#grass remains brittle

[midnightarcheress]

Simon takes you to the museum.

pairing: bodyguard!ghost x actress!reader cw: implied ptsd. 4 | gold rush masterlist.

the timid yellows creeping up the tree leaves announce the beginning of autumn, crisp air filling their lungs as they walk through the Tuileries Garden. Simon tries his best to act calm, focusing on how you make your way on the footpath around the octagonal lake, but the city’s sounds and the bustling crowd in the park keep him on edge, fingers rhythmically touching the dense fabric of his jeans for a faint sense of safety in the present.

despite his anxiety levels spiking, he still manages to appreciate the view. the remaining flowers from warmer days paint the grass with vivid colours and, on the horizon, he catches a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower on the other side of the river. the sun shines brightly in the sky, almost casting a golden halo over your head, the tender heat warming his brittle heart in a brief moment of peace.

“the museum is that way,” you look back at him, pointing to your left. ever since Daniel complied with your request for time off, you’ve been researching the perfect spot to spend your free afternoon, ultimately landing on the Orangery Museum. at least a museum is supposed to be a quiet place, Simon thinks.

“did you know that this building was actually a greenhouse?” you ask, walking through the entrance, “it was created to store the citrus trees from the garden, that’s why this side has so many windows.” your head tilts to the riverside facade and he silently hums, acknowledging you.

his lips involuntarily curve at your enthusiasm. the two of you don’t talk much on the daily, but it was endearing to see how happy you were for being surrounded by art, and he didn’t mind hearing you babble about the paintings. or about anything, honestly. the sound of your voice was soothing, pacifying the nerves that had been eating his insides since he stepped out of bed. 

“oh, those are my favourite!” you tug on his forearm, pulling him into an oval room with huge panels, the tiny inscriptions on the side reading ‘Claude Monet’, “those are water lilies, y’know, the flower? he did two-hundred-and-something paintings based on a pond in his property, can you imagine that?” 

“they’re pretty,” he mumbles, observing the thin brushstrokes. art is far from his strong suit, but he liked how the paintings captured the fickles of light and how they lacked the usual restrained aspect seen in other pieces – they seemed relaxed, floaty, free. so different from your life. maybe that’s why you loved it so much.

you drag him through the whole exhibit, explaining little details of the museum, the garden, the techniques, and he listens closely, his attention never leaving your mouth, completely entranced by your words. he didn’t feel the weight of the duty nor the need to protect you there, it was a different world. your own little bubble, and you allowed him inside. 

his hand brushes on your shoulder while exiting the building, guiding you through the door. he’s not keen on being outside again, sirens already buzzing in his brain with the idea of potential threats lurking in the shadows.

trying not to let the perpetual concern flood his mind, he clears his throat and sparks up conversation, ignoring the rules pairing over his head. no talking, no touching. “so, how did you learn so much about... all that?” he gestures back to the museum.

“oh, uhm, i used to paint,” you start, hiding the smile sneaking up your lips at his unexpected interest, “took a course in art history too.”

his eyebrows raise. “used to?” 

“yeah, when i had more time to myself,” he notices your sigh, studying the sudden solemn expression that outlines your face. your beautiful face, “but i wasn’t very good at it.” you chuckle, downsizing your abilities, and he snorts, not fully believing you. it’s the first time you’ve seen him showing any sort of emotion besides indifference, and he prides himself on the surprise gracing your features. 

it was nice, walking with you. not behind you. did he enjoy the view? yes, but this – him by your side, arms swinging together, matching steps – was real. genuine. it almost felt like a date, not that he would ever dare to say it out loud. everything was perfect.

until it wasn’t.

it happened so fast. a loud blast on the street made Simon wrap an arm around your waist and pull you to the nearest alley, one hand firmly pressing you against his chest and another holding your head, broad shoulders covering your body as the intense blood pump on his ears muffle the deafening ringing rattle. he stays in the position for a while, blown-out pupils frantically darting around and searching for any indication of danger. 

he takes a deep breath and his head dips down to you. for a minute, the only thing he sees is the gash on your forehead and your bleeding eye. you’re paralysed, partially because your brain is still catching up on what’s going on, and partially because his tight grip doesn’t admit any movement. 

“Ghost? what’s wrong?” the scared tone of your whisper readjusts his vision to what really is in front of him – you. safe, without a single scratch, tucked in his arms with a strength he hadn’t used to this extent in a long time. and he feels bad, pathetic even, because nothing happened. the blaring sound was a car crash in the avenue, not a grenade destroying everything in sight.

“it’s nothing” he pulls back, averting your eyes like the plague, “i'm sorry.” stupid. 

you frown, overlooking his avoidance with utter sympathy, “are you alright?” he grunts, unintelligibly, reverting to his cold stance and nodding. you don’t buy his half-answer, but decide that it’s better not to pry.

he knew it was coming, the uneasiness brewing in his gut was only waiting for the right trigger to crawl up his oesophagus and spill all over you. 

the rest of the walk is quiet, with him returning to his position a few steps back. never should’ve left. you sneak glances at him, checking, but his gaze seems too far gone. next thing he knows, you’re both on the jet, Daniel snoring in the front seat, him looking out the window, lost in thought. of course i'd fuck up. 

he barely hears when you approach him, trembling fingers handing him a card. the card. you’re trusting him. he glares at you for a second, hazel irises shifting between your spooked appearance and the paper. ‘don’t like you travelling without me, darling. i’ll be waiting for my souvenir  – your prince.’

i've never been to france lol. and yeah i had a monet phase when I was fifteen.

little fun fact - the painting in the fic masterlist is part of his water lilies series.

[freelancearsonist]

when the sun came up, you were looking at me

➔ Din Djarin x gn!Reader - 2.4k

➔ A bounty on your head and a bad ship wreck are just a few of the circumstances that have you questioning if you and Mando will ever be out of the woods.

➔ Rated PG-13 for curse words that are probably not canon in star wars, reader is generally able-bodied but otherwise is completely a blank slate, mando is probably ooc but we’re all a little delusional here, lots of blood, i don’t actually know how concussions work and we’re taking some broad liberties with injuries here.

➔ this is another submission to @beskarandblasters's Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge! (if you're reading this kel ily <3) this fic is non-linear so pls bare with me - the timeline will make more sense at the end!

You keep your head down and walk quickly, ignoring the frantic heartbeat of city noise surrounding you as your legs carry you down a dim street.

This is the last place you want to be right now. Even with your cloak’s hood drawn up around your head, you feel too exposed.

The apothecary is a very little hole-in-the-wall type place; you walk past it twice before you finally locate it. The facade looks like it’s about to crumble, and the single window is caked in a thick layer of dust. It looks like it’s been abandoned for decades, rotting with the telltale signs of neglect.

The storekeeper inside looks even worse. She’s a decrepit little woman, squat and skinny, white hair brittle and tangled. Just looking at her makes you want to slowly back away and apologize; say you have the wrong building and run away as quickly as you can.

This is the only shot you have, though; the only place that won’t immediately call the authorities when you step through the door. If you get picked up, everything is fucked.

With a deep breath, you swallow your nerves and summon Din to mind. You think of his easy, authoritative tone and you try to emulate the confidence that modulator always used to convey.

You hear the crash before it happens.

It’s unlike any sound you’ve ever heard before. A high pitched whistle in combination with the deep, metallic scrape of mechanisms working overtime.

And then you feel it. It shakes the very earth you stand on, sends tremors and shockwaves up your legs all the way to the crown of your head. Even after the ground has stopped trembling, your fingertips tingle with the sensation.

You grab a blaster and you run.

You know before you even find it that it’s Din’s ship. There’s a churning, nauseous wrench in your gut and you just know.

There’s so many thoughts swirling through your mind that it doesn’t feel like you’re thinking at all. Your body simply moves on autopilot, like you’re watching a holovid. You traipse bravely into debris and ruin, locating the crumpled remains of the cockpit.

All that beskar is a damned curse, because he blends right in amongst the crumpled and twisted metal of what used to be a functional ship. Stolen, sure, but functional all the same–and the only one either of you had. 

But you push aside your anger, because he isn’t responding. You’re calling his name and shaking his chest and he’s just laying there. Not joking about you smudging his armor, not breathing a little heavier at the sound of his name on your tongue like he always does. He just lays there, limp and unresponsive, and you’ve never been more terrified in your life.

There’s smoke and everything feels hot, but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters, adrenaline surges through your veins and you start dragging him. More than two hundred pounds of bulky man and armor but it doesn’t matter because if he dies like this you’ll never fucking forgive him, never fucking forgive yourself.

You drag him out of the wreckage and dump him unceremoniously on the grass, and then you get really scared. He hasn’t made a single noise, hasn’t even tried to help you with his weight.

You thump a little harder than you should on his chest, desperation outweighing any logical train of thought. “Din, wake the fuck up!”

It’s the slightest of movements–just a barely discernible turn of his helmeted head–but it’s enough. 

“Where are you hurt?” You beg, plead, cry. “You have to tell me where you’re hurt, I can help, but you have to tell me.”

His neck is just the littlest bit exposed, but it’s enough. You see scarlet red rivers tracing paths down corded muscle, and it makes your gut clench so hard you almost get sick right then and there.

“You have to take it off,” you whisper–your hand comes to rest at the side of his helmet, the only thing between living and dying at this point. “You have to take it off, Din, I can’t do it for you.”

His fingers twitch indecisively at his sides, and you realize with a gut-wrenching pang of fear that he might not be strong enough to do it himself. 

Or, even worse: that he might rather die than show you his face.

As soon as you’re back out the door, your body tremors with a sudden wave of previously repressed anxiety. You want to break out in tears, but you can’t yet. If there’s ever a time you have to be strong, it’s now.

You tuck the bag of supplies underneath your cloak and draw the fabric tightly around your torso as you walk back down the street the way you came.

You don’t think the storekeeper alerted anyone who shouldn’t know about your presence here, but you walk as quickly as you can anyway. It’s better to be safe than sorry.

The ship is old and barely functional, but it’s the best you could scrape up on short notice. It works well enough for these little in-system supply runs, even if it does shake a little more than is comfortable when you take off and land.

After what happened to Din, you swore you would never fly again. That promise went pretty short-lived.

“You’re late. Again.”

You’re used to the deep, gravelly tone of his modulated voice by now, but that doesn’t stop the shiver that works its way down your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you say, as meek as you can sound. You set a bundle of herbs and vegetables down on the counter, hoping the offering will appease him at least a little bit. “I found a garden and–”

“And you shouldn’t be going that far alone.” His voice is firm, there’s no room for negotiation.

“Din, I–”

“Don’t. Argue.” And there’s just something about that authoritative tone that makes your traitorous heart seize in a way it shouldn’t. “You are in danger. I brought you here to protect you but I can’t if you keep running away.”

“I wasn’t ‘running away’, I just wanted to be helpful.”

But he’s not budging–not on this one. “You can’t be helpful if you’re captured or killed.”

He stands towering next to you, so solid and imposing. He sets his hands on his hips and you hate the disapproval radiating from him. More specifically, you hate that you’ve disappointed him.

Your voice sounds small, meek–you hate it. “I didn’t do it, Din.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re a galactic fugitive with a bounty on your head.”

He’s not wrong, but it makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle defensively anyway.

“You said we were safe here. You said we could lay low here until my name is cleared and no one would find me.”

“If you follow my orders,” he adds firmly. “You’re reckless and it’s going to get you killed.”

“I’m restless!” You correct, throwing your hands up in the air. “I hate being fucking… cooped up! I want to go out, and I want to do things, and I want to be able to take care of you the way you take care of me!”

There’s a heavy moment of silence so thick you could cut it with a knife. You know as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you’ve said too much, but you don’t know how to backtrack now.

“I can take care of both of us.” His voice is so much softer and gentler, you almost think you’ve misheard him. Surely you have, because it’s only been a few weeks since he rescued you from certain death–since he decided the price of the bounty on your head wasn’t more valuable than your innocence–and he’s been a stoic enigma the whole time. Always quiet, always imposing. You’ve never been able to get a good read of what’s going on behind that visor, so you’ve always assumed there wasn’t much.

Maybe you were wrong. You so desperately want to be wrong.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, stepping a little closer. Approaching him like a wounded animal, terrified of scaring him off. “I’ll be more careful.”

And you hear it–the hitch in his breath through the modulator at your proximity. You’re closer than you’ve ever been before by choice, and he knows it.

“Good.”

He turns on his heel and retreats into the back room of the little cottage you’ve commandeered and fixed into somewhere livable, and you can do nothing but slump in defeat.

He barely gets the helmet over his ears before he passes out, but it’s enough. Your hands catch the heavy beskar before it can slide back down over his face and you pull it the rest of the way off to toss it safely out of the way.

You’ve seen little peeks of his skin before–mostly his hands when he tugs off those heavy leather gloves–and you know right away he’s too pale. His face is completely drained for color, and again you feel that uncomfortably sharp twist in your gut. But you tell it to fuck off and your hands spring into action, desperately trying to find what’s wrong.

There’s a small yet jagged piece of metal sticking out of his neck, right under where the helmet's protection ends but above where the neck of his shirt would normally sit. Just the smallest strip of exposed skin, but it’s enough. Luck wasn’t on his side today.

You have to pull it out to get a better idea of just how deep it is, but your fingers are so slick with his blood that you can’t get a good grip on it. That’s when the frustration kicks in and your eyes well with tears; your blurry vision only makes you more frustrated, until you’re helpless and sobbing into his stomach.

But you feel it–the slow, unsteady rise and fall of his chest. He’s fighting, but he needs your help. You need to get it together because you’re the only chance he has.

You take a deep, unsteady breath and wipe the blood from your hands–and then you reach for that jagged piece of metal again.

You have to sit in the cockpit of your rusty, scavenged ship for a moment to catch your breath after you land safely and in one piece. You’re not even scared of crashing, you’re scared of dying and leaving Din alone. Din, who believed you when you said you didn’t commit the murder you were charged with. Din, who took you to the safety of this mostly uninhabited planet and assured you that no one would find you. Din, who swore that he would protect you.

Din, who has yet to wake up since he fainted lifelessly in your arms.

The metal wasn’t imbedded that deep, thank the Maker. He lost a fair amount of blood over it, but not so much that he couldn’t recover, and it didn’t knick anything too important that you couldn’t stitch back up even with your unskilled hands. 

It’s the concussion that worries you. You’re certain it’s not the first he’s had, but it’s definitely got to be the most severe. His skull must’ve bounced around in that damned helmet like a stray pinball. You’re able to take a small amount of comfort from the way his pupils retract when you lift his eyelids, at least, but that comfort wanes with each passing day that he doesn’t wake up.

This is your third time returning from that shady little apothecary on the next planet over, but it’s the first time his eyes have been open when you come through the door.

And for one horrible, gut-turning moment, you think he’s dead. He stares so blankly at the ceiling that you want to fall to the floor and die yourself.

But he hears you approaching, and his eyes flicker over to you. Those deep, chocolatey brown eyes that you’ve come to crave meet yours for the very first time and you start to sob with relief.

You push his back firmly against the mattress when he tries to get up, and you shake your head when his lips part around unspoken words. You just need to cry right now, so he lets you.

Everything comes up all at once–days of panic and fear, days of never knowing if you would ever hear the sound of his voice again, days of tears that you haven’t cried because you haven’t allowed yourself to. It all comes to a boiling point and spills over the edge of the pot, and poor Din just lays there and lets you cry into his chest because there’s nothing else he can do.

It takes longer than you wish it did for you to regain some composure, and when you finally pull away you’re feeling a little more than self-conscious about the very apparent display of emotion.

He must sense it, and even though his face is unreadable, he catches your hand before you can retreat too far.

“H-helmet?” He croaks, throat dry with misuse.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’ll go get it. I… I didn’t see your face, as far as this is concerned. You’re safe with me.”

But he doesn’t let go of your hand when you step to retrieve the helmet–if anything, he squeezes it tighter.

“S’okay,” he whispers hoarsely. “K-kinda… feels ni-ice.”

And it makes your heart flutter in a way it shouldn’t. That not only is he letting you see his handsome face, but he might even be enjoying it.

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” you murmur as you start to remove the bandage from his neck. It’s healed down to a thin line now–the bacta’s run its course, and it’s faded to a simple scar. It could be years old if you didn’t know better. “I… I was so scared.”

“M’sorry.”

And you laugh, because it’s so ridiculous that he feels the need to apologize. It’s so ridiculous that he could think you’re upset at him for getting hurt when all you feel is pure, unadulterated relief.

He takes a deep breath and catches your hand again. “Saved me.”

“You saved me, too,” you murmur–before you can think about it, you ghost your lips in a feather-light kiss over his knuckles.

His eyes flutter shut from that minimal amount of contact, but it’s enough. He’s okay, you’re okay, and it’s enough.

➔ beta: @shakespeareanwannabe; dividers: @saradika-graphics

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[brittle-doughie]

Brittle Um, when will my request be ready? I'm starting to think you're talking about them.🤔

Sorry to bother you! ^^ Have a nice evening!

And if you get my request, then I would like to know how ancient cookies Take care of a small child baker when he got into the world of cookies asleep on the grass Cookie Run Kingdom Self-awareness Au

And if you don't mind, can the baker remain an ordinary human child? ^._.^ ᘛ⁐̤ᕐᐷ (thanks for your attention!)

Yeah, being a human child they’d find would make them find it odd, it wasn’t necessarily a sight they would find everyday.

White Lily, Hollyberry, and Pure Vanilla would be more of the nurturing type, wanting to make sure this child they found was safe and sound. They would need to find this little one a home, they couldn’t leave them alone like that!

Dark Cacao and Golden Cheese would be a little more steadfast, but it wouldn’t be that much of a length of time before the two would come around to wanting to look after you as well.

[happyhauntt]

stay, i pray you — nikolai lantsov.

series masterlist | writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: nikolai has a decision to make. anya makes it for him.

─── pairing: nikolai lantsov & anya kamenev (original character.)

─── warnings: takes place during seige & storm just after sturmhond reveals himself to be nikolai. angst, hurt/no comfort, pre-established relationship. this one's gonna hurt.

─── word count: 2.1k.

     "I've had an idea."

     The military encampment at Kribirsk is as familiar to Anya as the freckles on Nikolai's nose, the garden of her father's estate, the brittle ache of her injured knee. Crashing the Hummingbird had not been part of the plan — and her body had certainly not appreciated the impromptu swim in the nearby lake — but the First Army officers had recognised her and Nikolai, affording them all the honours of their stations and escorting them to the commander's tent.

     Anya hadn't felt all that comfortable with it. She may have been Lieutenant Corporal before her discharge, but it has become increasingly difficult to love the army that raised her while it serves the country that abandoned her. General Raevsky had once been her commanding officer. She and Nikolai had served under him on the northern border, oh, how many years ago now?

They'd both been green as grass, infantry grunts who'd never handled a rifle, never fired a shot or seen a battlefield begin to bleed. Raevsky greeted her like an old friend when they stumbled onto shore, asked how she was fairing as if he hadn't seen her only a few months ago, before she helped the Sun Summoner flee Ravka by smuggling her onto a ship bound for Novyi Zem.

     The tent Anya finds herself in is small but serviceable, with clean, fresh clothes laid out on the bed and a small plate of food waiting on the table. Nikolai disappeared shortly after their arrival, most likely to offer up an explanation to the commanders, but when he finally reappears, he finds Anya combing out the knots of her damp hair with her fingers, changed into a clean, loose shirt and army-issue trousers. She feels as if she never left the army and the thought makes her nauseous.

     "You have an idea?" She raises an eyebrow at him as he steps tentatively inside, allowing the tent flap to fall closed behind him. A playful smirk dances over her face. "Given that your last idea sent us crash-landing into a lake, I must admit I feel a little apprehensive."

     He huffs at her, an almost-chuckle that sends alarm bells ringing in her mind. A jibe like that would usually send him on a ranting spiral, fussing all about how his invention hadn’t been the reason they crashed and had, actually, worked exactly as intended for the majority of their journey.

     Teasing him is easy, and the way he smiles when she does sends warmth pouring through her. Seeing him so subdued is… troubling, to say the least. He hangs up his sword and crosses the tent to perch on the edge of her bed. His eyes remain fixed on the floor the whole time.

     Kneeling in front of him, she allows her fingers to graze over the bruise blossoming on his cheek. His eyes fall closed for a moment. "She really got you, didn't she? Our dear Sun Summoner has a mean right hook."

     "Believe me, I know. Scrappy little thing." Nikolai flexes his jaw and opens his eyes, and all once, Anya knows. It's written in the tiny lines between his brows and the quirk of his mouth and the ache in his eyes.

     "What is it?" she murmurs. Her fingers linger on his face, and he leans into the warmth of her, just slightly. Her knee protests, but she doesn't dare try to stand up. "What's happened?"

     He swallows roughly. "I've told you before, haven't I, about coming back here and helping Ravka. About fixing it before it's too late."

     Whispered conversations in a dimly-lit cabin flutter through her mind. Wishes pressed against her skin with kisses, hopes and dreams caught up in a lover's embrace. I could be better than Vasily, he'd said, and she had believed that, the way she believed the sun would rise in the morning. I could save Ravka.

     She hadn't told him the truth, then. She'd taken his dreams and folded them up into her own chest, to keep safe beside her heart, but she hadn't wanted it the way he did. Anya would sooner see Ravka burn. She cannot bring herself to feel mercy, not where this Saints-forsaken country is concerned. Not after it abandoned her when she needed it most.

     Now, she nods. A damp tendril of hair falls past her eyes. "I remember. You said you... you would find a way to convince Vasily to step aside, and your father would make you the heir. But it wasn't a plan. You said you didn't know how you'd do it, yet. Just that you wished you could."

     She may never forget it. The panic that struck her, bone-deep. The way his ambitions have haunted her ever since. He may not have known it then, but a ticking clock had been set that day. Anya never knew when their time would run out. Only that she would never be ready for it.

     He smiles, now. A rueful thing. There is no need to hide with her, no need to put on that winsome devil-may-care act he wears like armour. She is not a politician he can sway to his side, nor a danger he can charm his way out of, and yet he smiles at her. She is so beautiful, and soft, and she's not wearing her armour, either. Not here, not with him. There is nothing to smile about, and in a few moments it will all be different, but right now she is his, so he has to smile. He has to.

     He may weep, otherwise.

     "Kolya." Her voice is so quiet, barely more than a whisper, and he is so sure that she knows, already, without him having to breathe a word.

     His throat goes horribly tight, an invisible hand wrapped tight around his windpipe, as if that will stop his confession. His eyes flit to the roof for a moment. They start to sting.

     "Alina's power is the key to Ravka's survival," he says. Every word feels like lead on his tongue. "The Apparat has turned her into a living Saint, and the people love her. If I'm to make a bid for the throne and convince Vasily to step aside, it can't just be that I'm the best man for the job. That won't matter. But an alliance with the Sun Summoner might sway the odds in my favour."

     Anya watches him for a long moment. He holds his breath as time stretches, and eternity seems to pass before she even blinks. She withdraws her hand, allowing it to rest lightly on his thigh. The absence of her touch lingering in his face burns like a fresh bullet wound.

     He wonders if you can die from missing someone who hasn't gone anywhere yet.

     "An alliance with Alina." Anya narrows her eyes as the pieces click together in her mind." You mean—"

     "I'm going to ask her to marry me." His throat feels rough as sandpaper. "A political marriage, in name only. The game has changed and Alina is the only one who can level the playing field."

     He keeps talking, but Anya can hardly hear him. Her brain began to buzz with white noise the moment she heard the word marriage, as if her skull is home to a thousand angry wasps and someone suddenly decided to shake the nest. She can feel her blood rushing in her ears, her heartbeat thudding in her throat, but she doesn't dare give herself away.

     Anya Kamenev is a soldier, but she is also a future duchess. Her mother would be proud to learn that all those etiquette lessons didn't go to waste. Summoning a decade of training, her old governess' instructions rattling through her mind, her face remains delicate and empty. Not a muscle twitch or a quiver of her lip, not a hint of sorrow flashing in her eyes. She might as well be carved from marble. Her heart sits in her chest like a stone.

     "Nastya." The nickname he gave her in their army days is salt in an open wound. Nikolai reaches for her, grasps her hands in his as if she is all that can anchor him to this world. "I don't know what to do."

     "Of course you do." Somehow her voice is gentle, even though she feels jagged at the edges, like touching her might make him bleed. An instinct tugs at her, to curl her fingers around his own and hold him just as tight, but she can't bring herself to move. "You wouldn't bring it up to me if you hadn't already thought it through. You're a clever man, Nikolai. The cleverest I know, and don't let that go to your head. You know what you have to do now. You just want my permission to do it."

     Is it crueller, somehow, to ask for permission? To hand over her heart, and the knife too, as if that will make it hurt less when he carves it from her chest?

     A wet laugh bubbles out of him. "Trust you to keep my ego in check even now, Anya."

     "Someone has to," she says. She heaves herself into a standing position, wincing as her knee cracks and tiny bolts of lightning spike up her leg. "Although I think Alina will do a brilliant job. I don't mind handing over that responsibility to her."

     "Don't." Nikolai is on his feet in a moment. One hand remains in hers, his grip tight as a vice, but the other curls around the back of her neck. His thumb brushes softly over her cheek. The warmth of it makes her shudder. "Don't say that like you're going anywhere. I'm not sure I can do any of this without you."

     "Of course you can," Anya murmurs. Saints, she isn't sure the torture she endured at the hands of Shu Han's scientists hurt this much. If she closes her eyes, she can almost believe he's taken a blade and gutted her right here, like a fish on the deck of his ship.

     A ragged breath tears out of him as he says, "Alright, perhaps I can. But I don't want to."

     When he kisses her, it doesn't feel like a kiss goodbye. It doesn't feel like their last kiss in a thousand. There's a ferocity to him as he clutches her, teeth clashing, but that doesn't change the truth of it. He can hold her as tightly as he wants, but they both know she has always been smoke in his hands.

     “I would give you anything,” he says against her mouth, pressed together like hands in prayer. She feels his breath stutter against her tongue, hitched with a sob he will not set free. “Name it. Palaces and jewels, the moon, a temple built in your name, the heads of every man who ever harmed you served on a silver platter. Name it and it’s yours. Just stay.”

     Your heart. The tear slides down her cheek unbidden, and he kisses it away as he has done a thousand times before. She catches his lips with her own and kisses him again, fingers tangled in tendrils of his hair, still rough with saltwater no matter how many times he washes it. Your heart, your hand, a life with you away from this Saints-forsaken country.

     She’ll stay. She will, because Anya is a soldier, and though she no longer has any loyalty to Ravka, she still believes in him. And there is no pain in the world that could hurt more than abandoning him now, no matter how much she wishes she could.

     “Anything.” His voice, barely a whisper, a plea to those forgotten saints who have never seen fit to bestow a miracle upon them. “Anything, my darling.”

     He sinks to his knees before her, presses his forehead to her stomach. She leans and kisses the crown of his scalp, lingering a moment to breathe in the salt and sea of him. Ravka will never know how lucky it is to have a prince so loyal. She doesn’t know what they’d done to earn such devotion.

     “I know.” Despite the tears, her voice is deceptively still. Your heart. But he had already sworn it to his country, long before he ever loved her. “I want the same as you, Nikolai; peace and prosperity for Ravka.”

     He snorts against her stomach. His arms wrap tightly around her middle. “Liar.”

     “Always.” Pushing him away would not be the worst torture she has endured, but she worries it will scar her far longer than any blade could.

[aberrantcreature]

Lost in the Moonlight 🩸🦇

Anakin shrieked as he fell to the dirt, sharp pulses of pain throbbing up his legs. Whatever he just stepped on cut right through his foot, but it didn’t matter. It couldn’t.

With a pained groan, he forced himself off the ground and hobbled to his feet. His face was slower now, but no less purposeful as he left bits of blood on the grass with every step. The few bits of chain that remained attached to his iron braces swung wildly, smacking Anakin with every pump of his arms.

All he could see in front of him were the hazy outlines of trees. He was hoping the dark would cover for him, but he had no way of knowing such a thick dog had settled in. His shoulders and cheeks stung from brittle branches scratching at him like a wild cat.

The voices behind him grew louder. He could hear the echo of horse hooves as they tore up the forest floor. His fate, one worse than death, catching up to him with every second.

No. Please.

Suddenly, the forest parted like the tales of the Dead Sea. Anakin was charging sluggishly through a mighty clearing where a large manor house sat in its center. The moonlight shone off its edges. The iron bars of the balconies and the shingles of the roof. The orange hue of candle light was no where to be found. It didn’t matter. Anakin had to keep going lest they catch him. Drag him back to be broken. To be kept and owned and mistreated over and over again.

His injured foot slammed into a rock, and Anakin hit the ground. The rushing pain, the exhaustion, the malnourishment, it all seemed to overcome the young man as he lay in the yard.

I hope they kill me. Anakin thinks. Better dead than to live a minute more as a slave.

A pair of legs step into his view. That doesn’t make sense, though, since he can hear the angry yelling of the house enforcers and slave keepers still approaching.

“It’s still practiced?” A posh voice calls from above him. “Even after all this time? Perhaps the world is progressing slower than I thought.”

The legs crouch, a cool palm cups his cheek, and then he is staring into the vibrant red eyes of the prettiest man he has ever seen.

No, not a man. Not quite.

“Don’t worry, dear one.” He coos, thumb making comforting swipes back and forth across his cheek. “Everything will be alright.”

The man moves, stepping around him, and Anakin succumbs to his exhaustion to the sounds of death.

[extrajigs]

The FOOD POST!! Or well the build up to it. I figured before I could get started I need to first clarify some staple crops for Mirum. Not including most fruits cause hoo boy. These are crops of the floodplains, aka most populated areas of Mirum.

Big ass infodump to be found below!

First to be explained the flood plains have FIVE distinct growing 'zones' which are classified by how likely they are to be subject to flooding, as well as the associated fire risks. ZONE 5: Never Floods These areas will as stated, remain above water for all but the most record breaking seasonal flooding. Hilltops and highlands basically, this also means that they are at risk of tinder buildup and highest likelyhood for fire so watch out! ZONE 4: Occasionally Floods These areas are most of the time dry, maybe underwater at the peak of the season or if it was particularly heavy rain or maybe not at all! This level is also were most settlements will be built around, with some overlap into the areas before and after it. ZONE 3: Always Floods/Drains This is the majority of land in the Mirum Floodplain, these places will be sunk for minimum of 3 months of the year but above water the rest of the time. Plants that reside here have no way of not dealing with the flooding and this is also where we flip from Flooding to Draining! ZONE 2: Occasionally Drains The rivers of Mirum, these areas will most likely remain flooded for the entirety of the year. Only maybe draining out during the height of fire season, but even then its not super common. ZONE 1: Never Drains These are the deep bellies of Mirum's rivers and lakes. Where only years of lack luster rain and drought will drain them, a once in a century catastrophe! But typically they will remain filled with a substantial amount of water year round.

NOW PLANTS TIME! 1. Twin Leaf- These plants are grown in Zone 5 mainly for their fibrous stalk and leaves. The stalk is useful for making rope and all that jazz while young leaves are snipped off to be snacked on. Mature leaves are waxy and inedible once split, but young leaves are similar in texture to cabbage. 2. Dwarf Oak- Actually not related to oak at all but moreso named for the similarities in the nuts from the two plants. Here though the 'acorns' are filled with a milky substance that makes a pretty good butter substitute. 3. Funion- Yeah this is an onion, but like a fancy fantasy themed one. If I could just slap an onion in there I would. 4. Brittle Palm- This palm is covered in woody remnants of its old leaves, to get to the good bits you have to peel it down to the center. Ever had heart of palm? Same thing, only a bit saltier.

5. Bubble Grass- This grain spends all year waiting for the flood waters to come in, where it has two distinct seeds awaiting. Light air filled seeds to ride the current inland and heavier seeds to sink down with the receding water. It is named for the fact that these heavier seeds fizz and bubble on the way down. 6. Water-Tato- Listen potatoes are also ESSENTIAL to any world. How about these guys grow big ole tubers to last through the flood? Once they get sunk underwater the leaves die off and it waits out the flooding. Then it uses stored energy to pop right on up again! 7. Never Sleep- This plant reacts to the flood season by letting it's outer wood and leaves rot away, regrowing itself from the inside out! However the chemicals it produces to stave off bacteria and decay are quite potent stimulants. Thus it has become quite popular with chimera looking to get a rush at the expense of their overall health! 8. Stone Flower- These fruits grow on tall stalks until their weight eventually sends them down into the waters below. They float along thanks to sweet, spongey tissues carrying along a big ole seed in the center. Taste like a savory strawberry.

9. Chew- A fun, underwater grass with tough outer stalks and soft, sweet insides. You could go through the trouble of peeling it or always just chew and spit it out once you give up! 10. Rubber Weed- A seaweed, or well waterweed? Not really in the ocean. A waterweed who is actually seaweed and is treated as such! Would be very good dried and salted.

11. Tile- Named because a big patch of these can hide the water below completely, they are big ass water lilies farmed mainly for the soft fleshy lumps grown on the underside of their leaf. Though there are a bunch of thorns scattered in there. I wanna imagine that they taste of mild artichoke. 12. WATER-TATO DELUXE- I want to say this one is more similar to turnip, but its still there baby.

13. Oil Leak- These are underwater flowers. They bloom during the flood season and rely on poor creatures swimming through the clouds of oily pollen they spit up and sinking into the flower patch below, slowly suffocating as their writing only furthers the cycle of death. Also if you get it on you then you'll be feeling sticky for weeks after. Fun to smear on your friends!

[kindred-sims]

There was no time to waste when it came to getting the farm back up and running. The old man that had lived here before them had been well up in years and his health had deteriorated so that he hadn't been able to manage the place by himself anymore. Elio knew he had his work cut out for him but he wasn't about to shy away from it, he'd been raised in a family of hard workers and he was determined to remain as one.

After tearing up any brittle weeds and grass from the ground, he got to work tilling the soil and planting seeds, until his work produced something satisfying.

He also went ahead and fixed up the old chicken coop, patching its holes and giving it a fresh coat of paint. With the little bit of money they had leftover, Elio added a couple of baby chicks and a rooster to their growing brood, certain that it would be a wise investment in the long run. Fresh eggs meant a bonus profit, and anything they didn't sell, well, he knew his Vittoria would put to good use.

[notwarriorswiki]

Main Story - Into the Wild #3

The world was spinning.

Attempting to push himself back to his paws, Rusty could only wince as a dull pain persisted in his back. Cool air brushed against his neck, causing his fur to rise and his skin to tingle. He craned his neck back and forth, feeling the fur brush against the groove of his chin. He softly exhaled, blinking back the blurriness to focus on the item before him.

His collar.

Snapped in two, loose, brittle thread jutted out from the breaking point. The bell that always jingled in his ears with every small movement was now a short distance away, alone and hanging from nothing. The sunlight caught its golden shell, allowing it to glisten in the sunlight.

Rusty stared at it, green eyes unable to look away. He lifted his paw, as if he might reach to gingerly scoop it back up. However, the golden light would fade, the sun's rays shifting.

He looked up. A cloud loomed overhead, passing by a portion of the sun. The glitter of his bell faded, and instead the sun's rays danced to rest on Rusty himself.

His fur felt warm, his neck especially. The soft intermingling scents came with a faint breeze, tickling his chin as a smile spread across his face. His green eyes shifted to instead look up, his gaze expectantly fixing upon the blue gray she-cat that had invited him here.

She stood powerful and stern, blue eyes betraying none of her thoughts. And yet as Rusty purred proudly, he couldn't help but notice the smallest twitch of her whiskers.

“The newcomer has lost his Twoleg collar in a battle for his honor," Bluestar called. "StarClan has spoken its approval—this cat has been released from the hold of his Twoleg owners, and is free to join ThunderClan as an apprentice.”

A swell of excitement filled him. Rusty basked in the sunlight's warm glow, his ginger fur radiant under its eyes. He waited for Bluestar to come down and congratulate him, but the she-cat remained perched atop the Highrock.

"You look like a brand of fire in this sunlight..." she murmured, causing Rusty's ears to prick. Her eyes flashed briefly, as if her words had more meaning for her than he knew.

“From this day forward, until he has earned his warrior name, this apprentice will be called Firepaw, in honor of his flame-colored coat.”

The gazes of the clan were fixed upon him, Rusty's fur prickling with full awareness of their presence.

Smudge could never be a clan cat. Not like me.

Instead he basked in their attention. He raised his head proudly, turning to gaze once more upon the collar. The cloud's cover was fading, and sunlight once more rested on the bell. But this time he didn't admire its beauty.

Firepaw trotted over and stopped just before the mangled scraps he once wore. With a quick turn, he kicked dust and grass over his collar as though burying his dirt.

Longtail growled, turning to saunter away.

"Not so fast," Bluestar spoke.

The clan cats looked back at their leader, uncertain what she would say next. Firepaw straightened up, ears pricked and attentive.

"This young cat will need a mentor." Bluestar looked to Longtail. "And I think you'll do just fine."

Firepaw and Longtail both froze.

"What?!"

-------------------------------

What you have read here is a sample of a Warrior Cats Rewrite, using a concept that I have been contemplating for awhile now. This concept seeks to combine both an art and writing medium, using Tumblr's post and tagging system to tell a Main Story, episodic series that does not rely on Chapters. This also opens up opportunities for Side Stories about the various characters in the clan, which while not required, will provide insight into some of their behaviors, as well as allow viewers to get to know them.

This concept is not unique, rather there are many Warrior Cats blogs who use a format like this. I'm unsure if it has been used for a rewrite, as well as with the branching pathways I have in mind, but I find it is a more viable way for me to share the Power of Twelve Rewrite with people after the Ao3 Series died out.

The question is if you enjoyed it. Do you like this concept? Are you interested in it? Would you follow Power of Twelve with this concept? I'm curious to get people's thoughts, as well as other things that could be implemented. There's also the question of if you don't like this, and I want to hear that too!

Either way, thanks for reading, and I hope this post was a fun read!

[asha-mage]

Mat/Rand. Prince

[Send me a character or pairing, and a one word prompt, and I'll write you a drabble!]

There is a small grassy glade in the Waterwood, nestled between two oddly shaped boulders that at one point in history, might have been something more. The huge willows of the Waterwood, with their spreading branches and tangling winding roots flank it on all sides and make the place almost invisible, if you do not know the trick of finding the path.

Rand can no longer remember if he or Mat was the first to discover it- the first to wander into that hidden place, always a little shadowy and damp with dew, even at mid noon in summer. But he knows that it was just their place: for the two of them to lay back in the grass and reach up for the branches, to laugh and joke and share secrets together. To talk of the adventures they would have when they where big enough to no longer be told no but their families or the Wisdom, or the Women’s Circle.

It wasn’t like the pond where they would go sometimes, with Perrin and Egwene to swim in the boiling heat of summer. Or like the trips down to idle by the river with other village youths. Something unspoken held it just between them, as if sharing knowledge of it would shatter something fragile and brittle and shinning kept there, between their laughs and games of make-believe.

Once, when they where eight, Mat had made a crown. With his clumsy fingers he had woven starburst and morning glory with loose garlands from the willows, twinning them around broken branches and loose sticks until he had made a rough ring of white and gold and bright orange.

He had bowed elaborately when he was done and presented the crown to Rand with a flourish.

“My prince.” Mat had said with exaggerated deference spoiled only a little by the fox like grin on lips. Rand couldn’t help but laugh as he had taken it and placed it onto his head. He had known it would look foolish, but something had shinned in Mat’s eyes as Rand had fixed it in place, something for which Rand had no name at the time.

“And what am I prince of exactly?” Rand had teased when the crown was settled. “Where is my kingdom?”

“You are standing in it!” Mat had laughed and gestured at the glade. “Prince of the hidden grove! Lord of the Waterwood, etc etc.”

Rand had smirked back. “Master of all the castles in the air? And served by soldiers armored in gossamer steel?” He teased. “And who is my general then? A puppet made of glass?”

Mat had whooped but shaken his head, plucking up another stick to hold like a General’s rod. “No puppets for the Prince of the Morning. I am your general, leader of your loyal hawks, and dogs and foxes. All the carrion eaters, all the foul things can oppose you if they wish-“ He winked. “I will drive them all back with sword and shield and catapult. Let the beetles and the snakes, the rats and the ravens try. I will chase them all away from you, Highness.”

He had said it with such solemnity, such stiff lipped strength that Rand couldn’t help but burst into laughter, and Mat had followed suit soon after. They had ended up laying on their backs staring at the sky and joking about the campaigns they would wage, and the laws they would enact in their new realm (beginning with no bed times of course, and descending in importance from there).

At some point Mat’s hand had found it’s way into Rand’s, and stayed there, until it was to late for them to remain, and they had no choice but to head back to the village.

My general of the hawks and the dogs and the foxes. Rand thought as he watched Mat ride ahead of him. That was years ago no, more then a decade gone. All around them, the crowds of Cairhien citizens cheered and sang, trying to press in on Rand’s small party, held back by the Maidens and the Tearians alike.

And Mat rode ahead, not looking back. Afraid to even stare into Rand’s eyes for to long. Lieutenants and officers from the Band of the Red Hand surrounded him on all sides, and more soldiers marched, rank on rank ahead of them, basking in the accolades of their victory.

The Band of the Red Hand. Not the Band of the Dragon, or the Legion of Al’Thor. The Band of the Red Hand, named for a long dead army of mercenaries, and likely to be just the same.

Rand felt his eyes sweep up to the spires of the Sun Palace in the distance. He was more then any Prince now, more then any King, probably more even then long dead Artur Hawkwing. His name would be writ across history in fire, and their where thousands ready to march at his word, to die for him.

He felt the never healing wound in his side throb in dull agony.

His eyes sank back to Mat, to the sight of the nape of his neck, just visible above the collar of his coat.

And I would trade it all, to be in our grove again. I would give it all away for our castles in the air, for our army of hawks and dogs and foxes.

Better to be a prince with a flower crown, then the Dragon Reborn. Better by miles.

[louistonehill]

NIGHTSHADE IS HERE

About

"Since their arrival, generative AI models and their trainers have demonstrated their ability to download any online content for model training. For content owners and creators, few tools can prevent their content from being fed into a generative AI model against their will. Opt-out lists have been disregarded by model trainers in the past, and can be easily ignored with zero consequences. They are unverifiable and unenforceable, and those who violate opt-out lists and do-not-scrape directives can not be identified with high confidence.

In an effort to address this power asymmetry, we have designed and implemented Nightshade, a tool that turns any image into a data sample that is unsuitable for model training. More precisely, Nightshade transforms images into "poison" samples, so that models training on them without consent will see their models learn unpredictable behaviors that deviate from expected norms, e.g. a prompt that asks for an image of a cow flying in space might instead get an image of a handbag floating in space.

Used responsibly, Nightshade can help deter model trainers who disregard copyrights, opt-out lists, and do-not-scrape/robots.txt directives. It does not rely on the kindness of model trainers, but instead associates a small incremental price on each piece of data scraped and trained without authorization. Nightshade's goal is not to break models, but to increase the cost of training on unlicensed data, such that licensing images from their creators becomes a viable alternative.

Nightshade works similarly as Glaze, but instead of a defense against style mimicry, it is designed as an offense tool to distort feature representations inside generative AI image models. Like Glaze, Nightshade is computed as a multi-objective optimization that minimizes visible changes to the original image. While human eyes see a shaded image that is largely unchanged from the original, the AI model sees a dramatically different composition in the image. For example, human eyes might see a shaded image of a cow in a green field largely unchanged, but an AI model might see a large leather purse lying in the grass. Trained on a sufficient number of shaded images that include a cow, a model will become increasingly convinced cows have nice brown leathery handles and smooth side pockets with a zipper, and perhaps a lovely brand logo.

As with Glaze, Nightshade effects are robust to normal changes one might apply to an image. You can crop it, resample it, compress it, smooth out pixels, or add noise, and the effects of the poison will remain. You can take screenshots, or even photos of an image displayed on a monitor, and the shade effects remain. Again, this is because it is not a watermark or hidden message (steganography), and it is not brittle."

(From Ben Zhao's website)

Here is finally a weapon for all of us to use against the plagiarising tech industry!

Please use this!

This isn't just for artists, it's for everyone!!

Use it on your selfies, your photos, anything and everything you save on cloud or upload to the internet - where it might be harvested.

This is our chance to take back our copyright, but it works the best when everyone join in!

Let's do this!!

Link: https://nightshade.cs.uchicago.edu/whatis.html

Download: nightshade.cs.uchicago.edu/downloads.html

[bluecapsicum]

Cold winter skies illustrations for my daily meteorological fiction project, Reports From Unknown Places About Undescribable Events (Twitter, Instagram, Mastodon).

Keep reading for captions.

December 24th - We report: once again, we find ourselves under a murmuration as we walk past a field. We can hear trills and whistles coming from this massive bird cloud waltzing in the winter sky. We think there might be a few hundred of them, all moving together. We stay there for a long time.

January 10th - We report: the sky so dark and low this way, and the horizon so far, the trees bare and tiny in the distance; we wonder whether there might be space enough between the sky and the earth for us to walk. As it is, our face is up in the sky and our feet are down in the frozen earth.

January 13th - We report about this time, late in the afternoon when the humidity starts to saturate the atmosphere. Even through the dense clouds, there are faint hints of sunset colours amidst the grey. Blackbirds and sparrows are getting busy while we wait for the rain.

January 18th - We report Jupiter and Saturn at nightfall today; we expect Venus to follow shortly after, although the sky might be overcast by then. It is still too bright for us to be able to see stars, but we know that the Aquarius constellation is right there, rising over the horizon.

January 21st - We report: a morning removed from the world, fog and frost making even time move sluggishly. Every blade of grass looks brittle, and we wonder if they would snap off immediately, should we touch them. We cannot locate the sun, though we know where it should be.

January 25th - We report: the frothing winter sea during high tides; any colder and it would freeze solid, it would seem. There is an icy blue in the waves that unrelentingly crash against the rocky shore. The day stretches under an opaque sky that remains the same throughout.

January 30th - We report that we lost a glove on this snowy path, and we tried to walk back in our earlier steps. It was easy at first, but the snow and the night kept falling steadily; the footsteps disappeared. When we finally came home, though, our expert told us that they had picked it up.

February 13th - We report a very rare and complex halo display: a 20° halo, a parhelic circle with parhelia, a sun pillar leading up to an upper tangent arc and a parry arc, a 46° halo, and a circumzenithal arc. Very complex indeed, many arcs for a single sun. It is absolutely freezing outside.

February 22nd - We report: in the car, on a parking lot, facing the ocean. The rain is hitting the windscreen hard, in waves. It is an old car; the wind shakes it and whistles through the small cracks where the doors do not close very well. We watch raindrops run down the windows at an angle.

March 14th - We report: it has not stopped being cold here. We walk in the footsteps of someone who was here earlier this morning. It has snowed a little bit again since, and some of the tracks have been filled in. We are following a line of pollarded trees that creak in the cool wind.

[zarvasace]

If you're looking for more requests, how about minish Four and Fairy Hyrule?

This perhaps isn't quite what you were after (sorry) but it's fun either way. XD ~400 words.

---

"Hey, Hyrule."

Hyrule looked up from the strands of grass he was working on weaving together to pass the time. "Four. What's up?" 

Four sat down next to him against the barn wall, stretching out his feet in the shade. He lowered his voice, watching Twilight and Wind splash each other in the river a distance away. "I want to warn you."

"...warn me?" Hyrule set the grass aside, feeling chilly. "About what?" 

"Nothing dramatic, don't worry. You don't need a weapon," Four laughed. "No. It's just that… well… Wars's new knife is… bad."

"Bad?" Hyrule asked slowly. He stopped reaching for his sword, but he remained tense. 

"Well, for one, it isn't great quality," Four said. "It isn't steel like the merchant said, just mostly iron."

Hyrule made a face. "Iron?" 

"It's an awful material to make knives out of. It's too brittle. It isn't even pure iron, so I'd have to purify it if I wanted to do anything with it." Four shook his head. "Warriors was disappointed when I told him. I don't know how he picked out the worst quality metal I've seen in a while, but he did." 

"Why are you… warning me?" Hyrule asked slowly, still not quite relaxing. "I don't really care what Wars's knife is made out of."

Four sighed and looked at Hyrule straight on. "I only work with iron when I have gloves and an apron on. Otherwise, it would hurt. You probably think you're being subtle, but I can tell it would hurt you, too."

Hyrule's eyes went wide, and he felt somewhat foolish, and a little offended. "I think I'm being subtle? How—"

"Hyrule," Four said, a bit of a smile on his face. "I'm sorry for being circumspect. Look. I can tell you're fey. You hide it, but I can tell, because I am, too."

"You are?" Hyrule's thoughts ground to a halt, and he blinked at Four. He'd always noticed that Four's magic had a bit of a different flavor to it, but he had chalked it up to the Four Sword being odd. 

"Yes. Be careful around Wars's new knife, all right? You wouldn't want to get hurt." Four stood up, gave Hyrule a smile, and wandered off, as if he hadn't just upended Hyrule's entire view of the universe. 

…Hyrule should really look into those magic auras a bit. 

[aphrodisianbaby]

they say that long ago, before Prometheus's fire shone in the sun's absence, Helios left the side of man each night and fell into slumber beneath the waters of the sea. and when the night Mother took His place, cold grief wrapped the earth. the flowers hid and the animals disappeared, patiently awaiting their Father's return. all waking creatures followed in His footsteps—sleeping through Selene's darkness to dream of the mighty rays of life. when Eos came to give rise to the mighty sun, His tears of sorrow appeared on the grass and dripped from the highest trees. some say that He filled the streams and lakes as light spilled across the lands. the rise of Helios became a time of reunion known to mortals as mourning

this tale begins as Eos lifted Him from the sea once more. His tears swelled on the leaves and His rays called out to humanity. today, His children did not come. they hid within their homes, terrified of the malevolent whom took advantage of the night. the shadows wailed and writhed, keeping His humble children awake. now, they slept through the day in exhaustion.

devastated, Helios gazed upon His slumbering children, too tired to greet Him. each time He returned, the pastures remained unkept and the fields shriveled into dust. the day couldn't last forever, and humanity could not survive without cultivation under the sun. from divine kharis, He offered humans a hope to last through the night. as Helios fell from the sky, the last of His color collided with the frothing sea.

from the union of the radiant sun and the wine-dark ocean emerged a golden form. ripe from the sea foam and imbued with luminescence, it awoke the slumbering mortals. all who saw were beckoned by the flash, a beacon in the night, and crowded the shore where She lay. many names were uttered upon Her appearance—Amathousia, Anaduomenê, Melainis, Kallipugos, Ourania—as She lie in the sand with wafting waves kissing Her cheeks

Aphrodite, She called Herself—radiant divinity within mortal form. a Goddess given life from the love between the mortal and immortal. from Her kiss came the fertility of the sun and from Her skin the iridescence of the sea shone. Her touch harbored the purest of love while Her laughter was as contagious as the plague. She roamed the night, watching over the mortals whom Her father adored so dearly. She protected them in His absence, taught them the gifts He could not sew from afar. as Her story spread, She was beloved by all. Pandemos Aphrodite, She who loved the poorest of men and saved the most desperate souls

after many years, Her knees had became too brittle to travel and Her senses dulled with age. still, the masses lovingly stayed by Her side. when it came time for Her mortal form to expire, humanity fell to their knees and begged Helios to save Her. even so, Aphrodite was not afraid to die. She eased their weary minds, for even if She could not be with them anymore, She would live on within their hearts. Helios heard the cries of His people and extended down His hand, grateful to the Goddess. in a moment of excellence, a golden flash appeared, pulling Her soul from the jaws of Psychopompus

they say that Aphrodite did not die that day. though Her body had disappeared and Her light did not illuminate the night anymore, Her existence was poured into every living being. humanity did not weep at their loss. instead, they danced, kissed, and drank together. their hearts were full and their minds were clear, for glorious Aphrodite would never leave their side

— "The Birth of Aphrodite" Dionysianfreak, 2023

I started this story a long time ago, I'm so glad it's finally done ! I've wanted to write my own myths for a long time as I personally view them more as devotional stories that reflect personal associations and experiences.

this myth is a retelling of Aphrodite's birth. it's based on my upg that sunsets on the ocean are one of Aphrodite's most sacred places. this is because I see it as the union between the heavens and the sea, Aphrodite's abodes. i also wanted it to revolve around love that wasn't inherently romantic or sexual, but the pure love between the Divine and humanity. I hope you enjoy it and I hope it won't be my last <3

Khaire Aphrodite 🐚🫀✨🌹🌠

[rotworld]

25: Roadside Attraction

(previous)

the road to anchor takes you to stranger and stranger places. but here, at least, you will find some answers.

->sexually explicit. contains terato, non-human genitalia.

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.

.

The convoy stops at nightfall, filling the parking lot where a rest stop used to be. Only the ghost of a building remains, an inverted mirage surrounded by scorched grass. A pair of vending machines flicker like dying bulbs, translucent, their contents changing each time they wink in and out of existence; snack crackers. Carbonated drinks. Dead butterflies. Jamie warns everyone to keep their distance. The Verlindans pace restlessly. Malachi comes over to check on you as you stretch your legs, leaning against the crumpled hood of your car. 

“How is everyone?” Jamie asks him.

“Anxious,” he says, “but morale is high.” 

You study the frostbite on your fingers. They’re almost completely numb now, dried and dead to the second joint. “We’re not going to make it to Anchor tonight,” you say quietly. “We’ll be in trouble if a shift hits.” 

“Could try sheltering on the Verlindan backroads,” Jamie suggests. “I’m sure they won’t love us driving back there, but given the circumstances, maybe they’ll make an exception.” You nod, unconvinced. Even if you survive the shift, you might be spat back out on the other end of the Drift. Even if you aren’t, you still have to get through Anchor’s gates. It feels more and more hopeless the further you get.

But you look across the parking lot. The people of Nelton gather in small conversational circles, talking and laughing, singing songs. The Verlindans are restless but their eyes are on the horizon. Hopeful—that’s the feeling you get. Everyone is here, following your lead, because they believe it’s worth trying. So you stow your worries and think about tomorrow instead; a house for couriers. A place with fresh eggs, warm beds, and homemade tea.

You’re on the road again soon. An hour more, the convoy agreed. If you don’t find a town, the Verlindans will begrudgingly allow you to use their paths as campgrounds for the night. It’s still dangerous, but better than being caught out on the open road during a shift. Curiosity keeps your mind occupied for a while—you’ve never seen the Verlindan backroads before, and you’ve always wondered how a place stays in one piece without anchorware—but something else captures your attention soon enough.

The salty smell you remember from Aliquando Island suddenly pricks your senses. That’s brine, you know now, a whisper of ocean. But this isn’t the narrow isthmus road. Jamie suddenly stiffens, warning you that a shift’s coming, but you don’t stop. Anchor is still far away, but something else—something familiar—is very close. The road curves. Your headlights glance over dark, churning water. A river? A lake? Through the fog and the dark, you can’t glimpse the far shore or gauge its size, but you never find a bridge to get across.

What do you find is an old wooden sign pitched at the roadside, three painted planks stacked one atop the other reading, “FERRY AHEAD.” The road curves once more, veering off over the water. It’s not a bridge but a fenced ramp, asphalt transitioning to a metal loading dock. The ferry is old and precarious-looking, a steamboat with twin chimneys and a worn, barnacle-peppered hull. Its glittering, golden light ripples on the surface of the water like drowning stars. You’ve never seen such a thing before. There is no ferry service in the Drift, no body of water large enough to warrant it.

And yet, here it sits. A man sits hunched on the ramp’s brittle fencing, standing slowly when your headlights reach him. He saunters over to your window, hands buried in the pockets of a black peacoat. His eyes are hidden in the shadows cast by the black brim of a vintage captain’s hat. You see him tilt his head, glancing through the window at you. His smile is small and bemused, like he’s seen something pleasant he didn’t expect to see. “Evening,” he says, his voice low and rough like gravel. “Headed west?”

“Is there another way across?” you ask. “We’d like to stick together and I don’t think you can take all of us in one trip.” 

He chuckles. “Nah, you’ll fit just fine. The Proteus is bigger than she looks. There might be a bridge if you keep going, but there might not be. Depends on the Drift’s mood. Either way, it’s safer to go by boat. Shift’ll pass right over us on the water, you won’t get displaced.”

You can feel Jamie staring in disbelief. They must be thinking the same thing; you’ve found a place that shouldn’t exist and this sounds too good to be true. “How much?” you ask.

The man’s smile widens. You think at first he has a Verlindan’s teeth, curved and wolf-like, but where the Verlindan’s have a pair of prominent canines, he has a mouthful of daggers. “Not a thing. It’s free for kith and kin.” 

It takes some coordination, a few insistent reassurances, but you’re moving again soon. You slowly ascend the ramp, your car rattling over the metal loading bay and into a darkened lower deck. The man was right; it’s much larger on the inside, cavernous and echoing like a parking garage.

“Are you sure about this?” Jamie mutters. 

You are. Maybe you shouldn’t be. Maybe you should be wary and afraid. But this is your best bet to reach Anchor, and more importantly, it feels right. The hint of sea salt in the air soothes you. You get a feeling you haven’t had since Aliquando Island—that you know this place in a distant way. 

The man had grinned at you with his monstrous teeth and you didn’t even feel a twinge of fear, only a sense of muted recognition.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: THE DEEP BY PHILDEL]

There’s a trembling sensation as the metal loading bay slides away from the asphalt ramp and shutters closed. The ferry blares its horn and then you’re moving. Water churns and laps at the hull. Those who came from Nelton have started settling in for the night, sharing blankets and pillows, reclining across their seats. Jamie is restless, eager to go above deck where they can at least keep an eye on the captain. You’re inclined to follow, though not out of suspicion. 

The Verlindans are unsettled. They pace the length of the lower deck back and forth, whispering to one another. There’s a curving walkway with a gentle slope that carries the smell of salt and soft night wind from above. They stand guard there, as though expecting trouble, but they let you and Jamie through without a few cautious glances to one another.

“Want some fresh air?” you ask them.

“Rather not,” Glenn says. The worried expression on your face makes him chuckle and shake his head. “We’re alright, courier. Just out of our element. Not used to being on someone else’s territory.” 

Jamie frowns. “What does that mean? Whose territory is this?” 

“I’m not sure. Just know it’s not ours.” He looks you up and down with a contemplative expression, smiling gently as though confirming something he long suspected. “Free for kith and kin, he said? I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

You take the curved walkway above deck and a cold breeze skims the water, kissing your cheeks. It doesn’t look like the same vessel. It’s too small, too tightly compact, no room beneath your feet for half a town to park. There’s little to see—guard rails, unmarked cargo boxes stacked haphazardly, fog as far as the eye can see. The captain is sequestered away in the bridge, a silhouette behind the darkened windows. The lights are off inside, you notice, and dimmed along the sides of the ferry. Jamie walks back and forth across the deck several times before returning to you, looking perturbed.

“No anchorware,” they say. “There’s some kind of spatial anomaly at work here, but it seems stable.” 

They join you at the railing, resting their arms over it. You can’t be too far from the shore you just left, but you can’t see it anymore. The water is black like ink and rippling in the ferry’s wake, dyed a dim, sunset shade of orange by the lights. It’s easy to see things in the strange, liquid motion, shapes that aren’t really there. It’s quiet; nothing but wind and waves. The smell of brine is stronger now.

“You look happy,” they note.

You shrug. “I like how the water sounds. It’s easy to relax.” 

“You liked Aliquando Island, too. So…how about that beach house?” Jamie grins when they manage to get a smile out of you, draping an arm around your shoulder. 

“I don’t think the Drift has all that many beaches.” 

“Fine, be evasive again. I didn’t think the Drift had islands, or a ferry,” they say, gesturing at the glassy shimmer of cresting waves. “But here we are. And here you are, looking all misty-eyed and nostalgic. You should always hang onto the things that make you happy, courier.” You nod. You’re going to try. Jamie leans their head against your shoulder and you spend a long, comfortable moment like that, standing on the deck in tranquil silence. Eventually, your eyelids start to droop and you go back below deck together, Jamie’s fingers laced with yours.

Gentle snores echo on the parking level. Jamie tilts their seat back and curls up with a sweatshirt balled up under their head as a pillow. They offer you a spare, soft knit and cream-colored, as a blanket. You drift off watching them stubbornly try to stay awake longer, lashes fluttering, nuzzling against the touch of your hand to their cheek like an affectionate cat.

Someone is singing.

You jolt awake, disoriented. You can’t remember falling asleep and don’t know how long you’ve been out. A fog of exhaustion gives everything a surreal, slightly muted feeling. Jamie is still fast asleep, shoulders rising and falling with soft breaths. The Verlindans have fallen asleep in a heap of bodies, nestled close to each other over each other with what looks like a crumpled mess of picnic blankets piled beneath them. Everything is silence and stillness around you, not a soul awake except for you. 

And someone is singing. You don’t know how you recognize it as song—it’s deeper than a human voice could go, lower than guttural, slow and powerful like the grinding of glaciers. But there’s a clear melody, a gradual rising and falling. There’s a message trying to be heard. You’re getting out of the car before you’re fully aware of yourself moving, drawn to the walkway that takes you above deck.

The sound is neither clearer nor closer. You pace in frustration, trying to locate the source, but nothing helps. Gripping the railing, you peer into the waves and ripples. You think you see a phantom shape in the motion, a wave that is softer, more rounded, breaching the surface before it slips beneath again. Water mists across your face. Your neck feels strange. Those sensitive patches along the sides are throbbing.

“Can you hear it?” 

You didn’t notice the captain standing there, leaning with his back against the railing not far away. He’s watching you. You can feel it, even if you can’t make out his face or much of anything in the weak dusk-light of the dimmed ferry lights. His silhouette is large and intimidating, filling out his coat with a wide chest and broad shoulders, and he easily towers over you. His hands are in his pockets again.

“What is that?” you ask.

“What, indeed.” You can hear the smile in his voice. “Something old and lonely.” He pushes away from the railing and starts to walk away. You follow without hesitation, falling into step with his brisk, heavy pace. “I should ask you, shouldn’t I? Where you’re from, where you’re going. Feels redundant at this stage.” 

Your heart races. Your lungs burn. There’s so much you want to ask him but you can’t get the words past a lump in your throat, a suffocating pressure like a choking hand.

“Deep breaths. Don’t thrash and panic. You know how to breathe.” He pushes a door open. You expect an ascending staircase up to the bridge, but the steps go down in a winding spiral. There are no lights lining the cramped, dizzying corridor. You can’t see how far down it goes. The captain steps past you and begins descending. He pauses when he sees you aren’t following, half-swallowed by darkness. 

The song is coming from below. It echoes up from the darkened staircase, low and haunting. The captain holds out his hand and it’s much larger than yours, ridges of tendon prominent beneath the skin. Thin, translucent membranes stretch across the space between his fingers. When you touch him, his skin feels slightly damp.

He leads you down. The air gets colder. The steps shriek and clatter beneath your combined weight. Eventually, you can’t even see that far ahead, the dark too deep and the surface too far away. You should have reached the bottom by now, you think, should have found yourself on the lower deck ages ago. The song grows steadily closer, louder, more defined, notes that ebb and flow with the steady slowness of the tide. You can hear the captain humming the same melody, his voice dipping into the same rumbling pitch.

“He was stranded here by a shift a very, very long time ago,” the captain says. “Where he comes from, the water is endless. It helps to have a voice that carries. That’s why our dreams are what they are, you understand? We speak while we sleep.” 

Shimmering light curls at the edge of your vision. It’s gone when you turn to look at it properly. Another comes, closer this time, a luminous body that wriggles by like a floating serpent. Your eyes are adjusting. You start to notice the dark moving; flitting shapes and rippling silhouettes. Bulbous, undulating things that drift along soundlessly, tapered cones of flesh with bulging eyes and tendril-curtained mouths, gently swaying things pulsing gently with colorful light. Is this an aquarium? Some kind of submerged observation deck? The thought is dispelled as a small, darting thing flits right in front of your face and you feel it moving, the wake of its rapid escape like wind on your face.

No. Not wind. Water, you think. It’s all around you. You’re not descending a staircase but sinking slowly. That smattering of white specks like a congested night sky—those aren’t stars. It’s marine snow. The auroras are bioluminescence. All this time, you were looking in the wrong direction, thinking of an alien place impossibly far away. The captain’s coat and hat drift by and you look back to the hand gently holding yours. 

He is a glimmering silhouette, twinkling dots outlining a humanoid shape. He takes your hands and presses them to his chest, urging you to touch, to feel and explore. You feel the rough, bumpy texture of his skin and powerful muscle rippling just underneath. You feel fins, both soft, short ruffles and firm, trailing flaps like sails. Sharp spines protrude from his hips like jutting bone. What you initially mistake for a wound—ripped, fluttering flesh—are actually gills, a row of them along his sides. When your fingertips graze over them, he shudders.

“Be careful where you touch,” he says. You don’t think his mouth moves, but you hear him in your head, an echoing, velvet purr. “It’s sensitive. You’re showing interest. You’re very much wanted, I assure you, but do you want?”

He lifts one of his webbed hands to your neck, stroking his thumb along the side, and heat fills your body. You press against the touch more insistently and that rumbling purr grows louder. Suddenly his hands are on your hips and he’s between your legs, giving a slow grind that makes you aware of something unusual. He’s hard, you can feel it—you’re naked and can’t remember when you got undressed, but you feel him, engorged and twitching against your inner thigh.

And he has two, you realize. 

“You move too quickly, Lorne. You have only just spoken.”

That’s not his voice. That’s a whisper so powerful it fills your head, all you can hear. The song has stopped, you realize, and the darkness beside you is stirring.

Seeing the thing in the dark is dizzying and difficult to comprehend now. He is not a beast of the cosmos but of deep waters. An abyssal giant of staggering, nearly incomprehensible size, you are smaller than the one silver eye staring down at you. When he moves, you move with him, stirred by the water swirling in his wake. He is trailing fins and floating tendrils, aglow in brilliant gemstone hues. You have never seen him properly because he is glassy and delicate like a cnidarian polyp, great swaths of flesh and flowing membranes partially translucent. You can see winding internal structures, serpents of intestines and descending coils of bone.

“You move too slow,” the captain, Lorne, shoots back. He brings your legs up to wrap around his waist and rocks against you, rumbling in approval at the shiver it draws out of you. “It isn’t fair, the way you’ve been keeping them all to yourself lately. If the rest of us did courtship at your pace, we’d die of old age before we got anywhere.” He tilts your chin and mouths at the sensitive spots on your neck, the scrape of his teeth making you dig your nails into his shoulders. He sucks on a spot that pries a whimper from your throat and you’re embarrassed, painfully aware of how intently you’re being watched. 

But the thing in the dark encourages you with the press of a soft tendril, pushing you further into Lorne’s embrace. “This is true. I have been selfish. And they have been hurting and afraid.”

“Not tonight,” Lorne says. He drags you back and forth over the heads of his cocks, teasing you with quick, hard rutting against your sex. “Tonight you’re safe. Nothing will hurt you.” 

You want more than he gives you. The friction is good, mind-numbing, easy to lose yourself to. His cocks rub against your sex and you can feel just how large they are nestled against your stomach like that, full, throbbing lengths giving off milky puffs of milt into the water. His grip shifts and he’s clutching your ass, kneading your flesh as he pulls you into the harsh, breathtaking rhythm of his grinding, and you’re imagining how it’d feel for him to fuck you like this. Hard and merciless, pounding your insides with one or both of his cocks, feeling the slap of full balls slapping against your ass. 

“God, I will,” he moans, nipping at your neck again. “Come back to me and I will. Get you nice and stretched so you can take all of me, stuff you with so much fucking cum I’ll be dripping out of you for days.” You want it now but he hushes you, cuts off your desperate, choked sounds with his lips on yours. The kiss is razor sharp and you cut your lip on his teeth but it just makes you hotter, raking your nails down his back until you’re sure you feel blood bubbling up around your fingers. It makes him groan into your mouth and grind even harder, every thrust a jerking, violent motion that oozes a cloud of milt. 

“Lorne,” the thing in the dark whispers, chiding.

“No.” Lorne sinks his claws into the meat of your ass possessively. You barely notice the sting, too focused on how good it feels to be here, sharing body heat in the cold of the abyss, nearly mating. “No, I don’t—don’t wanna let go.” 

There’s a fluttering sensation; warmth and comfort, a blanket against your back. The thing in the dark’s shimmering, auroral appendages throb faintly, filled with a slow heartbeat. “We cannot follow where you are going. But we will do all that we can.” 

You shake your head. You don’t want to go. You cling tightly to Lorne but the thing is insistent. It tugs you apart. 

“Wake,” it whispers. You feel the weight of its sadness bearing down on you, an ocean of grief—and the smallest, most hesitant spark of hope. “And…return to us safely.”

Your eyes open. It’s dark, but not the way you remember. This is soft darkness; simple shadows. The parking lot of the ferry. Jamie is sitting next to you, trying and failing to conceal a smile. “Good dream, huh?” they say, leering at you. You have no idea how to answer. Your indecision must come across as embarrassment because they laugh and give you a quick kiss, rubbing your shoulder. “It’s morning. I just poked my head out above deck. Captain says we’ll be there soon.”

“Oh. Good,” you say, sounding about as groggy and confused as you feel. You rub your eyes and stretch your legs the best you can. 

“Shift was just about over when I woke up. Was he right about that? We didn’t get shoved halfway across the Drift, did we?” 

You shake your head. You’re right where you should be. Anchor is west and the gap is smaller now. There’s just enough space for a town on the way but you’ll be there by tonight easily, likely sooner. “We’re really going to reach it,” you say, quietly awed. Fear creeps in soon after, followed by doubt. You’ll be there soon, and then what? Do you really stand a chance? 

Some time later, the ferry docks. Metal shrieks and rattles as the ramp lowers and you’re greeted by foggy daylight, the road stretching onward. The Verlindans are the first to leave, rushing for solid ground. Lorne ambles down to shore, bidding you farewell with a curt nod. He looks fully human, you think, no sign of his bioluminescent patches. “Safe travels,” he says. “And sweet dreams.” 

It’s only as you’re driving away that you see him move in the rearview mirror, lifting a webbed hand out of his pocket. He lifts his head and waves briefly. Then he touches his thumb and fingers to the sides of his neck in a gesture that looks innocent if not vaguely threatening, not nearly as obscene as it makes you feel. His smile is sharp and jagged. His eyes are the same stark, metallic shade as any other animal adapted to darkness.

(next)

[breannasfluff]

Brittle Memories

Brittle isn’t a word applied to heroes, but it fits Legend. For all the sass and snark, backed up by biting comments, Wild can’t help but see him as—brittle.

The realization is made worse by recognizing the same trait in himself. He has no right to complain; his interrupted adventure was only one in comparison to the Veteran’s multiples.

Wild understands the grouchy facade and keeps his distance in deference to the other.

The scream of a moblin and the crash of Legend’s sword blocking the blow aimed at Wild’s head slams him firmly into the battle at hand. His bow broke and he switched to a spear to jab at the taller monster.

Unfortunately, spears are a poor option against clubs up close.

“What are you doing?” Legend grits his teeth as he shoves against the weight of the club bearing down on his sword.

His power bracelet pulses and he shoves the weapon aside. A quick slice and the monster screams, kneecap mangled by the sword. Black blood oozes from the wound, but it doesn’t go down. “Can’t you clean up your own mess?”

Wild is still off-kilter from the blow that knocked him down, fingers clumsy as he trades the spear for a sword. “Sorry,” he says, but it’s lots in the din of battle.

Once again armed, he joins Legend’s side. “Bow broke,” he tries to explain.

The Veteran gasps as he fends off the monster’s greater weight. “Maybe if you didn’t have such shit weapons it wouldn’t be a problem.”

It’s true, so Wild doesn’t push back. The art of making weapons was lost in his Hyrule and few good ones remained. Combined with his fighting style, it’s a miracle anything survives in his hands.

The moblin finally goes down and the battle slows around them. Time finishes off his bokoblin before glancing around for a head count. Hyrule darts around the heroes, hands glowing pink as he checks for injuries.

Leaning on his sword, Legend glares at Wild. “You’re a hindrance to the group and you’re going to get someone hurt.”

Sky, picking his way through the bloody field, catches the comment and cuffs the Veteran’s head. “We’re a team. There’s no need to be rude.”

Wild waves him off with a practiced smile. ‘He’s right,’ he signs, sword already stowed in his slate to free his hands. ‘I’m not the best at working in a group.’

Clapping him on the shoulder, Sky ignores the instinctive flinch. “You’ll get the hang of it, don’t worry.”

Behind him, Legend sends another glare and stomps off to fuss over Hyrule.

The next portal dumps them in an in-between time with no hero. It also dumps them at the seaside. Legend, upon catching sight of the water, distinctly pales and clutches at Hyrule groaning next to him.

The sea is rough and crashes on the rocks sending salt spray misting over the group. No gentle waves and soft sand beaches of Lurelin here. Wild breathes in briny air, trying to clear the dizziness from the portal.

Time reaches out to catch Four before he faceplants into a rock exiting the portal. Despite the rocky terrain, tropical trees beckon from up the slope.

“Let’s head for higher ground and then we’ll rest.” Time chivies the other into motion, a hand periodically reaching to steady himself on Warriors. Even he isn’t excused from the dizziness of the portal.

The rocks are slippery with spray and Wild’s thankful for his climbing skills. The others struggle and Sky needs a boost to get over the last lip, but finally, they are up and moaning in the wiry grass. It melds into a tropical forest and craggy rocks extending up and down the coastline.

“Is this an island?” Legend’s voice is rough and something edging on panic tints his gaze. “Are we on a goddess-forsaken island?”

Hyrule, despite looking like he’ll tip over in a stiff breeze, scoots closer to lean against him.

The others are silent until Wild breaks in. “It’s coastline or a really big island.”

“How do you know?”

Confronted with Legend’s focus and glare, he retreats into signing. ‘Look, up and down the coast you can’t see any curves. And these types of rocks are similar to the cliffs in my Hyrule. There’s no sand, either. Islands usually have some sort of beach, carved out by the waves.

The assurance doesn’t seem to help. Legend squints at him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The jab hurts, but Wild shrugs it off. ‘Maybe,’ he agrees easily enough.

Time breaks in with a frown. “Vet, no need to take out frustration on Wild. Let’s take a break and head deeper in; find some water and a place to camp.”

Wild stares at Legend, who glares back. Brittle; the word a hollow ring in Wild’s mind.

Read the rest here!

[occasionallyprosie]

A Thousand Ways

Chapter 5: "Forests, Farms, and Family"

In the middle of the night, Legend finds himself dropped into an unknown forest with nothing more than an assassin's knife and magic he only just learned.

First | <<Previous | Next>>

Not Febuwhump (aka continuing plot)

Read On AO3 Warnings: None :)

He woke up falling.

Legend cursed loudly when he hit the ground. He dragged himself to his feet and flicked out the knife he'd kept on his person since the assassination attempt. 

He was in a forest, tall winding trees in numerous shades of green. The ground didn't have much in the way of fallen leaves but soft grass and underbrush.

The portal must've come in the night. He hated it when they did that.

He didn't recognize the forest nor its magic. It was familiar, that was for sure, and dark. He'd been here before, but with how much time travel he'd done, he still was unsure.

"Okay, okay," he let out a soft breath, "you're in an unknown forest— boots!"

At least the portal had dropped his boots with him. He pulled the shoes on, raising his head to study his dark surroundings.

He didn't have anything else, he didn't see anything else. So he looked up at the stars and almost pouted at seeing nothing. A cloudy night then, no wonder it was so dark.

"Right," he muttered. "Unknown forest, unknown era... no equipment. Adventure number four all over again."

He'd be fine. At least he had a weapon this time.

"Not fine!"

Legend cursed all that was holy as he weaved through the trees. He tried to catch the half dozen monsters trying to kill him off guard. He managed to flank the moblin and tore a fairly deep gash in its side only to nearly get cut in the face by one of Wild's stupid lizalfo's tongues.

He managed to steal a sword off an armos and though it was as brittle as its armor, he used it long enough to take out the two bokos before it snapped and he threw it in the lizalfos' face.

The moblin, black blood seeping from the gash in its side, lumbered toward him completely unhindered.

An explosion of fire sent it flying back.

Legend panted, staggering a bit as he scanned his surroundings for more monsters.

He had to find either civilization or the others. Where the first monsters he ran into had been homogeneously from Warriors' era, this one had been from all across the timeline and two —the moblin and one of the bokos— had black blood.

He pushed himself to his feet and kept running.

He really needed to find safety.

He found a farmhouse.

It'd have to do. He needed bandages or at least directions to the nearest town.

Despite the time, he went up to the front door and knocked, trying to subtly hold his side to apply pressure on a gash. His hair ended up tied up with the remains of his green under-tunic, leaving it in a high ponytail as a result.

The door opened. "Yes—oh!"

It was a young woman, she had blonde hair tied in pigtail braids, wearing a white shirt and a pink skirt.

"Sorry," he winced. "I just need directions to the nearest town, that's—"

"Oh no you don't." She pulled the door fully open. "Come on in. Momma! We got a hurt kid!"

Legend startled back, but the girl grabbed his arm and tugged him inside. An older blonde woman came in, gasping softly.

"Oh! Linkle go get some bandages and a potion!"

The older woman took Legend from the girl, Linkle, and tugged her over to the sofa.

"No, I don't want to—"

"You are just fine, young man," the woman said sternly. "We are helping you and don't you make a fuss about it. The closest town's a two hour journey from 'ere."

Legend sighed. He knew better than to argue with farm women who had their minds set on things. His grandmother was the only person in his life he hadn't been able to dissuade from things they had their hearts and minds set on.

He reluctantly complied, Linkle and a younger red-haired girl coming in with medical supplies. It didn't take long to clean and bandage the gash in his side, and the older woman had all but forced the potion down his throat when he tried to argue against using it.

The young girl suddenly returned with a cup of tea and the older woman pushed it into his hands.

"Drink up, young man," the woman told him. "Can you tell us what happened? Where's your family?"

Legend snorted a bit. "I ran into monsters trying to catch up with them. I'm on a sort of trip with... with my brothers, and we got separated a while back. I can usually handle myself fine, but someone kinda stole my supplies, so all I got is a knife."

"Oh that sucks," Linkle grimaced. "What's your name?"

"Link."

"Really? My brother's got the same name, though a lotta people do really. I'm Linkle, this is my baby sister Lily," the younger, red-haired girl who'd brought him the tea smiled brightly, "and this is my Momma, Leah."

"Thank you," he told them sincerely. "I owe you big time."

"It's no problem, dear," Leah assured him. "We're glad to help."

"Besides, Linkle's got too much of a savior complex to not help," Lily teased.

Linkle rolled her eyes. "Oh shut up."

"You can stay here for the night," Leah told Legend, holding up her hand before he could argue. "Linkle will take you to town in the morning, she's got plenty of allowance from the Queen to help you get back on your feet. And don't you try and avoid it. I want you with a full bag of provisions, and a sword before you and her split ways, you hear me, young man?"

Legend stared at her. "I really don't need—"

Leah gave him a pointed look.

He sighed, slumping a bit. "Yes ma'am."

He learned their surname was Tailor, they had a whole herd of sheep and a cotton field, along with cuccos that Linkle insisted on introducing Legend to.

He made a note to visit his grandparents soon when he got back to his time. He missed them, the Tailors reminded him of them and he hadn't been there in a while. He hadn't seen Epona or Piyoko in ages...

As he and Linkle headed for the village, a portal appeared in front of them.

"Whoa!" Linkle pulled out a crossbow and shoved him back. "What's that?!"

"It's a portal," he said, pushing her arm down. "I, uhh... that "sort-of trip" I'm on with my brothers? It's kinda across time?"

She stared at him. "Oh. Wait, so this is for you?"

"Yep. And it doesn't really like to wait otherwise it just appears under my feet. So—Thank you so much for the help, but I got to go."

She sighed, scowling at the portal. "Rude. We had plans today!" The portal didn't respond. "Oh fine. Go. But be careful!"

"I will. This isn't my first rodeo."

She laughed. "Ain't mine either, but that don't mean I'm not careful. Go back to those grandparents of yours in one piece, you hear me?"

He smiled and nodded. "I intend to. I'll see if I can bring Piyoko with me, maybe I'll be able to introduce you."

"You better! Now git."

Legend laughed and he went through the portal.

The next world was definitely Wild's. He figured that out quickly when he found himself on a cliff overlooking a vast kingdom.

The cliff turned out to be a plateau with exactly zero ways down.

He cleared the plateau of monsters, stealing a few brittle swords as he went and using them to go for the bright yellow, practically golden, lynel, cursing the Champion's world as he did.

He internally thanked Twilight's Zelda for teaching him some actually offensive magic. Din's Fire was unbelievably helpful and Nayru's Love had already saved his life against the lynel multiple times.

He ducked behind one of the few remaining trees, panting heavily. The lynel roared behind him.

The plateau was uninhabited, he'd searched the whole thing. Despite the ruins of a temple and the old hut, there was nobody except monsters and animals. Monsters hell-bent on killing him.

"Alright, magic don't fail me now."

Farore's Wind took him from behind the tree to another spot about ten feet to his left. He ran at the lynel, which roared when it took a second too long to notice him.

He slid beneath the lynel, dragging a brittle sword through its stomach. It broke but did enough that he was able to swing himself onto its back. Exactly like the Champion had shown him what felt like ages ago. He had called it ride or die... a very apt name.

He teleported above the lynel and drove the only other weapon he had, a short sword, into its skull with a downward thrust.

It sent him flying that time and he tumbled across the ground. He hissed out his pain, quickly recovering to his feet out of pure necessity. Was that stupid thing dead yet—

It was. It crumbled to the ground and stayed there, smoking away.

He let out a sigh of relief, dropping to one knee as he breathed heavily. He assessed his supplies and situation.

The weapons were definitely broken. He suddenly understood why Wild was always breaking weapons, the ones in his era were incredibly deteriorated, brittle, and cheap.

Legend dragged himself back to his feet and made his way to the alcove near the temple ruins. A weak fire spell had a campfire going just as the sun set, and he ate a few apples before leaning back and letting himself rest, not sleep, never sleep.

He'd find a way down the plateau in the morning.

Legend walked around the edge of the plateau, looking for the lowest point. He didn't have his Roc's Cape or a hookshot, Farore's Wind didn't go as far as the wall was. It was at least fifty feet up, if not more.

He could just fall, use the spell, and hope for the best...

No, he could see the monsters down there. He was not doing that.

He didn't want to just wait out the portal. Maybe he could make some kind of rope from vines and repel down...

He ended up waiting out the portal, repelling down to the ground only for the portal to show up ten feet after he landed.

He cursed loudly but walked through.

This time he was in another forest, with... big glowing mushrooms.

He hardly hesitated to tap the luminous fungi and they bounced and jiggled in response. Legend stared, very confused by the odd flora. He pulled out his knife and carefully tried to cut it.

It cut easily, but very quickly it just... fixed itself. He brushed his hand over the gash he'd made and felt no difference, no seam, nothing.

"Huh," he muttered. What in the name of...

He tried cutting out a whole piece of it, holding the mushroom piece in one hand, and as the large mushroom reformed, the one in his hand became almost liquidated and he quickly tried to drop it.

A new, smaller mushroom had sprung up where it had landed.

Okay... probably should not make a mushroom army that may or may not one day become sentient. He did not need that on his conscience.

"Hey!"

He whirled around, Din's Fire burning up his fingers and knife spinning into a reverse grip in his hands.

A girl, probably mid-twenties, stood there in a magenta-pink tunic somewhat similar to the one Twilight wore, with steel chainmail under the tunic. She had ribbons weaved into her very blonde hair, framing her face.

That wasn't the big thing though. The big thing was how bright she was.

Her magic positively glowed, she was brighter than the sun itself and so thick with divinity as well. He was near certain she was a goddess except he knew the Golden Three's magic, and she wasn't any of them.

Who was that goddess that Sky and Wild worshiped? It was a lake— Hylia? That sounded about right, the reflection of Lolia.

"Who are you?" She questioned, eyes alight with curiosity that burned through him, her eyes flicked all over him, to his fingertips, chest, and face, he didn't like it. "I've never seen you before."

"Link," he said. "Who are you?"

"Zelda," she approached him but didn't come that close, "Knight of Skyloft. There's no humans on the Surface, and the only Link around is my fiancé. The humans all died to Demise's armies. But you... you have Heart in your blood."

"I think it's 'blood in my heart,'" Legend corrected, letting Din's Fire fade back into his blood. The constant thrum of fire in his veins was a nice if not weird change since he learned the spell.

"No," she shook her head, "you have Courage in your soul, it was built into it, integral to it, and just like the Courageous Spirit you have, you have Heart, Love, Light, in your blood."

Legend studied her. He realized the brightness she had, the origin of her magic, it was the same as Fable's. Twilight's Zelda had it too... he'd attributed it to wielding a piece of the Triforce, which was why he had it too.

"You have my grace in your veins," she moved even closer and Legend took a matching step back. "You've time traveled," she concluded.

Legend stared at her. "Excuse me. What?"

"You're not from here, but Nayru has left her mark on you. I know every human alive and you clearly have my power in your blood." She grinned as she leaned forward. "You're my descendant! I can feel it--No, wait, Link and I plan to have kids someday--you're our descendant! That's why you have both Farore and I in your being more prominently than Din or Nayru, even though they've both left their mark on you as well. You are very familiar with the three's power."

Oh, so it was Hylia. This was Sky's Zelda, the goddess reborn as a mortal. The goddess whose bloodline was that of the royal family's.

"You're a child of the goddesses," she concluded.

Legend found his voice failing him. "No—I'm not. I couldn't—Yes I'm of Farore but I'm not— I don't have—I'm not descended from—"

Her grin softened into a gentle smile. "You didn't know?" She guessed, her voice far softer. "I may not exactly have experience with having a child, but I can tell you that your blood has divinity in it, and I know the golden three's blood claim intimately. You have my blood claim. I can see it."

He felt faint.

He couldn't even argue it, her point wasn't a feeling or an observation, it was something—it was a literal, divine revelation.

The goddess —mortal though she was— herself had to tell him that he was her descendant.

"Oh," he breathed, his voice shaking.

She smiled. "Here, we're building a settlement here on the surface. Why don't you come see it?"

The beginning of Hyrule... of...

He managed to give a small nod. When he didn't move, Zelda grabbed his hand and led him through the forest.

"You don't seem very prepared for this time, there are many servants of Demise around still. A knife and some magic? Oh, do you more often fight with your magic?"

Legend shrugged a bit. He wasn't sure what to say and so he fell back on silence. Zelda smiled at him.

"Link does that too when he's overwhelmed," she informed him softly and he was not accustomed to the fondness she displayed, Twilight's Zelda had done the same. "How much do you know about Skyloft?"

Feeling a bit called out, he cleared his throat and forced out, "Not a lot." Sky had said a fair bit about it, but not as much as Legend would probably info dump about Labrynna or Holodrum, and therefore wasn't all that much.

She nodded and soon launched into a full-blown history lesson on how Skyloft was raised.

Legend listened, trying to hold onto her words and remember them while also trying to keep his world from spinning and flipping on its axis.

Twilight's Zelda had been right.

Zellie and Little Link — They were Fable and Legend, just... from an alternate timeline.

Fable was his sister.

Why... How didn't he know this sooner?

As they walked, they heard a loud blaring horn. A war horn echoed through the forest and the ground trembled with it.

To Legend's absolute horror, a whole horde of monsters were filtering through the trees toward them.

"Get back!" Zelda pushed him back, drawing a sword. "Go straight east, Hyrule Town is—"

"Respectfully, I'm not leaving you alone," Legend said bluntly. He counted thirty-ish monsters about forty yards out. He flicked out his knife.

"You can't—"

"I promise you, I can. You take care of yourself, I don't doubt you can, but Sky would kill me if I let anything happen to you."

Zelda faltered. Then she must've recognized something in him. "You have..." her voice trailed off. "You have his..." Then her face hardened and she nodded to him. "Be careful. Come out of it alive."

Legend grinned. "Of course."

They both rushed the monsters the last twenty yards between them.

Fighting with a tiny knife was not easy, fighting with magic was a bit easier.

He managed to modify Din's Fire, mixing it with Nayru's Love and essentially forming a sphere of fire around him.

He stole blades off monsters, dancing through the battlefield to a melody he'd long trained his steps to follow. The beat quickened as his heartbeat raced faster and faster from adrenaline. The melody matched his heart rate.

Then he ran into the black blooded monsters.

He didn't miss a beat, he had a great rhythm going. He slashed through one, leaving it to recover in order to dive beneath the swinging arm of another, scale its back, and drive the horribly crafted blade he'd stolen off a bokoblin into its nape and drag it down over the recovering other black blooded monster.

One would not be getting up and the other would take a moment.

Legend burst both into flames, fire exploding from an orb and he dodged to the side from a sharp tongue shooting out.

He cut the tongue with his knife and the lizalfos it was connected to screeched loudly, had it spoken any of the half dozen languages Legend spoke, he was certain he would've heard many profanities.

He ended up nearly kicking a head or two off. Rolling into his landing and springing up onto another moblin's back to carve its spine open.

More monsters filled in the spaces above fallen bodies.

His hands were slick with red, purple, and black blood. His clothes soaked. His hair was beginning to come loose and he couldn't stop it either.

The moment the last monster was gone, Legend turned to find Zelda and she was grinning at him.

"We did it!" She exclaimed, covered in blood too. "Are you alright? Do you need a potion?"

Legend laughed. "I'm fine. Are you..." 

He spotted someone over her shoulder and that adrenaline suddenly shot back up.

"TRAVELER!"

Hyrule stared at him in clear shock. "VETERAN?!"

He tried to run toward the other hero, but one steady step was followed by air beneath his foot.

A portal formed beneath him and the last thing he saw before falling through and instinctively curling to try and minimize damage from his landing, was Hyrule's bright eyes filling with shock, hope, and a bit of disbelief.

He slammed onto new ground. His head spun and he almost wanted to vomit as he hit his knees and elbow on the soft, grassy surface.

A groan escaped him. That was an awful portal.

He dragged himself to his feet and looked around, blinking away stars. 

"Traveler?" He called out. "Traveler!"

Nothing.

Legend cursed loudly and he ignored how blood trickled down his arms and hands, tightening his grip on his knife and began searching the area for any sign of the other heroes. He hadn't sustained so bad of injuries that he was going to be feeling faint any time soon.

He'd been so close, goddesses, he had been so close.

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