#does this count as heresy

[howlingday]

Cardin: Dum de dum de do... WHAT THE?!

Cinder: (Lights Jaune's hair on fire)

Jaune: (Lifts foot, Blows on it)

Cinder: (Pushes him over) Mwahaha! See you later, whoever you are~! (Leaves)

Cardin: What the heck was that?!

Jaune: Huh? Oh, hi, Cardin.

Cardin: Don't you "Oh, hi, Cardin" me! That chick was picking on you! That's MY job!

Jaune: What?

Cardin: Don't try to deny it! I saw the whole thing!

Jaune: Whoa! Hey, hey, hey! Cardin! It's not like that!

Cardin: (About to cry) Do you hate her more than me?!

Jaune: What?! No! Cardin, you're the worst! I didn't like you the second I saw you at initiation.

Cardin: (Blushing, Swooning) Aw~! Geez~!

[some-murmurings]

I'm a dragon. Dragon is my gender. Not just any dragon, to be clear, but not every dragon either. It's sort of a furry thing and sort of a therian thing but neither have really ever appealed nor made total sense to me.

I'm a dragon in the way the ocean is a dragon. Like how an eclipse is a dragon trying to swallow the sun. A dragon of veins running rivers of vital blood through my hands, a dragon in the shape of gentle finger flexions becoming white-knuckled grips of nothing and no one.

I'm a dragon in the way sometimes, when you put the wrong thing in the wrong cage, it eats the cage and then eats you too, then spends the rest of its vaguely non-mortal life eating every cage and cager it can get its teeth around.

I'm a dragon in the way I developed a pretty severe Cotard's delusion in kindergarten and 20 years later "I'm already dead" still seems like a plausible explanation for, y'know, [broad gesture]

What do you call a hungry, restless thing too big for a big body that, despite the fertility with which fear breeds its bitter ambition, is yet still impotent in spirit?

When midnight rain whimpers against my window and I am as helpless but to agree as always, I am a dragon in the way I curl the tip of my razortip tail around the quaking tip of my razortip maw while I cry for all the things I was never going to be, a dragon in particular.

[castellankurze]

There is a new height creator going around at https://hikaku-sitatter.com/en/ so of course I had to return once more to my primarch-size headcanons.  It supports a maximum of ten entries so I chose-

-the approximate average male human height of modern day, 5′7″ -the standard space marine height of 7′ as per GW decree -shortest primarch Alpharius at 8′ -a smattering of primarchs including middlest primarch Ferrus Manus, 10′ -the archtraitor Horus Lupercal -tallest loyalist primarch Vulkan, who is specifically noted as being ‘as tall in his armor as Horus is in his terminator armor’ -tallest primarch Magnus the Red at 12′

[averagelyme]

"Mmmh soup", I say as I drink a glass of wine with crumbled pieces of communion wafers in floating in it.

[thedarlingdearestdead]

The Jedi Way:

A quick oneshot for Anakin Skywalker! Might do a pt2 depending... Ok I did - here it is.

Summary: Anakin questions the war and his place in it, you interrupt him and try to calm him down, it does not work, he just gets wound up...

Warnings: MATURE, almost smut, dub!con kiss, angst, jedi heresy, etc.

Word count: 1,070

Anakin wasn't quite sure how he had ended up here, but he wasn't upset about it. For the first time in a long time, the world had gone quiet, and he relished the feeling. It was far too often these days that the Force became too loud for him to concentrate, for him to function. He knew it was becoming a problem but wasn't sure how to fix it. He also wasn't willing to think about it now, not when he had finally gotten some peace.

Rain was falling outside of the windows at the Jedi Temple where Anakin had returned just days before. He hadn't yet been assigned another mission, and he hadn't yet asked either. His head still buzzed with energy and fire from the days before; he'd been finding it hard to breathe, hard to focus. It was by accident that he arrived at the edge of the gardens, looking out of the large window at the end of the pavilion. He acknowledged that it might have been a habit from his days as a Padawan.

His master was always keen on this room, always brought Anakin here to practice meditating. The humidity was slightly comforting to Anakin in its warmth.

Perhaps he should try meditating. Anakin was usually so restless, but recently, he just felt tired. Tired of the war.

"Anakin?"

Of course, it was you; you always had the ability to find him. Anakin turned with a small smile on his face. "Where did you come from?"

"Master Plo and I just landed; he is doing a debrief with the Council, and, I fear, picking up another mission."

"So you're on a layover?"

"Practically. What are you still doing here? I thought the Hoth offensive ended days ago?"

He looked down at his hand; the blurry memory of blood and ash turned them red and marked in his mind. He cringed slightly and pocketed his hands in his cloak. "Yeah, well, I'm sure I'll be off again soon too."

His shoulders were uncharacteristically slumped. It had been a while since you had seen your childhood friend but surely this change in demeanour was wrought by something… 

“Anakin, what's wrong?” 

In that moment, he made a conscious choice: to tell the truth. Maybe you would understand. If any one could… ”It’s been a long war."

You reached across to him and grabbed his hand, standing beside him much closer and staring out of the window into the storm. Battle fatigue was common, you had seen it in many of your clone forces in the past months. You sighed and attempted to reassure him, to give him some of your spirit and strength, whatever remained you would share with him. 

"I know you're tired—"

"I'm not tired.” His voice was stony, stubborn, frustrated.

"I know the last few trips have been hard—"

"It's not just the last few trips."

"I know."

"Do you? I thought you would but now I wonder. How can you, and I, and everyone else know and let it continue… Why are you asking me questions? It is so obvious what is wrong.” Anakin's voice grew in volume as he continued, "The Jedi Council—"

"Anakin, stop talking."

"No, I have to. I have to speak. How can you not? How can you stand there and look at me like I'm crazy? I'm not crazy. You have to know this has gone too far." He was looking down at you now, almost challenging. He edged toward you, and you shuffled backward through reflex. “Something has to be done, some decisive action taken. There is a reason the war is continuing for so long, it isn’t an accident.”

"Anakin, you scare me sometimes. The things you say…"

Anxiety now flushed through Anakin's system. A horrible icy cold of misunderstanding, because you didn't get it. You were far too caught up in the Council's propaganda, you hadn't experienced the things that he had.

"What about the things I do? All I want is for the council to listen, to think about what I say. They exclude me but have I done anything wrong?" He was expectant, he was insistent. 

"Not yet. But you’re going somewhere dangerous. And there are some lines you should not cross.”

And suddenly, you weren't talking about the war. You were talking about the air between your bodies, the unlit spark, the quiet buzz which surrounded the two of you whenever you were alone.

He searched your eyes for a minute, angry and determined to make you see. Make you realise. And suddenly, he kissed you. His hand immediately came up to grip your face, pull you toward him. His lips were hot and all-consuming in their hunger. It took a moment for your mind to awaken to your reality, and you shoved him away violently.

"What do you think you're doing!?”

His lips were red and swollen, so were yours, you assumed. He didn't seem the slightest bit put out by your rejection.

"I'm doing what I have to do to make you understand. Don't tell me you've never thought of it; I know you have. I've felt it."

You bristled and blushed, ”I'm sure I don't know what you mean. Anakin, please…"

"Say that again." Now he moved back toward you with a dangerous, devilish look in his eye, backing you up against the window as you unsteadily attempted to push him off. One meek hand rested on his chest.

"It isn't the Jedi way…"

You were looking down at your fingers splayed on his chest in fickle protestation. His beautiful muscled chest.

"Let me teach you the Jedi way.”

As Anakin's lips hovered tantalisingly close to yours, a storm of emotions raged within you. Your heart pounded, and you felt a heat rise in your cheeks. The rain outside the window intensified, matching the tumultuous uncertainty inside the pavilion.

You took a deep breath and tried to gather your thoughts. Anakin's persistent advances had caught you off guard, but you couldn't deny the undeniable attraction that had simmered beneath the surface for years. The unspoken tension between you and Anakin, your fellow Jedi, had grown to a breaking point.

His intense gaze bore into your eyes, demanding a response. The connection between you two, an unspoken bond formed through countless missions and shared experiences, had reached a pivotal moment.

He leaned in again and you couldn’t help but to surrender. 

[lovesickeros]

☆ from gold, i am undone

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, yandere, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, implied self harm, implied suicide attempts {☆} word count 0.9k

You weren't meant to be here.

You can feel it in the marrow of your bones– it weighs you down like heavy shackles, gold bleeding from your pores until it is all you know. The taste of ichor on your tongue, the warmth of its invasion beneath your skin, that gleam of gold that lingers in the color of your eyes like specks of dust.

You are changed, and you are whole.

But you are so unbearably broken.

A shattered piece of porcelain hastily put back together with gold to fill the cracks.

Decoration, in the end, for you are not fit to walk as "mortals" do. This gold had filled every empty crevice of your body, spilled the red into your frantic hands and made you bleed so it's callous gold could make room inside your body. It has taken from you many things, given many more, but you scratch and bite and tear until it drips onto the floor and even then it never leaves. It stains the floor no matter how hard you scrub– a permanent reminder of the sickening gold that molds you into something that used to look like you– that does look like you. Desecrated, yet so horribly divine.

All you see is a monster.

Something new, something old.

A hollowed out shell, wounds left to rot and fester until you suited the image of the Creator they bore upon statues and murals, the Creator worshiped in prayers spoken in hushed whispers and joyous chants praising your magnificence.

But what magnificence is there in detachment? What joy is there to be found in carving a God out of a human? They kneel like lambs before the shepherd, but the flock has made you– and you want to unmake them. Unweave the tapestry of their being stitch by stitch until it all falls apart and the world knows the cost of casting molten gold into the shape of a human, knows the price that has been left unpaid.

You want to take it from them. Watch them squabble and pray, blind sheep stepping into the wolf's open maw– to tear the seams of their being until the world is unwound by your heavy hands.

But you know it will not satisfy you.

Nothing does anymore.

You are no wolf. Only the shepherd who guides.

And with every drop of blood spilled, they ripped the humanity from your very bones until your body was the cast in which they made something anew– something gold, something horrific. A monster as much a God, a beast as much a man.

There is nothing left but absolute authority.

You try again and again to mend this act of desecration, to peel back the outer shell and rend the gold from your marrow– but your body cannot, will not, die. It mends itself back into place no matter how damaged, and all you feel is the uncomfortable tug of your body forcing itself to live. You cannot die, but were you ever truly alive at all?

Yet with every cycle, you know only one constant besides the thrum of golden ichor in your veins– cold.

Ice that burns, ice that spreads and festers and devours. Claws that pull you apart until the gold runs thick, teeth that burrow into your bones and rip it out from the source..eyes that witness the fall of a God with reverence– hungering, all consuming reverence.

You welcome it.

It is the first time you felt pain since you were cast into an image of a being you were not meant to be. The sting of cold upon your skin makes you shiver, your body tries to reject it, but you want to welcome it– for a brief moment that lasts only as long as it takes for you to blink, you see the glint of something familiar in the reflection of her empty eyes. Something achingly, horribly familiar– something human, all the more terrifying for it.

Even when Teyvat itself crumples like paper beneath the weight of her sins – of this desecration anew, this wretched heresy – you allow her hands to do it again. You grasp her hands in yours like chains, willing her to shackle you, willing her to pull you apart and make you whole again. To break you until the gold cannot put you back together again.

You long, each time, for those eyes like spears that lodge into your skin– burrow deep and sting deeper, making gold flow like water. You long for the biting tongue, the cutting words and those teeth like weapons– long to see the spite and anger and impure disgust aimed at the woman of silver who leads you down a hall that ends only in damnation. You follow each time like the lamb led astray by the wolf, but you do not wail in betrayal when she sinks her teeth into your throat and devours you whole.

For is it a sin if you welcome it? Has their God sinned, in the eyes of the flock, for welcoming such heresy with open arms? For allowing the wolf into their home?

Is it a sin to be broken beneath the only hands that have loved you?

Is it a sin to want to love, too, those hands and teeth stained in gold?

Then you shall be damned, you swear it. Damned, but gold no more.

For death is the closest you have ever felt to being human.

[deramin2]

(Spoilers for Critical Role Campaign 1)

I don't have any expectations for wherever FCG will stay dead or come back somehow because I've spent 9 years watching Sam Riegel totally subvert my expectations in a narratively compelling way.

But I will say that "FCG shouldn't come back because it would lessen the impact of a narratively perfect death" is EXACTLY what people were saying about Percy's first death after C1 E68. (The first televised character death.) If he had to have an end, it was a fitting end that, while tragic, neatly tied up the thesis of the story. Would Taliesin even want him to come back? With Whitestone saved and Ripply killed, was there even much left to explore?

They found Percy's death letter telling them he loved them all but please bury him in a ditch with all his designs so he could be forgotten by history. He was so sorry for all he'd done and he could never make it up.

But they tried anyway, having to wrest Percy's soul away from Orthax. The players knew what they said in the resurrection ritual was meaningful along with their rolls. But they did not know they were also having to convince Taliesin. If they'd tried to appeal to Percy's soul in the wrong way, dice be damned, Percy was going to refuse. What we got was really meaningful and powerful roleplay (especially from Marisha and Laura) that did convince Percy along with successful rolls.

Being brought back did not at all weaken Percy's own sacrifice or the impact of his death. It forced him to confront everything he'd been running from. It forced him to see that there were people who loved him and would not let him throw himself away for them. They didn't want a martyr, they wanted their friend. It utterly changed the trajectory of his character.

There's only four ways I can think of on the table to bring FCG back:

True Resurrection — Incredibly expensive high level spell. They would have to find the materials as well as someone who both can and is willing to cast the spell in the middle of a war to stop a second Calamity. None of this would be easy. The ritual could still fail. FCG could decline to come back and the other players would not know that until they went to all the effort. The Raven Queen views True Resurrection as heresy which is why they didn't try it on Vax. How would a second chance change them?

Reincarnate — Lower level and cheaper spell. FCG would come back as a fleshy being instead of an Aeormaton. Would the experience live up to FCG's fantasies about it? How would it change them to realize they are truely alive, and always were, but are now also mortal? Reverse Veth story? Wild ass Pinocchio retelling? What does it mean to get a second chance but everything about you is different?

Wish — I think this would count as duplicating True Resurrection. High component cost and requires a high level magic user. (If it's duplicating a spiral there's no risk of no longer being able to cast Wish.)

Hag Deal — They do know a fatestitcher Hag who likes them and limes making deals even more. Orym may be able to just extend his existing deal. What are the consequences for the deal marker as well as FCG? Would the robit feel responsible for that person's fate? How would that affect how they feel about coming back and the meaning they need to make from it.

I don't think there's a right or best option because whatever we speculate on, the actual result will be full of meaning and very poignant. I can't imagine that Bell's Hells won't try to bring him back. They've lost so much already. They couldn't bring back Eshteross or Bertrand or Will & Derrig. They couldn't live with not even trying. Maybe their method works, maybe it doesn't. But at least they tried.

And if FCG does come back, they have to live with knowing that even though they saved their friends and put an end to Otohan, they also hurt their friends by treating themselves as disposable. They forced their friends to confront that each of them might have done the same and that's deeply unhealthy. It will change the character development tremendously.

My favorite film and play genre is where the protagonist dies (or nearly dies) (usually self-inflicted) at the beginning and has to journey through purgatory to find themselves again before they can return to the living. Films like Wristcutters: A Love Story (2006) or Castaway on the Moon (김씨 표류기 2009). Death matters because it reminds you to live. The journey is finding meaning in both life and death and coming back utterly changed.

[optiwashere]

Please write your thoughts about the importance of Shadowheart for Shar/Selûne :D

I FEED on character analysis.

SO!!!! This got long as fuck and also morphed into what you asked + a general character interpretation.

I relied on a combination of 2nd, 3rd, and 5th edition D&D lore, R.A. Salvatore novels, and of course BG3 as sources. Shadowheart's characterization adds up the most coherently on the purely romance / "get her away from Shar" path, and that is what I'm using as a basis for this post. Even when you're playing an "evil" route, she behaves in ways that betray a lot of what I get into under the break. This post, however, is biased towards the "good" path of her personal quest for the sake of my sanity and a somewhat reasonable word count.

First, a preamble for people that are maybe less knowledgeable about Forgotten Realms lore.

One of the biggest characterizations of Shar and Selûne in the Forgotten Realms is that they are twin sides of the same thing: night. Night as an aesthetic is symbolic of, among other things: mysteries, being lost without guidance (such as in faith or purpose), and finding oneself when one reaches for the truth. I.e., reaching light from the moon, stars, or daybreak (which is itself a symbol as the natural conclusion of darkness being light for redemption following suffering, goodness defeating evil, finding faith, etc.)

Shar and Selûne are sisters that also share the Night domain in 3e, a sort of fulcrum they both work around — Shar as the "malevolent" darkness with Selûne as the "benevolent" night. There is even a recognized heresy called the Dark Moon heresy in both cults/religions that Shar and Selûne are actually the same goddess playing one gigantic trick on Faerûn (this comes from a 3.5e splatbook called Power of Faerûn) but it's been pushed time and time again that the two sisters are, in fact, two separate entities. But duality of divinity, and how worshipers interpret their god, is a theme we see played up a ton in BG3.

What we know about Shar is that she despises her sister. Loathes her. Not only does she loathe her, she tricked Selûne's followers during the Time of Troubles, about 140 years before BG3, into worshiping her instead of the Moonmaiden. The Time of Troubles was a period when gods walked the Realms, rather than tossing avatars around everywhere. This lead to the formation of a fanatical group of cultists that followed the real Selûne, called the Lunatics (I'm still proud of managing to reference them in a goddamn Explicit PWP fic)

Meanwhile, Selûne is seen as a calming force. She wars with her sister every single night, and does not like her one bit, but she does it as a means to protect others from her sister rather than as a spiteful game. She's not as omnipresent in people's lives, she is just a natural force to a lot of her followers.

How does any of this relate to Shadowheart? Spoiler stuff and the actual character analysis under the break.

We know that Shadowheart was a "chosen" of Selûne as a child, per her parents' dialogue under the House of Grief. However, it's important to note that most religions in Faerûn name potential clerics as "chosen" ones of gods and goddesses.

We know that, throughout the game, Shadowheart learns that she is being manipulated by the Lady of Loss to do acts that go against some sort of internalized moral code that Shadowheart has. We see her approval go up when you do good acts (as long as you ask for compensation, or if it's to help helpless people/animals) and we see her disapprove when you press her boundaries or act unjustly cruel. "Unjust" is left so vague because she does not behave at all according to how the vast majority of Sharrans behave. There are numerous other flags for approval/disapproval such as her enjoying playful chaos, or disliking when you're too trusting of other companions when you first meet them, but we'll focus on the first set I mentioned.

We also know that Shadowheart was continually subjected to memory erasure via the cult of Shar in Baldur's Gate. This gets mildly restored here and there via the tadpoles and Dame Aylin, but her memory is mostly gone. So this moral code is something ingrained in her somehow, because Sharrans don't have kindness training. There's another entire character analysis to be written about Viconia's role in this as it relates to her own character in Baldur's Gate 2, but let's ignore that for now.

In the cloister under the House of Grief, there is a note you can find that outlines the squad sent to find the artifact that protects everyone from the Absolute's domination. The squad has a leader, and it is not Shadowheart. She is listed as "healer" and the text before this explicitly states that the entire squad is expendable. None of them matter to Shar.

BUT!

Divine visitation by a goddess is incredibly rare. It usually only happens to high level clerics, which Shadowheart isn't really even at 12th-level, and to those that the goddess has an extreme, vested interest in. If you free the Nightsong/Dame Aylin instead of killing her, Shadowheart is wrenched out of the Material Plane and made to suffer for an indeterminate amount of time. That, plus literally meeting Shar in the conclusion to her personal question, is very odd given what we know about Shadowheart.

If we presume that Larian did their jobs, and I'm going to because I trust them, then there is an immediate dilemma presented here. Either Shadowheart matters to Shar (she is not expendable), or she is just another zealot (she is expendable.) There is no half-truth in that logic table that really works for Shar, she's an absurdly dogmatic goddess. See: literally any Sharran you encounter in BG3 that isn't Shadowheart. It's possible that the writer of the note didn't know what they were talking about, but I think that's a lazy out that doesn't hold water with the rest of the evidence.

So, which is it? This being the part where I'm mostly in interpretation territory, Shar views Shadowheart as the perfect puppet, a toy to needle at her sister, not because she is important at all as a person, but because she's a representation of Selûne that Shar can mold to suit her image as she did in the Time of Troubles. We hear that in the game when Shadowheart basically says that she was just a thing for Shar to use. She's beaten into (what Shar believes will be) submission for not becoming a Dark Justiciar, but it only serves to sever the tie between cleric and goddess.

Shadowheart is Shar's answering play to Selûne beating that trick from the Time of Troubles, and there will be another Shadowheart after her eventual death. Shadowheart is both incredibly important and utterly worthless to Shar in the same way that an abuser uses affection and trust to hurt their victims. Love bombs in the form of divine power, sending her on this important mission, and offering the title of Dark Justiciar are followed by pain when Shadowheart displeases her. As if, on a whim, all that supposed mutual respect could turn into non-consensual, extreme violence.

Shadowheart is an objectified opportunity for Shar to fuck with Selûne for the entirety of a single half-elf's lifespan (anywhere from 150-200 years) and nothing more. A plaything to discard when all is said and done after a microcosm of time where a goddess is concerned. Whatever Shadowheart thinks she's benefiting from with Shar, it's all a trick. It's a massive delusion with which she's been brainwashed into participating.

And deep down, deep deep way deep down, Shadowheart knows this even in Act One. She spouts random sayings and the sorts of 2edgy4me one-liners that you would expect from a somewhat goth-y, slightly sassy Stock Evil Cleric in a fantasy RPG. For a good portion of Act One, you wouldn't be wrong to assume she's extremely one note and a total zealot. That is, unless you know two things:

That Shar is a fucking menace in Faerûn, and nothing good ever comes naturally from her cult. Anyone that knows FR lore was probably like me when they first interacted with Shadowheart. I know I basically said, "What the fuck, you're not a Sharran lmao. Either Larian goofed hard, or something's fishy here."

That extraordinarily devout people tend not to babble in verse, prayer, and all that unless they are also trying to convince themselves to have more faith in a set of beliefs that they're not entirely sold on. This isn't 100% of the time, but it's something you see in people whose faith is not very strong. People who have ironclad faiths and hold consistent ideologies tend to rely more on personal interpretation of faith, for good or ill. You see this all over BG3 in the people that are more confident in their beliefs, as well. Isobel, Orin, and Z'rell are three wildly different angles on that, for example. It's really all over the game in the NPCs.

That second point is the more important one here. Shadowheart, in Act One, is constantly talking about her goddess. If she's not hiding the artifact from you, she's couching an event in concern over what Shar would think of how she behaved. Like she's still a scared child who doesn't know how to handle what's happening around her despite being completely capable in scenarios as hectic as melee combat with ogres. The difference shines bright as day if you play a follower of Selûne and push back on her beliefs, though you do of course get a lot of vitriol in the beginning. Even so, it's clear that Shadowheart knows something is off about Shar whenever confronted with actual Sharran activity/belief, but she's been brainwashed and abused so horrendously that she constantly tries to "correct" herself to appease her abuser.

Selûne, however, isn't really a "part" of Shadowheart's quest in the same way as Shar. The Moonmaiden is not an active participant, she is not a guiding hand or even a faint idea in Shadowheart's thought processes because of how intense the memory blending got for her. The most we ever really get of Selûne's opinion comes from external sources (pretty much entirely from Shadowheart's parents, Isobel, and Aylin when she's not PROCLAIMING DIVINE RIGHTS.) To the Moonmaiden, Shadowheart is really just another of her many, many children spread throughout the Realms. Yet, Shadowheart retains that sense of inherent goodness that Selûne instils in her followers.

Unlike the Lady of Loss, Selûne's indifference isn't hateful or spiteful at all. For Selûne, the ultimate goal of any of her followers is to find themselves. To illuminate who they are meant to be by moonlight. Two of her domains in 3rd edition are Protection and Travel, and in 5e she has Knowledge as well, while one of her "mantles" (the domain equivalent for psionics) is Freedom. She wants to give her followers the ability to freely tread whichever road will lead to self-actualization.

Selûne demands almost nothing of her own followers so long as they act according to the basic tenets of a traditionally Chaotic Good deity. She accepts flaws, faults, and failures in her clerics as much as she rewards strengths, virtues, and victories. There is no divine intervention from Selûne because she accepts Shadowheart intrinsically as long as Shadowheart finds herself. All it took for Selûne to take Shadowheart back after forty years of being a fanatical Sharran was saving one person, and trusting one of two people that we know she's let in for that forty years (the PC, as well as possibly Nocturne) — Selûne sees that she's an abuse victim at the heart of it all.

Side-note: Selûne's primary holy symbol is two eyes surrounded by stars. She is always a passive witness to her clerics' deeds. I don't think I need to get into that symbolism.

Whenever given the chance, Shadowheart values freedom incredibly highly. Even in someone she can take the entire game to warm up to, such as Lae'zel. Her dialogue after Lae'zel denounces Vlaakith speaks directly to this. It's seen repeatedly in her comments on other characters' personal quests such as Astarion, or Karlach, and with Lorroakan's intent on imprisoning Aylin in Act 3.

Once Shadowheart is pulled away from Shar's influence in the end of Act 2/early Act 3, she is... not a completely different person, but she is absolutely a calmer individual that also allows her emotions to surface more intensely. If you're romancing her by Act 2, she confesses that she wants to be with the PC (forever) IMMEDIATELY after being punished horrifically by Shar; she progresses the romance far faster once Shar is out of her brain; she cries, alone, in front of the PC if she chooses to listen to her parents and spare herself from Shar while also killing them. She's known this entire time that she's purposefully holding parts of herself back, and this is her immediate reaction to being set free.

Of course, it's a video game and things aren't always perfectly paced, especially considering the implementation of the Long Rest system. Much of this interpretation requires you to accept that.

After the small dialogue about Shar's intervention after the Gauntlet, the narrator comments that you're not sure if telling Shadowheart where her divine power now comes from will break her spirit forever. That's interesting, and it makes her almost manic change to "I have to be with this person forever" in the romance so utterly sad. Shadowheart is an almost textbook depiction of someone who struggles immensely with vulnerability and emotional openness due to childhood neglect and abuse. Even worse, she's been suffering that neglect and abuse for forty-plus years and she cannot remember what life was like before the time when she constantly yearned for the approval of her abuser. When she's set free and given the appropriate space to manage her feelings (all of the times she asks to be given space/asks the PC to respect her boundaries), support from friends and loved ones in the way Larian handled the camp crew's reactions to everyone's personal quests, and a purpose in life that extends beyond her abuser, she flourishes almost immediately.

To Selûne, Shadowheart is simply another person finding themselves in a world that's incredibly difficult to navigate. Under Shar's domination, Shadowheart will never be anything more than a useful puppet that dances happily whenever her goddess asks, pleased to be what she thinks is useful as she wears the false title of Dark Justiciar. With Selûne watching but not pushing, Shadowheart can be free of everything but her own choices, her own mistakes and victories. Her own person, freed from expectation.

P.S. "Breaking out of toxic thought patterns" is a common thread in the companion romances and quests. In a similar way to how Astarion uses sexuality to mask a part of himself in his romance, Shadowheart sees all this time she's spent holding herself back as an excuse to reverse course and accelerate ridiculously fast by comparison.

My point is, she is a U-Haul Lesbian.

[whimsicalwritingsandmore]

Want You Back | ateez x reader

Pairing: werewolf!ot8!ateez x werewolf!reader

Genre: fluff mostly, romance, poly, a little angst?

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1317 words

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Epilogue

As if the world had been drained of all its colour, layers of grey, ominous and threatening storm clouds covered the skyline of Seoul with bitter winds shrieking through the city. Flashes of brilliant but powerful and menacing flares of lightning exploded through the sky followed by the force and fury of thunder filling everywhere with its roar. 

You’re standing in the centre of the abandoned street and in front of you, is yourself, looking like a ghost of the past, dressed in a beautiful glowy white off-the-shoulder dress of a flowery pattern and smiling at you somberly. You blink thrice, trying to make sense of what you’re seeing.

“It’s time.”

Jolting awake in your seat, you place your hand on your chest to regulate your irregular breathing. It happened again, another nightmare just like every night.

The lights in the plane are dimmed and it’s eerily silent as the rest of the passengers are either asleep or lost in whatever they’re doing. The atmosphere does not help your currently unsettled and uneased state. It’s raining softly outside and though the sound would usually be like a soft lullaby, this time, it instils an unnerving feeling.

Squinting at your phone in your half-conscious state, you note the date and time with a soft sigh escaping your lips; it’s 1AM on the 1st of March 2024. It had become a routine to wake up at this exact time every night. Usually you would be drenched in cold sweat with a flustering feeling of fear slowly creeping in. 

Your dreams felt very real, almost like a deja vu. They were ongoing for as long as you could remember. Initially, they started as ambiguous visions which were very vibrant and light. It felt like you were watching a version of yourself grow up in tandem with you. You were in places that sparked a sense of familiarity but you were unable to decipher the locations. In addition, you were meeting people that stirred an ardent feeling, and you felt like you had known them your whole life. You were unaware of who these other persons were. Whenever these particular persons entered, everything became hazy and obscure. 

After turning 20, the night terrors began and you experienced an opposite side of these dreams filled with heartbreak, pain and fear. Another group entered and provided some solace but then your most recent dreams consisted of a heart-wrenching and distressing situation where you found yourself laying on the ground covered in blood and ash, gazing at another figure right across from you who is also unconscious. You're calling for them but while your lips move, you can't hear the name. And then you fall into darkness and awake again.

Although you tried to boil down these hallucinations to a simple coincidence, you couldn’t. You were aware of your interesting birth. Firstly, on the night of your birth there was a torrential thunderstorm that appeared unexpectedly and grew into something of such force and fury, it drained the world of all its light. Secondly, in the city of Seoul, there had been a report of an attempted rebellion by an enigmatic group. Not much came out of it as many claimed it was heresy and the media reported it being a disagreement of a rowdy and drunk group of people that got out of control and ended up in property damages.

If that’s the case you shouldn’t be that bothered by it right? Wrong. Turns out, it was one of eight incidents that occurred within a three year span. And every night on your birthday, a dream of yours reaches its peak wherein you find yourself by a lake and a temple, and an apparition of you stands there with a pretty braid and decorated flower crown, and gold eyes staring right back at you with a smile. 

You read that gold eyes tended to belong to werewolves.

That’s when your mind would swirl right back to that night in Seoul. Rumours by some fanatics claimed it was an act to start a werewolf war and theorised that’s why there was hardly any evidence or traces. Though you weren’t one to suddenly believe in werewolves, something about that situation felt off to you.

When your parents articulated that your inclusion in the family business after university would primarily entail you overseeing the operations in Seoul, you were more than happy to hop on a plane. 

You wanted to know more about that night.

And you weren’t alone in it. Your close friend Bangchan whom you had grown up with, lived in Seoul. He was in a kpop group that currently had some time off before they prepared for their next big venture, a collaboration with two other kpop groups for a variety broadcast feature.

Returning to your seat, you attempted to relax yourself before your touchdown in Seoul. 

“Another bad dream?” a voice asked.

Turning to your right, you looked at your father’s trusted secretary who was accompanying you on the trip.

“Just the same old thing Mr Kim.” you answered softly.

Mr Kim had been working with your father for as long as you could remember. He appeared on the doorstep of your home one day with a bright smile, seeking employment as either a gardener or caretaker. Somehow he was able to help your father out of a bind with another company and become his right-hand man in all future business ventures. To you, he seemed like a real leader and was good at taking charge.

“Hm,” he hummed, “What’s the name of Chan’s group again? I can never remember.”

“They’re called Stray Kids,” you respond, pulling out a magazine from your bag, “That’s them.”

Mr Kim surveys the page you’re showing him before continuing.

“And they’re collaborating with two other groups for some showcase?”

“Mhm, one of the groups is called TXT.” you turn the page and point to another group.

“And the other?”

You flip through the pages to locate the other group. Truth be told, this group entices you in a way you can’t explain. But that’s the purpose of kpop groups anyway, as you always tell yourself.

“Ah there they are!” you muse, “That’s them.”

Mr Kim looks at the page and doesn’t say anything. He stares at it wistfully and pensively, tracing a finger over the one in the centre.

“What’s their group name?”

“Ateez,” you answer, “They’re called Ateez.”

-

Meanwhile, an angel stands near the Moon Goddess looking on at the situation.

“Are you sure about this?”

“I am.” the Moon Goddess answers.

“You’ve reset the timeline, changed the past and altered fate itself. How are you so sure about this?”

“I have not changed fate. They are the makers of their own fate. As for the timeline and the past, well, I’ve simply just tweaked it a bit.”

“Simply t-tweaked-” the angel stammers, “Do you even know what you’re saying?? You drastically changed the whole timeline. I don’t even know how this is going to turn out and neither does the author!”

The Moon Goddess turns to the angel confused, “What are you even saying Dongwook?”

“Nothing, sorry, I blabber nonsense when I’m stressed.”

“Look,” the Moon Goddess begins, “I know you have a lot of questions but be patient. All you need to know for now is that I’ve simply created an alternate timeline of the former and mirrored them, so that the events of the previous have now become their past lives.”

“So what happened in the previous timeline is now mirrored to have occurred on the night of their births?”

“Mhm, they’re right back where they should have been in the former timeline, where they were supposed to stay and settle. Now, they need to find each other again and make amends.”

“And teach those criminals a lesson!” the angel sneers.

“Yes,” the Moon Goddess smiles, “And a lesson they shall receive.”

End of Book 1.

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Book 2 Summary Preview:

A new timeline is created, and a new life awaits you. But your past ghosts haunt you deeply. Given the chance to visit Seoul, you seek answers for your weird dreams, but answers aren't the only thing that awaits you.

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a/n: ahhhhhhh I did it!! I actually completed my first story! didn't expect it to turn out like this but I'm excited to see where it goes :D thank you for joining me so far on this journey. <3 there's a lot I didn't include in book 1 that I know some of you was looking forward to and I'm truly sorry about that. I hope you will stick around for book 2 as I will be incorporating all what was left out. thank you for supporting me and thank you to those who recommended Want You Back in their recs list! :') <3 Stay tuned though! Chapter 1 of my new series The Hybrid House will be published soon! I'll leave a link here and come back to it as soon as it's out. See you soon! <3

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Taglist:

@eastleighsblog @sehun096rainbow @greensnakeglobep @satsuri3su @zonked-times @sugarrush-blush @lomons @explorewithd @chatsgotmytongue @scarfac3 @popcatx0 @angrynightnight @sannieluvrr @idfkeddieishot @alicia-dpa @park-simphwa @puppyminnnie @mysticfire0435 @sundayysunshine @chngbnwf @dementedaly @thunderous-wolf @itsmeregan @cookiechristie @hyukssunflower @lelaleleb

[moodymisty]

hello❤️‍🔥I hope everything is fine with you in life✨Congratulations on the beginning of October🥰 Lion El'Jonson/reader-aristocrat Let everything revolve around the official ceremonial portrait (well, you know those huge full-length paintings when women are sitting on a high-backed chair in a ball gown, and a man is standing a little behind with his hand on his wife's shoulder and they are holding hands) Lion in the days before the Heresy was very skeptical about the idea of making such a portrait, but in the end the reader persuaded him. Cute moment Then skip all the way to Heresy. There is confusion everywhere, war. The reader is either on Caliban or Terra. Lion sent them there, thinking that she would be safe. And so he looks either at the portrait itself or at a small picture and feels anxious and longing for quiet days. And skip up to 41k. Lion woke up after so many years, everything changed around. But he still has this little reproduction and he looks at it when it gets hard. Lion is transported to pleasant memories where everything was fine. He does not know what has become of the reader and the original portrait🥺 Hope for a happy ending or an open dramatic ending - the choice depends entirely on you how to complete it🌹

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙| 𝕬𝖔3 ]

Author's note: Hey! Sorry this took so long, it took me a hot minute to get it going but once I did I really like how it came out. I hope you enjoy, and it's close enough to what you wanted :3

Summary: Azrael asks a newly awoken Lion about a Chapter relic with a curious history.

Relationships: Lion El'Jonson/Fem!Reader

Warnings: Reader's fate is vague but given the amount of time passed largely spoken about as if dead, Typical 40kness, Far less fluffy than perhaps you wanted but I got carried away with the angst

Word Count: 1196

"Father,"

Azrael looks towards the man he calls his pater, who only spares him a sparse glance. They stand side by side, and while the Primarch in all of his glory dwarfs the Chapter Master, Azrael still feels more on equal terms that he thought he would- in the presence of their Primarch.

The Lion however still finds himself unfamiliar with the Chapter Master, and it has proven difficult for the two to navigate around each other. It has been many years since The Lion drew breath of his own accord; Much has changed since then. The Dark Angels have grown more suspicious, secretive; The Fallen have grown in number. The Necrons, the Tyranids, his father being nothing more than a rotting corpse splayed across his golden throne in a mimicry of what once was.

He stares at the 'relic'- as Azrael had called it when they'd first approached- ahead of him, and it serves as a beacon to a place he can no longer go.

He knows this isn't the original.

The original was put in a gold frame with a delicate filigree, this one is in one of the distinctive Dark Angel green. To match the surroundings, or perhaps the actual art was removed from it's old frame and into this one. Damage, perhaps. The canvas is torn, yellowed with age and the signature of the artist who'd captured this moment in time is unreadable. He can barely see your face, with how much the paint has fallen away.

He can barely see his own as well. Perhaps it's all for the best.

"Who is she?"

The Chapter Master holds his winged helmet in his hands, a rare moment of him not being fully armored. He glances towards the portrait with a stoic curiosity and continues speaking.

"We, know vaguely of her mention in texts from the Heresy, but nothing else. Not even her name." The Librarium is quiet. Only he, Azrael, and a few others occupy the monumental space. The painting is surrounded by other relics of the chapter; Statues, weaponry from warriors of old, scripts and written texts.

"We've never known. Years of searching lead us nowhere, so we had given up our attempts. It was thought to be knowledge lost to time." He hesitates. "Lost to the Heresy."

The Astartes faces trouble with identifying the expression on his Primarch's face, as they both stand paces away from the tattered relic. When he accepts that it's unreadable, he casts his eyes back towards the old painting.

Azrael can tell from what paint is left on the canvas that you're clearly smiling.

Even thousands of years later the warmth of that smile is still palpable; Multiple Dark Angels have found an odd, abit unfamiliar solace in it. It's not uncommon for the Captains and Commanders of the chapter to ponder it in the rare moments they need a form of clarity. It seems to help, and none of them have ever found why.

The dress you wear in the portrait matches the green they cast their armor in, though the paint has lost it's vibrancy over the years. It still matches The Lion's armor however, as he stands behind you the chair you're seated in. You're on a small platform, to make it easier to fit the Primarch who is massively taller into the same frame. His hand rests firmly on your shoulder, and your much daintier, unarmored hand softly grasps two of his fingers.

It's peaceful. It makes the Chapter Master think as to what life was like before the Heresy took it all away. It makes him wonder how a clearly baseline human could have had such a bond with a god; A Primarch.

Meanwhile, it makes The Lion think back to when it was first being painted- the original one- before he'd lost so many of his brothers.

"Smile for once, Lion."

He doesn't, but he does look down on you with a familiar glare. His face barely changes orientation, but you can still so clearly see his desire to scold you. Tucking a single bit of hair behind your ear, you make sure to keep the same position you'd started in. The artist has already requested once you do so, as to avoid any errors in the painting.

Still as you possibly can be, you try not to hurt your cheeks from holding back a smile.

"Roboute was actually right about you having such a sour moue all the time."

Again, he doesn't say a word. His hand stays heavy on your shoulder however, as he stays remarkably still. He can't feel your gentle grasp through his armor, though he can glance down towards it and his nerves attempt to simulate the feeling; a dull accuracy from the memories of previous times.

He thinks this is all pointless. But it's clearly pleasing you, so for once he'll begrudgingly allow it.

After towing you all the way to Terra, to tear you from everything you knew to surround you with thousands of fresh Astartes all hungry for battle, looking to you for orders you aren't yet trained to give. He supposes he can gift you this rare platitude. Perhaps it will serve as a memory to this time that can be looked back upon in the future. To remember how hard they fought to make the galaxy free of the scourge that fills it.

The painter gestures to his serf to gather another color for him, and the young man quickly scurries off to go retrieve it. Meanwhile the artist continues, working in a fashion far more slowly and inferior to the current technology of the time.

The Lion considers it a waste, though unlike him you come from a planet with an emphasis on the arts; Same as Fulgrim and Roboute. There's something in this you value, and while he doesn't consider himself as soft as some of his brothers, the love he has for you prevents him from squandering your joy.

Sanguinius will surely find this all hilarious.

Azrael glances upward again towards his Primarch. He thinks he hears him mumble something, but The Lion is silent by the time he realizes something might've been said.

The Primarch could taste your name on his lips, but speaking it would only make it worse. He silenced himself before it was spoken aloud for the first time in thousands of years.

He knows that after his 'demise', after he was put in the dreamless sleep deep within The Rock, you briefly issued orders alongside his old council. That's all the Chapter's records have left, after so many centuries.

Not a single one of those texts even mentions your name, let alone your fate. You're a ghost of his own mind. Your memory is but a relic in a Librarium locked away for untold years.

Part of him is glad he acquiesced to your silly, human desire. Another part is hateful, because now he has a memory he can do nothing with but feel the way it aches.

He never answers Azrael. And so the Astartes files the question away in his mind, discontent but accepting to never ask it again.

[cambion-companion]

Hey lovely! Can I request a Aemond x reader where the reader is also a princess, but it is said that she is a witch and in fact she is just a bit weird and intimidating, an outsider, also maybe fierce warrior (but indeed she has a gift for seeing things, has dreams and reads tarot, in really into astrology); she catches his attention and from there on you can develop the story further, like how their relationship evolves? I ADORE how you write to i trust you 10000% Also, thank you to all 7 Gods if you do this :D (and sorry if the request is a bit...all over the place? i suck at expressing my ideas)

I adore this idea, it took me a while to get to it because I want to write a longer oneshot for it. If any of you have seen Merlin...yes I am imagine Morgana and her powers. A little more magick than simply tarot and astrology, hope you don't mind Nonny :)

word count: 2516

Aemond x sorceress!reader

“Princess Y/N, it is a pleasure to welcome you to the Red Keep.”  Queen Alicent smiled at you from where she stood upon the steps leading to the Iron Throne.  

You curtsied low, your keen eyes flickering over the faces of the rest of the royal family, lingering only slightly longer on that of the tallest Targaryen boy.  He wore a black leather eyepatch over his left eye, a vertical scar running from brow to cheek, his hands clasped neatly behind his straight back.  

Your lips remained smiling as Aemond noticed your attention focus on him, giving you a short nod, his lilac eye flicking down to the ground before returning to your face.  He had the most lovely plush lips, you noticed, pushed together in a perpetual pout.  His long silver hair also gave you pause, only when Alicent cleared her throat delicately did you tear your eyes away, heat rising to your cheeks.

“Thank you, my queen.  It is an honor to be invited here for the Festival.” You gave her a winning smile before stepping to the side, allowing those behind you to have their turn to be greeted by the royal family.  

You felt Aemond’s gaze still upon you, Aegon’s as well, so you kept your eyes straight ahead, studying the seven-pointed star with forced interest.  Truth be told, you cared not for the new religion spreading across Westeros.  It held little power when compared to the Old Ways.  Though you were now forced to practice in secret lest you be discovered and held accountable for heresy.

Your feet ached by the time people started to disperse, Alicent descending the steps and motioning her children to depart the throne room.  You glanced surreptitiously to where Aemond and his siblings walked, following them out of the grand hall.  The Targaryen princess, Helaena, looked around, catching your eye.  She smiled and beckoned you to join her. “It’s so rare for anyone my age to come visit the Keep.  I do hope we will be friends.”

“As do I, princess!”  You were thrilled to make an acquaintance so quickly, having traveled to the Red Keep with only your retinue of servants to accompany you.

“I hope you also enjoy the company of many insects.”  Aegon noticed you walking with them.  He smiled ruefully as he appraised you with an appreciative eye. “My beloved sister knows more bugs than she does most people.”

The four of you had stopped upon reaching the courtyard hallway, standing in a circle together.  Aemond looked down his nose at Aegon, opening his mouth as if to reprimand him but you beat him to it. “When they are as charming as you, who can blame her?”

Aemond choked, hiding his laughter by coughing loudly behind a hand.  Helaena, who had been frowning, brightened slightly, looking at you with newfound fondness.  Aegon was gaping at you like a fish, it took him a moment to rearrange his shocked expression into a petulant glare.  “I am a prince and won’t suffer some insolent woman to speak to me in such a manner.”

“I am a princess and so is your sister…wife…Helaena. You will treat us with respect.”

Aemond placed a restraining hand upon Aegon’s arm as the latter moved menacingly toward you. “Brother, leave it be.”  He warned.

“Women are made to serve men, not give them lectures.”  Aegon snarled, trying to pry Aemond’s fingers off his arm. “Your pretty mouth has much better uses.”

A gout of burning anger flared in your chest, a familiar electric sensation coursing under your skin.  The cold torch beside Aegon’s head burst into suddenly into flame, almost catching his silver hair on fire as it singed a few strands before he had the time to leap away.  Aegon cursed, his attention completely diverted.  Helaena covered her ears and turned away, distraut.  Aemond, however, looked in confusion at the burning torch before looking at you with a calculating gleam in his eye.

“Might I have a word, princess Y/N?”  He stepped away from the wall, motioning down the corridor.

“I almost caught fire!”  Aegon continued to bat at his smoking hair.

“That would be appropriate for a Targaryen.”  You muttered, only Aemond heard you.  He frowned, taking your elbow non-too-gently and steered you away from his panicked siblings.

“Let go.” You yanked your arm free, the two of you facing each other in a narrow stone hallway.  

“What was that?”  Aemond asked bluntly, his eye intent upon your face.

“What was what?”

“That torch caught fire out of nothing.”

“I have no idea!  How would I know?”  You blustered, putting on a show of brushing invisible dust from your dress.

“So, your eyes turning yellow is just a normal occurrence?”

Shit.

You smoothed your expression into what you hoped was careful indifference. “What you are suggesting is impossible, my prince.  My eyes are certainly not yellow.”

Aemond’s mouth thinned into a line as he looked down at you, displeased. You raised your eyebrows at him.  The two of you stared at each other for several long moments before he relented, breathing sharply out of his nose, making a “hmm” sound in his throat.

“If you’ll excuse me, it is time for me to retire.” You gathered your skirts, moving to leave for your chambers.

Aemond nodded curtly, still looking you over with suspicious interest. You felt his gaze hot on your back all the way down the hallway, until you rounded the corner and out of sight.

That night sleep would not come to you.  

Donning your velvet nightgown, you slipped out of your chambers, padding down the labyrinthian halls until you found the great oaken door to the library.  It was late enough that the large book-filled room was empty, the door swung shut silently behind you on oiled hinges, a large fireplace the only source of light within the massive space.

You had lost control earlier with Aegon, the anger you had felt acted of its own accord, sparking your magick to life, quite literally in the case of the torch.  You twisted your hands together as you moved deeper into the library, looking around at all the dusty books.  Sitting at one of the many wooden tables, you pulled a candelabra over to you, looking at the cold wax of the candles intently.  

You closed your eyes, focusing your attention, arms resting loosely atop the table, on either side of the candle.  You felt your skin prickle, the familiar magick flowing through your blood to your fingertips.  You felt it everywhere all the time, but when you concentrated on expelling it into the world it burned at your fingers and behind your eyes more than anywhere else on your body.

A sound, like a sharp gust of wind through trees, and all six candles ignited, the flames spouting high into the air before they settled to flicker on the wicks.  You sat back, satisfied.

“Fascinating.”  

The chair clattered to the stone floor as you whirled from your seat, a ball of purple flame instinctively held aloft ready in your palm.  

Aemond Targaryen stood near the fireplace, his posture tense, on hand upon the hilt of his sword.  You straightened, looking at him warily, the magickal fire still conjured in your hand.  

“I knew it.”  Aemond breathed, stepping carefully toward you, his hand slipping off the pommel of his sword. “You’re like those I’ve read about in the Forgotten Histories.”

He was very close to you now; you could’ve reached out and set him on fire if you wanted.  He looked at you in fascination, still talking, his voice low and soothing as though he approached a dangerous creature. “A sorceress.”

“Most would name me ‘witch’ and have me executed.”  You snapped, still very much on the defensive.

“Do you plan to kill me here and now?”  Aemond asked, tilting his head, his silver hair falling across his shoulders as he leaned forward. “Murder me in cold blood when I mean you no harm?”

“I wouldn’t trust you if you were the last person in the world.”  Still, you let the lilac fire die in your palm.

Aemond watched it vanish, his lips parting slightly.  His expression was awed. “I thought your kind had all but gone extinct.”

“My kind?”  You scoffed, stepping away from him, just out of arm’s reach. “You should know of magic better than anyone, having the blood of Old Valyria running in your veins.”

“I do.”  He said softly, still poised as if he expected you to strike at any moment. “That is why you will find me more forgiving than most.”

“Forgiving.”  You sneered, a spark gold flashing in your eyes.

“You know as well as I the Faith of the Seven harbors no tender feelings toward magick.”  Aemond’s voice sharpened, almost as though he reprimanded you. “You would do well to temper your emotions before they get you in trouble.”

“You don’t know what it’s like to be an outsider!”  You cried, your raised voice muffled by the many tomes surrounding you. “To have to be ashamed of what you can do, to have to hide who you are!”

“I know all too well.”  He murmured, a flicker of pain twisting his features.  “Please, princess.”  He extended a hand. “Allow me to help you.”

“How?”  

“There are many books, restricted as they are, that I have saved from being purged from the archives.”  Aemond explained, speaking quickly now. “They detail the use of Old Magick and how it can be controlled. My study of these texts is how I recognized what you did with the torch earlier today.”

“I didn’t mean to almost roast your brother.”

“No indeed, your cutting words did that quite well on their own.”  Aemond chuckled, the sound sending pleasant tingles across your skin, quite unrelated to magick.  

You hesitated a moment longer before reaching forward to accept his proffered hand.  Aemond smiled. “We will need to be discreet, if you are capable.”  His smile widened as you scowled at him. “The books are hidden safe in my chambers.”

“This isn’t some elaborate ruse to get me into bed with you, is it?”  You teased, Aemond rewarded you with another delicious huff of low laughter.

“I will admit you are…alluring even aside from your ability to wield magick.”

“How forward of you, my prince.”

“Don’t get used to it.”  

Aemond led you on quick, quiet feet up flights of stairs and winding through corridors.  You had to duck around corners, waiting together for patrols of guards to pass before continuing on.  Soon you reached your destination, Aemond leading the way into his lavish quarters.  “Make yourself comfortable.”  He instructed.

You sat down by one of the many bookshelves, the space of his chambers reminding you very much of the library as you watched him rummage under his large bed.  “I know they’re here somewhere.” You heard him mutter. “Aha!”

He retrieved two very aged books, they looked to be barely held together by the fraying spines, their pages crumpled and yellow.  You took on into your lap, leafing gingerly through, the smell of old book burning your nostrils.  “It’s in Old Valyrian.” You commented, looking despairingly up to where Aemond still stood. “I don’t know Old Valyrian.”

“I do.”  He placed the other book carefully into your lap for you to comb through. “I offered to help, and so I shall.”

“Teaching me Valyrian?”  Incredulity laced your tone. “That seems like a mammoth task for someone you just met today.”  You shut the book with a dusty snap. “Why are you helping me, really?”

Aemond was silent a moment, taking back the books when you offered them up to him. “There are few things I take interest in, and even fewer people.  You should be grateful.”  He moved to place the tomes gently atop his bed, sitting beside them. “I could just as easily be your enemy and give you over to the Faith.”

“You think so, do you?”  Magick fire sparked lilac along the exposed skin of your arms, gathering at your fingertips.

Aemond’s gaze dropped to watch the energy gather along your hands, his pupil dilating slightly.  “Focus your will, channel that emotion you feel into purpose.”

You did as he suggested, honing your attention on pinpointing the exact emotion you were feeling strongest.  Your focus settled on the growing hope swirling in your chest, the thought of a future where you didn’t have to be afraid of being found, where you could become powerful and practiced in who you were born to be.  

The fire dancing along your fingers flashed brightly, your eyes glowed briefly once more, then the magickal fire transformed from a violent shade of purple to a soft pastel yellow.  It felt different in your blood, you could taste it like citrus on your tongue.  “What…”  You wondered aloud, raising your hand to appraise the sparkling yellow light.

“I believe…if memory serves.  That is the color associated with healing magicks.”  Aemond remarked from his perch atop the mattress.  

“How do you know all this?  You aren’t a magick user too, are you?”

“No, I am not.”  Aemond shook his head. “I have simply studied…and I know what it is like to temper my emotions, to channel what I feel into action rather than reaction.”  He tapped his long fingers upon his knee. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Thank you.”  You said, finally allowing your guard to drop a little. “I still don’t know why you’re so intent on helping me, but I am grateful.”

“I’m not entirely sure myself, Y/N.”  Aemond rose, ushering you back to the door. “I do know, however, that dawn is soon approaching and if you are found in my room…there would be such an uproar not even your powers could save us.”

You laughed, raising your hands up in mock defeat as you stepped into the cool hall. “Thank you again, prince Aemond.  I…I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“Please, Aemond is how I wish you to address me if we are to be friends.”  He said graciously. “As for repayment, I’m sure we can come up with something.”

You nodded, trying to fight down the blush rising to your cheeks. “Goodnight, Aemond.”

“Sleep well, Y/N.”  

You departed, artfully dodging the King’s Guard patrols as you made your way stealthily back to your rooms, still wondering how you’d gotten so lucky as to fall into the good graces of Aemond Targaryen.  Rumors had reached your ears of how harsh and cruel the prince was, but the man you’d met and befriended was nothing like what the gossipers whispered.  He had alluded to being familiar with hiding who he was, being ashamed much the same as you.

You mused to yourself as you slipped beneath the covers of your bed, perhaps it had something to do with the eyepatch and the scar that ran down his face.  You did not know the prince well, not yet, but you were eager to learn more about him. Especially since you found him so appealing to look at, and by the way his eye had trailed across your features, he felt the same. Your heart fluttered with something other than fear for the first time in too long.  Smiling to yourself, you curled up and soon drifted into sleep, dreaming of a silver dragon engulfed in lilac flame.

[ddarker-dreams]

Quid Pro Quo.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, mentions of not SFW although nothing explicit happens.  Word count: 3k.

“Feeling a little bit restless, are we?”

Chrollo is what you like to call the king of unwanted commentary.

If he were to ever retire from his murderous/thieving ways, you think he could make a career in narrating documentaries. No script necessary. Just set him in a recording booth, turn the microphone on, and let him have at it since he apparently never runs out of things to say.

Frowning, you cross your arms over your chest. “Oh, whatever gave it away?”

“You have your tells,” Chrollo purposefully does not match your sarcasm. It might be the only moral highroad he’s ever taken. “If I had to narrow it down to any one factor, though, it’d be how you glance at the clock every few minutes.”

What an astute observation! Scrub away the names of Freud and Jung in the psychology textbooks, their contributions clearly pale in comparison to Chrollo’s own expertise in understanding the human psyche. What might his theories be named? Something involving the Bible, surely. Or maybe the widely rejected Apocrypha since heresy is more his style. Regardless, you can confidently surmise the names would be superficial and pretentious. Perfectly befitting their progenitor.

“Considering we drove for what, five hours to some off-grid airport? Then flew an additional five, only to now be stuck on this train for… hm…”

“Eight hours,” he offers in kind. Too kind. You would gag, if not for your determination to get your irritation across. Priorities, priorities.

“Eight hours! Even if I had my phone, that’d be enough to make me go mad.”

“In ‘ye olden days’ as you like to refer to them, you never would’ve made it on the Oregon Trail if you thought eighteen hours of traveling to be worth complaining over.”

“Obviously. If I had to sit on the back of a wagon with my eight dirty children whom I secretly despise, I’d be drinking the water to get dysentery. Or flinging myself underneath the wheels. Either or.”

“See? This is much better then,” Chrollo gives you one of those little smiles that reminds you of a debate kid who thinks he has his opponent in the bag. “There are no eight malnourished children in sight. Just you, me, and a world of infinite possibilities.”

“For you, maybe. ‘Infinite’ might be a stretch for me.”

“My apologies. Near infinite.”

“More like one: following you around as if I were a leashed dog.”

“I had never considered a leash,” Chrollo hums, giving you a once over, presumably for show. He already has your sizes memorized better than you ever did. Neck included, you assume. “I’ll consider your suggestion.”

Unable to mask your distaste, you reply without thinking, “It wasn’t a suggestion.”

“Oh? A request, then?”

You roll your eyes and decide not to dignify that with a response.

Back to staring out the window for entertainment it is then. Looking past your despondent reflection, you’re welcomed to a sea of nothingness; swaths of deep hues blurring together in an unidentifiable mass. It’s too dark for you to enjoy the grand scenery outside and too cloudy for the stars to twinkle overhead. You’ve already conducted a thorough examination of the luxurious train compartment, which for all its ostentatious décor, feels oddly cramped. As if Chrollo intentionally picked something that’d force you into close quarters. You wouldn’t put it past him.

He sits a few feet across from you, legs crossed, the gaudy bandage that normally covers his forehead nowhere in sight. He looks as content as ever with his loungewear on. Yours is still strewn across the bed, untouched due to the scorn it earned. So he gets slacks and a loose t-shirt while you’re forced to model a lingerie line? It’s for this reason you’re stubbornly sitting here in your jeans at two in the morning. In retrospect, skinny jeans were not the optimal option for this boycott, if only you had known to expect such shameless reprobate-like behavior in advance. You were just getting used to the time zone when he informed business had to take him elsewhere.

And wherever he went, you went too. Kicking, screaming, crying, or anything in between; you’d be hauled off regardless.

“You don’t have to force yourself to stay awake, you know,” Chrollo once again voices his unasked-for opinion. “Why not allow yourself to relax? For starters, try changing into something more comfortable.”

He motions to the aforementioned nightgown that has no reason to be so sheer. Seriously, it’s an insult to fabric everywhere. You swear that a little breeze would be enough to rip the fragile material in two.

“And have you ogle at me the rest of the night? I’d prefer the diseased children.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘ogling’, I’d call it ‘appreciating’.”

“Alright, Mr. Company HR representative.”

You make the mistake of checking out the clock again. Only five minutes have passed? This is psychological torture. While you’d normally read to pass the time, the possibility of motion sickness is enough to put you off from the idea. There’s one thing in this world that’s worse than being with Chrollo — and that is being with Chrollo while sick. Just thinking about it is enough to make you bristle. His usual infantilizing behavior gets a boost that’d have the most mentally stable person banging their head against a wall. Not fun, an easy pass. He won’t stop giving you romance novels when you ask to read, anyway. If he thinks that’d put you in the mood to reciprocate his grimy feelings, he can think again. He’s no Mr. Darcy or Mr. Rochester. You’d pin him for more of a discount Heathcliff on a good day.

There has got to be something for you to do. A little excitement, a little zest… could anyone blame you for seeking this out in your monotonous days?

That’s when a potentially damning yet undeniably exciting idea comes to mind.

“Hm… I know that look. You’re preparing to ask me for something, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not. That all depends. Are you feeling particularly indulgent tonight?”

“I always feel indulgent toward you, you just never ask for the right things,” he leans forward slightly, belying his intrigue. He’s so full of it. Apathetic as he may act, you’re convinced he’d listen to you sing an opera-length aria about tinfoil if past experience is anything to go by. Chrollo can’t get enough of you. The feeling is decidedly not mutual.

“Feel free to make your pitch whenever, [First]. I’m waiting.”

“Right. That book of yours… Pundit’s Secret?”

“Bandit’s Secret,” he corrects.

“Tomato toh-mato. If memory serves, you once told me an anecdote about this ability that made lying impossible. But the person you use it on has to meet certain conditions… or something. Doesn’t that sound like a fun way to pass the time? You ask me some questions and I return the favor?”

His gray eyes glimmer with amusement. “I don’t know, darling. I’d be taking far more of a risk than you. There’s little you could reveal about yourself that I’m not already aware of.”

“I guess so…” you trail off, trying not to linger on the unsettling sentiment. How can anyone just come out and say that as if it’s the most casual thing ever? “Fine. How about you get to ask me a whopping three questions and I get to ask you one? Only one. It won’t be anything stupid, like how I could kill you or run away. You can set that up in the conditions, right?”

He gives you a long and hard look. “I suppose I could. So I’d get to ask you anything at all, whereas your options are willingly limited?”

You shrug. “What can I say? I have to get my kicks somehow. Even a mere glimpse into the mind of the infamous Chrollo Lucilfer should be worth sacrificing some dignity over. I think.”

“We’ll see,” there’s that enigmatic smile again that makes your stomach twist into knots. He holds out his right hand — and voila — a primarily red book with a white handprint on the cover manifests. The numerous pages flip in rapid succession before landing on whatever poor soul he stole this ability from. Apparently, this ability’s progenitor was a private investigator who made the mistake of looking into the Troupe. You wonder how his business has plummeted since the ability that gave him success got snatched.

The air around Chrollo shifts. You feel an odd throbbing in your brain for a few seconds, that disappears as fast as it arrived. With that, Chrollo lowers his hand with the book into a more comfortable position, eyeing you curiously.

“I may ask you any three questions which I please, whereas you can ask me one, so long as it may not aid you in escape or hinder me in any serious way. Do you agree with these conditions?” He playfully tilts his head to the side. “Last chance to back out, dear. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I accept.”

“Wonderful. So do I. Now, what to start off with…”

You swallow the saliva starting to build up at the back of your throat. The odd feeling permeating your body is akin to what you experience before going on a rollercoaster — a cocktail of regret, anxiety, and the thrill of what is to come. Fight or flight that can’t make up its mind between the two extremes. In a false display of bravado, you refuse to break eye contact with him, tempting as it is to shrink away.

Oh lord, he’s looking at you like he’s ravenous.

“Have you ever wanted me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” your tongue answers for you without hesitation, causing heat to rush to your cheeks. You try to slap your hands over your mouth, but it’s too little too late, you’re not done humiliating yourself just yet. “I once masturbated to the thought of you while in the shower at a hotel we were staying at.”

He raises an eyebrow while looking extremely satisfied with himself. You want to die. You want the cold, bony hands of death to embrace you in an eternal slumber. What was that last addition?! The ‘yes’ was bad enough, but your mouth really went for the last nail on the coffin there. Scratch that. It killed you, dismembered your body, flung you into a six feet deep hole, and built a parking lot over your remains.

“Ah, I forgot to mention,” he slaps his forehead, as if the fact made him genuinely remorseful, “This ability does more than get you to tell the truth. It also makes you say the first few things that come to mind upon hearing the question. For that reason, it’s fittingly titled No Filter.”

Despair manifests itself in unique ways. In this specific instance, it has you glaring with all your might at Chrollo, who looks as if he just won the lottery. You bite down into your lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. How did he manage to ruin what was meant for some lighthearted, schoolyard-esque fun? In the future, should fate ever tempt you to tango with Chrollo again, you’ll refer to this incident.

Well, on the bright side, you figure it can’t get any worse than that. 

... Right? 

“Tempting as it may be to have you elaborate on that further, I’ll be gracious and move on to a cleaner subject.”

“Have my attempts at getting closer to you been successful?”

If a change in atmosphere is what he wants, he might get more than he bargained for.

“Partially. I no longer fear for my life, but I don’t have a life either. You took every sense of normalcy away from me. If I ever seem more open to your advances, it’s because pretending I have a say in the matter. It’s all I have left to cling to.”

Chrollo’s countenance takes on a more contemplative edge upon hearing this. You feel like heated metal submerged into a cold pail of water; the conversation took a 180-degree turn. However capable of emotion he may be, you hope he feels the same. For him, a question such as this must be a double-edged sword. Any other time, had you answered like this, he could retain some comfort knowing you might be acting dishonestly from spite. Not here. Not when he knows you’re an open book. There are no mental hoops he can jump through to convince himself otherwise.

“... I see,” he speaks up after some time. The weight of his gaze is tangible. “This is what I find so fascinating about you. You act so bubbly, always ready to make light of things, yet there’s far more to you than that. I might be one of the few people that could ever recognize this quality of yours, [First].”

You recognize what he’s doing — he wants you to give more without having to use up his final question. It’s an obvious ploy that you have no intention of falling for. If he’s going to be difficult, you’ll be difficult too.

“Not taking the bait, huh,” Chrollo chuckles. You do not. “That’s my girl. Very well. Final question. Could you ever come to love me back?”

“Not in the way you want.”

He nods his head, not so much from acceptance; mostly him just acknowledging your words. “Interesting. I thought that’d be what made you talk the most. I see I was wrong.”

The three questions are up, meaning you’re no longer compelled to answer. You could very easily leave it at that and carry on. If only you weren’t the type to hold a grudge. Kicking someone when they’re down has never been your style, but well, there are exceptions to every rule. Chrollo might be eager to move on; you can’t say you feel the same. Some wounds shouldn’t receive pressure. Some wounds should be left to bleed. 

“Something tells me you already knew my answer to that last one,” you theorize. You then continue on without missing a beat. “To think even a realist such as yourself could get swept up in fantasy… I guess we all have our own shortcomings. Some more than others.”

“Some more than others indeed.”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes and you content yourself immensely with the fact.

“My turn!” You exclaim in a singsong, clasping your hands together. “Oh Mr. Lucilfer, feared leader of the Phantom Troupe… there’s something I’ve been absolutely dying to know. You’re a confident man. A person who can, essentially, accomplish anything he sets out to do. So tell me. Why couldn’t you have just taken your chances and loved me normally?”

Considering all the angles you could’ve taken, this is the knowledge you long to attain the most. 

You frequently have lots of time to spend alone with your thoughts. More time than you would’ve had you been living a regular life, anyway. In that time, you began to mold an idea of the enigma Chrollo Lucilfer in your head, using what few scraps he offered as your clay. You could never come close to anything satisfactory. Every attempt always turned out so hollow. This left you with an overarching dilemma: 

Was Chrollo impossible to understand, or was there nothing for you to understand in the first place?

With the fragment of knowledge that should come from this, you hope to take on your chisel and hammer again. 

Subconsciously, you lean closer to him when his lips part. 

“I’d love to say I don’t understand what you mean by that, but I guess I can’t,” whether the forlorn timbre of his voice is genuine or not, you can’t say for certain. Your bets are on the latter. “Because, darling, you’re too good for me. Not due to any superior strength, intellect, or virtue on your part. I’ve never been able to identify exactly what it is. My best guess… is your vibrancy. You have something that I severely lack.” 

So that’s it, then? An underlying fear of rejection? There’s nothing grander, no bigger picture that you weren’t able to see? He doesn’t appear ashamed in the slightest, either. He could at least give you that much to pride yourself on. For him to have dragged you through limbo over such an inane reason, that any other person might be plagued with yet could overcome all the same... 

Your lips curl into a near-malicious smile. “You’re more pathetic than I thought, Chrollo.”

Perhaps the husk you imagined in his likeness was always accurate. 

“And you’re far more ruthless,” he closes his book with a lopsided grin. The sound of it slamming shut resonates throughout the compartment. “Although, I’m afraid I already knew that.”

That makes two of you. Getting called ruthless by a murderer feels overkill, though. You think about voicing this and decide against it. Chrollo doesn’t deserve to hear your puns of subpar quality. What he does deserve, however, is to have you stomp over what measly heart occupies his chest. With spiked shoes. Poisoned spiked shoes. 

“Does it hurt to get a taste of your own psychoanalysis bullshit?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Chrollo returns to his previous relaxed position, an arm resting over the back of his seat. You mirror his body language and relax as well. “If anything, I’m more motivated than ever to sink my teeth into you.”

“Then I’ll just have to make it so you’ll spit me out, won’t I?” 

He closes his eyes, leans his head back, and hums. The pleasant sound grates your ears. A melody from hell. 

“You can certainly try.” 

Now that he’s no longer under the influence of the ability, you wonder how much of what he said is true — and how much is a lie. For if you managed to hurt him, even in the slightest, even if he returns it tenfold... 

... Then everything on this train ride was worth the price of admission. 

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

A story of discovering scripture’s depictions of a God who is more than male.

The following is an excerpt from God’s Tapestry: Reading the Bible in a World of Religious Diversity in which author W. Eugene March has a revelatory conversation with his mother. For the entire passage, see this google-books link.

Some years ago I received an unexpected phone call from my mother. She was clearly agitated and thought I would share her concern, a theological concern. She was agitated about the language that had been used in fashioning a prayer to God in a study book that she and other women in her congregation were using.

…The issue was a prayer on which feminine metaphors were employed to describe God’s love for Israel. Wombs, labor pains, and nursing at nurturing breasts were used in a prayer to God. When Mom and her Bible study friends read this prayer, the explosion was not pleasant. And not surprisingly, an unofficial ‘denominational’ publication circulating widely in her congregation fanned the fire of my mother’s zeal to denounce perceived heresy.

It took me several minutes to get her calmed down enough for us to talk reasonably. When I did, I asked her to read the offending prayer to me. As she did, I recognized the clear influence of Isaiah. I said, “Hey, Mom, that language is straight out of the Bible.” She said, “It is not!” I said, “Yes it is!” “Is not!” “Is too.”

Finally, I asked her to get her Bible and we had a long-distance Bible study of some selected verses from the book of Isaiah:

For a long time I have held my peace, I [God] have kept still and restrained myself; now I will cry out like a woman in labor; I will gasp and pant. (Isaiah 42:14)

Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. (Isaiah 49:15)

Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her, all you who love her; rejoice with her in joy, all you who mourn over her – that you may nurse and be satisfied from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight from her glorious bosom. For thus says the [Holy One]: I will extend prosperity to her like a river, and the wealth of the nations like an overflowing stream; and you shall nurse and be carried on her arm and dandled on her knees. As a mother comforts her child so I will comfort you; you shall be comforted in Jerusalem. (Isaiah 66:10-13)

After she had read those verses, there was a long pause, and then she said, “When did they put that in there?” “It’s been there all along,” I replied. “Well,” my dear mother continued in a somewhat subdued tone, “why didn’t anyone ever tell me?”

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell me?” That is one of the questions that prompted this book. There are so many misconceptions about what the Bible does and doesn’t say, so much ignorance among otherwise well-educated, capable people. In my experience, the people in the pews are often well ahead of the clergy when it comes to the matters that really count in the way we order our daily lives and structure the communities in which we live. Their attitudes are usually based on what they recognize from their own experience of life. But they need knowledge about the support the Bible can offer and encouragement and permission from their leaders. They often think that what they believe must be heretical or offbeat, since no one assures them otherwise.

Further Reading:

Explore the posts in my #God beyond gender tag 

See this post in particular

See this timeline of feminine language for God throughout Christian history 

[paragonrobits]

Lae'zel is young when she first reads forbidden words, and it is a long time before they mean anything to her.

They are heretical; as much as any githyanki would care to call it. These are words at the heart of a forbidden figure, the arch-traitor (in the eyes of Vlaakith, and then Lae'zel has no reason to think anything but that her will is law). Then, she thinks the proscribed thoughts, and feels the proscribed hatred of him.

The gith who, at the precipice of their victory over the illithids and over all that was not gith, all that might pose a threat to them and their absolute security, had split their people into two.

Once, the gith had stood under one sky. And then he spoke, and they stood under two skies. No longer was there simply gith; they were the loyalists to Gith herself, the githyanki. And then there were the githzerai, the followers of Zerthimon.

So. They are instructed not to read the words of the githzerai. Lae'zel is told, in such ways does heresy creep in.

She reads it, nonetheless, as she destroys the records. They are gone, from the world. But later, she realizes, the words remained.

The words were a part of her now.

They were not spoken by Zerthimon. But they were spoken by a githzerai who followed him; who was chained in slavery through words and the false promises of a treacherous monster, and through many lifetimes that githzerai suffered the indignity of those chains.

The monster died, again and again. And where once there was cold ruthlessness, something else woke up. And the githzerai came to know the friendship of a tormented immortal, who vowed to free him from the chains of promise. And so, that githzerai vowed to meet death with his blade, and together they came to a fortress made from regrets and sorrows. And there, that githzerai met his death.

It was not his final death. He rose again. But his first death was against impossible odds. He knew he would die; he knew what was coming. He met it anyway.

Now, Lae'zel's nostrils flare. Now, she breathes in the air, and she thinks that now, she may meet her own death.

Vlaakith comes. Now, Lae'zel thinks that all she has heard of the githzerai and Zerthimon has come from Vlaakith and those who speak her lies, and she remembers those words from a githzerai himself, untainted and sincere.

Now, she repeats the words that githzerai spoke. It feels right to do so, and suddenly she feels a surge of kinship; to one who may well have counted her an enemy, but for a moment she fancies journeying to the plane of Limbo, and opening herself to the danger of the githzerai, if that also means she may open herself to what wisdom they have, that could never live in githyanki philosophy.

Now she wonders if her people, chained by deception and obedience, have ever had philosophy. Was there ever anything for them but Vlaakith's chains?

She breaths out again. She greets what may be her death.

She speaks, and now she speaks the word of that githzerai, whose heart seems to echo her own. She thinks of the chains of words and false promises.

The wings of red dragons come closer. "I may be bested in battle..."

She readies her blade.

Beside her, the movement of her allies (her friends) stand close. They are with her, to the end. If she dies, she thinks, she dies with them, and she will die with honor.

"But I shall never be defeated."

And, for a moment, two skies became one again.

[vickyvicarious]

All this selfish and unselfish talk is really seeming like a theme. Renfield is ASAS (Assigned Selfish At Seward's), Seward says he's singled out Renfield out of personal interest, Dracula is selfish but promises to share Jonathan after he's used him, Quincey says he's a friend, who is more selfishless than a lover, and Jonathan declares he puts his boss' interests over his self.

Hi, I've been laughing at ASAS for a month now.

You're right, though! Seward is the only person who has ever actually directly said the word 'selfish' and then only when referring to Renfield, but it obviously characterizes his own behavior with regards to Renfield as well. And he does seem to realize that. But it stands in contrast to his reaction to Lucy's rejection. While the way his proposal was phrased sure came off more selfish than Quincey's, both of them were really good about respecting her feelings for someone else and supporting their friend in the aftermath (again, Quincey came off more so than Jack but I think it's at least part hiding his feelings/the difference between correspondence and private diary. They both do want to support Lucy and Arthur).

So here we have some really unselfish behavior in the suitor squad... which in itself makes Lucy feel selfish and guilty about prioritizing her own feelings: "Why can't they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it." That line isn't actually about her being in love with all three men, it's about her feeling bad that she's hurting them by not being able to match their emotions or give them what they want, since they're such good people. And yet she feels bad for mentioning it, too, since that's not a socially acceptable solution to even bring up.

Meanwhile in Castle Dracula there's an inverse of that scene playing out with Jonathan and the vampire women. They are grasping for someone who isn't theirs, perhaps greedily/selfishly - but just like the suitors, they're willing to share and respect one another. Dracula comes in to stop them, selfishly keeping Jonathan all for himself - but only to a point. He'll share with them later, he just gets first dibs.

And obviously Jonathan who has to sacrifice his own interests for others. There's just this back-and-forth with selfishness and unselfishness, and kind of interestingly the narration does seem to land on the same conclusion as Seward:

...a possibly dangerous man, probably dangerous if unselfish. In selfish men caution is as secure an armour for their foes as for themselves. What I think of on this point is, when self is the fixed point the centripetal force is balanced with the centrifugal; when duty, a cause, etc., is the fixed point, the latter force is paramount, and only accident or a series of accidents can balance it.

Translating to plainer English, Seward essentially hypothesizes that people who are very self-centered want to ensure their own safety, and in doing so weaken themselves by leaving opportunities for a foe to exploit. Those who subsume their own personal desires or safety in favor of a greater cause or duty are way more dangerous since they will ignore limits and thus be harder to counter.

So, if we look at the characters in these lines, so far this is kinda what I see:

Renfield - currently selfish; as long as he doesn't find a greater cause to serve he's not likely to be dangerous despite being very clever and intriguing

Seward - selfish with Renfield and thus more vulnerable to being mistaken/manipulated/in the wrong with him. Unselfish with Lucy and thus possibly more dangerous on her behalf (same goes for Quincey on this point).

Lucy - Not actually behaving in a badly selfish way but feels like she is, and that may count enough to make her vulnerable. Emotionally at least she sure did get hurt by refusing them, seeing as she cried a lot for them and all.

Mina - So far selfishness hasn't come up with her, but any leanings so far are a lovely mix of both in a way. She's learning things to help Jonathan (unselfish) but those also happen to be exactly what she wants (selfish). We'll have to wait and see where she lands in the end.

Jonathan - It gets interesting here because he seems "unselfish" from the start given how he is serving others' interests, but if we follow Seward's definition then up until the very end of his stay Jonathan was still trying to prolong his own life and play it safe, thus acting "selfishly". He did take calculated risks along the way (and some uncalculated ones) but always reverted to being careful in the end, serving his own interests as much as any duty. It's only when he throws caution to the wind and submits to a duty to try and stop Dracula at all costs that he truly becomes dangerous to the Count (on shovel day)... but on the other hand, he definitely wouldn't have lived long enough to be a threat if he hadn't balanced things out by playing along with the game and simultaneously seeking information wherever he could. Also he does specifically call it a "wild desire" so it certainly fits that part of being selfish as well. Sort of fits the theory, sort of doesn't.

Dracula - Selfish and also made quite vulnerable by it! He defers sharing Jonathan until he's leaving town anyway, so he's not actually being very unselfish with him there. But more to the point, he's selfish both in the sense of taking what he wants, and in the sense of trying to protect himself. Keeping Jonathan around that long was the former, and it already backfired once by giving Jonathan enough time/opportunity to take a whack at him and injure him slightly. The journal too is a danger if it gets out. And he's obviously got layered plans (multiple lawyers, fifty boxes) which surely are intended to keep him safe. If this rule persists then perhaps those very cautious acts (or others we are yet to see) might open him up to counterattacks later on.

Vampire ladies - Selfish to others but unselfish with one another. Hypothetically this would make them more dangerous when someone they care about/respect is on the line, but nothing of the sort has happened. Certainly they are both more antagonistic and vulnerable to Dracula, but Jonathan didn't find any way to deal with them safely himself. It's not like selfishness automatically guarantees defeat though, just gives more opportunities.

There are several other more spoilery instances and considerations I could bring up too, but I'll keep them out of this ask for now. It's an interesting definition of selfishness and not everything fits it perfectly, but what does sure is fun to think about.

[throwawaydracula]

A funny thing about Lucy Westenra is that the idea of her 'asking for it' vis-à-vis vampirism is so heavily ingrained into popular culture that even some of her defenders come to her defense specifically by saying 'well, it's not her fault Stoker was a sexually repressed slut-shaming Victorian'. Now, I am not going to deny at all that Stoker was a sexually repressed slut-shaming Victorian. Whatever was in his heart, that's more-or-less how he comported himself publicly, because that was the social norm. "You have shaken off the shackles and your wings are free. I have the shackles on my shoulders still — but I have no wings" is going to haunt me forever, but what we feel inside doesn't matter more than what we actually say and do publicly.

What I am going to argue against is the idea that Stoker thought Lucy was deserving of some kind of punishment, that the count's attacks were a moral consequence. I am going to argue that it's far more likely he thought of her as a kind of Anti-Dracula, an embodiment of delicate goodness standing against a rapacious evil, and tragically falling before it.

Thematically, it's easy enough to call her a foil to Dracula if we assume that the three vampire women were Dracula's brides. Presumably, they all suffered the same way Lucy did-- he took their blood slowly and agonizingly, and in doing so laid a claim on them. But this claim created no bond. Mocking of Dracula as they are, it's clear that any love between them has long since guttered out, even if he insists he did love them once. Was it ever real love in the first place, or was it only desire, the selfish wanting of another person, appetite misconstrued as affection?

In contrast, Lucy has her three suitors-- men she all loves, would all marry if she could. And all of them love her; Quincey might have said it was all in the past, but love isn't something you can turn off like a switch just by willing it away. Lucy didn't ask for any of their blood-- they all gave it willingly, out of love. I know it's easy to read the transfusions as a metaphor for sex, but I think love works a little better, here. Consider that Stoker was a Christian, and the far-reaching symbolism of the blood of Christ as infused with love, as something that can bring salvation. Even before he knew of the transfusion, Arthur was willing to give every drop of his blood to save Lucy.

Dracula has to take blood by force, and in doing so brings death and misery. Lucy's taking blood from her suitors by their own volition (indeed completely by their own volition, as she was too weak to ask) all brought them a measure of comfort-- this was something they could do for her to help her, to try to win life for her. There is no selfishness on their part, nor on Lucy's part. And in the same way that Lucy is a potential fourth 'bride', Van Helsing shares the devotion to Lucy along with the three suitors.

Now, the crux of assuming Stoker thought Lucy needed to be 'punished' rests on this line:

Why can’t they let a girl marry three men, or as many as want her, and save all this trouble? But this is heresy, and I must not say it.

As some people have noted, this does come across as more risqué to the Victorians than it would to a modern audience. At the same time, it's important to remember all Lucy has done is share a furtive little wish at this point, and even condemned it herself. The Victorians were extreme moralists, and I'm sure you could find people at the time who would say Lucy deserved some kind of punishment for this thought. You could probably even find a few who wouldn't say slow death by vampire was hideously disproportionate. But Stoker's treatment of Lucy is always as a sweet, gentle, loving and lovely person who is being brutalized by a monster. When it came to imparting moral lessons, the Victorians were not subtle people, and yet Lucy is never explicitly portrayed as deserving anything that happens to her.

Note also Lucy's use of the word 'heresy', because in this specific book that doesn't come across as damning as it otherwise might. Remember, Stoker was a 19th century Church of Ireland Anglican. From his perspective (and indeed the English characters' perspective), the Roman Catholic Van Helsing is a heretic. The presumably Russian Orthodox captain of the Demeter was a heretic. Sister Agatha is a heretic. The villagers who gave Jonathan all the anti-vampire gear including the crucifix were heretics. This book is absolutely full of good, morally upstanding heretics. Bram Stoker was rather strikingly heretic-positive for his time and place.

As I said in the beginning, part of the issue here is the pop culture image of Lucy. In the 1931 version with Bela Lugosi, Lucy takes an interest in Dracula-- and dies for it. In the 1958 version with Christopher Lee, she actually hops out on her balcony and bears her throat to him, also consciously gets rid of her garlic-- and dies for it. In the 1992 version with Gary Oldman... god I don't even know where to start with that one. I do like that movie, I'm not bashing it (or not all of it) but... well, let's say it's not terribly subtle when it comes to how we're supposed to read Lucy's situation. I could go on, but there are a lot of adaptations.

In short: I don't think Stoker wanting his audience to come away from this thinking "Well, that's what happens to girls who think dirty thoughts". I think he wanted us to feel all the pain of losing a kind, loving human being. I think he wanted us to hate Dracula for essentially torturing her to death. Again, with Lucy the symbolism of blood loss is completely reversed-- she is the opposite of Dracula right up until she dies. Stoker was massively sexually repressed, and shared in a cultural fear of sexuality, especially female sexuality, but I don't think in Lucy's specific case he meant for Dracula's murder of her to be read as a just or natural consequence.

If you haven't finished the book, I would advise you to please stop reading here, because there are minor spoilers incoming. Nothing specific, just vague allusions, but still, there's nothing more of value for you to read here.

BRIEF, MINOR SPOILERS WHILE I ADDRESS PEOPLE WHO HAVE ALREADY READ THE BOOK THROUGH.

Yes, I know what happens next, and I stand by all my above arguments. I'm gonna be writing more of my thoughts about that when the time comes. Possibly going to split that one into two posts, because looking back at this one yeesh it got away from me.

END OF BRIEF, MINOR SPOILERS.