#the Golden Crane flies again

[mashithamel]

I like the little hints of forshadowing in the show. So many things to look forward to!

The Women’s Circle picking up whatever weapons are to hand to defend their village (I can’t wait for the Battle of the Two Rivers):

An Aiel in a cage:

A Birgitte doll protects a little girl while she sleeps:

Moiraine discusses releasing a man from the Warder bond with Alanna:

Nynaeve helps Lan leave her for a deadly quest (omg, “Will he ride alone?” Is going to be an epic scene):

[p1nkcanoe]

NSFW prompt for you based on that tag about Swiss giving good jfk

Swiss gives someone of your choice good jfk (maybe on the tour bus? in front of everyone? after a show?)

Love you bye 🫶

Swiss will not keep his hands to himself. He’s got something on his mind for sure. He’d stared at Phantom throughout the entirely of the night’s ritual from his platform, had glued his hands to Phantom’s waist and the small of his back during bows, and had practically dragged the ghoul to the dressing room afterwards to smother him with his lips and grope at sweaty skin until the door opened and the rest of their pack had filed in. And now, sitting on the bus, he still won’t stop staring at him like he wants to eat him alive. 

They’re far apart, not by either of their choices, and Phantom leans his head in his palm against the nice leather arm of the couch. His muscles are tired and tight with exhaustion and the soft rumble of the bus as it flies down the interstate adds weight to his eyelids that struggle to stay open. It’s too early for sleep–he knows this–but the drone of everyone’s voices and the hum of the engine are lulling him to an early bedtime. Phantom tries to stay awake. He lifts his head up, repositions his body to a position less comfortable, and tries to blink the sleep away, and everytime he looks up he makes eye contact with those piercing, golden eyes across the bus. 

For a short moment he looks back, holds his gaze the best he can to make sure the ghoul isn’t trying to get his attention, but Swiss doesn’t look away. He doesn’t change his position or make any sort of move, just stares with those beautiful eyes that make Phantom’s knees weak. But truly, Phantom is a sleepy ghoul. He breaks the gaze between them to allow his eyelids to fall again and his head to meet his palm, and when he finally begins to succumb to sleep he hears movement from somewhere on the bus and then feels hands at his belt. 

He cracks an eye open to find the ghoul squatted on one knee. 

“Oh–Swiss–What’re you–Oh–!”

Swiss pulls his dick, mortifyingly soft, from his pants and spits messily over the tip before taking the ghoul wholly into his mouth and swirling his tongue. Phantom shoots up at the very sudden and very unexpected stimulation, his hands flying to the back of Swiss’ shirt and bunching as much of the fabric in his fists as he can reach for some sort of hold on him. His face burns hot with embarrassment and he doubles over the top of the ghoul’s head in an attempt to hide himself and make himself smaller. The sudden movement and pressure to the back of Swiss’ head pushes him further down and Phantom chokes on his own saliva, coughing and sputtering and adding to the redness flooding under his skin. 

Everybody is staring–he can feel their eyes burning into him. And he really can’t blame them, if it was anyone else in his current position he’d probably be staring, too. But right now, suddenly the center of attention, he isn’t sure he wants this attention. “Fuck, fuck, fuck–” he gasps and raises up just enough to crane his neck downwards and catch a glimpse of the ghoul in his lap. Swiss sucks at him hard, brings a hand up to dig into the fly of his pants and play with his balls as if they’re not surrounded by their entire pack and also very publicly in the center of the bus. He scrambles at the back of Swiss’ head with shaking hands and digs his fangs into his lip. 

Phantom doesn’t think he’s ever been so mortified in his entire existence. He can’t look up past the top of Swiss’ head; making eye contact with anyone right now would probably kill him. But he can’t deny it feels fucking good. Swiss is a master with his mouth, everybody knows it, and he’s getting so hard so quick with the combination of dopamine and adrenaline running through his veins. He pulls at dense curls and shakes his head, tries to pull the ghoul off his dick, but Swiss is steadfast on giving him head he won’t ever forget. 

Phantom folds over his head again, tries to curtain away his dick with his body when Swiss starts bobbing his head, making little choked sounds deep in the back of his throat with how dedicated he sucks him down. He can only endure. He feels everything–the burning of everyone’s eyes, the heat and slickness of Swiss’ mouth, the kneading on his balls–and hears everything too. Hears the clicks and wet noises as his tip punches the back of his throat over and over and over again, and hears the comments and snickering from his packmates as they watch their free show. He tries to ignore it, tries to enjoy the feeling, because yeah, it feels good, but why did he have to do this here and now? 

Claws dig deep and tight into ebony colored curls when Swiss’ tongue swirls skillfully around his tip and then drags back and forth through his slit. Lightning shoots down his spine and settles hot in his belly and he accidently lets a breathy moan slip past his lips that causes someone to his right to chuckle and Swiss to drop his head halfway down his shaft. He moans around him, sending vibrations through his cock and Phantom groans, melts into the back of the couch and covers his face with his hands. Swiss hollows his cheeks, sucks so good that Phantom thinks he’s trying to suck any remnants of a soul out of his dick. 

“Oh no,” he spits through gritted teeth. His body buckles on him. “Oh no, oh– fuck– i’m gonna…” He spills quick and hot down Swiss’ throat and Swiss thanks him with an irregular pattern of squeezes to his balls followed by a gorgeous moan that turns Phantom’s cheeks impossibly more red. He tries so hard to stifle the whine that bubbles in his throat but Swiss’ work on his dick is way too good and he slips anyways, whines high and strained into his palms. He knows he’s bringing more attention to himself but he can’t help it. He’ll get Swiss back some way or another for this. 

Swiss takes all of him once more before raising up and off with a pop that makes Phantom gasp in sudden overstimulation. His dick twitches, jerks when Swiss pulls his hand out of his pants and wipes his mouth on the back of it so nonchalantly that Phantom frowns. He scrambles to tuck his softening cock away as Swiss pushes himself up to his feet, stretches his hands above his head and groans as his muscles pull back out. Phantom still can’t look at anyone. He can see Dew’s hand out of the corner of his eye, rubbing and pulling at himself hard through the fabric of his navy blue sweats. It feels like all of the oxygen has been sucked from the room. 

“Damn, Swiss, can I get one of those too?”

“Nah,” Swiss says. His voice is fucked. He steps between Phantom’s feet and grabs the ghoul by the front of his shirt. He yelps. “I’m not done with this one yet.”

[dollfxcx]

penny p... pussy eating 🙌🏻 (love your blog btw!!)

Context: after spending the night with a man named Robert Gray, reader wakes up from a nap with someone between her legs. but he's not who she expected to be.

TW: nsfw, mentioned tentacles??

Word count: (1.2k+)

***

You don't see him until late at night. When you woke up, after crawling, the night before, into your undone bed, the blankets fern green, you didn't find him by your side, neither in the kitchen, nor in the living room, as if he had dematerialized. But it's just as you're waking up from a nap, which surprised you in the middle of a movie you've put on to pass the time, that you feel his presence between your legs.

You try to move, idly, eyelids half closed and numb with sleep, but your wrists are locked firmly, as if bound by an invisible rope, above your head, resting gently against the back of the sofa. When you finally manage to open your eyes, a head of red hair happily emerges between your legs, a sight that makes you crane your neck to take stock of the situation. The slight expectant smile that had made its way across your face abruptly disappears when, to your horror, it's not him. Not anymore, at least, better way to say it. Pennywise smiles, bunny teeth peeking out of his cherry red lips, head tilted slightly to the right in a mocking way.

"Aw, is my Y/n disappointed? She doesn't like the way I look anymore?" he questions, his hands slide on your knees to spread your legs and make more space between them. You frown, slightly concerned as the grip on your wrists is getting tighter with every passing second, reducing your chances of escape.

"Oh, but yesterday she looked so happy, sucking on ol' Robert Gray's cock like it was candy, huh?" One of his gloved hands reaches for your cheek, gently grasping it, while the other, fingers light and teasing, caresses your inner thigh. He must notice your confused look as you feel him huffing against your crotch in exasperation, shaking his head slightly with an expression of disgust on his powder white face.

"Silly, silly humans. Always stop at what they see, never go beyond that." One of his fingers flies dangerously close to the zipper of your pants, a gloved touch so faint it almost tickles you. You lean your head back on the couch, lips slightly parted, as you wait for him to speak again.

"The man you so desperately crave is gone. I am him and he is me." Deep down, you knew it very well already and when he takes off your pants with hatefully studied slowness, you stop thinking about it completely .The man from last night must be in there somewhere, anyway, right?

"I gave him one of my favorite forms, the most human of all, for you." You open your eyes again, jerking your head up to meet his golden gaze. He grins at you, but it's not a sweet smile, it's hungry. Craving.

"Mh!! You get it, yes?" he asks, the pad of his index finger traces an invisible line from the elastic of your underpants to your throbbing cunt, slowly poking it with unexpected curiosity. You inhale sharply through your nose and try to wriggle out, lazily, you hear him chuckling in amusement.

"Get what?" you hiss as he pushes your panties to one side, fully exposing you to his critical gaze.

"That you've always been mine, doll." he murmurs, too engrossed in what he has in front of his eyes to pay any attention to you. You moan as he runs the tip of his nose over the skin of your thigh, gingerly sniffing your scent, you notice how his eyes have turned blue again and the sight seems almost enough to make you dizzy.

"Yet, as I am to adapt to the form I take, he gave me a part of his humanity." he explains as his now ungloved middle finger presses against your opening, spreading and stretching your walls with little to no respect, eliciting a whimper from your throat, your hips jerking in a vain attempt to meet and follow his movements, which are excruciatingly slow.

"And his physical needs. And his innermost desires. Oh, you'd never guess what he wanted to do to you, what I want to do to you." His finger curves into you, bumping into a spot you didn't even know you had and making your eyes burn with evil tears you try, in vain, to hold back. He grabs your thighs and yanks you violently off the couch, then pushes his finger back inside you now that the position allows it better, your back arches when his index finger is carelessly inserted too. He starts pumping them slowly, then faster and faster, thumb tracing light, devious circles against and around your clit, until you can't mutter anything but his name, over and over and over. Pennywise leans towards your chest, his free hand, previously gripped around the flesh of your thigh, thick claws now exposed, rips through your shirt, allowing him to dip his cherry-colored nose into the skin between your breasts. Since your wrists are now free, your fingers fly into his hair, tugging at it to pull him closer to you. Pennywise, however, doesn't allow it and stops thrusting his fingers inside you, he blinks quickly as if he has just discovered something new. Something very interesting. He brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks on them and if you weren't totally about to pass out, just the sight of it would make you cum.

"Oh yes, now I understand why he liked you so much." he licks his lips, golden gleam back in his eyes, and, without giving you time to say anything, he grabs you by your legs again, this time making the backs of your knees rest on each of his shoulders, cunt dripping right in front of his mouth. And it's a very uncomfortable position, you're already shivering, but you don't care anymore when his tongue, rough as a cat's and disturbingly long, begins to push inside. Your fingers try in vain to find something to grip, but there's nothing, there's just you and him and your whimpers, and they get louder and more shameless with every inch his tongue manages to reach, which is a lot, it seems to be endless, it wiggles and flicks and savors. His claws dig lightly into the flesh of your thighs, which he's still squeezing as if he's afraid you might escape, fine streaks of blood drip from the lacerated skin. When you cum on his tongue, however, after making sure he's sucked, tasted and swallowed every drop, he moves it to your new wounds, lapping away the blood, the color of which blends in with that of his lips, which, for some strange reason, leave a few lazy kisses on your skin, as if to comfort you.

"You taste good." he notes to himself, clicking his tongue. It's horribly enrapturing to see him like this, completely fascinated by the sensations he's felt just now, his gaze darts between your legs, hoping to find some… leftovers. You start to get up, your knees shaking, but you don't even have time to try that he jumps on you, his hands, miraculously and magically gloved again, wrapping tightly around your exposed throat, a treacherous little smile on his lips.

"You know I want more, don't you?"

***

REQUESTS ARE OPEN YIPPIEEE

[kay-elle-cee]

@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 12 || 602 Words || Read on Ao3 —

“Stop where you are and state your business!”

James turns in a flash, immediately casting a Shield Charm as his eyes work to discern where the command came from. Right in front of him stands a woman with severe green eyes, wand drawn and pointed at him. It takes a second for him to notice the blue Auror robes she wears, and maybe it’s because he’s currently being held at wandpoint outside of Sleekeazy’s headquarters (a company he had recently taken over from his father and therefore has every right to be at), but his first thought is how nicely it complements the plait of auburn hair cascading over her shoulder. He holds his hands up, wand laced through his fingers.

“Step away from the building and slowly drop your wand.”

James’ head cocks to the side in amusement. “How do I slowly drop my wand?”

Her lips press into a line and she takes a cautious step forward. “Don’t play smart with me.”

“I’m not ‘playing’ anything. I just wanted some clarification on the orders. If I’m to comply, I’d like to do it correctly.” His shield is beginning to wear off and she shoots a Disarming Jinx at him, which he barely steps out of the way of, before throwing a shield back up. He should be more indignant about being accosted outside of his own company, but he finds the whole thing rather exciting. (And besides, he did accidentally set off the anti-intruder charms while trying to sneak back in to grab a forgotten birthday present for a dinner party he was now destined to be very late to.)

But nonetheless, exciting.

“Put the wand down and we can have a civil conversation,” he says, as if to a child. 

That was apparently the wrong move, because the woman’s eyes narrow into a glare and she sends a few hexes his way in rapid succession, breaking the shield and nearly disarming him again.

“You’re in no position to make demands,” she bites, deflecting one of James’ harmless jets of light. He has no skin in this game, truly—he knows exactly why she’s here and though a simple explanation would put this all to rest, there’s something so incredibly boring about his life since becoming Sleekeazy’s CEO and she’s offering his first taste of excitement in months. She gets him with a Disarming Jinx at last and his wand flies into her hand with grace.

“A fight well-fought, madam,” James bows.

“Oh, save it. You’re coming with me to the station for trespassing on private company property.”

He waits until she’s in the process of binding his hands before he lets the grin split his face wide open. Craning his neck to look over at her, he sees how the dim streetlamp creates a golden glow off her plait, sees the badge with the name EVANS printed plainly clipped to the Auror robes.

“You’re going to look really stupid bringing me into the station, Evans.”

The use of her name snaps her attention up to him and those eyes at this range is like a stunner to the chest. James holds the smile, relishing in the frustration that ticks a muscle in her jaw as she grabs hold of his upper arm in preparation to Disapparate.

“I’d rather look stupid doing my job correctly than believing every wrong-doer who thinks they can skirt the law with a wink and a smile.”

James nods solemnly as he feels the tug behind his navel signal their departure. “Well then I completely understand. Do what you must.”

And with a crack! they’re gone.

[ullybug]

angel flies

sources + full poem under the cut

sources: x, x, x.

full poem:

sometimes i sit outside and watch the bugs congregating around leafless trees, quaking in the gale. all shot through by the setting sun, they are undeniably alive.

we have ugly names for these creatures; my grandmother's disdain for 'copter-skeeters was a worn, but the science of this day and age tells me that crane flies have never bitten anybody — not one, not once. mosquitoes have laid their mouths upon me time and again, and yet their name forms on my tongue as something softer than a scourge.

and yet i see the swarm right before me — luminous and golden and as holy as any of our ramshackle angels — clinging to the branches, alive, to be touching and touched by the world just as much as i.

[muzzlemouths]

Youtube has been recommending me "x song playing in empty/abandoned mall" videos pretty regularly and every time I watch one I cant help but think of your Dead Mall Dare boys 🥺

Oh the sheer number of those that I watch on a weekly basis... I am shaking your hand 🤝 They were (and continue to be) a pretty substantial influence for the au lol

One in particular - Billy Joel's 'Piano Man' - stands out. I actually wrote a short DMD: Golden Years drabble to this particular video! It never got posted (I think I just forgot about it), but you might as well have it now!

DMD: Golden Years // Sun & Moon centric // Wordcount: 1125

It’s a warm and pleasant summer day, just like any other, blithely mundane. There’s a sale on all household items that will go for another week still, an empty showing for the newest mixer model, and a line up for that year’s finest in fashion. The petunias stretch from their baskets in stunning full bloom.

There is no one around to see them.

The shelves are restocked, the tiling mopped and shined, and the counters dusted. No more than a handful of days after Superstar Shopping Center shut its doors for good and, against all odds, the mascots have already run out of things to do.

Sun sprawls woefully across a chamber loveseat, stomach to the cushions and an arm hung over the side, his other angled beneath his chin, thinking of everything and nothing in particular.

A short distance above, Moon’s back drapes across the same couch’s spine. He lazily tosses a ball from the arcade’s claw machine into the air, catches it, and casts it upward once more. Throw, catch. Throw, catch. Throw, catch. Throw–

“Hey, Moon?”

“Mh?”

“Do you…” A pause, his rays retracting where he lays his head against his shoulder, “do you think we’re being punished?”

Catch. Moon’s neck cranes to look at him better. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s just–” he sighs, turning onto his back now, “What if the manager never changes his mind? What if–” another pause, and he draws this one out with bated breath, “what if it’s not temporary, and the doors never open again? No more customers, no more sales, just an empty mall?” His frown deepens, “I don’t know what I’d do.”

The ball flies again, Moon’s gaze returned upward, “I didn’t know you hated spending time with me that much.”

“Moon, I’m serious!”

“So am I,” he says. The ball lands soundly in his palm. He tosses it again. “Besides, punishments happen when you do something wrong, and you’re physically incapable of that.”

“You know that’s not true–”

“You hate upsetting the customers. You cried when you had to break it to someone that a jacket went out of stock.”

“It was their dream jacket!” He defends, hoisting themselves up to their elbows, now, “That’s not the point, Moon. I really mean it.” He catches Moon by the corner of his eye and allows his rays to sink inward almost completely, “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t–”

“Hey,” Moon rapidly brings himself to straddle the couch, missing the ball completely, it drops to the side of the couch and bounces out of sight, “none of that. You did nothing wrong, okay?”

“But–”

“It was me who acted out, and if this is a punishment then it’s mine and mine alone, got it?”

Sun brings his knees to his chest, arms winding around them. “You were only defending me,” he whispers, “does that not make it my fault, even a little?”

“No,” Moon answers. His right leg swings over the spine of the couch to join the other, offering him a better position to reach for Sun, whose cheek he cradles in the palm of his hand, “It wasn’t - and isn’t your fault,” he promises, “not even a little.”

It’s obvious that he isn’t convinced, but Sun doesn’t argue. Instead, he brings his hand to brace over Moon’s and leans into the touch with the beginnings of a smile. “I hope you’re right,” he says, “I really do.”

“I’m always right,” Moon answers, and that, at last, gets a chuckle out of the other. “Now come on, quit moping. Why don’t we find something else to do besides lay around all day.”

“Alright,” Sun nods around a sniffle, “like what?”

Moon’s hand draws away and instead braces against the couch, then he drops down to the cushions on Sun’s other side. “Well, cleaning is out of the picture. How about we sort the tags?”

“No, we already did that yesterday,” Sun answers.

“We could rearrange the clothes? Put children’s attire in the men’s section.”

“I’d never!” He jabs Moon with an elbow, his smile returning in full, now.

Moon’s smile grows, too. “Well, what do you want to do?”

Sun places a finger at his lip, his tongue sticking out by the tip in hard thought, “Let’s see, we cooooooould…” but he comes up empty. Not yet broken of their customer service habits, they’ve quickly run out of ideas that don’t sound outright taboo.

He doesn’t need to think for long. The mall’s speakers cut to static for a brief moment before Billy Joel’s Piano Man begins to play, and instantly, Sun knows what he wants to do.

“Sing with me!” he beams with a grin.

“What?”

Already, Sun is up and moving, taking Moon’s hand in his and forcibly dragging him off of the couch and across the mall’s atrium. Just off-center is the mall’s grand runway stage - formerly used for shows and events - it now stands empty and prime for the taking.

He abandons Moon at the foot of the stage and climbs the stairs two at a time, taking hold of the microphone stand just in time to belt out the lyrics.

"Son can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete When I wore a younger man's clothes!“

Moon rests his arms against the edge of the stage and watches with a barely contained chuckle, eyes bright with something fond, and he waves Sun away when the other gestures for him. “You know I’m not much of a singer,” he says to Sun’s pout, and then turns, looking to the right of the stage, “what if I back you up instead?”

Back on stage, Sun watches him closely as the lyrics fly by. His smile broadens as Moon situates himself behind the grand piano there.

With a dramatic flourish, Moon throws himself into the song with just as much vigor. He strikes the keys with a natural flow and a passionate expression that brightens the room, a perfect backdrop to Sun’s voice.

“And the piano, it sounds like a carnival And the microphone smells like a beer And they sit at the bar and put bread in my jar And say man what are you doin' here?“

Times are changing. The mall stands empty, only an echo left to greet their song, but they aren’t alone. Two cords, two hearts, yet they beat the same. Their melody carries through vacant halls warmed with the blood of stubborn hope.

And isn’t that enough?

“Sing us a song, you're the piano man Sing us a song tonight Well, we're all in the mood for a melody And you've got us feelin' alright”

[wot-tidbits]

Callandor "Who wields me wields destiny. Take me, and begin the final journey"

Three taveren from two rivers

Thom Merillin playing

Lan mandragoram , version inspired by medieval illustrations from Asia and east

Golden Crane Flies Again

What if the Seanchan would open a cofffee place "Nine Moons" where the Kaf is the Best

Dragon Reborn Banner

all by skully_inc

[thehuntiswhatdefinesus]

Preview: Chapter 1 Rewrite

A/N: This has not been proofread yet. The werewolf meets Daniela for the first time.

The world spun around her when a new wave of nausea hit her and she swayed, struggling to keep sitting, until finally, her eyes managed to focus again…

… only for her to spot a pair of glowing golden orbs hovering above her.

She craned her neck, peering up into the darkness before her cell and as her vision slowly adjusted to the lack of light, she found herself face to face with a woman. Pale faced and with wide eyes, eagerly clutching the metal bars of the cage as she watched.

It wasn’t Cassandra.

She was dressed similarly, though, with black boots and black pants peeking out from underneath a black hooded winter cloak.

“Uh… hi?” the werewolf said, rather awkwardly.

“You must be the mutt,” her visitor spluttered, sheer uncontainable excitement bleeding into her voice and following her words with a bright giggle that seemed so misplaced in a place as dark and dreary as a dungeon.

The name didn’t come as a surprise to her, since the castle’s other inhabitants seemed to have settled on calling her ‘mutt’ – much to her dismay. Still, it was probably for the best to play along and not get onto her new visitor’s bad side, considering she didn’t know who she was dealing with, but the woman very much had golden eyes similar to Cassandra.

“I- yeah? I guess I am?”

“Cassandra told me about you,” the woman continued, clutching the bars just a little harder and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, “and about the lovely mess you made in the hall… just had to see you for myself…”

She trailed off, her eyes darting over the werewolf’s seated form, drinking her in. Unashamed and wild and hungry and a shudder trickled down the werewolf’s back, hot and cold.

“Ah- well- I hope I don’t disappoint?”

Fear should seize her heart. Terror should make her want to shut up and retreat and protect herself – but all she could do was move and reach for those metal bars and pull herself onto her feet and step towards the woman, staring deep into those golden depths.

Up close like this, the werewolf could tell they were actually slightly mismatched, one eye more of a yellow gold compared to the other’s warmer orange tone and all she could think was ‘pretty.’ Something about them was absolutely mesmerizing, in the way the pupils had dilated with excitement and how the irises was glowing brightly in the dim light of the dungeon.

The werewolf couldn’t help but lean in closer, eyes half-lidded as she was overcome by this pull that lured her in close, drowning in those golden depths– then movement caught her attention, just at the edge of her vision.

She turned her head-

Flies.

Around her, dozens of shimmering wings in the flickering light of the torches.

A multitude crawling up and down the metal bars of the cage, over her torn shirt and bare skin and onto the woman’s gloved hands and along her arms and over her shoulders, only to sneak their way under the hood and disappear beyond the collar of a white shirt beneath.

Hackles instinctively raised, the werewolf clutched the metal bars hard, recalling the way Cassandra had coalesced from a swarm of flies before her very eyes.

What was it with the castle inhabitants and flies?

“Oh, not at all… You’re kind of cute, actually,” the woman giggled, pulling the werewolf right out of her thoughts and back into the here and now, where the words slowly sept into her mind-

Cute?!

Her face fell.

That was the last word she expected to hear while imprisoned in a cell, drenched in blood and grime.

“Cute?”

“Yes~” the woman purred, peering at her from behind half-lidded eyes. “And your blood… hmmm tastes so good…” she trailed off with a barely sustained groan, a visible shudder overtaking her body, and she clutched the bars harder, pressing her forehead into the space between them. “Makes me want to have another taste…”

“Another…?”

When and how-

“Yes, I hope you don’t mind that I had a little taste while you were asleep…” Her visitor smiled – innocently as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

She raised her arm and from below the sleeve, new flies came crawling forward and she eyed them with something akin to mild interest while she held out her palm for them to sit in. “Could pick out your scent even underneath all that disgusting Lycan stink… so interesting…”

The werewolf frowned. Well, at least they agreed that the Lycans smelled repulsive…?

She pulled herself a little closer to the metal bars, watching on when the woman turned her hand and the flies seemed to obediently follow the movement, crawling to settle back down on top.

“They like you, you know?” she whispered, attention shifting back to the werewolf and meeting her gaze, her eyes warm and gentle and so strangely… alluring.

“They… do?”

The werewolf slowly raised her eyebrow, immediately looking down at them.

Could the woman… communicate with the flies? Control them? Did they have a will and opinions of their own or were they an extension of her? They were part of her body, right? Like with Cassandra?

They looked like ordinary flies – well, massive, ordinary flies.

She struggled to suppress a shudder, worried it might offend her visitor.

“Oh yes! If I’d let them, they’d be all over you, right now!” the woman giggled, mirth making her eyes erupt into a warm and strangely attractive glow, “and who can blame them? You’re just so special.”

“Special? What do you mean?”

“Well, why else would my flies be so interested in you?” she mused out loud, slipping both her arms through the space between the bars and the flies seemed to protest the sudden movement, buzzing around the two of them until they settled on the werewolf’s arms and shoulders, making her freeze in place, fighting the instinct to swat them away.

The woman’s fingers brushed over her plaid shirt, teasingly walking upwards to the collar and slowly drawing her in. “And you can feel it too, can’t you?”

“F-feel it?”

Movement against her neck, legs skittering over her skin.

“The pull.”

The woman’s voice was but a mumble, a spell and the werewolf’s eyes snapped to hers – those irises the colour of glowing embers, warm and soothing.

Fingers followed the flies and traced her neck, upwards through the stubble on the back of her neck and the werewolf’s eyelids fluttered heavily as a rush of hot and cold ran down her neck.

She should withdraw.

She should pull away and retreat and swat away the flies-

And yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the woman’s and couldn’t remove herself from that touch that seemed to set her body on fire either. A touch that she should hate and reject, petted like a puppy and yet all she could think about was how-

- good it felt.

So good.

Fuck.

(1,173 words, compared to the original version sitting at roughly 718.)

[duxiaomin-blog]

Modern Jewelry's Classical Sentiment

Continuous Exploration of New Materials, Coupled with the Minimalist Qualities Inherent in Contemporary Art, Infuses Modern Jewelry with Novel Materials and Structures. However, the Classical Sentiment in Jewelry Always Lingers in the Creations of Major High-end Jewelry Brands. People Constantly Look Back, Hoping for those Classic Eras, Picking Up Fragments from the Corners and Cracks of Time. They reinterpret them from a modern craft and aesthetic perspective, reminding us of elegance, narrating the traditional splendor, and immersing us once again in the extremely intricate brilliance. In doing so, they create a profound jewelry art experience for the wearer. This is a dialogue with time, a delicate interweaving of classical and modern, tradition and innovation, propelling jewelry into a more exquisite and enchanting realm.

Dior Launched a High Jewelry Collection Inspired by the Palace of Versailles.

In 2016, Dior drew inspiration from the Palace of Versailles to launch its high jewelry collection. In fact, Versailles has always been a wellspring of inspiration for designers, especially for Mr. Christian Dior himself. Within the palace's architecture, gilded interiors, expansive gardens, and rich history, endless inspiration is found. Designer Victoire de Castellane also shares a similar interest and, inspired by the 'hidden passages' within Versailles—such as the secret corridor between the king's bedroom and the mistress's bedroom, as well as concealed drawers filled with precious items and letters—created a series of high jewelry pieces. These jewels can be opened or twisted, revealing behind the 'doors' either a dazzling gem or a skull, evoking the luxurious ambiance of Versailles, stories of passionate love, fleeting life, and eternal gemstones. The patterns chosen for decoration feature Baroque and Rococo-style scrolls, reminiscent of the intricate relief decorations on the eaves of Versailles. Romantic and exquisite, the collection captures the essence of Versailles' opulence and the intertwining themes of eternal gems with brief yet intense moments in life.

ChuCui Palace  Crane Dancing in Clouds Brooch

If Western classical sentiment is a reinterpretation of Baroque and Rococo styles, the exclusive essence of Chinese classical sentiment is concealed within traditional Chinese paintings. ChuCui Palace, a jewelry brand with roots in an Italian jewelry lineage, has engraved the romance unique to Chinese landscapes and flora onto high-end jewelry. Their piece 'Crane Dancing in Clouds' draws inspiration from traditional Chinese elements, Chinese meticulous brushwork, and freehand painting. The Chinese-style clouds, originating from abstract freehand patterns, along with elegantly scattered stars, form an asymmetric composition, seeking a subtle visual balance and presenting an effect of ethereal grandeur. A gold crane, finely detailed in feather portrayal reminiscent of meticulous brushwork, flies in from one side. The entire piece exhibits a complex order of dots, lines, and surfaces, with interwoven stars, swirling tuan clouds, and elongated gold cranes. The result is both unique and rhythmic, varying in size and arranged in an artful disarray. The color palette is limited to gold and white diamonds, reminiscent of the black and white in traditional ink paintings. The gemstones vividly portray the divine elegance of the crane, creating an ethereal charm.

Lady Arabesque Necklace from Bvlgari's Barocko Collection

In 2020, Bvlgari launched the 'Barocko' high jewelry collection, drawing inspiration from the Baroque art movement that emerged in 17th-century Rome. Astonishing golden Arabesque patterns flow between gemstones, preserving the symmetry characteristic of the Baroque style. The collection emphasizes the 'sense of movement and opulence' inherent in Baroque style, cleverly offsetting any severity with natural pink sapphires and Paraiba tourmalines. This dual approach imbues the collection with a highly mature, decorative, and visually feminine effect.

David Webb's Open Scroll Cuff with Stones

In addition to the Baroque style, there is also David Webb, a jewelry brand that creates a more playful and contemporary aesthetic. Drawing inspiration from almost every ancient culture around the world, including Africa, Asia, and the Americas, the art of these regions is reimagined into modern jewelry by David Webb. The piece 'Open Scroll Cuff with Stones' exemplifies the brand's cultural diversity. It features themes of Chinese abstract patterns, executed with an Art Deco flair reminiscent of the 1920s. The geometric lines of Art Deco seamlessly blend with Chinese patterns, presenting a visually striking effect that combines elements of vintage, opulence, exoticism, and boldness.

In the creation of modern jewelry, the sentiment of classicism is like a gentle breeze of time, traversing the river of history, skillfully intertwining tradition with innovation, and classical with contemporary. This dialogue is not only a tribute to the brilliance of the past but also an inheritance of human civilization and artistic wisdom. The exploration in materials, structures, and designs not only bestows jewelry with a new appearance but also leads people into a profound journey of artistic experience.

From Dior's inspiration from the Palace of Versailles to ChuCui Palace's Chinese landscape and flora motifs, and further to Bvlgari's Barocko collection and David Webb's cross-cultural fusion, each piece of jewelry is like a story-rich poem, blending the emotions of history with the exquisite craftsmanship of the modern era. It is a journey through time and space, transporting people into dreamlike realms where ancient emotions bloom in contemporary settings. These pieces are not just splendid accessories but also carriers of culture, allowing individuals to feel the depth of history and the charm of art in the moments of wearing. In this eternal rhythm, classical sentiment continues to present the brilliance and allure of jewelry art in a profound and unique manner.

[martian-m]

WRONG PERSON (Chap. 3)

A/N: sorry for the late update. class is starting again, I needed to enroll. heh let me know if u guys enjoy the new chap!

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 4

Chapter 3: Meet the Dimitrescu

You’ve been limp on the shoulder of one of the daughters of Lady Dimitrescu losing track of time and how far you’ve trekked to the castle. The other two girls dissolved into…flies? and went ahead to enter the castle as they neared. Once inside, upside-down you could see the intricate details of the castle. The carved mahogany word, the marble vases, paintings, it all gave you an aristocrat vibe.

“maybe they were from a rich family?” you thought. Suddenly you were dropped on the carpet of a room you didn’t realize you entered in. Groaning from the sudden drop and rough landing on your back, you looked up…..and honestly, you wish you didn’t.

“Mmmm….maiden blood”  a blonde haired woman with a blood stained mouth smelled you as she came close to your prone body on the ground.

A red-haired woman behind her giggles while placing the tip of her sickle on her cheek as she stared at you with bloodlust eyes.

“Mother, here is the woman gifted to us by Mother Miranda” the dark brown-haired girl said to Lady Dimitrescu seated in a large chair in front of a fireplace.

“Thank you for bringing her to me, my beautiful daughters. Let’s have a look at her shall we?” Lady Dimitrescu responded while standing up to look at you.

“Strip her of her clothes, my daughters” Lady Dimitrescu commanded.

Before you could protest the closest to you was the blondie, with a wicked smile, she immediately pulled you up roughly and ripped your shirt off which left you in your sports bra. She trailed her hands from your abdomen as she looked at your toned body. Her blue eyes spotted a wound on your shoulder that was still slightly bleeding, with her hands on your sides, she licked up the blood that trailed down. Your breath hitched from fear and surprise.

“Hey, that’s not fair! Mother!” you hear a voice from behind you. You tried to crane your neck to look who it was.

“Bela, stop tasting our special guest. Daniela, my darling, help your sister. You as well, Cassandra.” Lady Dimitrescu reprimanded and ordered them.

You could hear Daniela giggle sinisterly behind you. Before you knew it, you felt something cold lightly graze your back before your sports was falling off your shoulders. Your immediate response was to move forward and cover your torso but in doing so you moved closer to Bela who held you in her arms with a firm grip so you wouldn’t move. Tears started to pool your eyes.

Your pants where shredded to pieces to get them off you by Cassandra and Daniela while your were in the arms of Bela who kept sniffing your neck. You closed your eyes as your heart was pounding your chest in embarrassment and fear. All Bela could think about was how warm you felt and how fast your heart was beating with all of your sweet blood.

“We are done, Mother” Cassandra announced standing aside while looking at you and Bela.

“I want to join in too” whined Daniela who hugged from behind you.

Being in between the two daughters, all that was registering in your head was how cold they felt and how tall they were. You felt so small in their grasp.

“My darlings, let me take a look at our guest” you hear the voice of Lady Dimitrescu say.

Bela silently let go and Daniela whined but followed suit. Shackles were attached to your wrists by Cassandra and then you were lifted up in the air. They stood near each other as their mother approached you. You instinctively bow your head in embarrassment. The gloved hand of Lady Dimitrescu grasped your chin and tilted your head upward to look at her. Glowing golden eyes shining from the shadow cast upon her face from her hat.

“Better. what’s your name, pet?” she asked.

“My name i-is Y/N, ma’am” you stuttered.

“My, my, while fearing for your life you still have manners. How amusing.” She smiled while dragging her finger under your chin.

“Now let’s see how you taste-“ she stated while nicking the inside of your arm. You grunted lowly as you feel her sucking at your wound and looked to the floor noticing how high up you were. “How tall is she?” you thought to yourself. She finishes humming in approval and is given a napkin by Bela to wipe her mouth.

“Interesting. Your blood is different but appetizing. I see why my daughters were tempted to eat you up but that can not be allowed now should it?” she laughed while her daughters whined.

“But Mother-” Daniela whines while Bela and Cassandra watch you silently.

“You will be part of my experiment for the next coming days” Lady Dimitrescu announced. Turning to her daughters she instructed them to take turns in watching you so you don’t escape and that they may do anything to you as long as you don’t die or be mutilated. You tilt your head back and look at the ceiling hoping this is just a bad dream, a really bad dream.

“—Bela you will be the first to look after Y/N for a week.” You hear the instruction from Lady Dimitrescu. As she turns to leave, the other girls bring you down and unshackle you. Daniela roughly grabs your face when she speaks.

“When it’s my turn, we’ll have so much fun” she laughs while momentarily squeezing your face and licking your cheek. She lets go and dissolves to fly to her room. Cassandra just eyes you predatorily as she passed by you before following suit.

Leaving Bela and you in the room, she approaches you and commands you to follow her. Following her command, you trailed behind her. While walking, you take in your surroundings. The house was beautiful despite it being creepy as hell with the lack of light. A painting caught your eye which made you stop to look at it closely.

“..beautiful..” you mumble as you stare to take in all of the details of the portrait of the three daughters. You start to move as you look at the painting knowing you need to follow Bela. As you do, you collide with a body. It was Bela staring at you. You freeze as you stutter to apologize.

“O-oh I’m so sorry” you apologized lamely as you avert your gaze to her necklace.

“You shouldn’t stray from me, fragile thing. Monsters come out at night” she whispers as she leans down to the side of your head.

When she leans back, you could feel her breath on your face. You look up and your eyes connect. Slowly you nod and follow her to her room. Upon entering her room, she went to close the door. You look around the dimly lit room with its only source of light coming from the fireplace.

“Wear this” Bela handed you linen shorts and a tunic. You bow your head in thanks and turn around to change.

“Lie down” Bela says behind you, after you change, feeling her breath on the back of your neck. You walk slowly to the bed and lie down in the center of it.

You look to the edge of the bed where Bela was and see her take off her hood and dress. She walked to get a wet cloth and wipe the blood off her mouth and chin. When she’s finished, sensing your gaze, she looks over her shoulder to see you looking at her state of undress. She smirked at you. Suddenly, she’s on top with her hand grasping your neck.

“It’s impolite to stare, Y/N” she states. She tilts your head to the side to smell your neck.

“you smell so good – a taste wouldn’t hurt” she mumbles. Your heart starts to beat faster out of fear.

“I can hear your heart. Tempting…but I’ll save my hunger for you when I wake up” she says as she lies down to your side and holds you close as the big spoon. Bela sighs in content since she has a personal heater for a week.

Before you could sleep, you hear her mumble,

“If you try to escape, Mother will drink you dry mmm”

That kept you up all night. Frozen in fear. So much for sleep.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | Five

Wow wow wow this is late but I hope with it being late that I have had the extra time needed to make it good. Please do enjoy lovelies-- and expect big things for the next chapter!

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter five

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: anger, mention of bruises / abuse

Tags: angst, fluff

Word count: 6.6k (consider this my apology for the late chapter)

Previous | Next

Master List

“On the balcony,” Frigga calls back, brushing her blonde hair over her shoulders. “We have company!” She adds, seemingly as an after thought— she is too busy pouring wine from a glass feeder into a beautifully ornate cup.

At least, Y/n thinks it is wine. She can smell the fermented berries— sweet and tangy and warming her nose as all wines she has encountered before have— only this wine is a pale violet shade. It is not an opaque rouge, not a barely there chartreuse. Nothing like what she has ever been able to get her hands on by way of bartering or shared celebration. Weddings and births. She takes a seat in one of the golden chairs, trying not to think about how out of her element she truly is. The little details are starting to show though. Not just extravagant pools and marble hallways. Even the food here is luxurious.

The Queen presses the cup into her fingers. She is not expecting the weight of it— the way her hand drops a fraction before she thinks to tense her wrist— she has never held pure gold before, not this much of it all at once. “Drink, dear. It will return some of the color to your face.”

She nods at Frigga, hoping her small smile will convey her thanks in lieu of her absent tongue. Speechless does not even begin to cover the way she feels.

“She is right—” the smooth, deep voice interrupts, his words coated with mirth— “it is what I do.”

Heavy footsteps fall behind her, thundering through the quiet chamber. She hears the water in the pool slosh lightly, the rose oil swirling out to the balcony. It makes her feel woozy— like she is already intoxicated despite not having touched her wine.

“No what you do is something else entirely,” Frigga giggles, raising her own chalice to her lips.

That is what these are called, right? Cup seems like too plain a word for something as extravagant. Chalice is luxurious— foreign to her daily life which makes it perfect. She raises her chalice too, taking the first sip of her violet liquid. Her eyes blow wide as she does so, a tarte berry sweetness bursting across her tongue. She almost chokes from how rapidly it takes over her senses, almost painting her vision in a matching purple hue. The liquid is warm as it trickles down her throat and blossoms that same warmth through her chest. It is magnificent— it is new— it makes the racing thoughts in her head slow to a honey crawl. She has to force herself not to down the whole cup immediately, wanting nothing more than to make them stop completely.

“If you say so, mother.” His laugh is almost as booming as his footsteps— it is how she pictures a giant’s laugh would sound, all heavy and dense, weighing across her shoulders like a wet blanket. It is less uncomfortable than that though. It makes her smile. That could just be the wine though.

She takes another sip, as the man finally emerges from behind her, his large body stepping into the sunlight like he is stepping into a second skin. In that moment she is grateful for the warmth in her chest and the way the wine adds a layer of lead to her bones for without it she would surely topple out of her chair in fright. The wine is like a barrier, though, stopping her common sense from leaking through. It makes sense, now, why she had pictured a giant— he is one.

She has to crane her neck to meet his blue eyes. When she finally does she decides that they match his mother’s. So does his blonde hair but it is a little more honey, a little less golden. Just as soft looking. His skin is golden though. It looks like he spends every waking hour in sunlight— no, it looks like he is sunlight. If sunlight was a person it would be this man. His mouth cracks open in a wide grin, his ivory teeth sparkling, as though he can hear her thoughts and agrees.

Frigga rolls her crystal eyes, an action so out of place alongside her more gentle movements. “Do introduce yourself before our guest starts to believe that I have not taught you manners.”

“I was getting there,” the giant insists to his mother. He bends at the waist, reaching for her hand which he engulfs in his surprisingly soft hands. He brings her knuckles to his lips— which are also soft but less surprisingly so— kissing them gently. “I am Thor, Odin’s Son, welcome to my home.”

Again, if it were not for the wine she would surely topple out of her chair. “Thank you. I am Y/n.”

Her voice sounds so small compared to his. Meek. She feels like a mouse sitting next to a lion. Perhaps it does not help that he is standing but she doubts that him sitting down will do much to remedy the difference. Spare a growth potion there is nothing she can do to match his build.

“How fitting—” he takes a seat in the chair across from her, squeezing his mother’s shoulder as he does so. Frigga smiles at him, a glint in her eyes— “a beautiful name for a beautiful lady.”

Y/n’s cheeks fill with heat. Beautiful? Her? No certainly not. He must say that to all the women he meets. She steals another tiny glance at him while he speaks quietly with his mother. His skin looks even more golden in the light. His honey hair looks sweet enough to catch flies. Or women. Probably more so women. She drops her gaze back to the table, her fingers teasing the cool metal of her chalice. He definitely knows his way around the ladies. Still, she tucks the comment into the back of her mind for a later time. It is nice to be complimented, even if it is perhaps less than authentic.

Frigga turns away from her son, her eyes softening once more. “Tell me about yourself, my dear. Have you come all this way for the ball? That was quite a few bags you brought with you earlier.”

Much like her cheeks, her ears flood with heat as well. Unlike a moment ago, however, it is not the soft kind of embarrassment. Her blush is not a kind one. She would rather dig herself into the ground then explain that she is a servant. Her stomach fills with butterflies. Their wings beat with a vengeance, absorbing the heat of the berry wine like nectar— like fuel.

“Well, no, not exactly, your High—” She stops herself this time, taking a sip of the traitorous wine in an attempt to cull the fluttering in her chest. “Frigga. Those were not all mine. I do not think I will be attending the ball actually.”

She tries to say it casually— perhaps if she feigns indifference then it will sound as though it is her choice. Frigga narrows her brows, lifting a dark violet berry to her lips. Like a candle sparking into flame, it dawns on her what she has been consuming. Blackberries. Her eyes dart back down to the table. She tries not to let her jaw drop when she sees the magnificent spread of food that was not there only moments ago. Sliced meats and cheeses, fluffy white bread— all she has back home is the tough, grainy kind— and so many fruits she cannot even name them all. Most of all, though, there are heaps upon heaps of blackberries.

Frigga drags one of her delicate fingers across the corner of her lips where some of the dark juice has stained her otherwise immaculate skin. “Well certainly you must attend.”

Her ears burn hotter, her mouth filling once more with cotton. How is she supposed to explain to the Queen that she agrees but that she also cannot go.

“I agree,” Thor’s deep voice joins the conversation as he swallows a bite of that fluffy bread. “You must come! There will be dancing and food.” He throws a hand up when he mentions the food and she lets a small smile free wondering how much it takes to feed someone as massive as him. “I hear there will even be some suitable bachelors. I assure you— it will be a splendid evening, Milady.”

Her ears skip over the jest about the bachelors, hightailing right to his very last word. Milady. The butterflies consume the word faster than they do the wine. They are addicted to it. She thinks that she might be as well. It repeats in her head, bounding around in her mind, crashing into her skull. Milady, Milady, milady. She has never been called milady before. The more it echoes around her brain, the more disorientated it sounds. It blurs together, the vowels folding in on themselves. The butterflies do not seem to care though— they consume the fuel just the same. And the more they consume, the more she wants to throw them all up.

The line between Frigga’s brows deepens, her crystal eyes attentive. They seem to catch her every movement, down to the little shakes in her fingers as she closes them around her cup again. She does not take another sip— she is more than warm enough now— she just needs something to still her hands.

“Thor is right, dear. You would have a wonderful time.” She tilts her head, some of the crinkle returning to her eyes. “Besides, even if it is not for my sons you must go for me.”

Y/n nods— perhaps lying is the best course of action here. “For you, then.”

She pops a blackberry into her mouth for good measure.

Good measure or to keep from spilling the truth. Either way the berry is not as sweet as she would have thought it would be.

* * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the conversation passes easily after that, filled with Thor’s booming laughter and Frigga’s loving eye rolls. She does not speak that much, offering her input when asked directly or when goaded, but the royals do not seem to mind. It is a welcome reprieve from her usual days— the ones where she is yelled at for speaking and slapped for not speaking and insulted for everything else. Here she can laugh when she pleases, eat when she pleases, and exist how she pleases. She does quite a lot of the first two. The tangy berries grow on her. So does the wine. Honestly, the wine is probably the cause of her new fondness for the berries. It sweetens everything that touches her tongue. Before long her belly is full, her eyelids are heavy, and her tangy lips hurt from how much she has been smiling.

Thor takes his leave soon after the three of them finish eating, laying another of the knee weakening kisses to her knuckles and reminding her that he will be expecting to see her at the ball two nights hence. He also calls her Milady again, as though trying his hardest to slip it in there are many times as possible. Maybe he is trying to give her a heart attack. She would not mind that much if he was— she would not have to return to her tiresome, damaging life if she had a heart attack.

After Thor leaves, Y/n stands, her hands lingering on the solid golden chair, her chest getting increasingly heavier as the moments pass. “Thank you so much for your kindness, Frigga. This afternoon was wonderful.”

The blonde woman smiles, standing as well and stretching her arms gracefully over her head. “Oh, it was nothing. Are you leaving so soon, my dear?”

“I must,” Y/n tries to replicate the Queen’s smile despite the weight on her shoulders. “I have already taken too much of your time. You must be a very busy woman.”

Frigga laughs. “I am only busy when I want the Kingdom to run smoothly.” Her eyes flit to the waning sun, shaking her head slightly. Y/n wonders if she is supposed to see the small action. It seems personal. “I fear that unfortunately means you are correct.”

She nods, pulling away from the chair. “Then I will leave you to the Kingdom— it is certainly more important than I.”

Her words are airy, the smile on her face glued in place by sheer will. She likes the Queen so she will hold her carefree exterior to keep her from worrying. She does not need to ask to know that the Queen would worry— she is a mother. Her own mother would worry as well and she would feign the same calm to keep her from worrying the same way she is now. No matter how calm she looks on the outside, though, her stomach topples, like the churning waves she had passed earlier. The bile that she swallows is foamy. Salty.

She could cry.

Before she can, though, the Queen’s warm fingers curl around her icy wrist, the contrast making a shiver crest down her spine. How long has she been cold for?

“Dear you mustn’t leave until you try the pool. Really, I implore you, you will love it. I really must go but I will tell my maids to ensure that no one comes in here to disturb you. Only if you would like, of course?”

It feels like a dream, or maybe an extension of the dream she is currently in, but for a moment her leaden lungs expand enough to drag in a healthy amount of air. It is like a light in the darkness— another log to ensure the fire keeps burning for a little bit longer— and she is not about to let it pass her by. What is a few more hours anyway— she is already going to be crawling away from the next meeting with her step mother.

She hopes the relief is not too distinguishable in her voice and eyes when she answers. “Are you sure, Frigga? I would not want to impose on your hospitality.”

Frigga does not answer— not at first. Not before her slender arms wrap around Y/n and she pulls her into her flowery chest. For a moment she is frozen, her arms hanging limp at her sides. She does not even breath— she does not know if she can. The warmth that seeps into her skin is both painfully familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It makes her ten again. She is no longer standing in the Queen of Asgard’s chambers but in her little wooden house.

And she is not alone.

“My little dove come here will you?” Her mother calls to her from the kitchen. Perhaps she needs help icing the little cakes. Y/n hopes so— licking the icing spoon afterwards is her favourite thing.

She hurries into the warm room, the smell of cooked strawberries and sweet icing sugar wrapping around her bare arms. She had been fishing with her father earlier in the day and her cardigan had become dirty so she had stripped and left it to hang on the line outside before coming in for the evening.

“Would you like to help me?” Her mother’s eyes sparkle like two diamonds, crinking at the corners as she holds a spoon out.

She takes the spoon eagerly, stepping up to the table where a dozen of her favourite little cakes are layed out. She closes her eyes, breathing in the sugar. It is perhaps her favourite smell in the world. Her favourite smell doing her favourite thing with her favourite person. Well, spare her father of course, but he does not much care for baking.

“Little dove you know how much I love you right?”

She sneaks a lick of the icing spoon, giggling when her mother tickles under her chin. “I know, mama.”

Her mother grabs another spoon and one of the little cakes, setting to work as well. “How much do I love you?”

“To Midgard and back!” Y/n giggles. She does not quite know what it means but her mother has been telling her that for as long as she can remember.

Her mother nods, some of the hair spilling out of the braids along the side of her head and curling across her brows. Her smile is so bright that Y/n wonders if they even need the gas lamp. Surely her mother could light up the room fine on her own.

“That’s right, to Midgard and back.” Her mother presses a kiss to her forehead. “And back and back and back!”

She lifts her head, blinking the fog from her vision and clearing away the memory. When her senses return to her she finds her arms wrapped around the Queen’s waist so tight it feels as though she might break the tiny woman. She lets go immediately, taking a few steps back, her eyes shooting wide. She can still feel the heavy warmth of her mother’s kitchen on her skin— still smell the cooked strawberries— and her chest jolts painfully. If only her ten year old self had known that would be one of the last moments her mother would truly be herself again then maybe she would have kissed her forehead too.

“I am sorry, Frigga. I think I am just tired from the journey here.” She sputters out. The words sound mushy and garbled, her throat closing around each syllable, trying to swallow them before they can push past her lips.

The tears she had wanted to let out before rise so quickly to her eyes that she does not know what to do but look at the stone under her feet and hope Frigga does not notice. It must be her lucky day because all the Queen does is place her hand on her shoulder. She does not try to seek out her eyes.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. My sons do not hug me nearly as much as they used to—” Y/n tries to keep her shoulders from shaking as Frigga’s voice washes over her, soft and gentle like her mother’s used to, watching as the stone becomes wet and darkens. “I think a bath would help you greatly— warm water always helps clear my mind. Maybe you will find something you are looking for in the process.”

Y/n nods, her chin dipping against her throat. The Queen squeezes her shoulder once, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. She has to hold her breath to keep from sobbing. It fights against her lungs though and she is sure Frigga can feel the way her chest jerks, fighting her from the inside. Frigga sighs and she watches as her feet leave her line of sight, her heels clicking on the marble as she goes to leave. It is only when she hears the heavy wooden door thunk closed does she move, the scream ripping from her throat so loudly she does not doubt that the Queen— no, the whole castle— hears it.

* * * * * * * * * *

Loki looks everywhere. Everywhere. Every corridor, every entrance, every dining room. He knocks on every damn chamber door. He never knocks— he never has to— but this time he does. The amount of faces he encounters is endless, most of them women, all of them speechless. He is not surprised to see so many women— nor is he surprised when they scramble to put sentences together in his presence, stuttering through their answers. To be fair, he does not really ask them anything. He knocks on the doors, looks at the stunned faces, and then, after feeling none of the warmth he is looking for— none of the sparks— he nods at them and continues his search.

As his search deepens, the minutes dissolving quickly into hours, his chest begins to feel like it is caving in on itself. The cavern walls of his lungs shift closer and closer together, beared on by a sourceless weight. It is invisible and it is heavy and it makes his head sting. By the time he gets to the last door he is pretty sure his lungs are incapable of filling completely. He fights to draw in a breath but the pressure is so intense that he has to throw a hand against the stone wall to keep from sinking to his knees. He is drowning in oxygen and yet cannot seem to suck in a single drop.

By the time he reaches the final door his head is foggy and his chest is burning. The remaining air that he has managed to hold onto turns on him more with every step, forming a mutiny and staging a siege in his body. The air fights against his lungs, banging on his windpipe, demanding to be let free. In what manner it wants to escape, he does not know. Probably loudly. He has never wanted to scream more than he does in this very moment— to let every building tension in his body free until his throat is raw. He can practically taste the metal on his tongue. The anger.

The blood.

Loki swallows hard, the action more painful than he would have ever thought, and blinks a few times before raising a fist of steel to the final door and knocking twice. He steps back after he does, giving whoever is inside room to speak to him. He hears a commotion, the hushed and quick murmurs of people, and scurried footsteps. Barely a second passes before the heavy wood slides open and reveals two women.

One of them is a scrawny blonde. Her limbs and face are boney, her fingers long and slender. Her hair drapes down her back, tangling with the ribbons that are keeping her corset tied so tight he wonders if she— like he— is finding it hard to breathe. Obviously it would be for opposite reasons. She is clearly choosing to be breathless— not being crushed under the weight of being so close and yet so far from her soulmate. He narrows his eyes at the girl, lingering on the sharpness to her. There is not a single soft feature about her— he strongly doubts she is hiding a pair of magic thighs underneath her dress. Definitely not her.

The blonde cowers slightly, her eyes flashing with recognition as her thin shoulders drawing into a tight point as she bows her head. He sighs— he does not have time for this. He almost forgot about the ridiculous ball and the actual reason why there were so many young women in his castle right now. Some of them had not recognized him— he is not his brother, after all. Thor would have been recognized in a heartbeat. Him, though, not so much. As much as it would make his blood boil any other time, right now he dreads the thought of enduring the conversation to come. He does not care to speak to hundreds of women; he is too busy trying to locate one.

He cringes when another woman joins, this one older than the blonde, her hair a dulling shade of red and her eyes are lined with wrinkles. Her mother, he assumes. She, too, sinks into a curtsey, the heavy jewels on her throat clinking as she does so. He can hear the gears turning in her head— see the same recognition as her daughter mingled with something else— something vaguely sinister— and the weight on his chest presses harder into him. So does the anger.

Odin, he does not have time for this!

The older woman rises first, her smile slick with the same slyness that clouds her eyes. “Your highness! How gracious of you to greet us before the ball.”

The anger grows— hot, heavy, and blinding— and he has to squeeze his fists to keep from baring his teeth at the woman. It surprises him, his instant hatred for her. He is not someone who makes friends easily— a choice he makes happily— but he is also not someone who wishes to kill people within seconds of encountering them— especially not women. There is something about this woman though that makes his vision tint black at the edges.

“It is nothing, madame.” He nods, his tone an icy, flat bite.

Much to his disappointment, the woman does not flinch. Her daughter does, the blonde’s shoulders catching like they have been snagged from behind, her neck remaining dropped in a bow. At least one of them is smart. Her mother does not seem to agree, her red heel sliding across the marble to jolt into her ankle. Loki squeezes his fists. How much longer must this go on?

“Anna—” the dull redhead’s voice is pinched as though she is trying to conceal her frustration— “do you have anything to say to the Prince.”

The blonde flinches at the contact, her head drawing up, her eyes clouded over with panic. He does not know who she is more afraid of in that moment— him or her mother. His chest still does not warm for her though, fear or no fear.

“Thank you.” She chokes out and he nods again— he does not want to kill her the same way he does her mother but the lines are getting hazy from the lack of oxygen he is breathing.

“Thank you is right.” The redhead’s wicked smile widens and his vision flashes.

He takes another step back, biting his tongue. The mutiny continues to rage in his chest, climbing up his sternum, stabbing holes in his jaw. He cannot hold it back for much longer— he does not really want to. But he is a Prince and he must, if not for him than for his mother. An image of Frigga flashes through his mind and, moments later, a plan. With both in his mind he is able to suck in half a breath. It stuns the insurrection inside him for a moment and hardens his resolve— he has to get to her.

He straightens his shoulders, lifting his chin higher, revelling in the way the redhead finally shrinks away from him. “If you will kindly excuse me.”

Loki does not waste time waiting for their responses, he only spins on his heel and struts away. The walk to his mother’s chambers is quick. Usually he would linger, skimming his fingers over the marble banister and peering out towards the sea. He has spent many days locked in a staring contest with the waves. Usually he wins— they are always blinking their foamy eyes at him. Today he does not spare them a glance. They will be there tomorrow. She might not be.

He turns the corner quickly. Too quickly. He honestly is not aware of how fast he is moving until his body slams into something small but strong. He grunts, shuffling backwards until he glimpses at blonde hair and two familiar crystal eyes. He chooses to ignore the half-hearted fury in them, opting instead to grab his mother’s shoulders.

Frigga curls her hands over her son's arms, the fury melting to something more concerned. “Loki what on Asgard are you doing—”

“Mother, I need you to tell me where she is.” He pleads— breathes— not waiting for the end of her sentence to tilt into a question like he knows it will.

Her shoulders drop under her palms in a sigh that he senses coming. “I have already told you all that I can— all that I know. Even if I did know more you know that I could not tell you without putting you and her—” she pauses, raising a golden brow in what he assumes is an attempt to make him listen. It only serves to make his chest squeeze— “in danger.”

He squeezes his eyes closed, his eyelids crushing together the same way his teeth do as he grits his answer out. “I can protect us both, mother, I just need—”

The rest of his sentence is drowned by a scream that rips through every fibre in his being. For a moment it even feels as though it is coming from him, burning like bile up his throat and tearing like knives through his eardrums. It stings so much— how could it not be his scream? But then he closes his mouth, slamming his hands against his ears, and he can still hear the feral wails slicing at him through the barrier of his skin. He peels his eyes open, searching for the source of the noise but coming up empty— the only other person around remains his mother whose mouth— while drawn into a deep frown— is also closed.

“Faen!” He curses, not sure if it is as quiet as it seems to his own ears or if he just cannot hear his own voice over the violent screams. “Mother I— It hurts I—”

“Loki?” Frigga’s voice barely cuts through the howling but he can still decipher the worry in her tone.

For the second time in less than a week’s cycle, his knees touch the ground. It is a sight that has even his mother lost for words, her mouth falling open at her usually proud son forced into a bow. Loki never kneels. Now he has kneeled twice for a woman he has yet to even properly meet. Something familiar prickles against the back of his neck, right where the top of his spine meets his skull— right where the wails zero on him. Somewhere in the fever pitch he finds the very thing that has been haunting him for an entire sun cycle. Please Surtr. With the realization his own screams claw at his chest, begging to join in with their match.

It is her.

Loki rises, pushing off the marble floor and staggering forward. It is not an easy task, he feels like everything around him is fighting against his movements, pushing on his limbs until each step feels like he is fighting through waves. He is drowning but not in oxygen this time. He is a child again and the sea is crashing over him so violently that he is not sure if this time he will survive. He has never actually stopped to ask himself whether or not he can die this way— by drowning. He had always assumed the answer was no, he could not. But now he is not so sure. Now he feels like he might die on the precipice of everything important to him— quite literally on the threshold of the rest of his damn life.

The hell he will.

His hand curls around the iron handle, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he uses the last of his power to shove the heavy wood open. He can barely hear his mother’s protests— they are more a feeling if anything. Loki, that is not proper you cannot go in there. Does it look like he cares right now? He ignores her— there is nothing else he can do. The light from the room trickles over him, mingled with a heady, flowery aroma. He lets the door fall closed behind him. It is thick and warm, mingling with the heat rolling off his mother’s bathing pool and creating a fog that should make it hard to breathe.

Should.

The opposite is true though. The thick air is anything but hard to breathe. Rather he feels as though he is breathing for the first time all day. Like magic it works against the pressure on his chest, lulling the storm inside him. For a moment he cannot hear the wailing, the peace soaking into his skin enough to silence the agony. As soon as the calm comes, however, it is gone, torn away by the hiccups of a small form that is huddled against the jeweled tub. Loki’s heart stops— at least it feels like it does.

She lifts her eyes and— while half hidden by the fallen strands of her hair— he can still see the way they are banded in strands of silver that seem to go on forever. They draw him in, pulling him under the surf of her eyes but this time he is not drowning— he is floating. It is her. He is pretty sure he takes a step forward because she is now a few feet closer to him but if he does then he does not feel it. Floating. She freezes, her chest stilling, her rose petal lips peeling apart. No sound comes out. Gods how he wishes she would say something.

But then she sucks in a breath, her chest rising, and the veins under what he knows to be the softest skin in all of Asgard glow, illuminating a pattern of lightning strikes across her flesh. Just like that, he is officially a goner. Officially hers. He would do anything she asked of him. Anything to keep her. How the hell did he get so damn lucky? He cannot tear his eyes away from her, drinking in as much of her skin as possible. The sleeves of her dress hang off her shoulders, baring her flesh to him, and he can see from her hunched form that the first few buttons of her dress are open. She was undressing? Now he cannot breathe again.

He follows the pattern under her flesh intricately, taking another step, his whole body shuddering when she breathes in again and makes the scattered glow of her veins shift. The lighting strikes continue over her shoulders, mingling with the silky strands of her hair. He is suddenly envious of the strands— why does it get the privilege of touching this Valhalla made woman?

He traces her sparking veins over the crest of her shoulders and down her spine. He can feel her silver eyes on him, watching as his own eyes flick over her skin. It is exhilarating— it makes him feel alive. Was he even living before this moment? Walking and speaking and experiencing? Or is it only now that he realizes that was all a dream? Is this what it feels like to actually be alive? Odin, he was missing out.

His eyes crease over the arch of her back, drawn to the mountains and valleys of her spine. Her skin is like another world, one he would give anything to forage through— to explore for hours on end. For the rest of his life. There is not a doubt in his mind that he could be happy getting lost in her for the rest of eternity. His eyes skim the ridges of her shoulder blades, trying to decide where to even begin, and it is only then when he sees it— when his heart actually stops.

At first he does not know what he is seeing. Of course he has seen bruises before— he has fought alongside his brother as a warrior countless times. He has seen both his own skin and Thor’s turn violet and blue. This, though, is different. He has never seen anything close to the deep black bruises on her back. Her lightning veins are more muted underneath them, still crackling but instead of silver light they glow a sickening shade of scarlet. Where the lighting webs he can see her blood shifting, clinging to her injuries and flowing like lava— molten.

He can feel the heat from where her body is trying to mend itself back together. Any other time he would want to sink into it— feel her warmth against him and try to steal some of it for himself. Usually he feels so cold. Not right now. Right now all he feels is fire— fire from her lava, lightning skin, fire from the embers heating the pool next to him, fire from his own, burning anger— and he can feel the flames leaking into his eyes as he kneels for the third time.

Once he is on the floor as well her scent strengthens, wrapping around him and clinging to him. He does not know much about flowers but he can smell the Dhalia’s now, clear and sharp, just like in the castle gardens. He does not remember the castle gardens being this intoxicating though.

And nobody stomps on the Dhalia’s in the castle gardens the way someone clearly has with this one.

His chest squeezes, the flames flaring out again. Like the bruises, Loki has longed for vengeance before— many times, actually— but never like this. It has never consumed him so completely. He has never had to teeter between two impossible choices like this— impossible not because they are undoable but because he has to do both and he does not know which to do first. Engulf the shaking girl or seek out whoever thought it wise to mar her soft skin?

He meets her silver eyes, watching them crackle and flood with more tears. He has to swallow hard to stop his own, his throat burning too now. Being this close to her he can make out her features— the special curve to her nose and the dip of her cupid's bow and the little marks on her skin— everything that makes her special. He wishes more than anything in this moment that the circumstances were not as they are so that he could spend an hour memorizing every little detail.

Her hands twitch and his gaze darts to where they curl around her elbows. He wonders for a moment if they shake because of him. Gods, he hopes not. Being who he is— a prince and a feared warrior— he is used to people cowering away from him. He has grown to crave it— if they are going to keep doing it then why not embrace it? He likes when they fear him. With her, though, he wants anything but. It becomes clear which choice he has to make in that moment— and that there was never really a choice at all.

He flicks his eyes back to her, hunching his shoulders in an attempt to sink closer to her height, trying to make himself appear smaller. Before this moment he never thought himself large. He is taller than his mother, yes, but not by too much. He is nowhere near as big as Thor. Hell, even Heimdall is bigger than him. He has always been the sleek one— agile, fast, lean. He is made for stealth— not at all used to towering over another person. But here he is, all of a sudden feeling like he did when he was a kid hitting a growth spurt again, all awkward and lanky. He tucks his elbows into his sides, his chin to his chest, his vision filtered through his lashes due to the tricky bow he squishes himself into. It is not enough but it is a start.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Loki has no idea what to say to her. It is not like he has been thinking about it for an entire sun cycle or anything, mulling over everything he could possibly tell her. Anything he could say he has surely thought of— he has played through every rendition of every conversation. Thousands of words and thoughts and feelings, all of which have evaporated into the vacuum of his mind the moment he needs to use them. Again, some silver tongue he is.

Thankfully, though, he does not need to figure out what to say to his soulmate— she figures it out first.

“Are you real?”

___________

Tag List: @crystal-siren @cari1bunny @breethememe @tapismyforte @atashi-no-yuuki

[casxmorgan]

Books Books Books

100 Years of Solitude

11.22.63

120 Days of Sodom

1491

1984

A Brief History of Time

A Canticle for Leibowitz

A Child Called It

A Clockwork Orange

A Confederacy of Dunces

A History of the World in Ten and a Half Chapters

A Land Fit for Heroes Trilogy

A Little Life

A Naked Singularity

A People's History of the United States

A Scanner Darkly

A Series of Unfortunate Events

A Short History of Nearly Everything

A Song of Ice and Fire

A Storm of Swords

A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments

A Thousand Splendid Suns

A Walk in the Woods

A World Lit Only by Fire

Accursed Kings

Alice in Wonderland

All Quiet on the Western Front

All the Light We Cannot See

All the Pretty Horses

America, the Book

American Gods

American Psycho

And then There Were None

Angela’s Ashes

Animal Farm

Animal, Vegetable, Miracle

Anna Karenina

Anything Terry Pratchett, But, Mort is My Favorite

Anything Written by Robin Hobb

Apt Pupil

Artemis Fowl

Asimov's Guide to the Bible

Asoiaf

Atlas Shrugged

Bartimeaus

Batman: the Long Halloween

Battle Royale

Beat the Turtle Drum

Behind the Beautiful Forevers

Belgariad Series

Beloved

Berserk

Bestiario

Black Company

Blankets/habibi

Blind Faith

Blindness

Blood Meridian

Blood and Guts: a History of Surgery

Bluest Eye

Brandon Sanderson

Brave New World

Breakfast of Champions

Bridge to Terabithia

Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee: an Indian History of the American West

Calvin and Hobbs

Candide

Carrie

Cat's Cradle

Catch 22

Cats Cradle

Chaos

Child of God

Choke

Chuck Palahniuk

City of Ember

City of Thieves

Cloud

Collapse

Come Closer

Complaint

Confessions of a Mask

Contact

Conversation in the Cathedral

Cosmos

Crime and Punishment

Dan Brown

David

Dead Birds Singing

Dead Mountain: the Untold True Story of the Dyatlov Pass Incident

Delta Venus

Die Räuber (the Robbers)

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep

Don Quixote

Dragonlance

Dune

Dying of the Light

East of Eden

Educated

Empire of Sin: a Story of Sex, Jazz, Murder, and the Battle for Modern New Orleans

Enders Game

Enders Shadow

Escape from Camp 14

Ever Since Darwin

Every Man Dies Alone

Everybody Poops

Everything is Illuminated

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

Fahrenheit 451

Far from the Madding Crowd

Faust

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S Thompson

Feet of Clay

Fight Club

First Law

Flowers for Algernon

Flowers in the Attic

Foundation

Foundation Series

Foundation Trilogy

Frankenstein

Freakonomics

Fun Home

Galapagos

Geek Love

Gerald’s Game

Ghost Story

Go Ask Alice

Go Dog Go

Godel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid

Goldfinch

Gone Girl

Gone with the Wind

Good Omens

Grapes of Wrath

Great Expectations

Greg Egan

Guards! Guards!

Guns Germs and Steel

Guts (short Story)

Half a World

Ham on Rye

Hannibal Rising

Hard Boiled Wonderland

Hatchet

Haunted

Hawaii

Heart Shaped Box

Heart of Darkness

Hellbound Heart

Hellraiser

Hell’s Angels

Helter Skelter

His Dark Materials

Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

Hogg

Holocaust by Bullets

House of Leaves

How to Cook for Fourty Humans

How to Win Friends and Influence People

Huckleberry Finn

Hyperion

I Am America, and So Can You

I Am the Messenger

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

I Was Dr. Mengele’s Assistant

In Cold Blood

In Search of Our Mother's Gardens

Independent People

Infinite Jest

Into Thin Air

Into the Wild

Introduction to Linear Algebra

Invisible Monsters

Ishmael

It

Jacques Le Fataliste

Jane Eyre

Jaunt

Job: a Comedy of Justice

John Dies at the End

John Grisham

Johnathan Livingston Seagull

Johnny Got His Gun

Jon Ronson

Journal of a Novel

Jurassic Park

Justine

L'histoire D'o

Lamb

Last Exit to Brooklyn

Les Miserables

Lies My Teacher Told Me

Life of Pi

Limits and Renewals

Little House in the Big Woods

Lockwood & Co.

Lolita

Looking for Trouble

Lord Foul’s Bane

Lord of the Flies

Lyddie

Malazan Book of the Fallen

Maldoror

Manufacturing Consent: the Political Economy of the Mass Media

Man’s Search for Meaning

Mark Twain’s Autobiography

Maus

Meditations

Megamorphs (series)

Mein Kampf

Memnooch the Devil

Metro 2033

Michael Crichton

Middlesex

Mindhunter

Misery

Mistborn

Moby Dick

Mrs. Dalloway

My Side of the Mountain

My Sweet Audrina

Nacht über Der Prärie (night over the Prairie)

Naked Lunch

Name of the Wind

Neuromancer

Never Let Me Go

Neverwhere

New York

Next

Night

Night Shift

Norwegian Wood

Notes from Underground

Nothing to Envy: Real Lives in North Korea

Of Mice and Men

Of Nightingales That Weep

Ohio

Old Mans War

Old Mother West Wind

On Heroes and Tombs

On Laughter and Forgetting

On the Road

One Flew over the Cuckoos Nest

One Hundred Years of Solitude

One of Us

Painted Bird

Patrick Rothfuss

Perfume: the Story of a Murderer

Persepolis

Pet Sematary

Peter Pan

Pillars of the Earth

Poisonwood Bible

Pride and Predjudice

Ready Player One

Rebecca

Red Mars

Red Night (series)

Red Shirts

Red Storm Rising

Redwall

Replay

Requiem for a Dream

Revenge

Riftwar Saga

Ringworld

Roald Dahl

Rolls of Thunder, Hear My Cry

Round Ireland with a Fridge

Running with Scissors

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

Sapiens, a Brief History of Humankind

Scary Stories to Read in the Dark

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Schindler’s List

Sein Und Zeit

Shades of Grey

Sharp Objects

Shattered Dreams

Sherlock Holmes

Sho-gun

Siddhartha

Sisypho

Skin and Other Stories

Slaughterhouse Five

Smoke & Mirrors

Snow Crash

Soldier Son

Sometimes a Great Notion

Sphere

Starship Troopers

Stiff, the Curious Lives of Human Cadavers

Storied Life of A.j. Fikry

Stormlight Archives

Story of the Eye

Stranger in a Strange Land

Surely, You're Joking

Survivor Type (short Story)

Suttree

Swan Song

Tale of Two Cities

Tales of the South Pacific

The Alchemist

The Altered Carbon Trilogy

The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay

The Art of Deception

The Art of Fielding

The Art of War

The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation

The Autobiography of Henry Viii

The Autobiography of Malcolm X

The Beach

The Bell Jar

The Bible

The Bloody Chamber

The Book Thief

The Boy in the Striped Pajamas

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The Brothers Karamazov

The Call of Cthulu and Other Weird Stories

The Cask of Amontillado (short Story)

The Catcher in the Rye

The Chronicles of Narnia

The Clown

The Color out of Space

The Communist Manifesto

The Complete Fiction of H.p. Lovecraft

The Count of Monte Cristo

The Curious Case of the Dog in the Night Time

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime

The Dagger and the Coin

The Damage Done

The Dark Tower

The Declaration of Independence, the Us Constitution, and the Bill of Rights

The Devil in the White City

The Dharma Bums

The Diamond Age

The Dice Man

The Discworld Series

The Dresden Files

The Elegant Universe

The First Law Trilogy

The Forever War

The Foundation Trilogy

The Gentleman Bastard Sequence

The Geography of Nowhere

The Girl Next Door

The Girl on the Milk Carton

The Giver

The Giving Tree

The God of Small Things

The Grapes of Wrath

The Great Gatsby

The Great Gilly Hopkins

The Hagakure

The Half a World Trilogy

The Handmaid’s Tale

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

The Hiding Place

The History of Love

The Hobbit

The Hot Zone

The Hunchback of Notre Dame

The Hyperion Cantos

The Jaunt

The Jungle

The Key to Midnight

The Killing Star

The Kingkiller Chronicles

The Kite Runner

The Last Question (short Story)

The Lies of Lock Lamora

The Little Prince

The Long Walk

The Lord of the Rings

The Lottery (short Story)

The Lovely Bones

The Magicians

The Magus

The Martian

The Master and Margarita

The Metamorphosis of Prime Intellect

The Monster at the End of This Book

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

The Music of Eric Zahn (short Story)

The Name of the Wind & the Wise Man's Fear

The Necronomicon

The New Age of Adventure: Ten Years of Great Writing

The Night Circus

The Nightmare Box

The Odyssey

The Omnivore's Dilemma

The Orphan Master’s Son

The Outsiders

The Painted Bird

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

The Phantom Tollbooth

The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Pit and the Pendulum

The Plague

The Prince

The Prince of Tides

The Princess Bride

The Prophet

The Queen’s Gambit

The Rape of Nanking

The Red Dwarf

The Republic

The Rifter Saga

The Road

The Satanic Verses

The Screwtape Letters

The Secret History

The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel

The Selfish Gene

The Shining

The Shrine of Jeffrey Dahmer

The Silmarillion

The Sirens of Titan

The Six Wives of Henry the 8th

The Solitude of Prime Numbers

The Speaker of the Dead

The Stars My Destination

The Stormlight Archive

The Story of My Tits

The Stranger

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck

The Suspicions of Mr. Witcher

The Tao of Pooh

The Things They Carried

The Time Machine

The Time Traveller’s Wife

The Tin Drum

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

The Wasp Factory

The Wind Up Bird Chronicle

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle

The World According to Garp

The Yellow Wallpaper

Their Eyes Were Watching God

Things Fall Apart

Thirsty

This Blinding Absence of Light

Tiger!

Time Enough for Love

To Kill a Mockingbird

To Say Nothing of the Dog

Toni Morrison

Too Many Magicians

Traumnovelle

Tuesdays with Morrie

Tuf Voyaging

Undeniable

Under Plum Lake

Universe in a Nutshell

Unwind

Uzumaki

Various

Village Life in Late Tsarist Russia

Walden

War & Peace

War and Peace

Warriors: Bluestar’s Prophecy

Watchers

Water for Elephants

Watership Down

We Have Always Lived in the Castle

We Need to Talk About Kevin

Wheel of Time

When Rabbit Howls

Where the Red Fern Grows

Where the Sidewalk Ends

Why I Am Not a Christian

Why People Believe Weird Things

Wizards First Rule

Wool

World War Z

Worm

Wuthering Heights

You Can Choose to Be Happy

Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

[theshiningg]

fix you

hogwarts au

fluff and a pinch of angst if u squint

draco x gryffindor!reader

warnings: insecure draco, really cringy fluff

word count: 3.5k (i honestly could’ve done better)

the wind blows through your hair as you sit by the black lake with the golden trio. they talk about something that you, honestly couldn’t care less about. “y/n.” hermione calls out. ron leans over and whispers into harry’s ear, “she’s out of it again.” you hum at hermione as you acknowledge her. “come on, we have advanced potions today.” you smile as you pick your bag up off the floor and walk inside the halls with them. you lightheartedly laugh at whatever ron says until your smile disappears when see draco malfoy standing tall and proud, blocking your pathway to potions. craning your head to look at him, he makes a sarcastic remark to harry. giving him a small smile, you ask softly, “could you please excuse us? we have potions next, well, we all have potions next.” he glances at you and the glare on his face disappears. he turns his head back to harry, “you’re lucky that i have better things to do.” he glances back at you quickly before he leaves to potions, just walking a whole ten feet away.

the next time you encounter draco was a week later at the gryffindor x slytherin game. the two teams fly out onto the field as dean announces them. hermione reads her book while you wave at ron and harry. draco does a lap around the field and matches eyes with you. you give him a smile and a thumbs up. he almost collides with another player but a smirk made its way to his face.

that night at dinner, you sit next to ron as fred and george tell stories about the mischief they caused. george explains, “and so then we put unicorn horn into his potion and bam, explosion.” your eyes widen, “really?” you ask enthusiastically. he nods excitedly and continues his story when pansy calls out your name. “hey l/n!” the hall suddenly goes quiet as you turn around to meet her sitting at the slytherin table. draco lifts his head up after copying down someone’s notes. “open your hand!” everyone within twenty feet of you all turn their heads towards you when you open up your hand with your palm facing up and see a paper crane, flying over to you, landing on your palm. carefully unwrapping the paper, you hear a chorus of ‘oohs’ around the room. looking at the words on the paper, your smile slightly fades. “y/n, what’s on it?” george asks, “yeah y/n, what’s on it?” fred adds on. you fold the paper back up, put it in your pocket and put a smile back on your face, “it’s nothing. carry on with your story, george.”

for the rest of the night, you stayed quiet, receiving confused glances from your friends. you walk with fred and george behind the golden trio on the way to your dorms. you count the tiles on the floor on your way when you get pulled back from your friends with a hand covering your mouth. you hear a whisper on your ear, “hush l/n, it’ll make me sound like i’m kidnapping you.” your friends go a safe distance before he releases you. you turn around to meet his face and match eyes with him for all of ten seconds before looking down.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, too embarrassed to stare directly into your eyes. “nothing.” you reply and shake your head. “it can’t be nothing, if you look so dejected, l/n.” he prys on, crossing his arms and rolling his eyes in annoyance. “what did that blasted git even send you?” he asks and when you don’t answer, digs his hands into your pocket, pulling out the note. he opens the note and written in his neat handwriting was his reply to pansy’s question, “do you like l/n?” his eyes scan over his reply over and over again, “no, she’s as insignificant as can be to me.” draco looks down at you as you bite your bottom lip.

“i have feelings, draco. and i know you do too but, that was so heartless.” you sigh, “i thought we were getting somewhere, over this past month. looks like i was in over my head.” your heels click against the floor as you walk away, leaving the blonde haired boy to his thoughts.

about two weeks later with no contact with draco, you live life as it was before. wind quickly blows though your hair as you turn the corner quickly and walk until you stop. before you know it, you’ve walked to the room of requirements. you look throughout the room until you stumble across a mirror. “mirror of erised.” you voice out. the dust flies everywhere as you pull the sheet off of it. looking into the mirror, you see draco with his arm around your shoulder. turning around quickly, you see no one in the room with you. looking back to the mirror, you then see draco again. but this time, he’s not draping his arm around your shoulder, he’s hugging you. feeling a bit shocked, you put the sheet back on and leave the room. you walk back down the quiet halls to go to the library and read about the mirror.

entering the library silently, you find a book called, “mirror of erised: and its history.” you skip over the introduction and find its purpose. “the mirror of erised is a mirror that shows the user his or her heart's deepest desire.” you stand puzzled at why draco was there. what did you want with draco? walking back to the gryffindor dorms was long but you’re glad it was because you had time to think to yourself. myrtle comes flying the through the wall you were passing by and stops as she sees you, “are you y/n?” you nod at her, confused about her sudden shift in attitude. she flies a bit further than you before turning around, “well hurry up.” she demands. you jog up to her and she leads you to the girls lavatory. you look up at her flying and sobs erupt loudly from one of the stalls. she flies down towards your ear and whispers, “he’s sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn’t got anybody to talk to, and he’s not afraid to show his feelings and cry!” she empathizes on her last word.

slowly, you walk towards the stall where the crying boy was. you push the creaky stall door open and see draco on the floor. he doesn’t notice you until you place your hand on his back. as he looks up at you, you notice how bloodshot his eyes were and how distraught his facial features were. you pull him close to you and embrace him as he plants his face on your neck and continues to sob. “y/n,” he barely lets out, “the note means nothing. im sorry, i was scared that you would reject my feelings because i’m draco malfoy. the boy everybody hates and would avoid at all costs. but every time i see you, my heart flutters as if it’s going to fly out of my chest or i can’t speak.” he continues to sob, you chuckle softly. “it’s alright, draco. because i like you too. and i realized when i saw you in my reflection in the mirror of erised. i saw the draco malfoy. so don’t be scared.” you comfort him.

for what felt like hours and what probably was, draco pulls away from your warm embrace. he doesn’t look at you, embarrassed for his actions in the last hour. you wipe the remaining tears off of his face, softly with your thumb, as if you’re trying not to crack him even more. you both stand up off the lavatory floor and he looks down at you again. you hold out an open palm to him, signifying him to hold your hand. draco hesitantly grabs your hand and firmly clasps it in his. you drag him until meeting the exit of the lavatory where he stops you.

“y/n.” you turn around and hum at him to continue, “why would you ever want to love someone like me.” you walk closer to him and cup his cheek, “because, even though you have flaws, you can overcome them. i will try,” you pause, “to fix you.”

the following days, draco seemed happier than usual and that scared most people at hogwarts. some nights, he would sneak you into his prefect dorm and cuddle until morning or have you keep him company while he’s doing homework.

you lay in his bed before the slytherin x gryffindor game as draco lays next to you. leaning your head over to check the time, brings out the groan in draco as his head rest had moved. he pulls you back down and nuzzles his head into your neck, “give me five more minutes.” he groans. “draco, i have to go early today, i’m meeting the trio before the boys get ready for the game.” he opens his eyes and gives you a frown, giving you the opportunity to get out of his grip. you pick up your robe and leave as you put it on. “i’ll see you at the game!” you yell from the common room.

walking down the hall, millions of eyes stare at you. you see the trio in the hall as ron and harry stuff their faces for their game. hermione’s usual frown turns into a grin as she stares at you walking down the hall. ron spits out the chicken leg he had been eating and points at you with his free hand. you look at your friends, “what? is there something on my face?” harry chuckles as ron answers, “more like on your body.” you look down at your robe and your eyes widen. when did you put on draco’s robe? and why didn’t you notice? it’s like two times the size of your body.

for the rest of the day until the game, you wore the green robe because one, you couldn’t get into the slytherin common room and two, even if you did get into the common room, you can’t get into draco’s locked room. repping the forest green merch all day was literal torture. not because of hate but because of the begging of wanting to know whose robe it was.

finally it was time for the game. the wind was crisp but snowy as the white specks littered the field. you wrap the robe around your frame, feeling a bit embarrassed as you stood out in the sea of red, wearing the green robe. the players fly out on to the field draco scans the crowd in the crowd until noticing a speck of green. you flash him a close lipped smile and he smirks before yelling out, “looking good in green, l/n.” you give him an unamused smile as harry and ron fly towards you and hermione turns to you, then the rest of gryffindor. “y/n.” you slowly turn your head towards hermione, “yes?” she keeps a straight face, “why do you have malfoy’s robe?” you open your mouth to speak but madame hooch calls the boys over to start the game. draco laughs at you as you point at him and pretend to cut your throat, mouthing, “you’re dead.”

the game goes on while you sit and talk with hermione about your potions homework. while she tells you how to make a sleeping draught, she gets interrupted by dean thomas. “and draco malfoy has caught the snitch! slytherin wins!” a smile arises on your face as you watch draco celebrate. and to your surprise he flies over to the mic and grabs it. “hey everyone!” he shouts, hermione and you turn your head to look at him, “i’m draco malfoy and i’m love y/n l/n!” he says as points at you, amused with your surprised look. everybody starts to crowd around you and ask you questions. getting annoyed about the crowd, you finally yell out, “yes! i am in love with draco malfoy!” before running out of the stands to anywhere far away.

you wait for draco as his teammates walk out of the locker room, leaving you with unnecessary comments like, “wow, malfoy really pulled in a good one,” or “hey, if malfoy doesn’t work out, i’m always available.” in which you responded with a middle finger and the roll of your eyes. he finally comes out and you cross your arms at him. he laughs at your unamused face and comes to pull you into his embrace. you mumble profanities into his chest. “what’d you say love?” he says, amused at your reaction. “i said-“ before you can speak your thoughts, he pulls you back into his chest to shut you up.

as the both of you walk back to the castle, in the cold might i add, he holds your left hand while your right wears his glove and his left hand wears the other side. your intertwined hands stay connected as he puts them into his jacket pocket.

you lay on his bed as he showers before the two of you head to dinner. draco walks back into the room and sees you asleep, hair laid out around you and snuggled into his blanket. a smile arises on his face as he watches you groan in your sleep, feeling cold. draco gets into his bed and wraps his arm around your waist, snuggling his face into your hair. you wake up from his action, “what time is it?” you ask him, eyes still closed. “ten before dinner.” he mumbles, also feeling sleepy after his game. you turn around to face him, one eye closed and the other open, you yawn. you nuzzle against his chest and he pulls you closer to him.

you later wake up by theodore nott opening draco’s door and whispers. you tell him to shush by putting a finger to your lip and he gives you a grin and a thumbs up before going out to the common room and yelling, “malfoy actually got a girl!” you smile at his words and lay back down.

you wake up the next morning as draco brushes his hands through your hair with the addition of twisting and twirling it. he grins as you look up at him. “good morning, love.” he speaks. you give him a light, “good morning.” as the both of you rub your legs together. after ten minutes, you get out of bed, ignoring draco’s whines, and go to his bathroom. while you brush your teeth, he comes into the bathroom and slides his arms around your waist with his chest pressed to your back. you spit and leave the bathroom to get dressed. you sit on his bed, waiting for him, so you could go to breakfast.

you sit at breakfast with a serious face as you think about what to get the boy, who basically has everything. “you okay, y/n?” harry asks, a little confused about your daydreaming. “yeah.” you answer with a small smile. “so hogsmeade later today right?” you ask your friends. hermione nods at you with a happy smile.

you later walk to hogsmeade with your three friends, snow covering the whole landscape with draco’s scarf on your neck because he thought that you would be cold and was worrying about you. harry stops in his tracks and looks at you, “when were you ever gonna tell us that you were dating malfoy?” your eyes shift to the side, “we only started recently. like a month ago, i thought we were gonna wait a little longer, but i guess the dopamine got to him. i’m sorry that i didn’t tell you, but i’m not gonna stop loving him because of your relationship with him.” harry’s eyes widen along with ron’s. “no, y/n, we’re not telling you that we disapprove, we just wanted to know why?” you give them a close lipped smile, “because everyone deserves a second chance, no matter how horrible they were.” you continue walking, “come on, let’s go.”

you walk around the shops with hermione after splitting up from the boys. walking through the narrow alleyways, your eyes land something shiny. getting closer to the shop, you see a beautiful snake encrusted, black titanium ring. you grab the door handle before realizing hermione was still with you. “oh, hermione, i’ll meet you at schrivenshaft’s after i’m done.” she rolls her eyes, “okay.” entering the shop, an elderly man greets you. “hello, my dear. what can i help you with today?” he asks, standing up to walk to you. “i would love to see the ring in the window stand, please.”

“ah, excellent choice, my dear.” he says as he picks the ring up off the stand, “a black titanium ring, representing power, strength and certainty. with the addition of a snake, representing rebirth, transformation, immortality and healing.”

“yes sir, i believe he was always a wonderful person, just never had the chance to show it. though we started roughly, i believe he changed. and whatever hurt him back then, could be shed off like a snake.”

the old man smiles at you widely, “that is wonderful, my dear. would you like your initials engraved into it?” you smile back, “i would love to.”

you leave the store after he engraved your initials and walk to meet hermione.

the evening of christmas eve, you sit outside with draco, next to the lake. his head rests on your thigh as your fingers brush through his hair smoothly. his eyes are closed while yours stay open as you stare out into the peaceful lake. “y/n?” draco speaks, still with his eyes closed. you answer with a hum. “are you bored of me yet?” you gasp and look down at him, his eyes wide open now. “of course not, why would you ever think of that?” he sits up to meet your eyes, “other people think i don’t deserve you.” you grab his hand and rub your thumb across the back of his hand.

“don’t be daft draco. if anything, i don’t deserve you. you are the most intelligent and kind boy i’ve ever met. you’re just misunderstood. you’ve treated me better than anyone in my life has and i can’t ever stop loving you for that. so don’t let those fools get to you. i love you so much and if it takes saying that everyday, i will. so don’t forget it.” his eyes water at the end of your sentence. you lean close to him and wrap your arms around his neck, “i love you.” you whisper. you kiss his forehead as he releases from your hold before standing up and reaching a hand out to him, “let’s go to dinner, darling.”

that night after dinner, you go back to draco’s dorm. you lounge around on his bed while he finishes up his dada homework. flipping the page of the book you were reading, you shift your eyes towards draco as he writes his neat notes. he groans, shuts his book and gets into bed with you. you then shut your book and hug draco. he stares at you while you shut your eyes and then playfully open them. “are you tired?” you ask him. he nods, sleepily. “then sleep, i’ll be here when you wake up. i promise.” you whisper back. he closes his eyes as you brush your fingers through his hair.

you wake up the next morning with a smile on your face. draco stirs around in his sleep as you exit his bed and walk to his bathroom. after cleaning up, you walk out of his room and into the common room as you see eager first years opening gifts under the tree. draco comes out sleepily and wraps his arms around your waist, back hugging you. “good morning darling.” you say as you turn around to hug him. “i have something for you.” pulling out the ring box, you hand it over to him. you smile as he opens the box and takes the ring out. “y/n, that’s beautiful. when did you?”

“i went out with the trio remember? i engraved my initials in it so it would be memorable.” he pulls you in for a hug, “thank you. well i also have something for you, love.” you see a small box coming out of his pocket. he hands you the box to open and when you do, a surprised look appears on your face. you pull out a diamond ring with the initials, “d.m” written on them. your eyes tear up at the gift and he pulls you into his embrace. “thank you darling. this is so thoughtful.” the both of you stay in an embrace until theo speaks. “you know you’re both under a mistletoe right? that means, smoochy smooch time.” he grins.

draco cups one side of your face while your hands make their way to the back of his neck. he leans closer and finally, his lips touch yours. his lips felt soft and smooth as yours danced against his. the kiss ends with the both of you staring at each other lovingly.

“i love you y/n.”

“i love you more draco.”

“no way.”

you smile at him softly,

“looks like you didn’t need to be fixed.”

a/n: hi, just wanted to post this before starting school this week, so for conceited, i might post that a little later because i have tons of test this week, sorry but please enjoy this story while you wait heh

masterlist

[othercat2]

Wen Ning and the Shadow

A tiny snippet of a crossover between Untamed and Ursula Vernon's Web comic Digger.

__________________________________

"Aren't you terribly uncomfortable?" A voice asked. "And cramped?"

If Wen Ning still had the nerves for it, he might have jumped at the voice. He hadn't heard anyone approach, nor had he sensed anything. He looked up from the book he was reading by the light of a tiny lamp, but saw nothing. "This cultivator needs very little for his comfort," he says. "Except perhaps introductions from unknown persons."

"I don't really have a name. My friend Digger of Unnecessarily Convoluted Tunnels called me the Shadow Child," the voice says. Two bright lights appear, vaguely eye shaped, and positioned at a height that was much taller than Wen Ning. Maybe two Wen Nings. "I think she didn't want to assign me a name I wouldn't like. Shadow works for now until I can think of something better. What's your name? What's a cultivator? You don't look very much like a farmer."

Wen Ning is sure that Wei Wuxian would say something very clever about radishes and his skill at growing them, at the creature's words. "This cultivator is Wen Ning, courtesy name Wen Qionglin," Wen Ning says, though "cultivator" was perhaps stretching the truth. He did most things a cultivator did, though he was limited in other respects due to also being a fierce corpse. "A cultivator cultivates their golden core, in order to subdue or eliminate ghosts, demons and monsters." This was an extremely simple explanation, but it would have to do.

"I should use the courtesy name?" the creature asks.

Wen Ning nods. "Unless we were friends or I gave you permission." Or if you were Wei Wuxian, who had a very arbitrary idea of whether or not he should use courtesy names or not. "Why did you ask if I was cramped and uncomfortable?"

The eyes move up and down in what appears to be a nod. "Then I'll call you Wen Qionglin," the creature says. The creature moves closer, but is no more visible. It's made of shadow, like the wisps of smoky resentment that would surround Wei Wuxian when he played his dizi. It's a faint, tall outline that makes Wen Ning think of a wading bird of some kind, such as a crane, with a crest of feathers. "I've been following you," it says. (This was inherently unsettling.) "I thought you might be like me, but weren't willing to leave the body yet. At least you're the first shadow that could talk. All the other ones I've seen were just heart shadows wandering around inside corpses." It sits, or at least becomes more compact and low to the ground.

"You came from a human body?" Wen Ning asks.

It--Shadow--shakes its head. "A bird. For a while I thought I was the ghost of a bird, but the other birds said I wasn't. I tried staying in the body, but eventually the flies got too loud, and I didn't fit anymore."

"This is my own body," Wen Ning says. "I don't find it cramped, and there's no issue of decay or flies." He smiles, as much as he can.

"But is it comfortable?" Shadow asks. "It might be fine for the short term, but what if you do outgrow it?"

"I don't think that would happen," Wen Ning says. "Out growing it anyway. If I was no longer comfortable in this body, I would go to my friend, and he would help me leave." It was not something he necessarily wanted to ask of Wei-zhongzi, but he would if he were truly tired.

Shadow nods again. "I was going to ask about that next. From a distance I wasn't able to tell, but up close I can see those aren't your tethers keeping you in place, but someone else's. If you were stuck in there, and didn't want to be, I could have tried to get you out."

[the-unknown-storyteller]

The Sight Of Such Pretty Things

Summary: Wilbur is dead and Ghostbur fills the place he has left behind, mending the broken relationships he has thrown aside.

Wilbur is dead, but Ghostbur is alive in the sense that he gets to experience all the little things his former self may have taken for granted.

Talking with Philza about the colour green, stargazing with Tommy until deep into the night and collecting wild potatoes with Techno remind him that he is not that person anymore. That these moments are his and his alone.

Nevermind the fact that he can't talk freely, breaching sensitive topics left and right and touching people with hands that can only seem to remind and hurt with memories he himself cannot remember.

__

It all starts with Philza. With him and his green-striped bucket hat that ignites an irrational interest in Ghostbur's mind. It's such a nice green, is all he can think, as he walks laps around Philza's living room, mindlessly chattering and rambling on about his day. 

His restless hands throw a small piece of lapis that he found the other day from side to side, palming it in his right hand whenever he raises his hands in exaggerated sweeps and gestures to accompany his excited words about his newest project.

"-saw it just the other day and I really wanted to build it and Tubbo said he didn't mind it, so I just went right ahead and, Phil, I just gotta say, it's coming along great! Fundy is helping me balance it properly, so that it won't topple over and accidentally crush the main walkways and-" 

Ghostbur can hear his father hum every now and then to let him know that he is listening, as he mends the latest rip in one of his green shirts. Green like the stripes on his bucket hat. Both his feet and his words come to a stop, strangely fixated. It's so green.

"Hey, Phil, have you ever noticed how green your bucket hat actually is?" Ghostbur drifts over to his father to get a closer look at his hat, his crane building story forgotten. "Like, it's really green. One might think that, with all the fighting and running it has probably endured, it must have definitely lost its colourfulness. But look!" He raises his hands to frame the hat, as though it were something exceptionally precious. "Still as green as the day you got it, I'm sure!", he exclaims with a grin, his face mere centimetres away from Phil's.

"Uh, thanks, I guess." Philza laughs awkwardly, shuffling on his seat. "Never knew you were this enthusiastic about green clothes, mate."

"Oh, I'm not," Ghostbur chirps, playing with his piece of lapis, "I just really like yours, especially your hat!" He rubs his thumb over the stone one last time before putting it away, missing the way Phil's smile becomes strained. 

"It's funny that you say that. Someone I knew had the exact same sentiment towards green," Phil says softly, pulling the bucket hat from his head, rubbing at the worn fabric. "Especially towards my hat."

"Oh, how fun! Who was it?" Ghostbur loses concentration in his excitement and can distantly feel his body slowly float upwards, rotating until he stands upside down on the ceiling. Unbothered, he keeps talking. "Maybe you could introduce us sometime and we could talk about the colour green, about your green! I don't know what-"

"I… I don't think that will be possible, mate. It's been some time since I last… saw them," Phil apologizes, his voice catching at the end of the sentence.

Ghostbur sinks back down to the floor with a frown. He's done it again. "Are you okay, Phil? Here, have some blue. Calm yourself," he says, folding his hand around the blue he's just placed in his father's hands. He knows he's upset him. He keeps upsetting everyone because he keeps forgetting what is taboo to talk about and what isn't. Apparently, Philza's bucket hat is one of those things. What a shame, he really likes how green it is.

__

Tommy lets his almost broken axe fall to the ground, before flopping down himself. Sitting next to the small fire he lets out an annoyed groan.

"You know, you could have helped me chop down those trees instead of just standing there, watching and shit", he scoffs, picking at the splinters in his hands. All afternoon he had been chopping down tree after tree. Probably for his tower, which was looming behind Tommy in the far distance.

Ghostbur gives him a smile, quietly picking at the strings of his guitar, as he ignores his complaint. The soothing melody accompanies the constant crackling of their campfire and the sizzling of the fish above the flames. He starts humming for a bit, letting his gaze wander, and then he starts talking. 

"You know, I think you're quite lucky, Tommy. To be out here-", he starts, rotating the fish to keep it from burning. He resumes his strumming.

"Wha-?! What the fuck are you saying, Wil-"

"Where there is barely any light to taint the night sky", Ghostbur continues, undeterred by Tommy's protest. He repositions his left hand and the song becomes a bit more somber, bringing down the mood of the conversation with the descending chord progression. "I mean, the sky is just so beautiful out here, look," he breathes, tilting his head upwards. He notices his little brother frowning in his peripheral, but he follows his instructions and looks up as well.

"And what am I supposed to be seeing?"

"The stars, Tommy!" A grin spreads across his grayed out cheeks. The soft strumming stops for a moment, as Ghostbur makes a sweeping motion across the horizon. "The stars." A breath of admiration leaves his empty lungs.

"What about them?", Tommy asks, an annoyed tint to his voice. He sounds exhausted. Maybe he should have helped with the wood chopping, actually. Next time, maybe. Because right now, all he can think about is the twinkling and shining of the stars above him. How has he never noticed how many there are? How bright they are?

"Are you not seeing the same thing I'm seeing? Look at the stars, the milky way, they're all so incredibly clear out here in the wilderness." A shooting star flies across the sky, making Ghostbur gasp in child-like glee. "Quick! Make a wish, Tommy!"

"That's stupid, Ghostbur. I'm not a stupid child, believing in something stupid such as-"

"Ah, come on, Tommy. What's the worst that could happen? Just make a wish with me." Ghostbur claps his hands together more forcefully than was really necessary and closes his eyes. He peeks at the boy in ragged and torn clothes next to him, looking more tired and broken than a boy his age should, and mouths his silent wish for his little brother to please, please, come out of this alright. 

"Your turn!" He smiles, quietly rubbing at a piece of blue from his messenger bag when he's done.

"Ugh, fine," Tommy groans. He claps his hands together and closes his eyes with much less enthusiasm than the former did. His lips don't move along with his silent wish, but Ghostbur trusts his sincerity. Knows that the other can't be anything but sincere in almost everything he does. Whether he wants to or not. After a few moments he opens them back up. "There, done," he grumbles, "happy?"

A grin in approval and a nod, making Tommy roll his eyes. A shiver runs down his arms with the dropping temperatures of the night. Ghostbur stands up without a word, dumping three thick blankets on top of the younger when he returns. Satisfied when Tommy is adequately bundled up for the night, he sits back down at his place in front of the fire, picking up his guitar from the ground, and begins to strum yet another melody, more soothing than somber this time. He leans back against the tree log behind him, continuing to play long after the other has finally fallen asleep, only occasionally stopping to throw a log in the flames to keep the fire going. His eyes stay fixed at the stars that are so much brighter than they ever were in any of his faded memories.

__

The third time he gets fixated on something arguably insignificant, he is with Techno. They're out on a hunt for wild potatoes, since most of his old crops lay abandoned in their old ravine and the few that he managed to take with him long ago were not enough to start a proper farm. 

So here they were, quite a few thousand blocks away from Techno's base, where the ground isn't permanently frozen and manages to support the occasional berry bushes and even some wild carrots. When they come across some tall yellow-white flowers, Techno immediately puts down his bag next to them and gets out his shovel. He plows through the dirt, bringing up large chunks with every scoop he takes. They're littered with the beautiful golden glow of potatoes. 

Ghostbur floats up to the piglin, watching him check every potato he finds and throw the good ones in his bag. The dirt, damp with recently fallen rain, sticks to Techno's clothes, getting stuck in the fur of his red cape and leaving dirty smudges on his crown whenever he adjusts it. Ghostbur tilts his head, feeling a strangely familiar itch in his hands, urging him to go, go, touch it, touch it now, take it. He ignores it.

It's dirty.

"You know, I've always been curious, Techno." He picks up one of the bigger potatoes on the ground to keep his hand busy and turns it over in his hand, looking for any faults on its skin. He throws it up in the air a few times, judging its weight. "Why are you so… fascinated with them?" He throws the large potato, which the other catches easily. His eyes drift down to the red of his cape and the white of his fur collar, clumps of dirt and mud spread throughout. He tears his gaze away. "I remember you having a large farm in the ravine and I think I've never seen you eat anything other than a baked potato." 

"I do not only eat baked potatoes," Techno protests, picking up his bag and walking towards the next yellow-white flower cluster he sees in the close distance. The ghost follows with impossibly light steps.

"I only eat them most of the time," he admits, driving his shovel into the ground. He throws his falling cape back over his shoulder, ignoring the way it accidentally gets dragged through a muddy puddle next to him.

"Which is most of the time if we're being honest," Ghostbur remarks with a grin, his hands still itch with the thought of Techno's red cape getting dirty, he's always so careless with it, the white fur is getting ruined. He starts plucking the yellow-white flowers, delighted when he finds a slightly purple variant of it.

"Because they are clearly the superior food source," Techno shoots back, throwing the last potato in his bag. He notices that Ghostbur's is still completely empty except for a piece of lapis and the sack full of blue that he is so fond of carrying and handing out. With a sigh, he keeps moving. They change location a few more times, whenever the ground has no more potatoes to give, until both bags are finally filled to the brim.

Satisfied with the amount, Techno puts his shovel away and they start the trek back to his base. The sun is only two hours away from setting and they're quite a long way away from home, so Techno picks up his pace, pulling the ghost with him, away from the bees and their nest in the tree.

With nothing to preoccupy his hands Ghostbur takes out his piece of lapis, running his fingers over its rough ridges. His crown is smudged with mud.

"There is dirt on your crown," Ghostbur points out, looking up at Techno's head with a frown. "And your cape." He picks at some clumps of mud and pulls out a few small twigs.

"It's fine, I can just wash it, when we get back." And that's that. Except Ghostbur knows that Techno will just hang it up at the entrance, brushing off the worst of the by then dried mud the next time he has to go out and wear it. How does he know that. Now that he's pointed it out and begun cleaning it, the itch in his hands has grown to be unbearable. This feels familiar. He won't be able to clean the cape right away without any soap or water, he's always so careless with it, never properly taking care, and his crown is dirty with mud.

"Give it to me," Ghostbur suddenly demands, extending his hand towards Techno's crown. Why is this so important to me? "Give me your crown." The piglin raises an eyebrow at the demand, but hands over the golden crown with a shrug, curious as to what has the ghost riled up so suddenly.

Ghostbur snatches the crown from the other's hand and starts to clean it with the fabric of his sweater. The mud that has since dried slowly flakes off and reveals the shiny surface underneath. He almost obsessively rubs at the inlaid jewels, scratching away the dirt. He turns it over a few times when he is done and returns it to his owner with a slight huff. "Please take better care of it next time."

Techno chuckles at the ghost antics, but his brows are pulled together and he looks anything but amused. He doesn't hide his small frown fast enough.

Ghostbur mentally adds Techno's crown to the taboo list, as they continue walking home. At least the itching in his hands has stopped.

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight prologue (part 1)

I’m back, with as much verbosity and discussion of identity as ever, this time featuring Lan and Perrin.

Loial gets the epigraph this time. Good for you, Loial. Live your dreams.

Prologue: Distinctions

Wait a second. Hold on. Is this… are we… am I being greeted, upon my return to this series after several months, by a Lan POV? Is this possible?

Mandarb’s hooves beat a familiar rhythm on broken ground as Lan Mandragoran rode toward his death.

Because of course. Of course we get Lan’s POV, for the first time in the series, when he is riding at last to his private war with the Blight, to avenge the country that died decades ago and whose death he has always seen as his own, only delayed. Of course we get his POV now, when he is riding to what he believes is, at last, his death.

This has always been his purpose. He is a sword, a weapon, an oath, a fallen nation. A weapon doesn’t get to have a voice. A dead nation doesn’t get to speak. A sword can’t tell its own story. Especially because, all that time, he was held back from this, which he has always seen as his purpose. His only purpose. He let himself be bonded all those years ago but he never really gave up that sense of… I was about to say identity, but it’s both identity and total lack thereof. Identity, but not as a person, not as someone with agency and a story to tell. Just a weapon, forged for a single purpose.

And so, riding to his death, this is the closest he comes in the main series to feeling alive. Now that he is fulfilling that purpose, now that he is following the one path he has always considered his own. This, here, this ride to his death, is his entire identity.

So yes. In that sense it is beautifully fitting that we open with his POV for the first time in the main series, now as it draws towards its end. Now that he is freed, such as it is, to at last meet what he believes is his end, and his beginning, and the task that defined his entire… well. ‘Life’ sounds rather ironic there, but it’s the best I can do.

Anyway, we’re one line in and I’ve already written several hundred words, so I guess even after a hiatus nothing’s changed.

Turns out the earth is apparently quite literally salted here. So that’s a good start.

He’d turned away from it twenty years ago, agreeing to follow Moiraine, but he’d always known he would return. This was what it meant to bear the name of his fathers, the sword on his hip, and the hadori on his head.

All three representative of something dead, something lost, something gone. Something he accepts as lost. He doesn’t ride to revive Malkier, he rides to bury it (though I’m sure he wouldn’t mind praising it along the way). His entire life and self have been defined by this, by death and the past. The wheel of time turns, and stories fade and must ultimately be left in order to find a future, but Lan, for all his wisdom in some areas, has never really understood that. Or, perhaps more accurately, never felt it could apply to him.

I think in some way he did understand it, in that he bound himself to Moiraine even when it meant leaving his burned past and his private war in order to fight for the future of the world, but even then, it was only… temporary. Ultimately, he accepts the past as having a hold on him, accepts the idea the has never had and never will have a future.

It is, in a way, a parallel to or slight variant on Rand, on a different scale. Rand struggled (at least I think it’s past tense at this point) for so long to figure out how to accept Lews Therin as a part of himself without the terror of being bound to his past life’s fate. And on top of that there’s his whole he belongs to the Pattern, and to history. Moiraine saw that as future history – something that is not yet but will be history, but is future from where we stand. But Rand – and Lan – end up with a slightly different view of that. Rand fights against the memory of a doomed past and relinquishes all sense of freedom or choice or agency (until he gets better), and Lan lets the past own him and define him and guide him and kill him, all without ever dreaming to have a life of his own.

Riding to his death didn’t pain him

And why should it? Defined by death as he is. If you never think of yourself as someone who gets to be a person and have a life, what fear would death hold? He was only ever a… placeholder? A delayed strike, a remnant, a part of something dead that just hasn’t got around to lying down and stopping yet.

But knowing she feared for him… that did hurt. Very badly.

There’s a slightly bitter part of me that can’t quite get over the disappointment that the first Lan POV we get in the main series isn’t written by Jordan. Because Jordan’s writing of Lan in New Spring was beautiful. Spare but surprisingly lovely, and yet all threaded through with the idea and mention and thought of death, not in a morbid or even grim way but just as a part of the lens through which the story is told… it was so perfectly suited to Lan, and this feels… less so. It’s not bad; it’s just. I feel like I have a sense of what it could be and it’s not quite that.

Then again we’re still only like two paragraphs in, Great Lord of the Dark Lia would you get on with it already.

He hadn’t seen another person in days.

Too soon for a self-isolation joke?

Oh look, the first of his army has arrived!

Because the Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don. Man, that scene.

This kid’s like ‘hi! I’m here! I brought things, and supplies, and I’m just so excited, and and and’ and Lan is like ‘okay but who the fuck are you’.

Come on, Wheel of Time, let Lan Mandragoran say ‘fuck’.

Bulen? That sounds familiar, and he looks familiar to Lan…he’s definitely from New Spring. He was the errand boy, wasn’t he? Well, three cheers for conservation of characters.

“But when word spread in the palace that the Golden Crane was raised, I knew what I had to do.”

Really, Bulen? Do you not remember what happened last time someone tried to raise the Golden Crane in Lan’s name? I mean I’m all for it and Nynaeve is certainly a long way from Edeyn and that scene of the Golden Crane flies for Tarmon Gai’don still gives me at least two-thirds of an emotion when I think about it, but you’d think the kid would have grown a sense of self-preservation after what went down twenty years ago. Then again, no one in this series has a sense of self-preservation, so why change that now?

El’Nynaeve! She gets her title! She once had to fight so hard for people to respect her as Wisdom, and then as Aes Sedai, and now people who have barely met her give her a royal title! Because she’s out there raising an army and a nation from its grave!

(Yeah, yeah, you could point out that she has to fight for all the titles she earns, while this is one given to her by virtue of her marriage to a man, but honestly I’m just going to enjoy hearing this random kid call her El’Nynaeve because he already thinks of her as his queen because she’s just that cool. And you can’t stop me.)

Well, if she could play games with the truth, then so could he. Lan had said he’d take anyone who wished to ride with him. This man was not mounted. Therefore, Lan could refuse him. A petty distinction, but twenty years with Aes Sedai had taught him a few things about how to watch one’s words.

I’m dying. Sure, the prose is Sanderson, but the sentiment it expresses? Is absolutely Lan. It’s a slightly more grown up and jaded version of New Spring Lan, and it’s pretty much exactly what I imagine Lan’s internal monologue throughout the entirety of The Eye of the World looking like. He and Moiraine are well-matched in that for all their extreme competence, and wisdom, and ability to set everything aside for the sake of the world… they are also capable of great pettiness coated in a fine veneer of dry humour and presented as Done With Your Shit.

Lan’s just like ‘nope, no cranes to see here, golden or paper or otherwise, just denial as far as the eye can see.’

Lan would not call anyone ‘son’. He has an epithet for everyone but that is not one of them.

“My father was Malkieri,” Bulen said from behind.

Lan continued on.

“He died when I was five,” Bulen called.

Yes, well, that’s something you have in common, give or take a few years.

Lan’s not here for anyone’s tragic backstory but his own.

Except Bulen, for all that he never learned self-preservation, apparently learned how to tug on the heartstrings.

“I would wear the hadori of my father,” Bulen called, voice growing louder. “But I have nobody to ask if I may.”

Damn it, this kid. Was that me or Lan speaking just now? We may never know.

Lan’s still trying to send him away, because Lan Mandragoran does not need to adopt any more wayward children who are only trying to find their way, and Bulen’s just trying every angle of attack he can possibly find and this kid sure has an arsenal.

“I hardly knew who you were, though I know you lost someone dear to you among us.”

Because if appealing to your tragic past doesn’t work, maybe appealing to his will. I have to admire Bulen’s determination to make a slightly nostalgic nuisance of himself until the Uncrowned King of Malkier finally gives him a sticker.

“I spent years cursing myself for not serving you better. I swore that I would stand with you someday.” He walked up beside Lan. “I ask you because I have no father. May I wear the hadori and fight at your side, al’Lan Mandragoran? My King?”

I’m fine. This is fine. Everything is fine and I do not feel emotions.

And Lan’s cursing Nynaeve for the oath she made him swear but what a conflict this must be for him: to be confronted with the life of his nation, when all he wants is to avenge its death. To have someone look to him not as a sword or a reminder of what is gone but as a father, a king, a leader, a symbol of something returning, something renewed.

It is, in a way, not entirely unlike his conflict in New Spring. Only he’s already learned to crush that hope before it even makes itself known, because it can only end in pain. And yet, it doesn’t stop finding him.

Nynaeve, when I next see you… But he would not see her again. He tried not to dwell upon that.

Don’t say that where Nynaeve can hear you. But really, I think I’ve said this before, but Lan is one of the characters whose survival I am most confident in, largely because of this. Because to let him die… sure, it wouldn’t really be surprising, and in a way it would fulfil the ending he wants, but it wouldn’t… move his story anywhere. Whereas to take a character so certain of and accepting of his death, someone who never believed he should even have a life at all, whose every waking moment has been in waiting of his end, the truly satisfying ending would be for him to get to live. Not just in the sense of surviving, but actually living.

Because again, it’s not unlike a part of Rand’s story, recently: the rediscovery of life. Of the purpose of it all. On Dragonmount he saw it two ways: once as meaningless, pointless, because victory just brings another battle and every lifetime is pain and he has no freedom and why not just end it. But then as another chance, the possibility of life and love and something better. And I think there’s an element of that threaded through the series as a whole. This idea that yes, things fade and die and are lost, and yes there is pain and duty and a Pattern woven, but in amidst all of that the point is to live. Not to just survive until you can die for the cause, but to actually live along the way. It’s that question of what are you fighting for, what is the purpose of all of this? Rand has, at last, found that. Lan… still needs to.

“We ride anonymously,” Lan said.

Sure. As anonymously as Rand riding into Tear, pretending gloves could hide his identity. Whatever you say, Lan.

“You tell nobody who I am.”

There’s a whole Thing here about erasing his own identity, which is almost ironic in that the fact that he has a POV at all is a way of showing him embracing that identity, except that the identity he is embracing is the denial of self to all intents and purposes in favour of a duty and a dead nation that defined him before he could ever define himself.

I mean. It’s just a throwaway line. But I’m me, and so it’s not.

***

Oh hello Perrin, what are you doing in a prologue? Shouldn’t you be off in a real chapter with all your friends? Run along now.

He seems to be at a forge, though, so that’s a good look.

Some people found the clang of metal against metal grating. Not Perrin. That sound was soothing.

I like this, because especially without the surrounding context it plays so well into one of the central dualities of Perrin’s character: that of the gentle, careful one who wants to build things and work a forge and know peace versus the side of him that is terrifying in battle and feels alive when fighting and runs with wolves. Metal on metal, in a forge or a battlefield.

Oh it’s a dream. That works too. Rand dreams of his sworn and fated enemy and sits with him by the fire as they both take a moment away from the tasks neither of them truly want but cannot relinquish, and Perrin dreams of a forge.

He was making something important.

A nation? A decision? A bed to replace the one he ‘lost’ in the bushes? Tell us, Perrin.

Understand the pieces, Perrin.

Ah, and there it is. Such a crucial task for the ta’veren whose power manifests largely in the forging of nations, in bringing people to him and together, in binding. But to do that, you have to know what you’re binding. Which requires not denying it, but I think perhaps Perrin has finally moved beyond that.

Hi Hopper. Want a belly rub?

What am I making? Perrin picked up the length of glowing iron with his tongs. The air warped around it.

Well that is the question, Perrin, is it not? Time to let yourself answer it. Time to move past instinct, or exceptional ability in emergencies that lapses into denial once they’re over. He’s so good in those situations, but he struggles with the times in between, the times when his thoughts catch up to him. And now… he needs to push past that, and be able to truly accept it all, to not just swing the hammer but to know what he’s making, to plan it, to be deliberate and purposeful – which is so much a part of him in some ways, but there are areas he avoids.

Hopper’s like okay okay but can we get our symbolism by chasing things or something fun? You humans and your hammers, I swear.

Master Luhhan would be ashamed to see such shoddy work. Perrin needed to discover what he was making soon

I mean, there’s really nothing for me to even add to that.

More hammering, but he’s angry now.

It should all be better now! But it isn’t. It seems worse somehow.

He continued pounding. He hated those rumours that the men in camp whispered about him.

There’s a pun here to be made about hammers and pounding and Berelain but I am an adult and therefore I shall refrain.

More to the point, though… he’s directing his anger at the rumours but I think it’s rather more about that first part. That things should be ‘better’ now, but they aren’t, and he still doesn’t know what he’s making. He was driven, focused (too driven, too focused) and he had a task and so he could pursue it with single-minded determination, but as soon as he completed it… he was back with his thoughts and a nation following him and a role he has partway accepted but still hasn’t quite come to terms with. He still doesn’t fully accept what he is, who he is, what he can do, what he will have to do.

And so he’s doing what he can, and trying to forge those bonds and face what’s coming but there’s a part of him still holding back, still uncertain of what that means, or still reluctant to face it.

It’s an interesting scene because the framing is so similar to Perrin at the forge in The Dragon Reborn, and yet the tone is so utterly different. That was meditative, deliberate, beautiful; Perrin in his element, creating something perhaps not beautiful but well-made, functional, perfectly suited to its purpose. That was Perrin as he saw himself then, when he knew who he was – or at least, who he wanted to be. This… the work is sloppy and Perrin doesn’t even know what he’s making (whereas then, he decided almost immediately but without urgency; it was just an ease and comfort in knowing what the metal would be) but he’s pressing ahead; this is his identity but he’s still forcing it, and so it all feels wrong.

Hopper’s like okay well why don’t you just, you know, not, and ah, we’re back to the wolf thing. Just because Rand has perhaps finally figured out how to balance the different aspects of himself doesn’t mean all the characters have.

Perrin wasn’t nearly as in control as he’d assumed. The wolf within him could still reign.

But, like with the forging, trying to force it isn’t really the answer. Accept, Perrin. Look at the pieces you actually have. Understand them. Understand the different parts of yourself, and take them as they are, and then you can forge them and fit them together. But you can’t do it by ignoring what they are and just trying to force them into what you think they should be. Especially if you don’t even have a clear idea of what that is.

Problems are not amusing, Young Bull, Hopper agreed. But you are climbing back and forth over the same wall.

At least it’s not that damn garden wall in Caemlyn.

But I like how directly this is acknowledged, first with Tam last book and now with Hopper, here. That Perrin keeps wavering over this same conflict, keeps taking two steps forward and one step back, keeps doubting himself and questioning himself and fearing this aspect of himself that he taps into at need but then runs from again.

I like it, as a way to play out a character arc in a way that isn’t just linear growth. Sure, it’s frustrating as all hell sometimes, but it feels real. Because sometimes we don’t Learn The Important Lesson and then move on with our lives never having to face that problem again. Sometimes you overcome your doubts or fear of something once, or find your way past an obstacle, only to find that when it comes up again, hey, turns out it’s still pretty difficult. Not everything is conquered the first time, or the second, or…

PERRIN DO NOT ASK HOW TO REVERSE YOUR WOLFPOWERS. EMBRACE THE WOLFPOWERS. YOU’VE ONLY GOT TWO BOOKS LEFT.

Ah, Perrin, so much self-doubt. But then, his timeline is a bit behind Rand’s, I believe, so he is rather due for a last moment of crisis before the storm breaks.

The quenching barrel is boiling and Perrin doesn’t know what he’s forging and all his movements are almost…clumsy. Rushed and uncareful and the exact opposite of the spare economy of motion from that first forging scene. Because he’s no longer moving with the comfort of surety in who he is and what he’s doing; he’s doubting himself and his task and his capacity and his purpose, unsure and afraid and trying to force some things and ignore others and it doesn’t work that way.

Oh, I like this.

The glow faded. The chunk was actually a small steel figurine in the shape of a tall, thin man with a sword tied to his back. Each line of the figure was detailed, the ruffles of the shirt, the leather bands on the hilt of the tiny sword. But the face was distorted, the mouth open in a twisted scream.

Aram, Perrin thought. His name was Aram.

That is excellent. And it reminds me so strongly, with the twisted scream and the naming, of that scene that absolutely ruins me in the Rhuidean sequence, where Lewin veils his face and the wind rises and he screams ‘I am Aiel’, as those who call themselves Aiel turn from him and name him lost.

And that Aram is forged from steel, from Perrin’s forge, because Perrin as he sees it made him what he became (took him from a life of peace to one of violence), and it’s a perfectly formed piece; it’s not like a misshapen lump of metal, but it’s still wrong. Not what it should be. Not what it should have been.

Why had he created such a thing?

Oh, Perrin.

What a question. Because of course he holds himself responsible. But… while he may have been a catalyst of sorts, this was Aram’s choice. But that doesn’t make it hurt less. A child of peace, who lost everything and came to Perrin for permission to learn the sword, to fight and kill, and who eventually lost even that and died for it. A follower of the Way of the Leaf, brought to a life and death of violence at Perrin’s side. Perrin, who for all he argued with the Tuatha’an about their pacifism still wished for a world in which it could be true, and, I think, wished a little bit that he could have known something like that for himself.

Aw, we left Malden, do we have to go back in the dreamscape?

Did Perrin really look that imposing?

Yes. Next question?

A squat fortress of a man

I am dying. What a phrase. Who needs a brick shithouse when you can have a squat fortress.

And he’s holding the axe again in his dream. He made that choice, but like so many other things, it still occasionally wavers. He is still not sure of who he is. That, he still hasn’t truly decided and accepted and understood, for all that he’s grasped pieces of it around the edges.

A horn or a hoof, Young Bull, does it matter which one you use to hunt? Hopper was sitting in the sunlit street beside him.

“Yes. It matters. It does to me.”

And yet you use them the same way.

I like this exchange because Hopper is right… but so is Perrin. Because perception is absolutely a part of it. Perception, and choices, and a… claiming, of sorts, of his identity. Yes, he uses the hammer to destroy, just as he uses the axe. But to him, the fact that the hammer can be used for another purpose matters. It makes a difference because he chooses to see it that way. Which is, in its way, just as important as Rand choosing to see his fate not as inevitability and despair but as another chance. The smallest shift in perception, looking at the same thing from a slightly different angle, and yet it makes all the difference in the world.

I just like things like that, where these ideas can be simultaneously so close together and so far apart. These infinitesimal distinctions that alter an entire worldview. One small shift and everything falls into place, even if from the outside you’d never understand that there was a difference.

When Perrin fought, he came close to becoming someone else. And that was dangerous.

But is it someone else? Or is this like Rand and Lews Therin, where he fought so hard to hold to the distinction, because he was too afraid of what it might mean to let Lews Therin be a part of him. Perrin is so afraid of what accepting the wolf aspect of his nature might mean, that he sees it as a different person. As someone else. As something he could lose himself to, rather than as something he needs to find within himself and embrace as part of who he is.

Ah, identity.

“Why are you making me dream this?”

Yeah, sorry Perrin, but no.

Though for some reason this reminds me of that dream Rand and Moridin shared and Moridin finally being like ‘okay so what are you doing here’ and Rand thinking Moridin had brought him into the dream and really, boys, do I need to get Egwene in here to teach the lot of you how to dream responsibly?

Except wait, no, Egwene dreams about Gawyn so she’s not responsible in that regard either. Damn.

Anyway.

So Perrin’s re-living Aram’s death in his dreams.

Perrin stepped back. He refused to fight the boy again.

The shadowy version of himself split off, leaving the real Perrin in his blacksmith’s clothing. The shadow exchanged blows with Aram.

Because Perrin is fighting himself: the blacksmith who wants peace, and the warrior who runs with wolves. But he doesn’t see how they can reconcile, how he could possibly be both.

Also everything about Aram’s story is still rather beautifully sad. A lonely branching of the Aiel’s ongoing story, an offshoot of the main Rhuidean sequence, truncated before it could go anywhere, lost with who knows how many others.

Right before Aram would have killed Perrin.

The horn, the hoof, or the tooth […] Does it matter? The dead are dead.

[…]

“I should have taken that fool sword from him the moment he picked it up. I should have sent him back to his family.”

Does not a cub deserve his fangs? Hopper asked, genuinely confused. Why would you pull them?

“It is a thing of men,” Perrin said.

Things of two-legs, of men. Always, it is a thing of men to you. What of things of wolves?

“I am not a wolf.”

This whole argument with Hopper is excellent because again, Hopper is right. But so is Perrin. And it’s so perfectly… it’s Perrin’s dream, and whether Hopper is actually there or not is almost irrelevant, because it’s essentially Perrin arguing with himself. At war between the two sides of his nature, and he goes around and around because until he accepts that he can be both, that he does not have to be defined as the man or the wolf, he won’t be able to find answers that make sense. Because it’s an argument where both sides are right, but he’s trying to pick only one. And so he can never win, never progress.

Perrin in his dream is literally forging figures of the people from the Two Rivers. Just like in reality he is forging them, binding them together, making them into what they must be to face the Last Battle with him. It’s not subtle, but it is rather lovely.

Though lines like this:

The figurine continued to glow, faintly reddish

Still give me flashbacks to last book, and Rand, and a certain ter’angreal of mass destruction.

But figurines like this wouldn’t be forged; they’d be cast. “What does it mean?”

Hey, at least you know enough of dreams to understand that Here There Be Symbolism, even if you don’t quite understand what of. We’ll call that a solid B+.

Hopper doesn’t think much of symbolism unless he can eat it. That’s fair.

Laughter in the distance? Moridin, are you fucking with people’s dreams again? Though he doesn’t seem like much of one for laughter these days.

Either way, dreamtime’s over. Good night, Perrin.

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