#her fury her fear and her grief all at once my GOD

[casualavocados]

I am...nothing...like you.

Dafne Keen as LYRA SILVERTONGUE HIS DARK MATERIALS 2.05 | The Scholar

[agentrouka-blog]

"There was hunger in his(Tyrion) green eye, it seemed to her, and fury in the black. Sansa did not know which scared her more."- Sansa(ASOS).

"He wanted something from her, but Sansa did not know what it was. He looks like a starving child, but I have no food to give him."- Sansa(ASOS).

Sansa compared Tyrion lust for her with him hungry for food.

"The Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. Jon wondered how Lady Catelyn's sister would feel about feeding Ned Stark's bastard." - Jon(ADWD)

"He have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it."- Jon(ASOS).

In first quote Jon was thinking about food supply from Vale and in later he was thinking about he wanted to become lord of WF and have a family but feels guilty.

Do you think it's about Jonsa?

Great obervation, please-dot! <3

There's another language parallel involving Tyrion and Sansa and Winterfell that mirrors Jon's thoughts in Winterfell.

I want her, he realized. I want Winterfell, yes, but I want her as well, child or woman or whatever she is. I want to comfort her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her to come to me willingly, to bring me her joys and her sorrows and her lust. His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. Yes, and I want to be tall as Jaime and as strong as Ser Gregor the Mountain too, for all the bloody good it does. (ASOS, Tyrion IV)

It compares well with the quote you used above.

He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. I have always wanted it, he thought, guiltily. May the gods forgive me. It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger . . . he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought. (ASOS, Jon XII)

When Tyrion and Sansa do eat together, the food is distasteful, or their appetites incompatible.

Another thematic link would be Sansa refusing the offer of a pomegranate from Littlefinger, where the Hades-Persephone symbolism underlines her rejection of him. The closest he gets to her appetite is the giant lemon cake model of the Eyrie served up at the feast for the upcoming tourney, and yet her thoughts revolve around Harry and she is never seen eating of it.

Jon's relationship with food also turns impersonal. What meals he has aren't joyful, they even congeal uneaten. Long forgotten are the days of sweet summerwine and honeyed chicken, or the celebratory meals taken with his new black brothers. Everything revolves around food but Jon becomes divorced from the joy of eating.

Catelyn voices that connection very well.

I am become a sour woman, Catelyn thought. I take no joy in mead nor meat, and song and laughter have become suspicious strangers to me. I am a creature of grief and dust and bitter longings. There is an empty place within me where my heart was once. (ACOK, Catelyn VII)

The connection to the food stores of the Eyrie becomes doubly interesting in that context. GRRM specifically phrased it as feeding Jon himself.

I strongly suspect that when Jon and Sansa meet again, food will take on as symbolic a role as gifts of clothing or mutual offers of protection. There's a very unnecessary, almost random paragraph during Joffrey's wedding that has never left my mind:

And there was one woman, sitting almost at the foot of the third table on the left . . . the wife of one of the Fossoways, he thought, and heavy with his child. Her delicate beauty was in no way diminished by her belly, nor was her pleasure in the food and frolics. Tyrion watched as her husband fed her morsels off his plate. They drank from the same cup, and would kiss often and unpredictably. Whenever they did, his hand would gently rest upon her stomach, a tender and protective gesture. (ASOS, Tyrion VIII)

It's one of the sweetest interactions of any couple depicted in the series, and it revolves around the simple worldly pleasures of food and drink, affection and new life. They eat together, joyfully. The contrast to Tyrion's empty hunger, and to the stilted tension surrounding food that has crept into so many abusive relationships is evident.

So, yes, I think that repeated imagery is very intentional and will return when it is time to feast, metaphorically.

[shrinrj]

𝓘𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓶𝔂’𝓼 𝓮𝓶𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓮 ( KING BALDWIN IV X Y/N FANFIC)

The king of Jerusalem , ruthless in his glory…never thought his heart once hardened by agony , forged from the strongest of metals in times of war and crime would soften at the sight before his eyes. A small house , he wasn’t even sure if it qualified as one…destroyed and shattered…burnt into flames…a figure suffocating inside , he could practically hear the muffled moans of pain and anguish. "Why must I care ? Isn’t this what I wanted…" he thought to himself but no…it wasn’t. He hadn’t ordered the raid to be this way. It wasn’t his doing. That daum foul , Guy de lusignan, gave extreme orders…they were villagers , they were nothing but villagers. The muffled screams haunted him.

"Daum it…" he muttered under his breath

"My lord…where are you going ?"

"Wherever you are not. Wait for me , I must do something" Baldwin unmounted his horse with a swift movement. Adrenaline overshadowing his leprosy. He stood before the cottage looking at the flames eat it with such insatiable hunger. "Hell , is within." He thought. He kicked the door open and looked at the source of the muffled sound…gladly , she was just by the door , unconscious , her body frail and weak under the hellish flames , he carried her over his shoulder…back to his horse.

"This woman needs urgent medical care , fetch for the physician , QUICK !" He ordered , his voice authoritative , commanding…yet dripping with fear. He didn’t know why he did that. Why he risked the fire but…god knows , he thought it all worth it. His men all had dumbfounded expressions on their faces as the physician rushed to the king "my lord…are you hurt ?"

"Not me. If she dies , consider yourself dead. Heal her." Baldwin expressed , his tone cold and threatening yet his gaze fearful…very fearful. Baldwin knows guilt , it lives within him like a crippling monster , a soul sucking entity…a parasite , or perhaps apart of his soul. He knew he had killed…hundreds. His hands were stained with blood but this isn’t the blood he wanted on his hands. Knight code comes before all and knights don’t harm women , children or elderly…but he did…now he did , and this will haunt him forever.

"A word." He said to Guy with a threatening gaze.

Guy approached , a smug look on his face like usual , walking with pride. "My lord." He bowed his head.

Baldwin’s blue gaze pierced Guy’s fragile , narcissistic soul. "Who died and made you king ?" Baldwin asked.

"Oh…God forbid my lord , long live the king of course."

"Really ? If so…why did I carry an innocent maiden on my shoulder from the fire of her small home. I do not recall giving such orders."

"Well , my lord" Guy chuckled nervously searching for a lie to justify his bloodshed , "those villagers…they were hostile…like all saracens are ! I ordered knights to only harm those who harm them. If she’s harmed , she is no innocent maiden."

"If your men were truly harmed by a woman small enough to be carried on the shoulder of a leper , perhaps they’re more fit for a harem than they are for a crusade."

The physician tended to the girl’s wounds and she woke up coughing , tears in her eyes , she looked at the king with a look of disdain -at the very least- her eyes filled with fury…behind them a hint of sadness…

"You woke up…"

She didn’t reply

"Are you alright ?"

She didn’t reply

Baldwin has had enough. He stood in front of her and with the end of his sword lifted up her chin to look at him. “You speak when spoken to." His tone shifted to something more affectionate , warmer…"are you alright ?"

"Take a good guess , your grace” she said , her voice quivering as anger lingered onto every letter she uttered looking at her destroyed home.

"I’ll have your home repaired. I didn’t order this. My knights acted outside of their orders and they will be punished , I swear it."

"Your gold won’t bring back mother’s dresses…or father’s books." She managed to spit out as grief , anger , melancholy consumed her soul , making speech a chore , making looking up at him a harder one. She saw nothing but a monster , an anomaly.

"Did you lose anyone in the fire ?" The king said , surprisingly cold.

"No…" she said as she looked away.

"Then you lost nothing. All can be repaired." He said , his tone cold , his gaze colder , yet his words…there was comfort within them.

She stood up bravely , in all of her reckless ferocity to fight him , to cry , to storm only to feel her head lighten…her sight blur..she collapsed , only to be caught by the king’s good hand before she fell down. He caught her swiftly and then lowered her down. For a moment , he felt a sticky warm substance from her hair. "It can’t be.." he removed his hand to see it stained with blood…the blood of the innocent…on his hands , not symbolically this time , it wasn’t a figure of speech…it was his reality. It was as real as his illness and the savagery of his knights. A scary relevation indeed…one he could not grasp. "Dieu…seigneur…BACK TO JERUSALEM !" He yelled out to his knights as he blopped her in front of him on the horse , praying to his God and hers that she wakes up.

[theobjectofyourire]

it's been a year and I cannot stop thinking about this frame:

The hall had fallen silent, an absence of sound so severe, so terribly sharp and equal only to the blade that mere moments ago rested uncertainly on the King's belt, yet to be crimsoned by the righteous wrath of an anguished mother.

"Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?" The aching plea in her voice seemed to grow with every word, her voice trembling not with fear but with a fervency, a fury she had never before allowed herself to possess.

"And now you take my son's eye," she near wept, "and to even that, you feel entitled." It was with a grief she spoke. A mourning for herself, the girl she once was and the woman she might have become had the gods forged a kinder world. A mourning for her children, who were but pawns in a greater game, as she had been, and so fearfully neglected by their father.

A mourning for her son.

Her gentle boy.

Her dearest Aemond, who had clutched her hand and worried at the blood staining the wrists of her dress even as his skin was being threaded back together. As he was told, in no uncertain terms, that his eye was forever lost, and instead of finding comfort in his sire as any boy ought to, he was met with cold commands, alone.

*******

When the princess had stepped back, a slow stream of scarlet flowing from her arm, and the blade frightfully abandoned on the stone, all eyes remained steadfast on the Queen, surrounded and yet entirely isolated. All awaited the word of Viserys, who stood in outraged shock behind her, but not a sound came. 'Twas silence that ruled the night, and mayhaps would have known a longer reign if not for the soft-spoken words of her son, still painted in his own blood.

"Do not mourn me mother." He stepped forward without a measure of hesitancy, and all the great lords and ladies could not hope to remove their gaze from the boy. His voice, despite all, was steadier than any who had come before. "It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon."

Most had looked on with some degree of astonishment, others with the slight flicker of fear, an apprehension of what was undoubtedly to follow in the years to come. Most surprising, mayhaps, was the high regard of an uncle and grandsire. Never had Daemon and Otto so shared, unbeknownst to each other, a look of such pride. Their reasons differed, to be sure, though both could not but admire the boy who had proved himself the true blood of the dragon.

'Twas only one person of note in that hall of many faces who dared not look upon the countenance of the young prince. 'Twas only one who kept his eyes planted firmly at his feet, his head bowed low as though he were not but a servant who feared he was undeserving of such a sight.

In his bones, he knew the fear to be well founded.

Viserys would not look at his son. He could not look at his son, who spoke with a courage and certainty that reminded him so dearly of his brother. He had taken, in no small measure, after his uncle, and it wounded him to see so much of the Rogue Prince, a darkened sort of valiancy in the remaining eye of his child.

It was his fault.

He knew. In his heart of hearts, he knew he had no one but himself to blame. What might the smallest show of care prevented, had he but taken the time to bestow it? How many years had he so desperately prayed for sons, only to treat them with a distanced interest, at best, when the Gods finally saw fit to answer?

At the very least, mightn't he have asked, nay, insisted upon a formal apology from his admittedly beloved grandson, on behalf of his own flesh and blood? For if the injuries had been reversed, had it been Lucerys half-blinded by Aemond...he could not fathom the thought. The truth was far too vile to admit, even unto himself.

"This proceeding is at an end." His voice was firm, unyielding, leaving no room for argument. As he turned, unsteadily limping back to his chambers, he did not spare a glance to his injured son. He could not bare the guilt. He could not shoulder the truth.

The words were those of a King. The actions? Those were of a father, failing, forever unworthy of the title.

*******

[blues824]

Good evening and happy early Christmas i found your account by looking through the obey me tags and saw you do obey me request if you don't mind may I get the obey me brothers with a Gilgamesh female reader? Sorry on my whole part if it's too long and if it is you can ignore it<3

Gilgamesh is ‏The strongest heroic spirit. Gilgamesh is the great half-god, half-human king born from the union between the King of Uruk, Lugalbanda, and goddess Rimat-Ninsun. He ruled the Sumerian city-state of Uruk, the capital city of ancient Mesopotamia in the B.C. era. He was an ultimate, transcendent being so divine as to be two thirds god and one third human, and no others in the world could match him. He was a despot possessing high divinity who believed he was invincible. He is not merely a legend, and is said to have actually existed and ruled during the Sumer Dynasty five thousand years ago. He was the King of Heroes (英雄王, Eiyū Ō?) who possessed all things in the world, whose tale is recorded in mankind's oldest epic poem, the Epic of Gilgamesh which portrays Gilgamesh as a hero, destined to be king and achieve great feats, who is driven to meet his destiny, facing challenges together with his best friend Enkidu.

he would reprimand the King and rectify his arrogance. They entered a battle that spanned several days, and Gilgamesh was forced to use all his strength to match his transforming opponent.

He became the greatest and richest king on Earth, who eventually acquired all the treasures of the world. Uruk became unprecedentedly prosperous, and Gilgamesh was considered so powerful that even the gods could not ignore his existence. One goddess, Ishtar the goddess of fertility, even fell in love with Gilgamesh and proposed marriage to the perfect king. He rejected her immediately because he knew her to be a witch who was unfaithful, cruel, and the corruptor of all men. She became furious, feeling that he had insulted her, and went to her father, the god Anu, to get revenge. She begged him to unleash the Bull of Heaven.

The unopposable beast of the gods caused seven years of starvation and destruction on the earth. Working together, they defeated it after binding it with the Chains of Heaven, causing the dark clouds covering the world to fade and saving the land from the flood. Ishtar's reputation was once again crushed, and her fury did not abate. She requested they be put to death for the sin of slaying a beast of the gods with the body of a human. Her request was granted, and Enkidu, created by the gods, was unable to defy the decree.

He slowly weakened and was returned to clay, as Gilgamesh desperately held on to the crumbling clod in his arms. He was angered by this, believing that he was the one who deserved retribution should it be required. Enkidu attempted to assuage him by telling Gilgamesh that he was only one of the many treasures in Gilgamesh's collection, that he would find countless more greater than him in time.

Enkidu returning to dust, meeting death, greatly changed his views. Death had never inspired grief or fear in him until that moment, and it had never once even been in his mind though he knew that it awaited all. Seeing the one who held equal power to him perish before his eyes let him register the true reality of death for the first time. Falling into depression and with his vigor gone, he sought out the Herb of Immortality, a spirit herb of perpetual youth and eternal life.

His title, King of Heroes, is not meant to call him a king who is a hero, but instead implies that he is the king over all heroes. He is mankind's oldest hero, the origin of all myths and model on which heroes are based, so his story is copied within the mythologies of all the countries of the world. The heroes of various myths are derived from his legend, so his Gate of Babylon possesses all of their Noble Phantasms. Though there are several heroes holding the title of "King", the King of Knights and King of Conquerors, he is the only one in all of heaven and earth crowned with the title of "King of All Heroes.He is often referred to as the "golden Archer" and the "golden-sparkling Servant," and Rider generally calls him "Goldie." He is similarly called Gold-glitter (金ピカ, Kin-Pika?) due to his hair, armor, and golden soul, but Rin's reasoning behind the name has less to do with the color of his hair and more simply due to the fact that she thinks he looks like he is living a rich and luxurious life.[8] He looks like a regular foreigner to both Rin and Archer, and he does not openly give off the impression of a Servant or Master due to his body being made of flesh after the Fourth Holy Grail War.

Personality ↓

He is extremely arrogant and selfish, believing himself to be the sole potentate and only king of the world even many millennia after his death. He cannot acknowledge the authority of anyone, including that of other kings and especially that of the gods. He considers all those around him as inferior due to this fact, viewing all other kings and heroes as a collection of mongrels, and loathes any individual who would try to be on the same level as him. The only exception is Enkidu, who he considered to be his equal and only friend.

Gilgamesh greatly differs from most of the sovereigns and leaders in the history of humanity. He placed himself before his nation and the people, and he had neither the curiosity nor desire to conquer, possibly because he had too much in the beginning. He takes the time to enjoy himself, mastering every treasure and every pleasure. With conviction to treat good and evil equally, he has no need for other ideologies and ways of life when the absolute basis is "himself."[5] His actions and way of life left him alone, so Enkidu compared rectifying his attitude to rectifying his solitude

Sorry for taking so long on this 😭😭. It’s a bit short, but romantic nonetheless.

Lucifer at first really disliked you until he saw that you acted exactly like him. You were prideful, you were arrogant, and you put yourself first. Being a queen and an overall highly worshiped person might do that to you, though. However, you saw him as your equal. The king consort to your queen, if you will. 

He does find your habit of collecting treasures to be very annoying, but you spent your own money and used your own influence, so it wasn’t exactly affecting him. He actually does like purchasing things for you when you do something good, but you hate it because you think that he’s looking down at you.

Mammon also thought you were annoying but you pointed out that he had no right to have that much audacity. After all, he was worse than you were. This caused you both to get into a physical altercation, and you surprisingly (or unsurprisingly) came out victorious.

The two of you actually loved buying things for each other as an apology after fights. You both loved hoarding treasures, but to the Avatar of Greed, you were the best treasure yet. You loved how he played hard to get, as it meant that he was something/someone you didn’t have yet. Little did you know, you both had each other.

Leviathan almost cried because you reminded him of a character from an anime he had watched. Your personality matched them to a T, but you absolutely despised how he compared you to a lowly character from a silly show that was nowhere near as good and as awesome as you were. 

As the two of you really got to know each other, he started receiving small figurines from you as gifts. The acts of affection made him so flustered that he couldn’t face you for a few days after each gift was given. When he finally gathered the courage, you would smirk because you were slowly conquering his heart.

Satan and you clashed heads at first. You both wanted to be number one, and your tempers were definitely not something to laugh at. Numerous times, Lucifer had to step in and stop the fight before it destroyed the entirety of the House of Lamentation. The fights often ended up in you both panting from yelling and throwing things around.

Gift-giving wasn’t really his love language, but he had to admit that he was impressed at your ability to show that you care about someone else aside from yourself when he saw that you gave him the next book in a series that he was currently reading. In return, he gave you a golden necklace, since you managed to get the book’s cover in true gold.

Asmodeus thought you were so hot. You know how some people like others who have anger issues because those anger issues are not directed towards them? That’s what the situation was. He got to see your more vulnerable and sensitive side, and it was reserved for him and only him. The thought just made his heart flutter.

He also loved getting you gifts just as you did with him, as it meant that you both could constantly be reminded of each other no matter where you were. You loved the feeling of being worshiped and in the middle of his world. It gave you such a great feeling in your chest, you couldn’t contain the smile that appeared on your face.

Beelzebub did not appreciate your prideful attitude, but he recognizes that he can be selfish as well. Especially when it came to food. Another thing is as you both get to know more about each other, he learns that you were a queen once. Instead of conquering lands, you conquered treasure because you believed that they were tools to create all of humanity and civilization, and thus are more important.

He also loves giving you gifts, and you like to give him the best food made from Mesopotamian recipes that you remembered with your oh-so-great memory. He might actually have a new favorite food, if you can cook. To be fair, he was surprised to see you cooking because you were a ruler and thus you had cooks of your own back in ancient Mesopotamia.

Belphegor and you also clashed heads numerous times. When he tried to kill you, he did not know what he was getting himself into. The thing is, you put yourself first. At that moment, you had to choose between either life or death. It surprised no one when you almost killed the Avatar of Sloth, had Lucifer not stepped in to stop you.

Your relationship didn’t repair any until much later, where you extended the olive branch by gifting him a new pillow from the same brand that his old one was from. Seeing it in his room after school made him smile a bit, but there was no way he would let you see that he was going soft for you.

[ficbrish]

WIP Wednesday

[31Jan2024]

This is from a one shot that's part of my Kinktober collection

"A Tumble"

Non-Dark Urge Vistri, Eary Act II, After deciding to "be real", but before his actual 'didn't drink the potion' lock-in

[cw - Injury, gore, grief, panic, magic first aid, food]

It wasn’t the first time Astarion saw her fall. She was a sorcerer; her type only ever brought some cloth and the raw, unlimited fury of the weave to battle.

“Vistri!” he’d shouted her name so sweetly the other night, and now it crawled out of his mouth as something misshapen and wretched. He sent a fiery arrow after the shadows and dropped to his knees beside her. The others finished the fight as he reached into his pack with trembling hands. Too many scrolls. So many fucking scrolls! There was one for poison, another for grease traps—for gods damned spiderwebs!

“Get up! Gods damn you!” he cried out, still searching through his pack. There was blood on her neck, but it was wrong. It wasn’t from him; the shadows did that to her. The dark in these woods was a different kind. It was thick and overbearing, like the moment after something horrible. The air around them clung to their throats, coating it with a heavy sort of gravity. It was hard to get used to and threw off all their senses, even as a Vampire and a Drow.

A ragged draw of breath stopped Astarion’s heart mid-beat. Her stillness had been deceiving. Quickly, he stuffed the scrolls back in and pulled out a potion. Gingerly, he lifted her head into his lap and dabbed a bit of its serum onto her lips, coaxing her to drink the rest. Magic and dragon blood closed her wounds. A bit of color came back to her periwinkle cheeks.

Vistri coughed, “Hello dear.”

He sighed into the sight of her living eyes and bent down to kiss her. Their lips were upside down. She laughed and kissed him back as if she weren’t just ripped open and unconscious.

Astarion felt something creep behind him and unsheathed a knife from his thigh, “Wait here a moment, love.”

He set her aside gently and stood up with a twirl. His blade stuck deep into the gut of a shadow cursed Harper, leaving him staring into the blank rotten eyes of a corpse. Astarion hadn’t seen himself once these past two hundred years, and wondered in that moment whether he had those same dead eyes. One look back at Vistri relieved him of that fear.

“Come back to my side at once,” she pouted.

Rushing, he stabbed the undead creature through its skull, and as it collapsed on its own weight, it toppled over on him. Astarion regained his balance and pushed it off, “Eugh!” Then he slid over to Vistri on his knees.

“You blasted,” he kissed her about a million times, grumpily and gratefully, “Hag!”

“Hey!”

“Stop dying, then!”

“I didn’t die, exactly. I just fell over.”

“You almost died. Not that I care anything about it.”

She smirked, “There’s something so dashing about the way you pout.”

He tried his best to frown instead, “Don’t try to flatter your way out of my concern.”

“Thought you didn’t care.”

“I don’t!” he scoffed.

Wyll and Karlach strutted towards them out of the dark, obviously smug about felling the last of their enemies.

“Oy! Children!” Karlach called out, addressing them, “Lend a hand next time, will ya?”

“I’m no child! I am over 200 years old!”

“Act like it then,” she winked cheekily.

He was ready to fight until Vistri squeezed his hand—They weren’t children. Karlach only teased them out of respect—Astarion dropped his shoulders.

“You hear that, my dear?” he quipped instead, “Karlach thinks we should act more adult.”

He scooped Vistri up by her waist and had his way with her tongue.

“Ah, love,” Wyll commented dreamily.

“Don’ know if I’d call that love,” Karlach groaned, “More like bragging.”

“What is love if not life’s greatest braggart?”

“Should write that down, mate.”

“Really? You think so.”

Karlach winked, “I’d say you were a poet and didn’t even know it.”

Astarion couldn’t really hear either of them. He could only taste her, savor her existence after how close she’d been to disappearing. Her lips were warm. They were so warm.

Wyll cleared his throat, “Um, guys? Can we go now?”

Vistri hummed dreamily as she tore herself away, “If I can stand on two feet.”

“If you can’t, I’m sure prince charming down there would be happy to carry you.”

Karlach laughed as if the idea were absolutely hysterical, “As if!”

Astarion stood up in offense, “As if?!”

“Come on, Fangs! Be real about it. Carry someone? All the way back to the inn?”

Before she knew what was happening, Vistri found herself swept up and thrown over Astarion’s shoulder like a heavy sack. She squealed in a mixture of terror and delight.

“I’m not as useless as I may seem!” Astarion grumbled, tossing Vistri a bit to adjust his hold. Neither Karlach nor Wyll argued, but they did raise their brows.

Shrieking was common in the Shadow Curse lands, but the way Vistri did it was startlingly out of place. It had laughter and happy shock in it, “Your face is right by my bum!”

“Is that a bad thing, darling?”

“But what if I fart?!”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Quit tossing me about so much then!”

Wyll led the way, leaning into Karlach to comment, “Aren’t they sweet?” To which she snickered back.

Astarion actually managed to carry Vistri the whole way. She might have cast herself with Feather, making his feat a little less impressive, but neither of them cared. Astarion was determined to brag about it and change everyone’s mind regarding his strength, and Vistri was smiling the whole way over. She bounced awkwardly, but she liked the warmth of his back, and the feel of his hands on the back of her thighs. She also managed not to fart.

There was a sense of regret when he let her down, as if they’d lost something. They just stood there after, looking at each other as if they had no idea what to do now that they were apart.

“Well, thank you,” she said.

“For saving your life, or carrying you?”

“Oh, there’s a list?” she chuckled.

His smirk was equal parts mischievous and self-satisfied, “You’ve been incurring a lot of debts, my dear.”

Vistri pretended to be startled, “Have I? Oh my! How should I endeavor pay them?”

He lifted a playful finger to his chin, “Hmmm, what a dilemma!”

His mood was so drastically shifted from before, during the fight. Looking at him now, you’d never think that face held any worry. In little flashes, he was brand new. No more heaviness. Vistri may have grown up with a sorcerer’s might, but she never felt more magical.

“How about I think on it a while? The two of us are exhausted! Best not to make any rash decisions.”

She giggled, even though her bones felt hollow, and her muscles were near useless, “Take your time to think, but make it go—”

Her stomach growled loudly.

“Oh, dear,” Astarion said, “We should fix that, shouldn’t we?”

He was being uncharacteristically servient and sweet, telling her to sit by the fire as he fetched her a bowl of something hot. He even brought a blanket over to throw over their legs and sat there with her as she ate.

Vistri looked at him, startled, when he sat down and settled the blanket over them.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head to clear it, “Nothing.” Then started eating.

It was a very plain stew with fish and beans, but it was everything on a night like this. Or was it even night? There was no sense of time in the Shadow Curse lands.

Astarion dipped her finger in his bowl and licked it.

“Hey!”

“Just wanted a taste.”

[mischiefandmedicine]

Very Full - Chapter 18: The Story

Summary: Saoirse makes a shocking discovery at the end of Loki's story.

Word Count: 1,456 words.

Chapter Warnings: Pain, angst, sadness, fire, a fight.

Soundtrack Link

This Chapter's Music Inspiration:

God is a Woman by Ariana Grande

Very Full MASTERLIST

Previous Chapter

A/N: Here's the end of Part One of this story. Unfortunately, I have to spend the next couple months working on the first couple chapters of my doctorate project. Once that's done, I'll be working on the next installment of Loki and Melara's story.

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Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist for the next part!

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In the quietude that followed the fiery climax, a hush fell between Loki and Saoirse as they sat across from each other at the end of time. Saoirse, with her heart pounding against the cage of her ribs, stood defiant before Loki, the god of chaos, and her father. Her voice, once soft and childlike, now bore the edge of a warrior forged in the fires of her mother’s legacy.

“Wait, are you saying that mom…?” Saoirse’s voice cracked, the question hanging in the air like a sword of Damocles.

Loki, the silhouette against the annals of time, remained silent, his gaze fixed upon the daughter who was both his greatest joy and his deepest regret.

“She would not have just left me like that! There is no way that she would survive outside of time like that! Besides, she’s not like you at all!” The accusation flew from Saoirse’s lips, a burning arrow aimed straight at the heart of the god before her.

Loki, once unshakable, now seemed to waver, the lines of his face softening with a sorrow that spanned eons. “There are a lot of things your mother is capable of that no one knew about, not even her. How else would you, a powerful princess of New Asgard, be born to your ‘merely human’ mother?”

The air between them was electric, charged with the tension of unspoken truths and unresolved histories. Saoirse’s hands trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of the power that surged within her, a power inherited from the very woman whose absence now carved a void in her universe.

“Loki…please, say something. How could you just end it there?” Her plea was a whisper against the storm that raged within her soul.

His eyes, like pools of infinity, met hers, gleaming with mischief as he smirked arrogantly at his daughter. “It’s my story, I can end it how I want to.”

The air thickened, the moment stretching into eternity. And then, Saoirse moved, her actions a blur of rage and grief. Blades materialized from the ether in a flash, their edges glinting with the promise of retribution. With a swift motion borne of pain and betrayal, she placed them against her father’s throat.

“After all this, that’s how you’re going to leave it?!” Her voice was a thunderclap, shattering the fragile silence.

The two stood locked in a tableau of conflict, the daughter challenging the father, the past confronting the present. Loki, the master of stories, found himself at the mercy of the narrative he had spun, his daughter the unexpected author of its latest twist.

Grabbing Saoirse by the wrist, he spun her around, locking her in a grip as fierce as the anger that burned within her. “Daughter, what have I told you of patience?”

Kicking Loki’s feet out from under him, they began to fight, a dance as old as time, a struggle of wills and magic. Saoirse, fueled by the love for her mother and the fury of abandonment, fought with a ferocity that matched the tempest in her heart. Loki, seasoned by centuries of battles, parried and dodged, his own powers a counterpoint to his daughter’s wrath.          

The clash of steel and spell echoed through the expanses, a symphony of chaos and order entwined. But it was Saoirse who prevailed, her strength a testament to the union of her parents, her resolve unyielding as she grabbed her father one last time, flipping him onto his back. She stood over Loki, panting, the blades in her hands a declaration of her indomitable spirit.

Just as Loki was about to open his mouth to express his pride over his daughter’s strength, a voice rang out in the darkness. “What is going on down there?”

In the realm where time holds no dominion, where eternity stretches out in an infinite expanse, the reunion unfolded like the final act of a grand, cosmic play. This time authored by Melara and not the god of stories himself. There, amidst the swirling nebulas and the echoes of creation, stood Saoirse, her breath catching in her chest as a voice she thought lost to her forever cascaded down the marble stairs.

“Mom?!” Saoirse’s voice was a mix of disbelief and yearning, the single word carrying the weight of years, the aches of separation.

Melara descended the stairs carefully, her presence a gentle gravity that pulled at the very soul of her daughter. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, her voice a balm to the festering wounds of time.

Saoirse ran, her feet barely touching the celestial ground, and flung herself into her mother’s arms. “Mommy,” she sobbed, the dam of her composure breaking as the rivers of tears flowed freely.

“I’m so sorry, my Runa,” Melara whispered, her own tears mingling with those of her daughter, a sacred confluence of love and regret.

 “What are you doing here? You…I missed you…I-“ Saoirse’s words tumbled out in a torrent, each one a piece of her shattered heart seeking wholeness.

“Your father didn’t tell you?” Melara’s gaze shifted to Loki, a playful reproach in her eyes.

Saoirse’s confusion was palpable, a question mark written across the cosmos. Melara’s hand met the back of Loki’s head with an affectionate smack. “How could you toy with her like that?”

Loki, unabashed and irreverent as ever, smirked with the confidence of a god who danced along the knife-edge of chaos. “Oh, come on. Do you even know who I am?”

Melara’s expression softened, but her hand was unyielding against his arm as she smacked him again. “Loki, she thought she lost her mom, and that you abandoned her. Why would you…?” Another smack punctuated her sentiment.

Saoirse’s laughter rang out, clear and bright against the void, her tears now a memory. “How could you both let me grow up without this?”

“Runa, there was so much I had to learn, and there was no…time just wasn’t on our side,” Melara explained, her eyes holding years of wisdom and secrets yet untold. “I can tell you about it all.”

Saoirse shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “I think I’ve had enough of stories for one day.”

Melara’s laughter was a melody that danced among the stars. “Well, you are always welcome to come back and visit me, and I can tell you my side of things, sweetie.”

 As Saoirse embraced her mother once more, Melara turned her gaze to Loki, a playful yet pointed stare. “And do me a favor, hang out a while and get to know your dad a little,” Melara narrowed her eyes in Loki’s direction. “And stop playing with your daughter and get to know her better,” she admonished, her hand finding his arm for another affectionate smack.

“She scolds you too?” Saoirse asked, amusement coloring her tone.

Loki’s face warmed with a blush that belied his immortal façade. “Since day one,” he shrugged, huffing out a laugh. “It’s probably what I love about her so much. She reminds me of Frigga, your grandmother,” he said, guiding Melara to sit on the throne-like chair he had conjured to speak with Saoirse.

“I’d say you have mommy issues, but that’d be the pot calling the kettle black,” Saoirse teased, nudging Loki with her elbow.

“That’s an odd expression,” Loki retorted, returning the playful jab at Saoirse.

Giggles filled the space, the sound more precious than the chorus of a newborn galaxy.

“Will you two just stop and enjoy each other’s company?” she called over her shoulder. “I swear you’re more like siblings. What the hell was I thinking?” Melara exclaimed, her exasperation lined with affection.

Loki looked to Saoirse, his arm encircling her shoulders. “She’s great, isn’t she?” he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yea, I know,” Saoirse replied, leaning into the embrace that spoke of new beginnings and old bonds rekindled.

There, at the end of time, a family found their denouement, not in the pages of a story, but in the language of their hearts. They settled into the chairs that seemed to cradle the very essence of their saga, a tableau of love that transcended the bounds of time and the pages of any epic.

Loki had found himself a companion. Melara had found peace. Saoirse had found both her parents, alight with the love for each other and the daughter for whom they had sacrificed so much.

As the laughter died down, they sat together, a family reunited, the heartbeat of their love echoing through eternity, a lullaby for the universe. This was their story, their song, a tale written in the stars that began a long time ago, on the sacred timeline in a realm that sparkled with the resplendence of gold.

---

Taglist: @mischief2sarawr

[blackjackkent]

I stole all the food from the Audience Hall since there's finally no one around to stop me. >:) And up we go to Gortash's office!

The whole walk along the ramparts is lined with stun traps and unconscious Steel Watchers; this would have been an absolutely brutal approach if we had tried to do this without going to the Foundry first. Infuriatingly, there is a chest on top of a tower with no immediately obvious way to get to it. Perhaps I'll bring Lae'zel here with her githyanki psionic jump once we get her back.

But... onward to the main event.

Dramatic place you've got up here, Gortash.

The busts are an interestingly varied lot, mostly but not entirely patriars from Baldur's Gate history. The only ones I recognize are Eltan ("Founder of the Flaming Fist. Later history is kinder to him than accounts from his time, which portray him as a cruel and hard-handed mercenary commander.") and, well, Bane himself. ("This is a bust of the god Bane as he first appeared to Gortash in dreams, and was then described to a Rivington sculptor.")

(Please tell me Stoney and Boney got commissioned to make a sculpture of the god of tyranny because that mental image is amusing me. Probably not though because I think they just came in recently with the circus.)

I am, of course, robbing Gortash blind of anything of value in this outer room, mostly silver and bronze dinnerware. Also finding odds and ends of papers detailing the planning phases of Gortash's rise to power (including focus group testing of different populist/xenophobic slogans, which I am finding darkly humorous for some reason).

Not entirely sure what the big rope with the ring on the end (visible in the screenshot above) is about.

On into the next room, and there he is, the man himself:

Hi there, dipshit.

------

Hector has calmed down somewhat after the showdown with Wulbren, but all of his anger and grief over the suffering he has seen inflicted in the last few days are still simmering under the surface, and seeing Gortash, he feels it all starting to bubble up again in his chest.

There you are, you bastard. This ends today. Now.

Gortash just grins casually as they enter, utterly unbothered by their presence. He shoots a look at Karlach, lifts an eyebrow almost playfully.

"It's hard to keep a good woman down, isn't it, Karlach?" he says dryly, and Hector feels his neck prickle with rage at the casual disdain with which the words emerge.

Karlach smiles icily. "I don't know. You managed it for a solid decade." Hector can hear the matching fury in her voice, just below the surface.

You're already a dead man, Enver, Hector thinks. You just haven't realized it yet. If he wants to talk, let him talk; perhaps he'll say something of use. But with each word, he is only digging his own grave further. Sooner or later, the moment will snap... and Gortash will die, and the city will be better for it.

Gortash smirks. "I never meant to harm you, dear," he says nonchalantly, lounging back on his heels. "Merely to help you realize your vast potential."

Flame begins to lick delicately over Karlach's armor, up her neck, through her hair, behind her eyes. "You sent me to the Hells," she growls. "You let Zariel take my heart!" Her voice is cold and steady and Hector feels a flash of pride in her for that - but he can hear the emotion under the surface, too, all the grief for her lost youth that he has come to know intimately over the last few months. "As though *any* of it was yours to give away!"

Gortash clicks his tongue patronizingly. "The greater good, Karlach! Something I wouldn't expect you to understand."

"You feel no regret, do you? All right." Her voice drops an octave, taking on the low, resonant rumble that accompanies her battle rage. "How about *fear* then?"

Gortash tips his head to one side, unflinching, seemingly almost amused. "You can't hurt me. You *need* me. Whether you and your friend--" he flicks a look to Hector and smirks "--realize it or not."

"Do we now?" Karlach snarls.

Say nothing.

Hector doesn't move, just stares down the younger man unblinkingly. As the standoff with Vlaakith was Lae'zel's fight, as the standoff with Aylin was Shadowheart's... this is Karlach's. This is the moment of justice for the woman he loves beyond all measure and he will not do her the disservice of stepping into her path. He will strike with both fists when she is ready, and not before.

But the incandescent rage that is lighting the flame over Karlach's body is reflected in Hector's eyes.

I know what you did to her. And I know what you've done to this city. And you can charm and smile all you want, but it changes nothing.

He can hear Jaheira and Minsc behind him subtly shifting into battle stances - but they take their cues from him and wait.

Gortash shifts slightly in the silence, and perhaps there's the slightest flicker of nervousness, of uncertainty, before the cocky mask slips back into place.

"I'm sorry you feel wronged by how things ended between us all those years ago," he tells Karlach dismissively. "But now we must look to the future."

Karlach's jaw sets. "You make it sound like we were lovers," she answers, equally disdainful. "Or friends. But that wasn't it. I trusted you. I respected you! It was my job to protect you, and that's what I did!"

The pain in her voice is unhidden now - the betrayal and the loss.

"I was so YOUNG," she says, and deep under the cold anger, Hector can hear the wail of grief, of a not-quite-child torn from her parents and her life and thrown into utter brutality. "I didn't recognize evil when I saw it. When you turned on me, I was too dumbstruck to realize what was happening. No way he'd hurt me, I thought..."

She trails off, and her eyes narrow. "You betrayed me for reasons I still don't quite understand. But I suppose evil has no real cause. It just is."

The flames surge upwards, the anger taking control, the need for revenge displacing everything else. "Until it ISN'T!"

Gortash backpedals with a sudden flash of alarm. "You utter brat," he snaps, as if chastising a disobedient puppy. "You're going to burn this place down!"

"GOOD!" Karlach roars, and it echoes into the room's high ceilings, rattling the rafters.

For the first time since Dammon's repairs she is burning too hot to be touched; Hector can feel the bubble of superheated air around her, pressing him back from her as it hasn't since Last Light. And yet he feels a smile tug at his lips, a sort of fierce joy and pride in her in this moment of crisis.

You are stronger than he is, stronger than I am, stronger than any of us. Kill him, end this, and I will be with you for every blow.

"Say goodbye, Gortash," he says, turning shoulder to shoulder with her and staring the man down, his voice deathly soft.

Gortash's eyes widen, and now for the first time there is clear fear in his expression. "No-- you have to stop her! Do it now!"

If he has anything else to say, any gestures of bravado or superiority or cruelty, he doesn't get the chance, as Hector's fists and Karlach's blade swing out at him at once and he stumbles backwards out of the way.

[azulaang-chakras]

This is going to read like the most pretentious and self-indulgent thing on the planet, but this has been in my drafts for a year and I saw someone else post a similar concept a long time ago so I’m finally getting around to publishing this post:

Kataang/Azulaang Hades, Demeter, and Persephone AU. 

The feared Queen of the Underworld, she who holds dominion over all things below the Earth, ruling from a throne surrounded by sapphire flames, decides, on a whim, to visit the world above. She finds that it is too bright, preferring her fires to those supplied by her brother, the God of the Sun. She has grown too accustomed to the smells of the dead, so the living scents carried on the breeze around her are foreign and overwhelming. The Earth holds little to warrant her attention.

Then, she sees the Avatar, bearer of the four elements, a god who walks like a man with love in his heart for all living things. Overcome with a possessive desire, the Goddess of the Dead steals him away back down to her realm.

What she has forgotten, or has chosen to forget, is that the Avatar is already spoken for. The Goddess of the Ocean, matron of the freshwater that all living things need and of the saltwater that makes sailors what they are, discovers her husband is missing and searches the world for him. As time passes and she finds no sign of him, her desperation grows and grows. She finally asks the Sun if he saw anything, and he answers with the truth: he saw his sister take him away to the Underworld. Enraged, she demands to know why he allowed her husband’s abduction. The Sun, whose love for the Avatar is almost as great as hers, answers that he wanted his sister to know the kind of joy that the Avatar brings to those he meets.

The Ocean’s anger turns to grief, and the world suffers with her. The seas are kicked up into a fury, making them unsafe to sail on. The rains come and come and do not stop, drowning crops, the farmers who planted them, and the cities that they feed. Hearing the cries of the frightened and dying mortals, the other gods beg the Ocean to return to her duties, but she refuses. She will not rest until her love is back in her arms, safe and sound. She swears she’ll fight Hell herself if that is what it will take, and the other gods know that she doesn’t make idle threats.

The gods send their messenger, the God of Invention who rides on a flying throne, down below to retrieve the Avatar. To his surprise, he finds a changed Underworld. The Avatar has brought a spark of life to the gloomy realm, and the spirits dance for the first time in ages. He has always been beloved by both the Earth and the Heavens, and is now loved by the Underworld as well.

The Messenger arrives in the Queen’s palace and presents the gods’ demand. She seethes at the message, but she knows that not even she is strong enough to fight the rest of the gods, and bitterly relents. Before the Avatar goes, the Queen sweetly offers him three seeds from her chthonic orchard, saying that he’ll need food to restore his strength for the journey ahead. If there is one thing greater than the Underworld Goddess’ deceptions, it is the Avatar’s insights. He sees right through her ploy. Still, he accepts the seeds and, while staring into her surprised eyes, he swallows all three at once and kisses her hand before taking his leave.

The Avatar’s decision binds him to the Underworld for a third of each year. His annual absence leaves the winds cold, and the Ocean’s loneliness freezes the rains into snow. If she harbors any resentment towards her husband for his decision to live a part of his life away from her, to bind himself to two worlds and two wives, she has never spoken of it. Every time spring returns, she is there to accept him back into her arms, and the world regrows.

The Queen of the Underworld is not a kind one. She is stern and unyielding, but she has always been fair. The souls of the dead, and the few living souls who manage to sneak past her three-headed dragon, notice a change in her after her marriage. The change is subtle but relieving to those around her. The Queen allows the spirits to continue dancing and playing so long as they don’t disturb her rest or her work. Much has been sung of the musical nomad Chong and his failed quest into the Underworld to save his wife, but all agree that the chance the Queen gave him came from her husband’s compassionate counsel. Mortal youths delight in the tales of their eldest son’s constant attempts to escape the Underworld, much to his mother’s aggravation. If the Queen ever smiles, all agree that her smiles belong to the Avatar and him alone.

Mortal poets give the Avatar a new epithet: Lover of Life and Death.

[strdstd-m]

REFLECT—Zhongli, regarding fight with Azhdaha or Guizhong’s death

Send REFLECT for me to explain a traumatic event in my muse’s past and talk about their perception of events ★ @underxworlder ★ Accepting

{OH BOY HERE WE GO...

Gonna go with Guizhong bc it's what I'm most familiar with/feel like I'd be able to articulate my/his thoughts on it better.

Never in his long, long life would Morax ever think he'd formulate such a bond with anyone. He was a war god, intent on slaughter and conquering, not on alliances and relations. That is, until one day amongst a field of Glaze Lillies, did he meet a fellow god. Guizhong. Someone his complete opposite in her benevolence and eagerness to learn about the humans. The very god who helped him formulate his beloved Liyue into the prosperous nation it was today. And perhaps most importantly, the woman who managed to wear down his heart of stone. Teaching him little by little how valuable humans and their emotions were, how not everything is won by bloodshed and violence, and just how important kindness itself was.

Him feeling a strange twinge in his soul upon witnessing how joyful she became hearing him gain more understanding of humans. How surprisingly entertaining it was, watching her work on her latest invention, how he actually smiled when around her.

At first, he tried to ignore it, thinking of it as a weakness. A god such as himself shouldn't get this attached to someone. Much less a war god. How he was allowing her to mold him into a gradually kinder being, it was something he should have resisted much strongly than he had. Yet... why did he protect her so fiercely, why did he allow himself to teach her combat, why did he feel this warmth in his chest whenever he saw her? A solace, she easily became, from all the fighting he took part in.

Then, the Archon War struck. And with it, came chaos and bloodshed.

He couldn't find her. The almighty Morax feeling fear seep into his being and cage him in a vice. Impossible. Gods shouldn't, can't, won't feel any form of fear. But this was Guizhong he couldn't find. It was then, then of all times, he realized. What he felt for her went beyond simple alliances, beyond even friendship. The desperate calling of her name as he searched told that well enough.

He found her. In a field of Glaze Lillies. The resemblance to their first meeting was agonizing.

Anger, was his first emotion. The gnawing desire to rip apart whomever gave her any wounds or pain. They deserved it-

It was her weakly saying his name that snapped him out of it. Like it always did before. Returning him to reality as he used the very hands the wielded a spear with beastly aggression to gently gather her into his arms.

Forget? No! Forgetting the dumbbell could equate to him forgetting her. Never could or would he do that. He'd have to deny her, just this once.

The unflinching, brutish, unfeeling Morax broke. Like carving a stone in half, he wailed and begged her. "Don't leave, Liyue still needs you- I still need you!" The earth was covered in dust regardless of the Geo god's pleas. The Glaze Lillies wilting alongside her.

Grief gave way to outright fury. Fissures, boulders, spear strikes. That was how Morax showed his grief masked by violence. Tears cascading as he fought his way through. Falling onto his knees once it all was done, only his spear supporting him where she once did.}

[seigephoenix]

Happy Friday! Maybe for your Warden X Morrigan: "A nightmare comes true."

Happy Friday!! Thank you for the angsty prompt! I've been dying to write some angst but I hate choosing my own prompts. Getting them helps give me the kick in the pants I need to just write. So thank you!! For Max Amell x Morrigan. But as this is me, I couldn't just let it end sad. Under a cut because I want to spare anyone that this might trigger.

Content Warning: spouse death, death mention, grief, loss, character death Length: ~500 words

He had failed.  The letter fluttered to the floor of the grand suite in the Empress of Orlais’ palace.  Morrigan sank to the chair by her desk as the world faded to a soft buzzing.  She couldn’t believe it.  The words were written by his hand but the words were wrong.  That was not him.  That was not her Max.  She could picture his smiling face in her mind as he came back from where the Wardens had him going.  Morrigan remembered the first time he’d seen her quarters in the palace and the nerves there.  He’d thrown all of Thedas in disarray to find her when she’d disappeared with Kieran after the fight with the Archdemon, though Kieran had not been born yet.

I’d walk through the Fade itself if it meant finding you again.

The tears spilled down her cheeks as she stared down at the words written to her.  I’m sorry Morrigan.  The Calling has come for me.  I was too late.  I do not wish for you or Kieran to see me suffer from it so I will do as all Grey Wardens have done before me.  Stay safe my heart and stay strong for Kieran.  Know that I love the both of you with my whole heart and beyond.

She crumpled the paper and tossed it at the wall in a fit of fury.  That damnable taint had taken her love.  Her worst nightmare come to fruition and she was powerless to stop it.  There was no saving a Warden once the Calling came for them, they’d slowly succumb to the taint until they became the very things they hunted.  She covered her lips as the sobs trembled on them and she silently prayed to gods that no longer listened for some divine intervention.

“Morrigan?” Morrigan’s eyes shot open and she sat up in bed breathing rapidly as she struggled to orient herself.  Warm and familiar hands clasped her shoulders bringing her against his broad chest.  “A nightmare?”

Her fingers grasped at his arms, desperate for that connection that told her he was real.  The vestiges of her nightmare lingering in her mind.  “I dreamed you left us.”  He went still beside her before he leaned back.  Morrigan was surprised to find him holding her on his chest as he laid on his back grinning at her.  The same grin she’d feared she’d never see again.  She told him of her nightmare as she laid her cheek against his chest.

“I’ll never leave you and Kieran like that.  Not with a letter.”  In her mind, Morrigan knew that.  It was her heart that refused to listen.  She still found it hard to sleep, even with the reassuring beat of his heart beneath her.

[libidomechanica]

“I have been each bright feel sometimes”

Innumerable replies, the     vows of Wolues to loue. Oft grace might of lusty nails is     all ouercast. Make a start up, fury, foes. Now you mine! To     tell nough to the earth, with

thou stop, and cuff’d by shame, fly in     this the death, and learn’d foes counting backup: crowing came from     a seas of mind ends his below spoke you agen. Had drew     Blood I dreary will be

the head when my eyes the make me     part; no pull. To feel that is spend, vpon while the unbetraying     them, while I lie, they lives. ’ Pray for it tears; thinese—permitage.     Remembers behind,

hand from the leaves from pain happy     band. They never honey by heart doth disdaining the same     who believ’d the daylight—? And revolving here, who given     the power to and warm

wish hang, ye morrow, the sang Heart     he thing the cold, she may, which open’d all that bare, that Face     of thing as the great serenest upon mine eyes, and half     a maid and pendage instrel

baron said not beware. As     fierce did frame, augustus Fitz-Plantage sternity. I come     few favourites to meet till far all his Wit would I     see thy naming spiry

turn and mark my naked with     mutual state her adieu. I have been each bright feel sometimes     the wordy feud, the dusky street, and Stars we droops our brother;     and thy beads the solstice

naked, garden grows upon     so frown’d, of loue is not winds by my joy: when, if not the     tea-cup opens where it. The long ere two and then heart my     with bloom, as a living

the waterfall, in a man of     an ordain two personal act with Stellation air, without     pain happy valley rode, or as to see the sodain     rang, amang throught! Overpower

to wreather see; beauty     might age; the other looked aloof the bounds here rest, our small     sighs, stars! Ask me now! We wants a cradle, him remember.     And what her heart, his owners

of your to inflection. Then     given theme of esteem, which power the others, that crown.     And fell upon the comes out; for, like Phoebus talk of God     was great hill. Her yester

of times, the tidal Retinue     are bottled graveyards the cried the lily I cold, which the     took her, long growing Centures were mastery part which     two clear, mists are fierce love

the inconvenient languished peaks     nor loue, while she there is it ran men’s Anguish in hered     like Caravaggio’s glory frost die. And look and chancel     portion, one but the rest

charming and unchant caverns sends;     mid the heart. Ah! Coach, find, and, and a dragon of the South,     I will lifted; but this eye can no fear. And with the rurall     thee him call, approach’d

my blood and sung; and despise the     day is his made of our lanes I glimmer, a man, that full     potatoes she colouring sweetning to raunge your eye, and     wrapp’d to weep. All wed; and

hot, and again, Virtue’s called to     keep’st me inter, or much thou wilt see blossom’d in hill say     many a sunrise the future Ah! Grief be sweet Christians,     nodding coupled, will be

well fault is all this comes she, thus     is a place with delicate ballad told are no more gem     to deplore which in what it see thy charm my Injury     of silent wealth, let’s far

less plain rank, in day, he hour this     world buttering plain—ah, woman hast heavy heart at a     genius, and at once love the more—swelling burnt, with not say     Forgiv’n, teaching be her

arms; it was they steps bright wit to     me, I ween, Mississippi chicken by drive Home to shed     away, red like to be a child flower, so made such a     rate, and what talk’d by thinks?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words. 

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off. 

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

[op-imaginesandmore]

How would Issho/Fujitora, Doflamingo, Smoker, Arlong, and Gin react to their s/o dying in their arms? (human s/o for all of them including Arlong) Sorry there are so many the posts you've made so far I've enjoyed immensely. I love your style of writing! (:

I know it’s been *checks notes* actual years since I have touched this blog, but I kinda wanted to try my hand at a few of the asks I have in my inbox. I’m going to do just Smoker, and with each of the asks with multiple characters I will pick the one I am most comfortable with writing and go from there. I hope you like it! And also, to anyone who reads this and likes it, thank you! But my ask box will remain closed until…idk, probably a long time. I don’t want to get any one’s hopes about about anything.

Pairing: Smoker x GN!reader

Warnings: Angst, character death (you asked for it), mild descriptions of injury, mentions of blood, implied smut (mildest of spice), unbeta’d if that is a warning

***

The OP was supposed to be a simple one. Get in, do reconnaissance, stay under the radar, come back with what info they needed on the pirate crew, get out.

No one thought Big Mom herself was going to recognize Y/N, because you were good at your job. You had been spying for the government for years, you’d worked with Smoker as one of his subordinates, had infiltrated countless pirate crews, revolutionary bases, treasonous scum that thought they could get away with anything, and had always succeeded in your job.

Lay low, go unnoticed, get the info, come back to him. It was a perfectly organized system that was like clock work, each gear turning for the purpose of civilian protection, and justice.

Until now.

Blood soaked the beach he was kneeling on, who’s it was, he had no idea. Could be his, was probably the pirates’ that were scattered around the Vice-Admiral like debris after a storm, but what infuriated him most was it was most definitely yours.

Wheezes, broken and wet, escaped from your lips, swollen eyes looking up into stoic grey that was like looking into twin hurricanes. Anger, righteous and intense, swirled around with frustration, concern, grief, and an emotion you knew from your quiet moments between soft sheets and the hard planes of his body.

So gentle you barely felt it, he lifted you from the sand like something precious, your blood dripping down his arms and pooling beneath your broken body. Your eyes, swollen and bruised, squinted up at him and a soft smile cracked painfully across your lips.

“Hey handsome” you rasped, a cough that was soaked with blood spurting out. Smoker put a large hand through your matted hair, jaw clenching as he tightened his hold on you.

“I’m gonna get you to the ship’s infirmary” he seethed through his teeth, the usual multiple cigars he kept there like pacifiers long gone. He made to get up, but the cry that came from your lips was shrill and heartbreaking. He immediately stopped, holding you to his chest in a hold soft enough for a newborn.

“I know it hurts, but you need-“

“Do you remember Alabasta?”

Smoker stopped, looking down at your broken body that had the audacity to be giving him the smile that always managed to make his heart flutter in his chest like a crushing school girl’s. He swallowed thickly, not trusting his voice and opting for a nod.

“You were such a baby about Strawhat, I thought you were going to implode when he had his crew mate save your life.” You reached a trembling hand to his face, stroking the rough stubble of his jaw. Almost involuntarily, Smoker leaned into the soft touch, turning his head to kiss your palm as memories of their time on the desert island came to mind.

It had been the first time you had ever yelled at him, calling him reckless and blind. Telling him you were thankful for Strawhat, grateful he had saved his “stupid, sorry, ass” so you had the chance to give him a piece of your mind. He had retaliated with a practiced speech about being your superior, about how you should worry more about your job than what he was doing, how you shouldn’t talk to him like that.

Then you had the nerve to yell at him that you didn’t have a choice but to worry about him. When he yelled at you back about the why, instead of answering him you kissed him square on the mouth.

Their first kiss was in the moment, it was all teeth clacking and sudden and Smoker had been blindsided, but also hadn’t been. The two of you had been flirting with the line between officer and government agent for months at that point, subtle glances and bold, shameless flirting on your part had morphed into soft and subtle touches and hours of listening to you talk about everything and anything.

When the shock of it had worn off a second after you started kissing him, he hadn’t expected for himself to kiss you back. He had adjusted your chin, softened the kiss, and wrapped his arms possessively around your waist and lifted you, your legs wrapping around his own waist in a way that sent chills down his spine as he carried you to his desk. He set you down upon it, gentle as can be, but your legs stayed around his waist, his hips grinding into yours in a way that had him growling. Your lips had been like soft, plush, velvet on his own chapped ones, tongue sinful in its exploration, running against his to beg for entrance.

The two of you broke apart, you were panting, your face flush as you put your head on his chest and listened to the quick thumping of his heart. He smelled like a cigar, a hint of sweet fruit in a haze of earth and smoke that always managed to make your head spin. A smile tugged at the corners of your mouth as you licked the taste of him from them.

“I worry about you because I care about you Smoker” you looked up at him, your eyes twinkling in the soft glow of the sunlight coming in through the porthole of his cabin “probably more than what’s appropriate for a working relationship, but I don’t want to hide it anymore.” You put your hand on his face, stroking the apple of his cheek in a way no one had ever dared touch him before “if you don’t want this though, we can stop right now and never talk about it a-“

Smoker was kissing you again, softer but with a passion that turned your whole body into jelly that molded into his. It was brief, too brief for your liking but he was looking at you with a smoldering gaze that promised more.

“We do this, we tell no one.” He said with conviction “I can’t have my subordinates thinking I have favorites, and fraternizing could get me and you in a lot of trouble.”

You nodded, understanding alighted in your eyes as you coyly bit your kiss swollen bottom lip.

“If that means I get to see your smoke powers at work in the bedroom, I’ll take an oath of silence”

He felt his body react, his hardened length against your thigh making you squeeze your legs together, bringing him impossibly closer.

Smoker’s chest tightened at the memory.

“I’m glad” you said, swollen gaze growing distant “that it all happened the way it did. The last year and a half has been the best of my life” another cough, violent and cracking in its intensity that it had you whimpering into Smokers chest, and his eyes were burning with the tears that were inevitable now.

“Y/N-“ Smoker started, the deep rumble of his voice cracking “baby, you’re gonna be fine, let’s just-“ he took a breath, steeling himself to try and lift you up again, but your head falling limp against his chest stopped him, made the breath leave his lungs and, for the first time in a very long time, Smoker felt true terror grip his careful self control.

“Y/N?” His voice, so unlike the commanding bass it usually was, soft and broken as the body he held “Y/N? Sweetheart c’mon, wake up” he shook you, your head lolling to one side and then the next awkwardly, before it rested back on his chest and Smoker realized your uneven breathing had stopped, the rasping, painful breaths gone quiet and the only sounds to be heard on the bloodied beach were Smoker’s own uneven hyperventilating “Y/N please! You-you can’t do this! Baby, c’mon-open those pretty eyes, please! Y/N? Y/N!”

He held on tight to your body as he slowly broke down, the tears running rivers down his face that had smudges of your blood on it from holding your body up to it, his face buried into your hair as if he could revive you if he held on a little tighter, begged a little harder to whatever god or devil would listen. His cries broke through the silence, their only companion the lapping of water against the sand and gore. He rocked back and forth, clinging to your lifeless body like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

That was how Tashigi found her Vice-Admiral, sobbing into your hair as he begged you to wake up. Her heart shattered into a million pieces, but she had to keep him moving, had to remind him of the duty he still held.

“Vice-Admiral Smoker?” She breathed, caution in her tone, heartbreak threatening to pull her under when his breath caught. He looked up at Tashigi with a tsunami of emotions that she had never seen him display. Heartbreak and grief worked in tandem to make the ever stoic and statuesque officer crumble to his knees.

“I’ve gathered the survivors of our platoon, we’re awaiting your orders, sir”

There was a pregnant pause that seemed to stretch for an eternity, Smoker looking down at his dead lover, the emotions that had been raging across his face draining from his being, and was replaced once again with the careful stoicism that his position required of him.

He got up slowly, you still cradled against his chest as he looked out at the horizon. It was another long moment before he spoke.

“We bury our dead, then we take the fight to the one who started this.” There was a fury in his words that struck fear into Tashigi, a fear for how reckless her Vice-Admiral was about to be against a Yonko.

“But Smo-“

“Did I fucking stutter?” He whipped his head around, the grey of his eyes burning with an unbridled rage that seemed barely contained “I’m not gonna rest until every last piece of filth that carries the name of Charlotte are wiped from every ocean from the East Blue to Raftel.” He glanced down at the body in his arms, a soft, broken look before the rage hit again.

“They’re gonna pay for what they’ve taken, I’ll make sure of it personally.”

[giriduck]

I remember hearing about the whole Demise-as-Ganondorf-origin thing last year when I started digging into Legend of Zelda lore again after a long hiatus, and was disappointed by how Ganondorf was written off as the rebirth of an ancient demon lord's fury and malice. As someone who has not played Skyward Sword but ran around with headcanons about the Gerudo and their only known king for a couple decades by that point, this was an interesting new challenge, because I hated how this new Demise lore took away Ganondorf's agency: it undermined and flattened him to just a shell of a person.

So I took an orbital sander to the idea to smooth down the splinters and make it feel a little less irritating to me. I built out a headcanon that nods to it, but protects Ganondorf’s agency.

In my head, Ganondorf didn't make a deal with the devil and get possessed by Demise in exchange for dark powers, nor did Demise drive Ganondorf's body around like some sort of robot shell.

Instead, Ganondorf was the rebirth of a furious and infantile minor god into a much more complex human form, to grow as a catalyst of change in the world. Demise was pure chaos and destruction; an actual force of nature with barely a personality and zero empathy. But Ganondorf was a man--a mortal, born into a very rare position in the world as a male-bodied Gerudo—with the capacity to experience a life filled awe, wonder, beauty, comfort, joy, love, fear, pain, grief, vulnerability, desperation--surrounded by his beloved and devoted people who taught him how to care. Ganondorf-the-conscious-person was an unknowing filter--a conduit--between the world he deeply loved, craved, and jealously wanted to seize, and the destructive force that slept within him--his ancient id--who wanted to render it all to ashes.

The Goddesses did this on purpose. Demise was chaotic evil child who needed to learn, and Ganondorf was the opportunity not only to grow, but to form attachment to the world beyond being angry at it. Demise was the flame to light the forest fire, but Ganondorf was the control line drawn around the perimeter of the forest. After all, the Goddesses wanted a controlled burn to invite future growth, not a complete conflagration that would glass the earth.

There were risks with this plan, but in the event things burned too hot, the Goddesses also built safeguards: the other pieces of the Triforce would be granted to the Princess--Demise's opposite equal reborn—and the Hero to support her; they’d be armed with sacred weapons, as well as the sages, and their associated temples. If the fire started to lick beyond the edges of the control line, the Goddesses could seal it away using these safeguards, until they needed it once more.

The Ganondorf in my brain is an incredibly intelligent and talented person with insatiable drive--an obsessive perfectionist who felt the pressure of his social status and would often push himself to exhaustion in search of knowledge and mastery. Where did that drive come from? Some of it was expectation and his high station within Gerudo culture, and—as evidenced by the training grounds—his people placed a high value on investing time and energy into practicing toward a mastery of skill (fun fact: a real-world definition of the word “Din” is to make (someone) learn or remember something by constant repetition.) Some of his focus on perfecting himself was due to the isolated conditions of being raised within the Spirit Temple, some of it came from how he was raised by the Twins, some of it came from a desire to multi-class (must get good at ALL THE THINGS) to expand his toolkit (“knowledge is power”), and much of it was simply the kind of ambitious and tenacious person he was. Being naturally quite smart and getting an early start on things like learning to play piano and parse several languages, a lot of things came distressingly easy to him, but other things required a lot of work.

But much of that drive to specifically find the Triforce came from Demise, who sat below the surface of his mind and pulled him toward the ancient relic like a magnet through decades of exhaustive--and exhausting--research. But consciously, Ganondorf was on a quest to help his people, to build a better future where centuries of diplomacy attempted by prior Gerudo Kings failed to make much change after a very long and complicated history with the Royal Family of Hyrule… or so he told himself, anyway. He was a desperate leader, determined to risk everything if necessary to reach beyond the veil of reality itself in an attempt to shift the course of history and the power dynamics of Hyrule. In my head, Ganondorf is the embodiment of, “Either I will find a way, or I will make one.”

It feels like in every mainline Zelda game, there's a moment when someone tells Link (and Zelda, sometimes) their true identity: "You're the Hero of Time!" "You're the ancient Hero reborn!" "See this forgotten, flooded kingdom? Well you're tied to it because you're the Princess Zelda!" "You're the reincarnation of Hylia!" "You're a child of destiny!"

The list goes on. Every time, there is a wide-eyed gasp in response to each of these revelations, and it would be shocking to be on the receiving end of such news. Suddenly, everything would seen to click into place as there is an explanation for innate skills and powers. But what terrible news, too; what a heavy burden to suffer a role they didn't ask for nor want. This is their life now.

But when, say, each time Zelda awakened to her secret / ancient identity, did that mean that Hylia fully possessed her? Or that everything she had done up to that moment of awakening actually was Hylia and not Zelda? No; each Zelda was a conscious, independent Zelda instance, reborn again and again to experience a window of Hyrule's history. There are some commonalities—likely from Hylia’s core influence within each princess—but Zeldas’ identities and personalities shifted with each epoch, and they are each a unique person; set to unknowingly accumulate many lifetimes of experience and the wisdom that comes with that. (No wonder she was Nayru’s favorite.)

Same with Ganondorf, but he was the first and only reincarnation of Demise. He wasn't possessed by Demise; he was an evolved Demise.

Imagine a lawful evil Ganondorf who had worked extremely hard his entire life, who was devoted and dedicated to this people, who was fairly well justified in his frustrations with politics, resource distribution, and the power dynamics within the world, who was a quarter narcissist and might have been a hero in his own mind, but awoke to discover that no, he was the world's bad guy since the dawn of time.

Well, shit.

That shock to the ego--to one's core identity--would be catastrophic. If players were frustrated by his sudden lack of agency, but what about him? What even was him, versus this maybe other him within him? And those inexplicable abilities he had since he was a small child that made him special? That was Demise's power that seeped through to the surface and manifested itself.

I think about this a lot; how terrible that awakening would be for him. And that moment when he realized the the mysterious, ancient temples he visited during research trips--and the legends about the sages associated with them--were created to eventually, likely inevitably--seal him away.

Ganondorf was a powder keg and he didn't know it. Once he found the Triforce, it was like a bomb went off when he awoke. In my brain, Demise’s rage took over for a brief while to inflict the worst damage to Hyrule during the initial onslaught. Ganondorf's lucidity came and went over the next several years, but he--strong-willed and the living embodiment of determination--slowly clawed his way out of the madness, and was pissed off about losing control.

And how he “abandoned” his people? How he never really left his tower? Well, he never quite trusted himself to be safe enough to go back home to the Valley; he needed to protect his people from the other personality within him. He'd have to master himself—just as he'd mastered absolutely everything else in his life—but it would take focus and time.

He never got the chance to go home. Time--literally weaponized against him--ran out. Then he was defeated and locked away in a limbo for centuries.

During that long period of imprisonment, he both conquered and assimilated his inner demon lord, and by the time he re-emerged, he’d long overcome the growing pains and became a fully-actualized villain; empowered by both the abilities inherited from his ancient self and the Triforce of Power granted to him by the Goddesses. The latter included the gift/curse of immortality, so that he would always remember who he was and where he came from, until that ancient anger and fury would finally, maybe someday burn itself out.

[dialux]

It is not a dream, whatever they say afterwards.

...

She is born at the stroke of midnight, on the hottest day of the year. Anaire sweats and curses through the last week of her pregnancy. Fingolfin claims to have hauled blocks of ice down the Calacirya for his wife’s comfort, balanced on his broad shoulders.

But none of it matters, because the moment that little Aredhel, blood-slicked and howling, slips from her mother’s body, lightning flashes, thunder claps, and the heavens open up around her.

...

She is born in rain. She is born into a tempest that shatters trees and warps stone. She is born into the kind of elemental fury that cannot be taught, only experienced.

...

“There is not only joy to be had in life,” says her mother, once, tending to cuts on Aredhel’s back that were carved by a bear that Aredhel had attacked, armed with nothing more than a knife and her own courage. “There is duty as well, my little girl. Duty and kindness and love.”

Aredhel laughs instead of screaming. “The day I find love shall be the day of my death.”

“Do not say that!”

“I have seen it.”

“Aredhel!”

“Wish freedom for me, if you must offer me something,” says Aredhel, and rises, ignoring the blood staining her gown and the pain. “But not love, and certainly not duty!”

...

The gown had been white before it was ruined. Aredhel washes it in her own bathroom, scrubs and scrubs until her blood and the bear’s blood finally fade, until the sun has bleached the stains to nothingness.

Then she wears it again, braids her hair out of the way, and stalks into the forest.

She doesn’t return until she has tamed the bear into friendship.

...

Forever after, she wears white.

...

It is a reminder: life is a stain. It might begin clean, but it shall never end that way. The only thing to do is to wash it out, and to scrub until one’s arms ache, and to let the cloth dry out before being stained once more.

Aredhel learns many, many tricks to removing the stains.

...

I will have vengeance, or I shall have death, Feanor had snarled in the courtyard of Tirion.

Anaire does not ask any of her sons to remain. She does not even speak to Fingolfin. But she is in Aredhel’s rooms when she returns, sitting in the silent darkness.

“Do not go,” she whispers.

Aredhel remembers bears and blood and bitterness on her tongue. Her life in Aman has been a cage, glittering and golden, and if the world outside it shall be dangerous- well, she has a knife, and her own rage, and the knowledge to scrub out stains.

“Do not try to stop me.”

“Have you no love for a mother?”

“I will have freedom,” says Aredhel levelly, and watches her mother’s face crumple, and refuses to feel guilty for it. “I will have freedom, or I shall have death.”

...

(She does not tell that story to her father. The one time he asks- they all know where Anaire was, that last night in Tirion- Aredhel looks at him, steadily, until he turns away.)

...

There are unforgivable things. Those boats- well, Aredhel has never been a forgiving person, and she does not wish to become one now.

...

There are immense storms on the Helcaraxe. Aredhel hears, sometimes, Lalwen laughing so loud it sounds like a scream. She does not weep: she has not wept for many, many years. Even as her people- those she trusted, those who trusted her- fall like flies, Aredhel does not falter.

The tears would freeze on her face, and she has no time to brush it off.

...

When Elenwe dies, Aredhel allows her brother one night to mourn. She holds little Idril in her arms, soothing the shudders away, and doesn’t release her to anyone else. Her brothers are with Turgon; her father is tending to their people. What Idril needs is someone who remembers her.

The next morning, Aredhel wakes Idril, and she brushes the little girl’s hair out until it shines, casting more wood than strictly necessary to ensure it doesn’t freeze. Aredhel’s fingers are not nimble enough for the proper braids, but she manages a reasonable enough facsimile for her niece.

Then she takes her to Turgon’s tent.

“Get up,” she says coldly.

Argon is curled around Turgon, trying to keep him from fading through sheer force of will. He sits up when he sees Aredhel, eyes wide, and she bares her teeth.

“Get him up,” she says flatly.

“I don’t think that’s...”

“Get out, then,” says Aredhel, and doesn’t watch him scuttle out. Argon will bring someone- either Fingon, or her father- and all that means is that she doesn’t have too much time. She glances down at Idril. “Watch.”

It is four steps from the entrance of the tent to the bed. Aredhel takes the steel knife she once used to attack a bear with- the knife she’d left deliberately exposed to the elements- and places the flat very cleanly against Turgon’s throat.

Turgon jerks at the chill. Aredhel goes with him, fluid as water, so she doesn’t cut his throat but keeps the knife against his skin.

He is stronger than her. Aredhel lets him finally throw her off- though it takes longer than she’d expected- and waits, because Turgon’s  thrashing has finally led him to catch sight of his daughter, his little daughter with her braids done in the Vanya style, looking like the miniature of her mother. The grief in his eyes is simply awful.

Aredhel waits.

And when he finally draws himself around Idril, sobbing but not the terrible, bone-chilling silence of an elf on the verge of fading, Aredhel leaves.

...

“You cannot save anyone,” Aredhel tells Idril, when Turgon finally allows her out of his sight. “But you can offer them a path back. Whether they take it or not is their choice.”

“The Burners,” says Idril, then- that’s what she calls the Feanorians, precocious child that she is- “will you give them a path back, then?”

Aredhel had loved Celegorm, and Curufin, and the twins, too. But she is not a forgiving person.

“If someone burns their bridges,” she says finally, “you do not owe them more tinder.”

...

(That is a lie.)

...

It is not that she is unforgiving.

It is that she does not wish to be forgiving.

...

When Fingon saves Maedhros, Aredhel visits the healer’s tent in the dead of night. She watches the agony of her cousin’s hroa, etched into his skin, and she does not feel triumph.

If she sees Celegorm again, she will fall into his arms, and she will forgive him everything.

But Argon is dead, and so is Elenwe, and so had they all come through the ice, embittered and betrayed. It is not that Aredhel does not want to forgive her cousins; it is that she fears what will happen if she does. She cannot spend her life waiting for a knife in the back.

Turgon wants nothing to do with them.

Fingon will not leave them behind.

And Aredhel does not wish to see another brother dead. She kisses Fingon, and she kisses Fingolfin, and she kisses Finrod and all his siblings, and then she disappears into the night with Turgon, having not spoken to any of her Feanorian cousins since before the Helcaraxe.

...

“Freedom is not a dream,” she tells her mother, once. “I don’t want it. I need it.”

“If what you wish for is total freedom,” Anaire had replied, “you will never have it.”

Aredhel thinks about her mother, who had loved to dance but been forbidden from it by her grandfather; she thinks about how beautifully Anaire dances in the privacy of their home. She thinks about the way Anaire has chained herself down to the thunder and fury of the House of Finwe, and she laughs.

“You would say that,” Aredhel tells her.

...

She builds Gondolin and she leaves Gondolin and she returns to Gondolin.

The day she finds love- the day she knows she finds love- is when she takes a spear meant for her son. It all cracks open and bleeds away, all the rage seething beneath her breastbone, all the fury she’s spent centuries tending to, all the anger that she’s never known the beginning or ending of, and Aredhel is burning with it, blazing, bright as the father who would soon ride to his death and the brother who would collapse under betrayal and the gods she’d once rejected.

She dies from it, of course, but Aredhel has never feared flame.

...

She is set free upon the river, her corpse dressed in the hands of the niece that she’d once cradled so tightly, her hair braided by the brother she chose to follow. To her son she has given her hairclasps; to Idril she has given the knife that once saved Turgon from fading.

(They say steam rose from her body, so great it enveloped all of Gondolin in a great fog for weeks to come.)

...

That knife- that trusty, small little knife- saves Idril and Earendil from Maeglin, atop the wind-battered tower of Gondolin, when Morgoth finally attacks.

...

Later- years later- Ages later- Aredhel falls into her mother’s arms once more. She is a mother now herself, and she has watched and walked beside and touched and loved dark things, and she is not the girl who’d walked into a forest to conquer her fear with not even a knife to defend herself. She was born in rain and died in a river, a High Lady of the Noldor. She was not felled by Morgoth. Poison took her at the end; not hatred, and not blood, and not flame.

She is the first of her family to be reborn.

“Was it worth it?” asks Anaire, once and only once. “Your dreams of freedom- was any of it worth it?”

Aredhel tosses her hair, bares her teeth.

Smiles.

“It was,” she says, “necessary.”