#studying the ancient scripts

[gattonegrocallejero]

While you were using chatgpt, I was consulting the tomes. We are not the same.

[maccsteppn]

The Voynich Manuscript, an ancient codex written in an unknown script and filled with bizarre illustrations, remains one of the most perplexing enigmas in the world of cryptography, linguistics, and historical studies.

[amethystarachnid]

Hiii, I was wondering if you could do a Loki x reader story where the reader is of one of Frigga’s ladies in waiting/a daughter of a friend of the crown who has shown promising magical ability? Frigga agrees to give her lessons in sorcery alongside Loki and they instantly get along but their friendship becomes more. Maybe she defends Loki against Thor and his friends when they belittle him. You’re my one of my favorite Loki writers so it would mean so much, thanks!

EXILED HEARTS

⤷ LOKY LAUFEYSON

ᯓ★ Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, some angst and some fluff

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.8k

ᯓ★ Summary: As Frigga’s protégée, you grow close to Loki through shared magic and understanding. But courtly judgment, Odin’s decree, and whispered scorn force you and Loki to choose between royalty and each other. In the end, you choose love—and build a life far from the palace’s golden cage.

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just some angst

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The candlelight dances on the silk-lined walls of the royal library, casting flickering shadows across the shelves as you press deeper into the alcove. Your fingers hover over a page in a worn tome, ancient Asgardian glyphs etched in gold leaf. The script feels alive beneath your touch, humming faintly—perhaps only in your mind, but you like to believe it’s real. You’re not supposed to be here, not this late, and not without permission. But curiosity is louder than decorum.

You recite the lines again, under your breath. The ancient incantation rolls off your tongue imperfectly, but something in the air tightens—a hush, like the world is holding its breath. You flinch as a row of candles flares, a gust of invisible wind whipping past your cheek. Then it’s gone. Stillness returns. But your heart pounds.

“That passage,” a voice says softly behind you, “is not meant to be read aloud without guidance.”

You turn so quickly your braid slips over your shoulder. Queen Frigga stands just within the archway, her silhouette gilded by moonlight from the tall windows. She doesn’t look angry—curious, perhaps, or quietly amused. Her head tilts as she studies you, eyes soft but sharp as ever. You’re not sure if you should kneel, apologize, or bolt.

“My queen, I—I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she says, stepping into the room. “If you had meant to cause trouble, I suspect the whole wing would be in disarray by now.”

You flush, clasping your hands in front of you. You’ve served at the court long enough to know better than to touch books not offered freely. But the Queen has always held herself with grace, and now, she moves beside you with no hint of reprimand.

“You read it aloud correctly,” she says, eyes still on the book. “That’s more than most trained mages can say.”

You blink, stunned. “I did?”

A faint smile curves her lips. “Your magic is unrefined, but it's there. Stronger than I expected.”

The words wrap around you like a cloak you’re not used to wearing—warm, heavy, significant. You’ve always known the spark lived inside you, but it was private. Unspoken. Tucked away in dreams and half-lit evenings when you whispered spells into your pillow and imagined stars answering back.

“I don’t... I don’t know what to do with it,” you admit. “I thought maybe if I read enough, something would just—click.”

“Magic doesn’t click,” Frigga replies. “It unfolds. Like silk. Or music. Or a storm.”

She glides her fingers over the open pages and closes the book gently. “You have great potential, my dear. And you’ve been quite patient, haven’t you? Serving in silence. Observing.”

You nod. You've been a shadow in these halls for years now—your mother once a dear companion to the Queen, your name a small one tied loosely to the court. When you first arrived in the palace, you were told to mind your manners and stay out of sight. You did. But you never stopped watching.

Frigga reaches out, her fingers brushing just above your wrist. You feel a warm pressure—not a touch, exactly, but something more delicate. Like a thread catching yours.

“I will teach you,” she says, voice gentle but sure. “But not alone.”

You frown slightly. “Not alone?”

“My youngest son still studies. Perhaps not as diligently as he should, but it would benefit him to have a partner. And you may find him... enlightening.”

Your breath catches. You’ve seen Prince Loki, of course—everyone has. A dark figure in green and gold, wry and sharp-eyed, moving through the palace like a secret. He’s aloof, cold at times, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He’s also the Queen’s favorite, though no one says it aloud.

The thought of studying beside him is equal parts terrifying and thrilling.

“I would be honored,” you say quickly. “Truly.”

Frigga smiles. “Good. Come to the east courtyard tomorrow morning. Before the sun rises. Bring nothing but yourself.”

And just like that, the Queen turns and leaves, her robes whispering like wind through silk. You stand there for a long moment after she’s gone, heart still fluttering, hand resting over the closed tome as though it holds something more than paper and ink.

Maybe it does.

The east courtyard is cold before dawn, the stone slick with dew. You wrap your cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath clouding in the pale light. No one else is here yet. The palace is still asleep, save for the guards at their posts. You stand by the marble fountain, trying not to let your nerves chew at your composure.

Then you hear footsteps. Precise. Measured.

Loki appears from the far archway, his green cloak trailing behind him like a shadow with purpose. He glances at you once—expression unreadable—and then looks away just as quickly.

You straighten. “Good morning, Prince Loki.”

He raises an eyebrow, his tone cool. “So you're the Queen’s new pet project.”

You bite back a retort, keeping your voice even. “She offered to teach me.”

“Yes, she does enjoy playing tutor now and then. Don’t mistake it for favoritism.” He steps closer, arms folded across his chest. “I assume you’ve read half the library already. Tell me—what does the Eltherian sigil for balance look like?”

You hesitate. “Three intersecting crescents, forming a triangle.”

“Impressive.” He sounds almost disappointed. “So you are a little witch.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile forming. “No? Most people do.”

Before you can answer, Frigga appears through a shimmer of light, stepping into the courtyard like the sunrise itself. She doesn’t greet either of you—just smiles softly and lifts her hands. A circle of runes spirals into the air around her, forming a translucent dome.

“Now,” she says, “we begin.”

And begin you do.

---

It starts with silence.

Not the awkward kind, but something more curious. Comfortable. Or perhaps simply patient.

Loki doesn’t speak much during your first few lessons together. He watches. Assesses. He makes no effort to hide the way his eyes flick to your hands as you shape energy into form, or the faint quirk of his lips when you mispronounce something in old Vanir. He rarely corrects you aloud, but you always feel the judgment just behind his gaze.

But you also notice the way he lingers after Frigga dismisses you both. The way he conjures minor illusions absentmindedly while you review a scroll, as though daring you to ask questions. And one morning, he surprises you.

“You shouldn’t hold your palm flat when summoning a sigil,” he says suddenly, as you're struggling to stabilize the glowing arc of a protective ward. “You’re letting too much energy pool in your wrist.”

You glance at him, caught off guard. He’s sitting cross-legged nearby, an illusion of a raven perched on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up from his book.

You frown and adjust your hand, tilting it slightly, trying again. This time the sigil hums with steadiness, and the edges no longer flicker.

“How did you know I was doing it wrong?”

Loki shrugs. “I’ve been watching.”

He says it so plainly, like it means nothing. But something in the way he says it makes your chest flutter.

From that day on, things begin to shift.

Loki is sharp and unpredictable, like a blade half-hidden in silk. But he’s also brilliant. His understanding of runes, language, and magical theory is far beyond what any of your tutors could have offered. You learn more from watching him for an hour than from studying texts for days.

And surprisingly—he starts to share.

“You overthink the spell before casting,” he says one day, as you're practicing duplication charms. “Your mind races ahead of the magic. It won’t follow you if you run from it.”

You exhale. “That’s not very comforting.”

He tilts his head. “Who said magic is supposed to be comforting?”

And yet, when you cast the spell again and it holds, you catch his expression soften.

Sometimes he shows you tricks that aren’t in any book. Subtle sleight-of-hand movements that help anchor concentration, mnemonic phrases he created himself to recall complex sequences. His magic is elegant, and full of flair—showy, yes, but also intimate. Thoughtful. Personal.

And you start to respond in kind.

You show him a meditative chant your mother taught you, one that calms the mind before a spell. You teach him a gesture from your family’s minor sigil-craft—a flick of fingers that stabilizes wards at the edge. He doesn’t admit it, but you catch him using it the next morning when he thinks you aren’t looking.

Frigga notices.

She rarely comments, but there’s a certain smile she wears now when she watches the two of you sparring or laughing quietly over a scribbled note. She leaves the sessions earlier now, allowing space to grow unmonitored. She doesn’t need to nurture what is clearly blooming.

One day, in the garden after a particularly draining session, you both sit beneath the shade of an ancient tree. Loki conjures two glasses of chilled wine with a flick of his fingers, handing one to you without a word.

You accept it, raising an eyebrow. “Poisoned?”

“Only mildly,” he replies with a smirk.

You laugh, and he watches you with a strange look in his eyes. Not amused, exactly. More like... reverent. But it passes quickly.

You sip and let the silence stretch between you, the warmth of the wine settling in your limbs.

“Why do you try so hard to hide how kind you are?” you ask quietly.

He stiffens just slightly, the smirk faltering. “Kindness is a liability in court.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turns his face away from you, his voice lower now. “Kindness is a performance. Just like cruelty. Just like charm. It’s all costume.”

You study him carefully. “And which one are you wearing now?”

Loki doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t look away, either.

The bond forms in quiet things.

The way you begin to fall into rhythm when you cast spells side by side. How his presence begins to anchor you instead of unnerve you. How your laughter comes easier in his company, and how his sharp edges soften when you’re near.

He teases you. Constantly.

“You hold your wand like it’s a fork,” he mutters one morning.

“At least I don’t use mine like a toothpick,” you snap back, without missing a beat.

He blinks, then laughs—a full-bodied, rich sound that startles both of you.

After that, his teasing becomes more frequent. But now it’s paired with warmth. With glances that linger too long. With conversations that go on well past your lessons.

And sometimes, your hands brush when you pass him a book or a vial or a rune-stone. Neither of you ever comments on it. But neither of you pulls away.

One evening, weeks into your lessons, a storm rolls across the palace—lightning crackling violet across the sky, thunder low and distant. You find Loki already in the library alcove, cross-legged on the carpet, eyes scanning a floating scroll.

“Can’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He glances up. “Can’t ignore the noise.”

You sit beside him without asking. The storm outside is a mirror to something in your chest—wild, unsettled.

He conjures a flame in midair, letting it dance between his fingers. “Do you ever think about leaving?”

You tilt your head. “Asgard?”

He nods. “All of it. The court. The roles we play.”

You hesitate. “Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d belong anywhere else.”

“Maybe you’d belong everywhere.”

You smile faintly. “Or nowhere.”

Loki looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze quiet and unguarded.

“You’d make an excellent liar,” he says softly.

You blink. “That’s a compliment?”

“From me, it is.”

And when the thunder rumbles again, you don’t flinch.

By the time your lessons have stretched into months, you and Loki are inseparable. At least, in your private hours. In court, things remain unchanged. Loki is still the prince, and you are still a lady of no consequence. But in the shadowed corners of the palace—in the gardens, in the library, in the stillness of the early morning—you are equals.

You know the exact angle of his smile when he’s about to say something clever. He knows the cadence of your laugh before it breaks free. You can feel when his magic flares too hot, and he can sense when yours begins to fray. You speak in half-sentences now, and still understand each other perfectly.

There’s something between you. Something unspoken.

It curls like a spell just on the edge of being cast. Like a secret waiting to be whispered into the dark.

But neither of you gives it voice.

Not yet.

One night, you find him in the observatory, leaning against the railing, staring out at the stars. His cloak is gone, his tunic unfastened at the collar. He looks more boy than prince. More truth than mask.

You step beside him. “You always come up here alone?”

“Only when I wish someone would follow.”

You glance sideways. “Did you wish for me?”

He smiles faintly, not answering.

The two of you stand there, the cosmos yawning open before you. In the hush of starlight, everything else falls away.

Loki speaks first.

“Magic is the only thing that’s ever made sense to me. The rest—the throne, the rules, the lies—it’s noise. But this...” He gestures outward. “This is real.”

You nod slowly. “I know. It’s the only time I feel like I’m me.”

His eyes flick to yours. “You always seem like you.”

“Only because you see me clearly.”

His breath catches. Just for a second.

Then, softly: “I do.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full—of everything you could say. Everything you both choose not to.

---

It begins in moments Loki doesn’t expect.

When your laugh echoes off stone walls and silences the static in his head. When your hands brush as you pass a shared spellbook and he feels a flare of heat in his chest that has nothing to do with magic. When he finds himself watching you instead of the stars, wondering if your smile is ever meant for him alone.

He knows what it is.

Of course he does. He’s read every poem, every legend. He’s watched others pine and ache and confess. He’s mocked them for it. But this — this — sneaks up on him. A thread quietly tying itself around his ribs each time you tilt your head and ask him something only he would know. Each time you call him by name like it’s not a title but something softer.

He realizes he wants to touch your hand without magic. To walk beside you with no pretense. To hear you call him justLoki and not think it strange.

And that’s precisely the problem.

You are not just anyone. You are a lady of the court. Trusted. Refined. A daughter of the Queen’s closest friend. Frigga adores you, sees you as a protégé, a favored companion. You were born noble enough to serve royalty — but never quite enough to marry into it.

And he—he is a prince.

He’s always known the weight of that title. It crushes beneath its own expectation. Marriages in court are chess moves. Alliances. Not choices.

He tells himself it would be unkind to give you hope. To let this thing, this want, bloom into something it cannot be.

So he buries it. Quietly. Carefully. He sharpens his wit when you come too close. He flinches back when your fingers nearly touch his. He casts sideways glances when you aren’t looking.

But you notice.

You always notice.

It happens in the training hall.

You’re there with Loki, practicing controlled projection spells when Thor storms in with his usual entourage — Sif, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg. Their presence fills the room like a gust of arrogance, all laughter and muscle and heavy boots.

“Still playing with illusions, brother?” Thor calls, grinning. “Come train properly. Throw a hammer. Lift something.”

Loki doesn’t look up. “Some of us have more refined pursuits.”

Volstagg laughs. “Refined? More like useless. You could conjure a feast and still starve.”

Sif smirks, arms crossed. “He can conjure shadows, but they’re no use in real battle. At least Thor’s brute strength wins wars.”

Your magic flickers in your palm, spell unraveling.

You look between them—four warriors who have never respected the power of what Loki does. Who see his magic as vanity, not strength. They’ve made jabs before, but today it feels crueler. Sharper. Directed like knives.

Loki says nothing. But you see the stiffness in his shoulders. The quiet set of his jaw.

You step forward before you think twice.

“At least he uses his brain,” you say, voice steady. “He wins with thought instead of swinging wildly until something breaks.”

The room falls silent.

Thor turns to you, brows raised in mild surprise. “Lady Y/N, we mean no offense—”

“I think you do,” you interrupt, stepping closer. “You mock what you don’t understand. Magic isn’t for show. It’s not weakness. And if any of you had half the discipline Loki does, you might learn something beyond brute force.”

Sif’s jaw tightens. Fandral shifts uncomfortably. Even Thor looks vaguely chagrined.

Loki doesn’t move. But his eyes are on you now. Intently.

You hold your ground.

“If you’ll excuse us,” you finish, voice colder now, “we were in the middle of a lesson.”

The warriors exchange glances, then file out with awkward nods, their usual bravado softened.

The silence that follows is deep and heavy. You turn, pulse still racing.

Loki is staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I wanted to.”

A pause. You take a breath.

“They shouldn’t speak to you like that. You’re powerful. Brilliant. You—”

“Don’t,” he says, more sharply than he means to. You stop.

“I’m not a hero, Y/N.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you reply, carefully. “I said you deserve respect.”

He looks at you, and there’s something in his expression that’s almost... pained.

“You shouldn’t stand that close to me.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He exhales. “Because you’ll make me believe this is real.”

Your breath catches. The words hang between you, raw and dangerous.

He turns from you before you can answer, voice quieter now.

“You’re... a lady of court. The Queen favors you. One day you’ll marry someone respectable. Someone who isn’t—me.”

“Someone who isn’t a prince?” you ask softly.

“No.” He swallows. “Someone who isn’t this prince.”

And there it is — the truth, laid bare like a wound.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you say the wrong thing, the thread between you might snap.

Instead, you step closer again — slow, deliberate. Close enough for your shoulder to brush his.

“I don’t care what they think,” you whisper. “Or what they expect.”

He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel the way he leans, just barely, into your warmth.

You stay like that, side by side, the air thick with unsaid things. And for now, that’s enough.

---

You are summoned before the Allfather at dawn.

Two guards knock at your chamber door and say only that the King requests your presence. Their expressions betray nothing. Your hands tremble as you lace your boots, and your stomach is stone by the time you reach the throne room.

Odin waits, seated high on his gilded dais. Frigga stands nearby, her face unreadable, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.

You bow low, heart thundering. “You summoned me, my king?”

His voice is cold. Distant. “I did.”

He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you with that single eye, piercing as a blade.

“You spoke out against my son and his companions,” he says, calmly. “Disrespectfully. In front of others.”

You lift your head, confused. “Your Majesty, I—”

“You may think yourself clever,” he cuts in. “But you are not above consequence. I allowed your presence in this court out of respect for your late mother. That grace has now ended.”

The words hit like ice.

“I—please, I meant no harm. I only—”

“You dared to insult Thor, a prince of Asgard, in favor of his brother. And worse, you did so publicly.”

Your heart stutters. He saw. He heard everything.

“My loyalty to Loki—”

“—is inappropriate,” Odin interrupts, voice thundering now. “And suspect. You are no longer permitted within the palace. You will leave by nightfall. You are not to communicate with the royal family again.”

It’s not a punishment. It’s exile dressed in silk.

You turn to Frigga, eyes pleading. “My queen—please—”

Frigga’s voice is soft but firm. “She is young. She spoke in defense of someone she believes in. Surely—”

“I have made my decision,” Odin says flatly.

The finality in his voice is ironclad. There will be no further appeal.

Frigga’s jaw tightens. Her eyes meet yours, filled with sorrow. But she says nothing more.

And so you bow again, this time with your heart breaking inside your chest.

You don’t go to Loki.

You can’t.

Not with what you’ve been ordered. Not knowing it’s your last night within the golden walls you once thought were home.

You pack slowly. Quietly. No servants. No goodbyes.

But as twilight falls, your door creaks open.

Loki stands there.

His eyes rake over you—half-dressed for travel, your spellbook missing from the shelf, your satchel folded on the bed.

He frowns.

“Where are you going?”

You try to say his name, but your throat locks. You look away, and that’s all he needs to know something is wrong.

He steps forward, sharply. “What happened?”

“Loki—”

“No. Don’t lie to me.” His voice rises. “Who sent you away?”

You swallow, tears already rising. “Odin.”

He stills.

“What?”

“He heard what I said. In the training hall. About Thor. About the others. He says I disrespected the crown. I’m no longer permitted near the royal family.”

Loki laughs once, bitter and sharp. “So I’m to lose you because I’m the wrong person to defend.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is,” he breathes. “Of course it is. I should have stopped you. I should have warned you what my father is capable of.”

He paces, restless. Like if he doesn’t move, he might collapse.

Then he stops.

“I was coming to see you,” he says, voice softer now. “Because I couldn’t keep pretending anymore. I was going to say it, even if I shouldn’t.”

You stare at him.

He steps closer.

“I love you.”

It doesn’t sound like a confession. It sounds like a surrender.

“I love you,” he repeats, more quietly. “And I tried not to. I tried to be noble. But I can’t stand another day watching you from across a hall, pretending you’re just another sorcerer. Another shadow.”

Your breath trembles.

“Loki…”

“I thought I had time,” he says, laughing again, but it’s broken now. “Time to say it properly. To plan something clever. Something worthy of you. But I don’t. Do I?”

You shake your head, tears falling freely now.

“They’re sending me away,” you whisper. “And I’m not allowed to see you again.”

He steps back, like your words have struck him.

“No,” he says.

You say nothing.

“No,” he repeats, more fiercely this time. “You’re not leaving like this. I won’t allow it.”

“You don’t have a choice,” you say, barely able to stand. “Neither of us do.”

He storms toward the window, magic sparking from his fingertips. “I’ll talk to Mother. To Odin. I’ll threaten—”

“No.” You grab his hand. “If you do anything, he’ll punish you. He’ll hurt you more than he already has.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched.

“I just got you,” he says, voice cracking.

You pull him in, pressing your forehead against his.

“I know.”

He clings to you. Arms tight around your waist like if he lets go, the whole realm will fall apart. Maybe it already is.

You stay like that until the bells toll the hour. The hour of your exile.

He doesn’t speak again.

You pull back first, trembling. He watches your hands, as though memorizing them.

And then you turn and walk away.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do—you’ll run straight back into him and never leave.

And you can’t afford that.

Not when he’s a prince.

Not when you’re already gone.

---

Loki does not sleep the night you leave.

The moment your footsteps vanish down the hall, the palace feels hollow. He tries to pretend it hasn’t happened. He sits where you last stood. Stares at the place your satchel had rested. Breathes the air as if it still carries your warmth.

But it’s not the same.

It never will be.

He doesn't cry. Not because he isn't shattered — but because the grief settles too low, too deep, for tears. Like stone in his chest. Like ice in his blood.

He doesn’t eat the next day. Doesn't speak.

Thor asks where you’ve gone at breakfast.

Loki leaves the table without answering.

Days pass. Then weeks.

He tries to throw himself into study. Into perfecting spells. Into illusion and fire and silence. But nothing helps.

He stops attending court. Avoids the library. Avoids everywhere you used to be.

When Frigga finds him, he’s in his chambers — the air stifling, windows shuttered, every candle burning too hot.

She sits beside him without asking. She doesn’t offer platitudes. Only a mother’s eyes and quiet understanding.

“I couldn’t stop him,” she says softly.

“I know.”

“I tried. I would have made him see.”

Loki doesn’t look at her. “He never sees me.”

Frigga’s silence answers everything.

When she touches his cheek, he lets her. But he feels nothing. Her warmth is not yours.

“Come back to court,” she urges gently. “Don’t let him take your fire.”

He looks at her then — really looks. And when he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous.

“He took more than that.”

Loki begins to despise Odin.

Not just for banishing you — but for what it reveals.

For how easy it was for the Allfather to cut you away. For how little your voice meant in his grand design. For how quickly love and loyalty were outweighed by appearances and pride.

But what terrifies Loki most is that he begins to believe him.

Not Odin’s justice — but his reasoning.

You are not of the blood. Not a royal. Not a pawn he can use. You were disposable the moment you became inconvenient.

And if that is true...

Then what is Loki?

Whose blood runs in his veins?

He buries the thought like poison. But it festers.

He begins to unravel.

You feel the loss in your bones.

The first few days after your exile are a blur.

You travel to a minor outpost of Asgard’s outer provinces — a quiet, forest-ringed settlement near the eastern fjords. Frigga arranges your passage discreetly. You don’t see her, but a letter arrives, signed in her delicate hand:

You are not forgotten, child. Not by me. May your magic carry you where our laws failed you.

You cry for the first time reading that.

The nights are the worst. You lie awake listening to the wind and wonder if he’s thinking of you. If he feels this phantom pain — this severed thread — the same way you do.

You left without saying it.

You were too afraid that saying the words aloud would shatter you.

But you love him. Fiercely. Completely.

And now it is too late.

You settle in the village as best you can.

The people here know your name, if not your story. They’re kind. Curious. They’ve never met a sorcerer who trained in the palace before, and certainly not one who left under mysterious circumstances.

You take on small magical work — healing charms, weather wards, illusion weaving for harvest festivals.

It is not the life you imagined.

But it is life.

And slowly, the ache dulls to a throb.

But it never vanishes.

You still wear the green ribbon he once conjured for you — tied to your wrist now, fraying at the edges.

Back in Asgard, Loki starts seeing you everywhere.

Not truly — but in every spell he casts. Every half-finished rune where your handwriting used to correct his. Every mirror that flickers with an illusion that looks a little too much like you.

He dreams of you.

Sometimes you speak. Sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you walk away before he can stop you.

Those are the worst nights.

He stops trusting himself.

He picks fights with Thor. He withdraws further from court. When he sees Sif or Fandral, rage curls in his gut like fire, but he says nothing. Not yet.

Frigga continues to reach for him.

But he pulls away. Even from her.

Because you were the one who made him feel worthy. Who looked at him not with pity or fear or expectation — but as someone whole. Someone he could become.

And now, without you...

He doesn’t know who that person is.

Seasons shift.

You grow stronger.

The pain does not vanish, but it becomes a companion — one you carry with quiet grace.

Your magic flourishes without palace constraint. You discover new rituals in the wilds, spells born from root and river. The land teaches you in ways scrolls never could.

Children in the village begin to call you “the silverweaver,” for the way your spells shimmer like thread in sunlight.

But at night, you still sit by the window, gazing toward the northern skies — hoping for a flicker of gold and green. Hoping he might reach for you, even now.

And far across realms, in a tower steeped in shadow and magic...

Loki whispers your name into candlelight.

Every night.

As if that alone might bring you back.

---

Loki is quiet.

Not the poised, calculating quiet that used to mask his cleverness — but a hollow quiet, a kind of stillness that speaks of erosion. Day by day, Thor watches his brother grow more distant. He forgets meals. Avoids mirrors. Sometimes, he vanishes for hours, only to reappear smelling of smoke and magic.

At first, Thor says nothing. For all their history, he’s never been good with Loki’s silences. But this one... this one feels dangerous.

One morning, he finds Loki in the royal library. Not reading. Just standing, unmoving, in front of a shelf where a spellbook used to be. The space is empty now. Loki’s hand rests on the spine next to it, fingers still.

Thor clears his throat.

“You always mocked my dramatics,” he says lightly. “Now you haunt rooms like a ghost.”

Loki doesn’t turn. “Go away.”

But Thor doesn’t.

He steps closer, voice softer now. “You loved her.”

Loki’s fingers curl into a fist.

“I saw it,” Thor continues. “I didn’t understand it at the time. I didn’t respect it the way I should have. But I see now. It broke you when she left.”

“She didn’t leave,” Loki says bitterly. “She was banished.”

“I know.” Thor breathes out, guilt lacing his voice. “And I did nothing.”

That gets Loki to turn — sharply, eyes flashing. “You laughed with them. Mocked me. Mocked her.”

Thor bows his head.

“I did. Because I was foolish. Because I thought it didn’t matter.” He pauses, then meets Loki’s eyes. “But it does. You love her still.”

Loki says nothing.

Thor continues, more gently. “I asked Frigga where she’d gone. She didn’t tell me everything, but she told me enough. I want to make it right.”

“You can’t,” Loki says, voice tight.

Thor straightens. “Maybe not. But I can take you to her.”

Silence. Long. Breathless.

Loki doesn’t dare believe it.

“You know where she is?” he says finally.

“I’ve kept eyes on the outer provinces. Quietly. Just in case.” Thor offers a small, crooked smile. “You’re not the only one who missed her.”

You’re in the woods outside the village, gathering herbs at twilight when you feel it — the magic, sharp and bright, blooming behind you like starlight cracking open the air.

You whirl around, heart stuttering.

Loki steps out from the shimmer of a hidden portal. Slowly. As if unsure you’re real.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He looks thinner. Paler. His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion. But his face — gods, his face — it still makes something in you collapse.

“Loki?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks toward you, step by step, until he’s close enough to touch.

“I thought I’d forgotten how to breathe,” he says, voice thick. “But here you are.”

You reach for him, fingers trembling.

He catches your wrist — gently — and presses your hand to his chest.

“Still beating,” he murmurs. “Barely.”

You laugh, and it’s cracked and wet and full of disbelief. “How are you here?”

“Thor,” he says simply.

Your eyes widen.

“He knew,” Loki continues. “He saw what I became without you. And he... he helped me find my way back.”

You blink fast, tears gathering. “But your father—”

“He can rot in his throne,” Loki cuts in. “I don’t care what he says anymore.”

You stare up at him. And in a breath, everything comes crashing down — the exile, the silence, the ache.

“I missed you,” you whisper. “Every day. I thought I’d never—”

He silences you with a kiss.

It isn’t sweet. It’s desperate, and aching, and hungry. His hands tremble on your waist like he can’t quite believe you’re real. You kiss him back with years of unsaid words and broken nights behind it.

When he pulls away, his forehead presses to yours.

“I didn’t come just to see you,” he says. “I came to take you back.”

You tense.

“I can’t go back,” you whisper. “He’ll exile me again. Or worse.”

“I know.” Loki pulls back, looking into your eyes. “That’s why we’ll do something he can’t undo.”

You blink.

“We’ll marry.”

Your breath hitches.

“Loki—”

“Not in the palace. Not in gold or glory. But truly. Vows. Magic. Soulbound.” His hand cradles your face. “If I am bound to you, Odin will have no power over it. Not without defying ancient rites. Even he wouldn’t risk that scandal.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“I should’ve done it the moment I realized,” he says. “I should’ve fought then. But I’m here now.”

You say nothing.

Just throw your arms around him and nod against his shoulder.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes. Yes.”

The ceremony is quiet.

Thor stands witness, dressed not in armor, but simple Asgardian blue. He says nothing, only nods as you both step forward under the canopy of stars.

Frigga is not there, but you feel her blessing. In the wind. In the stillness. In the soft glimmer that dances across your joining hands when the spell begins.

Loki speaks the old words first — the binding vow of his magic to yours, his heart to yours, his soul to yours.

You echo them, voice shaking but clear.

A ribbon of starlight winds around your wrists, sealing the bond. A vow older than kings.

When it fades, Loki cups your face.

You smile through your tears.

And when he kisses you again, the world rights itself.

Later, after Thor has gone, and the night has grown still, Loki lies beside you in the little cottage, holding your hand like a relic.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs. “Truly.”

You smile sleepily. “And you’re mine.”

“Forever?”

“Always.”

His eyes close.

---

The Bifröst opens in the high dawn light, casting shards of color across the golden bridge. The wind is cold at this height, but Loki doesn’t feel it. He only feels your hand in his.

You step into Asgard again for the first time since your exile, and the moment your feet touch the bridge’s smooth surface, your breath catches.

Everything looks the same.

And nothing feels the same.

Loki doesn’t let go of you. Not for a moment. His posture is tall, regal, but there’s a tightness in his jaw that only you notice — the readiness of a man still expecting his father’s wrath to strike like lightning. But beside him, you walk unflinching.

Because this time, you’re not just a lady of court.

You’re his wife.

And Odin cannot undo what’s been bound by magic and vow.

At the end of the bridge, Frigga waits.

Her cloak is silver today, soft as falling snow, and her face is unreadable as you approach. But when she sees your hands twined, when she sees the thin thread of starlight still woven faintly around your wrist — the magic of the bond — her expression cracks.

Her eyes shine. And then, impossibly, she smiles.

“Mother,” Loki says carefully.

She says nothing at first. Just lifts her hand — and touches your cheek.

“You’ve come home,” she whispers, voice full of emotion.

“Yes,” you whisper back. “Together.”

Her gaze flicks to her son.

“You found your way,” she says.

Loki’s throat works, but no sound comes.

Frigga exhales, a soft laugh, and pulls you both into an embrace.

For a moment, there is no kingdom. No judgment. Only warmth.

Then, from the far archway of the bridge, another presence approaches.

Heavy boots. Gold-lined robes. The weight of rule etched into every stride.

Odin.

Loki stiffens.

Frigga steps back, her hand remaining on your shoulder. She doesn’t retreat. Neither do you.

Odin stops several feet away. He says nothing.

His eye lands on your face — then drops to your joined hands.

You wait for the outburst.

But it doesn’t come.

His gaze flicks to the faint shimmer of your marriage binding. Ancient, lawful, soul-forged.

He can’t deny it.

So instead, he says nothing. Just watches with that unreadable stare.

Frigga is the one who speaks.

“They are wed,” she says, her voice light but firm. “By rite. By vow. And by will.”

Odin’s silence stretches.

“Not under my roof,” he says at last, flatly.

“They didn’t need your roof,” Frigga replies.

His jaw tightens.

Loki finally speaks, voice calm but icy. “You banished her. You cast her out for loyalty. But now she returns not as servant, but as my equal.”

“She was never your equal,” Odin says, low.

“She is now,” Loki replies, eyes sharp. “You can no longer pretend I am yours to command.”

Odin looks at him for a long, long moment.

Then he turns.

And walks away.

No decree. No fury. No blessing.

Just a quiet defeat.

Frigga’s sigh is subtle, but full of decades of disappointment.

Loki watches his father vanish into the distance, the old cape dragging like a shadow behind him. Then he turns to you — and for the first time since crossing into Asgard, his shoulders ease.

“You stood tall,” he murmurs, pride in every word.

“I had you beside me,” you reply.

Frigga smiles at you both. “He cannot touch what is bound by older laws than his crown. He knows it.”

Loki’s hand squeezes yours. “Let him try. I’ll burn down the throne room first.”

Frigga gives him a pointed look. “Let’s not start a war just yet.”

The three of you walk through the palace together, and for once, the golden halls feel like yours. Whispers follow, of course — nobles peering from behind pillars, servants pretending not to look. The rumors run ahead of you, unstoppable.

But you walk proudly.

At Loki’s side.

A prince’s wife. A sorceress in her own right. Not a shadow or a servant or a secret.

Not anymore.

---

At first, the court doesn’t know how to respond.

They bow, of course. You are married to a prince. You walk beside Loki now in green-trimmed gowns and silver circlets, your hand on his arm, your back straight. Protocol demands deference.

But behind the smiles, the court stirs like a nest of snakes.

They whisper. Always just behind you. They speak your name with too much reverence, or not enough. You are not royal, not raised in the line of succession, not bred in the traditions of courtly diplomacy. You are — in their eyes — an interloper. A symbol of rebellion. The lady who loved too loudly.

They speak of you in corridors. In gardens. Over wine.

Did you bind Loki by spell?

Did you seduce him to power?

Why would a prince give up his rank for a former lady-in-waiting?

The speculation coils around every room you enter. You hear the sharp pause in conversations. See the too-wide smiles from noblewomen who used to speak freely with you. Even the servants are cautious, uncertain if speaking with you is offense or obligation.

Loki feels it all.

He doesn’t show it — not openly — but you can tell. His shoulders tense at council meetings. His words grow colder with every cutting aside made in your direction. He starts to avoid the court dinners altogether. Not because he is ashamed — but because he is tired.

Tired of pretending.

Tired of seeing you flinch at the weight of scrutiny.

One evening, late, you sit in the highest balcony of the palace garden — where the stars hang low, and the fountains drown out the city noise. Loki stands beside you, silent, watching a comet trail faintly across the dark.

You speak first.

“This isn’t what I thought it would be.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

“No,” he says at last. “Nor I.”

You look at him. His expression is unreadable.

“I thought,” you begin, voice quiet, “that once we were together — once it was real — the rest wouldn’t matter.”

He turns to you now, eyes tired but soft. “It shouldn’t matter. But this place…” His voice tightens. “This court has never forgiven me for being different. It was naïve to think they’d love the woman who made me stronger.”

You take his hand.

“So what now?” you ask. “Do we just endure it?”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he sits beside you, your fingers still laced with his.

“I have lived a life built on approval,” he says. “On proving myself worthy. To Odin. To Asgard. To every lord and scholar and warrior who looked past me.”

You nod, listening.

“I thought royalty gave me power. But now…” He looks down at your hands. “Now I have you. And they would ask me to pay for that with silence. With shame.”

He lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles gently.

“I won’t.”

You exhale, your heart breaking and healing at the same time. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” he says slowly, “that I would rather live unknown — peacefully, freely, beside you — than wear a crown that costs me everything.”

Tears rise behind your eyes.

“Loki…”

He presses his forehead to yours.

“If you would leave this behind with me,” he murmurs, “I will build us a world of our own.”

You nod. Fiercely. Without hesitation.

“Yes.”

Frigga listens in silence as you both tell her.

Her expression does not falter, but her eyes glisten faintly.

“You are certain?” she asks gently.

“Yes,” Loki says. “We want peace. And truth. Not this.”

Frigga reaches for your hand. Holds it between both of hers.

“I always hoped one day you’d return here,” she says. “That you’d be safe within these walls.”

“You gave me that once,” you whisper. “But Asgard never did.”

Frigga exhales. “Then I will help you.”

Loki looks at her. “You’ll aid us?”

“Of course,” she says softly. “You are my son. She is your wife. That makes her my daughter.”

You almost break at those words.

Frigga leads you to a sealed archive — quiet and old, deep beneath the palace — where records of the lesser realms are kept. She scans scrolls and maps, her fingers sure and searching.

Finally, she finds it: a small realm under Asgardian protection, a quiet place of rolling hills and warm sunlight, where trade is simple, governance is light, and nobility is a formality. The people are kind. The land is rich. It is a place where magic is respected, not feared.

“There’s a manor there,” she says. “Untouched for years. Still under crown stewardship, technically.” She smiles. “But I believe I can lose the paperwork.”

Loki clasps her hand. “Thank you, Mother.”

Frigga’s expression softens. “Write to me. Tell me of your seasons. And if you have children—”

Loki lifts a brow.

“—especially if you have children,” she finishes with a fond smile.

Thor finds you both in the gardens the morning you leave.

He looks unusually serious. His cloak is folded over one arm, not worn, and his hammer hangs at his side untouched.

“I hear you’re vanishing again,” he says, trying for lightness.

Loki smirks faintly. “Running from you, specifically.”

“I thought as much.” Thor steps closer, then hesitates. “Are you sure?”

You and Loki exchange a glance.

“Yes,” you say. “This is what we need.”

Thor nods, jaw tight.

“I envy you,” he says. “Sometimes I wish I could leave all this behind. Be someone other than the crown’s shadow.”

Loki tilts his head. “You’re more than that.”

Thor smiles.

Then he looks at you, and his expression changes — softens.

“Take care of him,” he says to you. “He’s an idiot sometimes. But he’s a good one.”

“I will,” you promise, blinking quickly.

Then Thor turns to his brother.

“And you—” He steps closer and places a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “If you don’t name your first daughter after me, I’ll be offended.”

Loki blinks. “You want us to—?”

“Oh, I expect nieces,” Thor says proudly. “A house full of them. Wild, magical little terrors who’ll terrorize me when I visit.”

You laugh — a full, surprised laugh — and Loki rolls his eyes.

“We’ll see what we can do,” you say, smiling.

Thor embraces you both — a rare, bone-cracking sort of hug — and steps back with a grin.

“Go. Be free. Just don’t forget you’ve still got family here.”

And with that, you leave Asgard.

Not in secret. Not in shame.

But together — arm in arm, bound by vow and choice.

Your new home is far from the golden towers, tucked in the folds of a sunlit realm that greets you like an old friend. The manor is modest by royal standards, but beautiful: tall windows, a warm hearth, a garden grown wild with herbs and glowing flowers.

You breathe freely there.

You rise with the birdsong and fall asleep to Loki reading old texts beside the fire. The villagers come to know you with kindness. Children ask you for illusions. Elders thank you for weather wards. It is not the life of a queen — but it is yours.

And Loki, for all his sharp wit and starlit power, smiles more in these quiet days than he ever did in the throne room.

Sometimes he watches you walk through the garden, fingers brushing lavender and light, and he says nothing. Just watches, like he’s memorizing every movement.

Because he chose this.

He chose you.

And for the first time in all his long, guarded life…

He has no regrets.

[blueiscoool]

1,900-Year-Old Papyrus Records Roman Tax Fraud Trial

The Greek document details a court case in ancient Palestine involving tax fraud and provides insight into trial preparations in the Roman Empire

Back in 2014, a researcher from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem rediscovered an ancient papyrus while organizing a storeroom in the Israel Antiquities Authority’s Dead Sea Scrolls Unit. Once found in the Judean Desert, the document’s script had previously been classified as Nabataean—an ancient Aramaic language—but papyrus expert Hannah Cotton knew better.

“When I saw it marked ‘Nabataean,’ I exclaimed, ‘It’s Greek to me!’” the researcher says in a statement by the university.

Cotton and a team of experts spent the next decade deciphering the 133-line text, and their findings were recently published in the journal Tyche. Turns out, the document is the longest Greek papyrus ever found in the Judean Desert, and its newly translated content is particularly unique: a Roman lawyer’s detailed notes about the trial of two men accused of tax fraud.

“This is the best-documented Roman court case from Judaea, apart from the trial of Jesus,” says study coauthor Avner Ecker, a historian at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, in the statement.

Per the study, the papyrus was likely written on the “eve of the Bar Kokhba Revolt,” a second-century Jewish uprising against Roman rule. The Roman Empire had colonized Judea—the southern part of ancient Palestine—some 200 years earlier. By 132 C.E., various Roman incursions upon Jewish life, including bans on religious practices, had taken their toll: The dwindling population of Jews in Palestine revolted. The rebellion, led by a man named Bar Kokhba, was crushed by the Romans in 135 C.E., and Jews were subsequently banned from Jerusalem.

The newly translated papyrus was written after Roman Emperor Hadrian’s visit to Judea around 130 C.E. and before the Bar Kokhba Revolt, per the study. It details Rome’s case against two individuals—Gadalias and Saulos—accused of forging documentation about selling and freeing slaves to bypass paying Roman taxes.

“Forgery and tax fraud carried severe penalties under Roman law, including hard labor or even capital punishment,” says study coauthor Anna Dolganov, a papyrus expert at the Austrian Academy of Sciences, in the statement.

The papyrus was written in “vibrant and direct” language by a strategizing prosecutor, advising another lawyer about pieces of evidence and anticipating objections, per the statement. The document also contains a “rapidly drafted transcript of the judicial hearing itself.”

As Dolganov says in the statement, “This papyrus is extraordinary because it provides direct insight into trial preparations in this part of the Roman Empire.”

Significant portions of the document are missing, making conclusions about the trial’s participants difficult to draw. Still, the researchers write that the prosecutors were likely “functionaries of the Roman fiscal administration” and suggest the defendants were Jews. The papyrus also makes mention of “an informer who denounced the defendants to Roman authorities.”

As Live Science’s Kristina Killgrove writes, the papyrus sheds light on the long-debated question of whether or not ancient Jewish people owned slaves. The document mentions that Saulos’ family owns multiple slaves, but whether those enslaved people were Jewish is unclear.

The trial’s location and the case’s outcome also remain mysterious. Per the study, proceedings may have been interrupted by the Bar Kokhba Revolt. Somehow, this papyrus ended up among a collection of documents stored in caves in the Judean Desert—the Dead Sea Scrolls, which were rediscovered in the mid-20th century.

As study coauthor Fritz Mitthof, a historian at the University of Vienna, says in the statement, the papyrus showcases the Romans’ governmental reach: They regulated private transactions even in remote regions of their empire.

By Sonja Anderson.

[dakusan]

How skz use emojis (with tier rankings)

stray kids ot8 x reader | humor, chaos, soft delulu

🌙 synopsis: some of them are emotionally stable. some of them use emojis like they’re decoding ancient scripts. this is how skz would text you—via emoji abuse, unhinged chains, and the occasional soft heart. ranked. judged. exposed.

💌 a/n: you ever get a message from someone and it’s just 6 emojis in a row and now you’re spiralling? yeah. that’s what this is. from curated ✨ aesthetics to 🧍‍♂️ level nonsense—i studied them like a scientist. they all have different love languages. most of them are unhinged. p.s. if you’ve ever said “he texts just like han” i’m sorry for your loss p.p.s. reblog before you catch feelings over a cat emoji

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎶 Now Playing: "Super Shy" — New Jeans

Tier system:

S-Tier: dangerously iconic. elite use of emojis.

A-Tier: knows what they’re doing. emotionally stable… for now.

B-Tier: inconsistent but charming.

C-Tier: concerning choices.

F-Tier: chaos. emotional terrorism.

Bang Chan // 방찬 emoji usage tier: A-Tier he knows what he’s doing. most of the time. go-to emojis: 😭 ☠️ ❤️ 🤷‍♂️ how he uses them:

uses 😭 for literally everything. laughing? crying? annoyed? it’s always 😭

dramatic boy energy with the skull ☠️, usually after you roast him

says something incredibly vulnerable and follows it up with “lol ❤️” to soften the blow

overthinks emoji tone so ends up sending 3 different ones just in case

example messages:

“i swear if you ghost me 😭😭😭” “i wrote a song and accidentally made it about u lol ❤️“ “u make me feel things ☠️ unfollow” ”did u eat?? answer wisely ☠️❤️”

Lee Know // 리노 emoji usage tier: C-Tier only uses emojis when he’s trying to be annoying or dangerously flirty go-to emojis: 🐱 👍 😐 🙃 how he uses them:

thumbs up 👍 is his passive-aggressive specialty. it’s his period at the end of a sentence

randomly sends 🐱 when he’s pretending to be cute (it’s working)

uses 😐 to emotionally terrorise you

thinks emojis are cringe unless he’s being a menace

example messages:

“ok 👍” (you’re in trouble) “i’m ignoring u rn 😐” sends a pic of soonie with 🐱 and no context

Changbin // 창빈 emoji usage tier: B-Tier his emoji game is emotional gym bro meets softie energy go-to emojis: 💪 😭 🖤 🐷 how he uses them:

💪 = “i’m tough” but also “i’ll carry you to bed if needed”

😭 every time he gets flustered or fake-upset when you don’t answer

uses 🖤 when trying to sound cool but he’s actually a mushball

has sent 🐷 once in a self-roast and you never let him live it down

example messages:

“did u eat?? u better 😭” “thinking about u at the gym 💪” “stop being so cute omg 😭🖤”

Hyunjin // 현진 emoji usage tier: S-Tier curated like a Pinterest board. devastatingly effective. go-to emojis: ✨ 🤍 🥺 😭 how he uses them:

sends ✨ in between words like poetry

🤍 when he’s being soft and vulnerable (aka always)

🥺 because he knows you can’t handle it

occasionally drops a 😭 when he’s being dramatic (every day)

example messages:

“you looked like a dream today ✨” “i’m gonna paint you someday 🤍” “i miss u. painfully. 😭🥺” sends an aesthetic pic of the sky with no words and just ✨

Han // 한 emoji usage tier: F-Tier you are NOT safe. no pattern. pure chaos. go-to emojis: 🤡 😭 🐸 🙈 🧍‍♂️ how he uses them:

uses 🤡 for self-roasting AND flirting. dual purpose.

sends 😭 100x and means a different thing every time

will drop 🐸 + 🚗 with no context and expect you to understand

sends 7 emojis in a row. still says he’s being “normal”

example messages:

“i accidentally flirted with u. my bad 🧍‍♂️🤡🙈” “love u lol 😭🐸” sends frog emoji + heart + explosion + traffic light “decipher that. it means i miss u”

Felix // 필릭스 emoji usage tier: A-Tier sunshine-coded chaos. go-to emojis: ✨ 🥺 💛 ☀️ 🫶 how he uses them:

overuses ✨ and 🥺 in the most endearing way

💛 = you’re in trouble (but in a soft way)

will send 🫶 with no words and you’ll still melt

sometimes throws in a kiss emoji and immediately follows it with “ignore that”

example messages:

“i saw this cat and thought of u 🥺✨” “don’t skip lunch okay? 💛” “i love you more than brownies 🫶” “wait i sent that kiss emoji by accident pls don’t—”

Seungmin // 승민 emoji usage tier: C-Tier (and proud of it) cold-blooded texter who occasionally slips go-to emojis: 🙄 👍 😐 😎 how he uses them:

sends 👍 like a mic drop

🙄 is his love language (you hate it. you love it.)

pretends emojis are dumb but once sent 🫣 by accident and panicked

sends them sparingly. it hits harder that way.

example messages:

“you’re so dramatic 🙄” “sure. 👍” “not thinking about u or anything 😐” randomly sends 😎 and refuses to explain

I.n // 아이엔 emoji usage tier: B-Tier youngest = chaotic emoji prince go-to emojis: 😩 🧃 🐸 💥 🥹 how he uses them:

will text like he’s casting spells with emoji chains

uses 🥹 when he wants something from you

somehow turned 🧃 into a flirt tactic??

once sent 💥🐸🧍‍♂️ and said “that’s us”

example messages:

“wyd 🧃🐸💥” “you’re kinda my fav person 🥹” “u like me? say yes or i’ll explode 💥😩” “this emoji reminds me of you 🧃 (don’t ask why)”

[nanasrealities]

SCRIPT THIS ✐ᝰ : SHONEN MANGA .ᐟ

(or for any action packed series)

playing — gods by njz .ᐟ

"one more step, you're immortal now..."

TIMELINE ރ

✎ The timelines are always fluid, seeping into one another. Nothing ever seems rushed or out of place, no sudden twists that make you feel like the universe is conspiring against you (I'm looking directly at you, Akutami...).

✎ There’s a beautiful lack of plot holes, and even if there are any in your drama, they’re quickly wrapped up with a clever, reasonable explanation—or you can just script them away.

✎ You're allowed to be a child. You're allowed to dream and laugh and be carefree without always feeling the weight of the world crashing down, breaking apart and seeping into your mind.

ACTION ރ

✎ You’re able to tune the world out in the middle of a fight. The noise fades away as you focus. Time slows and every strike, every dodge feels like it’s happening in your own world. The chaos? It’s nothing but background noise in your fight.

✎ Regardless of the battle, your outfit always remains intact. Whether you’re fighting on the frontlines or escaping, your clothes cling to you just right: it's like they were tailored to suit you and every movement you make.

✎ Just the sheer presence of you is overwhelming: the second you reveal yourself or step into a battle, even the strongest of your opponents slightly hesitate, but just for a second. Their hesitation quickly becomes amusement, knowing this fight won't be like any other they've experienced.

SKILLS ރ

✎ You're strength can easily be compared to that of an ancient spirit—a force that naturally flows through your veins. Whether it's raw strength or precision, no one dares to underestimated you.

✎ Your fighting style is untouchable, impossible to replicate. Every move is yours alone, carved into existence through sheer will. They can study you, mimic you—but they will never become you.

✎ Memory is your key weapon. In battle, every strike, every movement is easily memorized by you. Once you’ve seen an attack, it’s already useless against you. Your mind is a living gallery of fights, adapting in real-time. Foes realize too late: you never make the same mistake twice.

✎ You see things others don't. With a keen eye for patterns, weaknesses, even the smallest shifts in movement, nothing can escape your eyesight.

✎ Speed is a second nature to you. You don't just move—you vanish and reappear, closer to your goal than a second before. You're a blur, a shadow, a creature always moving. To the untrained eye, you're Newton's first law: once you're in motion, you'll always stay in motion.

✎ Sound, who's that? Your movements are ghost-like, silent. The only sign of your presence are the footsteps left behind. But by the time they realize you're there, it's already too late—the damage is done, and you're nothing more than a flicker in their fading consciousness.

xoxo, nana <3

[slytherin-princess-x]

Bound by decree: love is a dangerous game

Mattheo x reader

Summary: An arranged marriage but they’re enemies

A/n: it’s a long one today guys

The parchment felt like a death sentence in my trembling hands—crisp, official, and utterly final. I stared at the ornate script, the words swimming before my eyes: *"By decree of the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the Ministry of Magic, a binding betrothal is hereby established between…"* My stomach churned. I already knew the name; it had been the hushed whisper in the corridors, the grim topic of conversation amongst the Slytherins. *"...Miss Y/N L/N and Mr. Mattheo Gaunt Riddle."*

Year Seven was supposed to be exciting. The final exams, Quidditch tryouts, maybe even a stolen kiss or two behind the greenhouses. Instead, it was starting with shackles. Arranged marriages were archaic—relics of a bygone era—but here we were, being dragged back into it for the sake of pureblood lineage. As if my family's ancient bloodline wasn't pristine enough.

The cause of my imminent doom was leaning against the wall across the Slytherin common room, a picture of indolent indifference. Mattheo Riddle. Dark hair perpetually mussed, eyes like chips of obsidian, and a smirk that promised nothing but trouble. He exuded an aura of dangerous charisma that made most students scurry out of his path. But me? I was now legally bound to him. The irony tasted bitter on my tongue.

"Well, well," Mattheo drawled, pushing off the wall and strolling toward me. His voice was a smooth, velvety threat. "Looks like we're stuck with each other, L/N."

I crumpled the parchment in my fist. "Stuck is an understatement, Riddle. This is a bloody nightmare."

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound that grated on my nerves. "Don't pretend you're not flattered. Who wouldn't want to be betrothed to me?"

"Oh, I can think of a few," I snapped, my eyes blazing. "Anyone with a functioning brain and a desire to, you know, choose who they spend their life with."

His smirk widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "Such spirit. I'm almost… impressed."

The "almost" hung in the air, thick with sarcasm. That was our dynamic in a nutshell—a constant sparring match, a battle of wills fueled by mutual disdain. He reveled in my frustration, while I seethed under his arrogant gaze.

The engagement was a public spectacle. Announcements at breakfast, pointed glances in the corridors, and the ever-present whisper of our names linked together. It was suffocating. And the worst part? Mattheo seemed to enjoy it. He’d drape an arm possessively around my shoulders during meals, his touch sending shivers of disgust down my spine. He’d answer questions about our "future" with infuriatingly vague pronouncements, leaving me to grit my teeth and plaster on a fake smile.

My attempts at a normal Year Seven were thwarted at every turn. Gryffindor boys who’d dared to flirt with me suddenly found themselves on the receiving end of Mattheo’s icy glare and a few well-placed hexes. Even my closest friends grew hesitant, the air around me now tainted by Mattheo’s presence.

"He's like a bloody Dementor," my friend Clara muttered one afternoon, as we watched Mattheo lean against a tree, his gaze fixed on me. "Sucking all the joy out of the air."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Tell me about it. I can't even look at another boy without him glaring holes into their skull."

The enforced proximity did offer a twisted kind of insight, though. I saw glimpses of Mattheo away from the public eye. The way his brow furrowed in concentration during Potions, the almost imperceptible twitch of his lip when he read a particularly clever passage in a Transfiguration textbook. These moments were fleeting, quickly masked by his usual sardonic demeanor, but they were there.

One evening, stuck in the library together to “study”—a thinly veiled excuse for our parents to see us interacting amicably—I found myself staring at him. He was engrossed in a heavy tome, his features softened in the lamplight. For the first time, I saw past the arrogance and the threats, and caught a glimpse of… something else. A weariness, perhaps? Or maybe just boredom.

He looked up, catching my gaze. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by a neutral expression that was almost unsettling in its unfamiliarity.

"Problem, L/N?"

I quickly averted my eyes, a blush creeping up my neck. "No. No problem."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. It was different from our usual animosity, charged with something… more.

As the year progressed, our interactions, while still laced with sarcasm and barbed comments, began to shift. We argued about house points with a shared competitiveness. We found an odd sort of camaraderie in our mutual disdain for certain professors. During a particularly grueling detention scrubbing cauldrons, Mattheo surprised me by sharing a mumbled joke that actually made me laugh.

The Yule Ball arrived like a looming deadline. I had dreaded the thought of being seen on Mattheo’s arm. But as he stood before me in his dress robes, a certain unfamiliar nervousness in his eyes, something shifted within me. He was undeniably handsome, and for the first time, the thought didn’t fill me with immediate revulsion.

Our dance was stiff and awkward at first, but as the music softened and we found a rhythm, a strange sort of understanding passed between us. His hand on my back was firm, his gaze surprisingly steady.

"You look… tolerable," he muttered, his voice barely audible above the music.

I rolled my eyes, but a small smile tugged at my lips. "And you're not entirely unbearable yourself, Riddle."

It was a minuscule crack in the wall of our mutual animosity, but it was there.

The turning point, perhaps inevitably, came during a late-night study session in the deserted astronomy tower. We were arguing, as usual, about some obscure Charms theory. Our voices echoed in the stillness, the tension crackling between us.

"You're being deliberately obtuse," I accused, frustration bubbling over.

"And you're being willfully ignorant," Mattheo retorted, his eyes flashing.

We were close—too close. Our anger was a palpable force. And then, something shifted. The anger seemed to dissipate, replaced by a different kind of intensity. His gaze lingered on my lips, and for the first time, I didn’t want to look away.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle. "You know," he said, his voice low and husky, "you're not what I expected."

My heart hammered in my chest. "And what did you expect?" I whispered, my breath catching in my throat.

His gaze searched mine, a flicker of something vulnerable in his dark eyes. "A simpering pureblood princess, eager to please."

"And what did you get?" I challenged, my voice barely a breath.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and banished the usual shadows. "Someone who challenges me. Someone who isn’t afraid."

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss. It was fierce, possessive, filled with a pent-up energy that mirrored the animosity that had simmered between us for months. And surprisingly, I kissed him back, my own frustrations and grudges melting away in the heat of the moment.

The world didn’t magically transform. We were still betrothed, still bound by an archaic agreement. But as we stood there, breathless and slightly shaken, in the silence of the astronomy tower, something had undeniably changed. The hatred hadn’t vanished entirely, but a new emotion had taken root—a complicated tangle of resentment and reluctant attraction.

The arranged marriage was still a cage, but now, maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be quite so lonely. The year still stretched before us, filled with uncertainty and the weight of our forced union. But for the first time since that dreaded parchment arrived, I felt a flicker of something akin to hope. Perhaps, against all odds, this nightmare could turn into something else entirely. The enemies were still there, but maybe, beneath the surface, lovers were beginning to bloom.

Taglist: @yootvi @redeemingvillains @littlemadamred @smut-anarchy

[chaaistained]

☕︎ my marauders dr; intro •°

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🗝️ you’ve now unlocked the recipe to my marauders dr ≈

name : julia ephemeri potter

age (when i shift) : 15 — i’m experiencing the whole slow burn.. and i just know it’s gonna be torture . but we persevere

— (when i post about my script) : most of the time, i’ll be talking about me from the ages of 16-21 onwards

occupation : student of witchcraft at hogwarts

+ (eventually) some form of adult occupation . i’ll edit this later i genuinely don’t know and i don’t need to know for good few years at least so..

details :

— house : gryffindor

— wand : sandalwood with a mermaid hair core , 9.5”

+ wand breakdown

— patronus : brown bear / sable (undecided, i love both.. help)

— amortentia : ocean air , candle wax , musty books

+ amortentia breakdown

— fav subject : alchemy

— top subjects : (+ alchemy) ancient runes , charms , muggle studies

— pets : sadie / sadie sue (ginger tabby cat) , barnaby (brown barn owl , shared with james..)

side hobbies/hustles : gryffindor quidditch team seeker

+ (eventually) editorial team of the hogwarts herald

+ (eventually) prefect

s/o : regulus arcturus black ৻ꪆ

౨ৎ meet miss juju berry

an incandescence, forged of tart blood and a permeating sense of melancholy — she finds herself in a constant search, an unsolvable quest for meaning, latching onto anything that can define her identity and yet feeling irrevocably lost to herself — she is only the light, not the sun . she is only the shell, not the pearl . she is only the stain , not the blackberry

i unfurl into this reality with the kind of effervescence found in firewhiskey, a bubbling surprise of sorts, one that my own parents weren’t expecting. my mum calls me a gift, she calls my brother a blessing . i don’t know if the difference in term denotes a difference in how we’re perceived, and truth be told it drove me crazy as a kid and sometimes it still does but for whatever purpose or prosperity, the fates resolved that i was meant to be born and here i am

a toppling fire cracker of a girl, or so i’m told, i’m one of the rambunctious gryffindors that barrel down the marble hallways of hogwarts castle. i bunk with seven other girls, one of whom is my best friend — mary macdonald. along with the charming ravenclaw — emmeline vance — and a snark of a hufflepuff — hestia jones — the four of us can be found in various locations around the school campus; passed out in a heap on the softest patch of grass near the black lake , shooting pine cones over the whomping willow and keeping score of who gets the most over without the tree smacking them away , secluded in the third booth on the second floor of the library . our quills drying out while we distractedly ignore our transfiguration homework in favour of finding the right spell to conceal our carved names on the bottom of the booth’s oakwood table (the result of emmeline sneaking alcoholic butterbeer into the school, and a series of bad decisions later, we’d all drunkenly vandalised the furniture.. thankfully mcgonagall doesn’t know or i might lose my prefect badge)

with small flowers in my braid and golden earrings that shimmer as i shake my head, i slip between the sea of students with an ease that can only be spotted in the agile gait of a seeker. though, nothing about my speed on the ground can compare to that which i showcase when i’m hundreds of feet in the air, my broomstick being an extension of me, something i trust to a concerning degree, coming up with the sorts of tricks and techniques that would land me in the hospital wing if i wasn’t as good as i am. that attention to detail, the pedantic precision of my sight is also what makes me a renowned editor of the student body’s newsletter — a semi-professional scrapbook of a weekly issue, a holistic voice of all students from all houses . honestly it can be hard to maintain that harmony but perhaps that’s why dumbledore sanctioned the club, a forceful hand at coexisting

regardless, it’s the least of my worries, a pastime really, my main focus being the exceedingly irritating presence of a certain slytherin seeker, who grows more and more unbearable by the day, not to mention he’s constantly around, in almost all my classes, assigned to same hours of prefect patrol, not a moment of peace . and yet paired with that bothersome nuisance brews the burning desire to find out more

and if you want to know why, then i suppose you should keep reading

(merlin’s name, i can write intrigue splendidly, they should assign me as the journalist not just the bloody editor)

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ my black bird

a rising tide in his own right, he is determined to maintain what is deemed to be perfection, unwilling to admit that no two waves ever look the same, no two stars ever shine alike, there is no apex . and yet he tries. haunted by ancestry, rippling currents that pull him into the ravine of his family’s legacy, it’s a future he wishes to inherit whilst believing it impossible. until his brother abandoned his birthright and that status, that title, that name he always wanted to earn yet never actually trained for, was now his

that unassuming final breath before striking a curse, the calm interwoven with calamity, that’s what regulus feels in every waking moment .

there is a blurry haze of memories when he tries to decipher where it all began — did envy bleed out of him every time sirius entered the room and commanded attention with his mere presence? or was it admiration? did he love his brother or loath him? maybe neither, maybe both, maybe everything in between and nothing at all, it never made sense and it probably never will.

so then leaves the question of his own significance — fostered from birth? or handed down simply because he is the spare to the heir? in this instance both made sense but neither option would ever be clarified.

and so regulus chooses to not feel anything, reserve all emotions to be shared with a few select friends — evan and barty had a way about them, his laughter was not something he could hold back in their presence . dorcas founded a semblance of solitude even though the space was shared, as if their silence was a mutual understanding, a shorthand of sorts . pandora had the gift of gracing their group with his smile, he considered it a curse that she had such a superpower, to bring out these genuine joys in other people, but he knew she wouldn’t see it that way — those were his people

not his brother . who he shifted his eyes to look away from whenever they passed each other .. only to turn back and glance over his shoulder, observing the elder son’s movements, wishing he’d turn back too, and then hurriedly clenching his fist, squashing the thought before it even had the chance to breathe

not his parents . who stood tall yet hollow, ghosts of who they were before their family was “torn apart” according to them, holding metaphorical goal posts only to keep moving them higher and higher every time regulus attempted to score, before tutting as he slipped and fell, unable to maintain the impossible altitude of their expectations

no. his people were his friends, the people who could mellow out his misgivings, erode his stone walls

and yet, those stone walls remain intact, erosion takes time.

unless of course someone me shattered the very structure of his world view, erupting his life into firework flurries of emotions, clandestine nights, musty sunrises drenched in dew drops and fog, leaving a wafting air about the world, scented jasmine and blackberry, amber gold flecks embedded inside twin irises . the kind of beauty that haunts his dreams and burns fire in his heart

he really should not be giving in to such a tragically stupid connection, not when majority of the time is spent bickering amongst dusty textbooks, whispering shouts bouncing off cold castle walls in the middle of the night, hexes spewing back and forth before finally forfeiting from fear of being caught .. that isn’t what he should want

he shouldn’t want anything

and yet he does

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

౨ৎ candlelit hearts

sinking into an unknown abyss, falling from the sky with a smile on your face while the halo around your head crackles, wax dripping down the curve of your back, you were destined to fall, that’s what you are meant to do, that’s who you are meant to be — a tidal wave tore through your heart, engulfing you entirely and yet you let yourself descend deeper and deeper — for reasons unknown, you found a companion in the darkness, a fire in the flesh, a home between interlaced fingers, foreheads pressed together and a single flickering candle flame that burns bright from the magic of your shared love

it’s funny, when i look back at it. because i suppose we always knew the other existed, but i only really met him when i was 13..

whatever classes we shared before, whatever moments were missed where we walked past each other through hallways or on moving staircases, those never really registered.

i just remember the cold, the prickly sensation of snow on my bare fingertips, crunching under my feet, glittering from the shy slithers of sunlight that flitted through the bleak grey sky. the constant dinging bells, the sound of students exploring all that hogsmeade had to offer, and yet there we stood, facing each other in an alley between shops, frowning in a way that would become all too familiar in the years to come

for what it’s worth, it’s easy to dislike the guy — almost always beating me by a few marks, his facial expression was more than enough of a gloat in itself . creating nicknames for whatever trick i use in a quidditch match and always coming up with a counter move (he can’t ever let me win. personally speaking, of course, i win plenty of matches) . it’s always something with him, and whatever quick bursts of emotion i bring out are hurriedly buried under a blank expression and a tired, almost uninterested visage that boils my blood in a way i cannot possibly describe . and yet i find myself thinking about it, about him, in the ungodly hours of the night.. only to get back at him of course

and it isn’t as if i can speak for him, for the longest time i had no clue what he’d be thinking no matter how long i stared, trying to decipher his thoughts.. but i’d be an idiot to have not noticed a change — the way he would walk through life with a strive to prove himself and yet constantly controlling how much of that ambition he could show.. living each day almost half present, half minded, elsewhere entirely, focused on a far reaching future as if it was right around the corner

he wasn’t like that anymore, he seemed to flourish, to spark, to appear alive . but only when teetering on the tightrope of an improbable partnership, an impossible romance, a strange little love story written between the aged cushions of an abandoned couch, in a hidden lounge, behind an old potions classroom — we found it together . or, more so, we argued and raced to unlock the door first, but regardless, it was our space . a space in which the kindling fire of an unlikely friendship would blossom into something greater than i could ever hope for

and when the mysteries within the castle walls start to crack through, when the secrets between the students stir the cauldron of rumours, and the history of influential families begins to pull itself up from the grave .. i guess it’s not so surprising to admit, but someone as curious as me, paired with someone as persistent as regulus? it’s no big shock that we find ourselves in the middle of such a storm

one transmutation away from uncovering the truth, waking up old bones, and burying the new ones

don’t swallow the tea leaves ! for they leave you a message 🍂

the people have spoken (i’m referring to the poll) and so i post ^this .. it did take a while bcs of numerous reasons that i don’t want to go into but anyway, i adore this dr so so much and i’ve worked so hard on the fic version of it T^T however it is a bit too traumatic for me to actually live out so .. this dr is slightly more tame — i just want to relive high school in hogwarts with the people that helped me through a lot of the shit i faced when i was in high school and they were merely characters on a screen — although, i can’t help myself, there are a few mysteries and bouts of intrigue to keep me entertained, i just .need to figure out what.. i could leave it up to my subconscious but . i don’t wanna do that ≈

chaai brews; tea assortments — dr archive

2025 © chaaistained

[l0vl0e]

my Hogwarts dr timetable * •

and also a more detailed perspective on what i’ve tweaked to fit my desired reality.

dear readers,

i present to you my blood, sweat and tears ( formally known as my third year time table) which i fought in battle to create… ( on notion.)

this shit blurry but deal with it.

This little gem took a lot of hard work and effort - however i underestimated how helpful it would be in the long run!

So let’s get into the nitty gritty shall we:

i decided to break down the classes into core and optionals ( in third year you can pick your optionals)

core subjects - each core subject takes up two slots a week in your timetable, here are all the core subjects:

potions, charms, astrology, transfiguration, history of magic and DADA. (i know canonically herbology is a core subject but for the life of me i CANNOT do that as a subject, sorry neville x)

Each subject is allocated two slots a week as i need my free periods, i do not have it in me to do a full day of school, who do you think i am?

Furthermore, optional subjects are timetabled three slots a week.

Here i chose art ( as in my cr and so many other realities i’m an artistic baddie ) ghoul studies and divination.

I could’ve chosen ancient runes, care of magical creatures, herbology, arithmancy, muggle studies, (and i personally added in music and modern foreign languages too)

This leads to ATLEAST one free period a day - thursdays i get three (lucky me.)

Fourth year onwards you have mandatory library study between 4:00 - 5:00 where you study with your house.

If you are on the quidditch team (i am not) practices are slotted in to your personal timetable, and first years do mandatory flight classes to get used to their brooms.

I aimed for breakfast, lunch and dinner to be long and spaced out - so students have more freedom to nip to the hall for when they fancy. ( in the mornings i also want to sleep in, i need my beauty rest)

On weekends, students can freely enter hogsmede without permission, and break and lunch are available (however optional) to attend.

I scripted a late class after dinner as i felt like it (lol) and also because i want to create a cozy vibe - late night astronomy classes are so so appealing to me.

I think that covers it! i would really recommend creating your own timetable —> it was very motivating and fun!

anyways, have a lovely rest of your day… go shift!

love from,

Hattie

[cythiraeth]

beneath soft pillows and wool pt. I - i.e. you are struggling to sleep but your genshin lover is there for you

✧ ─ ⌑ pairing: gn!reader x al-haitham, lyney, neuvilette (separate)

✧ ─ ⌑ short summary: while you are having troubles with sleeping, your lover tries to find a way to comfort you! let's find out what would they do, if they found you not sleeping late into the night

✧ ─ ⌑ about the work: lowercase, fluff, reader overworking themselves

✧ ─ ⌑ notes: i'm back to life! the christmas mood really got me into working - on the contorary to the reader who finally gets some sleep in this one, i certainly did not get any for the two previous nights while i was finishing this up lolol anyway, enjoy! and remember that my requests are open, so feel free to messege me!

+ link to second part ☆ (featuring xiao, ganyu, ayato, yelan)

and my genshin impact masterlist: ☆

✧ ─ ⌑ word count: 1.5 k in total

they would give you a lecture about why sleeping at night is essential for your health, but then still put you back to sleep — al-haitham, lyney

al-haitham

the moon hung heavy in the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the bustling streets of the sumeru city. you, however, were not admiring the night's beauty. you were hunched over your desk, a mountain of scrolls and research papers threatening to topple over. 

the faint scent of jasmine tea, long since chilled, lingered in the air. you had been at it for hours, absorbed in deciphering the intricate workings of a newly discovered artefact. suddenly a tall shadow fell over your work. you looked up in alarm to see al-haitham standing in the doorway, his expression a mixture of annoyance and concern.

"you should be asleep by now," he said, his voice a low rumble. you sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair back from your face. "i’m almost done," you murmured, your eyes glued to the complex diagrams before you.

"you've been saying that for the last three hours," he countered, his gaze unwavering. "you know that chronic sleep deprivation can lead to a wide range of health problems, from reduced cognitive function to an increased risk of chronic disease." you rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips. he could talk for hours about the importance of a good night's sleep, citing scientific studies and ancient wisdom with equal fervor.

"i know, i know," you admitted, finally putting down your quill. "but this artefact is so fascinating, i just couldn't put it down."

al-haitham shook his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "you're impossible," he murmured, but his voice was soft, almost tender. "come, i'll put you to bed." 

"oh?" you let out a small sigh of surprise, for it wasn't often that he made such offers.

"just so i know you have finally fallen asleep," he quickly explained himself. he reached out and gently took your hand, leading you out of the study and down the hallway. you allowed him to lead you, your body tired from lack of sleep, but your mind still buzzing with excitement over the artefact.

as he tucked you into bed, you felt a wave of drowsiness wash over you. the warmth of his touch, the scent of his sandalwood cologne and the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he sat beside you all conspired to lull you into a state of peaceful slumber.

"rest," he murmured, his voice a soothing balm. "you deserve it."

you closed your eyes, a contented sigh escaping your lips. al-haitham's lectures might be long and detailed, but his concern for you was undeniable. even if he didn't want to admit it out loud…

lyney

the soft glow of the moon painted the room silver, illuminating the piles of books and papers scattered across your desk. you were lost in a world of lore and legends, your fingers tracing the intricate script of a forgotten text. the air was thick with the scent of parchment and ancient magic, and you were lost in the story unfolding before you.

suddenly, a playful voice broke your concentration, "ahh, my dear, still up at this ungodly hour?" you looked up to see lyney leaning against the door, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"just finishing some research," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

"research? at this hour? you'll burn yourself out, my dear. fascinating as it is," he arched his brow, flipping the book in his hands to examine the cover "it won't be half as interesting if you're too tired to remember any of it tomorrow," he chided, his voice laced with concern. "don't you know that sleep is the key to unlocking the full potential of your magical abilities? i once stayed up all night trying to master a new illusion and the results were disastrous! i ended up turning myself into a giant purple squirrel." he chuckled, and you couldn't help but smile despite his theatrics.

“picture, or it didn’t happen…” you murmured quietly under your breath, so he wouldn't hear what you just said

“see? you’re too tired to even talk! you must go to bed immediately!” he chuckled, theatrically rushing you with his hand.

you opened your mouth to protest, but lyney raised a gloved finger to silence you, his expression softening as he bent down to meet your gaze. "listen," he began, "i know how tempting it is to squeeze every moment out of the night, but it's not worth sacrificing your health. sleep is not just for rest - it's when your mind processes everything. all those tricks you've seen me do? they wouldn't be half as good if i didn't get enough sleep to sharpen my focus."

"alright, alright, i get it," you said, putting down your quill. "i'll try to get some rest."

lyney raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "try? my dear, you don't try, you just do. come, i’ll put you to bed. i promise the book will still be here tomorrow."

he held out his hand, his fingers brushing yours, and you reluctantly put yours in his. he pulled you up with a flourish, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat. "there you go. now let's make this a little more magical."

with a flick of his wrist, lyney conjured a small flurry of glittering lights that floated around you like fireflies. "a little enchantment to light the way," he said, his voice soft.

"oh, lyney, they are so beautiful!" you whispered, seeing the reflections of those lights in his shining eyes.

without realising it, the weight of his lecture and the soothing glow of his conjured lights had lulled you into a haze of drowsiness, so that when he tucked you in to sleep in your room, your eyes were already closing

"sleep well, my dear," he whispered, his voice soft and soothing. "and remember, a well-rested mind is a powerful mind."

they would be very concerned and would come to the bed with you — neuvilette

neuvilette

the moonlight streamed into your shared bedroom, painting the walls a silvery hue. the clock ticked softly, a persistent reminder that the hour was far past for reasonable wakefulness. you sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to your chest as you stared out the window, the world outside quiet, but your mind anything but. the nightmares had come again - visceral, inescapable shadows that lingered even in wakefulness.

you hadn't intended to wake him. neuvillette deserved his rest, especially with the burdens he carried as fontaine's chief justice. but despite your quiet movements, the subtle change in the rhythm of your breathing must have alerted him. his voice, low and concerned, broke the silence. "why are you awake, mon trésor?” you jumped slightly as you turned to find his pale lavender eyes soft with concern. he was already sitting up, his silken hair falling in gentle waves over his shoulders, illuminated by the moonlight.

"it's nothing," you murmured, trying to sound reassuring. "go back to sleep, neuvillette."

but he wasn't convinced. you should have known better; neuvillette had always been perceptive, especially when it came to you. he moved closer, his hands reaching out to gently cradle yours. his touch was warm, grounding.

"you have been troubled for several nights now," he said, his voice a soothing rumble. "and now you won't even try to rest. please, tell me what's wrong.”

you hesitated, the words caught in your throat. it felt silly, almost childish, to admit that nightmares had kept you awake, but the intensity in his gaze told you he wouldn't let it go. finally you whispered, "the nightmares... i keep seeing things i can't escape. and when i wake up, it feels like they're still there."

his expression softened further, and without a word, he pulled you into his arms. you melted into his embrace, his steady heartbeat a balm to your frayed nerves. "you should have told me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "you don't have to bear this alone."

neuvillette rose from the bed and gently guided you to lie down. he slid under the covers with you, making sure you were wrapped in warmth. his arms circled around you tightly, and he rested his chin lightly on your head.

"close your eyes," he said softly. "i will stay with you until you fall asleep. should the nightmares return, i will chase them away."

"but you need to rest too," you protested weakly, though the comfort of his presence was already easing the tension in your body.

"i rest best when you are at peace," he replied, his voice filled with quiet conviction. "so let me be here for you.”

with neuvillette's steady presence and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath, the grip of the nightmares began to loosen. for the first time in days, you felt the edges of sleep pull you under - not with fear, but with a sense of safety. and as your eyelids grew heavy, you thought you heard him whisper:

"i will always be here to protect you, no matter the hour.”

⌞⌑ cythiraeth - 25.12.2024. please, do not copy, claim as yours or share outside tumblr! ⌑⌝

[creature-wizard]

Scams, Hoaxes, Conspiracy Theories, & Cults Everyone Should Know About

Jilly Juice: Jillian Mai Thi Epperly claimed drinking sixteen cups of her super salty cabbage concoction each day could regrow missing limbs and cure everything from cancer to homosexuality. In reality, overdosing on so much salt caused followers a host of health issues that Epperley dismissed as "healing symptoms."

Nonhuman Body Hoax: Jaime Maussan attempted to pass off mummified human remains as nonhuman beings to the Mexican government. (This isn't even Maussan's first hoax, by the way. He has a history.)

Love Has Won: Amy Carlson, a woman who'd walked out on her own children, started a New Age cult in which she presented herself as "Mother God," the creator of the universe. She claimed to be in contact with dead celebrities and alien beings, and taught a conspiratorial worldview. As her health declined, she attempted to treat herself with colloidal silver and alcohol, and her behavior became increasingly abusive. When she finally died, her followers sincerely believed she would return to life and kept her body in a sleeping bag. (She did not return to life.)

Seed Faith Offerings: Reverend Gene Ewing came up with the perfect get-rich-quick scheme to prey on desperate Christian believers: tell believers that if they "sowed seed" by giving money to him, God would bless them with even more money in the future. He made millions of dollars from these donations, while most of his followers never saw the miraculous returns they were promised.

William Walker Atkinson: In the early 20th century, William Walker Atkinson wrote around one hundred books, many of which he wrote under various pseudonyms. Some of these pseudonyms included alleged Hindu mystics. That's right - this guy was practicing literary brownface to sell his mystical ideas.

The LDS Church: In the 19th century, a man named Joseph Smith claimed that an angel had told him where to dig up a set of golden plates that were supposedly written by ancient Hebrews who'd come to North America. Smith even had eleven close associates who vouched for the plates' existence. Yet the script they were allegedly written in bore no relation to actual ancient scripts of the Near East, and the the names the locations in the books he "translated" were very obviously derived from placenames he would have been familiar with. (For example, Oneida/Onidah.) Oh, and actual archaeology and DNA studies have discredited pretty much everything from this guy's weird racist narrative.

Fake Cancer, Fake Cure: Wellness entrepreneur Belle Gibson claimed that she'd cured her brain cancer with natural remedies. Gibson never actually had cancer in the first place.

Medbeds: Back in 2020, QAnons and QAnon-adjacent people started circulating claims that a new form of healing technology was about to become available to the public within the next several months or so. Depending on who you asked, Donald Trump, Elon Musk, and even the Galactic Federation of Light were involved. The time of their supposed unveiling came and went, and what do you know, there are still no functioning medbeds used in actual medicine.

COVID Vaccine Zombies: Conspiracy theorists have been claiming the government practices high-tech mind control for ages now. One recent iteration of this is a conspiracy theory claiming that people who'd received COVID vaccinations would have malicious DNA code activated by 5G on October 4, 2023, turn into zombies, and riot. The time came and went, and no zombie outbreak happened.

Ms.Scribe: In the early 2000s, a Harry Potter fan known as "msscribe" or "Ms.Scribe" faked her own harassment through a number of sockpuppets, with the apparent goal of becoming friends with some Harry Potter fandom bigwigs. She manipulated the fandom for a few years until the deception was finally uncovered.

[critrolesideblog]

The lecture hall was in surprisingly good shape, considering the rest of the building was in utter ruin. A quick peer through the door and detect magic revealed no creatures or traps. Essek glanced back over his shoulder, spying Caleb some 30 feet away, picking through some fallen rubble, and stepped through the open doorway into the hall.

Not only was the room in good shape, it was almost eerily untouched -- the toppled professor's desk on the dais the only true indication of something awry. Once-polished, wooden chairs with adjoining desks were arranged in tiers around the dais, built into the floor and, if his arcane sight did not deceive him, magically reinforced against being removed or altered in any way. He wondered idly what sort of rowdy behavior Aeor's elite arcane students got up to that warranted such reinforcement as he glided silently toward the professor's desk. The windows of the surrounding walls were similarly reinforced, framed by columns that guided the eye up and overhead where they held aloft a dome inlaid with golden arcane sigils in a calligraphic script that appeared merely decorative in nature. It was easy to imagine such a room flying, majestic, among the clouds, filled with light and learning.

Regrettable, then, that his own search for learning in this hall was looking to be fruitless: there were no papers strewn on the surrounding floor around the desk, and it appeared the room was unoccupied at the time of destruction. Spying no traps, he pulled perfunctorily on one of the desk drawers, and -- shrreeeeeekk -- the ancient slides, long rusted from disuse, grated against each other. He froze, listening for any disturbed monsters in the shadow. There were no creeping abominations to be heard, but something else caught his ear.

He glided slowly to the center of the dais and spoke quietly with a quick practiced twist of his hand. He barely registered the dancing lights that floated up from his fingertips as he listened to the way his voice reverberated through the room, filling the space. He gave an experimental hum, first one note, then another, and relished in how they danced among the dust motes. He took a deep breath and, unsure if he still remembered how, began to sing softly.

Across the fields, the windswept fields, Across the fields, oh Light, oh Light, the windswept fields, my lover came to me.

Across the mountains, the western mountains, Across the mountains, oh Light, oh Light, the western mountains, he went away.

The northern wind, the howling wind, The northern wind, oh Light, oh Light, the howling wind, is all that dries my tears.

It was fine, he thought. The ornamentations weren't as smooth or detailed as he once managed, but still, he listened with satisfaction to the last notes lingering in the air.

The sound of quiet applause caused him to start, and he twisted around to find Caleb standing in the doorway. Essek could feel heat rising in his face at being caught singing so roughly, but he gave a mock bow to go with the mock applause before gliding over.

"That was lovely," Caleb murmured as Essek glided near, and Essek stopped short, realizing the look on Caleb's face was not one of amusement but of intermingled affection and delight. Was he serious? Caleb continued. "Was it a hymn of some sort?"

"A hymn?"

"I thought I heard--ah," He stopped short, suddenly serious, and cleared his throat. "Light?" He ventured in Undercommon, and Essek felt warmer still, though no longer from embarrassment. He floated closer to Caleb, compelled by a sort of gravitational pull he was only recently becoming familiar with.

"Widowgast, you did not tell me you were studying Undercommon."

"Ah, well," Caleb's eyes found a spot on Essek's shoulder as a small smile tugged his lips. "Studying is generous term. I've just pieced together a few things." He reached out a hand and interlaced his fingers with Essek's, tugging him into the doorway with him, which Essek allowed with pleasure. The smile on his face had a warm mischievousness that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he added, "Though I certainly wouldn't say no to some private lessons."

"Private lessons?" Essek reached up his other hand and hooked a finger under Caleb's scarf, pulling them closer still, until their foreheads rested against each other. "That will cost you a favor, I think." And Caleb obliged, tilting his chin up and closing the distance between them, and their lips met with a rush of warm affection and pleasure. "Mm, I'll consider it," he murmured as they parted at last.

"Wunderbar. And how much would another private concert cost me?"

Essek laughed -- it was a silly thought after all -- him give a concert. But, Caleb was not laughing. His brows were furrowing together as he tried to determine what he had said that was so funny. Oh. "Apologies," Essek said, straightening up. "I-I cannot say I have ever been asked to sing before. It took me by surprise." Caleb's brows furrowed further.

"No one noticed you have a beautiful voice?" Again, he seemed utterly sincere. Essek had heard human ears were not as discerning as elven ones. Perhaps, it was true.

"I took singing lessons as a child -- all noble-born children do. Music is an important part of temple services -- a hymn was a good bet on your part. I enjoyed it well enough, but my teacher concluded my voice was only good for --" He paused, unsure if the phrase was the same in Common, but forged ahead. "--kitchen songs and said I would be better off playing an instrument."

"He sounds like an Arschloch."

"Indeed."

Caleb raised their clasped hands and pressed a sweet kiss to Essek's knuckles. When he lowered them, there was mischief glittering in his eyes again. "You know, I never had music lessons, and kitchen songs sound fun. Perhaps you can teach me that as well." Essek grinned back at him.

"The price for that will be very steep."

"I was hoping you would say so."

*****

*shows up to Shadowgast Week 2025 fifteen minutes late with black moss cupcakes*

This was supposed to be for Light / Culture, but better late than never! It was inspired by this video that crossed my dash recently and a conversation with a friend about their childhood music teacher. The folk song Essek sings is inspired by this one.

[starsdrz]

† ୧ ۪ ݁ 𓈒 addams family reality introduction

MONTH 10, 1993

clara addams was born on chilly night, october 22, 1973. her father, fester addams, and mother, debbie jellinsky, were an unlikely couple. her mother, who was only in for the impressive addams fortune, had surprinsingly fell for the charms of fester.

clara is an angel faced but strange girl. most kids in her small town in colorado were terrified of her and her family. she has some strange abilities, such as visions and a 6 sens to detect spirits. the locals, terrified of her and the rest of the family call her "moon girl" due to her lunatic behaviour, as she walks around town like she's in another world, talking to her cat. she goes to the local community college and studies ancient greek.

she has a younger sister, claire addams. the 10 years old has also some... strange features.

the addams family lives on huge estate, perched on a hill. it has it's own graveyard and a complex catacombs system. which is mostly unknown from the family herself. that is until clara and her new friend stumble upon a forgotten entrance in the woods behind the house...

isaiah binx, or binx the talking cat, is a young man from the 18th century, turned into an immortal cat by an addams ancestor. the witch cursed him to eternity in the body of a black cat. he can however speak. once a month, on the full moon, he regains his human body, until the sunrise.

after decades of wandering, binx tracked the addams family, in hopes of finding a witch that could reverse the curse. clara found him one day on her window ledge on her 19th birthday. she immediately took him in, thinking he was a regular cat. then he spoke. she is no witch but he grew fond of her. the two share a strange bond, isaiah following the girl around like a guarding shadow.

24 years old air force pilot joaquin torres finds himself in the small town in colorado after a crash that made him unable to be a pilot, at least for the time being. with a still recovering broken arm and a new fear of flying, he doesn't have much to do on the base they stationed him on. so he wanders around town.

that's when he saw her. she looked like a strange character painted with water colour, her black cat following her around. despite the warnings of the locals, calling her and the addams evil, he can't help but be fascinated with clara.

the two quickly develop an attraction to each other, like two magnets. that's also when they find it. the catacombs. the whispers of her ancestors. and an old book covered in dust. not exactly the normal love story joaquin had envisioned for himself. but at least he's not thinking about his crash anymore.

this is one of my more plot heavy dr, in the sense that i actually sort of scripted one lmao. also i know that i strained very far away from the addams family lore but i was having too much fun. anyway i love joaquin torres very much

[niteshade925]

April 13, Xi'an, China, Shaanxi Archaeology Museum/陕西考古博物馆 (Part 2 - Shang and Zhou dynasty):

A 1:1 replica of a Warring States period (476 - 221 BC) horse chariot that was unearthed in an ancient tomb in Gansu province. The original artifact was made of lacquered wood, decorated with gold, silver, bronze, turquoise, and other semi-precious stones; it's basically the "Lamborghini" of its time. This replica was just sitting in the hallway in between exhibition halls, and it's very big:

Another one of my favorites, which is also one of the stars of the museum. These are called xizun/牺尊, which are animal-shaped bronze wine vessels (notice the lid on its back). This particular pair is "deer-shaped", but also has patterns on the sides that look like bird wings and paws that look like those of predators. Ugh they are so cute...🥺

A Western Zhou dynasty (1046 - 771 BC) "lunch box" made of bronze, called a luxu/录盨. It was found inside of a Western Han dynasty (202 BC - 8 AD) tomb, indicating that even Chinese people from 2000 years ago had an interest in collecting artifacts from earlier times

More bronze food/wine vessels from Shang dynasty (1600 - 1046 BC) and Zhou dynasty (1046 - 256 BC). Top one is called a gui/簋, bottom left is a gu/觚, and bottom right is a jue/爵. The tall-footed wine vessels can be used to warm up wine before drinking, by heating it with a small flame placed between the feet.

This is what a complete set of bronze vessels from Shang/Zhou dynasties looks like. This particular set, called "fanjin and thirteen vessels"/柉禁十三器 (translated as "Altar Set") is currently at the Met. This diagram below gives the name of each vessel:

Bronze chariot decorations with turquoise inlays. The bronze would have looked golden back then

A little bronze dragon. Cute.

Late Western Zhou dynasty pendant made of jade and agate beads called a yupei/玉佩, and from what I can gather, this one should be part of a necklace, which would be one heavy necklace indeed. I feel like a lighter modern replica might go well with sweaters though:

Left: necklaces, bracelets, and armlets from Spring and Autumn period (770 - 476 BC). Right: another jade and agate yupei from Spring and Autumn period, but this one was probably supposed to be hung from the waist.

This one is known as the Rui Gong ding/芮公鼎 or "Cauldron of Duke Rui", which is a bronze tripod ritual vessel (known as ding/鼎). It is inscribed with the text "内(芮)公乍(作)铸口宫宝鼎，万年子孙永宝用", which roughly translates as "Duke Rui cast this treasured ding, may his descendants use it for ten thousand years to come".

More bronze vessels. The top two are ding/鼎 vessels. Sidenote: notice the right one......does it look familiar? I'm pretty sure the rectangular ding is one of the inspirations for the design of TotK's temple of time. Also note the design patterns...I'm fairly certain these are the inspiration for TotK's aesthetics. TotK's Zonai script is also clearly inspired by Seal script/篆书 (I do want to make a post on this but my hands are pretty full atm)

Gold decorations on accessories:

An (incomplete?) bianzhong/编钟 (bronze bell set) and bianqing/编磬 set. The pentagonal stone chimes on the bottom are part of the bianqing.

A paper that studied the oldest face cream found in China (link to the article on Nature for those who have access).

Wadang/瓦当 (decorative roof edges) from Warring States period featuring various animals and mythical creatures, and their moulds:

[moonselune]

hello again!!! can we have tav and gang playing keep away with gale and throwing a book around so gale dont get it? Lol just for funsiessss

ahaha i love tormenting the rizzard for funsiesssss. I did do it x gale but only slightly and right at the end x

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale x reader | Team Effort

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

It all starts with an innocent flicker of irritation. Gale's nose has been buried in his book for hours now, his eyes skimming line after line of ancient script while the campfire crackles and pops nearby. You’ve tried everything to get his attention—conversation, light touches on his arm, even sitting directly beside him with your head leaning against his shoulder—but the man remains steadfast in his studies, mumbling to himself about this theory or that enchantment.

That’s when an idea strikes you. It’s childish, maybe a bit petty, but you can’t resist. You lean forward, snatching the book right out of Gale’s hands before he has a chance to react.

“Enough with the reading,” you declare with a triumphant grin. “It’s my turn now.”

Gale blinks, taken aback. “What on earth—hey!” He reaches out, but you’ve already tossed the book over to Astarion, who catches it with a gleeful smile, holding it just out of Gale’s reach.

“Aww, is the little wizard upset?” Astarion taunts, his tone dripping with mock sympathy as he lifts the book high above his head. Gale lunges for it, but Astarion swiftly tosses it to Shadowheart.

Shadowheart catches it effortlessly, raising an eyebrow as she smirks. “You know, Gale, I always thought there were more interesting ways to spend an evening than staring at musty old pages.”

Gale lets out a huff, clearly torn between amusement and exasperation. “Very funny. Now, if you’d be so kind, that’s a delicate and irreplaceable—”

“Catch!” Shadowheart interrupts, throwing the book to Karlach, who fumbles it slightly before securing it against her chest with a loud laugh.

“Damn, this thing’s heavier than I thought!” Karlach grins, looking at Gale’s increasingly frustrated face. “You know, wizard, I’ve seen you move faster in battle. What’s the matter? Can’t keep up?”

Gale glares at her but can’t suppress the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re all insufferable,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind his words. He makes a half-hearted attempt to grab the book from Karlach, who merely twirls away from him with surprising grace and flings it back to you.

You catch it with a flourish, sticking your tongue out at Gale. “Oh, come on, don’t look so serious! It’s just a little game.”

Gale’s eyes narrow playfully, and he takes a step toward you, his fingers twitching as if to prepare a spell. “You wouldn’t dare.”

You laugh, tossing the book over his head to Astarion once more. “Try me!”

The game continues, the four of you taking turns tossing Gale’s book just out of his reach, laughing each time he comes so close only to have it snatched away again. He’s trying to remain calm, but you can see the growing frustration mixed with amusement etched into his features. He darts from one of you to the next, his hair becoming more tousled, his shirt slipping from his shoulders, and his eyes flashing with a determination that’s far too intense for something so trivial.

Finally, Gale has had enough. As the book soars from Astarion to Shadowheart again, you see a shimmer in the air. A ghostly hand, glowing faintly with arcane energy, appears out of nowhere and intercepts the book mid-flight, catching it gently and cradling it in its palm before drawing it back to Gale.

The camp goes silent for a moment as he holds up the book triumphantly, a smug smile plastered across his face. “Mage Hand, my dear,” he announces grandly, as if he’s just solved the most complex puzzle in Faerûn. “Sometimes, a little magic goes a long way.”

There’s a collective groan from the group as you all boo him, playful jeers and shouts filling the air. “Oh, come on, that’s cheating!” Karlach protests, throwing her hands up in mock indignation.

“You really had to bring magic into this?” Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically. “Honestly, Gale, I thought you were above such cheap tricks.”

Shadowheart shakes her head, sighing theatrically. “And here I thought we were having a fair game.”

You, however, step up to Gale, arms crossed but a smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t believe you just used a spell to win a game of keep-away,” you tease, unable to hide your amusement. “What, couldn’t stand losing to me?”

Gale looks down at you, a playful light dancing in his eyes as he steps closer. “It’s not that,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that his voice drops to a whisper meant only for you. “I simply needed an excuse to finally catch you.”

Before you can respond, he leans forward and presses a quick, soft kiss to your lips. You melt into it, momentarily forgetting about the game, the others, everything but the warmth of him.

Behind you, there’s an exaggerated gagging sound from Astarion. “Ugh, I’m going to be sick,” he complains, though you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Get a room, you two!” Karlach chimes in, laughing loudly.

Gale pulls away with a smirk, still holding his book, his gaze never leaving yours. “Next time,” he says softly, “perhaps you’ll think twice before trying to steal from a wizard.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that breaks across your face. “No promises,” you reply, and though he groans, you can see the warmth in his eyes, the way they soften just for you. And that’s worth more than any game.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

poor rizzard. Hope you guys enjoyed it!! - Seluney xox

Keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[blackstarlineage]

The Kingdom of Kush (Nubia): The Great Black Empire of Africa – An In-Depth Analysis

Introduction: Kush – Africa’s Forgotten Superpower

The Kingdom of Kush was one of the greatest Black civilizations in history, yet it is often overlooked in mainstream historical narratives. Located in what is now modern-day Sudan and southern Egypt, Kush was a powerful African empire that lasted for over 3,000 years (circa 2500 BCE – 350 CE).

Kush was not a lesser version of Egypt—it was a strong, independent civilization with its own culture, writing system, military power, and economic dominance. In fact, at several points in history, Kush conquered and ruled Egypt itself.

From a Garveyite perspective, the history of Kush is a testament to:

Black self-determination – The Kushites built their own empires, economies, and armies.

Black resistance – Kush successfully fought off multiple foreign invaders, including Egypt, Persia, and Rome.

Black excellence – The Kushites were masters of trade, iron production, and pyramid construction.

By studying Kush, Black people today can reclaim their legacy and recognize that African civilization and power existed long before European and Arab invasions.

1. Origins of Kush: The Birth of African Civilization

A. The Geography and Early Beginnings of Kush

Kush developed in the Nile Valley, south of Egypt, in a region rich in gold, iron, and precious stones.

This strategic location allowed Kush to control major trade routes between central Africa, Egypt, and the Mediterranean world.

Archaeological evidence suggests that Kushite civilization began as early as 2500 BCE, developing alongside, and in many cases before, Egypt.

Example: The first major city of Kush, Kerma (circa 2400 BCE - 1500 BCE), was one of the oldest urban centres in Africa.

Key Takeaway: Kush was not a colony of Egypt—it was a powerful African kingdom in its own right.

2. The Power and Influence of Kushite Civilization

A. The Three Major Periods of Kushite History

Kushite history is generally divided into three major periods:

1)The Kerma Period (2500–1500 BCE): Early Kingdom of Kush

Kerma was one of Africa’s first powerful kingdoms.

The Kushites built mudbrick palaces, massive burial mounds, and temples that rivalled those in Egypt.

Kush was an economic powerhouse, controlling gold mines and major trade routes connecting central Africa with Egypt.

Kushite warriors were known for their powerful archers, which made their army one of the deadliest in the ancient world.

Example: The Egyptians referred to Kush as the “Land of the Bow” because of its legendary archers.

2)The Napata Period (1000–300 BCE): Kush Conquers Egypt

After Egypt weakened, Kushite kings from Napata seized control of Egypt and ruled as Pharaohs (25th Dynasty).

The Kushite rulers revived Egypt’s culture, temples, and economy, restoring the greatness of the Nile Valley.

The most famous of these rulers was Pharaoh Taharqa, who built monuments across Egypt and defended Africa from Assyrian invaders.

Example: The Bible mentions Taharqa (2 Kings 19:9) as the African ruler who resisted the Assyrian invasion of Egypt.

3)The Meroë Period (300 BCE–350 CE): Kush as a Trade and Ironworking Superpower

Kush moved its capital to Meroë, which became a major centre of iron production, trade, and wealth.

The Kushites developed their own writing system (Meroitic script), one of the world’s first alphabets.

The pyramids of Meroë, more numerous than Egypt’s, show the continued power and cultural uniqueness of the Kushites.

Example: The pyramids of Meroë, which are smaller but more abundant than those in Egypt, prove that Kush had its own distinct royal burial traditions.

Key Takeaway: Kush was not just a copy of Egypt—it was an independent African empire with its own contributions to world civilization.

3. The Economic Power of Kush: Gold, Iron, and Global Trade

A. Kush’s Control Over Global Trade

Kush was one of the richest nations in the ancient world due to its gold mines and iron production.

The Kushites controlled trade routes connecting Africa, the Middle East, and the Mediterranean.

Kush exported gold, ivory, ebony, frankincense, and iron weapons to Egypt, Greece, Rome, and India.

Example: Ancient Greek and Roman texts describe the Kushites as a wealthy and highly skilled people.

Key Takeaway: Africa was the centre of world trade long before Europeans arrived—the problem is that today, Africa does not control its own resources.

4. The Military Strength of Kush: Warriors, Archers, and Resistance to Foreign Invasion

A. The Kushite Military: Black Warriors Who Resisted Empires

The Kushites were feared for their elite archers, cavalry, and chariots.

Kush successfully fought against Egypt, the Assyrians, the Persians, and even the Roman Empire.

Example: Queen Amanirenas, the one-eyed warrior queen of Kush, led her army against the Romans in 24 BCE.

She destroyed Roman settlements, beheaded a statue of Emperor Augustus, and forced Rome into a peace treaty.

Key Takeaway: Black people must study the military strategies of Kush and understand that no race survives without defending itself.

5. The Decline of Kush: Lessons for Black People Today

A. Why Did Kush Collapse?

Over time, Kush weakened due to:

Deforestation from overuse of iron production.

Trade competition from rival empires.

Invasions from Aksum (modern Ethiopia).

By 350 CE, the Kingdom of Aksum conquered Kush, marking the end of the great Black empire.

Key Takeaway: No Black nation can survive without controlling its economy, resources, and military.

6. The Garveyite Vision: How to Restore the Legacy of Kush Today

A. Reclaiming Black Economic and Political Power

Black people must control their own economies, just like Kush controlled the gold and iron trade.

Black nations must unite, just as Kush once ruled over Egypt and Africa.

We must invest in Pan-African development, creating trade networks between Africa, the Caribbean, and the diaspora.

Example: If all Black people worldwide reinvested in Africa, we could create a new Kushite empire in the 21st century.

Key Takeaway: Kush shows that Black people are builders of empires—the only question is, will we build again?

Conclusion: The Kushite Spirit Must Rise Again

Marcus Garvey taught that Black people must:

"Liberate Africa, build Black industries, and establish a Black global economy."

Will we let whitewashed history continue to erase Black greatness?

Or will we rebuild the power that Kush once had and reclaim our destiny?

The Choice is Ours. The Time is Now.