#isn’t even time yet. hail the queen of the may

[hitchell-mope]

(Third film. After “way down we go”. The camera fades to Mal’s Id outside the palace)

Id (imitating P. T. Barnum): hello again. Now. You may be wondering what’s next. So I’ll give you a clue. She’s middle aged. Has an 18 year old son. Divorced. Hails from a poor provincial town. And has been drinking like a fish since dawn yesterday morning. That’s right people! Give it up for the Queen Mother!

(The camera zooms around the palace and into one the windows of Belle’s apartments where she’s just woken up. And Elsa is not impressed)

Elsa: good afternoon your highness. I’d call you “sleeping beauty”. But those out there would get the wrong idea. And there is NOTHING pretty about this.

Belle: my tongue feels like a carpet and my breath smells like I slept ate cheese.

Elsa: you did.

Belle: oh Christ. What time is it?

Elsa: about midday.

Belle: oh god. OH GOD!!!! Where’s Ben! Where’s Gil! Where’s Carlos! Where’s Mal! Are they alright!

Elsa: if they’d gotten hurt then they’d have teleported back here. Queen Ella’s on matron duty. Oh. And by the way. Verna’s back. She’s in the library. According to her Mal’s given all of our allies magic. Including you.

Belle: it’s midday right?

Elsa: mhmm.

Belle: good. I need sangria. And vodka mocha cocktails.

Elsa: why?

Belle: I’ve just woken up. And it’s lunchtime. Drink with me. The kings mother commands it

Elsa: ohhhh I don’t like where this is going.

(This is when “the ladies who lunch” happens. After the song. Elsa looks halfway between scared shitless and highly unimpressed)

Elsa: well. That was. Vaguely terrifying. Are you done now?

Belle: I have a man in my bed

Elsa: sorry, what?

Belle: M-Maui.

Elsa: Maui the demigod Maui?

Belle: mhmm

Elsa: oh that mental image is going to haunt me to my dying days isn’t it? Okay. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll let Maui sleep. And we’re going to go to the War Room. Ben and the main staff are there. And you’re going to drink a Lot of coffee. Okay?

Belle: do i have to?

Elsa: either coffee or I pour ice cubes on your head

Belle: coffee please

Elsa: there we go then.

(In the War Room)

Ben: wow ma, you look rough.

Belle: I still taste cheese.

Ben: Uhkay....Anyway. Update. There is a big chance that I’ve grievously injured Maleficent. Of course she’s still wearing Audrey. So I’ve just beaten Audrey to a bloodied pulp. But it’s, you know, war. So needs myst right?

Belle: completely understandable. Ive never liked that girl. Snap her neck.

Ben: is she alright?

Elsa: she is very, very drunk. I don’t even think the hangovers set in yet.

Belle: when did Patrick get here?

Elsa: Patrick? Who’s Patrick?

Ben: he’s Mary Poppins’s umbrella.

Patrick: 607 years and someone finally mentions me by name. Well that’s a fine how do you do.

Poppins: now, now Patrick. Be nice.

Ben (jumping half a foot in the air): JESUS FUcrying out loud! Don’t sneak up on us like that. There’s a war going on you know.

Poppins: I do know. Which I why I am here to help. Now. All of you sit down whilst I tell you my plan

Belle: do you have any of that multi flavoured medicine?

Ben: Mom. Quit it with the booze

Belle: sorry

Poppins: never fear your highness. Take this

(She holds out a small yellow capsule)

Belle: thank you. WHOAH THATS GOT A KICK!!!! What was it?

Poppins: turmeric mixed with some mustard paste. Soaks up all the alcohol. Now that’s taken care of. Your highness. Where are the staff?

Ben: outside. They all insisted on keeping guard.

Poppins: call them in please

Ben: um. Sure. Mrs Potts. Cogsworth. Lumiere. Fifi. Chip. You can come in if you want.

Poppins: lovely. My plan is rather simple. Books.

Elsa: and....?

Poppins: books. Humanity’s greatest weapon is the written word after all

Elsa: are absolutely insane?

Poppins: no. The king loves to read.

Ben: yeah, I do, and usually I’d agree with you, but Elsa’s right. We need to act.

Mrs Potts: she’s right love. We have one of the biggest libraries in the world.

Lumiere: and you and your mother know it better than anyone.

Cogsworth: plus you have a highly intricate knowledge of the Dewey decimal system.

Ben: yeah, well, I know, but, we don’t have the time. We need quick ideas. And we need them now.

Belle: Ben. I know you’re worried about Mal. But she’s smart. And more than capable. And besides, you need ways of protecting the palace should the enchantments fail

Poppins: listen to your mother my liege. And besides

(This is when “anything can happen” happens. After the song. Poppins looks around)

Poppins: where did....?

Ben: Elsa go? I don’t know. She walked out rigjt before you paid tribute to Busby Berkeley.

Poppins: oh. In that case. Please do take my advice Benjamin. Now. If you excuse me. The wind is changing so I must take my leave?

Ben: wind is cha. What do you mean by that? Are we winning? Losing? Are the weather vanes gone?

Poppins: yes.

(And with that she disappears in the blink of an eye)

Ben: seriously?

Chip (brushing it off): classique Mme Poppins. Elle n'explique jamais rien

Ben: fair enough. C’mon then mother. Let’s go to tir library.

(In the library)

Belle: what the hell happened in here?

Ben: Verna. I think she took some books back to her room. She never was neat when it came to books. If we clean up the library. I might be able to find a book they could help me.

Belle: that could take a very long time

Ben: not with magic.

Belle: smart idea.

Ben: eh. I get it from you and your. What did you call it again?

Belle: mothers intuition

Ben: ah yeah. You’ve never actually told me what that entails though.

Belle: I haven’t?

Ben: nope.

Belle: oh. Well. Um.

Ben: talk and clean ma. Talk and clean.

Belle: oh. Right.

(This is when “mothers intuition” happens. After the song. The camera fades back onto Mal’s Id standing outside the cathedrals bubble amongst the burning ruins of Main Street)

Id: welcome back possums. I know things look a little dire right now. But they’ll soon pick up. Because-

Audreficent: are you quite sure about that my dear?

Id (terrified): what the hell are you doing here?

Audreficent: oh you dear sweet child. Did you really think that you and your kind were the only ones who could speak to all of those people out there at home? Everybody has multiple tricks up their sleeves. Just be sure that you do not waste yours

Id: where’s Mal?

Audreficent: you are the one who is connected to her. So. You tell me.

(Id, in horror, runs away into the distance. Audreficent turns to the camera)

Audreficent: the proceedings have been. A mite too saccharine for my tastes thus far. So I think that it is high time for my champion to awaken from his slumber

(They disappear in a puff of black smoke and Adam clambers out of the ground. This is when “the world has gone insane” happens. After the song. Back in the library.)

Ben: what was that noise?

Belle: I don’t know. But I don’t like it.

(Back in the corridors. Chip’s trying to remind Adam of his humanity)

Chip: sir. It’s okay. You can come back from this. No one is beyond redemption. No one is beyond saving.

Adam: I remember you.

Chip: yes! You do know. You’ve known me all my life. I’m

Adam: the dead little cripple

Chip: yes I’m....what?

(Adam flings Chip into a wall, killing him instantly. This is, of course, witnessed by Ben, Belle and the rest of the staff)

Mrs Potts: NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Adam: now for the rest of the traitors

(Right at that moment Verna teleports in between Adam and the others and creates a woven barrier, cutting off Adam from the others)

Verna: you will NOT hurt anybody else. Not if I have anything to say about it.

Adam: Verna. Long time no see. Have you come to join the winning team? Or do I need to twist your easily broken arm again?

Verna: you will let me have my say. Then I put an end to your insanity. Once and for all.

Adam: you don’t have the guts. You didn’t have the guts then. And you don’t have the guts now. Face it. Gnat. You are beholden to me

Verna: I have thought about what we did-

Adam: what you did.

Verna:-on your orders. For 23 years. It needs to end

Adam: to soothe your aching soul(?) Get over yourself.

Verna: you just don’t get it do you? And I don’t think you ever did.

(This is when “for the rest of my life” happens. After the song. Adam shatters Verna’s neck and throws her corpse in the wall where Chip’s corpse is. He then walks straight through the woven barrier and advances on Belle and Ben)

Adam: well that was fun. But now I think it’s time for a family reunion. Don’t you?

(He teleports the three of them to the dining room and straps his son and ex wife to chairs facing each other)

Adam: there’s no use denying Benjamin. You disappointed me. You could’ve enacted Prima Nocta. Hiked up taxes for those freeloading sidekicks. Declared yourself a Godking. But no. You decided to be altruistic. Where the hell did I go wrong? Oh wait. I know

(He rounds on Belle)

Adam: I LET YOU RAISE HIM!!!! You withheld capital punishment. You let him mingle with the plebs. He could’ve been Henry VIII. But thanks to you he’s Charles III.

Ben: you stay away from her!

Adam: Ben, buddy, the adults are talking. So stay quiet!

(He waves his hand and buttons Ben’s mouth shut. Ben just puffs the button away)

Ben: you remember that I have magic right? And besides. Given that I’m a Hybrid. I’m probably already a “Godking”. As you so eloquently put it(.)

Adam: DON’T YOU BACKTALK ME YOU LITTLE BOLLOCKS!!!! Mama’s survival depends on you being the dutiful son you never were

Ben: what?

Adam (tittering): oh you don’t know do you? I have found a new partner

Ben: Yeah. We know. Maleficent told us. The psychotic bitch has also told us that she’s only started reciprocating while she’s using Audrey as a leisure suit. Which you have mercifully rejected.

Adam: the guise she is operating under is, admittedly, regrettable. But never fear. Once we’ve won and wed. You and that girl, if it can even be called that, can never marry. Step siblings and all that. You know how it is.

Ben: yes. Yes I do. But you clearly don’t. You still haven’t connected the dots yet, have you? Maleficent is not going to let you rule with her. After Mal you’re her biggest target. All Mal did was choose to be good to the best of her ability. But you. You resurrected her. You trapped her on Neverland. Yeah, we know about that too. And you still think, after 23 years, after you’ve fallen for that woman, that it’s not going to bite you in the ass. I mean. How insane can you possibly get?

Adam: wait and see. When we win

Ben: if you win

Adam: WHEN we win. You will see. The both of you will see. All of you will.

Belle: this is why I divorced you. Everything needs to be on your terms. No compromise. No losses. No admitting you’re wrong. Honestly. You just got worse after you created Auradon.

Ben: yeah well you know what happens when the ill-equipped get almost absolute power

Belle: they get corrupted absolutely

Ben: yup

Adam: ENOUGH!!!!

(This is when “you’ll be back” happens. After the song. Ben looks furious)

Ben: you’re INSANE!!!!

Adam (somewhat contemplatively): am I insane? I don’t think I am. Do they think I am? No. Nonono. No. I’m just as sane as anyone. I’m just trying to fix what’s been broke. It’s not my fault that they can’t see it. After all. I’ve gone semi-crazy before. But Belle saved me. And then she left me. And humiliated me. And took me for evERY CENT THAT I HAVE!!!! YOU DON’T KNOW CRAZY MY BOY UNLESS YOU’VE BEEN CRAZY!!!!

Ben (icily calm): I have you for a father. How much more crazy can somebody get?

Adam (shakily): you. You don’t listen. You never listened. You kept trying to do it your way. You didn’t do it the right way. It has to be done the right way. Over and over again until it’s perfected

Ben: that’s half of what Einstein said is the very definition of insanity. Face it, Adam, you’ve lost it.

Adam: only once. And never again.

(This is when “crazy” happens. After the song. Ben blasts Adam away, gets up and instantly heals his injuries)

Adam: how did. How did you-

Ben: Hybrid. Now. Are you going to continues your ballistic tirade. Or can I kill you now?

(Adam bellows and charges at Ben, who sidesteps which cause Adam to torpedo himself right into the wall face first)

Ben: would you like to try that again?

(Adam roars and sends maroon fire at Ben’s face. Who just blows it out in midair air)

Ben: parlour tricks. Would you like to see some real magic?

(Ben splits himself in two. Then three. Then four. Then five. Until they’re a hundred of him surrounding Adam in a crescent circle)

Ben (with the voice of a legion): ready for more, father?

(Adam, absolutely pants shittingly terrified, backs himself back into the wall and shakes his head profusely)

Ben (still with the voice of a legion): well you’ve lost your right to have a say.

(All 100 Bens reach inside Adam’s chest and start squeezing his aorta until Adam starts fighting back. The skirmish is brief but vicious. All the injuries being on Adam’s body)

Adam (force choking Ben): ENOUGH!!!! I WILL HAVE MY THRONE BACK!!!! I WILL HAVE MY KINGDOM BACK!!!! I WILL HAVE MY LIFE BACK!!!! AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT!!!!

(Ben throws off the force choking and slams Adam back into the wall”

Ben: what is it that you always told me? “I want” doesn’t get. Well it’s all mine now. The responsibility. The power to make change and make decisions. All of it

Adam: I’ll get it all back once I kill you. I’ll kill you all.

Ben: no. You won’t. I’m going to put you somewhere you can never hurt anyone ever again.

(This is when “emperor’s new clothes” happens. After the song. Ben wakes up in one of the schools corridors)

Ben: where the hell am I?

(A few doors down he can hear Adam’s voice telling some people to hurry up and sit down)

Ben: no fucking way.

(He follows the voice and is led to his old fourth grade classroom)

Past!Adam (jovially): c’mon in son don’t be shy. Front says ready and waiting for ya

Ben: th-thanks dad.

9 year old!Audrey: Benji! Sit next to me

9 year old!Chad: he’s my best friend. He’s gonna sit next to me

Ben (sitting between them): you’re not my best friend. Doug is.

Chad: heh?

Ben: nothing.

Adam: you three settled? Good. Good. Now. I have asked Fairy Godmother to allow me to teach you this period. And she has graciously accepted my request. And today. We. Are going to learn. About. Villains. Wretched. Horrible. Villains. Who have enslaved, entrapped and extorted your mothers. And who I. Have encased in a barrier. Can you say that word guys? Ba-Ri-Er. Barrier.

Chad: Barbara.

Ben: that’s your cat Chad

Audrey: barber

Ben: old timey hairdressers your dad goes to Audrey.

Adam: now, now son. It’s okay. How about we just call it the wall for the time being? Hm? You know what it is. But do you know why it’s there? And why we need to keep it up and intact?

(This is when “why do we build the wall” happens. After the song. Ben storms out of the room and straight into his mother’s path)

Ben: what are you doing here?

Belle: Elsa.

Ben: of course

Belle: where are we?

Ben: my memories. But it’s odd. Usually you can see yourself in your memories. But I think I’ve taken my place.

Belle: what?

Ben: um. I’ll explain later. Oh great(.)

Belle: what’s happening? What’s wrong?

Ben: the scene’s melting. We must be going to a new memory.

(He’s right. The walls. The windows. The floor. Everything around them is melting into a memory. Eventually they’re in Adam’s office. Only it’s not a memory that Ben’s aware of)

Ben: i don’t understand.

Belle: pardon?

Ben: I don’t remember this at all. Did I block it out or something? Was I too young? Why don’t I remember this?

Belle: These aren’t your memories.

Ben: what? Whose are they then?

Belle: your fathers. But I remember this day. It was one of the best days of my life. Here I am now.

(Past!Belle had stormed into the office)

Past!Belle: I’m leaving.

(Past!Adam doesn’t answer her)

Past!Belle: I mean it. I can’t take it anymore. The guilt is eating me alive. I want you to come with me. But I’ll go alone if I have to. I just. I need to do something to fix this. Oh god. Would you please just LISTEN TO ME!!!!

(Her husband finally looks at her)

Past!Adam: sweetheart. Could you be a dear and ask Lumiere to put out by mauve suit with the jade tie? Thank you.

Past!Belle: Adam! Please. Listen to me. This is important.

Past!Adam: I’m sure it is. But can it please wait until later? Please? I just. I really neeed to finish this. It’s for all of us you know. You, me, everyone. Please. Then, later, we can talk about whatever you want. Thank you

(He goes back to his work)

Past!Belle: I don’t believe you. How could you have changed so much? It’s only been three years.

(This is when “later never comes” happens. After the song. Ben and Belle are back in a hallway)

Ben: what was that all about?

Belle: that was. The first time I tried to leave him

Ben: okay. So why didn’t you?

Belle: because. Two days after that. I found out that I was pregnant.

Ben: holy shit.

Belle: yup.

Ben: you stayed because you wanted me to have two parents.

Belle: partly. And partly because. I thought you might be better than him. And I was right.

Ben: wow.

(Just then. Cogsworth goes hurrying past them)

Belle: oh no.

Ben: what?

Belle: I remember this.

Ben: what is it?

Belle: this is. This is the day. When he. We? He. He put the villains on the island.

Ben: fucking hell.

Belle (hesitantly): do you want to see it? We don’t have to if you don’t want to. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.

Ben: I’ve already seen it haven’t I? So I don’t need to see it again

Belle (in a faraway voice): but not from his perspective yet.

Ben: do we. Do we need to?

Belle: I. I don’t know

(Adam goes walking past them with a hoard of reporters)

Ben: but it looks like it’s out of our hands now. Let’s go.

(They start following Adam and the hoard of reporters)

Reporter: any words on this historic day your highness?

Adam: hmmmm. Just a few

(This is when “this is the moment” happens. After the song. Ben looks like he’s about to throw up)

Belle: I am so, so sorry.

Ben: it was televised?

Elsa (appearing behind them): yes. It was on. Every. Single. Channel that day. You couldn’t escape it.

Ben: get. Us. Out of here. Now!

(Elsa grips them by the shoulders and teleports them back to the dining hall. Where Adam is still unconscious. Ben conjures a knife and goes for Adam’s head)

Elsa: no wait don’t!

Ben: are you seriously saying he deserves to live afyer everything he’s done?

Elsa: no. What I’m saying is. You shouldn’t be the one to kill him. I accidentally killed my sister once. It’s weighed on me ever since. Imagine how you would feel if you did that on purpose?

Ben: oh.

Elsa: both of you go back to the war room. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go!

(Ben teleports himself and Belle out of the dining hall. Elsa, reluctantly, wakes Adam up)

Adam: wazzit-was-what ha-did I win?

Elsa: no, Adam, you did not win. You were never going to win. You lost. As you were always going to. Now stand still while I execute you.

Adam: YOU COST ME MY VICTORY YOU FRIGID BITCH!!!!

(He lunges at Elsa who neatly sidesteps him and roots him to the spot of magic)

Elsa (threading magic through the gaps in her fingers on her right hand): it’s funny. I’ve caused untold destruction with my magic by accident. I wonder what I can do to you on purpose

(She concentrates the magical threads into a ball of ice and forces it into Adam’s mouth and down his gullet. His face turns icy blue and starts to flash freeze from the inside out. The freezing si reads through his body until he’s nothing more than a statue of solid ice, screaming out in silent pain. Elsa looks unmoved)

Elsa: hm. Pretty. Almost seems a shame to destroy it. Ah well.

(She soars her right arm through Adam’s iced up head. And be crumbles to frozen rubble at her feet. She melts the ice into nothingness and teleports back to the war room. As soon as she appears in the war room. A wave of turquoise light washes over the palace, sending Ben into the table, laughing his ass off)

Belle: what the hell was that?

Elsa: if I’ve read the books properly. Then was a wave of grief.

Belle: then why is Ben cackling like the joker?

Elsa: because, I do believe that the person who’s died is a person that your son truly hates.

Ben (still cackling): O FRABJOUS DAY!!!! CALLOOH CALLAY!!!! OH MAL MUST BE SO FUCKING HAPPY RIGHT NOW!!!! Uma must be in pain if the wave was that powerful. But still. HAHAH!!!!

Belle: Ben! Why are you so happy that someone’s died?

Ben (still chortling gleefully with a mad glint in his eyes): don’t you get it mother. It’s Harry. Harold. Icarus. Hook. Is dead.

(Far above the palace. Mal’s just been hit with Uma’s grief wave. The realisation that Harry must be dead has made her so happy that’s she’s doing complicated acrobatics through the air. She decides to share in her newfound joy and launch an aerial assault on the villains. No one notices Ned Thatch carrying Uma to safety on a Martag outside the barrier though. This is when “defying gravity” happens)

[thesocialbungalow]

Decoding the Insta Algorithm to Build Your Instagram Business Following

All hail the holy algorithm, the queen we hate to love and love to hate.

The relationship between social algorithm and content creator is tenuous at best. Instagram in specific can be a harsh mistress if your content doesn’t meet her exacting standards (and sometimes even if it does).

You work hard to produce Instagram business content that is relevant, timely, and devilishly clever to boot. You wear your pink on Wednesdays, sit at the right lunch table, and are ever careful not to outshine or usurp your Queen Bee (the algorithm).

And yet, she still won’t let your audience find your content.

“She’s fabulous but evil.”

How does she do it? And more importantly, why?

Despite feeling personally victimized, the reason your content isn’t getting in front of your audience may have less to do with you than you think.

The factors that affect how your content ranks on Instagram are numerous and specific. They determine where your content appears on a user’s feed and whether or not your content shows up in the Explore tab.

Like Facebook, the more a user interacts with your posts, Reels, and Stories, the more likely you are to appear at the top of their feed, and vice versa. Creating credible, interesting content garners engagement and builds your reputation as an expert. Instagram notices that reputation and shows your posts to users the algorithm thinks might find them valuable.

The thing about online content platforms is that they cater to the audience, not the poster. It’s all about user experience and what the system deems relevant and useful for a would-be audience member.

One helpful hint when creating content is this: create for the followers you have, not the followers you want.

While that may sound counterintuitive, hear me out.

You’ve worked hard to build the following you have, and while you want to keep that momentum, gaining new followers is fruitless if the ones you have feel neglected and leave. Nurture the ones you have now. They came to you for a reason; they find value in your content. Don that sexy Santa suit and work it for the audience already in the room.

But, our queen isn’t without a heart.

The algorithm does consider the poster, in a way, when determining which users should see their content. It wants to connect intentional users with valuable content so that both parties can benefit. The cruel part is the poster has little to no control over this. Whether a user is a good fit for your content is determined by their pattern of behavior on the app - what kind of posts they typically interact with, how frequently they use the app, and how much time they spend on Instagram as a whole.

Sometimes, you may have perfectly curated content that goes unseen solely based on a user’s habits, not your content quality, which is another reason to keep your existing audience in mind when conceptualizing. They may be the only ones who see your posts.

A solid online presence is like good customer service. You provide value, people tell other people about you, and you gain momentum organically.

Consider The Social Bungalow your partner in content crime. My courses include meticulous guidance on how to craft binge worthy content that will engage, delight, and ultimately, convert. Check out my series of programs to get started and together we can ditch the Burn Book and build a healthy Instagram business relationship with our Queen Bee.

[afieldinengland]

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[twstedstoryshop]

Oh! May I request more Fae!Yuu with maybe Lilia, Malleus, and Jack? Thank you so very much! Also I would enjoy sharing tea with the Shopkeeper. They look so pleasant!

It is up to you whether you wish to drink the mysterious tea or not, hehe. But hoo, another dozy of a request with lots of writing because I seem to get brainworms every time Fae!Yuu is involved. I assumed Fae!Yuu is still referred to as a lady so hope you don't mind for a more female leaning request. As always, warning that Fae!Yuu has a cruel and dominating personality because fae things. -Shopkeep

WARNING! The following contains unhealthy character behavior and horror themes. If this disturbs you, please DO NOT READ.

Yandere Headcanons of Lilia, Malleus, and Jack with a Female Fae Yuu.

I can see these two being absolute rivals that loathe each other at first. One on the side of wickedness while the other fights to protect the peace. Lady Yuu scoffs at Lilia’s servitude to the Queen of Briar Valley, seeing it as a weakness.

They’re fae! Why should they all bow to one monarch when they all have different courts for a reason?

Yuu would constantly mock Lilia. “You used to be the king of the night. You struck fear into all hearts, be it fae or human. When the blood moon rose, everyone cowarded in their homes, afraid that your shadow would pass over them. Now look at you. Reduced to a life of domestication… What a joke.”

Every time these two meet, their “friendly” conversations are always barbed with well-hidden insults and jabs. Often Malleus and co. wondered why Lilia even entertained to see the Blackbird Lady yet his answers are always vague. He doesn’t know either…

In truth, Lady Yuu is a connection to a certain part of his past that a deep, deep, DEEP part of him misses. He dares not say that in front of others though. Usually people hail him as an amazing general and see the parts of him that are good. Yet whenever Yuu shows up, he is reminded of a time long forgotten where he was “true” fae, you could say.

He unconsciously seeks out her presence, be it sending his bats into deep dark woods to find her or flying about during moonless nights. Yuu knows he’s searching for her and she finds it so amusing. It’s a game of constantly leading him on, seeing if he’ll take the plunge or not.

There-in lies the tragedy of obsession. Lilia yearns for Yuu as to him, he starts to believe that Yuu knows the “real” him. A part of him nobody knows about and yet, he can’t bring himself to be with her. He has to attend NRC, take care of the boys he’s raised, and be bound to his post as a benefactor of the royal family. In a way, Yuu’s words have been the truth. He has been domesticated.

Yuu meanwhile is absolutely reveling in it. This powerful once general fae has turned into a bleeding heart for her and she’s going to squeeze every drop ‘till there’s nothing left.

Mental image: Lilia is clutching at the bottom of her feathery dress, Claws practically ripping into the fabric for how tight he’s holding onto it. He weeps up at her, his eyes fathomless depths needing her. He begs her to steal him away from this life, to join her in the darkness. The Blackbird Lady holds Lilia’s face, smiles so sweetly, and one word leaves her black painted lips. “No~”

The decision to abandon it all or continue to be stuck in an existence far from her is all up to Lilia. Yuu isn’t going to make that choice for him. She wants to see him crumble all by himself.

Similar to Silver, Malleus has always been told to steer clear of the Blackbird Court and the wicked Lady that ruled over it. Never buy into her words, never seek her out, for tragedy walks with her like a dear friend.

Funnily enough the first time Malleus saw Lady Yuu was during a get-together with nobles and other well-to-do fae. Thing was, Lady Yuu wasn’t invited for obvious reasons and she was going to make it everyone’s problem.

Yuu immediately identified Malleus and flew close to him, the beak of her mask nearly touching the tip of his nose and her glowing eyes staring deep into his. “So, this is the little wyrm prince everyone has been fussing about? Huh. I can definitely see the family resemblance...” Her playful expression vanishes and her voice drops. “But I still won’t be perching by your side. Never will.”

Once satisfied with causing enough discomfort, Yuu would leave in a flurry of feathers and corvids. Malleus happens to grab one shimmering feather from the air and stares off into the night. Like a foolish prince from a storybook… He fell to love at first sight.

With the power and sway as the crown prince, I’m sure Malleus would have access to all kinds of information and books pertaining to various points in history. He would do his research on everything about the Blackbird Lady. How she affected both fae and humans, how to invoke her, etc, etc.

Yuu would be no fool though and would definitely sense him seeking her out. One day she appears before him, sitting among the branches of a dying tree. “Why do you try to find me, puny wyrm? If you keep doing this, I might pluck your eyes out. Though your grandmother may string me for it.” “I wish to know more about you…”

It was such a simple and innocent answer, but it didn’t stop Yuu from laughing like mad. “What is this? Your idea of a little tea party to gossip and share our feelings!? What nonsense! Let me make this clear to you, wyrm. I despise your family, the Draconias. You make a mockery of how true fae act… And you have dishonored my people for so long without any compensation…”

Yuu basically spills that the progenitor of the Corvid Court was none other than the familiar of the Thorn Fairy. Yet he was disgraced and forgotten. Turned to stone, but did his mistress spare to revive him? No, she’d rather exact her fury on a meddling prince. What hurt the most was that no one remembered his deeds. He didn’t even get to be immortalized beside his beloved Thorn Fairy in her monuments.

This is where her deep need to be free and never serve the royal family comes from. A part of Malleus is wounded to hear that the one he loves cannot dare to trust him for the pain his family has inflicted upon her court. He tries to reason with her, vowing that once he becomes king, he would rather follow her example. To not let any fae be tied down.

But of course, Yuu isn’t having it and leaves once again. This lights a fire within Malleus though and he knows what path to take. He claws his way for power, sparing no mercy to anyone. In his eyes, this whole kingdom and his lineage has shown what they’re really like. Rather to help themselves than help their fellow fae.

He wants the crown now more than ever because he is fueled to please Yuu. To give her everything and be where she truly belongs. At the pinnacle beside him and this time, he will be the servant to her.

A dragon king coated in black scales and blood. Beside him, a raven queen with cruel intentions. While the king is quite fearsome indeed, the one who whispers who to claw and burn is the raven perched on his shoulder…

Did you know dear readers that some wolves and ravens share a special relationship? They help each other when they eat together and some ravens have special bonds with wolf pups. So I couldn’t help myself to imagine a rather interesting relationship between Fae Lady Yuu and Jack.

Jack would already be at NRC and Yuu is passing through, maybe to bully her court member Crowley. She would be delighted at seeing a lone wolf jogging out by himself. She adores wolves!

She’d make herself immediately known by pulling a prank on Jack, especially if she gets to pull his tail. Of course our Jack wouldn’t be too happy at this corvid fae messing with him, but this only fuels Yuu more.

Everyday she comes to visit to play with Jack. Tries to steal nibbles from his food, pulling his ears/tails, or in her bird form, pecking at the window if she sees him in class. Is not fazed at all when he growls or barks at her to leave him alone.

But there is a method to her madness, you could say. She’s only ever annoying during classes when he starts to doze off and while she does like to steal his food, Yuu always surprises Jack by nabbing his favorite bread whenever it’s the lunch rush.

At all seems innocent at first, but this is fae Yuu we’re talking about here. It’d take a little while but soon her sinister charms start to come into play. Why are you at this stuffy school? Wouldn’t it be better to run wild in the wide open forest? To really sink your teeth into the most fresh and succulent meats?

As tempting as it is, Jack still has a strong sense of duty. He can’t give up his position at NRC so easily. At first, Yuu would be a little disappointed that she can’t bring this lovely wolf back home. But then a wonderfully novel idea comes to her mind. Who said she couldn’t extend her court further out from the Briar Valley?

Yuu knows how these dorms work. A leader and deputy at his side while the rest fall in line. They’re practically their own courts! She has seen the frustration growing in Jack at Leona not following through as a proper Dorm Leader. It just takes one seed for her to start making it flourish.

“This Leona fellow, is he really even trying to bring Savanaclaw to the top? He’d rather slink in the shadows than be a proud and noble leader? You wouldn’t do that Jack. You would be a righteous one, the spearhead of your pack. Who’s stopping you from challenging his spot? Just because he can happen to turn things into kitty litter? HA! That’s child play. Jack, I want to help you rise…” “...Why are you so keen on helping me…?” “Because Jack… Noble wolves have always helped my court. To help you, it would be an honor…”

Jack, the lone wolf, now finally has a companion who is keen on being by his side. For one who’s always alone, for someone to always have his back, to play with him, to show him affection, it’s much too tempting. A canine will always appreciate whoever feeds it, after all. The fact that Yuu would aid in his school life is just a bonus.

Jack would be isolated now more than ever, not wanting to socialize with anyone in his dorm. But his reputation would more than make up for it as Jack’s magical power has suddenly increased dramatically. He has an air of danger to him.

It doesn’t help that the only company he ever talks to is a group of blackbirds that constantly follow him. One particular raven, he always allows to perch on his finger and greets her with a smile and kiss on her beak.

[couchpotatoaniki]

The Queen’s Consort

You love him dearly, but a servant cannot marry their Queen. Luckily, you’re not one to give up so easily, despite what others might think.

Pairing: Servant!Namjoon x Queen!Reader Genre: Royal AU, ‘Secret’ lovers AU, fluff, slight angst Warnings: smoking, swearing, mentions of misogyny Loosely based off: I’m a bit of a history nerd, so this is a weird fantasy mash-up of the reigns of the English Tudor Queens, Mary I and Elizabeth I Word count: 4.5k+

Pungent smells of rose perfume and sweet vanilla filled the room, a cloud of cigar smoke mixing in occasionally as it lay in the atmosphere.

You exhaled after another puff, feeling the tension in your muscles ease with every deep breath. Namjoon drank the sight of you, eyes closed, head tilted back, light grey smoke escaping past your puckered lips.

No matter how many times he sees this, he thinks, he won’t ever get used to it. Normally seeing you in tight corsets, confining gowns, adorned in pretty, expensive things.

But this picture of you is the prettiest.

No fancy makeup, no fancy jewellery, no fancy dresses.

Just you, in a plain nightgown as you smoked a cigar that lay loosely between your fingers, the firelight flickering across your glowing skin (blemished from the years of stress and fighting, but gorgeous nonetheless), and occasionally taking sips from whatever alcohol was in your chalice.

Today was whiskey.

As inappropriate as it is, you never minded him seeing you this unguarded. It was your time to unwind, and Namjoon helped you do just that.

In this room of paintings, you two sat on velvety golden chairs in front of the roaring fireplace and let go of the day’s troubles.

The real world was just on the other side of the door, a twist of the brass doorknob and you two would revert back to a Queen and her servant.

But in here...

In here, in this sanctuary, you were you and Namjoon was Namjoon.

Staff and all those who worked within the palace grounds knew exactly what the two of you were. How much you two meant to each other.

Whispers went about but neither of you paid much heed, even if it caused more than its fair share of trouble at times.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Namjoon asked, noticing how your relaxed brow returned to it’s familiar scrunched-up look.

Chuckling, you kept your eyes closed as you exhaled once more. “You know very well I don’t need money.”

“Okay then,” he huffed, “a kiss for your thoughts?”

One eye opened at his proposition, brow above it quirking as you smirked. “Holding those lips hostage, now?”

A large hand enveloped one of yours, giving it a tight squeeze as he sported a lopsided grin of his own. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

You loved seeing him smile, trying to etch the curve of his lips, the dip of his cupid’s bow, the two tiny valleys of dimples.

Using the thumb if your other hand, which had placed the dying cigar on a nearby glass ashtray, you caressed the knuckles of Namjoon’s hand. “Nothing, my love. Just the same as last week.”

The muscular man leaned in closer, whispering faintly in your ear, “and remind me of what that would be...”

His breath smelled of the exotic fruits he just finished eating and all you wanted to do was see how many you could taste on his tongue.

“How much I love my country,” you teased with a sly look, something you loved to do, and you knew that he did too. Probably why his lips lingered over yours, barely brushing together, and before you could kiss him properly, Namjoon abruptly pulled away.

Sat back in his seat, the taller man chuckled at your rouge cheeks and furrowed brow. “I promised you a kiss, only if you told me what you were really thinking.”

As much as you cared him, what had been lingering in your mind was not something he should know yet. Not how stressed you were, not how your advisors had pressed for you to marry someone soon and sire an heir, now that you were of age.

While one faction--led by Seokjin and Jimin, the Secretary of State and Lord Treasurer respectively--had pushed for you to marry the sole Astopian Prince, Jungkook, another faction of advisors (led by Hoseok, the Captain of the Royal Guard, and Taehyung, the Lord Chamberlain) wanted you to marry a noble from the country you govern.

These were you’re most trusted and efficient advisors, but the headaches they have been giving you make you dread to think of how much worse it would be with others in their position instead of them.

Sure, you’ve met the Prince who hails from the Jeon dynasty that has ruled the Astopian Peninsula for many centuries. Conquering copious amounts of land despite not being coronated yet.  An over-talented man with an ego too big for you to handle.

Safe to say you weren’t a fan of the idea of being tied to the childish person.

And then the nobility...

All those beasts wanted were two things: the jewelled crown on your head and the golden throne you occupy.

It was one of the reasons why the advisors were so pushy lately--people wanted your strength and your nation, and with no direct legitimate heir, your position became more unstable.

It was shown when you had to squash rebellions to overthrow you with a distant cousin or half-sibling you had no idea existed until you heard of their claim to the throne.

Either Father sure was promiscuous or they did well to cover their lies.

But there was only one man right for you, and he was happily tasting the strawberries you had requested just for him. Servants couldn’t get the quantity or quality of food of your palette. Filled your heart to see him try all the things your taste buds had now grown used to.

“May I lay with you? Just for a little while?”

He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

Not because you were his Queen, but because he understood you. Knew you had more weight on your shoulders than any other in the country.

So Namjoon did what he he could to ease the burden, letting you lay your head on his chest once you both moved to your bed. Calloused fingertips, rough from a hard day’s work, brushed between silky strands of hair that cascaded down.

“Namjoon…” You could feel his hum vibrating through his chest as he continued to run his finger through your locks, gently untangling them. “Would you marry me?”

If he was shocked from your sudden question, he did not show it.

In fact, he wasn’t surprised at all. Despite how well you were trying to keep it from him--he would have to commemorate you for your efforts--he was still a part of the servants workforce. And servants talk.

“If we could... then yes.” His lips pressed against your scalp for a sweet kiss, mumbling, “would marry you in a heartbeat.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I love you.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough for a marriage to work.”

Namjoon knew what you meant. A classic example of this case would be your parents, the previous King and the late Queen. Your mother slandered for being unable to bare any healthy children save for you, the rest of them unable to live past five years of age.

Their marriage was one of love, you had heard, but after her complicated fertility issues and the pressure of a nation on their heads, things turned sour.

You saw how two loving parents become bitter and died cursing each other with their last breaths.

“You’re right... but we’ve been able to work together well before we fell in love. We’re familiar with each other, how the other works. Their needs and wants. I won’t let us end up as a heap of melted wax, our passion and care for each other burnt out. And I know for a fact you won’t either.”

You heard him through the rumbles in his chest, finding the warmth of both his body and his words comforting to you.

“Be mine and mine only,” you muttered as your lids grew heavy, shutting from exhaustion.

Noticing this immediately, Namjoon chuckled to himself.

“As if I was made for anyone else.”

“--and make sure to increase the taxes on the fishermen in certain areas of the coast as well as lessen them in others. I hear the marine life is becoming scarce these days along the eastern seaboard and to replenish it, we should encourage the fishermen to avoid those areas of concern.”

“Yes, your majesty. That sounds like an excellent solution,” Seokjin said, though not at all surprised you came up with it (even if it sounds simple when you say it out loud). To him--as well as the rest of your court--you did more than an exceptional job at governing your state.

You were the best monarch they had seen in a very long time.

Only, there was one issue, and you were well aware of it.

Breathing slowly, you looked at your council, dreading the words you were going to say next, because the touchy topic was going to be brought up sooner or later.

“Is there anything else on our agenda today?”

The Lord Chamberlain cleared his throat. “Other than the daily workload, there is only one matter left for discussion, your majesty.”

“And what would that be, Taehyung?” you sighed, slight hint of sarcasm laced in the tired tone you spoke in.

“Your marriage.” Seeing you roll you eyes only fired him up more. “You really need to decide! Do you want to completely secure your throne?”

“What about marriage is so important that my throne is insecure without it?” you burst out, not being able to hold in your frustration. “There have been Kings in the past who have lived their entire reign in peace without tying the knot with another, so why me?!”

“Because your a Queen, not a King!” Jimin yelled back, his old habits of arguing with you while you two were younger beginning to kick in. “We all know you’re more than capable of of ruling by yourself, but others still have their old-fashioned way of thinking! They believe that without a legitimate heir from you, your throne is theirs for the taking!”

Hoseok rested his hand on the red-faced man’s shoulder, pushing him back down in his seat from which he left as he argued with you. “What we’re trying to say, your majesty, is that the world’s attitudes are years behind ours. They’ll keep coming for your head if you don’t produce a legitimate heir, and the only way you can do that is if you marry.”

Grunting with frustration, you stormed out of the room, rushing to your bedchambers.

Felt lightheaded. From the advisors, from the world, for the corset restricting your breathing. Too many thoughts rushing through your head, you didn’t see Namjoon following behind you with concern hidden beneath a blank expression.

It was only until you stopped to open the door to your bedchambers did you realise he was right behind you. “Leave me to rest,” you spoke firmly, remembering to maintain the roles of servant and Queen even if you two were at the boundary of sanctuary.

Wanting to say more but being unable to have the freedom to say it while you both were in the doorway, Namjoon simply sighed and stood outside as you closed the door on his face.

Threw yourself on the bed, hoping for some miracle that will allow you to knock out there and then.

First, you needed to breathe. You needed air into your lungs to stop the dizziness.

“In... Out...” You hear someone speaking from your mind, louder, yet more soothing than the rest. Namjoon’s deep voice lulling you from a past memory.

“In... Out...” You followed as instructed, listening to his advise to settle your pounding heart.

“In... Out,” you repeated alongside his voice in your head, finding your beating organ relax bit by bit until it returned to normal.

Squeaking of the hinges had not brought you out of the trance you were in, but the dip in your bed under a person’s weight did.

“Don’t mind me,” Yoongi said as he lay beside you, his arms crossed behind his head, “your servant let me in.”

“Of course he did,” you smiled. Namjoon knew that if he was not allowed to comfort you, then someone else would have to in his stead--and there was no one better than the Foreign Secretary.

Yoongi--like some of your councillors--had grown up with you. He knew you like the back of his pale hand, and he was the only advisor you completely trusted.

Others had lost that level in pursuit of their own ambitions; he was the only one who fought against you appointing him for his role, wanting to stay in the shadows--something he had grown accustomed to.

Only when you explained that his real job would be your Spymaster did he agree. It was the shadows he was used to, and you weren’t going to fully rip him away from his comfort zone.

After a few minute of laying side by side in silence, you began to spill your thoughts.

“No one has any idea how painful this position is. Nor how bothersome getting the throne was in the first place. Now they want me to marry and relinquish my power after everything I had sacrificed to get and maintain it. Want nobles and Princes that would just overrule me and ruin this nation I brought back from the ashes like a phoenix.”

Attempting to gulp down the lump rising in your throat, you just couldn’t stop.

“After the shitshow my parents and my forefathers had turned this place into, I returned it to it’s rightful glory. It became a mythical beast because of my efforts, and now they demand I marry a man who would mistreat me and my people, as if we were mere deer or rabbits rather than powerful, fiery birds of the sun.”

Silent tears rolled down the sides of your face, the muffled drops on the sheet being the only sound indicating to your advisor that you were indeed crying since his eyes were closed.

“What do I do, Yoongi?” you begged in a small voice, not to an official of your court but your childhood friend. “How can I marry someone who cares more for power than they do for me? More than my people? How could I marry when the whole of my heart belongs to another?”

“Well, that’s easy,” he replied--already knowing exactly who you were talking about--not even opening his eyes as you turned you head to see him, awaiting his explanation. “Just marry the person your heart belongs to.”

Glaring at him, you spat, “if it was that easy, don’t you think I would have done it already?”

“Don’t lash out at me like you did to Taehyung and Jimin. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re my advisor and you fail to give me advise--”

“I just did--”

“Advise that I can use.”

Opening one eye, he looked at your annoyed face. “I told you before that I didn’t want to be an advisor.”

“Well I couldn’t just let you stay in the gardens your entire life. You need people skills, and to do that, you need to socialise with things that can actually speaks,” you threw your arms up, gesturing to nothing in particular just to emphasis your point, tears dried. “Besides, I prefer your company and council over the rest.”

Yoongi was not one for taking compliments--it was an unusual and unfamiliar task for him, especially if it didn’t come from you--so he stayed silent from the next few minutes.

“Who said it? That you can’t marry the person you love?”

You snorted at his stupid comment. “Everyone, Yoongi. Everyone.”

“Really?” He clicked his tongue. “That’s strange. I’ve never heard anyone say those words to you directly, and I’m the Spymaster.” He saw how you gnawed on your lip, eroding away the ruby lipstick until you finally got what he said.

Rapidly propping your body on your elbow, you snapped your face to look at him. “Are you suggesting I just marry who I want anyway?”

“Well, yeah, that is what I said at the start.”

Sent him a pointed look. “You know there’s gonna be a lot of opposition.”

“So? You’ll face opposition if you choose one faction over the other. You already face it daily anyway, so I don’t see the point in fretting over it. At least this way, you can live your life with the person you love the most.” 

For the first time during the entire conversation, Yoongi’s face softened as he sat up with you, taking your hands in his as a comforting gesture. They weren’t Namjoon’s hands--certainly weren’t as big or warm--but they did the trick.

“Listen, the only reason they’re pushing for a marriage with a nobleman or a foreign prince is because they want to milk this opportunity for all it can be. An advantageous marriage, that’s all they’re looking for.”

“But their main issue can simply be resolved with an heir.”

“Exactly. You can have a legitimate heir with the person you love, regardless of his status. All you have to do is marry him.”

Bursts of happiness bloomed in you, showing your smile and rosy cheeks, in your thumping heart and rushing blood. Unable to contain it, you pounced on your old friend. “God bless you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Don’t thank me,” he chuckled, with his own ruddy cheeks, “Besides, I never approved of those half-baked fools they offered to you. Especially Prince Jungkook.”

Releasing him from your tight hold, you looked at him fondly. “Would’ve been a pain in my ass if I really had married him.”

“Mine too,” he shuddered at the thought, “Rather have someone I know marry you than an arrogant stranger that I have to learn how to speak respectfully to.”

“You should be used to it!” You lightly hit his arm. “You’re the Foreign Secretary! It’s your job to talk to arrogant strangers.”

“And I dread every meeting,” he grimaced.

“...so it would be wise to change the systems in the areas that are being raided. For those most at risk, use all you can to protect our citizens. Place more guards and use stronger, more-resistant building materials for reconstruction, and also see if you can build an underground shelter for the people to take refuge in, stocked with supplies.”

“Wonderful, your majesty,” Seokjin said, scribbling down what you said in his little notebook. “We’ll begin that immediately.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back in your chair, which was significantly bigger and fancier than the others. “Is there,” you sighed, still not ready for the conversation to come. “Is there anything else on today’s agenda?”

“You know very well what we’re going to say, your majesty.” Your eyes landed on Jimin, who was much more calmer than last week.

“Yes, I know.” Briefly, your eyes shot to Yoongi, who was sat opposite to you on the large, round, spruce table. Puff of air pushed out of your lungs as you cracked your knuckles as a way to release the tension in your fingers. “How about this? State your cases; who you nominate to be my husband...”

Taehyung was smart, so he caught your hesitation. “But..?”

“But I have conditions of my own. Two, to be exact. Nothing exactly difficult.”

Hoseok scratched his head, feeling somewhat happy you’re not avoiding this topic as usual but also slightly suspicious.

“You main argument for me to get married is so I can have a legitimate heir, right?” Mumbles of agreement erupted around the room. “Good. So my first condition would be that whoever I marry won’t be King, they will be my consort.”

“But that’s unorthodox,” Seokjin piped in, more as if it was a passing thought than a counter-point.

“So would you rather me marry and then be overruled?” Your brow quirked, challenging them. Standing, you looked around, leaning your weight on the hands on the table.

“All of us here know that I am more than capable of ruling--you even said it yourself, Jimin. I know I can handle the weight of the country on my shoulders. Have been since I was 15, and I won’t allow some officious idiot ruin what I’ve build from the ground up.”

None of the advisors said another word on the matter since they knew you were right. Their Queen knew the country inside-out and having another person who had less experience or was not so familiar with the customs of the nation become more powerful was certainly a recipe for disaster.

“Very well,” Seokjin muttered. “Your second condition, your majesty?”

“This one may be a bit more challenging for you to follow, but it is just as important as the last.”

“And that is...?” Hoseok pried.

“After I choose, there will be no arguing. The monarch’s word is final and you should treat it as such. Once the decision is made, all of you--regardless of personal opinions--will have to greet the Consort with respect since they will become a part of the Royal Family.”

Carefully crafted words made the others oblivious to your plan. All but Yoongi.

“I think it’s safe to say that we all agree to your quite reasonable conditions, don’t we?” Taehyung looked around the room to see if anyone would object to his statement and, luckily, no one did.

Sitting back down on your seat with a silent groan, you waved your hand to signal the start of the debate. “Finish this matter by noon.”

With no further need for delay, the talks began. Seokjin, Jimin, and a few others opted for Prince Jungkook on the basis that he held power and knowledge, while trade and relations between the two countries would be much better.

An argument that you could handle without being married to him by simply being his friend and whatnot--but you of course kept this to yourself.

Various others began to offer you more local choices of husbands; lords, earls, dukes and the like. Hoseok and Taehyung both wished for the Duke of Lysia as he held a lot of support from the people, understanding of the country and culture and had retainers for your army should you need them.

It was as if they had forgotten you had no need for more love from your people since almost every single one already supported you. Also letting the fact that it would be treason if the Duke didn’t raise his retainers for your army upon your orders slip their minds.

But as the two sides died down, you looked at your Foreign Secretary. “You’ve been awfully quite, Min. Do you have someone’s name to put forth?”

“Yes, I do, your majesty,” he said quietly, appearing to be uninterested but you knew better.

Chuckling beneath your breath at his coldness, though never letting the smile become visible, you cocked a brow. “And who would that be?”

“Kim Namjoon. Your personal servant.”

“This is preposterous!” Jimin yelled, slamming his fist on the polished spruce.

You lifted your hand up to silence the Lord Treasurer, glaring eyes reminding him of your second condition before returning to question Yoongi. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you both love each other.” He tilted his head to the side, yawning.

“Also on the grounds that he too is familiar with the royal customs and culture of this country, not to mention that he normally overhears what goes on in important meetings--excluding this one, of course. You confide in him and he has never broken your trust, despite how well he is within the servants--who often tend to chatter amongst themselves. He knows the ins and outs of the place and already unofficially aids you in decision-making.”

He licked his lips. “And, most importantly, he is fertile so you can sir a legitimate heir.”

“But what about his lack of power?” the Captain of the Royal Guard countered.

“He knows how to move with the people. The lad keeps his ear close to ground and is smarter than he looks. Besides, none of this matters since he’ll be a consort anyway, not a King.” Yoongi lazily shot back, killing Hoseok’s argument.

Silence grew over the room as each pair of eyes looked in your direction, already knowing the decision deep in their hearts. “A five minute recess is required.”

The advisors all stood as you did, only taking their seats again once you had left the room and the double oak doors shut behind you.

“How was the meeting, your majesty? Was awfully long this time. Any difficulties?” Namjoon enquired, not knowing what exactly went on.

Without answering him, you walked to a nearby empty room, with him trailing just behind. Turning on your heel, you held his arms, intensely looking in his eyes. “Did you mean it? When you said you would marry me if you could?”

Knowing that the two of you were hidden in a temporary haven, he gazed lovingly at you, caressing your cheek with his rough hands that only seemed to sooth you. “Of course I did, my love.”

“And if I could make that happen? Today? What would you say?”

As if he ate multiple salted crackers, Namjoon found his mouth dry up instantly. “What?”

Seeing his hesitation, you fought back the bad thoughts, the lump in your throat, the storm brewing in your stomach. “What would you say?” you pressed again, much harder than last time.

“I-I...I can’t.”

Tears tried to spring into your eyes, the sheer willpower you had to stop them from showing made your eyes burn. “Why?” Your tone turned stiff and stone-cold. He hated that--hearing you talk to him without emotion.

“Because it would mean I would have to become King. Although I want to lessen the burden you carry by your lonesome, I can’t take away the power you fought so hard to keep. Can’t be a ruler this nation and you deserve.”

Water began to spill as you closed your eyes, a sigh of relief escaping past your lips as your legs gave out under you. Luckily Namjoon was there to catch you. Lifted you from the ground and place you gently on a nearby chair. “You should really explain before you finish.”

His brows furrowed, kneeling down in front of you as he looked up to see your soft smile that had his heart beating just a fraction faster. “Should know better than to doubt my love for you at this point,” Namjoon whispered against the cold skin of your hands that he held in his own warmer ones.

Chortling lightly, you leaned to rest your forehead against his. “I really should, shouldn’t I?” Biting the lower flesh of your lip, you continued. “Would you reconsider if I said you’d only be my consort? Not a King?”

Could feel his lips stretch into a smile as it was still pressed against your knuckles. “If that’s the case, then definitely.”

“Good,” you grinned, standing up as you noticed the time on the clock. Wiping away the tears, you checked to see if you were decent in one of the mirrors.

Giving his hand a reassuring squeeze, you kissed his cheek. “Time to tell them my decision.”

[cinaja]

Before the Wall Epilogue

Masterlist

----

Ten years after the Wall

 The crops have been coming along well this year, just the right balance of sun and rain and wind promising a rich harvest. It leads to a good mood throughout the human parts of the Continent. In the aftermath of the war, they have all made their experiences with food shortages, and so everyone is relieved that they seem to have moved past these times. All the bigger is the shock when, only a week before the grain was meant to be brough in, heavy thunderstorms with rain and hail ruin most of the harvest in one of Angolere’s northern provinces.

Andromache spends two mildly exhausting days visiting the region, travelling from city to city and offering reassurances that everything is under control, there are no risks of food shortages. Her presence has no practical purpose, the local authorities are more than capable of handling the situation, but everyone is nervous enough that they need someone to reassure them that all will be well.

By the time she reaches the last village, she is drained, although she is too well-trained to show it. As patiently as in the first village she visited yesterday, she listens to the town spokeswoman describe their situation, allows her to show her the village and the mostly-ruined regions.

“We will send grain from other regions,” she promises, as she did in every place she visited so far. The south of Angolere had rich harvests these years, and the other queens have already promised to send food as well should we not get by after all.”

She accepts an invitation for dinner and spends a few hours sitting in the townhall together with most of the village, making pleasant conversation, before she excuses herself. When she steps outside, she expected to be greeted by one of her guards. Instead, Yanis is waiting for her, leaning against a fence.

When he sees Andromache, he offers an exaggerated bow, grinning broadly as he straightens. “Good evening Your Majesty. May I be your escort for the evening?”

Andromache grins back. “I don’t know. You see, I have a husband who is waiting for me at home with our children.”

“I hear those children are sleeping already, and your husband missed you terribly these last few days and thought he’d pick you up.”

Andromache laughs and leans over to kiss him.

“How did it go?” he asks, wrapping an arm around her middle.

“All good,” Andromache says. “I barely needed to do anything, just reassure people a bit.”

These days, all problems she has to deal with seem easy. There is still a lot of work – drafting laws, dealing with arising problems, day-to-day governing work – but it only ever seems pleasant. What is a disagreement over a new law compared to the horror of war? Or to the initial years afterwards, when there were millions of displaced, traumatized people to deal with and they came close to starvation almost every year. Six years ago, a loss of harvest like this would have meant famine and deaths. Now, all she has to do is organize for food to be sent over from different provinces.

Things are good.

“I’m sure you were brilliant,” Yanis says with a broad smile. “Meanwhile, I have won a significant victory in the never-ending battle of convincing Leli that when her teachers tell her something, it is not a suggestion but an order, and I managed to keep Tano from breaking any priceless artifacts while running through the palace.”

Andromache laughs. “You’re my hero,” she says, half-teasing and half-sincere.

Yanis quit his work in the palace guard when Andromache got pregnant with Leli six years ago and has been staying at home to raise her and – three years later – Tano ever since. He could have kept his job had they hired someone to look after their children, but for Yanis, there was never even a question in that regard: He wanted to be there for their children as they grew up. It makes it easier for Andromache to know that even when she is busy at work, sometimes for days at a time, he is home with their children.

“My first meeting tomorrow is at eleven,” she says. “That ought to leave plenty of time for a nice family breakfast.”

----

Mor spends her days travelling the Continent, dealing with anyone her uncle currently wishes to improve relationships with. She has yet to decide whether she loves or hates her new position. Both, perhaps. She loves that it allows her to travel far and wide, to leave the Night Court and its restrictions behind, if only for a few weeks at a time. She loves the protection it gives her.

She hates the memories it brings up, though. For her, the Continent is full of memories of happier times. (No, that is not right. She shouldn’t think back to the years of war and wish herself back into that time. But then, to go back would mean getting Andromache back, and for that, she would accept a hundred years of war. But Andromache is on the other side of the Wall, married now and forever lost to her.)

Sometimes, Mor also hates the people she has to deal with. Today, it is Shey, who has been loosely allied with the Night Court ever since the war ended. Mor doesn’t know exactly how that came about, but her uncle exports iron for weapons and armour to Shey and he sends Mor to visit the emperor at least once a year.

Today is the first day of that annual visit and Shey is holding a welcome-celebration for her. It is a huge honour – Shey is easily the most important person on the Continent now, and him holding a celebration in honour of the emissary from a tiny Prythianian court is very unusual.

If Mor had been stupid enough to think it is for her sake, she might have actually felt honoured. But this celebration isn’t because of her, none of this is because of her at all. It’s all about Miryam and the fact that everyone knows that Mor was friends with her. That is why there are no doors locked to her on the Continent, why everyone so readily meets with her. Because Miryam and Drakon were her friends, and so to host her is to flaunt some sort of connection to them.

No, Mor does not enjoy the party at all, even if the music is brilliant, as is the food. She just makes conversation because it is what is expected of her and downs glass after glass of the clear, sparkling wine favoured here in the north to make it bearable.

She wonders what they would all say if they knew how things ended between Miryam and her, that she abandoned her before the end and left her to die. If they knew that she was so terrible that Andromache could no longer bear to so much as be around her anymore. If they knew about the charmed necklace that still lies unused at the bottom of some drawer in her rooms in Velaris.

No one knows about any of that, though. And no one ever will. Maybe one day, Mor will even be able to fool herself into believing that the sole reason her and Andromache split up was the Wall, that she never argued with Miryam and the only reason she isn’t visiting her is out of worry for her safety. It is not today, though, and so she downs another glass of wine and smiles at the nearest dignitary and allows him to pull her to the dance floor.

----

No one is coming for him.

Jurian fought against that truth for years, but he has given up on denying it for a while now. What use is it to lie to himself? No one is coming to save him. His allies, his friends, seem to have forgotten entirely about him. They moved on with their lives and likely never thought of him again, didn’t care enough to bother freeing him from that terrible nightmare his life turned into.

Jurian hates all of them. Andromache and Nakia and all the others for leaving him behind. Drakon for pretending to be his friend and then betraying him and making Miryam turn away from him. Miryam for turning against him. For not saving him. For dying. Her, he hates most of all.

----

Drakon puts down his quill and scans the contents of the text he just finished once more before putting the paper on the stack with the other usable results. That stack is the only tidy part of the table he was working on, the rest is a mess of books, most of them lying open on the relevant pages, and crumbled papers filled with ideas he dismissed as useless already. A few of those even ended up on the floor.

Well, that ought to be enough for now. He’s done with his edits on the draft for the new tax law they will be discussing later today. He still wants to show his edits to Miryam before then, but he still has plenty of time left for that.

Rising to his feet, he sets about cleaning up his mess. The papers he doesn’t need anymore go into the fire, he closes the books he used for reference and puts them on a second stack next to the one with the finished edits. He will be taking them with him, just to be sure.

Carrying the eight books as well as the stack of papers is a difficult task, given that he still doesn’t have proper use of his right arm. He has to carry the books with his left hand, the papers stuck between his useless right arm and his body. That movement alone hurts, but he is used to it by now. (There are magical prosthetics that function almost as well as an actual limb. But… well, Drakon hasn’t decided yet.)

A look at the clock reveals that it is almost seven. Drakon was in the library for the last four hours, and by now, Miryam should probably be awake. (Their sleeping schedules do not align very well lately. They usually go to bed together, but Miryam rarely manages to sleep more than half an hour before waking up again and then spends most of the night working, going to bed only in the early hour of the morning, while Drakon generally manages to sleep for a few hours but then cannot go back to sleeping when he wakes up. Miryam sometimes jokes that at least their inability to ever sleep through the night makes them both very productive rulers.)

Books balancing on his left hand, he walks through the halls of the library and out into the city. They founded their new capital nine years ago, and everything about the city still screams new. Many houses are only half-finished, as are all government buildings. Right now, their government meets in an improvised city hall and most of the high-ranking government members (including Miryam and Drakon) live in nearby houses. The council insisted that they start building a palace sometime, but that hasn’t been a priority yet.

The city Drakon is walking through now is nothing like Sajeo or any of the other cities in Erithia, all of whom were old, each building full of history. Drakon does miss Erithia, but he doesn’t think that difference is necessarily a bad thing, at least for their purposes. Not all history is good, after all, and in their situation, it certainly isn’t helpful. As it is, they all get a fresh start. There are human houses being build next to faerie ones, and all of them are equally new. They are all starting over together, and in a few centuries when this city has matured a bit, that will be the history the people living here will be able to look back upon. It will be one of unity, Drakon hopes.

----

Miryam frowns at her reflection in the mirror. Hair mussed from sleep and still wearing her long nightdress, she doesn’t look particularly dignified, but that is not what she has a problem with right now. No, the problem is that she looks young. It’s like she hasn’t aged at all in the last ten years. If she is being honest, the years of peace actually make her look far younger than she did at the end of the War. Then, at twenty-five, she looked more like thirty-five than she does now.

“Would you say,” she asks, turning to look over at Daín who is floating over her bed, “that I look my age?”

Daín is silent for a moment, cocking his head to the side to study her. “Now?” He asks. “You want to talk about that now?”

Miryam shrugs.

“Mortal ages are terribly hard to tell just by looks, really. There is no telling how old anyone truly is, as evidenced by you now looking younger than you did when we first met,” Daín says. When Miryam gives him a flat look, he quickly adds, “But in your case, I would say that you look twenty-five, for the simply reason that you haven’t aged a day since you were resurrected. Which is what you were getting at, isn’t it?”

Miryam glares at him, trying to ignore the sting of the words. “You knew the entire time,” she says, more statement than question. “And you never thought to tell us? Even when we spent the last five years trying to figure out if I was aging or not?”

“And yet, through all that time, you never thought to ask me,” Daín says with a sharp smile. He has been getting better at mimicking precise expressions lately. “You ask about everything – history, human culture, magic, the other worlds. Yet this one thing, you never brought up, not once in the four years since you decided to talk to me again. Neither did Drakon.” He shrugs. “I figured you didn’t want to know.”

Like it or not, he might have a point. Miryam didn’t want to know. If she is entirely honest, she still doesn’t. She never wanted to be immortal, not even in the not-actually-immortal way the Fae are. She always thought that having a limited number of years made those years more precious.

“Resurrections are a tricky matter,” Daín offers. He actually manages to sound comforting. “There is no telling what side-effects there might be. Even I still cannot tell exactly how it works.”

“Well.” Miryam wraps her arms around herself. “I suppose the alternative was to be dead.”

She doesn’t like the idea of being immortal. Not at all. But if there is one thing she knows for sure, it’s that she prefers it to having died and stayed dead at the end of the war. These last ten years certainly weren’t easy, but they were good. The best ones of Miryam’s life, probably. She wouldn’t have wanted to trade them for the world.

“So you’re alright with it?” Daín asks.

“I guess I’ll have to be,” Miryam says with a shrug. At least it doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it might. It isn’t ideal, but she would rather have a too-long life than a too-short one. She smiles at Daín in a way that is hopefully reassuring. “And now, I need to get dressed. So, you know.”

“I’m already gone,” Daín says, winks at her and vanishes.

Miryam glances at her reflection once more before turning to her wardrobe. She sincerely hopes that she is at least only “immortal” in the way the Fae are, which isn’t so immortal at all. But well, that is a question for later. For now, she has other things to worry about, and for those, she needs to dress.

Drakon barges into the room just as she buttons up her jacket. He doesn’t look at Miryam – cannot, because he is balancing a stack of books on his left hand, it swaying dangerously with each step.

Miryam picks up the four books at the top and stands up on her toes to kiss him over the now-smaller stack of books he is still holding. “Busy morning?” She asks, smiling softly.

Drakon smiles back and manages to place the rest of his books as well as the stack of papers he was holding under his right arm on the nightstand without any incidents.

“Yes,” he says, turning back to Miryam and wrapping an arm around her. “Very productive, though. I reviewed the new tax law we were drafting, and I think it should probably work out. Maybe you could read over it once more before the meeting later, though. And I brough along the books I used for reference, just to be sure.”

Miryam’s smile deepens. Of course be brought the books, as if there will be anyone but him at the meeting who read all of them.

“Sure,” she says, although she doesn’t think her reading over it will accomplish anything but making Drakon feel more secure about it. “I’ll read them right after breakfast.”

That way, they will still have time for small changes before the meeting, even if Miryam doubts she will find anything of note. She learned a lot about law-making in the last years and she would say that she is decent, but especially when it comes to the small details (which is what they are dealing with at this stage), she’s nowhere near as good as Drakon.

They go have breakfast on the small balcony belonging to the set of rooms they share. It is Miryam’s favourite place in the entire city, high enough that she can overlook the square below as well as some of the nearby streets. As her and Drakon eat and discuss the things they both worked on during the night (the tax laws for Drakon and a logistic issue with distributing food for Miryam), Miryam looks out over the city.

By now, the city has awoken and the square is full with people rushing about, going about their daily activities. Humans and faeries, all living together in peace. A woman is hurrying along, trailing two small children behind her. A young Seraphim girl and a human boy are playing together by the fountain. Next to them, a group of adults sits and eats a quick lunch, likely before going to work.

Miryam could spend hours watching them. On bad days, when her nightmares are worse than usual and the shadows of what happened chase her, she sometimes does. Watching the people down there go about their lives, happy and free and at peace, always makes the guilt and pain easier to bear. These people will have good lives, they and their children will be free, and that alone makes all that it took to get them here worth it. It makes everything worth it.

----

A/N: So, this is the final chapter. After over a year and 370k words written, I can't quite belive that this story is actually over. Writing this story has been lots of fun (and I might revisit it for a few oneshots sometime), and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.

At this point, I'd also like to thank everyone who read this story and left comments or likes - all of you have really made my day every time. A special thanks goes (once again) to @croissantcitysucks for all the wonderful conversations we had about this story, for all the great feedback and help when I had problems, and, of course, for all of the backstory surrounding Daín and the Mother (also, I'm looking forward to you acotar rewrite so much and I can only recomment everyone read it when it comes out!) It's really been so much fun!

Tags: @femtopulsed @aileywrites

[softcallofdutyimagines]

How Do I Love Thee? | Knight!Weaver x Princess!Reader | Medieval AU | Chpt. 1

Summary:

The day has finally come. Your bodyguard, the man you've trusted with your life since the day you were born, has reached the age of retirement. Being the only child of your royal parents, the King and Queen are quite keen on keeping you safe, so naturally a new one must be selected. When the dust of the tournament settles, a champion is chosen, one far younger and stronger then the last...

In an age full of tales of handsome men in shining armor and chivalrous heroes of great courage and honor, could you be in for a forbiden love story of your own?

Tags: Slow burn

Warnings: None, except for a small fight scene involving mentions of blood

“Goodnight my Lady”, your lady in waiting bows her head politely as she exits your chambers, closing the heavy wooden doors behind her with a soft thump. Her footsteps recede off into the night down through the thick stone corridors as you lay awake in your downy bed. Two sconces glow faintly in the night, providing just enough light for you to navigate the large, dark room.

Once you’re sure you’re alone, you grab your small candle and pad across the cool stone floor to steal some light. It catches quickly and you’re off once more to your desk. You pull out your poetry books and studies to retrieve a small leather bound notebook. It contains all sorts of things like sketches and sonnets that you've penned, but most of all it’s filled with your musings of the day.

You tap your quill on the edge of the inkwell and set its point to the parchment.

Today has been a rather sad one indeed. Your old guardsman has retired from your father’s service, the very same man who’s protected you and your person since you were but a little girl. He’s much like a grandfather to you in a way, and it pains you very deeply to see him leave you. Your father has tried to comfort you with the promise that a tournament will be held the very next day to get you a new guard as soon as possible, but the absence of a knight isn’t what troubles you.

You sniffle, a tear threatening fall from your eyes as you pause, recalling a lifetime of memories and yet being forced to let them go. Gathering your strength with a deep breath, you write the final words you old guard left you with:

“Be brave, my little Princess. I know you can”

At last you write that you are not looking forward to tomorrow and that you expect to be quite beside yourself. It’s all you can write before the despondency overcomes you again.

Being the Lady that you are, you retrieve one of your ever present nearby handkerchiefs and dry your eyes. You set your journal back into it’s hidden home and restore your books to keep it safe. With the desk returned just as it was, you tiptoe back to bed and blow out your candle. Moving aside the velvet drape, you think one last time on your faithful old guard, remembering all the memories of your childhood you shared as you climb back under the sheets.

Tomorrow is a new chapter for the both of you, you suppose. You hope his story ends sweetly.

---

The tournament begins with much fanfare and ado as the festivities kick things off. You’re sitting pretty in a lovely silk gown between your mother and father, both equally dressed up. There’s games and feasting and music and dancing… All the things something of this magnitude should include.

And, as you predicted, you’re quite bored indeed.

As yet another jaunty reel plays from the minstrels, you can’t help but roll your eyes and look onwards. Past the castle grounds, past the village, past the fields and farm lands… Way, way out in the distance to the forest and mountains.

That’s where your soul lies.

Being the Princess is all well and good, but in truth, your heart yearns for nothing more than to simply be free. Even if all that’s out there is more grass and trees, just as there is all around you, oh what you’d give for the chance to see it. To touch the grass and leaves you’ve never seen before. To feel and smell the wind in it’s wild, untamed stomping grounds. Some days you dream of just running away, but…

Well, your guard would never allow it. And, here you are, getting assigned yet another figure to keep an eye on you in the name of your father.

A blast of trumpets shatters your daydream as your attention is called back to present. The royal scribe stands on a podium, announcing the main attraction at last. He reads off a long, tiresome list of names “Sir this and that”, “Lord ho hum”, ugh… At least the fighting should be entertaining, you suppose.

There are several rounds and three main competitions: Jousting, Dueling, and Archery. Score will be kept and knights slowly eliminated until a final two are left, at which point, the two will engage in a duel and may the best man win.

Admittedly, you tune out for the first several rounds until the riff raff and washed up old timers are sorted out. Not as though you have any say in the matter, but you pick a few favorites and follow their progress through the competition. Although in all honesty, you pick said favorites by their horses and the colors and patterns of their coat of arms.

However… One knight in particular has caught your eye both in skill and trappings.

His coat of arms features a fierce looking tiger and swords, the style of which tells you his family hails from somewhere out east, and his horse is a lovely dusty grey. Even you must admit, his skills so far aren’t bad either. He’s coasting through the competition with little difficulty and, even with the few close calls here and there, by the time he’s made it up to the final rounds you would almost dare to say you have your heart set on him.

Silently you root him on as he tiredly batters through opponent after opponent, somehow maintaining strength and endurance up until the very last man. A few breaks have been called in between rounds up until this point, but now the last two will be taking a long recession before the final fight.

Food and drink and dance is had once more for peasants and nobility alike while each knight gathers their strength, but you can’t keep your mind off the excitement of the final duel...

When at last, the time has come, you’re on the edge of your seat.

Once more the scribe’s voice rings out over the silent crowd as the two men ready themselves in opposing corners of the muddy sparring ring, “Fighting for the honor of being named the new protectorate of the Princess, Sir Weaver and Lord Fletcher will face each other in armed combat! The rules are as follows-”

The scribe's voice fades away, and immediatly your mind begins to wander.

Sir Weaver…

The name rolls off your tongue as you watch him pace and stretch in his corner of the ring. He’s armed with a sword and shield, classic weapons of the heroes of old, just like in your books and sonnets… His shield is tall and rectangular, with that very same tiger proudly emblazoned on its front. He gives his sword a few test swings and even from here you can hear the ringing of razor sharp steel.

His opponent wields a smaller shield and a rather nasty looking mace, a classic for smashing heads and armor alike. Thankfully you won’t have to bear witness to such violence should Sir Weaver lose, but you don’t much fancy the idea of such a savage weapon anyway. It may have its place in battle, but it doesn’t seem very… Heroic.

After far too much more courtly addresses, a trumpet sounds to begin the fight.

The Lord charges the Knight, mace raised to strike, as Sir Weaver stands his ground like a tower of strength. He deflects the blow easily, as well as the few more that come after it. A smart tactic, you observe, letting the opponent come to him and tire himself out. Lord Fletcher seems to believe that he can smash right through the great steel shield as that’s where most of his strikes end up landing. Sir Weaver’s tiger is quite battered, but holds out well.

All the overhead motions of the mace swings prove to be a disservice soon enough though, as the knight stabs his way through chinks in the armor here and there as the Lord slowly grows more and more weary. His movements become sluggish and desperate, a lethal combo, and before long the mud is mixed red with the wounds of the mace wielding Lord.

To his credit, he fights to the bitter end, but the duel is called before too much blood is shed.

A roar of approval goes up from the crowd. Amidst the cheering and the fanfare, Sir Weaver bows politely before the royal family and makes to exit the arena. You cock an eyebrow. Curious, you would’ve expected more of a show given the grand odds he just overcame.

Regardless, you clap politely and watch the two men exit the ring. It’s nearly night by now and there’s still more to do. Tomorrow your new knight will be sworn in and given his orders and hours and so forth… But for now, you have many things to tell your journal tonight.

---

The next day begins as it always does. You wake up at sunrise. Your chamber maid helps you dress, pick out your outfit for the day, and style your hair. Finally, you’re ready to join your family and the court for breakfast. A few questions come your way asking about whether or not you’re excited to meet your new knight and what you thought of the tourney yesterday, but otherwise you’re ignored as usual.

When breakfast passes, the court moves on to the throne room. It’s easily the most illustrious room in the palace, save for perhaps a few that suit your particular tastes. Small windows sit high above near the vaulted ceiling, raining in sunlight and fresh air from far above. Giant chandeliers hang proudly, holding a dizzying host of candles. The walls are blanketed in gorgeous tapestries, some of which you’ve had the honor of assisting in the weaving of. They’re laced with threads of gold and silk, and when they catch the light just right, they give off an ethereal glow, bringing the stagnant scenes to life.

The typical court proceedings will begin shortly, but first the matter of your new bodyguard is to be addressed. Soon enough, Sir Grigori Weaver of, so on and so forth… is announced to the court. Finally, something interesting for the day. You sit up properly in your throne and take in the sight.

He’s dressed in an appropriately fancy set of gambeson and hose, clearly his armor is off to be under repairs. His one arm hangs freely, the other rests on the pommel of his sword, and he takes a brief look at his surroundings. He carries himself with purpose and a serious air which could almost take a turn for intimidating given a closer look. His face is rough with prickly stubble contrasted by a long, smooth mustache and hair combo. Between the two lies no feature of note aside from a grizzly scar running across a cloudy white, useless eye.

Sir Weaver nods towards you and your mother, then offers your father a proper bow, “My liege”

Your father smiles, and you can already tell you’re about to be stuck with this man whether you like it or not. He tells the knight to rise and after a brief exchange of greeting, Sir Weaver is sworn into your service complete with the whole ceremonial nonsense.

You rise and come forward, standing just a few steps above him on the throne platform. He hands you his sword and kneels before you. Without the help of any prompting, you lead him through the oath phrase by phrase and at last you tap either of his shoulders with the flat of the blade. To seal it all, you extend your hand with your signet ring.

“Thank you, my lady”, he takes your hand softly and kisses your knuckle, “I am yours”

He rises and accepts back his blade while you return to your throne. Your father makes arrangements for a whole new suit of armor to be commissioned for your knight, after all, his safety is your safety, and so forth. But for once, you don’t mind the droning on of court business.

It gives you some time to hide your blush.

[exquisitley-obsessed]

Finaces, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 9

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn’s attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain’s father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault/abuse/rape + abusive families

A/N: I’ve added a tag list for those who wish to stay updated with this story! Just message me if you wish to be added <3

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Nine: A Sight To See

Elain frowned down at the dress.

“I’m not sure if-”

“It’s perfect,” Nuala said firmly, glaring at her through the mirror. The surprisingly stubborn lesser fae was currently attempting to pin a handful of gemstones into Elain’s hair.

Elain just gave the fae a curt nod before looking back at herself.

Today was the day of the weekly meeting at Huckleberry Hall, i.e. Elain’s debut in the mortal realm as an emissary for not just the Night Court, but all the fae lands. How she’d gotten to this point in her life, she had no idea.

Yesterday she’d spent her time in the gardens chatting with Bartholomew, the Manor’s chief gardener. He was a sweet man that reminded her of her father, especially given all his travelling to the Continent and his collection of rare plant species in his greenhouse. He’d even promised her a few books on the matter and explained in great detail how plants can be useful for a number of things: healing, food, poisons.

He’d even pointed out the aphrodisiacs with a dopey grin, to which Elain had blushed furiously and moved quickly onto the exotic specimens.

She hadn’t seen Lucien that day.

Elain didn’t know why she was so aware of his absence given that she’d done just fine ignoring Lucien’s existence for two years. But yesterday, not seeing Lucien had thrown her balance off. When she was in the garden she kept looking up at the windows of the East Wing where his room supposedly resided. If only to catch a glimpse of red hair and a scarred face, just so she’d know he was okay.

Eventually, she’d turned in to the library to give one final assessment of her notes, and had spent the entire time trying to ask Nuala if Lucien was in the house without technically saying the words.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“Yes, that sounds good,” Nuala said without looking up.

“I…I don’t know what he does with his days.”

“Me neither,” Nuala shrugged.

“I haven’t seen him yet today…”

“Oh…shame…” From the glint in Nuala’s eye, Elain knew she had caught on to her not-so-subtle questioning.

“Yes…I wonder if he’ll be back later today.”

“Probably, considering he lives here.” Nuala was grinning now. And as Elain’s cheeks turned pink, she bit her tongue and stopped her questioning.

***

“Where did you even get this dress?”

“The Lady Morrigan gifted it to you before you left for the mortal lands, she was too late to say goodbye in person so she gave me the package.”

“Oh,” Elain nodded absent-mindedly. “How does Mor know my measurements?”

Nuala just grinned.

“Mor isn’t…talented in gift-giving, but she understands textiles like no other.”

Elain just nodded once more and shifted slightly upon dressing stand.

The dress was unlike anything Elain had ever worn before. The middle Archeron sister typically favoured dresses with full skirts and corseted bodices, all bedecked with lace, ribbon and silk, and paired with fresh flowers in her hair.

The dress she was wearing today just…wasn’t.

“Why am I wearing this again?”

“Because the mortals must understand that whilst High Fae and humans may look similar, you’re not. If you were to go in one of your standard dresses, the humans would see it as an attempt for you to ‘humanise’ yourself. Whilst common ground is important with the mortals, they must still understand that we are different. Do you see this fabric?”

Nuala took a finger and ran it along Elain’s covered shoulder, who nodded in response.

“This fabric is called Didache. It’s only found in the fae-lands, particularly the Autumn Court. It comes from the Dida-bugs of the Burning Caves who produce a fine silk-like fabric that is woven into sheets. It will remind the humans that we are different and yet-” Nuala grinned at her, “-beautiful.”

Elain blushed and nodded. The fabric was a deep forest green and yet, it moved like water. It seemed to always be shifting with the smallest of movements and sometimes, in the light, she could see not one but hundreds of shades of green flowing together, interspersed with threads of gold.

Mor’s ingenuity was shown in the choosing of this dress, as it both demonstrated a stylistic change between fae and mortal wear, and yet Elain was still able to maintain a comfortable modesty that would not outright alarm the humans.

The dress, unlike the flouncy human design, was a tight fit. It began high on her neck and covered her entire body, connecting to her hands via a tie on her middle finger. It cascaded down her body like a second skin, accentuating every dip and curve. Most strange of all was how it clung to her thighs (a sensation Elain was not yet used to) before the fabric flared ever so slightly at the knees and left a small trail of watery, emerald fabric to follow her as she walked.

It was simple, yet a statement.

Elain would’ve hated to wear such a tight dress if, well, she didn’t look so good. She’d been taught her whole life that covering up was natural for women and whilst she certainly wasn’t prepared to wear the kinds of dresses Feyre sported to the Court of Nightmares, this dress seemed to call for her.

“I think Mor had this prepared for you for some time,” Nuala said, pushing the final pin in. The hairstyle hailed from the Day Court Nuala explained as she had coiled Elain’s mass of hair on top of her head whilst leaving large strands to dangle down her shoulders. Brown bands were wrapped around her head and interwoven into her curls were dark green gems that glittered in the light and made it look as though her hair was made of starlight.

It was…beautiful.

“Thank you, Nuala,” Elain said quietly when her friend stepped back to survey her work.

“No problem,” Nuala smiled, “I know it’s not your usual dress, but you truly look like a Fae princess, perhaps even a High Lady.”

Elain reddened and surveyed herself once more in the mirror.

“The others are waiting for you at the stables,” Nuala said suddenly as shadows began to coil from her hair and she extended her hand to Elain.

After peering one more time at her notes on the table, Elain turned and glared at the female she saw in her reflection. With her hair pinned back, her pointed ears were on display, slightly pink at the tips from all her flushing. The dress, the hair, her dark eyes, the flawless skin – Elain was undeniably beautiful. And undeniably fae.

With a sigh, Elain turned and grasped Nuala’s hand before she could think too much about how she looked and all that had changed.

Even if she didn’t know how to play the part of fae, she might as well look it.

***

There was a small bustling crowd around the stables of Lockhart Manor. The stables were placed near the entrance to the woods and the small trail they would follow all the way to Huckleberry Hall.

Letting go of Nuala’s hand, Elain turned to survey the small crowd. There were stable boys and a few guards, and she could even peek Bartholomew speaking rapidly to a woman in a fine dress who was nodding along with interest, Jurian a few paces behind them, looking bored as ever.

No Lucien.

The thought shouldn’t have made Elain’s heart sink as it did. She’d been awake since sunrise, having breakfast in her chambers as Nuala began the prep work for getting her into the dress. And maybe as she watched herself slowly being transformed into a fae princess; she could only think of her mate’s reaction to seeing her in such an outfit.

Turning back around, Elain’s eyes once more fell on the gardener and the woman, now pointing down at the strawberry plants that lined the pathway. It took a few more moments of staring for Elain to realise that she was, in fact, looking at Queen Vassa.

Looking over her shoulder, Elain threw a stare at Nuala who only shrugged in response. Elain turned back. How was Vassa out? The sun was at a midpoint between East and Mid-day, she should be well past her transfiguration by now.

Sighing, Elain practised walking as she made her way over to the Queen. The dress was surprisingly practical, easier to move in than any of her corsets. Instead of restricting her movements, the fabric simply glided over her skin and moved with her, no doubt catching the light as it did and reflecting a thousand shades of green.

“Queen Vassa,” Elain greeted with a small curtsey.

The Queen turned from the gardener to nod at Elain, and Elain saw how Vassa’s eyes caught on her appearance, her eyes flicking up and down her body for a brief moment, her figure seeming to still.

“You look magnificent, Vassa,” Elain smiled, hoping that her compliment was seen as nothing other than a peace offering.

Vassa was sporting a traditional human queen’s gown. The colour was a deep gold with a panel of green and crimson embroidery running up the centre of the dress. There was a low tie hanging on the queen’s slender hips and a heavy crown upon her forehead. She was the image of strength and power, and next to her, Elain felt as though she looked like the evil-fae seductress.

“Forgive me if it’s a crude question but, how are you…”

”Here?” Vassa said drily, raising a brow. Elain forced herself not to flush with embarrassment and just nodded.

Vassa sighed as though she were bored and raised her hand. Elain was unsure what she was supposed to be looking at, there were two rings on her hand and a nice set of manicured nails but-

Then she realised. The ring on her fourth finger was made of black metal and was far too heavy and brutal to be worn by a Queen.

Looking at the ring, Elain felt something coil in her gut. Turning fae had attuned her senses to magic, and thrumming from that ring was a magic that smelt like sickness.

Suddenly, Elain felt herself drifting out of her body, able to look down on herself and Vassa. As she did, she had the distinct feeling of something falling into place.

”It’s a new addition.”

Jurian's voice snapped Elain back into her body with a small gasp. He was slowly stalking up to them, cutting into a fig with his knife as he moved with a predator-like grace. “It seems that Vassa’s keeper sent us a house-warming gift. He’s only two years late.”

“Jurian…” Vassa sighed tiredly, as though she’d had this conversation several times before.

”It seems like our death-Lord, from his lakeside manor, has decided to give our dear Queen the ability to see daylight.”

Elain could only glance between the two, barely able to keep up with their bantering. She was still feeling overwhelmingly nauseous and was trying to avoid looking at the ring directly.

”Don’t worry,” Vassa turned to Elain with a sneer, “I’m not fixed just yet. The ring comes with a cost. Each hour I put off my transformation adds 24 for later.”

”Why not leave it on?” Elain said in a quiet voice, still feeling the earth move underneath her.

”Oh yes, of course, I’m sure Koschei just skipped over that in his master plan,” Vassa snarked. Elain, to her own surprise, rolled her eyes.

“Well, hello princess,” Jurian spoke before Vassa could. He talked as though he hadn’t seen Elain before.

Elain’s skin couldn’t help but prickle as she watched his eyes lapping up her figure with a complete disregard for anything else.

“Jurian,” Elain nodded, trying to drag his eyes up to her own.

“What did we do to deserve this?” His eyes met hers with a wink and then, again, ever so slowly, Jurian’s eyes ran up Elain’s body, lingering slightly on the fabric that was straining over her bountiful chest before meeting her eye. Elain didn’t deem the comment with a retort.

“Leave her be Jurian,” Vassa rolled her eyes before turning to Elain with something that looked like a coy smile. “It’s fun to see them drool, isn’t it?”

Elain, to her surprise, found herself grinning widely and nodding. If she wasn’t mistaken, she and Vassa had just shared a pleasant interaction.

Today was full of surprises.

“And they say we’re the weaker sex.”

Vassa tipped her head back and laughed, and when Elain turned back to Jurian she found him watching the queen intently, something enigmatic in his stare.

“When you’re done with girl-talk, we really must get going,” Jurian rolled his shoulders. Even he appeared dressed in his finest, and Elain wondered just who it was that must’ve pinned him down to drag a comb through his scruffy hair, now flopping back from his, rather handsome, face.

“Last time I checked Jurian, I’m the Queen, I say when we leave.” Vassa pointed a look at the man who only seemed to smile wider at her retort.

“Of course, your majesty…” Jurian rolled the word around in his tongue, “When you’re ready, my queen, I’ll be waiting for you by the gate…possibly awake, possibly napping.”

And with that Jurian turned and strode away, the woman and the female watching his retreating figure strut across the pathway.

“Idiot,” Vassa cursed under her breath before turning back to Elain. “Lucien told me this morning he’ll be arranging your transport. Apparently, we’re not arriving together, Jurian and I will be one unit, you and Lucien another. Just so you know.”

As the Queen spoke her voice steadily grew colder and colder until she was back to how she usually was with Elain, her voice monotone and her eyes bored. Elain just gave a nod and that was enough for the Queen to deem the conversation over as she turned and followed Jurian down the path. As she moved, Elain couldn’t help but notice how she tipped her head back seemed to drink in the sunlight.

Elain was left standing in the middle of a small bustling crowd, many of the guards moving to follow their Queen and keep her safe. And so, Elain went back to her search for her mate.

After searching the crowd, she allowed her eyes to close and for her focus to turn within. It didn’t take long for her to find the bond, as soon as her eyes were shut it was there, glowing bright and gold, a single thread leading from her out ahead.

Angling herself, Elain followed the bond until she heard his heart, strong and steady, filling her ears like the most beautiful drum. Opening her eyes, she saw him.

Lucien was talking to a rather nervous stable boy and Elain was rather thankful for the small chance to ogle him without his awareness.

For one thing, Elain understood the stable boy’s nerves. Lucien looked…powerful.

He was wearing the finest of his fae attire, with fine brown boots and pants, a crisp shirt, a waistcoat and then a riding jacket. Across his chest was a bandolier with an assortment of eccentric knives, all sharpened to deadly perfection. On his hip were two swords, his autumn blade and another blade but made of gold. His hair was unleashed and cascaded down his shoulders and back, and his scar made his fierce expression even more lethal.

Two years ago, Elain would’ve been petrified at such a sight. It was a reminder that Lucien wasn’t her fae prince, that even though he had the makings of a perfect husband there was something darker and more alluring that hung around him.

He was a courtier, a disowned son, a silver-tongued fox. And Elain saw that everyone underestimated him, and that’s what made him most dangerous of all.

But while any fae prince might make Elain’s heart flutter, the sight of Lucien in his most professional, intimidating glory, roused some feeling deep within her gut. It was like her entire body turned electric, and the air between them seemed to crackle as the bond tightened.

Elain watched as Lucien’s brow furrowed and his hand reached surreptitiously to his ribs. Lucien’s eyes were no longer on the stable boy and his rambling, he was looking around – he was looking for her.

Elain saw the moment Lucien laid eyes on her. He stilled, the hand rubbing his ribs going stagnant.

The world seemed to fade away as Elain watched Lucien’s eyes take in her dress. He started by looking at the neck and then, at a tortuously slow pace, his eyes wandered down and down like Jurian.

But where Jurian’s gaze had made her tired and comfortable, Lucien’s seemed to set every nerve in her body alight.

She watched him as he watched her, and she could see him pause on certain parts. Taking in the first full display of her chest, the way the fabric ran seamlessly down her waist before flaring with her hips, and then again at her thighs.

Some part of Elain dared her to turn around, to show him how the dress barely fit over her behind, how the fabric seemed to stretch as it tried to contain the slopes and swells of her body.

She didn’t know where it had come from – but she didn’t want the voice to stop.

Then, Lucien’s eyes were reluctantly dragged upwards and just before they met eyes, Elain saw Lucien’s tongue dart between his lips to wet them. For some reason, Elain had the strongest urge to clench together her thighs.

Lucien moved forward like a predator stalking prey, with a lithe grace that was reminiscent of a snake.

Elain didn’t care for the rest of the world; she just saw him. Maybe it was not seeing him yesterday, but all Elain knew was that now he was nearby, she wasn’t taking her eyes off him for the foreseeable future.

Every step was torture. Every inch closer made the bond thrum and sing with delight.

Lucien came to a stop barely a foot away from her. There was a pause of silence.

“Elain,” His voice was low, gravelly, restrained.

“Lucien,” Elain’s own voice was breathy.

And then Lucien was bending down, leaning in close almost as though he were going to kiss her and Elain – Elain didn’t recoil. When Lucien’s face was inches from her own, his eyes searing into hers, she felt his palm slip into hers. His hand was warm and much, much larger than her own, and Elain felt raw electricity jolt through her at the contact.

With a deliberate, torturous slowness, Lucien raised Elain’s hand to his mouth and placed a single kiss on her knuckles.

Many men had kissed Elain’s hand before, from old to young, bachelors to fiancés. But it had never been like this.

Lucien’s lips on her knuckles was like a promise. It was just lips on the back of her hand – it was entirely inadequate, it was nothing – and that is what made Elain’s body sing.

Lucien’s eyes never left hers, and as he straightened, he didn’t let go of her hand.

“We’re planning on riding to Huckleberry,” Lucien’s voice sounded a bit clearer, but his eyes were still dark and glittering.

“Okay,” was all Elain could manage. But her body was in overdrive, her entire existence being concentrated into the feel of Lucien’s hand in hers. One small touch and she was consumed.

“Oh look! Lucien-” Jurian’s voice swam from somewhere off to the side.

“Vassa, Jurian, you best be headed off now, you don’t want to be late to miss the guards at the northern checkpoint,” Lucien spoke without looking away from Elain, and his voice was full of such a natural command that another pulse of heat ran through her.

Elain distantly heard as Vassa, Jurian and a few guards saddled up and trot out through the gardens into the forest. The world seemed to thin around them, stable boys returning to the Manor, even Nuala evaporated into the air, until all that was left was a grey-haired horse and Lucien, with his hand in Elain’s.

“I thought we might ride together, to present a united front. But if your uncomfortable there’s another horse in the stables saddled and ready to go.” Elain could’ve sworn that as Lucien spoke, his thumb ran across the back of her hand. “It’s also just a way of me making sure your safe.”

“Are you expecting there to be danger at the meeting?”

“No, very few even know of your arrival and the mortals are in too weak a position to attack a visiting fae. I just…for my own peace of mind.”

Remarkably, Lucien seemed bashful as he spoke, his eyes breaking from hers for a moment as he shifted on his feet.

“Oh…alright.” Elain smiled up at him, and it was a peace-offering. The world seemed to still for a moment as Lucien noticed, and his gaze lingered on her lips.

Then he was clearing his throat and turning to lead her to the saddled horse, but he didn’t release his hand, instead, he used it to tug her along, as though he were entirely reluctant to let go.

“The journey is significantly shorter on horseback; we should be there in around 15 minutes.”

Lucien eventually reluctantly let go of Elain’s hand as he hoisted himself up and onto the horse.

Elain could only watch. Watch as he set himself astride the saddle, watch how his thighs – how had Elain never notices his thighs before – clenched as he seated himself upright. Watch as he flicked his hair back over his shoulder, his muscles somehow flexing through the layers of his shirt and jacket. Watch as he extended his hand to her.

Elain frowned down at her dress as a thought struck her.

“Oh…I don’t think I’ll be able to ride anything in this dress.”

Elain felt rather than saw Lucien go still.

Looking up from the green fabric, she allowed herself to assess him. Lucien’s muscles seemed to be standing on end, his delicious thighs clenched so that the tendons stood to attention. His hands were fisted into the reigns and his knuckles had turned white with his grip.

Most intoxicating of all, was Lucien’s eyes. They were glazed over and distant, as though Lucien were thinking of something intently. Or rather, picturing.

And then Elain saw it.

It was from a distant perspective and the first thing she saw was Lucien, with his browning skin on display as he laid on his back across pale sheets. His beautifully muscled legs were exposed and tensed, his torso nothing but streamline muscles, his arms bare and glorious as they tightened as he gripped onto the figure astride him. He looked so…undone, with his red hair spilling across the sheets, his face furrowed, and his mouth parted with pleasure.

The female astride Elain’s mate had her head thrown back, her golden-brown curls bouncing along with her breasts as she bobbed wildly on top of him. Elain couldn’t hear them – couldn’t hear the moans that she saw rippling from her own mouth.

Then, the pace changed, instead of desperate jerky movements, Lucien and the female’s body slowed into an easy rhythm, each of their bodies rolling together with a trained precision. She could see Lucien’s mouth moving as he spoke breathily to the female, pulling her down so their foreheads touched. She watched as his eyes grew hungrier, how the rolling gave way to thrusting, how he took two fingers and pushed them into the female’s mouth and how she sucked enthusiastically before releasing them with a ‘pop’, how Lucien then dragged those two fingers down her body, slowly, before pushing them down to where they were joined and beginning to rub against her in slow, languid circles-

The horse grunted, and Elain jumped.

All of a sudden she came back into her body, it was as though someone had been holding her windpipe and abruptly let go. Her knees felt weak, her mouth dry, and for a moment, she could barely remember her own name, never mind where she was.

“We’ll winnow.”

Lucien was in front of her now, having gotten down off the mare whilst her mind was elsewhere. He was now fiddling with the buckles on the straddle before a stable boy took the reins.

Elain looked up at him dry-mouthed. Did he know what she’d just seen? Was she even…had there been a shift in her scent? Fear tinged with excitement plunged through her.

“You okay?” Lucien murmured; his eyes concerned as they roved over her face. It looked like he almost reached for her hand again.

Elain didn’t trust her voice and could only nod in response. Lucien seemed to assess her for another moment before he held out his arm, ever the courtier. The female looked out at the stables as she wrapped her hand around his bicep, trying to ignore how the muscles shifted and tensed under her fingertips.

“Right, well…let’s go.”

As Elain closed her eyes and held her breath to prepare for the twisting sensation of winnowing, she could on think of one thing.

Elain had just had a vision; she still had her powers.

[weissicles]

Humanity and Catharsis: FE3H Crimson Flower Meta!

I finished the Crimson Flower route for Fire Emblem: Three Houses! Now it’s time for some meta. This isn’t spoiler-free and it’s pretty long... so read at your own risk! (Though, I’m pretty late to the party, so I’m sure you’re all way ahead of me...)

Byleth’s Ending

First and foremost, let me begin by saying that this ending has to be my favorite for Byleth. I mentioned in an earlier post that I am aware of the end results of the Azure Moon (AM), Verdant Wind (VW), and Silver Snow (SS) routes, despite still needing to play it. I still felt pleasantly surprised and very pleased to play through the CF route, especially for Byleth, because I truly believe this was the best ending for their character. Byleth loses their divine powers, becoming even more human than they were at the beginning of the game, and that’s pretty neat.

(Borrowed this image from r/Edelgard; thank you, u/BrilliantGenius)

I think the biggest reason why I love this ending so much for Byleth is because they return to being a real person. Throughout the whole game, the player gets to watch how Byleth, a traveling mercenary, realizes that they are connected to Sothis, the Goddess, and how they awaken their true powers. Byleth merges with Sothis in every route, but only in the CF route do they lose their divine powers, as killing Rhea results in the breaking of the crest stone in their heart. Why does this matter? Numerous times, Edelgard mentions how she wishes to end the tyrannical rule of the Children of the Goddess (CotG), particularly Rhea, because she perceives that humanity has moved past needing to be ruled by non-humans and the oppressive systems they’ve created. Edelgard is traumatized by her own horrendous past, which drives her to find ways to end suffering. She appears like any crazy, mad queen figure in the routes that cast her as an antagonist, but what remains true throughout all routes is her passion for finding ways for humans to be humans without unnecessary suffering. She desires to restore humanity to its dignified state by eliminating the CotG, which make sheep out of people.

That’s why Byleth--the one with divine powers, quite literally the Goddess Incarnate--returning to how she was at the beginning is so powerful. This person, who became a weapon to change the tides of war, now gets to be a normal human. The crest stone breaking and her heart beginning to beat for the very first time symbolizes the collapse of the crest system and the freedom from a system that hailed Byleth as a weapon rather than a person. What’s more, Edelgard, the lord fighting for ideals of humanity, is the first person to hear Byleth’s heartbeat. She is the first person to realize Byleth’s changes, to see how they become a person again. Her dream for Fodlan is realized first in the person she looks up to the most, the person who has fought by her side since the start of the story. If that’s not poetic, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Catharsis

Now, what about Edelgard?

Let’s not pretend that she isn’t controversial. She is, and for good reason. Presented as attractive and likeable regardless of your choice of house, Edelgard serves as the antagonist for 3 of 4 routes. She dies in every route except CF and that matters. She turns into a heartless, cold leader whose ruthlessness can no longer be justified as the bloodshed continues to worsen. In the eyes of the other lords and Rhea, there is no possible way for someone as crazed as Edelgard to live. And frankly? The way that she turns out without Byleth, that makes sense.

So, why does it matter that she lives in CF, and that we see her the way she is? In no other ending do we ever see Edelgard herself returning to a sense of being human. No other ending provides reason for why she should live. CF is the only route where we can explore her character in full, realize that she is just a girl after all, and that she is human, too. That is why it is only in CF do we see this: Edelgard crying.

Following the battle at Tailtean Plains and slaying Dimitri, Edelgard nearly cries when she talks about the fallen king. Now, this is just a headcanon of mine, but I imagine that she might have remembered something about him and their childhood at the mention of her nickname, El. (”To the fires of eternity with you, El...”) His death shakes her to the point of nearly crying, but she doesn’t. She even says that the Edelgard who sheds tears died a long time ago.

But she cries when she thinks Byleth is dying.

This is the moment when the Adrestian Emperor returns to who she really is: Edelgard. Unable to help herself, Edelgard experiences grief and reacts as any person might by crying for the person she loves. She does something she hasn’t done in years, probably since she’s been a very young child in the dungeons underneath the palace in Enbarr. Why? Because she loves Byleth and losing someone you love should break you. This scene goes to show how Edelgard cares deeply for her teacher to the point of experiencing loss. When she realizes that Byleth may yet be alive (since the crest stone broke), she presses her head to her chest, hears her heartbeat for the first time, and starts to laugh. Yes, she laughs! Quietly, and mangled with the sound of some tears, which we can assume are shed out of pure joy that their professor is alive.

Here we see that Edelgard, like Byleth, is returning to a more human state. She’s finally allowed some catharsis, a major resolution to her suppressed character. Throughout the whole game, Edelgard has been nothing but repressed, constantly wearing the mask of Emperor, bound by duty, unable to be truly free. Without Byleth, she becomes even more inhuman as she really becomes more tyrannical. But with Byleth, like her teacher, she becomes more human, able to express feelings, able to be warm, able to experience loss because she loved.

Now, this is my more personal take on it, but I have always liked the thought of Edelgard and Byleth being more romantic than platonic following the timeskip. It’s heavily hinted that Edelgard has always taken a keen interest on the professor. What initially begins as a hope that Byleth may side with her turns into an actual desire to walk with her and experience a new dawn with her. Interestingly, the Japanese version has Edelgard more explicit with her romantic feelings than in the English version. Regardless of whether you read their relationship as romantic or platonic, I think this ending makes it clear that Byleth and Edelgard are equal, humans, people who care for one another and work well together. Byleth fulfills their role as more than an advisor. They are a mentor, a friend, and even family (see their ability to call Edelgard “El”, a name only Edelgard’s father and Dimitri use in CF). In that way, this route’s final message is this: that to love is to be human, and to be human is ultimately to love. That is why I really think that this route is the best possible outcome for Edelgard and especially for Byleth.

Other Takes

While I was disappointed that it was only 18 chapters long, CF does take a more direct approach, as the tides shift significantly when Byleth sides with the Empire. I would have liked if Claude and Dimitri played a more prominent role, though I know that CF focuses mainly on Edelgard and the BE’s against the Church of Seiros. I really think there was potential for Claude and Edelgard to be something besides a warring emperor and a neutral leader. I will admit: Edelclaude is a crack ship of mine. But I find their similar views on the church, their dreams of a new dawn for Fodlan, and their odd interactions to be interesting enough. I understand why Claude either must die or leave (for Almyra). If he hadn’t, that could have changed the way the war turned out, ultimately lessening Byleth’s role. It’s an interesting thought for a canon-divergent story. And let’s be real: Edelgard and Claude somewhat flirting while they face off in Derdriu? Ain’t slick at all!

And Dimitri... Oh, poor Dimitri. My best friend and roommate just finished AM and was so defeated by Edelgard’s death because of her relationship with Dimitri. They’re a tragic set of people, Edelgard and Dimitri, and it makes sense that in both AM and CF, one of them must die. Still, I was so shaken by Dimitri’s last words before Edelgard personally executes him in CF. I would like to think that that was not easy for her at all. I would like to think that she remembered him, at least a bit, and that she felt something there as she killed him. I don’t know what else I would have wanted out of Dimitri in CF, but I know I wanted something more. AM does a great job of providing good angst from Dimitri’s side. It would have been nice to see that from Edelgard’s side as well.

----

All in all, CF was a great route and may remain my favorite route, as I’m very impressed by Edelgard as a character. We’ll see! It’ll be a while until I play another route, but suffice to say that I’m floored by FE3H’s story, characters, and world. What a beautiful game, through and through!

[yes-i-am-happyaspie]

Because it’s December and I’m in the mood for some fun holiday fics, I made a list of a few of my favorites!  

Check them out and don’t forget to kudos and comment!

❄️ Stocking S(t)uffers by @hiddenst0rms

It’s not uncommon to have a sore throat in the wintertime, especially in a crowded place like Queens. It’s also not uncommon for said sore throat to turn out to be strep. But what is uncommon is for this to be the seventh throat problem this year.

Leave it to Peter’s luck to need his tonsils out right before Christmas.

Or: Tony knows just what to get Peter for Christmas following his tonsillectomy.

❄️ To Spin a Dreidel  by shewritesall

Peter Parker convinces Tony and Pepper to join him and May for the first night of Hanukkah.

❄️ A Tony Stark Carol by Insanus Navicularis (DiDive)

Tony Stark has always hated Christmas and always will, nothing is going to make him change his opinion- not Rhodey, not Pepper, not Peter... or that’s what he thought before the night the spirit of his long dead friend, Yinsen, visted him.

Inspired by a Christmas Carol but it’s actually really different, Tony isn’t an asshole like Scrooge in the first stave of the book.

Warning for swearing. Irondad fluff.

“"God, kid... Peter... I'm so sorry, I love you, I really do, I just don't know how to express it sometimes" he told the kid softly, his face scrunched as he refused to start crying once again during that night.“

❄️ The Magic of Mistletoe by @obsessionoftheday

“Hey, May, Happy, you guys are standing under the mistletoe, you know what that means, right?” Tony wriggled his eyebrows and pointed to the plant hanging over their heads.

“Ew, Tony that’s gross,” Peter grimaced, but he watched Happy and May both blush, staring at each other awkwardly.

Comfortember, Day 22: Kisses

❄️ 12 Days of Irondad & Spideyson Christmas by @ciaconnaa​

12 individual Christmas-themed stories! Pick and choose whichever ones you want and enjoy them in any order!

❄️ Petey-Pie's Christmas by findmeinthestars

Everything related to Peter Parker's Christmas with a side of Irondad and/or Avengers family!

❄️ new york's santa by @hailing-stars​

“Are you Santa?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “You really think I have the time to be a glorified cosplayer?”

“I didn’t even think you knew what a cosplayer was…” said Peter, trailing off. He shook his head, refusing to let his mind wander from the topic. “Where do you keep the reindeer? Can I meet them?”

OR

New York City has it's own Santa, and Peter discovers it's Tony Stark, because of course it is.

....And of course my own shameless plugs....

❄️ Peter Parker's December Shenanigans by happyaspie

A collection of related short stories that center around Winter/Christmas

Everything from Advent to New Year's Eve.

❄️ Secret Sugarplum Spiderling by happyaspie

Peter has been taking ballet for nearly as long as he can remember and all of his hard work has finally paid off. He's been cast as the Cavelier to the Sugarplum Fairy in his Performing Arts School's production of The Nutcracker. It's a big deal and it's going to take up a good bit of time but... he's just not sure he's ready for his mentor to know about that particular hobby just yet.

He's sure it'll be fine ...

All he has to do is show up at the studio on time, keep his grades up, make sure to see Tony on a regular enough basis that he doesn't worry and try to squeeze in some patrolling in between. It's that simple. Right?

2/? Chapters posted.  :)

[concussed-to-pieces]

To Tell You The Truth Part Two

Fandom: Prospect [2018]

Pairing: Eventual Ezra/Prospector!Reader

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Monday has finally come! I'm having a lot of fun writing this (even though this chapter is a bit shorter), and I hope it shows. Enjoy!

Tag List: @huliabitch @renegademustelid @wrestlingfae @zombiexbody @sporadic-fics @rzrcrst @lackofhonor @the-feckless-wonder @arrowswithwifi

Part One

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains allusions to previous sexual and/or physical abuse. Stay safe!]

"Well," Ezra said some time later, his voice still a little raspy from performing his own interventions, "Damon may not have been overly intelligent, but the man was certainly resourceful." He tilted out from beneath the navigation console, carefully stripping free another lump of tape from the mess of wires. "He must have pawned off nearly every non-essential object under there. And a few that, regrettably, are." The older man squinted up at you, no doubt taking in the hopeless expression you were sure was on your face.

"So I'm stuck here." You breathed.

"Slow down a beat, gentle soul. We're not played out just yet. The Saders may have the bits or bobs we need. Or…" he trailed off, those dark eyes fixed contemplatively on a point above your shoulder. "Damon mentioned the Queen's Lair and those Karolclan mercs. I assume you are already aware of-" He stopped when you shook your head, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Damon talking about it with you was the first time I heard his plan." You confessed. "I had no idea that was why we were here, I just...I mean he told me we were digging of course, b-but I didn't realize it would be...like that." You finished awkwardly. 

"And why would you? Better to keep you in the dark, I suspect. Easier to maintain his grip if you don't know there's a secure payout." Ezra replied sourly. "It's bad business if Karolclan is involved. Them or those Krebine degenerates. No sane man would accept that job."

"Before you got him talking, I didn't even know that he used to have a family crew." You continued, not sure why you were still rattling on. Nerves, probably. "He never mentioned them."

"A man's sins can weigh heavy on him. I imagine he figured there was no harm in tellin' me a few of 'em, since he assumed he would be comin' out on top in our engagement." Ezra said dismissively, rolling the tape into a tight little ball. "That is interestin' though, that he would keep you so far in the black. No trust lost between partners." He cocked his head, fixing you with that thoughtful stare. "Though...I am beginning to suspect 'partner' is an incorrect moniker." He muttered, half to himself. 

The man gritted his teeth after a moment, wrapping a hand around his elbow and cradling his injured arm to his chest. The thrower wound on his bicep, though treated and sealed off, had continued to slowly ooze yellow fluid around the 'cream' foam. Through the tear in his thermal layer, you could see that the skin around the sealant had gone a sickly pink. 

"It would seem," Ezra began, sounding somewhat strained, "that I did not close the wound in time. I am afraid I may have to press our objective to trade with the Saders a little more insistently." He appeared to be making a concerted effort to keep his voice steady. "I apologize, gentle soul."

You had already started to empty the contents of your cumbersome exploration pack out, digging through the tattered pouches for your mending kit. "I'll patch your suit." Ezra gave you a blank look and you shook your kit at him impatiently. "We need to plug the hole in your exosuit. Any sort of loss of integrity is bad, especially if we have to tether. I can fix the rip."

He worked his jaw momentarily, the motion seeming like a bit of a tick. Hopefully it wasn't a leftover from when he had gotten acquainted with your head. "How long will that take?"

"Ten minutes, if that. I'll make it quick." You tapped the bulky chronometer on your wrist. 

After he nodded, you tugged gingerly at the sleeve of his half-peeled exosuit where it hung limp around his waist, donning your gloves before you attempted to wipe the sticky fluid off the thick fabric. Then, you flipped the sleeve inside out as best as you could, noting with a touch of dismay just how much pollen was already embedded in the seams. 

Undoing your patch pack, you quickly measured and snipped out a rectangular piece from the double-sided patch material. Your handheld stitcher buzzed wearily at the tough outer layer of his suit, semi-straight lines of faded khaki thread punching their way through to secure the lurid orange patch. 

"Look at you." Ezra murmured, his voice drawing you out of your focused work. "This is your comfort zone, isn't it?"

You ducked your head down to avoid his gaze, smoothing the rubber sealant backing over the inside of the stitching. "Done." You said quietly. 

He inserted his wounded arm back into the sleeve, dragging his fingers across the freshly-patched hole. "I daresay it's better than new, gentle soul! Much obliged for that, though I know it's not just for my benefit." The older man praised, making you flush. Damon had never thanked you. "With that, I suggest we gather your accoutrements and be on our way."

…

Ezra seemed to be in a worse state than he had originally let on. It might have just been the added stress of movement and drawing filtered air, but his staggering was starting to reach a concerning level. At this rate, he would trip over the tether line.

Your gaze trailed down to the inside of your helmet, resting on the gasket barely within your field of view. There was the lone chiclet of Brism gum that you had traded for so many stands ago, taped to the side of the lining. You lazily brought your eyes up again, realizing that Ezra had halted once more. If you took the stimulant-loaded gum, you might be able to…

To what? Overpower him? Outrun him? It wouldn't do you any good now, he was the one who knew where you were going. Better to continue to save the Brism for a real emergency. He had given his word, what little that counted for, and thus far, he hadn't proved himself to be a threat.

To anyone besides Damon, anyway. You recalled how Ezra's shoulders had slumped in defeat when Damon had pressed the pistol to his helmet and forced him to open his trophy case. Knowing how long he must have been here, how difficult it must have been to scrape together what he had found...

You cleared your throat. "Are you-"

"Gentle soul, for both of our sakes--it is best if you do not ask that question." He interrupted, the labored breathing in his helmet com threatening to deafen you. "I am doing my--damnedest not to dwell upon--the uncertainty of my current bodily quandary."

"How do you still manage to use so many words, even when it sounds like your saturation is garbage and you're pulling your air through a filter of mud?" You asked incredulously.

"I am a loquacious fool, gentle soul." He paused to wheeze, then continued on as if to prove his point, "My lighthearted inclination toward palavering has turned into a shortcoming of most grievous impact, given our circumstances." He gave you a curious glance. "I did not anticipate your scathin' query."

You gulped, realizing belatedly how sharp your words had been. "I-I'm sorry, I wasn't-"

"Calm yourself, gentle soul. I did not mean to imply that it was unwelcome." Ezra graced you with a quick, pained grin. "It has been a short eternity since I've had anyone to speak to, you must understand. My extensive vernacular has been languishin' in the rushes." He straightened back up, but continued to cradle his injured arm to his chest. "It's refreshing."

"What about your partner?"

Ezra shook his head at you. "Number Two was mute. Silent as the grave. Whizz at numbers though, could calculate the depth and breadth of just about anythin' if you had parchment to spare."

You hummed in understanding, his overly-wordy terminology suddenly making much more sense. He was used to filling in the silence. Ezra grunted, rubbing a tentative circle around the patch on his suit. "Should...should we put your arm in a sling?" You queried nervously.

"I am afraid it is a mite too late for that, gentle soul." He flexed the fingers on his right hand, swearing softly. "Martyr's malfeasance, that is seizin'. Can barely feel anything south of my elbow. You'd think that would be a blessing." He groused. "Whole thing tingles like a stranger's touch." Ezra looked up and then abruptly halted. "Ah, now here we have some promise." He said, sounding relieved. 

You followed his line of vision and froze when you spotted a black-clad figure in the distance, watching the two of you. 

"Don't move fast. We don't want to spook 'em." Ezra murmured, slowly raising his good arm to hail the individual. They crouched slightly, cautious. You could relate to that. Ezra waved at them, gloved fingers spread wide as if to display that his hand was empty.

The person darted off back into the underbrush after several tense seconds and you heaved out a sigh of relief. It was short-lived however, as Ezra started lumbering in the direction they had gone. "Where are you-"

"As Eurydice attempted to follow her beloved Orpheus out of the Stygian Abyss, so too we must follow our potential benefactor and have faith." Ezra looked back at you, smiling thinly. "Come, gentle soul. Departing the Green is naught but one more Herculean trial for us to conquer."

He held out his hand to you as if you were a small child. You narrowed your eyes at him and he chuckled, letting his arm drop once more. 

"I meant no disrespect. I assumed you needed assurance. You looked ready to take flight like a startled bird."

"I'm fine." You replied stiffly, "I just have the brains to not immediately trust strange people I stumble across in the Bakhroma Green." 

"I resemble that remark, gentle soul." Ezra pointed out quietly. "Yet here you are, tethered up. What does that say about your good sense and sensibilities, I wonder?"

"I'm very adept at ignoring warning signs when it suits me." You snapped before you could think better of it.

Ezra's harsh bark of laughter startled you, his smile weirdly genuine when he aimed it at you this time. "I must say, your changeable explosions of acrid ferocity are keepin' me on my toes!" He exclaimed. If you didn't know any better, you would say he sounded delighted. "You are wonderfully fiery when you forget to be timid, gentle soul."

You bit your lip nervously, uncertain if you ought to display concern over how amused he seemed to be. 

The large dome of his helmet bumped against yours. "You have gone pensive again, like our dear Sol when it hides behind roiling nimbus banks. Perhaps I am too prone to exposition to suit someone of your taciturn nature. Damon did not strike me as a man of many words." His tone was light, but his eyes were serious. You abruptly felt like you couldn't breathe as his body loomed over you.

"Too close." You managed to say, not ready to attempt to actually push him away. 

Confusion flickered across his face, then he seemed to realize that he was leaning his helmet on your own. "Oh! My most sincere apologies, gentle soul. Number Two was a sturdy individual. Afraid I'm overused to restin' a bit of weight where it doesn't belong." He took a large step back, holding his hands out as if to assuage your fears. "I-I meant no disrespect."

His stammer took you by surprise. On someone who seemed so self-assured, it was decidedly out of place. You chewed on your lip and then dared to ask, "What's wrong? You're all...worried."

He stilled, looking away from you and suddenly grimacing in pain. "I...I'm afraid my sands are runnin' low, gentle soul." He admitted quietly. "We have to keep movin', get the lead out."

He trudged forward and before you could reconsider, your hand shot out to grab his. You squeezed it briefly, and then released him. "It'll...it'll all be okay." You tried to assure him, smiling at him like he had at you.

Ezra's expression was unreadable, his heavy brows furrowed deep with thought. He didn't respond to you verbally, just shaking his head after a moment and continuing onward through the Green.

...

The leader of this particular group of Saders, a man named Oruf, welcomed the two of you graciously into his tent once you had stowed your weapons a safe distance away from his village. 

Even in the filtered tent, Ezra's wheezing grew more and more pronounced as the minutes passed. You were actually worried now, just how long had he been limping around with half-functional filtration?

"I was once a man like you, who came with a mind to strike aurelac." Oruf murmured. "But that man died down there in the Green." The other bedraggled inhabitants of the tent were eerily silent as Oruf spoke. He clearly commanded some lofty form of respect. "Born anew amongst friends, bonded into layers beyond the ability of the materialists to perceive." Oruf continued grandly. 

His eyes wandered to you as Ezra stifled another coughing fit, the Sader leader observing your every move with a calm boldness that had you on edge. 

"And now, our son will play for you." The boy, a sullen-looking child with hollow eyes who had been introduced as Fahr, obligingly accepted a strange instrument from his father.

Ezra, who had been almost doggedly focused on Oruf, jerked his eyes down to Fahr at the droning sound of the instrument, the prospector tilting his head to the side. Oruf continued to stare at you and you, in turn, continued to try and ignore the lingering fear currently chewing a hole through your stomach. You couldn't shake the sensation that something was very, very wrong.

There was a woman laying on a pallet off to the side of the main room, and you wondered whether she was ill. She hadn't so much as opened her eyes the entire time you had been there.

The music stopped abruptly and you snapped your gaze back to Oruf, but mercifully he had his eyes closed. 

"That was beautiful." Ezra complimented, his voice seeming deliberately soft. Fahr inclined his head and then got to his feet, retrieving a small tray with two cups on it. 

Ezra perked up visibly, accepting his cup with a nod of thanks. When you received yours though, you felt a bit queasy. The contents looked a little more...viscous than you would have anticipated. 

Ezra sipped from his tumbler far more cautiously than he had imbibed the coffee in the pod. "Juice." He informed you helpfully, no doubt noticing your less-than-thrilled expression. "S'good for you, cleanses the dust."

Another coughing fit rattled his chest and you wondered fearfully just how much dust was in your lungs. The so-called 'juice' felt like an oil slick in your mouth, slimy and wrong, but you gulped it down anyway.

"Thank you for your kindness." Ezra said hoarsely to Oruf as Fahr vanished behind the curtain to the tent's side room. "Now, as you can see, I have sustained a trauma to my shoulder and would much like to flush it with your magic juice." He paused, "and to keep straight, we would also be very interested in proper dressin' and uh, filter refreshers if you have them and can spare them." Ezra tapped the filter that hung slack from his purifier assembly. "In return for your gracious offering, we are prepared to compensate with generosity in equal measure." 

He indicated at the heavy pack you had left beside the tent doorway, filled to the brim with everything and anything from the pod that you hadn't needed (and a few things that you could justify living without).

The young boy emerged from the curtained-off room once again, this time toting a large canister of liquid and a tray of small boxes, balanced on top of one of those all-too-familiar white cases. Fahr carefully laid the items out on the ground in front of you and Ezra, then retreated to sit down beside Oruf. "Here is our offer." The Sader patriarch announced calmly.

Despite the proclaimed direness of his infected wound, you didn't miss the way Ezra skipped over everything that might have been remotely beneficial to him to head straight for the white case. Old habits die hard, you supposed. He shakily flipped up the latches and cracked the lid.

Nine healthy-sized aurelac gems were nestled in the protective foam, all clear shells and amber pearls. 

"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Ezra said slowly, a tentative smile quirking his mouth as he glanced up at Oruf. 

"For your woman." Oruf elaborated from across the tent, gesturing down at the white case and then to you. 

The breath stuttered in your lungs. You could have sworn your very heartbeat stopped. Silence reigned in the cramped space as you stared at the Sader man. 

For your woman. 

He was bargaining with Ezra, offering all those supplies and aurelac, for you. You abruptly wanted to puke. In that moment, you wished desperately that you hadn't obeyed them when they demanded you and Ezra to leave your throwers far from their little village.

Ezra appeared just as stunned as you were, finally croaking out, "that is...that is a bold offer."

"It has been determined, but you cannot see because aurelac fills your eyes. It is inevitable all the same, that they will be reborn just like me." The Sader man leaned forward intently. "That is the reason why you were brought here. Not the aurelac."

"What…" Ezra swallowed hard, his voice grating roughly. "W-What do you need her for?"

"We lost our mother." Dread flooded your body anew as Oruf waved a hand towards the woman on the floor. Not sleeping, but dead, you realized. "And the rush past, it is time to rebuild." 

You were absolutely going to be sick. The juice in your stomach writhed queasily, threatening to make a reappearance. They wanted you...as a mother? 

"The Currents have felt our loss, and have pulled you here to reclaim the balance." The man continued relentlessly.

You shot Ezra a panicked look and noted with despair how dark his expression was. He worked his jaw unconsciously, popping it over and over. He was seriously considering this offer, you could see it plain as day on his face. After all, what were you to him? 

You were nothing, just like you had been to Damon. A convenient floater. Freighter scum. And to this man, trapped here for far too long, you were his ticket off the Green.

Hours upon hours spent docked in the clutches of various freighters merged together into a mangled, horrifying mass, each instance worse than the last as you tried futilely to shove them all back down.

"You're a floater, who the fuck would even care?" Damon hissed, unstrapping his flight suit and gesturing downwards with one sharp jut of his wrist. "I picked you up for one fucking reason, you understand?" 

You were going to be sick.

"Scream all you want, no one can hear you. This pussy is mine."

"No one else would help you. I'm the only one. Don't fucking forget that."

You pressed a hand to your mouth and bolted out the flap of the tent, barely remembering to shove your helmet back on as you went. They want a mother. 

No no no no no!

You knew in the back of your mind that it was foolish of you to run off on your own, but the idea of sitting there calmly while Ezra meted out your bodily worth in chunks of aurelac was impossible to consider. 

You heard footsteps pursuing you and as you turned your head to look, your boot caught on a small hummock. You fell to the ground hard, quickly rolling over onto your back before Fahr lunged to land on top of you. The boy held a large, curved knife to your throat but then he paused, glancing backwards. 

You could hear shouting from the tent. You quickly reached up while the child was distracted, tearing free his filter tube and then shoving him off your body. Free once more, you took off pell-mell back into the jungleous expanse. 

Damon's voice echoed in your ears as you fled to where the throwers were hidden.

"You're a floater, who the fuck would even care?"

Part Three

[chiseler]

Great Zilches of History

Film is light. There are times, though, when that light may take on a Stygian cast, burning with a flamme noire severity, a weird and otherworldly keenness. Or it may burn lurid and loud — especially if it’s a very old film, acting like a séance that summons the unruly dead. The darkness in cinema best typified by that form we call film noir is in its essence an extension of the peculiarly American darkness of Edgar Allan Poe.

Early, nitrate-based film stock, with its twinkling mineral core, gives Poe's crepuscular light its time to shine and thereby illuminate the world. No longer held in the solitary confinement of a page of reproduced text or an image, frozen, rendered in paint or ink. Poe's singularly tormented vision is finally written alchemically, in cinematographic rays beamed through silver salts; into moving images of such aggressive vitality as to blast every rational thing from one's mind. A Black & White image flipped into negative makes black fire, or black sunlight such as illumines Nosferatu’s Transylvanian forests, through which a box-like carriage rattles at Mack Sennett speed. But with the slightest underexposure, a little dupey degradation of the print, or even a little imagination (such collaboration is not discouraged), this liquid blackness will spread everywhere and anywhere, the most luminous pestilence known to creation.  Be it in the laughing nightmare of Fleischer cartoons of old (Out of the Inkwell, indeed) or John Alton’s vision of the night, we are left to wonder: is daylight burning out the corner of a building, or is it the blackness of the building which is eating into the sky? 

As with many such questions, film permits us no easy answer. We are simply to watch as the characters smudge. As their shadows pulsate and flicker, emanate out beyond themselves. But if Poe represents the loss of control over one’s existence and the ensuing panic, then cinema, consciously or not, takes existential dread as a given.

God, a vague and unseen deity, died at the moment cinema was born, replaced by a new celestial order. Saints and prophets made poor film characters, giving off the feeling of having stepped out of a stained glass window, flat, Day-Glo icons moving uncomfortably through three-dimensional space. Movies rather rejoiced in dirt and rags, texture and imperfection, so that the most lacklustre clown easily outperformed all the icon messiahs. At 45 minutes, Fernand Zecca’s The Life and Passion of Christ (1903) is one of the earliest feature films, but compared to the same filmmaker’s less ambitious, more playful shorts, it’s a beautiful snooze. A different execution climaxes his Story of a Crime (1901), in which we get to see, by brutal jump cut, a guillotine decapitation before our very eyes. This, as Maxim Gorky prophesied, is what the public wants. Or maybe the events of 1901, cinematic and otherwise, allow “the public” to define itself in ways heretofore unthinkable. The year brings Victoria Regina’s propitious death. And with her passing, Edgar Allan Poe’s pronunciamento on celebrity, “the ludicrous heightened into the grotesque," comes to new and anarchic fruition as an incendiary schnook, one of history’s finest.

When he shot President William McKinley at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo on September 6th, 1901, the currents of fear and vengeance unleashed by Leon Czolgosz would carry him on a journey from reflexive beatings at the hands of police and a post-Victorian mob – ladies in bustles shedding all restraint, transformed from well-honed symbols of middle-class decorum into yowling banshees, screaming “GIVE HIM TO US!” – straight to the electric chair, from whence his corpse would be taken for additional punishment, a process where ghoulish prison authorities at Auburn separated the head from the body, and then poured sulfuric acid on what remained, before secreting the sorry residue of America’s anarchist son into an unmarked grave.

Despite attempts to erase Czoglosz from history, a visual document survives, oozing with pathos and bitter recrimination. It is impossible, looking into those eyes, not to feel unnerved and, yes, sympathetic with him – his desperate act, after all, was as critical a part of America’s greed-engorged industrial fantasia as the near daily spectacle of peaceful strikers, his friends among them, being slaughtered in the name of profit. 

Cinema’s misspent childhood years in late-Victorian fairgrounds are followed by a grimy adolescence in Edwardian nickelodeon parlours. The medium, which finally comes of age amid gaudy palaces built in its honor, morphs many times. However, All Talking Pictures are the final death knell for the Victorian standard, belching from the screen a thousand inbred tongues that invade the ear willy-nilly. They remind us that when Queen Victoria breaths her last Naturalism sheds decorum, taste, breeding, good table manners.

Edgar Allan Poe essentially owns motion pictures via ongoing necrophilic obsession, since celluloid preserves the dead better than any embalming fluid. Like amber preserved holograms, they flit in and out of its parameters, reciting their own epitaphs in pantomime; revenant moths trapped in perpetual motion. Film is bona fide illumination — as opposed to religion’s metaphorical kind – representing the supremacy of alchemy and necromancy over sackcloth and ashes. The inmates, emboldened under the spell of Klieg lights, were not only running the asylum, but re-shaping the world in their own image.  Both Church and State with their blunt instruments of repression proved impotent against the anarchy of this freshly liberated ghetto.

Holy men were unceremoniously defrocked, their doctrine of abject compliance to class-based norms re-written into storylines enriched by grease-painted floozies, costumed villains, and snooty dowagers brought down a notch by the drunk hobo in her drawing room. Amidst widespread labour unrest and mass poverty, followed soon by the Great Depression, filmgoers of the silent era had a front row view of the plutocracy’s helplessness against a swelling tide of restless humanity. Charlie Chaplin’s itinerant laborer may have accidentally thwarted a plutocrat’s plan for world domination and/or a house renovation, just as Groucho Marx seemed to have spontaneously derailed a social climbing matron’s equally fierce ambitions.

All hail the magic mirrors! Celestial mandalas! Giant eggs and butterfly women! Segundo de Chomón’s The Red Spectre (1907) ruthlessly assaults our eyes with a wraith-magician dissolving through his coffin lid in a red, hand-tinted, flame-flickering hell. His presence, caped, skull-masked, was to herald a new thespic truth, that from this moment forward the art of acting would be reduced to how you respond to light, and how light responds to you. The Specter of Chomon’s dark bauble is in every element Poe’s Red Death — japing and performing tricks for us, his adoring fans and welcome guests, before announcing our doom — literary metaphor slammed against a literal backdrop of amber stalactites, pellucid as an ossuary.

That was a long time ago, in the first decades of the 20th century, before artifice and studios and the commercial paradigm of stardom finally swallowed cinema in one ravenous bite. It was a period when one could see, if one paid close attention, the dreariness of ordinary life at the centre and around the edges of every motion picture brought forth. It lived onscreen in film’s early days, exposing the pretense, however fitful, of opulence or period as simply that: pretense, a fundamental desire to escape reality. But this “escapism” had always been erroneously attributed to the audience’s needs, when in fact it was rather those bankrolling the nascent medium not yet sufficiently in control of itself to impose any order.

The censors were on to something, even if they could never fully articulate what precise blasphemies were being committed. 

Take Hitchcock’s Vertigo, for instance, which isn’t pure noir but is pure Poe: what would the surgical excision of an influence look like? Granted, the noir genre seems an unlikely Poe derivative, but what of Laura — fatalism, romance and necro-fantasy (with Lydecker as Usher)? DOA is the kind of concept Poe might have dreamed up; one of the great noir scribes, Cornell Woolrich is channeling Poe through an all-thumbs pulp sensibility. And how hard would it be to cast Val Lewton as the horror noir hybrid, with premature burials, ancestral disease, lunatics taking over bedlam? Jean Epstein, who adapted The Fall of the House of Usher in 1928, complained that Baudelaire’s translations fundamentally mistook Poe’s innocence for ghastliness. 

The dead in Poe, writes Epstein, are “only slightly dead.”  

To the extent that Epstein was correct, the whimsy that Poe bequeaths to cinema finds itself absorbed in almost material terms — not as sensibility but as a texture whose particular nap or weave is never granted names. In Mesmeric Revelations a voluntary subject is quite near physical death and under the ministrations of his mesmerist, answering precise questions about the nature of God. Before dying, he says God is “ultimate or unparticled” matter: “What men attempt to embody in the word ‘thought,’ is this matter in motion”. The same unnamable textures apparently survive on television, a case of Poe resonating inside our minds, a collective consciousness replaced by cathode rays. 

Deep within the 18 hours of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks: The Return, there is a moment that, on its incandescent surface, could have been lifted weightless from the great post-war dream of material deliverance; as if the zeitgeist of the mid 20th century had somehow got lost and ended up in this one: Daytime, the top on the convertible is down, the radio tuned, The Paris Sisters singing I Love How You Love Me as a reincarnated Laura Palmer lifts her face to a cloudless sky.  Within this tapestry of an early Phil Spector production — his trademark reverb eternally evocative of Romance and Death (two conditions Spector knows well) — the voice of Priscilla Paris could be a siren sound from the American Beyond, or a dream goddess lullaby from the whispering gallery, or sweet nothings from the crypt.  We don’t know.  We’ll never know.

In this oneiric echo chamber, Poe smiles down upon American blondness, muscle cars soaked in sunlight, candy for eye and ear; the terrible ecstasy of unending motion and immortality.

If Lynch’s Return means going back home, then home is that Lemon Popsicle/Strawberry Milkshake species of innocence proffered by America's music industry between 1957 and 1964. The horror genre always has to have some component of innocence to devastate, be it the existential kind which inspires the malevolence everyone paid the price of a ticket to have vicarious transit with; or the mere victimisation of the unsuspecting. Either way, there was no other period in American popular culture when innocence, of any variety, was so lavishly examined, toyed with, killed.  The free floating chord that opens The Everly Brothers song, All I Have To Do is Dream, remains a lamentation in sound: the sudden recrudescence of Poe’s beating, tell-tale heart.  Adoring such guilt-free teenage odes to sleep, death and sexual desire, David Lynch finds a muse in Amanda Seyfried. Specifically her visionary eyes melting Phil Spector’s dark edifice of sugar in a deathless, Sternbergian close-up — iridescent search lights, ever more urgently scanning the sky above, waiting for the sun to swallow her whole. We can only bear witness, and internalize this shimmering ingenue, this angel in a red convertible, trading places with Old Sol; as if whatever she just snorted has entered our system through hers.  But in that ephemeral instant she achieves oneness with all things; the transcendence of stardom — true, temporal stardom  — shorn of fame and the imperatives of show-business.

To this day David Lynch’s favorite film remains Otto e Mezzo, directed by Federico Fellini: Western Europe’s sorcerer of confectionary delights and unending motion; the man who put the “dolce” in La Dolce Vita. Fellini, he states, "manages to accomplish with film what mostly abstract painters do; namely, to communicate an emotion without ever saying or showing anything in a direct manner." Even if one were to take him at his word — and we must, of course, for no filmmaker has ever been known to misrepresent themselves to us — this seems a strange instance of gravitational pull, particularly in the light of the formal strategies of both men as they developed through time. Lynch has always favored a blunt pictorialism that, in its bluntness, borders on the language of Imagism: the studied simplicity of the language used to complex, powerful effect. Fellini, in 8 1/2 and throughout much of his career, by contrast, unleashes upon the viewer an insanely fluid, brutally precise camera ballet. Any good cinephile might be tempted to resolve the disparities and move toward a brighter, less subterranean comprehension. But, ultimately, such understanding would be a didactic burden no moviegoer needs. For here, in these conflicting dialects, you have a fleeting taste of ideologies swirled together like ribbon candy: a blur of four-wheeled luxury from the New World zooming past regional splendor into that fraternity of man: the socio-economic nirvana imagined by Karl Marx in the Old.

Careening from one via to another at harrowing, white-knuckle speed, Fellini was once heard to lament that “Some of the neo-realists seem to think that they cannot make a film unless they have a man in old clothes in front of the camera.” George Bluestone, recording these words for the pages of Film Culture in 1957, was sitting in the literal passenger seat of that ideal metaphor for post-war ebullience in action: expert, 20th century precision hurtling them through Roman streets with graffiti-scrawled churches proudly bearing the hammer and sickle; that famous Black Chevy skirting the Italian Scylla (the Vatican) and its equally dogmatic Charybdis (the Party). At that velocity, anything could make sense.

“Appearances aside" Bluestone wrote, "the Chevrolet is at every moment under Fellini’s control. He weaves in and out of traffic, misses pedestrians by inches, swerves away from Nomentana’s interminable monuments, dodging yellow traffic blinkers as if he were trying out a darkened slalom.” It is every bit a performance. Rome, after all, is the land of Bernini’s The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, Apollo and Daphne — marble-cum-flesh, even as flesh itself gives way to forms that leave the viewer in terrified awe. While reliving his own mythic, carbureted experience, Bluestone does some weaving of his own, quoting Genevieve Agel’s one-line pronunciamento (and, in the process, defining what would soon be labelled 'Felliniesque'), “Fellini is a visionary of the real”, as the passenger positions his driver somewhere between corporeal reality and ecstatic truth while the big man (no old clothes for this maestro) drives and drives. “As one hand lightly guides the wheel, the other gestures — it acts.”

Spirits of the Dead is one of those compendium films, with voguish directors (Malle, Vadim, Fellini) entrusted with bringing to the screen a Poe story each. Only the Fellini episode, Toby Dammit, is notable, but it's very notable, a hallucinatory yarn owing as much to Mario Bava's Kill, Baby, Kill! as to Poe's Never Bet the Devil Your Head, its ostensible source. The title character, played by Terence Stamp with white-blond hair and dark roots and constant beads of witch hazel perspiration, is in Rome to attend an awards ceremony and to play Christ in a western, but he's fatally distracted by his new sports car and a vision of the devil in the form of a little girl. Toby's ride through a hellscape of nocturnal Rome seems lifted from Jules Dassin’s 10.30 p.m. Summer (1966), but works even better for Fellini than it did in the Duras adaptation. An oppressively subjective film, Toby Dammit narrows down to the view in the Ferrari's headlights, a ghastly floodlit interzone where human forms are gradually replaced with mannequins and cut-outs, as the city becomes unreal, an elaborate movie set, an uncanny valley laid out for the staging of an epic stunt/snuff film.

Fellini and Lynch celebrate bodily extremes in intriguing if differing ways, which should, in our time, naturally gallop beyond the pale, but nevertheless become wholly, weirdly digestible. It is perhaps the innocent glee of these artists, their wonderment at the vast variety of shapes the human body can assume; an innocence which suspends toward erasure our awareness the way physical representation functions in the 21st century. Lynch presents the disabled as childlike, mysterious, magical beings without ever worrying about lending them agency (The Elephant Man’s John Merrick functions both as passive whipping boy and chic spectacle for the whole of Victorian London), or the mendacity of adult sophistication (the latest Twin Peaks iteration includes a pint-sized hitman who whines like a puppy when his icepick is broken). Is it any wonder Lynch evolved a style which placed them front and center in unmoving shots, without irony or pity? 

Poe, while certainly a pioneer of fake news, also had a way of vindicating the lumpen masses of humanity (to the middle-brow’s abiding chagrin).  

The Mystery of Marie Roget, a Parisian murder mystery, presented as a fictional sequel to The Murders in the Rue Morgue, was simultaneously trumpeted as a correct solution to the real-life murder of Mary Cecilia Rogers in New York. When a news article presented fresh evidence while the story was still being serialised, Poe made minor changes to the final instalment to keep his fiction in line with the facts.

He later published a story about an Atlantic crossing by balloon, accomplished in three days, in The New York Sun in 1844. "Signal Triumph of Mr. Monck Mason's Flying Machine!!!"  The piece was presented as truth, and only revealed as "The Great Balloon Hoax" a couple of days later. “The more intelligent believed," wrote Poe, "while the rabble, for the most part, rejected the whole with disdain.” He saw this as a new development: “20 years ago credulity was the characteristic trait of the mob, incredulity the distinctive feature of the philosophic.” 

What had changed? Perhaps the acceleration of scientific and social progress meant that the more literate and scientifically-minded had become inured to startling new developments, so the most surprising events now seemed credible. And since these same technological leaps were always presented as social benefits, the working class was growing skeptical, since they rarely saw any improvement in their condition.

by Daniel Riccuito, R.J. Lambert and David Cairns

Special thanks to Richard Chetwynd

[tipsycad147]

BELTANE  – WELCOMING THE FAE

Beltane is one of the most celebrated pagan events each year. It falls midway between the spring equinox and the summer solstice. The holiday has it’s origins in ancient Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man, but is widely practiced across the modern world.  Typically, celebrations start on the last day of April and continue into the daylight hours of May 1st (in the northern hemisphere).  There are numerous ways to celebrate including huge rituals, bonfires, dancing, singing, re-enactments, and rituals about the Fae, but the focal point is always fertility.  Throughout the years, our Beltane rituals have covered many of the traditional activities, but with the world going through so much change lately, this year it’s dedicated to the Fae.

Those who follow the old ways know that the veil between our world and the world of the Fae grows very thin but a few times each year; on Beltane and Samhain.  On those nights, all sorts of creatures from the faerie world can and do cross over into our world.  Likewise, brave humans can enter the other side, if they dare.  The Fae usually avoid humans, but sometimes they decide to have a little harmless fun at our expense.  Some humans find themselves feeling bold and may try to ‘play the game’ with creatures from the other side, but this almost always ends up bad.  History tells of mischievous faeries who trick humans on this night and they are never seen again.  It’s very important to keep in mind that the Fae are not to be toyed with.  Don’t make deals, enter into any arrangements or make promises you cannot fulfill.  Every interaction is an exchange and payment is expected in one form or another.  But, don’t let this deter you from interacting with the faeries, just be cautious and make sure you present an appropriate offering.

Our Beltane  ritual is focused on welcoming the faeries to our lands, our pastures and our gardens.  If we show them our appreciation, they will bless us with their gifts and there will be harmony.

This ritual is written to be performed by a group, outside, with a bonfire.

What you’ll need to prepare for this ritual (as written)

Alter with fairy themed decorations and enough open space for each participant to place an offering Quarter Candles (4 total) in these colors –  Red (South,) Yellow (East,) Green (North,) and Blue (West) Goddess Candle – Large White Candle (I use a three wick candle for the Goddess) Hand bell Bonfire or fire circle of some sort

In order for success, please inform all guests that part of this ritual is about making an offering to the Fae, and that they should bring something special, of their own choosing. Also there is a meditation portion which may be lengthy, so a chair or yoga mat might also be in order.

Any portion of the ritual that is bracketed with <> refers to instructions that the ritual leader should perform rather than be spoken aloud.

The Ritual

<Opening Statement – A call to action for the participants to stop talking, gather, and prepare to begin the ritual>

“Let it be called, let it be cast, this sacred circle both present and past; a meeting place, a spiritual space, where we welcome all members of the human race”

Join Us As We Call the Beltane 2021 Quarters

East

As the spring winds slip ever so gracefully across the land, we turn our eyes to the East and give high praises to the great spirits of Air.  We welcome you to our circle on this night when the veil is very thin and the fairies are starting to move across the land.  Guard us from any mischief this night and help to guide those who are lost so that they may find a safe refuge until morning. <light yellow candle>

South

The last of the warming rays of the sun have just dropped beneath the horizon as we turn to the South, where the great Fire spirits make their home.  We give thanks for your attendance in our circle tonight and offer high thanks and praises for the gift of light which you’ve bestowed upon us.  Keep our path illuminated as we move from place to place so that no harm or accident will fall our way.  <light red candle>

West

Old ones of the West, mighty spirits of Water, we call upon you to join us in our circle tonight. Bathe each of us in your cascading and cleansing waters so that we may regenerate our spirit and carry forward with renewed hope for the future. <light blue candle>

North

Great ones of the North, magical spirits of the Earth, we extend our greatest wishes and honors and ask for you to join us as we celebrate all things associated with the land.  As the world around us rises, grows, and reaches to the sun, we see fertility in each direction.  We ask that you pull forth the positive energies of the planet to feed our crops and our souls, so that we may once again renew our relationship with everything in nature. <light green candle>

Goddess

Brigid, Great Goddess of spring, the dawn, and fertility; protector of mothers and children, we call upon you to grace us with your presence at this Beltane celebration.  You are the fire in the heads of the Bards, the heat in the forges of the mighty Blacksmiths, and the cleansing flames of the healers.  Join us tonight in our ritual, hail and blessed be!  <light Goddess Candle>

Introduction – Beltane

Even though our ritual is about the Fae, we cannot forget the reason why we are celebrating.  If we look back into history, one thing is crystal clear, the great fire festival of Beltane honors life.  This celebration is known by many names, including Belt-an-a in Ireland, Bealtunn in Scotland, Shenn do Boaldyn on the Isle of Man and Galan Mae in Wales; it’s also commonly known as May Day. Beltane represents the peak of spring and the beginning of summer; the bright half of the year and the coming warmth.  It’s a celebration of the return of life and fertility to the physical world which surrounds us. It’s a time for sexual awakening in humankind with new relationships, marriages and the adventures of young adulthood.

The ancient tale resonates today just as it did in the past. At Beltane, the Maiden Goddess has reached her fullness of womanhood.  She is the manifestation of growth and renewal; called Flora, the Goddess of Spring, the May Queen, or the May Bride.  The Young Oak King, also known as the May King, Jack-In-The-Green, or the Green Man, falls in love with her and wins her hand.  Their union is consummated and the Goddess becomes pregnant.  This sacred union symbolizes the Sacred Marriage of Earth and Sky and has been re-enacted by humankind throughout the centuries.  Just as the May Queen will be the source of new life, so can we bring life to our brilliant ideas, hopes, and dreams on Beltane.

Musical Interlude

If you are a regular follower of our rituals, then you know that we try to include a music selection in each one.  Sometimes it’s a stretch to find an appropriate song to play, while other times it’s a snap.  This is one of those other times.  Our selection is called Beltane Fire Dance by Loreena McKennitt.  Start the music and skip down to the Fire Jumping section.

Jumping the Bonfire

On the eve of Beltane our Celtic ancestors would build two large bonfires, created from the nine sacred woods; oak, birch, ash, alder, willow, hawthorn, holly, hazel, and rowan.  These fires were deemed to have protective properties and were considered sacred.  All the livestock would be summarily rounded up and driven in between the two fires so as to purify and protect them in the upcoming year.  The villagers themselves would then leap over one of the Beltane bonfires, but for different reasons.  The young, unmarried villagers jumped the fire for luck in finding a spouse, travelers jumped the fire to ensure a safe journey, and pregnant women jumped the fire to assure an easy delivery. Couples would jump over hand in hand to ensure their union stayed strong.  This is not a complete list though.  Each person had their own reasons for stepping across the flames and no one passed on the opportunity.   <instruct the group on fire safety and take appropriate measure to make sure no one gets injured, then have everyone who wishes to, jump over the fire>

Think about what you wish for in the coming year while you’re carefully crossing over the flames.

Welcoming the Fae

In ancient Ireland there lived a race of people of the Goddess Danu, called the Tuatha Dé Danann.  These people were the earliest magick users known to the world, having been cast out of paradise because they were becoming too powerful.  From high above they descended to the Island of Ireland to live out their lives, unimpeded, but when the island was invaded by the Milesians, they went underground.  They continued practicing magick and eventually evolved into what we now call the Fae.  They developed abilities to remain hidden from humans and lived in caves or other secret places, which they jealously guarded.  History tells stories of the rare human who found access to those hidden places and would never be heard from again.

And yet we also hear a multitude of stories from the past where the Fae would have positive interactions with humankind.  Usually these begin with a generous offering of milk, honey, yogurt, pastries or other sweet delicacies.  Small tables, toys, fabric and other shiny objects may also be used to attract faeries.  But, the single most important part is to listen to the natural world around your area.  When you become sensitive to all parts of nature, you’ll begin to hear more and more and you’ll make that connection.  The Fae can tell who is sincere and who isn’t, and they aren’t on a time schedule.  It may take some time, but don’t give up.

Tonight as part of our Beltane celebration, we shall present the faeries with an offering.  Each person should place their item on our alter as a token of friendship and compassion toward all things from the other side of the veil.

<Ritual leader should allow as much time as necessary>

Now that we have prepared an offering, it’s time to listen to nature.

<Have everyone meditate and listen to the world around them.  No one should speak or move around, just listen.  This can last as long as you wish>

Now each of you may state a high praise to the faeries and introduce yourselves to them formally.

<Have each person speak out to the Fae as they see fit>

As we prepare to close, remember this moment and take it with you everywhere.  The more open your mind is, the more nature will reveal.

Closing our Beltane 2021 Circle

North

Magickal spirits of the Earth, we again offer thanks for sharing this festive evening with us.  Tomorrow we shall survey our lands and have a renewed sense of comfort for a prosperous growing season and bountiful harvest.  <extinguish green candle>

West

Mighty spirits of Water, our praise is never-ending.  We offer prayers on the banks and shores and across all the great bodies of water so that you can see and hear our feelings of gratitude.  <extinguish blue candle>

South

Legendary spirits of Fire, as we leave here tonight, we carry new memories of illumination; not just physically, but also spiritually and emotionally and we shall walk with more confidence and understanding.  <extinguish red candle>

East

Whispering spirits of Air, our faith is renewed as we watch the thin tendrils of smoke rise and glide away on your invisible currents.  We realize that we do not always need to see something to believe in its power and understand its magnitude. <extinguish yellow candle>

Goddess

Great Goddess of spring, we bid you the kindest and move loving farewell as this night comes to a glorious ending.  Bless us as we leave and protect us.  Farewell and blessed be!  <light Goddess Candle>

“This circle is open but never broken”

<ring bell>

https://www.thegypsythread.org/beltane-2021-welcoming-the-fae/

[kewltie]

in the midst of a battle w/ members of LoV, pro-hero ground zero save a rookie journalist who LITERALLY threw himself middle of all the chaos to grab photos & after yelling at the ignorant fuck, katsuki doesn't think he'll see him again but then HE SEES HIM EVERYWHERE. his name is midoriya izuku & he has some sort of death wish really bc katsuki keep finding him in the middle of all these hero vs villains battles and ONE TIME he tackled down a villain right???? and he doesnt even have a fucking quirk & yet he is seemingly unafraid of everything.

needless to say, katsuki is v smitten bc the litle awkward death defying shit. also, anyone who accidentally send katsuki to the hospital several times a month bc he keep getting into trouble and katsuki have to come rescue him and THEN YELLING AT KATSUKI FOR INTERFEARING W/ HIS JOB – may be katsuki’s true love.

katsuki get so fucking rile up at this quirkless man, who shown no fear and easily go toe to toe w/ him and yet is so incredibly humble and hilariously awkward, he is just into this badass idiot who is entirely devoted to his job and cursed w/ severe stubborn???? feels relatable. so yea, katsuki ofc taps that ass right the fuck away bc he knows a good one when he sees it bc izuku is indirectly responsible for three broken ribs after katsuki had pulled him out of ANOTHER TROUBLING SITUATION. he's a trouble magnet and shit-stirrer and katsuki's heart is moved.

so they start dating and it goes SO WELL. izuku still get in major shitstorm for his job and katsuki still drags him out of it w/ a few bruise here and there, but afterward they go grab a bite and crash at each other place. super romantic and sweet and it's so v good. but!!! there's something weird about izuku. he doesn't talk much about his family, to katsuki anyway. BUT HE'S SUPER CLOSE TO THEM. his parents seem to call him daily and he go visit them often, but he never bring his parents up to katsuki esp his dad & izuku kinda got a stalker??

it's not like katsuki didn't notice right away, but HE THOUGHT IT WAS HIS STALKER. one of his super creepy fans probably but nope this person only tails izuku and when katsuki tell him about it, izuku is like, 'oh that's just toga'. apparently, izuku knows his talker v v well. the stalker apparently is sent by izuku's father to watch out & protect izuku and katsuki pauses bc who the fuck does a journalist who lives on takeouts and shitty cable TVs need a bodyguard?!!! so yea katsuki's new bf background is fucking weird and mysterious.

katsuki has his agency dig into izuku's background (not that they hadn't vet izuku's before for katsuki's safety) but they comb through the archives and izuku's history and it's comes out v v v v clean, sparkling even. honestly, katsuki doesn't know WTF IS UP W/ HIS NEW BF. so he confront izuku about his weirdo stalker/bodyguard, his avoidance about his family & his dad in particular, and his eerie squeaky AND CLEARLY SCRIPTED papertrails. izuku get shifty eyes and is like, "you won't believe me." And katsuki says tersely, "fucking try me."

Izuku drops his gaze to the floor and says, finally, "my dad is the leader of the league of villains." and YEA, KATSUKI'S BRAIN SHUT DOWN FOR SEC bc his deku?? stupid suicidal stubborn bleeding heart deku??? FUCK NO. but izuku just nods his head and grimaces. the LoV is the largest criminal org in the world w/ long list of crimes & longer list of criminals that make its their home. their roster are made up of terrifying people w/ dangerous quirks... and IZUKU, quirkless and softhearted izuku is the leader's most precious son. the idea itself is COMPLETELY ABSURD! HOW does that ever make sense? izuku is a civilian who works normal if a bit dangerous job & doesn't seem to have any *evil* inclinations at all yet he hail from the worst kind of genetic source possible. maybe he's just faking it all along.

which made katsuki absolutely furious that izuku might been some kind of sleeper agent from the LoV sent to trick spy & kill him or something and izuku's eyes wide, immediately protests, "no, no, i swear! i dont have anything to do w/ my fathers... org." but katsuki has a hard time accepting it esp with the truth bomb thrown at his feet now that he realizes HE'S DATING THE ONLY SON OF EVIL OF THE MOST VILE CRIMINAL IN THE WORLD. so yea, he walks out on izuku, saying he need some space & izuku was looking so heartbroken as he left

for the next few days, katsuki stews in his thought. he doesn't tell anyone about what he had found out, but he doesn't contact izuku either. This last for couple of weeks until, one day just as he in the middle of patrol there's some commotion that attract his teams and katsuki is separated from them. he's cornered by several LoV members, outnumbered five to one and katsuki lost his comms in the ensuring scuffles but instead of kicking his ass bc well they're foes, one of them break ranks toga (the blood queen) approach him w/ a bloodthirsty grin & a knife pointing toward him.

"hey, pretty boy," she coos w/ a flicker of edge, "stop ignoring our young master! you made him cried & he won't come out of his room. I hate seeing him so upset bc Izuku-chan should always be smiling! if you dont fix this ill rip your hide from your bones and wear it as a cape."

the group behind her make various grunt of agreement, all promising him death and disembowelment for... apparently breaking izuku's heart. katsuki is so outrage that he nearly explodes on the spot bc these dumbass villains think they CAN BLACKMAL/THREATEN HIM?! HIM, GROUND ZERO?! also, even more furious by the fact that they insuate that HE BROKE UP WITH IZUKU?! wtf, he never said that!! needing space meant just a temporary break s he gets his bearing on wut to do next... but not like a perma break, but izuku's ppl thought their relationship ended.

katsuki is even more offended by that notion bc izuku is even a bigger idiot than he thought. HOW could someone that much of crybaby over just temp break is some manipulative coldhearted spy?? right now his instinct says, izuku is telling the truth. he isn't tricking katsuki.

izuku is seemingly sweet, humble, & awkward but he got that rebellious streak a mile wide. loud in his opinions & shit-stirrer by choice, he faces down villains & heroes alike like they're on equal ground even though izuku is defenseless. he respect the law but only when it applies. katsuki has never seen such a fucking firecracker like izuku who loves people & the world but have little respect for any gov entity or laws and think they're good only when they're helping ppl but otherwise they're abritary (lmao). he such chaotic force for good it's hilarious. so yea, he believes that izuku is the SON OF AFO now bc that lil shit is a menace. A GOOD MENACE, but still a goddamn menace. he seems to stay firmly on the side of 'good' as it is which make his relationship with his villain father a fucking mystery & headache for katsuki.

so katsuki, gritting his teeth, clichely demands the LoV group to take him to their leader so he can verbally kick his bf's ass for keeping his fucked up secrets and stupidly mistaken that they're broken up. the group happily ties up him and blindfolds him bc well SECRET LAIR. katsuki is crazy, ok. like, STUPIDLY CRAZY to go blindly and no backups w/ some of the worst villains in history so he can meet up w/ his stupid bf and his crazy father. he could end up dead tmr or some shit bc it all could have been a trick to lure him in w/ his guard down but if izuku can be an idiot for dating a hero when he's a son of a villain than KATSUKI CAN BE A BIGGER IDIOT FOR GOING TO MEET HIS BF'S VILLANIOUS FATHER AT HIS SECRET TORTURE FORTRESS OR SOME SHIT. love can make ppl dumb and they're both a perfect example of it.

so katsuki get blindfolded and escorted to the LoV hq and it's a suprisingly sweet ride to there. no bumps, no abuse, no torture shit going on. he get offer food and drink and it's FUCKING WEIRD. his kidnappers start some casual convo w/ him about izuku and his job of all things. they even joke about how katsuki arrested one of them one time and almost kill another THE OTHER TIME & it's all happy bs??? it's even worst than torture. katsuki just want this to end already!! eventually they arrive and katsuki is let out. he get inside & his blindfold is off.

it's... nothing like he expected. it's traditional japanese house w/ sprawling garden, koi ponds, & beautiful woods. it's pristine, homey, and terribly normal. "ha, you thought we were going to take you to some kind of evil lair, right?" twice says, grinning bc he's an ass. "that's next time! we save that for official bsn." he jabs Katsuki's in the shoulder playfully. "you're meeting sensei and the mistress so of course it got to be at their house and not the 'office'."

katsuki's hands start twitching like he's going to explode someone or something but he's quickly drag away before he could do anything about it. lead through some hallways before depositing inside a tearoom where there's a SHIT TON of pics of baby!izuku & his childhood accolades on the wall. this look less like a room to greet visitors but to show off izuku. just as katsuki goes to examine a cute pic of bb!izuku playing in a field of flowers & holding one up towrad the camera, the doors slide open and a couple walk in. one of them is an older woman who looks eerily like izuku and the young woman also ft. in many of the wall pics.

she smiles warmly at and goes to greet him right away. "hi, bakugou-kun! welcome to our home, i'm inko, Izuku's mother," she introduces herself. while she's a source of happy energy and warmth, the other man beside her is another story. he gives katsuki's an icy stare. katsuki already knows who he is before he even say anything. AFO looks younger in comparison to his reported age, notably handsome, and he carries himself like some warlord from the warring periods.

"I should kill you," is the first thing he says. "my son should only cry in joy, over his terrible taste in romantic media consumption, & dumber things." spoken like a man who dealt with midoriya walking crying machine izuku his entire life and also a hopelessly devoted father.

"hisashi!" inko scolds. which is strange to katsuki bc he didn't even think AFO even have a name but in front of him isn't some evil man who mastermind gov't take over & ruin so many ppl lives but astupid father overprotected of his son.

"but i won't," AFO admits regretfully. "Izuku would be even more sad and if you're dead your death will haunt him needlessly more. he won't be able to forget you and move on." he frowns, like he actually had CONSIDER THAT ROUTE DEEPLY before casting that idea aside.

What the fuck, katsuki thought and says exactly that, "what the fuck. there's something seriously wrong with you," he points out what he think is v obvious.

AFO shrugs. "I love my son. He's my-" Inko's frown and he clears his throat, "our most precious treasure and we do everything to ensure his happiness. do you understand us, bakugou katsuki? inko and i have raise with love and care for 20yrs and i won't have some rough neck capers try to destroy his smile. i dont care who you are or wut you can do bc i can put you ten feet under w/ a snap of my fingers & nobody will be able to save you but like i said i won't."

Katsuki grind his teeth, fists clenched at his side, before lowering his head. this isnt time to fight, they're not on the field & on the job. this isnt about their respective stance on moral superiority but izuku. izuku is why they're both here. "i came here for him. i want to fix it," he says. "just let me see him." he pauses & grimaces like the taste of whatever he say next disgust him. "please."

AFO frowns, staring at katsuki for a beat, two. like he can pull apart katsuki's motives and tears into his rib to see w/e make him tick. "fine," he waves katsuki away, "you may see him now but if he cry anything beside in happiness i'll have your head and your entire agency." it's not a threat. it's a warning lace with truth that katsuki has no doubt he will carry out if a single tear slip pass izuku and fall.

inko claps her hand happily. "great, i'm glad you guys are geting along so well!" she says, like threats of murder haven't been thrown at his feet. clearly, she's used to the fact that her husband is a completely psychopath and whipped for their son. this fucking crazy family.

katsuki grunts, not knowing what else to say beside, 'have you ever thought of fucking divorce bc yea maybe you will be less crazy by then' but he holds his tongue bc they're still izuku's parents and he already made a bad impression on them even though technically not his FAULT.

AFO doesn't promise anymore murder in his future but the dark look on his face is enough as inko's lead him out & toward izuku's room. she drops him right outside it and gives him an encouraging smile before heading off, but katsuki has no doubt the parents are lurking around. katsuki sucks in a deep breath before raising his fist and knocks. he hears unhurried footsteps on the other side and slowly the door is slide open.

"Papa, I already said--" izuku whines, and stops as soon as he sees who ACTUALLY on the other side. "K-Katsuki?! What are you--?"

Katsuki blinks, trying to get his fucking brain to grapple with the thought of AFO as 'papa' and his head nearly explode. he drags a hand down his face and once again thinks, THIS FUCKIN' FAMILY. "Look, you idiot," he starts in lieu of any answer. "We didn't fucking break up."

Izuku looks haggard, buffy red eyes and the dark circle under it, speaking of how upset he was. he clearly didn't get any good rest these several days they were apart. he lifts an accusatory brow at Katsuki. "you didn't pick up my calls or answer any of my text," he retorts.

Katsuki rolls his eyes. "what part of I needed space, time to think didn't you get?" he snaps back. "It didn't mean go cry and sulk your parent's home like a damn coward because you were too dumb to think of anything beside we may have broken up!"

"But--but," Izuku's lips wobble and katsuki nearly jump out of his skin bc jfc don't cry here or i'll be skinned alive, "i was scared that you really mean it! that's why i didn't want to tell you in the first place bc then you wouldn't want to have anything to do w/ me."

Katsuki sighs, a bone deep tired sigh. "Now, why would you think i would have any problem with dating the son of my nemesis?" he says dryly. Izuku's brows furrow. "All Might is Papa's nemesis," he unhelpfully point out. "I don't think Papa even knew you existed until we dated."

Katsuki scowls. "that's not the fucking point," he shouts, temper rising w/ every word. "Your dad is the fucking boogieman who wants to sow discord in the world & it's my job to catch him &lock away for good. Do you see my moral crisis over this when im dating his beloved son?!"

"I-" Izuku's face falls, "dont you think I dont know that? I've lived with him for over 20yrs, I know exactly what he's capable of." he looks away. "But, he's my Papa & im terrible for still choosing him over the world. So," izuku says solemnly. "i dont expect the same from you."

Katsuki grits his teeth and steps right into izuku's space, up in his face. "Look, im only going to say this once so listen the fuck up," he starts. "I like you. A lot. Stupidly. Gods know why when you drive me up the fucking wall all the time, but here I am standing before you."

"A lot, huh?" Lips twitching, Izuku's eyes go soft.

Katsuki scowls. "Dont make me repeat myself, but yes fucking a lot that your fucking groupies & your old man threatened to kill me several times over did not deter me from coming here," he says, hand cradling Izuku's cheek.

"It's because I'm dating you and not your father. Whatever crimes he'd commited is not on you, you don't have to carry his sins," he tells Izuku, leaning in to press a kiss too fast and fleeting on izuku's forehead. "just stay true to yourself and i'll fucking deal with it."

Izuku's close his eyes and lets out a shaky exhales, the air of relief that passes through him is shuddering. "Ok, ok," he murmurs, opening his eyes to look at katsuki. there's a twinkle in them as he smiles, soft and sweet, the kind you can stupidly drunk on & never let go.

In that hazy moment, katsuki thinks, AFO doesn't need to plan any premeditated murder in case things go v wrong bc this is how he'll die w/ izuku's smile right in his front his eyes, cutting him down one curve lips at a time. Fuck, he's just as whipped for izuku as AFO.

it's good that izuku not a fucking psychopath like his father bc this would have gone v v v wrong. izuku would make a terrifying villain. Worse than his own father bc it's not fear & intimidation that will get ppl to follow him but izuku's own magnetic personality that move them.

"don't ever become a villain, ok?" katsuki insists suddenly, grabbing his shoulder tightly.

"where did that come from?" izuku laughs, eyes crinkling. "And dont worry, papa had tried. many, many times but i haven't turn over to the darks ide if that's what you worry about."

"Good," katsuki says firmly, and thinks the world better for it. one less crazy midoriya to raise hell. izuku is trouble enough as it is when katsuki thought he was just a quirkless journalist w/ a death wish but now there's a chance he could go rouge any moment and--yea. no.

"Sooo," izuku says, bouncing on his heels. "are we back together now?"

katsuki flicks him on the forehead. "we never broke up in the first place, you dolt."

izuku grins and suddenly throws his arm around katsuki. "ah, i miss you so much kacchan!!!" he declares excitedly.

and after they made up, katsuki interrogate izuku about wtf is wrong w/ his father bc how did AFO of all ppl get a villain son who isn't all about /that/ kind of bsn he's in. turns out izuku always have a healthy regard for heroes so he never thought of joining his father's organization. though AFO would have been super happy to take izuku in bc izuku is terrifyingly clever & resourceful but he lets izuku go & do his thing anyway. they just mutually agree not to talk shop when it's family, keeping their jobs outside &not in the home to keep both of their sanity.

so izuku knows shit about the 'family bsn' except wut everyone knows bc he's not involve with any of that and in his everyday job as a journalist izuku often times clash w/ his father AND expose some of his schemes bc it's part of his job & he doesn't shy away from it. AFO wasn't upset at all having his plans ruin by his own son. nope. he was SUPER PROUD OF IZUKU!!! to able to accomplish such thing on his own even if it's against him lol. but izuku is still his father's so so he doesn't take on just AFO, other villains, & dark org. he takes on the gov't, hero association, and even other heroes themselves if he ever catches on if they didn't live up to his ideals of being 'proper hero' like all might. he fiercely chases and exposes anything that he deems corrupted and wrong not caring which side they're on.

which makes izuku kind of chaotic good. he acts on his own whims & sense of justice, disregarding all rules & barriers. which is why he admires katsuki so much bc katsuki stands by his rule staunchantly & won't ever move from it, izuku knows katsuki wont ever be sway by the dark. kinda like izuku's father who stands firmly by his belief & does everything to reach his goals. WHICH IS NOT EXACTLY WHAT KATSUKI WANT TO BE COMPARE TO ESP BY A NOTORIOUS VILLAIN LIKE AFO lol. but yea, now that he got izuku's motive and why he's the way he is, it get easier.

they continue dating, izuku continues getting into trouble 120% of the time, katsuki keeps bailing him out, and sometimes IZUKU BAILS HIM OUT bc izuku may be quirkless but he got an army of the world's most terrible villains on his side so yea izuku IS TERRIFYING. and they aren't just dating but they're 100000% serious w/ each other bc now katsuki go to izuku's parents house for dinner every sunday and have to put up with AFO and play nice w/ each other for izuku's sake bc they come ton an understanding they will be IN-LAWS one day lol! their dinner convo is mostly the two of them taking jab at each other bc katsuki trash of AFO's plans or AFO's sends katsuki's ppl to the hospital and got away with it. they never stop being enemy even for izuku bc of where they stand on but mutually agree not to kill each other. they're both fiercely devoted individual who are obsessively workaholic, stubborn, vainglorious, and loves just as much as they breathe for their ppl and though they never agree on anything, this they will agree on bc izuku's happiness is everything to them!!!

[runnerfivestillalive]

The Price of Alliance: Part Four

Part Three | Part Five

It had been a painful, humiliating lesson in the benefits of age.

His first blow had gone straight into Zeus, and smashed downward so hard they had shattered through the bifrost, and plummeted into the sea. Thor had born Zeus down, teeth bared in vicious triumph!

That had lasted until Zeus got his hands on him.

They had struggled against the sandy bottom of the shallow sea - or rather, Thor had struggled. Zeus had millennia of power and experience on him. And Thor quickly discovered an important difference in their powers.

Thor could cause a storm with his rage. But the storm was in the sky. The little sparks that crawled over his skin only served to call the lightning down to him - useless, through so much water.

Zeus, on the other hand, seemed to generate full bolts of lightning from his hands.

And he did so, holding Thor’s arching, spasming body to the sea floor, until he screamed out all of his air. He stopped to let Thor struggle, seemingly only for his own amusement, then started again.

Eventually, he dragged Thor, limp and stunned, back to shore. He left him face down in a tangle of seaweed, while he stripped off much of his sodden clothes and wrung out his hair, laughing as if at a good game.

Thor determinedly, twitchily, got up. Disjointed growls were coming from his throat. “You... rapist!”

Zeus was still chuckling, as he turned to face him. “Of my own dear queen? Oh, he may not like what I do to him, but he hardly gets a say.”

“He was a child!”

“Oh yes, such an innocent little thing! You Asgardians...” He made a tsking noise, still grinning. “He barely even knew what sex was! It was such a privilege to introduce him. Of course, he’s all grown up now. Hardly ever cries anymore.”

Thor lunged for him, but, twitchy as he still was, Zeus easily caught him and tossed him back on the sand. Where he kicked him. “Stay away from him!” Thor coughed up what seemed to be a lungful of salt, sand, and debris, trying to shake off the effects of so much lightning.

Zeus laughed. “Tell you what, whelp. I spend most of my nights with a mistress - my dear queen can be a boring thing - but you’ve got me thinking of old times. So, just for you, I’m going to spend every night I’m here in that twisted brat’s bed, making him cry!”

“No!”

Zeus kicked him again. “Of course, it’s much harder now. I’ll have to work him for hours to get him sobbing like he did on our wedding night.”

With a wordless roar, Thor shoved himself up from the sand again, determined to kill no matter what it cost him! The storm overhead boomed, swirling with his rage, and hail began pelting down, just as he laid hands on Zeus-

He found himself face down in the sand again, some seconds later. The storm was already letting up, as he tried to piece together the lost moments. Zeus kicked him yet again, just as a bunch of guards ran up, followed by Father.

“Odin, old friend! Your boy’s quite a spirited thing, isn’t he? And protective of his brother; I can hardly fault him for that.”

“He has-“ Father’s voice hit Thor like his own hammer, promising grave punishment.

“Youthful exuberance!” Zeus interrupted, firmly.

Father was silent. Thor tried to pick himself up, to as least see his expression.

“Believe me, I understand! I’ve got your other one, after all, and they’re practically the same age. So energetic! Discipline him as you see fit, of course, but no need to make a diplomatic incident of all this.” He hoisted Thor easily up, before shoving him at the guards.

“Wisdom indeed, to forgive such youthful foolishness.” Odin twitched his head and the guards holding him up, single eye briefly meeting his, in sheer fury. Then he snapped back to Zeus. “Let’s get you cared for, at least. I hope you remembered our bathing pools?”

“Fondly!”

Thor lost track of their words, as he was half carried, half dragged away. His head spun. He wanted to rage, to demand Loki’s release, to demand Zeus be executed for all to see!

Zeus’ threats spun in his head. He’d made things worse. Worse for Loki...

Unconsciousness took him.

Part Three | Part Five

[marley-warriors]

2000 years ago

Who was Ymir? What was Ymir’s titan?

Was Ymir really named Ymir? She never spoke, and it seems unlikely that her oppressirs would have cared to ask her name. So perhaps her name wadn’t even Ymir. As I though, the Eldians were indeed Germanics and Vikings, and based in this it may be that the Eldians actually gave Ymir her name after she first turned into a titan. They would probably have known what the name Ymir means: Progenitor of all Giants.

Ymir herself was not actually an Eldian. Her nation was devestated by the Eldians before being taken as slaves. Perhaps it could be that Ymir’s real name was actually Krista. I think this to be possible, considering Frieda called her Krista. After all why else would Frieda, whom knew Ymir, call her by that name? Perhaps we will get more on Ymir’s backstory. She has yet to speak as well, and we know nothing of her before she became a slave.

Many people seem to assume Ymir just willingly went back to the King. But this was never shown. Instead we know that some Eldians saw her transform. Most shifters are out cold for a while after inheriting their titans. If this was the case the Eldians may have found Ymir and retrieved her. Perhaps some would argue the Eldians to be too scared. But these were Vikings, whom may have even worshipped giants in norse mythology. I just doubt Ymir would have returned to the King on her own considering he ordered her to be ‘free’.

Ymir’s Progenitor titan is not the godess we expected. That was just Eldian propaganda to make Ymir look good. Instead she is a very large titan unlike any of the 9 titans. Because she is a combination of all 9 titans Ymir would have had qualities from each if them. It also seems tht she may be about 40 meter tall, taking into account her largest Titan: 60 meters, and smallest: 4 meters. The lack of any eyes or tunge in titan form seem to further represent her slave nature. The slaves were threatened to have an eye goughed out, and we did see their tongues being cut out.

Why was the power split into only 9 powers?

Ymir was the Progenitor. The first of all titans. Upon her death, she was cannibalised by her daughters: Maria, Rose and Sheena. We even see the Paths tree branch off into 3. Upon their fathers dying wishes, Maria, Rose and Sheena too would have probably birthed 3 children each and passed on their powers.

So Ymir had 9 powers within her. Then Maria, Rose and Sheena each held 3 powers within them. And their children, Or Ymir’s 9 grandchildren each held 1 power within them. But assuming those 9 grandchildren held up the tradition of each bearing 3 children and passing on the powers, why did it not split into 27 powers? I imagine this 4th generation of shifters would have been equally confused by this.

Here are some possible reasons:

1. The Eldian empire realised that each time the power was split, it grew weaker compared to the original Progenitor. So they limited it to 9.

2. The 9 realsm of norse mythology might be represented through the titans. So it was impossible for the Eldians to split up the 9 reals or titan powers any further, no matter how hard they tried.

3. The ‘parasite’ or source had 9 pairs of legs. Perhaps the source itself could not split itself into more than 9. The Eldians once again would have tried, but to no avail.

Are all Eldians Ymir’s decendants? Dosen’t that make them all royal?

[[MORE]]

This was pretty confusing. Ymir herself isn’t even an Eldian, only the King and father of her children was. But I do think all current Eldians are subjects of Ymir. The Eldian empire would have tried its damm hardest to have all Eldians be part of Ymir’s blood. All other Eldians that were not of Ymirs blood would have been considered unworthy and no one would have reproduced with them. Hence those Eldians would have died out.

So then if all Eldians and titan powers are decendants of Ymir, does that not make them royal? Well I don’t think so. Being ‘royal’ does not seem to have anything to do with being related to the first King Fritz, nor Ymir. We know only a very few Eldians are ‘royal’. I think what is considered royal here is the genetic makeup of the founding titan specifically. So being royal is not a title, its genetics. The genetics of the founding titan, which was the ‘heart’ or the core of the Progenitor Titan.

Hence all decendants of only the Founding titan are considered royal. The Founding titan among two other titans wpuld have been passed down to one of Ymir’s daughters. Im going to go with Maria, since she was the oldest and hence would be the next Queen of Eldia. Maria would then have passed the Founding Titan on to one of her own children. That child would be the first founding titan, and all its children, regardless of if they became a titan or not, would have had been royal. Meanwhile the children of the other 8 titans would just be considered normal Eldians.

As for the Eldians that were used as mindless titans. I imagine it possible that the Eldian empire would have tried relentlessly to increase the number of its 9 shifters, perhaps by doing so they gave some Eldians some spinal fluid to drink. But since those Eldians did not consume the actual spine they only turned into mindless titans. The King or Queen at the time might have screamed for order, realising that the mindless titans obeyed them, and only them. Hence a new opportunity for a greater weapon was born.

The outcasts, criminals and lower classes would have been used for mindless titans. The besiged nations whom had been enslaved and raped would have produced children that were probably also used as mindless titans.

What is up with the 13 year curse? And why could Ymir not regenerate?

There could be many possible answers. Some think she could not regenerate because no one was in paths to ‘repair’ her. But this theory is based on the idea that Ymir heals all injuries sustained by shifters. None of this is confirmed or canon. I think shifters don’t neex Ymir’s help to regenerate. It seems Ymir only builds titans, with no sign of her doing any repairs. But she did repair Zeke! Zeke was different. He was dying. He was not just injured, he was actually dying. And as a royal he made a wish not for this to end here. Ymir had to save him because of his royal blood.

Secondly, if Ymir died because no one was in paths to repair her, then who even built her titan in the first place? Its a contradiction. Because Ymir was the first she may not have needed anyone to build her titan body. Perhaps the source did it for her.

Or perhaps since time is infinite and non-linear in paths, Ymir actually built her own titan after her death. But if that were the case and she could heal others, then she could have just healed herself.

I think Ymir died because she lost the will to live. Isayama has addressed that before and must have mentioned it for a reason. So possibly Ymir died because she didn’t want to live anymore. She gave her all for the King. She brought him wealth, fought and killed his enemies, extended his empire, built infrastructure, bore him 3 heirs and saved his life. And what was the thanks? Nothing, no compassion, not even a helping hand. I think Ymir thought she could win the King’s love. She just wanted to be loved. We even see her as a child watching longingly as an Eldian pair kissed. But when Ymir realised that the King would never love her, never see her as more than just a slave and tool... well what was there to live for? Not even saving the Kings life earned her any love or compassion, and so she knew that nothing ever would.

Its not clear if she died 13 years after inheriting her power, but judging from her age, and the age of her daughters it seems very likely that it was indeed 13 years. Perhaps the curse is as simple as that. But it must also be noted that when taking the blame of her people upon herself, it was 13 hands that condemed her. 13 people decided her fate and blamed her for the pigs. It is this that would lead to her accidentally inheriting her power. Another thing is the source under the tree. It had 13 pairs of ‘tentacles’ on its back which extended upward to connect to Ymir. Perhaps this source feeds from its host for 13 years before seeking out a new healthy host.

Was that Marleyan the great Hero Helos?

No. Simply put, he was not. Yes he was a captive Marleyan and he did kill the Progenito Titan, but he was not Helos. Helos story is only from 1700 years later. By then no one would have remembered that one Marleyan. No one even knew the true story after 1700 years. It was all myths and legends by then. Besides, that Marleyan would have been killed instantly riggt there and then, and so would his comarades most likely. I doubt any of them lived to tell the tale. Even if they did, while at first that Marleyan may have been hailed a Hero, he would have very likely soon be cursed and shunned. After all because of him, Marley now had to deal with 3 titans instead of 1.

Further, Helos was never real. He never existed. Helos was a story invented by King Fritz the 145th, and the head of the Tybur Family. None of it was real, as is confirmed later by Willy Tybur. Helos would also not have been inspired by the Marleyan, as no one even remembers him in the current time.

What was the source under the tree?

I really don’t know... Yams will hopefully expand on that in future chapters. But I have heard some interesting theories about it being Nidhogg, the serpent dragon under Yggdrasil. Another theory is that it some alien life form that crashed to earth with a meteor. There were also suggestions it could be the roots of Yggdrasil, but the clearer scans debunk that. Others think its still the actual devil himself, perhaps hiding his true form.

I myself really do not know. But check out other peoples ideas, there are some really interesting ones.

Are there any other spoilers in the season 2 ending?

I don’t think so. There is already a clear shot of the unleashed Colossus titans in there, but that frame was already used in season 3 when the restorationists discussed the rumbeling. The panel of the 9 titans with a godess looking Founder was also already in season 3, as were many other shots.

But I have seen some people get confused about the titans coming from the ocean and attacking a town. Just to remind some people, that was the battle of Lago. The humans travelling out into the dessert was also part of the battle of Lago. It was said that the survivors fled to the dessert, where titans arose and killed them. That would represent the shot of the titans rising with the sun. So really none of these images are about the future or the rumbeling.