#i did consider 'east of the sun west of the moon'

[fictionadventurer]

Prompt: fairy-tale heroine of your choice wakes up with amnesia. (Maybe her husband has to explain how they got married?)

Purity of Mind

Dora looked so innocent, asleep on her bed. The fresh white bandages binding her crown looked more like a mark of holiness than disaster. The doctor claimed she'd fallen from a balcony and hit her head upon a stair rail. Adam thought it seemed too suspicious an accident. A disaster on the one day he'd left the house? His sure-footed little wife wouldn't have stumbled like that--not unless she were nearly out of her wits. Perhaps fleeing from some great terror.

"She'll wake soon," the doctor assured him. "Her body's healed enough, but with a head injury like that, there's no telling what state her brain will be in."

The state itself, Adam thought, would be telling enough.

As if roused by the doctor's words, Dora's eyelids fluttered. She sat up, pale and trembling. Her gaze landed upon Adam, and she started to scream.

"Who are you?" she shrieked, gathering the bedclothes to cover herself. "What are you doing in my room?"

Adam had steeled himself for the usual accusations, but this left him off-balance.

Finally, he managed to say, "Dora, it's just me. Adam. Your husband."

"I have no husband!"

"We wed six months ago."

"Liar!" she shrieked. "I'd never marry a man with such an awful beard!"

Adam stroked his blue-black whiskers, neatly trimmed for his homecoming. A deep chuckle rumbled in his throat; after months of her tiptoeing around him, her frankness was amusing. "I paid your parents richly for the privilege."

Dora paused at that. The mercenary child of mercenary parents--the tale would ring true, no matter her objections to his facial hair. Yet the bewilderment didn't fade from her face. "I've never seen this house before."

"You've been mistress here six months."

"I don't believe you."

"Whether you believe me or not, it's true. You fell from a staircase and hit your head."

Her eyes were fire. "I'll bet you pushed me!"

"I was away from home. I only just returned." He would never have opted for such an impersonal death. It was much more satisfying to feel the life draining away beneath his fingers.

The thought brought him back to reality. No need to wrestle with her delusions; only one truth mattered.

"Dora," Adam asked. "Where are the keys?"

"What keys?"

"I left the keys of the house in your keeping. I'll need them returned."

"I never had any keys!"

Adam looked to the doctor, who said, "We've found no keys on her person."

Missing? Impossible. Adam stormed from the room and set the servants searching for the keys. Nothing in her wardrobe. Nothing in the rooms. Nothing in the gardens.

The door on the third floor was locked, with no signs of entry.

Adam returned to the sickroom as the sun was setting. Dora sat quietly on her bed, having been calmly convinced of her new reality, completely unaware of the turmoil she'd thrown his life into.

He could have torn her limb from limb right there, but he had no proof yet she was deserving of it. For the moment, his strategy was gentleness.

He sat on the bed beside her. "Dora, my dove, think. Can you remember where the keys might be?"

"I can't even remember you."

Adam examined her in every detail--the tips of her fingers, the whites of her eyes, the curl of her lips. No signs of deception.

"You truly can't remember anything?"

Tears glittered in her eyes as she shook her head.

She looked as innocent as a newborn babe. The timid little fool he'd married couldn't fake such total ignorance. If she'd peered behind the door, she'd lost the memory of what she'd seen. If she'd disobeyed, he had no way of knowing.

A new twist to the game--a second chance.

Adam left the room in a state of contentment. He could get new keys made. His secret was safe--locked away either behind the door or in his wife's blank mind.

And if her memory returned? If she had memories of that bloody chamber?

He could always kill her later.

[hoodreader]

KISSING (ASTROLOGY THEORIES). for the real yearners. ✊🏾 this is an eighteen+ post. minors do not interact. this might have more parts as more thoughts come to me, but for now, this is my theory on kissing. part one?

dedicated to my queer little lover. love u silly. 0:) and dedicated to ur lovers as well. i hope they kiss u right.

links. 🌹 — menu. forms. readings.

💋 WHAT IS A KISS?

a kiss is defined as touching with the lips as a sign of love, sexual desire, reverence, or greeting. kissing doesn’t have to be innately sexual or romantic.

💋 FROM WHERE DID KISSING ORIGINATE?

there are some supposed theories that kissing began as something maternal. either from mothers chewing up food and spitting it directly into their babies’ mouths, or because infants use their lips to touch things as a result of breastfeeding.

the earliest form of kissing is dated back to 4,500 years ago in ancient middle east, around modern day iraq and syria. in the vedic sanskrit texts, it’s believed that kissing began as rubbing ur noses as to breathe in each other’s air.

💋 WHAT DOES A KISS SIGNIFY?

well… that depends on the culture. the ancient vedic sanskrit texts describe kissing as “inhaling the soul,” so it was reserved as something incredibly intimate.

the romans had distinguished forms of kisses depending on the context of whom they kissed, but they also were responsible for popularizing kissing as a sexual act.

kissing as we know it isn’t done by half of the world’s cultures. instead, humans often perform some variation of nuzzling, as do other mammals. kissing with the lips thought of as mainly a western thing.

for that reason, i’ll be speaking from my own cultural lens. i live in the west, and i love to kiss. whether the kiss is chaste or due to being aroused, i love to kiss! but today, i’ll be speaking about kissing in a romantic or sexual context. so keep that in mind.

NOW THAT U HAVE READ THE INTRODUCTION, CLICK “Keep reading” TO WELL… KEEP READING!

PLANET VOCABULARY.

kiss. ruled by venus, as it’s a means of expressing affection / love / desire for another using the lips to touch. it’s not innate to use the tongue, although, deep kisses usually make use of the tongue.

lips, touching, affection, love, & desire are also all ruled by venus.

in particular, lips are taurean. as is the tongue, but the tongue also shares rulership with gemini/mercury. this is a similar case for touching. touching is venus and mercury.

affection is libran and 5H (affection has roots in the word to mean ‘to influence’. it’s very libran to be influenced by others, lmao).

love is 5H/7H, venutian. as is desire. although, for desire, i can see martian (or maybe solar influence). desire has roots in a word meaning “star” or “constellation.” it’s a bit more fiery compared to the other words.

the soul is lunar, 1H. spirit is mercurial, 1H, 3H, as it origins in the word meaning ‘breath.’

there’s also an asteroid simply named “kiss (8267).” many hellenistic astrologers do not work with the extended list of asteroids, but i find myself to blend both traditional and modern ideals as i see fit. so i think the kiss asteroid should be used.

SUMMARY OF RELEVANT PLANETS & HOUSES

venus (taurus, libra), 5H, 7H, 1H, moon (cancer), mercury (gemini), mars (aries, scorpio), kiss asteroid.

i feel stronger about mars having rulership over ‘desire’ than the sun because desire’s etymology dealing with stars and constellations is telling considering stars / constellations are only chartable at night.

but i’d view desire as venutian/5H firstly.

now that we’ve defined our key terms, we can examine how to identify the act of kissing in the chart. this is an accumulation of my own personal theories.

KISS (8267) ASTEROID

the first and obvious recommendation would be to look into ur kiss asteroid, since it’s a celestial body for kissing. the sign tells u how the energy is expressed. the house tells u of the surrounding conditions informing how it’s expressed. and the aspects made to the body just tell u about how the energy of the body is expressed as well.

example. kiss in capricorn will not function the same as kiss opp saturn. although, they’ll share some qualities. for example, kiss in capricorn can mean the native is a slow kisser, a shy kisser, a tame kisser, or a kisser. for hours.

but kiss opp saturn can mean that the native feels ashamed when kissing so it delays them from being able to comfortably do so, as they feel internal tension. even if they want to kiss.

this doesn’t account house placements. a kiss-saturn opp in the 1-7 houses will be different compared to one in the 5-11 houses.

i feel like it’s a bit of an extra step, but u can also observe the placement of the kiss asteroid in the venus persona chart. i even think the houses can tell u where u like to be kissed. 1H is on the face, 2H is on the lips or neck, and so on.

then u could also read the kiss asteroid’s persona chart. read it as a natal chart specifically for how u kiss, ur ideal of a kiss, what u don’t like. etc. all of the planets have their significations — even if u don’t think it would. ie, saturn can show u shame relating to kissing. moon can show what makes u feel secure and safe. venus can show how kissing pleases u. etc.

NATAL CHART

venus is going to be the second most obvious for me. it’s the planet of love. the planet of lips. the planet of affection and physical affection. of course u would read it for kissing.

in the natal chart, it’s quite simple.

a weakened venus may not enjoy kissing.

an afflicted venus could or couldn’t enjoy kissing. that depends on whether the venus is strong or weak. but the afflicted venus may experience difficulties while kissing or some discomfort.

a blessed venus could be someone who enjoys kissing a lot, & tends to have good experiences with it too!

how u can determine whether or not ur venus is strong/weak or afflicted/blessed is through examining if u have any placements in taurus/libra, the condition of that planet (so, for example… is it a moon in taurus or is it a mars in taurus?), look to the condition of ur venus especially. is it rejoiced? is it combust? what planets is it aspecting? what house is it in? etc.

the 1H-7H tells u of ur soul and ur partner’s soul. these houses are innately connected. obviously and again, look at the conditions of the lords or planets placed if there are any. but ruler of thumb… if u want a real kisser for u… look to the 7H too. look at ur moon. this is ur soul, ur intimacy. observe its conditions.

PERSONA CHARTS

i think u should cast synastry or composite charts of the venus personas in question. where venus/mercury falls in the charts will tell u about the sensation of touch.

maybe in regular synastry y’all got venus conjunct/trine venus. which is really easy overlay (at face value). but maybe in ur synastry/composite of ur venus persona charts, y’all got saturn opposite venus. this helps deepen the context of how venus is expressed between u two.

look at venus of any ascendant persona chart to see the soul’s expression of love and thus physical touch, desire, and so on. when u align ur ascendant personas, where do y’all ascendants fall in each other’s houses? this is how the soul inhaling could also be read. u can do the same for the moon persona, as the moon is associated with the soul too. and i’d recommend casting a venus persona within the ascendant persona. then look at mercury within that chart. how does ur soul like to be touched? how about ur partner’s?

for example, in my venus persona, i have an ascendant in taurus containing the sun in taurus. that means my 7H will naturally be in scorpio. and to me, a scorpio placement is where the real kissers at. it feels wayyy more passionate for me. my bf has a scorpio moon. it also helps his natal ascendant is my venus persona’s 5H, and he has jupiter/sun/mars in my venus persona’s 3H (the house associated with breathing, thus, the origin of the “spirit.”)

tw // sexual harassment. on the other end, someone with their natal ascendant over my venus persona’s 8H (sagittarius) used to try and forcefully kiss me all the time. it got violent a few times (my natal sag mars is in my venus persona 8H, opposite my venus persona gemini mars). his natal venus was in my venus persona 1H, but taurus was his natal 6H. force is ruled by the 1H and mars. and 6H is just malefic. it rules injury and servitude. :(

so i guess this is why i’m saying these overlays help build a world around ur venus that’s even deeper than natal.

and no, this doesn’t mean just because someone’s natal ascendant is in ur 8H that they’ll harass u. there’s other conditions in this overlay that help explain why this happened to me. but again… this is all theoretical.

u could also see the overlay between their natal chart and ur venus persona or vice versa. see if there’s alignment there.

as i previously said, the moon persona + ascendant persona chart will inform of the soul. observe the 2H to see how u “give and receive” parts of urself / others in that way. but i’d recommend looking at the venus persona chart within the moon / ascendant persona, then looking at the 2H.

in the venus persona chart, i feel like mercury and venus will also be used to determine whether or not u like tongue-kissing. also other factors.

for example, in my venus persona, i have a 1H in taurus with a 2H stellium, including my venus persona chart ruler. my natal taurus venus is in the 1H of my venus persona.

the 2H shows what we like to receive or give. so quite literally… i like to give or receive affection through the mouth, tongue, throat, or breath (including fluids of the mouth, which would be ruled by the moon). this manifests as me being quite transparent with my affection for someone (i never been the type to lie & say i didn’t like someone when i did.) but also… it manifests as me loving tongue down my throat. bad.

my boyfriend also has his venus persona chart containing a 2H stellium. his venus persona ascendant is cancer containing jupiter. my natal 1H is conjunct his venus persona 1H.

between us, i think i’m the one who initiates the kisses most however… when we do kiss, it’s very deep and passionate and we whisper to each other between them. plus his venus persona 3H virgo venus is in my natal 3H and in my venus persona 5H.

so… all that to say… find somebody who astrologically match ur freak.

SYNASTRY & COMPOSITE

now… whether ur partner enjoys kissing or not is irrelevant if u think they suck at it.

for heightened desire, having mars aspecting mars, mars aspecting moon, or mars aspecting venus does a lot. whether it’s synastry or composite. i don’t really read mars for sex, but mars as a root / sacral energy planet, i think it had a lot to do with emotions that are feverish and intense. personally, i don’t even think it’s worth kissing if there is no mutual desire.

venus aspecting venus is gonna be a yes from me. also a trine or sextile aspect between venus and saturn can show y’all kiss for a long time

venus-1H… it carries. likewise, venus aspecting benefics or aspecting the sun/chart ruler of the composite chart. it’s gon carry.

as kissing was describing as ‘inhaling the soul,’ i would like to discuss the soul (re: kissing.) this’ll be significant for synastry/overlay/composite, in my opinion. because ur soul alone will be represented by the 1H. but synastry/overlay/composite tells u how ur soul interacts with the soul of a specific other.

for that reason, the planets that inform the 1H will tell u how ur souls are inhaled by each other. even if the ascendant is of a malefic (sun, saturn, mars), that doesn’t mean y’all can’t kiss well. what are the conditions of the lord, the ascendant itself, what are the planets present, etc.

but sometimes, people are simply incompatible. plain and simple. a real kisser to u might suck at kissing to the next person. someone else might not like how much i love kissing with tongue, even though my bf likes it. so do what works for u! kiss people who make u feel honored and safe! and vice versa.

okay, that’s my kissing theory. i hope y’all liked reading it. readings are open, including custom readings. 👼🏾

with love, HoodReader

[kradogsrats]

Okay, so here's what I'm thinking. Here's some relevant chunks from Patience and Ripples:

The stars/great/first elves are strongly characterized as having godlike power and authority over the world that includes Xadia. Humans are not meant to have primal magic, the power is undeserved, and the stars punish them for it. They look in a mirror and see themselves as divine, and this is right and proper.

The stars/great/first elves built something that Aaravos intends to destroy, largely out of spite.

Nowhere in either of these stories are other elves mentioned at all. In Patience, the first humans are described, and the world is characterized as their world.

I feel that this is all leaning heavily toward "the stars/great/first elves created or brought primal magic to Xadia." Because let's look at something else: the Border.

The Border is not a naturally-occurring feature, in that we are told that the Archdragons split the continent of Xadia in two and banished humans to the west. A thousand years later, that half of the continent is not entirely devoid of magic—there are still naturally-occurring magical creatures in basically every biome—it is thoroughly, distinctly less inherently magical than the east of Xadia. In Xadia, the dirt is magic. The dirt. You can pick up a fucking handful of the ground, and it is inherently magical.

The west was not always like that! The Moon Nexus is in the now-magicless territory, indicating that the area was settled by elves. (I would bet, however, that the Moon Nexus is and was the furthest west nexus out of the six.) I've speculated before that a thousand years of dark magic use completely depleted the inherent primal magic of the west, but actually that doesn't make a ton of sense from a logical standpoint—I mean, the sun and moon aren't going anywhere, and neither is the sky. The magical dirt of Xadia presumably doesn't stop like six inches down from the surface or something, the Earth primal permeates throughout the actual earth, presumably.

Now, I do think dark magic use still contributed to the state of the west, but here's why: the actual true source of all this magic, established by the stars/great/first elves, is tied to something in the east, and the division of the Border severed it from the west. After being cut off that way, ambient primal magic slowly drained out of that half of the continent—accelerated by being consumed for dark magic. (The source or conduit for all primal magic being focused somewhere in the east also makes sense from the standpoint of "why are all the primal nexuses clustered in one half of the continent, that's really weird.")

Let's also consider: in the west, at least, we have entire species and biomes populated by species that are not connected to a primal source. There are normal horses, normal deer, normal cats and dogs. And there are humans, also not inherently connected to primal magic. We also have an entire other ancient and forgotten system of magic, that does not rely on the primal sources! Why, unless the primal sources are not native to the world?

Furthermore, as I noted earlier, Patience refers to "their world" when talking about humans, and while this definitely indicates a separation of the stars that are the subject of the story from the world of Xadia, it's also an interesting turn of phrase to use—especially when, as I also noted, there is no mention of other elves.

What I'm saying is: what if humans and non-magical creatures are the native species of Xadia and this world, and the entire construct of primal magic, elves, dragons, and everything was artificially cultivated and introduced?

Here's where we can also get a little woo-woo pinboard-with-red-string crazy. Check out the two biggest tears in the map of Xadia:

They extend the Border beyond the edge of the continent... suspiciously well. Like, that furthest south part of the Border itself did not have to zigzag that way.

And it really makes me wonder which side of that map line the Starscraper is on, given that the Starscraper is very much set up to be a figurative and possibly also literal bridge to the heavens, or whatever realm the power we call the stars inhabits. It's probably not the channel that pumps magic into Xadia, but it wouldn't be completely insane if it was.

[valiantarcher]

I'm rereading Black as Night and have a few thoughts (under a cut for spoilers and because it did get a bit long).

Even thought it's incredibly obvious and his role is obvious, I think this is the first time it's clicked why Hunter is named Hunter.

This is the one book where it feels like I miss a certain amount of nuance and humour because I don't have a good grasp on the structure of the Roman Catholic church (what is the basis of the snub about Benedictines and fruitcake??).

I am again having idle wonderings about what would've happened if Blanche had tried to tell Fish about her feelings of danger before he left for Europe. I'm guessing he wouldn't have really believed her but I also have a feeling that he would've probably tried to give her a ride home from work a few times or checked in, just to set her mind at ease, with the result that he probably would've seen her mystery stalker or otherwise had his sense of danger raised enough for him to start taking it very seriously.

While rereading, I also was struck by the remembrance that, at one point, Regina Doman had been considering retellings of Rumplestiltskin and East o' the Sun, West o' the Moon. It seems unlikely those will happen now (but not impossible, I guess!), which I'm mostly fine with, but I am curious all over again about how those would've worked out.

I'm struck by how frustrated Fish is that Bear makes spur-of-the-moment decisions and gets into trouble without looping him into it. There's an aspect that probably comes from experience (always better to have backup and they learned a lot on the streets as teens) and some that just comes from their differences in personality and strengths, but it's also interesting with respect to Waking Rose, where Fish does get into trouble without Bear BUT always with a plan, usually with backup, and often with having given Bear a heads up or keeping him looped in.

The Nancy Drew reference is common enough, but I'm amused that Fish knows enough about girls' detective stories to know to call Rose Trixie Belden. Also somewhat telling that Fish both has a point in his comment about Rose not surviving to star in a second novel, much less three hundred fifty more, from the perspective of her only surviving SotB (and then WR) because he saved her and also sells her short because she *does* survive three novels where she does detecting. ;))

Also! I had forgotten that Rose is the one who hits the nail on the head as far as motive! Fish is right that it's unlikely but she's correct that it's about jealousy - they're just both missing a couple pieces of the puzzle at that point.

I feel like the Austrian professor is a reference to Fish's later adviser in WR?

I also feel like there's some significance to Mr. Fairston's name being Alistair but going by Jack. Maybe a bit of foreshadowing that his last name isn't really his right name either (though it is legal - which raises the question why he didn't change his first name to Jack when he changed his last name if he hated Alistair so much)?

I appreciate the continuity between Bear trying to talk Mr. Freet out of further murder in SotB and him trying to talk Elaine out of murder in BaN. Granted, the stakes are high in both instances, but he is also genuinely concerned for the consequences of murder on themselves.

The short emergency room scene is good and I like how quickly Fish, upon being thanked, redirects that thanks to Rose and rightly acknowledges her invaluableness to saving both of his surviving family members. (Also, I still kind of wish there had been a parallel emergency room scene at the end of SotB.)

OH MAN. I just caught that Mrs. Foster comes by to read to Bear and Fish's dad! She was so protective of them and rightly upset by how their dad threw them out after they got out of the juvenile detention and yet??? She comes by and visits him and reads to him, something he is appreciative of! She was under no obligation and it would've been really easy for her to just not even stop by and yet!!

I'm really hoping Rose had wandered off by this point in the phone call and didn't hear Fish's "Let's hope Elaine didn't dump [Blanche] in the river" comment.

I'm unexpectedly appreciating the reconciliation between Bear and his dad more on this read than I have before. I know it's critical for Bear's arc and growth, but it just stands out more this time around. (Also, I'm a bit saddened by the realisation that, apparently, his own probable reconciliation didn't have much of an impact on Ben as it never comes up in WR.)

I'm wondering if Fish went out, bought a cellphone for Bear, and pressed it into his hands before he went out looking for Blanche or if Bear is still just carrying around Fish's cellphone. Either seems reasonable and either is just slightly amusing.

[thefandomwritersblog]

Ghost of the Ten Horizon: Forbidden West Hekarro x Fem!OldOne OC Action/Adventure/Romance/Hurt/Comfort Chapter 17

Part 3: Ghost of the Ten

~~

"But I could have sworn there were galaxies in her eyes." -Wordsarelimitless

~~

The blades of grass pricked at Hekarro's skin as he lay next to Victoria, side by side, until time itself ceased to have any meaning. The lush field faded in a blur when he turned to look at her, the contours of her face illuminated by the soft radiance of the stars and moon above them.  As he gazed at her tear-streaked face, he could feel the weight of her emotions—a mix of sorrow and awe that threatened to overwhelm him. It was a stark contrast to the tempestuous fury that often burned within her, but in this moment, she was stripped bare, revealing a raw vulnerability that both terrified and enraptured him. And in the midst of this moonlit field, he realized the sanctity of this wordless connection and etched it deep into his heart so that he would never forget it.

He realized he should have gone back to the Grove a while ago, but the idea of hurrying back no longer held any significance. When was the last time he felt so at peace and relaxed? The silence around him seeped into his bones, lulling him into listless tranquility. If there wasn't for the slight chance of being discovered by a wandering machine, Hekarro would have easily dozed off.

After a while, Victoria broke the silence with her soft voice and turned to him. "You're quiet."

"I do not think you enjoy my company when I speak." A scoff escaped her lips as Hekarro smirked, but he did not miss the subtle curve of a smile that just barely reached her eyes. "What do you want to talk about?"

She shrugged. "I don't really know. I've never been good at making small talk. It's just fake conversation to try and get on someone's good side before asking for favors."

It was Hekarro's turn to scoff this time: "On that, I am all too aware." He muttered, listlessly gazing at the night sky while he reached with an idle hand to brush his fingertips against the soft petals of the flowers. "Every Sun Priest who comes crawling to my throne, trembling in fear of me and my tribe; every Utaru farmer pleading for my aid against the remnants of my Marshal's rebellion while I struggle to protect my people from the machine threat. Even my own tribe still chafes at my guiding hand."

He released a heavy sigh and let his hand fall back down by his side. "It matters little as to why; there is always someone—somewhere—who needs something from me, and they always feel the need to dress their favors up in empty words of flattery."

As the words left his lips, Hekarro felt a surge of relief mingled with guilt. He understood the weight and obligations that came with being the Chief of his tribe. It was a role he had taken on willingly, but how long had he suppressed his frustrations and uncertainties, afraid to speak them aloud for fear of judgment or appearing weak? With her, there was a sense of freedom in expressing these thoughts. She held no stake in the welfare of his tribe nor any motive to sway him, save perhaps for the benefit of her own survival, which he was willing to provide for anyway.

When he turned to glance back at Victoria, she was already watching him with an expression he couldn't quite decipher. But before he could dwell on it, the look was gone, and she shifted slightly on her back as she asked, "What is a Sun Priest?"

Hekarro paused for a moment, taken aback by the question, but quickly composed himself: "There is a kingdom far to the east. The people call themselves the Carja. They have a strong devotion to the sun, and their Sun Priests are considered its voice and messengers of the Sun King's will."

"And Utaru?" Victoria remarked slowly "They're another tribe of humans?"

"Yes. They also reside to the east, but much closer to my tribe than the Carja. The Utaru people are mostly farmers and known for their peaceful ways. However, I have seen how fierce they can be when pushed to their limits. They have a strong reverence for the machines that help them tend to their fields around their capital city, Plainsong. To them, these machines are like gods, providing for their tribe for many generations."

Victoria blinked, wrinkling her nose slightly as if awestruck and confused at the same time. "How many other tribes are there?"

Hekarro chuckled at her. "That I know of?" She nodded at him. "Well, there are the Utaru and the Carja. The Nora are even further east than the Carja, and I've seen for myself the ferocity of their hunting skills. The Banuk reside in the far north-east, where they endure brutal winters that would put our hardiest Sky Clan soldiers to shame. To the west, across the ocean, are the Quen. Although I have yet to meet one myself, Marshal Kotallo speaks highly of their honorable and curious nature. They have a camp on the Isles of Spires, as far as I know. And if you choose to stay here in the Grove, you'll likely come across the Oseram tribe as they work to rebuild our arena."

"If I choose to stay?" She repeated it softly, turning her gaze back towards the stars above. "I really don't have a choice in that, I guess. There isn't anywhere else for me to go…"

"You always have a choice, Victoria," he replied. "I would not keep you here against your will."

"Still, it doesn't change the fact that I have nothing out there for me anymore."

He could hear the hopelessness in her voice, and it pained him deeply. He pondered quietly before offering, "You could always live with the Utaru. I am certain they would welcome you with open arms if I requested it. Or, perhaps you could venture further east to Meridian and live among the Carja and Oseram."

"Eager to get rid of me, Hekarro?"

The subtle tease of her voice saying his name felt like a burst of light after a long night. His heart skipped a beat as he met her piercing gaze, reflecting the starry sky above them. He simply gave her a gentle smile.

"Please do not misunderstand, Victoria," he said softly. "The Grove is not just the home of my tribe; it is your home as well. Your blood is deeply intertwined with these roots, and your memories are held within them—both good and bad. I understand that they may bring you pain, and I would not hold it against you if you wished to leave this place and never return."

Victoria sat in silence, her mouth working as if she wanted to speak but was unable to find the right words. Eventually, she stood up with a sigh and brushed herself off. "We should probably start heading back before someone comes looking for us."

Hekarro pulled himself up from the ground and took a final glance at the peacefulness of the lake. He saw her gazing out as well when he turned to face her, a distant expression in her eyes. Then she blinked and spun on her heel, starting their quiet stroll back towards the grove. He walked leisurely by her side, leading her silently through the thick foliage towards the dirt path. Occasionally, as they made their way through the tangled vegetation and towering trees, something new caught Victoria's attention, and she paused to observe it. She seemed particularly drawn to flowers, like the vibrant summer orchids blooming abundantly on the jungle vines, heavy with evening dew. Her fingers delicately touched their lush petals, as if she were afraid they would break like fragile glass under her touch.

It was a calm evening, with only the faint sounds of birds chirping and crickets singing in the distance. Occasionally, they caught the watchful glances of guards stationed at their posts as they walked by. But Victoria paid them no attention, simply following him up the stairs and through the archway until they finally reached the foot of her Mother's Vision in the antechamber. Once again, there was that strange, distant expression in her eyes as she gazed at the empty platform; a mix of anguish and sorrow reflected in her oceanic blue irises that threatened to drag him under and drown him if he stared too long.

Hekarro pivoted on his heel, ready to walk away and leave her alone with her thoughts, when he heard her gentle voice call out to him. "Thank you, Hekarro." It was barely a whisper, heavy with the unshed tears she was holding back. "Tonight was… it was nice."

"It was my pleasure, Victoria." He nodded in response, watching her turned back before a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he left her in peace.

[comparativetarot]

Three of Pentacles. Art by Nara Lesser, from Neurotic Owl’s Faerytale Tarot.

Y’all have heard me talk East of the Sun, West of the Moon a bunch already, I LOVE a Nordic fairytale where the girl is the quester. Basically this needed to be a card about displaying skills or knowledge, and the part of the story where she sits below the palace windows displaying various housewifely skills to tempt the princess into trading for time with her lost love was perfect.

I did consider working the pentacles into the spinning wheel, but I just loved the idea of putting them subtly in the balls of yarn so much that I couldn’t possibly resist. And I always planned on making the princess a silhouette – in the story she’s ugly with a nose a yard long and I am both not a fan of ugliness being a sign of evil and a Jew who really doesn’t need to perpetuate big nosed greedy characters, so you’re getting her in shadow with just her eyes glowing out.

[no-where-new-hero]

Fire and Hemlock Readalong: Day 23 (Part 4, Ch. 4)

...in which Polly makes a spell.

The epigraphs, from here in, really start becoming spot-on as the plot elides more explicitly with the final events of the ballad. In this chapter, we return to 15-year-old Polly and the events following the Middleton Fair. Here, Polly's gift for "knowing things" comes around to bite her in the face: she knows "by instinct" exactly what elements are right to complete her spell. In effect, she recreates the Fire and Hemlock picture in such a way that will create a kind of Nowhere space in which she can demand the truth from Tom.

When her spell works, she finds Tom with Laurel. To me, on my first few readings, I always wondered if here is where DWJ most overtly suggests sex, considering the two of them were on a sofa, Laurel is asleep, and Polly notices how "heartrendingly beautiful" she is. Tom protests he doesn't often "get together" with Laurel, but there is the clear suggestion that he can still be compelled by her, perhaps physically as well as in the other areas of his life. Now, we get the confirmation that Laurel does "own him, or something like that," and that Polly has forgotten the instincts of her own heroism. She could have put the pieces together based on the books he sent her, and Mr. Leroy's warnings and threats, and every other dangerous that's happened to them, but she has refused to listen to the evidence of her own imagination and sees things on the level that she had been feeling insecure about: emotional betrayal or abandonment.

DWJ, in her "Heroic Ideal" essay, cites this as Polly behaving like Ivy: intrusive, untrusting, jealous. But I see it as also an ill-formed attempt of Polly's to regain some of the footing in her relationship with Tom that she clearly knows she has lost but doesn't understand why. A bit like the way she pretended to be mature and knowing about Carla's living situation two parts earlier, Polly is making assumptions that merely leave her out of her depth. And, of course, she's caught in her spying, and Laurel immediately exacts revenge.

She achieves this through stifling politeness and shame, a parallel to the situation in Bristol with Joanna and Reg. Polly cannot break free from the social farce into truth because of the way that she's caught between childhood and adulthood. She immediately discards her belief that it was all wrapped up in "something supernatural' because she's eating and drinking in Hunsdon House--so Laurel and Mr. Leroy have her under their power at last--but also because it's "stupid and babyish." Polly, in her determination to be mature and put herself on Tom's level, has regressed further from where she ever started. And so she succumbs to the pressure of embarrassment and agrees to forget Tom--of her own accord, which she later bemoans. Because she realizes at 19, with the knowledge of her returned memories, that she really did it to herself: by succumbing, by forgetting the bravery of Hero, and letting herself get in the way.

It's interesting to think about what's going on in Tom's head throughout this whole chapter. We know later that the reason for him trying to distance himself from Polly during the Australia tour was to protect her, but now he clearly knows the game is up. He comes to say goodbye to her, and Seb--who is clearly her dragon guardian from this point forward--lets him, in another moment of sympathy. Tom ends up kissing her--awkwardly but still meaningfully--a kind of parting gift or benediction or perhaps just the proof of his affection that she was (very poorly) asking for. Typically, of course, DWJ doesn't linger on this moment (that'll come later) but it's an important indication nevertheless.

The rest of the chapter lies in Polly reconstructing the terms of Tom's curse through the help of "East of the Sun, West of the Moon" and the ballad of Tam Lin, DWJ's most explicit meta-narrative moment. It's almost *too* explicit for me, though it does give Polly confirmation that her time is nearly out: Halloween is tomorrow.

[cfs-melkire]

Call It a Day

He sat on the edge of an aqueduct, legs hanging out, and he took another bite of his lamb-and-cacti wrap.

The suns after their little palatial adventure had been rife with indecision on his part. The Kermanis were friends, almost family, to him, but he could not in good conscience condone their… extracurricular… activities. That said, he had nowhere else to go. He'd been made when Miriam had recognized him; the city guard had been rather thorough afterwards. Raif had gotten word out by discreet channels, using go-betweens to conceal his involvement, and so both Deiter and Eustine had been afforded an opportunity: they'd fled the city. Hakan couldn't help but feel guilty about this. The Kermanis themselves were spared anything more than a routine inspection; no suspicion fell upon them. Still, Hakan had come to call Rabanastre home, a place no like other he'd known since leaving Camoa… and, besides that fact, there was simply nowhere else which came to mind. There was nowhere he needed to be, nowhere he wanted to be.

So he had lingered. Suns had turned into sennights which had turned into moons. Moons had become turns.

It hadn't been so bad. Raif had continued to house him in the Waterways and his training had continued, albeit not at so accelerated a pace as before. After a few short moons, they concluded that it was perhaps safe for him to walk the streets again, so long as he went about in disguise. This was something of a bother, as it meant dying his hair a deep brown, covering his tribal tattoos with makeup, and mastering a small bit of magick which shifted the hue of his icy blue eyes. Those eyes, they supposed, were how Miriam had identified him back at palace. So he changed his appearance, wore clothes that were not to his liking or preference, adopted a different gait, and deigned to stick his head above ground to wander the city.

No one recognized him. He did not make contact with anyone he knew; he avoided all of his previous acquaintances. Considering that he'd spent a significant amount of time East and West, as well as frequent visits North, to do so meant spending most of his time in the southern quarter of the city. This proved no great hardship, but it was strange to be back after so long, to peacefully walk the streets where he'd been hunted on his first sun in Rabanastre. Still, there were markets enough, shops enough, people enough, and sky enough. He breathed in fresh air, basked in the sun, and relished every moment he could.

Today, he had gone topside long enough to purchase himself a decent meal. He was just swallowing the last of it down when the boy walked up and sat down alongside him. 'Boy,' he thought on reflex, but in truth Elias has grown into a man, no longer so young that Hakan could rightfully liken him to a child. He was taller, ganglier; he had cropped his hair short and grown a short beard.

"How fares the South?"

The South was Hakan's responsibility. The West went to Elias, and Iona managed the North. The East was Raif's; he was getting older, lack of sleep wore on him more, and any prolonged absence from the restaurant drew unwelcome remarks about him.

"Not much to report," he said by way of an answer. "Skimble's still bribing the city guard to look the other way. Yolando bought up that empty shop on Low Valnard. Colette hasn't made her move yet."

"Not yet? You'd think taking money from the Hingans would have lit a fire under her."

"She's being cautious. One wrong move and all the gangs will know she's been bought by foreigners. No, she needs them dependent on the funding first."

"True enough."

"How fares the West?"

"I'm calling it a day. Pity you grabbed lunch." He lifted something on his far side from Hakan, raised it into view; it was a paper bag. "Fresh from VoSa."

"...give it here."

"Not until you confess. When'd it start?"

The Viera sighed. "So you know."

Elias pursed his lips, looked away, and nodded. "I know. So? When?"

"After we botched the Wagner extraction."

[fyeah-tmnt]

📷 and/or 🙃 for ask game? :o

📷: What's set as your phone's lockscreen: I haven't changed my lockscreen in a while lol

So for the longest time it was a pic of my cats, but right now it's this and it has been for like 2 months lol:

it's really hard to find "vertical" art that is perfect for cellphones that shows the four of them properly lol

🙃What's a weird fact that you know: i need to ponder about it for a while... i do know a lot of very random fact. As a matter of fact, a lot of people say that autistic people usually have a very specific (or very few specific) special interest(s). for me, it's like, the opposite... well i like to word it that my special interest is learning, so i spend a lot of time learning random stuff (especially as a kid/teen). I'd spend hours at the library or on the computer reading on wikipedia lol

anyway, did you know

that venus and uranus are the only planets that rotate clockwise? I believe that even including moons, they are the only things in our system that rotate clockwise. meaning the sun "rises" to the west rather than the east!

another funfact is that sign language (i'm talking mostly about ASL and LSQ, but it probably applies to most of them) are not language-based, therefore, their syntax are very different. that is also why someone who's fluent in sign language and one speaking/reading language is considered bilingual. even if it's ASL + (american) English, they are considered different languages.

So the syntax is different when it comes to placing the subject, verb and object in your sentence. I'm not qualified to teach as i am not deaf or HOH (but i know LSQ which is the Québec-based sign language (Québec is a french-speaking province in the East side of Canada) but also because i'm not an expert and i could very much make a mistake so i'm not going to go into details. But yea, there's like "Signed English" which is basically "speaking english" but with signs (a lot of people who starts learning start like this) and there's ASL which is the "proper" way of signing (and there's the equivalent in all other sign languages, like there's Signed French/Canadian-French, and there's LSQ/LSF (france), etc) so if learning a sign language interests you, i really encourage people to seek for a class given by a deaf institute with deaf teachers, they'll be able to properly show you and explain to you deaf culture and deaf history it's SO interesting i'm so sorry for the huge paragraph omg lmao

Thank you and i'm so sorry for the facts LOL they aren't weird now that i think of it lmao

Main post here: X

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Harvard grad escapes Moonie indoctrination after two weeks. Threat to “break both my legs” was wake up call.

▲ Singing at the Hearst Avenue house, Berkeley, before catching the bus to the farm up north.

A couple of Summers

I Was Brainwashed by the Followers of Rev. Sun Myung Moon (But I Wised Up)

By Eric E. Rofes

The Harvard Crimson       pages 3-4 September 30, 1975

Last January I decided I would spend my summer vacation on the Pacific coast pursuing the California Dream. My plans were far from concrete—maybe I would take a course at Berkeley, or write poetry, or just hang out in the East Bay with my buddy Buster, listening to Tower of Power and walking the streets. On June 3, my papers finished, my exams over, I packed up my Long Island-Middle Class-California Dream and hit the road west.

I made my way to San Francisco, checked into the Youth Hostel and went looking for work. I had read my Kerouac. I knew what one did in California, and I was determined to get a piece of the West Coast action. I was on my own, meeting people on Telegraph Avenue and going to wild Berkeley bashes and digging the time away, but despite my dreams and my intentions. I soon realized that I was all partied out. This was not Cambridge, this wasn’t my home turf, and my doubts were reinforced nightly when I made collect phone calls back to Sue in Boston and she told me I miss you, come back home. Money was getting low, jobs were scarce, and I was lonely. I promised Sue I’d take the next bus back east. I didn’t.

Instead I went to the Berkeley Student Union to ponder my predicament. I sat there, confused, a little depressed, considering my options. A smiling, humming, attractive Jewish-looking woman walked in. Eye contact. The ethnicity clicked. She came over, friendly, talkative, from Long Island originally. Small talk, poetry, politics, time passes. Then I received an invitation to dinner—“I live with this big family and we always have lots of people over to dinner...how about it.”

Her “house” was the old Hearst Mansion—huge, beautiful and filled with smiling young people. What kind of family is this? I said to myself. Everyone was friendly, talkative, young and beautiful. We ate a great meal, sang some folk songs, and then someone announced that there would be a “lecture” to explain the principles that bind the family together. Again my mind was speeding—could this be a political group? Religious? Drug commune? No. no. I told myself, stop being so doubtful, keep an open mind.

▲ Mose Durst

The lecture was given by “Doctor D”, a professor of English Literature at a nearby college. He explained that the family was unified by a common goal; to help and care for all people. His lecture was not as straight forward: he filled it with psychology and sociology and threw in some Wordsworth and Eliot quotes that I remembered from English 10. He seemed to be a nice guy and since I had read a little psych, it seemed sound to me. Yeah, these were the people I’d been looking for—intelligent, personal, and liberal.

I could not have been more mistaken.

Next there was a slide show of their scenic farm up north in Mendocino. It looked exciting, full of young people communing with nature: my middle-class paradise. We were ail invited up for the weekend and, keeping an open mind, I jumped at the opportunity.

Two busloads of young people headed up to Mendocino that night, including seventy new “brothers and sisters.” I stayed on the farm for almost two weeks and I came up against the greatest challenge to my life and my values that I have ever faced. I was confronted with a lifestyle and a system of beliefs that robbed me of my rationale and free will. I had walked head on into Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s indoctrination center.

I don’t believe myself to be unusually susceptible to political or spiritual causes but the propaganda system set up at this center was infallible. Each day was organized with two things in mind: everyone has a good, fun time, and no one has a free minute to think. The entire day is programmed, everyone wakes up at the same time in the morning, washes, goes to exercises, eats breakfast, cleans up, and off to morning lecture. At these lectures new members are slowly instructed on the beliefs of the family. Gradually, carefully, one is indoctrinated into the religion. Through Moon’s interpretation of the Bible, we were made to understand that there is a God, an afterlife, and a spirit world. The religion is primarily Christian, stressing the power of Christ and the imminent second coming of the messiah. Moon’s followers believe, through their understanding of Revelation and the cycles of human history, that the new messiah has arrived and though he is never mentioned in lectures, that Reverend Sun Myung Moon is that new messiah.

The cause for the fall of man, according to Moon’s interpretation of the Bible, was Eve’s fornication with Satan (the snake and the fruit are seen as symbols). We are, therefore, the children of Satan, rather than the children of God, and we require purification and repentance to bring us back to our intended state. Moon people use no drugs or alcohol, and sex is not permitted until forty days after marriage. After that time the woman becomes a baby machine; there is no concern for overpopulation in the heavenly kingdom.

In retrospect, I wonder why so many people would give up their wild times for these beliefs. Moon requires his followers to sacrifice everything for the cause. All possessions and monies are given to the church and one’s family, friends and future plans are all forsaken. In exchange for these sacrifices Moon provides a strong, supportive community, a powerful father figure, the basic necessities of life and eternal salvation. With these assets, the movement is growing at a tremendous rate.

The lectures, though presented by intelligent, clean-cut demagogues, were laced with analogies, passages removed from context, and impassioned cheers, all things that three years at Harvard had taught me to question. Somehow, however, I didn’t question them at all; no one did. We were all having such a great time, enjoying the activities and the farm, that we wanted to believe that Moon was the answer to all our questions.

My experience on the farm cannot be sufficiently captured in writing. After a week there I thought I was ready to join the family. I was believing all the lectures, singing my heart out and having a great, happy time. I was ready to give up the complexities of Harvard, my thesis and my Gen. Ed. requirements and live this life of righteousness, direction and meaning. Of the seventy people who went up to the farm with me, two weeks later I was the only one to leave. Many are still there and will become part of Reverend Moon’s family, walking through Berkeley or Boston or Paris, bringing in new blood or selling flowers on the street. I left while others couldn’t and only through an understanding of my own motivation to leave have I begun to understand the full power of this movement.

The people in the family are not the hallelujah holy-rollers I would imagine them to be. They are all young, middle-class, well-educated people. Many are Ivy-leaguers, many M.A.’s and PhD’s were amongst the family. Despite their education, however, these people were drawn together by factors quite common in young people—dissatisfaction with their lives and a search for truth and direction. The movement fulfills these needs: it fells you what you want to hear and “proves” that there is a God, there is meaning in this crazy life, there is heaven, there is love. All that’s required of you is the belief, simple faith.

When I announced that I was determined to leave and they shouldn’t try to stop me, my “spiritual brother,” the guy assigned to look after me and support me in my learning, told me that if he thought it would win me over to the family he would break both my legs. That clinched it for me—I was going to get out of there if I had to fight my way out. I had to talk to all the lecturers, all the leaders, explain why I was leaving and where I was going (which I did not know). I was told that the devil was in me and I was forsaking Jesus and damning myself and my ancestors. It all sounds crazy to me now, but while they were telling me this, I believed it and felt ashamed. Still, my gut said to go, and after a great display of determination I was driven down to Berkeley.

When I got back to the city I called my friend Buster, who thought I’d vanished for two weeks. I told him to pick me up (I was at the Hearst house again) and not ask any questions. In twenty minutes he drove up in his V.W. and a meek, frightened sinner crawled into the front seat. I tried to explain my story to him but I was undergoing culture shock and was virtually incomprehensible. When we went out with his friends later I winced at four letter words and sexual allusions, couldn’t converse sensibly, and was basically a zombie. In two weeks I had been programmed into not thinking, just believing.

When we went into the city the next day I ran into Moon people all over. They were all so friendly, so warm, and I was being tempted back to the farm. They made Buster and me promise to come to dinner at the Hearst House that evening. I was weak and confused; Buster was wise. He put me on the next bus heading east.

Eric Rofes was a senior in Leverett House in 1975.

________________________________

UC leaders stole passports from guests at California workshops

Creative Community Project brochure

Moonie Recruitment Techniques
 by David Frank Taylor, M.A., July 1978, Sociology

Disciplining the Mind – North Korean style

Onni Durst – The Dragon Lady of the Oakland UC

[mythological-mayhem]

wait so aztec creation myth goes like: Ometeotl creates itself, then gives birth to the 4 tezcatlipocas,which is really confusing considering only one of them is actually tezcatlipoca,they're each associated with the colors and directions black(north)(actually tezcatlipoca), white(west)(quetzalcoatl),red(east)(xipe totec),blue(south)(huitzilopochtil), then they start trying to make stuff,but everything falls into the ocean that houses the enormous monster crocodile thing known as cipactil,so tezcatlipoca lures it to the surface and gets his leg bitten off,then the four gods kill it and use it's dead body for the earth. But the thing is,it's not fully dead.So they promise it blood sacrifices.The earth is an enormous bloodthirsty monster confirmed.Then the gods proceed to make a bunch more gods and giant humans who only eat acorns for some reason, then tezcatlipoca decides to be the sun, but he's only half a sun.So everything is all sunshine and rainbows but quetzalcoatl and tezcatlipoca develop a rivarly, so naturally quetzalcoatl flies up to the sky and knocks tezcatlipoca out of the sky with a big stick, then becomes the sun,he turns into a jaguar,then sends down a rain of jaguars to eat everything.Good times.Then the gods make some new smaller humans, that eat only nuts for some reason.blah blah blah,they're disrespectful so tezcatlipoca turns everyone into monkeys.quetzalcoatl proceeds to summon a hurricane and leave. blah blah blah,new humans, taloc,the rain god becomes the new sun, all fun and games till tezcatlipoca seduces taloc's wife,taloc becomes mad, doesn't let it rain,then proceeds to send down a rain of fire to kill everyone,taloc's new wife chalchiuhtlicue becomes the new sun,and then tezcatlipoca fucks everything up by saying that chalchiuhtlicue doesn't like her humans and is just doing it for show,she cries blood for 52 years and everyone dies.quetzalcoatl's getting bored of making new humans every time,so he stomps down to the underworld to steal their bones back, but breaks them in the process.he dips the bones in his blood and they come back to life.now the 5th and current sun, ran by huitzilopochtil, now he hasn’t fucked up yet, but he’s in constant conflict his sister the moon coyolxauhqui and the demon-star thingys tzitzimime. and everything will end with an earthquake.

DID I GET IT RIGHT???

Yeah basically

(yet another ask I did not see until much much later sorry idk what's going on w my askbox 😭)

[iviarellereads]

The Great Hunt, Chapter 14 - Wolfbrother

(THIS PROJECT IS SPOILER FREE! No spoilers past the chapter you click on. Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For the link index and a primer on The Wheel of Time, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Wolf icon) In which Perrin tells someone his biggest secret.

PERSPECTIVE: Perrin, while Ingtar's in a fuss about Rand and co being gone. They can't have disappeared into thin air, surely? But even Uno can't find a trail. Mat wonders if they ran away, but blessedly doesn't give any detail  why he thinks that. Ingtar half believes the Darkfriends took them to throw the rest off the trail, because neither Hurin nor Rand would have abandoned their duty at this stage.

Perrin realizes there might be a way out of this, though he's loath to take it. He thinks it serves him right for telling Rand that sometimes you can't run away. He's tried to deny what he's become, especially at first, thinking it was something of the Dark One's work. He had some idea of what Rand was going through, from that. But now, he reaches out gently with his mind, and he can feel them. His brothers, the wolves.

In the rudimentary way of wolf communication, they ask if he's Long Tooth (Elyas), so he pictures himself in his mind for them. They have heard of him, yes, as Young Bull.(1) An image of a young man with heavy shoulders and shaggy, curly hair comes to him, overlaid with a massive wild bull with metal horns, throwing himself at Whitecloaks.

Perrin is so shocked that they've given him a name that he loses the connection. He focuses again, and gives the wolves the scent-appearance of Rand, Loial, and Hurin, but the wolves say they haven't seen them since everyone went to the hollow to make camp. Perrin hesitates, but remembers going to the dungeon with Egwene, and scenting Fain. The wolves react so strongly, the horses in the camp hear them and get fearful. The wolves hate Fain’s scent more than they even hate Trollocs. He asks where Fain went.

The sky rolled in his head; the land spun. East and west, wolves did not know. They knew the movements of sun and moon, the shift of seasons, the contours of the land. Perrin puzzled it out. South. And something more. An eagerness to kill the Trollocs. The wolves would let Young Bull share in the killing. He could bring the two-legs with their hard skins if he wanted, but Young Bull, and Smoke, and Two Deer, and Winter Dawn, and all the rest of the pack would hunt down the Twisted Ones who had dared come into their land. The inedible flesh and bitter blood would burn the tongue, but they must be killed. Kill them. Kill the Twisted Ones.(2)

Their fury infuses him, and his lips peel back in the beginnings of a snarl, which he barely breaks free of, reminding himself that he's a man, not a wolf. Mat sees him and asks if he's alright? That's all Mat needs, for Rand to run off and then Perrin to take ill...

Perrin shakes Mat off, saying he's alright, but goes forth to tell Ingtar he doesn't know where the missing men have gone, but wolves told him the ones they seek, with the Horn and all, went south. Ingtar thinks for a moment, and says he has heard of this, rumours of a Warder named Elyas Machera. Perrin confirms that he knows him.

“These wolves,” Ingtar said, “they will track the Darkfriends and Trollocs for us?” Perrin nodded. “Good. I will have the Horn, whatever it takes.” The Shienaran glanced around at Uno and the others still searching for tracks. “Better not to tell anyone else, though. Wolves are considered good luck in the Borderlands. Trollocs fear them. But still, better to keep this between us for the time. Some of them might not understand.” “I would as soon nobody else ever found out,” Perrin said. “I will tell them you think you have Hurin’s talent. They know about that; they’re easy with it. Some of them saw you wrinkling your nose back in that village, and at the ferry. I’ve heard jokes about your delicate nose. Yes. You keep us on the trail today, Uno will see enough of their tracks to confirm it is the trail, and before nightfall every last man will be sure you are a sniffer. I will have the Horn.”(3)

The men all accept Ingtar's declaration with minimal protest. Mat's the hardest to convince, but he shuts up after Uno starts finding tracks. Perrin pays it almost no attention, as he's fighting in his mind to keep the wolves from running on ahead and killing the Trollocs and such themselves.

Eventually he stops, as they're approaching another village where the Trollocs have done evil. Then they look behind them and realize someone's following them. Mat thinks it might be Rand, he still has faith Rand wouldn’t run out on him.(4) As the figure gets closer, though, it's... Verin Sedai! She declares that Moiraine sent her, and she saw the business with the Myrddraal. Shame she didn't have time to take it down and study it, but...

Suddenly her eyes narrowed, and the absent manner vanished like smoke. “Where is Rand al’Thor?”(5) Ingtar grimaced. “Gone, Verin Sedai. Vanished last night, without a trace. Him, the Ogier, and Hurin, one of my men.” “The Ogier, Lord Ingtar? And your sniffer went with him? What would those two have in common with . . . ?” Ingtar gaped at her, and she snorted. “Did you think you could keep something like that secret?” She snorted again. “Sniffers. Vanished, you say?”

Yes, vanished, but they have a new sniffer, in Perrin, and they will find the Horn of Valere. Verin remarks that it's very convenient that they found another sniffer just when they lost one.(6) Ingtar asks if their disappearance might have something to do with the Horn, and Verin thinks not, but it's an odd coincidence, and she doesn't like odd things until she can understand them. She takes Ingtar's offer to ride with them, for now, and asks him to tell her everything Rand ever said or did in his presence.

Even Mat can see it's Rand she's after, not the Horn at all. Perrin hopes Rand stays where he is, it's no doubt safer than this.

=====

(1) So, Perrin is finally accepting his place in the story, and he has a wolf name! Young Bull, very apt indeed. And they can help him fake being a sniffer, which is helpful. Even more helpful is that Ingtar understands and doesn't judge him. (2) No relation to T. Kingfisher's horror novel, The Twisted Ones, with a surprisingly effective jumpscare for being in print. (3) Ingtar, that's a little bit fervent even for you and even for this quest. (4) Well, at least we the readers know Rand had no intention of leaving. But, poor Mat. On the road to Caemlyn they took such care of each other, it's gotta feel pretty shit having your bestie disappear like this in your hour of need. (5) Why was she looking for him? What more would Moiraine have had to say to him, and more, why wouldn't she have come herself? Anaiya said Verin ran off after Moiraine from the Amyrlin's travel party. Hmm, so many questions. (6) Oh, Verin, you know he's ta'veren too. She's almost laying it on too thick, you know?

[anika-ann]

In the Name of the King (S.R.)

Type: medieval/fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 13,000 * 

Summary:  Sir Steven Rogers, having risen from common people, now one of the most trusted knights to prince Anthony. You, nothing but a servant, albeit to Princess Maria herself. 

Love blooms in any place and it cares little for the rules of the court – much like your Steven. Then again, war cares just as little for any feelings you and your knight might harbour for each other...

Warnings: 18+ for NSFW thoughts, talk and sexy times in making, inexperienced and rather reader, probably desperately era-inaccurate, blood and mention of violence, death, religious ambiguity, tooth-rotting fluff, angst, language, (reader has hair long enough to be braided)

A/N: This is sort-of a song fic for it is based on a Czech song. You can find it here. I took the liberty to loosely translate the lyrics for you throughout the fic.

* A/N: If you prefer reading it in two parts, the best part for a split is after 5,5k words – you will find a gif there. Divider’s mine, btw. Enjoy 🥰

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the room. You rolled around in your small bed, squinting against the violent light leaving you blind when the darkness of the night took over again. Your heart, already racing for it was filled with worry, jumped at the clap of thunder – as did you.

A bad sign.

A warning from the Gods.

They should not be out there, settled in a camp and preparing for battle. Storms like these were meant to make mankind bow in front of higher power and yet the cavalry had left in the morning, several troops heading to the West to protect the borders of the kingdom against Hydra, against the self-proclaimed king Pierce.

Gods, how you wished he would get struck by lightning for all the misery he caused to so many people, his own and others alike.

As if the Gods heard your thought, another clap of thunder seemed to shake the castle walls – a scolding for your blasphemy. You should not wish harm to another human being.

Then again, you should not pray to the old gods in the first place, but to the Lord, who shall save your soul from eternal flames of hell. Such were the ways of new religion; yet, it was impossible to let go of the ties to the dogmata you had been raised in.

And so you prayed to both. As fresh light exploded behind your closed eyelids, you prayed not for another man’s harm, but for one’s safety.

You shuffled on your bed, kneeling up, clasping your hands together, whispering under your breath as not to wake the two women sleeping beside you.

Please, bring him home. Protect him. Please, please, please. Should any harm come to him, the world would cease to make sense. Keep Steven safe.

Your Steven.

Your knight.

Your sun, your moon, your stars; with his smile shining as bright as all these combined, surrounding you with gentle warmth from the very first moment he had set his cerulean eyes on you and kneeled by your side to help you collect what your clumsy hands had spilled.

It was early morning, the sun barely peeking out from behind the horizon, colouring the East walls of the castle in orange and pink, the warm sunrays pleasant on your skin as you carried Princess Maria’s breakfast tray. You could not but smile at the gorgeous play of colours; and yet, your gaze wandered as you heard the grunts of effort mingling with light-hearted laughter from the grassy training areas.

A maid could never think herself anywhere near equal with the knights, therefore it was considered unthinkable to harbour feelings for any of them – the laws of the court would frown upon such union. And yet, you were only human of flesh and blood and the warm liquid rushing in your veins always felt hotter whenever you set your gaze on the well-built men.

Their physique easily made for a woman’s heart to race, the heroic tales of their bravery only strengthening the sentiment, as did the tales of their gentlemanly ways. You had witnessed differently, many of them acting overgrown children, but it would be foolish to deny that they were a sight to behold, every single one of them.

One in particular, however, stood out; for he was not only a handsome man, but an extraordinary one. The story of his heroics was spoken of long after it took place, long after his ascension to knighthood.

Of common origin, Steven was the only son of the town’s most valued blacksmith; Steven himself was adept at forging a sword, armour or a shield of the highest quality, but apparently also at wielding it – alert and bright.

Attentive to his surroundings, he had been fast and strong enough to prevent fatal consequences of the attack on Prince Anthony during his visit of the town where he was ambushed by two slayers of the Hydra kingdom. He stopped a deadly strike when dashing between a slayer and the prince, strong arm wielding the shield he had finished earlier that day.

Of all knights, Steven was most loved by the common people for while the rules for knighthood had not changed with his actions and he remained the only one graced with the honour to date, he had proven that a man, no matter of how humble origin, was capable of great things.

A knight from the people. A humble hero.

His features were sharp, but his eyes spoke of softness; he did not seem to lack determination, on contrary, his lineage forged his desire to fight for a better world. Of tall build, he held his head high – an aristocratic face lined with sandy chin-length hair – but for he never forgot where he had come from, he did not look down at people.

You had never spoken to him, but you had heard his voice before; deep, pleasant, respectful. Falling for him despite the distance between you had been as easy as dangerous for your heart. You were but a maid; had you been in love before he was knighted, then perhaps the circumstance would be different, but you had not met him before then. And so you were destined to long him in silence, busying yourself with serving to Her Grace Princess Maria.

Such was your goal at the moment; you were carrying breakfast, you reminded yourself, vainly, of course. The sight offered to you was too distracting to ignore.

As your gaze lingered on the expanse of Steve’s arm swaying the unsharpened training sword with ease, you lost your step – and sent the tray and its content flying, the metal clinking loudly as it hit the stony path.

All the knights’ heads snapped to you in an instant, alert, causing your face to be set aflame under their scrutiny; and as you swiftly kneeled to gather the utensils and food with a silent curse and prayer that most of it was salvageable with another wash, booming laughter hit your ears, causing your cheeks to burn in shame.

“Well done, my friends, our training must truly be aesthetically pleasing!” Prince Anthony’s voice called out, followed by another roar of laughter that chased tears of humiliation into your eyes you barely kept at bay.

Your shaky hands frantically started gathering the fruit – grapes, apple, pear, hopefully not too bruised – as you made to ignore the quickly approaching footsteps. You refused to look up, shame settled deep in your stomach as you assessed the damage, the smallest relief when you found the slices of bread still wrapped in cloth, albeit considerably less white now.

You felt the large man kneel by your side before you registered the hand, clad in fingerless leather glove, appearing in your field of vision. Only when the man begun to gather the scattered grape berries, you dared to look up; and the time must have stopped.

Your heart certainly did as your gaze was met with a pair of the most beautiful kind eyes without a trace of laughter. You lost the reigns of your body – it froze, your mind occupied fully by seeing such grace from such short distance. You had never noticed how plush and alluring his lips were, framed by a short beard; how handsome his face was when one corner of his lips curled up almost uncertainly.

It was the unusual emotion in his smile which pulled you back from your reverie. A knight was kneeling by you, the kingdom’s hero, helping you clean up the outcome of your clumsiness.

How kind of him – how below him  

“Oh, Sir Rogers, you must not bother-“

“But I must,” he opposed before you could even finish your sentence, sincerity lacing his voice and by gods, his voice was like velvet lined with silk. His gaze flickered back to the group of knights whose eyes you could feel at you still, intent. “Do not mind the blockheads that are laughing instead of helping a lady.”

A giggle of surprise escaped you, your hand quickly covering your mouth so no one could see; but Sir Rogers could and a smile broke out on his face, a boyish grin sprinkling his eyes with laughter and pride, warm and inviting.

By Lord, he must have been the most handsome man to ever walk the world, more so when he smiled like this. And he called you a lady – you, but a maid.

“I am hardly a lady, Sir Rogers,” you whispered bashfully, your lacking status bringing you grief like you had never experienced – a reminder.

But a mere smile from the man, and you lost the ground under your feet, your heart on your sleeve for him to take, no matter how unthinkable your romance would be.

His fingers took a gentle hold of your wrist, eliciting a gasp from your lips at the tender touch; he spilled several berries into your hand, thumb brushing your sensitive skin, sending the sweetest tingle up your arm.

A blissful smile fought its way to your face despite all reason.

“Well. Your beauty rivals one of a lady. … especially when you bless the castle with a smile like that.”

Oh, your heart fluttered like butterfly wings, your gaze instinctively searching his for the faintest trace of a jest; yet, you found nothing but sincerity.

“S-sir Rogers…”

He released your wrist, already having you mourn the loss; instead, his nimble fingers found one of the loose cornflower blossoms which had broken away from the small bouquet you had gathered to bring with the breakfast. He twirled it in his fingers for a moment, almost absent-mindedly, before his smile softened.

“This one might be broken, but perhaps it could serve its purpose in your hair at least?” he suggested, beckoning lightly to your braid.

Before you could as much as realize he meant it, he reached out, careful fingers – surprisingly so, for such a strong man – stuck the stem to the base of the braid behind you ear, sending your heart into frenzy when the pads of his fingers accidentally brushed your cheekbone.

“Lovely.”

A thank you never spilled from your lips for another voice rudely interrupted your intimate conversation.

“Steven! We fighting or picking flowers?  Get your pert arse in here!” Sir Clinton howled, causing you to wince – and the dream world Steven had created for you, one where he could harbour affections for you, started to disperse like a morning fog.

“He’s charming a girl for once in his life, give him a moment!” Sir Barnes, prince’s most entrusted Knight, cried out.

His exclaim was followed by a wave of suggestive boo noise at which Sir Rogers finally tore his gaze from yours, staring at his friends.

“Well if you acted more like knights and less like barbarians, making fun of a lady like that, perhaps I would have taken more haste to come back to you!”

All he earned by his chivalrous defence of your long-lost honour was a chorus of “oooooh” and perhaps later, he would be laughed at just as much as you had been when you had tripped. Yet, he seemed to be bothered little by that fact.

He shook his head, expression speaking of an apology not needed.

“I’m afraid I have been summoned, as rudely as it was.”

You gathered the last items, carefully laying them on the tray, a sad reflexion of how it had looked before you lost your balance and practically fell to Sir Rogers’s feet. As if it was not too late for that.

“Thank you for your assistance, Sir Rogers,” you thanked him sincerely, astonished to find him swiftly rising to his feet – and offering a helping hand you could not dare to refuse even if you wished. His strength made itself known as he pulled you to your feet with little effort on your part, causing your head to spin, the brief curtsy you gifted him at last feeling like a daydream. “You- you are most kind.”

The breath-taking smile shone the force of thousand suns, yet caressed you as gently as a summer breeze. “It was an honour, my lady.”

“I am not a-“

“I hope to see you again soon,” he spoke before you could protest fully, laying his arm over his middle, gracing you with the tinniest of bows you were not worthy of, “smiling just as beautifully.”

With those words, he turned back to the prince and his knights, leisurely running back to the group.

As you walked away, you could not but waver at the corner, casting a last glance at the man; Sir Barnes mimicked a curtsy and proceeded to punch Sir Rogers in his shoulder with laughter. Sir Rogers pushed him away with a playful scowl, gaze wandering you to.

You rushed away, smiling to yourself for the rest of the day, embarrassment long forgotten.  

Smiling you were not tonight; fear had seized your heart, consuming you by every moment as you silently stepped out of the princess’ maids’ room, leaving Wanda and Carol sleeping peacefully despite the rumble outside – and in your heavy heart.

You missed your Steven greatly whenever he went, but you understood his duty. Tonight, however, something hovered in the air, an aura of something ominous which had you losing sleep. With a candleholder burning in your hand, you wandered the corridors, nodding to the guards on patrol.

“The seamstress is awake,” Pietro, Wanda’s brother, uttered knowingly, beckoning the direction of Natasha’s chambers.

Perhaps it should have not surprised you that Sir Barnes’ beloved, too, could not find peace on this trying night; and as much joy as it brought you to find yourself not alone, a suffocating feeling squeezed your chest tightly for it meant she might sense the same unease surrounding tomorrow’s battle.

Yet, you headed for her chambers, nodding at Pietro in thank you.

 That night, we were all losing sleep it was as if God sent the storm to warn us; oh foolish men, there is no peace in a war I, too, laid down my life in the name of the king.

 The warm light of the candle was casting long shadows as you walked, reminding you of how the light and darkness played on Steven’s handsome face last night. The princess had been laid to sleep, providing you with a few moments to spent in your beloved’s presence before he would leave to fight for his country, yet again, and you were not one to waste the chance.

Goodbyes were never easy. Whether it had been just a chance meeting after the fateful breakfast incident, meetings when Steven would insist you called him his name, offered you a flower of a compliment in exchange for your smile or whether your encounter had been planned when he revealed his intention to court you, rules of society damned. Whether you were to tell him goodbye for several days due to an upcoming quest or just for the night. Whether the goodbye consisted of words, a touch, a kiss on a cheek or lips… never easy.

Yet his absence left larger ache in your heart the deeper you were falling in love. Every goodbye seemed harder than the previous one; last night parting made for no exception.

“I will think of you every moment I am away,” he promised sweetly as he sneaked his arm around your waist, sitting on the bench by the dying fire in the kitchens, long abandoned by the cooks.

Your body, pliant to his touch, melted into his strong form, arm laying over his torso, temple resting against his chest as you sighed, feeling your worry heavy in your stomach.

“As much I appreciate the sentiment, please do not, Steven.”

You could almost hear his frown as he nuzzled your hair, his lips brushing your forehead lovingly.

“Why not, my sweet?  Will you not think of me as well?” he questioned, voice wavering despite his teasing tone.

You swatted his hip gently, soothing the attack with a caress then.

“You must know that is not true. I—you must focus. Be careful. So you can come back to me,” you whispered, doing your best not to let the depth of your anxiety show.

Steven carried enough burdens for the time being, he needed not your fears to add to them.

“Oh my sweet…”

His fingers slipped under your chin, leading you to meet his gaze, a smile playing in the corners of his lips; not even his beard could hide his amusement. You pursed your lips in slight offence – his safety was no laughing matter.

“Please, Steven. I could not bear any harm coming to you. Be careful.”

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, his smile only growing, wandering gaze warmer than the remnants of fire.

“You know I will, my sweet. I have a duty to my king and I have a duty here, to you,” he muttered, gaze flickering to your lips, following the motions of his thumb as he felt the softness of your flesh.

You had not enough time to process the words before he leaned closer, capturing your lips with his in a kiss, hand moving to cradle the back of your head, parting your lips to engage in a dance of love which could have consumed all your thoughts, all your worry – and yet, the anxious feeling only dug its claws deeper, chasing tears into your eyes.

Steven released you to breathe the moment he felt the salt of your tears, sighing as he tucked a lose strand of hair behind your ear. Still, a smile adorned his now kiss-swollen lips, condescending and kind at once.

“Promise me?” you demanded, the prickle of his beard leaving your skin tingling, your heart racing.

“I promise, then. Do not cry, my lady…”

Oh, the traitor… the corners of your mouth twitched, the difference in your status having turned more of a teasing matter than anything else.

“Steven, you must stop this. I am not a lady.”

“Oh, but you are?” he opposed with a twinkle in his eyes before his lips went to catch the tears from your cheeks, drinking them as if they were nothing less than ambrosia gifted by the gods.

The warmth of his lips and the burn of his beard combined with his jesting drew a giggle from your lips, turning into a breathless moan when his strong arms winded around your waist, pulling you into his lap just like several nights ago.

Dirty, dirty cheater.

His lips found yours again, playful nips causing more giggles spill right into his mouth.

“Am I, truly?” you asked doubtfully. “What are my possessions? What lands do I own and command, Sir Rogers?”

“My heart.”

The jesting and games left as swiftly as they arrived, silence filling the room, your heart stumbling in your chest as you felt your expression morph into something much softer.

How had you ever stood a chance of not falling for this man? For his strength, for his beautiful brave spirit and his gentle, gentle heart? A heart he claimed was yours to own and command?

You let your fingers map out his handsome features, running tenderly over his forehead, brows, the nose of a true aristocrat, his pushy lips; a careful touch which had him flutter his eyes shut, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, the fire as if accenting his beauty, revealing his soul to entice yours to entangle with it forever.

“It shall be my most prized possession, then,” you whispered, barely audible, his hand blindly reaching for yours to kiss your fingertips, one by one, the tender gesture tugging at your heartstrings.

He looked at you then, with overwhelming affection that would choke you once he left in the morning – but you could not think of such things now. He was here still. And he was yours, as you were his.

“Good,” he hummed. “Should you trust me with yours-“

“I do-“

“I shall ask for it in front of the Lord and the gods themselves.”

Your lips parted in surprise, your heart suddenly so loud you could almost hear it, breath catching in your throat. Surely, he did not mean-

“Once I return, I shall ask for your hand, should you agree, my sweetness,” he promised, eyes wide and sincere, stunning you into silence lasting long enough to have him hesitate. “Do you not-“

Oh, how could he even question your wish to marry him!

“I do! I--- but Steven, you are a knight. I would spend thousand lifetimes with you if I could, surely you must know-“ you babbled, his index finger covering your mouth before you could explain.

You would love him always, day and night, from summer solstice to winter and back, and you cherished every moment--- yet the void between you was immense.

“I will settle for one lifetime. You know Anthony cares little for rules and I am but of a common origin myself. What kind of a monster would stand in the way of our love?”

It was not until morning when you realized the answer to his question; when you watched him from above as he stood in the courtyard by his horse, fastening the scabbard to the saddle and tugging at the leather, checking it would hold as they would ride.

You hated seeing him leave more than ever – you dreaded the moments his horse would canter out of the castle’s gates, rushing so willingly to face dangers the other kingdoms posed; to serve his king, your king, to protect what he held dear.

His gaze travelled up the castle’s walls, lingering at the windows of the princess’ chambers – the very windows you were watching him from, stealing last glances as your heart wept and trembled in fear for his life, longing for him to keep the promises he had given you last night.

With the prince’s command, the knights and soldiers left but ache and dust behind, along with an answer.

War.

The biggest and only true monster standing in the way of love was war.

The word resonated with you, leaving you weary and in frenzy at once, as you reached Natasha’s chamber, not needing to knock for her door was ajar – as if she knew you would be coming; as if she did not want to be alone either.

You slipped into her chamber, welcomed by a humourless but gentle smile.

“A pleasant night, is it not?” she hummed noncommittally, “leave the door open, please. Just in case…”

Just in case there would be any commotion in the castle. Perhaps the knights and soldiers would come back, accepting the warning from the Gods. Perhaps, perhaps…

Natasha’s room was relatively spacious for it equalled her craft-space. Besides a small bed with a solid wooden frame, several tables stood covered in pieces of fabric from simplest to the rarest ones, embroideries, bobbin lace, silk. Dresses in various state of completion laid over them or hung on improvised metal frames imitating princess’ lean figure. Silver and golden threads shone in the warm lights provided by a few candles by the stony walls, flickering to life as another lightning erupted behind the window, followed by a distant clap of thunder.

The storm was leaving. Could that be because the danger was not as great or that the gods had given up on the king’s army since they were not heard out?

“Personally, I would say a long night. An ominous one,” you whispered, earning a sigh.

Natasha ceased her work on a lovely silvery embroidery, laying the tambour frame on the nearest flat surface and rose to her feet, a silent offer you accepted with gratitude for the arms you longed to find yourself in were miles away.

She reciprocated the embrace firmly and you felt an ounce of your fear fall from your shoulders for now you shared the weight of it – yours and hers alike. Her goosebumps matched yours as she slipped hr arms under the flimsy shawl you had taken to cover yourself form gazes of the guards. Both of you wore but in simple nightgowns besides it, yet you sensed cold was not to blame for the prickle of her skin either.

Losing sleep with anxiety and intrusive thoughts were at work instead.  

“The weight of fears is lessened when one’s hands are occupied,” she informed you as she let go, brows furrowed with worry still, sighing. “But what of mind…”

Oh, you wished…

“I must try to busy my hands too then, at least.”

At your words, Natasha’s lips curled up in a smile yet again as she handed you your very own tambour frame which you kept in her chambers for such occasion, for sleepless or nightmare-filled nights such as this one.

You found your seat by hers, not fully across, not fully by her side, assessing the floral pattern you had started almost a month ago.

Natasha had been kind enough to sneak some of the royal threads for your work, expensive ones; threads no one would miss nevertheless for Nat was likely the most trusted woman in the castle besides the cook and the princess herself.

She jested you only deserved the very best for your wedding gown once Steven would lay his heart to your feet and you had been working on it since with the deepest care. Tonight, however, tears burned in your eyes as you observed it, the pattern as if mocking you with Steven’s entirely serious promise.

“He shall come back,” Natasha spoke, your expression not escaping her sharp attention. This of all her qualities was what made for her unparalleled ability as a seamstress – her attention to detail. “They all will, Steven and Bucky included.”

Bucky. Sir Barnes. Natasha’s beloved. He too was likely to be pestered about courting a seamstress, but Natasha was well-loved among the noble – the court would never bat an eye and passed no judgement, yet Sir Barnes had not yet asked Natasha’s hand in marriage. She rested unbothered by such; for all you knew of your friend, she would have asked his hand in marriage should she decided she was in a rush.

The thought made you smile for you were aware of the fact Sir Barnes would have said yes and thanked her, worshipped her more than ever. Their love was strong… and word had it that they shared a deep bond beyond pure love, crossing the lines of physical and perhaps the lines of proper. Natasha had hinted at such herself before.

Should you marry Steven as you wished, you were willing to cross as many lines as necessary yourself. You were willing to do just about anything to ensure he would not change his mind, that he would not be plagued with as much as a seed of doubt.

You believed your most trusted friend could be of assistance… without passing judgement.

“Natasha?” you spoke without looking up as you focused on continuing the cornflower with your needle. “I heard rumours.”

“Oh? Of what? Do tell, my dear. I am always happy to learn of the whispers laugh over them at times.”

You felt the blush creeping up your neck, your stomach twisting in embarrassment. Perhaps what you had heard was nonsense – something to laugh over as Natasha just said, nothing but a foolery you had believed in your naivety and inexperience.

“I must say now I am truly curious for your silence lasts too long. And you seem ashamed… just tell me,” she prompted you gently.

You noticed from the corner of your eye she had stopped working, only adding to your nerves.

Your felt the tips of your ears burn as you attempted to keep your tone and expression nonchalant nevertheless, clearing your throat.

“I heard rumours of… making men happy.”

“That does sound promising. Gold, glory or a woman can do that do them.”

You chuckled despite yourself as she deadpanned, some of your embarrassment melting away.

“I overheard a servant talking of ways a woman can please a man without… without sinning? As in truly sinning in the eyes of the Lord? Have you ever, uhm, heard of such thing?”

Silence settled over the room, hanging heavy above your heads.

The storm had left far enough so that no claps of thunder reached you anymore, no bolts of lightning interrupted the intimate atmosphere.  

Nearly pricking yourself with a needle in anticipation, you opted for ceasing your work, hesitantly looking up, meeting Natasha’s curious eyes with a sparkle of mischief that had you lower your gaze again.

“I have. And they are true,” she said simply at last, sending your heart racing.

Oh. So it was the truth then. There was an experience more pleasurable for men than you knew, places where Steven might appreciate your lips more than on his cheek, in his hair, on his mouth or even his neck. Your temples pulsed with the intensity of each beat of your heart at the revelation.

“Do you… do you know of it, Natasha?” you asked, fingers toying with the fabric in your lap.

“I do.”

Your head snapped to her; she was smiling playfully, head tilted to side – a cat that got all the cream and was bragging to her less sneaky friends.

You huffed and pursed your lips, not liking one bit to be made fun of; yet, you needed to know. And so you eased your offence, looking at the redhead pleadingly, baring your heart to her; for you knew that despite her smirk, she would never truly laughed at you.

“Would you please, please, tell me? I… he promised me yesterday. That he would come back and ask-“

“To marry you? Good Lord! Steven promised to marry you at last?!” she gasped, her eyes truly sparkling now, all teasing gone.

You nodded, unable to prevent your lips from forming a smile at the thought, and continued.

“I want to be a good wife to him one day…. but I would like to show him I will be able to make him feel good. What if he wonders if I can please him? He promised me everything and I-- I want to give him the same. Gods know marrying someone of my status will come with burdens and judgement… I don’t… I don’t want to disappoint him, to make him question his decision.”

Natasha’s booming laugh was a reward for your honesty, startling you.

Was this the first time you appeared utterly stupid to her? Silly? It was such a painful feeling… But once her laughter died down, she observed you with kindness, grinning wide and shaking her head.

“I cannot imagine a world in which Sir Steven Rogers could ever be disappointed in you. That man would build a ladder tall enough to reach the stars should you ask him to bring you one.”

Oh.

The shame dispersed in a blink of an eye, warmth enveloping your heart instead. Was that how Steven appeared to others in regard of his feelings for you?

“But very well. I shall tell you – he is only a man, after all. He will appreciate it, of that I am certain. But know, he can please you in a very similar way. And he should – sin or not.”

“…does Sir Barnes please you in such way?” you asked on a whim, taken by surprise at her revelation.

“Oh, but a lady does not kiss and tell!” she mocked offence, her coy smile answering your question. “Perhaps he shares the secrets of his mastery with Steven and you shall be very surprised when you succumb to him.”

The mere idea – so strange and yet incomprehensibly arousing since you had no experience with it nor you could imagine drawing pleasure from such activity – chased blood to your cheeks, having them burn hotter than fire.

The longing for Steve’s presence hit you sharper than the edge of his shield and sword combined, leaving your head swimming and your chest aching.

“He must return home safe first,” you murmured, exchanging a gaze of understanding with your friend, followed by her smile when you asked an innocent question. “Would you pray with me later?”

“I will. And they will. But now… I shall share the wonders of driving a man mad in ways he will thank you for.”

And by gods and Lord, she did.

 Strange cavalrymen are racing from the forest in our eyes, but droplets of fear – here, to kill is no sin. The very first shot has silenced my heart I shall not return home; my time has come.

(In the name of the king!)

Little did you know that in the darkness of the night, cut by bolts of lightning, howl of the wind, distant claps of thunder and the aroma of rain in the air as if warning them not to go into the battle, Steve laid awake, his thoughts were with you as well.

The tent shared with the rest of the knights protected him from the disgrace of a weather raging outside, light snores a strange lullaby Steve had grown almost fond of during the years of comradeship. He could recognize every single one of his friends by that sound alone, distinct to each; and despite that fact only strengthening the sense of belonging and his gratitude to be given the opportunity to become a knight, he longed for nights to spend with you at last.

The idea brought a smile to his lips; you would lie beside him, facing him, wide eyes watching him with affection, drunk on the pleasure he would have given you but moments before, warm palm gently laid on his cheek as if begging him to kiss your wrist. He would oblige – he would always give in to whatever you asked – but in the end, he would wrap his arm around your waist and roll you over to pull you to his front, align his body to yours, inch by inch. He would drop a goodnight kiss to your bare shoulder, causing you to shiver and snuggle ever closer and let the sleep take you both.  

And in the morning, he would wake only to make love to you again, because he would be allowed; because you would be married at last.

He had promised you as much last night and it was a promise he intended to keep. Just like he had promised himself he would bring all the pleasure he ever dared to think of, clinging to his mind ever since the night you had treated his wound from training, giving him but a taste of bliss.

The way you lowered your gaze when he called you beautiful still, the shape of your lips when you smiled, your tender hands scratching at his scalp when he kissed you.

The warmth of your body seeping into his skin.

He could only imagine how much warmer and inviting your heat would be once he was allowed. Oh Lord, how he had wished to have been allowed that night…

The way the torches illuminated your face made him yearn to pick up a piece of charcoal and a scroll of parchment meant for significant documents to capture the alluring image of you – an image which to him felt just as important as a treaty between kingdoms.

It was rather unusual for him to see you from his angle for normally he towered several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to reach his lips. You had seated him there, however, and your expression left no space for protests once you learned he had been injured in the evening training, grazed by a little too sharpened sword which cut through his armour, made for a bruise and broke through his skin as well.

You were no physician, you had said, but you could clean and dress a wound like this.

A frown to your brow clouded your soft features with disapproval as you placed the bowl of warm water on the only table in the room, careful not to tip over the small vial of alcohol you had obtained for him. You pulled at the white cloth thrown over your shoulder, dipping one of the edged in the water before glancing at him and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that night.

“What weighs your mind, my sweetness?” he asked silently.

“You not being careful enough,” you retorted as if on instinct; and then your teeth pulled lightly at your lower lip, indignation melting into bashfulness. “Uhm, I believe you will have to- to take off your shirt.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Steve’s lips. That did sound reasonable, yet he felt a slight pull at his nerves as you did at the realization.

You had never seen him bared of his garments, never seen his upper body exposed – or his lower half for that matter. He feared not your judgement for that would be ridiculous. But perhaps he did feel a bit anxious to fulfil your expectations.

A baseless worry, truly; the moment he slipped his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you were left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that spoke of everything but disappointment.

Steve would have been a liar should he say he did not feel pleased, his ego stroked gently. He had worked for the strength in his upper body his whole life and he worked hard for he had been born a weakling. Now muscles adorned his torso, a prove of power he had when wielding a sword and a shield. And by Lord, by would wield it for your eyes only had you always watched him with this silent wonder.

“Did cat get your tongue, my dear?” he teased lightly, unable to hide the smugness when you tore your gaze away from the newly exposed skin, caught staring. “I would never use my strength to hurt you.”

“I know,” you squealed before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… assessing the damage.”

He was sure you were.

“Of course. Do you need me to strip anything else-“

“No--! This… this will certainly suffice. Thank you,” you smiled at him shakily, feeding his ego further with your embarrassment. “Just sit back for now, Steven, and let me clean the wound-- oh.”

You tilted your head to side curiously, gaze zeroed above his left hip.

Steve knew instantly what caught your eye.

The black lines were thick despite the size no bigger than his own palm, a small work of art many still frowned upon. You did not seem offended nor, Lord forbid, horrified. Merely curious – perhaps even fascinated.

“May I?” you asked in a whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand.

Steve gulped.

Yes, you may, by all means, he longed to say. Touch it, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue even-

“Of course,” he rasped instead, scolding himself for his dirty thoughts.

Yet, as if you heard what was on his mind, the pads of your fingers brushed over the tattoo, a featherlight touch in a place where your skin had never met his before and set it on fire.

“A wolf?”

“Yes.”

You pursed your lips lightly in a sign of disapproval and so Steve rushed to explain.

“Bucky often jested we were a pack of wolfs rather than a group of knights and so we all chose a wolf. Do you… not like it? “

You met his gaze briefly, shaking your head with a shy smile, taking your touch away; and he already carved it again.

“No, it’s beautiful, just… a little aggressive.”

“Well, wolves are fierce warriors. Strong, loyal,” he pointed out, hoping you would not miss the weight behind his next words. ”Protective of their own.”

Their own. His own. You might not be a fellow knight nor family nor his wife yet, but he would lay his life to protect you should it be necessary.

And you could bet the royal jewels he would fight aggressively had anyone tried to harm you.

“Then you could have not chosen better,” you whispered, laying a kiss to your fingertips before pressing them to the artwork again, having Steve’s breath catch.

He wished you would kiss it with your lips directly – but then you would have to kneel in front of him, giving him a completely different idea as to where your lips could be and the imagery alone would be permanently etched into his mind.

So perhaps it was for the best that you had not, for he felt his arousal growing at the thought alone; instead, you moved to take care of his cut.

Your dominant hand dutifully wiped around the wound first, tender but thorough, your focus as sharp as one of an archer aiming to hit the middle of the clout. Your other hand rested against his shoulder for balance as you stood between his legs crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.

“Sit, my sweetling.”

You gazed up at him, eyebrow raised questioningly, as surprised by his suggestion and he was for a moment.

Needless to say that at the moment, he was eternally grateful that Bucky and Clint had left for the town’s tavern, celebrating news of Clint’s wife Laura finding herself with her first child – leaving you and him alone.

“I must not block the light and have to be able to reach the bowl. I cannot very well sit, Steven,” you explained softly, blinking when he grasped at your hand and tugged at it lightly.

“You will not block the light,” he opposed, closing the gap between his thighs and leading you closer to stand by his legs and pulling at your skirt a fraction, “if you are sitting, straddling me. Come, my love. It shall be much easier for you.”

Your eyes grew adorably wide at his suggestion, softening at the endearment. Reluctantly, you obeyed, climbing over him and lowering your weight on his thighs, leaning onto his shoulder as not to fall. Steve welcomed the weight you brought with you, your breaths fanning his face as you shifted in attempt to find a comfortable position.

You met his gaze with an apologetic smile as if you had not just gifted him with your intimate proximity.

“Am I not too heavy like this?”

Oh even if you were, Steve would never dare to tell you in order to keep you so close to him for the rest of his days; let alone when you moved a few inches and brushed his most sensitive spot.

Oh Lord, he was going to hell, but it mattered not if he had his time with an angel before he would go.

“Like a feather, sweet. Comfortable? Stable?”

He placed his hands on your waist to ensure better balance and you smiled at him, gaze flickering to his naked chest, a gorgeous flush rising to your face.

Yes, he could go to hell for at the moment, he was having a taste of heaven.

“Yes. I shall work now.”

Steven wanted not to show he felt the sting as you continued cleaning the wound; but he found out letting you see him vulnerable was not the worst thing possible to happen.

When a hiss escaped his lips at the burn of alcohol, your eyes snapped to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain was soothed by the softest of kisses.

He stole several more from your lips, squeezing your waist, toying with the hem of your bodice before he let you continue, demanding such compensation every time you made his jaw tick with pain; and with each kiss, his hunger grew, each encounter of lips longer than the previous.  

The moment you were to take a fresh cloth to finish cleaning with water once again, Steve knew he could not let you. Not yet; he drew too much pleasure from this, having you, his dutiful carer, seated in his lap, soft and tender and unwittingly seductive.

Your lips had grown swollen from the kisses, calling for him to taste you again – and Steve was not one to ignore a call like that.

With a small noise of surprise on your part, he claimed your mouth again, hand reaching to cradle your face, gentle thumb stroking your cheek and coaxing you into giving in. Your body melted into his, pliant, lips succumbing to his advances and he felt something in him roar, a proud primal thing boasting at your trustful submission.

His arm wound around your waist firmly, pulling you chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth, your hands catching on his arm and in his hair, making him groan at the sensation which sent an impulse straight into groin.

It made his pants too tight all of sudden; he had no doubt it did not escaped your attention.

Yet you did not protest, your breathing turning heavy, your heart hammering against his chest and under his palm laid on your neck. You seemed to force your grip on him to ease, grasping at remnants of sanity in the whirlwind of need – and so he followed your example and released your lips for a moment.

“My love, my sweetling…” he whispered, drunk on the assault of sensations, drunk on everything that made you you.

How sweet you were, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch as you mimicked all little acts of affection he had ever shown you, your lips, hesitant and shy, wandering to his neck or the hollow of his throat to treat him.  

The most beautiful sight, eyes unknowingly blown with lust and wide with surprise at once as you felt his arousal he simply could not help, not with a temptress like you in his lap. Innocent but quickly learning from him, from others too no doubt – for you recovered from your shock, your trembling hands settling on his shoulder for support, grinding against him and by Lord, Lord, he wished to take you right there.

He had women in the tavern touch him before for money, he had eased the pressure in his loin thinking of how sweet your heat would be, but he would never – he could never. Not before he married you, not before he promised his love to you in front of the whole world.  

Yet, the way your eyelids fluttered shut at the foreign feeling, your lips parting with a shaky exhale at the first taste of pleasure, had his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craved to taste you there too, almost as much as he longed for the ambrosia awaiting him between your legs, a cure which would make all the pain above his collarbone disappear completely.

“Oh Steven-“ you whispered as your thighs trembled when his hips buckled up, his name on your lips like an oil to the fire and a gush of wind strong enough to put the fire out at once.

He could feel the pressure in him building, his hands twitching to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you, just him, you and absolute bliss--- but he could not, fuck, he must not do that to you.

He seized your mouth with his to swallow your sigh of pleasure; a desperate claim with a smidge of teeth for he felt his control slipping and he needed to take reigns of his desires at once, before he’d do things that could grant him instant gratification but would make for regrets later on.

He grabbed your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well.

A small pitiful sound which almost broke his resolve for it had his blood boiling escaped your kiss-swollen lips, leading him to stray from your mouth to your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they did yours, every inhale of yours causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest.

You shall not give into temptation, you shall not give into temptation—

“Lord--- my sweet, my sweetling, how you tempt me,” he panted into your skin, unable to resist a small taste of it, one last time, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

“I must not dishonour you in such way, but…” He dared to look up to your flushed face, instantly regretting it for the acute need in his groin grew tenfold at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “Lord knows it is the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful…”

He ran his fingers over your cheek, over the slightly irritated skin where his beard scratched when his lips had sought to drink from yours, the corners of your lips now lifted in a shy smile.

“As you are handsome… how hard it is not to give in to a sin. I have never known until I met you, Steven,” you admitted, somehow appearing abashed and pleased at once.

His beautiful kind bashful minx of a woman. How could he not fall in love with you?

“I feel the same, my sweet. I love you. I thank the Lord for you every day.”

Your eyes shone with affection as you cupped his face and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I thank the gods and the Lord for you and your love every day as well. I love you. You must be more careful, Steven,” you whispered, gaze flickering to the wound you had not finished cleaning, worry clouding your features.

Oh should you always react in such way, curing him with loving kisses and the same passion you had shown him a moment ago, Steven thought that he should be, as matter of fact, much more careless.

But he could not tell you that – and he would not. He would soon put a plan in motion to spend the rest of his life with you. What kind of a fool would he be should he not try his hardest to make that life as long as possible?

“I will, my sweet. I will.”

Momentarily soothed, you kissed his lips softly and returned to your original task.

Should he keep his promise, Steve needed to catch a shut-eye at last – and chase those sinful memories away.

An early morning awaited them, the last training and a battle to be won to earn his reward; to no longer think of you, but to be graced with your presence… and to be granted your hand in marriage as well.

To reach victory, however, every single man, every knight and soldier, had to be in their best shape, in their sharpest minds, for Hydra could be cunning and unpredictable.

Defeat was not an option for Steve; he had too much to fight for.

For his king.

For his kingdom and the people.

For you.

Oh you.

How you would cry upon learning how desperately outnumbered the Starkerbürg army was. How you would weep, precious tears running down your face once you were to be informed of the victory coming with too high of a price.

Your tears would make for an ocean when you would see only a handful of men coming back, Natasha’s beloved a picture of blood and grief as he had witnessed Steve being one of the first men to get hit.

You would have drowned in your own tears if you only knew Steven’s last thoughts belonged to no one but you. The last thing he had seen looking up into the morning sun as he lied on his back, body too heavy to rise once more and fight, was your loving smile.

Steve could not bear to see you crying; so he was grateful for leaving this world with your smile in his thoughts instead.

 Do not weep for me, my beautiful Marian, when the tower bell rings to honour soldiers, proud My heart is silent, but in you there shall remain all the words that flare up like fire.

The storm did not return the following night – yet the uneasiness in your heart found you in Natasha’s chambers again, frantically working on your embroidery for busy hands were meant to settle an unsettled mind.

You retreated back to your simple bed earlier than the previous night however, your body feeling the consequences of missing sleep the night prior, exhaustion wearing you down and sweeping you to dreamland as soon as your head touched the sheets.

Yet, you were woken up with the first chirps of birds, the castle still wrapped in dark shadows – but lively with a haste that could only mean one and one thing only.

The troops were coming back.

You threw away your flimsy cover, searching for your shawl in a haste, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest with anticipation.

They were back. Steven was back!

Wasn’t it too early for them to return? Had something gone wrong? Was he injured during the battle? Had he lost a dear friend?

You caught Wanda’s sleepy eye as you stumbled out of the room, noticing Carol’s bed already empty – she always had been a light sleeper so the commotion in the castle must have intrude her rest before it did yours.

The corridors were brimming with servants and guards, all taking haste to gather in the courtyard by the gate, heavy footsteps and the rattle of armour ominous as you were still wiping sleep from your eyes and hurried along.

Gods please, I am begging you, Lord – let him be alright. It is but all I ask. Perhaps a cut for me to clean with care and love, a bruise for me to kiss tenderly---  grant me the sight of him, standing tall and healthy, smiling with relief to be home.

Breath had nearly left you by the last stairs, every beat of your heart almost painful against your ribcage, but you cared little for it, willing your feet to hurry still.

They had returned! Only a few more steps and you would be able to see them, dealing with neglecting the princess later on after your soul would meet its other half, chasing all worries away and wrapping you in his love instead. A few more steps only, to find peace-

You gasped as you found yourself in the courtyard at last, your soul nearly leaving your body in fright at the sight of several men looking a miserable excuse for knights – clothing torn, bloodied, articles of armour missing, two horses barely limping by their side.

Prince Anthony in the centre, supported by Sir Barnes and Sir Barton. Sir Drax leading the horses. Your eyes skimmed over what you believed was Mr. Thorn, Mr. Vaughn and Mr. Richards and a few men you did not recognize for their beaten faces or for having never met them before.

Cold seeped into your bones upon seeing that there were not more than thirty – and they appeared to carry themselves with the last remnants of strength, attempting to support one another.

There was no doubting whether there were others on their tail – they were not.

A pained cry erupted from your throat at the sharp pain piercing your chest, hand grasping at your sternum as to sooth it as the realization dawned to you.

No more men were coming. The pitiful remnants of an army stood before you by their prince, their future king, whom they protected with their lives--- and many loyal soldiers and knights were left behind, having kept their promise and laying their lives in the name of the king.

Steven was one of them.

Another sob escaped your lips as you rubbed at your breastbone, scratching that terrible itch that seemed to be spreading through your veins, burning and so devastatingly cold against the tears springing from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks.

Your lungs ached as you took a hungry gasp for air, violent tremble seizing your body, your head shaking of its own volition, stubbornly rejecting the plain facts laid in front of you. You understood – you understood in an instant, but your mind, and more so, your heart refused to acknowledge the gut-wrenching truth.

He was gone.

How could he---how could he be gone? He had promised! He had promised to come back and to be careful and to love you and to ask your hand in marriage for he cared not for who you were and who was him, only who you were together, he-

Steven was an epitome of strength and bravery and loyalty and trust and all the virtues known to man. How could he… how could he simply cease to exist? That must have been gods’ mistake for certain, for it made not an ounce of sense.

Steve was a knight, a fierce warrior, protective of his own as his comrades were supposed to be and yet they were standing there and he was not--- how could that be?

Surely this must have been but a nightmare. A nightmare your tired, fear-clouded mind had invented to make for an encounter all the sweeter, sweeter than Steven’s lips… sweeter than his promises.

Then why were you still dreaming? How had the terrible ache not tugged at your hand and pushed you back to reality?

Was your fear truly so paralyzing it had trapped you in your nightmare?

A flash of red hair caught your eye, Natasha’s hasty embrace nearly causing Sir Barnes topple over and the truth of the terrible scene in front of you twisted the knife in your chest.

There was no denying anymore; there was no waking up from this.

This was the price you paid for war: love. Your love was no more.

“What is it like?” you whispered shyly, teeth worrying over your lips as you wondered whether you had the right to ask.

You toyed with the soft ends his hair, a little too long perhaps, but only adding to the air of a nobleman he might be not, but certainly resembled. Steve was simply too handsome of a man to be a commoner, you would think people believed; and despite his heart of gold, his gentle hands brushing over your cheek as you laid on the grass only a few moments from the castle’s gate, you had to agree.

His beauty rivalled the sun itself; and his love bested the one of the sun as well.

“How-- I mean… on the battlefield. What is it like to fight?”

He tilted his head to side, frowning at you as he appeared to contemplate your inquiry – perhaps an inappropriate one. Yet you could not seem to help it for you wanted to know him more, you wanted to know everything… you wanted to be close to your love even at times when you were not for he had rushed to defend the crown and the kingdom.

“I apologize, I-“ you hurried, only to be interrupted with a shake of his head, sending his golden locks flying adorably.

“It is… loud. Chaotic. Cruel sometimes,” he tried to explain, cerulean eyes filling with an absent look, pulling him away from your happy moment.

And yet, his embrace was as tender as ever as you laid your heavy head on his chest.

His fingers slipped under your chin, insistent to see you instead of the horror which was no doubt etched in his mind. You were certain a single look at the terror would haunt you – left you terrified for your every breath. How could Steven simply lie here with you, heart on his sleeve, kind and inviting?

“And do you not… do you get scared?”

It must have been written in your eyes. Or perhaps Steven was such talented observer, reading between the lines, reading in your deepest thoughts; for he saw a plea and not another question.

Your plea of please, say yes. Tell me that for all your bravery, you do feel fear. Tell me that for all your heroism, you are only a human made of flesh and blood and strength and weakness and dreams, as am I.

“Sometimes, yes,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. He grasped your wrist in his long fingers tenderly, ran them over your palm and then fingers, only to bring them to his mouth, kissing every single fingertip. “But then I think of you.”

“You do?” you queried, doubtful and confused.

“Yes. And it gives me strength. I think of you, my sweet,” he whispered sincerely, “and my father and the kids playing pebble toss and five stones and… I recall in the midst of chaos what is it we fight for.”

Touched, you strained your neck to steal a kiss from the lips spilling the tender words, words speaking of Steven’s good heart; words helping you remember just how good of a man your Steven was.

And how your heart, whenever in his orbit, belonged to him more than to yourself.

He pecked your lips, smiling wider then, honest, and dropped a kiss on your nose.

“And I am not alone. Tony, Bucky, Clint, Drax, even Peter or Scott and others. They might all be dollop heads…” You failed to stiff a giggle at his choice of words, knowing he was not mistaken. “But they are skilled fighters. I shall not trust them with saving me lunch, but I trust them with my life.”

Skilled fighters they were, such you had had the chance to witness before. It stood to reason to believe Steven then. The knights could protect each other, having each other’s back, fighting all for one and one for all.

And so as difficult as it seemed whenever Steven had gone, you knew he trusted his friends – and you shall try to do the same.

The words Steven had spoken to you that day echoed in your head, bouncing around like little goblins, mocking you for your and Steve’s naivety.

I trust them with my life.

How foolish a man of his wits could be? How could you have allowed his empty promises to lull you into peace of heart?

I trust them with my life.

There was no denying Steven put his faith in those who were not worthy of it.

And for his foolery he had paid the highest of prices. His life. Your love.

Through the mist of your tears, you noticed the valets letting flags down the balconies; already signalling kingdom’s grief for the fallen men. Black as night and yet not black enough to capture the true nature of sorrow.

You blinked away the salty droplets burning in your eyes as people passed you, leading the survivors to the doctor’s chambers. Cries could be heard from several houses as the news spread like wildfire, burning everything in its wake, leaving unhealable scars.

Sobs shook you, but no one acknowledged you; each of you were overtaken by your own sorrow.

Sorrow was a lonely work after all, for everyone was destined to mourn in different manner, grieving different things… and different people. Sons, brothers, fathers. Husbands and lovers.

Lovers.

Your love. Your Steven.

A caress of a wind carrying his name ruffled your hair.

The night had just barely begun tuning into a day, the lower castle wrapped in shadows and darkness when the commotion disturbed your sleep and but upon learning the appalling reports of the army’s pitiful victory, the night seemed to cling to its reign.

Yet now, the wind made to disperse the heavy clouds which had surrounded the castle in sympathy. Sharp cold light of the sun broke through, a dawn of a new day; a beginning of an end. You let the violent intrusion of light fall on your face, eyes fluttering against the assault.

So bright… too bright in comparison to what your world had become.

Perhaps this was your punishment for praying to Lord and the old gods still at once; perhaps you displeased one or the other by not worshipping them and them alone.

Or perhaps the power of all of them together was not enough to protect your beloved Steve; perhaps the gods were just as powerless and helpless as any mere mortal like you.

Who even knew if there were gods and how mighty they were; what you did know with certainty was that they were not enough to protect Steve in life.

And so you fell to your knees, with no regard of getting in the way, clasped your hands together and prayed for Steve’s soul in death.

May the Gods protect him from ghouls and evil spirits. May the Lord grant him entry to the gardens of Eden, for his soul deserved peace and eternal love.

One day… one day you would hope to join him in afterlife; until then, you shall stay in the purgatory of living in the senseless world without him.

In the world where pointless wars slaughtered the mattes of love and tore soulmates apart.

 With the last shot fired, the once lively meadow burst into quiet tears and embraced the bodies of the fallen and the winners – whom there are none for a war is not won when lives are the price to pay. And all the beautiful Marians, who received the report of our death just as night melted into day, lifted their inquiring gaze to the skies and in that moment, the sun rose.

Despite the truth settling in, despite every passing day screaming the loss the whole kingdom had suffered, your life, suddenly dull, resembled the strangest of fever dreams.

Your mind received the message of reality clearly and undeniably; yet there remained an immense rift between the thought and your heart. In your heart, you could not yet accept that Steven was no more; where your thoughts kept humming with grief, your heart awaited Steven’s return, welcoming smile and pretty words to wrap you in affection.

It was simply such an ungraspable idea, a world without him. Incomprehensible. Impossible.

And yet your mind accepted it, perhaps for Steven loving once seemed just as imaginable.

But before your heart could be ripped apart by harsh facts, you tucked them into an imaginary drawer in your head along with your grief to hide it from sight – for a mere glimpse of it hurt too much.

You busied your hands during your days and attempted to engage your mind as well; yet every night, images of horror awaited you, haunting.

Steven’s motionless body swimming in a sea of blood, vultures circling above him to swoop down in order to feed on his flesh. The tattoo of a wolf adorning his torso coming to life, climbing out of his skin only to tear away a limb to present it proudly to the pack and begin a feast with a growl.

You were waking up with tears drenching your face, screams on your lips which you profusely apologized for to your friends in the morning, earning their forgiveness and endless pity.

Steve’s absence was ever-present; while no longer amongst the living, you saw him everywhere.

You had always thought his eyes were the colour of the sky; yet these days, the skies were the colour of his eyes. The golden threads Natasha laced Princess Maria’s wedding gown with were the colour of his hair when the sun shone bright and painted a halo around his handsome face.

The apples you brought to the princess for breakfast were the colour of Steven’s kiss-swollen lips. You took a bite of the ones you carried back, untouched, but it did not taste nearly as sweet, prompting you to burst into inconsolable sobs, infecting the cooks who had lost their loved ones as well with your tears. You longed for Steven’s lips to kiss your tears away, for his tickly beard to sooth their burn on your skin.

Your only fortune, should you choose to find joy in the smallest of things, was sudden haste to marry king Howard’s children for the kingdom needed swiftly strengthen its alliances; prince Anthony was to marry princess Virginia of Pottenberg, whereas princess Maria was to be wed to prince Steven of Strangerlands.

The preparations for a royal wedding which was to take place in the castle, along with packing and readying the princess for her journey, left only little space for your grief to overwhelm you.

And since you were one of the princess’ maids, you were to prepare yourself for a journey as well.

While you might have not possessed much, there were items you laid into your pitiful excuse of a luggage with great care; you set the hand-made embroidery for a wedding dress you shall never wear, for you no longer had your groom, on the very top of your bag. You ran your fingers lovingly over the pattern of meadow flowers you had chosen to for it reminded you of your first interaction with your beloved and swallowed your tears.

Foreign lands with foreign customs would have scared you only a few days ago, yet now they were a promise of easing your pain. In the walls of the new castle, you would see the ghost of your Steven less frequently for he had never walked its halls.

Leaving, as intimidating as it might seem, would bring you relief.

The loud crash of the chamber’s door against a wall startled you, having you swiftly cover your embroidery with the nearest cloth, your head snapping to the source of the noise.

Met with the flushed face of your closest friend, you blinked in surprise at her wide-eyed gaze, swiftly drying your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Why would you make such noise, Wanda? What is the matter?” you asked silently, clearing your throat when the swallowed tears made your voice hoarse.

“The--- the- I,” she panted, clutching at her chest as she tried to catch her breath, shaking her head wildly, causing you to feel worry instead of sorrow for the first time in days. “You are needed outside right away!”

To say such order struck you as odd would be a gross understatement.

As it was, you could not imagine a single thing you could do for the princess outside for you were certain she was having tea with her father and her brother before they would be forced to part. And if any help was needed at a request of anyone else, then surely your presence specifically was not a necessity? Wanda herself had just run up all the flights of stairs – she could have done the work in your place, could she not?

Why would she come for you instead? You possessed no special skills to make you any more desirable than Wanda – on anyone, truly.

“Me? Now? What for?”

In lieu of an answer, your friend simply gestured with her hands vaguely, the movement incomprehensible for you.

“Just take haste, for Gods’ sake!” she cried out exasperatedly, the smallest of smiles passing her lips at your gaze widening as well.

Wanda even more than yourself, was raised within the old religion – to call upon the gods felt not in character for her for she knew better.

You willed your feet to move despite how heavy they seemed for the past few days; haste would then be too strong of a word and yet, you tried.

The corridors were lined with royal colours of red and gold, the servants tasked with decoration for the royal visit and upcoming wedding dutiful as always. The preparations and anticipation had made the castle buzzing at last despite the tragedy striking barely a week ago – yet, now it seemed fresh excitement hovered in the air.

Had the party on the behalf of Pottenberg arrived without your notice? You had been so lost in your own thoughts lately it would not be too surprising should you be honest with yourself.

If that was true, you certainly did have to take haste.

Running your hands through your hair, quickly pulling it into an improvised half-braid, you hoped to look presentable enough not to be ejected by the royals. You attempted to straightened your skirt a bit as you descended the stairs, quickening your steps.

Taking a deep breath to stand tall despite feeling yourself anything but small, you stepped outside with your head held high so you could lower it in a curtsy when the situation asked for such display of submission and servitude.

Confusion had your head spin slightly instead as no horses, no carriages and no gleam of luxury which came with royalty appeared in sight.

Instead, you were met with a crowd of servants and townsmen, surrounding a group of people who looked as if they crawled out of hell itself. Dirty, bruised and bloodied, too pale to appear anything but sick and yet, tired smiles seemed to adorn---

Your heart gave out, a painful skip of a beat that made you truly dizzy.

You recognized them.

Your eyes searched every face frantically, some of them swelled with brutal bruises beyond recognition, yet you were certain these were Sir Lang and Sir Quill, then Ethan from the stables-

Oh gods.

Your palm was over your mouth, muffling the sob before you realized it erupted from your throat.

He was a horrifying sight; smudges of dirt he had clearly attempted to clean, hair on his left side stuck in a dark lump due to dried blood, as was part of his entirely unkept beard, the thick crimson seeping into once white under armour shirt where the blood trickled down his neck and shoulder.

Exhausted red-rimmed eyes, limp posture with his arm hazardously fastened to his chest by torn fabric, several shallow cuts peppering his arms, dirt cloaking the remnants of his trousers and shirt where the terrifying amount of blood – his or his enemies’ – hadn’t already stained it. Normally standing tall, his figure sagged at the moment, shoulders slumped as he barely remained on his feet.

And yet, by lord, by gods, he was the most beautiful you had ever seen him, his injured arm clinging to his chest which was rising and falling with only slight irregularity of his breaths.

He was still breathing, his heart was still beating – and yours thundered in your ribcage painfully as you choked on air and sobs.

Steven looked marvellous in his misery, because despite the weariness in features, his eyes lit up upon seeing you, his lips curling up regardless of the split--- he lived, he lived, he lived.

Your feet, having taken roots in the ground, moved of their own accord at last, carrying you to him swiftly as the soldiers hopped away, clearing your path with weary attempt at a smile. Your hands tore away from your chest and your face as you came to a halt in front of your beloved, eager to touch, aimlessly searching for a place to feel him without causing him pain.

Solving your dilemma for you, Steve was kind enough to reach out with his uninjured hand, cradling your wet cheek gently. You minded not the tremble in his fingers, covering his hand with yours, eyes fluttering shut to fully revel in the sensation you had believed you would never experience again; a sensation you had only had the fortune to savour in your dreams.

The sudden surge of panic had your eyes snap open, afraid you were still in the dreamland.

But you did not have to fear; Steve’s warm eyes observed you with endless affection still, melting into your touch as your hand found its way to his own cheek. His lips brushed your palm lovingly before he gently pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours with a breathy hiss of pain.

It was the display of agony he must have been in with every breath and the smallest of movements which finally untied your tongue, a waterfall of words falling from your lips.

“Steve---Steven, Steve, my love, what—how-“

Your fingers slipped to his nape, his pulse racing under your palm, the most precious thing you ever felt, only causing him to lean closer, nose brushing yours in a tender act of affection bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

Thump-thump-thump went his heart, a chant of love and life.

He was alive. Your beloved was alive.

“Druids. Luck. Divine intervention. I do not know, but it matters not. I am here,” he whispered, voice no less firm than within a battle cry.

I am here.

A promise. A declaration of love.

You found yourself yet again at loss for words, another sob escaping you instead. There were no words you were familiar with to do justice to your joy at this reunion. After countless of days, endless days of grief, he was standing there, holding your face in his hand and your whole heart as well.

Steve was alive.

“I made you a promise,” he continued in husky voice, “I told you I’d call upon your hand. It was all I could think of in the face of… of what I thought was the end.”

You squeezed his hand as to stop him, for it mattered not, not at this very moment, not ever, you would give him anything, everything, regardless of whether you were courting, married, or sneaking around and being the subjects of slander at the lower castle and the court alike.

As long as you should keep him, as long as he kept breathing, it mattered not if you could chant his name as you were now; falling from your lips like a prayer to whatever ancient force that brought him back to you.

And yet, you should have known better. Your Steven was a force of nature himself, stubborn and determined and proper. Time waited for no man and Steve could no longer wait for when fate would try to separate you again. He had to act in this very moment.

“Will you marry me, my sweet?”

You laughed, the joyful sound absurd in the circumstance; but your heart could burst as the reality of Steve holding you and asking you to marry him sank in at last, feeling as if the sun itself settled in your chest.

What choice did you have? What else could you possibly say when the gods were so merciful to give you a chance at bliss of spending your life side by side with a man you loved?

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

Cheers erupted around you, words of how sappy your future husband was, yet you could not care less, whatever the meaning the word possessed.

You had your Steven back; you had your heart sown together at once, waterfalls of grief turning into tears of undiluted happiness. Long path lied in front of you and it was not to be an easy one; Steven proposed, yes – in shaggy clothes, bloodied and dirty and with no ring to give you.

His proposal was far from flawless indeed; however, it was a promise. Not a promise of perfection, but a promise nevertheless. A promise of a beautiful life, for it would be with him.

And as you had learned upon daring to doubt him… your knight would always keep his promises to you. For that, he was a man far more noble than those who were born with nobility in their blood.

And he was yours. Always and to the end of the days – yours.

As much as you always would be his.

 Do not weep for me, my beautiful Marian, when the tower bell rings to honour soldiers, proud, My heart is silent, but in you there shall remain all the words that flare up like fire.

S.R. masterlist

Sequel - In the Name of All That’s Holy

Thank you for reading 💗 Feedback to this 13k beast is appreciated!

As you can see/hear, the song does NOT have a happy ending, but I just couldn’t… 😭 I couldn’t break her heart like that (AND MINE). Also, I was sent a cute knife along with a message as not to hurt knight Steve (yes, my beloved, I’m looking at YOU) 🤭

If you felt a bit of himbo energy from the knights in the beginning, know that Merlin is to blame. As he is for “dollop heads”.

(I never found whether the choice of a name ‘Marion’ has any particular meaning. I’ve always imagined her as a loyal woman in love, waiting for her kingdom’s hero to come home – I translated as Marian, for the resemblance with Lady/Maid Marian tied to Robin Hood legends. Up to interpretation.)

[starsfic]

Mk and Red Son putting a scavenger hunt for their guardians to tell them that they'll be grandparents (bonus if Wukong, DBK, Iron Fan, Pigsy, and Tang are over the moon about the news especially upon looking at the ultra sound pic)

"Here you go!"

Pigsy raised a brow as Tang oohed over the bowl of noodles their son had stuffed into his hands. “I thought we were having lunch together?” He asked as Xiaotian leaned over into the kitchen and pulled out a scroll. That was the plan at least, with the Demon Bull couple and Sun Wukong there too.

Xiaotian let out a wordless noise of apology. “Sorry, I was really looking forward to it. But, uh,” His fingers gently tapped against the scroll he held. “Something came up. I hope you guys enjoy lunch!”

Before Pigsy could say anything, he was out the door.

“Well, that was weird.” Tang didn’t sound too bothered, however. He was eyeing the noodles he held and licking his lips. “Hello, my beauties…” He leaned the bowl back.

“Wait!” Wukong had noticed the same thing Pigsy had. Grabbing his husband, he plucked off the envelope taped to the bottom of the bowl.

“What does it say?” Princess Iron Fan asked. She looked both bored and intrigued somehow.

Pigsy cleared his throat. "We sent you this to begin a game, in it you'll follow clues leading you place to place, and once you get to where we lie, we will give you a special prize; now to find the next clue that you will need, go to the place where the young one go to play, where people go to enjoy a sunny day, you'll find the clue on a post by the lilies-”

Wukong gasped. “This sounds like a scavenger hunt!” DBK winced as his former sworn brother's tail wagged back and forth. “Okay, okay, so-”

“What does the letter mean “Where the young ones go to play?” Wukong frowned as DBK cut him off.

Pigsy considered the letter. He gasped as an idea popped to mind before grinning brightly. “Wait, this sounds like that park located in the east section!” Tang let out his own gasp, clearly catching on. It was a large park with stunning views and a beautiful pond full of water lilies.

“So what are we waiting for?!” Tang grabbed Pigsy’s hand and yanked him out of the shop. Wukong and the Demon Bull couple followed fast behind. “Let’s go!”

-_-

The East Park was full of people. Most of them were children, racing around and playing on the playground as parents watched on. Iron Fan made a little noise and Pigsy was tempted to do the same.

Pigsy and Tang had taken Qi Xiaotian to this park for years. His favorite spot was the swings. 

Push me Daddy! Push me! 

His second was under a big oak tree next to the lily pond, where he sketched. And there, tied to a branch, was a familiar red bandana. DBK pulled it off and when he opened his hand, a white scroll sat there. It wasn’t the scroll Xiaotian had pulled out. It didn’t have the red bow.

“My turn!” Wukong practically sang the words as he snatched the paper away. Settling on DBK’s shoulder and ignoring the bull’s angry snort, he unfurled it. "This next clue is found somewhere where you can go to learn, whether it'll be science, math or about the world, the next clue is hidden where you go to do art, then you'll know where to go for the next part."

“A school?” Iron Fan offered. She looked less bored now. “Is there a certain school…?”

Tang grinned. “I know the place!” He looked around before grabbing Pigsy’s hand. “And it’s just down the street!”

Right down the street was an elementary school. Tang went there every week to read to the kids, mostly Journey to the West. Xiaotian also swung by occasionally to help the kids in art class. Once Pigsy had driven by to pick up Xiaotian, the kid had been covered in so many kids, all pleading for him to stay and play some more.

A receptionist was tapping away when the group entered. “Hey, Meilin!” Tang said brightly.

“Oh, hello Tang! Are you here for the special surprise?”

Tang raised a brow. “Yes. How did you know?”

Meilin looked around before leaning forward. “He hid it in 106.”

And just like that, they were heading down the hall and into 106. The room was bright and colorful, art supplies were organized nicely and neat, and students’ work was hung up on one wall. Thankfully it was also empty. DBK had to shrink down to fit and Pigsy didn’t want to cause a panic.

“Hm, now where could that clue be?” DBK said out loud. He headed over to the students’ work, Wukong following. On a guess, Pigsy headed over to the art supplies. He could see Tang head to the teacher’s desk.

“Found it!”

Tang handed over the scroll to Iron Fan. She unfurled it, traced down the words were a red nail, before clearing her throat. “The next clue is a place near and dear to DBK's heart, the place where Noodle Boy danced in the underground-” She came to a pause. Her brows furrowed.

“What?”

“I know where it is.”

-_-

Wukong let out an awkward “Ah.”

Tied to a pipe above was a scroll.

They were in the cave that Wukong admitted was where DBK had been sealed up. There was an awkward silence before the monkey hopped up and passed it to DBK. He snatched it away and opened it. “And now you return to your home away from home where a special prize awaits you, where Red Son conducts his business.”

“Is that their place?”

“Has to be!” Tang said brightly. “Let’s see what they have!”

-_-

The elevator dinged.

“Kid?” Pigsy called. On either side of the elevator into the penthouse, balloons floated.

“Upstairs!” Xiaotian’s voice called, sounding from Red’s office. He sounded really really happy. “You’re just in time!”

Up the stairs, open the door, and-

“SURPRISE!”

Sandy and Xiaojiao yanked out poppers. The office had been transformed. The walls were now a gentle pink, one wall being overtaken by shelves of plushies while the other was covered in a beautiful mural of red and orange flowers. Baby furniture was carefully arranged. Red, holding a cake, was arm in arm with Xiaotian, holding a present box with a scroll.

The nursery filled with screams. Someone burst into tears.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I love your long posts which make for great reading and I wish you could do more because you’ve got such a range of astonishing interests. I’m hoping because you’ve served in the military you would have studied military thinkers. Do you think the Art of War by Sun Tzu is way overrated by everyone? I studied him a bit for my masters but I still couldn’t get my head around him. Interested to know your thoughts. Thanks!

“To lift an autumn hair is no sign of great strength; to see the sun and moon is no sign of sharp sight; to hear the noise of thunder is no sign of a quick ear." - Sun Tzu's Art of War, Chapter IV - Tactical Disposition, Clause 10.

Sounds cool, doesn’t it?

But what the hell does this quote really mean? Do you know what it means? Can anyone else tell me?

Look, I enjoy a good Sun Tzu quote as the next person. Only recently I was exchanging thoughts with a fellow blogger whose studying Thucydides, Clausewitz, and Kissinger for an advanced course at the US Naval War College. Even he prefers Sun Tzu over Clausewitz. I can see why too. If you can make sense of chapter one of Clausewitz’s tome On War you deserve a Nobel Prize.

Unlike my very learned fellow blogger, there are lot of folk who don’t know Sun Tzu at all. They can quote him, but almost certainly out of context. As someone who partly grew up in the Far East and even learned Chinese and Japanese (a pitiful but functional degree of fluency) I’m embarrassed (not hard since I’m English) when I hear other Western compatriots romanticise and elevate Eastern icons to mythic status that the Chinese themselves have never done.

I am even more bemused than embarrassed after having hung up my military uniform for ‘civvy’ corporate clothing at how badly abused Sun Tzu’s book is in the corporate world. In my workplace I grit my teeth at corporate high flyers who mistake a balance sheet for a real battlefield by quoting Sun Tzu out of their arse, and then as self-styled ‘corporate warriors’ work themselves up in a lather of testosterone induced self-importance to crush their corporate enemies into the dust.

This is why the The Art of War by Sun Tzu has invited a jaundiced eye roll. And rightly so. I can see why many view Sun Tzu as over-rated because many easily impressed people go all woo woo over anything ancient and Eastern.

It’s become a familiar trope to say the art of ‘strategy’ as a science began 2,500 years ago with the writing of The Art of War. I would dispute this. Not that the writing of Art of War was the earliest written but whether I would call it a manual of strategy per se - more on this below in my answer.  However you rate or overrate the Art of War it’s important to have perspective and remember this book is written in 512 BC. Other than the bible and some religious books, there are not many books that can survived thousands of years and still remains a steady bestseller and enjoys a wide influence in military academies and army staff colleges today and even as far into board rooms.

The question behind your question is just as interesting to me: why did Sun Tzu and his Art of War gain such traction in the West?

Sun Tzu (544-496 BC) wrote the original text of The Art of War shortly before 510 BC. During most of the past two thousand years, the common people in China were forbidden to read Sun Tzu's text. However, the text was preserved by China's nobility for over 2,500 years. The Chinese nobility preserved the text of The Art of War, known in Chinese as Bing-fa, even despite the famous book-burning by the first Emperor of Chi around 200 BC. The text was treasured and passed down by the Empire’s various rulers. Unfortunately, it was preserved in a variety of forms. A "complete" Chinese language version of the text wasn't available until the 1970s. Before that, there were a number of conflicting, fragmentary versions in different parts of China, passed down through 125 generations of duplication.

Indeed at the beginning of the twentieth century, there were two main textual traditions in circulation, known as the (Complete Specialist Focus) and (Military Bible) versions. There were also perhaps a dozen minor versions and both derived and unrelated works also entitled Bing-fa. Of course, every group considered (and still considers) its version the only accurate one.

When I last visited China before the Covid pandemic for work reason, I had time off to go to a couple of museums that housed the fruits of a number of archeological digs uncovering the tombs of the ancient rulers of China in which sections of Sun Tzu’s works were found. These finds have verified the historical existence of the text and the historical accuracy of various sections. I understand new finds are still being made.

The first complete, consistent Chinese version was created in Taipei in the 1970s. It was titled The Complete Version of Sun Tzu’s Art of War." It was created by the National Defence Research Investigation Office, which was a branch of Taiwan's defence department. This version compared the main textual traditions to each other and to archeological finds and compiled the most complete version possible.

This work was completed in Taiwan rather than mainland China for a number of reasons. Mainland China was still in the throws of the Maoist Cultural Revolution, which actively suppressed the study of traditional works such as Sun Tzu. The mainland had also moved to a reformed character set, while Taiwan still used the traditional character set in which the text was written. Only today is the study of Sun Tzu in mainland China growing, interestingly enough, through the translation of Sun Tzu into contemporary Mandarin. Based on the archeological sources we have today, we are reasonably certain of the historical accuracy of this compiled version that is the basis of what most people use today.

Surprisingly, the Art of War only came to light in the West around the 18th Century.  

Historians believe it was first formally introduced in Europe in 1772 by the French Jesuit Joseph-Marie Amiot. It was translated at the time by the title “The thirteen articles of Sun-Tse”. Joseph-Marie Amiot (1718-1793) was not just a Jesuit priest but also an astronomer and French historian, as well as fervent missionary in China. He was one of the last survivors of the Jesuit Mission in China (he died in Beijing).

Many of the historical problems with understanding Sun Tzu's work can be trace back to its first Western translation in French. A Jesuit missionary, Father Amiot, first brought The Art of War to the West, translating it into French in 1782. Unfortunately, this translation started the tradition of mistranslating Sun Tzu's work, starting with the title, The Art of War (Art de la guerre).

This title, copied the title of a popular work by Machiavelli (a criminally underrated writer on military strategy), but it didn't reflect Sun Tzu's Bing-fa, which would be better translated as "competitive methods."

We cannot say what effect being translated by a Jesuit priest had upon the text. It was unavoidable that the work's translation reflected the military prejudices of the time era when war was both popular and Christian. It was also unavoidable that most future translations would reflect some of the first translation's prejudices. However, war was on the verge of becoming much less Christian in the West since this time was the era of the French Revolution (1789).

The work might well of slipped into obscurity after its initial publication, but it was discovered by a minor French military officer. After studying it, this officer rose to the head of the revolutionary French army in a surprising series of victories. The legend is that Napoleon used the work as the key to his victories in conquering all of Europe. It is said that he carried the little work with him everywhere but kept its contents secret (which would be very much in keeping with Sun Tzu's theories).

However, Napoleon must have started believing his own reviews instead of sticking with his study of Sun Tzu. His defeat at Waterloo was clearly a case of fighting on a battleground that the enemy, Wellington, knew best. Wellington’s trick at Waterloo was hiding his forces by having them lie down in the slight hollows of this hilly land. This is exactly the type of tactic Sun Tzu warns against in his discussion of terrain tactics.

After Napolean, Sun Tzu's theories made their way into western military philosophy. Many of his ideas are reflected in the ideas of work of Carl von Clausewitz. who defined military strategy as "the employment of battles to gain the end of war."

The first English translation of The Art of War is less than a hundred years old. Captain E. F. Calthrop published the first English translation in 1905. Lionel Giles, an assistant curator at the British Museum and a well-known sinologist and translator, attacked this early translation, and he published his own version in 1910. It soon began to be read alongside Clausewitz’s 8 volumes of turgid German military prose.

It wasn’t long before military thinkers were ditching Clausewitz for Sun Tzu because no one could get past Chapter One of Clausewitz’s On War. The “Clausewitz is dead, long live Sun Tzu” school was first championed by the influential British military theorist B.H. Liddell Hart in the 1920s.  Basil Henry Liddell Hart (1895-1970) was a captain in the British Army. He was a very influential military theorist and historian, and author of several books such as The Future of War (1925) and Strategy (1954). Having witnessed first-hand the mechanised onslaught of the Great War, Liddell Hart sought a philosophy of warfare based in the prudent use of technology, psychology and deception - and the avoidance of the 'total war' catastrophes of preceding decades.

The main idea of Liddell Hart is to bring the set of principles of warfare in a so-called ‘indirect approach’ to the enemy. His advocacy in his scholarly work of an ‘indirect strategy’ over direct, frontal operations, was a reaction to the high casualties of the Western Front in the First World War. But his ideas were not simply about physically outmanoeuvring an opponent. Instead he pushed for a psychological scheme: to strike from unexpected directions, to generate strategic dissonance, and to induce paralysis. Hart’s well-known thoughts are “Only short-sighted soldiers underestimate the importance of psychological factors in time of war”, “Originality is the most important from all military virtues”, and “The principles of war could shortly be condensed in a single word: concentration”. 

Liddell Hart believed that distilling historical insights of strategy and operations would offer the chance to avoid the costly disasters of modern war and ensure a more cost-effective route to success. He imagined technological solutions in the form of air power and mechanised land forces outflanking and shocking an enemy at the tactical level. This would be complemented by taking indirect strategic ‘ways’. Like his contemporary J.F.C. Fuller, Liddell Hart considered concentrations of air and armoured forces driving deep into enemy territory to destroy their ‘nervous system’. The psychological aspects of this were central, since acquiring an advantage demanded moves that were unexpected, with precise attacks at the most vulnerable points. As the most influential military writer of the modern age, revered and reviled by three generations of strategists, armchair and armipotent, his controversial theories of armed attack laid the foundation of the famed German Blitzkrieg.

Hart’s championing of Sun Tzu’s work as articulated through his own works got a new lease of life as the world gingerly settled into the ice bath of the Cold War. The rise of Communist China, against all the odds having defeated the well disciplined nationalist armies of Chian kai-Shek, was a wake up call for the West. There was a general befuddlement among western military analysts to explain the secret of Maoist success. There was an intellectual inquest in the 1950s and 1960s for some way to explain (and, it was hoped, learn to counter) Maoist military doctrine. Sun Tzu was seen as one of the historical and cultural sources of some particularly Chinese or Asian way of war, and his work made its way into Western discussions of counterinsurgency and asymmetric warfare.

Into the breach - and with fortuitous timing - appeared a new translation of The Art of War that was to become the defining translation right down to our day. Liddel Hart provided the foreword to Samuel Griffth’s 1963 translated copy of the Art of War. It was to quickly become a key text in US war colleges and this version is still to this day favoured by most of these institutions. We also studied Griffith’s translation at Sandhurst alongside Liddell Hart’s ideas.

There is no question that Griffith’s translation has become the standard go to translation to this day in military circles - that is until James Clavell’s more populist and looser translation came along in the 1980s. One can see why. Griffith’s translation provided a number of historical Chinese commentaries on the text. It should also be noted that Griffith’s strengths was his immense experience in the military and knowledge of military history as a brigadier general in the U.S. Marine Corps.

However, this was also his version's greatest flaw. Like many other critics I have the impression that Griffith did not really believe or understand all of Sun Tzu. Indeed he would often explain away Sun Tzu's direct statements without making it clear that this was his commentary and not what Sun Tzu wrote. The other main criticism and this one is stylistic and therefore just my opinion, Griffith was also not much of a writer. By our standards today, much of Griffith’s language can seem awkward and dated.

Looking back it feels ironic of the US military were wrapping their heads around Sun Tzu as way to get inside the Chinese communist mind (of Mao the military strategist especially). Unknown to them Mao had desperately tried everything to get hold of a copy of the Art of War from the Chinese Nationalists. Cambridge historian and doyenne of intelligence history, Christopher Andrew in his book The Secret World: A History of Intelligence, wrote that the theory that Sun Tzu’s The Art of War was critical to mastering contemporary warfare is propagated through the use of a tantalising anecdote: “During the civil war between Communists and the Kuomintang regime [Mao Zedong] sent aides into enemy territory to find a copy of it.” The ancient text, ostensibly, was of such vital importance that Mao was willing to risk men’s lives to obtain it, while Chiang Kai-shek vowed to protect it all costs. It’s a questionable anecdote at best as there are no historical evidence of it.

We can say that the notion that Sun Tzu’s slim treatise is considered both potent and slightly dangerous - providing the master key to unlocking victory in war through the ages - is a compelling myth that refuses to die. Mao most likely never ordered a clandestine operation to pilfer the text, nor did Chiang Kai-shek give any thought to shielding its contents from prying eyes. Both men certainly read it long before the start of their civil war, both most likely had ready access to it during the conflict, and neither man won or lost based on adherence or divergence from its teachings. But undoubtedly it set the hearts of Western military theorists aflutter in trying to unlock the secrets of Eastern military thought.

Sun Tzu and his ideas in a reincarnated form took hold of the wider public imagination in the 1980s. The 1980s was synonymous with Japan. With the perceived rise of Japan as a global economic power and the changes in post-Mao China, there was a Western (meaning American) search for more explanations. What was the secret of Asia’s rise? How were Japan and China ‘doing’ this?

In Western business circles it was for a time trendy to read it because of the perception that it was part of what made Japanese businesses so successful during the 70s and 80s. Management gurus and other corporate consultants certainly latched on to it and touted it as a way for Western businesses to re-orient their entire management and business philosophy. I don’t know if that ever actually was the case in Japan - my father who worked in both China and Japan in the corporate world at a very senior level said it wasn’t - but what is true is that in the West as the Japanese economy languished into the lost decade of the 90s so too did interest in Japanese business practices, and thus Sun Tzu.

The idea that The Art of War was a kind of how-to guide to ‘strategy’  was made especially popular by Hollywood in the 1980s. Oliver Stone’s iconic film ‘Wall Street’ seemed to typify the ‘greed is good’ New York capitalist scene of the 80s and 90s. Hollywood mirror imaged the rise of the corporate raiders and junk bond kings like Ivan Boesky and Michael Milken. Hollywood sent thousands of American businessmen off to read Sun Tzu to look for ‘leadership secrets’. This is part of a general Western fascination with ‘timeless Asian wisdom’, the American idea that ‘the mysterious East’ is possessed of secret knowledge. American and European businessmen were enamoured of the idea that “a battle is won or lost before it ever begins”, a saying that reinforced traditional American business attitudes about a winning mentality and a ‘can-do’ spirit being two keys to success.

Because Japan and China were trendy in the 1980s and 1990s it also influenced Western popular culture, not just fashion (think Kenzo) but also comic books (manga) and anime. In this Eastern friendly climate it led a number of popular fiction authors to release their ‘own’ versions of the work to capitalise on its newfound popularity. These versions were more about the pop culture of the era than Sun Tzu. Unfortunately, though popular, none of these versions took advantage of the work completed in Taiwan creating a definitive version of Sun Tzu's text by this time. These versions were based either on old English translations (the Calthorp and Giles versions) or incomplete Chinese sources. However, all of these versions remain popular today, despite their questionable sources and poor quality of translation.

In 1983, James Clavell updated The Art of War translation of Lionel Giles and published it in a very popular version. This started a very common practice in English translation: creating a ‘new’ version from other English translations instead of going back to the original source. Authors today continue to follow this practice, which only perpetuates and exaggerates the problems with early translations.

Thomas Cleary, another well-known author, did his own The Art of War translation with historical commentary in 1988. Again, his name recognition did much to increase awareness of Sun Tzu, even if his work did nothing to improve the general quality of the translation.

Looking back the whole Sun Tzu as a business model fetish in the 1980-90s was really pretty silly, rather like 80s shoulder pads. Of course, there are some similarities in leadership regardless of profession, but the basic goals and working environments of war and of business are so wildly different that applying Sun Tzu to business is superficial at best.

So to me the problem is not that Sun Tzu is ‘overrated’ per se, the problem is that every half baked author out there try to apply its principles to every problems that mankind have. The Art of War, as the title suggest, is not The Art of Managing your Business, the Art of Winning in Competition against your classmates, The Art of picking up Women, The Art of Living Life to the fullest. It is, and only is, The Art of War. It is ‘overrated’ only if you expect it to answer every problems in your life.

The Art of War is not the word of God. It is a war manual advocating common sense with pithy aphorisms - and a very good one.

It’s not that I think the Art of War is over-rated it’s that the more common problem is that many people vastly under-rate Sun Tzu. By misreading Sun Tzu thoughts and ideas, I believe many are in effect under-rating the problems which Sun Tzu is addressing, namely war, or the continuum of conflict resolution where divergence in interests of multiple parties extends to the possible use of lethal force on a massive scale. A lot of people trivialise this problem with idiocies like “what if someone threw a war and nobody came” (clue, they would win, then hunt down and enslave or kill everyone too foolish to contest the issue, as has happened countless times in human history) or “ban war” (said ban apparently enforced by throwing flowers at soldiers).

Understanding that war is a very real and intractable problem is necessary to fully appreciate the genius of Sun Tzu’s work, especially where it avoids fixed and easily definable tactics specific to the Warring States period and instead illustrates timeless concepts of out-thinking the enemy at every level of conflict. That the text is still mostly readily applicable or at least reasonably insightful after thousands of years is a testament to the inability of humans to push warfare beyond the fundamental aspects of conflicting interests and continuum of forcible resolution Sun Tzu addresses.

Still, the particular translation matters far less than having an appreciation that, in war, you have an active opponent who is trying to out-think and counter any moves you make, and having an appreciation of non-dualistic philosophical reasoning more characteristic of Chinese classics generally. The classic symbol of Yin-Yang (and a number of derivative versions) illustrates apparent dualism as being a part of a deeper structural unity which does not permit a fixed division into separate parts.

Hence the difficulty of applying the principles of the Art of War to artificial ideas of “winning/losing” (or war/peace, right/wrong, us/them) as categorical absolutes rather than negotiated possibilities in a continuum of desirability/costs. And it is very difficult, no one should sugar coat that. Humans sort and construct their perceptions of reality by appeal to such gross simplifications. Binary logic is an immensely powerful tool in many areas because it leverages the ability to simplify complexity and then build valid inferences based on fixed premises. But at some point you have to go beyond that to have a more fluid response to reality as it is. Which Sun Tzu does for the reality of war.

I would recommend anyone to read it. At the end of the day it’s a book of highly general aphorisms that effectively synopsise the essential insights that apply to all kinds of human conflicts. Turning an enemy's flank has the exact same effect in 2500 B.C. and in 2000 C.E. and it has the same effect in the boardroom, or public market as it does on the battlefield. Deception and intelligence are still used in exactly the same way, whether conquering foreign lands, or stealing market share from a competitor. It's a book about common sense; but common sense must seem profound to those who have none.

Overall, I think Sun Tzu’s Art of War is a worthy read and not overrated because in our society of over educated achievers, common sense is in as short of supply as it has ever been; if this book can provide the meaningful framework for educating very bright people in down to earth common sense, that can only be a good thing.

The value of the book then is to drive home the fact that, in human conflict, there really is Nothing New Under the Sun (Tzu).

Pardon the pun and thanks for your question.

[fedonciadale]

Nosey non-book reader with a question here! 🥲🙃

After AGOT, does D@ny menstruate normally? In the show, it was implied that she became infertile after the first season.

I’m wondering because as far as I recall from ADWD snippets, she references her period and missing it for some time in her last chapter (unless she’s simply delirious about that). She was obviously doin’ Daario for a while (+Hizdahr?), so I’m totally confused if she believes she can or can’t get pregnant again.

So… like if she was getting her period relatively normally while banging Daario, did she never consider that he could knock her up?

Hi there!

We don't really know about Dany menstruating - apart from at the end of ADWD where she bleeds heavily while she is in the grass sea (and the fandom is divided whether this is the bloody flux or a miscarriage). And she doesn't really remember when she had her last period.

Anyway, Dany herself is convinced that she is infertile (which does not necessarily mean that she doesn't get her period), because she thinks her miscarriage and Mirri Maz Duur cursed her:

"When will he be as he was?" Dany demanded.

"When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," said Mirri Maz Duur. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before."

Dany gestured at Ser Jorah and the others. "Leave us. I would speak with this maegi alone." Mormont and the Dothraki withdrew. "You knew," Dany said when they were gone. She ached, inside and out, but her fury gave her strength. "You knew what I was buying, and you knew the price, and yet you let me pay it." (AGOT, Dany IX)

As you see the scene is a bit ambiguous. Mirri doesn't even talk about her infertility but about Drogo's return. To me it looks like either a very elaborate way of saying never-ever or the kind of seemingly infullfillable prophecy that occurs quite often in stories (and where it is usually about how someone cannot die unless something completely bonkers happens and when it happens regardless it's the 'got you' moment).

Dany frequently alludes to her infertility in her mind, and at the same time tries to hide it (because she knows full well, that it reduces her legitimacy).

There is a telling passage in ADWD:

"But," said Reznak mo Reznak, blinking, "but you must, Your Worship. Before a marriage it is traditional for the women of the man's house to examine the bride's womb and, ah … her female parts. To ascertain that they are well formed and, ah …"

"… fertile," finished Galazza Galare. "An ancient ritual, Your Radiance. Three Graces shall be present to witness the examination and say the proper prayers."

"Yes," said Reznak, "and afterward there is a special cake. A women's cake, baked only for betrothals. Men are not allowed to taste it. I am told it is delicious. Magical."

And if my womb is withered and my female parts accursed, is there a special cake for that as well? "Hizdahr zo Loraq may inspect my women's parts after we are wed." Khal Drogo found no fault with them, why should he? "Let his mother and his sisters examine one another and share the special cake. I shall not be eating it. Nor shall I wash the noble Hizdahr's noble feet."

Dany is afraid that her infertility might be detected, although I find this rather strange. It's not as if you can see that unless there is magic involved or really visible scarring (which I doubt).

So, Dany is 100% sure that she is infertile and therefore she is not afraid of getting pregnant. Her relief about her "moon blood" in her last chapter in ADWD is because of the fact that she fears that she is seriously ill.

Hope it's clear now! Thanks!