#as LONG AS ITS NOT EPISODE III | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tiredmamaissy · 6 months

Text

Ralak te Sepwan ieyk’itan: Special Episode III

Calm After the Storm

An Illustrated Collaboration with @zestys-stuff

Masterlist ; Rut/Heat/Knotting Info

🔞 minors, do not interact 🔞

Hyperlinks are attached to specific paragraphs that when clicked on will lead you to its illustration by Ralak's creator @zestys-stuff.

Characters: Metkayina!Ralak (24) x Sully!Omaticaya!Reader (19)

Warnings: nsfw, smut, fluff, profanity, age gap, rut cycle, heat cycle, extreme knotting, marking, scenting, territorial/possessive behaviour, breeding kink, p in v, mating/bonding, multiple climaxes, creampie, belly bulge, actual breeding, let me know if I forgot anything?

Word Count: 6.3k

Requested: Yes || No

Author’s Note: Happy halloween guys! I know I literally fell off the face of the earth and I will make another post to address that. But I know I haven’t participated for @pandoraslxna ‘s kinktober event (I’m so sorry bby) but if I could only participate for one of the days it would be today for sure. So I definitely wanted to get this out before midnight. It’s not purely a/b/o but honestly entails all the aspects of it. I think we can all definitely tell who’s the alpha and omega here (Ralak is alpha material hands down, ofc). I hope you guys enjoy this one, and I apologize for such a wait <3 Also I feel like I’m a bit rusty, so apologies for any typos, errors, or just plain suckish writing.

ALSO a big happy birthday to my babe @neteyamsoare <3 love you and hope it was a good one!!

Synopsis: Your heat starts to subside, but Ralak’s rut is only getting stronger. What could possibly go wrong?

<- Previous -> Next

——

Only an hour has passed before you feel your not-so-gentle giant stirring behind you, waking you from your sleep. You’d both been on your sides for too long now and everywhere seems to ache. You whine when you feel his hips shift against you, tugging at the immense pressure between your hips. The bulge protruding from your lower abdomen has barely gone down and you feel almost as full as you did when he initially emptied his load inside you.

Silken strands of his hair fall onto your prickled skin as he props himself up on his elbow from behind you, perching his chin on your throbbing shoulder. He inhales deeply – longingly. His hot breath gently blows against your neck just as you feel his arm snake under your leg and yank it back in one rough tug.

“Ralak.” His name falls from your lips through a nearly inaudible croak. “‘m so full.” You barely mumble out, rolling your head to the side. Yet, the flame within you is without a doubt reigniting with a vengeance.

And he can sense it.

Simply by the way you push back into him, making that bulge in your belly protrude a little more. His large hand resting on your stomach can indubitably feel it. And the smile that it puts on his face is almost baleful, bearing his lengthy canines that yearn to sink deep into you once more. “Sorry, tìyawn [love].”

He just can’t help it.

No matter how hard he tried. The desire—no, the need—to fuck into you and claim you as his time and time again is… irrepressible. In this moment, nothing else felt better than your little, used cunt hugging his cock so tightly that it almost hurts. He yearns to fill you over and over. Again and again until your womb is overflowing with his seed. The mere thought has his balls pulling tight to his body, firming up by the second all just to flood your womb again.

“Muntxate [wife].” Ralak growls into your neck, sliding his hand down to your inner thigh. “I will try to be–” He groans slowly, his pointer finger now burrowing itself between your tied pelvises, “–flrr [gentle].”

The final accented word comes out roughly, and if it weren’t for his finger slipping past his knot and into your cunt, you would’ve probably heard it clearly. You yelp out when he traces his finger around his knot, stretching your already taut skin, attempting to work a little space to allow his bulge to slip out.

It's all consuming and you’re simply too overwhelmed with his size that you fail to realise how your body is synced with his and bearing down to push him out. All whilst he’s struggling to fight the snap of hips to avoid hurting you. But the tugging is nothing like you’ve felt before adn you can finally understand why he was so insistent in the first place.

ut there was no getting out of this now, not that you even wanted to.

“It–it’s…” You brace yourself by grabbing onto his forearm, “...t-too big.”

“Ngaytxoa [sorry]” He huffs out his fourth apology, losing himself once again as his hips finally jerk back out of his control.

Pop.

His knot slips out of you with such force that the squelch it makes is as loud as your whimper. It’s so wet and slippery that his cock follows behind his knot, sliding out of you effortlessly. He’s more than half-hard yet so heavy and hung it rests close to your knee. Then you feel it. His cum dribbling down your thigh, still warm and sticky as if he just filled you up seconds ago.

It’s such a conflicting feeling — a mixture of relief and pent up frustration. Your heat is still in full bloom, despite it being so quenched until you’re almost nauseated. It’s as if you were two pieces perfectly linked together, allowing nature to run its course with no second thought. He grunts when he feels the crisp night air against his groin, his cock now springing up to its full length in just a few seconds.

He, too, feels some sort of feverish way now. Itching to be back inside your warmth, enveloped by your gummy, slimy walls. He opts to pepper wet kisses along your neck, and then up to your jaw, lingering there as he tries to distract himself from the ache to shove it back inside you.

Until it becomes too much.

“Tanhì.” He moans into your ear, heavy lidded eyes struggling to stay open as his tongue trails the skin on the back of your neck. “Need you.” It’s his way of begging for permission. Permission to slam his cock back inside you and hammer into you until the annoying itch deep in his core goes away again. You were the only one to make it go away. To stop the hurt. “Please.” He whines out a plea of desperation, now gritting his teeth from the way his stomach is tensing. “Now.”

But that last plea wasn’t much of a question, no. It was more of a demand. A way of saying, ‘give it to me, or I’ll take you on my own terms’.

“Fuck.” You mumble under your breath, sliding your free hand down your side to hook it under your leg. You pull it back and reposition your hips to give him access to your cunt. “P-Put it in, ‘Lak.”

Ralak’s hips begin to stutter — the leaking, mushroomy tip of his cock now repeatedly prodding between your puffed up folds. His breath turns raggedy as he tries to guide himself back inside you handsfree. Your slick is overflowing, making it even more difficult for him to align himself with your entrance. The frustration brewing within him bubbles over when his cockhead glides past your swollen clit instead of sinking in your cunt. So he pulls back in one swift move and —

Thrust.

Your body jolts from how quickly he slams every inch of his cock inside you, forcing you split-open. Ralak huffs a shaky sigh of relief, his breathing growing a little steadier now that he’s deep inside his mate. Meanwhile, your mouth hangs agape yet no sound falls from your lips. Your eyes well up with tears and your ears lay flat against your skull. Your body is in complete submission to the beast dominating it and there’s nothing else you can do but give in to the pleasure.

“Your scent.” He whispers open-mouthed, tips of his canines grazing the nape of your neck. “It is driving me crazy.” You release the breath that you didn’t even realise you were holding. You didn’t even know what to say. Not like you could really say much right now anyways. You’re too lost in the fog of your own heat. For once, Ralak is doing most of the talking. “It makes me…” He snaps his hips back, only leaving half of his length inside you. “...lose myself completely.”

A deep roll of his hips.

A lewd moan dripping off your lips.

“How do you do that?” He huffs, pressing his teeth against your neck. You don’t answer yet again. You just can’t find the words. Not right now. Not when he’s so deep inside you. “Hm?” A deep growl vibrates up his throat, his teeth just barely piercing the first layer of your silken skin.

“I—” You’re cut off by your own squeal when you feel the sting of his bite. Your breath catches in your throat and he immediately unlatches, lapping at the nicked skin to soothe it. “Sorry.” He whispers breathlessly, planting a quick kiss on each of your marks. “Sorry. Sorry.” A few more apologies flow from his mouth, as if he were drunk off of too much fermented fruit. Somewhat lucid but still so spaced. “I cannot —ngh— help myself.”

Thrust.

“‘M sorry.”

He knows he went a little too deep just now. But you feel so fucking good around his cock.

Chomp.

Another mark. Right on the bend of your shoulder, next to your first.

“Ngaytxoa [I’m sorry]”

A small cry from your quivering lips.

“S-Stop. No more apologies. I am yours to do what you p-please with.” You finally get out in one, weary breath.

Ralak’s languid, deep thrusts are laced with desperation. And with each stroke they become harsher and harsher. Faster and faster. Now he’s got your full permission he lets go once more, falling into the thick fog of his rut.

Within seconds his cock is pumping in and out of you, his half-deflated knot continuously prodding and poking at your entrance. The tip of his cock drags against your walls, putting an immense pressure right on your sweet spot. Yet still, sounds barely fall from your flushed lips. You’re too out of it. Too focused on the raw sensations rippling through you all at once. His overwhelming pheromones. His marking. His relentless pounding.

Rather, hot tears well over your eyes and stream down your face.

He can’t stop slamming himself inside you. He doesn’t want it to stop. It’s absolute rapture and he’s unapologetically drowning in it.

“Tanhì. Tanhì.” He groans needily. “y/n.”

He only says your name when he’s serious about something.

And hearing it drip from his tongue onto the nape of your neck has your hairs standing high and your clit throbbing.

“Eywa. Yes, ‘lak? T-Tell me what you need.” You blubber out, tightening your grip on his forearm.

“Haa — spread yourself.” He demands, prompting you to tuck your leg back as far as you can. His pace quickens, hips striking you with a sinful vengeance. But no matter how hard he fucks you, or how deep he buries himself inside you — its just not enough. He needs to be closer. To be deeper. To really be inside you. To knot you.

“More.” He grunts, slowing his thrusts into rocking, grinding himself inside your slippery, tight cunt.

You go to tug at your leg and meet nothing but resistance. “I-I’m trying.” You can feel it now. Perhaps it’s the bond or maybe it’s the way his knot is working you open but he’s growing more and more frustrated by the thrust.

“Mmmh. Wider.”

“I can’t. I can’t.” You’re quick to answer, feeling nothing but pressure from the way he’s trying to shove more of himself inside you.

“Agh.” He growls in frustration, pulling out of you and grabbing you by the ankle to flip you onto your back.

Ralak situates himself between your legs without hesitation and pushes them so far back your knees graze against the tips of your ears. You can barely breathe in this position and are having a hard time seeing anything else but his raging cock at your entrance. You can feel the burn in your thighs from how far back he’s shoving your knees but that sting is masked by the pleasure of him plunging himself back into your pussy.

The moan that rips from your lips is obscene and like no other. The crown of his cock is drilling itself directly into your sweet spot, causing it to swell with unadulterated pleasure. And each time he pulls out just to sink it back inside you he winds you in the process – making you sputter out absolute nonsense. Even he knows you're close, despite being in the thick of his rut.

But frankly, he doesn't care.

All he’s concerned about is satisfying his own urges.

“Not enough.” He grits through his teeth as his eyes shift to an even deeper shade of mauve. “‘ts not enough.” He pants, voice laced with something of worry. Panic that this feeling won’t go away. It makes you panic too, wondering if you’re doing enough for him. If he’s going to take even more from you. If you can manage it.

“You’re okay. Do what you need.” You try to reassure him, grasping your feet and holding them back–opening yourself up even more. But fuck, that only made things worst for you.

And by worst, you mean better. It feels like you’ll burst any second now, especially with how much pressure is on your bladder. “Fu-ck me. God, fuck–ahaa-fuck me.”

His brows bunch together as he peers down at you, beads of sweat rolling off his face to drip onto your chest. His jaw is so tense it looks as if it may fracture. He’s grunting with every push and huffing with every pull.

“Right there! Fuck. I’m close. I’m so fucking close. I-I need you to cum i-inside me. Oh—please ‘lak. Please!” Your cries are choked and muffled, breaths short and raggedy. The heat pooling in your core is unbearable. It needs out. Now.

Ralak swallows. Hard. Through his own haze he can see that you’re in need too. He shuffles closer to you, tucking his feet under him to assume a squatting position. Now he’s all but on top of you, folding you into a merciless mating press. This one shift in position has you coming undone on his cock, coating it in your thick slick as you sob from the white hot pleasure. The force of your climax has you pushing him out and only has him drilling himself further inside you. If it’s not for the way your pussy walls tighten around him surely his knot would have popped inside you by now.

He’s still fucking into you, right through your orgasm and towards his.

“Say what you need.” He panics through a tightened jaw, grinding himself inside you – pushing his knot against the resistance.

You know what he’s actually asking from you. To say something. Anything to tip him over the edge. To rid him of this maddening itch.

“Breed me.” You whisper, locking eyes with him. You watch as his pupils blow into thin rings and then constrict into nothing but dots. You try to swallow what spit you could, attempting to clear your throat. “Breed me. Please.”

“Then take it.” He lets loose a sinister growl, putting all his weight into his final push. For the first time, you feel his knot pop inside you, veiny and as thick as can be. You let out a high-pitched whimper, and feel your teeth begin to chatter. That doesn’t make him ease up, though. He continues to grind himself inside you until you feel the familiar, warm sensation of his sticky seed spraying inside you – filling your womb to the brim. His cock throbs wildly, in perfect synchrony with his own heartbeat, and soon yours too as the bond equilibrates your souls once more.

Strangely, you thought you’d be sore and overstimulated by now, but your body has never felt better. You’re full and content and more than satiated. Ralak heaves a sigh — one of pure relief. It’s glued to his face. All panic washes away and he’s feeling more at peace the longer he remains inside you. He’s rigid, firmly holding his position on top of you — ensuring he empties every single drop inside you. Yet, his heavy lidded eyes begin to close.

“I can’t breathe.” You mumble, snapping him out of his tranquil trance. His eyes meet yours and the corner of his mouth pulls into a little smirk. He exhales a breathy chuckle and carefully manoeuvres you both into a more comfortable position. He settles himself on his back and supports your body whilst positioning you on top of him.

“Better?” Ralak husks, drawing circles into your back with the tip of his finger.

You take a deep breath, filling your lungs to full capacity and then slowly release it. “Much.”

“Nga yawne lu oer [I love you]” His accented words slur together as he dozes off.

“Nga yawne lu oer, Ralak [I love you].”

——

Ralak woke repeatedly throughout the night for his fill. If it wasn’t him, it was you. Waking up in a clammy state, shaking and nuzzling into his chest from your heat. You honestly thought that the more time passed — the more rounds you went — the more he would calm down.

But, you thought wrong.

He’d start by leaving tender kisses wherever he could, whispering he’d do his best to be as gentle as he can be. Then, he’d slip a finger inside you, stretching you out in attempts to pull his knot out without hurting you. But it would always sting, even just a little bit. After that he’d beg. Pleading with you to let him back in, and apologize right after plunging inside you regardless of your answer—which was always yes.

At this point your own foggy haze would take over. Perhaps it was your body’s way of coping with the overstimulation, but you pined for every single second of it. Sometimes it would last for a few minutes. Where he’d be quick to fold you in two and growl in the shell of your ear, ‘you’re mine, haah — fuck, take me’.

Sometimes it was closer to an hour. Where you’d both be so tired you’d take breaks, lazily taking turns fucking each other, telling him to ‘put it back in’ whenever he’d slip out. But one thing remained the same every time. You’d sob when you’d cum and then beg him to breed you. And he would, without a doubt, breed you.

Mercilessly.

And with each breeding, he’d lose himself a little deeper. Knotting you over and over. Marking you repeatedly until your body’s littered with bites. Until you were so fucked out you’d lost the feeling in your legs. Until your throat was so dry you could barely speak. Until you needed a break.

——

“Wait.” You crawl towards the bedside table with wobbly knees. “Just need some water, Lak.”

Ralak pounces on you, knocking you onto your stomach and pressing himself against you. You extend an arm out, fingers splayed out and shaking from you trying to reach the cup of water Ka’ani left there more than a day ago. Ralak grabs your hips and hoists you up onto your knees and elbows, and mounts you from behind.

“Water. Water, Lak.” You beg with a hoarse cry, only for him to line the crown of his cock up with your sopping cunt. He growls next to your ear as he stretches over you and reaches for the cup of water, filling his cheeks and putting it back down within a couple seconds. With a quick grip of your jaw, he turns your head and meets his lips with yours.

Before you can process what’s going on you’re gulping down water as fast as you can. And when he pulls away, you’re yet again met with the hazy eyes of his rut. That’s when it dawns on you that whilst your heat is coming to an end, his rut is only getting stronger.

Rather than looking away, he locks his gaze onto you, just so he can watch your face screw as he slams his cock inside of you in one, hard thrust. It works a sudden, breathy moan from your mouth, eyebrows pinching together from the stretch. He holds his position, basking in the warmth and tightness of your cunt as his breath goes shaky.

“Wait.” You mumble weakly, shoving a hand behind you to push against his lower stomach. “Please.”

For the first time, you were telling him to stop.

His jawbone flutters as his eyes search yours. Restraint plasters to his face, and the only audible thing is his heavy breathing. He nods. Just once. A firm and intentional nod. He swallows the residual water left in his mouth and tenderly pulls out of you. You hear the thud of his footsteps quiet down as he nears the marui door, and then the splash of the water when he dives into the rough sea.

It’s pouring outside.

Storming, actually. Thundering and lightning. Yet he feels this is the only way he’d be able to resist the urge to storm back in and fuck you. But the instinct to protect his mate, even if it’s from himself, is more than enough to give him the willpower to walk away.

You take this moment to just breathe, turning your head to face the plush bed beneath you as you gather your thoughts. Did he just show that much restraint? Enough to walk away from a female na’vi during her heat cycle… all whilst in the height of his own rut cycle?

“Lekye’ung [insane]” You mutter, using your trembling hand to grab and bring the cup to your lips. They, too, are sore and chapped. Having gone so many hours without any food or water, you knock it back, shaking the cup to get out every drop. Finished already? You think to yourself, looking inside the cup with hazed vision, confirming it’s indeed empty.

After setting it back down onto the table, you slump back into the bedhead, relaxing your body. You’re sore. Actually, sore is an understatement. Every single muscle and fiber in your body burns—and that isn’t entirely due to your heat either now that it’s finally subsiding. Perhaps you should be taking this time to have a look at your… condition, but you’re finding it harder and harder to keep your eyes open.

So you give in, sinking further and further into the bed as you doze off.

—

A few hours go by and Ralak returns with a net of fish thrown over his shoulder and a bucket of fresh water perched on his hip. He carefully sets down the bucket and rests the net next to the fire pit. He’s cautious not to wake you, nor come too close to you. Ralak ignites the fire and fans the flame. As quietly as possible, he prepares and cooks the fish, setting them aside to wrap in the leaves of a spartan tree.

Since coming to Awa’atltu, one of your biggest adjustments—despite the obvious—has been your change in diet. Fish weren’t uncommon back home, but they certainly weren’t the main source of food. You prefer the other foods here, your favourite being what you call ‘inland boar’, which is an animal that resembles what your father calls a ‘pig’ from his star.

But not even that, (boar) could smell better than this (fish).

The aroma alone rouses you from your sleep.

Your eyes open to a dark room and a glowing fire pit. The fire is out but the wood remains hot, shifting among different shades of orange and red. Ralak sits beside it, with his back leaning against the support beam of the pod. His arms are crossed over his chest and his knees are slightly bent. It’s hard to see more than just his silhouette with the lack of moonlight.

“That smells good.” You rasp. Ralak’s eyes fly open to reveal a familiar shade of deep blue. Like the sea. They glow and flicker before you, examining you now that you’re sitting up out of bed.

Crack.

A bolt of lightning strikes in the distance, illuminating the room. For a moment, you were able to see every single bike mark, scratch and bruise you’ve given him. It also reveals that he’s shaking. Trembling from being wet and cold, or possibly from the strain he was putting himself through from just being in the same room as you.

Ralak moves quickly, shuffling to his feet and going right for the leaf that holds a few sloppily rolled fish. He brings it to you, setting it slowly on your lap, being overly cautious not to touch you. Grabbing your cup on the table, he dunks it in the bucket and sets it beside you.

“Eat.” He whispers, backing away to sit next to the pit. You watch as he slides down the beam and into a sitting position, and then glance down at your food. Saliva pools in your mouth from the aroma wafting up your nose.

You’re hungry.

“Thank you.” You say quietly, hastily stuffing an entire roll into your mouth.

You moan as you chew, nodding your head from how good it tastes. It’s hard to swallow, given that you bit off more than you could chew—literally—but when it finally goesdown you feel your stomach grumble for more. Ralak watches you intently. A wince screwing his face with every swallow he witnesses. And when you finish, you chug down your water and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

Another crack of lightning strikes, and then a low, lengthy rumble of thunder follows.

“That was… one of the best you’ve made, lak.” You say with a wobbly smile, slowly getting on your feet to wash your hands. The bucket is nearby your mate, who is still fixed in position. Although he remains unmoving, his eyes follow your every move. You shake your hands to dry them and shuffle over to Ralak and sit next to him.

“so… how do you feel?” You ask quietly, raising your hand to check if he’s feverish. He turns his head before your hand can make contact with his skin and his gaze locks onto the charred wood in the fire pit.

“Fine.” Ralak mutters.

Eyebrows pinching in confusion, you tilt your head to try and look him in the eye. Your brows relax when you come to the realisation that he’s already taken care of himself. And only Eywa knows how many times.

“You know, you didn’t have to do that. I would have—”

“Ma’ muntxate [my wife]”He croaks, swiftly turning his head to look directly into your eyes. “Oeru txoa livu [please forgive me].”

“Txoa? [forgive?] What for, ma’ muntxatan? [husband]”

“I have… neglected you.” He’s struggling to speak. You can hear it in the strain of his voice.

Regardless, none of his words are really making any sense to you right now. How has he been neglectful? Despite the circumstances, it’s obvious he’s been trying his hardest to be good to you. Somehow, even conjuring up the strength to pull out of you and walk away.

“Ralak. You have not. Please, I—”

“Look at yourself.” He snaps, taking a quick glance at your body before dropping his head in his hands.

Crack.

Conveniently, another strike of lightning and boom of thunder, revealing exactly what he’s talking about. For a few seconds, you’re met with the sight of your battered body—scabbed and bruised. You lift your head, staring at his shameful demeanour. But the more you stare, the more you see your own reflection.

“And have you looked at yourself?” Your words bounce as you shuffle closer to him. “I bet you can’t even feel all that damage I’ve done to you.” You coo, using your thumb to gently graze past an easy six-inch scratch mark on his bicep. “I haven’t been so gentle with you either.”

Ralak shakes his head, allowing it to sink further into his hands. “You were starved.” He mumbles into the palms of his hands.

You sigh, pulling your knees to your chest and resting your chin in the dip between them. Your eyes wander over to the fire pit, catching sight of the outline of a few fish rolls.

Has he really punished himself by not eating?

“Have you eaten?” You ask, resting a gentle hand on his back.

“No need.”

“You should, you know. Don’t want you starving on me, lak.” You say lightheartedly, allowing your hand to slide up his spine and to the base of his skull.

He lets loose a quiet groan, fighting the twitch of his ears. Your fingers smooth over the base of his kuru, playing with the braid encasing that covers it. “If you do that—”

“Do what?” You whisper coyly, quickly running your hand down the length of his kuru.

His spine immediately straightens, his head lifting from his hands. The tips of your fingers gently make their way to his tendrils, carefully teasing them as they try to wrap around your digits. He sucks in a sharp breath and closes his eyes, allowing a shiver to run through him. It feels like your fingers were inside his skull, tickling his brain in the best way possible.

Reaching for your kuru with your free hand, you bring it up and over your shoulder. You lean into Ralak, your lips only inches away from his. You pull away your fingers to grip and pull his queue forth. The loss of contact has him sitting up straight, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I will not let you suffer alone.” You whisper, lessening the distance between the two of you, tilting your head to the side ever so slightly. He stills himself, even limiting his own breath so as not to make any sudden moves. “Okay?”

You wait for just a moment. For him to say something. To move away. But he remains stock-still, waiting for you to initiate this. You smile, your top teeth briefly rubbing against this lower lip, and lock your lips with his. He exhales through his nose, coming to life from your kiss and returning it full force. You take this as a good sign. A sign that you’ve broken through that wall once again, and bring your kurus together — making tsaheylu [the bond].

Both your eyes fly open, blown pupils staring into one another as your spirits unify. You both pull back, shoulders and chests heaving from your quick, unsteady breaths. You feel all that he feels – the frustration, the panic, the tension. It’s all fading, now finally nearing the end. He feels your subsiding heat, your soreness, your overpowering urge to care for him.

Before another second could pass, your lips crash into each other again—tongues intertwining as they explore one another’s mouth. Using his hand to support your upper back, he slowly lowers you onto the woven floor, parting your legs with his free hand. He situates himself between them, pressing his crotch firmly against yours. He’s warm, just like the toasty fire pit next to you.

I will try to be gentle. Ralak thinks to you, just like he’s been promising to be night after night.

I know you will. You smile, moving your kisses down his jawline as he slides his hands between your sticky pelvises.

——

It hasn’t even been two full weeks since the synchronous heat that had you and your mate locked away in your marui pod for a little over two days. Your back and thighs–and honestly everywhere else– still ache but outside of that, you feel like a brand new person. You weren’t able to confidently say that Ralak feels the same way, however.

Of course, he was adamant on limiting intimacy until you were ‘healed and recovered’. But, he had a bounce in his step. As if he were physically lighter. As if the weight of six years of pent up sexual frustration and self neglect melted off his back when you satiated the ‘insatiable’.

The constant aftercare was almost sickening. Even after most of your marks had faded he remained adamant on treating them with your own omaticayan herbs from back home. He praised them at every use, thanking your people for making such exceptional ’umtsa [medicine].

But as you entered the second week, after tons of reassurance, things dissipated and went back to normal. Ralak went back to his usual routine—fishing, hunting, responding to a few calls to Tonowari and your father. Ralak, without a doubt, made a vow to you and himself not to initiate anything until you were more than healed. But nonetheless clung to you in the nights.

He even, in fact, added a new step into your usual nighttime regimen. As usual, it began with the snuggles and tucking you under his arm just right, providing you with enough warmth to endure the cool night air. Then, he would release the perfect amount of pheromones to get you drowsy enough for bed.

But recently, he’s spent the past seven nights delaying the nightly routine until he’s had his fill of your scent. He’d lay himself down on your chest, nuzzling his face into your bosom and just breathe. You allowed it, thinking it was his own newfound way to wind down for bed.

Yet, the real reason was much different.

——

Right on the two week mark, Tsireya had roped you in with helping her with some of her Tsakrem duties. You were always happy to help her though, as it meant getting away from the marui pod for a little even if it meant being poked and prodded at.

And it certainly didn’t take long for that to happen.

Tsireya lets out a frustrated sigh and plops the medicinal pouch she’s weaving in her lap. “I can no longer ignore it, y/n. You smell different.”

You lift your head, tearing your focus from your task of weaving and look at her with a puzzled expression on your face. You bring the end of your tail to your nose and sniff, but smell… nothing. “Like what?” Her brows lower and her eyes glisten with concern. She purses her lips and unsheathes the lengthy pin from its casing and grabs your hand. “Here we go.” You mutter to yourself, squeezing your eyes shut as you anticipate the sting.

Prick.

“Sss—ah! You need to be careful with how deep you go with that, you know. You could really—” The tsahik in training puts the wooden stick to her tongue and stares at you wide eyed, mouth agape. It’s as if she wants to speak but the words are lodged in her throat. “What? What is it?”

“You—perhaps I am wrong.” She stutters, quickly sheathing the tool back into its casing. “You should see my mother, y/n.”

“What? Why? Just tell me.” The words come out in a haste, and your voice is laced with panic. Do you have some sort of disease of the sea? Is there a cure?

“You — you are with child.” Her lips tremble as she says the words in an uncertain tone of voice.

“What?” You stare at her dumbfounded, a little caught off guard by her choice of words.

“Pregnant. You’re pregnant. But I am likely mistaken. I am only in training. Which is why I said you should see my moth—”

“Oh. No. You’re… you’re probably right, Tsireya.” You swallow the spit pooling in your cheeks, avoiding eye contact.

“H-How? I mean. I know how. But how? Surely Ralak knows not to do such a thing during your heat. He can control himself. R-Right?”

“Right. If I were the only one… in heat.” You say the last few words under your breath, fixing your shawl before picking back up your task.

“What do you mean?” Tsireya leans in with a tilted head, looking a little closer at your covered shoulder. “Did you help him with his rut?” Tsireya asks bluntly. “He’s been unmated for six years, y/n. Did you reall—”

“I am his mate. Of course I did.” You nearly snap, baffled by the tone she’s having with you.

“H-How did that even work?” Tsireya shakes her head, slowly raising her hand towards you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You finally lift your head to shoot her a puzzled, yet offended stare. “It worked like it would for any other Na’vi.”

“Y/n…” Tsireya quickly grabs your shawl, pulling it off your shoulder to reveal a large, deep and scabbed up bite mark. It looks almost infected because of the strange omaticayan herbal concoction smeared over it. “You should have just let him ease you into it. Look at you, you’re all bruised and—”

“Tsireya.” You interject, “thank you for the concern, but—” you aggressively pull up your shawl, “I feel just fine. Besides, being in heat was the best way to ‘ease me into it’…He was as gentle as he could be.” You mutter, twiddling with the twine as you think back to the way he tried to handle you with care.

“By the looks of it, he was anything but gentle with you.” Tsireya seethes, angry that the man she grew up looking at like a brother would do something like this to you.

You wince at her words. They’re like a knife to the heart.

A long, awkward silence fills the space between you and Tsireya. She reflects on everything she’s said, realising that perhaps she was a little more harsh than needed. She softens her gaze, “I’m sorry. I should not have said that. I just hate seeing you hurt.”

“I get it. I know you’re just looking out for me. It’s alright, ‘reya.”

You exchange lighthearted smiles.

“You are definitely pregnant then. After six years, he must have really filled you—”

“Tsireya!” You laugh, giving her shoulder a light shove.

Tsireya’s grin morphs into a more serious expression. “See mother to make sure. Okay?”

Your smile also fades into something softer as you nod your head in agreement. “Okay.”

2K notes · View notes

offside-the-lines · 3 months

Text

tell me who i run to (if not you) | anthony beauvillier

"The first sip is joy, the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy." - Jack Kerouac

Summary In July of 2023, Evie looked at a list of cities in North America and rolled a die. Just like that, she packed up her life and moved to Chicago, a fresh start. The 2023-24 NHL season started well for Tito; he did not expect the call on November 28th telling him that he was being traded. To the worst team in the league. And just like that. 10 months after being ripped from his home, he had to pack up and move again. To an unfamiliar city, and to unfamiliar faces. Which is why, when Tito and Evie ran into each other, quite literally, on Christmas morning, they both latched on to a familiar face. Over the next few months, they became close friends. They didn’t talk about the nights shared in Chicago clubs. They didn’t need to. Because they're just friends. Right?

This is a completed fic split into episodes for easier reading. It was written for @bqstqnbruin as part of the Winter Fic Exchange 2k24 hosted by @wyattjohnston.

Episode 1. Blue Christmas (4.9k) Episode 2. I. Winter (4.4k) Episode 3. Pal-entine's Day (4.8k) Episode 4. Four-leaf Clover (5.5k) Episode 5. Evie's Birthday 🌶️ (5.6k) Episode 6. II. Spring (4.8k) Episode 7. Not Goodbye 🌶️🌶️ (5.4k) Episode 8. III. Summer (4.8k) Episode 9. Tito's Birthday (4.2k)

Read it in full (44.5k)

🎵 Series Playlist 🎶

Requests (open) | Masterlist & Who I Write For | Join My Taglist

Under the cut: author's notes, tropes, warnings & disclaimer, fun tidbits, chapter summaries

Author's Notes: This fic was written for @bqstqnbruin as part of the Winter Fic Exchange 2k24 hosted by @wyattjohnston. It got so out of control long so quickly. I genuinely had so much fun writing this, it's basically my magnum opus; if you look closely, I think you can probably see my soul in there somewhere. I would like to thank @devilssacrament, @wyattjohnston, and @forgottenflowers for being my editors, holding my hand and keeping me sane in this. Also, thanks to @swissboyhisch, and @imperatorrrrr for being a sounding board for ideas . All of your help and support has meant so much to me. You are all just the fucking best, I am sorry this has been my entire personality for the past month, I will probably return to normal soon. Probably...

Tropes: a gut-wrenching mix of angst and fluff with a happy ending, slow burn friends to lover (tbh, idiots to lovers let's be real), alternating POVs

Warnings: alcohol (one instance of alcohol poisoning by side character), mature content bordering on smut (mostly occurring in clubs/public), references to a toxic past relationship. Disclaimer: This series is set in Chicago but does not mention the name of the team based there. Only other Chicago players mentioned by name are: Nick Foligno, Jason Dickinson and Connor Bedard. Other notes: NHL players featured Mat Barzal (a heavily featured supporting character/bestie) and brief mentions of Zach Hyman and Matt Martin. Assume that Tito and Evie are always speaking in French with each other.

Face claim for Evie (if you want one, but you can imagine whoever you like): Adeline Rudolph

Fun Tidbits: Original Character (she/her) called Genevieve Gignac or Evie (pronounced eh-vee) is the oldest sibling of Tito's juniors teammate and friend Brandon Gignac. Along with their other sibling Wiliam, they grew up in Montreal. Evie had been living in Toronto for six years, before moving to Chicago in the summer before the fic starts. I did way too much research so a lot of the little facts are true. Nicknames: (ma) chouette (shoo-wet): owl (mon) chou/chouchou (shoo): in practice, honey, sugar, baby, sweetheart // by definition, my cabbage or my profiterole/cream puff (depends who you ask) Solours (soul-oars): the Québécois name for the yellow Care Bear with the smiling sun on its belly Solou’ (soul-oo): a diminutive Evie decides to use

Cook, Cook, drink your tea, But save some in the pot for me. We'll watch the tea leaves in our cup When our drink is all sipped up. Happiness or fortune great, What will our future be? -- "Afternoon Tea at Pittock Mansion" by R.Z. Berry

Episode Synopses:

Blue Christmas Evie and Tito are both starting life anew in Chicago. It's an unfamiliar city with unfamiliar faces. They're both alone on Christmas. Maybe it's fate that brings them together. Jason and Alandra Dickinson are already smelling smoke from this fire.

I. Winter Tito injures his wrist in the first game of 2024, he’s out for 6-8 weeks and then his car breaks down. He thinks maybe he’s cursed. Evie becomes a shoulder to lean on. Barzy gets suspicious.

Pal-entine’s Day Tito returns her kindness by being a shoulder Evie can lean on when she is having a hard time after all-star break. She tells him it’s anxiety about work. He brings her a box of pastries and they cuddle on the couch all day; he doesn’t realize it’s Valentine’s Day. Later, a hook-up goes very wrong.

Four-leaf Clover Tito’s been playing again, and during his first stretch of away games begins to miss home. Well, Evie’s home anyway. When he sees her in the bar, he can’t help but show it. Barzy calls him out on his lies.

Evie’s Birthday Sometimes the music moves you. Sometimes the bass pounding in your chest makes you do things you wouldn’t do. Fuck it, it’s your birthday. That’s what Evie tells herself anyway. There are gifts given, but there are also secrets kept.

II. Spring Tito tries to tell her— he does— It’s just he needs to find the right time, and something keeps coming up. Evie’s honest with herself. But does that even matter? Mat decides maybe it is his time to intervene.

Not Goodbye Evie realizes that her time is running out. To do what? She doesn’t know. But she has one last night to find out. That is until— Well. It’s too late now. Tito flies home and wonders if that will be the worst mistake of his life.

III. Summer They try to get on with their summers as if nothing is wrong, convincing no one. How long will it take them to realize they can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine? And who will finally take the leap of faith?

Tito’s Birthday Tito receives the best birthday present he has ever gotten: the girl he loves standing at his parent’s front door. It was never destiny or fate; it can only be by choice. And they’ll choose each other every time. Eventually, anyway.

Requests (open) | Masterlist & Who I Write For | Join My Taglist

244 notes · View notes

vyl3tpwny · 10 months

Note

why it ourple

ok.

i'm going to tell you the story of how purple became my favourite colour. and then, where the name vylet pony came from.

———————————————————

ch.1 the mace windu incident

once upon a time. I really liked star wars. i kind of still like star wars i guess. but when i was a kid, i REALLY liked star wars.

in my room, i had a mace windu poster.

i still can't find the exact poster. it looked something like this

mace windu was my fav star wars character for an inconceivably long time. with that, i also became fascinated with his purple lightsaber. nobody else had a purple lightsaber. i loved it. staring at that poster constantly made me really like the colour purple. ever since the poster started exerting its technicolour pressures and whimsies upon me, i became fixated on the colour purple. forever.

"hai!~ im mace windu and i loveee Videos!" - mace windu, star wars episode iii: revenge of the sith

———————————————————

ch. 2 the viny scratch era

fast forward like 7 years. i am in the my little pony fandom now. i am 13 years old. i really like vinyl scratch. she is pictured here:

my first online presence in the mlp community was as a vinyl scratch / dj pon3 roleplay account. for a good year, people called me vinyl and "vy".

however when it came time to start releasing music in the fandom, i couldn't go by vinyl scratch at the time. this name was already being used by the artist who currently goes by Scraton!

this is still one of my favourite songs by them:

youtube

anyway. i actually held a really insane, irrational grudge against scraton for being named "vinyl scratch" as a music artist before me. i got past that after a while, because i had to stop being 13 first. i stopped being 13 and eventually fell in love with their music and we became friends later after!

but it's 2013 and i can't be vinyl scratch anymore. people already called me "vy" because of being a vinyl scratch persona.

so.

———————————————————

ch. 3 it's vylet time-wait is that can opener? CANNI?

it started on december 28, 2012. i posted to my then-instagram account this image:

you may recognize this as my oc canni. here's their reworked look in the 2022 album (10 years later) can opener's notebook: fish whisperer (illustrated by @astroeden):

can opener's original name was "ultra vylet". their colour scheme was originally intended to be the inverse of vinyl scratch's, as a sort of strange protest to not being able to be vinyl scratch. i was like ok. well if i cant be vinyl scratch, i am going to make a character that swaps the main colours. within a few months of "ultra vylet" existing, i discarded the design in favour of a completely different one:

this would be the only time vylet consistently had purple in her design until 2018 or so.. lol.

then. on april 15, 2013, i posted this to my instagram:

i had essentially combined three things:

The fact the people called me "vy'

The fact that my favourite colour is purple (violet)

The fact that I wanted to be vinyl scratch (dj pon3) before

———————————————————

ch. 4 vylet pony ≠ vinyl scratch

that is to say, i never really put a lot of thought into "vylet pony" as a name. i just made it when i was 14 and now i am going to be 25 soon. will i keep vylet pony as a name forever? not sure. do i take great pride in its insanely snarky origin? absolutely.

after i had decided firmly on "vylet pony" as a name — after dropping the "3" from it — i made a new instagram account. the very first thing i posted to it was this:

illustrated by my friend, shade.

now that looks slightly vylet-like, design-wise, oc-wise. oh. but now she is grey and black? ok.

she stopped being purple from 2013-2018.

here is how her design progressed through the years:

the first one is by my then-partner sara. this is when vylet's cutiemark was still an upside down music note, reflected from "ultra vylet" / can opener's original design. i'll show how it became a puzzle piece next.

the second one is by shade

the third one is by chibadeer

the fourth one is by astroeden

———————————————————

ch. 5 the puzzle piece

to this day, i still cannot find the fanart in question. but over instagram, someone asked to draw fanart of my pony. in doing so, they misconstrued the shape of the upside down music note as a puzzle piece, like this:

i've been looking forever for the original fanart/fanartist that made this mistake. because ever since that art, i just stuck with it anyway. i like puzzles and puzzle games. i'm also a puzzling and enigmatic person. and the puzzle piece can go into so many different things. all sorts of problem solving is like a puzzle. music fits neatly into that category in my opinion. so because of its intrigue and ability to mean so many different things, i just went with it. i never looked back.

———————————————————

ch. 6 that is the history of the colour purple and vylet pony character design

i hope this answers the question "why it ourple"!

#vyop #my little pony #mlp

396 notes · View notes

hanasnx · 3 months

Note

can you share some of thosr anakin-related-content-you-consumed on ur anakin fixation era cz im fixating on anakin aswell rn and i want to study him!! please, idk where to start 🙇🏻‍♀️

supercut of star wars I - III reddit link with instructions to receive them via google docs

i've seen both tpm and aotc supercuts but i have yet to finish the rots supercut because of it being so long. there are also deleted scenes on youtube that were not included in the supercuts linked here:

star wars episodes I and II extended edition - unused deleted scenes youtube video

revenge of the sith 4 hour supercut - unused deleted scenes youtube video

if you cannot get a hold of the supercuts for some reason, no sweat. the same channel listed in the above links has a bunch of videos on their channel of all "restored deleted scenes" that you can watch individually. of course, that is without the "siege of mandalore" that's included in the rots supercut. but that's just the bits you would see from season 7 of the clone wars spliced in, so you wouldn't be missing anything.

star wars: episode I - the phantom menace

if you cannot get a hold of the supercuts for whatever reason, start here. one of my favorite star wars movies. features young anakin, about nine years old, and how comes to live with the jedi, how he meets padme, and where he comes from.

star wars: episode II - attack of the clones

we follow older anakin, about nineteen years old, where he reunites with padme and they fall in love. the cracks of the dark side's influences are beginning to show.

star wars: clone wars

this is the mini-series released in 2003-2005 to depict anakin's journy throughout the beginning of the clone wars to prepare audiences for star wars: revenge of the sith coming out in 2005. it has since been de-canonized and replaced with the clone series that comes out in 2008. it is still worth the watch. anakin's voice actor is supremely talented and sounds a lot like hayden christensen. albiet he is dramatic, as it is a kid's show, i still very much enjoy his characterization. it's actually pretty funny too, it did get me to laugh a couple times. chapter 24-25 i believe is where anakin undergoes a sort of spiritual awakening, and the ending always makes me cry.

star wars: the clone wars movie

it was honestly boring to me, but i still watched it for much needed context on the show.

star wars: the clone wars

as i’ve said before, i don’t really care for tcw!anakin, but this was still a fun and enjoyable watch. it wasn’t completely worthless to me, i did learn some more things about anakin that applied to hayden’s rendition.

unreleased star wars: the clone wars arc - crystal crisis on utapau (full) youtube video

i didn’t finish it but from what i’ve seen so far it’s pretty funny.

anakin & obi-wan | let my people go youtube video edit

one of my favorite edits to one of my favorite songs from one of my favorite movies. i think about it a lot, especially during the “this was my home.” lyric. hammering in the betrayal of brothers that grew up alongside one another, and if you resonate with that song and movie it provides another layer of context. it’s deliciously painful. when anakin’s side of “you who i called brother,” cuts through and interrupts the melody, impatient to speak about his perspective using ramses’ narrative to do it, it’s acutely accurate to anakin’s character in my eyes.

clone wars: battle of the heroes - a star wars fan animation youtube video

i haven’t seen this yet but i’ve been waiting to enjoy it to its fullest. the creator worked very hard on it for a long time, so it’s worth the link.

star wars episode III: revenge of the sith novel by matthew stover

i have not read this, but i’ve seen hundreds of excerpts over the course of this hyperfixation on tumblr. it’s widely accepted even though it’s decanonized, and offers insight into anakin’s head that you can’t access with just watching the movie. i thoroughly enjoy and reblog the excerpts i come across, but since i’m not a reader i haven’t picked it up to complete it myself.

star wars: episode III - revenge of the sith

the third installment in the prequel series, and where shit goes down. twenty-three year old anakin grapples with his desires overcoming his sense of obligations, warping his own ideals to fit into selfish purposes. you see how he betrays the republic, his wife, his brother, and himself, all for power.

star wars episode III revenge of the sith (xbox) no commentary walkthrough full game [1080p60fps] youtube video

i haven’t gotten to watch this yet but i’d like to soon, i’ve seen bits and pieces and i believe there are alternate endings that prove interesting. if you like gameplay movies i think you should give it a shot, but if not, go ahead and skip this one.

star wars: episode III - revenge of the sith - making the game youtube video

it’s short and sweet. about hayden’s view of the character anakin and how he acts in combat.

star wars: tales of the jedi

s1e5 where we receive insight as to how anakin trains his padawan.

vader: complete canon comic series 1-25 in chronological order youtube video

i loved this so much. so many good moments that i ate the fuck up. we follow vader in his first year of becoming the sith lord, grappling with identity, past, and recognition. we also get insight into the very sensitive time of jedi eradication, i learned a lot. my favorite parts are when vader has to fight without a saber against clones, make his own red saber by retrieving one from a surviving jedi, and the arc that includes jocasta nu.

star wars the force unleashed- full game walkthrough gameplay no commentary youtube video

star wars the force unleashed 2 - full game walkthrough gameplay no commentary youtube video

both of these i've been meaning to watch, but i haven't been in the mood. i figured i'd link them in case you were interested in more gameplay movies.

star wars rebels

i didn't finish this, but i did watch a lot of the vader content and the scarce anakin content. i'll watch anything that mentions him tbh.

star wars jedi: fallen order - full game - no commentary youtube video

i played this game and loved it. the ending is the money shot tbh.

star wars: obi-wan kenobi

this was probably the first sw show i watched after i got back into darth vader in august 2022. reawakened a lot for me, i really enjoyed vader's part in this story. reva is also one of my favorites, and i thought her being a mirror image to anakin in this situation was clever, i thought her backstory was unique and refreshing. but what really shines for me is vader's contribution as both an extension of the emperor and a vessel for his own selfish desires. there are parts where i can see he's more machine than man. there are also some anakin parts as well! which i didn't enjoy as much, funnily enough.

rogue one: a star wars story

i haven't seen this one in years, but i do remember darth vader's appearances being both funny and badass.

star wars: episode IV - a new hope

star wars: episode V - the empire strikes back

it took me a long time to come around on this one. now it's one of my favorites. especially because we start to get the first glimpses within the original trilogy of vader's humanity, and his ability to demonstrate faint loyalty to his blood.

star wars: episode VI - return of the jedi

fave sw movie tbh since childhood. you can't get better than the ending. vader's sacrifice is everything to me.

lego star wars: the skywalker saga

i had played this game back in may 2022 when i visited my sister. she and i used to play lego games together when we were kids, and one of my first video games ever was lego star wars: the video game from 2005 which she introduced me to. it holds a special place in my heart, and i really liked playing skywalker saga even though at this point i hadn't cared about star wars in years. when i got back home i couldn't stop thinking about the saga game so i bought it myself, and then played it so obsessively i didn't do anything else. it got me back in the mood for darth vader so i watched obi-wan kenobi, and one thing leads to another now here i am with a smut blog about anakin skywalker's entire life and his every iteration. i loved the game, i think you should play it even though it's just lego versions of everything, it's still really fun.

star wars: ahsoka

you see him in this and the cinematography is breathtaking at times, but i didn't care for it. i only cared about the glimpses of anakin/vader's appearances even if they didn't contribute anything to the story for me.

anakin skywalker vs palpatine full fight scene (hd) - star wars episode IX [alternative ending] youtube video

this is a fan edit! i think about it a lot even though i haven't seen the sequels.

the life of anakin skywalker: darth vader (star wars) youtube video

i haven't finished this, but from what i've seen it's taught me things even i didn't know. i really appreciated the facts that aren't even on wookiepedia.

any books on it i've only seen the excerpts here on tumblr, i haven't read any because i'm not a big reader but i've seen some great posts that i reblog. so don't sleep on the books/comics

great ask

67 notes · View notes

oncewhenalongtimeago · 3 months

Note

(SbITILYP request) I wonder what hiccup thinks about his dad burning holes into the back of the girl he has a crush on's head. Maybe Hiccup would try to apologize for it afterwards. + the almost-kissing-her thing

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 21

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 2,700

Hiccup gets better at this romance thing.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, Dragons: Defenders of Berk, Fright of Passage, post episode, Hiccup’s POV

The incident with the Flightmare took up a lot of time and energy and after how quickly you’d fled once Thornado had landed back on Berk, he hadn’t seen you much at all, much less had time to talk to you.

He shifted on the short wooden bench, the unsanded grit of its surface and the uneven length of its legs causing it to feel odd and off balance as he shifted over it.

Hiccup glanced past the metal framing holding up an empty, crusted pot over the fire, whose heat was licking at his calves beneath his trousers and flickering against the majority of his torso.

He clutched a small, oblong glass shape as he glared forwards, cool against his skin through the fabric of his tunic, hidden away by his vest, securely stored in a secret pocket he’d sewed in for specifically this purpose.

The bioluminescent algae seemed to have been lost, for the most part.

The others had been a bit shifty around him, in a way that was more shifty than malicious. He had the sinking suspicion that they might’ve caught on to his little crush.

The heavy beating of boot and peg against old wooden floors. It was really ironic that the Chiefs; hut was the only one that hadn’t been burned on the regular. His Dad was very attentive towards his house.

His Dad’s face was set and shoulders hunched, a remnant from earlier when he had been awkwardly tending to his own meal.

Hiccup’s own face was slightly sour. He was still mad at his Dad for… everything.

Both Hiccup and Stoick ignored the sound of clattering dishes in the background.

Stoick grumbled as Hiccup’s expression turned just a bit scowlier, sitting in his large wooden chair which sometimes seemed yet as if it couldn’t hold every bit of him, across the fire pit from Hiccup, who had a bowl in his lap and was sitting in quite the hunched manner, “You like the… Delivery girl.”

“You know her?” Hiccup asked nervously, pulling at his tunic collar.

Stoick shifted, his brown fur cloak spilling over the arms of his chair.

“He has the lass come up here and clean around sometimes!” Gobber said, rifling around in one of the chests lining the wall, the horns of his helmet clattering against mounted shields and other sharp weapons and he turned carelessly, arms wide,

“What?!” Hiccup asked, voice pitch nearly at a screech.

He was scared immediately that you’d seen smoke things you shouldn't've. What had you seen?

Hiccup took a moment to pause and bring his voice down, maybe a bit deeper than it needed to be, even as his heart rate picked up.

“If you want ‘er, Ye need tae sweep her off her feet!” Gobber clapped Hiccup hard on the place shoulder met back, causing Hiccup to stumble forward as the big man swept his other arm outwards.

He grimaced.

He’d already been doing a good amount of sweeping. He doubted anyone would take well to being accosted in the way Gobber described. What did Gobber know about women, anyways?

He should put on his red tunic, though.

Hiccup was very attracted to that idea.

Oh, Gods, he really hoped you hadn’t seen too much.

“...Hey,” Hiccup said, looking at you, as always, basket in hand. A woven one this time, made of long grasses that brushed and scraped along the sides of your skirt.

He was sort of impressed with himself, and the fact that he hadn’t fumbled over anything at all yet.

You weren’t looking him in the eye at all, which meant he had definitely totally completely messed up.

“Hi,” You responded, voice pitched so he could tell you were nearly squeaking.

It only took a few days. That might have been to the effect of all the stuff he’d dumped in it, too.

The Flightmare left tracks, and from what little he could salvage- the spare scale, which was nearly translucent upon detachment, and some slime he picked up from some of the more plant-like dragons, he ended up being able to speed up the growth

He’d… Nabbed some of Fishlegs’ notes for that. He wouldn’t mind. Hopefully.

Hiccup had lent him Toothless for the day, after all, albeit with more grump than was probably appropriate.

The dragon seemed alright with it, too, ready to show off his tail, a sparking nadder blue, his replacement after the red one had been ripped back on Fireworm island.

Hiccup palmed the vial in his pocket, “I, ah…”

As an apology, he’d found someone willing to bring in some rose bushes. It took a lot, but it was worth it. For you, that was. He got some others in on it, though of course he never told them why. They didn’t have the bushes yet, but soon.

For the person you were, to him, even if you didn’t get it yet.

And he’d done something else, too.

He was going to try surprising you with it. Or not.

He was worried he might scare you off.

“Sorry,” He started, “About my Dad. He’s just-Well, he’s…”

You shrugged balefully, “I get it? I’m not-...”

“Right,” Hiccup nodded, “Yeah, okay.”

It was silent for a few long moments.

You were both standing by the bridge out into the forest, the clear ends around it lined by trees, freshly planted.

At this point, the two of you had to have been experts in deciphering stutters and half-spoken words.

He could kill a large dragon and win over Astrid, but he couldn’t talk to you at all. He didn’t have the courage. Or, maybe it wasn’t about courage.

Hiccup wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t shy.

He did stupid things all the time.

There was just something about you, or maybe something about him, that kept most things from coming out right. That made him just a little bit nervous.

“I-well, I wanted to say sorry. Would you be fine following me for a bit?”

You paused for a second

“Just… Come on,” He said, somewhat hesitantly. He was sure by then his face was blotchy with flush, “It’s in the woods. Is that…?”

You nodded.

Hiccup held in a sigh of relief, “Alright. Well, then…”

Back in the village, it looked like a few vikings had taken to terraforming Berk, though you had no idea why.

You weren’t sure where Toothless was. Probably… Off,

Maybe they were inspired, you had no clue. Something about bushes or brushes or something and house paint.

You nearly tripped over a particularly large, gnarled root as you moved past Hiccup, holding aside a branch with leaves, half expecting to get murdered, or something. That’s what he brought you out into the woods for, right?

This was a particularly dark part of the forest, packed with leaves and moss in a way no spot on Berk had been before the Red Death had been defeated, with all the dragons burning most of everything down.

It had already been darkening by the time Hiccup had asked you to follow, and though Hiccup had long since ceased to weird you out at all, the thoughts came unbidden.

You took a few steps forwards, shuffling slightly, looking around at the world, washed over with a blue filter, and at the vines crawling up the trees, before you paused, taking notice of a light, bright and gentle and nearly not there glowing against mottled bark.

You looked down, and then your eyes widened slightly.

You weren’t sure how you missed it, but below, there was a pool.

You stared down at it, glowing and dark under the canopy of the leaves above.

“So, what do you think?”

You heard Hiccup asked from behind you, his own boot and prosthetic shuffling against packed, fallen leaves and damp mulch.

Your face felt hot in a tingling, bright way as you stared down into the slowly moving water.

Was this all from the Flightmare?

It was something you might’ve seen in the news in the foreseen future, the same type of glow you’d see lurking inside a glow stick.

“Oh,” You said. You’d heard about it and you were sure all of the glowing algae had been washed out to sea.

“I was hoping you’d like it,” Hiccup said hesitantly, “Do you?”

Your heart felt like it was on fire too, in the way that it only could when butterflies and bugs and other flighty, flippant nerve things were preening around in your organs.

Maybe Hiccup did like you, after all.

“Wow,” You stumbled forwards a few more feet until you were overlooking a small dirt ledge which had to be at least a yard tall, held together by roots and sticks and other dead plants.

It overlooked the rest of the pond by a little bit, overseeing edges kept aloft in quite a similar fashion, like one of those deep, neverending kinds of pools made of a beautiful blue with no bottom, toeing the line between dangerous and beautiful that most people would only ever lay eyes on in photos.

In this moment, perhaps heightened by the mood and atmosphere, everything felt a bit softer. You were sure the light of the pool was glittering back through your eyes, chest light and full of wonder and awe.

You said nothing yet, awkwardly turning so that your back hit the sturdy trunk of a large tree, sliding down slowly and displacing moss until you were sitting down against the uneven, steep packed, large roots of a tree, moss tickling your back through your shirt.

You felt like you might slide down into it if you loosened your legs just a bit from where they kept you steady, braced against moss and dirt.

Small flecks of dirt tumbled down into the pool under them, hitting ferns and the occasional fungus, mushrooms that looked as if they’d just bud, hinting at a similar glow to the bright light of the pool as toes of your boots played a risky game with the dirt ledge over the pond.

“So... A good apology, all things considered?” He prompted.

You nearly forgot about Hiccup, still standing by the streeline, which was, admittedly, also very close by the water.

You brought your knees up to your chin, which you rested on top of your elbows, your cheeks feeling warm as you smiled into them, not in the hot way they had been just a moment before, but with a soft feeling that came from deep in your chest, feeling a lot like a crackling fire in the heart or the smell of a warm cup of cocoa, fluffy white marshmallows floating along the top.

You didn’t look over, but the hairs of your neck, which were standing, and a tickling in the corner of your still focused eye told you Hiccup was watching you.

You wondered what his expression looked like. Was it fond, or goofy, or blank?

Did he feel anything at all at the sight?

Had he really done this all for you?

The water rippled and the algae grew brighter as it did. There was a light dusting of blue foam across the surface and if you looked ever so slightly you could spot the occasional speck of something swimming around in the water, though you were sure it was too small to be a fish.

A sea monkey? A bug? A glowing speck?

You were certain it was not safe to swim in, but it was unbelievably gorgeous, framed by dipping and swaying ferns in the near complete darkness.

“Yeah,” You said mumbling into your elbow, noticing in your periphery as Hiccup moved forwards to stand by your side, “Yeah, I think so.”

You felt the hesitant dusting of a few fingers against your shoulder before they disappeared, twitching away and displacing the air by your ears, the feel of them there and gone causing all the hairs along your arm and neck to stand on end.

You found yourself tilting your head away from the touch, hiding the bashful flush of your face as Hiccup spoke again, “I also… I got you something else, too.”

You delicately took what was offered by a careful hand and held up the vial, smooth, clean and cool between your fingertips, a liquid inside glowing in a similar fashion to the pool in front of you and the mystical blue-washed world around.

Hiccup definitely wasn’t the type of guy to be able to keep something so clean- everything he had -books, blankets, papers, the occasional crafter compass for trade- they were all smudged by soot or the oil of skin and at the very least slightly folded in corners.

Against all odds, though, there it was. He must’ve taken great care with it.

You looked up at him.

You were sure you’d imagined it, because things like that didn’t happen in reality, and definitely not on the faces turned cartoon and whimsy to real and solid and in full, real life, completely discernable human graphic definition, but that glowing, sparkly feeling you were certain he clouds see plain as day- you felt fresh, believing for just a moment you could see it in his eyes too.

Hiccup’s head was in the clouds, his cheeks buzzing in a pleasant way, traveling up to his ears in a way that almost made him want to rub them, warm and heady and tingling in a way that was slightly ticklish.

His shoulder brushed against yours, your pinky fingers brushing together, slightly hooked, mimicking earlier when his fingers teased your palm in the imitation of a hold as the two of you walked back from the woods.

“Is it fine if we…” Your fingers came together again, the two of you turning to each other once the sound of boots and peg against wood turned into the softer, more muffled sound of weights padding against dirt.

Hiccup didn’t know he had it in him, but it was less an action made by choice and more led by an automatic zone, a feeling for what came next brought on by feeling and comfortability influenced by the ambiance, though that wasn’t to say he himself felt casual about it at all.

Your hands were slightly shaky.

His heart was rocketing the whole time, blood pumping and beating in his eardrums.

“Separate?” Hiccup finished as you glanced off towards the darkened village, resisting the urge to shiver as a cool breeze blew by, fit to match the now dark sky, coming in from the side of him that faced the woods.

On the other, closer to his back he noticed a very faint yellow light, warm and emanating from where he suspected the stairs to the hall lay, within which the larger half of Berk was most likely pulling together their nightly meal.

“You’ll be… fine?” He asked, breath nearly stuttering as the two of you tilted his head forwards, your foreheads so close they were nearly touching, “You can still- You can have my coat, still.”

“It’s okay,” You said, the focus of your eyes flickering from down by your hands to his face, before your hands separated.

“Thanks,” You said simply, before turning and walking forwards a few feet, a cool breeze causing your skirt to wave.

You glanced back as you left, unsure as if you were subconsciously asking if it was okay for you to leave.

Hiccup thought his legs might give out.

The night breeze was extra cold on Hiccup’s hands and back as he watched you go, though the warm, glowing feeling in his chest remained, moving down into the village, disappearing into the dark maze of alleys and open halls.

He was a night owl, as most of Berk tended to be after years of nightly raids.

He wouldn’t be sleeping.

He could work on blueprints for the sewage system. That was a whole project in and of itself. But with the tunnels below the village and all the dragon power they had in Berk, it might’ve just been doable.

But as he stared out into the still quiet of the empty village, he realized he’d probably just be thinking about you instead.

#httyd #how to train your dragon #x reader #fanfiction #hiccup haddock #hiccup x reader #httyd imagine #fem reader #female reader

44 notes · View notes

regarding-stories · 5 months

Text

The dark abyss that is Andor

There were several things that led to Andor.

On the one hand, Disney screwed up its Star Wars intellectual property by handing it to complete hacks for Episode VII to IX, leading a potential cash cow to attract less and less viewers over the course of three increasingly bad installments. Seriously, The Last Jedi is one of the worst disappointments I've actually watched, and not only was I thinking "This can't get worse..." every five minutes only to be proven, "Yes, it can!!", it completely killed my appetite to see IX (and I would have left the cinema at that one's sheer stupidity). With VII, I saw it once with some initial excitement in a cinema when it released and a strange feeling afterwards, and I never revisited it. VIII I saw on two separate long-distance flights because I couldn't stomach the thing in one sitting. IX I didn't see at all, but devoured YouTube videos ripping it apart. Clearly, Disney had a Star Wars problem.

The other thing is the reboot that was The Mandalorian, especially season 1. The Mandalorian had a penchant for not very strong logic in its writing that you still accepted because you had so much damn fun and loved the characters. Given the fact that it clearly pulled lots of viewers into Disney+ that were loving its vibe that was true to the core of Star Wars, Disney management saw the fact that theaters and theme parks were closed due to COVID on the one hand and that big Star Wars movies were at risk of actually losing money on the other hand, and they did what executives are wont to do - they decided that if it worked once, it will work again and declared they will pump out TEN Star Wars series in the near future.

Meanwhile they cancelled also their ongoing series of "A Star Wars Story" movies that started with what could be called "Episode III.5" - Rogue One. Rogue One was plagued with production problems, so much so that seeming key scenes from the trailer weren't in the movie. "I rebel!", anyone?? Still, it turned out to be something new - a new kind of Star Wars story. It took the idea of a war movie (or its modern equivalent, Band of Brothers) and put it into the Star Wars cinematic universe. It did without an actual Jedi (kinda-sorta) and it showed a strong performance of Diego Luna as the morally gray Cassian Andor. And... (spoiler alert) ... it killed its whole cast in its finale.

I know people that say Rogue One is their favorite Star Wars movie. (But other people dislike it.) I hold it in high esteem. The way the resistance is portrayed also seemed to be somewhat subversive - both to its previous image on screen and to what is portrayable on screen for mainstream audiences in general. It became clear that unlike in the original three Star Wars movies resisting an empire is, on the ground, a dirty business and not just about big battles or commando raids. (Which then happen anyway. Because Star Wars.)

Then followed the lackluster Solo and the third installment Yoda was never made as Star Wars increasingly lost its ability to draw crowds into seats.

And thus it came to Andor

Now what do you do with a character that (spoiler alert? really?) dies. You make a bloody prequel. Which is funny. Andor is a prequel to Rogue One which is a prequel to A New Hope. Prequels, like sequels, carry the risk of rehashing the original material without adding anything to it (Solo ...) and being trapped by the inevitability of what has to happen next, curtailing its writing (Kenobi ...). But Andor season 1 betrays none of that. (Talk about being addicted to prequels, Disney...) It is a strong piece of cinematic art in its own right.

And yes, I'm saying art. About a Star Wars series. That's how I feel about it. Andor not only has strong execution, it has depth. It was a show that made me pause it and think about what just happened on screen. It's a show that gets deeper if you know about history, unlike most shows that actually reveal their shallowness to the knowing eye. (Looking at you, The Man in the High Castle. Boy, I hated that tripe.)

But even before we get into that, let me say how I impressed I was with its set and costume design. Whereas the Book of Boba Fett gave us cyberpunks on floating scooters, Andor poured a lot of heart into how everybody looked in their various environments, creating a more rich and varied Star Wars society by portraying various strata thereof, from the life of imperial senator Mon Mothma to the middle class living literally in her shade somewhere on the middle levels of planet-city Coruscant to the mining town labor class that we find Cassian in. It flawlessly cuts between different well-thought out locations, including, of all things, a holiday resort.

This is paired with some very strong performances by similarly strong actors. I mean, we all knew Stellan Skarsgard would deliver, sure. But Denise Gough absolutely kills it, acting-wise. Her delivery as a villain is perfect, the way she manages to always look so sour and annoyed already is quite something, how she normalizes evil into a technocrat career. Every flinch of her face conveys books of information to me as the fascinated viewer. She is at the heart of this series, and worth the price of admission alone.

And let's not forget Andy Serkis' heart-rending performance. Really, we're being spoiled. People are seriously acting, not just standing in front of a camera wearing costumes! In Star Wars!!

And yet, if it was only that, it still wouldn't have impacted me as deeply as it had. There's one more layer to this, and it's the massive bottom of the iceberg that is Andor. I haven't forgotten, even though I'm writing this a year after watching it.

(And definitely spoilers from here on onwards.)

Life under fascism

The second half of season 1 however can put deep horror into any thinking person's mind. It radically departs from previous portrayals of the evil Empire. It's not relying on cheap gimmicks like Episode VII where we see a village razed by the First Order. (So evil. So cliche, too. Also murdering Max von Sydow. Tsk, tsk. They had to get him off stage before any good acting happens...) Andor creeps under our skin and then reaps havoc.

(This part of this entry will become increasingly dark. You might not want to read on. Because fiction is one thing, and comparing it to historical reality is another. This is an actual trigger warning. Proceed with care.)

The first half of the season is standard fare, almost. Cassian gets himself in trouble and there is really no redeeming quality about it. He also gets everybody else into trouble. The Empire in its heavy-handed hurry to eradicate resistance actually creates it in the first place. And still... the lack of compunction about torture, about going victim by victim, vanishing people into its torture cells, breaking them... this is merely an overture. No hero is born here, but evil wears its mask imperfectly.

Cassian escapes his small world to eventually live the good life on a resort world, getting laid, pretending to be someone else. Instead of being caught as the fugitive and murderer and partisan he actually is by now, he simply gets caught up in the arrest of somebody else. The way the Empire "perpetrates justice" not only gets him arrested while having done no wrong (in that cover identity), he also gets sentenced by a court that doesn't even pretend to actually care about due process in any way. There's a machine of oppression, and instead of competently catching him, Cassian becomes caught up randomly in one of its many gears.

And while this may seem random, it's brilliant. It's one of the many reasons why resistance exists. Because the Empire's overreach is everywhere, grinding up people just living their lives while trying to perfect its control. The corruption of the desire for power leaks through in its banality.

What follows is Cassian's imprisonment, and this segment is brutal and horrifying on a deep level. The more you know, the worse it gets. Cassian is transported to a prison facility where he's forced into repetitive labor to make equipment for the Empire. There's a set of steps every labor team has to execute, and the team with the lowest quota gets punished with electric shocks. Day after day.

This is "Vernichtung durch Arbeit." ("Destruction through labor.") This is what the Nazis did to their political opponents. Before there was a Holocaust, there were concentration camps. And prisoners were made to work - the cynic motto across the gate of Auschwitz was "Arbeit macht frei." ("Labor sets you free.") People would gradually be ground down until they gave out in one way or another, fell sick, die of exhaustion, broke psychologically. The series never tells us its "inspiration," it just goes through similar motions. With the veneer of a super-clean techno prison over it.

Not only that, the very scene reminded me of what I read in a book about the Holocaust. Towards the end of the war the engines for the new secret weapon jet planes or rockets were manufactured by prison labor. Crews of malnourished prisoners would each execute a few pretrained steps and crank out more jet engines in slave labor than was previously done in the Reich's armament factories. This was the culmination of the Nazi system where all labor-intensive things like the bunkers of the Atlantic Wall or the underground factories of Dora-Mittelbau were erected by and on the back of slaves that were themselves gradually killed in the process.

Without ever breathing a word of what is portraying, Andor portrays the same. Skillfully, horribly so.

The devil is in the details

Some way into this horror, everybody gets their sentence doubled. The counter simply goes up. No explanation. Total helplessness in the face of total control. The deep gut feeling of "No one gets out here alive" or "It will never end" begins to descend. That number was a sort of life line for people to brave another day. And it lies!

As unbelievable as it may seem, people did get released from concentration camps, especially those on "lighter charges" like "antisocial behavior." But nobody really knew how long they had to stay or if they were to be released. Often, initially told they had to do 3 to 6 months depending on their conduct, and yet most people never left alive. A quick read in a book behind me says that 8 million people were sucked into the system, 7 million died, 200,000 left by being released by the system itself. The idea you might be released one day added false hope that in itself could create further psychological torture if it was dashed over and over again.

Then there is the "divide and conquer" approach to prisoner management. Work crews are led by other prisoners, rebellion and resistance is quelled within the ranks. This Andor merely hints at, but the Nazi oppression system skillfully created hierarchies to make sure a comparatively small detachment of guards could handle a large mass of inmates which could overwhelm them if acting together.

But it doesn't stop here, not in Andor, either. Eventually we learn that the Empire starts to eliminate the prison population. Rumors start to spread that an entire floor of the super prison was eliminated by electrocution. Just like the real Nazis the space Nazis start to construct yet another death machine to eliminate opposition.

And this leads to that sub-plots final chapter, the prison revolt. There are a few historical mass escapes, even from Nazi death camps. There's also the heroism of the two uprisings of Warsaw (including the ghetto uprising). Left with nothing to lose, left with nothing but death ahead, the prisoners overwhelm the guards.

And this happened in real life, too. It's probably based on the historical case of the death camp inmates that were forced to run the gas chambers and crematoria themselves. This is part of the Holocaust itself, the Nazis had finally dropped all pretenses and resorting to kill people in an industrial manner. And these people knew that eventually their whole detachment would be killed. They knew too much, were witnesses to this massive crime against them and humanity itself. They were also among those destined for death. Like in an antechamber of hell itself they were merely bidding time. So they managed one of the few mass escapes on record.

While Andor doesn't stray as far down the road as actual history does, it knows how to cite history for those who know. It's not made up of whole cloth. It actually is referencing the real history of the most inhumane version of fascism, but it does not put the fact in your face. But if you know, its chamber of horrors becomes so much deeper.

And that's why

This is what makes Andor an absolute masterpiece. It recreates the conditions without blindly copying the source. It adapts, but you can feel how deeply inhumane the circumstances are that it depicts. It gives you the bloody creeps, and even if you don't know how much it is rooted in darkness, you will still feel it. It shows. It tells. But it never spoils the source material.

This is art. This is the deep craft. The banality of evil, the careless, uncaring attitude of evil towards those it deems unworthy and not human. It's all on display. It switches us into the place of Cassian and of Andy Serkis' character as it draws us in as audience. We don't see what happens on other floors. We don't have the information advantage. We can only imagine. We are subjected to the fact that we can only imagine it. And so we share a bit in the plight of these characters. Sometimes not showing a thing is the highest accomplishment of movie making.

And this is why I'm pissed that a series that was planned for five seasons was already cut to play out in two. Because we need more of this and less of more Jedi doing backflips. Just like Loki plays on a completely different level than the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Andor leaves all of Star Wars in its dust. If Rogue One was the attempt to tell a different kind of story in the same universe, Andor is the attempt at a different level of depth.

And this, more than Rogue One, makes it clear why they fight.

Watch it if you can.

And sorry if I horrified you.

#andor #andor series #cassian andor #rogue one #star wars

77 notes · View notes

equarretedddd · 5 months

Text

okay i reviewed Dethmas recently and i STILL cant get it out of my head although i noticed it quite a long time ago.

i havent seen anyone discuss it sooooo ill do it!

from the very beginning, Murderface for the christmas show conceived exactly something immoral, cruel and anarchic for its theme but… im still having insanely fun with the fact that he ABSOLUTELY did not hesitate to agree to arrange a pompously sugary clowning on a religious channel, simply because Dick liked this idea… it feels like he wanted to impress him, play along with him, just to spend time with him and get attention to his own person at the same time.

on the show itself their tandem looks both insanely awkward and shamefully funny with their playing along on camera, and on the other hand they COMPLETELY combine with each other in this sense, they do it insanely confidently. they do it shamefully but they know exactly what they are doing and they do it very well. they are similar in this idea. we very often see how Murderface himself often does some terribly ridiculous, stupid and senseless things, but he does it confidently and boldly. and now, a someone appeared in his environment who does EXACTLY the SAME THING! mind blowing!

and… can the Dick’s "another wonderful but lonely christmas eve" and Murderface’s "just two of us again" mean something? perhaps im taking ideas for analysis from scratch but im really interested in these lines, as if they mean exactly why this christmas show exists in principle.

that is Dick was insanely lonely at christmas (and he needed to restore business relations and reputation) so his idea for the show exists at all, and Murderface is just… wanted to spend time with him and finally tell people about himself i guess?

however iii just needed to say it because its been crawling in my head for three years i think.

i think i will love this episode forever! i never get bored with it, i always find something new in it, and besides, it radiates such a crazy mess of madness and christmas mood (and christmas is very soon after all!)

#metalocalypse #dethklok #mtl #long post #william murderface #dick knubbler #dickface #dethmas

59 notes · View notes

mindibindi · 11 months

Text

The Failure of Ted Lasso's Unconventional Politics

SOCIAL CONDITIONING:

According to Brendan Hunt, shippers interested in a second chance, mature-age romance between Ted and Rebecca were being blindly, un-self-reflexively led about by their “social conditioning”. Presumably, however, the writers who wrote Ted returning to his heteronormative family unit – as well as all the viewers who enjoyed this ending and have defended it since – are completely free of social conditioning? No social conditioning is involved in reifying the white heterosexual family unit? No social conditioning is involved in deifying parenthood, fatherhood and patriarchy at the cost of all else? There is no social conditioning involved in a conclusion that values good ole working class Americana while rejecting the big, queer, complicated, multicultural world?

KISS (Keep It Simple Stupid):

If the creators wanted to gesture to “Cheers” as a classic American sitcom, then at least learn from its example. This show worked best when it worked with familiar, beloved characters in a familiar, beloved, but confined setting. "Ted Lasso" had a near-perfect first act, doing a simple thing well. But from s2 onward, the show started straying out of bounds. The cast of characters kept expanding and contracting: people were in, people were out, characters were coming and going and changing (what was the point of that whole Zava plotline?). We had multiple workplaces and workplace dramas (grew to like Barbara tho). Episodes got long and unwieldy. Themes got convoluted as the show took a long trip, imo, up its own arse. The folksy wisdom of s1 became grating self-indulgence and cliched “moment” manufacturing.

SUPERFICIAL UNCONVENTIONALITY:

TL employed a familiar 3-part structure but ultimately its supposedly radical, unconventional politics was not reflected in the show’s structure. Since the first act started with Ted's arrival, you could see his departure coming from a mile off. Some folks are acting like returning Ted home constitutes some super brave move by the writers that we've never seen before. But if you want to talk social conditioning expressed through narrative expectation then you really couldn't get anything more conventional than this ending.

We've seen it all before:

Act I: Fish-out-of-Water character arrives and begins winning over a dubious, dysfunctional community Act II: Bonding, hijinks, missteps, complications and development Act III: Revelations of growth. Community sadly waves goodbye to teacher they love but no longer need. Cue credits with moving song choice.

It's as cliche, conventional and predictable as it gets. And I could condescendingly accuse every viewer who enjoyed this ending as being blindly and un-self-reflexively led around by their social conditioning. But even if I'm not one of the showrunners who also played a beloved character and who is speaking on a public forum, that would be a pretty fucking shitty move. What I am saying is that the disagreement over this ending speaks to some core ideological differences currently playing out across the globe around patriarchy, feminism, queerness and privilege. There is an opportunity here to examine what we socioculturally view as “good’ and “right” and “happy”. These ideas of good, right and happy are not necessarily benign and will be inevitably reflected in and reproduced by our art.

PATRIARCHY:

In the end, “Ted Lasso” literally chose patriarchy (but what kind is the question). Just because this show was working with a familiar 3-part structure, that doesn't mean it didn't need to justify Ted's inevitable departure. For many people, his son is enough. That's it. End of conversation. Henry trumps all. And yes, this was always going to be the justification used by the series. But I think this disagreement highlights changing attitudes to modern parenting. Everyone agrees that parenting requires sacrifice: large and small, everyday and lifelong. But how much sacrifice is too much?

For some people, this was too much sacrifice. Others seem to think it was Ted's duty to sacrifice for his son his own sense of family and community, his continued health and growth, his professional fulfilment. Imo, he could have shared all of this with him but chose old-school parental sacrifice instead. I consider this kind of sacrifice to be something that culturally we’re coming to recognise as unhealthy, for both parent and child. In reality, parents are more than one thing. Parents have jobs, interests, relationships, needs, limitations and struggles. Parents are people.

In the series, Ted was established as a person: a person with a sad past, a tortured inner world, a strong desire to connect with others and, potentially, a brighter future than his past. From the beginning, his relationship with Michelle was established (and often reinforced) as over, dead, absolutely no route back in. But his relationship with his son was loving and important to him. Of course it was. He’d be a bad man and unlikeable character if it wasn’t. Even so, Henry isn’t a major or fully realised character in this show. We care about him, relate to him through Ted. He matters to us because he matters to Ted. But frankly, we are far more attached to Ted’s other adopted “children”, the relationships we have watched him develop over 3 years, than the relationship we only saw glimpses of. That’s just narrative reality. In reality, yes, Henry would and should be Ted’s first priority. This is only right. In fiction, the team at Richmond should have been the first priority of Jason and the rest of the writing team. They are the ones we want to see and want to see happy and settled.

As many frustrated viewers have stated, it's not Ted's departure that is so disheartening but how it was done. If the TL team wanted to make this choice seem like a healthy one for Ted then they needed to establish other things waiting for him in Kansas: friends, community, employment, fulfillment. As it was, literally nothing tipped the scales in favour of Kansas. There were no romantic, community or larger familial relationships to get back to. Far too much was just left to inference or imagination. Yes, we can assume that Ted has community in Kansas, that he will probably get a great job after his success in Richmond. But all the people and opportunities we would like to infer/imagine will never tip the balance towards Kansas when we consider all we KNOW is already established for him in Richmond. The homeworld and beloved characters of a show will always hold more emotional weight than anything undefined and hypothetical. If viewers were to be happy with Ted’s exit then the writers needed to take the time to lovingly define his future away from the club.

Instead, it seems like a deliberate choice to shut Ted down and perform (and I do mean “perform”) this marvelous sacrifice for his son that so many think is admirable. It’s this shutdown that is so inconsistent and confusing. Because at any time in the hour, Ted could have said to Rebecca, the Diamond Dogs and/or his team:

“Look y'all this ain't the end. We’re family now. I'll be back. I'll show y'all round Kansas anytime you wanna visit. My mom will cook a dinner that will clog your arteries. And every so often, what say we do a long-distance movie night, huh? I'll miss you all but I’ll be watching every game and I can't wait to come back and see you win the whole fucking thing!!”

Ted could have been a model of honest, expressive, emotionally forthcoming, relationship-maintaining masculinity. But nope. Not a word. Just brave male sacrifice. It's straight up patriarchal propaganda. And truth is, fathers sacrifice way less than mothers do in heterosexual parenting relationships. Mothers are generally the ones making those small, everyday sacrifices that our society rarely acknowledges or admires. But I bet this ending makes all those lazy husbands and boyfriends feel real good about themselves. I bet it makes many female partners feel all warm and fuzzy to know that even though their kids’ father won't share half the labour that goes into raising a child, when it comes time for him to perform a massive manly sacrifice for his family, he toootttaaally will. I'm sorry, what were you saying about social conditioning Mr. Hunt?

FATHER GOD or WHITE SAVIOUR?:

Patriarchy needs its Father Gods and its Mother Gods to play certain roles (tho, to paraphrase Angela Carter, both are as silly as each other.) These magical figures materialise at pivotal times then dematerialise when the narrative is over, the pivotal lessons learned. They never themselves learn or alter. Think Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee. These figures are not entirely human, they possess an element of the supernatural. They serve others, serve a higher purpose. Nanny McPhee's appearance changes only as a reflection of her charges’ growth. Mary Poppins – the figure to whom Ted is most likened – learns to care about her kids but she doesn't engage in any self-introspection. Her duty and trajectory remains unchanged. When she arrives at her next job, she will do so exactly the same as she was.

These otherworldly mother deities are not unproblematic feminist figures themselves. But creating a male, fatherhood deity becomes even more problematic when he is white, cis-het and pretty able. Ted arrives to teach all the black and brown lost boys, to unite the disconnected women, liberate the closeted gays and to update the bumbling English gentlemen (there is, I feel, a special relish in these American bros educating their former colonisers on modern manhood). Here, we start to stray into white saviour territory. Frighteningly, this kind of patriarchal demi-god implies that white men are the most progressive figures in a society, they are in the political vanguard, championing the needs of the disconnected and downtrodden. White men are the ultimate source of wisdom, kindness and progress. It represents them as a group as progressive, when in reality the attitudes and politics of this group represent conservative politics and regressive values that impede the progress of every other marginalised group. If we buy this myth about white men, then we are more likely to accept what they say to us from their positions of power and privilege as right, wise, kind and progressive, even when it is the opposite.

So, if you are going to put forward a white man as a model of progressive politics, then you need to embrace unconventionality, not just superficially but down to your bones. “Ted Lasso” tried to structure s2 and s3 differently but just ended up making a mess of allusions and ideologies that did not connect, cohere, develop or conclude. In fact, sometimes they straight-up contradicted. Employing a magical 3-part structure and making a bunch of meaningless allusions to well-known classics does not another classic make. They did not engage with any of these classics (“Cheers”, “Mary Poppins”, “The Wizard of Oz”) in any deep or critical way. Classics may be loved but they are not faultless. If you simply repeat what has already been done, even in celebrated classics, you may just end up repeating mistakes someone already made for you to learn from. TL repeats the central feminist problem of parental deities in “Mary Poppins”, just as it repeats the irreconcilable ending of “The Wizard of Oz”.

LIMINALITY:

Both “The Wizard of Oz” and “Mary Poppins” take us into strange liminal worlds. “Ted Lasso” could be read similarly, except that Ted doesn't take any magic home with him. In fact, he seems to actively forget it, reverting to the Ted he was before leaving. No queerness or feminism follows him home, no traces of the various cultures he's come into contact with. The liminal remain liminal with no indication that these two worlds will communicate or can integrate. The non-white, female, queer and otherwise bizarre are left outside of Ted’s squeaky clean hometown heteronormativity. And I really don’t think I have to explain why that is so deeply irresponsible. Because again, this is a writing choice.

That epilogue at the end was brief but imagine if it included more detail: Ted texting with Rebecca, or facetiming with Roy, Jamie giving Henry advice. They didn't take the time to honour and continue these relationships or integrate these two worlds. They didn't suggest that responsible fatherhood could entail many things, could look different. “Sacrifice,” they said profoundly. “Fatherhood,” they murmured mistily. “Patriarchy” was their final word to which this feminist says, “Bullshit.”

PRIVILEGE:

I only did one film unit at uni but it really doesn't take much to deconstruct the absurdly inconsistent ending of “The Wizard of Oz”. It was 1939, the end of the Great Depression and the start of another devastating world war. People needed to be convinced that their small ramshackle b/w lives surrounded by loved ones were stable, noble even. They already had everything they needed. They didn't need Oz. They didn't need bright futures, big adventures or exciting opportunities. Monochrome Kansas was all a good American should ever hope for. There was danger in difference, safety at home.

Well, here we are in late-stage capitalistic hell, having come through (???) a pandemic and it takes a special sort of privilege to say to an audience: you don't need money or opportunity or community, they won't make your life any better than before. Be happy with the muddy and mundane. Be happy with what you've got. Turn away from larger community, greater knowledge, continued stability, and isolate yourself in a bubble of you and yours. Look, it's not a sweet or familiar narrative conclusion but the truth is, Ted’s, Henry’s and Michelle’s lives would have all been better if they'd relocated to London. Do these dolts have any idea what teachers (in the USA esp) are currently going through? How overworked and underpaid and undervalued these people are? The burnout rates?? Ted didn't have to take the highest salary Rebecca offered but, had the writers been willing to put in the effort, a more unconventional, more modern ending to this series could have been crafted.

Not that I'm surprised they took the easy road to glory. All indications from the beginning of s3 suggested that this would be the rather predictable conclusion. Indications do not, however, constitute development. This team had the opportunity to write a new ending to an old story, one that incorporated queer, feminist and anti-capitalist values. One that defined a different, new version of patriarchy. They didn't even think to. In their white boi hubris, they just assumed that they and tradition knew best. Considering how many viewers would be struggling right now for food, housing, employment and opportunity, an ending in which Ted turns down an opportunity like this hits a false, rather virtue-signally note. Literally, nobody would have come out worse. Everybody would have benefitted from Ted staying in Richmond. Which means this decision was made purely to manufacture a “moment” that celebrates patriarchy.

ANTICAPITALISM: There’s a reason they had Rebecca offer Ted the biggest salary in his industry. They wanted to make it NotAboutTheMoney! Ted doesn’t say so (doesn’t say anything) but, because this narrative idea is so fucking familiar, we can assume the thoughts behind his oh-so-sage expression are: “Well, shucks now, boss, I rightly do appreciate the kindly offer but that there kid o’ mine is more important to me than any cash you could put in my silly lil handy-hands.” Good Lord. The cringe is real. I really, really can’t with this mighty, manly silence and sacrifice. My problem isn’t that Ted values his son over money (not that it has to be a choice because that money could benefit Henry and his mother, who is owed a heck of a lot of child support esp since she’s been raising their son solo for 3 years). Again, that is how it should be. My problem is that the show actively established Richmond as an anticapitalist landscape, then suddenly at the eleventh hour, tried to walk that back and imply it was actually a capitalistic landscape (in contrast to homey ole Kansas).

Capitalism teaches us to sniff at money. We've been told by the monied and privileged that it won't buy happiness. (This is of course, utter bullshit because money can buy you a hell of a lot of wellbeing, security and opportunity). At the beginning of the series, Rebecca Welton stands for this principle. And by the end, she has found a way to use her extreme wealth and privilege in an ethical way. She gives it away. She supports others. She lets Sam out of a promotional contract, she funds Keeley’s business, she sells half the club to fans. The most obvious example of Rebecca’s anticapitalist politics is her confrontation with all the richy riches who want to take soccer away from the people. Here, she becomes an anticapitalist leader, one who has been positively influenced by the anticapitalistic politics of The Lasso Way.

The Lasso Way is anticapitalistic in that it stresses that winning isn’t everything. You try but you try together. You play hard, not in order to beat the other guy, but to be the best (player, teammate, man) you can be. There are no individual stars, only collaborative team players. You give due credit to others, the team, the support staff. The club functions well when it functions as a unit. Over the course of the series, it becomes a commune that protects and nurtures its citizens. A socialist haven that values people over profits, prizes and meaningless acquisition. The Greyhounds don’t want to win the league for the money or the top spot. Winning the whole fucking thing is an expression of their regard for each other, the game and the new, kinder ethos they all now live by.

Because they spent 3 years establishing all of this (during a time when we really needed to hear it), there is something v disingenuous about them then having Rebecca offer to go to extremes to pay Ted more money than any man should have. It is not consistent with the show’s themes, the ethos of the club, Rebecca’s attitude or what she knows of Ted. She knows it’s not about the money for Ted. It never was. It’s an act of desperation on her part, but why did they need to make her ridiculous, desperate, so inept in this moment? Hannah plays it beautifully but I can’t help but feel this is part of them diminishing Richmond, (re)casting it as excessively capitalistic in relation to Kansas so that they can turn Ted’s decision into a simple Money < Son choice. Because if it is a Money < Son choice then he has no dilemma. There is no other choice. He goes home to his son. The problem is, they’ve just spent 3 years proving that it is not a simple Money < Son dilemma. Money was never actually part of this equation. Ted left to give Michelle space, to find himself, to find a new life and community, to extend himself beyond what he knew as normal. As such, there is now far more than just money for Ted in Richmond (which tbf, Rebecca also points out, but I still think this point stands).

The other major problem is that, here in the real world, middle-class America (which btw does not exist) is far from being a haven of peace and prosperity comparable to nowhere in the world. This is a lazy cliché than any amount of travel should quickly disabuse you of. And yet in Kansas, we are supposed to believe, despite everything happening in America (referenced by Henry in ep 3.01), Ted will find community, opportunity and stability. To pull off this ending, they needed to establish a Kansas unlike the one currently in existence. This is what they did with Richmond. The UK is no better than the US currently, but they nevertheless established an ideal society, one with values very contrary to the world we now live in. Is it any wonder that people saw the desertion of this world as a rejection of feminist, queer and anticapitalist values? Right now, more than ever, people want to believe in a society that isn't all about triumph, success, competition, acquisition, individualism and aggression. They want to believe in a society that emphasises community, values people, shares wealth, offers opportunity, encourages difference, improves lives and moves onward, forward, in circumspect but ethical steps. These themes were all there in the series. They just weren't utilised when it came time to shape its conclusion.

#ted lasso #ted lasso finale #ted x rebecca #jason sudeikis #brendan hunt #istg i'm done #i'm a ridiculous person #long post #did anyone read this?#fuck i overthink #dumb show #rebecca welton #rebecca welton deserved better #feminist queer anticapitalist rant #i'm here to tell you that if you like ted lasso you're probly a socialist

132 notes · View notes

figgybeans · 5 months

Text

FHJY trailer frame-by-frame

because i love these freaks. ok lets get into it (this is gonna be long)

love the dome this season !! the backgrounds are beautiful. the steps up in production across FH is amazing

ADAINE !! JAWBONE !! BOGGY !! i think her splash art is my have from the six. i have no clue what ESF stands for so anyone lmk

her mini is also i think my favorite, the pins on her leather jacket really sell it. minus points for boggy's HUMAN ARMS though, theres a clearer shot later on

fabian time ! love the blanket. bill seacaster art as well ! god hes terrifying. the doodles on the owlbear stickers are cute too

apples bee ! plus some art of cassandra. kristen is in her strong arc, which the world is all the better for. i think its also important to remember that from the start of the series kristen has always had a higher strength score than fabian (ignoring her 4 dex)

ignore the phantom riz mini, the trailer hardly stayed on his intro art for long. which is a shame cause LOOK AT IT !! the kalina picture, fuckin baron, the corn cuties, so much night yorb, bizz in the corner, captain whitclaw, coach daybreak - the man riz shot through the head in cold blood, the bardy boys !! its perfect.

fig !! sad theres no ayda art in here but theres gotta be in the series. "-and a wizards paramore, YES its part of my identity, thank you" iconic. glad her mini has a custom bass. also gilear <3<3

gorgug my boy. with his giant fuckoff axe. so happy his mini is including his artificer level, PLUS that probably means he takes another level in it, and unlocks infusions >:)

this two headed dragon guy. red dragon can always mean some Kalvaxis callback, but we never know. i DO know that there's a statblock for two headed dragons in Monster Manual Expanded III, so maybe brennan uses that ? or just gives a regular dragon two breath weapons. we will see

this was one of the clearest frames i could get for this art, but what we can see is still cool. love kristen in her kill bill jumpsuit. as an aside im still a riz-has-a-tail believer

now THIS is a battlemap. im like 99% sure that that's the Thistlespring Tree in the background, and the Sig Figs are having some kind of concert here. HOWEVER, if we zoom in, it doesn't look like any of their minis are on the stage. intrigue.

the internet mall ! or something. i have no idea who the minis could be, BUT the IDK-wearing purple one in the middle could be some Guardian of Faith representing cassandra. also adaine and boggy have matching berets in the wide shot

this set i think is a gladiatorial arena of some kind? because we see a bunch of monstrosities and aberrations with this in the background later. also the big gates and monster-keeping pens are a clue.

BOGGY ARMS. BOGGY ARMS. adaine is covered in blood. but fig looks to have some kind of ghost opossum familiar. BUT, my friend pointed out that it could be edgar, zayn's ghost rat ! so maybe we have him return for an episode. this house looks spooky enough. maybe mordred manor gets infested by demons or something

otyugh spotted !! my favorite monster of all time

this roper-looking thing. it overlays when brennan says "an eldritch beast that threatens all of the denizens of this world," so im really thinking there's gonna be an overarching Aberration theme in these combats

also this guy. i have no clue what he is honestly. the rectangle in the background could maybe be a mirror or painting, so this might take place in the mordred manor-looking set from before

purple worm, in the gladiator arena !

some sort of ghost ship? doubtful that its bill seacaster's ship again, and the mist could mean the ethereal plane

the bad kids !! just noticing that fabian's eye patch is either missing or on the wrong side

im pretty sure this is an umber hulk, also in the gladiator set

skateboard fig mini. also, this could be the hang van (?) but it also could be too long and be some kind of ghost limo. idk

graveyard ! maybe they team up with zayn here

a blue dragon, which makes me think the red dragon from earlier isnt kalvaxis related and is just a dragon

more POV arrow shots, but this one's going into a fucking hydra. which looks like it grows three heads instead of two ? if that's what the attachment on the right side means.

this could be the red wastes ? back on the kalvaxis theory.

a wider shot of the internet mall. note the "YARRRRbucks" behind lou

THE RETURN OF THE CRAB KING !!

aaaand the final art frame !! fig finally gets her license (or not)

all in all 10/10 frothing at the mouth till jan 10

#rotating them in my mind like a rotisserie chicken #fhjy #fantasy high #dimension 20 #d20

48 notes · View notes

chimychoo · 3 months

Text

STOP WHEN I FINISHED WATCHING III 18 I LITERALLY WALKED UP THE STAIRS SHAKING I C9ULDNT STAND UP MY KNEES GAVE OUT ON ME THATS HOW FUCKED UP THE EPISODE MADE ME WAHT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL WHY DID I GIGGLE WHEN MEPHONE WENT SILENT AND ALL HE COULD DO WAS DO THAT FUCKING, PHONE VIBRATE THIGN HEELEPPPEMEEEEE33

ok but that aside im just gonnw let out some theories or thoughts here cause ummmm why not!!!!!

have this little ramble that turns out to be w rant about lightbulb

mephone wanted to start a season 4 so the show could go on forever, right? what would happen to the season 2 finalists? considering how long its been i can only assume theyve either been invited to stay at hotel oj for the time being or legitimately got left rotting in the forestHELPME. hoenstly im guessing that during episode 19. like yk how wt the end of object show episodes kike after the credits they show a little scene? yeah im guessing one of thoseare gonna be there after the credits and and and its gonna FIRST OF ALL START BU SHOWING THE NIGHT SKY OF THE SEASON 2 GROUNDS OKAY OKAY??? then its gonna like the screen moves down and its the forest, zoom in more and yiu see suitcase and baseball talking, go to the right and its knife like kicking down a tree or whatever, GO EVEN FURTHER AND IT LIGHTBULB SITTING ON A TREESTUMP CHUGGING DR. FIZZ OKAY ITS GON A HAPPEN SHES GONNA HAVE EYEBAGS AND SHES GONNA BE A DEPRESSED LITTLE FUCK ITS CANON IM TELLING YOU. and apparently it was comfirmed that it hurts ligthbulb when she cries like WHAT!!!!!!!!so um shes gonnw cry at some point cause i said so i love angst i need lightbukb angst shes so overlooked like her stereotype is the assumed enthusiast but her story is so much deeper than that guys please im sobbing can you tell how much i miss her I NEED HER ON SCREEN NOW. okay okay look look so um back to the topic im not sure how iii 19 is gonna turn out but maybe mephone is gonnw come back to the season 2 island MAYBE?????

ok i have 3 outcomes for 5his

1. mephone comes back, the cutscene with the final 4 ends with mephones shadow walking in AND ALL THE FINALISTS LOOK UP ST HIM then it hits us with a "TO BE CONTINUED." CAUSEE YEAAH ADAM LOVES TO TORTURE US!!!!

2. mephone gets kidnapped by cobs. thats it

3. mephone never goes back to season 2 so the show gets cancled and the finalists go back to hotel oj and lightbulb sees testy painty and fan and they all kiss right right ZrugtRUGHT

i need lightbrush cintent so bad im so deprived for it i just want them to hug ot something like why do we get Znickloom hugging and not lightbrush ok thats not fair tha5 is NOT fair this is so not fair can they atleast hokd hands or soemthing like hug like maybe even KISS come on adam co e on you jnow you want to /silly

oh yeah and tacos probably gonnw do something stupid as fuck with mepad shes gonna rewire him or something and turn him into like a fucking teleportation device i meann he already is one so uhhhhhhhhhh

um hi!!!

#inanimate insanity #object shows #ii lightbulb #ii paintbrush #lightbrush #ii 2 #ii baseball #ii knife #ii suitcase

38 notes · View notes

mortimerlatrice · 9 months

Text

KinnPorsche Music in Context: Episode One

It needs to be said: I started thinking about how a few of the songs used as KinnPorsche background music had incredibly apt or punny titles months ago. It’s been sort of poking around in my head that it might be some light, surface level meta to collect!

Ho boy was I wrong. I don’t know what I expected because absolutely nothing in KinnPorsche is just surface level. In episode one, I have already found several hysterical jokes, commentary on the shifting power dynamics, water symbolism, and many more gems.

Here is the link to my episode one Spotify playlist. I know there are quite a few playlists out there, but even scouring three of them, I still found additional songs that were not cited or mentioned.

There are 37 (yes, you read that correctly, 37!) songs in episode one and that's in addition to a handful of reprisals, so the insanely long list is under the cut.

For other episodes (as I get to them), go here!

We start, of course, with our beloved theme song, เพียงไว้ใจ (or PhiangWaichai) by Slot Machine. There’s plenty of thoughts on this, I’m not digging into it.

Introducing Kinn – Quantum Sonata by FormantX.

Kinn and Big head into the Italian’s den – Our Final Mission by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen. This is the last time Big will join Kinn on a mission as his head bodyguard (I’m not crying, you’re crying.)

Introducing Don and the Italian gang – Waltz for Little Italy by Bireli Snow.

Introducing Porsch – Diggin' the Drama by The New Fools.

Kinn making accusations and Porsche mixing drinks hoping to get lucky – Covert Affairs by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

After Kinn's iconic "I'm more like my mom," we are introduced to the song that makes the most appearances this episode: Concerto No. 2 in G Minor, L’estate (Summer) composed by Antonio Vivaldi. Now here’s where the KinnPorsche crew start to do what they do best: give us things to obsess over and over analyze.

The concerto has 3 movements and to be honest I’m not 100% sure that they pull from only one of them for the show. Remember when I said I wasn’t musically inclined? If anyone wants to chime in, please do.

Another fun thing about this Concerto? It is traditionally associated with or accompanied by a trio of sonnets (one for each movement). Oh, did I mention Vivaldi was Italian? Themes.

Anyway, the sonnets translated from Italian to English:

I. Allegro non molto– Under the heat of the burning summer sun, Languish man and flock; the pine is parched. The cuckoo finds its voice, and suddenly, The turtledove and goldfinch sing. A gentle breeze blows, But suddenly, the north wind appears. The shepherd weeps because, overhead, Lies the fierce storm, and his destiny. II. Adagio; Presto– His tired limbs are deprived of rest By his fear of lightning and fierce thunder, And by furious swarms of flies and hornets. III. Presto– Alas, how just are his fears, Thunder and lightening fill the Heavens, and the hail Slices the tops of the corn and other grain.

Source

Porsche and his fanclub at Hum Bar – Late Nights by Daxton.

When Yok calls Porsche over to the bar – Mysterious Madeline by Lucas Pittman.

As Kinn is driving over the bridge and they realize they're being followed (and when Porsche is making eyes at the woman across the bar) – Road of Fury by John Abbot.

Big and Kinn fleeing into the tunnels when Big is shot and Kinn is being chased down – They Are Coming by Hampus Naeselius.

There is a brief snippet here with a snare drum and a cymbal (I think?) when Porsche is cheekily asking Kinn for money and pissing in a bottle, but I couldn’t isolate it enough to find it. Any help would be appreciated!

Here, we’re introduced to the perfect fights song, Absolute Power by Hampus Naeselius, when Porsche beats down the street thugs and drives off with Kinn.

She Knocks by Lukas Amil plays when Porsche is being a brat and leaves Kinn at the gas station.

When Porsche comes home to Chay bandaging up Arthee – In Rain - Indigo Days. Can you say water symbolism?

The Joys And Sorrows of Life by Johannes Bornlöf gives a little hope when Porsche and Arthee are sitting and talking about finances and how much they could make off Kinn’s watch.

Porsche at the underground fighting ring has three songs in quick succession: Back to Where it Began by Rockin' For Decades,

Second Hand Slide by Lucas Pittman,

And Around the Bend by Pip Mondy as he turns the fights to his favor. [It is worth noting that they use a sort of stripped down version during most of it, but I couldn't find that version, so they may have done it themselves]

When Porsche comes home to Chay and Arthee celebrating making so much money off the watch we get Gentleman at Heart by Indigo Days. I think this one’s interesting because I’m actually not sure if it’s about Arthee or Porsche…

When Don finds his men tied up and (maybe dead?) – Let Me Introduce Myself by Rune Dale. This comes right after the scene where Korn chastises Kinn for his decision to enrage Don instead of “giving him gifts.” This is Kinn telling Don exactly how he plans to run things and how very different he is from his father. Kinn's mother must have been ruthless with a good sense of humor.

When Kinn asks Chan about finding Jom/Porsche, we're back to Vivaldi’s Concerto. Like the shepherd, Porsche's Destiny hangs over his head.

College Porsche and his stolen pastry get Moonshiner's Turn by Martin Landström.

Jom is approached to act as "a waiter who's actually the greatest boxer undercover,” our dear theater kid gets Concert Hall Hideout by Stationary Sign.

A moment later when Porsche realizes he's been caught? Cheese! by Alexandra Woodward. [This one is not on the Spotify playlist but I did find it on Epidemic Sound.]

When Porsche calls Chay, worried that Chay may be targeted or even taken by Kinn? Extraction by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen. Which is a truly horrible double entendre because the very next song is

Clogged Up by Jerry Lacey. I'm not even dignifying this scene with a response.

Kinn sweet talking Yok (with veiled threats) – Infiltrator by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

Porsche’s kidnapping – Honor the Brave by Hampus Naeselius.

Kinn reading Porsche his own biography – Beryllium - Farrell Wooten. Beryllium is, according to a brief google search, a natural metal that is expensive, brittle, and dangerous to work with (toxic).

Porsche's fight theme – Absolute Power. Except who has the power this time?

Brief reprise of She Knocks as Kinn once again watches Porsche walk away from him (or throw himself off the boat in this case).

When Korn and Kinn discuss how to force Porsche, and moving into the next scene when Porsche finds Chay cleaning up after another break-in, and through to Porsche finding Thee being beaten up – The Stakeout by Christoffer Moe Ditlevsen.

When the loan shark tells Porsche that Thee still owes despite Porsche believing they had paid things off, leading to Porsche forcefully kicking Thee out of his and Chay's life? Ghosting by Christopher Moe Ditlevsen.

When Porsche finally tells Thee to leave and after, when Porsche goes home alone to clean up his ruined house, we get one of my all time favorites – Bitter Heart - Instrumental Version by Memi. Although the soundtrack presumably uses the instrumental version, I would argue that the lyrics were taken into account when choosing it:

“Suddenly you look like a stranger A face I knew, but I must've forgotten … We know we could've done it better Fought for the little things that we wanted … Oh, I wish that you hadn't pulled the trigger Shot me down with my bitter heart My blood is getting thicker You shot me down, you shot me down With my bitter heart”

This is getting way too long, so I cut some of the lyrics but I strongly recommend checking out the original.

As Chay tells Porsche that their parents would be proud of him, there is a very brief reprisal of In Rain.

It then switches to No More Drama by Eric Feinberg as they hug and Porsche tucks Chay in. This calls back to the song that first accompanied Porsche, Diggin’ the Drama, and Porsche has made his decision. He can't keep living like this and he can't let Chay live like this either.

Porsche's letter and Kinn pouring himself a drink – a reprisal of Gentleman at Heart.

During the famous "your life is mine" scene where, at least in the translation, Porsche asks if Kinn is a god, we get a third reprisal of the Concerto. Porsche's destiny is set, the storm has blown in and ruined his life leaving him desperate.

When Porsche confronts Korn and asks to be Big and Ken's boss and through to Korn Playing Chess – So to Say by Taylor Crane

At which point we get one, final reprise of the Concerto as Korn places the Queen on the board and the game begins.

Finally – Free Fall by Slot Machine.

And, in the interest of being thorough....

Episode Two Preview – Global Impact by Philip Ayers.

#fucking hell #that was way more than i expected #i tried to go back and reduce my commentary #but whatever #i worked really hard on this 🥲#kprewatch2023 #kinnporsche meta #kinnporsche the series #music analysis #sort of #help i'm stuck in a rabbit hole #would also love feedback on whether i should maybe break these up in the future? this is so massive...#i guess i could have cut back on the songs i didn't really get but #the whole point was to be comprehensive and allow people to draw their own conclusions #so

76 notes · View notes

alteon77 · 1 year

Text

Updated Masterlist of Writing and Art

About the writer/artist: I like to write and paint. My current obsession is Sandman, but I enjoy most fantasy fandoms as well as anime (I think I’m on season seven billion of One Piece right now 🤣). I'm also weird as they come (and awkward, too), so just please ignore my oddball (coughTERRIBLEcough) sense of humor.

On a more personal note, I have PTSD and suffer from severe manic depressive episodes. Writing and art are my most familiar coping mechanisms, and I need them like I need oxygen. Seriously, there were times in my life that knowing I had to finish a story or a piece of art was the only thing stopping me from ending up dead. So, I don't take part in fandom drama. Having my peace and protecting my mental health are very big deals to me, and I won't risk those for anything if I can help it.

As for my writing, it ranges from short one-shots to ridiculously long novel series. I use third person POV (on longer series) as well as second person (on shorter things). I also try to always exclude physical descriptions when writing main character OCs and assign them nicknames to avoid using Y/N. I love to read Y/N fics, but writing them makes me feel like I'm at work. And who actually wants to ever feel like they're at work when they're engaging in a hobby? Definitely not me.

Lastly, there's usually more stuff on my AO3 page than I have listed here, because I forget to post it pretty often. Oops. I'll get around to moving it all over one day. Probably. Maybe.

Feel free to leave an ask if you want or just drop by my DMs. <3

Artwork links are at the bottom of this list, so if you're here for those, that's where they are.

Sandman 'Verse

All the Precious and Fragile Things (so easily do they break)

After banishing his lover from the Dreaming for her betrayal, Morpheus learns that she is pregnant with his child.

And that she’s been captured by a revenge-seeking Alexander Burgess.

What the both of them are unaware of is that this will set in motion a cascade of unfavorable events, causing a chain reaction that threatens the whole of existence itself.

PART I: All of This Past

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

PART II: These Tender, Loving Mercies

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART III: When It All Falls Down

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

PART IV: The Dark of War

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Epilogue

Sometimes He's Sweet

Morpheus hates the holidays.

As excited as she seems to experience the mortal holiday, he's… less so. Much less so. With the entire collective unconscious contained within him, this time of year can be wholly overwhelming, a miasma of too much red and green, too much worry, too much loneliness, too much excitement, too many similarly themed dreams, too many similarly themed nightmares, and far far too many holiday songs. It all bleeds out from the collective unconscious into his own mind, sticks there like weeping sap to a tree until he feels half-mad with the unrelenting presence of it, with his inability to get free from its cloying trespass upon his very being.

This is just a little sweet fluff for the holiday season. It takes place between chapters 19 and 20 of "All the Precious and Fragile Things". No spoilers here if you've read that far!

The Dog Debacle (or how best to sneak a dragon into the dreaming)

Morpheus' daughter gets a new dog.

Well..... kind of.

That Familiar Feeling of Family (or how Hob Gadling ended up as an uncle to his stranger's oftentimes feral children)

It's a pretty universally known thing that families are just strange. As Hob is quickly figuring out, however, this little fact is magnified by AT LEAST a billion when the family in question is Endless.

(A lighthearted story in which Hob Gadling finds out his stranger has married, makes friends with a homicidal maniac/ruler, and manages to become an exemplary uncle to a pack of magically mischievous children. Really, now all he has to do is convince everyone to stop calling his and Dream's weekly meetups "playdates", and then his life would be practically perfect.)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

The Maker, the Muse, and the Sundered Song

In his temple, what remains of Orpheus waits in trepidation. Something is changing. Something that he knows might alter the very fabric of the world as he understands it.

Finally freed from captivity, Calliope struggles to make any meaningful changes to the laws that saw her bound and taken in the first place. When the strange woman appears on Mount Parnassus and offers help, Calliope knows she would be a fool not to accept it. Even if she thinks that she's being lied to.

Meanwhile in the peace of the Dreaming, Morpheus grapples with guilt over his son's fate. As he basks in the love of his new children, he can't help but to regret his own failings where Orpheus is concerned.

And as for May, she's really just got a job to do. And her own traumatic issues to deal with. And if it's all hella awkward because she's having to work alongside her husband's ex-wife, she'll see it done anyway. There's even the small possibility that she might eventually admit to Calliope the truth about her identity. That is if she can ever actually work up the courage to say it aloud.

Chapter 1

Nothing in This Closet but Boots and a Boy

Morpheus is wildly protective of his daughter.

That's probably bad for the boy in said daughter's closet.

AU's and Other Stuff in the Sandman 'Verse

Of Exes, Hellhounds, and Waffle Fries

Morpheus shows up to rescue the woman he probably loves (though he won't admit it) from hellhounds and ends up getting roped into helping with her family. This is one of those extras that doesn't fit into the main story, but it's fun, so I'm posting it.

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Original Fanart

I like to play around with different styles and to try new things with my artwork. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. I'm still learning, and I am so far from being a professional that it's laughable. But I only post things that I think look decent or that I think others might enjoy.

The Lover's Argument (Morpheus x oc)

Oneiros (Morpheus in Grecian garb)

Because I could not stop for Death, she kindly stopped for me... (Regency era Dream and Death)

#sandman fic #morpheus x oc #morpheus #morpheus x reader #morpheus fanfiction #sandman fanfiction #sandman oc #dream of the endless #dad!morpheus #dragons in the dreaming #preciousfragilethings #PFT #bbhap #fanart #fan art #alteon77 fan art

146 notes · View notes

exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 year

Text

The Silver Dragon (43/?)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character

Word Count: 18,112 (OOPS, but not really)

Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.

Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.

Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?

Chapter Summary: Aemond return to King's Landing. Arianwyn tells the Vale the truth.

Warnings: self-harm

Author's Note:

So sorry for the delay! After seeing some new BTS from episode 10, my brain sprang to life with some new things I could incorporate here. And my beta is on vacation, so if you saw any grammatical errors or spelling mistakes, please let me know so I can fix it!

We are now officially leaving show canon behind...

Series Masterlist

Taglist: @thelittleswanao3 @trap-house-homiecide @50svibes @literishdegree99 @dc-marvel-girl96 @henriettadreaming @multiple-fandoms-girl @gyuxmilk @somemydayy @kittykylax @whore-of-many-hot-men @slavicvvitch @crazymusicgirl104

(Please let me know if your tag isn't working, and I'll do my best to correct it! And if you would like to be added to the list, just shoot me an ask!)

Three Days, Part III

On the 25th day in the ninth month, 136 years after Aegon’s Conquest…

The moon was tauntingly full and bright, and the clouds had long since dispersed. There was nowhere to hide. Anyone who looked toward the sky could clearly see the monster flying above them.

The monster, and the dragon he rode.

“Skoros emagon ao gaomagon?” Aemond whispered, far too quietly for Vhagar to hear over the roaring wind lashing at them as they raced back to King’s Landing with a speed he had never seen. What have you done?

He did not know if he was asking her or himself.

He was not sure if he had actually said anything at all, or so much as moved his lips. His throat was painfully raw from shouting through the storm – he may not have been able to produce a sound even if he wanted to.

But he must have said something, for Vhagar responded with a proud twist of her head and a victorious roar.

Gods save him. There was still blood on her teeth.

The blood of that poor young dragon whose name Aemond did not know. And…

Luke’s blood.

The pain that had been steadily growing within Aemond’s skull suddenly burst forth like a mighty wave crashing through a dam.

Even the sapphire – Aria’s sapphire – felt like it had come alive and was trying to claw its way out of his skin.

The vision in his good eye went blurry, and it was only thanks to the dozens of straps and chains tying him to the saddle that Aemond did not fall off Vhagar’s back and plummet to his death on the peaks of the mountains below.

He wanted to cut the straps away, break the iron chains with his bare hands. Anything to get away from the beast he was shackled to in body and soul, even if it meant his death.

Would it be anything less than he deserved?

But the pain was too great for him to wrap his hand around the hilt of his dagger.

Each beat of his heart brought on a new pulse of pure agony. With each surge, his muscles tensed until he was sure they would snap.

The only thing he could manage was to cradle the burning scar.

His eyepatch was not there, though he did not remember removing it himself, nor it falling off in the wind.

It was just… gone.

When another wave washed over him – the pain more intense than when he was first given the wound – he pressed into his hands, desperately seeking relief.

But it did not come.

The sapphire was as cold as ice – colder than anything he had ever felt. So cold that it burned the skin of his palm.

Aemond shrieked at the pain.

Vhagar echoed the noise, nearly coming to a halt over a mountain peak. But she recovered faster than her rider and began to fly faster still – so fast Aemond could not believe it – towards King’s Landing.

Towards home – to Aria.

Aemond collapsed against the saddle, not caring when the leather and chains bit into his skin as he strained against them.

His next cry came not from pain, but realization.

It wasn’t his scar that was hurting him so deeply.

It was the sapphire.

The jewel – the purest expression of Aria’s love he ever possessed – was fighting against him.

Burning him.

Hurting him.

Rejecting him.

He was unworthy of such a gift. Unworthy of Aria’s love and the protection her Runes offered.

She was so good, so pure, so perfect.

He was a monster.

Worse, a kinslayer.

Wearing her gift was an affront to her, the old gods, and indeed all gods and men. He could not be allowed to possess it any longer. His very touch marred its goodness irreparably.

He pulled his hands away from his face just enough to curl his fingers into claws – the same claws Vhagar bore.

Skin broke on the first strike.

Then again.

And again.

Over and over until his hands, and the sapphire that now sat within them, were coated in hot red blood.

Aemond squeezed his eye shut, unable to bring himself to look as he opened his hands and let the sapphire fall.

Then he screamed anew.

And he did not stop.

Sleep, restful sleep, had eluded Arianwyn, leaving her bleary-eyed as she watched Emrys bristle in the garden below. Her poor dragon was quite upset that his first-ever adventure had been ruined by the arrival of Vermax – almost as upset as his rider was by the arrival of Jacaerys.

Had it not been for the arrival of her stepbrother, they would currently be preparing to leave, if they had not left already.

Instead, Arianwyn was tugging half-heartedly on the satin belt of her dressing gown, wishing it was the leather lacings of her cuirass – freshly replaced after Aemond ripped them only days ago.

Emrys –just as averse to early mornings as his beloved rider – was not stretching his wings in anticipation of their long flight, but folding them tightly over his head to block out Vermax’s unceasing chirrups.

As she loosed her robe and sat at the end of her bed, Arianwyn bowed her head in prayer. “May the Crone guide me this day, that I may speak with wisdom and grace. If it is the will of the gods, allow my petition to be successful. And if it is not…”

She opened her eyes and gazed out into the gardens, where Vermax was excitedly sniffing at a large rose bush. If she ignored who the little green creature was bonded to, she could almost let herself be amused by the sight.

But she couldn’t ignore it, nor how Emrys was slinking closer and closer to her window, examining its stone walls as if trying to figure out a way to slip inside. It would never work, of course. He was so large that he couldn’t even fit his whole snout through.

When he finally figured it out himself, he dejectedly rested the tip of his chin against the windowsill and whined softly.

Arianwyn rose from the bed with a sympathetic smile and stroked his nose. “Nyke gīmigon, byka ossȳngnon,” she cooed as he leaned into her touch. “Lo jaelā naejot jiōragon qrīdrughagon hen zirȳla, kostā jikagon sōvegon ondoso aōla. Vermax iksis byka, se daor olvie adere, kessa daor gaomagon bē.” I know, little dread. If you want to get away from him, you can go fly by yourself. Vermax is small, and not very fast, he will not keep up.

Emrys snorted solemnly in reply, sending a small burst of smoke into the bedroom. No, he would not leave her now. Never when she was so upset.

“Kirimvose, dōna mēre,” she said with a kiss to his warm scales. “Avy jorrāelan.” Thank you, sweet one. I love you.

She could almost swear that as Emrys grumbled, there was a voice speaking in the back of her head that sounded eerily like that grumbling. It told her it loved her too.

“Kostagon jān arlī naejot ñuha jorepnon sir?” she asked playfully. Can I go back to my prayer now?

Emrys blinked and, with some difficulty, removed his snout from the window. Vermax immediately noticed the movement and began to approach the older dragon.

Arianwyn laughed as Emrys slumped against the wall, wrapped his wings around his face again, and pretended to fall asleep.

“Sȳz biarves,” she called. Good luck.

She did not return to her prayer immediately, for she did not know what to say next. So instead, she took off her nightgown and began to dress for the day. Jeyne had offered to send a maid, but Arianwyn found she enjoyed managing alone for a few days. Besides, she did not want to have to explain to someone new how to deal with her mass of curls.

When Brynna told her she had packed five dresses for the journey, even though it was supposed to take only three days, she had thought her maid foolish and unreasonably over-prepared.

But now, she was grateful to have options to choose from. It made her feel like a knight selecting which weapon to carry into battle.

She had already worn two of the gowns, leaving her with three options:

First, there was a heavily structured dress of deep blue silk – Arryn blue. The shoulders bore embroidery reminiscent of wings, a nod to the sigil of her godsmother’s house. But to wear something so obvious would feel dishonest. Too much like begging.

Arianwyn was not an Arryn. She was a Royce – and a Targaryen. She would not pretend to be anything else.

She would not rely on her connections to the Vale or the throne to make her argument. If she was to win Jeyne’s allegiance, it would be her logic and the brutal honesty of her story that won it.

So, the black and bronze gown – the one she had worn her first day back to King’s Landing – was also rejected.

There was only one option left.

A surcoat and linen underdress, like the one she had worn during the little game she and Aemond played the day before they left.

But this was far simpler than that one. The coat was made of soft, undyed wool, with voluminous sleeves to protect her from the cold mountain wind.

Its only decoration was the embroidery along the edges – intricate depictions of the beautiful flowers that graced the fields of Runestone. Campion and marsh. Cornflower and primrose. Foxglove and snowdrops. And Arianwyn’s favorite – meadowsweet.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she felt perfect. Soft, but regal. Stately, yet not too imposing. She was every bit the Princess and Lady she now was, but she was still herself.

All that was missing was a ring on her finger and her husband on her arm.

Suddenly, she knew how to end her prayer.

“I know that I am on the right path, and my cause is just,” she whispered aloud, feeling that the words were too important to keep inside. “But the path you lay out for us is not always so clear. If I am to fail today, I ask only that I be allowed to return safely into my husband’s arms, that we may face whatever is to come together.”

The very earth trembled as Vhagar landed just outside the King’s Gate. She had flown so far and fast that, by the time she started her descent, she was too exhausted to land well.

The talons at the tips of her wings and her claws had caught the stones of the city wall as she tried to slow herself, sending broken shards of brick raining down on the gold cloaks standing guard at the gate. She had landed with such force that her back legs dug deep rivets into the ground below her.

It hadn’t helped that as soon as the city was in sight, Aemond took up the reins for the first time in hours to try and steer her directly toward the Red Keep.

“Skoriot issi ao jāre?” he had rasped when she pulled against his commands. His voice was practically nonexistent after hours of ceaseless screaming. “Gūrogon nyke lenton.” Where are you going? Take me home.

Vhagar ignored his commands. She knew there was nowhere she could land in the city itself that would not result in the injury or death of some innocent. After how he reacted to the righteous death of that little dragon and its rider – the same hateful boy who had maimed her Aemond on the night they claimed each other – who dared to threaten him, she would not put him in place to be hurt again.

In the years she had spent making him fierce, she had never thought him soft. None of her other riders had been so.

Thankfully, he was far too weak from the flight, his self-inflicted wounds, and whatever demons were roiling within his mind to fight against her in any meaningful way. Not that she would obey, even if he could. She would follow no order which might put him in danger.

“Kostilus,” he begged hoarsely as she turned toward the tourney grounds. “Nyke jorrāelagon naejot jikagon lenton. Nyke jorrāelagon naejot jikagon naejot zirȳla. Nyke jorrāelagon zirȳla.” Please. I need to go home. I need to go to her. I need her.

She let out a sympathetic growl but continued to descend on the great stretch of grassy fields outside the city, frightening the smallfolk for how close they came to their roofs.

Aemond was not surprised by her disobedience. He had begged her to stop when she began to pursue Luke on her own after that dragon – barely more than a hatchling – had loosed a weak burst of dragonfire on her. And she had disobeyed.

Of course, she had. Who was he to command the Queen of All Dragons?

Compared to the paragons of his house who had ridden her before him, Aemond was nothing.

He was not an almighty conqueror like Visenya.

He was not a brave and beloved Prince like his grandsire, Baelon.

He was certainly not like Laena, adored and admired by all.

No, he was only a wretched, monstrous, broken excuse for a prince – for a Targaryen.

He had never been worthy of any dragon, much less Vhagar.

Allowing him to claim her had been some cruel, cosmic joke. A way for the gods to amuse themselves by watching him fail so miserably. Or a punishment, perhaps. For the darkness that had always lived inside his damned soul.

Oh gods.

He was damned. As a murderer, a monster, a kinslayer.

All because of the dragon – the abomination created by his Valyrian ancestors with their infernal blood magics – that he had bound himself to.

He had to get away from her.

The moment she came to rest in the middle of the road leading out of the city, Aemond began frantically removing each of the restraints keeping him in the saddle. It took him longer than it should have, as his bloodstained hands still trembled. His chest was heaving painfully with each panicked breath, and without the chill of the wind to numb it, his empty clawed-open eye was starting to burn again.

When he was finally free, he scrambled down the rope ladder on Vhagar’s side quicker than ever before, despite the pain circling his legs. Somehow, on the flight back, he had pulled so hard against the leather straps and chains that they had dug into his skin. He had no doubt there were bruises, and knew it was more than likely that blood had been drawn.

But he didn’t care. He just wanted to get away, to run back to his rooms and into the awaiting arms of his wife.

He didn’t want to acknowledge Vhagar at all. But when he began toward the guards at the King’s Gate, each of whom was staring with wide eyes as the fact of who was limping toward them and covered in his own blood sunk in, she let out a low, pleading whine.

His exhaustion and devastation faded instantly, replaced with an enormous, unquenchable rage.

“Gaomā daor jiōragon naejot sagon zūgagon syt nyke!” Aemond shouted as he whirled on her, causing his left leg to buckle. He only just caught himself before falling into the upturned dirt. “Emā ojūdan bona paktot.” You do not get to be worried for me! You have lost that right.

Vhagar shied away from his anger, her orange eyes wide with bewilderment. How could her dear rider treat her like this after all she had done to protect him?

“Gaomagon ao sesīr gīmigon skoros emā sepār gaomagon?” he asked, ignoring the calls from the guards offering him aid. Do you know what you have just done?

The dragon only whined again – a feeble, wounded noise.

“Ao ossēntan zirȳla! Nyke mērī jeldan naejot sȳngagon zirȳla – hae ziry istin gōntan naejot nyke. Yn ao ossēntan zirȳla!” His voice cracked like a raging fire as he roared, his throat raw and aching. You killed him! I only wanted to frighten him – as he once did to me. But you killed him!

“Īles iā riña! Īles ñuha lentor, se ao ossēntan zirȳla!” he shrieked as pain began to well once more in his empty eye – the result of the salty tears pooling within and stinging the open wounds he had inflicted himself. He was a child! He was my family, and you killed him!

He almost collapsed as each one of his wounds began to throb as one. “Emā vēttan nyke iā letnor sēntys! Se syt bona iksan qrimbrōstan! Ñuha gīs kessa zālagon isse se trūmāje hen Sīkudi Nopāzmi ēva se mōris hen jēda… se kesan gūrogon ziry.” You have made me a kinslayer! And for that I am cursed! My soul will burn in the deepest of the Seven Hells until the end of time... and I will deserve it.

Vhagar dropped her chin to the ground and moaned, her best attempt at appearing innocent and coy. But Aemond could still smell the sharp tang of blood on her breath and see the faint traces of rusty brown embedded between the scales of her snout.

Another pang had Aemond stumbling into the dirt, the impact sending licks of fire up his injured legs. Several guards at the gate began to run for him, but reeled back when Vhagar, too, surged toward her rider.

“Daor!” Aemond ordered with the last of his remaining strength as he fought to try and stand. “Umbagon qrīdrughagon!” No! Stay away!

The massive dragon winced at the sheer fury contained in the command and began to slink away like a scolded pup. As she retreated, the guards once again began to cautiously approach the Prince.

“Eminna daorun tolī naejot gaomagon lēda ao,” Aemond spat with a fading voice between shaky breaths. “Jaelan ao naejot henujagon. Skoriot jā daoriot jemagon. Hēzīr, iksā daorun naejot nyke. I will have nothing more to do with you. I want you to leave. Where you go does not matter. From now on, you are nothing to me.

He did not look at Vhagar as he finally stood, turning to the three gold cloaks now surrounding him. They looked at him like they had happened upon an injured shadowcat – something at once pitiful and deadly.

“My Prince…” the eldest among them said sheepishly. “Are you alright?”

Aemond did not so much as glance at the man as he began stumbling toward the gate. He could feel his mind, which he had only just regained as he came back to solid ground, begin to slip away again. If he looked at the man’s simpering face, no doubt full of pity, he might very well lose it again.

“I need a horse,” he growled.

“Of course,” the guard said, running ahead of him to the guardpost. The other two fell into an awkward formation behind the Prince.

It took a humiliatingly long time for Aemond to actually arrive at the gate, by which time a horse was saddled and waiting. Mounting the damned thing when every muscle he had screamed in protest was one of the most challenging things he had ever done.

As he gripped the horse’s reins, Vhagar made another woeful noise – a last attempt to try and ply him.

With the sound, he felt the last remaining dregs of his consciousness begin to melt away. He had to return to the Keep quickly, before losing himself entirely. Indeed, it was already becoming hard to focus his vision on anything beyond his horse’s ears.

But he still held to his anger at his damned dragon.

“Lo nyke mirre ilagon laesi va ao aril…” he hissed, his lone violet eye bloodshot and filled with disdain. “Nyke dōrī jaelagon naejot ūndegon ao arlī. Mirre.” If I ever lay eyes on you again... I never want to see you again. Ever.

He did not wait for her reply before driving his heels into the horse and setting it galloping through the King’s Gate and into the bustling streets of King’s Landing.

Vhagar’s doleful wails were heard by all within the city’s walls, save for her rider. His mind had already begun to pull him away from reality. All he could hear was the pouring of rain, the cracking of thunder, and the horrible crunch of bones between Vhagar’s teeth.

If Arianwyn had thought hours of listening to the old men of the Vale debate over dams and crops and visitation schedules was miserable, having to stay still and silent and keep her face neutral as she listened to Jace speak on behalf of Rhaenyra was surely a punishment from the gods themselves.

It certainly didn’t help that he looked at her with that stupid smug smile whenever he thought he made a good point.

Perhaps she should have prayed more for the strength to endure her stepbrother rather than just for the success of her own petition.

Jace had begun with a rather monotonous history lesson detailing the Targaryen family line from Aenar to himself. But, of course, he had incorrectly listed the late Ser Laenor Velaryon as his father.

Arianwyn had let her impassive façade slip for a moment when a few disbelieving chuckles and jeers echoed through the hall at the assertion. But the ever-watchful Gerold had spotted her slight smile and quickly corrected her with a gentle pinch on her elbow.

To his credit, Jace had not let it deter him. Instead, he smoothly transitioned into detailing how and why Viserys had named Rhaenyra his heir. Then to a fumbling and faulty explanation of the Widow’s Law and how he thought it supported his mother’s claim.

Arianwyn listened closely, making a note of each inconsistency, vaguery, or inaccuracy – whether it be intentional or not. While the bulk of her argument would rely on the revelation of Daemon’s character and past crimes, she had to first counter whatever Jace said.

There was ever the possibility that some, perhaps many, would not believe what she had to say about her father. If they did, she would still need to say whatever she could to convince them.

“There is little more to say, my Lords,” Jace proclaimed. The self-righteous lilt in his voice grated on Arianwyn endlessly. “It is clear that by both law and my grandsire’s wishes, my mother Rhaenyra was always the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, whatever the would-be usurper may say.

“I never had the good fortune to meet my mother’s mother, Queen Aemma, but I have been raised on stories of her goodness. I am proud to bear her blood, her Arryn blood. Though I have been here not yet a day, I can feel the land here call to me, as I am sure it does to my mother as well.”

Arianwyn considered her restraint in not rolling her eyes at that to be nothing short of miraculous. She would have to commission a bard to write a song commemorating the feat.

Jace turned to Jeyne and gave a short, almost solemn nod. “Rhaenyra is not only your cousin and your Queen, my Lady, but your peer. Those who would try to usurp her throne do so for no reason other than that she is a woman, and for that, they consider her unworthy of her birthright.

“I ask only that you honor the oath you took some twenty years ago by acknowledging my mother as your Queen and pledging your support to her cause. With good fortune, this farce will not come to bloodshed. However, I cannot deny that having you declare your support for the Queen, with the might of your armies behind you, would do much to dissuade my usurper uncle from pursuing this any further.

“But I am willing to wait to receive your answer,” he said, turning once more to look at Arianwyn with a smile almost too genuine. “For my sweet sister has come to speak on my uncle’s behalf. I find myself quite curious as to why she has done so, seeing as she is, herself, a ruling Lady. Nevertheless, my affection for her is nearly as great as my respect for her intellect, so I will humbly stand aside and allow her to speak.”

Another subtle pinch from Gerold signaled Arianwyn to bow her head in thanks to her stepbrother and give him a grateful smile. Though she would never admit it, she was surprisingly touched by his praise, underhanded though it was.

“I commend you for your eloquent speech, Prince Jacaerys,” Jeyne said from the throne as the light smattering of applause, led by Lords Sunderland and Corbray, finally quieted. “It is true that I have found myself in a similar predicament to your mother. Thrice have mine own kin sought to replace me, and thrice they have failed. My cousin Ser Arnold is wont to say that women are too soft to rule. I have him in one of my sky cells, if you would like to ask him yourself, or simply meet another long-estranged cousin.”

The gathered crowd laughed with her at that – including Arianwyn, despite her nerves.

Jeyne’s held up a hand to quiet the room once more. “As Jacaerys says, there is another here to speak to us on this matter. While she is not my blood as Rhaenyra is, she is my family in both the eyes of the gods and in the affections of my own heart. For this, and for her place as the Lady of Runestone, I now invite her now to make her petition on behalf of her good brother, Aegon.”

The silence in the room was so heavy that as Arianwyn walked to the center of the hall to stand before the Weirwood thrones, she felt as though she was moving through sand. But she swallowed her fear and willed her racing heart to calm.

Otto Hightower would not have sent her here if he did not believe her capable of succeeding – nor would any member of the Small Council, even Aegon. She reassured herself that she had not only their support, distant as it was, but that of the law, the gods, and her husband. With all that behind her, how could she fail?

“Lords and Ladies of the Vale, it is an honor to speak to you today,” she began, pleasantly surprised at the strength of her voice. “I ask that you please be forgiving should I not be particularly eloquent. I have never addressed a court before nor had any real oratory experience, and I find myself quite nervous to do so now.”

She laughed slightly, expecting others to laugh with her, at least out of pity, but none did. So, she took a deep breath and continued. “I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting most of you personally, so I will begin by introducing myself. I am Lady Arianwyn Targaryen.”

“Princess, my dear,” Gerold reminded her with a grimace from where he stood by the base of the throne.

Arianwyn winced. This was precisely why she had prayed this morning. She did not possess a silver tongue. Indeed, at the moment, hers felt much more like lead.

“Yes, forgive me,” she stuttered. “I am still not used to that title yet. It was granted to me only seven days past – or eight, maybe? I actually do not know what day we were wed. It was around midnight. But I am not quite sure whether it was before or after.”

“Aria?” Gerold’s call was unsubtly covered with an obviously false cough. When she looked at him, he widened his eyes to let her know she had already begun to ramble.

She swallowed, taking a moment to straighten her skirts and gather her thoughts. “My apologies, again. I, um… I became a Princess only days ago when I was wed to Prince Aemond Targaryen. Naturally, as it comes from my husband, the title is quite dear to me. However, dearer to me is that which I inherited from my mother, who was well known and, I hope, well-loved by all of you: Rhea Royce, Lady of Runestone.

“That title was given to me on the day of my birth, as it was also the day my mother died,” she fell silent then as all those gathered in the Throne Room bowed their heads in remembrance. Much to her surprise, Jace joined them.

“I am here to speak on behalf of my good brother, King Aegon, Second of His Name,” she looked to Jace then, copying the smug smile he had already given her several times that day. Perhaps it was cruel of her, after he had just offered respects to her mother, but she could not help herself.

“Five days ago, Aegon was crowned by Lord Commander Criston Cole of the Kingsguard in accordance with the laws of the realm and his father’s dying wish. Of course, there are those who would point to the Queen being the only audience to the proclamation as proof that it is untrue. But I have heard the tale from the Queen herself, and I believe with absolutely no hesitation.” She could sense, more than see, the sour expression on Jace’s face at her words.

“It is no secret that King Viserys was long ill,” she continued. “As such, he was often confined to his bed and unable to govern the realm himself. In his absences, it was Queen Alicent who most often sat the Iron Throne in his place, where she proved herself to be wise, kind, and above all else, honorable.

“It would have been well within her right to dispute Rhaenyra’s position as heir from the moment Aegon was born, but she did not.” At least, not publicly, Arianwyn thought. She had overheard more than one conversation suggesting Alicent had brought it up to the King privately. “For years, she steadfastly supported the King’s attestation that Rhaenyra was his heir, despite its dubious legality. I can offer no better proof to the veracity of the King’s change of heart than that.”

A slight nod and a half-smile from Gerold indicated that she had made her point well.

“However, it must be understood that despite the King’s insistence in Rhaenyra’s place as heir for many years, despite whatever oaths he had the Lords of the Realm make, she did lose that position when Aegon was born.”

This was the part she was most nervous about.

“The ruling of the Great Council was clear: a male heir is preferable to a female. Even before the Council was called, this was well understood by law and men. It is why Princess Rhaenys was passed over in favor of my grandsire, Prince Baelon, following her father’s death. And it is why the Great Council voted so overwhelmingly in favor of Viserys’ claim.

“According to the very precedent that gave Viserys his throne, Rhaenyra stopped being the heir from the instant Aegon took his first breath,” she declared.

A murmur made its way through the crowd, and Arianwyn was gratified that most of them seemed to agree with her. However, seeing the dejected expressions on several Ladies’ faces pained her, knowing she had likely just affirmed their deepest insecurities and fears.

She avoided meeting their eyes and instead looked to Jace. “My stepbrother has brought up an interesting point in his interpretation of the Widow’s Law. He is correct that it prevents a man from disinheriting his children from a first wife in favor of the children born to a second wife, but I am afraid it is not actually applicable to the current dispute.

“The purpose of the Widow’s Law is to prevent rightful heirs from being cast aside in favor of their younger half-siblings. But a man’s eldest son, regardless of whether his mother was a first, second, or any other later wife, is the lawful heir before any daughters. Nothing can pass to the daughter so long as there is a son. Therefore, a younger son from a second wife inheriting instead of an elder daughter from a first wife is not a dispossession.”

Arianwyn paused to see Jace’s reaction. He stayed silent and watched her carefully and with more than a little contempt.

According to the plan she had made with Jeyne the day before, she should now tell the court of the dangerous precedent that would be set should Rhaenyra insist that Jace – a bastard – was her heir.

She shouldn’t feel bad about it. It was true, and everyone knew it – even him.

So, why was she now hesitating?

Perhaps it was because many of the Lords in the room were already nodding along as she spoke. If they already agreed with her, she would not have to bring it up. She would not have to hurt him, Luke, or sweet little Joffrey to win the day.

For a heartbeat, she thought she might not even have to speak of Daemon.

But as she examined the crowd to assess how many were already with her, she found there were still more than a few who looked doubtful. It was to win them over that she swallowed her fear and continued.

No, she had to this for more than just winning the Vale. She had to do this because it was, and always was, the right thing to do.

“Of course,” she said with a sweet, placid smile, “you are all wise and intelligent men, with far more political experience than my stepbrother or me. Everything I have said thus far is only a repetition of what I am confident you already know.”

Arianwyn bowed her head and took a deep, steadying breath. “There is one thing more I must tell you before I end my appeal. Something that you do not know. Something that, until now, you could not know. Something concerning my mother and my father.”

Anyone whose interest in the proceedings had waned was suddenly brought back to attention.

“I imagine you all know the story of my mother’s injuries that led to her unfortunate death,” Arianwyn said as she looked around, but none met her eyes. Of course, they did not want to be reminded of something so terrible. “Perhaps some of you even saw them. I must admit, I do not envy you if you did. The descriptions I have been given are enough to curdle my blood, so I will not repeat them here. But I will tell you the story of how she was wounded. For the truth of it is far different from what you have been told, I am afraid.

“That day, my mother set out by herself to hunt, as was her habit. Ser Gerold tells me that she savored the time she spent alone. How she was never happier than when she was in the hills and moorlands of Runestone. Words cannot describe how much it pains me that what happened to her – no, what was done to her – was done in the place she loved so well.”

Arianwyn took another pause to calm herself as a flurry of whisperers flew through the crowd at what she was suggesting with that one little word.

“You were told that her horse startled and fell upon her, leaving her paralyzed and injured. And that it was a miracle that my father happened to be flying nearby when he spotted her, rescued her, and brought her home. That she was so charmed by his heroism that she finally consummated the marriage and fell pregnant with me. I do admit, it is a good story. Like something that I would read in my books.” She laughed slightly – a light, blithe chuckle entirely out of place amongst her solemn words – though she did not know why.

“But that was a lie. My father did not save my mother. He killed her.”

Arianwyn tried to continue but stopped when the clamor rising amongst the crowd grew so loud that she could hardly hear her own voice. She looked frantically to Lady Arryn and Gerold for help, but neither seemed as concerned as she did – they did not seem concerned at all. Rather, they seemed more than happy to let the Lords and Ladies have their moment of panic.

It wasn’t until Arianwyn again looked to Jace that she understood why.

His face was twisted with shock and rage, all directed at Arianwyn. She had just accused the man he so admired of the vilest of crimes – kinslaying. The gravity of such an accusation was not lost on him.

Nor was it lost on the Lords and Ladies of the Vale. Those standing near Jace were now shuffling away, as if the crimes of his stepfather had tainted him as well.

Arianwyn did not pity him.

Why should she? For years, he had ignored Arianwyn’s fear of Daemon, even when it was abundantly obvious.

It was clear in how she blanched whenever her father would look at her. How she would avert her gaze and stand to the side when she encountered him within the castle. How she flinched every time he raised his voice or slammed a hand on the table at dinners.

What did Jace think happened when Daemon dismissed them all from dinner only days ago to speak to his daughter alone? Was he truly so blind he did not see her fear the next day? Had Daemon so thoroughly deluded him that he actually thought her bruises were the work of Aemond’s hands?

Even Jace could not be so stupid.

“Silence!” Jeyne called from her throne. But even she could not wholly calm the chaos that had erupted. “You will all be silent and let the Princess speak!”

Eventually, the room was silent again, as all assembled decided their desire to hear more outweighed their instinct to rage at the accusations.

“I confess I do not know his motivation,” Arianwyn said when she finally began again, “but my father came to the Vale that day to kill my mother. In his cruelty, he apparently decided he would rather her die slowly and in agony than kill her quickly. Raping her was just another insult. He never intended for his seed to find purchase or for me to be born. Indeed, he has made it quite clear to me that his only regret is that I did not die alongside my mother in the birthing bed.”

She went on until she had told them everything.

How Daemon never acknowledged her until Lady Laena’s funeral. The cruel words he had said to her then. How he had taken her to Dragonstone not out of fatherly duty but to punish her for fighting with his other daughters. The neglect she endured on the island and the threats he made against her there.

The details of how Jace and Baela had treated her, she left out. It would serve no purpose to share them. And besides, he knew as little of this story as the rest of them – that much was clear from the abject horror growing on his face with every passing moment.

But she did speak of Rhaenyra. How she ignored Arianwyn for years, even after she became her stepmother. What she had said in the garden at Dragonstone, revealing that she knew what Daemon had done while belittling it and calling it merely “regrettable.”

How the would-be Queen had only stood there when Daemon wrapped his hands around Arianwyn’s throat. How she said nothing when he called her a ‘whore’ and a ‘virgin cunt’ to be sold for his own advantage. How she had stared blankly when Daemon threatened to kill Arianwyn.

Just as she had in the Throne Room while Daemon spun his horrible little story about Aemond, trying to pass the blame for his own attempt on Arianwyn’s life to her new husband.

Rhaenyra had only stepped in when it became clear Daemon was coming dangerously close to exposing himself – and her.

Arianwyn fell silent then. She could have continued, released all her anger in one fiery burst, and shouted so loud the gods could hear that Rhaenyra was unfit to be Queen and that Daemon was an even worse choice for King.

But she did not.

Revealing the story to the world, at last, had exhausted her body and soul. Besides, there was nothing she could say that could possibly make her case more convincingly than the simple truth.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jeyne broke the silence. And with it, the spell of horrified shock that had enveloped the High Hall – perhaps the entire Eyrie.

“I will offer only one correction,” Jeyne said, her voice as raw as though she had been crying. Perhaps she had, and Arianwyn just had not noticed. “There was a miracle, dear Arianwyn. It was a miracle that Rhea survived long enough to deliver you.”

“Where’s Aria?” Aemond grunted as he slid off his borrowed horse once he was in the courtyard of the Red Keep.

Faintly, he could hear servants working, people chattering, and even the low bleats of sheep. But his ears were still echoing with the sounds of the storm.

He stumbled as he stepped away from the horse, cursing his mind for abandoning his body like this. Thankfully, someone was there to catch him.

“Aria?” he sighed in relief. That was Rune-etched bronze armor before his eyes, perhaps the most comforting sight in the world.

But the voice that came from his rescuer was deep and gruff.

Not Aria, then.

Aemond couldn’t make out what the voice was saying. It sounded as though it was coming from behind a thick wall of stone.

“Take me to Aria,” he commanded, pushing away from whichever of his wife’s guards had caught him.

He stumbled again as he climbed the steps into the Keep but caught himself before he fell. It would not do to let the servants and courtiers see him in such a state, to see him weak.

He was Prince Aemond Targaryen, son of King Viserys and brother to King Aegon II. He was a warrior. A scholar. The rider of the largest dragon –

Dammit.

The thought of Vhagar brought another bout of pain and nausea coursing through him. He dove into the first alcove he saw and doubled over, emptying what little was left in his stomach onto the stone floor.

An armor-clad hand came to rest hesitantly on his shoulder. “My Prince?”

Aemond shook it off, growling. This time, he caught a glimpse of brownish hair – the guard had removed his helmet. Still, he couldn’t tell who it was. His vision was too blurry.

“Do not touch me,” he moaned half-heartedly. Then, summoning all his strength, he stood once more.

Every step towards his apartments took the whole of his concentration – every remaining drop of his strength to hold whatever was left of his mind in place.

He likely would have failed had each beat of his heart not whispered to him: “Aria. Aria. Aria.”

All he needed was to reach her, collapse into her arms, and all would be well. She would make everything alright again. She could wake him from this nightmare and banish the darkness from his heart.

He just needed to get to her.

After what seemed like hours, he finally reached the dark wood door to their chambers.

The Runes he and Aria had carved into them years and years ago seemed to be lit from within, as worn as they had become over the years. Aemond ran a hand over them, and with each line, his resolve seemed to strengthen.

He was so close. She was right behind the door.

The metal of the door handle was cool, just like her touch – the touch that would soon soothe him.

But as the door creaked open, his heart sank, and his stomach roiled.

The hearth was empty. The fire unlit. The curtains drawn. The room dark.

Aria was not there.

“Where is she?” Aemond hissed as his weak, traitorous, broken body began to tremble and shake. “Where is my wife?”

He turned slightly to the guard that had followed him here – or guards? There appeared to be three of them now. Or perhaps his vision was multiplying.

“The Princess has not yet returned, my Prince.”

Aemond’s body went unnaturally still at those words, as his mind returned to him for only as long as it took for his world to shatter.

A small but not insignificant number of Lords had immediately made an impassioned plea – or, more accurately, demand – for Jeyne to declare war upon Rhaenyra and Daemon, not for their false claim to the Iron Throne, but for the rape and murder of Rhea Royce, and for the mistreatment of her daughter.

They had flocked to the base of the Weirwood throne shouting their demand the moment Jeyne finished speaking, forcing Arianwyn to retreat back to her place by Gerold’s side.

“Is this… good?” she whispered, staring wide-eyed at the display before her.

Gerold wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a hug. “I think this is perhaps the best outcome we could have hoped for, my dear.”

“So, you aren’t upset with me for telling them?”

He laughed as they watched one of the Lords surrounding Jeyne, a man who looked as old as time itself, start brandishing his cane like it was either a sword, a magic staff, or both.

“No, Aria,” he assured her. “I was quite nervous about what it would prompt Daemon to do, but I cannot deny its effectiveness. And if he does seek reprisals against you, I think all we must do is send Lord Upcliff to defend you. Gods, I thought he could hardly walk any more – just look at him!”

Indeed, the once doddering old man looked as though he was ready to lead the Knights of the Vale into battle himself.

As amused as Arianwyn and Gerold were, Jeyne’s smile at the reaction from her men had long since faded.

“My Lords!” she shouted again as her guards tried to pull the men away from the throne. “There will be no war today! So please – calm down!”

While the guards continued dispersing the irate Lords of the Vale, Arianwyn let her eyes drift across the High Hall to Jace.

He had said nothing since she revealed the truth. He had not even moved. His eyes were wide with shock and horror, his mouth hanging slightly open, and his brow furrowed. When he met her gaze, his expression hardened into one of anger.

Not at Arianwyn, as it had always been, but for her.

She could not bear the weight of that look, yet she could not turn away from it.

“Prince Jacaerys,” Jeyne called, breaking him away from his ceaseless staring. “You are the only representative present from Dragonstone. In the interest of justice, I here offer you the opportunity to defend your stepfather against the accusations levied against him. Have you anything to say to the court?”

Jace’s mouth opened and closed, words forming and then dying on his lips. Finally, after a moment of fruitless scrambling for something to say, he glanced back to Arianwyn, and his face crumpled.

“Nothing, my Lady,” he whispered as he looked down to his feet, weakly shaking his head.

“Then I think we can forgo any further debate or discussion,” Jeyne declared. “As well as the lengthy process of a formal vote on this matter. I feel that we have heard more than sufficient evidence to know what we must now do without a doubt.”

Jeyne pursed her lips before looking back to the Lords suspiciously. “But, of course, I have the utmost respect for our laws and traditions. So, I will tell you what I propose we do. And should any of you wish to disagree with me, I will allow you to explain why before I ignore you and do what I believe is right anyway.”

Arianwyn almost laughed aloud while Jessamyn sighed and rolled her eyes. But no one else acknowledged the humor, so they both remained silent.

“It is my intention to declare my support for Aegon Targaryen as King,” Jeyne proclaimed, her voice once more that of the Lady of the Vale. “While I have always believed that in this world of men, women must band together, I cannot reconcile myself with Princess Rhaenyra’s abysmally poor choice of consort.

“Even if the law were on her side, and the Iron Throne was hers by right, it is my belief that her willful association with Daemon Targaryen renders her unfit to rule. It is most unseemly for a woman to stand by a man who has mistreated women – women I love – as severely as Daemon Targaryen has. I cannot forgive her complicity in his crimes. That is in the hands of the gods, though I have my doubts that even the Father himself would pardon such sins.”

With a deep, steadying breath, Jeyne braced her hands on the arms of her throne and looked imperiously over the men she ruled. “Is there any who would oppose this decision?”

Lord Sunderland began to speak but swiftly changed his mind. Then, though it obviously pained him, he bowed his head in acquiescence.

“Then it is decided,” Jeyne proclaimed with a wide grin. “The Vale and all its people hereby recognize Aegon, Second of His Name, as the rightful heir to his father, King Viserys, and as the one true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

She paused to allow applause – louder than it had been for Jace’s petition – to again sweep through the room as her steward led chants of ‘Aegon the King.’

But she did not move to dismiss the court. Instead, she turned to her godsdaughter. “Princess Arianwyn?” she called, only continuing when the girl was again standing before her. “You have presented yourself well today. You should be proud.”

Indeed, Arianwyn was filled with such pride and relief that she felt her chest would burst for it. But she tried to remain humble as she bowed her head. “Thank you, godsmother.”

“You are very welcome, my dear,” Jeyne cooed fondly before slipping back into her more regal demeanor. “But your mission is only half-accomplished, is it not?”

“Yes, my Lady,” Arianwyn said quickly. “The King has asked that I negotiate for the support of your troops, should they be needed to defend his crown.”

“I do not think ‘negotiation’ is necessary,” Jeyne laughed. “I have only two requests of our new King, and I do not imagine he will object much to either. Will you hear them?”

“Of course, my Lady.”

“First, I ask that he use every tool at the Crown’s disposal to bring Daemon Targaryen to justice and ensure that he is punished in accordance with the severity of his crimes.”

Arianwyn nodded eagerly, too overwhelmed by the ferocity with which Jeyne spoke – a ferocity which suggested she would tear Daemon apart herself if given the chance – to say anything.

“My second request may be somewhat more difficult, I am afraid. Should war break out, it will be fought with dragons. Now, I have no fear of armies. Many and more have broken themselves against my Bloody Gate, and the Eyrie is known to be impregnable. But you,” she nodded to Jacaerys as well, “the both of you, have descended on us from the sky, as Queen Visenya once did during the Conquest, and I was powerless to halt you.

“The decisions I have made today, and truths that were revealed in my keep, will no doubt reach Daemon’s ears. Should he come seeking retribution, I must not be powerless to defend myself and my people. Send me dragonriders.” There was a flicker of genuine fear in Jeyne’s dark eyes as she spoke. Fear that her people would suffer the consequences of her actions – however righteous they were.

Arianwyn understood that fear. It was the same that had kept her and Emrys from escaping Dragonstone for all those years.

“I will do what I can, my Lady,” she said, hoping it would be enough. “I have little involvement in matters of war, but should it be necessary, Emrys and I shall come and defend the Eyrie ourselves.”

“Nothing would make me feel safer,” Jeyne agreed. Then, with a dramatic sweeping of her skirts as she stood, she descended her throne to take Arianwyn’s arm and begin leading her from the High Hall. “Speaking of your delightful dragon, I believe you are past due to fly home to your equally delightful husband...”

“Where is she?” Aemond demanded. His body had begun to shake again, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Only one thing mattered.

Arianwyn.

He felt the uncomfortable sensation of hot, salty tears pooling in his empty eye.

Oh gods. The sapphire was gone, as was the patch.

How many people had seen his true, monstrous self?

Aemond’s feet began carrying him to the bedchamber before he heard the guards reply – if they had replied at all. He pushed open the door so hard the wood cracked, but he did not stop.

Not until he reached the mirror.

The one he had set into the eastern wall. So that he could see his sapphire every morning and think of Aria. So he could see himself as she would – as she did – as the man, not the monster.

There was nothing left of the man in his reflection now.

His skin and hair were stained with his own blood, only interrupted by the clean tracks left by his tears.

His one eye was wide, wet, and bloodshot – the eye of a cornered, feral beast, not a civilized man or Prince.

His lips were so dry they had begun to crack and bleed, and the remnants of his sick were still at the corners of his mouth.

The wounds he had inflicted on himself were savage and deep. They would likely scar, but he did not care.

Aemond recognized the monster reflected back at him.

It was him, as he truly was, behind all his masks and lies.

“Where is she?” he asked, though he did not know whether the guards had followed him. “Why isn’t she here? I need her.”

He needed her so badly.

He would die if he did not find her.

He would die and go to the deepest hell, where he belonged.

He would never see her again.

She was good. Her soul was pure – she would not be sent to the hells.

While he suffered for eternity, she would live in bliss alongside the gods.

She would forget him, the broken man she had felt enough pity for to shackle herself to him in life.

Aemond hoped she would forget him quickly. He did not want her to suffer on his behalf.

He did not want to shadow her beautiful soul with the darkness that lived in him.

He screamed, the harrowing sound coming from the very depths of his broken soul, as he threw his fist into the mirror with all his might.

It shattered into a million tiny shards of pure silver, exploding throughout the room.

Each new cut on his face and each sliver of glass embedded into his hand at once anchored Aemond to reality and pulled him further into his distant, dark soul.

Suddenly, a hand brushed his shoulder.

He was so entirely consumed by the monster staring back at him that, even through the mirror, he had not noticed anyone approaching.

His training kicked in, and he moved on instinct.

He shoved the hand on his shoulder away as he turned, reaching for his assailant. Finding another arm, thin and fragile, he seized it with all his strength and twisted, twisted, twisted. Until he heard them scream in pain.

But he knew that scream.

Kirin.

At once, Aemond’s mind came racing back, and he was what was before him – what he was doing.

His hand was wrapped around Kirin’s arm – his bad arm – bending and pulling it past its natural limits. His manservant’s face was distorted in pain as he screamed, but his blue eyes were filled only with concern for his master.

Aemond pulled away the moment the guards burst into the room. Ser Conin and Ser Christor grabbed Kirin as he fell, immediately rushing him out of the apartments. To the Maesters, no doubt.

Ser Warren remained behind, his dark gaze fixed on the Prince, assessing him as a threat. But then, the old man saw the wounds on his face, the tear tracks through the blood, and the fear in his eye.

“My Prince,” Warren said, his voice soft and careful, as though he were trying to soothe a rabid dog. “Princess Arianwyn has not returned. She is expected tonight. Is there someone else I can summon to… help you?”

Aemond took a step back into the broken shards of the mirror, wishing that one of them would break through the leather of the boot and cut him. He needed more pain, worse pain, anything to anchor him to reality until Arianwyn was back.

“Get out,” Aemond whispered, his voice too broken to shout again, as he wanted to. “Get out. Leave me alone. If anyone other than Aria comes in here … I will kill them.”

Not a threat, exactly, but the expression of genuine fear. If he could hurt Kirin – his trusted servant and friend – he was capable of hurting anyone.

Except Arianwyn. Never her.

Ser Warren nodded and left quickly, muttering something about stationing guards at the door.

Aemond staggered through the rooms to the door, falling against it and ensuring the lock was turned. Only Arianwyn held the key to unlock it – only she could free him from this cage.

Or perhaps she would leave him in here. It would be safer to keep the monster contained, where it could hurt no one.

But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t even see him as a monster.

For once, the thought brought him more pain than comfort.

He didn’t want to be anchored to reality, he wanted to escape it.

He stumbled across the room once more. Not to the bedchamber, but to the cabinet he knew had been recently stocked with Arianwyn’s favorite wines. Flavored with fruit and flowers, their taste was as delicate as the woman who loved them.

His body was so out of his control that he ripped the door off the cabinet rather than opening it. It didn’t matter. He had what he needed.

He had always hated that loss of self and control. It was why he had always avoided wine for so long. And it was precisely why he needed it now – to hasten his mind’s retreat and keep him far away from reality until Arianwyn was here again.

Aemond grabbed the first bottle he could reach, ripped out the cork, and began to drink.

Jeyne, Gerold, and Jessamyn were the only ones to accompany Arianwyn to the gardens to say goodbye. Emrys, who had fallen asleep too quickly the night of their arrival to greet anyone, was thrilled to see Gerold again, and even more so to meet his rider’s godmother and her companion.

While Gerold was already acquainted with the dragon and knew how to approach him, Jeyne and Jessamyn wore twin expressions of equal delight and terror as they strode toward the great beast. Thankfully, Emrys was one of the friendlier dragons in Westeros, especially when the new people he met approached hand-in-hand with his rider.

Still, Jessamyn’s knees buckled when she first touched his smooth black scales, requiring Jeyne to catch her before she fell. Emrys immediately swiveled his head to check on her, prompting an outpouring of laughter from everyone.

Laughter that ended the moment Arianwyn spotted Jacaerys enter the gardens, lock eyes with her, and begin to walk her way.

“I’m leaving,” she hissed to Gerold as she started to climb into the saddle. “Right now.”

“Arianwyn,” Gerold scolded, grabbing the back of her armor to halt her. Even when he had not been training for many months, he was still much stronger than her, allowing him to hold her still despite her protestations and wriggling. “If he wants to say goodbye, you should let him. He is your cousin and stepbrother. And you all but humiliated him today. You owe him this.”

Looking to Jeyne and Jessamyn for support was useless, as they both muttered their agreement with Gerold.

“Please?” she begged pathetically as Gerold hoisted her from the stirrups and set her gently but firmly back on the ground, making her feel like she was no more than a ragdoll.

Again, it was to no avail. Jeyne stepped forward to tuck away a few strands of hair that had already come loose from Arianwyn’s braid as she whispered, “You have proved yourself a skilled diplomat today. Consider this but one final test, yes?”

“Will you stay with me?” Arianwyn asked, leaning into her godsmother’s touch.

Jeyne sighed and kissed her godsdaughter’s forehead. “No, my dear. I think you need to do this alone. There is more between the two of you than what happened today. If war is coming, you should make peace while you can.”

Arianwyn could not quite see the logic of making peace in preparation for war, but reluctantly agreed. Not wanting to show weakness, she held back her tears while she said goodbye to her cousin, godsmother, and whatever one calls their godsmother’s secret lover.

Then they left, passing Jace on their way back into the Eyrie. Jeyne and Jessamyn only politely dipped their heads to the Prince as they walked by, while Gerold stopped and grabbed his arm to whisper something to him before moving on.

Emrys growled as he approached, angling his head and wings to hide Arianwyn as best he could. At least he supported her.

“I want to talk to you,” Jace pled after several minutes of trying and failing to outmaneuver the dragon.

“And why should you ever want that?” she hissed, her voice muffled through the membrane of Emrys’ wing.

“I think after what you just said in there,” he huffed, “I deserve some answers.”

“Mmm,” Arianwyn hummed, fastening her bag to Emrys’ saddle a little too tightly. The dragon grunted, though he directed his frustration not at his rider but at the bastard Prince that was upsetting her. “I didn’t think I left any room for questions.”

Jace groaned in frustration. “Aria…”

“Do not call me that!” she shouted, abandoning her preparations for departure and bursting from beneath Emrys’ wing to round on her stepbrother. When she reached him, she shoved him as hard as he could. “You do not get to call me that!”

He stumbled back but did not move to retaliate. Instead, he held out his arms to try and dissuade her from attacking again. And to placate Emrys, who was viciously baring his teeth.

Arianwyn was disappointed. For a moment, she thought she might get to use the dagger Aemond gave her, now strapped to the belt of her riding leathers. She did have a better record with live targets, after all. But whatever her desires, she would not attack unprovoked.

She rolled her eyes as she stepped back to Emrys. “You may speak until I am ready to depart. I would be quick about it if I were you – I am anxious to return home.”

Jace scoffed as he took a cautious step forward, “To your one-eyed beast of a husband?”

That was provocation enough for Arianwyn.

She drew her dagger and whirled around. Rather than try and bring the blade to his throat, she grabbed his collar and pulled him to the blade. It worked much better than the lunging attacks Aemond had forced her to practice. She did not press hard enough to cut, only to apply enough pressure for him to think twice before talking again.

“My ‘one-eyed beast of a husband’ taught me how to use this,” she spat. Only partly true – he had taught her how to hold it. They had not had much success past that. But she understood the concept of the dagger well enough. She did not need much training to know which end would cut. “Would you like me to show you, bastard?”

At the pain that went through his dark eyes at the word, she almost regretted the insult. She had never used it before – she always thought she was in no place to judge someone on their parentage.

But she would not endure insults to Aemond. Especially not from Jace.

He and his brother were the cause of so much of Aemond’s pain. What was a single cruel and undeniably true word against what they had done to him? To what he had said to her on Driftmark over the past six years?

She could not decipher the expression on his face as he pulled as far away from her blade as he could. His eyes were sorrowful, but his mouth was curled in a sneer. “Do you really hate me that much?”

Arianwyn was taken aback, so much so that she released his collar and let him stumble away from her dagger. “What?”

He looked to be almost on the verge of tears as he looked at her beseechingly. “Do you hate me, Arianwyn?”

She expected him to accuse her of lying about her father and his mother. To demand she recant all that she had said. Or even to try and stop her from leaving.

But, true to form, he had asked her another stupid question.

“You spent our entire childhood making Aemond miserable,” she said, her voice thick with anger and confusion. He moved to refute or argue with her, but she raised her blade again to stop him. “He never did anything to you, yet you took every opportunity to torment him – whether Aegon was there or not. It was you who brought the knife to that fight!”

Jace looked away from her, lips thin with anger. But he said nothing as she continued her tirade.

“You had to know it was him.” she dropped the hand holding the dagger to her side as tears welled in her eyes. “When you came to the tunnel. Rhaena was with you, so who else could it have been?”

She began to laugh as her tears fell, and she waved her hand, in which the dagger was now only loosely gripped, as she spoke. “You saw Vhagar and knew it was Aemond. And you were not as desperate or ill-educated as Rhaena. You knew that he had not ‘stolen’ her,” she spat, the word that had long caused her animosity with her youngest half-sister disgusting her still. “You knew it was his birthright to claim a dragon.”

Arianwyn had never intended to say so much to him, having responded to his taunts with as few words as possible for so long. But he had somehow unearthed a rage buried deep within her, feelings toward him that she had not known were there.

“It had been his birthright to have an egg to warm his cradle – as you and I both did – but he was denied that, as he was denied so much by his father,” she laughed again. “But what would you know about that? Viserys always loved you and your brothers so well. And you have been blessed with an excess of fathers: Laenor Velaryon, Harwin Strong, and now Daemon.”

Her laughter faded, and her bitter smile fell. “It’s disgusting, you know. How you follow Daemon around like a dog, begging for his attention and praise. What is it you expect from him? You don’t really think he’ll let you inherit anything, do you? He has two trueborn sons with Rhaenyra. Not even you can be so foolish as to think he’d let a bastard take the throne before them.”

She took a heaving breath, fully intending to continue her tirade, but then Jace moved. He snatched the dagger out of her hand, sending it clattering across the flagstones and into the bushes. When her silver gaze finally left him to stare at it in disbelief, he grabbed her but the shoulders.

“Arianwyn,” he gritted through clenched teeth, “I just want to know – ”

“Why did you bring that knife?” she screamed with all the breath in her lungs, then fell silent.

She had not known it, but that question had burned in her mind for more than six years. It had fueled every frustration she ever held for him. It was the reason his every word grated on her – why she had always bristled under his gaze.

Luke’s hand had stolen Aemond’s eye, but Jace’s knife made the cut.

Jace did not answer, though he did let go of her. As she glared at him, he could not meet her eye.

“What did you plan to do to him?” She asked, as still as the stone of the mountains surrounding them. “If I hadn’t been there, what would you have done?”

“Nothing,” he sighed, his lip curled in a scowl. “I just… I wanted to scare him.”

“Why?”

“Because I did not like him.”

“He had never done anything to you, or anyone,” Arianwyn said, still not understanding. “He is your uncle – he wanted to be your friend. At Laena’s funeral, he tried to tell you he was sorry about Ser Harwin’s death. Why did you dislike him so?”

Jace released his grip and turned his back on her, so all she could see was his dark hair blowing in the breeze as he looked at the statue of Alyssa Arryn, only steps away.

“He had you.”

Arianwyn had never felt so lost. Her mouth hung open as she stared at him, desperate for him to say just one thing that made sense. “He ‘had’ me? What does that even mean?”

“You were always with him!” he shouted as he whirled around to her again, though he never met her eyes. “At meals and parties, in your lessons, in the library. Seven hells, you even came to watch him train even though you hate fighting!”

“He was – and is – my best friend. I was always with him because I liked being with him,” she countered, brow furrowing tighter. “Just like you were always with Luke and Aegon.”

“It’s not the same thing,” Jace said, laughing darkly and shaking his head.

Arianwyn scoffed, “I don’t even know what the ‘thing’ is!”

“It – ” the muscles in his jaw were so tight they seemed about to snap. “It was… frustrating to me. That I could never talk to you without him being there.”

“Still, it never seemed to stop you,” she said, crossing her arms. “Or Aegon.”

He had the courtesy to look mildly regretful. “That wasn’t talking.”

“No, it was ridicule.”

“And it wasn’t you that we were – ”

“It might as well have been.”

“Can you please just – ”

“What do you want from me, Jace?”

“I’m trying to tell you that I love you, dammit!” he roared.

Arianwyn felt as though she had woken suddenly from a nightmare. She stumbled back until she hit Emrys’ scales, then slid down until she was slumped against him with her head in her hands. “Tell me this is just another of your stupid jokes, or I am going to vomit.”

Jace grimaced and kicked the tip of his boot against the side of a loose flagstone. “I’m sorry.”

While she didn’t vomit, Arianwyn let out a miserable, guttural groan that sounded quite close to vomiting. “How can you love me if you don’t even like me?”

“I do like you,” he answered, still not daring to approach her or her angry dragon. “I’ve always liked you.”

Arianwyn finally raised her head, leaning against Emrys’ hot scales as she looked up at her stepbrother. “You don’t treat people you like the way you’ve treated me. You’re cruel to me.”

“No,” he sighed, stepping toward her just enough to earn a warning growl from Emrys. “It’s not cruelty, I promise. It’s jokes, teasing – that’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“But we aren’t friends, Jace,” she countered, hating herself for feeling badly when he looked hurt by her words. “We never have been.”

“Why not?”

“Because you aren’t nice to me!”

“You wouldn’t talk to me if I was nice to you!”

“How do you know? Did you ever try?”

Jace opened his mouth, but what came out was more of a quiet squawk than an actual word. Arianwyn could do nothing but look at him in bewilderment as he recalled their every interaction. His face scrunched like he was trying to solve some great mystery.

“You didn’t,” she answered for him, lacking the patience to let him figure it out for himself. “Even once I was on Dragonstone, where Aemond couldn’t ‘have’ me, you were never nice to me. None of you were, except Rhaena. She’s the only one who ever apologized to me for what you did on Driftmark.”

He stared blankly at where Emrys had wrapped the tip of his tail around Arianwyn. A gentle touch of comfort, protection, and possessiveness from a beast capable of such awesome death and destruction.

She closed her eyes and let herself imagine that the touch was not Emrys but Aemond. That it was his warmth she was feeling. But if Aemond were here, if he heard what Jace was saying to her…

Perhaps it was a good thing her husband was so far away.

“So, you do hate me,” Jace whispered as the revelation finally came to him, “and… I deserve it.”

Arianwyn rolled her eyes, prepared to say something cutting, but then she saw the devastation and self-loathing on his face. She swallowed the retort, along with the slight pang of guilt in her chest. “Well, maybe not ‘hate,’ exactly. Just… very, very strong dislike.”

“That is the definition of hate,” he replied with a sad laugh.

“I’m sorry,” Arianwyn said, and despite herself, she meant it.

He shook his head, shoulders drooping. “No, don’t do that. I should be the one to apologize to you. For how I’ve treated you, for the things I’ve said, and for… everything with Aemond.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. It was not forgiveness, for that would require more than a simple apology. All she would – could – give him was acknowledgment. That she had heard his words, that she understood him. That, perhaps, forgiveness was possible.

Sensing the tension disappear, Emrys rose from his protective crouch and flexed his wings. He stretched a bit, testing the weight of all the saddlebags – and the sword, Lamentation, carefully attached to the side of Arianwyn’s seat. There had been a place for a weapon built into his saddle, but it had never been used until now.

“I think he’s ready to leave,” Jace sighed.

Arianwyn stood and looked back to her mount. He certainly was. She could tell by how he leaned down on one side – his way of asking her to climb on. She smiled, stroking his side before gripping the first handhold of the saddle.

“Can I…” Jace started, making her stop her ascent for a moment. “Can I ask you one more question before you go?”

Emrys bristled at the further delay but did not make any other attempts to intimidate the boy. Arianwyn didn’t respond until she was settled in the saddle with the leather straps around her thighs fastened. “You may.”

Jace looked up at her, brown eyes pleading and shoulders squared. Arianwyn knew that whatever he was about to ask, the answer was monumentally important to him.

“If things had been different,” he began, never breaking his gaze from hers for more than a blink, “if I had been different – been better… could you ever have loved me? Chosen me, instead of him?”

Arianwyn froze. He had just given her the power to break his heart.

She knew she should think about her answer, should try and imagine a world where Jace had been kind and sweet. One where it may have been him to spend those long days in the library with her. Or one where, once they were on Dragonstone, he changed to her and became the Prince to rescue her from her tower.

But none of those imaginings could even begin to form in her mind.

For each time, her mind instead conjured an image of a story she’d so often been told. Two white-haired babes – one swaddled in green, one in bronze – meeting for the first time. Smiles breaking across their still-pink, chubby cheeks as they reached toward each other with clumsy arms.

They had never stopped reaching for each other. And they never would.

“No,” she said. She knew it was the answer he was dreading, but no matter what he had done, he deserved the truth. And this was a truth etched into her heart, her soul. “It was always Aemond.”

Though his eyes began to water, Jace smiled tightly as he nodded. “I am very happy for you, that you are so happy. And… I will try to be happy for him as well.”

Arianwyn knew that ‘try’ was the most important word in that sentiment, but she smiled back anyway as she grasped Emrys’ reins. “Thank you, Jace. I will pray that you and Baela can find the same happiness in your own union.”

She meant it. When the betrothal was announced, she saw how excited Baela was. How her half-sister had looked so deeply in love the night of the dinner. If Jace would allow himself to, they could find genuine love together.

He pursed his lips in a way that usually meant he was about to make some snide comment, but he bit it back with a twitch of his head. Then, he stepped away from Arianwyn and Emrys, giving the dragon ample space to take flight.

“The next time we see each other,” Jace called, his voice sodden with regret. “We may very well be true enemies. It will be my duty to hurt you. Or kidnap you. Or...”

“I think it is more than likely, I’m afraid,” she agreed.

Jace was silent for a moment, looking down at his shuffling feet. “Aria?”

Though she still bristled at hearing him call her that, she did not comment on it. “Yes, Jace?”

He took a deep breath and looked directly into her eyes. “Promise me that whatever happens, you will stay far, far away from Daemon.”

So, he did believe her story.

To her surprise, she felt no instinct to gloat. On the contrary, she was touched by how worried he was about her.

“Don’t worry,” she said in consolation, allowing herself a slight grin. After all, she was most comfortable around Jace when she was teasing him. But now, her tone was far more playful than spiteful. “I was planning on doing that anyway.”

Then Emrys took to the sky, hollering in delight that he was finally going home –where Arianwyn knew her husband would be waiting for her.

Aemond waited.

And waited.

Still, Arianwyn did not come.

How long had he been sitting on their bedroom floor amongst the shards of shattered glass, just waiting?

Minutes?

Hours?

Days?

Years?

An eternity?

He blinked slowly, his eye dry and heavy. And far too blurry to see where he had put his bottle.

So, he reached out blindly, discarding the empty bottles he found and savoring the clattering sound they made as they rolled across the floor. The pain it caused his aching head reminded him that he was alive and served as the beginning of the punishment he deserved.

Finally, he found a half-full bottle and brought it to his lips. Then, after another long gulp, he rested it against his heaving chest.

Night had fallen – or fallen again, if he had indeed been here more than a day. Moonlight shone through the window, reflecting off the pieces of mirror sprawled on the floor as it had once reflected off his sapphire.

But Aemond did not look at the moonlight. He could not appreciate its strange beauty.

He could only stare at the impenetrable darkness in the corner of the room.

It seemed to have emerged from within his broken soul.

And from within, staring at him like a wolf in the night, was the horrible, simple truth that he felt infinitely more guilt for hurting Kirin than he did for killing Luke.

It was that truth that made him a monster.

“Aria…” he whispered, his voice hardly more than a breath. Even as he drank, he did not dare look away from the darkness as he called out for his wife.

And he did not stop.

Next Chapter

101 notes · View notes