#tw: ptsd implication

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

What if I told u,,,,, a RepairBot-Reader comic-tidbit was in the works,,,,

(WiPs!)

Featuring! A small and sweet moment for ReaderBot making a new friend <3

(don’t worry, there’s some nice angst in there, too)

: )

What do you see, ReaderBot ?

[veil-over-miitopia]

The Hero’s Torment

This is the second - hopefully final - part of the “Intertwining Strengths” theory. The link to the first part will be in the notes, because, as of writing this, Tumblr is still figuring out its head from its ass.

As usual, I will be referring to the MH, Great Sage, and Dark Lord using They/Them pronouns

🌋⚔️🌋⚔️🌋

(It’s a lot more immersive when you listen to The Lost Sigils of Enkanomiya while reading all this; trust me on this one)

So, we last left off on the source of the supposedly “divine” power that grants the Main Hero power, the significance of relations - whether familial, platonic, or romantic - within the lore of Miitopia, and the reason behind the Dark Lord kidnapping our teammates and leaving us powerless.

As a quick tl;dr, we have established that the “Divine Power” that was echoed throughout the story was an example of the Indomitable Human Spirit taken to a literal extreme. Looking back at this revelation, I was surprised by how well it meshed with the theme/feel of the game and its contrast to the Dark Curse’s birth - an origin tied to sorrow, isolation and self-hatred, unlike the community and trust that our team starts to irradiate as time goes on -.

As I was discussing this theory with one of my friends, they have mentioned the similarities between this hypothesis and Warhammer 40k’s Warp - and how every living being’s desires/emotions are made material there -, and while it isn’t exactly a 1:1 comparison, it isn’t hard to see the resemblances between both games’ worldbuilding. You could say that Miitopia is a more hopeful 40K, seeing that even positive emotions and memories can act as literal sources of power.

What I have failed to mention was the reason why their third attempt at sealing our powers backfired miserably. While I haven’t exactly figured out a solid cause behind that and how it ties to said theme of healthy communities, the answers that I’ve managed to guess happened to be quite simple; it can range from the accumulation of new friends as we wandered through the fairy forest, the hopes everyone placed within us reaching the point where it overturned the dark magic, or the burning determination to save everyone we’ve met along the way growing so much that the DL was unable to seal it away.

Frankly speaking, I’d rather keep this one up to the interpretation of the player, and see how much they cherish their goal in mind/their lost teammates through their own answer to this riddle. This is the magic of Miitopia; its customizability, and that, no matter how many times you would replay the story over and over again, you will get different events leading up to each penultimate moment. There will be new characters, new lore, new roles to fill in, and the only limit is one’s imagination (and their determination to keep on replaying the same game over and over again).

This somewhat reminds me of the Commedia Dell’arte, in which stock characters represented by masks are thrown into new whacky hijinks without the need to introduce these characters to the audience - for their masks alone are enough to identify them -. What differentiates Miitopia from the Commedia, however, is that it somewhat functions in the polar-opposite way: the setting and overall story staying consistent and true to form, while the castmembers change roles with every replay time and time again.

Returning to the topic at hand, all this talk about healthy relations, growth, and determination- it all returns to the Dark Lord’s purpose, their interactions with the hero, and the less-than-conventional way of dealing with MH during the end f each chapter. Truth be told, all of them are more than likely to be what the Dark Lord desired to destroy; your spirit, your hopes, your ideals, and, most importantly, your compassion, and there ain’t no better way to do so than to capture and control the very sources of our powers to do their own bidding.

This is what the topic of today shall cover; we shall be analyzing the Dark Lord’s final solution to break the hero’s will, how the status of the monsters that bear their faces tie into the memories we made with them - the very power that pushes us through these hurdles life throws at us -; and how the Dark Lord seeks to taint and even break them in order to finally render us powerless.

We first begin with the start of the hero’s darkness, Karkaton Ascent, where we meet the third teammates of each team- those we have the least amount of memories with them, and, therefore, the lowest bond (usually), so it would make sense that their faces are plastered onto boss monsters that are of the more “common” variety. Guardians of the Ascent if you chose to interpret it, yes, but they are evidently of a lower rank than the next two categories of monsters that I will be talking about.

By looking at these behemoths and when we meet their first iterations, it becomes evident as to what the DL was aiming for; the Magma Slime, Paincloud, and Burning Golem all belong to same line of monsters we meet in Greenhorne, and the order in which we fight them reflects that on fleek.

From that alone, we can see that the goal here was to mock us; to tell us that we made a grave mistake by confronting the Dark Lord ever since he ravaged that little town. Had we stayed in our lanes, then our friends wouldn’t have become another drop in the ocean of the DL’s madness- indistinguishable from every other monster we had to slay before them.

Next we cut to Karkaton Volcano itself, and the titan that was waiting for us at the end of the road; Cerberus, Guardian of the Underworld, and the Dark Lord’s guddest boi. It is there that we witness the mii equivalent of body horror AND, when you think about it, psychological horror; the monster possesses three faces at once - each belonging to the second teammates of each party -, so one can imagine the psychological implications of all this. What kind of pain were they in with every attack? How much of their thoughts were one another’s? Was there still a hint of their former selves within them? Or just a hound that is hungry for juicy human flesh?

A guard dog, a possible shared consciousness, and the implication that they’ve more or less lost their minds in the process- that is surprisingly brutal, even for the Dark Lord, and, to my dismay, I believe that this was the point.

In this point of no return, you are presented by one of the Dark Lord’s magnum opuses; all three of your teammates fused into one loyal - yet ferocious and lost - pet. As the fight goes on, the message becomes as clear as glass; they are under his command, and, if he so asks, they will bare their teeth and tear your flesh apart. These are no longer your friends, but an ungodly amalgam that has forgotten all the good times you’ve spent with them in the midst of all their shared agony.

Even after you save the day, will you be able to look into their eyes again without flinching? Without remembering the unthinking ferity that was in their eyes as they gnashed and gnawed at their own teeth whilst all they could think of was tearing you apart?

As grim as all this sounds, we still haven’t reached the final stage- the Dark Lord’s castle, where the first party member of each team await for our rescue.

They were the first friendly faces we’ve met throughout each and every region of Miitopia, and all were kind enough to lend us a helping hand to assist us in our journey. It will be these very hands - those that once provided assistance to our lost hero - that shall be covered in our own blood soon enough.

Upon getting separated from our party members, we find the first party members of Neksdor and RotF respectively; one becoming a demon, and the other a picture of the DL themselves. After we rescue them, we finally find our very first friend, the person who saved us as we were surrounded by monsters, as a monster themselves- the armor beast wielding a sword and a shield; the final roadblock presented to us before we are able to reunite with our entire team once more.

This is the final frontier; the last push to test the limits of the main hero’s drive and even mind. These are not just high-ranking monsters and the Dark Lord’s direct servants, they also are the reflections of each of their traits- extensions of themselves, each imbued with parts of their own power so that they can command the monsters alongside them.

The Demon reflects the unholy nature of the Dark Lord, the aura of command they emit -  as presented by the imps that apparently serve them -, and sheer strength. A beast that has clawed themselves out of Hell itself to serve this reign of chaos and darkness bearing the face of someone you once trusted- in the midst of battle, all you can do is cry out for help in your frightened state, only for their hammer to instantly slam you to the other direction. This monster is one of the Dark Lord’s commanders.

The Painting is...a little too on the nose. It is the Dark Lord’s image (yeah, nooooo shit, Sherlock), a symbol of their pride and status, and their everlasting gaze. Bow to your knees, for you have been blessed by sight of their otherwordly grace, for even the earth beneath you heeds to their will and shall enact judgement upon the nonbelievers. I am not 100% sure on what role they serve in the Dark Lord’s army other than a sentient symbol, but if we’re gonna take the trope of haunted paintings whose eyes follow you in every corner to heart, then, perhaps, the job of the intel is most befitting a monster like that.

Finally, comes the Armor, which surprisingly bears a lot more symbolism than I expected (and is exactly why it is my favorite boss monster). This monster dons the face of your very first teammate, someone who has, quite literally, shielded you from the swarm of rock moths, so, of course, the role of a knight in shining armor who has come to save the day is perfect for the one who has initially unlocked the power of trust within us.

As for the traits they share with the Dark Lord, the best that comes to mind are the themes of royalty and, much like the Demon, power- albeit, in this case, it is evident that they are under direct servitude of their boss. Able to create monsters like them, this beast is the closest to the Dark Lord’s perfect image of his dominion; the old world shall burn in order to pave way for his new utopia. This beast is not only the Dark Lord’s general, but also their trusted knight- a guardian that has betrayed you to serve another. A sour cocktail of ridicule, powerlessness, and heartbreak.

How will you be able to rest well at night? Even with their faces restored, all you can see as your gaze falls upon them are not the happy times you shared with them long ago- these people, these faces...they’re all a blur now- your mind is just no longer able to connect the dots between them and whatever breath of fresh air you had in between trials.

No, these faces stared down at you, cackling as they bludgeoned you during your weakest times, and no longer whispered words of reassurance- but instead spat venomous insults at you.

How will you be able to trust your team once again after they have each taken a turn to beat you until you were gravely wounded and a mess of tears, blood, shattered bones and drool? They had no power over what had happened to them, but the memories still stand, the experiences have seeped into your nerves and mind, and one more minute with them is enough to metaphorically burn you up- to have you screaming in a fit of horror and fear. Even if they tried to comfort you, all you can do is instinctively slap their hands away, afraid that this will all happen again.

Of course, one can still fight without having to worry or focus much on the faces plastered unto them; they’re just monsters, you would repeat to yourself- just slice them down, free those faces, and it’ll be a sunny day tomorrow; promise.

They’re just monsters, you would repeat to yourself- just slice them down and it’ll be a sunny day tomorrow; promise.

They’re just monsters, you would repeat. Just slice them down.

They’re just monsters.

Just monsters.

Monsters.

....After striking down countless beasts with the faces/souls of fellow humans standing in your way, one must look within themselves and see whether they still had the humanity and empathy within them to look at these monstrosities bearing the eyes of their beloved. Are you able to look at a human face and recognize the person in front of you? Or does a face hold so little meaning to you nowadays? That it is just there, and no longer something to be registered within your mind?

From the thought alone, this quote nigh-instantly came to my mind:

“He who fights monsters should look to it that he himself doesn’t become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

[laranomyprisma]

Henry are you gonna be ok

TW: PTSD, Depression and Implication of Self-Harm.

Henry was awake during the night...the others were still asleep.

he was in the kitchen drinking water...he was touching his throat... he was pressing his fingers, flinching with every touch...

he was holding back the tears looking at the water in his hands... his hands were shaking...he tried to drink the water but a shock of memory made him let the glass fall to the floor breaking into several pieces of glass...

he starts to hyperventilate... he touches his face below his eye... he looks at his reflection...

Henry saw his father's reflection....

He covered his head with his arms, whimpering several no's in a broken voice, choking on tears...

He looks to the side, he could see a knife... The blade seemed to mesmerize Henry... He slowly lifts his trembling arm and brings it closer to the utensil.... His bandages were coming off...

He stops...

Why? Why he hurts himself so much..... This is Ellie's apartment... He didn't want to get blood on it...

He backs away from the knife, still covering his head with his arms...

He notices the loose bandages... He starts to take them off aggressively, throwing them to the floor. They were completely stained with dried blood, he was hyperventilating, choking even more with the cries and sobs, coughing a little...

He kept himself in his corner trying to ignore this pain he had in his soul...

[canineborderline]

I DON’T TRUST YOU

NOT TO TEAR THE FLESH FROM MY OLD ACHING BONES

BECAUSE I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT TEARING THE MEAT FROM YOURS

I AM HUNGRY FOR THAT FALSE SENSE OF SECURITY

I HAD SO LONG AGO

THE THOUGHT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH

[bonkingcat]

might be a bit odd or a stretch and written poorly by me (sorry if its rambly basically) but mithrun has such interesting but devastating symbolism and importance for a message in dunmeshi.

(TW SA/ABUSE MENTIONS)

the goat (demon) being an abusive relationship that to you who is in it only sees a nice perfect person doing anything for you, only for things to slowly get worse and worse… leading to SA (it’s not actual SA but the imagery has subtle implications of it) and other forms of physical and psychological abuse.

this leaving mithrun in an intense state of depression, ptsd and other issues like getting mana sickness really easily, which is also connected to the physical disabilities he got from said abuse. and due to these states he finds he can not desire anything anymore, he can only feel empty, not even a desire to get help and only feels a strong anger to the person and tries to prevent anyone else from going through the same.

but he’s not a lost cause.

“so.. even vegetable scraps have their uses, huh?”

he blames himself for his trauma, he sees himself as worthless and not one to be desired anymore because of what he went through. and realizing this, realizing that he actually has grown a desire to BE desired even just in a simple way to be needed (helping with falin) he finally can crack through that depression. the ptsd is still there, the physical disabilities are still there, but through surrounding himself with community of people with different views and trauma has helped him realize he is not broken and shouldn’t be blaming himself for something that was out of his control.

he wants to do new things, he wants to live now and it’s so beautiful to see.

plus, as kabru says here how the desires being eaten is not what it seems like is such an interesting fact. sure the demon ate his desires he had in that moment, making him believe he could never desire again but in fact he could get new desires (change/grow/heal) plus, traveling with kabru, he did show desires whether they be small or not.

in this moment he showed full horror about this memory. now if he was loss of desire, then he shouldn’t even desire to feel fear about this right? shouldn’t he only feel anger due to the revenge? which once again, shows his whole healing journey.

he’s such a great character with so much representation, and in turn is also a character that can show hope for someone like thistle who now is going through similar things and is practically hospitalized.

there is hope, you will heal, you are gonna be okay and your trauma is real but it does not shape you as a person, you are safe now.

dunmeshi is such a great depiction of that

[tremorsmackenzie]

I have another idea for a fanfic.

tw: daisys depression and generally sucky time in season 4

Basically, Daisy gets taken into the Framework instead of Fitz. After some flavourtext about how 4x16 would differ if there was no doctor and fitzsimmons had to find their path in the framework, the resistance base would get attacked, and theyd have to evacuate and relocate to a backup base - afterlife, as it turns out, because if aida doesnt need to provide fitz with specimen to study, it should be fine. There, they'd be greeted by the inhumans second in command, a woman named daisy johnson. She begrudgingly lets in shield, but is pretty miffed about it since theyre barely better than Hydra in her opinion. There are tensions, and fitzsimmons find out that daisy lost her dad when Hydra emerged and started tracking down subversives. Aka, her life is pretty sad here as well. Convincing daisy that this is all fake is pretty damn impossible, since shes not very receptive to the idea that her actual life in the real world is even worse than this. It takes a hydra attack that kills jiaying and most of the inhumans in front of her to get her to come around, and its mostly because she has nothing left to lose at that point.

Thoughts?

Edit: there would also be a scene about lmd!daisy attacking fitzsimmons in the real world and retriggering all of fitz' ptsd about hive!daisy before they plug themselves in.

Also, aidas motivations would be pretty basic and unimportant here because she isnt literally trying to become a real girl for fitz.

Title would be change you like a remix from that one song by fall out boy.

And there would be lots of scenes with daisy and a jiaying who hasnt been abducted and tortured by Whitehall, but has instead raised her daughter with her husband.

i mean, a daisy who got to grow up in a loving home, surrounded by chinese and inhuman culture. the POTENTIAL. may and daisy suddenly being able to bond over chinese things as the children of asian-american immigrants. daisy actually being able to speak chinese, albeit with an accent. the pain of may and daisy being immediatley hostile towards each other once they meet in afterlife. the implications down the line of a daisy who feels even more responsible for the inhumans in the space arc of season 5a, and who would be able to shower them with the inhuman culture none of them ever got to experience. i am going insane over here.

[cutechan555]

TW// implications of PTSD

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[historia-vitae-magistras]

You got anymore fics or hc of Alfred being a good brother to his 8ft tall beanpole?

'tis garbage I wrote about 20 years ago and is poorly recycled but here! enjoy if you can lmao. TW for poorly written ptsd, references to beheading and axe murder and snuggles.

1920, Quebec City.

"I'm fine." His baby brother said, even as he looked like he desperately needed to lay down.

"Matt, that cough does not sound good,"

"It's fine," He said, stifling another fit with a harsh swallow. Alfred grimaced and jogged to keep up as Matt strode ahead on the rain-battered sidewalk and took the umbrella with him, like speeding up would disprove the implication he wasn't at perfect 100%. How could it sound like he'd been gassed recently?

"You sound miserable,"

"It's fine," Matthew said again, shrugging and knuckling his chest as he struggled to keep his breathing even. "It's just the weather. Tell me about the new Ford coming out,"

"Oh it's a beauty, they're even going to come out with other colours than black," Alfred said, longing to reach out and squeeze Matt's shoulder and steer him inside. "But it will mostly only affect internal market goods.

"Interesting. What are the implications with free trade?"

"Don't try to distract me. I know you don't give a shit about economic law unless you're being forced,"

"If it interests you, it interests me,"

"You can't force yourself to be quiet through this,"

Matt rolled his eyes. "I'm not dying,"

"You kind of sound like you are,"

"Then I'll die!" Matt shrugged and gave one of his rare, frustrated Gallic shrugs. "C'est la vie! And honestly, it'd be nice to sleep without waking up coughing. Wake up and go to work tomorrow with more than an hour of sleep behind me,"

Alfred frowned, a surge of helplessness as he watched Matt press on through the rain as if determined to outpace whatever was wrong. Alfred lengthened his stride to keep up and get back under the umbrella, snatching it from Matt’s hand to make him slow down.

“Come on,” He said, steering them both down the path towards the subway stop.

Halfway down the park hill, he couldn't stifle anymore and ended up clinging to a tree branch, doubled over and coughing so hard veins corded at his forehead and throat and when he breathed, he shuddered through another bout so hard Alfred thought he was going to throw up all over the park path. He sucked in air and the wheeze that accompanied it was so horrific Alfred grabbed his shoulders and steered him to a bench as Matthew tried to get his breathe. Air coming in and out rapidly and almost uselessly like Matt was breathing through shredded black smiths billows. Alfred pulled him upright.

Two neatly dressed couples threw them dirty looks like Matt was some infectious consumptive polluting a public park. Alfred glowered right back. He might have flirted with the one who’s dainty green dress that was fashionably short to show off shapely legs but now he was just frustrated.

"Go fuck off to the circus if you want to gawk at something!" He yelled and the men sped along, dragging the women with them. Matt made another face gesturing for Alfred to stop but couldn't get words out as coughing wracked him all over again.

It was another five minutes of Matt coughing and coughing and coughing before he stopped and collapsed on Alfred's shoulder, heaving.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Alfred said. “You sound like you’re dying.

"I’m not—" Matt heaved air, it caught in his throat and he hacked out another pounding cough that left him spasming and shivering against Alfred. "It comes and goes,"

"Are you sure it's not consumption?"

"Yeah, Dad made them x-ray me three times during demobilization, I'm just like this now,"

"What? Chronically asthmatic?"

Matt shook his head. "I’m not chronically anything. It’s just a bad day every now and and again."

"Is that what doctors say?"

Matt nodded and leaned more heavily onto him, panting again.

"You're burning up," Alfred could feel it against his coat. “Mattie…”

Another nod. “Like I said, it comes and goes.”

He sighed, getting them to their feet. “Christ, Matt.”

“Oh, don’t look so sad.” Matt rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, the supply of your favourite whiskey isn’t about to dry up.”

“Is that what you think? Fuck you.” Alfred scowled. “You’re such a–” Realization dawned on him and he turned to his brother, grabbing his shoulder again. “You little shit. You’re trying to piss me off so I leave this alone, aren’t you?”

Matt blinked, taken aback. “Fuck me, you finally figured that one out?”

“You little asshole,” He laughed. “That is so manipulative.”

“Hardly. You’re so self righteous usually all I have to do is mention Dad and you’ll leave me alone for a month. What is this? Character development?” He laughed, and the coughing started again.

This time, Matt didn’t argue when Alfred insisted they go home. The grey stone heart of his brother’s first city, into the stone houses behind the stone walls the English and the Americans had besieged more than once. Behind slate walls, warm wood greeted them as they passed through the red door with the same iron hinges, squashed between what had once been the apothecary and the bakery. Matt had once been stingy with the firewood but now he had electricity and the coal fired boiler in the basement that heated the house beyond the parlour with its polished brass fire grate and brick hearth.

"Sit," Matth said as he leaned against the wall. He threw aside his damp coat and propped himself against the worn wood. Scrubbing his damp hair off his forehead, he sighed. "I guess I should make coffee and sandwiches or something."

“Will you bite my head off if I offer to make something?” Alfred asked, cautiously toeing off his shoes.

Matt gave a wry sort of look, almost amused. “No.”

“Hallelujah.” Alfred replied, throwing his hands above his head.

“Don’t push it.” Matt said but his face was light.

Alfred chuckled and headed to the kitchen. He rummaged through the cabinets, with all the fine little details of grapevines heavy with fruit and swirling knotwork that reminded him of Aunt Brighid’s embroidery. He thumbed one and wished she was there. She wouldn’t put up with this. He put on water to boil, dug a slightly dessicated chicken carcass out of the fridge, tore it apart to make sandwiches, put the bones on to make soup and returned to the living room with a mug and a plate for each of them.

Matt was sprawled on sofa, his face pink. Alfred didn’t want to wake him up, they both spent so much time ignoring the other’s nightmares these days. He still looked like Matt when he was asleep, sweet and still, like the man the cherubic baby Matt should have grown into rather than the wraith that had to shake off their father or the trenches. But he was feverish and Alfred made himself wake him.

“Here,” He said, handing Matt tea and the sandwich.

“Thanks.” Matt said quietly. He drank the tea eagerly but set the plate down next to him.

“Eat that.” Alfred said, taking a bite out of his own and throwing himself onto the leather chair. “You always do this when you’re sick. Don’t want to eat, don’t want to bother anyone, don’t want to admit you feel like ass. Just like Dad. It’s fucking annoying.”

“No one said you have to be here.” Matt glared, but he had picked up the sandwich and taken a decent bite. “Happy?”

“Never happy when you’re miserable.”

Matt snorted. “Oh, that’s bullshit.”

“Stop.” Alfred sat forward, hands on each of the chair’s arms. “Stop, okay? God. I know you’re–”

“Know I’m what?” Matt took another bite of the stupid sandwich and there was a flash of something flinty and dark behind his eyes Alfred didn’t like.

“Like how you always are after a war,”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you get good at killing and keeping everyone alive and–”

“And what?” Matt said.

“You get shit at everything anything else.” Alfred desperately wanted a cigarette but it felt a bit cruel. “Bring back Gilbert’s head like some sort of fucked up barn cat, sure, you’re great at that. But lay down and act like a human being? God forbid.”

“Oh don’t you–” Matt sighed through his nose and ate more, and too Alfred’s bewilderment, smiled. “You know how often I tell Dad something like that?”

Alfred stared, but leaned back, holding his coffee. “You back talk the old man?”

“Bringing Gilbert’s head back like a fucked up barn cat gave me some leeway.” Matt said, the sly smile on his face fading into something more serious. “But yeah. By the end, by the hundred days, we talked. About what I did. About what he didn’t stop. And I told him to shove it up his ass sometimes. He’s a hypocrite and so am I.”

“Sometimes.” Alfred responded. “You’re still a pretty good brother though.”

“Thanks.” Matt said. “I try.”

“I know.” Alfred said. “And I’m sorry I don’t sometimes.”

Matt shrugged. “Not your job. You don’t have to waste your time if you don’t want too. I’ll live, the overpriced booze will keep flowing. I shut up and do my job, everyone benefits. It’s fine.”

“We’re brothers.” Alfred said. “We’re supposed too… I don’t know.”

“You’re a rising great power, I’m the favourite knife of the British Empire. We have our roles. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want too.”

“Matt–”

He’d drooped against the arm of the sofa, breathing ragged, unable or unwilling to reply.

“You with me?”

“Yeah.” He responded, hoarse. “Sorry.”

“Is this from the gas too?”

“Yeah,” He didn’t off anymore of an explaination and Alfred shook his head.

“Dumbass,” He stood, and crouched to reach out. He gently placed the back of his hand against his brother’s forehead. “All you have to do is ask for help and, fuck, I think you’re warmer.”

“Just tired.” He murmured, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Mattie…” How many times in a day could he let denial slide before it was stupid? Matt was trying to rally himself, push Alfred off and reach for the tea, muttering about how he was fine when there was a loud crack. The windows rattled and suddenly he had his arms full of his brother, shaking like the last maple leaves on the trees, eyes screwed shut and mouthing something in French Alfred couldn’t make out.

“Hey,” Alfred laughed nervously. “Hey, you cold?”

“They’re coming.” Matt said, and the fever flush had disapeared. He looked bloodless. “They’re coming.”

“Hey.” Alfred suddenly understood. “Hey it’s okay. I’m right here. Matthew, I am right here. Nothing’s wrong. It was a car backfiring, not gunfire. No one’s coming.”

Matt leaned in more, burying his face in Alfred. “You don’t let anything happen to me.”

“Never have, never will.” Alfred rested one cheek on Matt’s feverish head. He held on tight, feeling the tremors that sprang through Matt until they stilled. But Matt’s breathing was still fast and shallow. He hadn’t been this close in a while, and the path of Matt’s spine showed through his layers, and he’d had that pinched up look half his life.

“Come on.” He said, gently. “Bed.”

“No.” He burrowed against Alfred more tightly, like he was four, barely spoke English and it was a cold morning he didn’t feel like greeting just yet. He’d always had a streak of stubbornness.

Eventually, Alfred got him up, got him to change and horizontal. He was a little delirious, shivering between the sheets and coughing until he was curled in a ball and muttering about how he needed his axe. But he didn’t get up to get it. He breathed through a split lip and rolled around trying to get comfortable. Alfred fed him pills and glass after glass of water, and somewhere around the seventh, Matt seemed to pass out into real sleep. Alfred sat on the bed and pressed his hands to Matt’s cheeks and was relieved to find it a little cooler.

Matt rolled over towards him, hugging his side, demanding warmth and making a contented sound when Alfred let him with a snort. “You always were a snuggly baby.”

[peaches2217]

Useless

TW: Dissociation, Implication of Trauma/PTSD

EDIT: AO3 link!

~~~

“Come back to me.”

This was the second time he was hearing it, Mario realized, that exact combination of sounds. He hadn’t understood it the first time. Heard it, but couldn’t process it. That was Peach’s voice, right? So those sounds were probably directed at him. Maybe?

“Come on,” she spoke again, “come back to me, darling.” Her voice conveyed urgency, yet it was soft all the same. Was she in distress? Where was she? He hoped she would say it again. Something in his chest fluttered at the sound of her voice. It tickled, come to think of it. Was that good or bad?

He tried to breathe, and he did a bit too well at it; it came in a deep, audible gasp, strong enough to drown that fluttery feeling. It kind of hurt, actually. He forced the air back out as quickly as he could and that almost made it better, but now his eyes were watering.

Bad, he decided. Definitely bad.

He blinked. Pink. His hands hovered over pink fabric, partially obscured. They looked strange. They were undoubtedly his hands, callused and hairy, but what was that attached to them? Peach whispered a few more sounds, but he couldn’t quite process them, and the attachments on his hands moved. The sensation was familiar enough, ingrained enough, that he recognized them as another set of hands. Peach’s hands, slender and soft.

Where were his gloves? He had been staring at his own hands for what must have been hours. He remembered, or at least he thought he remembered, her hands peeling back the upper layer of his skin. She had taken them off. She wasn’t wearing gloves either. It had always amazed him, how soft her skin was, how cool her hands felt within his. But now they felt oddly warm.

His right thumb stroked the back of her left hand. Some dull thought permeated the back of his skull, some mix of dread and surprise. His thumb barely moved, tracing an aimless line back and forth across her skin, yet his hand tensed and shook from the effort of moving it.

“Good,” Peach said, and her hands tightened around his fingers. “Squeeze back?”

He worried sometimes, worried that he might hurt her, worried he might forget his own strength at the worst times in the worst ways. So he did his best to follow her request as gently as possible. His fingers twitched. His thumbs pressed into her hands. A tingling sensation crawled up his arms and into his shoulders; the discomfort made him tighten his grasp, which made the unpleasant sensation spread.

“Good!” she repeated. The pink fabric shifted and her voice came nearer. “Very good. There you are.”

He pulled air in too quickly again, and all at once he was slammed back into his own body.

The weight of it was crushing, the numbness in his legs, the tingling in his arms, the ringing in his ears. He relaxed his grip on Peach’s hands and hunched over, shutting his eyes tightly. Dizzy. He was dizzy. The world was spinning around them, as though trying with all of its might to fling them apart, and the very thought of losing her made him groan with terror and grip onto her even harder.

She shushed him, a lone source of calm in the chaos that ensnared him. “Can you speak?” she asked. He could feel her now, her nose pressed into the top of his head, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her, kiss her deeply and endlessly until his feet felt solid on the ground again. 

But he couldn’t find the energy. He couldn’t lift his head, and he couldn’t pull her any closer, and he wasn’t even on his feet to begin with. He was sitting on his knees in some dark room not far from the meeting hall. She had pulled him in here and urged him into this position; the memory was hazy, but he remembered all the same.

What happened? he wanted to say. He knew what happened. Thinking about it just made the world spin faster. Maybe if he could hear it again from a voice that brought him nothing but comfort, it would stop, it would all go away. Maybe he would realize definitively just how stupid it was, how inconsequential the trigger for this episode, and that would snap him back to normal.

No sound came out when he opened his mouth. His eyes stung, and he grit his teeth against the unshed tears.

She let go of his hands and drew him in closer, and Mario couldn’t help but sigh in both shame and relief. Her sweet perfume washed over his senses and wrapped him in another layer of familiarity. 

“That’s okay,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s okay. We’re safe. Everything is alright.”

If everything was alright, then the great hero of the Mushroom Kingdom wouldn’t be crumpled in a quivering heap on the floor, unable to speak or even raise his chin. He couldn’t express his frustration properly, in words. All he could do was huff.

Peach shushed him again. Another kiss. “Here, lie down. You’ll feel better if you lie down.”

Mario wanted to protest. They had been in the middle of— they needed to get back to— there were people waiting on them, on her, because she had— because he was too weak to even open his eyes.

He nodded instead.

Letting her hands guide his motions, he collapsed heavily to the floor, curling into himself on instinct. Carpet. Not as plush as the carpets in the private chambers, a bit scratchy against his cheek. Peach’s fingers cupped the side of his head, lightly pressing upward; he somehow found the strength to lift his head and keep it there, just long enough for her to make whatever adjustments she needed.

A sound like a whimper escaped his throat as his cheek met silk. He was so disoriented he felt it in the pit of his stomach. He gulped and made a few more pathetic sounds, because he was almost certain he would vomit otherwise.

Fingers in his hair brought him back. He focused all of his attention on them: the gentle scrape of nails against his scalp, his curls bouncing back into place with each pass, the sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He was clammy, he realized for the first time. He was cold. 

His guardian angel’s voice cut through his shivering. She was giving more instructions, and he held to them like a lifeline — “…without us. Just take good notes and I’ll review them later. If you could bring us some water first? Thank you.”

These weren’t instructions for him. There was a world beyond these few square feet around them. She was willfully shunning that world for his sake. He willed himself to open his eyes, get himself together, go on about his day so she could go about hers because he wasn’t supposed to be dragging her down with him. He wasn’t supposed to be like this in the first place.

All he could see was pink. His head was in her lap. That knowledge sent a wave of solace crashing over him, intense enough that his breath caught in his throat and he began trembling uncontrollably once more. Or maybe he hadn't stopped trembling in the first place.

Pathetic. He was supposed to make her feel safe. He was truly pathetic.

“Stay with me,” Peach said, her urgency replaced with quiet tenderness. “Take your time. Rest. But stay with me.”

Gulping again, Mario nodded. This wasn’t right. His burdens shouldn’t be hers to bear. He shouldn’t be a burden, much less her burden. But for now, he was, and she had ordered him to stay. So he closed his eyes and focused on her fingers in his hair, steadying his breath and coming back little by little, back into full awareness of the world outside of him and her and all of his uselessness.

“You’re alright, Mario,” she soothed, and just for now, just until he was strong enough to cram his weaknesses back down so that they'd never bother anyone again, he let himself believe her.

[why-am-i-here-someone-save-me]

Caged (Part 1)

TWs: bloodshed, minor character death(s), religious themes(but like mostly only implied), Zhongli being an edgy teen, salt-based ptsd, dust-based ptsd, stalking, pining, implications of reader’s inevitable death, heavily implied murder(protective Morax go brrr), weapons, general destruction ngl

You had never quite enjoyed being focused on. You were far more content to stay on the sidelines, out of the attention of others. You were called humble. Modest. Reserved.

Yet it would be that same humility that would be your doom.

By standing apart from others, you caught the attention of someone who would lead you down the path of destruction.

After all…

Haven’t you heard it’s dangerous to catch a dragon’s eye?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was many things. A god, A warrior, the Prime Adepti. But if there was one thing that Morax was not, well, that would be relenting. He was solid earth, immovable stone, uncompromising rock; and what he desired would either be his or be destroyed.

You were many things. Caring, supportive, understanding. But the one thing you weren’t was faithful, not to the gods at least. Your loyalty to your friends and family, even to fellow humans you’d just met was apparent. But you did not hold the same level of devotion to the gods. How could you amidst this war? Deities were feuding and striking each other down all around you. Why would you place faith in ones who could erase everything you’d ever known in the blink of an eye? Why would you place your heart and soul in the hands of another deity when Lady Havria had taken so much of you to the grave with her? You could not. You knew that if you did, and you were to lose yet another god, you would be unable to carry on. Not again. She had already taken half of you with her.

You mourned your beloved Goddess of Salt. And yet you refused to allow grief to consume you. You refused to let yourself wither away, not after all that Lady Havria had done to protect you and your people. You had been young when your family fled Sal Tearre, too young to grasp what was truly about the occur within your home, too young to understand that you would not ever see Lady Havria’s smile again. When you finally realized the truth, you had been devastated. It had broken you. Lady Havria cared for your people on a very personal level. She had known every name, every face, every single one of her beloved followers. Havria cared for her people as though she were a family member, not their deity. She had been a mother figure to you. When she had been ripped from your life, you had never felt so lost. Your family eventually took refuge in a small village, as as time went by, it became your new home.

It took many years for you to process her demise. But eventually you came to realize that she wouldn’t wish to see you devastated like you were. The revelation had changed your entire outlook on life. You learned to find happiness in the small things in life. A particularly beautiful wildflower blooming in your garden, the laughter of the village children as they played, the feeling of a gentle breeze on a hot day, you treasured each of them. You did not know just how contagious your joy was. By the time you had reached adulthood, you were unknowingly beloved by your peers.

You were ignorant to the fact that the people of your village considered you the pride of the little town. How could they not take pride in you? You who would go so far beyond what was asked of you, who gladly took burdens upon yourself simply to see them happy, who had to be all but forced to rest after spending days working hard for their sakes. Humble as you were, they knew you would be embarrassed by such words, and so they kept them to themselves.

You did not like attention.

But you received it regardless.

You would come to realize that the term ‘dislike’ was not strong enough to describe your feelings for it. You loathed it. Despised it.

It had only ever brought suffering upon you.

It had been the reason you’d unwittingly caught his eye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You had no idea who he was.

But he knew much about you.

He had learned your story, he probably knew it better than you yourself knew it. He found your lack of reverence for the gods amusing. The way you would laugh it off when one of your peers invited you to a religious event was adorable to him. If he weren’t a stranger in your eyes, he’s certain he would gain your companionship easily. But he was content to watch from afar. After all, as rash as he was, Morax knew all too well the fragility of humans. No mortal had ever caught his eye as you did, and he did not have to observe you for long before a desire began to take root in his mind.

Just who did you think you were, getting his thoughts all mixed up like this? You had no right to cause his heartbeat to speed up, no right to make his mouth curl up into a smile as you did. Yet he couldn’t resent you for some reason. He knew that he was growing attached to you. Morax knew very well how bad of an idea that was. He should not be spending his time thinking of you, of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes would shine so brightly when they caught the light. He told himself over and over how fragile you were, that he could not afford to allow anyone into his heart during this war, least of all a mortal. But despite how many times he repeated this all to himself, he would always wind up near your village, watching as you went throughout your day. You fascinated him so effortlessly that it frustrated him. He was in a war for Celestia’s sake! He didn’t have the time or resources to be so invested in you like he was! Despite his words, he would always end up fulfilling his self-proposed ‘vigil’ over you from afar. ‘Just in case’ he would tell himself. ‘Just in case something were to happen.’

When something did happen, it wasn’t to you, no. Nor was it to him. But the loss of Guizhong caused something within him to break. His once unnoticed gaze as you lived your life slowly began to become more and more present. The constant feeling of being watched would have been more than enough to eat away at you, but the sheer suffocating presence of the gaze was certainly not helping matters.

Morax still found your lack of devotion to the gods endearing, the thought of you giving your worship to a deity other than him made his blood boil. On the days when such thoughts would enter his mind, there would always be a few small earthquakes throughout the land. No, it was better for you to worship no one than for you to worship some other god like Chi, or Celestia forbid Osial. But oh, if he didn’t long to see you devote your worship to him! The fantasies he would come up with would always leave him even more smitten with you than before. He longed to see you kneel at one of his temples, to hear you call out to him in prayer, for you to make offerings to him. He longed for you to pledge your devotion to him, for you to vow that you would remain faithful to him, that you would not leave him as Guizhong had. He knew it was foolish of him, you were mortal after all. You were fleeting, a flash of light in the night, a spark burning brightly before being quenched moments later.

You would leave him, just as Guizhong did.

He knew it to be a fact, yet he refused to acknowledge it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your meeting was not as he would have wished. He had hoped that when he inevitably would approach you, it would be on a calm day, where he could easily have befriended you amidst sunshine and breezes.

He would not have preferred your meeting to be one framed by fire and panic. It would be far more difficult to form a bond with you if you were closed off in grief. But alas, he could hardly sit back and let you be slain, even if it wasn’t the first encounter he had hoped for. He summoned his spear, preparing to step in, but hesitated for a moment. That hesitation, the momentary pause in his actions, that had been the sealing of your fate.

Those few seconds would be the foundation of stone shackles that would ensnare your very being, cold and unyielding, and you would despise them with everything you had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You trembled in terror and despair at the slow footsteps approaching you. You knew that they already were aware of your hiding place, and were merely taunting you at this point. The small dagger in your hand shook as the bandit drew closer and closer. You had no chance of defeating them all, let alone surviving, but if you could at least take out one of them, then you would be satisfied. “Why don’t you come on out hmm~? We don’t bite. Too much~.” Your stomach churned at the sound of the man’s voice, as if his hand wasn’t holding a blade that had just taken the lives of so many you called friends. “Hey now, maybe if you behave and surrender we’ll go easy on you~.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as the footsteps stopped outside the poorly blocked entrance to your home. You didn’t want it to end like this. Not after all Lady Havria had done to give you a chance at a prosperous life. Not like this. Tears escaped from your tightly shut eyes as your desperation finally convinces you to make a last ditch attempt to live.

You take a deep breath.

And you pray.

You pray to whoever or whatever might be listening to aid you, pleading your case to the divine.

You hadn’t expected an answer.

You’d come to wish you’d never received one.

Taglist: @nicebonescomrade

[kaylatechheart]

More Butterfly Effect AU Stuff (MATURE)

TW: Some content might be disturbing, this includes, blood, uncanny things, analog horror, accidental murder implications, PTSD and exposed brain. I'll post a separate one without the mature stuff. Ok, so I decided to repost some more lore stuff here so enjoy :D Butterfly Effect AU owned by me. PPG owned by Craig McCracken

[one-abuse-survivor]

how do you deal with figuring out something significant might've happened to you that you don't remember and how do you say that this did or didn't happen? tw csa mention/implication outside of what i think happened ive had a lot of pretty traumatic experiences but what i specifically want to ask about cuz i kinda acknowledged my feelings about it out loud to one of my friends via sc message today and i need help figuring it out. When i was 11 my mom had a relationship with this guy who was over 10 years older than her. I had this experience where he walked into my room while I was changing and saw me dart into the closet so he wouldn't see me naked and he then proceeded to open the closet door and i had to tell him to leave. And i had experiences in following years of hypersexuality and other signs that could indicate something happened but also nothing might've happened either and i just feel weird abd sick to my stomach. So ig i want advice with this.

Hey, nonnie.

First off, I'm sorry that happened. What he did sounds genuinely really scary, and I hope you know, even if nothing else happened, just that experience could very well have been enough for you to develop PTSD. In the moment, you had no way of knowing if he'd listen when you told him to go, or what would happen if not. You were naked and vulnerable. That can definitely be traumatic.

When it comes to repressed memories, I can only speak from my own experience. I can tell you it's absolutely possible to have instances of grooming and CSA happen to you at around those ages and then block them out completely, because that's what happened to me. I only remembered the things I'd forgotten years later, I guess when my brain felt ready for me to know those things.

But I think what matters most isn't what happened or didn't happen, but rather the fact that you've been struggling with hypersexuality and other signs something might have caused you sexual trauma. I hope you know you deserve to treat those things seriously and ask for help processing them, regardless of the specifics of what caused them. Just the fact that you're struggling with your sexual health and symptoms of sexual trauma is enough to ask for help.

Sending all my support your way ❤️

[gatesofember]

will always read as having anxiety to me and depressed... definitely felt in the ballpark for him. and the tw tags on rainbowcart said ptsd, depression, and anxiety. so reading it i was excited that we finally get a book with a depressed anxious protagonist lmao (as someone with audhd myself?? most neurodivergent people i know have at least one of those, if not both) but then... seeing the way everyone talks about will in this was just so disheartening. yeah i'll agree that some parts felt ooc for him but for the most part i'd say it's pretty consistent with me on my worst days. and this is... very clearly the worst time of his life. just by virtue of being in the underworld and tartarus. goes back into will's own mental health issues ultimately being ignored as the book progresses.

yeah I’ll agree with that. he’s very much expected to be sunshine boy but he clearly showed anxiety issues in ToN. that kid was shaking like a leaf. and the implications of him having anxiety and SAD were very clear in tsats to me at least. I think that if you didn’t pick up on that it’s okay and maybe it’s reasonable for you to be critical of him if you didn’t pick up on that, because you’re right, the book didn’t do a good job of addressing Will’s mental health. but if you see someone say “hey actually I think he’s behaving this way because I saw some pretty serious signs of anxiety and/or an emotional disorder” and you completely disregard that? that reflects very poorly on you.

[cutechan555]

TW// implications of PTSD

Dear diary - page 8

< Previous Next >

[achoonihaachu]

[1:12 AM] Savior

tw: implication of anxiety attack and ptsd, not proof read!

“It felt selfish. I knew I was selfish. Seeing them shed the tears I used to work so hard in stopping. I’d save every drop in neverending bottles but what can one do when you become the cause of their heartache? 

I remember the starless nights spent under covers, the thunder rumbling slowly in some faraway corner of the land. My younger brothers all huddled and holding onto each other, their eyes shined in the red moonlight, fear reflecting in the small salty tears that slid down their cheeks. I felt frantic as I wiped away their doubts with a quickly dampening cloth. In the middle of the small huddle of tiny bodies laid an infant coddled in green velvet fabric. He whined softly, his lips forming a pout as he peaked up at me with his crystalline eyes. The corners of his eyes were like the seas, threatening to spill over during thunderous nights like these. Jostling gently, I managed to poke my head out of the covers that felt like lead threatening to crush my precious brothers.  

Lucifer was never around.

A quick glance to the ceiling was enough to soothe my own rapidly beating heart. As long as I’m here, no one could hurt them. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that I would tear through the Heavens and the lands of Hell to keep them safe and happy.

I remember all the packs of chips I’d secretly open in hopes of enjoying something on my own to only be found out by the eldest between the twins. With a smile, I’d give the redhead everything left. Then, the tiny infant with little devil horns grew too heavy in my arms and he was quick to grow rebellious. Satan was by far the most troublesome of my baby brothers. A little rascal-turned-destructive tornado when he’s deprived of the attention he so needed. With a gentle shake of my head, I simply watched as he destroyed his tiny reading corner again.

Quite frankly, I can still feel the prickle of splinters at the tips of my fingers from all the times I rebuilt his torn up room. 

Levi was quite a bit the wildcard– always has been and always will be. Now, he barely looks at me and when he does, he sneers and pokes fun at me for some reason or another but I remember the days when he used to never go a moment without holding my hand. I remember when he had night terrors from… The Fall. I used to be the only one to run to his room to hold him as he struggled to breathe normally. 

I could feel my resolve crumbling. I fought for my family but when I struggle carrying the weight of my world on my shoulders, I have no one to turn to. It felt pointless but the minute– the split second moment– Asmo hugged me when I cooked dinner one terrible night, I just felt… It felt like I could, one day, have everything I wanted.

Speaking of Asmo though, he was the sweetest when he was younger. He’d praise me for everything and sometimes I felt like I was doing everything right. My hands were tied, I… I was limited but I did my best to continue being the best for him– for them. 

Even for my big brother.

Remember when I told you Levi had night terrors when he was younger? Well, Belphie, too, suffered a lot with things haunting him in his sleep. Maybe it was the worst for him because of his sin but he was closest to Lilith. I–

I can’t go into detail how far I went to comfort him. Your precious little human ears might not be able to handle it, really. When they were all old enough, I thought “maybe it’s my time!” I thought I deserved to be held the way I held them. The way I managed to balance that almost overflowing cup for them- maybe they could pour a bit into their own individual cups for me. Maybe I deserved a break but… they kept relying on me to keep the pieces of our family together. I was this indispensable piece of a chessboard but, like when the Queen is also at risk of being captured, she needs to be sacrificed for the safety of the King. I felt like I couldn’t rely on them. Does that make any sense?

I was the Queen on the chessboard, in a game where I was on the losing side. A single wrong move could end in a checkmate.

Lucifer has always loved Chess.

The thought of him makes my blood boil, honestly. He makes me sick to my stomach but… I can’t help but admire him as if he personally took time out of his day to hang the stars in the sky. I chase that same feeling of being able to depend on him. It… has been way too long since I’ve even thought of it.

As cocky as this may sound, it feels like they need me more than I need them. They rely on me like I was the air they breathe. Without me, there wouldn’t be a family anymore, whether they are willing to admit it to themselves or not. 

When they look at me, all they see is the money-grubbing, stupid brother who cares about riches over anything in all three realms. They don’t know of all the sleepless, terrifying nights I’ve spent to lull them into a sense of peace and security. They don’t know of the missed lunches or the way I sat on the speckless tiles in our bathroom as I… just felt the wind get knocked out of my lungs. The way the room shrank and shook as I heaved all on my own. I get the flashbacks too, you know? The pain I felt when I had my wings be practically torn out of my body. The gashes and the scabs that never truly healed.

It’s selfish though, for me to complain about the experience we shared.

I’ll just have to stay the stupid, greedy brother. The one too uncaring for others feelings, so reckless to the point I am driven to madness by even the smallest amount of money or gold. 

That way, they still sort of care about my actions and reprimand me for going too far. 

Lucifer finally shed tears, whether of sadness or frustration is beyond me, when I handed him the letter with nasty death threats I got from my old casino buddies. It was complex, the feeling I mean.

Even if it’s for just a moment, he looked at me with worry shining in his eyes. The way they used to.

I can hear my brothers clamor against the office door to eavesdrop.

I hear Asmo sniffle.”

[jukemaid]

excision (1/2)

the act or procedure of removing by or as if by cutting out takes place directly post-6.0 tw: self-harm, ptsd, unhealthy coping mechanisms

"i have a request for the scions of the seventh dawn," the warrior of light says one day, her tone uncharacteristically somber.

tiamat has been quieter since returning from the edge of the universe, not accounting for the length of time she spent bedridden and recovering from the ordeal. she's more serious, thoughtful. something has changed within her-- or perhaps, something has been found. her confidants know better than to press her about it, as their friend will open up when she is ready.

theirs and her eyes meet and there is steel in her gaze, her expression one of cold certainty. she has never looked more tired.

"i want us to fight," she continues, "all of you versus me, fully armed, and with everything you have. until either you or i cannot continue."

within seconds, and very predictably, alisaie all but jumps to protest. however, she only has time to open her mouth before a touch to her elbow stops her in her tracks. whirling around, she finds alphinaud bearing her a pained look, and her irritation drains away all at once. alisaie half-heartedly shakes his hand from her arm, and sighs, shoulders slumping.

"may i ask what the purpose of such an exercise would be?" y'shtola inquiries, picking up the loose thread of conversation. she tips her head lightly, pale brows furrowed in both thought and concern. "i have no doubt there is more to your request than a simple spar, especially given the timing and specifications."

g'raha sees the moment tiamat shuts down-- as the word "exercise" travels through the air and settles with its less-than-serious implications. he wrangles down the urge to reach out to her when he sees her confidence wither, lamenting that such a gesture would be more selfish than for her comfort. g'raha knows just as well as the rest of the scions that their warrior of light refuses to spar, and why. she used to enjoy play fighting, but after years of macabre dancing, even a practice swing became too real for her to act with necessary restraint.

with this in mind, and his tail lashing involuntarily in dismay, g'raha bites his lip and resolves himself to watch and wait. towards y'shtola, tiamat doesn't respond, and instead turns her attention away from the group to stare at a far wall. after a heady moment of silence, something dark flickers across her eyes-- a shadow deep enough to burn. however, it's not an unfamiliar sight, and its presence offers g'raha a strange sort of comfort.

the iciness in her composure lessens, but the warmth replacing it is no less intimidating. tiamat meets the scions' collective gaze once again, standing tall, and the surrounding shade flickers across her skin and armor like flames.

she speaks easily: "closure. catharsis."

the weight of meaning behind those words is undeniable for all present. realization comes quickly to the scions, some faster than others, at the true nature of tiamat's request. it is both a question and a plea-- and one she's held within her for far too long. whether or not they understand the answer she seeks, they are the only ones who are capable of providing it all the same.

the warrior of light does nothing halfway. she is as unrelenting and unyielding as a force of nature. she is as famed as infamous on the battlefield for her unstoppable march, one honed through agony and reinforced by tragedy. the trauma of her successes has coiled tightly around an already wounded heart, forcing it into a weapon's shape with no room for error. she would wage war until it broke her, until it shattered her, and she would keep going.

(fight me until i can't anymore, she screams and sobs into blood-soaked hands when her healing magic fails to save anyone)

(see all that i've become because of you, she whispers against the edge of a blade before running it across her own throat)

(show me it was worth it, she says with the same gentle smile she gives the dying and with a sympathy she does not feel)

(prove to me that i can be stopped, that i can stop, that you no longer need me, that i don't need to fight anymore, that you won't use me anymore, that even after all of this when you see me and see how fucked up i am and how i dream of endless violence you'll always always always still welcome me home--)

"i accept."

all eyes snap towards estinien, who leans against a pillar a bit away from the others, his arms crossed over his chest with usual nonchalance. his attention is purely on tiamat, who regards him wordlessly for one, two, five heartbeats. whatever passes between them through eye contact alone reaches a satisfying conclusion, because they soon turn towards the rest of their peers.

"i accept," estinien repeats more firmly to the audience of shocked faces, his words low enough to catch on a growl. disagreement erupts immediately from alisaie, then thancred and y'shtola. urianger's face twists with guilt and sadness, and he joins alphinaud in mutual silence as the others' voices raise in volume.

"--still recovering from dying, in what way--"

"--foolish endeavor that i cannot in good conscience--"

"--don't need to do this! we don't want to--"

"i accept as well."

g'raha's pleasant voice may as well have been a gunshot, for how it shocks all debate into a standstill. alisaie gapes at him, rage and disbelief written clear across her face, but g'raha has eyes only for his warrior. he doesn't see estinien's small nod of approval from across the room, nor does he need to.

"there are some things that leave wounds beyond the capacity for any means of healing... or at least not in a traditional sense," g'raha begins, sinking willingly into the memories of the exarch to keep his voice steady. "it's a paradoxical thing. trauma begets trauma, and the process of removing oneself and recovering from it is not always kind." he risks a glance at tiamat and finds her watching him softly, a slight tilt of her head in his direction. go on, her expression says, and this bolsters him to continue: "a gentle touch may ease some, yet insult another. one who is accustomed to violence will struggle to find solace in the aftermath, where the ghosts of their pain yet linger and there is no outlet for them to cope."

as an afterthought, he sighs, "not even in times of peace does the fighting ever truly stop... not really."

g'raha shares a special understanding with tiamat, one that no other scion could possibly match. it's a synergy as much as it is a poison, always bubbling up close enough to the surface to threaten overflow. trauma begets trauma. people who are hurt tend to act irrationally, and even a shared pain amounts to only pain in the end without excising the root of it, however deeply buried. it's a lesson that took decades of tragedy to learn, and the both of them had known death itself before embracing it.

"you want us to beat the piss out of each other to feel better, you mean," thancred chimes in all too casually, rolling his shoulders one at a time. "well, far be it from me to judge, especially not after all the fantastical life or death adventures we've been through. consider my lot thrown in."

"verily." urianger's voice rumbles from his side. thancred twists around to shoot him a deadpan glare, though the elezen disregards him in favor of fiddling with his multitude of rings in a nervous habit.

"wha--!" alisaie's offended gasp erupts and cuts itself out. she takes her time spinning around on the gathered scions in anger, growling to herself when they barely react (or in estinien's case, lift a single eyebrow in challenge). gritting her teeth, she sucks in a breath and snaps herself around to face tiamat fully.

"well, don't expect to leave me out of this!" she crows, her hands resting square at her hips. "we're in this together until the end, didn't i tell you? even with otherworldly forces quite literally ripping us apart, i'll be damned if i allow you even a moment more suffering all on your own. and if that means i must fight you-- well, i mean-- if you really want to actually fight--"

she startles, sputtering uselessly, when alphinaud's hand lands on her shoulder with an audible thump. grounded, she huffs a breath that dislodges the bangs from over her eyes, blinking rapidly against the moisture clumping her eyelashes.

"what my sister means, and what i would express as well..." he begins, peeking around alisaie with a weak smile. "is that even if we aren't capable of understanding that which ails you, the least we can do is be there for you when you confront it. in whatever capacity that is."

any remaining tension quickly drains from the room to be replaced by a comforting silence, the only sound being a pleased hum from y'shtola.

"then it seems we are in agreement," she says breezily, drawing judgmental looks from half the room and a bark of laughter from estinien. "i for one look forward to what you have in store for us." she takes a step towards tiamat, shifting her weight to set a clawed hand on one hip and gesture at the viera with her other. while challenge gleams in her pale eyes, unseeing yet piercing, it's noticeably more gentle than it would be otherwise-- to anyone else, perhaps.

this doesn't escape tiamat, who closes her own eyes and breathes in deeply, then out. "i'll be at the outskirts of castrum centri. come prepared or... don't bother."

without another word she pivots on her heel and marches out of the room in long strides. nobody follows her. the echoes of distant footsteps gradually fade, and then nothing.

"well," thancred's voice cuts through the awkward silence, "that could have gone worse, i suppose. i'll pack extra bandages. i have a feeling i'll need them."