#well . . . perhaps he may need to visit the fortress more often.

[wri0thesley]

thought too hard about being shared by vampire wriothesley and vampire neuvillette and i fear i need to be spayed

[fushigidane]

various fe fates premise/worldbuilding rewritey ideas i've been pondering...

since i've been replaying conquest recently and am once again frustrated with this game's writing

first, as a way of making garon non absolutely definitively evil AND bake anankos's involvement into the game's base premise, having garon NOT kidnap corrin intentionally. corrin is separated from sumeragi on that business trip after their party was attacked by vallite soldiers as anankos wanted to either kill or retrieve his child. corrin is found by nohrians and brought to windmire when they are found to have dragon blood... POWERFUL dragon blood. they suffer the same memory loss like canon. hoshido asks for corrin back, garon refuses since their draconic blood isn't that of the dawn (or even dusk) dragon and he is concerned hoshido wants to use them as a weapon or otherwise does not have their best interests in mind. garon does not believe that corrin is hoshidan because they don't even LOOK hoshidan

corrin still going to the northern fortress but not out of malevolence. it's genuinely for their own health. the attack on sumeragi awakened corrin's dragon form for the first time, but without a dragonstone, they were unable to control it as in canon. they CONTINUE to be unable to control the instincts, which were often triggered by the stressful environment of the concubine wars, so garon sent them far from castle krakenburg to avoid more incidents for their and other's safety. visiting was restricted for a while, but as things settled they were seen often by garon + their siblings.

corrin knows their vague origin, that garon isn't their actual father, but still acknowledges him as such (and garon acknowledges them as their child). they also remember how bad things were during the concubine wars and are both accepting of why they were sent there and somewhat hesitant to leave

more general things of garon being a semi decent father. the manga had a really good part where garon recognised leo's mother in him for an instant and called him that. more please

because of garon being less definitively evil, the hoshidan Throne Of Truth being a way to purge anankos's influence and expose garon's TRUE self i.e. save him rather than expose anankos as in canon. this may be an idea raised by corrin/azura but perhaps even better would be for it to be GARON HIMSELF'S plan as he tries to rid himself of possession without anankos catching on. this being his plan in all three routes but only coming to fruition in conquest... where the throne doesn't work as planned and garon is killed when anankos is brought to the surface

garon being possessed by anankos in the first place as he tries to research what was going on with corrin. he reached many correct conclusions but unfortunately walked right into anankos's grasp. he doesn't want to be possessed, tries to resist the possession (directly and in more subtle ways as in above) but as time goes on, the more his condition degrades

fun idea => awakening trio being accepted so easily by garon as they are a) informed of valla etc., able to steer xander/camilla/leo from the same trap garon fell into with anankos and b) POTENTIALLY able to slow down anankos's possession of him?

an exploration of what the 'skies changing' mentioned in revelations even IS. it is the act of hoshido's sky becoming dark and nohr's becoming light (or vice versa). canon states it happens 'once every few decades', but nobody really knows when it will occur as there is no way of predicting it

the skies changing defining the way both nations act.

nohr, deprived of fertile land and harvest, conquers other nations to gain the resources they need to survive. inequality and poverty is rife as its citizens scramble for the limited available sustenance. even the royal family does not live in luxury and are themselves well-acquainted with not being able to secure food

hoshido, with bright skies and plentiful harvests but knowing that no matter what they do their prosper is temporary, stockpiling resources in preparation for their oncoming long night. its citizens are satisfied but on guard, particularly the older ones that recall its former famines. the royal family, understanding the duty it has to its own citizens when night falls, is reluctant to send aid to other nations. a particular incident is when mokushu had an outbreak, hoshido refused to send medical supplies despite them being allies, which is what caused mokushu's current disdain towards hoshido.

the skies changing is why the two nations have never been able to coexist. even though hoshido currently exists with a surplus, and there could well be enough resources at any given time to adequately support BOTH nations, there is no precedent for either country ever sharing their sustenance when they can access it. neither country will make the first step because there is no guarantee that the favour will be paid back when the skies change again.

garon and mikoto's rule being equally informed by past precendents and desire to survive/fear for the future respectively

garon, as alluded to in canon but never shown, is-slash-was a very good ruler that did a very good job maintaining order in the country, ensuring nobody least of all the royal family is permitted to hoard while others are left to starve. things have only degenerated in recent years as anankos's possession has taken its toll on his ability to rule and food shortages continue to worsen. YES he conquers nations but certainly in the past only when trade deals failed or were unviable => nohr had plenty struggles with these as it is currently unable to offer much except manpower and protection, which not all nations need or appreciate. nohr's view is that they would rather conquer others than allow their own citizens to starve, and for a long time garon has been appreciated by his citizens for doing what must be done

mikoto being cautious above all else, very aware of and fearing what's to come as described above. further, her coldness towards other nations being informed by corrin's kidnapping and sumeragi's death--which she believes was done by nohr. azura, by the way, was still kidnapped in retaliation for nohr's alleged actions.

mikoto also should not die in the prologue. just saying. she should be allowed to stand equally with garon as a good yet flawed ruler that is unable to see past the present and make the necessary first step to a better future

lots of general themes about smaller nations on the continent always being pushed around by the two superpowers' squabbles over resources

[northisnotup]

"You may think you're the only person who can see him for what he is, but you're not."

Laurent didn't startle. He huffed, almost under his breath, as though he was sparing Damen.

Damen did not approach him as he would have with any other new lover. Did not cross the room and take Laurent into his arms. Did not attempt to soothe him physically. Something in the rigid line of Laurent's back told him it wouldn't be appreciated.

"What do you think you see?" Laurent asked.

"I see you here," Damen said, and saw, in the haunch of Laurent’s shoulder’s, the sly remark hit.

"You think I should return then? Venture back into the viper pit?"

"I think you cannot protect your brother's throne at a disused fort," Damen said evenly. Even calling Acquitart a fort was being kind. He did not say what they both knew, that having Damen here was wildly impractical, and antithesis to that goal as well. That having Damen in his bed was proving true all the worst rumors about him which slithered in that pit. There was no point in saying it.

"Being here is the only way to protect the throne," Laurent corrected him. "My Uncle wants power. Right now, he satisfies that with the boys in his bed and the poison in my brother's ear. He won't be satisfied forever. And if he does somehow," his voice gave the slightest hitch but he pushed through, "kill Auguste and manage to pass it off as an accident, I am still next in line. And being here means I am not close enough for him to kill two birds with one stone."

"What did he do to you?" Through all of Laurent's plans, counter-plans, caveats and contingencies, he remained sure of only one thing: that his Uncle was dangerous, ruthless and willing to do or say anything which would keep him in power.

Laurent's voice was ice itself. "He never touched me."

"But?"

It settled between them. Damen thought to take it back, but he could see Laurent wavering, his fingers drumming on the vanity, staring at his reflection but not seeing it. Finally, as though pulled out of him: "He made it clear that he could."

There was more, Damen knew instantly there was a nightmare of helplessness waiting on the tip of Laurent's poisoned tongue, but he swallowed it back. Damen didn't push.

Not for that, at least. "Why are you here, Laurent?"

Laurent could have gone to Marlas, or Fontaine. He could have decided to visit Ios under the guise of fostering relations. He had family to the far north, through his mother's side. Acquitart was nothing, compared to that.

"We're not on crownlands here, did you know? We have our own honor-code here. Our own growing season and taxes. Acquitart is its own territory, it belongs to the Dauphin, always. It is not a fortress, and cannot withstand a siege. But to march on Acquitart he would have to draw up formal documents and obey the rules of war. Even if he could get that past the council, there is always the foundations to consider."

Damen nodded. "Artesian, yes?"

"Yes. There are routes out of Acquitart known only to the Dauphin. And I have allies in Vask," a nod toward Damen coupled with a sly smile that had Damen shifting where he stood, "and Akielos."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Laurent had been surprisingly forthright with him since the moment they met here. Whereas before in their dealings (Damen would have liked to call it a courtship, except that their relationship thus far had lacked anything at all resembling what Damen knew as courtship.) Laurent had held him at arms length, taking pains to avoid him, talking around him and even flirting all but obliquely.

"Do you want the truth or something beautiful?" Laurent huffed again, this one punctuated by a bitter little laugh. He took some crumbly green paste from a jar and began mixing it with hot water from a jug beside him.

Damen answered him anyway. "The truth."

He saw in the mirror Laurent's mouth twist into a droll smile, as though he should have expected Damen's answer.

He really should have. Damen had never in his life chosen something pretty over something real. That was why he was here, with Laurent.

"Because it doesn't matter. None of it. Telling you doesn't matter. It isn't real. You're not a player, Damen. Just a pawn. We're all just pawns." He began to smear the paste onto his face, scrubbing it in  over his chin and nose while smoothing it over his cheeks and under his eyes.

Damen chewed on his tongue, not allowing the sting of those words to linger. "What is that?"

"Herbs and clay, it cleans the face and makes you smell nice. Which I need, apparently."

Damen frowned. "Who says you don't smell nice?"

"Auguste. He says I smell too often of the stables," the corner of Laurent's mouth lifted into the smallest smile as he took a cloth and dampened it in the hot water, slowly cleaning the paste away.

"Perhaps he was telling you that you leave too often," Damen said. It reminded him of how Kastor would always claim to smell perfume on Damen's chitons, something which would get him a lecture from their father and Hypermenestra both for shirking his duties just to take someone to bed. Damen would have been angrier about it, if it was always a baseless accusation.

Case in point.

Laurent continued to clean his face, staring at nothing again. Damen wasn't sure it had ever occurred to him that it wasn't the scent Auguste objected to.

Damen crossed the room then, approaching carefully but coming close all the same. He placed one hand low on Laurent’s back to brace himself as he leaned in, nosing behind his ear and sniffing at some of the paste Laurent had missed.

Then he sneezed.

“Herbs,” he complained, rubbing his itching nose against the thick brocade over Laurent’s shoulder.

“It’s the same herb that flavored your dinner last night,” Laurent rolled his eyes.

“I liked it better then,” Damen said.

“I’ll be sure to tell the chef,” Laurent returned, but Damen could feel him smothering laughter.

The atmosphere between them had lightened, as Damen intended. Though he hadn’t intended it quite this way. He kissed Laurent’s cheek, soft and dry and lightly scented. “Write to your brother, you may have more allies in Arles than you think.”

[capricornus-rex]

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (13)

Chapter 13: The Favorite | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

A/N: I’M NEGATIVE FOR COVID, YAY!!1!! That’s the only negativity I need in life lmao

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927​

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 – 10 – 11 | Previous: Part 12 | Next: Part 14 | Masterlist

14 of ?

16 BBY

Battered by the sweat and grit in this confined dojo, Irele had proved her capabilities for battle.

For every instructor that walked in to face her, the difficulty climbed as well.

But the dojo had become her sanctuary. No limitations, no rules. She can be angry as she likes, she can be violent to her opponents, and then there would be no repercussion—it was all at the expense of “training” which was basically they had in mind for her.

Now that she was conditioned for combat, the next phase of the plan laid out for her growth would come next—although it would be simultaneous to this training regimen.

Today marks the first anniversary of her training, the day that started this all. To commemorate the event in some sorts, they sent in an electrohammer Purge Trooper to fight with her. No trooper of this sort has ever come in to this dojo until today. For a second, it startled her; but then she shook off the anxiety from her shoulders and tightened her grip on a weapon she had stuck with since Day One—a javelin.

Her one display of power that warranted Darth Vader himself to pay a visit to the dojo in Nur.

“Admiral, ready my shuttle and chart a course to Nur.”

“Right away, my lord.” The admiral did not give it a second thought, he immediately proceeded with the preparations.

Everyone in Nur knew that Darth Vader was coming, and so they were all in full-blast in cleaning up the place to make it presentable to the lord. Everyone—except Irele, who was too engrossed with her training.

It was just getting good when Vader had arrived in the viewing room of the dojo—Irele’s already picking up the pace in the fight, but the Purge Trooper was nowhere near tired. Suddenly, it seems like out of nowhere, a strong invisible wave had lifted the instructor off the floor and threw him across the room. The last thing Irele saw was her hand held out, fingers curved in a manner as if choking a neck, and vibrating with remnants of that energy that had sent the trooper five feet away from her.

Little by little, her sensitivity with the Force has become more active.

She could not explain it. She couldn’t even believe it, she thought those moments were just illusions or daydreams that she had mixed with reality.

But this moment proved otherwise.

And it intoxicated her.

Although she had not mastered how to utilize it actively and consciously, she would take every chance she gets when she felt like it would come to her aid in the fight.

Vader departs the viewing room and makes his way down into the dojo.

“You fight well, child,” he boomed as he entered, causing Irele to turn to his direction, javelin at the ready. “But you’ve a long way to go if you are to master the art.”

Under his cape, Vader revealed his weapon: a silver cylinder accented with black duraplast grips, covered to the pommel. His leather thumb pressed the switch and out comes a blood-red beam. Irele has heard the stories, but never did she imagined seeing it in person; as a matter of fact, she’s not sure if her javelin has any chance against that.

Irele took the offensive, she moved first.

Vader, unbeknownst to her to be her own brother, effortlessly evaded it as simple as stepping out of the way.

The girl had too much pride in her to admit that her opponent was indeed stronger and more skilled, but she thought she could outsmart him, outmaneuver him, not knowing that her efforts would be in vain.

They traded strikes, but Vader was taking the lead in this fight. Irele’s tiring herself out in evading and looking for an opening, landing fewer strikes than she did with her first opponent—the trooper. The dark lord was neither generous nor kind with the training, he wanted to show Irele different levels of strengths—if she were to be dispatched in campaigns where combat is inevitable, she might as well be fazed now than later out in the field.

“It’s unwise to presume you can overpower me, child.”

With their blades locked in, Irele caught a glimpse of Vader’s face up close. The crimson red film of the lenses of his helmet uncovered a hazy view of his eyes—his real eyes: twin golden discs, glinting with menace and at the same time, a sort of grief.

For a moment, Irele’s expression showed humanity; but in the next second, she remembered the fight.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Her overconfidence in her strike was her undoing, Vader’s lightsaber swiped it out of her hands, leaving her literally empty-handed.

“Perhaps you should re-assess that teenage confidence of yours, little one.”

Vader was moving in for a killing blow. He dared go that far. The operators in the viewing room think, “He’s going to kill her!” but the unexpected happened. In that one moment, time seemed to have slowed for Irele; Vader’s heavy yet nimble movement appeared to be slower in her eyes, which afforded her mere seconds to concentrate.

She closes her eyes… and focused.

Behind the darkness shrouding her view, she wondered why the strike hasn’t landed her yet, slowly she lifts her eyelids and saw a clear sheen shimmering in front of her—like glass with a frosted finish—while her hands were held up in front of her and wide open, sparks sputtered on all sides of Vader’s saber.

There was no time to comprehend this, but what Irele understood is that she needs to use this to advantage… now.

She pushed one hand further away, towards Vader—in effect, he was being backed away, by her. The girl took one more step, and alternately used the other hand to do the same thing as the first hand. Once aligned again, she slowly gravitated both hands to each other, closing the space in the middle and she watched Vader succumbing to his knees.

“Yes…” he lowed, rather satisfied. “You are strong with the Force. Like the blood before you.”

Those words rang into Irele’s soul, like a heavy bell with its ram, and on the top of her mind, there was one that came: Anakin.

She ceased using the Force and stumbled to her bottom, Vader remained kneeling but he held his head up to face the frightened, confused teen.

“Well done, Irele. You are ready.”

–

15 BBY

Irele’s training program did not hold her back, neither did it confine her within the walls of the fortress in Nur.

Roughly a month after her first year, she was tasked to hunt Jedi. Everything she needs to know about them—she did some reading in her time alone. She studied every form, their art and history: down to the most minute part of the culture and norms. And especially the broken legacy that had was their downfall.

It’s been an impressive second year.

Irele has been training consistently, of course, having nothing else to do—except interact with HY-L33, whose programming has been modified into half-protocol droid and half-nanny droid. Most crew members who had the gall to speak to the girl kept telling her that interaction with a droid does little with human social development and growth, to which, in her chagrin, Irele would reply: “I think I’m too old to be told about pediatric psychology.”

Despite her snark, Irele tries to be learned in terms of battle strategies—she’s juggled combat training with studying naval strategies and ground assault tactics, after learning that she may be dispatched on  missions with a squadron of troopers in a particular planet from time to time. In one or more occasions, she would cross paths with the devilish Admiral Thrawn, but rarely do they meet for conferences—virtual or otherwise. She can’t help but use some of her street smarts in campaigns, which more often than not, actually works.

These privileges that she enjoys were personally decreed by Vader himself, in the hopes that she would maximize her abilities from more than being a reckless warrior. Some were against it because they perceive her as a rebellious, smart-mouthed child; others decide to give her a chance, because after all, she is a growing girl who’s got a lot to learn in this kind of world she’s been thrown in.

Not all know what she was before—but to generalize it, she was just some local girl in a desolate planet in the middle of nowhere.

The droid HY-L33 looked for her master, and found Irele examining and polishing her lightsaber—something she crafted on her own, the exterior at least. The kyber crystal was harvested from a Jedi survivor she killed not too long ago, in a tropical moon where she was dispatched alone with little to no reinforcements as the troopers were designated as patrols in the town.

“Lady Irele, the briefing with the Inquisitors is due in thirty minutes.”

“Ah yes, the Jedi hunters,” Irele’s brows furrowed, “I thought I wasn’t required?”

“Indeed, but it’s been said to be beneficial for your upcoming campaigns.”

“Who said so?”

“Lord Vader, apparently… and the Grand Inquisitor.”

“Right then, thank you, Haylee.”

Irele dressed into her garbs. Tailored to perfection: the bodysuit and pants were a dark gray waterproof fabric so that the garment won’t weigh her down when fighting under inclement weather such as rain, fog, and snow. The standard material for the armor plating was duraplast—tried and tested against Stormtroopers’ blaster fire and Purge Troopers’ electro-powered weapons—and it covered her torso, shoulders, and forearms; an armor skirt made from the same material complemented the utility belt. Supposedly, they’re to be worn when in the field, but since she’s been cooped up in the Fortress in the past few days, she doesn’t bother strapping on the armaments.

Lastly, she slipped into her low, black boots. Looking at the mirror, she bound her hair in a ponytail. It was once a medium bob with ragged tips, but now she’s grown it out to a length just after her shoulders.

“Alright, I’m ready. I’ll see you in a bit, Haylee.”

The droid gave a short bow and Irele departed her room.

Nur has become her home. The metal maze once confused her, but now she knows where she’s going even with her eyes closed.

She stepped into a turbolift and pressed the button that leads her to the level where the holding rooms and war rooms are.

“Holding Room A-121,” she muttered to herself in reminder.

Along the way, she exchanged short or curt bows to the crewmen who bothered tipping their hats or saluting to her as a greeting. When she saw the engraved number on the door, she pressed another button to prompt the door open. Before her was the group of Inquisitors around a table, lounging about like schoolchildren. Her entrance silenced their already hushed conversations and she stepped in, hoping to find a spot to sit the farthest from them.

“Oh, look who’s come to join us. The favorite.” chided one of the male Inquisitors.

“Let’s make this quick so we can forget each other’s sorry asses were in the same room.”

The briefing consisted of the locations where they would be dispatched. Holograms reflecting the planets flashed one by one on the podium, head profiles of surviving Jedi flashed after the planets, and Irele squinted her eyes on a particular one that stood out like a sore, red thumb.

“Do you know this one, Irele?” one of the male Inquisitors, the Second Brother, asked Irele. He noticed she looked at this one Jedi rather specially—or so he thinks.

Irele turned her eyes to the Inquisitor and replied with a frosty “No” and then she scanned the other head shots. She studied them, since she didn’t want her not being a Jedi-turned-Inquisitor to be a disadvantage. She’s got as much as grit as the rest of them. After the briefing, she isolated herself in one of the couches, locked herself away deep in thought that the Inquisitors’ chatter was just white noise.

She couldn’t wait to retreat to her bedchambers, where she can have some time of her own, unafraid that her idea and its credit might be stolen by another. Over time, Irele has proven to be the kind who “does their homework,” for instance, she remained in the holding room when everyone else had left—probably starting their leg of the hunt once they’re off the moon—and studied the briefing’s log.

“The Jedi are going to be extra cautious if they discover the Inquisitors are hunting them out,” she spoke under the finger against her lip. “Inquisitors are too obvious to spot. The uniforms are a dead giveaway…”

Her eyes widened at the thought.

“But I won’t!” she gasped.

Before leaving the room, she humored herself with listening to the voice logs of Stormtrooper Commanders during their operation in Zeffo. She switched between data tapes, hoping to find an inkling if it was the best place to start.

Audio Data 03403, plays:

“Most of the ancient relics have been extracted from the tombs after much deep digging. Although the acquisition of these antiques were done at the expense of some of us here. Captain Kane, for instance. Who was tagged as K.I.A. while excavating more of these relics underground when local fauna attacked her and a few men in her team.”

Irele stopped midway and scrolled a new one in the databank. Audio Data 34735 plays:

“I’m starting to have a feeling that our patrols are thinning out…”

“Finally, something interesting,” she commented.

“We don’t have the luxury of deploying new troops while sending injured men to the nearest Star Destroyer or outpost. No thanks to that Jedi that was obviously headed in the same direction as we are.”

The girl’s eyes widened upon hearing the word. Her chest tightened, her heartbeat was slow but the thumping was heavy, she could almost feel it pulse through the skin of her ribs. She anticipated more.

“Though I don’t think he was after the relics. I think he was after only one relic, that I don’t know though. Whatever it is, it’s important. But another important thing is that we need to do our job if we don’t wanna lose it—or worse, our lives.”

She’s heard enough and stopped playing the audio recordings. She clicked her way to the metadata of the file and saw that both recordings were one and two days old respectively. She rushed back to her bedroom to slip into her armor, entering the room startled HY-L33, leaving her stuttering and practically choking on what words to say.

“Miss Irele?”

“Haylee, run me a quick scan. How far are we from Zeffo?”

Without question, the droid obeyed. For a minute or two, she stared with unblinking photoreceptors, the white light behind them was unmoving as a faint whirring ran in her central processing unit.

“Approximately two and a half parsecs away, milady.”

“Too wasteful to use Anathema’s hyperspace. No small carrier armed with hyperspace, but the speed is there.”

The words literally rolled off of Irele’s mouth as she talks to herself until she comes into an epiphany of an idea.

“Come on, Haylee!”

“Coming, Lady Irele.” the droid monotonously cooed but one can sense the urgency she adapted with her mistress.

[brabe]

WHAT IF... MURATA UGETSU HAS BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER?

“Murata Ugetsu was by no means detached from life- nor was he free of worries and grief, he had feelings too- the same as anyone else... But, unlike ordinary people, his heart and his emotions were overflowing.

While I listened to Ugetsu’s music that day—to the sudden flood of music-feeling that was amplified so many times more than usual, I found myself wondering — how... just how was this child prodigy able to live...?

Be it joy, or sorrow, or suffering, Ugetsu lived with feelings which were much more complex, and exponentially larger than those of ordinary people- just accumulating it all within himself.” (Chapter 17)

Murata Ugetsu’s introduction struck a chord with me right away because I recognized the feelings described all too well. So, I asked myself, what if?

 After finishing the anime, I read all the chapters of the manga mainly because I wanted to know more about this intriguing character, and I only kept finding clues that reinforced my initial assumption.

 I am hyperfixated on mental health issues, in part wanting to find characters to relate to, so here is my reading of Murata Ugetsu. I wonder if anyone came to the same conclusion as me.

Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is an illness marked by an ongoing pattern of varying moods, self-image, and behaviour. These symptoms often result in impulsive actions and problems in relationships with other people. A person with borderline personality disorder may experience episodes of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last from a few hours to days. In general, someone with a personality disorder will differ significantly from an average person in terms of how they think, perceive, feel or relate to others.

“People with BPD are like people with third degree burns over 90% of their bodies. Lacking emotional skin, they feel agony at the slightest touch or movement.” (Marsha Linehan, Professof of Psicology, who has BPD herself and developed the most effective therapy to date for this disorder).

There are many categories of symptoms for this disorder and I reckon Ugetsu manifests the following:

A pattern of unstable relationships swinging from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation):

The most glaringly obvious one is, of course, the relationship with Akihiko. 

“Right after Ugetsu has been away from home for some time, there is a honeymoon phase which lasts a few days. It’s as if we have returned to the past... And then out of the blue, it happens—as if he’s saying, yes, this is a great chance—let's take this opportunity, quit being together and break for real this time. Like he is in a rush... Like I am not needed. Like—he is forcibly shutting me out from his world.” (Chapter 19)

“Him and I... We have been causing each other nothing but despair for almost two years now.” (Chapter 17)  

It’s also notable the lack of other relationships. When Mafuyu asks him, why Ugetsu was confiding in him, even though they were virtually strangers, Ugetsu replies: “Because I don’t have any friends! Perhaps, I really just wanted someone to understand... Just a little bit is enough.” (Chapter 17)

He is actually really kind towards Mafuyu, opening his home to him, freely helping him with music anytime Mafuyu wants even though he is a world-renowned musician and even letting him practice at his house while he is not there. We know he does that because he recognizes the genius in Mafuyu, but still, I think he actually would like to have friends; he probably just doesn’t know how to. We know that Akihiko was his first friend and evidently years later still the only one close to him.

Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger, often followed by guilt and shame:

Ugetsu gets suddenly physically violent with Akihiko two times (and a third one is implied when Haruki first saw Akihiko and he had a bruised cheekbone). He throws a glass on the floor when Mafuyu visits him because Akihiko still hasn’t come back home. He seemingly inexplicably smashes the mug Akihiko gifted him: “Around the time we had just started to live together, when he brought me my first present, somehow... I hated that very much, and I refused it saying—’I don’t want it!’ Even though it was only a mug. Back then, I should’ve just said—’I’m happy. I want to be with him.’” (Chapter 17)

I believe the last one was a dissociative episode, another symptom of BPD, a trance-like state in which one is disconnected from their own mind, body and surroundings. Then the switch turns back on and Ugetsu suddenly starts crying, crouching on the floor, staring blankly at the broken pieces and picking them up, asking himself why, just why did I do this?

The guilt and shame aspect is also shown, when after having recounted his history with Akihiko to Mafuyu, Ugetsu leans his head on the steering wheel of his car remembering everything, clearly in grief, and thinking to himself: “Really... He is a good guy, isn’t he.” (Chapter 17). Here I want to indeed praise Akihiko and underline how well he dealt with Ugetsu’s dissociative episode. He didn’t freak out and lash out at Ugetsu, calling him crazy, but instead he tried to diffuse the situation, laughing and helping Ugetsu to pick up the pieces of the broken mug. As if to say, ‘it’s okay.’

Desperate efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment:  

One way of doing this is leaving the other person before they leave you, which is exactly what Ugetsu does or tries to do. He is terrified that Akihiko will leave him definitely one day, but at the same time he actively tries to make him leave: “I’m the lowest son of a bitch towards Akihiko and I guess he resents me, y’know... But I love him to death.” (Chapter 17)

“I’ve been pushing him away but he hasn’t given up on me at all. I’ve been trying to leave him every chance I get. But it seems like I’m still not good at doing that, so... I’ve always been waiting for him to let go of me.” (Chapter 17)

“What if he never came back, just like that? I’ve thought about it countless times. Yet, I’m still not able to imagine it. Tomorrow, he might come back all of a sudden? Or maybe he won’t? But, just the same, I want this suffering to end. But on second thought, I don’t really want that. All the stuff that’s in this room right now, the thought that everything might disappear... Will nothing... Not one thing remain?” (Chapter 27)

Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self:  

It’s fair to say the core obstacle in his relationship with Akihiko. Ugetsu’s whole existence is ingrained irrevocably in music. It is what gives his life purpose and the outlet with which he deals with his too intense emotions. Which leads me to wonder what would happen if for some reason he lost music. And I am not positive he would survive that.

“After we graduated from high school—at the time, when I was actively performing as a musician... one day all of a sudden I realized, the existence of the other—was the one thing we both chased after the most in this world. As long as Akihiko is with me, I’ll be unable to become free with my music.” (Chapter 17)

Ugetsu felt as if he was losing himself and his music in his love for Akihiko, which brings to the unstable sense of self. This terrified him. Love is messy for everyone and anyone but with BPD emotions are plugged into an amplifier and dialled up to the maximum (“But for my heart to be touched like that”). He can’t deal with all of this and the fight-or-flight response is triggered and “Let’s end this already.” (Chapter 17)

Black-or-white thinking:  

People with BPD often struggle to see the complexity in people and situations and are unable to recognize that things are often not either perfect or horrible, but are something in between. This can lead to "splitting," which refers to an inability to maintain a cohesive set of beliefs about oneself and others. Ugetsu seems to be obsessed with perfection and probably to be a world-renowned violinist you need to be to a certain degree. But for example, when asked by Akihiko to come to the band’s first live, he replies with: “Is it at a level that you can show me? Ah... it’s not at a level where you can reply to me right away... then, I won’t come. There’s no point watching a performance if the performer doesn’t have the confidence to do it well.” (Chapter 8)

Ugetsu doesn’t exist in the in-betweens. There is pefection or worthlessness, love or hate, music or Akihiko.

Depression:

Ugetsu manifests many symptoms of depression.

He is either practicing the violin or sleeping. 

He seems to undereat. Almost in every panel in which they are at home, Akihiko worries about whether Ugetsu has eaten or not, and always offers to cook for him, implying that Ugetsu wouldn’t bother if left to his own devices.  

He is untidy and careless to some degree. At the violin concerto where Ugetsu is the soloist, Akihiko exclaims: “Again? That idiot... His hair is a mess.” (Chapter 15) implying that it isn’t the first time that Ugetsu appears somewhat shabby at a formal event, in which furthermore he is the star. This fact in particular surprised me because I had the impression that Ugetsu was vain.

This neglectfulness also reflects in his living space. Once Akihiko leaves, the house is in complete disarray. When Akihiko comes back to say he will move out, the debris of the glass Ugetsu smashed when Mafuyu visited are still there.

Last but not least, Ugetsu lives in a soundproofed basement in semidarkness, a fortress of solitude of sorts from the outside world.

Suicidal thoughts or threats:  

“Well, when I was a kid, I used to go to some unknown old man’s plantation on my own, and I enjoyed killing bugs by squishing them with my right hand, y’know... Then, on one clear sunny day, I happened to listen to some music playing on that old man’s radio. It was ‘In the flow of time’ by Paul Simon... Yet even though I was only a kid, I thought, wow... I want to die... It’s a good day, isn’t it? Well, there were other things too, but somehow, I wonder If I’ve basically been chasing that feeling of dying from back then...” (Chapter 21.5)

Well, this passage speaks for itself. In some capacity Ugetsu has been pondering on death, has been chasing it, since he was a small child. I think this can be linked to the BPD symptom of chronic feelings of emptiness.

Impulsive, self-destructive and sensation-seeking behaviours:  

In this category I think we can include the sleeping around in which Ugetsu engages. While not a harmful behaviour in itself, I think the motive is. Ugetsu has been systematically sleeping around for two years not because he actually wants to and it makes him feel good, but he does it to spite Akihiko and as a coping mechanism to try and get over him. This wouldn’t do good to anyone’s mental health and self-worth.

“Ugetsu and I fought all the time, even after we broke up. That... was because of his timing when it came to finding a new man... It was as though he was doing to spite me.” (Chapter 19)

Intense and highly changeable moods:

Simply, all of the above.

This is all for now. I will edit this list if future chapters will shed more light on the mind and heart of this character that I have come to care so deeply about.

[kendrixtermina]

Assorted House of Feanor Thoughts

I wrote this as a reply to someone, but then realized that this should be a post of its own. 

Line between extrapolation, interpretation & headcanon is going to be fluid here

Long post under cut

The seven sons in general:

all moody, fierce, intense and brilliant, each in various different ways

none of them can really stand to be cooped up in one place for long

F R E C K L E S you will not convince me otherwise

Apart from the ones explicitly described as pretty (ie, Maedhros and Celegorm) they’re actually relatively plain by elf standards, or at least sort of rugged-looking, especially compared to their part-Vanyar cousins - I mean, figures that some would turn out more like Miriel or Nerdanel both of which were supposedly more average.

all are very resourceful having spent most of their lives helping out with their parent’s projects, exploring the wilderness, or (save for Celegorm) hanging out in Aule’s halls. Most can probably whip up a steampunk or magitech solution to basic war-related problems

Because of this they’re a very tight-knit group

growing up, they did not know many children their age; Ironically the most contact they had was with their cousins because Feanor paid semi-regular visits to Finwe. Apart from Turgon (and Orodreth if you place him in the second rather than the third post-journey generation) the cousins really dug the adventure stories. (Galadriel pretended not to be interested and offered plenty of critiques, but listened anyways)

more survival skills and just a lot more casual than your average princes

They’d all been adults for a good while by the time of the rebellion; the twins are a tad older than Aredhel, Galadriel and Argon; Caranthir and Angrod are about the same age. Curufin is younger than Aegnor.

They all look back at that trip to the lightless shore of the outer sea as a cherished family memory

Also I don’t think Feanor disciplined his sons very much after all his own father let him get away with everything. In his eyes the brats can do no wrong especially not Curufin and to a lesser extent Amrod Nerdanel tried her best to counterbalance this and it kind of worked on some of them, but the three middle ones were a lost cause

I think a lot of the weight behind the oath comes from how Feanor made them promise him to see it through on his deathbed. It was his literal last wish.

Maedhros:

The Leader™, the most strong-willed and the deadliest fighter by a huge margin. What the orc under your bed has nightmares about.

Obviously a very competent diplomat, strategist, and the sort to put constructive results over personal glory; resilient, formidable, unpretentious and tough as leather

but not at all overconfident, and the type who is not blind to the flaws of the people he loves. He knows very well that Feanor wasn’t perfect and does many things that his father would not have agreed with - at the same time he has a strong sense of obligation, honor and loyalty which turns out to be his fatal flaw in the end when being loyal and keeping his word  increasingly requires him to do dishonorable things

if there was a definite breaking point it was the fiasco with Dior’s sons

Stoic but courteous and eloquent; From Finwe’s death onwards increasingly grim, grizzled and not very hopeful, though he’s the sort to give his all and try to be noble even when there’s no reward or even thanks or respect.

Despite this, he has as a dry sense of humor and at times uses it to defuse tense situations or disarm people he’s negotiating with (see the scene with Thingol’s message) - does have a streak of gallows humor to him especially after the Thangorodrim incident

As the heir Feanor actually let him in on trade secrets and scientific speculation; Their relationship is probably the most equal; I do think Feanor was capable of actually appreciating that Maedhros got a mind of his own and isn’t afraid to stand up for himself. Feanor values independent thought, even if he’s not always good at really living that value with his tendency to take things personally and see others as taking sides for or against him.  

Can’t really craft stuff to the same degree without his right hand. He then focussed on more abstract/mental pursuits which were perhaps his forte, to begin with but it still bothers him more than he lets on, especially since he still retains, or swiftly regained, his skill at making things dead. 

He may or may not qualify as a cinnamon roll but he definitely looks like could kill you

Maglor:

Maedhros might have been the token responsible sibling, but Maglor was the understanding, comforting one and always had a nurturing streak - hence why he was the one to take in the kids.

Sensitive Artistic Type™ - goes from quirky and passionate back in Valinor to melancholy & tormented as the war drags on

one of those people who despair over & get self-critical over their work even when it’s regarded as masterpieces

Like Feanor and Miriel before him, he tends to get super absorbed in his work/art and just plain disappears for days

Now some ppl hold that he didn’t start having second thoughts until near the end, but judging from how he comes along to Fingolfin’s party or to hang out with Finrod, I’d hold that he was always ‘the nice/gentle one’, but not solely in a positive way; Unlike Maedhros he did not stand up to Feanor about the thing with the ships and indeed lets Maedhros talk him out of turning himself in at the very end, so he’s probably somewhat lacking in assertiveness

Even so, he’s probably one of the better fighters, given the difficult territory he gets, that he’s the one to kill Ulfang, and how long he survives. He probably feels ambivalent about this. 

I imagine him having an agility-based fighting style

Probably codified the heroic epos as a specifically Noldorin art form

Celegorm:

A lot of ppl focus on the barbarian aspect, but I’d say he actually has some degree of ‘subverted prince charming’ going on, with how he sweet-talks Luthien at first before throwing her in the dungeon, and how he seems to have been one of the more accomplished ones, joining a respected order and all

He’s actually pretty elegant and perhaps playfully gallant, but it’s a facade; He’s an animal underneath; though his instincts are probably somewhat nobler than what ends up happening when he gets roped into Curufin’s schemes

usually, the first to react and leap into action when something happens.

Herculean strength, daunting presence

also a fairly efficient general, if a bit of a glory hound and pretty fearless in the pursuit of victory

very much has an ego and doesn’t like being humbled at all

Strikes me as the sort of person who would take badly to the realization that they can no longer return to the glory of the past or being judged unworthy, not that he’d respond with anything but defiance

Wrestles giant monsters barehanded

Always low-key wished to fight creatures of darkness before the rebellion to test his might against them; Orome and the Maiar members of the hunt would have told stories of them

though he gets his pretty face from Daddy, his strong build comes from Nerdanel, possibly somewhat accentuated by his being a dude

Caranthir:

grumpy, moody, no filter, likes his alone time, shows his feelings mostly through actions, also somewhat pragmatic

the quartermaster; Actually one of the smarter ones, if not outright the second smartest after Curufin, though he has more a logistic/administrative sort of intelligence

generally one of the more prosaic, practical family members, or maybe he’s just more subtle about his dramatic side or has a harder time expressing it. Definitely has Hidden Dephts™

I mean, putting your hideout on the slope of a mountain near a deep, dark lake circled by mountains? Goth AF. A+ aesthetic there.

Hosts the family get-togethers at his fortress. Has most certainly shoved Celegorm and Curufin in the lake at some point

has a certain respect for strength, valor and skill even in ppl he doesn’t necessarily like; Not at all diplomatic or polite, but also not finicky or fastidious, so actually forged a whole lot of alliances on a “everyone’s money/swords are equally good and we don’t have to set conditions” basis and seems to have been pretty successful at this

started out haughty but definitely learned to be more open-minded/ broaden his horizon over his time in Beleriand - but as no good deed goes unpunished, Ulfang happens

Whereas Curufin and Celegorm can put up a noble veneer but will totally stab you in the back if provoked, Caranthir’s sort of the opposite, in that he’s rude and quarrelsome on first contact but has a good heart deep down (see the Haladin incident) and doesn’t keep grudges long term once he’s done grumbling where Celegorm is sore loser and Curufin a spiteful twerp.

though personally, I don’t see Caranthir as trying to reign himself in. He wouldn’t really be known as “the harshest” in that case. Who was gonna teach him to behave himself, Feanor maybe? kek. 

Curufin:

We have a lot of actual dialogue & description for him - he has this characteristic little defiant smile, is often coldly contemptuous in tone, some level of ruthless pragmatism

has mild/vague foresight - nothing as impressive as what Finrod and Galadriel have, but he has it more or less to the degree that Feanor did.

actually pretty insightful, thought-through and political-minded in some ways, too bad he shares Feanor’s tendency for unwarranted suspicion and factionalism, as well as a tendency to just act on his own without checking with anyone

always either filthy from work or fully blinged-out and impeccably groomed, no in-between

more calculated and subtle than Feanor - not that Feanor ever needed calculation or subtlety since he could get by on sheer awe or intimidation. Celegorm and Maedhros have that same quality in spades and Curufin’s a little bit jealous

Not actually that much older than the twins, but always acted older than his age, especially once he heard that Feanor was the same

collects weapons, loves fancy horses, the most traditionally aristocratic of the seven

Got married relatively young; saw it as a matter of honor to further his family’s line

continued his scholarly pursuits in Beleriand; this is part of why he elected to share a territory with Celegorm

The last Celebrimbor ever heard of him was a magically sealed box filled with research notes he sent out in case he didn’t make it out alive

Did not take his parents’ estrangement well and is stubbornly salty toward Nerdanel (though deep down he misses her as much as his brothers if not more)

Frequently the Bad Influence/ Shoulder Devil to his brothers.

But when he gets excited about his research/craft he’s got this “exited cocky little boy” side to him that’s surprisingly pure. 

Only Nerdanel and possibly Celebrimbor’s mom are allowed to call him ‘Atarinke.’ His brothers might still use it when they’re teasing or scolding him. 

The Twins:

Every time a fic does something else with them than “generic prankster redheads” I cry with joy

We don’t have that many data points on them, but most of them suggest they’re every bit as fierce as their brothers

they’re somewhat aloof & mostly do their own thing;

As kids they’d mostly sit in a corner and play with each other. Possibly deliberately played up their identicalness as a kind of emo fashion statement / to fuck with people (”Should we do this Ambarussa?” - ”I don’t know, what do you think, Ambarussa?”)

never really gave up their semi-nomadic ways

Compared to Celegorm they probably more on stealth and precision than strength and bravado. They suddenly appear in front of you, and bam! You’ve got an arrow poking out of your face. Probably the ones scouting the perimeter of the camp.

Amras is a bit sassier, but it’s actually Amrod who’s a little bit braver.

Hardly ever argued until their parents’ estrangement; That led to quite a few quarrels between them.

For all his faults, Feanor made a point of doing things with each of them individually.

quietly nursing some level of pent-up despair and frustration until they push for the assault on Sirion

In the version where one of them dies, and then no one ever talks about it, - I imagine that the remaining one ended up cynical in a “let’s just get it ever with we’re already doomed after all’ kind of way

Bonus:

Celebrimbor

“Curiosity killed the cat but the second mouse gets the cheese” incarnate. He’s a sweet, excitable,  deeply good guy, but Curiosity is the strongest force within him, besides maybe “think of the potential”

very bold in his thinking, not held back by any conventional boundaries. This is partially why he ended up more independent than his father and uncles but ironically that might in a sense make him more similar to grandpa than any of them

Really looks like Feanor. Like, Arwen and Luthien level of resemblance. It takes ppl a bit to notice because of how different his general demeanor and surface-level personality is. 

Very scattered and absent-minded, prone to sudden flashes of inspiration, often shows up in some form of disarray

spent his adolescence at Formenos. Retained a certain affinity for wintery places ever since

He sensed something fishy about Sauron before long, but between wanting to avoid the family propensity for unwarranted suspicion and being tempted by all the possibilities of what he could do with that power/knowledge even if it did come from a fishy source, he didn’t act before it was too late - he can't have been fully clueless since he hid the three; There was definitely just a bit of actual seduction/forbidden fruit appeal in place there, whether to use the word “hubris” probably depends on your philosophy. 

He drops the ‘th’ once he renounces Curufin, but slips right back into the old habit when excited or exasperating. At some point during his rule of Eregion, he stops bothering to hide it - A similar thing happens when he’s talking Sindarin with his northeast Beleriand accent. 

I know this is a very popular old hat headcanon, but... His other name is also “Curufinwe”. Everyone called him Telperinquar from the start, lest all three come running and grumble about being distracted from work, but after the Nargothrond debacle, he had other reasons for not using it. But really, Telperinquar/Celebrimbor is just another more metaphorical way to say “this baby shall be good at working with his hands” so yeah

My HC for where he was between the Finrod incident and the second age is as follows: He departed for war with Gwindor’s troupe (this is someone who tried to engineer a way around entropy - not a “do nothing” sort of guy) and fled the battlefield with Turgon. (hence some of the passages that place him in Gondolin can still be made to work. He totally made Earendil’s baby-sized mail coat) He fled with Idril’s party. Had she not tipped him off somehow he would probably have died with the rest of the smith’s guild. Or perhaps he grabbed all the valuable records he could find and ran for it because someone needed to preserve them. As living surrounded by the survivors of Doriath would have been awkward to say the least, he went to the isle of Balar to offer his skills and service to Gil-Galad. This is where he befriended/ reconnected with Galadriel and Celeborn. 

Finrod once told him the “faithful stone” legend from Brethil. It would be an inspiration to him much later. Generally credits Finrod with being a good influence on him. 

Judging by the stars on the doors of Durin his stance on his family probably softened over the years. He essentially attained their original new dream of exploring distant lands and building unparalleled new realms, at least for a while - also definitely has a similar “screw destiny!”/ “I defy you stars!” attitude. Perhaps he wanted to see their vision done right. 

But on some level, I think he also wanted to associate himself with their fame eventually especially once his own accomplishments grew. His feelings were probably always very ambiguous because he must have admired and envied their great works but also lived getting weird looks whenever he did what he’s best at and loves doing most in the world because it associates him with these very ambiguous people whom many hated... at one point in the past he must have really admired his father and grandfather, I mean, he came with them across the sea. 

Nerdanel

She got Feanor the apprenticeship / gave him the idea after they met on their travels. 

Were seen as something of an eccentric hippie/ hipster couple in the early days

She’s tough, confident and definitely quipped/ yelled back at times. Definitely described as ‘strong-willed’ and individual. Like this was a ‘kindred spirits’ thing before everything went to hell

it counts for something that even during the ugly bitter parting scene the worst Feanor could say was “someone must’ve turned you against me because you definitely cared once” rather than “you’re a traitor” for all that everything else in that scene made him very punchable

Their relationship dynamic, as I see it, is that she’s the one person who just sees and treats him like a normal dude. No apprehension, no fawning. He’s not “the greatest” or a tainted aberration to her, he’s simply a like-minded friend. So she’s pretty chill about his idiosyncrasies and doesn’t see them as a big deal, but on the other hand, she’s not overawed and will not take bullshit

Since she is good at understanding people she probably usually gets where he’s coming from even when he’s not being reasonable

possibly invented abstract art; was most certainly influential. 

the elves who serve Aule probably have their own little traditions. She might’ve imparted some of those on her descendants

Also ppl tend to forget that she also does metalwork. Again, it’s quite possible that she got him into it and that if they’d never met, he might have landed in a completely different discipline

I think it says a lot about Feanor that he chose her for being smart, creative and independent-minded. It shows that he actually values these things and that it’s not just a rhetorical device;  he’s not a hypocrite, he failed at what he was genuinely trying to aim for. 

She had Finwe won over the moment she mentioned that she likes children. To Feanor’s chagrin, she proclaimed that his then-tiny half-siblings were the cutest thing ever but since he was trying to impress Nerdanel, he actually kept his composure there. 

She was totally buds with Earwen and Anaire. 

I really like those fics where she played some part in the reconstruction efforts. She’s already renowned for her wisdom and has some familiarity with the court, so why wouldn’t Finarfin make her an advisor? 

Miriel

She was described as having “silver” hair like what the teleri sometimes have, but that was for lack of a better world. It’s actually pretty close to pure white. It was an unprecedented anomaly. Celegorm got it. Though overall Maglor might be the one who most looks like her. Or maybe Caranthir. 

Well, her tendency to refuse to eat her words no matter what has certainly proven highly heritable

Canonically one of those ppl who talks very fast 

Feanor doesn’t look very much like her at all, but he talks like her and is similar in his body language etc. The shape of her hands, however, has made it all the way to Celebrimbor in an unbroken line. Maglor’s got em too. 

She was the only one of her family to make the great journey. That’s why “the names of her kin are not recorded”. You see, they tried to convince her not to go, and that only made her more determined. 

Miriel and Indis used to have this thing where Miriel would sing while Indis plays the instrument. First time Indis caught Maedhros and Fingon doing something similar she got very emotional about it. She told them how she and Miriel also used to have a sort of odd friendship despite their opposite looks and personalities. Maedhros had at this point never even heard that they used to be friends. She proceeded to tell him some fun stories from Miriel’s youth and encouraged the two to spend time together. 

We’re told that Miriel and Finwe only got together in Valinor; Since Indis had a thing for him since before the Vanyar moved out of Tirion it’s fully possible that Indis actually liked him first. Maybe she actually introduced them to each other, like she wasn't confident enough to ask him on a date so she brought her friend, only for the two to be immediately smitten with each other. Poor Indis decided that she had no chance and moved out of town when Ingwe did. 

Miriel definitely expresses her love/admiration in the way of “You! You’re perf! I must make art of you!”

Since his arrival in the halls of Mandos, Feanor has made several of Vaire’s Maiar cry with his critique of their tapestries, but he holds that his mom’s are best. 

Feanor himself

In general, I hold that while he said many things that were not right, there’s a lot of what he prophecied that was not quite wrong and does come true in a kind of way, even if not necessarily for himself and his family. They sort of pave the way as Promethean figures. The second mouse gets the cheese (it’s usually some Nolofinwean)

Though he’s also the ultimate example of “you are not immune to propaganda”. Literally the smartest man in the world; Still touchy enough to be an easy mark for emotional manipulation. 

I think a lot of ff undersells what a polymath he must’ve been and that part where he worked on many different topics and was “the most learned”. 

You know the type of author who has a bazillion unfinished wips going and jumps wildly from topic to topic? Feanor’s research notes are exactly like that, especially the tendency to disintegrate into cryptic jottings and notes right before the most interesting part.  Just like the unfinished texts from HoMe Just like Gauss or Euler, having invented everything a hundred years ahead and 40% more discoveries buried that he never felt ready to publish. (I can also definitely see the sons – especially Maedhros and Curufin – spending the better part of the siege of Angband compiling some of it into a presentable format. Celebrimbor would then be the one to stumble upon implications /corollaries that had somehow been missed for thousands of years. 

For all that I enjoy fics where they’re all smoll and adorable as much as the next person, canonically we’re given every indication that he was an adolescent or young adult by the time the remarriage occurred. The published silm has him “well-nigh full-grown” by the time Indis started having kids; In the HoME passage detailing the romantic meeting on the mountain it’s said that he was “wandering in the mountains” (ie, old enough to do so on his own) at the time. He moved out as soon as he could, so he and his half-siblings never actually spent any significant time in the same household

I mean, he reacted like a teenager would, and IMHO neither his character nor Finwe’s make any sense if this wasn’t a single parent situation early on. 

Personally, I really don’t like that headcanon that he was nicer to the sisters for no reason. I don’t think his relationship with Fingolfin was ever much better than the sort of “awkwardly tolerating” we saw at the reconciliation scene; At the same time, I don’t think things would ever have escalated to that degree if Melkor hadn’t gone mucking things up. 

In the same vein, I don’t think he always had beef with the Valar. He used to hang out in Aule’s halls and let Celegorm study with Orome after all and studied their language. - he certainly seems to have had some romanticism for the Hither Lands evident in his speeches, he traveled far past the well-lit areas, made crystals that shine in starlight etc. so he was probably always somewhat independent-minded and he certainly knew, better than anyone, that the Valar are imperfect and can’t fix everything (they couldn’t heal Miriel after all) - but it’s a long way from healthy skepticism and understandable disappointment to asserting bad intentions where there are none. 

There’s a long way between not wanting a relationship with someone, and pointing stabby objects at them. Feanor was always difficult and never the type of person to be easily satisfied but at the same time, he clearly had his “delight” in his work and life as it was pre-Melkor. He could’ve gone on as an inventor and author of strongly worded opinion pieces; perhaps the elves were even “meant” to go back & come into contact with the Edain for a brief while, just without all the murder. 

The thing about Melkor’s lies is that they made a complicated situation conveniently easy in a way that he (and Fingolfin!) would want to believe. It’s not really either of their fault that they both exist, but if your rival is actually out to get you then suddenly all your negative feelings are justified 

Personally, I don’t think it the remarriage made that much of a difference - Miriel would still be dead. What Feanor’s really mad at is the inherent unfairness of the world. But he can’t fix or fight that, so in a misfire of his engineer’s mindset that thinks in terms of simple cause and effect and wants the world to be logical and controllable, he blamed something tangible (Indis.)

I think Melkor hates him so much because he’s kinda what Melkor wishes he was or likes to think he is. They’re both the mightiest of their respective kinds and don’t really fit in, but Feanor’s actually extremely creative. He goes and does his own thing, and maybe errs in overlooking that no man is an island and that all works are built on those of others, but, look at Melkor who wants all the scale of a group project but none of the “cooperation” part and basically can’t make anything of his own. “You’re like me, yet you’re successful? I cannot allow it!” 

In a sense you have classic Satan and Miltonian satan in the same setting, and they can’t stand each other

[tanadrin]

Legal Systems Very Different From Ours (Because They Do Not Exist)

(I forgot Scott had already done this, lol)

AZAREN

There is the land of Azaren, far to the north; a rugged, windswept country, it was settled by hardy explorers in an ancient age of migration, who have always been disdainful of central authority, and permit themselves to be governed only to the most minimal extent. As a consequence of this skepticism of government, there is also a general skepticism of public law. All law in Azaren--except the few scraps of administrative and procedural law necessary to operate the government--is private, and there is no criminal law. All disputes between parties are resolved by what we would consider in other countries civil suits, governed by strict rules involving standing. Theft, arson, even murder may all go unpunished, unless there is an interested party willing to file suit to obtain redress. The Azarenes by and large consider this system exemplary of freedom and justice, and we cannot help but admit an attraction to the cleanness of its philosophy.

A key component of Azaren justice is the principle that no entity is above the law; no entity, however powerful, is so majestic that it is immune from suit. This meant that gods, natural forces, even celestial bodies have been sued (though principally in more superstitious days long past), and where by the weight of evidence, or the simple failure to appear, have been duly issued fines, which remain on the public register of debts waiting to be paid. And naturally, Azaren countenances no doctrine of state or sovereign immunity. This principle, especially due to the absence of public law, extends also to relations between Azaren and other states. Naturally this principle extends to sublunary bodies like Azaren's own government: Azaren recognizes to doctrine of state or sovereign immunity, and not a few political revolutions have been wrought through cunning arguments in the courtroom. And note also that Azaren conducts no foreign policy as a unified whole--for that would require an intolerable tyranny imposed on her people, that is to say some form of tax to pay the salaries of a diplomatic corps--but what individuals and groups of individuals see fit to conduct. So from time to time, an individual or group of individuals together will decide some foreign state has wronged them, and, as is Azarene custom, will petition their courts for redress; and despite the diplomatic protestations of the representatives of that government, that any such proceeding is a clear violation of precedent in the community of nations, that by dint of its sovereignty no state may be sued in the courts of another, the Azarene court will hear the suit. And should the plaintiffs prevail, an order will be issued for the recovery of damages.

And it is for this reason and this reason alone that Azaren has any armed force: in case of a judgement entered against a foreign government, the militia of Azaren is authorized to confiscate property--in Azaren or abroad--belonging to that government (and if need be, its citizens) until enough has been seized to cover the amount owed. Whereupon, whatever the state of the field of battle, however close the foe is to total capitulation, they return to their ships instantly and retire to their home country.

GKNAI

The land of Gknai is ancient, possibly one of the longest-inhabited regions in the world; and as it is nestled deep in often-overlooked mountain valleys, it has enjoyed a history of uncommon peace and tranquility, well-fortified against the ambitions of neighboring princes; it has indeed earned its epithet of Many-Fortressed-Gknai; and in later millennia, this reputation for indomitability has served by itself to safeguard its borders.

As a consequence of its long, long history, it is said, Gknai is uncommonly bound by the pageantry of Tradition. Just as other countries have monarchies that have withered away into irrelevance, performing a few desultory functions of government under the strict control of their ministers, Gknai has its own titular kings and princes. Indeed, it has them by the wagonload. The difficulty of warfare in the region and the bombasticity of ancient aristocrats means that every valley is thick with Kings and Over-Kings, and Lords President, and Grand Dukes, and even Emperors. Most Sublime Hierophants tend their vegetable patches across the road from Thrice-Exalted Tyrants, and the multiplication of titles is not helped by the fact that under Gknaian traditions, every child inherits some share of the honors of their parents.

The Gknaians have never had a single political revolution to sweep the old order away, only centuries of incremential change. Therefore, each of these titles, in the abstract legal sense, still has some privilege attached to it, however slight it may be. Nor, if they wished to abolish their cumbersome system, is it clear how they might legally do so: there is no legislative authority in Gknai but custom, and for every amendment to the law some precedent, even if very weak, must be found that may be expanded and elaborated upon and carefully argued for until it is generally agreed upon in the whole land. Gnkaian legal codes incorporate much of this commentary, and a Gknaian law library is thus a fearsome thing indeed.

The most curious relic of Gknaian tradition is a form of trial, still in general use, called gopi-gai ogmo, or Trial By Endurance. It was argued by an ancient Gknaian scholar that wealth, strength, and even legal persuasiveness were poor proxies for the righteousness of a cause, and so poor criteria for deciding a lawsuit. For with wealth often comes prestige, and undue influence over the public; with strength, assured victory in the trials by combat; and a well-spoken orator might convince even the best of judges to decide a case in contravention of the law, if his eloquence and flattery are sufficient. Better, said this scholar, to align public interest with individual preference, and a hint of utilitarianism: clearly, the side that *wishes* to win more, should prevail. And how to decide that more efficiently, than with a test of endurance?

This is the form of the test: a hillside of a valley is chosen, one warm in the morning and cool in the evening, but not too hot or too cold; and the plaintiff and the defendant are seated upon it, gazing down at the valley below; and the judge and officers of the court withdraw to observe. That is all. Whomever remains seated and motionless the longest is judged to desire victory more. To stand, speak, cry out, laugh, smirk, or fall down is to forfeit the case. Neither of the parties may be spoken to; neither may be disturbed in any way. The only modification ever made is this: in matters deemed especially urgent, sometimes the parties are made to stand instead.

Judgement, naturally, usually takes days. One especially notable figure, Hrakal the Vexatious Litigant, widely feared for his tolerance of boredom and inclement weather, successfully lodged no less than three dozen lawsuits against his neighbors, until he met his match in Tatavru the Stubborn. That particular proceeding lasted more than two weeks, until an out-of-season snowfall gave Hrakal frostbite, and caused him to relent. I have also heard of a legendary conflict over a spite-fence in the valley of Upper Dabbar, where, it is said, the parties sat immobile for *three years*, sustained by surreptitious nighttime meals and the kind of intense mutual hatred known only by neighbors who share a property line. Another interlocutor I spoke with, an older woman, said that this was a corrupted version of an older tale, altered for believability's sake. In fact, she said, the dispute was *never* resolved. The parties sat immobile until the vegetation grew thick on their laps and shoulders; and if you visit a certain hilltop in Upper Dabbar, you can still see them, two seated figures covered in grass that have now become part of the hill.

BOSSUL

In the city of Bossul, all important questions must be settled by a consensus agreeable to all parties. Although apparently cumbersome, this system has many virtues. The government of Bossul enjoys approval ratings usually seen only in the most tyrannical of dictatorships, and though the city's martial fury has been inflamed many times, it has never actually gone to war, for there have always been one or two heads cool enough to refuse to support it. Alas, every occasion of government is nearly interminable as a result: even the most trivial meeting of the least prestigious committee can drag well into the night; and nothing about the culture or institutions of Bossul does anything to restrain the impulses of busybodies or know-it-alls who have, in every other culture on the planet, driven such consensus-driven systems into the dirt. Yet Bossul's persists, for uncertain reasons.

One, perhaps, might be the custom of Utabani-mo-Kalutabani, which might very roughly be translated into English as "Agreeing To Disagree." When a consensus *cannot* be reached--for instance, in an intractible legal case--a temporary truce may be enacted in the form of Utabani-mo-Kalutabani. In short, each side continues to live their life, pretending that they have won. Thus, from time to time, you may explore the city of Bossul and find such oddities as two different families, each on the opposite side of an inheritance dispute, living in the same apartment and pretending the other does not exist. You may find an employee, who has sued for wrongful termination, coming to work every day at a company that insists she does not work there. You may even, on occasion, find someone walking the street as a free man, whom the police insist that they currently have in their custody.

It is a strange custom, and one cannot help but wonder if it is of any practical use at all.

MOZICK

Mozick is a small island in the Hraspedain Sea, rainy in winter but temperate in summer, which like Gnkai has a deep respect for the usages of its past. In Mozick, this is something of a religious conviction, for their society is organized around the pronouncements of the Great Oracle of the Smoky Mirror, who lived and died more than a thousand years ago.

Such was the inerrancy of the Oracle's predictions (it was said), that the Oracle was trusted utterly in settling disputes and prosecuting criminals. Usually, the Oracle heard arguments before pronouncing judgements, but this was considered a formality; many times, a judgement could be given as soon as the parties entered the courtroom. And such was the faith the people had in their Oracle, that they feared what would become of their society when she died; so she set down in an enormous volume a list of judgements--thousands of them--in cases yet to come. They named no parties, nor any details of the case: only Guilty, Not Guilty, Liable for a sum of 400 Mozickian drachmas, etc.

The procedure in Mozick is thus: when cases are brought before the court, the time and order of each filing is carefully noted. Once a year, amid solemn ritual, the Book of Judgements is opened, and a judgement for each case is read off, in order. It is an article of faith in Mozickian law that the judgement is never wrong, though at times the wisdom of the Oracle has, the Mozickians admit, seemed... startling. There was, for instance, the legendary case of Uckmar the Arsonist, caught in the act of burning the Temple of Ytrabel-Sheh; the sentence read aloud before the prosecutors was "Defendant to go free, be compensated 10 drachmas." But, the legal scholars carefully explain, Ytrabel-Sheh was the god of rain, and an unusually wet summer that year had caused the slugs to flourish in Uckmar's garden, devouring his tomatoes. The arson was, perhaps, justified, or considered just compensation; the 10 drachmas were for emotional damages. So the careers of legal scholars in Mozick are made, harmonizing the decisions of the great Oracle with the principles of justice.

A careful accounting of judgements is important to the system--once it was discovered that one judgement had accidentally been used twice, necessitating a redistribution of three years' worth of punishments and fines; fortunately, no death penalties had been handed out. But the Book of Judgements is finite. And one day--a day that soon will be in the expected lifetime of Mozickian lawyers now practicing--those judgements will run out. What does this portend? Will Mozick be conquered? Sink beneath the sea? Will--as some quietly hope--the Oracle return? No one knows. But each year sees more of the judgements used up than the last, and soon the book will be empty.

[cicada-bones]

The Warrior and the Embers

Chapter 15: The Healers

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

Days passed, and the rhythm of them was strange, off-kilter. But not unwelcome.

Rowan and the princess no longer sat in silence on the ridge each day. While they didn’t fill entire afternoons with conversation, speech flowed much more freely between them now. Something had changed. Something imperceptible, but vital.

Yet still, her shifting remained elusive.

Those iron bars remained rigid, locked tight. Fear either had no effect or shut her down completely, anger just made her impossible to deal with, and if these weeks had accomplished nothing else, they had shown that she was completely unable to find any peace within herself. She still couldn’t accept her own identity, and Rowan had run out of ways to try to force her to.

The three times she had managed to make the shift had been when Rowan bit her, when they faced the skinwalkers, and her complete loss of control when faced with the dark creature. The only time she’d even gotten close to control had been with the skinwalkers, but as Rowan had no interest in putting either of them in mortal danger again, that wasn’t a particularly helpful insight.

However, there was one more thing he thought he could try. The girl was the heir to two mighty bloodlines, descendant to Brannon and Mab. She wasn’t only blessed with fire magic, but also water. Perhaps there was someone else close by who could help him.

It was a fifteen mile walk to the healers’ compound. Fifteen there, and fifteen back. Thirty miles, all at a mortal pace. This had better be worth it.

Rowan had visited the compound nearly as often as Mistward, checking in with the Head Healer and the soldiers stationed there, picking up reports, and distributing orders from Maeve. The camp lay on the border of Maeve’s lands and the mortal kingdom to the north, where both human and Fae peoples could reach them. As a result, while it was mostly populated by Fae or demi-Fae, humans could often be seen within the keep, both gifted and mortal alike.

It was where Malakai and Emrys sent those who were injured but could still travel, where anyone within several dozen miles would try to go if they were sick or hurt. Therefore, Rowan didn’t only want to ask after the princess – he also needed to find out if any other demi-Fae had escaped the clutches of the dark creature, and come here for treatment. Or if the healers here had found any bodies of their own. Perhaps Rowan could solve both of his problems at once.

The Head Healer at this particular camp was an old female named Namonora. He’d met her numerous times over the years, had even been treated by her, though that had been long ago, and wasn’t a time he recalled with much grace. Though he knew that she was kind, ancient and wise. A good female, who didn’t use her power or influence to manipulate, the way so many immortals did. She was not one to waste time playing games – not when lives could be on the line. It was quality Rowan appreciated. Particularly considering what he was about to ask of her.

While it was a hospital, the fort also served as a school, and a home to the many Fae who lived, worked, and taught here. So all kinds of people bustled about, carrying books and papers, cloths and bandages, stringing children along at their heels or crying quietly in out-of-the-way corners. It was a place filled with life and death and noise, and so while the wild princess’ eyes immediately lit up upon their arrival, Rowan was somewhat uncomfortable in the chaos.

He soon left the girl to wander the grounds and went off to find the Head Healer. It didn’t take long. Namonora was in the thick of things, instructing a pupil on the correct way to set a broken limb while watching over another as they applied a poultice to a daunting gash, then began to stitch the gruesome wound closed.

He quietly approached, not wanting to disturb any of the healers, but Namonora’s clever eyes soon took notice of him. She pulled aside another senior healer to fill her place and walked over to meet him.

“Prince Whitethorn. Greetings.”

Rowan inclined his head, “May we speak, somewhere out the way?”

She nodded, striding quickly into the hall and towards a small, empty office. As they entered, Rowan quickly shut the door with a gust of wind. Namonora turned her sharp gaze back on him, raising her eyebrows in a silent inquiry.

Rowan answered her unasked question, with only a slight hesitation. “I’m currently stationed at Mistward, and recently four dead demi-Fae have been found near the fortress. Has word of this reached you?” His voice felt colder than usual, icy at the inconvenience of having to ask for the old healer’s help.

Namonora’s wrinkled face fell, her lily-and-mint-and-rain flavored scent darkening with sorrow. “Yes, Malakai sent word, a few weeks past. I had not heard that the numbers had gotten so high, however.”

“Did he mention the circumstances of their deaths?”

“No – I didn’t realize there was anything to mention.” Her clever eyes glanced over him as she spoke, efficiently assessing. But not in the way of a warrior – in the way of a healer. Her gaze didn’t pierce, only searched. Evaluating a patient. Rowan wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she saw in his hard features.

His jaw tightened. “All four were drained of life, and left as withered husks. There were no marks on them, besides dried blood around their mouths and ears.”

“The skinwalkers? I heard they are beginning to leave their mountain haunts.”

“No this is something different.”

The healer slipped into some hidden, calculating part of herself. “You said ‘withered.’ What does that mean, exactly?”

“Their skin was dried and wrinkled, far beyond the reach of their age. It was almost as though they had been left in the desert sun for weeks on end – only none had decomposed beyond a few days. Both scavengers and bugs avoided them, which was inconspicuous in itself. And there was this…smell. That covers them. Not only death, but the scent of the creature that killed them.”

“So you are sure that they were killed – and did not die of disease or another health problem? Sometimes, overuse of magic can cause victims to contort in strange ways.”

Rowan shook his head, saying, “I am sure that it wasn’t a series of burnouts, I could recognize that easily. And I doubt a disease – ”

“Would be able to kill people in such a strange grouping,” the healer interrupted, nodding at him, “All demi-Fae, all scattered throughout the wild, no other cases outside these four, and a very quick onset – death would have been almost immediate. And for a health problem, such as a new kind of blood infection or tumor, to take four completely separate individuals, all under such strange circumstances, is so unlikely as to be functionally impossible.”

Rowan nodded in agreement. Those were the conclusions he had drawn as well.

“Still…” the healer mused, “It is hard to be sure. Would it perhaps be possible for a victim to be brought to us for examination, should another be found? We can investigate the body and discover beyond doubt what the cause of death actually was.”

“Of course.” Rowan’s voice was dark as he mentally kicked himself, he should have thought of that weeks ago.

Namonora nodded, her lips tightening. “Still, I hope that we do not hear from each other again. I would rather this remain a mystery forever than for another Fae to suffer this fate.”

Rowan dipped his head.

“Do you have any ideas about the culprit, Prince? Is it perhaps some new immortal foe, or just another powerful Fae who has lost their way?”

Rowan hesitated, unsure. “I think…there is a chance that I saw the creature. The scent was similar. I never got a close look at it, but the female I was traveling with did. She described it as looking like a man, with eyes that were completely black. It created this cloud of darkness, so deep that I couldn’t see her within it. When she finally escaped, she was different. Pale, and sickly. Afterwards, she said that the creature made her relive her worst memories. All the bodies died with expressions of pure terror on their faces as well. It’s almost as though the creature kills through fear itself.”

Namonora’s frown deepened. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“And no one has come to the fortress bearing a similar story?”

“None. I would remember. Anyone who met this dark creature either did not come here, or did not survive their encounter.”

Rowan nodded gruffly, his jaw tightening.

The ancient healer’s face turned towards the window, looking out over the grounds where Rowan could just barely see the princess. She was walking among an arrangement of tents, following a group of pupils as they made their rounds through the sick. Namonora’s brow furrowed, her scent filling up with fear and anxiety as she looked over all these people who were now in danger, people who she was responsible for.

Who he was responsible for.

Namonora turned back to look at him, her old eyes shrewd and thoughtful. “I have heard tales from long ago, ancient stories of creatures from the deep dark. Beings that fled from the wars of other worlds, and slipped past the watchful eyes of Mala and Deanna and all the other gods of this realm.” Her voice was soft, as if she called the words up from deep within. “They are darkness made flesh – said not to bleed, not to hurt, not to die. They are evil, and Maeve protects us from them with her own dark magics.”

Rowan almost shook his head at the old healer. He had heard many such stories – they were fireside tales, fabricated from encounters with much more ordinary foes like the barrow wights and skinwalkers, and then stretched beyond reality and into that nebulous range of myth and legend. Maeve may even have even invented them in order to solidify her standing among the Fae, where the peoples’ fear of her could easily turn from respectful into hateful.

But then Namonora continued. “More and more often, we receive patients from the west, and they bear news of things stirring there. Old things. Perhaps now they have come east.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where have you heard this.”

“A few weeks past, a traveler from the Red Desert. She would not tell us any specifics, but she spoke of things, dark things, rising in the south. And then another, from the Dead Islands, bearing the same news.”

“Adarlan?”

“Perhaps. And yet, perhaps not.”

Rowan shook his head slowly. It was hearsay, nothing else. “Regardless, the creature is here, whether it came from the west or down from the mountains or from deep within the eastern caves.”

Namonora nodded, spooling herself back into the confident leader she had been only a few moments before. “I wish you luck on your search, Prince. I will let you know if any come bearing news of the creature, though I am sorry that I cannot be of much more help.”

She turned to leave, thinking the matter settled. But Rowan held out his hand for her to stop, forced to halt her retreat. He was not done.

“There’s something else. This isn’t the real reason I was stationed at Mistward.” The healer cocked her head, Rowan’s stomach sank. “Maeve has asked me to train a demi-Fae female in her power, and I’ve been having some…difficulty…in helping her access her shifting.” Rowan tried to hide his reluctance to ask for help, but doubted he succeeded. This ancient healer had been teaching for far too long not to see right past his defenses.

“Are you asking after my medical or educational expertise?” Namonora’s sharp gaze roved over him once again, reassessing, her eyes glinting with the gathered knowledge.

“Perhaps both. The girl is stubborn, and has some kind of…block. Between her and her power.”

“Hmm.” The corners of the healer’s lips curved into a small frown as she considered his words. She turned to look out the window once again, only this time her eyes sought out the princess. The girl was now speaking with a woman who was sitting on a cot, her arm in a sling. The woman laughed at something, while the princess responded with a small smile, the warmest Rowan had yet seen her give, though her eyes were still dark. Seeing her there, among others of her like, made Rowan feel more alone than he had in weeks.

“Are you asking on her behalf, or yours, Prince?” The healer’s question startled him, and Rowan turned to face her, only just now realizing that Namonora had been observing him watching the princess. “It is possible that the girl isn’t trying, that she doesn’t want to make the shift at all. Doesn’t want to train, to become a warrior. Perhaps this life,” she looked pointedly at Rowan, “is not what she wants for herself.”

His voice was tight, “The girl is already a warrior, so she has no other life to choose from, and she’s not unwise enough to drag this out on purpose – she knows that she’s entered into an agreement that she cannot break.”

Namonora’s lips tightened, and she nodded. While she lived in the outskirts of Maeve’s kingdom, away from her court, the healer was not oblivious to her ways. Though she respected Maeve, she did not love her.

So instead of pressing, she just said, “Shifting involves the piercing of the veil that separates the two forms of the soul, Fae and animal. To shift, one needs to find the peace within themselves, to fully inhabit the one form, and so, travel into the other. I am sure that you know this.”

Rowan nodded, a quick jerk of his head.

“There are some physical maladies that can prevent the shift, but they are very, very rare. It’s much more likely that the girl has some kind of emotional imbalance, or residual trauma, that is making it difficult for her to access her other form. All work through such things in their own way, and at their own pace. There is a chance that the female will never be able to overcome this barrier, and will always feel its effects.” Namonora’s eyes found Rowan’s. “There is not much one can do to help, besides provide support, and attempt not to add to their burden.”

Rowan almost snorted – he didn’t think he’d met anyone less in need of coddling than that girl. She could handle her ego all by herself. But the healer’s gaze did not leave his, seeking to communicate something further, something without words. And it set his teeth on edge.

There were precious few Fae that did not know Rowan’s history, and Namonora was not one of them. She had been the one who healed him after Maeve pulled him from his years of aimless wandering. Had helped restore his body from the weak, half-starved mess he had been. She knew very well what had caused him to become the cold, hard male that sat before her. Perhaps that was why she found it easier to deal with him than so many others.

Rowan could feel his muscles tense as the silence lengthened, but the wise female did not pursue the matter. “May I pass on some good, general advice?” she asked softly.

Rowan nodded slowly, while the healer’s minty scent enveloped him, her green eyes still on his.

“People tend to learn better when you align their own motivations with that which you are trying to instill in them. Discover what emotions drive this female, discover what she wants. And use that to help guide her shift.”

Rowan’s lips tightened as he nodded once again.

“Blocks in magic are mental, and therefore emotional. The female will not truly be able to overcome this challenge until she overcomes whatever created it. But still, if you find what drives her, what spurs her to action, you may find her a path over, or around the block.” Namonora seemed to look right through him, pushing aside his barriers and digging right into the truth. “But it will not go away on its own. She must face it, and only then will she be able to find the peace.”

Rowan absolutely could not escape the impression that the healer wasn’t only talking about the princess anymore. An impression that was solidified with the female’s parting words.

“And Prince?” She seemed to hesitate momentarily, then said, “You cannot atone forever. Do not let your grief destroy what remains of your life – there is hope still, hope for a brighter future. Do not let that spark go out.”

Rowan’s jaw clenched tight, and he left the office without another word, the force of the healer’s gaze burrowing a hole into his retreating back.

She was wrong. There was no hope for him. He had been left completely alone, to fill the aching chasm in his chest with a feeble oath to a dark queen. But as Rowan rounded a corner, and the princess came into view, he couldn’t help but think that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. That perhaps the spark the healer had spoken of did not belong to him, but to her.

And it was his responsibility that it did not go out. That instead, it flourished.

···

Rowan arrived back at the fortress that evening to the news that another body had been found. The girl had already returned to her room when Rowan met Malakai in the kitchens, where the two males were speaking quietly before the hearth.

Rowan barely caught the words, “I’m so worried, Emrys – ” before the males took notice of him, and they broke apart. Malakai’s face was grave as he relayed the information, his scent filled with sorrow and anger. Emrys stood by quietly, supporting his mate while stirring something fragrant on the fire.

This report was no different than all the others – an unknown demi-Fae male was found dumped in the wilderness – only this time the intelligence came from a scout stationed at another fortress almost forty miles to the southwest. The body was emaciated, near water, and only a few miles from the sea. The neighboring fortress then sent a missive to Malakai, having received his warning, with the location of the body and a promise to continue to apprise Mistward of any further discoveries.

Rowan then informed Malakai of the news he had gathered from the healer’s compound, and of Namonora’s request to see one of the bodies. Luckily, the healers’ fort was closer to the new body site than Mistward, meaning that whoever moved the body of the demi-Fae would only have to ferry it three or so miles through the wilderness, instead of nearly twenty or thirty – a much more manageable task. Malakai promised he would dispatch a pair of sentries, with orders to purchase a wagon in a nearby town, after Rowan had a chance to visit the site.

Even so, Malakai’s scent was permeated with sorrow and anger and shame – just as Rowan did, Malakai felt responsible for every day that passed while they failed to capture the creature, and to protect the fortress and its neighboring lands. That was their purpose – and the more weeks that passed, the higher the death count grew, the greater their shame.

And so, before he departed the kitchen and left the two males alone to comfort each other, Rowan said, “Malakai, I – ” He paused, and huffed a sigh, then shook his head. The words were dead things in his mouth.

Rowan wanted…not to thank the male, but to say that he understood. That he also would fight for the fortress, and the people within it. But the words would not come, and so instead he just said, “We will visit the body tomorrow, if you send the sentries around midafternoon you should miss us.”

“So Elentiya will go as well, Prince?” Emrys asked.

Rowan nodded and left the kitchens without another word.

But then he reconsidered – the site was over twenty miles to the southwest, much too far to travel on foot with the princess. Even if she miraculously managed to shift, the distance was a lot for a young demi-Fae. Forty miles in a single day would take up nearly half their time, and that was if she was in her Fae form. Which was far from assured.

But the body was very close to a seaside village, and the girl was right – there was a high probability that the townspeople knew something. It was hard to believe that creature could travel so widely without being spotted, especially since they had already seen it, and escaped once, and at the time they hadn’t even been looking for it. Such a strange being would surely be a source of gossip in a slow, sleepy village so far from the capital.

But it was very unlikely that they would talk to Rowan. The humans of Wendlyn tolerated Fae, mostly out of necessity. They would not trust him, or deign to speak with him except for under the direst circumstance. For too long, malicious Fae had taken advantage of the mortals of Wendlyn, using their superior strength to take what they wanted with little to no consequences. While Rowan, and others among Maeve’s court, had taken it among themselves to punish such rogues, their effort had on the whole been too little, too late. It would take many more centuries for trust and camaraderie to return between the two peoples, if then.

And Rowan was hardly a mild or approachable example of his race. He was just too powerful; the mortals would likely run in the other direction if he arrived asking questions about a strange creature that was killing demi-Fae down the western coast. So he needed the girl. A mortal asking questions would be easier for them to bear, even if she was unlikely to be particularly courteous. Though she had done well with the people in the healer’s fort – perhaps a new wave of politeness and contrition would overtake the girl. Though he doubted it.

He would have to take the girl. They could camp overnight, giving her a chance to rest between journeys, but there was no way that the girl could make it without shifting. Tomorrow, Rowan would have to see if the healer’s advice had any merit.

···

Rowan didn’t bother going to the kitchens to wait for the girl that morning, instead he went straight for her rooms, carrying a small pack with overnight supplies. The princess was already gone, but she soon reappeared, still chewing her breakfast. Her eyes were brighter than usual, their golden core molten and swirling.

He held the pack open for her, “Clothes.” She grabbed an extra shirt and some underclothes from her bed and stuffed them into the pack, and Rowan shouldered it. She looked surprised at the move – perhaps she had assumed that she was to be pack mule for their journey. But Rowan wanted her in the best possible mood this morning if he was going to try to convince her to shift.

They left the fortress in silence, heading through the misty trees towards the west and out through the ward-gate. Once they passed through the invisible barrier, the magic softly pulsing over his skin, Rowan stopped. He turned to the princess, pulling off his hood and saying, “Shift, and let’s go.”

The dancing in her eyes grew even more playful, though she still did not smile. “And here I was, thinking we’d become friends.”

Rowan raised his eyebrows, friends? But instead of questioning the princess, he just gestured at her to shift and said, “It’s twenty miles.” Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and he gave her a wicked grin in response. “We’re running. Each way.”

Although that now-familiar trepidation coursed through her scent, she didn’t give it one inch, instead saying, “And where are we going?” with exactly the usual level of insolence.

His jaw clenched involuntarily, but not at the girl’s rudeness – at the news he had to deliver. “There was another body – a demi-Fae from a neighboring fortress. Dumped in the same area, same patterns. I want to go to the nearby town to question the citizens, but …” his mouth tightened at having to admit this. “But I need your help. It’ll be easier for the mortals to talk to you.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He just rolled his eyes. Rowan understood the arrogance, though he didn’t have to like it. The girl was all ego. “Shift, or it’ll take us twice as long.”

“I can’t. You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“Don’t you want to see how fast you can run?” Rowan certainly did. The princess was small, but her muscles were lithe and strong. In her Fae form, she could even prove as powerful as any within Maeve’s warrior-court. And Namonora had said to motivate her to shift by aligning it with her own desires – perhaps her arrogance would prove helpful.

But instead of rising to the challenge, or even feeling some level of curiosity, the girl’s scent filled with despondence. “I can’t use my other form in Adarlan anyway, so what’s the point?”

He frowned at her. “The point is that you’re here now, and you haven’t properly tested your limits. The point is, another husk of a body was found, and I consider that to be unacceptable.”

Her scent shifted into a coppery mix of sorrow, and anger. She wasn’t heartless, surely she understood the necessity of finding the creature – perhaps he could work with that instead. Before, she had shifted to protect him from danger, to prevent his death. Maybe she could shift for the same reasons now, only without an imminent threat pressing upon them.

Rowan knew that she wasn’t scared, but still he said, “Unless you’re still frightened,” and pulled on the end of her braids. As he had suspected, the gesture pulled her anger to the surface, her nostrils flaring.

She snarled, “The only thing that frightens me is how very much I want to throttle you.”  

But her anger at him had never been helpful, had only distracted her. He needed to take that anger and push it into something more productive – an anger on behalf of others instead of on behalf of herself. That could be the key.

So as that fury continued to roil and twist in her scent, Rowan said, “Hone it – the anger.” The scent of ashes and burning jasmine grew stronger by the second. “Let it be a blade, Aelin. If you cannot find the peace, then at least hone the anger that guides you to the shift. Embrace and control it – It is not your enemy.”

“This will not end well,” she breathed.

Fear began to eat away at the fury in her, but he did not let up. She was so close. “See what you want, Aelin, and seize it. Don’t ask for it; don’t wish for it. Take it.”

“I’m certain the average magic instructor would not recommend this to most people.” Her mouth was set, protesting to the last. But he could tell that she was beginning to relent – somewhere, she knew that she had to accept this part of herself, that she had no choice but to concede.

“You are not most people, and I think you like it that way. If it’s a darker set of emotions that will help you shift on command, then that’s what we’ll use. There might come a day when you find that anger doesn’t work, or when it is a crutch, but for now…” he paused. “It was the common denominator those times you shifted – anger of varying kinds. So own it.”

She looked at him for a moment, then took a long breath. And another. And another. Aelin turned deep within, anchoring herself, searching, hunting –  

Then, discovery: she brushed against that shimmering veil and this time she didn’t hesitate before punching through the barrier and into her other form. Canines shot out, points grew from her ears, and a bright light flashed as she completed the shift.

Rowan couldn’t help but grin as Aelin’s scent washed over him, stronger and more familiar in this form. Jasmine and lemon verbena and dancing flames, so much more potent now than even a few moments ago.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and Rowan moved, darting to her side and pulling her braid again. She whirled, but he was already gone, pinching her other side. She yelped, “Stop – ” and he was back in front of her, a wild invitation in his eyes.

He wanted to see her move, wanted to see her run – loose and free. He could still sense the cage; it was like she’d temporarily picked a lock, the bars were still waiting for her to return into their clutches. But for now, Aelin Galathynius stared back at him, completely free for the first time since he had met her. And he wanted to play.

Rowan shot left, but before he could pinch her other side she moved, faster than ever before, and slammed down on his arm with an elbow and whacking him upside the head with her other hand.

The hit didn’t hurt, but it surprised him so much that he stopped dead, blinking in shock. Aelin’s scent filled up with satisfaction as she smirked up at him, her new fangs glinting. He bared his teeth right back at her. “Oh, you’d better run now.” And he lunged, but before he could reach her, she turned and shot through the trees to the southwest.

He followed, slow and steady, waiting for her to find her pace as she leaped over fallen logs and ducked beneath low-hanging branches. Her anger simmered away, giving over to a wild abandon as she bounded through the underbrush, her body lithe and capable and as wild as the flames that pulsed from her, barely contained by her small form.  

It was so similar to exercises he had done countless times, training faceless thousands, and yet it was completely different. Before, the run had been a necessity – a way to develop strength and stamina, or a method to maintain them. Now, the run was almost…enjoyable.

The pleasure of her freedom leaked over into his own body, and he could feel the absence of Aelin’s cage almost as acutely as she could. Her newfound liberty was intoxicating, and he could feel his own walls melting, the ice leaking from his limbs as he embraced her wildness. Rowan couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to feel such freedom, the last time he smiled from enjoyment. Now he found he couldn’t turn away from it.

Quickly, too quickly, she began to speed up, getting faster and faster until they were hurtling together through the trees. Every time Rowan drew close – either to poke her or pull her braids or tackle her, he did not know – Aelin would veer away, a golden streak among the oaken boughs.

After a few minutes, they hit a plateau, the ground flattening and hardening and becoming easy beneath their feet, a welcoming carpet rolled out to greet them. And suddenly, Aelin was flying. Her hair whipped out behind her in a golden ribbon, her simple, bright clothing a streak of light and color as she sprinted over the grasses.

Gods, she was fast. Fast as any of them in their Fae forms. Rowan no longer had to alter his pace, and his limbs began to stretch, his stride lengthening until the pair of them were running together, both free and unrestrained.

Aelin dodged a tree, throwing herself between two hanging branches, and she let out a whoop of delight. Her scent began to overwhelm him, each note burning with a happiness he had never sensed in her before. It was so vibrant, so different from her usual scent, that it startled him. He hadn’t understood how angry she had always been until he finally caught a glimpse of her scent that was completely pure.

And it bit at him, ate at him, poked and prodded and stirred him until he couldn’t stop himself shooting after her, lunging with a snap of his teeth. She dodged, and he lunged again, this time moving to run at her side.

Her face was open, her eyes shining with that same feral contentment he could feel pulsing through his own veins. And it was like seeing her for the first time. He had known she was good-looking, had understood that objectively, her sharp, clear features were pretty and striking. But he had not noticed how truly attractive she was until that moment.

Aelin was beautiful.

And together they flew, silver and gold streaks piercing through the lonely mists.

···

Masterlist / Ao3 / Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

[baoshan-sanren]

Part 7

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about, that should really have a title by now

pt.1 here | pt.2 here | pt.3 here | pt.4 here | pt.5 here | pt.6 here

His first morning, XiChen wakes alone in the bed, in an empty room. 

He does not have the time to feel relieved or abandoned. There is not a single moment of that first day that is his own, aside from those few precious moments in the early morning, and even those are consumed by details to which he had never assigned much importance before. It is a relief to find that the robes he is expected to wear are already laid out for him, three layers of mist-gray silk, delicately embroidered with the Nie Sect crest in silver and white. But everything else, from his hair ornaments to his waist pendants, is left to his discretion, and he spends entirely too much time trying to find a balance between the simplicity he prefers, and the type of elegance required from a Sect Leader’s spouse.

First, he must offer prayers to the ancestors, then he must be formally introduced to Nie MingJue’s family, receive ceremonial gifts from each member, then the midday tea, after which he must sit alongside his husband to observe the “friendly” Sect competitions in archery, and sword fighting, and hand-to-hand combat, then another banquet, greeting more well-wishers, and smiling, and smiling, and--

The second night Lan XiChen lies awake for a long time, despite his tiredness. An hour past the time he would ordinarily be asleep, Nie MingJue settles down, very carefully, on the opposite side of the bed. The bed is large enough where he may as well have settled in a different room altogether, and still kept the same distance between them, but XiChen still feels a tight coil of anxiety in his stomach.

He has managed not to worry about this part of his marriage duty for the majority of the day. Now, he can think of nothing else. Keeping his breaths deep and even, he recalls the few instances they had spoken to each other, apprehensively analyzing every word. It would be a stretch to say that any type of conversation was actually had; there had always been other people present, other things that required attention. He cannot help but wonder if he is the problem. He is not even sure how to go about initiating a private conversation with a man he has married, let alone how to go about initiating an activity of a more... intimate type. He cannot even be certain that this is something Nie MingJue would want. Perhaps nothing of such nature will ever occur between them. Perhaps Nie MingJue simply does not find XiChen appealing. For all XiChen is aware, there may be a mistress somewhere in the Unclean Realm, one who has been with Nie MingJue for years, and whose existence Nie MingJue may choose not to disclose.

Each worry somehow seems larger than the one before it, and he is still awake when Nie MingJue rises, having slept four hours at most. Once the room is empty again, XiChen manages to fall asleep, only to be woken by his internal clock minutes later.

The second day, HuaiSang attaches himself to XiChen’s side early in the morning, and refuses to be waylaid by anyone else. Somehow, he steers XiChen past the few unpleasant elders of both Sects, manages to ensure that XiChen eats without being disturbed, then irritates Lan QiRen long enough for XiChen to be able to exchange a few quiet words with his brother. He does all of this with ease that seems completely unintentional, as if he has somehow unwittingly stumbled upon a way to make XiChen’s day a little more bearable. It is the type of maneuvering XiChen had often seen in action by well-established Sect Leader’s wives, and although the comparison is outlandish, XiChen supposes that he should not be surprised. After all, Nie MingJue has no one else by his side who could have so easily absorbed this particular skill set, and put it to good use.

Although he is grateful, he cannot help but feel guilty for the way he has judged HuaiSang’s character in the past. Seeing him at Cloud Recesses year after year, perpetually distracted, utterly unwilling to retain any information he found uninteresting, falling asleep during lectures, painting fans instead of studying, XiChen had simply assumed him to be an overindulged child, and not a particularly astute one either. The fact that he had so throughly misunderstood HuaiSang’s character makes him doubt his own powers of observation, yet another worry to add to his ever-growing list.  

A night-hunt is scheduled for the afternoon, one that XiChen cannot participate in, but is expected to attend. He fully expects to have his every moment occupied until the event. Therefore, he is very much surprised when HuaiSang announces that he has a family matter to discuss, and with many apologetic smiles, pulls XiChen away.

The Unclean Realm is large, and to XiChen, every hallway looks very much like another. HuaiSang chatters happily as they move along, and most of it is silly, insignificant gossip. But sprinkled among all the frivolous observations, there are instructions on numerous places and chambers XiChen should need to navigate in the future. The main library, the small library, the second small library that is solely devoted to Nie family annals, the Sect Leader’s study, two additional studies, his own chambers, the small receiving hall, the main practice courtyard, the second practice courtyard, the East wing, currently occupied by the visiting Lan Sect, the visitor’s courtyard--

Within an hour, XiChen is utterly overwhelmed, and no longer sure that he can safely find his way back to the main hall. As if perfectly aware of this, HuaiSang stops, grins, and pulls a scroll from his sleeve, triumphantly waving it for a few moments before pressing it in XiChen’s hands.

“It is a map,” HuaiSang says, “I thought it might be helpful.”

It is more than a map. It is a guide to every area and their use, complete with helpful notes. The Sect Leader Study: Do not disturb when the door is closed; Do not enter between the hours of nine and eleven in the morning. The main practice courtyard: In use from seven in the morning to nine in the morning. In use from one in the afternoon to three in the afternoon. The visitor’s courtyard: Always accessible. The second small library: Always accessible. Even the servant’s halls are listed, each area clearly marked, carrying a set of notes of their own.

The combination of such an unexpected kindness from a boy he had misjudged so severely, on the heels of his sleepless night and overwhelming anxiety, strikes XiChen harder than he could have thought possible. He feels his eyes misting over, and has to look away.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “But I should not need such assistance. I should manage without.”

HuaiSang scoffs, “Do you think any person new to the Unclean Realms knows how to find anything? The Lan elders have been wandering around like mice trapped in a maze for two days. Lan HanYing has ended up in the kitchens twice. The cook is beside herself.”

XiChen feels an inappropriate giggle building in his throat and swallows it down, “In the kitchens?”

“The Unclean Realm was not designed as a Sect Leader’s home,” HuaiSang says, motioning XiChen down another hallway, “It is a fortress, designed with defensive capabilities in mind. The original living spaces were already built in a way that would confuse and misdirect anyone unfamiliar with the layout. But as the Nie Sect grew larger, the Sect Leaders were forced to add more rooms and more courtyards, in any way that the space within the fortress walls would allow. The result is chaotic at best. Although, there is truly no excuse for Lan HanYing’s blundering into the kitchens. Like all the other servant quarters in every Sect Leader’s home, they are in the located in the back. Perhaps he cannot tell North from South.”

Lan XiChen feels slightly giddy. Lan HanYing is the one who had insisted on tradition for the hair brushing ceremony, and XiChen had been feeling resentful of this fact for many days now. He should not feel happy at someone else’s blunder or shame, but a small part of him does.

They are now back in the section where the wedding chamber is located, but HuaiSang stops at a different door, and grins nervously.

“Da-ge was anxious that you would feel overwhelmed and homesick, since the Unclean Realm is so different from Cloud Recesses. We both thought-- well, you might as well see it first.”

He ushers XiChen into the room, and XiChen stops at the entrance, shocked into stillness. It is a large space, and bright, the walls a pale blue of the early summer sky. The stone floors present in most of the rooms XiChen has seen so far are not to be found here; instead, the wide planks of white oak shine as if recently polished. All the wood in the room is pale and simple, as if someone had chosen the most beautiful pieces from Cloud Recesses and transported them to this single chamber. All of the belongings he had sent ahead of the wedding procession are already here. His books are neatly arranged on the shelves. A beautifully built bench, which looks to be perfectly compatible with his height and build, holds his guqin. There are two empty stands, one for ShuoYue, and another for LieBing. There is even a window, when XiChen is fairly certain that none of the rooms on this particular hallway were designed to have one. If he is orienting himself correctly, he believes that the courtyard directly beyond it is the visitor’s courtyard, the only place inside the Unclean Realm where one may encounter greenery. The window is shaded by white curtains, embroidered with the Gusu Lan clouds pattern. They flutter slightly in the breeze, and XiChen catches a faint scent of winter plum flowers.

It is beautiful, and overwhelming. He turns to HuaiSang, not quite sure how to express the sheer depth of delight and gratitude he feels, when his eyes finally land on the privacy screen to the left of the entrance, and an unmistakeable shape it is meant to hide. A bed. A large bed, built from the same pale wood, shaded by the same white curtains. The sight of it extinguishes his joy forcefully, like a cold splash of water on the back of his neck. He feels his smile falter, and fights to keep it in place.

“Your comfort was our only objective,” HuaiSang says carefully, “Of course, you may use the space as you find convenient, or not at all.”

It is remarkably considerate of HuaiSang to say so, but his words do little to reassure XiChen. If Nie MingJue had intended them to sleep apart, this is hardly a conversation he would have had with his little brother.

“It is lovely,” XiChen says, “It was very kind of you to think of my comfort. Thank you.”

HuaiSang seems to sense XiChen’s disquiet, but asks no questions, and ends their tour of the Unclean Realm shortly after, delivering XiChen back to Nie MingJue’s side just as the night-hunt is about to begin.

Nearly two hours go by, during which XiChen has no opportunity to say more than two words to a man who is now his husband. Each moment that passes further cements in him a belief that any expectation he had previously held must be shattered now. Is this an illustration of his future married life? A few words in passing, a public appearance, and a single bed of his own at the end of each day?

It is simpler this way, he supposes, to know exactly what is required of him. He does not, should not, feel slighted. It is perfectly logical for one to feel no attraction to a stranger, to have little to say when faced with a person whose disposition and temperament are utterly unfamiliar. And yet, XiChen had believed that they would both be equally invested in remedying that lack. That they would strive to learn how to care for each other, the way a married couple should.

“Are you well, XiChen?”

Being addressed startles him, and he looks up in alarm to find Nie MingJue’s full attention on himself, for the first time since their wedding bows. He feels his face grow warm, and tries to recall the last person he had spoken to, the last person Nie MingJue had spoken to, or anything else that occurred right before this very moment. Try as he may, he is drawing a blank.

“I am well,” he says quickly, “Please forgive my inattention.”

He nearly says something about having slept poorly, and manages to clench his teeth before the words escape. Oh, but he is so terrible at this.

“Have you eaten today?” Nie MingJue asks, and now he sounds troubled.

“I have,” XiChen says, wishing the earth would open up and swallow him, “Please do not be concerned. I am only-- unused to observing the night-hunts, instead of participating. I am afraid my attention had momentarily wandered away.”

He is afraid that Nie MingJue will ask him if he needs to rest for a while, at which point XiChen might die of shame. Nothing has been required of him so far that could be considered difficult in any respect, and he is furious with himself for failing to perform the simple task of sitting still and paying attention. He can practically feel his uncle’s eyes, although he is settled quite a distance away. If XiChen has given the appearance of being fatigued, or even worse, disinterested in the proceedings, he has failed every basic instruction he had ever received.

Luckily, the score changes at that moment, propelling WangJi to the first place, and an uproar from the Nie Sect disciples drowns out any other words that could be said.

That evening, at yet another banquet, this one celebrating the night-hunt winner, Nie MingJue makes it a point to place more food on XiChen’s plate, and XiChen makes it a point to eat everything that is placed in front of him.

He fully intends to find an opportunity to express his gratitude for being provided with his own chambers. He does not want Nie MingJue to think him unappreciative or dissatisfied. At the same time, he hopes to receive some hint of how he is to proceed, now that he knows a different bed is available to his use. An opportunity never comes, however, and for the third night in the row, he finds himself alone in their marriage bed, mind filled with fears and worries.

[kewltie]

contains: slavery, caste system 

Quirkless. Lesser. Lesser than humans.

The thick metal collar goes around his neck and closes with a secured beep. "Be good to your new master, Izuku," the Headmaster instructs. "You're the pride of our academy so try not to shame us. Always remember your lessons and oath."

"We serve at the behest of those who greater than us," Izuku recites solemnly. A mantra that was beaten into him since he was taken from his mother's arms by the DQA when he was only just eight years old and deposited in one of its many training academies.

"Good, good," the Headmaster says, looking particularly pleased with himself. "You're quite fortunate that you're benefactor is such a high profile character that you might be able to pay off your contract debt in ten years or so."

"Yes," Izuku agrees, even though he wouldn't have acquired such a debt if he wasn't stolen away and forced to learn at the feet of adults who claimed to know better. Claimed they were there to help him because he is quirkless. Useless. He must be taught to serve society better.

"Will they--," he swallows the flash of nerves for a moment, "may I know who is to be my new master?" The Headmaster grins, eyes twinkling brightly against Izuku's shadowy apprehension. "I have no doubt that you may already know his name."

"A public  figure?" Izuku murmurs thoughtfully. A politician or an idol perhaps? Someone whose name and face is spread everywhere enough that even locked away in the fortress of the academy Izuku would still be familiar with him to recognize who he is. "A celebrity then?"

The Headmaster snorts in amusement. "Close enough," he answers. "In his line of work he might as well be with the way the media and his legion of devout fans like the sink their teeth into him if they could." Izuku blinks, mind racing as he connects the dot. "A prohero?!"

His eyes widen and lower jaw dropping in surprise when the Headmaster gave a short nod. "I believe he's around your age, so young still but a prodigy they say. Having broken into the top fifty ranking in only two year after his graduation from U.A, now he’s among the top ten. His performance had truly been impressive.”

Izuku's heart stops.

U.A., the school Izuku had once dreamed of going to before it all came crashing down. In another life, in another world it would have been his alma mater, but this is his reality now. Now, he can only glimpse of those heroes on TV and thinks of all the could haves, would haves.

That should be me out there, his younger self had thought with a yearnful heart as he pressed his hand against the screen of the TV, but the academy was no place for broken dreams and fanciful wishes. It carved out every weakness of his and crushed it under its firmed teaching.

Izuku may have outgrown those childhood fancies, but he never stopped looking toward the sky like a bird with clipped wings. If he couldn't be one of them then he wanted to know everything about them. News clippings, scholarly journals, and books, he had devoured it all.

"I know you always did have a fondness of the proheroes scene," the Headmaster comments idly like Izuku's earlier obsession with heroes, though argue by his handlers that it had truly never gone away, wasn't a topic of heated contention throughout his years at the academy.

"This is the best match up we could ever hope for. You're one of our most brightest students--one I, dearsay, haven't seen in decades," he says, looking fondly at Izuku as though Izuku hasn't been dragged into his office so many times for corrective behavior measure.

Izuku has always been a good boy, but never an obedience one, his former teachers would often lament about that fact. It's precisely why although Izuku had had broken so many grounds and records at the academy, consistently ranked at the top of his class, but finding him a proper sponsor was hard.

On paper, he was perfect, if choosing to ignore his long disciplinary paper trail, but once the sponsor had met him in person and saw all the cracks of his polished submission in the rigid of his shoulders and eyes unwilling to fall to the floor, they knew right away--there was something terribly wrong with him.

Like, how he was a failure for being born quirkless so they had to carefully train him up with the best money the government could buy in hope that one day he could serve their best and brightest. Even then he'd failed to live up to their expectations of him.

"This pro-hero," Izuku says slowly and carefully. "Does he know of me?" Will he also be disappointed when he meets Izuku like all the rest?

"He specifically requested you. He was very insistent about it," the Headmaster responds, and then he frowns. “Rather forceful actually. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I'd even suggested going through our catalogues of other Lessers first before he make up his mind, but he nearly rip my head off." His frown deepens as his face pinches at the memory. "Such a crude behavior indeed. I almost wanted decline if it wasn't for his reputable reputation as a hero."

Izuku's eyes widen. "He asked for me personally? Who is he then—tell me?!" he demands, taking several steps toward the Headmaster with hands extended out as thought he was going to shake the answer right out of him. 

"Izuku," the Headmaster snaps, eyes narrowing in contempt. "Calm yourself! You’re not a child anymore. You're a representative of this elite academy, so such ill manner does not become us!”  

Izuku freezes, quickly dropping his hands to his side once more. "I--" His gaze fall to the ground as heat rises to his cheek. "I deeply apologize, sir. I don’t know what came over me like that." He quickly falls back, putting enough distance between them to regain his composure. 

The Headmaster sighs. "I know you're excited because this may be your last chance at getting a benefactor after so many fail sponsorships, but do not forget your place, Izuku." 

Izuku’s mouth dries and there’s an awful twist in his guts as another lecture starts rolling in. 

"It's with your head bowed, eyes down, and on your knees at the feet of your master. You're incredibly brilliant and talented student, but no matter how good you are you're still a Lesser," he explains as though Izuku hadn't heard it a hundred times before. "You'll never amount to anything spectacular compare to the rest of us. Such is the plight of the quirkless." 

Izuku bristles, hands clenching and unclenching at his side but he holds his tongue. If he says the wrong thing again, it'll cost him maybe everything. 

It only takes one chance. That's all he need. A reason to get out of the academy's iron grip and its intense scrutiny so he'll have room to breathe and plan his way out of these shackles that bind him.

Freedom on bent knees and a collar around his neck. Oh, the irony.

"I keep that in mind, sir," Izuku murmurs, plastering a smile that he doesn't quite feel on his face. "When will I meet my new master then?"

"Now," the Headmaster says with a wave of his hand toward the exit of his office. "I'll take you to him right this instance."

Izuku jerks in surprise. "So soon?!" he asks. Though he'd long accepted his fate is not his own, but he hasn't been mentally and emotionally prep for a meeting with the man whose name will be carved onto his collar. 

The Headmaster purses his lip unhappily. "He wants to meet you right away even though I'd insisted we give it a few days to prepare you first, but he's--" he scrunches up his face in annoyance, "extremely vocal about what he wants. Twenty billion yens will get you a whole lot of favor it seems."  

Izuku chokes on air.

Twenty billion yen?! "Is that--" Izuku starts and then stops, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. "I-Is that how much he'd paid for me?" 

The Headmaster frowns, scratching his chin as he steers Izuku out of his office. "It's how much he's sponsoring you for." 

"Ah, I see," Izuku replies, even though he doesn't see how is that any different. No matter how they may have prettied it up, it's still an exchange of money for a service and in any other world that would be frown upon but here's it's a way of life for the quirkless. 

The Headmaster escorts him through the winding halls of the academy where several students--their age vary as young as seven to even older than Izuku at twenty-seven--roam unrestricted in the hallway during their free period. 

The campus is a sprawling education complex.

They're always learning to be good, better, for their master. Everything is for their master. From basic domestic skills like cooking and cleaning to learning violin first hand under a maestro, and then there's math and physics. The education here varies and complex.

It's all in service of their master in the future. They must be mold to be whatever their master needed. Trained to be the best so they can serve to the best of their abilities as companion, assistant, and consort. They have to be everything and nothing at all.

Coveted by those who only saw value in the rarity and the novelty of owning a Lesser, Izuku and his kind are ornament pieces meant to decorate the arms of their master but once their master get bored of them, they're quickly discarded and are no longer of any worth.

They are consider a priceless treasure up until the point when they're not anymore. To be treated like a commodity, with no inherent worth until others deem it so, is not the way Izuku wanted to live.

But nobody had given him a choice in that regard. Him and thousands of others like him. 

"We're here," the Headmaster says as they stand outside of one of the private VIP rooms where they often entertain special guests visiting the academy. It's a place Izuku had been to many times before, presented to potential sponsors like a piece of meat to be sold.

There's a price on Izuku's head, a price on the head of all the students here. It an arbitrary number, but it's important enough that people have live and die by it. Izuku knows his worth and it has little to do what anyone else think, but it all comes back to money in the end.

Money from sponsorship that lined the pocket of the academy, money that kept Izuku and others collared and trap in their gilded cage and it is ultimately money that brought Izuku right in front of this door to meet the man who will decide his fate. Izuku puts on his warpaint.

He wears an indomitable smile on his face as though it was carved from stone as the Headmaster pushes the door open and leads him in. His eyes flutter shut for a moment and he breathes as he steps forward onto the battlefield with nothing but his wits to guide him through.

The room opens up to marble titles lining the floor, lights cascade down from a crystal chandelier hanging above, several muted grey accent chairs surround a glass coffee table, the walls are painted white on white, and even the rest of the decor stay resolutely neutral in colors. 

It's simple, clean cut, and modern. And it left Izuku feeling cold and bereft every time he walk into this room. The only jarring difference this time around is the other person in the room beside him and the Headmaster. His presence alone immediately takes up all the space in Izuku's head and leaves him startlingly breathless and dazed with confusion.

Domineering is a word, Izuku would use. All-consuming is another. It's like stepping into a vortex and getting swept right up in the eye of its storm. A furious red storm that Izuku had been caught in since he was a child, fallen under its spell with a single infuriating glance. It's those same pair of eyes that had looked at him with contempt and scorn back then as though whatever they found of him it was sorely lacking. 

The man doesn't rise from his seat and didn't offer a single word, but Izuku knows him, knows him like he knows his own heartbeat. The slope of his shoulders, the wide expanse of his back, the hard plane of his chest, every inch of him Izuku had a glimpsed of on the TV screen, he’d committed it all to memory.

It been more than ten years since they have stood right in front of each other, Izuku had changed since then but so did he. He's taller. Bigger. His presence more pronounce and dizzying in way like he'd finally grown into the great person he always boasted to be.

But then again, he wasn't ever boasting. He had meant every word of it. Believe it like it was a certainty that carried him through every one of decision and action. Izuku have always admired that decisive nature of his and here he is again, appearing before him like a dream made real.

The Headmaster lowers his head slightly in greeting. "Zero-san, I have brought him just as you requested," he says, stepping aside to let Bakugou Katsuki have full view of Izuku like he hasn't been boring a hole in Izuku's head since the moment they'd walked through the doors.

All the training that got him here, he had things he been primed to say, it all went out the window the second Izuku had seen him because nothing had prepared him for this, for reuniting with his former childhood friend again after more than a decade. Bakugou Katsuki is the one person he would have never expected to come here, let alone if it’s for Izuku. The last time they had seen each other, they’d parted with a lot of tears and vitriol thrown at each other.

“—I never want to see you again, you useless nerd! I hate you, I fucking hate you. Go away!”

The marks left over from that fight had never truly healed. Years later, he still carried those bitter words to into his dream, always wondering if he had another chance maybe he could have mended their tattered friendship again. Now, staring into the eyes of the nightmare that had haunted him ever since then, a strange mixture of wariness and curiosity warring within him.

“K-Kacchan—?” he asks, moving in stuttering steps as though he was pulled forward.

“Izuku! What are you doing?!” the Headmaster hisses, scandalized tone leaking into his voice, but Izuku found it was impossible to heed his words. “Stop that now!”

He takes another step and another, and then the collar around his neck constricts and sends a jolt of electricity throughout his body, dropping Izuku to the floor in shock. Izuku’s trembling hands fumble at his collar as he desperately tries catch his breath.

Out of the corner of his panic stricken eyes, he catches the sound of heavy footsteps as Katsuki makes his way to the Headmaster in three long strides. He grabs the Headmaster by the collar of his shirt and shakes him. “What the fuck did you do him, you bastard?!” is the first thing Katsuki says, and it’s so, so fierce and cutting that the words cut through the air like lightning.

Izuku recoils, fear taking hold of him for a second.

The Headmaster’s mask of composure doesn’t slip one bit, not even in the face of a top twenty rank pro-hero. Wordlessly, he carefully removes Katsuki’s hand from his person and smiles reassuringly. “Zero-san, it was just a precaution to control him in case the Lesser acted out. Don’t worry, he’s fine,” he promises, his voice slipping into a melodious and soothing tone.

Right away, Izuku can feel the earlier rise of panic and anxiety stirring inside of him is quickly disappearing under the Headmaster’s emphatic quirk. As a level four, the Headmaster has masterful commands of his quirk that let him use his voice to inject emotions into everyone nearby. It’s one of the many reasons he was left in charge of the Lesser Sponsorship Program because he could easily defuse any complicated situations if it arise to that. “Your merchandise remains unharmed,” he is quick to assure Katsuki, instilling as much calm as he could in those words that Izuku’s head is fuzzy with warmth, choking on a sweet toxic scent and if the Headmaster had asked, Izuku would have walked into fire for him.

But Katsuki is not Izuku, he isn’t defenseless babe against such a measly mind altering quirk. Katsuki snarls, shoving the Headmaster abruptly back. Hastily, he wraps a hand around his biceps, nails digging into his skin as he winces in a pain but whatever he did, he sobers up quickly after that.

A level four quirk user going up against a level six, who had been training and perfecting his power since he was young to able to use it at professional level and fight for his life and the lives of millions of other, is a joke in many ways.

The Headmaster is completely outmatched this time.

“Cut that shit out or I’ll blast a fucking hole in your head,” Katsuki bites out, vicious and meaning every word of it. Both of his palms are crackling with intent.

For once, the Headmaster acquiesces as he steps back and fixes his shirt. He remains cool and unperturbed, but the slightest tremble in his hands says otherwise. “I apologize, Zero-san, if I offended you somehow,” he offers, and slowly the tense air around them clears out.

Izuku can finally breathe properly now as thought a spell was lifted from him.

“Yea?” Katsuki sneers. “And who said you can put a fucking collar on him?! I didn’t tell you to do any of that shit.”

“Sir with all due respect, it’s standard procedure to assure the safety of our clients. We put it on every one of our Lessers when they’re meeting with their potential sponsor for the first time and during their probationary period,” the Headmaster explains as calmly as possible against Katsuki’s rising anger.

“He’s quirkless! What the fuck can he even do to me, huh?! The day I let a loser like him get the better of me is the day my old hag of a mother stop nagging me about useless shit,” Katsuki spits out.

Before Izuku can even let Katsuki’s jab against him sink in, he is drag up from the floor by the arm. Just as he got both feet planted on the ground, Katsuki’s hand reaches for him, his palm hovering right over Izuku’s throat. Eyes wide with shock, Izuku can feel the heat emanating from Katsuki’s touch and he quickly squeezes his eyes, mentally preparing for the pain to come.

It never did. A crackling pop erupts near his ears and he hears nothing else except for the burnt smell of metal teasing at his nose.

He gingerly opens his eyes to see whatever remains of the collar on the floor and Katsuki already retreating several steps back with a scowl on his face. Pawing his hands clumsily at his throat as though to make sure it’s real, his neck feels strangely bare and light for once.

“You won’t be needing this anymore,” Katsuki asserts, but it wasn’t aim toward Izuku.

“That was unnecessary, Zero-san,” the Headmaster rebukes, but he moves no actual move about it. Izuku casts a quick glance at the Headmaster beside him and sees while he’d managed to keep his voice even, he is clearly shaken by the Katsuki’s abrupt and forceful action.

Izuku has no doubt the Headmaster has every reason to be terrified.

Even at eight, Katsuki was rated by the Bureau of Quirk Testing to be a level three, making him leaps and bounds ahead of kids their age. Under the Number System, the government gives the most benefit and support to those people with higher quirk level. In a caste like class system where society value those with active overt quirk that are flashy and useful, Katsuki was already set apart from everyone else a young age. He was already overpowered and talented back then, but it was untrained and wild.

Now, seeing tit up close and personal, the way he had blasted the collar off of Izuku without leaving a single singed mark on him, it was so precise and in control that Izuku can’t help the swell of admiration rising up in him. Their years apart had done wonder for Katsuki’s burning talent. While Izuku was learning to get on bent knees and serving his future master properly, Katsuki was honing his skills and fighting villains in order to keep their world safe. The difference in their two diverging paths is a bitter pill for Izuku to swallow.

He digs his nail in palm as he curl right fist, but his expression doesn’t change. Katsuki’s entire series of action remain a puzzling mystery to him. Izuku knows Katsuki, of the young boy who was once his friend and then nothing at all, but that was back then; he doesn’t know of the man who stands before him now.

Katsuki is silence for a moment, his eyes unflinchingly rakes over Izuku as though he prying apart Izuku piece by piece to see what he is made of. Izuku shrinks into himself unconsciously under the intense scrutiny.

“Fuck this shit,” Katsuki declares finally, breaking the stilted silence, “we’re getting out of here.”

Izuku’s jaw drops in surprise. “W-What?”

“Wait—sir, you can’t take him yet!” the Headmaster interjects quickly.

Katsuki’s head swivel toward him with a glare. “Didn’t you get the money I wired to you?” he demands .

“Well, yes, but there are still paperworks for you to sign,” the Headmaster answers. “And I would like go over our ninety days grace period in case you any sort problem arise or you find our Izuku lacking during that time.”

“No need. Send it all to my lawyers,” Katsuki instructs, and before the Headmaster can get another word wedge in, he takes Izuku by the hand.  “Come on.” He drags Izuku forward with a forceful tug. “This entire place creep me the fuck out,” he says, cursing a storm under his breath as they leave behind a disgruntle looking Headmaster, who clearly never dealt with such a whirlwind in the likes of Bakugou Katsuki.

Izuku quietly lets Katsuki drag him of out the room and into the wide hallway, and leads him out across the campus without any further exchange. They didn’t speak much or at all in the VIP room previously, but the things he wanted to say and ask were things he doesn’t know if he could.

It’s all very, very different now. They’re not kids anymore; Katsuki who stands at the pinnacle of society while Izuku is just a lowly Lesser. He doesn’t know what he can hope to expect from this version of a much older and mature Katsuki.

He can only hope to find out in the following days, that is if Katsuki doesn’t send him back right away once he realize Izuku is not what he wanted.

In their silence, they march through one of the big botanic gardens where most of the students congregate in their free time and in their hurry they stir up enough commotion with Katsuki’s recognizable face and fame, and then there’s Izuku’s notoriety.

Loud whispers swirl around them as they make their way the garden.  

“Is that Ground Zero?!”

“Wait, what is he even doing here?”

“—and with Midoriya of all people?”

“Did nobody warn him that Midoriya is a defected goods with how many sponsors he had turned over?”

“How much you bet Zero will send him back here in a week.”

“Not even. Watch, it’ll be just three days.”  

Izuku grimaces. They haven’t step off the academy yet and the rumors are already running amok. Izuku’s stellar reputation in the academy precedes him once more.  

“Ignore those fuckers,” Katsuki hisses, tightening his hand around Izuku’s own as they make it pass the garden and enters the main pathway toward the visitor plaza, where the entrance and exit is tucked away in. “I’ll kick their ass for spouting bullshit if I didn’t want to get out of here as soon as possible. The longer we stay here the more I want to blow up this entire place up.”

Katsuki’s hatred for this place is made obvious, but then why did he even come here in the first place? Is it really for him? But, then why? What did Katsuki even want from him? All these questions dog his step and confuses him even more. But in that moment he realizes there’s something even more important that he was forgetting.

“Kacchan, wait,” Izuku calls out, pulling to a stop.  

Katsuki’s arm is yanked back and he too halted in his spot because of Izuku. “What now, Deku,” he snaps, turning around with an impatient expression on his face.  

“I have to clean out my dorm first,” Izuku tells him, shifting his foot nervously. “There are things I want to get.”

Katsuki clicks his tongue in annoyance. “Just leave it. Whatever you need I’ll get buy it for you later.” At Izuku’s frown, he sighs. “What other useless things do you even that is important enough to stay at this cesspool any longer?”

Izuku bites down on his lower lip, pauses, and looks away. “My mother’s mementos,” he answers finally.

A beat, then. “Fine, we’ll go get your stuff first but after that you’re coming home with me,” he states, like it’s an unshakeable true. “No more fucking detour, you hear me?”

And that’s all it take, just those few words is all the assurance he need that maybe this wasn’t some cruel joke after all. Home. With Katsuki. He is going home with Katsuki. Katsuki wants him enough to take him home. For what reason, Izuku doesn’t know yet but he takes note that Katsuki hasn’t let go of Izuku’s hand since they’d walked out on the Headmaster.

Katsuki’s hand rough, full of calluses and little cuts and scars, but it’s warm and he holds Izuku’s with immeasurable care. Though Katsuki’s words hadn’t been kind, his hands speak for what couldn’t be translate into words.

This he will trust. In this he hands over his fate to Katsuki, so please, please don’t disappoint him like the rest of the world had. Katsuki has him by the his heartstring and Izuku hopes he doesn’t regret it.

[maximumphilosopheranchor]

Hello!Can you give information about philip ii’s court and people that surrendered him in general?

Hello!

Sorry for the delay. I was pondering a lot drafting my answer how to respond to your question the best because firstly it’s too broad a matter to deal with it here, and, secondly, Philip’s biographies I have read don’t provide as much detailed information on the court under Philip as I would like. Also, I have to say - I haven’t done with reading about Philip and this is something I look forward to learn more about in future.

Anyway, here’s what I gathered. It covers the order after Philip’s return to Spain in 1559.

“The ‘court’ in Madrid had several functions. At the centre was the king, served by his household. There were satellite households, of the queen, the Infantas, and other immediate members of the royal family. Their combined personnel, adding on the staff in the stables and the guards, amounted to a small army. The theatre of their activities was the enlarged and reformed Alcázar [the royal palace, formerly fortress]. The king as chief actor brought three other spheres of activity into this scenario: the functioning of government, the management of diplomacy and ritual, and the direction of public entertainment. Fixing the king’s residence in Madrid gave for the first time in Spain’s history a permanent location for all these functions. (..)

Since the adoption of Burgundian ceremonial in 1548 the size of the royal household had grown enormously. The main component was the king’s household, divided into five main  units: household, kitchen, chapel, stables and cellar. Each unit was headed by a nobleman in charge of its administration. The household guard formed an additional unit. Other immediate members of the royal family had smaller households, all financed by the king. The most drastic innovation of these years was the large and expensive retinue which Elizabeth Valois brought and insisted on maintaining, although many of the servants were sent home a few weeks later. The Venetian ambassador felt that it was because ‘the Frenchmen were very ill-dressed, dirty, careless and disrespectful’. Elizabeth’s demands inflated the queen’s household into an entity almost as large as that of the king. (..)

The king’s court in his last dozen years suffered from a lack of social gaiety, due in part to the king’s poor health, in part to his absences and travels. But for the first twenty-five years of the reign there was no lack of vitality. (..) Three factors explain the vigorous life of the royal circle. Most nobles took the court seriously; the queens contributed enormously to social life; and the king himself had an active interest in music and entertainment. (..)

No European court could exist without a client nobility. The Spanish nobles continued to have immense military and economical resources, but these were threatened by rising costs and a high death-rate among heirs. The court offered hope, because it presented the chance of employment and influence, as well as contacts which could lead to marriage. For those who liked such things, there was also the life-style, a welcome relief after the monotony of the provinces. As Madrid grew, more and more nobles gravitated there. ‘It is terrible,’ the king commented, ‘that they all want to leave their estates and become residents of the court.’ A courtly society came into existence, with its own special rules and, later, its own literature. The court of the king, like the courts of the great nobility, was a theatre not only of ritual but also of entertainment, leisure and diversion. (..)

The contribution of the queens to court life was fundamental. Elizabeth of Valois from the beginning tried to reproduce the gaiety of the Renaissance court she had left behind. She enjoyed parties, masked balls, buffoonery, spectacles, outings to her palaces, and picnics. (..) In jousts, she played the part of liege lady to the three young court princes: Don Carlos, Don Juan of Austria, and the prince of Parma. It gave them a romantic scenario which in turn influenced their chivalric ideals. Elizabeth also contributed to the cultural life of court by her love of music, plays and art: she extended her personal patronage to Sanchez Coello and to the Italian Sofonisba. Anna’s [Philip’s fourth wife] role was more subdued and coincided more closely with that of Philip. In the absences of the king’s court, the queens had their own social life in Madrid. Anna loved comedies. In February 1571, she ‘enjoyed herself in the apartments of the princess [Philip’s sister Juana] at a comedy that she ordered to be performed there. At four in the afternoon the Infantas [Philip’s daughters] went to join the queen and enjoyed the play as though they were much older.’

The king’s sisters also played a crucial role. When the empress Maria came to reside in Madrid, she contributed powerfully to the prestige of a city which, during Philip’s absence in Lisbon, had no king. She set herself up in apartments in convent of the Descalzas, where she periodically put on musical entertainments. All visiting dignitaries to Madrid were obliged by protocol to make a formal visit to the empress before calling on any other official.

(..) In his youth as well as during his years abroad, he [Philip] had delighted in jousts and tourneys. The Amadis of Gaul was one of his favourite books (he later approved it as a set text for his son Philip when the latter began to learn French). Whenever possible he presided over tournaments at court. (..) The essential feature of the ‘court’ in Madrid was the royal household. If the king was away, he took most of his household with him. This turned the Alcázar into an empty shell, populated only by its staff, some government officials, and the household of any remaining member of the royal family (..) Practical factors, such as the sheer cost of moving around the kingdom, were beginning to distance European rulers from their subjects. Complex ceremonial further helped to isolate the king. Philip was deeply concerned for his people, but had little effective contact with them. He felt that his accessibility on feast-days, which he tried to maintain all his life, was adequate. (..) As often as feasible, he had his lunch ‘in public’. But this involved no more than lunching (alone) in one of the large reception rooms of the Alcázar, where members of the court and public might see him. (..) He made a rule of being accessible to private petitions while going to or from Sunday mass and deliberately walked slowly, so that people would have a chance to catch up with him.”

Henry Kamen, Philip of Spain

As you can see although Philip had made Madrid the capital city in 1561 he didn’t reside there permanently. He traveled considerably within his Iberian realms and moved among his country palaces which he improved, rebuilt or built - the Pardo, Aranjuez, Valsaín, also known as El Bosque de Segovia, and later, of course, El Escorial where he spent much time after 1571 - and which were located not far from Madrid. In his far distance journeys through the Iberian peninsula the large part of the court went with him but to his country palaces he usually took with himself a small entourage.

“Although Philip made Madrid his permanent administrative capital in 1561 he spent less than half his life there. He resided in his Aragonese lands for several months in 1563-4 and 1585-6, with a shorter visit in 1592; he toured Andalusia in 1570; and in 1580 he left for Portugal and spent three years away from Madrid. Teofilo Ruiz has stressed in A king travels that these long, slow royal progresses involved immense preparation and lavish urban spectacles that often left the king exhausted, and that each of them was ‘inextricably linked to the exercise and experience of power’. At other times the king travelled informally, moving rapidly between his country houses with a small entourage and sometimes alone as he tried to escape the bustle of his court, because ‘tranquility’, according to a Venetian ambassador in 1565, ‘is His Majesty’s greatest entertainment and relaxation’.”

Geoffrey Parker, Imprudent King: A New Life of Philip II

Beside Philip’s wives, sisters, and children at his court in various time periods lived also other his family members: Philip’s illegitimate half-brother Don Juan of Austria, Philip’s nephews Alessandro Farnese, the Duke of Parma, and Arch-Dukes Rudolf, Ernest, Albert and Wenceslas.

On the men who surrounded Philip at the beginning of his reign.

Philip’s closest friend and one of the most important advisers was Ruy Gómez de Silva (1516-1573). He was a Portuguese nobleman and had served Philip’s mother as a page. He and the Castilian nobleman Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, the Duke of Alba, were Philip’s most influential household officers. According to Patrick Williams:

“Technically, his power-base derived from his office of sumiller de corps [court officer in charge of supervising the dressing and undressing of a king and everything to do with the royal bedchamber], in which capacity he controlled the working of Philip’s household, but in reality he owed his political power to his personal relationship with the monarch. Philip had come to trust Ruy Gómez’s judgement and recognised that he needed his moral and practical support as he entered into his kingship. It may indeed have been to prevent Ruy Gomez from exercising too great an influence over Philip that Charles had placed Alba and Gómez in equally strong positions at the head of Philip’s household – Alba as his mayordomo mayor [chief officer of a household] and Ruy Gómez as his sumiller de corps. In England the two men began a struggle for influence that continued until Ruy Gómez ’s death.”

Patrick Williams, Philip II

Apart from this and other posts Philip also created Ruy Gómez the Prince of Éboli and Duke of Pastrana.

Philip’s the second perhaps closest friend after Ruy was Luis de Requesens (1528-1576), the son of Philip’s governor Juan de Zúñiga and his wife Estefanía de Requesens both of whom Philip held in high regard. Unlike Ruy Gómez  who was 11 years older than Philip Luis born in 1528 was almost of the same age as Philip and they grew up together, he was Philip’s chief page. He never acquired such power as Ruy Gómez  but Philip relied on him greatly and entrusted him important missions which often included controlling the behaviour of someone whose judgement Philip doubted. Philip created him the Grand Commander of Castile and he served Philip as a diplomat and soldier, as lieutenant general to Philip’s half-brother Don Juan suppressing the Morisco revolt, as viceroy of Milan and the Governor of the Netherlands (1573-76).

Among Philip’s personal confidants were also Gómez Suárez de Figueroa, Count and later Duke of Feria (his first representative to Elizabeth I), and don Antonio de Toledo.

Beside Ruy Gómez and the Duke of Alba important statesmen at the beginning of Philip’s reign (not counting those he left in the Netherlands) were: Philip’s secretary Gonzalo Pérez, Francisco de Eraso, secretary of the Council of Finance, Bartolomé de Carranza, Archbishop of Toledo, Fernando de Valdés, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor-General, Philip’s confessor Bernardo de Fresneda. During the 1560s a very influential figure was Cardinal Diego de Espinosa whom Philip appointed a member of the council of State, president of the council of Castile and Inquisitor-General. As very important government figures during the second half of the 1560s emerged Philip’s secretaries Antonio Pérez and Mateo Vázquez who was also Philip’s chaplain.

If you have means or access I recommend you to check Maria José Rodriguez-Salgado’s article 'The Court of Philip II of Spain' in R. Asch and A.M. Birke (Eds), Princes, Patronage and the Nobility: The Court at the Beginning of the Modern Age, c.1450-1650 and The Courtier and the King: Ruy Gómez de Silva, Philip II, and the Court of Spain by James M. Boyden.

[selfcontrolbuilders]

Self-Control Story - Chapter 1: Doubt

N04H stood before him, almost broken to the point he had already voiced out his last will. Hammer in hand, he was disposed to comply his last will. He lifted it, ready to swing it at the remains… But the hit never came. The hammer slipped his hands and tears slipped down his face.

“-Hey! How could you do this to me!?-Malroth’s voice sounded in his head.

-Forgive me, Malroth. Anessa has convinced His Majesty that you are too dangerous to walk free, and I cannot refuse a direct command from my king-the voice of that hypocrite and traitor sounded.

Truth to be told, Ice had been quite resented for what Warwick did. To the length of kicking him where it hurt the most before starting the fight.

-I’m not talking to you, stupid. Why, Ice? Why would you build a dungeon for them to throw me into? Just because they asked nicely?

That stung. He didn’t do things just because they asked nicely. While it is true he didn’t ask for an explanation, he had enough gears in his head to create a reasoning as to why they needed it, especially in Moonbrooke. In that kingdom he had been so cautious he had started throwing suspicion even on the king. Anessa was a suspect because of Warwick’s saying, then Warwick was suspicious for throwing such blame on her, the rest of soldiers… Well, Gerome had indeed manifested himself against his beliefs. Zara had been with the deserting soldiers, who had come from the outside, so she was under suspicion too.

-Listen, Malroth, nobody had-he was cut by his best friend turning around so he facing his back.

-I don’t want to hear your excuses. I don’t even want to see your face.”

Why? Why did he say that? He understood he had felt betrayed that time, but…

“The key fit in perfectly, meaning the only traitor was Warwick. He opened the door and neared his friend.

-Malroth…

-Oh. It’s you-he said with such indifference and disgust Ice felt as if his entire reality would turn into that one nightmare he once lived-So, you’ve finally decided to let me out, have you? What’s happened?

-Well, I built a huge tower weapon and… Atlas, the Major General of monsters wants to destroy us all… And is coming over for a visit-Ice said looking at the side, if Malroth was this resented then he’ll probably make a fuss over the weapon.

-…Huh. So you’ve built a massive magical cannon, and now the Major General of the monsters is on his way over to destroy us all. Ha ha ha! Are you serious? There’s a big, bad baddie coming, so now you decide to let me out of my cell?

-“Malroth, please, it’s not my fault that we live in an absolutist system…”-was what he’d wished to say, but hesitance pushed him back.

-You leave me locked away here-never even dropping by to say hello-and now that you’re in trouble, you come to me for help?

-“They didn’t let me anywhere near the cell! I would have passed by to say hello and have even a one-sided conversation!”-another answer that he wanted so badly to say, to scream at him… But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t.

-You’re disgusting, Gelius-Malroth spat like his name was poison.

He went out of the cell without bothering to look back. Ice was left alone trembling, but not from cold or fear. Malroth’s rejection and hatred stung so badly… It was as if somebody had been poisoning with a slow-working venom of those that really sting you. He tightened fists he hadn’t noticed that had formed. A shadow cast on his face, Ice cursed Rubiss for the first time in his whole life. He’d never been a religious person, in fact, he’d built the church because he knew the others were believers that needed a guide. He only built it because of the request that had formed by those who follow Rubiss. He hated the Goddess now with every cell of his being. Pure hatred that also targeted Hargon and his whole army. He hated everything now, every monster and human who believed things would go well, because, for him, things weren’t going well at all. A tear slipped and fell to the floor, shattering, for it was frozen.

-I hate you, Rubiss-he muttered when he’d anticipated the light glow trying to reach him-Don’t you even dare speak to me or I’ll go and seek for a way of destroying you, make you suffer. Haven’t I already proved vengeful enough for you to be cautious? Aren’t I that cursed child even his family rejects? Give it up, will you? I don’t care if it’s Erdrick’s or the Demon Lord’s blood the one that runs through my veins, I don’t care about wielding a sword to fight for a destiny that never belonged to me.”

There was no way Malroth would have ever wanted to see him again after he got thrown into the cell. That was bothersome for Ice. Build a castle, Lulu said, it will culminate our kingdom.

-“You can go burn in hell, Lulu”-he thought-“Did the thought of me being in the right mood to build a castle ever pass your head? I may have imagination, but back then I would have drawn a gigantic fortress with several weapons, like Cantlin.”

He didn’t even pay attention to whatever were Anessa and the others building. He couldn’t have cared less. Yowies? Snow fields? Those were already noted down by somebody else in the book. Traps? He was born in a giant fortress with weapons hidden everywhere. He would’ve loved to create the Cantlin Shield, though.  In his mood, so stressed and mad over what had happened in the Kingdom, how a friendship that lasted three islands went to waste in less than a second. Sure, the thing about Ra’s mirror was another thing Malroth was angry about, but he had made sure to point out he had used the mirror on everyone, even the king himself, that he could have built a whole fortress around the Isle of Awakening with such traps not even the ship could’ve survived. Had he had a bit more of time…

“-Malroth, wait-Ice said after having gained back his composure, putting a hand on his shoulder.

-What? What else do you want?-he snapped turning with a harsh glare.

-Malroth, plase, I didn’t intend to imprison you, and I couldn’t decide even whether to-he was cut off by the red-eyed man again.

-Shut up! Okay? Just shut up. I’ve had enough of your excuses.

Tears welled up in Ice’s eyes. He’d already had an open wound with Malroth’s snappy behavior, and now it felt as if Malroth had thrown salt on it.

-Oh, for crying out- Anyone’d think you were the one whose best friend betrayed them…

-Malroth!-Anessa called.

Ice stopped listening at that point, looking away from Anessa. He didn’t want to show himself weak after slaughtering so mercilessly all those monsters, screaming and cursing each one of them as if a demon had possessed him. He’d even joked about doing an exorcism… Before Warwick and Anessa discovered the true nature of such an animalistic blood-thirst. Half human, half monster. Rejected by humans for being part monster, rejected by most monsters for being part human. The only creature that had accepted him as he was had been Malroth. His somewhat sassy and slightly rude behavior slightly reminded Ice of himself, when he was in Cantlin people often mentioned how he looked and acted like his grandfather, a very sassy and snappy builder with a great talent, merging Tantegel into one city, teaching the builders in Cantlin and becoming a modal builder in all of Alefgard, and Erdrick’s only cousin. The one that forged the Sword that the Prince of Midenhall used to slaughter the evil priest Hargon and his Master, whose name had been locked up inside his memories, no matter how many times he’d heard it.

-Hey, Gelius-calling him by that name was the part it hurt the most. He’d told him to call him Ice instead of Gelius, since “Ice Crystal” was the name his mother gave him, Gelius being his grandfather’s name, which had been passed down on him-I’ll help you beat Atlas. But after that, we’re done. You built a dungeon to lock me away and only let me out when you needed my help. That’s low.

Another critical hit. His soul’s HP seriously needed those medicinal herbs he carried around, or a healing spell at that matter.

-I suppose it makes sense, though. Why would a builder like you care about a guy like me who can only destroy stuff? I thought we could be friends, but I guess I was wrong. You and me, Gelius-we’re through.

“Since when were we a couple?” was the first thought that crossed Ice’s mind. Then, he processed the sentence’s meaning, which actually made him feel like his soul had been ripped by the Master of Destruction himself. Ironically, he eventually discovered Malroth indeed was the Master of Destruction, so he added this situation to the ones where irony made such a hurtful effect it was painful even to remember.”

His origins was something he kept a secret to everyone. The fact he had the legendary Erdrick’s blood running through his veins and at the same time monster blood also ran through said vessels made the irony even more accentuated whenever he thought of his destiny here. He had thought of the irony of it all when the king of Moonbrooke told him the blood of the hero ran through his veins and his knowledge about a certain secret that it seemed to also have been passed down in his family when he saw a very old and dusty blueprint about the Kazapple Cannon.

“Peace. How ironic. The world may be at peace, but his world was crumbling, falling apart. Anessa celebrated it, along many others. They even made a feast and a firework show. Ice couldn’t care less about shiny exploding things by then. He felt as if his soul was tearing itself apart, which would eventually lead to either multiple personalities or his own death. He went to talk with Malroth, sure, but only because the king asked so.

Perhaps he really was like Malroth had said. Doing things just because they asked for them nicely.

-…Huh? Oh, Gelius, it’s you. How long have you been standing there?

-“Good question, Malroth, I even lost track of time during the feast, so I wasn’t conscious I’d made it here until you said so, I could’ve fallen from the wall and I’d still be walking was it not for you and your little question.”

-That Kazapple cannon of yours is really something. Guess you won’t need me around to beat up the monsters any more.

-“Actually, I can’t make more than that one… Though if you saw how I’ve been in battle lately…”

-You build thing, I mash monsters. But you don’t need me any more-and I don’t need you-“Stop playing tough”-Once we get back to the island, we can go our separate ways.

The rest of the night was just a fuzz of lights and noise. He had been fond of exploding things once when he was about twelve. The Master Builder had to stop him before he blew up the Tantegel’s center with fireworks and wrecking balls. That had been left behind once his sweet friendship with Malroth had broken. Not even chips had he eaten in the feast, and it was by far his favorite food that could be cooked with Moonbrooke’s resources. Had it been for him, he would have gone to his room and stayed inside for the rest of the night.”

Malroth had left it clear enough: he didn’t want to see him anymore, let alone have a friendly conversation with him. He had stated clearly he didn’t need him, that they should take separate paths. So why was he insisting on intertwining them again? He surely was now BFFs with his oh-so-devoted follower Hargon, why would he need him now? N04H and the others, one the other hand…

By now tears were streaming down regularly through his face, eyes watery and watching N04H’s remains. He couldn’t stand it. Why was he trying to get to Malroth even? To make others happy? To fulfill that promise he’d made before their friendship teared apart? Why not care about the ones who were truly at his side, and not turning tables whenever they wanted? He was fed up of traitors, lies and all that crap. All he wanted was a happy family with a nice life, was it too much for the Goddess herself to give her favorite family a happy ending?

He hugged the pile of nearly useless metal.

-I’m sorry, I can’t do it-he cried onto the machine’s “chest”.

Hellen watched sorrowfully how the scene evolved. She had anticipated this. He’d shown himself a little too attached to very simple things such as that oaken club or the car he had so badly named. Affection was the problem this child had. He grew too attached to things, even knowing they could break so easily…

-Ice, there’s no doing it, either you do it or we do it-she said, though she had no intention of destroying the broken robot any time soon.

-No! I’m not going to! And I won’t let you! Who cares about the forsaken Master anymore!? Who cares we used to be friends? My friends are here and waiting for me to return back at the Isle! Screw Malroth! He’s as rotten a god as Rubiss!-he blew up-If he doesn’t want to see me, then be it! I don’t want to either!

Adamn growled. A direct insult to the Master of Destruction could cost him a high price.

-Ice, be reasonable! Didn’t you say you never broke your word? What about the promise you made back then?-Hellen said, containing Adamn by extending an arm.

“-Ice… If-anything-were-to-happen-that-led-me-to-my-end, I-want-you-to-promise-me-you-will-carry-on-my-last-will-N04H’s metallic voice called him.

-Sure, of course, after all, you almost didn’t live to tell it before, so I’m ready to accept it whenever it comes-he coolly said with an expression of pure seriousness-And I never break my word. I swear  in the name of my bloodline I will carry on with your last will.”

Ice growled, glaring at the priestess. The Children of Hargon surely knew how to attack where it hurt the most. His tail popped up again and it threw itself at Hellen like a whip.

-And I will! But not here and not now! Not when the Master is menacing us all, let’s go! Whitebones, turn the engine on!

Everyone looked at the builder astonished. Surely he wasn’t planning on leaving another friend out there, right?

-Ice, weren’t you so determined to rescue Malroth?

Ice looked at Hellen, a cold stare.

-That was until someone died to reach my targets. I’m not like them. I’m not like the disgusting humankind. I’m not like my family… I’m not like Allen or Hargon. I wouldn’t fall so low as to take profit of others.

Something in the back of Hellen’s mind triggered when Hargon was brought to the conversation like that.

-Hargon wasn’t like that. He’s not one to break his word easily, like you used to be-she argued with a serious tone.

-How do you know? You’re not real, remember?-he said, his look turning into a dark one-Who cares about an illusion anyway? All this world is fake, isn’t it? Then let it be destroyed, I’ll be the emissary of destruction in the real world. Those who believe will be saved, those who don’t… Well, let’s just say salvation will be beyond their reach.

Ice started walking to the place Whitebones was, commanding people around. He spoke to him about the journey between worlds, a topic they both shared an interest.

Hellen scoffed, as if he knew a thing about reality and illusion. The child was already far beyond what this illusion could bring, talking to himself in a lively conversation being enough proof. She thought of the day she earned her title, back in Furrowfield’s council. How the screechy voice of the high priest had given a name, which turned out to be hers… How she learned the true nature of this world and her own self. It wasn’t easy to accept you were a mirror of Hargon’s memories, locked in the back of his mind while the illusion was created. A mirror of a person, specifically, a dead person.

In the half-in-ruins castle that towered over everything else in Malhalla, a bored high priest was resting on his throne resting his chin on his hand, the elbow of the arm of said hand resting on the throne in turn. He looked at his right, then his left, then at the front again.

-For how much more are we going to wait for that accursed builder, Malroth?-he voiced out loud for his Master to hear.

-Just a little more… I’m sure he must’ve figured out how to fly around here by now. It’s a matter of time he comes-he replied in Hargon’s mind.

-Honestly, do you believe he’ll even show up? I mean, he knows his place is not fighting us, and believe me, you could have already destroyed this world five times already.

-Just a little more?

-It’s been five months already!-Hargon screeched, the sentence echoing through all of the castle, then back to them-How much more are you going to wait until you realize they have no intention of coming?!

Hargon’s outburst shocked Malroth. In fact, the priest had been asking every five hours how long did he intend to wait, but he had been patient until now, which made him shout the harsh truth.

-I tolerated it the first months. Figuring out a way to move around here is as difficult as learning master-class spells without having cast the basic ones once before. When is it going to get through your thick skull? The builder is not coming!

-Then I’ll go find them-Malroth said appearing and crossing all four arms.

Hargon sighed.

-Honestly, you never know when to stop, do you?-he said bringing a hand to his forehead-I’ll go with you. Sometimes you need someone who isn’t the size of a two-floored house to call other people for them not to run away screaming for help.

With a nod, Malroth crouched and Hargon jumped on his back, arms crossed and a grumpy expression on his face.

-Go-he simply said before taking off.

They flied through the whole place, searching for them before Hargon caught a glimpse of something yellow.

-I could have sworn that our buildings were dark green… What is that?-he mumbled-Malroth! Over there! Check it out! But… be cautious, we don’t know if they have weapons.

-Sure-Malroth said before turning to fly in the direction that yellow building was.

Malroth, being the careless monster he was, one that used brute force, took the ark’s wall with two of his arms and peeked inside like it was a toy box.

-Hellen! There’s a massive green lizard trying to take over the ark!-Arisplotle called the priestess-Can you bring along Adamn and Zebadee?

-What kind of lizard do you mean, chi-she started and looked at Malroth-Oh.

-Fear not, my disciples-Hargon said jumping down onto the ark-the one you labeled as “massive green lizard” is our Lord and Master, Malroth. He has come to seek a slightly tall human with light blue hair, a backpack with a giant book and traveling clothing who says to be a builder.

Every monster in the crew looked to each other. After hearing Hargon’s ominous voice through statues, the Trinity had grown to think he would be an ominous character, but he somehow did look familiar. Perhaps it was, indeed, the high priest.

-I think the one you speak about is me-said Ice coming out of the kitchen with a deadly serious expression-I do not wish to hear what you have to say, Hargon, I am not like the family of heroes, I have been taught not to listen to evil creatures such as you.

Hargon looked at the builder from head to toe.

-Inspecting you closer, you do resemble the one that initiated your linage of builders. I have seen him enough times traveling through Torland to dare say that. It’s almost disgusting that Malroth grew fond of you, knowing your origins.

-Hargon-Malroth growled-We haven’t come for that and you know it.

Hargon scoffed. He’d found the builder, now what? What does he intend to do now?

-Hargon… It has indeed been a long time since I last heard of you-Hellen said-I am Hellen, the one you labeled as one of the three priests in the Trinity.

-I know who you are, could you do me a favor and shut up for now? Malroth has something to say, if I am not mistaken-he said.

-Oh… um… yeah… Ice… I… I’m sorry for what I said, can you come over so we can catch up?

-Now you come crawling at my feet to apologize, huh? Maybe Allen was right about you monsters…

Malroth could feel a tight knot in his stomach, wasn’t Allen the one Hargon had spoken like he was a bloodthirsty monster in a human body? Was Ice now resented and willing to follow the steps of the Prince of Midenhall?

-But I guess just by saying that we’re even, so… I guess I won’t take his words seriously-he said cracking up an evilish smile.

Malroth and Ice high-fived to celebrate it. They were friends again.

-So… Now that we’re friends again, can we go back to the Isle and…?

-Malroth, look at yourself. There’s no way you fit in your room in any way. You’re… Let’s put it this way, a twenty meter long giant winged lizard with fangs as big as me. Do you think the villagers are going to take this… normally?

-They took your thing fairly easily.

Ice furrowed his brows. By that time Hargon was sitting on the floor with his arms crossed, this was going to be a long, long talk.

-I am a half-monster with the regular human blood running through my veins… You, on the other hand, are the incarnation of Destruction and a giant lizard with four massive arms with which you can break anything.

-I can breath fire too-Malroth added.

-That does not help. We would have to shrink you or something, you don’t even fit inside the pyramid!

-Huh? I don’t? I thought that thing was huge.

-It is, but you’re even more huge.

Hellen was glaring daggers at Hargon by then. He had referred to her so rudely…

-I’m sorry-Hargon mumbled.

-What?-she asked.

-I’m sorry-he stated more clearly-I didn’t intend to snap like that, it’s just… I’m not in my best mood. I’ve been waiting for five months for this child to show up and he now asked me to find him so that they may be friends again. I’m… tired to say the least.

Hellen giggled. Hargon sure got worked up for something really silly.

-Um… I forgot to tell you, the rest of the Trinity is here… He’s Zebadee-she said pointing at the priest in charge of the Court of Chaos-And Adamn, the Inquisitor-she said pointing to the archdemon.

-Ah, yes. I still remember assigning you the charges back in the day… Happy times those where all I had to worry was travel around the world. Now I have to babysit Malroth because for some reason he acts like a teenager. Anyway-he said getting up-I must go, the world isn’t going to destroy by itself. Malroth! That’s enough! If you want to keep your friendly encounter take him, we’re leaving.

-Oh…

-Wait, you’re taking Ice with you!?-Hellen exclaimed.

Hargon turned around and signed something in monster language. His face was like saying “I’m fed up”, and his foot was constantly tapping against the ark’s floor.

Hellen gasped when she understood what was he saying, probably something very rude. Adamn wasn’t bright enough to understand it, he’d never been a coded language monster, but Zebadee understood it and his staff illuminated like when he was about to cast a spell. Hargon noticed this and pointed his own staff at the priest and it shone brightly.

-Hargon, stop-Malroth said picking Ice up with one hand-We’re about to go.

-You aren’t taking that child anywhere!-Hellen said angrily-Now put him down and stop whatever it is that stops the End of the World as We Know It.

Malroth didn’t understand anything, and so did Hargon. Why did the Trinity of Hargon want Malroth to put down his friend?

-Oh, I get it now, you have fallen for his tricks to, haven’t you?-he said looking at the bell-Truly, and here I thought you all were brighter than the rest… This bell is the sign of our archenemy! How dare you let him put that in front of our sacred place?! You have been building too, haven’t you? Can’t I trust my own Trinity? I chose you because your faith was genuine!

Hargon sounded betrayed in Ice’s ears. He had the exact same tone Malroth used in Moonbrooke’s fight. He felt sorry for him, he knew that even he had the right to feel betrayed, as evil as he was. Everyone had feelings… except for Rubiss maybe, that was clear enough. Words of trust, charges… They all had been entrusted with something and now they were following the exact opposite doctrines of those he had taught. He lowered his head in what he hoped was something like an apology.

-Let’s go, Malroth-he said, he sounded like he was trying to contain something.

While they were flying back Malroth asked Ice something very curious.

-Do you think it was the right choice to come and find you?

Next Chapter

[ask-de-writer]

DARING DO and THE GRYPHON’S QUEST! : MLP Fan Fiction : Part 3 of 19

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to MLP Fan Fiction

DARING DO

and

THE GRYPHON’S QUEST!

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

and

Carmen Pondiego

Cover art by Aranel the Cyborg, now  Wind the Mama Cat

29584 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 03/29/16

All rights reserved.  This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

This is a Fan Fiction based on My Little Pony.  Canterlot, Princess Luna and the name Daring Do are owned by Hasboro Inc.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may reblog the story.  They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions, provided that such things are done without charge.  I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.  

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fictions is actively encouraged.

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Chapter 3. The Library within the Library

Daring Do led her two charges out of the dining hall, across the Royal University grounds and on, out into the cosmopolitan city of Canterlot.

Walking close to the Castle, they came to the impressive Royal Library building.  At the top of the stairs, awaited the huge, allegorically carved doors, showing the sun and the moon rising together over the field of knowledge.  They swung open in response to an ancient spell.

Entering, the Gryphons craned their heads about, trying to take in everything, their crests showing their amazement.  Grata asked reverently, “I thought that you said that the Great Library would require our Imperial Identifications.  The doors simply opened.  This Library is amazing.  There is no such place in the whole of the Empire.”

With a bit of a smile, Daring Do replied in a hushed voice, “This is the Royal Library.  There is a rumor that the caravan of old Marchhare, the Rom’s Ghost Who Guides, may hold a bigger library, but nopony has ever proved it.

“The Great Library may be entered from this one, if it is allowed.”  She gestured to the end of a long aisle.  “Down here is the Research Desk and the Closed Stacks. That is where you will need your Imperial ID.”

Approaching the impressive curved Research Desk, Daring Do took out her ID.  Following her lead, Rahak and Grata took out theirs as well.  The pony at the desk took one look at the Royal Seals of Celestia and Luna and at the Seals of the Empress.  

She simply nodded politely and requested, “Please wait here.  I will get the Research Supervisor.”  She turned and disappeared into the rows of bookshelves behind her.  Soon she returned with a pale yellow unicorn who had a gray mane and tail.

As soon as the Supervisor saw Daring Do, she smiled and asked, “May I inquire your reason to visit the Great Library, Antiquarian Do?”

Daring Do  gestured to her “students” and replied, “Rahak and Grata have been sent by the Empress in person to research the actual origins of the Gryphon race.  Since Glugemdown’s account of a sighting in the Far North had to be in the early 180’s PNW, we are seeking earlier material that is reliable or at least may point to avenues of physical research.”

Daring Do handed over her ID and the two Gryphons did as well.  The Research Supervisor made some adjustments and inserted the Ids into the Spell Reader.  There was a soft chime.

She smiled as she handed back the Ids.  Daring Do asked, “May we have the assistance of Apprentice Librarian Blendin, please?  He and I have worked together in the past and he is excellent at finding materials.”

The Research Supervisor simply nodded and spoke to a private line magic net mirror. “Apprentice Librarian Blendin to the Canterlot main doors, please.” Shortly there was a soft chime.

Several of the closed stacks simply faded from view.  In their place appeared to be stout iron bound oaken doors.  That was deceptive.  The appearance was a glamor spell concealing two four tonne military armor grade steel doors sealed against being forced open from outside OR inside.

Daring Do smiled at them, remembering a time or two that her visits had needed that protection … from what was in the Great Library!  It was not a place for the faint of heart!

She led Grata and Rahak toward the doors. Instead of opening in the usual way, they faded to the appearance of a gossamer mist.  They all three passed through.  As they entered the Great Library, the doors went solid behind them. Daring Do smiled at Blendin, her half brother and a truly talented Librarian.  “Hi, Blendin!  We need to find out all that we can of the true origins of the Gryphon race.”

Blendin’s green furred face twisted comically.  “Their legends are easy.  Facts?  Not so easy.”  He paused, thinking deeply. “Perhaps there is something lurking in those legends though.”

He turned to what appeared to be a physical card catalog and pulled out drawers.  He laid out the drawers in order on a table.  As he isolated particular cards, the Gryphons began to grasp just how unusual that card file was.  As Blendin chose a card, the materials connected to that card appeared on the study table.

Looking up at the small mountain of books and scrolls, Blendin paused and took the end of the table in hoof.  He pulled it out several meters.  It grew more legs as it stretched out.

Blendin began laying out the assorted things.  “I would give more credence for accurate descriptions to these,” he said, indicating a sub stack.  “They are the oldest.  It is interesting to note that, though the authors were absolutely Gryphons, they wrote in the Equestrian of the last days of Fortress Canterlot.  Modern written Gryphon is easily traced back to that script.”

He sorted out a stack of perhaps fifty items.

Daring Do picked up one, stared at the title, and asked, “What did the catalog show you Blendin?”

“Dates.  The very oldest manuscript there has no date but the author died in 54 PNW.  Knowing that this is a huge can of worms, I am going let you sort out what happened.”

Innocently, Daring Do said, “We said nothing about it being a can of worms.  What makes you so sure that it is?”

Blendin pulled a comic face and retorted, “Two Gryphons with Imperial commissions to dig into the origins of their race.  You being willing to bring them HERE.  The First Race Gryphon’s Manifest Destiny Party that is growing in the Empire.  Isn’t it OBVIOUS?”

Rahak said quietly, “I hope not.  If the MDP found us out, they would stop at nothing to silence our findings unless we truly find that ours is the Oldest of Races.”

Blendin took a few moments to show Grata and Rahak how to best organize their notes for comparing descriptions from multiple sources.  Daring Do and the others began to work through the pile of manuscripts of all sorts, taking copious notes.

Blendin busied himself with another task.  At the other end of the long table a different pile of far more modern books grew.

Taking a break to stretch her wings and neck, Grata took a quick look at Blendin’s new pile of books.  She read a title.  “Mutagenic Effects of Randomly Combined Spell Fragments From the Great South Bay Mage Weapon Blast.” Eyes gone wide, she picked another.  “Mage Weapon Use In the Final Battle of the Nightmare Wars.”

Hearing the titles, Rahak picked another.  “Weaponized Weather in the Nightmare Wars.  Subtitled, Tactical and Strategic Studies.”

Grata had picked up one more.  “The Use of Non Equine Magic on the Nightmare War Battlefields.”

Rahak found, “Baratted the Goat, a Biography of the Inventor of Non Equine Magic.”

Grata, crest going flat in sadness, discovered, “An Encyclopedia of All Intelligent Species of the World and Their Languages,” she read.  “It is by De Writer and dated the fiftieth year of Fortress Canterlot.”  

Daring Do pointed out, “This predates all of the others.  Equestria did not yet exist.  De Writer’s invention of the basic art of writing was still only a few hundred years in the past.  Literacy was still fairly rare when this was written.”

Rahak, taking the book, leafed through it carefully.  His crest showing both interest and puzzlement.  “There is no mention of Gryphons at all.  He knows of the Zebras and X'ibian dromedaries.  He covers merponies, both fresh and salt sea kinds.  He even has a part on DEER.”

Grata nodded.  “That fits all of the rest of what we are finding.  The MDP will blow their collective gaskets if we can prove what these things are showing us.” Rahak agreed, “I hope that the proof can be solid enough to be undeniable.”  He sat and sort of drooped all over.  “I fear that what we may find will not prevent a war at all.  We may actually start one.”  He sighed, “Proof will not sway religious fanatics.  They ALREADY KNOW THE TRUTH.”

Blendin spoke briefly and quietly into a private magic net mirror before saying anything to them.  “You are taking this better than I feared.  I have told the guards to stand down.

“You have been granted permission to have copies of any or all of these documents sent to any place of your choosing.”

Grata thought for a moment and asked, “Can we have a map of the weather in use when the Mage Weapons were fired at the end of the Nightmare Wars? It could help us to set up our physical expedition.  The Library is good but we will need to find solid physical evidence and proofs.”

Blendin nodded.  “Good thought.”  He rummaged in his card drawer, selecting one.  The requested map joined the rest of the documents on the table.

Rahak suggested, “We will take it all.  Put it in our dorm room at the Royal University.”

Blendin put his card drawers away in the card catalog and spoke briefly into his mirror again.  All of the assorted books and other documents vanished from the table.  Blendin pushed it back to its original shorter, four leg version.

Blendin stretched and observed, “I am hungry.  As so often happens here, time got away from us.  I know a place where there are great enchiladas.  They will even fix ones with fish and shrimp for you Gryphons.

“So, dinner?  It won’t cost you a bit.”

Daring Do brightened immensely and stated, “Free dinner?  Enchiladas?  I’m in!”

Rahak and Grata’s crests shot up!  “Fish and shrimp?  Count us in!”

Blendin nodded happily.  He called in on his magic net mirror, “Apprentice Librarian Blendin leaving with Daring Do party.  Give us Exit V.”

The heavy armor steel doors faded away and Blendin led them out into bright tropical sunlight.

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[chubbyheroesworthyheroes]

Might I request some fluffy Felicia/m!Corrin feeding hijinks (5, 9, 10 ,11, maybe a bit of 6 if you're feeling it)? I would be eternally grateful

5) Stuffing/feeding/etc.9) Button popping/seam ripping/etc.10) Humiliation11) Magical wg6) Mutual wg

Being stuck in the castle for his whole life, there were several ways Corrin learned to pass the long, long time he often had on his hands. If asked, he could tell you how many stones and the various types that were used to construct the great fortress, how often people come and go, and what times of year they were most likely to eat certain dishes. Food, however, was usually the high point of staying within the halls of the Northern Fortress. Being a part of the royal family, and only visited by the others – practically never by Garon himself – no one really told him no or questioned why the prince would eat maybe a little too much or at odd times of day.

The servants at the fortress were, in general, rather kind. Corrin got to know those closest to him, such as Jacob and Lilith, as well as the maids, Flora and Felicia. It was one of the sister maids, however, that the young prince ended up becoming closest with. She was almost desperate to please – which, given how clumsy she could be at her job, wasn’t very farfetched. When the other staff grew too frustrated with her spilling tea, breaking plates or messing up laundry, it was Corrin who often asked her to spend time with him. Many retainers though he may have, they had plenty of other duties to attend to considering he never left the fortress, and so he was still often left on his own. Felicia was good company; she was lively and genuine, and even if she wasn’t a good cook, she was determined to make sure Corrin enjoyed their time together.

So, while King Garon desired for Corrin to become a strong, battle-worthy asset, he ended up spending more time eating meals with his favorite maid instead of training. 

At first, it started out simply enough. They’d have long talks and tea with sandwiches or cakes of varying kinds. Corrin got to learn more about Felicia herself, as well as her family and her people. She quickly became a friend to him, and then, more than a friend as they continued to bond. Their meals stretched out longer and longer as they talked in more depth or simply spent time together in a comfortable silence. Seeing how Corrin seemed to enjoy all the different foods that the kitchen staff could create, Felicia would bring more and more to choose from as time went on. Their meals could extend for several hours at a time, with the two of them eating and drinking in utter excess.

Now, no longer dedicating the time he used to to training, and eating so much, it was starting to show up very clearly on him. Corrin started to notice that his armor no longer fit as it should, and so stopped using it entirely – telling himself that he’d get it refitted, but never actually getting around to it. He switched over to wearing looser, more comfortable clothing, but even those only lasted so long as his weight continued to climb.

What started off as simply his face filling out a little, or perhaps a bit of softness around his middle, soon graduated to not being able to get pants on or popping a button off of a shirt. One such occurrence happened while he was sharing dinner with his visiting siblings. He’d been laughing at a story Elise was recounting about her retainers, when the pressure of his too tight shirt suddenly let up around the apex of his belly, the shiny button pinging off a few dishes before spinning onto the table in plain sight. There was a deathly silence afterward, everyone at the table surprised by the suddenness and secondhand embarrassment of it all, until Leo snickered from behind his hand. 

“Well, nice to not be the one having clothing issues for once,” he chuckled, not entirely in a derisive manner, but neither was it lighthearted ribbing. “I might be a bit forgetful when it comes to checking if my shirts are in proper order, but at least I fit into mine!”

Camilla and Xander were quick to try and chastise their younger brother, but the words had been put out there on top of what had happened, and Corrin couldn’t help going red in the face. He wanted nothing more than to disappear into his quarters, but there was still food left on the table, and he didn’t want to waste the time he had with his siblings, as it was few and far between that they visited. He fidgeted in his seat afterwards, trying not to let his eyes dart down to the soft, pale flesh that was poking out of the space left behind from his burst button. It all but oozed out of his confining clothes, no matter how much he attempted to suck in his stomach as conversation was sharply turned away to something noncommittal.

—

Later that night, Corrin had been changing into his night clothes when there was the sound of something skidding across the floor before a loud bang from his door that made him jump – his plump belly and round tits bouncing with the sudden motion. Felicia peeked her head in sheepishly not too long after, cheeks flushed and a tremble in her body that Corrin could see from where he was standing. Giving her a quizzical look, he asked her what she needed – it was rather late, after all, and he still held his nightshirt in a chubby hand, everything above the waist bare to the cool of the night air.

“I just–! I wanted to, um–! Y-You know, this went a lot better in my head…,” she stammered, fidgeting and fussing, her eyes seeming to dart up to his face, before dropping down to his gut, and then repeating the whole process as she prattled on nervously. Taking a deep breath – and, perhaps, holding it a bit too long, as her pink cheeks went a darker scarlet – before practically shouting out, “I saw you bust your button off at dinner, and I couldn’t look away while watching you eat and eat even after, and–” She devolved into a bit of a rushed mess after that, but what Corrin did hear made him blush and had his heart beating excited-nervous in his chest.

“So, you…don’t think it’s a bad thing? The way I eat like a spoiled pig?” Corrin prodded, testing. He’d been sweet on Felicia for a while now, but was she really being serious here? Liking that he stuffed his face until he literally burst out of his clothes?

“We…Well, you’re a prince, right?” the maid pointed out, seeming to gain a little bit of confidence after getting everything out in the open and not immediately being rejected. “Royalty should do whatever they feel like, eat whatever they like and however much of it that they want to. A prince should show off his luxury to others…Should look like he enjoys every bit of excess that passes his lips.” Her tone is short and breathy, face still a bright red, but no longer out of nervousness or fear.

Corrin closed the distance between them, almost crowding Felicia in by the door with is chubby figure. “If you’re a part of that excess, I can’t think of a better way to live. After all, eating with you has been one of the best things in my life. Eating for you can only be better, right?” Boldly spoken, a smirk on his cherubic face as he thought about it. Thought about all the meals Felicia and he would share, every luxury they could enjoy together – unrestrained and uncaring for what others thought. If they wanted to mock or be disgusted, they’d make sure that envy and jealousy over their gluttonous decadence was quick to overtake any other feeling. 

Felicia was all too happy to do her part. She made sure that Corrin ate only the largest, most lavish meals all day long. If his arms got tired of the mechanical action of raising a spoon or fork or glass to his lips, she cheerfully took over; whispering sweet nothings and light teasing in his ears as she hand-fed him. She got a front row seat to how Corrin grew and expanded day after day, month after month. He either spent his time in bed, or set up at the great dining table – no matter where he was, he always had a full mouth and a hungry belly. A belly which had grown exponentially at Felicia’s devoted attention. The staff were constantly trying to keep up with the prince’s appetite and waistline – more food being made, and clothes continuously being adjusted. 

Corrin’s thighs and hips squished out between the seat of his chair and the arms, love handles and belly pressing down on the arms from above. The thick, heavy wood of the chair creaked and groaned; it wouldn’t last much longer, and would need to be replaced just like the ones that had come before it. His lap was completely obscured, and if not for the way his seat forced his fat legs together, Corrin’s monster gut would be forcing them apart – begging for more room to expand. It was a thing of beauty, quite honestly; pale and quivering as he demolished whatever was set before him, it was long past the point of ever seeming to get full. Throughout meals, Felicia would rub and squeeze that behemoth of a belly, kneading the plush fat with one hand and filling it up to the brim with food with the other hand. Shirts could only contain it for so long, and rarely did they last through an entire meal, so it was often on display to some degree as the day wore on. 

With every meal made, Felicia added a bit of Ice Tribe magic to it – living in such a cold area, they had long ago harnessed magic to help themselves survive; often, this came in the form of adding fat reserves to the body to make it through freezing winters that never seemed to have an end. For her, it was easy enough to double or triple the amount of calories any one meal contained. She could slow down Corrin’s metabolism to a crawl, making the weight pile on that much faster. It worked such wonders on her love, and it warmed her heart to see her tribe’s skills being used to make someone she cared for so much so large and happy in his ever increasing size.

Of course, with all this food around, Corrin wasn’t the only one to put on weight. Before, the two of them had always shared meals together, and the sheer amount of rich food had shown up on Felicia as well. Certainly not to the same degree as her beloved prince, but she’d developed quite the lovely, slightly exaggerated hourglass figure; all soft curves around her widened hips, and overflowing breasts that Corrin would often lazily but lovingly grab and tease when she leaned over to press a forkful of food to his lips.

No matter what others in Garon’s court thought or said about the steadily growing royal, Corrin and Felicia were completely and utterly in love with each other and the lifestyle of indulgence – both food and affection – that they’d jumped into together.

[whycraft]

a lump in the throat: chapter 1

AO3 | Wattpad

A/N: This fic was inspired by this fanart! The title is from a Robert Frost quote. Shout out to @thestupidtrooper for being my beta reader.

Lava hissed and bubbled on either side of the bridge, drowning out the echo of Ex’s boots on the netherrack. His footsteps and poetry often shared a rhythm, but whether he matched his poems to his footsteps or his footsteps to his poetry, he couldn’t say. Today, though, he had neither rhythm nor poetry.

“Stupid Xisuma,” he muttered to himself. “Stupid Xisuma and his stupid Nether hub. Is he going to ban me from the Nether, too, then? Where the hell am I supposed to go next? The End?”

Still fuming, he entered the main part of his Nether fortress. The wither skeletons he passed on the way ignored him just as completely as he ignored them. He tossed his shulker boxes haphazardly against the wall and flopped down on the wool pile that served as his makeshift bed.

The moment his head touched the wool, he heard fireworks outside - the telltale sound of a hermit approaching. Probably Xisuma.

Resisting the urge to scream his frustration to the entire Nether, Ex got up and stalked over to the entrance to his Nether fortress.

“Xisuma, if you’re here about that godforsaken Nether hub -”

“In fact, I am not Xisumavoid. Unless he somehow managed to place his consciousness in my body without me noticing, in which case I wouldn’t know I was actually Xisuma.”

The fact that his unwelcome visitor wasn’t Xisuma was enough to surprise Ex, but the fact that it was Joehills was enough to shut him up. He’d never actually spoken to Joe before, much less had a visit from him.

“What do you want?” he asked, wary surprise making his tone even brusquer than usual.

Joe held out a piece of paper. "I believe this is yours, although I may be incorrect."

Ex recognized the paper instantly - it was a page from his poetry book. He snatched it out of Joe's hand. "How did you get this?"

"It was on the floor of the Nether hub."

Ex narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know it was mine?"

"Xisuma told me you'd been in the Nether hub recently, and I didn't recognize the handwriting, so I made an educated guess."

In his rush to leave the Nether hub, Ex must have failed to notice that the page had come loose from it's bindings. His poetry book desperately needed to be rebound, but slime and leather were hard to come by in the Nether.

"Thanks," he said gruffly. "Bye."

"Is it time to say goodbye already? Are we not going to exchange pleasantries that elevate our souls like a pleasant breeze?"

Ex scowled. "I don't do pleasantries."

Joe nodded thoughtfully. "It seems the breeze today is pushing us apart, but perhaps another day we'll have a chance at a brand new start."

He climbed up on the wall of the bridge and smiled back at Ex over his shoulder. "Bye!" He jumped off the bridge and activated his elytra.

Something small and white fluttered out of his pocket as he soared away.

"Hey!" shouted Ex. "You dropped something!" But Joe was already too far away to hear him.

Grumbling to himself, Ex climbed over the bridge wall and activated his own elytra. He drifted in lazy circles down to the ground where the white thing had landed.

It turned out to be a piece of paper. The bottom third of it was singed from where it had landed on magma blocks.

At first, he thought it was another page from his poetry book, but as he read the poem written on it, he realized that was absolutely not the case. For one thing, it rhymed; for another, Joehills' name was written in the top right corner.

Left behind as an accidental gift

And a clear sign of something gone amiss.

A speck of white against a sea of red:

A secret poem left for dead.

But it was the start to something

Here, the page had begun to burn away. He couldn't tell what came after the charred remains.

Had it been anything else, Ex probably would have tossed it straight into the lava or his storage room, but… well, he wanted to know how the poem ended.

The only problem was figuring out how to get to Joe. It wasn’t like Ex could just pay him a visit in the Overworld. There was a chance that he’d be able to catch him passing through the Nether hub, but he was more likely to run into Xisuma there than anyone else. He could also just shoot him a message asking him if they could meet at Ex’s Nether fortress, but that would draw Xisuma’s attention faster than he could say “suspicious.”

He sighed and folded the paper into a little square. As much as he wanted to know how the poem ended, dealing with Xisuma wasn’t worth the trouble.

He ended up sitting the poem on his desk. He read it several times over the next few days, folding and unfolding it over and over.

It was a good thing he hadn’t decided to throw it away, because a few days after Joe’s visit, he remembered that there was a way to send one-on-one messages on the communicators. He felt a bit silly for not remembering it earlier, but he’d never had a reason to use that function before, so he gave himself a pass.

[Evil_Xisuma whispered to joehillssays: Can you come by my Nether fortress some time? You forgot something here.]

[joehillssays whispered to Evil_Xisuma: Is it okay if I come over right now?]

[Evil_Xisuma whispered to joehillssays: Yeah sure.]

Ex wasn’t the greatest at time perception, what with living in the Nether and all, but he was sure it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before Joe appeared outside the main part of the Nether fortress.

“Howdy, Evil X.”

“It’s just Ex. Don’t call me evil.”

“Sorry. That was rude of me.” He pushed his glasses up. “What did I forget?”

Ex handed him the poem. “It landed on magma, so the bottom of it is gone.”

“Oh!” Joe took the poem. “So that’s where it went. Thank you, Ex, I’ve been looking for this.”

Ex shifted his weight to his other foot and cleared his throat. “How does the rest of the poem go? The bit that got burned away.”

“Oh, well, I don’t actually remember.”

“What?”

“I don’t usually remember my poems after I make them up,” Joe explained. “And I don’t like to rewrite them, so I guess this poem will be a mystery forever.”

A very irrational anger swelled up inside Ex. He’d spent so much time stressing over how to contact Joe and learn the ending of the poem, and it turned out that Joe himself didn’t even know?

“Hey,” said Joe suddenly, “I’ve got a great idea! How about you write a new ending for the poem?”

“How abou- excuse me?”

“You should write a new ending for the poem,” Joe said. “You write poetry, don’t you? I read the poem I returned to you; it was very good. Go on, give it a try.”

“I - you - I can’t just make up a poem on the spot!” Ex spluttered. “Poems take planning, and - and editing - and I don’t write rhyming poems, anyhow.”

Joe shrugged. “Don’t make it rhyme, then. I guess I’ll give you a few days to plan and edit. I don’t know how that stuff works. I don’t do it, myself. Bye, Ex! See you in a few days!”

“Wait!”

But he jumped over the bridge wall and flew away, leaving Ex standing alone in his Nether fortress, feeling rather like he’d been - somehow - bamboozled.

[livvywrites]

wip: three birds

so this is an old WIP that i’ve been thinking about again?? it was actually a fanfic when i first started thinking about/writing it, but... it’s canon-divergent/au enough that i want to turn it into my own thing. so i’m still in the process of doing that, but, i’ve gotten enough down that,,, i think i’m ready to talk about.

it’ll be a long time before i write this bc Metanoia is taking pretty much all of my attention but!!! i still enjoy thinking about it & i kinda wanna gush about it, y’know?? so!!

the working title is three birds, though i’ve also been playing around with the last time. three birds is a little more fitting, though. mostly because i want my three main characters to have nicknames after birds.

it’s a romantic fantasy/fantasy romance, more than anything, though i definitely want to add some conflict in there.

under a cut because this is kind of long!! AND tagging two people who showed interest :D

@idreamonpaper & @writinginslowmotion

the main protagonist’s name is Inalyn Keets. she often goes by “Ina” for short, or by “Sparrow,” a nickname who’s origins i’ve yet to figure out. she’s a half elven mage.

the country/empire that she’s from, though, sees mages as subhuman. the government rounds them up as soon as their magic presents it self and takes them to various “compounds” where they’re raised to be used as soldiers/healers for their armies. which, in turn, allows them to expand their borders and gain more power/influence.

her magic presented itself when she was a little older. as did that of her best friend, Corbin Anderson. Corbin, often known as Hawk, and she actually met after both of them had been rounded up and were on their way to the compound. they bonded during that trip. even though both of them were afraid, he made her laugh, and feel so much less alone. they’ve stuck by each other ever since.

Corbin was from one of the countries that her country had conquered/added to the empire. his father had actually turned him into the soldiers, in hopes of getting compensation from the government. (which both he & Ina’s family did get.)

because both of them were older (Ina was 12 and Corbin was 13) they were among the few their age to actually remember what the outside was like. and neither of them ever stopped wanting to get out--to do something other than become soldiers or tools for the government to use. Ina wanted to wait. to get the training the government offered and then slip out, use it against them and hide away somewhere they could never find her. Corbin wasn’t as patient, and he was constantly escaping. and in turn, getting punished for it.

as such, the other friends that Ina made weren’t very fond of Corbin. he wasn’t fond of them either, though he never told Ina not to hang out with them. Ina didn’t really care what her other friends thought, though. Corbin was her best friend--and, when she grew older, also her first love.

unfortunately, relationships are discouraged in the compound. friendships were allowed, as it made for better teams, but romantic relationships (or sexual relationships) were considered a hazard, and so forbidden. that didn’t stop Ina and Corbin from sneaking around, though. (they had rules, though. they were too afraid that romance would make it too hard to keep from blowing their cover; would make it so that staying inside the compound was too unbearable. they swore off saying ‘i love you,’ even though both of them felt it. they kept it light. casual.)

sadly, though they had a good run of it for a while, eventually it got to be too much for both of them. to almost have it, but not quite... it was just. it was a lot. combined with Corbin’s repeated escapes---and then him being dragged back and punished, more and more harshly each time... it was. it was something they mutually decided they needed to wait for. they remained close friends, though.

and then, when Ina was 21 and Corbin was 22, Corbin managed to escape. he escaped for an entire year. it was the longest he had ever been gone, and for a while, Ina dared to hope that he would make it.

he didn’t.

they dragged him back, and decided that this time; this time they would make an example of him. they decided to throw him in solitary, and keep him there for as long as he had been gone.

Ina was horrified. she knew the possible consequences of keeping someone in solitary for a year. luckily, though, during her early days of exploring the compound, she’d discovered a secret passage down to the prisons. she was able to sneak down there every now and again and visit him.

for eleven months, that’s what she did.

and then, she was approached by one of her other friends, Rian. Rian had a problem. he had fallen in love with one of the Wardens--their guards--and she for him in turn. they wanted to escape. to live a life on the outside, where they didn’t have to worry. they had a plan to get out--but they needed a third person to pull it off.

Ina agreed. she told Corbin what was happening, and promised to meet him “on the other side.”

unfortunately, though, both she and Rian had been duped. the Warden was using them to cover up a crime that she and her actual lover (another Warden) had committed--knowing that they would never be believed over one of the Wardens. they were going to be executed, or perhaps locked away in one of the special mage prisons... until one of the Vigilant stepped in.

the Vigilant were an ancient order devoted to protecting this world from evil. right now, i’ve got the “undead” as the main problem they face, but i may change that. they reserve the right to conscript people, & are often used for places that some criminals can get a “second chance.” the Vigilant had come to find recruits for his order... and he found them in the form of Rian & Ina.

on the way to where the army had gathered, he told them that there had been recent sights of a Rift, and that the Vigilant had assembled alongside the Emporer’s army just in case there was something bigger on its way. however, the Vigilant’s numbers had thinned out recently due to some problems in the south, so they were bulking up.

once at the camp, they were introduced to some of the other recruits. both those who had already been initiated, and those who had yet to be initiated.

among those already initiated was Theron “Finch” Jamison. (another name I’m considering for him is Finley/Finn!) Theron had the natural talent of a Warden, who could suppress magic if they focused their will. he hated the lifestyle, though, and did everything that he could to make himself as undesirable as possible. it worked. so much so that when the recruiter came around looking for someone, the teachers told him not to even consider Theron. but, of course, he was recruited away.

he’s been a member of the Vigilant for six months now, and he’s assigned to watch over a handful of recruits--including Ina & Rian.

Ina finds him charming, and even a bit funny, but she’s wary around him due to his past. they get to each other a bit before the initiation, and Ina does warm up to him some, but she’s still wary.

the initiation, though... it’s rough. i haven’t figured out all of the details yet, but it’s something that not all of the initiates survive. Ina survives--but Rian doesn’t. on top of that, she finds herself... changed by the initiation. more sensitive to the dark forces present in the world. more attuned to other peoples auras, able to sense intent. her eyes have also changed. they’re now a shade of gold that almost glows in the dark--much like every other Vigilant she’s met.

Ina doesn’t have much time to recover from the pulsing headache or soreness, though. the grief hasn’t even really set in yet when the alarm bells ring. the people assemble. the Vigilant who recruited Ina & Theron tells them to start rounding up the servants and other non-fighters. they didn’t expect to be swarmed at their own camp.

unfortunately, though, things don’t go as planned. the camp is overwhelmed. Theron and Ina fight for as long as they can--and they expect that to be the end.

but then. they wake up.

they were saved by a mysterious woman who lives in the surrounding wilds. she’s part of a coven of magic users who escaped the government’s thrall & have made lives for themselves outside the empire’s borders. however, the arrival of rifts & the undead has thrown everything into disarray... and she wants to help stop it, instead of cowering in the forests. so. now she’s babysitting a couple of Vigilant.

(why them? they were the only ones she could save.)

& thus begins a long journey. not only do they save the empire & make several friends in the process, but... Ina and Theron fall in love. she resists it, really hard, at first, because she always imagined having a life with Corbin. but... she has something with Theron, something she can’t ignore. and when everything is dark, when everything is burning, when the whole world is falling apart--Theron is there, and she needs that.

when it’s all over, Theron & Ina stand before the emperor himself. he thanks them for saving the kingdom, and he promises them a handsome reward. however, his hands are tied, as many people aren’t happy that it was a mage who saved them---or that a mage is now in charge of the new Vigilants. so. to reward them but also to make the people happy, Ina is awarded a fortress for the Vigilant to build in and grow... but it’s a fortress on the edge of the wilds, near a teensy farming village.

it’s something, though. it’s freedom, really, so Ina is happy with it.

they’re joined by a dwarf named Saeora, whom they met during the course of their travels. Saeora wants to join them and become a Vigilant--a request Ina is happy to grant.

of course, when they get there... everything is in disarray. there’s something out in the Wilds terrorizing the locals; the fortress is half-falling apart; and... well. there’s a disgraced son of the previous lord locked in the dungeon, alongside a pair of elven twins, and a very familiar mage.

after some discussion, Ina decides to induct them all into the Vigilants.

but there’s still the matter of the town to save, and a fortress to rebuild. oh. and figuring out how she’s supposed to manage her love for two different men.

well. okay. Theron has a solution for that third one. polyamory. but there’s still some balancing to be done to make everything work--and Ina is going to do her damnedest.