#and that’s enough glimpsing beyond the veil for now i think

[bestworstcase]

hello its irregularly scheduled SONGS TIME once again. have you ever thought about how weird ‘all things must die’ is i have i think about it all the time it’s really weird except no it isn’t it’s about summer

(<- sound of me succumbing to the eldritch vapors i am going to try so hard to be coherent wish me luck)

anyway the confounding the maddening thing about ATMD is it very directly calls back to, inexplicably, ‘this will be the day’ and: why. why! what? summer it’s about summer

specifically.

fourteen years ago raven and summer fought in the vault under haven academy and, listen to me because this is the important part, summer did not die. but raven thinks she should have. this is what ATMD is about. raven is fighting cinder but also no she isn’t, it’s fourteen years ago and she’s back here again and she is so angry. because summer rose is not the one who died that night.

ok? ok. ok ok ok

this will be the day: a story will be told. red like roses ii: this bedtime story ends with misery ever after/the pages are torn and there’s no final chapter. all things must die: all tales conclude.

grabs you by the shoulders. shakes you. DO YOU SEE

this will be the day:

beware that the light is fading beware, as the dark returns this world’s unforgiving even brilliant lights will cease to burn legends scatter day and night will sever hope and peace are lost forever

divide (now we’re cooking with gas!):

legends and fairytales scattered in time maidens and kingdoms wrapped up in a lie

all things must die:

this is the end here’s where you’ll die legends should scatter so just say goodbye no one will miss you when you’re fin’lly gone at your conclusion sing your swan song

folds hands. a bird is known by its song, a man by his words. the truth is that ‘truth’ is hard to come by; a story of victory for one person is a story of defeat for someone else. by now, i’m sure your uncle has told ruby and her friends plenty of stories.

(and which “her” is raven referring to?)

summer was the best of us, qrow says.

raven knows the truth. she’s also the one who told the story—or at least, she told a story. or maybe she didn’t, but silence tells its own kind of story. the point is this: summer rose, the person, chose to walk away and left raven branwen to decide how the story ended.

summer rose, the idea, is dead because raven slit her throat in front of that vault fourteen years ago. this is the end: here’s where you’ll die. legends should scatter, so just say goodbye. no one will miss you, when you’re finally gone; at your conclusion, sing your swan song.

does she regret that choice? letting summer rose die a hero so that summer rose could be free? did she do it for spite? for love? was she afraid? did she just want it to be done?

fourteen years later, she’s back here and there’s blood on the floor again.

murder, unkindness, conspiracy embers extinguished in effigy

to burn something in effigy: to destroy a figure, a facsimile, a symbol of someone hated. cinder fall is not summer rose, but summer rose isn’t here and the past is alive and howling all around them; and whatever raven may have felt then the only thing she feels now is it’s happening again.

(an unkindness of ravens—a conspiracy of ravens—but it’s a murder of crows. or, as it might be, just a murder.)

anyways.

sacrifice:

close your eyes now, time for dreams death is never what it seems […] show them gods and deities blind and keep the people on their knees pierce the sky, escape your fate the more you try, the more you’ll just breed hate and lies truth will rise revealed by mirrored eyes

when it falls:

swallowed by the darkness soon the moon is bathed in black the light of hope is taken and discontent is the contagion the blinding eyes that burn a yellow flame the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation mirrors will shatter crushed by the weight of the world

all things must die:

just close your eyes don’t fear demise black out the sky all things must die

ok. ok . can you see it?

this will be the day:

we are lightning straying from the thunder miracles of ancient wonder this will be the day we’ve waited for this will be the day we open up the door i don’t wanna hear your absolution hope you’re ready for a revolution welcome to a world of new solutions welcome to a world of bloody evolution

all things must die:

life is just a journey yours is near its end bloody evolution this world transcend

can you—

all things must die:

all tales conclude all bonds dissolve infinite matter will always evolve just pray for mercy at your time of death be glad you existed enjoy your last breath

rising:

the sky is turning black light is fading fast but we don’t surrender radiant and bright shattering the night armored in splendor shining forever we are paragons of virtue and glory death can’t stop our endless story infinite and unbound

—see it?

just pray for mercy.

don’t wanna hear your absolution (hope you’re ready for a revolution!)

welcome to a world of new solutions: the blinding eyes that burn a yellow flame, the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation—mirrors will shatter, crushed by the weight of the world. truth will rise, revealed by mirrored eyes. welcome to a world of bloody evolution.

life is just a journey; yours is near its end. bloody evolution: this world transcend.

black out the sky; all things must die. swallowed by the darkness, soon the moon is bathed in black; the light of hope is taken and discontent is the contagion. the sky is turning black, the light is fading fast, but we don’t surrender. radiant and bright, shattering the night, shining forever. we are paragons of virtue and glory; death can’t bind our endless story, infinite and unbound.

for it is in passing we achieve immortality; through this we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all, infinite in distance and unbound by death. i release your soul, and by my shoulder protect thee.

all things must die.

our souls transcend death.

it’s—ok. ok! this will be the day? salem. when it falls? salem and cinder. rising? summer and salem. for every life? salem. rising is the only one of these that is remotely ambiguous but trust me. (“farran it seems unlikely that half the opening numbers are secretly—” salem is literally the narrator)

so what is happening here, with ‘all things must die,’ is it’s in dialogue with the whole triumvirate of cinder + summer + salem

(<- maiden mother crone. hi)

—as i said, ATMD fundamentally is about the death of summer rose, the idea, and the not-death of summer rose, the person, and the feelings raven has about both of those things as drawn out by the echo the reflection the effigy that is cinder fall.

banging pots and pans. salem drowns in the fountain of life and reawakens immortal. she drowns in the pool of grimm and creates herself anew. raven kills summer rose, the idea (this is the end, here’s where you’ll die) and summer rose, the person, rips herself free (the pages are torn and there’s no final chapter). cinder gets electrocuted in the face frozen solid dropped hundreds of feet into a subterranean lake and just. Survives That.

like mother, like—

anyway.

grips your shoulders listen to me very carefully. raven branwen turns into a raven. she leads a warlike group of bandits. she is the spring maiden, the maiden of knowledge. her weapon is called omen. her semblance allows her to know when her loved ones are in mortal danger and appear to them to turn the tide of battle. she wears a grimm mask. she “tore her team apart.” thought and memory though she and her brother may be, huginn is only what she was to ozpin.

day by day it’s nearer step by step you go closer to your ruin soon your time to go life is just a journey yours is near its end […] this is the end here’s where you’ll die […] it’s time to accept to abide admit that the hour’s arrived resign, comply it’s time to be one with the sky surrender your pride let death be your guide all things must die

i told you beacon would fall, and it did. i told you ozpin would fail, and he has.

she can’t be stopped, she can’t be reasoned with, and she will not rest until humanity crumbles at her feet.

her weapon is named omen.

her song is spoken in future tense!!! hello!!!

She also prophesied the end of the world, foretelling every evil that would occur then, and every disease and every vengeance; and she chanted the following poem: ‘I shall not see a world Which will be dear to me: Summer without blossoms, Cattle will be without milk, Women without modesty, Men without valour. Conquests without a king […] False judgements of old men…’ ( 167 )

the morrígan.

wheeze ok. all things must die is prophetic but all that is already was; raven sees, in cinder fall, the end and the beginning of summer rose, That Is What The Song Is About. nothing new under the sun. fourteen years ago all of this happened before, differently. here’s where you’ll die. she writes the ending of summer rose. she flings cinder to her (SYMBOLIC SYMBOLIC IT IS A METAPHOR) death and resurrection from the roots of the tree.

she’s the spring maiden. she is death’s herald. she’s stared death in the face over and over again and every time she spat back in its face and survived. she knows people who can come back from the dead. without the spring maiden, we’re all going to die.

death and the maiden.

i only know the raven dad told me about; she was troubled and complicated, but she fought for what she believed in—whether it was her family or her tribe. did you kill her too?

no, but summer rose did.

gleefully voicing this eulogy spawn of the tenets of treachery

cinder’s heard so many stories about raven; that she’s a cunning leader, strong, clever. (it’s a shame they’re wrong.) truth is hard to come by; i’m sure your uncle has told ruby and her friends plenty of stories. summer rose telling lies! she was the best of us. she would have pressed on, if she found out the truth.

burning summer rose in effigy, gleefully voicing this eulogy. no one will miss you when you’re finally gone.

…how did salem know the maidens are vulnerable to silver eyes. much to think about

[xichilie]

Ashes of khaenri'ah (Prologue)

Next part

Summary:

Five hundred years before the events of the present day, Thrain — now known as Capitano, the First of the Fatui Harbingers — was a noble commander in Khaenri’ah and deeply in love. But when the Cataclysm struck without warning, he believed his lover and their unborn child perished in the destruction, having last seen them swallowed by abyssal flames.

Unbeknownst to him, they survived.

An old friend, Misha — the. son of Pierro — protected her and helped her flee to Mondstadt, where they lived in hiding. Though she eventually passed, her child lived on, free from the curse that afflicted pure-blooded Khaenri’ahns.

Centuries later, Y/N, a descendant of Thrain’s lost bloodline, lives peacefully under Misha’s guardianship, unaware of the truth behind her ancestry. Only a few in Mondstadt know the full story — including Varka and the Anemo Archon himself.

Now, as ancient powers stir once more and Capitano is drawn back into the heart of Teyvat’s chaos, fate leads him to an encounter with someone carrying the legacy he thought forever lost…

A story of buried truths, eternal bonds, and the haunting weight of immortality.

Prologue — "The Last Quiet Night"

The stars above Khaenri’ah were always bright. Brighter than anywhere else in Teyvat — untouched by the favor of gods, or the veil of their illusions. Just pure, brilliant light.

The wind that night was gentle, threading through the stone corridors and glass terraces of the palace. Far off, beyond the walls, distant horns sounded — warnings from the outer districts. But here, just for a moment, there was still quiet.

Thrain sat on the edge of the balcony, black cloak draped around him, His long dark hair, still unbraided, fell loose over his shoulders. In the soft moonlight, his sharp profile looked like it was carved from obsidian.

A voice pulled him from thought. “You always sit in the dark when you’re thinking too hard.”

He turned. She stood barefoot, wrapped in a soft robe, holding a half-eaten apple and watching him with tired amusement.

“I think too hard because someone has to,” Thrain said, lips twitching in a rare smile.

She stepped forward and leaned beside him, shoulder brushing his. “And what are you thinking about now, Commander?”

“…About what happens tomorrow,” he replied after a pause. “And what I would give to stop it.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Familiar. Honest.

Below them, distant fires glimmered in the city. The Abyss was closing in — and Khaenri’ah would soon fall.

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You can’t stop fate. But you can change the story.”

Thrain looked down at her. “What do you mean?”

“You might not be able to save Khaenri’ah,” she said quietly, “but maybe you can save someone. Even if it’s just one life.”

Her fingers found his, lacing through them.

It was just another morning.

Thrain sat hunched over a thick scroll in his study, fingers ink-stained, brow furrowed. He was already dressed — crisp black uniform, golden insignias pinned precisely where they belonged — but his coat lay slung over the back of the chair, forgotten. He hadn't touched his breakfast.

The scent of garden herbs wafted in through the open windows. Basil. Mint. A hint of lavender.

He looked up.

Down below, nestled between sunlit walls, the garden was in full bloom. And there she was — crouched among the wildflowers, humming softly as she worked, her sleeves rolled to the elbows and earth on her fingertips. Her smile was unguarded, private, meant only for the blossoms she was tending.

Thrain's hand fell away from the page.

She turned her head just enough for him to glimpse her profile. In that moment, nothing else existed. Not the distant warnings from the ley line monitors. Not the reports of flickering anomalies in the archives. Not the strange dreams that had plagued him for weeks.

Just her. Her, in the light.

An hour passed like a breath.

He finally rose from his chair, rolling his shoulders and reaching for the coat. Just as he was pulling it on, something outside the window made him pause.

A bird had stopped mid-flight — wings frozen. Then it dropped from the sky like a stone.

Silence.

No wind. No birdsong. No hum of the city below.

Only silence.

And then, a low vibration began — like a murmur rising from deep within the bones of the earth.

Thrain’s expression shifted. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

He stepped toward the window — and then the light changed.

At first it was subtle — a dulling of the sun, a strange tint to the air. He squinted, adjusting.

Then, as if the heavens had cracked in two, a sickly red light tore across the sky, slicing through clouds like blood across silk. Symbols — ancient and wrong — began to shimmer at the edges of the horizon. The very air pulsed, thickening with heat.

And below, from the garden—

She looked up.

Their eyes met.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then the ground began to shake.

Thrain didn’t hesitate.

The moment the sky split open, he bolted from the study — coat half-draped, boots slamming against stone. The palace halls, once a place of quiet power, now echoed with distant screams and groaning tremors that cracked through marble like thunder. Dust rained from the ceilings.

But all he could think of was her.

He sprinted through the archways, past confused guards and officials frozen in shock. A flicker of red light stained the corridors like blood on glass. From somewhere far beyond, a monstrous howl rolled over the city — deep, gnarled, not of this world.

He burst out into the courtyard — and the sight stopped him cold.

The sky had gone black.

Red cubes hung suspended in the air like inverted stars, shifting and pulsing with corrupt energy. Buildings beyond the garden collapsed in on themselves — devoured by rifts that tore through reality like paper. The edges of the world frayed into flame.

And there — there — she was.

Down in the garden, surrounded by fire and falling debris, trying to stand. She clutched her side, breathless, eyes wide with fear.

Another figure was with her — tall, cloaked in dark cloth rather than armor. Misha.

He had one arm protectively around her, the other already raised, forming a glowing sigil in the air — shielding them from a falling beam that shattered like splintered light.

“MISHA!” Thrain’s voice tore from his throat, half-choked by the smoke already pouring in from the rift behind the garden walls.

The young man looked up — just for a second — and their eyes met.

There was a flash of something in Misha’s gaze. Sorrow. Urgency. Resignation.

Then the ground beneath them cracked — split open like a wound.

A geyser of black fire erupted, swallowing the garden in a storm of flame, dust, and raw void.

“No—!”

Thrain’s legs buckled. He hit the stones of the balcony, clawing at the railing, eyes wide, throat raw from screaming her name.

Gone. Just like that.

Ash filled the air.

He didn’t know how long he knelt there. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He had lost her.

Everything was burning.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

“Captain.” A voice, deep and gravel-edged. Familiar. Steady.

Guthred.

Thrain turned, dazed his second-in-command singed, armor scorched, one eye bleeding.

“They’re gone,” Thrain rasped.

“Not all of them,” Guthred growled. “Not yet. Get up. We have to move.”

Another tremor shook the city. In the distance, Khaenri’ah’s great towers — once proud, once eternal — fell like children’s toys beneath the weight of a collapsing sky.

And finally — with hollow eyes and a shattered heart — Thrain rose.

Together, with what remained of his command, they fled.

Fled the ruins of a godless kingdom.

Fled the screams of the cursed.

Fled toward the firelands of Natlan — where perhaps some shard of hope still remained.

[cho-aaacho]

Nemophila ~Baby blue eyes~

Masterlist

Tags : Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Couch Cuddles, Cuddles, Kissing, Multiple Kisses, Soft Gojo Satoru, Living Together, Gojo needs a hug.

Summary : Someday, the water will tell you the solution to the summer. Someday, you'll know that the only thing I care about in this world is you.

"Satoru-kun, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

You sprinted from the kitchen to the living room, where Satoru lay surrounded by a mountain of paperwork. A pen gliding and a spillage of water on the floor witness how much chaos there is now. He gently gripped his soft silver hair as if it were the source of his main problem.

You find your dear boyfriend surrounded by a veil of frustration, feeling himself drowned in a fragile state. Hair stroked in frustration, grunting in discontent. Guess he had a busy day; having a double workload at once is no fun.

If only he could split his body into two, maybe he could resolve his main problem.

"I fell," he murmured while collecting the scattered papers. His voice was a bit hoarse.

"Maybe you should take a break? I could negotiate with Gakuganji—"

"NO, you can't do that. You know what that old man is like. He's the worst."

You sighed in frustration, hinting that you couldn't convince him. "But, Satoru-kun. I fear for your well-being. If I am correct, I haven't seen you sleeping these days."

You glided and handed him a glass of milk, hoping to soothe him down, encourage him, and make him comfortable enough with your presence. A humble smile curls on your lips as you touch his shoulder, sending a million loves to his heart.

He still feels the warmth between his shoulders, the love you share with him, and your kindness towards his heart.

You could tell by the glimpse of his eyes. There was nothing but a sparkle in them. The sparkle you've always seen whenever he gazes at you or when he is in love with you.

"I don't want milk."

"Why? Milk used to be your favorite. Is there something else you want?"

His gaze fixed on the glass, scanning in disinterest. Some people might think he was disgusted by that milk, but he just has a bad mood. Those dark circles are still there, even if you are trying to get rid of them with a kiss. But his timeless beauty never fades. His classic beauty still lingers on him.

He is gazing toward you, locking his azure eyes in silence.

"It's helping you to have a good night's sleep, Satoru-kun," you offered with a gentle smile. Trying to convince him one more time. 

"But it's only temporary! Now, tell me, Satoru-kun, how I can help you. I know you need me."

He chuckles, pinching your cheeks and shaking his head as if amused by your words. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, my love, sweet baby. But... you're so cute when you worry about me!"

He pats the couch, and a smile curls on his lips. "Come here. Sleep with me on this couch. Perhaps we could have a cozy cuddle before we sleep; how do you say?"

You smiled warmly, settling onto the couch, your giggling floating in the air, gliding nearer to him. His arm wrapped around your waist, drawing you snugly against his chest like a kitty cat, where you could hear his cute heartbeat.

Satoru's touch reveals a warm sensation, a comforting charm entwined with the sweetness of his breath, blending with longing and desire as he leans in closer to you. 

He placed a kiss on your head, down to your cheek, rendering your skin with his lips. All of these treatments made you giggle in amusement. He leans in closer, kisses your lips multiple times, biting your lips gently with his, and smiles.

Yet, the aroma he carries wraps around your presence, comforting you to stay with him longer. Your affection for him is beyond the bonds of memory, making you love him even more... than you could remember.

Despite his stressful days, he is trying so hard to dress properly, using the same cologne. A masculine fragrance always lingers in the air—an aroma that becomes your own favorite. You've never asked him about its brand. You left it a mystery.

Your love for him transcends the limits of human understanding.

"Your smell is so good," he teased, kissing your nose, and he continued. "Please stay with me until I get a good night's sleep."

[greetingfromthedead]

14. To Help Others

Series: Apple Blossoms Pairing: Knives x GN!Reader Word count: 3.2k

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"How are you?"

The question hung heavy in the air. Knives didn't answer you for a long while. You even started to think he somehow didn't hear you in the first place. But before you could ask again, he looked up from the flickering flame of the candle. His eyes seemed troubled, uncertain, and almost in pain. A rare glimpse beyond the veil he keeps up.

"I am fine," he finally answered.

"I thought you said you would tell me the truth," you responded, feeling almost hurt for being shut out once again.

"It's not a lie," he assured you. "I am alive. I have strength in my body. My memories that were scattered and broken are mostly pieced together. My wounds are almost healed, and I am not in constant physical pain. There are things about almost everything that I still need to figure out for myself. Loose pieces of me that I need to fit somewhere or leave behind. I have no path to guide me. The fire that has driven me forward has gone out. Things could be worse. Things could be better. So for now, I am fine."

"What things? What are you still trying to figure out? What keeps you up all night?" You leaned forward, drawn in by his rare vulnerability.

"I gifted you just one question. And you made your choice," Knives said, turning his gaze away to overlook the town again.

"Right." You felt a bit dejected. "But I am glad that you are at least doing fine. And if I can help you… ask."

"Yes. I've seen what asking gets me." Knives's voice was almost a whisper, and he stood up. "Goodnight."

He left without looking back to you. He returned to his room and closed the balcony door. The lights didn't come on in his space, and you waited for a bit longer at the table he set. If only he were always honest with you.

The morning air already feels stuffy. The wind has turned, and now it messes through your hair as you lean your elbows on the edge of the guard of the balcony. Last night plays in your head over an over like a movie. The smell of incense still lingers in the air, reminding you again how well you slept despite not remembering your dreams. You take a deep breath and look down into the streets. Some people seem to only now stagger home; others lay passed out on the sidewalks. Every space is littered with confetti and empty beer bottles. The city is alive with the remnants of last night's celebrations. Everything seems slower than usual as everybody is recovering from the holiday.

You wonder if you have any hope of finding traders here. You are close enough to Octovern that you would think they would come here to bargain. Especially with all the extra people gathered for the celebrations. Unless they themselves partied too hard too, there is hope of finding people peddling goods here. Every settlement closer to the surviving city is a bigger risk. Surely the remnants of the military police have gathered there to help Earth's forces to get their operations running and to help the people who are struggling to survive in this post-apocalyptic world. They will all be on the lookout for Knives. Maybe you should leave him here and go to Octovern by yourself? Lucille is a nut-job, but you can trust her. No, life has a way of dragging you off course when you least expect it. You wouldn't want to leave Knives in the unknown and all by himself. You have connections here, you are trusted, and you can talk your way out of almost anything. And then there is his answer from yesterday. It made him sound so lonely, like he has nothing and nobody in this world except himself. He's coming with you.

You hear a balcony door open, and you turn your head to see Knives stepping out. He looks rested. At least more so than usual. His eyes linger on the horizon for a moment before he finally turns to you. Like usual, he doesn't say anything.

"Good morning," you speak softly. "How were your dreams?"

"Good, I guess," he replies absentmindedly.

"How is your wound doing? I realized too late that I didn't wrap it properly last night."

"I wrapped it myself," he looks at the messy streets as he speaks.

"Oh no. Did you use the old bandages?"

"No. I took some clean ones from your supplies earlier," he speaks calmly. He sounds so distant.

"Very good. I hope I can check the wound tonight; I want to make sure it isn't getting an infection. Perhaps I will be able to get my hands on some medicine too while we're here," you trail off by the end, more talking to yourself than him.

"You hope we're close enough to Octovern for the traders to come here?" he sees right through your sentiment.

"Yes. It would save us quite some time if we could get our supplies here," you say, leaving out the part where your bigger worry is getting him caught. "Whatever the case, we should take advantage of this place. Do laundry, get food and water for the road, and then we can be on our way. Whatever direction it ends up being."

"The people here don't look like they are up for business today," Knives comments, still looking down at the people in the streets.

"I have a feeling that the right people will be," you smile, full of confidence that at least some things will find a way to sort themselves out. "Let us get started, bright and early!"

To be fair, it is not early; the mornings drag on thanks to the long hours of darkness, and the people are slow to recover from the festivities. You get ready for the day and instruct Knives to do the same. He appears from his room wrapped in the cloak and his bag full of dirty laundry hanging over his shoulder. You take your own bag and the basket from yesterday to make your way downstairs. The lobby is empty, and you don't want to push your luck with Lucille, so you leave yesterday's supplies behind the counter and slip out.

Together with Knives, you embark on your errand run, taking him with you to a small laundry business where an old, hunched-over woman manages the shop. She greets you warmly, chatting away as she takes your dirty clothes and some doubledollars. The old woman is friendly with you and tells you to come back in a few hours. This gives you time to walk across to the other side of the little town to a place with a large metal sign hanging over the door: "The Kitchen".

Inside you see a skinny man behind a counter. It is Carl, but without his beard and with a hairnet. He already looks better than he did yesterday. He smiles a bit awkwardly, and almost immediately Bertha appears. The middle-aged woman wears a headscarf and an apron. She comes to the cash machine and has a big customer service grimace on her face. You know she is a good person, but she can act strange sometimes. You don't chat for long as Bertha is preparing for last night's drunkards to stagger here soon. You simply order some sandwiches and coffee for yourself and Knives, picking a corner booth that hides his suspicious figure from most onlookers. While eating, Knives keeps staring at Carl, who diligently dices onions with tears in his eyes.

With a full belly, it gets easier to plow onward and to search for every contact you have ever had in the supply chain. Most of them are empty-handed. Either their own supplier has dried up, or they have given up on the business altogether. You get a few referrals and even get lucky enough to be able to buy bandages and some medicine, but it is not nearly enough. The talk on the street is that Earth's forces have set up their outpost and are producing supplies, but they distribute things themselves and systematically, most items going to their own relief teams, leaving little for anybody else, let alone traders. The situation keeps pushing you closer to Octovern. There are only a few more settlements between here and there, but none of them big enough to give you hope that you will find traders. It is with a heavy heart that you give up on the hope of getting medical supplies here, so you shift your focus to getting other travel supplies.

You're on your way to what basically is a pet shop to get feed for your birds when a distant voice cries out for you.

"Doc!" the desperate plea echoes through the street and makes you turn around.

A young girl runs towards you as fast as she can. You recognize her as one of the kids that was with Danny yesterday. She is dressed boyishly, her hair is tied up, and her arms and legs are dusty. She waves at you and yells for you to help her.

Without even thinking, you take long strides towards her, Knives close behind. She stops and waves you to follow her. You hurry forward, keenly watching where she goes as she disappears into an alley not far from where you were. She waits for you there.

"Come quickly! It's my sister! She's sick!" the girl pleads, grabbing your hand as soon as you come into reach. She drags you into a door in the alley. The hallway is small, slanting upward and echoing as you rush forward. She enters a door next to some stairs that lead up. The little apartment is cramped and dimly lit. Boxes and stuff line the walls and clutter every corner, but the little girl keeps a tight hold of your fingers and leads you along the path that leads to a far room.

On a bed that seems too small for her, a slightly older girl lies under covers, pale-faced and unresponsive. You can tell she's not well. Sweat covers her brow, and her breathing is shallow. Your immediate thought is Silvercrest, the way the people in the tent suffered and waited for relief. It makes your heart skip a beat or maybe two. Pulling the curtains from the window lets in just a touch more light as you take a closer look. Your hand pressed to her forehead confirms her high fever.

"I got my hands on some medicine that should help bring her temperature down," you talk to nobody in particular. Your head races with a million thoughts about what you should do and in what order. You pull away to search your pockets, but a familiar bottle is already reached out for you to take. As you look up, you see Knives's serious face looking back at you, his hand holding the medicine you were looking for.

You take it with a thanks and hurry back along the path you came through to hopefully reach the kitchen. Luckily, you remember the way back and quickly arrive at the kitchen and rush over to the sink to wash your hands and get some water, but the tap is dry.

"There is water in the buckets if you need it. One is dirty, the other clean," another female voice speaks.

You look over to see a slightly sickly-looking woman, clearly a victim of famine, standing by the door. Her resemblance to the other girls is striking, and it is clear that she must be their mother.

"Buckets?" you ask with surprise, too aware of the technological advancements of this town.

"Yes, the purification system of this town block crapped out on us a little while back. There has been nobody who could fix it, especially since we don't have the money to spare. My husband used to take care of it, but he went to Octovern to fight and still hasn't returned. It is fresh water, though, in the buckets. I brought them in myself this morning." She sounds apologetic, like it is your inconvenience she worries about.

Quickly you adjust to what you have at your disposal and wash your hands with the woman's help. Next you crush the medicine into a powder and mix it with water. This will help with the dehydration too. You go back to the sick girl and carefully lift her head to trickle the medicine mixture into her mouth. It is reminiscent of the way you took care of Knives, who watches you from the hallway. He remained there after following you to the kitchen. The little bedroom is cramped enough with the family there; he gives you just a touch more space. You focus on the girl, giving her medicine and water before thoroughly examining her. You're happy that you don't find any rotting wounds, but it still leaves you in the dark.

A baby's cry catches your attention, and the mother rushes off, leaving you there with the two girls. She is gone only for a little bit before returning with a bundled-up infant. Three children and she is all by herself. This can't be easy.

"I'm afraid I don't know what causes her fever," you admit. "It could be a cold that got out of hand, some kind of infection. I can't say for sure. I found no injuries or signs of poison. Her fever should come down a bit soon. It is important to give her water; she swallows well, so it shouldn't be too hard. How long has she been sick?"

"Not long. She said she didn't feel well yesterday, and this morning we found her like this," the mother answers, "But she is always such a brave girl. She thinks she has to take care of herself now that her dad is gone, so maybe she has been unwell for days and she just didn't admit it. I should have paid more attention."

"Don't blame yourself. You're doing the best you can," you try to console her. "I hope it is just a bad cold and nothing more serious. Give her medicine throughout the day so her fever doesn't get out of hand. I think she will wake up when she feels better. Maybe she will eat something then. Keep an eye on her."

You hand the younger sister a few of the fever reducer tablets and instructions on when and how to give them. The girl listens diligently and nods her head in understanding.

"If it is a sickness… could it be contagious?" the mother asks with concern.

"Maybe. But if that is the case, I guess you would already have it. It might take a few days for it to show. It is hard to tell," you admit, frustrated with your shortcomings.

"Could you examine the baby? I trust my little Inga to tell me when she is feeling unwell, but he is too little to say what the matter is," the mother pleads, voice still dripping with concern.

"Of course, but I wouldn't do it here. Is there another room with a window?"

You're led to a different bedroom. It has a wider bed in the middle and a box for a crib on the side. A smaller bed sits against the wall but is covered by stuff. Evidently the younger sister sleeps in the big bed with her mother. You notice a small desk and chair near the window, with a coloring book and crayons scattered on top. It looks like the brightest spot in the room, so you mindfully make some space and take the baby from the woman's arms. You carefully unwrap the infant, who fusses slightly but settles as he takes great interest in the faces you make at him. While you examine the child, a bang sounds out from somewhere in the hallway. The woman excuses herself for a moment to go and look, leaving you alone with the baby. You finish the examination before she returns, so you swaddle the kid and pick him up to go see what happened.

In the hallway, outside the apartment, a panel has been pried open from the wall, exposing wiring and tubes. Knives stands before the exposed parts, his arms extended into the mess of wires. He looks focused and determined as he digs for something in the wall. The woman stands behind him, shining a light on his work. A smile tugs at your lips. You've never seen him like this. The baby coos in your arms and reaches up for your nose as you step closer. Knives turns his head to look at you. He seems to freeze for a moment, his gaze slipping between your smile and the loving embrace that holds the baby.

"What are you doing?" you ask him gently while rocking the baby.

"He said he might be able to fix our water problem!" the woman exclaims, hope shining in her eyes. "And how is my baby?"

"I didn't know you could do something like that," you say to Knives before answering the woman, "He looks absolutely fine, but just in case, don't bring him into the girl's room for a little while. It will help to minimize the infection risk just a little bit."

"Thank you, Doc!" she sighs with relief, her hand reaching out to touch her son.

"Here. This should fix the system," Knives suddenly says in a flat voice as he turns his gaze back to the wall, takes his arms out and shuts the panel, but doesn't look back at you.

"You're like two angels from Heaven!" the mother whispers as tears fill her eyes. "How can I ever thank you for your help?"

You shake your head gently, still smiling.

"Just take care of your family the best you can. I hope everything will sort itself out now. Stay strong. I will come back tomorrow and check on the children again. Until then, wash your hands, drink water, and give medicine as needed," you instruct her while handing over her son.

"Thank you. Thank you!" she keeps repeating.

You check again on the sick girl; her fever seems a little less fiery now. It is still with a heavy heart that you leave their home, wishing you could do more, hoping that the medicine you left them will be enough to pull the girl through. This day has not quite been what you hoped. But it was still full of surprises.

"Are you a mechanic?" you ask Knives as you look over to him.

"No. Just a knack for tech," he says with the same flat tone as before.

"Well, I am glad. You helped those people more than you know," you smile up at him as you walk back to pick up your laundry. "And not only them. That system supports a whole block of buildings."

Knives doesn't answer; he doesn't even look at you. The rest of your errand run is spent in silence. Every time you glance at him, he looks away as if you had said something wrong. But your gut tells you there is something else going on. Perhaps he is trying to fit one of those broken pieces of himself into the puzzle he has become.

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[nostraightheadcanons]

☆ DJSS falling in love headcanons ☆ DJSS X Reader

This is a pretty long read whoopsie ;;

☆ DJSS is a rather complicated case, on one hand you could say he's expressive but that is moreso a facade than anything. his grandiose behaviour is something he does to further the narrative that he's trying to push. That this DJ SUBATOMIC SUPERNOVA is beyond anything the world could imagine, he's above such trivial things that are befitting lowly humans such as you all. So something such as emotions? and feelings for others? should be below him would it not? He's someone who doesn’t handle intimate feelings very well. It’s difficult for him to come to terms with having feelings for someone else let alone platonic emotions, both from fear of rejection and the notion of that he'd never be good enough or worth anyone's true effort and time. He's used to having people at arms length never letting them get close enough to see the man behind the veil.

☆ Any past attempts at close relations have always ended up in failure due to his personality and façade, he struggles with understanding peoples emotions and the ways others think. He may be attentive and observant of the people around him but he's not very receptive to their attempts of so called friendly relations, everything must be logical, calculated and fit the design he has planned perfectly, these fortuitous attempts through him off balance.

Everything must be either transactional in his head. Give or take and he's the one mostly doing the taking.

NSR is just a stepping stone for the grander plans in life, you may think he's friend with the fellow charters but I few it more complicated than that.

What does it mean to like someone if they provide nothing for you to gain? It's illogical and an anomaly

☆ He can't perceive the notion of liking someone just because. At first he doesn't even register it's crush, you're just a stray planet in his orbit. Just a minuscule dot in the ever-growing galaxy, nothing of worth. Next to nothing when compared to him. But you stay, you continue to orbit him. You spin on an axis that is unfamiliar and foreign to his core that for some reason he catches himself looking at.

You were unplanned, unwanted and a nuisance that wouldn't go away.

His body couldn't ignore the gravitational pull that always found him, drawing closer to you whether in word or body. ☆ Although he’s a seemingly emotionless man in regards to matters that are not within his interest on the outside and rather talented in hiding his true feelings, he’s the type of person to become flustered by small things such as the way you laugh or smile at him, despite how brazen and bold some of his actions and words are. Though spotting those subtle differences is hard, but if you look close enough you can see the way that his orb changes shades. The ways that the sparkles shift to glow just a tad brighter, the cosmic clouds entrapped within him shifting as the waves brew into a storm of emotion that even he couldn't predict.

The plantery rings on his jacket spin a little faster, and if you really catch him off guard? You can see glimpse of a aura / halo hidden deep within the confines of his hoody. Spinning and rotating just a tad. You're drawing things out of him that he had pushed down for centuries, an unprecedented shift in his reality. You were an anomaly that has sent ripples throughout his very existence and now he's feeling the waves of the aftermath that is now changing the protectory of his life.

Seriously, he’d wrap an arm around you without a second thought if he's boasting about himself and wanting you to back within his brilliance n shine. But the moment you ask him to go somewhere like lunch or someplace else. He's just riddled with questions and doesn't seem to understand why you'd want him Anxiety dripping down his back, he'd psyche himself out of it trying to ignore the way his orb displays a myriad of shades that toooottally weren't there before. ☆ So when DJSS actually realizes this is a crush: he can be a little bit distant. Honestly though, I can see him being either one of two ways: Confident but he amps up his façade like crazy that he thinks he can prove his worth by showboating his glory or as previously mentioned. He would definitely want to cultivate his relationship with you before bringing it to the next level as a result of both of these possibilities but it's entirely dependent on how you react on how things go from there. Will you be the time to reach forward if he's cold and distant to slowly chip away at the ice barricade his heart? Will you be able to dismiss the grand act he puts own and venture into the vast depths to find what lurks beneath.

There's someone there wanting to be love, he doesn't realize it yet until he feels the ice of the great unknown nipping at his neck bringing with it the dread of loneliness that has forever plagued his existence.

All of this would be like second nature to him, but once he realizes exactly why he feels the way he does, he would distance himself a little bit to recollect and organize these new emotions. He's not prepared for this change, he can't seem to categorize or make sense of anything you've done to him. ☆ If you two do miraculously end up together, DJSS wouldn't do one of those big grand confession he thinks they're rather ridiculous for something like him. He's THE DJ Subatomic Supernova, he's not going to waste his time on some silly confession. He’ll eventually gather his thoughts and get his shit together and ask you on a date. If you say no, he's mentally prepared for this anyway. He'll just try and cease all the changes you've made to him effective immediately and try to push down and suffocate his emotions

Like he normally does ☆ He wouldn't gush about you like others do about their partners, He's not that kind of guy. But it won't stop him from certainly talking about you a lot. It doesn’t take long for others to catch onto just how much he likes to brag about you. So much so, that people often have to tell him to shut up. He's annoyed so many of his staff members about this already

You think his gloating about himself was bad?

He's upping the ante and gloating about YOU TOO. ☆ Totally the jealous type of lover, he wants to be the only one that gets to touch you that way. To hold you? To kiss you? To look upon you fondly with just enough sweetness that you blush. That's for him and his eyes only. It bothers him if someone is pestering you or trying to flirt. If someone talks about you too fondly for too long it really gets under his skin

You'll often find his orb growing darker by the second, you know he's not the type to hide his dislike of someone ☆ BIG HAIRY GUY! You think after everything I've said he'd hate being touched? Nope! He's touched starved and wants nothing more to be held and cuddled, once those walls are down and he learns to trust his feelings and you there's no stopping him from keeping his hands off you one way or the other. You can find him coiling his arms around you entangling you completely as he elongates his limbs to ensnare you completely. It's either draped on your shoulder, holding your hand or around your waist When he demands affection there’s no getting around it until he gets what he wants

Call him selfish and jealous, but you're his and he'll do anything to make that obvious to anyone around him ☆ The way to his heart? Cook for him, He's not the best in the kitchen mediocre at best, some of his attempts end up in disaster. Cooking is not logical, so many factors and things he needs to account for that can change on a dime and he hates that. So he avoids cooking as much as possible which means he either skips meals or substitutes for rather lacking options.

It shows him that you care and that you pay attention to him in ways that others do not, seriously it means a lot to him even if he has trouble showing that to you. Sometimes even you make him lose the words to say, which is surprising . .. given him.

☆Mod Nine��

[queenaeducan]

Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter Three: Echoes

The sight of mages mingling freely at his doorstep stir old memories in Solas's heart. He finds himself still a stranger to the world he now inhabits, catching only glimpses of the familiar in the faces around him.

They had arrived in Redcliffe a humble party of five, and left in numbers beyond his reckoning.

Haven now groans beneath the weight of its new occupants. Mages, young and old, mingle in her snow-lined streets, finding their bearings and reconnecting with faces they had missed in the fog of war.

Solas walks in their midst, yet does not number among them, his plain robes and homemade staff are enough to mark him as an outsider. Instead, he observes, as he has through countless dreams in the past year and change since waking. For their part, they are no more receptive to his presence than the memories, parting around him as though he were not there.

A disarming thought gnaws at him as he recognises that he’s seen this all before. In their eyes, he beholds uncertainty, unsure if they have arrived at their future or another false hope. Others beam with promise so potent spirits press through the Veil to feel their warmth.

Echoes.

Echoes is the word he comforts himself with. Like the farthest ring in a ripple of water resembles the hand that moves the waves.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” the Herald’s voice resonates with the present, dispelling his stupor with a few warm words. She draws level beside him, her close proximity easy, undaunted. He looks down at her. She looks healthier this morning than she has in several days; her eyes bright and the sides of her head freshly shaved, leaving only a patch at the top that lifts in tight curls. More notably, Redcliffe’s wounds have begun to fold back into her skin, unmaking the memories of the false year. One mark remains, a deeper cut that has the makings of a scar, carved beneath the Carta brand under her right eye. Leaning against the side of a building, she says, “I think they’re settling in nicely.”

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[beanghostprincess]

Heeeeeyyyyyyy boooooooooo~

Have you read anything by Stereden? I am OBSESSED and INSPIRED okay it is AMAZING I love

So yeah.

Those works I spired me into making my own lil AU - Haki is a matter of will. It's an innate thing in all living beings, everyone has Haki, but you have to train to be able to control or sharpen it, and some are born with a special ability to IMPOSE IT ON OTHERS. Roger was among those.

Haki could be boiled down to soul energy.

((Shamelessly dropping another special interest with my one piece ideas mwahahah so evil))

Some of the theories regarding ghosts or repetitive cycles of hauntings is due to the amount of emotional energy affixed to a person or place, OR by the will of the person remaining. If one who died had a strong enough Will to Continue Existing, then it's theorized that they could either remain or pass between the veil.

Roger had v strong Conquerors Haki. He had the Voice of All Things, too.

He was sick and dying and so he chose what he thought was best to act as the end of his time. But I do NOT doubt for a single second that when he was up there on that platform that he could tell Shanks and Buggy were exhausted, scared, hurt, grief stricken and alone.

Where was the rest of his crew? Why wasn't Rayleigh with them? Why hadn't Crocus treated those wounds on theirs? Why was Buggy so worn thin, like a live wire, and why did his little Red feel so hollow and empty? What in the seven Seas happened to his kids?!

He's too weak to break out. The best he can do with misdirect attention from them as best he can. The best he can do is send his haki out to wrap around them, a blanket, armor, whatever they needed bc he'd do it, he'd do it all for them, thise are his kids and he loves them and he pours ever single bit of that love into it.

Roger dies on that platform, but he's still there.

He bears witness to the way the crew meets back up not even an hour after his head hit the cobblestone ground, and he is seething as he watches Rayleigh officially disband the crew. He is frothing when Buggy, voice shaking and thin and pale and everything Roger refused to let the child be ever again, asks through tears, "what do we do now?"

And Rayleigh, face blank, just responds with, "go back to what you were doing, kid. You survived this long."

And Roger is furious, is livid, is terrified and angry and hurt and-

One of the nearby lanterns explodes.

The crew shoots looks that direction, and Roger thinks they might just see him, but nobody reacts beyond his kids blinking hard a few times before looking away. And Oh. Oh, That Is Odd.

Roger is a pirate, a Captain, is deadDeadDeadDeadOhFuckHeIsDead- but he's a selfish man at his core. He has made peace with that.

He watches over Shanks and Buggy, sometimes goes to check on Rouge and her growing little bump. He winds up baring witness to the events of Baterilla, and he is furious beyond reason by the Marines. But he is there to see Rouge's last breath and Ace's first, and hebwatches Garp take his child, just as requested, and he holds his wife in his arms as she joins him in this odd limbo.

They both bare witness, hand in hand, as Shanks and Buggy fight tears, panic attacks, and unfiltered rage as they help dig graves and mourn the losses of innocent lives, and Roger aches when they keep a meticulous count. Rouge cries with every friend and family member she sees lowered into the earth, but she is still trying, futile as it is, to wipe away Buggy's and Shanks' tears, hands gently on their backs and heads and cheeks. She has never met them, not personally, but Roger had told her so much, and these boys are hers as well, hers to love and protect and adore.

The pirate king and his wife, his queen, keep watch over their children, trying to give comfort where they could, protection in any way they can manage.

Roger aches with Ace's hatred. He understands, he'd never blame him for it, but it hurts and he may hate Garp's choices a little more with each glimpse into the situation.

For a long while, things are fine, are normal, make a routine. Three years in, there is a change.

A pulse ripples along the world, jarring and sudden, like a cacophonous drum beat. As quickly as it comes, it goes. Roger and Rouge exchange glances. None of the living have reacted.

They meet Luffy not long after.

His tiny body thrums with energy, heart an odd but not harmful pace and Roger Knows.

He never thought he'd get to see this.

Luffy is still so small, so tiny, but he is loved, so much so.

And, the couple learns, he is the epicenter of so much by way of Fate.

He goes on to become so much to so many, a friend/son to Shanks, a person of interest to Buggy, a brother to Ace, and Roger is cackling over having five whole sons as soon as the cups clink together, much to Rouge's amusement.

Just. Roger ((and Rouge)) watching over their children.

Occasionally even being VISIBLE to others in times of high energy.

Alvida seeing Roger sitting on the edge of Buggy's bed when he spikes dangerous fevers.

Benn seeing Rouge brush Shanks' hair back when he gets blackout drunk after a particularly hard time.

Dadan seeing both parents soothe a sobbing little baby when she was still so new to this parenting thing, and never breathing a word of it.

Chopper occassionally getting glimpses of a giant of a man and a powerful looking woman whe Luffy is badly injured, both gently offering him comfort or standing guard.

Koala occasionally sees strangers in the base when Sabo is sick or hurt or has nightmares.

Whitebeard nearly chokes when he sees Roger sitting next to his son on his deck, smiling fondly at the newly snoring young man and patting his head gently.

Nobody breathes a word of any of this, not for a good long while because stranger things have happened. And besides...

It's good to know the kids are being looked out for.

Oh damn. Okay. I've never really been into ghost stuff and things like this, but this is so cool??? Honestly, turning it into soul energy makes it so interesting. They're there to look out for them and keep an eye on them and it's such a beautiful concept!!! <3

[cliffdivingsblog]

WIP ping pong

Thank you for tagging @pursuitseternal

A little something from the next chapter of Consume, a dark Melkor/Varda romance.

Are you afraid of the Dark?

Melkor is even more insufferable the next time Varda goes to meet him. All smug grin, showing slightly too pointy teeth and sly, glittering dark eyes that watch her every move hungrily.

Like a snake in the grass, waiting to strike the moment its prey is close enough. And she has decided to be at his mercy voluntarily.

Or at least is pretending to.

She plays the intrigued-against-her-will maiden to perfection, inwardly rolling her eyes at the way he goads her into coming into the Void with him by appealing to her pride. “And I doubt my brother will allow his bride to accompany me to the Void.”

He probably honestly thinks he is subtle.

“I don‘t need Manwë‘s permission for anything,“ she tells him with a willful toss of her hair. Varda can guess he does not want to get her alone for any innocent reason.

Will he really attempt to harm her? As much as she distrusts him, she is reluctant to believe that even Melkor will sink that low, that he will go so far to hurt his brother.

It does not matter though. If he is innocent no harm will come of this. And if he isn’t… Varda lets her power rise up, a few sparks catching in her balled fist. Then she will be prepared for anything he tries. And finally prove to Manwë his brother is beyond any hope of salvation.

“Of course not.” Melkor offers her his hand with another challenging smile, palm up, fingers curled. The darkness around him deepens, either purposefully or because his powers react to the wild anticipation flaming up in his eyes.

“Well then, prepared to touch the darkness, sister?” he breathes, that smooth voice a taunting caress, a few shadowy tendrils reaching for her eagerly, making her flowing white dress flutter around her.

Should she be afraid now? Varda wonders. Instead all she feels is fierce determination, a nearly violent urge to show him his place, to prove that not everyone will cower before the dark force of his power without resistance.

“Show me.” She says boldly as she puts her hand in his. His fingers are surprisingly cool as they close around hers just a tad too firmly. A strange feeling settles into her stomach when she realizes it is the first time they touch.

His smile turns downright menacing as he pulls her closer with a sharp tug, his magic and the warmth of his body a disconcerting presence against her. “Come.”

“What? Now?” she gasps as the world shifts around them, a surge of his power bringing them to the nearest point where the Veil between worlds is thin, the Void only a step away.

“Why not?” Those cunning eyes watch her with rapt attention, daring her to back down as he gestures at the telltale reflection in front of them, the air there flickering, showing little glimpses of a dim, foreign sky and swirling shadows. “Or is the One‘s favorite daughter afraid of the dark?”

Tagging @marimosalad @scriberated @thrillofhope @myfavouritelunatic @myrsinemezzo @bad-surprise @coraleethroughthelookingglass @jhalya @klynnvakarian

[xochiackiller]

Missed Chapter 1? Let the fog carry you back.

Evania Virelay crosses a cursed river in the fog and stumbles upon the long-abandoned manor no villager dares speak of. There, drawn by the sound of a lonely piano, she meets Vladan Edevane—a pale, timeless man cloaked in secrets and sorrow. Their first encounter is cold and careful, but strangely intimate. And it doesn’t end there. She returns. Again and again. He teaches her forgotten languages and music older than memory. She brings him whispers from the village. Something ancient stirs in the woods. People begin to vanish. Despite the warnings—of beasts, of curses, of God—Evania is drawn back to the manor, and to Vladan. Their connection deepens in silence, in stories, in the stormlight. But in the end… the door is shut. And he is gone. The trees weep. Something is coming.

Here’s what unfolded beyond the river… and a glimpse at what’s waiting in Chapter 2.

The manor may be closed, but the bond between Evania and Vladan is far from broken. As winter deepens, so do the village’s fears. Evania starts to change—subtly, dangerously. Her senses sharpen. Her dreams darken. Something ancient is calling to her from within. And Vladan? He’s not as far as she thinks.

Chapter 2: The Pledge

Years passed.

Time, like the fog that once cradled her ankles, slipped silently forward. The manor beyond the river grew quieter still. No music drifted. No candlelight flickered. And the name Vladan Edevane returned to the realm of whispered warnings and half-remembered dreams.

Evania Virelay grew.

At fourteen, she was no longer the small girl clutching herbs and wandering past the riverbanks. Her face had lengthened, her eyes deeper, darker. Her voice carried weight, and her hands—though still delicate—were steady. She was becoming a woman, though she never felt like one among the village girls with their gossip and garlands.

She thought of him often.

Of his pale hands and the way he looked at her, like he saw every shadow inside her and did not flinch.

Some nights, she swore she heard the piano in the wind.

But he never returned.

Until the night of the red moon.

It hung low in the sky, casting a wine-colored veil over the earth. The villagers barred their doors. Church bells rang with urgency, not celebration.

Evania wandered. As she always did when the air felt wrong.

She found herself at the river.

And he was there.

Standing just beyond the fog, half-shadow, half-memory. He looked unchanged—no, older somehow. Sharper. Like time had pressed against him but never broken through.

"You came back," she said.

His voice was a whisper carried on wind. "I never left."

She stepped forward. The water hissed beneath her feet.

"Why did you stay away?"

"Because I feared what I would become with you near."

She did not understand. Not fully. But she knew longing when it sang beneath her skin.

"Why now?"

"Because you are of age. Because the blood sings in you. Because I have waited... and I can wait no longer."

She trembled, but not from fear.

"What do you want of me?"

He stepped closer, close enough for her to see that his eyes were not simply bright—they were starving.

"Not your life," he said. "Your vow."

She swallowed.

"Speak it plain."

He extended a hand, and when she placed hers within it, it was as if the cold pierced through to her bones—yet she did not pull away.

"Your mind, your body, your soul. I ask for what is yours to give, not mine to take."

She looked up at him. And though she did not know what he would do with such things, she knew he would never lie.

So she spoke:

"Then take them. My mind, my body, and my soul. They are yours. And if I am to be changed by this... then let it be of my choosing."

The wind howled, the river churned, and the trees bowed as though something ancient had been awakened.

Vladan said nothing more.

He pulled her close and pressed his lips to her forehead—a kiss colder than death, but filled with something fierce. Something sacred.

Then, as quickly as he had come, he vanished into the mist.

And Evania Virelay, now fourteen, stood alone beneath the red moon—a girl no longer.

A promise made.

A fate sealed.

The night lingered inside her.

Even after the sky returned to blue and the fields grew green again, Evania could still feel the river’s hiss against her skin, the weight of his cold lips upon her brow.

She dreamt of things that didn’t belong to her��memories soaked in blood and velvet, the echo of ancient names spoken in dead languages. She dreamt of corridors underground, lined with stone coffins and whispering shadows. Sometimes she would wake with the taste of iron in her mouth.

And in every dream, Vladan stood behind her, never touching, never speaking—only watching. As if waiting for something. Or someone.

She began to change.

It was not immediate. It was a soft shift, like the slow turning of dusk into night. Her eyes adjusted faster to darkness. Her reflection became hazy at times, as though it no longer knew how to hold her shape. Candles dimmed when she entered a room. Animals refused to meet her gaze.

Her mother said she had grown cold. Her father whispered prayers when he thought she slept.

She did not deny any of it.

She felt distant from the world, as though it was slowly moving further away from her reach.

But she did not mourn that loss.

It felt like shedding a skin that no longer fit.

One morning, Evania wandered the edge of the woods and found a mark burned into the bark of an old yew tree: a symbol she did not know, yet felt as though she had carved it herself.

Three crescents overlapping a single vertical line. The shape pulsed with warmth when she touched it.

She saw no sign of him, but her heart raced as if he had spoken her name.

From then on, the signs became more frequent.

A raven perched outside her window every night.

Strange frost blooming on the hearthstone, even in summer.

Footprints in the dew beside the well—bare, pale, and perfectly still.

He was near.

Watching.

Waiting.

And she found herself waiting too.

Not with impatience.

But with certainty.

On the eve of the harvest festival, as bells rang from the chapel tower and lanterns bloomed like stars along the village paths, Evania stood apart from the revelry. Her dress was deep crimson, stitched by her own hand. She wore no flowers in her hair, no smile on her face.

She waited.

And when midnight struck, the bell faltered. It missed a toll.

The music stuttered.

And a shadow moved at the edge of the forest.

She did not follow.

She simply turned to face it, and closed her eyes.

Her breath left her lips in a slow, reverent exhale.

"Soon," she whispered.

She did not know when, or how.

But she knew he would come again.

And this time, he would not vanish.

This time, the pledge would be fulfilled.

author's note: I post a new chapter of Nosferatu every Tuesday & Thursday! As for now there are 3 chapters out. If you would like to look at the master list!

[yingren]

in most cases, it has always been easier for ren to listen than to speak. questions come naturally with curiosity, something he experiences from time to time, especially around people like luocha, who possess complexities that go beyond what they reveal. yet, despite not always sharing much about themselves, luocha is never one hesitant to put himself out there. true nature isn't hard to glimpse, even behind the veil of subtle performances in each encounter. the first time ren met luocha, he wouldn’t have been bold enough to claim that the merchant had no hidden agenda behind his constant willingness to offer help. but now, as things evolve between them and settle into an odd comfort that feels strikingly like affection, ren can confidently say that luocha is trustworthy enough to keep around. despite their many differences, and the fact that ren knows he will make it harder to get close to the core of who he is where the sentiments of an artisan lie buried, there’s a part of ren that’s willing to try. willing because luocha has somehow planted the seed of curiosity within the ever-evolving life that pulses relentlessly between ren's ribs. with each genuine exchange they share, the seed grows deeper, taking root in the small space left within him. every time luocha offers a piece of himself, it takes root even further.

although ren can't always relate to what luocha has been through or the pain he endures in his solitude, he does make an effort to understand. the concept of being bestowed yaoshi's gift without being chosen feels familiar, and it becomes clear why it’s seen as a curse rather than a blessing. even the aeons are not selfless in their generosity, offering curses disguised as gifts, then expecting gratitude in return. ren has many grievances with this, how it seems like there’s no room for them to have a say in the matter. even luocha, who chose to use the powers given to him to help others, isn’t here by his own will. while he may have taken what was offered and found a way to make it his own, reclaiming the purpose of his life, they are both unwilling players in a much larger game. ren doesn’t do much but listen, swallowing the lingering resentment he senses in luocha’s tone. it’s not something that’s easy to come to terms with, it never was, but perhaps it will be easier to accept the reality they’re bound to if they’re allowed to face it together.

❝ i remember reading about pressure points, though the details are ... blurry. ❞ despite this, he doesn’t pull his hand away a second time. allowing luocha to hold it between his palms, ren finds himself unable to resist the urge to look. he must have studied his own hands a million times, yet they always seem unfamiliar when he lays eyes on them again. as if a new scar has appeared or perhaps old ones have faded away. it’s hard to tell which it is — either way, something always feels off about the way his hands look. there’s always something wrong. it’s almost ironic then how luocha’s touch seems to erase the imperfections ren sees in the lines of his palm, the way his finger brushes over skin that barely registers the sensation but somehow feels warm and close, despite the numbness running through long-dead nerves. yaoshi might have condemned luocha to a life where their healing pulses like rivers through his veins, but this is not that power. it’s something else, something more. his touch breathes life into ren’s hands, cutting through the static fog with a clarity sharper than the rapier he wields. the sensation is almost dreamlike, and for a brief moment, ren wonders if he’s imagining it all.

there are a myriad of questions lingering on the tip of his tongue, some of which only just arise with the intent of indulging luocha’s curiosity, perhaps asking about the lines in his palm or inquiring about something from his medicinal books. yet, all of them are discarded the moment luocha’s last words sink into ren’s mind. at first, he thinks he must have misheard, or perhaps luocha didn’t mean anything by it, given how relaxed he seems with the subject. silence settles between them, like freshly fallen snow that ren has no intention of disturbing — at least, not at first. but then, it starts to feel like a challenge, and in the end, ren finds himself unable to suppress the remark that has been nagging at the forefront of his thoughts. a playful smile curves on his lips as his gaze shifts to meet luocha’s.

❝ what a polite way to flirt. ❞ the smile changes into a way too proud grin, body leaning forward to close most of the space between them. ❝ so, is taking me to bed your preferred method of tiring me out ? do tell, which medicinal book did you read about that in ? ❞

This time, when Luocha feels the edges of his lips threatening to curve into a content, tender smile he does nothing to suppress it; he allows his demeanor to brighten at will, even if only a little, having no desire to withhold that from himself, or from Ren. The Hunter might believe himself to be unkind, but nothing could be further from the truth; the words of acquiescence he has offered, of acceptance, the careful reach, the tender touch of fingers and lips on his sin-tainted skin have been the greatest acts affection Luocha has received in the centuries of his cursed existence—it only justifies further his decision, albeit impulsively done at first, to trust him with the burdening knowledge of his affliction. His oath has always felt heavy on his shoulders, the weight of the promises and expectations he has vowed to fulfill only increases in importance the more the time goes by. Now, however, there was a lightness in his chest, as if he had remembered to relax a muscle which he had been contracting for years, unbeknownst to him. It is sore, bruised, but it no longer chokes him when he inhales, it does not tighten when he shifts. 

Confiding in another did not come naturally to him—even when mortality still breathed life in his lungs, it has always been him the one who listened, the one who advised, the one who absolved. His own quiet prayers which echoed in the gelid, ruined halls of his body were repeatedly met with deafening silence; Yaoshi might have extended THEIR hand over him, but never graced Luocha with THEIR voice, with THEIR presence. But Ren not only listened—he responded, he conceded. He offered. 

He quietly watches when Ren moves, and the consequent absence of the curl and warmth of his fingers around his wrist is felt as vividly as their grip had been a moment before. There’s a hint of disappointment that installs because of it, an inkling of longing he recognizes from similar stances, but he does nothing to address it. The brief gesture which follows is not lost to Luocha’s observant gaze, and the delicate smile which is still present in his lips widens ever so faintly at the silent invitation that he receives next—and to which he gladly and almost promptly accepts.

He finds his spot of preference by Ren’s side, knees nearly brushing once he accommodates himself. It is not a wide bed, nor the mattress is particularly tender, but Luocha feels as pleased as if his comfort was dictated not by the quality of the cushion, but by the company with whom he shared it.

“It wasn’t so much chosen as it was… bestowed. I’ve always possessed an affinity for it, so to speak. But I do not dislike it. It gives me purpose,” he decides to respond after a moment of quietude, olive eyes glancing at the Hunter’s profile in slight contemplation. There is no resentment in his voice, only acceptance, a foreign serenity. “I might not have been able to carve my own destiny, but believing that I can aid others in paving theirs, even if only in a small way, it is nonetheless… satisfying.”

Luocha’s gaze eventually falls on Ren’s hands, his long, dexterous fingers, tendons and muscles tightening beneath the scarred skin. It is a gentle, languid impulse that makes the healer reach for the one which had been offered to him and withdrawn before he could take it. One could learn enormously by observing someone’s hands; habits, health, care. A glance was all it required for a vague, yet often accurate analysis of someone’s well-being. But that was not what Luocha searched for now, not even amidst the admirable myriad of scars that decorated Ren’s complexion—even if he would enjoy tracing them with his fingertips, to feel the difference in texture, in shape, being able to guess the cause by touch alone.

“Long ago, I remember reading in an old medicinal book that there are different pressure points in our hands that are intrinsically connected to distinct parts of our body, and that applying gentle pressure on them can be beneficial for various matters,” his voice is warm as he speaks, and he gently maneuvers Ren’s hand so his palm is facing upwards. Then, his ungloved index tenderly brushes over the crease of his wrist, an area which lies aligned between the ring and pinky finger. “This one represents the heart, if I remember correctly—it was said that gently rubbing this spot may help with restlessness and insomnia.” Olive eyes glance up to search for Ren’s crimson ones with a knowing look and his smile intact. “—I am a light sleeper, and you never rest much yourself. I cannot say I have tested the veracity of the method before, but it sounds worth trying if you have no desire to tire yourself out to the point of exhaustion only to have a good night of sleep.”

[artemiscrocksgf]

you vex me II (aemond targaryen x fem!reader)

this is part two, you can read the first one here or it can be read as a standalone but i recommend reading the first

pairing: aemond targaryen x velaryon fem!reader

warning: angst , pining, angst to smut, enemies to lovers ?? , incest (uncle/niece) it's hotd duh. explicit, minors dni 18+, NSWF

word count: 2.9K

high valyrian words are translated

The sky is fragile, the sun above the tumultuous cloud tops the only brightness that shines through. “Lykiri!” [calm]  you command in high valyrian,  the bellows of your dragon’s roar echoing through the dragonpit grounds. Like your mother and previous ancestors, you were trained to ride dragon back at the age of six, gifted with a hatchling from the pits of Dragonstone. Ysera your dragon, her wings emerald green like the precious stone she was named after, and her claws and crest scales bright as pearlescent jade. Ysera’s deep green scales glistened from the light mist that fell from the clouds. “Lykiri Ysera,” the dragon’s leathery wings sprawled open as you stroke her neck, while the dragon keepers prepare her saddle. 

“Princess, the weather has turned – you should ride on the morrow” the dragon keeper Elder advised, his hand clutching the shackles that tied around Ysera’s neck. You glance up at the sky hinted with silver black clouds that were gathering over Kings Landing. 

“On the contrary, it is perfect weather,” you insisted, taking a deep breath through your nose as you let the scent of the sea and the rain fill your nostrils. “It is only a little rainfall and the misty dew that melts into my skin – it is truly an experience like no other Elder,” you marveled. 

“I could not agree more,” a voice sharp as glass replies from behind you. 

You could recognize that voice anywhere, “Why did you not warn me Ysera?” you whispered to your dragon before turning to see the Prince behind you. Aemond was dressed in his usual black attire, his hands adorned with leather gloves – the corners of his mouth lifting into a smirk as he notices you eyeing him from head to toe. Neither one of you has discussed the kiss that happened last week — it would be lying to say your mind did not wander to that moment in the wee hours of the night. Your body shudders.

You clear your throat, “Is vexing me at the Keep not enough? You must now follow me around Kings Landing?” you jest, adjusting your black and red cladded riding armor. 

“Do not flatter yourself dear niece” Aemond’s shoulders bounce with a huff, as he lifts his hand to signal the dragon keepers to bring out Vhagar. “Perhaps Elder is right, you should not fly your … quaint dragon through this weather – much like her rider she is fragile,” he sneers. Ysera rumbles almost as if she understood his insults, you glare at him giving him the reaction he craved. You loathe admitting that you enjoyed the odd relationship you had with the Prince, built off hating one another. The hatred offered opportunities for blistering eye contact and tension that could be cut with his dagger. And despite the rage, he makes you feel you cannot help but think of him every second he is not with you. It infuriated you. 

“Remind me, Prince, what was the name of your first… dragon?” you taunted while mounting Ysera. “Pink… Ah, pink dread! Much like its rider, it is a pig,” you snicker. You catch a glimpse of the anger in Aemond’s eye before you commanded Ysera to soar, “Sōvēs,”. You grin smugly at the Prince before Ysera ascends into the clouds, prowling the skies in ever-widening circles. Fanned by the strong winds your unbound hair cascades with the breeze. Green crests flashed along Ysera’s back as her silver-green wings beat against the gray sky. The beating of her wings flew through the veil of clouds, the raindrops dampening you as she soars above the cloud tops to the hidden sun. The beauty that lived beyond the clouds was endless. You gently close your eyes as Ysera glides gracefully through the open sky, when her thundering roar breaks your peace, “Skoros iksos ziry issa hāedar” [What is it, my girl?]. 

Vhagar’s wings erupt from behind the clouds, her bellows booming in the vast sky, and on her back the one-eyed Prince hoisting her saddle reins. “Thank you for warning me,” you say to Ysera, petting the top of her head as she ascends further up. Soaring like eagles, stooping like hawks, they circled each other – creating a choreograph of intertwining wings. Vhagar vanished into a bank of clouds, only to reappear an instant later. In awe, you watch Aemond’s long hair streaming silver behind him as he circles above the clouds. Fuck. He is insufferable. Yet everything about him was intoxicating. 

“Naejot” [forward] you ordered,  Ysera launching herself up towards Aemond, her wings buffeting the air as she flew around the large dragon. The dark clouds began to rain, the drops hitting your face and dampening your hair. You close your eyes letting the rainfall take you. Aemond watched you as you rode through the clouds, the mist bathing you in a wet sheen. Aemond’s breath was sucked right out of him – he wasn’t self-delusional to mistake the tightening of his muscles as anything other than desire. Seven Hells. He detests you. And yet he found himself unable to keep his lengths from you. 

The torrent winds begin to pick up, the storm clouds rolling over the skies. The light mist was now a heavy downpour making it almost impossible to see ahead. “Princess?” you hear a shout in the sunless bank of clouds. He yells again, you notice a hint of concern in his voice.

 Ysera roars as cracks of lightning surround you, “Lykiri, LYKIRI,”

“It is time we descend,” his voice getting drained from the deafening thunder. A nervousness lingers underneath his outward demeanor. A sudden bolt of lightning shattered the veil of black. His gaze locked on yours.

“Scared Aemond?” 

“Jest all you want, but the cloudburst is coming and we need to take cover,” Aemond instructs, his hair completely drenched. “We are too far to make it back to the pit in time but we can make way to River Gate and wait out the clouds,”.

“I do not take orders from you,” scoffing, the rumbles of the thunder echo through your ears – the storm beginning to rage. Although you would never admit it aloud, Aemond was right. 

“God! Must you be so fucking stubborn?” his eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched. You stifle your laugh at his annoyance. You enjoy enraging him. 

“If we must,” you reply. Ysera’s iridescent scales glisten in the darkened and ominous sky, you tail Vhagar as the dragons make a descent to land, the rain whipping down like crystal nails. Your hair slicked from the rain, strands stuck on your face as you dismount off Ysera, “Umbās'' [wait]. The rain has lost the ambient temperature of early fall, freezing and paling your skin on contact. You look up at the molten silver sky, the dark swirls covering every inch of the sky casting a dark shadow. Aemond silently walks towards an isolated barn on the outskirts of the trees that line River Gate. You follow.

The barn is empty, and the musk of hay and pine devours your nostrils as soon as you step under the shelter. The rain continues to pour, the drops hitting the oak creating a drumming against the roof – So much rain was falling that the sound blurred into one long, whirring noise. Aemond has still not spoken a word to you since landing. Which made the confinement even worse, you would much rather have him hurl snide remarks at you than complete quietness. He sat silently not acknowledging you as he fidgeted with his dagger. You pace back and forth, unable to stand still as you wait for the rain to cease. 

“Would you stop your incessant walking,” Aemond says nonchalantly, his eye not meeting yours. His dagger danced between his slender fingers. 

“Oh he finally talks... I thought you were half blind and going mute”

“This rain will not pass any time soon and I do not want to be here anymore than you do” his voice low. You drove Aemond crazy in more ways than one, being stuck in this barn with you was a nightmare – not only because you infuriate him like no other but because he could not keep pretending he did not desire you. Crave you. 

Ever since that goddamn kiss.

You exhale through your nose as you take off your leather gloves, planting yourself on a hay barrow. You take your leather boots off, the sound of the material squelching. 

“What are you doing?” his voice raises as he cocks his head at you. 

“I would much prefer not dying from cold fever,” you remark, wringing out your drenched hair. “Although it does sound better than being here…” you mumble under your breath. You assumed Aemond heard you when you saw his head shake, the corners of his mouth quirking into a small smile. You lower your eyes as Aemond stands up, turning his slender back to you as he unbuttons his black outer coat. It was improper of you to stare as his soaked cotton undershirt clung to his wet body – outlining his lean shoulders perfectly. 

Seven Hells.

You clear your throat as you feel a warm heat gathering in your cheeks, you unbutton your armored gown – your drenched undergown beginning to make you itch. Your hands reach around to the clasp by the nape of your neck. You mentally cuss your handmaidens as your fingers struggle to unclasp the button on your own. Your body jolts and his warm fingers slide down the back of your neck to the tender skin – unbuttoning your gown. “Here,” his raspy voice whispers into your ear as the gown drops to the ground. 

“I did not need your assistance,” you say but your words end up breathy and weak. You turn to face him. He was close to you, you could feel the heat of his body and smell the dragon scent of him. It sent a trickle of shivers straight through you. You wholeheartedly disliked the Prince and yet you had the most absurd inclination to lean forward until the space between your bodies was squeezed into nothingness.

His eye lowers down to your mouth, that mouth that vexes him to no end with an endless stream of insults and snide comments. Despite all that, all he could think about were your lips on his. “Is that so?” 

He lifts his hands brushing your wet hair away from your face, his fingers lingering by your cheek. The heat of his body seeped through your thin gown, he was so close you couldn’t tell where his breath ended and yours began. Aemond was going to stop right there and leave you bothered and breathless, to teach you a lesson but when there was barely an inch between your bodies, the pull grew too strong. Your breath quickens, your mind telling you to pull away but your body says otherwise. 

“Mmhmm,” is all you could manage to say, his fingertips trailing along your cheek – torturing you. Suddenly his hands cupped the back of your head as his lips took yours in an explosion of desire and hatred. You moan against his mouth, taking advantage of your parted lips, Aemond slides his tongue between them. His hands still cupping the back of your head, he grabs a fistful of your damp hair pulling it back. Your head tilts back, exposing your neck – his eye darkens as his lips leave yours to taste the slightly salty skin of your neck. 

Aemond pulls your hair a little harder, “You should learn to bite that tongue of yours…” His free hand grips your breast through the fabric. The pads of his fingertips rolling over your nipple. You suck in a shaky breath when he catches the bud between his forefinger and thumb, tweaking it sharply. Aemond releases your hair, the pressure of his grip still lingering. You could feel his stiff cock pressed against your body. 

“Only when you learn to bite yours,” you tease, sliding your hand down his wet undershirt and over his trousers to palm at his cock. A sweet groan escapes his lips when you softly squeeze him. He abruptly stops your hand, lowering your back onto the damp ground. This moment could be stretched and savored, but when were things with Aemond ever savory. His hands tugged the rope on the thin fabric that covered your body with enough force to nearly tear the gown. Aemond grapples at his shirt, pulling the wet fabric over his head. Your core is already searing with heat as he lets his eye caress your exposed body, something so simple but so seductive. The gaze was heavy with lust. God. You want to feel him. Taste him. Fuck him.

Aemond lowers himself between your legs, his tongue darts over his lower lip hungrily. He pushes your thighs apart, gripping them down firmly – his other hand trailing above your center. “Still do not need my assistance, my love?” he murmurs. He smirks seeing the wetness of your core. You curse when you feel his thumb and forefinger softly part your soaking folds, circling your clit and down to rub your dripping entrance. They gently tease your clit, smearing your wetness around but not enough to give you the desire you crave. You bite back a groan as your hips grind into his fingers. You tense as the tips of his fingers press at your entrance, his slender digits slipping in all the way. He drew them back out, slick with your wetness – a roguish grin across his face as he thrust them back in, easing into a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. 

His hand dipped further into your cunt, sending a sharp edge of ecstasy through your core and down your spine. Aemond presses two fingers into your entrance, your walls clenching around his fingers as he thrusts roughly into your wet folds. Your body seizes up tight when all of a sudden he abruptly removes his hand from your soaking cunt. Leaving you on the edge of burning waves, a needy moan tears almost painfully from you. 

“Tell me you need me,” he commands. Fucking Bastard. “Say it,” his fingers return to your throbbing core teasing the folds of your swollen lips but not enough to satisfy you. Fuck he’s going to be the death of you. Aemond’s fingers teased your clit, making you breathless as you begged. He knew even if you had not said it that the desire was mutual. 

“Please Aemond,” you whine desperately, with a pleased grin, Aemond jolts his fingers back into you. His fingers curling into your cunt, nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing – deep inside your core, his finger brushes against the rough spot of nerves against your walls. Tilting his fingers into your cunt faster, you feel your muscles tense as the orgasm violently spills over. His free hand wraps around your thigh to hold you down, as he twists his fingers inside you. It’s all too much too quickly. Your ears ring, and waves of pleasure cascade through every nerve in your body. Your core pulses around Aemond’s fingers, eyes slamming shut until you shatter onto him – your mind folds as your orgasm cracks. You whine and push his hand because he’s still going, your clit burning from overstimulation. 

“That is how you make me feel when you vex me,” he grunts, his hands now snaking their way to your neck. His grip tightens as he lowers himself to your lips, his mouth descends onto yours – his kiss hungry and full of lust. His hands worked the drawstrings of his trousers. 

“Perhaps you need assistance,” you remark. His hands push down his black trousers, the thick swell of his cock throbs. There’s a wet smear as the head of his cock runs through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. With little warning, Aemond’s full-length slams into you with a devastating force – you moan into his shoulder as his angular face nest into your neck. You’ll feel him for days afterward as your walls clench inch after inch, a dull ache settling deep inside you. The rhythm of his hips is hard. Fast. Merciless. Aemond buries himself into your core, each stroke as rough and feral as the last. Your fingers tangle his silver hair, your nails raking down his back – leaving raised lines in his pale skin. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Aemond firmly grips your jaw, sliding his thumb past your lips – your tongue brushes over his finger. You pull his lips towards you, molding your mouth to his as your soft wet kisses morph into pricks of his teeth. His gaze locked on yours, as his length goes in you – you pull his head down once more you gently place kisses around his scar. His eye flutter shuts with every touch.

His thrust boils the shimming heat gathering in the pit of your core, electric heat blazing through each and every nerve. Your muscles tighten around him, making his cock throb as his thrusts create violent slaps. Aemond couldn’t hold back any longer. Hot spurts flood your insides, his eye squeezing shut as he buries his face into your shoulder. You clutch him tightly against your chest while he fills you. 

He eventually pulls away, his gaze taking in every inch of your bare skin. With a cocky grin on his face, you knew he wouldn’t let this down. But neither would you. You knew he desired you as much as you desired him. 

[thefirstknife]

Now that we have three of Ahsa's memories delivered to us through Sloane, it's time to put them together and think about what we're being told!

I don't know!

Here's the three we have now:

An oasis in the desert. Seeds of hope... buried beneath the sands... Nomads... wanderers... travelers. Their journey comes to an end... The first to be claimed by the Deep... the first to fall victims to the Witness...

A city of Light... a... a flourishing garden... A silent god... withholds a deeper truth. Questions unanswered, uh... longing... unfulfilled. The sky... darkens... as a new journey begins.

Shrouded in... Darkness. A promise of something more... Two halves of a whole... long divided. A... schism between them. Reunited. [exhales in joy] A glimpse beyond... to the beginning...

Long post under:

I wasn't sure if these are connected for the first two weeks, but now I think they should be. Ahsa is telling us something important, but we can't make out the details just yet. What we do know is that this is about the fabled "first victims of the Witness" who originally had the Veil. The first message pretty much explicitly identifies them as such, including telling us that they lived in some sort of a desert as nomads and wanderers.

But at some point they were "claimed" by the Deep and became the Witness' first victims. How? No clue. It's strange because the second message, if it's talking about the same species, now shows them as living in a city, obviously with the Traveler ("silent god" being the same description used by Zavala in Haunted). Did this city coexist with the previous description of them as nomads? Did they get claimed by the Deep and then the Traveler came? Or are visions possibly not exactly in a direct timeline? So perhaps they were both nomads living in oases, as well as having a city and being blessed by the Traveler (not unusual; something similar happened to Lubrae). I think it's most likely that the first message was just a general overview of the situation and then the rest is going into details, so "oasis in the desert" is the same as "a city of light, a flourishing garden."

From there, obviously the Traveler uplifted them and brought them knowledge, but apparently not enough. They wanted more and we know that the Traveler doesn't do that; it gardens, terraforms, helps, and leaves. It will never reveal some grand plan to a species or force them to follow a path or go in a specific direction. It just opens possibilities; the choice is ours. But we also know that it's not unusual for a species to self-destruct or be unable to follow up on what the Traveler brought (again, Lubrae is a good example). Either way, it appears that this longing for more is what actually made the Deep claim them, possibly noted here as "the sky darkens as a new journey begins."

And the last one seems to be talking about them searching for something in the Deep. They are "shrouded in Darkness" where they find a "promise of something more." The next few sentences are very peculiar. What are "two halves of a whole" that have been "long divided" but now "reunited"? And there's also "a glimpse beyond to the beginning." Very strange; what is this referring to? If we're still talking about the first victims, are they more important than just being a random species that encountered the Veil? That's actually a good point as well; they must be somehow important if they're the ones who first had the Veil. Did they find it? Make it? Manifest it? Before the Traveler or after, when they were claimed by the Deep?

A "glimpse to the beginning" obviously makes me think about the original garden from Unveiling. At least to Unveiling in general as a thing, since the original garden is not really a physical space. But then again, we're dealing with some wild stuff currently in general, including a weird portal that doesn't allow people to pass through physically so.

Similarly, this talk of "two halves of a whole" reminded me of one of Osiris' prophecies, curiously called "Garden Progeny:"

Two siblings cleaved by time and space, reflections never found alone, The ending of the eldritch race—a path long seen but never known.

The Veil also has a really curious look that looks like it combines Light and Darkness; is that the two pieces made whole by combining them to make the Veil? This is best seen in Avalon where the tendrils are clearly modelled in the same way as the Tree of Silver Wings as it was when it was fully of Light:

I'm losing my mind! What does this mean!!!!

Also, thinking about this and the Witness made me think about all those truths/lies Savathun was telling us about the Witness so I wanted to revisit them. She gave us four different versions and at least one of those has to be correct so I went back to check and I am rapidly spinning this in my brain:

The Witness is the child of Darkness. Those who say there is no final shape, that Darkness exists in perfect, formless neutrality? Liars. Takes one to know one. The Darkness will eat everything, and its shape will be the Witness's teeth.

What is the Witness? This is the truth. The Witness birthed the Darkness. Darkness is the errant child of a tight-fisted creator. A force designed for wicked purposes... but with a will of its own. You have begun a tug of war to claim the Darkness for yourself. I hope you win.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the shadow of Darkness, just as your kind were blessed by Light. In that Darkness, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

The Witness was once mortal. Its people were blessed by the Light, just as your kind were. In the Light, these beings found power and knowledge. But they were not content. Power and knowledge turned to greed and despair. The Witness was forever changed.

Hm. Those 3 and 4 look wildly similar to Ahsa's memories. What if the first victims are the Witness' people? They had both Light and Dark, somehow connected to the Veil, and something happened that made them look for more and that's how the Witness was... created. Manifested? Appeared? It definitely makes more sense than 1 and 2: we now know for a fact that Darkness does, in fact, exist in neutrality as many species used it perfectly fine and ended up being enemies of the Witness. And we know that the Witness didn't create the Darkness; I still firmly believe (for now at least) that the Winnower is not the Witness so the Darkness must've existed before the Witness. There's also a possibility that all of these 4 are somehow true; the Witness may not have created THE Darkness, but it definitely created a certain philosophy around it.

Given that we're supposed to learn more about the Witness this season, it kinda makes sense that Ahsa is telling us its origins. Where it came from and how it turned into what it is now. I don't know what else would Ahsa be trying to tell us that would be so important to risk this much for it. She seems desperate to let us know and on top of that, the whole setup for us having to go to Titan was around "the enemy of the Witness" who has crucial information to share with us.

If this isn't about the Witness, then whoever these "first victims" were must be super important and they would be brand new aliens that we would have to learn about which seems odd. But it's still possible! The Traveler had to have visited someone first. And from that first visit, they also became the first victims. If this is talking about the first species that eventually somehow turned into the Witness, the Witness' obsession with the Traveler and its words to the Traveler would make sense. The Traveler gave them an insight into mysteries of the universe and then left. It opened them up to understand but then left without sharing more. Talk about an existential crisis.

We're 3 weeks in and there's 3 left so I think we should at this point be able to make some connections and start putting things together. Ahsa's message being about the Witness would make the most sense. But I'm also interested if anyone has any other ideas for possible interpretations.

[servantofthefates]

We call it the Ritual of Wandering.

I first did it when I was five.

I woke up after a nap crying. I told my dad I saw a dollhouse in my dream, and that I wanted it. He gave me some money, told me to go back to sleep and buy it.

Of course the real reason he gave me the money was so I could get one from the mall.

But the cash was gone by morning. I thought my dad took it back. He swore he did not, and had my brother take me to the mall to find a dollhouse.

That night, I woke up at 3:00 AM. Instead of the dollhouse we bought hours before, what I glimpsed on my desk was the one I had seen in my dream. Turns out I went back and bought it after all.

Even now, when I sleep over in my childhood home and wake up in the middle of the night to pee, I still see it on the desk, as if waiting to play with me.

It is only our body that requires sleep. When we dream, our soul stays awake, journeying in limbo to places our body cannot go. We either find ourselves in our memories of the past, in a hidden corner of the present, or in the future. Even in a parallel reality, or beyond the veil. Oftentimes, we come across other people.

Wandering, or astral travel, is simply setting a destination instead of merely going with the flow; as well as making sure the mind remembers the expedition.

The first step is to decide where you wish to go. A moment from your childhood? A year into the future? In a parallel reality where a loved one who has passed on is still alive? Or the day when you will walk the aisle as a bride?

Wherever it is, you will visit as a spectator, unable to influence what is happening in that reality, but capable of interacting with other wanderers. Think of it as watching a movie. But instead of being in front of the screen, you are inside it.

On a night when the moon is full or waxing, go to bed wearing the appropriate shoes. If it is cold where you are going, bring a jacket. If it is likely to rain, hold an umbrella.

Once you are used to wandering, you will no longer need the help of the moon and the protection of clothing.

Lull yourself to sleep by slowly reciting:

“Neirtsalop, sutidar. Samre, rutacirep. Udnapret, atartso.”

Hum the words slowly. Chant them rhythmically. They are powerful words that lift the veil, allowing your soul to leave this reality. As you speak them, think of the place you wish to be.

The moment you surrender to slumber, you are guaranteed to get there. What is uncertain is if upon waking, you will remember your journey. If you do not, it only means you are not yet strong enough.

Keep trying. Some witches succeed on their second night, others on their ninth. There are those who can do it on their first, but only for a few moments, before being thrown back into our world.

You know how the saying goes. Anything that is worth doing is worth failing at, at first.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Reunion

Solavellan one shot, ~6500 words

On AO3 here

Summary: They both finally get what they want: Lavellan manages to stop Solas, without killing him. He gets to know she will live forever without fading away, as the elves were meant to. They are together, and it is the worst possible thing that could happen to either of them, and now they will have to live with it forever.

Set in some non canonical/hypothetical Veilguard situation where there's a final confrontation with Solas and the Inquisitor... does not contain any actual Veilguard spoilers/content

     

i.

It’s brighter than she thought it would be, here, at the edge of the end of the world.

Maybe she shouldn’t have room to notice something like that, Lavellan thinks, eyes watering as she fights not to squint or blink at the figure before her. They are both wreathed in faintly blue-tinged light which seems to emanate from all places at once without source, like that of the crossroads. There is no warmth to it, unlike sunlight, and no comfort; and the ancient voices inside her head are silent in the face of this new, unfamiliar magic. It shouldn’t be possible here, not when she stood only moments ago at the chaotic edge of the battlefield. Not without jumping through another Eluvian, or tearing the Veil anew, and yet—she is never surprised when the impossible happens around her anymore.

It is what he does, after all.

These thoughts flit at the edges of her mind like dragonflies on the edge of a pool of still water, because there are no words that encompass what she feels now, as he finally meets her gaze. Not a furtive partial glimpse from across a dream, or the half-remembered scent that lingers in a room she’s arrived to moments too late—finally they stand only meters apart, his eyes locked on hers, and she can see the ache she feels in her own chest mirrored there, deep enough to drown in.

“I did not intend for us to meet this way,” Solas says.

“I didn’t intend to let you go without saying goodbye,” Lavellan replies.

He is silent, after that, and as she takes a deep and shaking breath, she remembers again where they are. What she came here to do. Beyond the edge of the harsh radiance around them, she can see shadowy figures where the others stand frozen, somehow far more distant than they should have been. She might have thought he’d petrified them all, except for the banners still immobile mid-wave, the bolt of energy from a staff still halfway to its target, the griffon still mid-air from his last leap. He has finally figured out how to do it.

Solas has stopped time.

“Is this it, then?” she asks, and she doesn’t have the energy to be angry, or afraid, or anything but tired. “Did you finally figure out how to turn it all back? To erase everything, and try again from the start?”

“No.” He does break her gaze then, looking down at his own hands. “Not this. This is the magic Dorian used—though, once, I did think… but it cannot go back, only forward.” His fingers close into a fist, and he looks up at her again. “The spell here is only for us, a few extra moments of time. If I could do more than that for you, I would.”

“You didn’t have to break time just to talk to me, Solas. You knew where to find me, on either side of the Veil.”

“If the world was as it should be, then we would have time eternal. But I cannot give you all that you deserve.” His voice is quiet, and rough, and sad; the same way he sounded so long ago, the last time.

Lavellan thought she’d grieved that particular pain away in the intervening years, but hearing him again splits something inside her open anew. She had come resigned and ready to do whatever else they asked of her—for all that she’d forsaken the responsibility of the rest of the world, she’d never given up this last duty. But now they stand here, this time with none of his secrets between them, and no ancient magic eating her from the inside, and both finally having come to terms with whom the other has become. And she doesn’t want to do it anymore. If she ever did at all. For years her companions have reminded her that he is a rebel, a trickster, a god—but when she looks at him he is the same as he has always been. Solas. The air here feels unnaturally still, without any breath of wind to flutter against the edge of her cloak, or the strands of hair that have already come lose from her braid. It is almost like being within the Fade again, just a slightly different kind of removal from reality.

“That really was the crux of it, I suppose,” she says. “Time. Never enough for me, and far too much for you.” She shifts her weight, finally lowering her staff. She hadn’t even realized she was clutching it so tightly, but her knuckles have gone bone-white, and she can feel where the grooves in the wood dig into her palm. “We were always looking at each other from opposite sides of the mirror. Your past was more than forgotten, fully lost from our histories, and our present was never enough for you.”

“It would have been enough—” His voice cracks as he steps forward, then halts, one hand half outstretched as though to grasp her own. As though even after a decade the reflex is still there, just as fresh. “If it was only me, it would be enough. But I could not let the People be abandoned. What I might have wanted could never matter in comparison.”

A bark of laughter escapes her lungs, a noise something halfway to a sob. It sounds louder and sharper than it should in this still, airless world. “I guess if I could have convinced you that the rest of us mattered enough to try anyway, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“You don’t know how close you came.”

He must think it is a comfort to hear that, rather than a knife, just like the other times. But it is at least a familiar knife. Lavellan steps forward herself, finally, closing the gap between them. She lets her staff clatter to the ground rather than keep it propped awkwardly between their bodies, so she can press her palm against the side of his face. She’s grown used to only having the one over the years, of having to choose what things to hold onto and what to let go. She almost expects him to flinch away from her touch, but instead he closes his eyes and sinks into it, a shuddering exhale passing his lips, warm against her skin. It hurts her almost as much as it did the first time, realizing how lonely and distant he held himself from the rest of the world. “I imagined meeting again hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. But I never did figure out what I would say.” She brushes her thumb across the edge of his cheekbone. Are there more lines around his eyes than there used to be, have their familiar creases deepened? Or does she only project onto him what she has grown used to in the mirror herself? “You were always going to outlive me anyway, I suppose.” It is her turn to catch her breath as his eyes open again, their faded color more intense now that she’s only inches away. The way she remembered them.

“I had hoped that you would go home. Spend your remaining years in peace with family, away from this. I wanted you to be happy.”

It’s crueler this way for them both, and she understands why he’d hoped she’d be kind enough to stay away. That’s why he left in the first place, after all, but she is merciless enough to want him to look at her while he tries to rip the world in two. “You changed everything,” she tells him simply. “I changed. After the Inquisition, I could never have gone back to who I was before, and I never wanted to try. The only way to move on was forward.” The place she remembered had stopped existing the moment she left. Going back would only have made her that much more keenly aware of how little she fit inside it anymore.

He shivers, and as she feels the tremble pass beneath his skin, the field flickers around them for barely an instant. Have the arrows frozen in midair inched slightly forward from where they’d hung? Had the leaves on the distant trees fluttered into faintly new shadows? She isn’t sure, but she knows what she felt. Whatever spell is locking time around them isn’t stable, and it’s drawing on his power for every breath they take in this strange, still place.

“How much does it cost you?” she asks him. The ocean of sorrow within her has been growing, almost without her notice, while they spoke. She feels the depths of it now, the crushing pressure of its abyss threatening to spill out. Lavellan realizes in some surprise that she’s already crying, tears streaming down her face in hot, wet trails, and she doesn’t remember when they began.

“Almost everything,” he whispers.

The time he has stolen for them is not enough. It could never be enough, and they both know it. Even if he could keep them frozen here for years, for decades—they will never explore the world together, never build a life, never simply be together again. It can only give them long enough for the wound to rend anew, but she’s glad he did it anyway. She clings to the thought as she pulls him down to press their lips together, allowing herself just one last moment to pretend the world is different. That they are different.

Solas’ hunger as they meet is as overwhelming as it always was, his hands finding their way to her hips, his grip almost tight enough to bruise. She catches his lower lip between her teeth just long enough to hear the catch in his breath, and the fingers of the hand she doesn’t have should be wrapping around his shoulder to pull him even closer, but they can’t. Her right hand slides to cradle the back of his neck but her body feels wrong now, wrong in a way that hasn’t bothered her in years, as the muscle memory of kissing Solas fighting against her new perception of herself. Lavellan kisses him the way she’s spent years dreaming they never would again, the length of her body pressed against his; almost, almost able to feel his warmth through the layers of armor and cloth. She can taste the salt of her own tears on his skin now, and the quiet moan that escapes her lips sounds closer to agony than lust. Solas clings to her like an anchor in the tide and she finally lets everything go, all purpose and plans abandoned, releasing herself to drown in their reunion one last time. No more separation, no more boundaries, only the deep churn of longing and regret, and the cold comfort that in this at least, they have always been the same.

It might only have been moments, or minutes, or more in this place beyond time, when he stiffens again, the briefest crack in his magic sending shivers through their crumbling sanctuary. She can’t begin to fathom the amount of mana he is channeling to keep it going, and as she pulls back she can see the tension around his eyes, the physical pain of upholding the casting alongside the magical exertion.

“If it truly takes that much from you, you should never have held us here so long,” she tells him, taking a step backward. He lets her go, his fingers trailing along the sides of her waist as she pulls away. “It’d be in my best interest to keep you here as long as possible, wouldn’t it? So that you don’t have enough strength for whatever comes next.”

“I would hold it anyway, if you wanted.”

It’s unfair how sad he sounds, how sorrowful he has always sounded in moments like these. Where he walls away his heart and becomes the version of himself she knows was always a lie. “Only because you know I couldn’t bear to see you drained that way.” She takes a second step back, biting her lip against the urge to give in anyway, to let whatever ending awaits them both come for them here, held in seclusion from everything and everyone else. “Did you always know it was going to end like this?”

His hands fall back to his sides, and he looks away again, out past the strange, warped walls of whatever is shielding them. Rook’s companions look closer again, moreso than they did before. Their respite is almost over.

“I wish it had not. I had hoped it could be fast and final enough that no one else would have time to realize what was happening, let alone dread its approach.”

“The end of the world is always slower than you realize, I guess.” Lavellan bends, and picks up her staff, the solid weight of the wood comforting and cool in her grip. If she squeezes her hand tightly enough, she can pretend it is does not tremble. Just like old times, she starts to think, but no—it feels wrong to say that facing him, instead of side by side. They can’t keep stalling like this forever; the world can’t stay trapped in this space between heartbeats. She inhales deeply, and sighs, feeling the weight of what must follow settle back into its familiar place inside her chest. One way or another, they’re going to have to find out what comes next.

“Ar lath ma,” she tells him. “Even after all this time. Even now.”

“Ar lath ma, Vhenan. Ir abelas.” he whispers back, and the arrow flies, the banners snap, and the chaos of the world comes crashing down around them.

    

ii.

She barely remembers the fighting. She learned to block away all recollection and emotion through it years ago, back when she still thought she could save the world, and that such an act could fix everything else. The taste of violence sits bitterly on her tongue, overpowering the grief and desperation that accompany it, and it takes her a heartbeat too long to realize the moment that, against all odds, she succeeds.

She doesn’t even register it as it happens. There is the back-and-forth onslaught of spells, of chasing after Solas like a hound at the hunt as the fighting took them further and further from the others. He isn’t even really trying to fight back, he’s simply doing what he came here for, and the magic he wastes on her is mostly to keep her distracted. She knows he could petrify her in an instant like all the others. The fact that he apparently won’t is why she agreed to come when they asked. She did it to spare them, not because she thought she could win. But suddenly, she is staring at the shard of ice that protrudes from his chest like a blade. It shouldn’t be enough to kill him—or rather, it shouldn’t be enough to kill the wayward god that everyone has spent the last decade telling her he is. But as she stares in shock he staggers, and then falls, crumpling as a spell half-summoned fades from the end of his staff. Almost before it can clatter to the ground, she has pulled at the edges of the Fade, letting the waves of magic propel her across the distance to his side.

No no no no no some part of her mind is frantically chanting, denying the reality before her eyes as she throws aside her own staff, freeing her remaining arm to awkwardly roll him onto his back; to press her palm against the side of his face. He does not move. His eyes are closed, and whatever last expression he wore as her spell struck home has already faded. Half of her is numb, as though watching from a distance, while the rest of her is filling with a sick and terrible sense of dread. This is backwards. This is wrong. She is just the shattered husk of what was once the most powerful figure in Thedas. She couldn’t kill a god; she could barely kill a revenant anymore, and there had already been so much blood on her hands. She hadn’t actually come here to kill him herself—if anything she came to die in the process so that he would stop.

“Solas, no, you need to hold on,” she tells him frantically, and slams her hand onto his chest. Mana crackles around her fingers as the healing spell tries to sink into his flesh, but his eyes are still closed, and in all the seconds she has been staring at him, he has not taken a single breath. There will be no final parting, no last words between them, she realizes. The shard of ice that pierced his heart has already melted, and the blood that pours from the wound is far, far too vibrant to be real, the tears dropping from her face onto his chest doing nothing to dilute it. “Come back,” she snarls, magic flowing through her like a river, but finding nothing on which to catch. She didn’t expect this, but it dawns on her that perhaps he did—perhaps that is why he let them linger together so long, if he felt it coming anyway. Maybe he’d already been dying too, and she hadn’t known it, the opposite of when she knelt before him while nearly shattered by the anchor. But he didn’t tell her, and he didn’t let her save him, and now it is too late. Except, he had told her, she realizes—that he walked the Din'anshiral. His eyes are still closed. There is no healing magic that can bring the spirit back into dead flesh once it has departed, not without corrupting it into something unrecognizable.

At least, there has not been for a very, very, long time, the detached and distant part of her thinks. Half her mind is nothing but a keening wail of grief, but above it floats the knowledge that at least once before, this had happened to one of his kind.

“Asha’bellanar, ma ghilana,” Lavellan whispers, and this time when she opens the floodgates of her power, she points it inward. The Evanuris had been more than just mages, more than spirits, or the sum of any two things. When Mythal was torn asunder, the heart of her survived, the voices of the Well of Sorrows whisper in her ear. The barest wisp of her self had drifted down the ages until it found shelter in the flesh of a mortal woman, and together, they had endured through generations. It would be possible. It would be the one way to save whatever trace of him remains, and the surest way to completely annihilate them both.

Lavellan inhales deeply, and the air tastes of dust and iron and the fading hint of snow. Her hand still resting on Solas’ chest, holding onto him like a harbor, she flings away every instinctual barrier her mind has learned to erect, opening herself wide to the vastness of the Fade. She can feel herself spilling outward in a rush, and it is a manic sort of freedom, after so many years spent holding her magic in such tight confinement. She has always known of the dangers of demon possession, of the risk of becoming an abomination, and she works her way backwards against all her training to undo each of the doors into herself, unbarring them one by one. When all is left bared, she closes her own eyes, and throws her mind across the Veil.

It is staggeringly easy, without the wards she normally must contort through. But there is nothing now, and in that emptiness, she calls for him. It is something like a summoning, and something like a prayer, and there is no spell for her to follow but instinct and desperation. If he is enough like Mythal that he will not fade away, that he could come back, then let him do it here, now—not centuries later, when it is too late for her to save him or to stop him ever again. If in this merging he could learn to love this world, their world the way she does—the way he never truly let himself feel—even what survives of him will no longer be able to destroy it. That cold, calm part of her has time to wonder how much of herself will be lost in this process, but raises no objection as her far-flung mind casts around them for whatever remains of his soul.

Maybe it is the Vir'abelasan, the threads of its reach that stretched into him as he drained each drop of power from Mythal. Or maybe it is the Anchor he tried to take back, the parts of her spirit that still bear the scars of carrying his magic for so long. Or maybe it is simply that in death, he is finally free to do what he never allowed himself in life, and reach for her. But for the briefest instant, she feels him, the way she has always felt him watch her from her dreams. It is but a moment, but it is enough.

“Solas,” she binds him, and turns the whole of her being into his mirror.

She opens herself to the jarring disconnect from the people she’d been raised to love, with all their mistakes and flaws. The distance she feels between that former self and the person she has become, that she never dares to let herself truly feel—the yawning abyss between then and now, no matter how rigidly she stares forward instead of back. She puts into it the loss of Haven, of visiting the ruins with him in a dream, of standing in a place that is only a memory when so very recently it had been real. How in the face of that, they had first reached out for each other.

Next is the anger as she faced down Corypheus, the would-be god who used his powers for subjugation and dominion. The faith that inaction was always the greater sin, that since she had the power to fight him, it was her duty, no matter the terror and chaos surrounding her. The grueling months of struggle, yes, but also the vast and righteous triumph at his final defeat. Her naive surety that now things would finally be fixed, the taste of relief that grew ever more bitter as the consequences continued to drag her into the future. The conviction that if she just clung to power for a little longer, she could finally right everything. That it all would be okay, and afterwards, she could finally move on.

Then, the mounting fear each day following the Conclave, as people saw her more and more as a symbol instead of a person. As they gave her name and title that were not hers to claim, and nothing she had asked for; and the shame that she bore that mantle anyway simply because it was useful in what she needed to do next. The growing certainty that when she is gone, history will take whatever is left of her and write over it again, just as they did to Ameridan. To him.

She lets herself remember her sense of wonder for the places he took her in the Fade, the nostalgia of ancient stories they found there. His care for the spirits he knew, her own care for her companion of Compassion. The flickering sliver of hope that she might truly be a hero, that the people would thank her for her sacrifice, somehow still persisting despite all the experiences that tell her otherwise. She takes each feeling in the river coursing through her and twists it into something he will recognize, a landscape he might find as familiar as the one inside his chest.

And beneath them all lies the terrible, all-consuming grief. So much lost. So many dead. Countless mistakes made, and the desperation to just take it back, and pretend it never happened. Her walls are gone and so is the lie she tells herself that it all will be okay someday, because it isn’t—the world changed and she lost everything. Her clan, her life, her future. She built a new family only for them to scatter once more. She poured herself into becoming what they asked her to, only for the Inquisition to crumble and twist within her grasp. There is nothing, nothing left to hold her here, and when he took the twisted poison from her flesh, it had finally sunk in that there was no more escape, either. It is an endless cry of mourning inside her heart, which she cannot bear for anyone else to hear. Her soul sings a song of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, and she feels the way it echoes through to him; the synchronized reverberation of their heartstrings.

Of course, there is also the love. Part of it was a hunger, almost primal, a desire to be seen and felt and known. Their love is a deep and ever present ache, an unfulfilled longing, but in many ways that is the least part of it. They have both become towering figures, each a legend in their own right, their titles encompassing all of their actions and more. The rest of it had been a hidden, secret thing; out of sight and behind closed doors, the briefest contact between two souls, over almost before it began. What happiness there had been was fleeting, and complicated, but it had been true. It pierced them both deep enough to scar, and deep enough for her to find him, to catch him and cling to him and guide him home. She is only dimly aware of her tether to the waking world, where his chest has been still under her hand for far too long now. The last spasms of his heartbeat have ceased, and finally, the hot rush of blood coating her hands has stilled. He is dead.

No more separate than your heart from your chest, Lavellan thinks, and the last distinctions between their selves ceases to exist.

     

iii.

If he had not spent the time teaching her to walk in dreams, she would have been swept away utterly in that instant. But she uses every trick now; all those old lessons in ways to cling to control long enough to direct the dream’s flow before the sleeping mind beneath could sweep her away. How to separate herself from an onslaught of memories that weren’t hers, but whoever else had left their mark on that part of the Fade—except now, it is not just memory and echoes of reality. It is him, and he is great and terrible in his vastness. She had thought of her own emotions as a sea, of drowning depths—but his history crashes into her with the overwhelming force that carves canyons out of stone, that presses down with the weight of all the world, crushing sand and bone and flesh into layer and layer of rock. The skill of the shaping of dreams lets her float atop the torrent of memory, but it sheers at her—her own memories tumbling into the vortex of his life, shredding apart. Her body opens its mouth and she cannot hear the scream that tears out of her, but she can feel the rawness of her throat afterwards. But she does not fight it, as she cannot risk holding herself apart. For every place they are the same she opens for him. The terrible perspective of time, the eons he spent helpless as beyond the world dissolved, the torment of his devotion to Arlathan and all those he lost there. Year after year, loss after loss, failure after failure and still he cannot allow himself to give up. It is too much for a mortal mind to hold. He had told her he was not a god, and with his soul as bared as hers she knows he believes this still, but in this world he has been suffocating in a way she never realized—all her People have, they who should be filling with magic with every breath, every gesture. His grief consumes her, yet another doomed to death, no more than a moth fluttering in the face of his bonfire. This will be the price, and she is almost relieved to pay it.

I forgive you, what is left of Lavellan tells him, in this place beyond boundaries. Ir abelas.

There can be no secrets in this melding, no things held back. So last of all she gives to him the things that once were hers alone, that despite the bright and brief blaze of her years have shaped her utterly. She loves and loves and loves the world, their world, in a way that underlies everything else she is. How could she not? It is no mistake to her, but a home—the rough bark of each tree climbed, and the sweet smell of grass crushed beneath their feet after tumbling down to earth. The warm arms of Clan Lavellan, and all the friendships that they found after, too. It is the herds of halla running through the Exalted Plains, the gleam of the sleeping dragon’s scales in the cold moonlight of the Hissing Wastes, the cool breath of wind through the maze-like canyons in the Oasis. They reach for every beautiful thing they have ever seen and held onto. Every landscape that has shaped their heart, that has made any one single home too small to ever hold them again. That was one thing no one ever warned them about—the shape of the world shapes you. It is all real. It may be fleeting, but it is here, something that can be held, not just remembered. Memory is stored not only in the mind, but the body, and this body has spent years learning to love itself, despite everything, despite all the world did to it. Despite the years he has spent fighting not to let any part of this new, terrible reality inside.

He does not realize, he cannot, until it has already happened. It is more than agony—the incredible pressure of squeezing so much of himself into such a minute vessel. By the time he comprehends that this is not finally an ending, he has been enveloped in the thin shroud of her, unable to go back. What paths she opened are closing again, by instinct or because her magic has diminished to a slow trickle, pulling them out of the Fade and careening into the bright, awful present. He tries to claw his way back along the thread that binds them, and when that fails, to instead contain himself in a tight, hard knot inside her; to become a stone that will sink and vanish into her depths.

But he overflows, engraving new patterns into her mind, eroding the places she used to be. The weight of his centuries buries the tattered remnants of her soul, thrusting them to the edges. Too many pieces are already lost, like sand falling through his fingers as he struggles to hold his own life separate. He tries in desperation anyway, abandoning parts of himself in an effort to leave enough room for her to survive the subsuming. He casts away years of his own past to carve a space big enough to hold what scraps of her he can find intact, and this act itself is yet another sign that the change has already come. The delineations are gone. He remembers the love of Deshanna, his sorrow that he will never take her place as Keeper of their Clan as he was always meant to, and it is impossible because that could not have been him. He casts himself back to that first and greatest pain, the touchstone for all that came after, and the Mythal of his memory is overlaid with the Mythal she had known, her face flickering in his mind between past and present. He thinks of the glade in Crestwood, their first parting, and the terrible recursion of loss and confusion and understanding and grim, regretful determination almost overwhelms everything else.

Do not do this, please stop, come back— he implores, but the plea only entrenches him deeper. There is enough of him to beg, so there is enough of him to understand. The Vir’abelasan whispers and he can hear it now, too—Lavellan should have been the greater part, but she held nothing back, and let in so, so much of him. The thing that used to be Mythal had been but an echo in comparison, while he is a shout, a scream. He was not made to be contained this way, but she has filled herself with him regardless. Every secret of the ancient world, every memory encountered in the Fade, every failure he carefully preserved like a crystal in his mind. And yet, somehow the molten-heat core that was her has surfaced through his cracks, suffusing who he was. He sees world and knows it and he loves it, loves it the way she did, even though it is so much smaller and worse than what he yearned to restore. But it is the last thing left, even if it is broken, just as he is. The heat of her belief warps his conviction, like iron thrust into a forge.

The horror begins to truly sink in. In his first confusion, he thought she had trapped them both, dooming them to resentful entanglement and endless struggle for control. Neither would want it, not like this. But the truth is almost worse—less and less of him is Solas, and he cannot even find what remains that is solely Lavellan. He can remember everything he came here to do, but the certainty is gone, replaced with some combination of his staggering loss and her calm acceptance. They are bound, and he is no longer even truly him. She has ceased to be her own person, and he has ceased to be Fen’harel, and they have both been changed and devastated in a way that can never be reversed. They can never be torn apart, and neither truly remains enough to stay together. What have we done, he thinks, as the weight of this subduction presses her fossil into the stone of his heart.

It is so much slower for him, fighting the inevitable, compared to the brief moments in their mingling where Lavellan remained herself. But already it is a struggle to remember where he used to end and she used to begin; to use these last moments to grieve everything they were and could have been. The part of them that was Solas is the greater portion by far, but every piece of what had been Lavellan is seared into him deeper than memory and as inevitable as fate.

VHENAN, he cries to her from their snarled tangle, but she has dissipated beyond the formation of language. When he struggles to listen for any echo of her last words, all he can find is the lingering breath of forgiveness, and apology, and fondness, like the ghost-touch of her hand upon his cheek. Understanding has been rising inside him like a tide, like a continent, and he can no longer escape the realization. Lavellan is already, utterly, gone.

In that moment, something inside him breaks, that he has been holding onto harder than he did his own life. He spent millennia on millennia running, fighting, hiding, utterly filled with fear of failing. All of his struggle to remain detached enough to do what must be done to remake the world, and she has undone it in an instant. She made his duty impossible, the collision of their separate purposes culminating in some new, strange emptiness rather than violence. The last thing he holds onto is a sense of mourning, that even though he has finally been defeated, she will not truly live to endure the world she saved.

And then Solas finally, finally lets go.

     

iv.

The body that used to be Lavellan opens its eyes, and the person who looks out is neither of them, and more. The corpse on the ground is warm and still under their hand, the planes of what was once Solas’ face not yet stiffened into something unrecognizable. Inside their chest, their heart pounds a frantic staccato rhythm, blood roaring in their ears as they realize the changes did not stop at the internal. Whatever trace of godhood he brought with him has burned the mortality out of her body, restructured some essential core to be closer to what she might once have been, had she not been bound by the quickening of this age. They were forged in grief and determination and a last, desperate hope, and the thing they have become will need time to fully understand all this orogeny has wrought.

Eventually, a shout breaks through the slowly receding roar of their own blood, and they remember that this place is more than a void they were borne into. Through the haze of tears they see someone in purple is calling to them, asking a question. A group stands and watches the former Inquisitor, before starting to run forward, the sound of cries and cheers only slightly muffled by their distance. It becomes clear that whatever needs to come next cannot happen here, not when there is no time to explain, and surrounded by so many who will never begin to understand. The body has grown cold and pale beneath their hand, the wet-sand color of dried blood staining both sets of armor.

They stand awkwardly, unused to the shape of this body. Gathering the two dropped staves is its own clumsy affair, with only the one arm to clutch at them both, but it feels important, somehow, to keep this last reminder of those they used to be. By the time the others grow close, the Veilguard can sense something is not what they expect, and the shouts dwindle to murmurs. They stare in unease, not sensing the familiarity this vessel should show for them. The soldiers would know what to do with joy, or with sobs, but they balk at this stoic, silent weeping.

“Is it over?” one finally summons the courage to ask, voice almost timid, as though he is ashamed he even desires to ask.

The former Inquisitor does not say anything for a long moment, and turns back to stare down at Fen’harel again, the body of he who would have unmade the world. Slowly, they raise a hand to the side of their face, gently pressing the palm to their own cheek, heedless of the drying blood it leaves there. “It will never be the same again,” they finally reply, voice low and quiet, and full of remorse.

And then they step forward, pulling at the edges of the Veil so the stride carries them further and faster, out of sight from the rest left behind. The others can finish their fighting alone. The two they truly seek are no longer, and never will be again.

They have made their choice, and now they will be forced to live with it, forever.

   

------

You can read the rest of my fanfic on AO3 here ♥︎

oh i just had a Sad Idea and it instantly filled me with manic glee

[anneapocalypse]

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights

and what it has to offer us about characters, lore, and the state of Thedas up north!

Dragon Age: Tevinter Nights is a collection of fifteen short stories by various BioWare writers, published in March 2020. It features a variety of new and returning characters, in stories set in the northern nations of Thedas: Tevinter, Nevarra, Antiva, the Anderfels, and Rivain.

I first read Tevinter Nights in a migraine haze in 2020 and I thank it for entertaining me during some of the worst of that year. It's fair to say I needed a thorough and more lucid re-read before I could give a proper review of it! So here we are, with a brief look at each of the book's fifteen short stories. As this book seems to serve primarily as a precursor to the next game, I give my thoughts on each story, with an eye to what it brings to the party in terms of lore and characters. Any interesting or relevant worldbuilding? Anyone we might hope to see show up in Dreadwolf? Anything else of note? Off we go, to Minrathous and points north!

Spoilers follow.

Three Trees to Midnight

by Patrick Weekes

Story: A human liberati and a (not) Dalish elf escape a Qunari work camp together. As the first in the collection, this story honestly drags a little for me, and wasn't my favorite.

Characters: Didn't love 'em. Weekes is one of my favorites among the Dragon Age writers; my love for The Masked Empire is legendary and I'm also a Solas fan (RIP), but these two just did not endear themselves to me and I wasn't especially hoping to see either of them again (though considering that Strife does show up in a later short story, I doubt we've seen the last of him). I didn't find Myrion particularly likable even after his "surprise, I used to be enslaved" twist, and despite Strife having a Final Fantasy name, he evidently made so little impression on me that when he showed up in one of the Dragon Age Day short stories back in December 2020, I completely forgot we'd met him before, and was no more impressed by him then either. Now that we've seen him twice I'm having strong suspicions he's going to show up in the next game, and if so I hope he's either not a companion or he turns out to be interesting enough to have earned it.

Lore value: I'd say high, despite this story not being my favorite. because while we've had a couple of attempted Qunari invasions in the south now, we haven't really had a close look at the war in the north, and so this was great for that, especially for the horrors of mages and others who resist being subjected to qamek, as well as for some rogue behavior among the Qunari themselves. Though we already knew that humans are enslaved in Tevinter as well as elves, we are reminded of that here. We also get a glimpse into the Arlathan forest, haunted and teeming with ancient magic. I also appreciate that it's almost a running joke now that everyone not from Tevinter thinks "magister" just means "Tevinter mage," and this annoys everyone from Tevinter very much. And while Strife wasn't a favorite, I like examples of city elves who've been taken in by the Dalish, and interactions between the different classes of elves generally.

Down Among the Dead Men

by Sylvia Feketekuty

Story: A bookish Nevarran guardsman is attacked at a funeral by the deceased. A very fun story with a great twist at the end. The ending was touching, and to me it gave a purpose to the Mourn Watch and the Grand Necropolis beyond simply the vanity of noble houses: giving spirits who want to linger on this side of the Veil a place to do so in peace and fulfillment, without violence or destruction—and honestly, is that not a worthwhile endeavor? It really made me appreciate Nevarran culture more deeply.

Characters: I found (spirit!)Audric particularly endearing, the way he fixated on architecture, and the anger he felt for the real living Audric's quiet and pleasant little life having been cut short so senselessly. It was in some ways the most poignant and resonant portrayal of why a spirit would choose to inhabit a corpse that I've seen in this canon and I think he's one that will stick with me. Fans have talked (jokingly, and seriously) about hoping we get a skeleton companion in the next game, and after reading this story, I'm inclined to hope for that myself.

We've had various types of spirit companions in Dragon Age. In Justice, we've had a spirit trapped unwillingly in the body of a corpse, and then willing joined with a living mortal host in a way that changed both of them. Then in Cole, we've had a spirit who willingly crossed the Veil and was able to take a physical form by himself. What if in DA4, we could have a spirit companion who has crossed the Veil and chosen to animate the remains of a mortal body, knowingly and willing, not to cause destruction but simply because they see a purpose for themselves in this world? Perhaps not Audric, as he seems content to stay in the Necropolis and would probably dislike fighting. But the potential here is tremendous.

Lore value: To me, absolutely invaluable! Of the northern nations, I think I'm most interested not by Tevinter and its Imperial Chantry, but by the nations that exist nominally under the Orlesian Chantry while culturally being quite far removed from the Andrastian cultural norms of Ferelden, Orlais, and the Marcher Cities. Nevarra and Rivain in particular fascinate me by the ways in which they have managed to retain cultural beliefs and practices about magic that are taboo in the south. So I'm all about seeing those up close and in practice, and I'm especially happy to see a kinder view of Nevarran culture than that held by Cassandra and Sidony. (Oh, we'll get to you, Sidony.) A stroll inside the Grand Necropolis? Sign me up. And another opportunity to see the world through the eyes of a spirit who doesn't fully realize what they've become—not unlike Cole's origins, but under entirely different circumstances? Fantastic! It's a wonderful twist, and a great story.

The Horror of Hormak

by John Epler

This story seems to contain a significant spelling error that was not caught in editing: the title is spelled "Hormak," but for the entirety of the story, the name is spelled "Hormok." Since "Hormak" is mentioned in earlier material as one of the great lost Dwarven kingdoms, this is clearly the correct one, but oof, that's embarrassing.

Story: Grey Wardens stumbled upon an unspeakable horror in the deep. Recommend Tom Cardy's "Red Flags" as a soundtrack for this one. Truly horrifying, great build of tension and atmosphere in this one.

I appreciate the acknowledgment that the past decade has really done a number on the Grey Wardens. Between the losses at Ostagar, Amaranthine, that time Anders did cannibalism, and then that whole embarrassing affair at Adamant, it's a wonder there are any left south of Weisshaupt, and that doesn't always really get any attention in the games, so it's good to see.

Characters: This one really stuck with me more for the story and the worldbuilding implications than the characters. I actually had to go back and look up the name of the main character to jog my memory (it's Ramesh). His prior relationship with Warden Jovis certainly makes the discovery of Jovis's fate hit harder. But ultimately, the story isn't really about them.

Lore value: There's so much to unpack here in terms of the worldbuilding and historical implications. Dwarvish carvings depicting elves, a priestess with a cruel smile, a supplicant, and a monster. A whole ancient elvhen ruin in the Deep Roads, scenes from Elvhenan depicted in bas-relief that seem to indicate twelve such places, aravels with barred windows streaming to them loaded with prey. And in each, some sort of primordial magic brine and a lyrium crystal, which fuse creatures immersed in the liquid.

As for what this place was in ancient Elvhenan, well, we can only guess, but I can't help thinking it very likely has something to do with Ghilan'nain. From a codex entry found in the Temple of Mythal:

Ghilan'nain kept herself apart from the People. She used her power to create animals none had ever seen. The skies teemed with her monsters, the land with her beasts. Andruil hunted them all, and after a year of killing, approached Ghilan'nain with an offer: the gods would share their power with Ghilan'nain, but only if she destroyed her creations, for they were too untamed to remain among the People. Ghilan'nain agreed and asked for three days to undo what she had made.

And from what I've seen in the fandom, it looks as though this is the reigning theory. It does seem to be the Occam's Razor interpretation of the story.

That said, so far as we know, Ghilan'nain is still trapped in the Fade with the rest of the Evanuris, and someone is still using this pool, at least—the unfortunate Wardens who stumbled upon it, it seems, were forced to drink and be transformed. Further, Jovis refers to a "she" who could still be alive, and active. Is he referring to the priestess in the reliefs, or is this "she" a newer actor? I don't think we'll know for sure what's going on here until they decide to reveal more to us, but it does seem like whatever this horror was in ancient times, the darkspawn have now turned it to their own purposes. The "she" to whom Jovis refers could be a broodmother—even an awakened one, like the Mother from Awakening, who herself gave rise to new types of darkspawn, though we were never really told how. We haven't heard from any awakened darkspawn in a while; I'd say we're about due.

Callback

by Lukas Kristjanson

Story: Sutherland and Company return to Skyhold to confront a demon which has taken up residence in the now-vacant fortress. When I first read this story, I hadn't even finished playing Inquisition yet and I already loved it. On the second read, when I've completed the game three times and made sure to complete the Sutherland and Co. questline every time? Where I live for that moment when the Inquisitor comes up over the hill on the Storm Coast and hears their boy calling out, "I told you! I told you! She's/He's a true as anything hero!"

Yeah, this is fan service, and I am the fan being serviced. I love Sutherland and his crew dearly, and I make no apologies for it. This story is an absolute delight to me and one of my favorites in the book.

Characters: Rather than introducing new characters, here we get an update on Sutherland and his crew. Last we heard, as of Trespasser, they'd been titled and started a freehold, so it's pretty cool to hear what their titles are! "Ser Donal of the Hinterlands, Crosscut Brother—" so named because of their aid in finding a lost expedition of dwarven Mining Caste "drifters" (a nice little reference to the "Crosscut Drifters" from Origins, which I also love). That was the mission that made them ambassadors to Orzammar, one of their great successes as an adventuring company of the Inquisition. All the crew's titles are equally apt. Ser Shayd, Lady of Evesol, bard of secret distinction; Ser Voth Dale'An, free mage by special commendation. And of course, their Squire, Rat. Arcanist Dagna also makes an appearance, armed with runes and a jar of bees (complements of Sera, surely), as well as Harrit the Smith, and Quartermaster Morris.

But this story isn't just nostalgia bait. It's also a really thematically tight story. Sutherland's whole deal is that the Inquisitor—not the Inquisition but the Inquisitor—took a chance on him, when he was just a young man fleeing a farm threatened by bandits and looking for help. Leliana wanted to take his intel and send him to work in the kitchens. Cullen thought he could be outfitted and sent to deal with the bandits himself. When he was successful, he was entrusted with more resources, and built himself a crew, who came to Skyhold believing in his leadership.

Now they return to an empty Skyhold and find themselves facing a demon of regret arisen out of Solas's fresco painting of the events of the Inquisition. Of those gathered, Sutherland is the only one who has no regrets for the demon to feed on. While he is able to stand against the demon, his friends find themselves immobilized and vulnerable. As they struggle to regroup, Sutherland knows he can't defeat the demon alone, and his own revelations mirror the mistakes of the man who created the fresco and drew the demon: Solas. "I regret acting alone. I regret using my friends." Sutherland resolves instead to be for his friends what the Inquisitor was for him: someone who saw his potential, inspired him, and stood for him and all those gathered at Skyhold. He knows that he needs to be more than strong enough to stand alone; he needs to hold his group together so that they can stand together and defeat the demon. Their fight and their victory calls back to the contrast between an archetypal Inquisitor, and Solas, both now departed from Skyhold but still lingering in, well, in spirit.

Lore value: I think it's fascinating what can draw a spirit's attention to the mortal world. Solas is long gone from Skyhold, yet in a sense his regrets linger. His emotions were so powerful that a spirit was drawn, not even to him, but to the representation of his experiences that he had created: the fresco paintings in the rotunda. We are constantly learning new things about spirits and how they are capable of interacting with the mortal world; while a spirit possessing a living person is the great fear, we have seen spirits inhabit animals and trees as well, and we've seen them animate inanimate objects, such as in the "haunting" of Bartrand's house in Kirkwall, so a spirit taking form from inanimate matter isn't totally out of left field. This spirit was so drawn to the imprint that Solas's emotions left on Skyhold, that it inhabited his artistic creation. Did Solas know this would happen? Could he have guessed? I can't say. But it's fascinating all the same.

Luck in the Gardens

by Sylvia Feketekuty

Story: A genderfluid Lord of Fortune goes monster hunting in Minrathous.

Characters: Well, I certainly enjoyed our unnamed Lord of Fortune, a former circus performer from Rivain, whom Dorian gives the pseudonym "Hollix" when providing her a cover story after she falls from his rafters. And yes, Dorian's here too! Having returned to Tevinter following his time in the Inquisition, Dorian has also rid his house of slaves, employing paid servants instead. He remarks that "Someone I met I the south… changed my mind on the matter." First assumption might be that he means the Inquisitor, but I would actually say it's more likely he's referring to Solas—because Solas challenges Dorian on the Tevinter slave trade whether the Inquisitor does or not. It's great to see some follow-up on that. Maevaris Tilani, a transgender woman, reformist Magister, and friend of both Dorian and Varric, also makes an appearance here. We also meet Mizzy, a clever little girl who helps Hollix in the hunt and whom he pays well in turn, suggesting she might have potential as a Lord of Fortune someday herself.

Lore value: Very high! I believe this story is our first introduction to the Lords of Fortune, who will come up multiple times in this book and who seem to be a Rivaini guild of treasure hunters and adventurers. There's a lot of potential there for a future game and I wouldn't be surprised if we interact with this guild—or if it might even provide a stock background for the player character, perhaps as an adventurer contracted by the Inquisition. There's room for any playable race to be a member, so far as I can see, and players could be free to imagine their character's backstory before joining however they liked. That's just my guess, of course. But it seems well set up for that, and I think I'd like it.

Forms of address were at the forefront of my mind on this read since I'd just done some digging for such things in Fereldan culture, and thus something jumped out at me that I'd missed on the first read: Hollix, who narrates, says, "Through this tale, people call me sir and madam, but I've always just thought of myself as myself, and had great fun in the bargain." This reveals Hollix's genderfluidity, but also presents forms of address that have been heretofore unseen in this setting. Throughout the settings we've played in so far, we have seen the universal, gender-neutral address for a knight as "Ser," though other addresses have varied. Marcher address, at least in Kirkwall, is very ungendered, with "Serah" for a person of lower status and "Messere" for a person of higher. "Mistress" and "Master" are fairly universal addresses for a head of household or anyone who employs hired help (see: Master Dennet, the Redcliffe horsemaster; Mistress Poulin, former owner of the mine in Emprise du Lion). In Ferelden, "Goodwife" and "Goodman" are the proper address for a commoner. Orlais I'm not certain of, but I think they default to "Madame," "Monsieur," and "Mademoiselle" (see: Madame de Fer). But what we haven't seen is "sir" and "madam" as common address, nor the "mister" and "missus" that also appear later in this story. I'm inclined to take this as representative of Tevinter culture and conventions, because it feels too deliberate to be an oversight—but we will see how it plays out when we actually see Tevinter in a game.

I also like that we see the use of bottled alchemical potions, like what Sera uses in combat, featured in a story as an integrated piece of lore, and not simply as a game mechanic.

But the biggest question raised by this story, of course, is what exactly the Cekorax was, a question that even Dorian and Hollix cannot answer after defeating it. Dorian talks about a necromancer who spoke of things "past the Veil of our world, neither demon nor spirit," suggesting that the Cekorax could be such a thing. Could it be a creature from the Void? If so, how did it end up in Minrathous? When it said, "Things are rising," did it refer to Solas? Did the Cekorax come, somehow, in response to him? Or could it have referred to the events of "The Streets of Minrathous," in this same collection—the attempt to raise the demon beneath Minrathous? (This story also makes reference to the events of "The Wigmaker Job," and so is set after that.) For now, we can only guess.

Hunger

by Brianne Battye

Story: Two Grey Wardens hunt a werewolf that has been terrorizing a small village in the Anderfels. There's a happy ending for the village, but the stinger: the demon still out there, ready to take another. Honestly, I was bored by this one.

Characters: I liked Evka and Antoine just fine for the purposes of this story, but I also didn't find them especially memorable. They've shown up in more short stories since, though, so I expect we'll be seeing more of them (though I'm not especially thrilled with the most recent short story that featured them, but that is, again, another post).

Lore value: Honestly, I didn't really feel like there was a lot new here. We've seen werewolves before, and we know that werewolf curses generally come from a spirit, even if the case of Zathrian's clan was highly specific, so… I just didn't feel like this story was breaking much new ground. I also didn't feel like it offered any great insights into Anders culture, despite being set there. So this also wasn't a favorite for me.

Murder by Death Mages

by Caitlin Sullivan Kelly

Story: Inquisition agent Sidony reluctantly returns to Nevarra, where she must solve the murder of her former mentor, and makes bad decisions at nearly every stage of the case. I have extremely mixed feelings on this story, mostly because of the main character, though I did find it easier to get through on the second read.

Characters: I'm going to be honest here, on the first read I found Sidony absolutely unbearable. And if you know me, you know I'm all about your "unlikable" female characters, and I'm willing to do a lot of digging to understand a character. But this story just gave me so little to latch onto with Sidony. She hates the Mortalitasi! She hates Nevarra! Sidony hates everyone and everything! What does Sidony like? What does she want? Why is she even with the Inquisition? With this story as my introduction to the character, I certainly couldn't tell you. And without understanding her motivations, without any sense of why she was so resentful and unpleasant to everyone she met, it was really hard to connect with her. And this is nitpicky, but she also seems a bit… dull? As in, not sharp. She sees an older mage she knew years ago and wonders how her copper-colored hair has retained its hue. A mage. Who we know can even change their eye color. Come on, really?

On my second read… I dug in a little more, and really looked for any scrap of motivation I could latch onto in order to, at the very least, understand this character better, because somebody felt she was worthy of being a protagonist. I also went back and re-read her entry in World of Thedas Volume 2 (she's an Inquisition agent who is mentioned in war table ops, and also a multiplayer character, which I didn't know when I first read this story). There, we're at least told that her primary motivation is reaching her true potential as a mage, and that she joined the Inquisition solely for the benefits of studying the Breach. So that's… something, and I wish it were something that more clearly came across in this story, as it's clear she doesn't want to be assigned to a mission in Nevarra, but there's no sense of what she'd rather be doing instead.

Two things finally softened me on Sidony a little. First, she does have regrets about how she left things with her old Mortalitasi mentor, especially now that he's dead. She seems to resent that her upbringing kept her isolated from the outside world, and she resents the whole culture of the Mortalitasi for being focused on preservation after death rather than gaining power in life. And second, I was much more aware of how deeply paranoid and distrustful Sidony is on this read—she's always expecting the worst from every person she meets and every situation she enters, and she hates not being in control of her surroundings—as soon as she enters a room, she's mapping out her escape route. And in light of those things, I had more sympathy this time for her frustration at the end—realizing that she'd allowed herself to be manipulated and deceived.

I think she could have potential, in a context where she's given more room to breathe, show some vulnerability, and reveal more complexity to her motivations. That's the kind of thing you can get from a companion in a game that you can't get from a three paragraph bio.

So, yeah, those are my complicated feelings! I don't really like Sidony much, but I feel like I could, and for that reason… I wouldn't mind if we saw her again.

Lore value: Nevarran politics are this story's saving grace, so I won't say it was a wash. I did have more fun with "Down Among the Dead Men," though.

The Streets of Minrathous

by Brianne Battye

Story: Very noir vibes, with the mage private eye working to solve a murder mystery alongside the largely-ineffectual templars. While a bit predictable, I did enjoy it.

Characters: I like Neve. I like her a lot. I'd like to see her again. Wouldn't mind seeing Rana, either.

Using the name "Quentin Calla" for the first murder victim was weird to me given that "Quentin" was the name of a villain in DA2 who sent his victims lilies (calla is a type of lily). I wonder if that was an unconscious association that no one caught. I would have changed it.

Lore value: High. I think this story gives us some good setup for how the templars operate in Tevinter—and how different it is from the south. Here, the templars don't use lyrium, though they do have access to some specialized weapons. They are largely restrained by bureaucracy and corruption from confronting most of the actual abuses of magic in Tevinter society. This is a very different Templar Order than the one we've come to know.

And an incredibly powerful demon sealed beneath Minrathous? Could it be another one of the Forbidden Ones, the Formless One we've yet to meet? Or is this a demon like Hybris, who was sealed beneath Kirkwall with the Awiergan Scrolls. How many major cities in Thedas have demons sealed beneath them? This whole concept really intrigues me, and I'd bet it's going to come up in the next game. If I had to bet money, I'd put it on the Formless One. Gaxkang was unbound in Denerim, Xebenkeck was sealed under Kirkwall, and Imshael turned up in Orlais; if we're going to meet the fourth Forbidden One in the next game, I think there's some pretty strong hints in this book that underneath Minrathous is where we'll find it.

The Wigmaker Job

by Courtney Woods

Story: Two Antivan Crows take a job in Tevinter that gets complicated. One of the most memorable in the book, for me, both for the horror and because it was fun to read. This Crow stuff is super fun.

Characters: I really enjoyed the banter between Lucanis and Illario… and given what happens in this story, I am not surprised by the later developments in the the short story "The Wake," which I will not spoil here. I expect we will meet at least one familiar Crow in DA4.

Lore value: Excellent. I like the detail that even enslaved elves may have a vhenadahl. On the downside, I hate the "retching vases," based on that trope of misunderstanding what ancient Roman vomitoriums were (not what it sounds like). God, I hope that doesn't make it into the next game. Otherwise, great. The horror of how the wigmaker harvests hair from tortured slaves really drives home the excesses of magic use in upper-class Tevinter, in a way that's more creative and more horrifying than simply "use blood magic to gain and maintain political power."

Genitivi Dies in the End

by Lukas Kristjanson

Story: Three of Thedas's storied writers join forces for a excursion beneath Tevinter—and make a discovery so shocking, they can't even tell us what it was! Ridiculous. And also great. After a lot of more straightforward serious fare, it's nice to have some comedy. Kristjanson gets to flex his quirky side here and I enjoy it a lot.

Characters: I love that Phillium/Laudine is canon. I also did not pick up the first time around that Rasaan is the same Rasaan from "Those Who Sleep."

Lore value: I think the most fun thing about this story is that since Phillium's account of their adventure is fictional, we have no idea how much of it we can trust. What did they really find beneath Tevinter? Was there really a piece of Arlathan beneath the Deep Roads—or was that part made up too, and what they found was so shocking and dangerous that Philliam's story obscures it altogether? Could it even have something to do with the demon sealed beneath Minrathous—if that demon is a Forbidden One, an elvhen spirit banished long ago by the Evanuris? Is Laudine even a mage? Who knows! I do think they were really pursued by a Qunari Antaam, only because Rasaan is a character we've met before, one there's no reason for Phillium to know—unless Varric has since committed the events of the first three graphic novels to print, which is possible. At this point, we may as well distrust all of it.

What we can infer is that whatever they found prompted our merry band of writers to lie their asses off, and then go into hiding. I dearly hope we get to run into them in the next game, and find out what they really uncovered. Oh, and the Randy Dowager of the titular Quarterly is a pen name of Brother Genitivi. Tremendous.

One of my favorites for sure.

Herold Had the Plan

by Ryan Cormier

Story: A heist gone a bit sideways. Poor Herold. This is a very entertaining story, turning bittersweet at the end.

Characters: I like them a lot. Bharv, Elim, even Panzstott. We get a visit from Vaea at the end! I hope Bharv made it home safely to his daughters, and finally retired.

Lore value: Yet again, we hear of the catacombs beneath Tevinter. Whole lot of stuff down there. The Celebrant, a unique greatsword from DA2, makes an appearance! The rest, I don't expect to play a huge role going forward, but this was a great example of a Lord of Fortune caper, perhaps minus the whole charity bit. Herold's motivation in seeking out the healing amulet is a sobering reminder of how the war has affected the north.

An Old Crow's Old Tricks

by Arone Le Bray

Story: A Tevinter military unit find themselves being picked off one by one in revenge for their violent attack on a Dalish clan. There is… some weird writing in this one. Hair in someone's face being referred to as "coarse brown follicles." A man manages to accidentally hack a three-foot-wide tentpole to splinters just by swinging blindly a few times. While I did enjoy the story, I found those things distracting.

Characters: The old Crow lady Lessef is pretty cool. The way she reminds each target of their crimes, it feels a little more personal than Crows usually operate. It seems she does have a personal connection to the clan that bought the contract, as the nephew of one of the clan, Tainsley, works for her. I'm wondering if, like Lucanis, we have another Crow with a conscience.

Lore value: Eh… fairly low. I guess Tevinters also use "rabbit" as a pejorative for elves, which feels odd, that having been previously a uniquely Orlesian thing so far as I could tell, and the cultures of the north and south being so different. This was an entertaining enough little revenge story, but I wouldn't say it told us a whole lot new about Tevinter, the Dalish, or the Crows.

Eight Little Talons

by Courtney Woods

Story: The eight Talons of the Antivan Crows meet to discuss the threat of Qunari invasion, but someone is picking them off one by one. At 60 pages, this is the longest story in the collection, and it earns every page. I love a good murder mystery, and this story absolutely delivered.

Characters: If you read the graphic novel Deception before reading this book (which I hadn't yet the first time around), you might recognize Viago de Riva and Andarateia Cantori, the fifth and seventh Talons of the Antivan Crows, respectively. Teia Cantori is an absolute delight. I love a story of a city elf risen to power, and I love her resourcefulness and wit. I'm happy to see her show up in future short stories and in the comics, and certainly wouldn't be unhappy to see her in a game as well. I also enjoyed Viago, with his poisons and antidotes and his paranoia and his rather helpless attraction to Teia; he made a good foil for her. I'm ambivalent on Teia/Viago as a ship in itself (, but within this story it did serve the function of continually bringing the two characters together, and also having Viago distracted by his jealousy at certain moments. Caterina Dellamorte, the Crow matriarch, was also really cool.

Lore value: Excellent. Not just getting to see Crows in the company of other Crows, which was great in itself, but getting to see the highest level of Crows among each other, and the complex relationships between them. Plus there's just a lot of great worldbuilding detail in this story, from the setting of the summit to descriptions of food, wine, and coffee, mention of the opera, etc. The origins of the Crows also comes up here: they began as an order of monks who assassinated a tyrannical duke. Though the Crows survive this attack, it will be interesting to see what effect such a blow has on the guild and whether that plays a part in the next game.

Half Up Front

by John Epler

Story: A disgraced altus and her elven lover are hired to break into the archon's palace. The narrator mentions "the Pavus job," a previous break-in at the same location, and I was really wondering if that corresponded to some war table op involving Dorian, but I didn't turn up anything that matched. Still, it seems likely to have been Dorian who hired them.

Characters: Love them! Lesbians, and they live! A Tevinter altus who fell for an elven servant, did the right thing and got her other work before they got together, and accepted disgrace from her family for the sake of her lover. I do wish we knew Vadis's first name, and not just the name of her house. Fun fact: Irian is also the name of the Magister of House Amladaris who can be corresponded with through the war table, but I assume no relation. We also have a cameo by Gatt, and a mention of "a dwarf in Kirkwall" whose identity we can likely guess. The ending all but promises we will see our two heroines again, and I look forward to it.

Lore value: Tremendous. This story brings into clearer focus what several other stories in the collection have been hinting at: the Qunari are divided. The Antaam is set on invading Tevinter, while the Ben-Hassrath disagree—and here, Gatt makes it plain why. The Ben-Hassrath realize that Fen'Harel and his agents are a far greater threat to the Qun, to the entire world. And they know that not only will they need their forces focused on him, they will need allies—not more enemies.

A great story.

The Dread Wolf Take You

by Patrick Weekes

Story: Five strangers convene in a hole in the wall in Hunter Fell to discuss how the infamous red lyrium idol has fallen into the hands of the Dread Wolf. The perfect ending to this collection, and prelude to the next game.

Characters: It's great to see Charter again! The other characters, though unnamed, feel distinct as well. Of note: the "Bard" even makes reference to "the previous Lady Mantillon," further confirming that the two Mantillons are meant to be two different characters. He also makes mention of "an auburn-haired elf whose dagger-knot gave her away as an agent of the Qunari spies, the Ben-Hassrath." This might be Tallis, and if so, she's still bad at being a spy! That would also make it reasonable to assume that the Starkhaven noble glaring at her in the story was Sebastian.

Charter asks Solas for her life… and he grants it to her, letting her leave unharmed. I wonder whether he would have allowed that were she not an elf. With some of the things he says to her, it almost seems as though he hopes to recruit her to his cause.

Lore value: Supreme. This more than any other story, I think, gives us a glimpse into what Solas has been up to since leaving the Inquisition. It seems he has already begun some long-running ritual, which has begun to affect the Fade and possibly the Veil, and for whatever reason, he needs the red lyrium idol and has been tracking its location. He says to Charter that telling the Inquisitor as much as he did was "a moment of weakness," that he hoped they would all live "a few years in peace before my ritual was complete. Before the world ended." So whatever Solas is doing, it takes time… but not that much time, if we choose to believe his words here. That suggests that DA4 will pick up not more than a few years after Inquisition left off, and time will likely be of the essence in stopping him.

This is (at least so far as we know as of this book's publication, but that's another post) the first time we we have met an Executer in the flesh. And Solas petrifies them in their robes, so that no one notices but Charter. Notably he petrifies the Executor first, before they've had a chance to tell a tale. He then cautions Charter against dealing with "those across the sea," saying, "They are dangerous." It seems that Solas knows more of the Executors than anyone else we've met. It also seems like he wanted to make sure they never had the chance to share their knowledge with the people of Thedas.

I'm interested in the Mortalitasi's tale of binding spirits to the corpses of great mages to fuel spells, as this seems quite different than what we've seen in the other Nevarran tales wherein spirits seem to inhabit the bodies of the dead freely, unbound.

It is also notable that Solas tells Charter that "What I am doing will save this world, and those like you—the elves who still remain—may even find it better, when it is done."

This is interesting because it seems in direct contradiction to things Solas said in Trespasser. And it's not hard to see why. In the epilogue to Trespasser, we are told that elves from all over Thedas have gone to join Solas, and that's been alluded to in this story as well. Solas needs agents, needs believers in his cause, and "I'm going to remake the world, but you'll probably die when I do" isn't a good sales pitch. I think Solas is lying to his followers, and I think he's lying to Charter here, suggesting that modern elves who join his cause will live to enjoy the restoration of Elvhenan—whether or not that's true. And I don't think it is true. Maybe a few will be lucky enough to survive. Most of them will die, a necessary sacrifice in Solas's eyes.

A great story, and I'm more excited than ever for the next game—which has just received a title reveal, Dragon Age: Dreadwolf.

Characters Who've Shown Up in Subsequent Short Stories

Worth noting because I think the probability of seeing these characters return in the next game is especially high. Let me know if I've missed anyone!

Strife from "Three Trees to Midnight" returns in "Ruins of Reality"

Evka from "Hunger" returns in "The Next One," and she and Antoine both appear in "Won't Know When"

Illario from "The Wigmaker Job" and Viago and Teia from "Eight Little Talons" return in "The Wake" (with mention of Lucanis). Teia and Viago also appeared previously in the graphic novel Deception.

The Wrap-Up

My personal favorites:

Down Among the Dead Men

Callback

The Wigmaker Job

Genitivi Dies in the End

Eight Little Talons

Half Up Front

The Dread Wolf Take You

Monsters are a major theme across the stories in this book—from invading forces to demons and darkspawn to unnamed horrors to the monstrousness that lurks within people's hearts.

I really enjoyed reading and re-reading this collection as stories in their own right, because I love the Dragon Age universe and I love to hear new stories in that world. But there's also so much great setup here for the upcoming game and the general situation in the north. If one goal of this collection was to familiarize fans with the cultures of Thedas's northern nations and get us excited to go there, it certainly succeeded for me.

Making too many predictions while a game is still in development feels like a fool's game to me, so I'm not going to do that. What I will do is give a general overview of things we know about the world leading up to the next game from these stories… and let you draw your own conclusions from there.

The Qunari are divided. The Antaam, the military arm of the Qun, has launched an invasion into the Tevinter mainland, suppressing resistance with brutal force and liberal use of qamek, the poison that destroys the will and personality of the victim, turning them into docile laborers. The Ben-Hassrath, what might be considered the "intelligence" arm of the Qun, disapproves of the invasion and has stayed out of it, and it's indicated that this is because the Ben-Hassrath consider Solas the greater threat. (We haven't yet heard what the Tamassrans think of all of this.)

Many spirits reside willingly and peacefully in the remains of the dead in Nevarra's Grand Necropolis, but certain Mortalitasi also bind spirits to corpses in order to draw magical power from them.

Hidden across Thedas (likely beneath the twelve dwarven kingdoms that once were) are a series of ancient elven chambers seemingly used to alter or fuse the forms of animals for some unknown purpose. The darkspawn had been making use of at least one before it was destroyed. One of its victims, the late Warden Jovis, warned of an unnamed "she" who might still be actively using the chambers.

A monster was loose in Tevinter that might have come from a place beyond the veil—no ordinary demon or mortal creature. Its true nature, how it came to be in Minrathous, and whether others might also have made their way into the mortal world, is unknown.

A demon that once spread the werewolf curse in a small village in the Anderfels is still loose, looking for its next prey.

In Nevarra, an attempt by a powerful noble to seize the throne has been thwarted by a cunning Mortalitasi and the Inquisition agent who unwittingly played into her hands.

There is a powerful demon bound beneath Minrathous. Lingering Venatori cultists have already made an attempt to release it.

The combination of the unchecked use of magic by the politically powerful and the practice of slavery contributes to horrific abuses of power in Tevinter, not always with directly political goals. One such abuse recently prompted an Antivan Crow to fulfill a contract in a particularly creative manner. This will likely have repercussions, both in Tevinter high society and for said Crow.

An expedition of three well-known writers unconvered something beneath Tevinter so dangerous that they dare not share their findings and have themselves gone into hiding.

The Qunari invasion and Tevinter defense is also affecting Dalish clans accidentally stuck in the path of the fighting. One such clan was able to raise funds through trade to hire an assassin to take revenge on the Tevinter unit who murdered another clan to facilitate troop movements.

The Antivan Crows recently lost half their leadership in an attempted coup by one of the Talons, who had made a deal with the Qunari. The first Talon lives, however, as well as three others, and the vacant seats will likely be filled by their designated successors, except for that of the traitor, whose House is likely ruined.

A plot to escalate the war between the Tevinter and the Qunari, drawing in the Ben-Hassrath and possibly Rivain as well, was foiled by the mercenaries unwittingly hired to do it.

On the Fen'Harel front specifically:

The ritual by which Solas intends (presumably) to bring down the Veil and restore the world he knew has already begun, and it seems it will take years to complete.

The red lyrium idol is somehow integral to Solas's plans, and he has gone to great lengths to retrieve it.

Solas has a vested interested in keeping Tevinter and the Qunari focused on one another, now that both are aware of him. Ongoing war and political upheaval in the north directly benefits him by distracting the various world powers from pursuing him or learning more about his plans.

We've got us quite a setup here. :) I know I look forward to seeing what happens next in Thedas.

[docockbrainrot]

ghost of you

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove

Description: Steve visits Billy's grave for a quiet moment of introspection, hindsight, a bit of regret and an even smaller bit of a fond memory.

CW: Angst, Hurt/No Comfort, Coping With Death, Grieving Process

Word Count: 2.6k

Song Rec: Ghost (cover) by Josiah and the Bonnevilles + Everything's An Illusion by Mayday Parade

A/N: This is pretty sad y'all I'm sorry in advance but I'm still coping too dammit. There is a bit of a sweet behind the bitter though I promise.

AO3 Link: Here

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There's something that seems perpetually wrong about Billy's death. A morbid, cruel happenstance of fate wrapped in the gentle embrace of the early Midwestern summer. Cicadas drone and sing and the town is filled with flowers and beauty and life. Even now, weeks later, as the season breaks and begins to give way to fall. This isn't right. The sun still shines and the grass is still green, verdant and freshly shorn around the headstone. The universe didn't stop to grieve for Billy Hargrove while Steve feels like his life has been a VHS tape that's been warped beyond repair. Ending unseen, trapped behind the garbled static. Unable to move past that one point where the recording was absolutely fucked indefinitely, the VCR choking on its busted mouthful. His world coming to a grinding halt like screeching tires on asphalt.

He kneels in front of the grave for what must be the hundredth time, silently arranging the small bouquet of flowers underneath the chiseled epitaph. He leans back on his haunches, studying the letters like he hadn't memorized them months ago. A finger reaches out to trace the carving of dates, letter by letter, number by number. His throat feels tight. So young, is usually the first thought that swells emotion within him when he gives himself too much time to think about it. How easy it was to forget most of the time with how Billy acted. How he was really just the same age as Steve. 

Or maybe it made the most sense of all. 

Billy was barely more than a child. A high school student. And he certainly knew how to throw tantrums like a spoiled brat. Steve purses his lips and settles into the grass with his legs crossed, fingers drumming an irregular beat on his knees, a compulsive tapping of nerves. No, that isn't right. Billy wasn't spoiled by any means. Maybe he was a bit of a brat. But Steve knows the truth now. The glimpse beyond the curtain that veiled Billy's life from view, visible only in his death. 

Steve wishes he had known sooner. Maybe he could have helped. Maybe he wouldn't have been such an antagonizing piece of shit. Maybe in another timeline they could have been friends. Maybe they could have been more than that. 

He squashes the thoughts just quickly as they surface, just as the tears threaten to sting his vision and make his stomach knot. "You're a fucking asshole, you know that?" Steve whispers into the ether, sniffling, bringing a hand up to wipe at his eyes as he glares at the headstone. He doesn't always talk to him. After all, he isn't so naive enough to believe Billy might be listening. So mostly he sits. A contemplative reverie of hindsight and things that can't be changed. Sometimes he brings nothing but his gratitude on days when he's struck with the very tangible realization that he, and the (Steve's) kids, and his family and friends and town and possibly the world would have all gone down in flames if Billy hadn't sacrificed himself. The gratitude feels a lot like survivor's guilt today. 

Some days he can't shake the grief.

There was an instance (and God help him it feels like another lifetime, like it happened to someone else, like peering into the window of a house that didn't belong to him). It plays like a recording seared into the backs of his eyelids. 

The Hargrove boy was flat drunk, barely able to keep himself on his feet but still with enough gumption about him to heckle anyone who tried to have something to say about it and enough moxie to grab the ass of every unsuspecting broad that didn't have the foresight to keep a healthy perimeter distance from him.

It was at a party. Probably. Steve can barely recall the minute details now and it's reminiscent of when the fog rolls in, low and heavy, usually on chilled winter mornings, and he would iron grip the steering wheel of his beloved German made sedan while crawling through the backwoods roads, headlights swallowed up in the mist. 

Billy had dropped his car keys four times in succession. Steve watched on like it was a particularly interesting trainwreck, arms crossed, shaking his head. Unable to look away, but Jesus Christ, what a disaster. It was when Billy finally managed to stagger over to the Camaro, attempting (perhaps futilely) to fit the key into the door lock that Steve rolled his eyes and made the executive decision to intervene. Since no one else was going to. Why did he always have to be the voice of reason? 

"You can't seriously drive home like this, dude." His hand caught Billy's wrist and he almost choked on his bout of heroic courage when their eyes met. Smoldering, roiling oceans of blue, so dark in the cover of night that Steve suddenly understood how it felt to be lost at sea with no land in sight. He recoiled from his drunken adversary as quickly and abruptly as if he had been burned on contact and immediately raised both hands defensively in the universal display of 'I surrender, I am not here to fight'. 

"What's it to you?" Billy's words all but slurred together and he swayed a bit where he stood, finally giving up at some point and leaning against his vehicle for physical support. "Since when do you fuckin' care what I do, Harrington?" He spat the name like a curse, a sneer on his lips, though it lacked the true vehemence their encounters typically induced. 

Steve wonders now if he has looked a little harder then, would he have been able to see the cracks? Maybe if he had known what to look for. Would he have seen Billy spilling out from the chips in himself? In retrospect it's so easy to catch. Every moment where Billy almost slipped, almost… every almost. Every it should have been different.

"I don't care what you do, man, you just- you can't drive like this. You're gonna hurt someone," Steve rationalized it easily. Of course. Billy shouldn't drive drunk because… of other people. That was the only logical explanation for the nerves that made Steve's belly knot. "I can… I can drive you home." 

"Ha. No," Billy barely waited for Steve to get his sentence out before shutting it down. His keys are still gripped in his shaking fingers with a force that made Steve wonder if he should be worried about getting shanked with them. 

Posthumously, some of the dirty details had come out. Not all. But some. Steve knows enough to believe that Billy's father was the reason he didn't want to be driven home that night. Steve wonders what the consequences could have been.

"Well– God, come on. You could–" Steve struggled for longer than he would have liked all while Billy just stood there. Unreadable. "I can take you… back to my place. You can crash on the couch. And I'll drive you back to get your car in the morning." More challenging than asking any girl out, harder than any fucking thing he had ever done, harder than fighting demons from Hell itself and all just to get told to go fuck himself– he's deflating before Billy even responds–

"Fine. Whatever," resignation but consenting was the flat, muttered answer, "pick up your fucking jaw, Harrington." Steve didn't realize his mouth had fallen open in the shock of the turning tides of the situation and he just stared for a moment as Billy shoved his keys haphazardly into the pocket of his beer-soaked jeans, not waiting up for his newfound chauffeur before shuffling off to Steve's car. It was unlocked. He let himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door so hard it made Steve physically cringe. 

The drive was… largely uneventful. The cab of the BMW smelled of alcohol and cigarettes and Billy's cologne. Steve's hands were damp with sweat the entire way and anxiety threatened to chew a hole through his guts. Billy looked like he was asleep, arms folded over his stained beater tank and his head resting against the window, eyes closed… Peaceful. They had pulled up to a stop sign and Steve took maybe a moment too long of glancing at Billy's resting form. 

"Like what you see, Harrington?" Billy's eyes were open suddenly, boring into him with an undecipherable expression. And just like that, Steve hit the gas pedal a bit too jarringly, not even justifying the jab with a rebuttal of any kind. It was a good thing it was dark. His face was searing with humiliation and he was staunchly silent for the remainder of the trip. 

Billy was drunk, Steve still tries to tell himself. To this day, that's the excuse he uses. Billy was so fucking drunk. He didn't know what he was saying. And saying it like that… It felt like an invitation. With that look on his face. How many times since then has he played out a scene in his head of the way that night could have gone if he had just fucking said something. Anything. 'As a matter of fact, I do like what I see. Is that a problem, Hargrove?' But he didn't. That's not how the story goes. And it wouldn't have changed the ending.

In fact Steve didn't say much at all for the rest of the night. He didn't help Billy out of the car and just let him all but stumble into the house. He ignored the mocking remarks Billy made about his cushy digs, just very sternly told him "Don't break anything, don't steal anything," as he shoved a pillow and blanket to Billy's chest and pointed him towards the couch in the living room. Just as he thought his nerves couldn't be frazzled any further in one single encounter, as Steve went to turn away and head upstairs, it was Billy's turn to grab his wrist. Steve looked back, brow furrowed, a quizzical expression on his face–

"Good night, Steve." 

And the manacle-like grip was released and Billy was shuffling towards the couch, leaving Steve dumbfounded and speechless. 

Steve remembers not saying it back. He remembers playing Billy's voice saying his name (his first name) on repeat in his mind. He remembers going up and taking the coldest shower of his life for way too long before crawling into bed and not falling into any sort of really restful slumber. He remembers fighting the urge to go downstairs nearly the entire night. He must have fallen asleep sometime in the early hours of the wee morning because when he finally went to check on Billy, he was gone and Steve wasn't awake to hear the front door open and shut. He remembers the mixed swirls of emotions that flooded through him as he stood barefoot in his living room, staring down at the sofa with the pillow and blanket perfectly folded on the armrest. 

Steve never asked if Billy actually stayed all night and left early or… if he snuck out the moment Steve went to bed. Maybe while he was in the shower. He'll never know– they absolutely never spoke of it again. Like ships in the night, the opportunity was gone. Now, well… Now he suspects that Billy did steal something that night. Something that was buried with him when he was lowered into the earth, like a priceless artifact to be taken into the afterlife.

"Why were you always making things so difficult?" He sighs, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Idle fingers of one hand reach down and tug on some of the lush, perfectly manicured grass. Steve's gaze wanders down the rectangular stone until they meet with the earth. His belly starts to turn again with the unpleasant reminder that Billy's body is buried just six measly feet beneath him. Closed casket funeral. He was a fucking mess after all. Morticians aren't miracle workers. Suppose by now though not much is left. Steve swallows down the bile that rises in his throat and he blinks rapidly to dispel another fresh flood of burning tears. Just rot and bones and worms and dust and… death. That's all that's left of him. 

It's not fair. Steve presses his hand against the warm, springy grass, feeling the healthily moist soil on his palm. He curls his fingers into the dirt and imagines digging his way down to him, inch by filthy, tepid inch, unearthing him nail by fucking nail from the coffin until he could be buried down there too. It wasn't even a particularly nice service, really. It was fine, sure, as far as a hick town funeral goes for an outsider. Small. Max cried almost as much as Steve had. 

"You deserved better, California boy." A dry, hollow chuckle. 

Movie star looks and a shotgun attitude only get you so far in Hawkins, Indiana though. Steve sniffles and scrunches his nose a bit as he squints up at the sky, into the sun that's starting to make its descent towards the horizon. He stretches out his legs just enough to grant himself access to his jeans pocket, from which he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Flipping it open, he sticks one between his lips and lights it with the zippo lighter Max had given him from Billy's room when they were cleaning it out. Neil didn't want to keep anything. Steve wishes he had taken more. He takes another cigarette out and doesn't spark it, just sets it on the ground carefully next to the bouquet of flowers he brought. 

Steve smokes in complete quiet. The vapor trail twists and curls through the air and he imagines it a bit to be like the phantom that follows him everywhere he goes. Billy's presence, his memory, his everything. Lingers like the obnoxiously cheap cologne he used to wear. Steve could smell it from down the hall at school. At the time it made him scoff and grimace at the stench, but now the nostalgic craving drives a homing missile of aching through his chest cavity, seizing his heart with a piercing grip. He thinks of their short car ride together to Steve's house after that stupid fucking party. He takes another long, slow drag, embers flaring. His fingers are trembling. They didn't used to do that. 

Grinding the stump of the cigarette butt into the soil and then shoving it back into the packet so as not to litter in a cemetery of all places, Steve finally gets to his feet, wobbly at first from sitting for so long. His lips are dry and cracked and he wets them a bit with his tongue before leaning over and resting a firm hand on the top of the headstone. Sunbaked and almost hot to the touch. His thumb strokes over the shiny granite for the barest hint of a moment. "See you later, Hargrove," he murmurs before withdrawing, hands slipping into the pockets of his Levi's.

As he turns away to make the trek back to the Bimmer parked at the base of the hill, the wind picks up, ruffling through his hair with the promise of cooler weather in the coming weeks. Goosebumps prickle the back of his neck and arms, raising the fine hairs there. Inexplicable. Spectral. Like breath against his nape, ghosting lips on his skin. Steve doesn't look back.  

The breeze stirs the crimson petals of the floral arrangement left at the hilltop grave akin to a familiar voice whispering his name in the middle of a dark, moonless night. The cathartic visage of a beacon, guiding the way back to where Steve's heart was laid to rest, like a porch light at dusk, calling him home. 

A perfect dozen vibrant red roses rustle gently in the temperate afternoon air. And the world goes on.