#but otherwise she’s a monster girl in spirit

[deadwooddross]

I don’t know that I’ve ever actually posted these anywhere…have some tonsilbeasts!

Their bodies are fairly malleable and can shift around a lot, but usually they’re aquatic entities in a big icy ocean.

This is also what Umami is, she just came out bizarrely human shaped and not very shifty. That happens sometimes, you leave those ones with the locals.

She has their eyes tho! Kinda!

[2sgf]

Solstice ☀️ Sol ☀️ Sunny

he/him ⭐ they/them ��� she/her

28 years old ; tme two-spirit first nations wo/man

@mermen is my moonlight 🌙

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★ disabled, neurodivergent polyfrag system

☆ remade on july 18th 2024

art blog: @solsunbeam

more about under the cut! ^^ not necessary to read

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☼ alters may or might not tag their posts as [alter name].txt feel free to refer to them as their name! but we all respond to the collective name as well <3

☀ my final message...... peas and lov on planet erth....... goodnight

[byhimawari]

“Home”

(a RivaMika drabble)

“Make a wish, papa!”

Extended out to him is a little hand holding out a dandelion, the pappus fully bloomed into its puffball nature, loose bristles floating away in the soft spring breeze, a beautiful and carefree sight, just like the bundle of joy that holds it.

She smiles her mother’s smile, an excited glimmer in her eyes that compliments the rosiness of her cheeks, warm and damp from all her frolicking in the vast green fields before them. The young girl tip toes between her father’s legs trying to bring the flower closer to his lips, urging him as she pouts.

“Papa, hurry before the wind blows it away!”

Levi chuckles softly and leans forward to blow gently on the dandelion, the wisps dancing in the air and eliciting chime-like giggles from his daughter’s lips.

“What did you wish for?” She asks excitedly, her curious eyes glistening with so much wonder.

“I can’t tell you, princess,” he wipes some dirt and sweat off her face with his handkerchief, “Otherwise, it won’t come true.”

A long whine escapes her, “Aww, I promise I won’t tell anyone —!”

“Mama, for you!” calls another sweet voice belonging to that of a young boy who comes running back to them from the fields.

Hugging and puffing with a proud and contagious grin on his face arrives the boy, handing his mother a bundle of flowers he had picked from the field himself; excitedly so it appears, as the roots are still intact. Mikasa smiles warmly, stroking his cheek tenderly as she affects his gift.

“It’s beautiful, my love,” she says, her voice soothing and kind, “Thank you so much.”

“I want to get flower for mama, too!” exclaims their pouty daughter in envy.

“Both of you go and gather some more flowers for your mother, then. Let’s see who can get her the most.”

There’s a hint of mischief in Levi’s tone, as he knows just how they will react because, well, they’re his children after all, and if there’s something that they both inherited from him and his wife, it’s their competitive spirit.

“Okay!” Both children chirp before racing off, fusses of who is faster fading into the distance.

Mikasa lets out an exasperated sigh, nudging her husband playfully, “Must you always instigate them?”

“I’m merely giving them more creative ways to bond as siblings,” Levi replies cooly, though with a smug grin pulling at the corner of his lips, “You can’t fault me for that.”

Mikasa could only laugh quietly in defeat, “No, I suppose I can’t.”

“Plus, you deserve more flowers than that,” Levi face softens as he turns to her with that reserved smile of his, taking and stroking her hand comfortingly with his thumb in the pattern she likes, “You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

The glisten in Mikasa’s eyes as she smiles back with a grateful gaze is a reply worth a thousands words. She snuggles in closer to Levi and he instinctively wraps his arm around her shoulder, making the wooden bench they sit upon swing lightly back and forth. Both let out a breath of contentment as they watch their children run and play, chasing one another with flowers in their hands.

The sight warms up Mikasa’s heart like a wonderful dream, except much greater, because it’s no longer just a world built on desperate hope and delusion, but instead a reality — a world where a mother and father can watch their children play freely without the fear of monsters emerging from the woods, a world where the sea is just the sea, and a world where, at long last, 'home’ is definite, always there, always waiting for her, never wavering.

Because home is them.

“Make a wish, Papa!”

“Mama, for you!”

“You deserve a flower field that never ends.”

It will always be them.

Their children’s laughter fills the air as they blow more dandelions into the sky, and its in the very moment she sees them close their eyes to make a wish, when Mikasa finally admits that perhaps, the world isn’t so cruel after all.

"What do you think how life will be if we didn't end up together?" **

Levi smiles and brings Mikasa's hand to his mouth. He kisses their wedding band that is wrapped around her finger. **

"I suppose that's the best part," he says. "We'll never know." **

fin.

————

** = lines written by lovely and beyond talented wife @cryinginthebackseat, whom inspired me to write this drabble from just her snippet alone! I love you! ❤️

[white-wolf-buckaroo]

Chapter 6: Goodbye, Emily

This is probably one of my favorite chapters, and also one that broke my heart while writing it (it didn't help that I was listening to the Monsters Inc soundtrack while doing so, especially Boo's Going Home). Check out the full hearbreaking playlist for this fic here!

Word Count: 2500 ish

Warnings: it's giving Sully leaving Boo, iykyk

Fic Masterlist here!

Age 7

Summer came, and with that, the rest of the half-bloods.

Luke and Annabeth had been at camp for a bit longer than a month now, and they had settled in pretty well; after the initial turmoil of Thalia’s demise, life at camp went back to normal, and before they knew it, summer had arrived.

Emily had gone back at training with her siblings and some other demigods from various cabins, but she purposefully kept her distance from Annabeth; unspoken tension lingered between the two, and they avoided direct confrontation in the arena. Luke was an excellent swordsman, though; apparently, he and Thalia had been on the run for a long time, and he was experienced with combat fighting. His presence, and his skills, were a constant reminder of the dangers lurking outside of camp.

That summer, though, Thalias’ sacrifice and Annabeth and Lukes’ arrival wasn’t the only big thing to happen to Emily: every year new demigods arrived for the first time at camp, and this time, a young girl, around two years older than her, made it to camp, accompanied by a satyr named Gleeson. Her name was Clarisse La Rue. Claimed by Ares, she was Emily’s older half-sister.

Maybe she couldn’t be friends with Annabeth, but she had now a new sister!

Clarisse settled in their cabin in the morning, and in the afternoon she was already training with her siblings. Emily had flying class that day, and although she was super excited to meet Clarisse, she loved the Pegasi too much to miss out on riding them.

At dinner, the tables were once again full of demigods, all of them gathered for the summer. Emily loved it. Clarisse was there too, on the opposite end of the table, and she seemed to be fitting in nicely, which Emily thought was good. She was a bit louder than Emily, though, and she also seemed a bit harsh when another camper, a son of Hephaestus, accidentally pushed her while walking by; he apologized, but Clarisse’s face still looked angry.

They all sang songs together by the campfire, and Emily felt like the weight of loss on the shoulders of everyone who had been there when Thalia died lessened. That night, she dared to sneak out again; she hadn’t done it since the night Annabeth and Luke arrived, but she felt better again, and so she went outside to look at the stars.

What she didn’t expect, was to see her father that night.

Ares materialized in the quiet darkness, his form merging with the shadows; he never visited Emily during the summer (too many children around for his liking), but at night, with her alone sitting on a rock by the beach contemplating the stars, he thought otherwise.

He was starting to go soft on her.

“Anything interesting up there?” Emily looked at him, her whole face lighting up, and an instant smile appearing on her lips “Is there seat for one more?”

Emily moved to the side a bit, allowing her dad to sit down. She remembered then their last encounter, when he told her to not be friends with Annabeth; he didn’t seem mad at her now, so she guessed she had done good. His approval was everything that mattered to her.

“Don’t you get tired of sitting out here, all by yourself?” he knew of her little escapades, for a long time now. She always sat outside, even in the colder months, looking up at the sky.

"I like the stars. They keep me company" she said in a hushed tone "They're all sparkly, shiny… and they've been twinkling for, like, thousands of years! Chiron tells me their stories, often, and one day… I wanna do something super cool like the heroes from the stories, something… so brave like what Thalia did, so that when I'm not here anymore, my spirit can go up to the sky and turn into a brand new shiny constellation”

You didn’t hear stuff like that from Ares’ kids very often.

They were children of war, not poets or dreamers. Yet Emily’s yearning for heroic deeds, echoed something familiar to Ares – the desire for glory in death, to be remembered as a warrior… that was a fighter’s last victory, and it was something else she had also inherited from him.

“Look, that one looks like Chiron!” she was pointing at the sky, at the Archers’ constellation, which certainly looked like a centaur. Ares hummed, looking up as well; he never looked at the stars, not anymore. Why bother, if they looked the same as thousands of years ago? “He knows a lot of things. And he teaches me a lot too”

“Seems like that old centaur has been keeping you busy, huh?”

There was a sense of… ease, between them. They felt comfortable with one another. That was something Ares hadn’t felt with his children in a very, very long time, not since he withdrew from their lives. Whatever it was that drew him so much to Emily both intrigued and unnerved him. It scared him like nothing else could. Feelings, attachment, love… emotions were dangerous in war. They could be lethal.

But they were also the very essence that fueled one’s determination to keep fighting.

“Oh!” Emily looked back at him again, having remembered something “Guess what? I got a new sister today!”

She told him about Clarisse, who had arrived that morning. How she had already began training with them all. How she had seemed to settle easily among her siblings. Ares knew, of course; he had claimed her after all. That girl was different to Emily: she embodied the typical traits associated to him, and that most of his children had. He had seen her fewer times than Emily, and he wasn’t really interested in seeing her again anytime soon. She didn’t spark anything remarkable inside of him.

Ares listened to Emily talking about her new sibling, his stoic expression revealing little of the thoughts swirling within him; she expresses joy at having another sister, the news however, didn’t elicit the same enthusiasm from her father.

“That’s great, Ems” he responded, although he didn’t really mean it; he didn’t really care, to be honest. His face was neutral now, not really showcasing any emotion – there was a stark contrast between what he felt when he thought of Emily, to when he thought about his other children, and he was starting to become aware of that.

“She’s more like my brothers and sisters than me, though. She seems tough, and she’s loud. I think you’ll like her. Maybe you could come one day and meet her!”

Ares felt a sudden pang, a subtle discomfort, that made him want to disappear that same second. A crippling, uncomfortable feeling on his limbs and his chest, that made him clench his jaw and his muscles tense.

Emily’s innocent anticipation of him confirmed his fears. He sensed her growing attachment, her yearning for connection, which was something he had encouraged himself with his visits, and her believe that these sporadic meetings were something normal, when it was the opposite. It sparked an uneasy realization.

In that moment, Ares had to choose; if Janus had showed up that instant, he wouldn’t have been surprised. He couldn’t meet Emily’s expectations… and he was convinced that not even trying he would reach them – they were so high as the stars above them.

As the god of war, he had spent millennia cultivating the image he uphold even nowadays: ruthless, strong, an unyielding force indifferent to softer aspects of existence. He embodied the cruel moments of battle, where there was no sanity, but only raw emotions and an instinct to survive, to fight, to kill, and to thrive. Emily’s presence challenged this self-imposed narrative, the very essence of his divine existence.

She was still pure, and he could understand her eagerness for a real father-daughter relationship – he’d had that same feeling once, when he still believed Zeus could be there for him not only as a king or a ruler, but as a parent. For Ares, the idea of fatherhood clashed with his persona as the god of war, and the vulnerability that accompanied it was a territory he was unaccustomed to navigating.

The realization that Emily expected more from him than what he thought he could provide made him decide to distance himself for good. These sporadic visits would only encourage and enliven the idea she had of him, which was something he didn’t see himself as: a father.

He would end up disappointing her. He knew that it was inevitable. In his divine logic, a clean break seemed a safer option. So even if it pained him… he would ignore those feelings, and move on. He couldn’t be the father she sought. The remains of what he felt would vanish in time, and in a few centuries, he wouldn’t even remember them.

At least, that’s what he told himself, not entirely convinced.

If Emily’s mother was still around, everything would be better. She had been nothing but perfect to raise their child, in his opinion. Now without her, he didn’t know how to be the only parent Emily had left. He was… scared of ruining everything, so he’d step back. It was the best option.

He’d never stop caring, but he couldn’t stay by her side. Not anymore. For her sanity, and his own.

“You should go now” he said, looking at her little face. She resembled him, kind of. Every day that passed he saw more of himself in her than he thought was originally there “Warriors need their rest”

“But I’m not tired” the yawn that followed said otherwise. Ares didn’t hold back his chuckle.

“Oh, really?” she nodded, but another yawn came to her.

She then did something that made his heart skip a beat: she slid to the side, resting her small frame against his arm, and started playing with his fingers, tracing the patterns of little scars on his skin, and fumbling with one of his rings.

“I miss Mommy” she mumbled “But I’m happy to have you, Daddy”

She insisted that he accompany her to her cabin, since he’d never been there at night, and he gave in; he made darkness surround them, hiding them from anyone who could still be up and see them, but Emily didn’t seem to notice as she pulled at his hand in the direction of the Ares cabin, giggling. He found himself tucking her in, something he never thought he would do; she clutched that stupid teddy bear to her chest, smiling sleepily at him, in a bubble he created so none of his other children would see him. He didn’t want to deal with that.

“All set?” it was certainly an unfamiliar task, even slightly awkward for him, but he easily draped the thin covers over her, shielding her from the fresh summer night air, and she seemed content enough. He didn’t relish much in the feeling of making her smile, though - it was time “Goodbye, Ems. Stay strong for me”

“Can you stay until I fall asleep? Please, Daddy?”

“No, kid. Daddy has to go”

She sighed, fighting back tiredness. Oh, his little warrior.

“Goodnight, Daddy” she lifted one of her hands, and rested it briefly against one of his cheeks. She fell asleep a few seconds after, hugging her teddy bear off to dreamland, mumbling one last ‘love you’ before completely succumbing to sleep.

Ares stood up quickly, not bearing to stay there any longer. He may think this was going to be a clean break, but right now, it felt rough, sharp, and bloody. He made his way out of the cabin, off to the night, but he halted in his step one last time, looking at his hands; Ares could still feel Emily’s fingertips tracing the skin on his own fingers, playing with one of his rings.

Taking off said ring, he snapped his fingers, and made it disappear. It didn’t vanish, though, no. It appeared on Emily’s camp necklace, resting over her chest alongside the bead she had acquired last summer. With that, Ares left camp half-blood, for good this time.

Things didn’t get better for Emily from then on.

The sister she had thought could be her friend, turned out to be uninterested in her, rejecting her for her youth (she was only two years older than Emily, but that seemed to make a huge difference, being so young), and also because she wasn’t as rough as most of their siblings. She just wasn’t how Clarisse thought Ares’ children should be; Clarisse proved to be a stark contrast to her own demeanour, and while Emily cherished the gentle moments at camp, Clarisse, embodying the more traditional traits of Ares' children, sought intensity, sharpness, and harshness.

The dynamics within the Ares cabin began to shift as well. Her siblings, once fond of Emily's sweet nature, now gravitated towards Clarisse, recognizing familiar traits in her that resonated with their own. The demigods outside the cabin acknowledged Clarisse's formidable temper, making it clear that she wasn't to be underestimated.

Initially, Clarisse struggled to accept Emily as her sister. The stark differences between them, from their personalities to their approach to combat, baffled Clarisse. While Emily displayed skill in the arena, it wasn't enough to bridge the gap between the two sisters. Emily found herself grappling with the shifting dynamics, losing favour with her siblings as Clarisse asserted herself as a formidable force within the Ares cabin.

There was this one time where Emily asked one of her older brothers if he wanted to go to the strawberry fields to help the satyrs collect the harvest, like they had done the previous summer, but then Clarisse got in the way, laughing at her for wanting to do something as mundane as that.

“It’s fun, though” replied Emily “And last time they gave us extra strawberries”

“Oh, yeah, that sounds like something Ares would love seeing his children do” Clarisse snorted, and she nudged their brother, who still hadn’t answered Emily; he was older than both girls, but not as harsh as Clarisse, and she intimidated him “Do you want to go pick up some strawberries like a little boy? Or do you prefer to go to the arena and fight some Hermes kids with spears?”

He looked conflicted, until he sighted, shaking his head no to Emily’s direction.

“Maybe next time. Have fun, though”

The Ares cabin, once filled with warmth for Emily, became a battleground for dominance, and Emily found herself on the outskirts.

Clarisse reveled in the admiration she received from her siblings at her fighting skills, whereas Emily struggled for the first time to reconcile her own identity with the expectations placed upon her as a daughter of the god of war. She sought solace in the familiar embrace of the night sky, fiddling with the ring her father had gifted her at the beginning of summer, tracing the braided metal, memorizing every quirk and curve.

Her father didn’t show up anymore, not even when she was outside alone, at night; she hoped that at least then he would appear, but nothing happened. The very last day she had been truly happy, was when she had last seen him.

She remained hopeful, though, thinking that probably in autumn, when most of the campers went back home, he would visit again. Until then, she would wait for him. She would be strong, like he wanted her to be, and she’d resist. She could do that until he’d come see her again.

Little did she know, he would never visit her at camp ever again.

----

Taglist: @strawberryys-stuff@ladysybilchronicles@kyuupidwrites@nhloversblog@beansficreblogs@priyajoyyy@zeeader@lightsgore@gengen64@holb32@therockywhorerpictureshow @jasontoddorjasongrace @lflores2008 @mymelodymia

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈𝐈 : The Spy’s Gambit.

after a long year — one lost due to grief and isolation and non-spoken ache — [name] archeron had finally been granted the awaited opportunity to flee from the constricting borders of velaris. what she did not predict would happen, whatsoever, was the insistence of a ruthless — asshole — spymaster on demolishing the barriers of her lone fortress and testing the limits of her powers and patience, during the single travel needed to reach their training destination.

past the illyrian mountains and west from rask, the shifter had two well-stabilished objectives in mind: one, train with diligence to finally move towards her own goals in the mortal lands; and two, try not to permanently disfigure azriel’s face with a scratch of her jaguar claws. five minutes in, and the oldest sister was sure that the latter would be the most difficult of her tasks.

the second chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

pinterest board / spotify playlist.

word-count: 14K.

“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl.”

— The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides.

The Gods whistled a melodic tone. One to carry a whiff of fate and purpose; one to invade a girl’s lung and fill it with her first breath into the living. The soft whisper of the divine converges with the unknown; no longer a benediction, but a sacrilegious bawl of confusion and grief. For a girl is born in a man’s world, and that is perhaps the cruelest form of torture offered by the Gods.

The room’s shutters were trembling from the strength of the boisterous storm. The wind howled, a treacherous and machiavellian whisper, an omen of disaster. Lightning brought sudden brightness to the obscure sky, and there was no natural occurrence so alluring, yet so violent. Bolts were but a fast-paced concentration of lethal energy, tearing and clawing and parting the unaware clouds.

The woman laid on the linen-sheets, coated in sweat and blood. Her babe’s voice matched the screams of the storm, challenging it with every breath. Maids moved with trained-agility, clamping the umbilical cord; cleaning bloodied legs with a white cloth, until one could no longer see a single tone other than bright red; and opening the curtains so as the father could hold the bawling babe closer to the light. All around her, there was noise and movement. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the vile thing that had clawed through her, slicing her open as a lighting bolt would to a cloud. Her husband swooned, whispering a gibberish she did not care enough to decipher. 

“The Goddesses weep,” an old maid whispered. “A girl is born, and the skies are grieving.”

But she was wrong. The storms were not a symbol of grief, they were the purest image of violent rejoice. It shouted and celebrated for it had observed the birth of a babe meant for chaos and disappointment. The mother was disgusted, cursing the natural spell that fell upon a room whenever one witnessed a birth. No other soul could see the same as she did, all blinded by the supposed wonder of a newborn’s cries. But the mother saw past the veil. Rather than a girl, she had given birth to a vessel of malice, a child of deceit and destruction. The storm would not have matched the babe’s shouts otherwise; the wind would not have answered; the husband would not have forgotten about his wife — bloodied and vulnerable — if not for the treachery of the child.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, cradling the uproarious creature close to his chest. The mother had hoped for the monster to bite and pierce the father’s heart, showcasing the true horror of her spirit. Perhaps, such wishes did point to malice — only it was not her daughter’s, but hers instead.

“She’s not,” was her matter-of-fact answer. “No babe is ever born beautiful.”

The man came closer, if only to defend his daughter’s honor. She loathed him then, for allowing himself to be stolen from her opened arms, straight into the unconditional love of fatherhood; loathed the child, too, for she had dared to claim him; and pitied herself, for being a victim of a tragedy no other being could understand. The mother had spent nine months whispering to her growing belly, singing and welcoming the kicks. In her heart, with all of her motherly instincts, she knew it was a boy she carried. Surely, that miscalculation of nature had murdered her brother; surely, the doctors had missed the occurrence where her boy was discarded and eaten by his monstrous twin-sister. There was no other proper explanation, if not that one.

“Oh, but ours is,” insisted her husband, a stranger. He forced the babe into her arms, caressing the crown of the creature’s head. He did not care whether the mother remained in pain; whether she was feeling tired and dirty and in terrible need of rest and clean sheets. His eyes remained glued to that devious thing. “See the strength of her grip? The curling of her lip, the form of her nose? She is a made copy of yours.”

The woman shuddered. Was there a greater insult than being compared to one you despised? She had wanted to shout, demand them all to leave her chambers, cause a scandal and give their servants a lifetime worthy of gossip. However, the little serpent clung to her, and she had a strong grip indeed. In awe, the woman found herself pressing the babe closer to her chest, touching the skin as soft as the silk-sheets that she bloodied during childbirth. 

The presence was compelling, demanding. “Nurse me,” it seemed to shout. “Feed me,” it cried. “Love me,” it begged. The mother spent an entire year doing as she was expected and coerced to do. The babe was fed from her breast, regardless of the nipping and pain, sipping the milk along occasional droplets of her mother’s blood; received tender care and warm clothing, constant baths and cradling whenever she cried during the night — which she did, constantly.  However, the thing the woman had never managed to do was the latter. She could not love that eager and violent parasite, regardless of the motherhood instincts and the sayings that she had given birth to a physical copy of hers. The creature stole a year of her already decaying youth before it lost the taste for the maimed breast. She would no longer allow it to seize another single thing. 

The mother conquered a second pregnancy briefly two years after that disastrous disappointment, yet, she had never quite mastered the art of ignoring the small serpent and its midnight cries. Despite it all, her firstborn was the one she could not abide to watch out for. The same did not apply to those who came after whatsoever, for the woman had three more babies — three more little girls — and failed to love them at all, as if the small, twisted amount she could give had been entirely devoted to her child of chaos. 

Following-in-suit to the behavior of her firstborn, the three kicked and moved within her, but this time, she was much more prepared, and learned not to love them too soon. Motherly love was the death of logic and boundaries; it was an open door for obsession and worry, and girls were undeserving of that, for the gender inequality had long stolen the heirdom from their grips, and the mother refused not to bear an heir of her own.

[Name] had cried for two entire years. No one could understand the reason quite well. Overall, she was quite a spoiled babe, resting on a gold-made cradle and receiving professional and qualified assistance, hence the general confusion. However, when the moon grew wide in the pitch-black sky and her first sister was born, [Name] had stopped crying. It was as though she had granted herself enough time to share her discontentment, to allow the conflicted feelings to pour from her eyes and form small lakes of crystal-clear tears. Crying would no longer do her well, not when her sister had a pain of her own to be mended. Twenty-four years later, [Name] did not manage to find her tears still, for they remained buried underneath the soil of her deepest hidden fears and failures. 

Perhaps, [Name] had but used all of her tears when she did not need them; perhaps, she should have stocked a few before the damage became unrecoverable; for, as of now, alone in a house she could not learn to feel comfortable in, her eyes remained dry.

Well, not entirely dry.

[Name] cursed out loud as she went to grab a white and clean cloth, applying pressure on her closed eyelids, tearing up from the awfully strong stench of the toxins she had been experimenting with. Months prior, she had received an invitation from her sister. She was missed, said the letter delivered to her by Clotho. And in all honesty, [Name] was entirely aware of that fact; of how her absence was a dagger twisting inside her closest sister’s heart; of how badly Feyre had been hurting. [Name] couldn’t do a thing against her own numbness, her silence and lack of expression; she didn’t wish to strike a conversation with a single soul, but Feyre had called, and [Name] would always answer.

Though the female was barely there, her sister did not quit: they sat together for hours in her studio as she finished a painting, commenting on her routine in order to encourage [Name] to do the same. Between the humming reverberating on the porcelain of [Name]’s warm teacup, and her mute nods and forced smiles, Feyre had caught onto something and ended their brief encounter, no longer sending letters, as [Name] knew the youngest began to feel as though she was a bother.

When [Name] left her sister’s newest home — seeing patterns of her in every wall and furniture and color — she was fighting back tears, cursing herself for the consequences of the overbearing and paralyzing sadness that came after a particular morning, when she woke up with enough time to ponder on her purpose in that new life, and realized she had none. Although [Name] refused to linger her glance on the pieces her sister painted, they gave her a small thread of hope, an olive branch to be offered in the future. Throughout her small talk and monologues, Feyre did complain that she was struggling with a specific painting of her mate in the Summer Court. She scurried through every shop in Velaris, and still couldn’t find an ink with the exact shade of violet of his eyes when the sun shone on it. [Name] didn’t quite understand the rest — something about how she couldn’t create the colors herself because it was impossible to get it right — but what she did decide was to try and give her sister that small gift. 

Of course, that proved to be a hassle.

[Name] decided that the conventional path would serve her for nothing. Feyre was a fantastic and experienced artist, combining already-made ink and trying to get a result through red and blue and droplets of white had led her sister nowhere. [Name] would not succeed where her sister had failed, not when art, and many other matters, were concerned. Of course, she resorted to someplace else, traveled to the inside of a place that had never once left her alone: science.

Chemistry, to be more precise. It was a somewhat unknown concept, poor in substantiation and mostly filled with theories that, on their hand, inspired and fed countless experiments. Experiments that she meant to learn from in order to conduct her own; a path that, of course, was infertile and leading nowhere.

[Name] had been tied to Velaris. Her departure was inconceivable: the barriers kept the female in place, regardless of the animal form she chose to overfly it. Her options, of course, grew limited to the scarce flora of the mountains, hence her constant flights of exploration. She found wild red roses and blue tiger-lilies; squashed the petals and placed them on separate glass-jars, filled with an alcoholic solution she created with sugar, yeast and water. After that, things grew slightly more complicated. [Name] calculated the amount of petals and alcohol to create paints with different tones of blue and red, started to mix them together and attempted to achieve the said variation of violet. Once that failed her, [Name] started to collect resin from the trees, create her own solution of water and propylene that would serve as a solvent, and finally, add the pigment.

Resin, solvent, pigment. She had been creating ink after ink ever since, her eyes wet and her fingers scarred from the constant contact with acid; her limbs tired from the everyday transformations of her fae body to the body of a gyrfalcon; and yet, the violet desired by her sister was never found.

After months into that search filled with failing attempts, [Name] noticed that she had lost her reasons. The process of finding that exact shade of violet was no longer an olive branch to be offered to Feyre: it was a reason for her to remain awake in the night — to fight off the sleep that often came with nightmares from times she did not wish to remember. From overflying the mountains in the morning; to finding the spot she claimed to train her throws with daggers; to reading and studying at the library in the afternoon, weirdly mourning the absence of Bryaxis, the monster that kept her company before the war; to creating paint from dusk to morrow, repeating the entire process every single day; those were all a well-manufactured web of excuses.

[Name] did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts. She first tried it during her father’s burial — the one she refused to attend, deciding to be by herself instead — and it did not end well. Reminiscing was a troubling effort, for the previous battle was a blur. [Name] could remember overflying the field in the gyrfalcon form, dodging the attacks of the dark faeries; she could remember being in the middle of it, too far from Feyre, even further from Elain and Nesta; she could remember her father arriving with four well-familiar ships and men-at-arms to reinforce their armies; she could remember Hybern’s hiding fleet that had followed them close, with at least six thousand soldiers.

Then, came the rage.

Her sisters were fighting Hybern: Feyre was trying to connect with the Cauldron that stole everything from them; her allies were about to be faced with an unfair battle at the bay, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Once again, she found herself being an useless burden, unable to protect her sisters, regardless of her efforts and training; regardless of her wits and her words; she was never enough. The poverty, Feyre being taken away by Tamlin, her sisters being thrown inside the Cauldron, Elain being kidnapped right under her nose, were all but some of the most crucial moments in which she failed them. Despite the things [Name] did to give them comfort, the people she murdered, the lives she financially ruined, the men she was touched by, all for her sisters to suffer still, to grieve and to face horrors [Name] had, too, failed to shield them from.

Rage brought forward a boisterous roar. The clouds darkened, thunder competed against the deafening shout of a vengeful and seemingly-wounded animal. [Name] moved her head down and saw nothing but a terrifyingly huge and fast shadow, flying towards the open sea. She felt her throat burn, her jaw oddly heavy as she opened it, and then lightning: pure chaotic energy, mortal and devastating, passed through her mouth and teeth with yet another roar. It took a second for her mind to wrap around the fact that the beast — that thunderous and large creature — was her. After that, she was led by rage and instinct, her mind a fog that couldn’t process the events through the lenses of the creature.

Tapping into the dragon’s core — trying to understand it — terrified her. The feelings that it brought, the chaos and glimpses that it gave her, it was all too much. The treacherous act of repression against the dragon inside had brought her immense sadness. [Name] had watched as Feyre met her happiness, protected by a male that loved her beyond himself; had watched as Nesta moved out, her coping mechanisms against pain being so similar to the ones [Name] herself had once resorted to; had watched as Elain tried to make for a comfortable home in that new life, filled with the support of Feyre’s new family. [Name] had watched as the world — and everyone around her —  moved quite too fast, while she was stuck in the same spot, sitting alone in the cold as the realization came to mind: she no longer had use to them.

[Name], who had ceased to weep when her first sister was born; [Name], who had been raised to provide for them through the heritage of their father’s business; [Name], who had abandoned herself and her innocence to a brothel so that her sisters could have food and proper clothes; [Name], whose life had been dedicated to give them comfort, to shield them from misery, was no longer necessary. Her task had been gladfully taken from her shoulders, and [Name] couldn’t help but wish that she had clung to it a little tighter.

But then, realization came: she was no longer required to aid her sisters, but there were still people left in the mortal lands that had once relied on her. Perhaps, if she tied the business left open, if she checked on their financial situation after her departure, that would give her closure. Hence to say, Azriel’s proposition was the whiff of summer-air that caressed her skin where the cold previously hurt. He was her getaway from the suffocating barriers of Velaris, from the acid air of her room, from the shackles of her thoughts. The male was freedom.

Or so she thought. 

She had waited for his second knock for an entire week. If their matters were as urgent as he stated, then surely he meant to be his annoying-prick-self first thing on the morrow, barging in with that infuriating grin and the banters she secretly missed. But he vanished — literally. [Name] wasn’t sure why she had expected otherwise.

The sight of their piled gifts was a knife that she refused to turn inside herself; it was the excruciating pain of knowing one had been a disappointment to others, that one had failed to grab the hands of those who were extending it. However, she did grab Azriel’s gifts, presuming it was a clear message of her intentions. The male gave her a weapon she had no experience with; surely, if [Name] retrieved it from the pile, he’d understand that small peace offering of hers and they’d grow closer yet again. Because, regardless of her words and her poison, [Name] did value their once long held conversations. Azriel had been the one to strategize with her, he had been the one to search for her in the crowds, he had been the one to sit with her through a whole night after Elain’s kidnapping, and after sleep stopped coming to [Name] entirely.

He was a friend that she abruptly pushed away and that, yet, insisted on fighting against her voice. Keeping his gift close to her chest should have been enough to drive him nearer, but perhaps she had been too arrogant in her thoughts. For months, [Name] witnessed his never-ending struggle against the chains of her power, his obstination to go against her orders, to offer an aiding hand, and for months, he failed. Until, as it seemed, he stopped trying.

The worst, most devastating part of it all, was that at the time, she wasn’t sure whether his sudden absence was deliberate or a direct consequence of her power. Azriel fought against her speech for such a long time that when he ceased, [Name] couldn’t tell if he lost that battle, or free-willingly walked away. She had presumed it wasn’t the latter, no one managed to get rid of her treacherous grip once they were caught by it. Hence why she loathed the Cauldron the most, it gave her not a power but a death sentence, the living proof that her mother was right all along. [Name] was not a living being, she was a slick force of chaos that used her speech to manipulate and cheat and lie. The female could not control that aspect of herself, therefore, she failed to control the intensity with which her commands affected those around her. 

She did attempt to learn more about their extent and whether the voice intonation was of any importance when it came to her power’s usage. However, she reached no conclusion. It was a concept so simple, yet so maleficent. The results would always be the same, regardless of external speech factors; a whisper of hers had the ability of convincing a powerful foe to throw himself off a cliff, so long as he heard her and understood the language she spoke in. Cruel, dishonest, menacing. The power capable of annihilating an entire army, of sending previous allies against one another. The damage it could cause when combined to her shapeshifting was incalculable, yet the thought did not reassure her regarding her strength. Instead, it showed [Name] that in a world of capable warriors and diplomats and leaders, she didn’t fit in a single of them; she was the poison mingled with wine and ministered to those who were fair, she was the least trustworthy, the least honored one — she was a monster.

[Name] had spent nine years of her life wishing that someone would be merciful enough to attend her request to kill her. And apparently, now she was fated to spend the rest of her miserable and immortal existence commanding the acts of every sentient being around her, while actively wishing that at least one refused to obey her. [Name] had been strong ever since she was a small toddler, arguing for the privilege of having her hair combed first. Even then, she had always been prepared to fight for what she wanted or judged correct. Rather than using brute force, [Name] relied on the efficiency of well-aimed words and smiles and praises thrown at those who valued it; she was a little girl on a stage, playing countless parts and having countless masks to please whoever was near in order to achieve her ambitions. It was who she was at her core, regardless of her mother’s thoughts on the matter. [Name] didn’t know how to live, if not by fighting to convince others to respect her stance and thoughts, and deem her a valuable ally. And suddenly, there was no need for her to pick such battles, because the fighting spirit could be stolen from everyone else, if only she desired as such.

During her darkest times, it was the thrill of a debate that managed to keep her alive, the soothing adrenaline of emerging victorious from a purchase. When the touch of men grew too harsh or too violent, when their hunger and greed tore her soul apart, the solace of her being could be found in a well-balanced chess match played against herself or other activities that she considered challenging. Upon noticing that it was no longer required of her to strive, to fight, the world around her grew null. The Cauldron stole too much, in the process of giving her too much.

There was no point in entering a match, when one knew they already won. Whatever were the strategies she offered, the propositions she gave, the arguments she spoke, so long as she triggered her voice correctly, they would abide by. The prospect of their lack of opposition, of counter-arguments, was exasperating. The Priestesses simply nodded when she commanded them to grant her access to prohibited lanes. Her conversations ceased to be interesting. Even an ancient monster, one feared for it represented the concept of nightmares itself, felt victim to her commands. There wasn’t a single being residing in that world that [Name] failed to convince. 

Where, before, others around her bent to the strength of her will, the wittiness of her words, now, they just bent. She didn’t need to argue anymore, didn’t need to fight. The very reason for her euphoria regarding life was gone. [Name] had endured enough pain — metaphorical and physical — survived enough aches, to understand that the loss of what the Cauldron had claimed from her was something she could never recover from.

Yet, the most devastating acknowledgement came when she caught herself relying on such a curse. Quickly enough, the comfort of immediately having whatever she needed became addicting. Whenever she grew tired of an argument, of the debate to convince one to do something she wished for, [Name] crawled back to the comfortable bushes of control. At first, it was impossible. The words that fell from her lips were poisonous, even when she didn’t mean to order, even when it was barely a suggestion — a request — whoever heard would give her what she wished.

[Name] found herself slipping into madness, stumbling through darkness, until she understood that the curse that fell upon her might as well be the opening key for her biggest punishment. She stole a mirror from a nearby room and started to practice on herself, over and over, hour after hour, the female stared at her own reflection and polished the control of her capabilities. Her suggestions were, again, suggestions, her voice would only be harmful if so she wished to. [Name] granted herself the privilege of speaking with others without fearing to accidentally command them; yet, the more time she spent with herself and her thoughts and her frustration, the less she wished to interact with the external world.

Worst came to her when, during one of her experiments — while Nesta and the reminiscent parties of the Inner Circle had traveled to a Council with the other High-Lords — [Name] accidentally exploded her bathtub. Cassian barged in, quick as the wind and as armed as he could, fearing an intromission, only to find [Name] all covered in soot. He had helped her clean the entire thing — even though both knew the House of Wind could magically do it by itself — and all in the while, they talked. First, it was of politics and the upcoming war, followed by their Court’s plans, the Cauldron, [Name]’s trauma and even a small bit of his own. The commander was emotionally smart and entirely non-judgmental. The female relied on him and his council, watched as a small friendship started to bloom, and ended up teaching him how to polish his chess abilities until he advised they should get some sleep.

It was a pleasant day, one [Name] hadn’t experienced in months. Yet, the fear accompanied by what she confided was paralyzing, so much that she commanded Cassian to forget about it all: what she told him, the explosion, their chess matches. It didn’t matter that he, too, had told her personal things of his past; it didn’t matter that it was unfair of her to keep his secrets while actively denying him the rights to be reminded of her own ones; in that moment, she meant only to keep herself safe, to keep the mask of the unshakeable sister intact. And so, she controlled him, stole his free-will, and was met with no opposition.

[Name] found herself unable to face the general ever since, yet it seemed as though he hadn’t forgotten entirely, or, in the very least, his instincts and care weren’t as laid-back as they were before that day. Perhaps her commands lost strength if her will wasn’t as strict; perhaps a traitorous part of her wished that her voice would fail to work and, as a consequence, her grip wasn’t as strong. Regardless, she hasn’t used that power ever since. It was awful enough to have a blood-lust dragon residing inside her heart, [Name] didn’t need to be met with more trouble. Besides, she had a problem of bigger importance in mind: the reason why Azriel was immune.

[Name] left her bedroom, swiftly moving towards the library in one of the many alternative routes she found efficient when it came to avoiding the two Illyrian warriors that once insisted on checking up on her. Upon entering, she waved at Clotho, noticing the deep purple color on her fingertips. The priestess placed a white tissue on the counter, and [Name] moved to grab it, beginning to scrub her skin clean.

“You’re early today,” she wrote out curiously. In fact, she was. Usually, at this hour, [Name] would be at her training spot, in a secluded space amidst the furthest mountain range. But, because she wasn’t sure when Azriel meant to call her for their training, [Name] chose not to leave the House of Wind at all, fearing to miss his knocks.

“I’ve been adjusting my routine,” she lied. As insane as it sounded, the female could almost feel the huff that Clotho meant to give her. [Name] didn’t smile at her — she rarely did smile at all nowadays — but she did attempt to give the priestess a reassuring glance.

When [Name] was first introduced to the immensity of that library, Clotho had been the one to welcome her. At the time, granting her access to that space seemed to be Rhysand’s way of offering [Name] an agreement of peace, one that she willingly accepted, for the amount of books and knowledge and possibilities inside that place was more than enough. She didn’t yet speak at the time, fearing that her voice might come out as a command, and she could still remember Clotho’s handwritten note, slipped inside her pocket. When [Name] had found it, she almost wept. 

This is a safe place. You needn’t fear nor cower from it. We’re all females.

Females who had suffered from fates similar to [Name]’s. Females who understood the invisible mind scarring — and physical scarring, too — left by the worst a male could offer. Females who would never judge, for they shared her hurt, and fought the same battles. She had never stopped visiting since. Whether it was to read her fair amount of books, to share a moment of silence, or to, at least when it was still possible, spend time with Bryaxis. [Name] found solace inside that place, and strived not to bother whoever resided in it.

Quietly, the female made her way to the corridor reserved to the almost untouched books that were written in the ancient language. At first, the thought of mastering it seemed absurd and ambitious. The language itself was filled with trials and ambiguous phrasing — [Name] had studied countless alphabets throughout her brief mortal life, and was still left aghast at the complexity of them all. However, moving past her initial desperation, determined to spend her time with activities that could be of use in the future, [Name] began to learn through association. The ancient language was somewhat close to the Glacolithic, Runic, and Ogham alphabets: three written-patterns found in excavations and searches by the mortals from the continents beyond the great ocean. Of course, [Name] didn’t speak any of those, but she did study certain translations before, when life was easier and she had a purpose.

Afterwards, the task grew slightly less demanding, though it remained tiresome. [Name] had to resort to tactics from her childhood and teen-years, in which she would read a text in a foreign language, circle the words she did not have knowledge of, rewrite them in a separate paper and then proceed to search about their meaning. Before the war, she had Bryaxis to scoff at her naivety, correct her terrible pronunciation, and guide her through some phrases. Overall, even if it refused to do a thing more — for it enjoyed watching her exasperation — the creature proved to be quite an useful teacher. However, as of now, with Bryaxis long lost, [Name] had to work with her already-gained knowledge, which was maddening. If she was even a little more advanced, she would’ve been able to read a specific book that promised to solve more than half her problems: The Binding Magic of the Fae and Other Rare Talents. When the Archeron moved towards the shelf, she scoffed at the said book’s cover and grabbed the one next to it instead: Fables and Myths for Unruly Children.

[Name] sat at the closest table, searching for the page in which she had stopped reading the day before. Because materials written in the ancient language were rare — and such few understood it, since they lacked the basis [Name] herself had been privileged enough to get from Bryaxis — the fae gathered whichever book or text or diary they could find, so long as the pages had the complicated alphabet of those who came before them. Childishly, they believed that every book was academic, which led them to retain it, all offering the same excuse: one day, they would learn the ancient language; one day, they would get to read and understand the pages of the piece they found. Of course, they never did. Hence why, in that very moment, [Name] was finishing to read the fable of a very stupid Queen that ignored the warnings of a witch and ended up giving birth to a dragon, rather than a child.

“That’s such a terrible moral,” she muttered to herself, suddenly being reminded of why she had decided to stop reading that book in the first place.

Mid-sentence, she felt his presence without a single failure of a heartbeat. When [Name] was yet a mortal, Azriel found it amusing to arrive unannounced, hiding in the shadows until she passed by, appearing behind her with a shit-eating grin that only grew when she jumped out of her skin and cursed him out loud. The Spymaster managed to pull that prank thrice before she grew used to it. [Name] would never fail to spot his figure, regardless of how well-hid he was: the shadows around him were different, the air hung with an odd electricity whenever the male was near, and she could guess his position based on instinct alone.

It wasn’t a surprise to raise her eyes from the book and catch sight of him sitting on the chair in front of her. Azriel moved his head to take a glimpse of the text at hand and frowned upon noticing the language in which it was written.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to this part of the library,” he stated matter-of-factly, waiting for a confirmation that she refused to give him: I wasn’t, until I commanded them to believe otherwise.

“It’s been seven days,” [Name] retorted, ignoring his previous point. She closed the book of fables and myths with unnecessary strength, cringing at the loud sound it made.

“You’ve been counting. Eager, much?”

His taunt made her blood boil — although she did ignore the fact that her cheeks felt hotter all of the sudden. Azriel’s grin, and the confident manner with which he placed his hands on his nape, pointed out that he, on the other hand, did not. The second he opened his mouth — whether it was to tease her some more or try to get to her nerves — [Name] interrupted him.

“Fall from the chair,” she commanded, and he rolled his eyes at her, nearly scowling. At least she had wiped off the grin from his face.

“Nice try,” the Spymaster told her with annoying nonchalance and that unknown immunity she could not track the source from.

“Couldn’t hurt,” [Name] shrugged, and he felt silent with his arms closed.

When Azriel had been assigned to a position in which he needed to return to the Archeron manner weekly, Feyre pushed her older sister aside for a private conversation. Her voice was soft — yet more mature, as if Feyre had aged five decades in five months — while she tried to soothe [Name]’s tension. She could still remember the slight heads-up, the promise that Azriel was naturally quiet and introspective, and that did not mean that he held some unspoken grudge against her or her ideas. Although that proved to be true to some degree, [Name] was quick to notice that the male was not as quiet as previously stated. Each word of his carried some sort of taunt or invite to a private competition that [Name] never failed to accept or stumble upon. The male seemed to thrive on her annoyance, and though she was not entirely amused herself, [Name] noted the clear difference between his treatment towards her, and the general treatment she received from others.

After an entire decade of misery and prostitution, [Name] saw herself as though a crumbling stone fortress, one that once stood high and tall, proudful and unshakable, but that started to deteriorate with the acid rain and the constant attacks from external forces. The fortress was filled with mug and cracks and thorns, and people grew wary whenever they approached it. No one treated her the same, as if they feared that a single touch would be enough for the entire fortress to crumble entirely; she could sense their hesitance in their contradiction, their pity and the glances given whenever they thought she wasn’t looking. Azriel challenged her, treated her like he would everyone else. Even when she was a mortal whose life hung by a limited thread, he valued her thoughts, and never once sugarcoated his words. 

As of now, she could yet feel the same determination and notice the same treatment. Even though [Name] had spent nearly a year hiding away, avoiding the reality and feeling stuck in the same place, Azriel refused to act as though she was a scared and lashing animal in the woods: he was not wary nor was he pitiful — he was ruthless, challenging, taunting, his logic and sense of duty matching her own. Azriel was everything that she needed at that moment.

However, that did not mean that she was willing to give him any further sense of amusement. Her pride was a chalice of lethal poison, one that she drank from until there was not a single droplet left. To fill their silence with an inquiry meant that he would have a possible confirmation of her eagerness, and [Name] would rather share a teacup of warm tar with her late grandmother inside the Cauldron than to fulfill his ego.

She felt a slight tug coming from his mind. Because her abilities granted her free-passage, regardless of their barriers, to the thoughts of those around her, [Name] made sure to never roam close to the limits of their brains. A single misstep was enough for her to stumble on the deep roots of one’s memories, and she learned the consequences of her accidental prying when, during a shared dinner, [Name] was bombarded with the indecent mental-conversation held by Feyre and her mate. Since it was rude — and awkward — to listen to those small things left unsaid, [Name] learned to deactivate that side of her power, and only did use them when invited to. That tug coming from his part was an invitation, as if he had opened the front gate of his mental barrier and invited her in.

With a slight raise of her eyebrow, [Name] extended the invisible string of her power, entering his mind. Surprisingly enough, Azriel seemed to have closed his fist around it, not letting go of that small connection between them. Although his expression remained that same one of nonchalance, the memories sent her way explained enough of the given situation, and what led the Inner Circle to vote for her training and participation in that particular task. 

It was a marvel to witness how one’s train of thoughts mirrored their particular personality. Azriel’s memories were brief and to-the-point; he didn’t dwell much on unnecessary details and favored an efficient approach that covered most of the basis as fast as it could. It was as though he was in a constant state of haste, a master-spy that understood the importance of offering a good résumé in a limited span of time.

“Who would’ve thought you hold me to such high regards?” Azriel taunted, and she blinked, caught offhand.

“What?”

“A master-spy?”

“You can read my thoughts as well?” [Name] inquired, too shocked to take note of his cockiness. 

“Was I not supposed to?” His grin fell from his face, giving way to a wary crease of his forehead.

“It never happened before,” and though she chose her words with care, the female could feel the sudden pressure around her reach, understanding that the Spymaster was demanding her to leave his mind. She did as it was urged, respectfully stepping away from his conscience. A further inspection of his sudden rigid features told her that he did not mean to speak on the later occurrence, and aware of his vexing capacity of staying silent for a long period of time, [Name] changed the subject to what mattered the most. “Why am I the one most suitable to breach Montesere’s barriers?”

Azriel stretched, shifting uncomfortably in his seat — one that was obviously not meant for the wings of an Illyrian warrior — and sat upright. His expression was one of concentration, whereas his stance was the same he held whenever he meant to speak in a tone of politics and strategies. It made her reminisce those hours spent inside the four walls of her office, discussing tactics based on the most accurate predictions of their opponents’ movements, and her chest ached with sudden longing.

“Montesere had a particularly rough war against Vallahan, a hundred years after the First War against Hybern,” he briefly began to summarize, and [Name] failed to hold her tongue.

“Yes, I’ve read about it,” she interrupted, mentally scolding herself.

“Why would you read about Montesere, of all places?” Azriel inquired, before realization passed over his features. “Right, their dragons.”

It was an affirmation. He did not need to ask that of her, when the answer presented itself as white as a layer of untouched and recent snow. [Name] did not mean to lie either, even if the misleading sentence was formed not longer after he deduced her past reasoning. The two had never lied to one another, or so she preferred to presume. Without a doubt, both hid their fair sum of secrets, but it was not of their character to dance around the truth whenever the other figured a thing or two out. It was a dynamic as old as their unstable friendship — if one could call it that way — and one the pair remained loyal to for more than a year. She never would have told him of her research about the dragons during the most ungodly hours of the night — at least not then — yet, since his speculations came close enough to the truth, [Name] would not lie to him either.

“I traced their origins and inevitable extinction back to Montesere,” she confirmed, the fact alone bringing an odd sense of grief to her chest. Those next words came as a whisper, hardly audible. “I figured they weren’t creatures from our world, which was somehow soothing. These realms are so filled with magic, it was a nice twist to learn of something fantastical that we had no access to.”

Azriel stared at her in silent pondering, and [Name] caught the phantom of a warmth glance sent her way before he masked it. “We don’t know exactly when the dragons roamed into our world. The most acceptable theory is that another portal opened up, one similar to the one that brought Amren, and some creatures passed through it. Amidst the chaos of the war, every King and High-Lord was too preoccupied with their barriers and battles to take note of a lone portal somewhere near Montesere. We presume it happened during or after the conflict.”

“Of course,” [Name] agreed with a slight movement of her shoulders. “They would have used the dragons against their enemies’ forces — your forces — otherwise. The fact that they didn’t merely points out that there was no time to train those creatures or tame them.”

He hummed in confirmation. “After Hybern’s defeat, his allies were left in economical misery. But we had no idea of those dragons whatsoever until Montesere’s battle against Vallahan. Considering the scarce extension of their nation’s territory, a sudden declaration of war was imminent. They had no space to train those dragons, and surely enough, Vallahan offered the expansion they needed.”

“I’ve read that those dragons spat fire,” she muttered, haunted by the loss of a sight she would never have a glimpse of. “But it was not enough to conquer Vallahan.”

“Fire can not breach solid stone,” Azriel pointed out, and [Name] did not miss how he hid his hands under his armpits. “Vallahan has the geographical advantage of being surrounded by a steep and towering extension of mountain ranges. To spit fire, Montesere’s dragons needed to reach the Capital, and once the kingdom started to retaliate—”

“I know,” she sharply stopped him. “They placed catapults on strategic points of those mountains. Even so, I hardly think those traps were responsible for so many losses. A dragon is unstoppable in the air.”

“They had a very scarce training,” Azriel retorted, and though his taunt was imminent, she fell victim to his invitation, well aware that he meant to rile her up in order to understand how well-educated she was in that particular subject.

“Most were grown during their passage, those dragons weren’t lacking in terms of flight,” [Name] scowled, sitting upright herself. Mentally, she could see a chess board unravel — those sixty-four black and white tiles that, somehow, always managed to be a metaphor whenever a conversation between them was concerned.  

“They lacked discipline.”

“They lacked purpose,” she hissed, surprised at her own rage. “Montesere sawed their back-spines to make way to their saddles, chastised them with whips, and stole them of their previous freedom. Most of those creatures threw themselves on the mountains with the intention of retrieving their free-will through death.”

The Cemetery of Rocks. [Name] once saw the name in an old map. It was written all over the mountain range of Vallahan, and she trembled with the mere thought of how many dragon skulls and bones laid on those lands. 

“It might be true but it’s not the entire reason, you know that,” Azriel half-conceded, and his trust on her judgment despite her past outburst was astonishing. [Name] blinked, regaining her composure not longer after.

“Well, obviously. The altitude of those mountains was an opponent of its own. The safest crossing option was through the highest route, but an unprepared rider would lose consciousness with the lack of air that came from such tall heights,” the female absentmindedly completed, growing tired of that conversation. It was more a genocide than a war, and at each attempt to breach Vallahan’s borders, Montesere returned with less dragons and soldiers, until there were none left. “But that’s not the point, is it? What have they done after that loss?”

“Montesere raised a magical barrier,” Azriel commented with a grimace. It was clear that, for his own reasons, he was not quite pleased with that obstacle.

“I caught on to that, what surprises me is how long you took to find out,” it was not a taunt on her part. She was merely being sincere. “Neglecting them to that extent seems reckless.”

“It was, but we all had worse worries than Montesere at the time. Hewn City, the Illyrian soldiers’ insolence towards the Night Court’s orders, and our own lack of experience on how to manage the entire territory after Rhys’ father passed away are just some examples of our concerns. We did send them letters, but those remained unanswered.”

“You’re finding excuses,” now, that was a taunt.

He broke into a grin. “Think you could have done better?”

“I’m sure that I could.”

“You’ll get to prove that soon enough. Our efforts can’t breach through their barriers, we’re hoping that your magic will be the exception.”

“Because I was Made?”

The memory was painful enough, and he merely nodded before rising from his uncomfortable seat. “Go grab your stuff, we’re leaving now.”

Although that was a thing she had anticipated, [Name] was startled with his abruptness still. Giving herself a moment to recollect her thoughts and priorities, she remained glued to her chair. “We’ll train and go to the Mortal Lands. I’m not helping otherwise.”

“I have the tattoo to remind me of that,” he bit back with a roll of his eyes. “And even if I didn’t, I could still drag your ass to our training site.”

“You’d lose both your hands before you got the chance to,” she threatened, the thought of a male touch bringing back memories that she was quick to bury.

“To do that, you’d need to shift into something more harmful than a small bird,” he spoke with a boredom that made her want to claw at his neck. How he was aware of her morning flights, she had no interest in finding out, but his remark boiled her blood regardless, and the challenging expression on his face let her know that Azriel mentioned that on purpose. 

With an everlasting sourness, [Name] strolled to her bedroom, nearly kicking the door open as she went to grab her pack. Azriel, who was close behind her, coughed immediately, and the sound made her smile briefly. She felt the phantom touch of a daring shadow on her shoulder, as if it hummed contentedly with the slight shift in her mood.

“What the hell have you been doing here? It smells like horse shit,” he complained. [Name] made no move to open up the windows — she merely closed the bathroom door — and Azriel’s eyes laid on the shadow on her shoulder.

“Leave it be,” she hissed at him with a scolding glare, growing tired of his urge to drive his shadows away from her. Azriel’s scoff was muffled by his arm as he had used it to cover his nose. “I was trying to replicate your scent, did you not like it?”

The second they moved from the stench of her bedroom and towards the main balcony, Azriel’s impossible behavior returned. “I had no idea you missed me that much. What was the plan afterwards, sprinkle the perfume on a pillow and hug it in your sleep?”

“You’re despicable.”

“You’re speechless.”

As the pair approached the main hall, [Name] did not fail to note the absence of her sisters. Her mind was conflicted, unsure on whether that occurrence was deserving of relief or grief. Falling quiet and crossing her arms, she had decided on both. No one but herself could be blamed for the insecurity of her younger sisters regarding [Name]’s feelings on a farewell visit of their part. Her emotional withdrawal had brought the solitude that ravaged her insides, a bittersweet and well-deserved fate: to miss her sisters as a punishment for how badly and frequently she had failed them.

“You’re leaving already?” A particularly deep voice came from behind them, and [Name]’s body grew rigid at the sound. Shadows curled on her nape and shoulders, seeming to whisper a soothing harmony on her ear.

“It’s been a week,”  Azriel shifted on his heels to stare at his brother, and his shoulder brushed hers slightly. [Name] almost missed his warmth.

“So? You weren’t given a deadline,” Cassian noted. The female moved ever so slightly to stare at him, unable to bear with her impoliteness otherwise. Azriel’s shadows accompanied her frame as her back met the nearest wall, and [Name] waved awkwardly when Cassian’s warm, hazel eyes laid on her. 

“Doesn’t make the situation less urgent,” the Shadowsinger retorted. Cassian tore his glance from [Name] lazily, observing his brother with his mouth tightly shut. The two seemed to have a quiet, yet heated argument, their expressions shifting as they spoke in a secret language born from centuries of acquaintanceship.

At last, Cassian’s shoulders slumped a bit. Whatever those glances and the discussion hidden in between them meant, the General raised the flag of surrender. [Name] could still see the creases on his forehead, the predictions and strategies regarding Azriel’s motivations, but it became clear that he would rather not voice them nor meddle any further.

She was slightly startled, whatsoever, at the sudden outburst of foreign thoughts that poured inside her own mind. Regardless of the barriers and training to maintain one’s consciousness on a leash, during certain stressing moments, it was natural to lose a bit of that composure and untighten the ruthless clutch, allowing the river currents of thoughts to run its wild course. Whenever [Name] attempted to put that specific occurrence into words, she felt as though a madwoman would. How could she complain to Cassian that, unbeknownst to him, he started to think too loudly? The female caught an overall understanding of his worries and hesitation before burying her power, refusing to pry on the General’s mind without his consent. 

What she heard, however, was clear enough. Although guilt tore her apart with its greedy fingers, clawing on skin and muscle, [Name] offered a nod of reassurance and a small upward curve of her lips to Cassian, attempting to demonstrate her willingness to ignite a frail ember of friendship. He was suddenly aghast, but the grin that broke free was almost a key to free her from the self-imposed prison of remorse.

“Give him hell,” Cassian told her, pointing to Azriel with his head. A single shadow roamed closer to her face at the act, and [Name]’s grin somehow found a way to her lips. 

“Planning on it.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his brother gave his shoulder a nudge, offering [Name] a last farewell smile before he made his way to the stairwell at the end of the hallway. The female was well aware of where that path led: the training rink at the very top of the House of Wind. She had started to observe the entire architecture of the place from the first moment her feet met its surface. [Name] studied the cracks and turns and patterns, from the substructure to the truss, and was left mesmerized at the intrinsic manner with which the house converged with the mountain it was built on. [Name] had concluded that, if not for the aid of magic, the entire structure would not last longer than a single month in such hostile ground. It was, matter-of-factly, a finished subject: magic had built what the common hands could not. However, she could not help the wandering thoughts and plans, pondering the most suitable approach to use was she the one assigned to architect the foundation, with nothing more than calculus and trials.

It was a pastime that came back from when she was but a toddler, fidgeting with her hands and sitting on her father’s lap at his office. [Name] was an eager girl, aware of her responsibilities as the oldest, desperate to learn more of the Archeron trade. Of course, her father could not teach a single important subject regarding the stratagems of a merchant’s life to a child of six, for she would scarcely understand the basis. Rather than sending her off to find suitable entertainment elsewhere, the man gave her detailed drawings of the family’s fleet, instructing that she was to trace the ships’ plans and try to recreate it with as much accuracy as she could. Soon enough, [Name] began to draw ships of her own, using a ruler and the knowledge gained with the already done projects she so eagerly stared at. The interest evolved, from ships to houses to structures with many floors and windows. [Name] enjoyed the process of drawing particular projects through calculus, the right pencil and different sorts of rulers and compasses; she adored the immersion of her observation; her attempts to guess the thought-process of the one responsible to architect the base of the finished construction where she stood. 

Yet, it was an infertile and incongruous activity. Someone of her age and responsibilities could not give oneself the luxury of wasting time on straight lined-doodles and unfinished ideas.

[Name] had spent much of her years reading about economy, learning about negotiations, practicing the sweet-tongued mischief that led one to agree to a risky, yet calculated partnership. It was a necessary sacrifice, for it granted her younger sisters the freedom and privilege to dedicate themselves to more pleasant pastimes. Elain fell for the art of gardening, Feyre began to experiment with paintings, and even Nesta had, for a while, devoted herself to dancing, before their mother managed to poison that love too. It was not proper for [Name] to try and do the same — not when her passions were so strict, and scarcely as interesting as her sisters’.

Chess was an interesting game with valuable strategies that could be recreated in battle; chemistry aided her understanding of their world, for it could be found everywhere, and was an important tool when it came to the creation of substances and devices that didn’t rely on magic; the studies of the weather and barometric were crucial if one meant to predict the most appropriate moment to patch off a fleet of goods; and even those silly texts about body language had somehow helped her in her craft. But coming up with the structure of mansions and houses, alternative internal systems and weaponry? It was of no use.

[Name] had ceased to dream of those creations, and decided to never draw a single thing again after she had nearly crumbled at the sight of her father, coming to Velaris with four ships — the same ones she drew, the same ones she showed him, the same ones whose plans he kept safe, even during poverty — to aid in their battle against Hybern. It should not be hard to abandon those childish desires after such a brutal loss. However, during most of the times, the female caught herself observing and predicting, as she was doing just then, and had to tear her gaze from the walls, forcing her mind back to the present.

“There’s drool on your chin,” Azriel called out through gritted teeth and an odd, ironical smile, as she moved to touch her skin, scowling at him immediately. “We could stay for another hour if you want to stare a little more.”

Despite the venom on his words, [Name] gave the male an ironic grin. “I’m sure that wall is much more interesting than whatever you’ll have to show me.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “The wall.”

Azriel walked straight through her, and his shadows moved all around him, covering the outline of his broad back in the incorporeal of pitch-black. The sudden abandonment of both left her puzzled, and the silence that overcame their past banter was a fruit of their bewilderment.

Upon reaching the balcony, [Name] was reminded of Clotho’s note. Observing the position in which the sun held itself on the sky, she noted that it was, indeed, quite early. Time had the odd tendency of becoming a mere nuisance when one was too focused on a more pleasant task, and to [Name], who thought very little of reality and dreamt of detaching herself from it, the passage of time was constantly forgotten. She thought it was, at best, one in the afternoon. Instead, her brief glance told her it couldn’t be past nine.

Azriel leaned sideways on the balcony, staring at her with a vexing expression of impatience. Her scowl all but deepened as she followed in suit, noting how the yet-to-be warm sunrays basked on the columns, all made of white stone and marble. [Name] was sure that an artist of some sort had been a part of the construction, for architecture could only travel so far alone. The pattern of those columns, from the base to the abacus, surpassed the limitations of a ruler and calculus: it was the heritage of a talented artist who understood and valued Velaris, who managed to engrave a Starfall with nothing but marble and argil. It was magnificent, and yet, she would have enjoyed the observation better if not for a bad-mannered Illyrian soldier groaning at her delay.

“Where are we meant to go?” [Name] inquired, ignoring his ill temper. “If you try to drag me to those Illyrian mountains I’m going back to my room.”

“And survive amidst that stench?” Azriel mocked, finally breaking into a grin. “We have a deal.”

“That never mentioned where you would be training me. I ain’t going back there.”

“As much as I would love to drag you and watch as you gave them reasons to call the Archeron sisters witches,” he commented, seeming to be delighted with his own thoughts. “I, too, won’t step foot into that hole unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

The sudden bitterness in his tone made her swallow the taunt that hung prepared at the tip of her tongue. She, instead, fixed the bag on her shoulder and moved closer, seeing the fall that awaited for a misstep, as though a starving beast. Ten thousand steps. A journey she had never longed for, never had the need for either. To create wings was, as of now, as simple as taking a deep breath. [Name] wished she had been given that ability sooner. She could think of countless painful scenarios, all involving a bed, a man, and a tiled ceiling, in which flying away would have been useful. But she pushed that memory aside, observing Azriel’s wandering glance, and the experimental close of his hand, as if he was making sure that his fingers still worked, that his long-ago healed skin remained to be covered in scars rather than flames. It was a situation she understood well enough: when one was trapped into unpleasant memories and could not tear oneself from them without external help.

“Where are we going, then?” [Name] asked, her voice seeming to be enough to free the Spymaster from that trance. 

“Northwest, past the mountains and the Faerie realms.” 

The female’s next words caught in her throat as she stared at him in utter shock. Azriel outstretched his hand, the single wisp of a shadow nestling itself in the strap of her bag. She hadn’t need a phrasal command, understanding his intentions immediately. [Name] gave him her bag, and Azriel held it as he took flight, gliding over her. His frame and wings covered the sun, creating a patch of shadows that moved ever so slightly from where she stood. 

“Shift into something bigger than a swallow, or you won’t be able to keep up with my flight,” that brought her words back.

“Excuse me?” The idea of shifting into a bigger winged predator made her mouth dry with fear, the core of the dragon within her still a vivid memory that kept her rooted in place.

“When in the skies, wingspan is crucial for how fast the creature can move—”

“I know that,” she nearly hissed, irked at his tone, as if he had been trying to explain a difficult concept to a toddler.

“So? Shift. We don’t have the whole day.”

“Why can’t you just winnow us there? Too weak to do that while with me and a single bag?” Her taunts might as well have been flies surrounding his ego. Azriel was not at all moved, seeming merely out of patience as he awaited for her.

“You need to learn the path for yourself. A single shift in the wind and you’ll be overflying Rask without knowing. I’m not taking that risk.”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest. He would not drag her, nor would he insist further. If truth was being told, Azriel had not touched her once in months — and those rare times in which their bodies met were fruits of accidents or desperate measures. More than anyone, he respected her space. The Shadowsinger would not grab her and drag her body to where she needed to be, which left them both in a competition fueled by obstination and pride.

“I’m going there once and never again, why would I need to learn anything?”

If he was hurt by her statement, the pain trespassed his features as swiftly as a blink. “You can’t possibly expect us to winnow you around wherever your heart desires. It is one thing to help your sisters, who can not winnow nor fly, but you are more than well-equipped to go through those miles alone. The length from Velaris to beyond the mountains is a long one, and winnowing there would be tiresome. Move your ass and shift.”

[Name] gritted her teeth, feeling as though a child that had been scolded. He remained the same, not bothering to move a single inch, his breathlessly handsome face taken with stoic challenge. If she had dared to do as though those architects that evolved into artists of their own craft, how would her columns be? Her once frustratingly short life had but turned into an infinite thread of centuries and possibilities. Time was no longer a reaper, but a welcoming host. At last, immortality offered her plaster and resin, tools for modeling and argil. Still, she dodged it, for she would not have built a column or two, she would have sculpted him, right in that glorious stance, wings wide open, with eyes that burned with arrogance, and hands that she longed to touch after what seemed to be a lifetime of avoidance and fear.

Her eyes met his. [Name] hated the male that brought such feelings to the surface, and she hated him even more for knowing that she was not capable of tormenting him with the same urge, the same treacherous bite of desire that hid amongst roses of feigned distaste. 

“Don’t expect a dragon,” she told him at last, trying to think of an animal whose wings matched the span of an Illyrian’s, resenting those who saw her as nothing but a beast.

“I never asked for one,” he answered matter-of-factly. In his face, she noted the slightest sign of comprehension, hiding somewhere in between the cracks of that mask of nonchalance. 

Harpies and eagles came to mind at once, but those were birds of both size and violence, animals she had never shifted into. [Name] learned the hardest way that each and every animal had an instinct, one that was deserving of proper attention and care. When she shifted into a creature, the first seconds were crucial, for the very core of the chosen animal would overcome her own mind and desires. Because she failed to control the dragon, [Name] had lost the grip of her actions and memories throughout the battle, acting on an instinct that was not hers. Showing such a vulnerability in front of Azriel was not a part of her plans — especially when he was cocky enough without that knowledge. So she played it safe. In a brief of a second, she was no longer a High Fae, but an ensemble of white and brown and black feathers, eyes as pitch as Azriel’s shadows. A gyrfalcon, slightly bigger than the ones found in the wild, and the same form she adopted during the last battle against Hybern. 

“You could’ve picked something bigger,” Azriel commented, observing the bird she chose, and [Name] chirped her discontentment, flying to his eyes with her claws in position.

He chuckled, his chest rising and falling as his lips parted way to a sound she had never once heard until then. [Name] cursed him mentally, for the shape of the falcon did not allow her ears to capture the sound entirely. Azriel dodged her claws and began his descent towards the city. [Name]’s smaller and more agile frame allowed her to harness the speed faster, and her wings opened wide as she drew closer to the ground. In a swift movement born from practice, she was flapping her way up, swirling in a mute laugh at gravity’s failed attempt to keep her anchored to the soil. 

Flying was something she would never give up nor grow tired of. When the breeze shifted into a stronger current of air, when there was nothing underneath her feet, when she was being caressed by the freedom brought by the wind, it was as though she had been reborn. For the duration of the flight, there was nothing but her form, the wisp of wind and the infinity of the sky. [Name] only mourned that she had never learned how to fly the same as her sister and the Illyrians — with an actual body rather than the shape of a smaller animal.

Azriel’s shadow appeared above her in an instant, and he naturally picked up a faster pace as they began to fly horizontally. None thought that haste was necessary, and their flight to the barriers of Velaris was one of utter calmness, in which the pair overflew the city while [Name] danced around the strings of his daring shadows. Once met with the invisible barriers, she grew tense, fearing the denial that had been thrown her way countless times before. However, Azriel flew swiftly through it, and once her turn came, [Name] was met with the same lack of opposition.

The air felt different then, and so did the Spymaster’s disposition. He quickened his pace, and [Name] forced her wings to grow larger, biting back a painful chirp as her bones stretched into place. In order to shift into an animal, she learned there were a few prerequisites. The female needed to grow familiar with the creature. It went beyond seeing them in a drawing: she had to master their behavior, understand their instincts, and study their entire anatomy. For months at hand, Morrigan winnowed her outside Velaris not only to train, but for her to see those animals in the wild, and although that came into use, there was also the case of bodily difference. It was a matter of compression and expansion. When one had to shift into a smaller bird, their previous body would, of course, suffer from brief consequences of adaptation. [Name] understood it as the process of folding and unfolding a sheet of paper: the possibilities were limitless, but the more you folded, the more lines would appear on the surface that was once straight and clear. Her shape-shifting ability relied on imagination and pain tolerance. [Name]’s bones could stretch or break under pressure to give way to a different structure; she could take over the impressive size of a dragon or the insignificant form of a ladybug; so long as she was able to endure the agonizing seconds that preceded the change.

But pain and I came to an understanding a few years ago, she thought to herself, no longer suffering from the lingering ache left in her bones, ignoring it as one would do to a mere casualty.

Her eyes were trained to the perimeter as she took in the sight of the mountains. The two of them overflew an extension of rock, trees, and eventual rivers, and when she was faced with unknown and plain territory, [Name] knew they had surpassed the frontier of the Faerie Realms. Her small heart dropped and a spontaneous chirp escaped her beak. It was a land of infinite possibilities, of wonders to be unraveled in a biome of sand and heat that she had read about but never met. If fate had been kinder, [Name] would have glided to Azriel’s arms and shifted into her fae body; she would have gaped at the vision before her and wept at the opportunity to be met with such a wide extension of land; she would not have flinched at the sound of his scoff against her earlobe, would not have frozen when his grip tightened around her body. But then again, if fate had been kinder, she would never have gotten so far as beyond the Faerie Realms. With that resolution, she merely flew faster, resting on his nape with enough care as to not maim his skin with her claws.

“Getting comfortable?” Azriel mocked, and in her silence, he continued. “Or was I right and your tired ass should have turned into a bigger bird?”

A single claw scratched his nape, threatening to pierce the smooth skin. He hissed, but she did not bother staring down at his reaction, her eyes glued to the scenario that unfolded underneath them. Azriel himself grew quiet, and did not attempt to stop the scarce and frail shadows when some pooled at her feet and made her company. It could have been hours or minutes — she would not know — but eventually, the desert gave way to sporadic specks of green, that, on their hand, grew into a huge forest, miles and miles of trees and rivers, of mountainscapes covered in moss and leaves, some standing so tall that they kissed the clouds and were coated in snow. 

Azriel began his descent, and once they were sheltered from the burning midday sun, she noted the sweat pooling on his neck. [Name] had barely felt the heat back then, but dressed in Illyrian leather, undoubtedly the Spymaster had been punished by the warmth. Not wishing to add further discomfort, [Name] flew away from his nape and re-started the diligent flapping pattern of her wings, losing herself amidst the trees and enjoying the breeze on her feathers. Eventually, she nearly lost the way through all of that freedom, and had to be guided back to Azriel by one of his shadows, who grew stronger and with a bigger range after the pair escaped the ruthless ministration from the scalding sun.

It was the start of the afternoon when she heard the waves. Azriel led them west, clearing their way through the forest and propelling himself up whenever the trees grew too troublesome to dodge. [Name] had half the notion that their overall altitude decreased mid-flight, and although the increase of the heat was an imminent indicator of their destination, her mind would never have wrapped itself around the existence of a beach. It seemed unreal to her — someone who had been rooted into a home in the middle of a small town, someone who had never been allowed to travel, someone who had thought it was impossible to see the world in that life — that a single place could hold both a forest and a beach, that tree and sand could share a neighborhood, but there it was. 

The soil began to lose its domain as the pair flew closer west. The more they descended, the more the earth shifted into solid rock. Although she could point out natural coexistence, the trees and its leaves built a thicket glued to the ground, as if they had forgotten the proper way to grow and started to be pulled by gravity and its invisible string. She could see them more as huge bushes than trees per say, for the stalks were so small and thin, and palm trees were now a common sight, their movement following the sway of the wind. There was a small quantity of moss covering the rocks closer to the sea, and mountains of mid-length were caught in between forest and shore, as though it was the one thing connecting the two.

The waves kept their steady onslaught against the tall and sharp rocks of the shore, and Azriel duck, his frame a dark contrast to that haven of sun and sand and sea. She followed in suit, noting that, from a huge cavern located on the top of a cliff at her right, plummeted a thin waterfall. Once Azriel landed on his knees — a dramatic pose he seemed to treasure — he stretched his neck and placed her bag on the sand. Staring up at her, who chose to keep gliding, the well-deserved resting made for the return of his teasing spirit.

“If you want to fly some more, I’m sure those seagulls back there would be up for a good fight.”

A revolted chirp died on her throat as the opportunity ensued. Azriel got himself distracted with the disappearance of his Illyrian armor, and [Name] duck, shifting back into her fae form mid-air. She fell on his back and the Spymaster — who was still on his knees — fell face flat on the sand. The female got up as soon as her body touched his, grabbing her bag and staring at the sea.

“Did you make me wait an entire week for us to sleep under a cliff and live off the coconuts from the palm trees?” [Name] taunted him, whistling innocently once his deadly glance fell over her form. She had no doubt that he would find a way to retribute that prank of hers with twice as much force.

“Look behind you, smartass,” he scoffed. The second she did as so, hot sand was thrown on her nape, particles of it entering her jacket. [Name] didn’t need to spare a single glance to understand what had happened, and the sound of his own whistle — meant to mock her previous one — made her blood boil. However, before she could engage in a childish sand-battle that was beyond her normal behavior, her mouth fell agape at the sight above her.

There was a large cavity in the middle of the towering cliff. She squeezed her eyes to catch on it, for the entrance was covered by yet another pair of waterfalls, the two with a current stronger than the one she had seen earlier, acting as though a curtain of slight fog and liquid. The water fell on a small pool — surely one that had been made due to erosion — and followed a short route through rock and sand that disembogued on the sea. For a second, the female believed that her enhanced ears granted by the fae body had begun to fail her. She could hear the sound of the waves against the shore, the seagulls fighting for a poor, freshly caught fish, and the wind rustling the palm trees’ leaves, but she could not hear the sound of the waterfall, which was alarming considering the intensity of the flow. 

Damn were those explosions! Soon enough, her sight would fall victim to the same tragedy, due to action of the toxins she so diligently worked with, the thought made her shiver. Perhaps it was a sign to start using those stupid leather-strapped googles.

As if caughting on her confusion, Azriel chuckled somewhere behind her. “The sound is muted by magic.”

Ah, [Name] realized. Magic, of course. The very thing that made the faes’ lives easier, that granted them the means to create things that no mortal could dare to aspire, not even during their most drunk state. [Name] was unused to that kind of commodity, and would sometimes fail to phantom the extensive lengths in which one could go with the aid of magic. Magic that she wielded, and that she refused to use out of the fear of forgetting the pleasure of building and drawing with her own hands, of cooking and preparing her own bath, rather than handling it to an external and incomprehensible force. 

Azriel was suddenly by her side, eyeing her curiously before continuing. “I’ve created that cavern. It’s not born from a natural process, nor was it there already. I wanted a quiet place of my own, far from any boundary, so I grabbed a good enough pickaxe and built myself an entrance.”

“You’re fucking with me,” she scoffed, her glance holding his own. “You opened a hole through solid rock with your strength alone?”

Azriel himself was shocked. “You forget how strong we are, don’t you? How strong you are. [Name], considering the entire set of our abilities and scarce limitations of our bodies, opening a cleft is the least we are able to do.”

Her breath nearly caught on her throat at the sound of her name on his tongue. Rare were the moments in which both addressed one another by their given names, and she had only noticed it now, that not sooner he had said her name, she wanted to hear it again. And again. And again. During the most diverse of circumstances, some dirtier than she predicted; the sudden desire, a wave that the female had never thought she was capable of nurturing for someone else after all of those harsh years. She swallowed a lump of nervousness, stared at the entrance above them, and Azriel continued.

“It took me a while to create it, though. It was not the home I cared for, it was the process of reaching it. I wanted something to do with my hands after the war,” his voice shuddered ever so slightly at the mention of his scarred skin. It was a sound so vulnerable and, yet so swift, that one could even argue that they had imagined it. But [Name], who paid attention to his every movement without, had caught on it. 

Allowing him to ignore that change in tone — to never address it — was the thing she loved the most about their dynamic. Azriel did not want her pity, nor did she want his, however, if one was to slip — opening an unwanted crack on the solid walls of their fortresses — rather than acting as though a listening ear to a pain neither wished to address, the other would simply wait until that fissure was mended. They would not offer each other soothing sentences or draw the illusion, born from a childish desire, of a future without battle and suffering. The two had experienced the worst that could come from the cruelest beings; had been both maimed by constant cruelty; had been scarred enough to refuse that blind idealism that drove pure hearts to the possible existence of long-lasting peace. They were born not to protect, but to survive. And silently acknowledging that single slip, granting the other a second of vulnerability, was their way to keep each other strong, to keep marching forward — without pity, without unnecessary emotion.

Like Calls to like. It seemed to be a keen enough saying when it came to the two of them.

“Sometimes, I would come here and punch the rocks until they gave in. Sometimes, I would use the power of my Siphons. Rarely, I actually used the pickaxe,” [Name] snickered at that. “I’ve built this entrance through rage and boredom and ease. It is a creation from every single feeling I’ve had during the years. When I noticed that I had opened enough space, and that it was about time I started decorating for once, I was kind of disappointed.”

She hummed, sweat pooling on her nape from where the fabric of her jacket clung to. “I’m sure those rocks back there would be up for a good fight,” the female commented, using his previous words against him.

“Better to fight a rock than a seagull, at least cliffs are tough opponents.”

“Seagulls actually move and fight back,” she countered.

“So you admit that you would struggle in a fight against seagulls?”

His tone was amused, causing her to grit her teeth. “I’ll give them your severed arm for lunch.”

“With this heat and your heavy choice of clothing, you’ll faint before managing to land a single punch,” Azriel noted, and [Name] shifted in full-force to stare at him, about to comment on his choice for Illyrian leather, just for her words to flee from both mind and tongue at the sight of him with merely a black tank-top and matching trousers.

“When did you—”

“Magic,” this time, his winning grin and mocking tone did nothing to vex her. [Name] was quite too busy tearing her eyes from his frame. She heard a dry laugh, followed by the sound of his wings propelling him up in the air.

Feyre had once said that [Name]’s transformations were one of the most beautiful sights she laid eyes on. According to her youngest sister, her previous form would vanish, giving way to the brief appearance of grouped particles that gleamed in silver, as if her magic was the manifestation of stardust. From the core of ethereal light, she arose in the newest form that suited her desires best. As [Name] took the body of the gyrfalcon, she couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the breeze born from the flapping of her wings scattered the said gleaming essence of her magic. It was hard to imagine that she could be the source of such a beautiful thing, but it was not unpleasant.

To reach the inside of the cave, she had to go through the liquid curtain of the waterfall. When [Name] shifted back, her body and clothes were drenched in seawater. Azriel waited ahead, leaning on the arched frameway of the wooden-door. He had gone through the trouble of building an entire entrance, with an external leisure area located left from the door, surrounded by fences made of polished wood. As soon as she began to walk towards him, hissing at the feeling of her wet socks, talons of shadows came to circle her wrists, guiding her to the entryway. She did not need their assistance, but accepted it still. The cave’s ceiling was enchanted, and although she could see the stalactites, they seemed awfully out of place, for rather than pitch-black darkness above, [Name] saw a mimic of the ethereal afternoon-sky of Velaris, with the bright blue shade accompanied by the faint hues of pink and lilac, a sign that dusk was near. His shadows swirled more comfortably now, as if the shore and burning sun from the outside drained them of life.

“We never managed to get the sky right,” Azriel commented as she reached the entrance, stepping foot on the single step that led to the leisure area. A shadow seemed to point the way left, and [Name] noted a set of armchairs, two common chairs, both suitable for Illyrian wings, and finally, at the corner in between the two latter, a chess set displayed on a table.

“We?” [Name] whispered half-attentively, her eyes glued to those damned pieces and that damned board, her fingers stretching due to the sudden urge to play.

“Rhys and I,” he explained, and she could sense a tinge of amusement in his voice. “The house itself wasn’t meant to be heavily enchanted or guarded. It was glamoured to avoid unwelcome visitors, but I hadn’t felt the need for further protection until I came up with the idea of bringing you here.”

[Name]’s eyes met his attentive ones, and the depth of his sea of longing was hued in hazel and golden-light. 

“Hence why you made me wait for a week?” She inquired, and the sound of her voice was almost a treacherous profanity after it slashed through their previous silence, loud with words unsaid.

He swallowed hard, gripping the doorknob. “I like to keep you on edge, impatience suits you well. The threats are my personal favorite.”

Perhaps, she went mad with the heat; perhaps, the water clinging to her ribs had made her reckless; perhaps, her mind remained filled with much too many thoughts about chess and constructions and sculptures to process another thought if not one of those subjects; because the trap was an obvious obstacle placed on the side of her foot, and [Name] chose to willingly step on it, if only to amuse the Spymaster further.

“I will punch your teeth.”

“Feeble excuse to touch my lips.”

[Name]’s mouth shot open and she felt the blush that crept up her neck. His winning-grin had given her the actual desire to punch his teeth, but then again, that would make him smile more. Azriel gave her bag a light kick and pointed with his head towards the chess board.

“Change into something fresher and we’ll play a match or two.”

“Weren’t we here to train?” [Name] questioned, ignoring his first sentence. She hadn’t brought fresher clothes; all of her wardrobe was of long-sleeved shirts and dresses, for she meant to cover the inside of her left forearm.

“We are, but it’s almost dusk and we’ve flown most of the day,” he pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. [Name] tried not to notice the muscles of his biceps, nearly shivering at the sight.

“I don’t have fresher clothes,” she blurted out, fearing that he could catch the trail of her thoughts otherwise.

He raised an eyebrow. “Cut the sleeves of some shirts, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need to.”

“We will be training under the scalding midday sun, you need to,” he stated matter-of-factly, annoyingly unbothered. 

“I can handle—”

“Why, [Name]?” The Spymaster asked again, the sound of her name nearly causing her knees to buckle. Once met with her silence, however, he continued. “Wanna strike another deal?”

The challenge left her on edge, a shiver running down her spine where the tattoo of their pact had appeared a week prior. “We’re striking deals whenever we find an impasse?”

“If that’s what I need to crack open that mouth of yours,” a sea of curses poured from her thoughts but Azriel did not give her the chance to voice them. “Only this time, I was thinking of chess rather than magic.”

“Chess?” She asked him, tentatively. The bastard sure knew how to spike her interests.

“We play a match. Winner asks a question, loser is obliged to answer honestly.”

This got her to crack a laugh, one that echoed with arrogance. “You won’t get many answers from me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the ambient had shifted into something more electrifying, a sudden string of shared anticipation. “But I like that deal, you’ll be forced to speak up more.”

“I speak,” he countered, almost offended. 

“Sure. I’ve known you for a year and the only things I’m sure of are your name and the friends you have.”

“Well, I know your name and the fact that you have three sisters.”

“You know more than that,” she rebuked immediately.

“Like?”

She fell silent. He grinned. His hand turned on the doorknob, and the passage to his home-cave was granted.

“Alright, Azriel,” she said, and his entire body seemed to shudder. “You’ve got yourself another deal.”

Their second chess match began.

trivia: the war between montesere and vallahan is entirely made-up and not a part of canon, alongside the story of the dragons. i came up with a few things of my own for the sake of the reader’s development! ;)

general notes: i am deeply sorry for how long it took me to post the second chapter. if i am being honest, i struggled a lot with their dynamics, since what i once wanted for them seemed to be very out-of-character with the az we know. i decided to work with his silent-little-shit-self and his very brief (SJM i am inside your walls) interaction with gwyn. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i would love to hear your opinions and criticism on it. i promise i will try my best to write smaller chapters and to post them a little faster! lots of love <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd

[dvstlah]

Safe harbor | Draco malfoy

Draco Malfoy knew he wasn't the best person in the world. Shit, he knew he was a bad person, the kind who rotted after coming into contact with so much other rotten fruit. The eyes were blue like ice, sometimes silver like the moon; but all the boy could see was blood.

Blood division.

And he believed. For a long time, he believed in what his family preached, so this made him proud, thinking he was invincible. And, indeed, Draco thought he was. The type of person who would never fail, who wouldn't make mistakes, simply because he was above it all. Because he would never in his life be able to love and let that feeling get in the way of his ambition.

But Malfoy couldn't be more wrong.

The last year at Hogwarts broke him.

That is, the war broke him, in the same way that all wars were capable of destroying spirits completely. It was shards so sharp that they cut themselves. The weight of his mortal task consumed him so much that he could no longer even see the blood, so familiar since his birth. At least not in the same way.

Pure blood? Half Blood? Muggle-born?

And what did it matter? If, when it was all over, everyone would be buried under the same earth?

The only blood he could now see was that running down his forearm, punctured by the pressure of his own nails. And the red liquid that would soon dirty his hands, when he accomplished his task; when it finally broke completely. Draco had no way out. There was no support. He walked to the edge of the cliff, so his only option was to jump and wait for his own end.

Nobody would care. His mother, perhaps, but not enough to save him. There were so many times that he reached out his hand and gave silent screams for help... in. they go. Nobody cared. Your father, your aunt, your family, your empty friends from high school Y/n then certainly not a mudblood griffon who insisted on staying around. No, not her. Malfoy even felt bad, because the more time he spent with that girl, the more he felt like he was sucking the life out of her.

And she was so full of life. There was something behind those bright eyes that radiated light and resilience, as if it were a firm anchor on which people they could hold on. The more the witch insisted on trying to form a friendship with Draco Malfoy, the more he felt like he was about to. exploding. Because the first time he was touched by that light, something changed. A strange tingle, a breath off vigor; some force that pulled him up when all he wanted was to sink.

He remembered what he had said to her in a rare moment of vulnerability, when he was lying on the floor of the third-floor bathroom and felt like he was dying.

"A girl with such bright eyes shouldn't surround herself with so much darkness."

Draco hoped that damn Gryphon could see the panic in his eyes and get the message. He just wanted her to move away; that would let him become what he was created to be. A monster? A killer? A shell of yourself? The blonde didn't even know. But the Mudblood was so stubborn, and... and...

"Have you forgotten that a star can only shine in the dark, Draco?"

In that damn moment, Malfoy could have sworn his name coming out of that mouth was like a life preserver. A rope, something to hold on to, if only he allowed himself. And the way he murmured her name in return was the strangest thing he had ever witnessed, the amount of feelings frightening him for a moment. It was like a plea. A prayer.

Please save me.

And as much as he couldn't understand his own request or everything he hid behind it, y/n knew that Draco Malfoy needed an anchor; of a safe harbor to dock in. Because, otherwise, I would never leave the bottom of that dark sea.

But he had a duty, a fundamental part in the destruction that was about to happen. He didn't love the wizarding world because he didn't love anything, but the thought of seeing it destroyed was so painful it left him breathless.

He always wanted to disappear from that place so full of magic, because he felt suffocated, suffocated...

Until the day the rope stretched for the first time.

The Slytherin took a moment to hold her. But when he did, he found that he didn't want to let go anymore.

The world started to make a little sense, with colors and scents that the boy had never noticed before. And then he was afraid.

More than any dread he had felt before in his life, Draco feared for the safety off Y/n and the possibility that the light had no future. If she went out... by Merlin, if she went out, he didn't know what would be left of him.

Or maybe he knew.

Anything. There would be nothing left.

If she were gone, the final blow would be struck, and only then would the boy break completely, deeply, beyond repair.

Then he realized that nothing else mattered. The Muggle blood, the shining Gryffindor badge, his perfect Slytherin family, the war... nothing more.An epiphany hit him. And there, on that chaotic battlefield, watching her from afar, Draco Malfoy wondered if he would ever understand the plans the universe had for him and why his destiny had become intertwined with someone so different from himself.

But when it was all over, he understood. When he was so tired and cracked, the delicate hands that wrapped him in a hug finally made him understand: the war might have broken him, but Draco would still be able to turn himself into abstract art.

It also didn't matter if he was immersed in darkness, because even the night is capable of bringing peace and now his did, because it was illuminated by Y/n's star.

And in her lips, Malfoy found the happiness of a safe haven.

[a-french-coconut]

Part 4 (Will Solace)

Will Solace wakes up in the infirmary.

His supersonic whistle worked then ! His siblings must have found him and brought him back.

Fortunately for him, they're not currently present and he's alone. Otherwise he'll sure he would be chained to his bed the second he set his feet on the ground.

He finds himself in front a mirror.

Which would not be a problem except for the fact that he remembers really well punching this specific mirror one year ago in a fit of despair.

He really did not take well becoming Head Counsellor and main medic.

Did he replace the mirror ? Or his siblings maybe ?

Maybe he did replace it and just doesn't remember it. It wouldn't be the first time he forgot he did something. His brain is too occupied with fatal injuries and what ungodly morning hour he could wake up his boyfriend. In other words, this mirror is the last of his concerns.

Will

He turns around abruptly and but doesn't see anyone.

Why didn't you save me ?

It's not Raz, not her voice he would recognise it. Another spirit then.

Not a spirit, Solace. Just an old friend you let down.

An old friend ? None of his old friends have the capacity to pull this trick.

Except Travis maybe but Travis is in college.

"Why did you let me die ?"

There is a girl sitting on a bed.

Grey eyes that seem like they know all your weaknesses, red curly hair surrounding her face.

"Why did you let me die Will ?", says Justine, daughter of Athena, who died in the Battle of the Labyrinth.

"I didn't let you die, I gave everything I had to save you !" he protests because it's true. She was the last alive demigod injured they brought to the infirmary. Despite Lee's death on his mind, he tried his best to save her but she was brought in too late.

"Ah sorry, you misunderstood me." She stands up, blood dripping from her gash in the stomach, and marches towards Will.

She stops so close he can see the freckles dotting her nose.

"Why did you let me die in pain ?"

"What ?"

"You knew it was worthless. There was no way to save me and yet you made me endure two hours of endless suffering when you could have just killed me."

His dead friends usually accuse of letting them die. Not one has ever been angry with him for not killing them.

"Killed you ? And how exactly ! A quick snap of the neck ? A dagger through the heart ? Do tell me Justine, how the fuck do you suggest I coldly murdered you !"

"Oh I don't know ! I'm not the one with the fucking plague powers !"

Will staggers back, his back hitting the mirror .

"How- how do you know about..."

"Did you really think your little secret would stay hidden for long !", she laughs, specks of blood splattering his face.

"Everybody knows the monster you are Will. They all know you let their siblings die in pain because you were too selfish."

Tobias from Cabin 5, punctured lung.

Daphne from 11, extremely long blood loss because of a severed leg.

Victor from 9, covered so badly in burns Will didn't not know it was him until he heard his voice.

So much demigods counting on him to save them.

Only for him to fail them even in their death.

"Please stop this"

Justine pays him no mind, morphing into every demigod who died under his care, all looking at him with betrayal.

(We are not evil Will)

(No matter what you do, they'll blame us either way)

(So don't blame yourself for being a good person. Already enough people will do it for you)

"I didn't let you down."

Will looks in the eye of each demigod appearing in from of him.

"I did my best to save you and I failed. But if you think I regret for one second the pain I made you suffered in your last moments you are wrong. That pain meant there was still a chance for me to save you. And I will never abandon one of my patient."

He is standing in front of Justine again.

He's feeling rather light, like a burden was taken from his shoulders.

He supposes it had, watching Justine smiles at him with gratitude.

"Thank you for never abandon me old friend", she whispers fading in the light of the infirmary.

(Time to go back in the living world Will)

(I think we owe the campers we got sick to come back and heal them)

You did that Raz, as far as I am concerned, I took no part in it.

(Delusion can only get you so far Willy)

Don't call me that.

Will punches the mirror.

He really should have known it was a dream.

Kayla would have never let him without supervision.

The moment he opens his eyes, he regrets it, the bright light burning his eyes and causing him to groan.

"Will ! You're awake !"

His sister rushes to his side.

"You're alright ?"

"Yes Kayla, I'm fine."

She lets out a relieved sigh and then proceeds to hit him in the stomach.

Multiple times.

Every punch a little meaner.

"Ouch ! Oh my gods Kayla you can't hit an injured demi- Ouch ! Stop this !"

"Don't ever disappear like this again ! I thought you were dead when I found you !"

"Oh Kayla..."

She hugs him hard, crushing his now bruised torso, and Will hugs even harder.

Nico was right. Three days are an awfully long time.

His arms are constantly covered in some salve, the freshness doing wonder for his burned skin, and he is prohibited from doing anything requiring magic. His new hairstyle is proof he needs to rest and gain back a lot of energy before starting to use it again.

But Will can't just stay in bed all day while the rest of the campers are still sick. However Kayla is well aware of his mother-hen nature and doesn't let him out of her sight.

Hey Raz ? Up for a little trip ?

(Will, we are going to be unstoppable !)

The dryads and Chiron are too busy to notice a little girl going bed to bed, eyes flashing green and tendrils of smoke dancing on her fingers.

Within the week, there is not a trace left of the illness.

Within the week, Will did not leave his cabin and when Kayla barges in, asking him how the Hades he managed to heal the entire camp, he just shrugs and tell her it must have been dad feeling a little gracious.

He was, after all, confined to his bed and took his little sister's orders very seriously.

He can hear laughter from his open window.

He is still weak, especially after his little trick with Raz, and is not allowed to leave his bed.

He doesn't mind, really.

"Stop moving amore mio, I'm trying to sleep here"

Will smiles at Nico di Angelo, the son of Hades sprawled all over him as if he was in his bed in Cabin 13.

"You missed quite lot, running around doing your father's requests. I have a lot of things to tell you."

"Can't it wait until tomorrow ? I'm very sleepy."

Will smiles fondly at his boyfriend and hugs him tighter.

"Yes it can. Good night my little ball of darkness."

"Good night tesoro"

"Call me like that again and I'll set the Cocoa Puffs on you."

"They love me !"

"Shut up and let me sleep Solace."

Will lets out a little laugh, kiss his boyfriend on the head, and closes his eyes.

Kayla's outrageous gasp when she found out in the morning that Nico had an impromptu sleepover was even more worth it.

"You're grounded !"

"I'm the Head Counsellor Kayla. You can't ground me."

What a better way to start the morning that waking up in your boyfriends' arms and pissing off your sister ?

Nico and he bolt out of the cabin snickering, arrows passing straight over their heads.

"Come on Neeks, there is someone you need to meet."

"I know them ?"

"You could say that, yes."

And this is the end of this little story !

Hope you enjoyed it !

[gemini526sdumptruck]

The Residents of Dead End

These guys were a batch of OCs I made a year ago, and lately I just had the motivation to digitalize them (they haven't had any digital appearances until now). I finally came up with some kind of lore for them and where they live!

These objects live in a town known only as "Dead End". It's a place that's almost completely isolated from the rest of the world. Everyone who lives here is either a monster, looks rather deathly, just really twisted, or a combination of these. Traditions and cultures in Dead End are very different from any other place's, with them ranging from a little strange to rather macabre. Dead End's townspeople tend to not like outsiders very much, and so it's said by many people that entering Dead End is like a death wish.

Brief character descriptions under the cut

Lavender- Kinda the main girl here. She's the most reserved of all these guys. Lavender is gentle, friendly, and is said to be very calming to be around. She just likes to visit graveyards and ghosts from time to time.

Jig and Saw- They're twins who are essentially "soul bound" to eachother. They share the exact same thoughts and always finish eachother's sentences. Jig is super flamboyant and extroverted, while Saw is painfully dull and monotone. Jig knows how you will die, Saw knows when.

Nine- He's a cloud who rains (and leaks) ink instead of rain (or at least, it's assumed to be ink). Nobody really knows how or why, and neither does Nine. He's not one of many words, but occasionally he lets out raspy, whispery sentences.

Ody- Ody is a wind-up doll who also plays music. Particularly he likes to dance to the eerie melodies he contains, even though his movement is janky. He's got a surprising amount of snark to him, but everything he says sounds super cheery and saccharine, punctuated with a giggle.

Burnout- She's technically not...alive. Burnout’s essentially a hollowed corpse. Her eyes look black because she’s literally hollow inside. Some unforeseen force is controlling her body and basically puppeting it. Otherwise, she's a very outgoing kind of girl.

Cloaky- Nobody knows what object Cloaky even is, but because they always walk around in that cloak, everyone just started calling them Cloaky. Cloaky wants nothing more than to have a lot of friends who love and care about them. However, if you're around them long enough you may find that they are rather...obsessive.

Confetti- He's the resident party planner of Dead End. He appears to always be super happy and cheerful, and sometimes his sentences can come across as manic. He always wants to be sure everyone is happy and smiling and his parties are the best they can be. The theming of his parties are always eerie and creepy, but the residents of Dead End love it. However, when he's provoked or when his parties go wrong, he can get real aggressive real quick.

Chro- He's currently the oldest living resident of Dead End, which nobody would believe when you see how young he looks. However, this is because throughout the years, Chro has been stealing the youth from other (outsider) objects to make himself younger. He has a deep fear of the passage of time and growing older, and so why not find a way to stay young forever? He's a very cryptic and pessimistic guy, usually telling most outsiders that they don’t have much time on this Earth to fulfill their hopes and dreams, often insisting they never will.

Red- She's a butler who works for her master Ȕ̵̹̅͘n̶͇͍̘͒͗k̷͇̓n̶̤̿ō̵̤̮̯̈́w̵̩͝n̴͚̺̾̿̔. Red is very polite and proper, and always strives to please those she works for. She's very jumpy, on edge and is very protective of Ȕ̵̹̅͘n̶͇͍̘͒͗k̷͇̓n̶̤̿ō̵̤̮̯̈́w̵̩͝n̴͚̺̾̿̔. She's also a very great cook. They say she makes the absolute best things with rum.

Phantern- He's never lived or died, he's just a spirit who's been wandering around Dead End for a long time. He only speaks in cryptic rhymes, his voice ghostly and calm. He may look intimidating, but Phantern is generally very calm. He feeds off of souls, and he will only consume your soul if you have greatly wronged him or anybody else in an unforgivable way. He also has the ability to calm troubled souls. Phantern only appears at night, and even then he's still very hidden.

Haybale- He's a scarecrow farmer who basically grows most of Dead End's produce. He's a hard worker, and he's very proud of his farm. He's a little unhinged, with a lot of his plant growing methods being largely unorthodox and off putting. But many of Dead End's residents say his produce is the best in town.

[artist-issues]

I've heard bits and pieces of a Christian argument against 'Show Yourself' from someone else, but I don't think I fully understood it nor was convinced by it. What would be your key issue with it?

My key issue with "Show Yourself" is that, both in the story and the song, Elsa's fulfillment and the power she needs to feel that fulfillment all turns out to be...Elsa. Herself. Instead of finding something or someone outside herself who can give her the help she needs or the relationship she needs or make up for the weaknesses she has, it's just herself. She is the answer. She was her own "higher power" all along. Theres nothing Christian or Good about that at all.

It's also terrible for storytelling. Nobody is excited to learn "oh this character who's felt alone and uncertain and out of step with everyone around her really just...had no problem, all along. Nothing that needed solving. Her only weakness was not realizing how awesome she is."

That's so irritating. Especially for Elsa, who, in the first movie, had to learn to stop acting like she was a monster—"monster," otherwise known as "outsider to society, special, in a semi-powerful way that could make her dangerous." And being "The Fifth Spirit" which is basically a goddess who solves everyone's problems by being high above and totally different from them is all wrong for a girl who needed to quit thinking about herself, and open up to love instead of fear. But no. Now she's just "hermit goddess living alone in the woods." Kind of like being a "hermit exile living alone in an ice palace for one." All her character "development" looks like weird inane steps backward when Show Yourself comes around.

Not to put too fine a point on it.

Other characters struggle. Other characters have a flaw, which hurts others, and they have to go through their adventure to let go of or grow out of that flaw. Elsa's flaw of believing there was something outside herself that would help her find her place? Not really a flaw, at all. Because in real life, that's correct. But in Frozen II, that mindset of looking for something outside yourself, bigger than yourself, to assign you value, is treated as incorrect. Super narcissistic. Super self-absorbed. A whirlpool of a worldview.

[have-kake]

Distant Times [LU Fic]

Summary: Destiny, Zelda had called it. A cycle of hatred, Impa had called it. A curse spanning the ages, Link had considered it.

After the war ends, Link finds hope again. Years later, he meets others who are part of the cycle. Though, not all cycles have to be bad. Maybe a small cycle of hope, perpetually locked in a period of a few short years, is just what he and a friend need.

[Warriors & Legend centric] [Ao3 Link]

Link is one more insane conversation away from picking up the table and throwing it. He doesn't understand how Zelda puts up with all these dignitaries. The Marquises all act like Zelda herself wasn't out there on the front lines protecting the kingdom and their land herself! They don't understand the level of sacrifice and pain they had to go through on the front. Even his father, an Earl, knows! As the son of a Knight, hailing from a long line of Knights, he knew combat was nothing to scoff at, even as a child. He'd seen the tremors in his father's hands on bad days. He saw the way he couldn't relax on worse days.

"Link," Impa says sidling up next to him. "Lana requires your assistance. I'll stay and watch the Princess in your stead."

Link nods his gratitude. He bows to Zelda and the Marquis—even if they don't pay him any attention—and quickly makes his escape.

He lets out a relieved sigh when he turns down an empty hallway. He's not used to this. He's not used to being a symbol.

Out on the field, he was just a soldier. Then he became a Captain. Then he was The Hero.

He should still be out there. Fighting. Clearing out stray monsters. Helping villages rebuild.

"Oh, thank the spirits!" Lana says the second he opens the door.

He pauses, casting a quick glance around the room. It's just Lana and the red haired girl– Mary he thinks her name is. What's she still doing here?

She ushers him into the room. "We have a problem."

Link's instantly on high alert. The adrenaline hits him so fast it almost makes him dizzy. A hand lands on his wrist and he swings.

Lana jumps back with a flash of magic and a startled squeak. "Sorry, sorry!" She rushes. "I probably should have worded that better!"

Link quickly sheaths the sword. "Lana, Spirits, I'm so sorry!"

"You're fine, you're fine!" She's quick to reassure. "We're all still a little jumpy."

Link winces. It's been over three months. He shouldn't be jumpy.

"Anyways!" She says grabbing his hand and dragging him further into the room. "I was having trouble sending Miss Marin home, but I think we've located the Hero's Spirit of her time. We just need you to go check first before I send her there."

"Whoa whoa, hold on," he interrupts, immediately wincing at the informality. Impa and Zelda's advisors would kill him. Lana grins at the informality. He pretends not to notice as he gets himself under control. "We were informed that all visitors had been sent home."

"Well... Yes..." Lana says guiltily. "But..."

"You lied to the Princess."

"I can't find her world okay!"

Link blinks, caught off guard by the statement. Whatever excuse he was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. "What do you mean you can't find it?"

She motions for him to look through one of the mirrors in the room. "Okay, so this is Marin's world from before she left," Lana explains. Link nods as the view constantly moves and he gets a good look at the island. "This is what happens when I try to find it after she leaves."

The image blurs and suddenly the mirror goes black. Link startles.

Next Lana pulls a magical device off a shelf and sets it on a pedestal. "We can't send someone back to before they left, otherwise we unbalance their reality." The device activates and Link's greeted with the sight of another Soul Gate. As soon as it blinks into existence, it vanishes. "Any time I open a Gate from the moment she vanished from her world, the connection breaks."

The Gate opens again only to vanish a moment later. Lana does it three more times, before turning to him. She raises her hands in a vaguely helpless gesture.

Link glances at Marin where she sits at the far end of the room. She stares down at her hands with her shoulders hunched. Even from this distance Link can see the frown on her face and the tears in her eyes. His heart breaks for her. A stranger pulled into a war not her own, and now she can't even go home.

He turns back to Lana with a frown of his own. "Can you send her to a time before her?" He asks quietly. "It's not the same, but it's close."

Lana shakes her head. "That's the thing! I can't find that either!"

He winces at her volume. He resists the urge to glance back at Marin. Should they really be having this discussion in front of her? "What do you mean you can't find it?"

"I mean it's not there," Lana says. "No blur then black, no open then close" she says pointing at the mirror and the plinth. "It's solid black from the start and a Gate won't even manifest. It's like her world began and ended in the blink of an eye."

Link scowls. This war keeps becoming crueler and crueler with each passing day, even long after it's been over. If only he'd done better. He could have ended this before Marin got dragged into his conflict. "I can see why you lied about sending everyone home."

Lana winces. She reaches out to him, but he jerks away before he can remind himself he's not supposed to. She brings her hand to her chest, cradling it over her heart. "I think I found the Hero of her world," she says.

Link's greatful she doesn't call attention to his blunder.

"I need you to go check out the place first. Make sure it's safe, and the right person was found. He's more likely to believe you than me."

--

Standing in front of a small unassuming home, Link suddenly has second thoughts. He doesn't belong here. He's a total stranger in this world.

The brooch carefully hidden under his scarf vibrates.

Swallowing the last of his nerves, he approaches the house. It's somehow even more unassuming up close. He knocks on the door.

There's movement on the other side of the door. "If you're here to complain about something you bought, I don't wanna hear it!"

Link knocks again. He can hear the exaggerated groan the person makes.

The door is thrown open by a man with sandy blond hair. The sharpness of his features puts him a few years older than Link despite the man's shorter height. Link squares his shoulders in preparation. This is going to sound ridiculous. "Are–,"

The man's face instantly lights up in recognition. "Wars! It's been ages!"

The man steps forward and envelops him in a hug. Link locks up at the contact, but the other man is already letting him go.

"I see you still have that pretty boy face in tact," he teases. "Though, the hair could use some work."

Link's suddenly all too aware of the fact he hasn't cleaned his hair in over a week, and even then he used his armor soaps last time. He clears his throat trying to push the thought away. "I think you have me confused for someone else," he says politely. "I'm not from around here."

The smile falls from the man's face. "Hey, are you okay?"

"Of course," the response is automatic. "What is your name?"

That gets him a raised eyebrow. "Legend," the man says drily. "Or Vet. Or your personal favorite, the Hoarder."

"That's... An unusual name."

Legend snorts. "Better than having to explain why we're both named Link, don't you think."

Link reaches for his sword in an aborted motion. Legend tracks the movement with his eyes, but otherwise doesn't react. "Sorry," he winces. "It's been tough since..." He hesitates. Surely there's no harm. They're ages apart. "Since war's end. I fear I'm still primed for battle."

Legend's demeanour instantly softens as he gives Link another quick once-over. He runs a hand through his hair with a weary sigh. "Shit, Wars. I'm so sorry."

Legend reaches for him but doesn't touch. His hand remains a good distance from his arm. Link is unbelievably greatful for the space.

"Do you want to come inside? I have some tea I know you'll like. Zel– Fable was here yesterday too, so I still have some cake left."

The brooch vibrates again. "I'm sorry, I can't. I still have many duties to attend to after this."

Legend lifts a finger to interrupt him. "Tell whoever's rushing you," he says waging a finger at the hidden brooch, "to fuck off. I'm trying to catch up with an old friend. Even if he only just met me."

Link steps back. How did he know it was there? "I can't. Look," he sighs. His patience is starting to wear thin. He doesn't know this man, and his familiarity with Link is freaking him out. "If you really know me as you claim to, then you should know of the weirder parts of my war."

Legend raises an eyebrow at him. "What you mean the part where other people started showing up?" Link nods. "What's that gotta do with me?"

"We've been trying to send someone home, but we can't find her world anymore," he explains. "We believe you're the Hero from her era."

"Ugh, lemme guess. You want me to take her home."

Link nods. "We'd greatly appreciate your help."

Legend runs his hands over his face. "Number eight here we go," he grumbles before looking up. "Alright, what's her name?"

"Marin of Ko–,"

"Marin?!" Legend shouts. His face is pale as he desperately searches Link for a hint of a lie. "As in red hair, blue dresses, and likes to sing, Marin?"

"Er, yeah– yes," Link corrects. "I take it you know her?"

"Yes!"

Link reaches for the brooch under his scarf. The moment he touches it, a Gate opens behind him.

Legend watches it with rapt attention. The fear and excitement are clear to see on his face.

Marin steps out and Legend exhales in a big whoosh. Like he'd been punched in the chest.

Marin looks around, blinking the bright light and dizziness from her eyes. The moment her eyes land on Legend she freezes. "I... Link?"

Legend rushes forward, nearly tripping in his haste. Marin runs to meet him in the middle. She squeals in surprise when he picks her up and twirls her around. He sets her down and only pulls back enough to get a good look at her. "You're real," he says, voice cracking in the middle. "You're really real."

Marin raises her hands to cradle his face with a disbelieving laugh. "You look so much older."

Legend smiles at her. His voice is still thick with emotion. "It's been a few years."

Marin smiles back at him. "I saw you almost a year ago."

He leans down to press his forehead against hers. "I thought I–," he whispers voice horse, "you died."

Both their attention snaps to Link when another Gate opens. Link tries not to wince. He'd been hoping to leave without disturbing them.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, Captain?!" Legend shouts at him. His eyes are still bright with tears as he stomps closer. Marin's hand is held firmly in his.

"I was giving you privacy," he says.

"Hell, no! You don't get to leave before I say thank you!" Legend shouts. He drops Marin's hand and reaches for Link's.

Even though he's watching, he still jumps at the contact.

"Warriors–no, Link," Legend stresses clasping Link's hand in both of his. The grip is firm, but still loose enough for Link to pull free. "Thank you."

The sincerity in his voice instantly makes Link uncomfortable. This isn't something he should be thanked for. If Legend knew the reason Marin was there, he'd hate Link. "There's no–,"

"No, shut up I'm not done!" Legend cuts him off. "If this really is the first time you're meeting me, then I know you have no idea how much this means to me," he pauses to take a breath. His voice is still impossibly thick with emotion. "Nothing I do could ever come close to showing you how greatful I am. I–," he stops with a watery chuckle. He brings a hand back to wipe at his eyes before any of the tears can escape. "Din smite me, I get why you always called me a closet softie now."

Link can only stare as Legend pulls back. He watches as Legend slips a necklace with a simple swirling stone over his head. He holds it out and Link tentatively holds his hand out. 

Legend drops it in his hand and covers it with his. "I know I'll never get what you went through," he says fiercely, "but I know the type of man you are. Nothing that happened was your fault. Not her, not the war, and not the tragedy. You did what you could, and it was enough. You deserve to have people you can trust unconditionally. And it may take some time, it will be difficult, but you'll get there.  Because above all else, you're a good man. I'm proud to call you my friend and brother."

Link tries to reply, but his words fail him. His throat is too tight and all he can do is push out a quiet, "thank you." An anxiety he didn't realize he had in his chest loosens. He can't quite believe Legend, not with all the blood on his hands, but it gives him hope.

Legend lets go of him after that. He takes Marin's hand back in his. She steps forward and raises her free hand over Link's still outstretched hand. "May I?" She asks.

Link nods, a little too shocked to say no and walk away. Marin gently lowers her hand over his and starts to hum. He doesn't know the song, but he swears the grass hums alongside her.

When she pulls back, he's left with a feeling of comfort. A comfort he hasn't felt since the first attack. He didn't think he'd ever recover it.

After another choked thank you and equally emotional goodbye, Link finds himself standing in Lana's study in the castle. The necklace is still in his hand, and Lana bustles around putting her magical equipment away.

Legend's laughter as he walked through the gate still rings in his ears. 'So this is what the lucky eight joke was about.'

"Link, are you okay?"

Link comes back to himself with a sudden gasp. Lana stand in front of him, a worried look in her eyes as she looks at the thin chain falling from his hand.

I'm proud to call you my friend and brother.

"What soaps do you use for your hair?" Link asks.

Lana blinks in utter confusion. He can't blame her, he feels just as confused by his sudden question too. "What?"

"Your hair," he says. "How do you get it to look so shiny and nice?"

"Oh, well um," she gives him a basic rundown. It seems horribly complicated to him. Especially for how often he'll sweat and get dirty, but he listens anyways.

By the end, he decides he'll try it at least once. If he sat through all that, he may as well.

Lana looks happy as he leaves. Happy in a way Link's never seen her before.

You're a good man.

He still doesn't quite believe it. But maybe, he can become the man Legend thinks he is.

It's not until years later, when a strange portal opens, that he meets a young man with bitter eyes and a sharp tongue. He looks the same as he had all those years ago. He even gets the scar on his cheek a few weeks into their adventure.

It's slow going, but they eventually become friends. He learns that Legend was right. He found people he could trust unconditionally. He found people he could call family without any sense of guilt.

He's left with a sense of peace he never thought possible. He cradles the pendant in his hands when he has the realization. He feels just as chocked up now as he did all those years ago. Legend had given him so much hope that day, and now the thought of becoming the man Legend is proud of doesn't seem so impossible.

When questioned about the pendant, he tells them the truth. A good friend had gifted it to him and a singer offered to bless it for him. The pendant is a symbol of hope he thought lost to him.

--

Later, after an especially bad few days for Legend, they stand on the rickety bridge behind Wind's home. Wars has the pendant clasped in his hand. It's become harder to not hold lately. It holds memories he was too young to understand the significance of. It brings him hope and a sense of peace.

As day turns to night, he learns of Legend's adventures. Of a young boy who's kingdom turned against him thanks to dark mind magic. Of saving his older sister in spite of it all. He learns of the neighboring kingdoms of Holodrum and Labrynna. Of the Goddesses' avatars and how they're willing to suffer just as much as their heroes are. 

He learns of a shipwreck that left a seasoned hero on an island that never existed. Of people who never were. An adventure that never happened. Of scars that still remain. And when Legend finishes his story, Wars feels his heart break anew.

'I thought I lost you,' he had foolishly assumed to be the words Legend couldn't say. Now Wars knows Legend couldn't bring himself to admit, 'I thought I killed you.'

Wars wants so desperately to tell Legend what he knows. He bites his tongue knowing he can't interfere with the course of events. Instead, he offers comfort. It'll be tough he knows, Legend still has the rest of this adventure and maybe another year after it. But it'll get better. He knows Legend will get his happy ending.

It'll be difficult, and it might feel impossible, but there's always hope in the tomorrow. That's something he knows to be true. Not because of destiny or strength or even courage. But because simple men like Legend have shown him hope can always be found.

"And who knows," Wars grins as Legend wipes the tears from his eyes. "Maybe your next adventure will be Lucky Number Eight."

Legend barks out a surprised laugh. It's still watery, but it sounds genuine.

The bitterness doesn't disappear but it lessens. The sorrow doesn't cling as tightly as before. And by the time their adventure comes to an end, Legend freely admits how much the others mean to him. Wars makes the split second decision to give the pendant to Legend.

Legend doesn't want to take it. He says he has one just like it and he doesn't need another one. Wars doesn't quite believe him, but he tries not to think too hard about it.

Instead, he assures Legend that they're different. That this one is special, and when the time comes, he's sure Legend will know what to do.

Afterall, hope still blooms in the wake of war.

[jungleslang]

I am absolutely losing my mind over Yeong/Naksu's character in part 2!!!!

It's so insane to me how we're seeing all these different facets of one single character. She was born as Cho Yeong, but we see her first as Naksu, then as Mu-deok, and now as Jin Bu-yeon.

As Naksu she was cold and ruthless and only cared about her mission. In episode 1 of the first part we saw her brutally push a blind girl out of the way and forcefully grab another so she could shift her soul into her body. As Mu-deok, we see her warming up and caring about those around her. She becomes reluctantly heroic and decides to save everyone who's trapped in the ice stone, even giving up her power to do so. And now, as Jin Bu-yeon, she is a sheltered but kind and playful noble lady.

We have seen Yeong in so many contexts. As an infamous assassin, an impertinent maid, and a sheltered lady. But her core personality is still there in all of them. Cho Yeong as Naksu, Mu-deok, and Bu-yeon are all different and yet soooo similar.

Regardless of what name she goes by, I can still tell it's her because she has that exact same boldness and fighting spirit. As Bu-yeon, she is unhappy with her circumstances and so she does everything in her limited power to change them. You would think that having no memories of anything but confinement would make her obedient and docile, but nope. Even though she believes that Lady Jin is her mother and she doesn't want to hurt her, she refuses to go along with the future her (fake) mother has mapped out for her. Mama Jin also talks about the times Yeong has escaped before. That means that Yeong ran away multiple times despite knowing that they would always be able to track her down with the bracelet because she simply cannot stand to do nothing. She herself says that escape is not possible and tells Uk that if she leaves, it would only be an outing. But she does it anyway. Because doing nothing is just not in her nature.

I just love love love that we still see hints of Mu-deok and Naksu in her role as Bu-yeon. Like she points that fire poker straight at Uk's throat with zero hesitation and she even managed to sneak up on him. Uk is a Hwansu level mage now, but he didn't notice her creeping up behind him until she spoke. She still has Mu-deok's cunning and resourceful nature and her quirky charm, too. She knew how powerful Uk was by the way he managed to break the barrier and embed that fire poker into the wall, and she still dared to deceive him. She purposefully made him think that she was more powerful than she actually was so that she could appear useful to him and he would help her. Her first thought upon meeting a powerful stranger who could easily harm her was "how can I use him to get what I want?" That along with the way she slams her hands against the table when she doesn't get her way is such a Mu-deok thing to me.

And that's not even talking about how utterly fucking unimpressed she was when she confronted that body-snatching water monster thing in the second episode. The only memories she has are of being locked in the same room for three years and yet she didn't flinch at that thing for even a second. She actively chased after that monster, coldly stared it down and essentially told it to fuck off before turning her back to walk away. You cannot deny the sheer big dick energy of that move. That cold confidence and fearlessness scream Naksu and you cannot convince me otherwise.

I can't wait to see how all of these versions of her come together when she gets her memories back!!!!!!!!

It's so sad to me that we never got to see her live under her true name, and I really hope the show takes us there by the end. She deserves to finally be able to live as Cho Yeong, the person she really is. And when she does get to live as Yeong, I hope we see elements of all three of her aliases in her personality because they've all shaped her in some way.

[merryfortune]

to hold a candle for a past flame

August 16th: Reincarnation/Reencounter | Circus | Historical AU

Title: to hold a candle for a past flame

Ship: Entrustshipping | Kiku/Takeru

Series: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS

Rating: T

Word Count: 1,525

Tags: Angst, Character Death, Mid-Canon, Duel Monster Spirits Are Real, Supernatural Elements

   Takeru was keeping secrets lately and that worried Kiku but… He wasn’t the only one. So was she.

   Honestly, if this wasn’t her lived experience, Kiku wasn’t sure if she would believe her either. It seemed like a severe case of middle school syndrome but it wasn’t. 

   For proof, aside from her memories, she had been having nightmares for as long as she could remember about a wartorn desert with havoc wreaked through it and a fire engulfed, she could feel that smog inside her lungs and the panic that it instilled. She wasn’t making it up, Kiku swears that she is not making it up and not only her mind remembered but her body, too. 

   Nonetheless, because of the stigma, Kiku was certain if she ever told Takeru what weighed on her mind, she would not be believed. It broke her heart but she was certain. Her good, sweet, kind, silly, goofy Takeru who had been with her through thick and thin may very well turn on her and called her a liar for this because he simply would not remember. 

   But she did.

   Takeru had been part of her existence before she could articulate what she could remember. What had begun in a lifetime before them both and continued to burn on inside of her regardless of what she did. If she tried to ignore it or otherwise block it out.

   For you see, Kiku was, very genuinely, one of the rare few who recalled a lifetime from before her own. She was an instance of transdimensional reincarnation.

   In another life, in a previous life, she had lived a long and storied journey as the Valkyria Knight.

   Kiku vividly recalled the harsh training and harsher conditions of that other world, the Monster World. A spiritual plane filled to the brim with monsters and was fraught with danger, an ever cycling push and pull of good versus evil, embroiled in violence where strength was justice. But she, even then, as a little girl, aspired to something better, something kinder, and she honed those ideals alongside the art of war, of swordsmanship and strategy.

   Even now, in this life, her present life, Kiku had been drawn towards martial arts. Hence how she and Takeru’s families became involved at all when they had been children in pre-kindergarten sports but kendo was more clearly her calling than judo. Even as a human child, Kiku showed promise with the bamboo sword as she recalled and drew upon her previous life’s recollection for this new skill. 

   But a fake sword wasn’t as thrilling, or gratifying, as a fake sword. Not to mention, her prodigal markings quickly made her a tall poppy so Kiku dropped the interest but not her interest in Takeru as there was more to her previous story.

   There had been a man. Her lover and her husband, the man who was supposed to have been father of her eventual children. Her army’s commander, their brilliant hero who was going to usher in a glorious and more prosperous, peaceful era: the valiant Phoenix Gearfried. 

   And Kiku was certain, she could still feel that spark - that flame - in Homura Takeru.

   Their love story in that previous life had ended in tragedy. It was as the saying went. The good always died young and Phoenix Gearfried had died in Kiku’s arms- no, Valkyria Knight’s arms and he had looked up unto her and gave her one last mission, “Please, my love, protect me, for the rest of your days.”

   His dying words imparted a mission upon her and Kiku was nothing if not a woman of her word.

   She always was. As a child, as Valkyria Knight. She was serious and earnest, an old soul, and Kiku wanted to serve her lord-husband until the end of her days. Whether it was as Valkyria Knight or as Kamishirakawa Kiku. That was her destiny.

   Though perhaps it was more like a curse.

   Because she knew.

   And no one else did, least of all the youth whom she was certain was her twin flame, Phoenix Gearfried.

   It made sense, perhaps. Their previous life’s love story had ended in tragedy because it had begun in ill. Intercrual fraternising was a taboo even in that other world and Phoenix Gearfried did not want to be distracted from his own mission but she, Valkyria Knight, made him soft.

   Kiku held onto those precious memories of various kisses in the soft, late afternoon sunlight, or holding hands under the tables during war meetings, and more interactions snuck in between their efforts during the campaign. Even now, they made her heart swell but they brought tears to her eyes too due to being so bittersweet. 

   If only Takeru remembered, if only…

   At first, Kiku thought maybe their reincarnation alongside each other in a dreamy beachside town had been a blessing. That it was the gods' ways of apologising that their first lives together as Monsters had gone so awry. That made sense as they were once again brought together by a passion for athleticism, of bettering themselves and their bodies but then things changed.

   The… Incident happened.

   Maybe if it hadn’t happened, the outcome of a hypothetical confession of such cosmic proportions would be different…

   Takeru’s not so safe return from the clutches of such heinous events reignited the fire inside of Kiku: she had to protect him. That was her duty as Phoenix Siegfried’s second-in-command and sergeant but he was a very different boy compared to before.

   He now hated Duel Monsters, he hated Duelling and his once favourite cards of Phoenix Siegfried and Valkyria Knight, and the rest of their fiery armada, were now amongst his most hated things.

   Not once had Kiku ever seen Phoenix Siegfried so rattled. 

   She had seen Phoenix Siegfried storm into battle, fight back when surrounded. He did not endure duress, he thrived in it. He always burned brighter than the fires of conflict around him. Kiku could say much the same of Takeru who looked only after he leapt, who never cried over skinned knees and whose favourite place was the highest part of the jungle gym.

   So to see him so scared, it harrowed Kiku to the very last specks of stardust in her soul. Worse still, she wasn’t allowed to know why. There had never been secrets between her and Takeru: merely pinkie promises that had yet to end in a needle in either of their eyes. Same for Phoenix Siegfried and Valkyria Knight. 

   Yet here they were. Frozen out from another by adults who could not begin to fathom what Kiku knew. It broke her heart then and ten years later, it broke her heart again because something had changed. She was certain something had changed. The way the headwind blew over the ocean, the sparkle in Takeru’s eye.

   There was something new. Renewed. Reincarnated, even but Kiku was still not allowed to know and that made her howl in agony. She was supposed to be Takeru’s confidant, his strongest soldier but instead, she was pushed away. The menial, instead, was pushed onto her.

   That night… Against the bullies… Kiku had not been at Takeru’s side but her card had been in his deck and that mattered close enough, she supposed. That was when the switch was flipped but cardboard was a far cry from flesh and blood so she didn’t know what entailed in said duel. Just that she had been summoned there, she could feel it, every hack and slash, every attack from the depths of Takeru’s soul.

   He had no idea how he had shone, how his past life was reinvigorating him.

   But afterwards, in the morning light, something changed. He had a new deck. One that his old cards and old life were a part of. Something sparkling and new in the sunlight. He would go on to battle with it over and over again and in places as far flung as the big smoke, like Den City.

   Kiku was superficially gladdened that Takeru had direction again. Who wouldn’t be? Except it saddened her. She still wasn’t allowed to know. Takeru was still keeping secrets about what had fundamentally changed him. She just knew that it did, she could hear it in his voice and the way his passion rippled through.

   To not know was worse than knowing, Kiku was certain.

   Especially when her precognition unto Phoenix Siegfried, and by extension, Takeru, led her to the conclusion that something was wrong. Something dire had happened. She could just feel it a la an extrasensory perception and that rattled her. 

   A fearsome battle. Life versus oblivion. A fire extinguished, a gale blew. Kiku got flashes of something beyond her comprehension of how she understood life in superstitions and the supernatural. Grand duels of violent delights which with snuff of extinction. Who? Why? Oh, Takeru, please… Please! Allow her, your darling Valkyria Knight, to aid you in this time of complete crisis.

   She could only sob uncontrollably in her room as she knew - just knew - that she needed to be by Takeru’s side as his sword yet was miles, no, worlds away from him. 

[you-are-my-neverland]

writeblr introduction

this is my fifth-hundreth time doing this, but i wanted an easy introduction that i could update without many frills, so here goes.

introducing....me!

online, i go by star! (she/her)

college student majoring in foreign langauges, with a chinese (mandarin) concentration and a linguistics minor

i hope to go into literary translation of some sort, but we'll see how it goes

in my free time, i like to watch asian dramas, listen to music, and read; i also dabble in video editing

i talk about the above and more on my main @astarlightmonbebe, which i also follow from

when it comes to writing, i love reading/writing

character driven stories with lots of complicated relationship dynamics (give me more of we-used-to-be-close, estranged or otherwise multilayered found family/sibling relationships, fated to be but hate it, etc)

magical realism, especially coming-of-age

low or middle fantasy

lore/mythology/religion (love folklore, legend, especially ones that change, grow, and are more real than they seem)

what i'm working on (current as of august 2024)

wip: godhood

naying yue’s father has been missing for three years. after stabbing her bff/lover in the eye and getting expelled from college, she decides to celebrate her twenty first bday by killing herself. however, her plans are derailed when she is attacked by monsters, rescued/kidnapped, and told her father abducted her as a young child, and that her real identity is the heiress to a powerful family who is part of the mysterious Outsider World…

new adult low fantasy inspired by/incorporating wuxia elements

drafting book one right now; will likely be at least three books if i get there

comic sans ppt

other ideas bouncing around

a high school sports wip revolving around a sport called cyclone, where biking meets medieval jousting to create a very metal sport. gil reyes, once a cyclone prodigy and now on limited time, finds himself dumped and kicked out of his cyclone crew. a street tournament with a cash prize and a claim to fame leads to him starting his own crew, recruiting the scholarly sprinter, aadya; high school dropout and underground stunt rider/racer, yama; the duo of sprinter winnie and bruiser jade; a rural girl with brute strength and a boxer’s instincts, elle; and a brilliant time trialist who knows nothing about cyclone, pazu.

paper tigers

status: constantly rotating around in my head on a hot plate

when moonlil acang's father, the warlord of the north, dies in a violent explosion of which the only survivor is a mysterious girl he has apparently brought back from the mountains, moonlil is forced into a position he's never wanted. setting inspired by 1920s china/chinese history. featuring: grave robbery, complicated siblings, mythological elements, and a dose of revolutionary, imperial, and military politics.

the phosphene phenomenon

status: sketching out the details, potentially plotting

three years after witnessing a total solar eclipse and falling into a coma, diyu wakes up to find himself with New Eyes and a ghost attached to him. lalita's been dead for years, but she knows nothing but her own name. tasked by death to help other spirits move on before she, too, can find her afterlife, lalita and diyu have no choice but to team up, along with sunny, the one person diyu has never been able to stand. featuring: a super intense rivalry (swear), self discovery journeys, ghosts and mental illness, agents of death, and so on.

previously on here i’ve successfully completed the first drafts of two wips, fairbone and the metamorphosis of the lost (tmotl), which still occasionally pop up.

i’m not always the most active, especially during the school year, where my focus is on trying to write a few words a day if any at all, but i’m always excited to hear and interact with other’s work!

[gretahayes]

love ur repair shop au love all ur yj stuff <33 what kind of hero adventures would happen/how often would they happen? idk just any thoughts abt it bc it seems so cute and nice

so I've already mentioned dimension shenanigans, but also supernatural shenanigans?? every now and then obviously there's some major crisis that sends one/all of them back home or like an alien invasion, but mostly it's dimension and supernatural stuff. need these kids to not have Any main nemesis', no jokers or eobards (I would go evil too if my name was fucking EOBARD) or luthors or cheetahs or big giant monsters, nobody dedicating their life to hurt them.

bart's shaken awake at two am by a grumpy tim tromping into the bedroom and saying theres a dimensional rift opening up in their living room. bart deals with it then comes back to see tim's taken his place in the cuddle pile so he wiggles in between cassie and kon (didn't betray him) and wakes all of them up in the process. they get back to sleep eventually but half on top of bart as revenge (it doesn't work, bart likes the pressure) then cassie cracks open an eye to ask, "hey, why were you even up?" and they're back awake again.

they've got to deal with wayward spirits and confused ghosts, plus people who got dragged through the thin spot in space time their shop is based in. bart multitasks by also keeping an eye on it, so wally can't mind his business west has no reason to keep popping in. speedsters are still their most reoccuring visitors because it's a convenient place to dimension hop so bart's learnt to suck it up.

their hero stuff is less big flashy monsters and tech geniuses. its supernatural stuff they have to deal with, and it sent everyone off-kilter a bit because this is Odd yeah but so relieving actually?? nobody waiting to stab them in the back except for the creepy vampire that's been following them all day, and they can deal with that well enough. a huge but needed change of pace.

kon's got the neatest handwriting because bart and tim both scrawl unintelligibly (the consequences of being geniuses whose brains move too fast for their hands), cassie scribbles only barely legibly (why does this girl write like she's always in a hurry?) and kon's handwriting is neat because he cares about how it looks. the others don't really—they can make it look nice, tim especially, but you have to understand; they can't be bothered. so kon tends to do all the writing for everything, and thank god for ttk otherwise he'd have permanent hand cramps.

they have a garden! it took a lot of trial and error, but now they're finally growing more things than they kill (it took several trips to the farm to figure that out—books didn't help much against their non-existent green thumbs. they're not complaining though, they love ma and pa).

of course, they're still called home for big events and all brought together when there's a huge world-ending event or whatever, but their shop and their home are sort of a break from that, y'know? after a long day of saving humanity they shed their armor and collapse in a pile together and know there's nothing that'll hurt them as they are, right then and there. and that's reassuring.

[powdermelonkeg]

Tears of the Kingdom: The Final Analysis

Part 11

Part 10 here

A monster chases Link in Skyrule, with a glowing purple mouth and eyes. It splashes through the otherwise-rock-solid ground as if it's mud.

Blue sparks are still flying around the area, and there's a block of luminous stone up at the top of this isle over here.

And the lower part of this island doesn't have the blocky, dirty look the golden forest isles have. A sky dungeon? The City in the Sky from the very beginning of the trailer seems a likely candidate.

This thing looks about as big compared to Link as a guardian, and it burrows back into the ground just as easily as it emerged.

I backed up a few frames to get a better look at it—it has fins along its sides, and doesn't appear to have any feet to walk around with. Defeating it means you'll need to draw it out of the ground and stun it, just like a molduga.

The next shot has Link and Tulin diving alongside each other. Tulin carries a Swallow Bow.

This is important for when we see him later.

At last, we get to Mystery Girl. Lovely, sweet Mystery Girl. At first glance, I thought she was Zelda, however, let's do a quick comparison:

Here we have Zelda in the same position, so we can minimize any POV differences.

Mystery Girl's ears are much longer, and lack any kiknd of curve to their edge.

They're much more like Skyward Sword Zelda, in that regard.

Mystery Girl's eyes, while the same color, are more narrow and slightly more angular along their lower and inner edges. Her eyebrows are thinner, and her lashes are longer.

Her nose is much more aquiline than Zelda's turned-up button nose.

This is more clearly seen from the back of the Japanese TotK download card, if you'll forgive the low quality.

And, in regards to TotK Zel's design:

Zel has one tear while Mystery Girl has four.

She lacks any sort of markings on her neck.

As well as on her right shoulder.

And while they both appear to be carrying the same tear in its upright position, they have different necklaces holding them in place. In short; I think everything lines up for these two to be different, albeit related characters.

Moving on, the tear glows as Mystery Girl powers up her beam. It's powering up, if not outright causing, the light magic that follows. However, that same glow looks very similar to the one we saw earlier.

It's the same shade of yellow, with the same particle effects surrounding it.

And then this bit here-

Looks both like Hylia's crest, and like the crest on the front of the Spirit Tracks train.

In favor of Hylia, it has a similar angle to its feathers, as well as a detached central diamond-like piece. However, the Spirit Tracks emblem has two feathers on either side, plus an inverted triangle at its top.

When she casts her beam, we can see the white stone of the structure she's standing on, with some pine trees in the back.

Partnering that with the moldugas she blasts into oblivion, we can pretty safely say that she stands just in the cold zone of the Gerudo Highlands.

And her beam blasts FAR. Look how high it goes into the distance there!

You can only barely see it among the dark pixels, but that's the cliff edge. That's how high up and far away she is. This isn't just fighting off monsters, this is a show of sheer power.

Also, take a look at this rock here. That's not Gerudo sandstone. Are the moldugas trying to leave the desert?

We next see Riju pulling off Urbosa's Fury. She spins around, carrying Urbosa's own blades, then-

BAM. Lightning.

Out of images again, Part 12 coming up!

Edit: Part 12!

[number9robotic]

Intro to RAPTURE ACADEMY

(so remember a few months ago I said I wanted to make a list of characters for a fighting game? It has a name now lol)

RAPTURE ACADEMY is a superhero/alternate history project centrally focused around the Rapture Academy and Institute for Superpowered Opportunists, a school thinly designed to raise supervillains. Primarily focusing on the stories and systems around a bunch of kids with intensely dangerous powers enrolled in a private academy headed by imprisoned supervillain No. 1 Angel as part of an internationally-backed plea deal. The kids are alright.

STUDENTS:

Anti (Canadian) - Analog horror-themed hoodie kid with dark powers (makes everything they hit distort like a broken VHS tape), surprisingly nice and wholesome and probably the least likely to actually become a career villain.

Hellbound ("Eastern European") - Princess sacrificed to a draconic ritual, became a half-dragon berserker who spends her time bound in magic chains. A demure sweetheart when lucid, murderous beast otherwise.

The Vigilante Smog Monster/"Smoggy" (Australian) - A swamp monster summoned by an indigenous tribe searching for a protector, can turn into sludge and murder smoke, wears enchanted wooden masks.

Twintails (Japanese) - two students in one! A male wizard apprentice and a female ninja apprentice from rivalling clans that were fused together by a trickster yokai; one person is in control at a time, they swap from sneezing.

IDKYS/I Don't Know You, Sorry (Filipino) - Aspiring idol/daughter to high-ranking entertainment execs with a literally hypnotic voice. Placed in school with a voice-to-computer TTS mask in order to be taught a lesson in humility, is the class queen anyway.

Magnus VI (American) - Indestructible cyborg cowboy built by a mad science firm who can explosively self-destruct any joint in his body before reassembling. Extremely arrogant. No one touches his hat.

Metal Alice (French) - Daughter of a supervillain who died and was brought back as a haunted animatronic unknowing that she died. Is a walking portal to the ghost dimension who can pull out all sorts of phantasmic metal weapons, from scissors to chainsaws.

Hot★Shot (Chinese) - Cocky martial arts prodigy, has fire abilities, up-and-coming superstar. Basically thinks he's the protagonist of a shounen fighting game, is a colossal asshole from it, yet is the popular jock regardless.

Vioelectrolysis (Motswana) - Upbeat mad scientist-in-training who fights using a giant modified fire-extinguisher that mixes chemicals for deadly use, as well as a bigass flail for deadly use. She may or may not be a mutant.

White Slate (Greek) - A living statue accidentally created by a mad artist, has the ability to turn people into stone with his touch. Is missing a face, sometimes paints one on for intimidation points. Mostly an emo boi who paints a lot.

zZomnia (Pakistani) - Phoneaholic teen haunted by nightmares that double as guardian spirits with insanely powerful weapons whenever she's asleep or is on the verge of it. Is constantly sleepy. Leave her alone.

Bitter Batter (N/A) - Just an ordinary girl with no superpowers, but a baseball bat, a silent death glare, and murderous intent. Originally a teen vagrant before being enlisted in the school. The most "normal" student and also the most fn terrifying

Moonlight Rosebloom Powderpuff of the Unside Neverlandian Court (Scottish?) - A bubbly (alleged) fairy noble from a (disputed) faraway realm hidden in a (presumably) magical garden. Wields (conversely very real) magic. It's very pink.

Ryvr Sticks (Ukrainian) - A scarecrow infected with a paranatural fungi giving him sapience, regeneration abilities, and hallucinogenic powers. Indisputably the class clown and source of gossip. Is a wicked breakdancer.

FACULTY:

No.1 Angel (███) - Headmaster, part-time supervillain, full-time asshole. thinks he's a superhero who deserves to protect humanity but then gave another superhero cancer using his light manipulation powers for trying to stop him.

Panopticon (███) - head of security, a silent dude in black armor and an old-timey diving helmet who sometimes appears unacknowledged to stare at everyone in class, in hallways, or off campus. Powers unknown.

Señor Heartpuncher (Mexican) - Teacher of self-defense. Retired lucha-themed super with a long history of being a hero, but once had a heel-turn and became teacher because he owed a favor to No.1 Angel. has the ability to absorb and reflect kinetic force, perfect for teaching kids how to hit punches then tank them

Drill Instructor Friday (Brazilian) - Teacher of phys ed. Acts like the scariest and most intense drill instructor you can think of. She's also a genuine werewolf. Comes up with some of the funniest PG-13-level insults imaginable and then punishes you for laughing at them.

OfOz (Haitian) - Teacher of paranatural arts (magic, anomalies, anything "supernatural"). Pretty chill and charismatic expert in the field, is able to split his soul/body separately. Only one half of him is teaching classes, other half is doing supervillainy elsewhere in the world.

DDDD (South Korean) - Teacher of technology arts. Is the head of a megacorp developing devices for supers, mostly villains. Teaches remotely from the other side of the world using a mini-mech suit that she pilots from her office. It has weapons. She forgets this. Frequently rants about her competitors and has to be reminded by her secretary to stay on topic.

Sir SPECTACULAR!!! (Swiss) and The Virtuoso (German) - Teacher and assistant teachers of theatrics (getting students to figure out their gimmicks/brand/performances as supers). They used to commit "theatre crimes" together with SPECTACULAR!!!'s super-conductor powers and Virtuoso's super-VR tech, turning cities into musicals. After turning the state of Oklahoma into a musical, they've settled down teaching kids and enjoy it.

Mr. Professor Von Ruin (Austrian) - "Teacher" of ethics (the legalities and philosophies of being a super). he is actually a cat. a super-intelligent, talking cat, pet of a supervillain, but a cat. he doesn't really teach, so his period's just a free block.

Miss Brutalist (Swedish) - Teacher of logistics (resourcing and management of being a super). No powers, actually runs a business designing HQs and lairs for various supers. Most of her assignments involve getting students to do paperwork for her projects.

Dr. Infinity-Plus (Hungarian) - Teacher of general sciences and maths. Has incredible foresight/caculation abilities, which drove him... not quite "insane" but very jaded, paranoid, and antsy. Will often derail classes to vent about existentially terrifying concepts. wears a Rubik's cube-like helmet to dampen his mind.

Sewn Chaos (Azerbaijani) - Teacher of home economics. Former career super before using her textile-manipulation powers to design costumes for others, helps the kids figure out their costumes. genuinely like everyone's favorite grandma up until she shares stories of all the f'd up villains she worked with. Good times!

DREADNAUT (Russian) - Head librarian. Ghostly cosmonaut afflicted by paranatural forces while on the moon, now has gravity powers but is stuck in a fugue state. manages the school's library containing vast resources... which is constructed upside-down in order to make it harder for kids to access.

Gutwrencher (Czech) - Head nurse. A zombie in all but name, has a flesh-mending/regeneration factor she can use to heal herself and others. Is constructed out of various necrotic body parts and stitching that often come apart at inconvenient times. Some students are attracted to her and don't know why.

Mr. BRB (Italian) - Head janitor (and also the only one). He's a necromancer who summons ghouls to help do the cleaning for him but often still leaves things dirty. Mostly chills out in his office to record his personal podcasts and offer advice to kids who ask nicely.