onlyshestandsthere · 8 months ago
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Title: be my mirror (my sword and shield)
Chapter: 40/40
Pairing: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos
Tags: Enemies to Lovers//Slow Burn//Kit gets taken instead of Airk//Bone Reaver Jade Claymore//Hurt/Comfort//PTSD//Psychological Torture//Amputation//Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary:
Angry blue eyes glared at Jade from beneath short dark locks that fell into her face. Sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and a strong jaw gave her an imperious air, and despite the fact that she was shorter than Jade – and tied to a tree – she still somehow gave the impression that she was looking down at her. This was even more impressive given the entire left side of her face was one massive bruise, and her eye was swollen almost completely shut.
Or: Bone Reaver Jade is tasked with escorting a prisoner to the Immemorial City for their new ally, the Crone.
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rogaire · 2 months ago
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I wrote a short Drabble set after Shay is shot at the homestead and before Monro and his troops find him. Why, you may ask? Because I like pain apparently jdn no but I wanted to incorporate in his story and make Shay lowkey meet the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war, death and rebirth because 1) his ship is named after her 2) there are just too many similarities between them that it is nearly as impossible to just ignore it!!!
If you know her myth then you know what this is about, but if you don’t, in some myths the Morrigan has taken the appearance of a crone and she appears in visions where she predicts the death of someone. In these visions she is seen washing by a river the clothes of the person that is soon destined to die. In Shay’s case, he doesn’t die physically, only symbolically, that’s why she is washing his Assassin’s clothes. 👀
Also, one of her many forms of manifestation is a red wolf, which also happens to the design of Shay’s ship sails. 😏
Anyways I am placing this under a read more because this is kinda long asdwk
Trigger Warning for Blood, PTSD, drowning, parent death mention.
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All those souls lost…one more hardly matters.
A never-ending darkness surrounded him.
There was no sound, no light, no pain. His whole body felt numb. The only rumor was the insistent throbbing in his ears.
But the sweet embrace of death wouldn't yet come for him. Perhaps that was God's punishment for a Traitor. That was what he was, someone that had turned his back on his friends, and hell was the only place for people like him. But there was no light or flames around him, only the void.
He did not know how long it took him to regain consciousness, but when he did, all that numbness suddenly turned into unbearable pain. He felt as if his entire body was being stabbed with millions of knives.
He tried to move, but his limbs felt detached from him, and he felt himself being dragged even more deeper in the depths of the ocean.
But, even weakened as he was, he had no intention of giving up so easily. It was too late for his father, but it wasn’t for him. Adrenaline kicked in and he flailed, screamed even, this until he eventually managed to reach the surface of the water.
However, the fight for his life had just started.
Waves came crashing from all directions, taking the breath out of him and nearly making him drown. But he held on, kept moving his arms, and tried his best to fight the dizziness that threatened to overcome him. Suddenly he hit a rock, hard, and gasped, water invading his lungs. The last thing he saw was the manuscript floating in front of him.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself in a meadow.
He recalls having been here before, during one of his voyages with his father. He always used to tell him about Ireland's green fields, but this place was everything but heavenly. It looked like a battle had just occurred here.
Men lay dead everywhere, their blood soaking the soil, their bodies feast for crows and wolves.
Shay walked though them, not looking back. Death was a natural part of life, and he knew those soldiers had given their lives to protect the cause they believed in.
He arrived by a river where there was an old woman busy washing clothes. He approached her, hoping that she would tell him where he was, but once closer he realized, quite shockingly, whose clothes she was cleaning. Those were his Assassin's robes. But that wasn’t the detail that shocked him the most. His clothes were drenched in blood, the river’s water turning crimson as the woman kept soaking his robes.
Instinctively, Shay glanced at his hands, and he found these too covered in blood. He knew whose blood it was. All those people in Lisbon had died because of him, their lives broken for human greed, the Assassins greed, but he was the murderer, the person that had triggered the earthquake, and he knew that their souls will torment him for eternity.
Realization hit him then, making his stomach drop.
‘’ I’m dead, aren’t I? ‘’ The words that left his lips weren't meant as a question, they were more a statement.
The woman's eyes turned to him, and if there was anything he was certain of at the moment, was that her gaze will remain imprinted in his soul forever. Her voice echoed in his mind.
‘’ Rebirth is coming, but the storm’s not over yet. ‘’
__
The sound of waves crashing ashore was the first thing he heard when he opened his eyes. He was laying on a hard surface now, face down and soaked to his bones.
He couldn’t make sense of his surroundings, but all he knew was that he had somehow managed to grab the manuscript before it could get lost in the Atlantic, and that he was now holding it in a vice-like grip as if his life depended on it. It did–and not only his life.
He moved his head, and far in the distance he noticed a wolf looking at him. Its fur was red, and Shay could not help but think how that was such a beautiful contrast among the snow. Its stare, however, sent chills down his spine, much like it did the woman in his dream, or perhaps could just be the cold’s doing…
But he had no more fight left in him, so if his body was destined to be a feast for wolves, then so be it.
He let his eyes drift closed and let the darkness embrace him.
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bitterxalmonds · 2 years ago
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In defense of Kat Eliot
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After watching the movie and loving it, I was disappointed to see so many negative reviews of it. Although I agree with some of the critiques, like it being stuffed and cluttered, I was frustrated when people complained about Kat being unlikable and rude when 'everyone is soooo nice to her'. I'm like, did we watch the same movie??
First off, despite living in Africa, I'm a glow-in-the-dark cracker, but I was born with Aspergers, a form of high functioning autism, as well a truckload of mental health problems. I know my experiences of prejudice doesn't even compare to the experiences of POC, I have a family and access to medicine and psychiatric help others do not have, I am blatantly aware that if I was a poor, orphaned person of color I'd be in the same system as Kat and I am lucky I'm not. But my whole life I have been belittled and villainized by the school system. I was chewed up and spat out, and my point is that I AM ANGRY. And I have every right to be. I have an extreme distrust of authority figures and have little interest in making friends aside from online. Needless to say I have trust issues. Bottom line: I experienced prejudice and am pissed about it.
My suffering is completely different from Kat's but the end result is the same: I came out fuming.
Despite it not being her fault, she is left with extreme guilt as well as survivor's guilt and PTSD from her parent's death. What I love about this movie is that it explores not only the prejudice racial and queer minorities have to experience, but those with mental health issues as well. People say "Ooh, just because she experienced a tragic event doesn't mean she has to be ruuude." Kat didn't just experience a traumatic event, she was put in the worst place for a person with mental health issues, first in a shitty foster home, then in a school with bullies, then in jail. How did you expect her to act?
Even though she was angry, she was never cruel. There is a big difference between angry and cruel. She never tormented or bullied anyone out of enjoyment, and the only type of violent behavior she showed was when she was being defensive. I surprisingly tend to hate characters who use their hurt as an excuse to hurt others, but Kat isn't like that. Everything she does is defensive. She is used to being treated horribly.
Kat didn't experience just one trauma, but several. Upon arriving at a new school, she was tormented and bullied. I have heard way too many stories about children being bullied, the bullies not getting punished, then when the bullied kid strikes back, they get punished. Kat looked barely older than she was at the start of the film, but someone thought she was old enough to be PUT IN A CAGE. A traumatized orphan girl was put in a cage among juveniles who have already offended multiple times. She'd had to fight to survive and that only got her into more trouble.
One thing I picked up on, Kat's family HAD MONEY, her father owned this massive brewery and her brother draws attention to her box full of money for her library. I wholeheartedly believe her having that box was a Chekhov's gun moment. They weren't millionaires but were pretty well off. After their death, their money would have been put in a trust and someone would be appointed the administrator of that trust. In her flashback of her time at a foster home, we see an old crone with doller sighs for eyes, then later we see Father Bests eagerly accepting Kat (and her full tuition) into his school. This child has been treated like a walking money bag by adults her entire life. They take money that is rightfully hers and instead of spending it on her they use it for themselves.
LET. HER. BE. ANGRY!
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wigster07 · 1 year ago
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Crazy Long Ask Warning:
In regards to “resolving” the storyline with the family in the woods, I think that it needs to be addressed explicitly by Kit. We (readers and you) are all talking about it openly, but I think maybe, as readers, we forget that no one alive, other than Kit, knows what happened that day. Kit can’t move on with this as a secret. We saw that when she asked for more lashes, but she didn’t actually explain herself.
I think the conversation should happen with Airk. He is the one who actually saw the Crone and probably has the best comprehension of what she was up against. (I don’t know why, but my head canon for this story has been that his time in the Immemorial City was significantly harsher than in the show. I guess I need him to be able to understand the trauma Kit went though?) I feel like he is most capable of seeing Kit in full, and that he is one of the only people Kit could actually process things with. Also, I’m going to be honest, Airk is just my all time favorite character, and I think he needs to be Kit’s other half again. Jade has a different role (😉⚔️🌶️👀😍) in Kit’s life, and I think that people sometimes forget that she and Airk will always know each other on a different level entirely.
The problem is that Kit would never bring this up on her own, and might not even discuss it if asked, so in order for this conversation to happen, it would need to be, essentially, “forced”. My main thoughts on how to force this conversation come from PTSD responses. Kit has a nightmare and starts talking in her sleep and wakes up in a (violent?) panic attack. Either Jade isn’t there, or she freaks out too, and Airk comes to help and they talk. Or maybe she sees a kid in the camp get a minor injury playing or something and is thrown into a flashback (Airk helps again!) Alternatively, Airk talks about how he and ??? are getting married and planning on having kids. He “wants to be the best husband, brother, and father possible”, and instead of being happy for him, Kit just freaks out, leading to The Conversation.
I think the main thing is that Airk needs to NOT be shocked. He needs to say something like, “I know that you messed up. That was wrong. I love you. You are my sister. I am so proud of the strides you have made to make amends.” OBVIOUSLY, what Kit did was irredeemable, but that doesn’t mean unforgivable. They are completely different things.
I am not trying to tell you what to write! I just got really excited by the question you asked of what would need to happen for us to deal with the family in the woods!
Oh, and also she needs to make a memorial, and bring them flowers. That can be off the page, though. 😉
This is a great ask and I love the head cannon. I do have a scene outlined where Kit does talk about the little girl. And we have some insight to what Kit knows Airk experienced in the Immemorial City.
It doesn’t quite happen like that but I do love the idea that one day, when Kit does see Airk again maybe they do talk about what Kit has done and how Airk feels about it.
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tobacconist · 1 year ago
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Thou art a fhamefull whore, and thy tobaccoes are fecond-rate, at best; and far too dear !
YOU SEE! YOU SEE! this is the kind of horrible anonymous slander which i receive daily in my inbox. yes, it hurts... especially considering my mental condition and the PTSD i have from killing that boy. i have always bean misunderstood... but i am just an humble crone, i suppose those people have so much hate in their heart, that they would want to attack an innocent old lady like me... so i must pray for them... yes.. (pretends to cry) ill admit that sometimes its even made me consider taking my own wife, to dinner. she thinks i dont notice or appreciate the subtle kindnesses she performs for me everyday, or how hard she works; but i do. and she deserves it. its her favourite place, its called EXCUSE ME. this frequency is occupied...
anyway, I WILL TOLERATE IT NO LONGER. STOP IT! STOP! STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP TALKING ABOUT THOSE THINGS WHAT I DID. im just an old lady, please
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thecouncilscribe-blog · 6 years ago
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[Image Source: Facebook]
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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 years ago
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Hyacinthus - Part 6
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ʚ Summary : Artemis stops her from learning she knows will only hurt him. Hyacinthus celebrates the big twenty one and then has a run in with a Titan, Zephyrus.
ʚ Themes: Slow Burn | Fluff | Soft | Angst | Loss
ʚ Warnings : Threats of bodily mutilation | Mention of attempted s. assault | PTSD reference | Death | Loss
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ARTEMIS POV:
I stopped my twin as soon as he set foot on the balcony. "No."
Apollo was flustered and more than a little angry. This is the first time I have refused him. I could never refuse my brother, but in this matter, what he wanted to do, I had to say no.
Help me. I need to know what Cinthus’s fate is. Please help me. 
I will not help you with this. In fact, I need you to promise that you will never seek out knowledge of his destiny.
My brother grew puce. Why?
What would you do if you had that knowledge, hmm? Hunt down all those who wish to hurt him? Spend every moment fretting over gathering shadows and unseen enemies? Waste what precious time you have with him? 
He could be gone tomorrow by dawn! This very hour! I need to know!
 No! I push him back and use my powers to stop him from leaving. It really hurt, but I had to do it. I will not let you do it. Phoebus!
He stopped, his breath coming out all ragged and harsh. I have never seen my brother behave like this where anyone else was concerned. That look in his eyes, that anguish, that desperation, it was as if Hyacinthus was--
Your other half? My hands go to my mouth. Is he your soul’s other half? 
The way he looked at me. How is this even possible? We were Gods. A soul’s other half should not exist for us, but this was a matter for another time. Right now, I had to stop him from doing something reckless and foolish.
Apollo, you must not go to the Fates. They have not forgotten that stunt you pulled with Hermes. Remember? When the two of you got them drunk so that you could meddle with Admetus' fate? The crones do not forget such acts; they will only plague you with riddles and half-truths, leading you by the nose, just to get back at you.
That got to him, I think. Sensing the futility of his cause, my brother collapsed onto a stool and buried his hands in his hair. I am afraid, sister. I have this feeling in me that this is not going to last much longer. 
Can you not see it? I crouch next to him and try to peer into his thoughts. Anything connected to Cinthus and his future faded abruptly into nothingness. Someone very powerful was preventing us from seeing. The Fates, no doubt, already getting back at my brother for what he did. My throat tightened. I peered into the bedroom, and my eyes actually stung. Cinthus was not going to be with us for long.
Apollo shook his head. Every time I get close, it feels like a great wall drops in front of me to stop me from seeing beyond. He looked at me, his eyes filled with golden tears. What do I do? Should I tell him? 
No. Cinthus will always be looking over his shoulder. Let him enjoy the most of what little time he has left. My brother nodded in agreement. As for what you could do? Love him. I said. Maybe he truly has only one hour left on this earth, and how do you want to spend that hour? Fretting over every shadow or making the most of every last second with him? 
My brother looked like he had decided. I will not seek out the Fates. It is all right, sister, you can go now.
First things first. But only after you swear an eternal vow to not interfere with his fate.  
Sister…
Swear it! I held onto his arm and refused to let go. Swear that you will not meddle!
My brother sighed, his shoulders slouched in defeat. Help me with the words then. 
I did it carefully, leaving nothing to chance. Apollo winced as he repeated every word I said, for there were no weaknesses for him to find, no crack to wriggle through. Finally, we were done, and a silvery star gleamed in the centre of his chest. Go. I heard sheets rustling, a body stirring, lips forming my brother’s name. He searches for you. 
Is Hyacinthus truly not long for this world?
Hermes was here, and he, too, was upset. Over the past few months, we had both come to see Hyacinthus as a brother of sorts, our newest comrade. The knowledge that he would not be with us for much longer was too much for even me to bear. Yes. I put an arm around my half-brother. But do not say a word. Let them enjoy what little time they have left together.
For once, Hermes sniffed and made a vow not to gossip.
HYACINTHUS POV:
Finally, spring surrendered to summer. My birthday dawned bright, crisp, and hot. Father threw a feast after we had made the necessary sacrifices for the Gods.
Many came up to wish me, with just as many asking when I hoped to marry, asking if I would like to be  introduced to the noble maidens they knew. I politely refused, and when they turned to my father, he simply said, if he's not interested, then he’s not interested. Many were confused by this, but the others, older and much wiser, understood without having to be told further. They bobbed their heads and went back to eating and drinking.
The mid-morning feast had been splendid, as was the private dinner mother had planned for when the twins and Hermes dropped by.
Hermes was very well behaved, although that could have been due to the vow he swore, promising not to make off with anything that belonged to us.  He stretched out by the fire while I opened my presents.
First, there was a beautiful bow, with gold inlay that gleamed in the light. This was from Artemis, and the quiver was filled with sleek arrows. They all bore the mark of Hephaestus, and I would neither miss nor run out of arrows. Next was a box of rare coins from Hermes, from countries as far off as Taprobane and even further than that, from a land famous for its silk. "My lord?" I pointed to the crest on the box. It had been taken from someone else. Hermes' reddened cheeks were proof of it. I grinned and accepted it all the same. Hermes was who he was. Nothing was going to change that.
Then there were the traditional gifts from my parents, given to all Spartan men on their twenty-first birthday. A traditional Spartan helmet with a horsehair plume that had been stiffened and dyed a deep rich red, a shield and spear. I would now carry these if we went to war again. Poly gave me a bracelet she made herself, then made herself content talking to Artemis.
When he and I were alone, Apollo gave me the most beautiful aulos I had ever seen, something he had fashioned with his own hands. We then lay down on the balcony of my room, under the stars, with him pointing out those that were made immortal by the Gods.
"Herakles," he pointed to a constellation. "Athena herself brought him to Olympus. He now guards the gates to our realm."
And Apollo was the one that set the twelve labours on him, so he could atone for murdering his family. "And that?"
"Kheirôn," the centaur of legend. "Father brought him to Olympus to teach his growing brood."
"He died just after the Trojan war, didn’t he?" I rested my head on his chest, my heartbeat slowing down with every breath he took. "I heard he taught Herakles and Achilles."
Apollo flinched. "My love? Is something wrong?"
"It is the reminder of Achilles," he said quietly. "I pushed Patroclus off the wall."
Apollo sighed. "Patroclus tried to scale the walls of Troy. If he had, it would have roused the Argives into pushing through." Apollo looked ashen from what he had done. "I pushed him off the wall, stripped his armour off of him. Made it easy for Hector to kill him. It was cowardly, I see it now. Patroclus fought bravely, and with honour. He deserved a better death."
I just listened. The Gods had a direct role in the war, and to hear something resembling regret from one of them...
"I sided with the Trojans.  Father’s orders. He favoured the Trojans and wanted to support them. I was given clear orders. And I followed them. And Troy still fell." Apollo sighed and raised my hands to his lips. "All of that grief because Paris could not keep his hands off Helen. She is there too," he pointed to the sky. "With Menelaus."
According to legend, it was she who went with Paris willingly. Artemis said it was actually Paris who abducted a very unwilling Helen. "Was she happy after that? Helen?"
"Traumatized would be a better word." Apollo ran his hand over my chest, his breath hitching when mine went over his thigh. "And she cursed Paris till the day she died."
He carried me to bed after that, our hands and lips going over the bumps and lines that had become so dear to us. It was well past midday when he finally left.
APOLLO POV:
The memory came back again, this time sharper and clearer than before.
It was in Troy, with the Argives being slaughtered after Father dropped the scales to honour a debt he owed Thetis. The smell of steel, flesh, and burning wood filled my lungs, and that voice in the darkness grew clearer now. This time I could see fired gold hair whipping in the wind, and sea green eyes spitting fire and malice at me.
"But I swear, here and now, a time will come when all your hopes will dash to the ground, and your joy will become like ash in your mouth. A time when your dreams will burn to cinders and all that you have longed for will come to nought. When that day comes, I will drink to your suffering."
I opened my eyes with a start. I never bothered with the ravings of angry mortals, but this, this settled in my heart like a flame.
A time will come when all your hopes will dash to the ground, and your joy will become like ash in your mouth.
Hyacinthus. My joy, now sleeping safely in my arms. What will I do when I lose him?
I remembered my sister’s words and fought back the feeling of gloom growing in my heart. Whatever amount of time I had with him, I would make the most of it.
HYACINTHUS POV:
Three days later, I went to the marketplace to meet some friends. When the west wind picked up and dust whirled around us like angry bees, I was joking with them, listening to their stories, their loves and losses, and how we planned on competing for the games. I picked up the scent of something strange. 
"Prince of Sparta."
The voice was ugly, and the words came out in hisses, like rough winds whipping around jagged mountain peaks. It had to come from a God, and only one God had ties with the west wind. My friends made their excuses and left.
"My Lord Zephyrus," I said, bowing as deeply as I could. "Would you care for some refreshment? some libation? Perhaps I could take you to the palace, so you could rest?"
"None of that." His voice was rather like the wind of a hurricane. "I wish for your company."
The tone of his voice set my teeth on edge and made the hairs on the back of my neck stand. "How may I be of service to you, my lord?"
He seemed to leer at me, and I did not like it one bit. I sent a quick prayer to the twins, hoping one of them would hear.  Zephyrus cocked his head to the side and said, "You will serve me. Or do you need plainer words than that?"
I understood fully. Some Gods were like this, never asking, only demanding, or simply taking. "You flatter me with your attention," I put on my best simpering voice, to soften the blow to his ego. "Truly."
"B-but?" Zephyrus said in a huff.
He would not appreciate it if I refused him, but I must. I could not bear the thought of being with anyone other than Apollo. "I must decline. I am already promised to another, and will not betray them."
"I know who it is. You reek of him, that Olympian prig," he spat in disgust. "Come with me, young man. I will show you a much better time than him."
"My answer is no." I stood up to him, my spine straight. "I belong to Apollo and no other. Kindly leave me, my lord, and trouble me no further."
Zephyrus advanced on me, the wind whipping at his hair in a rage. I guess no one had told him no before. "You dare refuse me, you insignificant worm?"
I backed away from him and realised the streets were now empty. Everyone had gone for their afternoon rest, and I was alone. Damn. "You will give yourself to me, and I will not hear a word against it!"
My palm, the one that was cut when Apollo's vow to me was sealed, burned. "No!" I backed away from him some more, only to find myself being pushed back into an abandoned alley, one that had a dead end. When a wall hit my back, I winced. There was no escape now. I close my eyes and await the inevitable.
Zephyrus was close, his breath on my cheeks, his hand pulling on my arm, and then—
He quickly let go, and the scent of honey and warm summer morning filled my lungs. "He said no, you primitive slug." There was a growl, a loud thud, a struggle of some sort.
I opened my eyes to find Zephyrus pinned to a wall and Apollo in front of him, his arm on his throat. Artemis had her back to me, an arrow already nocked to her bow. Her dogs were on either side of her, snarling and snapping. The Titan squirmed, but Apollo had him in a firm grip. "Leave us, Titan. Leave us and never come back to this place."
"Or what?" Zephyrus had not been bested by an Olympian and looked humiliated. "What will you do? Sing to me?"
"No singing for the likes of you." Apollo snarled. "I will simply beat you to a bloody pulp, and my sister will geld you and feed your parts to her dogs. What say you, sister? Will you be up for the challenge?"
"I look forward to it," Artemis said with a vicious smile.
"There, you see? My sister is looking forward to it. How will you feel pleasure again?" Apollo’s eyes narrowed to slits when Zephyrus struggled again. "How will you face your fellow Titans again?"
That got to him, the shame of being emasculated by a bastard child of Zeus. Zephyrus tried to speak, to reason and compromise perhaps, but Apollo cut him off. "Be gone West Wind. Never bother us again."
Time seemed to stand still. Titan and Olympian glared at each other like two rival lions circling a kill until, finally, Zephyrus growled again before yielding and vanishing.
I tried to breathe, to speak, but the world grew dizzy. I was nearly assaulted by a God and he would have gotten away if the twins had not turned up when they did. It was too much. It was all too much.  My knees buckled.
"Cinthus!"
"I have him," Apollo murmured, and lifted me. Everything shimmered, and I found myself in my bedroom. I was stripped of my clothes, washed, and then taken to bed. There was humming, and the pain in my hand disappeared. Soft pillows greeted me, and strong arms went around me. "Thank you," I whispered and buried my face in his chest. The warmth of his skin soothed me, the sweet scent of honey lulling me to sleep.  
"Anything for you," He whispered back. "Rest, my love, you need it."
APOLLO POV:
We heard neither hide nor hair of Zephyrus after that. I heard no gossip from other Gods, and neither had Hermes. Had Zephyrus backed off for good?
I pushed him and the growing feeling of dread out of my mind and focused on Hyacinthus instead. He had grown quiet and withdrawn, always fearful if I was not around. I tried to be with him as much as I could, to make him feel safe. I asked if he wanted to tell his parents, but he refused. He said it would only endanger everyone if his father took it into his head to challenge Zephyrus, and challenge Zephyrus he would if he knew what happened to his son. I respected his wish and tried to come up with as many distractions as I could for him.
Today I took Hyacinthus to an old orchard away from the city—one that had been abandoned and allowed to grow wild. "Don't worry, my love," I brushed back his hair as we sat beneath an ageing olive tree. "You are safe now."
"Gods do not take kindly to such rejections," Hyacinthus rested his head under my chin and sighed. "Especially the likes of him."
There was that feeling of dread again. "Ignore him," I leaned in for a kiss, my smile growing at the need in his eyes. "Later."
He blushed and reached into the pack I had brought with me. "Discus?"
"Why not?" I helped him up. "You could do with the practise before the games."
"First one to throw the fastest wins?"
I picked one out for myself and grinned. "Deal."
Nothing seemed untoward as the morning progressed. We took turns teasing each other, throwing the discus as far as we could. I taught Hyacinthus a few pointers, helped him improve his throw. I came back to my pack for another discus after having shattered my first one by accident. "Look!" Hyacinthus called out to me. "Look at how far mine is going!"
I grinned, ready to indulge him. Something then changed. I felt like we were being watched by jealous eyes, angry eyes. The wind felt foul, unnatural, like something else was in command of it.
If I cannot have him, then no one can!
Zephyrus. I dropped the pack just as the wind changed direction again, and then—
Bone shattered. The smell of blood filled the air. A body collapsed. I got to Hyacinthus before he hit the ground. I tried to heal him, to revive him, but his life-force continued to spill out of him. I heard cackling. The Fates. This was Hyacinthus' final destiny.
There was a wail, loud and unnatural, shattering the peace of the grove. It was mine. There were pleadings and screams, and tears, hot and stinging, like a million tiny blades. They too, were mine. "Hyacinthus," I whispered, between ragged sobs. "My heart. Do not leave me."
Hyacinthus' eyes flickered open, briefly, and they already glazed over. "A-apollo..." He fought for each breath. "I-I -." He fought hard, but he was already losing. Death had him in its grip.
I barely have time for a final farewell. "Do not speak. Just listen." I kissed his hands repeatedly. "I am grateful to you. Every moment with you has been a blessing, and I would not have it any other way. I love you. I will always love you and no one else. That was my vow to you."
He smiled. His hand, weak and trembling, tried to reach up to me, and then, he was gone.
Hyacinthus. My joy. The light of my life.
And whose passing has plunged my world into bitter darkness.
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messinwitheddie · 2 years ago
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why can’t i follow if i’m a minor? /lh
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Hon, look at my old crone self. I'm 32, pushing 33. If I wanted to interact with teens, I wouldn't have had an abortion when I was in my 20's. It's a boundary I have set in place for a reason. I appreciate it if people would actually respect it.
(This is the rude way to answer that question. I try not to be rude to youngins, so allow me to try to word this answer better.)
To be fair, when most people go through my blog, they don't see a lot of graphic images of nudity or sex acts or anything, so they don't understand why I set that boundary.
The drawings and/or dialogues I post are usually pretty cutesy and tame,
BUT
,
(Notice the pause)
on the occasions that I DO post anything dark, violent, sexual or possibly problematic/triggering in nature, I don't want minors with developing brains coming at me with metaphorical pitchforks because they don't have the ability to analyze the mature content they expose themselves to critically.
There are plenty of adults who are incapable of doing that too and reach for their pitchforks but still. I can tell another adult to pull their thumb out if their mouth, go change their diaper and fuck off without the slightest twinge of guilt.
For some context, not only did I grow up in the early lawless days of the internet, my parents did not believe in censoring anything for children... like AT ALL. (Not saying that's a good or bad thing, that's just the reality of it).
Go ahead watch the Puppet Master movie marathon, but if you wake me up crying because you had a nightmare ever again, I'll kill you and make another kid (My mom's exact words). My mom sat us kids down to watch Schindler's List when we were todlers because she had no other way to really explain my great Papa's ptsd and why sometimes we couldn't stay around him too long. My dad used to watch the MAN Show with Adam Corolla and Jimmy Kimmel when my brother and I were elementary school age, playing in the living room (they ended every show with girls in bikinis jumping on trampolines). If we asked a question about sex or something, my parents would answer it, sometimes with diagrams. There are dozens of other examples; you get the idea.
I try to be responsible and tag things appropriately, but because of my upbringing, I have no way of really gaging what minors can handle and what they can't. I don't feel it's my responsibility to protect anyone when I draw and write. I draw and write to process my own emotions and experiences.. and because I genuinely enjoy it.
Sometimes I draw nudes, or tell dirty and or dark jokes, or curse or discuss troubling topics like substance or suicidal thoughts, childhood trauma (things I persinally struggle with), ect, ect.
I have very limited free time to dedicate to my fandom hobby. I don't have time, focus or energy to check and make sure every person following me isn't a minor, hence why I requests that if you are in fact a minor, please do not follow me.
If someone who is a minor chooses to disregard my boundary, please do so with your own digression. Keep in mind, I am an adult and I do post some NSFW stuff. Also, I have the option to block anyone if they cause me headaches.
Usually if a minor follows me, they're respectful and it's not an issue. I won't make it an issue, but I still keep the request on my profile page.
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sidespart · 4 years ago
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The Fall of King Romulus Part 2
Summary: Twin Princes Remus and Romulus are cursed at birth with Honesty and Obedience. When Romulus, who cannot disobey any order, is told to kill his brother the next time he lays eyes on him, he changes his name to Roman and runs away. Roman joins up with a misfit group of adventures and plans to never return to his homeland. But the fae have other plans for him...
Warnings (for whole fic not necessarily individual chapters): Violence, mind whammying/memory altering, curse of obedience related consent issues, references to sex, references to war related injuries/PTSD, references to child abuse/neglect (YMMV on that one but just in case), antagonstic-but-not-exactly villian!Janus, Extremly-moraly-dubious-but-not-exacty-unsympathetic-Remus
Pairings: Mostly Platonic LAMP and all the found family feels. Could be read as pre-slash. 
Prologue     Chapter 1  
“Young Sir! Come look at this! A beautiful gift for your sweetheart, no?”
Logan bit back a curse as Roman, once again, slipped form his side and almost skipped towards the merchants stall.
They had finally left the forest earlier that morning. Barley a quarter- mile beyond the tree line the path merged with the great eastern road, already heaving with traders wagons heading to Steveange for the monthly market. Roman had gone to work immediately, finding an exhausted looking couple and charming them into exchanging a ride in the back of their cart for a selection of songs to soothe their gaggle of bored children.
Even Logan, no lover of music, could admit that Romans voices was objectively pleasing. Even the wailing baby settled down under the effects of his lullaby.
The closer they got to the city gates the more densely packed the road became, to the point where their pace might have been improved by walking. But the rest was welcome and the sun was still high in the sky by the time they had finally made it to the city square. They might even have made it to their target in good time, had Patton not insisted that they stay to help the family unload every box and crate from their cart before moving on.
Patton stood nearly seven foot tall, with shoulders to match and the patience of a Raspanzean monk. Moving him when he had decided not to move was difficult at the best of times.  Currently, with a good deed in need of doing and no less than three small children clambering all over him, it was going to be impossible.
Logan looked at Virgil for support.
Virgil was already manhandling the smallest sack of produce down from the cart, under close supervision of a surly looking nine year old.
Logan looked back at Patton. Patton had somehow acquired a fourth child, and was swinging the small boy gently back and forth with one giant arm.
Logan sighed.  
Eventually they agreed that Patton and Virgil would stay to help the family, and then set about finding the four of them somewhere to sleep. Logan and Roman would head down the main street, complete their mission and return with, hopefully, enough coin to let them settle here for at least a weeks rest.
Which Logan would have no problem with. Except that the monthly market seemed far larger than when Logan had visited the city as a young apprentice. The city square was packed with stalls filled with meat, produce, spices and enough live animals to generate a stink so strong even Patton and his twice broken nose winced. The main road meanwhile was filled with more temporary looking stalls offering books, jewellery and potions of every colour alongside the usual clothing and home wear. These continued the whole length of the road from the square to the city temple and even spilled over into the side streets and thoroughfares of the city proper.
All of which apparently meant Roman couldn’t walk for more than two minutes without stopping to gawk at whatever gaudy display was on offer or chat with the seller.
“Roman!” he caught up with the wayward bard at a jewellers stall, where a heavy set man with salt and pepper hair was holding up an extremely impractical looking necklace for him to inspect
“Oh there you are specs” Roman grinned at him, “have you seen Master Galvenets wares? Look how shiny!”
“Is this your sweetheart?” The jeweller – presumably Master Galvenet – grinned at Logan with far too many teeth and reached below the makeshift counter top, “Then may I suggest this one instead – to match his  eyes?”
The necklace he presented was even bigger than the last. With blue glass masquerading as the sapphires surrounded by enough ostentatious filigree to decorate a dukes bed chamber. Logan stared,  momentarily struck dumb by his own disdain.
Roman nudged him, waggling his eyebrows and giving him a lecherous grin “What do you think sweetie? It does match your eyes.”
Logan blanched. Turning quickly to the seller her snapped out “We are NOT together. And also - we’re, extremely poor. And not interested.”
He grabbed Roman’s wrist and proceeded to drag the giggling bard with him back towards the main street. “Can you try to focus?” Logan glared at him, “remember this package is time sensitive.” Superstitiously, Logan patted his pocket, feeling the shape of the vial they had been entrusted to transport to Steveange still safely stored inside.
Roman failed to look chastened. “Logan, it’s a herb. And we we’re asked to deliver it within a week – it’s only been five days! Your forest short cut worked, alright, the worlds not going to end if we stop to appreciate some fine wares on our way.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You consider Master Galvenet’s works, ‘fine wares’?”
Now Roman had the grace to look a little sheepish “They had a charm of their own.”
Logan hmphed. “They were very clearly fake.”
“Oh?” Roman linked their arms together, tugging him back into the steady stream of south bound shoppers, “How could you tell?”
Logan told him.
The ensuring lecture took them the rest of the way down main street, and into the rabbit warren of alleyways that branched out behind the city’s temple.
Even here, there were traders. Many had their wares spread out on blankets on the ground instead of stalls, but they seemed less inclined to call over whilst the two of them walked together deep in discussion and so, mercifully, there was less opportunities for Roman to get distracted.
“A festival?” Roman suggested. Logan shrugged, it was possible, something was certainly occurring to draw such an enormous throng.
Eventually, Logan had to admit that his boyhood memories were not enough to navigate every twist and turn of the city streets and Roman stepped away from him to ask a couple for directions. Logan took the chance to study him, but whatever fit of irrationality had led to him wandering back through half the forest the previous night seemed to have past. Even the scratches on his hands and arms had healed almost completely overnight, helped along by a generous slathering of healing salve from Virgil.
(Logan had, at the time, pointed out that the healer was using up rather a lot of their  dwindling supply for an extremely minor injury. Virgil had hissed at him)
Roman was often contradictory. He would spend a day whining about his need for beauty sleep but then stay up till the early hours to fulfil every song request from whatever crowd they managed to gather. He fussed with his makeup and performance clothing as much as a lady at court, but kept his hair cropped unfashionably short and made no effort to seek out high class patrons who could have kept him in silks and finery. He was talented enough with a lute to spend the social season entertaining upper class lords, and talented enough with a sword to spend the rest of his time as a body guard or becomes some towns local hero. Instead he travelled with them.
“You know, I’m fairly sure there were some gentlemen painting miniatures on the main road, if you want to keep staring at me that is.”
Logan flushed, caught. “Don’t be insufferable.”
“You don’t pay me enough for that” Roman grinned cheekily.
This was an old joke. Virgil had originally found Roman, and hired him as a body guard and escort for a three day trip through a bandit ridden mountain pass. Three weeks and many diversions later, they had emerged on the other side of the mountain. Roman had become as much a part of the group as any of the others and had stayed to travel with them as a friend rather than a hire.
Logan was glad of it. Most of the time.
“Did you get the directions?”
“I did, I had to ask three people before I found someone who recognised the address – the city’s full of tourists!”
 *
 The woman who opened the door looked like the word crone ha been invented especially for her. Her grey hair stuck out from a shoddily tied scarf and her face looked like at any moment it might collapse under the weight of her own frown. She scowled at the pair of them, looking like she already learned everything there was to know about them from one glance and found it all spectacularly unimpressive.
“What do you want?” She snapped.
Logan resisted the urge to smooth down his waistcoat like he was presenting to a lecturer and stepped forward.
“Good afternoon. We have been sent by Madam Valarie to –“
This, if anything, seemed to make the scowl deepen.
“My sister? What does that witch want?”
“To deliver you …this”
With a flourish Logan produced the vial and held it aloft. The thin shaft of light spilling from the doorway made the red herb glow a burning orange in the dim of the alley.
“And you think I’m dramatic.”
“Shush.”
Needlessly dramatic or not, he had the woman’s attention. She reached towards the vial with trembling hands but Logan drew back before she could make contact.
“Your sister paid us half, with the promise of the second half on delivery.” Reaching into a different pocket  he produced an envelope and held it out. “She told us to give you this – it should validate our story.”
The woman muttered something decidedly uncomplimentary under her breath but accepted the envelope. Without speaking further she turned and retreated into the hovel, leaving the door open behind her
The two men exchanged a glance, and then Roman deftly stepped around Logan to walk in first, one hand on his sword.
He needn’t have bothered, the short hallway opened up to small kitchen, where every conceivable surface was covered with books, scrolls and bric-a-brac. Three of the four walks were taken up with shelving where kitchen ingredients and appliances sat shoulder to shoulder with  ornaments, candles and what looked like half a taxidermy ostrich.  
If the old woman had hired muscle ready to take to leap out and take the herb by force, they would have had a hard time finding space to stand.
“My sister claims this was picked under the glow of a full moon.”
Logan nodded, “that is what we were given to understand.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, “For this to be worth the price it needs to be used within ten days of the moon’s glow, my sisters village is two weeks ride away on the eastern road.”
“We came through the forest.” Logan explained, “Also, I sealed the herb in a pre-sterilised sample jar – the lack of air exposure should help it retain its freshness far beyond its normal time frame!”
The was a silence. The woman was now looking at Logan not with suspicion, but with the exasperation of a teacher whose student has just said something rather stupid.
Logan crossed his arms.
“If you look at the specimen carefully you will notice no discoloration or other signs of degradation – this method can be used to prolong the lifespan of most vegetation and-“
She interrupted him by laughing, an awful crows call of a noise, and held up a hand for silence.
“You are obviously quite uneducated.” she told him cheerfully “And you are bothering Mittens.”
“I beg your pardon I- wait what?”
“YOWCH!”
Logan spun round, as much as he could in the cramped space, only to find Roman desperately trying to relinquish a scrambling ball of fur back onto one of the high shelves. The cat had already dug its claws deep enough into the bards wrist to draw blood, and was currently clinging on for dear life as Roman waved his hand around like Patton trying to kill a spider.
“My apologies Master Mittens” Roman told the cat a few moments later, after Logan and the crone had  finally convinced it to release him “I thought you were a hat.”
“Why must you touch things.” Logan hissed and was surprised by a much gentler laugh from their hostess.
“Aw now,  Mittens is not the most dangerous thing you could have touched in my kitchen. Here. Drink.”
Logan blinked as she shoved hot cup into his hands. Its contents was extremely dark and disturbingly viscous. A few drops glopped over the side, singeing his finger. He held it as far from his body as he possibly could.
“And for you?” She held up a second cup towards Roman who smiled politely but shook his head ‘no’
“No thank you, Madam.”
“We’re both fine.” Logan said firmly, putting the cup down on one of the first patches of exposed surface he could find. “If you wouldn’t mind completing our transaction we will take our leave of this…place.”
She looked at him for one long moment and then turned back to Roman.
“Your friend says you passed through the Serpents Forrest”
Logan frowned - “That’s not what the locals called it.”
“Well that’s who lives there.” The crone snapped without turning around, “One of the darker fae. I’m not surprised he” – she jerked her chin back towards Logan – “ got through alright, since the gods look after fools.”
“Excuse me!”
“But how did you manage?”
Roman juts shrugged, eyes sparkling with mirth at Logan’s outraged expression. “We saw no one Madam, but if we had done - I carry iron.”
That rusted hunk of junk Logan thought, but the crone was nodding approvingly
“A clever boy” she patted Roman cheek, “I thought so when I heard your accent – you’re from beyond the mountains.”
Logan frowned. He was not gifted when it came to interpreting expressions, but he thought Romans smile had suddenly become very fixed.
“So are you.” Roman replied softly.
There was a moments quiet whilst the two looked at each other and Logan tried not to roll his eyes out of his own head. All they needed to do was a simple swap of coin for produce and instead Roman had manged to find the only other grown adult in Steveange who still believed in fairies.
Whatever northerner to northerner communication was happening seemed to pass, and the crone reached past Roman to pull a small burlap sack from the shelf. Mittens took the opportunity to skitter across her arm and settle himself on her shoulder.
“Here you are then.” She tipped the sack out on top of an open tome, producing three cloves of garlic and a hefty pile of coins Logan couldn’t help but stare. That was more money than Logan had seen in one place since he had started traveling.
The crone picked out three gold pieces and a fistful of silver and handed them to Logan. He counted quickly and handed her the vial. Transaction complete, Logan headed immediately to the door, but turned back when he realised Roman wasn’t with him
He was still trapped between the crone and the shelving. “Will you come and see me before you leave the city?” she asked “It would be nice to share my tea with someone who would appreciate it.”
Logan thought to the gelatinous mess in the tea cup and gagged but Roman just smiled
“If time allows my lady.” He brought her withered hand to his lips and deposited a courtly kiss before sidestepping her and heading after Logan.
The city alley smelt almost like fresh air after the over mixture of incense, garlic and cat that her permeated the crones kitchen, and Logan breathed it in gratefully before setting off. Roman falling into sept beside him.
Logan glanced at him, uncertain.
He knew Roman was from the Northern Kingdom. He guessed from his speech patterns that he either grew up upper class or was truly committed to his larger than life bard persona. He had mentioned a brother once, off hand, and during an argument compared Logan to a tutor he’d disliked who had made him study maps until he could recount every river on the continent by heart.
That was all he knew.
Logan was curious by nature, a trait which tended to get him in trouble. He would have liked to pepper Roman with a hundred questions about life beyond the mountains, but Patton had told him once he should only ask a question about a sensitive subject if he was prepared to answer one himself.
None of them like to talk about where they came from, but that was fine. They were going forward together.
It was obvious though, that meeting his countryman had shaken Roman. He walked silently, even when they turned into a wider street and found the market still in full swing, shoppers crowding around each stall, he made no comment, only stepped closer to Logan.
If he was Patton, he might have known what to say to sooth whatever emotion was clouding Romans features. If he was Virgil, he might have made a joke or pointed out an interesting stall  to distract him
As it was..
“So do all Northerners believe in fairy stories or is it just you two?”
“What?”
“The dark fae of the forest? She can’t have been serious.”
Roman straighten up, fixing him with a mock glare “Logan! You’re honestly going to keep pretending you don’t believe in magic? You travel with an elf!”
“Half-elf. And there’s nothing mystical about him.”
“He makes potions Logan!”
“He mixes herbs into useful medicines, it’s no different than any human herbalist.”
“He chants when he does it. And his eyes do that thing.” Roman wiggled his fingers in front of his face, apparently to illustrate ‘that thing’.
“Which I’m sure helps him know how long each concoction needs to stew before adding the next ingredient. You cannot decided a race is magical just because they’ve failed to invent clocks.”
“Urgh!” Roman threw up his hands, “Sometimes you sound like you’re from Arkaze’yed.”
Arkaze’yd was on the western coast. The most industrially advanced of the great cities, they had recently converted the city temple into an extension of the university.
Logan preened. “Thank you for the compliment.”
Roman pulled a face. “You are such a - ooh! Jam tarts!”
He darted away again, but this time Logan couldn’t fault him. A boy was hastily unpacking a crate of what looked like fresh jam tarts onto his masters stall and the scent was delicious
They had to wait for three families ahead of them before they could finally have their turn. Roman picked out four of the tarts and chatted happily with the seller whilst Logan carefully counted out the money.
“I had herd the monthly market of Steveange was something to behold but this! Are you going to go all night?”
“Most likely.” The trader told them happily, “The towns packed for the coronation.”
“Coronation?”
“Princess Stephanie is to become queen,” the man gushed, one hand over his heart in what Logan considered to be an alarming display of emotional royalism. “The guests have been arriving all week.”
Logan nodded absently. That explained the hubbub. The rich went traveling and the poor went to see them. A coronation was a good enough excuse for a festival. If you liked that sort of thing.
“They say,” the trader whispered leaning forward, apparently unbothered by Logan’s total lack of interest in royal gossip, “That even the mad Prince is coming - Remus of Notaleveale!”
“Is that so.” said Logan, monotonously “Here’s your coin.” He turned to Roman to claim his pastry and – stared.
All the colour had drained from Romans face. He gaze was fixed on the trader, his eyes so wide he looked quite wild.
“Roman?” Logan asked, as gently as he could. He realised that Romans hands were shaking the second before the bag of pastries fell from his grip.
“Roman- ROMAN hey-“
Other customers were starting to push between them, Logan bent down quickly to rescue the bag form the floor and reached out to grab his friends hand.
But when he looked up, Roman had gone.
Part three
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felikatze · 2 years ago
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xbc3. is. so good. i'm nowhere near done (30h in lmao) and i just finished chapter 3 and i wanna talk abt it anyway!!!!!
the mystery is SO GOOD!! WHAT'S HAPPENING!!! why is the world like this indeed noah!!! i dont know!! cuz like. *somebody* has to have done this. what was the ouroboros egg?! what the fuck are the moebius gang? why is any of this? why are we all killing each other?
also like. i have played xbc1 and love it a lot and respectfully ignored xbc2 but the callbacks to both r insane. not just how the factions mirror the games ON A COMBAT LEVEL TOO (INSANE) but also how it just takes actual locations from both games
i cant recognize the xbc2 ones obvs but the xbc1 locations. colony 9 is literally just colony 9!!! IT'S THE SAME FUCKING VALLEY!! THE EXACT SAME VALLEY!!!!
and when i got to colony lambda i had to say out loud "FUCK OFF THAT'S MAKNA FALLS" like yeah. okay.
and it just adds to the mystery!!! cuz ykno, xbc1 ends with the creation of a new world, so is this the new world? did the two worlds get fused after both games?
also like!!! CONSUL N IS JUST NOAH WHAT IS THIS. is this a shulk-zanza situation or what. i mean eunie did find a corpse with her own name and everyone's a test tube baby so noah is probably this guy's clone right. right.
speaking of its kinda. mind boggling to grasp on how short of a timescale these characters operate. cuz they'll talk abt their legendary heroes who've done so much and these legendary figures r literally the same age as mio. and two years older max than the rest of the group. THAT'S RIDICULOUS, RIGHT? TWO YEARS? ethel and mio are the same fucking age! and yet these are the respected seniors! that's like me calling my sister an old crone! wack! vandham's right!!!! this isn't how the world is supposed to be!!
the character writingg is. excellent also. i love how every configuration of characters gets bonding moments, not just ouroboros pairs. like the tail end of chapter 3 is vry taion centric yeah (i love taion)
so we get this scene after eunie discovers her own corpse and unlocks ptsd and she's sitting by the fire and her hands are shaking. taion hands her a cup of tea and she makes fun of him out loud but we cut to her hands and see they've stopped shaking
that's such a good moment the fuck man. like, taion recognizes eunie's distress, but doesnt press her to talk about it, and eunie pokes fun at taion, but she's geniuenly grateful for his company. considering what a dickweed (affectionate) eunie is that's amazing.
and after that is a moment where taion admits to lanz that he's jealous of lanz's self confidence, but lanz admits he's not self confident at all. he just cant stand still and allow himself to think, or else the doubt starts setting in. he has to keep moving or else. he cant doubt himself once cuz then he'll doubt himself forever.
and when it happens, this is still kind of in the taion centric stretch with his colony lambda backstory, but this moment sets up how lanz starts doubting himself and feeling guilty after joran shows up as a consul. AND in the moment lanz tells taion how noah will always tell him to look forward WHICH NOAH THEN DOES AFTER JORAN!
it's just good okay!!!!! and i'm still reeling from "consul n is just noah lmao" except my joycons' battery ran out and i want to play on the big screen
i'm now fondly recalling my joke reading of zanza and meyneth as "your divorced parents arguing about how to raise their kids" and now i'm giggling about it cuz i'm still kind of right i think
xbc3 launches straight in into "war is hell" whereas xbc1 started as a more straightforward revenge plot only to pull zhe rug out from under you but both r vry good in their own way.
even with all the callbacks, xbc3 still has its own story and themes and even the fused environment feels new amd fresh to explore thanks to the changed lanscape and beautiful music.
good game!!! yeah!!!!
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ao3feed-nalu · 2 years ago
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Eclipse and Equinox
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/4xQivXF
by Magnafeana
The king had been her eclipse.
Anna Heartfilia has been an eclipsed Maiden, a solstice Mother, and now she began her journey as a Crone in the Current Era. But when she saw those gold eyes and burgundy scales, her past as a maiden and a mother struggled to reconcile with her present as a crone. She couldn't be eclipsed again.
But Ignia wasn't his father.
Maybe the spawn could be her equinox.
Words: 9539, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English
Fandoms: Fairy Tail
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Categories: F/M
Characters: Anna Heartfilia, Ignia (Fairy Tail), Background Characters are as follows - Character, Lucy Heartfilia, Natsu Dragneel, Mirajane Strauss, Makarov Dreyar, Katja (Fairy Tail), Ichiya Vandalay Kotobuki
Relationships: Anna Heartfilia/Ignia, Natsu Dragneel/Lucy Heartfilia, Anna Heartfilia & Lucy Heartfilia, Anna Heartfilia/Igneel, Anna Heartfilia/Ichiya Vandalay Kotobuki, Anna Heartfilia & Natsu Dragneel
Additional Tags: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Anxiety Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Manga: Fairy Tail 100 Years Quest, Post-Fairy Tail 100 Years Quest, Post-Fairy Tail Chapter 545, Budding Love, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, you rise with the moon, I rise with the sun, sun and moon
read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/4xQivXF
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onlyshestandsthere · 1 year ago
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Title: be my mirror (my sword and shield)
Chapter: 21/?
Pairing: Jade Claymore/Kit Tanthalos
Tags: Enemies to Lovers//Bone Reaver Jade Claymore//Kit gets taken instead of Airk//Slow Burn//Hurt/Comfort//PTSD//Psychological Torture//Angst with a Happy Ending
Summary:
Angry blue eyes glared at Jade from beneath short dark locks that fell into her face. Sharp cheekbones, straight nose, and a strong jaw gave her an imperious air, and despite the fact that she was shorter than Jade – and tied to a tree – she still somehow gave the impression that she was looking down at her. This was even more impressive given the entire left side of her face was one massive bruise, and her eye was swollen almost completely shut.
Or: Bone Reaver Jade is tasked with escorting a prisoner to the Immemorial City for their new ally, the Crone.
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speechlessxx · 4 years ago
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Bring Him Light - xiv (King!Steve Rogers x Reader)
Chapter Summary: When one threat is resolved, another makes presents itself. 
Warnings: character deaths, reference to sexual assault, ptsd, implied smut, shitty writing but we’re not gonna mention it ok, time jump!
Word Count: 2.7k
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<- Last Part -=+=- Next Part ->
Confused, angry, annoyed murmurs filled the courtyard as people were ushered outside by the kingsguard. The summer sun had already risen and beat down unforgivingly on the crowd that began to form. An eerie feeling clung to the air – similar to the early morning sunrise when Sister Mary was beheaded. The people had not forgotten about the large army that gathered outside their castle gates this morning. They wondered in fear – had their king been overthrown? Or perhaps… the king was prepared to be a widow once more?
To their relief, King Steven stood at the platform. He was rather calm with his brows furrowed, lost in his thoughts. To their surprise, you weren’t dressed in the traditional execution black, nor were you cowering in the crowd in fear of your husband. Instead, their queen stood tall with her husband’s hand clasped in hers and a crown on her head, reminding them of who you were – reminding you of who you were: an angry queen seeking revenge.
The stoic expression on your face unsettled them. The last time you made a public appearance as queen was when you were struck by your husband. After then, the only time you had been relevant was when guards were storming the castle early in the morning in search of their runaway queen. Though they knew you were back and rested, they had expected your duties to be minimal – that you were to be hidden away, locked in the castle as a crowned prisoner.
They were wrong.
Behind you, stood your father, the invader from this morning. Though he did not seem to pose a threat to you or the king, his army was still sprawled out around the courtyard. Any attempt would be thwarted with ease with both Brooken and York standing together like this.
“Bring them forth,” Steven called out. The crescendo of the people’s chatter became louder and louder as the two criminals were finally revealed.
Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce trudged through the crowd, being led by guards. Shock was expressed on many noble’s faces. Confused muttering shook the crowd as they stared on at the two men who wore black.
“What is he doing?” “Has he finally lost his mind?” “That’s his cousin!” “That’s his father’s sister’s boy!” “Pierce has been an ally to the crown for decades!” “It’s the queen’s doing!” “She’s manipulating him.” “She’s made him a monster.” “No… He’s already been one for years.” “That’s his cousin, his father’s sister’s son!” “He wouldn’t dare.” “He’s a monster.”
The whispers didn’t stop. It felt as if the people were turning their back on Steven, losing hope, respect, and trust. He had yet to say a word that was heard by the crowd. Their mutterings became louder and louder, drowning him out, calling him a monster, saying he shouldn’t wear the crown. They called him mad and cruel, saying he lashed out – disguising his insanity and using treason as an excuse to blindly kill.
It wouldn’t stop. The vile accusations against him were deafening. You stared at the crowd, listening to every word spat out. It sounded like a long continuous scream.
The wails bringing you back to the violent sways of the boat. The nausea induced by the mercenary’s poor command of the boat. Seeing the man on top of Wanda. Hearing her screams of pain and pleads for help. The sticky blood on your hands as you stabbed him. You remembered the sharp shove he gave to your stomach – to your child. The ripping of your dress as he spat, “I should’ve raped you first” with his hands wrapped around your throat. The metallic taste of blood after Wanda slit the man’s throat open. You remembered her falling to the ground and the haunting lifeless look on her face. The terrible cramping pain in your stomach and the discomfort in your back. You remember the blood pooling underneath you as you lost your child.
Everything hitting you all at once. The anger. The hurt. The betrayal. The loss. It all spiraled together, morphing into one hideous feeling that you couldn’t describe. It bubbled in your throat, demanding to be let out.
“SILENCE!” You didn’t even recognize your own voice that bounced throughout the kingdom. It was so loud that you were sure your mother could’ve heard it in York. Maybe the true Mad King heard it from wherever he was.
The entire crowd fell into silence, surprised at your outburst. Steven looked over to you. His own frustration and anger melted into pure concern as he watched your shoulders rise and fall with every breath you took. He called your name but you didn’t hear it, basking in the silence as you wordlessly commanded the respect and attention of everyone in attendance.
Steven couldn’t help but smirk proudly at his queen as you stepped forward from your position, glaring at the crowd.
“You want to call your king a monster?” You asked them. “You have no idea what he has done to protect this kingdom… He has done nothing but protect each and every one of you. Whether the threat be my own father or foreign invaders,” you glared at the two bound men in black, “or lords who plot and conspire for his demise. He’s on the frontline of every battle when he could simply cower in the castle along with the rest of you. And you want to call him the monster?”
You gestured to the chained men. “Brock Rumlow and Alexander Pierce are the true monsters. They’re the shadows that lurk in the dark. Their the ghosts that haunt the castle. They prey on your fears, they isolate you, they manipulate you.”
You walked to the de-tongued Pierce, a shell of the noble he once was – thanks to your father. “Alexander Pierce brought King Steven two wives. Both from the same house. Both who have died. Everyone’s quick to tell the story that the king murdered his wives. They refused to give him an heir, so he ridded himself of their incompetency, right? I believed that story, too. But no one tells the truth of how Pierce deliberately chose wives of a house who swore allegiance to King Thanos.
“Brock Rumlow manipulated his way into my circle. He fed me lies of how Steven murdered his wives, confirmed untrue rumors – all to turn me against my own husband.” You looked over to Steven, who had a proud look on his face as he watched his wife take control of the situation. “I should’ve believed you, my love. For that, I am truly sorry.”
“These two men orchestrated to have me and my ladies murdered. They posted as people I could trust, promised me protection from a man they said was a threat. They arranged for my friends and I to be murdered on a boat. They hired a mercenary who rap – “you stopped yourself. The word had a foul taste that you could not stomach. “They hired a mercenary who murdered Lady Wanda Maximoff before my eyes. They’re responsible for the death of my child, the heir to Brooken.”
That fact alone stunned many. They were all quick to resent their queen because you had spent months childless… Little did they know they lost their heir they were so desperate to have.
“They’re monsters and if you cannot see that for yourselves, then you, too, will be on this platform next. Call me a killer. Call me ruthless. Call me the monster. I’ll accept it all. I’ve lost a friend and I’ve lost a child. And if their executions and your spiteful rumors are what I must pay for a moment of vengeance, then so be it.”
The crowd remained silent as they took in every word. They may never know what fact is and what is fiction, but everyone can agree that the hurt and the pain in your voice was completely genuine. No one could feign that type of grief.
Steven took a step forward, grabbing your hand and rubbing soothing circles onto the back of it. He brought it to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles before turning towards the two men.
“We needn’t relive the torment you’ve brought upon my wife. You both are guilty of treason, and everyone knows it,” Steven told them, directly. “I, King Steven Rogers of Brooken, with the witnesses of my wife, Queen (Y/N) Rogers and King Anthony Stark of York, sentence you to death for your treason.”
Brock had called your name. He begged for his life. He begged for mercy. He stared into your eyes, pleading for a shred of empathy or compassion. He knew you had it in you – he saw it when you defended your friends fiercely, when you tried to stop your husband from executing the old crone. But he was met with angry, cold eyes as he heard his cousin call for his sword.
Pierce was the first to go. He was brought to the executioner’s block with no hassle – he did not fight. He knew when he had lost and he would lose with any dignity he had left. Steven’s blow was quick and neat. The head fell into the basket with a soft thud as the body was removed from the block.
Rumlow thrashed in the guards’ arms. He begged and he called for your name. He sputtered out apologizes for his crimes in hopes for any ounce of mercy that could be thrown his way.
“Stop.” You said before your husband could lift his sword. “Get him on his feet.”
“(Y/N).” Steven warned, but you repeated your order. The king sent you a weary look before gesturing for the guards to lift his cousin.
Steven watched as you marched over and gave Brock a kind smile. Relief flooded through Rumlow as you fixed the black collar of his shirt.
“You don’t deserve a fast death.” You told him. Though your voice was soft, it was heard throughout the eerily silent courtyard.
Before he could process your words, you gave a swift, deep cut to his throat with a dagger no one knew you were hiding. After the attempt on your life, you always ensured that you had some form of a weapon on your person.
He choked on his own blood as the crimson spurted out from the deep gash. You watched with little remorse as he fell to the ground, clawing at his neck. You didn’t shift your eyes away as you did when Sister Mary was beheaded. No. You wanted to see your enemies fall.
Once he laid lifeless on the platform, you turned and made your way off the platform and back into the castle.
»»————- ⚜ ————-««
Your farewells with your father were bittersweet and fast. You wished him safe travels as you gave him a sword – specially made for your little brother’s name day. You noticed the saddened look on your father’s face upon hearing Harvey’s name, but you decided not to press him about it.
You watched from the balcony as he and his army disappeared into the horizon. Your hands were still shaking – something you hadn’t thought would happen once you took Brock’s life. Though you have bathed – and re-bathed – immediately after the executions, your hands still felt sticky even if you only had a few splatters of blood on them.
You were too lost in your thoughts that you didn’t hear Steven slowly walk over to your position. You jumped when his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him as he pressed a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Are you alright?” He asked you. He noticed how you were still trembling.
“I killed him.” You said. “I looked him in his eyes and took his life.”
“If you weren’t shaking, I would ask myself if I had married a coldblooded killer.” He joked lightly, but you scoffed at him. He kissed your temple. “But I know you are not a murderer.”
“As I know you are not a monster.” You whispered. “I couldn’t stand there and listen to them whispering anymore,” you shook your head. “I do apologize for thinking such things.”
“You had reason to believe it. I do not blame you.”
“You should be angry.”
“I am not.” Steven assured. “I love you.”
“As I love you.” You responded, leaning into him. “Is it over? Is this unrest finally over?”
“It never is.” Steven sighed. “But now, everyone knows… They can’t turn us against each other. We stand together. King and Queen. We are a force to be reckoned with. We are taking strides to a brighter Brooken. Together.”
You smiled at the thought. You basked in Steven’s arms. The security the bring. The feeling of home.
You turned to face him and pulled him down for a kiss. Sweet and passionate. Lips melting together as if they had always belonged there. You pushed Steven backwards towards the room. He broke the kiss as he watched you close the balcony doors. You smiled at him before you cupped his jaw with your hands to reconnect the kiss.
You kept pushing and pushing until the back of Steven’s knees hit the back of the bed. He pulled away from you, combing the loose strands away from your face before placing a chaste kiss to your lips. “We needn’t do this if you aren’t ready.” He told you. He was afraid that his desire for you would overwhelm you. Though some time had passed since the incident, he did not want to make you feel pressured in any way.
You shook your head. You tried to bring his lips back to yours, but he thwarted your attempt. “Steven…” You whined.
He chuckled, cupping your face with his large hands. “You needn’t give me an heir… Not yet. Not if you’re not ready.”
“Steven…” you frowned. “I want this. I want you.”
He shook his head. “We don’t need an heir… Not yet. I am happy with just you.”
You groaned at him. “If we have a child this night or the next, it makes little difference to me. I’m not trying to have an heir. I want to make love to you because I love you.”
He smiled. That warm smile that sent butterflies to your stomach. He kissed your lips once. Twice. And a third kiss one from an eager husband ready to make love to his wife. 
»»————- ⚜ ————-««
Six Months Later…
You let out an erotic moan, one that quite possibly awoke the entire castle. Not that you nor your husband minded as your hips rutted against his as you both came down from your highs. Exhausted, you slumped down to his chest and allowed his arms to wrap around you. He pressed a kiss to your glistening forehead as you both tried to catch your breaths.
“I love you.” You whispered.
“I love you, too.”
Three sharp knocks were stamped into the wood of your bedchamber’s doors. You and Steven frowned at one another. It was late at night, who could it be?
You quickly got off your husband and wrapped yourself in a robe as he did the same. He walked over to the door to find Lord Barnes, who was supposed to be vacationing in his chateau with his new wife, Lady Natasha. “What’s wrong, James?” Steven asked the obviously exhausted lord.
“Your majesties…” He said, winded. “There’s an emergency. Please. Come to the throne room now.” Steven asked for privacy so that you both may properly dress.
Your bare feet padded against the tiles as you hurried walked hand in hand with Steven. “What’s happened?” You asked Lord Barnes as he rounded the corner towards the throne room. When he didn’t answer, you asked again. He pushed the doors open and you gasped. “Mother?”
“Oh, my sweet child,” your mother sighed out in relief. She held baby Morgan in her hands, the infant had grown in your time away. You rushed to her side and gave her a hug, cooing at your baby sister who babbled happily as she recognized your voice.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Your husband asked.
“Always great to see you, Steve.” Your mother smiled.
“Pepper,” he greeted, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “As much as I find your company a delight, it’s in the middle of the night… It’s winter. Travel is rather troublesome in the north, even for a three-day journey.”
“Where’s father?” You asked. “And Harvey?”
Your mother sighed sadly. Your face dropping. You looked to Natasha who stood with her husband and the guards you recognized belonged to your father’s kingsguard. “What’s happened?” You asked.
“York’s been invaded by Thanos.”
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writingonjorvik · 3 years ago
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Jorvegian Myth: Aideen Is Dead
That's a big claim (and kinda an overdone one in fandom) so let's just get into the reasoning. Spoilers for the most recent quests under the cut.
We've known for a while that Aideen hasn't intervened with, anything on Jorvik really, for a really long time. This started me on two theories on why that might be. Generally, I don't believe Aideen is the only entity of her kind. If that was the case, what about the rest of Earth? Aideen is only described as to have saved Jorvik, but what about the rest of the world? Did is not die? Was is just left alone to recover from Jorvik's survival? This gets supported by a comment Ydris made in the most recent quests if the MC chooses to say that they have faith in Aideen. Ydris laughs at the comment, implies Aideen is unreliable, and suggests putting your faith somewhere else. I'll address the fact that she's unreliable to him later, and just point out that this implies there are other entities to put one's faith in in Ydris's mind.
The assumption then was that either a) Aideen is like a Shinto kami or b) she can no longer be corporal because she was wounded/killed. In the instance of situation a, Aideen can't help Jorvik because there isn't enough faith in her and/or the land has become too wounded. In situation b, which I'm finding more likely, she can't intervene because she's dead. In either situation, I think this better sets up narrative agency for the MC but I will get to that in a bit.
We know that Aideen now is in all living things. She's basically the Force and this reveal from the Catherine quests has been widely debated in the community. However, we also know she had to be, at some point, corporeal. If for no other reason than the fact that we have physical depictions of Aideen, Aideen had to, at some point, be physical enough for people to have the legend of a girl coming to the island, riding over its waters, and healing it (likely started by Fripp and the JWHs). This fact is consistent so far with all three versions of the creation myth of Jorvik. So how did Aideen go from a physical form to an incorporeal one?
The answer actually fits into the myth that seems to be the basis of the Soul Riders, a myth I covered forever ago on this blog: a variant on the myth of the Triple Goddess and her fourth form. Most of you probably know the Triple Goddess myth, Maiden, Matron, Crone/Matriarch. It is a highly prominent goddess archetype in Celtic and Norse mythos, which SSO has always drawn from. But the Triple Goddess excludes a fourth Soul Rider, the Lightning Circle in particular, unless you include her fourth form. The Tempest. And the Tempest is the dead version of the Triple Goddess and the wild magic that came out of it.
So to return to the point, both things are true about Aideen. She did come through with Fripp as an incredibly powerful entity on a cosmic scale, likely to deal with Garnok. In healing Jorvik though (and potentially binding it to Pandoria), Jorvik needed more power to restore itself so that one day it could be cut off from Pandoria again. And Aideen's life force was enough to do that. So Aideen, after gifting Jorvik with horses and the Soul Riders and magic, gave herself to become the life force of the island. She died but her power lives on in the island, feeding it so one day it can survive alone once more. And that's Fripp's job to solve on how to separate. But now that she's dead, like Ydris said, she's not exactly a reliable source to call on.
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This I feel is more supported by the comic @ellipuukangas just released with SSO. We see Aideen in a corporeal state here. But the text is what interests me. "Seeds of a dead world." Jorvik was dead, it was a dead rock, that's been in the Jorvegian and witches' creation myth. "Life and death at once." The two are inseparable, trading spaces. Jorvik's survival for Aideen's life. One has to die for the other to live. All magic comes with a price. Fripp has been the biggest proponent of that mantra. Aideen, his friend whom he traveled to Jorvik with, gave her life so that Jorvik would live. He knows the real risk of magic more than anyone because he say the greatest price paid. (There's a whole aside to have here that this specific event might be what shattered Fripp's memory because PTSD can do fun stuff to memory, but not the point now.)
As to how this all comes back to the story now, I think it sets up the opportunity for a better version of the "Aideen is in everything, so everyone is special." Because that message is rather mixed in this medium. I've talked about it before, so briefly, the MC has lacked a lot of agency in the story. They don't have any powers that we as players can actively control and they rely rather heavily on coordinating others to get things done. Which is more of a book hero than a video game hero. The one thing the MC had going for them was that they were Aideen reborn/champion/whatever and the Catherine quests took that away. They made everyone special. Which, grand scale, is an ok message and it sets up for more multiplayer focused narratives, but it takes away the importance of agency and choice for the player themself.
Yes, everyone is special and unique, but there are people who choose to be more. Who drive themselves to be better, to do better, to make a difference. Who stand for the fact that all things are special and therefore deserve the right to live. And the choice to go beyond should be what sets the MC apart, not above, but apart, from Catherine. And that's the same thing Aideen would have done. That some have to sacrifice more so all people can live in peace.
I think Aideen, along with her gifts, foresaw her death has being required to save Jorvik. And in doing so she created a challenge, a series of trials. Someone who was incredibly in tune with her magic, like Catherine and the MC, could choose to take up the mantle of Aideen, could take on these challenges, to become her chosen, to become the solution to Fripp's quest to free Jorvik, and the one would who defeat Garnok. And the choice to accept that destiny is what makes the MC different from Catherine. Catherine choose to reject destiny, to reject that mantle. She didn't want to be a chosen one, she didn't even really want to be a Soul Rider. She wanted to be loved and to love, and she finished that with Justin. However, the MC can choose to take up that challenge and both what Catherine said can be true along with allowing the player to maintain that agency.
Aideen may have died, but her power lives on. Her gift wasn't destiny, it was freedom. But sacrifice is required to maintain freedom from pure chaos. That is the choice of the Keepers, of the Soul Riders, and that the MC has to make. Someone has to make that sacrifice for the rest of Jorvik to survive. That was Aideen's choice, now it's the player's.
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epiphany-of-a-madwoman · 4 years ago
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The Last Dragon | The Witcher & Game of Thrones
Chapter 11 | Of Delusions and Grandeur
Summary: Visenya Targaryen is the eldest and only surviving child of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell. When Robert Baratheon’s rebellion was won, instead of being slaughtered by the Mountain like her mother and siblings, she was saved by Ned Stark and taken as his ward. Years later, after she’s killed at the Red Wedding, she wakes up outside Blaviken. Now she finds her destiny intertwined with the White Wolf on her quest to go back home.
Word Count: 8,500
*Warning* Our angry bean having some serious PTSD flashbacks, also death, quite a bit of death. 
Note: Click here to read the previous chapters ♡  Oh boy did this one take a reallllllyyyy long time for me to write. I hope it’s worth it! Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I probably didn’t proofread as many times as I should’ve 🤍
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When she was a little girl, Visenya was called into Lord Stark's study nearly every day. She'd shuffle into the room, hiding a coy smirk and mischievous giggles behind a straight face, unable to look him in the eyes as she fumbled through unconvincing lies. At the time she thought herself the finest liar in the Seven Kingdoms, ego growing larger with each doe-eyed look, and words of denial laced with feigned innocence. And each time she stepped out of the room, she'd miss the small smile pulling on Lord Stark's mouth, eyes glittering with amusement as melancholy consumed him, reminding him of times when he was much smaller and the world much bigger.
With age, each step into that study grew less intimidating, the walls growing shorter as she grew longer. At some point between six and ten it changed, instead of swiping pastries from the kitchens, she was hiding away with Jon, waving around a training sword that's too large and too sharp; and inevitably, one morning a large cut blossomed on her face. She went into the study sobbing like an infant while holding a medical cloth to her wound, fears of getting in trouble making her anxiety soar high into the cloudy sky. But instead of sour eyes and trembling lips, she left with a beaming smile on her face and orders to begin training with Ser Rodrik. Immediately she was ushered to Maester Luwin and put on bed rest for the day - Theon called her a stupid girl trying to act like a man, whilst Jon brought her wildflowers from a field. She made sure to hit Theon extra hard during their sparring sessions.
Then there was the time she tackled Theon and beat him bloody when she was a girl of ten and two after he insulted her father; wailing like a banshee, screaming into the universe that Theon and his family were cowards. Her small fists beat into him with as much tact and technique as a wild animal. Everything he ate for a week straight had a metallic aftertaste, while Visenya wore her smugness like a crown. Lord Stark gave her a stern lecture about not hitting people just because they make you angry, yet she couldn't help but preen like a bird when noticing the glint of amusement in his icy eyes. Robb would laugh every time he saw Theon for a full month, meanwhile, Theon's glares didn't disappear until his final scar did. Only then did he begin to acknowledge Visenya's presence again. He never brought up her family again, and she returned the favor.
Of course, she could never forget the time she was brought in - shivering like a leaf, looking as if she'd slept in the deepest ocean - two guards at her side as they escorted her. Lord Stark dismissed them immediately, waiting with patient eyes and a kind smile for Visenya to explain where she'd run off to. The dam broke and she began sobbing, blubbering nonsense that not even she understood. But Lord Stark didn't yell at her, demanding she speak clearly. Instead, he stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and carefully approached Visenya. Kneeling to be eye level with her smaller form, he just hugged her, encompassing her with the fatherly warmth she couldn't remember ever getting from Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe he did hug her when she was a child and the world wasn't crumbling around them, but if he did, she couldn't remember. So she just hugged Lord Stark so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if he had red marks where her arms were.
Then only four years later, she was called in again, only this time Lady Stark stood beside him, strained smiles and stony eyes greeting her, and held tightly in Lord Stark's hand was a letter, the parchment nearly ripping in half from his grip. It was nearly identical to the one she sent off three days prior, with Essos it's destination and Targaryen the receiver, signed with a desperation to connect with blood. Lord Stark gently explained to her that the King may see it as treason if she was found to be contacting the only other remaining Targaryen's, finding the reason to do what he's been itching to do since the rebellion. And Visenya couldn't bring herself to tear apart her family by selfish actions, not after everything they've done for her. That day she didn't walk out triumphant or ecstatic, instead, she burned with rage and shame; rage at the world and shame at herself for caring so much. She never tried to contact Daenerys again.
The final time she ever walked into that study was a week before Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Lady Stark wasn't there, in fact, no one else was anywhere near the vicinity. He told her to sit down, not willing to delve into the reason that she was there until she complied. Ned Stark was never one to beat around the bush, finding it more practical to just say what needs to be said and move on. That was the first time Visenya ever saw him fumble over his words. Finally, he managed to tell her what exactly the King had demanded when he was in Winterfell. He wanted Visenya married off and out of Winterfell. She was a statue at that moment, having a million things she wanted to say, but simply nodded, turned, and left the room without another word. A day after the King arrived, so did her potential suitors. The King insisted he should be the one to choose her husband, completely crushing the dwindling hope that her future husband wouldn't be so terrible. The decision ended up being between a child of ten and two and a boy only a year older than that, both from two minor houses in the South; until Robb interrupted - respectfully of course - and declared that he would marry Visenya. She couldn't decide what was worse, the prospect of marrying someone she sees as a brother or watching Jon's crestfallen face. Jon wouldn't look at her until the night before he left for the Night's Watch, and she couldn't look Robb in the eyes until he did.
This time, standing in front of the door that leads into the room Jaskier and Geralt reside in, with damp hair and clothes sticking to wet skin, she is a storm. A flurry of emotions raging in her mind; anger, sadness, melancholy, and fear melting together until she can't feel anything, the sensory overload leaving her numb. She eyes the empty hall like an animal stuck in a cage, her heart pounding, seconds away from bolting out of the inn and never returning, living in the forest as far from people as possible. But then the sound of Jaskier talking and Geralt's angry mumbling filters into Visenya's ears. Her anxiety increases, but the storm softens as she straightens her back, all thoughts of running suddenly gone.
'The blood of the dragon must not be afraid.'
Visenya sends a prayer to the Warrior for courage and the Crone to give her the wisdom to not let her anger control her, not wanting to lash out again. She reaches a hand up, pausing it midair for a second. With one last silent prayer, she grasps the handle in hand and pushes open the door.
"--quit your complaining, you look great! Scary and dashing, what more could a Witcher want?" Jaskier says to Geralt, waving his hands wildly. Geralt stands in the room, wearing clothes suited for minor nobility, a stark difference from his usual armor, a scowl chiseled into his beautiful face.
He's in shades of blue: a Stark blue cotton jacket hugging his biceps, a stone grey shirt tucked into his leather pants that hug his toned legs in the most flattering way, wolf pendant hanging from his neck. His white hair is tied back in its usual fashion but appears to have been brushed, clearly the doing of Jaskier. Despite his obvious discomfort, he's like a piece of art, looking like the subject of a painting that hangs in a noble lady's room.
As the door clicks behind her, Geralt and Jaskier look at her. Jaskier's eyes immediately flicker away, face draining of all color as he takes a small step backward. It's small, the change in his demeanor, but it's enough to break Visenya's heart that she thought had been encapsulated by stone and ice. A million words nearly fall from her mouth, at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds herself losing the ability to speak. So instead she turns her attention to Geralt, feigning the smirk that usually naturally falls on her face.
"You clean up nicely. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think you were just covered from head to toe in monster guts," she teases, willing her voice to sound as light as air, not at all weighed down by the anxiety in her heart. Geralt narrows his eyes, seeing through her façade the second she places it on, but he says nothing. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and grunts, turning back to Jaskier.
"See, I told you it's fine. Now Jane, be a dear and put on that dress in the corner." Jaskier moves through the room like water, stepping behind Geralt and pushing him towards the exit, making Visenya step further into the room, flattening against the wall to allow them to slip past her. Geralt's shoulder brushes against her, and it feels like electricity. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Meanwhile, Jaskier is looking anywhere and everywhere, as long as he doesn't have to look at her.
The door clicks behind them, the shuffling of feet gone, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts, again. She shuffles over to the other side of the room, seeing a bundle of dark fabric that must be her dress. She closes the distance, holding the fabric between her fingers. It's a deep purple and almost softer than anything she's ever touched. Sighing, she begins to pull her clothes off of her body, haphazardly throwing them onto the ground. She holds up the dress, the ends touching the floor; it's beautiful, with a silver belt cinching in the waist and a slit up the leg, allowing free range of movement. And for a moment she thinks Jaskier chose these colors on purpose, purple for the eyes she used to recognize, and silver for the hair that used to flow freely, but that's impossible. How could he know the importance of those colors when he doesn't even know her real name?
So she pushes those thoughts away and begins the process of stepping into the dress and pulling it on. The fabric drapes loosely off the shoulder, the back flowing into a sort of cloak style. It's light as air, moving in perfect sync with her, ideal for looking pretty but also loose enough to allow her to fight if necessary; nothing like the heavy and restricting dresses of the North. She clasps the belt, adding some shape to her body so it no longer looks like she's drowning in excess fabric. She holds Renfri's broach, the emeralds, and rubies shining and bright compared to her dress. She pins it in the place it always is, over her left breast.
She puts both hands under her hair, starting to pull it out from under the dress when there's a knock at the door. She starts to turn, the dress moving around her feet like a soft breeze, when the door clicks, creaking as it opens.
"Jaskier wanted me to bring you--" Geralt says, trailing off as Visenya turns to face him, the dress fully on display. A smile pulls on her previously dour face, as the last of her damp hair falls over her shoulders. In his hands are a pair of velvet black boots, the heels higher than her usual travel shoes, with a silver buckle adorning them, not as fine as what high royalty would wear, but certainly nicer than her everyday ones. His gold eyes rake up and down her body, mouth slightly agape.
"My shoes? Thank you, I was hoping I wouldn't have to go to this feast barefoot." She saunters over to him, making sure to take her time with every step. She stops right in front of him, tilting her head up to look at his face, Geralt's large form looming over her. His eyes follow her, tilting his head down as well.
She grabs onto the shoes, pulling until Geralt grip on them slacks. Without moving her eyes from his, she slips each shoe on, the inside lined with a soft fabric, making them hug her feet comfortably. Geralt breaths out a laugh, but says nothing else.
"You look nice." he finally says, his voice rougher and lower than usual, causing Visenya's eyes to light up as he struggles to swallow for a moment.
"You don't look too bad either." She raises a single brow, slowly raising herself to stand on the tips of her toes, inching closer to Geralt's face.
"Hmm." He just grunts, leaning down to close the distance between them. And when their lips are seconds away from touching she veers to the left, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his lips.
"See you out there." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.
o0o0o0o
"--keep your head down and pretend to be a mute, can't have anyone figuring out who you are," Jaskier mutters to Geralt as soon as they step into the Great Hall. Most of tonight's guests have already arrived, standing in small clusters that are interspersed throughout the large room. They're rowdy, much more like the Northerners that Visenya's accustomed to, tankards of Cintran Ale in the hands of every person. They're dressed in a wide variety of colors, most of the women wearing dresses made from velvet and much warmer fabrics than the chiffon that languidly hangs off Visenya. A season of jewel tones surround them: reds, greens, and purples as far as the eye can see.
"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice exclaims, a slew of loud drunken shouts from the nearby crowds following the proclamation. A man in forest green finery that looks slippery to the touch begins to approach them. Well dressed, but certainly not the most expensive-looking man in the room. His shoulder-length thick black hair is pushed away from his face, a matching thick beard covering his chin. Light reflects off of the greying hairs that pepper it, betraying how old he is. His eyes, that are as green as his tunic, scan the three of them, lingering on Visenya but ultimately he focuses on Geralt.
"Oh shit," Jaskier mutters, glancing around the room, smiling and waving awkwardly at everyone looking at them.
"I haven't seen you since the plague," he says, silver tankard in hand as he draws closer, an easy smile on his face.
"Good times, Mousesack," Geralt says, his tone and posture rigid and uncomfortable; never one for crowds it would seem. The man doesn't seem put off by Geralt's dour demeanor, instead, he breathes out a laugh, pointing at Geralt with his tankard.
"I have missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost." he closes the distance, grabbing ahold of both of his shoulders, the smile on his face falling just an inch. "Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?"
Geralt turns to Jaskier, his signature scowl on his face. Jaskier just turns to look at them, playing with his fingers, eyes wide and nervous, but ultimately silent.
"And who might this be," the man says, moving his attention from Geralt to Visenya. She grants him a smile, much closer to Geralt's stiff one than his easy-going smile. He holds out a hand and she shakes it, trying to match his firm grip.
"Jane."
"Mousesack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's charming, with a wide grin on his face and bright eyes. There's also a spark when he makes contact with her. Not the kind that plagues sappy romance novels, but a literal spark of...something that leaves the hair on her arms standing and her spine-tingling.
"Mousesack is a druid." Geralt answers her unspoken question, looking between the two of them with a blank expression.
"I see, and you and Geralt are friends I presume?" Visenya asks, slipping her hand from his tight grasp.
"Old friends, it's been what...50 years?" Mousesack says, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.
"Something like that." Geralt says, scanning the crowd. Visenya turns to him, eyes widening a fraction.
"How old are you exactly?" She asks, eyes narrowing. It never occurred to her that a Witcher would age differently. The passage of time here never occurs to her much. She goes to sleep at night and wakes up at dawn, spending the day traveling, sitting in inns, or looking threatening and mean to potential aggressors, only to start the cycle over again. How much time has passed since she first arrived? Everything seems to pass in a blur, she never bothers to think about it.
"Over 100," he gruffly responds, glancing over at her before returning his eyes elsewhere.
"You don't keep track?" Visenya asks mind short-circuiting momentarily. How is that even possible, to be over 100 years old, yet not look a day over 30? It has to be a side effect of being a Witcher, it's the only logical explanation.
"Why would I?"
"I guess when you're that old it doesn't matter," she says, brows furrowing as her eyes narrow.
"I never thought I'd see the day that someone matched your dour attitude. Come, walk with me," Mousesack merrily exclaims, words slurring together. He flashes Visenya another smile as he begins to effortlessly move through the crowd of people. Geralt follows beside him, Visenya keeping pace with him.
"I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," Mousesack says, people, cheering and holding up drinks towards him as he passes.
"Old and crusty," Geralt says. "How long before this horse-trading is done? I find royalty best taken in... small doses."
Visenya snorts as she observes the room around her, trying to memorize every tiny detail. There's a high table at the very end of the hall, with a large throne in the center, like a shining prized jewel. It's nothing near as magnificent as how she imagines the Iron Throne to be, but it's large none-the-less. Sitting by the empty throne is a girl, closer to Visenya's age than not if her appearance is anything to go by. With pale skin that glows in the dim candlelight, her golden-silvery hair compliments her beautifully. It's in an ornate braid on the back of her head, falling over her shoulder, a gold ribbon weaving in and out of it. Her emerald green dress is adorned with a large gold necklace, the small emerald jewels in it dancing in the candlelight, a delicate gold circlet resting on her head. Their eyes lock, and Visenya finds herself entranced by her bright blue eyes, unable to force herself to be aware of her current surroundings.
"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack says, his only acknowledgment of Geralt's first comment is the small smirk on his lips.
"Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?"
"Come with me, there's much for you to see. It's not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle, Eist Tuirseach." Mousesack says, pointing towards a large man with fiery hair and a matching beard that stands with a large crowd of people, easily one of the loudest people in the room.
Princess Pavetta's fair face wears a frown, similar to her own, but not at all with the fire Visenya holds. Instead, she looks more like a scared girl than a defiant dragon. Not at all unlike herself all those years ago, when she sat at the High Table beside Lord Stark in Winterfell, with weaves of traditional Northern braids in her hair as Robert Baratheon auctioned her off to the highest bidder, like a prized broodmare. But that's the life of a princess, exiled or not, your love is sold off for political and monetary gain. Marriage is never about love for royalty. Yet Visenya's heart aches for the girl who looks like a scared doe, rather than the daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, who fought and won her first battle at only fourteen years of age.
"She doesn't seem too happy about it," Visenya mutters, glancing back at Mousesack. He meets her stern gaze, bright expression dimming just a hair.
"No, I'm afraid not. Princess Pavetta is much softer than her mother."
"They almost always are," Visenya says, eyes moving back to Pavetta, feeling as if she's entranced. Something weeps inside her, shaking so fervently her body almost vibrates. If things were different, that would've been, no, should've been Visenya. But could've, would've, and should've been is nothing when destiny dictates that your world be nothing but ash and ruin. So she snaps her gaze away, unwilling to look at the image of what is always just out of reach.
Mousesack and Geralt continue speaking in low voices, Visenya following them like a ghost, lost in her head. A few minutes in, Geralt moves away, leaving her alone with Mousesack.
"You seem quite focused on the Princess tonight," he muses, pulling Visenya from her chaos.
"She's the most exciting thing in the room right now," Visenya says, raising a single brow at Mousesack, shoving away the sinking feeling that something horrible is going to happen.
"Moving past that insult to my character--" Visenya snorts. "I feel as though it is something more. I can see it in your eyes, you feel for the girl."
"It's hard not to. A man no matter how well-traveled and wise he is will never understand what it feels like to have your whole life laid out for you by someone else. Being sold into a marriage with someone not a good match for you only hurts worse when it's your own mother."
"Personal experience?" Mousesack raises a brow, mouth in a straight line.
"Nonsense, my mother died when I was a child," Visenya says, moving her attention away from him and towards the crowd.
His eyebrows raise causing small lines to form on his forehead, slight shock painting his features. He purses his lips, opening his mouth, only to close it again.
"The life of nobility." he finally says, letting out a sigh as he shakes his head.
"The life of a woman, no matter their status," Visenya corrects him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.
"All rise for Her Majesty, The Lioness: Queen Calanthe, of Cintra!" a man near the Main Hall entrance cries out, silencing any of the noise in the room.
"Luckily for the girl, horrible husbands tend to disappear rather quickly when you're royalty." With that last comment, Visenya disappears into the crowd, gliding past noble ladies and lords as she maneuvers towards the secluded corner Geralt claimed as his own.
Chairs scrape as everyone scrambles to stand and Jaskier quickly runs over to where the other minstrels are, lute in hand. Nearly in perfect synch, the entire room turns towards the entrance. Shortly after, a middle-aged woman strides through the parted crowd, a smirk on her blood-stained lips. She wears gold armor that's dull from the dark red blood that's splattered over it, fresh from a recent battle. Her dark brown hair is braided away from her face, but not as neatly as expected for an occasion like this, instead, it's wild and pulled apart, in knots and gnarls with dry blood. She holds a helmet in hand that she quickly tosses to one of the many people in the procession following behind her.
"Beer!" she exclaims, grabbing a tankard from the hands of a pompous noble as she passes him, taking a swig from it immediately. "Apologies, noble sers. A few upstart townships in the South had to be reminded of who was Queen," she says, voice oozing with confidence and a tinge of arrogance. This causes an uproar of cheering from the nobles around Visenya, waving their tankards in her direction as golden ale spills onto the floor.
"Fighting is good for one's blood and humor. Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over--" she says, taking another drink from her mug and turning towards the high table. "--as am I." She mutters. "Bard, music!" she yells, waving a finger in the air, towards Jaskier's general direction, stomping up the marble stairs. Jaskier starts the first note of a song, his sweet and delicate singing voice ringing through the room before the Queen swiftly cuts him off.
"No, no, no; a jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes and continuing up the steps. Jaskier sighs, before counting down from three, beginning a much more upbeat song that swiftly blends into the background as the room's noise levels grow. People begin to fill the gap they'd created for the Queen, forming small rowdy groups.
Finally, she closes the distance between her and Geralt, grabbing a tankard of ale from a table as she does. She stands beside him, posture as stiff and straight as his, taking a drink from the cup, eyeing the party. She watches the Queen as she leans down to speak with her daughter, hands resting on the table, her words too quiet for Visenya to discern. Suddenly a man slams his tankard of ale on the table
"You lying little shite!" the man that Mousesack labeled as Crach An Craite yells. He stands to his full height, towering over a scrawnier man he's arguing with. "You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, nevermind a manticore!"
"I've had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as the likes of you perish under my steel," the second man spits back, unfettered by Crach's intimidating aura.
"Under your bullshit, more like. How many stingers has it got?"
"Two."
"Ha. Go away and shite, it's got five. I know, I've actually killed one." Crach An Craite spits at him. He scoffs and turns away from the other noble, as the crowd around them grows more excited as the argument begins to escalate.
The smaller man rushes forward, grabbing onto Crach An Craite's tunic, the small crowd around them rushes in as well, eager for an excuse to fight.
"Enough!" the Queen exclaims, stopping everyone in their tracks. "We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth" she says, walking down the steps. In unison, nearly every turns to look at Geralt, and in turn, Visenya as well.
"Neither." Geralt says, not bothering to meet anyone's gaze.
"Are you calling me a liar, old man?" Crach An Craite mutters, face nearly identical in color to his hair.
"The Butcher of Blaviken bleeds utter nonsense," the smaller one says, dismissively waving his hand in Geralt's direction as he leans against a nearby chair. Geralt glances towards Jaskier, who is frantically shaking his head, with puppy dog eyes and a slight pout his only weapon. Geralt sighs, moving his attention back to the impatient nobles.
"Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of manticore."
The room is completely silent after that, the tension in the room quickly dropping. Visenya breathes out, clenched fist relaxing at her side. The Queen breaks the silence, loud laughter leaving her mouth, gaze solely on Geralt.
"Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?" The room immediately breaks out into cheers. Fists pound on tables, tankards waving in the air, and nobles yelling so loudly their lungs might collapse. Visenya raises her brow, glancing at Jaskier with a disapproving gaze. That stupid song is nothing but embellished falsehoods, so wrong it's nearly infuriating every time Visenya hears it.
"There was no slaying. I had my ass kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut, when Filavandrel let me go." Geralt speaks up, silencing the room instantly.
Instead, their cheers are replaced with boos and loud groans, nobles shaking their heads at Geralt.
"But what about the song?" the shorter man exclaims.
"At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you good Lords, at your final breath, a shitless death." Geralt exclaims, bringing his tankard to his mouth, "--but I doubt it," he mutters, his words once again riling up the crowd. And if she didn't know any better, Visenya thinks Geralt just might like the fanfare, even if he won't admit it.
"It would've been your blade at Filavandrel's throat if you'd been there your majesty. Not that any elven bastard would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field." Lord Eist speaks up, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the Queen. She looks at him, preening under all the attention with a smug look on her face. The movements cause the dried blood to crack and crumble onto the floor.
"Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher, take a seat by my side while I change."
Geralt simply grunts, rolling his eyes as the Queen turns away, moving up the stairs and disappearing through a side door, a handmaiden following dutifully behind her.
"Come on," Geralt grabs onto Visenya's hand, dragging her behind him.
"She didn't invite me."
"Well she invited me, and I'm not going through anymore suffering alone." Geralt says in between clenched teeth.
"How polite, throwing me straight into the lion's den just so you won't have to face it alone. I never knew you to be so thoughtful Geralt."
He simply grunts in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moves up the set of stairs, boots pounding under the stone ground. One of the men that came in with the Queen directs Geralt to a chair beside the throne. Silently, he pulls out his chair, glaring at the finely dressed nobleman that is sitting in the chair by him. The man meets his gaze, and to his credit, manages to remain expressionless. However, he still stands, his legs wobbling just the slightest, and moves to the other side of the throne, sitting by the Princess. Geralt nods his head towards the now vacant chair. A smirk forms on Visenya's lips as she moves behind him and into her new seat.
"You get to deal with the Queen if she's unhappy with my presence."
o0o0o0o
The feast is even duller from the High Table. It hasn't even been a full hour, and yet all that's happened is a few arguments, suitors vying for the hand of the princess, and the Queen speaking with Geralt. Visenya sits in silence, scanning the crowd and listening in on the conversations around her. There's still that sinking feeling in her stomach, a dreadful fear she's unable to escape telling her this is all going to end horribly. Crach An Craite stands up from his seat, when suddenly the door is slammed open, a man in full plate armor barreling through, swiftly taking out the two guards by him. Like an unruly bull, he stomps to the center of the room, lowering himself into a kneel. The room is completely still, as Visenya leans forward, grip tightening on the knife in her left hand.
"Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter's hand in marriage," he says, bowing his helmet-covered head.
The room is filled with gasps of shock, women all around covering their mouths in horror. The Queen becomes as stiff as a rock, veins faintly protruding from her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya sees Pavetta go completely still, yet her face doesn't convey the same horror it has with every suitor before.
"A knight... of no renown... from a backwater hamlet... who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?" Queen Calanthe spits out, shaking in rage as her words burn like acid.
"I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight's oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell." Urcheon says, not sounding shaken by the threatening aura swimming around Queen Calanthe.
"Bollocks to that," Lord Eist exclaims, moving forward and knocking the helmet off Urcheon's head. The metal clatters against the ground, echoing in the room, as the knight is revealed to be a...hedgehog man. Visenya leans further out of her seat, nearly laying on the table. Gold eyes wide in shock as she examines each and every needle that protrudes from his face, tracing his animal-like nose and beady black eyes. He looks around the room, very much looking like a cornered animal.
"Witcher--" the Queen hisses, "kill it."
"No," Geralt says, intently watching Urcheon.
"Whatever the price," she continues.
"This is no monster."
"I order you," she continues, the same patience she previously possessed slipping away.
"This knight has been cursed." Geralt says, unable to be swayed by her words that hide serious threats.
"You're as useless as the rest of them," she seethes. "Slay this beast!" she exclaims to the rest of the room.
Two guards immediately move towards Urcheon, weapons in hand. With swift and highly skilled movements, he disarms the guards, knocking them to the ground.
"Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise." he yells, pointing towards the Princess. More guards approach, and to his credit, he attempts to fight back but is quickly outnumbered. He's thrown to the ground, blood pouring out of his...snout. One of the guards lifts their halberd, seconds away from slicing into them. Geralt quickly jumps from his chair, moving past Visenya and down the steps at the speed of light.
"No!" Princess Pavetta exclaims.
At that moment time slowed down. Geralt reaches the scene when the halberd is mid-swing, pulling out his sword and cutting the weapon in half. The top piece slams on the ground and Urcheon catches the bladed part.
It's silent until the Queen breaks it.
"Kill them both!" she yells, pointing at Geralt and Urcheon.
o0o0o0o
Swords ringing, bodies crashing to the ground, and screams ricocheting off the walls into Visenya's ears. It's all familiar. A horror so intrusive and fresh in her mind that feels like only hours ago her whole world crumbled, leaving her vulnerable in a new reality. So different with its magic and dragons, but the same in the way its tragedy claws at her throat, phantom tears following her like the deaths of everyone she ever loved. Like an inescapable curse that continues to stalk her no matter how far or fast she runs. And maybe that's because none of this is real, a delusion she's created in the darkest recesses of her mind, happy enough to grant hope of a better life, yet enough devastation cloaking it to be believable.
She watches in a daze as Geralt moves through the room, dancing with his blade like a master. The porcupine man roars as he charges the oncoming guards, cutting into their flesh with less fluidity than Geralt, yet deadly all the same. Invigoration surging through his body from the White Wolf joining his side, more than happy to slice through anyone who confronts him, whether his foes wield sword or fist. The lords in their fine garb beat, stab, and strangle each other; using the chaos as an opportunity to take down their adversaries. A small group of nobles huddle in the far recesses of the room, cowering and whimpering in fear as the slaughter escalates. Women cry and the minstrels quiver, yet the queen and princess remain at their high table, unmoving. Princess Pavetta watches with glistening blues eyes while the Queen is clenching her jaw so tightly, her face is painted white.
Visenya's hand ghosts over where her blade should be, the empty spot where its sheathe would rest feeling uncomfortably light. A lord drunk on the adrenaline in his veins rushes Visenya, wild like an animal. She knows all too well how this will go if he gets his way: with her bloody and praying for the release of death. But she's not that little girl of five hiding in a crawl space as she listens to her mother's screams of agony. Now she breathes flames each time she talks, eyes like a city turned to ash.
She holds her arm up towards him with an open palm, the movements rigid and not her own, as if an otherworldly creature possesses her. Moments later he slams into her, the width of his neck perfectly fitting in her palm. Automatically her finger closes around him, tightening with each second as she locks him in place. She's emboldened with strength she shouldn't possess, as she raises her arm upwards, his legs dangling in the air, helpless. Gold eyes illuminate, embers of fire she's smothered igniting in that instant, festering pain bursting to the surface. Heat builds, the smell of burning flesh rising in the air, the crackle of skin against fire. He screams, a blood-curdling one that makes Visenya's insides turn. Yet she doesn't release him but holds tighter and tighter until his screams turn to choking, and then silence. With a dull thud, his body drops to the floor, unmoving.
A sharp pain pierces her left side, leaving her staggering forward with an unsteady footing. Howling like a wounded animal, Visenya turns to face her adversary, a heavily armored guard. He jabs towards her, but she manages to move out of the way just in time. She sneers, blood dripping from her mouth. He goes to stab again, but in full plate, he's too slow for her nimble movements. She ducks behind him, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground as she does. And before he can comprehend where she is, she stabs the glass into the side of his neck, watching the thick red liquid coat it. He coughs, choking on the blood pouring out of his neck. The guard wobbles, slowly losing his balance as he claws at the air for something to hold onto, then scratching his throat, attempting to save himself. Visenya watches, eyes cold and unfeeling. She lifts her leg and kicks him onto the ground before stepping over his body.
Each footstep thunders in her mind as she presses forward, every face nothing but a blur, and instead of tabards with three proud lions, she sees two blue towers united by a bridge. Every guard and noble that falls is a Northern soldier, with surprise and agony painting their face, while every attacker is a Frey. Sneers carved into their features; screams turning into shouts of glee as they cut through anyone in their way. In a flurry of blood lust, eager to drown her sorrows in the pain of others, she throws punches at everyone within reach, kicking bodies on the floor as they writhe in pain. It's intoxicating, living out her darkest fantasies without a care in the world.
It'll fade, the comedown far worse than the high, but at the moment, it's worth every second of loathing it'll inevitably create. A grunt follows a swift punch to the gut before Visenya grabs a hold of a chair, smashing the wood against the charging noble. His face morphs, no longer a nameless lord, instead, he's one of Walder Frey's sons who sunk his blade in her flesh as his friends shot her down from a distance. The chair breaks into a million pieces as he falls to the ground, unconscious. She roars as the adrenaline pumps higher and higher, the blood running in her veins faster and faster. Geralt appears in the corner of her vision, at some point they move towards each other like magnets, twirling around each other as if they've practiced it a million times. And just as soon as he's there, he disappears into the chaos as Visenya loses herself to the beast inside her.
Another soldier approaches her, a flurry of sword swings and spittle his greeting to her. She dodges out of the way of each of them, moving as if she's the water, her dress fluidly flowing with her. She steps to the side, taking advantage of his blind spot, due to his helmet that obscures part of his vision. She grabs a hold of his sword arm, managing to pull it back far enough to hear a gnarly crack, a loud clang following it, as his sword falls to the marble floor. He sneers at her, but she returns the favor. Yet before she can do anything, another burst of pain shoots through her, and her eyes flit down to the source, a dagger sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up at him as he twists it, before letting go and pushing her away, but instead of falling to the floor to bleed out, she pulls out the blade. Using his surprise to her advantage, she smoothly grabs his sword from the ground, using a maneuver she learned all those years ago in Winterfell to knock his helmet off his head from the back. And as it clangs to the ground, she drives the dagger into his throat.
She stumbles forward, hand clenching her new wound as blood pours out of it. She whirls around, determined to find safety, but a glimpse of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes with a direwolf coat of arms fighting a noble in rich blues captures her attention.
Robb.
Numb to the pain pulsing in her body and the wounds that are dripping with blood, she runs. But it's like walking through thick molasses, feet not moving as fast as they should, no matter how hard she tries to push forward. Desperation rips her apart from the inside out as she tries to stop what's inevitably going to happen, the very same thing she sees in every one of her nightmares. And when she's only a step away, the noble slashes low, throwing Robb off balance, and with one swift plunge of a dagger, he falls limp.
She's too late, again.
Her legs are never quite fast enough, reaction time a second too slow, and no matter how hard she tries to do it, she never manages to save Robb.
An ear-piercing screams tears through her throat, or maybe it doesn't, it's hard to hear anything above the ringing in her ears.
The noise is a culmination of a lifetime of sadness, but it's also a battle cry, promising nothing but fire and fury. And as Robb collapses, armor clanging against the ground, she reaches out and grabs the hair of the noble, pulling until there's a distinct crack and a shout of pain, a large chunk of brunette locks her prize. With the snarl of a wolf and tight tension on his head, she wraps her other arm around his neck, and a simple flick of her wrist is all it takes as his neck snaps, body crashing onto the ground.
And Visenya falls too, crumbling into nothing but a shaking form, sobbing so hard she nearly throws up all the contents in her stomach, trapped between the dead bodies of Robb and his killer. Tears mix with blood, staining the floor with her misery.
"Robb!" she cries out, but her voice is nothing more than a croak, getting swept away into the chaos of the fight. "Robb!"
A shaky hand reaches out, moving to brush his hair out of his face, but there's nothing there. And as her tears pour down her cheeks, Robb distorts, wild curls becoming a bald head and Tully blue replaced with bleak brown. She removes her hand as if it burnt her, and scrambles to getaway.
Bodies rush past, moving around her as if she's nothing more than a figment of their imagination. Everything slows down in the room, as salty tears slip into her mouth, dark spots covering her vision.
She blinks; once and then twice. Everything is blurry until it's not.
A sea of dead bodies, suffocating her. She throws a hand up, desperately clawing to escape, But each movement only traps her further under them. She screams, the sound muffled yet clear as day in her mind.
"Jane. Jane!" Someone's holding onto her, pressing onto her cheeks, the warmth of soft hands cupping her cheek. "Jane, are you alright?" The voice is distant, yet familiar all the same.
She blinks again, and once more.
Another scream rips through her throat, tearing apart her vocal cords. She continues to claw, fighting harder against the dead weight that presses heavily against her. Gold meets gold as the light shines in her eyes. The first rays of day hit the side of her face, illuminating the cast of dry blood caked with mud on her face. Eyes flicker from the left to the right, seeing, yet not, at the same time. It doesn't register in her mind, the ocean of death she finds herself swimming in, all she sees is daylight, while everything else is blurry.
"Please bring me water or wine, just bring me something!" The familiar voice echoes in Visenya's head, footsteps rapidly tapping against a marble floor following.
A glint in the light captures her attention, something piercing through her hazy vision. It blends into its environment at first, but with a keener glance, she sees it. With new vigor, she wiggles out of the pit, crawling on all fours, eyes on the prize. Six beats, that's all it takes until she closes in on her fixation. A person, a dead person.
The body doesn't have a head, but she already knows its face, the same one she sees every night in her worst night terrors. Unsteady hands reach out, tracing the cloak clasp, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat inside her. Hot fingertips trace over two direwolves meeting in the center. Then she forms a fist around it, holding so tightly small cuts form on the palm of her hand. No tears pour down her face, spilling onto the fine garb Robb donned for his own funeral, there's nothing left to cry. Her eyes are dry like a Dornish desert, she's cried too much to have any left. A second scream tears out of her mouth, sending any scavenger birds flying away with haste, slicing through the silence of the field that is drenched in dawn. It's harsh and coarse, leaving the ground beneath her quaking in its wake.
"What's wrong with her?" A timid woman's voice asks.
"I don't know. Let me see that." There's rustling, ice-cold water hitting her face moments later. "Gods Jane, you're bleeding!"
She blinks one more time.
The field disappears, a ballroom wrought with chaos replacing it. She's flat on the ground with Jaskier kneeling beside her, face hovering over hers. His eyes are wide with distress, gaze solely focusing on her. She attempts to stand, but the weight of her head is too much, so instead, it just bangs against the hard floor. Swords clanging and people shouting filters into her ears again, replacing the devastating silence that once resided in her mind.
"Jaskier."
"I'm here, I just need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?" he asks, holding her hand so tightly his knuckles turn white.
"A sheep can't command the dragon," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open when something cold and wet splashes over her face, again.
"Well the next time we meet a dragon, I'll let them know." She glances over, seeing the weak smile pulling at his lips. His pale face is stark white, the flush of red usually in his face completely gone, with dark and deep bags under his tired and dull eyes.
"You already have, I am the daughter of dragons," she mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her head.
She opens them again, blinking a few times and finding herself back in the open field and kneeling over Robb's body. She stands with unsteady legs and a weary body. Visenya turns around, staring at Walder Frey's keep, eyes solid ice with a stony expression. One step, two steps, and another, and then another, staggering towards the keep. The anger simmers, burning so hot it's cold now. Fire dances on the tips of the fingers, the flames licking up her arms with each step she takes.
"Can you do something? She's been injured?" Jaskier's voice echoes in Visenya's mind.
"Possibly, step aside and I will do my best to heal her," another familiar male voice rings in her ears.
A comforting feeling fills her body, smothering her pain in all things that are warm and homely.
She blinks, opening her eyes and finding herself back in Cintra with Jaskier and Mousesack hovering over her. She's delusional, she has to be. The only problem is, she can't decipher which reality is true and which one is a hallucination.
"Are you alright?" Mousesack asks, grabbing Visenya's hand in his own. Between Jaskier and him, they manage to help Visenya sit up just in time to see Queen Calanthe meet Geralt in battle. She holds her sword up to his neck and Geralt meets her blade with his own.
"Stop!" the Queen yells.
o0o0o0o
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alaffy · 3 years ago
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Chilling Adventures of Sabrina Ep.29 – The Eldritch Dark
We start at, what looks like, the abandoned Carnival.  Blackwood has turned it into a church of sorts and he’s writing out something for his religion (he’s also speaking in tongues).  His candle blows out and he realizes the first Eldritch Terror is there.  And the first terror comes out of the mines as a bunch of miners who like to destroy lights and Force Choke homeless people.  
The next morning, Sabrina comes down to breakfast to find just Ambrose.  The Aunts are busy elsewhere.  Sabrina tries to get Ambrose to go see a movie with her, but Ambrose declines.  Turns out she’s really asking him because her mortal friends are already going on a double date.  
Sabrina meets her friends at school as she hears Harvey say something is super weird.  When she asks what, they tell her about the homeless guy who died near the mines (but they believe is natural causes).  Look, not trying to be callus, but how is that super weird?  Harvey asks to change to subject, Roz decides to talk about her next project…getting sex education classes into Baxter High as they’re the only ones in the state not to have them. (And while I agree it’s an important subject, time and place Roz). By the way, we find out Riverdale has free condom machines in the bathroom (good to know…).  
Sabrina mentions that the Fright Club hasn’t been meeting recently, not even as a band.  It turns out they’re not a band anymore (small mercies). And everyone decides to make out in front of Sabrina, as a lamp flickers.  
Quick scenes. One of the Eldritch Miners is breaking lights, when he is stopped by Ambrose.  He moves past Ambrose.  Back at Baxter, Billy asks Sabrina if she might consider going on a date with one of his friends, Carl.  Sabrina says if Carl wants to ask her out, he needs to do it himself.  She passes Miss Wardwell, who has a PTSD attack and remembers Sabrina erasing her memory.  At the Academy, Zelda rededicates the place to the worship of Hecate. Each year, they will elect a Maidan, Mother, and Crone.  This year, Zelda will be the Crone, Hilda the Mother, and for the Maidan…Prudence. Sabrina feels rejected.  Also, it looks like Prudence and Nick are getting close to one another again.  Sabrina asks Melvin if he’s seen Ambrose and Melvin tells her where she can find him.  Then, he asks her if she would like to go out on a date.  She turns him down.  
Sabrina wants to talk to Ambrose because she is thinking about visiting Sabrina Morningstar, see if she needs any help.  Ambrose tells her way this is a bad idea.  Basically, if the two Sabrina’s are together an alternate reality could blink into existence or on top of it.  (Hang on)  That timeline could dominate their own which could end up destroying both timelines.  But, Sabrina interjects, we don’t know if it would actually happen.  (…the fuck?). Ambrose is so done with her recklessness that he literally spells out the word no to her.  That she chose her human life and, if she chose wrong, she needs to make her peace with it.
At Wardwell’s, someone’s knocking on her door.  It’s Agatha, but she seems sane.  She calls herself Sister Julia and that she’s the wife of Reverend Lovecraft (I’m guessing Blackwood, I may be sick).  She spreading the news of the new Pilgrims of the Night Church.  Wardwell says she doesn’t need a new church, but Angela is able to worm her way into getting Wardwell to consider it.
Sabrina comes home and talks to Hilda about the fact that, now that she’s done with her quest, she feels like everyone’s moved on without her.  Even the Fright Club no loner exists. Hilda suggests faking an incident to get the Fright Club back together.  She goes back to the school to meet her friends.  
Meanwhile, at the school, Billy is washing his hands when the water turns to blood and there’s a dead girl behind him.  (Oh Sabrina!).  Billy runs away and tells Harvey.  Harvey and the rest of the crew head to Sabrina’s house.  They tell her what they’ve learned.  Sabrina says it’s probably Bloody Mary.  Sabrina says they can do something but it would have to be a group effort.  Sabrina tells them a plan, but they’ll have to wait until midnight.  Until then, milkshakes at Cerberus?
At the old carnival, Blackwood has decided he’s leaving his Britishness behind and going full American Preacher (and I have to say, Richard Coyle is such a good actor in this show.) At the school, Sabrina and friends go through with her plan and banish “Mary.”  Sabrina says the thing is ghosts show up in a pack, so others may follow. Theo says they’ll be ready, but Roz gives Sabrina an odd look.  Sabrina goes home and sees one of the Eldritch Miners and the lights go out on the mortuary sign.  
At the Academy, Hilda tries to find out what Zelda’s relationship is with Mambo Marie. They’re interrupted by a student talking about darkness in the dorm.  Turns out one of the miners is in the dorm.  It tries to attack, but Zelda stops it and demands it tell her what it is. She hears a voice out of the darkness and apparently this is also the Eldritch Terror of emotional abuse.  But Hilda comes in and is able to stop the voice. She then pulls off the mask of the miner, to see an empty suit.  The suit falls to the ground.  
The next morning, the Spellmans talk about what they think it was.  Zelda thinks it’s a ghost of a miner that is causing trouble.  But she also admits it was odd, as it seemed to know her thoughts and fears.  Ambrose and Sabrina mention the ones they saw and Zelda thinks it may be more then one spirit.  They plan on doing research, when they get a call.  They find out they’re about to be brought three bodies of vagrants that all died under mysterious circumstances.        
At Baxter High, Roz confronts Sabrina.  She’s saw through the cunning that Sabrina used a spell to make the ghost appear. Sabrina admits she did it because she feels like there’s a distance between them.  Roz says she’s felt it to and it’s because they’re changing.  Roz feels with everything Sabrina’s gone through, it’s them that got left behind.  But she also tells Sabrina they’ll always be friends and she doesn't have to make up reasons to hang out.  
At the Spellmans’, Ambrose is examining the bodies.  With the help of Salem, Ambrose realizes that the ways the men died are reminiscent of the Kinkle Mine Collapse of 1949.  He also realized they died in the dark.  At the Academy, Sabrina finds out the Ambrose and Nick are working together.  They plan on resurrecting the three men at the morgue, briefly, to get some answers.  Sabrina helps.  The men are able to tell them that the first Eldritch Terror is what killed them.  The spell wears off before they can tell them everything.  However, Nick is able to point out that the creepy miners probably have something to do with this and so Ambrose realizes that the Absolute Darkness may be coming from the mine (seriously, somebody needs to blow up that damn place).  
Ambrose and Sabrina astral project to the place in the mine where the ’49 disaster happened.  They find a large, bubbling black mass on the ground.  It’s either tar or the Darkness.  Sabrina also mentions how she feels hopelessness and despair. Also, there’s a bunch of miners there as well.  They return to their bodies to find Nick and Prudence standing over them.  Nick had called Prudence for backup and Prudence came because her father is probably involved.  Suddenly, the house looses all power.  And it’s not just their house, it’s all of Greendale.  Without power, the Darkness will be able to escape the mines come night and take over the town and then the world.
They need to attack this on multiple fronts.  Prudence plans on going to get Zelda and Mambo Marie.  Meanwhile, the miners need to be dealt with.  As they seem to be attracted to any source of light, that seems the best way to lure them out.  Sabrina says the Fright Club can deal with this and Nick says that he’ll help them (apparently, he had fun teaming up with them against the Pagans).  As for the Darkness, someone will need to go to the heart of it and generate a large amount of light.  Sabrina says she’ll do it and has Ambrose follow her out of the room.  Ambrose is concerned because Sabrina’s powers aren’t at the cosmic level anymore.  Sabrina says she’s going to contact the other her.  Ambrose says no, but you know where this is going.  Ambrose decides, what the hell the world is about to end anyway, and tells her the contact must be quick and he should be the only one who sees the two together.  
Meanwhile, in hell, apparently Caliban has been released from the stone and is dating Sabrina Morningstar (and for the rest of this I will be calling her Sabrina M).  Also, they seem to be having some sort of Hell prom? Sabrina goes to Hell in disguise and contacts Sabrina M.  They go off together, but Lilith notices.  The two catch up and then Sabrina tells her what’s going on up in the mortal realm.  Sabrina M. says she will help.
Nick, meanwhile, tells Harvey and Roz about the Darkness.  Prudence tells Mambo Marie, Zelda, and Hilda about it as well.   Zelda says they’ll need a containment spell and all the witches including Sabrina. Prudence says that Sabrina, Ambrose, and Nick are already engaged in other areas, but they will manage without them. The Darkness attacks Baxter High, where Wardwell is grading papers.  Wardwell remembers Blackwood’s preaching and blows out the candles.  Because she does this, the miners pass by her.
And we spend several minutes dealing with the Darkness.  The Fright Club leads the miners to the old Carnival (which is where, I thought, Blackwood was so I’m confused) and seal them in a tent.  Meanwhile, the two Sabrina’s and Ambrose go into the mines. In the end, they defeat the first terror with the power of friendship (more or less).   They also manage to trap the terror.
Agatha says to Blackwood that she’s sorry the terror failed, but Blackwood says it was just the first terror.  There are actually eight of them, each worse then the last.  
The next day, Sabrina decides to invite out Carl and then she says she’ll go out with Melvin. Afterwards, she has a dance party with her other self.  
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