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monstersinthecosmos · 7 months

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okay I wanna talk about how Marius & Lestat are such similar people both in the sense of their personalities & behaviors but also the way they were turned and I keep coming back to this quote in BCtu:

So let me begin the narrative on a night when Marius, the ancient Roman Child of the Millennia, in a fit of pique became impatient with what he referred to as my “nauseating buoyancy and optimism” about the world in general.

I keep coming back to the thought that something divides them here, the big thing that they DON'T share is the optimism. Marius finds it nauseating! Part of this is like, the 1800 year age gap, so I always have to wonder like what that does to him and ask if Lestat will have calmed down even a little by the time he's that age. But it's hard to know how much is innate, and how much is locked in place by the Blood anyway, and how capable any of them are of real change. But I think it has a lot to do with the way they were each turned, and the immediate aftermath, and how Marius's life was basically instantly burdened with something enormous that caused him pain for 2,000 years. It feels more like, although they have so much in common, Marius is essentially sort of a pessimist, even though he likes to pretend he isn't.

“Lestat, you are the damnedest creature! Yes, a brat prince.” Slowly, he reinvoked every detail of Lestat’s face and form. The ice-blue eyes, darkening with laughter; the generous smile; the way the eyebrows came together in a boyish scowl; the sudden flares of high spirits and blasphemous humor. Even the catlike poise of the body he could envisage. So uncommon in a man of muscular build. Such strength, always such strength and such irrepressible optimism.

Anyway I bring it up because I was thinking a lot about how Marius ALSO has a drive for creative expression, but tends to spend his entire immortal life loathing his nature and feeling like he isn't allowed to be a part of the human world. Like this part about how he destroys all of his writing:

But then there came nights when I thought that everything I'd written was useless. After all, what was the purpose? I could not enter these descriptions, these observations, these poems, these essays, into the mortal world! They were contaminated in that they came from a blood drinker, a monster who slew humans for his own survival. There was no place for the poetry or history which had come from a greedy mind and heart. And so I began to destroy not only my fresh writings, but even the old essays which I had written in Antioch in the past. I took the scrolls out of the chests one by one and burnt them as I had burnt the records of my family. Or I merely kept them, locked up tight, and away from my eyes, so that nothing I'd written could spark in me anything new. It was a great crisis of the soul.

And this part about his paintings:

Always, there was that sense of familiarity - that I had seen this garden that I had known it long before I was allowed by Akasha to drink her blood. I had seen the stone benches in it, I had seen the fountains. I couldn't shake the sensations of being in it as I painted, so strong was the feeling. I'm not sure it aided me in my work. Perhaps it hurt. But as I gained skill as a painter, and I did indeed gain skill, other aspects of the work disturbed me. I was convinced that there was something unnatural in it, something inherently ghastly in the manner with which I drew human figures so nearly perfectly, something unnatural in the way I made the colors so unusually bright, and added so many fierce little details. I was particularly repelled by my penchant for decorative details. As much as I was driven to do this work, I hated it. I composed whole gardens of lovely mythic creatures only to rub them out. Sometimes I painted so fast that I exhausted myself, and fell down on the floor of the shrine, spending the paralytic sleep of the whole day there, helpless, rather than going to my secret resting place - my coffin - which was hidden not far from my house. We are monsters, that is what I thought whenever I painted or looked on my own painting, and that's what I think now. Never mind that I want to go on existing. We are unnatural. We are witnesses with both too much and too little feeling. And as I thought these things, I had before me the mute witnesses, Akasha and Enkil. What did it matter to them what I did?

But it's still something he feels he NEEDS to do, he has to appease his creative drive so that he can survive.

But now I took stock of them from my point of view not as Marius the rich man who can have whatever he wishes, but as Marius the monster painter who had rendered Pandora twenty-one times on the four walls of Akasha's shrine. I saw suddenly how inferior were these paintings, how rigid and pallid the goddesses and nymphs who peopled this world of my study, and quickly I woke my day slaves and told them that they must have everything covered over with fresh paint the following day. Also an entire supply of the best paints must be purchased and brought to the house. Never mind how the walls were to be redecorated. Leave that to me. Cover up all that was there. They were used to my eccentricities, and after making certain that they understood me, they went back to their sleep. I didn't know what I meant to do, except I felt driven to make pictures, and I felt if I can cling to that, if I can do that, then I can go on. My misery deepened.

This was a lot to copy & paste, apologies! But all of this stuck out to me as I've been thinking about the ways Marius and Lestat are both creative people who need to make things. With Lestat it was his music, and then his books. ((Also a sidenote but there were so many of Anne's journal entries that I saw at Tulane where she kept saying things like "I need to write stories" !)) Imagine if he'd felt Marius's shame and pessimism and had the foresight to destroy his work or to keep it private. And imagine if Marius's manic creative episodes had happened in the 1980s when it was instantly global and breaching containment to the detriment of vampire kind!

At this point in the book Marius is around 300 years old, so not that far off from Lestat. But he's still young and raw and emotionally dysregulated ! It's just fascinating that Lestat lived in a time where he couldn't just undo what he created.

#deep ass thoughts about vampires #marius de romanus #blood & gold #lestat de lioncourt #marius 🤝 lestat #same guy lol #vampire chronicles

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roselensedeyes · 1 year

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my house of stone, your ivy grows

Hello everyone!

I thought I'd share with you some of my writings, but also as an archive in case ao3 stops working like a couple of weeks ago! You can read it on ao3 here.

This is the first elriel fanfiction I've ever written, criticism is welcomed but please be kind! You can read it under the cut. Enjoy!

Elain Archeron was listening passively to the discussion between her brother-in-law, and the Nigh Court High Lord, Rhysand, and their unexpected visitor.

Well, not entirely unexpected, she had seen her coming a few weeks prior. Perhaps strange was a better word to describe her. The girl, whose name was Bryce Quinlan, had landed a couple of weeks ago on her younger sister’s, Feyre, front lawn, fallen through a portal meant to take her to Hel. Instead, it’d brought her to Prythian.

Elain had seen it a few hours before, while she was baking bread in the Town House she had recently moved into. After the birth of her nephew, Nyx, she’d decided she needed to let them have their own personal space, allow them to grow their bond with their son.

Said nephew was now sitting on her knees, bouncing while looking around with wide, curious eyes. His small fist was in his mouth, and Elain gently took it away. His first teeth would come in soon, Madja had said, which meant he might feel the urge to chew on everything he’d come across. Elain tried to focus back on the conversation taking place before her. In the past days, the Inner Circle and Bryce had tried to put together the pieces of knowledge they possessed, to understand their worlds’ histories and lore. Of what the Asteri—the Daglan, as they were known in Prythian—had been doing throughout the millennia. Of the worlds they had conquered and destroyed, of those people they had used until they had exhausted their purpose. Of what they were planning on doing to Elain’s world again, this time leaving no chances of losing. Of what they were already doing to Bryce’s world, Midgard, and the torture they were putting her mate and brother and loved ones through. Elain suppressed the shudder that threatened to overtake her as she thought of the agony in Bryce’s voice when she explained what the Asteri were most likely doing to her brother and mate in their dungeon, of those flashes she had seen in her vision.

She had never mastered her seer powers, not yet at least.

At first, they reminded her of what was done to her, of those months of suffering and heartache following that fateful day when she was turned into Fae. And that day when her fiancé, the man she thought was her soulmate and who she was going to spend the rest of her life with. But the life she knew had ended the night she and her older sister Nesta were kidnapped, no matter how hard she fought against it. In those months in which she would not, could not leave her room, she pretended all was well, as it was supposed to be. But one look in the mirror, a those pointed ears that replaced her rounded ones, shattered those pretenses. And then the visions came, and that was when she knew nothing would ever be the same again, that she would never go back to being the same person she’d been for her entire life.

So with the help of her family and her two friends, Nuala and Cerridwen, she had tried to find some normalcy in her new life. She’d learned how to grow vegetables and fruit, now that the soil allowed the seeds to grow, she had the shadow twins teach her how to bake and cook, and she’d even found a job to pay back her sister and her husband for all that they had done for her over the years. Helping the elderly by tending their gardens filled her with such sense of fulfillment that she had never thought possible.

Yet, Elain had never tapped into her powers again. At times, images would pop into her mind, but she’d always ignored them, pushing them to the back of her mind. Those visions would bring forward too many things she’d rather not face. Elain knew it also pained her sister Nesta, not being able to help her. That those flashes she’d see would also be a reminder to her of her failure in not protecting her, even though Elain also knew there was nothing Nesta could have done to prevent the attack. To avoid what had happened to them both. They had been betrayed, by Feyre’s captor and his friend, Lucien. Who happened to be Elain’s mate too. Another thing she would rather not face yet.

So Elain had avoided her powers, of the truth they would whisper to her.

Yet when she was baking bread for her family weeks ago and the vision hit her, there was nothing she could have done to block out the images, the sounds of despair and agony that filled her ears. She had heard a woman—a female— with red hair sob as she hugged a male who murmured words of comfort to her, telling her he was going to find her, as another male, who looked eerily similar to Rhysand slipped something in her pockets. And then she saw that same female jump through a portal and land on a front lawn Elain knew well. Her breath had been knocked out of her lungs and she knew that what she had seen was too important to ignore.

Now, Bryce and Rhysand were discussing how to contact the former’s friends in Midgard. Bryce insisted that the information they came about was of great value, that her friends needed to be aware of it to be better prepared while she was stuck in this world. That she needed to tell them, to help them however she could.

Rhysand, on his part, argued that it was too risky to establish contact with the world where the parasites that were trying to conquer and enslave them again resided. That they needed more time to collect insights on how to defeat them before risking opening the gates between their worlds. Elain could understand both points of view.

“I’m telling you, I know a way to communicate with them that does not require opening the gates,” Bryce said in frustration.

The sole fact that Elain could now understand her was a feat on its own. Rhysand and Amren, his second-in-command, had conjured a sort of translation machine, allowing them to talk freely. Bryce used some terms they all didn’t understand, like gun or motorcycle, but they could still communicate and understand the other with little to no issue.

“If only I had brought the bloodsalt with me,” Bryce muttered under her breath. Rhysand stilled and exchanged a look with Amren.

“Bloodsalt?” He asked quietly, too quietly.

The female’s head whipped up. “You know what it is?” Her voice sounded so hopeful.

Elain’s heart squeezed a bit. For her sake, she sent a prayer to the Mother that it meant something positive.

“I’m not sure. The word does remind me of...” Rhys stopped talking, as if he was unsure on what to reveal to that strange, modern female standing before him. Although she had proved to not be deceiving them, it was still hard for them to trust her entirely. Especially for Rhysand, who had a mate, a son, and a Court to think about. “I don’t think it was ever used how you mean it.”

Bryce seemed to deflate a bit at that, but still took a deep breath before explaining how it was used on her planet.

“In Midgard there are… individuals who have been granted a great, yet terrible power. They’re called mystics, and they always work in a set of three. One female, one male, and one who is both. They can see the present—and other worlds.” She swallowed, as if talking about these creatures brought her great pain. “They’re usually born to poor families, and their parents sell them to another person, the Astronomer, he calls himself, and their lives are forfeited for the use of their abilities.” She shook her head, and Elain could feel the shift in the room, the horror everyone must be feeling. “They can travel to other worlds, understand and speak other languages. Thanks to a mind-reading machine, what they witness, what they say with other… people is transcribed and then analyzed by the Astronomer. Bloodsalt helps pinpoint their search.”

Silence had descended on the room. Elain’s blood had turned into ice in her veins. She shifted her focus on the babbling baby sitting on her knees, swiping a hand through his soft hair and pressing a kiss to his temple. She refused to look at anyone else.

“I believe in our world it’s called bloodbane. But nothing of the sorts has ever been attempted, not like how you described it. How does bloodsalt exactly help them?” Rhysand inquired.

Bryce shook her head once more. “I don’t know the logistics of it, not in detail, but what I do know is that the mystics live in a bathtub, filled with water and white salt. I once saw the Astronomer add the bloodsalt and they reached the intended location within seconds.”

Elain had to suppress another shudder.

She felt Rhysand’s gaze on her, and she knew before he even opened his mouth what he was going to say. “Are you sure this won’t open a gate into your world?”

Bryce nodded. “I’m positive. The mystics have been traveling through worlds without opening any gates for centuries.”

“And you’re sure this won’t help the Asteri gain entrance in Prythian.” Rhysand asked as a matter of fact, as though he already know the answer.

“I don’t see why it would.” Bryce replied honestly.

Elain took a deep breath. Rhysand’s next words sounded loud and clear, “Then I think we should attempt it.”

Elain’s gaze landed on her brother-in-law, though she did a quick sweep of the room. She set her shoulders and began to nod when two voices interrupted her. “Absolutely not!” one barked, while the other growled a simple “No.”

She knew who those voices belonged to. Her older sister Nesta, and Azriel, Rhysand’s brother and the male who had rejected her months ago. She ignored both of them, instead kept her eyes on her brother-in-law, who had always encouraged her in her acceptance of her new life and body. She knew he’d come to love her as a sister, which she supposed she was for him. Growing up, Elain had never felt as though she had someone in her corner, silently cheering for her. Yes, Feyre had provided food and shelter for her, and Nesta would fight to the death for her safety, and for that she would always be grateful to her sisters. Yet she had never felt she could be her true self, only the version that would be most convenient to her family. To not be in their way, while they were starving and cold and mocked by people they thought friends. So she’d learned to be what they wanted, needed her to be, and stuck with it until everything she had come to know had changed so radically that she was forced to become another version. This time, she’d chosen something was similar to her true self. She wondered if the day ever came where she was allowed to be completely who she wanted to be, disregarding others’ expectations of her.

“I will do it.” She had never sounded so clear. She was certain of the decision she’d made.

Shadows flickered to the corner on her left, where that deep voice came from. Where Azriel stood. She looked his way, and when she found his stare already on herself, she glanced away. She didn’t have the time for this, not now.

As if he could sense his aunt had agreed to something reckless, Nyx turned around in her laps and grabbed her cheeks, before bursting into tears. Elain hugged him to her, murmuring words of comfort and laying her cheek on his head. She rubbed his tiny back, mindful of his even tinier wings, but his cries turned into sobs. She looked towards Feyre, who got up from the other end of the sofa and took him, soothing her son. Feyre was a great mother, watching her with Nyx always sent a pang through her chest. It reminded her too much of her father, who had always doted on her.

“Are you sure?” Feyre asked her.

Elain looked her in the eyes and nodded, willing the anxiety away. Feyre seemed to asses her, and when she deemed her to be truthful she nodded and turned toward Nesta.

“It’s her choice,” was all she said.

Nesta snarled. “I will not stand by while she’s throwing herself into harm’s way”.

“We cannot forbid her from doing the things she wants to do. She’s her own person. She can make her own choices.” Feyre replied calmly.

“I’m here, you know.” Elain said quietly. Apparently not as quiet as she thought, as several heads turned her way. Elain hunched her shoulders.

“Is anyone going to explain to me what the Hel is going on?” Bryce asked.

“I’m a seer. I can see future events— but I can also see the present.”

Bryce looked stunned, rightly so. They’d agreed not to tell her that she had seen her coming, not until they knew for certain that she was not a threat.

“We’ll work on finding a transcriber, or conjuring one, and then we’ll get you started on it.” Amren nodded to her. Then, she turned to Azriel. “Boy, you will need to retrieve the bloodbane. You know where to find it.”

Azriel’s face was dark, almost hidden in the shadows that swarmed him. It was clear as day he was not happy with this decision. Elain couldn’t phantom why. He had no right to act as though her safety mattered so dearly to him, when he had no qualms with breaking her heart months ago.

So she turned her gaze away from him and got up. She inclined her head toward the High Lord of the Night Court and his second-in-command. “You know where to find me when the time is right.” With that, she breezed past them, plopping a kiss on Nyx’ soft hair, ignoring Nesta’s sounds of protest and the lone shadow following her.

It took them a week to figure out how to create a transcriber without all the technology available in Midgard. Elain could still remember everyone’s reaction to the device Bryce had brought with herself, which she called smartphone. The males had drawn out their weapons, but the redhead had only rolled her eyes and showed them what it could do. It stored pictures, but it could also make calls and write to the digits stored in the phone, which belonged to friends and family members and anyone who you shared your own number with.

Her mind couldn’t wrap around it. Elain had always thought Velaris was the most magical, advanced place she’d ever been in, yet the single proof Bryce had brought with her made her wonder if such progress could be had in her world too.

Elain was sitting in the garden of the Town House, basking in the sun after a long day of tending to the flowers and vegetables. She felt something poke her shoulder, and she cracked an eye open to see a shadow in the process of curling itself around her arm. She smiled slightly, before raising her head and searching for its owner, for if the shadow was here, it meant Azriel had to be near.

Sure enough, he was leaning against the backdoor, silently watching her. She felt her cheeks grow warm and hated herself for it, for showing him that her feelings had not changed since that fateful Solstice night. She had no doubts he could hear her heartbeat picking up, or smell her nervousness.

He moved to her, his steps silent.

She swallowed, hard, but remained seated. Until he was standing directly in front of her and she had to crane her neck to look him in the face.

She made to stand, but he gripped her hand with the preternaturally speed of Faes and helped her up. Elain knew her blush had deepened. The last time they had touched they had almost kissed.

She forced the painful reminder away, and looked him in the eyes.

“Rhys has sent me to summon you. They’re ready,” Azriel’s voice was tight, telling her he had still not come around to this plan.

Her heart started beating faster for another reason this time, anxiety pouring over her like ice. She had volunteered for this, but she wasn’t foolish enough to pretend she wasn’t about to do the most dangerous thing she’d ever done in her life.

“I see,” she said, lamely. She shook her head and took a deep breath, and nodded. “Alright, I’m ready. Take me to him.”

Azriel scanned her face, searching for anything that told him she was rethinking the whole thing. But he wasn’t going to. Despite her unease, she was going through with it. The disappointed look on his face told her he’d read that on her face, too.

She had avoided her powers for so long, but she no longer could. It was now a matter of life or death, quite literally. Bryce’s friends needed to know what threat they were facing, but they needed to be told so they could help Elain’s family and world too. So many things had changed in her life so quickly, she was not ready for yet another change. She would not allow it. With that newfound conviction, she draped her arms around Azriel’s neck. He stilled, his shadows peeking from his shoulders. She smiled at them, right as Azriel scooped her up and began their flight to the House of Wind, where the Inner Circle and Bryce were waiting for them.

They arrived shortly after, and Elain’s breath caught as her eyes took in the large bathtub standing in front of her.

She had not taken that into account. How she would feel to submerge herself under the water, so similar to how she had been forced under it to turn her into Fae. Her baths since that day had been fast, and she had never gone underwater with her head.

Azriel stiffened at her side, his hand inching toward hers. As if he might offer her that kind of comfort. She almost caved in, but Amren’s curt voice made her forget about all that. “Come here, girl. Bryce will explain to you what will happen.”

Elain nodded, but her gaze remained fixed on that bathtub.

She took a step forward.

She almost turned around and fled.

No, she refused to let that fear win.

Her mind threatened to replay her those moments in which she was forever changed, but she forced them away.

She took a deep breath, and another, and another.

She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, but she ignored them and forced a foot in front of the other, then did the same again.

And again, and again, and again.

Until she had covered the distance to the bathtub.

Her head was roaring with panic, her hands shaking and clammy.

“I don’t know how well this will work. As I said, there’s usually a set of three. You’re only one,” Bryce cautioned. “You will need to wear this mask,” Bryce said, handing her a carefully crafted mask. “And go all the way under the water. I will add the bloodsalt— or bloodbane, however you want to call it. It should take you to my world.” Bryce said, her voice breaking.

“If we see you’re struggling or not being able to reach them, we’ll get you out,” Azriel said, his voice too soft. From the look on Rhys’ face, Elain knew it wasn’t part of the plan. Still, her traitorous heart squeezed at his words. She put on the mask, it not being too constrictive.

Elain looked at her family, their anxious but supportive gazes telling her she was making the right decision, and finally glanced at Azriel. He had a dark look on his face, his jaw clenched tight, but when their eyes made contact it softened. The corners of his mouth tipped up, his smile tight, yet the pressure on her chest lessened, as though a weight had been lifted from it.

She went into the bathtub still looking at him.

At first, she couldn’t see anything.

She could hear the sound of the water, yet everything was as black as the bottom of the bathtub. She tried to relax her muscles, to trick her mind into thinking nothing was amiss. If Nesta had battled her fears, then so could she.

Slowly, Elain started seeing things better.

She was floating in a starry sky. So many stars and so many… worlds. She was seeing worlds!

Excitement threatened to burst over, but she did her best to contain it.

A strange sensation spilled over her skin, and she realized they must have put the bloodbane in the water.

Suddenly, she was being propelled forward, spinning so fast she became dizzy. She struggled against this invisible force, but just as it had begun, it stopped. She took a few moments to make sure the contents of her stomach wouldn’t spill over, and then opened her eyes that she did not remember closing.

Dark eyes were staring right into hers.

Elain suppressed a scream, her heart beating loudly.

She saw that those eyes belonged on gaunt, pale skin, framed by chestnut-brown hair. A female.

“Who-Who are you?” Elain asked, stumbling over her words.

“I’m a mystic,” the female simply said. Elain could have cried from joy. She could understand her, and the mystic could understand her.

Elain tried again. “What’s your name?”

The female blinked. “Who asks?”

Elain tried to assess the risks of revealing her name. But before she could come to a decision, the mystic spoke again. “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

Her voice didn’t sound mocking, only curious. Still, Elain blushed deeply. “I haven’t, no. I didn’t know I could do this. I’m only a seer, where I come from.”

When the mystic didn’t say anything, Elain said, “I need to send a warning to someone. To a certain Ithan Holstrom.” That was the name Bryce had given her.

The female seemed to freeze. Elain gasped. “You know him.”

The mystic assessed her, and then gave a tiny nod Elain might have missed if she hadn’t been looking for it.

“Tell him his friend, Bryce, has landed in the world I come from— we call it Prythian, but in your world it might have a different name.” She relayed all the necessary information in a succinct way, the female paling even more with each word she pronounced.

“Tell Bryce that he’s listening right now, that we’ll try whatever we can to help her from here.”

“Elain nodded. “I will.” She promised.

“Well, I better—” The mystic’s voice suddenly cut off, and her eyes started rolling in the back of her head, her body thrashing. Elain screamed then. Then a cruel, cold face came between them, a sinister smile painting it.

Elain’s breath was stolen from her lungs.

She needed to go back, back back.

She made to float away, but a freezing hand grabbed her wrist. It was squeezing her to the point of pain, and she tried to shake it off but his grip would not budge. Her thrashing became frantic, desperate to get away from this—this—

“Tell Bryce Quinlan that we’re coming for her. And that there’s nothing she can do to stop us,” said the deceivingly soft voice.

It was an Asteri. A Daglan.

Agitation overtook her and tried to break free from the grip of this parasite, but instead it squeezed harder, making it impossible for her to break free from it.

She started sobbing, and she tried to scream, but she couldn’t.

No matter how hard she tried, her lungs would not suck in any air.

She needed to get out, out, out of here—

She couldn’t breathe anymore, and black spots appeared in her line of vision.

She was crying as she started losing consciousness.

Elain opened her eyes again as she was being lifted by strong arms.

Blinding light made them close again.

She could hear raised voices, though she couldn’t make out what they were saying.

She took in a big gasp of air, savoring every moment of it.

Her wet clothes clung to her, her hair matted against the sides of her face. Someone was passing a hand through it, freeing her face. The feel of the air against her skin was the most beautiful feeling she’d ever had.

Soft lips pressed to her temple, leaving kisses and soothing words against it.

She took another steadying breath and opened her eyes again.

This time, the light wasn’t nearly as painful, and she managed to keep them open.

The first thing she saw was Cassian, her sister Nesta’s mate. She had on a worried face, and let out a small sigh of relief at seeing her sister breathe and alert. Her reaction seemed to lessen her other sister’s, Feyre, panic too, whose shoulders slumped as she leaned against her mate, Rhysand.

She couldn’t see Amren or Bryce, but she knew for certain the male holding her was Azriel.

“I’m fine,” she let out, her voice breathy, yet Azriel didn’t let her go.

No, he held her tighter to him.

He murmured something again, and this time she could make out “you’re alright you’re alright you’re alright” as though the words were a prayer.

She laid a hand on his big arm, and he laid his head on hers.

Her heart gave a squeeze.

Elain realized then that he needed to know she was okay. That nothing had befallen her.

So she caressed his arm, and nuzzled his cheek.

He gave a sigh of contentment.

She smiled.

“I’m fine, Azriel.” She said again, and this time he seemed to hear her. Still, he didn’t move.

She tried to shift, to catch his eyes, but he wouldn’t let her move, his hands gripping her waist as though she might disappear if he let go of her.

So she repeated, again and again, those three words, until at last he seemed to come back to the present and she was able to turn in his arms.

Elain pressed a kiss to his left cheek, then another on the other, and then met his eyes. And held onto them to convey that she was thoroughly alright.

He nodded, and shifted his gaze on Rhysand.

But it wasn’t the latter who spoke.

“Holy shit, you’re mates,” was all Bryce said.

Elain’s eyes widened as they landed on the redhead, but something in her chest shifted, a sense of rightness settling over her for the first time, and she could swear she heard a voice sing in her ear, finally, things are right.

Nothing had ever made more sense to her than those words.

With a smile, Elain leaned back against the chest of her mate.

#elain archeron #azriel #elriel #elriel fic #elriel fanfic #hosab spoilers #mystics #mating bond reveal #bryce quinlan #inner circle #acotar #acosf

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aurelim · 1 year

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Anthony/Anne Maddox

The Captain

❝There is so much to show you guys! The human world is so vastly different than this...wherever we are.❞ ❝I don't think I would have met any human who could compare to you. I'm so lucky to have met you.❞

Age: Three years older than MC

Race: Human

Gender: Male or female, depending on player choice

Pronouns: He/him or she/her, depending on player choice

Physical Appearance: Maddox has tanned skin thanks to living by the sea their entire life. They have golden shoulder-length hair and piercing blue eyes. Will always be six feet tall flat out no matter if Maddox is male or female. Perhaps the most recognizable feature of theirs is their navy blue coat with gold linings. If you were to imagine an average sailor, Maddox would look like one.

Trope(s): Forbidden love, fish out of water, first true love, [REDACTED]

You had never expected a human to be saved during a hunt, but it was certainly surprising when you discovered that it was A of all people. A disgraced but still well-liked captain, Maddox once claimed that mermaids existed; however, without anything but their words, many did not believe them. This led them to being ostracized and spurred them to spontaneously invite others to prove it. But was it worth it if everything but them was destroyed? Was it worth it just to get a glimpse of you?

A would be nothing without their charm and confidence. You also find that they are incredibly cocky and flirty, especially when they have gotten a few drinks. There is something about them that exudes adventure, which is very true since they loved traveling around on their ship. Free-spirited and unable to stay still for more than a few minutes, A is independent as they were forced to look out for themself at a young age.

They never show fear in front of others. Perhaps it can be read in their eyes, but they are quick to hide it from their tone and expression. A must remain calm when others lose their cool, acting as an anchor in a chaotic storm.

For someone who lost everything thanks to your family, the captain appears to hold no grudge against you. They treat you as if you were one of their kind, disregarding that you can kill them at any moment. Though there are times when they go quiet, eyes far away and mind distracted. Something pulls down their conscious, preventing you from getting to know the real Maddox.

They grew up with a single parent who was rarely there for them. A had to grow up by themself and discovered their love for ships when they were fifteen years old. Since then, they worked hard to save up for a ship and bought the Odyssey with their earnings. Maddox does not have a crew to help them, but they like to refer to themself as a captain regardless. They believe they earned it. Especially when they are sailing for jobs and manning everything by themself.

You have a feeling you were destined to meet them no matter the circumstance. Like a magnetic pull bringing you two together...

Fun Facts About Maddox:

Might become a friends-with-benefits route. It has not been fully fleshed out yet, but Maddox will definitely not be thinking about falling in love with someone. They are so used with having one-night-stands that establishing an actual relationship has never occurred to them. Maybe they have come close in the past, but it never reached that point

Has an (affectionate) nickname for MC and K individually :)

Would call MC that nickname and another one if you decide to romance them

Has gained a semi-tolerance to alcohol, but they get drunk fairly easily anyway

Honestly thought about basing them on Prince Eric, but I kind of based Maddox on Oisein from The Nameless by Parker Lyn; it's a good game and Oisein is so pretty that I couldn't help myself (sorry about that)

Would honestly love to become a Merfolk. Or if not a Merfolk, then a sea creature like a whale or dolphin

Has met the Royal before, though they did not realize it as said person was under disguise. A took them out to drinks and they somehow made it back to their respective homes without throwing up in an undisclosed location. The Royal does not remember it but A does

When it comes to jobs, they will take it if the job has high rewards. Maddox would take any they can get, but if they are given multiple and had to choose one, they would choose the one with the most rewards. It's the better choice for them financially

Loves sparring. They learned how to use a sword when they were twelve, and they are very experienced with a rapier. Maddox is very deadly with one, especially when parrying

That rapier is attached to their hip, easy to sheath out quickly

Scary fast swimmer

Kind of likes to read?? Like they would carry around a book in their inner pocket but they only read if they have the free time to

The book is usually tips on how to manage a ship and romance

It was not a coincidence you met Maddox. Things happen for a reason, but you may never get to figure out the reason why. Was this for story purposes? Or something more?

#As the Ocean Lures #atol #atol ros #ch: a maddox #a maddox #4/4 #ro info #atol ro info #all of the ro infos are out!!

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heliads · 1 year

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So, Before You Go Chapter Seven: The Walls Close In

Hellas is gone; so too is your life as a cartographer. You and the Darkling must quell Alina Starkov’s attempt at an uprising in order to protect the Grisha of Ravka. However, your gods are not as dead as they seem, and that which you have taken for granted will soon prove to be quite unpredictable indeed.

previous / series masterlist / next

The last of the golden days ended when the Age of Heroes collapsed. After every fight, every victory, all it took was one war and all was lost. The Trojan War spanned years, cost hundreds of thousands of men, and ended the world as all survivors knew it. What do you think they did, after the final surrender? How do you think they lived without a war to hold them together? Could they even recognize themselves without a sword in their hand and blood on their face?

Keramzin. It is to Keramzin you must go, and it is Keramzin where all will end. Only an attack on her homeland will draw Alina out of hiding for good. It is surprisingly easy to march on the orphanage and fortify your command over it, perhaps because there are few soldiers guarding its gates, and perhaps also because of the amplifiers.

Aleksander, he– he had bones left over from his mother’s death, Baghra’s bones, and he fashioned them into amplifiers for himself and trusted Grisha he had selected as captains in this endless war. Alina has two amplifiers at this point, will have three if she can bear the agony of killing the one she loves, and so the two of you must do something to try and settle the score.

Aleksander gives himself an amplifier first, and then he turns to you, holds out ash from his mother’s burned body and tells you that it is your turn to accept this gift. The thought of it, robbing respect from the dead, especially a woman who had been so much to you for so long, makes you feel sick to your stomach and you decline in a heartbeat. You cannot dishonor her like this. You are not fit to bear her bones, to use her strength as your own.

Something almost like anger or disappointment flashes across Aleksander’s face, but he does not take away his outstretched hand, not yet.

He says, It will make you strong.

You say, I am strong. Strong without your kind of magic.

He says, I know. But you could be more.

There is confusion written all across his features, as if he could not possibly understand why someone would turn down power if it was given to them. There is so much about you that he could not comprehend. Things like your actual strength, how much you’ve been holding back in every fight. You could rattle this earth down to the very core if you so desired, you could find his making at the heart of the world and destroy it completely. It might kill you in the process, but you could do it. You always could.

So no, actually, you do not need his ill-gotten power, you are perfectly fine on your own. This you share with him, not the reason but the answer, and Aleksander senses that you are not willing to change your mind on this matter. Fine, then; he has other capable Grisha who will accept this token from him, and so you watch as he amplifies several more soldiers.

One of them in particular makes you uneasy. There’s a new Tidemaker who arrived here recently. Her name is Fruzsi, and she was the one in charge of watching Baghra while you and Aleksander were out nearly dying in the Shadow Fold. Her hair is dark, her stature cold, and there is something about her that unsettles you deeply.

Perhaps it’s her motives. Aleksander saved her from an unworthy family that would not protect a Grisha child, just like many of the other Grisha here. For Fruzsi, however, it turned her into a puppet, some sort of thing that would kill and maim whenever Aleksander so much as snapped a finger. She is quite powerful in her own right, but she has no heart, no sense of mercy.

On the few times that you’ve passed through otkazat’sya villages, she has wanted to flood the entire township, destroy every crop and house, just for the crime of not being Grisha. You cannot help but wonder if this is the generation of Grisha you and Aleksander are protecting, the ones who are so furious about Grisha inequality that they would unfairly persecute everyone else. The Grisha would be safe in such a world, yes, but would that make you better than them?

Fruzsi is one of the Grisha given an amplifier, and she tests her newfound abilities by conjuring daggers of ice from just the water in the air. With a twitch of her hands, she slams the frozen shards into a nearby door, all of them inches deep in the hard wood surface. Judging by the sick grin on her face, she’s wondering what they would do in something as soft as human flesh.

The rest of the amplified Grisha are no trouble to you. They follow orders, they do as they’re told. That Tidemaker, though, you’ll keep an eye out for her.

You and Aleksander split up your forces soon enough. The Lantsov king, now Nikolai, has been spotted in a flying ship of all things headed towards Keramzin. You send a squad of Grisha, including several Inferni, to take down the ship, then order more troops to patrol the perimeter. Aleksander moves off towards the Shadow Fold so as to swallow Alina’s camp with shadow, and you remain at Keramzin to protect the stronghold in case of a trap.

You watch from the highest window you can find, and soon enough, red and yellow tendrils of fire blossom across the sky. You watch as the flying ship is hit by Inferni blasts. It tilts dangerously, then drops like a stone and skids across the ground. Small flecks of blue and red move towards it, your Grisha ready to take out any survivors.

In the meantime, you have to be ready for other attackers. You and Aleksander spent hours brainstorming every last military tactic you could think of, every switch of plans or strategy that might take place over the course of the battle. Alina could have more soldiers willing to fight and die for her cause than you expected, or she could approach at a multitude of different angles, or she could go through with killing Mal to gain the third amplifier and destroy the Fold before her soldiers even reach the doorstep of Keramzin.

All of these possibilities were thought through, carefully catalogued, and avoided. All that remains now is to implement the correct strategy, and hope to all the gods and Saints around that your tactics hold. You call out orders to the Grisha captains, setting up traps and ambushes for the oncoming soldiers.

The only thing remaining to do, then, is to wait, and you do not have to wait long. Soon enough, Alina’s army charges towards the walls surrounding Keramzin and begins their assault. What grabs your attention the most about her forces is that they are not wholly Grisha nor completely otkazat’sya. She’s managed to convince both the First and Second Armies that they should be able to work together, and you’re not so jaded and bitter as to be unable to admit that the tactic succeeds.

In fact, the soldiers work together quite brilliantly. The Grisha draw enemy fire by launching attacks while the First Army soldiers reload their weapons, and then the First Army provide cover with bullets and daggers while Healers rush forward to aid their wounded. Alina may damn well have found a way to make both Grisha and otkazat’sya fight as one. It’s a shame, then, that she’ll die before she gets to see that theory extend throughout all of Ravka.

You can spoil the ending for her, though: it will never work, not for everybody. No country will be able to embrace someone they see as ‘other’ forever. She must prioritize the Grisha or they will die, just like they have been dying for centuries. You’ve had plenty of time to see it. You know how this ends unless you win and take back control for good.

You receive word from one of your soldiers that the young Lantsov king has entered the fray, alongside several of his stronger Grisha and First Army fighters. You signal for your forces to redouble their efforts, then send Fruzsi and a few other amplified Grisha to finish the job.

Alina’s troops do seem to be making more headway than you’d strictly appreciate, so you decide to multitask and fight instead of just issuing strategic commands. If you can wrap this up quickly, you can go to Aleksander in the Fold. It’s not that you don’t trust him not to kill Alina, especially not in the dense nest of shadow that he created so many years ago as the Black Heretic, it’s just that Alina has a way of having luck and coincidence go her way. You’ve come too far now for things not to proceed as you’d like them to.

Your footsteps seem to echo off of the stone walls as you walk further into the melee, and you can see the faces of Alina’s troops pale as they realize who you are. Alina must have warned them about you, but no amount of scary bedtime stories can stop them from falling from your spells. No Heartrender can slow your pulse, no Squaller can choke you out. It is you against them, and you have had centuries more practice at such things.

You round a corner and there they are at the final crux of this battle. Fruzsi stands before you with the other amplified Grisha, shouting out to a king that he cannot hide forever. This must mean that Nikolai Lantsov is one of the figures huddled behind some sort of makeshift shelter. In fact, you think you can see him now. He’s bent over a fallen figure, yet another First Army soldier dead with Fruzsi’s ice daggers embedded in his chest.

Nikolai does not have the insincere disdain of any king you’ve met, though. In fact, you think he’s crying. Yes, crying, screaming the name of the man in front of him, the man who won’t ever respond to him. He’s saying something about a brother, how even though this man wasn’t his by blood they were closer than anyone else. It is a terrible sort of grief, and it is worse still because it is true. Nikolai was born to bear the sorrow of a nation, but he cannot even handle the loss of one man. How very human of him.

Fruzsi advances towards him, arms raised. You sense the thudding of footsteps around the corner, reinforcements to protect the king, but they’ll come just a little too late. Fruzsi raises her arms, conjuring up more daggers of ice. They’ll fly straight for his throat and he will be dead in moments, just like his friend.

The young king will be lost, then, unless someone stops her. Unless someone kills her. The dark Tidemaker is grinning, drunk on the certainty that she is about to add one more death to her tally. And then, all of a sudden, she can’t, and the ice shards coalesce back into normal air once more, no one around to sharpen it into something else.

She dies quite easily, actually, for such power, such confidence. It is nothing at all to the killer, nothing at all to you. All it takes is one word from your lips, one single spell, and the situation is handled. The battlefield is dense with screams, cries, death. No one would ever be able to tell that it was you who ended things like this. No one at all.

The young king looks up at you with wide eyes. A child’s eyes. You and Aleksander are gods fighting against children who grew up too fast. What kind of justice is that? What kind of cruelty? You lay one finger to your lips and vanish into the shadows. Aleksander will be expecting you. He will not know a moment of what happened here unless you tell him. Aleksander doesn’t know. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to at all. No one needs to know except you and the boy-king still crouched there in the dust where you left him.

You think as you travel, you travel as you think. You cannot seem to stop yourself from sabotaging your own cause. On second thought, perhaps it is Aleksander who is ruining things before you can achieve your goals. He destroys himself by making a monster of himself.

You cannot help but compare your upbringings. Baghra raised Aleksander to be cold and heartless, to value Grisha and Grisha only above all else. He does that now with pride. Your mother, on the other hand, she taught you spells, but she taught you mercy, too. She told you to be kind. You’ve failed her in that, you think, but you still have time.

Time. You blink and the Shadow Fold looms before you. You can vaguely hear the sound of voices through the dense darkness. Aleksander has reached Alina and Mal, then. This is where it ends, of that you are certain.

For once, however, you cannot guess at the ending. Your crossroads stretch out before you again, a multitude of paths all calling your name. They are too varied and twisted for you to pick any one at this moment, but the time to choose is closing in. You cannot wait forever, and neither can he. The Fold awaits. It is time to enter the darkness once more.

a/n only one more chapter babes how are we feeling

series tag list: @britishbassett, @rogueanschel, @hotleaf-juice, @mxltifxnd0m, @kaqua, @nemesis729, @imma-too-many-fandoms, @cleverzonkwombatsludge, @yourabbymoore, @nemtodd-barnes1923, @heyyitsreign, @ponyboys-sunsets, @slytherinsssss, @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @lakeli, @darlinggbrekker, @rosesberose, @w1shes43, @fairyeunji, @cryinghotmess, @rainbowgoblinfan, @heyitsaloy, @lastscenic

grishaverse tag list: @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @thatfangirl42, @amortensie, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000

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randombibitch · 8 months

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Survivors

This was supposed to be a 200-word blurb to get me back into writing, but now I'm considering writing an entire storyline for it. Send help...

Inspired by the quote "Survivors have scars. Victims have graves"

TW: Slight gore (maybe?), if you squint really hard maybe suicidal idealisation???, that's about it

She sat on the city rooftop, watching the lights flash and listening to the whoops of celebration from people crowding the streets, people who were complete strangers before were now dancing, hugging, making out, all the things that people had been unable to do for years. She questioned how they could be so happy at a time like this, a time where the dead were still piled in abandoned alleyways because there were just too many for the cemeteries to bury in a week, maybe in months.

The words from earlier today washed over her, and all she could think about was how untrue they were.

It seemed like every human left alive was crowded into the city square for the Commander's speech, waiting with curiosity. She stood near the front, a “special privilege” to acknowledge her role in saving the population, but she just wanted to go home—if home was even there anymore, they had made so many changes to the city in a week it was unrecognizable—and curl up with tea and a book, ignoring everything that had happened in the last year, all the deaths that she could have prevented if she had been an hour earlier.

As the Commander began to speak, most people stopped talking, which allowed his voice to be carried even further.

“Today we gather here to celebrate a momentous occasion, the rebirth of our once destroyed lands, and an era of friendship and healing. For the last 58 years the human species has been on the brink of extinction because of the virus, it has taken many, and the majority of those gathered here are of the next generation. It has taken a toll on us all, never knowing who is safe to be around, and many had to figure out how to survive on their own in abandoned areas, but it is time for a new era, an era of restoring our world to its greatest potential. Many have been lost to the virus, but now we shall never have to face that great loss again. Those who discovered the vaccine are true heroes, the worst victims of this tragedy. So I shall end it here to allow you to celebrate, but first, please clap for Scythe.”

The crowd erupted into applause and she tried to blend further into the crowd, that was a little hard however, because 1. she was one of the only ones still wearing a mask and 2. she had a giant scythe strapped to her back.

The moment she saw an opening she went for it dodging people, headed for one of the alleyways that would take her far away from the crowds, far away from the memories starting to resurface.

That’s how she found herself curled on the rooftop hours later, flicking at the lighter in her hands, attempting to light the cigarette that rested between her fingers and a half empty bottle of whiskey next to her. No one would look for her, or if they did they would have no clue where to find her. Perhaps being on a rooftop drunk and high alone wasn’t the best idea, but who cares.

2 weeks is how long it took to spread the information about the vaccine and administer it, and 1 week to have the majority of the people left to gather in the abandoned city. She knew that people wouldn’t look at the losses, that they would only look at the success, and she felt a wave of anger wash over her again about the fact that her fallen companions hadn’t even been mentioned in the speech because apparently it would “bring down the mood”.

But as the wind brushed through her hair she couldn’t help but think about the part of the speech that she had hated the most, because in the end she wasn’t a victim, the victims are the body’s piled in the alley’s and buried in shallow graves in the woods, the victims are her friends that had shielded her as she had escaped with the vaccine, bodies now gone in the same fire she had set to the facility.

She was a survivor, scars deeply carved into both her skin and her soul, reminders of the past that would never leave. She was a survivor because her chest still rose and fell, her heart still beat, and her voice still screamed. This would not tear her apart, if anything it would make her stronger, she would find the people deep in the woods that never had been informed, she would finish what they had all set out to do.

She was a survivor because survivors have scars. Victims have graves.

#This was actually really fun to write #Opinions on it?#apocalypse #quotes #Em writes #original story

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monstersdownthepath · 2 years

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So what are the Velstrac?

Before we get into our impromptu Theme Month, how about we take a look at its subject?

The Velstrac, also known as the Kyton to most mortals, are the debased and detached rulers of the Plane of Shadow. As many know them, they are kidnappers, torturers, sadists, and madmen. In reality... this is almost entirely correct, though not without a sufficiently twisted reason.

The first of the velstrac were born from the debased and selfish thoughts of mortalkind, their appearance and mannerisms so disgusting and vile that the gods collectively agreed to chain them as deeply in Hell as they possibly could in a manner similar to how they handled their wayward Titans. Like all things shunned, imprisoned, and abandoned by the gods, though, they eventually broke free... or, depending on what accounts you believe, were freed by Doloras, Our Lady in Pain, or followed in the footsteps of Aroggus, one of their own, as he fled (though the current “accepted” theory combines both). They took up residence in the Plane of Shadow, called to it by the darkness... and, perhaps, the echoes of madness emanating from the prison of Zon-Kuthon, the god of pain, envy, and loss.

The velstrac’s presence in the Plane of Shadow does not predate Zon-Kuthon’s imprisonment, but they do predate his release quite considerably. Having been freed a mere 10,000 years ago, Zon-Kuthon has nonetheless quickly made a name for himself among the like-minded fans of torture and sadomasochism, establishing him as their greatest visionary in the arts of drawing screams from hapless victims.

But what are they?

Velstrac are artists

To know what they are, one must understand their drive: Unlike other Lawful Evil fiends (like the devils they share borders and towns with), the primary motivation for the velstrac as a whole isn’t conquest. Instead, they embody the Law in Lawful Evil via the enforcement of their will on the universe... their aesthetic will. In their own twisted ways, each velstrac wishes to create, but their chosen medium is living flesh, and they often create by destroying. As it goes, they quickly hit walls when it comes to butchering themselves into new and novel shapes, and turn their knives outwards in search of others to practice on. Whether it’s searching for a specific type of pain, finding the perfect pitch in their screaming, reshaping their mind with prolonged mental torture, or the reshaping of the victim’s flesh altogether, each velstrac wishes to bring terrible harm upon others until the others are transformed into something more befitting of the shadowy fiend’s tastes.

Velstrac are scattered

On an individual scale, velstrac rarely make long-term plans, preferring instead to chase their inspiration and hone their skills on whatever fools manage to catch their attention. They are largely isolated creatures, like daemons, each working on their own personal projects and collaborating only if their ideas cross over with one another. They possess a very loose hierarchy and no true government, though the highest echelons of this hierarchy is occupied by the Demagogues, whose works are entirely comprised of new and esoteric forms of suffering. They do not lead so much as hold sway over a large collection of fanatic fans, many of which hoping to impress their favorite artist, or play some part in their next project, one way or another. If anyone among this fiendish race is going to be concocting a century-spanning plot with world-shaking implications, it’s going to be a Demagogue hoping to unveil their new magnum opus or chase an avant-garde idea to its most destructive conclusion.

The most unified group of velstrac are the ones who serve Zon-Kuthon, working to increase their fel god’s power and influence in the worlds beyond their darkened plane and bring him souls to enact his depredations upon.

Velstrac are devilish

In many senses, the velstrac share more than hellish origins with the devils. They, too, transform mortal souls into more of their own through prolonged and excruciating torture, though they do so on a 1:1 basis, one of the few fiendish races to be able to do so besides the demons... were it not for the acceptable losses during the transformation process, assuring they don’t become as numerous as the demons have. Lacking the mechanisms of Hell to harvest souls for them, velstrac must seek out like-minded souls to undergo the hideous process of transforming them, and will go to any length to get such souls into the Plane of Shadow so no other afterlife can claim them... but because the depraved and masochistic are slated to become new members of their kind, that means they must go elsewhere to find materials to actually work with and hone their crafts.

Enter the shadowy bargains and mercenary work.

Like all Outsiders, velstrac can be called via magic or by frantic prayer. However, they can--and do--offer their services to sadists and monsters who can assure them a steady supply of flesh and blood to work upon, entering unofficial contracts they respect to the letter due to their Lawful nature (an especially enterprising velstrac may get a devil to pen the contract for them, enforcing it with Hell’s power). Poor and unfortunate captured souls are tormented in life and, if the velstrac has its way, long after their death, the horrors arranging for the gutted but still-living carcass to be transported to the Plane of Shadow so their brethren can pounce upon their soul the instant they finally die to continue their work, no longer constrained by the limits of flesh. This assures at least two souls: the victim, stolen from the cycle of souls, and the one who signed the pact, condemned to the Plane of Shadow to be transformed.

They possess physical similarities as well; like devils, silver is the most effective weapon against the velstrac. Silver weapons bypass their Damage Reduction, and the Regeneration possessed even by the least of their kind (necessary to survive the wounds they often and eagerly inflict on themselves) is suppressed primarily by damage from silver weapons, though most of them can also be harmed by Good-aligned spells and weapons.

#Pathfinder #Scourge Season Month

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sunbadger · 7 months

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Dalia Bauer - doomed by fate

"I’m not sure I'd want to start a family, but I can’t help but wonder what it’d be like. Or, more realistically - just to see the world next year."

The promising candidate who would later be sacrificed to pass her power down to Bertholdt.

A young girl with an absent father and a mother sentenced to Paradis, holding no hope of survival without the role of a warrior. A spreading infection in her mother’s leg and lack of funds led them to the streets, where necessities were scarce. Their only consistent supply of food came from abandoned plates in restaurants, the garbage outside, and rare gifts from passersby. A bad habit, partly led by greed, partly led by desperation, led them to a life of thievery. The young girl became a con artist and a thief, granting herself some coins, luxuries and jewelry from unsuspecting crowds.

It was no surprise when her mother was arrested, followed shortly by herself. They had gotten just a little too greedy, a little too desperate, and stolen more and more accessories of gold and silver. For a few weeks before the arrest, her mother was able to afford new rags and fresh food, and even made them feel pretty with rings on their fingers and necklaces hanging down their collarbones. For a short while, the young girl was treated to a taste of freedom - one which she would never forget.

Dalia never saw her mother be turned into a titan. An older man dressed in uniform had stopped her as she waited in line to be transported to the outer wall. He was rough with her, and both Dalia and her mother were screaming to give her back, but once she had calmed down, he dropped her off at the military training facility. Like a disposable doll, she was thrown to the ground, dirtying the clothes her mother had gotten for her. She was not very talkative, and refused to speak to the general - but the cop must have put in a good word for her, or perhaps provided an ultimatum. Since she was so young, she would be easy to train for the new warrior program, and if it didn’t work out, there was no such thing as too many suicide bombers. Since she lacked both the strength and the motivation to fight back, the choice was simple. The general took her in and told her to show him what she was capable of.

Looking back, Dalia believes that cop was attempting to save her life - and like the survivor she is, she took the chance. She never had much worth fighting for other than the, perhaps egotistical, desire to stay alive. It rarely crossed her mind that she was training to take the lives of other beings. Her eyes were constantly focused on what was ahead, whether it was the track she had to run or the targets she had to shoot, the ceremony granting her the Colossal, and the fields she had to burn. When she transformed, the grass turned black, falling trees turned to ashes, and the ground warped under her feet. Entire ecosystems being destroyed meant that a roof, a warm dinner and a soft bed were awaiting her return. It was horrifying - but also so beautiful.

Next time I will write more about her life as a warrior and what led to her death, as well as the AU where she survives and goes on to infiltrate the walls. This is a draft so nothing is really final. Her character has some inconsistencies and things that could be improved upon which i'll think about. (but this is mainly just for fun, of course). In the future I'll consider writing a fanfiction featuring her.

thanks for reading if you got this far lmao! feel free to leave some feedback.

#attack on titan oc #aot oc #attack on titan #original character #fan character #attack on titan spoilers #snk spoilers #shingeki no kyojin #fanart #my art #my ocs #my writing #spoilers #bollgrodan art #aot oc dalia

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uzumaki-rebellion · 2 years

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“Black Boys Bloom Thorns First: Volume 4, Chapter 60″

Need to catch up? Masterlist HERE.

youtube

"Yo, these niggas can't breathe when I come through Hum too, some shoes, gotta be twenty man It's not even funny they can't (Breathe) The chokehold's too tight The left looks too right You know what? You right These bitches can't (Breathe)

Look look, they hearts racin', they start chasin' But I'm so fast when I blow past, that they can't (Breathe) In the presence of the man Your future looks better than your past If you present with the man, you better (Breathe)"

Fabolous – "Breathe"

N'Jadaka took his children with him to Necropolis City.

Defeating the last challenger clinched the throne for him, and the moment they placed the claw necklace of the king around his neck, he knew the real work could begin. Hundreds of Wakandans witnessed his rightful ascension back to his place of power. Fearfully and wonderfully re-made, King N'Jadaka stood before his people and heralded a new age for the kingdom.

Riki was the first to reach him, clamoring for a hug, weepy-eyed, and mouth open to cry out "Baba!", gulping breath and choking on his words to express his happiness at having his father back. Joba circled her arms around his neck too, and N'Jadaka gazed at his eldest, Sydette, who stood wide-eyed, watching him.

"Sweet Pea," he said, and his daughter covered her eyes with her hands and wept.

No more. His children would never have to weep over him again. He was in control of the nation. He made the rules. Steered the ship. Mount Bashenga anointed him with an inner glow that everyone could see and feel. He read it on their faces. Most could barely look him in the eye without quaking in their shoes. He could feel it too and would use it to his advantage. Once his children were soothed and secure, his eyes automatically drifted toward Yani.

She was afraid of him.

Perhaps 'afraid' was too strong a word. Nervous? Unfamiliar with him?

Her gaze flitted across his entire body and there was an awe there. She looked away quickly, and he turned his attention back to the children before he glanced over at his grandfather and Disa. She stared at him in a way that reminded him of their days back at M.I.T. when they had talked all night out in the quad as best friends and comrades against American exploitation. His stay in the mountain realm had recalibrated every part of him. A new set of eyes took in Disa as a trusted companion. His love for her felt changed at that moment. She looked away first, and it was like a rubber band snapping against his skin, a sharp awareness and then a gradual fading.

When his piercing gaze latched on to Yani again, there was a distinct sensation that deepened in intensity. He wanted to touch her, speak to her. It had been so long since he had her in his presence, and there was so much to say.

But duty came first.

"Kumkani, we must leave for the Hall of Panthers," Lithemba said.

She lifted his hand in hers.

"I want my children to come with me… ride over there in the ship," he said.

Lithemba nodded and had her assistant guide the little ones toward the Royal Talon Fighter that hovered above them, waiting. N'Jadaka turned and waved at the crowd who yelled his name, starting another chant that made him give them all a sincere smile. There was so much to do before the huge international delegation arrived in Wakanda. He needed to speak with Nick Fury and also get Nakia up to speed with Ramonda's help.

Ramonda was familiar with many political leaders globally over the years and he needed a jump on all of their personalities and quirks. Regime changes always brought out the scavengers and jackals wanting to pick clean the bones of their enemies, and N'Jadaka was about to make Wakanda enemy number one to the world.

He had to prepare for war.

America was first on his list to destroy as a world power. They were the puppet masters that pulled strings all over the globe. Some Black intellectuals, including his own mother, were fond of quoting Audre Lorde's "the master's tools will never dismantle the master's house". N'Jadaka didn't want to disrespect elder wisdom, but the fact was, the C.I.A. did not train Lorde and she never acted in the capacity he had with dismantling entire nations. He had above and beyond the master's tools and training. His rule would devastate them at their own game soon enough.

Joba wouldn't stop staring at him.

As Riki and Sydette watched the world fly by below them, his youngest child studied his face. He kissed her cheek and fingers and settled into enjoying their youthful energy again.

"Can we call you King Baba now?" Sydette asked.

Her eyes twinkled looking at him.

"I'm still just Baba," he said, tugging on her hair beads.

"You were gone so long. Longer than you promised," Sydette said.

"I know. They wanted to make Baba perfect for you," he said.

"You were already that," Sydette said.

"Baba, can we come back and live with you?" Riki asked.

"You have a beautiful home—"

"The palace is our home," Riki insisted.

His son flopped his body across Erik's knees.

"We are supposed to be with the king!" Riki said.

King.

Hearing it from a child made it feel real.

He did it. A kid from Oakland making it all the way to king status on his own terms. The fairytale journey had been long and arduous. So much had been lost, found, and gained over the decades since he left California.

"Look, Baba," Joba said.

The Royal Talon Fighter swooped down and floated above the ongoing repairs for the Hall. The explosion that rocked it left visible scars on the structure that were slowly being covered. Their landing was soft, and he turned to his children.

"I will see you all tonight at the coronation ball," he said.

"Aw, we wahn stay with you," Riki whined.

"This part of the ceremony I must do alone. The Doras will take you back to the palace to rest and prepare for tonight."

He kissed and hugged each one of them.

"You can play in my suite with Grandpop until I return."

The children fretted but blew him kisses. He watched the ship fly off safely before he followed Lithemba into the Hall of Panthers. They strolled past the chambers of his ancestors and headed to an underground dwelling that he had been to before. Four years previously, he had ordered the priests there to burn all the sacred purple heart-shaped herb as a display of his power, knowing full well that Wakandans weren't stupid. They would have seeds saved to create more of the plant. But they wouldn't be able to grow it fast enough to get it to someone else before he changed the kingdom. They did, of course. Nakia had slipped into the chamber and stolen a plant before they burned down all the rest for him.

It was a slow-growing plant, blooming only after two years, so it did not surprise him to see a full garden batch glowing purple from the earthen floor beneath the kings and queens of the past.

"Come this way, King N'Jadaka," Lithemba said.

Altar children stood nearby, watching him with fearful eyes. A young shaman stood aside as N'Jadaka strode through, taking his position on the red earth, the dirt soft against his back. He wondered who would come to him this time. Where would he go? Back to a cramped Oakland apartment?

His heart beat faster, but he pushed back on any doubt that he was worthy of going back into the ancestral realm as a king. He was the Golden Jaguar. An Udaku. A child of the diaspora. It was his rightful time to rule.

Lithemba ground up a plump heart-shaped herb and prayed while she worked, heating it over a low fire near his head. The air in the chamber was thick with incense, and the cloying odor of the herb itself growing only four feet away from him.

"Drink, Kumkani… drink and relax," Lithemba said.

He lifted his head and swallowed down the bitter herb. The children helped bury the red earth all over him and there was a slight panic at having his face covered with dirt. The feeling left him as the heart-shaped herb took hold of him once more, reconfiguring his DNA and taking him under…

N'Jadaka pushed up through the soft earth.

Dressed in the same white knitted robes he wore on Mount Bashenga, he stepped out of his burial mound and into a mystical landscape painted in the hues of purple and blue aurora borealis lights shimmering across a twilight sky. It felt like the same astral dimension Bast kept him in back at her temple. It was familiar and comforting. In the distance, dark trees with flourishing canopies dotted the horizon, and one, in particular, caught his eye. The fruits it bore were several Black Panthers lounging across branches, watching him with shiny, glowing white eyes that turned dark lavender the closer he walked to them.

N'Jadaka stared up at the night sky as the lights danced above them, adding a touch of glowing green to the colors that made the stars twinkle so brightly. He took a deep breath, grateful to be outside and not locked inside a room from his past.

Two lounging panthers stood up from their branches and growled at him, forcing his attention back to them. They both dropped to the ground and a brilliant white light shapeshifted them into humans.

A man and a woman.

N'Jadaka dropped to his knees immediately, not prepared to face these particular ancestors.

"Rise child. You are a king once more. Our equal," the woman said.

Proud. Haughty. Elegant. Beautiful.

Queen Shuriyah stood in front of him in the flesh and tears fell from his eyes.

"This has been quite a journey, eh eh, no… do not wipe your eyes. I know who you are, my son," she said.

Shuriyah held out her hand toward the man next to her.

"Baba, look at your child," she said.

"N'Jadaka…"

The man's voice made him lower his head. The power within it was too much to take in. A mountain was named for him. An entire city. There would be no united Wakanda if not for him.

Bashenga. The Shaman King. The first to taste the heart-shaped herb and use vibranium to catapult his people into the future before the Europeans came out of their filthy caves. The first Black Panther.

"Hear me, son… look at me," Bashenga said.

The light from Bashenga's aura was greater than the lights glowing in the sky. N'Jadaka raised his eyes to level with his greatest grandfather and he recognized an equal.

"It is rare for Bast to come to rulers. She appears only to those that have the task of shifting the tide of the people. I was the first," Bashenga said.

"I was the second," Shuriyah said.

"You are the third, my precious grandson," Bashenga said.

A cultural weight drifted onto N'Jadaka's shoulders. He lifted it and grew accustomed to how it felt carrying it.

"Becoming king is not an easy feat for any Udaku, but our family has prevailed in ruling for centuries because we have always kept a vision of where we wanted Wakanda to be. I am afraid that the old ways have not suited us," Bashenga said.

He wore a large-plumed feather headdress, and a bright scarlet robe draped over one shoulder. He carried a spear and his regal, dark face rested in wisdom. Shuriyah shared the same blood-red colored robe with a tall isicholo. She held her body the way it looked in the painting hanging in his personal office. Older in appearance, she still had the flame of power in her eyes.

N'Jadaka glanced above her head. The light in the sky shifted colors, the evening glow growing lighter with pinks and pale orange until it was daytime, and they stood in a lush grassland green with growing things all around them. Other panthers in the trees dropped and shimmered into his other ruler ancestors, watching him with keen eyes and heads held high like they were honored to see him.

"The tragedy that befell our family brought you here. We needed new eyes… a new voice… a new vision to lead us in the coming troubles… and there is trouble coming, my son. This day and age needs new blood, and your father made us a valuable king. You are a unique man, N'Jadaka. Being a king will not be your only triumph. Inside of you is the wisdom of the diaspora that we turned our backs on long ago," Bashenga said.

"That way of thinking served us for a time," Shuriyah said.

"Why did you go out into the world, Umama, and come back without ruling it all?" N'Jadaka asked.

He had read his father's journals and knew the questions that N'Jobu wanted answers to.

"Our people were not ready to engage with a vast barbaric world," she said. "I saw firsthand what I wished not to be a part of. Tyrants and weakness. Uncivilized people from other places would wage war on us forever to take what is ours. As humans, we made choices you may think unwise or selfish from your era. But you will learn as king that not everyone can see from your vantage point. But now…"

Shuriyah held her hands open and stepped closer to him. She clasped her hands over his and the warmth made him cry again.

"Our people have someone who has been in the world and is from our culture. Your father brought you up as a Wakandan as best he could. Your mother gave you the tools to ready you for ruling Wakanda better than anyone I know of. You, N'Jadaka, were meant to take us into the future. You carry Bast, that rascal, Ogum, and the love of a people who endured centuries of cruelty inside your soul. Who better to lead in this new age, hmm? You came right on time, child. Bend the world on its knees for our people everywhere. We all stand with you and T'Challa. Think of him not as your cousin, but as your brother from now on."

Bashenga placed a hand on N'Jadaka's shoulder.

"Your father and uncle have reconciled. Ease your heart and mind. You are on the right path for our people. It is our time to come out from hiding. Be the light, N'Jadaka—"

"And also the blade, if you have to," Shuriyah affirmed.

N'Jadaka stood taller. He drank in their words. The light in the sky grew brighter. Shuriyah touched his face and Bashenga squeezed his shoulder.

"Go back knowing that all the ancestors stand with you and your brother. The Black Panther and The Golden Jaguar must stand tall and strong," Bashenga said.

N'Jadaka could feel his spirit fading from their realm.

"I won't let you down," N'Jadaka called out as the glow of light blinded him.

The faint vision of Shuriyah floated in the brightness.

"Tell my namesake that I am proud of her," Shuriyah said.

N'Jadaka grinned. Shuri would probably faint when he told her their greatest queen mother watched over her like that.

Red earth choked him as he gasped for air in the world of the living.

N'Jadaka coughed and twisted his body to the side, moving the soft earth away from his stomach and thighs. A young boy brought him water, and he gulped it down. Lithemba knelt down next to him and wiped his face with a warm purple cloth to remove the dirt.

"I saw the Shaman King and my greatest grandmother," N'Jadaka yelped.

Lithemba smiled and gently cleaned his skin, helping him up from the ground. He shook his arms and legs. Sniffing his hands, he caught a whiff of their scent still on him. His body felt feverish and he couldn't stop shaking. They were actual flesh and blood and he saw them… spoke to them. More importantly, they knew him. He was no strange foreign child… he was theirs and they told him so.

"Bring T'Challa to me!" he ordered, grabbing his white robe and tying it around him.

He had to talk to his brother… and Shuri right away.

N'Jadaka hustled away from Lithemba and crossed past the garden of heart-shaped herbs. Flinging the chamber doors open, he ran into his grandparents, Umama, Baba Z, and Dante. He couldn't talk fast enough to tell them who he met on the ancestral plane. Umama stroked his face and led him to an antechamber that was brand new. N'Jadaka's eyes grew wide.

"What is all this?" he said.

Baba Z chuckled, and Dante wiped his eyes. Umama patted his arm and led him inside.

"When I first saw you with my own eyes, I said some things that were not kind when I thought about it later. My sweet grandson, you were the one we have been waiting for. Bast moves in mysterious ways, but your Umama is a little more direct… see…"

A diamond and vibranium sarcophagus stood under the gentle glow of eternal flame candles that surrounded it. A breathtaking wall-sized gold plaque glowed with the brilliance of its Wakandan symbols etched into it. He made out most of the words.

"Umama," he said, gripping her hand tight.

Umama's hands shook, and she blinked rapidly while staring into his face. Baba Z touched the sarcophagus.

"This is for your people, grandson. For the ones who jumped off those ships so long ago into the ocean, and for the ones who lived and made a way out of no way. Understand?" Baba Z said.

"We want to hold a space for them here among our kings and queens. Without them, you would not be here. Our great-grandbabies would not be here, bringing us joy and showing us the future. The diaspora is truly the lost tribe. They will no longer be lost to us here," Umama said.

"Thank you," N'Jadaka said.

He admired the beauty before him and held Dante's hand.

Noxolo and Quamba entered the chamber.

"King N'Jadaka, the Black Panther waits for you back at the palace. Are you ready to depart?" Noxolo asked.

Noxolo still would not gaze at him directly, nor would Quamba.

"Yes," he said.

He kissed all of his grandparents and left them in the resting place of his lost-found kin.

Disa dressed in the tailored metallic bronze and gold dress befitting a royal in the palace. Applying gold lipstick to her dry lips, she geared up to face N'Jadaka again. The moment they crowned him king, no one called him Erik anymore. It was only right. His American name meant king anyway, so it was redundant to use. Califia had been wise to name her son what he would become later in life.

King N'Jadaka.

She wiped away the small trickle of a tear from her left eyelid. He was not the same man anymore. Emotionally, she accepted that, but watching him after he won his claim to the throne, her mind finally accepted it too. Her last intimate moment with him in her suite would be her last. The knowledge of that came over her suddenly because of the aura he carried. They no longer had any unfinished business on a personal level. Had she wanted him, she would've taken him back a long time ago. But the fact of the matter was that they had a glorious season that had difficulties, but Allah solidified their attachment as best friends. Disa loved him, flaws and all. However, King N'Jadaka was another person, and she was not meant to walk that road with him as his woman.

She wasn't sad about it. Affirming it freed her from doubting her needs as a woman with her own mission in life, to work by his side, raise their child together and move the nation forward with her input.

His heart belonged to Yani.

She knew it while spending the last two weeks in St. Thomas. Leona showed her that truth by all the affection she had for N'Jadaka while sharing little tidbits about her time with him there. She let slip other stories about him caring for Sydette, protecting Yani from naysayers, and looking out for anyone connected to her. He really slowed down and lived for once. He never had that opportunity with Disa. They were always on the go, getting through school, getting through the Navy and Black ops, and all the other things she thought was life but were just the constant influx of moving toward something that was not a part of her. Wakanda had been N'Jadaka's destiny and even she couldn't keep up with him on that journey, not the way he needed. It was no one's fault.

Time slowed down for him in St. Thomas, forcing him to be present in a way that he lost as a child. He and Disa had fleeting moments here and there, but the island gave him two years to rest. Allah blessed her with a child from him, but he was made for someone else. That last revelation gave her a soothing peace. Watching N'Jadaka fight at Warrior Falls gave her a security she had missed for years. They were both where they were supposed to be.

As wild as it felt, Adebiyi had a lot to do with that feeling of acceptance.

After Marisol and Dante left the island, Disa spoke to Adebiyi every night, trying to glean any palace gossip she could about what was happening on Mount Bashenga. When he had nothing viable to offer from his talks with M'Baku, they both started pondering how Wakanda would be after Challenge Day. She opened up about her dreams for the country and Adebiyi listened to her with an open mind, letting down his guard about his fears for the future.

His Jabari stubbornness came from a people who had been overlooked for centuries by the Udaku clan. Until T'Challa stepped up, they were treated as throwaway people. Working for Disa gave him some new insight and worry, but talking freely away from work opened him up to a different way of seeing her. More than anything, they liked each other.

Back in Wakanda, she couldn't wait to speak to him as preparations for the coronation whirled around them. She had tea with Adebiyi in the royal garden and invited him for a meal with the royal family while Joba spent a few days with Yani and her siblings. He spoke to her like a human being and, by their second tea date to discuss coming to the Jabari lands, Disa knew he was attracted to her. He had stopped sucking his teeth whenever she said something that he questioned. That was a big deal.

She kept her feelings about him discreet from everyone, including Adebiyi. The idea of going up to his land before N'Jadaka was king crossed her mind a lot, but she opted to wait until she saw him again before striking out on something as ridiculous as a grown-up crush. At her big ole age? With a man who carried so much disdain when he first met her? Madness! Pure, sweet madness for sure.

And what would N'Jadaka think? His feelings mattered to her, and she didn't want to embarrass him or bring critical eyes to his rule. For the time being, she just wanted to get to know Adebiyi better, work with him, and create something wonderful for her new homeland. He matched her energy in ways that surprised her, even through his stubborn exterior. Plus, he was older, something that she always found attractive in men. N'Jadaka had been an anomaly in her love life, the youngest man she had ever gotten mixed up with.

Shaking her head at all the jumbled thoughts running through her head, Disa admired her beauty in the mirror. She was an older woman who had done amazing things in her life before and after N'Jadaka. There was more on the horizon for her. Adebiyi was giving her an inkling of all kinds of possibilities to enjoy other men. For a moment, she thought she could share love for a man with Yani, but her feelings for the king had shifted away from the romantic to the platonic, and a more sisterly kinship. Her faith had always delivered what she needed, and she trusted in that.

"Joba!" Disa called out.

Her daughter ran into the room with her nanny, Osilee, a cute, plump woman with laughing eyes and a kind nature.

"Oh, look how pretty you look! Osilee, you did a wonderful job with her hair!"

Disa touched the intricately twisted curls decorated with purple ribbons. Joba twirled around in her gauzy gold dress and little kitten heels.

"Let's go! Let's go!" Joba shouted, grabbing Disa's hand and pulling her towards the door.

"Alright, alright little girl!" Disa said.

"Have a wonderful evening, Lady Abdullah," Osilee said. "I will watch everything on the vid screen."

"Oh, I wish you would come with us," Disa said.

"I would be too nervous, but I will come for Princess Joba when you are ready for her bedtime tonight."

"I left you a surprise in your closet."

"My closet?"

"You didn't look?" Disa said.

Osilee walked away from them and headed to the back of their home. Joba shook her hands with excitement.

"Will she like it?" Joba asked.

"We will see," Disa said.

Moments later, they heard a loud shout and Osilee scurried back to them, carrying a delicate peach ball gown made just for her.

"Lady Abdullah… this is too much!" Osilee said.

"You will look beautiful!" Joba said.

"No matter what you decide, there is a table set aside for our personal staff to join us for the dinner and reception. Everyone will be there. No need to sit in the house and watch it when you can be there with us," Disa said.

Weepy-eyed, Osilee clutched the dress to her chest.

"I don't want to hold you up," Osilee said.

"You won't. Go on and change. You can go with us."

"But you are royalty—"

"You take care of my child and make sure my home is kept together when I'm working."

"Oh, this is not happening…."

"It is. Go on."

Disa waved her hands to shoo Osilee away to get ready. Her kimoyo beads lit up, and she tapped one bead to open her front door. Dante and Yani were there with the other children.

"You all look wonderful!" Disa said.

She gave Dante a hug and greeted her daughter's siblings with affection.

"Yani?" Disa said.

Yani dressed in an elegant, pale gold strapless gown with pale yellow diamonds glued across her clavicle. Delicate gold hoop earrings dangled from her ears and her impeccable make-up made her glowing brown skin look like satin.

"Is everything alright? Are you sick?" Disa asked.

She pulled Yani away from the children and cornered her near a fireplace.

"I'm so nervous… to see him," Yani whispered so Dante wouldn't hear.

Disa held her hand.

"You saw him, Disa. He's… beyond different. I'm not ready to face him. So much has happened since he's been away, and I don't—"

"Listen to me. Tonight, we'll have all the family with us. It'll be hectic, but many people will surround us with fun, and you won't have to think about anything else."

"He's all I think about. All day. Remy fought against him. The man I chose to take care of our children tried to kill him. I can't even look at him… you felt that too… his energy is so strong… like he can control everything... everyone."

"The mountain changed him, yes. But Yani, we have to go to the throne room with all of his family, and that includes us. We will walk behind him across the bridge and face the nation together. I'll be there with you, and it won't be so unsettling."

Disa cradled Yani's cheek.

"I promise," Disa said.

Yani inhaled and let out a shuddery breath.

"Lady Abdullah."

Disa turned to find Osilee dressed up. She touched her short braids and looked down at the flattering gown, seeking Disa's approval.

"Beautiful… you look beautiful," Disa said. "Doesn't she look amazing, Yani?"

Yani nodded, and turning her attention onto someone else helped calm her nerves.

"We better leave before we hold up the pre-gathering," Disa said.

Yani followed her back to the others, and their personal Doras waited for them at the front door. They walked through the palace with chattering children and clacking heels. When the giant double doors of the throne room were opened for them, Disa and Yani both had the wind knocked out of them.

King N'Jadaka sat on the throne and peered at them both with assertive, commanding eyes. Instead of the royal black robes, he was adorned in bright ivory, his hair piled high and his nose ring gleaming as bright as the beads in his beard. Disa clutched at her chest, and Yani's reaction mirrored her own. That man was more than a king. He was magnificent.

Her heart raced in her chest and she glanced down at their daughter.

"Baba!" Joba yelled.

N'Jadaka stood from his throne and the large extended family parted like the red sea to let his children come through. The Council of Elders stood to the side of the throne with T'Challa, whose ivory tunic and trousers matched the king's colors. After greeting his children, the elders spoke to the family and made the final declaration welcoming N'Jadaka to his sacred duty of protecting Wakanda and all of its citizens. A celebratory shout broke the serious tension afterward and relatives hugged and patted the new king.

He walked through the gauntlet of the family toward Disa and Yani, holding the hands of Riki and Joba. Sydette clung to his robe with a wide grin plastered across her proud face.

"Disa," N'Jadaka said.

"Your Highness," Disa greeted.

A sly smile moved his beautiful lips, and he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes and savored the sound of love in his voice, but also the visceral power he exuded from every pore in his body. They would indeed be the best of friends forever, and she relaxed in his presence.

"Congratulations, king," Disa said with a hint of teasing.

He nodded and turned toward Yani. She held her head down shyly with her hands threaded together in front of her. His energy was overwhelming and Disa couldn't blame Yani for keeping her eyes downcast.

"Yani," he said.

Yani gasped, and her shoulders shook.

"Look at me," N'Jadaka commanded.

Yani slowly raised her head, and a tear rolled down her face.

Drummers pounded out the king's march, and a griot plucked the delicate strings of a Wakandan lyre made from the long horns of an ancient antelope. Another musician played a small kalimba, giving the lyre a gentle companion sound.

"Make way for King N'Jadaka!" Noxolo yelled, stepping next to him.

N'Jadaka took his thumb and wiped away Yani's tear before kissing her forehead.

"Don't be afraid of me," he told her.

Yani nodded, and he left her side, sweeping into the wide halls with the swagger of a god, his children in tow.

Chapter 61 HERE.

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pb-dot · 1 year

Note

I'm equally interested in After City and The Expedition, so you're free to choose which one you want to talk about~

It is hard to choose between my children, but The Expedition is in a kind of tricky limbo situation, and there are some unresolved questions tied to who's working on it with me and whatnot that I'd rather not get into. So After City it is.

After City is a take on the Adventure In A Magical Land subgenre of fantasy story where a child crosses from the mundane world into a magical one to complete some sort of quest before returning, changed in some small or large way by what they experience. Your Labyrinths, your Narnias, your Warriors Of Virtue, that kind of thing. This isn't a story about childlike wonder and fun adventures though, this is the story of what it's like growing up after something like this.

We follow five people in their thirties who all had a magical adventure of some sort in their childhoods. While some of them handle it better than others, they all share a melancholic longing for the realms and friends now lost to them. One night, the impossible happens as the magical transitions that took them into their childhood adventures happen to them again, but the world they find themselves transported to is different than the one they expected.

Turns out the magical realms they visited as children are all real, or rather were all real before a massive sentient-seeming calamity destroyed them all, shattering entire realms with terrifying ease. Those few who survived the calamity flocked together in the void left behind and built the city of After from whatever parts of their old homes they could salvage. Our heroes find themselves pressganged by the council of leaders and sages that summoned them in the first place. The council has made a desperate gambit to unite the disparate people of After in the face of both despair and the very real threat of starvation and further societal collapse.

The main characters realize that time flows differently in the magical lands, and while twenty years have passed on Earth, it has been centuries, or even a millennium in the Realms, and the stories about their exploits have grown into legends far too grand to ever live up to. Even so, our reluctant protagonist supergroup has to try, as their fate now is inextricably linked with the fate of After, and the impossible disaster whose return would doom them all.

I haven't gotten far enough into developing this WIP to decide on the exact plot past the initial state of things as described here, but the plan is to make this a bit of a commentary on the whole "child on a magical adventure" trope. Our protagonists are torn between their desire to be legendary heroes and the acute awareness of their own shortcomings and traumas they have developed as adults. This is further exacerbated by the idealistic good-and-evil worlds of the Realms being reduced to the more cynical, desperate world of postapocalyptic survival in After. I hope to produce a work that delves into darkness and despair, but that is not cowed or subsumed by it and ultimately carries the torch of childhood wonder and hope to the end.

Of the many things I haven't quite decided on for After is the format, and I am considering going with some sort of alternative distribution method, perhaps even publishing it as a web novel of some sort, but I have to decide how it all shakes out before I get that far.

#writeblr #writing #wip

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ericac318 · 1 year

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Title: A Reunion in the Multiverse Part II

Summary: Barry leaves his Earth looking for some advice from Bruce. The problem is, he finds the wrong Bruce. (Clooney’s Batman) I’m using the rumored post-credit scene from the upcoming Flash film and mixing it with some aspects from ‘Batman & Robin’

Bruce Wayne x OC

Continue reading here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47840074/chapters/120607063

Chapter 1

A few months after he nearly destroyed the multiverse, Barry decided it was safe to visit another Earth. He wanted to get some advice from Bruce and Haisley about a special girl in his life, Iris.

When Barry arrived, he began making his way through Gotham until he neared the Observatory and heard Bruce’s name. He rushed ahead to reach his target but stopped dead in his tracks once he was face-to-face with Bruce.

“You’re not Bruce,” Barry said, confusion evident in his voice as he took in the sight of an aging man with white hair and a matching beard, though his deep brown eyes still sparkled with youth.

Bruce glanced down as he shook his head, highlighting his crows feet, “What are you talking about, Barry?”

Before Barry could respond, a younger woman, perhaps a few years older than Barry, approached, “Bruce, I hate when you leave me with those vultures always asking about the potential of an ‘us,” her eyes darted to Barry, causing her face to light up. “Barry! How have you been?” she greeted the distraught young man in a hug.

“Who are you?” Barry asked as he pulled himself from her grasp.

Reagan shook her head, “I’m Reagan Grayson aka Batgirl,” she whispered the last part. “This is a weird day. You like this after that woman we just encountered,” she shared, “Did you hit your head?” she asked.

“I have to wonder the same thing,” Bruce added, “We’ve all worked together on multiple occasions. Why don’t you ride with us back to Wayne Manor and we can figure this out?” he suggested.

Barry started to shake his head but then changed his mind, knowing it was possible that he’d traveled to the wrong Earth, “Ok, let’s go.”

The trio rode in silence until they reached the manor. Once they were inside, Bruce guided them down to the Batcave in hopes that it would clear up the confusion.

“So … you two really are Batman and Batgirl,” Barry admitted once he saw everything laid out before him. “I think I know what happened,” he began, not sure how ready they were to know the truth, “I’m not the Barry you know.”

Bruce let out a soft chuckle, “What are you talking about? I’m really starting to worry about you, kid.”

Barry sighed, “You’re Earth is a part of the multiverse. I’m from an entirely different world and I was trying to visit a different Bruce and Haisley (his Batgirl). They were a huge help when I almost broke the entire thing a few months ago,” he explained.

Reagan gasped, “You can’t be serious. There’s a different version of us out, many different versions? And how come Batgirl has a completely different name?”

Barry shrugged, “I’m not really sure. Some of the Earths don’t even have a Batgirl. The Bruces always look different but I’m the same in every single version I’ve visited. I know this is a lot and I didn’t mean to burden you two with this knowledge. I’ll leave in the morning and try to land on the correct Bruce’s Earth.”

“No need to rush back home,” Bruce replied, “It seems like there may be a lot we need to learn from you, unless you’re in a hurry.”

Reagan nodded, “I agree. Plus, we are after this new villain, Mr. Freeze. You would be a big help.”

“Sure,” Barry responded, “I can talk to the other Bruce in a few days. Are you two together like them?”

Barry’s question caused Reagan to burst out laughing. Once she sobered herself, she said, “It looks like the press isn’t the only one curious about us. We’re not. It seems crazy to mix romance with what we do,” she confessed as she began making her way back upstairs to change out of her nice clothes and into something more comfortable.

“I don’t think it’s as crazy as she does,” Bruce replied before he followed Reagan.

A few hours later, the three were gathered around the dining room table after finishing their dinner.

“So, do you have a plan to take care of this Mr. Freeze?” Barry asked as he took a sip of his wine, wishing it had any effect on him.

Bruce nodded, “We’re hosting an event tomorrow evening to auction off a prized diamond. Freeze needs diamonds to fuel his suit so we’re baiting him to show his face there.”

“That’s a smart plan,” Barry agreed, “I’ll be there to help you two once he makes an appearance. You two will be going as Batman and Batgirl?”

Reagan replied, “We are and we can have a special guest if you want to be ready. Be warned, this event is extremely misogynistic. The diamonds will be around women’s necks and auctioned for dates along with the gem.”

Barry couldn’t stop himself as he replied, “I bet you’d be upset if Batman made a bid.”

Bruce interjected while wearing a knowing smirk, “I think that’s enough for tonight. Let’s get some sleep.”

#batman #batgirl #bruce wayne #original female character #bruce wayne x original female character #batman and robin #The Flash #Barry Allen #mr freeze #poison ivy #fluff #fanfiction #archive of our own

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frozenrose105 · 2 years

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Whumptober Day 3

Prompt: Hair's Breadth From Death

Characters: Demon!Author, Human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

The man had never shied away from things like blood and gore. That much was evident as he shoved his ritual knife through the heart of the person in front of him. This he did with a practiced sort of ease, not so much as reacting to the human's choked attempts at screaming through their tape covered mouth. They died out regardless when he pulled the knife out and set it aside.

The man made quick work of decorating the floor with the fresh blood- indeed using it to draw a large summoning circle. Inside was drawn a pentagram and several sigils, all of which had been previously unfamiliar to the man. Through all of his years of demonic and magic research, he had only ever been able to summon weaker demons, though not for lack of trying. Those with power usually knew to destroy evidence of their true names or anything else which would see them summoned and bound to the will of others.

Perhaps he had gotten lucky, but the man had stumbled upon a book detailing a demon with power unimaginable to humans such as himself. He was nicknamed the Author, and his power allowed him to create and shift reality with only his words. It was a power that was too great to pass up, and the book had told him all he needed to know about the summoning ritual.

So once he finished drawing, the man stood outside of the circle. He looked it over for a long moment, comparing it to what was depicted in the book. Satisfied with his work, he finally spoke the demon's name.

What he normally got was something that could be mistaken for a human by someone lesser. Whether demons were pissed or simply saw it as opportunity, they took on human guises when called to do business. The man had never seen anything beyond that. Not until that moment, at least.

The scene before him was still and quiet for too long. But when the silence was broken, it was only for a deafening screech to replace it, like the sound of nails on a chalkboard amped up to fill the room and try to escape it, threatening to shatter the windows in its attempts. The worst thing to do before a demon was to show it your weakness, but the man couldn't help the way his hands clapped over his ears and a swear escaped his lips. It didn't help that his hearing was more sensitive than most- all of his senses heightened from various deals in the past.

For a moment his eyes squeezed shut too, but he forced them open. He needed to be able to see what was happening. Instead of a humanoid or some kind of fantastical, horrifying creature standing before him though, he only saw swirling, shadowy aura laced with vibrant gold. It threw itself harshly against the invisible barrier containing it to the circle, so violently that the man would fear that it would break if he didn't know any better.

When finally it fell still, it was as though the world fell still with it, the screeching coming to a halt. The man felt like he had escaped into the eye of a hurricane, and he waited a moment to see if he would be thrust back into the storm before hesitantly uncovering his ears.

"Why am I here?" The question was instantaneous, the voice male as far as the man could tell. But still, there was no physical form.

"I want a deal." The man had taken to being blunt in such endeavors. While many demons loved their word games, he didn't often have the patience for them, and they were less hostile when they knew they weren't being tricked.

The demon seemed to consider that, though it didn't take him long. He didn't have much of a choice regardless, and he must have known that as his aura still flicked restlessly around the circle. "I assume you have something in mind."

"Indeed." At this, the man hesitated. His terms depended entirely on the information he'd read being correct, and so far things hadn't gone exactly as he'd expected. ...Still. He had to assume it was true. "I want your power. The ability to change reality with my words."

"And in return you'll let me free, is that right?" The demon laughed, not waiting for an answer. "I have a counter offer, human. I'm weakened- I can't even manifest physically, nevermind give you what you desire."

So it /was/ true then. If that was the case, the man was willing to help this demon. He didn't worry about going to Hell for it. He'd dealt with enough demons and played with magic enough that he was already condemned as far as he was concerned. Not to mention the people he'd killed for his rituals. "What do you need then, for your power to return to you?"

"I need to find a vessel. Something through which I can channel my power."

"...I'm sure that won't be too difficult," The man said, glancing at the dead body of the human he'd killed for the ritual. If the demon needed a live vessel, he had plenty of experience dragging those in.

"Seal it," the demon demanded. As he did, the aura solidified just enough to form a hand, reaching out towards the man. The man didn't protest. He only reached his own hand forward, past the barrier separating him from the demon, and he took his hand.

A handshake was a powerful thing for demons. It would bind the demon itself and the other party to whatever terms were agreed upon irrevocably, and the man was entirely aware of this.

What he didn't know was what exactly this demon had in mind.

"Oh how helpful you've been. Say goodbye, human."

The words came alongside laughter which had the man's hair standing on end, and it was with that that he realized what the demon had truly meant. Far too late, he realized that /he/ would be this demon's vessel.

Before he could even think to respond, the man was being overwhelmed by aura. It entered through every possible orifice, flooding his body and bringing him to his knees. He would have screamed if he could, but as it was he clawed at himself in his attempts to stop it. He clawed at his own ears and his eyes as the aura- something which humans weren't meant to have- integrated itself into him. It was becoming a part of him, this demon was taking him over and he was desperate in his attempts to stop it. He dug hard at his face like he could pull it out of him, and he felt the blood from the wounds he opened as a result.

But it was for nothing, as he felt his consciousness slipping away from him, both from the pain and the Author's aura invading his body. He would have his power indeed, at the price of his own mind, for it was then that he would truly come to be known as the Host.

#whumptober 2022 #no. 3 #hairs breadth from death #impaled #say goodbye #fandom #fic #demonic possession #blood #self harm #em writes #writing #the host markiplier #the author markiplier #fanfiction #disunity au

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empathenna · 3 months

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Who am i? pt. 3

One day I was scrolling through TikTok (I highly recommend paring down your social media) and I came across a video, just text and music, and the screen read “we are not responsible for our circumstance but we are responsible for our actions”. And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Total transparency, the world is a terrible, awful, materialistic and shallow place. Humans are selfish, greedy and unkind. We are self serving and fickle creatures. I will be the first to admit that even the most morally righteous among us are capable of grand monstrosities and unthinkable cruelty. Our world is a prime example of how humans destroy each other and everything just to gain a little traction in life. To make themselves “better” than their neighbours. To have more than Joe living down the street. We are constantly bombarded with negative news and reminders that somewhere in the world people are being shot, bombed, starved, tortured. We live in a society built around caging you into a box of “what you should be”, or “this is how to succeed”, or “this is what you need to be happy”.

Fuck that.

Fuck the worlds expectations.

Fuck what people think of you.

Fuck it all.

I examined the parts of myself I hated, the way the world wants me to be and how people think I should act. I took in all the hate, the toxic relationships, I was absorbed in the news and the terrible people in the world because I thought that was what I deserved, because I had accepted what the world put on me. Then I got angry, angry that I had missed too many things, angry that I had lost what felt like my entire life to some invisible expectations looming over my head. And angry because while all my friends posted pictures of themselves travelling, or partying and spending money, I was working my ass off and never seeing any progress. Why had I been handed these shitty paths and experiences? Why did I get beaten down again and again, why doesn’t God think I deserve a break? Like seriously, I had been living in fight or flight without any rest for over 8 years. My family had bad hand after bad hand dealt to them, and I helped shoulder the burdens. Then when I moved out I was supposed to be my own person, build my dreams, my wishes and wants. But yet again I ended up taking care of someone else, placing their needs before my own and nearly killing myself in the process.

I looked in my shitty bathroom mirror and did not recognize the woman staring back. Her eyes were dull, devoid of light and joy. She had lost her vive or spark for life, her joy and passion had been slowly leached until she had no more.

I say this in third person because this is where my transformation happened. Like all the fog had been lifted from my head God gave me understanding, He blessed me with a moment of peace and clarity, a future for me so clear I could smell the grass on the rolling hills, see the smoke coming from my country house, feel the breeze that whispered through the trees. It all became clear to me.

Who I had become was a direct result of my inaction to chase what I truly wanted because I had bent my life to the will of others. When we focus on this earth, what we “want” or perhaps think we “need” to be successful we lose everything that makes us, us. But that was not who I was, I was never meant to be sitting in an office and working for others. I was never meant to be in a box, in that apartment, in that relationship, working that job. I was never meant to be tampered with, I was never meant to become that shell of a human. The material things do not matter, no amount of money will fill the hole in your soul. No amount of fancy cars or swimming pools will make up for the fact that you do not accept and love yourself for who you are at your core.

3/2

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followthemuse · 1 year

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Ode to 2020

The year 2020 was a complete shitshow for the entire world. We had a global pandemic that almost destroyed the world. Everyone was stuck inside. Mothers, brothers, sisters, wives, husbands, fathers, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles. . . everyone was dying. So many people lost their lives due to the virus.

What were you doing during lockdown? Were you learning to bake bread, or maybe learning how to paint? Were you binge watching Netflix, or Hulu, or maybe Disney+? Were you video chatting your parents every day, making sure they were still alive? Or, perhaps, you were on of the ones on the frontlines who was risking your life to make sure everyone else was safe and healthy.

I feel like my 2020 was a bit different. See, that January, I had gone through a pretty rough breakup, lost every single one of my friends, got diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, and had started medication. I met someone that February, and traveled halfway across the country to meet him in person. This was all pre-pandemic.

While I was in Nebraska, we got hit with lockdown. I was stuck 1500 miles away from my family, because I felt unsafe to travel back home to Tennessee via public transportation. His family was nice enough to let me stay with them until lockdown ended.

While so many peoples' lives were being destroyed by the virus, I had new love blooming within a heart that I thought was broken for good. The relationship that I had gotten out of previously was toxic and borderline abusive, just like the one before that, and the one before that. This relationship was different though. It felt different.

During lockdown, we would lay in his bed and cuddle, or we would listen to music, or watch Harry Potter. With him, I didn't feel scared. I had finally found the person who understood everything about me and loved me for who I was, instead of trying to make me fit into a teeny tiny box.

I remember being in the basement bathroom, getting out of the shower, getting dressed, and he came down to check on me. I had been listening to music, and a song that we both liked came on. We spent the entire song, singing to each other and looking in each other's eyes.

I would call or video call my parents almost every single day, making sure they were safe, making sure my niece was safe, etc. I missed them so much, but I still didn't want to risk travelling. At this point, most public transportation was shut down due to safety concerns.

We would hang out with his family in the garage, all just having a good time. His family accepted me for who I was. They had absolutely no issue with the fact that I'm nonbinary, like most of the people I had encountered before. This was new, refreshing, and eye opening.

When it became safe to travel again, he and I both went back to my home state, and moved in together. We stayed at my parents' house for about a week, until my house was safe to move into again. After the previous breakup, it took me a long time to be able to stay in my own house because of all the memories from that relationship. But with him by my side, I could do anything.

It's 2023 now, and we've been together for a little over three years. He's asked me to marry him, and we had a handfasting ceremony with our old coven last year on Samhain, in the full moon. It was the most magical night of my life, and although there are some things that I would change about that night, I definitely would not change the man I was with. We're planning on getting legally married sometime in the next couple of years, with no concrete date set yet.

Throughout those three years, he has never left me while I was in a low place. There have hardly been any bad times. He is the sweetest man I've ever been with, and I am so thankful for this relationship. For once in my life, I feel safe with a significant other. I feel like I can be myself and not be judged. I feel like I can unmask. I feel free.

So. . . Thank you 2020 for bring my future husband and me together. If not for the lockdown, I'm not sure how the relationship would have progressed, especially with us being long distance. I feel as if the lockdown helped us bond in a way that wouldn't have happened otherwise.

Koty, if you read this, I love you so much and I'm really grateful that I have you in my life. You are the most amazing man that I have ever met. Thank you for being unapologetically you, and allowing me to be unapologetically me. Thank you for all of the stuff that you've introduced me to. Thank you for being there for me through the ups and downs, even though the downs can get really bad and really scary. Thank you for believing in me when no one else did.

#my writing #writing #writer #writers of tumblr #writeblr #2020 #reminiscing #pandemic #covid pandemic #lockdown

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bloodycassian · 3 years

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anon request - READER X AZRIEL - sorry if this wasn’t exactly what you want! I got a bit carried away in my own idea of Azriel being supportive but protective at the same time!

some hurt/comfort with Azriel where he and the reader get in a huge fight over protecting Elain (like they travel to a different court and Azriel is overprotective) and then the reader goes scouting to also cool down a bit and they get ambushed, the reader gets injured and the mating bond snaps. Hope it's not too much trouble!!

Elain was absurdly still as the conversation played out. Conversation being a loose term for the shouting happening around her. You didn’t leave her side though, even though your anger flourished while they spoke as if she wasnt there. Azriel was packing her things, shoving them haphazardly into a bag. The bag that Feyre had given her from their first trip down to the markets after Elain had started acting somewhat normal again. The happy memory seemed so distant now, compared to the anxiety ridden emotions that played about in the room.

“We are not going to the continent.” Az’s tone shift was abrupt, a snap of anger leaning into it. He tied the top of the bag closed and set it roughly atop the living room table. The scattered odds and ends of survival gear and weapons scraped against the wood. You watched the stare down between the high lord and his shadowsinger patiently. Waiting for your moment to speak rationally to them.

Rhys’ power roiled above, his eyes did not hide his frustration with his brother. His gaze was simmering with that dark power he possessed. Azriel did not back down. “The continent is the only place that may be safe. If the King finds out she’s a Seer he will never let her go. We can’t risk losing her as a hostage.”

You knew she would be a hostage too. Feyre would never let her sister be taken without a fight. Rhys knew his mate well enough to know not to risk just Elain, but Feyre too. Cauldron knew what Nesta would do if she were in that room during the conversation. Likely spitting fire and shoving Elain out the door to wherever she seemed to think was safe. Thankfully, both sisters were scouring deep in the library for any way to help win this battle.

Azriel did not break eyecontact with his brother as he made to speak again. You interrupted before he could make the situation worse. “I have somewhere in mind.” You spoke softly, urging the staring contest to end. Azriel looked away first, and you were surprised at that. His eyes met yours with something like relief. “Autumn. We have Eris on our side if we’re caught. I have a spot we can stay until-” Azriels scoff sent anger shooting through you. You clenched your teeth together to keep from lashing out at him as he had been doing just moments before.

“Autumn is possibly the worst place we could send you right now. We’re on the brink of war with them potentially being on Hyberns side. We would be sending you straight to Hybern himself.”

“Exactly. It’s stupid and they would never expect it.”

“You’re not going. Beron exiled you. Don’t you remember what that means?” He looked at you with actual concern now that he knew you were serious. As if you had been injured and you were speaking a different language.

“It means we will be safe from Hybern when they come here to look for Elain. Isn’t that the point?” You wrapped an arm around her small shoulders and pulled her close. Az couldn’t argue with that. The other courts were not an option, as it would be harboring a target against one of the Night court Allies. And Winter court was nowhere to be spending the night. Not many survived the night there without shelter.

Rhys’ sigh was long and exhausted. Left without another option, he nodded to himself. He held out a hand and summoned two necklaces, both with pendants of black onyx that shimmered in the firelight. Az’s brows pinched together at the sight of them. The dull glow behind him shone through his wings, highlighting all the delicate structures there. You found his wings more beautiful than the enchanted stone Rhys handed you.

“Hybern won’t be able to sense your magic. Keep these on.”

Azriel was already tensing, his fists balling at his sides ready to make it physical if Rhys refused to listen. He knew with his entire being that something was off. Something would go wrong this night. His shadows warned him of something. And he couldn’t shake it no matter how hard he tried. “Rhys-”

“And you will be going with them. Keep them company while Feyre and I investigate just how many ships and forces they plan to bring.” He ordered in that indisputable tone of the high lord. With only a hint of friendliness. He gave Az a long look before turning back to you and Elain. “Do not take those off.” The nodded to the necklaces and started to winnow. Elain stood abruptly, startling you.

“Thank you.” She said softly to the high lord. He seemed taken aback for a second, before giving her a gracious nod and finally disappearing. You rose to Elain’s height and took her hand in yours. It was warm, welcoming. “We’re going to be fine.” You promised, not caring if Azriel saw the care you gave her. She had been there for you just as you needed to be now. She had practically kept you alive with her soft humming and reading to you when you were at your worst after being exiled.

“I know.” She said, voice soft as rose petals. But that dark power within her were the thorns of that pretty, perfect rose. The reason Hybern even knew to look in Velaris for Elain. That cauldron calling power that she couldn’t control to save her life. You grimly smiled at her.

“We need to leave.” Azriel ordered, tone neutral. Just a warrior needing to move troops.

“Let me get your bag.” Elain said, giving you a squeeze of her hand, disappearing up the stairs. Leaving you with the brooding Illyrian. You grimaced in his direction. He ignored you as best he could, hoping that the time for babysitting would pass quickly. He had always found it strange how you and Elain moved like magnets together. Found the soft way you comforted each other somehow upsetting. He paced quietly in front of the fire while you gathered your gear. Two small blades - one for Elain - and your sword. You rubbed at a speck on the hard steel of the sword.

Perhaps his lack of family had made that rivaling jealousy turn into hatred for the display of affection. He contemplated to himself. Had he become cold to everyone? Too harsh? Had the darkness he possessed taken him over? He tore his eyes from your short sword and locked them with yours. The thrill he felt wasn’t from anger or terror. His cheeks flushed slightly and you fought the grin that you wanted so badly to flaunt at him. The innuendos regarding the sword that you wanted to say were cut off by that look he gave you.

“Do not get into a situation where you have to use that.” He warned with a stern look. You couldn’t help the angelic smile you gave him.

The smell of rotting apples and decaying leaves was all you needed to sense to know you were home. You took in the court border slowly, adjusting to your orientation after being winnowed. Elain clutched your hand tightly, the bag in her other hand quivered only slightly from her shaking. Your hands became slick with sweat at the familiar sights and smells of Autumn. You hadn’t been back since being exiled.

“We wont be able to have a fire.” Azriel stated, gazing towards the sky. It was far too clear of a day out to risk it. The slight chill in the air filled your stomach with dread for the night to come.

“This way.” You pulled Elain along with you, leaves crunching under your feet as you entered Autumn court. She didn’t move. Her eyes were blank, staring lifelessly into the orange and yellow forest. “Elain?” You asked softly.

“Five foxes will die tonight. Three more in the morning.”

Her words sent a chill down your spine.

Az took the lead, territoriality putting himself a few paces in front of you. He wasn’t subtle about it either, occasionally jogging ahead to scout for any enemies around piles of bramble when you came across it.

By the time you found your hideout, you were fed up with waiting for him to give you the all clear everywhere you went. You let you go of Elains now calm hand and stormed into the small shack with familiarity. Azriel hissed and seethed when you lit a lantern inside. “Get over yourself, Shadowsinger.” You laughed, taking in the small piece of home you made for yourself long ago.

It indeed was a long time ago when you’d last been there. But it still felt homey to you. The small space was just big enough for a stove, the table you’d found, and a bed pushed against the far wall. The fireplace hadn’t been used in years. Soot marked small animal prints along the light plank floors.

The dusty blankets on the makeshift bed were pocked with holes from mice and moths. The fireplace was nearly caved in on itself. The bramble covering that acted like a second roof was growing through the actual roof in some places. But it was still home. Your small exit from the world when things got too tough. Even after being exiled Beron hadn’t known about this place. He would have had it destroyed if he did know of it.

Elain pushed in passed Azriel. His shadows went wild. Searching every surface of the cabin. The long beams of the floor were hardly visible through the darkness he brought.

You knew you should have brought more blankets. You held back the teeth chattering as best you could, letting Elain sleep. She would need all the rest she could get. You could tell she’d been tired after the days walk. She rested peacefully under the layers while the wind shuddered the leaves outside. You pulled your coat tighter to your body.

“This was a stupid idea.” Azriel muttered from the corner. He didn’t seem cold, but the dark curls of shadow wrapped around him protectively. While you were left with nothing more than a coat. Your own magic couldn’t save you from the stormy wind, the necklace Rhys had given you also weakened your power enough that you couldn’t use it. Even in your homeland. It bothered you endlessly, feeling so useless in such a dire situation of needing to help Elain.

“Then maybe you should just leave.” You barked back simply. He didn’t have to come in the first place if he was going to be so bothered.

“I just mean-” He sighed, and sat on the creaky old table that took up half the small kitchenette. “We could have done this better. We could have planned… Differently.”

“We didnt have the time. We’re here now, so we just need to deal-”

“I know that. I’m just bothered that you’re so recklessly looking for danger everywhere we go.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m from here Azriel. I know what areas are dangerous.”

“Maybe once.” His eyes were not angry when he said it. They were full of pity and doubt. Your rage spilled over, and you were ready to shout. Ready to scream at him about what a piggish idiot Illrian he was being. But Elain turned over, sighing softly to herself.

So instead, you clamped down on that burning anger and walked out. And of course he decided to try to follow you. He made it a few steps outside the cabin before you turned on him, ready to roar. “Be safe at least.” He tossed his red jeweled dagger to you. Your heart squeezed, choking you up slightly. You brushed it away as best you could before he could see. You couldn’t yell at him.

So you took the dagger and walked briskly away, into the brush of autumn forests. Laced with the smell of heavy fruits and warm trees. Leaves fluttering in your wake as the wind tossed with ease.

You held his knife close at your side the entire aimless walk. Then, the sound of twigs snapping and males laughing heartily made you pause.

Far to your east was a dull glow beyond a knoll. You backed away slowly. Trying to be as soundless as possible in case they could scent you. The breeze whipped at your skin, blowing in their direction. The trees above you shuddered sharply, and you swore as a heavy weight fell upon your shoulders.

Azriel paced in the kitchenette, his shadows swirling around him relentlessly, waiting for a target. It felt wrong letting you go. It felt like letting his hope sink. His shadows even seemed upset about it, as they now whipped around him angrily.

He swore he was going to run a rut through the plank floor. He sighed, glanced to Elain’s sleeping figure and forced himself to sit. You had the dagger. You were capable. You knew the area and knew what you were doing. He tried his best to soothe himself. It didn’t help much.

The old chair creaked under his weight, and he smiled. For someone who claimed they couldn’t work around the house, you were quite the crafter making such a nice hideaway for yourself. He finally took a moment to pause, and actually look at the cabin.

The stove may have been older than he was. The missing burners on top were replaced with a few forks placed carefully around them. The ancient shelves were dusty, along with all the jars and cups atop them. Cobwebs spotted the entire house, but his shadows had gotten rid of most of them after the first one clung to his face upon walking in.

Then he came to the table he sat at, the four unmatching chairs circling it. The table itself was solid oak, he could tell that much. But he wondered how you’d gotten it inside at all. Out of curiosity, he pulled on it. It didn’t budge. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stood slowly. The curiosity consumed him. He gave the table another tug. Still, no movement.

He crouched down, and noticed the planks around the single leg of the table had been cut out. Then he noticed the intricate roots weaving their way up the trunk. The table wasn’t just a table. It was an entire tree - or what was a tree once… And you’d built the entire cabin around it. His awe was quickly quieted by Elain.

“A part of you is missing. The foxes will die.” She muttered sleepily, her eyes blank. And he lay back down as if it hadn’t happened. “Elain?” Azriel called. Dread, cold and stinging coarse through him. “Elain?” He asked quietly, approaching her side. She flung the covers from her lithe body. Azriel jumped back, holding his hands up defensively. “It’s okay, its me.” He calmed her, noting the wild look in her expression.

“Find yourself.” She breathed, her eyes going wide with concern. Azriel’s heart sped, and he felt like he’d been dunked in a cold ocean of dread. Terror drug him under the deep waves and threatened to drown him the first chance it got. He took Elains hand and started walking the direction you’d left.

Leaving behind the supplies and the living table that you’d created.

A glance at the oversized uniforms told you all you needed to know. The fox sigil pinned to their tunics proved that the uniforms were stolen from Autumn soldiers. Your blood boiled. Elain had been right. But they would die. Five of them, at least. But you had only glimpsed at three so far. You tugged at the ropes that bound you. Firm, and not able to be broken.

Their campsite was large, and full of small boxes of different fruits. Several different types of weapons leaned against their low lying tents. And with how many scars their fae leader had, you knew the rest of their story in an instant. Bandits. Filthy trade merchants that lived for thievery and making a quick gold mark.

And you’d be worth their weight in gold once they turned you in to Beron.

“We’ve got a live one!” The male shouted to his comrades. They cheered drunkenly, their voices carried far by the wind. Their fire sparked and popped against the blue night sky. And you knew that your death may not come in glory of battle, or in the name of your home. But in being stupid enough to be caught by bandits. You could have died that instant if it would mean you didn’t have to feel that kind of shame.

The male cut the opal from your neck, and you felt your magic explode from you. Your thoughts were racing, searching. Finding something cold and dark in the depths of your mind and tugging on it. Then, it was a live beast beneath your mental hands. It coiled and rose, ready to strike.

The same one cut a long line down your cheek with the blade that had just cut your only protection against Hybern from you. You prayed to the mother that Hybern was too busy to notice a small blip of magic from an Autumn fae like you. You hissed in pain as the blade stung its way down to your neck, stopping at your collarbone.

You pulled on that coiling beast that called to you. Beckoned it to find you, to help you from this pain. Maybe you were begging for death, or at least unconsciousness so you wouldnt have to feel the pain anymore. The male stood back to let another scaled lower fae get a look at you. His tongue lashed out over your bloodied neck. He hummed in approval, letting his forked wetness slither across your wounds.

You felt them seal and itch with every pass as he took your blood. “Good.” the one with the blade ordered, then… to your dread, he pulled a glowing rod from the fire. They would brand you. Then take you to the high lord. Only after they’d humiliated you though. The males clucked at your involuntary reaction. They huddled close around, waiting for the screaming to start. Their excitement coated the air with a tangy adrenaline filled scent.

You reared away from the burning metal as best as you could. The ropes around you seemed weaker now that you had your weak magic back, but still too constricting to do much with.

You closed your eyes as the glow approached your chest. It warmed your face with the heat. They were going slow on purpose. Wanting to savor your reaction. It made your stomach go queasy. You hoped you would pass out. Better yet, just die of the agony. That way Beron wouldn’t have the satisfaction of killing you himself.

There was a thump, and sizzling. You cracked open your eyes, waiting that searing pain to hit you. But it didnt. The males stood back, bewildered. Across the camp in the dull glow of the fire as the one that had been lowering the branding stick to you. It was speared through his chest, pinning him to a tree. His mouth gasped, eyes wide and glowing a haunting orange from the fire. You would never forget the sight of it. The smoldering that came from the tree behind him as the hot iron burned into it. The wet sounds of his mouth opening and closing.

Then, the gasp and thump each male that Azriel incapacitated before you. Elain stood at the edge of the trees, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Azriel kept the kills quiet and concise. None resembled the one pinned to the tree, now sagging under the weight of death. No, the rest of them had easy deaths at the hands of one skilled at dealing killing blows. The wet splatter of blood leaving a body pulled you back to the scene in front of you. Az’s scowl as he cleaned his blade was that of a warrior who had seen much worse. Done much worse.

“I told you not to fucking-” He snarled, his hands on the rope at your wrists. He stopped though, and stared. The shadowed light of his eyes seemed to be blooming with awe. You couldn’t look away. The beauty in the deep irises, the way small freckles played about his dark skin. All new and exciting things you’d never noticed before. His scent alone was like a punch to the gut.

Him. Azriel. It had been him to find you. Him to respond to that silent plea that you so badly needed to be heard. He was that coiling darkness that had saved you. Your breath was a gasp, and you nearly fell to your knees before him.

His hands didn’t work anymore. The world stopped turning all together. His heart was no longer his own and his soul belonged wherever you were. It didn’t matter that you were in the middle of a foreign court’s borders. It didn’t matter that Elain trembled in the corner of the clearing. He was yours, and you were his.

He vowed it, for eternity that was how it would stay. He’d never leave your side again. Never choose to be without you for as long as he may be alive. His very being was now shared. With you. His soul intertwined your yours, wrapping delicately around your earthy light that contrasted his darkness so perfectly. If you were the sun he was the moon, always chasing, always following and living in your light.

The words weren’t needed but he managed to utter them. Around a shuddering breath and a shattering explosion of love he managed it. “My mate.”

#azriel #azriel x reader #acotar #acotar fic #reader x azriel

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