#twin!Lord Vile

[ophelieverse]

This is the first time that i send in a request,but I’ve been your fan for quite a while now🥰🥰I love your blog and your content,especially your writing,so can I please ask you to write something about Daemon x niece!reader where she is the daughter of Aemma and Viserys and he’s obsessed with her?It can be whatever you want!Thank you so much!🫶🏻

⋆ ˚｡⋆little bird

Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

-Summary:Daemon is in Harrenhal and he’s tormented by the memories of the only woman that he had ever loved:his niece,the long gone princess Y/n.

-Warnings:death of character,incest,age gap,Daemon never married Laena,reader has valyrian features,reader died of childbirth,reader is mother of twin girls(you can decide if Baela and Rhaena),mental torture(?)sexual thoughts,Daemon being himself,Alys tormenting Daemon and him losing his mind.

•-aww thank you so much for your words and support,also thank you for requesting and let me know what you guys think,sending love🩷🫶🏻

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

The palate is a treacherous bastard,a vile traitor.The palate,the tongue,the teeth,the throat:damned monsters,damned stabs in the shoulders.

They rebelled and tortured Daemon intimately,as well as the strawled murmurs of soaking whispers in the dark and lonely castle,as well as the murmurs of that nameless woman.Everything bothered him,in that world built by the blood-stained hands of false and courteous murderers,and the raw truths of the tormented men were no exception.

After all,he should have known - and he knew it, he knew it and he had not stopped,he had become crazy! -that once he tasted the most precious wine of the Seven Kingdoms his mouth would detest any other drink.His primordial instinct and his spirit of survival had tried to warn him,to make him understand,to make him glimpse the inexorable fate in which there would be a before and there would of course be an after.

Because any other flavor would never have been as sweet as the taste of her.

And nothing more would have been the same, nothing would make sense anymore.Daemon had only really understood it after kissing her:it had become impossible to even look at another woman.

He could still remember the first time that he had kissed her,before going to win the war in the Narrow Sea in her father’s name.He had only kissed her once and it had been like savoring the mouth of a fucking divine gift that fell down from heaven,kissing a promise of grace and eternal damnation.An inexperienced,sweet,innocent mouth.

His,Y/n was all his.

She was still a girl at the time,two years younger than her older sister Rhaenyra,just a naive girl that stug with two skinny legs and without even a woman's shape,the silver-haired doll,the trained King's Landing little bird that squeakes and chirps in the shade of her father's words and actions:Y/n, stupid and spoiled princess,daughter of the Long Summer,had let herself be kissed by him and had not stopped him,she had not pushed him away.

Crazy him and crazy her.Or maybe just him, or maybe just her.Who went crazy first,who did? Who had it been?Daemom didn't remember the fucking way those damn events that had folded him in two,disintegrated his entire soul.Killed him not once but a hundred,a thousand,a thousand and again a thousand times.

Who went crazy first?Who?Daemon has started to believe it was him.

It’s been years since the last time he had kissed Y/n,years since he last touched her warm skin,looked into her bright lilac eyes,that he had saw her with their daughters in her arms.

Yet,that night,in the dark and anguish halls of Harrenhal,his little bird had shown up to him.The ghost of Y/n imagine had suddenly appeared in a corridor in the west wing yard like an evanescent appearance,like his worst nightmare and had resumed chirping the same nauseating and tormenting phrases she cunningly gave to all her lords,to all her knights.

She had chirped her thanks,the beautiful words she used to tear from the verses of her beloved romantic ballads,which she used to steal from the fairy tales narrated with placid fervor from the endless rows of her old and decrepit Septas.

She had chirped and chirped and chirped.

Daemon hadn't listened to any of her melancholic sentences and hadn't even paid the slightest attention to her,nothing at all.So the deities and that witch then must have decided to punish him and mock him.They had taken their revenge on all his blasphemies and on all the lives he had snatched with joy.

The pale light of the moon had begun to inflame Y/n long silver braids,braids knotted in a bushy tangle,shaped into circles of blood rays that made her hairstyle look like the one of a small child.The young and innocent girl she once was before Daemon had touched her.A stupid hairstyle that she persided - with a pout - to make her maidens intertwine just like her mother did when she was just a small child.

The red dress that wrapped perfectly around her body,the one that she had wore at the tourney for her last Name Day as a maiden,seemed made of pure liquid blood.Daemon was lost.The red had become fire,it had turned into copper,it had melted into wine.A crown of thorns and autumn leaves in the cold wind of the godswood.

Y/n rosy mouth had stretched out in a brief,false smile,yet what was really false about her?And her elusive purple eyes had reminded him of reality.

The reality where she no longer existed,the one where now he was married to his older sister.He just wants to use her.Everyone uses everyone.He remind himself,he could never love her,not in the way he still loves Y/n.

Suddenly Daemon had realized the existence of his foolish thoughts,he had awakened by the torpor in which her sweet and familiar scent had induced him,and he had understood that he was behaving like a little child that had just woken up from a bed dream,an inexperienced young boy,he looked at her hair,looked at her ephelids,and didn't focus on those small stall tits and her flat,tight belly,and then he thought he had to fix it,that he had to prove to himself that he was a man.

Not the silly man who secretly watched the tears entangled in the eyelashes of a little girl who still slept with the dolls,squeezed in his little embrace,but the real man who fucked women in brothels and got rid of all his most itchy desires. Not the man who trembled in front of a little girl's gaze,but the man who fucked the women quickly and impatiently,without even looking them in the face,fulfilling his needs and his morbid needs.

The man that Daemon was before devoting his life,heart and soul to Y/n.

These thoughts had clouded his soaky mind with vulgar images,they had made his body drunk and frenny.Then he had stretched out towards Y/n, almost staggering,and had devoured her face. Mouth to mouth,he had eaten her lies and her breath.Was it really her,the spectral and little figure that had hunted him since he had step in Harrenhal?Was it really her,the cold and young body he was holding in his arms?He didn’t cared,he needed to feel what he once called love.

His little girl still tasted good,just like he remembered,something sweet,extremely pure. Snow and honey together,what an absurd madness of the senses.Y/n had closed her mouth,her lips soft and eyelids tight,but she had done nothing else.She hadn't disappeared from his touch just like the night before,his rough hands that had begun to mess up her hair and squeeze her thin throat like they used to.

They had kept both eyes closed and he had thought that she was beautiful even in the dark of the dull and worn lights,even in the black of the lowered eyelashes,under the Sun or under the Moon.

Y/n was still as beautiful as the day he had lost her.

And now that she was there,real or not,Daemon had kissed her with a disturbing need and Y/n mouth had moved on his without opening,without granting him anything more.Nothing more of what he already had when she was flourishing with life.

In that moment a cold wind had crept all over his back,until it even caressed his neck and wet cheeks.When did he started crying?Too late he had realized that it had not been a cold wind that had appeased his burns.

«Y/n,my Y/n.»Daemon had murmured«My little bird of the summer,my frightened little bird.»he kept talking on her lips.

«Uncle.»even her voice sounded like she was still that young girl he used to watch run to him,blushing when he would bring her a gift from one of the cities he had visited.

She had caressed his pained face and kissed him like a little girl who can't even imagine that there is anything else after a kiss on the lips.Like a sweet child that still dreamed and hoped for a bright and long future ahead of her.

Maybe at that moment Daemon must have said her name again,because the figure in his arms smiled«Y/n,my little girl,Y/n.»like a prayer.

«Do you still desire me,uncle?Do you still think about me?»her voice,a soft whisper,that cut into his heart.

How naive and stupid,stupid little woman.

He could have turned her like a worn sock,lifted her skirt and possessed it in any dark corner of the castle,stretched her on the floor and forced her to open her legs for him.For him,only for him. First the knees,then the thighs,until he devour her with his hands and tongue,until he fuck her all.

That little creature who didn't even know the thoughts that animated the minds of the men around her,the minds of all animal men just like him.He could have done anything to her,anything unimaginable and unpronounceable,and continued to devour her for whole hours,years and centurie, millennia and other millennia,to the point of satisfying her every repressed need and even more.

And Daemon did it,fulfilling his duties as a husband that resulted in the living love that took form in their twin daughters and son.

He enjoyed her,eat her,mark her at every possible point.He could have done anything for her even now.But Y/n had placed a hand on his heart and more snow had fallen into his chest,appeasing his every pain,every craving.

«Or is my sister crown that you lust over now?»Y/n sharp tongue managed to open another cut in his chest.

Yes,he wanted Rhaenyra crown but it was her he wanted to make his Queen.It’s always been like that,in his deepest dreams,to rule by her side,to pass the throne to their son and be with her forever to the end of his days.

«It’s always ever been you and i’m sorry that this has costed your life.»Daemon words were half stuck in his throat.

Stupid little girl,stupid.She was too good for him.She was pathetically pure.She will never be able to survive in this world,she would become food donated to dogs and worms.Another dead flesh left danging on the spades of this rotten and corrupt castle from the slimy foundation.Another head detached from one's body and turned into a trophy to show to enemies.

Another life that he had ruined.

The images of these elucubrations of his had scared him so much was he afraid?Was the burning in the pupils and ribs fear of seeing her dead or desire to kill or even a fever to possess her?To push her away from his arms,from his belly outstretched towards her.

Daemon had already lost Y/n once,in their old shared chambers of the Red Keep,drenched in sweat and blood.Screaming in fear and pain,just like her mother,as she gave birth to their son.A life for a life,the child survived and the mother died without being able to meet each other.

And now she was there,after so many years,Daemon had only glimpsed at her wet lips and red cheeks,then started yelling at her to leave.It wasn’t real,nothing of this was,his wife,his Y/n was dead,ashes in the wind.

«Go away.Get away right away or you'll regret it.I'll make you regret it,I swear to you.I'll make you regret anything you've ever done or thought if you don't leave now.Go away!»Daemon was screaming like a mad man,but his words were not directed towards Y/n.

His crude and harsh words were echoed only for the silent witch that lived in that old and empty castle.

He must have insulted her,or he had cursed the bastard witch back.He didn’t cared because now Y/n had escaped from his head and eyes with every new sip of wine that he took once he walked back into the dark halls.

Her ethereal figure disappeared at each red bottom of a cup he had swallowed in an attempt to forget the circles of her damn braids.A new cup of wine at every turn of the silver locks and then a hysterical laugh every moment he saw the lilac eyes of that damn girl in the accusatory ones of the witch who sat next to him.

«You are rather unrequited tonight,your grace.What’s bothering you?»Alys Rivers was her name and her voice was as enchanting as her looks.

A punch against the table at every drop of watered down flavor,at every cup of all those lousy drinks that she had given him to help him sleep.A mediocre taste that made him miss better flavors - the taste of him.

Almost as she could read his mind«In love?You?»Alys sound surprised.

And a thud in the heart as every second passes,at the stroke of the hours,at the slow formation of a nebulous wall of chaos inside him.Honey,snow,sweet salt of tears never shed. What was happening to him?What was going on in his head,in his sternum,between his legs?Had Alys poisoned him?

«Y/n.»she spoke again«The little girl that you used to bounce on your knees,the woman that died to give you an heir.»she taunted him,the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Daemon felt his heart shatter in his chest,pain at every breath.His hands burning like the rest of his body,the wine down his throat ready to choke him with all his guilt.

«Where is she?»he asked then,turning to look at the woman next to him.

Where is Y/n?

He had screamed at her out in the gardens and she was gone,she had flown away.

«Where is she?Tell me.Tell me where she is!»the cups on the wooden table crushed on the floor,the cold stones now painted of red wine.

«Where is Y/n?»Alys asked calmly,not even getting up from her chair as his grace thrown everything around«The little girl is far away.But she’s not unreachable,you will see her again soon.»she answered him.

Daemon had was spinning,he felt the nausea coming up from his stomach.He tried to walk and a gag forced him to kneel on the ground,to throw his head against the floor.

«Y/n,my little bird,Y/n.Y/n where are you?»he choked out.

She was there,he had seen her just a few moments before and the other previous nights that he had spent in Harrenhal.He held her,kissed her and it felt so real.She didn't run away,she didn't cry,she didn't even lower her head.Nothing,nothing of nothing.She just looked at him for a second and then she left.

Now she was gone,again.She was gone,Y/n,was gone and Daemon wanted her back,like he had always wanted her,he couldn’t breathe,Y/n come back to him.

Come back,stupid little girl,come back here right away.One moment,he needed to touch her,to kiss her,to have her,just another moment to share with her.His little girl,his little bird.His,his,his,she had always been his.Come back,he needed to hold her and protect her.He would protect her from anyone,even himself if she was so afraid.He was scared too.

«Your grace?»Alys voice was distant,loosing itself in the air.

Daemon crawled on the wet floor,getting up«The little bird.I have to find,I have to find...»the world became dark and dyed of red.There was laughter around his body and someone sneering his name.

«I have to find...»he repeated.

He had to look for her.He hadn't been able to resist her,he hadn't slept even a minute.He had walked around the castle like a mad man,reaching his chambers only to find her inside.

The room looked like the one they lived in the Red Keep,warm and familiar.A small figure appeared,wearing a old white nightgown drenched in blood,pale hair wild on her head in the same that she had died in.

Y/n was there,holding to her chest a child wrapped into a blue blanket like a present.Their son,the joyful and smart boy that looked exactly like his mother and that she had never even seen before closing her eyes forever.She was sitting and crying .He had felt like he was dying and had taken a few uncertain steps.His eyes had moved frantically and they had glimpsed the blood-stained sheets,the stained dress on her thighs, the hands holding the child.

As soon as Y/n had seen him,with shiny eyes, huge tears on that small face she had brought her red fingers on her lips,as if to ask him to be silent as she rocked her baby.The smell of iron had never disgusted him,never shaken him,not until that moment.The little girl's legs had continued to drip and form spots on slippery spots on the floor.

«You always wanted a son.»Y/n voice was paralyzing«I should have know that this would have been my end.You can never surrender to your desires.»she didn’t looked at him,calmly holding the cloth in her arms but he knew she was accusing him of the same sin his brother had committed.

He had never hated blood with such despair,never hesitated before his duties,never thought of spitting acid on his oldest loyalty«I should have…i should have saved you.»he breathed.

Y/n smiled softly«No,this is the price you have to pay for taking what isn’t yours.The throne,the crown…me.»her empty eyes burned his flesh«You will die here,uncle,and you will loose everything.»she warned him.

Daemon vomited until he almost fainted,almost suffocated in his own vomit.Tears mixed with the pain and guilt on his face and his arms suddenly gave in.He felt hands on his neck and lips near his ear.He hit his head against the floor again and rocky voices pronounced his name more times.

He tried to crawl but threw up again,and then again and again.He couldn't stop anymore.He tried to grab a the chair next to door,but the world began swirling to turn and he lost himself in meaningless images.Before closing his eyes Daemon only saw pale silver birds with broken necks and torn wings.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

hi i wrote a song for crowley in a warped sort of catholic hymn style

ELEIMON AEGOVOSKOS [Crowley's Hymn]

Kyrie eleison

Sinner, repenter, o lover of mine Take what you will, I lay at your shrine Hellfire, holy water alike Bring damnation, salvation, oh peace be mine Please be mine

Nightshade nightingale Challenger of God Sea that parted, hope that failed Loveless child of the Lord

Tempter so tempted, o starmaker’s smile Give what you will, an inch for a mile Your kindness, wrath, both so alike Bring violent seduction, so beautiful, vile O beautiful guileless guile

Haloed and hallowed, o hollowed outcry Pray to the ruins of your darling sky Now lovers and allies, or foes alike We are ruined, remade, or at least we try O at least we try 

Heaven and Hell, o my Fallen divine Equal in wrath, follow close behind Mercy, damnation, twin judgements alike On your knees, your judgement will not be so blind You have never been blind

Forgive me for being blind O forgive me for being blind

Dies irae

On your knees, your judgement Is not so blind You see as they see, you feel it in kind On your knees, your judgement  Is not so blind Your damnation has made you divine Your damnation has made you divine

Please forgive me And please be mine

Kyrie eleison

-Asmi

Notes: There are references to old poems and hymns here, including Kyrie eleison which in Greek means Lord have Mercy, roughly, and Dies irae, an old Latin poem about the Last Judgement or Judgement Day, when God decides who is saved and who is cast into eternal flames.

The line On your knees your judgement is not so blind refers to that one shot in Season 2 Episode 3, where rather than Aziraphale who stands and judges the poor bodysnatchers, Crowley sits next to them and understands. Because he is fallen, and on his knees, his judgement isn't as blind as Heaven's.

Hellfire, holy water alike bring salvation, damnation refers to a sentiment I believe Crowley expresses about how whether Hell ends the world or Heaven, it will be ended just the same.

Now lovers and allies, or foes alike refers to their arrangement, about how either they are allies and lovers, or at the very least foes who are very, very similar at heart.

Finally, the title, Eleimon Aegovoskos, is Greek for Merciful Goatherd. Yep, this is a reference to the Job storyline. Because of how Crowley saved the goats though Heaven and Hell said to destroy them, and also because of that one Biblical story about Abraham where he is ordered to sacrifice his son, but really there is a goat waiting to be sacrificed instead. Crowley spares even the goats from needless sacrifice. Hence Merciful Goatherd, similar to how God is a merciful shepherd (I believe, I'm not sure) because Crowley's damnation has made him divine. I'm not Christian and I don't know much about this, so I'm open to corrections :")

[aurawrawr]

Who am I to you?

Part 1

King of Curses Ryomen Sukuna x afab reader x twin brother and Kingsguard Yuuji Itadori

Set in the Heian era, the twins, Ryomen and Yuuji, befriend a girl who they both fall in love with. But who will she choose when the time comes — the delinquent, tough Ryomen or the sweet, charming Yuuji?

so... anon requested a story and me being me, i replied to the request without posting the story. anyhoo, this is going to be a two-parter because the request gave me a lot to work with and i really wanted to establish the lore. part 2 would be up so so soon.

Minors, DNI. WC: 2.8k

CW: sibling rivalry, coarse language, attempted SA, violence, death, blood and wounds, public slander, public proposal, love triangle, no use of y/n

Growing up, you were the apple of their eyes. Both of theirs. You had watched them pull each other's hair, slap and punch each other, steal the other's food. You had also listened to Yuuji crying about how mean his brother was. And when you used to find Ryomen sneaking around in the kitchen, stealing Yuuji's favorite snack for his little brother, all you had to do was roll your eyes and train your ears to hear Ryo grumbling about how he was just fooling around and that he'd never do anything to hurt Yuuji on purpose.

Ryomen had made it a point to always refer to Yuuji as his little brother, even though they were born on the same day, from the same womb, killing the same mother as they each took their first breath. Ryo was only a moment early. Several years later, when he had heard from one of their maids how it was really a choice between their mother's life and that of baby Yuuji's, and it was ultimately their mother's decision to let her child live, Ryomen had made up his mind to always protect Yuuji and put him first, and in doing so, he had hoped to always be able to honor their mother's dying wish.

But putting Yuuji first meant taking a step back. Always. Even in matters of the heart. For, the twins always ended up liking the same things, even the same person.

You were the daughter of one of the handmaidens appointed for the twins' father's new wife. You had a type of clairvoyance. Even at the young age of ten, you could read other people's emotions aptly, you knew a person just from the sound of their footstep or their breathing. When you had first walked into the mansion, your tiny hand in your mother's determined grip, you were beyond confused by the duality of the twins. Yuuji wore his heart on his sleeve; you didn't need any special power to tell what was on his mind. Ryomen, on the other hand, you couldn't figure out even with your clairvoyance. And because of that, for the longest time, he became a subject of soul-crushing interest to you. Until he became the boy you feared.

Yuuji would get you flowers from his adventures, and concerns. He always came back with scratches and injuries left on his body for you to fix. He knew how to accept your care with open arms.

But, Ryomen? He had walls so high around him, it always got on your last nerve.

The Lord of the house was quick to replace the twins' mother with a woman who, in a year, had birthed a son. In a few years of time, it was clear who was going to be the successor. You still remember the look on Ryo's face when his stepmother held an elaborate ceremony and made his father declare that her son would be the next Lord. That boy grew up to be a monster, always picking on the girls and bullying the weak ones. One day, he had gone for you, blocking your path from the pond where you bathed back to the house. The more you tried to flee, the more aggressive and vile he became. Until someone, a towering figure, came up from behind him and pulled back his collar.

"Ryo!" You ran to your friend, hiding behind his muscly arm.

"Ah, brother!" The young Lord jested. "You know how it is. Women. Can't tolerate them and yet, can't go a day without them. You wouldn't stand in my way now, would you?”

"Of course not.”

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Surely, Ryomen wouldn't let a stalker lay his hands on you. But when he stepped aside, and you looked up at his emotionless face, you couldn't be so certain anymore. You trembled, not from the water still dripping from your clothes or the wind that swept your hair onto your face but from fear of the approaching figure. He wasn't as big as Ryomen but you still wouldn't stand a chance against him. The only person you could think of at the moment, who would save you, and not stand aside and watch your demise, was Yuuji. You hated Ryo, despised every speck of his existence. How could he?

You shut your eyes tight as the boy came closer and closer. When you heard a grunt, you opened them to see him flying to the ground. Ryomen had punched his face.

"What in the world?" The Lord sat up, pulling backward on his butt. "I'm going to tell Otou-san on you. You scoundrel, how dare you?”

"Let me give you more to bitch about.”

You watched as Ryo almost leaped on to the boy, pinned him down and started to punch him. The Lord kicked his legs under Ryo's weight, trying to break free, scratched his exposed arms, but nothing budged him at all.

"How dare I?" You heard your friend. "How dare you? How dare you even look at her with those filthy eyes of yours? How dare you even think of touching her?" At the end of every question came a punch that landed straight on his half-brother's jaw, splattering blood to the side.

"Ryo." You called out to him. "Ryo, let him go. Ryo, that's enough. Come on now.”

"No." Another punch. "Not until he's dead." Another punch.

You stood there, shaking, and you didn't even notice when Yuuji appeared, tried to separate his brothers, failed and went running back to bring two servants to pull Ryo back. Only when Yuuji put his arms around you did you finally slump into him, immediately falling unconscious.

When you came around, you saw your mother and Yuuji by your bedside, your mother saying prayers to the Gods and thanking her Ryoryo-chan. "Where is he?" You asked your best friend.

"Otou-san has banished him to the outhouse. You should have been there for that argument.”

"Has he eaten? Did someone clean his wounds?”

"I tried," your mother informed you. "But he wouldn't even let me look at his arm. Ask Yuyu-chan. He's taken his pipe and shut the door on the world.”

You rushed out, Yuuji closely following. When you reached the cabin, you pounded away at the door until Ryomen responded, "Leave.”

"You know I won't. Not until you let me fix your wounds.”

"Go. Away.”

"Why?”

"Because I don't want you to see me like this.”

"Like what, Ryo?”

Before he could answer, Yuuji chimed in, "open the door, Aniki. Let us in.”

"Fuck off, you two.”

"Please." You begged. "Please let me– us see you.”

You heard the latch fall and pushed inside. The air was thick with the stench of burning grass. It made your eyes water. Yuuji kept the door open for the smoke to pass. You immediately got to work. Bringing a bucket and a washrag from the bathroom, you knelt by the bed where Ryo was sitting. "Show me," You said.

"Leave me alone.”

"Who slapped you?" You noticed the red impression of fingers on his cheek. Your fingers rushed to touch it, heal it if you could.

"My father's wife.” Ryo nudged your hand away.

"You mean, your mother?”

"She's not my mother. Your mother is more of a mother to me than my father's wife will ever be.”

You sighed. "Fine. Now, give me your hand.”

"Don't be such a drag, Aniki." Yuuji sat down beside him. "Everything will be fine. And if it isn't, we three will run away together. We'll have a small house on the hills with a tea shop in the front. You and I will go work in the tea farms and she will sell tea to any traveler or tourist or anyone passing by. We'll all be fine. I promise.”

Ryo let out a small smile and patted his brother's cheek. Sighing, he placed his hand in yours, the blood on his knuckles dry and raised. "Did you really need to do this to yourself?”

"Or what? Let that son of a wench have his way with you?”

"I thought that's what you intended, the way you…”

"You maim my heart, woman. You really thought I'd let a vulture have you while I'm still alive and standing?" This was the first time he called you a woman and not a little girl. Maybe knowing another man wanted you made him see you as a woman.

"Aniki, you scared her. You know that, right? I know you were enraged but…”

"That's alright. She can stomach it.”

You looked up to meet Ryomen's gaze, intense and wanting. But wanting for what?

"She fainted, Aniki.”

"That's because she doesn't eat." Ryo smirked. "Yuuji, why don't you go and get some food for all of us?”

You held your breath as Yuuji walked out the door, the ever so compliant, sweet and understanding younger brother, and you were left alone with the tough, delinquent, taller, smirking, challenging older one. You kept cleaning Ryo's hands, your cheeks tepid and chest flushed with all the blood in your body. He grabbed your wrist in an iron grip, bringing it to his lips. He didn't kiss it, just held it there like he was craving your touch.

"I'll become so strong and powerful, bugs like him would think twice, thrice, several times before even looking at you. You'll have nothing to be scared of. Ever.”

You nodded, smiling. Ryo's gaze was so soft at that moment; it was almost a gateway to his soul. For the first time in a decade, when you touched his hand, you could almost tell what he was feeling. His guards were down; he was letting you in on all his secrets. Your fear of him from earlier had dissipated completely, replaced by a warmth you had never felt before. For anyone else. Was this love? The same love your mother had always told you about? She had said, it'd feel just right, that your palm would fit into theirs and their smell would be something you'd recognize even if you were blindfolded.

It did feel right. To know that Ryomen would protect you gave you a sense of relief. You somehow knew the warmth in your heart was reciprocated by him. And for that, you were both grateful and scared.

Your faces inched closer, your heartbeat like a war drum in your ears, but before he could bridge the gap between your trembling lips and his open, smirking mouth, screams from outside the house startled you.

"Bring out the wench," the people shouted.

"Set her on fire.”

"What a disgrace! She seduced the young Lord.”

"Such a shame!”

"No, that is not what happened." You heard your mother trying to defend you, going out of her usual vocal range of what was considered a meek woman. "No, listen, please. My daughter would never. She has grown up in front of your eyes. You know the kind of girl she is.”

You rushed to the doorway, and Ryomen followed. When the people saw you, their screams only grew louder. "Burn her," they said. "Burn her." All of them were servants and guards of the house, colleagues of your mother, people who had once told you that you were just like their own daughter. Their jostling pushed your mother to the ground and you couldn't help but descend into the mob. You heard Ryo's pleas for you to stay back but you couldn't let your mother be victim to a stampede.

The people cornered you, separated you and your mother from Ryo. He tried to push his way through but there were just so many people.

"Answer our questions, wench. Why did you try to besmirch the good young Lord's name and reputation?”

"Weren't you scared for your own good?”

"Who will marry you now that you've given your body up to the young Lord?”

"I will." The answer silenced the whole crowd. With tears in your eyes, you looked up. You knew the voice. The soft yet determined voice that rarely took no for an answer. Your best friend who you always confided in, who knew everything about you. Well, almost everything.

Yuuji came forward and took your hands in his. Several mouths gasped put loud at his gesture. You turned your gaze to where Ryo was standing and saw his face, ashen, like he just realized he'd made a grave mistake.

"I..." Yuuji clasped your hand tighter. "I wanted to talk to you about this for a long time but... I... I also wanted to wait until I had a proper job. But seeing these people vilify you like this, I thought this was the right time. I know what actually happened and that you're an honest woman. What am I saying? Even if you weren't, and if I had your consent, of course, there's nothing I'd like more than having a family with you. What... what do you think? Well you don't have to answer rightaway. Obviously, you need to talk to Okaa-san and I need to talk to Aniki. And…”

"Yuuji," You stopped him from continuing to badger. "I... I don't know what to say." What could you have said that wouldn't have hurt him, and destroyed your decade-long friendship?

You turned your head again, only to see Ryo heading back inside the shed he had been banished to. You needed to know what he was thinking. Did he really have nothing to say?

The crowd was disappearing, disappointed that their bullying had no satisfactory conclusion. You sent Yuuji and your mother back too before rushing to Ryo.

Just as you had feared, you saw him packing clothes and essentials into a bag you had once sewn together for him. "Ryo, what are you doing?" You asked but there was no answer. "Ryo? Ryo?" You followed him around as he picked up more things from around the room. "Ryo, talk to me. Please.”

"Congratulations are in order, I suppose."

"What? No! Ryo, stop." You stood in between him and the doorway. But he was too strong. He picked you up and sat you down on the bed before starting to head out. "Why are you leaving?”

"I have no place here, not now at least.”

"What–”

"Tell me, woman." He turned to you, his bag slinging from his broad shoulder. "Who am I to you?”

You scoffed. As if, that could be put into words. He was the boy who walked behind when Yuuji showed you around town, looking out for any signs of terror. He was the boy who filleted fish for you because he knew you hated chewing on bones. He was the man who almost killed the bastard that wished to consume you. He not only had your heart, you were ready to sacrifice your soul for him.

"See?" He scoffed too.

"What am I to you?" Your question paused him in his tracks. He turned and smiled. Not a smirk, a genuine smile. A melancholic smile. "If it is so easy to put into words, you do it then. What am I to you?”

"A reason.”

Ryomen was already gone before you could interrogate him further. At the time, you had no idea that'd be the last you saw of him, the real him. You sat there, for who knew how long, grieving your friendship, your love, your innocence – all gone in a single day – before Yuuji came back with a tray of food.

"Where's Aniki?" He asked, setting it down.

You composed yourself before answering, lying, "I don’t know. He was gone by the time I came back.”

"Are you–?" Yuuji crouched down in front of you, holding your hands again. There was a lot of eagerness in his grasp, a little impatience too. "Are you still tensed about what happened out there?”

You nodded, sniffling and rubbing off the tears you shed for his brother with the back of your hand.

"Don't worry. They can't hurt you. Not while I'm here. And..." He sensed your concern. "It has got nothing to do with my question, okay? Even if you say no, that's okay too. I'll still always be there for you. Always.”

"What am I to you?”

"What?”

"Yuuji, what am I to you?" You needed to know if there was a simple answer to this question.

He looked around, as if the answer was in the room. When he couldn't find it, he said, "You... You are my best friend. Is that enough?”

"Yes.”

"Great! Now, come, eat something please.”

"No, Yuuji, I meant, yes.”

His eyes grew wider, finally realizing what you meant. "Yes?”

You nodded. "Yes, I'll marry you.”

Until that moment, you weren't sure if this was such a good idea. Even when you actually uttered the word. But the beaming smile on Yuuji's face made it all worth it. All of it, even knowing that your best friend was going to marry a woman who will always love another man more.

please don't copy my work, or publish it elsewhere without my consent. all banners are from pinterest.

[libby-for-life]

Hayo! It's me!

Um... If it's not too much trouble, could you do part 6 of "Theirs"? Where Adam is expelled from Eden for being "contaminated" and while Lucifer and Lilith lose their minds because their loved one is "unprotected" and "defenseless" outside, Adam is having the best day of his life having killed two of Adam's ancestors of the bears (which are huge). and all this while having a pregnant belly.

It's just that I find it funny to imagine their reunion. Adam with absolutely long, tangled hair, a spartan beard, covered in the skin of the beasts he killed for food, covered in scars, scrapes and bruises, with a muscular build. A completely wild appearance that is softened by the fanny pack made of animal skin in which she carries her three year old son.

Don't know. I find that funny. Lucifer and Lilith losing their minds with worry and Adam having the time of his life after leaving Eden (he's a wild soul) (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

Ooohhhh, I like that! Adam is a wild soul by nature. Read parts 1 through 5 for a better understanding of this mini-series.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Adam crept silently closer through the brush, his eyes trained on the bear before him. He gripped his spear tightly as he surveyed his surroundings. Nothing so far other than danger in front of him. Shifting his weight on, his belly poking out of the makeshift tunic he had made, he charged the bear.

It didn't have any idea what was going on until it was already dead. Being six months pregnant and hunting at the same time was hard but Adam managed it. He grinned at his belly. "You eat a lot for a little twirp." He commented as he dragged the bear up onto his shoulders to carry back to his cave. Finally. These cravings were really starting to wear him thin, but if anyone had asked him, Adam had never felt happier.

This was what he had been missing. He finally felt alive.

Three months ago:

Adam coward at the feet of Lucifer and Lilith as the angels surrounded them. They were trying to protect him as the angles looked at Adam in disgust and he couldn't help but whimper away from them.

"Lucifer, how dare you seduce the first of humanity with your vile ways?" An angel growled. Lucifer stood his ground though and defiantly growled back. "Seduced? We fell in love!" Lucifer yelled. "They love me and I love them!"

His brother, Michael, scoffed. "You come into the Garden, have fornication with the first of our Lord's creation, and you call it love after we told you specifically not to come to the Garden? They were meant for each other. Not for you to force your way in." Lucifer flinched but glared at his twin.

Lilith also held her ground as she said, "I won't let you hurt Adam."

"No? What will you do?" An angel taunted. "I say we banish him from Eden. He's tainted from their sin." Adam could only watch as they nodded and talked to themselves as to what his punishment for getting pregnant would be.

They held Lucifer and Lilith in chains as Adam was dragged out of the Garden. "We'll find you!" Lucifer cried tears in his eyes. Lilith was trying to fight the chains holding her down, but she was furiously crying as well.

Adam felt numb. Lucifer and Lilith were both bound for Hell or maybe somewhere else and he was forced to wander the earth. The last thing he saw was Lilith and Lucifer crying out his name before everything went dark.

Present:

It was so long ago. As conflicted as he was about the whole situation, he couldn't help but feel like he could breathe again. Lucifer and Lilith could be suffocating to be with because they didn't let him do anything. Despite being kicked out of the Garden, he was enjoying the feeling of being independent.

There was a part of him that hoped they were okay. He didn't want them suffering, especially since they looked so scared for him. Adam stretched and smiled as he scratched his growing beard. He was sure they were fine. Lucifer and Lilith were some of the toughest people he knew. He was sure they were thriving in Hell or wherever they were.

XxX

Lucifer and Lilith were panicking up a storm. Adam was all alone out there in the wilderness, alone with a baby, and unable to take care of himself. They had to protect him. But they were stuck somewhere in the wilderness with no way out as well. Adam could be anywhere and as Lucifer had explained to Lilith, Earth was huge. He could very well be on the other side of Earth. He could be on an island, the desert, and even someplace he couldn't leave either. Stuck and unable to help himself.

Lilith felt herself hyperventilate. What if—what if Adam was already—

Her train of thought was cut off as Lucifer came flying down. "I...I couldn't find him in our area. We're going to have to move again." Lucifer had been spreading his angelic power every time they moved to find Adam but it only went so far. Hence why they moved every day, sometimes three times a day before Lucifer collapsed from exhaustion.

Lilith looked over Lucifer and her heart broke seeing him silently cry. Two years. They hadn't seen Adam in two years and they had searching every day without fail. They refused to believe Adam was hurt or de—she refused to go down that line of thought.

She brought Lucifer close and hugged him. "We'll find him. We're close. I can feel it." Empty words. She had no idea where he was. He could have been thousands of miles and they wouldn't have known.

"....yeah. We'll find him." Lucifer said. "I can feel it too."

The next day, Lucifer flew them both in the air. They had been flying for hours. He once again shoved his angelic power as far as it could reach to find Adam. Lilith kept her eyes looking all around, trying in vain to see if she could catch a glimpse of Adam.

Suddenly Lucifer screeched and they almost fell. Lilith yelped and hung on for dear life as Lucifer looked toward the east. "Lucifer?! What happened?!"

"I found him," Lucifer said before flying as fast as he could toward the East. Lilith couldn't hardly believe her ears. "Found him?! You found Adam?!" Lucifer nodded rapidly. "Yes! He's over here!" Adam. Adam had been found! Lucifer was a man on a mission as he flew down and landed in the middle of a vast forest.

"Adam?! Adam, sweetie where are you?!" Lilith yelled as Lucifer did the same. Lucifer guided her toward the direction Adam was in.

They burst through a clearing just in time to see a large mass of muscle tackle a massive bear to the ground. They could only stare as the person took a spear and plunged it into the head of the bear. It collapsed onto the floor and the man laughed as he stood over the beast.

He had wild long brown hair, a ripped body, and a thick beard. But they would recognize him anywhere.

"Adam?" Lucifer said, completely shocked at finding him here. The man looked over at them, his expression conveying shock at seeing them. He slung a makeshift leather sack on his chest as he walked over.

"Lucifer? Lilith?" Adam asked. Lilith still was taller but Adam's slim build was now muscled beyond what she thought capable. It looked good on him.

"I—what are you doing here?" Adam asked. He didn't sound mad or accusatory. Just confused.

"Adam! Oh, Adam! I'm so glad to see you!" Lilith cried out and hugged him. She was crying as Lucifer joined in. "We've been searching this whole time! We didn't give up even once—"

"Hey, sh," Adam said as he hugged them close. "You'll wake him up." They both looked at Adam confused until they realized the bundle around Adam’s chest moved slightly.

"Is that? The baby?" Lucifer asked in awe. Adam smiled proudly and opened the leather sack. Inside, was a beautiful baby boy sleeping peacefully. He had dark brown hair that looked almost black in the shade and pale skin like Lucifer. "He...he has your eyes, Lilith." Adam said with a smile. "A beautiful purple." Lilith blushed a bit at that comment.

"What's his name?" She asked.

"Seth."

[simplydannie]

Previous: Back to the Underground || Find Them || Poisoned || Side Effects || The Troll || The Hideout || The Call

Introduce two new OCs, Apollo and Agni! One by my friend @kais-va and the other by me. I’ll do an introduction post about them one day! Hope you like it Kai 🫶 Thank you for your support!

TRIGGER WARNING ‼️ MENTION OF GUNS

After turned in by Creek, the twins find themselves back at the hands of their father: Vaughn. Angered that they have escaped her grasp, stricken by fear that Vaughn is now after her, Mistress reveals the secret of whose children they are…. Now all of the under-city will be out for their blood…

The table went flying.

Broken pieces splattering everywhere. The Mistress looked outside the window into the city of Mount Rageous.

“What…. Happened…” She fumed as she asked her goons. The Rageons standing in front of her were afraid to speak. She turned and faced Shank, her face burning red, “YOU HAD THEM! WHAT HAPPENED!?”

“What happened was you didn’t tell us the freaking truth.” Shank said plainly.

“You didn’t need to know anything. All you need to know is that I NEEDED those twins back!”

“YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT THEY WERE THE FREAKING CHILDREN OF THE DAMN CRIME LORD OF UNDER RAGEOUS!!!”

She fell silent.

“That was my business to know… that was information you don’t need to worry about.”

“Really? Because it would’ve helped me if I would’ve known that! We go after them after they use the damn smoke bombs only to be bombarded by the Montegue gang! I lost half my guys dammit!!! Only reason he let me live was to give word back to you!”

She turned around to face him, “Word? What word?”

“That he knows. He knows what you did and what you’re trying to do…. That you’re going to pay for taking his kids out from the under-city…. That you’re going to pay for the death of his wife…”

Mistress stood silent. She stared out into the bright lights of Mount Rageous. A scowl came across her face…..Vaughn Montegue: father of the infamous twin duo that had Mount Rageous eating from the palm of their. She knew what he was capable of. He owned and ran most of the corporations that supplied Mount Rageous. Of course, his goal was to run them all, but the other gang lords ran the rest. He was cunning, vile, and cruel when needed to be. He was the top dog of Under Rageous, wealthiest of them all…and on the side, he ran his own hustle of importing and selling Trolls for their essence…

But with one word, Vaughn had the power to end the economy of Mount Rageous, especially now that the powers of the upper-city had used his children to make them money. For that he was angry….for that he was coming for blood….her blood. Mistress needed to make sure he was stopped before he could plan anything, before he even had the chance of coming after her…

“Then it seems I’ll have to make my first move.” She murmured.

“And what the hell would that be? Unless you want to keep me in the dark again?” Shank asked her. She turned around to face her lover. Walking up to him, she placed a hand on his chest.

“Not again babe. Me and you are in this together after all.” She smirked, “I want EVERYONE to know…”

He cocked an eyebrow, “Known about what?”

“Know the truth about those identical brats. I want all of Rageous, both upper and under, to know where they come from, who their father is.”

“And what good is that going to do to you? Didn’t you want those brats alive?”

“That was before their father got involved… Now I want them all dead. Their father can’t protect them forever. If the other crime bosses of the under-city know, they’ll kill them all for me. How do you think his darling wife was murdered?” She looked back out into the city, “I want their blood splattered along the streets of Under Rageous…”

She could feel the whirring of the car, the sound of the engine humming through. Velvet stirred, she could feel herself regaining the strength in her body, her consciousness slowly coming back to her.

“What…What in the world…” Her hands stretched across as she felt the black leather….Leather? Her eyes opened more allowing her vision to clear. Turning to her left she saw Veneer was still out cold. “Ven?” She saw the gash she had left him on his eye. Velvet swallowed the lump in her throat…she had done that to him…out of her fit of rage again, she hurt him badly.

“Wait?” She looked around again, the Troll, the little one they had met back up in Mount Rageous, where was he? Where were they? Why were they in some fancy car? Where was that annoying purple, fancy talking Troll?

“Don’t remember your own car do you?” A deep voice spoke. It came from across them, sitting on the opposite side. It was familiar…She didn’t even need to look at who the voice came from. Her eyes fell upon the figure sitting across from them: a tall, pale Rageon, with peacock green hair. He wore his business attire as usual…still fiddling with the wedding ring he’d always wear on his finger. His ice, blue eyes fell upon her, “Did you two really think you could avoid me?”

She scowled, “Well we tried our damn best didn’t we dad.” Velvet turned to try and shake her brother awake, but he didn’t budge.

“What’s with the gash on his eye?” Vaughn did not take his eyes off his daughter.

“I…I don’t know….So could you just leave it?” She snapped.

“What. Happened.” His tone came out more serious, more menacing.

Velvet side. Crossing her arms she faced out the window, “I don’t know! I just got angry…I can’t…..I can’t control.” She stared back at him, “There! Is that a good enough answer for you?”

“So you guys did use the little Troll after all?”

Velvet looked up to stare at her father…

“I know the side effects of Troll essence ...I've seen it first hand. Something I didn’t expect or want my children to experience.”

“Well…you wanted to be part of this family business after all didn’t you?” She said.

They both turned to find Veneer stirring and moaning, his eyes opening as he regained consciousness, “Wh-what happened….Wh-where, are we? Where’s Branch?” He turned to face his sister. She remained silent. Veneer began taking in his surroundings…he grew silent and still when he laid eyes on his father sitting across from them.

“Veneer. You have matured since the last time I saw you. Without all that disgusting attire you were made to wear in Mount Rageous…I can see you have grown, both of you.”

“See. Which means we don’t need YOU in our life anymore.” Velvet spat. Veneer eyed his sister, then his father….Perhaps so. Perhaps they didn’t need him, but Veneer WANTED his father back in his life. They had messed things up with Floyd…so perhaps this was another chance they were getting?

Vaughn scoffed, “Just because you are older does not make you wiser. For one, you two were fools falling into the hands of Mistress. For having her use you as puppets.”

“…But we got out of it didn’t we.” Veneer responded.

“How do you think that solves anything?” Vaughn cocked his head to the side, “Who do you think sent those goons after you?”

“Well why do you think she’s after us?” Velvet exclaimed. This caught Vaughn by surprise, “She knows we’re your damn kids doesn’t she? That’s why she gave us hell, that’s why she wanted us? That’s why she took us away? So all this is YOUR fault!”

“Vels come one relax…” Veneer protested.

“No! It’s true! You know it is!”

“And why do you think I tried protecting you! Why I was hard on you! If you had not run away none of this would have happened!”

Veneer covered his ears as their father and Velvet began to bicker back and forth. His eyes closed shut, he began squeezing his head, “Enough!”

They stopped to stare at him. Veneer began to shout, “We needed a dad when mom died! We needed you! We lost her too and we miss her! But we have you! We NEED our dad!”

BANG!

A small explosion caused the car to swerve out of control. Velvet clung on to the seats as fear entered her body.

“What’s going on!” Vaughn yelled to the Bergen driver.

“Ambush!” The Bergen on the passenger's seat began loading a gun.

BANG! BANG!

More explosions. This time the care flipped. Velvet and Veneer let out a yell. Out of instinct, Vaughn took off his seatbelt and engulfed the twins in his arms. He held on to them tight as the car flipped and turned off the road seemingly down a ditch. It tossed and turned uncontrollably until it came to a halt landing upside down. The twins and their father stirred in the back as they regained the strength to move.

“Teal! Coal!” Vaughn called out to the Bergens that were driving…but they were out cold. He reached over to a compartment underneath the seat pulling out a gun.

“What the hell dad!” Velvet exclaimed.

“Want to fight whoever did this with bare hands? Be my guest. I for one am not going to give them the advantage.” Voices were heard coming closer…they were outnumbered…they were at a disadvantage. Vaughn pressed a button within the compartments of the car…a signal for backup up…

“Oh Vaughn! We know you and your brats are in there.” A conniving voice sounded from outside. Vaughn loaded the gun and prepared to walk out.

“What are you doing?” Veneer called out in a harsh whisper.

“Buying time until backup arrives. You two stay here.”

“Like hell we are!” Velvet exclaimed. She moved to open the door, but their father firmly grasped her by the arm and looked her dead in the eye.

“For God’s sake. Listen to me for once and stay here!” His voice was demanding, serious, and fierce. The twins only blinked to him in response…the father in him coming out for once in his life. Taking a deep breath Vaughn stepped out of the car alone. Veneer attempted to peek through the shattered windows to get a view of who was out there, who was it that ambushed them…All he could see was the glowing lights of a Strobe Rageon.

“Crap! It’s a Strobe! And where there’s a Strobe you know there's a Goyle! What do we do?”

“Nothing. He wants to be stubborn and told us to stay here. We stay.” Velvet crossed her arms and pouted.

“Seriously! Now out of all times you decide to listen!”

“What the hell are we going to do Ven? They’ll probably shoot our dad dead in a second! Then we’re next!”

Veneer bit his lip as he peeked through any opening he could find, his ear listening to the conversations that were happening outside…

Vaughn stood boldly in between the Rageons in front of him and the car that had his children behind him…It was a young Strobe standing amongst his comrades…

“You? You did this?” Vaughn seemed surprised. The young Rageon smiled, his glowing green eyes staring him down, his oranges hair illuminated brighter along with his yellow markings as joy soured through his veins.

“Pretty good wasn’t it?” He twiddled with the gun in his hands.

“How did you know where to find us?”

“Hmm, that’s for me to know and for you to NEVER find out. How does that sound?” The Strobe smiled, “Now! Word has it that you have spawns! Weird how a cranky old guy like you had any game to be able to reproduce anything at all.”

Vaughn fell silent, but his expression was unchanged. How? How did they know about his children? That damn Troll opened his mouth didn’t he….or worse….the Mistress was done being silent.

“Depends where you hear the news from. I wouldn’t believe anything this damn under-city has to say.” Vaughn responded.

The Strobe frowned. Taking his gun he shot towards Vaughn’s shoulder….The older Rageon was unbothered as he did his best to absorb the pain it gave. Inside the car, the twins gasped, holding their mouths.

“Oh my god! Next time it’ll be a bullet to his head!” Veneer said, “Vels, we HAVE to do something…He’s our dad.”

Velvet looked at the pleading look in her brother's eyes. She let out a groan as she reached for the compartments inside the vehicle…she drew out two more guns. Handing one to her brother.

“Whoa, whoa!” Veneer held his hands up in defeat, “Nope. Nuh uh. Any other options?”

“Want to help dad out or not chicken feet?”

Veneer casted a long glance at his sister before finally sighing in defeat. He took the gun carefully, “I guess we are our father’s children aren’t we.”

“I guess we are.”

The lights of the Strobe Rageon illuminated brighter as he grew angry, “MOVE OUT OF MY DAMN WAY!” He yelled at the top of his lungs. Vaughn cocked an eyebrow as the blood from the bullet wound began to drip down his shirt.

“Apollo.” He Said. The Strobe stared at him in disbelief, “You’re Eros’s boy. Crime boss of your district. You’re his boy aren’t you?”

“Congratulations! My identity has been revealed! Dad said this was my moment, my shot, kill you and your brats or bring you back to him….I’d prefer kill. NOW MOVE!” Apollo yelled. But Vaughn stood still holding the gun firmly in his hand. “I’ve had enough…AGNI!”

PLOP!

A red Goyle Rageon with shoulder length orange hair and big round horns landed on top of the car. The twins screamed inside.

“No!” Vaughn lifted his gun to shoot the Goyle Rageon, not before others came to disarm him.

“Get them out of there!” Apollo demanded.

“With pleasure.” The Goyle Rageon, Agni, began to tear apart the vehicle with his bare hands.

Velvet and Veneer let out a scream…

“Teal! Coal!” Velvet yelled out to the Bergens who were still out cold.

CLANK! CLANK!

They could hear the Goyle tearing apart the car. Veneer caught a view of the Goyle Rageon through the opening he was creating. Lifting the gun in desperation, Veneer began to shoot…but the bullets bounced off the Goyle, leaving him unscathed.

“Adorable. A for effort.” He smirked as he began smashing the car.

“Leave them alone! It’s me you want isn’t it. It’s me your father has a quarrel with. Not them!” Vaughn spat. Apollo came around and began to strike the older Rageon.

“It’s you and any spawn you reproduce Succubi.”

Vaughn laughed, spitting out blood, “What a coward. Sending a child to do a man's bidding.” Apollo glowed bright and fumed. He took out the knife he had in his pocket.

“What if I brought him your head?”

“Make sure it’s mounted on a gold platter, I don’t look well in silver.” Vaughn smirked.

Agni kept beating down on the car as the twins screamed inside. He reached into an opening taking a firm hold of Velvet’s arm. She screamed trying to pull him away as he pulled. Grabbing something sharp, Veneer was able to run it into the Goyle's skin. Agni screamed in pain.

“YOU LITTLE BRAT!” He tore a piece of the car straight off exposing the twins. Apollo turned to finally see the twins.

“Don’t do anything yet! I want them to see life leave their fathers eyes.” He smiled a wicked grin as he pointed the knife to Vaughns throat.

“DAD!” Veneer jumped out of the broken vehicle, attempting to run to his father. The Goyle Rageon grasped him by the shoulder tearing him back.

“Oh no you don’t! You get to watch the show, tiny man!” Agni smirked.

Apollo ran the knife down Vaughns cheek… blood began trickling down. Vaughn made no movement, no sound, he endured the pain. If he fought now, he knew that Goyle would snap the twins in two with ease. His eyes met his children as they stood horrified. He made a notion…a sign for them to run when they could, but he could see the small head shake they each gave him…

“DAD!” Veneer cried out again struggling against the tight hold Agni’s grip. His eyes began to glow, an orange-pink hue. “NO!” He yelled as he lifted and pointed the gun towards the Strobe Rageon…

BANG!

[sephirothsplaything]

VISHA SOLARA- "The everlasting sun"

Regarding Lady Visha of House Solara

It is said that the Lady Visha Solara was a horribly shrewd woman. The lords in Westeros thought her unpleasant. Perhaps it was due to the fact that she seemed to know much and more than they ever could; How she was able to achieve such things,it is unclear.

Whatever the reason, Visha alone raised up her own house, without a lord. However, it was not without resistance. Men of the realm wished to see her fall, as they deemed her unfit to hold her own house. Many lords vied for her hand after the sudden death of her husband. King  Jaehaerys Targaryen and his lady wife Alysanne held the Lady Visha in high regard, allowing her to be the sole head of House Solara.

In her younger years, Visha Solara was quite close to Lady Aemma Arryn and her death hardened her further. She retained a vile bitterness towards Viserys Targaryen.

The mystery behind her husband's death is one of great confusion. He had sired the first three of her children Orabela and the twins Seth and Senka,but the parentage of her youngest,Melpomene and Demir are shrouded in rumor. 

Visha and her house rose quickly;Savage islander magic,some say…but who could know?

........

QUOTES!!

“The Targaryens have their dragons, but I have my children– We shall see who fares best in the end.” 

“My own lady mother was a Targaryen,and she suffered for it.”

Mother Visha Solara you will always be famous!!! Honestly, when I was planning out her character she reminded me of the goddess Hera.

Never ask her what happended to her husband because the answer will most definitely be different every time!

[imakemywings]

A Damnable Spot

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Elwing & Maglor

Characters: Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond, Elros

Summary: Elwing is dead, but she will not let Maglor alone, no matter how he pleads.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

__________________________________________________

The ships sailed towards Losgar, but the wrath of Ulmo, Uinen, and Ossë was on them. Waves like heavy blades bashed against the hulls of the swan ships, dumping water over the sides as if to fill the ships and weight them down under the surface. Maglor could not tell if the howling he heard in the distance was still the uncomprehending wail of the Teleri, on bloody knees amid the carnage on the docks, or the aggrieved ululations of Lord Manwë on the wind at the slaughter of Eru Ilúvatar’s Children.

“Father!” Maglor cried. There was something Fëanor wished him to do—in those hours and the subsequent days, there had always been something to do—but Maglor could not find him. He could not find any of his brothers either, crying out first for Caranthir, and then for Celegorm, his nearest in age, then Maedhros, and the twins.

The swollen, slick wood of the ship groaned underfoot as if Ossë had a grip on the hull and meant to drag them under the water. Abruptly, the voices of the first-time sailors rose in a calamitous clamor, just before the creaking of the ship became a deafening series of cracks.

Unbound from emotions like pride or dignity, which belonged to a world apart from the black sea on which they were now tossed about, Maglor screamed. Even his mighty bellow of terror was engulfed by the snapping of sturdy wood planks as the waves overstressed the swan ship and the hull rent in two.

The ground fell away from his feet; he was thrown about with the carelessness of a child swinging around a rag doll, and in the tumble, he lost track of which shade of terrible gray was the sky, and which was the sea.

The water so far north hit with such cold that it knocked the breath out of him; Maglor sucked for air, but his seizing chest muscles would not obey, would not draw breath. The ship continued to shriek as Ossë in his grief ripped plank from plank; a foremast fell and clipped Maglor’s shoulder as it went down; his vision went white with the pain as his arm was bludgeoned from its socket. This time when he opened his mouth to scream, the vile swirl of saltwater poured down his throat, squirted up his nose. It should have been cold, as cold as the water already numbing his extremities, but it wasn’t—the water that filled up his lungs was warm as a fresh spill of blood, and Maglor would have sobbed, if he had had breath for it.

But he did not. Instead, his body surrendered the fight against the lack of air, and drifting, directionless, he was blown by ocean currents away from the splintering, sinking wreck of Alqualondë’s ship. It was impossible to tell, lost in the utter blackness of the water, which direction was up, and which was down—if he had been able to swim, he might very well have been bearing himself deeper into Ulmo’s realm.

Black spots danced at the edges of his vision; he closed his eyes, feeling his body enter the final death throes and the terrible loss of physical control. It was a terror that never failed to overwhelm him: the realization that his body was giving up. This far under the water—the close to death—sensations winked out one by one. Absence enveloped him: of sound, of sight, of temperature.

A vacuum.

When he awoke in bed, the first pale pink fingers of dawn brushing over the sky outside his grimy window, he tried to remember how many times this month he had dreamed of drowning.

Usually it was as it had been, on the flight from Alqualondë, but not always. Other times, he went out to fish on a lake and capsized; or found himself for some reason or another in the seas around Balar; or was simply at sail for no reason and on no waters he could discern. Other things were constant—the bloody water, the confusion, that moment of petrifying realization. It was a uniquely frightful experience, Maglor found, perhaps one of the worst things he’d felt, that moment of comprehending there would be no rescue—that one’s death was imminent, that his body was letting go of him.

He found he could not recall precisely how many nights he had dreamed of drowning. Four or five? Surely not more than seven! Or was this the first this month?

Water drooled down the window. He was quite sure that was an additional streak of bird shit on the dingy glass. Someone really needed to get to cleaning those.

It took a few minutes for his heart rate to return to normal.

After several other aborted trains of thought and considerable coaxing, Maglor got himself out of bed, mainly because it was time to wake the twins. Once dressed, with his unruly hair brushed back into order, he flung open the door and rang the bell he had installed just inside.

“Up and up!” he announced. “Time for little things to prepare for breakfast!”

The boys were sprawled in the manner of young children across the bed they shared, with Elrond’s head inexplicably towards the foot of the bed, his feet in his brother’s face. Jolted awake by the clanging, they both sat upright and looked not at Maglor, but at each other, with length that gave Maglor pause. They had told him they did not possess the Elven ability of ósanwe. But sometimes they showed behaviors that reminded Maglor eerily of Amrod and Amras, and he wondered if anything could be a peculiarity of twins across species, or if they had lied (or, he supposed with reflection, they were growing into something they had before lacked).

They both turned to look at him at the same moment.

“Did you see Nana last night?” they asked together.

Maglor’s pause lengthened.

“Now what a silly question that is,” he said with forced placidity. “Dreams are dreams, little ones. Up you go. If you’re late to breakfast, I shall give you extra times tables.”

***

            “Someone really needs to clean the windows,” said Maglor as he dropped down into an empty seat at the table. Maedhros gave his “good mood” morning grunt, nibbling at the end of a sausage speared onto a fork with his natural hand, while his attention remained on the parchment unrolled beside his plate. “They’ve gotten truly repulsive.”

            “Feel free,” Maedhros said, ripping off another hunk of sausage.

            “That is disgusting,” Maglor said. They had had the conversation about Maedhros eating like a civilized person too many times for Maglor to bother to rehash it now, but not so many he wasn’t still willing to share his opinion.

            Maedhros, predictably, did not respond.

            The twins shuffled into the room and quietly filed into seats next to each other. No matter how Maglor arranged the table, they would always sit so, even if it meant squeezing into the same chair together because there were no two available chairs adjacent. He had given up (for now) on trying to separate them for meals.

            “Wouldn’t it be nice to have clean windows?” he said.

            The boys blinked owlishly at him, seemingly unclear if they were meant to be a part of this conversation or not. The subject matter suggested not, but Maglor was using the chirpy tone he only ever directed at them.

            “Of course it would!” he answered, when they said nothing, and cast a far less generous look at Maedhros, who lifted his eyes without raising his head.

            “Do you need me to remind you where the buckets are?” he asked. “Or are you going to make them do it?”

            “Well I certainly won’t rely on you,” Maglor snapped.

            “That would be first,” Maedhros replied. Maglor’s lips thinned and he pressed dangerously hard on a spoon that was not sturdy enough for his full wrath.

            “You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he said at length. Maedhros rolled his eyes, as he did when he wanted to suggest Maglor was delusional or hysterical, and went back to his reading. Maglor wished he’d leave the table in a temper, but he almost never would—staying was part of his revenge on Maglor.

            The rest of the meal passed in miserable, awkward silence, except where Maglor expounded on the twins’ lesson plan for the day. Even the boys’ minor squabble towards the end was silent, as they usually were whenever they took place within view of either lord of Amon Ereb. Maedhros did not like it when they were too noisy, or bickered over small things.

            Maglor helped himself to the pitcher of watered-down wine, only to regret it the instant he’d taken a sip. It was warm, and salty—without thinking, he spat it immediately back into the cup, which got the attention of everyone else at the table. Nervously, he arranged the goblet beside his plate and went back to eating as if nothing had happened. It must be the dream, he thought to himself. It was still too close; that was why the wine tasted wrong.

            He just needed to wake up a bit more, and he’d be fine.

***

A light rain spit irregularly down over Amon Ereb. Maglor stood under the eaves of the armory, holding an umbrella over one shoulder, watching the twins run laps around the courtyard. Their feet slapped through the muddy ground as they wheezed towards him, doubling over when they made it back to him.

“Another!” he said cheerfully.

“We’re tired!” Elros cried, looking up, while Elrond fixed him with a pitiful expression. Their cheeks were ruddy with exertion.

“Young things need to get proper exercise!” Maglor sang.

“We’re not Elves!” Elrond burst out, a flash of anger on his small face. “We can’t run as far as you!”

Maglor considered. It was true the twins had physical limitations that he himself was  unfamiliar with. But he was also inclined to believe they were children looking to shirk their lessons.

“It will do you no good to be sitting around the entire day,” said Maglor, something he had engaged in quite frequently at the same age. “Take another lap around the armory.” The twins glared at the dirt, but exchanged a silent look, and trudged off at a pace that could only with the utmost generosity be called a “run.”

“Both feet off the ground!” Maglor called after them as they rounded the building out of his view.

The sound of their shoes on the slick earth faded. Maglor stared blankly across the courtyard; he remembered, for some reason, an occasion when Mother had sent Caranthir out to play, insisting he had spent too much time inside lately. He had skinned his knee falling on the paving stones, and come home in wrathful tears that it was all Mother’s fault for forcing him out. He had come into Maglor’s room with his bandaged knee, bemoaning this situation; Maglor could not remember what brief and placating words he had shelled out. He was sure he had not given Caranthir the attention he was looking for; he barely remembered what most of the family had been up to then, when he had been so busy working on creating the next Great Noldorin Masterpiece (an effort that had begun around age twelve).

He jerked himself out of his solipsism as the twins came around the other side of the armory. At first, he thought they were still annoyed about being made to run. They slowed down several yards from him, and shuffled nearer, not meeting his eyes.

“There’s…over there…” Elros said, gesturing back towards the armory while Elrond looked faintly queasy.

“Hm? What is it, my lovelies?”

“Something happened,” Elrond whispered, his lower lip quivering. Maglor sobered, a faint frown turning down the corners of his mouth. Both boys gestured wordlessly back where they had come from, so Maglor circled around the armory, looking for what could have upset them so much. As he went by them, Elros gripped Elrond’s hand and they watched him go with those sober gray eyes.

Nothing seemed out of place to Maglor’s eye until he reached the rear of the armory, at which point he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a shriek.

Crumpled in the rocky mud, the pasty, waterlogged corpse of Elwing Dioriel stared sightlessly back at him, seaweed tangled in her hair, limbs bent at unnatural angles, one hand stretched out as if to grasp at something. Maglor’s body reacted with only one thought: away. He stumbled into the wall of the armory with a choked whimper, and the vision shattered.

It wasn’t Elwing—of course it wasn’t Elwing. It couldn’t be Elwing. It was…it was…well, her name wasn’t important. He’d forgotten it, if he’d ever known it. At once, he was filled with terrible wrath for this dead Elf who had been so thoughtless.

He growled some unkind words under his breath as he arranged the body more neatly; she hadn’t bothered with a cloak before going out, apparently, or he could’ve used it to cover her.

He apologized to the twins for having seen something like that.

“We’ve seen bodies before,” Elros said dully, still holding his brother’s hand. This gave Maglor pause, as remarks about the Havens at Sirion usually did, while his brain scrambled for a response.

“Well. Nevertheless. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again. Now, what will distract you from these nasty thoughts, hm? How about a spelling lesson!”

Later that day, still fuming, he tracked Maedhros down in his study. What exactly he studied in there anymore was a mystery, but Maglor had learned not to ask. He launched into his complaints without troubling himself to check that Maedhros was listening.

“Honestly! As if they aren’t aware the twins pass by that area! It was so thoughtless. How could she be so selfish? You must do something about it. I cannot have the twins exercised properly if they fear stumbling across corpses lying in the yard! Do you know how difficult it has been trying to engage them today? And what if it reminded them of—It must be dealt with, Maedhros.”

“Right you are,” Maedhros said in that tone of voice he used to indicate this was the stupidest conversation of which he had heretofore been a part. To say it grated was something of an understatement; that tone made Maglor want to hit him in the face with something heavy. Maybe then Maedhros would consider his conversation worth his time. “I’ll be sure in the next bulletin to let the troops know that they should be committing suicide somewhere more out of the way, so the hostages aren’t upset.”

Maglor’s lips were as thin as a knife edge.

“Could you consider just for a moment, the impact on their still-developing psyches—”

“You didn’t seem terribly concerned with child psyches when you told Curufin that if he didn’t talk for a week he’d spontaneously develop a better singing voice.”

“Do not change the subject,” Maglor snapped. There was a shift in Maedhros’ expression as he entered more fully into the conversation.

“Do you really want to have a discussion about the harm being done to their psyches?” he asked. Maedhros was good at arguing—too good. If Maglor tried, he knew he would only end up with Maedhros more convinced of his own correctness, and with Maglor doubting himself. Nevertheless, he wanted to argue, and it showed on his face and the way his mouth contorted. “Do you want to talk about the impact on their psyches of being now in the guardianship of the one who—”

“I didn’t kill her!”

The room went silent after Maglor’s outburst. Maedhros just looked at him and Maglor looked anywhere else, fussing at his robes with twitchy fingers.

“It was. Complicated. The twins would…”

“Would what?” Maedhros asked, leaning back in his seat as if daring Maglor to fill in something appropriate on the end of that sentence. Maglor ground his teeth; he couldn’t tell if Maedhros enjoyed digging his fingers into that wound, or if there was some other purpose behind it.

“Deal with the men,” was all he said, then showed himself out of Maedhros’ study without another word.

***

            Maglor would’ve rather dreamed about Daeron. He had, about six months back. Dreamed of Daeron as he had been at the Mereth Aderthad, all bright eyes and dark skin gleaming soft and smooth under the lamplight, with that mischievous twist to his smile and that sly, slanting gaze that said he’d found fodder for another insulting rhyme.

            He found himself coming back to that feast more frequently in thought of late, and he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it had been one of those moments it felt like they truly had a grip on the situation in Beleriand and everyone, regardless of their goals, felt hopeful about the future. Perhaps because he would’ve liked to hear the sound of Daeron’s panpipes once more—but it was a useless wish now. Daeron was gone; the Iathrim were gone.

            Maglor had never bothered learning the panpipes, and he went on dreaming of drowning in warm, thick water to wake with tears on his cheeks and Elwing’s final words ringing in his ears: All this you have done for nothing.

***

Normally, the twins’ horseback riding lessons was one of the things Maglor enjoyed doing—if only for how it made the world feel so simple for a time, so long as he was choosy about what memories of the Gap he allowed to surface. Other times, though—well, childcare turned out to be rather a full-time job, and he was tired.

It did not help that going to bed every night felt like prepping for battle rather than laying down for rest.

            So once in a while he handed the lessons off to someone else, and took a few minutes for himself instead.

            On this day, he went back up to his bedroom, shut the door, and exhaled into the quiet. Not silence—he could hear the movement of people below on the first floor, and out in the yard—but quiet in no one clamoring for his attention and no problems making themselves known and no bickering with Maedhros. He could perhaps close his eyes for a few minutes…

            He shed his coat and cast himself down on the bed, thinking back to his dream about Daeron, and the sweet melancholy of his song. He had not wanted to believe it then, that Daeron could match him—even exceed him—but now it seemed silly to deny it. Daeron had been a unique talent. Maglor had wept to hear him play.

            How dreary Amon Ereb was when it was Maglor alone who still sang! He couldn’t remember the last time Maedhros had, and any song he heard amongst the men was soft, almost embarrassed, and quickly stifled if they noticed anyone else within earshot.

            How dreary everything was.

            With a quiet sigh, Maglor spread his robes aside and loosened the ties of his undershorts, sliding his hand down the front to rub hopefully at his cock. Most often he lacked not only the time, but the mood for this anymore, even when the release would have been most welcome.

            That day, though, he had some luck, and his member stirred to the memory of the vibrancy and warmth of the Mereth Aderthad, and his mind’s many fantasies about what could have been, if he had only been less focused on their goals. Relieved, he settled back against the pillows with a more pleasured sigh, drawing his rising sex from his shorts to stroke with more vigor.

            In his mind’s eye, his flesh’s imagination, the other Elf was warm and solid against him, supple and eager and welcoming; their voice was soft and inviting; their hands knew just how to guide him without too much force.

            It was just as he was losing himself into that fantasy of mutual pleasure and connection that he heard the ragged nails on the window, scraping down the shit-stained glass, rattling the panes; the witch had come for him!

            The screeching sound, jarring and deliberate, send Maglor flailing of bed with a half-stifled shriek, slamming into the dresser as he flung himself away from the grasping hands at the window.

            “Will you give me no peace!” he shouted hoarsely, goosebumps pebbling his flesh head to toe, ready to flee the room when he managed to focus his gaze on the sill and see the large black bird there, pecking at the casement and scraping at the glass with one clawed foot. “You wretched beast,” Maglor nearly sobbed, grabbing a shoe to hurl at the window. With a startled caw, the crow removed itself at once. “I hope something eats you! If you come back I shall pluck out your eyes and use them for jam!”

            Nearly in tears—of frustration, of fright—Maglor threw himself back down on the bed, tugging desperately at his limp cock, but the moment was gone, and his body was no longer willing to play that tune. He let out a wordless wail and jerked his clothes back into order.

            There was perhaps time to take over the latter half of the twins’ riding lesson, but he found himself unwilling. They were in good hands—perhaps more time to himself would be…(As if Maglor had ever enjoyed time to himself, outside composing, and it was a joke to even consider how long it had been since he’d done that in earnest.)

            Nevertheless, he stayed away from Elrond and Elros until dinner that night.

***

            After they tracked the twins down two miles out from Amon Ereb’s walls, they were given a perfunctory dinner and sent to bed early, with admonitions of Maglor’s disappointment. This meant Maedhros and Maglor dined alone, an experience which proved grimmer than even Maglor’s imagining. He contemplated impaling himself on a fork.

            The situation was not measurably improved by the wet woman in the corner.

            It was only context that really got the point home—Maglor felt relatively certain he did not recall Elwing’s face clearly enough for it to be there so vividly, looking at him in such bitter fury. Yet there she was. Her sleek dark hair hung lank and dripping around her shoulders, soggy ropes of it clinging to her face and neck; her robes were nearly translucent with seawater; her armor beginning to rust around the décor that had been beaten into it. The room felt like ice.

            Maedhros said nothing about it.

            Maglor cut his stringy duck into smaller and smaller pieces, but tapped his fork nervously against the edge of the plate rather than take a bite, as if Elwing might take that moment to seize him around the throat.

            “Maedhros,” he began. Maedhros grunted to show he was listening (presumably), but Maglor’s words stuck in his throat. Maedhros lifted his head.

            “What is it?” he said impatiently.

            “I…wonder if it’s time to give the twins their own horse,” he suggested. “Perhaps…something of their own to care for…” It was something he hadn’t really thought about until right then, but with Dioriel’s gaze boring into him, it felt impossible to acknowledge her existence. It felt like there were pins being jabbed into his spine.

            Maedhros exhaled his sigh of lacking the energy to argue with Maglor; it was rare.

            “Fine. Claim the next foal for them then,” he said. “But you will see to it that you know where that horse is every night. They manage to get quite far enough on foot without you giving them a mount. And I will be displeased if you make me kill it because you could not control them.”

            Oh, right. Perhaps it was not a good time to gift them a horse, then. Well, he’d said it now. Maedhros would want to know why he backed out, if he did. Perhaps it would be a while before any of the mares foaled again.

            Cold sweat was prickling the back of Maglor’s neck and at the hollow of his throat.

            He went on massacring his duck and scraping unhappily at the mushy grain on the side. (He’d heard some of their troops muttering that the land around Amon Ereb was blighted, and that was why their crops were always so sickly and tasteless.)

            “Maedhros,” he said.

            “What?” Maedhros demanded, glaring as he looked up. His eyes were remarkably like Father’s, Maglor thought. He wondered if Maedhros ever thought that. (He remembered how Maedhros had terrified and delighted them with impressions of Fëanor when they were children; now, he thought he’d take Father if he had the choice. At least Fëanor could at times be placated.)

            Maglor’s eyes drifted to the corner, and the plinking of water dripping off Elwing’s armor into the puddle on the floor.

            Maedhros did not follow his gaze.

            “Have the twins seemed agitated to you, lately?” he asked at last.

            “No more than usual,” Maedhros said. “Why, have you done something to them?”

            “Done something!” Maglor exclaimed in affront. Realizing he had raised his voice, he flinched and immediately flicked his gaze back to the corner. Elwing lifted the corner of her mouth in a rictus leer, but otherwise remained where she was. (As if she couldn’t cross the distance any time she chose! And what would his blade even do against such a phantom?) Maglor’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. “No. Just. Perhaps bad dreams. Or perhaps the onset of adolescence.”

            “It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?”

            “I don’t know,” Maglor said, unable to keep the thread of annoyance out of his voice. “I’ve never raised a a Peredhel.”

            “They seem normal to me,” Maedhros said with finality. “Did Elrond bite you again?”

            “No,” said Maglor stiffly. “They’ve just…been odd.”

            “They are odd,” Maedhros said. “I would not linger on it.”

            “Maedhros,” Maglor pleaded.

            “What!” Maedhros slammed down his fork. “What do you want, Maglor?” Maglor gestured broadly at the west end of the room.

            “Do you see nothing?” he cried. “There is nothing out of place here?”

            Maedhros passed a slow, deliberate look over that side of the room, his gaze passing right over Elwing’s corner, and then fixed his gaze once more on Maglor.

            “I see nothing,” he said, and Maglor knew that if he pushed further, there would be a fight.

            Maglor felt at times he had lost some ability to read Maedhros. Once, he would have proudly counted himself as the one who was best at doing it, but now it felt he was wrong as often as right, or that Maedhros deliberately obfuscated Maglor’s efforts to understand him. But he could not always succeed—Maglor knew him too well, and he knew without a doubt in that moment, with a chill that pierced his heart and spread out through his chest, that Maedhros was lying.  

***

            It took Maglor several weeks to comprehend that the gut-churning anxiety that had begun to overtake him when dinner neared its approach and bedtime closed in was directly related to his nighttime horrors. Some nights, he swore he lay awake the entire time, flat on his back and tense as a board, unwilling to cede to unconsciousness that the wrath of Thingol’s heir could torment his mind. Sometimes he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t just dreaming of being awake all night.

            The nights he stayed awake were little better than the ones he slept, and at times he felt a stupid child again, lying there in tremors with his eyes squeezed shut, desperate to believe he was alone in the room, but fighting against the rising hysteria that it was not the case.

            When the paranoia waned, it was as if she had left some imprint on his mind—which invariably turned to moments he would rather forget: that sickening resistance of his blade first cutting through another, though Maglor could no longer say if that was truly a memory, or only a feeling his mind had attached to the horror of the moment; that cold, dark march past the line of the Girdle where once the protection of Melian might have stopped them; the screaming of the Doriathrim in Menegroth.

            Oh, the screaming!

            How they had wailed to realize what was being done to them!

            Even the memory of the fight in the Thousand Caves made Maglor’s chest seize up with sudden claustrophobia. Driving through those winding, seemingly endless tunnels, with enemies liable to leap out of every corner! He knew several of their troops had slain one another out of sheer nerves, caught by surprise and not realizing until too late they looked upon a friendly face. Maglor himself had been a hair’s breadth away from demanding they burn the whole place down and damn the Silmarils when one of his scouts had reported finding the bodies of the king and queen—and Maglor’s brothers.

            Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin—half of Fëanor’s brood slain in one fight, but when Maglor thought on the scene now, what he remembered was Dior’s horrible, wet breathing and how he gasped, a dying animal which seeks with all force to preserve itself in vain. He remembered that the fingers of Nimloth’s right hand were broken, no longer able to hold a blade, and her ribs on one side crushed, and the savage bruising on her right ankle; Dior’s immortal queen had not gone quietly, of that they were sure.

            Maglor would have rather thought of Caranthir, and how he used to trail after Maglor as a little boy, and how proud he had been when Maglor paid any attention to his childish achievements (how pleased he had been to welcome Maglor to Thargelion on the few occasions of his visits).

            But Elwing allowed him to think only of Dior and Nimloth, and the two little boys shivering alone in the woods, and the bodies he had stepped over to report to Maedhros and Amras that the royal family was dead, but the Silmaril had not been found with either king or queen, or the princes.

            (None of them had thought of Elwing then, except for Maedhros, who pointed out they were one Peredhel short.)

            Sometimes, these thoughts gave way to black sleep, but those instances seemed to come fewer and further between, as night after night Maglor relived the visceral experience of drowning in the warm, salty water, again and again and again and again: the shock of first terror, the dread of realization, the vain fight, the gradual failure of his body, the snapping of his spirit away from his flesh.

            On one of the last of the black nights, he woke to a tickling in the back of his brain, and pins and needles going up and down his back. There was a voice in his head, some thought trying to dredge itself out of his mind, some thing that was not his own. Maglor sat upright and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out that alien whisper.

            But it built and built, until Maglor opened his mouth to gasp out: “Eärendil!” His heart hammered against his ribs.

            The presence was in the room with him. The needles were driving into Maglor’s spine. The blood was rushing in his ears; his tongue was too thick to command her away. It felt like his throat was starting to swell up.

            “No,” he managed to whisper at last, forcing the word past his constricting throat muscles. Then, as a chill began to descend over him, louder: “No!” He twisted in the sheets, but the cold came anyway, winding its arms around him, pressing against his face. Maglor screamed and flailed out with arms and legs. “No! Get out of my head!”

            He was choking; he was drowning again, without a drop of water in the room. During his thrashing with the shadow, he unbalanced and went over the edge of the bed with a shocked intake of breath, but when he hit the ground and stilled, he could no longer feel the apparition there. For several moments, he lay quiet, nearly holding his breath, waiting, but nothing came. Gradually, he relaxed.

His nose and throat hurt from how quickly he had sucked in air. He felt as chill as if he had spent the entire night out-of-doors. How much longer could he go on like this? A useless question to ask—he would go on as long as he had to, as long as there was still a goal to fulfill. As long as there existed still Silmarils in the world which might be obtained by Fëanor’s kin.

            It said nothing good about Amon Ereb, he thought, that no one investigated or even commented on his screaming.

***

            Maedhros advised Maglor cease the twins’ lessons for several days as punishment for the knife Maglor had recovered from one of their pillows, but Maglor could never manage more than a day, during which he assigned them chore after chore until they collapsed in bed, too tired for running. The next morning, they sat at their lesson table and stared sullenly at him with those gray eyes so eerily like the empty stare of Dior the Fair (Maglor had never seen him truly living, only surrounded by the bodies of Maglor’s brothers, breath rattling as the final death throes overtook him. Amrod had estimated afterwards it had taken him over an hour to succumb to the injury, slowly suffocating as his lungs filled with blood and failed.)

Maglor always regretted having to punish the twins. How much easier it would be if they simply behaved, and saved him the trouble! It wasn’t as if he liked making them do chores all day! 

            Now, they were in bed already, but perhaps still awake…As he warmed a pan of goat milk over the fire and poured it into mugs, he heard Maedhros’ voice snorting and accusing him of trying to buy their favor back with a bit of warm milk. Brushing off his brother’s imaginary sneer, Maglor nevertheless stirred a bit of sugar into the milk and took the cups on a tray up to the twins’ room.

            He paused outside the door and listened, but he couldn’t hear them. Perhaps he was too late, and they were asleep already. Nevertheless, he unlatched the door and pushed it open.

            “Elrond? Elros?” Maglor’s keen Elf eyes had a good view of the room even in the dark, but it still took him a moment to adjust to the empty bed. With a wordless shout, the tray slid out of his hands. Gone again! He rushed to the windows, just slightly ajar, and propped open with a scrap of wood. They were on the roof! Maglor flung the window open. “Elrond! Elros!” he cried, trying to pitch his voice to carry to the twins, but not loud enough to catch Maedhros’ attention elsewhere in the building.

            What if they had fallen and broken their necks already? They were so fragile! They were mortal, blessed Elbereth! Maglor gathered his robes and climbed out the window himself, realizing as he did so just how narrow a strip of roof they must have edged across to get wherever they were going.

            “Peredhil!” he hissed into the wind. “Where are you?” There was only one viable direction to go, so he scooted to the right, over towards a broader stretch of roof. At one point, a shingle slipped sickeningly under his feet and he prayed the twins’ lighter weight had given them less trouble. How could they do this to him, so soon after he had talked Maedhros down from harsher punishment for their last misdeeds? “Peredhil!”

            A cold night breeze cut against him and Maglor swore to himself. He squinted across the roof. He couldn’t tell if the cold was natural or not.

“Not now,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Not now, not now! I’m trying to help them!” At the sound of creaking behind him, he whipped his head around and nearly pitched over a gutter.

            “Elrond!” he wailed, no longer caring if Maedhros heard and knew they had been out at night. “Elros!”

            Something swooped overhead and snagged in his hair and Maglor’s strained nerves screamed.

“Leave me alone!” he howled. He flailed violently, fully intent on cold-clocking a ghost, and shrieked when his hand struck something solid; then he unbalanced and went over the edge of the roof.

***

            Maglor came to quickly lying on a crushed bush, with two sets of curious gray eyes staring at him through the darkness. Twigs were attempting acupuncture on his back, which he was amazed to realize seemed to still be in one piece, if very badly bruised.

            “See? I told you he was still alive,” said one boy. “More’s the pity.”

            “Do you think he can hear us? It looks like his eyes are opening.”

            “We should get someone,” said the first voice.

            “Who? Maedhros? Are you insane? We should go back inside.”

            “I’m fine,” Maglor croaked, twitching his hand in a failed effort to wave it and indicate how fine he was. The twins jumped back and hung warily away from him, clutching hands. Maglor pushed himself upright, his back and head protesting vociferously. He was groaning like an oak tree being felled. “You should be in bed,” he said to them, which sounded feeble even to himself.

            “We weren’t tired,” said one of them. “We wanted—”

            “—to see the stars,” the other finished.

            Maglor sighed and held his head in his hands for a moment. What was he doing? What were they doing? Was there any goal anymore, or were they just flopping around like the death throes of a fish on the hook?

            “Let’s go,” he said wearily after a few moments, heaving himself to his feet. His head throbbed. The twins didn’t move.

            “Nana is angry with you,” said one—he thought it was Elrond.

            Maglor froze.

            “What did you say?” he asked, turning back to them.

            “Nana is angry with you,” the twins repeated together. Maglor’s sympathy disappeared beneath the explosion of his nerves.

            “She wants to see us again,” said the other—actually, maybe that one was Elrond.

            “That’s enough!” Maglor shouted, and this time he wasn’t sorry for making the twins clap their hands over their ears. “You are making up stories. You know what happens to little ones who make up stories?”

            “We aren’t!” they cried. “We aren’t!”

            “You are!” Maglor snapped back at them. “You are making up terrible stories and you have been out at night when you were not meant to be and you were on the roof, which is dangerous! Tomorrow you will muck the stables clean by yourselves, and memorize one long-form poem—”

            “No!” they wailed.

            “Apiece,” Maglor raised his voice easily over theirs. Blackly, he wanted to consign them to another full day of labor, to make them scour the floors of all Amon Ereb for striking such fear in his heart, but he bit his tongue back for the time being. “And you will do nothing else until you can recite it in whole! Next time you wish to tell tall tales, think of that! Now get inside to bed, before I tell Maedhros where you’ve been!”

            In mutinous dejection, the twins shuffled back inside.

            Maglor took a moment to gather himself. He supposed there was no need to bar the window that very night, and it seemed the twins hadn’t actually left the estate this time. He was angry with himself for believing he didn’t need to worry about the windows, or that being on the second floor would be enough to stop them. It was as if they wanted him to shut them up in the cellar!

            They were long gone up to their room by the time Maglor came in. He didn’t bother lighting a candle to make his own way up to his room, and perhaps that was how the chill was able to creep up on him. Needles darted up and down his spine; his hands began to shake. He felt woozy. Leave me alone! he wanted to scream, but his voice, his best and mightiest talent, would not obey him. Fingers of ice laced around his neck and he saw in his mind’s eye, as clearly as if someone had dropped the image into his head, a forest in the thrall of winter: bare of foliage, of food, of shelter. The chill sapped the warmth from his fingers and toes, creeping up towards his knees and elbows, and soon it would claim his heart and lungs.

All this you have done for nothing, she whispered. Children’s graves in your name, and what have you to show for it?

He dropped to the floor in a swoon, where he woke early the next morning.

***

             Maedhros did not ask what the commotion had been that night. Maglor was too frazzled to say if this was because he had truly remained ignorant of any goings-on, or because he simply did not care enough to ask.

            Maglor could not remember the last peaceful sleep he had had. At the twins’ lessons that day he was dazed and unfocused; several times they prompted him after he had been staring into space unspeaking for minutes at a time; eventually, he set them at a phenomenally long series of multiplication and division problems, and left them to finish.

            He needed fresh air—or better yet, a drink.

            But when he reached the private store of alcohol which he and Maedhros kept—which he had had the far better part in depleting—it was empty. He tracked Maedhros down in the armory, honing his weapons.

            “What happened to the baijiu?” he said.

            “It’s in the cellar,” Maedhros replied.

            “Not that,” Maglor said with faint disdain. “Ours.” Maedhros’ hand paused just a heartbeat at his work with the whetstone.

            “It’s gone,” he said when he had resumed.

            “Gone where?” Maglor asked sweetly, as often precipitated a tantrum from him.

            “Gone.”

            Maglor wanted to throttle him. He imagined Maedhros was purposefully as irritating to him as possible, as if to punish him for not dying in the Havens at Sirion like Amrod and Amras, for staying in Amon Ereb rather than wandering off into the gloom as a number of their men had done since they had resettled there, for reminding him about the Peredhil. For a moment, he envisaged putting his hands around Maedhros’ neck, but there was no way that didn’t end with his gut swallowing the sword in Maedhros’ hand.

            “Did you drink it?” Maglor asked, as if he were speaking to a particular idiot. Maedhros’ eyes flashed up.

            “No,” he said, and Maglor was irritatingly aware he was telling the truth.

            “Then forgive me, brother dear, but I don’t see what else might have happened to it.”

            “If you want to drown what little function is left to your mind, take the baijiu from the cellar,” Maedhros said unsympathetically. That was where the booze for the rest of the estate was kept; that which the men were more or less free to take and replenish as they pleased.

            “I don’t want the baijiu from the cellar,” Maglor said, and regretted it as soon as he’d said it, for he sounded as petulant as the Peredhil being served another boiled vegetable.

            “Shall I add that to the list of critical tasks in estate maintenance?” said Maedhros, his tone saturated in contempt. “‘Maglor is unhappy with the quality of booze available.’ Would it suit his highness to have beer? Some huangjiu? Perhaps instead of rice for dinner for the Peredhil, we’ll make you wine; would that satisfy you? Or perhaps I can oblige you by striking you very hard on the head, which may achieve the same goal you were looking for with the baijiu.”

            Maglor was walking away before Maedhros had finished speaking, fists clenched with a private fury that Maedhros had to turn so many of their conversations into battles.

            The weather was unseasonably warm, the air still sticky from the last rain. Back inside, in the library, Maglor threw open the windows and laid down on one of the benches, thinking he might at least take a few minutes’ rest, if not sleep. His mind tried to return to familiar, well-trod paths regarding the burning of the Havens at Sirion, but he was too tired even for this rumination; before he knew it, his eyes had grown heavy. He closed them, but made himself focus on the sounds beyond the window—primarily someone hammering at an anvil in the yard—to keep himself from falling asleep.

            It was the sound of rustling paper that made him open his eyes.

            Somehow, it did not shock him at all to see that she was there. Armored, dripping wet, stone-faced. She stood by one of the bookshelves, a decay-mottled hand on the hilt of the short blade at her hip, watching him. A cut on the side of her neck dribbled blood thickly from one end.

            Maglor lay half-upright, frozen on the bench, and then, to his unspeakable relief, rage bubbled up in chest: molten, searing, Feanorian rage.

            “You cannot do this to me!” he bellowed, his deep voice ringing through the library. “Your fight is over; you lost!” Seizing the knife at his belt, Maglor catapulted himself off the sofa and charged at her, fully expecting Elwing to meet him with her blade. Instead, she darted away in a flash of light and Maglor swung the knife into empty air.

            “Coward!” he screamed as Elwing danced towards the door. “Stand and face me!” But she quitted into the hallway. Maglor ran after her.

            He burst into the hall; there was no sign of Elwing but a flash of something white around the corner at the end of the hallway. Maglor took off in pursuit.

            “Stop running! Fight me!”

            The branch down which she had disappeared ended in a a spiral staircase and into the servants’ quarters; Maglor sprang down it, skidding around a hallway corner and plunging through an open door into a dark little bedroom. As his eyes rapidly adjusted to the low light, he saw the figure in the bed and leaped upon it, wielding the knife.

            “I will have no more of you!” he screeched, seizing the throat presented to him, raising the knife up to strike down.

            “My lord!” the figure shrieked. “My lord Maglor, let us speak!” It was enough to make Maglor pause, and the figure threw him to the floor, grasping at its neck.

            Maglor lay discarded on the bedroom floor and looked up at the wide-eyed Elf in the bed, who was certainly not Elwing Dioriel.

            “Whatever I have done,” she gasped, trembling, “surely we may discuss it! If it is my lord’s wish that I go, I shall go!”

            Maglor blinked stupidly at her.

            “No, there’s no need for that,” he said calmly, hearing his voice as if it were someone else speaking. “As you were.” He rose only slightly unsteadily to his feet and sheathed the knife. “Thank you,” he said absurdly on his way out the door, gesturing incoherently with one hand.

***

            Maglor went for a ride.

            Sometimes, he went out so far he could no longer see Amon Ereb on the horizon, and closed his eyes, and imagined he stood in one of the wide, undulating plains of the Gap, the wind dry and cool on his face, the grass whispering around the legs of his horse, the birds of prey wheeling overhead.

            Maglor had never wanted to rule the Gap, or anything really, but it had prided him to be useful, and he liked to think he had done a decent job, before the Bragollach. His men had liked him well enough then, hadn’t they? They’d sung many songs together, and slain many orcs.

            Most of them were gone now. A few remaining had been killed in the Havens, but not by the Sirionites. One of his captains from those days on the plains, even, had turned her blade on Maglor there. Maglor had left her in a gutter already running red.

            Maglor went for a ride, because he had to get out of Amon Ereb, away from Maedhros with his cold cynicism, away from the Peredhil with their accusing eyes, away from the men with their sullen mouths. There was a fey part of him that wanted to spur his horse and just keep going—going, going, going, until something stopped him. Middle-earth had seemed so massive, so unconquerable when first they had arrived. Now he felt suffocated in it.

            When he put the horse to a gallop, the wind seemed to whistle away his thoughts. It chilled his nose and cheeks until he thought of little else, and it was as near as he would ever come to flying (a thought which had once put an ear-splitting grin on his face), but the moment he brought the mare to a slow and then a halt, everything came rushing back.

            He stood alone in the field, looking at the trees’ edge in the distance, and further beyond still, the pinpricks of mountains, but the ball and chain around his ankle which weighed him down in Amon Ereb was there still, and there could be no running from it; it would drag behind him forever, and someday, he thought, it would take him down into that void from which Melkor had emerged.

            What would they destroy next? There would be no more assaults on Angband, on that they were agreed—Maedhros would not go near it since the Niraneth and Maglor…he would never have done it, truthfully, unless Maedhros asked it of him. Was it possible they had already lost their only chance to obtain even a single one of Father’s jewels? Or would there be another Lúthien, to pry one loose and put it within the their grasp?

            Maglor hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he opened them again. The light was gray over the dull lands of Amon Ereb, a thin mist in the air, a limp breeze nudging the grass. His back prickled painfully along the spine.

            On a hill not far from his position, there was another rider. It was none of the men of Amon Ereb that Maglor could tell, though when he first noticed them, a breath of wind blew a cloud of fog between them, obscuring the figure momentarily. When it cleared, Maglor saw from the size of the mounted figure that it was a child, and he started towards it, thinking it must be Elrond or Elros. But before he could spur his horse to greater speed to overtake them, he realized the they were too small to be Elrond or Elros. They were not trying to move away from him; they were staring at him.

            It was not one of the twins.

            And they were not alone.

            Maglor was no good at guessing the age of mortals, but the child on the horse could not have been long out of infancy. Behind her sat an adult, but even so near, even with the mist clearing, Maglor could not make out any details about this shadowy figure. The child, though, was cleanly visible. Maglor was uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat in his ears.

            She had sleek black hair all in a tangle from her ride, and the cool brown eyes of Nimloth of Doriath, and even in her face plump with baby fat, there was contempt when she looked on him. Around her small neck was a necklace almost comically large on her, with a gleaming, glowing jewel set in the center.

            Maglor was frozen, staring. The scorn in her eyes was like a flail; his chest felt tight with the knowledge that this child possessed something which could wound him, that she was a threat.

            The obscure adult swept their cloak over the child, but her eyes continued to glare out at him from over their arm. The adult spoke, but Maglor could not discern the words, and turned the horse away from him, towards the woods.

            There was snow flecked onto the horse’s hooves, although it rarely snowed in Amon Ereb, and there was none now on the ground.

            Maglor opened his mouth to call out, but he knew not what to say, and the thought of that mount and its riders turning towards him made his blood freeze. Initially he had wished for their identity; now he dreaded it.

            Don’t look at me, was all he could think, a silent prayer or plea for some invisibility which did not exist. In the throes of his dread, he became wholly convinced that if the child looked directly at him, some terrible, unnamable thing would happen. Not death—that was too prosaic. Some thing his mind had yet to fully fathom. He could not remember such a fear since he ran through the house screaming for Mother after a childhood nightmare, certain some primordial creature of darkness nipped at his heels, ready to subject him to eternal and everlasting torment. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me. Don’t see me.

But the strange horse and the adult astride it seemed to take no more notice of him; rather, something else which Maglor could not discern grabbed their attention, and abruptly the horse was urged to a gallop. The figures fled from him as if there were a fire at their heels—or a killer.

            The wind blew over the field once more, stirring up the mist, and this time, when it cleared, the figures were gone, and Maglor felt as if something had slipped between his fingers.

            It took a great while before he was willing to turn his back on the place where he had seen them and try to ride back to Amon Ereb. It seemed to take much longer to make his way back than to come out, and it caught him by surprise when he finally crested the last small hill that would reveal the entirety of Amon Ereb in the distance. Normally, before reaching the peak of this hill, one could already see the roofline of the estate. But when Maglor came over the hill, there was only a dark spot there, and no roofline had he seen before.

            He came to a dead halt on the hill. Even at this distance, he could see that Amon Ereb was gone. A lifeless ruin lay where the estate had been, and he saw no movement there.

            “No!” The shout burst from Maglor’s mouth without thought and he jerked his horse into a run, but she went only a few hundred yards before coming to a sudden halt, nearly throwing him over her head, and despite all of Maglor’s coaxing, she would go no further.

            Casting himself down, Maglor continued on foot, but he knew how long it would take him to make it all the way there without his horse. He stopped and straightened and looked again at Amon Ereb, straining his eyes to discover some explanation of what had happened; there was none.

            He felt unsteady on his feet, as if he were trapped between the memory of the figure behind him, and the promise of the ruin in front of him.

            “It’s not real,” he whispered, reaching a hand out towards the crumbling stone. That was it, wasn’t it? That kind of damage could not have been done in the short time that Maglor had been out. He was looking at buildings which had not been touched in decades, maybe more. “It isn’t real…”

            He stared.

            Maglor had never been gifted with foresight; none of those in his father’s house had been, but he felt with arresting certainty in that moment that he looked upon the end of the House of Fëanor in Middle-earth—perhaps the end of the Noldor there entirely. They were not of Beleriand, not truly, if they had once been, and someday, they would be gone from here. But was it truth? Or a vision from the queen of the Iathrim meant to torment him with the futility of his task?

            “It cannot be,” he whispered, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He sank down to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “We will succeed. We must…we must.” They had come too far to give up now…they had done too much! Surely! The thought of failure now galled him beyond words; it was anguish. It was an empty hole where his heart ought to be. “You will not turn me away from this!” he cried. “You cannot…”

            No one could.

            Maglor sank down until his hands were pressed into the dirt, his forehead resting against them, and for a long time he lay that way, thinking of the gleam of the Silmaril in the sky, and wishing with an acid taste in his throat that Eärendil had had the grace to take the other two with him also.

            When he finally raised himself up, evening was on the rise, and Amon Ereb stood just as it always had, with no more imprint of Maglor’s madness than any other instance of it. Maglor returned on foot.

***

            “What are you doing?” Maglor have believed the rest of the house was asleep, outside the night watch, so he was startled to hear Maedhros’ voice and turned at once towards the doorway. What he had been “doing” was staring bleakly into the fireplace, fighting the urge to lie down and close his eyes, but he wasn’t sure Maedhros would find this any kind of satisfactory answer.

            “Nothing,” he answered at last.

            “Then why are you using up firewood?”

            Maglor shifted on the sofa—which could have used a great deal more padding—and looked up at Maedhros.

            “I can’t sleep,” he said softly.

            Maedhros loomed in the doorway.

            “I keep…” Maglor trailed off and shook his head, resting his chin unhappily on the back of the couch. “Let me be here,” he muttered. “I won’t go to bed.”

            To his surprise, Maedhros entered the room, and not to douse the fire and command him to bed anyway. He took a seat on one of the creaky wooden armchairs around the hearth. Maglor straightened up a little and regarded his brother. It was easy to let one’s eyes glaze over familiar things: to see them without really noticing them, but now he focused his attention, and he thought that above all, Maedhros looked tired. With the flame of his eyes quieted, his posture relaxed, he seemed to possess far less of the manic energy that had driven him since they made the decision to assault Doriath.

            But Maedhros would not rest, Maglor knew that. The human part of his brother which had once enjoyed laying out in the grass in the sunshine, and spending whole days reading or reciting in the parlor, and sleeping late after staying up too long the night before working on projects was gone. Sometimes Maglor thought that part of himself was gone as well, and that he merely amused himself with a pale imitation because he could not bear to let himself be entirely as Maedhros was. When had they lost these things, he wondered? Had it happened all at once, was there a moment when it had slipped from their grasp, or had it crumbled away a little bit at a time, slowly leaving behind a mere husk, a pitiable mockery of an Elf, something more akin to the work of Morgoth than Ilúvatar?

            “Are you dreaming?” Maedhros asked at length, and the words seemed to slide through a stiff jaw.

            “Yes,” Maglor whispered, curling more in on himself. His throat constricted. It was the first acknowledgement Maedhros had given of any awareness that his brother was completely falling apart. Maedhros said nothing else, but into the silence, Maglor was willing to speak: “I keep…drowning.”

            Maedhros’ eyes flicked over to him, away from the fire, into which he had been staring with the hypnotic look he got whenever he was around a fireplace these days.

            “Drowning?”

            “Yes. Over and over and over again…It’s unbearable. But then, when I wake…” Maglor shook his head, his throat tightening. “It never ends,” he whispered. He lifted his eyes to Maedhros’. “Have you seen her?” he pleaded. Tell me the truth, Maitimo, he begged silently.

            “Seen who?” Maglor’s heart sank, either because Maedhros was lying now, or because he had misunderstood before, and Maedhros had been telling the truth both times. But he had been so sure that Maedhros was untruthful before, in the dining hall!

            “Elwing!” Maglor burst out, his voice filling the room. “I see her, and I think you do as well!” He jumped to his feet to pace around in front of the fire. Hadn’t there been a rug there, once? “She will not leave me alone!” he cried, wheeling to face Maedhros. “She torments me! I think she is the one drowning me every night! I have no peace, Maedhros! She will not let me rest! I slew her, and now she will kill me too!”

            The room was silent, but for the snap and pop of the fire.

            Maedhros observed him.

            “I thought you didn’t kill her,” he said flatly.

            “I…”

            “You have been very emphatic on this point,” said Maedhros. Whose side was he on, exactly? And why did all the world wish to torment Maglor?

            Maglor sank to the floor, allowing tears to well up in his eyes, and blinked up at his pitiless brother.

            “She wants me to die,” he blubbered. “She wants me dead! Do you care not at all?”

            “She is not real,” said Maedhros. “She is dead.”

            “She is tormenting me!”

            “Perhaps you torment yourself.”

            Maglor gaped at Maedhros, shocked out of his relatively performative tears.

            “You think I am mad!” he accused. Maedhros shrugged.

            “Of course you are. Aren’t we all? Isn’t that why we are here? Control it.” Maglor’s misery warred with his anger as Maedhros rose to his feet.

            “And you!” he cried, gesturing. “Do you control it as well? Do you torment yourself as well?” Maedhros paused halfway to the door and did not look back.

            “Of course not,” he said. “We did what needed to be done. She gave us no choice.” Something about that phrase stuck in Maglor’s mind, but he couldn’t say why. “It does not do to dwell in the past.”

            And he left Maglor there on the floor, trying to fleece truth from lies and reality from insanity.

***

            The long and wearisome days since Maglor had last slept had granted him no particular insight into the mind of Elwing Dioriel. He found himself staring at the twins, as if she might use one of them to impart a message on him, but they seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be just children (However, just in case, he interrupted them whenever they looked at each other too long without speaking, in case they were able to use ósanwe as they had told him they could not). He stayed up late at night staring into the fire as Maedhros did, but if the flames gave some clarity to Maedhros, they held it back from Maglor. He demanded to know if any of the men had seen anything unusual around the estate—nothing they reported jived with what Maglor had seen, and at least two of their stories simply suggested the place was infested with rodents (and in one instance, investigation revealed a small bat colony in the roof of a disused tower).

            Nothing that revealed to Maglor for what purpose Elwing haunted him.

            “What do you want from me?” Maglor murmured aloud.

            “What?” said Elrond.

            Maglor dragged his attention with effort back to the twins at their study table.

            “I want you to copy down that list of prepositional phrases,” Maglor said, pointing to where he had scripted out the phrases they were studying for that hour.

            “We did that already,” Elros complained. Maglor narrowed his eyes, and Elros held up his sheet of paper, which did indeed have the phrases on it, in clumsy, childish hand.

            “Well, copy it over again!” Maglor took the paper from him and flipped it over. “Or…” He trailed off, staring at the wall, his mind wandering off from whatever new task he’d meant to appoint them. When he refocused, the twins were staring at each other. “That’s enough of that!” Maglor exclaimed, waving a hand between them. “Perhaps you will work better in separate rooms.”

            “No!” they chorused. “No, no!”

            “This is not a collaborative exercise, it should not make any difference if you can talk or not,” said Maglor, rising to his feet.

            “No!” the twins wailed, grabbing at each other. “No, no!”

            “Elros, come over here,” said Maglor. “I’m putting you in the library.”

            “No!” They remained where they were, their fingers knotted up in each other’s clothes, and Elros did not move an inch.

            “Elros.”

            “No!”

            Maglor did not want to physically separate them; it was never pleasant for anyone. He went over and put a hand on Elros’ shoulder, which made the twins jerk back away from him, stumbling out of their overlarge chairs to cling to each other at the far end of the table, and as usually happened whenever anyone tried to separate them, they looked on the verge of tears. There was little that drove them to immediate hysteria more easily than an adult trying to move them apart, but it was a reality they would have to accept sometime, in Maglor’s view.

            “Leave us alone!” Elrond cried, gripping his brother’s tunic until his knuckles went white.     “Don’t—”

            “—touch us!” Elros finished.

            “You are overreacting to this,” Maglor tried to rationalize them, taking no more steps towards them. “It will only be for an hour or two. What do you think, I mean to spirit one of you away forever?” He laughed, and then, on reflection, realized that was probably a less-than-ideal joke to make to this specific audience. The twins trembled, so near together now their cheeks almost touched. “It’s just until you finish your literature lessons,” he coaxed gently. The twins regarded each other again, seemed to come to some agreement, and then hand-in-hand sprinted past Maglor out the door and down the hallway before he could blink.

            Shit.

            Maglor touched his forehead between his eyebrows. He knew from experience how difficult it was to track them down in Amon Ereb when they were hiding, even when they had no intent to leave the estate. They fit into so many small places! The thought of doing it now was so wearisome he nearly collapsed into one of the now-available chairs.

            “You’re doing to this to me,” he mumbled. “You’re making them uncooperative…” He shuffled into the hall, swaying against the doorframe. Even as he stood there, his head tipped to the side, to rest against the wood, and his eyes attempted to close. He snapped them back open at once and moved on into the hallway. “You’re making them hate me.”

            That’s not true though, is it? said a voice in his head. You have done that yourself. Every day that you keep them here, you do it.

            “That isn’t so,” Maglor said aloud as he passed a pair of men in the hallway. “I take good care of them. I…” I do my best! Didn’t that count for something? He laughed derisively. “Of course it doesn’t! Why on earth should that matter?”

            He found himself in the lower part of the building, staggering into the pantry with little memory of how he’d gotten there. He couldn’t tell if there were needles pressing into his spine or if he was just imagining the feeling.

            “Is it real?” he murmured, holding his hands out in front of him. “Is it real?” He grabbed a radish off the table and then set it down again.

            His legs seemed to buckle out from under him; he sank in a heap to the floor, gripping the edge of the table. The air pressed down on him with a terrible weight, as if he were again sinking under the thrall of the waves, with the crushing weight of the ocean on top of him.

            “What do you want from me?” he cried. “What is it? What do you want from me?” He raised his voice in supplication, throwing his shaking hands up. In the flickering candlelight of that plain room they appeared almost stained. “Is it my apologies? Is it my regret? Think you I have no regrets?” Maglor clawed at his robes. “Is it the foreswearing of my oath? That you know cannot be! What’s done is done. Blasted shade! What will it take to satiate you?” He raised himself up on his knees. “What can I do to put you at rest, to banish you from me!”

            The candles wobbled; shadows danced across the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The rest of Amon Ereb seemed very far away.

            “Tell me what penance you demand!”

            A flickering on the wall drew Maglor’s attention and he saw there the shadow of a loop, drawn up near the ceiling.

            “No,” he gasped, clawing at the floorboards. “No, no…This I will not give you! You cannot ask it of me! Nothing will this solve! Blood for blood? This is what you seek? Never ‘til then will you leave me?” Maglor’s eyes burned as if from smoke, and he fell forward on his face, quivering on the floor. “I cannot, I cannot!”

            “My lord?” Maglor whipped his head towards the door, wild-eyed and trembling. “Is…is everything well…?” One of their men was in the doorway with a saltbox, staring at him.

            “She asks too much of me!” Maglor cried. “Do you see!” He waved a panicked hand at the wall and the shadow. “She asks too much! She will take no repentance but death!” Slowly he sank back down onto the floor. “Too much,” he whispered. “Too much, too much…I am stained now; never will I be clean again! Our road leads only into deeper darkness!”

            He did not see the man back away from the pantry door, or the way his steps hurried down the hall, away from Maglor and his phantoms. He did not see—all he saw was the woman on the edge of the cliff, her eyes fixed on the two children he held with armored hand and blade to his sides, and the shape of her mouth as she spat her final curse at him:

            All this you have done for nothing.

[calciumdeficientt]

how do u think dahlia would act w harin

Oooufffff this one is gonna be juicy. Couldnt help myself and wrote a little something….. (scooches ko-fi link forward) https://ko-fi.com/milkybonezz/commissions

DAHLIA AND HARIN HCS

The short answer is that Dahlia would hate her guts. But short answers are boring and are not in line with my brand.

Dahlia Harrington is solid Teflon. She is the epitome of perfection, in all senses of the word. She’s pure pedigree and she damn well knows it. Brought up in seclusion, away from society, her brother and often times even her own father, she’s not very much used to ‘normal’ girls for lack of a better word. Common girls are servants, waitresses, personal shoppers or hookers. They shouldn’t even dream of coming close to a single molecule of her. She’s been in an ivory tower for so long she honestly thinks that is a poor person touches her she’ll be petrified and even though she would make an absolutely stunning marble statue, that is something she couldn’t ever fathom.

She’s barely friendly to her own clique. Dahlia hates her own brother’s guts, and hates the company he keeps. She’s all smiles with Tad but its only because she has to be, lord knows her father has eyes everywhere, and besides, she just LOVES making paupers jealous of her perfect fairytale relationship. Dahlia is sympathetic to Pinky, but then again, it all circles back to her pure, unadulterated, seething hatred of her twin. Because of this, she feels absolutely nothing but contempt for ir the other cliques polluting Bullworth. Especially the greasers, their horrid, dirty auto-shop spoils her perfect view. And god knows she can scream the house down if everything isn’t PRECISELY to her liking.

Dahlia is a spoiled, rotten, festering COW. That evil aura seems to radiate off her, no matter how much she acts like a demure little cherub. If even this doesn’t put Harin off, the vile things that leave her mouth when she’s approached certainly will. Harin should cut her losses and run fast far away before she gets hit with a wave of deadly neurotoxin.

It was deepest winter in Bullworth, a harsh nip in the air and a light layer of frost over everything, the kind of cold that requires a minimum of two layers just to maintain a normal body temperature. Weather this horrid so early on in the winter could only mean one thing. She was back. Dahlia Harrington was fresh off of a private plane back home from Belgium, her father had sent her out to go and study for a semester at one of the best conservatoires in the world, of course she’d barely studied at all. European boys were just so enchanting, and their money was so much older than that pathetic frog Tad’s. She was tired and irritated, her day had started off just dreadfully. Her coffee at the airport had not only been one minute late getting to her, and not immediately in her hand, and it was 104 degrees when she specifically asked for it to be 104.5. Typical, these poors didn’t know their worth. They didn’t know that she could have them compacted into cubes and made into fertiliser for her garden. They didn’t know she could render them jobless for the rest of their existence. Not that she knew how long poor people lived, she assumed they were born; bred like horrible, filthy vermin; and died. Dahlia pressed the tips of her long, slender, and perfectly manicured fingers into her temples and rubbed small circles into her smooth skin, her blue-bottomed Aquaberry heels making a distinct click against the paving of Bullworth’s campus. God she needed a bump, she was practically dying, she figured she should at least look happy to see her brother or else he would blab to their father.

The sound of another pair of feet behind her made her stop and turn. Behind her, stalking up the path to Harrington House, was a greaser. She didn’t have to look very hard to figure that out, nor did she want to, she could feel herself catching something already. Black hair with a slight curl at the end like she was trying to be some kind of do-wop tramp, a heavily worn looking leather jacket paired with the most hideous pair of pleather trousers Dahlia had ever had the displeasure of seeing and a round, doughy looking face. This was a girl who really looked like she didn’t care about herself. She simply had to be a greaser. Dahlia was already in one of those moods, so the staring really wasn’t making her feel any better “What? Are you blind, or just stupid?” She barked at the girl, looking down her highly modified, ever-impervious nose at her. “Oh- sorry I was just admiring your coat” she seemed startled by the confrontation. The nerve of that little wretch, it was obvious she wanted to steal it. They were all the same. Dahlia snorted and forced herself to look the girl up and down one more time, she snorted a little bit at the weak excuse “Hmph.” Her coat was marvellous, 100% pure chinchilla fur, it was so bespoke she’d even personally picked out all of the chinchillas that she wanted to be skinned to make it, but it wasn’t made so that paupers could get their drool all over it. Dahlia turned and took a few more steps towards Harrington house, and yet agin she hear the same pair of footsteps on her tail, how annoying. “Hey I’ve not seen you around before… are you new?” She asked, her tone was genuine and bright, it made Dahlia feel ill. She swivelled and looked down at her again, her jaw set “Oh now I see, you’re both blind and stupid… pity” she pouted a little in mock sympathy and folded her arms across her abysmally flat chest. Practically concave on account of her lack of a heart. “I thought they put people like you in homes… or you lay down to sad music and die like the elephant man” the girl in front to her looked shocked by her response, that was often what happened to Dahlia. How could a woman so beautiful be so vile?

Dahlia set off again, and this time she made it almost all the way up to the door before she heard the greaser girl cry out to her “I’m Harin by the way… just in case.. maybe you wanted to know” it was clear she’d lost confidence at the end, clearly shaken by Dahlia’s coldness. She was this day personified. Cold, hard, and weirdly striking. Dahlia looked over her shoulder, her long platinum, perfectly formed ringlets seeming to spill over the shoulder of her fur coat in a way that felt choreographed; her face was twisted into a sneer “Dahlia Harrington.” There was a specific kind of emphasis she put on her last name, a certain kind of vitriole “And I suggest you remember it”. Dahlia soon stamped off into Harrington House and Harin drifted back to the auto shop, dazed… In some short of trance, almost.

Good god… what a bitch.

[undead-merman]

Part one to this story, ‘Demon King Diavolo and Hero Reader’ is on my Patreon

RPG Demon Husband Diavolo with Hero GN-Reader SFW Part 2

A New Life

It was a journey in itself getting married. The whole demon population wanted to show up and you got to meet those larger demons, Mammon, Leviathan, the twins Beelzebub and Belphegor, Satan, Asmodeus, and Lucifer. Turns out they were demon lords and ruled under Diavolo’s command. Astonishingly the seven didn’t seem to hate you for what you’ve done, humiliating them. Well they regain their powers over time even if you still possess them… and you made the most miserable Diavolo a happy man, so they can overlook it. They also respect your skills. 

Now as newlyweds Diavolo wanted to live in that small home that you now owned. He had an interest in knowing how you lived, knowing your struggles, and wanting to be there for you in a simple humble life. Of course, he still had duties but he did them from an old scrying orb that looked so out of place in your cozy home. 

The townsfolk did not take too kindly to the new change, they hated having the source of the country’s invasion right in the home of the hero that saved them. But Diavolo insisted that he stay, he refused to drag you out of your life more than the world already had. 

He was a good husband. He had a hard time at first finding out and learning about cooking human food. Beef instead of vile black dragon tail? He had a hard time finding out what was toxic. Luckily Leviathan’s and Beelzebub's powers made you immune to all poisons and the horrible taste. 

Diavolo was trying, he spent many nights reading over books on human cultures, foods, and even love stories so he could come up with more down-to-earth ways to surprise you. He treated you well gushing over you from the moment you woke up to the second you fell asleep. He was trying so hard to be the husband that you deserved.     

The Struggles

Not everyone appreciated his efforts though. And it’s not like you could blame some of them. Terrorized by demons during the war, lost loved ones. But Divolo never fought back. He takes stoning from some of the children in town and comes home without a bruise but dirt all over him. 

He had experienced this in his childhood. You learned he was a half-demon, born to a mother of human blood and while the demons of his kingdom never saw it as a problem when he lived in a human city he was always tormented. 

Still he seemed to hold no ill will to any of the townsfolk. He wanted to live through the consequences of his actions, even if it was for his people. You’d hear people calling him the foulest of names as he walked back in with a bag from the market.

People didn’t say a thing to him while you were around. They even tried to get along with him. It was sickening to watch as some of the people you knew that was the nastiest to him were overly nice to him when you were there. Diavolo even played along, smiling and laughing. 

Still there were some times he’d come back and confess that he’d hurt someone. They spoke ill of you in front of him. It was something that was seared into his blood, a demon custom to battle and even maim those who spoke ill of their companions. Even worse when they insulted their partners. 

He held back but came to you weeping and asking for forgiveness. He’s tried so hard and he’s never been more sorry. Weeping into your stomach. A grown man, a king, on his knees heartbroken that he betrayed his promise to you and hurt someone who had always antagonized him. 

You had always tried to change things, but seeing your husband like this sparked villainous anger inside you.   

Overcoming

One morning you stood in the town square and called upon the power of demons inside you to let your voice carry loud and far. It startled everyone awake and they all peeked their heads out. When they saw it was you, they came like dogs to scraps. 

You didn’t hold back, you could feel the veins in your arms burn as you yelled. You told the town of Diavolo’s efforts, of how he cared for the people who had taken from his kingdom and forced his hand. Then how he’s trying to right his wrongs only to be met with a wall of hatred.

They listened as you called out the parents who taught their children that it was okay to hurt him, that he deserved it, the people who were two-faced to him just to get on your good side, you hiss it all through your teeth. 

Some cried and begged for forgiveness, some shut their mouths and refused to look you in the eyes. You had had enough. From your life from before and now. 

So you took Diavolo and returned to his castle. The demons were delighted but Diavolo kept apologizing to you for everything. He was only silenced by your kiss. 

You took from him, and as a good spouse you had to make compromises. If he was much happier here then so be it you’d give up your human life and live here with him. The lords did playfully mock you but were thrilled to have you, even if you were human. Asmodeus even suggested you become one of them, Human’s could do that after all with some effort. 

Whatever you decided to do, it was an easier life here, and Diavolo continued to be a doting husband to you from every waking moment. But now, you decided to do the same. Treating him like the king he is, and making up for all the hardships you both endured. 

[acapelladitty]

Sandman Bloodborne AU 🩸🔪

Also posted over on AO3

The stench of smoke and cooking flesh ran rampant through the air as local hunters celebrated a victory over a beast a few streets away, their celebratory roast of the monstrous flesh ridding the corpse of its scourge. The night of the hunt was long and men took solace in the small victories. A kill here. An immolation there. Enough for the blood lust to be satiated and pride to bloom in their chests.

Hidden amongst the shadows, far away from the flames, two beings were careful to keep their shared presence to a minimum but no less messy.

Hob Gadling tilted his head away as the Corinthian claimed his bloodied prize from the fallen Vileblood. The fingers of the great nightmare moved with grim precision, plucking the eyes and slipping them to plump lips which lay just beneath the metal veneer which covered his upper features.

Blood. Fear. Desire. Insight.

This had proven to be a particularly delicious kill as the fresh corpse possessed a history of vile cruelties which they enacted upon many unfortunate humans, many of them from the damned Hemwick village.

Stood to attention once more, the Corinthian watched with mild fascination as Hob inhaled the scent of fresh blood like a familiar bouquet. He could see it, the way the blood called to the young hunter like an old friend and he smirked as Hob visibly inhaled deeply through his mouth to minimise the temptation.

"As the champion hunters of Lord Morpheus," the Corinthian stood to his impressive height as he wiped the residual drops of blood from his twin Blades of Mercy - named in jest from a flippant comment by his Lord - on the edge of his robe, "you truly do not appreciate the gifts our Lord has to offer." He continued with a slight goading tilt of his head.

Clearly still rattled by the unexpected appearance of the nightmare - even if it could do him no harm - Hob's bloodstained fingers were quick to palm the hilt of his moonlit sword with a shake of his shaggy head.

"I imbibe the blood, but the eyes don't interest me. I've seen enough, and Morpheus has not asked that I develop my insight. The danger is too great."

"Human weakness. A shame, then. The ones who succumb to the madness of the vileblood have wonderful sights to share. Delicious in their blasphemies. I know our Lord has tasked you with eradicating the escaped menace of Hemwick witches but they also know how to have a good time if you dare to indulge sweet Delirium and her frenzied daughters."

The Corinthian flashed a brilliant red-stained smile, his ocular teeth as obscured as ever by the steel crow-shaped mask.

-----

As the familiar looming doors of the throne room swam into view, a shudder rolled through the Corinthian's spine as freely as his lace-edged cape flowed across his shoulders. His Lord's voice rolled through the air, carrying through the very molecules like it belonged there.

"Fear the blood, Desire. Your influence will push them beyond the ability to dream and further into the arms of our dear sister, Delirium. And there, neither you nor I will be able to reach them. Fear the blood which you spread so freely, sibling of mine."

Ah.

The Dream Lord appeared to be entertaining one of his kin; Desire, Child of Appetite and Twin of Despair. The inner machinations of his Lord's relationships with the other great children remained a mystery to him, but Desire often sparked a true irritation within his Lord which often led to further delightful bloodshed on his part.

"Your delicious little pet awaits you, brother." Desire's warm tones, so unlike Dream's, swept through the air in a similar fashion regardless. "We may yet save our hunger for another night."

The Corinthian's heart jerked as he became an unwilling participant in their conversation, his mind fluttering with memories of each Vileblood he had consumed. Desire acted as their unofficial patron and their wrath was not to be scoffed at. One who scoffed at a Great Child would not be laughing for long; and that included one with as much power as he.

Regardless, the doors opened with the slightest of creaks and he did not hesitate to walk through. Weakness was not sewn into his being and it served him no benefit. His mask sitting heavily atop his face, he was thankful regardless for what little protection it offered.

Dropping to his knees as he approached the raised pedestal of the throne room, the constant presence of his eldritch Dream Lord enveloped the Corinthian like an ocean, lapping at his clothed skin and filling his lungs with every shaky breath as invisible eyes took stock of his bloodied state.

"May I witness you, Dream Lord Morpheus?"

"You may." The disembodied voice rang out, each syllable taut and measured as the grave as Dream acquised to indulging his most deadly nightmare with a physical form.

In a blink, the blackened throne was filled by a familiar but no less imposing presence. The inky hair of Lord Morpheus stood in all directions and the deep void of the robes which wrapped around his thin frame swirled and twinkled like the evening sky.

"To what do I owe this visit, my Corinthian, Blade of the Nightmare."

"I request permission to move against the School of Mensis." The Corinthian purred, standing from position to move towards his Lord with a serpentine gait, the allure of his physical form proving too difficult to resist. "The people of the Unseen Village speak of a monster he has crafted to challenge your rule. An abomination known as the One Reborn. I will bring you its many eyes for the disrespect while your shaggy-haired Hunter continues his pursuit of the Hemwick harridans."

The laugh of the Dream Lord is low and the Corinthian basks in it with pure delight for only a moment before schooling his features back to a familiar neutrality.

"You would move to kill that fool Micolash for such a lowly and petty show of disrespect? We both know his abomination could never hope to hold the true power of an Old One."

"I would kill him for less." The Corinthian smirked back before remembering himself and offering a slight bow. "With your permission of course, my Lord."

"Indeed." Dream hummed. His marble fingers rose from the arm of the chair to beckon sweetly. "Regardless, remove your helm and join me by my throne, my nightmare. It will please me to hold these discussions of your intentions with your true face and not this crow-like veneer you adopt as part of your games."

The Corinthian snatched his helm from his head with an undignified speed as his feet carried him swiftly to his Lord, his hardened heart fluttering at the close proximity.

[miriel-pastorofvows]

Gods, Family and Lineage

The first demigods were The Elden Lord Godfrey and his offspring, the golden lineage.

The Gods and Demigods of the Lands Between hold complex relationships, frequently changing loyalties. To better understand these relationships, we can start by looking at the family tree. As a definitive chronology is hard to be certain of, I have instead chosen to format these images in the way which I believe best illustrates the connections.

(Beware - some spoilers and speculation ahead)

Rennala and Radagon

Married here at the Church of Vows at the end of the Second Liurnian War, Rennala and Radagon appear to have brought about three demigods - Radahn, the Starscourge; Ranni, the Witch; and Rykard, the Blasphemous. While Radahn and Ranni have no known offspring, Radahn appears to have sired at least one child after offering himself to the vile Serpent God. 

There is some speculation about who the mother could be; some think his consort, Tanith, as she is referred to as Rya’s mother. However, this could be purely an adoptive status. Another theory points towards a woman known as Daedicar. This woman is mentioned only in passing, but it is stated that she gave birth to “a myriad of grotesque children“. It is important to note that this is only a rumour, and we have no solid proof here.

Marika and Godfrey

Some time before our own Queen was married to Radagon, the “Eternal” Queen Marika waged war against the Giants of the North, and afterwards granted Godfrey the title of Elden Lord, the first of this rank. Together, they had 3 children - the cursed Omen Twins, Morgott and Mohg; and Godwyn the Golden. These children of Godfrey were the first of the Golden Lineage, which continues to this day. The youngest of this lineage is Godrick, the Grafted, but other ancestors include Godefroy, who seems to have been the first to discover the power of Grafting. It is currently unclear who, if anyone, Godwyn had his children with...

Marika and Radagon

This leads us into perhaps the most contentious branch of this family tree; the dual-identity of Marika/Radagon, and the children they had together. Whether the two were once separate beings, or their children were born of  parthenogenesis, it is unclear. However, this is far from where the strangeness ends...

Firstly, the cursed Empyrean twins. Miquella the Unalloyed and Malenia, Goddess of Rot are the most well-known children of the pair. Both were afflicted with curses from birth; Miquella lived eternally as a child, and Malenia was afflicted by the Scarlet Rot. Seeking to end their curses, Miquella worked alongside his father to develop and grow the Golden Order. Once he saw that it held no cure for their afflictions, he instead turned to more drastic measures. Both the Unalloyed Gold and the Haligtree appear to have been attempts to remove the curses from the pair, but these methods went against the orthodox of the Golden Order and the sanctity of the Erdtree.

Malenia does not appear to have given birth willingly or intentionally, but it appears that the blooms of her scarlet rot have given life to at least five children, who do not seem to have inherited (or grown into) the Demigod status: Millicent, Polyanna, Maureen, Amy and Mary. They, along with the Scarlet Rot, are a topic for another day...

Finally, Melina. I am not the first to propose this idea, but I understand that it may be something new for some people, so I will do my best to explain the reasoning here. Firstly, we have some simple statements from Melina herself in which she claims Marika to be her mother: “Me, I'm searching for my purpose given to me by my mother inside the Erdtree long ago, for the reason that I yet live, burned and bodyless.” This quote directly references the fact that Melina’s mother is inside the Erdtree, which we know to be occupied only by Marika/Radagon and the Elden Beast. We also know that Melina can recite the “spoken echoes” of Marika, and she also makes reference to her “mother’s designs” later in the game. I believe that this is enough evidence to cement Melina as the daughter of Marika.

Being the daughter of Marika does not prove her to be the daughter of Radagon however, and here we must begin to speculate. The first, and most visually appealing idea, refers to the three types of butterfly found across the Lands Between. These are the Aeonian, Nascent, and Smoldering variants. The first has a clear connection to Malenia; the name refers to a region blighted by Malenia and her rot, the butterfly appears rotten itself, and it is often found around areas afflicted with rot, but also within the Haligtree.  The second may not be immediately obvious, but the connection is solidified when we look to the item description: “This butterfly appears as if it's just emerged from its cocoon for its entire life“. This makes clear reference to Miquella, who put himself in a cocoon to try and advance his cursed life to adulthood.

This leaves only the Smoldering Butterfly. This cannot refer to either of the other gods, but it also does not appear to have any connection to Ranni, the other Empyrean child. The description also doesn’t give us much to go off, though it does mention that the butterfly serves as “kindling”. Various items in the game make reference to a “Kindling Maiden”, and we know that titles like this hold much importance in the world of Elden Ring - enough so that Fromsoft have corrected and altered the descriptions of various items to provide a more cohesive picture. This could, at the end of the day, just be a coincidence - but I think it is unlikely.

The identity of this “Kindling Maiden” is all but confirmed to be Melina, who (from her earlier quote) we know was burned and is now bodyless. This leaves us with three butterflies, each linked to a powerful being in the Lands Between. The fact that two of them are siblings, and all three of them have the same mother, points a finger at the three of them being more closely related that it may first seem.

The other key piece of evidence I will be using to make this case hinges on the identity of the Gloam-Eyed Queen. This woman rose to power, alongside her Godskin cult, during (or possibly just after) the Age of the Erdtree. The Incantation “Black Flame Ritual” declares that she was “an Empyrean chosen by the Fingers“, which strongly implies she was a child of either Marika or Radagon. We know of most of these children, and none of them appear to fit the description; the only daughters are Malenia, who was afflicted by rot, and Ranni, who we can find atop the Divine Tower of Liurnia, slain but not burned. This means that, barring the technicalities of the ambiguous gender of Miquella/St Trina (a topic for another time), there must be at least one daughter of either Marika or Radagon who we do not know about.

There may be some subtle hints throughout the game, but the additional scene granted at the end of the Frenzied Flame ending if Melina is still alive provides a clear view of her second eye; an eye coloured as a gloam sky. If you prefer textual evidence, it is said that it was the Gloam-Eyed Queen who fought Maliketh in an attempt to steal Destined Death, and once it is unleashed, Melina tells you that Destined Death is exactly what she will return to you.

I’m not really sure how to close this off - if you read this, or even just the trees themselves, then I hope you enjoyed. I’m open to new ideas, as we all should be, and so I welcome debate and discussion below. I understand that the idea of Melina being the daughter of Radagon and Marika is not universally accepted, but I believe we have been given a lot of evidence to support it so far.

Next, I plan to discuss the demigods in more detail, including their families and their roles in the wider plot of Elden Ring. 

[yanderelovlies]

PLEASE NOTE THIS IS A SKYRIM AU.

JACK IS A CHARACTER FROM SOMETHINGS WRONG WITH SUNNY DAY JACK THAT I PUT INTO THIS AU FIRST AND IT FELT WEIRD NOT TO.

You have run into plenty of odd things in your travels as Dragonborn, but the twin half Deadra princes standing before you really did take the cake. After helping Clavicus Vile gain his companion, he was going to reward you when an idea seemed to overthrow his original plans.

"Tell you what being the good lord that I am. I'll give you the best traveling companions you could ask for!" Jack glared at the statue, not saying a word as Clavicus kept speaking. "They are my kin, so keep them safe or whatever. Now! Off with you I have plans!"

Feeling you might have got scammed by the deadric prince, you left the cave. However, as soon as you get the sweet smell of fresh air again, you are met with two men who seem to be sulking.

The one with blue deadric armor is the first to notice you as he stands up arms crossed. "You are the dragonborne, are you not?"

This seemed to catch the one in red attention as he looked up from his crossbow, looking you up and down. "You sure, Vergil?"

"Vergil" rolled his eyes, and he looked over to his brother. "Of course I am. They were the only ones to walk out of the gave."

The man shrugs. "Guess so," he stands with a grunt, picking up his crossbow "introduction time, I guess." He saunters over to you his crossbow on his should. "The names Dante." He tilts his head to his approaching companion, "And this my brother Vergil."

You nodded at the two of them. "I'm y/n the dragonborne." You then step to the side bit so they can get a clear look at your blue haired companion. "And this is Jack. we've been traveling for a while."

"Welp." Dante walks over to Jack, patting his shoulder. "Don't worry, you get a break now, buddy. Me and Vergil will handle it from here. "

Jack glared at the white-haired man. "There is no chance in oblivion. I'm trusting their life to two deadra."

"You have no choice, nord." This time, it was Vergil who spoke up, giving a glare to Jack.

Oh divines above, you can already tell this was going to be a pain.

[agentrouka-blog]

Do you have any quotes that demonstrate how the North views the Boltons after the Red Wedding, similar to how the Freys are viewed? I feel like I'm crazy because I've read someone saying "Arya's" marriage would be more acceptable because she was married to a Northener. As though Ramsay's dad didn't have a starring role in the Red Wedding..... Thanks

"Acceptable?" What planet are they on that they think the Northerners can't recognize a forced wedding when they see one? Or two?

The only difference to Sansa's forced marriage is that the marriage of Jeyne Poole in the role of Arya is an elaborately staged play for the history books, same as the various fictions that lead up to it.

Painful Fact: The Northern fighting men have been killed by the thousands in the South and during the Red Wedding. There is no force capable of easily defeating the Bolton-Frey alliance at this point. Winter is at the door.

And still they try when Stannis offers them an opportunity to oust him. Because they know.

A succinct summary by Wyman Manderly:

The Lord of White Harbor leaned forward. "The Freys are no better. They speak of wargs and skinchangers and assert that it was Robb Stark who slew my Wendel. The arrogance of it! They do not expect the north to believe their lies, not truly, but they think we must pretend to believe or die. Roose Bolton lies about his part in the Red Wedding, and his bastard lies about the fall of Winterfell. And yet so long as they held Wylis I had no choice but to eat all this excrement and praise the taste." (ADWD, Davos IV)

Manderly and his Frey guests serve up the official story being spread about the events to Davos:

The enormity of the lie made Davos gasp. "Is it your claim that Robb Stark killed Wendel Manderly?" he asked the Frey.

"And many more. Mine own son Tytos was amongst them, and my daughter's husband. When Stark changed into a wolf, his northmen did the same. The mark of the beast was on them all. Wargs birth other wargs with a bite, it is well-known. It was all my brothers and I could do to put them down before they slew us all." [....]

"Roose Bolton's cold and cunning, aye, but a man can deal with Roose. We've all known worse. But this bastard son of his … they say he's mad and cruel, a monster."

"They say?" Rhaegar Frey sported a silky beard and a sardonic smile. "His enemies say, aye … but it was the Young Wolf who was the monster. More beast than boy, that one, puffed up with pride and bloodlust. And he was faithless, as my lord grandfather learned to his sorrow." He spread his hands. "I do not fault White Harbor for supporting him. My grandsire made the same grievous mistake. In all the Young Wolf's battles, White Harbor and the Twins fought side by side beneath his banners. Robb Stark betrayed us all. He abandoned the north to the cruel mercies of the ironmen to carve out a fairer kingdom for himself along the Trident. Then he abandoned the riverlords who had risked much and more for him, breaking his marriage pact with my grandfather to wed the first western wench who caught his eye. The Young Wolf? He was a vile dog and died like one." (ADWD, Davos III)

The only ones who blithely go along with this fiction are those with their own conflict with House Stark, which is the Ryswells around Lady Dustin, and the Karstarks. Or those currently forced to cooperate, like the Umbers.

Or Manderly, who is plotting to destroy them from within and sends out a search party for the lost Stark heir Rickon.

Northerners not under the immediate power of the Bolton-Frey don't have to pretend to believe this at all:

But the wolves insisted; Roose Bolton could not be suffered to hold Winterfell, and the Ned's girl must be rescued from the clutches of his bastard.  (ADWD, The King's Prize)

The idea that the girl who marries Ramsay is truly Arya is at least fragile among those in the Bolton camp, but generally believed outside of it. And the response it to demand rescue.

The Northerners aren't idiots.

What part of this would they genuinely consider acceptable, and why?

[toffeethief]

Top 5 Albums In The Year Of Our Lord 2023

1. Ryuichi Sakamoto - 12

2. Buggin’ - Concrete Cowboys

3. Aesop Rock - Integrated Tech Solutions

4. Bell Witch - Future’s Shadow Part 1: The Clandestine Shadow

5. Zulu - A New Tomorrow

Honorable Mentions:

The Album Leaf - Future Falling // Amen Seat – Amen Seat // Andre 3000– New Blue Sun // Angel Dust – Brand New Soul // Aphex Twin – Blackbox Life Recorder 21f / In A Room7 F760 // Baroness – Stone // BB Bomb – Practice Songs-Lesson Three // Billy Woods & Kenny Segal – Maps // Black Matter Device – Buckshot Mouthwash/Mr. Uncomfortable // Blonde Redhead – Sit Down For Dinner // Boris/Uniform – Bright New Disease // The Bouncing Souls – Ten Stories High // Boygenius – The Record //  The Callous Daoboys – God Smiles On The Callous Daoboys // Chat Pile/Nerver – Brothers In Christ // Clementine Valentine – The Coin That Broke The Fountain Floor // C.LS.M. – Infinity Shit // George Cosby – Talk // Covet – Catharsis // Deserve To Die – Deserve To Die // Dorthia Cottrell – Death Folk Country // Arnold Dreyblatt – Resolve // Ex Pilots – Ex Pilots // Explosions In The Sky – End // Felony For Existing – Felony For Existing // Fews – Glass City // Fishbone – Fishbone // Flooding – Silhouette Machine // Fotocrime – Accelerated // Peter Gabriel – i/o // GLAM – The Color, The Dark // Gridlink – Coronet Juniper // Headcheese – Expired // The HIRS Collective – We’re Still Here // The Hope Conspiracy – Confusion/Chaos/Misery // Khanate – To Be Cruel // Kilamanzego – Black Weirdo // Killer Mike – Michael // Kitba – Kitba // Lamp Of Murmuur – Saturnian Bloodstorm // Lankum – False Lankum // Kali Malone – Does Spring Hides Its Joy // Mary Lattimore – Goodbye, Hotel Arkada // Lucy Camp – Smores Vol. 1 // Lunar Creature – Lunar Creature // Mile End – Promo 2023 // Mil-Spec – Marathon // Milledenials – The Peak Of Youth Life // Model/Actriz – Dogsbody // Mystic 100s – On A Micro Diet // Narrow Head – Moments Of Clarity // The Necks – Travel // New Found Glory – Make The Most Of It // New World Man ­– The Beast Is Back // Noname – Sundial // One Step Closer – Song For The Willow // Ostraca – Disaster // Oxbow – Love’s Holiday // Bill Orcutt – Jump On It // Misha Panilov – In Focus // Paramore – This Is Why // Parannoul – After The Magic // Pere Ubu – Trouble On A Big Beat Street // Perfect Angel At Heaven – Imploder // Pile – All Fiction // Planet On A Chain – Boxed In // Powers/Pulice/Rolin – Prism // Protomartyr – Formal Growth In The Desert // Pulsatile Tinnitus – The Finer Art Of Heartwork // Radiator Hospital – Can’t Make Any Promises / Watching A Fire // Rat Cage – Savage Visions // Restraining Order – Locked In Time // Ringworm – Seeing Through Fire // Olivia Rodrigo – Guts // Sadness – April Sunset // Sadness/Abriction – Sadness/Abriction // Sam Goldberg – Some Songs Are Sung // Screaming Females – Desire Pathways // Samuel Sharp – Consequential // Patrick Shiroishi – I Was Too Young To Hear Silence // Shonen Knife – Our Best Place // Shunkan – She Nods // Sigur Ros – Atta // Sincere Engineer – Cheap Grills // Slant – Demo 2023 // Sophia Chablau e Uma Enore Pedre de Tempo – Musicia do Esquencimento // Spellling – Spellling & The Mystery School // Spirit Of Hamlet – Northwest Of Hamuretto // Spirit Of The Beehive – I’m So Lucky // Spy – Satisfaction // Marnie Stern – The Comeback Kid // Sunbear – Enjoy! // Suzie True – Sentimental Scum // Swiss Army Wife – Medium Gnarly // The Tallest Man On Earth – Henry St. // Teke::Teke – Hagata // Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 – These Things Remain Unassigned // TLOOTH – Wet // Unwed Sailor – Mute The Charm // Usurp Synapse – A Vile Contamina // Vivat Virtute – Hold Music // Widowdusk – I Know Where We’re At, Not Where We’re Going // Will Haven – VII // Witch Prophet – Gateway Experience

[simplydannie]

Montegue AU || Vivian Montegue || Updated Vaughn

Vaughn Montegue

WIP

He extends his hand out to Veneer.

“Come on son. Let’s go.” He says.

There they stood, under the street lights of Under Rageous. After pursuing him for so long, Vaughn finally caught up to his son. Veneer is hesitant. He stands in the middle of the street, before him is his father, he looks behind him where a group of tiny Trolls stay staring at him: Branch, John Dory… and Floyd. Floyd holds his broken arm as he looks at the two giant Rageons before him.

“Veneer!” His father calls again in his deep voice, “No more screwing anything up. You’ve done enough of that! You pushed your sister away, you made her go back to that vile woman!….You’re coming home, and you’re coming home now.” His fathers bright blue eyes were fixated on his son… he reminded Vaughn so much of his wife, of their mother. The same innocence and soft expression…

“Veneer. Come. Now.” He demanded once more.

“Ven?” Veneer turned to see that Floyd had called his name. The small troll tried to stand up, but he was too weak….

Veneer turned again to his father… this was the first time in so long he acknowledged him, that he called him son… but he couldn’t… he couldn’t do it… Veneer slowly began to back away.

“….what are you doing?” Vaughn asked in true disbelief. Veneer shook his head, he was holding his purple beanie close to his heart… the only thing he’d ever had from his father, something to remind him of the man he once was long ago… the man his mom would talk to them about…

“I’m sorry….” Was all Veneer said. He turned around and scooped up the small Trolls, holding them in his hands. “…I can’t go with you…”

Vaughn stared at his son in disbelief….Was he really choosing the Trolls over his own father?

…I am reposting sorry!! I wasn’t too impressed how the last post came out. I think I tried to make it too impressive when it really wasn’t (plus I’ve been going through a lot of self-consciousness lately and really been beating myself up about certain things 💔)

Here is Vaughn, father of Velvet and Veneer. Now in some stories and AUs he died along side his wife in a car crash…. But for the Under Rageous AU, he’s going to serve a little bit more of a significant part.

The twins have told Floyd that their parents have died… that’s true, but only for one parent….

Under Rageous is a dangerous place… half it run by crime lords in which Vaughn a one of them and the most conniving of them all. He over sees the Europium Rageon Distract and his business is dealing Trolls and their essence to the Black Market of Under Rageous.

He married a beautiful Rageon named Vivian (the twins mother) and really was in love with her. The twins aunt Cressida was choosen as a suitor for him but his heart wanted Vivian. She was the only to really bring out his softer side especially around his children (whom he was REALLY strict on). Vaughn never physically abused his kids, but he would say things that would mentally and emotionally hurt them. He was especially hard on his son whom the business would go too being the male of the household.

With the business he’s in comes LOTS of enemies that includes gangs and crime lords from the other Rageon districts. He was hated especially by the Strobe Rageon crime boss.

What really ruined and changed Vaughn was the death of his wife. She was killed by a gang of Rageons who were hired to hit him…. She was a few weeks pregnant at the time. He went mad!

Without anyone to simmer him down, he began to get REALLY hard on the twins, causing them to runaway and fend for themselves out in the under-city. Angered, Vaughn went out to search for his children only to find that they had been taken up to Mount Rageous by someone is just as cunning or even more so… The Mistress.

Does he care for his kids? Does he really love them? It’s put the test when they return to the under-city after their failed attempt in fame. Because of whose children they are and their little public fiasco, EVERYONE is on the hunt for them… every bad person in the under-city you can think of.

But what will REALLY anger Vaughn, and perhaps it’s jealousy, when Veneer chooses Floyd (a tiny little Troll) over his own blood related father…

[fatherdmitri]

THE DMITRI / ANDREY OVERLAP. YOUR MIND... if you have things to say on the matter i would love to hear!

oh hell yeah. andrei and dmitri are the sensualists of both stories. violent, rough, but so very goodhearted.

well here are some quotes said by/about both.

stamatin: An architect by trade, but a Renaissance man by nature; an impetuous and amoral adventurer. Based on Benvenuto Cellini. A believer in neither God nor the devil, he likes taking everything life has to offer. Capable of murder. A tender guardian and protector to his twin brother, Peter. - his character description.

dmitri: "I'm a Karamazov... when I fall into the abyss, I go straight into it, head down and heels up, and I'm even pleased that I'm falling in such a humiliating position, and for me I find it beautiful. And so in that very shame I suddenly begin a hymn. Let me be cursed, let me be base and vile, but let me also kiss the hem of that garment in which my God is clothed; let me be following the devil at the same time, but still I am also your son, Lord, and I love you, and I feel a joy without which the world cannot stand and be."

stamatin: My path was called "Larger Than Life" . There isn't a single boundary I haven't broken. I've done everything I've ever wanted to. Confession of a Passionate Heart who????

dmitri: “That’s all foolery, too! Drink, and don’t be fanciful. I love life. I’ve loved life too much, shamefully much. Enough! Let’s drink to life, dear boy, I propose the toast. Why am I pleased with myself? I’m a scoundrel, but I’m satisfied with myself. And yet I’m tortured by the thought that I’m a scoundrel, but satisfied with myself. I bless the creation. I’m ready to bless God and His creation directly, but ... I must kill one noxious insect for fear it should crawl and spoil life for others.... Let us drink to life, dear brother. What can be more precious than life? Nothing! To life, and to one queen of queens!”

brothers

Andrey / Peter, Dmitri / Alyosha:

Architect Andrey Stamatin is dead for as long as his brother is. / "An angel in heaven I’ve told already; but I want to tell an angel on earth. You are an angel on earth. You will hear and judge and forgive. And that’s what I need, that some one above me should forgive. Listen! If two people break away from everything on earth and fly off into the unknown, or at least one of them, and before flying off or going to ruin he comes to some one else and says, ‘Do this for me’—some favor never asked before that could only be asked on one’s deathbed—would that other refuse, if he were a friend or a brother?” / How's my brother? Any news from him? / “No, madam, it’s the first time I’ve heard of it.” Mitya was a little surprised. The image of Alyosha rose to his mind."

Andrey / Dmitri as a protector. brothers are introverted and mellow

personality

they both love those earthly pleasures

sensualists

physical sensation focused: fighting, drinking, sex, etc

but deep down.... kind and empathetic

deep fear and insecurity

can come across as brusque and rough

love bars and taverns (joking but literally come on)

bisexual what

literally so ESTP / ESFP its almost painful

devoted and dedicated, however that manifests

often seen as so masculine they are feminine and not the "perfect man"