#and this really is a noble legacy that's been around since the beginning of the series!

[dairy-farmer]

In the same flavor as Talon Tim? And obsessive Dick? You know who ELSE is obsessive? Damian. Who goes absolutely apeshit over Legacies and Mantels etc? Damian.

He hated Tim because he was in the way.

But what if? He TRAGICALLY wasn't in the way? And Damian arrived to his Father tearing the world apart looking for Tim? Distraught? Is thrust into TIM'S role as the emotional pillar of the family?

Well obviously, FINDING Tim would secure everyone's esteem. Tim would CLEARLY need time to recover, be grateful, likely hand over Robin. And? Look at all Timothy has achieved! Supporting his Father in his time of need. A loyal student. Even tried to AVOID bothering his father by creating a false uncle, much to his father's consternation!

Damian begins to look up to him. Join his Father in obsessing. It's how they bond.

What took Tim? Where is he? How was he taken?

Finally Damian find a clue. No time to waste. Goes after it! A Fae court, under Gotham. Timothy, blank eyed at a tea table, young as the day he vanished. Just after Jason returned. A few bruises still were they must have been. Truely, frozen in time.

The Fae chitter and mock.

But Damian is an AL Ghul. And he? Has brought cold Iron.

Soon he is throwing his target over his shoulder and escaping. Chased by furious Fae. He slams the gates Timothy must once have opened in curiosity. Making note to come back and weld them shut. His predecessor hangs limp over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

He takes him to his safe house.

Tries to rouse him. Timothy obeys commands but little else. For a moment... he worries he is too late. But, careful wording of a command get him an answer. Tim is simply deep and away, in his mind. Dreaming.

Wonderful.

That means Damian is going to be forced to learn MAGIC. Nonetheless? He takes care of his predecessor. And it is... not as tedious as he would expect. He could almost liken it to caring for his pets. Precious and reliant. Obedient.

He finds joy in managing Timothy's health. Picking his clothes. Washing his body, rubbing the scents HE chose into his skin. Timothy is improving. Looking to him when he arrives. Responding to motions and not just explicit commands. Listening to music.

Damian wonders... if this is what his Mother felt for his Father. If so, he is beginning to understand her actions, through his youth. His hands linger, longer and longer. Stroke warm skin, just to feel it. Pull Timothy close, into his lap, tucked away from the world that gave him the scars upon his skin.

Kisses his perfect mouth. A prompt that Timothy obeys. Damian knows he should not. But is he not a man? Is he not only mortal? Who could resist perfection? Who would NOT lick that tender skin, just to taste? Run greedy, claiming hands, down that body? Spread those legs and plunder, like a thief, the wonders found there?

Timothy makes such perfect little sounds. More alert then he has been in ages. Gasping and whining, little cries as he takes more then he should. Shuddering and clenching around him. Brief moments of clear eyed clarity in the spasming high of it, before drifting back into the mists of his mind.

And really, Damian has only one choice when he sees THAT.

If he wants to save Timothy, he truely has no CHOICE but to fuck him well. How tragic. Oh well, Damian will just have to make this noble sacrifice for the family. And, of course, take responsibility for his actions. Marry his Father's beloved Student-son.

Their children will be glorious.

-🐼🐼🐼

👀👀👀👀👀👀 this!!!!!! tim having gone missing as a kid and then damian finding him and growing increasingly attracted because of how dependent tim is on him and there's a rush of attraction intertwined into the helpless state that tim is stuck in!!!!

when damian arrives it's not to warm welcomes or open arms. he's not even welcomed with any sort of...attention. damian has never faltered in maintaining his face since reactions were trained out of him but he does feel a steady trickle of...discomfort when he stands by and listens to his father and mother viciously argue in front of him, his father all but demanding his mother take damian and get out of his sight, that he's not interested in this responsibility, that he's not going to entertain whatever little 'game' she's concocted to get his attention now-

and...damian knows his mother is not the kind to burst into emotional reactions. unlike him she has a cool head and is capable of hiding her temper and reining it in. but in the face of damian's father it's like all that falls apart and she's angry and spitting and hissing in low tones at him for his disrespect, for his words, for daring to talk down to her because unlike him she's actually capable of taking care of HER brood.

and her words, so low and biting with an edge of cold mockery just cause something to...shutter in damian's father. and with barely more of a word or exchange it is settled and damian is shepherded away with his father where he is quickly conscripted into his father's service.

damian is no stranger to back breaking work but even he does not acclimate to his father's methods quickly. everything damian does is a failure. not even damian's fighting prowess or training are enough to carry him through his father's service which demands mastery of arts damian...does not excel in. his mother had told him to learn as much as he could from his father and damian had come ready and willing but...it is difficult.

father is...a hazard. he's a hazard to damian, to others. damian knows exactly what happens when partnered on a mission with someone of a great temper or affinity towards violence just for the sake of violence. despite what the public believes, assassins are not mass murderers with a thirst for blood. they are people of a particular skill set that they have refined and polished to the point that they are employed to make use of those skills and talents. they're like artisans, painters, sculptors, and people come to them for their particular talent in the arts.

but...there are subgroups of assassins that insist on making risky maneuvers, doing things in the messiest way possible, disorganized to the point they couldn't find their own ass if they had to.

that's father. father escalates easy targets to the point that they're practically smears on the ground. leaves targets in pain and brutalized that damian often wonders if it would have been more merciful to just have ended them. damian does not revel in violence, he has a job to do and that's all it is. it's nothing any deeper than that. but father...father takes everything personal, behaves as though the actions of another are a personal affront to him.

damian had thought his father's actions were...excessive. but he never stepped in. not until there was a report of a kidnapping of a young boy. and then it's like damian could 'see' the shift that those words had.

it's the first time damian has to step in. often he is relegated to evacuation, tracking, making sure no civilians or police accidentally stumble into where father is conducting one of his interrogations (though beatings seem a more apt description).

damian is aware that there is something...off about his father. reports from his childhood, the words of his mother, the musings of his grandfather...none of it aligns with the man he meets, lives with, and follows. there is something wrong with his father. and damian has known that for awhile but its made more clear when he has to pull his father back and off the 'kidnapper' who turned out to be the stolen child's father who hadn't been satisfied with the custody arrangement done by the court system.

damian knew his father upheld righteous morals, maintained a no-kill order. and damian had been willing to submit to it to meet him. but this man...this man who had been clawing at the skin of a kidnapper like he was trying to lift a mask off his face while demanding to know where 'he' was when damian had already delivered the child into the hands of a nearby patrolling officer...

damian learns quickly when he needs to call in backup for help with one of his father's 'episodes'. grayson arrives to help him, he apologizes to damian, tells him that bruce hasn't had 'one of these' in a while, that they thought that he'd worked through all the triggers for this.

'this' being an incredibly violent reaction to the kidnapping of a child. apparently damian had a predecessor. a boy just a little older than him that had been the pride of his father, his crown jewel and though grayson never says that its clear that's what he means when talking about 'timothy'. about how sweet he was to father, how patient, and understanding, and how he was like a little ball of clay that had perfectly molded itself to suit his father's needs.

damian understands the pride of having a 'perfect' apprentice. often times teachers in the league had favorites they would show extra attention to in hopes of molding them to be their legacy. damian had never been one of those such favored students but he'd hoped with his father he'd...

father does not take the disappearance of his student well. he leaves gotham often, at the drop of a hat for the slightest lead that might take him to his missing student. it's why grayson is present in gotham so frequently, often patrolling with damian on the many nights his father is out and gone.

grayson confides in him that he fears the worst for timothy, ot that he'd ever tell father that. but...grayson says he knows that tim would have found a way to contact them if he were...alive.

damian does not understand the deep...devotion and loyalty his father displays. he tries to. he probes, asks questions and while he is initially rebuffed- it is the only thing father can speak about with some shred of calmness, the only thing that turns him into the man that resembles the legends damian had been fed.

'tim would do the same for me'. is eventually what damian's father would settle on. it's a quiet phrase said while damian is trying to sweep the shards of a smashed alcohol glass. it's said with such thick conviction that damian believes him. and learns that timothy had been one thing above all else. loyal.

timothy is the one thing damian and his father can talk about. the only thing damian can use to gain recognition, attention. others have resigned themselves to timothy's death. both pennyworth and grayson grow quiet and mournful at his mention. as the years pass the only one who keeps looking and searching is father.

and damian, having spent years with his father, serving as his robin grows... more than fond at timothy.

there's a desire in damian. to see, to feel what his father felt. to gain the approval of timothy and after all his years away surely he is no longer suited to the mantle and would desire to see damian as his successor with all the good damian has done.

father sometimes visits the site of timothy's disappearance, the last place he was spotted before never being seen again. damian has seen the surveillance camera still so many times its burned into his memory. timothy drake on a class field trip with classmates to a large, outdoor sculpture art exhibit in central jersey. damian had seen the 'parent copy' of the permission slip a million times, it was wrinkled and delicate from years of being carried around in his father's wallet. a flash of pain crossed his father's expression every time he looked at it, the little slip with his signature that had allowed timothy to go to the last place he was seen.

on the morning of his disappearance timothy had left the manor in a red crew neck, new blue sneakers, wide leg jeans, and a white baseball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. he'd eaten a blueberry muffin that had left his lips stained a light purple for breakfast. and all he'd carried with him was a small sun protection stick (spf30), his copy of the keys to the manor, his handheld digital camera, and four individual twenty dollar bills for lunch and souvenirs that damian's father had given him (timothy had been planning to buy postcards for his collection). he'd been dropped off in front of the school by alfred at precisely 7:28, two minutes earlier than the permission slip had told him to be there. the bus had been set to depart at 7:45 but a few late students had made them hold the departure until 7:57. at 10:11 the bus had arrived at its destination, timothy wandered the sculpture grounds with his tour group until 11:45 when they took a break for lunch. timothy was seen on camera eating at the sculpture grounds restaurant with one boy and two girls in his group. he ordered the tuscan kale salad with chicken and no beets. he'd also ordered a small side dish of cut up green grapes, which wasn't on the menu, that he'd dumped into an empty to-go coffee cup. it was father's belief that timothy intended to feed the fruit to the ducks that populated the various ponds and lake scattered throughout the sculpture grounds despite the 'no feeding' signs. the last sight of timothy was him leaving the scope of the restaurant security cameras, staring down at the printed map of the grounds from the visitor's center.

following lunch the school had apparently allowed students to go off on their own to explore. something that hadn't been disclosed in the permission slip which father's lawyers had viciously used in their lawsuit against the school, holding them in-part responsible for timothy's disappearance.

damian studied timothy's case, every inch of it, with a fine toothed comb. he'd read the reports from the grounds, from the school, the reports from the divers that had been hired to search the lake because the school had tried to offer the theory that perhaps timothy slipped in and drowned though that was more an attempt to shift blame to the sculpture grounds. in the end none of it amounted to anything. the sculpture grounds were close to a rail station, a highway, were surrounded by woods, and close to a parking lot where the school bus of two other schools and their students as well as dozens of other visitor's cars were parked.. a million ways timothy could've been taken. and with no one accompanying him the lack of witnesses would have made the abduction even easier.

damian goes to the grounds whenever he can, often with his father on the day timothy disappeared because of some...blind hope from father that maybe he'll see something he missed the first hundred times he scoured the grounds. damian was not quite the same detective and so his visits are more...melancholy, trying to imagine timothy beside him, trying to think of where his mind was, where he went after he left that restaurant. damian is holding a paper cup of warm tea in his hands as walks, passing by the lake timothy likely stopped to sprinkle grapes into for the local wildlife, eyes catching on the light of the restaurant timothy had his last meal in, catching the eye of a waiter and...damian stops.

stops and recalls something father had told him about timothy. about how timothy preferred a low civilian profile, often being more agreeable, quiet, and obedient at school than he was as robin. and damian imagined that boy. small and nervous and so reluctant to question authority. and he thinks about how such a boy would never dare try to blatently break the rules in front of a place where so many workers and teachers having lunch might see and scold him. and then damian recalls the security footage of timothy walking away with his little cup of grapes and the map open in front of him...

damian rushes to open the map on his phone. and he thinks father has covered every stretch of the grounds looking for something, anything. its been years so if there was something it was long gone. but damian clings onto his theory with everything he has. and he turns his body in the direction timothy had been facing and searches for the body of water closest to him on the map. he finds it. a part of the grounds further away from the main grounds, across the parking lot to a quiet isolated part of the park timothy no doubt chose to be able to peacefully break the rules. and damian goes, steps slow and heavy, heart beating fast and hard in his ribcage.

the pond is small but reflective like a mirror. there's a single sculpture nearby nearly 30 feet tall and made of aluminum depicting women dancing naked and carelessly in a circle while holding hands. there is a small family of ducks swimming in a circle and making ripples appear in the water. damian is a fan of art and for a moment is drawn in by the fluidity of such rigid matierial. he walks around it in oervation, taking it from different angles. and his thinks thats likely what timothy did as well. entranced by the sight he would've held up his camera, trying to capture it in the best light, find the best angle. he would've walked circles around the sculpture trying to get the perfect picture. and damian does the same. but there is no revelation. no lightbulb moment.

trying to see through timothy's eyes can only take him so far. and then he remembers something else. timothy's eyes. damian has grown since he arrived. he's freshly 18 and nearing todd's height much to grayson's great chagrin. but timothy...timothy had been small. shorter. and his eye level would have...damian bends his knees slightly, lowering himself, trying to see, trying to see...

the sculptures look taller from this height, the shadows cast on their aluminum faces look sharper, harder, more pointed. they don't look carefree with their loose stances and thrown back heads...they look...tired. exhausted. like they're been dancing for ages and can barely keep themselves standing. damian stares. they have no eyes, no mouth, just smooth aluminum metal for faces, but the way their heads are tilted and angled, its like they're...pointing. damian imagines tim seeing the same...thinking the same. his little eyes following the direction and landing on a barely visible path that feeds into the woods. a path covered in leaves from the trees, a path not on the map, a path that when walked its like the sun has been sucked away. damian feels like its gone from day to night in an instant as he walks, following the path. his steps are slow and careful but the crunching of leaves under his foot make him feel like a deer that has heard the snapping of a branch. damian finds a heavy iron gate at the end of the path. it's rusted and brittle in some parts, and the large padlock keeping it closed is open and letting the gate lie open, just a crack. the opening is small, just barely enough for a child to slip through and damian has to suck in to get through, some deep animal part of his brain telling him it would be a VERY bad idea to open the gate further, letting it make a sound as it creeps open and alerting...something of his presence.

damian does not deal with magic. he is...wary of the arts given the users his grandfather had employed. it is not fear, he does not fear them. it's the unknown of what they could do, how they could compel. perhaps part of damian, the part that was a child had feared them once. and perhaps that is why he carried around a small lump of cold iron no bigger than his thumbnail. and perhaps it is good he did that as damian freezes at the sight in front of him. at the small figure seated at a wooden table littered with fine fruits and cheeses, the smell of spiced meats wafting in his nose, crusty, dark loaves of bread, jars of fragrant sweet jam and tall, crystal pots of teas.

damian's heart is in his throat as he stares at the soft, youthful face of a young timothy drake. damian feeling cold, shots of fear stabbing into his heart at seeing timothy's blueberry stained lips obediently drink at a cup of tea offered to him by...something. damian knows of fae, has heard of them. never encountered them though. but he knows about them, knows about how vicious and dangerous they are. when constantine had talked about them once there'd been a white, sickly look on his face. they were bad news. bad news. best to avoid at all costs and heavens help you if you caught their attention.

superboy who'd beat avidly listening had tried probing further, asking about their looks. and constantine had said they looked different for everyone. some people saw a meadow with cherubs, others little devils with horns in a burning hell pit, some saw imps with wings but damian...damian saw...balls of light attached to bodies. slender, naked bodies lacking genitalia and balls of light for heads the size of his palm that danced in circles, sang, cheered, cooed. and they were covering timothy like a colony of ants.

some were in his hair, braiding and playing with it, others tugging on his clothes and hands, nuzzling him and making sweet little sounds with voices like bells. some were cutting slices of bread and spreading jam on them, presenting them to timothy on plates as he obediently ate and drank and damian just felt the pit in his stomach grow bigger as he stared at the sight. he didn't know the consequences of accepting hospitality from fae but he knew it was bad.

at the very least timothy wasn't dead. if they hadn't been clearly charmed by him its very likely they would have killed, eaten, or enslaved timothy. from what damian could see they were just...playing with him.

timothy was alive...alive and unchanged by time and in the company of fae but alive. and damian knows the wise move is to turn around and call for backup, to summon a magic user. but the thought of outsiders helping to retrieve timothy, the thought of anyone handling timothy aside from damian...

it's stupid, its reckless, it's dangerous. damian could lose his life if he does it wrong. but he does it anyway.

the cold iron is just a theory, damian has nothing to confirm that it works. its just childhood hope and belief it will protect him and maybe that's what makes it work more than the lump of metal itself.

the fae scatter, shrieking, angry and pained as damian throws it at where they're concentrated around timothy to get them to break away from him, he picks timothy up and starts sprinting back the way he came.

damian can not see them when his back is turned. but he can feel it as they shift to something else. something angry, something hungry that chases him, nips at his heels, scratches at the exposed skin on the back of his neck, rips at his clothes. if he were anyone else he would have been caught, if damian had not trained in distance running while carrying half his weight he would have failed. but damian reaches that rusted iron gate, rips it open and throws it closed behind him just as hands, human hands with too many fingers and too pale to have blood running through the veins reach through the slots of the gate and attempt to pull him back. damian rips himself away and keeps running, arms clenched tightly around timothy as he takes hard fast gasps of air while sprinting down the path and back into the light.

damian rips past those aluminum statues whose sad faces are looking toward him, startling a family of ducks as he keeps running. damian's heart is pumping out of his chest and he swears he's never felt more terrified. his steps hit the ground hard, kicking up dirt behind him, his breathing audible to his own ears over the thumping beat of his heart. even with nothing behind him he still feels like he's being chased by some invisible force. damian keeps running, keeps going until he reaches the car and gently lowers a blank faced timothy onto the back seat. his skin is cold but he's breathing. damian's senses and instinct for danger don't calm until he's on the road more than halfway back to gotham. his heart doesn't start beating normally until he's crossing the bridge into gotham because here he is safe, this is his domain and not even the fae can change that. he's lucky a highway patrol officer hadn't pulled him over for speeding on the highway and weaving between traffic to put some distance between himself and...whatever was going on on those cursed grounds. grounds he would never set foot on again, let constantine, zatanna, dr. fate or the others deal with whatever nest or infestation is occurring there.

damian does not take timothy directly home. he doesn't feel...safe. ready. so much has happened in one day and damian just...isn't ready. and he wants to look. wants to have to be able to take the time to see and examine timothy because he knows the moment he hands him to father that he will never leave him alone again. father, grayson, pennyworth and todd have all had their moments and time with timothy- now it is damian's turn.

damian finds a peace in examining timothy. in drawing blood, in buying comfortable clothing to change him into, in inspecting every bit of him including the pink little cunt that comes as a surprise to damian when he disrobes him for a bath. timothy is quiet and no amount of handling manages to get out a reaction. damian would think him dead if not for the rise and fall of his chest and the way he...obeys damian's commands. he eats and drinks what damian tells him to, lies down when told, rests and sleeps...but does not respond. does not reply even when damian quests for an answer.

it makes damian...concerned. timothy had been so highly valued by his father and he feels a sort of...responsibility to do his best to help him. or maybe that was just an excuse he used to hoard timothy for a little while longer. damian gets used to it. caring for timothy, nursing him back to health, combing his pretty hair, dressing him in soft wools and cottons, pressing foods for the gentle palate he'd had to his mouth, watching him sleep.

its days and then weeks and damian grows..comfortable and possessive. he has timothy sit on his lap, he strokes timothy's hair, he holds timothy close while they sleep. and slowly...timothy responds, damian knows he does. he can feel timothy arching into damian's hand cupping his cheek and kisses to his head. there's a softness in timothy's eyes when damian speaks softly and sweetly to him.

and so damian keeps going, keeps helping, keeps touching, keeps showing timothy affection and care. and eventually damian starts letting his hands stray, wander. his kisses migrate from a forehead to the cheeks to the sweet, soft mouth of timothy.

during baths damian's hands are soft and exploratory, gently cupping and squeezing timothy's developing breasts and tenderly floating over his little cunt where damian's fingertips barely brush the area. but eventually damian gets braver, and he marvels at the fleshy pink of timothy's insides as he gently uses two fingers to spread open the lips and gaze at timothy's most precious area. damian swirls fingers, barely rubbing and only softly darting inside. he uses conditioner that is sitting in timothy's hair to make it softer to ease the slide of one of his fingers as it presses in until it hits damian's knuckles.

damian is gentle, careful. timothy gets wetter and looser the more damian plays with his cunt. typically damian would change timothy into pajamas following his bath but damian starts opting to leave him naked, toweling him dry and lying him on the bed while damian gently kisses his jaw and breast while pumping fingers into him.

damian does not fuck timothy immediately. only when timothy's body trembles and he makes soft gasping and whining sounds while seizing tightly around damian's fingers that he thinks about it. that he experimentally presses his cock to the softness between timothy's legs, rubbing the head between puffy lips and painting himself with sticky wetness, mashing the head against a little clit that damian always makes sure to show care to. damian is gentle fucking timothy, aware of his small body and the fact that his adult cock is much too big for such a small hole. but damian persists and pretty soon he is pressed flush to timothy, their pelvises joined as damian kisses the entrance to timothy's little womb. damian fucks noises out of his brother, moans, whines, the sight of little furrowed brows, opening mouths, and eyes that have the hint of awareness just before they roll back while wrapping tightly around damian's waist to keep him and his jolting cock inside him. timothy's insides are red, almost bruised while dripping thick globs of damian's release onto the sheets. damian kisses timothy's clit and puffy cunt with apology before slotting his cock back against the fucked open hole and pumping timothy full again until crystal tears fill timothy's eyes while he squirms with pleasure and makes desperate, sweet noises that damian kisses out of him while slamming their hips together hard enough to knock the headboard against the wall.

damian's fingers dig into timothy's soft thighs hard enough to bruise as he grunts and borderline growls while pumping his little brother full of his seed. damian has loved timothy for years and he knows the family will not understand when he presents timothy to them and they learn everything. they may even be furious at damian for what he has done. but that will not matter because damian will have done what was necessary for timothy's sake. besides, damian has full intentions of taking responsibility. he's no philanderer, he will remain loyal to timothy whether he remains in this state or not and he will be careful to take wonderful care of whatever children result from their coupling.

it's the least damian could do.

[wataksampingan]

Ch 87 is out on Webtoon Fast Pass and uh. Words.

(I need a spoiler warning banner gif or something. Anyway, spoilers galore)

As usual I have nothing that makes coherent sense or contains proper punctuation.

All I got is blubbering over how humble these two leads are and how much they doubt themselves in their pain and how much good they still do in spite of it and how many more chapters to go (even beyond That One Chapter I lost sleep over) before they fully realise how well they suit each other-

....okay before Perry realises how well they suit each other.

Also, I am dying to know her stepmother's deal. Clearly Count Zahardt wasn't perfect, but saying shit like "only the faint-hearted follow illusions"* is RICH coming from her when she attempted to achieve her goals (whatever those are) by poisoning her husband (an extremely untenable - thus illusory - method). In fact, all of Perry's childhood memories of her so far have been laced with some sort of strange edge, as if this woman has resented Perry from the beginning. I know money is a huge motive but is that the only driving force behind such hatred?

So what was it really? Jealousy over the previous Countess Zahardt? Resentment against Perry's father for his (according to her) overzealous charity and her greed for more? All of the above?

Perry sure got the brunt of it, considering this one single memory brings up doubts like:

1. If the countdom grew poorer because my father just kept helping others, then that means I could be the cause of the Lapileons' downfall too since they have been helping me constantly

2. Aren't I then also neglecting those around me, like my own countdom and my uncle? Also doesn't that mean just being here instantly brings more trouble to a place that already contends with so many other problems? Even Gloria doesn't live in the manor so as not to overburden their staff and supply run

3. Was my poor father such a fool as my stepmother said? Was the man I loved best in the world really so unworthy?

4. I'm also a fool to 'chase an illusion', to think that I could ever be capable enough to continue my parents' work and legacy when I can barely do anything on my own.

In Perry's mind, it doesn't matter how quickly she learned to help with the Lapileons' household paperwork, how much she's done to bring Celphi out from his shell and how well she manages herself in noble social circles, how she gave Saoirse reason to believe in others again, how she proved to Gloria that she was quick and justified at pointing out flaws in the staffing system of the family, how she essentially rescued Islette and probably countless others from Gen - how she constantly gives Theo reasons to live, rather than just exist.

All of that pales in comparison to watching Theo succeed at seemingly Everything, while she... doesn't. That perfectionist viewpoint that she arguably received from her stepmother makes her so vulnerable to this self doubt.

But now he's actually, and very rationally, putting things into perspective, not just to make her feel better but because it's all true. It's not his talent and discipline alone that sustains the Lapileon estate. He too has received much help, and crucially, while his grandfather was a complete monster, his grandmother, uncle and siblings weren't. Comparatively, Perry only has one trustworthy uncle and no such influence/power/wealth as the Lapileons. Implicitly, to have come this far on her own speaks volumes of her strength and courage (not that she would even notice it herself)

In any case, now not only is Theo capable and successful, he's proven himself humble (humble!), and clearly grateful for her by actually vocalising it.

I love this conversation so much because Theo is gentle without being patronising, and reasonable enough that Perry can't help but see the logic. He also seems to have learned from his previous fit of anger that this woman needs coaxing. She has trust issues as numerous as his own, so he can't brute force his way into her confidence.

But they are so similar, it's wonderful to see him immediately on the same page, immediately recognising her doubts because he's probably had similar thoughts growing up. He was made grand duke after his older brother died and sister incapacitated by grief. He too must live up to a legacy left behind by people he respects and loves. There are huge shoes to fill for him too.

Also:

You did this to yourself Pereshati LMAO

(forever laughing at how he was so focused on pouring out his true feelings to her that he went on auto pilot and won)

Oh oh, one more unrelated thing to yell fruitlessly into the ether:

ENGLISH BOOK PUBLICATION WHEN, WEBTOON?? KOREAN VOL. 3 IS ALREADY DUE ON THE 27TH!!

* I forgot this was a flashback to ep 31!!

...Lillian is still incredibly malicious and suspicious!!

[dimdiamond]

Bagginshield fic list

Yeah, I decided to make one too because there are enough to cause me headaches and I'd like to have them somewhere organized. Please look at the tags before reading them!

Fix-it fics

Desperate magic by BeautifulFiction: Bilbo is left to tend Thorin as he hovers on the brink of death after the Battle of the Five Armies. Is love enough to save Erebor's king, or is this the last farewell?

Lay your troubles down by Avelera: An extended version of "the acorn scene." Bilbo sees his chance to snap Thorin out of his madness, and takes it.

The Riven Crown by BeautifulFiction: The aftermath of war is no laughing matter. Those who died must be honoured, those who are wounded must be healed, and those who remain need food and clothing, peace and sanctuary. With Thorin's life hanging in the balance, it is up to Bilbo and the rest of the Company to rule the rag-tag remnants of Erebor in his place. Then there is the matter of the gold... Can Bilbo save both king and kingdom, or is Erebor destined to fall deeper into ruin?

The Color of Possibility by lindoreda: When Bilbo puts himself between Thorin and Azog's blade, his mithril shirt protecting them both, it isn't long before some dwarves whisper that 'Oakenshield' might not be the best epithet for their king anymore. But for Bilbo, barred from Thorin's sight since the battle, this new epithet only adds to the sting. Spending his days caring for the recovering princes, Bilbo wonders how much more of this he can take, not suspecting his place at the center of a silent divide in the company.

Homesick by Margo_Kim: Five years after they've reclaimed Erebor, Thorin is sick of home, Bilbo is just sick, and neither is handling the situation ideally.

The Road Delivered Us Home by keelywolfe: In the years since Bilbo left Erebor, he has lost his respectability, gained a nephew, and gotten on with life at Bag End. He'd left aside adventure for the comforts and peace of his little Hobbit hole, and for the love of a child who needed him. Though perhaps, adventures can yet find him.

Notices in the Paper by YamBits: Bilbo returns to the Shire after his adventure, newly married, and newly homeless, after his two year absence allowed the Sackville-Bagginses to obtain Bag End. Bilbo and Thorin go to the Tooks for help, and find newly orphaned Frodo Baggins, also looking for a home.

A Royal Guardianship by ladyoakenshields: When Bilbo and Thorin return to the Shire for a sabbatical during Yuletide, they find a reason to retire the throne in Erebor sooner than expected.

The Shire's gems by awkwarng3: Thorin, Bilbo, and Frodo move to the Shire after raising Frodo in Erebor, and Frodo makes a friend.

Time travel fix-it fics

An expected journey by MarieJacquelyn: For years Bilbo has written about his adventures and told stories about his dealings with dwarves and dragons. To most it seemed like fanciful nonsense but to Bilbo it was all very real. A weight followed him home from his travels, one called regret. Now in his final moments Bilbo has a choice to make – go quietly into death’s embrace or go back again and face all the fear and pain for the chance to make things right? Of course, change is a fickle thing and not everything can be done again as Bilbo is about to find out. In the end, it may not only be salvation that he’s fighting for.

Bilbo Baggins, warrior of the Valar by Pallalalo: Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “And you’ve come to the Shire to look for this someone? My, Gandalf, I wonder if you know Hobbits at all. They would tell you that adventures are nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. That they would make you late for dinner.” Bilbo recalled his own words perfectly. It had been something he and Gandalf had looked back on with bittersweet laughter. This Gandalf however noticed his exact words. “Would they now? And what about you, mhm? What would you tell me about adventures?” #The Valar send Bilbo back in time, to the day where Gandalf asks him to join in an adventure. After living a lifetime of regret and suffering, he vows to change things for the better. For Thorin. For Frodo. But will he succeed?

I'll die to care for you by thehufflepuffhobbit: His gaze landed on Mahal's eyes once more. "You did your best, Thorin." It was tempting to look away; he wanted to deny that with everything he had. It certainly didn't feel as though falling into Gold Sickness and then dying was doing his best. Mahal smirked, as though he knew Thorin's desire to contradict him, and pinched his cheek before walking over to a table. "Aye, I didn't think you would believe me. I'm not lying, it certainly could have gone better. More according to my plan, but I know you really did try." "Your plan?" He didn't know if he should ask, really. Knowing that his Maker had set a course for him, he didn't want to think about the ways he had done everything wrong. There were too many examples of mistakes in his long life, too many opportunities that he had missed that had probably been planned for him from the beginning. Or:Mahal feels like Thorin fucked up his legacy and gives him a do over.

Darker times ahead by Reach4theSky: Bilbo is sailing to the Undying Lands but wary of letting go of the guilt that has been with him for many decade. His most sincerest wish is to go back and change what was done. Before reaching the lands of peace and healing, he dies aboard the ship and finds that his wish is being granted, not because he is the one to wish it but because this is the dwarves last chance to escape a fate of eternal waiting. He finds that not only is he going to be sent back to his younger body, but so is the entire Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Time is a fickle thing and not all the members have their memories returned to them at the same time. The journey on becomes interesting as the dwarves slowly remember and fight for themselves and their kin, yet new hurdles are thrown at them when they realize that more people remember than expected...

Of an arcane binding by Salvia_G: An inexplicable magic ties Bilbo Baggins, hobbit of the Shire, to Thorin, dwarven prince of Erebor.

Legends by DomesticGoddess: The fellowship has set out on its noble quest to destroy the ring and put an end to the threat that is Sauron! Just set out really, barely left the gates of Imladris, but things are going smoothly enough so far. That is until the two most unlikely party crashers fall upon their little fellowship. Uncle Bilbo and the Legendary Thorin Oakenshield?! Frodo just wants to know what's going on but the two of them won't stop hollering at each other long enough for anyone to get a word in edgewise. Suddenly, their little group is joined by Frodo's two biggest heroes and he discovers there was a lot more to Uncle Bilbo's stories than he realized.

Beside myself by bliboboggins: "What are you doing? Just who do you think you are?" Startled, Bilbo turned around slowly. And there, in a familiar patchwork dressing gown, brandishing a fire poker wildly about, was... Bilbo.

Erebor never fell au fics

The hearth doesn't make the home by Moonrose91: For things Bilbo could not change, he was condemned to a life of isolation, with the belief that none could love him. And then a Dwarf came to Hobbiton.

Clarity of vision by Mithen: In a Middle-Earth where Erebor never fell, a shadow remains in the heart of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo Baggins finds himself drawn reluctantly into a quest that will lead him across the continent--from Bree to Lake Evendim to the icy North and beyond--with a party of five dwarves searching for an artifact that will cure the ailing King Thrór.

Ghivashel by mdseiran: The last thing Bilbo expects when he stays up late one night is company. The strange dwarf and his companion crash into his life and prove unexpected saviours. But the dwarf seems to think he will be joining them on their travels, and Bilbo has no such intentions.

The Song of My Heart by DomesticGoddess: After a failed attempt of trying to carve out a new home in the Blue Mountains for his people, Thorin finds himself beseeching the Hobbit Thain and his council for a place for his people in their bountiful land. An agreement is struck and plans in the works for integrating his people into their land. The only condition being an arranged marriage between himself and one of their family heads. A small price to pay to see his people safe and well fed. Unfortunately, he’s to marry the most disagreeable hobbit in all the Shire who also seems to hold a personal grudge against him. If only he could figure out why his new betrothed hates him so much.

Oak and Mistletoe by HildyJ: After a life dominated by a strange form of sickness, Thorin is sent to the Shire to seek a cure only Bilbo Baggins can offer.

Karkûn shukula - A Cinderella AU by harrypanther: When the Prince of the Shire visits the Kingdom of Erebor, there is great excitement. There are hopes he will choose to marry one of the Royal Family, cementing an alliance that would secure food supplies for the dwarven Kingdom and gain new allies. All eligible dwarves are expected to attend a series of Balls. Unknown to the guests, there is a third royal child, manoeuvred out by his ambitious stepmother, for whom this may be his last chance of restoring his fortunes and escaping his fate…

Alone this Yuletide by Emsiecat: 'Alone this Yuletide? Irritated with prying and nosey family members? I am an out of work blacksmith currently trying to make my way by any means necessary that does not involve my resorting to thievery (prisons are most uncomfortable, I've unfortunate first hand experience). However, if you would like me to be your strictly platonic companion for any social function, but have me pretend that we are in a serious courtship, so as to torment your family and ward off unwanted suitors then I am more than obliging...' After becoming increasingly irritated by overtures of romance from various Shire residents following the death of his mother four years ago, Bilbo is more than ready to resort to desperate measures. That is, up to and including pretending to be in a serious relationship with a certain surly blacksmith currently inhabiting the Bindbale Woods. It's a good idea after all; all they have to do is pretend to be in love over the Yuletide period and Bilbo's family and suitors will surely leave him alone after that. It's perfect! And nothing can possibly go wrong, right? Certainly nothing as preposterous as falling for one another for real...

Modern au fics

Nothing gold can stay by perkynurples: Bilbo Baggins led a rather peaceful life, thank you very much, until an old acquaintance decided to turn it upside down, and he found himself agreeing to take a job that’s… let’s say not exactly up his alley, and might eventually cost him a little more than his treasured cozy lifestyle. Who would have thought tutoring a slightly menacing monarch’s more than slightly overbearing nephew could prove to be such an adventure?

Love-In-Idleness by perkynurples: Taking Bilbo Baggins, a successful movie actor who is only just getting used to the perks and intricacies of becoming A Face People Want To See, and putting him together with Thorin Oakenshield, with his very traditional (read: slightly backwards) ideas about what constitutes Real Art and Real Talent, might very well be viewed as just some clothead’s idea of a joke. But there are jokes, and then there are carefully calculated risks the size of controversial reproductions of classic Shakespearean plays - for Bilbo, it is the chance of a lifetime to prove himself to all those who have ever deemed him too one-dimensional to even attempt stage, while Thorin has the opportunity to get out of the rut that’s been hindering his career for so long now, and shine in a role worthy of his talent once again. That is if the two learn how to share the same space for more than ten minutes without wanting to tear each other’s hair out. The course of true love never did run smooth, after all…

Candid by northerntrash: Thorin wasn't entirely sure why there was a six-foot candid photograph of him hanging in this exhibition, but he was going to wring the neck of whoever had put it there. In which Bilbo is a photographer, Thorin an accidental model, and Gandalf just likes to make trouble for everyone.

How the west was won and where it got us by stickman: Bilbo is a harried 1st year British literature Ph.D. (early 20th century fiction) who happens to have an interest in spatial narrative structures, a lack of time-management skills, and a tiny apartment with a lot of books and very little furniture. He’s stressed, always, and doesn't quite know where he belongs. He tells himself that really, this is, in fact, what he wants to be doing. But sometimes, as much as he loves books, he gets an urge to do something with his hands. Thorin is a disgruntled M.Arch. 1 in his last year who can’t be arsed to shave and frightens his students, and, frankly, his profs, but his work is top-notch so no one can really say much. They can, however, bully him into running a hands-on design workshop on Saturday mornings, which is complete crap, because he’s used to drinking his Friday nights into oblivion so showing up at Milstein at 7:45 the next morning and trying to teach in a room of wall-to-wall windows as the sun rises is not at the top of his list. Besides, no one ever shows up. Except one morning, someone does. [graduate school AU]

Butterfly effect by eyra: Yoga wasn’t for him. Yoga was for interesting people. Luminous people; people who took gap years and spoke a foreign language. People who ate lentils and burned incense and had fantastic, colourful friends with fantastic, colourful lives full of travel and silent retreats and those baggy trousers with elephants on them. Yoga was decidedly not for people like Bilbo, who wore cardigans and ate beans on toast and whose linguistic capabilities stretched only as far as a rusty Spanish A-Level. Just your regular story of boy meets yoga instructor.

Remover of the obstacles by MistakenMagic: "Dis often chided her older brother for being a misanthropist. She did it so often it had become a term of endearment. It was true that Thorin struggled with people; he struggled to form and maintain relationships. Dr. Grey had diagnosed him with this and Thorin hadn’t the heart to tell him this wasn’t a symptom of his PTSD, it was a symptom of his personality. He exercised a sense of apathy with almost everyone he met… But Bilbo was different. Thorin actually found himself wanting to know more about him."

Color outside the lines by andquitefrankly: Kindergarten has just gotten significantly better. Just ask Thorin, who's got the biggest crush on the new kid in class, Bilbo Baggins. With the help of his friends, Thorin knows that he can take back the swings from the 1st graders, show up the K-1 class in the school pageant, and win the heart of one curly haired boy. Yup. Kindergarten is going to be a year to remember.

Bran' New Suit by pibroch (littleblackdog): Andrew's description had been sufficient to recognize him— a riot of honey brown curls, short in stature, a well-favoured face with expressive features— but it hadn't quite been enough to prepare Tom for the sharp, almost painful tug in his gut at the sight of the man. They had never met before, to the best of Tom's recollection, but there was something eerily and inexplicably familiar about him all the same.

Different species au fics

I've grown a hedge around my heart by pibroch (littleblackdog): "Thorin was the essence of so many Buckland oddities, distilled into one misfortunate young hobbit, much to his infinite embarrassment. Built like a stork, his father had said once, in an example of Thrain Brandybuck’s usual tactless humour. All beak and legs." Thorin Brandybuck, just recently come of age, still lives in his family’s smial in Buckland, with his parents and two younger siblings. Thorin is an odd duck amongst his relations and neighbours-- unsociable, grumpy, shy, and awkward. And beyond that, he looks rather strange even for a Bucklander, strongly favouring the thick, dark haired build of his Stoorish blood. It defies all sense and reason why Bilbo Baggins, an exemplar of all the respectable traits Thorin lacked, would ever desire a friendship with him. Bilbo, as Thorin discovers, is not always as sensible as he appears.

In which the dwarves are satyrs for reasons by HiddenKitty What the title says basically.

Bride of the demon king by DomesticGoddess: Thorin is King of the demons, a beast-like race feared by humans. Ever since the demons and humans formed a truce years ago, the humans have sent a young human every year as a tribute to the King of demons. Thorin is tired of having to deal with the tribute that has long since lost its meaning. The only tribute he'd be interested in is the boy he met fifteen years ago on the border of the demon and human realms. Despite his fantasies, Thorin knows the chances of ever seeing the boy again are slim to none, until they're not.

Lost He Wandered Under Leaves by serenbach: Thorin son of Thrain is a struggling blacksmith descended from a fallen line of kings. In an attempt to provide for his family over the winter, he reluctantly accepts an impossible sounding task - to hunt down an enchanted deer that lives in the Old Forest that borders the Shire, and make armour and weapons from its hide and antlers. He never expected to succeed. And he certainly never expected what he found to change his life so completely.

A Dryad's Tale by Bilbo Baggins by Moongazer12: Bilbo is a dryad (think little sibling to ents). Long ago a curse was placed upon him from destroying one of the rings of power. Whenever he touches someone with his bare skin he will make them insane. But despite this, he and Gandalf have gone on many adventures to help protect Middle Earth (What was the point to destroying the ring if something else destroyed it instead?) Gandalf has called on him once again to help on a quest, Bilbo just hopes that they read his amendments to the contract.

The quest but with a twist au fics

King, come at the red morning by Tawabids: Bilbo has heard fairytales of the lost prince of the dwarves, Thorin son of Thrain, who disappeared the day Smaug attacked the Lonely Mountain. But he does not believe in fairytales until he comes across the dwarf sleeping in the depths of Erebor, and kisses him back to life. Now Thorin - a hundred and fifty years out of his time - has to confront a world in which his city is empty, his people scattered, his baby brother Frerin is king, two nephews he's never met are missing in action, and a war is brewing right on his doorstep. And as if that wasn't complicated enough he's trapped in the body of an old man and falling stupidly in love with a gossipy, grudging little hobbit.

When the sun rises by Harry1981: Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was not a very respectable Hobbit. No respectable Hobbit had a sword and crossbow hanging in their home, nor did they have Dwarves as family. But Bilbo Baggins did, and all of Shire knew of his husband, blacksmith Thorin Oakenshield. When Bilbo comes home to find his Husband earlier than expected, he learns of a quest to reclaim Erebor. It is a death mission. Bilbo knows that Dwarves are stubborn creatures, and none more than Thorin himself. But nobody said that Bilbo himself was any less stubborn. So he will follow his dearest husband across all of Middle Earth, through plains and mountains and forests, all while hiding the true nature of their relationship (Dwarven politics never helped anyone), brushing off some old wounds (and getting new ones) and finding out new things about the dwarf Bilbo calls husband (and his extended family). Nobody ever said love was easy, after all.

Small, but fierce by DomesticGoddess: As a result of a magical mishap during the trip to the lonely mountain, Bilbo is reverted to a wee little hobbitling. Only in body, of course. His adult mind is still very aware of the indignity of it all (seriously! He doesn't need to be coddled, carried, and fed like a child). It turns out, dwarves love children and there is nothing cuter than Hobbit children. Bilbo soon realizes that he can get away with just about anything in his babyish form and starts taking full advantage of it. Even the grumpy brooding king can't deny the angelic little creature anything he desires (and Bilbo's going to milk that for all it's worth).

Your song like a home in my heart by Nennvial: In Middle Earth, all creatures have a soulmate. Not all have some, but if they do, it is a bond nothing can break, not even death. The more famous story of such a bound was the story of Bren and Luthien, who even defied detath. The way someone can find out that the other is one’s soulmate is through song: when they meet and hear the voice of the other, a song sings in their heart, which feels like home and makes them complete. They may refuse it if they wish to do so, but they hence risk a life of bitter looniness. Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins are soulmates, but they must admit it to themselves throughout their journey to Erebor.

To Dungeons Deep (And Caverns Old) by KingUndertheMountain: Bilbo Baggins was not your average hobbit. Of course, he had the wonderfully groomed and well-taken-care-of hairy feet like every other one of his race, yes, but he was not like other hobbits. He was cursed. Or, as the witch who gave him the enchantment put it, was “gifted”. She had given him the “gift” of obedience – whenever there was a direct command given to him, for example “cook a large meal” or “take a walk”, he could not disobey. Not without a lot of pain and eventual submission.

Chocolate candy one-shots

The world is sleeping (my world is you) by katheneverwrites (mandolinearts): I asked Persephone, “How could you grow to love him? He took you from flowers to a kingdom where not a single living thing can grow.” Persephone smiled, “My darling, every flower on your earth withers. What Hades gave me was a crown made for the immortal flowers in my bones.” - Nikita Gill ---“What do you mean, my friend?” There is a line of thought that surfaces in Gandalf’s mind, but he drowns it before it can take root. Surely not. But Bilbo’s chuckle sets him on edge. The small, gentle god of harvest, nature, and flowers sits up straighter, and in his crown of flowers there is a wire of strong metal, his cloak is suddenly not colorful anymore but the deepest black and he is terrifying, horrific, powerful - “I married Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the World.”

Of seasons by northerntrash: As far as he could tell, he had been kidnapped, which in itself made this week more than a little unusual. In which Bilbo steals away the Lord of Death, and Thorin can't quite bring himself to stay angry about it.

Warm up by paranoid_fridge: On one of their walks, Bilbo tumbles into a stream. They make it back to Bag End and Bilbo demands Thorin warm him up.

Royal Blue And Crimson Red by Mistofstars: Here's what happened before and after Bilbo accidentally eavesdrops on Gandalf and Elrond at night in Rivendell, as they discuss Thorin's quest and his family's history. Oh, and Thorin and Bilbo share a room, of course ;)

I was young when I left home by Margo_Kim: There was a pity clapper somewhere in the third row. Thorin finished his fourth song to polite applause from the people who noticed that the song was finished, but within the smattering of claps was someone beating his hands together like he was trying to rhythmically kill a fly. There was usually one of those, the kind who notices that no one else is paying attention and so is determined to compensate for that regardless of how they feel about the actual music. Thorin ignored him. It was easy to do so—he'd always hated looking at the audience when the singing was done.

A matter of buttons by StupidFatPenguin: “Your shirt,” says Thorin, quite out of the blue, and Bilbo looks down his front to see if there is a spot of tea or jam or anything equally embarrassing spilled on it. He is relieved to find nothing of the sort and looks up at the dwarf with an eyebrow raised in question. Thorin sits mute, his still-smoking pipe forgotten in his hand. He looks on for long moments still, seems almost lost to a thought before he shifts and lifts his gaze to meet Bilbo’s inquiring face. “It is familiar to me. Did you not wear this on the eve we met?” In which Bilbo and Thorin re-enact the evening they met.

The ladder by Milliethekitty27: Inspired from a post made by wheeloffortune-design on tumblr. Tired of his lonely kitchen in Yavanna's Garden, Bilbo Baggins wonders if the dwarven love of being underground is true in death. If so, maybe his dwarves are living (ha ha) under the very land Bilbo is weeding. With that thought, Bilbo goes and asks Hamfast for a shovel.

Love hobbit by HybridOwl: Bilbo Baggins considers himself a bit of a cock up, all things considered. He never made it out of his small highway adjacent town, can't seem to stop chain-smoking, and overall has more to talk about with the plants in his shop than 90% of all the rest of Middle Earth. So when he's reading the morning paper and a love note that can't be for anyone but him pops up, he's pretty sure - almost positive, really - that he's being made fun of. "TO the chain-smoking little stud who collects two metros from Gamgee's Goods every morning, will you be my love hobbit? - Bearded Biker." (heavily inspired by tumblr posts)

Fusion with other fandoms au fics

The Second Time by authoressjean; Sebastian Moran can't pull the trigger on John Watson to save his own hide, and what the hell is it with the doctor, anyway? Then Gandalf shows up, meddlesome wizard, and reminds him none too gently of his past life: as Thorin Oakenshield, leader of a company that had once included a small hobbit named Bilbo Baggins. One that looked decidedly like John Watson. And this would be the perfect chance to make things right with Bilbo the way he really hadn't been able to before he died, and that's when Gandalf tells him John doesn't remember being Bilbo, and to leave him alone. Right. Like that's going to happen.

And sow a star divided in us by MistakenMagic: Short summary: Gays in space! Longer summary: After his first successful solo mission, Jedi Knight Bilbo Baggins, trained by High Council member and full-time nuisance, Master Gandalf, returns to the Jedi Temple on Coruscant. During an excursion to the sparring arena, he meets a group of Dwarven Jedi from Ered Luin, a mountainous planet located in the Outer Rim. Young padawans, Fili and Kili, are full of curiosity at this strange, barefoot Jedi, but Master Thorin, who appears to have the personality of a rancor and mental shields like blast doors, is less than impressed.

Comics you should definitely check

Every work by rutobuka, seriously they're criminally cute and they're not still favored by everyone without reason.

Retelling the Hobbit by Mellow_Comics: Bilbo has never been good at telling the "true" story of what happened on his journey to the Lonely Mountain. Now he's trying to turn the tale of his quest into a lighthearted children's book-- a bedtime story for his young nephew Frodo. But what really happened on his journey? And how did it actually affect him? This is a comic adaptation/retelling of the Hobbit! It's framed as a bedtime story that Bilbo is telling a younger Frodo.

For now these are some of my personal favourites! However, I'm sure my list will grow since my reading list has some gems still waiting for me to read, so be certain that there will be a part 2 of this list!

[missluthorwillseeyounow]

Krypton: Home of Heroes

Here is my contribution to @supercorpbb, inspired by this awesome artwork.

"Welcome to Krypton, the place where superheroes come to life.

Here, anyone can be a hero, no capes required! Visit our wide variety of rides and adventures featuring your favorite daring do-gooders, including the Last Daughter of Krypton herself, Supergirl! Come fly with her as she fights her enemies in our newest fully immersive 4D attraction, 'The Girl of Steel'!

There's no better place to save the world than here at Krypton, the Home of Heroes!"

OR

Theme Park AU where Kara and Lena slowly fall for each other while they try to bring a floundering amusement park back from the brink of ruin.

....

Krypton is still closed to the world on the morning of opening day.

There's a thrumming sense of excitement and anticipation in the group of people waiting beyond the tall doors. The low buzz of conversation filters through the crowd as they examine the unopened entrance. The tall doors guarding the place are majestic and elaborately carved with scenes depicting the heroes that call this place home.

There's Aquaman battling Ocean Master in the underwater depths, the scales of his armor painted a shimmering green and gold on the wood. There's Wonder Woman soaring over Themiscyra, the star on her tiara signified by a glittering crystal embedded in the wood of the doors, catching the light of National City's morning sun.

The last children of Krypton rise above them all, high in their places of honor. The strong, noble features of Superman are intricately and painstakingly carved into the wood as he flies high above the landscape of his home planet.

Beside him is a new long-awaited addition to Krypton.

"They added Supergirl!!!"

There are eager exclamations from children in the crowd, little hands pointing up to the proud, elegant figure crowning the ornate doors. The smiling face is familiar and beloved from Saturday morning cartoons and comics. Golden hair glinting in the sun, and blue eyes bright and hopeful, the depiction of Supergirl elicits admiration and excitement from fans below.

“Wow, we’re gonna see Supergirl!!!”

"Oh my gosh, Supergirl’s finally in Krypton!"

"How long has it been? Forty years since Krypton opened?"

"Nah, Superman was Leopold Luthor's first comic. Supergirl's only been around like 25 years."

"She was in the comics and the cartoons, but they never added her to the theme park until now."

"I can't believe it took them this long."

"I heard they were planning to years ago, but old Leo Luthor died before he could put Supergirl in the theme park."

"I loved the comic reboot. Crisis really did a number on her character."

"She's beautiful..."

Somewhere behind the doors, there is a small building, cleverly hidden by one of Krypton's many new attractions. Inside the Department of Effects and Operations, four people are gathered around a large collection of screens, watching the crowd outside the doors.

"Feeling nervous yet, sis?"

Alex Danvers smirks as her sister jiggles her leg while looking up at the screens, listening to the audio from the crowd. Kara's head whips around to fix Alex with a dirty look. "Shut up, Alex."

"Stop moving!" Nia chastises as she tugs Kara's— Supergirl's — cape closer to where she's kneeling on the ground. "Do you want me to stick a needle in you?"

It's a testament to Kara's nerves that she doesn't have more of a comeback. She just obediently moves back into position while Nia makes last-minute adjustments to her costume. Through the pins held between her lips, Nia pipes up. "It is a lot of pressure. Supergirl's fanbase is enormous."

"Yes, and it is the first time Supergirl is being introduced to the park since Krypton opened forty years ago." Brainy adds helpfully somewhere to Kara's left, clasping his hand behind his back. He observes the growing crowd on the screen serenely. "There is a lot of legacy and history attached to the role. Not to mention Supergirl is Lena's brainchild, so her ambitions are not only hinged on Krypton, but on how the guests receive Supergirl."

"Not helping, guys." Kara cringes. It's all well and good for them, they're not going to be out there in public representing Supergirl , her childhood hero. And Lena's too.

Supergirl is a hero for so many people, and she doesn't want to let anyone down. So yeah, she knows how much is at stake. Not just for the park, but for Lena.

Kara doesn't want to let Lena down.

Alex must have noticed that Kara looks a little green around the gills because her smirk turns into a softer smile. She sidles up to Kara's side and puts an arm around Kara's shoulders. "You've worked so hard on this for a whole year, Kara. We all have, but you and Lena have worked the hardest."

Alex gives her shoulders a shake. "You can do this. You deserve this, okay?"

Kara gives her sister a small, grateful smile and nods. "Okay."

"Okay!" Nia swats Alex's arm away so she can fix Kara's cape, and Kara laughs. Nia can be even bossier than Alex when she gets going. "Now that we've had our little moment, can you please let me get back to work on my masterpiece here?"

Alex holds up her hands with a wry grin and slowly begins dispersing the other DEO members by barking orders. Kara looks down at the suit that Nia is fixing. It's an amazing suit. Sleek, elegant and yet dynamic and comfortable. Nia’s done a beautiful job on it.

"There. I'm done." Nia straightens up and gives Kara a critical once-over. As she finishes her assessment, Nia nods and gives Kara a smile.

"You look..." Nia shakes her head with a low whistle, her eyes wide. "You look like Supergirl."

For Kara, there's no higher praise than that.

"Thanks." Kara smiles, her nerves receding as she smooths her hands down the suit. It feels good, familiar. It feels like her childhood days of putting a towel around her shoulders to pretend she was her favorite superhero— and at the same time, she feels the weight and the joy of everything it symbolizes. Everything they've all been through.

"It's time to bring her home."

AO3

[justimajin]

Til Death Do Us Part ♜ Pt. 1

➟ Pairing: Namjoon x Reader 

➟ Genre: Angst, Fluff, Eventual Smut 

↳ (3.7k), Arranged Marriage AU

➟ Summary: If someone told you that you’d be marrying the Kim Namjoon, you would think you were being lied to, or worse, that you were hallucinating. However, fate seems to have it’s own ways of making the impossible possible and before you even know it, the title of Mrs. Kim is bestowed onto you. There’s just one problem: you’re not sure if Kim Namjoon is the person he says he is and the truth of your own identity is dangling by the strength of a mere thread. 

➟ Warnings: This series will involve themes of graphic violence, depictions of blood, major character death and hints of trauma. 18+ rating. Reader discretion is highly advised. 

gif credit. 

➟ Next Update: Tuesday, December 22 

Love is a strange thing. 

It pulls individuals together, sparking fireworks and blissful rays of euphoria within seconds. It renders people affectionate, words dripped with honey and caresses full of tenderness transcending  without a means of stopping. To be frank, it’s majestic through the eyes of the beholder. 

But love is indeed a strange thing. 

It’s history has been plagued with moments of weakness and hesitation, moments that rip away layers to reveal raw, vulnerable selves from every individual. It’s inability to forget and move on clutches onto the minds of those that chose to associate with it, invading their memories and never granting them a single second to run free. Love is a strange thing, but it’s most putrid use has always been the necessity to use it like a tool. 

A deep breath escapes your tinted red lips, cold hands clutching onto the delicate bouquet that’s been thrust into them. The petal pink and lilac purple flowers rest against the chaste white of your dress, the awaited arrival of yours long passed as you raise your head and sneak a peek at the person standing in front of you behind your veil. 

Clad in a special tailored suit for the occasion, his dark brown hair has been brushed back and neatly tucked into the corners of his hair. He stands tall and confident, seemingly captivated by the words the priest mumbles through as he drags on through every dull phase written in his book. As if he can tell your eyes are on him, he suddenly looks in your direction and you return your gaze back to the ground, clutching onto the array of petals in your hands. 

The priest goes on to dutifully declare the responsibilities you must carry, including the very ones that tie you to each other. 

For better, for worse. Rich, poor. Sickness, health. 

Love. Cherish. 

“Until death do you part?” The priest peers up with fatigued eyes, glancing in between you. You suck in a shaky breath, eyes fixating on everything except for the man standing on the opposing side.  

“I-I do.” You hastily mutter, swallowing the lump stuck in your throat. Patiently waiting for his answer, you try not to focus on the collection of eyes gawking at you from the altar. 

“I do.” He states, firm and resolute with his answer. It shakes you to your core, eyes immediately flickering up to meet his warm ones. 

You’re perplexed for a moment, but you’re not given time to dwell any longer once the priest shuts his book, content with your answers. Relief floods you in an instant, yet it’s short-lived and has your stomach churning instead. 

“You may kiss the bride.” The priest steps back as if you needed room for the grandiose gesture, eagerly awaiting the showcase with the rest of the people seated in front of the altar. Nevertheless, your hands begin to quiver despite your best wishes and you remain planted in place. 

Before you even know it, the delicate veil resting against your forehead is being pulled up and tucked away, projecting your dolled up features on full display. You can only fidget when he draws near, preparing for the worse until he pauses. 

Glancing up in surprise, you’re caught off guard from the lines crossing his forehead and the dismay clouding his eyes. For a second, you could have sworn that you were gazing into a mirror, an image of your combined concerns being painted right in front of you. 

You’re caught in between a daze and bewilderment when he advances again, however all you feel is a soft peck against your skin before your veil is placed back into place. Your audience seems to be at loss with the action, but once he turns around to face them in the midst of holding your hand, loud cheers and roars flood the room as congratulatory confetti bursts into the room. 

Unconsciously, your hand drifts over to your cheek with furrowed brows and you steal another glance at the man you will be bound to for eternity. 

***

The L/N Family. 

Tactical and resourceful, known for their skillful strategies and trade explorations, a business they would go on to proudly pronounce in the arms industry. Others would look to them for support and reassurance, and they would in return cohesively make protective deals that would ensure no harm. Yonghwa, their head, would go on to make a legacy out of his family name. 

The Kim Family. 

Discreet and powerful, known for their relentless determination and invokable hunger, characteristics that would eventually seep into their weapon manufacturing business. They know how and with whom to pick their fights, vigorously acquiring a steady position in the industry within a flash before everyone’s eyes. Namjung, their head, carved the Kim name into a status no one would have ever imagined. 

Trade and manufacturing, two able sides of the same coin. They seeked to forge an union that would unite their two sectors, to create a harmonious flow of success within their collective industries. 

But not all deals, go as planned. 

On the fateful day, Yonghwa was found on the ground in a pool of his own blood while Namjung was left visibly shaken. Catastrophe seemed to only follow the event there on after, with both families seeking revenge on the other. Their union seemed to be the last thing on either mind, but after the years passed and stained relations had been fully dragged out, there only seemed to be one solution that could bring peace to the two of them. 

*** 

The wheels of the large suitcase hit the polished ground. 

It’s lavish and grand, crystals littering the high held ceiling and lilies spread over the handles of the spiraling staircase. It ends right at the large chandelier, with more crystals dangling down opposite the shining marble that your slippers find purchase in. 

You remain in place, staring with wide eyes and an agape jaw the scenery before you. 

“Please,” A girl bows before you, dressed in a simple pale blouse and skirt that’s paired with an apron. There’s a small twinkle in her pleasant eyes paired with natural pouting lips; the delicate features drawing out the sheer youth the girl embodies. “Follow me.” 

You snap out of your daze once she advances forward, her hands careful weaving through yours to clutch onto your packed luggage. At first, you’re a bit unsure as to if you should let her carry the heavy load up the stairs, but you’re pleasantly surprised when she manages to hall it all the way up.

She roughly pushes herself against a large wooden door, revealing the grand room behind it. It’s decorated similarly to the main portion of the house, however the sheer size of it has your jaw dropping again, eyebrows furrowed as its appearance. 

Your suspicions are confirmed right away, “This will be your room, Miss Y/N.” 

“I-I…” You can’t help but hesitate, “Are you sure?”

She nods, placing your luggage now. “Of course, Master Kim asked us to prepare it for you.” 

You instinctively flinch at the sudden mention of your husband, but the girl tilts her head to the side, curiosity peeking through her. 

“Don’t they have such rooms in the L/N residence?” Her eyes suddenly widen, and she slaps a hand against her mouth, “Oh no, I-I didn’t mean it that way!” 

A smile curls on the corners of your lips, “What’s your name?” 

She gazes at you with surprise, like she had been expecting a scolding fit for her lifetime. Nonetheless, she hastily answers your question with a bow. 

“I am Eunjoo, one of Master Kim’s most faithful servants.” 

“Little flower.” You decipher, “Sounds like a fitting name.” 

“It could have been summer’s grace.” Eunjoo offers with a shrug, “Though I don’t really like summer, so I’ve tried my best to ignore that meaning.” 

You let out a genuine chuckle from that, something that has Eunjoo instantly beam. The news of her own Master getting married to someone from the L/N family was initially difficult for her to digest, but it appears that she was too early to judge. 

A lopped smile etching onto your features, “And to answer your previous question, unfortunately the L/N’s don’t have such a residence. We’ve lost much of our wealth after‒…” You pause, biting back your words, “...after, you know.” 

You wave your hand away in the air and Eunjoo understandably nods, no need to delve into the long-lived history of your families that is known to all. She hurriedly aids in you in unpacking much to your reassured protests, following and assisting you around like a little fairy. Her company ends up being both interesting and comfortable, especially since the two of you discovered the other wasn’t well in adapting the titles you carry. 

A knock resounds against the door, drawing out your attention. Immediately Eunjoo drops the clothes in her hands, right before she straightens up and takes a graceful bow. 

Her reaction is telling of who's at the door, so with pinched lips and a creased forehead, you turn around. 

He remains glued to the door frame, still adorned in his tailored black suit. Aside from the similarity in his put together appearance though, his shoulders are no longer hiked up in a noble stance, nor is there any remaining amount of warmth spreading through his eyes. Instead, he appears akin to how he was in the split-second before your ultimate union was official, the memory causing the skin of your cheek to slightly burn. 

Swaying from side to side, he hesitates to step into the room. 

“I see you’ve met Eunjoo.” He mentions. On cue, the servant straightens up, a huge smile on her lips. 

“I was just helping Miss Y/N unpack!” 

“Oh that’s nice, perhaps I can assist to‒” He isn’t able to finish his sentence, because the next thing you know you jolt at the sound of a loud crash that echoes through the room. 

“Master Kim!” Eunjoo immediately rushes forward, scurrying to help the fallen man. He instantly rises up to his feet and dusts off his suit jacket, but remains of glass are scattered all over the ground. 

He lets out a groan and Eunjoo sighs, “Master, you know you have to be careful.” She begins to quickly pluck up the shards of the vase, raising one up to eye level with a pout, “I especially picked this one out for your newly wedded wife.” 

At the mention of you, Namjoon instantly glances up, pupils shaking. “I-I can get you a new one soon, it might take around a week but if I put in a request now‒” He scrambles around for a moment, before checking the inner pockets of his jacket for something to write on in a haste. 

Unconsciously, a small smile cracks through the seam of your lips, increasing as he tries to intervene with Eunjoo to pick the shards, and she protests that he shouldn’t get his hands soiled with her errands. He eventually has to sheepishly stand to the side, staring at her defeated like a child that had just gotten scolded for misbehaving. 

Eunjoo eventually collects all the pieces and ushers herself out, reminding you of the pending family dinner you’ll need to attend in the evening. She leaves the room and you decide to resume unpacking, until you come across the realization that you’re not alone. 

“Do you need help?” He peers at your suitcase behind you, “I’m usually more capable with things that aren’t easy to break.” 

The abrupt proximity catches you by surprise, but you merely shake your head at his kind offer, “I should be fine, thank you.” 

He nods and you assume he’ll excuse himself after a moment, but he lingers and that’s when you crane your head over at him. 

Appearing to be in between a deep ponder, he snaps back into reality once your questioning eyes fall onto him. “Uh I‒” A lengthy sigh leaves his lips, “I know this is strange.”

You wonder what he's referring to until you notice him gesturing to the gap between you, “It’s strange for me, and it’s strange for you. We didn’t really have a choice in the matter.” 

He sheepishly scratches the back of his neck, a deep crease forming between his brows. You’re frozen in place, at a complete loss for words. 

He suddenly sucks in a breath, looking up to gaze into your eyes, “But I’d like to get to know you better….a-as my future wife.” 

Your eyes round and his declaration only receives dead silence in its awake. Flabbergasted, he attempts to correct himself amidst your prolonged response. 

“T-That doesn’t mean right away! We can take our time and I’m not expecting anything from you, so you don’t need to worry and‒” 

“I’d like that.” 

He freezes, “Wait, really?” 

You hum, a corner of your mouth lifting, “You’re right, it’s strange. But I’d like to get to know my husband better as well.” 

His eyes immediately sparkle, like you’ve said the very words he’s been aching to hear, “That’s great!” A breathtaking smile overtakes his features, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner then?” 

You nod with a smile,  and he departs, the euphoria never once leaving his lips. 

***

Evening draws near and long gone is the dilatory white piece of garment that’s forever confined you to your fate. Instead, it’s replaced with a delicate fabric of rose gold, perhaps to represent the luxury you have of being present in such a place or in the new beginnings that will soon follow you. 

Regardless, you prepare yourself. Although you’re simply arriving to dinner, there’s a family waiting at the table that you don’t know of yet. 

Eunjoo brings you down with her after putting your hair up and presenting a pair of matching heels your way. You’re wary as you walk down the spiraling staircase, barely balancing yourself on the elevated shoes. Luckily, Eunjoo notices and helps you down, but the split moment of relief is met with a jolt of surprise when you notice someone waiting at the bottom.

“I’ll take it from here, Eunjoo.” The women amiably bids. Eunjoo swiftly bows, mumbling something along the lines of Mistress Kim, before heading into the dinner room. 

You immediately whirl around, eyes on alert like a deer in headlights. She mirthfully smiles at you, carrying a warm tone in her eyes that feels familiar. 

“You don’t have to look so worried,” She reprimands, “I’m not going to bite your head off.” 

Your eyes widen even more, “I-I’m sorry?” 

She bursts out into laughter, concealing her ruby red lips with a hand that is glittering in assorted jewels. 

“Nothing, dear. I’m just teasing you.” You nervously laugh at that, and she places a hand against your back, guiding you forward. “Come, I’m eager to know what my son’s wife is like.” 

Politely nodding, you follow behind her and nearly freeze. If you had expected your bedroom to be astonishing, then you weren’t prepared for the enormous buffet that waits for you ahead. 

Pieces of food are scattered all over the decorated table, ranging from freshly cooked to foods you would have never imagined yourself eating. It reminds you of times your family could barely manage to have a decent meal for one night, lost scavenging for food that wouldn’t make your empty pockets hurt. 

You’re so lost in the thought that you don’t feel someone brush by you. There’s suddenly a warm hand planting onto your shoulder, drawing your attention with a smile full of dimples. 

“Do you want to sit down first?” He gestures to the table, where his mother sits next to his father and opposite to his sister. Embarrassed that you’ve been just gawking at the table, you hurriedly take a seat and so does Namjoon. 

Even though you’re only just sitting at the table, it seems like all eyes are on you, burning into your skin and tracing every move. The impending silence eventually does crack though, and it’s done by a person you would have least expected. 

“Is that chicken?” Namjoon’s father blurts out, his eyes following a tray one of the servants brings by. His wife immediately interjects, dismayed by his reaction. 

“Indeed,” She points a demanding finger at him, “But none for you, there’s a reason why your health hasn’t been the greatest as of lately.” 

He pouts at her response, longley staring at the dish once it arrives. The childlike display catches you a bit off guard, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s unreasonable though.” He suddenly looks in your direction, “What do you think, Y/N? Isn’t she being unreasonable?” 

The abrupt inquiry leaves you speechless, no coherent words manifesting at the tip of your tongue. His wife whirls around, cocking up a brow in his direction. 

“Why are you dragging her into this?” She faces you with a smile, “Y/N is the newest addition to our family so we should make her feel welcome, not bring her into such trivial matters.” 

The pleasant response astonishes you, but more so the mention of your inclusion. He lets out a sigh, acknowledging his wife’s sentiments. 

“You’re right.” He turns to you, “Y/N, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” 

His mother hums, “I’d like to hear about where you grew up, Y/N.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing really special,” You grow bashful, “I was raised in the outskirts of the country by my parents.” 

The two of them nod, intently listening to you, “Before coming here, I studied in the imperial academy for a while.” 

“Ah, involved in the industry I see.” He praises, “You must know a lot about how our businesses are conducted, right?” 

“Not quite.” There’s a strained smile on your lips, “I didn’t want to actively participate in it.” 

Although your answer seems to have taken both of them by surprise, his wife hums in approval. “So I’m assuming that was your personal choice?” 

When you nod, a giant smile stretches onto her lips, and she elbows her husband, “A gutsy one, don’t you think?” 

He smiles in retaliation, “Just like you.” 

She blushes at his sudden compliment, but a voice from afar breaks the two out of their daze. 

“Gross - we’re eating here.” 

Appalled at the feminine voice, you notice the young girl seated across from Namjoon, a deep frown etched onto her stern features. 

“Leave them be, Geongmin.” Namjoon coaxes his sister, but she lets out a grunt of disapproval in the midst of eating soup.

The corners of his mother’s lips turn up and his father faces you again, looking as if he had a million questions up his sleeve lined up just for you. 

Much to your surprise, the rest of the evening is spent exchanging pleasantries with them and keeping conversation light. There even comes a moment when both you and Namjoon end up reaching out for the bread basket, only to pull away once you discover your hands had ended up meeting halfway. As you grow bashful, you notice his mother smiling tenderly and his father chuckling at the abrupt affiliation. 

Once the evening begins to come to an end, you excuse yourself through the use of your own fatigue and request to head to bed first. They waste no time in understanding, with Namjoon’s father even wrapping a hand around his son and expressing that he needed to discuss some things with him anyway. 

You leave the room as he heads off with his family, granting you with some much-needed time and space. 

***

Treading back, you pause at the large wooden door that leads into your room. Your eyes briefly skim over the fine carvings on the wood, instead choosing to scrutinize the direction of your right and left side. A shadow casts over your pupils and your hand presses against the door, letting it slowly creak wide open. 

Step by step, you stroll inside and let the light fade out, replacing itself with only darkness. 

The moment the source of luminescence disappears, you move within a flash. The handle is locked, tugged at for a confirmation. There’s a speck of radiance coming from the small lamp you’ve turned on, enough to see the large suitcase you’ve brought get yanked out. 

Zippers are flying and the cover is ripped off. Clothes are frantically thrown astray, dumped into a careless heep without much of a second look. Your hands are weaving through the material and running rampant, eyes flickering with something akin to desire and alloyed with increasing unease. 

Once your hands meet with metal, a twinkle emerges within your orbs. The spindle of ore is unwound; detangling the material in a quickened manner. It looks distinctly similar to what one would use for electrical purposes, set with the intention of providing light in grim areas. 

Right. The intention. 

Unraveled, you cautiously drift over to the large window by the bedside and crank it open. Peering outside, there’s no glimmer or streak of luminescence meeting your eyes, only a dark, simple gray sky. 

Unconsciously a breath of relief leaves your lips and you reach out, reclining your body just enough to reach above and then below the window’s hilt. The instrument effortlessly blends in, appearing like a simple cable that’s been tightly strung around. 

You lean back and rummage through the luggage on the ground, pulling out a small plastic box that doesn’t appear to be much, but more or less, is the sole thing you couldn’t have departed without. With a small hinged click, it connects to the thin barbed string you just unraveled and right when a quiet buzz resonates through, does a smile tugs on the corner of your lips. 

A knock resonates through the box. Followed by another, and then another. It’s succeeded with a prolonged silence on your part, your entire body remaining in a frozen state. 

Static echoes and you let out the air you didn’t realize you were holding from your lungs. 

Within seconds, you are nimbly knocking against the box in repetitive notions. Your actions range from different types of knocks; heavy, light, twice the sound. 

More static echoes and your eyes immediately widen, hands balling up into tighter fists. 

A heavier one. 

“I have….” 

Lighter. 

“...successfully infiltrated….” 

One last firm knock. 

“....the enemy household.”

[calcipher763]

The Crown: A Legacy Forged in Lies

For a while now I’ve been thinking about the Vacuo rebel group who called themselves The Crown and the siblings who ran it. Thinking over the history that led them to this point, as well as the symbol they used for their revolution, I found myself wondering about the history that may have sparked it and realized that its inception predates the twins Jax and Gillian Asturias and could be traced back to the ending of the Great War when Vacuo ceased to be a Monarchy and formally became a Democracy.

In the book RWBY: Before the Dawn we learn through a history lesson that Vacuo had a rich history, one that had for generations been ruled by Kings and Queens in the past. This makes sense as Vale, Mantle, Mistral, and Vacuo were all at one point in time governed by monarchies and were thus considered Kingdoms, a moniker that was carried over when they each began being governed by Councils. Vacuo’s, however, is a matter of pride for them. Their history is a major part of their identity and to overlook this fact is to overlook a vital part of their people’s identity. Knowing this we can begin to understand how an organization such as Crown could be conceived as well as start to see what sort of people had given rise to it before it ultimately devolved into the poor excuse for a rebellion that it eventually died as.

The first thing we should consider is the symbol itself; a Crown. According to Jax and Gillian’s father, every generation of the Asturias blood line has had at least one member of their family who was born with a birthmark in the shape of a crown, marking them as a descendant and heir of the royal line of Vacuo. While hereditary birthmarks are not unheard of, to have a consistent one each subsequent generation that matches the one prior to it is unheard of. In fact, it’s highly unlikely that the mark both Jax and Gillian bore wasn’t a birth mark at all, something which Coco Adel took note of when fighting Gillian. We’ll shelve this for now but it will come into play later on. For now, to truly understand Crown’s origins we have to go back to before the Great War, prior to its conclusion 80 years prior.

Before the rise of the Councils, Vacuo was ruled by a monarchy. This of course means that they had a King, Queen, and a court of Nobles. This of course means that they were the ones to hold power and influence, to dictate the ebb and flow of Vacuo’s politics. Then, with the conclusion of the war, things changed drastically. All at ones those who once held the power found themselves with none. For some this wasn’t much of a problem. The transition from a Monarchy to a Democracy simply meant a shift in priorities. For others, however, the loss of the power and influence they once held in the courts was too great for them and they quickly went from being Nobles to commoners in an instant. It was an insult that their families could not tolerate. After all, Vacuo had been a monarchy for centuries. Why should they change that just because a foreign King decided that they should shift their politics? They were still Kingdoms and Kingdoms were presided over by rules not councilors, were they not? Their place was at the top of Vacuan society, not down amongst the rabble.

Granted, much of this is speculation and everything prior to this and following could be completely wrong but that’s the point of a theory, to speculate on what may have happened until we find out what really happened.

It stands to reason that a number of these nobles would band together through a shared dislike of the new powers governing their Kingdom and the loss of their own power and influence. It would also stand to reason that many would want a return to the old ways, enough so that they would begin plotting their return in secret. Knowing they couldn’t stage a revolution so soon after losing the vast amount of resources they once possessed, they would instead bide their time, waiting for the moment when future generations could take up their burden and return Vacuo to its previous glory. Knowing all this, they would then adopt a symbol, one that would forever remind them of their beginning as well as act as a goal to eventually work towards achieving; a Crown.

80 years would pass since that time. As is the custom of Vacuo, those who survived did so because they were stronger, more perceptive and better able to work alongside their communities rather than rely on one’s own skills. Community is an important part of Vacuan culture, after all. It is only by relying on the strength of your community and adding your own strength to it that you are able to survive and prosper in the harsh deserts. During this time the Asturias would survive in the capital, favoring their family’s vaunted history over the ever modernizing culture and the technology that defined it. All of this may have been a subtle way of maintaining an eye on their goal, ensuring that each generation never forgot their routs while also maintaining a singular eye on their goal. However, like the harsh desert winds slowly beat away at the weather stone wall, so too did the passage of time chip away at the vision once held by the noble families, turning from an act of defiance into a legend passed down from generation to the next, filling them with wonder and pride at a life their ancestors once held.

Until Jax Asturias was born.

Born with a semblance that allowed him to overpower a person’s will and raised on the stories of his ancient ancestors and their family’s royal lineage, it was almost a guarantee that he would develop a personality revolving around entitlement meant and the belief that he had been marked from birth alongside his sister. It was only a matter of time before everything boiled over and the birth of Crown and their revolution was put into action. Unfortunately for him, his arrogance, coupled with the tenacity and resourcefulness of veteran students from Beacon, proved more than he was capable of handling and he would later lead to his undoing at Yatsuhashi’s semblance.

So what does this all have to do with his apparent birthmark? A great deal to be sure. Returning to the days of his ancestors for a moment, we can assume that the Crown became a rallying symbol for them, one that they no doubt wore on themselves to some manner to show their loyalty to it, with even the most devoid branding themselves with the Crown. It is to that end that I believe the Asturias family, in a show of loyalty to their family lineage, branded themselves with the mark, claiming it proof of their royal heritage. In the case of Jax and Gillian, however, both were branded and at a young age no doubt. Their father, obviously wanting them to stand united, may have done as a means of ensuring neither would feel inferior to the other but unfortunately it only led to something far worse.

With all this in mind there does arise the question of whether or not I believe any of this to be true? In all honesty, to some extent yes. There’s a great deal we don’t yet know in regards to the world of Remnant and its vast histories. For all we know the Asturias’ birth mark could very well have been a branding given to them by their father. On the other hand it could in fact be hereditary, not unlike the Schnee family’s semblance, and thus was truly an oddity when both Jax and Gillian were born with it. We don’t know what we don’t know but that doesn’t mean we can have fun speculating.

[thebladeblaster]

My many CFV X Yugioh ideas

Let me know which one you guys are interested in.

Duel Monsters

One of them is the one I’ve been talking about recently. Basically it has the Vanguard characters being a part of the Yugioh universe. There’s no Vanguard they all play Duel Monsters because the whole Yugioh universe revolves around it. I’m going to talk about it more as I post about it. It would eventually go on till Zexal.

The other one is actually a protagonist swap. Basically with Aichi as the protagonist of Duel Monsters and Yugi and Atem as the protagonists of Vanguard. It would go all the way into 5Ds because Aichi doesn’t just vanish like Yugi😅. Though he’s not as involved in GX and 5Ds. I thought it would be cool for Emi to attend Duel Academy for the GX portion.

5Ds

It’s kinda based on Reverse of Arcadia Aka Yugioh WC2010. Basically Aichi is kinda in the role of the protagonist of that game without absolutely cucking the other 5Ds characters. For those who don’t know your protagonist has basically been captured and brainwashed by the Arcadia movement later escaping. While Aichi is missing his friends are looking for him and participating in the main plot of 5Ds. Aichi would be taken because I imagine in Yugioh, Psyqualia would be some strain of the psychic powers. Also he gets his deck back after finding it locked away in the Arcadia Building because Yusei having it like the game makes absolutely no sense. Also I thought it would be funny if Aichi had a card that would be mistaken for a signer dragon😂.

It’s because of this funny moment in the game where the other characters think your the last signer. To make them not look like complete idiots I decided to give Aichi this. He will be using Infernoble Knights in this since they are more synchro focused. Honestly in my other story I could give this to Yuyu😂.

Other things on the agenda of this story:

-making Rua (Leo) become a signer when he was supposed to

-Ruka (Luna) actually being relevant to the plot

-No side lining Akiza or Carly

-screw Crow he keeps his original planned role

-also Sayer actually gets to come back

-rewriting the second half of 5Ds except Crash Town it stays

-maybe Yugo and Rin? Their inclusion isn’t for a particular reason I just like them and would like to include them. I think a very interesting way to introduce them could be through them being antagonists in the second half or earlier 👀. This would be like an reverse Arc-V legacy character situation. Basically it wouldn’t be the same character from Arc-V but they’d be really similar. I have had an idea of a story like that for awhile. I could roll that in so I have an excuse to include Yugo my favorite Yugioh character🤣.

Zexal

I actually have two ideas for Zexal one is similar to the Duel Monsters one I’ve been talking about. Except it has the characters exist in Zexal. Aichi ends of moving to Heartland when his Dad gets a job there allowing him to not have to work across the planet in America. It’s a bit awkward for Aichi since he doesn’t actually know his dad well and he is still hoping out hope of meeting Kai again. Though, he tries to make the most of it its a fresh start after all. He ends up meeting Yuma after he sees him looking at his Blaster Blade equivalent and hyperactively challenges him to a duel. Then he’s adopted into Yuma’s friend group. The other Vanguard characters appear later in the story at the beginning it’s just Aichi and his family.

The other is an isekai taking place near the end of the Asia Circuit and in late season 1 of Zexal. Basically the void and Don Thousand end up colluding together. Aichi, Kamui, Misaki, Kai, Ren, and Chris are forced into the Zexal world with numbers. Aichi and Kai are like the only ones who aren’t possessed at the beginning. Aichi is trying to free everyone and go back home to save Blaster Blade with the help of Yuma and co. Since Noble Knights act as the Royal Paladins naturally the Infernoble Knights act as the Gold Paladins.

Poor Aichi be like “I just want to save Blaster Blade”. Now, he has to deal with all of this nonsense 😂. Aichi also has to avoid falling under the control of his own number card especially since their amped by Don Thousand and the Void.

Arc-V

It’s the villain swap one I’ve talked about. Actually it’s the first one I ever talked about. It swaps the void and Zarc. You can look under my Arc V tag to find my old posts about it.

[kitkatopinions]

(Rabbithole Anon) Y'know, I was going to send in an ask about just they could have made a compelling way to show how some people may have become hunters through pressure rather than an age excuse if they wanted to say some people weren't ready (joining to protect a friend who wanted to be one, wanting to travel for a variety of reasons, it being a general expectation but the person being hesitant) but it led to me wondering wait, would certain careers require a hunting lisence?

Okay, I love this rabbit hole. XD It illustrates a couple of RWBY problems here and it's the fact that they often are lacking in the character development/character journey department, and that they're often lacking in the world building department.

We actually have plenty of characters that can serve as examples for people who maybe should've thought twice about entering the Academy (when they did.) There are people who entered the Academy for the wrong reasons/not noble reasons, people who entered the Academy during a time they might not have been ready, and people who would be full on dangerous with a Hunter badge, and most of our mains fall under one of these categories (though mostly the first two.)

Ruby - Two years below the standard age of her class. Whether or not she was at the skill level of a first year (she was,) and whether or not she'd received special training from Qrow (she had,) Ruby was still essentially a kid, and her mind and body both hadn't developed completely. Ruby should have been traumatized after the Fall of Beacon and been allowed to show that more as a character, she should've had straight up PTSD, she should've been allowed to have emotion in Volume 4 than Jaune's sidekick who makes sad eyes when she sees him grieving. Weiss - Her main motivation for joining Beacon was to reclaim her family legacy. Yes, her desire was to reclaim it and use it for good, but it was still arguably more about personal and familial glory. On top of that, Weiss has been blatantly anti Faunus and has never so much as addressed that. Weiss's character journey should have reflected more personal growth, and either her unlearning much of her Faunus racism and clearly changing priorities from her name and family legacy and onto the actual people in need, or her flaws should've led her into being more of a morally gray character who displays her selfishness and pride (in a way that's actually addressed and treated like a flaw.) Yang - She expresses admiration for people like Ruby who want to help people and be kind, but her main point in becoming a Huntress was getting thrills and going where the wind takes her. She didn't join Beacon for any sort of serious purpose, and even when she rejoined Team RWBY in volume five, it was to be with her sister and not because of her own morals (not that I think she's lacking in morals, just that her main motive was different.) This could lead to her having to figure out a lot of what she actually wants, being unsatisfied with being a Huntress in Atlas, being in over her head when things get serious, being more mentally exhausted than the others after long days, etc. Jaune - Wasn't ready to enter Beacon. Idk if he just wasn't allowed to go to a lesser combat school like Signal or if he flunked out, but he wasn't up to scratch to get into Beacon and cheated his way in. On top of that, he lacked in the emotional maturity department as well when he entered. Jaune was a little more invested in his own appearance than Ruby was, but still seemed to have similar good reasons for wanting to be a Hunter. And he did grow a lot. But he was much less prepared, skilled, or equipped to deal with the training or the career and it's a miracle he didn't die in the initiation. Granted, Jaune was handled arguably better than anyone else, since a lot of this was addressed, but these days it feels like it isn't actually playing a part in his character anymore that he's way below the people around him, and I feel like it should still be impacting him. Penny: Honestly, Penny seemed very newly born during the Beacon Arc. She might have been combat ready, but she also started spilling secrets to the first person who was a little bit nice to her, and was clearly naïve and childlike. Imagine if it had been Emerald that had befriended Penny instead of Ruby. Penny dying and then getting resurrected should've been deeply traumatizing for her and it should've made her undergo some major changes and been treated with importance in the show. Qrow: Literally wanted to be a Hunter in the first place to try and learn how to murder Huntsmen. He might have changed later and it’s not exactly relevant, but he arguably shouldn't have joined when he did either. Meanwhile, Nora's just one big mystery, because we don't know why she joined, and Ren likely joined for good reasons, but neither of them have ever actually talked about their motivations. The only character we can safely say joined for noble reasons and who was up to scratch and ready when she entered is Blake, who also had good reason to not fully trust the system she was working with, so there could've been complications and character interest there as well.

Please don't get me wrong, that doesn't mean I don't think the others should've been in school, I love that they were! I just think the writers should've explored the various ways they might've been not fully ready, not completely well suited to the job they took. The characters are allowed to be flawed and to flounder and it'd make them more full, nuanced characters imo.

On top of that, we have other Hunters to look to as well, outside of our main cast. Cardin, for example, was a terrible person, still in school and already abusing what little power he had to target a member of an oppressed minority group and blackmail other kids into doing his bidding, while plotting revenge on someone for correcting him on his anti-Faunus answer to a question. People like him should not be Hunters, and he was arguably our first sign (of many signs) that the position of Hunter can and will be taken advantage of and misused by bad people. And although the After the Fall/Before the Dawn books aren't canon, while reading BTD (I haven't finished it yet,) Coco and all her team members but Velvet also struck me as people I wouldn't want to be Hunters and wouldn't want to wield any sort of power. Coco is proudly described by one of her friends as sadistic, lets her unfounded opinions of people cloud her judgement, shows respect and admiration towards criminals, and enjoys her classmates being afraid of her. Fox is self-described as sadistic as well and is a bully who tried to use a classmate's phobia against them in a brute-like interrogation. And Yatsuhashi is leagues above the two of them, but also bullied Neptune despite saying the words 'I don't want to be a bully' and threatened him.

There are so many ways the writers could've explored people who went to Beacon too soon, weren't ready, or entered for the wrong reasons. Instead, outside of one conversation in season two about the girls’ motivations and Ren exploding that Jaune cheated his way into Beacon all the way in season eight, it seems like the only take away we're supposed to get is 'all these kids are officially the thing they wanted to be in the beginning and they're all amazing at it, woo!' No acknowledgement of the fact that they could use higher education still, that some of them are still immature or naïve, that some of them are still below the combat level they should be in, that some of them kinda haven't done super well since they left Beacon (cough Ruby cough.) It's all just... Flat, lackluster. And meanwhile, characters like Cardin were written out of the show easily. We've had plenty of examples of corruption in the Hunter business, but the show hasn't paid any attention to that and still is treating being a Hunter like the only true noble goal and the only good and non-corruptible way to defend people, despite the fact that it clearly isn’t. Being a Huntress is not better or safer or more noble in-universe than being an Atlas soldier/Ace Op/Atlas hunter. I’m not saying that all of this needed to be featured, but exploring the differences in motivation and how the Hunter lifestyle affected the various mains could really flesh out their characters. Instead, by the time everyone is heading to Atlas in volume six, they all pretty much have the same reactions to everything and the same motivations and the same beliefs. The rare deviation - like Ren in volume seven and eight - is treated as bad and a mistake that must be rectified, rather than... A natural consequence of the group being full of different people with different upbringings and different motivations that result in different opinions. That sort of thing is only ever explored as a problem that makes someone lacking, and it’s really weird and it makes the show feel... Juvenile, and lacking in nuance or depth when it comes to the characters, which is a really big shame, since the characters have a huge amount of potential and exploring the differences between them and their reactions to being in way over their heads would be - I think - the natural place to take their characters? Especially because so far their storyline has been... Not the highlight of the show.

But, as for how semblances and Hunters should impact the world building, there’s a lot to say about that! They don’t explore a lot in RWBY outside of what’s relevant to the mains, leaving the world building feeling flat and like the world itself doesn’t matter much. RWBY often feels more like a video game world than anything else, which I believe @why-i-hate-rwby-now has pointed out, so credit to them for helping me realize it. There’s one large location per continent and a couple small villages where they only really talk to a town leader and village blacksmith, or encounter a fight, relevant NPCs and characters only going to certain locations that can further the plot, characters only mattering through the ways they interact with the protagonists and seemingly getting benched with nothing to do if they aren’t currently plot relevant, health bars that can be monitored over scrolls, every weapon and semblance has a name even if that name isn’t ever mentioned in show or might not really make a lot of sense, frequently encountered enemies of various threat levels who the characters can plow down without remorse because they’re not sentient or don’t have souls... The list goes on. But one of the ways that it feels very video gamey is that the magical powers actually don’t seem to impact the world.

We know people can have auras even if they don’t have semblances (Mercury, Torchwick, Watts,) and we know lots of even grown people don’t have auras (the citizens of Mantle in danger of dying of cold while our aura having mains aren’t,) but also that auras can be unlocked, by well trained seventeen year olds (Pyrrha,) and we also know that semblances can be unlocked from a very young age due to trauma (Ren, Neptune in EU) but some people are born with their semblances (Qrow and notably Blake use language suggesting they were born with their semblances,) and some semblances are passed down or hereditary (the Schnees.) Semblances can be passive (Qrow, Clover, Ironwood in word of author,) and uncontrollable, or active (almost everyone else,) and some semblances have carried personal negative effects like in the case of Qrow who was even named for being bad luck and Robyn who said people were on edge with her because she can sus out the truth via skin contact when she wants to. Also Mercury’s father was able to somehow take away his semblance.

That’s... Pretty much the extent of our knowledge and it doesn’t tell us much. What RWBY does is give each character abilities that make them iconic and different from each other as fighters, with a shield function that wears down slowly to explain how they can take certain hits and keep going while also allowing them to eventually suffer higher damage when that shield wears down. They had a character get this shield ability unlocked to explain the existence and function of it, and featured some characters who didn’t have the super powered abilities like Roman, an early enemy meant to herald in new, harder enemies who are more plot relevant, and Mercury, who makes up for it by having higher speed and functions exclusive to him through his prosthetics. And then they seemingly built a regular world unaffected by these powers. It sounds like a video game. Civilians just don’t have this power or the shield because they act as non-playable characters. In a way, it almost makes sense to me in conception, because when RWBY was originally created, it was high on visual appeal, fight choreography, and character design. The plot elements were small and the character stories seemed to be pretty simple, the only real complication to this being the White Fang plot, which has always been a major blight in RWBY. But one of the reasons why this video-game feel kinda worked at the start of RWBY was because the story and characters weren’t meant to be the focus of the story, so although the world building at the start was definitely lacking, the audience knew that things like auras and semblances were meant to hype up and add interest to the main highlights of the show: Design and fight choreography. At least that’s what I assume. But in volume three, they started to lay the groundwork for more, bigger plots, more focus on the story, the characters journeying to the outside world, undergoing personal arcs, and that’s what V4 and onward started focusing on.

To be clear, I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. I started really liking RWBY for its potential and concepts after getting through the first couple episodes of V1, but I actually really enjoyed quite a bit of V4 and V5 even though the design drastically changed and the fighting had gone way down in quality because I found some of the new focus on characters and the plot to be compelling, interesting, or to also have a lot of potential (though I was let down over and over in regards to pay off later.) However, with the new focus on the characters and storyline rather than design and fight choreography, they really needed to do some legwork on fixing the aura and semblance systems and paying attention to world building and making sure the world felt well put together, nuanced, and real. And I don’t feel like they ever did that.

Why is Pyrrha able to unlock auras? Well, because the writers wanted to explain the concept of auras and used Jaune - the unprepared - to do it. But now, auras are actually an important part of the story - for example, the people of Mantle don’t have unlocked auras, so will die of cold, but it doesn’t affect our heroes because they do have unlocked auras. So who can unlock auras? Is it a learned skill or is it hereditary? If it’s a learned skill, why isn’t everyone eager to learn it especially in places where it’s life or death if they don’t like in Atlas? If it’s a hereditary skill, why aren’t the people who have that skill put on a pedestal and being pressured into using that skill to save civilians in places where having an aura is the difference between life and death? In either case, why aren’t there people who professionally unlock auras? Why aren’t they on the pay roll in Atlas and Mantle? If it’s a skill that all powerful hunters have, why aren’t our heroes (who we’re supposed to think are now more powerful than Atlas’s best) unlocking auras for dying children in Mantle? Why don’t specialists and longtime fighters with Qrow, Winter, Robyn, Maria, or James have this ability if it comes with skill, time, or talent?

Why are semblances unlocking or morphing in times of trauma so rare? Why didn’t the Fall of Beacon unlock loads of new semblances and new semblance abilities? Why didn’t Ruby get a new semblance upgrade when she saw Weiss getting stabbed? Why didn’t Weiss unlock a new semblance ability when her plane was crashing? Why didn’t Pilot Boi unlock his semblance during the same occasion? Why is it that Jaune didn’t get a semblance upgrade when the light bridges were disappearing? Why didn’t Blake get a semblance upgrade when Yang fell into the void? Why did Ren get a semblance upgrade because he was upset while with the Ace Ops after Oscar got captured, but Nora doesn’t get an upgrade while she’s electrocuting herself? If semblances sometimes unlock in times of truama, why is it that some characters like Oscar and Torchwick and Jaune pre-V5 who we know have encountered lots of trauma just still don’t get semblances? If you can train your semblance into upgrading, why is it that we don’t see long time hunters and fighters unlock more semblance abilities, like Qrow, Winter, Robyn, Maria, or James? It just doesn’t make any sense! And I get that stories always have things happening just because the writers want it, but in RWBY, the hand of the creator is so obvious that it’s ridiculous.

And then there are other questions. Do people avoid bad labor practices out of fear of causing a semblance awakening? Well, from what we see of the SDC, the answer is no. So why not? Why weren’t they worried about an uprising? Work rights becomes a lot trickier when you have to add in tons of qualifiers. Maybe it’s illegal to use a semblance at work, but the SDC also has a history of child workers like Adam who can’t always control it (like Neptune couldn’t control his,) so are there laws protecting child laborers? Perhaps not, since you know, they were already child laborers, so were already suffering unchecked. Are there laws forbidding the use of semblances in government buildings, non-combat driven schools, or parks and libraries? And meanwhile, how would any of this apply to people with a passive semblance? How do you figure out that someone has a passive semblance? How do people know if they’re born with a semblance? Are there people that spend their whole lives having semblances that never get discovered? Do people have semblance detection... Semblances, that they get paid to use or do so out of charity? Did the Schnees rise to power due to their powerful and hereditary semblance, perhaps? Are people discriminated against if they don’t have semblances or pressured to become Hunters if they discover they do have semblances? Shouldn’t civilians in Mantle and Atlas be joining combat schools in droves in the hopes of unlocking an aura so they can better survive? And shouldn’t there be discrimination against people with certain semblances? Outside of Robyn saying she’s personally experienced mistrust, and Qrow’s self-hatred, we don’t see any real prejudice against certain semblance types, or for that matter, any praise or extra significance pointed to certain other semblance types. It would go a long ways towards world building if there were things like people having to divulge their semblance or lack thereof before entering Beacon, or for people to have to register a semblance evolution, or for Emerald to have lied about her semblance because “everyone knows illusion semblances automatically draw suspicion,” or for Qrow to comment that he’d never seen Clover in a Vytal Tournament, only for Clover to say his semblance was deemed ‘cheating’ back when he was in school so he hadn’t qualified. And on the flip side, you could have things like semblances being judged as better and more powerful based on how useful it might be, Pyrrha keeping her semblance on the DL because it’ll just bring more unwanted admiration on her, Sun keeping his own semblance on the DL too because it always make people put a lot of expectations on him, while Neptune’s semblance leaks and he deals with people treating him like he’s selfish and cruel for not wanting to use his own “gift of a semblance.” And people like Jaune could be bullied extra because he doesn’t have his semblance yet, and people in the stands at the Vytal Tournament could be chatting about “when are they gonna pull out their semblances?” and get annoyed and pouty when people don’t. To be fair, we do get things like Mercury’s father having declared his semblance a crutch, but... Still. why isn’t there more of this?

And we see the need for Hunter protection in villages like Kuroyuri and the village that Team RNJR stops to help on the way to Mistral. Small villages outside of the four kingdoms fall to Grimm, or are in danger of falling to Grimm. Ships get attacked by large and dangerous Grimm, we see (corrupt) Hunters on the train to Argus, accompanying for safety, and we see that with a rise of Grimm activity in Mantle, Hunters are dispatched to help kids travel to school. In a world like RWBY, fighting is essential for survival outside of the Kingdoms, and became very essential in the kingdoms as well once schools started going down. You’d assume there should be Hunters accompanying everyone traveling outside of the Kingdoms, resident Hunters living in villages outside the Kingdoms as their on-hand protectors (and more than one Hunters seems to be needed.) Hunters also could be extra protection for anything that’s definitely going to increase negativity, like hiring Hunters to bodyguard funerals seems like something that could be normal in the world of Remnant, and for visiting graveyards (we see Ruby get attacked by tons of Grimm when she visited Summer’s grave in the red trailer.) On top of that, celebrities and rich people hiring Hunters seems like it’d become pretty common. But all that we see outside of Dee and Dudley are traveling Hunters stopping to help people out of the goodness of their heart while they go place to place, and Kingdom Hunters who are assigned to things like border control, clearing out Grimm near or in the Kingdoms, and things like that. What we see is a Kingdom-centered morality complex our protagonists are one hundred percent invested in, Hunters are Kingdom driven and anything outside of that is a kindness, a job they can take or leave in passing. And on top of that, it seems like there aren’t a lot of people in the Hunter profession, and I feel like there should definitely be more. There are people like Jaune who didn’t make the cut but accepted that, we can only assume that there are drop outs too, so like... How many kids are there actually in a year at Beacon? I mean, look at where the Relics were found in the forest during initiation at Beacon.

This gives us a rough idea of how many people are in each year at Beacon. Assuming everyone graduates school and there’s no drop outs and no deaths, that’s a graduating class of twenty. That’s a very small number, comparatively. The job of a Hunter is dangerous. We know of Hunters that died (Summer, Pyrrha, Amber.) We know a lot of Hunters that have other jobs that take a lot of their time (Glynda, Ozpin, Robyn,) and lots of people who quit being Hunters too (Maria, Tai, Raven,) and Hunters who aren’t always on the field like Qrow who was a teacher for a stretch and acted as Ozpin’s spy, the Ace Ops who became part of Ironwood’s inner circle and therefore had a bigger picture, and even all of Team RWBYJNR, who got their Hunter licenses but are also more concerned with bigger picture stuff (if you don’t believe me just look at volume eight where JRY stopped defending Mantle to go rescue Oscar, and Team RWBN + Penny, who were involved in big picture stuff like launching Amity and then saving Penny the Maiden/their friend.) So out of a class of twenty, how many of them are even staying on the field? For a show pushing the narrative that Hunters are the ultimate saviors who are the only true good defense for the world, that condemns even the notion of an army... Like they villainized sending Team FNKI onto the battlefield while also treating it like proof of Ironwood’s evil when he didn’t want to stay and fight when Team RWBY said to, and also made Ironwood’s desire to move into having a robotic army to get soldiers off of the battlefield part of his... Over reliance on machinery, which is full on suspicious considering their ableism towards Ironwood and the fact that he literally has to rely on machinery, but that’s a topic for a different post and this one is already so long. But yeah, my point is that we’re meant to see the army as bad. So if we’re meant to see Hunters as the only true and pure form of defense (which is already off because we know it’s corrupted,) there ought to be way more people in the Hunter field.

As for the schools, we only know of a couple of schools that exist outside of RWBY as combat schools that seem to act as basic training before people go to Beacon. We know of Signal, the school Ruby and Yang went to that Qrow was a teacher at for awhile (I have lots of teacher Qrow headcanons, but sadly Qrow being a teacher wasn’t very well explored,) and we also know of Sanctum in Mistral and (in the EU) Oscuro in Vacuo, presumably one of these existing in Atlas as well. I personally headcanon that there are a lot of these smaller combat schools littering the whole of Remnant (but then again, I also headcanon that the Kingdoms of Remnant are bigger than just one very large city, lol) and that a lot of people attend these schools even if they don’t go on to join one of the Hunter Academies, but this isn’t necessarily supported by canon, I think. But as for other schools...I think it’s fair to assume that there are at least elementary schools, since everyone can read, write, and presumably do basic math, and what we do know is that Ilia went to a prep school in Atlas (which was info dropped in Blake’s pre-V5 trailer, not even stated in the show proper,) so we can probably safely say that people who don’t go to the Huntsman academies go to some form of high school, but you’re right that we don’t see this actually in action. I personally always headcanon that Whitley had a tutor, since Jacques wanted to avoid too much outside influence.

I am so sorry that this response got so away from me and I myself got into so many rabbit holes as well. XD I just have a lot to say about the world building in RWBY (or sometimes lack thereof.) Although I admit that I’m not as into or as good at analyzing as blogs like why-i-hate-rwby-now, but yeah, this is... A very long post. Sorry!

[notapaladin]

Obsidian and Blood, an overview

Do you like fantasy? Do you like mysteries? Do you like Mesoamerican mythology? Do you like ALL OF THOSE THINGS TOGETHER, set against the lush backdrop of Tenochtitlan in 1480? (Or maybe you just want to know more about the series I have been going feral over since August.) Then buckle up, because oh boy have I got a series for you!

*drumroll, please*

OBSIDIAN AND BLOOD, written by Aliette de Bodard (better known for her Xuya and Dominion of the Fallen series)

There are two kinds of people: Those who see the words “Aztec fantasy/murder mysteries set in very well-researched 1480s Tenochtitlan BUT WITH MAGIC, investigated by the HIGH PRIEST OF THE GOD OF DEATH” and immediately ran off to buy them, and those who clearly need convincing. So here I am, shamelessly plugging my new hyperfixation!

Obsidian and Blood consists of three semi-standalone novels and three (free!) prequel short stories, all featuring 30-year-old Acatl as our first-person POV mystery solver. Acatl is not, however, your average historical detective; aside from being set firmly in Tenochtitlan in 1480 with all that implies re. the acceptability of slavery and human sacrifice, he also is the High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli in a universe where the gods regularly meddle in mortal affairs and magic spells are powered largely by rituals and blood—animal, human, or your own. You’d think this would make Acatl really, really good at solving murders, but you’d be wrong. He is the least of the Triple Alliance’s three High Priests, and his god doesn’t come at his servant’s beck and call. Not to mention the other gods, who have their own deadly agendas. That’s not even getting into the people around him, who might be the most dangerous of all. Luckily, he has more allies than he thinks—if he has the strength to actually reach out to them and admit he could use the help!

(He doesn’t need to reach out to his student Teomitl. Teomitl, a confident young warrior of imperial blood, keeps volunteering. This gives Acatl roughly one heart attack per book.)

You will like them if…

I did just say “magic murder mysteries in 1480s Tenochtitlan,” right? It’s real Precolumbian Mexico hours up in here! The history of the Aztec Empire and their Triple Alliance actually forms multiple key plot points throughout the series!

you’re into Aztec history/culture in general

if a DnD fan, you are REALLY into the Raven Queen

you think blood magic is super cool and wish it wasn’t treated as the realm of The Bad Guys

you get incredibly hyped over lesser-known mythologies treated respectfully but also very awesomely (the thing where the Aztecs thought human sacrifice kept the sun in the sky? Yeah, in this universe it is literally true and plot-relevant)

you are big into chaste heroes, lots of snarky asides, highly opinionated narrators who let their own prejudices destroy them, “from an outside perspective this is cosmic horror but for the characters it is a Tuesday,” mysteries with twists you will NOT see coming, and themes of trauma/memories/family legacies

you love reading about dysfunctional family relationships in various states of repair/further destruction

you’ve ever thought “hey this historical mystery is cool but what if there was MAGIC”

you like noir detective stories but want them with magic

you like urban fantasy but want them to have historical settings instead of vaguely modern-day ones

Plot/character summaries below!

SHORT STORIES (prequels to the novels, blurbs by me)

Obsidian Shards

Warriors have been found dead in the town of Colhuacan, obsidian shards embedded in their hearts. Acatl, priest of Mictlantecuhtli, suspects a creature of the Underworld—one he already calls a foe, for it slew his first and last apprentice.

Beneath the Mask

In the Tenochtitlan suburb of Coyoacan, Acatl’s childhood friend Huchimitl begs him to save her only son’s war captive; the man whose sacrifice will make the boy a proper warrior is paralyzed from an unknown curse, unable even to rise from the floor. But who could have cursed him, and is it connected to the mask Huchimitl now wears?

Safe, Child, Safe

A toddler is slowly wasting away, the mark of the Underworld on him, and Acatl is tasked with finding the cause. But no creature of the Underworld kills so slowly, and so Acatl must turn his investigation to the living.

THE BOOKS (blurbs taken directly from the book listings, you don’t HAVE to read them in order but I do recommend it)

Servant of the Underworld

Year One-Knife, Tenochtitlan; the capital of the Mexica Empire. Human sacrifice and the magic of living blood are the only things keeping the sun in the sky and the earth fertile. A Priestess disappears from an empty room drenched in blood. It should be a usual investigation for Acatl, High Priest of the Dead—except that his estranged brother is involved, and the more he digs, the deeper he is drawn into the political and magical intrigues of noblemen, soldiers, and priests—and of the gods themselves...

(Neutemoc: I didn't mean to sleep with her! It was an accident! Acatl: I don't understand. Did you trip?) (Acatl: I don't want a new apprentice! Teomitl: :D? Acatl: ...I will make an exception)

Harbinger of the Storm

The year is Two House, and the Emperor of the Mexica has just died. The protections he afforded the Empire are crumbling, and the way lies wide open to flesh-eating star-demons—and to the return of their creator, a malevolent goddess only held in check by the War God's power. The council should convene to choose a new Emperor, but they are too busy plotting against each other. And then someone starts summoning star-demons within the palace, to kill councilmen...Acatl, High Priest of the Dead, must find the culprit before everything is torn apart.

(Teomitl: I've only had Acatl and Mihmatini for a year, but if anything happens to them I'll kill everyone in this room and then myself) (Quenami: Playing With The Big Boys.mp3)

Master of the House of Darts

The year is Three Rabbit, and the storm is coming. The Mexica Empire now has a new Emperor, but his coronation war has just ended in a failure: the armies have retreated with a paltry forty prisoners of war, not near enough sacrifices to satisfy the gods. Acatl, High Priest for the Dead, has no desire to involve himself yet again in the intrigues of the powerful. However, when one of the prisoners dies of a magical illness, he has little choice but to investigate. For it is only one death, but it will not be the last. As the bodies pile up and the imperial court tears itself apart, dragging Teomitl, Acatl's beloved student, into the eye of the storm, the High Priest for the Dead is going to have to choose whom he can afford to trust; and where, in the end, his loyalties ultimately lie...

(Teomitl: I am no longer Baby I want Power) (Acatl, to Teomitl: What have you got there? Nezahual, gleefully: A coup! Acatl: NO!)

THE MAIN CHARACTERS (in order of appearance)

ACATL “By my face and by my heart, I’ll bring you justice.” High Priest of Mictlantecuhtli, god of death and the underworld. As such, his duties include both the obvious ones of arranging funerals and standing vigils for the dead, and the less obvious ones of investigating magical crimes and keeping the boundaries between the heavens, Earth, and the underworld intact. When Servant of the Underworld begins, he’s only recently been promoted and hates it. Has a strained relationship with his living family, due largely to not having lived up to his (dead) parents’ desires for him to become a warrior like his brother Neutemoc. Bitter, cynical, and grumpy, but devoted to justice and fairness.

Has an official character sheet.

CEYAXOCHITL “Everyone has to grow up and take responsibilities. Even small, humble priests.” Guardian of the Sacred Precinct and wielder of the power of the Duality (Ometeotl), which makes her the sworn protector of the Mexica Empire and its Revered Speaker from all sorts of mainly-magical threats. Somewhat past middle age but still very strong in her magical abilities, and something of an antagonistic mentor to Acatl. (She nominated him for the position of High Priest. He is not appreciative.) Serious and devoted to her duty, with a keen eye for potential in others. Dies in Harbinger of the Storm and you WILL cry.

NEUTEMOC “Priests hide and run away. Warriors don’t.” Acatl’s older brother, a Jaguar Knight with five children and a failing marriage. Resents Acatl for not helping to support their aging parents by becoming a warrior like he did. The central suspect during most of Servant of the Underworld’s plot, though by the end he and Acatl have begun to repair their relationship. He is strict, stern, and bitter, but truly loves his family. (In the case of his younger brother, that love is buried very deep down.)

TEOMITL “If we don’t believe in ourselves, who is going to?” Acatl’s student, an enthusiastic warrior who yearns to prove himself worthy of his power and noble rank, as well as live up to the memory of the mother who died birthing him. During Servant of the Underworld he swears himself to Chalchiuhtlicue, goddess of fresh water and lakes, gaining (among other things) command over the man-eating water monsters called ahuitzotls. He is courting Mihmatini during Harbinger of the Storm; by the time Master of the House of Darts takes place, they are married. He is abrasive and proud, but also honest, loyal, and brave. And very, very ambitious. You will want to punch him several times. This is normal. (Also, I will swear that it's not just my ship-goggles being on too tight that has me thinking his relationship with Acatl is much more weighty and personal than the one he has with his ACTUAL WIFE.)

MIHMATINI “Better laugh, and smile at the flowers and jade. Life is too short to be spent grieving.” Acatl and Neutemoc’s youngest sister, a powerful magic-user who finds herself thrust into the position of Guardian during Harbinger of the Storm. Though she has no great ambitions herself—she mostly just wants to be a mother and raise children—she is ferociously protective of her family and will fight anything that threatens them. Even themselves. (Especially themselves.) Kind, caring, and light-hearted, but her acid tongue and sharp temper are not to be dismissed. "Fuck Around And Find Out" given human form.

ACAMAPICHTLI “We have always endured.” High priest of Tlaloc and a reoccurring thorn in Acatl’s side. Though he’s primarily out for his own gain and has no patience for Acatl’s refusal to play on the field of Imperial politics, they eventually form something like an uneasy truce following the end of Harbinger of the Storm. He is snarky and sardonic, but truly cares for his clergy. During Master of the House of Darts he somehow became one of my favorite characters.

TIZOC "I've always known that priests couldn't be trusted. You have just exceeded my expectations." Teomitl’s older brother, first Master of the House of Darts and then Revered Speaker. (Look, it’s not a spoiler if you can Google it.) He is cowardly, ambitious, and the closest thing this series has to an overarching antagonist. Among other things, tries to have Acatl executed during Harbinger of the Storm. Events at the end of that book only manage to make him measurably worse. "Ah There He Is, That Motherfucker, What A Tool" #1.

QUENAMI “Oh, Acatl. Such lack of tact. You are so unsuited for the Court.” High Priest of Huitzilpochtli, appointed by Tizoc between Servant of the Underworld and Harbinger of the Storm. Comes from a noble family, and is much better at diplomacy and playing politics than he is at magic. When push comes to shove, however, he can display some surprising determination. He is arrogant, scheming, and takes joy in cutting Acatl down, but presumably has some good qualities...somewhere. "Ah There He Is, That Motherfucker, What A Tool" #2.

Maps of the series’ primary setting

Setting Primers

Official Character Index

Glossary

[mjvnivsbrvtvs]

hi! so we have established at this point that you have A Lot Of thoughts about antony and brutus. but how does caesar (julius, not the little bitch octavian) play into that? bc like. my knowledge and impression of them is very limited and mainly constructed from watching hbo rome and idk. i think it'd be fun to throw caesar in the mix. love all the art and writing on your blog btw! have a nice day.

Hey, okay! So this used to be over 30 pages long (Machiavelli and Caligula got involved and that's when things got out of hand), but through the power of friendship and two late night writing dates fueled by coffee, I’ve cut it way down to under 10. Many thanks to the people who listened to me ramble about it at length, and also to a dear friend for helping me cut this down to under ten pages!

Also, thank you! I'm glad you enjoy the stuff I make! It makes me very happy to hear that!

And quickly, a Disclaimer: I’m not an academic, I’m not a classicist, I’m not a historian, and I spend a lot of time very stressed out that I’ve tricked people into thinking I’m someone who has any kind of merit in this area. It's probably best to treat this as an abstract character analysis!

On the other hand, I love talking about dead men, so, with enthusiasm, here we go!

For this, I’m going to cut Shakespeare and HBO Rome out of the framework and focus more on a historical spin.

Caesar is a combination of a manipulator and a catalyst. A Bad Omen. The remaining wound that’s poisoning Rome.

Cassius gets a lot of the blame for Brutus’ turn to assassination, but it overlooks that Brutus was already inclined towards political ambition, as were most men involved in the political landscape of the time.

Furthermore, although Sulla had actually raised the number of praetorships available from six to eight, there were still only two consulships available. There was always the chance that death or disgrace might remove some of the competition and hence ease the bottleneck. But, otherwise, it was at the top of the ladder that the competition was particularly fierce: whereas in previous years one in three praetors would have gone on to become consul, from the 80s BC onwards the chances were one in four. For the senators who had made it this far, it mattered that they should try to achieve their consulship in the earliest year allowed to them by law. To fail in this goal once was humiliating; to fail at the polls twice would be deemed a signal disgrace for a man like Brutus.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

The way Caesar offered Brutus political power the way that he did, and Brutus accepting it, locked them into the assassination outcome.

Here is a man who’s built his entire image around honor and liberty and virtu, around being a staunch defender of morals and the republic

In these heated circumstances, Brutus composed a bitter tract On the Dictatorship of Pompey (De Dictatura Pompei), in which he staunchly opposed the idea of giving Pompey such a position of power. ‘It is better to rule no one than to be another man’s slave’, runs one of the only snippets of this composition to survive today: ‘for one can live honourably without power’, Brutus explained, ‘but to live as a slave is impossible’. In other words, Brutus believed it would be better for the Senate to have no imperial power at all than to have imperium and be subject to Pompey’s whim.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

and you give him political advancement, but without the honor needed for this advancement to mean anything?

At the same time, however, Brutus had gained his position via extremely un-republican means: appointment by a dictator rather than election by the people. As the name of the famous career path, the cursus honorum, suggests, political office was perceived as an honour at Rome. But it was one which had to be bestowed by the populus Romanus in recognition of a man’s dignitas.69 In other words, a man’s ‘worth’ or ‘standing’ was only really demonstrated by his prior services to the state and his moral qualities, and that was what was needed to gain public recognition. Brutus had got it wrong. As Cicero not too subtly reminded him in the treatise he dedicated to Brutus: ‘Honour is the reward for virtue in the considered opinion of the citizenry.’ But the man who gains power (imperium) by some other circumstance, or even against the will of the people, he continues, ‘has laid his hands only on the title of honour, but it is not real honour’.70

Brutus may have secured political office, then, but he had not done so honourably; nor had he acted in a manner that would earn him a reputation for virtue or everlasting fame.

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

Brutus in the image that he fashioned for himself was not compatible with the way Caesar was setting him up to be a political successor, and there was really never going to be any other outcome than the one that happened.

The Brutus of Shakespeare and Plutarch’s greatest tragedy was that he was pushed into something he wouldn’t have done otherwise. The Brutus of history’s greatest tragedy was accepting Caesar’s forgiveness after the Caesar-Pompey conflict, and then selling out for political ambition, because Caesar's forgiveness is not benevolent.

Rather than have his enemies killed, he offered them mercy or clemency -- clementia in Latin. As Caesar wrote to his advisors, “Let this be our new method of conquering -- to fortify ourselves by mercy and generosity.” Caesar pardoned most of his enemies and forbore confiscating their property. He even promoted some of them to high public office.

This policy won him praise from no less a figure than Marcus Tullius Cicero, who described him in a letter to Aulus Caecina as “mild and merciful by nature.” But Caecina knew a thing or two about dictators, since he’d had to publish a flattering book about Caesar in order to win his pardon after having opposed him in the civil war. Caecina and other beneficiaries of Caesar’s unusual clemency took it in a far more ambivalent way. To begin with, most of them were, like Caesar, Roman nobles. Theirs was a culture of honor and status; asking a peer for a pardon was a serious humiliation. So Caesar’s “very power of granting favors weighed heavily on free people,” as Florus, a historian and panegyrist of Rome, wrote about two centuries after the dictator’s death. One prominent noble, in fact, ostentatiously refused Caesar’s clemency. Marcius Porcius Cato, also known as Cato the Younger, was a determined opponent of populist politics and Caesar’s most bitter foe. They had clashed years earlier over Caesar’s desire to show mercy to the Catiline conspirators; Cato argued vigorously for capital punishment and convinced the Senate to execute them. Now he preferred death to Caesar’s pardon. “I am unwilling to be under obligations to the tyrant for his illegal acts,” Cato said; he told his son, "I, who have been brought up in freedom, with the right of free speech, cannot in my old age change and learn slavery instead.

-Barry Strauss, Caesar and the Dangers of Forgiveness

something else that's a fun adjacent to the topic that's fun to think about:

The link between ‘sparing’ and ‘handing over’ is common in the ancient world.763 Paul also uses παραδίδωμι again, denoting ‘hand over, give up a person’ (Bauer et al. 2000:762).764 The verb παραδίδωμι especially occurs in connection with war (Eschner 2010b:197; Gaventa 2011:272).765 However, in Romans 8:32, Paul uses παραδίδωμι to focus on a court image (Eschner 2010b:201).766 Christina Eschner (2010b:197) convincingly argues that Paul’s use of παραδίδωμι refers to the ‘Hingabeformulierungen’ as the combination of the personal object of the handing over of a person in the violence of another person, especially the handing over of a person to an enemy.767 Moreover, Eschner (2009:676) convincingly argues that Isaiah 53 is not the pre-tradition for Romans 8:32.

Annette Potgieter, Contested Body: Metaphors of dominion in Romans 5-8

Along with the internal conflict of Pompey, the murderer of Brutus’ father, and Caesar, the figurehead for everything that goes against what Brutus stands for, Brutus accepting Caesar’s forgiveness isn’t an act of benevolence, regardless of Caesar’s intentions.

On wards, Caesar owns Brutus. Caesar benefits from having Brutus as his own, he inherits Brutus’ reputation, he inherits a better PR image in the eyes of the Roman people. On wards, nothing Brutus does is without the ugly stain of Caesar. His career is no longer his own, his life is no longer fully his own, his legacy is no longer entirely his. Brutus becomes a man divided.

And it’s not like it was an internal struggle, it was an entire spectacle. Hypocrisy is theatrical. Call yourself a man of honor and then you sell out? The people of Rome will remember that, and they’re going to make sure you know it.

After this certain men at the elections proposed for consuls the tribunes previously mentioned, and they not only privately approached Marcus Brutus and such other persons as were proud-spirited and attempted to persuade them, but also tried to incite them to action publicly. 12 1 Making the most of his having the same name as the great Brutus who overthrew the Tarquins, they scattered broadcast many pamphlets, declaring that he was not truly that man's descendant; for the older Brutus had put to death both his sons, the only ones he had, when they were mere lads, and left no offspring whatever. 2 Nevertheless, the majority pretended to accept such a relationship, in order that Brutus, as a kinsman of that famous man, might be induced to perform deeds as great. They kept continually calling upon him, shouting out "Brutus, Brutus!" and adding further "We need a Brutus." 3 Finally on the statue of the early Brutus they wrote "Would that thou wert living!" and upon the tribunal of the living Brutus (for he was praetor at the time and this is the name given to the seat on which the praetor sits in judgment) "Brutus, thou sleepest," and "Thou art not Brutus."

Cassius Dio

Brutus knew. Cassius knew. Caesar knew. You can’t escape your legacy when you’re the one who stamped it on coins.

Caesar turned Brutus into the dagger that would cut, and Brutus himself isn’t free from this injury. It’s a mutual betrayal, a mutual dooming.

By this time Caesar found himself being attacked from every side, and as he glanced around to see if he could force a way through his attackers, he saw Brutus closing in upon him with his dagger drawn. At this he let go of Casca’s hand which he had seized, muffled up his head in his robe, and yielded up his body to his murderers’ blows. Then the conspirators flung themselves upon him with such a frenzy of violence, as they hacked away with their daggers, that they even wounded one another. Brutus received a stab in the hand as he tried to play his part in the slaughter, and every one of them was drenched in blood.

Plutarch

For Antony, Caesar is a bad sign.

Brutus and Antony are fucked over by the generation they were born in, etc etc the cannibalization of Rome on itself, the Third Servile War was the match to the gasoline already on the streets of Rome, the last generation of Romans etc etc etc. They are counterparts to each other, displaced representatives of a time already gone by the time they were alive.

Rome spends its years in a state of civil war after civil war, political upheaval, and death. Neither Brutus or Antony will ever really know stability, as instability is hallmark of the times. Both of them are at something of a disadvantage, although Brutus has what Antony does not, and what Brutus has is what let’s him create his own career. Until Caesar, Brutus is owned by no one.

This is not the case for Antony.

You can track Antony’s life by who he’s attached to. Very rarely is he ever truly a man unto himself, there is always someone nearby.

In his youth, it is said, Antony gave promise of a brilliant future, but then he became a close friend of Curio and this association seems to have fallen like a blight upon his career. Curio was a man who had become wholly enslaved to the demands of pleasure, and in order to make Antony more pliable to his will, he plunged him into a life of drinking bouts, love-affairs, and reckless spending. The consequence was that Antony quickly ran up debts of an enormous size for so young a man, the sum involved being two hundred and fifty talents. Curio provided security for the whole of this amount, but his father heard of it and forbade Antony his house. Antony then attached himself for a short while to Clodius, the most notorious of all the demagogues of his time for his lawlessness and loose-living, and took part in the campaigns of violence which at that time were throwing political affairs at Rome into chaos.

Plutarch

(although, in contrast to Brutus, we rarely lose sight of Antony. As a person, we can see him with a kind of clarity, if one looks a little bit past the Augustan propaganda. He is, at all times, human.)

Antony being figuratively or literally attached to a person starts early, and continues politically. While Brutus has enough privilege to brute force his way into politics despite Cicero’s lamentation of a promising life being thrown off course, Antony will instead follow a different career path that echoes in his personal life and defines his relationships.

Whereas some young men often attached or indebted themselves to a patron or a military leader at the beginning of their political lives,

Kathryn Tempest, Brutus the Noble Conspirator

+

3. During his stay in Greece he was invited by Gabinius, a man of consular rank, to accompany the Roman force which was about to sail for Syria. Antony declined to join him in a private capacity, but when he was offered the command of the cavalry he agreed to serve in the campaign.

Plutarch

To take it a step further, it even defines how he’s perceived today looking back: it’s never just Antony, it’s always Antony and---

It can be read as someone being taken advantage of, in places, survival in others, especially in Antony's early life. Other times, it appears like Antony himself is the one who manipulates things to his favor, casting aside people and realigning himself back to an advantage.

or when he saw an opportunity for faster advancement, he was willing to place the blame on a convenient scapegoat or to disregard previous loyalties, however important they had been. His desertion of Fulvia's memory in 40, and, much later, of Lepidus, Sextus Pompey, and Octavia, produced significant political gains. This characteristic, which Caesar discovered to his cost in 47, gives the sharp edge to Antony's personality which Syme's portrait lacks, especially when he attributes Antony's actions to a 'sentiment of loyalty' or describes him as a 'frank and chivalrous soldier'. In this context, one wonders what became of Fadia.19

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 47 B.C.

Caesar inherits Antony, and like Brutus, locks him in for a doomed ending.

The way Caesar writes about Antony smacks of someone viewing another person as something more akin to a dog, and it carries over until it’s bitter conclusion.

Caesar benefits from Antony immensely. The people love Antony, the military loves Antony. He’s charming, he’s self aware, he’s good at what he does. Above all of that, he has political ambitions of a similar passion as Brutus.

Antony drew some political benefit from his genial personality. Even Cicero, who from at least 49 did not like him,15 was prepared to regard some of his earlier misdemeanours as harmless.16 Bluff good humour, moderate intelligence, at least a passing interest in literature, and an ability to be the life and soul of a social gathering all contributed to make him a charming companion and to bind many important people to him. He had a lieutenant's ability to follow orders and a willingness to listen to advice, even (one might say especially) from intelligent women.17 These attributes made Antony able to handle some situations very well."1

There was a more important side to his personality, however, which contributed to his political survival. Antony was ruthless in his quest for pre-eminence

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

None of this matters, because after all Antony does for Caesar

Plutarch's comment that Curio brought Antony into Caesar's camp is surely mistaken.59 Anthony had been serving as Caesar's officer from perhaps as early as 53, after his return from Syria.60 He is described as legatus in late 52,61 and was later well known as Caesar's quaestor.62 It is more likely that the reverse of the statement is true, that Antony assisted in bringing Curio over to Caesar. If this were so, then he performed a signal service for Caesar, for gaining Curio meant attaching Fulvia, who provided direct access to the Clodian clientela in the city. Such valuable political connections served to increase Antony's standing with Caesar, and to set him apart from other officers in his army.63

Kathryn E Welch , Antony, Fulvia, and the Ghost of Clodius in 477 B.C.

Caesar still, for whatever reasons, fucks over Antony spectacularly with the will. Loyalty is repaid with dismissal, and it will bury the Republic for good.

It’s not enough for Caesar to screw him over just once, it becomes generational and ugly. Caesar lives on through Octavian: it becomes Octavian’s brand, his motif, propaganda wielded like a knife. Octavian, thanks to Caesar, will bring Antony to his bitter conclusion

And for my "bitter" conclusion, I’ll sign off by saying that there are actual scholars on Antony who are more well versed than I am who can go into depth about the Caesar-Octavian-Antony dynamic (and how it played out with Caligula) better than I can, and scholarship on Brutus consists mostly of looking at an outline of a man and trying to guess what the inside was like.

At the end of the day, Caesar was the instigator, active manipulator, and catalyst for the final act of the Republic.

I hope that this was at least entertaining to read!

[lastsonlost]

All this over the Japanese liking a game they don't like...

Ghost of Tsushima opens with a grand wide shot of samurai, adorned with impressively detailed suits of armor, sitting atop their horses. There we find Jin, the protagonist, ruminating on how he will die for his country. As he traverses Tsushima, our hero fights back the invading Mongolian army to protect his people, and wrestles with the tenets of the Bushido code. Standoffs take advantage of perspective and a wide field of view to frame both the samurai and his opponent in something that, more often than not, feels truly cinematic. The artists behind the game have an equally impeccable reference point for the visuals: the works of legendary filmmaker Akira Kurosawa

“We really wanted to pay respect to the fact that this game is so totally inspired by the work of this master,” director Nate Fox said in a recent interview with IndieWire. At Entertainment Weekly, Fox explained how his team at Sucker Punch Productions suggested that the influence ran broadly, including the playable black-and-white “Kurosawa Mode” and even in picking a title. More specifically, he noted that Seven Samurai, one of Kurosawa’s most well-known works, defined Fox’s “concept of what a samurai is.” All of this work went toward the hope that players would “experience the game in a way as close to the source material as possible.”

But in embracing “Kurosawa” as an eponymous style for samurai adventures, the creatives behind Ghost of Tsushima enter into an arena of identity and cultural understanding that they never grapple with. The conversation surrounding samurai did not begin or end with Kurosawa’s films, as Japan’s current political forces continue to reinterpret history for their own benefit.

Kurosawa earned a reputation for samurai films as he worked steadily from 1943 to 1993. Opinions of the director in Japan are largely mixed; criticism ranges from the discussion of his family background coming from generations of samurai to accusations of pandering to Western audiences. Whether intentional or not, Kurosawa became the face of Japanese film in the critical circles of the 1950s. But he wasn’t just a samurai stylist: Many of the director’s films frame themselves around a central conflict of personal ideology in the face of violence that often goes without answer — and not always through the lives of samurai. In works like Drunken Angel, The Quiet Duel, or his 1944 propaganda film The Most Beautiful, Kurosawa tackles the interpersonal struggles of characters dealing with sickness, alcoholism, and other challenges.

His films endure today, and not just through critical preservation; since breaking through to the West, his visual ideas and themes have become fodder for reinterpretation. You can see this keenly in Western cinema through films like The Magnificent Seven, whose narrative was largely inspired by Seven Samurai. Or even A Fistful of Dollars, a Western epic that cleaved so closely to Kurosawa’s Yojimbo that director Sergio Leone ended up in a lawsuit with Toho Productions over rights issues. George Lucas turned to Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress in preparation for Star Wars; he’d eventually repay Kurosawa by helping to produce his surreal drama Dreams.

Ghost of Tsushima is part of that lineage, packing in action and drama to echo Kurosawa’s legacy. “We will face death and defend our home,” Shimura, the Lord of Tsushima, says within the first few minutes of the game. “Tradition. Courage. Honor. These are what make us.” He rallies his men with this reminder of what comprises the belief of the samurai: They will die for their country, they will die for their people, but doing so will bring them honor. And honor, tradition, and courage, above all else, are what make the samurai.

Except that wasn’t always the belief, it wasn’t what Kurosawa bought whole cloth, and none of the message can be untangled from how center- and alt-right politicians in modern Japan talk about “the code” today.

The “modern” Bushido code — or rather, the interpretation of the Bushido code coined in the 1900s by Inazō Nitobe — was utilized in, and thus deeply ingrained into, Japanese military culture. An easy example of how the code influenced Imperial Japan’s military would be the kamikaze pilots, officially known as the Tokubetsu Kōgekitai. While these extremes (loyalty and honor until death, or capture) aren’t as present in the myth of the samurai that has ingrained itself into modern ultranationalist circles, they manifest in different yet still insidious ways.

In 2019, to celebrate the ushering in of the Reiwa Era, the conservative Liberal Democratic Party commissioned Final Fantasy artist Yoshitaka Amano to depict Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe as a samurai. Though described as being center-right, various members of the LDP have engaged in or have been in full support of historical revisionism, including the editing of textbooks to either soften or completely omit the language surrounding war crimes committed by Imperial Japan. Abe himself has been linked to supporting xenophobic curriculums, with his wife donating $9,000 to set up an ultranationalist school that pushed anti-Korean and anti-Chinese rhetoric. The prime minister is also a member of Japan’s ultraconservative Nippon Kaigi, which a U.S. congressional report on Japan-U.S. relations cited as one of several organizations that believe that “Japan should be applauded for liberating much of East Asia from Western colonial powers, that the 1946-1948 Tokyo War Crimes tribunals were illegitimate, and that the killings by Imperial Japanese troops during the 1937 ‘Nanjing massacre’ were exaggerated or fabricated.” The Nippon Kaigi, like Abe, have also pushed for the revision of Japan’s constitution — specifically, Article 9 — to allow Japan to reinstate its standing military.

This has been a major goal for Abe as his time as prime minister comes to a definite close in 2021. And from 2013 onward, the politician has made yearly trips to the Yasukuni shrine to honor the memory of war criminals, a status of which his own grandfather was accused, that died with the ethos of the modern Bushido code. Abe’s exoneration of these ideals has continued to spark reactionary nationalist sentiment, as illustrated with the Nippon Kaigi and their ultranationalist ideology. These traditionalist values have encouraged xenophobic sentiment in Japan, which was seen in the 2020 Tokyo elections with 178,784 votes going to Makoto Sakurai, leader of the Japan First Party, another ultranationalist group. Sakurai has participated in numerous hate speech demonstrations in Tokyo, often targeting Korean diaspora groups.

The preservation of the Bushido code that was highly popularized and utilized by Imperial Japan lives on through promotion by history revisionists, who elevate samurai to a status similar to that of the chivalric knight seen in Western media. They are portrayed as an honor-bound and noble group of people that cared deeply for the peasantry, when that was often not the case.

The samurai as a concept, versus who the samurai actually were, has become so deeply intertwined with Japanese imperialist beliefs that it has become difficult to separate the two. This is where cultural and historical understanding are important when approaching the mythology of the samurai as replicated in the West. Kurosawa’s later body of work — like the color-saturated Ran, which was a Japanese adaptation of King Lear, and Kagemusha, the story of a lower-class criminal impersonating a feudal lord — deeply criticized the samurai and the class system they enforced. While some films were inspired by Western plays, specifically Shakespeare, these works were critical of the samurai and their role in the Sengoku Period. They dismantled the notion of samurai by showing that they were a group of people capable of the same failings as the lower class, and were not bound to arbitrary notions of honor and chivalry.

Unlike Kurosawa’s blockbusters, his late-career critical message didn’t cross over with as much ease. In Western films like 2003’s The Last Samurai, the audience is presented with the picture of a venerable and noble samurai lord who cares only for his people and wants to preserve traditionalist values and ways of living. The portrait was, again, a highly romanticized and incorrect image of who these people were in feudal Japanese society. Other such works inspired by Kurosawa’s samurai in modern pop culture include Adult Swim’s animated production Samurai Jack and reinterpretations of his work like Seven Samurai 20XX developed by Dimps and Polygon Magic, which had also received the Kurosawa Estate’s blessing but resulted in a massive failure. The narratives of the lone ronin and the sharpshooter in American Westerns, for example, almost run in parallel.

Then there’s Ghost of Tsushima. Kurosawa’s work is littered with close-ups focused on capturing the emotionality of every individual actor’s performance, and panoramic shots showcasing sprawling environments or small feudal villages. Fox and his team recreate that. But after playing through the story of Jin, Ghost of Tsushima is as much of an homage to an Akira Kurosawa film as any general black-and-white film could be. The Kurosawa Mode in the game doesn’t necessarily reflect the director’s signatures, as the narrative hook and tropes found in Kurosawa’s work — and through much of the samurai film genre — are equally as important as the framing of specific shots.

“I don’t think a lot of white Western academics have the context to talk about Japanese national identity,” Tori Huynh, a Vietnamese woman and art director in Los Angeles, said about the Western discussion of Kurosawa’s aesthetic. “Their context for Japanese nationalism will be very different from Japanese and other Asian people. My experience with Orientalism in film itself is, that there is a really weird fascination with Japanese suffering and guilt, which is focused on in academic circles … I don’t think there is anything wrong with referencing his aesthetic. But that’s a very different conversation when referencing his ideology.”

Ghost of Tsushima features beautifully framed shots before duels that illustrate the tension between Jin and whomever he’s about to face off against, usually in areas populated by floating lanterns or vibrant and colorful flowers. The shots clearly draw inspiration from Kurosawa films, but these moments are usually preceded by a misunderstanding on Jin’s part — stumbling into a situation he’d otherwise have no business participating in if it weren’t for laid-out side quests to get mythical sword techniques or armor. Issues like this undermine the visual flair; the duels are repeated over and over in tedium as more of a set-piece than something that should have a component of storytelling and add tension to the narrative.

Fox and Sucker Punch’s game lacks a script that can see the samurai as Japanese society’s violent landlords. Instead of examining the samurai’s role, Ghost of Tsushima lionizes their existence as the true protectors of feudal Japan. Jin must protect and reclaim Tsushima from the foreign invaders. He must defend the peasantry from errant bandits taking advantage of the turmoil currently engulfing the island. Even if that means that the samurai in question must discard his sense of honor, or moral righteousness, to stoop to the level of the invading forces he must defeat.

Jin’s honor and the cost of the lives he must protect are in constant battle, until this struggle no longer becomes important to the story, and his tale whittles down to an inevitable and morally murky end. To what lengths will he go to preserve his own honor, as well as that of those around him? Ghost of Tsushima asks these questions without a truly introspective look at what that entails in relation to the very concept of the samurai and their Bushido code. This manifests in flashbacks to Jin’s uncle, Shimura, reprimanding him for taking the coward’s path when doing his first assassination outside of forced stealth segments. Or in story beats where the Khan of the opposing Mongol force informs Shimura that Jin has been stabbing enemies in the back. Even if you could avoid participating in these systems, the narrative is fixated on Jin’s struggle with maintaining his honor while ultimately trying to serve his people.

I do not believe Ghost of Tsushima was designed to empower a nationalist fantasy. At a glance, and through my time playing the game, however, it feels like it was made by outsiders looking into an otherwise complex culture through the flattening lens of an old black-and-white film. The gameplay is slick and the hero moments are grand, but the game lacks the nuance and understanding of what it ultimately tries to reference. As it stands, being a cool pseudo-historical drama is, indeed, what Ghost of Tsushima’s creators seemingly aimed to accomplish. In an interview with Famitsu, Chris Zimmerman of Sucker Punch said that “if Japanese players think the game is cool, or like a historical drama, then that’s a compliment.” And if there is one thing Ghost of Tsushima did succeed in, it was creating a “cool” aesthetic — encompassed by one-on-one showdowns with a lot of cinematic framing.

In an interview with The Verge, Fox said that “our game is inspired by history, but we’re not strictly historically accurate.” That’s keenly felt throughout the story and in its portrayal of the samurai. The imagery and iconography of the samurai carry a burden that Sucker Punch perhaps did not reckon with during the creation of Ghost of Tsushima. While the game doesn’t have to remain true to the events that transpired in Tsushima, the symbol of the samurai propagates a nationalist message by presenting a glossed-over retelling of that same history. Were, at any point, Ghost of Tsushima to wrestle with the internal conflict between the various class systems that existed in Japan at the time, it might have been truer to the films that it draws deep inspiration from. However, Ghost of Tsushima is what it set out to be: a “cool” period piece that doesn’t dwell on the reasonings or intricacies of the existing period pieces it references.

A game that so heavily carries itself on the laurels of one of the most prolific Japanese filmmakers should investigate and reflect on his work in the same way that the audience engages with other pieces of media like film and literature. What is the intent of the creator versus the work’s broader meaning in relation to current events, or the history of the culture that is ultimately serving as a backdrop to yet another open-world romp? And how do these things intertwine and create something that can flirt on an edge of misunderstanding? Ghost of Tsushima is a surface-level reflection of these questions and quandaries, sporting a lens through which to experience Kurosawa, but not to understand his work. It ultimately doesn’t deal with the politics of the country it uses as a backdrop. For the makers of the game, recreating Kurosawa is just black and white.

[hersheykise]

Jonathan Joestar’s Spotify Playlist

Hello and welcome to the beginning of a series (or projected to be ahaha) that has to do with Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure characters and their own personalized playlists! I’ll be listing the track list and then will be going more in depth as to why I chose these particular songs for Jonathan’s playlist. The top part will not have spoilers, but be aware that the second part will so read at your own will! For the first playlist, we have none other than Jonathan Joestar, the original Jojo!

💿✨Track list✨💿

01. Jojo (Sono Chi no Sadame), Hiroaki Tommy Tominaga

02. BREATHE, AB6IX

03. breathin, Ariana Grande

04. We Belong, Ong Seong Wu

05. My Heart Will Go On, Céline Dion

06. Silence, Marshmello ft. Khalid

07. Dollhouse, Melanie Martinez

08. London Boy, Taylor Swift

09. Needed Me, Rihanna

10. Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

11. Glorious, Macklemore ft. Skylar Grey

12. Fighter, Christina Aguilera

13. Classic, MKTO

14. Win, CIX

15. Blue Hour, TOMORROW X TOGETHER

In Depth (spoiler free)

🔹 Jojo (Sono Chi no Sadame), Hiroaki Tommy Tominaga

Sono Chi no Sadame is the first opening of Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure and is truly what sets up the stage for the rest of the series. Jonathan Joestar, being the first Jojo, begins the Jojo legacy in Phantom Blood. The song lyrics heavily foreshadow the future of the Jojo series and describes Jonathan as someone who has honor and always does what is right. Sono Chi no Sadame is a spectacular opening act to the unique concept of Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. *side note* Muscially speaking wow this song is incredibly good the crescendoes and frequent tempo changes as well as the instrumentals amaze me- this is easily my favorite Jojo opening.

🔹BREATHE, AB6IX

Hamon (also known as Ripple or Sendo) is a technique that heavily focuses on controlled breathing. Jonathan learned and mastered Hamon in a very short amount of time. BREATHE also has a very light feeling to it, making the song easy to listen to which connects to Jojo as he is a lighthearted and easy going guy.

🔹breathin, Ariana Grande

Likewise as BREATHE by AB6IX, breathin correlates to the Hamon technique that Jonathan used to fight. Adding onto that, Jonathan lived in a grand mansion and was very well off financially. This song has an elegant sound to it. Despite the wealth that he had, Jojo did not have the easiest childhood. Ever since Dio Brando began to live with him, Jonathan saw many mishaps occur with his relationships, reputation, and self esteem. But, Jonathan Joestar never gave up on his morals and values, and he always kept “breathin and breathin and breathin” no matter what, making sure he would always do the right thing.

🔹Silence, Marshmello ft. Khalid

Silence explains and describes Jonathan’s teenage years very well along with his relationship with Dio. Dio coming to live with Jonathan messed him up as Jonathan felt inferior to Dio who was taking the spotlight by being an amazing athlete and intelligent student. This prompted lots of praise from Jonathan’s father and comparing him to Dio constantly, which made Jonathan feel like he wasn’t worth as much. “I found peace in your violence” is a very meaningful line that contributes to Jonathan’s and Dio’s relationship because of the fact that Dio was... an extremely violent person ever since he was a kid and has done crazy evil things to Jonathan, yet Jonathan didn’t really hate Dio because of Jojo’s noble personality- Dio was Jonathan’s “brother,” therefore Jonathan couldn’t hate him. Jojo felt like he had to be silent over Dio’s actions because he didn’t want to spoil the love that his father gave to Dio, again proving how big of a heart Jonathan had.

🔹Dollhouse, Melanie Martinez

Dollhouse is a rather dark song, but is perfect to show off the darker side of Jonathan’s character. As we know, Jonathan is a young man who presents himself as well... perfect. He’s smart, incredibly kind and noble, rich, popular, and athletic. After Dio appeared and started to really turn things around for Jonathan, he had to continue to present the same image of himself even though his home life was becoming a wreck. His own father constantly scolded him and loved Dio to a great extent. “Pose with your brother won’t you be a good sister?” Jonathan knew that Dio’s actions were evil and he had ill intent at such a young age but Jojo had to go along with the act that Dio put on, faking the close brotherly relationship between them.

🔹London Boy, Taylor Swift

Sometimes I forget that Jonathan Joestar is in fact British. London Boy is a song for Jonathan not just because he lives in/by London, but also because the song describes a man who is just so sweet and has a beautiful laugh. The overall song is just so positive and loving towards this English boy. Every time I listen to this song I now think of Jonathan, and a smile always plasters on my face. Taylor Swift also has a lyric talking about watching rugby which reminded me of the iconic Jonathan and Dio rugby scene early in the story. Jonathan is such a respectful gentleman whom everyone just can’t help but fall in love with his lovely English charm.

🔷Line Without a Hook, Ricky Montgomery

After upon listening to this song, I felt like it really gave off Jonathan vibes because of the light but a tinge of melancholy sound to it. Thing song is quite reflective of Jonathan and Erina with the lyrics “I broke all my bones that day I found you crying at the lake” because it reminded me of when Jonathan first met Erina, who was being bullied by a couple of boys but Jonathan risked getting beaten up to stop the bullies from harming Erina. Later, Jonathan was laying on a hill with his dog Danny, feeling quite down because of none other than Dio, but Erina came and dropped off some grapes and his handkerchief and that was what really started off their relationship. The iconic line “she’s a, she’s a lady, and I am just a line without a hook” explains that Erina was Jonathan’s sole happiness in his life.

🔹Fighter, Christina Aguilera

Honestly, Dio really sucked (I still love him *sigh*). He wanted to completely destroy Jonathan’s life and make it absolutely miserable... for what? Well, despite the horrific actions that Dio performed to ruin Jonathan’s reputation and will, that ultimately backfired as Jonathan rose stronger than ever. Of course Jonathan was mad at Dio for his unspeakable actions, but because of him, he was able to have a certain drive where he gained immense strength in a short amount of time. William Zeppeli describes Jonathan as a Hamon prodigy because of how quickly Jojo was able to master it. Jojo was a natural, but again, he had that determination to defeat Dio once and for all. Despite the hardships Jonathan went through as a result of Dio’s decisions, Jonathan did not resent him in the end- Jojo became an extremely powerful individual because of his past.

🔹Classic, MKTO

In order to create a playlist for our favorite gentleman, it’s only necessary that we add a classic gentlemanly song to it! There’s not much of a deep gloomy reason why this song correlates with Jonathan, in fact it’s the complete opposite. Classic is a song that talks about being a classy and polite man, and to put it simply, Jonathan is exactly that.

🔹Win, CIX

From the God of High School soundtrack, Win is a song about fighting and training together as a team. This upbeat song greatly reminds me of the mini team of Jonathan Joestar, Speedwagon, and William Zeppeli all fighting against Dio and his minions together. Jonathan Joestar was not able to fight Dio without a hamon teacher, William, and an incredibly loyal friend, Speedwagon. This trio had great camaraderie and were overall an incredibly adorable and high morale team.

🔹Blue Hour, TXT

Ok so does this song really have a deep meaning or correlation to Jonathan Joestar? Nahhh not really, I just added it as a bit of a bonus. Blue Hour has an almost fairytale like vibe to it and I just thought it would be something that resonated with Jonathan, especially when he was a child. So, enjoy this little serotonin bonus boost!

⚠️Part 1 Spoilers⚠️

🔹We Belong, Ong Seong Wu

Jonathan’s and Erina’s relationship was very short... but sweet. We Belong is an emotional love song explaining how this one guy meets someone who is their entire world, like when Jonathan met Erina. Through Jojo’s darkest times when he felt like he lost everything, Erina was by his side no matter what. Even though their marriage was abruptly ended with the death of Jonathan, it doesn’t disregard the fact that Erina completely loved Jonathan and supported the Joestar family for the future generations to come. Jonathan and Erina truly belonged together.

🔹My Heart Will Go On, Céline Dion

My apologies, I’m absolutely in love with Jonathan’s and Erina’s relationship. My Heart Will Go On automatically reminds me of the last moments of Jonathan. Since the song was a part of the Titanic soundtrack where there’s a romance story and people die on a sinking ship, it really correlates to Erina and Jonathan going on their honeymoon but Jonathan ending up dead on the ship. Everytime I think of either the song or Jonathan’s and Erina’s last moments together, my heart feels heavy. Both the song and the scene are extremely high in emotions and both suit each other quite well.

🔹Needed Me, Rihanna

Dio killed Jonathan so that he could merge with Jojo’s body, and ultimately use it for evil and for power. “Never told you, you could have it,” symbolizes that Dio forcibly took everything Jonathan had, again including his own body. Although Jonathan would probably never say the lyrics of this song to Dio because he’s so noble, externally everyone knows that without Jonathan, Dio would have been absolutely nothing in Part 3.

🔹Glorious, Macklemore ft. Skylar Grey

The song Glorious questions oneself’s purpose in life, the answer being ‘give back to the people.’ Jonathan has proven that he has countlessly sacrificed himself for others, as was seen when he died on the ship and told Erina to take care of the orphaned baby and to “live a happy life.” Jonathan struggled greatly in his short life, but he always had the passion of helping others since he was born to do so.

🌟Conclusion🌟

Thank you for reading through my first ever blog on Tumblr! I hope you enjoyed the playlist and descriptions! Hopefully this playlist blog series will continue with majority of the main Jojo characters- that’s the plan. Have a good day and/or night💓!

[loruleanheart]

Desired Fate, Chapter 14

Read on ff.net

Read on AO3

Zelda and the others were transfixed as they looked up at the spirit of Calamity Ganon writhing around the castle. The anguish of all Hyrule hung stagnant in the air along with the ambient gurgling sound of malice.

"It's here…" Impa was the first one who managed to speak. "The Calamity has already begun…" She said, at a loss.

"No, No…." Zelda gasped when she noticed malice enter one of the nearby Guardians and became animate. It made a horrible mechanical sound as it turned its 'eye' towards the princess, a red laser appearing on Zelda's chest. Link immediately sprang into action, deflecting the Guardian's blast back at it in a brilliant flash of light.

"Calamity Ganon is taking control of the Guardians!" Zelda lamented. "It's going to turn them all against us!"

"It can do that?" Said Revali in surprise, realization starting to dawn on the Rito champion, as well as the three others. The Calamity was far more cunning than any of them had imagined.

"There are still more on the castle grounds. It's too dangerous. Everyone, protect the princess as we make our retreat!" Impa called.

"But…"

With that, Link grabbed Zelda's hand, pulling her roughly behind him as he ran down the brick path away from the Castle, which didn't go unnoticed by Astor, feeling an intense wave of sullenness he couldn't shake. They disappeared down the path and the Champions and Sheikah aide followed, no one paying him any mind in the frenzy the Calamity had created.

Astor remained, feeling out of sorts and alone, but determined to fully embrace his new destiny. Hyrule really was on its knees… Especially Zelda, who was being crushed under the weight of her duty. How had he ever been so blinded by Calamity Ganon to want this? To want to harm her? He had almost killed her for the sake of Calamity Ganon… HER! He was barely aware that his fists were clenched, wanting to make her his and spare her all this pain and suffering. The back of his neck was becoming sore as he glared up at the beast he'd once dedicated his life to serving. Calamity Ganon opened its maw to a right angle, and a thunderous roar of rage issued forth as if demanding the prophet make a blood sacrifice of himself to atone for his disloyalty.

Astor smiled up at the beast spitefully.

I wasted so many years of my life on you…. But serving you led me to her… I must thank you… I'm going to live on and create a legacy for myself, and you… You're going to be sealed away… Forever perhaps.

Astor's smile faded as he noticed King Rhoam emerge from the castle's sanctum.

"You're coming with me…" Rhoam said in a stern, matter-of-fact way., The King wielded a huge claymore single-handedly, flanked by three knight attendants.

Astor scowled at the older man, raising his hand to summon his orb, but then thought better of it, giving only a huff of defiance.

"I'm glad I have your cooperation, Astor," Rhoam said, coming close as he brandished his claymore in a vaguely threatening way. The sword was almost as big as he was.

Confident that Astor would not run or fight back, Rhoam nodded to his attendants. "Alright men, retreat!"

"Yes, Sire!" The three knight attendants said in unison. They were looking around wildly, in horror at the destruction the Guardians were bringing and a bit miffed that their king had apparently decided to take a prisoner at the worst time possible.

The five quickly, but carefully made their way down the path, Rhoam staggering a Guardian that blocked their path with a single swing of his sword. Astor could almost feel the brunt of that swing.

"Astor, I'm afraid we're going to get to know each other whether you like it or not. Had the Calamity not happened when it did, you would be in lockup now. However, since my castle is currently overrun with Guardians and all manner of Ganon's monsters, I will be keeping an eye on you myself. Suffice to say, I am not in a good mood."

Astor kept his gaze forward as they moved forward. The king's tone did not bode well for him. It wasn't lost on him that he was in a precarious situation. Still, this could be amusing.

"I know I'd rather not," King Rhoam continued, "but given that I fear you are encroaching on my daughter's divine duties, I must go above and beyond to perform mine as her father and as king." Rhoam noticed Astor's attention was elsewhere. "Look at your king when he's talking to you, you piece of filth!" Rhoam raised his voice, finding the younger man infuriating, despite knowing so little about him. The prophet had already left the worst impression on him, not that he stood a chance in hell of making a good first impression all things considered. Why would Zelda consort with this man, let alone trust him? He was scrawny, deathly pale, and dressed in rags. Everything about Astor was… off-putting. How had he and Zelda even met? Was the young knight he'd appointed to Zelda slacking off?

Astor turned his attention to the older man slowly, giving him a look of intense spite. He then saw the king's eyes widen, looking at something beyond him. Astor turned to come face to face with a Guardian's laser trained on him.

Rhoam and his men stood back, apparently obliging the Guardian to make short work of Astor.

The Guardian's laser rested on Astor for a moment, moving over the malice eye on his circlet before fading and readjusting to focus on the king.

Rhoam wasted no time in raising his claymore and bringing it down on the Guardian, giving a grunt of effort. Bolts and gears flew out of the busted machine, littering the brick pathway.

"Why did the Guardian disregard you?" Rhoam mused aloud. "How disappointing..."

"Thank you for looking out for me, Rhoam. Such a caring king and father, too… You're going to make a fine grandfather someday..." Astor said darkly, facetiously.

"How dare you!" Rhoam bellowed, giving the young man a ruthless slap across the face, causing Astor to stagger and fall. Astor simply returned a perverse smile despite the stinging sensation on his cheek. Astor began to laugh, chuckling at first and then breaking into an intense round of laughter, his yellow eyes going wide in a way that unsettled the old king - as if seeing beyond. "Yes, my children. Go harass King Rhoam and do not disappoint me!"

Rhoam was fuming. Astor was either very insane or intentionally provoking him, perhaps both. Either that or he had injured the prophet's mind when he struck him. Astor's antics were making it very difficult for the king to maintain his composure.

"You're very fortunate I am not a crass man, or I'd tell you what I think you deserve… Now tell me, how well do you know my daughter?"

"Well enough to know she is terribly lonely." Astor replied. "She despises you."

"What nonsense… Everything I've done has been for her! She was supposed to be Hyrule's pride, but it seems that the gossipmongers' words are coming true... Look around you. Hyrule is on fire. What sort of future does she have? 'Heir to a throne of nothing' if she does not awaken that power very soon. I can tell you're a lousy prophet by that alone."

"Bold words from a king who does not carry the blood of the Goddess."

"I may not carry the blood of the goddess, but I am still the rightful king of Hyrule in my late queen's stead. I was born into a noble family and my union with her was arranged by the former king and queen. The only thing I'm going to be arranging for you is an execution. Know your place, Prophet."

"An execution?" Astor almost laughed. He couldn't imagine what Rhoam's reaction might be when he learned he had formerly been trying to bring about Calamity Ganon's revival. "On what grounds?"

"Interfering with the Princess awakening her power to seal Calamity Ganon away for one. Also because it would bring me personal satisfaction. Now, get up, before I change my mind and grind my boot into your head. You're slowing down our escape."

Slowly Astor got up, dusting himself off, raising his chin to the older man in a testing manner.

"Wipe that smirk off your face. Move!" Rhoam said, giving Astor a shove with the side of his claymore.

oOo

Zelda looked back over her shoulder, her hair whipping in the wind as she ran. "Wait… Where are Astor and my father? We can't leave them behind…!"

Nobody seemed to acknowledge her question or nobody heard.

They ran through the chaotic town streets, witnessing horrifying scenes as the Guardians wrought havoc upon Hyrule's capital. Guardians were climbing the walls of houses and shops alike, some not being able to bear the weight of the mechanical wonders and the rooftops beginning to crumble.

They finally reached the main gate, crossing the threshold into Hyrule Field, as the Guardians had completely overtaken the castle and even the surrounding town. They stopped to look back, now a safe distance away. Zelda's eyes widened in horror when she realized more Guardians were appearing, being methodically ejected from the five columns that had suddenly risen out of the ground to surround Hyrule Castle. The same columns she had tried so hard to locate just days ago.

"Where did he go…?" Zelda said out of breath and sick at heart, but trying not to break down again. Hadn't she already cried all the tears she thought she had at the realization of her failure? She knew the Calamity was eventual, but experiencing it was beyond her worst nightmares.

"Little bird… How do you know he wasn't the one to summon the Calamity himself just by being present?" Said Urbosa.

"T-that can't be… " Zelda said, exasperated, not even willing to entertain the idea.

"His Majesty is missing as well… Did he remain behind on purpose?" Impa mused.

"The two are probably still bickering for all we know…" Revali quipped. "Hylian males…"

It would have been a humorous mental image in any other circumstances: Astor and her father too entrenched in their argument to notice as Guardians flooded into the Sanctum, but Zelda was vaguely aware that Astor had at least left the sanctum when the Calamity appeared.

Zelda turned her gaze elsewhere. Watching Castle Town burn was too much to bear. She happened to catch Link's eye, the boy wearing a severe expression.

You're fated to unlock your power because of him.

Zelda looked away from him and then at the back of her hand, giving an inaudible sigh, doubts about so many things clouding her mind.

This didn't go unnoticed by Urbosa, who came to stand behind Zelda, placing her hands on the princess's shoulders. "Don't give up! It's not too late."

"I know… We can't let the Calamity win. No matter what…" Zelda said, sounding downtrodden, but resolute.

"All is not lost. As long as I live I will fight. Just as you must." Impa reassured Zelda.

All the champions agreed one by one.

The group lifted their heads when they sensed others making their escape into Hyrule Field and out of Castle Town. Zelda's breath caught in her throat when she saw Astor standing in the shadow of her father's sword. He was unbound, yet it was clear from their expressions that he wasn't standing there on his own volition. Astor held her briefly in his gaze and then looked away, in shame. His face was more bruised than before.

"Champions, go to your Divine Beasts!" King Rhoam called in an official tone. "Astor will be coming with me, lest he interfere any further. Link… You are the knight to Princess Zelda. I trust you understand your duty." Rhoam said, shooting a disapproving look at Zelda.

There was a flicker in Zelda's eyes as they began to sting. "Where are you taking him?!"

Suddenly their hands held her back before she could rush forward. Zelda cried out for Astor as Rhoam and his attendants turned to leave, giving Astor another shove in the direction they were going.

A million horrible possibilities rushed through her mind. She was under no delusion that her father would deal with Astor kindly, especially if he were to ascertain Astor's former ties to the Calamity.

"What are they going to do to him?! Please, Someone, do something... Don't let them take him away!" Zelda implored pitifully, despairing because she knew none of them were going to defy her Father. Zelda dropped her head. "He's all… He's all I have…"

It was very soft, but everyone heard. Her pleas sounded all too familiar.. Rhoam halted, just for a moment to look back in irritation instead of pity as he had when she was young.

"Dammit, Zelda, show some self-control!" Rhoam said, angrily. "Your whining didn't work back then, what makes you think it will work now?"

Zelda looked hurt by his response, her shoulders shaking. Rhoam wondered if she remembered when he had confiscated the little Guardian she had named Terrako in a bid to get her to focus on her training. A decision that regrettably hadn't borne any fruit. Rhoam had almost cursed the late queen. Damn her for instilling such a love for Sheikah technology and relics in her daughter, which only proved to be a distraction for Zelda in awakening her divine power. That had been the most grievous flaw Rhoam saw in his wife.

Astor knew this was his moment to act. While the king was distracted, Astor phased past Rhoam like a restless spirit, knocking Rhoam off balance for a moment.

Zelda looked up and exhaled in surprise.

Astor came to a stop in front of Zelda, making a show of pulling her close. She clutched tightly to his robes, and for a moment everything else ceased. She was his and he was hers. She would have given much to live in that moment forever, relieved tears cascading down her cheeks.

"Her Highness is mine now. Have fun fighting the Calamity, Rhoam. You don't deserve her."

"Hylia on her throne! Stop him!" Rhoam ordered his knight attendants.

The men hesitated, fearful of the prophet's magical abilities. And in the blink of an eye, Astor raised his orb high, vanishing with Zelda in tow. Those that remained looked on in silent disbelief.

A short distance away, the scene was reflected in the 'eye' of Harbinger Ganon. Ganon knew it was winning, though that did not satisfy the being's intense all-encompassing rage. Its plans had still been disrupted. The weak-minded, disaffected Hylian man it had chosen to do its bidding in this age had somehow seen beyond the illusion of importance and power it had engineered for him. High above, the spirit of Calamity Ganon gave a shattering roar of detest for the goddess it knew was at work. And because of that vile goddess, the foolish bag of flesh was stepping out on him, even after all the power it had bestowed upon him. Ganon would simply take the man's ability to wield malice away. It would make sure the seer suffered tenfold for betraying him and choosing the girl who bore the goddess's blood. That pathetic mortal was supposed to remain loyal until his dying breath at its hand, for Ganon hated all life and showed no partiality even towards those who swore allegiance to it. It had been over ten millennia since Ganon had been mortal, and any memory of its past humanity or semblance of understanding human emotions had long perished. Calamity Ganon's inhuman hatred burned against the Hylian seer, rivaling its hatred for the hero and the young woman who bore the blood of the goddess. And so, the corrupted Guardian began to plot.

[starswornoaths]

Our Noble Legacy - Commission!

A commission for the delightful @faerflowerkid, featuring her oc: Faer wir Galvus, Warrior of Light, great-granddaughter to Solus zos Galvus.

Emet-Selch knew he would have to confront the Warrior of Light directly, at some point. It was as inevitable as the tide. That she was his family would not, could not, matter.

5.0 spoilers, canon divergent!

Word count: 10,752

~*~

Seeing the shattered little fragments of souls congregating, collaborating in tandem to achieve the impossible was…almost inspiring. Granted, very little in these fragmented worlds made Emet-Selch feel anything but tired indifference, so mayhap he was just surprised that he felt aught positive at all, watching the Warrior of Light rally them to a hopeless cause. Watching her inspire people who had, only hours before, been content to sit in their own misery, idle under the ever burning light, and wait to die, well…it was hard not to be roused in some way.

Even knowing it was impractical, Emet-Selch still often found himself studying the Warrior of Light that he was now in an uneasy alliance with, searching for some sign that he could cling to that could possibly cast doubt on her lineage.

His lineage, for that matter, and really, that was the crux of the issue.

It was harder not to see a bit of himself in Faer than it had ever been, in that moment. There had been, of course, the obvious signs of their relation, from the shock of silver-grey bangs against deep chestnut (in another shorter hairstyle she had begun growing out again, he noticed,) to the golden, hawkish eyes that mirrored his own, but if there had been any doubt before that she was of his blood, her cleverness, and her knack for rousing people in common cause made it undeniable to him. From the instant he realized that she was his great granddaughter, one he had held as a babe, in the twilight years of Solus’ life, he couldn’t help but notice, more and more, that Faer seemed a shining example of what his lineage would have been, perhaps, had fate been different.

Whatever pride he may have felt was inevitably tarnished by her status as his enemy—his greatest yet, certainly, of all the fool heroes that had dashed themselves against his might. The greatest of his enemies in both the threat she posed to their designs on the world, and in that even at this juncture, even knowing that she could yet prove him wrong and show him the error of his ways…this would be the hardest one for him to kill.

Should it come to that, Dark Lord guide me, he thought grimly.

Mayhap Zodiark had always known better than to trust that Emet-Selch wouldn’t care, and had intended to see if he would be willing to slay his kin in the name of their most noble designs. A waste, if that were the case; whatever blood he may have passed down in this life, in this body, that was not the family that he fought so hard for. The Galvus family was not the one that he mourned—mostly.

He tried not to think of his son. Always, did he try not to think of his son. And always, did he fail.

Zodiark was ever present, a persistent, low murmur in the back of his mind. As familiar to him as his own heartbeat, after so many eons, but ever since he’d laid eyes on the Warrior of Light herself and realized that it was his great-granddaughter, it had felt as though he could hear the Dark Lord laughing at his expense. What an apt reward, for toiling in the shadow of his God: a test of faith, at a critical crossroads.

Such maudlin thoughts, while commonplace under the ever burning sun, felt ill-fitting such an occasion as this, watching people mill about with good cheer and throw their entire, frail beings into the work before them. When he refocused and realized that Faer couldn’t be found among the workers anymore, he scanned the immediate vicinity. For a blessing, he wasn’t searching far: taking yet another page from his book, she stood out of the way of those using their tools, those inherited, hawkish eyes surveying the work before her. 

He was walking toward her before he had even consciously chosen to do so. Even through the constant reminders that she was his enemy, that he should keep barriers between them, it seemed the pride he felt for her accomplishment, even knowing that their deal could— and in all likelihood, would— end in failure. Perhaps it was those very reminders that made his words drip with sarcasm, once he had moved close enough to his great granddaughter to speak.

“Would you look at that? The citizens of Eulmore engaging in what can only be described as “manual labor.” Who would have thought it possible?” He mused aloud.

Though they were still some distance away from one another in the entryway to the ladder, his voice carried enough that Faer still turned her head to face him. Even knowing that he had gotten her attention, Emet-Selch made no effort to quicken his pace to her; he was old, and weary, and she had good ears.

“Do you know the most reliable way to deal with those who stubbornly refuse to see reason?” He asked without losing his stride, eyes never moving from hers.

Faer was ever an intuitive soul: sensing the weight of the conversation, if not necessarily the mood of it quite yet, she turned her body fully to face him.

It was only a few more steps until they were within reaching distance of one another, but they seemed to take an age longer than all the rest. It was less that he particularly cared whether or not they were overheard, but it would make his already strained relationship with the other Scions all the more so, if they heard his answer, and the indifference in his tone as he spoke,

“You conquer them— crush them under heel.”

He might have put more effort into sounding less cavalier about that if he had anticipated the faint wince she couldn’t quite hold back. Of course she would somehow feel responsible for all the steps of the great plan that he had overseen. Of course she would.

Hero types, really.

“Such was the trusted method of the Allag, and one still favored by Garlemald,” he continued in that same tone, and pretended that he hadn’t noticed her reaction in the first place.

With a wave of his hand, he shifted into a lesson— a windup to an admittedly fumbled compliment he was still half forming. Zodiark was getting in the way of all the words, and it was hard to form them. Exposition was always an easy fallback in theatre, and it saved him now as he explained, “But conquest is the easy part. The true challenge begins once the dust has settled— quenching the glowing embers of animosity and maintaining a semblance of peace. This requires the conqueror to treat the conquered with dignity, and the conquered to let bygones be bygones. A difficult feat to achieve.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you were trying to train me to be your successor,” Faer bristled. “You sound like my old tutors back home.”

It was Emet-Selch’s turn to wince, even through his smile. It was always hard not to think of the life that could have been— in particular, how things could have been, had he been allowed to love his first son, and all the family that might have come after. All the things that might have been accomplished.

“In another life, I might well have.” He admitted.

That thought seemed to settle differently on the both of them. Where Emet-Selch, already susceptible to dreaming of what was lost and what could have been, could readily see a brighter, happier world for him where he had been allowed to learn to love the Galvus family, Faer looked as though the thought of her participating further in the machinations of the empire would cost her sleep.

Not that he could blame her, really. Hero type, and all.

“But you have achieved just that...to my considerable surprise.” He added when she continued to say nothing.

At the way she narrowed her eyes at him, he couldn’t help but roll his. “It’s a compliment.” He sighed sardonically. “Take it.”

Faer blinked owlishly up at him. 

“Oh, I— thank you.” She murmured, and even if her tone was sheepish, he could tell it was sincere. “I guess I just wasn’t necessarily expecting it to be a compliment that wasn’t backhanded.”

Another wince, this time from both of them— he supposed she had a point. She hadn’t even necessarily done anything to him, to earn that. Apart from the death of his kin, though he couldn’t put the fault of their centuries old struggle solely on her; he’d been through this dance a thousand times before. Doubtless, he would continue to do so long after her, too.

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, and watched some few dozen paces off, as Urianger and Y’Shtola maneuvered around toward the idle Talos, cheered on and guided by Dulia and Chai Nuzz respectively. With outstretched hands, they filled the machinery with the thrumming, brilliant blue of their aether, powering the cores within. The sight inspired in Emet-Selch thoughts of the Bureau of Concepts, back when time hardly mattered, where death and tragedy were naught but bad dreams and the punishments of villains in all the stories.

“Ahh, the vibrant energy that fills the air when like-minded souls gather. To think back on that time before time fair brings a tear to my eye.”

She seemed mildly surprised he was capable of it at all. Something in him bristled at that.

“What? You thought ancient beings like us incapable of crying?”

Even he could concede that he sounded defensive. He could stand to leave himself less open, blast it all.

“N-no, it’s just—” She cut herself off, chewing on her bottom lip. “I never could picture you being happy, but I also just...couldn’t fathom you crying, when I was a child.”

She seemed to catch herself in the moment, and gave him an apologetic smile as she said, “Sorry, I shouldn’t keep comparing you to my great-grandfather. You were playing a role back then.”

“It was—” He tamped down on the words, frowning as they tangled on his tongue. Swallowing, he tried again, “While I might have been...doing my part, in our noble work, it would be almost impossible, to not live an entire lifetime and not feel something other than boredom, from time to time.”

Not entirely an admission of affection that most certainly did not exist, though an acknowledgement of his humanity. It seemed a diplomatic enough response.

“I...hadn’t thought of it that way before.” Faer admitted slowly.

Emet-Selch harrumphed. “Well, rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine!”

“...You’re right.” Faer said, surprising him. “For all our disagreements, I shouldn’t deny the humanity that Ascians possess. Certainly not my own great grandfather’s.”

As painfully formal as it sounded, her apology was a balm on a sore nerve. Enough to let his thoughts wander, as were their wont. Before he could think better of it, he started to give voice to them, and let the dead be among him for a little while through his words.

“Back when the world was whole, we had family, friends, loves…” He began hesitantly.

When she didn’t interrupt him, he turned his gaze toward the ever burning heavens, contemplative, as he continued, “Men knew peace and contentment, and with our adamant souls, we could live for an age. There was no conflict born of want or disparity. Our differences paled into insignificance next to all we had in common.”

The ladder itself was still in his periphery, even when looking at the sky. So, it was only natural that, when he finally looked at the structure proper, that he compared it to the towering landmarks he was so accustomed to back when all he had known was happiness.

“And then, there was Amaurot...never was a city more magnificent. From the humblest streets to the highest spires, she fairly gleamed…”

When at last he brought himself— and his focus— back to the earth, he spared his great-granddaughter a plain look from the corner of his eye. “Not that you would remember any of this,” he said, infinitely and eternally bitter.

“Remember…?” Faer asked, understandably, with a ponderous frown and a tilt of her head.

He had already said too much. Frankly, he was shocked Zodiark permitted him to say as much as he had. Shaking his head, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Never mind.”

Faer pressed her lips together thinly, hands faintly fidgeting in front of her. After a few long moments of silence, Emet-Selch cleared his throat.

“You are staring.” He noted when he could see her start to lose herself to thoughts. “Dare I ask why?”

Her eyes refocused with a blink. “Sorry, you were talking about families, and I was just...thinking back on home. I know you held me as a babe, but the only clear picture I had in my mind of you was when you were older than you look now. I wouldn’t have even recognized you when you showed up if it weren’t for all the murals and the history books, I don’t think.”

He hadn’t even thought of that, when he had first taken up residence in the first clone that Varis had made— or when he had kept the form when he had taken a body for his own in this world, for that matter.

“Would it have been a comfort to you, had I been the elderly and frail grandfather you knew?” He asked, only able to muster half of his usual snark. Something about the thought upset him in a way he couldn’t describe.

“I don’t honestly believe so. The shock was what kept me from killing you outright, when you showed up.” Faer admitted with a shrug. “I had yet to have a pleasant run-in with an Ascian, I’ll remind you.” When he didn’t have a response to her comment, she shifted on her feet, awkward that her comment had not landed with him. She crinkled her nose, and admitted hesitantly,“I didn’t think the paintings were right, if I’m being honest.”

Paintings. And she had mentioned murals before—

“Ah, the royal gallery.” Emet-Selch nodded at the recollection, ample excuse to avert his eyes from her. “I’d nearly forgotten; I had to pose for so many portraits, even before I was crowned Emperor, I learned how to nap with my eyes open to make it even a little bearable.”

She let out a little snort on the inhale of her chuckle, and promptly smothered it behind her hand. It seemed Garlean etiquette had not been entirely beaten out of her. He remembered the tutors that had been in the employ of the royal family: to be frank, the thing that impressed him the most was how little her knuckles had scarred from their yalmsticks. They were likely responsible for her resilience in the face of constant sneering; her good cheer would have run out malms ago otherwise, the same as her newly reunited companions.

In spite of their uncertain alliance, he joined her in laughter when she looked up at him again, face faintly flushed from holding in her giggling. In truth, his comment wasn’t necessarily funny, but it was just human enough to startle the both of them into unexpected chuckling.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again— and really, she did it far too often, in his opinion. “I interrupted you. What were you saying?”

The lingering smirk on his lips from laughing faded. It was a bit of a shame, to have their mood shift so suddenly as he knew it would.

Nevertheless. She did ask.

“The point is: the world of old was a far better place than what we have now. I believe you would like it, having witnessed the things you have.”

Would that he could give it all to her. Her true inheritance: a world without conflict, a world where no one suffered and all were equal in the eyes of one another. A world where jobs like hers were absolutely redundant but for the sake of exploration and learning.

A world fitting for his great-granddaughter.

Capitalizing on her surprise at his comment, he pressed, “Remember, you are of the Source. Unlike the halfmen here, you stand only to gain. Should you survive the remaining calamities, you will become our equal. A complete existence in a complete world.”

Pressed too far, it seemed: a look of pain flashed over Faer’s face. Of guilt. Was that what she wanted, too, he wondered. A chance to put her weapon down and simply be. Surely that was not too awful a thought for her to have? Too soon, he reasoned. She isn’t ready to stop playing the hero.

So he could be supportive, in his own, twisted way. Could nudge her, as a villain, could inspire her to the greatness he knew, in his heart of hearts, that she could achieve.

With another shrug, he chided, “But such talk is a pleasure for later. Back to work, hero.”

He turned to leave when a thought occurred to him. Pausing mid step, he angled his head back toward her and said over his shoulder, “Ah, there was one thing I had meant to ask: how well do you know the Exarch? Has he ever deigned to show you what hides beneath that cowl?”

In part to play his role as the villain, in part to service his role in the grand plan, he played both to perfection, just to see what would happen. Even still, Faer shaking her head “no” came as a surprise; he didn’t get the sense that she was lying.

“What, never? Not even to you? How very interesting…I shall enjoy working out what it means. Until next time.”

Faer called after him when he began to leave in earnest. Much as he might have found another reason to linger, he would rather be with his thoughts. With a dismissive wave, he pressed on, and hoped the distance he put between them was well beyond any chance of her words reaching him.

Despite everything, they still had.

It had been a point of pride, how much Emet-Selch had kept his distance from watching Faer in action, for more than had been a necessity. For a blessing, such occurrences had been infrequent; before now, it had largely fallen to the more...hands on of his peers. He was among the last, now— most ironically of all, the most hands on of the surviving Unsundered.

But those words he had been running from had caught up to him, sunk their teeth into him, and bled him of his will to stay away. He was too old to run from such things, these days. He had been for a very long time, he supposed. To save himself from being drained of all he had scraped together the last eon, rather than try to thrash and tighten the vice of those fangs, he relaxed, and let go.

And so, Emet-Selch did what he did best: he clung to the shadows, and watched. He bore witness to his great-granddaughter’s struggles, in the moment, far more closely— in attentiveness and distance both— than he ever had before. If living in the dark was a comfort, then he could still peer into the light, that he might try to see.

What he saw should have terrified him— and, in a distant sort of way, he supposed that it did. It should have angered him, nauseated him, to see the ferocity with which Faer took down her foes. Meek and mild though she may be in those interpersonal moments, this was him truly beholding the Warrior of Light, in her element, and all her glory, both.

It was a peculiar thing: to look at her directly was almost too much, as if she took after her namesake too well. Mayhap, that was the Light that she had absorbed, burning beneath her skin, and naught more. He hadn’t looked closely enough before now to know for certain.

He might have been too old to run from the things that he couldn’t face, but as he worked to keep up with the pace that Faer had set for her crew, every one of those years fell away. In the moment, as he darted from shadow to shadow, and peered through every portal he popped out of when his current, dark roost could no longer track her movements, he felt young again, in a way he had forgotten.

There was so much of himself that Emet-Selch saw in her, even before witnessing what she was capable of on the battlefield. He had been far from a spry youth, then he began to build the Garlean Empire, but he recalled the years before he took the crown, how he had unleashed Hell itself unto his enemies, to ensure that he achieved the accolades that would make him a fitting Emperor, and couldn’t help but see much of the same tenacity, ferocity, and unrelenting strength that he had once employed, now passed down to his great-granddaughter.

Faer was hardly the first hero that he had ever witnessed in combat. In truth, she wasn’t even the first hero that he had been moved by.

But she was the first hero that he had such a direct connection to. A connection that forced him to look, with both eyes open, upon the path that she walked— and, by proxy, that he walked.

Maybe it was the Light, radiating off of her, but Zodiark’s veil felt unusually thin, as they climbed, higher and higher, from towering Talos to the perilous peak of Mt. Gulg. Thin enough that he could see, for the first time, that Faer was his equal in fervor, in dedication to her goal. Equal also, in the belief that hers was the just cause.

Perhaps that was why, when Vauthry descended upon Faer with twofold forms and fury alike, Emet-Selch celebrated her victory over the last of the Lightwardens.

He’d often been told that the air itself felt heavier, on the precipice of great change. Even before the Sundering, such a philosophical discussion had been brought to the Forum of Debate. It had been something he had understood only in the most joyous of occasions— death was such a rarity, outside of accidents, he had practically only known the air to grow saturated with satisfaction, or heady with happiness.

The air here, at the summit of Mt. Gulg, already scorching, stale, and still for the eternal Light, shifted around him as he emerged from the shadows, one last time. It was noticeably harder to breathe, for the lingering particulates of Vauthry’s remains hung in that unnatural stasis, glimmering in the gilded light.

Haunting, had he cared enough to look anywhere, save for his great-granddaughter.

The lingering, shimmering ashes of the Lightwarden had a faintly dusty, saccharine scent. Cloying, much like the makeup powders that Emet-Selch so enjoyed to dabble with. However, it was several heartbeats before he realized that, as he held his breath, watching Faer absorb the Light.

The eternal, beaming rays above split, and tore open as a gaping wound, through which the night itself bled. It was a gasp of air amongst the drowning stillness, a breach in the surface, but it was fleeting— it sewed itself back up, just as the Warrior of Darkness collapsed to her knees.

There were voices, not far from him, but they sounded as distant as rolling thunder. There was a blue ring of light— contrasting to the all encompassing luminescence above. It was enough to distract him, though only enough for Zodiark to remind him of his task.

Emet-Selch breathed in that heavier air of change, as he craned his neck to look up again. The momentary glimpse of the night sky was long gone, and any trace it had ever been there taken with it. She failed, she failed, just as we knew she would, Zodiark urged him.

The gun he’d kept on his person as Solus zos Galvus was in his hand before he realized he had summoned it. There was someone opposite his descendant, speaking with her kindly— ah, the Exarch— 

The secretive man’s hood fell away with another pulse of that blue, blinding light. Emet-Selch didn’t know the man— he didn’t need to. He didn’t care.

He recognized those red eyes anywhere.

So, it was just as he suspected, then. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him; he had never been able to truly stamp out the Allagan Empire in its entirety without over meddling. It should almost be expected, that its echoes would dog him all the way here.

The bullet Zodiark had loaded in the chamber for Faer was instead lodged into the scarlet sorcerer. It struck him in the abdomen— nothing fatal, he did need the man alive for his Allagan eye, after all. 

Well. That, and his great-granddaughter had failed to keep her end of the bargain. It was only meet that he take his consolation prize, and be on his way.

At least, that was what he told himself, staring down at the barely conscious form of the man that had tried to spare Faer her fate. A strange sort of anger welled up in his chest at that; here this, this Exarch was, posturing as the secretive, scheming villain, all to spare Faer her precious little feelings, so no one would miss him as he went to make a star of himself.

Emet-Selch couldn’t bite back a cruel quirk of his lips. The Exarch wanted to play a villain? He could watch the Architect put on a real show. 

“Only those who possess the Royal Eye of the Allagan imperial line are capable of controlling the Crystal Tower.” He raised his voice loud enough to be heard. “Such individuals do not exist in the First.”

He lowered his gun as he spoke, unperturbed by the veneer of civility being shorn so thoroughly in Faer’s presence; she was barely keeping herself kneeling, her entire body quivering with the effort of holding in every onze of light that she had absorbed.

“Therefore, in all likelihood, the Exarch arrived here with the tower. This much I had surmised, yet I could not discern his grand scheme. To think, he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero. It’s almost admirable in its absurdity.” 

He stepped up to the crumpled sorcerer, peering down at him. There was a strange sense of pitiable understanding that welled up in him, thinking on his own words; in a sense, they were not so different. After all, he, too, had gone to great lengths to make an exception to the rule, all for the sake of a single hero.

“Alas, it is not your grand scheme that will succeed, but ours.”

One of the little mortals was squabbling at him again. Really, he had thought they had learned by now.

When that same mortal— Thancred, he distantly recalled the name— reached for his gunblade, Emet-Selch warned, “Stay put. Your friend is still alive, but whether he remains so depends on you.”

Though the brute bared his teeth, he did not make another advance. Once it was clear that he would not be attacked, Emet-Selch turned his attention to his great-granddaughter. 

It didn’t matter what he felt, watching her writhe in agony so. They had an agreement, and now...now, he had his part to play. And she, hers.

His final test of faith.

“What a disappointment you turned out to be.” Said the Architect— softly, as if to himself. As if his remorse was genuine.

Perhaps it was. It couldn’t matter regardless.

That anger that the Exarch had sparked swelled in his chest, the longer he looked down upon Faer. To think that for a fleeting instant, she had dared to chase away the shadows from his eyes. To think, he had dared to see.

“I placed my faith in you. Let myself believe that you could contain the Light.” He spat accusingly. 

His temples throbbed in time with his heart for how hot the anger in his breast ran. The longer he stared down at her, pale and trembling and bleached out for the Light inside her, the brighter his fury blazed. To think, he had dared, once again, like the fool that he was, to hope. And once more, he was reminded of why such notions are folly.

“But look at you now,” He sneered, “halfway to becoming a monster. You are unworthy of my patronage.” 

For some reason, Faer’s refusal to look away only served to anger him further. What did she hope to gain from such useless posturing? She had lost.

And yet, he supposed, she couldn’t have possibly gotten half as far as she had, if she had ever lied down and accepted her fate. Even through the anger, he couldn’t help but respect her effort; few understood how hard it was to simply try.

“What...what happens now, then, great-grandfather?” Faer managed to snarl between gasping heaves.

Before Emet-Selch could respond, she buckled under a fit of productive coughing. So productive, in fact, that the very light that she had absorbed was now being spat onto the gilded ground. She slipped, as she tried to stagger to her feet, and folded back onto her knees, panting from the exertion. 

His frown deepened; something about her pitiful struggles agitated him, enough that he felt like his skin itched from the inside. To hide the depth of his rage— and genuine disappointment, he realized with belated shock— he took a moment to let out a noise of disgust. 

Emet-Selch was still in character, after all.

He reminded her, tutting, “I am an Ascian. My heart’s sole desire is to usher in the Great Rejoining.”

Spitting once more, she looked back up at him, eyes blazing with fury, tears, and the light that glimmered off of them. 

It was too much, in particular, knowing precisely how he was about to hurt her next; he looked away, toward her Scion accomplices, and struck: “A hundred years ago, I entrusted my comrade, Loghriff, with the task of increasing Light’s sway over this world. This, we sought to do by manipulating heroes.”

A wet, gasping sob tore itself from Faer’s throat. Emet-Selch hid his wince from her. He had struck true. 

Continuing his onslaught, he kept his eyes locked on those lesser servants of Hydaelyn, as he spoke, “When that failed to achieve the desired result, I created Vauthry. But thanks to your meddling, that, too, has ended in failure.”

“What was your true purpose in approaching us?” One of the matching pair demanded.

“By your Twelve, boy, have I not told you before, that everything I said was the truth?” He countered. “You were specimens by which I might gauge man’s potential as it stands.”

As if he had ever lied. As if he had ever pretended. As if he had ever had a choice.

Strangely incensed, Emet-Selch pressed, “I genuinely had an interest in you. Genuinely considered taking you on as allies! Provided that she—”

He spared a sneering glance out of the corner of his eye, over his shoulder, at his kneeling great-granddaughter. What he could see of her, through the light that was seeping through the metaphorical cracks, at least. 

“—Could contain the light.”

He managed to pretend at disappointed boredom. The mask was always easier. Always, always easier.

Leaning into his assigned role in Zodiark’s most noble design, he turned to face his failing, fading family. 

“If not, then she— and by extension, you— would be of no use to me. ‘Twas as simple as that.”

He couldn’t even muster the strength to straighten his posture; he could distantly hear his old vizier, in simpler times, huffing about how unlike an Emperor it was to slouch. When the yappy one with the gunblade snorted indignantly, he faced the noise, half expecting someone to attempt something stupid.

For a blessing and a curse, the Scions seemed to yet possess their senses, and did not attack him.

Thancred, instead, drolled, “So we’ve been found wanting. How disheartening. But even had we fulfilled your conditions, there was no guarantee that we would cooperate. What then?”

As if it had not been obvious. They took advantage of his good grace, and thought him docile for the trouble? He would remind them of their folly.

“Then I simply kill you all.” Emet-Selch replied plainly, and shrugged. “At the very least, it would restore the world to the way it was before you went about trouncing Lightwardens willy-nilly.”

He shot a glare at the troublesome, unconscious Exarch. The creaky little mischief maker. All the magic of the Allagan Empire, stolen out from rightful fingers, and yet, here he was! Laid low by a bullet. As any murdered king, as any defeated tyrant: they bled, all the same.

“Suffice to say it would be most inconvenient to have all that Light taken away— and I would be lying if I were to claim his actions didn’t have me worried.”

Another bout of Faer’s gasping coughs brough another wet splatter of ectoplasmic light scattering across the broquet. Her back arched with the might of her heaving, as her body tried to force air into her lungs, any way that it could.

It did not bother him. He did not look away again. This was his test, after all. He could not falter here.

The Architect stalked over to where his great-granddaughter of Light knelt there, in all her broken glory. There was a ringing in his ears— it made the dull, purposeful thunk of his boots sound especially loud to him. Nevertheless, he did not stop, not until he was close enough to observe her, and knelt to her level.

It should have been easy, to look at her. It shouldn’t have hurt, to see how she had been twisted, her features bleached out in harsh light, how she seemed almost swallowed by the luminescence that clung to her skin, that radiated from her. It should have even given him some sort of grim glee, seeing his greatest enemy laid low.

It didn’t. He couldn’t look away. 

Solus watched his little great-granddaughter, the same one he’d bounced on his knee and read to, his family, his lineage, all that he had left that he could even begin to consider family, and he was killing her.

But Emet-Selch...he had a role to play.

“Hm,” he hummed, seeming unaffected. “You still retain your form, and your senses...but you have all but become a sin eater.”

Faer’s head hung, at the words, “sin eater.” For a moment, she looked defeated. She did not lift it again, until he next spoke.

He should have triumphed, in the moment. Should have taken that defeat and solidified it, right then and there, and made good on his word to kill them all and just be done with it.

Instead, Solus could only softly explain, in a voice he’d heard one of his hospice chirurgeons use with him, toward the end of his life, “Whether you will it or no, your mere existence will serve to engulf the world in Light.” He only half remembered to put a villain’s cruel twist to that kindness, “Those in your company will likewise turn into sin eaters, and, in time, you will succumb to your base instincts, and hunt innocents to feast on their sweet, sweet aether.”

Faer’s head swayed, as she struggled to keep it upright, to watch him as he emphasized, venting some of his anger with bitter delight, “Those few with the will left to fight may rise up against you. But before your absolute might, they will quickly know despair. “There is no hope! We are finished! Mankind is finished!” Ahhh, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss, you will achieve through despair.”

He had taken all he could of watching Faer struggle; watching any longer than this would only bring harm to him, and would gain him nothing in exchange. Ignoring the popping of his knees, he stood.

“But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees, hero.”

Emet-Selch granted himself reprieve when he turned fully away from the Warrior of Light, and focused on the Exarch, as he snapped his fingers. In an instant, the Allagan pretender was whisked away, in that void between realms carved out for the Unsundered.

Ignoring the whinging of the Warrior of Light’s accomplices crying out after the Exarch, demanding justice, and all of the usual trappings of a squawking hero that he paid no heed, he reasoned, “I have naught to show for all the time and effort I invested in you. He is a small token for my troubles. I did not expect that I could learn aught from man, but I may yet learn something from all the knowledge he had hoarded for his precious hero.”

Emet-Selch had always been above them— figuratively, and literally. He opted for an exit befitting that stature— only the best would to, before their intercession, after all— and with nary a half onze of effort, he lifted himself high above their heads, well beyond their reach—

Or at least, he had intended to; the Warrior of Light lunged at him suddenly, and before he could properly react, clutched at the front of his coat to keep herself upright on quivering legs. With an effort that looked herculean in effort, she pulled herself up by his lapels, trying to draw on her full height. Her eyes blazed with an intensity that threatened to blind him, and she bared her teeth at him in a heaving snarl.

A hero, to the last. A familiar habit, of a familiar, familial hero.

“I pity you, I do.” Emet-Selch drawled, sparing an emphasizing glance at her Scions. “Your friends are now your foes. If you do not kill them, they will kill you.” 

He caught her hands, intending to rip them off of him, but he froze at the way her knuckles tightened around the fabric, enough that he couldn’t tell where the creaking of her gloves ended, and that of her knuckles began.

Emet-Selch tried to be angry at that. Tried to be indignant, that she would dare try while she was at death and sanity’s door. He should have thrown her off of him, should have given in to that quiet, almost inaudible whispering in his head, scrabbling about like fingers dancing along his spine, playing him like a puppet, and just finished it already—

Instead, Solus could only ask, in a private, terrified whisper, “Why are you still fighting?”

“Because I have to.” Faer whispered back, just as brave, and no less scared. “I have to.”

His great-granddaughter. Would that he could give her the world. Perhaps, a shadowbox of it that he had made would do.

“Then...seek me out at my abode, in the dark depths of the Tempest.” He commanded. “You’re my great-granddaughter. Act like it. Prove me wrong.”

“I’ll be there.” Faer warned, in a low voice. As if she were in a place to warn him of anything but when she was about to be sick. “And when I get there...I’ll make you see.”

Lacking the strength to respond, to retaliate, to do aught more than tremble with her, Solus let Zodiark take him away. He melted through her fingertips, and even long after he had rematerialized in the shade of his home, he could not reconfigure himself in such a way that made him feel whole.

So Emet-Selch waited. He waited long enough that he had begun to wonder if the Warrior of Light would miss her cue. Long enough that, eventually, he began to question whether or not he had nodded off, at some point, and a whole new buggering age had rolled in, while he wasn’t looking. Again.

But then, there she was, his family, walking the paths of Amaurot. From a distance, he might have pretended that all was as it once was— 

Except that, while Faer had, in fact, arrived at his humble abode— she had not done so alone. 

There was something about her arriving, accompanied by people that claimed to be her family, rather than him, that rankled Solus. Sure, he had been the one to put them all on this path to begin with, but that didn’t mean he stopped being her real family—

Even as she wasn’t his real family, Emet-Selch reminded himself. He wasn’t even sure why it fanned the flames in his chest.

“This really is unacceptable. I gave you very specific instructions.” He reminded her snidely, to hide how affected he was at the sight of her so withered.

Ignoring the squawking of one of the younger scions, Emet-Selch took a moment to force his expression to match his tone; it wouldn’t do for him to try and convince his captive audience of his indifference with a pitying grimace, after all.

“My invitation was for an abomination, ripe with the power to bring about the world’s annihilation. Not this half-broken...thing.”

A glance at Faer’s face, even paled as it was from the Light, he could tell she wasn’t buying that he didn’t care. In truth, nor was he, at this point. But the show must go on, after all.

“What ever am I going to do with you?” He couldn’t help but ask, with almost fond exasperation and a maimed, maiming smile. Helpless to stop himself, he further barbed, “And I see you insist on keeping the same, familiar company. Are you so lost without them?”

“It is not she who is lost without the familiar.” Quipped the sorceress.

A wince cracked Emet-Selch’s mask in twain— he was well and truly surrounded by the evidence against him, should he try to rebuke that. Not the least of which was, of course, his own flesh and blood, standing beside that same witch.

“I may have gotten a little carried away, in my attention to detail. Added a few unnecessary flourishes…” His petty attempt at a defense died half formed on his tongue. Zodiark did not prevent him from feeling the loneliness, the loss, from the absence of his fellow Ancients. Nor, did He prevent the truth of his plan from being brought to the light bearers. “Weeell, there’s no point in trying to deny it. Yes. 

“Once the rejoining of worlds is complete, Zodiark will regain His full strength, and shatter His prison. Then, we shall offer up the Source’s remaining inhabitants in sacrifice, that we might resurrect our brethren who died to bring Zodiark into existence.”

“We don’t have to fight.” Faer replied, dancing around the subject. “You could join us. You could help so many people—“ 

“Those pale imitations are not people.” Emet-Selch rankled, bristling.

“They don’t stop being people just because you don’t like them!” She shouted, standing straighter, as if her indignation gave her a new well of strength to tap into. “If you won’t stop this, then we have come here to stop you!”

She wanted to continue to champion these lesser beings, in favor of embracing Zodiark’s unavoidable truth, did she? So be it. 

“Did you now? One last do-or-die attempt to foil my plans, then? How very, very...heroic of you.”

This was the best he could have possibly hoped for, from humanity. His very own creation, sired and carefully monitored to see how she developed, and this was the best that they could do. He wanted to spit curses at her until her mind had succumbed to the madness. He wanted to scream until his voice fled him. He felt nauseated. This was his family, he was fighting—

This is but another hero. You have been here before, Lord Zodiark reminded him, ever a gentle, guiding hand. 

Those distant fingers pulled at the back of his mind, as if to straighten out his thoughts. Rather than think of the great-granddaughter standing before him, he thought back on those who had stood there before. The more he thought on it, the more their armor blurred, in his mind, until he couldn’t discern one from the other; they were all but obstacles in his way. What did it matter, who they were? They were nothing to him. Thank the Dark Lord, for showing him the error of his straying thoughts. 

“In every single age, there is always someone who wants to stand up to the evil Ascians,” he echoed Zodiark’s sentiments spitefully. “Always the same arrogance, the same insistence that the world belongs to them. As if theirs were the only rightful claim, theirs the only existence worthy of preservation!” 

“Do you not hear yourself?” Faer demanded. “I could criticize your number for those very same thoughts!”

The implication that they were of equal value shifted Emet-Selch’s anger into something frigid as space, and just as dangerous, where these mortals were concerned. 

“Even now, after everything, you refuse to see reason.” He said with an unaffected shrug, the calmness in his voice startling even him. “You think it unfair that you are subject to suffering? That your lives will be sacrificed for the ancients?” 

That white hot anger, a molten volcano that had rumbled low in the pit of Emet-Selch’s gut for centuries, erupted forth, frothing and flaming and furious.

“Look at me!” He demanded, smacking the flat of his palm against his scorching chest as though it were a hammer on a red-hot iron. He spat out the sparks, “I have lived a thousand, thousand of your lives! I have broken bread with you, fought with you, grown ill, grown old! Sired children and yes, welcomed death’s sweet embrace. For eons, have I measured your worth, and found you wanting! Too weak and feeble-minded to serve as stewards of any star!”

He flung his hand away from himself; his chest had grown too hot, even through his robes, to comfortably touch. Magicks ancient and roiling rose to the surface, needled against his skin, itching to bleed the life out of his enemies. Distantly, he was aware that his chest was heaving with the weight of his breathing.

It startled all in the room, the depth of even a taste of that long-aged anger. Himself, most of all. With more effort than it should have taken, he took a shuddering breath to attempt to calm himself. 

Inevitably, it did not work. Their debate would only circle, and circle, and circle, and while he might have enjoyed partaking of that, back when the world was whole, he had no patience for it, while he tried to piece it back together again. 

Hero types were always so eager to try and prove themselves, after all— would a test of her strength not be a more satisfactory exam, versus a pointless argument? 

With that justification, he visited upon the Warrior of Light the darkest hour of his life. He rained the fall of Amaurot down upon her, bearing the full brunt of those horrific memories, all for the sole purpose of hurting her, of destroying her. She was his opposition: he had to stop her, at all costs.

She was too bright to look at directly; he did not watch her progress, apart from knowing when to elaborate on what forms his trauma took. To make her see, this time. If he had bathed in her light ascending that miserable mountain, then he would drown her in his darkness, descending into his deepest horrors.

Infuriatingly, she persisted, survived, and stood before him again.

Lashing out in a fit of pique, he sneered as he tore down, one by one, the Scions that attempted to close the distance, to cover the Warrior of Light’s last, pitiful hobble toward him, as the Light threatened to consume her.

Eventually, he flung her backward, too, and waited for it all to end. Waited for the Light to take her away, so he never had to think about her and everything that could have been, ever again.

When it finally did, he watched, waiting, praying, for relief. Instead, all he got for his trouble was a momentary glimpse, of the soul that his great-granddaughter used to be. Azem.

In the blink of an eye, that flickering recollection vanished. And all that stood was Faer. Fully restored, ready to fight. In another, the Exarch, clinging to staff and life with equal desperation. 

“This ends this day, great-grandfather.” She called, voice calm despite the tears that poured from her eyes. “One way or another, it ends.”

One last do-or-die for the both of them, then. For them all, if he were feeling poetic. He was not; he fought like the lives of everyone he loved depended on it. Because they did.

“Very well.” He said, and began to let the arcane glamours that kept his form human fall away. “Let us proceed to your final judgement. The victor shall write the tale and the vanquished become its villain!”

She did not move. So, he began to stalk toward her. Goading her.

“But come!” He called as he drew near. “Let us cast aside titles and pretense, Faer, and reveal our true faces to one another!”

The symbol of his seat blazed brightly in front of his eyes. Once more, he was a sorcerer of eld, in appearance and power alike. Still constricted by his mortal trappings, he still towered over those who opposed him all the same. His voice reverberated through his ribs as he bellowed,

“I am Hades! He who shall awaken our brethren from their dark slumber!”

He did not claim himself a hero, not just yet. It remained to be seen, which of them were the villain, after all. And so, Hades did not hold back.

Nor did his opponent. Just as he expected.

Somehow, somehow, she still attempted to reason with him, as they traded slashes and spells, staff and shield.

“We can still stop this!” Faer sobbed from behind her shield.

He dipped into the wellspring of eternal darkness that Zodiark bled into their veins, his hands reaching, reaching out with claws dipped in darkness. They scrambled against her shield. He felt it tremble beneath his onslaught, felt her quaking with the effort to keep him at bay.

Hades persisted; he was inevitable.

“Have you not heard a word of what I’ve said? You are not worthy to be successors of this star! You are worthy only of death, at my hands!”

Even casting aside the mortal flesh that constricted his power seemed to be insufficient to snuff out Faer’s light— she burned all the brighter, the darker the force he brought to bear upon her. 

Immortal as he was, time had little concept to him already, but the battle between he and Faer, Hades against the Warrior of Light, seemed to stretch out for an eternity before them. He waited, waited for the moment that she would slip, the moment that her strength would falter, the moment she would buckle beneath his onslaught. Just one moment, that was all it would take for either of them to catch the upper hand. 

In the fixation on his primary opponent, and the desperation that drove his every attack to snuff out her light, he had left himself open to be struck by one of those damnable Scions— who had prepared ahead of time with that thrice damned auracite— 

Hades had heard, in a thousand different voices, in as many tongues, say that the air at a crossroads was always heavier. It was a strange truth, one he had always forgotten to put much stock in, until he found himself standing where those paths intersected.

Now, he found the comparison more apt to crosshairs, watching the Warrior of Light bear down upon him as he struggled, prone, against the shards of auracite that had pierced him.

It should have made him feel fear. Perhaps anger, outrage, hatred, for the fabricated family that destroyed him, and any chance that he might have had had restoring his true family to their former glory.

All he could feel was relief—this fight was no longer his. He had done his part. For good or ill, he had played his role. The failure was, while certainly on his shoulders, no longer his concern.

The Light pierced Hades, and, just as he knew that it would, everything stopped.

Lahabrea had been the scientist of the lot of them, but he had been no slouch in his studies, back at Academia Anyder; he knew what should happen to him, suffused with Light as he now was. He knew what his fate was, the moment his arcane shields failed him.

And so he waited. He waited to lose feeling in his limbs—from the furthest nerve points, inward, he recalled. Waited to feel enfeebled and cold. Waited to feel too tired to keep his eyes open, and to drift off, for the last time, into that quiet dark.

Hades had died before, after all.

Those restful stretches had always played with time strangely, as he awaited his awakening, so he had anticipated the concept to cease to have all meaning, when he was sleeping forever. Even still, when the light faded, and he still felt himself very much breathing, very much alive, a ponderous frown creased his brow.

Well. That was new.

With caution, he opened his eyes— the light in front of him was still brighter than he had been expecting, and he had to blink several times before his sight adjusted.

It shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, to process the dawn cresting over the horizon, shining upon the desiccated, dilapidated remains of his Amaurot—

No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? Amaurot had fallen eons ago—ah, and there was his brain, at last waking up with the rest of him.

His thoughts were alarmingly quiet, for how his mind raced with them. Belatedly, with an awe that dawned on him as the sun rose before him, he realized that he felt strangely empty—but where that would have given him a sense of anxiety, once, he could only breathe a sigh of relief at hearing no one else in his head but himself. The strings that had pulled his thoughts in different directions had been cut: Zodiark’s hold over him, was at last, somehow, no more. A distant pondering on whether he had lived longer tempered or not flitted through his mind, but it dragged his heart up, into his throat, on its way out.

Everyone he had loved, and lost, and mourned, now so many eons passed that not even their stardust remained. Those he had convinced himself, through sheer stubbornness and the magnitude of his lies to himself, that he could save. In the heart of his grief, when he couldn’t see another way to go on, he’d clung to the delusion of “what if,” and tried to manufacture a tomorrow for the dead, stealing it from the living, time and again, and justifying it all the while because they weren’t his people.

In the strange stasis of realizing that he was neither dead, nor tempered, there was a numbness to all that he had done. There was, at least, until his sight focused on more than the sprawling, dilapidated remains of his memories.

For there, standing before him, restored to her true glory, gleaming sword of pure Light in her trembling hand, and looking at him as though she were terrified for him with wide eyes that swam with tears, was the Warrior of Light. Faer: his great-granddaughter. His family.

The family that he had betrayed, a thousand, thousand different ways, until it had shattered in his grip, and the fragmented pieces that remained had to make do with what was left in the wreckage of his rampage. Hades felt as though he couldn’t breathe, as the weight of all he had done, over the eons, bore down upon his unclouded mind.

“Faer…?” He whispered.

The blade in her hand rattled, quietly, from the strength of her trembling grip. For all the ferocity that they had both brought into the fight mere moments ago, it felt like neither of them could find the strength to move. The strength, or perhaps, not knowing how to move in this eerie stillness.

“...Great-grandpa?” She called back, sounding just as shocked as he felt.

“I...my eyes, at last, unclouded...to think that I…” He rasped, his throat feeling as a desert, even when he tried to force it to work, and swallowed thickly.

The vision of her swam before him. Tears, he realized distantly, as they began to flood his eyes, stinging with a distantly familiar saltiness, made new again for its centuries long absence. Zodiark had dulled the senses that were compromising; the anger, the bitterness, He allowed to flourish. The love, too, if only to serve as kindling for the former. But all the inconvenient facets of grief, the paralyzing sense of emptiness, the yawning chasms in long tracts of land in his soul, filled only with a sea of sorrow, Zodiark had walled off from the Unsundered.

If he experienced sadness, it had been a gray, tiring thing; he would sleep, and dream, and awake freshly embittered and ready to enact the will of his Dark Lord. Without that dam to keep the flow of that complicated mass of emotions from flooding him, they spilled out of him, and he could only helplessly shudder to try and keep himself still. He was only as successful as he would be trying to stand in defiance of a flooding river in a hurricane.

Horrified at all that he had done, and the breakdown that was in progress before Faer and her Scions, he sank down to his knees. He could feel the rattle of his voice against his chest; he was speaking, he was saying something— likely pitiful, mourning mewls. He could scarcely believe himself; the depths he had sunk to, the shame that his Ancient loved ones would feel, knowing what he had done to try and bring them back—

Hades wanted to laugh. Resurrection, in direct defiance of everything that the Lifestream stood for? What hubris they had harbored, to think that they could construct a simple solution to the consequences of their own irresponsibility.

They had been poor shepherds of their star. He had been a poor shepherd, and a poorer hero. But he could begin to make right, if he were given the chance.

He felt as though he could scarcely articulate himself, through the aeons of grief catching up to him, at long last. The hands that he wept into were wrenched away from him— Faer had knelt before him, to level with him, without him even knowing she had moved at all.

Squeezing his hands, she gave him a watery smile. “You’re not making any sense. But that’s alright. Breathe. You’re alive. You’re free.”

“How—?” Hades managed to gasp, through the tears that choked him.

“I...I don’t know. I wanted to save you, so, so desperately. I think...I think I just...forced it to happen, is all.” She shrugged, around the shuddering of her shoulders. “I couldn’t bear killing you. I couldn’t. I’ve already been forced to kill my own brother, once. I’ll likely have to kill my father. Please...please don’t make me kill you, too—”

Gathering her to him, he promised, over and over again, through his tears, that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t— given the royal mess he had made his family, under Zodiark’s guidance, she was likely the only family he would be left with. He had already lost so much—

For a few long moments, they knelt together, and just let themselves mourn everything that had brought them to that moment. Every tragedy that had forced them to their knees, together, clinging desperately in the dawn of a new day.

As Hades finally felt like he could breathe again, for the first time since time forgot him altogether, he let that awakening wash over him again: he could take what he had left, and help his family rebuild. He need not truly lose everything. That revelation was enough for those tears that had flooded his eyes to be stemmed; they yet fell, and he yet grieved, but he could at last taste tangible, true hope, beyond that harrowing sorrow. There was a light that, at long last, did not burn him.

“He gets one chance.” One of her friends— Thancred, Hades remembered that he had been corrected on that— said, from a respectable distance. “Surrender, or we’ll spare her our duty.”

“I surrender.” Hades replied, looking up at them. “We lost our home, and everyone we loved, and our grief made monsters of us. I am among the last of them. Let me teach you the ways of our successes, and our stumbles alike. Learn from me, and let me help.”

Hand on his gunblade, Thancred wavered. “I’m not sure that’s enough—”

“Make that enough, or you might as well have struck me down, too, Thancred.” Faer warned, standing and facing him. “Don’t make me lose more family. Please, I’m so tired.”

If Hades’ plea wasn’t enough to satisfy him, Faer’s was; they were the truest sense of family, she and her Scions. Observing them with eyes unclouded, that much was obvious.

Some distance from both the Scions, as well as himself, the Exarch watched, fidgeting. Doubtless, he had his own reckoning with Faer awaiting, for all his secrecy and subterfuge throughout their adventures through Norvrandt. As their eyes met, they shared a sort of understanding that could only come with living a lifetime beyond what most mortals could conceive of, even through the trauma, and all that Hades had put him through, the Exarch could find it in him to empathize with his warden.

To think, he had thought these specimens of mankind insufficient, when they so desperately reminded him of the very people he had loved and lost.

“Lest you have lingering concerns: I can neither see Zodiark’s hand around Hades’ heart, nor sense His touch upon him. Hades is tempered no longer.” 

It had been more than enough, for Y’Shtola to make that declaration, for the Scions to accept that he was not the same man that was capable of the things that he had accomplished under Zodiark, but hearing it had been something Hades had not realized he had needed, until it had settled gently over his raw, healing heart. 

“Given that, I see no reason I should not immediately start with those lessons— and I know precisely where to begin.” Hades said, finding the strength and steadiness to stand once more.

With a snap of his fingers and a faint, effortless pull from the newly purified fire in his soul, the ruined remains of his home were once more restored to a reflection of their former glory. 

“Come: it is high past time I show you the full depth of your inheritance, Faer.” Hades offered, sweeping his hand out, toward the door. “Let me show you my yesterday, that we might better our tomorrow.”

For a few agonizing moments, stillness reigned once more. He feared that he would appear false, now, at the height of their victory, that they would not believe him. For the second time in his life, he feared not being permitted to live.

And then, Faer was beside him, her smile beaming brighter than the morning light that haloed her. When he looked behind them, the Scions, and the Exarch, had all begun to follow behind, though their distance was understandable.

“Shall we, then?” His great-granddaughter asked, hesitantly.

They were far from recovered, from the blood price they had both taken from one another. They would not be for quite some time, he imagined. There would doubtless be confrontations over ugly truths, and rebreaking of emotional wounds that had healed improperly the first time. 

But Hades would walk that path, with eyes open and unclouded. Every step of that journey would be worthwhile, to begin to truly rebuild from what was left, for the first time since the Sundering.

“We shall, my dear.” He agreed, and fell into step beside her, into their tomorrow. “We shall.”

[hoodwinkd1]

the stars that shine Ch 2

Ch 1 here.

Chapter 2: woke up to find that summer gone

Evangeline sat at the dark cherry desk in her bedroom, staring down at the piece of parchment which seemed to be staring right back at her. She had picked up a pen almost half an hour ago and had successfully written one line.

Dear Lys,

“Damn this!” Tossing the pen to the side, she stood and began pacing around the bed. Normally, her letters back to Caraverre were pages and pages of stories, filled with every minute detail and every silly joke that Lysandra and Aedion might enjoy. Tonight, she could barely get her thoughts in order enough to discuss what she’d eaten for dinner two hours ago.

Evangeline knew exactly who to blame for this conundrum. Hollin Havilliard.

Her first two weeks in Rifthold were amazing. Ever the social butterfly and lacking peer friendships back in Terrasen, Evangeline absolutely loved getting to know the other students in her lessons.

“You should come shopping with us next week,” Regina suggested, her smile genuine. As the third eldest daughter of the Callot family, the largest noble support of Adarlan’s fashion industry, Regina would certainly have good taste. “Anya and I are looking for springtime outfits.”

The other girl had jumped in then. “How long will you be staying? My parents always plan a trip to the country house right after the Spring Solstice and I can bring a few friends.”

So yes, Evangeline had no problem making friends. She was downright delightful and ready to try anything, go on any adventure.

Her lessons were equally wonderful. Part of the reason she came to Rifthold was to expand her education, filling in gaps that Darrow had no expertise in, and she enjoyed the challenge immensely.

Point being, she should have plenty to write home about. The shopping trip, the mathematics concept she finally mastered, even the amazing duck stew she tried two nights ago.

Unfortunately, the fond memory of her duck stew faded when she remembered what had immediately followed.

Dear Lys,

I had the most awkward night of my life. I’m relatively confident I’ve made my first enemy and I may never go back to the ballet after this traumatizing experience.

No, she couldn’t possibly send that. Aedion would charge into the palace and demand revenge at the mere thought of anyone disliking Evangeline, if he didn’t laugh himself to death trying to imagine the concept first.

Her popularity aside, she was still in disbelief. Hollin had approached her first, offering to escort her to the royal box at the Rifthold Theater for a travelling dance troupe that evening. Evangeline accepted (delightfully and more than ready for an adventure). She even dug through her closet for the stunning cerulean gown Aelin had gifted for her fourteenth birthday.

And then the prince proceeded to ignore her. All night.

“Who goes two entire hours without speaking one word?” Evangeline grumbled, moving towards her closet to grab a nightgown. The letter could wait until tomorrow. “Why bother inviting me in the first place?”

Whatever. She would be just fine with her new friends, who’s families also owned boxes at the theater.

----

“It’s been two days.” Dorian dropped into the chair next to Hollin. “Two whole days, and I haven’t heard a word from either of you. Quite rude, if you ask me, considering it was my idea to take her to the ballet.”

Hollin kept his eyes on the book in front of him. “Some people think it’s rude to speak in a library. And yet, here we are.”

The king sighed, as if his little brother’s social life was as draining as running a nation. “At least tell me if you enjoyed yourself. Or if you think Eva enjoyed herself.”

“The dancers were talented.” Hollin turned a page. “I can’t speak for someone else’s opinion.”

Dorian huffed. “I meant, did you enjoy spending time with her?”

Hollin shut the book with a bit more force than needed. “Do you have nothing better to do than force me to go on dates with your friends’ wards? I’m working on something here.”

“It wasn’t meant to be a date!” Dorian protested. “Just...Evangeline is so delightful. And friendly. I thought she could, you know, be a friend?” His words trailed off at the end.

He heard the unspoken words. Hollin was not delightful and not friendly. Dorian probably hoped this picture-perfect girl could change him, mold him into a better prince.

“She has friends. And I have work to do.” He looked pointedly at the book strewn across his lap.

Dorian, finally, took the hint. “Fine. Enjoy your suspicious research.” He stood up, fixing his tunic. “I expect to see you at the merchant’s council dinner tomorrow night.”

Hollin waved him off. “See you then.” He’d been searching for some excuse to get out of that event, some way to avoid all the grouchy, greedy men that tried to grab the king’s attention.

Maybe if he fell off a horse, he could avoid politics for a few days.

----

The two months passed quite quickly. Evangeline was expected home in time for Aedion’s birthday celebration, so she took the last day in Rifthold to search for a gift. He might grumble about her spending money on him, letting his annoyance over aging take over his usual good mood, but Eva knew he would secretly cherish something special.

Anya had offered to join her, commandeering her family’s carriage for the trip. The two of them, along with Regina, had become inseparable during Evangeline’s stay.

She had never had friendships that were entirely her own before, outside of her family’s vast and unyielding legacy. Spending the day shopping tasted like freedom and youth.

“Where are we heading first?” Anya asked, shifting her long skirt to make room for Evangeline to sit on the bench next to her. “What does one even buy for the most infamous General in the world?”

So maybe she never could fully escape that legacy. Evangeline chose to ignore the honorific. “Aedion? He can be quite the sentimental type. I was imagining some sort of calendar he could use; one that I’d add drawings and photos and secret notes to. Something useful, but still personalized.”

“Oh, thank the Gods. I was terrified you would drag me to some boring weapons shop.” Anya fanned herself in mock horror. “Minsky’s has the best stationery.”

Once they arrived, Evangeline lost herself in the rows of parchment. She adored the smell of the shop, somewhere between a library and perfumery, thanks to the variety of candles that lined the walls.

She wandered for a while, enjoying the feel of books, journals, scrolls, and other trinkets underneath her fingertips. Anya struck up a conversation with Minsky, the elderly owner who apparently had very strong opinions about what time of day one should light lavender candles.

Evangeline stopped in front of the rack she’d been looking for, eyeing the different color choices. Each calendar looked sturdy and durable, perfect for Aedion’s regular travels, but only a few had carrier cases. She selected the emerald one, to match Lysandra’s eyes.

“Oh that’s lovely!” Anya beamed as Evangeline joined them at the counter. “Very practical.”

Minksy nodded solemnly as they checked the price. “Smart child, finding a way to stay organized.”

“It’s actually a gift,” Evangeline corrected. “Would you have any wrapping supplies?”

They pulled out a few choices of paper, and the girls left the shop with the package securely tucked under Evangeline’s arm.

Anya opened the door of the carriage to let her enter first. “Do we have any other errands - Gods!” Her question was cut off with a curse. “Galen, you scared the life out of me.”

Evangeline found herself face first with Anya’s older brother. He shot her an apologetic look.

“I spotted the carriage and didn’t fancy a walk back to the house,” he explained, musing at his dark locks with one hand. “Any change you two lovely ladies want to go out for lunch?”

“You are unbelievably annoying,” Anya sighed. She moved to sit next to him, glancing at Evangeline. “What do you think? One last meal before you go?”

Galen turned to face her as well. “Leaving so soon?”

Evangeline hadn’t had many interactions with the older boy. Galen had danced with her at one of their parents’ parties, and had teased her a couple times when she joined them for dinner. But all of a sudden, Evangeline found herself wishing for some more time in Rifthold for an entirely new reason.

“I have to return to Caraverre tomorrow,” she informed him. “It’s my....it’s Aedion’s birthday.” Explaining their relationship was difficult enough, and easily avoided since everyone knew exactly who he was.

“Pity,” Galen replied. “But that just means I have to treat you to the best sandwiches Rifthold has to offer before you go.”

Anya groaned. “He always drags us to this tiny little place, when there are plenty of nice restaurants around.”

“A tiny little place sounds perfect,” Evangeline reassured. The carriage jolted forward, carrying them away from the main streets.

An hour later, she wasn’t lying in the slightest when she praised her meal. The sandwiches were really quite good. And the twinkle in Galen’s eyes when she stole one of his chips was even better.

“Oh goodness,” Anya interrupted as they stepped outside into the twilight hour. “I left my pouch at the table. Be right back.” She strode back into the restaurant, leaving Galen and Evangeline alone by the doorway.

Galen leaned against the stone. “Do you have plans to return to Adarlan?”

“Not in the next half-year,” Evangeline admitted. Her thumb rubbed the edge of her pointer finger, a nervous tick despite her calm tone. Was there meaning behind his question? “I’m due to spend two months with one of my mentors in Arran after some time at home.”

“Pity.” He offered her a light smile. She prayed to the former Gods to keep her face from turning pink. “Next time you come around, I’ll have to move faster. Ask you on a date at the beginning of your stay, instead of the end.”

Evangeline couldn’t hold back a wide grin. “Yes, I suppose you will.”

---

Hollin threw himself onto his bed, head spinning a bit from the wine he snuck during dinner. Evangeline was leaving tomorrow, a fact that wouldn’t affect his life much since Dorian had stopped forcing a friendship between them.

Maybe the wine was a mistake. The prince didn’t like alcohol much, knew he was far too young to start drinking, but insomnia had plagued him for weeks now. Hollin tried so many home remedies, from herbal teas to meditation, before attempting to drink himself to sleep that night.

It wasn’t working.

He still couldn’t force his mind to relax. Ideas for new experiments and inventions swirled around, mixed with memories of his most recent failures that stabbed him with self-doubt. Then came the childhood memories, the horror of being raised by the devil without noticing and the shame of past cruelties keeping him far from relaxation.

Hollin groaned into his pillow. He wanted someone to talk to. It was such a simple solution, one that most people would find easy. Dorian had even hired a specialist, a healer who worked with minds as well as bodies, for palace staff who needed help after a traumatizing war. Hollin had paced by their office more times than he could count, never entering.

Somehow, he fell asleep before sunrise. A sharp knock at the door yanked him out of restless dreams.

“Hollin?” He recognized Herina’s voice, one of his personal servants who was years past using formalities. Changing a baby's diaper gave one that privilege. “I have your schedule for the day.”

Hollin stood up, blindly feeling for the robe hanging next to his dresser. “Come in, thank you.”

She pushed the door open, pulling a cart of food behind her. “I didn’t see you eat nearly enough at dinner last night, certainly not enough to be stealing drinks of wine like you did.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but shut it quickly. “I - thank you,” he said again, too tired to form a better sentence.

Herina left the cart by the entrance and walked further into the chamber. “You have a couple lessons scheduled, one before lunch and one in the evening. Light day.”

“Not too terrible.” Hollin took the parchment from her. “Herina..” He trailed off.

“Yes?”

“Could you - do you know how to add things to my schedule?” he asked.

She nodded. “Of course. What grabbed your interest?”

He pushed past his discomfort at the idea. If he didn’t sleep well after, that would be the end of it. “Training. Physical, that is. I’d like to learn how to fight.”

Herina eyed him warily, no doubt taking in the lanky and awkward features that haunted most fourteen year old boys. “You know the king would never expect you to fight. He knows that isn’t where your interests lie.”

“I know.” Gods, he was blushing now. “It’s for myself, just a new hobby.”

Thankfully she moved on. “Well, alright then. Don’t be late today.”

With a final meaningful look at the breakfast, she left. Hollin thought about ignoring the food and falling immediately back to sleep, but his stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. He would need the calories if he planned to actually follow through with his new training idea.

If getting knocked on his ass for two hours a day didn’t help him fall asleep, then nothing would,

[thecandywrites]

Blood For Gold

So. I was SO INSPIRED by @kriskukko​ ‘s regency era orc art, please forgive me for taking it and putting it into the photo montage that I do for all my stories but I wanted everyone to see your amazing art and really get a visual sense of the story I want to tell. For more amazing orc and other fantasy beings in GORGEOUS period clothing- @kriskukko​ is where to go. They’re amazing. 

I’m a HUGE fan of Jane Austin in general and now with historical period dramas like Death Comes to Pemberley and Bridgerton, they need a fantasy twist with orcs, elves, trolls and of course mouras which are my own precious creation. Also because this is a fantasy period piece, I’m fudging and blurring the lines of historical accuracy just a wee bit. Regency Era- 1811-1820 ish. First Industrial Revolution- 1760-1840 and railways becoming a key transportation tool around this time as well. So we’re going with all three at the same time. 

Trains, Industrial Revolution, Regency, Nobility, Intrigue, Murder Mystery, Damsel in Distress, Mail Order Bride, Only One Bed but with a twist as Only One Train Cabin, all the clichés. ALL OF THEM. Enjoy. And I really hope @kriskukko​ enjoys this because this was written specifically for them. And it’s written as a reader insert. Hope that’s ok. If that’s annoying @kriskukko​, I can change that. Technically this will be female reader insert. 

Blood For Gold

Part 1

You were happily sitting on the train, in a private first class cabin suite, dressed in your mourning clothes, relieved that others took the hint and left you alone so you could travel in peace, reading one of your latest acquisitions from one of the more upscale and prominent bookstores in Kent since you were traveling from Kent back to London Towne. Normally you would never dream of traveling alone, but you did just give away your latest paid companion in marriage the day before to a man who would love her for the rest of her life so you found yourself feeling bittersweet at the loss of her company, both sad to lose such a close friend yet happy she would be happy. She was your third paid companion just this past year to do so. But you were far from begrudged. But now you would have to start the process all over again and have to take out an advertisement in the papers for a new paid companion and start anew. 

Then your thoughts were interrupted by the knock on the door by a station master since the train had stopped on its way into London, stopping in the industrial district. 

“Yes?” You asked as he came into your suite.   

“Begging your pardon Countess, but there are two first class gentlemen looking for a private cabin on their journey home and it’s a full train today and we’ve filled up all the other cabins, would it be a horrible inconvenience for them to share this one with you? We’d like to extend these certificates of first class cabins on future trips to you if you’d be willing to share yours with them.” He offered generously, holding them out to you hopefully. 

“Who are the gentlemen?” You asked curiously as you looked from his offering back to him. 

“Duke Damsey Voyambi and Count Javyn Jabire.” He answered. You didn’t know them personally but you knew of them. Men of both nobility and industry and supposedly of considerable wealth in this country. Although you did hear rumors of both gentlemen of being romantically attached to various debutants so you’d have to be careful to not let any rumors spring up. The last thing you needed was another scandal on your hands. 

“But of course, I would be happy to share my cabin with them.” You readily agreed before you took the ride certificates into your black laced gloved hand and put them away into your purse as the station master then happily left and returned with the gentlemen a moment later, they were exquisitely dressed but did smell like their factories, they must have been just checking in on their businesses. 

“Countess Morrigan, this is Duke Voyambi and this is Count Jabire.” The station master introduced as you stood to greet them formally. Duke Voyambi was orcish and the count was clearly troll, but you were moura, so it made little difference what they were. 

Mouras- ever since the moura plague over a hundred and fifty years ago that wiped out the heavenly moura population, leaving only the royal moura and mountain moura to live on since their own moura heritage was “diluted” by other races enough genetically to withstand the plague and live on- were now all born with golden yellow eyes, golden blonde hair and their moura collars and cloaks, instead of being actual objects containing magic and power were now reduced to looking like they were painted on the skin with gold glittering ink. It’s what made mouras stand out even more than they used to. Gone were the days of the real moura gifts but the breed’s legacy lived on. But you were of course in your mourning attire, mostly all black and covered up, the only moura trait giving you away were your gold eyes and little golden freckles on your cheeks and nose, otherwise you looked mostly human. 

“Pleasured to make your acquaintance Countess Morrigan. How do you do?” They bowed as you curtsied in kind. 

“Please, won’t you sit down gentlemen?” You invited as you gestured to the other bench before all three of you sat down again. 

“Thank you so much for having us Countess Morrigan, we’re much obliged.” Count Jabire thanked you earnestly. 

“Pleasure is all mine your graces, a journey is always more enjoyable when spent with amiable company.” You answered pleasantly. 

“So why are you travelling alone Young Countess?” Duke Voyambi asked curiously. 

“I believe you have me confused with the Young Countess Jane Morrigan, I am her late grandmother in law Audravienne Saharrazat Morrigan from Dorierra, I was married to the late Old Count Edward Morrigan.” You gently corrected, your r’s rolling while your moura accent flourished and furled with the pronunciation of your name, which both of them couldn’t help but raise their eyebrows at that revelation as they realized you were that Countess Morrigan. 

You were the reason every young man threw themselves into business if only to make enough money to afford a moura bride as beautiful and wonderful as you. To hear of the late Count Edward Morrigan’s death had many marking their calendars to mark when your mourning period would be over so they could pursue you themselves. Especially since after the death you weren’t immediately whisked away back to the moura stables of Dorierra but stayed in the country and it seemed to be in this moment that both actually took note of your mourning attire and seemed to connect the dots so to speak. 

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, again, so sorry for your loss, I believe the last time we were in the same room was actually your wedding to the Count only two years ago, forgive us for not recognizing you.” Count Jabire offered. 

“It’s alright, I did not recognize you either, that day was a bit of a blur for me and all the faces ran together having met so many people that day.” You admitted. 

Your wedding to the Count was attended by all of high society in this country, even the entire royal family attended, all of which you barely remembered because of the circumstances of your marrying the Count. It was all a blur for you and most of the first year of being married to him, you’d much prefer to forget and the circumstances of his passing had you feeling relieved you had only been married to him for a year. Much longer and it would have finished you for good. But you had settled into widowhood much easier than you had anticipated and it afforded for you to finally enjoy life again. Now that he was dead, you had a very charming and pleasant life, and one you would be loathed to lose. 

“Oh it’s perfectly alright, practically the whole country came for your wedding, it would be impossible for you to remember all of them, especially when all of them were practically strangers to you that day. And especially since you rarely come out into society since.” Duke Voyambi reasoned and all you could do was smile politely but it didn’t reach your eyes. 

Edward had been a widower, he was human and had married a human wife in his youth and used his family’s small and modest fortune and invested it into industry and investments, all of which paid off handsomely so that the Morrigans were one of the wealthiest nobles in all of England, if not most of Europe. Then Beatrice, Edward’s wife died, and in his old age, and now fully established wealth, Edward decided it was time for him to “buy” a moura bride, a tradition most kings partook in going back for a millennia since the moura stables were established specifically for that purpose. The moura estate of Doriera functioned like a racing horse stable. All brides were put on display and bought and sold or rented to the highest bidder, because since the plague, mouras were becoming even more rare and sought after and were the first to embrace the mail order bride system. Edward wanted a moura bride who was young and vibrant and entertaining to keep him company in his old age and give his last years a measure of happiness and pleasure. He had paid a fortune to the moura stable in Doriera for you since you had a pedigree that rivaled most ruling kings and gifts galore, not to mention were an outstanding beauty in your own right and Edward got what he paid for because you delivered on all accounts. 

Edward had been incredibly sweet, kind, thoughtful and generous as a husband when you first married him and treated you like the gem you were and in the beginning, you found much to appreciate and have affection for as he helped you to adjust to living in England, away from the moura stables and indulged you endlessly because he could afford to. He made sure you had a very generous allowance paid out weekly, wore splendid gowns and practically dripping in jewels at all times. You were his delight in his old age and he even had the good sense that it was all down in writing and was taken care of by his steward.

However six months into the marriage, he started to go completely senile, mistaking you for Beatrice and then getting so angry when you weren’t her and especially once the sun set every day, he became a different man, he grew incoherent, irritable and angry and even violent but then in the morning and during the day, he would come back to his senses and himself and would apologize and do everything he could to make amends and even hired special assistants to keep himself from hurting you further but even that only lasted a few months, the last three months of his life was spent having all sense leaving him and he became completely senile and deranged no matter the time of day and that’s when the abuses started happening, in his senility, he dismissed his helpers and Richard, his eldest son and heir, who was looking to save money, agreed with their dismissal, no matter your pleadings or theirs and even his steward plead with him but Richard and his family turned a blind eye to it since they viewed you as his paid caregiver and basically dumped him on you and left you all alone to deal with him and shut you and him up and away from society so they would not and could not see it for themselves while forbidding you from contacting the stables or anyone else about it to “preserve the family honor”. 

Then the “incident” happened and Edward unexpectedly passed. And it came as a relief to everyone else in the Morrigan family. Richard then fully inherited the estate and very quickly shipped you and all of your things off to live in London Towne as soon as you could be packed- to live in an exquisite and surprisingly luxurious townhouse in the fashionable side of town that was big enough to suit you just fine because you couldn’t return to the moura stables because ‘you were broken beyond repair’ by Edward’s and Richard’s treatment as judged by the stable masters who were beyond enraged at your treatment and thankfully Edward had written it into his will and specified the kind of living you would receive upon his death so that the rest of your life, until you chose to remarry someone of your choosing, would be in comfort and luxury and even accounted for inflation and unless Richard wanted to lose everything, he would be honoring his father’s wishes and pay out what you were definitely owed and had earned by enduring it, under the threat of the truth being discovered and him losing everything, including the family honor and estate and business to you, which the stable masters were more than ready and able to hire the best international lawyers who would make sure to hold the new Count Richard Morrigan to the very letter of the contract his father signed when he “bought” you from the stables which clearly stated, should you be damaged in any way, you would inherit all of Edward’s estate to “recoop” the damages inflicted on you personally which all moura contracts superseded all others in all courts worldwide. 

So that left Richard to pay for your silence and discretion on the matter, effectively doubling what his father had already set out in your material living agreement which you had the good sense to get down in writing and have the stable masters cosign it so that it accompanied the contract Edward signed which you kept a copy of in your possession and the stable masters also kept the original copy of and had it witnessed by the highest judges in the land, in private of course. Which for the price of your peace- and complete independent freedom from the Morrigan’s, you agreed to it since you could not return to the moura stables yourself. 

So you made peace with your circumstances and counted yourself fortunate to have the moura stables still backing you despite technically no longer being a part of them even though you knew that if this particular country were to ever become unsafe by either revolution or war, you were still welcome back to the stables under those conditions to simply preserve your bloodline, but little other circumstance garnered your return to them. 

Besides, you got to have the very same staff that served you at the Morrigan Estate named Broadcove follow you to your new townhouse- Mirador and they were ever so happy to follow you there because you were a good and fair mistress to them and took care of them exceedingly well and they made at least twice the money they would make at any other house and they were loyal to you to a fault. Even the steward followed you to Mirador because he knew his master had done you wrong. 

“How are you getting home to Broadcove?” Count Jabire asked curiously. 

“Oh since the Late Count Edward Morrigan passed and the New Count Richard Morrigan and his family has taken ownership of Broadcove, they thought it best I mourn in peace at a house of my own, so I have since moved to Mirador since the late Count’s passing.” You informed them. 

“Oh how kind and thoughtful of them.” Count Jabire noted and you fought not to snort a derisive laugh at that. It was never ‘thoughtful’ on their part. It was always just a business to them. 

“Yes, it’s been most helpful to me. It’s incredibly convenient to be in town and so close to so many amusements and diversions, it has helped me with my grief a great deal, especially since the living afforded to me by the late Count is generous enough for me to afford a paid companion so that I don’t get too lonely. My latest one was married only yesterday, Lady Bellum to Sir DeVaunce, you may have seen the announcement in the paper perhaps?” You readily agreed.

“Oh yes, yes of course.” Duke Voyambi readily agreed while Count Jabire nodded in agreement.  

“But now it seems I will have to take out another advertisement for another, since it’s obviously a little unseemly for a lady such as myself to travel alone, especially in this country.” You allowed as they nodded and gave each other a meaningful look. 

The rest of the ride was spent in pleasant conversation as all three of you got to become better acquainted. 

Duke Voyambi owned a soap company, making not just soap to wash the body, but laundry supplies as well which explained his own scent on his clothes smelled like he worked as a laundress. But he also employed a union of orcish workers. One of the few captains of industry that was for the union instead of against it, which you greatly respected because you could tell he was passionate about the betterment of orcs in general, from livelihood and wages, to education and living and working conditions and was incredibly safety conscious. 

Count Jabire on the other hand- he owned one of the many flour mills, using the river rushing through the feet of the bridge to run the giant wheels to make flour of various kinds. And it was why he smelled like a bakery and why the two of them together smelled- if anything- interesting. But they were clearly friends, and close ones at that and in conversation, they clearly played very well off each other and it was entertaining for you to sit and listen to them. You were almost saddened when your stop came and all three of you had to disembark. 

But at the same time, you were relieved to see Malcom, one of your manservants there to help you with your things and there with a carriage to take you home. 

“Till we see each other again gentlemen, may you both get home safely.” You offered the Duke and Count, curtseying again as they bowed and tipped their hats to you before you left to return to Mirador. 

“You have visitors waiting on you my Lady.” Malcolm informed you as he helped you into your carriage. 

“Who?” You asked. 

“Count and Countess Morrigan.” He answered before you groaned and made a whiney whimpering sound which brought a grin to Malcom’s face. 

“Why?” You asked. 

“Don’t know, but they came bearing gifts my Lady.” He answered. 

“Great, well, I suppose we shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer than they have to.” You urged him as he finished loading your things up and the driver drove the carriage home as you steeled yourself for whatever would find you once you came home. 

“Countess,” Richard and his wife Agnes greeted you as all three of you curtsied to each other respectfully. 

“Count, Countess.” You returned respectfully. 

“We trust your ride home from Kent was pleasant as always.” Richard urged with forced pleasantness. 

“It was,” you confirmed. 

“So what do I owe the pleasure of your presence your Graces?” You asked curiously. 

“Well since your mourning ends in a fortnight, we came to invite you to everything that will be happening shortly after, and since you will be out of mourning and even half mourning in a fortnight, you will need new clothes to stay with the fashions, we must get you out into society as soon as possible. Surely you long to see it and we brought all the invitations that we should all go to as a family.” Agnes insisted as cheerfully as she could muster as she presented you with a stack of invitations and you wanted to laugh scornfully in her face for her audacity. But decorum would not permit you to do so- so you simply smiled politely as you took them from her. 

“Of course.” You agreed as you started looking through them.  

“Well we must get you to the designer houses as soon as may be for they may need time to finish your gowns in time for all of these events. Take the next couple of days to rest and recoup from your journey from Kent, so on Wednesday perhaps, we should go, in the meantime, the stables have sent gifts to celebrate the event, and your servants have taken the trunks to your quarters for your inspection and we must inform you that you now have a dowry, should you chose to get remarried of fifty thousand pounds.” Agnes suggested. You were being paid thirty thousand pounds for your silence a year, since Edward afforded you fifteen thousand but Richard doubled it for your silance and discretion, but the Morrigan’s estate and business earned them hundreds of thousands of pounds a year which they were using to build an even bigger estate in the country along with a new townhouse in London that was going to rival any other as well, the new country estate was going to rival the Palace of Windsor or even Buckingham Palace. Which is how Edward could afford to give the stables two hundred a fifty thousand pounds to buy you outright from the stables but Edward, when he had not been senile insisted that you were worth every penny. But still, they always viewed you as a gold leech and they were obviously keen to get rid of you and have you ‘latch on’ to someone else. 

“Yes, Wednesday would be a good day for that, thank you.” You agreed, in a desperate attempt to get them out of your house so you wouldn’t have to put on this pretence any longer than you had to.

Mourning here lasted a year and a day for widows, the first six months were spent in deep or full mourning, where the widow would wear nothing but black, and the last six months were in half mourning where a little bit of subdued color was introduced back into the wardrobe, which seemed almost alien to you since mouras liked to dress in the brightest and most vibrant colors possible.

But you knew the sooner they could get you remarried after the mourning period- the better for them because they would no longer have to pay for your living arrangements and pay for your allowances. They were going to dump a fortune into getting your market ready and dump you on the first willing suitor who showed interest and they would try to induce you to remarry but you were determined that only the deepest and purist and most genuine love would ever induce you into matrimony now. 

If they only knew who you shared a train ride with- they would be going to the gentlemen directly to try to broker a deal behind your back as you wondered exactly what tricks they had up their sleeves to try to pawn you off. 

But you had tricks of your own. You just needed a little help...