#sacrifices and patience and loneliness... the life of a 'hero' | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

amistytown · 3 years

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Power Over Me (Leviathan x GN!MC)

Leviathan x GN!MC as Lord of Shadow and Henry; MC is referred to as Henry but remains gender-neutral. I enjoy the TSL lore in Obey Me and wanted to write a bit for it. I initially had an alternate ending in mind, but I decided to save it for another idea I might write at some point. Tried to keep Levi in character while giving him and the story a slightly different feel since it takes place in a fantasy world. Also listened to Power Over Me by Dermot Kennedy on repeat while I wrote this so chose to title it accordingly. Hopefully, it turned out all right. Trigger warning for mentions of blood and self-deprecating thoughts. Mostly some angst with fluff. As always, sorry for the typos that I may have missed, and thank you to everyone who takes the time to read. I appreciate it!

Lightning illuminates the throne room, the Lord of Shadow watching the rain batter the windows, gaze sullen. A storm rages outside, mirroring the flood of emotion bursting forth to drown him in misery. Though he can only hold himself accountable, allowing his envy to fester and take possession of his heart in a moment of weakness. He regrets the letters he frantically wrote in his jealously, the heated words exchanged between you, and your pain forever engrained into the parchment, the ink smudged by your tears, which now lay in pieces at his feet. He considered to make the journey to you, begging for your forgiveness, but he knows he’s undeserving. Instead, he mourns the loss of your friendship, the loneliness left in its wake burning him from the inside out as he cries into his hands, his tortured sobs lost to the thunder roaring above.

The doors swing open, light spilling in from the hall. He recoils at the intrusion, anger welling and threatening to spill over, his patience worn thin. A growl dies in his throat, eyes widening at the vision before him, so beautiful and precious his entire being aches with longing. Slowly, he takes in the sight of you, engraving every detail into his memory. Your windswept hair and the raindrops trickling down your face, clinging to your lashes and following the curve of your lips as you smile sweetly at him, staggering into his arms.

“Henry,” he whispers into the nape of your neck, daring to embrace you and revel in the feel of your body against his; your skin cool and soft, and your scent rich, intoxicating him. He’s certain he’s not worthy of your compassion, yet he can’t bear to turn you away, selfishly clinging to you and delighting in the fact you lean into him, your arms winding around his waist to pull him closer. My Henry, he thinks, tightening his grip, afraid he’ll lose you again if he’s not careful. “I’m sorry. I’m so so—”

You grow limp, legs buckling under your weight.

Fear engulfs him, heart lurching as he supports you, catching your hand in his. “Henry?” he whimpers, noticing how your chest heaves with each breath, and the way your brows knit in discomfort, a low groan slipping past clenched teeth. “Henry! What’s wrong? Tell me, please.”

“I ran into a bit of trouble on the way here,” you manage, laughing pitifully. “I didn’t realize . . .” Your fingers fumble to unclasp your cloak, and he swallows thickly at way lay beneath. Blood soaks your blouse—a sickening shade of red—the fabric sticking to your back.

“You didn’t realize?” he cries, incredulous. “Henry—”

“I just wanted to see you.” Your voice wavers, head lolling to the side. He calls to you, shaking you by the shoulders, desperate to keep you beside him. However, your eyes close, grief overtaking him when they don’t reopen.

“You’ll be okay,” he reassures, robes billowing around his ankles as he rushes down the corridor, gently cradling you to him. Guilt plagues him, reminding him how pathetic he is, especially for hurting you and putting your life at risk; how could he act so recklessly. You’re the light to his darkness, breathing life into his world, and he can’t accept losing you—his happiness—your love dispelling the shadows that once consumed him. He never knew a truer friend, and he’s positive there’s no one else who could play such an important role—you’re irreplaceable. There’s plenty of time to atone for his sins, tonight he needs to make sure you live to see the morning.

“I’ll take care of you, Henry. I promise.”

Time comes to an agonizing standstill.

The Lord of Shadow remains at your side, hoping and praying you don’t succumb to your wounds. He watches you closely, frequently checking your pulse and finding comfort in the steady beat of your heart while you sleep, looking deceivingly peaceful in his bed. His focus is on you, never straying from his true friend’s wellbeing despite his inner turmoil, which threatens to tear him apart at the seams. You keep him together, and again he’s at your mercy, owing you his life for all you’ve given him—his hero—his Henry. He hurt you, but you came to him and offered him forgiveness, willing to sacrifice yourself to save your friendship. How can you care about him with such ferocity, a brooding reclusive lord who’s unworthy of his title? No matter the days spent apart, you return to him, accepting him into your life without hesitance, and he can’t help welcoming you back with open arms.

“I’m so sorry,” he mutters. “I’m terrible. A worthless—”

“You’re not.”

For an excruciating second, he wonders if he imagined the glorious sound of your voice, and an anguished sob escapes him, tears clouding his vision. You stare up at him, eyes heavy with sleep, and a lazy smile on your lips. He’s dreaming, he reasons, shaking his head in disbelief. Then your hand is in his, familiar and warm; he shivers at your touch.

Gasping, he pulls away. “Y-you . . .”

“Forgive me,” you say, so understanding—so sweet—your kindness unfathomable. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“N-no,” he stammers, head spinning. “I’m sorry.” Tentatively, he reaches for your hand, fingers quivering as he entwines them with yours. “I’m sorry.” His tears come faster and harder, shamefully hot on his cheeks. He’s unable to articulate how sorry he is or how his very soul painfully throbs at the thought of hurting you—losing you—wishing he could turn back the clock. “For everything.”

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay,” you soothe. “I’m sorry, too.” Sitting upright, the blanket bunches at your waist, and he can see where the bandages peek out from beneath your shirt, the skin bruised, making him wince. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“I’m the reason you’re hurt,” he chokes out, averting his gaze. “It’s the least I can do.”

“It’s not your fault.”

You’re wrong, he wants to say; however, he refrains.

“I don’t blame you,” you continue. “Look at me, please?”

He shouldn’t. Surely, he looks foolish, a mere hostage to his emotions. Nevertheless, he spares you a glance, wondering why you regard him so kindly—lovingly even—causing his heart to flutter.

“It’s not your fault.”

Not his fault? His mind tells him differently; it’s a sea of dread and uncertainty that washes over him in waves, dragging him under. The sincerity of your words is difficult to ignore, and, in that instance, he decides to trust you, finally breaking the surface. “Henry,” he murmurs, hugging you to him, arms wrapping around you protectively as if to shield you from the world. His tears wet your hair, body trembling, and you hold him, letting him come undone in your embrace.

“I wanted to see you,” you say, setting him alight. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you suffering on your own.”

“Henry—”

“I know you’re struggling. It’s okay. I’m here.” You rub his back, resting your head on his chest. “I’ll always come when you call.”

“You’re the truest of friends, Henry. I fear I’m not worthy . . .”

“Of course, you are. I’ve never known a truer friend than you, my lord.”

“I can’t help worrying someone will steal you away. It’s selfish of me, I know. Though I feel so inferior in comparison. Sometimes I think you’re better off without me.” When he learned you met with the Lord of Corruption, his insecurities grew, fanning the flames of his envy. Why choose him over his brother? The Lord of Corruption could provide you with more than he can give. The rest of his brothers, too; they could care for you—protect you—unlike him. You’re here with him though, leaving his brother behind at a moment’s notice, and you did come when he called, eager to please. He wants to return the sentiment. “I can’t articulate how important you are to me. I . . . you’re so special, Henry.”

“No. No one compares to you.” Your praise captivates him. “All I ask is for you to trust me. Talk to me so I can help you. I accept you, all of you, and that’s not going to change. I love you as you are.”

“Love me?” he breathes.

“Yes, I love you.”

A simple but genuine vow of love. He stills, terrified he’ll faint in your arms as he hides his face, heart racing. The cynical part of him says it’s too good to be true, but he knows better—he knows you. He’s envisioned this moment, and it’s far sweeter than his fantasies, your love a beautiful feeling that sweeps him off his feet.

“Have you slept?”

He sighs, mouth unbearably dry. “No.”

“Come to bed. You should rest.”

“Henry! W-with you?”

“You say that as if it’s the first time we’ve shared a bed,” you tease.

“You’ll be the death of me.” Although he complains, the bed dips beneath his weight as he settles beside you, reaching for your hand. “Is this, okay?”

“It is.” Shifting onto your side, your hand tightens around his, a flicker of pain twisting your features.

He tenses, frowning. “Are you okay?”

“I’m all right. Better, thanks to you.”

He can see the exhaustion in your eyes, the dark circles beneath them, and the stiffness of your movements, betraying the smile you wear for him.

“Who hurt you?” he asks.

“No one you need to worry about. Not now.”

Unsurprising. You’re his Henry, besting him and his brothers on multiple occasions; anyone who chose to challenge you is a fool. Yet, your blood flowing freely, covering his hands—the ungodly stench—stayed with him. He clearly recalls your lifeless body, and how the color drained from your face, the heaviness of his heart breaking when he believed he lost you twice in one day. You looked so fragile then and do now, trusting him at your most vulnerable. Hatred for the one who dared to harm you runs deep and for himself for not protecting the one he loves.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, inhaling sharply. “I-I . . .”

“You didn’t. You won’t.” You catch his tears as they fall. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I love you, too.” His declaration is quick and clumsy but true; he’s loved you for so long.

Caging you in his arms, he hovers over you, peering down at you shyly. His body shakes with every beat of his heart, ears ringing, but he admires you, gaze affectionate and a light blush dusting your cheeks. He’s scared. He’s scared of losing you most of all, trying to muster half the courage he knows you possess. “I love you, Henry,” he says softly, clutching your hand, his lifeline. Closing the distance between you, he catches your lips in a tender kiss, the magnificence of it sending a rush of blood to his head. He forgets how to breathe, dizzy on the taste of your love, and collapses next to you, questioning if he died and ascended to the heavens. With you by his side the future is much brighter, and, for once, he looks forward to what it brings.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me leviathan #obey me mc #obey me reader #leviathan x mc #leviathan x reader #my writing

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purple-possibilities · 4 years

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Like Father, Like Son

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of prostitution, like slightly dark? Gritty maybe is a better descriptor, Naruto world taken seriously.

Length: 1888 words

Pairing: MinaKushi, Minato’s Canonical Dad x Minato’s Canonical Mom

Genre: romance, drama, slight angst (we know how these two ended up), crack taken seriously

Summary: the story of Minato’s parents, and how that influenced Minato’s decisions, and his courtship of Kushina. Inspired by this post about Minato being extra.

Like many children in ninja villages—and truly, just children in general, since the Warring States Era and the formation of the Ninja Villages—Namikaze Minato is an orphan. His father was a self-taught ninja from a small village on the boarder of Kaze no Kuni, while his mother was a kunoichi from Tsuchi.

Though Minato's parents had died when he was young, he was old enough to remember them. He was old enough to understand why his parents were forced to hide away from their home countries, old enough to know when and why he had to hide and lie.

He was old enough to understand why tousan had to escape in the night while he and kaachan had to flee in the cover of tousan's sacrifice distraction.

He was old enough to understand why he and kaachan had to lie about their ninja training when they immigrated into Konoha with forged papers so realistic that not even Konoha's infamous T&I, or their renowned Yamanaka clan could tell the difference.

He was old enough to understand why kaachan was forced to work in the way she did, why strange people would spend an hour or two, or sometimes even the whole night behind the door to his mother's room, why she made him leave when some specific visitors stopped by, why he eventually came home to find her laying in bed, blooms of red and shocks of shiny white against her cold, still skin.

He was old enough to remember it all—to want to change it all, one day—but his mind would always take him back to one specific memory.

His most precious memory of all.

The love in his parents' eyes.

Minato could recite the story word for word, with how much his kaachan told it—how much more she would cling to the words after tousan was gone.

Kaachan was from Iwagakure, having sworn her life to the Tsuchikage and the Tsuchi no Kuni daimyou as a kunoichi of the Rock. Touchan truly had no allegiance—his skills had come from a talent with chakra and a necessity for self-defense.

So when touchan had seen a group of Suna-nin abducting a woman, he did what any good man would do.

He saved her.

Touchan had followed after the Suna-nin in secret, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Touchan was not sure he could defeat the two Suna-nin on his own, but he knew that with the help of the right environment and a few tricks, he could come out victorious.

With his wind chakra aiding him in both speed and his strikes, touchan caught the first nin completely off guard. As the second nin—the one holding kaachan—noticed his partner listing to the right—before the dead body could hit the ground—touchan had just as swiftly eliminated the other, catching kaachan in his arms.

Unwilling to linger at the scene, touchan carried kaachan away, until it was safe for them to stop. When touchan untied kaachan's binds, she couldn't help herself.

Kaachan pulled touchan into a kiss.

It was in that moment that kaachan fell in love with touchan. Both were alone in this cruel ninja world. The shinobi nations were in the midst of the second Great Ninja War. People were dying left and right, hundreds every day.

Who would miss one kunoichi? Who would recognise one self-taught man from the edges of Kaze no Kuni?

Who would give up on the chance of happiness, love, and family, when the world had taken so much from them?

He remembers asking his parents how they knew they were in love after just one meeting.

His mother always answered, “A selfless act of kindness in a cruel world is a rare thing to be treasured. When you find that, especially when you're alone and hopeless, it's easier to leave behind the entirety of your harsh, unfriendly life for even just a single moment with such a person."

When Minato asked his touchan, his father always answered, "There is not much kindness in this world, not much any single person alone can do to fix that. We work hard, we may try to help others, but that's not going to get any one man very far. Kaachan has a fire in her, a toughness, a resilliance which cannot be crushed. She is fierce in her mind, body, and soul. As a man forced to grow and survive on his own, I know just how valuable, and how rare those traits are. I had desperately craved for companionship, for a family, and your mother has the strength and resilliance to ensure our story will be longer than most."

At the time, Minato didn't truly understand what either of his parents meant. But as an orphan, as a boy all alone, who had witnessed the worst of the world and wanted to make it better, who had his world stripped from him in a place that should have been safe, with the weight of his parents sacrifices on his mind and the desperate urge for a family once more...

Minato fell in love.

All he knew about love was what he'd seen from his parents. With no advice, no one to turn to, Minato did the only thing he could:

He emulated the fond, much told memory of how his parents fell in love with the percotions, strong-willed, resilliant Uzumaki Kushina.

And like a blessing from beyond, like a gift from his absent parents, Uzumaki Kushina—who had only ever glared and grumbled at Minato before then—had fallen in love with him.

It hadn't been hard to use the shadow-clone jutsu and then henge them into Kumo-nin. It wasn't hard to find Kushina all alone, after tricking the ANBU who followed her with a genjutsu laid out by Uchiha Fugaku's sharingan.

It wasn't hard for Minato to gently disable (but not disperse!) his own clones, to catch Kushina in his arms, to take her to "safety" (as if she were in any danger at all).

It wasn't hard to attract her heart and capture it—not with his boyish good looks, his patience, and most damning of all—

Kushina's lonliness and desire for connection.

With her home village destroyed and Mito-sama recently deceased, there wasn't a better time for him to put his ploy in motion. Maybe to a civilian that might seem callous, but to a ninja, that was just smart planning.

What did it matter if he was using her grief and loneliness to his advantage? His company would heal that for her anyways.

(Besides, it was his grief and lonliness which drove him to do it).

Minato would grow up to be a lot of things: a hero and a curse, a soldier and a leader, a husband and—just briefly—a father.

Minato would not go on to share the story of how he got Kushina to love him with his son. Minato would instead go on to emulate his father, sacrificing himself in the hopes of giving his child a shot at a better life.

But that was for later. In this moment, in the shoddy comfort of the bachelor apartment allotted to orphaned ninja-in-training, Minato put the pieces of his plan together.

Minato was old enough to retain memories of his life before Konoha, before his parents were taken from him, but only one memory stood out.

And so he remembered.

And so he took the past and made it his present with dreams of the future on his mind.

Fun Facts!

I imagine Minato's mom to be blonde like he, Naruto, and Deidara are, while his dad has red hair similar to Kushina and Gaara. His mother's hair was smooth and straight while his father's was spikes like Minato and Naruto.

The ninja who killed Minato's father were sent after his mother for desertion. Another Iwa-nin had caught sight of her and reported back to the Tsuchikage. The nin were sent to kill Minato's parents but were instructed to bring Minato back alive in case he was useful. I kind of puts Minato's massacre of those thousand Iwa-nin during the Third War into a new light...

Fugaku only agreed to help Minato because when he initially refused, Minato accused Fugaku of not being able to do it. Fugaku, like a certain other Uchiha we know, was desperate to prove himself. Minato didn't tell Fugaku about his plan, he just dared Fugaku to trick the ANBU.

Minato had to practice with his clones for weeks to be able to fight them without them "popping." He ended up having to use a seal on them to make them more resilliant. It was his first time working with fuinjutsu, and what sparked his love for it. Kushina's interest only heightened his own.

Yes, Minato's dad only went along with kaachan's feelings because he was lonely and she was strong. Relationships have been built on less. He was a very pragmatic man. He did genuinely fall in love with her though.

When Minato and his mom immigrated to Konoha, she had to pretend to be a civilian with no ninja training to avoid suspicion, and be offered asylum as a Hi no Kuni refugee. As a foreigner (even one posing as a Fire Country citizen) and with the growing number of refugees, it was hard for her to find a job, so she became a prostitute. She was killed by a nin who was triggered and experienced a panic attack/flashback. He fled the scene after, and ended up letting himself get killed during his next mission. The case of her murder remains unsolved—not that the police did much investigating. There were more pressing issues to deal with at the time.

The harsh life Minato lived—as a fugitive and then a refugee and orphan—is what led him to want to be Hokage. He wanted to save people from the pain he and his parents suffered.

Kushina's spirit (and declaration to be Hokage) is what attracted Minato to her. His father's words of finding someone strong and stubborn enough to survive in this cruel ninja world is what made him decide she was the one for him.

Kushina is dumb. So dumb. Didn't catch on even once. Fell for the plot hook, line, and sinker. Even when, years later, Minato shared the story of how his parents met with her, Kushina did not piece his plan together.

Due to Minato using "Kumo"-nin to carry out the abduction, he made their already poor reputation in Konoha worse. This was further exasterbated when real Kumo-nin actually tried to kidnap Hinata.

Minato sacrafied himself that night when Kurama was unleashed on the village, because all he could think of in that moment was the way his father sacrificed himself to save Minato and his mom. It clouded his judgement from more logical options, like, I don't know, not casting a suicide jutsu to trap half a tailed beast in his minutes old son and his soon to be dead body.

Kushina was delirious from pain meds, having an tailed beast extracted from her, and her own hotheadedness. It was a bad mix.

In the end, Naruto learnt that rescuing a girl is the way to her heart, following the Namikaze family tradition of courtship.

AN: So, uh... This got darker than I thought. The post that inspired this was so cute too. I wrote this a few weeks ago on a night I was too busy for this bs and yet it would not let me rest until it was released. I wrote this after being challenged prompted by @books-n-guns, as crack is my apparent specialty (we been knew, I know. After the LeeKaguya fic I think I solidified my place in this fandom). I hope you enjoyed it!

#namikaze minato #uzumaki kushina #minakushi #naruto #just a little piece i wrote #sibi writes

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politicalmamaduck · 5 years

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It was not Death, for I stood up

Emperor Palpatine lied on Exegol; Rey is not his granddaughter. Rey sets off on a journey, led by Obi-Wan Kenobi, to bring Ben Solo back from the World Between Worlds. A 2020 @reylofanfictionanthology For One Is Both and Both Are One In Love gift for CwenPhy; read it on AO3 here.

....

Rey, these are your first steps.

The words echoed over and over again in her mind.

She had never forgotten them since the first time she heard them in the basement of Maz’s castle.

She had heard them again on Exegol, when all seemed lost, when her body and mind seemed broken.

It seemed to her that her journey was complete; the Emperor was defeated.

And so was she, until Ben saved her. He brought her back to life, sacrificing his own in the process.

It seemed to her those should have been her final steps. The same voice that told her about her first steps had said so.

These are your final steps, Rey. Rise, and take them.

But instead, she had to take her first steps again anew each day. Each day, she had to force herself to get out of bed, to move, to keep going.

How could she live with the other half of her soul gone, sacrificed so that she could live?

How could she bear the weight of both her true and assumed family names without him by her side?

She had to live, though, for him, so that his sacrifice would not be in vain.

And so she re-started an old moisture farm on Tatooine and became Shmi Skywalker’s great-granddaughter-in-law.

She hoped that maybe, someday, she would hear the voices again. Learn who they were in life, learn from them.

But everything, or everyone, had been silent since Exegol.

Bring back the balance, Rey, as I did.

Anakin Skywalker truly was a legend on Tatooine. They remembered him as the hero he was, not as the monster he became. Rey heard old stories of an infamous podrace, of the Hero With No Fear, of a lost and wounded young man who went out into the desert and returned with his mother’s body.

No one mentioned Darth Vader. To the people who eked out a living on the edges of the desert and Tatooine’s wretched cities, it was as if the Empire had never truly existed, save for an inconvenience that drove up prices once Luke Skywalker got involved with the Rebellion.

These people loved Luke, too. And still mourned Beru and Owen Lars, whose farm she had taken for her own. There were even a few who still remembered Shmi, over fifty years later.

“I don’t suppose Luke told you about Beru’s blue milk cheese recipe, did he?” one wizened older woman asked her at the market one afternoon.

“No,” Rey replied. “No, he did not.”

There was so much Luke never told her. So much Leia never told her. So much she needed to struggle to find on her own. The truth of her parentage. How to move on with her life. How to just be, when she didn’t need to struggle for survival.

She would keep learning, keep trying to find answers. For Ben, she had to. Even when she wanted so desperately to give up, to bury herself in the sand the way she buried his family’s lightsabers, she knew she had to find the strength to keep going for him.

Sometimes, she even dreamed she could find a way to bring him back. But his body was gone--there was nothing left for her to heal, to grasp, to cling to and into which she could coax back life.

The Force bond was as silent as the voices, for the first time in over a year. She missed him. Missed his formidable presence, a protective shadow at her back. Even when they hated each other, they were connected in a way no one else could understand.

She felt that loneliness down to her bones now. The nights were quiet, and cold, much like Jakku, but the feeling was different now that she had known love, known what it was like to hold someone in her arms and kiss them.

She wanted him. She wanted to give him everything, all of herself, and to receive everything, all of himself from him in turn.

She wondered how Shmi had borne the pain, the loneliness, before she met Cliegg Lars.

Perhaps she could learn that, too, by finding something of Shmi’s upon which to meditate.

She went to bed that night clutching her lightsaber and wishing desperately it was Ben’s back.

With your might, find the light, Rey.

Just as Rey struggled to step out of bed each morning, so too did she struggle with the rage boiling inside her.

Her grandfather, evil incarnate, wanted her to give in to that rage.

She would not, could not.

But that did not mean it wasn’t still there.

The more she learned about Shmi Skywalker, the angrier she became. A slave, forced to bear her fatherless son alone. She was taken from her family--her first and only true family--and brutalized and murdered for her body’s nutrients.

Thinking of Shmi made her think of the few women who lived to middle age she had known. On Jakku, no one had a long life expectancy.

She remembered the elder scavenger woman on Jakku at Niima Outpost, a rarity, and another victim of the desert’s harsh whims. She had never known her name; all Rey knew was how hard she worked, and how much she had never wanted to become that woman, aged and having never left Jakku. She didn’t know how the woman had survived for so long.

And Leia, who too had suffered. Everyone she loved was gone by the end of her life, and she did not live to see her son’s redemption, to know the truth of his heart.

Rey wept thinking she could never ask Leia’s blessing for her relationship with her son.

And then she ignited her ‘saber and lashed out through her forms, wishing to destroy everything that had hurt these women, wanting to strike her grandfather down, wanting to rid the galaxy of slavers and scum like Unkar Plutt, wanting to feel it crash and burn and---

She deactivated her ‘saber and sank to her knees in the sand.

Breathe in, breathe out.

She closed her eyes, and sank into meditation, willing her heart rate to slow, to let her boiling anger dissipate, pushing the feelings down and letting them evaporate.

You are not alone, Rey.

“Be with me,” she intoned with every breath. Breathe in, breathe out. “Be with me.”

Ben did not answer.

Someone else did, however.

“You are not alone, Rey,” the voice said, just as it had on Exegol. This voice was rich and deep, signifying a powerful Force user in Rey’s mind.

“Be with me,” she asked the voice again.

“The oppression of the Sith will never return, Rey,” the voice answered. “You fought as a true Jedi. Your grandparents are proud.”

“I killed my grandfather,” she replied, hastily scrambling to stand up with her eyes closed, so as to not break the vision, but as if to show the mysterious Jedi the truth of her words with her body, open and honest.

“No, Rey,” the voice continued. “Palpatine was not your grandfather. He lied to you, as he lied to us all. Your grandfather has always been with you, watching over you. When Ben told you your parents were no one who sold you off for drinking money, what he told you was true--from a certain point of view. The Force shows us what it wishes us to see. Glimpses, fragments, pieces of the truth that form a cohesive whole over time. The Jedi Order’s arrogance was its undoing. We have tried to learn and atone while in the netherworld of the Force. Your journey is not over, Rey. You will see your grandfather soon. You must find the balance, Rey. You are not alone.”

The voice faded away. Rey’s eyes opened to see the suns setting once more, though it had been high noon when she started her forms.

She wept until she fell asleep, her heart broken once more by Palpatine’s lies.

Alone, never have you been.

Rey had much to think about when she awoke the next morning with swollen eyes.

Snoke had lied. He did not possess the power to create a bond such as hers and Ben’s. Rey knew it to the depth of her bones even before the Emperor expressed surprise that she and Ben were bonded, a dyad in the Force, on Exegol. And Snoke was Palpatine’s puppet, or Palpatine himself; Rey was unsure which, and wasn’t sure that it mattered, a touch of bitterness overcoming her heart.

She had been lied to, again, and believed those lies, letting them take root and poison her soul.

Only Ben had ever been truly honest with her. She knew his soul as well as she knew her own. He hated lying as much as she did.

They both deserved the truth of their family legacies.

But if Palpatine and Snoke had lied, and Ben only saw a fragment of the truth, who were her parents, truly?

And who was the grandfather she would soon meet?

The voice left her with far more questions than answers. It seemed to be a habit with Jedi. Rey sighed, and began her daily routine.

She checked the vaporators for the water harvest. She sprinted from one to the other, making sure to get her heart rate up in a healthy manner. She cooked a small meal. She stretched and went through her forms, peaceably this time. She made a list of all the supplies she would need when she went into Anchorhead that weekend.

She sat down inside her small home, where it was dark, cool, and peaceful, and sank into meditation, her legs crossed, her eyes closed, her breathing steady, her heart and palms open.

Be with me, she thought.

You left me with more questions than answers. I appreciate your help. You saved my life on Exegol.

But so did Ben. I miss him. I need him.

“Yes, need him, you do,” another voice replied. This voice sounded old, wizened.

“Two halves of one whole, you are,” the voice continued.

“But how can I get him back? He disappeared,” Rey asked.

“Help you, we will. Show you, we will. Much energy it takes to appear from what grows beyond,” the Jedi said.

“Thank you,” Rey replied. “Who are you? Who is my grandfather?”

“Patience, Rey,” the voice answered. Rey imagined them stamping their foot, or tapping a walking stick on the ground. “Appear to you, he will. Alone, never have you been.”

“That’s what you told me on Exegol,” she said. “I feel so alone, though.” Her voice broke.

“Strong with the Force, you are. Alone, you will not be. Return to you, your soulmate will.”

The voice disappeared, and Rey opened her eyes once more, feeling as though she had been submerged in water and pulled back out. Her skin was clammy and cold, and once more, the sun was setting though she felt she had been meditating for mere moments as opposed to hours.

Every Jedi that ever lived lives in you now.

The next morning dawned, and Rey felt hopeful for the first time since Exegol. She longed to speak with the voices again.

Patience, she reminded herself, just as the elder voice had the day before.

She went about her daily routine as usual, taking care in each of her tasks. She would honor Ben and the voices by doing things the right way, by being patient and not giving in to her anger. She breathed, and concentrated, and would build a life for herself on Tatooine until she could get Ben back from wherever he had gone.

She could, and would, get him back. He deserved to live just as much as she did.

Be with me, she intoned, sitting cross-legged in the quiet of the farm’s dark back room as usual. Her palms were open on her knees.

She breathed, relaxed, allowed her heart and mind to be open, though her feelings centered on Ben.

Rey, a voice called to her. It was the voice from Maz’s castle, the voice that told her about her first and final steps.

It was a voice that sounded safe, a voice that she had somehow known all her life.

She didn’t know what to say first. Are you really my grandfather? Why would Palpatine lie? How can I bring Ben back from the dead? How can I pass on what I have learned? Why was I chosen?

Patience, Rey, the voice told her once more.

“You will have the answers to all of these questions, and more, in time. Yes, you are my granddaughter, and not Palpatine’s. Since Exegol, you have the strength of every Jedi. You must seek the World Between Worlds and bring Ben back to this one. Be wary, however--you must return to this time and place, and resist changing fate. Time passes strangely there. Always in motion is the future.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she answered, her voice sounding melodic and resonant, as if she were not in a small chamber on a farm on Tatooine.

A moment passed. Rey took the opportunity. “Who are you? What happened to our family?” she asked.

“My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he answered. “I was known to Luke as Ben.”

“Ben is named after you,” she said, her lips curling into a smile. “I thought during your time, the Jedi were supposed to be celibate, and Ben’s grandfather broke all the rules.”

Obi-Wan laughed.

“Anakin did break many rules. We were to form no attachments, to avoid the fear of loss. This may have been interpreted by some to impose a vow of celibacy, however, no such dictate was part of the Jedi Code. I loved someone very much, though not everyone in Mandalorian space loved her as I did, or agreed with her politics. I would have left the Order for her, if she had asked it of me. But she would never have asked, as she had her own duties to attend to. She had a great vision for Mandalore’s future. One of her sisters raised our son as her own. You still have family on Mandalore. I am truly sorry that we could not tell you sooner. But I have always been with you, just as the Force has always been with you.”

“I have family on Mandalore?” she asked, excitement rising in her voice.

“You do, though the population was devastated by the Imperial remnants after the war. Much of the Mandalorian way of life is gone, practiced only by those in secret covens across the galaxy, and they do not take kindly to outsiders or Force users.” Obi-Wan replied, sadness evident in his voice.

“I would like to learn and help,” Rey said, firmly, with hope rising in her heart once again. “But I need to bring Ben back first.”

“Indeed,” Obi-Wan said. “Leia’s sacrifice must not be in vain. She saved her son, in more ways than one. When she became one with the Force, she gave her life force so that he might live. But the Force works in mysterious ways. You must find him in the World Between Worlds. It is a vergence in the Force, a place where everything exists, and nothing. What is within, is without. There are many paths there, and heed my words--there are doors to different times and places, and different realities abound. You have been tempted by the dark side, but this is a temptation of a different kind.”

“I will not fail, Grandfather. How do I enter this World Between Worlds?”

“Only the pure of heart may enter. Two of the entrances have been lost or destroyed, on Mortis and Lothal; others, remain undiscovered. It seems that Ben disappeared into a waypoint or a vergence to the World Between Worlds on Exegol.”

“I don’t want to go back there,” Rey said, shuddering as if icy fingers had trailed down her spine. The shadows on Exegol had seemed alive. Perhaps they had been alive, of a sort, buoyed by Palpatine’s dark side powers.

Rey sighed. She should have seen through him as she had seen through Snoke. Was she so desperate for a family, for a place to belong, that she was eager to believe manipulations and shadows from a malevolent Emperor long thought to be deceased?

“Now is not the time for self-doubt, Rey,” her true grandfather said. “We all were deceived by Palpatine. He was the Supreme Chancellor of the Republic for nearly fifteen years before he was unmasked as a Sith Lord. Luke was right when he said the Jedi Order made many mistakes. But you and Ben can bring balance to the Force once more. Travel once more to Ahch-To, where you found answers before. The first Jedi Temple will bring you answers again.” Her grandfather Obi-Wan’s voice faded.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” she answered, feeling his presence fade away as the binary suns set once more. She would not rest early that night; she would pack her things and make ready for a journey the next day before she forced her mind to become quiet.

She would see Ben again. She would bring him home, wherever home would be for him. Grandfather Obi-Wan was right; Leia’s sacrifice would not be in vain. She and Rey brought Ben back to the light, back to life, and now, he would live that life to the fullest.

BB-8 noticed Rey’s improved spirits immediately.

“We’re going on a journey,” she told him. “We’re going to the first Jedi Temple, and we’re going to bring Ben back. Will you help me?”

The little round droid beeped affirmatively, chirping about matching his piece of the map to Ahch-To to R2-D2’s the year previous.

It felt so long ago, Rey thought. She had been a different person then, one who hardly knew what the journey ahead of her might hold.

For now, she would concentrate on one day, one task at a time.

First, she would travel to Ahch-To. Next, she would find the entrance to the World Between Worlds. Then, she would bring Ben back. After that, he could help her find her family on Mandalore.

She nodded as she recited the steps in her head. She had always been a quick learner. There had been many mistakes--fried droids, scars and blood, nights spent with no food--along the way, but Rey was proud of how far she’d come since Jakku, when she scavenged and learned as much as she could.

She would keep learning, with Ben by her side. One day, one task at a time.

She went to sleep that night with a smile for what felt like the first time ever. She knew that with Ben by her side, she would go to sleep with a smile on her face in the future.

The Force surrounds you, Rey.

The binary suns rose, and Ahch-To beckoned. It was easy to remember the way in the Falcon, which she vastly preferred flying to Kylo’s stolen TIE fighter. So much had happened since then. She had been ready to give up the fight; now, she sought to reclaim the reason why she survived that fight at all.

The oceans were as beautiful as ever, the island lush and green.

Rey landed the Falcon where she had on her first visit to Ahch-To. She wound her way up the stone steps, and into the original Jedi Temple. It was warm and welcoming to her.

She sat down in front of the Prime Jedi mosaic and began to meditate. She felt no fear or anger; she let go of her pain, of all the emotions she had tried to tamp down on Tatooine.

She would not deny who she was. She was a scavenger from Jakku who defeated the Emperor; no more, no less.

She remembered Luke’s lessons from the year prior. How far she had come, and how far she still had to go.

Pass on what you have learned, she heard the wizened elder Jedi say in her mind. We are what they grow beyond. That is the burden of all masters.

The Force surrounds you, Rey, another voice said, just as it had on Exegol. The voice was young, passionate, intense.

It felt as if the room were spinning around her as she sank deeper into her meditation, focusing on letting her feelings go, reaching out with the Force.

Rey opened her eyes. The Prime Jedi mosaic was illuminated, glowing from within and without. All around her, previously invisible markings and carvings etched on the stone walls appeared. Circles and lines stretched up and around her, glowing gold in the darkness.

Rey breathed, and reached out her hand. The stone shimmered around her; arcane marks appeared to light up around a doorway that had not been visible previously.

The doorway beckoned.

Rey stepped through, and entered the World Between Worlds.

Let it guide you--as it guided us.

The World Between Worlds glimmered with incalculable starlight. All around her, doors and pathways shimmered and seemed to pulse with light, eager to be opened and share a glimpse of what might be, what had been, or what was yet to come with her.

“Be with me,” she said, and trusted her path forward. She took one step, then another. The doorway through which she entered seemed to pulsate and shift behind her as she moved forward through luminous space.

Paths curled upward and over; paths no human being could hope to trod. Those paths, Rey knew, were meant for another.

As she stepped forward, she heard echoes of voices. Some, she had never heard before, and she knew they did not belong to her, just as the curving paths were meant for someone else.

Different shapes appeared in what seemed to be the sky, but they weren’t constellations. Rey saw a Loth-wolf, and a serpent. Again, she knew they were not meant for her. She had no connections to a snake slithering through a swamp planet, or the plains of Lothal.

She trusted that she would find her way to Ben. Rey told Obi-Wan, her grandfather, that she would not fail. She would find Ben somewhere in this maze. Every step she took reverberated in the silence and rippled as if she were walking on water. She could not feel the ground beneath her feet, but trusted that it was there.

As she continued to walk along the star-soaked paths, she heard echoes of the voices she heard on Exegol again.

Feel the Force flow through you, Rey.

Let it lift you.

Rise, Rey.

We stand behind you, Rey.

Rise in the Force.

In the heart of a Jedi lies their strength.

“In the heart of a Jedi lies their strength,” she repeated to herself. She stopped and placed a hand to her heart, feeling its beat. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply once more, reaching deep within herself to her heart beat.

She remembered Ben, remembered his words. She remembered the Emperor’s shock on Exegol at the truth of their relationship, beyond even just the bond.

A dyad in the Force. Two that are one.

“Ben,” she said, willing herself to feel his presence, the tether connecting them body, mind, and soul. She had felt empty since his disappearance since their bond had gone silent. But that did not mean he was not still part of her. He was. She knew it with the certainty only the Force could provide.

They had been brought together for a reason--to defeat the Emperor, to bring balance to the Force.

She would bring him back; she needed him just as the Force needed him, needed her, needed them both.

“Ben,” she said, focusing on how alive she felt when he brought her back on Exegol. How it felt to kiss him, to hold him in her arms.

She wanted him. She wanted more. She wanted all of him. His failures, his weaknesses, his strengths, his passion, his love.

“Ben,” she said, reaching out once more, and taking a step forward, though her eyes were still closed, her left hand pressed to her chest, her right outstretched.

She opened her eyes, and broke into a jog. She could now hear a bird soaring and swooping somewhere above her--a convor, she noted, but she kept moving forward, knowing once more that the convor was not meant for her, just as the serpent and Loth-wolf were not.

At last, she reached a fork in the pathway. Reaching out for Ben once more, she stepped to the right to follow the second path. A second path, for a second chance at life, she thought, felt fitting.

She followed the second path for what could have been hours or even mere minutes. Rey could not say how long she had spent in the World Between Worlds. It did not matter to her. She would do whatever it took to complete her mission, to bring Ben home.

She began to see the outline of a door, another portal, in the distance. She broke into a run, never doubting her steps. Upon reaching the rounded door, she noted beautiful calligraphy in what looked to be an ancient script surrounding its edges. She longed to read it, to trace the letters with her hands. Perhaps someday she would, but for now, she had to find Ben. She took a deep breath, and stepped through the doorway.

She saw Ben, laying dead on the stone as he had on Exegol before he disappeared.

Behind him, a monstrous being stood, menacing and towering over his lifeless body. It was a figure she had only ever seen on a Dejarik table; a Molator, a creature of myth and legend.

The Molator looked from Ben to her as if puzzled by her presence.

Rey did not hesitate.

“Who are you?” she asked, standing proud and tall, her back straight, her right hand near her lightsaber if need be. She was unafraid.

“I am Grimtaash,” the Molator answered. “I am the guardian of the Alderaanian royal family, their defense against traitors. Who are you?”

Rey had never known that detail. She smiled softly to herself. She would have to ask Ben about the Alderaanian myths and legends later.

“I am Rey,” she answered. “Rey, of Jakku, granddaughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and of the Mandalorians. I mean you no harm; I am no traitor to Alderaan. I come to save his life.”

“Well met, Rey of Jakku,” Grimtaash answered, nodding at her. “Will you guard the last prince of Alderaan with your life?”

“I will,” she replied, feeling the Force flow through her.

“Very well,” Grimtaash said. “I could not guard him in life, for Alderaan has been destroyed. But in death, I guarded him well. I shall return to guard the rest of House Organa.”

He took one last look at Ben, bowing low, and turned away from Rey, beginning to fade.

“Grimtaash! Wait just a moment,” Rey said, hoping her request would not be too late.

Though faded, the Molator turned back to Rey.

“Yes, Rey of Jakku, granddaughter of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Satine Kryze?”

Satine Kryze. Now Rey had a name for her Mandalorian grandmother. Her heart leapt at the thought. But she had to wait. Patience, as all the Jedi were so fond of saying.

“When you return to House Organa, please tell Leia--excuse me, Princess Leia--” she added hurriedly, hoping not to offend the ancient creature. “Please tell her her son loved her. And his father. And will you ask her for her blessing for us?”

Grimtaash bowed his head. “This, I shall do for you, as well, Rey of Jakku. See to it that you guard him well, that you both earn your rights and responsibilities as the heirs of Alderaan.”

“Thank you, Grimtaash,” she said, placing her hand to her heart and inclining her head to him, as well.

The legendary guardian disappeared, and Rey knelt before Ben.

Rise.

Rey put her hand on Ben’s chest, where his heartbeat should have been, resisting the urge to stroke his face and hair. There would be time enough for that later.

“Be with me,” she said, willing the Force to flow through her, to create a heartbeat where there was none.

“Be with me,” she said, breathing deeply, imagining his lungs filling with air and releasing it as hers did.

“Be with me,” she said, envisioning their Force bond, how their minds were completely open to the other unless they chose to close the door, to construct mental walls and barriers.

“Be with me,” she said, imagining a soft bed on a blue and green planet, the windows open and sunlight streaming in, Ben and herself tangled in the sheets, at peace and in love.

“Be with me,” she said, remembering how they fought Snoke and Palpatine side by side, more powerful united, together, than they were apart.

“Be with me,” she said, thinking of all the tears she shed on Jakku and Tatooine, aching in her loneliness and how she would never have to be alone again now.

Now, with her soulmate by her side, the other half of their bond, a dyad in the Force.

“Be with me,” she said, and Ben Organa-Solo opened his eyes.

“Rey?” he asked, and it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Her eyes filled with tears once more, for joy, for the sheer emotion, for the amount of energy she had just expended. She was exhausted, and she still had to lead them home.

But for now, all she could say in reply was “Ben,” as she reached for him and kissed him the way she had on Exegol.

His hands were in her hair, then tracing down her back, feeling her as if to ensure she was real after all.

They were both weeping, laughing, clinging to each other and to life.

She helped him up off the stony slab, and holding his hand in her own, stepped back through the open portal into the World Between Worlds.

The Force will be with you. Always.

Naboo’s Lake Country was everything Rey Kenobi dreamed it would be, the perfect setting for a wedding. The water shimmered, rippling in the summer sunshine. The breeze was refreshing, caressing the skin softly and gently like a silk gown.

Their family stood, watching. Rey could see many of them for the first time, after telling Ben all about the voices she had heard. They still had so much to learn, so much research to do, so many planets to visit. But now, they had the rest of their lives to do so, their family with them in spirit by their sides.

Anakin and Obi-Wan stood next to each other, Anakin tall and strong, Obi-Wan wise and knowing. With them, two women more beautiful than Rey could possibly have imagined. Padme Amidala, Ben’s grandmother, the former queen and Senator of Naboo, was petite like Leia, with flowers entwined in her hair. Her smile was radiant, as was Rey’s grandmother’s. Satine Kryze, duchess of Mandalore, was tall and proud, blonde and fair. She too was dressed as befitting her station.

Next to Padme Amidala stood another handsome couple, regal in bearing and kindly smiling, Bail and Breha Organa. Behind them stood Grimtaash, towering over all the humans.

Leia, Han, and Luke were nearby, Leia beaming with pride and Luke with his usual sardonic smirk. Han winked at them, his face brimming with pride.

Rey wore a dress that looked as if it were covered in stars, just like the World Between Worlds. Ben stood by her side, as he would for the rest of their lives.

#reylo #reylo fanfiction anthology #rffa writers #for one is both and both are one in love #tros fix it #fan fiction #my writing

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herocarved-a · 4 years

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it's actually naturally winter this time, from what they've heard from anna & kristoff - but that doesn't seem to make the cold any less severe. it's their own private time in their shared quarters, where sora's unsurprisingly taken all the blankets & pillows - all for one, which riku's curled around himself to keep warm while journalling. once he's done, he shifts from the study desk seat, burying himself in the mattress with his love - & opens his arms to engulf him in blankets, too. "better?"

@dawnled

the hero of all the worlds; a guardian of light; the boy who sacrifices all that he is - life, heart, light - to produce the miracles of wishes made true --- && clearly, a thief of blankets && pillows both, in his quest to make a nest of warmth after a day of playing in a natural arendelle winter.

&& still, he whines his discontent && loneliness with an almost gleeful edge as he peers from beneath his covers at the young man still writing so diligently in his journal. sora doesn’t understand his friends && their desire to write, write, write... but maybe that’s because he’s always had someone else to do it for him?

still, his patience frays to a threadbare mess by the time riku tucks the journal away from prying eyes (although, to his credit, sora’s never touched it without permission && never looked within the hallowed pages so full of his beloved’s thoughts && feelings && secrets) && comes to join him in the bed. it comes oh - so naturally for him to press close, to share the blankets && pillows that he’s arranged just so, without so much as a thought of remorse for all his hard work undone.

“much better.”

he responds with a small laugh of delight, a smile casting warm light into those already bright eyes of his; his nose finds the crook of riku’s neck for a moment, where he huffs warm breath against cool collarbones, before he’s stretching in those arms he loves so much to reach his lips. && although he groans just a little at how cold riku feels, despite the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, he doesn’t regret the press of their lips in the least.

“thank you for today,” the boy made of light settles back into the warm fold of those arms with a little sigh, head tucked once more beneath the chin of his love, his ear perched almost close enough that he can hear the healed heartbeat of his dearly beloved.

his last memories of arendelle are iced over in the eternal chill of winter that numbed his fingers, his toes, his nose, his ears --- that left ice in his eyelashes, && made each breath burn with a chill unlike he’s ever felt before. he didn’t want to come back; the laughter of his friends about his discomfort remains a festering wound against his heart --- && his smile slips away, if only for a moment, as he remembers the unfairness of his last adventure in this place.

but then it passes && he so cheekily presses a kiss to those collarbones, to the crook of his neck, to any bare flesh his lips can touch. beneath the weight of the covers && surrounded in the growing warmth of his guiding light, he forgets the belittlement && new memories take root.

--- && if his gentle, featherlight kisses become playful little nips against the pale flesh, can anyone really blame him, when his laughter remains so pure && his love so obvious?

#dawnled #ic .#answered .#starter .#v . post kh3 .

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illkickyourbass · 5 years

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henlo. have an expanded Shining Quest AU.

to release some steam from my kettle of stress, have some noodling about a Shining Quest AU that’s less April Fool’s, more high-stakes high-fantasy, but still every bit as tropey, stuffed with otome trappings, and Yay Music as we’ve come to expect from Utapri

As with the last venture into this AU: not explicitly romantic, non-gendered MC, SFW, and mild CW for arranged marriages. I don’t know HEAVENS (plus they didn’t get canon classes for Shining Quest), so we’ll just be covering STARISH and Quartet Night!

It’s a fairly typical setup -- there’s a fantasy kingdom, there’s a useless king, there’s a princess (Haruka) known for her talent for music composition, there’s a court of nobles and royals, all that usual hey. Magic is cast by mastery of the arts, whether that be visual, performing, musical, written, you name it.

There’s a looming threat of some sort of demon king or similar fantasy anime bullshit that the royals and nobles of the kingdom are tasked with keeping at bay. We’re also gonna shamelessly borrow a detail from the pinnacle of wasted potential, the movie Rock and Rule -- there’s a plot point about how a demon can only be forced back with “the magic of one voice, one heart, one song....but there is no one.” Here in this ‘verse, that’s a longstanding prophecy the status quo has taken to mean there’s no-one who’ll ever be able to defeat the demon king.

The solution that’s been in place for as long as anyone can remember is a royal or noble family offers one of their heirs as a sacrifice to be married off and sate the demon king for that generation-- the “devil’s bride” or “devil’s groom” or “devil’s betrothed.” This goes pretty badly for the heirs, of course, but it offers great prestige to the house that does it.

You, the player, would get to pick what RPG class you fill (which would affect some dialogue trees and the expertise you demonstrate) and what art you use to cast magic. You are a member of the royal guard tasked with Haruka’s protection, but you’ve stumbled into the knowledge before it goes public: she’s the next devil’s bride! You go to Tomochika, a hired hand to the royals who’s been dating Haru in secret, and you begin to hatch a plan to bust Haruka out of the arrangement.

Your route’s then determined by which of the boys you seek out as your other co-conspirator.

Otoya is a fellow member the Royal Guard on Haruka protection detail. He’s equally resented and well-liked for his dauntless optimism and natural talent with swordsmanship, but it’s no secret that he’s not someone you’ll be trusting for expert strategy. He’s had the chance to become friendly with Haruka, and he’s ready to fight tooth and nail for her freedom! He’s classed as a warrior, who casts light-element attacks and healing spells with his music.

Masato was raised from birth to become an ideal Devil’s Groom, since the Hijirikawa nobles are falling out of favor in the courts (spurred in part from their takedown of the Kurosakis backfiring on them). But Masato has rejected that he (or Mai) will ever go along with that plan, instead intently training in swordsmanship and fusing music and fiber arts to make enchanted fabrics that work like armor. Quietly, he has kept a very ambitious goal in mind: outright defeat the demon king and end the legacy of the devil’s betrothed.

Natsuki is a natural genius at using both his voice and viola to communicate with creatures and summoning the cutest ones to absolutely wreck house. Though a humble farmboy who’s kind of out-of-touch with the political goings-on of his land, his talent was too great to go unnoticed forever, and he was invited to live among the high court as an entertainer and summoner. He got to make so many new friends (like the princess and you!) and better provide for his family, so he’s thankful every day for the change, even if he misses his animal friends at home!

Tokiya came from a humble family that wanted to lead a quiet life, but Tokiya himself had ambitions that far outpace that. Though not a natural talent, he put unimaginable sweat into a field that creates potent spells and tools by the power of song. Eventually becoming estranged from his whole family, Tokiya finds it all worthwhile after struggling his way into being hired by the royals. Much of the court thinks of him as a weird mad scientist who sings to his books, but he’s found fast friends he’d go to the ends of the earth for, like Masato, the princess, and you!

Ren is the inverse of Masato in his circumstance. Like the Hijirikawa noble family, the Jinguujis helped orchestrate the fall of the Kurosaki nobles, but the blowback had them falling out of favor instead of rising in power. Ren was planned to be offered as a Devil’s Groom to restore some clout, but instead of being intently groomed, he was left to do whatever he wanted since he’s got such a foregone future. So Ren becomes a carefree playboy, eventually taking his talent for alchemy and becoming a for-hire adventurer to sate his boredom. He tells everyone his saxophone is his secret to brewing his one-of-a-kind love potions, but he’s actually devised some uniquely remarkable revival and buffing potions.

Syo comes from the same backwoods as Natsuki, but took less interest in working for the courts and instead trying to find a career emulating his childhood hero that kept his body’s limits in mind. But his twin left to pursue medical schooling, and eventually, between loneliness, worry, and the promise that the musical magic and medicine in the courts could help him safely push his limits, he follows Natsuki into the belly of the royals and nobles. His small stature and commitment to the movement arts made him a natural rogue, and he’s technically part of the Royal Guard’s special ops. But Syo’s brashness and burning spirit tends to best serve motivating the people around him -- what few spells he prefers to cast with his violin-playing are all buffs that lift the spirit and energize the body.

Cecil came to this land on essentially a study abroad program and came to love the friends he made so much he stuck around! A wildly talented sorcerer able to cast even without playing his flute, Cecil is held in high esteem by the whole kingdom for the knowledge and skill he has to offer. Prone to disappearing, however, since a curse has him transforming into a cat as an occasional side effect of casting magic. He’s found this useful, though -- something injust he won’t stand for is afoot in this kingdom, and nobody suspects a little black cat of eavesdropping!

Reiji is a court jester who loves, loves, loves nothing more than to make you smile! Much of the court takes his good cheer for granted, and even more underestimate his prowess in tough/delicate situations, but the most powerful folks know he’s just as sharp as he is goofy. When he’s not doing his job making people smile, he’s often helping or promoting his family’s pub or bugging his friends from outside the royal court. His flashy performances and maraca-shaking have been shaped into a great conduit for spells of transmutation, though he tends to use them to put on a great show more than beat ass.

Ranmaru is the eldest son of the disgraced Kurosaki nobles (whose power and legacy were ruined by the Jinguujis and Hijirikawas as per usual) but he decided to bear the brunt of the damage in wake of his father’s passing to spare the rest of his family. Shouldering massive debt, Ranmaru disappeared and re-emerged as the gambler prince of the underground, now incredibly powerful in his own right. Not-so-secretly a big softie, he’ll swindle and ruin the lives of those who take advantage of the helpless, even operating out of a pub owned by an old couple that needed some protecting from loan sharks. Ranmaru wears special runed gloves that store mana when he plays his bass, letting him cast a set number of fire evocation spells before his next recharge.

Ai lives in woods on the outskirts of the city. Most regard him as a hermit, but a couple know that Ai is actually a homunculus that has been refining his understanding and performance of humanity and needs frequent breaks to “recharge.” Nominally a ranger, Ai’s skills lie in his powerful patience and observation moreso than his bow and arrow, though he and Reiji have an arrangement where he helps hunt and forage ingredients for the Kotobuki pub. Ai is beginning to grasp his own unique sense of humanity and is ready to take grander action to realize it. He fights with arrows of a special alloy that react to an instrument at home; they are tempered by the sound and blessed by the wind to never miss their target should the wielder be skilled enough.

Camus is an assassin that lives in shadow. Nobody’s quite sure of his intentions or allegiances, but the few times someone does see him in the open, he’s as haughty and demanding as ever. Rumor has it that he lives in the royal castle -- certainly, their enormously increased sweets output would imply such, and it’s well-known in the castle that unexplained cello music is usually his doing -- but he’s such an evanescent and terrifying presence nobody’s quite sure (and is too scared to ask). His assassinations are almost impossible to track, as his blades of ice melt, disappear, and leave no trail to follow.

Typical route stuff goes as you’d expect -- you progress the plot, you get closer to your chosen boy, some political intrigue things probably happen, some heart-racing events etc. etc., and before you know it the two of you are very close and realize that your arts cast wildly powerful magic when put together. Slowly, you gather more friends (a selection of the other boys + Haru and Tomo) and find that together, your work amplifies in power to unprecedented degrees. It’ll vary from route to route how you get there, but eventually, you all come to the same conclusion: it’s time to kick some demon king ass. And you do!

The ends vary from angsty (like the player or the chosen boy is mortally wounded or dies) or fairytale fluffy (go off and spend a happy life together) or something more power fantasy-feeling (like you and chosen boy revolutionize the whole kingdom for the better in wake of the demon king’s defeat), etc. -- but no matter what you know that your art + your boy + the power of friendship kicked more ass than anything Shining Kingdom has ever seen!

#shining quest au #shining quest #uta no prince sama #utapri #headcanons

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diveronarpg · 5 years

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In fair Verona, our tale begins with HARRIET D’ANGELO, who is THIRTY-FIVE years old. She is often called HERMIONE and is NEUTRAL. She uses SHE/HER pronouns.

TW: DEATH

When a PRINCESS is born, we all know how the story goes. She grows up in a castle that reaches up to the peaks of Heaven, with all that she desires at the tip of a bejeweled finger and the entirety of the world posed outside a gold-plated window; conquered and left for the taking. The princess embraces it all as she leads a happy, star-streaked childhood – but then she flourishes into cynical adulthood, and happiness becomes nothing more than a myth. Her castle in the skies turns into a prison buried within the depths of the earth, and the world outside her window becomes nothing more than an unattainable dream. And then the rest of her journey fades into a haze of rebellion and rage – because it can’t possibly end any other way, could it? Stories like these are abound in cities like Verona. You can almost see their scripts written over blood-soaked cobblestones and drawn across dusty, boarded up windows. And so, it’s only natural for one to FORESEE this story and claim to know how it unfolds without even sparing its text a glance. But there could be no greater mistake when it comes to the story of Harriet D’Angelo for it is not one that speaks of princesses and dragons and noble heroes. It simply speaks of a girl who loved and lost and LIVED to tell her own tale.

Harriet wasn’t born a princess, and she didn’t grow up in a castle – but she certainly came close. The D’Angelo family was not in the ruling class towards which the likes of the Du Ponts and the Vernons belonged, but it was esteemed in its own right. And so, Harriet received the BLISSFUL upbringing that could be expected for any child born onto the glamorous, gleaming pedestal of aristocracy. She received the greatest education, dressed in the finest silks, and hovered within the brightest social circles. However, while some would fill themselves up with such blessings until they reached the pinnacle of gluttony, Harriet merely took what was enough and looked no further. She possessed an uncanny sense of HUMILITY, despite being born to a mother who hungered for influence and a father who thrived on the opinions of others. Her eyes never sharpened with disdain as she looked up at her superiors, and her nose never wrinkled with disgust as she looked down at her lessers, either. Her sights were limited to what was before her; her heart tethered to the bright, sunlit slice of the world she found with her family – because for all their faults and flaws, they loved each other, and to Harriet, that was more than enough.

Even when that love was tested beyond its bearings, it was still ENOUGH for her, although it took her a tremendous amount of time and patience to reconcile with that belief. After all, no amount of faith could prepare anyone for the prospect of being shackled by the very people through which they sought freedom and safety – and that was exactly what happened on the dreary day when her parents made her an unprecedented, unwanted, offer of betrothal. It was from an established young man who, in her mother’s words, had hymns sung to his name around every corner of the city – but not even that description was quite as appalling as the story he spun. A chance encounter had apparently set him on Harriet’s unwitting path, and indeed, just like that, he wished for her be his. It was at that point that Harriet decidedly shut her ears to the rest of her mother’s honeyed words, eyes brimming with enraged tears and lips clamping shut against the protests that struggled to break free. But then her mother began to speak of how impactful such a marriage would be for their family name, holding Harriet’s hand in a feather-light grip as her lips curved with a smile that sparked stars into her eyes and dug the tenuous doubt into Harriet’s mind that perhaps this was indeed a venture worthy of her SACRIFICE. Her mother would have moved on to ensure her that she was under no obligation to do this – but before her tongue could even roll around the words, Harriet said yes. Even then, she would have still said yes. Even if asked to jump off a precipice and give her life away for her family’s sake, she would have still said yes. LOYALTY was as rigid and firm in her blood as a pillar of steel, and if anything stood true to Harriet, it was that.

Her marriage only lasted a handful of months, and when it finally sputtered away, it left behind a waning, war-torn GHOST of who Harriet had once been. The man she had gifted herself to turned out to be nothing more than a cruel, conniving monster who took away her life and then dared to take away the one thing that would have brought it back; feeding her lies of redemption and change upon the adoption of their child, only to walk away and leave her in the dust mere months later. Her son was the breath of life her heart had starved for, and it was in the wake of his blessed arrival into her life that Harriet found the will and the strength to gather her ashes and RISE from them. Years passed in blessed peace that she and her son joyously shared – right before it was ripped from them; right before he was ripped from her. The twist of fate couldn’t have been more random, or more cruel. Another vicious link had erupted in the chain of war harnessed by undeserving Capulet and Montague hands, and her son fell victim to it. A casualty was the exact wording in the tabloids, but there was no describing the loss or the AGONY that it brought forth. Once again, she crumbled; only this time, Harriet had to learn how to pick herself up. This time, she let herself soak up in the ashes in the hopes they would leave the scar on her heart even a little bit faded by the time she was back on her feet. This time, she taught herself how to stand alone, and how to seize that loneliness and turn it into strength. Now, she has risen, and rather than wait and pray, she has stolen a slice of peace and made it hers. And even with her heart torn in two, even with her happiness incomplete and unfulfilled, she was determined to protect what little of it she’s managed to earn. In Verona, the cost of PEACE is bloody and heavy, but make no mistake; she is willing to PAY it.

ODIN BELLO & MATTHIAS WARREN: Demons. Othello and Malcolm. Two accursed names that have haunted and tormented her from the moment they poked out of the retelling of her son’s death like twin blades. Out of the drawling, monotone slew of the police officer’s words and straight into the core of her gnashing heart. Harriet doesn’t wish to find them, but she knows that her path will inevitably collide with theirs. After all, no two strings of fate ever went untangled when pulled by the hands of tragedy – especially in a city like Verona. But just as her story is not one that centers around a princess-turned-queen, it is not one that is driven by a force of vengeance, either. She doesn’t seek to harm them or punish them—but that doesn’t mean she isn’t seeking to condemn them with every untarnished inch of her heart.

DELILAH BELLO: Reflection. She’s heard the scathing whispers tacked onto Delilah Bello’s name, and the dreary tale that follows in its wake. It’s one that undeniably parallels her own, with the only difference being that Harriet was leashed by the chain of devotion while Delilah was caught in the snare of love. But in the end, is there truly that much of a difference between the two? Harriet isn’t too keen on figuring that out, but she is intrigued by Delilah’s story and the struggle she must find in her ceaseless attempts to regain control of its narrative. Perhaps it will help Harriet regain control of hers. Perhaps it will help her learn that such is a goal that she should have aspired for many years and losses ago.

SANTINO GALLO: Lost soul. The vision of the man struck her heart the moment she laid eyes on him, although at the beginning, it was merely due to the pitiful state in which she found him. Huddled up in a dark alleyway, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other gnarling against the grimy pavement as he retched. Her immediate impression was that he was a drunken fool who wasn’t worth the waste of her time, but despite the thought, something kept Harriet’s feet rooted to the ground. Perhaps it was mistaken judgement or perhaps it was something far more intrinsic than that, but she decided to help him. Took him home, laid him on his couch, brushed his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead with a gentle hand, then bid him farewell with a glass of water and one last wondering glance. Somehow, Santino was able to track her down later on and demanded that she let him repay her for what she did—and strangely enough, she let him. Something about Santino tinges her tongue with the bitter taste of loss; sears her mind with the weighted question of whether or not her son would have wound up on a similar path of condemnation had his life not been cruelly ripped away. She seeks only an answer from Santino, but she might be in for a lot more than she bargained for.

MONA CHEN: Kindred spirit. Mona Chen is the last person she would have expected to befriend in the years following her son’s death. Before then, yes, Harriet would have been compelled to unravel the mysteries enshrouding the renowned Lady of Whispers—but now, the fire of her curiosity has been doused by the icy blades of mourning, and thus she should have avoided Mona at all costs. After all, her son’s precious life was ripped away at the hands of ruling figures such as Mona. But as much as it sometimes feels like a betrayal to that crucial missing piece of her heart, the sentiment only lessens with each day that she spends in Mona’s company. She’s a woman who keeps her cards close to her chest, but in turn, Harriet has no cards of her own—and perhaps that is why Mona’s let her in as much as she has. There is a lot that eludes her about the infamous woman, no matter how close they’ve grown over the years, but that speck of distance, while it may be significant to others, is of no consequence to Harriet. She shares a kinship with Mona that she hasn’t found with anyone else, and that’s all that matters to her.

Harriet is portrayed by JENNA TALACKOVA and was written by JEN. She is currently TAKEN by EMMA K.

#lsrpg #mob rp #crime rp #literate rp #established rp #neu #harriet d'angelo #w #tw #t

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asinfulpagan · 5 years

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Do I Exist?

Do I Exist???

*This is a work of fiction, yet it’s also a work of truth.*

Do I Really Exist?

Being gay at any age I would imagine is a hard thing to do. From as far back as I can remember, I remember my older cousins, uncles and even my dad talking about “homos” and “fags” I wished so much I could scream into their ears, QUIT HURTING ME! Instead I listened, and then lost. I lost my spirit of living; then lost myself. Now, I have lost my soul. I remember during a cub scouts trip when I was about 10, another kid called this black boy a “nigger” I don’t know why I did it, but I beat the hell out of the kid who called him that. I guess somewhere; somehow, I too had already grown too familiar with hatred. But that’s for later anyways. I am writing this short story too simply try and inspire others. To save those like myself before they too must ask, Do I Really Exist?

Can this life be reality?

I went to church most of my childhood, until the preacher man told me God didn't want me. I see kids today and wonder if I was ever really that innocent. Now I sit, beaten down by pain. I always thought life was wonderful and miraculous experience. As a kid I dreamed of being a doctor. I wanted to go to Africa and cure AIDS. I wanted to be the man who a difference in the lives of everyone he touched. I wanted to be respected, I wanted to be loved, and I wanted to be accepted. Now I know none of these are possible. Not for someone like myself. Can this life be reality?

Of course it is, but why?

Obviously this reality is true. I know that the preacher man says God allows suffering because he allows freewill. God, what I wouldn’t give to have the freewill to stand up and declare “I EXIST! QUIT HURTING ME!” Yet I cannot. I cannot hurt my family by telling them. I couldn’t stand the idea of my own dad telling me I am not his. The preacher man already told me that my spiritual father disowned me. I could not handle my flesh father disowning me too. A boy needs at least one dad don’t he? Someone famous said once, “We suffer to learn” I should be a college professor on loneliness. So, can this life be reality? Of course it is, but why?

Why must I pay for sins uncommitted?

I have probably known I was gay since I was about six years old. I remember just a simple and innocent acknowledgement. It was never in words or thoughts, just in action. Where boys were running from the girls with cooties I was chasing the girls to play. Where the boys played sports, I was talking to the girls. Maybe people thought I would be a ladies man. Rock Hudson again I guess. My being gay has so little to do with a physical desire, and so much more to do with an emotional necessity. It is not from downstairs that I think, but from behind my heart. Yet, God has already abandoned me. My family has spent years making sure I know what they think. I have no guy friends, because they seem to think I will turn them gay somehow. I wish it where that easy to show others what pain my broken heart shields. Gay for a day, maybe then some of this world of pain would subside. Maybe then even God would reconsider me. Why must I pay for sins uncommitted?

How did I get infected with homosexuality?

Throughout my short life I have tried time and again to figure out what made me gay. As an early tween I thought it was something I was over-eating or maybe the old joke is true, it’s in the water. Yet, why am I the only one affected by this disease? I know others on the planet exist with this same condition, yet it seems they weren’t coming to help me. I was on my own in a world that wanted me to go away.

As an early teenager I tried to remember if anyone had ever hurt me. I read somewhere that sexual abuse is why people are gay. No such luck, I was perhaps psychologically and spiritually tortured, but none of this could be the cause of my infection. Now I fear the worst, it’s not a disease, which means there is no cure.

With the lack of a specific event, thought or emotional deficiency in which I made the choice of being Gay, I can only assume that I was born this way.

If God does not make mistakes, how can I be gay?

I always thought babies where pure and innocent. Yet this baby grew into a kid who was not wanted. Then a tween that was too scared to find himself. So I became a teen with only so many options. I know I was born this way. I know I was taught not to be who I am. I know I tried to change from being this evil entity to what the world wanted of me. Oh how I tried so desperately, but now I know I was born this way. Yet If God does not make mistakes, how can I be gay?

By the time I was 13 I had experienced others hatred.

Besides protecting the dignity of that little boy in cub scouts, I have had hundreds of run-ins within my short life. As a kid I would hear other boys calling anyone they didn’t like a “fag” I was grateful it wasn’t me they were talking about, yet I was ashamed I wasn’t the gay super-hero I had always dreamed would come and rescue me. I guess the gay super-hero doesn’t exist. I wonder if heroes exist at all. How could they with the pain we all suffer? Whose soul is strong enough to really fight this kind of a battle? Not mine, that’s for sure.

Even today I cannot understand the pain that people afflict onto each other. All I scream and cry out for is love. Maybe that’s what we all cry out for. Maybe the lack of a response to our cries is where the pain comes from. I still believe in God, even if he doesn’t want me too. Today I prayed that someone would answer the next kids cry.

I remember as a kid, I was sitting with my parents in the living room. They were watching the news, while I played with a deck of cards. Then the news story broke; the story that forever changed me; the story that made me afraid to go to sleep, yet afraid to wake up. Mathew Shepard had been beaten then crucified. I guess the preacher man wasn’t lying after all. Jesus died for your sins but not mine. For mine, we must all be crucified physically, spiritually or emotionally. For sins like mine, we must atone ourselves for no church will offer a God that allowed his son to die for me.

By the time I was 13 I had experienced others hatred. Now, at 16, I must atone for my sins. I have suffered two of the three punishments I must in order for God to forgive me. The only one left is physical. I hope God finds I have paid enough for this unnatural sin. Now that I think about it, it has been other people’s hatred that has allowed me to even experience my own self-hatred. Turns out I can beat myself up better than ten gay bashers ever could.

By 15 I had already lost three teeth because of hatred.

Around the age of 13 I also made another mistake. I told the one guy friend I had, that I was gay. The next day after school, two of his friends hit me in the face with a big board until a tooth fell out and blood covered my face. That was when my crucifixion began. I only wish it wasn’t as slow as it has been. Over the next two years I lost a couple more teeth to rumors. Each time I lost a tooth, I thought of Mathew Shepard. I would wonder if this was it. If this time it wouldn’t be just some blood and teeth, but that I too could stop suffering. My face hurt a lot, my mouth looked like I had been hit by a car, and my soul had already died. Where once a soul lived now only the darkness of self-hatred can thrive.

Now, at 16, I am beaten down.

My mouth still isn’t completely healed. I don’t know if that one tooth will ever come back, and the signs of a tortured life show all over my body. Old broken bones that never healed right show their distress. I never told my parents about my fights, so they assumed I was a clumsy kid. How could I ask for a doctor when I would have to explain why I needed one? Besides allowing me to pay for my sins, the physical pain also allowed me to remember that I am subhuman. It is best to remember that when being a deviant like myself. God demands I remember that. I will never gain his forgiveness if I think my sins are as natural as everyone else’s. I have been beaten down in so many painful ways. I have paid for my sin for as long as I can. Now, at 16, I am beaten down.

So, I shall pay my final price.

A life that once held so much potential has been traded for a life of sacrifices. Even sitting here, I still haven’t the courage to tell anyone else that I am gay. It was never the physical pain or death that I feared. It was always the loss of my family’s love that scared me into a slow and silent death. I wish the old tale were true and love could be blind. Then my family and God wouldn’t hate what I am so much. Life though, has proved that love is not blind. The world has taught me what suffering is, and God taught me that all sins are not forgiven. The bible says “if a man also lies with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them. Mathew Shepard was the reality of this message from God. My life has been spent living the message of God it seems. I will not fail him; I will fulfill his desires for me. Then, maybe, he will at least allow me to sleep outside the gates of Heaven.

My life.

My life has so very little meaning left in it. It really isn’t a life as much as it’s a purgatory. An event that was designed just for me to pay back to God what I had cheated him of. He created me to be a good person and to help those in need. Instead I threw it all away by being gay. For this one sin, no amount of retribution will save my soul. That’s OK though, my soul left me a long time ago anyways. As if it too where ashamed of me. My life hasn’t been a life since I was a toddler. All the time since then has been my suffering. How I wish I could have been given a chance to do something with My life.

Do I exist?

To a world that wishes people like myself didn’t exist I say have patience. You are slowly killing us without even having to use a weapon. You go to our schools and lecture the next generation on the abomination of homosexuality. You get laws written to ensure gays will never be anything but subhuman. You even manage to make sure the Boy Scouts will eliminate any kid that walks my path. You have ensured no compassion for an entire minority.

Do I Exist?

Yes!

Do you care?

I wish someone would have or even could now; then I wouldn’t be writing my on suicide letter. As in life, this too is done alone. They say in your final moments you will experience the love of God as your beacon of light to go towards. I still don’t feel the presence of God.

***********

Robert

*This is a work of fiction designed to help open the hearts and minds of those who desire it. Every year more and more gay or lesbian teenagers feel the suffering offered in this story.

don’t be afraid that your life will end, be afraid that it will never begin.

*** I want to thank whoever pointed out to me that every reason given in this letter has been fixed in our society

this was an old piece of mine written more than 15 years ago I'm glad to see that change comes pretty quick.

#asinfulpagan #robertaaron

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anemoiarts · 6 years

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Corrupted Hero, by anemoiarts

1: False Dawn

The stagnant haze of a century clouded the humid air of the Shrine. Painted a soft blue from the reverent glow of the resurrection pedestal at the heart of the room, the haze hung, silently, around the dormant form of a young Hylian laid across the pedestal. Sealed away from the world above, the Shrine hummed to itself in silence, as still as the Hylian it cradled. Forgotten by time and memory and ash, both the Hylian and the Shrine listened, awaiting the voice they had heard, every day, for one hundred years.

She was late today. Her calls had grown later and later, recently. But the Shrine knew she had a reason. Its patience could withstand the delay; time had always been its friend.

Though initially absent, she finally appeared from out of the darkness. She breathed her usual appeal just as intently and urgently as she had when the fields of Hyrule raged with flames.

Wake up, Link… she plead, faithful as always.

Her voice reached across a vast expanse, seeping through the Shrine’s walls and drifting toward the Hylian. Gently, it pushed through the thick, ancient mist enshrouding the pedestal and sunk through the murky, protective lake entombing him, whispering its way into his mind, straining to inspire some form of life within him.

She paused, half-expecting something to happen. Her ears strained to hear anything — any movement, any sound. Anything. Yet in spite of her efforts, he remained stiff as death. Her throat tightened.

Open your eyes, she mourned, a pang of sorrow wilting her voice. Please!

Only silence.

...I need you...

Nothing.

Crestfallen, she withdrew for a moment, choking back helpless tears. They stung at her eyes as if in punishment for her naught hopes.

She believed he would have woken up by now — now, more than ever — perhaps on this, the hundredth anniversary of his slumber. But why did he not wake? What was she doing wrong?

For an agonizing, almost eternal century in isolation, she had prayed and struggled and cried to awaken him, to bring him back to the world, to get his help that she so desperately needed. But as the years bled together without him, her hope had withered in the shadows, craving the light. Craving him. Buried in darkness and malice, she had grown weary, almost wishing to join him in his sleep. She had teased the thought many times, but found herself too afraid of what may happen to drift off unawares. She had fought too hard to let go now.

Each time she had called to him, the Shrine had replied with a crushing, mute, Not yet. Each denial was nothing less than a strike to the heart, thousands of times over.

She wasn’t ready to give up on him, but just how soon was yet? There had been no respite for her. Day in and day out, staunchly holding back a demon voracious for destruction, all while reaching out to a fallen hero. Her fallen hero.

But just as before, she had nothing to show for it.

She wasn’t sure how much more loneliness she could endure, and how much more silence she could bear.

To her fortune, this silence was soon broken.

With her latest prayers on deaf ears, she was about to retreat back into her mind when, without so much as a warning, the Shrine gave a sudden shudder. The movement stirred the mounds of dust clinging to the corners into clouds. A deep, resounding thud rumbled through the stone of the Shrine, sending a ripple through the water submerging the Hylian as dust motes danced through the startled air.

The girl felt the tremor even from her high, polluted pavilion — it thundered through her mind with a mighty quake that brought her attention immediately back to him and his dull brainwaves. She poised herself, acutely alert, but her guard drawn.

Is it time? she wondered, her hope rising from the dust.

Though unable to watch what was happening in the Shrine with her own eyes, she experienced the great row of the structure within herself in sync with it. Beginning modestly, it grew more and more intense by the second, almost as if the Shrine were ripping itself apart with a calamitous bellow from deep within the earth.

From seemingly nowhere, a bud of nausea blossomed inside her, her head swimming with a dizzying heat. Puzzled, she endeavored to comprehend it. The Shrine of Resurrection, it seemed to have become… sick. It was the only explanation she could fathom. But machines, medical facilities, couldn’t suffer infirmity.

What was happening? She hadn’t the faintest idea. None of her research had told of this reaction. Concerned, she continued to monitor the strange occurrence.

This supposed sickness began to spread. Around the slumbering Hylian, the decorative beads of light on the walls flickered from a serene blue to a panicked magenta color, flashing in-between wildly as the Shrine continued to shake. Such intense movements kicked up a blizzard of dust and rocked the surface, trees swaying above ground, boulders shifting and fauna scattering. The terrific reverberations found their way to her; the familiar trembling of the earth brought back scarring memories.

In spite of the chaos, the Hylian remained obliviously unconscious on the pedestal until the crystalline-blue water around him darkened to a vibrant scarlet, bubbling and writhing as if in a storm. The light glaring off of the water and the frantic wall embellishments cast the room in a violent, ethereal glow such that the Shrine had never seen. The flailing of the Shrine only worsened as an alarm began to blare from a device on the solitary plinth at the opposite corner of the Hylian, clamoring for attention, wailing in fear and shock.

Something’s wrong, she gasped.

The girl’s body ached in tune with the Shrine. Amidst her pain, she paused and gazed around her, finding her own surroundings alight with a vicious glare. Her warden shifted restlessly, pulsating with power, its influence dripping from the ceiling and snaking beneath the overgrown lands of Hyrule, where it ingrained its corrupt claws into the Shrine of Resurrection, and in turn, into Link.

She realized with a stab of horror that, in her grief, the creature had wormed through a careless opening she had made, greedily spreading its poison. It was doing something to him. Something twisted. Something awful. And yet he laid, like a corpse, in the grave that was consuming him.

She had to stop it. She had to wake him.

Calamity Ganon?! she gaped. No! You can’t do this! Don’t you touch him! No, NO!

Had she the capacity, she would have darted free from her bonds, rushing for him. But she could not abandon her post. There was nothing another barrier could fix, now — it was already inside the Shrine. All she could do was scream. She whirled her mind back to him.

Link! Link, you must wake up!

But he didn’t stir. The beast seemed to thrill with satisfaction at her skyrocketing panic.

Stop it, stop it, you MONSTER! LINK!

No matter her cries, he didn’t hear. Or perhaps Calamity Ganon had deafened him? Regardless, there was nothing she could do but listen as the Shrine nearly rent itself into rubble. The alarm from the plinth filled her mind to splitting, an evil light blinding her, crippling her efforts to stay the beast’s clutches. Pain lanced through her brain — she cupped her hands over her ears and pinched her eyes shut, but to no avail.

Petrified at the thought of losing her dear knight after all these years, and at her own misstep, she braced for the worst, her breath caught and her eyes welling with tears.

Link, Hyrule… forgive me… I’ve failed you. I knew I would… Father was right.

With its princess weak, the beast didn’t hesitate. It greedily dug its way further into the Shrine. The blood red water surrounding Link ceased seething for half a moment before it abruptly surged into his body, piercing his pores, pouring inside him through his nose and mouth. As the dark water saturated his lungs and bloodstream, his spine arched and his eyes snapped open, his heart giving a heavy thump as it jolted back into autonomy.

Beneath his revitalized body, the resurrection pedestal cracked into pieces with a tremendous boom, scattering shards of aged stone onto the floor.

Then all at once, the Shrine’s roars and rumbling stilled, as well as the beast’s.

The chamber fell ungodly quiet, apart from its sole occupant; he gulped in a centuries-starved gasp of air, only to immediately choke on both it and the water flooding down his throat.

Rolling onto his side, he coughed up the bright red liquid in his lungs — it ran in small rivers onto the floor. His hacking shredded the once-peaceful atmosphere as he clawed for breath, continuing to spit up excess water for several moments before he managed to claim some control over himself.

He finally fell limp, his body relaxing from the shock. Draped like a sacrifice atop the broken pedestal, he savored his breath, shivering in the warm, moist air clinging to his skin. When his lungs had soothed themselves, he opened his heavy eyes and drew his gaze across the room, groggily wondering where he was.

The small, dim chamber was as full of clouds as his head. Unfamiliar, strange. His empty mind spun with dazed confusion. As the fire in his body steadily cooled, he blinked against the throbbing magenta light igniting the dust and haze swirling around him. The light issuing from the walls seemed to follow the gradually-slowing rhythm of his heart.

Curious, he carefully eased himself upright.

He rotated his head, analyzing his somber surroundings. The only other objects nearby were the lonely plinth in the corner, a sealed doorway, the shattered pedestal beneath him, and an odd, chandelier-like structure looming over his head. It, too, radiated an unnatural, crimson light.

As he ran his eyes over the remains of the pedestal, he sucked in a sharp gasp, flinching where he sat.

His legs — they didn’t look right.

Upon waking up, he had no reason to believe they were anything abnormal, what with his nonexistent recollection of things. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something was extremely wrong.

Frozen at the sight before him, he found that he could quite literally see his bones — his femur, the tibia, even the knee cap — glowing with that same surreal, magenta light. They glittered up at him beneath black, semi-transparent skin.

Eyes widening, he raised a knee and wiggled his leg back and forth, baffled. His bones floated innocently in his leg, moving at his command. Running a palm over his knee, he stared. It certainly didn’t look right, but it didn’t feel wrong. It felt as normal as anything.

Beginning to stutter for breath, he repeated the action with his equally-transparent, bony hands, clenching and unclenching his fingers before his face. The movements of his claw-like fingertips disturbingly entranced him with such intensity that he almost didn’t hear the voice return to him.

...Link…? she asked, breathless.

Her voice has trickled into his mind softly, yet he heard it clear as day. As if stricken by lightning, he jumped in his place, tossing his head around the room in search of the voice’s owner. But he found nothing but the wordless haze.

“H-hello?” he croaked, his voice ragged. “Who’s there?”

At last. At long, tiresome last. He was here. He was awake. Movement. Beating heart and running blood and breath in the lungs. A voice. Life.

Link. Wonderful, irreplaceable Link. And he seemed to be in one piece, though she was blissfully ignorant of his bizarre bones, as well as the rest of his appearance. She could only feel his strong, courageous presence, and it was like manna to her.

Her joy at just the sound of his voice was immeasurable — it swelled within her, a sunrise after a bitter winter’s night, thawing her icy hopes and setting her heart alight with a golden dawn. She had no control over the tears of sweet relief that streamed down her face then, but she didn’t even attempt it. All that mattered was that he had risen from the Shrine. He was here. All she had to do now was guide him to her.

But her delight was cruelly short-lived. She didn’t get the chance to welcome him any further, for her warden reared its ugly head once again, howling at her. Bleary from her tears, she turned just in time to throw another barrier up between the two of them, only to buckle at the knees beneath the beast’s power.

Like a ravenous wolf for a fresh kill, the beast pounced upon her barrier, baring its teeth with hate and clawing at its prison. Straining to keep it at bay, she took in its sudden energy spike with awe. It seemed to have taken a new fondness for Link as it mindlessly scratched and roared to bypass her and seize him. Perhaps it wanted to finish what it had attempted those hundred years ago, now that he was awake.

But she wouldn’t let it. No matter how much it yearned to. She had just gotten him back.

Calamity Ganon’s rampaging soon grew relentless — her strength withstood it, but it took every ounce of herself to hold it back. She realized with dismay that even if she had wanted to, it would have been impossible to divide her mind between containing the beast and guiding Link. The monster wouldn’t allow it.

It was one or the other.

Curse you!! she cried, closing a fist against the beast. You vile creature! How could you?!

It didn’t seem to care; it ceaselessly pounded against her barrier, wicked eyes set on Link, eager to devour him.

There was no alternative. The thought destroyed her, but she knew which she had to choose. It was her duty, after all.

A new set of bittersweet tears ran down her cheeks. Though it nearly tore her to pieces to withhold herself from him, she stepped back from the Shrine to ward off Ganon’s might. But she vowed, whenever she managed to calm Calamity Ganon, to catch up with her dear knight, guiding him and ensuring his safe return to her. She couldn’t be at his side at every moment. He was strong enough to journey back to her on his own. She knew that.

Beneath the crushing influence of the beast, all she could offer him was this:

Link, she began. His ears perked up. You may or may not know me, but know this: you must rise from that Shrine. Find the Sheikah Slate. It will guide you after your long slumber.

Link, listening to her with wonder, found his eyes drawn to the plinth in the corner, which had sprung to life. He stared at it, his thoughts radiant with her voice. A barrage of questions hung on his tongue, but her tone was so earnest, so captivating, that he remained silent.

She continued, Do not fear what you will face in Hyrule, though trials you will endure — I know you can triumph over whatever will come with the courage flowing through your veins. Link… you are the light — our light — that must shine upon Hyrule once again. We need you.

Her heart stuttered as she prepared to withdraw.

I need you. And I believe in you.

May the goddess smile upon you.

Just as quickly as she had appeared in his mind, she abruptly vanished, leaving Link stupefied, his bones rattling inside him.

When he regained his senses, he sprung up on the crooked pieces of the pedestal, crying, “Wait! Who are you?!”

But she had already gone.

He quaked in the new silence, the pounding of his head his only companion. She stayed with him, a mute ghost in the room. There was something warm and calming about her sweet, imploring voice — it sent a familiar shudder down his spine. But as much as he strained his mind, he couldn’t place where he knew her from.

The memory of her lingered in the back of his head, tickling his brain to remember — it was an itch he just couldn’t scratch.

Waking up in such a strange place, with no recollection of what had lead him there, only made his hunger for information grow. And her mysterious presence, not to mention her words, nearly drove him mad in the minutes he sat alone. What did it all mean? Her voice, her guidance, his bizarre bones. He didn’t have any answers that he craved...

But she would.

He had to find out who she was. It was time to move.

Hey, peeps! I’m very pleased to post this. I thought, after making my first Corrupted Hero sketch, I’d continue. If you didn’t catch it, here’s a link to it:https://anemoiarts.tumblr.com/post/176782294883/corrupted-hero-by-anemoiarts-what-if-during-the. I also updated the design a bit. Hope you like!

Anyway, I’m going try and highlight some of this AU’s more interesting story bits in Breath of the Wild. I was inspired by my favorite webcomic, Romantically Apocalyptic, do tell this story in this format: a picture, and then a story to go with it. I’ll try to keep the others a bit shorter. I actually had to cut down a bit of this first chapter. I was worried it would be too long!

But I’ll stop rambling. :) Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think, and I’ll see you in the next entry!

#link #legend of zelda #breath of the wild #au #ganon #calamity ganon #corrupted #malice #zelda #monster #switch #stories #art #artists on tumblr #writers on tumblr #anemoiarts #false dawn #journey begins #shrines

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warriorforlove-blog · 6 years

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Happily Ever After

“History often resembles myth, because they are both ultimately of the same stuff.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy-Stories

Stories. We crave them. The world spends billions on movies, books, and countless other mediums of story. They capture our imagination, bring us out of the often boring, difficult, real world, into worlds of magic, exploration, futuristic technology, and adventure. They encourage and inspire us, give us hope, and create communities and friendships around them. And the most popular stories, no matter how postmodern our world becomes, are stories with happy endings.

Why? Why do we crave happy endings? Of course there are some who enjoy stories without happy endings, claiming that they are more accurate to the real world. But the money doesn’t lie; the ones we can’t get away from, the ones we spend billions of dollars on, are the stories with happy endings. The Avengers, The Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, even The Proposal and The Notebook, and on and on and on. We crave this, because ultimately, our lives are stories. And we have all been given the desire for our story to have a happy ending, too.

Picture your life as a story in a book. Imagine that each stage in your life, each season, represents a different chapter in your story. You are the main character, and each chapter you are faced with new trials and dilemmas. A reader would ask things like, “Will they overcome this chapter of loneliness?” “They’re in a new relationship; will they end up putting themselves first and screw it up, or will they prioritize it, and even discover that this is the person they’ll marry?” “Will they finally get their dream job that they’ve worked for over thirty years?” The ending is a mystery. And billions of people work hard through their entire life, trying to earn themselves a happy ending. Many make all the right decisions, and end up dying, weary and alone; or worse, there are those who receive all they ever worked for in life, and realize that it didn’t bring them the happy ending they were hoping it would.

If you are a Christian, however, your story is drastically different. You get to peek into the back of the book. And you get to see that you are guaranteed a happy ending. As for our life on Earth, Romans 8:28 says:

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”

We aren’t ever given specifics on how our happy ending will look. In fact, contrary to the followers of the prosperity gospel, working for the good of those who love him doesn’t mean that every individual Christian will receive a life of ease on Earth. Often times, “the good of those who love him,” means the Church as a whole, and not the individual; there are those that end up taking one for the team, and never reap personal benefits from their sacrifices on behalf of the Kingdom. Dietrich Bonhoeffer helped lead the underground church in Nazi Germany during World War II, and ended up dying in a concentration camp after being caught for involvement in an assassination plot against Hitler. Nearly all of the disciples died terrible deaths for the sake of the Gospel. But no Christian who has ever lived, pursuing God and seeking His Kingdom with passion, has ever lived an insignificant life, a life that did not have purpose, a life without a happy ending. And ultimately, regardless of their story on Earth, every believer’s eternal destination is a place where “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away,” (Revelation 21:4). Without a doubt, the ending of our story will say, “And they lived happily ever after.”

What are the implications? Instead of living fora happy ending, laboring tirelessly, trampling over others or using them to build your story, living a life based on performance and ultimate uncertainty, we can live differently: we can live froma happy ending. We can sacrifice our time, money, and energy for others. We can give without a thought of receiving anything in return. We can pour ourselves out for others, even at detriment to our own progress. And we know, that no matter what chapter of our story we are in, whether it is one of joy and thrill, or one of trial and pain, that stamped on the last page of our story is “Happily ever after.” Nothing is more freeing. Trials of life can hurt you, even win a few battles against you. Every story has a few defining chapters where the protagonist is brought low. They are injured, lose friends, make mistakes, or experience a devastating event out of their control. In The Lord of the Rings, Frodo tells his beloved friend:

“You and I, Sam, are still stuck in the worst places of the story, and it is all too likely that some will say at this point: ‘Shut the book now, Dad; we don’t want to read anymore.’”

But even the worst trials can never triumph over you; in the end, you will not be defeated. And a few chapters later, the protagonist often realizes how they have grown from the experience. Nothing can obliterate worry and bring peace to a chaotic chapter like the promise of a happy ending.

With this in mind, life becomes the great adventure. A life free of earning a happy ending means you can fight in battles, stand against evil at the cost of your own comfort and well-being, and take risks that would be otherwise too great. In the midst of a trial, you can trust God, and know that He allowed it on purpose. That purpose could be to strengthen you, to use you to love someone, or to remind you that He is still God and wants to draw you back to Him; it could be for all of these reasons at once. For some, you may find yourself in a chapter, or even a story, with little to no trials. In this case, the promise of a happy ending frees us to “willingly take a share of someone else’s pain, and so tell the world that the Gospel is true,” pursuing a life of significance when it isn’t thrust on us. But when they do come, we can know that hard times are not an accident. The trials of life are but a chapter in your story which is guaranteed a happy ending. The fruit of this truth is an unwavering joyand peace, that destroys worry.

Your life is a story. And you have an audience. 1 Corinthians 4:9 says:

“For it seems to me that God has put us apostles on display at the end of the procession, like those condemned to die in the arena. We have been made a spectacle to the whole universe, to angels as well as to human beings.”

I believe Heaven is on the edge of its seat, watching your story like a drama. They’re asking, “Will he pull through?” “Oh, man, she’s in a hard place. Will she trust God through it? Will she hold on?” “Dang, his patience and faith is really being tested here. Keep trusting! Keep following God even though it’s hard!” Like we cheer for a hero in a story to keep fighting, to not compromise their character, so the angels are rooting for us, shouting for us to pull through in the midst of trial, reminding us that even the toughest chapter of life will never defeat us.

How do we let this truth, that we are guaranteed a happy ending, continue to change us and shape us? How can we live froma happy ending, bearing the fruit of deep joy and peace? By gathering together, and speaking this truth into one another. In C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape Letters, a senior demon is trying to guide a junior demon on how to tempt a human. He tells him,

“It is funny how mortals always picture us as putting things into their minds: in reality our best work is done by keeping things out.”

Lewis explains that the greatest danger is not believing a lie; it is simply forgetting the truth. We must continue to speak these truths into each other, lest we forget the ending to our story.

Your life is a story.

Even if you live a difficult story on Earth, it will never be without purpose.

Heaven is watching on the edge of its seat, cheering you on!

You are promised a happy ending. You are free from working for one!

You can live in joy and peace, free from comparison, performance, and worry.

And you will live happily, ever after.

#liveagreatstory #jrrtolkien #christianity #struggle #trial

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redlemonz · 7 years

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Day #13

Sunday morning, sun is shining. Though would be better if snow was falling. Feeling content with this loneliness and being the lone wolf I am. Building on yesterday’s learning and belief that there’s not much point having others around in my vicinity, especially as close as she was, because I’d end up just being a burden to them and myself. She was after all certain of if too, knowing that giving us another chance would change nothing ultimately because I wouldn’t change. So there you have it, my tragic downfall as the protagonist. Without the tragic part really, because i’m the misunderstood villain in my story. Also I have no right to even pity myself considering it's all my own doing. Spending my lonesome day with my favourite Youtubers to begin with, but I am inspired enough by her and this day to actually get outside too & breathe in some fresh air -have decided on a walk up to the hill with one tree, as we always use to. Looking again at the empty passenger seat in the car, it feels strange and wrong, almost as if her presence belongs there. Or even rather in the drivers seat. It’ll take writing to a page about it to admit that she’s certainly the better driver out of us. The only one I’ve actually trusted enough to drive my own car too, at any point. Until she became a crazy driver who would start going around the same roundabout about 10 times or so. Even so, there’s no one else I’d rather be stuck in a car with. We’d always have the best sing alongs to the radio or any music she played (the majority of my music was not allowed to be played for the most part, as I’ll happily agree that it was pretty crappy pop stuff that I had left over on my new phone). Of course there’s a bunch of songs that we could potentially associate as ‘ours’ out there but it’s naturally a sort of celebrated sadness now every time I hear them. By celebrated I mean, that they still bring some joy to me when reflecting upon my memories with her, so I don’t necessarily always change them - because as my old historic playwright homie said, if music be the food of love, play on.

Day 13 - celebrating sadness

Busy day at the hill with one tree. The emotion slightly hits me as I walk around, and witness, as you would have it, many couples holding hands & taking a stroll with their dogs. Should have expected it to be fair so that’s my own mistake yet again. Then there’s me, just enjoy the natural greenery of the view, listening to some music she’d actually approve of, whilst thinking about her by my side. I strolled along to a familiar tree we once spent some time at, sat down under the leave, and once again the season of melancholy swept over me as I relived all my memories and emotions. Most noticeably and specifically the day where we drove up North to a park with the name of the very same playwright as mentioned above, as I climbed my first tree thanks to her. Yes, I know it’s a bit late in life, and it wasn’t even a very impressive tree to climb, but nevertheless it happened and I’m proud, due to conquering a mild fear. She does after all make me conquer so many fears without even realising it, and has opened my eyes to living life the way it should be, through constantly attempting to try new things. Anyhow, I sat next to her in that tree, after both of us had just experienced being in a thunderstorm together. I took a leap like I’d never ever taken previously in my life the way I did with her, by attempting to kiss her - and ultimately failing through being rejected. Which I’m okay and use to when it comes to her, even during our relationship. The sad part is, that I refused to give up for a while in that moment - even when she was so sweetly taking care of me in the car as I suffered through probable hypothermia. It’s a result of that day we first took a break (which lasted 3 weeks) as I realised that I couldn’t be stuck in that friend zone any longer after knowing that it was certainly more than an ordinary friendship. So as you would have it, we had a traditional break up Thai dinner as we have on three occasions now, and it was still a beautiful moment in each one, as she made me certainly clear upon the fact that I knew I did love her. It’s also funnily the first time she drove my car, as a result of me experiencing that love, trust and care for her - where nothing else really mattered to me anymore in that moment except for her. Fast forward three weeks from that moment to the first time I see her at the beer and cider festival, as we were both volunteering. I even finally achieved my wish of meeting most of her family that night on her accord, without having to try.. which once again makes me realise that I really wish I didn’t try so hard and push her all the time during our relationship, right to the very end. But I’m sure I’ve worn out the amount of times I’ve regretted that by now - doesn’t mean the self punishment comes to a halt though, does it. Long story short, seeing tears on her face later that night out of no where, was clarity enough of how much I actually meant to her after the absence we’d both experienced. She even tried to hide them, but it’s easy for me to spot when I’m looking at her beauty almost every chance I get. And it killed me to see those tears smear that gorgeous face - all I wanted to do was hold her in that moment and forget about everything else in our vicinity, and let her know it’d all be alright. Later on in the night however, she’d be the one to save me, yet again. Not going into many specifics, but I became a bit of an emotional wreck when being stopped by the cops (everything was fine in the end). She supported me, was there for me when I expected her to just abandon me, and even did push ups with me (don’t ask). She’s always been my heroine, who’s taken care of me on countless occasions and stuck by my side when the going gets rough, or if even the problems I suffer are my own creations to battle with. I’m suppose to be the aspiring hero of a person (GA, as her phone would dictate too), but that’s all I am - a guy who can put on a crappy costume at most and fake my way through life. I’m a selfish, cowardly, and weak human being who can’t even face himself as we speak, let alone try to successfully always put her, or anyone first. Yet she, so humble and sweet, is a natural born star - a loving and caring human being like no other who puts others before herself wherever possible. She brought me back to my senses that night, and calmed me down emotionally and mentally. Everything felt like it was going to be alright, when you have her by your side, and even more so when her fingers intertwine in your own, or her body is wrapped around you in a warm hug. And it was, for we shared our first kiss at the end of that night also.

After walking around a bit more, and already being to the summit, I made my way back home in a somewhat pleasant mood. Cherishing these memories is what gets me through each day, and using her unintended teachings and inspiration, whilst knowing that she’s still currently in my life. I can only wish that someday perhaps there’ll be some more magnificent memories with her, to add to this collection that she’s already presented to my treasure chest. Even if it sadly means not being in a way that once was. You have to imagine that it’ll be especially tricky when I’ve always felt the way I do about her, from the beginning since we actually started to spent time together, as my love continued to grow for her each day. It hasn’t slowed down in the current one either, as my moments of constant reflection and reminiscence dawns upon me so much unseen love from her that I was blinded to for so long, for which I made irreversible and regrettable mistakes, which I can’t fix. It’s too late and I broke everything, and after all she had done for me - the love, the care, the sacrifices, It was never enough. Because I became a greedy asshole who kept wanting more, when he already had his world right there in front of his eyes. Patience is surely a virtue that has been a large weakness for me to grasp, but I’ve been trying to learn, especially thanks to her, that it can take a great deal of time for a tree to grow into the beautiful piece of life that it portrays. I’m just afraid of myself, as my mind - my own worst enemy, has a way of constantly ruining any good thing that ever happens to me. Especially since I’ve already lost the best thing that ever did.

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