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sunset-peril · 2 years

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Trial of the Zora Armor - Chapter One - Tensions and Secret Matters

A measurable amount of time had passed since Hyrule Castle had seen any written correspondence from Zora's Domain. Typically, any news or information coming from the Domain traveled word-of-mouth through its Champion, Lady Mipha. However, since a typical meeting of the Champions had ended not long before and a council with the Zora alone had not been scheduled; a letter sealed with the Zora crest soon arrived at the quarters of Master Link, a young knight appointed as both Princess Zelda's personal guard and the Hylian Champion.

"Message for Master Link." The guard standing at the door, clad in armor fit more for travelling than stationary work, handed him the letter.

Link nodded once, closing the door once the messenger turned around.

"Who's the letter from?" Zelda asked from within, standing near Urbosa, who had been allowed to stay at the castle a little while longer at her request.

Link flipped the letter over. "Zora." His voice was deeper than one might assume, but not deep enough for someone to say he had a deep voice.

Urbosa laughed. "Laconic as ever, that boy."

Zelda sighed, half-buried in research. "The scourge of Calamity Ganon still looms... he still feels it necessary to bear his burdens silently. The preparations seem to reflect solely upon Hyrule Castle."

Link nodded again, silent once more as he opened the letter, allowing his princess to speak on his behalf.

"It's just amusing... I think he said more at the... Gerudo audience than he has since."

Both Hylians broke a smile, glancing at one another. The Gerudo audience Urbosa spoke of was not an audience at all... but a secret wedding. Link and Zelda's specifically.

Knowing how illegal a non-professional relationship between a knight and royal was, especially a woman with Hylia's blood, the two could never publicly display their affection. When the time came that they wished to marry, they knew no Hylian priest would marry them. This led to some worry, as most non-Hylian priests would refuse to wed them as well out of respect for Hyrule's laws.

However, Urbosa and several Gerudo captains felt as if the couple was being pointed out to them and the Gerudo agreed to wed Link and Zelda. Not only did they agree, they were willing to design the entire ceremony in a way where Zelda's father, King Rhoam, couldn't nullify their marriage. Doing so was very dangerous. The Gerudo risked war, Link risked his life (more so than usual anyways,) and Zelda risked her reputation as well as the perceived holiness of the entire line of Zeldas.

However, the wedding happened beautifully, making Link and Zelda the Prince and Princess of Hyrule. A golden light took control of the entire sky when the wedding began and shone until dawn the next morning; accompanied by a beautiful blue aurora.

All in attendance knew that Hylia was very pleased with the marriage. Even those who were unaware of it still knew that something very divine had taken place.

What amused those few who were allowed to attend: Link's family, the Champions, Impa, the two head Sheikah researchers and most of the Gerudo, was that Link had said more during his vows than most thought was possible for him. For a man who rarely spoke more than a few words at a time while in public, seeing him speak over a paragraph to his divine beloved was like an odd dream. He nearly did the same when Zelda told him she was pregnant, though the news also concerned everyone who knew... aside from Link's sister Sydnei, who at nine years old was too naïve to worry about such things. In fact, when the letter from Link announcing that Zelda was going to have a baby arrived, she was so overjoyed that her and Link's father thought she would burst. Their father was joyous as well, but he was muted with concern for his son and daughter-in-law; a common reaction considering Zelda's age and that her father was unaware of their marriage.

Remembering both, Zelda reached her hand down from the Guardian schematics she was holding to the wall to rub her tiny belly, nearly three months pregnant. The Gerudo anklet she wore in place of a Hylian wedding ring was neatly concealed underneath her long blue dress.

Link and Urbosa smiled, returning to helping Zelda as Link returned to the letter.

"You're going to have to tell him sooner or later, little bird..." Urbosa knew of the strain between Zelda and her father.

"I'm aware." Zelda sighed a long sigh. "It's just that... even when it's just picking up reports to deliver, or even just holding an ancient relic, he instantly snaps 'Quit wasting your time playing at being a scholar!' I'm... afraid. I know how he's going to reply when he learns that I'm..." She lowered her voice to ensure that she had control of her audience. "...not only married but with child..." She sighed once more, almost as if she was cringing at her own thoughts. "...he will certainly make his anger known..."

"I know. That's why I'm here... for both of you." Urbosa comforted softly. "And that's also why you need to tell him. I can get the ball rolling for your marriage and take all the heat you need me too, but you need to tell him."

Urbosa's words reminded Zelda of when she found out she was pregnant... she had been more frightened than elated.

She, along with Link and the rest of the Champions, were travelling through Faron to Lurelin Village. That particular day, Zelda had spent the entire day praying at the Spring of Courage. As she finished up her rituals and stepped out of the water, she felt her stomach twist within her; she fell to the ground and clutched her stomach, panting all the while. Link heard the impact and turned around, gasping to see his then-fiancèe in such a state. He'd helped her to her feet and walked her back to the camp, where Urbosa and Revali were waiting.

Both of them gasped at her newly-weakened appearance, knowing how often Zelda contracted hypothermia or another critical illness after training in the waters. Urbosa evaluated her before they continued any further, needing to know what preparations should be made. She checked Zelda's body temperature and asked Link what had happened, the knight's voice had a weird tone as he tried to keep himself calm. Noticing that Link mentioned her problems were mainly from her stomach, and that she hadn't looked well that morning either, she decided to check there for abnormalities. Just before doing this, she asked Link and Revali to scout so that they could leave as soon as Zelda was stable; they left quickly, Link glancing back with concern.

Being the chief of a women-only tribe, Urbosa knew what a woman's stomach felt like when she was with child, even in very early stages. Regardless of this, she muttered 'It cannot be...' once she felt Zelda's swelling womb and continued to find an alternate diagnosis. Eventually, her findings and Zelda's symptoms all pointed to the same thing. Finally, in a choked voice, Urbosa had no choice but to admit it. "Little bird... it seems like you're... pregnant."

Zelda gasped and was unable to hold back tears of terror. Not only was her and Link's relationship illegal, but they were still unmarried. "Should Father find out before the wedding," Zelda had worried aloud, "he'll kill Link..." Urbosa had gripped her hand, reminding her that the wedding was a week and a half away and that they were going straight to Gerudo Town after Lurelin to prepare. She stroked Zelda's shoulder and softly spoke her wisdom: "What's happened has happened, little bird... we need to get you to the stable. You're cold, wet and tired, staying out here will only worsen your health." before Link and Revali returned to escort them back. Zelda had asked her not to say anything about it, for she was fearful of news spreading too fast... that and she didn't know how to tell Link. Urbosa assured her she would keep her mouth shut, giving her advice on what might be the best way to reveal the pregnancy to Link. Taking Urbosa's advice, Zelda told him during the night while they were in Lurelin. She had asked him if she might go on a midnight stroll, as the moon was enchanting to her. Link allowed her and they walked along the beach together in the moonlight. When they were quite a ways away from the village, Zelda gripped his hand and told him she had something to tell him. He asked what was wrong, and she took a deep breath. "Link... you're aware of the curse among women born of the royal family, correct?"

"Of course, Zelda..." He gripped her hands, the armor-like bracelet infused with ancient technology that Zelda had proposed with glimmering on his arm.

"Link..." Her eyes sparkled with tears as she tried to get the words out of her throat.

"Oh... Zelda..." He realized what she was trying to tell him and pulled her into his arms, the loving action releasing the words caught in Zelda's throat... and the tears in her eyes.

"I'm pregnant."

Even though he could see his wife-to-be was upset, he smiled. "Zelda..." He hugged her tightly around her shoulders. "Are you afraid of what I think?" She nodded, pulling away. "Come back, Zel, come back." He gripped her arms slightly, voice softening even further. "Zelda... We're getting married. I was well aware that this might happen when I said 'yes.' I love you, whether you're afflicted by Ganon, curse or nothing..." He pulled her closer, tilting her head slightly as they nuzzled noses and began to kiss. Their kiss was much more passionate than Zelda had expected... or even wanted considering that she'd just found out she was pregnant. Link realised this only after he pulled away. "Oh! Zelda, I'm sorry... you're pregnant and stressing and I just let that get really intimate and-"

"It's alright, Link. That... actually made me feel better than I have since my stomach started getting queasy..."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable." The sentence was unreasonably rushed. "If that happens again, you have my full permission to smack me across the face and yell 'Link! You get that biology in check!', alright?"

Zelda snorted in amusement. "Alright, Link."

He became silent once more, smiling at her as if he was not sure if he should speak or not.

"Link, is there something you wish to say? Please, speak your mind."

He chuckled awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. "...Would you mind if I felt your belly? I know that sounds weird but..."

A subconscious smile formed on Zelda's face. "Of course you may, Link. The little one is yours too..."

Link smiled and bent down with an uncharacteristic enthusiasm, sliding his hand up her dress to feel her bare stomach. Feeling her stomach gurgle soon as he settled his hand, he looked up at her with a sympathetic expression. "That doesn't feel too good..."

"It doesn't... but I guess that's what morning sickness feels like."

He stood up and moved to her backside, hand still on her stomach as he began to massage her queasy middle.

Zelda sighed in contentment before she cried out and her right side twitched away from him, her body trying to figure out if he was the one that had created the unknown being that was hurting her from the inside.

"Zelda!" He pulled his hands away from her, but instinctively reached back out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you!"

She slid her hand to where Link's had been. She already adored the pressure he had put on her stomach, he'd just hit a tender spot in just the right way. "You're fine, Link... my body's just trying to figure out what in Hyrule's happening to me..."

"Y-You sure?"

Zelda nodded. "It felt nice."

Link chuckled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. "Alright then..." A small smile crawled up his cheeks, looking upwards at her slightly with his hand still on his neck. A small blush creeped up onto his face, Zelda found him all the more endearing. "I guess I'm gonna have to take care of you until you figure yourself out."

Zelda nodded, softly kissing his cheek. "I wouldn't mind that."

Link looked gently into her eyes, which had been so full of fear just a few minutes before, and found deep, gentle love and a flickering exhaustion. "Let's get back, Zel. We both need some sleep."

"We do..."

As they walked back to the village, Link several paces behind Her Highness, he reached out to her shoulder.

"Hmm?" Zelda turned around to see him. "What is it, Link?"

He pulled her into another hug. "We've just gotta make it to the wedding..." Zelda nodded, even though he was unable to finish.

Once they were married, King Rhoam could no longer punish Link for being a knight in a relationship with the Princess, nor could Link be imprisoned or killed for Zelda being pregnant. The Champions were on a countdown, they just had to make it to the wedding without Rhoam getting suspicious and summoning Zelda back to Hyrule Castle. With Urbosa and Link helping to keep quiet, they were able to get to Gerudo Town without issue... and the wedding happened exactly as planned. The Kingdom of Hyrule was none the wiser.

A few weeks after the wedding, the couple sent official announcement letters to all four Champions, the three Sheikah and Link's family, releasing Urbosa and, by that point, Daruk from their promise.

While Daruk had not been told either night, he found out a few days after the wedding when Link and Zelda were traveling with him in the Maw of Death Mountain. Zelda's morning sickness had spiked not too far from Foothill Stable, causing her to become sick on the side of the road. Daruk had been both confused and concerned at what was happening. When he reacted in curious concern for her, she just said "I'll... be fine... this is normal for what's... happening..." in between gasping breaths. He said that this couldn't be normal, as she hadn't been like this at all when she was working prior to her wedding.

She chuckled a little, pausing to throw up, before shakily adding "No... this is a new normal. You see, Daruk... I'm pregnant."

Daruk was entirely confused, but did his best to act polite. "Uhhh, okay." He had replied as he tried to process the information, scratching his head. "But what's 'pregnant' exactly?"

Link pulled Zelda into his arms, laying her body across his lap, holding her head in the crook of his elbow and moving his other hand in a circular motion around her stomach as her eyes widened.

"Oh..." She breathed, surprised at Daruk's confusion, him being an elder. "It means I'm going to have a baby, Daruk. Link's little one is growing inside my stomach." She stroked her lower stomach gently, looking up at her husband tenderly while he kissed her forehead. Holding Zelda, Link gave Daruk a crash course in Hylian biology on the spot as he consoled her and tried to calm her stomach down. Even when they were finished and Zelda was able to continue on, Daruk was still utterly confused on the concept of pregnancy. Uncertain on how to help Daruk understand, Link told him that Urbosa could probably explain in better detail later.

After Urbosa had explained in a way where he understood, he became incredibly concerned. "I feel so sorry for the tiny princess," He'd confided in Urbosa. "she was feelin' so terrible this mornin' but I had no idea what was goin' on. I think I made it worse by askin' so many questions."

"I know." Urbosa had consoled. "However, the only way we can help either of them is strictly through support. Zelda's body is changing to carry her baby and, for her at least, the nausea gets pretty bad. That's actually how she found out: her stomach aching."

"I can't even imagine how she must be feelin, havin' another Hylian in that tiny stomach of her's... how long is it supposed to stay in there?"

"Nine months total... so for Zelda it will be a little more than seven more months. Believe me though, her stomach won't stay tiny for long. When Zelda is close to having her little prince or princess, all of Hyrule will be able to tell just by looking at her. Trust me on that." Urbosa smiled at him, he nodded.

"Mipha's requesting my presence." Link said suddenly, breaking the reminiscence.

"Oh?" Zelda stepped closer, secretly grateful for the change in subject as she slid onto the bed and peeked over her husband's shoulder, her tiny baby bump pressing into his waist as she breathed in and out. He wrapped his right arm around her growing waistline, holding the letter closer to her face.

"Maybe the Zora want to proclaim that they're officially recognizing you as the Prince of Hyrule." Urbosa joked, knowing that wasn't the case. Regardless, Link reacted awkwardly.

"I doubt that's the case, it seems that Link is being requested alone." Zelda leaned closer, placing her hand on her stomach. "We'll have to bring this before Father."

Link heard Zelda's voice begin to shake as her breathing sped up. "H-Hey..." He stammered, heart reacting faster than head. "...hey, don't stress out."

"You... you noticed?"

"...Your face is right next to my ear."

Urbosa rubbed Zelda's back. "Breathe easy, little bird, there's no reason to stress... and besides, it's not healthy for you or the baby." She continued rubbing Zelda's back until she heard her breathing slow.

Link leaned towards his wife for a soft kiss. "You're alright." He smiled gently.

She nodded, blinking slowly.

"You tired?"

She nodded once again, leaning further into him.

"Well then, we'll take you to your chambers so you can get some rest." Urbosa told Zelda, almost like an order, as Link helped her to her feet.

"You've had a busy day... Your Highness." Link took a deep breath as he once again pretended they weren't married, all to keep her and their baby safe. Not only did they have Zelda's father to worry about, but should the news that she was pregnant get out, there would be huge trouble, especially if it were to land in the hands of the Yiga Clan.

She nodded towards him again, readjusting her dress. It had been the same one that she wore when Link had been appointed as her knight, when the Champions were officially recognized and most every other formal ceremony. (She used it a lot.) It wasn't designed for a pregnant woman, and the embedded corset pulled tight against her bump, aggravating her already upset stomach. It hid her bump well for the moment, but she knew that eventually the corset would get so tight that it might cause harm to her or the baby.

Link expected that time to come sooner rather than later, as she was already in constant discomfort from it. He assumed her fears and anxieties from being princess during such a dangerous time were the main cause of why she had not already gone before her father. After all, the same pressure causing those anxieties also strained her relationship with him. Link wished he had the ability to help her, to go before the king for her, but as far as Hyrule's law and authority went, he was just Zelda's appointed knight; not her husband and certainly not the prince. Sure, he was the Hylian Champion and the wielder of the sword that seals the darkness... but to King Rhoam he was still just a knight. He cast a sweeping glance over Zelda, eyes catching for a moment on her stomach. He sighed, then presented his palm to her; a look of concern in his eyes even though his face remained stoic.

"Now, there's no need for that kind of formality." Urbosa began before Zelda could take Link's hand. "No one would think anything of it." She pushed his hand down to his side. "Let us go."

#zelink #breath of the wild #botw #tloz #legend of zelda #zelda #fanfiction #booksivewritten #pre botw #pregnant #pregnancy #the legend of zelda #Trial of the Zora Armor #Hyrules Final Stand

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new-sandrafilter · 4 years

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I learned in the news that Warner Bros. has decided to release “Dune” on HBO Max at the same time as our theatrical release, using prominent images from our movie to promote their streaming service. With this decision AT&T has hijacked one of the most respectable and important studios in film history. There is absolutely no love for cinema, nor for the audience here. It is all about the survival of a telecom mammoth, one that is currently bearing an astronomical debt of more than $150 billion. Therefore, even though “Dune” is about cinema and audiences, AT&T is about its own survival on Wall Street. With HBO Max’s launch a failure thus far, AT&T decided to sacrifice Warner Bros.’ entire 2021 slate in a desperate attempt to grab the audience’s attention.

Warner Bros.’ sudden reversal from being a legacy home for filmmakers to the new era of complete disregard draws a clear line for me. Filmmaking is a collaboration, reliant on the mutual trust of team work and Warner Bros. has declared they are no longer on the same team.

Streaming services are a positive and powerful addition to the movie and TV ecosystems. But I want the audience to understand that streaming alone can’t sustain the film industry as we knew it before COVID. Streaming can produce great content, but not movies of “Dune’s” scope and scale. Warner Bros.’ decision means “Dune” won’t have the chance to perform financially in order to be viable and piracy will ultimately triumph. Warner Bros. might just have killed the “Dune” franchise. This one is for the fans. AT&T’s John Stankey said that the streaming horse left the barn. In truth, the horse left the barn for the slaughterhouse.

Public safety comes first. Nobody argues with that. Which is why when it became apparent the winter would bring a second wave of the pandemic, I understood and supported the decision to delay “Dune’s” opening by almost a year. The plan was that “Dune” would open in theaters in October 2021, when vaccinations will be advanced and, hopefully, the virus behind us. Science tells us that everything should be back to a new normal next fall.

“Dune” is by far the best movie I’ve ever made. My team and I devoted more than three years of our lives to make it a unique big screen experience. Our movie’s image and sound were meticulously designed to be seen in theaters.

I’m speaking on my own behalf, though I stand in solidarity with the sixteen other filmmakers who now face the same fate. Please know I am with you and that together we are strong. The artists are the ones who create movies and series.

I strongly believe the future of cinema will be on the big screen, no matter what any Wall Street dilettante says. Since the dawn of time, humans have deeply needed communal storytelling experiences. Cinema on the big screen is more than a business, it is an art form that brings people together, celebrating humanity, enhancing our empathy for one another — it’s one of the very last artistic, in-person collective experiences we share as human beings.

Once the pandemic is over, theaters will be filled again with film lovers.

That is my strong belief. Not because the movie industry needs it, but because we humans need cinema, as a collective experience.

So, just as I have both a fiduciary and creative responsibility to fulfill as the filmmaker, I call on AT&T to act swiftly with the same responsibility, respect and regard to protect this vital cultural medium. Economic impact to stakeholders is only one aspect of corporate social responsibility. Finding ways to enhance culture is another. The moviegoing experience is like no other. In those darkened theaters films capture our history, educate us, fuel our imagination and lift and inspire our collective spirit. It is our legacy.

Long live theatrical cinema!

— Denis Villeneuve

#Denis Villeneuve #dune2021

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mrchalamet-mrstyles · 4 years

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"Dune” is by far the best movie I’ve ever made. My team and I devoted more than three years of our lives to make it a unique big screen experience. Our movie’s image and sound were meticulously designed to be seen in theaters.

Once the pandemic is over, theaters will be filled again with film lovers.

That is my strong belief. Not because the movie industry needs it, but because we humans need cinema, as a collective experience.

Long live theatrical cinema!

— Denis Villeneuve

#dune #denis villeneuve #timothée chalamet #i am gutted

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cmc304 · 4 years

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The Meal of the Bull and the Supper of the Lamb:

Exploring the Similarities and Differences Between the Mithraic Mysteries and the Christian Eucharist

Introduction

“Which the wicked devils have imitated in the mysteries of Mithras, commanding the same thing to be done” (www.logoslibrary.org). These are the words penned by Justin Martyr, a Christian saint who lived between 100-165 CE. Martyr, a Christian apologist, noted the similarity between the Eucharist and the Mithraic Mysteries and used these words to write them off, so to speak. The Devil is in the details here, subverting the central event in the life of the Church by replacing it with a demon instead of the glorified and risen Christ.

While Martyr’s language is pointed, to say the least, he is on to something. The nature between the two rites is extremely similar. Both took place in the context of a communal meal, both involved bread and wine, and both connected the meal with sacrifice. What’s more, the two religions spring out of the First-Century Mediterranean world; more specifically, both are rooted within a Roman context.

Ultimately, though, the similarities stop there. The Christian Church did not copy the rites of Mithraism, nor did the cult of Mithras steal the Church’s liturgy in order to compete with the Church for proselytes. The central rites of Mithraism and Christianity, despite similar in form and function, differ in content, purpose, and propitiation and therefore cannot be equated.

The Mithraic Mysteries

The Mithraic Mysteries can be found in a document called the Great Magical Papyrus of Paris. It is important to note that this document comes from the Fourth Century CE, but the liturgy it contains is possibly traced back to the Second Century CE (Meyer, 182). The document more than likely comes from Egypt, a region that hardly had any Mithraic activity (Alvar, 532).

After the worshippers gathered in their Mithraea, an underground sanctuary that is rectangular in shape and is centered around a pedestal-shaped altar located in an apse in the back of the sanctuary, the ceremony begins.

The celebrant opens with a litany-like prayer that ascends the soul out of the body and into the spiritual plane, and while the celebrant is listing the deities being invoked, the communicants would draw onomatopoeic phrases from their mouths, such as hisses or hums or stringing the Greek vowels together (Meyer, 183). What is interesting about the opening is that it is summoning the four elements—wind (spirit is what Meyer has, but pneuma can be translated as breath or air), fire, water, and earth. After invoking the four elements, the celebrant asks the elements to be “[given] over to immortal birth and . . . undying nature, so that after the present need which is pressing [the celebrant] sorely, [he] may gaze upon the immortal spirit, with the immortal water, with the most steadfast air, that [he] may be born again in thought, that the sacred spirit may breathe in [him], that [he] may wonder at the sacred fire, that [the celebrant] may gaze upon the unfathomable, awesome water of the dawn, and the vivifying and encircling ether may hear [him]” (Meyer, 183-84).

After invoking the primordial elements, the celebrant summons what are called the Lower Powers of the Air and, at this point, will be completely cut off from reality. Now the celebrant slips into an ecstatic state, “[not] hear[ing anything from] either humanity or of any other living thing” (Meyer, 184). These beings that are summoned during this trance are lower deities or angelic beings that have a more direct role in human affairs. What is strange is that the text has these beings “rushing” towards the congregation, but after the celebrant says the incantation of silence and asks for protection from the “symbol of the living, incorruptible god”, the beings stop and go about their business (Meyer, 185).

At that moment the sun disk opens and Aion, the son of the virgin Kore and a Hellenistic god of time, appears. What is fascinating about this figure is that the responsory of the congregation uses a version of the Tetragrammaton, or the unspeakable name of the Hebrew God: Iao. The language suggests that Aion is, in fact, Yahweh, and it appears that Mithraism held Yahweh within its belief system. What is interesting is Yahweh is not the highest deity in the pantheon (Meyer, 186).

While Aion is present, the celebrant invokes “the immortal names” of the “seven gods of the universe” in order to pass over from the realm of fire to the doorway of the realm of the gods. The celebrant enters, greets the god Helios and the seven goddesses of fate, and bids the seven pole gods to sit. And then, at last, the celebrant stands before the god Mithras (Meyer, 186-188).

Mithras is described as a “god immensely great, with a bright appearance, youthful, golden-haired, wearing a white tunic, a golden crown, and trousers, and holding in his shoulder a golden right shoulder of a young bull” (Meyer, 189). The last descriptor is particularly important, because the Mithraic Mysteries invite the participants to partake of Mithras’ sacrifice of the bull. It is the central act of the entire religion, for when the congregants partake of the sacred meal, they are eating the sacrificed flesh and drinking the sacrificed blood of the bull (Beck, 27-28).

The celebrant then invites Mithras to inhabit his soul, and after uttering a revelation from Mithras, the celebrant initiates the sacred meal of wine and cake made from lotus pulp and honey (Meyer, 190).

The Christian Eucharist

The Christian Eucharist, like the Mithraic Mysteries, was historically connected to an actual meal. The author of Jude, while critiquing antinomians, writes, “These are blemishes on your love-feasts, while they feast with you without fear, feeding themselves” (Jude 1:12, New Revised Standard Version). And, like the Mithraic Mysteries, the Eucharist involves bread and wine.

However, the liturgy is vastly different than that of the Mithraic Mysteries. The Mithraic Mysteries involve spiritual ecstasy and transcending physicality in order to become spiritually united with Mithras. The Christian Eucharist is nothing like that. In the New Testament, the Apostle Paul writes, “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in rememberence of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Corinthians 11:23-26, New Revised Standard Version). The Eucharist does not involve any sort of physical transcendence. Rather, it celebrates physicality; in some circumstance—be it corporeally, spiritually, or memorially—Jesus becomes present. There is no disconnecting from the body or from reality in the Eucharist.

Also, examining the 1 Corinthians text, the focus between the two rites is vastly different. The Mithraic Mysteries are focused on the slaughter of the bull by the hands of Mithras. The Eucharist is focused on an entirely different sacrifice, that of Jesus himself. And the Eucharist conveys a different kind of sacrifice than that of the Mithraic Mysteries; while the Mysteries are concerned with the slaughter of a bull for sport, the Eucharist presents Christ as being given over to death for sin.

The person to whom the oblation is made differs between Mithraism and Christianity. In the Mithraic Mysteries, Iao—Yahweh—is the gatekeeper for the doorway into the realm of the gods. Within the Christian context, Yahweh the Father is who the perfect and complete sacrifice of Christ the Son is offered. It is God doing the sacrificing, and it is God who the sacrifice is pleasing. The Eucharist is simply the participation—be it corporeally, spiritually, or metaphorically—of Christ’s once and for all sacrifice.

The concept of time ought to be explored. Between the two liturgies, the perpetuation of the rite differs. Eschatologically speaking, the Mithraic Mysteries continue without any restraint in time. For the Christian Eucharist, the Supper is only a temporary rite until Jesus returns. “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes,” Paul writes to the church in Corinth. The celebration of the Eucharist stops once the eschaton—the end of time—is fully realized.

The social contexts in which these liturgies would be celebrated is important note. The Mithraic Mysteries would have been celebrated on the behalf of and for the Roman upper class. It was a cult that had a massive following among the Roman soldiers and noblemen. Christianity, on the other hand, appealed to the working class and to the poor; early Christians were known for offering material and financial support to the outcasts of society, as well as allowed women to partake of the central rites of the faith. The cult of Mithras was exclusionary; only men were allowed to worship Mithras.

Conclusion

The Mithraic Mysteries and the Christian Eucharist do have things in common. Both are connected to Yahweh, involve some sort of propitiation, and feast upon flesh and blood. But the two liturgical meals cannot be seen as plagiarisms of each other. The theologies that both present are too distinct, and the audiences are too vastly different.

#mithraism #biblical studies #new testament #history #first-century #apostle paul #liturgy #eucharist #yahweh #jesuschrist #earlychristianity

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pulaasul · 4 years

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Rebelling Skull - 2

A Sequel to Femoral Meeting.

After meeting an organization dedicated to exterminating Shadows, Ryuji finds his path crossing with said organization more times than he’d like. Is it mere coincidence or simply something from a past he’s unaware of, haunting him?

FFN I AO3

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Songs featured in this chapter are Rise's own song True Story and After the Rain by the idolgroup W from the Idolm@ster Side M game.

True Story

youtube

After the Rain

youtube

https://www.project-imas.com/wiki/AFTER_THE_RAIN - Lyrics so you can sing along, and there's an English translation.

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Shout, friends! Just those words you really mean

And let your voice be heard all over the world

Stand up when you hear the knock on the door

It's me, come on out;

As Rise sang the song, the entirety of Shujin's student body cheered as they sang along. A lot of them were waving their hands in support and solidarity.

"Cannot believe that the new Student Council President managed to drag in Risette." A boy cheered. "THE Risette!"

"Forget Risette!" Another student grinned. "They managed to rope in Kanamin and other Idol groups!"

"I know right!" A girl agreed. "They even managed to get HighXJoker and W to perform earlier!"

"Risette!" Mishima cheered. "THE RISETTE!"

"Calm yourself man.' Ryuji chuckled. "I know it's unbelievable."

"Speak for yourself Ryuji." Anne rolled her eyes. "You were just gushing about Risette yesterday."

"Can you blame me?!" Ryuji countered. "It's effin' Risette!" He justified. "At least I know how to control myself more than others." He added as he took a glance at Mishima who nodded enthusiastically.

"Do you think she'll sign me an autograph?" Mishima asked his companions.

"Don't get your hopes up." Ryuji grinned. "They prolly have a lot of security, we won't be able to get close."

Anne simply shook her head and sang along to the song.

Get ready for your True Story.

With a raise of Rise's right hand, the song ended.

"How is everyone doing?!" Rise greeted her audience.

The audience cheered even louder at the question. Some jumped in glee and even shouted in both awe and admiration.

"I see." Rise chuckled. "Is everyone enjoying the show?!"

"YES!" The audience enthusiastically responded.

"Such an energetic bunch." The idol commented. "On behalf of my fellow idols here, I would like to thank the Student Council and the school's administration for making this concert possible." She bowed in front of the audience. "There are a few reasons why this concert was made possible."

The audience fell silent at the announcement. They didn't think that they were special enough to be given a special concert by these top brand idols.

"Last year, Suguru Kamoshida was arrested for sexual harassment." Rise stood up straight. "Recently, a lot of new cases of physical assault and injury surfaced against him."

The peanut gallery were silenced at the mention of the disgraced teacher, as a few of the students looked at the male members of the volleyball team. Mishima felt uncomfortable at the stares he was receiving.

Ryuji simply put his arm over Mishima's shoulders and squeezed them as he ignored the stares he was also receiving.

"The injuries may not have been fatal, but it certainly broke a lot of dreams." Rise somberly added. "To offer some words, please help me welcome back the idol group W."

Two men wearing identical outfits, in different colors, walked on stage. One of them was wearing a pair of eyeglasses.

"Thank you Risette." The man with glasses spoke. "I'm Kyosuke Aoi."

"And I'm Yusuke Aoi." The other twin stated. "But I'm sure you already knew that." He joked.

The audience laughed at the joke the eyeglass-less twin made.

"You knew us as athletes before we retired." Kyosuke continued.

"We retired early because of the injury I got during one of our games." Yusuke admitted. "But before we continue I'd like to call onstage others."

"Other athletes who faced relatively the same troubles as Yusuke." Kyosuke supplied.

"Help us welcome Tomohito Sugino-senshu and Takeshi Yamamoto-senshu" Rise introduced as another set of two athletes walked on stage.

The crowd has gone wild with their cheers as two of Japan's celebrated baseball players were on stage. The largest cheers came from the active athletes of the school, especially the baseball athletes.

"Hello Shujin." Sugino waved at the crowd. "How's everyone doing?"

The greeting from the athlete just made the cheers from the audience even louder.

"What an energetic bunch." Yamamoto chuckled. "Aren't they?"

"That I can agree on." Sugino joined in.

"Is this what an idol really feels like?" Yamamoto questioned. "It's kinda bizarre." He commented.

The people on stage opted to wait for the peanut gallery to calm down before proceeding with their objectives.

"Pretty much." Both members of W shrugged.

"Sugino-senshu and Yamamoto-senshu are here to tell us their respective experiences." Kyosuke voiced out as the audience quieted down.

"Guess I'll start." Sugino grinned. "My career as a baseball player was halted before it even started." He shared.

A lot of people gasped at this information as Karasuma at the back simply shook his head with a small hint of a smile adorned his face.

"I'm not naming any specific schools but one of the middle schools I attended had this stupid segregation policy." Sugino continued. "The failing students of the graduating class were to be separated from the other students and were prohibited from ever participating in any club activities." He supplied. "I belonged to that group of students."

"Cruel." One person from the audience commented.

Anne and Mishima simply looked at Ryuji, who was clenching his fists as they listened to the baseball athlete's speech.

"My grades suffered due to my low self-esteem." Sugino admitted sheepishly. "I just couldn't imitate the power and pitch of a very popular baseball player at that time." He supplied. "Hence why I was put in that class." He added. "But that didn't stop me, a teacher in that class taught me not to give up on my dreams."

Mitsuru looked at Karasuma but the man simply shook his head as if response to an unspoken question.

That's when it dawned to Mitsuru that the teacher the athlete was talking about was the very same assassin that disguised himself as a teacher.

"He also taught me that I should also have another goal." Sugino continued his spiel. "'Life is too unpredictable' was what he always said and there may be a possibility that our dreams won't ever come true."

Sugino paused for a few moments and gauged the audience's reaction, He noticed that some of the boys were slack jawed while the girls were covering their gasps at his revelation.

"So instead, he asked us what we would want to become if our ultimate dreams were to be, for lack of better term, cancelled." Sugino let his other hand hold the microphone. "He never did let us answer that question, instead he offered a piece of advice." He smiled as he reminisced on the teacher. "He simply told us to also work towards our other dreams so that we may live a successful life even if our primary dreams were nulled."

The audience simply did not expect that the Slithering Sugino would've faced problems as dire as he did.

"Guess I'm up next." Yamamoto chuckled. "I am more of an average student." He laughed. "I slept in class, failed in school and all that."

This got a lot of chuckles from the students.

"I used to believe that the only thing I'm good at was baseball." Yamamoto shared. "Then came a time when I broke my wrists from practicing so much." He smiled.

Another round of gasps were heard in the gymnasium.

"Because of that, I tried to take my life."

The entire school were surprised at the revelation. Some people were covering their mouths, some were even slack-jawed at the information.

Out of all the students, Anne was the most affected by the information. She remembered the day her best friend jumped off of the school building just to escape Kamoshida's cruelty. The pain and grief that event caused her came back with full force.

Ryuji, the ever supporting friend, simply placed his other arm over Anne's shoulders and squeezed it tightly.

Anne simply clung to the boy's uniform like a lifeline.

"As ridiculous as this would sound, I thought that the baseball god had no use for me and decided to throw me away." Yamamoto gave a hearty laugh.

But nobody saw the humor of the statement.

"I was saved by my best friend." Yamamoto grinned. "Well he really wasn't my friend at the time." He chuckled. "Anyway he saved me by being his self-deprecating self." He added with another chuckle. "He had told me before that effort was the only way that's why I broke my hand practicing."

Elsewhere a man with brown hair smiled at the words.

"That was when my dad approached me." Yamamoto wasn't finished. "He told me that I shouldn't focus on one thing and one thing only." He continued. "We swooshed, swished and bam the sushi's complete." He laughed.

"I didn't understand the last part." A few murmured.

"His dad basically trained him to make sushi." A few of the athletes answered to their peers.

"That and he basically pushed me to be my savior's friend." Yamamoto smiled. "He's got me a lot opportunities both in and out of sport events."

"That means I'm up next." Yusuke voiced out. "Well we already told you our story." He chuckled. "But there were things we left out."

"Yusuke and I promised to be on the same team always." Kyosuke supplied. "That's why I also retired from playing." He added. "But back then I had nowhere else to go to."

"Then we met someone." Yusuke smiled. "He proposed the idea of being idols to us." He admitted. "We were reluctant at first."

"But the prospect of being on the same team was enticing." Kyosuke admitted. "In the end we accepted the offer that's why we're here."

"So basically what the four of us are trying to tell you." Sugino began.

"Is that you do not need to focus on one dream only." Yamamoto added.

"Think of other dreams." Yusuke supplied.

"And have something to fall back." Kyosuke continued.

"To live a fulfilled life even if things do not go as planned." Sugino added.

"Because nothing in life ever goes the way we want it." The four of them chorused.

"Wow what an inspiring message from our athletes." Rise praised. "I hope everyone present will take their words to heart." She added. "As sad as I am to announce this." She voiced out. "But we're almost at the end of this concert." She announced.

"Before we end, Risette, do you have something to fall back to?" Kyosuke hurriedly questioned.

"Of course!" Rise affirmed. "My grandma taught me how to make tofus." She shared. "If I'm not an idol now, I'd be inheriting our shop in Inaba," She announced. "Oops sorry grandma, I hope my fans wouldn't hound the area." She sheepishly added.

"I'm sure your grandma can handle the customers." Yusuke assured.

"Oh she definitely can." Rise nodded. "To end this on a high note, W will sing their song 'After the Rain'".

"I would like everyone backstage and for Yamamoto-senshu and Sugino-senshu to join us for this number." Kyosuke asked his idols and athletes. "Sing with us."

The different idols at the back walked on stage at the prompt as both Yamamoto and Sugino looked at each other and shrugged. They faced the former athletes and nodded, delivering their answer.

"Is everyone ready?" Rise questioned.

The people on stage cheered in affirmation.

"On one!" Rise started.

"Two!" Kyosuke and Yusuke yelled in unison.

"Three!" Everyone finished.

The speakers started blaring the opening tune of the song as everyone on stage started clapping their hands.

WE GO! Every time.

KICK OFF! We can start this now.

WE CAN! Run forwards to the goal we are aiming for.

The Idol twins began to sing as their fellow idols and the two athletes clapped in the back.

An indication of rainfall somewhere in the sky

#ryuji sakamoto #persona 5 #anne takamaki #Yuki Mishima #rise kujikawa #persona 4 #yusuke aoi #kyosuke aoi #takeshi yamamoto #tomohito sugino #story #rebsku

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sailorshadzter · 5 years

Text

what i’ve always wanted.

a quick season 8 fix it piece.

my take on what the final outcome should have been.

under the cut because LONG.

When she arrives at the door to his cell, she's shaking.

The Unsullied guard gives her a single nod before he opens the door, allowing her to pass through and the door shuts behind her with a slam. Though the room is dark and damp, her eyes settle upon Jon's form there in a corner, stirring at the door slam. "Sansa?" His voice is incredulous and the moment his vocals reach her ears she's striding across the room to throw her arms around him there on the dungeon floor. "I can't believe... I can't believe you're here," his voice is soft and warm against her ear, but then he's pulling back and sliding his hands into place on either side of her face. "You shouldn't be here," he says with a shake of his head, though his dark eyes are shining as they gaze into hers. "It's not safe for you here." This is the Jon she knows, the Jon she loves. The one who worries more for her than himself, the one who thinks of only her safety and protection.

"You didn't truly think I would let them chain you up in a dungeon?" She asks, gesturing towards the chains she'd ensured were released just hours before. “I have brought an army of my own to ensure your release.” Jon’s lips, though they quiver with emotion, curve into a slow smile that takes root deep in his dark eyes. “They’ve called for a meeting among all the remaining heads of houses, we’re just waiting on the last of them to arrive.” She says as she sits back on her hunches, black skirts gathered all around her. “I will see to your release from this cell then.”

“They’ll never let me go, Sansa.” He nods towards the door, where the Unsullied still stands guard outside. He’s surprised she’s managed an audience with him- but then again, no he isn’t. It’s so like her to arrive in a sacked city and make demands without fear. “They’ve taken the city.”

“For now,” she shrugs her shoulders as if the Unsullied mean nothing at all to her. “There will be a new King soon and I can promise you they won’t allow the Unsullied to keep King’s Landing.”

“Sansa, I don’t want-”

“I know,” she cuts him off with a shake of her head, red hair slipping across a shoulder as she shifts on the ground. “No one else knows the truth, I’ve ensured it.” She doesn’t tell him how she’s secured his secret, but something tells him it wasn’t just with her pretty words. “But there will still be a new King and I promise you they will set you free or I will wage war the day the crown sits upon their head.” Jon smiles at her ferocity and he reaches out to touch her red hair, braided in a way he’s never seen before. His hand trails down to touch her cheek, to touch her lips. He’s longed for a moment like this, though perhaps in a place other than a jail cell, but just to have her there before him is enough.

“I can’t let you do that, you know that... Don’t you?” He speaks softly as she inclines her head against his palm as it cradles her cheek. “You will return to the North and be their queen as you always should have been.” She closes her eyes as a single tear falls free and Jon catches it with his thumb, erasing it from her skin. “Even if they let me go... How can I be anything but an accomplice in this atrocity?” Her blue eyes open and Jon feels his heart skip a beat. “And how could I live with myself if something happened to you because of me?” He had already done so much to ensure her protection, he had gone as far as to kill the tyrant queen before she could claim her throne. “Daenerys would have killed you and her soldiers will too, should you threaten them on my behalf.”

She smiles, though its a smile he’s never seen before and she again shakes her head. “If you won’t let me go to war to save you... Will you let me do it another way?” She asks softly, to which Jon arches a brow, surprise falling into place upon his features. “Marry me.” She says without hesitation and Jon pulls back entirely, jumping to his feet in his shock. She follows after him, skirts swirling as she moves after him as he walks across the room, his body rigid. “Jon!” She takes his arm, forcing him back around to face her, a call back to a moment many months ago when they had quarreled on the battlements. “If you marry me... If you take the name Stark... I can protect you.”

Jon’s mind is whirlwind. Marry me, she had said, her eyes telling him she meant it. “I can’t,” is all he can say, his mouth hardly able to form the words as he shakes his head. “You’ll always be in danger, married to me. Besides... If no one knows the truth of my birth, how can we?” It’s true, only in his dreams has he believed his story would have a happy ending. Here in this moment, its there within reach, and she’s the one offering it to him. His only true happiness was with her... But... No. It would only bring her misfortune, shame, and danger. He couldn’t let that happen. Not to her.

“You always said you would protect me... Now let me protect you.” Her words are strong and true, almost enough that he believes her. “The world will know you are not Ned Stark’s bastard soon enough, but they will know you to be Lyanna Stark’s bastard, no more, no less. Ned Stark loved his sister so very much that he protected her name and reputation even in death by claiming you as his own.”

Now Jon understands, she’s thought about everything. He can’t help but to laugh, reaching for her, the feel of her in his arms surely like what the gods promised the afterlife to be. Better, even. “Have you thought of everything, my sweet?” He asks, voice muffled as he buries his face into her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of the rose water she bathed in. There it was again, that feeling of acceptance, such a thing he only ever felt when he was with her. “And if I say no?”

It’s her turn to laugh and she pulls back, looking him in the eyes before she speaks. “Then I go to war.” Another shrug lifts her shoulders and Jon sighs, though his lips are smiling. He’s never dared to dream of happiness like this, he doesn’t want to start now. But standing there, looking into her eyes, he wants to do nothing but dream. “Unless of course...” She trails off, sobering as she stares at him. “You have no wish to marry me.”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in all my life,” he admits, watching her face light up with pure, unbridled joy; it’s a look he’s not seen on her face since childhood. “But how? Who would marry us?” He’s surprised by her yet again when she chuckles and gives a single toss of her fire touched hair, telling him it was as he’d suspected: she had thought of it all.

“I’ll return with him,” she says, though she’s not quite thought how she might persuade the Unsullied to allow her yet another audience with Jon, this time with a guest in tow. But she would find a way, that much she knew. “I swear it to you.” She turns as if she means to go, but Jon catches her hand and draws her back to him. His kiss is swift and strong, as is the grip of his arms as they slide into place around her waist. When they break apart several moments later, neither can breathe though they both are smiling. “I swear it,” she says again before stepping out of his arms and out of the room, passing the Unsullied guard without even a backwards glance.

[ x x x ]

She’s done as she’s promised and brought with her the only person they could trust in this.

“Sam!” Jon gasps as he reaches to embrace his dear friend, shocked to see him there in his jail cell with Sansa at his side. “You did it...” He murmurs with a shake of his head as he turns to her, the smile on her face one that would always brighten the darkest of his days.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” She turns to Sam then, her sapphire eyes focused on the man’s face. “We haven’t much time,” she says before she glances at Jon. “You’re certain of this...?” For a single moment, there is doubt in her mind. But he’s kissing her then, a kiss so unlike their first that it sweeps her off her feet. Her doubt fades and together they turn to face Sam, who gives one single nod before he begins to speak the words she had once heard in the godswood, the words that would unify them before the Old Gods and even the New.

And so there in the middle of Jon’s jail cell, they were married.

“When I come back, it will be to free you,” she’s whispering when it’s over, tipping her forehead to meet his. “Until then...” This kiss is quick, interrupted by a harsh knock on the door, telling them their time was over. Jon holds fast to her hand a moment longer, but releases her only when the door swings open, revealing the guard who beckons for her and Sam to go.

Jon watches them go and only when the door closes does he realize he’s been holding his breath.

[ x x x ]

“If you look outside the walls of your city, you will find thousands of Northmen who will explain to you why harming Jon Snow is not in your best interest.” Her voice is sharp and all eyes turn to her when she speaks. Grey Worm focuses his dark eyes upon her and she leans forward ever so slightly, as if daring him to speak against her. He doesn’t.

“Jon Snow’s fate is not for you to decide,” Tyrion speaks from where he stands beside Grey Worm, his clothes tattered and chains at his wrists. “He committed his crime here, so it is for our king... Or queen, to decide.” He glances up at her, but Sansa keeps her eyes on Grey Worm, who is angry but unmoving. Though his hand remains perched upon the hilt of his sword, he does not seemed inclined to swing it. Yet.

“We have no king nor a queen.” It is Lord Royce who speaks and Sansa swivels her gaze to look at him, her most trusted adviser beyond Brienne who sits just a few chairs down.

Tyrion stands before them looking perplexed, as if he’s already given them the answer but no one has yet grasped it. “You people are the most powerful in all of Westeros... So choose one.” He watches as it dawns on most of their faces though as his gaze settles upon the three Stark children, he can’t help but to smile.

For a few moments, they talk among one another, but it seems as if they have not come to a conclusion of their own. And so Tyrion speaks again. “What unites people?” He asks, glancing around from face to face. “Armies? Gold? No... It is much more than that.” His steps take him towards the three Stark’s, the boy at the center focusing his gaze upon him. None of them would know that Bran had told him this outcome some days ago, expressing regret that the answer had not come to him sooner. Before all of the destruction and bloodshed. “This kingdom has lived under fear and injustice for far too long. Its people needs a kind, just ruler that will care for them as she has cared for her family. It need’s a ruler that will never back down to any threat, no matter the cost to herself.” All eyes have turned to the young, red haired woman that Tyrion now stands before. “They will call her Sansa the Red Wolf, the Queen That Never Bent.”

Though she knew this was coming, nothing could have prepared her for the moment now that it was here. It was why she had been so adamant that she would save Jon, whether it be through marriage or war, though she had hoped it’d not come to the latter. Those seated all around her are exchanging glances with one another, but none speak out against Tyrion’s suggestion. In fact, it’s Brienne and Lord Royce on their feet first, coming to kneel before her as if she’d already been crowned. Arya is next, rising from her place beside Bran to kneel before her sister, and soon they are all there, falling to their knees before the woman they would indeed call their queen.

When they’ve all risen back at Sansa’s insistence and returned to their seats, its Grey Worm who speaks, his anger yet to abate. “You said it was up to your king or queen to decide Jon Snow’s fate, you have chosen a queen, so she shall now decide his fate.” Arya and Brienne, the only two not to return to their chairs, but rather stood behind her, both put their hands to their blades.

Yet again, all eyes turn to her and Sansa takes a deep breath before she speaks. “Jon Snow will be set free immediately.” Grey Worm tenses, the hand on the hilt of his sword tightening its grip. “And from now on, he will be known as Jon Stark.” Even Tyrion looks up at this, shock registering on his features- now he knows what she meant earlier when she had told him she would ensure his safety, even if she did not become queen. “Jon was born of my aunt Lyanna Stark and raised as my father, Ned Stark’s bastard. He was and is heir to Winterfell through my brother Robb and crowned King in the North by his people. I cannot be queen of a kingdom that already has a king.” She smiles at the sea of stunned faces before she continues on. “It was just this morning that Jon and I married and from now on, we shall rule our kingdoms together... And so shall you. Let it be known, that every kingdom shall speak for itself, though queen I may be. I will make no choice without your backing, without your input.” As those around her allow her words to sink in, she turns back to face Grey Worm. “If you seek peace with us, you may remain in my kingdom, but if you seek nothing but vengeance, then you will leave, never to return to this realm.” The others all nodded in agreement and Grey Worm could do nothing but agree with a single, angry nod.

One by one, they choose the head of each kingdom from those sitting there; Yara in the Iron Islands, Gendry in the Stormlands, Robin Arryn in the Vale, and Quentyn Martell in Dorne. She and Jon finished out the Seven Kingdoms and just like that, a new century of ruling would begin. But now, she had more important things to worry about.

Rising from her place, she sweeps past them all, back towards the ruins of King’s Landing, back towards Jon.

By the time she arrives at his cell door, the Unsullied guards have left their posts. She opens the door and finds him standing at the center of the room, turning around to face her as she comes through like a whirlwind. Her kiss tells him everything and he’s laughing, crying, kissing every inch of her that he can as his arms come around her. “There’s something I must tell you,” she finally says when she can pull herself away from him, her blue eyes shining. Jon’s brow arches in a silently posed question. “Two things, really. But you must promise not to be angry with me.” She grins in spite of herself and tells him the truth. “You are King in the North, as you deserve to be.” He opens his mouth as if he means to protest but she puts a finger to his lips, silencing him before he can speak. “And I am queen of the remaining six kingdoms.” Jon blinks as her finger falls away from his mouth. “I know it’s not what you wanted, but Jon I... I told you I would protect you. This was the only way. Please say you aren’t angry!”

He’s truly so stunned that at first, Jon can’t find the words to respond to her. It was true, the last thing he had ever wanted was to rule over the Seven Kingdoms... But, the North was his, she had given it to him without hesitation, though it should have been hers. She took the other six from him because she knew he never wanted it, she took his burden away because that was how much she loved him. She had given him her home and her title in exchange for his, because she would have done anything for him. “I’m not angry,” he says finally, shaking his head as he slips his hands into her hair. “I don’t deserve you, that’s certain.” Her smile is radiant as she sinks into his embrace yet again, for the first time without worry of who might see, without worry of what some might say.

“It is I who doesn’t deserve you,” she clarifies at once, shaking her head. “You who went to war for me against Ramsay Bolton, you who went to Dragonstone for protection for the North against the Night King, you who slay a tyrant queen all because she threatened my life...” She laughs then, tilting her head back so her mouth ghosts across his. “The least I could do was give you what you always wanted... The Stark name and a real family.”

Jon tugs her close and buries his face in her hair so she doesn’t see the tears that well up in his eyes. “You’re what I’ve always wanted,” he admits a few moments later when he’s collected himself, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “I love you, Sansa.” Tears pool in her eyes but she takes a deep, steadying breath before returning his words with a beautiful smile. “My queen,” he says, the words having a meaning to them they never had before. A chill races her spine at his words and she takes his arm when he offers it to her.

Together they walk up from the dungeons and through the crumbling doorway that once led to the throne room. Gone was the Iron Throne, a stain of melted iron all that was left behind among the ashes. Those who had proclaimed her queen just an hour before stand there, gathered together at the base of the dais. They all turn at the sound of their footsteps and one by one, they fall to their knees as their queen and her king walk by and up the steps towards where the throne would have stood.

And in that moment, everything would begin to change; finally, happiness was not just a fleeting dream, but something real, something tangible. Her dream of spring had always been Jon and finally, she would not wake to misery and fear. She would wake to his face and his kisses and his love. She would wake to true happiness every day for the rest of her life.

#jonsa #got s8 #fix it fic #jonsa fanfic #jon x sansa #my writing #i wrote this #whewwwww 3300 words in like 2hrs #my brain hurts now

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generallynerdy · 5 years

Text

Our Little Secret Part 14/Finale (Merlin & Child!Reader, Mordred X Reader)

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, and 13

Summary: (Y/N) and Merlin have to come to terms with their little secret being revealed. Everyone else has to adjust to the fact that they’ve been lied to for years by the two people they trusted most.

Key: (Y/N) - your name

Warnings: eMoTiONs, mentions of injuries, mentions of near death, recovery, magic-phobia?, u can’t prove that it’s an author insert fuck u

Word Count: 4,236

Note: is it,,,is it over yet? am i free,,,? extra long final (except the epilogue) part bc i love u

“This is harder than I thought it would be,” (Y/N) muttered, legs hanging over the edge of the mountain.

“Really?” Beside her, Merlin snorted. “This isn’t even the worst it could be.”

She looked over at him with wide eyes. “What’s the worst it could be?”

“Uther could still be alive.”

“Touché.”

The pair rested in silence, watching the sun slowly crawl up the sky. Dawn had come a while ago, but they had yet to leave Camlann. Arthur wanted to scour the battlefield for their men, dead and wounded. They gathered all the dead and were giving them proper funerals or packing up their bodies to take back to family, if they had any. The wounded were taken care of by Gaius, but many of them didn’t survive.

(Y/N) had not entered the medic tent again, instead spending her time with Merlin and giving Arthur a few hours time before she dared show her face. It killed her to stay away from Mordred, but she felt it was best.

“I’m sorry for everything,” (Y/N) said suddenly, breaking the silence. “For not talking to you, for not listening to you, either.”

“No, you were right not to,” Merlin admitted, not looking away from the view in front of them. “I was being ridiculous. I was so worried about Mordred being the druid to kill Arthur that I didn’t consider that my decisions might push him to that.”

(Y/N)’s eyes widened. “It wasn’t your fault, Merlin. Morgana controlled him.”

“The only reason he didn’t choose it on his own was because of you,” Merlin said, finally turning to her. “If Arthur had made a decision against magic or someone doing magic, Mordred might have turned. You being here stopped him and I should’ve seen that.”

“So…” She grinned. “Are you sorry for being a clotpole?”

Merlin sighed and put an arm around her, drawing her into a hug. “I’m sorry for being a clotpole.”

It took (Y/N) a while to get the courage to go into the medic tent again. When she did, she saw Leon lingering by Mordred’s cot. Gwen and Arthur were nowhere in sight, nor was Gaius, but he was rather busy as it was.

She wandered over to the cot, pulling up a chair and sitting on the opposite side that Leon did. She didn’t meet his gaze at first, just taking Mordred’s hand and remaining silent.

“(Y/N)?” Leon started.

It took everything in her to ignore him, to look down at her hands and refuse to make eye contact. Though he couldn’t get her complete attention, she was still listening and he knew it.

“I don’t hate you.”

(Y/N)’s head shot up against her own intuition. She didn’t speak, eyebrows lowered and searching his face to see if he was lying.

“I don’t hate you,” he said again, a little louder. “I could never.”

He’d heard what she said to Gaius about being worried that everyone would hate her. What (Y/N) didn’t understand was how he didn’t hate her.

“I’ve been lying to you since I’ve known you,” she said. “How are you not upset?”

Leon sighed. “I’m...upset you didn’t feel like you could trust me with your little secret, but nothing else.”

“You--” (Y/N) tilted her head. “You don’t think magic is evil?”

“Druids saved my life, remember?” He smiled fondly. “Since then, I’ve known magic isn’t innately evil. And neither are you. You’re my friend, my sister. The most evil thing you’ve done to me is have Spot wake me up in the morning.”

(Y/N) laughed shakily, remembering it fondly. She did it a little too often, more than Leon would like, but it was entertaining.

“The others don’t hate you, either,” Leon said.

She shook her head. “You don’t know that.”

“I’m sure of it. If they really love and care about you, then this won’t change anything,” he told her. “It hasn’t for me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, moving her hand from Mordred’s to his, making him smile.

There was a pause before he squeezed her hand and stood, letting go. “I’ll check on the others. Take care of him.”

“I will,” (Y/N) muttered as he left.

For a good while, (Y/N) was left alone. She dozed off a few times, trying to get much needed rest. Gaius dropped by and checked on her wounds, which were luckily minor. She never left Mordred’s side, constantly making sure he was alright. It took him a few hours, just as Merlin predicted, before he began to stir.

“(Y/N)?” He croaked out, opening his eyes slowly.

She snapped to attention and smiled, holding his hand. When he started to sit up, she stopped him. “Careful, careful. Merlin said you’d be sore.”

“Ow,” he muttered, but froze. He smiled slightly. “The spell worked.”

In his moment of awe, (Y/N) leaned forward and took him in her arms. She held him tightly and felt his arms wrap around her lovingly.

“I was terrified,” she whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Mordred let her go for just a second, drawing closer to her face and caressing her cheek. “It was you that brought me back,” he muttered. “Seeing you broke the spell.”

“I love you, too,” she said, echoing some of his dying words. She kissed him softly, hand buried in his messy curls.

After that, they spoke in hushed tones. (Y/N) updated Mordred on what had happened. They held a brief moment of silence for Morgana, remembering the woman she had once been. She told him about what Leon said to her and he celebrated with her, but then the conversation was drawn to the topic of their magic.

“They all know about my little secret now, too,” Mordred muttered. “The rumours can’t have passed by them.”

(Y/N) took his hand. “We’ll be okay.”

“You really believe that?”

“We’ve been through so much worse, Mordred,” she said firmly.

He laughed a little. “Fair enough. I have almost died twice-- and that’s not counting my childhood.”

They shared a laugh that was interrupted by a dog’s yip. Spot raced in from out of nowhere, trying to jump on Mordred’s bed and smother him. (Y/N) reprimanded him and he soon calmed down, but neither of them knew where he came from.

Unbeknownst to them, Gwen and Gaius had kept him in the medic tent the whole time, keeping the loyal dog from harm.

There were many bridges to cross on the way home, but at least they had each other.

Back in Camelot, rumours flew left and right. The majority of the population was aware of Mordred’s presence in the city and were furious, confused as to why Arthur would harbour an enemy. He planned to speak on his behalf, but he wanted answers from Merlin and (Y/N) first.

Meanwhile, the animosity, or at least tension, between (Y/N) and the other knights did not go unnoticed. Merlin’s temporary absence from his master’s side was noticed, too, as was Mordred’s stay in the court physician’s quarters rather than his own in the knights’ quarters. The entire tightly knit group of Arthur’s closest friends seemed to be falling apart, for reasons unknown to everyone.

One day, (Y/N) was summoned to the throne room, though Mordred, Merlin, and Gaius were told to remain behind.

When she arrived there, after nonstop reassurances from the Merlin to the young knight, she found that it was not the council gathered, but instead her friends. Gwen and Arthur sat on their thrones, while the knights stood dutifully about the room. (Y/N) had a distinct feeling that this was not a purely social audience.

Arthur began to question her, as if she was a suspect in a crime. Leon shot her uncomfortable glances, wishing he could make it stop.

“How long has Merlin been teaching you?”

Merlin had already had a long discussion with Arthur, giving him practically his whole life story, from his father, to his mother, to his powers, to the dragon he freed from under Camelot. Arthur knew almost everything about him. Now, it was (Y/N)’s turn.

“Since a few years after I met you, my lord,” she said.

His expression showed no change. “Who knew about your...little secret?”

“Merlin, Gaius, Mordred-- ever since we were little.” She began to list them off, remembering each fondly. She paused, saying the next name too quietly for him to hear.

“Speak up.”

(Y/N) sighed. “Lancelot.”

Leon shot her a sympathetic glance and Gwen looked absolutely decimated by this fact. A few sombered, but the expressions were gone as quickly as they had appeared.

“Morgana knew, too,” (Y/N) muttered.

Arthur lowered his eyebrows. “You told her?”

“No, sire,” she stammered. “She, uh, had me followed and I didn’t realize. It was a while before Ismere-- just after we buried Lancelot.”

Suddenly, Arthur asked a question that left her dumbfounded.

“Have you ever used magic against someone? Or to get what you wanted?” He asked stiffly.

Her jaw dropped as she looked up at him, appalled that he could even ask her such a question. She glanced around at the others, as if asking whether they believed she could be capable of that, but most of them didn’t make eye contact. Elyan just looked away, perhaps ashamed at the question. Gwaine stared right through her, which was arguably more chilling. Percival was the only one to meet her eye. She couldn’t read him, though. (Y/N) didn’t know what he meant, looking at her like that.

“No, sir,” she said firmly, teeth clenched. “The worst I’ve done is defend myself.”

“And the second part?” He questioned further.

She paused. “One thing.” They all looked terrified, but she smiled. “I used my magic to help a little druid boy escape the castle, a long time ago. Morgana, Merlin, and my lady were there. You were, too.”

She spoke bravely and Arthur went silent after that, his eyes darkened with reminiscence. They had saved Mordred long ago, even though he was a druid. (Y/N) was trying to remind her king of this.

“I asked Merlin to take me as an apprentice the day I met him,” she said, taking her turn to give a speech. She was young, but she had so much to say. “I started a few years later and I-- I didn’t realise what I was getting myself into. I didn’t understand the secret I had to keep, the people I had to keep it from. I didn’t understand the consequences. But I did later. And I could’ve easily given up then, but I didn’t. My magic is part of who I am, it has been for a long time. Just because you know about it now doesn’t change me. But I am sorry, deeply sorry, that I’ve hurt you-- all of you.”

As (Y/N) was leaving the throne room, she did not see Leon go to follow her.

“Leon--” Elyan started, grabbing his arm to stop him.

The senior knight turned to him with a frown. He looked at all of them gathered, who were staring at him, waiting for his move. He scoffed a little and pulled away from Elyan’s grip, shaking his head at them.

“I can’t believe you,” he said to them as a friend, rather than a knight. “It’s (Y/N).”

With that said, he was met with silence. He shook his head again and rushed out of the throne room, catching up to (Y/N). He took her arm and they started toward god knows where.

As soon as he left, Percival took a second to think before following him. No one dared stop the giant, nor did they dare even try. He caught up to Leon and (Y/N). They didn’t make him say a thing, simply letting him join them. That was enough of an apology-- and a reassurance.

Later, when (Y/N) returned to check on Mordred, she was accompanied by Percival. Leon had to abandon them earlier for work purposes.

Entering Gaius’ chambers, they found Mordred asleep in his bed, but he was not alone. Sitting in a chair pulled up beside him was Queen Guinevere, who looked up as they walked in. (Y/N) froze up and turned to Percival, but wasn’t sure what to say.

“(Y/N),” Gwen said. “Can we talk?”

“Of course, my lady--” She began.

Gwen interrupted her with a shake of her head. “Just as friends,” she smiled.

Percival cleared his throat and nodded at both of them. “I’ll just--” he started, backing away from the room. “Goodnight.”

(Y/N) closed the door behind him as he left. When she and the queen were left alone, there was silence. The young knight crossed the room to Mordred’s bed, checking on him as he snored lightly. She couldn’t help smiling to herself at his peaceful slumber, but let the smile fall when she noticed Gwen staring.

Trying to avoid conversation, (Y/N) lifted her hand and began a spell, gesturing to the pitcher of water on the table. She stopped instantly when she saw Gwen’s eyes widen, the yellow glow in her own eyes fading.

She started to walk toward the pitcher, but Gwen spoke, stopping her.

“You shouldn’t have to hide it,” she said.

(Y/N) reeled. “What?”

“You don’t have to hide it now,” Gwen repeated. “Why avoid using it if there’s no consequence anymore?”

“I--” (Y/N) sighed. “I don’t know if Arthur would like that.”

The queen smiled. “Well, he’s not here now, is he?”

She was shaken by the queen’s easy going reply. Unsure, she lifted her hand again. She finished the enchantment this time and the pitcher went flying into her hand, spilling just a little bit of water. Two cups flew over from the table at her command as well and soon she was pouring the liquid into them. (Y/N) passed one to Gwen and kept one for herself, pulling up another chair beside her.

“Did you know?” (Y/N) asked her suddenly.

“About your little secret?” Gwen laughed. “No, of course not.”

The younger one tilted her head. “Then how are you so...unbothered by this?”

“I just think it explains a lot,” she admitted. “Besides, I’ve suspected Merlin for a long time.”

“You’re kidding,” (Y/N) gaped.

“He’s not exactly conspicuous,” Gwen laughed.

She shrugged with a fond smile. “Well, he’s kept it hidden for this long.”

“Fair enough.”

“What made you think he had magic? When were you really sure he was hiding something?” (Y/N) asked out of pure curiosity.

Gwen sighed. “You were so angry with him after Mordred came back with that spear injury, the one that almost killed him. I didn’t understand until I considered that he might have magic. You were upset because he wouldn’t heal him, weren’t you?”

“He refused,” (Y/N) confirmed, nodding solemnly. “I stopped talking to him after that.”

“I don’t blame you. If someone did the same to Arthur…” She trailed off, not even wanting to think about it.

It was beginning to get dark, so (Y/N) lit a few candles, requiring just a simple spell. Gwen almost awed at it, which made the young knight flustered. No one had ever taken this much of an interest in her magic, not since Lancelot.

“It really doesn’t bother you?”

“Absolutely not,” Gwen reassured her. “It explains so much and-- and it sounds silly, but I feel like I know you better now.”

(Y/N) could not help hugging her friend, burying her head in her shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered. “It means so much to me.”

A soft knocking came from the door and both women turned their attention to a short figure entering the room. It was Elyan, who seemed to have been there for a good while. He had heard at least the last part of their conversation, which (Y/N) felt red in the face about. Gwen looked rather pleased with herself, though.

The queen stood and crossed the room, taking her brother’s wrist and dragging him back over to (Y/N). The young knight stood from her chair to meet them, remaining silently confused by whatever was happening.

“Tell her,” Gwen said firmly to her brother.

Elyan took a deep breath. “(Y/N), I--” He glanced at Gwen, who nodded. “I’m sorry I’ve been treating you terribly. To be honest, I was...not happy when I found out about your little secret. Magic killed our father and since then--”

“I understand,” (Y/N) said quickly.

“No, wait,” Elyan stammered. “Just because one sorcerer killed my father doesn’t mean every sorcerer will be just as bad and you certainly won’t. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

Before she could say a word, he hugged her tightly, almost cutting off her airflow. She laughed, telling him it was okay and hugging him back. Gwen stared on proudly at her work, as it had taken hours to convince her brother to speak to (Y/N). Though she still could not convince Arthur to work out these things, at least she could get Elyan to do so.

“I love both of you so much,” (Y/N) said softly, dragging Gwen into the hug. “You’re like the siblings I never had.”

As Arthur had yet to speak about the rumours going around that (Y/N) and Merlin were sorcerers, the former was loathe to go outside. However, when she heard that Gwaine had left the castle and run off without any sign of where he went, she knew she had to do something. She had a feeling she knew where he was-- and a feeling that he was waiting for her.

She found him in the clearing outside the city, just where she thought he would be. It was here the old Lancelot had been put the rest, because it was such a perfect place for him. It was here Gwaine had trained (Y/N), because she thought Lancelot being there would help her. It was here Morgana had discovered her little secret.

“Gwaine?” (Y/N) asked quietly.

He was standing above the stone, holding the hilt of his sword so firmly that it looked as if it might shatter like glass. “I knew I could never replace him,” he said without turning around. “I knew I could never be as perfect as he was. I knew I couldn’t be him.”

“Gwaine--” She tried to say.

“But to not tell me about this?” His voice betrayed him as he turned, eyes wet with tears. “To know that I was nothing compared to Gaius, to Merlin, to Lancelot, to Mordred? To find out I was nothing in your heart? Why, (Y/N)?”

“I couldn’t tell you,” she sobbed. Her heart was already broken at his words. “I wanted to-- I planned to after Ismere, but-- but--”

She took a deep breath, trying to shove away the memories. She didn’t want to remember Ismere, much less what Morgana had done to her there. However, she needed to tell Gwaine what had kept her from telling him everything. He had to know that he was just as important to her as the others, that she meant so much to him that she would rather have died than have him hate her for this.

“Morgana found out about my magic, like I said. But she knew I had to be taught by someone. She used you-- you and Percival against me,” (Y/N) said, shuddering as she did. “To find out who taught me. She needed to know who Emrys was, the one destined to destroy her-- that was Merlin. I almost told her. I would have told her, given time. After we got out, I knew I couldn’t tell any of you. If you knew about Merlin, who he was to Morgana, then she could have tortured you, pulled it from you and I-- I would’ve been to blame.”

“I wouldn’t have told her,” Gwaine hissed. “Do you trust me so little?”

(Y/N) leapt at him and wrapped him in her embrace. “I know you wouldn’t have. I just didn’t want her to have any reason to torture you like she did with me. I didn’t want you to get hurt.” She kissed his cheek, still shaking. “You mean so much to me. You’re not New Lancelot-- you haven’t been for a long time. You’re Gwaine.”

Arthur was the last one left.

Everyone else had approached, apologised, and asked more about (Y/N) and Merlin’s magic. In fact, many of them were rather curious about the whole thing. They were amazed by the range of bullshit the two could get up to with the assistance of their magic alone.

Meanwhile, the king refused to talk to either of them. He had shut himself off from the world, from everyone, even Gwen. She was scared for him and begged (Y/N) to step in. Perhaps she could appear unthreatening to him, unlike Merlin. Perhaps she could get through to the man.

She caught him alone in the throne room one morning, a place where he was cornered. He sat upon his throne and watched her with curious eyes. Then, he stood, leaning over the back of the chair and sighing.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” He asked.

“I wanted to more than anything,” she said in almost a whisper. “But I was just a child. I was so scared. I was terrified of Uther, of Agravaine, of someone discovering me and-- and what you might do if you found out.”

She noticed his face flash in betrayal and sadness for a second, but it disappeared in an instant.

“I didn’t want you to have to decide between saving me or following the law. It wasn’t fair,” she muttered. “And I didn’t want--”

She stopped.

“Didn’t want what? To die?” He laughed coldly. “Can’t blame you there.”

“Every day of my life was a risk. I could’ve died any day, but I didn’t want to die at your hand.” She took a deep breath. “But more than anything, I-- Arthur, you have every reason to hate magic. You have every reason to hate it for what it’s done to you, for what people have done to you using it.”

It was true, every word that she spoke. Magic had killed Arthur’s family; corrupted them, tortured them. Arthur had every reason to despise magic and neither Merlin nor (Y/N) could deny that.

“I was terrified that hate would translate to me,” she admitted.

His eyes softened and he looked upon her with wonder. “You thought I would hate you? Why?”

“Because--” She scoffed. “Because I chose to practice something that had done such harm to you, to all of us. I just didn’t want you to hate me and-- and I still don’t.”

Suddenly, the king crossed the room. He paused, standing there in front of her. That little girl who had stood up to him about punishing Merlin unjustly was gone. She was a woman now, a powerful sorceress that Arthur owed for a great many things. Part of him was still upset, both at her and himself for the fact that she hadn’t told him, that she felt she couldn’t trust him enough to tell him about her magic. But the other part held nothing but love for her.

It was this part of him that took over when he hugged her, shocking her to the point where she froze.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispered. “I’m upset you didn’t tell me and I don’t know how long it will be before we can fully trust each other again, but I don’t-- and I will never-- hate you, (Y/N).”

The young knight sniffed heavily and hugged her king, who was more like her brother at this moment. She took in a deep breath and almost laughed out of relief.

“You’ll talk to Merlin, won’t you? Tell him the same thing?”

“I don’t know. I look at him and I want to punch his teeth out.”

“Call me crazy, Arthur, but that sounds about normal.”

Elsewhere…

A small hut in the woods was practically invisible to those who did not seek it out directly.

Inside this hut, a girl in a dark cloak pulled its hood over her face. She mixed herbs and vials together in a small bowl. It produced a blood red liquid, which she gathered in a tiny bottle, shaking it about. She turned to face a long wooden table that held a great weight on its ancient legs.

A dead man lied upon it, his dark hair and beard ratted. He was dressed in rugged peasants’ clothing, an outfit unfitting for a knight of his standing.

The witch-- ahem, sorceress-- took the bottle carefully and poured it into his mouth, forcing him to swallow it. After a moment of unresponsiveness, the dead man gasped into his lungs his second breath of first life. He looked around wildly, but was tied to the table as a precaution.

Meanwhile, the girl turned and smiled at him. “Alright, you handsome bastard. Up and at ‘em. I didn’t murder a man for nothing. Time to send you back to Camelot before my readers murder me.”

Merlin Tags: @pearlll09

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

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Sable Skirts (I)

Awaiting Sentence

Summary: Keris is arrested after she is caught running an underground publication in Erebor. Facing a certain death sentence, she may have a way out, but it might cost her more than her life.

Note/Warning: So this is a fic I’m reposting from ao3. It’s a dark!Thorin Oakenshield/OC fic. It’s very dark, like super. It includes violence, noncon, and overall a bad time. Please mind that warning. Let me know what you think (I’ll be posting a few a day until I catch up)

This is dark!Thorin Oakenshield and explicit. 18+ only.

Keris had known the risks but facing the consequences was much more dire than merely imagining them. Sitting in the grimy cell; water dripping from the dank walls, the smell of worn stone and human filth. All she had lost was ever more clear to her.

She wasn't truly sitting, more crouching. The floor was slick with an unknown substance. Its smell assured her she did not want to rest in it. They had taken her boots and her stockings, leaving her feet bare and cold. She was hidden so deep in the Mountain that the spring rains had left it damp and musty, mixed with other unmentionable fluids. She shivered, cupping her hands over her mouth to warm them with her breath.

It had been close to a day. Maybe even two. Down here there was no marker for dawn and dusk. The torches always burned dimly just outside the cells; just enough to make out the iron grate barring her in and the shadows of guards.

She didn't regret her crime, only that she had been found out. She had been right in her actions though the law would dictate otherwise. Authority, she had concluded, was not always the keeper of morality, nor the voice of reason. The king and his council signed their acts and bills their own behalf, excusing it as for the people, though it was more than not the people who suffered for the wealth of the nobles. It was that inherent disparity, the growing corruption which had driven her to act against those who named themselves elite.

She closed her eyes as another brisk draft blew around her. They hadn’t even left her a cloak; her wool tunic, topped by a thin cotton dress offered little warmth. Outside, warmth followed the seasonal rains but down there, it was not but the cold. She replayed her downfall once more.

She had known when the knock sounded who it was. There had not been enough time to cram all her papers into the stove before they entered. The mountain guards, called greybacks for the dull colour of their uniforms, burst in and seized from her the handful of parchment she had been trying to destroy. The chaos of her pens being dumped onto the floor, books being cracked and torn apart, the uncirculated pamphlets gathered and held as evidence. All the while she had thrashed against their restraints, the cuffs scraping her wrists as she fought against them. A slap had stilled her body but not her anger. She spat at the guard who had struck her, a glob of blood and spit landing on his cheek. He hit her again, his gauntlet leaving another gash along her lip.

She was guilty. She did not presume to feign innocence. She had printed contraband. Treason, even. She had called for a break in the system; a balance of powers. The poor were only getting poorer and the rich, richer. Every week saw a new tax; tea, linen, bread...soon enough, they would pay for the very breath they drew. She had not sought bloodshed or massacre, only equality. In the Mountain, however, that was as good as. The very structure was the physical embodiment of hierarchy. Those lower floors homed the peasants and invalids; as you ascended, merchants and lower lords lived, above the greater nobility and royal occupied the highest floor. The king himself overlooked the rocky landscape from a balcony along its peak. A beacon of the system.

Footsteps kept her from the memories that came next. Being dragged to the cells, past those she had called friends and others who were unknowingly her enemies. She had kept her head high, shoulders straights, face unyielding. She would confront her fate with the dignity she had sought for the masses. She would give them hope when despair triumphed.

She stood as the guard unlocked her door, a pair of greybacks entering. Wordlessly, they turned her around and shackled her hands behind her. They spun her to face the door and shoved her through it. She stumbled, barely catching herself. A sharp rock stabbed the bottom of her foot but she continued onward. The walk was long. They passed the narrow windows carved into the mountainside, the light of dusk shrouding the horizon just beyond her view. Up and up and up. She had never been so high in the Mountain. The air grew warmer with their ascent but the foul stench of the dungeons clung to her.

A towering set of doors stood open, the light of a dozen lamps shining through. She was escorted inside and the buzz of voices within died. She had never seen the chamber but she knew where she was. This was the high court. That reserved for the most heinous criminals. The benches were empty and only a small group sat at the front of the hall.

The king was the first to catch her eye though she had only ever seen him from afar. Thorin II’s dark head topped with a thick golden crown; his black doublet slashed with matching gold silk. He sat upon a dais with two others. His eyes were planted on the far wall and he seemed not to notice her despite the hush which had overcome the room. To his left, in the place of honour, sat his heir, Prince Fili. His green eyes flitted towards you, a wrinkle in his brow betraying curiosity. His interest dissipated quickly and he pushed back the thick blond braid which had fallen forward over his shoulder. The emerald brocade of his jacket matched his eyes, though the lustre of the latter faded. To the king’s right sat the other prince, Kili. His dark hair was slightly askew, his doe-like eyes averted as he rested his chin his hand. His leg wobbled with impatience as he held back a yawn, seemingly disinterested in the whole process.

These Durins had once been heroes. They had reclaimed the dwarfish homeland and returned their people to their rightful place. Then they had fallen into the antiquated habits of their ancestors. Those very practices which had assured the apathy of the elves during the descent of Smaug. That which had isolated Erebor from the rest of the world; the rich from the poor. Perhaps, she thought, the dragon sickness hadn’t taken the king as feared, but another type of greed had poisoned his soul. Their entire bloodline had a tendency towards it. They presented themselves as righteous to their people but wrote deceit in their statutes. Those rumours of their baser acts; those vulgar pleasures derived from the suffering of others, travelled quickly. Keris knew, that behind every snippet of gossip, there was a sliver of truth. As it was, the indulgence of the royals was not diligently hidden; flaunted even.

Two other nobles. Dwalin, the captain of the silvercloaks, the royal guard noted for their shining capes, stood to the left of the royal dais. His own brother, Balin, stood in front of the podium. The white-haired elder was the head of the king’s council; Lord of the Chamber. The legate she had been actively opposing in her activities. Those few others present were guards; both grey and silver, lining the wall as they watched the prisoner’s arrival.

Keris was stopped before a lectern. This was her trial. Held in the last light to hurry the process. To keep quiet her crimes as to not encourage those with similar leanings. To hasten and ease her sentence which had certainly already been decided. It was a farce. Her presence allowed her no defense or judgment, truly. It was all show. The doors were pulled shut with a boisterous clang. The silence was trapped in the hall, broken at last by the calm but ringing voice of the head legate.

“I, Lord Balin, Son of Fundin, Lord of the Chamber, do hereby inaugurate this hearing. By the law of the Mountain and ancestors of Erebor, in the name of our king and ruler, Thorin II, son of Thrain II, King Under the Mountain and Blood of Durin, recognize the defendant, Keris Wyck, charged with distribution of contraband, conspiracy to commit treason, and sedition. This trial shall now commence.”

Keris looked around as Lord Balin’s voice echoed in the silence. Though it lacked an audience, the chamber was intimidating. Her heart started beating furiously, as if it had been still before.

“Girl,” The king called to her, drawing her attention from the empty benches. His voice was frightening; deep and stony, as if he was the mountain himself. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

She swallowed as she looked up at the dais. For the first time, King Thorin’s eyes met hers. Her stomach turned sour and she fought to keep her hands from trembling. She saw cruelty in his eyes. Judgment. There was nothing she could say to exonerate herself. But she would speak.

“Yes...I-I do,” She cringed at the stutter in her voice, “I would argue that what I wrote was not contraband, and thus the act of distribution was not treason. What I wrote was the truth. What I wrote was a recounting of hardship, of struggle, of reality. Of the very same desperation you once bore in your desire to reclaim our home. I wrote for the washerwoman with her brood of children who must decide between feeding her family or her hearth. The cook who must choose between a room to live in or a slice of bread. I write for those who are taxed until they are starving while the nobles gorge themselves on venison and wine.”

“Enough!” The king slammed his palm upon the arm of his chair, “You admit openly to opposing the royal authority. Do you know the punishment for such an act?”

“I am well aware but I daresay that death would be preferable than living in such squalor,” Keris snapped. She could hear her pulse in her ears; feel the boiling in her veins.

Prince Kili seemed to have been awoken by the king’s outburst and Prince Fili stared between the king and the defendant. King Thorin growled, the rumble permeating the room as the venomous thoughts swirled in his maddened eyes. He stood, pointing a thick finger at Keris. “I declare you guilty, girl!” The king roared, “On your own admission. By my authority and by the blood of the Mountain, I see you guilty of treason!.” He seemed to be struggling against his own temper, “You seditious bitch! Vile wench!”

Keris was shocked by the affront he had taken. She had thought her plea quite eloquent and had thought to accept her fate with a grain of courage. Her unwillingness to beg however had quite bothered him. Yet, she knew, whether she had spoken those words or others, she would have faced the same verdict. She was only gladdened to have spoken for herself; for the people. Even if it fell on deaf ears. Even if she fell, too.

Keris was back in her cell. The Lord of the Chamber had quickly confirmed the King’s declaration while the latter stewed in rage. He had lost his Mountain once and any challenge reminded him of his years of exile. He would see to it that it would not happen again. Even one as minor as herself was a threat.

She did not sleep. She could not. She would not bring herself to lay on the filthy cobbles until fatigue forced her to do so. These were her last days, day even, and she would see her death without piss and shit upon her dress. She leaned against the wall, trying to take the weight from her legs. The cut on her foot throbbed, likely infected from the mire below her. She didn’t hear the approach. She was so tired she couldn’t even hear the steady drip at the back of her cell. It was only the shift of light, the grate’s whine as it was opened, that alerted her to his presence. She looked up, pushing herself from the wall as she greeted her visitor silently. She muffled the groan of pain which came with her movement.

Lord Balin entered, the door closing behind him. He looked around the floor in disgust, trying to place his feet in the less slimy patches. His glossy blue eyes found her in the dim. “I’ve been searching you out for months,” He began; his voice a blend of gentility and menace. “This rogue pamphleteer. Rebuking every statute, every word I wrote with his own. Or rather her own.”

Keris watched him. He paced two steps back and forth. The most he could afford without getting ankle deep in the sludge. A ghost of a smile appeared at the corner of his lips.

“Admirable, almost. It’s quite one thing to fight one with steel, but with a pen, it is rather more intriguing.”

“Are you here to boast then?” Keris asked.

“No, I don’t like the practice truly. Modesty is much preferable.” He flourished his hand carelessly, “I am come, officially, to deliver your sentence.”

“Did it need to be stated aloud? I’m quite certain I shall have a block at my neck before the next eve.”

“That is an option. Traditionally. But, the law has always been more accommodating to offenders of your...sex. It needn’t end so tragically. You are young and have many years left to you.” He rambled.

“I gave those up when I set my quill to parchment,” She scoffed.

“Would you hear my alternative or are you so set on your own demise?”

She sighed, giving a curt nod for him to continue. He backed up, letting the torchlight stream in clearer, looking her over with an appraising eye.

“I read your pamphlet, ‘On the Sins of Wealth’. An intriguing look into the underbelly of noble pleasures and I must say, very well written. Almost accurate, truly. But I daresay our royal harem is much more hospitable than you would have it. Those dams are of high-esteem, unlike those in the lower levels. Sad little things, trading their services for a loaf of bread.”

“Because they haven’t any other choice,” She insisted, “Because you would mandate that they give up their coin for your own comforts.”

“Hmm,” He gave a half-chuckle, “As I was saying. The royal harem, or 'sable skirts' as they have been so cleverly nicknamed, are not maltreated, rather they are well-kept. And in return they give their services; simple pleasures but otherwise, they live a life of luxury.”

“I’m afraid my pens have all been disposed of, otherwise I would revise that pamphlet,” She said dryly, “Why in Mahal are you telling me all this?”

“Ah, back to what I was trying to say before; my alternative…”

Keris’ heart had skipped a beat. She was sure of it. The pang in her chest was so sharp she nearly gasped. The realization struck her before he finished his thought. His offer was all too plain.

“You want me to sell my body for my life?” She sputtered.

“A skirt or the block,” He held his hand out like a scale, “It would seem an easy choice. Life or death, really.”

“But...as repulsive as the offer is, why?”

“As I said, the law is not so callous towards dams and...I like you, Keris. Were you a noble on my council, you would be an indispensable asset. And your words in court were almost endearing, if not near-sighted.” He grinned, “And well, the harem always welcome new blood and dams are as rare as ever.”

Keris looked down as her foot throbbed once more. Her feet were black with dirt, her skirts starting to stain. Her head pounded and her lip hung heavy and swollen. This was it. She would spend her last day in this cell; filthy, bloodied, and cold.

“Can I think about it?” She asked, ashamed of herself for even considering the proposition.

“You have five minutes,” He declared plainly, “I’m afraid I can’t wait. The block is to be brought out by day’s end, if at all.”

Keris exhaled. She let all the breath leave her body as she closed her eyes. She reached up to touch her greasy hair, grasping her head as if it would split. She gulped, afraid to inhale. Afraid to continue. She wished she could stop time. Wished she could rewind. She wished she wasn’t afraid but now that she stood before death, she wanted nothing more than to run the other way.

“Alright…” She finally spoke, the cold air filling her lungs.

“Pardon, dear?” Lord Balin leaned in.

“I said alright,” Her teeth were close to chattering but it had nothing to do with the chill, “I’ll...I’ll do it.”

#thorin oakenshield #dark!thorin #dark!thorin oakenshield #the hobbit #au #oc #fic #series #tolkien #sable skirts #dark!fic #darkverse #dark!verse

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iknownothingihearnothing · 5 years

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Game of Thrones 8.3 “Battle of Winterfell”

HOLY SHITSICKLES, YOU GUYZ!

That episode was AH-MAZING. I know it wasn’t exactly the shower of death we expected--I mean, there was TONS of death, don’t get me wrong, but our ultra-beloveds are still safe...for now--but it was still epic. Totally worth having to squint for over an hour at a laptop screen brought obscenely close to my face.

Honestly, I thought it was just me until I logged onto Twitter after the episode and everyone was like:

I also made the grievous error of signing into social media before the episode aired and I saw that “Arya” was trending. I thought that she had been killed and I was about to riot.

My brother had actually seen the episode before me--we share an HBO Go account with my uncle because as a lifelong bachelor, he can afford all those channels we cannot--and when I turned it on the battle was at the midway point; I was spoiling myself. I texted my bro “I WILL KILL YOU” and he replied with an emoji of a house. IDK if he plans to defend himself with a house or hide in a house or drop a house on me like I’m the Wicked Witch of the East.

As the episode opens, it’s nighttime (of course it is), and Sam’s hands are shaking because it’s really fucking cold. The Winterfellians are ushering everyone who ain’t fighting into the supposedly SAFE IT’S SO SAFE YOU ALL WILL BE SO MUCH SAFER crypt and performing last minute prep. Theon and Co are wheeling BranBot to the Weirwood tree where he will be used as bait to lure out the Night King.

Sansa and Tyrion and Co. are up on the ramparts. Sansa, naturally, does not look very excited for this party.

The actors’ also. They had to shoot 55 nights in a row.

We get our first glimpse of Drogon and Rhaegal of the episode, AKA the Good Dragons. Because we need to decipher on this show.

Everybody’s in position. The canons are ready. The awesome catapults are ready. The Dothraki are ready. The Unsullied are ready.

All the animals, too, are in place. Including Ghost!

Jon/Aegon approaches Dany and her dragons on a hill overlooking Winterfell so they can get a decent view of the happenings below and get better air on their dragonplanes.

There is SO much to unpack with Jon and Daenerys. They have lots of, uh, “stuff” to deal with, like that he’s technically her nephew and she’s more concerned that he has a claim (and a bigger one) on the Iron Throne than that he’s her blood relation and they’ve had lots of sexy sex. And also that the brother she grew up hearing raped Lyanna Stark actually loved her and married her in secret, thus producing Jon.

But, er, now is not the time and they know that so they gots to put aside their feels and kick some ice zombie butt and save humanity. I imagine this is how Sophia Bush felt when she still had to work with Chad Michael Murray on One Tree Hill knowing he cheated on her with a teenaged extra.

Sort of. Minus the whole “we might die” part.

Melisandre rides up after being in Volantis all this time. Remember how she said she’d come back to Westeros just one more time? Well, that time is here. The Red Woman asks Jorah to tell the Dothraki to lift their swords, which he hesitantly does. Melly grasps the front dude’s Arakh, chants some freaky Lord of the Light mojo, and then all the Arakhs, one by one, become alight in flames like Beric Dondarrion’s.

Even Tormund is awed.

The Red Woman continues on, wishing “Valar morghulis” to Grey Worm, who instantly returns with “Valar dohaeris”. Davos, up in the ramparts, having been warily watching Melly, finally gives the order to open the gate. He...is not a fan of Melisandre. She may have brought back Jon from the Great Beyond but she burned Shireen alive.

However, now is not the time for disputes among the Team Alive population. If they wanna beat Team Undead, they gotta work together.

Davos goes to meet her and she assures him that there is no need to execute her or anything cus she’ll be dead before dawn.

Davos:

Up on the roof, Arya catches Melly’s eye. And she don’t look like she’s throwing out the welcome banns.

Melisandre is on there because she kidnapped Gendry all those seasons ago. You know, to do that sexy, leechy blood magic on him.

And BOOM. The first wave sets off. Mostly consisting of Dothraki on horseback, with Jorah leading them into battle. Huge alight boulders are also placed inside catapults and set flying. Ghost is seen running beside the horses, teeth gnashing.

Srsly, they need to save that direwolf. The PTB at GoT have already killed the other wolves, with the exception of Nymeria, who has run free, and David and D.B. have confirmed that Crazy Cersei killed Ser Pounce after Tommen died. There is NOT a good track record with pets on this show.

All the Dothraki race into the fray to meet the undead, ululating and shouting war cries in the Dothraki language. They’re proud. They’re confident. They are WARRIORS. They know what they’re doing. They’ve been raised on this shit.

And then...

That’s the ENTIRE DOTHRAKI HORDE! Just...gone in a few minutes, holy shit .Did GoT just erase the Dothraki?! Just like that, what the fuck?!

Anyone else feel indignant on behalf of the Dothraki?

Jaime looks like he’s about to shit his Iron Pants.

The second wave all look at each other like “WE ARE SO FUCKED” until some animals and finally people--including Jorah--return to the line. Ghost better be one of them!

Up on the hill, Dany’s in a panic because, again, the dead desecrated her entire Dothraki forces. And she is understandably devastated; they weren’t loyal to Jon, they were loyal to her. She was their Khaleesi. Their original plan was for them to remain on the hill and take flight there and wait for the dead to come to Winterfell’s gates but we all know that ain’t gonna happen. Jon, awkwardly, tries to intervene when Dany begins to leave, but Dany perseveres. The dead are already here and the Night King is a-comin’.

On the line, everyone’s waiting with bated breath. Sam looks about ready to pass out. Tormund’s glorious red mane blows in the wind, which the captions keep telling me “whistles”, so I know it is strong. Grey Worm puts on his helmet. The Unsullied army bend and position their weapons and....

The ensuing scuffle is pretty much insanity and confusion. There are dead body parts mixed with the same people we know and love trying to fight them off and, like, totally forever kill them. Brienne shouts “STAND YOUR GROUND!!” like a badass but is immediately overwhelmed and Jaime, upon glimpsing his CO and fellow knight (and maybe something more?) going down in the mud, jumps in to help her.

Dany and Jon ride in on the backs of Drogon and Rhaegal and it is never not awesome watching dragons spitting fire at their human overlords’ enemies.

Up on the roof of Winterfell, Arya and Sansa are flabbergasted as they watch with dismay the battle below. The blood, the fire, the (good) dragons. Finally, Arya turns to Sansa and implores her sister to get into the (VERY SAFE EVERYONE WILL BE SAFE THERE SWEARSIES) crypt.

Sansa doesn’t know how to use it, she is not trained in combat. Arya just tells her to stick the wights with the pointy end.

Good advice, Arya!

At the Weirwood tree, Theon and Co. are doing their bestest to keep the BranBot safe while he attempts to lure Ol’ Nighty out of his hidey-hole. And on the battlefield, Jorah falls off his horse decapitating ice zombies, Jaime is going through the dead like toilet paper (or whatever they used back then...what did they use?), and Sam is...well, he’s trying, poor lamb. Ultimately though, he becomes overwhelmed and Mr. Edd has to save his butt.

Sealing his fate.

Stabbed through the back of the head, that is quite dolorous.

Sansa goes down into the crypt, where all the nearby tenants who have no fight training are gathered already. Wordlessly, a ball of nerves, she meets the eyes of Missandei and Tyrion, the latter of whom, naturally, takes a drink.

I’d drink, too, in that scenario.

In the air, Jon and Dany are on the backs of their respective dragons, which I guess is the ye olde version of aerial warfare, battling the elements as well as the gross horde down below. It’s snowing and raining and they’re stuck in a low hanging cloud or maybe some fog idk I can’t SEE.

Someone shouts to fall back and the gates to Winterfell are opened--by Lyanna Mormont’s command, that pint sized badass--and men start piling in. Grey Worm orders the Unsullied to protect the retreat as best they could and stand their ground, damnit.

Jon finally comes out of the cloud but Dany doesn’t, and he lands with a worried look on his face. More men pour in through the gates while Brienne and Jaime usher them inside.

Arya, from the top of Winterfell, uses her archery skillz to take out the munchers creepin’ up behind Woof.

It’s a milestone every teenage girl reaches and it brings a tear to your eye, it does.

Grey Worm gives the order to fall back and light the trench and we the audience are like--

I cannot say enough how dark this episode is. I have my screen up to 100 percent brightness and I am still squinting doing this recap.

He’s really referring to Dany here, whom he’s trying to signal with torches, but she and Drogon are still stuck in that wholly inconvenient cloud/fog thing. Truly, the worst weather has converged on this one location in Westeros on the one night that they really need clear skies. All that’s missing is a hurricane.

But Davos speaks for us all.

So, Team Alive is all scrambling around trying to light the trenches with torches but they can’t because they’re kinda preoccupied battling the undead. That is where Melly steps in. After reciting some of that weird mojo in High Valyrian, the deep trenches throughout the Winterfell grounds become alight.

And the rest of us blink our eyes repeatedly in thanks.

The wights are separated from Winterfell behind the trenches and the Hound’s kinda freaking out because he doesn’t exactly like fire, having had his face nearly melted off by his brother, the Mountain. So he disappears.

Down in the crypt, everyone is hearing all the crazy going on upstairs and Varys is like “At least we’re already in a crypt, eh?” and no one’s amused.

Tyrion is anxious. He wants to be doing something, damnit! Like he did at the Battle of Blackwater. Maybe seeing something that no one else has figured yet. But Sansa, Lady of Hindsight, tells him to sit his ass down. It won’t do anyone good if Tyrion joins the Army of the Dead. Tyrion makes a smartass remark about how there is no organization less suited to his abilities and Sansa, Milady Logic, is all “Witty remarks won’t help you, all we can do now is wait. That’s why we is down here, because we can’t do nothin’” and Tyrion pauses before--

Tyrion, Lord of Winterfell? A Lannister?! Why not? Weirder shit has happened on GoT. Weirder shit is happening right now.

Then, Sansa squashes that by laying this on the table: it’d never work between them because of the Dragon Queen. Their divided loyalties would come between them. But before Tyrion can reply, Missandei, who has been eavesdropping on their convo, cuts in like “Yeah, damn that Dragon Queen! Y’all wouldn’t have to worry about that crap without her because...we’d all be dead, so...”

Whatever you think of Dany, there is no way the North would live without her and her armies and dragons. They’d be overrun within minutes.

At the Weirwood tree, Theon and Co. have formed a barrier before BranBot. Theon remarks that the trenches have been lit, then, haltingly, turns to BranBot and starts to apologize for, yanno, turning on the only family that ever loved him and claiming Winterfell for himself.

Dime store psychics around the globe should replace their crystal balls with miniature BranBots.

Then he says he’s going to go now, just like that, and he wargs into a raven to find the Night King’s position.

Gee. Why didn’t I ever think of that to get out of conversations?

“Hey, Bee, how’d you do on your stats exam?”

“...oh, uh, I did, er, ok. I’m gonna go now.” Wargs into chicken.

Ah, there’s Ol’ (really Ol’, Ancient Ol’) Nighty, riding Viserion, looking all creepy and stuff.

Not quite, Nighty, not quite.

Zombies are an impatient lot. They’re hungry and dead and they’re doomed to shamble around the earth forever. So, if a few have to be sacrificed in order for the rest of Team Undead to cross the trenches, so be it. One by one, the ice zombies literally throw themselves on the line of fire, sandwiching their ewwie bodies until the rest of the horde can safely use them as a bridge to cross. An Undead Bridge, if you will.

When Davos realizes what they are doing, the look on his face is quite classic horror movie:

You know when you’re watching a scary movie and the protagonist or whoever hears something or sees something but isn’t quite sure what it is, only knowing that it’s bad mmkay? That is that look.

Davos shouts the order to man the walls of Winterfell. Elsewhere on the battlefied, Jon is still in the same spot he landed, anxious about Dany. He glimpses a dragon emerge from the fog and, at first, he thinks it’s Daenerys but it soon becomes evident that it’s the Night King riding on Viserion.

Winterfell, meanwhile, is all cloaked in a cloud of mud and rain. The soldiers and Northerners are clambering to keep the White Walkers from penetrating the walls of the castle.

They have to keep them from legit climbing the damn walls.

If I’m ever a zombie, I want the Night King to make me. Apparently, rigor mortis is not a thing in wights.

The wights keep climbing until some of them start to get over the wall despite Jaime, Brienne, et. al. slicing off head after head. They just keep coming. The Team Undead horde is massive.

I bet the denizens of Winterfell are wishing for a nice, stationary mall right about now.

Soldiers are going over the railings, Sam’s whimpering butt has to be saved again, and the Hound is utterly frozen. It’s all just anarchy.

Beric and his Flaming Sword of Justice attempt to get Woofie’s attention again but to no avail. Arya’s doing her thang with her pointed staff, taking out wight after wight with Davos looking on, impressed (knight or not, you have been bested by a teenager, old man).

And then, this:

ZOMBIE GIANTS!

ZOMBIFIED MOTHAFUCKIN’ GIANTS.

“Fee, fi, fo fum, I smell the blood of EVERYONE.”

It pushes her to the side like she’s a goddamn sack of potatoes and it’s smacking people around with its club like they’re nothing but rag dolls. Arya falls down a set of stairs as wights group in to attack her and smacks her forehead on the side of a wall. Not up to her usual Faceless Man self after that, she stumbles and nearly falls off the roof, which finally energizes the Hound to action.

On the ground, Lyanna’s had enough of being tossed around by White Walker McGigantor.

She screams, races toward it, it grabs her in its huge fist, and, blood pouring out of her mouth and nose and it crushes her, she STABS IT THROUGH THE FRIGGING EYEBALL.

It’s a fitting end for an awesome character. Lyanna made such an impression on everyone and her cumulative screentime was just over fifteen minutes on the show.

In the air, Jon and Dany are finally reunited again when out of nowhere sails the Night King and his trusty Undragon.

Looks like someone has been chewing too much Winterfresh!

Viserion lets loose a stream of Winterfresh friendly fire and Daenerys ducks and whimpers as her undead baby tries to kill her. When the Night King sails off, Jon and Dany look at each other before mutually agreeing in some unspoken communication to dive.

Aww, they are communicating without words already! Bestill my lowkey-shipping-for-incest heart.

In Winterfell, the White Walkers have managed to break into the halls of the castle and, in less...white climes, they look less frozen and more, well, zombie. Arya, with her trusty staff, is attempting to sneak through her ancestral home without alerting Team Undead.

Unfortunately, she stumbles into the library and, weird, there are a lot of wights in the library. I didn’t know ice zombies were such avid readers.

What? Ice zombies need wank material, too, you know.

That is, if their genitals haven’t fallen off.

Our girl is creeping through the library, dodging errant undead in her wake. Desperately, she dives under a table, but the blood from her head wound is dripping on the floor, which attracts a nearby wight.

You know, like a shark.

The wight bends down and almost catches her, giving us all a mini heart attack, but Arya is gone. Phew.

BT-dubbs, that wight is none other than Javier Botet, who has made a sort of career playing monsters, including as the Leper in 2017′s It.

He was cast on purpose because he can contort his body in absurd ways. And I apologize for making you look at the Leper again. Yeesh.

Grabbing a book, she sails it across the floor to distract the zombies, runs into one going around the corner who then meets the fun end of her blade, and escapes the library.

Who knew a library could be so dangerous?

Arya escapes into a chamber and softly closes the door behind her, leaning back against it. She seems to be safe for a moment and then--

Ser Brus of House Bannyr. He’s a buddy of the Mountain.

Wights start pouring in and Arya runs. She runs, runs, runs--down through the narrow, damp, ill-lighted walls of Winterfell, bleeding from her head wound.

Meanwhile, just below her down in the crypt--

It’s SAFE it’s so SAFE, you guys.

The denizens of the crypt wait with bated breath and gasp when two desperate soldiers ram against the crypt door, begging to be let in. Sansa looks conflicted, wanting to help the soldiers but not at the cost of any of her people.

In the corridors, Beric Dondarrion and his Flaming Sword of Justice and the Hound are tiptoeing through Winterfell when they hear battling and growling noises (thank you, captions) and Arya falls through a doorway with wights quickly after her. The Hound picks her up and they all race down the hall, Beric throws his sword at a couple of White Walkers but they soon begin to overwhelm him. Arya gazes back at him in desperation as the Hound tries to get her away, and Beric is stabbed by one of Team Undead. He stands there, limbs akimbo face aloft as if praying to the Lord of the Light.

I love this scene. It further underscores how much Arya has come to mean to the Hound. Before, he was frozen, nothing could jolt him out of his panic but the image of Arya in peril. And he spends the rest of the episode fighting not so much for the living but for her.

Beric manages to stumble down the hall after Arya and the Hound and they lock a door behind him. Arya sits him against a wall while the Hound barricades the door with anything nearby.

Muttering unintelligibly, the man who was resurrected six times closes his eyes forever.

Melisandre appears behind them after Beric passes, letting them know that he served his purpose. Arya knows her; the Red Woman promised her that they’d meet again and there they are. She also promised that Arya would close many eyes in her young life, which was also right. Brown eyes. Green eyes. And blue eyes.

The wights are growling and scratching at the door, eager to come in and kill and feast on human flesh and blood. Arya stares while Melly bends down and whispers in her ear--

At the Weirwood tree, the wights are finally a-comn’ for BranBot and Theon and his men get into position with flaming arrows (I am now really in the mood for smores). Simultaneously, Dany/Drogon, Jon/Rhaegal/ and Ol’ Nighty/Viserion are duking it out in the air above them, the archers below attempting to knock the Undragon out of the sky.

It’s like a WWII aerial dogfight, but with dragons. So, like, a dragonfight.

Someone has entered his rebellious goth phase!

Srsly, what other show offers a mid-air dragon fight?

The dragonfight ends, somehow, only with the Night King falling off his chosen Undragon.

Rhaegal makes a shaky landing--there is plenty of turbulence in the North, after all--and Jon rolls off his favorite dragon. Dany continues the hunt for Ol’ Nighty and when she finds him, she gives the order for Drogon to do his thang.

It...doesn’t work out as hoped.

The Night King grins and throws his ice staff at Drogon, the weapon that took down Viserion. Fortunately, the ensuing hit isn’t fatal and Dany turns tail and gets out of there before it is.

Jon whips out his trusty sword and begins following the Night King. But when Ol’ Nighty realizes he’s being followed, he turns around, bestows upon Jon a “teacher catching you doing something naughty” stare, and...does his thang.

Team Alive desecrated many of your army? Just make a new one like that. Using his dark hippity doo da, the Night King raises all the soldiers (formerly) of Team Alive who fell in battle. And there’s a fucking lot of them. Including fallen Unsullied back at Winterfell’s gates and even Lyanna Mormont.

At the castle, Jaime and Grey Worm look on in confusion and horror.

New inductees to Team Undead swarm in on Jon as the Night King and some of his disciples make their way to Winterfell.

In the crypt, it was only a matter of time until this happened:

Y’all need some stronger building materials. This cannot be up to code. What would the leader of the HOA say?

Everyone in the crypt scatters in panic, minus the unlucky few who become Thing Food.

At the Weirwood tree, Theon and Co. are doing their best Robin Hood while BranBot is still checked out. I guess he’s in the raven, trying to get a location on the Night King? BranBot, do us all a favor and crap on his head.

(You missed! He was totally open, Bird! Damn.)

Jon almost gets overwhelmed until Dany and Drogon come to the rescue and manage to char the ice zombies without turning the one guy who is alive into a crispie critter, too. She tells him to go, be the hero we need, and he runs off.

However, before Drogon can fly off, he, too, is quickly overcome with wights, tearing at his wings, climbing all over his spine. He roars and twists and turns and Dany goes tumbling off.

Drogon flies away with some wights still hanging onto him, trying to get all the annoying dead OFF. They must itch like crazy.

He leaves his mommy behind and suddenly Dany is alone in a battlefield surrounded by Team Undead. She has no weapons. Her main weapon was Drogon. He is how she defeats her enemies. What the hell is she gonna do now?

One of the wights falls off Drogon and has blue eyes only for Dany. Who is alone. Vulnerable. Fucking sitting in the dirt.

But, what luck! Jorah of House Fryndzonne appears out of nowhere to decapitate the wight with Heartsbane and protect his Khaleesi.

I’ve been looking for an excuse to use that. Not a big anime fan but I love Hetalia.

Jon makes his way back to Winterfell, stickin’ and stabbin’ and gruntin’ and growlin’ and bein’ manly. He’s had it up to here with them ice zombies, you guys.

Theon and Co. are working all the harder to protect BranBot while he’s still Like A Bird. Theon’s men all go down and soon he’s left alone to defend the automaton that was once Brandon Stark.

In the crypt, Tyrion and Sansa are hiding behind a cement monument. Their wordless communication, expressed through the eyes alone, sends a chill down my spine. There is so much unsaid in that mutual gaze, and the acting here is superb. Props to Peter Dinklage and Sophie Turner.

Sansa, shaking, whips out the dagger Arya gave her, and Tyrion kisses her hand.

If they both live through season 8, maybe those crazy kids could make it work? Tyrion would be a kick Lord of Winterfell. I can see him in a furry cape.

Elsewhere, Viserion is utterly destroying Winterfell.

Dany and Jorah are desperately stabbing at ice zombies on the battlefield. Tyrion and Sansa carefully run out from behind the monument. Jon just barely dodges a wave of blue fire as Viserion continues to destroy Winterfell. Theon is doing is damndest to shield BranBot from the White Walkers, but he’s evidently slowing down.

And then, oh crap, there he is. In slow motion, like he knows all eyes are on him.

Hey yeah yeah, they’re Calyfornya.

Jorah is working alllllllll his muscles trying to protect his Khaleesi. Jaime and Brienne are backed up against a still standing wall of Winterfell as wights close in around them.

The Night King and his Night Kronies are coming for BranBot.

The remaining wights part for their Icicle Overlord. He stands there glowering down at Theon and BranBot. BranBot tells Theon he is a good man and thanks him and the audience is like--

I thought BranBot wasn’t programmed to say thank you. Ask Meera.

Theon grasps his pointed staff firmly, yells, and runs toward Ol’ Nighty, who, of course, grabs it and stabs him right through the gut.

Sorry, Theon. You managed to survive Ramsey (and getting your Reek cut off) but the Night King was your undoing. You lasted most of the show, though. That’s more than can be said for most characters.

Speaking of lasting most of the show--

Beric, Theon, now Jorah. Everybody stab now!

Jon is hiding behind some debris. The Night King walks ever closer to BranBot. Jon gets up and screams at Viserion for some reason. BranBot gazes up at the Night King. The Night King begins to reach for his ice sword, and then--

Arya Stark, like the fucking avenging angel she is!

I love that she was the one to destroy the Night King. She and Lyanna Mormont were both frigging awesome this episode.

Moral: don’t mess with a girl.

Maisie Williams said in EW that when she initially read the script she was afraid people would think she didn’t deserve it or something. To that I say pish posh. “Arya” has been trending for days.

After he explodes, all the wights begin to fall, including Viserion. Team Alive was right. Kill the Night King, his disciples are toast, too.

The crypt people come out of their hiding places and silently view the carnage. Arya looks over at BranBot and smiles a little. BranBot just sits there without offering a thank you. I guess he only malfunctioned that one time with Theon.

Unfortunately, the zombies aren’t the only ones that fall. Jorah is hurt and hurt badly. He buckles on the battlefield, surrounded by inactive wights, bleeding from seeming every orifice. Dany bends down before him, crying and holding his head.

He dies in her arms. A fitting end for Jorah of House Mormont, forever loyal to his Khaleesi.

So is Dany’s dragon.

Aww. That’s...cute. Like a dog with wings. And scales. That breathes fire.

The Hound, Melisandre, and Davos walk out of Winterfell just as dawn is breaking. The Hound and Davos stop at the door but Melisandre keeps going, looking determined. Shedding her trademark red cloak, she marches forward, ridding herself of the ruby necklace that has kept her young for centuries.

And then, growing older before their eyes, she perishes. Her mission is complete.

And that’s the end of the episode. Cue end credits.

Salt and crackers, that took FOREVER. Every free moment I had I was recappin’. But the episode was awesome and the cast says the next episode is even more awesome so I can’t wait!

Now comes the march on King’s Landing, the taking of the crown, and, hopefully, Cersei gonna die. Who’s gonna have her head? Will it be Jaime? Arya? Tyrion? My bet is Jaime.

Also, congats are in order for our Sansa Stark. Sophie Turner got married to Joe Jonas last night after the Billboard Music Awards. In Vegas with an Elvis impersonator presiding, which is fantastic.

#game of thrones #game of thrones recap #game of thrones 8 #nickolaj coster-waldau #gwendoline christie #Sophie Turner #peter dinklage #Kit Harrington #emilia clarke #iain glen #alfie allen #isaac hempstead wright #maisie williams

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nostalgicatsea · 6 years

Note

Hi! If you're still taking prompts, stevetony + cheese wheel! (And also, I want to let you know that I enjoy reading your fics and I tried thinking of ideas from the fics you wanted to write but ugh, I'm no help there. If it helps, I actually got excited when I read the plots! I would read all of them!)

On AO3

The biggest block of cheese that Steve had ever seen in his entire life greeted him as soon as he got to his room after a long day of class. He stood in the doorway, nonplussed.

“Uh,” he managed to say intelligently, the strong stench permeating every inch of his room and apparently his brain so that he couldn’t think of anything other than “Big cheese in room. Why?”

“What are you doing? Put your bag down and let’s go. We’re late for dinner and I’m starving,” Sam complained.

He stepped to the side to let Sam, who was trying to peek into the room from behind him, get a better view.

“Oh, that. I can’t believe it got to you in one piece,” Sam said as if this wasn’t odd at all but was rather something expected, which Steve couldn’t understand because he hadn’t ordered cheese, no one had mentioned getting cheese, and there wasn’t any note attached to it explaining where the cheese had come from.

Jan wriggled her way between them. “It came!” she squealed as soon as she made her way to the front, clapping with glee. “I wonder who delivered it. Maybe Vision? He wouldn’t care that much about trying a bite.” She eyed the wheel as if she were sorely tempted to slice off a chunk for herself.

“What’s all the—oh Cap, you’re back.” Patsy poked her head out of her room as if the cheese wheel had called to her—or maybe it was Jan’s shriek that had sounded the alarm. “Hey, could I try some? I’ve been waiting for Professor Pym to let you guys out to ask.” She pursed her lips at Sam’s snort. “Okay, the past three weeks,” she conceded as she walked over.

“What are you talking about?” Steve asked all of them, baffled. He turned to Patsy. “Three weeks?”

“Yeah…” she said slowly. “Did you forget?”

“I’m not sure how you could forget winning a wheel of one of the most expensive cheeses in the world,” Sam muttered.

“The most expensive—wait, win? Is this about the charity auction we had?”

“Yeah,” Patsy repeated, dragging out the word like she did the first time. She looked as though she were stuck between thinking he was pitifully dense and being insulted that he of all people got the prize when he clearly didn’t appreciate it the way she did.

Nothing about their conversation so far made any sense; if anything, Steve was more confused than when he had first entered his room.

“I didn’t bid for a cheese wheel,” he insisted.

“Yes, you did. Tony went up on the stage, and you shouted everyone down with an outrageous bid. No one wanted to fight you on it, remember? I thought Loki would, at least.” Jan held up three fingers, putting them down one by one as she rattled off her reasons. “I mean, he has the money, he loves antagonizing everyone, and he always raids Tony’s fridge. I’m surprised you went for it considering you don’t love cheese…that…much…”

She trailed off and paused, staring up at him at the same time it dawned on him that he had made a fool out of himself and couldn’t back out now without looking even more stupid. Jan, Patsy, and Sam were crowded around him, blocking the only exit.

“Steve,” Jan said slowly, “what did you think you were bidding on?”

He could feel the heat of his blush creeping down his face and neck, and considering its intensity, he knew he was as red as a fire hydrant.

“Uh,” he said for the second time in minutes.

“And here’s Tony with his second offer of the night!” Jan said, introducing her best friend with a flourish.

Tony sauntered onto the stage, basking under the bright stage lights.

“Our last item is another mystery gift. Like the ones before it, I can’t tell you what it is, but you know Tony gives the best gifts and I can personally guarantee that we saved the best for last. To most of you, it’ll be the most valuable auction of the night.”

Jan winked and a strange, focused quiet that Steve couldn’t make any sense of rippled through the crowd, all conversation ceasing and everyone’s faces shining with anticipation as Tony stepped to the edge of the stage.

“Jan says ‘mystery,’ but you all know what’s up for grabs,” he said with a smirk.

A few people gasped, and Steve glanced around to see several starry-eyed classmates before looking back at the stage again, taking care not to grip his paddle too hard as Tony opened his arms to the audience, inviting them to look their fill.

The bidding war had started almost immediately, the numbers jumping up second by second. Steve wasn’t going to bid, wasn’t going to do anything that made it obvious just how sweet he was on Tony like blurting out an extraordinarily high bid, but Tony had seemed taken aback by how fervent the bidding was and how many people were bidding on him—by the people who were bidding on him because some surprising bidders had come forward, and Steve…hadn’t been able to handle that.

“I didn’t know it was going to be cheese,” he said a little more defensively than he would have liked.

Sam gaped at him. “That’s all Tony’s been talking about for ages! What did you think the mystery item was?!”

“Tony was up there, and he looked uncomfortable,” he said instead of answering Sam’s question, his ears on fire. At this rate, his entire body would be as red as Tony’s armor.

“Because Patsy and Kate were ready to murder Brian for it! And it got all weird when Otto joined!” Jan’s eyes grew as big as saucers. “Oh my God,” she said breathlessly, “did you think he was auctioning himself off?”

“Steve, America was one of the last bidders standing. America,” Sam said at the same time Patsy exclaimed, “You thought I was fighting for Tony? Why?! I’ve never shown any interest in him.”

“We all know why. How long have we been talking about this?” Sam shook his head as though he couldn’t deal with Steve making a fool out of himself any longer. “He thinks Tony hung the moon, so of course everyone would want to fight for him. But he won’t make a move even though Tony basically broadcasted his feelings for him during his auction too.”

A denial sprung to his lips—he didn’t like Tony that way, and Tony winning his auction didn’t mean anything; he was just being nice, and he spent a lot of money on all his friends—but neither Jan nor Patsy showed any indication that they were surprised as though they had talked about this for a while, and a familiar voice came from behind him before he could speak, banishing all thought from his mind.

“Oh,” Tony said in a small voice, stunned.

He stood there, plates and utensils in hand, his mouth parted in shock. Natasha was behind him, carrying an assortment of fruit and crackers, unruffled.

Never before had Steve wished the ground would open up and swallow him as much as he did now.

“How much did you hear?” he asked weakly, breaking a long moment of awkward silence where no one quite knew where to look.

“Everything after Patsy said she’s not interested in him,” Natasha replied. “So he knows you’re in love with him, and you know that he’s in love with you.”

“Natasha!” Jan cried, taking pity on both him and Tony.

“What? Everyone but these two idiots knew for months, and Tony was going—”

“—to hang out with a friend, eating amazing cheese and watching Netflix—”

“Netflix and chill?” Sam replied a bit disapprovingly, as if he were disappointed on Steve’s behalf. “I thought you’d have better game than that.”

“No!” Tony held his hand up in protest before slamming it back down on the plates again, catching the knives and forks that had nearly slid off from the force of his emphatic gesture.

“Ohhhhh.” Patsy snapped her fingers. “You’re wine-and-dining him! That’s cute.”

“I—what? Fruit and crackers aren’t fancy!” Tony said, but he was flushed and his retort didn’t have much bite to it.

This was not going the way Steve had expected. He had seen Tony flustered before, but he was always able to cover it up quickly, either by appearing cool and collected or by managing to divert everyone’s attention while he tried to recover. He had never seen Tony like this.

A thought came to mind, vague and half-formed but with hooks that sank into him so that he could think of nothing else.

Surely if it meant nothing to Tony—which should be the case because he had never shown any sign of interest in Steve before and he flirted with everyone but him—he would have cracked a joke right now.

But he hadn’t and maybe that meant something.

He couldn’t let that chance go if that were the case.

“Is it true?” he asked. “What Natasha said.”

Tony glanced at him, startled, and Steve could tell he was ready to say no, his heart already sinking, but something on his face must have changed Tony’s mind because he frowned and then bit his lip.

That settled it for him.

“I’d like to talk to Tony alone,” Steve said to all of them firmly, his expression quelling any form of protest that might have otherwise risen.

Sam cocked his head at the others, stopping in the doorway before he left. “I’ll save you some food if I don’t see you at dinner,” he said kindly.

Steve knew Sam was offering to check up on him after, and he was grateful for it although if his hunch was right, it would be unnecessary.

“It’s fine. This’ll only take a few minutes,” he promised.

Sam nodded and Steve ushered the rest out before he closed the door and turned to face Tony. Tony hadn’t moved from his spot, and Steve was much closer to him than he had expected.

“Is it true?” he asked again, hope both emboldening him and making his words come out shakily.

“The cat’s out of the bag.” Tony shrugged, giving Steve a rueful smile. “Why else would I have tried so hard to win your auction? I thought I showed my hand, to be honest.”

“You didn’t.”

He remembered how nonchalantly Tony had raised his paddle and given his winning bid.

“It was the highest bid of the night, Steve.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” Tony laughed. “Did you know what I—never mind, stupid question. Of course you did. I kept blabbing about the cheese all week. And I know that was against the rules, but I felt bad about people bidding on something they didn’t know.”

“No one would have minded. Everyone knows you give the best gifts. Sometimes when we don’t ask for any and you don’t need to.” He paused. “A lot of times, actually,” he added.

It was one of the things he loved most about Tony; he was the most generous and caring person Steve knew, never hesitating to offer help in any way he could.

“Don’t you hate my robots?” Tony asked, but Steve could tell he was joking.

He rolled his eyes, trying and failing to keep a straight face. “Don’t start this again. You know I don’t.”

“I remember a lot of arm-wrestling that says otherwise.” Tony grew serious again, nervously picking at the gold circle lining the edge of the plate as if he could peel it off. “You seemed kinda nervous about it after you won so I thought the least I could do was show you what it pairs well with when you got it. But I get it if it’s awkward so I can just go.”

“Tony, I don’t even know what that is besides that it’s obviously cheese.”

“Then why—”

“I kind of—” he blurted out too loudly and too quickly, getting ahead of himself in embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I might’ve thought you were putting yourself up for auction.”

Tony’s jaw dropped. “Wait, that’s why you’ve been acting weird lately? You paid that much money because you wanted a date with me?”

“No! I mean, yes, I do want to go out with you. I think Sam made my side of this fairly obvious, but…you looked really uncomfortable up there,” Steve said softly.

He had hated how Tony looked, his megawatt smile flickering before turning bright again, but awkward and pasted on this time.

“Yeah, that’s because the whole idea behind the mystery items was to give people who couldn’t offer big bids a chance to win something and the bids got out of control real fast. But that was sweet of you, protecting me like that.”

He smiled, and Steve wondered if he was teasing him or if he meant it because what Steve had done was mortifying, not sweet. He had misread the situation and had rushed into things, thinking Tony needed help when he had been perfectly fine.

“You could’ve just asked me for a date, you know,” Tony continued, completely unaware of Steve’s internal crisis. He was still smiling—but there had been a subtle undercurrent of nervousness below the surface of his words too, taut as invisible wire, making him sound less flirty than shy and making Steve recall a conversation that he had overheard some time ago.

Tony was a harmless flirt, Natasha had said. He flirted with everything that breathed because it was safe, never meaning anything by it or expecting anything to come from it. He always got flustered when it was reciprocated.

And sometimes people flirted back because of that.

“It’s cute,” Tigra had said.

But Tony had never flirted with him even if it was supposedly safe. Not once.

For the first time, Steve wondered if it was because Tony was afraid of it meaning something, the way that it did now, when he couldn’t keep how he really felt from bleeding through.

He never could, now that Steve thought about it. Tony had always hidden behind masks and bravado when he felt that he needed to. It had taken a while for him to see past that. Once he did, though, he had been able to read Tony like a book, to see when he was joking and when he was putting on his public persona or was wary of showing that he cared too much.

Steve wondered what would happen if he pushed back. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Tony’s hip and slipping his fingers through the belt loop there, reeling him in before he could think better of it. He could hear Tony suck in a breath, surprised, and he wanted to chase it past Tony’s lips. But that would have to wait even if he did give in a little and lean over him, watching Tony intently as he spoke.

“Then this is me asking for a date,” he said seriously.

Tony’s eyes were big and bright with incredulity, as if he were struggling to believe his good fortune.

“Yeah?” he asked, that one word so radiant with hope that he didn’t stand a chance of hiding it.

Not that Steve thought he wanted to, what with the way he was looking at Steve, entranced.

I think I know a bit of what that’s like, he thought because there was nothing else but this, his entire universe, bright and glorious and full of hope, existing just in Tony’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he replied, unable to look away.

“Okay,” Tony said, dazed, “you can have it then.”

And Steve could see everything, all that Tony said and all that he meant.

You can have me.

“You have me too,” Steve reminded him because Tony had won his auction too and because everything Tony was offering, he wanted to give back to Tony as well.

Tony laughed. “I guess I do, don’t I?” he said, and when he reached up to kiss him, smiling against Steve’s lips, Steve thought that it had all been worth it, all the misunderstandings and all the embarrassing mistakes, because he had ended up right where he wanted to be.

#stevetony #stony #superhusbands #avengers academy #avac #my fics #tonystarkier #the others pound on the door because they were listening the whole time and demand that they get part of the cheese wheel #as thanks for helping them FINALLY get together #the entire campus was getting tired of them being oblivious and somehow blind to the other openly mooning over them #this is most likely not what you were expecting but this is the first thing that came to mind #i never thought i'd write an avac fic but if you mention cheese with steve and tony you can't blame me for thinking of avac #this is a huge departure from what i normally write #and i'm...not really satisfied with it but i thought it'd be a shame to delete it because i finished it so here it is #thank you for the kind words by the way!

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fheythfully · 7 years

Text

an empty hearth dawn by the sea

In which:

The Warrior of Darkness skulks around Ul'Dah, Lieal meets and Arbert who is not Arbert, and a fisherman watches the woman he loves walk away.

Click here or the read more. Part of my “do you remember loving me” series, the entirety of which can be found here.

The sun above the Kugane waters is blazing bright, coloring the ocean landscape with glowing blues and greens and rolling waves. Lieal shields her eyes with one hand, the other bracing herself against the vivid red railing of the pier’s ocean-top deck, and watches the ships come and go. Some as large as the Kuroboro Maru come to dock, others, tiny barges from ships farther out who make land and greet the workers on the pier with hearty laughs and more than one slip of the hand containing a bundle of coin. She is reminded briefly of the ships she’s watched and set sail on arriving at Melvaan’s Gate, with the Limsan waters just as blue and bountiful and calming. Even with entire oceans between them, Lieal thinks with a smile, people do not change.

She is here on behalf of the sultana, with a request to make of Hancock and the East Aldenard Trading Company – something she is rather not looking forward to doing, but the task must be done by someone and by someone the sultana had made it quite clear it could not be anyone but her – and she is hesitant to head to the Ul’Dahn building just yet. She knows that it stems from the fact that she has not had the chance to stop by her own dwellings within the actual Thanalan city as of yet, despite the fact that she had been by to see the sultana; just as she knows that the unease that had been coiled within her for the entire duration of her Ala Mhigan and Othard campaigns (apart from the obvious unease of dying, and violence and Garlemald as a whole) had nothing to do with the ongoing war against the Empire and everything to do with, well, her houseguest.

She hesitated to continue calling him a houseguest – the amount of time he spent within her apartment, both with her in it and during the days and nights she spent in NOX’s member rooms instead, respected him at least the title of roommate. Or perhaps lover was more appropriate.

The sun continues to shine; a breeze catches at her hair and to the sound of hungry seagulls, she heaves out a sigh and blows the strands dancing before her away.

A glint at the corners of her eyes catches her attention and she half turns to see a fisherman’s hook reel in back to his fishing rod. She wonders why he’s chosen here, of all places – the fish must be scarce this close to the hustle and bustle of the pier’s workers and visitors. She turns fully and leans back against the railing to watch him, eager for anything to deter her longer from making the trek to the eastern side of the city and the Ijin District, where Hancock will no doubt ply her with bitter tea and sweet cakes. Or perhaps even Tataru, eager to hear the latest gossip and ongoings from her mouth and not a linkpearl or a letter.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, watching him, but eventually she feels her shoulders relax and the unease within her settle down. There is something soothing about the line of the man’s body and the dedication to his fishing, even though he’s caught only one fish in the entire time she’s been watching him.

Lieal’s eyes suddenly narrow. Wait, I know those shoulders and that back. She’s seen them multiple times before, both clothed and bare and she would be a horrible woman not to recognize her own lover’s body. What is Arbert doing here?

She could not imagine him making the long voyage across the sea, and having never prior been to Othard, he would not have been able to utilize the aetherytes within the country. Perhaps such travel is a boon to his status as an outsider to our world? She catches herself musing before an unexpected anger overtakes her. He had not written to her in weeks, had not thought to give word of any progress made with Urianger on restoring him to a proper, breathing body and all of a sudden he was here, fishing?

Fishing, of all things!

Her feet take her to him in a determined stride before she can calm herself. “Arbert!” She calls out once within acceptable range, her fists clenching in the pockets of her jacket. “Pray tell me what you think you’re doing!”

The man turns at the sound of her voice, dark eyes wide in his face as he catches sight of her – and it is indeed him, she realizes, with his face tanner than she had last seen him and a new scar at the corner of his lip. What had he been doing while she was away – losing to monsters and cutthroats?

She doesn’t give him a chance to answer her and plows straight on, her usual demeanour shaken at the presence of him and the turmoil of her emotions regarding him as a whole. “I have not heard word from you nor Urianger in weeks and you think it fine to show up here in Kugane, without even notifying me?”

She is close enough to count the faint dusting of freckles on his nose now, and Arbert opens his mouth to speak—

The sun shines in her eyes; the seagulls caw in the distance; and all of a sudden all she can see is

(a figure as if against the sun, Void dark but radiant—)

nothing.

The harping of the merchants on Sapphire Avenue Exchange, Arbert decides with a grimace, must be a sound one expects to hear in at least one of the Seven Hells.

The sun above Ul’Dah is ruthless as it beats down on the citizens below it and Arbert ducks into a shaded corner for relief alone, reaching up to wipe at his brow – an action that he has not had to do since the Before, in his Eorzea, in his Ul’Dah. His body had taken to its restored, proper state as easily as it had taken to breathing again – something that had been unexpected, but wholly not unwelcome.

It still catches him off guard, even a near week later, how much he has missed being alive. It was the little things, he’s noticed, like feeling the sun on his skin (even when it positively burned) and the cool slide of water down his throat. The taste of food and drink as a whole, and sweat on his skin, and an ache in his muscles after a lengthy fight; no more of the sensation of ice burrowed under his skin every waking moment, and even in sleep, haunted with the Void and the faces of those he left behind.

Those still remained, of course, but at least he could now find comfort in a warm hearth upon waking. And a warm body beside his to turn to, if he was so lucky.

In the darkness, Arbert’s grimace deepens. A warm body belonging to the Warrior of Light, you mean.

The absence of one certain miqo’te had been felt deeper than he had expected upon her announcement of intent, although they both knew turning down the Scions and the Eorzean Alliance was not even an option, and her decision to leave was an illusion – one he had indulged her in. The apartment in The Goblet sat empty without her presence to fill the rooms, remembered only by the fading scent on her clothes within the wardrobe and the plants now blooming in her absence. Even the copperfish within the fishtank dominating one corner of the living room seemed to appear sadder without her there to gaze upon them, drawing patterns to catch their attention with on the glass—

Arbert was, decidedly, not sulking over his lover’s absence. Lover? He debated on what to call her. Roommate? Friend? Enemy?

Well, at least the last one had not been applicable for a lengthy period of time now.

A breeze rustles the tarps of the merchant stalls, bringing with it plenty of sand that Arbert sneezes on and even more of the dreaded afternoon heat. A merchant across the way catches his eye and waves towards his wares, a giant — and most likely fake — gemstone necklace dangling from one hand.

“Beautiful jewellery for that special lady in your life!” He calls out, leering at the passing Ul’Dahns. His yell is met with several others down the avenue in response, competitors vying for attention and profit.

Ifrit take me, Arbert groans, and prepares to head home to figure out how to compose a letter to a special lady in a manner where the phrases I miss you and I have a properly alive body now and I am eager to feel your warmth beneath my skin do not make it into the final copy.

“I am so sorry,” Lieal addresses the man before her, abashed and face flushed with embarrassment. “I truly do not know what came over me, for me to lose consciousness so. I thank you for catching me.”

The sun is bright above them with nary a cloud in the sky. The fisherman that had caught her in a faint spell offers a kind smile, one hand rubbing at the nape of his neck. “Not a problem, miss,” he offers and Lieal averts her eyes from his, a headache building behind her eyelids. What had she been so focused on beforehand, to result in such a migraine?

Hancock, she remembers with a sigh. Nanamo wants an audience with Hancock.

She thanks the fisherman again and turns to leave, hands burrowed in the depths of her jacket pockets – a handmade work of leather and a soft fur collar, brushing against her neck with each breath. She takes out one hand to smooth down the front of it and pauses, catching sight of the crescent shaped marks on her palm.

A drop of water falls upon them, stinging the red skin and reflexively she glances up for rain; the sky remains cloudless. Frowning, she reaches up to wipe at her eyes and her fingers come away wet with tears. How strange, she decides and turns a corner, only to find herself staggering against the wall there as her legs fail her and she collapses on the dirt, sobbing her heart out into the empty street. Her heart within her breast burns with a grief she has not felt since the frightening moment she saw Y’shtola’s unmoving body in the result of Zenos’ attack on Rhalgr’s Reach – since she watched Haurchefant collapse before her very eyes, smiling at her all the while.

I don’t know why I’m crying, she manages to think through the pain constricting her lungs. The tears do not stop; the street remains blissfully empty; and though it all, all she can think of is Arbert and his rare smile.

The fisherman on the dock watches the Warrior of Light leave with a bittersweet smile. Her gait remains familiar to him, unchanged in the seven years since he has last seen her up close and not in the midst of a crowd or from a safe distance. The confident set in her shoulders and the tilt of her chin, though – those were new, and had made her look all the more beautiful and so unlike the uncertain, sweet girl of sixteen summers he had once been in love with. Still in love with, he corrects himself and reaches up a hand to cover his eyes. Through his fingers, head craned back as he hides his tears, Arbert stares at the crystal-blue sky and tries not to think on her calling his name (impossible) and her mention of Urianger (did not remember him, just like all the others) before her lapse in consciousness.

It always turned out the same – her glimpse of him, the vacant look in her eyes following, and then a misdirection of attention with a magic unlike anything he has ever seen.

A cold breeze from the oceanfront tugs at his hair and clothes, and in it he feels the warm embrace of a Mother he has not heard from in years. My son, he images her croon. It is time to let go.

“Is it?” He asks back to the empty air.

There is only silence in reply.

Arbert sighs, packs up his fishing gear, and prepares to teleport away. He spares one last glance at the corner where the woman had turned, flexing his fingers that can still recall the warmth of her body as she fell into him and the soft brush of her pale hair against his skin.

I’m sorry, he thinks the words he has never had the chance to say, not since that fateful day in the Grand Palace – and he knows she will never be able to hear them.

#ffxiv #ffxiv arr #my writing

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cecilspeaks · 7 years

Text

Ghost Stories: Bonus Tracks

You can purchase Ghost Stories here.

Transcript of the main tracks here.

16. CARLOS

The finale of my ghost story coming up.

But first. A lot of people don’t believe in ghosts, which is kinda weird, because we have an entire city full of them one town over in Pine Cliffs. But people just refuse to believe that there could be any presence of a spirit after a person dies. And I figured that there is only one way to really investigate the truth of the paranormal. And that is to ask a scientist.

So I invited my boyfriend Carlos to the radio station. Hi, Carlos!

Carlos: Hey, Cecil!

Cecil: So Carlos, what scientific evidence, if any, supports the existence of ghosts?

Carlos: Oh there is lots of valid research done on ghosts, like that famous story where Ben Franklin tied a kite to a gravestone, you know? Ghosts are 100 % scientifically real. In fact, I have a story about a project I worked on that proved that ghosts were real.

Cecil: Ooh.

Carlos: So, I was working late one night, and it was exactly midnight, OK? And there was a full moon, and I was alone in my laboratory. So context: right next door lab is a graveyard filled with former scientists who all failed to have OSHA standard eye wash stations. It’s very scary, OK?

So some of, like, the great minds of our field are buried there. Marie Curie, George Washington Carver, David Blaine, OK? But David Blaine, he comes in and he comes out, right, you got that.

But so… Back to the story, so I was pouring green bubbling liquid from one flask into a beaker full of orange steaming liquid, when I heard a noise, OK? Footsteps. [breathes heavily] I thought it was Winchell, one of my assistants, who lives in the crawl space above the lab. The footsteps were coming closer. I could hear the wind howling outside and I could see an owl on an angular branch just outside the window, it was staring back at me but... [whew] just a normal government surveillance owl!

And then the room, it grew so cold that I began to shiver. And the footsteps stopped suddenly, their sound coming from just behind me and I couldn’t look!

Cecil: Because you were frozen in fear!

Carlos: No, OK so like I said, I was pretty sure that it was just Winchell coming down the stairs..

Cecil: Oh, OK..

Carlos: Yeah so yeah, just stay with the story. So you know, thought he was getting a snack and then I was trying to finish my experiment by logging the results of what happened when I mixed the two liquids. Um ahem (quote), “the new mixture turned brownish”, I wrote in my science journal, satisfied at my productivity. But after that, I turned around to see that it wasn’t Winchell at all, it was an apparition, a hazy silvery form of a person and his hair was curly and wite, and he wore an 18th century cravat and long coat with like really ornate buttons like little flor de lis, you know, carved out it was so delightful. And anyway, he hovered a few inches off the ground and before I could say anything, the ghost opened its contorted wrinkled maw like this! [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: So this is the radio, Carlos.

Carlos: Then, stil making that ghastly face, he groaned. [groans] Yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrr… [coughs, gasps]

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: Anyway, he reached out his cloudy hand toward me, still moaning, and the wind outside roared, and I could hear the owl flapping quickly away. And he stepped forward and I heard the booming clop of his buckled shoe on the hardwood floor, and I jumped back and I shouted…

Cecil: Whoa Carlos, this is too scary.

Carlos: [high-pitched] No, how interesting!

Cecil: Wait, what?

Carlos: That is what I shouted, I said “how interesting!” This ghost with no real tangible form still made noise when he walked.

Cecil: Oh.

Carlos: And I asked the ghost, “how are you making that noise,” and he continued toward me still groaning. [groans] Right, ok. Still groaning and I backed away from him making notes the whole time! I had to circle backwards around the lab several times as he continued following me and I asked him more questions like, “so how did you die” and “where did you get those stunning thights, your calves look fantastic?” But he didn’t answesr. He simply maintained his slow pursuit. I ended up writing down some calculations and observations, but it was getting late so I backed on out of the lab. The ghost didn’t seem to want me to go. He wailed as I stepped out of the front and he made an even more horrible facial expression than before. Like this. [long pause, audience laughs]

Cecil: Radio.

Carlos: And while he made that facial expression, he made one final terrible sound, OK? Like this: eeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.. [gasps] I felt bad, so I told him, “I’ll be back Wednesday night, I want to learn more about you physically..”

Cecil: What?

Carlos: And then I said – oh god, no no no no. I said no no, that came out weird like I want to study your body and then I said aaah, wait wait I just mean I wanna experiment with you, you know? Agh, nevermind, I’ll see you Wednesday!

Cecil: Ohhh. That was a harrowing encounter!

Carlos: Yeah.

Cecil: So did you learn how the ghost makes sounds when he walks?

Carlos: Oh you know what, so it turns out he doesn’t.

Cecil: No.

Carlos. Yeah. That was Winchell just walking aroud the the kitchen, making a little snack. Just coincidentally exactly timed with the ghost. Also, really cool, I learned that the ghost was actually the ghost of Winchell’s like great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, visiting from early colonial Canada.

Cecil: Whoa! I’ve actually never heard of Canada. Where is that?

Carlos: I’m a scientist Cecil, not a map maker! [chuckles] It’s in Boston.

Cecil: Oh, OK. Whoa! Thank you for sharing your story, Carlos.

Carlos: Sure. You know I love it when [flirtily] science and radio overlap.

Cecil: [flirtily] I do too. [chuckles] Love you!

Carlos: Love you too.

Cecil: Thank you, Carlos.

17. DANA CARDINAL

So. Because the ghost stories competition is such an important event in our town, Night Vale’s Mayor, Dana Cardinal, has sent herself, Dana Cardinal. And she is here at the station to deliver her own press conference, so please welcome Mayor Dana Cardinal!

Hello there, Mayor Cardinal!

Dana: Hello to you, Cecil.

Cecil: Now you sent Pamela earlier to speak on your behalf.

Dana: And let me guess, she just told you this story about that rock she ate?

Cecil: Wellll…

Dana: There weren’t even any ghosts in her story, were there?

Cecil: Aaaah not explicitly, but her argument was that she we-

Dana: Cecil! Today it is I who speaks for myself. Not Pamela. Not hollow-eyed messenger children, or the City Council, or community radio, or that power all city officials have to completely take over anyone’s personality and body and use them to spread propaganda.

Cecil: Wait what, you can do that?

Dana: Today I am going to speak for myself. I want to tell a ghost story. It sounds like fun, and frankly being mayor of Night Vale is a lonely and tedious position. I could use some fun.

Cecil: Well great, let’s hear it!

Dana: [clears throat] This is a true story. Or as true as any story is, which is to say that it’s entirely made up. And it is about my great uncle Herbert. Now my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright bricks meeting neatly doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Oh sure, yeah. I saw that real estate listing.

Dana: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Whoa.

Dana: Mm hm, yeah. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. No, but instead he followed normal procedures for will settlement. So we all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil: Well, I do it almost every day.

Dana: Mm hm. But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Dana, what happened?

Dana: Well it was the house. The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Oh like monsters and ghosts?

Dana: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

Dana: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ooh.

Dana: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: No, eww. Just eww!

Dana: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or even something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said that she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: OK, now I am going to be sick.

Dana: Plus, what ghost wants to drift through walls anymore? Had Herbert never heard of an open concept floor plan? I mean, it provides more room for ghostly activities, like dragging chains and wailing! In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have one ghost in it.

Dana: Don’t you see, Cecil? In this story, the house itself is the ghost.

Cecil: [long beat] Really?

Dana: No, that was a joke.

Cecil: Ah! Oh haha, ahahaa-hahaa, I totally get it now, that’s hilarious!

Dana: [long beat] [clears throat] You know Cecil, I love civic events like this. Serving your town, giving it every hour of your working day, can paradoxically make you distant from your town and from the people in it. You no longer are among them but over them. The dynamic shifts. I miss hanging out with you.

Cecil: Yeah, I miss hanging out with you too, Dana.

Dana: Well then let’s hang out sometime. How about anywhere but the old mansion on the hill?

Cecil: That sounds great.

Dana: OK.

Cecil: Thank you so much, Dana!

18. EARL HARLAN

So this Thursday afternoon, Night Vale’s hottest restaurant, Tourniquet, will be hosting a chefs master class, taught by executive chief LeShawn Mason and sous-chef Earl Harlan. Now, Earl has agreed to come up to the studio and talk about this educational culinary event. So please welcome Earl Harlan!

Earl: Hi Cecil! I am so excited to promote this class.

Cecil: Oh I can tell! I mean, you have your index fingers pulling back the corners of your mouth to expose your teeth.

Earl: Yeah, people say my smile really gives me away.

Cecil: Mm hmm.

Earl: Now, with so many popular cooking shows like Top Chef, The Great British Baking Show, Chopped, America’s Next Top Self-Surgeon and Who’s in the Slow Cooker?... culinary classes are in high demand. Chef Mason and I will be teaching amateur chefs some important cooking techniques. Things like knife skills, knifing skills, descaling a fish, chicken manipulation, using industrial strength lye to dissolve a corpse, how to peel an orange, and what that strange humming closet at the end of the counter is for.

Cecil: Oh yeah! Carlos and I have one of those humming closets, and when I open it up, there’s a light inside and cool air washes over me and I’m just like – what is this thing?

Earl: Well, that’s just your refrigerator, Cecil.

Cecil: Wait, that’s a refrigerator?!

Earl: What have you been using as a fridge?

Cecil: [beat] So tell us more about this master class um, Earl.

Earl: Well, Cecil, since this is the ghost story competition day, I had a ghost story I wanted to share with you, one I heard back when you and I were in the boy scouts. So I need to set the spooky campfire mood a little bit, so just hang on.

Cecil: OK. Um oh listeners, Earl is now stacking some wood on the floor, oh aand he is pouring gasoline over it…?

Earl: Oh haha no no no no, no I wouldn’t pour gasoline on your studio floor, Cecil! This is just a fancy bourbon that’s sold in five-gallon gasoline canisters.

Cecil: And listeners, he is now lighting a fire, um, [chuckling] there is a large fire in the studio, listeners!

Earl: No no, like I said it’s just bourbon! Right, here’s a stick with a marshmallow on it.

Cecil: Oh, thank you.

Earl: Here’s another one with a hot dog…

Cecil: Thank you.

Earl: And here’s another one with a live rabbit.

Cecil: Oooh! Cute and delicious! [creepy chuckle]

Earl: So the story goes, as our old scout leader Ron Veal used to tell it. one summer, a troupe of scouts went camping. They didn’t know how to use a compass yet, so they followed the North Star. But it turns out that what they thought was the North Star was just a firefly, and they were soon lost. It was getting dark. They were alone and afraid. It had been over an hour, so they had to rely on their special survival training. So they drew straws, and the scout who drew the short straw was eaten by the others.

Cecil: Uh, I never actually completed that activity, so I never got my survivalist badge.

Earl: Aww. I did.

Cecil: Oh, cool.

Earl: [clears throat] So. By early that evening, the boys had painted their faces, removed their scout uniforms, donned animal pelts, and developed their own language, government, and currency. They sharpened sticks and invented war chants. Then, just as the sun went down, they heard a voice close by. The voice called, [cheerfully] “Dinnertime, boys!” It was one of the boys’ mothers, calling from the porch of the back yard they were camping in. But they had been away from civilization for so many hours, they did not understand English anymore. Her voice was gibberish. They silenced their chants and paused building the bonfire, and the voice called again. “Enough horsing around, kids! Come inside!” Now they understood her welcoming gesture, so they went inside and they had dinner. The voice called out again, this time from across the dining room table. “Where’s Richie?” But they said nothing. They only ate the food ravenously with their bare hands. “Do you boys know where Richie went?” the voice called again, the boys’ eyes darting guiltily to one another. [high-pitched] “Richieee!” came the voice one final time, but the scouts only shifted in their chairs, pretending not to understand her refined, civilized rhetoric.

[creepy voice] To this day, it is said that if you stand in a backyard at dusk, you can hear the sound of wind rustling through trees, and birds chirping, and you can watch the bright dot in the sky turn orange and sink into the horizon.

Cecil: So that must be the ghost of Richie, right?

Earl: No, that’s just the wind and the birds and a sunset.

Cecil: Oh?

Earl: [creepy voice] But Richie’s ghost did rejoin the troupe later that night, and they all played board games.

Cecil: Ooh.

Earl: He got his apparition badge, and all of the other boys eventually got theirs, too!

Cecil: Oh wow! Gosh, it just feels like centuries since we were boy scouts together!

Earl: Yeah that’s because it has been, Cecil. How have we lived so long? And forgotten so much?

Cecil: [long silence]

These last lines are in the next track for some reason.

Cecil: Well, thank you so much coming on Earl.

Earl: You bet.

19. INTERN JEFFREY CRANOR

I’ve asked my station intern, Felix, to prepare a ghost story of his very own. You see, Felix has been such a hard worker with a great attitude, and I wanted to reward him with some practical broadcasting experience. So Felix, come on over to the microphone, and tell Night Vale your story!

…You’re not Felix.

Intern Jeffrey Cranor: No, Felix couldn’t… [sighs] [softly] make it.

Cecil: So who are you?

IJC: Oh I’m your new intern, I’m Jeffrey Cranor.

Cecil: Oh, intern. Intern Jeffrey, alright um, hey what happened to Felix?

IJC: It’s difficult to say.

Cecil: Aww. Because you don’t know what happened?

IJC: No I know, it’s just emotionally difficult to say it out loud. You know the fridge in the break room?

Cecil: Yes.

IJC: And you know how it makes that mechanical grinding noise whenever you open it, that krrrrr?

Cecil: Oh, yeah yeah.

IJC: Well it stopped making that noise. But you know how blood pours of it now when you open it?

Cecil: No?

IJC: Oh oh oh, heh, well okay let me back up then. You know how near the break room there’s that hole in the wall? Cecil: Oh yeah, I’ve been asking operations to fix that for weeks now.

IJC: Right and you know how that hole is like three feet wide and these weird noises and shouts can be heard from it? and you know how Felix was always talking to those voices?

Cecil: Oh yeah, like all the time!

IJC: Right, like (blablabla).. So you know how when you die, your soul drifts through all of time mostly simultaneously, it’s not really as a ghost although some people manifest as such, but most of us fill the void with our decimated consciousness, all of the pain of life melts away as we pass into the beyond, and the sweet relief is immediately replaced by the crushing pain of knowledge, of eternity and the vastness of a universe that has no fences and no borders, but in death we can see what lies beyond, and you know how it is awful and beautiful and inspiring and ultimately boring because of the whole forever thing, you know?

Cecil: I mean, I’ve never died.

IJC: [laughs] OK, Cecil. Anyway. You know the hunger, the hunger we feel during mortality? You know, that insatiable urge to fill our temporary bodies with comfort, sustenance, something to momentarily destruct us from the immense pain of it all, yada yada yada? Felix had that hunger. He had that hunger, and he went to the fridge in the break room. Because he remembered the potato salad he brought to work last December but didn’t finish. And the fridge made that noise, that krrrrrr! Felix went to open the door but that was, he had forgotten what the voice in the hole in the wall had just been telling him, and that was unfortunate because it turns out that that voice in the hole in the wall was him, it was Felix’s immortal soul across all of time attempting to warn Felix that there was an active jet engine from an Airbus 8320 inside the fridge door. Which Amy in sales left there yesterday after lunch. Krrrrrrrrrrrshhhhhhhhhhup! [long beat] I mean. And Felix was just… [sighs] Um, HR made Amy take the jet engine home but the – oh man, the insides of that fridge is still covered in uh… memories of Felix.

Cecil: [whispers] That’s terrible! Well… [normal voice] To the family of intern Felix… He was a really good intern.

IJC: He was.

Cecil: And he will be missed.

IJC: Yeeeah, I guess. I mean, he’s still in the wall over there, you can go talk to him through that hole right over there.

Cecil: Oh, well that’s good, well could you ask him to finish up his filing by the end of the day please?

IJC: [chuckles]You got it, boss!

Cecil: Alright. Oh hey, Jeffrey Jeffrey Jeffrey. You seem to know like a lot about the afterlife. Are you – dead? I mean I mean I mean are you – like a ghost?

IJC: Oh.. It’s um, difficult to say.

Cecil: Oh, because you you don’t wanna talk about it?

IJC: No it’s just difficult because I’m eating this peanut butter stuffed pretzel. [chews]

Cecil: OK.

IJC: [mumbles through chewing]

Cecil: Oh.

IJC: [chews for a long time] But no, I’m not.

Cecil: Alright, well welcome to the station!

IJC: Thanks boss!

Cecil: Alright, thank you Jeffrey!

20. LOUIE BLASKO

Cecil: It is time for one of our favorite segments: Louie Blasko’s music moment!

Louie Blasko: No.

Cecil: No?

LB: No I don’t wanna do music, I’m trying to get out of the whole… music thing. I, I’d like to tell a ghost story.

Cecil: But but you’ve got a ukulele and a music stand?

LB: I don’t think so.

Cecil: OK. So listeners, it is now time for Louie Blasko’s – ghost story moment!

LB: Thank you Cecil. Now my horror story is about a haunted locker room at Night Vale High.

Cecil: Mm.

LB: Now there have always been strange sounds heard in there, you know footsteps, the cawing of crows. Distant warped voices singing the Night Vale High fight song.

Cecil: Wait wait wait, Night Vale High has a fight song?

LB: Oh yeah, you know, it’s that song they sing before every football game to remind us that no matter who wins, everyone involved will eventually perish.

Cecil: It’s not really ringing a bell.

LB: No no no, it’s uh, [tone-deaf] “You didn’t have to do that to him, uh he had nothing to do with any of this…”?

Cecil: No…

LB: You know it’s like uh, “I-I was gonna get you the money, I just needed like” um…

Cecil: I dunno, maybe, I…

LB: OK OK. W-w- uh [clears throat]. [plays ukulele, sings] “When doing business with spiideers, I advice that you always honor your debts. I have it on the very good authority of the most reliable insiiiider, that though they seem harmless, even dare I say kind, on the day of the deal when the contract is signed, and though, [out of breath] I cannot stress enough that you must bear in mind that they do not forgive and they will not forget…

[high-pitched] “Ooo-ooo, ooo-oooo, o-o-o-a ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-oo…

[speaks] And you can tell yourself: What have I possibly got to lose? But even a humble music teacher, who has never known the warm breath of love, whose cold heart has no room in it for friendship, companionship, partnership or any manner of ship whatsoever. They will find, who long ago traded his soul for a can of trombone grease, and a very rare limited edition Chet Baker LP. No, even a man such as this is not immune, for somehow they know [whispers] the architecture of his heart even better than he knows it himself. And they will find that one thing or person that he cherishes above all else in this world, that single creature whose presence gives him just a little rush of joy. We’ll use just for example, [sings] a boy.

[talks] A pudgy, awkward little boy. We’ll just call him Harold. Ignored and abused by his schoolmates, spectacularly unmemorable in almost every respect. But with a certain promise on the clarinet and not without a charming – lack of fashion sense.

[high-pitched] Oooo-ooo, ooo-oo-oo, o-o-o-o-a-oooo-ooo-oooo. [yells] Everybody! [Cecil and audience chime in] Ooo-ooo, o-o-o-a- ooo-oo-ooo…

[yells] They act with speed, great precision, and professional care. Leaving just a small smudge of blood and a little bit of hair. And an endlessly echoing scream through the halls! [speaks] As if to intimate that his horrible suffering has still not ended yet, [screams] at aaaall!

[speaks] And I know that the terms of the contract were abundantly [high-pitched] cleeear! The language concise, and the interest rates [falsetto] faaaaiiiir! But as much as one pleads and as much as one begs, to their eight empty eyes and their long furry legs… [quietly] He wasn’t coming back. He really isn’t coming back. Ooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghhhhhhhhh…

[yells] You didn’t have to do that to him! He had nothing to do with any of this! I was going to get you the money, I told you that! Ooooooo-oooo, oooo-oo-o-ooo…

Four, three, two, one! [Cecil joins in] Night Vale High is number one! Zero, negative one, negative two, if we go down then so will you!!”

LB: [yells] I’m so sorry, Harold! I am so so sorry!

Cecil: OK, yes, I do remember that song now. Great, great. So OK, um, let’s get on with the story then.

LB: What? Oh oh oh oh yeah uh, that was the story. Uh, Night Vale High’s locker room, it’s haunted. Uh.. the end?

Cecil: OK.

LB: Well, thanks for having me. Oh and if anyone wants to learn the basics of bluegrass, just head down to the burned down site where Louie’s Music Shop used to sit, and just hang out there in the ruins til it gets dark. And then, wait until you are taken gently by the hand. And then, bluegrass lessons! Or something else - will happen.

Cecil: Thank you, Louie!

21. MELONY PENNINGTON

So listeners, I have to admit something. Um, I had some computer difficulties earlier and I had to call technology support. And actually I was pleasantly surprised when Night Vale’s top computer programmer and creator of the local numbers station, WZZZ, showed up to fix my computer. So please welcome Melony Pennington!

Melony, welcome to the radio station!

Melony Pennington: I’m in a radio station? You just said that. I mean, you say a lot of things. How many things do you say that you mean? How many things do you mean to say? What are some mean things you’ve said? Maybe radio station is a joke. Like maybe it’s your house, and you’ve just left some headphones and microphones lying around and you’re like, this is totally my radio station. L.O.L!

Cecil: Well I never joke when it comes to the radio.

MP: I didn’t catch your name. Did you know saying LOL out loud takes just as long as saying the words they stand for? Loss Of Lungs.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: But somehow it feels shorter saying the initials, LOL.

Cecil: You’ve such an active mind, Melony! Oh, thank you by the way for helping me with my computer earlier. Um, I’m so embarrassed that the problem turned out to be, it wasn’t even plugged into the wall.

MP: You would be surprised at how often tht happens, even with computer professionals. Just the other day, I was trying to debug the software the City Council uses to control earthquakes. I brought my laptop, like usual, but then I realized I completely forgot to bring a basic (-) [0:01:41] Ethernet cable to plug into the network. Thankfully, it turns out the device that controls earthquakes wasn’t even running Windows (-X). It’s a glowing red gem inside the hollowed-out skull of some land mammal. Horse, I guess? So I didn’t even need cables, those things run on wi-fi. And you can connect to any wi-fi network with chanting and a little blood.

Cecil: Wow!

MP: Got that software all patched up.

Cecil: Wow! It’s hard to believe that we can control earthquakes with a glowing red gem!

MP: Oh, you can control anything with one of those. I have one that I use to make birds attack my enemies.

Cecil: Oh.

MP: Yeah. I also have it set to move the stars around into coded messages, plus it runs Bluetooth audio from my record player. They’re really handy! [chuckles] I’m tired of talking about that subject. I have a ghost story for the ghost story contest. I’m going to tell it now.

Cecil: Oh excellent, I would love to hear it!

MP: OK, so I got a brand new computer. It was night and I was home alone, or I thought I was alone. When I turned the computer on, the blinking cursor on the screen started moving, without me touching the keys. The cursor began typing out a message. “Help,” the screen said. “I have been murdered and my killer programmed me into this computer.” “Oh, like a literal ghost in the machine!” I exclaimed. Then, there was a long, long silence. I watched the cursor closely, but it just blinked in place. Just when I thought I couldn’t wait any longer, it moved again and began to write out a message.

Cecil: What did it say?

MP: It wrote, “you have to type it out for me to know what you’re saying. I can’t hear you speak.”

Cecil: Mm hm.

MP: So I wrote back, and he told me he used to work in a computer factory, which is how he ended up inside this computer, and that his killer is an evil supergenius programmer.

Cecil: Whoa, whoa, but if the ghost was a computer program that the killer wrote, then the KILLER must have been the one sending the messages. [very fast] Oh my gosh this is so exciting, a cat and mouse chase between two brilliant programmers, so you must have had to decipher clues from the program but then had to consider whether the killer was one step ahead of you, and how do you determine the truth, how do you know what’s important and what’s a red herring, oh my gosh I live murder mysteries so much! What happened next Melony, what happened?

MP: Oh, I formatted the drive.

Cecil: [disappointed] Oh.

MP: [chuckles] It was a new computer, and these box store manufacturers preprogram so much bulky chunk on there. Do I need a cloud-based calendar solution and a pinball game and the ghost victim of an evil programmer? No I don’t. So I formatted and installed my own operating system.

Cecil: Wow, that was pretty easy then.

MP: Mm hm. I’ve got a load of memory now for gaming though. [excited] Hey, hey look, the birds are gathering! Oh I think something cool is about to go down. I should go.

Cecil: Well bye Melony.

MP: Bye, whoever you are. Nice house.

Cecil: Oh, thank you. Thank you, Melony.

22. MICHELLE NGUYEN

A quick update on next Saturday’s open mic night at Dark Owl Records. For more on that, let’s talk with Dark Owl owner, Michelle Nguyen!

Michelle, thanks for coming in.

Michelle Nguyen: Thanks, Cecil. This is Dark Owl Records’ first ever open mic night. We are encouraging everyone in Night Vale who has a song to sing, a standup comedy set, or a thing on their back they want a doctor to look at to come down to Dark Owl Records.

Cecil: OK, so attendees will sign up for a slot to get up on stage, sing their song, do their comedy, or get their back looked at.

MN: Oh, god no. I don’t wanna hear any of that. An open mic isn’t an invitation to just walk up it and start yammering like you’re a real artist. Eww. No.

Cecil: Oh.

MN: An open mic is a live microphone and an empty stage at the front of the room. Attendees will sit quietly and stare at it.

Cecil: But you said that people who have a song, a comedy set, or a diagnosis needed should come.

MN: Of course. I only want people who think of themselves as performers to come. But I want them to pay attention to the only real true performing art. Silence and nothingness. If we were to just stop all of that for a moment and listen to that silence, we would understand what art is. A void.

Cecil: Oh. That’s actually quite beautiful.

MN: Oh no, it is.

Cecil: Yeah. I mean this sounds like a lovely event and inviting and welcoming night for everyone to experience art together. So thank you for sharing your space with Night Vale.

MN: On second thought, I’d rather just hear people read their awful poems and struggle through another (Churches) cover. Everyone come on down to open mic night next Saturday and kill us all slowly with your desperate need for attention.

Cecil: OK! Oh, while you’re here, do you have a ghost story you wanna share?

MN: Yes. I was making myself a mix tape one night. I recorded myself chewing on some tin foil, as well as the sounds of distant coyotes. Coyotes are dope. Also I was wearing a leather wristband, knee-high red socks, and armored chest plate because – it was fashion week.

Cecil: Ah! Mm, I wore my new antlers and rubber hip waiters because it was fashion week. [chuckles]

MN: Antlers and hip waiters? Was it fashion week 2008?

Cecil: [long beat] [through clenched teeth] Go on with your story, Michelle.

MN: So when I played the tape later, it wasn’t what I recorded at all. What I heard was not the chewing or the coyote howls. It was something much much worse. What I heard chilled me to my bones.

Cecil: What was it?

MN: It was a hiss, like a single unbroken breath. A gentle… shhhhhhhh, for like 30 minutes on both sides of the tape. I wept from fright. I was terrified, I couldn’t turn it off! Shhhhhhh.. It must be a curse, a haunted sound that once heard cause you to die exactly one year later. Now that I think about it, that would be pretty exciting. No one in the music industry is doing anything like that anymore. I mean, Madonna popularized audio death curses in the 80’s, but that was like 30 years ago, so it’s like it never happened.

Cecil: OK Michelle, that shhhh sound across both sides of the tape, I’m pretty sure that the recording just failed, and you were listening to a blank cassette. So you’re not gonna die in a year.

MN: [long beat] [sadly] Oh.

Cecil: Are you OK?

MN: [sadly] Nothing fun ever happens to me.

Cecil: Oh well, well that’s not true! I mean, you have a great record store, you have good friends, and you host fantastic events. You’re an important part of our town, Michelle!

MN: [softly] Thanks Cecil. That means a lot. [angrily] I guess!

Cecil: Oh OK, well I’ll see you soon.

MN: [angrily] Don’t tell anyone I accepted your compliment!

Cecil: Alright, I won’t, I won’t. Thank you Michelle! [long beat] She likes me.

23. SHERIFF SAM #1

Oh but first, listeners, my red phone is ringing. And that means it’s time to pick up the beige phone and hear which of the six other ringing phones I should be picking up, so let’s see here. Orange. Oh, that means it’s the sheriff, oh – standing right next to me in the studio!

Sheriff Sam: It is a simple system.

Cecil: Oh, hello Sheriff Sam! You know, you could always just knock and say hello.

SS: But we already spent the money on this coded phone stuff. The taxpayers deserve to get what they paid for, even if it makes everyone’s lives harder. That’s democracy. Or maybe it isn’t. I don’t know or care what democracy is.

Cecil: So how has this day of ghost stories gone for you, Sam?

SS: Look, I want to tell a ghost story but uh, I’ll be honest Cecil..

Cecil: Please.

SS: I’m afraid.

Cecil: You’re afraid of ghosts?

SS: Of ghosts? Well of course. But also – pine trees. They’re just so tall and pointy, you know? And I’m also afraid of the tiny scampering feet of mice I can hear in the ceiling running back and forth, and in addition, I’m afraid that while I sleep an earthquake will happen, or a flood, or a sunspot. I’m afraid of the night time because I can’t see anything and – I’m afraid of the daytime because I can see everything.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: I’m afraid of action and interaction. I’m afraid of contradictions, I’m afraid of food poisoning. But do you know what I’m really afraid of? San dunes, terrible things, like indecisive mountains. Are you a hill or a heap? Make up your mind, sand dune! And I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m afraid that if I’m afraid for too long, then that’s all there will be to me.

Cecil: Well, maybe it’s time you faced your fears.

SS: Ooh... No. I’m quite afraid of faces. The only person I’m not afraid of is the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in My Home. Or I wouldn’t be, except that I’m also afraid of the elderly.

Cecil: Now I gotta say this doesn’t seem like you, I mean you’re always so authoritative and shouty.

SS: Well what I seem like and what I am is not the same! [chuckling] Except I am very shouty. I mean not now obviously but then [shouts] suddenly, at any moment I am shouting and I cannot hear my fears!

Cecil: Aww, there’s the sheriff I know.

SS: But then I’m not shouting and I’m afraid again. Cecil, one day I will look you right in the eye, and I will tell you a ghost story. I promise you that.

Cecil: Well great!

SS: Until then, Cecil – uh oh, it appears your silver phone is ringing, and you know what that means.

Cecil: Uhh, actually I don’t. What does the silver phone mean? Oh.. Now they’re gone. Now I’m gonna be worried about this.

24. SHERIFF SAM #2 This is the same story told by Dana above

Oh, listeners, it appears that Sheraiff Sam has something to add to their previous statement as… they are currently breaking down my door with a battering ram and have thrown several smoke canisters into the room. [coughs] Sheriff, what is this emergency?

SS: Cecil, I’m ready. Even though I’m still afraid, I want to tell a ghost story of my own. It’s my legal right, says so in the law. Don’t try to censor me.

Cecil: I won’t. You know, you could have just asked, I mean you don’t need to break down the door.

SS: Oh no, the door broke itself.

Cecil: Oh.

SS: We were trying to stop it. Anyway. This is a true story. Or as true as any other story is, which is to say that it is entirely made up. And it’s about my great uncle Herbert. Now, my great uncle Herbert owned the old mansion on the hill. You know, the one with walls continuing upright, bricks meeting neatly, doors sensibly shut, silence laying steadily against the wood and stone, and whatever walks there walks alone?

Cecil: Yeah, sure. I saw that real estate listing.

SS: Right. Well, old Herbert died a few years back. His passing was sad, but not unexpected. Our family had long seen it coming because the day, time, and detailed description of the exact farm equipment he would be found scattered beneath were written in detail at his birth by the doctor on the birth certificate under “expiration date”. Also, he had cut off all contact many years earlier with his family, relying only on his silent glowering manservant, Sherfwood, to see to his affairs. Which is how it came to be that Sherfwood was at the door of my family’s house one morning with a message from my late great uncle. Whosoever could spend the night on the old mansion on the hill would inherit it, along with the rest of Herbert’s property.

Cecil: Oo, wow.

SS: Yes. You know, you’d think a weirdo like that would have done something strange, like make everyone in my family uncomfortable by naming one specific person the owner and leaving the rest of us feeling left out. But instead he followed normal procedures for a state settlement. We all went to the old mansion on the hill and were shown to our rooms. We were nervous but excited, confident that sleeping inside a house couldn’t be that hard.

Cecil: I mean, I do it almost every day.

SS: But none of us made it through the night.

Cecil: Oh no! Sheriff, what happened?

SS: It was the house. [sighs] The house was full of truly hideous things, horrible things!

Cecil: Monsters, ghosts?

SS: No. Glass-topped tables!

Cecil: [gasps]

SS: Lacker-veneered dressers.

Cecil: Ohh.

SS: High-pile rugs. Wallpaper. Wallpaper, Cecil!

Cecil: Oh god!

SS: It was all so badly thought through. Everything clashed with everything else, the design was a disaster! All the cups in the kitchen were covered in a garish star design. We tried to ignore it, to grit our teeth and wait for dawn, hoping to find just a hint of Danish modern or something made of driftwood. But even my cousin Denise, who’s a ghost, couldn’t stand it. She said she did not want to waft transparently through any of those ecru walls.

Cecil: Oh god, ecru? I’m gonna be sick!

SS: In the end, the only one willing to stay was Sherfwood, who had been in charge of designing the place, and so was the only one able to withstand the outdated décor.

Cecil: Ughh. Well, I don’t know if I would call that a ghost story, but at least it did have a ghost in it.

SS: But I told it, didn’t I? I’m proud of myself. Thank you. But uh, but I am sorry about your door, heh. I’m sorry about a lot of things. I find that scaring someone else does help alleviate my own fears, so I had to break down your door, I’m sorry.

Cecil: That’s OK, Sheriff. You know, a true apology is changing how you act in the future.

SS: Mmm.. that sounds difficult. I-I’m not sorry enough for that. I said some words and that should make up for anything I’ve ever done or ever will do. Until next time, Cecil!

Cecil: Alright, until next time She- oh, and… [long beat] And they broke my window on their way out. [sighs]

#welcome to night vale #wtnv transcripts #live shows #ghost stories #sorry it took me a few days #but i was really swamped at work

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mrchalamet-mrstyles · 4 years

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Once the pandemic is over, theaters will be filled again with film lovers.

That is my strong belief. Not because the movie industry needs it, but because we humans need cinema, as a collective experience.

Long live theatrical cinema!

— Denis Villeneuve

#dune #denis villeneuve #i am gutted

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am-molloy · 5 years

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The Final Fight: War of the Gods (Pt. 1 Into Darkness)

You may be aware I made a little world-building blog about the history, culture, and language of the Hikaran people not too long ago. Or maybe you aren’t. Either way, it was a super short version of everything I created on that culture and I posted that first for it kinda has a purpose linking to today's blog post.

I once wrote a fantasy short story taking place in the Hikaran capital city of Bal’Thor on the planet Spira revolving the gods that looked over the land. It was my first time writing a fantasy, and though it could be improved, I am still pleased with how most of it turned out.

So, today, I’m going to share with you this story. It is done in three parts and today's post will be of part one. Be on the lookout for parts two and three!

The Final Fight: War of the Gods by A.M. Molloy

PART ONE:

Into Darkness

A shaking hand, covered with the blood of torture and silt, weakly raised to the air, begging to be grasped by a savior. Its owner gasped for air among the deadly toxins surrounding him. He was soon buried by another victim of suffering. All around the vast wasteland lay thousands of bodies of various races, all screaming to be released from their torment.

Among the figures walked a large beast. His body was mostly the shape of a Hikaran, but on his head he bore two large horns and pointed ears. His legs tapered into equestrian-like appendages, his tail long with a tuff of black fur at the end, and on his back were large, leathery, wings as black as the night sky. He was bald, save for the black puff of hair growing on his chin and his skin and eyes matched the blackness of his wings.

The beast scowled in disgust at his surroundings.

"Pathetic creatures," he spat, crushing an old Deskravesk man with his hoof.

He waved his hand and shot black flames at the dammed, setting thousands on fire.

"Zemir!" called an angelic voice.

Zemir glowered, the muscles in his arms twitching. He clenched his hands into fists and spun around to face the voice.

"What say you, Kidaha?" Zemir's voice boomed. "You've no business in my realm. Speak and be gone."

For everything Zemir was, Kidaha was the exact opposite. She was as radiant as the sun and adorned in bright white clothing.

"I seek no ill towards you, Lord of the Underworld. I've come on behalf of Shinoda to sum—"

A dark flame erupted around Zemir's being and his wings flared. "You dare speak his name in my presence?"

"I beg of you to hear me out," Kidaha pleaded.

Zemir waved a black hand, his tail swishing in annoyance.

"The High Lord Shinoda has requested your audience immediately. He fears you are abusing your position as ruler of this realm."

"The High Lord Shinoda," Zemir scoffed. "That old fool hasn't lifted a finger to help any of us gods in centuries. He has no right to sit as part of the three High Gods. None of them have that honour. Shiesta and Ouganda are just as guilty. It comes as a surprise they would think I am abusing my power when I've done nothing but my duty since the day I came into existence." Zemir crossed his arms, his chest puffed out. "I'll see your High God. I've business I wish to discuss."

"I pray you come at once then, Lord Zemir."

"In time, Lady Kidaha. I must see to my wife before I depart to The Heavens. She is with child."

Kidaha's eyes widened. "The goddess of air was fertile?"

"Never underestimate the miracles a god can do," Zemir reminded with a sly grin upon his face. With one fell swoop of his massive wings, Zemir took flight and left the bright Kidaha behind.

Before long, the god of the underworld found himself in his chambers, where his wife was tending to her duties. He stood watching her graceful movements as she conjured up the correct breathing air needed for the day on the planet Spira. Her pale blue skin gave off a white aura as she waved her arms around in wide circles. A smile peeked through Zemir's lips as he glanced at his wife's midriff, where a small bump was beginning to form.

"Mehélia, my love. Might I have a word?"

Without a glance, the goddess of air spoke. "Speak, my love."

"I've been called to The Heavens. Shinoda seeks words with me."

Mehélia turned her head, revealing a face with hollowed-out eyes and no image of a mouth. "What need has he of you, my love?"

"To pass on his wisdom, no doubt." Zemir took a step towards his wife. "Yet I've a different motive for going. If it pleases you, I will share when I return."

Mehélia turned her gaze back towards The Heavens. "And why may that be?"

A mischievous grin crept up upon Zemir's face. "For when I return, I will change The Heavens."

***** Shinoda was a large god, made of metal, symbolizing the fabric of creation. He had been around since the dawn of time with the other High Gods; Ouganda, a falcon-headed humanoid god, and Shiesta, a black dragon-like god. Each of the three High Gods ruled over the gods and goddesses of Spira.

When Zemir finally made his presence known to the High Gods, his entire core shook with blind rage. It was no secret that he and the other gods did not see eye to eye.

"Zemir," called Shinoda, the leader of the High Gods. "It has come to our attention that your care for the departed souls has gone astray."

Zemir hissed. "My Lord Shinoda—"

"Silence." Ouganda waved a slender hand. "Your High God speaks."

"In light of the situation, we set forth that you shall live among the mortals so that you may see their pain and suffering in life. You must gain compassion, Zemir. The underworld is a place for the damned, yes, but their souls are not to be maimed."

"This is an outrage!" yelled Zemir. "Those who reside in my realm are whores and criminals, those who Sinaz deems unfit for the joyousafterlife in The Heavens. You can't expect me to treat them with dignity."

"I can and you will." Shinoda's eyes blazed with fire. "They may be dammed from eternal salvation and rebirth, but that does not mean they are to suffer any further from the hands of the one meant to teach them compassion."

"My Lord Shinoda," Zemir spat. "Compassion is something I know not for those who were condemned to spend eternity in the underworld. How I rule my realm is not for you to decide. This role I play was your giftthat you so charitably bestowed upon me if you so recall."

"Do not question my judgment, Zemir!" Shinoda exclaimed, standing to full height, with strong, unblinking eye contact. "You willlive amongst the mortals. Take leave now and do as I command."

Zemir's lips twitched with fury, his nails digging into his clenched fist. "As you wish," he said, with his eyes shooting daggers at the other gods.

*****

"Fear not, my love, for I will not go," Zemir informed Mehélia. His gentle touch brought shivers up her spine. "I've other arrangements instead."

"My husband, you cannot disobey the High Gods. It's never been done. You must do as they say."

"Do not worry about the High Gods for they will not be so much longer."

Mehélia took hold of her husband's hands, concern in her voice. "What talk is this? You would go against Lord Shinoda's wishes?"

"I would." Zemir caressed his lover’s hands. "Hear me as I speak. I grow tired of this life," he began, fire burning in his blood. "I wish to overthrow the High Gods. For too long have we gods suffered under their negligence. Lord Shinoda himself puts too much effort and time into protecting the lost goddess of magic, Aowyne. Lord Shiesta has not lifted a claw in years to answer prayers and instead spends his time perfecting the art of tea making, as if it is a task important to a god! Heaven only knows what Ouganda does.

"Do you not tire of their antics as well, my wife? Do you not want a chance to leave this barren underworld and rule among The Heavens, nay, ruleThe Heavens?"

Mehélia tilted her head to the side.

"Rule The Heavens," she said, tasting the words. "Yes. I agree. I would much like to return to where I was born. I too grow tired of working in the underworld. Was this plan the different motive of which you spoke of earlier?"

"Yes, it is," Zemir affirmed. "I gave Lord Shinoda a chance to ask of me what he needed, but his wish was not what I had hoped for. I know now that I must overthrow them."

Mehélia walked over to a nearby shelf filled with dusty old tomes and bottles. Picking up a bottle filled with pink liquid, she inhaled deeply, trembling the room in the process. With a precise exhale, she blew air into the bottle. The liquid inside began to bubble as she blew and a hint of blue flashed when the air mixed with the liquid. When she ceased blowing, the liquid slowly returned to its normal pink state.

"Then may this help you on your journey," she said, handing him the bottle.

A smile appeared on Zemir's pursed lips. "Indeed it shall. Many thanks, my love."

He spread his wings and took to the air, leaving his wife and unborn child behind.

Under the cloak of darkness, Zemir administered the poison his wife had given him. No poison she could create could kill a god. Only the power of a true and powerful being could hope to conquer and kill the High Gods. The poison she gave him would put his enemies in a deep slumber until he was powerful enough to kill them himself.

Once the poison was administered, Zemir could only retreat into the shadows and wait for the toxin to spread and lay claim to its victims. His eyes darted around at every movement, his shoulders hunched, his breathing quickened.

There was no turning back now.

#short story #writing #fantasy #World Building #Hikaran

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