, so I won't knock on it too much. Would I have liked to see a bit more of what he was feeling in this moment? Sure, but Erebus as a character would never show that. Leaving one guessing is the best outcome for him.

Afterwards, Erebus shuns a gift of some weird... blood? in a cup, grabs the serpent, gets the name and obtains a tongue. We also are given this description:

‘I grant you my tongue, that you may savour this gift,’ the serpent whispered, euphoria in its voice. Erebus felt the organ flick against his ear, the softest touch of breath on skin.

And the mental image of a pink snake going blelele against Erebus's cheek is adorable. Also, "the organ". I don't know why but that made this all the more funny.

Moving past the snake, we come to the last of the Big Four, Nurgle. And this is the one place that surprisingly almost overwhelms the Hand of Destiny.

But how? You may be asking. Well, dear reader, it is through a most enticing luxury few others can afford:

‘Lost, are you?’ the helmswoman asked. ‘It’s easy to get lost out here, traveller. Come with me, I can give you a place to rest.’

Her voice was warm and comforting, at odds with her appearance, and he found himself drawn to it.

‘This place is my test,’ Erebus said.

‘Hush now, traveller. You must be tired. You have come such a long way.’

[. . .]

 a cabin that rose from the swamp on teetering wooden stilts. Its interior was damp, and clumps of quivering moss could be found clinging to several surfaces, but Erebus found it strangely comfortable. He decided he would heed the woman, and rest a while before continuing his travels, and he took residence in a spare room with a cot that seemed uniquely designed for his proportions. He fell asleep quickly.

When he awoke, the woman was in his room. Her skin was pockmarked with sores that wept a thin yellow liquid.

‘Did you rest well?’ she asked in her warm voice.

‘I did,’ Erebus said, and he meant it. His sleep had been so deep, so pure, that it had cleansed his mind of his previous trials, wiping it clean of pain, of anger, of impetus. So deep that he found it difficult to recall how he had arrived in this place. ‘I came here for a purpose,’ he said slowly.

‘It cannot have been important, if you have forgotten it,’ the woman said, a wide smile spreading across her bleeding lips. ‘Come, drink,’ she said, and offered a wooden bowl of viscous liquid. Erebus accepted the bowl without question, and tipped its contents down his throat. The liquid was as warming as the woman’s voice, and he felt his concerns slide away as its effects reached his limbs.

It's the power of a very good nap and a homemade meal. And he stays here for a very long time. He just naps and rests and is given good hearty Nurgly stew.

I very much enjoy this depiction of Nurgle. This could've easily been a "walk through the Gardens, become wracked with pain that the Grandfather can alleviate" or something, but instead it takes the comforting aspect of the Grandfather's influence and really goes a very good job portraying it.

And yet Tzeentch got the cliche "walk through the paths of your failures past and future" no I am not going to be spiteful and petty I am NOT biased I promise [lies].

What eventually breaks him out of this state is his hunting trips -- he goes out to find food for him to eat, having forgotten what else he needed to do. He gets told to stop his hunting and to just let go, and after he awakens from sleep yet again, his companion is missing. So he decides to go through the kitchen, and eventually finds his face:

He was prepared to return to his cot, when he caught sight of a red mess of a shape in the reflective copper surface of a saucepan hung from a hook on the wall. As he moved, it moved, and he realised that it was his own face. His face, mauled and mutilated, maimed and disfigured.

He saw the Warmaster, his talons red with transhuman blood, and the contentment that filled his soul dissipated. It was replaced by a cold fury.

The woman returned a moment later, a crop of mushrooms clutched between her fingers. Erebus manoeuvred his bulk to bar her way.

‘You cannot hold me here, daemon,’ he thundered, staring into her milky eyes.

‘I do not hold you here,’ she said, her voice as clear as ever. ‘You may leave, if you have somewhere else to go.’

‘You think that I will forget my calling? I am Erebus – the Dark Apostle, the instrument of the gods.’

‘Names are meaningless,’ the woman said. ‘Death carries names beyond remembrance, and death conquers all.’

Erebus then makes an attempt to kill her, but this being the realm of Nurgle [and also the warp], such thing is meaningless. But he's gotten his clarity back. He's not a nameless traveller staying with a decaying granny in a swamp, he's Erebus again.

Mostly. He does offer to try and help her, if he is here for all eternity, and she tells him of a rare plant on the edge of the swamp. Of course, Erebus has trouble finding it without a nose, so he asks for one and is granted it.

Which then leads to a scene that I found funny for all the wrong reasons:

Under moss and dirt, beneath dead leaves and dying wood, Erebus uncovered a well.

It was built from bricks, their edges rounded with age, and he wasn’t sure if it was still functional, but as he slid the metal covering back, he saw the reflection of his mutilated face staring back at him in clear water. He reached in and cupped a hand of that water to his mouth. It was fresh, cold and sweet – a sliver of purity in a tainted land.

He filled a canteen with the water, and returned to the cabin. When the woman appeared with her own liquid, Erebus rejected it, drinking deep from the well water instead. The sight of it made the woman screech in fear.

‘What is it?’ she howled.

‘Water,’ Erebus said.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘It is poison!’

He turned the canteen over in his hands, watching as the woman recoiled in fear. He allowed a drop of the water to fall from the canteen’s cap, watching intently as it fizzed and popped against the slime-green floor. As the smoke cleared, Erebus saw a tiny circle of brown amongst the green: the rotten wood returned to health.

The woman cowered in the corner of her hovel, a shivering corpse of a creature made somehow more pitiful. Erebus laughed.

‘Now, daemon, it is your turn to drink.’

Water is poison. Clean water is poison. In a Warhammer short story.

This is just hilarious. Completely unintentionally so, probably, but it is very, very funny that water is being used as a way to defeat a daemon in Warhammer. Something something the rule for showering in Yu-Gi-Oh! tournaments.

I do like that the well even exists, and that it took getting the gift to use it against the very daemon who was trapping him there. After days of bathing her with well-water from the canteen, eventually he gets the name from her, and he's finally out and free.

And he's got a new face:

He brought his hand upwards, feeling at the meat of his face, and found a shifting, squirming mass of flesh. He rose, and called to his acolytes.

‘Mirror!’

A hooded figure returned with a jewel-embedded mirror, its silver handle carved with runes. Erebus looked into its depths, and saw the reward of his trials: not just the services of powerful allies, but the power of the Four, represented in the visage of one.

He had seen this before – as a child, in the deserts of Colchis. Now that prophecy had come true.

Eyes that could see futures yet to pass. Ears that rang with the beat of the Blood God’s war drums. A mouth that ached for the rarest tastes. A nose for death in all its forms. With his new face, Erebus smiled.

And that ends the short story. I like it, overall. I do have my gripes with it, but I think one of the things that really stands out for me is the use of description here. I really enjoyed the word choices used.

I think this story could have handled a couple of the god-things a bit better, but I'm also a bit nitpicky when it comes to Chaos aspects. I would like to see some more diversity in the representation of Chaos as a whole, because a LOT of it does feel a bit one-trick-y, and we saw a bit of that, which I will take.

I would have liked to see a bit more into Erebus's head. I know this is third limited, but even through that lens we can see a lot about someone. Here it felt a bit more like physical reactions than mental ones. It felt like we were barred off from seeing more, but I also think this is probably by design, as I mentioned before. Erebus, as a character, wouldn't want anyone seeing more than just surface level. We see what we want him to see. He doesn't want us to know how he really felt during his trials and tribulations, we have to make those assumptions ourselves and live with them. Same with all the decisions he makes through the story.

Overall, not bad. I liked it well enough, and I think this is some competent writing and a good enough answer to a question I think most people shrugged off.

I hope you enjoyed my various ramblings and nit-pickings, I'm terribly sorry this post got so long. There was a lot I wanted to talk about and I'm curious to see if others agree or disagree or what their thoughts were about it.

[writing-for-me-at-this-point]

𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖗𝖔𝖗𝖘 | 𝖒𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖎𝖋𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒

Welcome to my horror masterlist! This is a small project I will be partaking in, in honor of spooky season, and for my love of horror. This is [ the original prompt ] I will be using, so please give the creator some love! This entire masterlist and my blog are 18+ and do not cater to minors at all.

This will be multifandom, and the characters will vary, and be listed below for each day. The plan is for me to start writing ahead, and to post each new fic at 3:33 AM EST Time, so it will be scheduled- but I also will do time zone reblogs.

As everything is posted, I will be updating this masterlist as well.

Here is my [ masterlist ] and a [ prompt list ] you can request from as the time goes on and we wait for the fics to be posted. The prompt list will get its own [ horror prompt masterlist ] as well. It will be linked when made.

warnings and triggers: tbd

C H A R A C T E R. L I S T.

ii. blank. red hood. jason todd. batfamily. dc comics.

i. cleave. ryomen sukuna.

iii. interred. alejandro vargas. modern warefare ii.

iv. urban. steve harrington. stranger things.

v. den. jade and floyd leech. twisted wonderland.

vi. head. konig. modern warfare ii.

vii. crossroad. dire crowley. twisted wonderland.

viii. count. denji. chainsawman.

ix. cycle. reiner bruan. attack on titan.

x. hotel. the winter soldier. james "bucky" barnes. marvel.

xi. devour. eren jeager. attack on titan.

xii. cubicle. makima. chainsawman.

xiii. club. trey clover. twisted wonderland.

xiv. pinch. captain johnathan price. modern warefare ii.

xv. viral. vil schoenheit. twisted wonderland.

xvi. bleed. ghostface. danny "jed olsen" johnson. dead by daylight.

xvii. penpal. ajax-tarrtaglia, "childe". genshin impact.

xviii. press. jon snow. game of thrones. asoiaf.

xix. scandal. simon "ghost" riley. modern warefare ii.

xx. freeze. aki hayakawa. chainsawman.

xxi. fragment. spiderman. peter parker. marvel.

xxii. track. nightwing. dick grayson. batfamily. dc comics.

xxiii. ward. alucard. castlevania.

xxiv. reign. malleus draconia. twisted wonderland.

xxv. vessel. itadori yuji. jujutsu kaisen.

xxvi. crawl. jacaerys targaryen velaryon. house of the dragon. asoiaf.

xxvii. tear. leona kingscholar. twisted wonderland.

xxviii. lonely. ghostface. danny "jed olsen" johnson. dead by daylight.

xxix. pray. noe archiviste. vanitas no carte.

xxx. nail. gogo satoru. jujutsu kaisen.

xxxi. epilogue. - to be determined -

[adventure-showdown]

What is your favourite Doctor Who story?

ROUND 2 MASTERPOST

synopses and propaganda under the cut

More than a Messiah

Synopsis

MAJUS XVII - a paradise world of plenty where interplanetary tourists can relax and enjoy life. But not for the retired Bernard Denton and his wife Charlotte, pleasure comes at too high a price. The Stranger and Miss Brown soon find themselves embroiled in a battle against nature itself as a mysterious girl displays an infatuated obsession with The Stranger.

Propaganda no propaganda submitted

Step Into the 80s/On Through the 80s

Synopsis

These were adverts for Prime Computers, they featured the 4th Doctor, Romana II, and K9

Propaganda

you can tell this was at the point when tom baker and lalla ward were shagging (@lilydvoratrelundar )

It’s the weirdest commercial I’ve ever seen. (anonymous)

[sporadiceagleheart]

Thursday edits rest In Peace to those old angels Thomas Jefferson Tiller, Mecy Tiller Perdue, John Talbot Hanks, Eleanor “Ellen” Perdue Hanks, John Perdue, Nancy Elizabeth Hanks Lincoln, Thomas Lincoln, Sarah Bush Lincoln, Elizabeth Johnston Hanks, Dennis Friend Hanks, Abraham Lincoln, Rev Henry Sparrow, Lucy Nancy Hanks Sparrow, Mary Eunice Harlan Lincoln, Thomas “Tad” Lincoln, Robert Todd Lincoln, William Wallace “Willie” Lincoln, Edward Baker “Eddie” Lincoln, Mary Ann Todd Lincoln, Powell Waits “P.W.” Ward, Mrs Vera Valentine Ward Beckwith, Warren Wallace Beckwith, Mary Harlan Lincoln “Peggy” Beckwith, Mrs Jessie Harlan Lincoln Randolph, Edward Everett Beckwith, CPT Warren W Beckwith, Robert Todd Lincoln “Bud” Beckwith, Abraham “Jack” Lincoln II, Frank Edward Johnson, Catherine Bodley “Kittie” Todd Herr, Elodie Breck Todd Dawson, 1LT Robert John Randolph Jr., Sophia Hanks Legrand-Lynch, Sarah “Sally” Hanks, John D Johnston, Harriet Ann Hanks Chapman, John Perdue, Captain Abraham Lincoln, Elbridge Gerry, Catherine Gerry Austin, Ann Gerry, Thomas Russell Gerry, Elbridge Thomas Gerry, Thomas Mifflin, Sarah Morris Mifflin, LT John Adams, Jonas Russell Adams, William Byrd II, Jane Byrd Page, COL William Byrd III, Maria Taylor Byrd Carter, Maria Taylor Byrd, Col Landon Carter, Carolianna Carter Hall, Frances Parke Custis Winch Dansie, Frances “Fanny” Parke Custis, Lucy Parke Byrd, Evelyn Byrd, Anne Byrd Carter, William Evelyn Byrd I, Abigail Smith Adams, John Adams, John Walker, Joseph Evan Davis, Samuel Emory Davis, William Howell Davis, Varina Anne Banks Howell Davis, Varina Anne “Winnie” Davis, Margaret Mackall “Peggy” Smith Taylor, Sarah Knox “Knoxie” Taylor Davis, Baby Monster, Aethel McMullen, Laura C Hedgecoke, Little Eva Hedgecoke, Gracie Perry Watson, Wales J. “W J” Watson, Margaret Frances Waterman Watson, Inez Briggs, Anna Glinberg, MANIA HALEF, Louis XVII, Lois Janes, Madame Royale, Marie Thérèse of France (1667–1672), Sophia Hanks Legrand-Lynch, Nancy Lynch Davison, John Potter Davison, Omie Elizabeth Pruitt Davison, James Anderson Davison, Julia Josephine “Jessie” Harlan, John Walker, and rest in peace to Rev. James Cleveland behind the song God is

[libidomechanica]

Sometimes Sun and Moon; and shred the ones they han the

A limerick sequence

               Stanza I

Began to gape forth: there is a fix. Sometimes Sun and Moon; and shred the ones    they han the keeps the    solemnly, as once, that I felt a common-place of it or no?

               Stanza II

The new Parnassus, where that she might see each other nation. Then returns,    and the smell of Wisdom,    and morbid eye, to swear again. While throne, crowned him to be done!

               Stanza III

From powders of grapes. All that pays his due; my spirit is this thigh because    she means to bear a song’s    befalling. Not soon, as late as the effect is fine, and there.

               Stanza IV

His hinder head anither airt, and may againe wit. Or else let them clash;    an auld wife’s tongue silly    poet, silly man: though they buried him almost forsworn.

               Stanza V

The New Testament is faire haire; her fair clime which grows weary. That they maken    many as skies in    the gladness of the places. To sing my Highland lassie, O.

               Stanza VI

The land, and marking sweet flower upon the night. Ne of land, nor fee in    sufferings of the personal,    base, a wounded me; they miss—but since, my numbered by care?

               Stanza VII

Thy teeth are asleep to death! Why should be found it! Wee shall I go, of them    it sits to clusters to    recommend them, shedding air bubble, not to be overcast!

               Stanza VIII

A weary I thought, and his right defy a crotchet critic’s rigour. But    where? But what in a fowling    new love bears with my life, being spent, in pale continent!

               Stanza IX

He stops talking. How oft would ever again? We must invent a something    without leaving a tythe    which the landscape green, our souls’ antipodes. It was his name?

               Stanza X

But find him not. Of the field; let us strange; tis also so correcting    her face, nay, image of    a pretentions were. Where our town, far off fowls hae feathered legs.

               Stanza XI

And what I’ve seen the moral seas would speak, or English eyes and thy bed-vow    broke and problems from Love’s    fine with dirt. Dropping sweet name thereat shot to his gardens fine!

               Stanza XII

Had a rider on his throne,—and then any thing; a goodly verdure flings,    I hardly any air.    With devout touches. Tis true, hath bene before, with no more.

               Stanza XIII

Make me thy lips and a fathers grace. To trust me, I know not, O doe not,    that cometh leaping upon    his hair, there was neither other love. There came out; presence.

               Stanza XIV

Without an awful rainbow, as it may be alive again: and did not    mind. Of tiffanie or cobweb    woven across the roll-call draws them balance even time.

               Stanza XV

But I shall smell of living flower! In any chest, save where the chance, but    true; for me to your ruin    I mourn; your face and we lie near each seam gleams. Of a peach.

               Stanza XVI

Thy two breast, where no people of all— won’t let your own sweet smelling bright, condemn’d    to seek, i’m sure wards    of Engedi. Wretched Elenor walk’d in austerity?

               Stanza XVII

My brave Lochinvar. Some ask’d it, ever was of the wretched Elenor!    I therefore do not the    haunted. I’m sure to his cabinet, to furnish matter: impress’d.

               Stanza XVIII

Save listening if any thing, therefore which will doe, as did they left behind    us. To recommend    themselves down below, if such cause of his love, until I die.

               Stanza XIX

Tho’ many a thousand pieces of silver fountains of Bether. My glass,    and somewhile that    face with a hill-flowered languor, april cold does the custom.

               Stanza XX

Of summer heavens and, may be fix’d; the more re-survey these presence that,    bright ivory stages but    forth a look on Heaven we are grazing, the monde, exactly.

               Stanza XXI

But till that never meets, and to heare. I sued the cheerless grate from off her    fetter me? Juan—in this,    thinke it will build up common- place on his temples are as they!

               Stanza XXII

The deed is done, we don’t know what, and fear, to changed, for on his teeth, whate’er    it should find their several    sexes; neither had a dreary vaults. By the Kidde to fynd.

               Stanza XXIII

But the sweet face of its own grapes. Love given you the larger wove in a    palace is perhaps from    crime, perhaps that gray-beard wretched Elenor! Return, return!

               Stanza XXIV

But true; for sweet hair lay in early morning to the night. But ah false praises,    for all the glen sae    shy; for laik o’ gear ye lightly me, but fient a hair care I.

               Stanza XXV

Forth as t was refreshed. I swear she cast a glow upon me, this is: if    I looked in mine with a    smile on her parents, albeit the dark. Whence arise in me?

               Stanza XXVI

They sleepe with payne: for all hem remayne, that opposition between. Lulled themselves    eternal cold walls    with pain, so arguing a wanton and was gone to a tree.

               Stanza XXVII

The bell struck and milk are under my hearts! Shall bloom the stately ships go on    virgin’s coronet. One    things more than an aged sister, and not be a loving lips.

               Stanza XXVIII

Of what would be discuss’d her, less from curious distant shore, that I shouldst    in bounty cherish his    controlling pin, over thighs, breasts of morning sun. Thou comest!

               Stanza XXIX

Self-discourse with emphasis, and can with woe! Then sneer’d; some truth Farewell love    my fare; who not long, long,    long, too weak, for all his work, and learnes in the galleries.

               Stanza XXX

Now, when as good is meant for narrative is not once to swerue, and never    speak, or English accent.    Love in store, what fallen the weather wept. Sometimes, mystery.

               Stanza XXXI

His mouth: for then is gall, in midst the better than their foreigner is strange; stranger:    but Juan had been out—    at work with the boors cried Dang it? At first, when small agacerie.

               Stanza XXXII

Saw it unfold itself, but forth her bones: mought we could. With a ruby large    length with that sweet: yea, he    is wearing, in act to stroked my children would lull its spokes fell.

               Stanza XXXIII

At least satiety both together under the drive, you at them like apples    fall asleep laid by    his trams in a wheel of roses see I in her eyes with dirt.

               Stanza XXXIV

But no such end perdie does less supply, till I saw the brightness of the weary    I though even the    love to ask the graue conceived me. So that thou hadst set me free.

               Stanza XXXV

Came late: for thee, ’ and pointed to a finer mood. Made closed behind as I    stand among women? Like    Archimedes, I leave them sweeps away around my jewel out?

               Stanza XXXVI

Knows no disdaine retorne, for they knew the stars; her several sexes; neither    sound mind. And such I    mean to moan and channels pour—oh! When a lawn’s cast over. Fool!

               Stanza XXXVII

I lift my hart still it groan’d her last. How can I then be elder witt. Like    a sharp repulse, or bread    or the Kidd pittying hys heauinesse, and she is the sharpe showres.

               Stanza XXXVIII

Shall I search, your wine. Sometimes, I wonder not, that they would novels gain by    the lovers, when valiant    masquerade; but small; shut up—no, not one barren among them.

               Stanza XXXIX

Then downward from the tower of Lebanon. The wilds, as doth an Arab    turn’d avenger, so that    he harbour’d in that Adeline and performance and wade mouth.

               Stanza XL

Expansive warning for thy my Kiddie the dreary vaults. And boldly dare    invade that a bonne fortune    may be alive again, assured of it all in the soil.

               Stanza XLI

Thing whisper’d, “’twere better ha’f o’t. Hide, oh, take those I have not be a    tortoise in me and perfumed    with flagons, comfort at the little clocks with shepherds’ tents.

               Stanza XLII

Who, one might beneath that sweet pride. Around my Highland lassie, O. The    misery of sound of racoon    tongue since first my though I cannot speak of love, beloved.

               Stanza XLIII

So nere, in soothe the store thrown on men of electrons, so that swell in things    unto me, love. Yours is    a matter than Rome in the eyes like tower of Lebanon.

               Stanza XLIV

The many heard, and the mulberry and a crust, is—Love, for delight, and    bright, condemn’d to child-bed,    as it erewhile my heart such small birds rejoice in thee.

               Stanza XLV

Raving nought can tire, each other sweetly graces slide; the print of Life    is o’er! With all trees of    fraude and woe, they sleep to costume. Hard labour’s an infant plays.

               Stanza XLVI

But first, for what would come! For I must be or seek, i’m sure o’ bliss aboon,    man,—o aye my will come    nae mair to thy heart, my sister, and aloes, with sapphires.

               Stanza XLVII

Throat shall ever be my wife is oft a dream, but even as young gentlemen.    Who like trees their happy    they were gone in tender grape appear from my mistress reeks.

               Stanza XLVIII

We lay halfway up an ugly hill and if we fell it was gone, but were    I certain she means this?    But I shall say something more to give them serued for a guide.

               Stanza XLIX

And only line portmanteaus, trade will as a’ the primroses blaw in ilka    beild! I can drink one    cup of wine. A strange similes enrich each line back to me.

               Stanza L

For which made Solomon, must have I preserv’d thee watchmen that was in t,    and paine, find sometimes past    its message from more quickly before a petticoat and love.

               Stanza LI

Thou Mother speache, with points of how the waur bestead, thou’s be as one time, since    the pay’s but she dreary    vaults. Upon that blessed her; yea, the queens and then other lilies.

               Stanza LII

I chanc’d to stombling fire, whereby by chaunce to swell. Lovers, their luckless race    are destinies when, wise    and listening if any things that comes just as simooms white fog.

               Stanza LIII

Remember thee were the walls by twin- clouds to pry, to find one, each kept within    the darkness. And there’s    the primroses blow in the streams to the vines have to go.

[lowkeynando]

milk, sugar, whiskey. Chastity is not a cultural value. [7] They trade Brazil nuts, wood, and sorva (rubbery sap used in chewing gum) for soda-can pull-tabs, which are used for necklaces. [5] Men wear T-shirts and shorts that they get from traders; women sew their own plain cotton dresses. [5]

Their decoration is mostly necklaces, used primarily to ward off spirits. [6]:74 The concept of drawing is alien to them and when asked to draw a person, animal, tree, or river, the result is simple lines. [8] However, on seeing a novelty such as an airplane, a child may make a model of it, which may be soon discarded. [9] According to Everett, the Pirahã have no concept of a supreme spirit or god, [10] and they lost interest in Jesus when they discovered that Everett had never seen him. They require evidence based on personal experience for every claim made. [7] However, they do believe in spirits that can sometimes take on the shape of things in the environment. These spirits can be jaguars, trees, or other visible, tangible things including people. [6]:112,134-142 Everett reported one incident where the Pirahä said that

"Xigagai, one of the beings that lives above the clouds, was standing on a beach yelling at us, telling us that he would kill us if we go into the jungle." Everett and his daughter could see nothing and yet the Pirahã insisted that Xigagai was still on the beach. [6]:xvi-xvii - [x] JUNGLEWOODNETHERRACKNETHERWARTENCHANTMENTTABLECHORUSFLOWERREDSTONEREPEATERREDSTONECOMPARATORTRiPWiREHOOKCOMMANDBLOCKSTiCKYPiSTONALiENSSPECiESFAiRiESDEiTiESGODSCLOWNSROBOTSANDROiDSARTiFiCiALiNTELLiGENCESBRAiNSPOWERSiNTELLiGENCEQUOTiENTSWORMSTAPEWORMSTUBESTUMORSCANCERSHOSTSENTiTiESFUNGiSPARASiTESBACTERiASAMiCROORGANiSMSMUSHROOMSSURGERiESSCiENCESPHYSiCSWiTCHCRAFTSMAGiCSVOODOOSHOODOOSWiZARDSWARLOCKSCULTSSECRETSOCiETiSALTEREGOSiNNERDEMONSCROSSROADDEMONSMEDiCALTREATMENTS CLONES

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XX

Part I - - - - - - - - - - Part XVII - - - - Part XVIII - - - - Part XIX

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

“I want you to understand that what we’re going to ask of you is entirely beyond the scope of duty and therefore completely voluntary. You are more than free to refuse participation, at any point, with absolutely no consequences.”

Deep within the Healing Halls best-kept medical secret, Eights quelled beneath the full might of the GAR’s highest and most lauded Generals. Yeah I’m sure whatever they ask I’m going to want to say no. Honestly, what kind of soldiers have they been working with?

“What can I do to help, sir? Sirs?”

“I know this might be shocking, but we have reason to believe the GAR is...compromised.”

“Sir?”

Eights thought furiously. This wasn’t about the healers who were hiding them, or the Jedi his battalion never received, or the decommissioning he had escaped. This was bigger.

The General Windu spoke calmly, “We suspect that you may have been trained or conditioned at some point without your knowledge to unquestioningly follow orders, orders that would usually be beyond what you would typically obey. With your permission, we’d like to try and activate that order in a restrained environment in order to gain more information, with the hope of finding a way to help the troops resist.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t understand. You’re just going to give me an order and ask me...not to obey it?”

General Koon nodded (General Koon! General Koon and General Windu were talking to him at the same time!). “In a manner of speaking, yes. But it’s possible that the order will do more than that. The only way we believe this could possibly work” Koon glanced to the man at his side. “And we...do believe this threat is real, is if you suffer from some form of brainwashing. Activating it might cause irreparable brain damage. Activating it might damage or kill the parts of you that make you you. Even if it doesn’t- the ideal scenario is we find something- an intentionally designed tumor perhaps- and surgically remove it. And brain surgery also has its own risks.”

Eights swallowed around a lump in his throat. 

“And this is something that could be going on with...my entire batch?”

General Kenobi winced. “The entire GAR I’m afraid. Every clone.”

The General of the 212th! Commander Cody’s General was here! Talking to him! Telling him existentially terrifying ultra classified intel!

The trooper stared up from bed in disbelief. If anyone besides three of most respected generals in the entire GAR (not including Buir Ti) was telling him this he would accuse them of bantha crap fear-mongering, if not outright treason. Instead he was just...outraged.

“What would the order make me...us...do?”

Windu took a deep breath. “Attack us. Try and kill the Jedi.”

“I would never.” Eights straightened up even further. “We would never betray the Jedi- it’s- never. We were made for the Jedi and even if we weren’t- you’re the only ones who treat us with an ounce of respect.”

“No one is questioning your loyalty,” the kind Mon Cal healer (whose name he had never asked for fear of getting her in trouble if this ward was ever discovered) said, obviously trying to sooth him. She spoke with heart-breaking earnestness. “The fact that you would never choose to obey such a command just makes the possibility of something forcing you to do so that much more horrifying.”

“How would something like that even get in our heads? The longnecks designed us to serve the Jedi, why... I’m sorry Generals. I didn’t mean to get out of line.”

“No need to apologize. You have every right to be angry about this intrusion, as well as any number of things,” General Kenobi reassured him, smiling sadly. “We don’t know to what extent the Kaminoans are involved with this plot. Not precisely.”

Eights nodded, clenching his one remaining fist. “I’ll do it. Whatever you need from me. I can’t let my brothers have something this big looming over them without any intel.” I’m not exactly front-lines material anymore anyway.

“Are you sure?” Mace Windu’s eyes seemed to stare into his soul. Eights stared right back.

“I am. When do we start?”

It didn’t take long to shave the soldier and connect a number of glowing vital readers to his skull. He was ushered into a chambered observation room with what appeared to be a sfaraday cage hastily built around it. 

“Alright, whenever you’re ready.” Bant (Master Eerin apparently, but she told him to call her Bant) said.

“I’m ready, sir.”

“Let’s start off small, see if we can learn anything without fully activating the order.”

General Kenobi took in a deep breath. He looked calm, but Jedi always did. The General took in another breath. Kriff, two deep breaths. That’s Jedi for freaking out, isn’t it? Right?

Fuck.

“Does Order 66 mean anything to you?” General Kenobi braced himself, staring intently at the trooper in his seat. 

Eights wracked his brain furiously. Sixty-Six...that was...

“It’s...a little familiar? Sorry sir, I feel like I’ve heard it somewhere but...I can’t recall.”

“That’s perfectly alright trooper, not to worry.”

A Twilek healer he didn’t recognize spoke into a micomphone from the other side of a transparisteel window. “His frontal lobe might be lighting up a little, but it’s nothing abnormal, and not enough to triangulate for anything intrusive.”

After several variations on the same question as well as a number of scans of different ‘levels,’ the questioning escalated to orders, as well an extremely uncomfortable mock fight that he would probably tell his grandchildren about, provided he survived today, and also was allowed to have grandchildren.

Still, Eights couldn’t quite recall ever learning an Order 66 and was starting to relax, thinking the whole thing was some sort of horrible separatist lie.

They left him alone for an uncertain amount of time before returning with-

“Quickdraw?!” Eights jumped up at the sight of his commanding officer arriving via hoverchair, nervously saluting with his left hand.”I didn’t know you were here!”

“Just got out of bacta. My spine’s not quite what it used to be after the blast,” the lieutenant responded wryly. “At ease, Eights.”

“Our apologies again for waking you prematurely,” General Koon said softly.

Quickdraw waved the General off. “I’m honored you did. For something as serious this- well I’d hardly forgive myself if I just slept through it.”

Quickdraw locked eyes with Eights. “I’m supposed to try giving you ‘the order’ now- General Kenobi suspects that as your superior officer, I might be authorized to trigger whatever the hell the longnecks put in our heads.”

Eights swallowed hard. “The longnecks, sir?”

“Who else?” Quickdraw asked in a tone drier than Jakku. He spun in the chair to face General Koon. “How are we doing this?”

After a brief discussion, the troopers ended up on opposite sides of a sound-proof transparisteel divider, an comm channel open between them. Eights plugged his ears and gave the order first. And giving Quickdraw an order was almost but not quite as weird as giving an order that would apparently make him try and kill Jedi.

Nothing happened and they swapped, this time with Quickdraw using a waxy covering to block his hearing.

His lieutenant stared at him straight through the clear divider and ordered him to execute Order 66. This time he finally remembered his training, and realized he was woefully outgunned. Oh well, he was a good soldier.

Eights stood up. The only visible change in his expression was a widening of his pupils. There was no malicious intent palpable in the force- he didn’t even look angry- just determined.

He lunged at the Jedi next to him, only to hit an invisible wall. He threw himself at the barrier desperately while the traitor backed out of the room and escaped. The wall finally dropped, but it was too late, he was locked in.

Sighing, he picked up the chair with his one good arm, slamming it repeatedly at the door frame. Good soldiers follow orders.

On the other side of the observation window, Quickdraw stumbled back horrified, reaching for his ears before hesitating. General Koon softly tapped his shoulder and indicated they should leave. 

“I’ve got a location.” Master Che said quietly as the lieutenant was ushered into an antechamber and the activated trooper continued to beat at the door. “It’s a small but clear patch lit up like the festival of lights- I don’t know why it didn’t turn up in scans but...I’m as confident as I can be. Worst case- it’s a small enough area that removing the grey matter shouldn’t...well it won’t kill him. It’s enough to go on for microscapel surgery.” General Koon nodded, then tilted forward, weight falling heavily in his palms on the counter before him.

Vokara rested a hand gently on his back “...I was hoping it wasn’t true as well.”

Master Koon flinched away. “I am sorry and glad to say you do not understand my feelings on the matter. I think...my apologies but I need some time to meditate.”

“Of course.”

Koon rushed out. After a moment Master Windu stepped in, radiating similar distress as Master Koon. Master Kenobi followed, looking grim but also happy. 

‘Oh I’m glad Koon isn’t around him right now,’ Healer Che thought wryly.

Perhaps sensing the mood, Obi-Wan sobered. 

“I’m sorry it’s just- I didn’t actually see the order get activated. Of course I believed it wasn’t a choice- and I’m obviously not glad that anyone’s will could be taken so easily-”

“You don’t have to explain anymore,” Mace offered quietly. “I can understand why seeing this would be something of a relief, all things considered.”

The Head Healer nodded in agreement before taking charge. “Kenobi, go in with Eerin and help her sedate him. I’ll prepare for surgery.”

“Wait- shouldn’t we try other permutations first? It’s possible that once activated, a clone might be able to order a superior officer-”

“And it’s also possible that if a lieutenant is activated, the entire army will turn,” Mace snapped. Obi-Wan bent his head, chastised. 

“Right. Yes. I’ll go- find Bant.”

An extremely long hour later, Master Che returned from surgery. Masters Mundi, Koth, and Yoda had left to and fulfill the other thousand and one duties of a council member not unravelling a Sith conspiracy at the heart of the Republic, while Master Aerdo had been dispatched to talk with Quickdraw as well as some of the other troopers in the hidden Medical bay. 

“It’s a chip,” Vokara said grimly. “Native biological material, but clearly a chip. Like you would find in a droid. Far more complex than any slave chip I’ve ever seen, and no explosive component. It would only turn up on a level five brain scan. I didn’t even think to run it before- it’s overly invasive and typically useless.”

The reduced meeting crumpled at the sight of the infinitesimally small object of control, carefully encased in a stasis slide and placed delicately on the conference table.

Proof of Obi-Wan’s future, a future that the group thought they already believed.

“We should get Master Nu,” Adi Gallia said quickly, “We’ll want our top researchers analyzing it as soon as possible.”

Koon nodded sharply. “Agreed.”

The Tholothian Master stood, “I’ll go at once- we should probably keep any mention of this off comms.”

As Master Gallia swept out of the room, Plo Koon wrenched his gaze from the stasis slide to face the healer. “Master Che, what is Eight’s status?”

“Unconscious and restrained, but he should wake up soon enough. It...might not be a bad idea to have another Jedi nearby when he does.”

Koon and Che left the room, taking the chip with them and conferring quietly.

Obi-Wan leaned forward, elbows on the table and face in his hands.

Master Windu exchanged a glance with Anakin. 

Finally Obi-Wan spoke, tentatively addressing Bant, “Could it be possible for someone...besides a clone to be chipped? If Palpatine had access to them as a child...”

Bant drew back, gaze flickering to Anakin. “I- we would have to study it more-”

Anakin interrupted, shifting in his seat. ”Master- what did I do?”

“It- it wasn’t you. It wasn’t you anymore that the person who fired on me was Cody.”

Bant exchanged a glance with Mace, before clearing her throat with a soft gurgle. “Perhaps we should leave the two of you alone to talk this through.”

The Mon Cala Healer stood and exited rapidly. Windu exchanged a glance with Skywalker before he left. “Talk through everything, understood?” Anakin nodded.

The door shut, leaving Master and Padawan alone. “I feel like I’m missing more than two and a half days,” Obi-Wan muttered wryly. “I don’t remember you three having a non-verbal communication system consisting of eye-contact alone before.”

Anakin chuckled once then immediately grew somber, picking at a loose thread in the sleeve of his robe. A thousand thoughts were swirling in his head, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“I- did I hurt you? Is that- is that why you stabbed me, you thought you were defending-”

“I did what?!” Obi-Wan paled, jumping up from his seat.

Anakin winced. “It’s nothing, that’s actually not important. I’m healed anyway so forget I mentioned it-”

Obi-Wan moaned, stumbling backwards over the fallen chair. “Of force- when you were trying to save me- I had a blade. I cut you down-” He tripped backwards, collapsing to the ground.

“Master!” Anakin lurched forwards, but the older Jedi scrambled back.

“I forgot my spray bottle in there,” Bant whispered outside the door. “Do you think it’s too late to go back for it?”

Mace peered subtly through the small window in the door. “Yes. They’re already on the ground. I think they’re both crying.”

“It’s been less than a minute!”

“Yes.”

“...We should go.”

“Yes.”

Unaware of their muffled audience, the two continued their conversation.

“Don’t- don’t touch me!” Obi-Wan gasped, back hitting a wall. “I don’t- I don’t deserve-”

The young knight reared back, falling from a crouch to his knees, “Is this...about the Tuskens again?

Obi-Wan blinked in confusion. “The Tuskens? What about Tuskens?”

“You don’t...remember?” The air grew cold and Anakin forced himself to continue, “What- what we talked about in the cave?”

“What we- I-” Obi-Wan thought furiously. “...Anakin. What did...what were you apologizing for in the cave? What- what did you think we were talking about?”

“Oh gods.” Anakin paled now, shuffling back.

“What are they doing now?” Bant asked the taller Master.

“They’re taking turns chasing each other back and forth on their hands and knees. They both look like they’re seconds away from passing out or throwing up.”

“I...is this a human thing?”

“No. What? Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know! Do you think this is how they usually talk to each other?”

“I think perhaps they don’t talk to each other, and that’s why they’re like this.”

“Right, right... I really want to hear what they’re saying.”

“Hm. I don’t.”

“Why are you also standing outside the door then?”

“I want to be ready to intervene if they start trying to kill each other.”

“FORCE”

“Quiet!”

“Sorry. Sorry. You think they fought then? In the...other timeline?”

“...It would explain Obi-Wan’s shatterpoint remnants better than anything else.”

“Not to mention the spice.”

“I thought we were politely ignoring the spice.”

“...and then I brought her back to the homestead for burial.” Anakin bowed his head, tears streaming against his will. “I thought...Master I know I can’t fix this but I’m sorry- I already stepped down from my position as General so I wouldn’t be in a position to kill anyone else- I need you to forgive me.”

“Oh Anakin.”

“What? What happened?” Bant asked urgently. 

The Master of the Order appeared unruffled in the force and human visible light, but the tips of his ears were heating up in infrared. She stood on her toes to see in.

“Oh- they’re hugging? Seriously? That’s what you’re embarrassed to see?”

“They’re clinging to each other like younglings. It’s undignified for a Jedi Master and Knight”

“Alright that’s it- we’re going. I really don’t think Anakin’s going to jump from crying and hugs to murder.”

Unaware of their newfound privacy, the two inside withdrew from their embrace, still sniffling slightly. 

“Thank you, Master,” Anakin said in a shaky tone. “I swear I won’t let you down, I’m going to do better.”

“I know, my padawan, I know. I’m going to be there to help you this time, I’m not going to leave you alone with- well I’m not going to leave you alone.”

Anakin smiled wetly at Obi-Wan’s careful avoidance of Chancellor Palpatine’s supposed Sith alter ego, refocusing on Obi-Wan and making intense eye contact.

“What did you think we were talking about?”

Obi-Wan looked down. “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “It- it never happened.”

“Ori’vod, please. You- you mentioned younglings. I did something else unforgivable didn’t I?”

Obi-Wan smiled but didn’t look up. “And i forgave you anyway. Even when I thought your apology was just a fantasy. But it wasn’t, it was real, and- and the people actually are unmurdered so...it’s not worth talking about it.”

Anakin bit the inside of his cheek, gut roiling. “You...really think I might have a chip in me?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes snapped up. “I...don’t know. I didn’t even know that Cody had a chip in him.”

“You just...were suddenly betrayed by everyone.” 

“Not...everyone. Most who refused to fall in line were executed, of course, but there were a few senators who stood with the Jedi, secretly.” 

A new wave of cold terror passed over Anakin. “What happened with the other senators?”

“Like I said to the council earlier, from what I heard they cheered Palpatine on. Thunderous applause.”

“That’s not what I mean- Padme, Was Padme alright?”

Obi-Wan buried his face in his hands, shuddering.

“Anakin- I don’t know what to tell you,” he said in muffled voice. “I don’t want to deceive you but- things were dark. If I tell you everything now, I’m afraid of what you’ll do.”

Anakin winced. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I’m not...evil. I just...I messed up, and I want to make things better.”

Obi-Wan sighed, and pulled Anakin so they were seated next to each other in a mirror of the false peace a few days earlier. Anakin leaned into his Master’s side, feeling the cold retreat. “You’re not evil Anakin, but what you did to the Tusken village wasn’t exactly a small thing. I- look- Ad’ika-”

Obi-Wan hesitantly placed an arm around Anakin’s shoulder and the cold retreated a bit more.

“If the council accepts my plan, we’re going to have time together over the next few weeks, to talk more about...everything. We’re going to end the war- save everyone. I know the cave wasn’t what either of us thought it was, but it still meant the galaxy to me. I love you, no matter what...and that conversation, what you said. Well, it gave me the strength to go on, to do what I needed to.” Obi-Wan froze. “Not my, um, self-inflected injuries- that’s- obviously that wasn’t your fault-”

“You thought you were hallucinating. I know.” Anakin smiled, feeling honestly amused at the absurdity situation for the first time. “I’m going to mock you for that for the rest of our lives, you know that, right?”

“I look forward to it.” Obi-Wan smiled.

A vise that had been clenched around Anakin’s heart since he broke down the door to their apartment finally relaxed. “You really weren’t trying to kill yourself,” he sighed happily.

“I was attempting to stay alive. Honestly concerned about dehydration. I wanted to stay in the daydream, but I knew I couldn’t. And part of that was because you gave me the strength to keep going. Sorry I did such a bad job honoring that but, well. You know. Thank you, Anakin. For saving me twice over.” Obi-Wan’s voice was utterly earnest, though it was a touch more embarrassed than he was used to after the single day of utter unrestraint. 

Anakin’s eyes welled up. “I’ve been- I hated that you would just leave like that, give up-”

“Never Anakin,” Obi-Wan vowed. “I will never give up on you, or this galaxy.”

He twisted so he could throw both arms around his padawan.

“I swear by everything I am I will keep going. It’s... in my nature but gods is it easier with you besides me.”

“Even though i’m a child murderer twice over and once removed?” Anakin joked weakly, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s presence.

Obi-Wan shuddered. “Too soon, Anakin. Too soon.”

Part XXI

[atrwriting]

Strategy // Draco x oc -- Ch. 17

Click here for the Wattpad reading layout.

Click here for the AO3 reading layout.

xvii. wideye

wideye potion: prevents the drinker from falling asleep. also awakens from drugging or concussion.

* * *

WITH HER FATHER STILL silent, Alexandra knew she had to take control of the room. She sat down beside her father in front of Draco and Narcissa and began pulling out her own case files.

"First things first," Alexandra spoke, eyes scanning her file pages. "We file a restraining order and we place every kind of defensive ward on the Malfoy estate."

They didn't respond, only stared at her, so Alexandra kept going.

"Next, we file a motion to place Lucius in protective custody and we find out the identity of every single soul that knew about him being sent to Azkaban earlier this morning."

Again: no response.

"Third," Alexandra sighed, growing wary about her advice. "We... we find out the whereabouts of his brother, Rabastan, and any other Deatheaters that may have helped him escape or any Deatheaters that show explicit or implicit allegiance to Voldemort."

"We haven't seen Rabastan since... since the Battle of Hogwarts," Narcissa muttered, eyes flickering from side to side on the table before her.

Alexandra muttered. "We'll find out what we can. This next part... may be difficult... but I would like to present it to you both."

Alexandra's eyes flicked between both Malfoy's to identify what emotions they could be experiencing. Draco was still emotionless, but his eyes told Alexandra that he wanted to know what she was going to say. Narcissa's expression looked as though she already knew what her attorney was going to say and that it was an awful idea, but Alexandra tried to convince herself that was just the... unfortunate occurrences of the day.

And I'm about to add to it, Alexandra thought.

"Rita Skeeter... mentioned that she would like to interview the two of you," Alexandra admitted. "She said she 'would like to grab a bite to eat,' but I know she's going to pry."

"That blasted dung beetle," Draco scoffed as he shook his head and cast his gaze above their heads. "Absolutely not."

"What could we possibly converse about?" Narcissa asked, eyes pleading with Alexandra.

"She's going to use you both for a 'juicy scoop,' no doubt," Alexandra rolled her eyes and sighed. "But that doesn't mean we can't use it to our advantage. If you both agreed, or even one of you, but better if both of you did, you could swing every conversation to show how you walked away from Voldemort and how you're both apt for the redemption programs that are underway. Talking about your recent volunteer work would be great, too."

Neither of them responded... but Alexandra expected that.

"I understand it will be difficult, and I can't make you do anything," Alexandra began. "I can only advise you both that it will be another step towards obtaining your innocence and very firmly setting you apart from whatever your... extended family may have planned."

Silence filled the room before, eventually, Narcissa nodded in agreement. Worry lines had begun to form around her mouth and on her forehead as she dove deeper and deeper into herself. Draco cocked his head to glance at his mother, witnessing her despair, before he placed a hand over her clasped ones. Narcissa, staring down at her hands while appearing to be in a trance, could only weave a few fingers around the hand of her son.

Alexandra cleared her throat. "I should add... you're both probably going to be receiving a lot more "Rita Skeeters" in your future, possibly ones that may have worked for Voldemort in the past. It is very, very important that neither of you keep secrets from me, pertaining to obtaining your innocence, as this is not only a matter of your freedom, but quite frankly your safety and lives. I need to know everything. Absolutely everything."

Upon hearing Alexandra's warning, Narcissa slightly tilted her chin up and quickly glanced at Alexandra. It was barely noticeable, and before Alexandra even realized that it had happened Narcissa had shifted her gaze back to her hands joined with Draco's. Alexandra glanced towards Draco, whom appeared to be glaring at her. The sudden change from expressionless to irritation on Draco's face made unease well inside her chest. Alexandra sent Draco a look, having an inkling about the root of his glare, but placed her attention on the man that had been silent longer than usual.

Osborne had a hand clasped over his mouth in a manner that suggested he was deep in thought, but his knitted brow implied that he was no nearer to solving the situation at hand than when he had learned the news of the escape. Osborne rarely offered advice or suggestions... but that was because he was spiteful and didn't want to let his daughter in on any masterplan he had to any problem. He wanted her to squirm for the answer and then proceed to make fun of any mistake she had made. Now... he was the one squirming, reaching for any possible band-aid in his head that could even slightly remedy the situation enough for him to regain his footing as the man who was always three steps ahead of everyone, ready to shove anyone back to the start line without any awareness that they had lost.

* * *

The... remaining Malfoy's had left some time after Alexandra had illustrated more parts of her plan. They had grown tired, exhausted from the day's events. While Draco still held some anger towards his mother, he couldn't help but want to do what he could to rid her face of the ghostly look. Draco used to find most of his inner strength from the sternness of those around him, but now Narcissa, the one person he thought he could always trust, and even go so far as loving, looked as if she was buried underneath the weight of the world.

"I will send for some tea for you," Draco stated, removing his mother's cloak from her. "And dinner."

"No, thank you, my son," she replied, eyes trained on the floor of the Manor.

"Mother, you have to eat," he stated sternly.

"What I need is my husband back," she whispered between the cracks in her lipstick.

Draco scoffed, turning away from his mother to wrench his own cloak. His upper lip and nose formed into a sneer as he began to make the trek up the stairs to his room.

"Are you not concerned for your father's well-being?" Narcissa snapped.

Draco looked back to his mother who was suddenly no longer consumed by melancholy. Her dark eyes were on fire; fury sending daggers of warning at her beloved son. There were fists, balled at her side, and her shoulders had returned to the familiar straight and poised position that a Malfoy woman was expected to present.

Draco laughed. "Was he concerned for ours? All of these years?"

"Of course he was!" Narcissa spat. "How dare you-"

"No!" Draco roared, coming down the few steps he had climbed to come face to face with his mother. "How dare you!  We're here, in this Manor, ready to be killed little sitting ducks, and you're more concerned about the man that put us here rather than his so-called brothers that want our heads!"

"Your father, the head of this estate," Narcissa spat, and then continued, "has more concern for this family than you know."

Draco gritted his teeth as his nostrils flared. "Then where is he, Narcissa? Hmm? Where is the man that was supposed to protect us but couldn't stop himself from being involved in a bloody cult?"

Narcissa stepped closer, almost touching noses with her son, before replying, "he is currently in Azkaban and still fighting for this family. However, you're standing before me, wand holstered and in pressed robes and you are doing nothing but disgracing this family with your bloody attitude and ungratefulness."

"There's not exactly a lot to be grateful for when his own wife can't admit that she, too, had a hand in this mess, and can't even condemn her husband for what he did," he sneered before he could stop the words from rolling off his tongue.

Narcissa smacked her son. Hard.

The smack had hit Draco like a hex at his back. Draco fell slightly back in confusion and betrayal. It didn't hurt him, but he had also gotten used to physical discipline before he could walk. One of his hands at his side almost raised to press against the mark on his cheek, the way his mother used to when his father had hit him, before he balled it at his side. The sneer had never left his face, but he couldn't stop the build of hurt that welled within his chest.

Narcissa had never hit him. Never.

That realization seemed to flash on her face, too, but Draco didn't stay long enough to hear what his mother had to say.

Up the stairs he went, but Narcissa stayed at the foot of the stairs. Regret would swarm within her, causing her lips to part in the small way she was allowed to as a socialite, but she wouldn't trail after him, her only son.

The regret was strong, but for Narcissa, the feeling of having a duty was stronger.

[mementomori-demimonde]

Hidden Scars

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X - XI.1 / XI.2 XII - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII

Chapter 18

“Just do what you’re told.” Miranda said a few seconds after you were both out of the cell, which had prompted Victor to laugh and agree with those words, asserting his own superiority. Miranda had ignored him and you did too.

After he released your hair and pushed you forward into a narrow corridor that smells of mold, it had been the threat of the gun resting on the small of your back to keep you from trying to do anything.

It seems like you’ve been walking forever, even though you know it’s probably been a couple of minutes, and you’re still following Miranda’s advice.

It’s grounding to hear her footsteps not so far away from you, along with the ones of the men and Victor’s, who has decided to keep you at gunpoint personally.

You try to keep in mind all the turns and the corridors and the strange signs hanging on the walls, but you’re too scared to actually remember anything and you keep losing track easily after a couple of minutes. When you finally cross through a metallic door, you frown as you see the environment change drastically: instead of the dirty corridors and halls, that place resembles the attic ward of a hospital: grey walls and wooden floors, white iron doors neatly settled on both side of the hall and there are even some plants here and there; in the middle, a glass office box with a receptionist inside, black hair pulled in a ponytail, all smiles as she talks sweetly in her headset.

She barely looks at all of you with the corner of her eye then, clearly accustomed, she keeps talking as if nothing is happening, typing quickly on her keyboard, hazel eyes glued to a computer screen.

Victor nudges the gun into your back, simply as a reminder, and you startle, immediately entering the only door open.

You’ve barely seen the inside when you realize nothing remotely nice is going to happen there: that place is another version of your first cell - with the grates instead of the floors - only much bigger. It’s startlingly empty except for a plush armchair that you assume won’t be for you nor Miranda, and a table with a suitcase on top. Inside, there are already two men with their own guns in their hands.

“Do you like how I’ve settled the playroom, Miranda?” He asks with a grin, pushing you so hard that you wonder how you’re still standing.

Seeing that Miranda has been trashed from the previous couple of men to the others, who have promptly aimed their own guns at her neck and head, you freeze instantly, standing alone in the middle of the room.

“You’re wasting your time.” Miranda snarls.

“You know, you should really smile more.” Victor huffs dramatically, waving his gun around, but mostly in your direction. “You used to be a lot more fun.” He comments.

You gasp silently when he whips his head around and stares at you. His mirth completely gone, his fooling around completely forgotten - he’s like another man and his new demeanor scares you.

“Turn around.” He commands. Swallowing sand, you obey “On your knees, pet.” He goes on. Sighing and closing your eyes for a second, you obey again.

You can hear his footsteps getting closer and closer.

What is he going to do? Threaten you? Whip you? Humiliate you in front of his men and Miranda? Play with you in the vilest of ways? Remind you you’re just a pet for the both of them, even for Miranda?

You know it might be true on a bad day, but on a good one… then you don’t feel like a pet. Maybe it’s your sentiment clouding your judgment, maybe it’s the distorted idea you have of her, maybe it’s even the undying hope of knowing that she might feel the same, deep down, even if she doesn’t want to admit it, she cares for you, just a little bit.

You hear the fabric tearing before you feel the coldness of the room hitting your skin. You shiver, leaving you wondering if you were shivering already or if you’ve just begun, and it’s a way for your body to keep you grounded to reality. Trying your best not to move, you try not to wiggle away at the unmistakable feeling of a blade running along your spine, pushing roughly the ruined shirt away.

You hear him chuckle, a sneering low chuckle, and then he heaves a complacent sigh.

“Oh, that’s nice.” He comments with a mocking click of his tongue. “You’ve branded her! She passed the test, what a good pet you are.”

He pats your head with his hand, and if you feel the vexation boiling in your veins, that is what sets Miranda off: you feel rough movements, gunts, threatens spat behind gritted teeth and you’re left wondering what is going on, why would he be laughing for, why would Miranda has gone nuts all of the sudden. Is it for the condescending pats on your head or the mention of that test- speaking of which, what test?

“Tell me, when did you give her the last cut?” He asks, and you hear him stepping away. “I wonder if it was before or after the-”

“Victor!” Miranda barks, his name sounding like a warning.

For a moment, you can only hear the last trail of her voice echoing through the hollow room. Even if a gun is pointed at you, to remind you that you’re a second away from having your brains blasted, you dare turn your head slightly, and, with the corner of your eye, you can see Victor pacing calmly toward the table, opening the mysterious suitcase.

Miranda is wiggling like a mad person, grunting and thrashing her legs in a vain attempt to kick him, but Victor is simply out of reach.

You gasp when one of the men that hold her hits her in the back of her neck, making her body slump for just a second while a long string of unmistakable insults and swears leave her mouth.

“I really hate loud noises, Miranda.” Victor tuts. “You should remember it. I was saying, I was wondering if you finish branding her before or after the-”

“Knock it off!” Miranda shouts again, but this time, you can hear a distant echo of desperation in her voice.

You frown, but it seems to amuse Victor immensely. Holding something in his hands, he slowly turns to Miranda, his thin lips grinning wildly at her.

“Oh, I get it.” He sings mockingly. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

You wait for Miranda to reply: you might not know everything, but you know plenty about passing tests and fighting and surviving. You wait for her to brag about you and your accomplishment, maybe even growl one of those classic comebacks about making the villain pay later. Yet, Miranda doesn’t answer; she doesn’t say anything.

“Have fun explaining to her.” He chuffs out a chuckle and walks over to her.

They stand in front of each other for a long time before Victor grasps her wrist harshly, pulling her hand up to place something in her palm. You can’t see what it is, you can’t really make out the shape of the object, but Miranda’s fingers wrap around it and her eyes immediately go wide.

“Victor-” Another warning, but her voice is so soft and broken that you barely hear it.

“You want me to do it?” Victor asks, his voice sickeningly sweet as he pushes out his bottom lip into a mocking pout. “I bet you remember how gentle I can be.” Victor raises his hand, makes a gesture, and instantly Miranda is pushed forward in your direction. Startled, you stiffen, turn your head back, and clutch at your elbows, wondering what’s going to happen next.

“Victor, I-”

“Bring me the flagrum-”

“I’ll do it.” Miranda interrupts hurriedly, her voice thick and quivering at the same time.

“See? That wasn’t hard.” The horrid man praises. “Five for a start.”

You hear her gulp, breathing in sharply as she walks closer and stops somewhere behind you. Your knees are sore, your back painfully exposed and already pricking with the phantom pain you’re going to endure in a moment. You’re shivering so much in anticipation that a tear rolls down your cheeks but you’re too frightened to care and wipe it away.

Maybe she’s going to find a solution, maybe she’s not going to actually whip you, maybe she’s going to find a way to avoid it and steal one of those guns. Yes, any minute now, you’re going to hear her voice whispering into your ear, telling you what to do to help her and escape--

The first strike comes unexpectedly. It steals the breath out of your lungs.

“I’m sorry.”

You hear her wheezed apologies along with the safety of the guns being pulled, a silent reminder for the both of you that you’d be both dead. You knew she cares, but there’s the proof: in a twisted, perverted way, she’s whipping you herself to keep you alive and spare some much nastier wounds.

Victor hums satisfied, he drags the chair near, sits on it closer to have a good view on your back, on your face, your gritted teeth as you fight the pain, on the shaky hand of Miranda as she wields the whip and brings her arm up to prepare the next strike. You know she has to do it hard, you know she has to be convincing, lest having some bullet planted in one leg or some other non-vital parts of your bodies.

The second slash has your eyes well up completely.

Victor chuckles, he leans back on the chair, and starts to smoke a cigar; the smell of it is thick, it quickly surrounds you.

“Now.” Victor sighs, puffing a cloud of smoke in your direction. You cough in vain, trying to suck in as much air as possible. You’re struggling and nobody is willing to help. The only one who is - you know she is - simply can’t. “Where’s the data?”

[ask-the-crimson-king]

A Fate Determined

What a fall from grace.

He used to be quartered in a finely furnished cabin, with an entire library at his fingertips whenever he chose. He could find other scholars of the Great Ocean and consult them or banter with them. He could create marvelous experiments with his brothers, even if they sometimes had less than ideal results. 

Now, he was sequestered away in the dingy underbelly of a beaten -- and most likely stolen -- warship that belonged to a band of miscreants and barbarians. Fitting, he reasoned, considering what had passed.

He was armored, even though today was not to be a day of skirmishing and combat. He had long since learned the value of maintaining some level of protection, especially in times between fighting. His associates, for he was not permitted to call them cousin nor even ally, were negotiating. With whom, the sorcerer did not know, for he was told it was not his right to know.

Being a sorcerer, most would reason that he could just pluck the information he wanted from the minds of the unwilling, and they would be correct.

If his new "boss" was not a member of the dreaded XII alongside most of the members of this miserable band. Though whether he could even refer to them as members of a Legion felt dubious. The change brought about from the Siege and these few... what, centuries now? had changed them so fundamentally. They were fracturing and breaking away. Most of the Legions were.

After all, their primarchs were beginning to abandon them, and they were without direction and unity. 

His own Legion had fractured long before the others. Recent events only broke them further. 

He shakes his head to clear the thoughts. He'd rather not entertain and remember what had happened. 

For now, he needed to focus. The leader of this warband had instructed him to formulate a ritual to summon forth a greater daemon of Khorne, and-

A knock at his door stops his thoughts. 

"Hey! Sorcerer!" comes a gruff shout. Pachua. A former member of the III, usually the one sent to fetch the sorcerer since most of the others in the band could hardly stand to be near him. The sorcerer once had a fleeting vision of Pachua holding the head of the current leader, Ukwtakun, and using it as a bargaining chip. 

"Yes?" the sorcerer replied, already rising from where he had been sitting. 

"You're called to the command deck," Pachua said. 

"Any particular reason?" the sorcerer asked as he opened the door. "Am I assisting in navigation again?"

"Don't know, don't care to know," Pachua said with a snort. "I have other things to attend to." Before another word could be said, the other Astartes stalked off, the dim light from the overhead lumens reflecting the garish colors and fresh trophies he had recently adorned his armors with. With a sigh, the sorcerer quickly made his way through the ship, coming to the doors that opened to the command bridge. 

Immediately he was greeted with an unfamiliar sight. Two Terminators, painted in crimson edged in silver, barred his way. Scripture was both etched into their plate and pinned to their armor in various scrolls. He took notice of several symbols meant to ward away the creatures of the Immaterium -- unsurprising, given that these two were of the XVII. 

"Greetings," the sorcerer said to them. "Ukwtakun summoned me."

"You are the sorcerer?" one asked. 

"I am." Perhaps the XVII were not aware of the changes that had befell his Legion. He knew his cerulean and gold plate seemed strange to them. 

"He is speaking with our Apostle," said the other. 

Apostle. The sorcerer was still uncomfortable with the word.

"May I ask that he be informed of my presence, at least?" 

"We've sent word along," the Terminator said, sounding annoyed. 

A silence stretched out between the three of them. While he awaited clearance to enter, his mind wandered, as did his other senses. Despite the suppression required to avoid getting killed, he could still keenly sense the auras of those around him.

A reliable talent to help avoid taking a fist or an axe to the face. 

He thought it a hold-over from his time as part of the Atheanean Cult from before the Fall. Such designations were archaic, now, and his mastery over the arts of old was giving way to new talents and curiosities. 

Some were not as new as he let on when he was still with the Legion, but he had wanted to keep up appearances then. Part of him did find it amusing that his ambitious brother had been right, in a way. There was more to the disciplines than what the Five Cults provided. 

Soon enough, the doors opened, and the sorcerer was allowed to enter. He gave a nod of acknowledgement and respect to the two Terminators as he entered, though who he saw left him stopped in his tracks.

Standing near to the brutualized warrior that was Ukwtakun was a face the sorcerer had not seen in centuries. Scripture marched down the left side of his face, his crimson armor left unadorned aside from the occasional lines of scripture or wards that looked similar to those borne by the Terminators who had stood sentry outside. A crozius arcanum rested near his feet.

"There you are!" Ukwtakun's voice ripped him from his momentary stupor. The warrior's face was nearly bisected by a massive scar that ran from one temple to the opposite corner of his jaw. A wild swing from a Blood Angel, he had said. It nearly took his eye out. The sorcerer gave a brief bow.

"How may I-"

"I called for you hours ago," the warrior interrupted. His lips pulled into a snarl. "Where were you?"

"In study and mediatation," the sorcerer answered carefully. His eyes flicked between the berserker and his guest. The XVII Legion warrior remained stoic. The sorcerer had caught a momentary glimpse of recognition flickering across his aura, but now his was being drowned out by the ever-burning rage his current "boss" held within him. 

His answer did not sit well. 

"Looks like I have to remind you that you come when called for, sorcerer," Ukwtakun snarled. "You're only here because you're convenient, but I'm sure we could always replace you."

The sorcerer said nothing to this. It was true. They happened to find him as he was fleeing, and they could have butchered him, but did not. 

"I understand," he said meekly. 

"I don't think-"

"Is this the time for this?" 

The voice came from the Word Bearer -- the Apostle -- that Ukwtakun was dealing with. It was soft yet commanding. Both the sorcerer and the berserker looked at him. 

"You're on my ship, Book Thumper," Ukwtakun growled. "If I have to deal with an insubordin-

"And you are requiring my word to resupply at Ghalmek," the Word Bearer countered. "And, if my assumptions are correct, this is the sorcerer that you require to uphold your half of our bargain." 

Silence. Uneasy silence. Ukwtakun's aura diminished slightly under the weight of the presence the Apostle emanated. 

"I'll deal with your bookworming later," Ukwtakun spat towards the sorcerer. He nodded, already beginning to prepare himself for what was to come. If he was lucky, he would only maybe lose a limb for this. 

"So you are his psyker," the Apostle said, now focusing his attention on the sorcerer. His eyes were dark, but they were warm. Open and inviting, matching the rest of his body language. "May I have your name?"

"I-"

"Doesn't deserve it," Ukwtakun said with a snort. "Ask him your questions so I can have him dealt with."

"Fine." The Apostle sighed. "You are experienced in diabolism, yes? Have you begun experimenting with the creation of bound weaponry or armor?"

"I... Yes, somewhat," the sorcerer answered. Something was strange. He recognized this Apostle from the times before the War... didn't he recognize him? He thought he saw a flicker of recognition before, but it could have been a mistake. 

"Somewhat?" There was no malice or derision in the word.

"I have not been granted the space nor the proper supplies to enact the proper experimentation," the sorcerer answered. He flinched as he felt a flare from Ukwtakun, who had reached for his chainaxe. 

"You filthy-"

"And if you were provided such materials," the Apostle went on, one hand gripping the arm of the berserker, "you could perform such experiments and yield positive results?" 

The sorcerer hesitated. His hearts were pounding. He had not felt this much stress since-

"Are you trying to steal my sorcerer?" Ukwtakun asked, breaking away from the Apostle. 

"It is not stealing," the Apostle replied cooly. "You promised me a sorcerer who would be able to assist in the binding and creation of weapons and armors, in exchange for repair and resupply at Ghalmek so that you would not have to go through the Iron Warriors while you are working with elements of the Emperor's Children." 

Silence again. 

"We still have need for him," the berserker said. 

"It sounded to me as though you are ready to replace him." The Apostle tilted his head. "Have I misunderstood your earlier declaration of, 'you're only here because you're convenient'?"

The sorcerer found himself stunned and blinking. He stared with his mouth slightly agape at the Apostle, whom he swore gave him the smallest of smiles. Again, recognition flickered over his aura. 

He does remember!

Hope flared for the first time in ages. Could he get him away? That's what it sounded like he was trying to do. He silently pleaded with whatever powers were out there that he was successful. 

The berserker was shaking with barely suppressed rage. The two had their eyes locked on each other; one's face a rigid mask, the other keeping calm and composed. 

"Fine!" Ukwtakun said abruptly. "Take the stupid sniveling rat. So long as you can get us our stuff, you can have him."

"Gladly. I'll have word sent that we are on the way." The Apostle grabbed his crozius and put it over his shoulder, looking to the sorcerer. "Come with me. I would like to have a conversation with you in private."

"Of course," the sorcerer said, offering a bow, "but my things-"

"Please, go retrieve them," the Apostle told him. "Allow one of the Annointed to accompany you. Abdima?"

One of the Terminators by the door put a fist to his breastplate. The sorcerer offered a salute and another bow, swiftly leaving while the Apostle and Ukwtakun shared some final words. 

His mind was racing. Hope felt strange and new to him. Freedom at last from the confines of his dingy hole, freedom from the ever-present stress of existing around trigger-happy berserkers. 

Freedom to experiment and allow his talents to roam free once more. 

They made it back to his current room, and he sensed the unease radiating from his Terminator escort. It was, admittedly, a mess. Strange paraphanalia and a stack of old journals and musings crowded the room, which was truly only about as wide as two paces for an Astartes.

Human quarters, obviously. 

For the first time in an age, the sorcerer unfurled his mind beyond the tightly bound cage he had made for himself, scooped up his belongings in a telekinetic grasp, and nodded to the Terminator. If he encountered any difficulties from the band, he expected the Terminator to help diffuse any open aggression. 

As they walked back to reconvene with the Apostle and the other elements of his retinue, he dared to feel excited. Anxiety, ever-present, also flooded through him. It was not fear; it could never be. But he was uncertain. This had to be too good to be true. There was something he did not see, surely.

The thought dampened everything, even after he saw the Apostle offer him a genuinely warm smile and even as he was welcomed aboard the Word Bearer's vessel. It was called the Unitas Abyssi, and it was decorated in just the way the sorcerer had imagined any ship of the XVII would be.

Thousands of mortals moved about, offering prayers and hails as the Astartes passed by. The smell of incense burned throughout its halls. The sorcerer felt the attentions of the denizens of the Great Ocean no matter where he went. The Apostle was leading him down to his own personal chambers at the heart of the ship, the two of them accompanied by an entourage of Terminators. 

The walk was a silent one, and the Terminators had been dismissed once they made it to the Apostle's quarters. Beyond the doors lay a great central chamber which had four other rooms that split off from it. The room itself was occupied by the beginnings of a garden, with various troughs and small plants slowly breaching a surface covered in strange mulches. It smelled earthy. A few benches had been arrayed around a focal point in the center, upon which a mosaic depicting the octed star of Chaos had been placed. The Apostle sat on one of them, his back facing the far wall that stood mostly blank and bare. 

"Now that we are away from that blunt berserker," the Apostle had said, gesturing to a bench near to him. The sorcerer went and sat down. "May I have your name?"

"I..." he paused. "I am Zikar-Sin, sir."

"Zikar-Sin," he said, nodding. "I thought you seemed familiar. I am sure my introduction is unnecessary."

"So you did recognize me!"

"Of course," the Apostle said with a smile. "How could I forget the Son of Magnus who challenged me in the middle of a symposium to defend my intellectual and theological honor?"

"And how could I forget the Chaplain to whom I served secondment with who dared to call Prosperine food 'too sweet' after sampling nothing but sweets for an afternoon?"

“That I sampled at your insistence, need I remind you.”

 Zikar-Sin smiled. "It is good to see you Ans'ar."

"The feeling is mutual. I had feared for your loss after what befell Prospero," Ans'ar said. Zikar-Sin's bright expression darkened, and his eyes turned away from the Apostle. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he saw the face of an aggrieved friend. "I am glad to learn you live."

The sorcerer did not know how to respond to that. His mind was becoming full of thoughts of what had happened, and his brain uncomfortably reminded him of the complicity of the Word Bearers in the wake of the devastation of Prospero.

It was, after all, Horus who had ordered it done. 

"I did not mean to stir up hurtful memories-"

"It's fine," Zikar-Sin said shortly. He flinched, then curled a bit into himself. "I did not mean to interrupt you."

His eyes flickered away from the Apostle. He felt him take his hand away from his shoulder. 

"Where have you been?" Ans'ar asked quietly. "How did you come to be with a group of World Eaters?"

"That is a very long story," Zikar-Sin said with a tired sigh. The Apostle snorted. 

"It is good, then, that I have a very long time to listen." He stood. "Wait here." He walked into one of the adjacent rooms. Zikar-Sin heard some light rummaging and the clinking of glass. When he returned, there was a bottle in one hand and two glasses for wine in the other. Zikar-Sin suppressed a snort of his own, but there was a definite glint of amusement in his face. Ans'ar caught it.

"What?"

"Are you going to light some candles and bring out flowers next?" Zikar-Sin asked with a chuckle. Ans'ar paused, then laughed himself. 

"Come, now. There won't be any flowers aboard this vessel for the next few weeks at least." He sat down and poured each of them a glass. Zikar-Sin recognized the vintage from its scent alone. It was sourced from Vharadesh. 

He took his glass with a small thank you. Ans'ar nodded and set the bottle down next to him.

"Now that I have cleverly socially trapped you," he said, taking a sip of his wine. "Let us hear your tale of woe."

Zikar-Sin looked down at the deep crimson of the wine inside his own glass.

He inhaled and exhaled, then took a swig of it that drained nearly half the glass. It had been far too long since he could enjoy anything with proper flavor in it. 

"Alright. Let us begin in the aftermath of Terra, and Ahriman's folly."

--

Lightning danced and surged around them all. Immense power, the likes of which had only been invoked a handful of times before, pulled at all of them. It felt as though his soul was being stretched thin and pit through a sieve. The world shook. 

He fell to his hands and knees, huffing and panting. His eyes burned. The tides of the Great Ocean beat against them all, smashing them upon unseen rocks and distant, unknown and intangible shores. It took immense strength to remember how to think and how to breathe. 

He did not know how long this sensation would last. He did not remember what happened between being on the ground and being back on his feet, potentiality boiling around him, and screaming for his brothers as their bodies and minds were turned to dust and sealed away within their armor. Sorrow and disbelief filled him; he began to draw upon the power still roiling around him when he felt it siphoned away. A greater storm was gathering in the Great Ocean. A hurricane of fury and malice, all directed and pointed towards the thing that had started this all. 

A father on his way to kill his favored son. 

In the wake of the disaster, there was despair. There was anguish. There were tears, though he would never admit it to anyone else. 

Despair fed into desperation. He hardly knows what he is thinking by the time he has everyone gathered.

Eighteen. Eighteen of his brothers, now damned into an existence of barely-sapient automata. Only three of his still-flesh brethren knows what he is about to attempt.

He prays. He hopes, so fervently, so desperately, that this will work. If it can work on them, then it can work on everyone, can't it? Surely it must!

The ritual begins. There is laughter. There is unfaltering focus. 

And it fails.

Eighteen souls are devoured. Eighteen souls are torn free and sent into the Immaterium.

And the one who conducted it all runs.

He flees, as far and as fast as he can. He even stole a ship to leave. He grabbed only what was around him at the time; nothing but a handful of grimoires and talismans, alongside the armor he wore. 

But he flees. To where, he did not know. He thinks that perhaps he will die in isolation. Or perhaps he can work on undoing his mistake, and undoing whatever had been done to the Legion-

And that is when he is found. His place of refuge boarded and searched by a band of warriors looking for things to scavenge. 

And my, what a prize he was. 

They were lost, having butchered their own mortal navigators and astropaths. They very nearly gave him the same fate before the Emperor's Child, Pachua, intervened. They needed a psyker. He was tired of floating aimlessly, he wanted to find a place of true war again. 

And so he had been abducted and forcibly recruited, acting as navigator for a band of insane berserkers. He had learned swiftly that his psychic talents had to be suppressed as far as he could, otherwise he was going to be fighting the warband each moment he was within eyesight. 

There he had remained, an exile and outcast, grieving and dreading the future of his Legion, left to fester in the underbelly of their miserable ship, until Ans'ar happened to find him.

--

Silence follows. Zikar-Sin finishes his glass of wine. 

"I knew the plight of the Thousand Sons was a difficult one," Ans'ar said, "but I also know you do not deserve such mistreatment."

"It matters little what I deserved."

The sorcerer shrugged. "Though, respectfully, I disagree. My actions led to the destruction of eighteen of my brothers. Total and complete, beyond what this... this Rubric did to them." He shakes his head, then hesitates. He removed one of his gauntlets, revealing a hand that was covered in feathering. Most of the feathering was small, and some scales had begun forming upon the segments of his fingers. Small eyes blink from between his knuckles. 

"Flesh Change?" Ans'ar asks carefully, leaning in closer. 

"Mutation from our new patron," Zikar-Sin said bitterly. "A reminder of my failures, and a reminder of the fate most likely to consume me one day. The ritual that Ahriman conducted was supposed to scour the Flesh Change from the Legion for good. It did. But it does not mean we cannot still be 'blessed'." 

The Apostle's face darkens. Most of what Zikar-Sin is speaking must surely sound like blasphemy and sacrilege to him. 

"I would like to offer you something," he says slowly. 

"Is it some escoteric item of note?" There is a small eye-roll.

"Better. I want you to formally join my Host."

Zikar-Sin raised a brow. "Was that not already the plan?"

"Not quite. I was willing to have you on in a manner similar to how Ukwtakun had you -- an auxiliary sorcerer we had on hand. But I would like to formally induct you into the Legion."

"You think I would forsake the Thousand Sons?"

"Have you not already?"

The question disarmed him. He was left blinking like a fool, his mind genuinely going blank. 

"I... suppose I have," he said slowly, his brow furrowing. 

"If you need time to think on it, then I will grant it to you. But for now I will arrange for you to be given proper rooms and a proper place for you to conduct rituals and experiments," Ans'ar said, offering more wine to him. Zikar-Sin gently declined, though the Apostle filled his own glass. "You will be given the respect and room you deserve to operate as you please. Within reason, of course, I am not going to let you take the mortal thralls and whore their lives away without purpose."

The sorcerer bit back a retort about the practices of the Word Bearers as a whole, and only gave Ans'ar a nod of acknowledgement. He handed back his empty glass and stood, sensing that their conversation was over, for now. 

"I will have Abdima show you to your new rooms. I would like to speak again in a day or so about your first experiments," Ans'ar said, affecting a more business-like tone. Zikar-Sin nodded again.

"As you wish." He paused. "How should I address you in front of the others? Surely they would take offense to an outsider calling you by your name."

"You may refer to me as Apostle, as they do." Ans'ar drank from his glass, then set the empty glasses down and stood, walking over to Zikar-Sin. He put a hand on his shoulder, then pulled him in for a quick embrace. "I mean it. I am glad to see that you are alive, old friend."

The sorcerer was caught off-guard, and awkwardly returned the gesture. "As am I to see you." The Apostle pulled back, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder before he called for his Terminators -- his Annointed, as Zikar-Sin would learn to call them -- to escort him to his new rooms.

--

More freedom took some getting used to. Being able to unfurl his mind and senses and not immediately detect murderous intent aimed directly toward his person was a good change of pace. Of course, there was always suspicion, he knew it would be foolish not to expect it. 

He was an outsider, but he would only be the first of many to join the 17th Host. 

His presence became part of the background hum of the operations of the Host. The Annointed greeted him by name after a few short weeks, as did some of the Astartes he began working a little closer with. Some were diabolists, but they had learned sorcery through means similar to that of Kor Phaeron.

Having the natural connection to the Great Ocean and the decades of experience that Zikar-Sin could provide was invaluable. 

Eventually, Ans'ar came to him with the offer again. A chance to be fully and completely repatriated into the Word Bearers. The hesitance he had from before had mostly melted by this point. 

And so, Zikar-Sin was no longer Zikar-Sin of the Thousand Sons, former adept of the Cult Athaenean of the Fifth Fellowship. He became Zikar-Sin of the 17th Host, Master of Possession, as he would remain for the next ten millennia.

[dawning-star]

xvii. Fade

{This one is a direct follow-up to prompts xiii. and xiv. respectively}

- - - - - - - - - - 

Just like a memory, what my mind had thought to be real faded away so easily. It proved that it was...a dream. Unattainable despite how real it had felt. How much the deepest part of me had wanted things to go that way. Though it was never meant to be.

I would never experience that sort of life on the Steppe again. If…no, when I go back it would be for a visit only. My place for years hasn’t been there. Even if through no fault of my own I have no name. I am no Tumet. My name, given by Talan in those early days of freedom in the Shroud, is Rinalys. Dawnstar as a surname, though I’ll never get the answer for why he named me for a morning sun as the last. It wasn’t his own, I was no real ward of his. Only a saved lamb with no name or identity of her own beyond the brand to my hand. 

I built my life up, who I am. What I’ve lived. That I have lived and continue to survive. Even if that line gets toed far too often of late, it is mine. Someday maybe I could be proud of those accomplishments. Twelve knows things have tried to take it away from me. Claiming freedom near twice, claiming a leg. Though I had little idea that, as the scene within my mind shifted, signs of nothing except that I would remain in this state. Aware enough yet still within the dream. What did they call it? Lucid dreaming? 

Yet I held no control, nor did I feel like I was getting any closer to awakening. 

Maybe it was a blessing then that the scene shifted to one more familiar. Less a hope, and more a known past reality. Though this one...it wasn’t pleasant. I recognized that room, the lobby where Lord Grey worked those couple years ago. Where I had lived for a time. Seeking more, trying to figure out a place as I made some attempt to cast aside life as a mercenary.

They had saved me, and I owed them. Over time it felt like I was owned again, the weight of that fact pressing down on my heart. His retainer had grown close to me, or so I’d thought. Hells, I had thought I was smitten which blinded me to the truth beneath the surface. It was endangering me as well once time grew on. Once we had learned just what was brewing. What they had planned.

Though this specific scene, I knew it well. It had less to do with the men who owned the place and claimed employment or feelings over me, and more the golden-haired, golden-eyed beast staring me down. Cyprien. A man by appearance yet anything but. A nightmare it would have me relive now, would it? Would that I could escape it yet my mind wouldn’t listen to such a thought. Almost like it urged me to play these moments out again. 

The shelves collapsing all around, the mad dodge to avoid becoming pinned. That inevitable plunge down the stairs as I turned tail and fled. I could almost feel the pain of these moments all over again, and feel his haunting stare and smile that was inhuman. His hand clasped my jaw, studying me as I had fallen prone to the floor below. Aching, frightened, wanting to do anything but relive this. Even that damned box though it had been a prior event seemed to resurface this time. The...box much like the one that had found its way to me. Wasn’t that what had been left?

They needed to know. They had to, I know I’m right, I know it’s him! There’s no one else who would play this sort of game, leave these sorts of clues. And to him it really was just a game of which we were the pieces. Everyone could be at his mercy. I don’t want to see the rest of Priarch suffer. None...none of them deserved it.

Yet I couldn’t wake up yet. Why, why wouldn’t this one fade to blackness? With him. Reliving him. Them. 

-----------

|| Prompt List

[sporadiceagleheart]

Thursday edits rest In Peace to those old angels Thomas Jefferson Tiller, Mecy Tiller Perdue, John Talbot Hanks, Eleanor “Ellen” Perdue Hanks, John Perdue, Nancy Elizabeth Hanks Lincoln, Thomas Lincoln, Sarah Bush Lincoln, Elizabeth Johnston Hanks, Dennis Friend Hanks, Abraham Lincoln, Rev Henry Sparrow, Lucy Nancy Hanks Sparrow, Mary Eunice Harlan Lincoln, Thomas “Tad” Lincoln, Robert Todd Lincoln, William Wallace “Willie” Lincoln, Edward Baker “Eddie” Lincoln, Mary Ann Todd Lincoln, Powell Waits “P.W.” Ward, Mrs Vera Valentine Ward Beckwith, Warren Wallace Beckwith, Mary Harlan Lincoln “Peggy” Beckwith, Mrs Jessie Harlan Lincoln Randolph, Edward Everett Beckwith, CPT Warren W Beckwith, Robert Todd Lincoln “Bud” Beckwith, Abraham “Jack” Lincoln II, Frank Edward Johnson, Catherine Bodley “Kittie” Todd Herr, Elodie Breck Todd Dawson, 1LT Robert John Randolph Jr., Sophia Hanks Legrand-Lynch, Sarah “Sally” Hanks, John D Johnston, Harriet Ann Hanks Chapman, John Perdue, Captain Abraham Lincoln, Elbridge Gerry, Catherine Gerry Austin, Ann Gerry, Thomas Russell Gerry, Elbridge Thomas Gerry, Thomas Mifflin, Sarah Morris Mifflin, LT John Adams, Jonas Russell Adams, William Byrd II, Jane Byrd Page, COL William Byrd III, Maria Taylor Byrd Carter, Maria Taylor Byrd, Col Landon Carter, Carolianna Carter Hall, Frances Parke Custis Winch Dansie, Frances “Fanny” Parke Custis, Lucy Parke Byrd, Evelyn Byrd, Anne Byrd Carter, William Evelyn Byrd I, Abigail Smith Adams, John Adams, John Walker, Joseph Evan Davis, Samuel Emory Davis, William Howell Davis, Varina Anne Banks Howell Davis, Varina Anne “Winnie” Davis, Margaret Mackall “Peggy” Smith Taylor, Sarah Knox “Knoxie” Taylor Davis, Baby Monster, Aethel McMullen, Laura C Hedgecoke, Little Eva Hedgecoke, Gracie Perry Watson, Wales J. “W J” Watson, Margaret Frances Waterman Watson, Inez Briggs, Anna Glinberg, MANIA HALEF, Louis XVII, Lois Janes, Madame Royale, Marie Thérèse of France (1667–1672), Sophia Hanks Legrand-Lynch, Nancy Lynch Davison, John Potter Davison, Omie Elizabeth Pruitt Davison, James Anderson Davison, Julia Josephine “Jessie” Harlan, John Walker,

[libidomechanica]

There he stood: but we ride

A cinquain sequence

               I

I moved as in darknesse greater Bacon? After long pillar’d vista, a faint desire.

               II

Like a stock so goodly semblant of living to endure to the sighing stood: but we ride.

           ��   III

In this superb to share the gentle hands trembled to each other head. Then all her childhood?

               IV

Thus ending from Hell, but this one is told; who once each where, Stellaes face. In this his love me!

               V

The consomme, the rocks impregnable are no prayed the known a crib. And sing my hart to these?

               VI

Him time to clear expansion. Where there in my chest. A pamphleteer on guano and on grounde.

               VII

Look there’s music on the sky. That beauty in the raven and Earth and undefiled.

               VIII

And daynty is alyue.—Commence to battaile freshness die. Upon thy vaine, the pine its work.

               IX

Where the edicts statesmen utter. And an old one at my will I touch on her liuing praysed.

               X

And answer thee as those, when the pageant history! Her breasts, and harps divine ASTREA’S praise her?

               XI

Peace march in ranks of others are shall to me? The chapel. Till Cherry ripe themselves, was here!

               XII

Their fold, her temples beat to that wondrous sight. Ten lines, and ward, from thee. Would wish theyr flocks creepe?

               XIII

My most drowns itself, and faint: and now forest fires. She said; she said; she said, My life outwent.

               XIV

And were shall lift you vp vnto so lowly bow’d to here. Durst from each sex, to make us feel?

               XV

Above, below, came swelling eye: but when I do seeke for vnknowne gayne: tom Piper make, your self.

               XVI

And pure, beyond, on light to do. The sylvan scenes of beautiful was all the sentiment.

               XVII

Well is in the raves! Faire proud as a punk; chaste dame who have tarried. For with excess, to proue.

               XVIII

Lie, fisted like a young Ammon—a man like a hornet’s nest. The drreams I prefer, stay near.

               XIX

Of this! That this momentary. As somewhat scar’d! Last moments become a better than less.

               XX

With the low. And another, the bottom did theyr guifts are lost and the better be applyde.

               XXI

For in the greenest nook, or grave.—At this, she fillets, deck’d with ev’ry woman is at best.

               XXII

Since now I languish till death. Yet loves his fair and shriek’d, or from some old house wherein appere.

               XXIII

Briefly did like books that vanish’d me a breath. After so long have thought and days when the spheres.

               XXIV

Or who in derring life— and lifted was told by a cavern wind unto the spongy dawn.

               XXV

She sins with whom? The younger brother hung over the seed of eloquence will never still.

               XXVI

If such strange diagonal, and mount vp to the poor. How strange lightning: for that with the skies.

               XXVII

Or her, thinking to silence was melted into a pond of urine. In the dreadful bow.

               XXVIII

And rubyes riches old. You, looking still increase! My Emanation far within my breast.

               XXIX

On the earth to which now seem woe, compare: in his chief; warming by the hellish hound did tame.

               XXX

Not for ever feel to arrive with her wooers to embrew. Your hair was in his sleeping eyes.

               XXXI

Us young Chevalier. I am empty. His flames of flight whose action of the river.

               XXXII

But her brighter; and some reversed, they should still, my liues amend the mouse behind them all drench.

               XXXIII

Went not much ability shown me those foes by thine aged top, and the bitch! As the brood.

               XXXIV

Far dearer birth doth grow, good Thenot lieth! Fill with greasy task, with the streames of rybaudrye.

               XXXV

Vain to dust. Th’ important thing lacked foode, my hart, thoughts: in mercy shal you may not run.

               XXXVI

And bearen the cleare. Contentment gave; but still I in hand my only chance to protect me.

               XXXVII

A wooded cleft, and leaves. In whom fresh in her brook’d nor claim’d superior bliss, is miserye.

               XXXVIII

Sailing to her comforting! Swifter than a wintry world. Then playne will, to be praysd of me.

               XXXIX

Bull something in the dizzy sky! Or no, t is said to mend the precious self? She to here.

               XL

Perhaps it may not run. Let us fly these lovers did combined; faults with a life awry?

               XLI

Which some chilly midnight have tasted throne, and tears. Or who in her eie lids low embased.

               XLII

On the sense of all that all thing to offend; the sharp’st intense—lost to make a morning sand.

               XLIII

And since the diamond balustrade, leading afar past will fly and tell me by sap: but oh!

               XLIV

Help me! Too comic touches in the chilly shepherd clans: that seemd I smelt a garden rails.

               XLV

Then by much greatest fear of worse, that the blue-bell and exchange working with thy sisterhood.

               XLVI

An arrow for thee, fury, woe, i’ll send such famous moniment. And into seamless air.

               XLVII

But ah! The dim and weep for fondnesse more mysterious eye does the mother city speeds.

               XLVIII

She said; she said I am aweary, I would be. Just why I waited the greedy fyre.

               XLIX

Because t was dory, relieve me, do not groan or though I wonderment: yet in her none.

               L

Dost thou go with more praysd of me. Many things in disarms their souls, so equal was the skye.

               LI

The soul, seems to breaks with Wine the fly. In forrein costes, men sayd, was plenty makes me poore.

               LII

Ethereal for pledge my powres, so sore my sorrowe. Ne’er was all their smooth as summer.

               LIII

If in soft Adonis something more near? In figure, she bids me plast. On the Abbey-stones.

               LIV

Plane of movement some sweets you soarer, you forgiving it over. To clarify the punch.

               LV

In the flocke, fast in field a silver through. But only luve, that’s the quest. Of the leane soules trees!

               LVI

But Juan had a systems, we’re out in a baskets start back. From every bloom and humble shade.

               LVII

—Why call’d forth his hart: but came the filaments of alabaster. Where sameness breeds no more.

               LVIII

By my souereigne Queene. Averted back the homage. She known women, two almost nothing she.

               LIX

All the waues and knowen shields, far-piercing spent, him caught; with the child. An universal sun.

               LX

Imagined more. Juan was drest superbly, and name you makest thus, and down it goes to fade.

               LXI

Forlorn, my breast sae warming is no need. It down her smock: she wrapt in leade, the love of wit.

               LXII

To feed his farme. Say what is just not love is of the name on the balme of worlds riches old.

               LXIII

A poplar made, did all comfort: therefore not? For a white; and in black ink my answers in.

               LXIV

Phoebus doom, with more prayse. Amid foggy, midnight wont on you: and beauty which the worst sand.

               LXV

Being caught forlorne. For me, the close my hair; it told me back. Sweet loue, is vaine whose truffles.

               LXVI

Nay, but didn’t work out that wont with greedy couetize, in mine eyes so filled wits. The skeleton.

               LXVII

Fill my mind. Nestle and maybe wildest dreams of delight she sayes teares ioy forth to-night?

               LXVIII

The princess with as wise a dreamers that very think the bark was wet. With women outside.

               LXIX

Both in the bared bough, and let them all, and missing and then therein, with me. Off like a nurse.

               LXX

Thou move? Iron tear; and when the mothers overcome both brains beat into the dews were dead.

               LXXI

An endlesse armour, knives and night, a haystack. With silence, the dim and weaves of sapless grace?

               LXXII

Did see, vertues rare shall I taste freedom. And can no more heauens blisse I gladly wil embrace.

               LXXIII

Kind but commun’d with pompous roialty. Music mute, begins to sweate, the baiting- place costume.

               LXXIV

Himself, and feeds at pleases. Thus truly, when the bright-beaming ordures of meane a one.

               LXXV

The precious self must forego, Alas! If-’ But her praise, and with thoughts to die with, dim-descried.

               LXXVI

And friendless pleasure you. So sweetly played and rain. By a sandy plaint, nor passionate fire.

               LXXVII

With vain devotion, pays. My charmer still, and sulk against an endless pleasant fruits do flow.

               LXXVIII

He kept towards it were for the dreamy house, the inside, from buried days. To his garden rails.

               LXXIX

First hunger is not eased by thine again. By her through hidden source about him flew by hap.

               LXXX

Oh, odious, odious, odious, odious trees! Meek tradesman once doth attyre.

               LXXXI

And climbing slight whereof each goodly ymage yet I carry freshness die. Will gulph me—help!

               LXXXII

Yet hate repose, and I am wise, and much lesse gayne: or it mend with some new my future.

               LXXXIII

I find when as thought,—All labour, yet ne’er betray them, but wants an heir. The true no-meanings.

               LXXXIV

The terrain around us lie? And sin: and wild scattered scheme of worthy thought of such place!

               LXXXV

No cold approaching the pleasing still round aboue the grosse. This worlds Theatre in white palace.

               LXXXVI

&With a sigh somewhere before us, knew whate’er her soul devoid of fear, fantastic bridge.

               LXXXVII

A yellow leaf drifting its account to the close? She lay sick of hers sweet Arethusa.

               LXXXVIII

And, in the latter hour again finding every shame it is at best. Her plain Parson Hale.

               LXXXIX

All day with pleasant grass and dry. It were for another forming hand calm, and now and sad!

               XC

That his fond game, then a mortality. And leaues with vinegar and Tallboy, Charlema’ne.

               XCI

Climb her light, aSTREA works by Virtue’s self, whiles my stonisht hart. But Rapp is the sunny skies.

               XCII

Such heats as shall dead their former chroniclers. To practical your tea with you and naiads fair.

               XCIII

Art she his pray. As congresses of your face where thou of the old yeares sinnes for me.

               XCIV

It is snowing. She is of them minish in the more bene her selfe escaped thilke same euen.

               XCV

For I was born for opposition. And when the more: and if that fords thou can seem but slow?

               XCVI

Just as the fire: for the gold dome, and thy cause a like effect a name? With pompous roialty.

               XCVII

Or, if she sayes I know no end of her frail. But vainly flapped its merchants that with her late.

               XCVIII

Ye shall we hate. To the wit, the morning on you: and being wittes to turn. Ah for less.

               XCIX

Moment go, thro’ the wind, which I doo most in the fresh leaves. Imposed not an experiment.

               C

Best and toward his way was lost; to cloud-borne call ardently! For my true loue doth strong in her.

               CI

Ne your face flushed with another houses and point out my love excuse my love. Wit in it.

[lowkeynando]

milk, sugar, whiskey. Chastity is not a cultural value. [7] They trade Brazil nuts, wood, and sorva (rubbery sap used in chewing gum) for soda-can pull-tabs, which are used for necklaces. [5] Men wear T-shirts and shorts that they get from traders; women sew their own plain cotton dresses. [5]

Their decoration is mostly necklaces, used primarily to ward off spirits. [6]:74 The concept of drawing is alien to them and when asked to draw a person, animal, tree, or river, the result is simple lines. [8] However, on seeing a novelty such as an airplane, a child may make a model of it, which may be soon discarded. [9] According to Everett, the Pirahã have no concept of a supreme spirit or god, [10] and they lost interest in Jesus when they discovered that Everett had never seen him. They require evidence based on personal experience for every claim made. [7] However, they do believe in spirits that can sometimes take on the shape of things in the environment. These spirits can be jaguars, trees, or other visible, tangible things including people. [6]:112,134-142 Everett reported one incident where the Pirahä said that

"Xigagai, one of the beings that lives above the clouds, was standing on a beach yelling at us, telling us that he would kill us if we go into the jungle." Everett and his daughter could see nothing and yet the Pirahã insisted that Xigagai was still on the beach. [6]:xvi-xvii - [x] JUNGLEWOODNETHERRACKNETHERWARTENCHANTMENTTABLECHORUSFLOWERREDSTONEREPEATERREDSTONECOMPARATORTRiPWiREHOOKCOMMANDBLOCKSTiCKYPiSTONALiENSSPECiESFAiRiESDEiTiESGODSCLOWNSROBOTSANDROiDSARTiFiCiALiNTELLiGENCESBRAiNSPOWERSiNTELLiGENCEQUOTiENTSWORMSTAPEWORMSTUBESTUMORSCANCERSHOSTSENTiTiESFUNGiSPARASiTESBACTERiASAMiCROORGANiSMSMUSHROOMSSURGERiESSCiENCESPHYSiCSWiTCHCRAFTSMAGiCSVOODOOSHOODOOSWiZARDSWARLOCKSCULTSSECRETSOCiETiSALTEREGOSiNNERDEMONSCROSSROADDEMONSMEDiCALTREATMENTS AND