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sun-snatcher · 6 months ago

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( credits to @winterswake for this phenomenal gifset ! )

3/? | SEAWARDS, TO YOU. ; REPENTANT!AU

summ. A continuation. Sauron learns what it means to be human— and what it takes to be one. or: Sauron experiences the best & worst of mortality. pairing. (Repentant!Mairon/Sauron) Halbrand / f!reader , ( established in #SEAWARDSTOYOU ) w.count. 4k a/n. Important tags in first chapter ! Warnings for implications to PTSD & slight horror , including Non-graphically implied Animal Death.

THE BARNACLES STARE.

They’re overgrown; marrow-white and clinging onto the cracks of the salt-licked rockface, breathing and blinking at him like the thousand, ever-watchful eyes of the Ainur.

In his dreams, every single one turns to blazing stars that wink out in an instant as he passes them. The shadow of Morgoth is a powerful darkness: it can dim them into lightlessness and nothingness. He tells them he is neither Morgoth nor Melkor nor Sauron nor Mairon, that he is something new; something different— but they can’t hear him under the sheet of waves crashing like a tempest on the shores, pulling him down, down, down, and under.

(He drowns. Rarely does he choose to fight the currents.)

In other vivid dreams, the barnacles don’t listen. They don’t because they can’t listen; because they’re dead and lifeless and the colour of their shells look eerily vertebral and bone-faced. They’re skulls, he later realises. A thousand of them. Endless. Both young and old. Their missing teeth and gaping maws, frozen in terror, roll in masses that wash in from the bloody tides and take up the shore beneath his feet. They fracture and splinter and cry out in pain when he walks on where soft sands ought to be, begging for mercy with every black step he takes.

He wakes up restless. He wakes up mortified.

A forest fire rips through Eldalondë.

It dies out as quick as it had come, however; by the grace of the Valar and their blessed storms! The Faithful cry.

“Blessed,” Galadriel hears Halbrand scoff underneath his breath. They’d both sailed down the river Nunduinë with the other locals to help with clearing out whatever the blaze had left in its wake, and the very air now is clogged with residual smoke and the stench of death. She doesn’t comment on his muttering. (He had yet to heal completely from the rope burns in his palms from when they’d been stranded at sea, after all.)

“You think it’s a sign?” asks one of the arborists.

A grave weight seemed to have sunken into Galadriel when the scent of the Mellyrn had greeted her, and she’d been brought to the heart of the massive grove, where she lay a hand on the now-sundered tree.

“These very trees were brought as seeds from Aman by the Eldar of Tol Erresëa. Elros Tar-Minyatur himself had hand in planting these.” She remembers Elrond, too, had come to sail and plant a tree of his own here. The forest had been so young then, in the early years of the Second Age. Now the woods seem unsettled— even the very winds that blow between its spaces.

“Not idly do the trees of Valinor burn,” she finally warns. “Even when ensnared by lightning.”

Halbrand had seen it from afar, coming downwind from the riverbank: the tree’s colossal trunk— thick as a Dwarven-hewn mountain pillar— torn in its center from the high canopies of branches, snaking all the way down to the spindly stretch of roots. The bolt of light had rent an ugly, gaping wound into its silver bole, hollowing out the wood and carving it out to look like a glaring crack into the Unseen World.

He can still see the gleam of red embers between the bark of the tunnelled tree.

He can still hear it crackling in its seams, even.

Or… no. That isn’t the fire—

“Galadriel!”

Mallorn branches grow great and wide, so it takes out an entire stable when it crashes down.

One of the horses get caught underneath.

They cannot move the branch. (It wouldn’t do any good, even if they did.)

Abârzî, the sea-cadet weeps, stroking the mare before he went to braid the hairs of her tail and cut it off. He chants it like a prayer.

Abârzî. Abârzî. Abârzî.

(No one has the heart to finish the job.

Halbrand does not exactly offer— but they don’t stop him either when he begrudgingly enters the stables for them.)

“What was he saying?” Sauron asks, after, in some poorly attempt to clear his mind.

“Her name,” Galadriel translates, solemn. “Abâr holds several meanings. It stands for strength, might, endurance. ‘One of Valiance’, even. Perhaps: ‘Admirable one’—”

It’s the first time Mairon ever experiences throwing up.

Galadriel sits beside him, and doesn’t say a word more.

He’s glad.

Or, maybe he isn’t.

He doesn’t understand what he feels these days.

The wine Sauron pours to the raven-haired elf in his dreams is thick.

Too thick to be wine— but just as deceptively sweet.

On other nights, he pours and it keeps going, and going, and going. It gushes down his palms and down the nameless peak he’s standing in, and cascades down the cliff- like a thundering waterfall— no, an open wound. Sometimes the elf pushes him forward from the back, and it stings like a stabbing betrayal. (Other times, Mairon simply chooses to fall.)

When he plummets, it’s into red seas. It feels like wading through molasses; exhausting a pain into his limbs more than the dull ache at his nape and the throb of his suffocating lungs. Then there’s the twinkle of starlight throwing him off every time he swims. He always mistakes them for the night sky, and he blindly reaches towards the surface— until they turn out to be the white-faces of barnacles instead, attached to the maws of a sea-wyrm deep in the ocean.

Tonight, however, he swims in the right direction.

The raven-haired elf pulls him out with a trusting, helping hand wrapped in a gauntlet; and when Sauron breaches ashore, he’s not kneeling at his feet on sands or bones, but instead on the all-too familiar cracked, black stones of his old fortress up in the bleak frigidness of Forodwaith.

Mairon is garbed in soaking red robes.

This time, Adar coronates Sauron not with Morgoth’s crown, but with a rotting horse skull named Abârz—

“You have a strange shadow, ‘Maril,” Eärien tells you, not long after you’d come down to Nísimaldar to assist in the clean-up effort. “It’s shaped like… a funny-looking man who always seems to look as if he’s rolled around in the dirt for ten hours.”

You blink, puzzled, then turn to where she’s peering over your shoulder.

Halbrand’s eyes dart away just as you meet his gaze.

“Friend,” you correct, levelling an unimpressed glare back at your table of teasing looks. “Halbrand is a friend.”

Isildur raises his brows once you begin gathering another fresh bowl of seafood. “Don’t forget the oysters. I hear they’re great for men’s libid—”

“Shut your mouth when you eat,” comes your sharp flick at his ear, going to leave as the rest of the cadets break into laughter. “Even Berek has better manners than you, airhead.”

Halbrand, shaded under a temporary forge set up by the treeline near the half-constructed stables, senses you long before he hears your voice. You’re appraising him again. He can feel it. It reminds him of the barnacles staring, and he has to actively remember not to be instinctively beset.

You’ve been kind, after all.

Frustratingly so.

And Sauron, as uncertain as he has been of everything (and by everything, he means his entire simulacrum of an existence— or, reincarnation? Re-embodiment?) of late, is smart enough to know not to bite the hand that feeds him. You’d made it clear that night in the forge, after all, that you’re a friend. And if not that, then at the very least— an ally.

So it’s no surprise he sets the horseshoes he’s working on aside, and relents to your plate of food. It is a surprise, however, when a few minutes later you go:

“Thank you, by the way.”

He shuts your train of thought down before it can take off.

“Don’t start,” Sauron says, voice a low rasp. He knows where you’re going with this: You’ll thank Halbrand for going out of his way to help, for lending a hand with the rebuilding, for putting down a boy’s dying horse. He wants nothing to do with it.

“Then I want to—”

“Don’t apologise either,” he interjects, failing to hold back the mild bite. (So much for biting the hand, huh?)

Sauron had chosen, anyway, to take it upon himself to toil away in the forge, from sunrise to sundown; Dedicating himself to aiding the reconstruction by crafting everything from bridles, stirrups and bits, to metal brackets, hinges, and nails. He’d toiled because it focused him; because he’s utilitarian at heart and so despises uselessness; because it helps blur the waking haunts of horses and the seas under the hissing and clanging of working metal.

(Besides, there’s plenty to improve in this part of the island, and Sauron is the type to not count flaws and cracks but to instead step up and fix them.)

So there’s no place for you to apologise.

“You work quickly,” you redirect instead, avoiding the urge to bicker with him. “Some might say almost tirelessly. Seems you’re getting into our good graces, from what I hear.”

“Well, you ought to listen closer.” Local gossip is difficult to not earwig, especially if the topic is about a low-man from the South; even more so that they don’t expect said low-man to have a passable fluency in Adûnaic.

You don’t bother to hide the amused look on your face. “Right. Well. They do say eavesdroppers never hear but ill of themselves. What have you gathered, jailbird?”

“That I would be their downfall,” he says, then after a mouthful, goes: “That I would squander their resources and drain their waters and steal their women,” which makes you laugh.

“Númenórean women are not so easily taken.”

He hums at that. “And are you?”

“…Am I what?”

“Númenorean.”

You blink. Halbrand levels a gaze you suddenly can’t meet. It’s a game he plays, you guess right then, between the crawl of heat up your cheeks. Of sharpening ulterior meanings into both sides of his words like one would a sword’s edge.

(“The low-man said that?” Isildur titters, much later. “What a smooth advance! I ought to give him a—”

“Beheading,” Eärien overrides, “You do know he also effectively implied your sister may be easy?”

Isildur cheers. “And he’s honest? Outstanding!”)

“I believe I am one, and that’s enough for me,” you lie. The thought has crossed your mind before— that you may very well be an orphan descendant of those who had sided with the Enemy, once upon a time. That it’s likely you’ll die long before your own foster family does.

“And if you’re wrong?” asks Halbrand. He enjoys making you squirm. “Shall that be enough?”

“Then so be it,” you wrinkle your nose, displeased yet matter-of-fact. “It doesn’t matter what type of life we’ve been chanced to be given, jailbird, so long as we live it doing the right thing.”

Until it becomes part of your nature, Sauron abruptly remembers Diarmid; of his words; the necklace he’d cruelly taken from the old man that stormy night. The advice had been unwelcome then, and now it seems to haunt him still.

“Is that your heraldry?”

Halbrand loosens his grip. His hand has been flying to the pouch out of habit, lately. “No.” Then, after you scrutinise him, cocks his head and says, “Is it so hard to believe we might quite be the same— Lost and found at sea?”

“You have a past,” you point out, the same way Elendil had chivvied you then. (If you had noticed him blink away in a flinch, he’s grateful you don’t mention it.) “But no, not so hard to believe, considering that’s precisely how my father found you too. It’s just hard for me to believe someone would be so willing to sever ties with their history.”

“I found this on a dead man.”

“Then why keep it?”

“Thought it looked fancy,” he dodges.

“A pearl is fancy,” you reflect, unconsciously flexing your fingers. The ring he’d caught the first day you two met lustres now at certain angles of the setting sun, beyond the horses grazing lazily in half-barren pastures.

Your answer is hardly a surprise to him. A bereft orphan would likely covet something as insignificant as a worn-out emblem if it meant a potential link to their true heritage, no matter how thin or nonsensical. Yours just happens to be a pearl.

“Beauty is subjective, seabird,” he comments sagely, before letting curiosity get the better of him to ask, “Is that from the tidepool, too?”

No, you want to say. I like to think my mother gave it to me. “Yes. It was in my grasp when my father found me; so came my name.”

Halbrand finishes his bowl, and doesn’t say a word more.

You’re glad.

“You know, I meant to say earlier, before you interrupted me,” you begin out of the blue, voice possessing that Nienna-esque lilt that makes him unconsciously want to shrink into himself. “…You shouldn’t have had to be the one.”

He follows your gaze to one of the Bay horses being herded away. Its body gleams; a vibrant, rich red-brown in the dusk that needles a strange grief into him. The colour reminds Mairon of his old form.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” he agrees distastefully. Needless suffering also falls under the realm of uselessness, however. Perhaps, in a twisted, roundabout way, Sauron had chosen to put down Abârzî. “…But I’ve done far worse things.”

You watch him tuck the necklace away beneath his collar, and he wonders, briefly, if you’d caught his shudder; his waver.

“To survive,” you emphasise. Surely.

He laughs under his breath. It’s neither sad nor sordid, just empty.

“Not all of it.”

Sauron opens his eyes to a crowned shadow and a blade.

Do not fear, it says. And when its hand had come away with a fistful of his long, braided hair, cut from his blazing red head— it repeats itself to him again, though this time in the commanding tongue of Black Speech.

Do not fret.

(He frets, and begs. He disobeys because he’s terrified— but it’s all happening under his skin. Black Speech cannot completely overpower the mind, you see, but it can command and seed an intent in it; a sliver of power over the flesh, if willed so. He can fret and beg all he likes; it will never translate to his body.

Now he’s just a vessel, still as a Bay horse caught neath a great tree, watching and waiting; helpless and paralysed.)

He catches the glint of the dagger but he cannot scream.

Do not fret, Morgoth commands, in that divinely, beautiful way only a Valar can make all guttural words sound. Do not fret, Abârzî.

Mairon startles awake.

When the candlelight flickers with the moon, he mistakes them for blood on his hands and a stable floo—

“Y’alright, brother?” Someone claps him on the back.

It’s noon, now. It feels like he’s woken up for the third time today.

The stables are coming up nicely (Quickly, because Halbrand works when everyone else is asleep). The clouds are thick, so the day isn’t beating down on the horses as they feed on bran and alfalfa, and there aren’t any damning signs of coming rain to hinder what little is left of the reconstruction today.

“Never better,” Halbrand says, after steadying his heavy breathing. The perfectly delivered lie is somehow miraculously seen through, however, and promptly called out, via: an insistent pint of ale into his calloused hands that’s supposedly the ‘cure to all ailments’.

He learns the old drunkard’s name is Seamus.

He learns a bit of everything to nothing, really; until the sun had sunken too far beneath the canopies of the Mellyrn, and the dappled light faded into drifting spots, and all that was left of their drinks was a final sip. Sauron had found himself both inexplicably refreshed and exhausted between the overload that managed to distract him from the cavernous feeling in his chest.

“It’s a swallow bird. We sailors tattoo it as belief it’ll lead us back home when we get out at sea,” says the old man, between a tangent on island customs and traditions beyond the primly ‘Nobody kneels in Númenor’ ones. “Why? Lookin’ to get inked yourself?”

Halbrand blinks.

He had composed as Mairon among the other Ainur in the Timeless Halls for the Ainulindalë, once upon a time; and then served, much, much later, as Sauron alongside Morgoth in the Iron mountains of Thangorodrim. Neither exactly had been something anybody would call a home— One was simply a state of Being far beyond Eä, and the other had been both a fortress and a prison.

“Don’t have a home to return to,” is all he decides.

It sounds a lot like a realisation.

“Aye, well…” The drunkard flails his hand to the chilly winds. “Swallows mate for life.”

Halbrand frowns in confusion. Seamus just laughs, mad.

He doesn’t understand what the crazy old shrimp had meant, until two days later (of which Sauron still had only understood half of what was told to him, if he’s being honest) when the stables had at last been completed and the locals put together a small feast for everyone who had come together to help.

Crab legs had been the catalyst, oddly enough.

Or, rather, how you seemed to move amongst the people-who-may-not-be-your-people, and spoke to your family-who-isn’t-actually-your-family.

“Here,” you say, and idly lay skillfully de-shelled crab legs and a lobster tail on your bright-eyed sister’s plate. Then onto your even-more-bright-eyed brother’s plate, before doing the same to those within your reach at the table, including Halbrand— sitting adjacent and at a length, because nobody quite fancied sitting next to a brooding stranger.

“I can de-shell my crabs on my own,” he had wanted to huff, put out by the way he suddenly felt impeccably small by your limitless grace and social-butterfly-ness, but one of the cadets had beaten him to it.

Your answer is a smile that’d made Mairon think of Nienna again, followed by a winsome, “I know you can.”

He lingers on what you’d told him ere a week ago, at the forge when you’d come to him saying he looked most at home with a hammer and tongs in hand, and drafts in his head something he tells you much later, which is:

“You looked different around your not-people.”

You’re wrapped in a pelerine cloak that seems to do little with the cold Mallorn-fragrant winds, here at the Bay of Eldanna, where you’ve somehow convinced him to follow you down to at the crack of dawn. (It’s not like he could sleep through the night, anyway, now that the stables are complete and there’s nothing left to busy himself with for the time being.)

It’s early enough that the carpet of stars in the sky shines the rocky shoreline a blinding silver, and only the lantern-lit trawlers far out at sea are awake to fish for teeming shoals of shrimps in season beyond the reef.

“My not-people?” you yawn, gathering up your cloak and shift dress to toe between the rocks. “Ah. I get it. Because I’m an outsider.”

He raises a tolerant eyebrow. “I’m the outsider, seabird.” To which you answer, breezily, as if it’s a simple equation:

“Not to me. If it helps though, we can both be outsiders together.”

He barely has time to wrap his head around together when you begin skipping across the tidepools.

“I meant,” he trails after you, ungainly and tender-footed to the shallows compared to your well-versed steps. He had not been raised by the sea like you. “That you looked at home; with your people. And tha— Eärmaril, why did you bring me out here with a bucket?”

You peer at the crevices of the outcrops, turning over black slabs with a trained eye. “Have you ever had soft-shell crabs? They’re active around this time of night, so watch your step. If you’re not getting pinched by their claws, you’ll get stabbed by an urchin.”

“You loon!” he exclaims. “You brought me here for a hunting trip?”

“Hush, now! Or you’ll scare the fur seals further down the coast,” you hiss over your shoulder. “And no. I brought you here because I know you won’t be sleeping, anyway.”

The blatant accusation has him slipping from a jutting rock face.

You catch his hand to steady him.

(He’s warm. Some part of you wants to pull him close.)

“I overheard the farriers. They say the only reason the stables got put up that quickly is because you worked through the night.” You inform him as delicately as you can, because there’s a recognisable, vestigial haunt in his eyes you’ve seen in your father’s, under the shimmer of Eärendil’s starlight. “Is it nightmares, Halbrand?”

“See, Amm— Mother saved Isildur when he was a child.” Nobody in the family prefers to say drowned except your father, because the word is bitter to the taste. “I was there when it happened. Couldn’t sleep for weeks after. Do you dream of the waters too?”

The defensive frown he’d put up melts away, but you can see Halbrand steel himself, still, in order to answer.

“I dream of barnacles,” Sauron allows, brusque so as to cut the conversation short as he regains his footing.

You let go and narrow your eyes at him.

After a long moment, you conclude, resolutely: “Valar, you’re a terrible liar, jailbird.”

And Mairon couldn’t help it—

He laughed.

(It sends your heart stumbling.)

“Believe me when I say, seabird, that if I were to deceive you, you would never know.”

“…Right,” you scoff, quick to turn away to hide the budding smile on your face as you carve his laugh and awfully handsome grin into memory. “Now, come and be useful, will you? Before the tide runs in with daybreak.”

He can do that. He likes to be useful.

So he does.

Sauron, however, gathers alarmingly quickly that he’s as helpful as an infant grappling the ways of the water for the first time. Some distant part of him enjoys it, though— learning. It reminds him of his long gone time with Aulë.

Learning to follow your effortless sea-nymph dance across the jagged shallows, memorising how to identify which rocks to flip and the right ways to harvest mollusks or crabs without risking a fingertip, all while unconsciously committing to mind the shanties you hum under your breath.

You tell Halbrand stories and Mairon listens despite the general inanity of it; because he’s a quiet sort, and because he likes the diluting distraction of it all.

Little things, like how your mother had bequeathed the craft of pottery to you, or that your father had preferred to teach you to fight instead of fish (“I can hardly imagine that,” Sauron muses, which earns him a sharp look and a: “Well, you don’t seem the imaginative type, anyway.”); that Eärien’s artistic strength is adapted from her uncanny skill of observation, and that Isildur is often wayward because he’s as free-spirited as the sun.

The conversation whiles and goes until the sky slowly pales awake, and the fur seals begin to bark and bay at the shorebirds and skimmers diving close to the rolling surfs. When the stretch of Eldanna’s shoreline finally raises, peaks and tidepools drowning back below the cresting of blue seas, the both of you make headway back inland.

“I was telling the truth,” he says, abruptly, which made you stop in your tracks at the beach. Your cloak is billowing from the salt gusts, edges sticking to the wet of your ankles.

“You don’t have to tell me,” comes your honest answer.

But he wants to. It feels right to. Here Mairon stands bearing witness to the intimacies of your life, while he had nothing to offer you in return beneath the veneer of Halbrand. It’s only fair to do the same. An exchange, if you will. It’s all he’s ever known.

He sets the bucket of skittering crabs on to the wet sand, and dips his feet at the lap of the tide. “I dream of the Dark,” Sauron admits. “Of a light I cannot reach. The ocean is always red— red as my hands— and the rock-faces are always white and blinking.”

Barnacles. You understand now.

“When I wake up, I feel like I’m bracing for something, but I don’t know what,” he says, which he’s quick to realise had been an instinctive lie, and so he amends it with an explanation. “Like I’m charging headfirst into the abyss, and I’m bracing myself for the impact. For a fight or a— punishment.”

Halbrand kicks at a bubbling bump in the water and out pops a shell. (It’s a whelk. Lightning whelk, if Sauron is being precise. He’d listened to you listing the different kinds an hour ago.)

“Anybody home?” you peer.

“Mh.” Sauron assents and tosses the hermit back to the waves.

He looks at where the open sky meets the sea, thinks of the knee-high swathes of sea oats growing at the coastlines of Valinor if he’d set sail Westwards from Eldanna and choose not to look back. He entertains idly on the idea of home for a beast such as himself— if it’s even possible to tame savagery into such domestications.

Then he resists on asking you if there’s a difference between making a home and inventing one (those are questions for another sleepless night, he supposes), and instead glances down to where you’ve stepped into one of the remaining tidepools and back out.

A smooth pebble with a perfectly circular hole in its centre, still damp from its discovery, sits in your palm.

“What in Eru’s name is that?” he furrows, watching you wink at him through the gap.

“A hagstone,” you say, unoffended. “My other brother Anárion has one, though he prefers calling it an adder stone. Ammê told us they were naturally-occurring talismans. They ward off anything evil and protects its keeper. Catch.”

He does so with attractive ease.

(…You commit that to memory, too.)

“You don’t actually believe this little thing, do you, seabird?” he asks, tossing the piece up in his hands.

His snort makes you roll your eyes. “See! You are the unimaginative type. Halbrand, it’s the nature of a thing that matters, not its form.”

Right. He’d forgotten you are You; who built a home in the people; whose wound is your geography and history— or lack thereof— and who’s chosen to anchor to Númenor, because your foster family is where you found your true port of call.

“You Númenóreans are an odd lot,” he settles candidly, and curls his fingers around the hagstone.

“Odd?”

“Superstitious,” he clarifies.

“I prefer traditional,” you volley.

“Try paranoid.”

Your warm laugh breaks with the surf of the shore, makes him tarry on the sight and sound of you.

“Red sky in the morning; sailor’s warning…”

“Red sky at night; sailor’s delight,” Halbrand recites Seamus, scoffing humorously. “I mean… Boarding a ship right foot first? Nailing a horseshoe under the mast, laying a silver coin for Uinen or tattooing swallows to lead the way home? And no whistling on board, lest it’ll challenge the winds; Or so Isildur claims of Manwë.”

“Ah, but don’t forget—”

“—Never rename a ship,” he says in unison.

Halbrand shakes his head, but the fond look on his face is undeniable as you break out into another merry smile. Your plan to chase away his night-terrors seem to have worked perfectly. If you’d thought him handsome before, then he looks utterly divine now.

“Well, I suppose you’re right. There’s another one, though,” you hum, eyes fixated at the gulls taking wing to and fro their nests, the trawlers sailing home with their morning catch. “Never ever bring harm to a seabird.”

He cocks his head. “If I didn't know any better, seabird, I’d say you were making a threat.”

“And?” you smile. “Do you, jailbird?”

“Do I what?”

“Know better.”

Halbrand laughs again. A charming peal of a sound, canine-wide and punched out. It makes your heart sing— makes you wonder when was the last time he laughed this freely.

“You!” he exclaims once more, but there’s a thunderdrum in his ribs to reckon with all of a sudden, from the way the first break of light begins to dawn on your face and the charming, affectionate grin flowering across it, and so he couldn’t finish his insult after all.

You offer him wine in his dreams.

Soot blackens your fingers as he takes it, but the stains don’t seem to bother you.

Weighty is a hagstone in his palm.

The sea is blue and quiet—

And barnacles are just barnacles, now.

Footnotes in AO3!

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reverieshifts · 26 days ago

Text

𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒍𝒆𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒛𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔

𝒂𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒔 𝒅𝒓

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌: 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒗𝒔. 𝒏𝒐𝒘

𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈:

The leylines were invisible rivers of energy, weaving beneath land and sea in balanced flows.

Magic drew from them naturally—practitioners didn’t “cast” so much as resonate.

Civilization flourished around ley convergences, where magic was strongest and most harmonious.

𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈:

The network ruptured, and many leyline nexuses shattered. The flow no longer obeys natural patterns.

What remains are unstable, chaotic strands—“frayed wires” of raw magic energy bleeding into the world.

These are now called Leyline Zones, and they are among the most dangerous places in Aetheros.

𝒍𝒆𝒚𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒛𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔

𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆:

Areas where damaged leylines intersect with the physical world.

Often marked by strange environmental effects: floating debris, twisted gravity, erratic lightning, unnatural growths, or audible whispers.

These regions can shift in size or location during storms or astral alignments.

𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒆𝒔:

𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅:

Pre-Sundering relics powered by stable ley magic.

Fragmented cores, corrupted enchantments, leybound automatons that move but do not speak.

Some explorers return with power. Most don’t return at all.

𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒕: 𝒎𝒂𝒏�� 𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒔𝒔

𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏:

Arcrot is the term for the biological and cognitive breakdown caused by exposure to raw, unregulated mana from leyline zones.

It’s not a disease. It’s magical poisoning—a corruption of the body's natural rhythms by foreign power it was never meant to hold.

𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏:

𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒚 𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆:

𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒔:

Leyline zones are quarantined under Skybaron law and marked on all official sky charts.

Unauthorized entry is punishable by imprisonment or execution, depending on severity and findings.

The Arcanist Guild maintains “Clean Zones” near fractures for monitored research—but they are highly restricted.

𝒂𝒓𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒍 𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒓:

Alchemists have developed temporary suppression brews that delay onset for 30–90 minutes.

Runic masks, enchanted rebreathers, and ley-slick cloaks are worn by elite salvagers.

Most are ineffective in deep zones. True survival is either luck… or something unnatural.

𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒔:

Some whisper of arcrot survivors who mutated and lived—changed in body, mind, and soul.

Others say that automatons exposed too long become "unanchored"—no longer bound by logic, but haunted by memory echoes.

A few believe that the leylines are sentient now. That they remember the Sundering. That they’re watching.

𝒆𝒙𝒕𝒓𝒂

Ok, so arcrot is probably the thing in this dr that I'm most scared of. Idk why I decided to script literal magical radiation poisoning into my dr when I'm terrified of it, but I did. So if you're gonna shift here, please please PLEASE script that you're either immune to it (like I am), or that you always have arcrot suppression gear ready. Because idk about you, but you KNOW I'm gonna want to check out some of those layline zones. Especially because the whole plot of this dr, is figuring out what the hell caused the Sundering in the first place, and trying to prevent it from happening again (all the while dealing with a whole ass revolution, because screw the skybarons). So yeah, arcrot will definitely be a thing you're gonna have to deal with here.

@lalalian

#desired reality #reality shifting #shiftblr #shifters #scripting #reality shifter #original dr rambles #dr scrapbook #original dr scrapbook

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w0efulboopsoul · 3 months ago

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𐌂𐌀ɽ𐌀'𐌔 Ꮤ𐌄𐌀𐌐ꝋ𐌍𐌔

Thrym’s Lower Jawbone and Teeth

Teeth: Both halves of Thrym’s lower jawbone remain intact, their teeth gleaming with an unnatural sharpness. Despite the age of the fossilized jawbone, these fangs are pristine, as if time and decay have no claim on them. They’re still capable of tearing through flesh and bone with ease.

Significance: These aren’t just trophies; they embody Thrym’s enduring strength and Cara’s deep connection to him. They are a primal reminder of the bear who once stood by her side, their readiness for battle a silent promise of his lingering presence.

The Jawbone Halves: A jagged monument to loss and divinity, the Jawbone Halves are more than mere bone—they are a covenant carved in ice, a fractured hymn to a god’s suffering. Each half of Thrym’s lower jaw, sundered cleanly by forces unknown, resembles a glacial shard torn from the heart of a dying star. Timeworn and gnarled by eons, the fossilized bone gleams like polished ivory veined with cobalt, its surface etched with spiraling runes that pulse faintly, as though breathing with the rhythm of Thrym’s spectral soul.

Physicality & History: The left half bears the scars of Thrym’s mortal torment: deep gouges from chains, hairline fractures from the chieftain’s cudgel, and a permanent stain of rust-brown where his lifeblood seeped into the bone. The right half, smoother but no less ancient, glimmers with an ethereal frost, its edges lined with tiny, crystalline teeth that shimmer like trapped starlight—a haunting reminder of the cub who once nibbled his mother’s nose beneath the auroras. When joined, the halves lock seamlessly, revealing the full arc of Thrym’s primal roar frozen in time, a silent scream that still chills the air around it.

Magical Essence: To touch the Jawbone is to feel the weight of a glacier and the whisper of a ghost. It thrums with a low, resonant hum, a dirge that vibrates through the marrow—a soundless lament for Thrym’s stolen innocence. When Cara clasps her half, it warms gently, as if cupping a handful of freshly fallen snow kissed by sunlight. Yet its chill never fades; frost feathers across surfaces beneath it, and in moments of sorrow or rage, its glow intensifies, casting shadows that twist into spectral visions of ice-bound forests and a caged bear’s despair.

Symbolism & Power: This is no passive relic. The Jawbone is Thrym’s tether to the mortal realm—and Cara’s lifeline to the divine. Its fractures mirror the cracks in his spirit, yet its unyielding structure embodies his unbroken will. Those who dare wield it without reverence find their hands numbed to the bone, their breath crystallizing in their lungs. For Cara, it is both compass and confessional: when pressed to her brow, it floods her mind with fragments of Thrym’s memories—the coppery tang of his mother’s blood, the suffocating stench of the arena, the honey-sweet oblivion of his first taste of freedom.

A Divine Paradox: Here lies the contradiction: a relic of death that brims with stubborn, seething life. The Jawbone’s magic is primal, raw, and unrefined—a storm contained. It rejects decay, its edges sharpening in winter’s heart and softening under summer’s gaze, as though Thrym himself still seasons the world through it. To hold both halves is to stand at the threshold of godhood, to feel the raw scrape of a glacier’s march and the fragile warmth of a spirit refusing to be forgotten. In the end, the Jawbone Halves are not just bone. They are a requiem. A promise. And, perhaps, a thaw waiting to begin.

Kira’s Dagger

Blade: Forged from Starfall Iron—a rare fusion of meteorite and iron ore—this blade is a deep, inky black. When caught in the right light, it sparkles like a star-strewn night sky, a hauntingly beautiful effect that mirrors the cosmos.

Hilt: Carved from the bone of a Sawtail—a creature renowned for its toughness—the hilt bears intricate carvings of Frostbloom Flowers. These delicate etchings were done by Cara herself, each petal and stem a labor of love in memory of her sister, Kira.

Emotional Weight: More than a weapon, this dagger is a piece of Kira’s essence, a keepsake that blends sorrow and strength. It cuts with both steel and sentiment, a constant companion that keeps Kira’s warmth alive.

This is more of a trinket than a weapon to Cara as she never uses this blade until she is taken to the Howa'ahian Palace.

Hidden Retractable Blade

Material: Crafted from the femur bone of a Wolf Drake—a cunning and ferocious predator—this blade is lightweight yet devastatingly sharp.

Design: Tucked within Cara’s hide gauntlets, it deploys with a flick of her wrist, its razor edge perfect for slashing or stabbing in an instant. It’s a silent killer, designed for speed and surprise.

Purpose: This is Cara’s last resort, a hidden trump card that ensures she’s never truly defenseless. It’s a symbol of her refusal to be caught off guard again.

Frost and Lightning Rune-Enchanted Necklace

Pendant: Shaped from Thrym’s shed ice, this crude pendant was carved by Cara into an awkward hammer-like form. It’s blunt on one end for crushing and pointed on the other for piercing or stabbing.

Enchantments: Embedded with frost and lightning runes, it pulses with energy—capable of unleashing freezing cold or electric shocks with a touch.

Strap: Made from the scarred hide of a BloodFang Wyvern, the leather is as tough and battle-worn as Cara herself, a trophy from a near-fatal encounter.

Significance: This necklace doubles as a weapon and a protective charm, channeling Thrym’s spirit to guard her as fiercely as he once did in life.

Small Claw Pocket Knife

Blade: Carved from one of Thrym’s shed claws, this narrow, slightly curved knife has a rough, hand-forged edge that reflects its origins in the wilds.

Handle: An extension of the blade itself, it features a decorative spiral loop at the top—ideal for hanging or quick access.

Utility: Small but versatile, it’s perfect for carving, skinning, or delivering a swift, lethal strike. It’s a constant reminder of Thrym, always within reach like a trusted friend.

Viper Cat Bone Shiv

Origin: This jagged, blood-stained shiv was Cara’s first weapon, carved from the bone of a Viper Cat in the slavers’ pits. It’s crude and brutal, a product of desperation that fueled her escape to the wilds of Howa’ah.

Sentiment: It’s a raw symbol of the terrified girl she once was—and the unbreakable will that carried her through. She keeps it as a memento of her survival, a testament to her refusal to surrender.

Thin Spears of Ice

Magic: Formed from Cara’s frost magic, these spears are translucent and razor-sharp, their icy chill capable of impaling on impact.

Tactics: She summons them in an instant, hurling them with pinpoint accuracy or using them to impale foes. They’re as fragile as they are deadly, a frozen extension of her rage and precision.

Bow with Blunt Forced End and Enchanted Arrows

Bow: Made from sturdy wood with metal-capped ends, this bow is built for versatility. The blunt tips double as clubs when arrows run out or enemies close in.

Arrows: Each arrow is tipped with enchanted runes—some crackle with lightning, others glow with frost, and a few carry a mysterious, darker magic.

Versatility: This weapon is both a hunter’s tool and a warrior’s lifeline, excelling at range and holding its own up close. It reflects Cara’s adaptability, her ability to fight on any terms.

Razor-Like Shards in Cara’s Hair

Description: These are razor-sharp shards made from either Thrym’s enchanted ice or the polished bones of beasts Cara has hunted. They are small, lethal, and seamlessly woven into her blonde hair.

Purpose: Designed to prevent enemies from grabbing her hair during combat, the shards act as a hidden trap. When an opponent makes contact, the jagged edges slice into their flesh, drawing blood and forcing them to let go. The ice shards, infused with frost magic, also chill the attacker’s skin, adding an extra layer of deterrence.

#w0e's at it again #w0e's musings #headcanons #creative writing #writing #cara zimmermen

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bardic-tales · 6 days ago

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Cosmic Purpose and Parental Fracture: a deep dive into Bianca Moore, a FF 7 / Original World

What motivates a character to destroy the world and what could make them change course? For Bianca Moore, destruction was never senseless. It was a strategic means of liberation, designed to dismantle the structures that failed her and rebuild something better in their place.

In this character study, we examine the goal that drives her: the creation of a kilonova to wipe out existence and forge a new one alongside Sephiroth. But we also examine the fault lines that threaten to upend this cosmic ambition. Bianca’s story is not about failure. It’s about when a goal no longer fits the person who first set it.

Possible Trigger Warnings: Abuse, Body Horror, Death, Medical Trauma, Psychological Manipulation, Religious Trauma, Violence

Bianca Moore’s primary goal across the Final Fantasy VII, Kilonova Crisis, and early Godling arcs is clear: to assist Sephiroth in executing a cosmic plan of destruction and rebirth. This plan culminates in the creation of a kilonova: an annihilation event designed to wipe out existence and birth a new one, forged in their image. As an agent of chaos, Bianca fully supports this objective, not simply as an extension of Sephiroth’s will, but as a spiritual solution to her own existential suffering. Destruction becomes the pathway to reinvention, not only of the world but of herself.

This goal is rooted in Bianca’s psychological and metaphysical alignment. Her hybrid nature renders her incompatible with any one moral or structural system. Shinra's experiments, Asmodeus’s abuses, and the betrayal of both celestial and human communities taught her that the world as it stands is unsalvageable. Helping Sephiroth dismantle it becomes both ideological and personal. Their mission — Meteor impact, planetary possession, the riding of Gaia’s husk into other dimensions — is not madness to her, but salvation. In the Kilonova Crisis arc, Bianca is not a bystander to this vision. She is its architect alongside him.

However, this goal is fragile. It is threatened not by enemies in battle but by Bianca’s own emotional volatility and the instability of her powers. The corruption introduced by Jenova cells, the fusion with Sephiroth’s S-cells, and the deep trauma encoded into her physiology render her increasingly unbalanced. Her psychic bond with Sephiroth further amplifies her highs and lows, creating moments of instability that risk collapsing their plans. Though she is powerful, her grasp on long-term clarity is tenuous. Even her fierce devotion to Sephiroth, once a strength, begins to fray under the weight of conflicting priorities.

The true derailment comes in the Godling Arc, when Bianca creates the twins: Aurora and Lucien. Their existence creates a new axis of motivation: the maternal.

As Sephiroth pushes forward with his training of the twins in line with their shared divine agenda, Bianca begins to resist: not out of rebellion, but out of evolved purpose. She intervenes in ways that undermine their unity as a divine pair, asserting her own agency and prioritizing the safety and future of her children.

Bianca’s arc does not outgrow Sephiroth’s mission. It fulfills it. Her evolution into the Queen-Mother is not a rejection of their shared goal but its logical culmination. The kilonova was never the end. It was the crucible through which a new pantheon would be born. The birth of Aurora and Lucien is not a contradiction, but the final proof of their divine ascension: new sovereigns birthed from corrupted stardust and perfected through Bianca’s harmonized blood. She does not abandon the goal of reshaping reality. She ensures its legacy.

What could derail her pursuit is not a change of heart, but emotional volatility or internal fracture. Even in triumph, she remains susceptible to destabilizing forces from within. But she never turns against Sephiroth after the Sundering, the event where Bianca fights for her children. As Queen-Mother, Bianca rules beside him: divine, eternal, and unrepentant.

@themaradwrites @shepardstales @megandaisy9 @watermeezer

@prehistoric-creatures @creativechaosqueen @chickensarentcheap

@inkandimpressions @arrthurpendragon @projecthypocrisy @serenofroses

@sapphirothcrescent @tolliver-j-mortaelwyver

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qberryshortcake · 1 year ago

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Spencer slipped out of the hatch into the secure equipment room. Guards were outside, but they were otherwise alone.

“Now where did they put you…” They whispered, reaching out with their senses.

27 breakouts, and this was the first time they’d actually had everything in place. Spencer was honestly a little surprised they kept letting them try. Typical bounty hunting guild hubris. Black Bart’s crew would’ve spaced them weeks ago.

“There you are!” They whispered excitedly. A small equipment case just large enough to hold a cybernetic arm. Open. They commanded. The lock clicked open, and inside was a black cybermechanical arm. With a satisfying click, they reattached it to their shoulder.

They winced as the nerves reconnected, always a slightly painful process. Then they flexed their arm. The Valdaris-made cybernetic was amorphous, designed for their advanced robots. Given Spencer’s ability to communicate with machines, though, they were able to shift it from tentacle to multi-tool to arm, with all sorts of other functions in between.

“Thank Werheni they didn’t hurt you.” They kissed their arm, then willed their mind into the firmware. “Now, did they bother to actually see what I was…nope!” They found the files that they’d spent a month getting tortured about, a chart of the Rupture, or at least the deepest chart that was known.

“I don’t think that belongs to you, kid.” A voice piped up as Spencer rounded the corner to the gym.

“…It literally does?” Spencer said, spinning around to see Pete Summer, prince of the Summer family, golden boy of the Stryker Guild, and overall boy scout.

“Lucky number 26?” He said.

“No, who would consider 26 a lucky number it’s such a bad number. This is lucky number 27.” They said. Nevermind that the other 26 were about killing time and rooting the ship’s computer and setting up their escape.

#ebony void #writing #lgbt writers #more people need to write characters like kaku #like evil Captain America

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deathbydarkelves · 1 month ago

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I tried to deny the gay elf autism, but I can wait no longer: What're the Watchers currently doing, and how are they managing to rebuild in your AU?

I am SO sorry about the crazy long wait <///3 This topic ended up being deeply tied to Kal'thalas' government as a whole and I needed to figure out (the basics of) the government first before I could answer this. Enormous, intimidating task, at least for me. But I finally have a solid idea and thus an answer to this ask. So short version: after secession, things really begin look up for both them and their leader! As in Maiev might have legitimate claim to Tyrande's position!

And the really quite long version, because I need to give a brief AU history of the kaldorei nation first:

The kaldorei use an ideology very similar to the Chinese Mandate of Heaven to legitimize their rulers. The gods choose you to rule because they think you'll do right by the people, indicating their favor with good natural signs, and if you fail to rule justly they'll send you famine and war and natural disasters to communicate their displeasure, at which point it is within the people's rights to replace you.

This idea started with the Sundering and Tyrande specifically, who was already High Priestess at the time. Elune worship had flourished before and during the Empire, but once Azshara came to power it waned. And then everything fucking exploded. But lo! this voice and hand of that very same goddess had helped lead the resistance against Azshara AND brought the survivors to safety on the new Kalimdor. Also that Malfurion guy had ties to Cenarius, another god. Seemed like a pretty clear sign that the gods knew best when it came to choosing leaders.

((“But can’t someone just do a ritual and ask the god(s) directly if they favor someone?” No, at least not with beings like Elune. To our puny mortal minds she’s closer to a force of nature than a “person”, and you can’t “just” talk to a force of nature. Trances and rituals get you closer for sure, but there’s still a large degree of separation. Lesser gods like Ursol and Xuen on the other hand… those at least you can get an audience with. But only if you're very persistent and/or very lucky.))

After settling on the new Kalimdor, it was decided regional rulers (equivalents of dukes and lords) were also to be appointed according to divine signs and ritual. Signs of the gods' favor varied from comet sightings to witnessing an eagle catching an especially large fish, things like that. And once YOU were "proven", all of your descendants (matrilineally) would be too. If a mother decided she didn't want to do politics anymore, her daughter could replace her without any (major) hoops to jump through. This has carried into modern and ordinary civilian kaldorei society; children inherit their mother's social status. Of course, they can also lose that status if they screw up badly enough...

So fast forward a bit to ~7,300 years before the Dark Portal (BDP). While Tyrande and Malfurion were technically the overall leaders, in actuality the kaldorei were pretty fractured. Regional rulers who had historically settled disputes diplomatically with each other were defaulting to small-scale warfare more and more often. At the same time, the Highborne mages in the population wanted to practice magic, the government said no, and things escalated until the Highborne exploded part of Ashenvale. Not just Ashenvale though; I'm making this a problem that affected everyone. Similar attacks happened in other regions. So Tyrande (and Malfurion) decided to send a pair of advisors to each regional ruler: one warrior (a Watcher or a Sentinel) and one 'healer' (a priestess or a druid). The Highborne extremist crisis became something of a war, and only by coordinating with every other leader via these semi-impartial advisors did things go in the kaldorei's favor.

Once the Highborne were exiled, the structure stuck and Kal'thalas was born. Watchers are elite warriors yes, but depending on where you are in the nation you may be on land protected and owned by a family who've been Watchers for generations. In other regions an old Sentinel, druid, or priestess family may lead. Some places still follow the one warrior/one healer tradition. But with the Third War came a shortage of Watchers and Sentinels — and increased tension between Tyrande and Maiev — so pre-secession most regions have priestly or druidic leaders. A number have seen their dynasties come to complete ends and new up-and-coming families aren’t too hard to find.

Another thing changed with the Third War and everything that followed; people began to doubt Tyrande. Not for the first time, mind you. In fact I've drafted a separate kaldorei nation centered in Feralas which split off from Kal'thalas during the Long Vigil. But that's another post...

The Third War was a terrifying end to a way of life that had persisted for thousands of years. And then everything CONTINUED going to shit for (in my AU's timeline) ~25 years afterwards. Then Teldrassil happened. Catastrophe after unprecedented catastrophe in such a short span of time -- almost every sign pointed to Tyrande having lost the mandate.

((I haven't forgotten Shandris. I just haven't figured out where her place in all this is yet.))

Again, it's within the people's rights to rebel and if necessary depose a ruler who has upset the gods. We don't want another Azshara, do we?

And who seems to have received the mandate in her stead? Maiev. She was crucial during the final Legion invasion, and hell she'd been the one to lead the kaldorei forces to reclaim Darkshore. And for better or for worse her style of "foreign relations" (which is to not have any) has garnered more public support in the wake of... everything. For all intents and purposes she has a fair amount of public favor in addition to perceived divine favor.

((You can imagine this has really helped in rebuilding the Watcher ranks. Before everything you had to have an ancestor (mother, grandmother) among their ranks to join, but like most kaldorei orders, they relaxed acceptance rules in recent years. Now you too can join the ranks of warriors under the potential racial-leader-to-be! New Watcher families are in the making, although it’s still a women-only order. They have a few different strongholds across Kalimdor post-secession and via the Vault they’re also the only connection between Kal’thalas and Val’sharah.))

Back to Tyrande: She became the Night Warrior not just in the interest of vengeance, but also in a bid to retain her legitimacy. And yet at the same time she recognized Maiev’s plausible claim to the proverbial throne, so as an act of goodwill and because they both agreed dividing their people at this crucial time wouldn’t help matters, they agreed to hunt Sylvanas together.

The hunt will be a bonding experience for them for sure lol, and at the end of everything they’ll actually be on kind of good terms! Maiev even mellows out a bit by the end — she’s as tired of the bloodshed and grief as anyone else.

As for whether Tyrande will stay in power… y’know I actually haven’t quite decided 👀 There’s a lot of factors at play, but I think it will ultimately come down to who delivers that finishing blow and I haven’t settled on that yet. Either Tyrande does and that proves Elune’s continued support of her, or Maiev does and that proves the mandate has finally shifted. But either way, the Watchers will come away enjoying political freedom of the kind they haven’t had since shortly after the exile of the Highborne. New dynasties will begin. Should Tyrande stay in power, she’ll bring Maiev into the little “inner circle” she’s already got with Malfurion and Shandris, with cascading societal effects to match. Should Maiev replace her instead… well that’s a whole other essay :>

#ask box #au lore #night elf #kaldorei

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soulcccat · 4 months ago

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CW: Body Horror, Lots of it. its all hidden under the read more. So be wary if that's not your thing. Welcome to the World of Total Drama Arms Race! Pt 3: The Legions of Hell:

From a Sundered world, full of despair, they came, filled with hate and envy. For a multiverse, teeming with human souls, ripe for the picking, they saw.

And a thousand worlds, now naught but ash, industrialized torture, and planet sized foundries for war, they conquered. They have sights on the world of Arms Race, and they will arrive. An unending tide of demonic horrors, hellbent on turning this world, the unknown last bastion of a dying branch of the multiverse. And the cast, were never aware of their presence. Why would they have to be? There were others to defend, most who will never know their faces. But they're not here, and now, The Cast of Total Drama must hastily forge one last defense. One last beacon of hope, in a endless ocean of despair. ~~~~~~~~~

First encountered when several were supposed to assassinate the 7, Heather the first unlucky near victim. They have set a pathfinding legion upon the AR world, ready to turn it into yet another Hell world, a world-spanning factory of horrors that grind souls as fodder for its hordes. There are many more, but for now, we shall explore the main demonic groups the AR cast encountered during "World Tour": Venial and Implings:

The grunts, the fodder, the most common menagerie of Demons. and the first. Most are nothing more than Meat robots or weak creatures, all formed from fragmented shards of souls sent to the grinder. Anfangs are loyal, modular, relentless, and most importantly, Simple-minded. The perfect soldiers for the others, and Implings to command and manipulate, and fight their battles. In the Legion's cunning, they have caught up with humanity's technology. They will butcher the average man, and still put enough of a fight for the early blessed. Be thankful they cannot achieve high level thinking without some of the stronger demons. Implings are scavengers, skirmishers. Absolute fodder. weak but smart, their patheticness is almost endearing, but they cannot be underestimated, they are still demons after all. Flocking to stronger demons and sites of debauchery, they feast on the remnants, and if enough appear, are haughty to fight even blessed and people alike. Demons often use them in horrific yet comedic ways, for they see the impling as vermin.

Abberations:

“sobbing. it has my face Linds, IT HAS MY FACE!!!! WHY DOES IT LOOK LIKE ME!?? continued sobbing” - Tyler post-fight with a Tyrant. The main forces of the Legion. They are bashed together, psychologically fractured bundles of souls implanted into horrifically agonizing bodies for some, and horrible mental storms for others. They fill everything from armor, to shock infantry, to air, to even naval and super heavy siege roles, these aberrations are the backbone of the Legions hellish military complex. And the worst part? They look familiar, too familiar. As if they mock the TD Cast from appearance, to personality, to even bonds. Perhaps its a reminding of their futile insignificance in the multiverse, or mockery. It works well enough to send even Eva into a horrified stare. Sometimes, many will retain intelligence, far greater than the rest. Tactics, strategies, a cunning display of brutality, laced within their ranting cries of war and softened teases of corruption. These Overmind-class abberations are high priority targets for good reason, lieutenants for their bosses. And a horrific truth for the Cast the moment they find out what exactly the Overminds are.

Archdemons:

Harbingers of a worlds destruction, they Lead the demonic forces across the planet they invade. Often representing a major subsection of one of the 7 deadly sins. they are powerful, mighty, arrogant Demons. if one is to end a invasion, they must Kill these and consign their swirling vortex of souls into the earths core. FAR Easier said than done. Archdemons are immensly powerful beings, ranging from city to even medium-sized Country scale destructive. The first one pictured here, Oykolos? The entire TD cast of Gen 1 was needed, for it would be Barely enough. The only reason the gang was able to win, was because this is a Archdemon of Sloth. Procrastination specifically. Had it been anything else, this world would've been lost. And yet, triumphantly as Oykolos fell under the 7's hand in a desperate push... there were More. Bigger, tougher demons, from all categories, from Venial to Archdemon. And the Court of the 7 headed Anathema, begun to notice.

This fight, that a bonded, war wearied yet defiant group of Gen 1 TD cast members? It is far from over. But fortunately, as the years pass. More would join their ranks soon after.

#demons #body horror cw #facial horror cw #worldbuilding #total drama arms race #total drama #total drama au #ooc #total drama island #character design #monster design #the Legion everyone!#its a mixed bag after #but the rest of total drama #including Reboot and RR are coming

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anony-man · 1 year ago

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Taking chubformers requests!

(Temporary hiatus after #300)

Send in a request for your preferred character and I'll write up a little drabble for them!

See below for finished drabbles and characters who have already been requested:

Characters previously written:

1. Sunstreaker (G1)

2. Megatron (TFP)

3. Swindle (TFA)

4. Starscream (G1)

5. Thundercracker (IDW)

6. Sky/Jetfire (G1)

7. First Aid (IDW)

8. Ironhide (G1)

9. Sideswipe (G1)

10. Bumblebee (TFA)

11. Prowl (IDW)

12. Shockwave (G1)

13. Galvatron (G1)

14. Bombshell (G1 - sfw)

15. Devastator (G1)

16. Rodimus (IDW)

17. Helex (IDW)

18. Sunstreaker (G1)

19. Megatron (G1)

20. Bravern

21. Bulkhead (TFA)

22. Optimus (G1)

23. Megatron (TFA)

24. Scrapper (G1)

25. Seaspray (G1)

26. Swindle (ES)

27. Long Haul (G1)

28. Megatron (TFP)

29. Soundwave (G1)

30. Dreadwing (TFP)

31. Starscream (TFP)

32. Blitzwing (TFA - fluffy)

33. Sunstorm (G1)

34. Wreck-Gar (TFA)

35. Minimus Ambus (IDW)

36. Ratchet (G1)

37. Rumble (G1)

38. Chase (RBA)

39. Springer (IDW)

40. Vortex (IDW)

41. Cliffjumper (G1 - mobility issues)

42. Bulkhead (TFA - stuckage)

43. Sentinel Prime (TFA)

44. Unicron (G1)

45. Bulkhead (TFP)

46. Galvatron (G1)

47. Ratchet (IDW)

48. Skyquake (TFP)

49. Bumblebee (G1)

50. Starscream & Windblade (IDW)

51. Ratchet (IDW)

52. Dratchrod (IDW)

53. Breakdown & Knock Out (TFP)

54. Knock Out (TFP)

55. Blurr (TFA)

56. Cyclonus (IDW)

57. Pharma (& First Aid - IDW)

58. Starscream (G1)

59. Megaratch (TFP)

60. Overlord (IDW)

61. Primus (G1)

62. Blitzwing (& Bee - TFA)

63. Misfire (IDW)

64. Windblade (& Starscream - IDW)

65. Kiloton (TF)

66. Megatron & Optimus (ES)

67. Rodimus & Velocity (IDW)

68. Dreadwing & Skyquake (TFP)

69. Smokescreen (TFP)

70. Blast Off & Onslaught (IDW)

71. Starscream & Wheeljack (IDW)

72. Tailgate & Cyclonus (IDW)

73. Rung (IDW)

74. Starscream (TFP)

75. Megatron (& Kiloton & Soundwave - G1)

76. Megatron (& Terminus - IDW)

77. Megatron & Soundwave (TFP)

78. Megatron & Soundwave (TFP)

79. Megatron (IDW)

80. Soundwave (TFP)

81. Skyfire & Cosmos (IDW)

82. Megatron (water inflation - TFP)

83. Pharma (& First Aid & Ambulon - IDW)

84. Brainstorm (IDW)

85. Pharma & Tarn (IDW)

86. Swoop (TFA)

87. Pharma (& First Aid & Ambulon - IDW)

88. Pharma (& Ratchet - IDW)

89. Fort Max (& Megatron - IDW)

90. First Aid (IDW)

91. Megatron (& Soundwave; Gladiators - TFP)

92. Megatron (Armada)

93. Overlord & Trepan (IDW)

94. Megatron (liquid inflation - TFP)

95. Sunstreaker (ovi - G1)

96. Swerve & Skids (IDW)

97. Sunder (& Froid - IDW)

98. Lockdown & Swindle (TFA)

99. Perceptor (IDW)

100. Drift (IDW)

101. Optimus (G1)

102. Cliffjumper (& Shockwave - G1)

103. Tailgate (IDW)

104. Brawl (& Onslaught - IDW)

105. Shockwave (stuckage - TFA)

106. Red Alert (IDW)

107. Ultra Magnus (G1)

108. Thunderclash (IDW)

109. Cyclonus & Tailgate (IDW)

110. Megatron & Soundwave (inflation - TFP)

111. Megatron & Soundwave (TFP)

112. Pharma (& First Aid & Ambulon; blueberry inflation - IDW)

113. Beachcomber & Perceptor (G1)

114. Smokescreen (G1)

115. Hound & Mirage (G1)

116. Bumblebee (& Cons - TFA)

117. Sky-Byte (RID)

118. Megatron (& Soundwave - TFP)

119. Brawl & Onslaught (IDW)

120. Red Alert (& Inferno - G1)

121. Pharma (& the DJD - IDW)

122. Starscream (TFA)

123. Megatron & Minimus (IDW)

124. Orion Pax (TF One)

125. Hound & Crosshairs (Bayverse)

126. Trailbreaker (& Hound & Mirage - G1)

127. Starscream (blueberry inflation - G1)

128. Megatron (Cyberverse)

129. Prowl (G1)

130. Sentinel Prime (& Airachnid - TF: One)

131. Arcee (G1)

132. Blitzwing (TFA)

133. Megatron & Megatron X (Cyberverse)

134. Megatron (& Soundwave & Optimus - TFP)

135. Soundwave (& Megatron - TFP)

136. Cosmos (Cyberverse)

137. Trailbreaker (& Hound & Mirage - G1)

138. Trailbreaker (liquid inflation - IDW)

139. Bumblebee (& Starscream - TFA)

140. Megatron (ES)

141. Fracture & Drift (RiD)

142. Megatron (& Soundwave & Kiloton - G1)

143. Sentinel Prime & Airachnid (TF: One)

144. Motormaster (G1)

145. Sentinel Prime & Airachnid (TF: One)

146. Brawl (& Combaticons - IDW)

147. Predaking (TFP)

148. Overlord & Trepan (IDW)

149. Starscream (ES)

150. D-16 (& Orion - TF: One)

151. Tracks (G1)

152. Megatron (ES)

153. Optimus & Elita (G1)

154. Whirl (& Rung - IDW)

155. Starscream (& trine - G1)

156. Megatron & Optimus (G1)

157. Elita & Optimus (TF: One)

158. Lightbright & Lodestar (IDW)

159. Skyfire (G1)

160. Pharma (& First Aid & Ambulon - IDW)

161. Brainstorm & Quark (IDW)

162. Lockdown & Prowl (TFA)

163. Shockwave & Blurr (TFA)

164. Blitzwing (tube feeding - TFA)

165. Blitzwing (air inflation - TFA)

166. Bulkhead (TFP)

167. Optimus & Megatron (G1)

168. Megatron & Optimus (liquid inflation - ES)

169. Pharma & Tarn (tube feeding - IDW)

170. Prowl & Optimus (G1)

171. Sentinel & Optimus (air inflation - TFA)

172. Rodimus Prime & Ultra Magnus (G1)

173. Pharma & Ratchet (IDW)

174. Bumblebee (helium inflation - RiD)

175. Rodimus (IDW)

176. Bumblebee (& Optimus; blueberry inflation - G1)

177. Cliffjumper (immobility - G1)

178. Soundwave (immobility - TFP)

179. Rodimus (mechpreg - IDW)

180. Tarantulas (BW)

181. Starscream (& Trine - G1)

182. Bumblebee & Grimlock (RiD)

183. Megatron & Soundwave (TFP)

184. Ratchet & Drift (IDW)

185. Breakdown & Knock Out (G1/TFP)

186. Sideswipe (& Bumblebee - RiD)

187. Chromedome & Rewind (IDW)

188. Orion Pax & D-16 (burping - TF: One)

189. Dinobot (BW)

190. Megatron & Optimus (G1)

191. Megatron & Optimus (G1)

192. Overlord (IDW)

193. First Aid & Vortex (IDW)

194. Decepticons (G1)

195. Starscream (lactation - G1)

196. Bulkhead (& Autobots - TFA)

197. Megatron & Kiloton (G1)

198. Prowl & Optimus (G1)

199. Bumblebee & Optimus (mechpreg - G1)

200. Arcee (ES)

201. Megatron & Optimus (mechpreg - TFA)

202. Megatron & Starscream (G1)

203. Tarantulas & Nightshade (ES)

204. Chromedome & Rewind (IDW)

205. Orion Pax & D-16 (TF: One)

206. Shockwave (& Megatron - G1)

207. Wreak-Gar/Wreck-Gar (G1)

208. Soundwave (G1)

209. Optimus (& Bumblebee - G1)

210. Prowl & Ratchet (TFA)

211. Autobots & Decepticons (G1)

212. Warpath (G1)

213. Jhiaxus (G2)

214. Starscream (Armada)

215. Cliffjumper & Ratchet (G1)

216. Prowl & Optimus (TFA)

217. Rodimus & Ultra Magnus (G1)

218. Prowl (& Bumblebee & Bulkhead - TFA)

219. Soundwave & Shockwave (G1)

220. Starscream (TFA)

221. Overlord (SG)

222. Starscream & Predaking (TFP)

223. Bulkhead & Bumblebee (TFA)

224. Pharma (& Ratchet - IDW)

225. Starscream & Optimus & Megatron (G1)

226. Tarn & Overlord (IDW)

227. Ratchet & Human (TFA)

228. Starscream (TF: One)

229. Ratchet & Pharma (TFA)

230. Overlord & Trepan (IDW)

231. Prima (& Megatronus - TF: One)

232. Jazz & Prowl (IDW)

233. Jazz & Prowl (G1)

234. Optimus (TFP)

235. Chromia & Elita (G1)

236. Skyfire & Starscream (G1)

237. Sentinel & Human (TFA)

238. Bumblebee & Optimus (mechpreg - G1)

239. Megatron & Professor Sumdac (TFA)

240. Sky Lynx (G1)

241. Drift (& Sideswipe & Minicons - RiD)

242. Starscream (TFP)

243. Blitzwing & Bumblebee (TFA)

244. Starscream & Jetfire (TFA)

245. Optimus (G1)

246. Megatron (immobility - TFP)

247. Skids (IDW)

248. Blurr (& Longarm - TFA)

249. Megatron (& Optimus - ES)

250. Megatron (IDW)

Characters requested:

1. Bumblebee (& Team - RiD)

2. Swerve (& Minimus - IDW)

3. Skyfire & Starscream (G1)

4. Wing (IDW)

5. Motormaster (& Stunticons; IBS - G1)

6. Overlord & Sparkling (IDW)

7. Megatron & Optimus (TF Go! Go!)

8. Optimus & Ratchet (TFP)

9. First Aid (IDW)

10. Optimus & Bumblebee (G1)

11. Bumblebee & Starscream (IDW)

12. Tarn (IDW)

13. Whirl & Reader (blueberry inflation - IDW)

14. Optimus (& Decepticons - G1)

15. Ratchet & Human (liquid inflation - IDW)

16. Orion Pax & D-16 (TF: One)

17. Shockwave & Human (blueberry inflation - G1)

18. Prowl (IDW)

19. Knock Out & Ratchet (TFP)

20. Bumblebee & Human (RiD)

21. Starscream & Skyfire (G1)

22. Blurr (IDW)

23. Prowl & Constructicons (IDW)

24. Wasp (TFA)

25. Skyfire (G1)

26. Starscream & Megatron (G1)

27. Ratchet & Bumblebee (G1)

28. Starscream (TFP)

#chubformers requests #requests open #anon man writes

38 notes · View notes

whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk · 2 years ago

Text

Begged & Borrowed Time (xxvi, ao3)

(Chapter twenty six: In the aftermath of Hybern, Nesta wakes at the House of Wind.) (Prologue // previous chapter // next chapter)

The darkness spoke to her like a lover, at first.

Softly, low and edged with promise, it hummed as the water closed above her head and it forced its way inside. It murmured like it might lay the world at her feet as icy fingers pressed against her skin and scratched at her soul. It spoke her name— the Cauldron spoke her name within its depths, as though it were a fragment of something substantial lost in the abyss, whispered through the cold.

Nesta.

It echoed— in the void, where time and space and air and light could not find them. On and on and on, endless it stretched as she kicked and thrashed and cried and fought, until the whispering voice inside her mind turned into a hiss.

And then, in the black, everything began to burn.

Burned like ice as her veins expanded, collapsed, and through every eddy and swirl she felt it— felt the Cauldron’s hunger, how desperately it wanted to devour her. It swarmed, knifed against her throat and punctured her skin, and though she opened her mouth to scream, there was nothing— a deep and empty nothing with all the silence of a grave. She didn’t know which way was up, couldn’t find a way free, and as that cold, cold water began to boil her blood, she screamed in earnest as she drowned. It was death and destruction and a breaking so brutal that through the silence Nesta could hear her bones snap as the Cauldron swept inside her, forcing the way until its essence was snaking through her veins, smothering and strangling and stopping her heart until there was nothing left.

Nothing.

Everything ended; everything ceased.

She didn’t know how long had passed— whether the Cauldron had taken a moment or an eternity to cleave her from her humanity. It felt like the latter, and when her heart started to beat again, it hurt. Shards of ice radiated from her chest, and every pulse was a hammer against new-formed ribs threatening to shatter, a physical pain that burrowed deep into every single bone, every muscle torn and every nerve frayed. And as the icy depths of the Cauldron broke her apart…

Nesta Archeron found her fury.

It was the kind of molten, incandescent rage that filled the gaps in her broken bones, and with teeth and nails and a scream not a soul could hear, Nesta writhed in the nothingness, searching for something to hold onto— something to cleave apart with her fingers.

The Cauldron had broken her— and she wanted to make it break, too.

Her chest caved with the force of the scream that left her, and as the cold water forced its way down her throat still she clawed and grasped, until she felt something irrevocable snap beneath her fingers. As she begged for death, something fundamental sundered, something ripped as she thrashed, and this time… she didn’t think it was her bones snapping.

The water swirled and twisted, turned violent.

The Cauldron didn’t whisper her name now. It shouted— it screamed, and still intent on breaking her, it grew colder. Crueller. The darkness shifted, churned, and then—

Light.

After an age of pain and screaming, there was light— breaking through, painful and bright - far too bright - and the world tilted as Nesta was tipped from that Cauldron and thrown onto the cold stone floor. As if no time had passed, as if nothing had changed. The darkness slipped away, leaving only a shadow of itself inside her veins, and as she tried to breathe her lungs ached.

The burning was everywhere now, as though it had become part of her.

And in that puddle of dark water, her world fractured and broke apart all over again as she tasted blood, smelled it in the air. A familiar voice drowning in its own agony whispered her name, and as Nesta lifted her head, she realised with terrible, terrifying clarity that this was real, not a dream or a nightmare but real, and that was real blood coating the stone floor. His blood, his voice, his—

***

With a start, she woke.

A dream— an awful, terrible dream.

Blinking against the morning light, she stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling and listened to the silence as the dream faded.

No— not silence.

She could hear the wind. Could hear birds singing distant songs and far away - far, far away - the crashing of the ocean. The light still hurt her eyes, unadjusted and ill-equipped, and as she lay there, in a strange bed in a strange bedroom, wrapped in sheets she knew ought to have been as soft as silk…

They scratched against her too-sensitive skin, sliding across her bare arms as she sat up. She didn’t recognise the nightgown she wore, the material a kind of satin that felt as uncomfortable as the sheets. Everything was sharp, too sharp, like the keen edge of a knife. Even the air felt different. Tasted different— like it, too, was sharper somehow. Crisper.

She shifted, extending a hand to shove away those damned sheets.

But the movement was too fluid— her limbs longer, her skin smoother. Foreign, it all felt so foreign, like her mind didn’t recognise her body anymore.

Horror crept up her spine and coiled within her as she glanced around the unfamiliar bedroom once more, taking in the plush carpets and the sound of civilisation beyond the walls. She ran a hand over her hair, her cheeks, her ears—

Her ears.

Not a dream.

It hadn’t been a dream at all.

Nesta felt the tips of her ears, tracing the new arch there that served as a brutal reminder that everything she’d relived in her dreams was real. As her hand fell away, she couldn’t help the sob that tore from her chest. Her throat was raw, her voice weak from disuse, but her cries left her anyway as she wrenched herself from that bed and stumbled to the dressing table and mirror sitting along the opposite wall. When she looked into the glass, she stilled.

Feyre might have been made beautiful by immortality, but it had made a stranger of Nesta.

Her hair was longer, its colour brighter, and left unbound it lay in a curtain across her neck, made even more elegant by the loss of her humanity. She pushed her hair back, revealing her ears, and catching sight of those pointed tips…

Her tears came thicker, faster.

Silver glinted in the mirror, a flash in her eyes that had Nesta’s heart skipping a beat— skipping several. They were almost the same, her eyes. Almost the same blue-grey as before, the same as her mother’s. And yet— beneath, there was silver writhing there, ribbons of it encircling her irises.

Something else seemed to twist beneath her skin too, something as cold as ice that burned like fire, and it made her fingertips twitch with unease as she looked in that mirror and watched her tears slip down unfamiliar cheeks.

Feyre had been granted immortality and emerged with a whole host of extra gifts, and when Nesta had been inside that god-forsaken Cauldron she had felt something come away in her hands, some part of it she had taken for her own, and as she looked at that silver in her eyes, felt that burning in her fingers—

She forced the thought away— pushing herself away from that dressing table so hard the mirror rattled.

Not going there.

She wasn’t going there.

Instead she crossed the floor to the window, to see where she had been taken in the aftermath of Hybern. Pulling apart the curtains revealed the sun streaming through the clouds beyond the glass, the sky a brilliant, azure blue above a river curving through city streets. She’d seen it before— been there before, and as her eyes alighted on a small, half-hidden dock…

Nesta recognised it.

Velaris.

No longer was she in that castle, then— the one they had been taken to in the dark, that fortress of roughened stone. There, they had been kept in a cell so far beneath the ground that neither light nor sound could reach them. The stone walls were rough and unfinished, the cold and the damp seeping between the cracks. Elain had cried silently, curling her knees to her chest and tucking her head in her arms as if hoping it might shield her, and Nesta had wished she could shield her sister from it all too. Wished she could spare Elain the terror. For hours - or moments or minutes or days, she wasn’t sure how long they were down there - she’d kept her eyes on the bars that held them, only barely discernible in the dim light. Watching that black space, she had hoped against hope that someone might come to save them.

That he might come to save them.

She had lost his dagger.

Cassian’s dagger.

It hurt too much to think his name, but when she’d been woken by Elain’s screams, Nesta had grabbed the dagger he had once pressed into her palms. She hadn’t been quick enough, and the shadowed figures that burst into her bedroom wrenched the blade from her hand before she had chance to move, forcing a foul-smelling cloth against her mouth. When she woke, she was in that cell, wishing she’d been faster. Wishing she still had that dagger.

Don’t touch her.

Don’t you dare fucking touch her.

His voice drifted from some chamber deep inside herself, one she had tried to keep locked. The snarl he’d directed at the king had given her a kernel of hope in that throne room, and she’d watched as he’d stepped forward, the light of his ruby siphons trembling with the force of the power he was aching to spend. She had seen his face - the scar through his eyebrow made pale in the candlelight, the fury etched in every familiar, beautiful plane - and she had known that he would see no harm come to her. That he’d take on the king and the guards and every soul in that castle if he had to.

But then he’d been caught in that blast, unable to even lift his head, and Nesta’s last hope had died. Her humanity had been shredded along with his wings; her life as broken as his bones.

And oh, gods—

She had wanted to run to him, to make sure that he was alright, but when she’d been poured from that Cauldron she couldn’t breathe, the blood in her veins still settling after boiling. On her hands and knees, nobody came to help her stand. She might have remained there forever, curled in on herself, if it hadn’t been for Elain’s sobs echoing through the cavernous space. If Nesta hadn’t hadn’t lifted her head just enough to see that other fae male, with the golden eye and the red hair, reaching for her sister.

For Elain, Nesta lifted herself off that damned floor.

Her new limbs protested the movement and she didn’t get far, and only then had she seen Cassian kneeling too, his arms shaking as they tried and failed to hold his weight. His wings were a tattered mess at his back, and with her heart breaking she remembered how she’d once ran a finger along the outer edge, how he’d draped one of those mighty wings around her shoulders to keep her warm as she curled into him and slept. A fractured sob built in her chest, and though she’d tried to speak, to stand, tried to cross that room… she couldn’t.

Everything hurt.

And then the fae with the auburn hair had draped a jacket over Elain’s shoulders and said you’re my mate, and even though every single instinct Nesta possessed was begging her to go to Cassian, to stop that flow of blood, she saw Elain shivering on the stone and couldn’t move— couldn’t choose. Then the auburn-haired fae had reached for Elain again and Nesta had been so terrified that he would just take Elain away that she hurtled forwards and— there she was, her choice made.

Her heart had sank, rioting in her chest as her breathing began to feel like knives had pierced her lungs, because Cassian remained lying in his own blood, and Nesta didn’t think she would ever have the strength to cross to him on the other side of that expansive throne room.

And when he had looked up, their eyes meeting across that vast space, Nesta had tipped forwards, her hands slipping from Elain’s arms. Those hazel eyes, shuttered with pain, his lips parting as if to form her name— nothing in the world mattered quite as much as that. As him. And even though her blood still burned and her bones still felt fragile, too newly-forged to withstand much at all, Nesta tried once more to stand. Bare foot, she couldn’t find purchase on the stone floor slick with the Cauldron water both she and Elain were drenched in. Elain turned her head, dark eyes distant and hollow, and it was at that precise moment that Feyre made her move. The room erupted in chaos as Cassian slipped under, and there was nobody to hear Nesta shout his name as the wards shattered and Rhys fell to the floor, screaming as though his bond with Feyre had been broken.

Cassian’s eyes had closed, his hand outstretched as though even death could not stop him from seeking her out.

In the confusion Nesta remembered Morrigan crossing the floor— taking her hand.

Then— nothing.

As if the pain were too much for her new body to bear, she closed her eyes and let go, and when the crushing, aching darkness surged up to swallow her again, she let it. Let it consume her until her eyes opened again and she found herself in that bed, with no memory of how she got there.

She didn’t know if he was alive.

Didn’t know if he’d made it out.

One hand rose to her chest, palm above her heart, as if she might be able to tell by its beat if Cassian still breathed.

He had to.

Had to.

But there was nobody around to answer her, and the silence of the house - Rhysand’s, she presumed - turned static. No footsteps echoed down the hallways, no voices drifted from distant rooms. Nothing— there was nobody there waiting for her to wake.

So Nesta stood by that window, alone, and looked at the reflection staring back at her. Every inch of smooth skin was unrecognisable, from the crown of her head right down to her feet. Her wrists had been rubbed raw by the rope they had bound her with in that castle, but there was no mark there now. She had broken her fingernails clawing at the soldiers that had held her, but those, too, were perfect now. In those dungeons, she had pulled so hard on her chains that bruises had marred her arms beneath the torn sleeves of her nightgown, and yet— gone, too. As if it had never been. Everything had been wiped clean save for that single scar by her thumb. Like even the Cauldron could not erase the damage done by her mother and her grandmother.

Nesta had been completely reforged, but those wounds— no, those wounds still would not - could not - heal.

And— gods, when would it end?

The city beyond the glass bustled a thousand feet below, small ships navigating the river as birds soared on the wind across the mountains, and Nesta pressed her palm flat against the glass, dipping her chin as the cold and bitter press of her own anger threatened to close her throat. She gritted her teeth— wanted to scream until her lungs gave out.

When would it end? When would the last of her choices be ripped away?

She didn’t want this life. Hadn’t wanted the one that came before, either.

She had never wanted her mother to raise her the way she did, chipping away at her until she resembled something that might have been perfect in her mother’s eyes. Her heart started to stutter, her breathing growing unsteady. She had never wanted to marry Thomas fucking Mandray, and the ring on her finger glinted once in her reflection before Nesta tore it from her finger and cast it into a corner, because just like the scar the Cauldron could not wipe away, it hadn’t robbed her of her wedding band either.

She hadn’t ever wanted to get involved in this war, or play courier to Rhysand and Feyre and yet she’d done it anyway, to the ruination of herself.

And now here she was, left with nothing.

Less than nothing.

Another sob threatened to slip through her clenched teeth, but before she could let herself fall to pieces, something shifted. Some movement cut through the heavy silence that lay over Rhysand’s house like a shroud. Sheets— the rustle of sheets sounded through the door at the other end of the bedroom, left ajar.

Nesta smoothed a thumb over the now-empty space on her ring finger before lifting her chin and wiping away the tears that clung to her cheeks. She steadied herself, the way she had a thousand times before, and took a breath.

And when she looked through that door, she found Elain lying in a bedroom almost identical to the one she had woken in herself, her face blank as sleep kept her in its clutches. Her eyelashes fluttered with her dreams, her hand twitching against the covers.

And despite the hollow, aching kind of grief that was beginning to spread through Nesta’s chest, she looked at her sister and knew she could not leave that bedroom.

For Elain, Nesta had married Tomas Mandray. To protect Elain, she had taken Rhysand’s letters and posted them. Now she pushed aside her own pain and sank to her knees by Elain’s bedside, too weary to find a chair.

And in the silence, she waited.

Taglist: @hiimheresworld @highladyofillyria @wannawriteyouabook @infiremetotakeachonce @melphss @hereforthenessian @c-e-d-dreamer @lady-winter-sunrise @the-lost-changeling @valkyriesupremacy @that-little-red-head @sv0430

#nessian #nessian fic #begged & borrowed time #angst angst and more angst

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