#he creates life out of the death he sows

[maegalkarven]

I like the theme of missed opportunities/chances and the single minor detail what can derail the course of one's life.

It's especially brightly presented in Levi's life.

There was that missed chance in his life when he was six and in the custody of the Flaming Fist. If Duke Ravengard stayed in prison for a night, or took the child with him, Sceleritas would not be able to reach the boy then, and Levi would not go to the Temple of Bhaal.

He would not become Sarevok's ward, but instead would be Wyll's adoptive brother. Both of their lives would go by the different scenarios, Wyll would never make a pact with Mizora, Levi would never become the Chosen of Bhaal.

But because it didn't happen, his life went the way it did. Sceleritas killed the guard and took the child to the temple, Sarevok taught him what it means to be a child of Bhaal, etc, etc.

Another one of these chances is the one what did change Levi's life.

He hasn't always been a druid. When he was around 10 years old, Sarevok took him on a hunt (to kill someone, yeah) to the Lower City. Sarevok chose an old druid as a target. If he hadn't, Levi's entire life would go by the different scenario. But he had.

The druid changed Levi's life profoundly yet by a very small gesture. It created the entire opportunity for Levi to be more than just a bhaalspawn. It made Levi be able to relate to the druids in the Emerald Grove, and Halsin, and Jaheira.

And all because when Levi was killing an old druid, the druid grabbed him with his weak, shaking hand, touched his cheek gently and said:

"You're such a bright young soul, there's so much life in you. Do not let this life die out."

And it made Levi stop on his tracks, bc it was the first time someone he was Actively Killing wasn't crying or screaming or calling him a monster, but so calmly accepting the fate and being...kind to him.

It was strange and it stuck.

The last thing old druid said was: "Plant my bones", and both Sarevok and Leviathan were like "wtf. Druids, amirite?"

But again, because of how Different this was from the way things usually went, Levi did as the druid asked. And something grew out of the bones, a small, weak plant. Laughable thing, really, but it struck some cord in Levi's soul again, and he returned to the druid's home and went through his things, found his diary about the circle of life and the death being just the beginning.

Again, if this druid was a normal, traditional kind of a druid and mentioned Silvanus at least once, it would immediately make Levi retreat from that knowledge. But the druid was the odd kind, the strange kind, and his thoughts resonated with Levi's and his experience with death. In them he found an answer to his own questions about death and the meaning of it, and so he started to practice the rituals from the old man's book.

He learned, piece by piece, to feel the nature, to be the nature. He self-taught himself what it means to be the druid both using his bloody background and old man's notes, and it made him who he ended up being. The blood druid, something new, yet something...not exactly evil. Just a force of nature to be reckoned with.

And this is what made him save the Emerald Grove and kill the goblins instead, because nature he understood, it spoke to him through the death and the blood. And it demanded sacrifice.

And sacrifice he gave.

[verbenaa]

air so deep and sweet

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: “You’re just utterly shameless, aren’t you?’ He tsks, “Seducing me away from my work like this.”

Astarion’s eyes rove your form laying beneath him in reverence, the silken strands of your hair spread like a halo around your face and your dress a mess around your waist.

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𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Astarion/Reader 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: smut, fluff, slice of life! 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 7.1k 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: body worship, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, hand jobs, vampire bites, mentions/discussions of anal, vaginal sex, vampire sex, soft dom astarion

MDNI, 18+ CONTENT

𝑎/𝑛: This is my first ever fanfiction despite a literal 20 years of reading them LOL i truly have lost the plot. Find me on ao3 too, my username is leadii 💕

ao3 here

masterlist

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Dim candlelight plays along the walls of Astarion’s studio, illuminating the discarded bolts of fabric leaning against the wall with haphazard grace, the threads of linens, silks, and cottons a riot of color against the muted walls. Spools of silken thread and tangles of ribbon lay sprawling across the work table, interspersed with pincushions and stray needles waiting to be threaded.

The studio itself is small, humble in its nature. Set aside on a small street within the city walls it wasn’t a far walk from your shared home, making it an easy decision to join him on the nights he decided to work.

Lush velvet draperies hang heavily across several leaded windows, while multicolored rugs layered themselves over the floor. Fat pillars of candle wax sit haphazardly upon several surfaces, filling the room with moving pockets of light, their dance helped along by the light summer breeze blowing through the open windows. It was undeniably one of your favorite places to be.

Despite Astarion’s initial claims to the contrary (if you could even call his half-hearted condescension to the concept such a thing), he was decidedly well suited for a life of domesticity. Much like a spoiled cat, he very much enjoyed his luxuries. Vials of scented oils, a soft bed covered with blankets and quilts, piles of books in the corners of rooms waiting to be read at his decision. You were very quick to learn that Astarion was nothing if not a creature of comfort. And he made it so very easy to spoil him, accepting your love and affection with open arms.

You nestle deeper into the nest of pillows that made up the corner you had decided to call your own, novel discarded beside you and your goblet of wine long emptied of its contents resting against the floorboards. With a small huff your attention turns from your surroundings to said owner of the studio, watching him weave the needle in and out of the fabric in his hands, focus intent on his art.

He had such beautiful hands, you couldn’t help but think. Hands as well-versed in sowing chaos as easily as they could thread a needle to create the tiniest of embellishments upon a single piece of silk. Hands as intimately versed in the art of death as they were in the art of drawing pleasure. Sometimes, you think, he is secretly desperate to prove that his hands no longer have to steal, cheat, or seduce for others and instead were capable to creating something soft and vulnerable for himself instead.

With a small stretch you sit yourself upright, adjusting the lovingly embroidered straps of the light linen dress you wore to compensate for the overbearing warmth of summer. You were always content to accept any creation Astarion made for you and your dress was no exception, tailored to perfection to sit on your curves perfectly with small decorations of lace and embroidery as he saw fit.

As though drawn by your thoughts, his carmine gaze glances up to meet your own. Astarion’s eyes linger upon your form as you slowly stand and stretch your arms high above your head, back arching slightly with the motion before you step to the nearest open window. A light breeze ruffles your hair as you rest your elbows on the sill, careful of the several plants currently residing there as your eyes move to watch the people below weave through the streets in the darkness.

“Dearest, do you mind lending me those ever-so-lovely eyes of yours for a moment?” His voice is a casual drawl. “I wish to seek your opinion on this particular color scheme.” 

You turn to face him from your spot at the window as he gestures to the work in his hand with a small movement of his wrist, and quickly step across the floor to stop at his side. You glance down to see the wooden embroidery hoop he holds with measured regard in one hand, the other carefully grasping a small, sharp needle. You lean in slightly to see better, your breasts adding the barest of pressure against his arm.

You focus your vision upon the delicate pattern of his needlework, the threads weaving together to create an intricate pattern of scrolling vines and abundant spring blossoms in a warm milky white adorning the collar of a cream colored linen shirt, the colors almost ethereal together in their similarity. 

“I hate to break this to you, but…I do believe it is simply cream upon cream,” you say with a small smile gracing your lips. “What ever is there for me to even give my opinion on?” 

“It’s called monochrome, my dear.” Astarion gives you a look of affectionate exasperation before continuing, “Despite what everyone seems to think, I am capable of subtlety when the occasion permits.” You briefly turn to look at him, an elegant eyebrow arching in amusement. 

He rolls his eyes and scoffs slightly before murmuring, “Certainly those pretty eyes of yours can see the differences despite the similarity of color?”

Sure enough, upon further inspection you could pick out the slightest hint of metallic gold threaded throughout the creamy colored delicate flowers and surrounding vines, the only detail differentiating the colors from one another. The subtle shine of the golden threads were mesmerizing to follow with your eyes, the candlelight bouncing off of them creating fiery highlights on the raised embroidery. Like everything Astarion touched, it was undeniably beautiful.

“I suppose it looks decent.” You tease, pressing your chest further into his arm while your attention shifts to the elegant planes of his face. He was simply so easy to admire, the way his hair always seemed to fall so perfectly into place, his mouth held soft in concentration looked so inviting.

A noise of protest leaves his lips at the mere thought his creation was only ‘decent’, and you can’t help but laugh at the reaction while leaning in to press a soft kiss to his pale cheek.

“It must be so hard to have such artistic merit, Astarion. I’m afraid such a talentless individual as myself can’t fully appreciate such craft and workmanship.” You playfully lean your body back and throw a hand up your forehead in mock distress, earning a short laugh from him. 

“Despite such questionable opinions, you are far my talentless, my dear.” Astarion sets aside the hoop and needle to the far edge of the worktable and turns in his chair, settling his full attention on you.

“In fact, I would be more than willing to remind you of the several of the talents you possess.”

Slowly, he draws his eyes from your features to glance down at the twin pinprick scars decorating your neck before slowly continuing lower to finally rest on a spot above your breasts. He brings his fingertips to brush lightly against the skin, pressing against the delicate lace trim of the neckline, sweeping slowly and softly back and forth against the swells. He watches the sudden intake of your breath with interest before his eyes glide up to meet your own again. 

A slow, feline smile graces his lips. “Such a distraction, dearest. Especially when you press these lovely breasts of yours into me.” 

You match his smile with a sly one of your own.

“Can you blame me?” You give a half-hearted shrug, hardly caring that you had been caught in your so-called crime. “It’s quite hard to not want to be close to such a beautiful individual like yourself.”

“Ah yes, there it is. Talent number one: flattery.” 

He moves the hand tracing patterns against your skin upward, glancing touches against your neck, before curling his fingers underneath your chin to bring your face closer to his own. 

You knew he could easily see the effects of his relatively innocent ministrations, could view the inevitable pink beginning to decorate your cheeks. 

Could smell it in the blood beginning to race through your veins. 

Astarion had always known exactly what to say made you breathless and had never held back on using that knowledge to his advantage to make you weak to his whims. 

“Now be a good girl and take a seat.” His voice is low, hungry; he leans forward and both his hands find your waist and pull. 

You feel your body relax easily into his touch, letting him smooth your skirts out of the way as he brings you towards his waiting lap. Your hips instantly connect together, fabric the only barrier between you. You feel a telltale twitch beneath you, signaling his pleasure at the slight friction created by the connection and your hips grind against his own instinctually, the friction and pressure adding to the growing warmth deep in your belly. 

Astarion leans forward, connecting his mouth with your own in a scalding kiss, moaning into your mouth as his hips roll against your own, his growing erection pressing closer to your covered center. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pull yourself even closer to him as your hands card through the silver curls sitting at the back of his neck. Opening your mouth, you lick against his lips hoping he will open them for you. Astarion obliges, meeting your tongue halfway. 

Your tongue brushes against a sensitive fang, drawing another moan out of him and he slowly pulls away from the kiss, lightly nipping at your bottom lip as he leaves before moving to press small, sweet kisses across your jaw. 

“Would you indulge me a snack, dearest?” He presses a quick kiss followed by a small lick to the skin behind your ear, sending a shiver of pleasure down your skin.

“I suppose I could be convinced…” Breathy sighs fall from your lips as he peppers kisses down the elegant column of your neck. “Quite easily perhaps, too.”

“Will you give me a small taste, my dear?” he mouths the words against your skin, lips hot.

Your eyes fall closed at his kisses. “You know you don’t even have to ask to have my blood. I give it to you, freely, and I always will.” With a tilt of your head you grant him more access to continue his search.

“I don’t deserve you.” “Absolutely false. You deserve everything.” The words roll off your tongue with quick ease, certain you’ve never spoken truer words.

As Astarion moves the straps of your dress aside to hang off your shoulders and free the expanse of your neck and collar he finds the spot he had been looking for, laving the area with his tongue briefly before he bites down.

A split second of burning heat as his fangs dig into the flesh of your neck with as much delicacy as he can manage before he finally begins to suck, the pull of the blood leaving your body as he drinks brings a decidedly indecent moan to your lips, the heat of your core growing wetter with every draw of his mouth.

As Astarion drinks in your lifeblood in slow gulps, you feel his hands moving to the neckline of your dress and he grabs at it, pulling the fabric down across your chest, exposing more and more of you with every pull of the fabric. You had forgone a corset today in an attempt at comfort in an unending battle against humidity, trusting the bodice of your dress to instead keep your (somewhat questionable) modesty in tact. 

The rush of cold air combined with the sudden brush of his chilled hands against your breasts as he lets the dress fall to hang freely around your waist draws a surprised gasp from your lips. You move your arms out of the straps before burying them again in his silver locks.

He quickly brings a free hand up to grasp a breast, brushing his thumb over a newly hardened nipple. Extricating his fangs from your neck, his tongue moves to lick up the blood tracing down from the wound, not letting a single drop go to waste.  

“Such a delightful little treat,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing with every movement as your hips grind downward against his growing erection in slow rolls. 

His lips move further down your chest, no longer following the trail of fresh blood but that of the blood in your veins leading to your heart. 

Astarion presses a chaste kiss over the place where your heart beats, your back arching with the movement of his lips as he moves lower to capture a hardened peak. A soft cry at the touch of his mouth falls from your lips, the motion of his tongue drawing circles around the bud sending a flash of heat straight to your core. 

He laves at the bud, alternating licks and soft bites in a bid to stoke the fire inside you even higher, his free hand coming up to massage its twin with delicate motions.

Astarion cants his hips up into yours as he sucks hard at your breast, his prominent erection pressing into your growing wetness before his mouth moves to your other breast, continuing his ministrations.

“Astarion, please, I need more.” You whine, attempting to press harder against his erection in hopes the touch will grant a reprieve from the building heat between your thighs.

“As you wish, my love.” He grants your request with a whisper, his hands falling on your thighs to support you as he moves to stand, bringing you with him. Chair pushing back with the movement, he places you on the desk in front of him as his hips spread your thighs. 

Desperate to keep the connection between the two of your bodies, Astarion stands between your legs, pressing close. His hands skate up your body to land on your cheeks, tilting your face to look up at his own as a thumb brushes absentmindedly against your bottom lip. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, your eyes, cheeks, nose, and finally your lips. 

“Lay back, love,” His words are a whisper as one hand makes it way from your cheek to rest on the back of your head. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

His eyes never leave your own as your body relaxes, trusting him, and he leans you back onto the tabletop with care until your body meets the wood. 

Barely breathing, you watch as his hands made their way teasingly downwards, skating over your bared breasts to find the skirt of your dress, moving to push the thin fabric tantalizingly up your thighs to settle around your waist and out of the way. Astarion’s eyes settle upon a tiny, lacy pair of panties, the fabric the only thing keeping you from being completely bared to him. 

“You’re just utterly shameless, aren’t you?’ He tsks, “Seducing me away from my work like this.” Astarion’s eyes rove your form laying beneath him in reverence, the silken strands of your hair spread like a halo around your face and your dress a mess around your waist.

He was so beautiful it made your heart feel like it was going to beat out of your chest. 

With bated breath, you raise a hand to draw your fingers softly over his cheek, capturing his attention. 

“Promise me that you will tell me if this gets to be too much for you,” Your eyes meet his as you watch his expression fill with sudden affection at your request. 

“What a sweet thing you are,” Astarion brings a hand to cover the one you had placed over his cheek. “Thank you for always taking care of me so.” With a small movement, he turns his head to bring his lips to press against your palm. 

“I promise you that anything and everything I do with you is my choice.” Astarion moves the hand that covers yours to flit down your body, teasing touches over your peaked nipples, down your belly, before brushing against the line of your underwear. A sudden intake of breath escapes your lungs as he watches your stomach jump with the touch. 

A smirk graces his face as he moves those same fingers lower, brushing lightly against the gusset of your underwear before pressing harder against the growing damp of the lace. His touch creates a sweet friction, your wetness mixed with the texture of the lace and the pressure of his fingers drawing a soft moan from you.

You whine as his fingers pull your underwear to the side, Astarion moving to slide his fingertips up and down your exposed slit, spreading your wetness. He makes teasing passes around the small pearl that rests above; close but never quite touching where you need him, your arousal aiding the smooth glide of his motions.

“I’ve barely touched you and you’re already this wet for me, darling?”

“You know I always aim to please.”  The words are hard won but you manage to  give him a haughty smile nonetheless, trying to maintain the last shred of willpower you have left to pretend to be unaffected.

He moves to pump a finger shallowly inside you, not nearly deep enough to provide any relief. You gasp at feeling, attempting to roll your hips in hopes to bring his finger deeper. But just as quickly as he enters he leaves, eliciting a noise of frustration from you.

“Patience, patience.” He tuts, hands moving to your hips to tug at the lace resting over them. He yanks at the fabric, and you raise you bottom to aid him in finally removing them. Astarion pockets the pair with a smug look as his hands move to spread your thighs further apart.

With every push of your thighs Astarion bares you to him, your arousal glistening against your center in the low light.

“You know, dearest, I think I would maybe like to have a taste of something else as well.” You feel your cunt clench at the prospect, adding to the building heat deep inside you. 

“Consider me at your mercy, then.” A smirk from him at your blessing as he slowly lowers himself to his knees before your spread legs.

Astarion is supplicant before you as he rests his head on your upper thigh, unfairly close to where you want him most. Your hips jump in anticipation as he begins pressing tantalizingly soft kisses into the crease where your hip meets your thigh.

You feel his fingers touch you finally, delicately spreading your folds as he watches your most intimate place open for him. His thumb comes to rest against your clit, rubbing lightly at the small bud and you release a contented hum at the warmth of the pleasure inside your body growing with the movement of his fingers.

Your eyes fall shut at the sheer relief of his attention, his expertise in knowing exactly how and where to touch to drive you wild drawing a moan from you. Your hand falls from its place in his hair to land beside your head, jostling errant sewing supplies from their resting place next to you.

“Careful, darling. Watch those lovely hands of yours to not catch on a needle. I would so hate for you to bleed so needlessly.” A roguish smile alights his lips as he lowers his mouth to lick a slow stripe up your center, intent to collect as much of your wetness on his tongue as he can.

Your hand immediately finds its way back to his hair, gripping his silver curls mindlessly as he begins to work his tongue up and down your center, tracing patterns against your sex as he goes.

His tongue moves to finally circle your clit with small movements, intent to drive your pleasure higher and higher with every pass. His mouth moves lower, licking across your folds as he finds your entrance, tracing around it with agonizingly slow motions.

Astarion is quick to move a hand to rest over your belly as your hips jut up, applying soft pressure as he grows bold in his motions and his tongue moves to push inside of you. Your grip on his curls grows harder with every thrust of his tongue inside your body, head thrown back and moans growing louder as he brings you closer and closer to completion.

The hand resting on your stomach moves to press lightly at your clit, once again resuming the small circles round and around as his tongue continues its exploration deep in your core, eating you out with fervor. 

Astarion continues to lave inside you, his soft tongue whorling against your walls as his fingers expertly work your clit in tandem with your cries as your hips ride his face, thighs shaking as your orgasm barrels towards you. 

And it’s just like that when you cry out and finally come, his tongue moving deep inside as his finger strums your clit with practiced motions and the feeling is white-hot as you plunge into your ecstasy. He licks up your come greedily, tongue never stopping its endeavor as you ride the wave of your orgasm, breathy cries leaving your lips and hips rolling until your body finally relaxes. 

Shaking in the aftermath of your orgasm, your hand falls from Astarion’s hair to rest over your eyes as your breathing begins to even out and you finally come down from the high, Astarion cleaning up your cum until you can take it no longer, hips jerking in overstimulation away from his mouth.

Astarion places a light kiss over your clit before raising up from his knees back to his full height, your slick glistening on his chin and lips in the light of the candles as his still clothed cock brushes against your empty center.

Astarion leans forward, arms caging your head as he leans down to nuzzle your cheek whispering ardent words, “Out of all the beautiful things in this room, you are by far the most gorgeous.”

His admission momentarily stuns you. Astarion had never been shy in his admirations of your beauty and while you had grown more used to them during your time together he still managed to catch you off guard with such compliments from time to time.

“Can I please touch you? Taste you?” You pant, desperation coloring your words in the wake of his earlier admission as you begin to push yourself up onto your elbows. Astarion’s hand comes down and gently presses on your chest instead, and you lower yourself back down at the gentle command in the gleaming red of his eyes. 

“You can put that clever mouth of yours to use later, my dear. I have other plans for you, I think.” His eye rove your features before pressing his mouth upon yours in a fevered kiss, his tongue licking against your lips asking for entry. You can taste the essence of yourself on his lips and groan at the taste, opening yours to tangle his tongue with your own.

Astarion deepens the kiss as his hands find your own and grasping them gently, he brings them down his body to rest upon his still-clothed cock. 

“You said you wanted to touch. Indulge me, lover.” His lips never leave your own as he speaks the words, tongue sneaking out to lick at your bottom lip.

Your hands spring to action immediately to palm his cock through his leather pants before you find the laces holding him and undo them with deft fingers familiar with the task.

Astarion’s thick cock springs free of the confines of the pants and your fingers find the beads of precum decorating the tip and spread the wetness down his length. your fingers glide from top to bottom in smooth motions over the veined velvet of him, his essence aiding your ministrations as his mouth falls open from the sheer indulgence of your touch. His head falls heavily onto your shoulder and his lips move over the spot he fed from earlier, kissing and licking the area as your hands work him closer to closer to the edge. 

Lifting a hand from him you bring your fingers to your own wetness, drawing your fingertips through your slick before pumping two of them inside yourself in an imitation of his own motions earlier as you moan at the feeling.

Astarion glances down to see your fingers buried in your own cunt, the sight making him go impossibly harder as he watches you briefly pleasure the both of you. With a whine, your fingers leave your body to return to Astarion, a mixture of your arousal and come coating your fingers as your spread it onto his waiting cock, increasing your rhythm to rub him faster.

“Gods Above, you really are something else.” His pupils are blown out in lust as he groans at both the sight and feel of your hands working his shaft, one hand massaging the crown of his cock while the other works him closer to the base in quick motions.

A wicked thought strikes your mind, and you almost feel badly for even entertaining the idea. Almost.

You can feel his breath fanning your neck with every pass of your hands, his moans growing more unrestrained as your ministrations draw him to edge of completion. Without warning you withdraw your hands from his weeping cock, cruelly denying him the climax he was so close to.

Astarion’s head flies up from where it rests on your shoulder as a noise of disbelief leaves his lips and he shoots you a look of pure shock. The knowledge you caught him so unaware has you riding another kind of high, one you rarely had the privilege of reveling in.

“You little minx! Who knew you were capable of such cruelty. You’re going to pay for that, you know.”

Mischief settles on your features. “Maybe that was the goal.”

“Ask and you shall receive, little love. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” His lips curve with a devilish grin, eyes glinting in the candlelight as his hands move to grip your waist, fingertips pressing hard into the soft skin.

“How should I make you pay for it, then?” He muses. “Should I shove my cock into that tight, sweet cunt of yours and fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand? Or maybe I should make good use of that wicked little mouth of yours and fill it instead?”

His darkening eyes bore into your own, your cheeks heating at his suggestions as you shift under his contemplation.

“You do look quite beautiful like that, you know. Mouth stretched around me as I fuck your throat. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You give an enthusiastic nod at the prospect, excited for whatever punishment he deems appropriate to hand out.

Without warning, you feel the hands upon your waist move to lift you up and flip you over, your stomach making contact with the table as your bare breasts press tight against the wood grain. His hand comes to rest in the center of your back, pushing you further into the surface. You move your head to rest your cheek upon the table, the coolness of the wood a welcome sensation to the quickly rebuilding heat inside you as your eyes glance up to meet his own in curiosity. 

“Too bad. I have another idea instead.” His voice is deep with promise.

Such trouble you had gotten yourself into, it seems. 

Cool hands move from your back to the forgotten skirt of your dress to flip it upward to rest around your waist once more, exposing your ass and glistening center to the warm air. 

Astarion brings his hand down hard against one of your cheeks, the sharpness of the spank making you cry out as surprise and pleasure mingle into one. He rubs the growing red mark left on your skin before bending down to press a his lips to it, soothing the area with barely-there kisses. 

He brings both hands to your ass now, rubbing soothing circles over the area before moving to pull your rear cheeks apart, allowing Astarion to see absolutely everything.

A wave of embarrassment hits you to be put on such display for his vision despite his knowledge of your body, and you fidget slightly under his intent gaze of your most intimate areas. 

“Astarion…” you let out a moan and he is quick to shush you as he moves a hand off your asscheek to brush his thumb in light circles over your asshole. 

“Maybe I should take you here instead, I know how much you love when I play with your pretty ass.” His voice is deep, eyes impossibly dark. 

“Oh fuck,” His words draw a ragged moan from your lips at the mere thought, setting your neglected pussy on fire with need.

“Prove to me you can be a good girl.” His thumb applies soft pressure before it leaves you to be replaced by his lips. He presses a soft kiss to the tight hole before kissing downwards and licking deep into your cunt without warning, lapping at your waiting wetness.

“Gods, Astarion…” your hips press backwards towards his waiting mouth. “Whatever you want, wherever you want, my love. I’ll do anything. I just want you inside of me.” Your voice is hoarse with need, no longer caring to win this little game you had started.

You feel Astarion’s mouth leave your pussy and whine at the loss, but he is quick replace your empty cunt with two of his elegant fingers instead, sliding them in and out at slow, measured pace. 

“Do you think I should let you come one more time before I fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk properly?” You are helpless to do anything other than nod your head in insistence, hoping he won’t rob you of your orgasm the way you had done to him. “I don’t know if you deserve it yet.”

Astarion slowly pulls his fingers out of your body only to add a third finger on the plunge back in, drawing a cry from your lips at the sudden fullness. 

His fingers push deep and curl inside of you pressing against that special spot over and over again, driving you to new heights as the lightest veil of tears begins to dust your lashes at the sheer bliss of the feeling.

Noticing the tears, you feel Astarion immediately stop his ministrations and lean over your back to look into your eyes with concern, a noise of protest at the lack of motion falls from your mouth as his fingers slowly leave your body to rest on your hip, brushing calming circles on your skin.

“Is this too much, love?” Any trace of his teasing dominance is gone from his voice as he speaks the words to you clearly, looking intently for any indication you needed him to step back from the scene the two of you had created. “We can stop, darling, if you need to. I don’t want you to push yourself too far to please me.”

You smile at genuine concern evident on his face, blinking away the sheen of tears. 

Pushing your hips back into him with as much motion as you can manage in your prone position against the table, you lean your body up in hopes to press a kiss to his lips. Astarion leans in, mouth quick to meet you halfway in a kiss as his spare hand moves to cup your cheek.

“The only thing you are pushing is my patience, love. Please don’t stop.” You beg, hoping he will acquiesce to your desire to continue as you lower your body back down onto the table. “The only thing I want in this moment is to come so hard I can’t think straight and then to have that beautiful cock of yours inside of me in whatever way you wish to give it to me.”

“Insatiable. Who taught you such language?” His body follows yours down, back pressing against your own as his lips brush against yours as he speaks the words, the concern leaving his eyes replaced with mounting desire.

“Believe me, there is nothing I want more than to be buried deep inside you,” The hand on your hip makes its way back towards your center. “Make me the same promise I made you earlier.”

The words come to your mouth effortlessly.

“I promise you that anything and everything I do with you is my choice.” You recite the words softly, with ease. 

Quieter now, you whisper. “I trust you, Astarion.”

You know how much your words and trust mean to him, can see it in his unguarded expression. Astarion didn’t put much trust in the Gods, but he would never stop thanking whichever one it was that brought your paths together. His fingers gently graze your pussy, ringing around your entrance with soft, teasing touches.

“I love you.” Astarion says before pressing his lips firmly to your own, those same three fingers finally slipping back inside.

Astarion renews the pace of his fingers right away, pressing and curling with precise motions meant to bring you to the brink.

You give into the sensation of every movement of his fingers, mouth open and eyes falling shut at the feeling and it’s not long before he has you once again close to your orgasm. 

“Please, don’t stop,” you whimper as your thighs begin to shake.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Astarion brings his other hand down your body to brush lightly against your clit. He sounds as lost in desire as you feel. “Want to feel you come on my hand. Can you do that for me, sweet thing?”

His words have you clenching hard on his fingers, the pressure of them against your insides combined with the fingers of his other hand brushing light, concentric circles over your clit have you coming within moments of his request.

“Such a good girl to give me what I want so easily.” You barely hear the words that fall from his lips through the haze of your ongoing orgasm, the feeling of his breath on the skin of your ear serving to only enhancing the moment.

Your body spasms around his fingers and cries of ecstasy fall from your lips as he continues, working you through your orgasm while his lips press soothing kisses anywhere his lips can reach—your face, your neck, the tip of your ear. 

“That’s it. You always look so beautiful when you come for me.”

Slowly, finally you feel your body begin to relax through the haze of your orgasm. Your mind comes back to you and you release a small laugh as your breath starts to even out, feeling him leave your body. Without breaking eye contact, he brings the fingers that had filled you so deeply to his mouth and licks them clean. The sight of it sends a wave of heat right back to your cunt, a shudder of anticipation running through you.

“I think you already succeeded in your wish to make me unable to stand.” You pant.

“And to think I haven’t even fucked you yet.” His cock is hard as his eyes scan your form from the flesh of your core to the flush of your cheeks, your eyes glassy with a haze of lust.

“I think I want to fuck you just like this.” He whispers into your ear as his hands run soothingly over your back. “I like you this, on display as you wait for me.” You desperately attempt to push your hips back to brush against his uncovered cock, looking for any bit of friction.

You watch him from your place on the table, the lithe way his body moves as he takes off his luxurious silk shirt to expose his chest.

His beauty was almost otherworldly as the dancing candlelight illuminates the carved marble of his skin, light and shadow creating a moving chiaroscuro upon the planes of his body.

He looked like a god.

“You are so beautiful.” Your words are a mere whisper as he moves his thick cock to finally brush against your center, slicking himself in your spend as the tip catches against your clit, drawing twin moans from you both.

Grabbing your hips, Astarion positions himself at your entrance and begins to slowly push inside, so familiar with your body he barely needs to guide his cock.

His head drops to press a kiss to your shoulder before righting himself again, hissing in pleasure at the feeling of your walls closing around him as he slides in, your wetness aiding him as he bottoms out and his hips press hard against your own. 

Low moans escape you at the sheer feeling of his cock stretching and sliding home and your hands move grasp for purchase on the desk as he slowly begins to rock back and forth. 

“If only you could see yourself now,” His voice is deep as he watches himself pull his cock out of your body almost completely, only the head left resting shallowly inside you before pushing forward with a hard thrust, hitting a place so deep you let out a ragged cry at the feeling.

“Gods, Astarion, just like that.” He fucks you hard, the force of his thrusts pushing you back and forth with small motions, breasts pressing hard against the wood of the table as one of your hands finds his own still holding your hips. You grab at his wrist in hopes he will take it, needing to touch more of him. Sensing your need Astarion takes your hand, bringing it to his lips to press a soft kiss on the back of it before resting your joined hands on your lower back. 

“No one takes my cock like you,” He pants through his thrusting. “You were made for me, weren’t you?” 

Supplications fall from his lips as he moves in and out of your body, showering you with worship as if you were his own private deity. His words further kindle the rising flame inside your belly, every touch of his cock against your walls serving to push you closer and closer to your third orgasm. 

“Only you,” you pant, hips canting back into his own to match the rhythm of his thrusts. “No one else.”

You feel so incredibly full with your body positioned like this, every movement of his cock has him pressing hard against your sweet spot, the feeling like heaven as cries fall from your lips.

“I love how wet you get for me, darling,” Astarion can feel you tighten around him as you grow nearer to your orgasm, your body trembling and cunt pulsing with pleasure as your hips drive back into his own. The feeling of you so close to your orgasm has hips losing their rhythm, his eagerness at the two of you reaching your end together driving him to move harder with every press inside you.

You love seeing him, feeling him like this. His hips finally moving with wild abandon, chasing pure instinct as he moves fast and deep inside your body. A hand comes up to settle in your unbound hair, softly gripping the silk-like strands in his fingers and in his passion he pulls softly, the motion lifting your head. His lips lower to your ear as his back presses fully against your own, the feeling of his cock moving even deeper inside you unmatched. Between his chest against your back and his cock moving so deep he was practically rutting inside, you were almost certain your cunt had never felt so full. Breathless whimpers escape your mouth at the feeling, eyes closing in complete ecstasy as the sound of his own moans against your ear leaves your cunt clenching hard as he hits your g-spot over and over again with each deep thrust.

“Beg for it. Beg for me to let you cum.”

And beg you do.

“Please, Astarion!” A chorus of pleas rise from your throat voicing your desperation as his tongue licks the shell of your ear, the hand in your hair tightening slightly with every word and moan that falls from your lips. 

You can barely think as you feel your orgasm careen towards you, unintelligible in your words as you lose yourself in the feeling of your bodies. Astarion’s cock hits that deep inside spot at your front wall once more, and you finally let go, orgasm taking over your body, stars behind your eyes in all-consuming pleasure. You recognize Astarion nearing his own end, his hips rutting into yours as you ride out your orgasm on his cock, cunt squeezing him in a vice. He comes with a drawn-out moan as he paints your insides with his cum, hips shuttering until his thrusts slow down.

Astarion stays inside you, cock softening as he rubs his hands up and down your sides as you both come down from your high, his cold cheek pressed against your shoulder. With deep breaths you take air so heavy and sweet with your shared lust into your lungs, the weight of Astarion on your back an anchor to the world.

With one final pump Astarion pulls himself from your body, watching as your empty cunt weeps with a mixture of his and your own cum. Before he can stop himself, he reaches two fingers up to catch the cum on his fingertips, gently pushing it back inside you before it can fall out onto the table resting below your hips. 

“Wouldn’t want you to waste a single drop, my love.”

You whine and buck your hips, overstimulated after coming so many times in a row. With one last press of his fingers, he leaves your cunt, leaning forward to place a kiss on the small of your back.

Astarion grabs a discarded piece of silk off the table beside your head and he gently wipes at the mess that threatens to leave your body before cleaning his own spent cock. As your breathing returns to its normal pace, you push yourself up slightly. 

“Silk. Really, Astarion?”

“Only the best for you, my love.” Astarion is quick to help you off the table, steadying you as you sway slightly after being in the same position for so long. He presses a kiss to your lips as he helps pull your dress back up over your breasts and into place. 

“I would ask if I was too rough, but I know you better than that.” His remark makes you laugh as you lean into him, throwing your arms around his neck with a wide smile.

“You know, I think I’m missing a tiny piece of my clothing,” Your eyebrows raise as you gesture to his pocket where a tiny piece of darkened lace sticks out from. "You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?”

“Why bother?” Astarion gives a casual shrug as he waves off your query. “I’m just going to take them off of you again when we get home.” 

He stuffs the underwear in question deeper into his pocket, patting it securely before flashing you a crafty smile.

“After all, I haven’t even had my dinner yet.” He leans in, setting your heart aflame with a passionate kiss before grabbing your hand to lead you out the door and into the waiting night.

[thesiltverses]

I don’t know who types up the ask answers on this blog but to whoever’s reading this: how do you all feel about being alive and sentient? What keeps you going, what purpose propels you through this chaotic void? What do you think (or hope) waits for you after your inevitable end? What do you think constitutes a life well lived?

I'm going to answer this in the most wayward and stupidly overlong manner possible, because the previous ask had me thinking about puppets, and I was already mid-way through writing up a book recommendation that's semi-relevant to your questions.

Everyone (but especially people who've enjoyed The Silt Verses and all the folks on Tumblr who loved Piranesi by Susanna Clarke) ought to seek out Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban.

Riddley Walker is a wild and woolly story set in post-apocalyptic Kent, where human society has (d)evolved into a Bronze Age collective of hunter-gatherer settlements. Dogs, apparently blaming us for our crimes against the world, have become our predators, hunting us through the trees. Labourers kill themselves unearthing ancient machinery that they cannot possibly understand.

A travelling crowd of thugs led by a Pry Mincer collect taxes and attempt to impose themselves upon those around them with a puppet-show - the closest possible approximation of a TV show - that tells a mangled story of the world's destruction, featuring a Prometheus-esque hero called Eusa who is tempted by the Clevver One into creating the atomic bomb.

Riddley himself, a twelve-year-old folk hero in-the-making surrounded by strange portents, ends up sowing the seeds of rebellion and change by becoming a conduit for the anti-tutelary anarchic madness (one apparently buried in our collective unconscious) of Punch 'n' Judy.

It's a book in love with twisted reinterpretation, the subjectivity of interpretation, buried or forbidden truths coming back to light (the opening quote is a curious allegory about reinvention and cyclical change from the extra-canonical Gospel of Thomas, which is a good joke and mission statement on a couple levels at once) and human beings somehow stumbling into forms of wisdom or insight through clumsy and nonsensical attempts to make sense of a world that is simply beyond them.

It rocks.

The book starts like this:

On my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen. He dint make the groun shake nor nothing like that when he come on to my spear he wernt all that big plus he lookit poorly. He done the reqwyrt he ternt and stood and clattert his teef and made his rush and there we wer then. Him on 1 end of the spear kicking his life out and me on the other end watching him dy. I said, 'Your tern now my tern later.'

Riddley's devolved language - a trick which has been nicked/homaged by many other works, most notably Cloud Atlas and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome - is a masterwork choice which may seem offputting or overwhelming at first, but which has its own brutal poetry and cadence to it, and ultimately which makes us slow down as readers and unpick the wit, puns, double-meanings and playful themes buried in line after line.

(Even those first five sentences get us thinking about cyclical change, ritual and myth in opposition to the dissatisfactions of reality, and 'tern' to paradoxically indicate a rebellious change in direction but also an obedient acceptance of inevitable death.)

In one of my favourite passages in literature and a statement of thought that means a lot to me, Riddley has been smoking post-coital weed with Lorna, a 'tel-woman', who unexpectedly declares her belief in a kind of irrational, monstrous Logos that lives in us, wears us like clothes, and drives us onwards for its own purpose:

'You know Riddley theres some thing in us it dont have no name.' I said, 'What thing is that?' She said, 'Its some kynd of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its lookin out thru our eye hoals...it aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and shelterin how it can.' 'Tremmering it is and feart. It puts us on like we put on our cloes. Some times we dont fit. Some times it cant fynd the arm hoals and it tears us a part. I dont think I took all that much noatis of it when I ben yung. Now Im old I noatise it mor. It dont realy like to put me on no mor. Every morning I can feal how its tiret of me and readying to throw me a way. Iwl tel you some thing Riddley and keap this in memberment. What ever it is we dont come naturel to it.' I said, 'Lorna I dont know what you mean.' She said, 'We aint a naturel part of it. We dint begin when it begun we dint begin where it begun. It ben here befor us nor I dont know what we are to it. May be weare jus only sickness and a feaver to it or boyls on the arse of it I dont know. Now lissen what Im going to tel you Riddley. It thinks us but it dont think like us. It dont think the way we think. Plus like I said befor its afeart.' I said, 'Whats it afeart of?' She said, 'Its afeart of being beartht.'

While Hoban is, I think, deeply humanistic to his bones and even something of a wayward optimist, the notion of human beings as helpless and ignorant vessels, individual carriers - puppets, if you like - for an unknowable and awful inhuman power-in-potentia and life-drive that lacks a true shape or intent beyond its own continued survival (even when that means destroying us or visiting us with agonising atrophy in the process) conjures up the pessimism of Thomas Ligotti, another big influence on our work and a dude who was really into his marionettes-as-metaphor.

Let's go to him now for his opinion on the thing that lives beneath our skin. Thomas?

Through the prophylactic of self-deception, we keep hidden what we do not want to let into our heads, as if we will betray to ourselves a secret too terrible to know… …(that the universe is) a play with no plot and no players that were anything more than portions of a master drive of purposeless self-mutilation. Everything tears away at everything else forever. Nothing knows of its embroilment in a festival of massacres… Nothing can know what is going on.

Curiously, both Ligotti and Riddley Walker have appeared in the music of dark folk band Current 93, whose track In The Heart Of The Wood And What I Found There directly homages the novel and ends with the repeated words,

"All shall be well," she said But not for me

These words, in turn, hearken back to Kafka's* famous reported conversation with Max Brod:

'We are,' he said, 'nihilistic thoughts, suicidal thoughts that rise in God's head.' This reminded me of the worldview of the gnostic: God as an evil demiurge, the world as his original sin. 'Oh no', he said, 'our world is only a bad, fretful whim of God, a bad day.' 'So was there - outside of this world that we know - hope?' He smiled: 'Oh, hope - there is plenty. Infinite hope, just not for us."

So, we walk on.

We carry this thing that's riding on our backs, endlessly bonded to it, feeling its weight more and more with every passing day, unable to turn to look at it. Buried truths come briefly to life, and are hidden from us again. Perhaps they weren't truths at all. We couldn't stand to look the truth directly in the eyes in any case.

If there is hope, it's for the thing that looks out from our eyeholes, which thinks us but cannot think like us. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. There's no hope for it. Perhaps we don't want it to win anyway. It's nothing, and the key to everything.

The Jesus from the Gospel of Thomas says:

'When you see your own likeness, you rejoice. But when you see the visions that formed you and existed before you, which do not perish and which do not become visible - how much then will you be able to bear?'

Kafka, writing to his father, begins by expressing the inexpressibility of his own divine terror:

You asked me why I am afraid of you. I did not know how to answer - partly because of my fear, partly because an explanation would require more than I could make coherent in speech…even in writing, the magnitude of the causes exceeds my memory and my understanding.

Kafka concludes that while he cannot ever truly explain himself, and that the accusations in his letter are neat subjectivities that fail to account for the messiness of reality, perhaps 'something that in my opinion so closely resembles the truth…might comfort us both a little and make it easier for us to live and die.'**

It doesn't bring comfort to Kafka, whose diarised remarks both before and after the 1919 letter make it clear that he views his relationship with the things (people) that birthed him as an endless entrapment that prevents him from attaining any kind of self-actualisation or even comfort, since he cannot escape their influence or remember a time before them:

I was defeated by Father as a small boy and have been prevented since by pride from leaving the battleground, despite enduring defeat over and over again.

It's as if I wasn't fully born yet...as if I was dissolubly bound to these repulsive things (my parents).*** The bond is still attached to my feet, preventing them from walking, from escaping the original formless mush. That's how it is sometimes.

Samuel Beckett returns again and again (aptly) to this pursuit of a state of true humanity and final understanding that is at once fled and unrecoverable, yet to be born, never to be born, never-existed, endlessly to be pursued, pointless to pursue. From the astonishing end sequence of The Unnameable:

alone alone, the others are gone, they have been stilled, their voices stilled, their listening stilled, one by one, at each new-com- ing, another will come, I won’t be the last. I’ll be with the others. I’ll be as gone, in the silence, it won’t be I, it’s not I, I’m not there yet. I’ll go there now. I’ll try and go there now, no use trying, I wait for my turn, my turn to go there, my turn to talk there, my turn to listen there, my turn to wait there for my turn to go, to be as gone, it’s unending, it will be unending, gone where,where do you go from there, you must go somewhere else, wait somewhere else, for your turn to go again

I’m not the first, I won’t be the first, it will best me in the end, it has bested better than me, it will tell me what to do, in order to rise, move, act like a body endowed with despair, that’s how I reason, that’s how I hear myself reasoning, all lies, it’s not me they’re calling, not me they’re talking about, it’s not yet my turn, it’s someone else’s turn, that’s why I can’t stir, that’s why I don’t feel a body on me, I’m not suffering enough yet, it’s not yet my turn, not suffering enough to be able to stir, to have a body, complete with head, to be able to understand, to have eyes to light the way

From Thomas' Jesus:

When you make the two one, and you make the inside as the outside and the outside as the inside and the above as the below, and if male and female become a single unity which lacks 'masculine' and 'feminine' action, when you grow eyes where eyes should be and hands where hands should be and feet where feet should stand and the true image in its proper place, then shall you enter heaven.

Tom's Jesus makes a particularly Gnostic habit of both insisting that the hidden will be revealed and demonstrating the impossibility of attaining a state where the hidden ever can be revealed. Contrary to C.S. Lewis, we will never have faces with which to gaze upon the lost divine and the mysteries that shaped us, and crucially, as Christ puts it, we would not be able to bear the sight of ourselves if we did.

We will never become the thing that's riding on our backs.

Jesus again:

The disciples ask Jesus, 'Tell us how our end shall be.' Jesus says, 'Have you found the beginning yet, you who ask after the end? For at the place where the beginning is, there shall be the end.'

The Unnameable:

I’ll recognise it, in the end I’ll recognise it, the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again, that I may find again, then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place, the silence, the end, the beginning, the beginning again, how can I say it, that’s all words, they’re all I have, and not many of them, the words fail, the voice fails, so be it

The final passage of The Unnameable, which often is hilariously shorn and misinterpreted as an inspirational quote about how if you don't succeed, try again:

all words, there’s nothing else, you must go on, that’s all I know, they’re going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they’re going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can't go on, you must go on. I’ll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know. I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on. I’ll go on. †

We bear this thing that's riding on our backs. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. If it was born, it'd be too terrible for us to bear. There's nothing riding on our backs.

It will never speak us into being.

We keep on calling out into the silence, we keep trying to explain or understand the thing that's riding on our backs, searching for a way to birth it before we die. Our words about the thing are crucial, and they're meaningless, and they're all we have, and they're nothing at all. We cannot name it and we cannot express it, but we cannot stop trying, and we will keep turning back to our words about the thing, obsessing over them, tearing them to pieces, putting them back together.

I'm fumbling at something I can't think or say, but fumbling is all we're capable of. There could be beauty and meaning and comfort in the fumbling, but it's also vain, and foolish, and pointless, and we're lying to ourselves about the beauty and the meaning and the comfort, and we're indulging ourselves pointlessly by going on and on about the pointlessness of it. Nothing can know what's going on. We will never get close enough to understand without being destroyed.

Thomas' Jesus again, warning those who seek to reveal what's hidden:

He who is near me is near the fire.

Riddley Walker, reflecting on the Punch puppet's inexplicable desire to cook and eat his own child:

Whyis Punch crookit? Why wil he al ways kill the baby if he can? Parbly I wont ever know its jus on me to think on it.

If you got to the end of this, congratulations: but the above is honestly the most appropriate patchwork of what I believe, what propels me, what I feel.

As for what comes after life, I think it's fairly straightforwardly a nothingness we are tragically incapable of fully knowing or accepting - it's Beckett's unimaginable and unattainable silence, a silence that his characters' voices keep on shattering even as they cry out for it.

-Jon‡

*I can't remember if Kafka makes prominent reference to Czech puppets in his work, which is interesting in its own right given the thematic relevance (the protagonist in The Hunger Artist is perhaps a kind of self-directing puppet show?).

However, Gustav Meyrink - who some unsourced Google quotes suggest was pals with Czech puppeteer Richard Teschner - did write a strange little story, The Man On The Bottle, about an audience watching a 'marionette show' who are too wrapped up in performances and masks to interpret the reality that they're actually watching a human being suffocate to death.

**Thomas Ligotti: "Something had happened. They did not know what it was, but they did know it as that which should not be.

Something would have to be done if they were to live with that which should not be.

This would not (be enough); it would only be the best they could do."

***Beckett's Malone Dies actually kicks off with a related sentiment:" I am in my mother’s room. It’s I who live there now. I don’t know how I got there...In any case I have her room. I sleep in her bed. I piss and shit in her pot. I have taken her place. I must resemble her more and more."

† I don't necessarily align myself in humour with Ligotti on a lot of this stuff but I imagine he would recognise both Beckett's writing and Kafka's frustrations re explaining the causes of his hatred for his father as sublimation: finding artistic and philosophical ways of sketching the inexpressible horror and uncertainty of our existence in order to reckon with it at a remove without destroying ourselves. A higher form of self-deception, but self-deception nevertheless.

‡Muna's more of an anarcho-nihilist, I think.

[planetofsnarfs]

When a child dies – any child – the loss is incalculable. There’s the loss of a son or daughter, a sibling, a cousin, a best friend. There’s a loss of a life, snuffed out before its time. The loss of a future – who knows what that child could have accomplished? 

And when that child dies, particularly under horrific circumstances, there is a loss of innocence for all of us, regardless of whether we knew that child or not. Among the first impulses for anyone with a heart who wishes to protect other children is to find a way – any way – to prevent a loss like that from happening again.

The hyper-cruel antithesis of this is what’s going on right now in Oklahoma in the wake of 16-year-old Nex Benedict’s death. As we first reported, Nex, a transgender sophomore at Owasso High School, was brutally beaten by other students in a school bathroom and died the following day. The incident has drawn national attention – but not nearly enough, in my opinion – with many attributing the violent act to a culture of transphobia they say is being stoked by state officials.

Days before Nex’s death, The Oklahoman reported that there were a whopping 50 bills in the state legislature targeting LGBTQ+ people. The state ranks 48th in both education and health care. Don’t you think the state legislature and state government officials have better things to do than sow queer hate among its citizens? 

One of those state officials is the superintendent of public instruction, Ryan Walters. Even before Nex’s death, Walters was virulently anti-LGBTQ+. More than 350 LGBTQ+ organizations, activists, and celebrities urged his removal from office after Nex died, saying he has encouraged “a climate of hate and bigotry” throughout his career. Nex’s death didn’t stop him from fanning the flames of hate.

Walters poured salt into a festering wound, telling The New York Times, “There's not multiple genders. There’s two. That’s how God created us.” He added that he did not believe that nonbinary or transgender people exist and that the state would not let students use names or pronouns other than those matching their birth records.

It seems the goal of the official responses around Nex’s death has been to protect those who bullied and beat him. Police were quick to release initial reports saying that Nex "did not die as a result of trauma."

It’s important to note that school officials did not reprimand, sanction, or report to authorities the students who critically harmed Nex. “No report of the incident was made to the Owasso Police Department prior to the notification at the hospital,” Chief Dan Yancey told The Advocate.

The police jumped out over their skis with their initial statement, which raised eyebrows. In fact, Sue Benedict, who was Nex’s adoptive mother, told the news site Popular Information that a statement released by the Owasso Police was a “big cover."

Parents and other members of the public expressed outrage over how the school was handling the response to Nex’s death, particularly pointing out that protecting queer kids and making sure that it didn’t happen again was not a priority for the school board. “Apparently people don’t feel safe here. I can’t imagine why at all,” public commenter Walter Masterson said at the first Owasso school board meeting after Nex's death. “A more 'woke' school board would see the death of a child and work to make sure it never happens again. Not this board.” 

Then, along comes the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Oklahoma, which concluded that Nex died by suicide. The medical examiner’s one-page summary report identifies the cause of death as combined toxicity from diphenhydramine (Benadryl) and fluoxetine (Prozac). Noticeably absent from the report were all the injuries Nex incurred the day before.

My colleague Christopher Wiggins was once a paramedic. When he saw the cause of death was attributed to two very common medications, he decided to investigate. He’s a damn good reporter, and his suspicions regarding the report were justified. He reached out to two toxicology experts, who first made it clear that they weren’t privy to Nex’s autopsy report; however, they told Christopher that the risk of death from these medications, especially when used as directed, is extraordinarily low.

In response to the coroner’s report, GLAAD President and CEO Sarah Kate Ellis said in a statement, “Nex’s family accurately notes how the report released this week does not reflect the full picture of what happened to Nex and continues to urge accountability of those who failed to keep Nex and all students in Oklahoma safe from bullying, harassment, assault, and most brutally, death.”

Now you have this full picture of all those involved, coupled with a backdrop of hate. Taken in its totality, the reaction to Nex’s death shows that a corrupt, do-nothing clique is part of a deceptive lie and cover-up that shows they did nothing, zero, zilch to protect the life of Nex or any child like him. The authorities' only goal is to protect the perpetrators, not just those who attacked Nex but all those who will be emboldened to beat others just like Nex in the future in school bathrooms throughout the state.

The grossly deceptive response to Nex’s death makes the state of Oklahoma a breeding ground for the bullying – and for beating to injury or death – of LGBTQ+ kids. What the state is doing goes against all we know about protecting vulnerable children. 

If the state legislature pushes hate bills, if state officials spew hate, if local authorities and administrators cover up hate, then you create this breeding ground. You create an atmosphere where that hate explodes, like it did with Nex, and you use hate to demean the victim and ennoble the haters.

Suicide rates among LGBTQ+ youth are astronomically high. If Nex ultimately did commit suicide -- and this initial autopsy report does not make a convincing case -- then Oklahoma officials still deserve to be held accountable. Oklahoma's LGBTQ+ suicide prevention line saw a 230 percent increase in calls after the cause of Nex's death was revealed by the coroner. As transgender activist Ari Drennan noted, in a climate of anti-trans hate, "every trans suicide is a murder." 

But if Nex's death was ruled a suicide to avoid addressing anti-LGBTQ+ bullying, Oklahoma officials have crossed a line. Using suicide as a cover, as a deception, should be a crime.

It is worth repeating the ominous words of Walters that nonbinary or transgender people don’t exist. That means, in Walters’s world, Nex never existed. And if Nex never existed, how would Walters and other officials associated with him be able to objectively investigate Nex’s death?

All of which means that Nex’s autopsy report is a lie and a facade. Null and void. Plain and simple. Nex and his family deserve so much more, and we need to keep protesting loudly until we get the truth.

[moonlight-prose]

FIRST LIGHT

➛ #01. ETERNAL DARKNESS

a/n: this fic has been shoving its way to the front of my brain for months now. so i finally decided to sit down and write the first chapter. tommy miller somehow snuck up on me in 2023, and now there's really no going back with this man. i love him and all his agonies. this is a fic that i'm really connected to and terrified to post actually. it's also a level of angst i've never put out before so i'm handing tissues to y'all now.

summary: tommy miller never thought he would end up alone. not when he had family behind him - a life that wasn't perfect, but good enough. yet there he was, kneeling on the cold forest floor - bloodied and bruised - asking to die. until light streams through the trees, and he sees you.

word count: 2k+

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: not explicit, grief, angst so much angst it's actually painful, tommy wants to die, tw suicide mention, blood, death, grief, the horrors of living through an apocalypse, IF YOU DON'T VIBE WITH A TON OF ANGST THIS IS NOT FOR YOU.

NEXT CHAPTER | SERIES MASTERLIST

There was no light in a body split down the middle. A body filled to the brim with splinters and jagged edges. With a hollow emptiness that created an opening—a chasm.

He could feel how the darkness soaked in, filling the spaces where light once belonged—where hope used to be. But nothing could exist if pain—grief—reigned free. A wild ruthless thing, cracking apart whatever remained. Feeding off the shine that once thrived there.

There was no light.

Not anymore.

He ran through the woods, the heaviness of his boots snapping twigs and branches as he went. The cracking echoed through the air, sharp and loud, accompanied by the heaviness of his breaths. Each one, more painful than the last. His fingers clenched around the ripped leather wrapped around the blade’s handle so tight his knuckles went white. At one point it was brand new, perfect. A birthday gift from his brother. He called it special—once.

Now it dripped red.

Wild eyes darted around the surrounding area, his breaths coming in slower—an attempt to slow the erratic beat of his heart. He could still taste it. The pungent sting of copper that built up in the back of his throat like bile. He couldn’t tell the difference at this point. They burned all the same.

Sucking in a breath, he felt his chest tighten, his eyes red with exhaustion. The nights were desolate, sleep no longer a priority when nothing but memories of a past he couldn’t get back to plagued him. What he wouldn’t give to go back. Maybe then he could save himself; end it before it even began.

Birds no longer chirped the same. He noticed that three days into being alone. As if nature had taken her beauty away; an act of punishment for the selfish behavior of humanity. They took her for granted. Used her up until nothing remained; until her grounds ran red with blood. And this was their consequence. An eternity of misery, of reaping what they sowed from her poisoned grounds.

He stopped breathing, stilled every limb of his body, and listened. For the signal of people coming after him. Or something worse. For a blissful numbing moment, he wished for the latter.

At least then he’d have an excuse.

His palm was warm, slicked and sticky with the color of crimson that stained his skin. A red right hand for the man filled with nothing but regret. If he could feel anything, he might have laughed at the sheer irony. Once upon a time he wanted to save the world. Now he was ready to watch it burn.

Silence spilled out of every corner. A deafening echo he yearned to find relief in. His body had other ideas though.

Clambering forward, he pressed himself against the nearest tree. The bark scraped his palm as he clutched it, tight enough to draw blood. But the bile had built and built and he could feel his body beg for something other than pain. Tilting forward he went dizzy as he dry heaved. His stomach was empty—the food he stole burned a hole in his pack.

Would it set him on fire?

Would he turn to ash here in the middle of the woods?

A sickening hope entered his chest. As thick as tar and black as night. Yet for a man who had nothing to cling to—this was enough. This would have to do.

He’d take what he could get. In a world ruined by death, a bitter hope was all he could carry. He would continue to push this boulder of grief up the hill paved with the souls of the past. The ones who could no longer sustain the heavy weight of their own heart. Some days he wondered if he could keep going, yet every morning he still woke up.

A bit more numb than the day before.

But still alive.

He used to feel hopeful at the realization. Now all that remained was bitter disappointment.

He bit down on the inside of his right cheek hard to stave off his pained shout. Copper flooded his mouth, but this was familiar. As if his body recognized a taste it’d grown to know. Clutching his thigh and waist, he stumbled away from the tree. There was nowhere to go, no place to hide, but the drive to keep moving kept him alive. The need to be anywhere but here.

Blood coated his once white t-shirt, his jeans a darker hue of blue as the wound on his thigh continued to drain out. Tommy knew he didn’t have long—spots of darkness peeking into the corners of his vision. The threat of oncoming blackness.

“Fucking shit,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut as the burn of pain spread through his veins.

Images of the man flashed behind his eyelids. Blood, so much of it, filled his senses. He could still smell it, the hot flush against his skin as he pressed down on the blade hard enough to sever that link between life and the human body. How ruthless he’d been was sharp in his mind. And for the first time in a long time, Tommy was afraid of himself.

He killed the man with his special knife. The engraving Joel placed there—a reminder that his brother was always with him—glared back. I’m proud of you, coupled with the offset reflection of a man he didn’t recognize. There was no life in his brown eyes, no light. Only a thrill he’d seen before—a darkness he locked away the second it crept to the surface.

A piece of him that wasn’t human.

He bit down harder on his cheek, tearing through the flesh with ease. Would Joel be proud of him now? Would he look at him with the eyes of a big brother? The promise to protect him lingering in the brown Tommy knew better than his own. Or would he leave him alone all over again; claim he was a lost cause. After all, there was no use in saving the soul of a man this far gone.

Tommy’s breaths came in short, quick little gasps as he fought to stay upright. To push his boulder a little further.

But what was the use? What did he have left to offer the world? The man’s blood began to dry to his skin, into the grooves and lines of his palms. His fate line, heartline, and everything in between now coated in the essence of another being. A reminder that what he had done—what he’d taken—would remain with him until the end of his lifeline.

Being alone wasn’t new to him. Not when his only sibling had to grow up faster than he expected, leaving Tommy behind to figure out shit on his own. But this…the aching pit of isolation was something he didn’t know how to handle. He could still see Joel’s face, the lines of disappointment suddenly deeper than when he was younger. Pity in the brown that once used to shine with hope.

They both changed. They had to with the way things shifted so quickly.

Except Tommy never thought the only thing keeping him sane—the only tie he had to his past—would leave him alone.

He felt that overwhelming despair begin to swell in his throat, clawing to his chest like a beast starving for more. There was no one here to see him fail. No one here to save him from the darkness.

There was no one here to watch him die.

“Please,” he breathed, his voice ragged and raw from not needing to use it. As days came and went he remained silent. His words, trapped in the empty cavern of his chest.

There was no reason to speak when no one would hear his agony.

“Please.”

The beg morphed the longer he stood there, repeating it softly. Swaying on his feet. He wasn’t sure who he was speaking to. Who his plea was going out to, but Tommy didn’t care anymore. The pain that he tried to control—keep at bay for as long as he could—finally began to seep into his mind. Cracking the final pieces of his soul off like a bottle shattering on the floor. He begged for the release of this anguish, for time to turn back, for his brother to return to him.

He begged for death on a silver platter.

Unashamed, unabashed, and unafraid.

His knees slammed against the forest floor as he fell, his body sagging forward slightly, hands clutching onto his waist as blood spilled down his leg. If he didn’t patch himself up and chose to remain this way, he’d eventually bleed out. Right here on the dirt. He’d return to the Earth, become one with the moss that would eventually grow over his body.

Even that seemed like the better choice than this.

Fighting to live without end. In a world that would be happy to see him get snuffed out like a candle. Entirely blown away with nature’s breath. Her viciousness finally coming to fruition.

He gasped for a breath. Hot tears spilled over his scraped cheeks, his blood split lip from fighting now burning with the salt. Only this time he didn’t try to stop himself, sober his emotions and gather his surroundings. This time, he sunk into the darkness that ate away at his soul, consuming him bit by bit like a decadent meal it wanted to savor. He was its sustaining life force.

Until there was nothing left of him.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice cracking from the strain of the truth.

Tommy had never known an emotion quite like this. He never knew what welcoming death meant. Although he supposed a man would never know until he was faced with its truth; until something pushed him far enough.

He’d seen Joel go through it. Watched as his brother grappled with the decision to stay alive, and he would have joined Sarah soon enough. If Tommy hadn’t shoved his hand out of the way. Joel claims he flinched, Tommy knew the truth. He didn’t flinch, he stood still as stone with his eyes closed…he never saw Tommy’s hand coming.

But Joel would never know the truth.

A soft grin played on his lips as memories of his brother and niece flashed behind his eyes. Like a movie reel playing in a lonesome theater. He was the only person sitting there, transfixed to the screen. And Tommy would have spent the rest of his life there, watching. At least there he felt joy, hope. Emotions he thought he’d never have again.

“Please,” he sighed, his eyes fluttering open to see the light that filtered through the branches.

It fell on the floor like a spotlight, playing along it like water, and he found himself breathless to its beauty. Nature was extending her hand gently, offering him the last bit of beauty he’d get to witness. Placing a small amount of peace at his feet in retribution for what he’d gone through; what he was giving up. Tommy’s wounds continued to bleed, but for that brief moment…he didn’t feel a thing.

No pain, no hurt.

Just peace.

Something cracked in the distance, a twig breaking under the boot of someone, but he felt no need to react. The blade lay on the ground beside him, still bloody, still tainted with his guilt and regret. But there was no use picking it up now. He was already too far gone. Another helpless soul lost to a world on fire.

He could see it now. The sunlight illuminated behind their body, a soft voice echoing in the distance, and his lips curved into yet another smile. Was this nature? Had she come to lead him? Tommy gasped in another breath, forcing his eyes to focus, and yet all he could see was a blurred sight of this being. They practically glowed as they approached quicker than before.

“Hi,” he murmured, eyes wide yet unseeing.

Soft warm hands cupped his face, tilted his head, and replied something he couldn’t hear. But the light was too bright, too welcoming, and Tommy was so fucking tired. More words came, questions. He heard nothing. Just the softness of their touch, the gentleness of their nature, until it all faded. And nothing remained.

[bestworstcase]

thinking about those two deer in the lost fable again. out of all the assets created just for this one episode, why?

like… it’s not random. the only other animals in this story have been amber’s horse, zwei, and the branwens’ bird forms. all have some narrative relevance, a clear connection to a character that justifies the expense and effort of modeling them. and then in the lost fable—an episode that was always going to be a heavy lift technically and financially for the sheer amount of ground to cover and novel assets required—has these two deer. they’re only on screen for like two seconds.

it’s narratively motivated. the lost fable is a highly symbolic episode and that symbolism foreshadows the ever after / ascension / all the v9 lore quite strongly; it follows that the intended symbolism of this shot demanded the presence of these deer.

the god of light has deer antlers. in the blacksmith’s story, the first act of destruction is to eat; darkness eats, light does not. light holds himself at a distance, he designs, he does not live. these deer are grazing. salem appears from a plume of smoke at the base of the withered tree, and the deer startle at her approach and look up at her. the shot transitions to salem looking upon the grimm in the ruins of a town—

“she cursed the gods, she cursed the universe. she cursed everything—everything but herself,” says jinn. but her expression isn’t anger. (always check her eyebrows.) it’s more intense concentration, intense thought…

…which brings her back to the pool of grimm. jinn says that “fate” led her back here because that’s what ozpin believes. but this sequence begins with those deer, eating. destruction in its purest unadulterated form. salem visually emerges from the withered tree. she’s observing the grimm and she’s thinking. if the fountain of life had given her immortality, then surely the pools of grimm would finally take it away—not “finally let her die.”

rolls over.

the fountain of life gave her infinite life. salem hoped the pool of grimm would take it away. not kill. not destroy. infinite life. if you take from an infinite quantity, an infinite quantity still remains. this force of pure destruction could not destroy, so it created…

destruction first, to clear the wilderness away. darkness eats the tree’s brambles and through this act creation is born. jinn’s telling distorts through ozpin’s belief, but the truth is there. pure destruction and infinite life are not in conflict; rather, destruction feeds life.

the pool of grimm did take from her life—subtract from the infinite and the infinite remains—she’s torn apart and remade. creativity, to imagine what, and who, could replace the wilderness.

jinn tells this story, ozpin’s story, in a way that obfuscates salem’s real agency and her personhood, casting her alternately as tragic object of fate and inhuman monster. fate led her back to the land of darkness; a being of infinite life with a desire for pure destruction.

he believes salem wanted to die when she leapt into the pool of grimm.

did she?

the deer, the grimm, herself, the pool of grimm. wilderness and ruin. all that remained. i arrive at the edge of the world […] should i kneel?/what should i feel?/will i fall apart?/maybe that’s all i want […] and in my heart it’s there/standing tall enough to fix it all/it’s just a new beginning/it’s just a different ending […] i am everything and nothing/all at once/i’ll meet you at the horizon/where we first met/where i died, i’ll be born again…

(something. something. without you i am nothing, but because of you, i am everything. self-similar narrative.)

the edge of the world. . .

mutters. sow the death and reap the seed -> the moon will sadly watch the roses die -> a rose will grow to be a seed/from every life another leads -> some roses will never bloom. the burning rose, the shattered moon.

did. she know—did she have an idea that destroying herself would create a new world? destruction to clear the wilderness, creativity to imagine its replacement.

“they could claim the powers of their creators for themselves and in turn perfect their own design; all they needed to do was destroy their old masters.” -> “this was it, this had to be it, the brother’s grimm, the pools of black that continued to give rise to horrific nightmares” -> “we could be the gods of this world. […] create the paradise the old gods could not.”

like. it’s not just

it’s those fucking deer. eating. the grimm picking over the ruins. (grimm eat their prey.) salem, observing, thinking. “the gods had hoped that salem would learn from her eternal curse, and she did.” the god of light bade her learn the importance of life and death, and she did. and then she jumped into the pool of grimm and created remnant. a new world. a completely unfamiliar world–

…oh. ohhh

“magic was a gift from the gods that all could wield” -> “without the blessings of the gods, no one could perform magic like mankind was once capable of”

and

“aura is a manifestation of the soul, a life force that runs through every living creature on remnant.” we could be the gods of this world.

how does pyrrha unlock jaune’s aura? “for it is in passing we achieve immortality; through this we become a paragon of virtue and glory, infinite in distance and unbound by death. i release your soul, and by my shoulder protect thee.” a religious mantra echoing salem’s idea of transcendence. magic was a gift from the gods that all could wield; aura is a manifestation of the soul that everyone has, though only a select few are privileged by ozma’s institutions to learn. “with enough training and focus,” salem says, “a user’s aura can turn them into much more than just a man.” the illustration is ozpin’s silhouette—but ozma’s power isn’t derived from aura, it’s magic, and the infinite man is fond of saying that he is “only a man, not even a very good one,” and salem herself sees him as diminished, as lessened. he’s the image of “just a man.” a person’s aura can make them much more than ozma. much more than the brothers’ design.

our powers surpass all others.

salem is grimm. even if she has aura, she cannot use it to protect herself. the gods gave humans magic and then took it back; salem threw herself into the pool of grimm and it broke her apart and—symbolically if not literally—took away her aura and gave it to the people of remnant, reborn from the ashes of her rebellion. a semblance is the outward manifestation of one’s soul. she wanted humanity to claim the powers of their creators and perfect their own design, and… with enough training and focus, a user’s aura can turn them into something much more than just a man.

[tcfactory]

i think the shen yuan as jiu's shizun thing would be particularly heartbreaking because the system could very easily hit hard with that "you wanted lore, didnt you? you wanted this. this is what you asked for." watch as everyone you vaguely dismissed as 'binghe's enemies' suffer endlessly to create a world you decided should be expanded on. and look at that little author crawl miserably through all kinds of abuse, isnt that what you wished on him? didnt you say he deserved it? nightmare.

(In relation to this post.)

Yes, to all of this.

Real monkey's paw situation. He got exactly what he wanted: a life of leisure where none of his choices could 'ruin' the plot, he could enjoy the bits of the world he cared about without ever being in any danger and then got front row seat to all the people he previously decided deserving of punishment (the hack author, Shen Qingqiu who abused Luo Binghe and Yue Qingyuan who enabled the abuse) get their comeuppance.

Except it hits different when he realizes that all that ill fortune is inflicted on people. People he now cares about, having watched their pain and suffering up close, people he doesn't want to hurt any more. There's a person behind Airplane's ridiculous nickname, a small, scared person now trapped in a horrible fate and a lifetime of terror because he wrote a stupid novel.

There's a history behind Yue Qingyuan and Shen Qingqiu, one of them paralyzed by guilt (if Shen Yuan mentioned that plant that one time then there would have been no delay. Even worse, if Yue Qi could trust the adults to look out for him then he would have not needed to go himself at all, there was a whole sect's worth of adults who could have gone and rescued Shen Jiu - and as much as Shen Yuan wants to blame the lack of trust on Yue Qingyuan, he knows none of his martial siblings would have cared to go even if he told them. Shen Yuan himself would not have bothered to go out of his way to check on some slave boy miles away who might be dead or alive, just because Yue Qi says he has the potential for cultivation) and the other baring his claws and teeth at the world because he's scared and the only way he knows how not to let his fear make him look weak is by making himself look angry and nasty and more dangerous than he is (and oh gods, he thought Shen Jiu's continued antics were funny. He thought Shen Jiu was just Like That, a little bit feral, and never realized the boy felt unsafe on his peak - what kind of shizun was he to never notice that something was this wrong?).

Both of them were let down by the system, slipping through the cracks and he was part of that system, it should have been his job to catch one or both of them and he was too busy with his stupid beasts and stupid plants that he didn't even think to look.

That's the worst of all. He wanted to be safe and uninvolved and he got exactly that: now he gets to reap what he sowed, watch as the neglect he was complicit in grows into pain and misery and death.

A lion hobbled by guilt. A wolf rabid from fear. An author with his neck in the noose.

Happy transmigration, Shen Yuan. This System hopes you enjoy your nightmare. Don't forget to leave a positive review! ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

[sarcastic--metaphor]

Imagine a scene similar to the Jerry episode where Simon’s giving his presentation.

He’s talking to the vampire hive and court his research on how the frequent feeding on humans has crashed their population, threatening their food supply and starving the vampires to death.

Even suggesting substitutes and cooperating with humans that don’t involve fatally eating straight from a living person, such as shades of red from produce.

And as an optional thing or bonus, allowing the sun back, but still keeping the magic crown.

Simon even offers free samples he’s grown in his garden for the court.

Cue the boos and laughter, as well as Simon being pelted with his free samples.

I wonder how marceline would react.

I imagine this presentation would sow discord among the few, such as heirophant doubling down on vampire traditions and considering treason.

Empress considering maybe changing up the hierarchy system to create a human farm promised neverland style. She’s immortal and she wants good wagyu blood forever.

Vampire Kings probably kicking his feet up and not regretting making Simon a vampire. The old man with the glasses spices things up in the stagnant vampire race. But that dude should really enjoy himself when the wheel of fortune swings in his favor.

I wonder if Simon eventually tries to summon hunson abedeer to create an even fighting ground between bubblegum and vampire king. Dad vs dad.

Lol you must really like the vampire court

I’m personally a little less invested in Simon’s dynamic with them bc the fic I’m trying to write is more focused on his relationship with Marcy and Finn. But u do u I’m not stopping u

But I’d say that Marcy/the Star would definitely sit in on Simon’s talks even if she herself would never really consider a life completely w/out human blood like he would. She still loves Simon though and wants to at least hear him out. As the king’s ward, she has a lot of sway in the court/hive and could probably get a lot more vamps to adhere to Simon’s proposals than Simon himself, if not through her status then through the threat of violence. But she doesn’t really try bc she knows the KV would oppose the idea

In front of the king, Marcy is more inclined to consume blood from live prey but in private with Simon she’s a lot more willing to “go vegetarian” and consume just the color red. It’s honestly just as filling as blood but she’s a little unwilling to admit it bc it means the way of life she’s enjoyed so far, and the world ushered in by the Vampire King, are both horribly wrong.

((Lastly- In front of other vampires, Simon and Marcy only refer to each other as Temperance/The Star but in private they use their original names w/ each other. Marcy feels like it helps keep them close))

[bougainvillea-and-saltwater]

WIP Wednesday! (insert meme: it's been 84 years...)

Hello! I think I've neglected these beautiful WIP tag games as of late, so I took the chance, after being tagged by the lovelies @bostoniangirl21 and @miraakulous-cloud-district (thank you both so much!🧡), to share a bit of CH20 of The Priest and the Dragoness (I'm seriously thinking of changing the title of my fic, so if someone wants to give me their opinion about this Cursed Thought™, I'll gladly take it!). Also, the beloved @miraakulous-cloud-district had the idea of making this WIP combo with a picrew of ocs! I'm so excited to share! 😍

Tonight, in that dream, she does not see the precious faces of her dear mother and father she always recognized even if she never knew them or touched them or kissed them in the waking world, nor does she hear the rough but heartwarming voice of her wise old wolf, Kodlak Whitemane.  She does not dream of Vilkas and Farkas’ affectionate fraternal teasing, the tender motherly sternness of Aela, nor does she blend her youthful voice with Whiterun’s liveliness during the New Life Festival, in its songs, dances, feasts, in Magnus’ slow return to Nirn. She sees neither the darkness, the shackles, the rot of Northwatch Keep, nor even senses Caranthir’s breath chilling the back of her neck.  Sometimes, Jia dreams of herself as a dragon. She falls to her weak, human knees, weeps and screams without voice, only to feel her spine crack lengthwise and then split in half like the shell of an egg, as the acrid stench of seething, ripped-out flesh engulfs her like a firestorm, dominates her from head to toe. And then, she sees her two blood-leaking wings spreading through her shadow, and she takes flight, and she brings debris and death.  But tonight, in that dream, she is not a fire-breathing, blood-raining wyrm. In that dream, she is a bird, a swallow, and behind her soft, feathery wings, she knows a delicate shaft of the warmest, most pristine sunlight dovetails with her close behind, creating technicolor colorings upon her lustrous plumage; and from beneath her small-boned body, she sows springs and summers, meadows and groves, all with a single wingstroke.  In that dream, she flies towards a colossal tree. Though suddenly her flight grows swift, erratic, hopeless, so much as one would wonder how a swallow’s flickering little heart can withstand this kind of fear and despair. For this tree that she hunts with time’s passing, is not for nesting and is barren of verdure or fruit in spite of the spring-bearer’s sight; this is an unearthly shade of dark, black wood, of twisting, writhing branches as if they are coming to life, haunted, rotten to the roots and even beyond those, like—  Like a hanged man’s tree. “Sleep,” Miraak tells her, when she startles awake, in a whisper drawn out of the loveliest lullaby, as though he is, too, tethered between reality and a dream, his caressing fingers blindly running up and down her back. “It was just a dream.” They are never just dreams, the words her brain pushes to speak aloud, but her eyes close again, and she’s plunging into a vision that she may not remember come morning.

Now for the lovely picrew!

OH but of course I would make not only Jia but her Miraak too, what do you mean... 😇

I'm tagging some people with the hope I'm not bothering them, so absolutely no pressure for this! Still, it'd be wonderful to see your creations, whichever they are! 🥰 @blossom-adventures, @sothas, @prettytamagnii, @illumiera, @kiir-do-faal-rahhe, @thequeenofthewinter, @ruskycreations

[astronautbeans]

working on an au I'm calling Rosethorn au :) it's a medieval fantasty au where the hermits/life series members are the representations of various concepts :D

for now the focus on the fic I'm writing is Gem being the representation of Life and Etho of Death and how they become friends and fall in love <3

it got me thinking of what other concepts other characters could be, so here's a few!

Gem - Life represents life, light, creation, energy. queen of Dawn, protector of all living things, 'Bringer of Light'. using her energy she can give life and create it, e.g. her blood will rapidly grow plants or restore barren ground. she sees it as her duty to help anyone she can, whoever they might be

Etho - Death represents death, darkness, destruction. referred to as 'Death’s favourite soldier' or similar. effortlessly uses his powers to take people to the grave, usually drawn to raging wars or towns plagued by sickness. is often rumoured to be a sadistic person that loves to kill, although he simply misses being around people and has taken to simply doing what he does best as Death's soldier

Jimmy - Peace represents peace and calmness, a tranquility. often misunderstood as Death, as he usually finds himself gently guiding others to the grave. (distant) relative of Gem.

Tango - War represents war and conflict. his very presence gets people on edge. wherever he goes, conflict follows. he is the Commander of King Joel's armies. always looking for fights and conflicts, he is one to seek out every opportunity to sow seeds for war. he is Jimmy's polar opposite, meaning that however much they'd love each other they can never be what they want to be without destroying everything around them (this is what drives him, it makes him rage against the entire world and especially those that gave him this role).

Joel - Chaos represents chaos, disorder, madness. King of Dreaded Dusk. Often referred to as 'the Mad King', 'the King of the North' or 'the Dreaded King'. he wants nothing more than to cause chaos in the world, to see others fall, to see people lose themselves to madness. his kingdom being named Dreaded Dusk is a direct play on Dawn, as he believes he will be the downfall of men and the bringer of night (aka insanity and chaos).

Cleo - Undeath represents undeath, being neither dead nor alive, and the state everything and everyone finds itself in just before they're truly dead. has the power over undead ones, as well as the power to turn people into the undead. they are the polar opposite of both Gem and Etho. they are King Joel's closest ally, although not loyal to the crown of Dreaded Dusk.

that's all for now!! suggestions are very welcome :D new posts will have the #rosethorn au tag

[myrcxlla]

Of Killers and Devils

PROLOGUE

Driven by a tradegy that has haunted her for most of her life, after the death of a notorious clan leader, Nakai Tanako rises to the top with just one goal in mind. Vengeance.

Saturo x Fem!OC character, (mentioned/assumed) Nanami x Fem!OC character

Warnings/triggers: angst, murder, mentions of cannibalism, cheating, violence, death/gore, dub con, non con, forced pregnancy, miscarriage. This story does not have a happy ending.

"2 years before Yuji Itadori"

AFTER ALL, KILLING HIM WAS THE PEACE SHE NEEDED. Her knuckles tightened as the twist of her wrist arose deadly thorns of gore from her fingers, and when her eyes widened, blood gushing from his neck and dousing the skin of her forearm, she was hit with a wave of satisfaction that she chose to hook her technique’s sharp blade into his carotid artery. Fatal enough to ensure his death, but slow enough where she got to enjoy watching every last second of her father’s miserable life drain away, taking one pathetic breath with him.

She knew it would take mere seconds for him to fade into dust, pleading, but that's all she needed.

Just a few seconds.

Long enough for the wretched man to stare into the eyes of the monster he, and every other member of the clan birthed by the dark intentions and desires of others, helped create. The living incarnation of sins coming back to sow justice for a girl who once dreamed, and another who loved.

He begged for mercy once more. Just loud enough to send birds flying and the ruins of a home creak in pity. She stood crouched on top of him long enough for the high of his bloodshed to fade. Her hand wrapped around what was left of his neck, the other lengthened in long ropes of thorns, slowly dispersing around her entire body, waiting. Waiting for something. Waiting for an apology. But the only thing that came was the chill as his blood cooled on her skin and the knowledge that not even toward the end, her power was cheered. 

“Tanako-sama,”

It wasnt until the door behind her creaked open that she released him, the weight of his guilt and control lifting away as his corpse dropped from her arms. 

“Do come in, Celeste.”

“I’m sorry, it was not my intention to interrupt. But, everyone has already settled in the Grand Room, and they ask for–” the foreign girl of pale blue eyes stared at the body beneath her friend’s feet, “--Mister Tanako. Should I explain to them?”

She grinned. “There's no need. They came at the request of the clan’s leader.”

“So, was it true then? Your plan, Nakai?”

She walked through the empty space of the office and onto the en suite. “It was never a question.” She turned the water and waited until swirls of warmth embraced her skin and began rinsing the blood spatters from her arms. “Of course it was always true, my dearest.”

Celeste nodded. “How did it feel?”

Her hands gripped the edge of the sink, and she leaned forward to stare at herself in the mirror. In the corner, Celeste could see the small smile gracing her lips. “How did it feel?” Her heart did not skip a beat while at it. No sudden fire emerging from her fingertips, no stronger power surging from her. “Not as emotional as I thought. Rather boring, I'm afraid. How much did you hear?”

Celeste reached for a towel and dried her arms clean, chasing behind as Nakai walked back into the office and reached for a brand new Haori. The pink one, one her father had gifted her not long before his macabre death. 

“I didn't hear much, just enough,” Celeste chuckled. “It is not surprising, you are the hardest person to please.”

She smirked as she allowed Celeste to place the garment over her bloody kimono, before she headed back to stand over her father. She gazed down at him, his black eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, his mouth opened and petrified, much like he always forced hers to be. 

She laughed, a great, silly laugh. “Funny is all.”

She kicked his leg out of the way, his hideous crocodile boots splashed in the blood that pooled beneath his body. “Things go a little messy, though.” Sighing, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Will the head of the Gojo clan show up this time?”

“Saturo Gojo is here, and he wishes to speak to you, privately, afterward.” Celeste answered, following like a lost puppy behind its master. “Don't worry about the mess, I'll take care of it. Will you speak to him this time, or will you have me do it?”   

A spark of hope shone in her eyes, but the sudden chuckle from Nakai made the smile on her own face disappear. "I will speak to him. In the meantime, I need you to find Geto for me, tell him I will support his cause."

Celeste seemed to stop, breathing only sightly.

"Support?"

She nodded, without responding, and allowed it to sink that this was the last moment she would ever spend in the presence of her father. His little girl, innocent, naive, Nakai, is at fault for his death. Closing her eyes, she breathed deep, searching for a silver string of regret. 

There was none.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound broke the silence and it made her gag, repulsed, scratching from her insides and the vile she was forced to hold down in the back of her throat. “Celeste,” she called. “Hand me that.” She pointed to the golden watch on her father’s limp arm. 

Celeste did not hold for a moment. She kneeled down and pulled the handkerchief from her breast pocket, then reached for the shiny, date watch. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Tick. 

Nakai placed it around her wrist, despite the anger surging from the pit of her stomach, she embraced it as her own. Once a little girl who admired the godly thing, now wore what her father most loved. It was a final ‘fuck you!’ to him, at least. She straightened her back and took a deep breath, then stroked long locks of black away from her face. 

In the peak of it all, with gentle pulls of her hair and the braid that formed behind her neck and caressed her back, Celeste watched her. Their relationship was often mistaken, but never by them. To Celeste, Nakai Tanako, daughter and heir of the Sacred Clan, was her beloved and trusted friend. 

To Nakai, however, Celeste was only her servant. 

A simple monkey at her command.

“What should I do with the body?” 

Her features were covered by the shadows of the cold room, but the smile on her face seeped through with a horrifying resplendor. “Don’t care,” her voice was too sweet as she began to walk out the office. “Leave him to rot. Erm, better yet…” she singsonged, “Feed him to those pigs in the Grand Room. Save the best for Gojo.” 

[we-are-made-of-stories]

& turn the tower did

Kuwei Yul-Bo grows up like every other child in Shu Han: with the knowledge that to have power is to be a miracle, acknowledged and praised by the Tabans themselves. His father, Bo Yul-Bayur, is lauded as Shu Han’s greatest, the uncrowned king of the royal labs, and Kuwei wants nothing more than to be like him. But when the appearance of Ravka’s new Sun Summoner sparks a nation-wide testing spree in Shu Han, Kuwei quickly discovers that the price of miracles is not one he’s willing to pay. Or: On being more and less than human in a country that would devour you whole. Word count: 16.8k Fandom: Six of Crows; minor references to The Lives of Saints and The Grisha Trilogy Note: so pleased to have written this kuwei backstory for the @grishaversebigbang this year! it was an honor to have art made by @fricklefracklefloof (x), @kuwei-yul-arson (x), @doorhandle16 (x), and @soupdreamer (x), and to be beta'd by @poeticor (whose banger of a fic is available here). best gang fr! this is cross-posted to ao3 but you can read it under the cut!

In the time before the six nations came to be, when they were less than soldiers gathered under one banner, when they were simply ideals and nothing more, tales of powerful individuals spread far and wide. They crossed land and ocean and, some liked to say, reached the heavens, though at first they were dismissed as rumors of madmen seeking to sow chaos. What else would a rational individual accept? Power is only safe to trust when you hold it in your hands. Easier, then, to doubt stories than to confront an uncontrollable reality. But doubt does not change the truth.  More and more evidence rose, from all corners of the world, and soon it was fact that such magics existed. That those who wielded it were capable of feats no ordinary person could achieve: they could call on wind and lightning, sea and flame; they stopped hearts just as swiftly as they compelled them to beat; they made unbreakable blades such that one could triumph against a ten thousand-strong army.  Some said they were more than human.  (Some said they were less.) Ravka dubbed them Grisha in honor of a Saint who would become the first teacher of their fabled Second Army. Fjerda named them drüsje, witch, and set to eliminate their unholy sorcery from the world. Kerch saw what it could stand to gain from such power, and so they were known as the winstgevend, the profitable. Blighted by sickness in the body and land, in the Wandering Isle, they were welcomed and hailed as slánaitheoir, saviors.   In Shu Han, they were called sheng ji. Miracles; holy relics.  No one knew where the first sheng ji came from, only that they brought blessings wherever they went. In those days, Shu Han was little more than a dozen villages scattered across the land, each one eking out a peaceful life. Peace, then, was sustained by power, by protection. In those days, sheng ji were the deciding factor between affluence and ruin, conflict and security.  Some could call on the sea and wind, while others could summon flame. Some were masters of fate, cradling life and death in their hands, while others crafted marvelous inventions, that their people would know an age of prosperity. Little by little, a settlement of a handful of families turned to villages turned to walled city-states. And so the sheng ji were named as such, for much of their effort contributed to each city’s success, and they were beloved of their people, for they brought blessings when sometimes none could be found.  The most famous of the sheng ji became Saints: Sankt Kho of good intentions, for the clockwork soldiers he created to defend his people, and Sankta Neyar of blacksmiths, for a sword she forged that could cut through shadows and laugh at steel. It was their actions that paved the way for the first queen of what would become Shu Han, the Taban yenok-yun, the storm that stayed. And so the sheng ji, who were known as miracles, became known as holy, though not all were Saints, and were venerated throughout the land as such. The sheng ji then entered the service of the Taban queens and pledged to bring miracles to Shu Han forevermore. 

That was the story that stayed. Like all children of Shu Han, Kuwei grew up listening to it, believing it. He wanted to live it, too. But Kuwei would come to learn, as all the sheng ji before him once did: it was one thing to know a story. 

It was another entirely to know the truth. 

Kuwei knew there was something going on, because everyone was either too loud or too quiet. Or, at least, everyone was too obvious about their secrets because they’d stop talking about it if they saw him approaching. 

But it was the adults specifically who were hiding this secret, because none of the children on his street knew what they were talking about. The whole morning, there had been whispering tongues, and not one of them belonged to his friends. It was weird: new stories always got to them somehow, so it meant the adults were hiding it on purpose.

Usually, they weren’t very good at that. It was annoying that they decided to be today. 

That was okay. Kuwei knew he was better. 

Kuwei’s Mama and Baba were out for the day — Baba had to go to work, and he was frowning in a way that really did mean something was wrong, because Kuwei had never seen Baba look so unhappy before. He didn’t know if Baba being upset had anything to do with the secret nobody wanted to talk to him about, but he knew that Baba did really important work, so maybe he did. Mama was at the docks, preparing for her next trip to Kerch; she didn’t seem happy to leave either of them that morning, right when Kuwei first started seeing the gossip, and though she never did, looking back Kuwei thought that maybe Mama knew, too. Maybe they both did. They’d definitely hear about it at work. 

They weren’t around for him to ask, but Kuwei’s Yeye and Nainai were visiting, anyway, so he tried his luck with them during lunch. 

“Where did Baba go?” he asked them, as his Nainai dumped hei jiao ji ding on his plate. 

“Your Baba is a very busy man,” Nainai replied. “He had to finish important work today.” 

“What kind of work?” 

“He’s a sheng ji,” Yeye said, with an edge to his voice Kuwei always hated: it made him think he never knew enough, and that Yeye was looking for something that wasn’t there but should’ve been. Baba told him that it was because Yeye knew so much and was very wise, so sometimes he forgot that he was so smart that others could have a hard time keeping up sometimes, but Baba himself made interesting expressions when Yeye spoke to him like that, which happened a lot. 

“What do they do?” Kuwei asked. Baba could make medicines that made Kuwei hurt less, when he got sick, and he always helped their neighbors, too, when they asked — that was what being sheng ji meant. Was there more? 

Yeye made a quiet sound that sounded a little mean, then explained, still with the edge Kuwei hated. It was a long few minutes of him just saying things; Kuwei sometimes wondered if no one could keep up with Yeye because he kept rambling, not because he was too smart for everyone else. 

Being sheng ji sounded… complicated. Or maybe Yeye was just making it sound complicated. From what Kuwei gathered, they helped the people of Shu Han and they worked for the Taban family, which, on reflection, was simple enough to understand but that didn’t change the fact that something happened today. His Yeye and his Nainai rarely came to visit, after all, so there must’ve been a reason for them to be here. If it had anything to do with Baba, Kuwei wanted to know. 

When he tried asking about it, Nainai’s mouth pressed into a thin line and she piled more rice on his plate. Yeye said he was too young to know or understand — it was an adult’s business, not a child’s. 

So there was something. Something they did want to hide from him. But eight was old enough! Maybe not old and wise, like his Yeye was, because no one could ever match yeye’s wisdom, according to Baba, but Kuwei could still understand everything he needed to. Nobody needed to hide anything from him — he’d get it. 

Still, Kuwei already knew when he could keep pushing, and he didn’t see a good opportunity now. Baba always told him Yeye and Nainai were strict, after all, and Kuwei figured that Baba knew that better than him, what with a lifetime of living with them. 

So after lunch, Kuwei excused himself to go play outside. Yeye scoffed; Nainai waved him out with a stern reminder to be back before night, or he wouldn’t get any red bean shaobing. 

Kuwei learned more on the street than he did from his grandparents. There were so many people talking that it was just so hard to choose what to listen to first! They went quiet when they noticed him approaching, so he learned to sneak, carefully hiding in the right spots. 

What he learned: soldiers brought Zhou-nushi to the palace early that morning. They went to her house to— arrest her? That didn’t sound right. That didn’t sound like the Zhou-nushi he knew. 

Because Kuwei did know Zhou-nushi. She set up a food stall in the market, and he always visited her when they bought groceries. Her tang hu lu was the best he’d ever had. 

Zhou-nushi was very quiet when Baba and Mama were around, but she was nothing but kind to him. She was always spoiling him, Mama liked to say with a fond smile, which was maybe true: whenever Kuwei went to the market and approached her stall, Zhou-nushi would grin at him, like they were sharing a secret, and she’d always sneak him an extra skewer of tang hu lu, just because she could. And then Kuwei would smile at her, all crooked, and say, “Thank you, Zhou-nushi!” 

It didn’t seem right that they brought her to the palace. Arresting someone that nice didn’t add up, but neither did the gossip about her. 

“It was very selfish of her,” one auntie said, rather loudly. Kuwei didn’t even have to hide when she was talking like she wanted the entire street to hear. “Hiding that skill from the Tabans. From Shu Han.”

“Sheng ji have great gifts,” another agreed. “Miracle — what a joke. It clearly didn’t apply to her.”

Nothing made sense. All the conversations just made things more confusing, no matter how much Kuwei listened, which was a little upsetting. Maybe he really didn’t know as much as he thought he did. 

It was okay. He’d just ask Baba. 

“Is it true you work for the Queen, Baba?” Kuwei said that night over dinner. 

Baba raised his eyebrows, looking like he found something funny. Mama watched them, her mouth a thin line. “And where did you hear that?”

“Yeye told me,” Kuwei said, because it was true. And because Baba and Mama always told him to learn as much as he wanted, he added proudly, “I asked him! I re— resea…?”

“Researched,” Baba offered. 

“ — researched on my own!” Kuwei beamed. “And then I asked the aunties about what happened — they didn’t want to tell me, but I heard them talking about Zhou-nushi. Is that why you went to work today?”

“It is,” Baba said, slowly. 

“They said Zhou-nushi didn’t want to go to the palace. But aren’t all sheng ji supposed to help Shu Han? How come she didn’t want to?”

“Well,” Baba said after a beat, “sometimes people just want to live quiet lives. They want to live for themselves, and that’s not a bad thing.”

“They called her selfish, though.” Kuwei didn’t think that was anything but bad.

“It’s true that Zhou-nushi could have done more for Shu Han, if she went to receive training,” Baba conceded. “Still, I understand why she didn’t approach Her Imperial Majesty.”

“But you work for the Queen, too, right? Like the other sheng ji? You help Shu Han?” 

“Yes,” Baba said, not quite smiling, but he ruffled Kuwei’s hair anyway. “I do.” 

Later, Kuwei learned: 

Zhou-nushi never made it to the Imperial Palace. Neither did the soldiers. They ran into an accident on their way; it killed them all. 

When a messenger arrived at their house calling for Baba, out of breath and wide-eyed, Baba’s expression tightened, even as he invited them in for a cup of lapsang souchong. Kuwei hadn’t been asked to leave outright, but he saw Baba’s face, twisting with strange, foreign tension, so he stepped away. 

It would be all right. Baba could do anything. 

Baba would do anything. Ten minutes later, Baba and the messenger swept out of his office in a swirl of silk and cotton. Their tea was still steaming on Baba’s desk. 

Baba didn’t return until late the next evening, dark bags under his eyes. 

Mama took one look at him and ushered Baba to bed with her particular brand of fussing, which sounded so practical it didn’t seem like concern at all, and Kuwei crept into their room to steal under the covers. 

“Hi, Baba,” Kuwei said. 

Baba tugged the covers around both of them. “Hello, my nhaban,” he murmured, dipping down to kiss Kuwei’s head. “How was your day?”

“Good!” Usually, after Baba asked, it was the part where Kuwei would start rambling about what he did — and there was a lot, after two days — but Kuwei’s curiosity burned bright. He wanted to know more about Baba’s day; Baba didn’t usually talk about his work, now that Kuwei thought about it, which seemed unfair. Baba always listened to Kuwei and Mama: it was only right that Kuwei listened to him too. “How was yours?”

“Tiring,” Baba said. It showed in his smile. “But seeing you and your Mama always gives me energy, did you know?” Another kiss to the top of Kuwei’s head. “I’m very lucky to have you both, nhaban.”

And Kuwei knew not to press, so he just curled into Baba once more, Baba’s arms coming around him. Mama joined them soon enough in that large, long hug, and it was the quickest Kuwei had ever fallen asleep in a long time. 

The next day, the Queen made a public appearance. Kuwei didn’t attend the event, but he knew it was important; the Queen didn’t go out much these days, except for very special, important occasions.

There was nothing else discussed that day. Some of his neighbors talked about his Baba, about how regal and elegant he must’ve looked, which Kuwei supposed was true; others talked about what his Baba did. The uncrowned king of the royal labs, they called him, and Kuwei put it aside for another time. 

The Queen looked tired, some commented. Unwell. They talked about her daughters, Makhi and Ehri, and how it seemed that Makhi might become Queen soon. 

It would make sense to Kuwei much, much later. What would stay with him, years after the fact, was this: it was said that the Queen spoke at length about the terrible tragedy, the loss of new talent, someone who could have helped bring Shu Han to greater heights. Most agreed. 

What Kuwei would think of, years after the fact: the tragedy should’ve been the loss of the people and not just their potential. 

When a knock echoed through their house just before lunchtime, Kuwei hadn’t expected it to be Haoyu-furen. He knew her, of course; Baba was polite with her, and she was polite to them all in turn when she saw them out in public or at the work-related functions that Baba would sometimes bring Kuwei to. Kuwei privately thought she was one of Baba’s few tolerable colleagues because the others looked at Baba with such horrible jealousy when his back was turned and at him like they wanted to take something from him, but Haoyu-furen always held actual conversations with them. 

Still, she wasn’t close enough to visit them out of the blue like this, and she’d never said anything about even wanting to. 

“Enya,” Baba said, surprised. “I wasn’t expecting you today. What—”

“Greetings, Bayur-gong,” Haoyu-furen interrupted. She bowed low, stately and solemn in her dark green robes. When she straightened, her silver belt gleamed in the noontime light. “Enya Kir-Haoyu,” she said, “on behalf of Her Imperial Majesty. I am here to test if your son, Kuwei Yul-Bo, is sheng ji. The palace would be honored to accept him into its elite training program if he proves to have any powers.” 

Baba went very still. “I wasn’t aware Her Imperial Majesty wanted to begin the testing again,” he said slowly. 

“The news hasn’t reached the labs?” Her eyebrow raised. “I thought you’d be the first to know, of all people, Bayur-gong.”

“I’d heard of their new sheng ji,” Baba said. “The girl who can command riguang.”

“Reports say that she’s from an orphanage in Keramzin.” The Ravkan word sounded strange on her tongue, but Kuwei didn’t think he’d be any better. “That she was born in Rebe Dva Stolba.” Rebe Dva Stolba… That was along the border they shared with Ravka. Kuwei didn’t quite understand the significance, but Baba clearly did.  “Hence Her Imperial Majesty’s reinstatement of testing.”

“In her infinite wisdom,” Haoyu-furen agreed, then smiled, sharp. “For the longevity of Shu Han, of course.”

She said it like a threat. 

“For the longevity of Shu Han,” Baba echoed, a defeat, and let her in. 

Baba’s office was usually off-limits to Kuwei — not because Baba didn’t want him there but because Baba never wanted Kuwei to be restricted by the formality of his work, especially when he had visitors over — but Baba opened the door. His hands shook just the slightest bit, a faint tremor Kuwei would’ve missed if he hadn’t been looking so intently. If Haoyu-furen noticed too, she said nothing. 

The door had barely closed behind them when Haoyu-furen withdrew a vial from her large traveling bag. “Drink all of it,” she said, offering it to Kuwei. Baba’s expression turned stricken. “It’s perfectly safe.”

“What is it?” Kuwei asked more for Baba’s sake than his. If Haoyu-furen said it was safe, it was, but Baba looked so terrified that Kuwei might have laughed if he wasn’t as bewildered as Baba was worried. 

“The labs developed it decades ago,” Haoyu-furen explained. “In layman’s terms, it’s meant to put you in such a focused state that you’ll be able to call upon dormant powers.” 

That… sounded like nonsense. But Kuwei wasn’t his Baba, wasn’t Haoyu-furen; it wasn’t as if he knew enough to argue with them. He accepted the offered vial and downed its clear liquid in one go.

It took effect immediately. It was as if a mental block was lifted from Kuwei’s mind, some strange barrier he hadn’t noticed before, and behind it was something he ached to hold, possess, shape to his will, bright and flickering—

Fire flashed in his cupped palms. 

Behind him, Mama screamed.  

Baba ushered them to the living room almost immediately after, and his hands really were shaking this time, in a way they never had — I do plenty of delicate work which requires my hands to be steady, he’d once said to Kuwei. So it’s very important that I keep myself calm. That they were shaking now was a sight so foreign that Kuwei couldn’t tear his eyes away from Baba’s hands, unless it was to look at Mama’s stricken expression or his own hands, which were now perfectly normal.

If anyone else was looking at them, if they hadn’t seen the way flames leapt to life in his palms, they wouldn’t be able to tell Kuwei was sheng ji at all. 

The lights flickered open in the living room, even as Mama drew the curtains shut against the sun. This was usually the part where Baba or Mama offered their guests something to eat, something to drink, but they were ashen-faced. Kuwei, unsure of what to do and still feeling rather unmoored by the vial’s contents, sat himself on the couch. 

Baba broke the strange, tense silence, saying, “Haoyu-furen,” only to cut himself off at the end. 

“I know,” Haoyu-furen said. She picked up a metal toy Kuwei had left on the table. It was a kongming lock, already taken apart and yet to be reassembled. Under her fingers, the wooden beams slid into place, interlocking like Kuwei had never dismantled it. 

Oh. Oh! 

She took out a small notebook from her pocket and wrote his name, the latest in a list of many others, on a page about halfway through. “Fanren,” she said as she wrote it down. 

Kuwei frowned. Ordinary? He wasn’t, though. Spraying fire out his hands wasn’t ordinary. If that was ordinary, some of the current sheng ji shouldn’t have been considered at all. 

Kuwei started to protest the label, but then Mama folded him into a tight hug; her expression, when she turned his hands over to look at his palms, looking for the bright flames, was so grave that he didn’t have it in him to fight her. Not that he would ever fight Mama in general, especially after she had screamed like that. 

Mama never liked being scared. Mama, if it came down to it, always wanted to do the scaring.  

“I trust that I have your discretion,” Haoyu-furen continued. Kuwei watched the motions of his kongming lock, entranced, confused. Haoyu-furen served on the administrative staff, not as part of the sheng ji; but the law required her to report herself and to work for the Tabans as one. 

So she must’ve hidden it all these years. But why?

Baba inclined his head. “As long as we have yours.”   

“Of course.” That same sharp smile flashed on Haoyu-furen’s face, but there was something more defiant now, something bitter and angry. “For the longevity of Shu Han.”

Baba’s expression was still strained, pinched, but when he echoed, “For the longevity of Shu Han,” it lacked the naked fear he’d displayed in his office. For Kuwei, it was enough. “Thank you for your service,” Baba said to Haoyu-furen, and he showed her out the door. 

Mama, who had said nothing since she let out that horrible scream, kissed Kuwei’s forehead. “Kuwei,” Mama started to say, then fell silent. Finally, she shook her head, and offered him her hand. “Come,” she said, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s have lunch.”

“What about Baba?” he said. 

“He’ll follow us, nhaban,” Mama said. “He’ll join in his own time.”

“Okay,” Kuwei said, not quite believing it, and they left his Baba there, looking out the window for something neither of them could see. 

After Haoyu-furen left, and they finished washing up the plates, Baba and Mama brought Kuwei to the outskirts of Ahmrat Jen and flew kites with him. Kuwei laughed at the bright patterns fluttering against the pale blue sky, climbing higher and higher. When the afternoon grew too hot, they returned to the city limits and found shade in a plum orchard near their house. They came home with a basketful of plums which Baba made into sauce to go with their roast duck, while Mama presented Kuwei with a knotted thread for him to untangle. Kuwei was halfway through undoing a bogtsnii uya when Baba called them for dinner. 

There was even boortsog for dessert. Boortsog! Kuwei had his pick of syrups, jams, honey, and cheese, and nearly an entire bowl to himself. 

They tucked Kuwei in, and Mama told him folk tales from around the world — Mama picked up plenty during her time at sea — and Baba taught him a little more about chemicals and compounds and the human body. At first, Kuwei asked all sorts of questions (why did the wolf obey the horse? why did humans have organs that weren’t vital? why did chemicals have such complicated names?), even about his Baba’s lessons, which he usually didn’t find half as interesting as his Mama’s legends or even as Mama’s personal anecdotes, but eventually he couldn’t keep his eyes open. 

It was almost sad, Kuwei thought. He didn’t want the day to end. 

But Mama and Baba joined Kuwei in his bed, and he was warm and safe between them, and they stayed until his eyes closed, and for a while longer after that, Mama’s fingers stroking his hair and Baba humming an old lullaby. Then they left, because they thought Kuwei was asleep, but he wasn’t. 

They were both very upset today. Kuwei didn’t think they knew that he knew, but he loved them more than anyone, and at eleven, he was old enough to tell when something was wrong. He wasn’t stupid. Even if he was, they were too obvious about it. All afternoon, when they’d been outside, Mama’s gaze kept darting around like she was waiting for something to go wrong, and — this, Kuwei knew he wasn’t supposed to know — she had her lu jiao dao hidden in her clothes the entire time. He thought Mama might’ve also brought her saber, though he couldn’t be entirely sure unless he asked. Baba wasn’t any better: his face didn’t completely lose its tension, and his posture was as tense as a rope pulled taut. He didn’t quite meet Kuwei’s eyes, either. 

Their smiles were all wrong, too. Mama's smile was really more like a frown pretending to be a smile but not doing a very good job of it, and Baba’s was sad and strained at the corners of his mouth. It was the worst; it hurt a little to see. They shouldn’t ever look so unhappy. 

Did Kuwei do something wrong? He… He thought today was the best day. They had so much fun! It had all his favorite activities and his favorite food, and while they did it often enough, it was never really all at the same time like that. Mama and Baba even tucked him in like he was a young child again, wanting to curl into his parents forever and ever. 

Kuwei learned he was a little like his Baba today, a sheng ji. Today was supposed to be special. Today was special. Wasn’t it? Baba and Mama wouldn’t have lied to him, right? Kuwei knew they would never—

“What will we do about Kuwei?” Mama said. Even muffled by the wooden walls, there was still sharp urgency in her voice. Curious, Kuwei crept to the wall he shared with the living room, placing his ear against it. He’d never told them but it was, and had always been, too thin for him to ignore anything that went on. 

“Enya swore she wouldn’t report him,” Baba soothed. “She’ll keep our secret.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“It will be her word against mine. She has no proof of Kuwei’s abilities.”

“Then the labs will send someone else to test him. We won’t be so lucky twice, and I still don’t trust that she won’t find some way to turn this against us later.”

“I have enough leverage to stop further investigation. No one will believe that I willingly hid Kuwei from the labs.”

“Surely immediate rejection wouldn’t work? Outright denial would just make it look like we have something to hide.”

“I could say that I would know if he was sheng ji. Who would dare challenge me on something sheng ji-related?”

“Until the Tabans step in!’ Mama’s voice was like thunder, and Kuwei almost fell over himself in his scramble to get to the door.  

Kuwei hadn’t heard Mama this angry before, her voice sharpened like one of her knives, fury roiling like Mama was the sea in a storm. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten up at all, but Mama once sat with him during a bad thunderstorm after he’d run to her shaking and taught him to count the seconds between the flash of light and the crackling sound that followed; she told him dangerous things could be learned, too. Baba, returning with suutei tsai, said that knowledge was the greatest weapon. When you understand what you’re scared of, you won’t be scared again. 

They were right (though Kuwei did drift off in between them that night): that was the last time Kuwei flinched at storms. 

And Kuwei couldn’t ever be scared of Mama. 

Kuwei slipped out of his bedroom and tiptoed to the living room, paying close attention to Mama’s angry retort: “Your only feasible excuse would be to say there’s no point in testing him, since he’s not sheng ji to begin with, but they could just as easily claim that the controversy would blow over if it was proved in public. Then what? Have Kuwei demonstrate his powers in front of Shu Han’s top scientists, and prove him sheng ji and us liars?”

It would have been easier to sneak around if Kuwei could command mu instead of huo, but he could get by just fine. Avoiding the creaky floorboards was second nature, after a lifetime of sneaking by his parents’ room when Baba returned from a long day at the labs or Mama arrived from her latest voyage. If nothing else, the rest of their conversation covered any of his slip-ups. 

“It can be hidden,” Baba said. When Kuwei peered around the doorframe, he saw them standing in the middle of the living room, Mama’s brows drawn together tightly as Baba tried to negotiate with her. “With enough time, I could teach Kuwei to control it properly.”

Mama stared at him. “We’re staking our son’s life on something as tenuous as control? The Ravkan soldiers train for years to attain mastery, and he’s so young. What if he can’t? The lab’s drugs can— how did you put it? Call on dormant powers? He won’t be able to resist.”

Baba’s shoulders slumped. “It’s all the protection I can offer him.” It was wrong to hear Baba sound so defeated, his words tilted with world-weary exhaustion. It was worse than how he was at the end of a bad work day. 

They lapsed into silence. Kuwei glanced between them, uncertain. Was it so bad to be sheng ji? Baba was celebrated throughout Shu Han for his work. If they were worried Kuwei wouldn’t be able to handle the work, he could. He would. If they didn’t want him to work — why? It was for the good of Shu Han. Everything the sheng ji did was to build a peaceful, prosperous country. 

Then, finally: 

“He could come with me,” Mama blurted out. Kuwei had to clamp a hand over his mouth to muffle his astonished yelp. Him, leave? With Mama? They all agreed that he should finish his education just to give him options other than being a trader. And still, that same question: why? “My next trip is in a few weeks.”

“What?” Baba said even though he clearly heard Mama. He never asked anyone to repeat themselves even if they were mumbling their words, and he somehow always understood perfectly. Once, Kuwei held an entire conversation with Baba while he was buried under the pillows, and not only did Baba play along like it was completely normal, but Baba quoted Kuwei back at himself, enunciation and all. (Before Kuwei knew what really made Baba sheng ji, he used to think it was that.)

Baba especially listened to Mama, mostly because he really did love her, but partly because Mama was a force of nature who wrecked havoc when someone denied her the respect she was owed. Kuwei had seen her raise hell a couple of times, and Baba would probably know better than Kuwei just exactly what kind of hell Mama could and would raise. He should, at least. 

“Kuwei could come with me,” Mama repeated, more confidently this time. “I could get him out of the country.”

“You would risk his safety out at sea?” Baba said incredulously. Kuwei winced at it, the rare, foreign bite of anger in Baba’s voice. “He’s eleven, a ship is hardly the place for him.”

Mama shook her head. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t desperate.  He’s most useful to them dead, we both know this.”

Dead? Shu Han loved their sheng ji. He wasn’t— he wouldn’t— but if they thought that it didn’t—

“What if he wasn’t? If we reported him now, and falsified a story about the drug failing, I would be able to protect him from the worst of it. He wouldn’t have to experience the labs. They’d make allowances for me, surely.” Baba paused, then added, quieter, “It’s the only one I’ll ever have cause to ask. for”

“It won’t last forever. You know that. You know that better than me.” Mama said it with horrible certainty, as if it was the unerring flight of an arrow to its target. 

“How is smuggling him out to sea any better?” Baba demanded.

“I would rather gamble on the seas than this inhuman excuse for a government!”

The arrow flew true. Kuwei could see the exact moment it hit its bullseye: Baba’s eyes went wide with hurt before, all at once, his expression shuttered to eerie calm. 

“If you thought it was so inhuman,” Baba said, voice cold, “perhaps you shouldn’t have married me at all. You knew the nature of my work. I told it to you, plainly. Or am I inhuman to you as well?”

Mama scowled. “Stop that,” she warned him, but Baba continued on anyway. 

Does Baba have a death wish? Kuwei thought, horrified, halfway to retreating back to his room entirely, ready to clamp his pillows over his ears until he was sure it was over. But the possibility of spectacle kept him rooted where he was. (Understand, and you won’t be scared again. Kuwei had to know. He had to.)

“Is that all that it was? Tolerating my work because you reaped its benefits without experiencing the hardships? You know I do it to survive, but you loathe  behind my back?”

Kuwei wasn’t scared of Baba, either, but he still winced, ducking back behind the doorframe. Maybe he’d been premature in wanting to stay. Mama got impatient and annoyed often enough, though never with them; on the other hand, Baba’s calm was like the mountains of Sikurzoi. He didn’t want to see this.

Mama’s rage really was the sea, all-encompassing and unpredictable. Baba… Baba went for weak points.

“Enough,” Mama snapped. “Enough! You’re picking the wrong battles, you know better than to argue with me about this. Of course I know you’ve never taken pleasure in it.”

“Then you should know as well that it’s Kuwei’s best option,” Baba retorted. “You’ve never told me to leave; why bring him elsewhere when we could protect him here?”

“I never told you to leave because you never would!” Mama cried, throwing her hands up. “I wanted to run away with you. I would’ve gone anywhere with you if I knew you’d take my hand.”

Kuwei sat on his heels, reeling. Mama loved Shu Han. She always spoke so fondly about her family, living so far east that he only saw them twice a year if he he was lucky, and whenever she came back from her trips, she said that nothing would ever compare to Shu food; Kerch, Fjerda, the Wandering Isles, and Ravka just didn’t have flavor, she told him. Novyi Zem was a second favorite location but even then, she said, it was hard to not look for her home. And… Mama built an entire life here. He didn’t know the full story, but he knew it was difficult, and she spent many years getting to where she was now. It was why Baba got so upset whenever someone implied Mama only achieved what she did because their marriage opened doors for her. 

Baba must’ve felt the same, because he opened and closed his mouth several times, saying nothing. Finally, a little helplessly, he said, “But it’s home.”

“I used to think your work kept you alive,” Mama said, rather abruptly. “That it was the best option you had because there was nowhere you could go, but that was never true. I would’ve taken us far away from this place the moment you said you wanted to go.”

“Her Imperial Majesty—”

“— is keeping you trapped here. Your choices have always been compliance or death.” Mama tilted her head, looking at Baba so sharply that Kuwei thought he could feel it like a cut across his own throat. “Do you want the same for Kuwei? This country is eating you alive, and it will eat him alive, too. You know this.” 

Baba shook his head, but his mouth thinned. “It will not kill him,” he said. “Shu Han will not kill our son. I will not let it.”

“One year down the line, do you think he will thank us for throwing him into the lions’ den?” Mama said coldly. 

“One year down the line, do you think he will thank us for leaving him in a foreign country by himself?” Baba snapped back, and oh, Kuwei never wanted to hear Baba this angry again.

“I would never leave him—” Mama began to snarl; Baba talked over her, unrelenting. 

“You’ll have to. Surely you don’t plan to have him on your ship forever. He deserves a normal, stable life. He can’t have that at sea.”

“Better the sea than the labs,” Mama retorted. “Unless you plan on challenging the Tabans for their thrones.”

Baba’s expression contorted in rage, surprise, terror, grief, a dozen other emotions Kuwei couldn’t parse. “We cannot challenge them,” Baba finally said. “Shu Han prospers. Its citizens would never understand why.”

“Then what?” Mama asked. Suddenly, she seemed very tired, all the fight drained from her. “We keep going in circles. Kuwei cannot leave. Kuwei cannot stay either. What else can we do?”

“Qin ai,” Baba said softly, and then he held his arms out to Mama. When Mama accepted, Baba folded Mama into a hug, and Mama yanked him close. They held each other tightly, until it looked like it hurt, with a sort of— of desperation Kuwei had never seen before, even when Mama was about to leave on her months-long journeys. “I’m sorry. We’ll find a way. I promise you.” Mama murmured something Kuwei couldn’t hear, and Baba kissed her hair. “I know. I know.”

Kuwei swallowed hard and went back to his room.

Strange dreams haunted him that night; Kuwei floated from life to life, like some strange voyeur of possibility all the while being trapped in his own body. In one, fire lit him up from inside out, only for gloved hands to take him in their palms and squeeze tighter, tighter, until he couldn’t even see himself in the suffocating dark. In another, the sky burned dark above the smoking piers of Ahmrat Jen, and a third saw the sea swallow his mother’s ship. Zhou-nushi turned to ash, scattering at his feet, her expression frozen halfway between terror and rage. Baba stood bound in chains, the way Kuwei knew the soldiers had bound Zhou-nushi before bringing her away, except that his chest was a bloody cavity, and where his heart should’ve been was just empty space that shapeless shadows kept digging into. 

Kuwei startled, waking from that last dream with a muffled yelp. His heart pounded. His throat stung with held-back tears. It was still dark outside, earlier than he’d ever wanted to get up, but his being awake was less a choice that he made and more one his body forced on him, and it didn’t want to change that, no matter how stubbornly Kuwei kept his eyes closed. He lay curled in his bed instead until he heard footsteps creaking outside his door — Baba rising to make breakfast, and Mama following behind him, still half-asleep herself. 

This was the only time of the day Mama was anything less than lethally graceful. Kuwei had a lifetime of memories of Mama shuffling after Baba, quietly grumbling that the bed was too empty when he left, of Mama pressed close to Baba even while he set the table or cooked. If Mama wasn’t with Baba in these early hours, she would spend time with Kuwei, reading to him from one of his books. Mama always loved them, Kuwei knew, but this was when she was at her softest. Her work trained her to be anything but, so Kuwei also knew Baba treasured these moments, even if he never quite said it aloud. 

“Qin ai,” Baba said softly — not enough, because Kuwei could still hear them anyway, although he could also never not hear them with how thin the walls were — and stopped just outside Kuwei’s door. “It’s still early. You can go back to sleep if you like.” 

Mama huffed. “And go back to that empty bed? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Their footsteps and their banter faded down the hallway as they made their way to the kitchen. 

Kuwei thought back to their argument the night before, about his safety and leaving and the Taban queens. Something in him ached to know that, soon enough, he wouldn’t have any of this at all, and it kept him rooted to his bed. 

Still, he couldn’t stay in his room forever. When it was late enough that Mama and Baba would become suspicious if he didn’t join them soon, Kuwei stumbled into their dining room, feeling cold in a way that had nothing to do with the spring morning. 

Mama looked him over with a critical eye as he sat down. “Did you sleep?” she asked, sounding displeased. 

Kuwei meant to lie, to deflect. To talk about something else until he gathered himself. But what came out of his mouth instead was another question, panicked and confused: “Will I die?” 

Baba froze, his cup of lapsang souchong halfway to his mouth. Mama’s brow wrinkled. “Whatever gave you that idea?” she said. 

“I… I heard you,” Kuwei said. “Last night. You want me to leave Shu Han. It’s not safe here.”

Mama stepped closer to him, squatting on the ground so they were eye-to-eye. “I’m sorry you heard that,” she said. “We must’ve been very loud last night. Did we disturb you?”

“A little,” Kuwei said. “But it’s okay. It’s just… Why— Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?”

Mama went quiet. The furrow in her brow didn’t disappear. Then, at last, Mama said, “We wanted to protect you.” She took his hands in hers, gentle tracing the lines on his palms. “There’s plenty of cruelty in this world, my brave nhaban, and it’s too heavy to carry. We don’t want you to carry it yet.”

“But I will eventually,” Kuwei said. What was the point of hiding it from him, then? “Shouldn’t I prepare?”

“You will not go to the Tabans,” Baba finally spoke up. There was surety in his voice now, where there was none yesterday. His eyes weren’t cold anymore but Kuwei still thought they looked closer to gold than they ever had before. 

“Why?”

Kuwei was old enough to know: Baba held no title, not really, but for the one the people and not the Tabans gave him — the uncrowned king of the royal labs. That had to mean something. It was one thing to be— to be forced, if what Kuwei understood was correct; it was another to be so good at it that you got titles, got respect. If Baba stayed, then there had to be a benefit to it, somehow, and Kuwei could earn it all. He knew he could. So why the hesitation?

“You help people,” Kuwei went on. “Don’t you? I want to help people, too.”

“I was young when I made the choice,” Baba said. “Younger than you are now. But it defines you, for the rest of your life. You will not be able to leave your service, Kuwei, and I do not want you to feel trapped by something you chose as a child.”

“So I won’t die.”

“Never,” Baba said fiercely. “Not while I’m here.”

Kuwei thought of Haoyu-furen’s hiding from the palace in plain sight and another question sprung to mind. “Is that why Haoyu-furen never joined?”

“I imagine so.” 

Well. It made enough sense, Kuwei supposed. They’d had a similar conversation about Zhou-nushi some years ago; he barely remembered it but he knew it went like this. He had another more important question, anyway. “Are you happy with your work?” Kuwei asked. 

Baba hesitated for a long moment. Then, finally, he said, “It’s important to Shu Han.” Before Kuwei could press for more details, Baba squatted beside Mama, and took one of Kuwei’s hands in his. That way, they were all linked together in a triangle. “Kuwei,” he said. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone about your being sheng ji. About Haoyu-furen.”

“That’s illegal though,” Kuwei protested. 

“It doesn’t matter. Kuwei,” Baba said. “Promise me.”

“Okay,” Kuwei promised. “I won’t.”

Kuwei didn’t quite understand it. But Baba and Mama looked relieved when he agreed — and that was worth more to Kuwei than any fame, any title he could gain. He could earn those things, but it wouldn’t matter if he just made them sad while he did. 

It was a heavy burden, to walk with a secret pressed tight against his chest. To see the neighbors that watched over him as he grew up, and the vendors that greeted him with a smile, and the children he’d played games with long into the sunset after classes, and know: 

If I told you, you would want me gone, too.

That night, Baba invited Jiali-dashu to their home for dinner. Kuwei had seen him on a handful of occasions — the first, when he was a few years younger, he had been the one to greet Jiali-dashu at the door with Mama. He had blinked, confused by the tall, stern stranger on their doorstep, before remembering himself and saying, “Oh, you’re Baba’s best friend.”

A complicated expression had twisted Jiali-dashu’s face. “You could say that,” he said, stiffly, and Kuwei had been too young to press for what that meant, but he’d called him dashu, uncle, and was never corrected. 

In the years since, he’d pestered Mama about it, only to be met with a shake of her head, a quiet grumbling about stubborn fools who didn’t want to talk. 

He’d never pestered Baba. 

Jiali-dashu visited frequently enough, but only for work. This was the first time Kuwei could remember Baba extending that invitation to Jiali-dashu for personal reasons, and he was just as stiff and awkward now as he was then. They didn’t have to ask him to go to his room after dinner — Kuwei was just as eager to get away from the clear tension between Baba and Jiali-dashu, who wouldn’t quite meet each other’s eyes, and from Mama, who at first looked torn between amusement and exasperation before shifting very firmly to murderous. 

(“It makes you wonder,” she’d muttered to him once, “exactly how those two fools manage to be heads of the royal labs.”

Looking at them now, Kuwei more than understood.)

“Jiali,” said Baba the moment Kuwei was out of their immediate earshot. “Kuwei is sheng ji.”

The dining room went silent. It would have been nice to have visual cues, but listening in would have to suffice. Kuwei wasn’t going to hide in the hallway again. 

“Is he now,” said Jiali, his voice clipped.

“Enya visited last week,” said Mama. “Kuwei can command huo.”

“Then I suppose you’ll be sending him off to the palace once the program opens for the year,” said Jiali-dashu

“We won’t,” said Mama, firmly. “Enya is seeing to that.” 

“We did, however, invite you here to ask for help,” Baba continued. “We plan to smuggle the lab’s sheng ji away.”

Kuwei did not have to be in the dining room to hear the shattering of porcelain. 

“What?” Jiali-dashu demanded. “Have you lost your mind?”

“I have not,” Baba said. “I have not lost anything. I have found my conscience; I am asking if you still have yours.”

“Sarantsatsral,” Jiali said to Mama in disbelief. “Surely you agree this will end in disaster. Suppose you do smuggle them out of the palace — where would they go that Her Imperial Majesty’s shadow won’t reach?” “Well,” Mama said, “I do have a ship.” “Fool,” Jiali-dashu said, sharply. “Fools, the both of you! Why would you risk everything you have ever built like this?”

“There are some things worth sacrificing,” Mama said. 

“Even your very lives? Even Kuwei’s?”

“Kuwei is why we came up with this plan in the first place.” Mama’s voice was still even but Kuwei thought he could hear the beginnings of thunder rumbling in her words. 

“And so leave with Kuwei,” Jiali-dashu snapped.  “Damn all the rest. Forget them and save yourselves. This is not a country meant for kindness. The most I can do is turn a blind eye when you leave, but I refuse to be your accomplice.”

“Jiali,” Baba said, his voice soft in a way Kuwei had never heard before. He almost wanted to call it tender if not for how cruelly Baba’s next words seemed to land: “Jiali, don’t you ever get tired, too?”

The jugular, Kuwei thought, inanely. Baba and the weak points and the jugular. 

“Do you remember?” Baba went on, when Jiali-dashu didn’t respond. “Our first practical exam. All our peers who we found on the table. You promised me then, Jiali, and you swore that you would never forget. Must I remind you? You said—”

“Bo, enough.” 

Silence fell between all three of them. Kuwei wasn’t sure if they were breathing. Kuwei wasn’t sure if he was, either. 

Then, finally, Jiali-dashu said: “Tell me about your plan.”

And so Baba did. 

But even the sheng ji could only do so much. There was once a king who lived in what is now known as Ahmrat Jen, who was crueler than the sharp peaks of the Sikurzoi mountains and colder than the fierce winds that swept through from the north. The king was a bloodthirsty man, and a greedy one, and so he once set his army out to conquer that which he thought owed to him. Power and glory were the honors he sought, and bloodshed was its price — but not one that he paid. His army, great as it was, tore through city after city after city in service of their king. Some capitulated, and so all their warriors, ordinary or sheng ji, were absorbed into the king’s army, and the king took ownership of the city’s land and resources. Some fought on, only to fall in the end.  But the army grew too large to maintain, to sustain. Eventually, the king’s army wore down to nothing, impaled on the jagged edges of his ambition, with no one to honor them but a king who howled and cursed in rage upon hearing of their failures. It was not grief that drove the king to wrath. It was grief that drove his enemies to march upon his helpless kingdom, their weapons glinting, their losses a bleeding wound with no salve.  And so Sankt Kho, who was then but a simple blacksmith, forged a new army for his kingdom. Sankt Kho had little loyalty or love for the king, but he could not stand against him, for the king had all the resources afforded to him by his station. What he could do was labor, day and night, for years and years, over inventions that might yet save his people whom he loved greatly. He had lived his life forging blades they carried into war; he desired to forge tools that could save them instead: clockwork soldiers that would never rust nor tire.  Sankt Kho had been working on these soldiers for years, and yet, he could not find the right miracle. But with the invading armies approaching, Sankt Kho grew desperate and afraid. He did not wish to see his beloved city pay the price for one man’s arrogance. What makes us different from you? Sankt Kho demanded of an uncaring king. What makes us any less worthy of life? What makes us so lesser that you would sacrifice us without a second thought? The king was cruel, but above all, a coward. He spared no thought for anything but retreat. Sankt Kho was loyal to the kingdom, not the king; Sankt Kho loved the people, not their ruler. He thought of them when he returned to his forge, when he crafted his soldiers, when he dug out a miracle from somewhere deep within him. When his work was at last complete, he brought the soldiers before the king, and they laid waste to the enemy with terrifying, brutal efficiency.  And the king, who once thought to abandon the people he demanded die in his stead, committed the worst of his betrayals: he set the clockwork soldiers to conquer, and conquer, and conquer, indiscriminately.  Some say that Sankt Kho’s fury was such that he stole into the king’s chambers one night to depose him, only for his own creations to kill him where he stood. Others claim that the king, for he was as ruthless as he was selfish, ordered Sankt Kho’s arrest, and that Sankt Kho, unwilling to raise even a hand against the people he so loved, surrendered and languished in prison until he eventually died. More still believe that, ashamed of the cruelty his clockwork soldiers wrought, Sankt Kho disappeared to lands unknown. But the reason for Sankt Kho’s absence mattered little: in the end, he was only legend, language, memory. And so, when even the king grew bored of endless bloodshed, no one could halt the swing of their blades as they tore cities apart, for the king was the soldiers’ owner but not their master.  It is said that the king descended into fury because the soldiers did not heed his commands. He wanted to conquer the continent, and the soldiers fulfilled his desire — but he knew, even then, that he would be helpless to their violence if they one day turned upon him. He knew that there was only one person who could put a stop to the brutality, and that he was long lost to time. 

Mama was not a manufacturer of goods. Mama traded goods, traded materials; she had a knack for sourcing rarities. It was how she and Baba met: Baba had sent out a commission for what was apparently an absurd quantity of chemicals, and Mama was not the only one who was willing to take it, but she was the only one uninterested in gaining a sheng ji’s favor. Sheng ji had always been treated like Saints in their own right, and Baba was no exception, even if at the time he hadn’t yet been the uncrowned king of the royal labs; he grew up in partial limelight and knew how to identify who didn’t care for him beyond his status. 

“Your Mama hadn’t cared,” Baba said sometimes, to tease her. “She just wanted her money.”

At that point, if Mama was there, she would lightly whack Baba. “Excuse you,” she said. “I was being professional.”

If their banter devolved from there, Kuwei would sneak away. 

“It wasn’t love at first sight,” Baba would also say. “But I appreciated that your Mama didn’t see a title.”

“Your Baba listened,” Mama would concede. “I grew up in a village on the far reaches of Shu Han — few in the capital spared me time of day or even really looked at me. Your Baba has never seen past me once.”

Kuwei wrinkled his nose at them each time. They were sickeningly sweet, and as much as he loved them, there was only so much he could endure. But they were good for each other, even he could see that: Baba was always just Baba in their home, nothing to prove, no miracle necessary; Mama stood tall on her own merits, and when her own reputation wasn’t enough — which still happened these days, much to their consternation — Mama was all too happy to leverage Baba’s. No one dared say anything about the flash of her silver pearl earrings; no one said Baba was inhuman. 

Mama humanized Baba in the eyes of Shu Han. Baba protected Mama’s image. It was strange, how it worked, the way others cast qualities on you through association, and they had the weaponization of it down to a science. 

Still, whatever doubts others cast on Mama didn’t apply outside of Shu Han. She had connections in Kerch and Novyi Zem, a little less in the Wandering Isles — the least in Ravka and Fjerda, where tensions still ran high and only few were willing to deal with a Shu trader, but few weren't none. 

Kuwei grew up with Mama leaving periodically: trips across Shu Han, trips overseas. He and Baba always saw her off at the port, and she would kiss them before leaving. They would watch until they could no longer see the gleam of her earrings, her ship fading into the horizon. While she was away, they wrote letters they didn’t send, because there wasn’t much point when they weren’t sure if they would arrive at all, and they exchanged them when she returned: small ways to say, I thought of you while you were gone. Kuwei looked forward to Mama’s letters more than anything else she brought back. 

That was normal. That was routine. 

Until one day, she didn’t return at all. 

An accident at sea, her first mate told them apologetically. 

An accident at sea. 

If Bo Yul-Bayur withdrew from his work, from the public eye, it was only to be expected after the loss of his wife. If his son turned muted, like his mother’s passing extinguished some light in him, it was a mark of filial grief. That they were grieving only meant that they had loved. 

And if Jiali-dashu and Enya-ayi visited more often, it was only to provide support to their friend and his son as they mourned a loved one, who was their friend, too. How lucky one should be, to have such support. 

Kuwei thought he might go insane with it. It seemed that all of Ahmrat Jen knew about Mama’s passing, that all of Ahmrat Jen thought it was their business. But Baba’s reputation was still on the line, despite it all, and they needed to keep it. 

He endured. 

They hung a blue banner over the front door, and they placed orders for blue clothes and accessories of all kinds from a seamstress who looked at them with something between pity and delight at having new customers, enough to last them the three-year mourning period. There was no body to bury, but there was still a tombstone and a funeral, and Kuwei offered the Joss paper. 

“Yeye doesn’t have a lot of sympathy,” Kuwei noted, after, in the privacy of their home. His grandparents stopped visiting by the time he’d turned six, citing health reasons, but they hadn’t changed at all.

Privately, he was glad he didn’t see them much anymore. He was more liable to start arguing with them these days. Yeye might not have approved of Mama’s roots, but it was a completely different thing, to tell Baba, at her funeral, that it was unbecoming of him to be so loud about his grief for her, as if being sheng ji meant Baba should have been as impervious as everyone said he was.  

Baba ruffled his hair in sympathy, then shed his blue outer robe. “Pay it no mind. We don’t need their pity,” said Baba. “We don’t need something that isn’t real.”

That much was true: they both knew Mama was exactly where she needed to be. 

Kuwei was not the only one Enya lied for. All the names on her notebook were fanren and not sheng ji, and they would stay that way. 

What she told them, after Mama’s faked death: a ship would come in two weeks’ time. If they wanted to leave Shu Han, the ship would take them where they wanted to go. She never gave Mama’s name, because news of her supposed death had traveled past Ahmrat Jen and her reputation still carried weight, but they would see soon enough the strength of Mama’s promises. All they had to do to secure passage was to show up at the appointed place and time, and to stay safe until then. 

It didn’t make sense, though, to house them until Mama’s ship arrived — they simply had to maintain their status quo. The more pressing matter was the sheng ji already in the palace.

The first sheng ji Enya-ayi and Jiali-dashu smuggled was Aidana Kir-Qazir, who arrived in their house in the dead of night, when Kuwei was supposed to be asleep. 

He wasn’t asleep. 

Kuwei stood in the silent dark, hidden from view, until they settled her in a spare room. He was old enough to heat water for suutei tsai though not experienced enough to command huo precisely enough to do it well, but it was still drinkable. Even Jiali-dashu, who often declined drinks — Kuwei figured it was because he wanted to leave as soon as possible; Baba looked momentarily wounded each time he was rejected, but kept offering anyway — accepted a cup. 

The next morning, Kuwei brought breakfast to Qazir-furen. He knocked once, and when she opened the door, he didn’t go in, only offered the tray for her to take. 

Her dull gold eyes swept over him, assessing. “Yul-Bayur’s son,” Qazir-furen mused. It was the first time he ever heard her speak, and he found he didn’t like the quiet promise of something in her voice. He didn’t trust it. 

Qazir-furen shut the door before he could ask about what that meant. 

Kuwei didn’t know what she commanded — huo, shui, jin, mu, tu, or mingyun. He decided he didn’t want to find out, because even just speaking with her seemed to cross the invisible lines she’d drawn. 

Still, he was there later that afternoon to collect her tray. Kuwei noted the scratches and bruises decorating her skin, and asked, tentatively, “Do you want Baba to look at your injuries? He can help.”

Her face darkened. “As if I would ever accept help from him.”

“Hey!” Kuwei snapped. Mama didn’t raise him like this, but he couldn’t help it, and anyway, if she were here, she’d defend Baba and Dashu, too. “Aren’t you at least a little grateful for what they’re doing? They’re putting themselves in danger to help you.”

“Grateful?” Qazir scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “His subordinates were the ones who did this to me.”

Kuwei went silent, stunned, and Qazir’s smile turned cruel. “Oh, you didn’t know,” she said. “Let me tell you, boy, the truth of those damned labs. The Tabans hate the sheng ji. They’re afraid of us. They bring us into their labs and programs with the promise of a better future we can help bring about to Shu Han, but it’s just another way for them to control us. The truth is, they want our power for themselves. All of this is just to keep us docile in the meantime. Your precious Baba and Dashu” — she spit out the titles like they were poison in her mouth — “are part of it. They don’t care about the rest of us. They just want to save themselves. I don’t know what their goal here is, but I’ll not accept anything from the men who want me dead.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Kuwei said. “The labs don’t— Baba wouldn’t—”

“Believe what you will, boy.” Qazir’s face twisted into a sneer. “Tell me, have you ever wondered why our sheng ji number less than Ravka’s Grisha? The Tabans kill the ones who are too useless. Too stubborn. Your Baba and your Dashu experiment on the ones who didn’t make the cut.”

Kuwei huffed, finally fed up with the conversation, and yanked the tray back to him with more force than necessary. He didn’t have to listen to this nonsense. He turned to leave, then saw Baba lingering by the doorway, his expression tight. 

Guilty. 

“Baba,” Kuwei started, then stopped, scared of the question burning on his tongue. Scared of its answer. 

Qazir laughed behind him, high and hysterical. 

Baba began, “Kuwei—”

And he knew. 

The truth Kuwei learned: there was no left to remember it. No one knew what happened to Sankta Neyar, to Sankt Kho; no one knew why Neshyenyer was left unrusting in the halls of Ahmrat Jen. The Tabans were liars, crafting a narrative so convincing that no one knew fact from fiction. 

Kuwei’s truth: his father was a monster. 

Kuwei sprinted out of his childhood home, past the courtyard, past the gate, running blindly. The school was out of the question; his neighbors’ homes were out of the question. He ran until he found himself in the plum orchard he once spent that perfect afternoon in with his mother and father. Less than a year ago; a lifetime ago. The taste of plums rotted in his mouth.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hidden in the shade. It could have been five minutes, thirty minutes, an hour. Kuwei drifted, unmoored, uncertain, like he’d downed an entire gallon of the drug his ayi once gave him. 

At the sound of footsteps on the ground, he looked up. Anger — betrayal; grief — lit him up from the inside once more. 

“Kuwei,” his father said, his hand extended. “Come home.”

“So it’s true.” Kuwei didn’t recognize his own voice. He sounded like his mother, like his  father during the night of their argument. 

Say it isn’t, he pleaded in his mind. Say she was lying, and that you’ve never experimented on anyone. Lie to me, I’ll believe you, so just—

But his father did not have interest in maintaining the mask any longer, it seemed. 

“Kuwei, please—”

“You lied to me,” Kuwei said. “You said you were helping people.”

“I had no choice—”

“Mama knows,” Kuwei said with cold certainty. He’s most useful to them dead, we both know this. “You both lied to me. You said you would protect me if I went.”

“I would have,” his father said. 

“If it helped the country, why would I have needed your protection?”

His father drew closer, speaking so softly that no one else, if there had been anyone else, could have heard him. “It’s true that the labs experiment on sheng ji,” he said. “Those who they deem too risky. Typically, it is the sheng ji who have control over wuxing rather than mingyun. Especially those who control huo.”

Kuwei paused. Considered this truth, and the story that unfolded before him a few years ago. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said slowly, “that killed Zhou-nushi. She did it on purpose.”

His father closed his eyes as if pained. “Yes. She did.”

“And you would have let me go? Knowing this? Knowing that death is better than whatever would’ve been waiting for me in the labs?”

“I would’ve protected you.” His father’s voice broke. “Kuwei, please believe me. I would’ve protected you. The labs wouldn’t have touched you. You wouldn’t have been a test subject.”

“Okay,” Kuwei said. “Okay. So I wouldn’t have been part, but I still would’ve been in the program anyway if you lied. You wanted me to become like you instead?”

Baba always went for the jugular. 

When he was younger, Kuwei always wanted to be his father’s son. 

Bo looked stricken. Just a year ago, Kuwei would have plied him with blankets, with food, would have curled beside him on the bed and stayed until his Baba felt more human. But all his compassion had burned up and out. 

Why? Kuwei wanted to demand instead. 

How could you? Kuwei wanted to cry. 

I hate you, Kuwei wanted to spit, wanted to scream, wanted to rage. Wanted to let the power in him flare, and burn, and burn, and burn, until Shu Han lay as scorched-black as his heart. But in the end, he couldn’t say it. 

Bo’s expression crumpled like he heard it anyway. 

The truth: Kuwei’s father loved him. Kuwei’s father was a monster. 

The truth: that was the worst part. Not that his father was crueler than Kuwei could forgive — but that Kuwei still loved him, too, despite it all.  

Kuwei didn’t want to speak with Bo more than he had to. He didn’t want to look at him. When Bo asked, again, for Kuwei to come home, Kuwei pushed past him and started the walk back in stony silence. 

It was better than Bo deserved.

“You see?” Qazir said when Kuwei brought her dinner, eager to escape Bo’s presence as soon as he could. Kuwei was, privately, half-surprised she hadn’t run off when Bo chased after him… but then again, there was nowhere else she could go, and that was the entire problem right there. “Boy, there’s nothing charitable about Yul-Bayur. Consider it a kindness that you found out now instead of later.”

Kuwei whirled on her, fire sparking between his fingers. “Don’t pretend,” Kuwei snarled, too furious to be gratified at the shock passing over her face, “that you did it just to be kind. You’re hurt, so you wanted me to hurt, too. Guess what — I am, and it doesn’t change a thing. We’re still here hiding from the Tabans in this house, and I’m still the son of a murderer, and you’re still legally dead, and my father is still the only reason we’re alive, so how about you shut up.”

It was probably unwise to turn his back on someone like her, who felt cornered enough to lash out at anyone, anything given half the chance, but she was probably no more trained than he was. Kuwei snatched up her tray and all its utensils before storming away. 

He slammed the door behind him on his way out. 

It didn’t open again. 

Kuwei ducked out of the house and sat in a corner of the courtyard, thin wisps of smoke rising into the air. Risky, maybe, but the entire plan was a gamble and he could pass this off as something else.

Bo. Sarantsatsral. Jiali. Enya. They were all in on it. They all knew. Kuwei didn’t know how involved Enya was, but the first three—

“Kuwei,” his dashu said. 

Kuwei went still; snuffed the fire. He was a little afraid of what he might do with it. 

“Dashu,” Kuwei said, not looking at him, and they said nothing more. 

Sparks flickered in Kuwei’s veins. His dashu held life and death in his hands. Kuwei didn’t trust that he wouldn’t set himself alight with the force of his own rage; he didn’t know if similar worries were what stayed his dashu’s tongue, but was— relieved, that it did. He would almost certainly fight him then. 

Dashu, he thought, must have been smart enough to realize this. 

When Kuwei mastered himself, it was only then that he spoke. He said: “When my father first told you of his plans, you turned him down immediately. Then he asked you if you were tired.”

In his peripheral vision, Kuwei saw his dashu take a seat beside him, close enough that they could touch but far enough that they had to make the choice. His dashu inclined his head. If he was surprised that Kuwei had heard the conversation, he didn’t show it. “He did.”

“What did he mean by tired? Tired of what?”

“The labs experiment on other sheng ji. Often, they do not survive the procedures.”

“And so you’ve been living off their suffering.” Something bitter curdled in Kuwei’s stomach, twisted his mouth. “Noted.”

“Do not take that tone with me, Kuwei,” his dashu said sharply. “You know nothing of the hardships we endured.

“Then start talking.”

“We were younger than you are now when we were accepted into the program,” his dashu started. “They told us we would ensure Shu Han’s continued longevity and prosperity, and they — other, older sheng ji — taught us how to use our powers. Your Baba and I were sent to work in the labs. Our first test subject was one of our peers who the Tabans deemed too uncontrollable. We couldn’t leave.”

“Couldn’t leave,” Kuwei repeated. “Why?”

“Because we knew we would be put on the receiving end of those experiments,” his dashu said. “And we wanted to live.”

“So all these years, you’ve been killing people?”

“We had no choice,” his dashu said again. “We weren’t arrogant enough to think we could challenge the Tabans and win.”

“There are always choices. You could’ve left the country,” Kuwei said. “ You could’ve run away. You’re the heads of the lab now — at any point did you think of changing the system for the better?”

“Don’t speak of things you have no experience of,” his dashu snapped. “We are not proud of our compliance. But we made them, and we are living with the consequences now. We are always going to live with them.” Softer, his dashu continued, “You’re lucky, Kuwei, that you have never experienced desperation like we have.”

Kuwei laughed. He couldn’t help the bitterness bubbling out of him. “I don’t understand desperation? Dashu, what is this if not desperation? I’m living in the world you and Baba helped build.”

“We built it because we wanted to live. Do you think we’re selfish for living?”

Selfish. What a funny way to put it. No, his father and his dashu had the right to live, but so did everyone else, and to frame those deaths as merely a byproduct of their survival—

“I think you’re cowards,” Kuwei said, “for not finding a better way sooner. Because if my father didn’t tell you about his plans, and it was me lying on that table for you to experiment on, you wouldn’t have hesitated. You would’ve killed me anyway.”

Jiali didn’t answer. 

Kuwei stood and left him in the dark, alone. 

Qazir stayed with them for nearly a month, which none of them were pleased about: she would still sometimes taunt Kuwei, bitter and cruel — though Kuwei offered her only icy ignorance — but mostly, she sat in silence; Bo went through great measures to limit contact with her; Jiali just flat-out didn’t initiate any contact at all. By the end of it, Kuwei had burned through all his anger; what was left was just exhaustion.

“This is not your absolution,” Qazir said to Bo on the night Sarantsatsral’s ship arrived, just before her own departure. The other sheng ji were likely already making the trip to the port.  

“I know,” Bo replied. 

Her eyes narrowed. For a harrowing moment, Kuwei thought she might lash out. Then she straightened to her full height, commanding, imperious, every inch as regal as the Queen even in traveling boots and a plain hemp cloak. “Bo Yul-Bayur,” she said. “May you find what you’re looking for.” 

Kuwei knew better than to wince, so he didn’t. He knew better, too, than to start a fight with someone as caustic and furious as Qazir. So he said nothing, just watched as her silhouette faded into the night. 

“May you travel in the direction of the wind,” Kuwei murmured to no one, and hoped, sincerely, that even if she would not, could forgive Bo for his crimes, their gamble would at least pay off long enough to see her settled in a better place. 

A package arrived for him during the second month, containing books on Ravkan, on Fjerdan, Kerch, Suli, Kaelish, Zemeni. Attached to it was a note that merely read: I’m sorry. There was no signature but Kuwei knew it was from Sarantsatsral. 

He sent no reply in return. 

The years went on. Sarantsatsral went to sea and returned to Shu Han, carrying smuggled sheng ji out of the country. Enya whispered of escape routes to anyone she tested. Jiali brought would-be subjects to their house, and Bo would open their doors to them. Kuwei, more often than not, was tasked with minding them: most couldn’t stand Bo or Jiali to accept even food or water. Most couldn’t trust him either, but wariness was the lesser evil than outright hostility. 

“You don’t have to forgive them,” Kuwei said to some. “You don’t even have to like them. But right now, we’re trying to keep you safe until you can leave Shu Han. Please, just… just accept our help.” 

“It doesn’t undo everything else they did,” Kuwei said to others. “It’s completely valid that you’re angry with them. This isn’t them trying to atone or righting wrongs — this is them doing what’s right, after years of not.”

You don’t have to forgive them. 

You don’t have to forgive them. 

You don’t have to forgive them.

It wasn’t quite Kuwei’s place to offer his forgiveness; he had never been in the crosshairs of their cruelty. But even if it was his place, he wouldn’t have been able to offer it anyway.

The second half of Bo’s plan — he wanted to make a drug that could hide a sheng ji’s powers. The rest of the world was cruel to them, just in different ways, and smuggling whoever they could was only a cure for the symptom and not the source. He spent hours with Jiali in the labs on most days, experimenting, trying to dig deep enough that their miracles would at last produce something good. 

Kuwei saw that point in it. He did. But he didn’t want to hide. Kuwei wanted to be nhaban, the rising phoenix; he wanted to pluck the Tabans and their precious falcons from the sky and set them alight in his hands. 

After Ravka’s civil war ended, riguang and heiying both vanquished, some of the sheng ji who stayed with them were from Ravka, captured by bounty hunters who crossed the border. Not all were soldiers of the Second Army but they spoke of it and how their abilities were not used for prosperity but death. 

This was, in Kuwei’s estimation, in some ways worse than Shu Han. At least in Shu Han, there were sheng ji whose powers went to medicine, to infrastructure, to art, to a dozen other fields. On the other hand, Ravka made no illusions about what their Grisha meant to them, and Kuwei thought he might prefer that honesty — bound by duty but not by lies. 

He could not burn the Tabans yet. But if he received training from the Second Army, there was no limit to what he could do. 

Kuwei learned his languages. Kuwei minded their wards. Kuwei went to school and lied to the public. Kuwei counted the days until he could leave. 

Kuwei endured. 

A breakthrough came in the fourth year of their quiet, late rebellion, when Kuwei was fifteen. Bo was convinced their drug was finally ready for use. Jiali agreed to test it. 

It was far down in the evening, at a time where no one should have been awake. But they all were there: Kuwei, Bo, Enya, Jiali, the three sheng ji who they put up until Sarantsatsral arrived next week. Enya had brought the palace’s testing drugs, vials of it lined up on a counter, which they would use after to check if the drug could resist even that. Bo held Jiali’s hand (Kuwei, despite it all, was convinced of Bo’s devotion; Sarantsatsral was likely privy to whatever development they’d had and gave her consent. He was just glad they’d stopped dancing around each other that much, and it was hard to begrudge them for it when these days it seemed Bo only smiled freely with Jiali), and Jiali himself eyed the vials, took a steadying breath, and downed Bo’s drug in a single gulp. 

“Well?” Enya demanded, after a tense, suspended moment where Jiali didn’t move at all. “Do you feel anything?”

Jiali turned his head to her. His eyes flashed with something that seemed unnatural. Then his hand shot up and forward, clenched, and suddenly Enya and two of their three wards were choking on nothing, clutching at their throats as they buckled to the ground. 

“Jiali!” Bo twisted around and caught Jiali’s other arm, trying to pin him down. “Stop, what are you doing, you’re hurting them!” 

Jiali looked at them with unseeing eyes. His hand clenched once more — and Kuwei moved before his mind could catch up. 

He grabbed Jiali’s outer coat, left discarded on a chair, and hopped up to tie it around Jiali’s head, yanking him backwards. The bounty hunters always tried to blind the sheng ji they caught; they knew they were useless when they couldn’t see, and it was how a number of their wards were captured. It bought Bo enough time to regain control of himself and take control of Jiali: blinded as he was, Jiali could not fight him off when Bo exerted enough of his power to still his hands. 

“Keep the blindfold on him,” Bo instructed, his voice deceptively calm. “Follow me to my bedroom, we’ll keep him there.” 

Kuwei swallowed hard and nodded assent. It was difficult to keep the knot tied securely when at every moment Jiali tried to fight him off, to say nothing of the height difference, but his fear allowed him to do nothing else.

One of their wards followed them to the room, handcuffs glinting. Kuwei wasn’t sure what piece of metal they’d transformed to make it, but it mattered more that they had it at all. Bo settled Jiali on his bed, Kuwei secured the knot, and their ward cuffed Jiali’s hands to the headboard. 

“Are you all right?” Kuwei asked their ward. They’d been on the receiving end of Jiali’s seemingly enhanced powers. It looked painful to see; it must have felt worse to bear.

“In shock, but we’ll be fine.” Their ward hesitated. “Do you need help?” 

“No,” Bo said, still with that forced, deceptive calm. He turned to look at them and smiled in a mockery of comfort. “I can manage from here, thank you. Please rest. I’ll tend to you afterwards.”

Another moment of hesitation, and their ward left, shutting the door behind him. 

“You don’t have to stay, Kuwei,” Bo said, even as his attention turned back to Jiali, howling and thrashing on the bed. 

Kuwei shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

Bo sighed but didn’t press the point. What he did instead made Kuwei single-handedly question Bo’s cognitive capabilities: he started undoing the makeshift blindfold. 

“Baba,” Kuwei protested. Handcuffed or not, there was no telling what Jiali could do in this state. 

“I’ll be fine, nhaban. I promise.”

“Don’t,” Kuwei started to say, but he was too late, and the blindfold fell off. 

“Jiali,” Baba said softly. “It’s me. It’s Bo. You’re with me, and we’re in my room. You’re safe.”

Jiali-dashu answered with a snarl. Baba’s expression twinged, but he still cupped Jiali-dashu’s face in his hands. “Jiali. You’re here, you’re with me, you’re safe.”

Slowly, Jiali-dashu’s frantic movements came to a halt. “Trust me,” Baba went on. He leaned closer, resting his forehead against Jiali-dashu’s. “You’re safe here. You’re safe. Trust me.” 

And then, when Jiali-dashu had gone completely still, looking at Baba with wide, hazy eyes, looking at him without recognition, Baba clenched his fists and he fell unconscious. 

The sheng ji, too, fell to Sankt Kho’s clockwork creations, who became heralds of death and destruction throughout the land. The king’s wish for annihilation was fulfilled at last, an inevitability.  There was no messenger to warn of the soldiers’ arrival, no possibility of forewarning when all that was left in their wake was ruin. But absence echoed, too, and Sankta Neyar stood waiting by the city walls, watchman to her people’s reckoning. It was only when at last the distant footfalls of metal grew closer and closer that Sankta Neyar left her post. Sankta Neyar was the first and only child of a noble family since lost to time. Despite her status, Sankta Neyar never once thought herself above labor, and she was skilled at forging. She whispered prayers over her sword until it was strong enough to laugh and steel and sharp enough to cut through shadows, and swore to protect her people with all her might.  She could not yet ask her people to retreat when she did not know if the soldiers would attack them or the city first. Better for them to remain inside the walled city limits where she could better protect them. If even her miracle failed, she would stall with all she had until they could escape.  And this was the story that stayed: Sankta Neyar of the Six Soldiers, who forged the unrusting Neshyenyer, who battled Sankt Kho’s clockwork battalion for three days and three nights. Sankta Neyar, who saved Shu Han from the despotic king that ruled over it.   It was Sankta Neyar who paved the way for the first queen of Shu Han, the Taban yenok-yun, the storm that stayed. When the Taban yenok-yun descended from the mountains of Sikurzoi, Sankta Neyar appeared before her throne in Ahmrat Jen: not to depose another tyrant, but to offer her loyalty.  To you, Born of Heaven, Most Celestial Highness, I gift my blade, said Sankta Neyar, and bowed low before the first queen of Shu Han. May you, too, be sharp enough to cut through the shadows and strong enough to laugh at steel. Long may you reign, with the blessing of the heavens upon you.  The Taban yenok-yun, pleased at the show of sincerity, offered Sankta Neyar a place in her court — the first minister of what would become Shu Han.  And so Sankta Neyar was celebrated in Shu Han thereafter. She pledged her life in service to the Taban queens, and together, they united Shu Han from the shores of Bhez Ju to the hills of Koba. Where they went, they mended the destruction the king and his clockwork soldiers had wrought, returning peace and prosperity to the land. Word of their rule spread far and wide, and soon more and more cities willingly accepted the Taban yenok-yun as their Queen. With them, more sheng ji came to swear fealty to the Taban yenok-yun, and Sankta Neyar gladly took it upon herself to lead the sheng ji in guiding Shu Han to a better future.  And so the sheng ji were revered in Shu Han, as integral to the country as the sea and sky and land, such to the point that Shu Han became known as a country of miracles.  It has remained so until this day.

Bo wrote to Sarantsatsral. Bo wrote to the Merchant Council of Kerch. He begged for asylum. 

Jurda parem, he called the drug they had created, without pity, because there was nothing else that could be true. 

The week it took for Sarantsatsral to make port was the longest of Kuwei’s life. They kept Jiali restrained to the bed until the jurda parem ran its course, and even then, they had to always watch him for fear of him sneaking away to take another dose. His strength declined rapidly, his muscles weakened, and maybe worst of all was what happened to his abilities: he could no longer control mingyun. 

They had to leave, soon. That much was clear, however deeply it would impact their smuggling of sheng ji. Enya said she would figure it out, but even if she couldn’t, they would still have to flee the country. Jurda parem was too dangerous to keep in Shu Han, and even Kerch where they revered profit above all, but Kerch had more protection than the Wandering Isles and even Novyi Zem, neutral as it was. 

Sarantsatsral couldn’t have arrived quick enough. 

The night that she did, Kuwei already had on hand what little he could bring with him. Their wards had even less. Jiali borrowed some clothes from Bo, and that was it. They could not afford to bring anything more. 

Truthfully, Kuwei didn’t want to go. It was wiser, yes. It was safer. But just as he had all those years ago, he ached to leave Shu Han, to leave Baba behind. 

The port was always crowded, even at night. Their wards and Sarantsatsral’s crew helped Jiali aboard, despite his weak protests which really only proved their points quite neatly. 

Kuwei glanced around. He made his choice. 

In the chaos, he slipped away. 

No one gave chase. 

Kuwei slid the door to his home open and the back of his head knocked back against the wall from the force of being shoved. There was no weight on his throat or his chest, but he gasped around a weak, strangled breath, thrashing around in the invisible hold, which let up only moments later. He breathed in, deeply, bowled over, and then looked up to see Bo’s wide eyes, Bo reaching out for him. 

Bo pulled Kuwei over to a nearby chair, then silently fetched him a cup of water. When Kuwei felt recovered enough to talk, he inhaled once, straightening his spine. “Thank you,” he said to Bo, whose brows furrowed like he didn’t quite trust that Kuwei wouldn’t collapse if he looked at him the wrong way but ultimately continued the conversation. 

Good. They didn’t have time for sentiment. 

“I’m sorry,” Bo said. “Are you all right?”

Kuwei had to clear his throat once, which didn’t help his case at all. “I am,” he said anyway. 

“What happened?” Bo said. “Where’s Jiali? Did the ship not arrive?”

“It did. He’s on it.” Kuwei canted his head to the side, considering. If he took into account how long it had been since he’d snuck away… “They’re either about to leave or have already to left.”

“They left you behind?” Bo’s eyes went wide. 

Bo wasn’t normally so expressive, Kuwei noted, somewhat distantly, but then again it might’ve been the shock. You normally didn’t briefly choke your son with magic powers the universe had arbitrarily decided to grant you, which the country in which you resided in either killed or literally-and-metaphorically shackled you for, when your son was supposed to be on a ship bound for anywhere here — manned by your wife who had faked her death for the express purpose of smuggling people out of the country — accompanied by several other people who had the same powers with one near comatose because of your experimental drug which you had developed in the hopes of helping your people but went horribly south.

Kuwei should’ve been more upset about this turn of events. 

Oh. 

Maybe he was in shock, too. 

“They didn’t leave me,” Kuwei said past the fog — the wall — keeping everything around him at more than arm’s length. There was no clarity in repression. “When they weren’t looking, I went back here.”

Bo stared at him for a long moment, his throat working as if to say something only to hesitate. 

This was probably not the best way to have this conversation. 

“You were supposed to go with them,” Bo finally said. “Kuwei, nhaban, why didn’t you go? It would’ve been safer for you.”

Safety. What was safe these days? Half the world wanted them dead or otherwise incapacitated. 

Kuwei said, “My entire life, you always fought to give me choices. I chose this.”

And besides, what would Baba do about it now? Kuwei was already here. The ship had left or would leave; that none of them returned suggested they hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. Not for the son of the man whose rank relied entirely on hurting them. 

Strange, the way others’ association cast shadows on you. 

“Choices have consequences,” Baba said. 

“I know. But I couldn’t leave.”

Baba’s exhale was ragged. He was smart enough to know there was nothing else they could do. “Then you must be prepared to live with them. Kerch’s ship arrives in a week. An infinite number of things could go wrong.”

“I know.”

“If worst comes to worst…” Bo trailed off. Kuwei frowned at him. This was not the time for sentiment, or hesitation, or dramatics; there was only forward, forward. 

“Yu yeh sesh,” Bo said at last. Despise your heart. 

The answer was supposed to be ni we sesh. I have no heart. Kuwei opened his mouth to say it, but the words dissolved like ash. Whatever kindling he’d once used to stoke his courage was suddenly nothing more than dim embers, a remnant of another boy from another lifetime, who didn’t know what scales he would have to balance. Who would never understand that, to sustain a flickering flame, you had to burn anything, everything.

But there were some things too precious to burn. There were some things Kuwei would burn for instead. 

“Yu yeh sesh,” his father said at Kuwei’s silence, more firmly this time. There was something like desperation in his eyes. “Kuwei. Whatever happens.”

Kuwei swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “Ni we sesh.” 

I have no heart, but for all that he needed to pretend, it wasn’t true at all.

On their last night in their home, his father made roast duck with plum sauce, and Kuwei dug up his mother’s recipe for boortsog, even though he didn’t need it when she made sure he memorized it years before she had to leave. But it was nice to have something to do with his hands. It was nice, too, to have something as warm as the suutei tsai his father served after dinner, where they both lingered in the courtyard in silence, trying to find excuses to stay a little longer. 

But they were pragmatic down to the core, and scientists besides. They couldn’t go for the jugular if they couldn’t cast aside all that was useless. When the night grew cold and long and dead, they headed indoors. 

If Kuwei decided to knock on his father’s door and steal under the covers, like he was five again, young enough that his only fears were the storms raging outside the windows and the monsters under his bed and not the monsters on the streets, in his home, and if his father shifted closer, mumbling old stories and recent discoveries — it was desperation, and it was comfort, and it was almost foreign, but above all, it was love. 

After everything. Despite everything. Because of everything. 

Kuwei glanced at his father’s expression. He looked so much older than he had before his mother left, before they started taking sheng ji in, before Kuwei ran off and set a fire just because he wanted something to hurt the way he was hurting. He was old enough to admit it to himself: his father was unforgivable. That did not make his actions unjustifiable.

At their core, they were nothing but pragmatic, and survival fetched a high price in the royal labs. Maybe that was the nature of Shu Han: to burn out everyone’s capacity for kindness until no one could afford anything but necessity. 

Did his father understand that? That even if Kuwei could never forgive him, that didn’t mean Kuwei didn’t love him. Kuwei thought of the silent meals and the late nights, the carefully metered distance and the aborted conversations, all the months Kuwei spent holding his anger like it would fix anything, and rather abruptly came to— not regret it. He wasn’t wrong to be furious. But something in his chest ached at the possibility of his father not knowing Kuwei loved him.

If they died tomorrow, he didn’t want his father to die unloved and sad. Still, Kuwei couldn't take back the years and regret was a waste of time. What he could do was this: he curled up closer, the closest he’d ever been since he learned his father’s truth, enough that they were hugging again like nothing ever changed, and he said, simply, “I love you, Baba.”

Baba stared at him in clear surprise, though his words didn’t falter once. His expression softened. He blinked away tears that Kuwei didn’t mention, and he opened his arms for a proper embrace.

Kuwei drifted off to sleep in Baba’s arms and did not dream of tomorrow. 

It was an ambush. 

Kuwei screamed, a feral, animalistic sound that he did not recognize as his, when a bullet tore through his father. The panic cleaved him in two; it didn’t matter whose bullet it was when his father was crumpled on the ground with blood so much blood he wasn’t moving he wasn’t moving he was dead dead dead—

With another scream ripped raw from his throat, Kuwei lunged for his father’s body, but hands caught him by the shoulders, tight enough that even moving hurt. He thrashed against the grip to no avail, howling curses foul enough that they would follow the soldiers from this life into the next. 

His father died knowing Kuwei loved him. His father died alone with a gunshot clean through his stomach. 

If his father was dead, Kuwei wanted to be—

No. 

Ni we sesh. I have no heart. 

The Fjerdans led him onto their ship in chains. Kuwei yielded; Kuwei amputated his grief the same way his father severed life. It wouldn’t serve him here. 

Kuwei had promised. And his father had sacrificed. Out somewhere in the ocean, his mother was manning a ship of smuggled sheng ji, and his uncle was recovering from jurda parem if he wasn’t already dead. 

Kuwei would survive to see them. Kuwei would survive to reach Ravka’s Little Palace, and find a cure for jurda parem, and train, and burn this wretched system down to the ground. 

He had no other choice.  

The Fjerdan soldiers dragged him to the admiral. Distantly, Kuwei noted that there were still gunshots in the distance, growing fainter and fainter. 

They asked him dozens of questions Kuwei knew he shouldn’t answer, but Kuwei couldn’t stake his life on the value of his knowledge. One day, it would just be easier for them to kill him rather than keep him alive; he had to delay that as long as possible. 

Kuwei answered in broad strokes, his Fjerdan clumsy and halting. Jurda parem was meant to hide a sheng ji’s powers except it amplified them instead. His father had been developing it for years. Kuwei himself only somewhat knew how. 

This was how to survive in a world of tyrants: Keep your head down. 

This was how to live: Resist.

They asked about the chemicals, the manufacturing, the side effects. Kuwei’s Fjerdan was mediocre, but better than conversational; he lied and pretended he understood little beyond the basic questions they originally asked. He especially did not mention the escape route his mother had been maintaining while his father and uncle developed the jurda parem. When they finally grew tired of probing him for answers he feigned incapability on, they locked him in one of the cells, calling him witch, calling him unholy. 

The miracles of Shu Han, witches of Fjerda, saviors of the Wandering Isles, blessed of Novyi Zem, profitable of Kerch — did it even matter what they were called? It all just meant not human. Never human; less than. In the universal language of power, there was only one word: control. 

In that, at least, they were equally fluent.

Kuwei couldn’t stake his life on the value of his knowledge, but these Fjerdan soldiers were the enactors of terror, never the terrified. What would they know of the desperation that overcame fear?

Alone in his cell in the Ice Court, Kuwei shivered, curling in on himself. This was nothing like Shu Han, where it never even snowed during the winter.

He didn’t know how long he’d been here. Months, certainly, but he was no closer to replicating jurda parem, finding a cure for it, or figuring out a way to escape. 

And that was— that was fine. If he was still alive to know these things, then he was still alive to take chances, whenever they arrived. 

The moment he found them, he would burn this wretched place down to the ground. 

Because it was truly wretched. It felt like the Fjerdans had somehow managed to unleash winter in one single room, the food was bland and tasteless, he was never allowed to even step out into the sun—

—and every day, news made its way even to him. The guards spoke of the half-machine, half-human soldiers Shu Han was developing under the orders of Her Imperial Majesty Makhi Kir-Taban, winged machinations that could scent sheng ji from miles away, brass knuckles embedded into their very flesh. 

It didn’t matter if Enya figured out how to continue smuggling sheng ji out of Shu Han if those soldiers were the Tabans’ latest war machines. Kuwei could only hope she’d gotten out in time. 

Kuwei worried at the threadbare blanket they’d deigned to provide him. It really was too cold here, and he wanted bright summer afternoons, flying kites on the outskirts of Ahmrat Jen, picking plums in the orchards. He wanted roast duck and boortsog and suutei tsai. 

He wanted to go home, but home was a place that would turn on him in a heartbeat. He wanted his family, but they were lost to him, maybe forever, and he would never hug Mama again, never have lunch with Jiali-dashu, never talk with Enya-ayi, and it broke something in him to know this. 

The Ice Court was a place for endings and not endurance, but Kuwei would suffer through a lifetime in this hell if only it meant he was by Baba’s side. 

[asma-al-husna]

Allah calls Himself Az-Zhaahir— The Apparent, The Manifest, The Evident— once in the Quran. Az-Zhaahir is the One who is above, yet manifest in all of the creation. His Existence and Oneness is apparent through all of the signs in the universe, yet He is not to be perceived by our senses in this world!

 The Manifest and High, The One Who Overcomes

Zaahir comes from the root zhaa-haa-raa, which points to five main meanings. The first meaning is to be visible, manifest and distinct, the second is to open or to come out. The third meaning is to ascend and have a higher status. The fourth meaning is to subdue and overcome and the fifth is to help and support others.

This root appears 59 times in the Quran in ten derived forms. Examples of these forms are zhahara (“is apparant”), yazhaahiroo (they have supported”), liyuzhhirahu (“to make it prevail”) and zhahrihi (“its, his back”).

Az-Zhaahir is the most Manifest as everything other than Him is only manifested by His Attributes. He is high above His creation, the One who subdues everything and everyone and He is the true Helper, while others can only provide help and support through His aid.

 Az-Zhaahir Himself says: . . . He is the First and the Last, the Ascendant and the Intimate, and He is, of all things, Knowing. [Quran, 57:3]

A Thought-provoking Discussion

Suratul Waaqi’ah contains an extremely powerful set of questions and answers forming a mind-blowing discussion by the Creator to His creation: We have created you, so why do you not believe? Have you seen that which you emit? Is it you who creates it, or are We the Creator? We have decreed death among you, and We are not to be outdone. In that We will change your likenesses and produce you in that [form] which you do not know. And you have already known the first creation, so will you not remember? And have you seen that [seed] which you sow? Is it you who makes it grow, or are We the grower? If We willed, We could make it [dry] debris, and you would remain in wonder, [Saying], “Indeed, we are [now] in debt; Rather, we have been deprived.” And have you seen the water that you drink? Is it you who brought it down from the clouds, or is it We who bring it down? If We willed, We could make it bitter, so why are you not grateful? And have you seen the fire that you ignite? Is it you who produced its tree, or are We the producer? We have made it a reminder and provision for the travellers. So exalt the name of your Lord, the Most Great [Quran, 56: 57-64]


How Can You Live By This Name?

1.  Look after your outward and inward.

Not only nourish your body with food and drink and satisfying your senses, but also nourish your soul by the remembrance of Allah. Eg some spend the majority of time on beautifying themselves while hardly reading the Quran. Never feign certain traits or abilities in public and never exaggerate or lie while being with others. Use this beautiful supplication in your daily life: O Allah! Make my inward better than my outward, and make my outward good [Abdullah ibn Umar radiyallaahu ‘anhu]

2. Be comforted by Az-Zhaahir

Know that He knows everything you do and what others do to you, even if no one else knows and that you will be dealt with justly by Az-Zhaahir. Let this hadith increase your love and awe of Az-Zhaahir: The Messenger of Allah sallallahu ’alayhi wa sallam said that Allah, the Glorious, said: “Verily, Allah has ordered that the good and the bad deeds be written down. Then He explained it clearly how (to write): He who intends to do a good deed but he does not do it, then Allah records it for him as a full good deed, but if  he carries out his intention, then Allah the Exalted, writes it down for him as from ten to seven hundred folds, and even more. But if he intends to do an evil act and has not done it, then Allah writes it down with Him as a full good deed, but if he intends it and has done it, Allah writes it down as one bad deed” [Al-Bukharee, Muslim]

3.  Check your intention.

Everything is apparent to Az-Zhaahir, whether you make it public or not. The Prophet sallallahu ’alayhi wa sallam said: The deeds are considered by the intentions, and a person will get the reward according to his intention.. [Al-Bukharee, Muslim]. Keep checking your intention, are you doing that deed truly for Allah? Regularly renew your intentions when you are working on the path of Allah. Remind yourself: on the Day of Judgement the smallest deeds can become big and the biggest deeds worthless depending of the intention behind them!

4.  Look around to increase your praise of Az-Zhaahir

Look around you, at the plants, animals and your own self and realize it is all manifested through Him only. In times when your emaan decreases, let these signs in your enviroment revive your faith and awe for the Manifest One and let them make you more grateful and humble. Every day take time to look outside, reflect and praise Az-Zhaahir.

5. Ask Az-Zhaahir.

Even though His existence is manifest in all of the creation, we can not see Az-Zhaahir in this world.  Ask Him to be able to gaze at His countenance in the Hereafter. The Prophet salallahu ‘alayhi wa sallam made this beautiful dua’:
اللَّهُمَّ إِنِّي أَسْأَلُكَ لَذَّةَ النَّظَرِ إِلَى وَجْهِكَ وَالشَّوْقَ إِلَى لِقَائِكَ
O Allah, I ask You for the delight of gazing at Your Countenance and the eagerness of meeting You [An-Nasaa’i] Commit this supplication to memory and use it as much as you can from the bottom of your heart as you are asking for the greatest delight!
Wallahu ta’alaa ‘alem.


O Allah, Az-Zhaahir we know that You are the Manifest and High. Make both our inward and outward good, guide us in reflecting on Your signs around us in a productive way. Bless us with sincerity and make us of those who are able to gaze at Your Countenance in the Hereafter, ameen!

[novafire-is-thinking]

Per aspera ad astra: “through adversity, to the stars”

The Vision

“You see a future in the stars?" Alpha Trion asked him quietly.

. . .

“The stars look endless to me,” he [Orion] said eventually. “Out there, you could just go and go, and there’d be enough space for everyone, and things to do and see that go on forever.” (CoP)

In an earlier post (Orion the Dreamer), I shared the full scene where Orion reveals his hopes and dreams to Alpha Trion.

And I mentioned in the previous post (Desire vs. Destiny) that it was Optimus’ deepest desire to peer behind the veil of life and study its secrets by collecting stories and seeking knowledge wherever he could find it.

Putting together both of these, one can see that Orion/Optimus’ personal vision for his life was to be a lifelong learner—one who learned through exploration, discovery of new life, the seeking of stories, and deep reflection.

Change of Plans

I will recover the AllSpark, thought Optimus Prime. Then I will retrace my steps across the galaxy and sow peace on my return wherever our initial exodus has inadvertently fomented division and war. (Exiles)

Life rarely goes as planned, as Optimus found out as the war dragged on.

Where a young Orion dreamt of setting out on his journey with curiosity and hope, a war-torn Optimus came to expect nothing more than a future quest of reparation and what he determined to be a moral duty.

A Fresh Glimpse of Hope

After so long, it was strange indeed to reach this planet again. Although I had heard it was full of life, I did not expect what we found—civilizations, technologies. For the last months, as we have been on final approach, we have learned to know them by their broadcasts, and though the others say nothing about it, what amazes me is how alike we are. Our bodies are different, our lifespans and our needs unalike, but what drives us and moves us is very much the same: humans talk about the heart, and Cybertronians the Spark; they love and fear, think and fight one another, as we do.

I looked for signs as we came within the light of their sun, and I find them everywhere—the many readings of Cybertronian technology on their world, the intensity of their struggles, the strange richness of their stories—against all odds, Unicron the Destroyer of Worlds has borne eons of life. I feel everything hangs in the balance. The Nemesis still pursues. We still track the AllSpark. So long this journey has been, and in spite of all its battles, so unchanging. (CoP)

Upon meeting and observing humans for himself, Optimus saw a glimpse of future potential—a future in which two very different, yet oddly similar species could learn and grow together, just as he’d wanted before the war. After all, Earth was also home to Unicron—the antithesis of Primus. There had to be a connection somewhere, and if not, Optimus intended to create one.

Of course, the war prevented him from getting his hopes too high, but judging from the fact that he trusted a human with the Key to Vector Sigma, it seems he allowed himself to hold onto a sliver of hope that humanity would not only survive the Cybertronian war, but would be part of Cybertron’s future in some way.

Endings and Epiphanies

I saw my death in the descent of the Dark Saber in Megatron's hand. I was surprised a little, disappointed. And then suddenly Megatron was no more. The reprieve was beyond belief. It shook me to my Spark and I felt suddenly with incredible force the fool I had been. I was not alone. I had never been alone, Prime or not. We, the Autobots, were one. (CoP)

After eons of hardship and carrying what he thought was primarily his burden to carry, Optimus was reminded that he was part of a greater whole.

The bigger goal was to see Autobots and Decepticons become one again, but this monumental shift in awareness was a necessary first step on Optimus’ journey to heal and open himself up to possibilities involving Cybertronians of either faction and humans.

A Shared Destiny

Thus ends the story of the Age of the Primes and of the origins of the Cybertronians, though not the whole story of course, for that is still being written in time and space on Earth, and all over the galaxy where the seeds and the sparks of life are growing.

I, Alpha Trion, one of the last Primes, now give this book into your hands, human friend, so that you shall know who your allies are, and your enemies also, how they are made, and where they have come from. Be sure that wherever and whenever you need our aid, the Autobots will respond to your call.

This is the Covenant of Primus, as given to all Cybertronians by right, and to humans by the last wish of Optimus, the Thirteenth Prime, so let it be.

TILL ALL ARE ONE.

Alpha Trion’s wording tells me humanity is probably the only other species that was given the Covenant of Primus.

This is incredible, to say the least. Of all the races Optimus encountered, he asked that humans be given one of the most sacred texts of the Cybertronian race.

But why humanity?

Well, Optimus firmly believed humans and Cybertronians shared a common destiny.

Alpha Trion, the relics, Unicron, the end of the war.

To Optimus, all of it pointed to Earth and humanity being an excellent starting point to launch into his original dream. He saw in humanity the future he’d endured so much hardship for: a future of learning and growing—not just alongside fellow Cybertronians, but alongside other races as well.

And depending on what each fan chooses to believe is the end of Optimus’ story, he either never got to see the fulfillment of his dream, or he did in some imagined way outside of canon.

Dreamers suffer more, but they also live more.

✧ ✧ ✧

Today, this post and the entire series are dedicated to Peter Cullen on his 82nd birthday, and to one of several beloved Optimi he’s poured so much of his heart and soul into. ❤️

[pixel-parts]

Technoblade and Cyberknife

Something that I think has really dug in the knife that techno’s passing left on me is the loss of cyber knife and his story, its painfully clear that this man was not ready to leave yet, and had a whole future full of wonder and fun, full of joy and excitement, a life that finally sowed all the seeds he’d planted over the passing years with his channel.

I truly feel as though the loss of cyberknife is a horrid reminder of the loss of millions of wonderful characters and scenes that a man as mighty as techno might’ve brought to the world.

Now im obviously not implying that this loss is the biggest one of losing techno, what im truly saying is that this hurts a lot.

I miss that man more and more with each passing day. Its cringe I know, but I don’t think he’ll ever truly stop hurting, I don’t think that ill ever really understand that he’s…gone.

Cyberknife was a brilliant idea that could’ve brought such a fun inversion of his typical character, and with seeing how he did with billiam in tales of the smp, he surely would’ve beaten my expectations to a pulp, then he would’ve set them on fire, and then proceed to create one of the most endearing and dynamic characters that fandom had ever seen.

The fanart, fanfiction, cosplays, etc.. that would’ve rised form the idea in general would’ve been mighty, they would’ve been inspiring, they would’ve been more than i can imagine( I know im being dramatic, shup ut)

But now, we will never really have that, or anything else for the matter, and it stings.

But the man wouldnt have wanted people to stop promoting his brand and his characters because of something as small to him as death, he’d be shouting from the beyond, “Get up nerds, keep the name of the mighty technoblade sticking to the world until its very end!.”

I feel weird typing this out, I really don’t know if this is the appropriate way to try and put my thoughts on to the internet for people to see, nonetheless these are my badly structured thoughts on what cyberknife really shows us about technoblade, about Alex.

[satancopilotsmytardis]

I have been given question permission and as someone who is also a fan of fantasy/magical/ect. AUs I am thrilled to ask questions about Insect and Pyre.

Can I ask about what happened after the end of the fic? Obviously Dabi was wanting to learn about his new abilities and shatter the stone (as he should), but what do they get up to then?

Also, out of sheer world-building curiosity, did you have any other gods concepted for the world? I know Rei's goddess was mentioned, so I'm just curious about any others that might not have made the cut to get into the actual fic. And extrapolating from what Duster said, is he now a God of Life/Creation and Dabi a God of Death/Destruction?

(Sorry if this is too many questions for one ask... This AU is just really cool, and wonderfully crafted, I can't help but want to know more.)

Cackling, alright, let's get into it! (oops, this got very long)

After: Dabi absolutely destroyed the stone. Tomura mentioned that things would come naturally to him, and over the next few weeks, Dabi would realize that using magic is as easy as breathing for him now. But he would start to notice he still has a greater affinity for breaking, and strangely, preventing, things from being broken. Tomura would tell him this may be a secondary aspect of his divinity coming through, something that is being born of Dabi's existence rather than an extension of Tomura's divinity. Over the course of a year, Dabi would come to be a god of Vengeance and Protection, as the real reason he killed Enji was because he wanted to protect Tomura and any more people from being sacrificed in his bid for power, rather than just to get revenge. Having both of these aspects also is smaller scale mirror of Tomura's domain being Creation and Destruction, and allows him to function in similar ways (i.e. he doesn't have to constantly ask his partner to make him bowls or flowers, etc. he can use his own magic for those purposes).

He does, however, have uphold his domain. What this means is that he and Tomura travel through the forest, and Dabi uses his divinity to sow the seeds of death and destruction of everyone who knew and condoned the sacrificed that were sent to keep Tomura imprisoned. But he also sees a young woman being mistreated because she has an affinity for hemocraft and he reaches out to her. Offers her a chance to take revenge on the people who hurt her or a way to protect herself from them, and she chooses to protect herself, to survive. He brings her back to his old village and gives her a letter for the remaining Todorokis. She'll be taken care of with them, he knows Fuyumi and Rei would never let a child suffer, Natuso won't let anyone do what was done to him to another, and Shoto... well they are the same age, maybe they'll get along at the very least.

Toga does come and visit he and Shigaraki in their cave, a home now instead of a prison when they're not traveling. She does stay with the Todorokis once they've rebuilt their home, and she keeps telling Dabi how his mother and siblings ask after him, ask if he'll come to see them ever. But he doesn't. He doesn't know what to say to them, how he could possibly explain what happened? Tomura keeps gently encouraging him to go see them. He's immortal now, they aren't. He doesn't want Dabi to miss out on the chance to have as many years as he can with them, but he doesn't push.

However, on the night of the summer solstice one year after his death and ascension, Dabi feels drawn to the mouth of the cave. He finds out that it's because his remaining family (and Toga, who definitely for sure did not ask Tomura about summoning gods) brought offerings and created a brazier to burn forget-me-nots in. (Since that was how Tomura passed along his divinity they serve the same function as the berries did for Shigaraki, and Dabi would not be able to hurt people wearing or consuming the flowers, and also be aware of them the way Shigaraki was of the plants and berries.) So Dabi was very abruptly tricked into having a family reunion, and there is a lot of hugging and crying and Dabi being very uncomfortable and terrified because he killed Enji, he nearly sacrificed the whole countryside because he very stupidly, and way too quickly, fell in love. But that isn't a fight that any of them want to have. Dabi spends time with them, Rei brought fruit tarts, he makes Tomura come out and meet them and be personable.

And he and Tomura stay in the forest for eternity, they keep their land safe, they love each other. There will be decades or centuries where they don't interact with anyone at all, and other times when they will wander and meet other creatures, gods, etc. Eternity is a long time, they get up to a great many things in it.

As for the gods: So my intention with this series was that there isn't a set number of gods who have specific domains all to themselves (like gods in DND or the like) rather, as Tomura mentioned he is a god of creation and destruction. There are many others. No one god can take hold of a an entire domain for themself. As such, Rei worshipped a goddess of winter that the Himura family supposedly descends from. She wouldn't know the goddess's true name, but would use titles for her like 'Mother of Snow', 'Lady of Frost', 'Dame of Barren Ice', etc.

When it comes to Tomura, even after severing a portion of his divinity for Dabi, he would still be a god of creation and destruction. This is because those are huge domains to be a part of with a lot of different aspects to them. If he wanted, he could create dozens if not hundreds of new gods by slicing away small aspects of himself. For instance creating gods of art, music, fertility, and love by offering up those aspects of his own abilities to create. In the case of what he did for Dabi, Shigaraki removed his ability to kill people for revenge, but he can absolutely still kill people. He can destroy from famine, natural disaster, disease, just straight up malice and murder, etc. He just is now incapable of killing someone who wronged him. But he doesn't really need to worry about that, Dabi will happily do it for him now.

Thank you so much for the ask!