#want to write more about this and this kind of formless writing is easier than proper fic so

[thatferalbogdruid]

Grimoire Blog #1 - 10/13/23 @ 6:33am, Friday

_my thoughts on gods and doubt_

This definitely won't be comprehensive, just me starting a little blog journal of my thoughts. This topic is one that's very present for me now that I'm in my own space with time to think, and quite honestly is on my mind a lot, so I'm starting here. As I always feel a bit lost on the gods front.

Since I grew up in a cult-ish environment with an oppressive god that I tried so hard to believe in, I think it'll always be hard to wrap my head around deity work. I'm aware of this, and know that's my own road block to face. I absolutely love to hear other pagans speak about their super personified relationships with their deities! I think sometimes I try to mirror that in my speech too, but it's never really resonated for me.

For me, my relationships with the beyond have fallen past words, at least now that I've connected to what I feel are their sources instead of their ideas. Before I even started deity work, when I first started my path, I wanted to be a secular witch, because I was so far traumatized by the idea of having a "god." But then I "felt" them, and got curious. Then I started having dreams that eventually led to my meeting An Mórrígan, Helja, Venus, and who I call 'the Wilds,' over a span of many years. Through many of the dreams, things were impressed upon me that surpassed any human language I know of. But even just writing that out makes me feel kind of insane.

Maybe I'm gaslighting myself? I am quite the skeptic! But at my core, I do believe there's more than the physical world in front of me. Maybe I'm fucking off my rocker -- and I am, I don't put that past myself -- but I still haven't found the balance here for myself. I don't know how to fully incorporate this belief into my practice in a way that feels solid and consistent because I continue to have these doubts.

I'm also, completely open to the idea that it's something like a placebo. Maybe the gods that have chosen me are just personifications of different facets of myself. Maybe it's all just psychological and I find myself drawn to archetypes that help me better myself. Maybe I'm giving an old name to concepts and physical aspects of the world so that they're easier to digest and incorporate. Like if I were to honor a sun god, I would simply be acknowledging that the sun exists, and giving it reverence. But does that reference really beg for me to name it? Why do I feel the need to name them? Because I often don't, that's why I ended up working with 'the Wilds,' because there is still something incredibly formless that sits beside my soul and helps me grow and break out of the confines I was steeped in in my youth and adolescence.

I guess the point of this entire blog is that I don't know who the gods are to me or how they fit into the fold of my perception of reality. To what degree am I leaning too far into "magical thinking" and losing touch with reality? As someone who's experienced an episode of minor psychosis, I'm scared to slip too far out of reality, and scared that my spirituality doesn't help. However, my spirituality is very important to me, and I don't see the harm in looking at life through a metaphysical lens. But then, I was never allowed to know a scientific reality in my youth, so am I still avoiding it? Where do these things mesh?

Maybe I just don't have it figured out. That's fine with me, because I know I never will in full. But I do want to find some explanation for myself as to why these things are hard for me to conceptualize. And maybe I don't need an explanation either, but I almost feel like I need a solid defense for myself, especially living in the South, where people get very in-your-face about religious beliefs. Hell, the reason I still lovingly cling to the term "Heathen" even when I've started following the Druid path more exclusively is because it's been used against me in a derogatory sense multiple times before, even by my own family (shocker, lol).

For now, I will still wake up and call out to Anmórheljave, and call to them before I sleep. I will still stand in the rain and call to the Wilds and ask them to stay with me. I will still talk to all of them through my days like a revered friend with more wisdom and experience than me. I will still set up altar spaces for them when I'm finally settled into my new house. I will still offer what I can to them. I will still request their aid. I will still love them.

And one way or another, I'll find the other side of these doubts. I can't wait for that day to come.

~ Willow ~

[uselessundertalefacts]

Just thinking about how a situation like in this comic would come about and (talking about neutral ending angst)

Given the way people talk about their memories in canon I feel like there’d be a period of time where the gang comes to realize the significance of their feelings of deja vu and finds out they’re real memories and that would be a hell of a process I think

Like imagining Undyne waking up one morning and freaking out because it’s already 7am and her first class is at 7:30am and alphys is half-awake and is like “Huh what class?” “My gym class! Toriel’s gonna have my head!” “Undyne you work for Asgore???” And once Undyne’s convinced that she’s not actually a gym teacher, she’s like “agh sorry Alphys I guess I had a weird dream last night!!” and Alphys thinks back to her dream where toriel was the queen and Undyne was…. and mettaton…… she can’t remember? And it feels too specific to be a coincidence and Alphys knows the theory about multiple timelines so she has a crazy idea and calls up sans who just that morning went to feed his pet rock and was surprised to see that papyrus had already fed it and he’s got some thoughts about this. Meanwhile Undyne calls up asgore who is like “yeah I have vivid memories of killing the six humans who fell before Frisk and some of them don’t match up, and I have memories of killing Frisk, that’s normal.” and toriel is trying to work out why she can’t handle seeing frisk buttering their toast with a butter knife, and papyrus falls out of the habit of texting Undyne because he always subconsciously feels like he won’t get a response from her and

Eventually the truth comes out, Frisk confesses, and they’re forgiven of course because no one should EVER be in the situation they were in and the others are not exactly innocent from the sounds of it. And really, it’s not Frisk’s fault that they all betrayed each other when things got bad… and they all move forward. They all have dinner together that night and drink hot chocolate by the fire before going to sleep and they aren’t laughing or joking as much as usual but they tell embarrassing stories and long-winded jokes and just live in that moment which is so full of love despite everything

[eagehaunting]

Mystery March 2021 day 8: Home

I used today as an excuse to write out a little something on how Lewis took possession of the mansion! I hope you guys enjoy!

Lewis wasn’t sure how long he had been in this mansion. If he could focus enough to estimate, probably a few days, if worse came to worse, probably months.

And yet, he still hadn’t cleaned... Lewis turns a corner and takes in the long, dusty corridor. The many rickety doors stared back at him mockingly. The rugs hissed as they crunch under his shoes. The peeling wall paper threatened him with every step that he took.

“Lewis, what are you doing?” Comes a voice to his left, shocking Lewis out of his exhausted stupor and bringing him to look at the wall- more appropriately, the portrait. The woman with fine purple curls- Faust- stares back at him pointedly. “Well?”

“I... I wanted to get out of my room,” he admits, before his eyes wander to the mildew forming beside the portraits golden frame. “But now I remember why I didn’t want to come out.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I know it seems difficult now, but it’ll become easier. I promise.”

His frown deepens, and Lewis sighs miserably while leaning against the wall across from her. “I know.. I just don’t think I’m ready.”

“Why’s that?”

“I haven’t gotten a hand on my powers. Not yet, ” Lewis admits, chewing on his lip. Faust rolls her eyes, but props her elbows on her frame. Even though she couldn’t poke her head out far enough, Lewis understood the sentiment.

“Lewis, look at me.” He drags his gaze to meet hers. Faust’s eyebrows soften, and she heaves a gentle sigh and leans out a bit more, letting her curls fall out and touch the dirtied ground. “Being dead is tough, trust me, I know. Being in your shoes is also hard, and I can’t imagine how much it’s hurting you to deal with what happened.” The almost condescending tone- something Lewis knew he was imagining - made him flinch, averting his gaze to the painted tree in Faust’s background. He almost regrets sharing all of his backstory with her, and if he knew she would have this tone most days, he would have kept his mouth shut.

“The house is ready to accept you, and so are all the occupants. We will stand behind you every step of the way.”

Lewis grimaces, but nods. There wasn’t a point in fighting her right now. He had a good feeling all of the other portrait ghosts would be on her side too. It only makes sense. Lewis did accept the role as the new owner... he just had to take control, let his power manifest.

Now if only it wasn’t so hard.

Clicking her tongue, Faust straightens up. “Worry not, Lewis. You don’t have to do it this instant, the moon is still out and clearly you aren’t in the right state of mind. Now...”

A distant familiar clacking of metal grew nearer. As two suits of armor step into the entrance of the hall, they cast Lewis a worried look. One that Lewis doesn’t return, instead opting to glare at the stained rug.

Faust continues, “I think it’s time for you to go back to sleep. We will figure your abilities out tomorrow.”

Lewis follows the guards up the steps, and then up another. The wall paper, bricks, and windows full of moonlight blurs together until it accumulates into one door. His door. Leading to the single highest room in the entire mansion.

The guards take their stand on either side of it, nodding to Lewis carefully and not waiting for him to nod back before stilling.

“Thank you, sir Clive, sir Ranveer.” Lewis murmurs, pushing open the door and stepping in.

The room is simple, despite the elegant state one may expect. An old, wooden bed frame, scratchy wool blankets and a silk top sheet. Light pink curtains that flutter in the open window. Lamps on either side of the bed that didn’t actually turn on.

His room, and yet far from it.

Pulling the blankets aside, Lewis crawls into the bed, nestling his face against the pillow and pretending like he couldn’t smell the light stench coming from it.

Tomorrow he will take hold of his power, and he will make this mansion his home.

His home, for him and all the spirits already residing within it.

Lewis’s eyes moisten as he falls into his ‘slumber’. Praying for no nightmares.

“Im going to take the lower path, why don’t you two take the other... don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine! I have Mystery.”

“Dont cling to Lewis too much Ar...”

The moss and slimy green walls reflected like a million eyes. All watching. All staring.

Even as Lewis peered up at his own hand, clutching his torch, knowing what was to happen... he wished more than anything that he could simply turn around.

His stomach drops, his blood runs cold. The sudden halt broke his fall, his spine bent oddly and digging behind his bellybutton.

Cold. Cold. Yet so hot.

Empty. Yet rushing. A river, but still. There was so much light at first, and then it was so dark. Growls, howls, screams of every kind...

Loneliness.

All he wanted... was for them to come back. Save him.

Of all the memories Lewis had to revisit, why did it always have to be this one?

There was still gaps, such as the moment when he hit the spike, and when he forced himself up. How he even did it, Lewis wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t focus on that when the gaping wounds in his chest filled with with and stung from the cold.

His legs still ached from the stillness and the fatigue, and from the exhaustion of being awake despite dying. He wobbled far, tracing his dead fingers along slimy walls and against currents of chittering laughs. Then the constant thought. A mantra. Over and over. Come back for me. Come back, please.

Wake him up from this bad dream.

If only he accepted that it wasn’t going to happen...

He didn’t know where he was going, nor how long he was going to walk, but Lewis didn’t stop until he was face to face with a tall metal gate that shined unlike the eyes in the walls.

The rusted lock doesn’t break, but Lewis pushes through like jelly.

The staircase was a nightmare. Transitioning from cave stone to proper granite the higher he ascended. All while the prickling sensation of being watched crept up his back and urged his weak and heavy body to move faster.

Lewis ‘wakes up’ up with a shallow gasp. Eyes wide, he pants. Slowly turning his head, a layer of sticky sweat clings to Lewis’s face. He wipes it away and peels back the blanket, crawling out of the bed as the lingers of his ‘dream’ fights to hold the forefront of his mind.

His friends... they still haven’t come back for him. The guards would have alerted him if they returned to the cave, and Lewis would have been rushing out the doors if he heard the familiar engine.

They weren’t here. Lewis isn’t sure why he kept expecting them to suddenly show up.

Pushing himself to move, Lewis hops into a float and drifts to the door. Figuring that he may as well show that he has a grasp on some of his new abilities, now he just needed to realize what his main skillset was.

The guards lead him down the flight of stairs, past the library, and the office, and to the largest room in the mansion.

The living room was filled with an air of elegance, even if covered in dust and mildew. Several portraits line the walls beside the mighty fireplace, and leading to it was two long couches and an even longer coffee table. Book cases sat in between the tall windows, and smaller spaces left unused seemed to act as their own mini lounge, with a smaller bookcase, chair, table, and lamp.

Lewis compared it to a community center before, but now it felt like a stage.

More guards file in behind Lewis, with Sir Clive and Ranveer taking their positions behind him. He could feel a heavy, although gentle pat on his back from Ranveer.

After that, the dozen or so smaller, formless and colorless ghosts fly in and take their seats on the cushions.

The fireplace before him seemed to smile at him. With its decorations acting as its wise and considering eyes.

A line of sweat slides down Lewis’s cheek. Now wasn’t the time for stage fright, but his legs lock up in their floating position. He inhaled slowly.

“Psst.”

Glancing over, Lewis catches the soft, affectionate smile on Faust’s face. She tilts her head. “You got this.”

Lewis balls his fists, ”Do I? I really didn’t expect everyone to gather for this...” he admits.

“We know.” The portrait of the priest, Father Zachariah, responds. He gives Lewis a stern look, reminding Lewis to stand straight. “We didn’t want this to be a private affair. If you are really taking over this mansion like you said you would, then we have to right to partake in your awakening.”

“Aw jeez, give the man a break, will ya?” Another portrait, Terri to wrestler reaches out and fists some of Zachariahs robe, glaring at him. “Can’t you see he’s nervous?” He then says, throwing out his hand in a grand gesture toward Lewis, who shrinks back slightly.

Tamaki, the attorney, rolls his eyes dramatically and pinches his brow. “Lewis, I can assure you this isn’t a judgment, quite the contrary. We knew that it would have been hard for you to do this on your own, so we are providing an ample amount of support throughout the activities. Do you understand?”

He nods, unsure how else to respond, although the exhaustion made Lewis want to join the spirits on the couch and take a long nap.

The two portraits of shadows, Haseeb and Ameena, also nod in tandem. “Yes, Lewis. Infact, since you enjoyed music, we wanted to bring out the excitement.... I hope you’re okay with that.”

“Speaking of which,” Faust pipes up, leaning out of her frame and narrowing her eyes at the spirits sat on the couch. “Weren’t you all supposed to grab your instruments? Where are they!”

The colorless ghosts jump and flash past Lewis in one synchronized movement, before rushing back just as quickly. Returning with old violins, cellos, flutes, clarinets, and trumpets. Two more lag behind, with a cymbals, and one final one dragging something heavy. He turns, eyes widening as a singular spirit drags a *piano* from a closet he didn’t remember being there.

”Hold on, I’ll help you.” he says before realizing he was moving, that is until he floats past to the other side of the piano and bracing itself underside. Only for the spirit to send him an anxious look.

Oh.. it’s probably too heavy for them to also lift. Lewis spots the mini orchestra and waves them over. ”We need more hands, come over here and help up.”

Abandoning their instruments, several more spirits rush and brace the other side, allowing the piano to be lifted and carried earlier.

“Yeah you deadbeats! Why do you need his command to get a move on?” Terri calls, anything but cruel however. Deadbeats... that’s an interesting term. Lewis faintly ponders as he sets the piano down, before going to retreat the stool.

At the same time, the living rooms doors open, and the puny skeletal gardener drags in the painter spirit.

“Rye! Thank you for fetching Elora.” Tamaki says.

“Oh eff off,” Rye responds, plopping down on one of the chairs and sinking down. “I was busy trying to save up my energy for tonight’s show. You want there to be flowers, right?”

Flowers?

“Yep, thats why the windows are open. Let’s wait until Lewis is prepared however.”

”N-no need to wait, I’m ready now,” Lewis squeaks out, clearing his throat as he turns and takes in the grumpy strawberry looking gardener.

Rye bobs their skull and spins away from him, “Fantastic.”

She raises her arms, and in a swift motion, glows the same ripe red color as her dress. All at once, the windows are swarmed with vines. Green foliage spilling in, connecting across the ceiling, draping and tangling amongst the curtains, and wrapping around the stone busts on the bookcases. It happened so fast that Lewis couldn’t react. Instead he gaps up at the magnificent display, watching as floral arrangements burst, forming meticulously designed patterns along the entire room.

When he finally tears his gaze away from the display, Lewis is met with calm, expectant smiles.

“Ready whenever you are, bucko.” Rye pats his arm and reclaims her seat, leaving him in the center of his imaginary stage.

Now, his anchor beats twice as fast, almost overwhelmed by all of the effort, all the eyes sim directly at him.

Pressing his finger tips together, Lewis wets his lips. Several heads tilt as they wait.

Clearing his throat, Lewis lowers his head,”... I’m sorry. What am I supposed to do first?”

Faust gasps lightly, the first to realize their crucial mistake. Ignoring Terri’s chiding, she clears her throat.

“Of course, Lewis, the first thing we need you to do, is concentrate on your internal thoughts. As you do, try to figure out which emotion or feeling is more prominent.”

A single note plays from the deadbeat sat at the piano, followed by the violin, and a growing hum from the others who hadn’t begun to playing. Lewis’s heart skips a beat, and he bites his lip as he closes his eyes. The piano continues, the notes floating through his mind and striking chords that were far from forgotten.

A new set of voices fill in the emptiness between notes, running alone side the piano and dancing along with the violin. A flute begins, and Lewis sharply inhales.

He loves music, he always has, it always made him want to dance. Grab the first person in arms length and pull them close, whether it be the waltz or a swing, it filled him with warm laughs that always spread across his face in a smile. A familiar tingle fills his arms, and Lewis is sure that he can feel Vivi in front of him, swaying as they listened to the music. The warmth grows as she fills his minds eye. Her soft scarf tangled in between them, how her skirt swirled and swished as she spun and dance, leaving him warm in the face and his chest full of bubbling warmth.

Warmth. He felt warm.

That certain warmth fills his hands, tingling at his finger tips and running along his scalp.

The room smelt faintly of decay and staleness, but a memory envelopes him, and Lewis is in his families kitchen. Dancing in place and singing at the top of his lungs with his sisters twirling around him. Cinnamon, garlic, sugars and herb fills his nostrils. The lavender and sweet floral in the air elevating the smells of their garden which he pranced through many times during the warm summer nights. The bonfires, the flare of heat from the oven, the thick humidity in a late evening as Lewis arm wrestles with his much scrawnier friend.

The warm spreads up his elbow and all along his back. Before Lewis knew it, the singing, the music grew loud, amplifying as more instruments add to the mix, and as his own voice joins them. A crash of the cymbals becomes the splash of the beach, and the laughter chittering along with it.

His heart races, and the warmth becomes hot and exhilarating as he recalls the endless nights of fondness. Of redness in his cheeks from drinking alongside his friends, on his tongue as he taste tests his fathers latest recipe, and the swell of pride upon seeing Cayennes first ballet recital.

Pride, love, happiness.

Spastic notes become fireworks. Blasting, rocketing, exploding across the night sky. It becomes the crash and crackle of buildings as he and his friends rush from burning buildings, away from spirits whose voice booms too loud. The warmth spreads to his legs, in the ache of running, carrying his friends over his shoulders in a desperate need to escape. As his heart burns in the terror of thinking they were hurt. In wanting to slam his fist into the fiends face for daring to threaten his loved ones.

The guards dance with him, metal clacking and sparking. Lights spot the area as Lewis shoots out his arms and pulls one in against his chest to spin in tandem, before releasing them in a dramatic flourish.

Anger, fear, the need to protect.

His friends, his family.

The loves of his life-

Lewis opens his eyes, and the passion fueling his movements die in an instant.

His hand glows, his arm flaring. A line of fire burns away from him, pink and flaming and just as excited as he was. Gasping, Lewis tears himself away, slipping and hitting the ground. The music screeches to a halt all at once. Everyone freezing.

“Lewis, are you okay?” Faust calls out, gripping her frame as if she were going to rip herself out of it. Concern warping her face, along with the other portraits, the ghosts, everyone.

“You were doing good!” Terri says, “don’t tell me you got cold feet!”

Tamaki nods in agreement, “it’s truly delightful to see you smile for once. I was worried we would never see it.”

Shoulders tense, Lewis’s eyebrows furrow.

That... was him?

Baffled, Lewis holds his hand in front of him, and sure enough his palm was glowing. He tenses the muscles, and he jumps as a small flame puffs out at him.

”I- wait, seriously? I did it?”

“Yes, you did. Marvelous work, Lewis.” Zachariah hums approvingly. The warmth- embarrassment and concern- floods his chest, before Lewis is smothered by smiling deadbeats swarming him in a hug. Curling around him and nuzzling their formless heads against his.

His legs twitch as Lewis rises, floating naturally instead of jumping this time, and becoming upright.

Everyone is smiling at him, faces warm and bright with delight. Warm with the same sentiment, that it was time to make this his home...

He knew it, they knew it, that had to be the entire point of everyone gathering. Not to help him, but to watch him accept them as his new family... leaving his old.

Leaving his family, and his friends...

Faust is the first to speak, eyes crinkling. “Are you ready?”

What about Vivi? Arthur? How is he going to be there for his sisters? How can he keep his friends safe if he can’t be there for them. He can’t abandon them. Because they won’t abandon him. They wouldn’t. They’re coming back for him.

”No. I’m not.”

The disappoint was clear by the stilted air. But no one argued with him. The deadbeats had sunk, their instruments hitting the ground in shock, before being lifted up and taken back to their proper places. The vines retreat and retract, and quietly, the spirits all left the living space. Even the first place seemed to grow cold, if that was even possible.

Lewis didn’t say anything to the portraits when he left the room and raced upstairs to his tower of solitude. The same thought racing through his head again and again.

They’re coming. They will.

Soon. Soon...

Soon...?

Feeling trapped and terribly homesick, Lewis crawls under his blankets. His eyes sting from moisture that shouldn’t accumulate in the sockets, but he wipes them away anyway. Pulling the blanket over his head, Lewis curls into a ball.

Why did it hurt so much reject them? Why did it hurt so much to hold off for so long?

What was he expecting? For Arthur and Vivi to pull up in their bright Orange van and pull him out of the bed, pull him into an embrace, and into the van. Whisk him away so he can embrace his mami and papi, kiss his sisters and tell them how much he missed them.

Why was he even holding out hope? They arent coming back! Why would they...

Arthur killed him... Lewis’s arms shake and he grips the blankets. Arthur shoved him off that fucking cliff with a smile on his face. He should be grateful for anyone to accept him into their family.

He wanted to slam his fist into his gut, to direct the pain from his aching chest. Lewis wanted his eyes to stop stinging.

But he couldn’t. Home was where they were, and he has been thrown away.

Lewis fell into a half sleep, living through the same memory of his death again and again. Watching as his nightmare loops with his life being torn from his grasp with a single push.

That one moment of inaction, the one second of trust. And now?

Lewis is dead.

The memory looped for a fifth time, with Lewis desperately searching for an escape from the grip of reality, when the universe finally gives him one.

An engine. It’s not loud, and it rattles lightly. Lewis pops awake, disoriented from the jarring switch from the cave to his bed, but he disregards it.

Tearing the blankets, an adrenaline thrashes through him. Warmth, heat, rocketing through him. It burns his soles as the impossible dangles right in front of him.

It can’t be, is it really them?

Are they here for him?

Lewis’s anchor skips a beat as he almost falls down the first set of steps. Before he hits the steps face first, his body vanishes in a burst of flame and reappears with a running start at the bottom. The halls wake up with the pound of his feet and his heart, and Lewis forgets that others lived on this decrepit mansion as he races to the main stairway, leading to the front door.

He expects specks of blue, yellow, and white to meet him there. For smiles to spread across their face as they run to swallow him in a hug.

Lewis freezes. Heart going still. Heat draining as he takes it in...

There’s four people, who he hardly recognizes, except for the role they were trying to play as they whisper amongst themselves.

”This place wasn’t here a few days ago.” “do you think it’s a trap?” “Do you think anyone’s here?”

Paranormal investigators...

They start to wander, poking at the busts and pushing open doors, unaware of Lewis staring at them.

It’s not them, his friends aren’t coming.

Now strangers are in ... in this mansion, disturbing the people who have been nothing but kind to Lewis.

The need to protect returns, strong and lashing as his fists ball up, tears stinging his eyes.

Teeth grinding, heat pools into his hands, and fire spits out like sparks of electricity. Finally grabbing the investigators attention as he stomps on the first step. The fire crackles, leaving a singed footprint in its place, but Lewis doesn’t care. Focusing on the bug eyed look of the four intruders who back away in mounting terror as the flames rise.

Breath coming out in hisses, Lewis growls. ”Get out.”

It was enough to send the four scrambling for the door, the engine roaring again as they undoubtedly piled in. Just in time for the suits of armor to clamber behind him, looking around in shock until they see him.

The furious gaze didn’t die upon seeing them. No. Except Lewis turns away from them and floats to the bottom step, theres a strain on his body that extinguishes the fire in his hands, but that didn’t matter.

Lewis rounds the corner, leaving a trail of smoking fire pits in his wake.

Until he’s stood in front of the fireplace, the hearth that he was instructed to simply light it to accept his place as the homes new owner and protector.

His first family protected him, but his loved ones ended his life. Now it’s his turn to ensure the safety of the only family he may have left.

Lewis’s arm wavers as he lifts it up, a ball of fire burning his palm and spitting in every which direction as he glares at the fireplace, whose glass doors open wide.

The flame shoots out, and upon making contact with the bricks and wood, the entire mansion lights up in a magical blast. Transforming peeling wallpaper to freshly striped, strewing chandeliers in every room it could fit, burning away the rot and leaving the floors warm and spotless.

Everything around him changed in an instant, but Lewis doesn’t see it.

His anchor hits the ground with a soft clink, hot to the touch and wet with tears.

[askmalal]

A dream, cold and lonely.

HE stands, and shakes the sleep from his eyes. The room is dark, as he likes it - he could never sleep with even a hint of light - and the little water fountains he keeps in his chambers splash pleasantly. They are calming, and remind him of home.

He could, of course, go without sleep for weeks. But no sapient being, not even an entity of the warp, can go completely without rest. It is a mostly pleasant luxury, one of the few he allows himself, at any rate. He supposes that the greater entities, perhaps even the One, can go without sleep. But is it not said in at least some Terran scriptures that Ya rested on the seventh “day?” Did not Mithra rest after wrestling the Bull of Chaos?

The Eleventh activates the dimmer with a quiet gesture, turns to his mirror and gets a look at himself. He is tall, not extraordinary so by the standards of the twenty, but not the smallest. His sister is marginally taller. His brother Leman, the first he met, can look down on them both. Magnus seems to vary. He can stand eye to eye with Sanguinius, when Sanguinius stands. Vulkan and The Khan, kindred souls, tease him gently about being the “short one.” Everyone knows that Lorgar is smaller. Lorgar has no sense of humor that The Eleventh is aware of.

He is not unattractive. Not beautiful in the way of Fulgrim or Sanguinius, but with a classic sort of look that he shares with Guilliman and Dorn. His hair, white as snow - a trait he shares with Fulgrim and Dorn - is a mess. He much prefers it short. Combed. Doesn’t like long hair. And his hair has grown too long these days. Doesn’t wear a beard. Only Johnson among the Primarchs wears a beard regularly, and the Eleventh suspects that most of his kind simply aren’t capable. He can get to just about a five o’clock shadow if he pushes it. Seems to suit him. Vulkan and Russ do it far, far better. He smirks to himself, adjusts his hair, wonders for a moment what the two of them are up to - he misses the company of his closest brothers - and looks to his basic hygiene regimen. He is acutely amused by the notion of a virtual demigod brushing his teeth, and laughs to himself at the absurdity of it. In the far future, will historians writing of his victories and defeats, consider what sort of toothbrush he uses? Which toilet? He is struck by something the Khan once muttered about what Fulgrim’s commode must look like. He laughs again.

There is a chime. The internal comm network. He swallows a bit of water, rinsing, then spits and answers. “Go ahead.”

The voice is that of Askasi, one of the Terran legionaries. The Eastafrik accent is unmistakable, and typical of the Terran recruits from First Company. “My Lord,” Askasi says, “we are receiving a holo-recording from ‘The Grey Lady.’ Audio only. Marked urgent. Your eyes only.”

He blinks. ‘The Grey Lady’ should be nowhere near this sector. Recorded audio is, of course, easier to transmit than a recorded audio/pict feed. Still, it is unusual for The Second, who makes ‘The Grey Lady’ her flagship, to transmit in such a way. “Patch it through, Askasi.”

“Aye, My Lord.”

There is scarcely a delay.

***

In another time, in another place, a shadow is wrought by trembles in the dark.

***

“Brother,” it is incorrect to say that the Second cannot speak. It is more accurate to say that she chooses not to do so without cause: very fee of her sons can speak, and she often chooses to share their condition. This transmission is private, intimate, and vocal. It is a rare honor, given only to a few of her favored sons; their father; and a handful of her brothers, of which he is part.

“Brother.” Her tone - unmistakable - drains the previous humor from his countenance. “I regret the hasty nature of this dispatch, and my inability to speak to you directly, let alone to send you a recorded message without an image feed. I know that you value facial expression.” She does not go on to explain, but it is obvious, from context of what follows, that the message is more important than the niceties.

“Alright, Little Sister,” he mutters, “what is it?”

“I regret very much that I will be unable to meet with you at the rendezvous point in three days, as was our original intent. I have been re-assigned by direct order of The Emperor, and the matter is out of my hands.”

This is disappointing. The Eleventh Legion is only now recovered from the Maarikek Incursion, and the operation planned for this next phase of its involvement in the Great Crusade would have benefited greatly from reinforcement by another Legion. The Second Legion’s capabilities would have proven useful indeed, and at any rate, the two Legions work well together. “Our Nullificators will be working overtime, then,” he thinks.

Terra does not commonly intervene so close to the beginning of an operation. His father, still on crusade, has better things to do than micromanage.

***

In another time, in another place, a single voice among hundreds cries out in anguish and is silenced only with great difficulty. Something faceless stirs.

***

“I have been reassigned, along with the bulk of the Second Legion, to a place called Rangdan, along the Northern Fringe. A major operation is developing: I regret that I cannot provide more information - I am, figuratively speaking, in the dark.”

The Eleventh sits on the edge of his bed. He is suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of concern. It is neither panic nor fear. But it is concern. He cannot place the cause.

“I am there to reinforce elements of the First Legion. Our brother sends you his best wishes.”

He smirks at this. “That’s a thing I should like to see.” A servo-drone approaches with his armor. He nods that it may continue, and begins to bolt on his greaves. They are green. The knees are blue, with faux marble accents. Tasteful, perhaps. Still more ornate than he would like.

“Elements from another Legion will be meeting you at the agreed rendezvous. I am unsure whom. I am transmitting data to you with this packet which contains everything that my people have been able to dig up regarding the Hellespont question. I have asked that these be transmitted to whomever the reinforcing Legion might be. I am confidant in your superior knowledge of the matter...”

Superior knowledge. That is a bit of an overstatement. So very little is known about the Void Forms.

***

The faceless thing roils with discomfort. Minor daemonlings attending to the sleeping form become jittery, nervous.

***

“... Of course, Venerable Simonides is still with you, as are the men of Seventh Cohort. They are at your disposal. Even should I want to recall them, distance makes that impossible. I entrust them to your care for the duration of...” she trails off, “whatever this is.”

Good. He trusts these men. The Eleventh stands and stretches his arms out from his sides. The servitor helps him to position the cuirass properly. He nods a thank you.

“I hope that we will speak again in the near future. As I believe I shall owe -you- the dinner this time. Shall we make it interesting? Something from Aix that you haven’t had yet?”

His humor is briefly restored by this. She knows that he deeply unimpressed with the food from Aix.

“I’ll be there, little sister. And you can show me another way to ruin perfectly good lamb.” He feels as if he is speaking directly to her. He knows that this is impossible. But there is something deeply personal about this message. She is troubled, and he can feel it. She has not an ounce of psychic energy, his sister. Indeed, she is distinctly opposite that. A reason that, despite her shared interests and warm regards with Magnus, the two keep themselves distant for long periods of time. He is not so blessed as Magnus: his gift is of a very different nature, albeit within the same family of gifts as it were. For whatever reason, however, he is not unsettled by her. He knows this is by design. How it is possible, The Emperor will not say.

He thinks of their first meeting. He thinks of her duel with Russ. He thinks of her compassion when the ordinary people who were the only real parents he ever had passed. He feels a pang of sadness. Something is uneasy. Something is unreal. Something is wrong.

***

A Faceless Sphinx shifts on its haunches. An imp shrieks in alarm. Another quickly silences it. One does not wake the God of Antipathy. Once, an emissary of Khorne did so. Now, that emissary is locked in an indestructible zen garden...

***

The Eleventh is shaken free from this bizarre episode of existential sadness as the transmission ends, and another message comes through. “Ruiri?” The First Captain, Alisdair D’alton, is now speaking.

“Leon Fir, go ahead.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, My King. But.. we’ve got a transmission coming through. Top priority.”

“Another from my Sister?”

“Erm....” the big man on the other side of the vox pauses, “no, sir. It’s... erm... it’s Lord Kurze. He says it cannot wait. Apparently he’s to meet us at the rendezvous for Hagartha.”

***

The formless hatred shifts again like water in a glass, and one thousand nightmares come whispering from newly formed mouths.

***

[peachdoxie]

Alright, alright, time to read chapter 9 of Rhythm of War!

Pewter, augmenters, force. That tracks with Mistborn lore.

***

So, the emotional torture of Kaladin Stormblessed continues.

"Instinctively, he searched out the soldiers of Bridge Four."

I crei

"Kaladin opened his eyes as Syl flew up in the form of a miniature Fourth Bridge. She often took the shape of natural things, but this one seemed extra odd. It didn’t belong in the sky. One might argue that Kaladin didn’t either."

That's a big oof right there, with Kaladin implicitly questioning whether he actually should be allowed to ride the winds.

"It happens whenever you run out of Stormlight. As if… you can only keep going while it’s in you."

Sounds kinda like allochemical savantism ngl

Please just give Kaladin some therapy for once.

Teft: "Oh, shut up, Kal."

Me: thank goodness there's someone willing to be blunt with Kaladin so that he slows his depressive spiral.

Reminds me of this moment in the last chapter of Oathbringer:

“It doesn’t get easier, Teft,” he said. “It gets harder, I think, the more you learn about the Words. Fortunately, you do get help. You were mine when I needed it. I’ll be yours.”

Also, yay for Laran swearing the Third Ideal. But now that means there are no unbonded honorspren.

"And the time when Lopen had nearly died a few months back."

EXCUSE ME?????

I hope that has something to do with Dawnshard.

***"

“Why would the tower have a device to suppress the powers of Radiants? It was their home."

Now that's something. Though Navani also thinks it could have suppressed the Fused's powers, so...

“Soulcasters manifested as small unresponsive spren, hovering with their eyes closed. So the Soulcasters did have a captured spren. A Radiant spren, judging by their shape. Intelligent, rather than the more animal-like spren captured to power normal fabrials."

Well that's some fucking lore right there with some implications that I'm really not sure about shoves another piece of evidence to my Sibling theory

"The Soulcaster cache discovered in Aimia earlier in the year had brought an incredible boon to the coalition armies."

Guess we know part of what happens in Dawnshard, then. But also, how the fuck did they get onto Aimia (probably a Windrunner flying them) and also why did Aimia have this cache in the first place? Is this why the Sleepless were guarding the island so strongly? While the Soulcasters are a boon, for sure, I also fear that there was a reason why they were being held there, and that makes me worried. The Sleepless know things and have been watching our heroes for a while.

Yo wtf who left the spanreed ruby for Navani, and how did no one notice it being left? Or was it placed by a spy?

"You are the monster Navani Kholin. You have caused more pain than any living person."

First of all, what the fuck. Second of all, I guess she's in good company marrying Dalinar if she's also a monster who causes pain....

"The honorspren cannot be trusted. Not anymore."

Ho-ley shit. What the FUCK does that mean? Is this a cultural thing, or like...an intrinsic feature of the honorspren? Can we still trust Syl?

Also, what "new kind of fabrial" is the writer talking about?

“Navani couldn’t get any further responses from the mysterious woman or ardent who had written to her.”

Funny, Navani is married to a man who can write, and yet she still assumes that it was a woman or ardent who had written this. Numerically, if all people who can write are weighted equally, she’d be right. But someone this involved in deep lore may not even be human, let alone a woman or ardent. I wonder if this will come back to bite Navani in the ass.

***

“He’d removed his jacket, and the shirt beneath reminded her of when he came to their rooms after sparring. He always wanted to bathe immediately, and she… well, she rarely let him. Not until she was done with him, at least.”

This is what counts as a sex scene in a Branderson book.

“She pulled closer, and couldn’t help imagining it. What he would do if he knew the real her. If he knew all the things she’d actually done.

It wasn’t just about him. What if Pattern knew? Dalinar? Her agents?

They would leave, and her life would become a wasteland. She’d be alone, as she deserved. Because of the truths she hid, her entire life was a lie. Shallan, the one they all knew best, was the fakest mask of them all.“

Oh Shallan. I wonder if part of her Fourth Ideal will be about not just confronting the truth she lives, but about telling others about it.

Huh. So Veil emerged when Shallan was at her most distraught. Veil also said that she didn’t kill Ialai, but does that necessarily mean that one of the others didn’t? There was that one moment when Shallan!Shallan’s “mind began to fuzz” when Veil asked if one of them killed her. Hmm.

And okay, so there’s a fourth persona that Shallan is trying not to create. That persona scares Veil, for whatever reason (wtf). Also, the name “formless/Formless” seems somewhat in parallel with the use of the word “form” by the listeners.

Lmao, Shallan’s basically just listing half of the secret societies on Roshar, and those are only the ones she knows about.

“Those likely made sense to him, as he’d taken battlefield reports on them. The shadowy groups moving at night, on the other hand, were something he couldn’t fight directly. Dealing with them was to be her job.”

Normal Vorin couples: the woman does the ledgers and organizing while the men go do hard labor

Shadolin: Adolin fights the soldiers while Shallan fights the secret societies

“Nalathis. Scadarial. Tal Dain.”

*high pitched shrieking noises*

And Thaidakar. Who- or whatever that is.

***

OKay, so some shit happened in this chapter. Kaladin is falling more and more into a depressive spiral. Navani is getting letters from people unknown telling her to stop making new fabrials (though not with any direct threats). Shallan is still struggling to tell Adolin things.

Can’t wait for next week!

[veliseraptor]

we haven’t slept in years, 2k, thor & loki, cw: graphic self-harm, references to suicidal ideation/a suicide attempt, a (short) direct sequel to we suffer mornings most of all, instead of writing any of the things I’m actually trying to write I did this which at least went smoother than anything else I’ve been doing lately, so thank you @ratsats​ for the accidental prompt, happy thanksgiving kids

A long while ago Loki had read, in a book that was now ash, about the formation of storms. He’d been curious because of Thor and his power, but he ended up finding it fascinating in its own right: the complicated confluence of factors that had to fall into place to create a storm. It made him think that Thor had more in the way of magic than he knew. That set off a strange burst of mingled frustration that he seemingly had no plans to train it, and relief at the same.

Loki thought about that a great deal, though. The way that something so natural, so raw, was in fact the result of an intricate set of circumstances that had to come together in the right way, at the right time, and lightning struck.

It was, Loki thought, examining the wreck he’d made of his left arm, a remarkably apt metaphor. A vicious, vivid nightmare. Formless anxiety dogging his heels, whispering of oncoming disaster. A minor but irritating snide remark from Valkyrie, and his own eternally unsteady core. An unstable atmosphere.

He tried closing his fingers and inhaled sharply for the pain that shot up his arm, then wanted to laugh. Enough damage to the nerves that he couldn’t move properly; not enough to avoid the pain. Wasn’t that nice.

At least he was calmer now. Didn’t feel so much like he was going to burn out of his skin. Was it getting worse? Oh, probably. No surprises there.

It didn’t help that it seemed his - endurance training under the tutelage of the Mad Titan’s lackeys seemed to have had an unfortunate side effect when it came to his coping mechanisms.

Now he was going to have to hole up here, safely hidden, until his nerves reconnected and there wouldn’t be awkward questions. Which meant coming up with some sort of excuse, since he could no longer simply disappear for a day or two without Thor-

I only ask that you find me after, Thor said.

Loki worked his jaw. No, he thought. Don’t be stupid.

You swore.

Loki rubbed his forehead with his functioning hand, took a deep breath, and gingerly folded his left arm into a makeshift sling. He cleaned his knife on his shirt - it was already bloodstained anyway - made himself unnoticeable, and went to do penance.

**

Thor was not, of course, in his rooms; undoubtedly he was off doing some sort of kingly business. Loki let himself inside and sat down, stretching out his legs and trying again to flex his fingers. They twitched, but not more than that. He’d been very thorough, though his memory got a bit blurry after he’d driven the knife between the two bones of his forearm and twisted.

There was going to be a mess to clean up later. This was why he preferred to avoid sharp objects for this sort of thing. Blood was too noticeable.

He’d learned that early on.

Thor’s absence gave him some time to strategize. He still didn’t understand what Thor thought this was supposed to accomplish, other than giving him something else to be worried over; if Loki approached this conversation carefully perhaps he could make Thor see that, too. It was fine, really. He was going to heal, and he was calm, and clear-headed, perfectly in control of himself.

(You weren’t in control when you did it.)

Loki shook that off. Perhaps not, but this was how he regained it.

He moved to the bed, eventually, leaning back and letting himself drift. He was tired, which could be an artifact of the blood loss or of the crash that always followed these - storms. By the time he heard the footsteps approaching he was almost half asleep. They were familiar enough to bring him awake, though he didn’t sit up, just opened his eyes and waited.

Thor opened the door and came to an abrupt halt on seeing him, then frowned.

“For someone who so values his own privacy, you care remarkably little about that of others,” he said, though mildly. Loki shrugged his right shoulder.

“I am just demonstrating the weakness in your security,” he said. “You should ward your doors.”

Thor frowned more deeply. “I cannot cast wards.”

“Have you tried?”

“You could cast them for me.”

“Ah,” Loki said, “but that wouldn’t stop me.”

Thor shook his head, though Loki caught a small quirk of the corner of his lips toward a smile. That was good; the better Thor’s mood the easier this conversation would be. “Are you just here to test me or was there something else you wanted to discuss?” he asked. Loki tapped the fingers of his right hand against his leg.

“A bit ago,” he said, “you asked me something.”

Thor’s brows furrowed. “I’ve asked you a few things,” he said, though now he sounded cautious. “Could you be more specific?”

“Give yourself a moment,” Loki said. “It’ll probably come to you.” He shifted, slightly, adjusting his arm. Thor’s eye flicked over him, the familiar worried line now etched between his eyebrows. The slight smile was gone.

“Or you could refrain from making me guess.”

Loki exhaled. “You asked that I come to you,” he said. “If it was…” Relevant? Necessary? “If there was cause.”

Thor’s eye widened and he jerked forward only to visibly stop himself. He looked Loki over again and seemed to relax. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. So - you are…” He shifted, bracing himself as though about to enter a fight. “What do you need? To keep from…”

“Nothing,” Loki said. “I’m fine now.” He offered a half a smile. If he was lucky - if he was lucky, maybe Thor would think the urge had passed on its own, and Loki would have kept his word, and not lied, and he could figure out how to deal with his handicap without drawing notice.

He’d forgotten that Thor had acquired an unfortunate perceptiveness over the last decade. He went very still.

“What did you do,” he said, studiedly level. Loki sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling.

“Is it important? As you can see, I am fine.”

“Are you? You’re favoring your left arm.”

Unfortunate perceptiveness. Loki breathed out through his nose and let the glamour fade. “It looks worse than it is,” he said preemptively, but that didn’t stop Thor from making a strangled noise and lurching toward him.

“Let me see,” Thor said.

“I don’t think-”

“Loki,” Thor said, in warning, and Loki gave up and stretched out his arm. The bandages he’d so carefully wrapped were spotted in places. “Did you go to a - no, of course you didn’t go to a healer,” Thor said, and swore under his breath. His hands were gentle, though, cradling his limb lightly; even so, Loki wanted to flinch. He didn’t, just let Thor unwrap the bandaging and study the half-healed mess he’d left behind. Scored down to the bone. With the fog wearing off, Loki could look at what he’d done and feel an abstract kind of horror: well, that isn’t good.

Thor closed his eyes and visibly counted his breaths, probably to hold his temper.

“It’s healing fine,” Loki said. “The only problem is that some of the nerves were severed, so it isn’t going to be very useful for a bit.” And the healing would be excruciating.

Thor’s jaw clenched. “You severed,” he said. “You severed some of the nerves.” He dropped his head forward. “I asked…”

“I know what you asked,” Loki said.

“How can you do this to yourself?” Thor sounded plaintive. It was such a wrong way for him to sound that Loki didn’t know what to do about it.

“Relatively easily, really,” he said without thinking. “All you need is a sharp knife.”

For a fraction of a second Thor looked like he was going to hit him. For another he looked like he was going to cry. Then he just released Loki’s arm and stood, running his fingers through his slowly-growing hair.

“Do you hear yourself?” he asked. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Loki-”

“I know,” Loki interrupted. “Thor, I know that, only - I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say you’ll stop.”

“It isn’t that simple! I tried to explain to you-”

“I know! And it didn’t make any-” Thor sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and continued in a quieter voice. “I know. You did. And you’re right that I don’t understand, but I don’t think you do, either. I think you’ve gotten so used to this that you don’t - even think about there being another way.”

“Because it works,” Loki said.

“It’s dangerous,” Thor said. “It is-”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “Mad? I am that, aren’t I?” Thor’s expression tightened like he wanted to argue, and Loki pressed onward. “I am not saying I will not - try to come to you, as you asked. But I think it would be better for us both if, in the event that I...fail to do so, you were able to remain in blissful ignorance.”

“No,” Thor said.

“Thor…”

“I said, no.” Thor set himself as though bracing for an attack, but when Loki didn’t answer immediately, he deflated a little. “Since we spoke,” he said, “do you know what I have dreamed of? More than once.”

Loki tensed. “No one finds other peoples’ dreams very interesting, Thor.”

Thor ignored him. “Finding you dead,” he said flatly. “I don’t see you for a day, or two, and I go looking and find your body drained of blood, or hanging from a noose, or-”

“I am not-” Loki cut himself off, moving to clasp his hands together only to stop at the violent twinge from his left. “Don’t be absurd.”

Thor’s eye pierced him. “Is it absurd?” he asked. “What is the difference, except in degree rather than kind?”

He wasn’t, Loki realized with a sinking of his stomach, exactly wrong. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t...the Bifrost had been the first surrender. But not the first temptation.

And not the last, either.

Loki glanced aside and bit the inside of his cheek.

“At least if you come to me,” Thor said, “even if it is too late to stop it - at least I know that you are not slipping too far away.”

He sounded - Norns. So unhappy. “I am sorry,” Loki said, the words awkward in his mouth.

“I do not need your apology,” Thor said heavily. “I only ask that you not try to hide from me.” His smile was weak, and not much of a smile. “Haven’t we had enough of secrets?”

Loki sighed. “I suppose perhaps we have.”

Thor’s shoulders fell in clear relief, and he walked back over and clasped the back of Loki’s neck. “Thank you.” Loki shrugged uncomfortably, and Thor jostled him a bit. “I mean it.”

Thank me when I do something right, Loki thought, but he didn’t voice it. The exhaustion was sinking in, again, the pain starting to register properly.

“What happened?” Thor asked, after a few moments of silence. Loki shook his head.

“An unstable atmosphere,” he murmured, and when Thor gave him an odd look said, “it’s complicated. No one thing. Too many, overlapping, colliding, and I can’t…” His lips twisted. “I scarcely realized until it was too late.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Thor said. He sounded a bit disappointed, like he’d been hoping for one single thing that he could have eliminated from the ship. “I am glad you came.”

“Are you?”

“In the end,” Thor said, “yes.” He said it so firmly. Like he really meant it. Which, of course, he did.

“Let me get you fresh bandages,” Thor said into the quiet. “And some salve. I can at least do that much.”

“Yes,” Loki said eventually, half to himself. “I suppose you can.”

[titovgro]

Hi! This is Michael from hopedaemon. I was super curious how you and Amynta settled as a black panther, if you don’t mind my asking!

Hi there Michael, thanks for the question, we are glad to answer! (And are also glad to finally informally meet another dæmian.) But Aramyntas and I settled on the form in the more classical “Pullman Symbolic Approach”. We did a lot of self meditating, introspection, and we took a few looks at the various aspects of my personalities.

I took the more classical approach to the form finding because of my personality which is a lot of “by the books”, kind of personality. Of course not everyone has to do this, but it’s just how I took my approach.

First we looked at a specific side of my being. My more introverted side, which I haven’t necessarily “grown out of”, but more have just been able to navigate away from. It is still there obviously, one can’t just decide to pick up and be an extrovert, but we found that I am very much an Introverted-extrovert, in that I draw and recharge my energy from being alone, but I can still be out and about in a profession (like healthcare as a nurse assistant) where I can openly be around people.

So we took a look at my more introverted side, being that it is a side of myself that I keep to myself for when I’m home and need to recharge, and we realized that we would need a form that is somewhat reclusive.

We also noticed that a big part of my attitudes are very “regal”, much in the same way that I like to be “by the books” in a lot of things, such as my prior example of the Pullman method, but I also like to be by the books in my work while at the hospital, and even in my own mannerisms. Of course I cut loose and have my fun, but my drawback to who I have always been as a person is very much like a by the books kind of person.

So in general I took these two traits of my my fallback personality, being reclusive and regal and realized that these traits were Aramyntas. I also was able to differentiate that the forefront of my personality is very much a social butterfly, and quick to make decisions and an impulsive kind of person, and so I was able to see the lines where I ended and Aramyntas started to begin. We realized that all through my life she was the more passive one urging cation, soothing me when I cried, reminding me of the rules, or even just being my ferocious courage when I needed it the most.

So before I get to how we landed on a Black Panther (melanated Jaguar), I’ll definitely say that we “tried on” a few forms. We realized that these forms were completely separate from a dæmon’s form, and this was somewhat of a hard pill to swallow for myself. But what I had tried to envision as Amy’s form was symbolically different from say, a spirit animal/guide or even a Harry Potter patronus. We went through several forms such as a lioness, a horse, we even sometimes played with the ideas of a swan. But none of these fit, and it all felt wrong and in the end she reminded me stick to the basics of my personality traits, and even to just narrow down (because omg there are just way too many animals out there to choose from), we narrowed down animals from where I would have come from in HDM.

So with reclusiveness, and a regal attitude, we also took a look at my heritage, because I figured that if I were to be in “Lyra’s world” of His Dark Materials, Amynta would most likely take the form of an animal from where I’m from (or in this case my dad is from). My dad is from Central America, and so we took a look at animals that matched my descriptions, and it was funny because Amy’s form was always there staring me in the face!

Short story Segway, but when I was little I had wanted to get a plush from the “Rainforest Café”, which is a restaurant that is in our local mall here in south Florida. Basically it has animatronics and lights and steam and the ambiance of a rainforest but in a dining experience. And I remember that I wanted this one animal plush in particular. And, looking back, there she was! That was Aramyntas the whole time! I didn’t know it, but my dæmon, even when I was young and, even she probably had no idea what for that she’d take, was with me in my room the whole time. My dæmon, a black panther.

The jaguar is native to Central America, and so I figured that because my father is from Central America, and that black panthers are reclusive, as well as them being regraded culturally as noble as well as them being the biggest of the “big cat breeds” in Central America, Aramyntas and I took one look at that plush, did a little research on the difference between Jaguars and the African Leopards. And there you have it, one Black Panther dæmon.

When it comes to Aramyntas’ gender, we felt that almost immediately. We read that in HDM that there was a man that had a same sex dæmon, but that Pullman never explained why this happened. So I tried to make Amy masculine in nature in my head, but she rejected that rather quickly, even as formless as she was early on. We thought about a genderless feel, but she was rather persistent on her gender early on, and when the dæmon knows what they want then they know what they want. Like, she is my soul, but separate from me, and even then has a voice of her own, and boy did she use it to tell me what she wanted.

When it comes to her name, it is Aramyntas in the full form, and short form being Amynta or even Amy if I’m feeling particularly lazy.

Interestingly enough, we found out her name earlier on before we found her form. We both looked at all of the dæmons in HDM, and we did a bit of study on their names, meanings, and etymology. We read that dæmons are named by their human-parents’ dæmons, to which we then had to consider what my parents’ dæmons would have named her.

As we both looked for her name, we “tried on” different sounding names, some even including the feminine version of my own, and we even tried the name of what my parents would have named me if I had been female, “Ana”. We liked Ana for a while, and it stuck maybe for a few months but other it soon wore thin, and she didn’t feel like it was working for us.

So we took to searching again, and we noticed that that there was honestly no consistency between the names of the dæmons in HDM besides that they were very extraordinary in terms that they were uncommon and aren’t heard of all the time in conversation. For example, some names were in completely different languages, and none seemed to solely come from one human’s native country over another. So we kept that in the back of our minds as we searched.

But when it comes to names, there’s honestly no easier way than to go to baby-naming-websites. I had found this out when I was looking up names for some books that I myself am writing, so I perused a few of these that I like personally. These can generate random names for you sometimes, and other times you can search specifically by gender, in different languages, or by country of origin.

So we just looked up girl names in all languages, and lightly browsed from A to Z, seeing which names stuck in our minds and wiring them down as we went. “Amynta” is actually a name in-of-itself, and we tried going with just that for a while, which felt the most comfortable out of all the rest. So we did more research on the name, and we found that there were variations of the same name. We saw the long form - Aramyntas, and it clicked for us. That was her. We held onto Amynta as a nickname of sorts, and then let it devolve into Amy (Ah-mee) as time went on. As for the meaning behind Aramyntas, and why we went with it, it is English in origin, and it means “Defender” just like a Lioness. We looked back in all of our soul searching and we realized that growing up Amy, as much as she was one to warn me to be cautious, to hold my tongue, or to follow the rules; she was also the one to light the fire under my butt when things were unfair or if I needed to be protected in someway or the other.

[doggernaut]

For end of year fanfic asks: 23. fics you wanted to write but didn’t.

Hmm. So, a few months ago, when I was in the midst of writing my OMGCP Big Bang fic, I got this idea for a fic about Bitty and Jack meeting after both had gone through messy divorces. One of the subplots was of Bitty learning to co-parent with his ex and his ex’s new partner, and the new partner being much better at pretending everything is perfect on social media than Bitty is.

I didn’t really have time to write it, and then my sister unexpectedly asked her husband for a divorce, and even though the circumstances were very different in my fic than what her family was going through, it felt too close to really write about. I’d still like to return to it at some point.

I also started a kind of long and formless thing about Bitty and Jack on vacation after Jack’s retirement. It didn’t really go anywhere so I put it aside. There are actually two versions of it: One is more of a ficlet, the other was heading more toward a long, multi-chaptered thing about getting older and dealing with aging parents and career changes and what love looks like in middle age. Here’s an excerpt from the latter version:

It starts, like so many mundane things, with a phone call.

Who even calls people these days, when it’s so much easier to text? Suzanne Bittle, that’s who. Every Sunday after church so she can feed Bitty the latest gossip. He hasn’t talked to some of those people in years but he knows that Karen Novak’s youngest who nearly flunked out of high school is headed to medical school in the fall, and that Big Ross and Jessica Howard just bought a vacation home in the Floria Keys. He knows the new pastor is “still getting used to the way we do things around here” and that his wife, who grew up in Boston and went to school in Chicago, doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the women. All this, doled out in small doses every Sunday afternoon.

It’s Tuesday morning.

“Your daddy fell off the roof,” Mama says without preamble. 

“Oh lord! Mama, what —“ 

“He was cleaning the gutters and slipped,” Mama continues, cutting off any questions Bitty might have at the pass. “I told him to hire someone but he said he’s done it all these years, he’s not going to pay somebody to do something he’s been doing since he was fifteen.”

“Is he—” Bitty tries again. Mama sounds calm, so that’s probably a good sign.

“He’s got a broken leg and a few cracked ribs. A pretty good concussion, too. He’ll be in the hospital for a few days, and off of work for the rest of the semester, I suspect.”

“I’ll fly out today,” Bitty says before she can ask. He mentally recalibrates the next few hours, days, weeks. This evening he’s supposed to fly out to New York, the first stop on a small tour to promote the relaunch of his blog (which, in turn, is to promote his upcoming book, still in the editing stages). Nothing major, just local morning and afternoon show appearances up and down the East Coast. Nothing that can’t be rescheduled.

“Can you?” Mama breathes a sigh of relief. “You know I hate to ask.”

“Yes, of course. Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.”

Bitty calls his agent, who agrees that the regional appearance can wait and says she’ll take care of rescheduling. He calls his assistant, who quickly books a plane ticket and blocks out his calendar for the next few weeks.

Jack is in the middle of an early-season series of games on the West Coast. Bitty waits until he lands in Atlanta to call him with the news. There’s no point in interrupting him in the middle of a pre-game workout when there’s nothing he can do about it right now, anyway.

[thesmollestsnek]

Anxiety

So uh... I’m not really sure what to call this. What started as me venting about being anxious about minor tasks turned into an in-depth description of some of my worst panic attacks. The last paragraph is about how I recover from said panic attacks, so it does end on a hopeful note, I guess. Read at your own risk.

I sit, staring at the little line on the screen. It sits there, blinking. Mocking me. Mocking me with my inability to complete even this simple task. My inability to write even a few measly paragraphs, for fear of writing them “wrong”, somehow. Even the knowledge that there isn’t a wrong answer, not really, does nothing. My fear is irrational, so mere facts, however true they may be, have little chance of overcoming it. How could they, when it is not even a conscious fear, so much as it is a vague sense of impending doom, interpretable only through context clues and years of practice. And I sit there and say to myself “this is easy, why can I not do it?” And I receive no answer. There is no reason that I cannot do it. And yet, when I look at the prompt and again begin to plan my response, again I hit it. An invisible wall within my mind, blocking me off from all the ideas that were accessible to me just yesterday. Ideas that are still so close I can almost taste them, and yet so far away in all the ways that truly matter.

And so I give up, for a while. Distract myself. Tell myself that I’ll just take a little break, and try again later. That break ends up lasting several hours. And yet, when I come back, I still find myself paralyzed by that all-encompassing force. Still find myself helpless to that formless beast within my mind. And its silly, I know it is, to let something so mundane control me so, and yet I am unable to stop it. The anxiety may be mundane for me, but it is no less potent for it. After all, a kitchen knife is also mundane, for all it’s sharp enough to kill. And so I try, time and again, to get over myself and just start writing. And I fail, time and again, to actually write. And I struggle, time and again, to ignore that voice in my head that berates me each time I am unable to start. That calls me stupid, that says I should be used to this fear by now, that points out how I had no problem thinking of things before, why didn’t I just write them down then? And each time I hear it, I get a little less sure of myself, and it gets a little harder to try.

Others have told me that I am having trouble with this because I’m anxious about doing it wrong. Like I didn’t already know that it’s my anxiety causing my thoughts to freeze. Like being told that it’s irrational would make it any easier to overcome. It didn’t help. It never does. Not in this, not in anything. I’m fully aware that my thoughts are irrational, that my fears are inappropriate, that there is no reason I shouldn’t be able to do the many things I struggle to do. I know. If such knowledge were enough to keep the fear at bay, I wouldn’t be struggling in the first place. And yet I am. Because the knowledge that I should not be anxious does nothing to fix my brain’s proportions of neurotransmitters. Does nothing to dispel the adrenaline in my veins. Does nothing to help me actually do the thing. Their words can only reach as far as my head, which is already fully aware of the situation. But my head is powerless to soothe my heart, and it is rare for anyone to speak in a way my heart can hear. I could count on one hand the number of people who have managed it. Truthfully, I am not among them, however much I may wish it. The most I can hope to do is wait, with the knowledge that it should, eventually, pass on its own. The knowledge is a cold comfort, then, as a choke on my own tears and struggle to breathe. When my chest aches and I want nothing more than to curl up in a tiny ball where no one can ever find me again.

I feel as though my mind separates from my body, then. I’m still me, still a pathetic pile of limbs struggling to breathe, but at the same time, I’m not. It still hurts, physically, but on some level I cannot feel it. Cannot feel anything, except mild annoyance at the time wasted. My body chokes and I distantly catalog my symptoms, as though I were a scientist observing some other person. Watching, uncaring, as someone else fell apart before my very eyes. And while I still seek comfort, it’s not because I truly want it. It’s just the fastest way to get that helplessness to end, so I can move on to other things. Through my own suffering I am clinical. Dispassionate. The only person I ever seem to struggle to empathize with is myself. And I cannot even find it in me to worry about it, when I’m in that state. After all, it’s only temporary. It’ll pass, just as it has countless times before. I’m… not even sure I can, worry, like that. I never have before, at any rate. Through some of the most intense emotions I will ever feel, I am numb.

The numbness doesn’t feel bad, not really. How could it, when it robs me of the ability to feel at all? No, what really sucks is what comes after. When my body has settled a bit, and I start fading back into reality. Suddenly, I feel all those emotions I couldn’t before, and it hurts. Not like before, when it was purely physical. No, by that point the physical pain has faded, leaving behind a dull hollowness. This is an emotional kind of hurt, and after the numbness I am wholly unequipped to handle it. Sometimes (often), the shock of it sets off round two, and then I’m back off into numbness again. Truly, the cycle only really ends when my body is too exhausted to maintain it any longer. Too fucking tired to do anything but lay there, drained and upset and feeling rather broken. Which is its own kind of awful, really, but at that point I’m so glad to not be panicking anymore that I don’t really care. And I don’t have the energy to care, either, so. I couldn’t even if I wanted to.

At that point I’m feeling rather empty, but it’s a relief after everything that came before. After all, if something is empty then it can be filled again. And without any hurt remaining, even a little bit of positivity can feel like the goddamn sun. This is the part where I pull out my phone, and start looking through youtube. Sometimes I want something specific, but often I’m too tired to really care. There’s this one youtuber I’ve been watching for close to a decade, who never fails to make me smile. Silly and nerdy and so kindhearted. He’s pulled me out of some of the darkest corners of my mind, with his bad puns and constant enthusiasm. He’s entertaining at the best of times, and a goddamn lifeline at the worst. His light is bright enough to guide me, when I’ve sunk so deep in my own tumultuous thoughts I can no longer tell which way is up. Even when I am at my lowest, too tired to reach out to my real life support network, he is there. Spreading enough positivity for me to drag myself out of the dark. Helping me recharge, to recover until I’m ready to face the world again.

[jmeelee]

Sterek and #3 things you said too quietly please and thank you 😊

#3. Things you said too quietly

The first few weeks after Stiles is turned are unnervingly easy. Derek anticipates a tide of rough full moons, blood-lust and base instincts, but these growing pains ebb almost immediately, and a beta more even keeled than any of his others breaks the surface. It’s as though Stiles has taken every manic impulse and focused them entirely on self-control. He’s insistent, brave, loyal and smart, qualities he always possessed now amplified, turned up to maximum volume and calling to Derek like a serenade outside his bedroom window. He tracks Stiles’ movements with his eyes, his ears. And it’s because of this close monitoring that he notices the deafening silences before anyone else catches on.

Human Stiles is a cacophony, a wave of noise smacking you in the face, dragging you under. He’s butchered song lyrics and inharmonious humming, he’s drumming fingers and tapping toes. Werewolf Stiles is contemplative stares and controlled intensity, head cocked, listening for answers to questions he hasn’t asked. There’s a swelling of pride in Derek’s chest when he looks at Stiles, and a jolt of wild unease. Something is unnervingly familiar about his behavior, but every time he tries to pin it down, it slips through his fingers. After all these years, Derek is fluent in Human Stiles, can translate every flail and facial tic with authority, but Werewolf Stiles breaks his confidence. His silences communicate at a decibel too low for Derek to comprehend. They quietly suggest a lacunae, slyly offer him teasing glimpses of things he can’t comprehend.

The only thing loud about Stiles these days is his thundering heart.

“Has becoming a werewolf finally shut you up?” The words are spoken as a joke, but not a joke at all. Stiles spreads his hands in response, a gesture of…what? Defeat? Concession? Repudiation?

It’s like the Nogitsune all over again, something just below the surface darkly thrashing, only this time around Stiles is the epitome of perfect physical health. Gone is the sickly pallor and bruised, gaunt eyes, replaced with hardy muscle, lupine grace and a blushing glow. He is palpably the same man, the planes of his face intensely familiar and as eye catching as always, but something is off enough to set alarm bells shrieking inside Derek’s skull.

So he follows Stiles, a regression to the early days when he camped out in the woods alongside the high school lacrosse fields or behind Stiles’ bedroom door. This time he leaps to Stiles’ rooftop, lingering above his cracked bedroom window, listening for signs of life within. He hears shallow breathing, then Stiles’ amused tone. “Just come in, Derek. I know you’re there.” And pride rears up again, sinking sharp claws into his heart. It would have taken the other betas hours to notice he was there.

He swings down, sliding the window open and leaving it at half-mast behind him, allowing the world outside to filter in. A lone bee travels the overgrown lilac bushes two feet below the windowsill, wings humming at a low frequency. In the woods behind the house a fox takes down a rabbit with a choked-off scream, and car tires continuously buzz down the highway a few miles away.

Inside the room, Stiles is sitting on the carpeted floor, an unopened glass mason jar laying next to him, half eclipsed by the baby-blue dust ruffle of the bed. These days Derek is a pendulum, swinging wildly from culpability and guilt to gratification and relief each time he sees the flash of golden-yellow, always so similar to Stiles’ whisky-brown irises. Does he hate me because I turned him? He’s alive, that’s all that matters.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” Derek is not a natural sounding board. It’s one—of the many—ways in which he falls short of his mother and Laura. When people talked to them, they listened, the kind of committed listening that produces a sense of catharsis. Derek chafes against that form of therapy; he’d rather act, find a remedy. But for Stiles, he will be a confidante. He will do whatever needs to be done, and he always will.

Stiles sighs. “I keep coming back to this.” He shakes the jar, jostling the contents—powdered, formless, but obviously significant. Derek sits cross-legged on the floor in front of Stiles, offers out his hand. Stiles places the cool, heavy glass in Derek’s outstretched palm, and when he holds it up to the light he sees the dark gray power is mountain ash.

“Peter was right, about me.” It takes Derek a few seconds to recognize Stiles is referring to Derek’s uncle. He’s not used to the name being spoken so plainly, without a mockingly offensive nickname or colorful obscenities attached.

“What did he say?”

“That I wanted this, to be a werewolf. That I wasn’t allowing myself to acknowledge it.”

“When did he tell you that? Where? Why?”

“When I was sixteen. In a parking garage. And why not? For once, he wasn’t lying.”

How has Derek gone so long without knowing about this conversation? For someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, Stiles is awfully good at smoke and mirrors. Derek racks his brain for why Stiles is looking at the mountain ash with a mixture of longing and dislike.

“Would you rather I…” Derek stops, clears his throat. “Do you wish I never turned you?” His entire body revolts against the thought of the burning flame being snuffed from Stiles’ eyes.

“No,” Stiles answers, heartbeat strong and steady. “I’m glad you did. It’s just…stupid.” He averts his eyes. “It’s childish and ungrateful. But when I laid a line of mountain ash I felt useful, I felt different, but in a good way. That magic, it was coming from inside me, my belief, my brain, which had always seemed like such a spastic failure.” He reaches over, plucks the jar from Derek’s fingers, holds it to his face and studies the contents that are now dangerous, a tool to be used against him. “This transformation has granted me a wealth of riches, and a painfully sharp deprivation.”

And now Derek finally recognizes it, the ghost that has been hovering at the corner of his eyesight, dispersing into mist when he looks too closely at Stiles: grief. Stiles feels like he now has everything, and nothing at all. It’s so obvious. How could he not have known? This whole time, he thought Stiles was speaking too quietly for him to hear, but he’s been screaming.

“I was born like this,” Derek reminds him. “It’s all I’ve ever known. I can’t ever hope to understand, but I’ll help you however I can. However you’ll let me.”

Stiles shoves the jar under the bed frame, out of sight. “May I?” he asks, eyelids lowered and shoulders braced for rejection, though Derek never would. He holds out his arms, and Stiles crawls into his lap, nudging Derek’s chin, running his nose along Derek’s neck and breathing deep. Stiles sighs, content. Satisfaction wells up again, at how tactile Stiles is, his fearless physical expressions of devotion and intimacy.

“It will get better. Things will get easier,” Derek consoles, sure that, together, there is nothing they can’t overcome.

“I know,” Stiles answers, breath hot and wet against Derek’s throat. “I can take care of myself, but knowing you’re here, your strength, your friendship…” Your love. The words aren’t spoken aloud, but they will be. Someday. “It helps. More than you could ever know.”

Outside these four walls the lone bee is joined by a few friends, working tirelessly to gather pollen to transform into sweetness. The fox shares her kill with her hungry growing cubs, and an endless parade of cars continue on their journeys to destinations unknown.

Time marches on, and so will they.

Send me a pairing and number and I will write you a mini fic

[damienthepious]

5, 6, 31, 32, 33, annnnnd 54!

5. Books or authors that have influenced your style the most? a hodgepodge of ‘em!! Diana Wynne Jones, Neil Gaiman, Alice Hoffman, Garth Nix, Stephen King, Sarah Waters, Terry Pratchett, Brian Jacques and..... like..... tbh dal niente, fialleril, and setepenre-set, whom i am not tagging because ..... shy

6. Favorite character you’ve ever created? hnnnnnnn you’re making me choose between my literal goshdang children you sadist......................... hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Diana possibly, or Ilandere, orrrrrr the Professor 

31. Hardest character to write? In Fanfic: okay so. princess zelda doesn’t have a fucking character in her games so that was pretty fucking hard to cope with when i tried my hand at her, but i made something work in the end. Mostly? just made it up from scratch. if there is no store-bought character, homemade is fine. Of my OCs: cishet men, most of whom have been phased out

32. Easiest character to write? In Fanfic: Lord Arum has been wildly easy for me to slot into. I just...... get him??? i get him. which is weird because he’s literally a lizard. Of my OCs: hmmm probably Blacklight. she’s been around for so damn long and i just know her voice, know her impulses, know her too damn well

33. Do you listen to music when you’re writing? CONSTANTLY. I make writing playlists if the project is big enough, and i make a new playlist monthly of tunes i’m currently into and to put new music that i’m introduced to throughout the month, to keep things fresh. music is a HUGE part of my writing process.

54. Any writing advice you want to share? I AM IN NO WAY QUALIFIED. BUT. I can certainly babble pointlessly about some things that have helped me (i think) improve. This got long accidentally so behind a cut:

consume media when you aren’t producing it. consume TONS of it. the more you read the better you get at knowing when stuff just sounds right. consume stuff you like and try to find patterns in why you like it, because it’s bound to come out in what you write anyway and you can make it better if you have a hand on it. read stuff you don’t like and figure out why it doesn’t work so you know pitfalls to avoid. 

also. more importantly. and this sounds more trite than it is. but you have to sit down and just do the work. inspiration is WONDERFUL when it’s there, it’s like a magical beam of words that just happen when you get really really lucky, but relying on working only by inspiration is how you wind up like me, with eight thousand unfinished WIPs from moments of “OH THIS DIALOGUE STRUCK ME AND-” and then when the inspiration fizzles so does that entire story. 

Just write. If the story you’re on isn’t working, if you’re trying to write a scene and it’s stumping you, jump ahead a few minutes to the part where you know what’s going to happen and then fill in the gaps later. lately i’ve been in LOVE with skipping a few scenes ahead and then filling in the gaps, it really really helps me kind of take the pressure off of the immediate next line if i have a handhold a few paragraph breaks down. and take notes! if you have an idea for a later scene but you aren’t there yet or you can’t write it until you figure something out, make a note about it IN THE DOC. say it in a silly way! say it so it takes the pressure off, and then the actual writing gets easier.

this is a literal note from my Mama Scott doc: [need a analogue to the first tricycle; something syx would Want enough to invent something with the binky to get it, maybe something with minion's tank? maybe- maybe something to try to keep up with wayne? something so he can fly with him or smth. sounds appropriately dangerous & mortifying. ceiling fan copter???] it doesn’t have to make sense! it doesn’t have to sound good! get the idea down and at least then you can’t forget it!

this has been formless babble byeee

[autumnslance]

Prompt #2: Silenced

As an infant, Aeryn was told, she never stopped babbling and making noise almost from the moment she left the womb. “The only time you were quiet,” Mother said, “was when you were fast asleep--and that never lasted long enough.”

She laughed about it, years later, but Aeryn knew it had been trying on her, and that Mother had done what she could to hush her child.

As a tot, teetering after her older brother, she had explored the words she could now say, quickly and often, repeating new words she heard, enjoying how they felt in her mouth, on her tongue, the way new sounds changed the shape of everything, how volume could force constriction or expansion of her throat.

“I used to wish you’d just shut up and give me a tick to think,” her brother said.

Aeryn remembered his childhood annoyance; that was easier to forgive.

As she grew into young childhood, silence was a punishment, a deterrent. Stand in that corner and say nothing for a quarter of a bell. If you’re quiet for a few minutes, you can have your dessert. Please stop talking, you’re giving me a headache. Good little girls should be quiet. If you don’t stop talking right now, by the Fury I’ll make you stop!

But she had so much to say, so many words to learn and try and form into...something. She wasn’t sure what, but perhaps if she found the correct combination of words, that feeling bubbling inside her would finally burst into what she was supposed to be.

Then the dragons came. There was no time to speak as they raced back home, as fast as the chocobos could go. No words she knew could describe the sight of their burnt home, the ruins of their village, the inability to find Father. No sound came when the Azure Dragoon himself stopped to speak to Mother, his shining black helm turning toward Aeryn, hiding behind Mother’s skirt and shying away when he offered the child a tight, tired smile.

It did not hide the rage radiating off him in waves. Aeryn felt only relief when he leapt away.

Mother found passage to the land of her birth. She told them, over and over, that she refused to allow Ishgard’s endless war to take anymore from her, to touch more of her family, and so they sailed away. She kept saying this would be a good change, and retold them all of the stories of her homeland and people, again and again.

Aeryn was a ghost, silently trailing after her mother or brother. Her mind kept replaying the ride home, clinging to her brother as their chocobo careened after Mother’s, the wind whipping past so fast it was hard to breathe.

It was as if that wind had stolen away her voice, when she could finally look up and see what remained.

“Such a good, quiet little girl,” an old woman said at the campfire. It was the first night they rejoined her Mother’s people, and the wandering caravan they were part of, traveling the length and breadth of the land for half of the year.

Mother shook her head, brushing Aeryn’s fine black hair with her fingers. “She used to talk ceaselessly. She’s barely made a sound since...it happened.”

Aeryn knew she was worrying Mother, but how could she explain? How could she fix it, make Mother not worry anymore?

The conversation continued around her, dull and distantly buzzing in her ears, their words nothing more than formless sound. She stared at the fire, liking the way it danced, and became aware she was being watched.

Another old woman held her in a steady gaze, kind and gentle. Aeryn tilted her head, and the elder tilted her head in response. Aeryn squinted, and the woman squinted back. Aeryn made a face, and when that too was mirrored, she couldn’t help but giggle, making the old woman smile, and startling Mother.

Shovanna was an old teacher; her son handled most of the children by then, but she took Aeryn’s hand and led her away from those classes, to have their own among the wildflowers and trees, by brooks and ponds, in near silence.

Shovanna said little, and Aeryn felt no pressure to say anything when with her; not like with Mother, or her brother, or grandparents and uncles and cousins. She could simply walk along, pointing out things she liked or found interesting, tugging Shovanna’s shawl when she needed her attention. She could help the old woman with her gathering and other chores, with her crafts and creative projects, and felt understood despite the lack of words.

Aeryn could almost breathe.

As they reached the winter camp and settled into the routine of something like their old village life, Aeryn had dreams of whipping winds and fiery wings and charred buildings. The sounds she made were screams and sobbing, Mother kept awake as if tending an infant again.

Shovanna began a new game with Aeryn; designs on paper, in the dirt, as they sewed. String the designs together, however...Aeryn gasped the first time she realized that was a word, and what it meant. Shovanna smiled, patted her back, and wrote a new one.

Making letters herself was difficult at first, but Aeryn learned quickly, driven to unlock this new way to use words. To describe what she saw, what she wanted, what she thought. Mother had to shake her awake at the table to put her to bed, taking away the pens, ink, and paper so Aeryn couldn’t try to keep going.

The nightmares lessened.

Just as Spring was coming and preparations were being made to return to their winding route along the countryside’s trade roads, Shovanna placed a piece of paper in front of Aeryn. She recognized the old woman’s tidy handwriting.

Why did you stop talking?

Aeryn figured out the words, and frowned. After several long minutes, she took the pen Shovanna offered, and carefully wrote a reply, trying to keep it neat.

The wind stole my voice.

“Hrm,” Shovanna hummed. She took back the paper and pen, and wrote a little more. Then she passed it back to Aeryn.

Tell me?

She held the pen out to the little girl.

Aeryn hesitated, then took it. She wasted some ink, blotching the paper as she thought. It came slowly at first, then faster, her handwriting getting larger and messier as the words came tumbling out, too fast for her hand to keep up and it was getting so hard to see the paper and her writing because her eyes were stinging so badly and...and...and...and….

An angry, shapeless sound tore out of her throat, like a dam breaking in a flood, as the words raced up her fingers--arms--shoulders--to her unblocked throat--out of her mouth.

Shovanna held her and stroked her hair until the torrent abated, leaving Aeryn shaking and hiccuping.

Her voice came in fits and starts, some days easier than others, but she was speaking again, and her family was relieved. The nightmares faded as she wrote about them, taking that fear and energy, channeling it into stories, songs, and poems. She wrote notes to her brother and mother, and letters to friends made along their travels.

She was still praised for being a good, quiet girl, but she was no longer entirely silent.

When she returned to the land of her birth, the praise became “stoic” as she became an adventurer, then a Scion, and then the Warrior of Light.

Yet she spoke, and sang, and wrote poems and letters. She met an elderly elezen with legendary bow skills but more interest in the power of songs, and a dashing miqo’te in red who wove spells and swordwork. She again met the man who used to be the Azure Dragoon, whose lance was as steeped in history as in combat.

Aeryn had spent so much time, in her incessant chatter as a child, in her ceaseless writing as a youth, trying to figure out that something she had once felt bursting inside her, that she had feared the wind had stolen away.

She prayed to the saints gone before to guide her hands, sang to encourage her allies, and called fire and stone down upon the realm’s foes.

Aeryn would not be silenced again.

((I feel like I ought to take this one and expand/rework it, it feels like the frame of something more. Later, though!))

[buildingrelationshipsinanarchy]

[So this is the conversation I had that inspired my attempt at writing this out. I added this because I think it helps illustrate my point better. It’s difficult talking about things that words can so easily miss or misrepresent, so I thought have two forms of media would be better than one!] I cannot talk about Relationship Anarchy without talking about Taoism at this point. I’m in a stage or awareness where all of my intimate relationships feel like they are breathing. Like we have hit this rhythm.

One of my partners and I had a conversation a few evenings ago during a date about how unnaturally effortless our relationship is. How we feel both engaged but unattached, intimate without being tangled. There is this since of simplicity that feels like a current guiding us through the heart of our own relationship.

With a different intimate friend of mine, she feels close and distant simultaneously; and both feels good. There is this ebbing and flowing that happens and no longer feels necessary to acknowledge. There will be a moment where I text her that I miss her, and even when she doesn’t respond it’s like I can feel her say the same. Like we’re in sync with the timing of each other in this way that evades understanding.

I find myself reflecting on how it feels to be in these relationships. Lao Tzu and other Sages are men I find myself pulling words from. Lao Tzu in the opening of the Tao Te Ching said, “The Tao that can be spoken, is not the Tao.” A funny thing to say in the first sentence of 80 chapter text. One of my favorite re-iterations of this line is by Alan Watts, who humorously phrases it, “The Way that can be ‘way-ed’ is not The Way.” Yeah, I’m sure that makes even less sense lmao.

But the wisdom I take from this is inherent in the concept of Relationship Anarchy in its refusal to participate in relationships based on society’s scripts, as opposed to our own values, desires, and needs. That no relationship has a mold it needs to fit, or a certain way it needs to conform to function properly or be validated. Relationships, being organic things, grow out of the soil (or box) they are placed in.

That’s not too difficult to grasp. It’s a thing we kinda do already. But I find a meaning deeper here still. Wang Liping approaches the concept of virtue in a way I find relevant to this current topic. “The highest virtue is spontaneous, formless, invisible, imperceptible; it is internal, stored within, not revealed obviously. It is not intentional but natural.” If we replaced the word Virtue with Relationship or Connection, and re-read it, I feel it makes so much more sense in this space.

While the whole document is something the resonates deep with me, there are a few particular tenets of the Polyfesto that ring in my head that might help illustrate clearer my point with this former quote:

1. “I respect that each connection in my life will find its own right place, time, and spirit – with an appreciative understanding that each connection evolves in unpredictable ways.”

2. “I appreciate that each expression of love is special. I recognize that all love has value and that one kind of love can never be better than another.”

3. “I believe in being open to change and fluidity in relationships, even when it hurts. I believe love is the absence of guilt and fear. I believe love is acceptance that love involves choices.”

All of these tenets are about acceptance of what/who has come into our lives, and respecting the integrity of who/what that is while participating in healthy interrelating with it. The relationships that sustain themselves and nourish the partners within those relationships are the ones we’re allowed to move and shift and change as needed.

Taoism echoes the sentiment that the only constant is change; that all things are impermanent. Within it, is the concept/practice of Wu Wei, translating into ‘effortless action’ or success without trying or striving. It is considered of the highest importance in Taoism to work with the Nature of things, and that suffering comes from refusal to be flexible or open to the changes that will happen with or without your knowledge or readiness for them. If we are unable to accept our partners for who they are, or unable to find the space and rhythm for where our needs/desires overlap and stay there, we will experience inevitable turbulence that came not from life or circumstance, but ourselves.

But when we can remind ourselves that our partner and our own needs are more important than the shape of the relationship, relaxation becomes easier, and a shift happens and it is barely noticed. A change comes and it is so smooth that no feathers are ruffled and no concerning conversations are needed. It is different, and yet we are still good. Allowing change renews things, recycles things, lets go of the unnecessary and things of no benefit.

Connection, to borrow from Wang Liping, is not the specific relationship role we’re hoping our partners current or new can fill in our lives. It is not the image in our head of who or how our relationships work or are supposed to work. Connection was the birth place of our desire to become intimate. It is the field that we sometimes have colonized with our relationship structures, expectations and the projected desires we’re still too attached to. It was the inspiration to build a relationship, but intentionally never provided us with the blueprints. I think that’s imperative to grasp! That our relationships when left uninterrupted by our desires for control or [micro-]management, can and will self-maintain. When a partner says they miss you, that’s desire asking for connection the way our bodies will signal us to feed its hunger. It’s a built-in mechanism for sustainability. The desire that brought you together will continue to ask to be felt and experienced and expressed; like a fire that added more kindling to itself!  

Connection is the spontaneous desire with which interrelating becomes so joyful, because its is unencumbered. So we experience grief and loss, forgetting that our Connections were never the structures we built around it. Home isn’t the shitty apartment building or even the house we grew up in, its the feeling of familiarity and security, of comfort. In the same way, Connection isn’t the label of our relationships, the logistics or activities or people involved in it, it isn’t even the relationship itself. It is the spirit of it, the reason we decided to do relationship at all. It is and will always be the winds in our sails and beneath our wings. It never ceases to be what it is, even when we want to try to make it something else.

In this principle of Wu Wei, relating, loving, connecting without anxieties, without fear of change or the reflex to resist it, would feel more natural. That we could we find ourselves in deeper awareness of the astonishing shapes and forms our current relationships take and re-arrange into without losing its own integrity, and feel the joy and excitement that comes with that. How much love could we be able to see that was already there that our eyes and ears missed? How much easier it could be to trust without the reflex of shutting off or down too soon.

The greatest connections I’ve had in my life were the ones that defined themselves, not the ones we tried to make them out into being or becoming. It’s as if It is alive, organic and breathing. Something not us, but emerging and circulating through us.

[radmissfliss-blog]

Often I worry that, in my writing, my descriptions will come off as "clunky" or cumbersome to read- do you have any suggestions for more streamlined prose?

This is a lovely and difficult question. I think what makes it most difficult is that I’m operating without a sample of your particular writing so I’m not sure what about your style might be considered cumbersome to read, and I’m not sure if that means you’re being wordy, your word order is a little wonky, or you’ve got a pacing problem. It could be some combination of these things, or something else entirely, but I’m going to answer in the best way that I can.

The first thing that I’d do is ask what draft of your piece you are on? If you’re still writing your first draft, and you’re just testing the waters to see if the idea is solid, then that’s the kind of feedback you should be looking for. You can always come back and fix problems in later drafts - what you want to do first is get it finished.  Remember it’s always easier to pare down than it is to build up!

Assuming you’re revising a complete draft, you want to look at your descriptions and determine their relevance to the story. Some authors can get away with adding quite a bit of detail, and some can get away with adding very little detail. Your level of detail will vary, but finding the right balance can be tricky. You want to include descriptions that conjure up an image in readers’ minds but that don’t slow down the pacing of your work.

Pacing would be like the heartbeat of your piece - it speeds up when there is action and slows down when there is downtime. If it slows down too much, then the reader runs the risk of getting bored and putting your story down for some other activity. That’s why activities such as evacuation and rest are usually cut from stories. You can alter the pace of your stories in a few key ways.

Short sentences are a great way to increase the pace of a scene, especially when there are two characters engaged in snappy back-and-forth dialogue.  I feel the best action scenes are ones that make use of short, guttural or impactful sounding language. She thudded to the floor. He withered shuddering blows. They skidded to a halt.  Thudded, shuddering, and skidded all kind of have that onomatopoeia which is nice in the imagination.

Conversely, longer sentences can slow down the pace of your work, particularly when they lead into drawn out exposition or non-sequiturs. Using long sentences can be particularly useful in capturing certain stream-of-consciousness moments, or in giving lush descriptions of your setting. This gets complicated in its own right, though, and again largely leans upon personal taste. Essentially, you still want to keep your descriptions concise. Try to describe a scene by just talking about the things in your mental image of what’s happening that would immediately stick out if you were watching it in a movie or reading it in a comic book.

As an exercise, take a scene from a movie, preferably an opening wide shot or even the whole “Concerning Hobbits” sequence at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring (2001 Wingnut/New Line) and try jotting down notes of the first things you see in each shot. You probably won’t get much of a detailed description and that’s all right. You can probably get enough information to start writing a coherent description with no more information than you need.

The sky over the green rolling hills of the Shire shone a bright blue. A road, winding round Bag End’s garden fence, led straight to the old gate that sported a sign reading “No Admittance - Except on Party Business!” On this day, though, none were on the road, for they were instead in the fields preparing decorations and setting up tents - at the speed with which Hobbits accomplish such tasks - to get ready for Bilbo Baggins’s one hundred and eleventh birthday party.

Tolkein would have, and did, handle this scene very differently. Of course I omitted Gandalf, who was the one who was present in the movie to perceive the sign, but this was more about the exercise of translating what you jotted in your notes into something on the page. I still urge you to try this and see what you come up with. It doesn’t have to be from Fellowship of the Ring!

The reason I bring up this particular work is that Tolkein quite notoriously gets away with having several-page-long non sequitur backstories about this event or that item or that Elf’s long lived lineage and service in the War of the Ring.  For that reason, I was never personally able to read The Lord of the Rings. But I’m not so brazen as to suggest that Tolkein was a poor writer for doing it! Some people really dig that level of detail. So remember who you’re writing for.

If you’re being too wordy, then it might be the number of adjectives you’re using, or the number of verbs you’re including in your sentences (if you’re describing an action scene). The verbs are largely a concern of pacing, and shorter more digestible sentences, especially in earlier drafts, will help make the action you are describing much clearer. Take, for example:

1.)

They somersaulted into the room while drawing their katanas, slashing expertly at the three ninjas who were pouncing through the air from above in a triangle death noose and stabbing with their finely sharpened sais. Their attack successful, the ninjas tumbled through the air, blood trailing from where they had cut open the stomachs of two of them while the third one smashed headlong into the wall.

2.)

They somersaulted into the room. Three ninjas armed with sais pounced on them as they entered. They recognized the attack immediately: it was the triangle death noose! They slashed expertly with their twin katanas at the ninjas, wounding two and sending the third tumbling into the wall. Traces of blood spattered onto the ground as they stood up to reposition for the next attack.

The second example is much more concise, flows better, and uses choppier language to set the pace. There’s no extra information in there, but you can get a pretty clear idea of what is going on. It’s okay to let the reader’s imagination run with the concept for a while.

Remember it wasn’t until Harry Potter and the Cursed Child that Hermione was finally portrayed as the woman of color she was supposed to have been the whole time - most audiences imagined her to be white. Some of this could be blamed on JKR’s description of Hermione, but by not pegging Hermione as a woman of color she kept the focus of her character on her intelligence and natural abilities - not these things because or despite the fact that she’s a person of color. Hermione wasn’t meant to make that kind of statement, and so her representation was subtle. To some extent, so was Dumbledore’s homosexuality. The difference being that there weren’t many situations where Hermione’s being a woman of color in magical England would likely have been an issue in the story - or at least that is JKR’s contention.

Another example of someone who was vague on descriptions is H.P. Lovecraft. He is famously bad at giving detailed descriptions, particularly in his early work, where you get babbling about pseudopods and formless shapes and sights that are indescribable (so indescribable that he won’t even try).  Later in his work he calmed down and started giving his nameless horrors names, I think in large part thanks to the influence of his wide epistolary network.  But Lovecraft is best known for using very ostentatious language. He was inspired by the late 19th century authors, particularly Edgar Allen Poe, and so mimicked that style more into the early 20th century when such ostentation was falling out of vogue with the common reader and you could pick up a weird fiction magazine for a nickel on the street corner.

So there is a lot to be said for style, and the authors that influence you, and how those things come together. An old Pixar trick is to take things about stories you like and didn’t like and determine what it is you liked and didn’t like about them - and if you didn’t like them what would you change to make it a story you did like. You can do the same thing on a smaller scale by looking at a paragraph or a sentence and figuring out whether you like or dislike a sentence and why. That’ll tell you a lot about the way you prefer to write.

Word order is something you should pick up from a style guide. I’m bad at describing it and okay at doing it. A bit dated, but Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style is a good book to read for any/all of this stuff. It’s not even very long, or at least the one I picked up at Half Price Books for $4 isn’t. It’ll be the best book on grammar you ever purchase.

Hope that answers your question! Let me know if I can provide any more follow up information!

[captorations]

GNU Terry Pratchett

Today, March 12, 2017, marks two years since the world lost Sir Terry Pratchett. I remember it well. I had only recently discovered his works, and I blazed through them laughing all the way. I wanted to meet him, even if I wasn’t sure what I would say. The news that I would never get a chance, the news that the worlds he had created were forever stilled, was painful in the extreme. I was already struggling to deal with what I can only hope to be the worst period of my life, and I was not in a place to deal with the loss for well over a year. Last summer, I had the chance to sit down and re-read all his Discworld novels (as well as a few other novels of his I’m particularly fond of). After putting down the last one at five in the morning, I spent the next hour writing this. It’s hardly an original idea, but I felt compelled to do so. Enjoy.

Death paused at the threshold of his house. He, for lack of a more appropriate pronoun, glanced down to the umbrella stand next to the door. An almost invisible blade protruded from a silver hilt, the edges glowing blue. It hummed quietly as unlucky air molecules passed over it and were cut neatly apart. Such a weapon was not for combat, if only because the gods prefer all conflicts to be not entirely one-sided. No, this work of art was meant to sever the soul from the body, and reserved for individuals of noble status. Let it not be said that Death comes the same for the peasant and the king.

The tall figure hesitated. He had his traditional scythe in hand already, but perhaps the sword was more appropriate for the task. He made a motion to grasp the hilt, before reconsidering and withdrawing the skeletal hand. Stepping out through the door, he headed for the stables.

AFTER ALL, said Death, in the tones of the void at the edge of the universe, HE WOULDN'T STAND FOR IT.

***

The horse of Death can go anywhere, even some places where Death himself cannot. This is because, despite his habit of galloping through the air and across dimensions, he is in fact a flesh and blood horse.

His name is Binky. Perhaps Death does have a sense of humor.

This Death presides over the Discworld, a position which indicates that he must have angered someone higher up in the soul reaping business. What a mess this world is! A flat circle of land and sea, supported by four elephants, all carried on the back of an enormous turtle. It has its own personal sun and moon, tiny things whose orbits bring them under the elephants when they are not illuminating the Disc. Such a place could only exist on the edge of reality, piggybacking on a larger and much more sensible universe. The Rules, things like gravity and logic and the speed of light, are a little more relaxed here. Gods fiddle as cities burn, assuming that said city was not home to a great number of their believers. Dwarves, trolls, humans, werewolves, vampires, and countless other species bicker and brutally murder each other and generally don't get along.

Not to be said that there isn't civilization. Many empires have been forged on the Discworld, and most of them have fallen. The current contenders are only just realizing that slaughtering each other every few years on general principles may not be the best way to sustain themselves. Death's job has started to get a little easier.

A shame then, he reflected, that it was coming to an end.

***

Death steered his horse in a new direction. What direction is difficult to say; the complexities of transdimensional travel don't lend themselves to straight lines. At some point, Binky began to realize that something was different. He was bright for a horse. He sometimes remembered what his master looked like, even when he wasn't around.

For the first time in millennia, Binky was being steered away from the familiar paths that led to the Disc and to somewhere new. A different world, one of cold logic and spinning spheres. A round world, sparkling in the light of a far-away sun, came into view. If Binky had the sense of an average Discworld child, he would have remarked on what a silly idea for a world it was. Everything would just roll off. And how could it possibly move without a turtle under it? Since Binky had significantly less sense than a child, he accepted it without a fuss and briefly wondered if this place would have something nice to eat.

This was new territory for Death, too. Of course, people died on this world, but it had laws that prevented such silly things like a tall skeleton in a robe wandering around hacking at the freshly dead with a scythe. He was only here because he had been called by a force more powerful than the Rules of this world. A force that could create worlds and destroy them as quick as a thought.

From the depths of his robe Death withdrew an hourglass. Every being on the Discworld had one, mortals and gods alike. This one was different in that it had no label, no embellishment, no hint as to whose life was trickling away within its glass. Death alone knew.

It was everyone's.

***

Death waited. He was good at that.

Binky was outside, eating otherworldly grass. It tasted about the same.

Death checked the hourglass. Not that he could possibly get the timing wrong, but he wanted to stay focused on his task. He ignored his surroundings. This was not his world, and he had no business here other than the duty he had been summoned to fulfill.

The last particle of sand fell. The scythe swung.

The world ended.

The figure sat up, blinking. He hadn't really expected much of an after. He looked at the specter looming over him. He smiled.

"Hello, old friend."

GREETINGS.

As the room faded to grey, the man stood up, looking around. He was pleased to find that his body, or rather the shape his soul was taking out of sheer habit, felt better than it had in a long time. He again took in the sight of the seven foot skeleton at his side. His gaze flicked up to the scythe.

"I see you went with the classic choice. No sword for the likes of me, eh?"

THAT'S ONLY FOR KINGS... SIR, Death said.

The ghost of the man nodded.

"Rightly so. Well done."

Out of the grey fog of formlessness a simple landscape began to emerge. An endless expanse of black sand extended in all directions, yet where the two figures stood was somehow clearly the starting point. Overhead, countless stars of all colors twinkled. There were no familiar constellations, and indeed if you looked closely the points of light seemed to be constantly shifting about. There was light enough to see to the end of the world, but not what lay ten feet ahead.

"Well," said the man. "I'd better make a start. No sense in wasting time."

He paused, and grinned. He snapped his fingers, and a hat appeared on his head. It made him look like a sort of urban cowboy, but he took delight in wearing it. He moved to go on his way when Death spoke.

SIR TERRY, YOU SHALL NOT WALK ALONE.

From every side shapes emerged. The man whirled, trying to look at all of them at once. As they solidified, his mouth began to open in awe, before returning to a grin which fit perfectly on his features.

There was the policeman in the battered armor, behind him a small army of somewhat-shiny breastplates and dull helmets on figures of all shapes and sizes. He stood smoking a cigar, with a look of peace that his face was clearly unused to.

There was the ragged, skinny wizard, nervously eyeing Death. Fear was there, yes, but perhaps a hint of hope, too. Behind him were countless other wizards and other figures besides, too many to list. There was a brief commotion as the crowd parted and a large chest waddled forth and sat down next to the wizard. It had a look of defiance, even without a face.

There was the nondescript man in the golden suit. He had the air of a friendly snake. Behind him was a motley crew of postmen, accountants, and engineers. He seemed ready to strike up a friendly chat with every new face, and perhaps learn more about them than they wanted him to.

There were the three (or was it four?) witches, standing proud with a kingdom at their backs. Nearby stood a young witch, standing among a large number of rather small individuals. Strangely enough, they seemed solemn.

A little bald wrinkly smiling man ambled in as if he had been there all along, quietly sweeping the sand into patterns he liked.

More and more figures strode in out of the dark, until there was no room left in the wide circle around Death and Sir Terry. In the distance, stranger things still flickered in and out. An angel and a demon, side by side. A weary man with a prosthetic hand, and an even wearier one with a prosthetic everything. Above them, an infinite chain of round worlds flared in the sky before vanishing again.

Everyone's attention was on the ghost in the center, who appeared to be shaking.

Suddenly, he looked up, laughing.

"Go home!"

No one moved. Looks of confusion adorned nearly every face. The man turned, and through great effort, looked everyone in the eyes at the same time.

"Go home! You don't belong here. Well," he paused, his gaze flickering to quite a few figures scattered among the crowd, and a slight hint of guilt appeared upon his face, "most of you don't. You all have lives to live, and stories to tell to others. I no longer command you."

One by one, the figures began to vanish. The policeman took his cigar out of his mouth with a sigh, saluted smartly, and vanished. His entourage soon followed. The wizard had already gone. One of the witches glanced knowingly at Death, nodded, and allowed herself to fade back to her world. The angel and the demon slipped away, arguing. Eventually, the only ones left in the desert were the ghost and the skeleton.

THAT WAS A KIND LIE.

The man looked sideways at his companion. "It wasn't entirely a lie."

IT WAS NOT ENTIRELY THE TRUTH, EITHER.

"Perhaps." Sir Terry said. "Their fate is not sealed. Perhaps one day someone else will take command of their fates, and breathe new life into their stories. Until then... all they have is their histories to act out." He grinned. "And damn good histories they are, too. Now, off with you."

NO. I TOLD YOU, YOU WOULD NOT WALK ALONE. THEY CANNOT DIE NOW, NOR CAN THEY TRULY LIVE. MY PURPOSE HAS ENDED. I SHALL WALK WITH YOU.

The man nodded, and together they set off into the desert at the end of the universe.

[gayzytown]

Pools

((this is rlly long nd gay but also, som of my best writing i think !! warning // for water nd fear of water nd tht kind of stuff but no ones in danger or anythn omg !! i jst, based off tru events in which i am robbie and theres no sportacus and i end up going back home omg,,water is scary and bad and i dnt enjoy it nd neither does robbie here but anyway heres this!!))

Robbie sat silently on a lonely bench in a lonely town, his face decorated with an uncharacteristic and soft grin. He was leaning back with crossed legs and a book in his hands. For once, the small town was quiet and empty, and he planned to enjoy every second of his peace. The summer sun shone brightly in front of him, casting shadows that stretched out across the field behind him as his fingers danced lightly over the paper and flipped the page. All was still and silent in Robbie Rotten’s happy and lonely town.

        “Hi, Robbie!” a jovial, heavily accented voice called out to him. Robbie let out a long and dramatic sigh, and hesitantly looked from his book to the elf who stood before him. His eyes widened and his pale face lit up in a deep, embarrassed shade of red.

Sportacus was standing next to the bench- too close to Robbie- in nothing but swim trunks. He was dripping with water that glistened on his tan, flawless body, and slid down every perfect line and detail in the elf’s perfect and muscular chest. His hat still sat on his head, albeit lopsided and soaking wet, and his blonde hair peeked out from under it in short, smooth strands. Robbie’s eyes slowly drifted downward, moving quickly past the tight (too tight) blue swim trunks to his bare feet, and back up his immaculate and unblemished body which stood before him in a glow of radiance and moist perfection.

        “Uh… Robbie?” Sportacus asked, fidgeting in the tall man’s stare. Robbie’s eyes locked with his, stony, grey/blue eye piercing into deep blue ones.

        “What?” Robbie hissed. Sportacus’s smile returned to his face.

        “Why don't you come swimming with us, Robbie? I came here to get more towels and you looked alone so-”

        “No,” Robbie interrupted harshly. Sportacus’s smile faltered slightly.

        “It'll be fun, Robbie!” he tried.

        “I don't have fun,” the angry man rebutted. Sportacus let out a soft sigh.

        “Oh, Robbie…” he mumbled softly. “You don't have to be so stubborn.”

Robbie crossed his arms stubbornly at this and turned away from the strong, wet elf. “I won't go,” he said.

        “Please, Robbie? You don't even have to go in the pool. You can stay in the jacuzzi if you want! I'll sit in it with you,” he offered. Robbie slowly turned back, the dusty, neglected gears in his mind spinning rapidly and showering the dark recesses of his brain with sparks. Him and Sportacus in a jacuzzi? Robbie Rotten and a blonde, muscular, flawless elf in a pool of hot and steamy?

        “Yes,” he said unconsciously, and to himself more than Sportacus.

        “You'll go?” Sportacus asked, his voice laced with excitement and confusion. Robbie snapped out of his trance and looked at the elf.

        “...I guess so,” he said softly, a frown etching itself onto his face.

       “Great!” Sportacus shouted. Robbie jumped. “Get your swimsuit and I'll meet you at the pool!” he chirped. Robbie paled. Swimsuit? Before he could say anything, Sportacus backflipped away and was gone.

It was only ten minutes later. Robbie stood behind a wall by the pool, fiddling with his shorts unhappily. There was nothing he hated more than… exposing himself. Did he want everyone to see his strange, thin, pale, hairless legs? No. Not to mention his horribly squishy and untanned chest? No. That was without including the stretch marks from his high school growth spurts, or scars from… things. He shivered in the summer sun, and sighed heavily.

        “I'm going home,” he said to himself.

        “What? Who said that?” a light, girlish voice from behind the wall said. Robbie jumped.

        “What? No one. What what?? What are you doing don't talk to yourself. Go home, little girl,” he rambled. It was quiet for a moment.

        “...Robbie!” Stephanie exclaimed, running around the wall and embracing Robbie. He yelped at the sudden contact, and squirmed away from her.

        “I was just… leaving,” he mumbled, slowly crossing his hands over his chest to cover as much bare skin as he could.

        “No, Robbie,” she laughed, “You haven't even gone to the pool yet! C’mon,” she grabbed Robbie’s hand, pulled it away from his chest and led him around the wall. “Robbie’s here!” she exclaimed. All heads turned towards him.

His face lit up in a heated blush, and he unconsciously crossed his arms over his chest again and slouched.

        “Robbie!” Sportacus welcomed the taller man, skipping towards the him with arms outstretched. As much as Robbie would've enjoyed the elf’s smooth and strong skin against his bare chest, the warmth and intimacy that came with a swimsuited hug, he was in no mood for human contact and he turned away with a soft and animalistic shriek.

        “Uh… anyway, I'm glad you're here, Robbie!” Sportacus recovered. The general buzz of pool had returned to the water, and with it, Stephanie. She jumped in with a big splash that made Robbie start and, at last, turn his attention to the water. Bottomless was the first word that came to mind. An endless void of blue that reflected the sun’s rays and tossed and turned within itself, throwing shadows and lights and colors across the surrounding walls and the surrounding citizens. He turned a sickly pale and stepped back, thinking of a huge, formless predator ready to devour him; ready to crush him and throw him in merciless waves and then take him down where he would sink towards the end for the rest of eternity. He saw a sudden flash of blue and something - A hand? A talon? A paw? - grabbed him.

He snapped out of his trance with a shriek louder than before. He smacked the water’s hand/proxy away just in time to see it was only Sportacus, a sympathetic and concerned look on his face as he pulled his hand (now red from where he'd been hit) away from the tall man and it dropped to his side. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Robbie had never been to a pool or beach before. How was he supposed to know such a large body of water was so terrifying? He thought of the ocean, of lakes, ponds, and rivers, and he felt sick.

        “Robbie? You ok?” Sportacus asked again. Robbie looked at the little elf with wide eyes.

        “...huh?”

        “Are you okay?”

Robbie was quiet again. Okay? What was okay? Was he okay? Had he ever been ok? “Yeah,” he said. Sportacus didn't look convinced, but he took a small step back and gestured to the jacuzzi.

        “There's the jacuzzi, Robbie,” he said. “Let's go!” he grabbed Robbie’s hand and gently led him to the smaller, heated pool like a mother horse helping her stumbling, clumsy filly stand for the first time.

        “Is this- is this exercise?” Robbie whimpered, holding tightly to the elf’s bare skin so as not to slip on the wet tile.

        “No, you don't have to worry about being healthy. We're just sitting in water- it's like a hot bath.”

Robbie calmed down some at the elf’s reassurance and, after what seemed like an eternity for both of them, they made it to the jacuzzi. Sportacus stopped and looked at Robbie who stood by the water, trembling in the steam as if each molecule of water was personally attacking him. He gestured to the pool, and Robbie either didn't notice or ignored him.

        “Robbie,” he said softly, his smooth and velvety voice floating around the tall man’s head and smothering some of his frantic thoughts. “If you don't want to go in, that's ok-”

        “I'll go!!” Robbie interrupted him, more out of stubbornness than determination. Sportacus shifted his body and held Robbie closer to him, taking a silent moment to relish the intimate contact.  

        “Ready?” he asked softly. Robbie shook his head to clear that velvety voice from his eardrums and refocus, and then he shifted once more, holding tightly to the elf for safety now more than his need for contact.

        “...yes,” he said, at last. In an awkward, sideways hug, he held tightly to the muscular arms and chest as the two moved towards the jacuzzi and, in this same tedious, terrifying manner they made it down the first step, down the second, and eventually sat down.

Robbie sat tall as he was able, wanting the strangling hands of the water to stay as far away from his neck as he they could be. He felt the gentle waves and motions of the waist-high water pushing at him, gently pulling him to and fro in tiny, terrifying motions.

        “I don’t like this. It’s no good,” he grumbled, near tears.

        “Oh, Robbie,” Sportacus cooed, deciding it’d be much easier and safer to comfort the tall man and keep him in the water than try and get back out of the jacuzzi. As if he hadn’t had his strong arms wrapped around Robbie enough, he hugged the tall man again, gently pulling the slim man towards him. “You’re alright, Robbie, I won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe.”

Robbie rested his head against Sportacus’s broad chest, holding tight to the elf’s outstretched arms.

        “You promise?” he asked.

        “I promise,” Sportacus answered. Robbie settled slightly and, for the moment, felt content to lay in the elf’s embrace and try his hardest to ignore the water lapping at his sides, trying to pull him under.

        “Don’t let me sink,” he said again, squirming gently.

        “I wouldn’t do that, Robbie, I care about you,” Sportacus reassured.

        “That’s gay,” Robbie rebutted, and he quickly added, “I… care about you too, I guess. Thank you for helping me.”

Sportacus smiled. “I’m always here to help. Anything to spend more time with you,” he squeezed one of Robbie’s hands playfully. Robbie blushed.

         “Gay,” he whispered.