#all she has is the sister's safety and the shadow lord looming over her

[minsyal]

Long May He Reign, Pt. IV

Tywin Lannister x Targaryen!Reader

Summary: The Hand of the King spends years vying for the princess's affections. Only fate would have it that the two cannot be. As Aerys Targaryen II slowly descends into madness, can their love survive his instability and the war to come?

Warnings: General Game of Thrones violence later on, death and stuff, shitty characterizations, eh age differences, Ser Barristan being a lovely darling ✨

Everyone dined separately that night following the tournament. Aerys had sequestered himself to his provided chambers and ordered Ser Lewyn and Ser Grandison to keep guard through the darkness into the safety of the daylight. He feared for his life in such a densely Lannister place, but he came out of principle. The crown has no fears, he would tell himself repeatedly in his mind as he jittered at the slightest of foreign sounds. Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur had drank with Rhaegar, with none of the men falling to the full temptation of their fiery liquids. Laughter rang into the evening air as the three found amusement in the results of the joust. But once the Rock quieted and a sleepy hush fell over the people, only the euphonious notes of a despondent song lingered in the thin air.

The musical tune echoed through the emptied hallways, jumping off of the cold stone of the passages and climbing down from the many balconies that extended throughout the Rock. Rhaegar’s long fingers plucked at the strings of his harp and his lips buzzed with the constant hum of his sorrowful ballad. A lean leg hung from an open windowsill, stretching downward toward the waters that waved their white-capped hands skyward. His head hung down, closing off the space between his chin and chest. If his fingers had not been moving, one would have assumed him to have fallen asleep.

“Farewell, my brother.” The princess stepped from her position in the hallway. After she and Ser Barristan navigated the winding corridors that led to doors in all directions, she bid him goodnight at her chambers and promised to lock the doors from the inside. Her mind could not sleep, even as her body beckoned her to the bed. It raged with vigor from the eventful days and coming nights as the court eventually set off for King’s Landing. She wondered what her father would say about her leaving. She thought of Viserys, the poor babe, who could not even attend a tourney thrown in his honor. But she mostly thought of Tywin.

She eventually found herself pacing the corridors until her weary feet brought her to Rhaegar’s side. “A ballad about the Cargyll brothers' plight in the Dance of the Dragons.” Adjusting the draping of her dress, she joined him on his perch and listened as the crashing waves of the Sunset Sea harmonized with the hypnotic flow of his eloquent playing. “A sad choice of song for such a joyous event. Is this your projection of your loss to Ser Arthur?”

Ignoring his sister’s coltish jab, he plucked a few more notes. The cobalt effervescence of the glowing moon cast shadows across her softened features. Despite being out of line in leaving King’s Landing and having the anticipation of her father’s wrath looming overhead, she felt an acute calmness that stretched further than any consequence could. Footsteps bounced from the walls, shaking Rhaegar from his thoughts as the glint of a necklace he had not seen before flashed under the sapphire irradiation.

“A new necklace? It is not difficult to imagine where that has been sourced, sister dearest.” He kicked his leg out, blithely jabbing it against her hip. The footsteps did not amount to anything, as whoever they belonged to never exited onto the outlook. Still, Rhaegar lowered his voice.

“It would be an insult to not accept a gift when you are a guest in someone’s home.”

He snorted, “it is not often that a gift is made to conceal whom it stemmed from.”

“It was left in my room. For all I am aware it could be from another lord.”

“Another lord?” Rhaegar mused, closing his eyes in a playful flutter as he rested the crown of his head against the pillar he sat against. “Lord Addam Marbrand, perhaps?” He leveled his head to cast his sister a knowing look. “I heard you made acquaintance with him before bursting into my tent… I also heard you had been escorted away from Addam on Tywin’s arm.”

“Word travels at an alarming pace.”

“It does.” Rhaegar hummed in agreement as he became enamored with the gold plating of his harp with intricately spun designs pressed into its sides. “Father harbors a growing disdain for his Hand.” He peered over his shoulder and around hers, ensuring they were alone. “He could not keep his focus off of you during the joust.” There was a strange severity in his tone that she had not heard often from her genial brother. “Lord Tywin brings you happiness like no other, I understand that… He commands a crowd and holds great power.” Leaning forward, he muted his volume so that she had to strain to hear him. “But to a king, he is powerless.”

His insinuation was clear as the waters that flowed from the gardens in Dorne. Whatever she and Tywin had built could easily be disassembled brick by brick whether it be by Aerys himself or his growing court of people ready to please. They were willing to do anything to climb their way to the king’s side. Yet, she debated whether it was a place people truly wanted to reside.

“All I ask is that you remain ever cautious.”

She wet her lips, unable to comprehend the twisted web of dangers she had been playing in for the past three years. Then, reassuringly, she took Rhaegar’s hand in hers and cradled it in her other. “Worry is not a suiting expression on you, brother.” Her lighthearted ability to brighten his mood was a gift. “I assure you that I will approach the future with vigilance.”

The return to King’s Landing was done without Tywin as he and Cersei followed a few days behind. Aerys had instructed Ser Barristan to keep a close watch on the princess so as to not have her wander off again. Formally henceforth, he was assigned as her personal guard. No true punishment had been enacted from her actions and she was more than happy to have the company.

Strolling down the Blackwater, she relaxed in the midday sun. It shone down brightly from the cloudless sky, warming her chilled skin with its golden rays. The entourage had stopped for lunch at the behest of the king who, despite his unease with his distance from the Red Keep, much preferred dining when it was not an in-motion affair. This allowed the princess to venture from the rear room of the carriage house to the freedom of the outdoors.

“Do you foresee your new assignment being satisfactory?” She chided to Ser Barristan who walked in step with her nearest to the water’s edge. “Royal nursemaid to the princess who by happenstance does not appear to be an infant… at least as far as I am aware.”

He chuckled. “It is my duty to protect the royal family, princess. By definition, that would include all the royals.” Casting a glance outward to the flowing water, he watched as a lone log floated fastly downward, carrying on the harsh current. “I have always enjoyed my time in your company. I do not believe that will change in the coming days, weeks, months, even years.”

“You think that I will be watched this closely for years?”

“It could be a possibility.”

“By the gods, you will be guarding me even once father sends me away.” She brushed her fingers against the necklace draped on her breastbone. “Your life will soon be overflowing with boredom. You will be begging him to station you elsewhere.” Everything she said was in jest, but the undertones to her overcast words was clear to the man who had watched her grow.

“You underestimate yourself, princess. Kingsguard or not, I would follow you to the end of the earth.”

She considered his words for a moment, allowing the sounds of nature to overtake their conversation. Birds wings flapped together, crafting a harmonious buzz of feathers and wind as they spiraled through the open sea of blue that hung overhead. The water splashed against the eroding river banks, ripping away at the tearing and fraying grass that clung to the dry dirt. Chatter erupted from the small camp of knights and Kingsguard who hung around the wheelhouse, waiting for the king to give his approval on the move forward.

“I will keep you honest to your word then, Ser Barristan.”

“I would not expect anything less.”

Upon their official return to the Red Keep and Kings Landing, the king Aerys II confined himself to the spaces of his chambers. Her mother, Rhaella, had been quartered into the Holdfast with no provisions to leave and very few to keep her company. At times, she would seek her mother’s audiences but would often be met with the septa’s that trailed behind her much like Ser Barristan had taken to following the princess. Though, even before, she rarely saw her mother.

The birth of Viserys caused Aerys II to plummet in his state of mind. His nails grew longer in line with his unwashed and unkempt hair. Fear began to strike his heart as his beliefs of conspiratory behavior struck his veins and seized his waking moments. When he did sit the throne, he returned to the Holdfast with cuts littering his fingers and clothes. All needed to be treated by Pycelle, who would also attempt to calm him with medicinal treatments but nothing would put a halt on his increasing paranoia.

When Tywin returned to Kings Landing he brought with him his daughter to continue living at court as she daydreamed of the life she intended for her and the crowned prince. News of the young Melara Heatherspoon’s death swam through the halls of the Red Keep for a short time before it disappeared all together and she became nothing more than a faded memory. It was a tragic death, a mere accident, that started in the woods and ended at the base of a dried well.

The princess took to her lifestyle prior to her short-lived rebellion. Attending frequent lessons with her septa, strolling silently through the gardens, and slowly rebranding herself as the royal’s diligent princess was part of her routine. The king did not name her a husband, nor did he seek for one.

She met infrequently with Tywin, mostly enjoying his company on days when the sun was the brightest and the inhabitants of the Red Keep flocked to the outdoors to enjoy the sunlight in the midst of a chilling winter. It was often said that she was most striking in the frozen weather. Her gowns became more ornate and crafted of richer silks, her skin flushed with a soft rose that spread from her ears to her nose, and the cloaks that covered her shoulders in the outdoors were delightfully ethereal in the way they glittered against the snow.

The colors she opted for in the winter were of a deep red or rich green. Contrasting against her silken skin, the luxuriant fabrics made her appear like a shining star in the glittering snowfall. She radiated a phantom aura of her ghostly complexion and everywhere she stepped seemed to sing.

There was something about the cold of winter that seemed to wake the fire that burnt within.

“Lord Tywin.” Ser Barristan, who did not appear to mind the cold that blew through the skyward towers of the Red Keep, welcomed the figure to their company. Though guarded and ever scrutinizing of their relations, he recognized that the princess required some light in her often-dim life. With a respectful nod, he side-stepped away from the lord and retreated to a spot a comfortable distance away.

Tywin assumed the emptied spot next to the princess. She could not feel the warmth that lingered on the surface of his clothing, the light brushing of his arm against her cloaked shoulder was enough. “I often wonder how the Northerner’s withstand the winter when we struggle here in the south.” He could see the plushness of her lips and redness of her nose past the hood of insulated furs draped softly over her immaculate hair.

From their comfortable viewpoint, they could look down into the streets of King’s Landing. Plumes of white smoke rose from each active chimney, emanating life in such a desolate landscape. The people moved like ants in the crowded streets, barely visible among the stone walls of their homes and shops. The city was bursting at the seams with people clamoring from outside the walls to the interior for the safety of the crown. Peasants begged on the streets while others died in the alleys. The bodies were carted outside the walls to be discarded in pits.

“How do they ensure little loss of life in times such as these?” She pondered aloud as Tywin shifted from one foot to the other.

He looked commanding in his choice of fabrics. Summer tunics made of brocade and silk were quickly exchanged for wool and leather. His shoulders appeared broader and strengthened by the cloak of black wool and tanned fur that hung from golden clips securing the fabric to his body. She liked the way he looked in the winter.

“The Northerners understand winter better than any of us ever will.” Tywin turned his attention to the streets. “That is not to say that they do not suffer casualties in the same capacity.”

“We have an abundance of barley and wheat in storage. Can we not utilize it to keep the people fed?”

“You have a good heart but lack the mind for politics, princess.”

“You have a mind for politics,” she turned her head to face him, “but lack a good heart, Lord Tywin.” Any other would never dare speak to him in such a manner, but the princess found herself among the very few exceptions. Not only was she heavily protected as the daughter of the king but she also held a part of his heart that had only been open to one other in his lifetime. “Each child who perishes in the winter storm is not given the opportunity to prosper in the spring rains. I wish to see to it that they may open their eyes to the summer sun and bloom as the gardens here do.”

“How is it that you intend on seeing to this?”

She scrunched her nose and narrowed her eyes in thought. Thus far, she held no true power in Westeros. She acted as a symbol of regality among the other royals who roamed the halls. Rhaegar had made contributions to the prosperity of their father’s reign, but she had not been given the chance. “I am not sure.”

“Perhaps should you find yourself in the good graces of the Hand, he would assist in fulfilling your wishes.”

A smile was brought to her lips as her infectious grin somehow spread to the sullen man. Ser Barristan had told the princess that he had never seen Tywin in such a light before he was assigned as her personal guard. The lady Joanna was the only one to pull the old lion out of his stone-faced and serious mood until the princess started harboring feelings for him.

“What must I do to find myself in such a situation?”

Tywin’s hand was warm against her skin as he reached out and cradled the necklace between his fingertips. The back of his palm rested against her collarbones. He had distinctly removed the moleskin glove that covered his fingers before, holding it in his other hand. A fingernail popped open the clasp that held the large ruby to the center of her necklace. “Never remove this.”

It was the herringbone-linked necklace, crafted with gold from the Lannister mines, that had been left in her chambers during the tourney at Casterly Rock. Rich and heavy, it was connected with large ruby embellishments that had been cut into trillion shapes for the outer links and three fine navette jewels that were framed in gold at the center. To anyone else, it appeared as fine jewelry with the red signifying the Targaryen dragon. But to them, it was a wordless promise and an act of a Lannister marking his claim.

“I do not feel it is often that men request a lady to keep her clothing on, my lord.” The princess joked, burning a beet red as his fingers grazed over base of her neck.

An amused chortle passed by the scruff of his upper lip. Yet, no smile or even small tug of the corners of his mouth followed. He was solemn and serious, holding true to the face he showed the rest of the world. The smile that had lit his face moments prior was now nothing as the hardened lines of his softened skin became clear.

He had always been a thoughtful man. Not in nature, as the man did not do favors or deeds for glory, but in mind. Like his son, his inner monologue never ceased. Every move he made was calculated and propelled him further toward some unknown goal that tingled in the back of his head.

Because in the end, no matter what he must do, Tywin would get what he wanted.

~~~*~~~

“Do not be nervous, princess.” Ser Barristan stood at the castle’s gates with a small armada of escorts and servants carrying overflowing carts of supplies. A deep mahogany palanquin waited in the courtyard with four men ready to depart.

“I am not nervous.” The young woman feigned, tugging at the skirts of her dress as she pushed fallen hair from her face. “I just am not accustomed to public outings.”

“Your only official trip was on the wind.” He added, providing a hand for her to grasp as she stepped inside. “You have the finest knights in all of Westeros at your aid. When the people understand why you are walking amongst them, they will rejoice in your presence.”

“I do hope you are right.”

The cart jostled and shook as the men carried it dutifully down the steps from the high hill to the streets of King’s Landing. She watched as the people looked on with curiosity, wondering why someone was venturing onto their streets.

Lord Tywin Lannister had discreetly set aside the minuscule funding required to purchase a ten room building located on the edge of Flea Bottom nearest to Rhaenys’s Hill on the northeastern portion of town. The building was run down and leaning slightly to one side. Old tattered curtains hung from the broken windows and moss covered the outermost stone that cradled the cracked street.

When she had stepped out from the palanquin, the sunlight burst through the skyline that stretched overhead. She could hear the inquisitive murmur of whispers as a group of young men watched her enter the building. The stone floors were packed full with cement made of mud and clay, large smooth rocks were crammed together within to form an uneven surface.

“Princess.” A familiar voice called out from the doorway. Ser Alliser Thorne was a man loyal to the Targaryen household. He was older than the princess, nearly a decade to be exact. With striking and sharp features, the man presented himself as a hardened soldier with great respect for those in authority. “The crone.”

Stepping aside, he presented her with a frail old woman of an age she could not imagine. She walked like she was in her early eighties but appeared as if she was alive during the Dance. The skin of her face sagged into her neck and her nose was pimpled with sunspots.

“That is no way to address a woman, Ser.” The princess scolded lightly as the woman swatted her wrinkled hand in the air to dispel the tension in the young girl’s shoulders.

“Nonsense!” Her voice was ragged and raspy but held a certain tune that filled her with loving joy. “No woman is insulted by her own name.” She shortly nodded her head to the princess in lieu of a courtesy. “Apologies, my dear. The years have not been kind. My knees do not bend as they once did. The young boy was simply calling me what I am. The Old Crone. You should do well to follow suit.”

The princess looked to Ser Barristan for any form of assistance only to find his shoulders shrugged.

“Very well then.” She watched as men and woman piled through the doors and began fortifying the various areas of the house that needed improvement. “I am very glad you have accepted the responsibility of running this home for me, my lady. I believe it will prosper under your eye.”

“Under my eye?” The woman let out a garbled laugh that sounded disgusting to most but warmed the princess’s heart. “Can’t see much out of this one,” her overgrown nail pointed to her left eye, “the other will have to do what it can. Been searching for proper housing for years, my dear. Any roof is better than the god’s one… this one won’t rain on this old head.”

Stifling a laugh, the princess nodded. “We should hope so at the very least. I want this to be more than a shelter.” A man passed by, loading beams inside that would soon hold the floors up higher. “I want this to be a home for you and anyone else should they need it.”

“A home would be nice.” The Crone mused, hiking her skirts to her lap as she sat ungracefully upon one of the many stools that littered the boundaries of the room. “Well then, let us get to work.”

The princess hesitated as she cast a security glance to Ser Barristan. As she turned her head back to the Crone, a pile of cotton was thrust into her arms along with a needle and thread. “A home isn’t much of a home without blankets for the beds, deary. You know how to sew, right? You haven’t been skipping your lessons, have you?”

Ser Barristan smiled as the princess frantically ruched the fabric in her arms and followed the Crone as she made for a back room. “Never, my lady.”

“You!” The Crone hollered back at Ser Alliser who stood awkwardly in the room nearest to Ser Barristan. “Start a fire in the hearth, would you?”

The fluttering of her skirts was the last thing the older knight saw before he too joined them in the old rickety room. Her footsteps were followed by the scratchy voice of the Crone as she dismissed the proper title once more.

The winter was in its midst as Lord Steffon Baratheon was sent across the Narrow Sea to Essos with the intention of finding the crowned prince Rhaegar a wife of Valyrian blood. The princess had found herself busied with the nonsense work of finding and maintaining sufficient funding for the shelter house while also looking to local craftsmen for apprenticeships to aid the residents in starting new lives.

“Lord Steffon searches day and night to find a bride befitting a crowned prince.”

“Yes, but that was not my question, sister dearest.” Rhaegar pat his hand on hers as they walked through the gardens together with her arm laced through his. “Who do you think they’ll match me with?”

Rhaegar and his sister walked amongst the gardens, framed beautifully by the soft blooming winter flowers. Talk of finding him a wife was in circulation. Many tried to get on the king’s good side by finding Aerys as much information as they could that would cast someone else in a bad light. The majority of the talk seemed to revolve around the Hand of the King.

“Someone who is not of your own blood.”

Brushing a stray hair from his face, he noticed the group of women who whispered amongst themselves and turned quickly when they made eye contact. “He should have matched us.”

Her feet stopped moving as the back of her skirt hit her legs. “You’re mad, brother.”

“No.” Swatting away her disapproval, he gathered her hands in his and pulled her forward to one of the overlook balconies. Snow frosted ivy grew up the sides of the two large white pillars that held up dark wooden beams.. “You’re mad that you did not think of it before I.” He sat himself down on a stone bench and guided her down by his side. “We wed, fulfill our duties, but still seek our own happiness. You found yours with,” his voice lowered, “our Lord Hand. I should be allowed to find mine also.”

“I don’t dispute that you deserve happiness, but our lineage does not bode well for the future of our house. One can only marry brother and sister for so long before madness ensues. Perhaps, if you were so in love with me you should have bid this idea to father many years ago.”

“I thought it was I who was deemed the more interesting of the king’s children.” Rhaegar found great amusement in the princess’s relaxed state as their father became absent in their lives. “You are developing too much personality, sister. I would bet a hundred golden dragons that it is solely derived from your extended company of Ser Barristan.” He joked, poking fun of the Kingsguard who only tilted his head backward for a fleeting second to display the painted smile on his lips.

Cold winds blew in off Blackwater Bay, carrying their silver hair in its gentle breeze like a loose piece of silk hanging on a clothes line. The smell of the capitol was more pleasant in the chilled months. The summer sun could not bake the filth and grime to the streets. Smells that did rise on the air were carried for many more leagues than before. From the highest tower in Maegor’s Holdfast, even the worst of noses could smell the steaming freshly baked goods on the street of flour.

“I think you would have made a fitting bride.” Rhaegar commented as he released the strained tenseness that riddled his pointed shoulders.

“You do not believe the words you speak.” The princess placed her hands on the stone wall that separated the siblings from the sea. Her fingers chilled atop its frozen surface, but she found comfort in its uncertain ease. “You fear that Lord Steffon will return with a woman you will not love.” His eyes were suddenly empty and hollow. Playful jolts of electric energy died down as a palpable hesitancy clawed its way down his dried throat.

After a passing moment filled with the static of silence, Rhaegar let out a pume of hot breath into the open air. “How can one love another when they are not certain in the prospected changing of the tides?”

“Certainty is not afforded to those who carry the name Targaryen… Lord Steffon is a reasonable man. He will not bring back anyone who is not fit to hold the title of ‘queen.’”

“With personality came wisdom.” He snickered, turning fastly as his uncertainty faded into nothingness. “You should be sent away to the Citadel to assemble your chain.”

Shaking her head, she pushed her hand against his arm and rolled her eyes. “Ser Barristan would grow bored surrounded by such a group. Perhaps I should instead be sent North. I can shed the wisdom and replace it with bravery.”

“The Targaryen princess banished to The Wall.” Rhaegar chided. “You can fight with the brothers in black against The Others.”

“The prince is to come of your lineage, not mine.”

“Oddities of the world are not set in stone. The prince could be a princess.”

“I was right.” The princess smiled with her teeth and tucked her chin to her chest as she looked down at her hands. “You are truly mad.”

Rhaegar’s hand shook her shoulder as he clasped it firmly over her cloak. “Madness is a disease we are rather prone to, sister. At the very least my form will not turn the realm to ash and dust.”

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[wetalkinboutbooks]

Reaper of Souls by Rena Barron

Summary: After so many years yearning for the gift of magic, Arrah has the one thing she’s always wanted—at a terrible price. Now the last surviving witchdoctor, she’s been left to pick up the shattered pieces of a family that betrayed her, a kingdom in shambles, and long-buried secrets about who she is. 

Desperate not to repeat her mother’s mistakes, Arrah must return to the tribal lands to search for help from the remnants of her parents’ people. But the Demon King’s shadow looms closer than she thinks. And as Arrah struggles to unravel her connection to him, defeating him begins to seem more and more impossible—if it’s something she can bring herself to do at all.

Set in a richly imagined world inspired by spine-tingling tales of voodoo and folk magic, Kingdom of Souls was lauded as “masterful” by the School Library Journal in a starred review. This explosively epic sequel will have readers racing to the can’t-miss conclusion. (Taken from Goodreads)

Our Ratings:  

 → Geena:  ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️🌗

 → Kae: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Overall: A messy sequel to an amazing series, we get to see the after effects of the fall out of Arrah vs. Efiya from KOS… and when we tell you it is MESS!!!

~Spoiler-Full Review Below~

The Good: 

→ Arrah and Dimma

Geena: One of my favourite things about Reaper was the sprinkle of Dimma’s POVs throughout the story. We got an insight into Dimma’s life before she was Arrah, and how her relationship with the other Orisha and Daho developed. It also really helped build up the suspense near the end and set up plot twists that clocked us near the end. Dimma aside, let’s talk about Arrah. Rena Barron said brooding boys are out, brooding girls are IN! And you know what, we love to read it. The story starts off with Arrah trying to save Sukkar after she snapped all his bones while trying to save him, and she does save him :) Or so she thinks but that’s besides the point. Over the length of the book we follow Arrah’s inner turmoil of suddenly having the power of 10 tribal chieftains and being insecure about whether or not she even deserves it.

I loved Arrah, even when she was holding herself up to a terribly high bar and beating herself up about everything she did. Arrah helped bring her Auntie back from the dead and was like “Damn I suck :/” and thought shattering a girl’s glass (who was flirting with Rudjek) put her on the same level as her mom and Efiya. I was sitting there like NO GIRL YOU’RE PERFECT, YOU, YOUR MISSING TOOTH AND YOUR PETTY NATURE!! 

Kae: YAAAAAAAAAS! Geena summed Arrah and Dimma up perfectly. 

But I would like to add how much I love Arrah and how selfless she is. She’s always thinking about her friends and their safety, the safety of the tribal people, and of course the kingdom. She’s a worry woman, but for all the right reasons. And she also cares about herself; so much even that like Geena said, she beats herself up for the smallest of things. She’s so worried about being evil like her mother and her sister, that she calculates every single move that she makes, debating if it’s really worth it to use strong magic or not. 

As for Dimma, I loved her POV’S. She is a complex character who has been demonized since book 1. We were taught to believe, through the POV of some of the Gods, that Dimma was a horrible Goddess who wrought nothing but chaos. They erased her name from history, LITERALLY. And Dimma became known as the Unnamed Orisha. While reading her POV, we learn that Dimma was quite selfless, much like Arrah (since they are technically the same person). Dimma was full of love and loved even harder. She went out of her way to give Daho immortality as well as his people, because she loved them so much. She defied the rules of the universe for her love, and it only came to bite her in the ass in the end. Like her siblings told her, “A God’s love is a dangerous thing.” And it was, but not exactly for the reasons one might think.

Geena:  Kae’s summary of Dimma and Arrah is AMAZING, you know my ability to connect dots when reading is kinda shit so reading Kae’s summary gave me realization…  Arrah tries so hard to separate herself from Dimma, because she refuses to believe that a part of her is in love with Daho because she herself is in love with Rudjek… but it’s like girl… you have travelled to the ends of the earth to fight and bring back the people you love (the tribespeople) just like Dimma searched the ends of the universe for immortality to give to Daho. It’d be much easier to reconcile your feelings if you just accepted that “Okay, I may have been Dimma but now I am Arrah”

Also another thing I love about Arrah is how she had…. For a time… three dudes in love with her… or at least what she thought was three dudes. Real hot girl shit. 

→ Rudjek and Daho

Geena: You know the character archetype that’s like a snarky boy who knows he’s hot shit and acts accordingly, but when it comes to the person he’s in love with he’s just a bowl of mush. That’s Rudjek, and only Rudjek can pull it off. In KOS, he was slated to be the next vizier because of his father, in Reaper he’s known as a prince because his dad snaked his way into becoming the monarch. So, now he’s the snarky prince…. And the only snarky prince with rights! His POVs were actually so fun to read, like following the politics of the Kingdom and him dealing with his new craven powers…. Which also had him being able to smell pheromones when people were doing the dirty around him 😭

I really liked that Rena gave him a POV, because now we get to see how he develops given the fact that him and Arrah are dangerous to one another, because he saps her magic with a single touch and could kill her. The whole time Arrah is stressing like “Damn, what if he doesn’t like me anymore because we can’t touch” meanwhile Rudjek is like “I’ll fight the Gods if I have to, to keep her by my side” and it’s like 🥺Also, who let a teenager be in control of a whole army… I thought the vizier was a sly and smart man but I digress… Another thing I liked about Rudjek in this book was that he didn’t shy away from uncomfortable conversations with Arrah, regarding the fact that he confused Efiya for Arrah when they did the unspeakable in the clearing in KOS. Like, that was very mature of them and I’m glad they could deal with that misunderstanding… But… hands down… my favourite scene… During the climax of the book Rudjek gets a demon soul shoved down his body, and immediately assumes it’s the demon king…. And his only command to his friends is to not let him near Arrah😭😭😭 I was like PEAK ROMANCE, SOFTEST SHIT, SACRIFICIAL LOVER!!!!! 

Kae: SO GEENA SUMMED UP RUDJEK SO DAMN WELL. LIKE DUDE OMG? Correct. He is perfect. I really don’t have much to add but I just genuinely loved him as a character. He is caring for both Arrah and his friends. He is also one of the few male characters I’ve read that actively tries to go against their father. Most dudes in books are like “Fine puhpa, I shall do your evil bidding.” But Rudjek is like “Sike bitch, I’ll let you think that but I’m doing what I WAAAANT!” 

But okay, let’s talk about Daho. So first off, I love him??? Am I a villain sympathizer now? Tbh, I don’t really see him as a villain. Man’s didn’t commit a genocide or try to scheme Arrah out of her pants. AND HE VERY MUCH HAD THE CHANCE TO and he was like “nah.” And I appreciate that. Because there are a few certain villainous men who I shan’t name, that be on that scant shit. And Daho is just like… genuinely trying to avenge his wife’s death (Dimma) and try to get Arrah to remember that she is Dimma. 

YES, I know he got Arti to bring him back. BUUUUUT, he didn’t tell her to kill a bunch of kids and shit to do it. Arti did all that evil shit on her own and Daho was like “look, i don’t condone that shit. But it’s over and I’m sorry it happened but I can’t change it.” And I’m like… okay, mood. I get it. Daho is sweet and caring. He looked out for Arrah in *redacted’s* body because we didn’t know *redacted* was dead the whole time. And even then, Daho was still like “My bad… But he wasn’t using his body??? So I took it???” Why let it go to waste, amiright? 

Geena: STOOOOP FOR REAL HE WAS LIKE “It was empty, I didn’t think you’d mind” 

Kae: LMAOOO OKAY BUT DEADASS. And like, idk man. He just seriously isn’t a bad person. He was trapped because after the God’s killed Dimma, he was like “BET IMMA JUST KILL THEM” and they lowkey were shook so they trapped his ass in a box for a millenia or whatever. He wasn’t even out to kill all humanity or anything. The God’s were just being some haters and now he’s suddenly the bad guy. Anyway, we stan Daho in this house. 

Geena: Daho is how you write a sympathetic villain. He owns up to his own mistakes even while his demons run free terrorizing people. Kae said it best that he just wants justice for his wife and unfortunately history is written by the victors so the Orisha painted him out to be a bad guy… My dude was just chugging that respecting my wife juice and they killed her… and he also thinks they killed his son… Guess me and Kae are just villain sympathizers now 

The Bad:   

→ The Ending 

Kae: Okay, let’s get it. And I also just want to clarify that when we say “the bad”, we don’t mean we hate it. This is just something that was like “oh fuck, this is BAAAAD! THINGS ARE ABOUT TO GO DOOOWN.” 

But like, good Lord. The ending? That shit was crazy. First of all, we find out that *redacted* aka, SUKKAR. OUR SWEET, PLAYFUL, SARCASTIC SUKKAR. IS DEAD. HE HAS BEEN DEAD THIS WHOLE TIME!? Excuse me while I *SCREEEEEEEEEEEAM*. Like, what an unforeseen twist. This mf kicked the bucket back in KOS when Arrah tried to save him. Turns out… She maybe… Totally… possibly… Absolutely killed my guy on accident. He dead-dead. And this is how we find out that Daho took over his body, once Sukkar’s spirit ascended. It was a really sad reveal and my heart kind of hurt reading it. I straight up wasn’t expecting that to happen. THEEEEEN. GOTDAMN EFIYA. IS BROUGHT BACK. 

Geena: No joke, the ending of Reaper was just one sucker punch followed by another… At first you think Tyrek (the prince from KOS who joins Arrah and her crew on a journey to save the tribespeople) is the demon king, then you think it’s Rudjek because he’s getting possessed, and then you learn it’s Sukkar… The final punch to the gut was Daho bringing back Efiya because his close general asked for her… because she’s his daughter. We were like, DAHO ARE YOU SERIOUS YOU SAW THE DAMAGE SHE DID TO THE HUMANS!!! Like Efiya may have grown quickly in a few months but her brain isn’t fully developed, like that girl is UNHINGED!!! I thought we were done with the Efiya chapter but here we are, and I’m scared to see what role she’ll play in the final instalment of the series. I guess this is the case of bringing back an old villain that can work out really well…  I trusted Rena with the messy Arrah/Daho/Rudjek love triangle, so I trust her with this too 

The Ugly:  

→ Tyrek 

Geena: Remember how I said Rudjek is the only valid snarky prince… Yea, Tyrek can CHOKE!! In KOS he sides with Efiya and she wreaks havoc in the Kingdom, and in Reaper he’s brought to his knees. Rudjek’s dad wants to execute him for his crimes, but Arrah sympathizes with him because she knows how Efiya’s mind control worked. As you read, you get a sense of “Okay, maybe he isn’t bad, he’s helping Arrah and them” but then you get to the climax and you’re like okay nvm this boy was insane… Imagine travelling to a whole other dimension and making deals with demons, because you’re in a fucked up sort of romance with a half-demon girl. He managed to lie to Arrah that he was being controlled by Efiyah, when he was really with Efiya the whole way…. Even when she told him to murder his whole family… this man was vile!! He’s also one of our first fake outs, when he pretends to be the demon king I was kinda disappointed… I was like no this ruins the messy love triangle I’ve been waiting for! But it was just a fake out, Tyrek was just trying to scare Arrah into freeing Efiya, whose soul was in the demon dagger that Arrah used to kill her in KOS. Overall, 1/10 for this man… the 1 point is for when he figured out “Sukkar” had a crush on Arrah before Arrah even knew.  

Conclusion 

Kae: So, I don't have much to add to Tyrek’s snake ass. He really was ugly in the end. I’m glad he’s dead. 

But to conclude, this was such an amazing, refreshing read. Reaper of Souls was a wonderful sequel to Kingdom of Souls. Rena writes so beautifully and she didn’t hesitate to have us readers shaking in our boots. Getting more background information on Dimma, the Gods, and their old ass war, was really fun and insightful! IT added to the story in a way I hadn’t even thought about until I was consuming it all! 

Arrah and Rudjek are perfect angels and I can’t wait to see where book three leads them. I also want to give a shout out to Essnai and Majka for being such good friends to Arrah and Rudjek. Same to Kira and the Cravens. This is a really close knit group of friends who will go to the ends of the Earth (and literally new dimensions) for each other. THAT’S LOVE, BITCH. And we LOVE to see it. 

Geena: For real! Rena Barron set up such an amazing cast of characters, and she really emphasizes the power of friendship in her series and it’s one of my favourite things to read. With Reaper, from the very start, she sets up the story in such a way you’re literally screaming by the end… I think it requires a special kind of skill to be able to set up a story so well that while you do make predictions about what’s going to happen, it still shocks you when you realize you’re right. Cannot wait to see the absolute mess that will be the final book, with Rudjek/Arrah vs. Daho… and the drama it will bring now that the Orishas realize that Arrah is Dimma’s reincarnation.  

[azrael-asks]

Animatic Script for "The Plagues"

(Context: This is sort of a retelling of my "Disobedience" fic, talking about the fight b/w Lucifer and Azrael with some of the other brothers’ perspectives sprinkled in)

(Trigger Warnings: Depictions of violence, war, burning/scarring, and near-character deaths)

Because this post is very long, I’m putting in a post cut. For those who want to listen while they read the post descriptions (and if you’re able to read that fast, props to you!) here’s the song!

Additional Guide:

“Text” - Choir (as heard in-song)/Azrael (portrayed by Ramses in-song)

“Text” - Lucifer (portrayed by Moses in-song)

{ Hope you enjoy! ~ Noosey }

Overview of the Celestial Realm, or at least a city in the realm. It seems quiet at first, however flames shoot up from location-to-location as the chorus "Thus saithe the Lord" moves into a crescendo.

"Since you refuse to free my people,

All through the land of Egypt"

An image flashes, resembling lightning, with a four-winged angel's shadow wielding a sword cast over a destroyed version of the previously-shown city.

"I send a pestilence and plague"

Azrael could be seen walking through the streets of the city, flames snaking behind them. Their head is out of view, concealing their expression.

"Into your house, into your bed.

Into your streams, into your streets

Into your drink, into your bread"

Azrael's shadow is cast over a cowering angel, supposedly a member of Lucifer's rebellion. The cowering angel's eyes widen in terror with a reflecting light showing in their eyes before flames engulf the screen.

"Upon your cattle, on your sheep

Upon your oxen in your field"

Cut to Beelzebub, Belphegor, and Lilith (face obscured) running through the city, trying to avoid the flames that shot out (supposedly from the previous shot). Belphegor is holding Lilith firmly as they seem to be running for their lives.

"Into your dreams, into your sleep

Until you break, until you yield"

A wall of fire cuts off Beelzebub, Belphegor, and Lilith's path. As the three take a sharp turn down another road, Lilith looks over her shoulder to look behind her, the angel of death's shadow looming over them again.

"I send the swarm, I send the horde

Thus saithe the Lord"

Azrael's face is finally in view. Their eyes are narrowed, irises shrunken, and face bloodied from erasing some of Lucifer's rebellion beforehand.

Camera pans outward, showing the three running off in another direction with Azrael being distracted by eradicating more rebelling angels, however the focus turns to Lucifer, who is on a rooftop, supposedly watching the scene unfold.

"Once I called you brother

Once I thought the chance to make you laugh

Was all I ever wanted"

Ashes float past Lucifer, he is staring sternly for a moment, however the scene transitions into several memories. There's a still of Lucifer and Azrael sparring, Azrael being clingy with Lilith, and Azrael and Lucifer holding hands-to-elbows (like warriors/friends that have a brotherly bond)

"I send the thunder from the sky

I send the fire raining down."

The flames move as a transition, showing spraying blood and feathers from Azrael slashing about, cutting through Lucifer's rebellion. Their clothes seem to have turned darker than before, some of the flashier accents from their clothes could be seen burning away with each slash. Lucifer could be seen staring Azrael down from the top of a building in a frog's-eye view shot

"And even now

I wish that God had chose another"

Zoom-in on Lucifer again as he stares Azrael down in disdain. Then, the camera shifts over Lucifer's shoulder, panning across the city to Mammon and Levi running alongside other angels, trying to get them to safety.

"Serving as your foe on his behalf

Is the last thing that I wanted"

Leviathan points in the direction they've been running, shouting at the group to help them escape the carnage. Meanwhile, Mammon turns to face the city, the flames reflecting in his eyes. He looks horrified.

"I send a hail of burning ice

On every field, on every town"

The wall of flames Mammon is facing parts to let Azrael pass through unharmed, throwing a spear Mammon's way, however the scene cuts out to another, not showing the end result.

"This was my home

All this pain and devastation

How it tortures me inside."

A brick wall moves in the same direction as the spear thrown to act as another transition, this time showing Asmodeus on his knees, crying over the body of one of those that Azrael killed.

"All the innocent who suffer

From your stubbornness and pride"

Lucifer is seen walking past Asmodeus, brows furrowed in growing agitation. He seems to shout, flinging his cape/cloak to create another transition

"I send the locusts on a wind

Such as the world has never seen"

Beelzebub is seen sending Lilith and Belphegor into the air to fly away, his head snapping back to the flames chasing after them before following behind his brother and sister.

"On every leaf, on every stalk

Until there's nothing left of green."

Azrael can be seen running after them, their wings spreading as they tried to strike Beelzebub, only to be kicked back by Mammon.

"I send my scourge, I send my sword

Thus saithe the Lord."

As the angel stands, they fend off an arrow to the shoulder by Asmodeus, who is teary-eyed and full of rage.

"You who I called brother

Why must you call down another blow?"

Azrael grabs Mammon by the arm and hurls him at Asmodeus, knocking them both down. Gripping the flaming sword, they close in on the two.

"I send my scourge, I send my sword"

"Let my people go"

"Thus saithe the Lord

Thus saithe the Lord"

Azrael, appearing enraged, moves to cut through Mammon, only for Lucifer's sword to block the attack (at "Let my people go"). The two lock eyes for a moment. During the choir portion, the two break apart, circling one another as the brothers limp away.

"You who I called brother,"

Azrael stares Lucifer down, the flames illuminating the enraged angel's features

"How could you have come to hate me so?

Is this what you wanted?"

They raise the sword over their head, slamming it down on Lucifer's to force them into a blade-lock. Then, they gesture to the flames Azrael made, the silhouettes of Beel, Lilith, and Belphie visible between them.

"I send the swarm,

I send the horde"

A line-up of angels (faces obscured by a knight helmet of some kind) aim their bow and arrows at two of the three flying angels. Belphegor and Lilith could be seen in the reflecting metal, then Azrael and Lucifer still in blade-lock, their wings splayed out as they push against one another.

"Then let my heart be hardened

And never mind how high the cost may grow"

Azrael, with tears in their eyes, grits their teeth while they pushed harder against Lucifer's blade. A flying figure could be seen over Azrael's shoulder.

"This will still be so,"

Close up on Lucifer's face as he is pushing back against the flaming sword. His eyes widen, although his pupils are less human and more vertical slits.

"I will never let your people go"

**Several cuts/stills. The archers release their arrows ("I will never let"),

Beelzebub grabs Belphegor ("your"),

Lilith's wing is pierced by an arrow seen in the reflection of Lucifer's eyes as she falls ("people"),

Lucifer shoves his blade back against Azrael's, causing the scar on Azrael's face ("go").

"Thus saithe the Lord"

Close-up of the flames burning into Azrael's flesh, showing how the scar formed

"Thus saithe the Lord"

Lucifer flies after Lilith, leaving Azrael clawing at their face, screaming in agony.

"I will not Let your (my) people go"

Lucifer is diving after Lilith, reaching out to her, his wings blackening ("I will not let").

Beelzebub is holding Belphegor as he cries out for Lilith, reaching out to her ("your (my)"),

Mammon, Levi, and Asmo stare off, visibly wounded by the war and trying to escape ("people"),

Azrael is kneeling on the ground, tearing up and appearing in shambles with the scar boiled onto their face ("go")

[loopy777]

Potential outline/ideas/headcanons for an Avatar Ty Lee AU? (Also, for some crazy reason I like the idea that if Aang died in the Air Nomad Genocide, and we get a Water Avatar who lives to be in her thirties or forties, that the Earth Avatar is Long Feng, who makes no effort to go on the offensive against the Fire Nation, nor tries to learn the other elements, instead holing up in Ba Sing Se as the Fire Nation conquers the rest of the Earth Kingdom.)

(Wow, Avatar Long Feng? I can see him doing what you say, deciding to devote his power to protecting just Ba Sing Se, and I’m getting chills thinking about what he would do to make sure that no one knows that he’s the Avatar.)

Anyway, Avatar Ty Lee! Let’s make up something interesting…

Ty Lee has always paid attention to her dreams. The most frequent, one that has visited since before she can remember, has her standing in battle before a shadow shaped like a man, a wall of fire erasing the world around them. The sky above them bleeds as the shadow roars the sound of war…

Ten years before her legend begins, Ty Lee and her sisters were examined by the Fire Sages. It was entirely routine, something all children in the Homeland had to undergo by order of the Fire Lord, one part of an initiative to ensure the continuing health of the nobility. But Ty Lee was always been shy around authority, and something about the Fire Sages especially creeped her out. She persuaded her sister Ty Lin to substitute for her, a frequent trick the sisters used to play. Even Mommy didn’t notice Ty Lee slip out, and Ty Lin twice was poked and prodded and had a very flammable ball of tinder held under her nose. It became known that none of the seven sisters was a Firebender- or, of course, any other kind.

Nine years before her legend begins, she met Princess Azula and Mai. By this time, Ty Lee had gotten tired of how easily she was mistaken for one of her sisters, and the exclusive attention of the Princess seemed to be a gift from the spirits. Ty Lee was less sure of the quiet and gloomy Mai, but one time Mai protected Ty Lee from Ty Woo’s bullying so that was good. Ty Lee quickly learned, though, that she couldn’t fully trust her friends. Azula could be cruel, could be scary, and both Ty Lee and Mai would follow the princess’s commands if the alternative was worse. Plus, Mai blushed around Azula’s brother Prince Zuko, and for some reason that made Ty Lee’s stomach clench.

Four years before her legend begins, Ty Lee had become resigned to the fact that she would always be an outsider. She never quite felt like she could fit in, not even amongst her sisters. She felt like she was always holding a part of herself back, hiding something fragile out of an instinct for self-preservation. She dreamed, sometimes, of living amidst beautiful mountain-temples, but those dreams always ended in fire and pain and fear. So she tried to make the best of life, always chose to see the positive side of things, and took some solace in how Mai seemed to be just as much of an outsider but in completely different ways.

Four and a half years before her legend begins, Ty Lee decided one day to make a surprise visit to Mai. She skipped the front door and climbed in through Mai’s bedroom window, making use of the skills she was learning at the Academy’s Advanced Defense Classes. And so she saw Mai lounging on the bed, making a motion like throwing a knife except there was no knife in her hand. Nevertheless, the wooden target hanging on the far wall was sliced in half as though by a full-sized saber. Ty Lee’s gasp startled Mai, who ran over and dragged her in through the window and begged in a whisper to tell no one about this. It was only then, in a moment stinking of the fear of discovery, that Ty Lee realized Mai had been Airbending. Ty Lee still didn’t trust Mai completely, because Azula would always be in their lives and sometimes she blushed at Zuko. But having the power to destroy Mai by revealing such a dangerous secret was a kind of safety, one that made Ty Lee feel better (and feel a little bad for feeling better), and they grew closer as friends.

Three years before her legend begins, Zuko went away. Ty Lee never caught Mai crying, but no one caught Ty Lee crying either.

Two years before her legend begins, Ty Lee started making plans for running away. She was spending as much time away from home as possible; the mind games her sisters played were becoming intolerable. Their auras grew muddier day by day, and they were so good at tricking Ty Lee, at agreeing on things which weren’t true with such a sureness and solidarity that she sometimes wondered if she was going crazy. She told Azula, but the princess said that it was Ty Lee’s problem to solve and spent weeks teasing about it. Only Mai seemed sympathetic, but the advice to stab her sisters over it didn’t seem entirely practical. Besides, Mai’s aura was growing muddier, too.

One year before her legend begins, Ty Lee stowed away on a ship carrying a circus troupe to the colonies to find fame and fortune. This was not an accident, as odd as it sounded, because she knew that in the circus she could be herself. She could tumble, she could dance, she could be ignorant, and she could stand out as an individual and receive the acclaim of the audiences. There would be no sisters, no Princess. There wouldn’t be Mai, either, and Ty Lee was sad about that, but she told herself that it would be better if no one in the Capital knew Mai’s secret. Better for both of them. Probably.

50 weeks before her legend begins, Ty Lee was an official member of Shuzumu’s Traveling Circus and practicing her brand new routine. She was happy, cartwheeling across a rope stretched taught between two barrels just inches off the ground, happier than she had ever been before. Everyone here had such pink auras, and Ty Lee could do what she loved! The joy became so overwhelming that she turned her cartwheel into a dance, and she didn’t notice how the heat in her feet spread to light the rope on fire, nor how the motions of her arms summoned the winds to join her dance in a small tornado. She didn’t notice, that is, until the rope broke beneath her, and she opened her eyes to find all the other wind-whipped performers staring at her. She wondered if that was how she herself had looked when she found Mai, that time. The juggler called out that Ty Lee had been bending both Fire and Air. Ty Lee ran and didn’t look back once.

Six months before her legend begins, Ty Lee realized she hadn’t managed to stay in any town for more than a few days. Whenever she thought she might be safe, that this time she might be far enough away from the colonies, she’d start to feel itchy and the dreams would turn into nightmares. The man of shadows would loom over her, roaring like a storm, and the flames were so hot that she woke up screaming in a sweat. Even if the locals didn’t see her Bending, they’d soon talk of her as crazy, as spirit-touched, and it felt like being back with her sisters all over again. Ty Lee loved the places she got to visit, but she never stayed.

By the day her legend begins, Ty Lee is used to running, used to not having a home. She is more than eager to leave this Chin Village, where she thought she could maybe find something positive about her existence during their ‘Avatar Day’ festival. (She was very, very wrong about that.) She is passing next to a massive burning effigy of the Child Avatar, the flames consuming his grin and arrow tattoos, when she bumps into a soldier. But no, he’s not a regular soldier. He’s is far too short, and there’s gold trim on his armor. He scowls at her in the light of the flames with a hand-shaped scar twisting the skin over his eye.

She recognizes Prince Zuko and can’t help but blurt out, “What are you doing here?”

He blinks at her, recognizing her in turn, and says, “Me? What are you doing here?”

And so the Legend of Avatar Ty Lee begins.

[chaoswillfallrpg]

EVANGELINE SELWYN is TWENTY EIGHT YEARS OLD and a UNSPEAKABLE in THE HALL OF PROPHECY at THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.  She looks remarkably like KIKI LAYNE and considers herself NEUTRAL. She is currently TAKEN. 

→ OVERVIEW:

tw: abuse, death

Reserved and aloof, many have forsaken themselves trying to understand Evangeline Selwyn’s infuriating air of mystery. Dreams stolen by stars, they are the cold uncertain turn of the tide highlighted in the glittering silver of the moon. Born to callous people, the Selwyn’s cared less about their children and more about the legacy and image that they were leaving behind. Notorious for being volatile, it was only to be expected for a family that was rumored to hold the air loom of none other than Salazar Slytherin himself. Harbouring sinister secrets, happiness was never something found within the Selwyn manor. Growing up in Bedfordshire, England, there was no doubt in the Sacred Twenty-Eight community that the Selwyn’s were purists. Holding a snobbery towards muggles deeming them less than, no one could match their ranks and no one dared tried. One of the most powerful and noteworthy families in the country, the lineage was filled with atrocities better left as hidden secrets uttered by skeletons at the backs of locked closets. House elves tormented and repeatedly mistreated by their father, Eva was one of the few in their household that held empathy. Not seeing the world as strictly black and white, they saw the souls behind their father’s critiques and disgust. Creeping out of bed to offer a kind word to patch up the pain her father inflicted was common, among those was her brother EDRICK who was a frequent victim of their fathers abuse. 

Walking into the Selwyn manor was like walking into a viper pit. Each as manipulative and deadly as the next; the family were known for holding power in the ministry and using it to their advantage. With their father HARRELSON working in the International Confederation of Wizards, their mother SAFFRON acted as a crowning gem on his arm. Charming exteriors hid their calculating and deceitful natures, secretively pulling strings as if skilled puppeteers to turn the tide in their favor. Toying with those they deemed inferior, they thrived on the power held in belittling others. With bitter distaste for anyone challenging traditionalist views, the couple forced sorcerers to conform and bend under their whim; disposing discreetly of anyone who dared not comply. Eva turned a blind eye. Knowing it was better to be withdrawn than to partake in the nightmares she could only imagine her father created outside of the walls of their manor. Compared to her brother who grew to mimic their father’s behaviors, Eva grew inwardly. Typically a loner, Eva developed a distaste for people especially those among the Twenty-Eight who cared more for appearances than self discipline. With crystals and astronomy maps for company, they found friendship in their cousin ABIGAIL FERNSBY. While chastised for spending time with Abbie who is labeled the ‘black sheep of the family’, Abigail is the only person related to the Selwyn’s that holds compassion and love. Their friendship was filled with exchanging letters and prying eyes from parents. While their grandmother hoped having a ‘true’ Selwyn as an influence would benefit Abbie, in actuality the effects had been reversed; leaving Eva with a softer touch. 

Despite being in separate houses, Hogwarts offered a real chance to spend time in her cousin’s company. Opposites, Abigail held gentle mannerisms, lion hearted bravery and kindness in every ounce of her body. Eva was the opposite. Warn to a cold exterior from years of forceful opinions, she was an obstinate witch more concerned with safe guarding her heart than how her blunt comments could leave others with bruises. Excelling in divination and astronomy, her natural talents quickly shone through. Renowned around the halls for predicting disasters that came to fruition, many saw her as a bad omen. Avoided at all costs from fear and her family’s reputation, Eva was labeled an oddity by her peers. While her professor expressed their admiration and suspicion that Eva could be gifted with the inner eye, the notion of being a Seer hovered over her head like an unwanted shadow. Met with dismay, irritation and disregard, Eva buried the possibility to console her deepest fear that they could be right. Knowing her talents could lead to peril, she harbored them with dread of the repercussions should her father become aware. Holding niche interests in peculiarity, Eva never expected to find friends who shared similar interests in the unusual. Perched alone by the waterfall, her interest peaked when she heard the harrowing voices of sisters SAGE and ROWAN BOSWELL who sung into the night like sirens luring their pray. Accompanied by OPAL GREY, RIVER NORWOOD and NOVA MURRELL, the group were equally as strange and unlike many of the students passing in the halls. 

Over the years, the group began to feel like home. Marveling at hidden objects in the room of requirement, they shared tales with the tower ghosts and spent nights gazing at constellations. Thankfully their close bond continued after Hogwarts despite Eva’s family voicing rounds of objections to associating with half bloods and half breeds. The group became her sanity after graduating. While playing the idealistic product of a Twenty-Eight, she craved a moment of sanctum away from the snobbery. Escaping London, what had meant to be a two week holiday turned into a summer romance and the best four years of her life. Brought to Paris following Sage and Rowan’s band ‘Siren Call ’, Eva longed to find peace for her troubled soul; never did she imagine she’d find love instead. CLAUDETTE DELACOUR felt like coming up for air. A complex woman, Evangeline found herself quickly captivated by her. Meeting at the club ‘Siren Call’ was playing at, exchanged glances turned to drinking and dancing with the night ending wrapped under sheets in each other's arms. Encapsulated with one another, from that night they never spent a day apart. While Eva’s experience was more extreme, they both shared overbearing families and a displeasure in the pressure of continuing a lineage they held no interest in. They cherished one another and it wasn’t long before Eva had moved in with Claude and her best friend JACQUELINE LEJEUNE. Claude’s social circle became hers, with GABRIEL DUMONT and RAPHAEL FRANCOIS the five became extremely close. With her friends visiting from England when they could, Paris was idealist and offered a life Eva had only ever dreamed of.

Letters and howlers from home were burned on arrival in an attempt to distance herself from the Selwyn’s by any means necessary. The exception was Abigail, along with rare exchanged letters from Erik who consistently pleaded with her to see reason and return. Not heeding his warning, Eva was prepared to disown her family while Claudette held reservations to sacrifice the same. Left exasperated and hurt at being kept a secret from people that still meant so much to the french woman, the topic was a continuous sour point. With the desire to love openly and freely, they’d planned to flee Paris once Claude had visited home to gather personal belongs and to tell her siblings. Planning to leave a mere note for her parents before joining Eva so they could disappear into the night. Never did Eva consider their simple goodbye would be their last farewell. Hours and days past with no word, leading her to assume Claude had gotten cold feet and chosen her family rather than facing her again. Abandoned and left by the one person she’d truly loved, her heart ached with betrayal and broken promises. Inconsolable, despite efforts from Gabriel and Jacqueline to assure them there was no use. The rejection forged walls back around her heart, ashamed of believing her childish fantasies could ever become a reality. Plans to stay in Paris were quickly torn, with owls from Opal and Sage informing her that Nova had passed suddenly and under suspicious circumstances. While the Ministry tried to cover up the death, Evangeline can sense that River is holding reservations and the secrets of what really happened that night.

Devastated, Eva returned to England with a shattered heart, broken dreams and grief that was beyond comparison. Isolated in an attempt to numb her heart ache, despite efforts to be consoled by Rowan nothing seemed to ease her. Reluctantly, the Selwyn’s started to make more of an appearance in her life again. Leaning heavily on her brother, Edrick spoke of a new world where creatures didn’t have to live in fear or discrimination. Holding onto hope that life could be better for sorcerers like River, Eva is slowly turning towards the ideology that it could be the best way forward to help everyone. Influenced back into the grasp of their father, his fury upon her return could have burned the manor to the ground. Adamant she brought shame onto the family name, his ‘teachings’ had been ill in comparison to the torment she faced upon return. Long sleeves hiding scars from cursed quills, Eva fell back in line with the Selwyn’s. Distancing herself from her friends to prove loyalty to her family, she took a job within the Ministry under her father’s guidance that having sorcerers hold Ministry positions would come in useful when the time came. Taking the opportunity and using her status as an unspeakable as an advantage, Eva has been looking into Nova’s murder with the help of NOBREGAS THORNE. Though she is still skeptical about the world her family envision with THE DARK LORD, Evangeline is starting to grasp that being closer to the death eaters could mean safety. Security for the family, herself and friends when the new world comes to light, but she is keeping her head down and counting her plays in the mean time.

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Pure-Blood

Pronouns → She/Her

Identification → Cis Female 

Sexuality → Pansexual

Relationship Status → Single

Previous Education → Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Slytherin)

Family →  Harrelson Selwyn (father), Saffron Selwyn (mother), Edrick Selwyn (brother), Abigail Fernsby (cousin/close friend)

Connections  → Sage Boswell (best friend), Rowan Boswell (best friend), Opal Grey (best friend), River Norwood (best friend), Claudette Delacour (ex-girlfriend/potential love interest), Jacqueline Lejeune (ex-housemate/friend), Gabriel Dumont (friend), Raphael Francois (friend), Alexandra Rosier (adversary), Nobregas Thorne (colleague/friend/potential love interest), Regina Rowle (colleague)

Future Information →  Future Member of The Death Eaters

EVANGELINE SELWYN  IS A LEVEL 6 WITCH.

[four-loose-screws]

FE4 Suzuki Novelization Translation - Chapter 5 Part 6

If you would like to start from the beginning, read a missed part, etc., click here!

FE Game Script Translations - FE Novel Translations - Original FE Support Conversations - Ko-fi

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Chapter 5 - The Battle in Verdane

Part 6

There were actually two houses of Augustria that sent a soldier to keep watch over Castle Evans.

The first was Eldigan's House Nordion, and the other was House Heirhein.

When Sigurd's army deployed, the two soldiers each returned to their respective lands.

Eldigan received his soldier's report and organized a small unit to go to the Heirheinian border, ordering them to come back immediately if Heirhein deployed any soldiers of their own.

Meanwhile, in Heirhein, Prince Elliot also received his soldier's report. He'd very specifically asked the soldier to count how many soldiers were in Evans Castle, and so the soldier told him the exact number.

"Amazing! The castle is practically empty! Who knew this Sigurd was such an idiot!?"

He ordered his personal cavalier unit to prepare for battle.

‘So long as Eldigan and Nordion aren't there, we'll hardly even have to put up a fight to seize Evans Castle! Then, we'll intercept the Grannvalian Army in Verdane, and slaughter them all!!’

When the sun set, Elliot crossed the Nordion border. He planned to rush through during the night, before Eldigan even noticed he was there.

Once he and his army were near the castle, they extinguished their torches and moved so slowly that even the horses' feet were silent. There were no signs of a response from the castle.

Eventually, they felt they were safe and out of sight, and lit their torches again.

"Ready!? We move at top speed until we reach the Verdanian border! At dawn, we will cross into Verdane!"

Things all went according to Elliott's plan. As the eastern skies began to turn white, they could see the border.

Just then, shadows loomed from atop the hill before them. The shadows grew and grew in size, until they covered the entire hilltop.

"What is that!?" He pointed at one of his cavaliers. "You, go investigate!"

The cavalier steered his horse up the hill.

As his horse galloped closer and closer to the hill, it became clear that the shadows were those of a cavalry unit. However, since the light was coming from behind him, he still couldn't tell exactly where the cavalry unit was.

The soldier returned to give his report. "It's Nordion's Cross Knights, Sir!"

"What!? Nordion!?"

"I'm certain it's them. I even saw Lord Eldigan's lion flag!"

"Damn that Eldigan! How dare he get in my way!"

Elliot divided his unit into two lines and slowly marched on.

Once they were closer, he could see with his own eyes that the unit before them was indeed Nordion's Cross Knights. There was no mistaking the lion symbol on the flag they flew.

Once he was within earshot of Eldigan, Elliot halted his unit.

A single cavalier broke from Nordion unit and came towards him.

'Eldigan!' Elliot realized and also moved slightly forward.

"Elliot, this is Nordionian territory! Why have you brought your cavalier unit here!?"

Elliot had no response. He was taken aback by the fact that Eldigan had gotten the first word in.

"Your silence only confirms that you're sneaking around! Have you no honor as a knight!?" Eldigan laughed at him.

"Curse you! How dare you get in my way!? I'm here to fight Grannvale. Let me through!"

"Sorry, but I am Eldigan of Nordion! I was told not to let anyone pass the border into Verdane, so I cannot let you through! Leave here quietly, because you wouldn't want to fight me."

"Have you gone mad, Eldigan!? Are you really siding with Grannvale!?"

"I should ask you the same question! Do you not realize that you are going against our lord's orders!? The king has always honored our alliance with Grannvale. We must protect it! To seek war is betrayal!"

"Only you would be foolish enough to support such outdated ideas. The Dominion of Agustria has already sided with the anti-Grannvalians. It is only a matter of time before King Chagall declares war!"

"If that is true, then I will argue completely against it! Do you know what would happen if we went to war with Grannvale!? There would be major casualties on both sides! Even if we won, we would still lose. Countless people would be wounded or killed. Villages and towns would burn down to the ground, leaving our lands in ruin. It is our responsibility as nobility to keep war from ever happening!"

"You’re soft as ever I see, Eldigan, and blind to reality because you went to that Grannvalian academy! They've invaded Isaach, and are about to attack Verdane! Isn't it obvious!? Augustria is next!"

"And if that happens, I will defend the border, and not allow a single Grannvalian soldier to cross."

"Do you really think that's how things will go!? Grannvale is a huge country! You may wield a Holy Weapon, but that doesn't mean you can fend off a huge army like that. Now's our chance! We won't get another. I won't tell you that you should fight with me. I'll go by myself, so get out of my way!"

"Do you ever shut that mouth of yours, Elliot!? I won't say it again! If you want to get to Evans, then you'll have to go through my Cross Knights!"

Eldigan turned his horse around and returned to his own army.

"Dammit, he's always such a show off!!" Elliot paused to think about what he should do.

Eldigan's Cross Knights were lauded as the best in all of Agustria. He wasn't sure he could win, but turning back now would make his men think he was giving up.

'We'll fight for a little while, then pull back.'

With that vague plan in mind, he told his soldiers, "Listen up, men! We're going to break through the Nordion lines, take Eldigan's head as our prize, and march to Evans! Front line, charge! Rear line, follow up after them!"

The front line obeyed his order, starting their horses at a walk, but quickly speeding up to a full gallop.

Though Elliot had given an impassioned order that should have inspired a mighty charge, the front line lacked that power as they moved. It discouraged the second line, causing their march to progress slowly as well.

Seeing that Elliot's army had begun to move, Eldigan delivered his own order.

"All units, move out! Show them the strength of the Cross Knights!" Eldigan's army's charge had the added bonus of starting at the top of a hill, so their speed far surpassed that of Elliot's army.

The moment the two armies clashed, half of Elliot's front line fell off their horses.

The second line slowed down even further.

‘Dammit! We've already lost!’

Then he saw Eldigan encroaching upon him, Demon Sword raised high in the sky, with the blade glittering in the morning light.

"Retreat! Retreat!!" Elliot screamed, his horse having already turned around.

He never looked back, not even once, running and running until he crossed the Nordion border.

Only half of his unit made it back to Heirhein.

-

On the other side, Eldigan's army had no deaths, and only five minor injuries.

While the major victory boosted his soldiers’ morale, it left a bad taste in his mouth.

It was his younger half-sister Lachesis' smile that lifted his spirits.

She greeted them upon their triumphant return, waving at them from atop the castle wall, as she always did.

When Eldigan sat upon his throne, Lachesis came to his side.

"Brother, you safety is what's most important."

"Did you really think I'd lose to the likes of Elliot?"

"Not even once! But still…"

"But still what?" He asked and looked up at her.

While her face looked just like his, her eyes were completely different. He guessed that they resembled her mother's.

She blushed and looked away. "So, how did it go?"

"Oh, the fight? It was boring."

Lachesis giggled in response. “You always say that, Brother…”

[starswornoaths]

Somewhere more Aery (2/2)

Part 1 is here!

When Bryn and Serella return from the Aery, it is both a surprise and not that only Serella is heavily injured. Bryn takes a vow of silence on everything that happened, and Aymeric is forced to realize that he isn’t the only well meaning dumbass Elezen in Ishgard anymore.

Or:

Serella is so fucking grounded.

Word count: 5411

By the time news had reached the Congregation that both Serella Arcbane and Bryn Soulcairne were missing, they could find no one who had seen them within the last several hours—when scouts on the walls spotted them on dragon back heading toward the Hinterlands. Speculation from the band of warriors of light they had left behind pointed toward them making for the Aery. A well founded hypothesis, if lacking in enough concrete evidence to form a more focused search, given how thinly spread even those bearing the Echo were.

And really, considering how many other things demanded Aymeric’s attention, it should have been easier to put out of his mind. It should have been easier to keep his focus on things he could actually exercise some modicum of control over. That, of course, did not stop him from glancing at the chronometer in any given room he was in, did not stop him tracking the hours they were gone or keep the worry at bay.

Nor did it stop him from feeling upset that Serella had promised him she would rest and she had broken it.

The anger and worry made Aymeric productive, at least, and the more he worked, the less energy he had to fret over it, he decided.

Then Hilda had burst into the Congregation somewhere around the fourteenth hour of their absence—a rarity, given her reputation. She was winded: she had been sprinting here.

“Airship landing!” She’d gasped, still hanging on the wide doors she’d pushed open to catch her breath. “Need chirurgeons—Serella—“

Aymeric did not know Hilda personally; no one in the Congregation did, outside of her reputation as “The Mongrel.” It didn’t matter. Not for this. Not for her.

With a nod to Lucia, the First Commander was already rounding up what chirurgeons were on call for the graveyard shift; a bed needed preparing, a patient transporting, after all.

And then he was sprinting beside the Mongrel of the Brume before he had realized he had moved at all. He hadn’t even registered he’d done so until he felt the cold air stinging his lungs.

“Mjalle’s there already,” Hilda panted, her breathing ragged from exertion and panic, “told her first.”

Aymeric did not comment; he could not think beyond willing his legs to move faster and the Fury to hear his prayers for their safety and health.

Even before they had crossed the waist high gates into the airship landing space there was already a gaggle of people crowded around a dragon—Midgardsormr, he realized—all of whom huddled themselves around the space in the middle of them. A part of him already knew what to expect when he got there.

Still, the sight of Serella laid out on the stone floor, bleeding and in obvious agony, made his heart stop.

Through the congealed crimson stain on the carved and scorched chainmail she wore he recognized it as Templar armor, gifted to her by House Fortemps that she might be recognized as presently in their service—as did Bryn, whose hands were pressing at one of her wounds under his wife’s curt guidance.

Hilda murmured that she would get out of the way, and before Aymeric could even reply she was off running into the night again. Praying to the Fury to grant Serella—and himself—strength, he drew nearer.

Midgardsormr, looming behind the group, body half curled around them protectively, leveled his unending and ageless stare at the Lord Commander as he came close. Though Aymeric was not without his initial, instinctive reactionary fear he tamped down hard on it to meet the gaze of the Father of Dragons: that he was a great wyrm did not matter. Aymeric would not be denied. Not where Serella was concerned.

There was an unspoken understanding between them in that moment, and the wing Midgardsormr had half shielded the group with folded back to allow him beneath it. Reminding himself that he was capable of gentleness—that Serella had reminded him that it was allowed— he ignored every second of training he had all his life and came to Serella on bended knee under the shadow of the wyrm’s gaze.

Serella’s condition looked somehow impossibly worse up close. The glow of Mjalle’s healing magicks bathed her in a pale, sickly light and only served to highlight how much of the Paladin was covered in blood. If he had not honed his focus to the rise and fall of her chest, he would have thought her already sat beside Haurchefant in Halone’s halls.

“Is she ready to be moved?” He asked quietly.

“As ready as I can make her,” Mjalle answered grimly, her focus never straying from her conjury.

“She’ll need a two man carry,” Bryn murmured, keeping his head low, “might you—?”

“Of course,” Aymeric replied, already settling his hands beneath her shoulder and just above her knee respectively. He made a mental note to apologize to her later when she was conscious. “By your leave.”

Wordlessly, Mjalle held the Paladin’s head in her hands, her healing magic running in rivulets down her neck and shoulders to where it was needed. They counted to three, held their breaths, and lifted her.

Unconscious as she was Serella still let out a choked cry of pain, and though they stilled to let her weak twinging pass for only a moment it felt like years before she quieted.

If that had felt like years they might as well have entered a new era for how long it felt to transport her to the chirurgeon’s ward. He instead tried to count how long it took by her raspy, shuddering breaths, but after the tenth one his soul could not bear the weight of the agony. His sharpened hearing picked them up all the same.

Her blood on his hands and arms should not have startled him when he withdrew to make room for the healers, and yet he choked on a gasp when he saw how deeply it had seeped into his scalemail gloves.

“Pray notify me if aught changes,” he heard himself distantly say. “I will check in between my duties.”

He was unsure of who he asked this. Less sure of who answered him. He moved in a daze to his office, only one floor down and but a few seconds’ sprint away—and why he needed to calculate that in his head escaped him for how numb he was but that was alright; he had been here before.

With Haurchefant, with Estinien, with the Borels and others who had been dear to him that he had been made to bury or to hold their hand and watch them writhe in agony, made to mourn their wounds or their absence in silence. War had made Ishgard familiar with blood and loss and pain. This was no different, he told himself.

That did not stop his hands from trembling as they unclasped his gauntlets, nor did it dry his eyes as he rinsed his hands and scrubbed at his stained gloves. It startled him, how greatly affected he was by Serella’s injuries: he knew not how many of the tears that dripped onto the onyx scalemail he cleaned were out of fear and how many were out of anger.

She promised she would not, she promised, she promised, he lamented.

It did not matter that he had cleaned his gauntlets and hands, they felt dirty all the same when he donned them once more. Rather than let the knot of complicated—and conflicting—emotions utterly consume him he instead hid the stains of blood and the scent of iron from his mind beneath the ink that smudged his fingers as he worked. It was easier to breathe if he did.

It was not so many hours—maybe two or three, not long enough for the sun to begin to rise—when Aymeric ran out of work and wore no armor to effectively anchor him to his office. With nothing to hold him there, it was alarming how easily he had prepared a tray laden with books, a pot of tea, and cups to make an excuse for why he drifted back to the chirurgeon’s ward, to Serella’s room.

He was unsurprised that Lucia had fallen into step beside him somewhere along the way there, and Uthengentle seemed to almost anticipate that they would be back to where they, at the end of it all, wanted to be.

It was just as expected when they opened the door and found Uthengentle sitting still as a stone in a chair beside his sleeping sister. The only indication that he had even heard them enter was a furtive glance their way as they shut the door behind them.

“How is she?” Aymeric asked quietly, setting the tray down at the bedside table.

“Has there been any sign of improvement?” Lucia asked immediately after.

“Still asleep.” Uthengentle answered with a shrug. He returned his attention to Serella. “Stable, but asleep. Nothing’s changed. He crossed his arms and turned his head fully to acknowledge them. “Kind of surprised to see you guys here, though.” He paused and amended, “again. At the same time.”

“We are worried.” Aymeric explained, and at this point he had thought himself obvious. “And rightly so, I should say.”

“But who the fuck is running the country if you’re both here?” Uthengentle asked, the lack of proper sleep beginning to affect his filter— and his sensibilities, evidently. Aymeric certainly would not hold that against him.

“One of these days, you will recall that Ser Handeloup exists.” Lucia retorted, rolling her eyes.

“I know he exists,” Uthengentle argued around a yawn. “I also know that unlike some, he has a life outside work.”

Neither Ishgardian commented further. They could not.

“We are all worried.” Lucia said instead, producing a small bag of cookies and adding them to the tray. “Ser Handeloup’s wife sent him back to the Congregation with these for the both of you.”

“We look after one another.” Aymeric supplied, hoping his gaze drifting toward the sleeping Paladin was not so obvious as it felt. “You are a part of that now— and have been for some time.”

“Fair ‘nough.” Uthengentle conceded quietly with a nod as he popped a cookie in his mouth. “Thank you, by the way. Here’s hoping she gets up soon.”

Ginger snaps, Aymeric’s nose registered when the bag opened. Serella would enjoy them, once she awoke— sometimes liked them with her tea, as he recalled.

“...It is unsettling, is it not?” Lucia asked uncomfortably after a few moments of silence. “To see her like this...unnerves me.”

“That tends to happen when a Guardian gets knocked on their ass.” Uthengentle said around a rough bark of laughter. “Isn’t the first time. I just want to know what caused it this time.” His frown deepened. “What the fuck happened, Ellie?” He asked under his breath.

And really, it both was and was not the question to ask. They could surmise what had happened by that point. Aymeric only wanted to know why.

“I have asked Bryn,” Lucia spoke up haltingly. “But he is surprisingly tight lipped— “I shan’t say a word while she’s abed,” he said.”

“‘M shocked his wife lets him breathe without supervision right now.” Uthengentle admitted. “Frankly, he’s lucky he’s lived through her wrath.”

“He was, in fact, supervised, though I was unaware her conjury was so lethal.” Lucia mused.

“S’not her conjury that kills.” The Warrior corrected with a shrug. “She’s one hell of a fist fighter besides. Don’t care that she’s a full fulm shorter than me, she frightens me when she’s mad.” He shuddered.

“Please tell her I died.” Came a raspy voice from the bed. Aymeric’s heart leapt in his throat in spite of himself. “She’ll just kill me anyway.”

“Serella?” Aymeric called softly, eyes widening in surprise.

He swallowed the complicated lump of relief and rage that bubbled up to the top and just settled on being grateful that she was there to feel this about at all.

“Present,” she groaned, giving her unbandaged hand a weak wave even as her eyes remained closed. “Bryn?”

“Being treated for minor injuries, but otherwise fine,” Aymeric reassured her.

“And being raked over the coals by his wife, most like.” Lucia chimed in.

“...Okay,” she sighed heavily and forced her eyes open. “That’s...good. Yeah. ...Okay.”

“How fare you?” Lucia asked, though did not let the Paladin answer before adding, “is there aught you need?”

“I’m...I’m fine.” Serella lied— again, a dark part of Aymeric’s mind hissed. “I’d just like to...sit up, maybe—”

When she tried to do so on her own she wound up feebly clutching at her side for the trouble. Uthengentle began to shoot out of his seat, hands already beginning to come up to offer healing when Lucia caught him by the shoulder and pressed him back into his chair. He looked up at her, clearly prepared to protest but Aymeric was familiar with that terse glare of hers: if she decided Uthengentle was going to stay seated to avoid using his healing magic, then he was going to stay seated.

Aymeric, however, was not stopped as he gingerly moved his hands to support her by what few places she did not have wounds— doubtless lying on her back was agitating what injuries were there as well. Even as she thanked him and tried to weakly shoo his hands away, he lingered in the air near her a moment to ensure she would not fall over. It was only when she finally looked up at him and gave a nod and another word of thanks that he stepped back behind the chair Uthengentle sat in.

“So,” Uthengentle growled, crossing his arms over his chest, “care to tell us why you thought going to the Aery half-cocked and alone was a good plan?”

Serella flinched—and it was clear that if her wounds allowed for it she would squirm under his disappointed glare.

“We had to strike fast—“

“Alone?” Uthengentle repeated. “With less armor than you’re used to? And less aether than you’re used to? In the shape your in?”

“Everyone else was healing—“ she tried again.

“As were you and Bryn,” Uthengentle countered, “and they knew better than to fight Nidhogg while their wounds were still bleeding.”

“We could stand for more than an hour without getting dizzy and we could use our weapons,” Serella snapped, “so we were in the best position to try—”

“That’s…an astronomically low bar, Ellie.” He said with a shake of his head.

She turned her focus to the window. “What can I say, I’m a fucking star.”

Uthengentle heaved a sigh, and Aymeric could swear he saw the Warrior mentally counting backwards from a hundred to calm himself.

“At least apologize for being reckless, if nothin’ else.” Uthengentle tried again, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “I’m just doing to wait here until you do.”

“Die waiting, then.” Serella spat, even as she avoided his eyes.

“Look I’m as mad as you are, but running off for vengeance isn’t—”

“It wasn’t vengeance!” Serella screamed suddenly, even as she had ducked her head as if in shame.

Her outburst startled everyone in the room; she was not a woman for shouting, she hadn’t the practice, her voice cracking and squeaking as she tried to push her anguish out. Though brief, it rang in Aymeric’s ears like cannonfire. It somehow felt bigger than her solid form, bigger than one person could contain. He wondered if that was much the same as all else that she endured: bigger than one person could contain.

Uthengentle had tried to hold his hands out in a placating manner but it was all too much for her finally, and she could not stop herself from shying away from his offered comfort. Aymeric practically saw her soul flood out of her broken dam. Bandaged or no her hands wrung themselves upon the edge of her blouse as she continued in a soft, wheezy rasp. As if her brief firecracker explosion of screaming had stolen her voice.

“We...it wasn’t. We couldn’t…we had to try.” Her balled up hands shook in her lap, and she fell into silence.

“Try…?” Lucia gently inquired, but it was only met with a shuddering sigh.

Her brother seemed as startled by the revelation as Aymeric was— he had presumed she and Bryn had left to exact revenge on Nidhogg for all he had done. It had made sense to him, at least: while the action was a foolish one it would have been the only one wherein she had some control, some meaningful way she could have thrown herself at a lost cause. It had been his motivation for heading to the godsforsaken Vault, after all…

“...Okay, Ellie.” Uthengentle spoke up after a long moment. He raked a hand through his hair. “Okay. I’ll...we’ll talk about it in the morning, yeah?” He did not wait for an answer as he stood. “Maybe we’ll feel better in the morning.”

As the Warrior turned to leave Aymeric could see the strain on his face; though the two of them were on the mend, this was more than either of them could deal with for the moment. Better they spoke with cooler heads and more rested hearts. He seemed to agree, even as he hovered by the door.

“I’m not good for her,” he admitted quietly, ashamedly, “not like this. We’re both just in pain and lashing out.” He looked back over his shoulder at Lord and First Commander alike. “I...don’t much like asking but can one of—?”

“I will stay with her,” Aymeric volunteered before he had even thought to. Before he could talk himself out of wanting to. He spared a glance at his First. “Lucia, if you would please—”

“And I will watch over the brother Arcbane,” she read his mind with a small smile as she had done for years by then, “and apprise you of updates.”

Really, they both just needed a sympathetic ear that wasn’t their sibling; that was all they would provide to them. Naught more and naught less, as friends do when they are in need.

With a word of thanks from him, Lucia was already moving toward the door, gesturing with her arm to encourage Uthengentle to move.

The Warrior paused in opening the door to look at his sister. “...Night, Ellie.”

She met his gaze, and Aymeric could tell that Uthengentle received at least a part of his apology when she quietly answered, “night, Uthen.”

All the same, Aymeric waited until Lucia had nodded her own farewell to them and shut the door behind her before scooting the chair Uthengentle had occupied closer to the bed and taking a seat.

“I know you have already been asked, but,” Aymeric paused a moment, hands hovering in the space between them, “is there aught else that you require?”

She did not immediately answer, and had evidently developed a fascination with his knees, if the way her gaze did not stray from them was any indication. He did not rush her, even as his hand crossed the distance to carefully cover her good hand. The act of doing so pulled his attention to her other, burned hand, and he realized with a start that the bandages had grown saturated with medicine and were near translucent for it. He frowned deeply.

“Do you know when your arm was last redressed?” He instead asked.

She looked up, startled at the question. He was already rummaging through the chirurgeon’s wares left behind, however, and did not linger on her shadowed eyes.

“I’m not sure,” Serella answered, eyeing the clean roll of linen bandage he’d found. “I think I was still asleep.”

“It needs changing,” Aymeric said almost to himself. Before he could think better of it he held out his empty hand expectantly. “If I may have your hand?”

A distant, stupid part of him lamented the context of the question; she deserved it to be asked sweetly, with a sigh and a smile and from someone she loved. Not…not this.

Aymeric watched, his concern only mounting as the color drained from her face. Though she looked humiliated that she needed the help at all she relented, and hesitantly gave him her hand.

“Pray tell me if I hurt you,” he murmured, the hand not holding hers still carefully skimming the bandage to find its tied off end.

“Alright.” She said thickly.

He found the end of the bandage near her wrist, and began to slowly peel it back from her skin, and frowned deeper at what he saw: given how thinly they had covered the burns, it must have been nearing the end of the bandage roll when the chirurgeons applied it—or it was not a priority when they were stabilizing her, perhaps, as they had not compensated for how threadbare this bandage had been.

It might amount to little, but it was something he could fix. He latched onto that.

“I didn’t take you for a chirurgeon,” Serella spoke up in the silence.

“You are witnessing the extent of my abilities,” Aymeric admitted with an apologetic smile, “all knights have some training in field medicine, though ‘tis not extensive.”

She let out a startled cry when he peeled the last of the bandage off and came away with some of the newly healed skin. He winced in sympathy.

“Shh, shh,” he attempted to soothe, feeling all at once too brutish to be up to the task when he eyed the new skin clinging to the bandage, “forgive me, dear one. ‘Tis finished.”

With the soiled bandage gone and discarded Aymeric was able to at last see the extent of the damage to her arm, and not for the first time since he had put them all on this godforsaken path he felt nauseating guilt clench his gut.

The burns were fairly deep, though already half scarred, likely from what healing she had been given already. The affected skin and flesh, pink and red and slick with salve radiated heat even without him touching it—and Fury help him but he would not for how agonizing it looked already. He ignored the faint queasiness that came with the sight, though it did surprise him: burns were naught new to him, child of war that he was.

“How…?” Aymeric asked quietly, for the question had haunted him since her return from Azys Lla.

“Holy spear.” Her answer was dark, snarled through gnashed teeth, and he saw her anger rise to the surface and flush her cheeks. “He…he threw another one of the damnable things. It was meant for one of our healers.” She looked away. “So I...caught it.”

“You caught it?” He balked before he could stop himself.

“Past experience told me not to block it,” she said wryly, “and I didn’t know what else to do. My Blessing of Light cancelled it out, but I’m…low on aether for the moment for the effort.” He must have seemed as alarmed as he was, as she hastily added, “Not like Uthen was. Is, I guess. I’m…it’s different, so I’ll recover quicker.”

Recognizing her stumbling words as a symptom of his reaction, he smoothed out the bandage and began to wind it through her individual fingers as he said, “you owe me no explanation—I was startled. Pray forgive me my outburst, my friend.”

“You’re angry,” she noted, and it was not a question.

“I am,” Aymeric replied honestly. “And hurt. Both of which can wait until you are healed. I am, above all else, relieved that you yet live.”

She did not speak again until he had finished bandaging each finger, her palm, her wrist, and had almost completely finished with her forearm. He had thought her silence was born of exhaustion or pain, and thus had not pressed her to talk.

In a voice only just above a whisper she breathed once more, “I had to try.”

The rhythm Aymeric had set his hands to stuttered at the confession.

“What,” he rasped, “do you mean?”

Reminding himself that she was in his care, he forced his hands to continue with the second layer of bandage. He was nearly done, after all, and it would help her find her ease.

“I had to go. There was,” she swallowed heavily when her voice cracked, “there was no one else but Bryn and I well enough to try.”

He waited until he’d bandaged up to her wrist for the second time before commenting, the repetition of weaving the bandage back and forth helping him gather his thoughts. Even as his anger and his hurt burned he kept his voice soft as he chided, “you needed more rest—“

“I couldn’t leave him like that!” She blurted suddenly, though ducked her head as if ashamed of her outburst.

Aymeric’s hands froze. When he peered at her through his lashes he found her still with her head bowed as if in prayer, her hair disheveled and fallen in front of her face. Disregarding her wounds she seemed intent on curling as deeply into herself as she could with him still holding her hand. He felt her trembling before he saw it, but he could tell in the way her breathing hitched and her shoulders shook that it had spread through her body. He finished his work and tied off the bandage, though he still carefully cradled her hand with both of his.

“Serella,” he called softly, helplessly, and when she looked up at him to see her eyes glassy and filled with tears she fought not to shed his heart shattered.

“I couldn’t—I couldn’t leave Estinien like that,” she sobbed, and the sudden motion jarred her tears into spilling over her flushed cheeks. “I had to try…I couldn’t—“ a sob cut off her words, “I can’t lose any one else and he’s suffering, and—!”

Aymeric had never seen her cry. Not when Haurchefant had died, not when he was laid to rest, not when she told him of all the loss and blood that had stained her path to Ishgard. When it was a dying friend’s wish, she smiled as he left. When Aymeric himself had finally cracked under the grief she had held him. She had been supporting so many people for so long…how had he never asked her if she had a safe spot to land when she fell apart? How could he do that to her as her friend? As someone who...who could love her, if only he allowed himself?

“Serella,” he said again, and used the time it took for her to meet his gaze to choose his words carefully, “nothing that has happened was your fault.”

“I should have—!” She tried to argue, though a sob choked her. “I should have tried harder!”

Seeing her grief laid bare he was uncomfortably familiar with the shadows in her eyes and the guilt that pressed her shoulders into a hunch: he’d seen it in his own reflection every morning. Hearing her lament that she had somehow, somehow not done enough broke some invisible barrier within him; the sight of her so openly mourning not being able to do more for someone they both cherished as a friend negated his apprehensions. She was suffering— and worse, felt she had deserved it, somehow. No more, he silently promised her.

His anger could wait.

She gasped around her tears when he used a curled finger to brush her tears away. With wide eyes she gawked, even around her sniffled and hiccups, as he brushed away a few of her tears.

“Had you tried any harder than you have,” he said slowly, carefully, “then…it may well have killed you.” He shook his head. “You tried—harder than anyone I have ever seen. You have done so much more than you had to, even before now.” He stopped catching her tears and let his hand rest on her shoulder. “But you must rest. Recover. Take what time you need to be whole, that you may fight on and I might know you have the best chance you have at coming home.”

“Aymeric—“ She warbled through her tears but he felt too raw, too undone from everything that they had both been put through to stop himself.

“Pray do not make me lose you, too,” he whispered.

“I—!” Her eyes widened, her face grew ashen, and in that moment Aymeric decided that neither of them needed to deal with any more tragedy alone.

He had been taught gentleness as a boy, and it had thought it beaten out of him by adulthood. He had been reminded of it when he became friends with Serella— reminded that it was still there and not a weakness. It was time to show her that her lessons had not fallen on deaf ears.

With every onze of tenderness he could muster, he brought her newly bandaged hand to brush her knuckle against his lips before he set her hand against his chest. She watched him all the while in silence, as if she waited for his queue to continue breathing. Another familiar feeling— he had felt much the same when she had found him broken.

“Come here, dear one.”

He could not hug her, not in the same way she had: he was still not entirely accustomed to it, and her wounds would not allow for it besides, but he could gently guide her head into the crook of his neck and hold her there. He could stroke her hair in the same way she had. He could be soft—and in this moment, that was aught he needed to be, so that was aught he was.

“I’m sorry,” Serella sobbed into his shirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Shh,” Aymeric hushed her, his hand still smoothing over her hair, “you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I…I must seem a mess,” she let out a watery laugh even as she nuzzled into the soft collar of his shirt, “for you to give me a hug like this.”

“Not at all. A wise friend once told me,” he said softly, “that everyone is in need of one at some point.”

“Your friend’s a ninny.” Serella sniffed.

“My friend is in need of respite.” He countered, “and has more than earned it a thousand times over.” When she leaned away from him he offered her a smile. “And I would actively encourage her to take it.”

Though Serella pursed her lips there was a ghost of humor in her eyes, and she had even refrained from grousing when he held out a pain tonic for her to take.

“A nap does sound nice.” She conceded once she had finished coughing from the taste of the medicine. “I just— shit—” she cursed when she twisted to try and lie down, her body jerking back into place. Wordlessly, Aymeric was there, helping as best he could to get her to lie back down. “Ah, thank you, Aymeric,” she said quietly once she was situated on the bed.

“Think nothing of it,” he reassured her, and settled into his chair; he needed to make sure she did not go anywhere any time soon. “Rest now — I will be here.” 

“You’ll get bored.” She tried when he wordlessly held up a book by an author she had recommended him.

“I will be fine — I came with every intention of staying.” He offered her a smile as he turned to the first chapter.

She spared a bleary glance at the title on the cover that he held out for her to see and arched a brow.

“One of the ones I haven’t gotten around to reading yet.” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Let me know how it is.”

“I’ve a better idea, if you are amenable,” he poured himself a cup of tea from the tray, “I could instead read aloud until you fall asleep.”

“Aymeric, I would never want to impose—”

“You cannot impose upon that which is offered,” he countered, his smile returning, “another bit of wisdom from my friend.”

Her good hand reached out and caught his, and he met her gaze again. Her eyes, while still darkened by grief and pain held little constellations of humor and mirth that twinkled up at him.

“Tell your friend...she’s lucky to have you.” Serella said, and let go of his hand.

Aymeric ignored the way his heart fluttered and smiled wider in spite of himself. “When I see her next, I shall perhaps endeavor to tell her ‘tis I who am fortunate to have her.”

Serella made a quiet, tired noise in the back of her throat and settled in for sleep. As promised, Aymeric began to quietly read aloud, all the while thanking Halone that he had not had to bury another friend so soon. They had a lot of talking to do once she was better, after all.

[agentelmo]

The X-Files MSR Analysis Series: Season 1 Episode 4

“Conduit”

Previous episode analysis - 1x03 Squeeze.

This episode has some interesting developments for MSR, as it’s the first episode to delve into the Samantha Mulder backstory.  

Not so much around what happened to Samantha, but what effect her disappearance had on Mulder and how that event has irrevocably altered who he is, and the course of his life.  The bulk of the MSR here is Scully watching over Mulder, and noticing his changes in behaviour; seeing for the first time how damaged Mulder truly is.

The opening of this episode always intrigued me because it grounds the X-Files in the rules and procedures of the FBI that subsequent seasons often gloss over.  Mulder submits a “302″ (a request to open a case file), as well as cover for travel expenses and there’s even a brief mention of Mulder’s ASAC (Assistant Special Agent in Charge) - who is Mulder’s current ASAC?  I don’t think we ever meet him/her.  

It’s kind of strange how in season 1 there is a strong sense of authority looming over the X-Files, like an axe waiting to drop, whereas later seasons you really do get the feeling they’ve just been left to their own devices, and that the only person they really answer to is Skinner - who for the most part, is pretty lenient with them.

The scene here with Blevins is good for observing the subtle shift that is occurring in Scully, away from loyalty to the FBI and the orders of her superiors, and towards loyalty to Mulder.  Blevins tries to find out what Scully knows of Mulder’s sister and she refuses to betray Mulder’s confidence - but then Blevins shows her that Mulder opened the X-File on his sister’s disappearance himself, so she feels a bit more at liberty to share what she knows.  Still, I like that she has no qualms with resisting a superior if it means remaining loyal to her partner.

Then Blevins tries to use Scully to undermine Mulder, and she sees straight through that shit.

Scully is so great in this scene - we all need a BFF like Scully.  Being the utterly loyal BAMF that she is, without knowing Mulder’s reasoning, without any knowledge of the case, she puts herself out there to get the case opened simply because she trusts Mulder’s judgement.  

She has faith in him that whatever has prompted him to submit this 302, there is a good reason for it - despite what others think - she doesn’t believe he’s a madman or a fool, and she’s willing to challenge her superior based on her faith in him.

Look at that, I can find MSR in any scene.  Can’t quite decide if that’s a talent or a curse.  

Now it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for.  Don’t deny it.

Mulder, Mulder, Mulder... first, what colour is that shirt you’re wearing?  Did you put a yellow sock in with your whites?  

Second, GOOD LORD MAN.  He definitely gets a thrill out of flirting with her, because he’s pretty good at invading her personal space in surprisingly intimate ways - she’d have felt his breath on her face; that’s incredibly intimate.  What was he thinking?  Honestly, he probably wasn’t - I still genuinely believe he’s not aware of what he’s doing.  He probably doesn’t even think of it as flirting.  

Poor Scully - see her sharp intake of breath?  I know, I know, she’s exasperated with him but c’mon... if you had this guy come at you like that wouldn’t you have a little moment?  She even seems to take a split-second to consider this as she eyes his lips briefly.

What?  Don’t look at me like that.  When you make gifs, you inevitably end up seeing scenes frame by frame... you can’t help but notice these things!

The fact she never challenges this behaviour is just more evidence that she is attracted to him, because Scully has more self-respect than to let a colleague get up in her space if she doesn’t want it.  Scully lets him get away with things like this repeatedly because 1. she’s comfortable with him - she trusts him and 2. she is professional enough to not let it interfere with their relationship or their work.  But fuck me, Mulder makes it hard for her.

Scully then lets Mulder play teacher with his projector.  Nawww, I miss overhead projectors.  They phased out using them in X-Files episodes eventually too, but watching Mulder give Scully a little presentation always makes my heart do a thing.

He loves having someone to share this with, someone who is not just a skilled professional - a highly qualified scientist and doctor - but someone who looks at his work and applies their expertise faithfully.  She takes him and what he does seriously, her challenging him is proof of that.  

Honestly, I think he enjoys the challenge of proving the credibility of his theories under Scully’s scrutiny.  That way, this back and fourth that occurs between them serves the very useful purpose of grounding Mulder and also challenges him to work for his theory rather than just believe anything and everything willy nilly - which we know he would definitely do without someone to watch over him.  He enjoys it, but no doubt, it frustrates the fuck out of him sometimes too.

Although surprisingly, he seems quite chill about it today.

Soooo... slightly veering away from MSR for a moment...

Welcome back to Mulder’s Kitchen, people!  

An interesting observation I made in this episode was that the apparent UFO sighting Mulder shows Scully on the projector from Lake Okobogee in 1967, looks awfully similar to a UFO we will see later in the series.

UFO From Lake Okobogee.

UFO from Fight the Future.

UFO from season 8′s This is Not Happening.

What are the chances that these are all in fact, the same UFO?  

I always thought the FTF and This is Not Happening UFO were one in the same; that seems clear despite it seeming much bigger in FTF, but let’s just put that down to the SFX budget.  The possibility that the FTF UFO was previously involved in abductions in the 60′s is an interesting idea, and nicely ties the events of this episode into the greater mythology.  The mythology is always fun. I’m one of those rare unicorns that actually enjoys the mythology more than the stand alone episodes.  

I know, I know... hey, hands off the unfollow button!

Mulder and Scully:  Getting to the front door at the same time since 1993.

Also, Scully low key checking Mulder out.  As you do.

Once you’ve seen it, you just can’t unsee it.

The dynamics of the next scene are really interesting, and quite heartbreaking when you think of all the loss in the room.  Darlene Morris desperate for the return of her daughter Ruby, and Mulder, desperate to learn something that might lead to answers about what happened to Samantha.

Mulder is clearly very vulnerable walking into this house, the second he sees the Morris family photos, he’s transported to a time and a place that is long lost to him - and Scully sees his pain.

In that moment he is no longer the Oxford-educated psychologist, criminal profiler, Special Agent of the FBI, Fox Mulder - he’s the lonely 12 year-old boy Fox Mulder.  Longing for connection to not just his missing sister, but to the life that was robbed from him when she was taken away.  The photos of a once happy family, triggering in him recollections of his own loss.

Recall that in the pilot, Mulder tells Scully that after Samantha’s abduction his family fell apart - nobody talked about what happened, so he never had the chance to come to terms with it.  

We know later in the series that his parents divorce in the wake of what happened to Samantha, so effectively, his whole world was destroyed.  Imagine what that must be like for a 12 year-old child - the safety and security of home and family snuffed out in a single night then never addressed.  Hey kid, your life is now a hollow shadow of what it once was - deal with it.  He was just a boy with no capacity to deal with the enormity of what he had experienced, left to deal with the shattered pieces of his entire world - alone.

It may sound melodramatic, but I deal with this kind of childhood trauma all the time in my work, and the scars that are left can run very deep from far less traumatic experiences than Mulders.  It’s actually miraculous in some ways, that Fox Mulder became a functioning, highly-educated, and productive member of society.  

But he didn’t get off lightly, the consequence of his unresolved trauma is that these scars run so deep for him they are the greatest driving force in his life 20-odd years after the fact.  And tragically, we know they will continue to drive him for the next 20+ years into the future.  

Well, this is cheery, isn’t it?  I could really brighten everyone’s day and tell you about my thoughts on what losing William did to compound Mulder’s trauma around the loss of love and family... but I’ll spare you that particular trauma.

We can see during the conversation with Darlene, that Mulder is still out of sorts - Scully is doing most of the talking.  They’re talking about the night her daughter Ruby was abducted from Lake Okobogee, then Darlene drops this on Mulder and he’s like a deer caught in headlights.

Scully is again observing this change in Mulder and she’s worried for him; she’s never seen him like this before.

Also, can I just say quickly before we move on - that this kid is creepy AF.

Scully continues to pick up on Mulder’s strange behaviour.

Scully does try to approach this with him in an indirect way, letting him know gently she’s noticed his behaviour - but he brushes it off with his characteristic deflective humour.  Scully will have to be a bit more direct to get through to him on this one.

Oh, quick intermission.

ZOMG HE TOUCHED HER BACK AGAIN!  Yep, the small-of-the-back-touching love affair continues.  This episode: Mulder goes in for the double-hander.

This next bit makes me chuckle, because these NSA goons are looking for Mulder, so why did they break into Scully’s hotel room, and not Mulder’s?  

Were the rumours of their sleeping together going around the bureau this early in the game?   Maybe they thought they’d be clever and break into her room and catch him?

We wish it were true, NSA goons... we really wish it were true.

But it’s all good, eventually they find our boy, Fox.

Hoo boy.

We interrupt this programme to bring you an important message: Mulder’s bed head is hot as fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu--

Scully makes the mistake of ratting out creepy kid Kevin to the NSA and Mulder is frustrated at her actions.  The kid and his mother get hauled off in a somewhat uncomfortable scene, and Mulder looks around the Morris’ house, spotting from the window that their caravan has a scorched roof, which aligns with Darlene’s story of what happened on the night that Ruby disappeared.  He rushes off to investigate, while Scully stays at the window, watching him.

All throughout this episode Scully has been watching Mulder.  She knows what’s going on for him, but doesn’t know how to approach it.

Upon discovering that creepy kid has somehow acquired to ability to write Bach in binary (a story thread that never gets resolved, by the way), Mulder rushes to meet Darlene Morris to apologise to her for the NSA involvement, but she’s not interested and is hostile towards him now.  She tells him to keep away from her and her son and Scully uncomfortably notices, yet again, that Mulder is being made more and more emotionally vulnerable by this case.

Also, I gotta say it again... this creepy kid, man.  I feel like he would stab me up in my sleep.

Please stop looking at me like that, creepy kid.

At this point, Mulder has become fixated on Kevin and Ruby, and believes creepy kid is a “conduit” (eeeeeeyyyy the episode title!) and that he is linked to who/what abducted Ruby.  Basically, Mulder thinks aliens are using Kevin as some kind of human TV aerial.

The aliens wanted to catch season 8 of Game of Thrones but arrived on Earth in 1967 instead of 2018, so they’re pissed they’re having to wait 51 years for it to air and are amusing themselves by abducting people for their own entertainment purposes.

How’s that for a theory, Mulder?

Ok enough kidding around, serious talk now... serious stuff.

Scully tries again to talk to Mulder about what is going on for him.  She knows what is driving him, and why he is obsessed with finding Ruby - but she leaves it unspoken.  It’s fairly clear that what she doesn’t say is that Mulder is seeing Samantha in Ruby.  

Scully tries to tell Mulder that there is no evidence of an abduction; tries to break him away from his fixation on saving her, but he is a man possessed.  

Does he obsess with saving Ruby to absolve himself of the guilt of not being able to save Samantha?  To get information from Ruby that might shed light on what happened to his sister?  Maybe both.  But he’s determined to see it through, and Scully, concerned with his welfare, has no choice but to see it through with him.

I think this moment more than any other solidifies in Scully’s mind that Mulder isn’t just driven by wanting to know what happened to his sister; he’s in fact still deeply traumatised by her disappearance.

What Blevins suggested about Mulder’s personal agenda clouding his judgement is undeniable at this point, but she doesn’t use this knowledge against him - doesn’t write it in her report.  She can see and hear the pain he’s dealing with - this desperation to save Ruby is a clear window into his desperation to save his sister.

She doesn’t have the heart to stop him after seeing that.  She feels for him.

Things eventually come to a head, as Mulder refuses to give up believing Ruby can be saved despite the fact they have a suspect with a motive for murder in custody.  Scully believes he’s so clouded that he can’t see what he’s doing - she can’t beat around the bush anymore, she has to come out and say it directly.

What Scully comes to realise over the course of this episode, is that Mulder is a very damaged man.  The guilt of not being able to save Samantha seemingly drives Mulder to project his sister onto Ruby, and in fact, various vulnerable women throughout the series.  It’s a classic example of transference, to act out a trauma in similar scenarios with similar people in an attempt to resolve the distress it triggers.  But Mulder never seems to fully resolve this - as recently as the events of I Want to Believe Mulder is still looking for is sister in the faces of vulnerable, victimised women.

Compare the conversation Mulder and Scully have in I Want to Believe with the conversation above from Conduit.

Even more recently, you also have Sveta in season 10′s My Struggle I, he is still compelled to save hapless women no matter the personal cost to himself.

In fact, I’m certain the reason Scully says to Mulder “you know what you’re doing” in My Struggle I isn’t because of some childish jealousy, it’s because she knows what he’s like - she’s been going over this with him for enough years to know, and that’s why she tells him he knows what he’s doing too, because he’s done it enough times to know why he behaves this way without needing her to tell him.

Okay, quick, run!  Back to 1993.

What we’re seeing here in Conduit, is Scully experience this traumatised side of Mulder for the first time.  Kinda makes you feel sorry for Conduit-Scully, doesn’t it?  She’s got a looooooooong hard road ahead of her with this shit.

So, moving on.  Mulder and Scully go looking for Darlene and creepy kid Kevin at Lake Okobogee, and on the drive there, Mulder admits - in a uniquely Mulderesque way - that she is right about him.

Mulderesque meaning as avoidant and indirect as possible.

I found this story of Mulder’s childhood ritual incredibly sad, because it’s as I said before - as a 12 year-old boy, he was not emotionally equipped to deal with the aftermath of what happened, and so his 12 year-old mind dealt with it in the only way it could - through this child-like gesture of closing his eyes and believing that if he wished for it hard enough, that she would be there when he opened them again.  Hasn’t every kid done that; closed their eyes and wished?

Telling Scully this story is another defining point in their journey together.  Mulder is a closed book to most people around him, and the long pauses tell me he even finds it difficult to tell Scully this.  He’s not used to letting people get close - he fears it, because everyone he has loved has left him.  Especially if you consider that at this point, he has also not long ago lost Diana too.

Gag.

But little by little, Scully is breaking down the walls.  Even though she’s been challenging him every step of the way on this case, the one time she was right on the money was the most important time of all.  She’s right, he is chasing his sister and he knows it.  He knows what he’s doing; but can’t help himself.  

Telling Scully this story is his way of acknowledging that.

Mulder and Scully finally arrive at the lake and find Darlene, creepy kid and Ruby.  It first appears like Ruby was dumped by a biker gang, as she turns up unconscious in the forest just as the gang ride off.

SUPER FOX TO THE RESCUE!

Am I the only one who can’t help but think of Mulder as a dad every time he’s in a scene with a kid, now?  In this bit with the biker gang, I couldn’t help but think of how awesome a dad he would have been.  Then I feel sad because William.

Honestly, the thing that pains me most about the X-Files these days isn’t that Mulder and Scully split, it’s that Mulder and Scully never got to be parents, because they would have been awesome at it.  

I think I need a little cry now.

So in the end, Mulder was right - Ruby was alive.

Later in the hospital, Mulder notes that Ruby has a chemical imbalance which suggests she had experienced prolonged weightlessness.  Which means unless she was hanging out with the Biker Mice from Mars, she probably wasn’t with the bikers - that she actually was abducted.  But it is strange when you consider the greater mythology, which posits that all “alien” abductions are actually abductions by the government using ARVs to carry out their alien-human hybrid project.

So who abducted Ruby and took her into friggin’ space then?!  Some other bored aliens I guess??  The Bounty Hunters on a joyride?

Mulder desperately tries to get Ruby to talk about what happened to her, but she refuses.

Darlene arrives to put the kibosh on any further abduction-talk, and Mulder is bereft. He needs to know what happened to Ruby - he’s trying to make sense of what happened to his sister through Ruby, and he can’t make sense of it.  He’s once again, left open - highly vulnerable, and Scully doesn’t know what to do to help him.

Neeee nawww it’s the grammar police!  I think you mean ‘important to whom’, Darlene.

Scully is again left to observe Mulder’s pain, and is powerless to do anything to ease it, the door is being shut in his face and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

The hand she physically places on his shoulder here I always felt was a symbolic gesture of their friendship at this point - she’s protecting him, keeping him safe.  Mulder no doubt feels very alone at this moment, but she’s been there for him, watching over him, supporting him through this whole thing; without her being there to protect him from himself, I suspect Mulder would have done something he would have later regretted.  

To see it properly, I needed to make a full 24fps gif, but watch as she grasps his shoulder - the way she soundlessly mouths Mulder’s name and lets out a breath she was holding in.  She can see what will happen next if she doesn’t stop him.  It’s all Scully can do for him now.

Gotta, say, Gillian Anderson is phenomenal, isn’t she?  Just that tiny acting choice made such a difference to the power of this moment - the awareness she gives Scully of how vulnerable Mulder is and how he’s not thinking straight - she has to think for him - to protect him.  I don’t often talk about the acting, I analyse this like they are real people - because that’s what I do - but I just had to mention this because it’s so subtle yet so affecting.  Bravo Gillian.

Now, for the final scenes of the episode.  This is where I am going to get highly interpretive, so I fully expect some of you to not share my views on this. 

I believe the final scenes of this episode reflect the balance of influences in Mulder’s life.  The trauma of his sister’s abduction and Scully.

I don’t want to make this too much about Scully, even though this is an MSR analysis and I have a talent for making everything about MSR ha.  But I do think there is a dichotomy at play here.

The past - Samantha; and the future - Scully. Hurt and healing.

Scully wants to help Mulder, she doesn’t see him as just a work colleague anymore.  She wants to help him if she can.  She listens to his regression hypnosis tapes; trying to understand – she’s come to care about him a great deal at this point.

She writes no report, doesn’t share any of what happened with Blevins, her focus is on this damaged man.  Beyond superficial attraction and professional loyalty she wants to try to be there for him - as a friend.

Then it’s our first time to see Fox Mulder break down.  He’s sitting in a church, staring at a childhood photograph.  It’s significant, I think, that the photo is of both of them, not just Samantha.  He’s mourning for not just her, but for the boy he once was, for the promise of a life he once had.

It always intrigued me that Mulder found himself sitting in a church, since we know from various bits of dialogue throughout the series that Mulder is almost certainly an atheist.  He isn’t aware of Scully’s Catholicism at this point, so his being there is ultimately an unexplained anomaly.

So stepping away from the characters again - twice in one analysis! - I wonder if it’s a symbolic choice by Chris Carter.  Because Scully is wearing a cross from the pilot, so her faith was always a planned part of her character.  

My interpretation, then?  

It’s the dichotomy of influences in his life I mentioned earlier being visually represented.  He’s alone in his grief, holding the symbolic representation of his trauma - a photograph of his lost childhood.  But there is always that comforting presence, he always has Scully to look out for him, even in his darkest moments - and as the seasons progress, we see this bear out.  I like to think of Mulder being in the church as a symbol of Scully watching over him, just as she has watched over him throughout this episode.

Well shit, that was a long one. The longest yet I think?  I seriously hope this is not going to be a continuing trend!  I think there are some episodes, especially in the early seasons where things are happening for the first time which means it will take me a bit more work to get into the characters heads.  Also, this episode had a lot of heavy Mulder-centric stuff, but I think it ties into his relationship with Scully in many ways, so I hope I was able to effectively represent that.

Next up.  1x05 - Jersey Devil.

[defyingthelawofgravity]

baby, you’re so cruel (but I’m bound to you) you

SOOOO this has been a long time coming, and its been sitting on my desktop for a while and so I decided to post it. (sorry if there are weird grammar or vocabularies used in this story, english is not my 1st language :))

So this fic is based on this prompt by @beyondmythought-s : Sansa just wants to make her arranged marriage the love match her parents had, but her husband seems to prefer swordplay and ale with knights than spending time with her. Jon never expected a wife nevertheless a wife as beautiful as Sansa. He figures she never wished to be saddled with a bastard prince and does his best to avoid her. Uprisings nearby and threats to Sansa’s safety change their dynamic and they realize they want very similar things

Thanks for giving me this prompt, and sorry if it’s not up to your expectations (I’m totes an amateur so i can’t write even a grain of smut :’)) I hope you enjoy it nonetheless! :D

***** 

Sansa loves stories and songs, especially the romantic ones. She used to beg her mother or her Septa to read at least one story everyday. Her greatest goal was to live a life like one of them. Or at least share the same love between her and her husband like what her Father and Mother had.

But as she grew up she realizes that stories aren’t real and the real world was so much different from what she has read as a girl. As a Stark and a Tully, she was bound by honor and duty to her house, she could not fathom why the lady or the knight could easily shrug their responsibilities. But that doesn’t mean she hated them now, she grew to respect them. She understood that stories and songs have deeper meanings other than the love between the characters, there are also consequences of abandoning duties and how it would affect the people around them.

That’s why when she was called one evening before her sixteenth nameday celebration by her father, Lord Stark, and was told that she was betrothed and soon wed to the second son of King Rhaegar, she accepted without a complaint.

“Listen! You need to go to the wolfswood and hide in that cave you told me, remember you must not be seen by anyone. Run to the nearest house you can find, and send word to Father and Mother.” Sansa wheezed between her breaths. “Take Bran and Rickon with you, we don’t have much time until the army breaks down the gates.”

“But what about you?” Arya gripped her shoulder, “We should all just hide together.”

“We can’t, they’ll know we are hiding somewhere if we do. I’ll stay here and tell them that you went with father and Robb to King’s Landing and Bran and Rickon are with mother in Riverrun. Here, take this.” She handed Arya a knife with an uncharacteristic ease. “Protect yourself, and your brothers.”

“I won’t leave you,” Defiance and worry shinning in Arya’s eyes. She wanted to cry because she doesn’t want to be left alone too.

“I’ll be fine, they need me to be a leverage.” Swallowing her tears she hugged Arya tight. “The Boltons won’t hurt me.” Her voice sounded doubtful to her own ears.

He was wondering how things were in Winterfell, specifically the Starks left behind, (specifically a certain red headed, blue eyed Stark with the most beautiful smile that never were directed at him for most of their married life) when a jarring impact of steel against steel brought him from his musings and back to his smirking cousin. “Distracted are we, Prince Jon? Are you so bored in Kings Landing without anyone to bicker with?”

“Don’t call me that, Robb, it’s weird enough I have to bear it from everybody else. Besides, I don’t bicker with Sansa, we like to exchange…compelling arguments, that’s all.” If compelling arguments can also mean arguing with each other each night and avoiding each other the next day until the sun sets. Jon thought bleakly. I wonder if we could ever have a civilized conversation that doesn’t end up with another shouting contest. Robb’s face split into a wider smile.

“A-ha!” he shouted while pointing his blunted steel sword, “I didn’t even say a name, yet her name was the one who popped into your mind! You actually WERE thinking of her!”

Jon staggers slightly in his steps, “What no! I mean…”

“Excuse me, Prince Jon, Lord Robb. Pardon me for disturbing your training, but Lord Stark has required your presence immediately, Lord Robb, if you would please follow me to his solar.” A male servant was waiting outside the ring.

“Probably regarding the supplies we needed to bring back home. Well, see you later, Jon.” Robb clapped his shoulder before jumping the fence in one quick motion.

“And don’t think I will ever forget this conversation!”

It’s been three months since the Boltons sieged the castle. The first week was frightening to say the least, they were constantly interrogating her for the location of her younger siblings (as she expected), thank the Gods they believed the lies. But it seems the longer it is without any replies from either her parents, the thinner their patience with her becomes. She was not permitted outside her rooms, and when she did (often by the Bolton bastard, Ramsey, requests) her hand was tied and she was dragged around Winterfell for all the people to see. To let them know we’re in charge, he once said while stroking her cheek (she shudders to remember).

They even deliberately forgot to feed her, and just threw a piece of stale bread once in a few days. She was planning to store a part of her food, but once Ramsey’s hounds sniffed them out from her hiding place she was slapped and starved for three days. It was agonizing, she was always cold and hungry, she couldn’t think of any plan to escape, her energy was utterly spent after each of her walk with the bastard and all she can do is sit or lie down. Even reading a book or sewing makes her head spin.

Suddenly a commotion erupted from below but she doesn’t have the strength to walk to the windows. Probably just another fight between soldiers.

Gusts of winds rattled the windows and entered the room, I’m so sleepy, maybe it’s the Old Gods trying to carry my soul away. Please take me away, I’m so tired. Funny, she smiled to herself, in the end she thought of his Gods instead of the Seven, maybe because I miss him so much. She closes her eyes and remembers her family faces, Father, Mother, Robb, Arya, Bran, Rickon, I hope you all know I love you all so much. Jon, I’m so sorry for being an insufferable wife, I know you must be so disappointed marrying me, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.

Heavy steps brought her mind from her reverie and she opens her eyes just as the door swings open. A familiar, bone chilling voice reverberated from the shadow crowding her door. “Come, my lady, I have something prepared for you.”

The ropes around her wrists were tighter than usual and his steps seemed rushed as they walked through hallways and up the stairways. Everybody else in the castle seemed busy, they blurred past her eyes, she thought she saw soldiers wearing armor and bearing weapons, I must be hallucinating.

“Where are we going?” her voice sounds grated and unused.

Ramsey didn’t answer. They’ve arrived to another stairway, she knew where this leads, to one of the battlements. He’s going to kill me, he’s going to throw me or hang me from the towers!

Sensing her wariness, he pulled the rope harder forcing her to climb the stairway, “Come, my lady, you’ll love the view.”

“CALL OFF YOUR MEN, STARK! OR I WILL SLIT YOUR PRETTY SISTER’S THROAT TO PAINT THE SNOW!” The bastard was holding Sansa to his chest with a knife to her neck.

She looks pale and thin, her cheek bones was more pronounced than ever. He knew the bastard wasn’t bluffing, his raving mad eyes told him as much. But he knew they got the upper hand, but it’s still a gamble.

Jon was hiding somewhere behind one of the towers, the bastard seemed to not realized a grown dragon was no longer a part of the battle happening in the courtyard. He only got one chance to save both his sister and his home, he held up his hand, and when Ramsey was momentarily distracted by a screech and a looming dragon, he shouted “SANSA JUMP!”

It seemed like time was moving so slowly, first the horrifying screech and the sounds of leather flapping was all too much, even for Ramsey, it even got him to momentarily lift the knife off her throat. She took a full breath, and then her brother shouted for her to jump, her feet moves on her own and she jumped hoping for a quick death if Robb doesn’t catch her. And then she felt a blast of hot air from above, when she turned her head, all she can see was red and orange it was scary and beautiful she felt free and weightless, and then everything went black.

She first thing she felt was heaviness, all over her body, like she had spent her whole day running around the castle and when she stopped all her aches came all at once. She’s scared to open her eyes but when she remembered the last thing she saw, she relaxed. Ramsey was dead, at least. Burned to a crisp, I hope. That thought brought an involuntary smile to her face.

When she opened her eyes, she was surprised. Jon is here, he’s half lying on her bed and half sitting on a chair. She moved to sit up on the bed before realizing her hand was caught in something. That something is him holding her hand, clutching it tight even in his sleep. A warmth blooms in her chest.

“Jon.” He stirred and mumbled her name, “You’re awake.”

“I am,” before she could finish her sentence he clutched her to his chest. “You’re awake, I thought I lost you.” She was shocked but she felt so safe and warm in his hug, she slowly circled her arms around him. “I’m okay now, I’m safe, you’re here.”

“My heart stopped the moment the letter was sent to your father, I know it doesn’t seemed like so, Sansa, but,” he took a deep breath, “I care about you, so much. I was so scared to lose you. I’m sorry I’ve been an arsehole for the span of our marriage, but I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be a better husband to you, the kind you deserve.”

Tears sprang from her eyes and she hugged him tighter, “I care about you too, when I thought I was going to die, the one thing I regret was being awful to you. I’m sorry for everything, the stupid fights too.”

Jon brushed the tears with the back of his hand, “I wish to start again.” “Me too.”

***** 

[korkrunchcereal]

Fall of the Lion

Something was wrong. In the brief passing of time that occurred from crossing between Crystal Terra and the Crescent Hills, Amalta could feel something shift. A step into the aetherial bridge between realities found not the open door as how her portals worked, but a strange, immeasurable expanse of solid nothingness. Her steps across glittering starlight and swirling tendrils of arcane energy ended abruptly, as she stared upon a wall that was not there.

Slowly she pushed against it, pressing all of her considerable will against the expanse. Like the walls of the castle she was returning to, she found her passage guarded and fortified. It occurred to her then that this was no accidental misstep on her part. Someone was blocking her return, and she knew precisely who it was. Try as she might, she could not smash through the blockade, and so settled for a different destination. It had all happened in the briefest span of time, proving quicker than even a blink of the eye.

Amalta stepped foot out of her portal not into the hall of Castle Indaris as she had chosen, but upon the far end of the bridge spanning the castle to the rest of the Crescent Hills. Behind her Calithielwen moved quickly, eyebrows narrowing as the intense glow of the sun made her squint. She looked around, more confused than anything else.

"Why are we outside the castle?"

"Someone has put a blockade around the castle. I suspect Calarius put it up once he left us at the Scrying Pool. Judging from its strength, nothing can enter or leave via magical means...though its radius is not large."

"Not large? We're on the other end of the bridge."

"Yes; for most mortals that would be strong, but he is no mortal creature. Were he mortal I would have been able to breach the barrier, but even I cannot. He's sacrificed range to ensure we are delayed."

"But why? Unless..."

"Caledon." Amalta confirmed. She had recognized immediately all the aetherial barrier would was slow them down, meaning whatever Calarius had planned would not take long. She could only assume the vile creature was going to do something to Caledon. Murder? Corrupt? Deceive? The answers became worst than the last, and she shook her head as if to clear it. Nothing would happen to him. Without hesitation she marched forward, bare feet pressing against the cobblestone expanse.

"Does he know we're here?"

"He does. He was alerted as soon as I tried to breach through his spell work."

"And we're brazenly marching into the castle?" Overheard the sunlight was beginning to darken, as large rain filled clouds came over the horizon. They would be upon the castle within the hour, casting a shadow over the skyline. Ahead, the castle walls loomed, the great gates closed. How strange, she thought.

"Yes. Calarius...or more accurately the Nathrezim possessing him, cannot attack us openly, lest he expose himself. I on the other hand have no such qualms." Amalta's fist balled, arcane tendrils dancing along it. She saw what he really was, and she intended to stop him. Too many had died by his hands to allow anything less than his complete destruction.

"I would be careful yet, lest you rouse Caledon to ire."

"Halt!" The sentry upon the gate had called out, his high crested helm catching the sunlight. The man stared downward, spear held in one hand lazily. No one ever truly threatened the castle, and so many of the wall's defenders were lax. Amalta blinked, looking upward. The man knew who both of them were, so why did he not open the gate?

"Why do you keep the gate barred from us, guardsmen?" Calithiel shouted out, irritation lacing her tone. She was to be lady of the Castle, and thus expected complete obedience as was her right.

"My Lady, apologies...allow me to open the gate for you. 'Tis strange rumors we hear and darker times yet. Calarius had ordered us to shut the gate not but less than an hour ago, on the orders of Caledon." Slowly the portcullis began to rise, the great oak doors slowly opening behind it.

"There we go. Shall we?" Calithiel waved her hand forward, letting Amalta take the lead. Silently Amalta hurried into the gateway, brow furrowed. Another minor inconvenience at best, yet one that costed time. At best they slowed the both of them only some few minutes, and yet-

"Halt!" Amalta blinked, startled as her thoughts were interrupted. Three guardsmen were quickly approaching, leaf shaped spears held as if ready to thrust at a moment's notice. The lead guard held not the neutral expression the other two wore. There was something familiar about his cold, unwelcoming features.

"Guardsmen! What in the world are you doing? Do you not see who you stop?" Calithiel's tone grew even more annoyed, though a hand slowly began to fall to the dagger at her side.

"We do, my lady. By order of Lord Caledon Indaris, we are to escort the two of you to the throne room. Lord Caledon awaits. You can accept our escort...or we'll be forced to drag you."

"How dare you-"

"We will allow your escort, guardsman." Amalta interjected, holding a hand for Calithiel to calm. "Please, lead on." The lead guard gave Calithiel a look over before nodding, turning and allowing his cloak to wave through the air at the quick motion. Without hesitation he led on, the other two guards waiting. Amalta gave them not a second look, her feet lifting once more off the ground as her body began to hover. Calithiel shot daggers but followed after, the two guards trailing behind.

"This feels more like a prisoner escort then a summons." Calithiel muttered out softly as they walked. Around them the sky darkened; the rain had reached them far quicker than Amalta had believed. Inside the safety of marble and stone protected from the rainfall, flickering torchlight providing measly light and casting large shadows upon the wall.

"I believe in this instance, the two may be more similar than you think."

"What do you mean?"

"Why send armed guards to escort us unless trouble is expected?"

"So you think this is Calarius' doing? Why would he bring us to Caledon?"

"I know not. My powers of farsight have only begun to return; it will take days if not weeks before they are whole again." Whatever Calithiel was going to say next died upon her lips as they reached the throne room's doors. The lead guard strolled forward, pushing against them. Slowly the doors opened into the vast expanse of the marble floored room. As Amalta and Calithiel were led forward, they saw two figures apart from themselves and the guards. The first was Caledon, a stern and furious expression upon his handsome and tired features as he sat upon the gold throne of Indaris. The second was Calarius, who stood smug and triumphant at Caledon's side.

"My thanks for coming. Guards, remain here for now." Caledon rose slowly, taking a single step down the stairs. Amalta realized he was holding some form of parchment in his hand, her brow raising incuriosity.

"My Lord Caledon, we've come to warn-"

"Silence!" Caledon spat out, interrupting Amalta. Both women blinked back in surprise, sharing a look. What was going on? "Where have you two been?"

"With all due respect, our business is our own, my lord." Calithiel stated, glaring at Calarius in the back.

"Not if your business jeopardizes House Indaris. You both decide to march upon Illova's lands so brazenly? Did neither of you consider the consequences of your actions?" So Calarius had informed Caledon where they had gone. Amalta hovered forward, extending her arms out.

"My lord, I had travelled to my lands in order to restore my powers, for you know they had been lost to me for some time. Calithiel travelled with me to ensure my own safety; we both know Lord Illova's hatred of me was great." Caledon tilted his head, eyes narrowing. By the light he looked exhausted, as if he could barely stand so great was the weight of sleep deprivation.

"I cannot help but notice the usage of past tense. What do you mean 'was'." There was a pause that hung in the air, growing longer and longer. "Well?!"

"Lord Illova is dead." Amalta finally stated, refusing to break Caledon's gaze.

"What do you mean dead?! How!"

"I broke his body upon the tower overlooking the Scrying Pool after he threatened both myself and Calithiel, and after he insulted not only the two of us but that of your house and brother." Caledon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I had hoped that when Calarius informed me you both had travelled there, that he was simply mistaken. Dead? By the light. Do you understand the consequences of your actions! A lord of Quel'thalas was murdered and now I harbor his killer?" Amalta flinched, as if stung by his words.

"Lord Illova gave no choice; he was intending on killing us. Amalta did what was necessary to ensure both of us lived." Calithiel opened her mouth to speak further, yet was silenced as Caledon turned to her, pointing a finger forward.

"And you Lady Riverwind! I allow you to stay within my home; I feed you, shelter you and treat you as family and this is how you repay it?" Venom was upon his tone as he lifted the parchment in his hand.

"My lord?" Calithiel's confusion was clear as she looked to Amalta.

"This was found in your quarters. Did you think me a fool as you told me you had heard nothing from my brother? I confess I had believed you, much to my own error."

"Caledon, I have not a clue what you're talking about. I have not heard from Aurelian in months."

"Then how do you explain this?" He held the parchment before it, reading aloud. "I received your last letter. I confess I am saddened over my sister, though it sounds as if my brother is beginning to crack. Keep spying on him, and try to break him down. When this is over, I will be lord of this house, with you as my wife...as it should have always been. "Stunned, Amalta turned to look at Calithiel. The woman's expression was much as her own was.

"A fabrication I assure you. I haven't heard from Aurelian yet, nor would I ever betray you."

"Then why was this found in your quarters, even as you aided in spilling Illovan blood?! This is Aurelian's handwriting, after all."

"Who found this so called letter?!" Calithiel asked, eyes now looking to the grinning magi in the back. "Was it the serpent that lurks in the shadow of the throne? I know what you are, demon."

"Calarius did as he should have; served the lord of House Indaris. The both of you, however, have betrayed me. I confess I am deeply hurt by this...especially from you, Amalta."

"Caledon, listen to me. Calarius is deceiving you, just as he has deceived everyone else. He is a demon, wearing the body of Calarius!"

"Preposterous, my lord. This is merely the rambling words of two criminals." Calarius stepped forward, extending a hand. His voice was like honey, near seductive in nature. "A murderer and a spy; you continue to shame the house of Indaris with your presence."

"Silence, filth." Amalta spat out, eyes narrowing as she pointed. A sword was unsheathed behind her; one of the guards had drawn their weapon.

"Enough!" Caledon roared out, stepping down from the stairs completely to be at level with the two women. "Calarius is right; Amalta you have committed crimes against the state of Quel'thalas itself, and Calithiel I cannot trust you in my home. I am afraid I am forced to take action."

"Caledon, please you must listen! Calarius is responsible for Cyvar's disappearance and your sister's poisoning!"

"Baseless accusations! I know nothing of Aurelian's second nor of whom was behind Vallera's poisoning."

"And!" Amalta continued, unperturbed by Calarius. "Responsible for the death of Lord Wyrmstorm and the destruction of the Ebonwood." At that Caledon paused, raising a brow.

"Destruction of Ebonwood? What are you talking about?"

"This snake has been setting up an invasion against the Gilded Lands. Even as we speak Valagor and his people are dying by his hands."

"There has been no word of an attack, nor warning from the borders." Caledon answered, nodding to the guards behind the two women. "I am sorry, but I cannot believe your tale. I have no other choice but to arrest you Amalta, and for you Calithiel...I must banish you from this castle and our lands."

"That is not in your power, Caledon."

"Yes it is. As Lord of House Indaris, it is my right to enact the will of my house. Guards, take Amalta to the cells and escort Calithiel to the gates. Go peacefully, before violence enters this hall." One of the guards grabbed Calithiel's arms, the woman struggling to free herself.

"Unhand me! Caledon, you know you will regret this, you blind idiot. Do you think Aurelian will simply allow me to remain banished?"

"He will have no choice." Caledon said dismissively, turning away from the two now. The other guard grabbed Amalta, the woman simply hovering in place with a mournful expression.

"A wise decision, my lord." The hair on the back of Amalta's neck rose. Her saddened features twisted into anger, for she suddenly realized it. Her own senses had been warning her. She had ignored or missed the signs, so engrossed in the absence of her power. Yet even as she remained without her visions, she saw clearly now. A surge of arcanic energy surged forth from her, sending the two guard's flying, only to land in a loud cacophony. Caledon wheeled, eyes widening.

"Calarius has been deceiving you." Amalta repeated, her hair slowly beginning to writhe and flow as if with a life of its own. "He has whispered poison into your ear. And now he turns you against me, who has supported you all her life. No more." Her hands moved forward, a great burst of arcane shooting forth directed straight at Calarius. The magi brought his own hands up quickly, attempting to ward away the blast. It struck against him with full force, as a wave of energy coalesced around his body and shattered the glass of the windows high above. Arcing tendrils of arcane lashed out, though he did not cry out in pain.

"HOW DARE YOU!" Calarius roared out, waving his hands outward. Quickly the magic dissipated, his eyes alight with fury. An audible gasp was heard as Caledon turned to see what had happened.

"Calarius?" Caledon furrowed his brow, shaking his head. He blinked rapidly, as if clearing his sight. Slowly he looked up, as if seeing for the first time. Calarius' healthy skin color had vanished, replaced with a sickly green pallor. Sunken eyes stared outwards, blazing with fel energy. Where once there were fingernails, now there were talons. He appeared to all the world as if in the stages of corruption; Amalta had removed the illusions on the man.

"No, not Calarius. He is no elf nor any being of this plane of existence. He is a Dreadlord." Amalta announced. Calarius looked down at himself, roaring in fury. The roar however faded, to be replaced with a slow, meticulous chuckle. It was not the laugh of a man, for it hurt the ears and chilled the blood. He raised his head, smiling with an impossible amount of teeth.

"Clever, seer. I did not predict you would dissipate my own magic. Alas, it turns out Calarius has been far more tenacious than I gave him credit for...it has been taxing to maintain control. Yes, I am a dreadlord. In the history of mortals across countless worlds I have been known by many names and titles; The Shadow Within the Dark, The Raven King, Orcuuthalox. You however, may know me as Sathorion."

"Sathorion? Tell me then; how long have you been Calarius?" Caledon asked, anger cracking his voice, fists balling at his sides.

"For months. I have hid under your very noses, tearing your lands apart from the inside whilst my magic slowly worked its way to convince you of my words...dreams I have found to be most susceptible to manipulation. I confess my work however was made simple by you and your brother, son of Indaris. Your negligence and open disregard for that of your neighbors made it oh so easy. Your pet seer was right; Wyrmstorm has fallen, and soon the rest of Quel'thalas will as well. But now you have become too difficult to control. Alas...I must bid farewell. Do not worry however; you will have company still." Caledon charged forward, withdrawing the dagger at his side and aiming to stab it into Calarius' heart. The magi simply smirked, and with a wave of his hand vanished into the shadows.

"Damn him! Where did he go?" Amalta tilted her head, as if listening for something.

"He is still within the castle, upon the high balcony overlooking the river. There is something else...something wrong in the air. It feels so heavy, as if a great weight is descending upon it." So transfixed, she did not see the lead guard from before rushing to her, sword raised high.

"Amalta, watch out!" Calithiel's voice broke her reverie. She turned, watching as the guard swung his sword. The blow never came, for the guard stumbled and collapse before Amalta's feet, a dagger imbedded into the side of his neck. Her gaze followed the direction of the dagger to Calithiel, who stood arm held out in a throw. The guard's body began to twist and contort, bones snapping and breaking. Amalta hovered backwards, watching in horror as the body was mutilated by an unseen force. A great burst of blood shot forth from the man's back as it twisted and cracked, the corpse changing in size and stature. Where once there was a guard of Indaris, now there laid a felguard, it's large and veiny musculature evident as it remained lifeless.

"What the hell? Caledon approached slowly, standing beside Amalta.

"I suspect he is not the last. I-" Amalta's words were cut off as the world suddenly shook around them, as if a violent earthquake had struck. The room rocked, marble cracking with the motion. As soon as it started it vanished, leaving the three in a state of confusion. A great boom shook the hall, as if thunder had struck right above. Something was happening outside, Amalta realized. "Quickly, outside." Without waiting she sped outside, tendrils of silk flowing behind her. Her eyes scanned to the upper balconies of the castle, narrowing to see through the rain fall. Where was he? She let out a gasp as she found not him, but a portal overlooking the river.

She sensed it before she truly saw it; a monstrous horror of magic, extending forth from the now ruined balcony far above. Great stone pillars had warped from the stone of the castle, forming a crude gateway. Blazing within its center was a swirling portal that hurt the eyes to watch. She realized it was growing stronger, the stability strengthening as the construct became anchored to this world.

"Amalta, what is it?" Caledon called behind, before stopping to follow her gaze. He let out a curse as he saw the faint glow of fel overhead, fist clenching. "What has he done?"

"He's trying to create a demonic gateway into our world. It's not stable yet, but it will be soon. Judging from how strong it is now, we may only see imps...if we do not consider any guards have been disguised. However that will change quickly. We have to stop him now, before the castle becomes over run in hellish fire." Calithielwen had followed just behind, her bloody dagger held in a tight grip. Beyond her the two guards emerged, clutching their bruised bones.

"My lord, your orders?" Caledon stood for a moment, watching the growing mass of magic.

"Get captain Harluon and have him rally the guards; the castle has been breached. I want the servants escorted to their quarters and guarded as well as Vallera's chambers. I will not have my people nor my sister slaughtered like sheep. The rest of the guards will push upwards into the castle...I suspect some will reveal themselves to be demons. Put them down without hesitation." It had been a long time since Caledon had spoken with such conviction or clarity; it was as if a veil had been lifted from him.

"As you will, my lord."

"Oh, and one more thing. Get me my axe; I have a sorcerer to deal with." The guards nodded, quickly taking off.

"I will go on ahead; while I may not be able to see into the future right now, I still command the powers of the arcane." Amalta did not take her eyes off the portal as she spoke, judging its strength. How did he do it so quickly?

"I'm coming with you. This is to be my home, and I will not see it ruined by vile monsters."

"Calithiel, I insist you remain with the servants. They-"

"I can take care of myself, Caledon. I have for centuries without the help of any Indaris." Calithiel had interrupted, tone final and absolute. Caledon paused, sighing as he waved a hand.

"Of course my brother chooses someone more stubborn then he. Fine, but be careful. Go, the both of you. I will join you shortly." Amalta nodded, finally breaking her gaze to look at Caledon. He looked exhausted, yet the fire and strength of a lion burned in his eyes, muscles taunt against the fabrics of his clothes. She gave a weak smile before taking off, Calithielwen close behind. Her fabrics gained a life of their own, rising to hover above the damp stone pathways and grass as the two crossed the courtyard. Sathorion had fled to the eastern wing of the castle, choosing the highest point of the entire structure to craft his spell.

A sigh of relief was given as the two moved into the shelter of the eastern wing, free from the downpour. Here the torchlights had gone out, leaving the halls dark and foreboding. Amalta waved her hands, conjuring a ball of light that hovered  before them. If there was anyone here there was no sign, of that Amalta was glad. Anyone within this part of the castle would either be unsuspecting guards, demons in disguise, or helpless servants. The two moved in silence, Calithielwen with her dagger drawn and Amalta with tendrils of arcane dancing along the palm of her hand.

The first several floors were without sign of life, giving an almost haunted feel that sent a chill up Amalta's spine. The castle shook around them, dust falling from the roof of the hall. As they rose upwards however they began to hear signs of battle. A voice called out, though neither could hear what was said. What followed was a blood curdling scream, and the sound of steel in flesh. The two women shared a look before hurrying forward, down a long passageway. A hideous, inhuman laughter echoed out as more voices arose. The two emerged into one of the sitting rooms, gasping.

It was a bloodbath. The bodies of several guards lay broken on the floor, their corpses torn to shreds or hacked to pieces. Crimson stained the marble floors and walls, mixed with sizzling black ichor that oozed downwards. There were three felguards in the room, their hulking muscular forms carrying all manner of wicked, bloody weapons. Before them was four Indaris guards, their spears thrusting to keep the demons at bay even as they stepped over the bodies of their comrades.

"More meat has come to the slaughter. Cut down these mortals, quickly. Sathorion still needs time." The demons charged forward, weapons swinging through the air. One of the guards brought up their spear vainly, an axe head smashing through the wooden haft and into the man's chest. A fountain of blood gushed forward, the elf falling to the floor. The others either avoided or dodged the blows, though it was clear they were on the defensive. Amalta let out a curse, hands weaving together. A beam of arcane shot forth, smashing into the demon on the right. A great cavity was formed as the energy smashed into his chest, the demon collapsing as its torso was torn apart.

"That one; kill the wizard." One of the felguard smashed his way forward, knocking over the guards and charging at Amalta. Calithielwen ran to intercept, dagger poised for the kill. With a great swing the demon struck, his sword cutting through air as the woman ducked. She sprung upward, far quicker than Amalta had ever seen her move. She struck not as any noble woman would have, but as a trained killer would. The dagger plunged into the demon's eye socket, burying itself deep. Calithielwen dodged back, ripping out the weapon as the demon roared in fury, swinging wildly.

Like a viper she shot forward again, the dagger's sharp edge dragging along its throat. Fel ichor oozed forth from the wound as the demon collapsed. Now three on one, the guards quickly took down the last felguard, who fell pinned by three spears. In its death throes it struck out vainly, before succumbing to its wounds. The guards gave a cheer, quickly moving to the two elven women.

"Our thanks, my ladies. We were on guard here as we always are when another patrol showed up. Before we could find out why they were here they turned into...those vile monstrosities. What's going on?"

"A demon has infiltrated the castle, and is summoning in more. There will be other guards who are in disguise, I am afraid. Tell me, are there any other patrols up ahead?" Amalta's voice was laced with concern, for she could feel the strength of the portal growing.

"I am not sure, my lady. I think there were two swordmasters, but otherwise nothing. Most of the servants were on the ground floor, and no other guards were stationed up here."

"Good; that will make our approach far easier. Get down into the courtyard and report to Captain Harluon. Judging from the quake earlier, the portal is growing stronger, and he may need help down below."

"What of you two? Should we not come with you?" Amalta shook her head, placing a hand on the man's shoulder.

"No. If I’m right, you'll be needed downstairs far more then we'll need you." The guards shared a look, before nodding.

"As you wish, my lady. Come men, let us make haste." The guards streamed out, Violet cloaks fluttering as they moved. Calithielwen watched them go, kneeling to grab one of the fallen cloaks. She wiped her dagger off on it, before rising again.

"We could have used them."

"The portal is growing quicker than I had anticipated. I am not sure what Sathorion is doing to fuel it, but it'll be at full strength soon. We'll start to see more than imps, I think. Besides, we can handle ourselves. Come on." The two pressed forward, picking their way past the corpses. Aurelian would be furious if he saw the state of the room, Amalta realized with some bitter amusement. Ahead, the rooms began to feel heavier. It was much as she felt when the portal was first summoned; a great weight was pressing upon the very foundation of the castle. Her hand ran along the wall, feeling it almost breath with life.

"Does Aurelian know?" Amalta asked as they moved ever upwards.

"Know what?"

"That you're not merely a helpless noble woman? That was the work of an expert back there." Calithiel did not answer right away, mulling over the question.

"He knows I am not the women he remembers, and that is all. He abandoned me, and so I did what I must to survive. I will never forgive him for that, but it taught me to be quick, and strong. I was taught the harshest lesson of life; to survive with nothing." Amalta gave a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "What?"

"Strange, how the men of Indaris have taught us so. Their own inaction and cruelty have shaped us both yes, but has made us stronger. I have always hoped Aurelian would not become like his father, I confess."

"I fear he has always lived in Arcannon's shadow, too cowardly to emerge from it."

"Why do you go to him then?" Amalta's question was posed politely, for she did not hold judgement. "You do not have fond opinions of your husband to be."

"Because I want him to become more then the son of Arcannon." She said simply. Amalta gave a hum in response, eyebrows narrowing. She could not tell if the woman was lying or not, she realized. Whatever Calithielwen had become, Amalta could not figure out. She knew her part to play would come in the destiny of House Indaris, and in a way that of Aetherveil. What role that would be, she did not know.

"I see." Amalta finally said. "A strange decision, but I can understand the reasoning behind it. I...hold on." Amalta paused, blinking. A sudden wave of nausea fell over her, the woman near doubling over. Her eyes watered, hands gripping her head as a jolt of pain struck her. A surge of power fell over her and through her, extending outwards.

"Amalta? What's wrong?"

"The portal...I know how it's growing so quickly. He's slowly absorbing the enchantments built into the castle's very foundation. The wards and spell work over this place are weakening. We don't have much time." Amalta let out a deep breath, calming herself. She wiped at her eyes, before pressing forward.

"He's taking the energy from the castle itself? How?"

"He's tapped into the very stones themselves here. This castle is old, far older than most other landmarks in Quel'thalas. It was constructed at the pilgrimage of our people across the sea, and bestowed with all manner of enchantments by the sorcerers of old. While the children of Indaris slowly lost the ability to wield arcane, the magic within the castle yet remained. I have always known it existed, yet I never sought to tamper with it. The backlash of magic and the vacuum created could damage or even destroy this place. I-watch out!" Amalta waved a hand, a barrier of arcane forming before Calithiel. Moments later a blast of fire washed over it, before becoming dissipated.

Ahead, a great chorus of cackles emerged from the darkness. Darting forward upon limber feet, a host of imps sprung forward. Though individually they were weak, a group of them could bring down a mortal with ease as felfire ravaged their bodies. Amalta frowned in anger, waving her other hand. A line of arcane, razor thin in its length, shot forward from her hand. With ease it sliced through the imps, sending out curtains of fel blood upon the walls.

The imps' cackle turned to shrieks of fear, the survivors fleeing back into the shadows. Their shrieks were silenced with a great stomping sound. A monstrous wrathguard, skin like a sickly orchard, charged forward, blades held ready. Amalta prepared her spell even as Calithielwen readied her weapon. The demon never reached them, for a large shape flew through the air between the two women. An axe head of intricate make smashed into the demon's skull, sending it collapsing in a heap. Both women turned as Caledon charged forward, hands wrapping around the haft of his axe as he pulled the weapon out.

"This is my home demons! Be gone from it!" Amalta held a hand over her mouth as he saw him. His shirt was shredded as if by claws, blood clearly visible upon the ivory fabric. His left arm had a thin slice over it, the cords of his muscles flexing as he wrenched the axe. Raven locks fell wild around him, his loose braid falling apart.

"Caledon? Are you hurt?"

"I'll be fine. The portals growing quickly; demons like this one and more have begun to emerge. The guards along with the swordmasters hold the courtyard, yet more keep coming. Some form of bat creature tried to get me as I made a break to the wing. I found corpses in one of the sitting room on my way up. Your work, I presume?"

"Yes. Did you see the guards that we sent back?"

"I did. They told me you two had pressed on ahead, and I see you found company."

"Caledon, Sathorion is drawing power from the magic within the castle itself. If he finishes his spell, I fear the castle may collapse. The shaking we've felt? it's the foundation struggling to uphold the magical backlash from the draw of power."

"Damn; we haven't much time then. Come on, the balcony is not much further from here." Calithielwen and Amalta nodded in agreement as Caledon took off. He was always slow to anger, being far more patient than his brother ever was. Yet when that ire was earned, he struck with the ferocity of a lion. It is why he had earned the nickname "The Lion of Indaris", and today would be no exception. His great axe Umoril was held easily, for its enchantments made it light to wield, yet strong enough to strike like a thunderbolt. Aurelian may have been lord of the sword, but Caledon was the undisputed master of the axe.

The three pressed forward, passing scorched bodies and fallen demons. They found the two swordsmen the guards had mentioned earlier, their golden armor and war masks ruined and bloodied as they lay sprawled upon the ground. Around them lay a score of demons, for they were the elite of the House of Indaris and had made the enemy pay in blood for their deaths. Caledon looked grim as he passed, tightening the grip on his axe. More souls to avenge for his errors.

The walls and floor began to change. Cracks had appeared, and like a tumor great fel rocks had struck forth. They became more frequent as they drew closer, and a great humming sound filled the air. At last, another flight of stairs, and they were upon the balcony, or more accurately what remained of it. The stone had been plucked away as had the roof, leaving the crumbling balcony exposed to the rain. Upon the edge the portal remained rooted, as fel tendrils bound it by rock and ash. The portal's swirling, chaotic energy thrummed with power, sending great pulses out. There, slick with rain, hovered Calarius.

The portal had grown far larger than when Amalta last saw it, crackling as if with electricity. A great beast of shadowed wings emerged forth, speeding towards the three. With a great swing Caledon struck, his axe carving through the beast like it was hot butter. It smashed into the stone, alerting Calarius. The wizard turned, grinning maniacally. His skin had begun to all but dissolve off of his flesh, features ashen with a pale hue. Great protrusions of bone had shot forth through his robes, forming a layer of spikes around his arms.

"So, the vaunted lord of House Indaris has finally arrived, and he brings with him the pet seer and the spy." The usual honeyed tone of Calarius had vanished, replaced with a gravelly voice that stung the ears with each word. Amalta's ears perked as the dim sound of steel clashing arose over the rainfall and the hum of the portal. "Do you hear it, little seer? The armies of the legion have begun to pour forth. Soon, this measly little castle will be over run. I must admit I did not plan for this, but we must take a step into the unknown every now and then."

"What has been your plan then, demon." Caledon spat out, eyes narrowing.

"Ah, the fool speaks! The plan was simple really. Chaos; unimaginable, beautiful chaos. Imagine my surprise when the groundwork was already here. You and your brother have done oh so much to aid me; there was already a great deal of distrust before I even arrived. I must apologize for my appearance; the wizard was not quite dead like I thought. It has been difficult to maintain this body."

"Chaos? Why?"

"Come now Caledon. You believe I would so willingly say the details of the great plan? I suppose I can spare a hint; it has been oh so long in the making. You three however have played your part. I admit Caledon I did not wish to kill you... not yet anyways. But, you leave me with little choice." Calarius snarled as he flicked his wrist, great chains of fel and rock latching to the three. they struggled to move, finding themselves locked in place. Amalta pressed her hands together, attempting to break the spell. A shock struck her body, a scream of pain emerging. "Ah ah ah..."

"Amalta!" Caledon grit his teeth, straining against the bindings. The fel dug into his flesh, yet he pressed the very weight of his being against it. Calarius took several steps forward, boots a dull thud against the rain-washed stone. His staff was alight with power, casting a sinister shadow over his face.

"Do you recognize this place, Caledon? It is where your dreams have been leading to all these months; the great balcony overlooking the river, and the raven's cry as you plummet. How fitting that you will die here. Vallera, Cyvar, and now you three? My my, I am racking up quite the prestigious body count. I-" Calarius paused then, blinking. Much like Caledon, he seemed to be straining to move. "What?! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WIZARD!" A great, inhuman roar ripped forth from Calarius' lips, before he spoke again, voice elven once more.

"My Lord, I haven't...much time. I have taken back control of my body, but it is only brief. I am so weak, so tired." Slowly he waved his hand, the chains binding Caledon fading. "He thought me beaten...Hah! I am Calarius Ferensus and I will not be beaten by some demon! Yet, I have failed you for months...my lord." he strained to speak, as if the very words caused some great pain. "Kill me, so that I am stopped and the demon is vanquished along with me. I cannot live with the shame of my failings."

"Calarius? There has to be another way."

"There is none! Allow me this one final act of service...allow me to die serving House Indaris." Caledon grimly nodded, stepping up to the man. He hoisted his axe, eyes glimmering.

"Thank you, old friend, for your service." With a cry of anguish and rage Caledon swung. The axe cut through Calarius' neck with ease, severing his head and sending it flying. The headless body fell backwards, a pool of blood forming. His staff cluttered to the ground, leaving only the thrum of the portal and the sound of rain. Caledon straightened himself, turning around to face the two women who yet remained chained, hair damp with rain.

"So it is finished." Calithielwen stated. She had not tried to escape, seeing quickly it would be no use.

"There is still the portal to shut down. Amalta can you break it?"

"Once I am free of these bonds, yes. There is still time for...Caledon watch out!" A great shadow fell over the man. He turned too slow, a mass of darkness wrapping around his throat. His axe fell, hands vainly trying to free himself as he was lifted into the air. The darkness oozed from the corpse of Calarius, beginning to take form. Shadows became muscle and flesh, great wings flapping as large horns rose skywards. Cloven feet stomped on the stone as Sathorion revealed his true form.

"Did you think me killed so easily?" The demon cackled, free of the confines of the mortal shell he wore. "I am Sathorion! I have lived a thousand thousand lifetimes. I destroyed civilizations before your people even existed. You are strong, son of Indaris, but I am beyond your understanding or comprehension. Today, the lion of Indaris falls!" The dreadlord, towering over the three, threw Caledon into the wall. With a sickening crunch he smashed into the stone, collapsing onto the ground in a heap.

"Caledon!" Amalta shrieked out, looking in horror at Caledon's prone form. Blood began to ooze from some wound, as the Lord of Indaris lay still.

"Do not cry for him, for you are about to join him in the beyond. Where are your visions now, child of Aetherveil! Your powers abandon you to die."

"No." Amalta's hands clenched, body shaking with unimaginable fury. A wave of arcane shot forth from her, breaking the fel bindings on her and Calithiel. Slowly she rose skywards, hovering over the stone. Sathorion snarled, bringing a meaty fist against her. His flesh met a barrier of arcane, sending the blow back.

"You dare to defy me?"

"You have taken much from me, lord of shadows. You have killed so many, but today that ends. You mock the strength of mortals? Allow me to show you your folly!" Amalta's eyes blazed with magic, strands of arcane swirling around her. Sathorion sent a wave of shadow upon the barrier, yet it stood strong. Electricity crackled in the air, coalescing into the form of Amalta. With all the rage and despair and fury she held, she unleashed her powers. The tendrils of arcane smashed into Sathorion's body, worming their way in.

"What is this? What have you done!?"

"You tried to tear this land apart. Allow me to show you how it feels." Sathorion clawed at his own body as arcane sliced and speared into his body. Amalta had spoken true, for slowly her magic begun to tear Sathorion apart. Panic began to lace his roars, for the magic was all but devouring him from the inside. The lines of violet raced across his form, ripping him to pieces. With a final roar of defeat Sathorion fell, dissolving to ashes. Amalta's magic did not stop there, for the arcane moved to the portal, smashing through it and destroying it utterly. A great scream escaped as the portal collapsed in on itself, and with it the demons below began to fade away. Her magic completed, Amalta's eyelids fluttered with exhaustion, the woman falling back to the ground.

"Amalta!" Calithiel sprung forward, trying to catch the falling woman. Before she hit the ground Amalta blinked awake, stopping herself. Slowly she eased onto her feet, though her stance was unsteady.

"I am fine...my spell took a great deal of energy out of me, I am afraid." she gave a soft smile, before her eyes opened wide in shock. "Caledon!" Amalta wheeled, running to Caledon's side. The rain had subsided with the destruction of the portal, as if linked to its very existence. Ignoring the pools of water Amalta knelt beside him, hands wrapping around his weakly. "Caledon!" There was no response nor sign of live. Silently Amalta pressed her forehead to his hand, tears beginning to stream down her face. She had failed him, and now they both had paid the price.

"Amalta?" Calithiel's tone was gentle, for she did not wish to disturb the woman. Amalta looked up, letting go of Caledon's hand to wipe at her eyes.

"Sathorion was but one part of this terrible plan...even now another of his kind leads an army of trolls to ravage the south. If he is not stopped, all the Gilded Lands will suffer."

"What must we do then?" Amalta took a deep breath as she looked upon Caledon's battered face.

"We must find Aurelian."

@abyssgoat @airiannagrace

[puttingfingerstokeys]

[untitled]

Nanowrimo day 20 Featuring Alabaster Belmont, Joachim Armster, Alucard, and Darck Eve, an OC on loan from @darckcarnival  Modern dark fantasy Castlevania, violence, blood Unfinished and unedited

The castle gates yawned open, a drawbridge spanning a moat within which flowed, not water, but stinking, crimson blood. Alabaster gagged and held a hand over his mouth and nose as the four mismatched companions passed the threshold of the ancient place, their heels ringing hollowly on the old wood and silent cobblestones. 

No sooner had they entered than the portcullis dropped with a resounding smash. Alabaster jumped and whirled about to force himself to face whatever had made the sound. Part of him had, of course, known exactly what it was, but that was not enough to stop the reflex. A hand on his shoulder calmed his nerves. Despite the paleness of it and its owner, Alabaster felt at ease and raised his own hand to cover it, a silent thank-you. For some reason, the idea of making noise in this unholy space felt ironically sacrilegious. 

He turned his attention to his other companions, Darck Eve and Adrian Tepes himself. Still standing next to him, Joachim Armstair maintained constant, physical contact with the only human in their party. Alabaster’s heartbeat was quick and strong and all three night walkers could hear it. They would have been lying if the had told him they were not scared, as well. Castlevania had not manifested itself this way in ages. It was a sight to behold and sent chills down even the stoutest spines. Surely, these four must have been that, else they would never have dreamed of setting foot here, on this blasted ground.

The courtyard was wide, stretching far to either side of them, and might once have held a bustle of activity, but that had been centuries prior and now only death and decay remained. Alabaster took in the sights slowly, methodically, centering himself on Joachim’s touch as he did so. He was not prone to full-on panic attacks, but now would not be the time to put that particular bit of truth to the test; it could always change. 

“He’s not makin’ this easy,” Darck observed quietly, the first to speak. Alucard shook his head, his white-gold tresses catching the moonlight far above and shimmering like so much silk and gold. Even in this eerie, haunting light, he was beautiful. Alabaster had thought that was just the nature of vampires, but in reality, Adrian Tepes was, simply put, a stunning specimen of half-humanity who likely would have been so regardless of his vampiric blood. 

“My father’s castle has ever been a stronghold,” said Alucard. “More than that, however, it is a reflection of what is inside him.” 

Joachim made a noise of disgust and drew Alabaster closer. Alabaster did not resist, preferring to be enveloped in arms he knew could protect him, versus pretending he had more bravery in him than he did. It did not take a perspicacious individual to tell that whatever must have been lurking within the heart of the master of Castlevania was horror personified. It also would have taken very little insight to ascertain that, along with the hatred, anger, and rage, there was no small measure of grief. One might almost have pitied the night king. 

Alabaster did not.

“We don’t have time for this,” Alabaster hissed, keeping his voice low to disguise his terror. They could hear his heartbeat, but he was not about to wear his brain on his sleeve, too. “I’m sick of lookin’ at this place, already. Let’s kick his damn door in and find my sister.”

Darck winced. Alabaster knew as well as the rest of them that the presence of the Vampire Killer on his hip meant that his sister had departed from this world. Knowing Rosario, she had gone with fists and holy water flying, but that did not bring her back. Rather than heartlessly reminding Alabaster of this fact, however, Darck kept her mouth shut, but shared a look with Alucard. He shook his head minutely and gestured that the boy was right; they had little time. 

That the castle had physically manifested meant that the imminent return of the dark lord himself was nigh upon them. As if to confirm this, the courtyard was suddenly soaked in rust-colored light as the moon turned to a gaping wound, casting its pall over everything under heaven, daring the foursome to move. 

Alucard drew his weapon. He offered no explanation for this, but the other three followed suit, forming a ring and facing outward. Darck, ever the pragmatist, drew and checked her sidearm, checking the safety. Joachim began to hover, reaching out with his abilities to locate any discarded weaponry; a few rusted swords and a battle axe flew to his aid and ringed them around. Alabaster knew he should have drawn Vampire Killer, but just the thought of weidling his sister’s weapon filled his heart with squeezing despair. He raised both hands in front of him instead and, drawing a few complex, runic sigils in the air before him, summoned power from the universe itself and conjured a ball of crackling energy that spat sparks into the reddish shadows around them.  

All at once, the air around them shuddered and reverberated with the groans and cries of the damned, the dead, the undead, and all manner of voracious beast of the night that Dracula kept within his ever-shifting walls. Shambling corpses rose first, their stink issuing forth and hitting the foursome like a wall. Alabaster retched, but the rest showed no sign they had even noticed it, beyond the minute twitch at the corner of a mouth, the beginnings of a grimace. 

“Stand firm,” Alucard growled, “and move as one, lest we be overcome.”

It was as good a strategy as any. The four of them knew which direction they had to go, at least, and staying together would not hurt a bit. The first of the undead horde reached their position with a staggering grasp for someone’s cloak or leg. They were batted away with a swift boot and the sharp report of pistol fire which echoed angrily off the surrounding walls. 

More zombies flung themselves at the group and were met with blade, rusted and well-oiled, bullet, and magic. Deferring to Alucard’s wisdom, they moved as one, stepping in to fill gaps and covering one another. Dark kept a watchful eye on the dhampir’s back and Joachim upon Alabaster’s as they forced their way through the throng. 

“This isn’t enough to stop us,” Darck hissed. “You know he knows that… So what the hell’s he doing?”

“A war of attrition, perhaps?” Joachim suggested as blades spun about them, mowing down shambling corpses as if they were nothing. “Wearing us out to make easier targets for his generals. It’s what I would do.”

Alucard nodded, “indeed,” he confirmed, “that may very well be the case. Sacrificing a few pawns for the grand chessboard has ever been one of my father’s uglier… idiosyncrasies.”

“Not… super out of character for a guy with the nickname ‘impaler’, to be honest,” Alabaster bemoaned, flinging lightning, which caught a whole crowd of the undead by surprise (if zombies could feel surprise, that is) and frying them almost instantly. His comment earned him a slap on the back from Darck, who was barely containing her mirth. 

In fact, after a few minutes of this onslaught, the four of them had all begun to loosen up, feeling themselves a little more fully and stretching the limits of their abilities just a little bit once they realized that everyone else was more than capable of defending their own person and area. 

Darck was letting loose her liquid shadow abilities, rather than relying on her firearm. Alucard was dicing zombies into chunks. Joachim had acquired a slightly larger arsenal from some of the weapon-wielding undead. Alabaster was commanding an arc of flame that resembled a great serpent, plowing its way through the undead hordes. They were awash with corpses and the smell of burnt flesh, but never did they separate, never did they lose sight of one another or their goal. 

It was not long before Castlevania seemed to catch on, as if the first hordes were just a test of their strength, a gauge to see precisely what threat level it ought to anticipate. Alucard called a halt to their advance and bade them come together once more. “I feel the castle rising beneath us; something moves in its depths, hidden in the womb of darkness.” 

Darck was struck by the poetry of his words and, in other circumstances, would have commented thereupon. She could not help herself picturing some kind of weird, monstrous birth, an ancient womb gushing forth with putrid fluid, ichor, and the maimed remnants of what should have been its child. She wondered if it would show itself now, or if they would need to delve deeper to find it. There was no doubt in her mind they would see it at some point, whatever it was. 

“I mislike the feeling of this place. We ought to move,” Joachim suggested, gesturing toward the grand staircase which led into the castle proper. The doors yawned, as the gates had done, a great, gaping maw, awaiting their arrival. A fine, crimson-colored carpet had been unfurled to greet them, like a tongue lapping outward, seeking to draw a meal in. 

“The whole place is gunna feel like this, Jo’,” said Alabaster sourly. Alucard shook his head, gesturing that they should indeed move. 

“He’s right,” Darck pointed out, “I mean it is Castlevania, but… y’know now you mention it fellas, I think something is truly fucked.”

They started their forward pace once more, easily carving through zombies as they made their way across the final stretch of the cobbled courtyard for the staircase. Every one of them expected their way to be barred by some eldritch horror, a mass of ichor and rage the likes of which they had never seen. Every step forward, they anticipated this, knowing it would come, that it must come. Eventually, even Alabaster felt the difference in the tremors beneath their feet, from that of the zombies to the larger, looming threat. 

They reached the stairs as a yawning chasm opened up right in the very center of the courtyard, spilling forth a sickly, red-orange glow as if rising from the depths of hell itself. The ground began to fall away and they scrambled up onto the porch-like platform just before the door as the cobbles gave way and tumbled into the ever-widening pit. 

A misshapen hand reached out of that pit, grabbing the edge and pulling more rubble down as it scrambled for purchase. Alucard, Darck, Joachim, and Alabaster were rooted to their spots, just outside the threshold of the door to Dracula’s accursed abode, their gaze locked on whatever was about to rise from that crevasse. Steam belched forth, followed by a deafening roar that was some combination of thunder rolling and an earthquake ripping through the earth. 

“Go!” Darck shouted, gesturing toward the door. “Go, GO GO!”

She was certain, as the hand was joined by another, that they were quite far from equipped to deal the fiend that was about to rise. She was also absolutely, unsettlingly certain that the moment the doors closed behind them, they would be safe from it, that Dracula and his enchanted castle would not dare unleash something like that within its walls proper. 

Something about her tone convinced them of this same idea, though not in so many words. Joachim dropped the swords he had been controlling and bustled Alabaster through the door, the young man being his first priority. Alucard grabbed Darck’s upper arm and gave it a solid tug. Despite her warning, the woman’s eyes were still riveted upon the pit. 

“For my sake,” he whispered, “if not your own, Darck, you must heed your own warning.”

This snapped her from her hypnotized state and she whirled, joining him in passing the threshold. The doors closed sharply behind them, the resounding boom drowning the beast’s deafening bellows from without and leaving them in a tomb of silence. 

“Welcome home,” Darck grunted.

[hermanwatts]

Fantasy New Release: 26 October, 2019

Cops chasing magical criminals, airship baronesses, embattled chi cultivating martial artists, and unwilling heroes feature in this week’s collection of fantasy’s newest releases.

Bad Dreams and Broken Hearts (The Case Files of Erik Rugar #1) – Misha Burnett 

It’s hard to fight wizards and demons when all you have is a gun and a badge.

The use of magic in the Sovereign City of Dracoheim is regulated by the Lord Mayor’s Committee For Public Safety. From the licensing of magi, to the health and safety requirements for magical manufacturing, to the import and export of goods to the Realms of Nightmare, dedicated civil servants ensure that the metropolitan area stays safe from magical mayhem.

Most of the time, anyway.

My name is Erik Rugar. I’m an agent of the Criminal Investigation Division of CPS. We operate outside of the authority of Parliament and are answerable only to the Lord Mayor himself. We get involved when the regular beat cops are out of their depth. If a magic shop gets robbed by junkies, or someone gets vaporized by a fireball, or shapechanging creatures start infiltrating the city, I get the call.

But I’m not a mage; I’m just a cop. I face down magical threats with my keen investigative skills and a trusty revolver.

Welcome to my world.

CivCEO (The Accidental Champion #1) – Andrew Karevik

When Charles Morris is forced into retirement, the old multinational company CEO has to accept that it is all over. The days of running his financial empire have finally come to an end.  While Charles is attending a fundraiser, however, something happens and he’s transported into a strange medieval world where magic is real and legendary heroes coexist with mythical monsters.

As it turns out, he’s been snatched by a goddess who was in need of a Champion to grow her village.

Relying on a lifetime of business expertise and the Topsight—an ability that allows him to see and manage the entire village from above—he will have to start back from the bottom and find how to bring this measly Level 1 village to prosperity.

And so, they give him an ultimatum: he has one month to prove himself and improve Tine, otherwise it’s the hangman’s noose.

Divine Madness (Way of the Immortals #2) – Harmon Cooper

Things are only starting to heat up for Nick Barnette.

Upon escaping the city of Nagchu, Nick and his companions barely manage to survive a surprise attack from an incredibly powerful being, one clearly not of their world.

And that isn’t the only thing after them.

With Lhandon’s monastery under siege, Nick’s group must head toward the Darkhan Mountains, to the snow lion village of Dornod, in search of training and to officially reset of the Path of the Divine. Through meditation, combat, and study, Nick and his companions continue to cultivate their powers while in the village of Dornod. Their ultimate goal is to reach the Island Kingdom of Jonang, where Nick hopes to find his Marine friend Hugo, and Lhandon hopes to locate the reincarnation of the Exonerated One.

But their enemies are also growing stronger.

And it is through sheer treachery that Nick and Lhandon find themselves in a life or death situation, one that could end their epic saga before it has a chance to even start.

The Glauerdoom Moor (Super Dungeon #3) – David West

The evil Baron Von Drakk has no problem defeating an entire army and kidnapping their leader—the great Princess Citrine. Now Princess Citrine’s only hope lies in a thief that just got caught.

Sai doesn’t want to be a hero. She wants to steal the greatest jewel in Crystalia. But when she is captured by the king’s men in the perfect trap, Sai is forced to take a job from King Jasper himself—to rescue his daughter Princess Citrine from the evil Von Drakk. Escape should be easy for an accomplished thief, but the Royal Warden refuses to let her out of his sight until they find the kidnapped princess.

Sai thrives in the unsavory places of Castletown, but those pale in comparison to the Glauerdoom Moor. Witches and zombies lurk around every corner, and the swamp itself seems against them. Even worse is the tyrant who rules the Moor. The undead Baron Von Drakk has a host of evil creatures at his command, not to mention nearly unstoppable dark magic of his own.

How can Sai defeat someone who took out an entire army?

The Iron Wedding (Adventures of Baron Von Monocle #4) – Jon Del Arroz

She must marry an evil tyrant…

…in order to end the war.

Zaira von Monocle is on the verge of sacrificing her life as an airship commander, because the ruler of Wyranth Empire demands her as a bride.

The war has devastated Zaira’s home country, leaving her little choice but to do as the Iron Emperor wishes. But a new threat looms over the horizon as she tries to bring about peace between these two warring countries, one which neither the Wyranth nor Rislandia are prepared to encounter.

The #1 Bestselling steampunk adventure series takes a bold new turn in The Iron Wedding, bringing new wonders and dangers like you’ve never seen before. Read it today!

The Rise of the Demon Prince (The Counterfeit Sorcerer #2) – Robert Kroese

A terrifying demon has come from the shadow world to threaten the land of Orszag. Flanked by a horde of ghostly specters, the demon intends to lay waste to the city of Nagyvaros, and only one man can stop him: Konrad the sorcerer. To defeat the demon, Konrad must learn to master the power of the warlock’s brand. But with enemies all around him and no time to lose, Konrad finds himself playing one foe against another in a desperate attempt to stay alive, hoping one day to wreak his vengeance on the man who destroyed his life….

THE RISE OF THE DEMON PRINCE is the second book in the five-book series THE COUNTERFEIT SORCERER.

The Rising of the Shield Hero 14 – Aneko Yusagi   

The Heavenly Emperor of Q’ten Lo is after Raphtalia’s life! To ensure her saftey, Naofumi must team up with the country’s revolutionaries to overthrow him! But when they go about fixing the problems of the country’s misrule, it drives the emperor even further into a corner. Nevertheless, Naofumi decides to add fuel to the fire by capturing the country’s former capital! But he learns that someone is pulling the strings from behind the curtain.

“Whatever. Our only choice is to keep pushing forward. There’s no stopping now.”

Just before Naofumi’s party reaches the former capital, they come face to face with the emperor’s ultimate line of defense: Sadeena’s sister?! Faced with Q’ten Lo thrown into chaos by family feuds, what will Naofumi do?! Lead its people to revolution!? Join the battle in volume fourteen of this otherworldly revenge fantasy!

Sages of the Underpass (Battle Artists #1) – Aaron Michael Ritchey

In a world where everyone has power, Nikodemus Kowalczyk was always destined to be an underdog.

Nikko has long since given up on his dreams of being a world class Battle Artist. Thanks to his damaged core and crazy family, he never stood a chance anyway. With money, fame, and untold power on the line, the corporations decide who wins. End of story.

But when a mysterious group, calling themselves the Sages of the Underpass, threaten to upend the entire system with their unorthodox training and cultivation methods, Nikko soon learns that what was once a handicap might be his greatest asset. The only thing standing in his way is a bitter, hard-hearted veteran, who would like nothing more than to see Niko stay in his place. Right at the bottom.

Fantasy New Release: 26 October, 2019 published first on https://sixchexus.weebly.com/

[swipestream]

New Release Roundup, 27 October 2018: Fantasy and Adventure

Superheroes, ghostly tales, Dwarven Slayers, soldiers, and Tolkien’s Great Tales feature in this week’s roundup of the newest releases in fantasy and adventure.

Anthony Bourdain’s Hungry Ghosts – Anthony Bourdain and Joel Rose 

On a dark, haunted night, a Russian Oligarch dares a circle of international chefs to play the samurai game of 100 Candles–where each storyteller tells a terrifying tale of ghosts, demons and unspeakable beings–and prays to survive the challenge.

Inspired by the Japanese Edo period game of Hyakumonogatari Kaidankai, Hungry Ghosts reimagines the classic stories of yokai, yorei, and obake, all tainted with the common thread of food.

Including stellar artists Sebastian Cabrol, Vanesa Del Rey, Francesco Francavilla, Irene Koh, Leo Manco, Alberto Ponticelli, Paul Pope, and Mateus Santolouco as well as amazing color by Jose Villarrubia, a drop-dead cover by Paul Pope.

Barbarian Emperor – Jon Mollison

Plucked from obscurity and hurled into the burning, blood soaked sands of the coliseum, one man defies an Emperor. Rather than settle for mere vengeance and an honorable death, a gladiator rises to challenge both a Derelict Emperor and the dangerous, seething chaos from beyond its borders. Caught between the fiery passion of his master’s step-daughter and the powerful concubine of his greatest enemy, can one simple barbarian chart a course to save an Empire, save the girl, and save his own soul from the black pits of despair?

Full of the furious action and adventurous exploration of strange realms, “Barbarian Emperor” touches on deep themes of familial bonds, the brotherhood of battle, and the eternal balancing act that man and nation perform on the precipice between barbarous struggle and civilizational apathy. Take it for the thrill ride or ponder the still depths of the work, either way, you’ll love this story of one defiant man and his struggle to find himself, his destiny, and his one true love.

Brace For the Wolves (Challenger’s Call #2) – Nathan Thompson

Kill the traitor-prince.

The cry for his death has followed Wes Malcolm from Earth all the way to Avalon, and an entire new breed of Hordebeast has taken up the call. Howling wolf-men now hunt him as an escaped convict, a false teacher, and a traitor to a legacy he has rejected. Worse yet, he must fight not only for his own freedom, but for the prisoners he has rescued from the dungeon on this ruined world.

Now all he needs to do is evade the monsters long enough to get the former hostages to safety, before taking on and defeating the hunters. To do so, he’s going to have to delve into ghosts and secrets from another age, including some explosive secrets of his own heritage.

Broadswords and Blasters Issue #7

In this action-packed issue:

A new “Commander Saturn” adventure as he takes on the “Pirates of Ganymede.”

“Jigsaw,” a dysfunctional couple’s descent into domestic horror brought about by a simple puzzle.

The twisted surrealistic sci-fi dystopia “Choice Cuts.”

“Land and Money and Old Bones,” the story of Anthony, heir to his uncle’s estate, who finds out there’s a bit more blood than he expected.

Two brave ocean explorers who encounter “A Curious Case in the Deep.”

“Between,” a tale of a West that never was.

A cautionary Western about being careful about the promises you choose to keep, “The Best Laid Plans.”

“The Whisker-Wood,” a weird, twisted horror tale about a man’s descent into madness.

“Harvest Moon,” a cosmic horror jidaigeki that creates a unique story of betrayal, falsehoods, and blood.

The Dragon Hand (The Dragon King Trilogy #1) – Yakov Merkin

An ancient evil is returning to threaten the world—at least, that’s what one of voices in Serivak’s head is telling him.

As the only dragon in the kingdom and technically a prisoner of war, Serivak’s position as the King’s Hand via his friendship with the young king is precarious enough before the voice of one of his ancestors warned of the new threat.

With the help of two young foreigners, Serivak endeavors to avert disaster—but as evidence of a conspiracy grows, his political enemies close to home may be even more dangerous.

Gotrek & Felix: The First Omnibus – William King 

Gotrek and Felix: unsung heroes of the Empire, or nothing more than common thieves and murderers? The truth perhaps lies somewhere in between, and depends entirely on who you ask…

Relive the early adventures of the Slayer and his human companion. From the haunted forests of the Empire to the darkness beneath the Worlds Edge Mountains, Gotrek and Felix face demented cultists, sinister goblins and a monstrous troll. In the city of Nuln, they get involved in an invasion by the sewer-dwelling skaven. And in the frozen north, an expedition to the lost dwarf hold of Karag Dum brings Gotrek and Felix face-to-face with a dread Bloodthirster of Chaos…

Read it Because: the saga of Gotrek and Felix starts here, with three novels that introduce a host of fan-favourite characters and feature some of the heroic duo’s most memorable adventures.

The Great Tales of Middle-earth: Children of Húrin, Beren and Lúthien, and The Fall of Gondolin – J. R. R. Tolkien

Just in time for holiday gift-giving, The Great Tales of Middle-earth is a beautiful boxed set of the most recently published novels of Middle-earth: Children of Húrin, Beren and Lúthien, and The Fall of Gondolin, packaged together for the first time.

The Children of Húrin – Within the shadow of the fear of Angband, and the war waged by Morgoth against the Elves, the fates of Túrin and his sister Niënor will be tragically entwined. Their brief and passionate lives are dominated by the elemental hatred that Morgoth bears them as the children of Húrin, the man who dared to defy him to his face. Against them Morgoth sends his most formidable servant, Glaurung, a powerful spirit in the form of a huge wingless dragon of fire, in an attempt to fulfil the curse of Morgoth, and destroy the children of Húrin.

Beren and Lúthien – The epic tale of Beren and Lúthien became an essential element in the evolution of The Silmarillion, the myths and legends of J.R.R. Tolkien’s First Age of the World. Always key to the story is the fate that shadowed their love: Beren was a mortal man, Lúthien an immortal Elf. Her father, a great Elvish lord, imposed on Beren an impossible task before he might wed Lúthien: to rob the greatest of all evil beings, Melkor, of a Silmaril.

The Fall of Gondolin – In the Tale of The Fall of Gondolin are two of the greatest powers in the world. There is Morgoth of the uttermost evil, unseen in this story but ruling over a vast military power from his fortress of Angband. Deeply opposed to Morgoth is Ulmo, second in might only to Manwë, chief of the Valar: he is called the Lord of Waters, of all seas, lakes, and rivers under the sky. But he works in secret in Middle-earth to support the Noldor, the kindred of the Elves among whom were numbered Húrin and Túrin Turambar. Central to this enmity of the gods is the city of Gondolin, beautiful but undiscoverable.

Immortality and Chaos: The Complete Epic Pentalogy – Eric T Knight 

Ignoring the warnings of his oldest friend, Wulf Rome removes the ancient, mysterious axe he finds embedded in a wall in a cavern deep underground. The axe’s shocking power wins him the throne, but removing it cracks a prison built millennia ago.

A prison built by the gods to hold Melekath, the one all of them fear.

Now Melekath reaches into the world once again. Unfettered, his three nightmarish Guardians spread havoc across the land. Plagues and monsters appear in their wake.

In the midst of the chaos, an enigmatic stranger appears. He claims to be immortal. He claims that only he can save the world. There is something sinister about him, and the weapons he offers are dangerous and perhaps uncontrollable, but with the apocalypse looming, what other choice does Wulf Rome have?

Lynx (Will Slater Series #4) – Matt Rogers

Half a year ago in Macau, Will Slater waged war to rescue a nine-year-old girl from the clutches of a hellish industry. He left her with an old government colleague, who promised to find her a foster home and give her some semblance of a normal upbringing. Slater moved on…

Now, deep in cartel-infested Colombia, he hears dark whispers of something called the Lynx program — a clandestine division that raises young girls and forges them into sociopathic killers. A division founded by the very same man Slater left her with.

He drops everything and barrels toward answers. Because if you make Slater a promise, you’d better not break it. The kid was a shining ray of light in his otherwise barbaric reality, and he’ll sacrifice everything to make sure she’s safe…

My Hero Academia: Vigilantes, Vol. 2 – Hideyuki Furuhashi and Betten Court

Koichi Haimawari couldn’t make the cut to become an official hero, so he uses his modest Quirk to do good deeds in his spare time. Then one day a fateful encounter with some local thugs leads him to team up with two other unlikely heroes. None of them really know what they’re doing, but they’ve got the courage—or foolishness—to try. But they soon discover fighting evil takes more than just being brave…

Koichi and his “friends”—Kazuho, a.k.a. Pop Step, and the mysterious Knuckleduster—have teamed up to protect their neighborhood (unofficially of course). But even petty criminals with Quirks can be dangerous, and taking them on shows Koichi that he’d better not underestimate them. Sizing up the opposition is important, especially when some of the villains are definitely out of Koichi’s league and more sinister threats lurk in the shadows…

The Phoenix Sanction (Sam Reilly #14) – Christopher Cartwright  

On board Phoenix Airlines Flight 318, Andrew Goddard awakens to discover the cockpit empty and all the passengers unconscious.

In the Colorado Monarch Mountains, an old gold miner discovers a fiendish stone mask sealed inside an obsidian chamber.

Sam Reilly has just three weeks to find out how the two unlikely events are connected, and the secret behind it might change everything we thought we knew about humanity.

“From Amelia Earhart to the shores of Malta, Sam and friends race from evil pursuers. It is a compelling story of the Eternity Masks and the Master Builders who are again involved in it the depth of the tale. Read, Enjoy and anticipate sleepless nights.” – Amazon Reader Review

The Sage, the Swordsman and the Scholars (Trials of the Middle Kingdom #1) – Pierre Dimaculangan

When enigmatic nonhuman visitors arrive from the sea, the very foundations of the Middle Kingdom are under attack. The evil agenda of these invaders sparks a massive war that will determine the fate of the Ming dynasty and the nations beyond. A young, legendary swordsman allies himself with a banished Shaolin monk, a defeated bandit chieftain, a carefree Mongol, and an unknown philosopher who knows the only hope for victory. Together, this band of misfits strives to be proven worthy of the impossible task before them. Determined to combat the invaders’ initial offensives, they must also repel countless internal enemies who have rallied to bring down the mighty Ming dynasty.

Shadow of the Exile (The Infernal Guardian Book 1) – Mitchell Hogan

Outcast and exiled, the demon Tarrik Nal-Valim has long been forgotten by the world of humans. At least, so he thinks.

But when he is summoned as a last resort by a desperate sorcerer, it seems as though his past has caught up with him. The sorcerer is Serenity “Ren” Branwen, the daughter of Tarrik’s former master—and friend. Though she seems cold, driven, and ruthless, Tarrik can tell that Ren has her back against a wall, and he is compelled by ferocious powers to obey her.

As their world sinks into a terrifying maelstrom of murder, intrigue, and insurrection, Tarrik is forced to serve Ren’s arcane designs—plans that, if they were to succeed, would resurrect unimaginable power and could destroy Tarrik’s entire race.

But as events unfurl, the lines between demon and master become blurred, and Tarrik realizes that Ren is not what she seems. To prevent utter devastation, Tarrik may have to surrender what he values most: a chance at redemption and an end to his exile.

The ‘Stan –  David Axe, Kevin Knodell, and Blue Delliquanti

The ‘Stan is a collection of short comics about America’s longest war. Individual stories highlight different perspectives—one through the eyes of a Taliban ambassador and others through the eyes of Afghan and U.S. Army soldiers—but every account highlights the human element of war. The tales in this book—based on reporting by David Axe and Kevin Knodell and drawn by artist Blue Delliquanti—are all true and took place in roughly the first decade of the U.S. military intervention in Afghanistan. While the stories are from the recent past, The ‘Stan is still very much about Afghanistan’s and America’s present—and likely their future.

“Based on on-the-ground reporting by Knodell and Axe, this realistic view of an ongoing conflict, rendered in a casual yet powerful voice, not only acts as a necessary record of experiences and sacrifice but as a humble thanks to all those who have lived­­–or are still living–through them.”–Publishers Weekly

StoryHack Action and Adventure #3 – edited by Bryce Beattie

Proof that short fiction can still be exciting. StoryHack is a magazine focusing on action and adventure fiction in a wide variety of genres. In this issue, you’ll read:

Claws of the Puma by Paul R. McNamee – In the rainforests of Brazil, poaching loggers and traditional rubber tree tappers are at war. Journalist Sarah Stoughton gets more than she bargained for when she is caught up in the violence, and comes face to face with the legendary man of the jungle, the Puma.

Shoot First by Jay Barnson – Flint and another agent are assigned to confiscate a dangerous cursed magical artifact from a street gang, only to find that the entire operation was a set-up by a local crime boss and an analyst from within the Order.

Inside the Demon’s Eye by JD Cowan – A young adventurer searches the Black Lands for a lifesaving treasure. He may not get the chance to find it, as he is being stalked by a malevolent force.

The Dealer’s Tale by Jon Mollison – A pregnant blackjack dealer walks a deadly line as she prepares to betray her mafia-owned boss to the feds.

…and more!

Tears From Iron (Memories of the Cataclysm #1) – Jonathan Oldenburg

The treachery of oathbreakers shattered the world. But amid the Cataclysm, a new empire has arisen at last. In binding humanity to their service, the ageless Syraestari restored civilization to a world wracked by chaos. Vistus is a human warrior-brother, sworn to guard his masters from the barbarians and rebels that seek to drag the Syraestari empire back into darkness. His prowess in battle is matched only by his loyalty to the empire. Ninanna is a Syraestari Sword-Whisperer, venerable even in the eyes of her own people. Though she is the personal guardian to the empress, another Oath, more ancient and powerful, binds her destiny. As rebellion and war threaten the Syraestari Empire, Vistus and Ninanna must discover the meaning of family, of faith, and of sacrifice or all they love will perish. For the Cataclysm is not yet a memory, and the prophecies of dead gods may still overturn all that has been wrought.

Uzumaki (3-in-1 Deluxe Edition) – Junji Ito 

Kurôzu-cho, a small fogbound town on the coast of Japan, is cursed. According to Shuichi Saito, the withdrawn boyfriend of teenager Kirie Goshima, their town is haunted not by a person or being but by a pattern: uzumaki, the spiral, the hypnotic secret shape of the world. It manifests itself in small ways: seashells, ferns, whirlpools in water, whirlwinds in air. And in large ways: the spiral marks on people’s bodies, the insane obsessions of Shuichi’s father, the voice from the cochlea in your inner ear. As the madness spreads, the inhabitants of Kurôzu-cho are pulled ever deeper, as if into a whirlpool from which there is no return…

The bizarre masterpiece horror manga is now available all in a single volume. Fall into a whirlpool of terror!

New Release Roundup, 27 October 2018: Fantasy and Adventure published first on https://medium.com/@ReloadedPCGames

[readbookywooks]

Catelyn

My lady, you should have sent word of your coming," Ser Donnel Waynwood told her as their horses climbed the pass. "We would have sent an escort. The high road is not as safe as it once was, for a party as small as yours." "We learned that to our sorrow, Ser Donnel," Catelyn said. Sometimes she felt as though her heart had turned to stone; six brave men had died to bring her this far, and she could not even find it in her to weep for them. Even their names were fading. "The clansmen harried us day and night. We lost three men in the first attack, and two more in the second, and Lannister's serving man died of a fever when his wounds festered. When we heard your men approaching, I thought us doomed for certain." They had drawn up for a last desperate fight, blades in hand and backs to the rock. The dwarf had been whetting the edge of his axe and making some mordant jest when Bronn spotted the banner the riders carried before them, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn, sky-blue and white. Catelyn had never seen a more welcome sight. "The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died," Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. "If it were up to me, I would take a hundred men into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons, but your sister has forbidden it. She would not even permit her knights to fight in the Hand's tourney. She wants all our swords kept close to home, to defend the Vale . . . against what, no one is certain. Shadows, some say." He looked at her anxiously, as if he had suddenly remembered who she was. "I hope I have not spoken out of turn, my lady. I meant no offense." "Frank talk does not offend me, Ser Donnel." Catelyn knew what her sister feared. Not shadows, Lannisters, she thought to herself, glancing back to where the dwarf rode beside Bronn. The two of them had grown thick as thieves since Chiggen had died. The little man was more cunning than she liked. When they had entered the mountains, he had been her captive, bound and helpless. What was he now? Her captive still, yet he rode along with a dirk through his belt and an axe strapped to his saddle, wearing the shadowskin cloak he'd won dicing with the singer and the chainmail hauberk he'd taken off Chiggen's corpse. Two score men flanked the dwarf and the rest of her ragged band, knights and men-at-arms in service to her sister Lysa and Jon Arryn's young son, and yet Tyrion betrayed no hint of fear. Could I be wrong? Catelyn wondered, not for the first time. Could he be innocent after all, of Bran and Jon Arryn and all the rest? And if he was, what did that make her? Six men had died to bring him here. Resolute, she pushed her doubts away. "When we reach your keep, I would take it kindly if you could send for Maester Colemon at once. Ser Rodrik is feverish from his wounds." More than once she had feared the gallant old knight would not survive the journey. Toward the end he could scarcely sit his horse, and Bronn had urged her to leave him to his fate, but Catelyn would not hear of it. They had tied him in the saddle instead, and she had commanded Marillion the singer to watch over him. Ser Donnel hesitated before he answered. "The Lady Lysa has commanded the maester to remain at the Eyrie at all times, to care for Lord Robert," he said. "We have a septon at the gate who tends to our wounded. He can see to your man's hurts." Catelyn had more faith in a maester's learning than a septon's prayers. She was about to say as much when she saw the battlements ahead, long parapets built into the very stone of the mountains on either side of them. Where the pass shrank to a narrow defile scarce wide enough for four men to ride abreast, twin watchtowers clung to the rocky slopes, joined by a covered bridge of weathered grey stone that arched above the road. Silent faces watched from arrow slits in tower, battlements, and bridge. When they had climbed almost to the top, a knight rode out to meet them. His horse and his armor were grey, but his cloak was the rippling blue-and-red of Riverrun, and a shiny black fish, wrought in gold and obsidian, pinned its folds against his shoulder. "Who would pass the Bloody Gate?" he called. "Ser Donnel Waynwood, with the Lady Catelyn Stark and her companions," the young knight answered. The Knight of the Gate lifted his visor. "I thought the lady looked familiar. You are far from home, little Cat." "And you, Uncle," she said, smiling despite all she had been through. Hearing that hoarse, smoky voice again took her back twenty years, to the days of her childhood. "My home is at my back," he said gruffly. "Your home is in my heart," Catelyn told him. "Take off your helm. I would look on your face again." "The years have not improved it, I fear," Brynden Tully said, but when he lifted off the helm, Catelyn saw that he lied. His features were lined and weathered, and time had stolen the auburn from his hair and left him only grey, but the smile was the same, and the bushy eyebrows fat as caterpillars, and the laughter in his deep blue eyes. "Did Lysa know you were coming?" "There was no time to send word ahead," Catelyn told him. The others were coming up behind her. "I fear we ride before the storm, Uncle." "May we enter the Vale?" Ser Donnel asked. The Waynwoods were ever ones for ceremony. "In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace," Ser Brynden replied. "Come." And so she rode behind him, beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate where a dozen armies had dashed themselves to pieces in the Age of Heroes. On the far side of the stoneworks, the mountains opened up suddenly upon a vista of green fields, blue sky, and snowcapped mountains that took her breath away. The Vale of Arryn bathed in the morning light. It stretched before them to the misty cast, a tranquil land of rich black soil, wide slow-moving rivers, and hundreds of small lakes that shone like mirrors in the sun, protected on all sides by its sheltering peaks. Wheat and corn and barley grew high in its fields, and even in Highgarden the pumpkins were no larger nor the fruit any sweeter than here. They stood at the western end of the valley, where the high road crested the last pass and began its winding descent to the bottomlands two miles below. The Vale was narrow here, no more than a half day's ride across, and the northern mountains seemed so close that Catelyn could almost reach out and touch them. Looming over them all was the jagged peak called the Giant's Lance, a mountain that even mountains looked up to, its head lost in icy mists three and a half miles above the valley floor. Over its massive western shoulder flowed the ghost torrent of Alyssa's Tears. Even from this distance, Catelyn could make out the shining silver thread, bright against the dark stone. When her uncle saw that she had stopped, he moved his horse closer and pointed. "It's there, beside Alyssa's Tears. All you can see from here is a flash of white every now and then, if you look hard and the sun hits the walls just right." Seven towers, Ned had told her, like white daggers thrust into the belly of the sky, so high you can stand on the parapets and look down on the clouds. "How long a ride?" she asked. "We can be at the mountain by evenfall," Uncle Brynden said, "but the climb will take another day." Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke up from behind. "My lady," he said, "I fear I can go no farther today." His face sagged beneath his ragged, newgrown whiskers, and he looked so weary Catelyn feared he might fall off his horse. "Nor should you," she said. "You have done all I could have asked of you, and a hundred times more. My uncle will see me the rest of the way to the Eyrie. Lannister must come with me, but there is no reason that you and the others should not rest here and recover your strength." "We should be honored to have them to guest," Ser Donnel said with the grave courtesy of the young. Beside Ser Rodrik, only Bronn, Ser Willis Wode, and Marillion the singer remained of the party that had ridden with her from the inn by the crossroads. "My lady," Marillion said, riding forward. "I beg you allow me to accompany you to the Eyrie, to see the end of the tale as I saw its beginnings." The boy sounded haggard, yet strangely determined; he had a fevered shine to his eyes. Catelyn had never asked the singer to ride with them; that choice he had made himself, and how he had come to survive the journey when so many braver men lay dead and unburied behind them, she could never say. Yet here he was, with a scruff of beard that made him look almost a man. Perhaps she owed him something for having come this far. "Very well," she told him. "I'll come as well," Bronn announced. She liked that less well. Without Bronn she would never have reached the Vale, she knew; the sellsword was as fierce a fighter as she had ever seen, and his sword had helped cut them through to safety. Yet for all that, Catelyn misliked the man. Courage he had, and strength, but there was no kindness in him, and little loyalty. And she had seen him riding beside Lannister far too often, talking in low voices and laughing at some private joke. She would have preferred to separate him from the dwarf here and now, but having agreed that Marillion might continue to the Eyrie, she could see no gracious way to deny that same right to Bronn. "As you wish," she said, although she noted that he had not actually asked her permission. Ser Willis Wode remained with Ser Rodrik, a soft-spoken septon fussing over their wounds. Their horses were left behind as well, poor ragged things. Ser Donnel promised to send birds ahead to the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon with the word of their coming. Fresh mounts were brought forth from the stables, surefooted mountain stock with shaggy coats, and within the hour they set forth once again. Catelyn rode beside her uncle as they began the descent to the valley floor. Behind came Bronn, Tyrion Lannister, Marillion, and six of Brynden's men. Not until they were a third of the way down the mountain path, well out of earshot of the others, did Brynden Tully turn to her and say, "So, child. Tell me about this storm of yours." "I have not been a child in many years, Uncle," Catelyn said, but she told him nonetheless. It took longer than she would have believed to tell it all, Lysa's letter and Bran's fall, the assassin's dagger and Littlefinger and her chance meeting with Tyrion Lannister in the crossroads inn. Her uncle listened silently, heavy brows shadowing his eyes as his frown grew deeper. Brynden Tully had always known how to listen . . . to anyone but her father. He was Lord Hoster's brother, younger by five years, but the two of them had been at war as far back as Catelyn could remember. During one of their louder quarrels, when Catelyn was eight, Lord Hoster had called Brynden "the black goat of the Tully flock." Laughing, Brynden had pointed out that the sigil of their house was a leaping trout, so he ought to be a black fish rather than a black goat, and from that day forward he had taken it as his personal emblem. The war had not ended until the day she and Lysa had been wed. It was at their wedding feast that Brynden told his brother he was leaving Riverrun to serve Lysa and her new husband, the Lord of the Eyrie. Lord Hoster had not spoken his brother's name since, from what Edmure told her in his infrequent letters. Nonetheless, during all those years of Catelyn's girlhood, it had been Brynden the Blackfish to whom Lord Hoster's children had run with their tears and their tales, when Father was too busy and Mother too ill. Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure . . . and yes, even Petyr Baelish, their father's ward . . . he had listened to them all patiently, as he listened now, laughing at their triumphs and sympathizing with their childish misfortunes. When she was done, her uncle remained silent for a long time, as his horse negotiated the steep, rocky trail. "Your father must be told," he said at last. "If the Lannisters should march, Winterfell is remote and the Vale walled up behind its mountains, but Riverrun lies right in their path." "I'd had the same fear," Catelyn admitted. "I shall ask Maester Colemon to send a bird when we reach the Eyrie." She had other messages to send as well; the commands that Ned had given her for his bannermen, to ready the defenses of the north. "What is the mood in the Vale?" she asked. "Angry," Brynden Tully admitted. "Lord Jon was much loved, and the insult was keenly felt when the king named Jaime Lannister to an office the Arryns had held for near three hundred years. Lysa has commanded us to call her son the True Warden of the East, but no one is fooled. Nor is your sister alone in wondering at the manner of the Hand's death. None dare say Jon was murdered, not openly, but suspicion casts a long shadow." He gave Catelyn a look, his mouth tight. "And there is the boy." "The boy? What of him?" She ducked her head as they passed under a low overhang of rock, and around a sharp turn. Her uncle's voice was troubled. "Lord Robert," he sighed. "Six years old, sickly, and prone to weep if you take his dolls away. Jon Arryn's trueborn heir, by all the gods, yet there are some who say he is too weak to sit his father's seat, Nestor Royce has been high steward these past fourteen years, while Lord Jon served in King's Landing, and many whisper that he should rule until the boy comes of age. Others believe that Lysa must marry again, and soon. Already the suitors gather like crows on a battlefield. The Eyrie is full of them." "I might have expected that," Catelyn said. Small wonder there; Lysa was still young, and the kingdom of Mountain and Vale made a handsome wedding gift. "Will Lysa take another husband?" "She says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her," Brynden Tully said, "but she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband." "You of all people can scarce fault her for that." Ser Brynden snorted. "Nor do I, but . . . it seems to me Lysa is only playing at courtship. She enjoys the sport, but I believe your sister intends to rule herself until her boy is old enough to be Lord of the Eyrie in truth as well as name." "A woman can rule as wisely as a man," Catelyn said. "The right woman can," her uncle said with a sideways glance. "Make no mistake, Cat. Lysa is not you." He hesitated a moment. "If truth be told, I fear you may not find your sister as helpful as you would like." She was puzzled. "What do you mean?" "The Lysa who came back from King's Landing is not the same girl who went south when her husband was named Hand. Those years were hard for her. You must know. Lord Arryn was a dutiful husband, but their marriage was made from politics, not passion." "As was my own." "They began the same, but your ending has been happier than your sister's. Two babes stillborn, twice as many miscarriages, Lord Arryn's death . . . Catelyn, the gods gave Lysa only the one child, and he is all your sister lives for now, poor boy. Small wonder she fled rather than see him handed over to the Lannisters. Your sister is afraid, child, and the Lannisters are what she fears most. She ran to the Vale, stealing away from the Red Keep like a thief in the night, and all to snatch her son out of the lion's mouth . . . and now you have brought the lion to her door." "In chains," Catelyn said. A crevasse yawned on her right, falling away into darkness. She reined up her horse and picked her way along step by careful step. "Oh?" Her uncle glanced back, to where Tyrion Lannister was making his slow descent behind them. "I see an axe on his saddle, a dirk at his belt, and a sellsword that trails after him like a hungry shadow. Where are the chains, sweet one?" Catelyn shifted uneasily in her seat. "The dwarf is here, and not by choice. Chains or no, he is my prisoner. Lysa will want him to answer for his crimes no less than I. It was her own lord husband the Lannisters murdered, and her own letter that first warned us against them." Brynden Blackfish gave her a weary smile. "I hope you are right, child," he sighed, in tones that said she was wrong. The sun was well to the west by the time the slope began to flatten beneath the hooves of their horses. The road widened and grew straight, and for the first time Catelyn noticed wildflowers and grasses growing. Once they reached the valley floor, the going was faster and they made good time, cantering through verdant greenwoods and sleepy little hamlets, past orchards and golden wheat fields, splashing across a dozen sunlit streams. Her uncle sent a standard-bearer ahead of them, a double banner flying from his staff; the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn on high, and below it his own black fish. Farm wagons and merchants' carts and riders from lesser houses moved aside to let them pass. Even so, it was full dark before they reached the stout castle that stood at the foot of the Giant's Lance. Torches flickered atop its ramparts, and the horned moon danced upon the dark waters of its moat. The drawbridge was up and the portcullis down, but Catelyn saw lights burning in the gatehouse and spilling from the windows of the square towers beyond. "The Gates of the Moon," her uncle said as the party drew rein. His standard-bearer rode to the edge of the moat to hail the men in the gatehouse. "Lord Nestor's seat. He should be expecting us. Look up." Catelyn raised her eyes, up and up and up. At first all she saw was stone and trees, the looming mass of the great mountain shrouded in night, as black as a starless sky. Then she noticed the glow of distant fires well above them; a tower keep, built upon the steep side of the mountain, its lights like orange eyes staring down from above. Above that was another, higher and more distant, and still higher a third, no more than a flickering spark in the sky. And finally, up where the falcons soared, a flash of white in the moonlight. Vertigo washed over her as she stared upward at the pale towers, so far above. "The Eyrie," she heard Marillion murmur, awed. The sharp voice of Tyrion Lannister broke in. "The Arryns must not be overfond of company. If you're planning to make us climb that mountain in the dark, I'd rather you kill me here." "We'll spend the night here and make the ascent on the morrow," Brynden told him. "I can scarcely wait," the dwarf replied. "How do we get up there? I've no experience at riding goats." "Mules," Brynden said, smiling. "There are steps carved into the mountain," Catelyn said. Ned had told her about them when he talked of his youth here with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn. Her uncle nodded. "It is too dark to see them, but the steps are there. Too steep and narrow for horses, but mules can manage them most of the way. The path is guarded by three waycastles, Stone and Snow and Sky. The mules will take us as far up as Sky." Tyrion Lannister glanced up doubtfully. "And beyond that?" Brynden smiled. "Beyond that, the path is too steep even for mules. We ascend on foot the rest of the way. Or perchance you'd prefer to ride a basket. The Eyrie clings to the mountain directly above Sky, and in its cellars are six great winches with long iron chains to draw supplies up from below. If you prefer, my lord of Lannister, I can arrange for you to ride up with the bread and beer and apples." The dwarf gave a bark of laughter. "Would that I were a pumpkin," he said. "Alas, my lord father would no doubt be most chagrined if his son of Lannister went to his fate like a load of turnips. If you ascend on foot, I fear I must do the same. We Lannisters do have a certain pride." "Pride?" Catelyn snapped. His mocking tone and easy manner made her angry. "Arrogance, some might call it. Arrogance and avarice and lust for power." "My brother is undoubtedly arrogant," Tyrion Lannister replied. "My father is the soul of avarice, and my sweet sister Cersei lusts for power with every waking breath. I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you?" He grinned. The drawbridge came creaking down before she could reply, and they heard the sound of oiled chains as the portcullis was drawn up. Men-at-arms carried burning brands out to light their way, and her uncle led them across the moat. Lord Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, was waiting in the yard to greet them, surrounded by his knights. "Lady Stark," he said, bowing. He was a massive, barrel-chested man, and his bow was clumsy. Catelyn dismounted to stand before him. "Lord Nestor," she said. She knew the man only by reputation; Bronze Yohn's cousin, from a lesser branch of House Royce, yet still a formidable lord in his own right. "We have had a long and tiring journey. I would beg the hospitality of your roof tonight, if I might." "My roof is yours, my lady," Lord Nestor returned gruffly, "but your sister the Lady Lysa has sent down word from the Eyrie. She wishes to see you at once. The rest of your party will be housed here and sent up at first light." Her uncle swung off his horse. "What madness is this?" he said bluntly. Brynden Tully had never been a man to blunt the edge of his words. "A night ascent, with the moon not even full? Even Lysa should know that's an invitation to a broken neck." "The mules know the way, Ser Brynden." A wiry girl of seventeen or eighteen years stepped up beside Lord Nestor. Her dark hair was cropped short and straight around her head, and she wore riding leathers and a light shirt of silvered ringmail. She bowed to Catelyn, more gracefully than her lord. "I promise you, my lady, no harm will come to you. It would be my honor to take you up. I've made the dark climb a hundred times. Mychel says my father must have been a goat." She sounded so cocky that Catelyn had to smile. "Do you have a name, child?" "Mya Stone, if it please you, my lady," the girl said. It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard's name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned's bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply. Lord Nestor filled the silence. "Mya's a clever girl, and if she vows she will bring you safely to the Lady Lysa, I believe her. She has not failed me yet." "Then I put myself in your hands, Mya Stone," Catelyn said. "Lord Nestor, I charge you to keep a close guard on my prisoner." "And I charge you to bring the prisoner a cup of wine and a nicely crisped capon, before he dies of hunger," Lannister said. "A girl would be pleasant as well, but I suppose that's too much to ask of you." The sellsword Bronn laughed aloud. Lord Nestor ignored the banter. "As you say, my lady, so it will be done." Only then did he look at the dwarf. "See our lord of Lannister to a tower cell, and bring him meat and mead." Catelyn took her leave of her uncle and the others as Tyrion Lannister was led off, then followed the bastard girl through the castle. Two mules were waiting in the upper bailey, saddled and ready. Mya helped her mount one while a guardsman in a sky-blue cloak opened the narrow postern gate. Beyond was dense forest of pine and spruce, and the mountain like a black wall, but the steps were there, chiseled deep into the rock, ascending into the sky. "Some people find it easier if they close their eyes," Mya said as she led the mules through the gate into the dark wood. "When they get frightened or dizzy, sometimes they hold on to the mule too tight. They don't like that." "I was born a Tully and wed to a Stark," Catelyn said. "I do not frighten easily. Do you plan to light a torch?" The steps were black as pitch. The girl made a face. "Torches just blind you. On a clear night like this, the moon and the stars are enough. Mychel says I have the eyes of the owl." She mounted and urged her mule up the first step. Catelyn's animal followed of its own accord. "You mentioned Mychel before," Catelyn said. The mules set the pace, slow but steady. She was perfectly content with that. "Mychel's my love," Mya explained. "Mychel Redfort. He's squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We're to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after." She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. If Mychel Redfort laid with this girl at all, it would be on the wrong side of the sheet. The ascent was easier than Catelyn had dared hope. The trees pressed close, leaning over the path to make a rustling green roof that shut out even the moon, so it seemed as though they were moving up a long black tunnel. But the mules were surefooted and tireless, and Mya Stone did indeed seem blessed with night-eyes. They plodded upward, winding their way back and forth across the face of the mountain as the steps twisted and turned. A thick layer of fallen needles carpeted the path, so the shoes of their mules made only the softest sound on the rock. The quiet soothed her, and the gentle rocking motion set Catelyn to swaying in her saddle. Before long she was fighting sleep. Perhaps she did doze for a moment, for suddenly a massive ironbound gate was looming before them. "Stone," Mya announced cheerily, dismounting. Iron spikes were set along the tops of formidable stone walls, and two fat round towers overtopped the keep. The gate swung open at Mya's shout. Inside, the portly knight who commanded the waycastle greeted Mya by name and offered them skewers of charred meat and onions still hot from the spit. Catelyn had not realized how hungry she was. She ate standing in the yard, as stablehands moved their saddles to fresh mules. The hot juices ran down her chin and dripped onto her cloak, but she was too famished to care. Then it was up onto a new mule and out again into the starlight. The second part of the ascent seemed more treacherous to Catelyn. The trail was steeper, the steps more worn, and here and there littered with pebbles and broken stone. Mya had to dismount a half-dozen times to move fallen rocks from their path. "You don't want your mule to break a leg up here," she said. Catelyn was forced to agree. She could feel the altitude more now. The trees were sparser up here, and the wind blew more vigorously, sharp gusts that tugged at her clothing and pushed her hair into her eyes. From time to time the steps doubled back on themselves, and she could see Stone below them, and the Gates of the Moon farther down, its torches no brighter than candles. Snow was smaller than Stone, a single fortified tower and a timber keep and stable hidden behind a low wall of unmortared rock. Yet it nestled against the Giant's Lance in such a way as to command the entire stone stair above the lower waycastle. An enemy intent on the Eyrie would have to fight his way from Stone step by step, while rocks and arrows rained down from Snow above. The commander, an anxious young knight with a pockmarked face, offered bread and cheese and the chance to warm themselves before his fire, but Mya declined. "We ought to keep going, my lady," she said. "If it please you." Catelyn nodded. Again they were given fresh mules. Hers was white. Mya smiled when she saw him. "Whitey's a good one, my lady. Sure of foot, even on ice, but you need to be careful. He'll kick if he doesn't like you." The white mule seemed to like Catelyn; there was no kicking, thank the gods. There was no ice either, and she was grateful for that as well. "My mother says that hundreds of years ago, this was where the snow began," Mya told her. "It was always white above here, and the ice never melted." She shrugged. "I can't remember ever seeing snow this far down the mountain, but maybe it was that way once, in the olden times." So young, Catelyn thought, trying to remember if she had ever been like that. The girl had lived half her life in summer, and that was all she knew. Winter is coming, child, she wanted to tell her. The words were on her lips; she almost said them. Perhaps she was becoming a Stark at last. Above Snow, the wind was a living thing, howling around them like a wolf in the waste, then falling off to nothing as if to lure them into complacency. The stars seemed brighter up here, so close that she could almost touch them, and the horned moon was huge in the clear black sky. As they climbed, Catelyn found it was better to look up than down. The steps were cracked and broken from centuries of freeze and thaw and the tread of countless mules, and even in the dark the heights put her heart in her throat. When they came to a high saddle between two spires of rock, Mya dismounted. "It's best to lead the mules over," she said. "The wind can be a little scary here, my lady." Catelyn climbed stiffly from the shadows and looked at the path ahead; twenty feet long and close to three feet wide, but with a precipitous drop to either side. She could hear the wind shrieking. Mya stepped lightly out, her mule following as calmly as if they were crossing a bailey. It was her turn. Yet no sooner had she taken her first step than fear caught Catelyn in its jaws. She could feel the emptiness, the vast black gulfs of air that yawned around her. She stopped, trembling, afraid to move. The wind screamed at her and wrenched at her cloak, trying to pull her over the edge. Catelyn edged her foot backward, the most timid of steps, but the mule was behind her, and she could not retreat. I am going to die here, she thought. She could feel cold sweat trickling down her back. "Lady Stark," Mya called across the gulf. The girl sounded a thousand leagues away. "Are you well?" Catelyn Tully Stark swallowed what remained of her pride. "I . . . I cannot do this, child," she called out. "Yes you can," the bastard girl said. "I know you can. Look how wide the path is." "I don't want to look." The world seemed to be spinning around her, mountain and sky and mules, whirling like a child's top. Catelyn closed her eyes to steady her ragged breathing. "I'll come back for you," Mya said. "Don't move, my lady." Moving was about the last thing Catelyn was about to do. She listened to the skirling of the wind and the scuffling sound of leather on stone. Then Mya was there, taking her gently by the arm. "Keep your eyes closed if you like. Let go of the rope now, Whitey will take care of himself. Very good, my lady. I'll lead you over, it's easy, you'll see. Give me a step now. That's it, move your foot, just slide it forward. See. Now another. Easy. You could run across. Another one, go on. Yes." And so, foot by foot, step by step, the bastard girl led Catelyn across, blind and trembling, while the white mule followed placidly behind them. The waycastle called Sky was no more than a high, crescent-shaped wall of unmortared stone raised against the side of the mountain, but even the topless towers of Valyria could not have looked more beautiful to Catelyn Stark. Here at last the snow crown began; Sky's weathered stones were rimed with frost, and long spears of ice hung from the slopes above. Dawn was breaking in the east as Mya Stone hallooed for the guards, and the gates opened before them. Inside the walls there was only a series of ramps and a great tumble of boulders and stones of all sizes. No doubt it would be the easiest thing in the world to begin an avalanche from here. A mouth yawned in the rock face in front of them. "The stables and barracks are in there," Mya said. "The last part is inside the mountain. It can be a little dark, but at least you're out of the wind. This is as far as the mules can go. Past here, well, it's a sort of chimney, more like a stone ladder than proper steps, but it's not too bad. Another hour and we'll be there." Catelyn looked up. Directly overhead, pale in the dawn light, she could see the foundations of the Eyrie. It could not be more than six hundred feet above them. From below it looked like a small white honeycomb. She remembered what her uncle had said of baskets and winches. "The Lannisters may have their pride," she told Mya, "but the Tullys are born with better sense. I have ridden all day and the best part of a night. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips." The sun was well above the mountains by the time Catelyn Stark finally reached the Eyrie. A stocky, silver-haired man in a sky-blue cloak and hammered moon-and-falcon breastplate helped her from the basket; Ser Vardis Egen, captain of Jon Arryn's household guard. Beside him stood Maester Colemon, thin and nervous, with too little hair and too much neck. "Lady Stark," Ser Vardis said, "the pleasure is as great as it is unanticipated." Maester Colemon bobbed his head in agreement. "Indeed it is, my lady, indeed it is. I have sent word to your sister. She left orders to be awakened the instant you arrived." "I hope she had a good night's rest," Catelyn said with a certain bite in her tone that seemed to go unnoticed. The men escorted her from the winch room up a spiral stair. The Eyrie was a small castle by the standards of the great houses; seven slender white towers bunched as tightly as arrows in a quiver on a shoulder of the great mountain. It had no need of stables nor smithys nor kennels, but Ned said its granary was as large as Winterfell's, and its towers could house five hundred men. Yet it seemed strangely deserted to Catelyn as she passed through it, its pale stone halls echoing and empty. Lysa was waiting alone in her solar, still clad in her bed robes. Her long auburn hair tumbled unbound across bare white shoulders and down her back. A maid stood behind her, brushing out the night's tangles, but when Catelyn entered, her sister rose to her feet, smiling. "Cat," she said. "Oh, Cat, how good it is to see you. My sweet sister." She ran across the chamber and wrapped her sister in her arms. "How long it has been," Lysa murmured against her. "Oh, how very very long." It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years the younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the slender, high-breasted girl who'd waited beside her that day in the sept at Riverrun. How lovely and full of hope she had been. All that remained of her sister's beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded to her waist. "You look well," Catelyn lied, "but . . . tired." Her sister broke the embrace. "Tired. Yes. Oh, yes." She seemed to notice the others then; her maid, Maester Colemon, Ser Vardis. "Leave us," she told them. "I wish to speak to my sister alone." She held Catelyn's hand as they withdrew . . . . . . and dropped it the instant the door closed. Catelyn saw her face change. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. "Have you taken leave of your senses?" Lysa snapped at her. "To bring him here, without a word of permission, without so much as a warning, to drag us into your quarrels with the Lannisters . . . " "My quarrels?" Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysa's voice. "They were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband." "To warn you, so you could stay away from them! I never meant to fight them! Gods, Cat, do you know what you've done?" "Mother?" a small voice said. Lysa whirled, her heavy robe swirling around her. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, stood in the doorway, clutching a ragged cloth doll and looking at them with large eyes. He was a painfully thin child, small for his age and sickly all his days, and from time to time he trembled. The shaking sickness, the maesters called it. "I heard voices." Small wonder, Catelyn thought; Lysa had almost been shouting. Still, her sister looked daggers at her. "This is your aunt Catelyn, baby. My sister, Lady Stark. Do you remember?" The boy glanced at her blankly. "I think so," he said, blinking, though he had been less than a year old the last time Catelyn had seen him. Lysa seated herself near the fire and said, "Come to Mother, my sweet one." She straightened his bedclothes and fussed with his fine brown hair. "Isn't he beautiful? And strong too, don't you believe the things you hear. Jon knew. The seed is strong, he told me. His last words. He kept saying Robert's name, and he grabbed my arm so hard he left marks. Tell them, the seed is strong. His seed. He wanted everyone to know what a good strong boy my baby was going to be." "Lysa," Catelyn said, "if you're right about the Lannisters, all the more reason we must act quickly. We—" "Not in front of the baby," Lysa said. "He has a delicate temper, don't you, sweet one?" "The boy is Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale," Catelyn reminded her, "and these are no times for delicacy. Ned thinks it may come to war." "Quiet!" Lysa snapped at her. "You're scaring the boy." Little Robert took a quick peek over his shoulder at Catelyn and began to tremble. His doll fell to the rushes, and he pressed himself against his mother. "Don't be afraid, my sweet baby," Lysa whispered. "Mother's here, nothing will hurt you." She opened her robe and drew out a pale, heavy breast, tipped with red. The boy grabbed for it eagerly, buried his face against her chest, and began to suck. Lysa stroked his hair. Catelyn was at a loss for words. Jon Arryn's son, she thought incredulously. She remembered her own baby, three-year-old Rickon, half the age of this boy and five times as fierce. Small wonder the lords of the Vale were restive. For the first time she understood why the king had tried to take the child away from his mother to foster with the Lannisters . . . "We're safe here," Lysa was saying. Whether to her or to the boy, Catelyn was not sure. "Don't be a fool," Catelyn said, the anger rising in her. "No one is safe. If you think hiding here will make the Lannisters forget you, you are sadly mistaken." Lysa covered her boy's ear with her hand. "Even if they could bring an army through the mountains and past the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie is impregnable. You saw for yourself. No enemy could ever reach us up here." Catelyn wanted to slap her. Uncle Brynden had tried to warn her, she realized. "No castle is impregnable." "This one is," Lysa insisted. "Everyone says so. The only thing is, what am I to do with this Imp you have brought me?" "Is he a bad man?" the Lord of the Eyrie asked, his mother's breast popping from his mouth, the nipple wet and red. "A very bad man," Lysa told him as she covered herself, "but Mother won't let him harm my little baby." "Make him fly," Robert said eagerly. Lysa stroked her son's hair. "Perhaps we will," she murmured. "Perhaps that is just what we will do."