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cljordan-imperium · 1 year

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Pixies - FINAL (Jan 2016)

The battle was over, but there was still much to do

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

tw - mentions of death and mourning, this is sad and solemn. Please be in a good place while reading, it's heavy.

A/N - if you are not in a good place you can text HOME to 741741 any time of day, any day of the week, and a trained counselor will be there to listen and help. You are not alone. You are not a burden. You are valid. You are heard. <3

The silence of my chambers was deafening as I stood in formal attire preparing to face the Nephilim Council, those who had come to pay their respects to our fallen, the members of the clave, and my brother. When the Council had arrived, there had been a flurry of activity. Nephilim going here and there, constant chatter that had driven me almost to the brink of insanity as the drone of it had risen to a fever pitch as the battle had been recounted it seemed endlessly by all who spoke to one of the members. Their voices held almost a tone of glee when regaling how we had defeated the pixies, a tone of awe when speaking of the Guardians. It seemed there were none that did not want to tell one of members a tale of how it happened. Except one, me. I had remained silent. For me, there was no glory in that battle. While we may have won, we suffered great loss as well. Loss that still still stung at the heart of me.

Now I was preparing to go down to the back gardens where 105 funeral pyres had been built. On each one now lay one of the shrouded fallen from that battle, one who I had failed to bring home from that night. My brother hadn’t had to ask how I felt, I could see in his eyes that he knew the pain and loss I now felt. Our conversations taking place more through the exchange of looks than through words since his arrival back at the manor. I understood him better now, I wished with all my heart I didn’t.

I looked in the mirror before heading out of my chambers and I swear I could see the change that had taken place from the girl who had spent her life running and hiding to the woman that now had lead an army, who had suffered great loss. It was in the hollows under my eyes, the way that I carried my shoulders, everything about me spoke to what I now was. No longer the hunted and the prey, I was now the hunter, the warrior, the bringer of death and sometimes death struck back.

The halls were empty as I descended the stairs to the first level. This was a welcome relief from the bevy of activity that had been in them the last few days. It was as if the entire manor itself was in mourning for those we had lost. The halls now quiet and empty, even my footfalls seeming to be absorbed into the ether as I walked more silently than I should have. The air itself felt different, heavier, as if all of the joy and happiness had been removed to leave only grief and sorrow behind in its wake. There was magic in every stone of the manor and I wondered as I reached the ground floor if that magic wasn’t reflecting back at us now it’s own sense of loss.

I slowly traversed the long hallway that lead that lead to the back of the manor where everyone was gathered. I had practiced my speech over and over and still it seemed the words rang hollow in my ears, for words alone could not convey the depth of my sorrow and the strength of character the fallen had shown. No words could do any of that justice and it seemed now a travesty to try. The fallen deserved to be honored though, so honor them we would before lighting the pyres that would release their spirits to the everafter and the Heaven that awaited them.

As the doors were opened and I walked into the sunlight, all eyes of those gathered fell on me. It was yet another weight upon me, another burden I felt I carried as I walked to the appointed spot at the top of the marble stairs that led down into the formal gardens, to be flanked on one side by my brother and the other by the head of the Nephilim Council. I looked to my brother, and there in his eyes I found understanding, pride, and faith in me. My brother who I had never understood since the day I first saw him in the infirmary, he was the one who now I looked to for understanding and the depths of it I saw in that one look touched me so deep that I can scarce even explain it. In that moment he gave me a gift so rare and special that I will treasure it always. Tears threatened to well up, but I fought them back and gave him a short nod before facing the gathered Nephilim.

“Brothers and Sisters, today we honor those who fell defending this city, this world we love, from the forces of evil. While our foe may have been tiny in size, their power was great and their numbers many. Every warrior knew the odds going into the battle were against us based on the past, but not one showed cowardice in the face of our enemy. Those who fell fought bravely and without them the victory we achieved that day would not have been possible. It was my supreme honor to have fought alongside these brave males and females, and it is my deepest regret that they did not return safely to those who loved them.” My voice cracked on the last word and I paused for a moment. I took in a deep breath before continuing. I owed them this. “Their names shall ever be inscribed in the Book Of Heroes and the tales of their bravery shall endure for future Nephilim generations to read of their heroic acts that night in the park. While their life on this Earth was cut short, their names and the spirit with which they fought will remain for eternity. They deserve more than this, but we who are living have no more to give them than to never forget the sacrifice that they made so that we may carry on the mission of protecting this world from evil.” I took two steps down towards the gardens where they pyres were. “Now each one will be remembered in turn as we release their spirit to eternity.”

I descended the remaining stairs, knowing that my brother and the head of the Council were only two steps behind me the whole way. Both men were over a foot and a half taller than me, so I knew they had to be significantly shortening their strides to keep from coming alongside me, but I heard nothing in complaint from either of them. Stoically we walked to the first pyre and the torch was lit, then handed to me. I turned again to face those gathered, reciting the name of the fallen Nephilim who lay behind me. Turning again to face the pyre I recited the same words which I would repeat 104 more times: “Esto sana a plaga tua mortalis in regno caelorum , virum fortem et nobilem . Litigatis est in hoc regno , animum tuum in pace. (Be freed from this mortal realm to your reward in the heavens, brave and noble warrior. You fight in this realm is over, may your soul be at peace. )”

At the end of the recitation, I lowered the torch and the pyre caught fire. The flames danced high into the sky, showering small embers and sparks over all gathered. I stood transfixed watching the oranges and the reds of the fire seem to dance over the pyre. I would not move until the corporal body of the Nephilim had been consumed, and it had to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done not to turn from watching it. I had always looked on fire as a thing of beauty, but this day it was so hideous to me that my stomach churned at it’s flames. The tears that I had held back so long would be restrained no longer and silently fell down my cheeks in streams as I stood unmoving.

Finally I felt a hand on my shoulder. Without turning I knew who it was, I could feel the familiar hum of his power in just his touch. For the first time, my brother’s power did not unnerve me, but provided a small portion of comfort. I do not know if it was him using his powers or the knowledge that he understood what it was like to do this and had done it himself, either way it was what I needed to carry on. I nodded, taking in a deep breath before moving to the next pyre to begin the ritual again. Somewhere between one pyre and the next I found my voice and dammed the tears that still flowed.

I am not sure how I remained standing or speaking through all of them, but I did. Dusk had fallen by the time that the last one had been lit and the body fully consumed and turned to ash. The sky around the manor was a dusky orange as the clouds above and the wards reflected the glow of the pyres that still burned. I returned to the spot on the stairs I had given my earlier speech. It was here I would stand until all of the pyres had been fully consumed to the ground and extinguished. It was my last duty as their commander, the last honor I could pay the fallen.

When all had gone dark, those who gathered dispersed, and the gardens had once again fallen silent. I walked to the nearest bench and sat, head bowed. I had gone over every detail of the battle in the preceding days, trying to figure out what I could have done different, what would have made a difference. I had come to realize it was never in my hands to decide their fate that day. I may have been in command of the army, but I never had control of the battle. It didn’t ease my guilt or banish my sorrow, but it did make it easier to face the oncoming battles that we would doubtless have to wage. Evil would never stop its attack on the mortal realm, and we would never stop driving it back. It was our mission and the reason for our race’s creation at the commission of the first sin. To protect mankind from the evil beings that would destroy it, we were created for a time such as this.

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noctivague · 1 year

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I posted 550 times in 2022

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I tagged 418 of my posts in 2022

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Longest Tag: 124 characters

#sometimes i want to do that and start writing posts but i end up discarding them because idk it feels too much to share that

My Top Posts in 2022:

Incense blends for the Gods (part 2)

Link to part 1 here.

Link to my post about incense in ancient greece

Haven't done this in a whiiiile but I'm running low on my incense stocks so I'm starting to think about those blends again.

Once again, this is partly historical and partly UPG, so use this as an inspiration if you want and get creative !

In the months to come I will probably put some of these to the test and review how they feel and smell, because ultimately what matters is that the scent is pleasant to the gods and that you took time and effort to craft something special !

Hekate

Dragon blood - she is often associated with snakes and dragons, one of her epithets is drakaina, so naturally my mind wantered to this resin. So yeah, a poetic association. Plus I love the scent.

Saffron - this one is more historical as this spice and its color is associated to the goddess

Cypress (leaves or wood) - a tree associated with death which I picked due to Her psychopomp role

Yew - historically put around the neck of bulls ready to be sacrificed to Her, also burnt on funeral pyres

Dionysos

Labdanum - a thick and resinous product with a very instense and intoxicating scent

Pine resin - his thyrsos has a pine cone at the top so pine resin seems really fitting. Of course would be better to use a mediterranean pine but I think you can broaden a bit

Frankincense/Olibanum - as per the orphic hymn

Bay Leaves - connected to the meanads

Zeus

Oak (leaves of wood) - sacred to Zeus

Sage - it is said that he was raised under a sage bush

Storax/benzoin - as per the orphic hymn (see my other post)

Frankincense - as per the orphic hymn

Persephone

Violets (dried or scented incense) - she was plucking violets when she was captured by Hades

Lilies - same reason -> could work with roses as well

Patchouli - a rather odd combination you make think but to me it has a really earthy and nostalgic/sad scent to me and one that goes well with flowers

Benzoin/Storax - a ceremonial scent that would fit her role as Queen of the Underworld

129 notes - Posted August 15, 2022

See the full post

158 notes - Posted June 10, 2022

Incense blends for the Gods (part 1)

A while ago I made a post about incense in Ancient Greece, and following that I really wanted to make my own incense blends for the gods as a way to have something I could dedicate to them and them only. I'm going to focus on the five gods I currently worship but if y'all are interested I can do more ! Since I already made a list of which incense is historically attested for which deity, I'm going to go a bit beyond that. I got inspiration from the historical links but I also picked things intuitively and relied on UPG.

There are no measurments as I haven't gotten to make these just yet (it's planned for next month) so this is currently a theoric recipe.

Grind everything in a mortar and mix together and store away from the light.

Note that I find all my incense from this french website which has incredible quality and really great prices, so if you're in Europe it's worth considering. I have no idea where people elsewhere might go to! Etsy perhaps?

Hermes

Indian/golden Benzoin - I tried many different types of benzoin and I found that this one is the sweetest of them all and the one that brings the most joy to my heart, hence why it seemed the most fitting to him

Dried lavender - a calming herb that smells delicious when burnt and that I associate with him (and I'm apparently not the only one)

Cinnamon - great because you can buy it in a supermarket, use either powder or sticks that you will break. Cinnamon is a common UPG and a scent that brings warmth to the whole mix.

Saffron - comes from the crocus flower which is associated to him. Quite pricey so you don't need to put tons of it.

Apollo

Oliban - Solar incense by excellence, this smells bright and confident to me. There are different types for different budgets so pick the one that suits yours the best.

Laurel leaves - historically attested and one I like to use for its purifying properties

Cloves - Smells incredible and brings warmth to the overall fragrance, one that I find to be solar as well.

Amber - it is known as a stone that is symbolically connected to the sun, but did you know it was also used as an incense since it's a resin ? To me amber feels like solidified sunrays so I thought it would fit nicely in the mix.

Artemis

Mugwort - also called Artemisia, this plant has a particular scent but one that works, I think, nicely for her someone just told me mugwort is toxic when burnt, which I didn't know! So please don't use that ! A good alternative would be sage

Cedarwood - Cedar is said to be associated to her and smells lovely. Note that cedar resin is also a thing so you can use that instead if it's more available to you.

Pine tree resin - I wanted something that reminded me of a forest for the Goddess of the Hunt and I thought pine resin would fit quite nicely.

Demeter

Barley seeds - historically attested and symbolically connected to the goddess and her title of Lady of the Grain

Mint - also historically attested (used in the Eleusinian Mysteries)

Elemi gum - a sticky ingredients that has a citrusy and woody smell and one I associate with her.

Aphrodite

Myrrh - symbolically seen as a feminine incense and one I find both beautiful and sensual, which is why I think it's suited to her. As to what type of myrrh you should use, obviously better quality will be more expensive and I found that they smell even better, so go with your budget!

Rose - for this use either dried flowers or rose scented granules such as these. This flower is perhaps THE aphrodisian flower so I couldn't not use it.

Jasmin - same deal than with the rose, use flowers or scented granules. This flower has a sensual and voluptuous smell that is perfect for this goddess.

Sandalwood - a delicious scent that mixes quite well with the other used in this blend and one that I associate with her.

228 notes - Posted January 30, 2022

☀️ Apollo devotional acts ☀️

Hello it's me again with a post I was meant to put online three weeks ago! I've done several of these: Artemis - Demeter - I also made one for Hermes during my 30 days challenge but I've just realized it's quite short so I will be making a new one again at some point in the future.

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323 notes - Posted March 18, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

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340 notes - Posted July 31, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#Lmao my longest tag is about me not sharing enough #There's room for improvement

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wonderlandwriterblog · 2 years

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A Sky Without the Sun

So of course my first post on this account would be some sad shit. Spoilers of you have not read Song of Achilles or the Iliad I guess? But they have both been out for quite a while so...

Words: 1453

Trigger warnings: Death, loss and grief, violence, blood

Achilles wakes. Eyes swollen and burning from the torment from the night before. His hands slide across the bed, only to find the cold blankets lay flat beside him. He knows what he is searching for, but to speak it would be to twist the fiery dagger that has made its nest inside his stomach for the past three months. Achilles glances over to his blades, as they rest near his unused armor.

He would slash his throat now, if only his limbs were not so heavy. The magic of his lover’s presence has now been replaced by the crushing weight of his absence.

Such things, the mighty Achilles never thought he would feel.

There was a comfort that came with the thought of dying first. When Achilles was told of the rest of his prophecy, he had imagined his bronze-skinned lover standing over his funeral pyre, watching the flames wash over his body, watching his ashes be collected.

Patroclus will live, he thought, I would only have to wait for him.

And how to continue on now? When more of this life has been spent loving him, being loved by him, than being without?

This was his own doing. Achilles brought them here. All for a distant love he would never be a witness to, by people he would never meet.

There would be other wars. He would fade from history like a scar would; never as bright, but still there.

Now, he would not mind not being remembered at all, if it meant never having to know what this pain is like, losing the other half of your soul. It is the moon without the stars; the sky without the sun; the ocean without its waves.

How foolish he had been, to choose something so fleeting, while immortality laid within his grasp each night.

He thinks of his eyes, deep brown that turned to honey in the sun. His curly brown hair that would tickle Achilles’ nose when his lover’s head rested on his chest. The soft fullness of his lips, the shape of them. His thought of his voice, his laugh.

Achilles groans as he stands. The thick clumps of what was left of his hair were tangled, unwashed. He pushes them out of his eyes. He no longer bothered with the armor any longer.

As he leaves his tent, the remaining myrmidons avoid his gaze. He feels their disgust, even their pity. But he no longer cares. He feels the light breeze run over his skin as his men walk ahead of him.

They ready themselves for the Trojans on the journey there, while Achilles stays in the back. The days no longer stand out to him. He wakes, walks to the walls of Troy, steals the life of men who have never offended him, and then he returns to camp, to have another loveless night.

The Trojans wait for them when they arrive, and the Greeks are ready. They shake their limbs as they begin their formation, clattering their spears against shields, and then begin to run.

Achilles feels the blood hit his skin as his sword cuts through skin and muscle. Men shout and race around him, sweat dripping from under their helmets and from the ends of their hair. Achilles moves on instinct, wishing everyday now that someone was faster than he was.

Just like every day, the Trojans go back behind their walls, gates closing heavily behind them. The bodies of the Greeks are collected, carried by the men who used to call them friends. Blood soaks in the earth around them.

As they leave, Achilles watches his feet move beneath him, then he hears it. The stumbling and preparation of man enraged. He looks to his left, to see Paris. He prepares his bow, pulling the arrow tightly back. Achilles sees a bright light just behind him, it braces over Paris’ shoulder and spreads along his weapon.

Achilles’ hand twitches, death is so close to him now. He imagines touching his lover once again. To interlace their fingers as they brace the underworld together. He closes his eyes, humming a song he used to play on the lyre to his lover.

The arrow pierces his skin, and it burns as it winds its way into his chest. With what little air he still has left, he laughs. It’s quick and frantic, but he could not stop himself. He feels his legs growing wobbly, his hands let go of his weapons, they fall onto the dirt beside him.

His vision begins growing dark, He thinks of his lover, pulling him into his arms and holding him for hours. Suddenly, his knees hit the ground.

Patroclus, Achilles would have said it aloud if he could, Patroclus Patroclus Pactroclus…

Achilles is hollow. He does not cast a shadow in the sand, the grass does not yield to his steps. He can not feel the sun on his skin. No one can hear him when he speaks, when he reaches out for them he passes through them.

Has this where his lover has been trapped? Guilt fills him once again, but he shakes his head, pushing all of it out now. It will do him no good to think about such things now, when it will so soon be fixed.

He craves the dark, he craves his lover. He knows it will not be long now.

“I have come to take my father’s place.” A red haired boy calls from a distance. Heads turn toward him, the sea of men part the way before him. This was the only way Achilles knew where he was in the camp.

“I am the son of Achilles.” Achilles does not believe this. Though he has never met his son, he always imagined if he had, that he would know it. He would feel a longing in his chest pulling toward him. But this boy, Achilles felt nothing for this boy.

He tells the men his name, and watches as he sits in the seat Achilles once did. He speaks of the caves where he used to live.

Where Achilles would have lived, if his mother had it her way.

“We are discussing where to build his father’s tomb.”

“On the hill,”

“A fitting place for them.”

“Them?” There is confusion in the young man’s voice.

“Your father and his companion, Patroclus.” The dagger twists, and Achilles longs for their reunion. To hold his lover again like he used to.

“And why should this man be buried beside Aristos Achaion?” Achilles stiffens at the disgust in the young man’s voice.

They explain to him Achilles’ wishes, but the boy’s expression does not change. He seems unaffected by the men.

“I will not allow my father’s fame to be diminished. The monument is for him and him alone.” Achilles’ ears ring. He is dead. He has been disconnected from his body since that moment. But this?

This form of disconnect causes his body to stiffen and his mind to float. He watches the breeze ruffle the boy’s, no, his son’s, hair. He feels nothing but hatred toward him as he continues to march through the camp that Achilles once did.

It does not take long for the men to begin carving out his tomb, Achilles knows he has little time. Achilles is panicking. He is running amongst oblivious men, he is screaming, “This can not be for nothing!”

He begins pulling at the clothes of the men as they dig. He screams until he is so hoarse no sound escapes. His fists pound the sand, but it does not move to him.

As they begin burying the urn, he races to the shore and calls for his mother. He has not spoken to her in months, but he calls for her like a lost child would. She never comes.

And now, he collapses onto the sand, curled in a ball.

Achilles feels his feet begin to slip into the earth. He grabs at the land around him, but it slips through him, like a stone thrown in a river.

“Please,” He cries, “Mother! Please!” He slips into the ground before he can say more. The darkness absorbs him. He cannot feel, but he would assume it was colder down here than it was above.

He completes his journey in a blurr, not daring to move. He reaches a large open cave, with, Achilles assumes, the river styx flowing through a winding line just before him.

Achilles is frozen once more, kneeling on the sutt below him. It would have stained his skin before, but now it does not.

Charon waits in his boat, and Achilles truly knows now, it was all for nothing.

#the song of achilles #achillesandpatroclus #achilles x patroclus #patrochilles #patroclus

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godsofhumanity · 2 years

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BOOKS XXIII-XXIV | HOMER'S ILIAD | LITERATURE REVIEW

SUMMARY: Achilles brings Hector's corpse into the Greek camp and prepares to perform the funerary rites for Patroclus after being visited by his spirit in the night. The Greeks participate in grand funeral games for Patroclus. Apollo protests against the treatment of Hector's corpse by Achilles, and Zeus permits Hermes to guide Priam to Achilles. Priam pleads with Achilles to show mercy, and is successful. Hector's corpse is returned, and his funeral is celebrated.

previous book / all books

finally, we come to the last two books of the Iliad!!!

i've decided to merge the two books because, frankly, i don't think there's enough in Book XXIII for it to have its own post... also, i'm not really all that familiar with Ancient Greek funerary customs, so if there are parts worth talking about that i've missed, that's why haha

anyways. Book XXIII takes on a rather different tone than the previous books we've read so far.. or at least, it felt that way to me.

throughout the Iliad, we have a very serious tone, sometimes filled with a lot of dread and foreboding- this makes sense, of course, because the key subject of the Iliad is war, and war is harsh and brutal.

but in Book XXIII, we observe another aspect of war- the honour and courage shown by soldiers in their willingness to sacrifice themselves for their nations... this is not meant to be a gloomy subject, but a joyful one- it's a celebration, and Patroclus' funerary games enforce this.

we begin Book XXIII with Achilles dragging Hector's body around the place, and then we see the spirit of Patroclus visiting Achilles.. i think this scene is important in that it reminds us just how significant and vital funerary rites and customs were to the Ancient Greeks... Patroclus says:

"You sleep, Achilles, and have forgotten me... Bury me with all speed that I may pass the gates of Hades. The ghosts, vain shadows of men that can labour no more, drive me away from them. They will not yet suffer me to join those hat are beyond the river, and I wander all desolate by the wide gates of the house of Hades."

so, because Achilles was waiting to kill Hector before he buried Patroclus, poor Patroclus' ghost has been wandering around aimlessly unable to move on into the house of Hades... it's a pretty sad image to think about, but the visitation of Patroclus to Achilles is key in understanding why the funerary games in the next scene are so grand and splendid.

death for Patroclus and the other soldiers is not the end- once he passes through Hades, he will continue to live on as a soul, and perhaps be reunited with his fellow comrades when they pass on too. so, though there is an aspect of sadness and grief that a soldier has died, there is also the sense that the soul has not disappeared entirely, and that one day they will be reunited- this is the cause of celebration i think.

there's a lengthy description of the preparation of Patroclus' pyre, but after this scene, the tone of the book becomes a lot lighter.. there are plenty of little interactions between characters that are almost comedic- we have Menelaus and Antilochus racing against each other, and then, very politely passing the winning prize between each other- both wanting to keep the prize for themselves, but also unwilling to slight the other.

i like the race between Menelaus and Antilochus not only for the light humour, but i think it reveals a little more about Menelaus' character- considering that the war was caused by him, Menelaus doesn't really get all that much screen time, i felt- but in this book, i just feel like he gets a chance to show who he is... he is proud and has a temper, but he's not mindless- he is moved by Antilochus' humility and willingness to give his prize to Menelaus without argument (even though really, it was Antilochus' right), and permits Antilochus to keep the prize for himself.

i think the scene becomes even more interesting if you recall Achilles' earlier temper tantrum at having to give over his own prize (i.e., Briseis) to Agamemnon- of course, these two situations are on completely different levels, but it's just an interesting parallel.. and it's curious how the two brothers, Menelaus and Agamemnon, react differently.

antics like these continue on during the games, with my favourite scene being Ajax tripping (thanks a lot, Athena) and landing face-first into a pile of cow shit... Homer didn't really need to add this little detail, but i'm glad he did!!

Book XXIII ends with a lighthearted game of javelin.. but this friendly tone doesn't carry into Book XXIV where we return to Troy, still bitter and in a state of mourning for Hector.

now, the Iliad opens up in the middle of the war, so we miss out on the story of Eris and the Golden Apple, but in Book XXIV, Homer describes very briefly the cause of the war:

"... but the blessed gods looked down in pity [on Hector], and urged Hermes, slayer of Argus, to steal the body. All were of this mind save only Hera, Poseidon, and [Athena], who persisted in the hate which they had ever borne towards Ilium with Priam and his people; for they forgave not the wrong done by Paris in disdaining the goddesses who came to him when he was in his sheepyards, and preferring her who had offered him a wanton to his ruin."

i'm not sure if this is merely a translational thing, but i think it's interesting that Aphrodite is not explicitly mentioned here, nor Helen... it's almost as singling out a goddess is taboo- and indeed, it was taboo for Paris who dared to single out Aphrodite from the three goddesses.

in any case, luckily the sentiments of Hera, Poseidon, and Athena (what's Poseidon peeved about anyway..?) are not shared by the rest of the gods who remember that Hector was always faithful and gave offerings. so, Hermes goes down, and guides Priam to Achilles.

now, when Hermes and Priam talk, Hermes says this:

"For myself, I will do you no harm, and I will defend you from anyone else, for you remind me of my own father."

Hermes is in disguise, but we as the audience already know who Hermes truly is, and we know that Hermes' father is Zeus.... i'm not sure if Hermes was merely playing the part, but i think we are meant to note the comparison between Priam and Zeus.

interestingly, though Zeus has sent Hermes to help Priam get Hector's body back, i think that Priam would have attempted to plead with Achilles with or without the gods' help- it demonstrates the idea that Priam and Zeus seem to be on the same page without even realising it.. in Book XXII itself, not even 5 minutes after Hector dying, Priam says:

"... suffer me to go single-handed to the ships of the Achaeans. Let me beseech this cruel and terrible man [Achilles], if maybe he will respect the feeling of his fellow men, and have compassion on my old age."

in comparing Priam, king of Ilium, to Zeus, king of the gods, we establish Priam's wisdom and eloquence, and identify him as a regal character.

when Priam and Achilles finally meet, we have this touching scene of Priam supplicating to Achilles:

"King Priam entered without their seeing him, and going right up to Achilles he clasped his knees and kissed the dread murderous hands that had slain so many of his sons."

sounds familiar? we've seen this image of supplication earlier when Thetis went to Zeus on Achilles' behalf to grant the Trojans victory! only now, the roles have been inverted- Thetis' son is now the one on the throne having his knees clasped by Zeus' "representative", Priam. i think the recollection of Thetis' earlier supplication makes this scene with Priam even more powerful and emotive than before- here, these mere mortals are imitating the actions of their gods and they don't even realise it.

Priam's pleading is successful, and Achilles returns the body to Troy, even permitting a lengthy period during which Hector's funerary rites could be performed.

interestingly, the final piece of lengthy dialogue that we hear in the Iliad is not from Priam, Andromache, Paris, or from any of the gods- it comes from Helen. she says:

"[Hector,] dearest of all my brothers-in-law- for I am wife to Paris who brought me hither to Troy- would that I had died ere he did so- twenty years are come and gone since I left my home and came from over the sea, but I have never heard one word of insult or unkindness from you. When another would chide with me... you would rebuke and check them with words of gentleness and good will. Therefore my tears flow both for you and for my unhappy self, for there is no one else in Troy who is kind to me, but all shrink and shudder as they go by me."

Helen's speech is awfully similar to the one which Briseis gives when she comes before the corpse of Patroclus.

i think it's curious that Helen should have the last say* in the Iliad, and not any of the Trojans- it's almost as though the Trojans no longer have a voice.. in light of what happens after the Iliad, Helen's speech is almost foreshadowing the future course of the war.

*Priam actually does have the very last dialogue in the Iliad, but it's just him telling the people to bring wood for the pyre, so i'm not counting it.

anyhow, Book XXIV concludes with a final statement:

"Thus, then, did they celebrate the funeral of Hector, tamer of horses."

so there! finally, all 24 books of the Iliad are finished! if you read all the way down to here, then thank you for your time and congratulations! sorry for the all the lengthy breaks in between books ahaha :(((

if you have other thoughts on these two books, let me know :D

#the iliad #review #long post #homer

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konmarkimageswords · 8 months

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What Is Our Life

WHAT is our life? The play of passion. Our mirth? The music of division: Our mothers’ wombs the tiring-houses be, Where we are dressed for life’s short comedy. The earth the stage; Heaven the spectator is, Who sits and views whosoe’er doth act amiss. The graves which hide us from the scorching sun Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus playing post we to our latest rest, And then we die in earnest, not in jest.

The Conclusion

Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wander'd all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust.

My Last Will

When I am safely laid away, Out of work and out of play, Sheltered by the kindly ground From the world of sight and sound, One or two of those I leave Will remember me and grieve, Thinking how I made them gay By the things I used to say; -- But the crown of their distress Will be my untidiness. What a nuisance then will be All that shall remain of me! Shelves of books I never read, Piles of bills, undocketed, Shaving-brushes, razors, strops, Bottles that have lost their tops, Boxes full of odds and ends, Letters from departed friends, Faded ties and broken braces Tucked away in secret places, Baggy trousers, ragged coats, Stacks of ancient lecture-notes, And that ghostliest of shows, Boots and shoes in horrid rows. Though they are of cheerful mind, My lovers, whom I leave behind, When they find these in my stead, Will be sorry I am dead. They will grieve; but you, my dear, Who have never tasted fear, Brave companion of my youth, Free as air and true as truth, Do not let these weary things Rob you of your junketings. Burn the papers; sell the books; Clear out all the pestered nooks; Make a mighty funeral pyre For the corpse of old desire, Till there shall remain of it Naught but ashes in a pit: And when you have done away All that is of yesterday, If you feel a thrill of pain, Master it, and start again. This, at least, you have never done Since you first beheld the sun: If you came upon your own Blind to light and deaf to tone, Basking in the great release Of unconsciousness and peace, You would never, while you live, Shatter what you cannot give; -- Faithful to the watch you keep, You would never break their sleep. Clouds will sail and winds will blow As they did an age ago O'er us who lived in little towns Underneath the Berkshire downs. When at heart you shall be sad, Pondering the joys we had, Listen and keep very still. If the lowing from the hill Or the tolling of a bell Do not serve to break the spell, Listen; you may be allowed To hear my laughter from a cloud. Take the good that life can give For the time you have to live. Friends of yours and friends of mine Surely will not let you pine. Sons and daughters will not spare More than friendly love and care. If the Fates are kind to you, Some will stay to see you through; And the time will not be long Till the silence ends the song. Sleep is God's own gift; and man, Snatching all the joys he can, Would not dare to give his voice To reverse his Maker's choice. Brief delight, eternal quiet, How change these for endless riot Broken by a single rest? Well you know that sleep is best. We that have been heart to heart Fall asleep, and drift apart. Will that overwhelming tide Reunite us, or divide? Whence we come and whither go None can tell us, but I know Passion's self is often marred By a kind of self-regard, And the torture of the cry "You are you, and I am I." While we live, the waking sense Feeds upon our difference, In our passion and our pride Not united, but allied. We are severed by the sun, And by darkness are made one.

(Sir Walter Raleigh)

Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-1618) was an English aristocrat, writer, poet, soldier, courtier, spy, and explorer. He is also well known for popularising tobacco in England.

Raleigh was born to a Protestant family in Devon, the son of Walter Raleigh and Catherine Champernowne. Little is known for certain of his early life, though he spent some time in Ireland, in Killua Castle, Clonmellon, County Westmeath, taking part in the suppression of rebellions and participating in the Siege of Smerwick. Later he became a landlord of properties confiscated from the Irish rebels. He rose rapidly in the favour of Queen Elizabeth I, and was knighted in 1585. He was involved in the early English colonisation of Virginia under a royal patent. In 1591 he secretly married Elizabeth Throckmorton, one of the Queen's ladies-in-waiting, without the Queen's permission, for which he and his wife were sent to the Tower of London. After his release, they retired to his estate at Sherborne, Dorset.

In 1594 Raleigh heard of a "City of Gold" in South America and sailed to find it, publishing an exaggerated account of his experiences in a book that contributed to the legend of "El Dorado". After Queen Elizabeth died in 1603 Raleigh was again imprisoned in the Tower, this time for allegedly being involved in the Main Plot against King James I, who was not favourably disposed toward him. In 1616 he was released to lead a second expedition in search of El Dorado. This was unsuccessful and men under his command ransacked a Spanish outpost. He returned to England and, to appease the Spanish, was arrested and executed in 1618.

Raleigh was beheaded in the Old Palace Yard at the Palace of Westminster on 29 October 1618. "Let us dispatch", he said to his executioner. "At this hour my ague comes upon me. I would not have my enemies think I quaked from fear." After he was allowed to see the axe that would behead him, he mused: "This is a sharp Medicine, but it is a Physician for all diseases and miseries." According to many biographers -Raleigh Trevelyan in his book Sir Walter Raleigh (2002) for instance- Sir Walter's final words (as he lay ready for the axe to fall) were: "Strike, man, strike".

#Youtube

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gekkoinapeartree · 2 years

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Ok Welp- it’s now technically Monday but like… I haven’t slept yet so it’s fine. Right? That’s how days work, it’s totally a thing.

Anyways.

So …. My tagging and then writing six sentences per tag per fic was a bit of a bust.

But! I did manage to write more. More COBB, a bit of Magically Required and some random thing that mind needed to figure out because of my own feelings being complicated and messy.

Also thanks to all the folks who tagged me this week… and Wednesday?? I think I posted Wednesday? Who even knows anymore- but thank you all the same!!

Everyone has been writing and arting such incredible work and I am in love with it all.

But yes!

Man this week has been strange and wrought with sick kiddos and alcohol and not getting enough sleep. I’ve lost track of the days.

Anyways I think I have enough of my rando fic to post here, it’s Agatha POV and it will eventually be her and Penny bonding through Pole dancing classes ( and possibly burlesque? ) but it’s kinda going off my own feelings of inadequacy, body issues and sexuality/sex stuff etc.

I don’t think it will be NSFW- it’s just gonna talk about thoughts on sex, and feelings just cuz — I guess processing those things is easier through writing other characters??

Who knows. But yes.

So no one’s read this yet, and I’m not sure how interested in Agatha being very Agatha in it, but Penny will be Penny as much as I can make her- and anyone else will just be kind of support cast I think?

We shall see- since it’s more of a “hey I’m sorting my thoughts” type thing, I don’t think it’ll have too much of an actual plot. So maybe it’ll be terrible? I hope not but whatever. That’s how the phoenix crumbles and lights up like a sad and tiny funeral pyre.

Anyways to the snippet!!

Agatha tentatively pulled her tights off, feeling abnormally self conscious around her new classmates. She wasn’t used to this feeling - feeling concerned about being judged.

She was usually the most beautiful face in the room, she knew. And she wasn’t being cocky or self involved about it either. It was more of a fact. She saw how she turned heads, saw eyes linger over her. It usually made her want to scream.

The long studio mirror stretched out in front of her. Girls of all sizes were around her, chatting amongst themselves unencumbered by the near nakedness of their pole dancing shorts and tightly fitted shirts.

She was the alien in the room- the newcomer among this coven of lean muscled dancers. Exotic dancers her mind supplied, in her mothers quivering voice.

She had been less than thrilled when Agatha had told her about having signed up for Pole dancing and Russian Exotic Dance.

So that’s the new one that probably will just stay in WIP purgatory until I finish the other fics.

And since Magically Required hasn’t been updated in forever 😢 (sorry!!!!) …. Here’s a snippet of that too. ( also I already have decided I do not give a fluffy fox tail about posting 6 sentences- just whatever I feel like sharing so… deal with it ? Please? And thank you? )

Here it is! Chapter 8 on its way….

Any other boy, upon hearing this sound, would have come in their pants instantly. Any other mage would have used magic to lube up their throbbing cock and throw Snow over the nearest surface to fuck him as deeply, wildly and passionately as he deserves.

I however, like the cursed undead creature I am do neither of these things. ( although I feel like I coud. The fact that I haven’t given in to this temptation already is unprecedented.)

No, instead I, T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch remain completely frozen in horror.

My fangs have popped.

Fuck my life.

Taggos!! @ileadacharmedlife @confused-bi-queer @moodandmist @fatalfangirl @gampyre @takitalks @you-remind-me-of-the-babe @facewithoutheart @palimpsessed @aristocratic-otter @aroace-genderfluid-sheep @johnwgrey @mrskrementz @annabellelux @bazzybelle @f-ing-ruthless-baz @nonbaznary @penpanoply @wellbelesbian @wishwars @otherworldsivelivedin @martsonmars @exlibrisfangirl @henreyettah @krisrix @love-inthetimeof-x @letraspal @rhienfic

Mk if you were tagged and you tagged me: this is a thank you and a preemptive tag for next week ( or Wednesday in case I miss it!? I hope not! )

If you were tagged and you don’t know who I am : I read your stuff! I love it that’s why I follow you! Hugs to you and your brilliance!!

If you were tagged and you didn’t tag me: go write six sentences of absolutely anything- journal? Writing prompt? Outline? Letter to a friend? I mean *i’d* prefer something that’s a WIP but like who needs that pressure! You do you and know that I love your work!!

I’m doing my tags in a blanket like this because, like a chump I don’t want to have to keep check who tagged me. It’s laziness on my part I know, but know I appreciate you and this entire fandom as a whole and that this whole scene has added some very needed pep to my step so thank you friends <3

Xx kristi

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light-yaers · 3 years

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Fools in the Darkness: Chapter Three

Darkling x Reader

Warnings: Death, violence, drugs (Parem), NSFW and sexual content. This content is explicit and 18+ at some points.

A/N: I keep saying to expect a slow down soon and I MEAN IT. I can’t sustain this any longer and to be honest, be ready for fic writing to come to a halt for a few weeks time in the next months-- I have a university dissertation to be writing, but instead I’m doing this! PRIORITIES. Thank you all for reading, fr.

Fic Masterpost

Word Count - 3.6k

Chapter Three

“I thought he was a respectable General,” Inej whispered, finishing the last of her whiskey with a small frown.

“He plays the role well,” You replied sadly, before looking at Brekker. He was deep in thought, a scowl constantly present on his thin lips. “I’m only one person who knows the truth,”

“Then why tell us?” Kaz spoke suddenly. “Why share this with people you’ve just met?”

You took a moment to ponder your reply. Why were you telling the lackies at the Crow Club? The Dregs of the Barrel? Kaz Brekker and his band of un-merry men and women? Growing up in Kerch meant you already knew their names, despite not living in the country for most of your adult life. News travelled fast, especially when it concerned Ketterdam.

Maybe it was intentional that Inej found you that night, wandering the lush establishments at Fifth Harbour and riling up bouncers because of your appearance and obvious lack of kruge—or maybe it’d been fate.

“Why do you believe it?” You asked in return. “Why do you believe the word of a woman you’ve just met?” Kaz’s jaw clenched in response. He looked down at his desk, probably beating himself up over his prior question, even though it was a good one.

“Your Kefta,” Inej spoke up softly. “From afar, it looks like common dress, but up close, behind the mud and dirt, you can see the intricate embroidery,” She raised her tiny hands to your Kefta, placing her fingers on the stitched details—the winding winds of a Squaller, white threads against a deep black.

“You said you weren’t Second Army,” Kaz spoke up once more. “Yet you were in the Little Palace, being trained by the Darkling himself,”

“I never went on an army mission in the many months I was at the Little Palace,” You replied. “I was grateful at first, until I realised it was simply another way for me to eventually trust Kirigan, to worry about him,” Inej frowned at you then, showing you large and caring eyes. Kaz, however—he looked pained.

“But, what about—,”

“Do you wish for me to continue, Mr. Brekker?” You interrupted him, hearing the want and confusion in his voice. He swallowed down his words, forcing his gaze onto your eyes. He nodded once. You smiled slightly, readying yourself. “My sister’s funeral was held two days later...”

The Little Palace, 1 Year Later

The flames licked at her skin at first, until she was a light—bright, a star, burning so ferociously in a way that mimicked her personality when she was alive. Your sister, your last remaining family, the last love of your life.

She was burning. And there was nothing you could do but watch.

The funeral was a silent and small affair, but you hadn’t expected it to be anything more. If you were still out in the cold, harshness of Fjerda, it would have been even smaller than the reception she had at the Little Palace—

You stood on your own, closer to her burning flames. Behind you stood two Inferni; twins, a brother and sister. They looked at your sister solemnly, despite not knowing you or her. Maybe they felt your pain. Maybe they didn’t want to ever feel your pain. Beyond them stood the Heartrender, Ivan, the one who’d put you into a death state two days prior. And finally, behind him—

General Kirigan of the Second Army.

He donned his Kefta today; a menacing black and grey that only emphasised the broadness of his shoulders. His hands were clasped in front of him, his expression blunt and eyes reflecting the raging flames of your sister’s pyre. As much as you didn’t trust him, refused to trust him, he’d put all of this together.

He’d brought her back from those frozen wastelands. He’d arranged for her body to be cleaned and donned with lavish silks. He’d gathered the Inferni to light her pyre, after you’d denied wanting to light it yourself with a torch.

You stayed perfectly still as you watched her burn, too afraid that moving would only cause you to fully break down. You didn’t want that; you didn’t want another reason for those here to look at you oddly. Kirigan strolled forward then, slowly, gently, as you stayed facing the pyre.

“Let us leave you, now,” He whispered into your ear, so close it made you shiver. You nodded once, but not at him; at your sister. Slowly, one by one, the Grisha left you and your sister, until you were completely alone.

You don’t know how long you stayed out in that acre for, watching the acrid smoke rise into the air and the flames begin to die down, searching for her face within piles of ashes.

It was hours, most likely. The sun had been high in the sky when the pyre was lit, but now it was descending down, down, down the horizon, casting a pink glow over the lavishness of the Little Palace grounds.

And then, the fire went out.

The flames dissipated into nothing more than black smoke.

Then, it seemed almost pointless to stay standing there, frozen like a statue and looking at the last remaining substances of who your sister was. You glanced up at the sky for the first time in hours, indulging in the glorious sunset on the last eve of your sister’s presence on this Earth.

You kissed two of your fingers, placing them above the once flaming pyre. It was still incredibly hot, her ashes retaining the heat of the fire. And then, you left. You didn’t cry, you didn’t collapse, you simply walked back to the Little Palace, entered through the main doors, and then stopped—

And when you stopped, you almost couldn’t take it. You almost couldn’t stand the quiet, the air, the feeling of eyes watching you wherever you went, so close to falling to the ground where you stood and just giving up—

General Kirigan’s door clicked open as you stared at the floor. He rounded the corner of the frame, landing his eyes upon your slumped shoulders and laboured breaths. He took a few timid steps forward, but you hadn’t even noticed him yet, not until he cleared his throat.

You flinched immediately, hitting his eyes as a spike of anxiety was rammed through your heart. He’d scared you, and it seemed he knew he had. He frowned at your reaction, stepping forward once more. “It was a beautiful ceremony,”

You didn’t know what to say to him, nor did you have the energy or will to want to speak to the Darkling that stood before you. But there was a part of you that was grateful for his words—for his company amongst the winding corridors and scowling faces of the Grisha here at the Little Palace.

The only thing you were holding onto was Kirigan’s earlier promise.

“Tea?” He spoke again, this time prompting you to scoff involuntarily. You looked at him with an odd expression, one that was trying to work out his motives. From the small glimpses you’d got of Kirigan around other Grisha, you knew it wasn’t customary for the General to share tea with them.

“I could go for something stronger,” You said breathily, though you weren’t being entirely serious. Kirigan didn’t seem to get your joke, however, as he gestured to his chambers.

“Will Ravkan rum suffice?”

You’d lost count at the fifth, or maybe it was the sixth, but it was easy to just keep topping up your glass when Kirigan placed the bottle on the table between you. Sometimes it was him refilling the glasses and sometimes it was you, but neither of you particularly cared.

You were on the brink of being too drunk to stand, too drunk to know what you were saying, but perhaps—too drunk to care. It was the perfect relaxation tactic after the funeral. You’d almost needed this, even if General Kirigan wasn’t the person you’d imagined being sat opposite you.

“Where do you go all day?” You asked, your words not yet slurring, but getting close. “A few Grisha have said it’s unusual for you to attend training,” He smiled at your question, tapping his rum glass.

You’d had one day of training so far, put on hold for the funeral today. Kirigan had attended, but it’d been obvious that other Grisha were on edge by his presence. All except one—a Sqauller like yourself, by the name of Zoya.

“I don’t just oversee training. I’m in charge of many aspects of the army. Tactics, movements, squadrons,” He sipped his drink. “But you already know my reasoning for wanting to shadow your training,”

You nodded once, humming to yourself without realising. You looked at your hands then, twisting them out in front of you and pinpointing the various lines and indents, the length of your fingers, the curve of your nails.

“You didn’t wear your Kefta today,” Kirigan said, almost in a whisper. You flicked your gaze to his eyes. You’d woken that morning to a knock upon your door—a guard had handed you the intricately designed blue Kefta and then left, leaving you almost speechless.

You’d decided against wearing it, however, sticking to your usual clothes of a blouse and woven trousers, kept up with braces.

“I don’t feel like a Squaller yet,” You replied. “Not a proper one,” It was sad, the way that Kirigan looked at you. It almost made you move your gaze away from his deep eyes, but you couldn’t make yourself do it after alcohol was swimming in your system.

“It’s the blue, isn’t it?” He said, and the smile on his lips was an indication of his joke. You reciprocated his expression, feeling a small bubble of giggles in your gut.

“The blue is lovely,” You replied sarcastically, causing a laugh to burst from the General’s lips. You didn’t realise this man could laugh, could chuckle, could—well—feel.

A comfortable silence fluttered over Kirigan’s chambers. This was the second time you’d been in his room. His décor was so much different than the cream and gold walls of the Little Palace itself; with all dark wood furniture and stained walls. In the centre of his office sat a large circular table, topped with a map of the countries. In the middle—the Fold was indicated with an intricate wooden structure, painted a matte black.

You fluttered your eyes around the room, taking everything in. You inhaled, smelling the wooden scent of the furniture and the musty leather of the chair you sat in, mixed with something sweet that resembled an aftershave. You stared at the paintings and skimmed over his trinkets. Everything seemed to suit him perfectly.

When you turned back, the General was already looking at you.

“I’ll commission you a different Kefta design,” He said it so smoothly that you were reminded of the annoyance it had given you before, but with rum running through your veins all you felt was relaxed. “One that’s more suited to you,”

“You don’t have to do that,” You replied, feeling small under his colossal gaze. He smiled at your reddening cheeks.

“A glorious Kefta for a glorious storm summoner,”

Saints, the way he looked at you was almost too much. His eyes skimmed your skin, traversing your jaw, your nose, your lips, before falling back to your wide eyes. He was regarding you openly and you weren’t looking away—you were taking it full on, perhaps spurring him on to continue.

This was just the rum, it had to be. This wasn’t the General Kirigan you’d ever imagined.

Saints, stop.

“I should go,” You said then, rising yourself from the leather armchair. Kirigan copied you, exhaling at the same time he dragged his eyes off of you.

Your goodbye was as unceremonious as the walk back to your chambers. You staggered a few times, needing to clutch onto the spiral staircase for dear life, but by the time you were back at your room, you were ready to fall asleep immediately.

You lay in bed, your eyelids prepped for immediate rest, but your mind wouldn’t be quiet. In fact, it was yelling at you—screaming, crying, pelting you with warnings—

Stay away from General Kirigan. Do not indulge him.

All you could was laugh at your cautious mind, telling it that it was overreacting, before you were drifting off into much needed sleep.

You still didn’t don the Kefta the next day, sliding down to the training courtyard silently, as if hoping that no one would notice you being there. It was useless to want that, however, considering you were a face that Grisha here didn’t recognise, dressed in clothes instead of your respective Kefta.

You stood to the side while everyone gathered, chatting away before the instructor came forward. “Hand to hand combat is just as important as your abilities,” He said bluntly, flicking his eyes around the colourful group. “We’ll focus on that today. On strengthening your hits, your blocks, your stances,”

You almost smiled to yourself—you knew hand to hand combat. Very well, if you said so yourself. Growing up in Novyi Zem, defenceless and out in the open, you’d adapted quickly to being stealthy, as well as having a mean hit. Hand to hand was something you knew better than your own Grisha abilities.

“Get in pairs,” He continued, and that’s when your face dropped. You glanced around helplessly when everyone started pairing off, giggling and chatting and knowing each other after so long. You felt like a sore thumb; someone who wasn’t wanted.

Suddenly, she bombarded before you—Zoya Nazyalensky. She’d made herself known on your first day, most notably with her dirty looks and the scowl on her jaw, but now? She was beaming, smiling so wide and happily that you almost didn’t recognise her. She gripped your bicep excitedly. “Let’s pair up together, two Squaller’s against the World,”

You had a feeling Zoya wasn’t usually this chipper, but you had no choice but to accept her as your partner.

“Zoya,” The instructor prompted. “You and your partner, front and centre,”

Oh. So, that’s what she wanted.

There was no way to back out now, as Zoya dragged you to the centre of the courtyard. She removed herself to stand opposite you, and that’s when her face changed—back to the dirty looks she’d given you before, the obvious dislike and want to crush you just for funzies. You got the feeling that Zoya felt she was the only Squaller worthy for the Little Palace.

You simply had to prove yourself, then, in front of the other Grisha.

“Fight to defend yourselves, not to attack,” The instructor said, his eyes mostly on Zoya. She dipped into a stance and you followed suit.

Saints, please make this fight the least amount of humiliating that it needs to be.

Within seconds, she was moving. Her first swung through the air swiftly, but you jutted your elbow up to stop her forearm, whacking back with all of your force. Zoya gasped from the interruption, but it allowed you to jab your knuckles into her ribs.

You punched forward, hitting her right in her ribs and causing her to stagger back slightly from the hit. Her brows only furrowed more as you continued your back and forth, a hit—a block—a stance—a hit—a block—it was endless and incredibly draining, but the more you fought, the more Zoya became frustrated.

She’d been wanting a quick fight; something to show that she was superior. Little had she known that you were a fighter, more so with your fists than the winds.

You stepped back to the edge of the circle, breathing deeply, arms out in front of you ready to block her hits. Your hair was in your eyeline, the braces of your trousers slipping from your shoulders, but you wouldn’t stop for a second to pull them back up.

Zoya’s cheeks were blotched with colour, her mouth ajar as she inhaled and exhaled deep, long breaths, trying to get oxygen back into her system. You could see the anger creeping onto her face with every second that passed. You were reluctant to storm forward to hit her, knowing that that would give her the blocking advantage, so you stayed put, counting down the seconds until you’d be free of this pointless and embarrassing fight.

At that second, the doors to the Little Palace were pulled open. Zoya and yourself took a few seconds to peer towards the creaking doors, as General Kirigan strolled towards the training session strongly, with a purpose, no hint of a hangover on his stubborn jaw.

Zoya’s face upturned into a smile at his arrival, but you were a few seconds too late at returning to the fight. Zoya’s hands were brought together immediately, summoning her power as you were helplessly bombarded backwards by winds—

You landed on your back with a thud, hearing the subtle laughs and chuckles of the observing Grisha. You didn’t care though; if you cared about every small battle, every time you fell, then you would have died of humiliation by now. You simply got yourself up again, glancing upon the questioning face of Kirigan as he stared at Zoya—

Then you brought your hands together—

And you summoned the storms that you were used to summoning. Maybe it was overkill, as the entire courtyard was encased in circling winds, or maybe it was needed, just to get Grisha like Zoya off of your fucking back. You spurred the winds on, tightening the funnel and tensing your muscles to keep it contained, even if it was large.

Zoya’s hair whipped around her as she watched your storm appear from nothing. Her eyes landed upon your own, sending you a clear and precise message—fear. She’d never seen a storm such a this, not even by her own hand.

“How?” She yelled, frustration laced within her words. But, you weren’t done with her yet.

You attempted a move you’d never done before, summoning the winds to your hands instead of the surrounding courtyard—you struggled against their power, but when you felt confident in your aim and execution, you let them loose.

Winds rushed forward, hitting Zoya directly in her gut and slamming her backwards; just as she’d done to you. She hit the floor harshly, laying there for a few moments as she fought against her winded lungs.

You allowed your storm to dissipate then, flicking your eyes over the shocked faces of the other Grisha, before allowing yourself to land upon the face of General Kirigan—

He was already staring at you, the way he’d done the night before. His lips were curled into a small smile, his eyes peering into yours and only yours, as if he didn’t care about the ruckus that you’d just created during the training session. He looked just as speechless as your fellow Grisha, but with a higher level of understanding and appreciation—

He looked like he’d never tire from seeing you summon these storms.

Zoya curled herself up from the floor painfully, grunting through the discomfort as she forced herself to standing once more. She went to storm forward, her face twisted with red rage, but the instructor came between her and yourself.

“Enough,” He said, eyes skimming over the prying gaze of the General.

“Do that again and I’ll send you above the cloud-line without a parachute,” Zoya threatened openly, but you couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t think Squaller threats work on other Squallers,” You replied, gaining a few scoffs and huffs from the Grisha who surrounded you. You weren’t expecting one of them to be Kirigan, however, as his gently bobbing chest hit your peripheral. He was silently chuckling, moving his gaze between yourself and Zoya like a tennis match.

Zoya was wounded, that much was obvious. You would have felt bad if she hadn’t effectively asked for it. She’d been looking for a fight, and that’s exactly what she’d got—it wasn’t your fault that you fought better than she thought you would.

Kirigan regarded you then, getting your attention by raising his hand out before him. He motioned you over with two curling fingers. You shot a look at Zoya and the instructor once, before obeying the General’s orders. He tilted his head down as you approached him, keeping his expression light and soft.

“I see you’ve met Zoya,” He said, amusement certainly on his lips. You stared at him bluntly.

“We’re the best of friends. Can’t you tell?” You replied, but you kept your voice quieter. You were all too aware of the prying eyes of the Grisha in the courtyard, muttering to each other as to why the General had made another appearance at training.

He smiled wider, glancing back at the Squaller and then back to you, letting out a small huff of laughter. You were once again astounded that this man could laugh; every time he chuckled or the bob of his shoulders was shown, you found yourself paying too much attention to the boyish way he sounded, the soft curve of his jaw as he was smiling, the carefree way his hands flinched as he chuckled.

“Can you ride?” He asked then, changing the subject. You nodded at him once. “Good. We ride tomorrow, together. I want to show you something,”

He strolled off then, without giving you a chance to reply. You watched as his arms draped by his sides and his broad shoulders were even broader as they arched across his back. You swallowed to cut off your thoughts, choosing to focus too closely on the sound of your heartbeat beneath your ribs and the subtle ache of your limbs after fighting Zoya, instead.

You watched until the General was back inside the Little Palace, the black glint of his uniform still etched in your peripheral— even when he wasn’t around.

Tag list: @callitdreamland @bxnnywxtts @elleatrixlestrange @stargirl76 @tartiflvtte @musicconversedance @eprilin @luminous-99 @brynthebulldozer @katedrexel @blackbirddaredevil23 @auggie2000 @not-so-quite-human @notawritergettingtherethough @thinkingth0ts @gabbien @tarkanelima-blog @hxgreeves @super-nannai @epistrofh-twn-ypogeiwn-poihtwn @sonnensplitter @fire-in-her-veinz

Once again, I’m sorry if your tag doesn’t work-- I really don’t know why they don’t work!

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obiwanobi · 3 years

Text

I was asked to write angst with a happy ending for the Sith Senator Kenobi AU where Obi-Wan believes Anakin has been killed during a mission, so here’s 2.6k of sadness featuring Obi-Wan and Ahsoka before I finish the happy ending part:

Ahsoka can only remember a few details from the funeral of her master.

In her mind, the memory has the fuzziness of an unpleasant dream, and not the sharpness of an event that happened only yesterday.

Surprisingly, it was Master Windu who led the ceremony with a gentle voice. Master Yoda gave a speech, but she can't recall a word of it. She remembers Senator Amidala trying to blink away her tears. She remembers Master Jinn's heavy hand on her shoulder when the heat of the flames started to warm her face. She remembers Rex, still as a statue from beginning to end. She remembers Senator Kenobi being the first to leave without a word.

It took four hours for the pyre to burn to ashes.

___________________________________

"Oh. Hello, young one."

Senator Kenobi's tone is surprised, but his face is as impassive as ever.

It reminds her of that one time her master said that he would have made an excellent Jedi, and Kenobi immediately proved him wrong, dramatically grimacing at the thought and making Anakin burst into laughter.

There's no grimace on Kenobi's face right now. His hair and beard are perfectly combed and trimmed, and there isn't one wrinkle on his pristine clothes.

It makes the deep shadows under his eyes stand out even more.

"Senator," Ahsoka greets him with a polite bow. "Would you mind if I come in?"

Kenobi blinks twice before taking a step back. "Please."

She walks into his apartment a bit rigidly, hands clutched around the box she brought, and seats on the couch he points at her.

If he knew she was here, Master Jinn would disapprove. Her grandmaster has never liked the senator, partially due to his charming public persona which only echoes in a bizarre void in the Force —"some plants are easier to detect that him", she once heard Master Jinn say,— and partially because of his close relationship with her master.

Ahsoka herself has never known what to make of Senator Kenobi.

Stuck between pretending to ignore the looks he used to share with her master and making sarcastic remarks about it to fluster them both, it now leaves her in an awkward relationship she can't define without mourning for the missing link between them.

Anxiety starts nagging at her as she looks at the box in her hands. Maybe she should have waited. Maybe this was a bad idea.

"Caf? Tea?" Kenobi asks from the kitchen.

"Whatever you're having is fine, thanks."

She hears the cabinet doors opening and closing, water boiling for a few seconds, and then the senator comes back with a teapot and cups on a tray. "I hope you like black tea, then. I never drink caf."

Ahsoka isn't sure if she's more surprised by a senator not having any personal employee to assist him, or the fact that she can clearly see what looks like a very expansive caf machine on the kitchen counter.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"I commed your office first," she admits, refocusing her attention on him. "Your assistant said you were working from home lately, and gave me your address."

Kenobi raises his eyebrows. "She did? Well, that's a surprise. She usually bites people who try to see me without an appointment or a life-or-death crisis. Preferably one with multiple dead people already."

"Hum, yes, she— She almost brushed me off, but then I told her that I needed to give you something. From my master."

To his credit, Kenobi, teapot in hand, freezes for only half a second. Then, pointedly not looking at her, starts pouring tea again.

On the comm, Kenobi's assistant also paused when Ahsoka told her that, before grumbling 'it can't make it worse anyway' and then giving strict instructions about when was the best time to come see him.

"I see."

She puts the box next to her steaming cup, and stops her hand just before opening it. "There were some... important chips and datapads from previous and ongoing missions that he had in his room, and I was the one who looked for it. So I cleaned a few drawers."

Letting someone else disturbs Anakin's bedroom has felt wrong. Even if she knows that it was only selfishness that pushed her to volunteer to look through his room, she's still glad she did.

No one needs to know how long she spent seating in the middle of Anakin's bedroom, trying to wrap his lingering Force signature around her. Or that it took three hours before she could touch anything in it without feeling like she was breaking one last invisible connection to her master.

"And I found this box." she taps on it lightly. "This is... I think— I think you should have it."

"What’s in the box, Padawan Tano?" Kenobi asks behind his cup.

The proof of my master's complete disregard for the Jedi Code, she wants to say. Ahsoka bites her lip.

It doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter anymore.

"Mostly datachips with holos on it, a few old tickets for a race, a password-protected datapad and some personal belongings."

"And what that has to do with me?"

Ahsoka frowns.

Kenobi doesn't sound like the conversation interests him. His hand moves, and for a second Ahsoka thinks he's going for the box, but instead, he takes the recipient filled with honey and put a small spoon of it in his cup before leaning back on the couch.

His indifferent expression is starting to grate on her nerves.

"I took a look at the holos. My master is on it, but you're also there. With him sometimes. Most of them are holoimages, but there are a few longer recordings with sound." Ahsoka has only watched one, but it's still hard to reconcile the man fondly rolling his eyes and telling Anakin behind the holocamera to please, dear, don't waste it on me, with the impassive man with the blank stare in front of her. "I didn't watch all of them, but I think it's safe to say that he wouldn't have wanted anyone else to find them."

"I see," Kenobi says distractingly, stirring his tea.

Ahsoka's hand is starting to turn into a fist in her lap.

"Do you? Do you really? Do you know about the Jedi Code, Senator Kenobi?" She asks, suddenly opening the box herself and getting one of the datachips and a small holoprojector out.

"I know enough."

"Because this," she continues, pushing the chip in it and opening the first holos, "this isn't really approved by the Code. Do you know what the Code recommends, regarding attachment, Senator? To material things? To people?"

Did you love him? she wants to ask, as a holo of Anakin, dressed in light civilian clothes, smiles and makes a rapid 'come one' hand gesture to the person behind the camera. Did you love him as much as he did?

She presses the next button rapidly, going through a few holos of sunbathed landscapes and olive trees, and then Anakin is holding a glass of wine in one, tasting it in a second, and making a ridiculous face in the third. There's a lot of Kenobi after that, also dressed in lighter clothes than usual, with shades on. Him trying to read a sign in a foreign language but clearly failing, him looking at some old and decrepit ruins in wonder, him with a face covered in sunscreen, sending an unamused look above his glasses at the camera.

Ahsoka's irritation makes her forget to be embarrassed when she goes through some of the holos where they're pressed against each other in such an intimate way that it feels like she's holding their honeymoon holoalbum, but it doesn't stop her from wanting to cry when she catches the tenderness in Anakin's eyes in every holo where he's looking at Kenobi.

It's only when she reaches the one taken at a weird angle where Anakin is lying in the shades of a tree, asleep, his face nuzzled against a red beard, that a hand stops her before she can keep pressing next.

She turns her head toward Kenobi, ready to push him again to get a reaction, but he’s not looking at her. His gaze is fixed on the holo and his face is making a bizarre expression she doesn't recognise. Then, he says, softly, "I told him not to keep any of it."

And then she gasps for air.

The Force... the Force feels like a void.

Not a blank space, or the faint static she's used to next to Kenobi, but a true void. She chokes a bit on the emptiness of it all, almost sick to her stomach by the vertigo effect. It feels like she's standing near the edge of a hungry precipice, just like what she felt when Master Jinn told her that her master was dead, after she's stopped saying that it wasn't possible and he was wrong wrong wrong. She felt like falling then, endlessly falling and never hitting the ground, and she feels like falling now. Headfirst into the void. A long, endless fall through nothingness.

The void feels like it could swallow her whole and leaves nothing behind. No memory or emotion or connection.

The void is lonely, and aching, and lonely.

And lonely.

Then the sound of shattered porcelain resonates in a disturbing echo in her ears and everything stops.

Ahsoka gasps again —did she stop breathing at one point?— and pants heavily, hands shaking on her thighs.

She violently throws herself against the couch, as if the void is still here at her feet, ready to devour her.

"That's quite enough of that for now."

Disoriented, it takes a moment before she remembers where she is. Kenobi has already turned off the holoprojector and put it back in the box when she feels capable of forming coherent sentences again. A cup of tea is pushed under her nose, and she automatically takes it. It burns her tongue a bit. She's so glad to feel something so simple and physical that she keeps drinking it anyway.

Kenobi is standing up now, napkins in hand but not moving. He's looking down at something, stuck still in an aborted move, and Ahsoka realises that there is an ugly stain on his tunic, right on his chest, and that fragments of porcelain are lying all over the floor around him.

She didn't see how Kenobi broke the teapot, but it must have been quite a fall to scatter all these hundreds of tiny little pieces around him. On the white rug at his feet, a large brown stain is expanding slowly but surely through the intricate design of the textile.

He couldn't have made a bigger mess on purpose.

"You shouldn't stay here," he tells her, but his eyes stay locked on the liquid still dripping from the edge of the table. "You could hurt yourself."

"I— yes. Sorry."

She doesn't know what she's apologising for. She's tense, unsettled, and doesn't dare reach through the Force to find any kind of balance. She doesn't understand what the kriff just happened, but she's not in the mood to look for answers right now.

She just wants to be home. She just wants her master. She just wants to sleep.

Box under her arm, she takes a breath and stands up, careful not to walk on any fragments of broken porcelain.

"I should go anyway."

"Would you mind letting me see one last thing before you leave?"

She blinks, surprised. "From... the box?"

"Yes."

She hesitates a second, still not sure if this was a mistake or not. But who else could she share it with?

Kenobi seems like he's giving up on cleaning for now, and dries his hands with a napkin as he watches her put the box on the counter. He takes a moment to look inside this time, before grabbing the datapad and turning it on.

"It's password-protected," she says, just to break the tense silence. "I've tried a few things to bypass it but nothing works."

"Why do you think it's about me, then?"

"If you try enough wrong words, a message will pop up to give you a hint." Kenobi sends her a questioning look, but she just shrugs. "Try something. Anything."

"Oh," he says, voice suddenly soft, after putting Anakin's name and surname. "It says it's for my birthday."

"Yep."

"'Something that could make a politician cry'?", he reads out loud, intrigued. "What is he talking about? I told him enough times that politicians don't have souls, or—"

His mouth opens in a silent 'oh'. He turns to look at her pensively, and right when she's about to ask him if he's thinking of something, starts tapping on the keyboard.

The pad beeps happily.

"Of course," he whispers. "Of course."

Ahsoka can see his fingers swiping on the pad a few times but she's not at the right angle to see what he's actually looking at.

It would have bothered earlier. Now, her head feels heavy and her mind clouded, and she just wants to go home. The only reason she's not leaving right now is the glint of something in Kenobi's eyes.

Maybe it's just the reflection of the blue light on the screen. Maybe he's trying not to laugh in front of her at whatever her master had planned for his birthday.

Maybe he's trying not to cry.

He turns off the datapad suddenly, straightening up and offering a polite smile that doesn't reach his eyes. The glint is gone.

"If this is alright with you, Padawan Tano, I would like to keep that box."

You don’t deserve it, a voice in her mind says.

But she knows that the box isn't for her. She's a Jedi, and these are just material possessions. Holoimages and a few useless trinkets.

Her master isn't in that box. Her master is in the Force, with her, always.

She's not certain she should trust Kenobi, but her master did. So she chooses to believe.

"Okay," she murmurs. "Just... just keep it safe."

"I will."

There is no way to know if he means it, but she's definitely not in the mood to reach through the Force and check right now.

"I should go." She turns towards the door, ready to go home and sleep for fourteen hours.

"Ahsoka."

The surprise of hearing her name in his mouth for the first time stops her hand on the door handle. She's so tired that she barely turns her head sideways, waiting for whatever insipid parting words he will offer her.

"Anakin was very proud of you. He couldn't stop talking about how great you were going to be as a knight."

Her heart misses a beat. Or three.

Don't say his name, she wants to say, we managed to ignore it the entire time, why did you have to say his name? But her throat only seems to be able to produce an uncontrollable choked up sound. She can't blink fast enough to see through her tears.

After so long looking for a hint of human feelings in Kenobi, she almost wishes his voice wasn't so gentle right now.

"Please make sure to do all you can to make it true."

She only allows herself to cry once the door slams shut behind her.

#feelings are hard for ssk okay #he has zero idea what to do with them #obikin #sith senator kenobi au #clem's aus #also kudos for you if you've read enough ssk posts to know what the password was!#fic i did write

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vagrantblvrd · 3 years

Text

The AU where Anakin doesn’t dramatically die on the second Death Star, right?

Luke is like, well, medical treatment is a thing. Comes in hand-y, get it dad? Hand-y?

Anyway.

Luke ~sneaks about getting Anakin medical treatment, some nonsense about “Hey, so. How does one treat electrocution? Asking for a friend,” and other such things.

Some doctor somewhere being, “Oh, well, if it’s for a friend...” and then gives Luke all the information and whatnot he’ll need, and also does this friend of his need life support equipment???

Anyway.

For Plot Reasons Anakin doesn’t die over Endor and Luke is trying to get supplies - he just got this rad new shuttle to fly - the Emperor won’t mind if he borrows it - oh, man. Is it too soon?

Anyway.

One of the Rebels who was on the mission to destroy the shield generator is like, “Vader’s dead, is he?”

Because Luke said so, and also the funeral pyre with his armor and hahaha, why would he ask that?

Weird, right?

Friend I found on the Death Star being held a a prisoner for many years who I then rescued because hero, don’t you think that’s a weird question to ask?

Anakin who is hooked up to many life-saving machines until Luke can get him somewhere to get replacements for the Vader suit as what the Emperor fried while trying to kill them is just.

“Hello, Rex.”

And Luke being, omg, DAD, at least pretend to go along with Luke’s terrible ruse for like. A whole minute, pls.

This fraught moment where Luke isn’t sure what’s going to happen because clearly these two know one another and there’s so much anger and hurt and betrayal in Rex and his dad is this sucking pit of shame and guilt and misery, self-loathing and -

“OKAY, WELL. Unless you’re about to kill him - us - we have places to be. Specifically not here.”

Because everything is celebrations and relief and so on? But also Imperial ships and forces and Alliance forces and so much could go wrong so fast and Luke would like to get his dad somewhere safe before people figure out his deception and brand him as a traitor or whatever and anyway

Does Rex wanna come with?

He gets looks from Anakin and Rex at that and shrugs because hey, no one’s dead yet.

And aside from a few notable exceptions dead people can’t answer whatever questions others might have for him, and anyway, anyway.

Rex sighs, this tired little smile on his face as he looks at Anakin. “He’s definitely your kid.”

Which.

What? But it gets an equally tired smile from Anakin, this sadness to it but also this flicker of pride and Luke escapes to start the pre-flight before he cries, again, and anyway.

Rex joins him up front and offers up somewhere they can go. Friends of his - might not be glad to see Anakin, but they’ll listen to Rex, and so off they go to, idk, someplace clone troopers set up a place for themselves.

(Because I need there to be more of those bastards out there after the mess of Order 66 and other nonsense okay.)

They get Anakin set up with new life-support suit or whatever, one that’s not horrible and awful and a goddamned gift from the monster who created Darth Vader, and anyway. (I may have feelings on the matter.)

Luke avoids calls from Leia and Han and everyone if he can, and when he can’t tells them he’s fine, really, just. Jedi stuff. Feels guilty as hell but he knows Leia can’t handle he truth of it just yet and technically it kind of is Jedi stuff,because Anakin.

Ben visits every so often and Luke pretends he doesn’t know his father was crying afterwards, but after a while he’s so relieved he could cry when he realizes his father didn’t cry in talking to Ben.

(He does, though. Luke cries so much, but conveniently wherever they ended up is in the rainy season and Rex just pats him on the shoulder when Luke comes in and gives him a solemn nod, and anyway. Yes.)

It’s like. Not Done, this whole Vader Thing of Anakin’s, he’s done so many terrible things and all that? But he finds a way to make peace with that, or whatever the proper term is I don’t even know at this point, okay, just.

You know.

Also, though, also.

All the information he knows, or knows how to get his - or any Alliance Intelligence agents - hands on.

Things he gives to Luke or whoever to pass on to the right hands, help the Alliance, and then the New Republic root out the Imperial remnants before they can pose a threat to the fragile peace being built in the Empire’s fall, and so on.

Luke just ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ and tells anyone who questions where he got the information it’s from the prisoner he rescued and so forth and so on. (Rex backs him up, and his position in the Alliance’s ranks lends Luke more credibility, and anyway. Yes.)

Eventually though, Luke can’t just hide out for forever with his dad and his dad’s old war friends, and also Leia would hunt him to the end of the galaxy if she doesn’t see him soon, and.

Anakin more or less boots him out of the little homestead or compound or whatever it is where they are, tells him to come visit but really, get out, son.

So Luke does.

Tells Leia he’s fine, he’ll tell her what everything was about and such, but. Later, you know? Later.

She lets it go because other business to deal with and anyway, Luke’s gallivanting about and gets ambushed by a Togruta with twin lightsabers who nearly takes his head off before she asks how Rex is doing and has Anakin gotten over himself yet, and also, Luke might want towork on his form a bit.

Which, you know, hi, hello, who the hell are you? But more politely worded and Luke gives Ahsoka the commlink number? address?? whatever??? to contact Anakin.

Hopefully she understands why he didn’t just give her the coordinates to their location, what with nearly taking off Luke’s head and all.

Ahsoka laughs, and does the shoulder pat thing Rex does to him, says, “You’re your dad’s kid alright,” which.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN???

Anyway.

More adventuring about, Ashoka ambushing him every so often. Payback, she tells him, for everything Anakin ever put her through - before Everything - she’s quick to clarify, tired smile on her face and Luke understands, but dear God is he so tired of seeing these people who are so important to him looking like that?

ANYWAY.

Some more adventuring about and then this SOS call through the Force and an Imperial light cruiser and this sad panda Mandalorian and.

“Okay, you? You’re coming with.”

And since Luke doesn’t actually have a spot for his school yet and he doesn’t know where this Mandalorian calls home he’s like. “I know a place.”

Anakin and Rex share this look when the shuttle Luke borrowed lands at their little hideaway and Luke comes out with this tiny green gremlin kid toddling after him and this sad panda Mandalorian trailing behind them, and really, the family resemblance has never been stronger, you know?

ANYWAY.

Din and Grogu and Luke trying to figure out how to juggle this whole...Thing.

Anakin never feels comfortable giving Luke advice, because talk about bad role models?

But.

Anakin was raised to follow the old Jedi Order’s rules and whatnot and Vader came of it. (Maybe not the sole reason, but the Order was definitely a factor.)

Also, also.

Anakin doting on Grogu and being his best partner in crime - :D smile when Din comes looking for his tiny green gremlin kid and finds him with Luke’s dad and they’ve both been Up To Something but there’s never any proof, and anyway, yes.

(Also, also. Luke and Anakin bonding over working on this old speeder that’s never run right, or Luke’s X-wing - and okay, yes, maybe someone finds an old Y-wing or something and there are “training exercises” in which everyone takes bets on which Skywalker wins this time and Luke actually hears his dad laugh for the first time and it’s pretty awesome okay.)

But also Boba Fett and Fennec and the whanot finding them and Drama and Boba being like, “Always hated Vader anyway,” and Luke being like !!! but also huh, and Din is like NO.

Because the whole reason Boba and Fennec are even there is because of Bo-Katan and the whole Darksaber business and c’mon, dude, you can’t avoid your duties forever, nice as it might seem.

Anyway.

Anakin looking at his kid who is totally in love with the leader of Mandalore and then at Obi-Wan who is off to the side trying so freaking hard not to laugh, and anyway.

Yes.

(But also, okay, also. Luke trying to tell Leia that hey, their dad’s kind of not dead? And she’s angry - every right to be - and upset and neither of them expect her to do anything, just. They didn’t to keep it from her anymore and more than that she deserved to know, and anyway.

One day, you know. One day she makes a trip out to this hideaway Luke told her about that one time. There’s yelling and crying and not everything is resolved, but. It’s a start and more than Anakin ever thought he’d get and. Yes.)

Also, also.

Anakin and Rex and whoever else going to check out this school Luke is building on Mandalore, Ben beinng like “Oh,” because Luke and Din are like, they found some things he might care to see, and everyone leaves him with old journals or whatever from Duchess Satine and Anakin and Rex wait for him outside, and just, yes.

Basically good, nice things for everyone because I need it today, so yes. /o\

#star wars nonsense #dinluke #technically not a fic #vagrant fic #long post #¯\_(ツ)_/¯

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cozy-the-overlord · 3 years

Text

Dances and Daggers

Summary: The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 18: The End

Previous Chapter |

Word Count: 1,793

A/N: Oh my goodness, we're here. We're at the last chapter. I can't believe it. Thank you all so much for reading and liking and commenting-- you've all made the last seventeen weeks absolutely wonderful, and I'm so grateful :)

TW: Mentions of violence, child abuse, description of a dead body

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 @berriemalfoy @whatafuckingdumbass @sophlubbwriting

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

The Winter Festival was in full swing. Teki surveyed the crowd from her place on the royal platform. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable sitting so high above everyone else, but the spot wasn’t anywhere near as unnerving as she had first found it. Besides her, Brant munched contentedly on the meat she had chopped into tiny pieces for him. In the beginning, he had been so frightened of sitting atop the podium that he was afraid to even ask her to cut his food, but after several months he had grown quite at ease with the whole thing.

“Teki!” he’d whisper excitedly, pulling on her sleeve. ”You can see everyone in the hall from here!”

She couldn’t help but grin.

On her other side, Loki grasped her hand.

“Would you like to dance?”

Teki returned his eager smile. “Of course!”

People parted for them as he led her through the crowd, the skirt of her emerald dress billowing around her legs, a silky cloud of green. Loki’s dagger hung at her hip. She had been wearing it every night as of late. It brought a strange sort of tranquility to feel it at her side, something that she hadn’t thought was every possible. It had been hard to look at it at first, to hold it in her hands and know that it had allowed her to take a life. Osvald’s blank stare haunted her whenever she closed her eyes.

But … there was something powerful in it as well, something she couldn’t quite explain. For so long, she had been this helpless little girl who kept her head down and hands clasped in her lap, whose only defense had ever been to close her eyes and hope for the danger to pass, but now … she wasn’t. Everyone knew about her now, not as the fiancé to a prince who held no interest in her, but as a survivor who vanquished the monster who murdered her father. It was an odd feeling. Teki had never expected to command respect of any kind from her fellow Asgardians—even with a future as queen she had always known that she’d exist only in Thor’s shadow—but now, people bowed their heads when she passed.

Loki pulled her on to the dance floor with a twirl, grinning as her dress fanned out around her. Teki giggled.

“Remember the first time you asked me to dance?” she asked suddenly. It seemed eons ago that he had first found her crying on the balcony, and yet somehow it had only been less than a year.

The prince nodded. “I was so nervous,” he confided as he held her closer to him.

Teki laughed incredulously. “You were nervous!”

“I was!” he insisted. “You seemed so sad. I wanted to make you feel better, but I was afraid I was only making things worse.” He paused. “And you were meant for Thor, so I wasn’t certain I’d even be welcome.”

She sighed. That seemed eons ago too—a time where Loki didn’t know her better than she knew herself.

“Well,” she mumbled, cheeks burning. “You’re always welcome.”

He laughed. “Good to know.”

Teki laughed as well, but she hoped he knew how true her words were. She didn’t know what she would have done without Loki these past few months. He had been by her side throughout all the insanity that had followed her mother’s arrest and her stepfather’s demise, whether it was something as grand as testifying before the court that Osvald was killed in self-defense or as simple as sitting next to her at her piano as she played the first few lines of the piece she was composing herself.

He had been with her when she received word that they had found what they believed to be her father’s skeletal remains. Her mother’s confession had included the details of where and how Steinn’s body had been disposed of, down to the gory details that Teki had never wanted to know, how they dismembered him so Osvald could sneak him off world in a rugsack and bury him on Alfheim. Teki’s only attempt to read through the whole thing had ended with her coughing up her breakfast into a chamber pot.

But thanks to Áslaug’s description, they knew where to look, and within a fortnight they found him. Peeling back that blanket to look at her father’s remains had been an experience she couldn’t quite describe. The two felt so disconnected—how could a man so larger than life who she could picture so clearly in her memory be reduced to nothing but a box of dusty bones? For several hours, all she felt was numbness. It wasn’t until late that night that the reality truly struck her. Brant stumbled into her room to find hunched over on her bed, sobbing ferociously into her pillowcase.

They held a funeral for him. It was nothing elaborate, there wasn’t a big production or a huge crowd in attendance, but it was something. Teki didn’t know the next thing about archery, so instead of shooting a flaming arrow, she lit his pyre with a torch before sending it across the water. They probably could’ve gotten a professional archer for it—Loki had offered to shoot it himself—but it had to be her. Teki couldn’t explain it, but it had to be her.

She sighed as her father drifted across the waterfall, across the threshold beyond. It was as if an invisible weight she had carried with her since she was small had floated away as well. He could rest easy now, high in Valhalla. Perhaps she could too.

But there was one thing stopping her from embracing that peace.

Teki followed the guard down through the catacombs of ancient stone, head low. It seemed colder down here, far below the palace. At least, she told herself that’s why she was shivering.

Behind translucent shields of glowing light, prisoners loomed at her as they passed. Teki kept her eyes straight ahead. Based on their biting leers, she got the feeling that they didn’t see a lot of visitors around here.

Her mother sat on the cot in the corner of her cell, picking at her nails. For a moment, Teki almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, her dress plain and shapeless. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen her mother without her face painted.

Her eyes had lit up when she noticed Teki lingering on the other side of the ray shield.

“Tekla!” she smiled, her voice hoarse. “I hoped you’d come to see me!”

She wasn’t lying. Áslaug had been sending messages to her daughter through the guards nearly every day since she had been arrested, begging her to pay her a visit.

“You realize you don’t have to do it, right?” Loki had asked her. “You’re not beholden to that woman in any way. If you never want to see her again, you don’t have to.”

Teki knew that. And a part of her would be perfectly content to live out her life without her mother ever being in it. But there was another part that wanted to know what Áslaug could possibly have to say to her.

At first, it didn’t seem like much. “How’s Brant?” she asked after a moment of awkward silence.

“He’s well.” Teki’s voice was stiff. When she first decided to visit her mother, she had told herself she’d be polite. But now, looking at her sitting there pretending as if she had ever given a damn about either of her children, Teki decided she’d settle for civil.

Still, her mother continued on in her bubbly, fake happy voice. “Lovely dress.” She gestured to her emerald gown. “So it’s true then? You’re marrying the other one?”

Teki nodded.

Áslaug breathed a chuckle, shaking her head. “All of that, and you’re not even going to be queen.” She let out a sigh. “I suppose the Norns need a good laugh every now and then.”

“I don’t see anything to laugh about.”

“No, you wouldn’t. Look, I know you hate me,” she paused, as if waiting for Teki to contradict her. Teki only stared ahead in stony silence. She huffed. “I want you to understand, everything I did, I did for you.”

Teki raised her eyebrows. “You killed my father for me?”

“I had to!” Her mother sprung to her feet, leaning as close to the shield as she could without touching it. “Tekla, he didn’t care about your future! We had the chance to make you the most powerful woman in the Nine Realms, and he wanted to let it pass by. Would you be able to forgive me if I hadn’t taken that opportunity?”

“It would have been easier than forgiving you for murdering my father.”

She huffed. “Tekla—”

“What about Osvald?” Teki interrupted. “Did you marry him for me too?”

Her mother sighed. “I didn’t realize what he was like. Had I known—”

“You knew damn well what he was like,” she snapped. “He was willing to kill—”

“For me!” Áslaug pressed her hands to her chest. “He was willing to kill for me. That’s hardly something a woman should pass up.”

“No.” Teki inhaled. Her mother seemed so desperate to convince her, to convince herself that she believed what she was saying. She almost pitied her. “He was willing to kill for what you could give him. He loved you as much as you loved my father.”

Her mother frowned at her. “You’re angry with me now,” she said. “But one day you’ll understand. You’ll wake up and realize that everything you have today, everything you are today, is because of me.”

“You’re wrong,” Teki retorted. “I am what I am today in spite of you, not because.” She let out a shaky breath, motioning towards the guard that she was ready to leave. She met her mother’s glare with a firm stare of her own.

“Goodbye, Mama.” There was nothing else left to say.

The song was changing, morphing from the upbeat strings to the more somber piano solo.

Loki pulled her closer. “Do you want to go to the lake?” he whispered in her ear.

She laughed, cocking her head. “Are you going to push me in?”

“Of course not! Believe me, I learned my lesson with that one.”

“Uh-huh.” Brant was waving at her from the podium. She waved back with a grin. Loki stood beside her, eyebrows raised expectantly. Teki grabbed his hand. “Well, what are you waiting for, my prince? Lead the way!”

This is it, she realized as they scurried through the hallways, giggling like a pair of toddlers.

This is what happiness feels like.

#dances and daggers #loki x ofc #loki marvel #loki fanfic #dances and daggers chapter 18 #the end #cozy writes

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