#world weaver press

[readerviews]

"Solarpunk Creatures" by N R M Roshak and Tashan Mehta

An inspiring and comforting collection to treasure. #books #bookreview #reading #readerviews

Solarpunk Creatures N R M Roshak, Tashan Mehta, and Editor Christoph RupprechtWorld Weaver Press (2024)ISBN: 978-1734054576Reviewed by Leslie Anne Smith for Reader Views (03/2024) “Solarpunk Creatures” is a new anthology from World Weaver Press, joining their line of solarpunk reimaging anthologies. “Solarpunk Creatures” stars a collective of non-human and human adjacent protagonists, with some…

[utterlyotterlyx]

My Tears Are Becoming a Sea

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary - Azriel wished that you’d wake up in time for Starfall, that you’d be home to see the souls cross the sky. The war against Hybern had wrecked you, and he couldn’t bear to be away from you for another moment.

Warnings - angst, sad boy Azriel, mentions of death and blood, some self loathing, but a beautiful happy ending for our Shadowsinger 🤍

They'd won.

But none of it meant anything if you weren't there with them.

Hybern had been defeated, they had won the impossible battle thanks to you, thanks to your skill, your power, and that shattering determination to find the upper hand your family so desperately needed.

You had disappeared without a word just after the High Lords meeting, after realising that the forces you needed lay beyond the capabilities of armies and blind hope. Azriel knew better than to stop you, he traced the line of your jaw as he kissed you for what could have been the last time. He savoured the taste of your lips, your scent, that smile that had the power to command the attention of anyone or anything.

There were no words that any of them could say the moment they saw you on the battlefield, you stood above them clad in your leathers wearing a sadistic grin as Bryaxis and the Weaver stalked from behind you whilst they all waited to meet their fate.

Azriel puffed his chest out with pride, glancing to Cassian with a smirk. That's my girl.

You were a formidable force, bending the elements around you like it was your mother tongue, sending spears of fire and ice through the chests of whoever opposed you, allowing the ground to swallow whole groups of soldiers as you passed by. Your sword was an extension of your soul, a cunningly beautiful thing, curved and sharp, and coated in the blood of your enemies which had also splashed across your cheeks.

His shadows were in awe of you, a horribly fierce awe as they watched you cut down man after man, paying little mind to anything else other than making sure that Feyre and Amren reached the cauldron.

That wretched thing.

The cauldron had broken. Feyre needed to put it back together. Feyre needed the power to put it back together.

Azriel watched as you tackled Rhys to the ground, as you threw up a shield around yourself and Feyre so that she had no choice but to use you. To take everything you had to stop the world from crumbling into dust.

Feyre had wept and screamed as she held you in her arms, her fingers pushing the hair from your face as she rocked back and forth, begging your soul to return to your body. Azriel fell to your side and pulled you from Feyre's gasp, his shadows flittered anxiously over your face and body whilst their master pressed his lips to your eyes, pleading the High Lords around him to do what they did for Feyre, to bring you back to him.

Each High Lord offered a kernel of their power, even Feyre had thrown in her own in hope it would made a difference.

Rhys had held him tightly as your soul returned to your body, his sobs wracked his chest when your own began to rise and fall in a healthy rhythm. You didn't wake though.

After days of Madja fussing over you, she had exhausted all of her options. You were warm, your heartbeat was strong and your lungs were functioning as they should be, there was no reason why you shouldn't have been awake and telling Azriel how much you loved him.

He had refused to leave you, his shadows less willing to do so, they loved you so dearly to the point you often found a couple of rogue shadows perching on your own shoulder instead of your mates. Deep circles clung to his hazel eyes that were dark and dreary, he hadn't eaten, he just sat beside your cot and held your hand, noting how peaceful you looked in your eternal slumber.

Much to his rage, it had been decided that Helion would transport you to the Day Court with the promise that his army of healers and researchers would find a way to bring you back. Rhys had agreed, willing to try anything to bring you back to your family, and had to order Azriel to stay away from you whilst Helion gave it his best shot. They couldn't have a grief stricken Illyrian forbidding anyone to touch you.

Velaris felt empty without you. The bakeries were far too full and the children too quiet. The Sidra begged for your fingers to run through her ripples, to caress her with that power that complimented her own so perfectly.

The world just felt darker without you annoying them, prodding Cassian with stupid jokes or dragging Mor dress shopping, even Amren was missing your feet propped on her lap whilst she tried to research, and Nesta yearned for your intelligent observations on the plot holes and desires for the books you shared.

Feyre had become a shell, busying herself with preparations for Starfall so that she would forget how guilty she felt for a moment.

Starfall was your favourite thing in the world, nothing bar Azriel could bring so much joy to you. The music, beautiful outfits and food were just minor aspects in comparison to the main event, when those stars would hurtle across the sky and illuminate it with that hot white glow.

Azriel had always found himself stood behind you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist and chin resting atop your head as you both watched in awe. It never ceased to amaze either of you.

This year was different. No amount of flowers or pastries could distract anyone from the fact that you weren't there. He should have stopped you, gotten to you quicker before you could attack Rhys and take his place; you should have just let Rhys give his power, he would have recovered quicker, everything would have been fine.

Mor had tried to get Azriel to dance, but he didn't want to dance with anyone who wasn't you. All he wanted to do was go back to your shared room and wrap himself in your scent so he could dream of you, the only place you were alive and chatting idly about some random fact you'd found in a book that sent your mind spiralling into balanced wonder.

"She wouldn't want you to stand on the side lines, Az," Cassian clapped his shoulder, trying to coax his brother to partake in something this Starfall, for you.

Gasps echoed about the room, a sign that the main event had begun. Usually, you'd be jumping up and down in your spot with excitement, clutching to his fingers as you dragged him from the room and out to the private balcony you had both made yours.

Males and females floated out of the arched doorways, but Azriel stayed behind, not being able to think of witnessing a single Starfall without you.

Burying his hands deep into the pockets of his black pants, Azriel moved in the opposite direction to the enthralled crowd, not being able to stomach even pretending to be happy. With no particular place in mind, Azriel walked, down winding hallways and up a set of steps, along the arched walls until he fell into place in front of a set of familiar doors.

Doors that you had practically torn the handles from one year from the sheer uncontrollable excitement to get outside before either of you missed it.

Azriel sighed, wiping the corners of his eyes, he sniffled softly as he took the handle in his scarred fingers, feeling electricity pouring through it, so intense that he had to pull away with a frown. He stood there for a moment, unsure and bewildered by the sensation.

Then he felt it.

He felt the familiar scent flood where he stood, the shadows reacted quickly, darting to the handle and dancing over the door, fighting for it to be opened.

It couldn't be. Helion would have told them if you had awoken.

It couldn't be.

Azriel flung the doors open and his shadows surged forward, there you stood, your back to him, dressed in Day Court gold with a solid gold halo encasing a full braided bun. The shadows reached you first and you giggled as they kissed every inch of your face, and gods, did that sound have him melting into a blubbering mess.

You turned to him, your mate, and opened your arms to him, ones that he gladly stepped in to. Azriel wrapped his arms around your waist, he ran his fingers over your skin, he left lingering kisses in the nape of your neck and along your shoulder.

"You're home," he strained, sobs of pure happiness tugging at his throat as he pulled away from you, looking down into those eyes he adored too much.

You moved a piece of his hair away from those pools of brown and green, closing the gap between you as the sky came to life, allowing your love to explode around you whilst the world above and below held a calm breath.

"I couldn't full well miss my favourite night of the year, could I?"

Azriel pressed his forehead to yours, stared into your eyes and drank in every single part of you, his fingers not once moving from your body, "You came back to me."

"I'll always come back to you, Az. Always."

Authors Note

I needed something fluffy after my gut wrenching Eris post before.

I'm halfway healed.

[pathetic-gamer]

Pentiment's Complete Bibliography, with links to some hard-to-find items:

I've seen some people post screenshots of the game's bibliography, but I hadn't found a plain text version (which would be much easier to work from), so I put together a complete typed version - citation style irregularities included lol. I checked through the full list and found that only four of the forty sources can't be found easily through a search engine. One has no English translation and I'm not even close to fluent enough in German to be able to actually translate an academic article, so I can't help there. For the other three (a museum exhibit book, a master's thesis, and portions of a primary source that has not been entirely translated into English), I tracked down links to them, which are included with their entries on the list.

If you want to read one of the journal articles but can't access it due to paywalls, try out 12ft.io or the unpaywall browser extension (works on Firefox and most chromium browsers). If there's something you have interest in reading but can't track down, let me know, and I can try to help! I'm pretty good at finding things lmao

Okay, happy reading, love you bye

Beach, Alison I. Women as Scribes: Book Production and Monastic Reform in Twelfth-Century Bavaria. Cambridge Univeristy Press, 2004.

Berger, Jutta Maria. Die Geschichterder Gastfreundschaft im hochmittel alterlichen Monchtum: die Cistercienser. Akademie Verlag GmbH, 1999. [No translation found.]

Blickle, Peter. The Revolution of 1525. Translated by Thomas A. Brady, Jr. and H.C. Erik Midelfort. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985.

Brady, Thomas A., Jr. “Imperial Destinies: A New Biography of the Emperor Maximilian I.” The Journal of Modern History, vol 62, no. 2., 1990. pp.298-314.

Brandl, Rainer. “Art or Craft: Art and the Artist in Medieval Nuremberg.” Gothic and Renaissance Art in Nuremberg 1300-1550. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1986. [LINK]

Byars, Jana L., “Prostitutes and Prostitution in Late Medieval Bercelona.” Masters Theses. Western Michigan University, 1997. [LINK]

Cashion, Debra Taylor. “The Art of Nikolaus Glockendon: Imitation and Originality in the Art of Renaissance Germany.” Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art, vol 2, no. 1-2, 2010.

de Hamel, Christopher. A History of Illuminated Manuscripts. Phaidon Press Limited, 1986.

Eco, Umberto. The Name of the Rose. Translated by William Weaver. Mariner Books, 2014.

Eco, Umberto. Baudolino. Translated by William Weaver. Mariner Books, 2003.

Fournier, Jacques. “The Inquisition Records of Jacques Fournier.” Translated by Nancy P. Stork. Jan Jose Univeristy, 2020. [LINK]

Geary, Patrick. “Humiliation of Saints.” In Saints and their cults: studies in religious sociology, folklore, and history. Edited by Stephen Wilson. Cambridge University Press, 1985. pp. 123-140

Harrington, Joel F. The Faithrul Executioner: Life and Death, Honor and Shame in the Turbulent Sixteenth Century. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013.

Hertzka, Gottfired and Wighard Strehlow. Grosse Hildegard-Apotheke. Christiana-Verlag, 2017.

Hildegard von Bingen. Physica. Edited by Reiner Hildebrandt and Thomas Gloning. De Gruyter, 2010.

Julian of Norwich. Revelations of Divine Love. Translated by Barry Windeatt. Oxford Univeristy Press, 2015.

Karras, Ruth Mazo. Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing Unto Others. Routledge, 2017.

Kerr, Julie. Monastic Hospitality: The Benedictines in England, c.1070-c.1250. Boudell Press, 2007.

Kieckhefer, Richard. Forbidden rites: a necromancer’s manual of the fifteenth century. Sutton, 1997.

Kuemin, Beat and B. Ann Tlusty, The World of the Tavern: Public Houses in Early Modern Europe. Routledge, 2017.

Ilner, Thomas, et al. The Economy of Duerrnberg-Bei-Hallein: An Iron Age Salt-mining Center in the Austrian Alps. The Antiquaries Journal, vol 83, 2003. pp. 123-194

Lang, Benedek. Unlocked Books: Manuscripts of Learned Magic in the Medieval Libraries of Central Europe. The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008

Lindeman, Mary. Medicine and Society in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge University Press, 2019.

Lowe, Kate. “’Representing’ Africa: Ambassadors and Princes from Christian Africa to Renaissance Italy and Portugal, 1402-1608.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society Sixth Series, vol 17, 2007. pp. 101-128

Meyers, David. “Ritual, Confession, and Religion in Sixteenth-Century Germany.” Archiv fuer Reformationsgenshichte, vol. 89, 1998. pp. 125-143.

Murat, Zuleika. “Wall paintings through the ages: the medieval period (Italy, twelfth to fifteenth century).” Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences, vol 23, no. 191. Springer, October 2021. pp. 1-27.

Overty, Joanne Filippone. “The Cost of Doing Scribal Business: Prices of Manuscript Books in England, 1300-1483.” Book History 11, 2008. pp. 1-32.

Page, Sophie. Magic in the Cloister: Pious Motives, Illicit Interests, and Occullt Approaches to the Medieval Universe. The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013.

Park, Katharine. “The Criminal and the Saintly Body: Autopsy and Dissectionin Renaissance Italy.” Renaissance Quarterly, vol 47, no. 1, Spring 1994. pp. 1-33.

Rebel, Hermann. Peasant Classes: The Bureaucratization of Property and Family Relations under Early Habsburg Absolutism, 1511-1636. Princeton University Press, 1983.

Rublack, Ulinka. “Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany.” Past & Present,vol. 150, no. 1, February 1996.

Salvador, Matteo. “The Ethiopian Age of Exploration: Prester John’s Discovery of Europe, 1306-1458.” Journal of World History, vol. 21, no. 4, 2011. pp.593-627.

Sangster, Alan. “The Earliest Known Treatise on Double Entry Bookkeeping by Marino de Raphaeli.” The Accounting Historians Journal, vol. 42, no. 2, 2015. pp. 1-33.

Throop, Priscilla. Hildegarde von Bingen’s Physica: The Complete English Translation of Her Classic Work on Health and Healing. Healing Arts Press, 1998.

Usher, Abbott Payson. “The Origins of Banking: The Brimitive Bank of Deposit, 1200-1600.” The Economic History Review, vol. 4, no. 4. 1934. pp.399-428.

Waldman, Louis A. “Commissioning Art in Florence for Matthias Corvinus: The Painter and Agent Alexander Formoser and his Sons, Jacopo and Raffaello del Tedesco.” Italy and Hungary: Humanism and Art in the Early Renaissance. Edited by Peter Farbaky and Louis A. Waldman, Villa I Tatti, 2011. pp.427-501.

Wendt, Ulrich. Kultur and Jagd: ein Birschgang durch die Geschichte. G. Reimer, 1907.

Whelan, Mark. “Taxes, Wagenburgs and a Nightingale: The Imperial Abbey of Ellwangen and the Hussite Wars, 1427-1435.” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, vol. 72, no. 4, 2021, pp.751-777.

Wiesner-Hanks, Merry E. Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge University Press, 2008.

Yardeni, Ada. The Book of Hebrew Script: History, Palaeography, Script Styles, Calligraphy & Design. Tyndale House Publishers, 2010.

[shadowandlightt]

Of Nightmares and Memories | Eleven | Azriel x Rhys' little sister! Reader

Series Warnings: Kidnapping. Mistreatment. Cursing. Pining. Violence. Depression. Talks of suicide. Eventual smut

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight Part Nine Part Ten

Shadows dance around you as you stand in the hall of the townhouse. You hadn’t stepped foot inside of it before. Hardly even paid any attention to it when you were little. You were sure Rhys had to have updated the interior. Because the townhouses on this block were nice, sure, but not nearly as cozy as this one seemed. 

Outside, the city was buzzing with life. So much so that it made you want to shrink away even further. Run to the mountains again, lock yourself away in the house of wind. Cassian and Azriel both resided there….you wouldn’t be alone. But you couldn’t face leaving Rhys, even if he had Feyre to worry about. 

First taking her to the prison, then taking her to the Weaver. He had to be insane. He wouldn’t clue you in on what was happening in the world, but you knew something had to be going on. He made mention of feeling safer once you were in Valaris, so quietly that you almost didn’t hear him. But you did hear him. And you would press him on it later. But now you needed to find your own footing again. 

“He had the twins set up a room for you,” Azriel said softly, hand gently resting on your shoulder, “No one can get in this house without permission, Rhys saw to that. And that includes me and Cass.” 

“Cassian,” You breathed out, suddenly remembering the man who was once like a second brother to you, “Where is he?” 

You spin around to face Az, and the door. There’s a look of surprise on Az’s face. The last time you saw Cassian, you’d punched him hard enough to break his nose. You had gotten into an awful fight with one another, that didn’t end until his blood was dripping on the floor. You remembered feeling a sense of satisfaction at the sight of him bleeding everywhere. 

“Sulking,” Az’s lips turned up slightly, “He wanted to go to summer, but he’s since been banned from the court for destroying a building or two.”

“He what?” You questioned, eyes darting back to meet his. 

“Story for another time.”

“Can you bring him here?” You question, not ready to fly at all, let alone to the House of Wind. 

“Why don’t we fly to him?” Az rose his eyebrows in a question. 

You shook your head, backing away from him just a step, “I don’t want to fly.” 

You didn’t want to summon your wings, something you hadn’t done since the day you were taken. You hadn’t allowed yourself that one pleasure, not when your mother’s wings were so cruelly cleaved from her body. Not when you had two long, thick, scars running down the length of your back from where Tamlin’s brothers cut into your flesh, thinking somehow they’d bring out the wings that were once there. 

“You don’t want to fly?” He questioned slowly, “You love to fly.” 

Your head shakes again as he tucks his wings impossibly tighter to his body, as if he was trying to hide them amongst the shadows that dwelled there. He didn’t know in full what happened to you, or at least you hoped he didn’t. You hoped his shadows hadn’t reported to him as it happened, only adding to the chaos of him trying to reach you in time. 

But by the time he made it to that clearing all that was left was two bodies hacked into pieces, one of your mother and one of your maid that accompanied you everywhere, and more blood than should have been possible. You could remember the way the grass was coated with it, soaking into the earth below. You wondered if it left a stain on that land. 

“Come back to me,” Az whispered, stepping towards you, “Leave all of that behind, and come back to me.”

“I’m right here, Az.” 

“Are you though?” He questioned softly, “Because I’m not so sure you are.”

You shiver with the memories that keep flooding your head. The sound of his voice as he begged you to be strong, that he would be there soon. 

Breathe, you had to remind yourself. Breathe, you’re free again. You’re home in Valaris, you’re with Azriel, and he would never let anything bad happen to you as long as you’re with him. You knew that in your very bones. But it didn’t make this any easier. 

Little Star?

Rhys’ voice made you jump, forgetting for a moment that you could still speak to one another. It seemed strange having him in your head after so long apart, you hadn’t even noticed the feeling of his mental claws gently stroking your mind. 

I’m okay. I promise Rhys. 

Az doesn’t seem to think so.

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to send a vulgar gesture down the line back to Rhys. Instead you flopped down in a near by chair. 

Az needs to mind his own business for once. 

Go flying with him. Please.

Go tell Feyre she’s your mate, dear brother, and I’ll think about it. 

He retracted from your mind with that. The feeling of him being gone left you feeling utterly empty. You’d forgotten what it felt like to have someone else in your mind, how full you felt. Full of life, full of thought. Full of emotion and oftentimes joy. 

“Don’t rat me out to my brother,” You grumble at Azriel. 

“I’m just worried,” He admits, stepping to sit on the edge of the chair across from you. 

“You have no reason to worry,” You try to convince him, acting as if you’re brushing off some dirt from your shoulder. 

“I think I have every reason,” He said so softly you almost didn’t hear him, “Why won’t you come flying with me?” 

You shake your head again, “If you witnessed what I did that day, you wouldn't want to fly either.”

Her screams echoed in your ears. Terror ripped through your bones again, no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You remind yourself again and again that you’re safe, and free, and home. Because this place felt more like a home than the House of Wind ever did.  

“You weren’t there, you couldn’t understand,” You told him quietly. 

“Don’t remind me that I failed you, Y/N.”

“You didn’t fail me.”

“I didn’t make it to you in time,” He replies, “I failed you in that way, and in every way after for the last few hundred years. I gave up on you.”

“Everyone did,” You simply shrugged, “I even gave up. I don’t blame you for what happened that day.”

The sound of mighty wings cut off any reply that Azriel could have, before the door was being shoved open and Cassian came quite literally running inside. His hair was half up in a messy bun, dripping with sweat. His shirt was haphazardly thrown on, like he’d been in the throws of training when someone, probably Rhys, told him to get his ass down to the townhouse. He looked around, chest heaving with every breath. He wasn’t out of shape, no he was far from that. But you’d watched him train before, you knew how hard he worked. And you could imagine he was panicked, just by the look on his face. 

He dropped the broadsword he held in his hand, staggering forward a few steps. You gently stood, not wanting to spook him. But he already looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and maybe he had. Because you certainly felt like a ghost of who you’d once been. A ghost of the person that used to laugh alongside Cassian at everything. 

“Y/N?” His voice broke, “Brother, what kind of trick is this?” He turned his full attention to Azirel, demanding answers. 

Azriel said nothing though, only inclining his head towards you. A silent confirmation. Tears filled the general’s eyes as he looked you over, trying to reconcile the girl he once knew when the women standing before him. 

Your own eyes glossed over as you watched him. He shook slightly, so slightly it could’ve been missed, if you weren't paying so close attention to him. He surged forward, so quickly he was nothing more than a blur of dark hair and wings as he scooped you up in his arms, pulling you from the ground. He held you as tightly as he possibly could, sobs leaving his body. You couldn’t stop your own sobs as they shook your whole body. Clutching onto him, you breathed in his scent. Something distinctly Cassian and the smell of sweat. Truthfully, he reeked and needed a bath. 

“How are you alive?” He cried, not so discreetly, “We helped Rhys bury your body.” 

“No, you didn’t. That’s what they wanted you to think,” You try to explain, “It was Michaa that you buried.” 

“But-” 

“Don’t grill her on this, Cass,” Azriel warned, finally speaking. 

Cassian set you down and held you at arm’s length, finally really looking you over. You’d grown taller since the last time he saw you. He assumed in another life, you would've been fuller too, but you still looked gaunt even after a while away from the spring court. Your hair was longer and darker, much like Rhys’. Your eyes weren’t as bright as they once were, but the light was slowly coming back to them. You were slowly coming back to life. 

“I missed you, Cassi,” You sniffed, knowing how much he hated that nickname when you were children. But you couldn’t say Cassian when you first met him. 

“Cauldron boil me,” He groans out, using the back of his hand to wipe at his eyes, “I never thought I’d hear you call me that again.”

“I need a drink,” He says suddenly, making his way into the kitchen, “Az?” 

“Pour me one too.” Az nods his head, sinking into the chair once more. 

He looked older, and yet just as young as you’d seen him the last time. But with the way he held himself, you could tell that he’d seen many horrors in the hundreds of years that you’d been gone. He’d dealt with too much. 

“Me too,” You agree, sinking into your own chair, feeling the weight pulling you down. 

“You aren’t old enough,” Was Cassian’s quick response. 

You raise an eyebrow at him in challenge, “I’m old enough to fuck, therefore I’m old enough to drink.” 

Both males cringe, eyes going wide, wings flaring. You groan out, realizing what you’d just said. You were sure Rhys had figured it out already, why you smelled so much like Lucien when he saw you on Firenight. Why you still smelled faintly like the male.

“I’ll get it myself,” You push yourself up again and push past Cassian, “Territorial male bastards.” 

Both males follow you into the kitchen as you grab for the decanter tucked on the corner of the counter. The room feels almost too small with both of them and their wings closing in on you. You felt trapped again. 

“Who,exactly, were you fucking?” Azriel asked with cold precision. 

“None of your business, Shadowsinger.” You snap back, downing the knuckles’ worth of alcohol. 

Shadows swirl angrily around you. Some listening to Az, some listening to you. The fought one another, colliding in the middle of the kitchen in a black patch. Cassian’s wings were flared wide muscles tensing. 

“You know I can find out,” Az warns. 

“Can you?” You question, “Because you didn’t even know I was alive for the past few hundred years. How are you supposed to find out anything when you couldn’t even do that?” 

You could physically see the moment the words settled down in him. He jerked back as if you’d hit him, wings suddenly snapping in tight to his body. Even Cassian took a step back. You swallowed, feeling bad for throwing that back in his face. You tried to step towards him, but he only backed out of the doorway and made for the front entrance, slamming the door behind him. You heard the beat of wings a moment later. 

“That was a low blow,” Cass warned you, “Even for you, Y/N.” 

Even for you…because you used to fight with Cass and Rhys, viciously, but never with Az. You never felt the need to fight with him, because he was always on your side. He always seemed to understand you. He knew how far to push you. You, however, pushed him too far this time. 

You could feel yourself sink. Head hung low as you looked at the glass in your hands. You didn’t know how to be around people anymore. It seemed odd, being free again. Being back with your family, even though Rhys and Amren were gone in Summer with Feyre. You longed for Mor, who seemed to have made herself scarce, knowing you’d need time to sort out yourself. You wished she wouldn’t have left you alone with the boys though. You were making a complete mess out of everything.

“ Cass, I-” 

“Don’t apologize to me,” He shook his head, “Find Az and apologize to him. He beat himself up for centuries for not making it to you in time. I seem to think he’ll blame himself until the day he dies.” 

“I don’t know how to do this anymore,” You admit to him, so softly you aren’t sure if he hears. 

He’s quiet for a time, so very quiet that you can hardly make out the sound of him breathing, “Do what, Little one?” He finally questions. 

The sound of the name that only he called you, brings tears to your eyes. You curl in on yourself, wrapping your arms around you like a protective barrier. Cassian’s dark eyes softened at the sight, his wings drooping slightly. Fat tears rolled down your cheeks as you thought of how broken Azriel must feel. It made your chest feel as if it was going to break in two. 

“I don’t know how to live anymore,” You reply, utterly defeated. 

“C’mere,” He opens his arms wide for you, dark eyes shining. You step into his arms, feeling their strength wrap around you. For a moment you feel safe again, like the little girl he once knew, “We’ll figure this out, I promise. We won’t let you down again.” 

“You didn’t let me down the first time,” You promised him, “But I think I might be too broken to fix.”

“No, no one is too broken.”

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[ofsappho]

THE KNIFE OF MUAD'DIB (Paul x OC!Reader x Chani)

Wherein na-Duke Paul Atreides is not the Bene Gesserit's only prospect for the Kwisatz Haderach. Raised by Paul's side as his playmate and servant, Chryse, the Bene Gesserit's cuckoo child, will forge a new future for her master.

(previously posted on AO3 as Themis)

PART II: PAUL

He pressed play on the filmbook viewer again. Before Paul’s eyes, the swamps of Ecaz came back to life, the projected mist swirling through his room so thick he could barely see his hand through it. The boy could almost taste the sweet moss and rich earth on his tongue if he breathed in.

What would it be like, to wander those marshes and see the fogwood bend to his thoughts? To watch weavers knot krimskell rope with their practiced, scarred hands?

Paul swallowed thickly. He’d never be allowed to go off-world until he was older. He passed his hand through the fog again and pretended he could feel beads of water gathering on his palm.

Father had started him that day on his lessons with Hawat. He remembered the weight of the Duke’s hand on his shoulder as his father brought Paul to the study chamber where the old Mentat waited. Before he could turn and ask his father to stay, he was gone. Not even the Duke had time enough now for his heir.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Paul felt ashamed of himself. Father had enough on his plate. What sort of son did he make, gathering resentment? A poor one.

The filmbook switched to the glittering gems that miners could find on Hagal. He sagged back into his chair and watched the images flicker on his wall.

Mother liked to smooth his hair back with a single palm and say in that still-water calm tone of hers that he would be greater than his father someday. Paul brought his knees up to his chin. The lonely dunes of Arrakis replaced the scenes of shining jewels trundling from the depths of Hagal mines.

No one could be greater than Father.

He’d watched the Duke turn down the dimly-lit hallway before the Mentat retainer rapped the table with his wizened knuckles to call his attention.

Thufir Hawat was pleased as always to see him, if a bit gruff in his mannerisms.

He’d set Paul to a variety of tasks that were difficult, at best. Thinking that felt like admitting defeat.

How was he supposed to be the heir to House Atreides when he couldn’t even memorize the endless formulas and calculations Hawat laid out in front of him?

Mother always told Paul he was good at remembering and liked to play games with him over breakfast. What had changed in their dining room that day?

She had endless patience and endless persistence. Thufir had comparatively less of the former and about the same amount of the latter.

He bit back the urge to throw the cup next to him filled with day-old tea at the wall.

Day in, day out. Filmbooks, lessons, meals with Mother.

Even if Paul wanted to leave the compound to explore the same pastures and beaches he’d wandered a hundred times over as a little boy, the chafing security team his father insisted upon would have followed him around.

He wasn’t a little boy anymore. Paul was too old to play around in the sand like a baby.

Last week, he’d pestered Duncan to start his combat training. “I know you think you’re old enough,” the swordmaster had said. “But you’ll have to wait a little longer, Paul.”

It wasn’t fair.

Paul unfolded his lanky frame from the chair to carelessly pick through the steel toy figurines of an Atreides legion on his side-table, now arranged in a battle against a battalion of porcelain Imperial Sardaukar.

The Sardaukar, crouched behind their defense of a stack of filmbooks, were losing.

He could imagine how glorious the battle would be!  Paul Atreides with Duncan Idaho and Gurney Halleck by his side, victorious, a field of felled enemies before him-

With a random twitch of his hand, he accidentally swept the Atreides soldiers onto the floor.

Paul despised his occasional clumsiness.

The boy bit back a sigh as he bent to collect the fallen figures.

He studied one of the toy soldiers, the battle lance in its hand and the shield on its wrist. Perhaps he ought to steal a shield from the training room. The weapons were kept separately, locked up where only the swordmasters could get them, but the swordmasters kept the shields in locked cabinets. If Paul could show Duncan he knew how to use a shield-

A conspiratorial smile came to his face. With a shield, Duncan would have no good reason not to begin his combat training. The Ginaz swordsman might even cheer him on for his ingenuity.

With that pllan in mind, the young boy turned off the filmbook viewer and slipped out of his chamber, careful not to make a sound as he padded along the gray stone hallways towards the closest training room. The cupboard that housed the shields was only loosely padlocked; shields were hardly the most dangerous things in this wing of the manor.

There was no key to be had nearby. Not that Paul expected one - it wouldn’t be nearly as impressive if he’d simply unlocked the cupboard with little fanfare.

Mother liked to repeat odd little sayings to him with an expression on her face that told Paul he really ought to understand them more than he did. He figured it was some sort of weird Bene Gesserit thing. Sometimes the sayings stuck; other times, they didn’t. “My mind controls my reality.”

He’d come to resent that one. It’s not like if he thought hard enough, Father would see him more often, Duncan would start his combat training, and Thufir’s games would come easier.

The padlock was standard, with knobs and buttons that had to be arranged in precisely the correct pattern and order for it to open. Each time it closed, the pattern and order would change.

Paul had opened these dozens of times if he thought about it.

In his hands, the lock came apart quickly. The remnants were put to the side softly so no servant walking past could hear him rummaging in the cabinet.

Some of the wrist units were dusty, old things probably made in the year he was born. The new shield units were… there!

He reached out and grabbed one that looked like it might fit.

Paul was far too intent on measuring his prize to his wrist to hear the barely-there sounds Duncan made as he snuck up on the boy.

“Paul.”

The swordmaster’s voice, low and rumbly, scared him. Paul tried to hide his instinctive twitch, but from the self-satisfied look on Duncan’s face, he hadn’t succeeded.

Oh no. The shield. The Atreides retainer had already seen it in his hand. He tightened his grip on it and tried to square his shoulders to look Duncan straight in the eye. Much to his dismay, Paul had to tilt his gaze up.

His voice sounded tinny and high in response. “I got it, didn’t I?”

“I’m impressed. You did.” The older man made no move to take the shield from the boy’s death grip. Duncan looked at him sternly for one long moment. A fond chuckle followed, and he reached out to ruffle Paul’s hair. Paul hated it when he did that but could never duck out of the way fast enough. “And you thought stealing this would be a good idea… why?”

He set his jaw and tried for some of Father’s severity and larger-than-life presence. “I know how to use the shield. I’ve got one. You needn’t worry about my safety now, and you have to teach me how to fight.”

One of the man’s scarred eyebrows raised. “Do I?”

“You do!” Why wasn’t Duncan taking him seriously? “I order it.”

“Young master, when you can look me in the eyes without looking up, and your voice drops lower; I’ll consider following your orders. In the meantime, I only follow the orders of your father, the Duke.” The good-natured tone in his gruff voice did little to mitigate the sting of his words.

Paul slammed the shield down on the empty weapons table in frustration. “It’s not fair. I’m not a little boy anymore. And- and if you don’t teach me to fight now, when will I learn? How long do I have to wait?” No, it wasn’t enough for the swordmaster to chastise him like he was a baby. Of course, Duncan had to just stand there and not say anything back to him at all. The lack of response made the boy feel infinitely worse.

“For my father, the Duke, to decide I’m ready? He doesn’t- he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even see me every day.” Paul’s words hung heavy in the air between them, and he knew instantly that he’d made a mistake.

He’d gone too far to back down now.

The warrior broached the distance between them in two long strides.

His large, scarred hand clasped Paul’s jaw in a tight grip, forcing the boy to look up at Duncan’s face instead of staring, shamefaced, at his bare feet.

“You’re a good kid, Paul, so I’ll say this once, and we’ll be done with it. Duke Leto Atreides, your father, is the best man I have ever known. Everything he does, he does for the prosperity of House Atreides. For your prosperity.” Unbidden, tears began to form in the boy’s eyes. He did his best to will them to stop.

“You don’t know anything about what your father, my lord, has done. What he’s sacrificed.”

Even in Duncan’s grasp, Paul kept his jaw tight and shoulders back. His pride wouldn’t allow him to do anything else.

“The Duke may be too busy fending off the Harkonnens to chastise you properly, but I’m not. I’ve allowed you to be a little shit right now in my training room. Do not expect me to permit this behavior going forward.” His tutor let go of him suddenly, and the boy staggered back. “You will sit your studies. You will behave. You will learn how to fight when we deem you ready to learn. Above all, you will not disrespect your father like that again.”

Resentment bloomed in Paul’s chest, hot and heady. He tamped down on it with the control Mother taught him. “I understand.” The bitterness was replaced by painful embarrassment. How immature must he have seemed to the great Duncan Idaho, lashing out like the baby he professed not to be?

Father… Shame coated his throat. His father was out there somewhere in the Imperium, risking his life fighting Harkonnens, and Paul was here in his mother’s wing, throwing tantrums.

The swordmaster’s bearing softened slightly at the sight of Paul’s embarrassment and shame, scrawled plainly across his charge’s face. “I get it. I understand what you’re feeling.” Duncan clapped him on the back. “You’re the heir. One day I’ll serve you. Better you get that outburst out of your system now than let your father see any of it.”

The floor suddenly became very interesting.

He tucked his chin to avoid the older man’s regard.

“I don’t reward bad behavior. You know that. I am, however… impressed that you managed to get into one of the cabinets without the code.” Paul caught a glimpse of the shield in Duncan’s hand as he lifted his head.

He caught the shield band in one hand before he had even realized the man had tossed it at him.

“Get used to wearing that all the time, as we do. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. We won’t be starting live edges. I will see you in this training room every day for practice on your sayaw forms. If you behave, we’ll spar with bokkens.” Elation ran through him. Paul had thought himself well and truly in trouble for a moment there.

Forms training every day was a far better outcome than nothing. He would make Duncan proud. And Father would be proud if Duncan gave him good reports on Paul’s progress.

The Ginaz swordmaster strode from the room. Before he exited, he stopped in the doorway. “Paul…” The boy could see no traces left of sternness left on his rugged, tanned face. “You’ll be alright, kid.”

Paul watched him go.

He thought of the filmbooks. Ecaz. Hagan. Arrakis. All the places he could go one day. Paul looked at the shield in his hand. He would do his best in the classroom with Thufir. He’d show Duncan that he deserved to fight with live edges. Resolution formed in the depths of his mind. Paul would surpass them all.

-

Mother had found him later that week in the same training room. Duncan left much earlier, while Paul elected to stay behind. Pattern after pattern, he whirled on the training mat, weaving around imaginary opponents. The sayaw forms were the foundation upon which the Atreides Eskrima rested.

His skinny limbs ached, and he could feel sweat trickling down his back under his loose tunic, but Paul kept going. Duncan had called the forms a type of dance. While he hated the dance lessons his mother kept him in, the rhythm of the sayaw forms was far more appealing.

A fight had the same beats as a live pulse, he’d found.

The new training regimen gave Paul something to do, a goal to work for. But when he wasn’t training with Duncan or struggling through Thufir’s mind games, the emptiness would creep back in.

Paul would watch filmbook after filmbook on the countless planets of the Imperium. Even anything with information of what lay beyond the Imperium. Anything but the hollowness of the Atreides manor.

Even the promise of live-edge dueling shortly did little to stave off the immense pressure Paul faced when he was alone with himself or the lingering fear that he would never live up to that pressure.

He attempted to take Duncan’s words about his father to heart. The bitterness that welled up inside Paul remained. The Duke deserved a better son, he thought. But he would have to make do with me.

When Mother came to him that afternoon, he could feel the tiniest bit of terror emanating from her serene countenance. Her face was calm as always - yet the slight razor-edge of her fear sent a chill down Paul’s spine. “Paul.”

“Mother,” the boy said, pulling out of his lowered stance to stand up straight, wiping his brow with the edge of his tunic.

She pressed her lips together. “Come. There is someone you must meet.” Without another word, his mother turned away from him sharply.

Curiosity and dread warred for dominance in Paul’s thoughts. His mother, Lady Jessica, was Bene Gesserit and fearless. What could frighten her?

Dutifully, he followed after her. Just as Duncan had taught him that week, he took extra care to make his steps as silent as possible.

The lady stopped abruptly in front of her presence-chamber. Paul could see his mother’s reluctance to enter, though she conquered that reluctance after a moment and pushed the door open. A slip of a girl sat on the bench by the far wall. Her face was blank and hollow under the light of the glowglobe. He thought she looked awfully skinny, even more so than him.

“Paul, this is Chryse. She will be joining our household as my new handmaiden, though she is still in training.”

The boy looked over Chryse once more. His mother rarely took on new handmaidens and always ones that came to her fully trained. Perhaps that knowledge should have put him on guard, but Paul somehow knew he had nothing to fear. The girl’s dark almond-shaped eyes, too large for her face, met his gaze.

He straightened up under her scrutiny. Paul wanted her to… be impressed. “Hello.” The boy tried for the deep resonance of his father’s voice but only sounded gravelly. He winced.

“Hello.” Someone else might have been daunted by the expression on Chryse’s face - like a frozen-over lake on Lankiveil. Lankiveil’s eternal winter was inconceivable to Paul. He’d only seen snow in the filmbooks.

Even around him, his mother’s own look never defrosted. The boy was used to it.

Lady Jessica stepped forward as if to come between them. “She will be joining you for some of your lessons. I’ve already spoken to Duncan. I hope you will come to regard her as a… companion.”

A new sparring partner! Well, that made the girl’s presence chafe less. Paul disliked his mother’s implication that he required a companion. He was doing just fine without one. Then an unexpected wave of giddiness swept away his dislike. Sparring with Duncan was unfairly one-sided. Paul enjoyed the thought that he could have an opponent against whom he might win. Maybe when she wasn’t attending to his mother or in lessons with him, Chryse would watch filmbooks with him. Paul could show her everything he knew. The girl might command his Sardaukar figurines while he fought her with his Atreides legions. He wasn’t entirely sure how girls acted typically, but his mother’s new handmaiden seemed like she’d be willing to play with him.

Thoughtlessly, he darted over to her and grabbed her hand. Paul dragged her with him as he skipped towards the door. Mother made an odd choked sound in her throat at the sight of the two of them, but he ignored her.

The girl stopped suddenly just before the doorway. He turned towards her and his mother. Why the delay? “Well, come on! You haven’t explored our wing much, have you?”

Chryse looked to his mother for a moment as if silently asking for permission. When she received a nod, the girl turned to look at him once more. “No, I haven’t.” Her voice quavered. To Paul, she sounded like she didn’t speak often. Weird.

“Let’s go!” His mother let them leave her chamber without any words in protest.

The younger girl’s hand was cold in his, but as her palm warmed, she began to match his tight grip.

 When Paul looked back to see if she was paying attention to him, he saw the slightest smile on her face directed at him.

Man tumblr was tweaking when I tried to post this the first time. I had three chapters of this story completed before I dropped it and I'm now writing the 4th. Thanks for reading!

Tagging: @redskull199987 @itsemy01 @blahzaiblahsheep @herebereblogs

[exercise-of-trust]

seemingly cool fiber arts person i followed a little bit ago just put radfem shit on the dash, anyway the blanket statement that the only contributions of men to textile production are capitalist/exploitative and the only contributions of women are household-centric/victimized is patently untrue. while less of a documented presence, women in medieval europe [1] absolutely participated in weaver's guilds and commercial cloth production [2], and men have been participating in household knitting in all parts of europe for as long as knitting has been a thing there [3]. like i'm not trying to say women haven't been deeply excluded from economic opportunities in the textile trade for centuries but you cannot be making sweeping statements like that about everyone in every part of the world through all of history and expect them to be true. do, like, a basic level of research and have a basic understanding of nuance, i beg of you [4]

footnotes/sources/etc under the cut, sources are a bit basic because i just grabbed whatever was nearest to hand but they should suffice to prove my point:

[1] i'm only referring to western europe here because that's the only region i feel comfortable talking about in any detail without embarrassing myself. systems of medieval cloth production in european guilds are not gonna look anything like the systems of hundreds of servants employed to do textile production for a household in china. don't make categorical statements about everyone everywhere all at once, you will end up with egg on your face.

[2] quotes from "when did weaving become a male profession," ingvild øye, danish journal of archaeology, p.45 in particular.

england: "in norwich, a certain elizabeth baret was enrolled as freeman of the city in 1445/6 because she was a worsted weaver, and in 1511, a riot occurred when the weavers here complained that women were taking over their work" + "another ordinance from bristol [in 1461] forbade master weavers to engage wives, daughters, and maids who wove on their own looms as weavers but made an exception for wives already active before this act" germany: "in bremen, several professional male weavers are recorded in the early fourteenth century, but evidently alongside female weavers, who are documented even later, in 1440" -> the whole "even later" thing is because the original article is disputing the idea that men as weavers/clothiers in medieval europe entirely replaced women over time. also: "in 1432-36, a female weaver, mette weuersk, is referred to as a member of the gertrud's guild in flensburg, presently germany" scandanavia: "the guild of weavers that was established in copenhagen in 1500 also accepted female weavers as independent members and the rules were recorded in the guild's statutes"

[3] quotes from folk socks: the history and techniques of handknitted footwear by nancy bush, interweave press, 2011, don't roast me it was literally within arm's reach and i didn't feel like looking up more stuff

uk/yorkshire dales: "...handknitting had been a daily employment for three centuries [leading up to 1900]. practiced by women, children, and men, the craft added much to the economy of the dales people." (p.21) uk/wales: re the knitting night (noson weu/noswaith weu) as a social custom practiced in the 18th/19th c.: "all the ladies would work on their knitting; some of the men would knit garters" (p.22) uk/channel islands: "by the early seventeenth century, so many of the islands' men, women, and children had taken up the trade of knitting that laws were necessary to keep them from knitting during harvest" (p.24) -> this one is deeply funny to me, in addition to proving my point uk/aberdeen: "the knitters, known as shankers, were usually women, but sometimes included old men and boys" (p.26) denmark: "with iron and brass needles, they made stockings called stunthoser, stomper, or stockings without feet, as well as stockings with feet. the men knit the legs and the women and girls made the heels" (p.32) iceland & faroe islands: "people of all ages and both sexes knit at home not only for their own use but for exportation of their goods as well" (p.35)

[4] actually? no. i'm not begging for shit from radfems. fuck all'a'y'all.

[alpaca-clouds]

Why Does Everyone Struggle With Solarpunk Stories?

Fun Fact: My own introduction to Solarpunk happened in Germany on a German convention. I met a friend, who I had not seen in quite a few years in the creator alley, and they and their partner had just brought out an indie comic, which they introduced as a Solarpunk comic.

I do however wonder whether it really could be considered Solarpunk now, as it was mostly fantasy (which in itself is not a criterium), but the main overlap with Solarpunk generally was this idea of using the Art Noveau aesthetic for everything. From what I remember, it was not really very concerned with any of the Solarpunk themes - nor with anything considered Solarpunk technology - though I do remember some flying machines that were powered by sun energy.

But it makes me think about one thing: There are still barely any explicit Solarpunk novels out there. Like, there are a few, yes, but barely any. Most of what is considered Solarpunk works is stuff that folks among the Solarpunk community have looked at and gone: "Oh, yeah, this kinda feels Solarpunk, doesn't it?"

Most of the Solarpunk books out there are in fact anthologies. (And yes, I plan to continue reviewing those, I right now just struggle with reading because of health-related issues.) And even among those anthologies I will look at half the stories and think to myself: "Well, but are they really Solarpunk?"

In some cases that is because the stories in question are really build around too much of a dystopia. In other cases it is, because even the technology/ecology part is not really there.

And sure, I am talking a lot about how it is fairly easy to tell a Solarpunk story if you just let go of the idea that a Solarpunk story has to be one certain thing - rather than any kind of story that is set in a Solarpunk setting and deals with Solarpunk themes. But on the other hand it is not like I am writing a whole lot in the genre either, is it?

Admittedly the reason for me might be a bit of another one than for other writers. For me it is simply that I find it currently hard to motivate myself to write anything in terms of original fiction, because... Well, writing fanfics is just a whole lot more fun, and also will get me a lot more feedback and such.

And of course, on the side of the publishing industry I just don't know if anyone but Android Press and World Weaver Press even do much in publishing of Solarpunk stories? I am honestly not entirely certain.

But there definitely is some sort of struggle here right now. And that is without me going into the fact that half of what is published in Germany with the lable of "Solarpunk" is actually Cyberpunk but with some mild ecological themes in there.

And yeah, all in all it really makes me wonder, where the issue lies.

Is it a thing of a missing community for Solarpunk creatives, especially writers? Because I know that most online Solarpunk communities focus a ton on guerilla gardening, second hand clothes, and right to repair - but just don't have a ton of striving creative groups among them. The one Discord Server for Solarpunk writers I was on got deleted by the mod for being inactive.

So, yeah. I don't know.

Would someone be interested in another sort of community for Solarpunk creatives? And if so, what kind of community?

[earthtoharlow]

Flashing Lights

12) Yellow

Jack Harlow x Singer!OC

Series Masterlist

“The charismatic rapper’s second album captures absolutely none of his real-life persona.”

“There are ways that Harlow could position it as a real album, able to point to specific points of growth on tracks like “Side Piece” and “Poison (Ode to Maryse)” which are meant to be adult and sexy, or the closing “State Fair,” which finds him reflecting about how he’s famous but still the same guy.”

“Harlow, despite the growing fame and unending fascination, is still finding his footing. He is funny online and in interviews and knows how to grab people’s attention. Without much to grasp with his music, it’s easiest just to stare.”

-Pitchfork

Jack clicked his teeth and ran a hand through his hair as he read the reviews on Come Home The Kids Miss You. He would be lying if he said the negative reception didn’t upset him. Despite putting so much time and hard work into the album, it wasn’t enough. What if the music critics were right? Maybe he hasn’t found his footing yet, even though he’s been in the industry for years now. Was this album career ending?

He didn’t realize he was biting his manicured nails until Maryse came from the restroom and interrupted his thoughts.

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Maryse asked as she crawled into bed next to him. They hadn’t seen each other in weeks, Jack had just wrapped up filming the White Man Can’t Jump remake in California, while Maryse was preparing for tour and for her upcoming role as Belle in the 30th Celebration of Beauty and the Beast.

Jack was only in New York for less than 24 hours as he just performed at the Governors Ball, the two didn’t know when they were going to see each other again as Jack was headed back to California to perform at the BET Awards and then straight to Sweden.

Putting his phone face down on the side table, he turned to face her. “Just thinking about how much I missed you.”

“Yuck!” Maryse said with a roll of her eyes, Jack pinched her hip making her jump.

She leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his lips feeling him relax a bit. She knew he wasn’t telling the truth about what he was thinking about, but knew Jack would open up when he was ready.

“I wish I was going to the BET awards to see you perform.” Maryse pouted.

“Yeah, it’s too bad you’re going to be off being a Disney Princess instead!” Jack said with a smile, he was so proud of her. Even though his career seemed to be weavering, he was glad Maryse’s wasn’t.

Maryse smiled “Oh please! It still doesn’t feel real, and it probably won’t until I put on the dress. Right now I’m just recording the music.”

She started thinking about how busy their schedules were about to get. Jack was about to be out of the country for most of the summer, while she’ll be bouncing back and forth from NY & California.

With Nate she never had to worry about long distance because even when he had away games, he was only gone for a couple days at a time. Maryse always knew when he was coming home. She didn’t want to come off as clingy towards Jack and scare him away.

Maryse’s thoughts were cut short by Jack reaching out and rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

“Welcome back, what’s going on that head of yours?”

Not wanting to worry him, she replied “Just thinking about how much I’m going to miss you when you’re off being a superstar!”

Being called a superstar now suddenly made his stomach turn. “Yuck!” Jack said, mocking Maryse from what she said earlier.

Jack pulled her closer against him, as they were now cuddling. “Let’s stop thinking about how much we'll miss each other and just enjoy these last few hours we have together.”

Maryse nodded knowing he was right. “Goodnight, I love you.” She said, picking up his hand that was around her waist, giving it a gentle kiss.

Jack kissed her forehead. “I love you too, I’ll meet you in your dreams.”

***

“Okay, you’re going to join Coldplay’s world tour.”

Maryse squealed in her seat. She has always been a fan of Chris Martin.

Coco continued “you’re going to be replacing Camila Cabello, her last stop is the 24th of September and you’ll be starting October 11th in Brazil.”

Maryse eyes widened “Brazil?! Holy shit I’ve never been to Brazil before, this is going to be amazing!”

Her manager gave him a smile, happy for her client. “Yes, so we have to start preparing soon. Coldplay's team wants us to start drafting a stage design for your set.”

Maryse nodded, writing down notes in her notebook, she hadn’t even thought about a stage design always content with just having a microphone and chair.

“and then the most important part is figuring out your setlist, we know you’re going to perform your hits but we need some deep cuts as well. I would start working with your band now on that.”

She started bouncing in her seat with excitement, she couldn’t wait to tour and see all of her fans from all over the world.

The team went over smaller details before Maryse was able to leave and go home. When she was finally settled she immediately called Jack hoping he was still awake. He was currently in London as he was going to be performing at Wireless.

Pressing the phone to her ear, the phone continued to ring and as it was just about to go to voicemail Jack picked up.

“Hey, M.” Jack answered, not sounding as excited to hear from her as she thought he would be. Maryse tried not to think so hard on it, figuring he was exhausted from the traveling.

“Hi baby! I miss you so much!” Maryse cooed into the phone.

Jack was laying in his hotel room, he would be leaving in a few hours to go perform. He was exhausted and was feeling homesick.

“I miss you more.” And he did, so much.

“I wanted to call you cause you’ll never guess who I’m going on tour with!” Maryse said excitedly.

Jack rubbed his chin in thought, interested in finding out. “Ok, who?”

“COLDPLAY!” She squealed into the phone

Hearing her so excited made him smile. “Holy shit! Maryse, that's incredible! You think you could get Chris Martin’s autograph for me?” He said jokingly and laughed when she clicked her teeth.

“Ignoring that, but it starts in Brazil in October but I’ll be leaving early in September just to get everything settled, like the setlist and stage.”

Hearing her say the dates made his stomach hurt. Maryse was still talking excitedly about the tour when he cut her off. “Wait September and October?”

“Yeah, I’ll be touring overseas all fall then I’ll end the year in California for Beauty and the Beast.”

The more she spoke the more queasy he started to feel. He could barely get it out as he spoke again, “So, where do I fall in all this?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was loud. “Um, what do you mean?”

Jack swallowed. “I knew there was a possibility of us touring at the same time but I at least thought we were going to both be in the U.S.”

“Well, yeah it’s unfortunate but we’ll make it work. I mean, that’s what they have planes for!” Jack couldn’t appreciate Maryse trying to figure something out. His mind was racing, and his heart was pounding. Maryse was going to be gone while he toured the U.S. Sure they could try to talk everyday but it was going to be hard with the different time zones.

“Maryse, this is different from you coming to visit me from New York or vice versa, you won’t be able to just get up and leave the tour to visit me.”

There was another long pause from Maryse, when she began to speak again he knew he was starting to upset her. But his anxiety over not seeing her for months while he was already feeling overwhelmed and homesick was getting to him.

“Jack, where is this coming from?”

He was happy for her, and unbelievably proud. She was his only peace and he wanted her around.

Jack sighed knowing he needed to turn things around. “I’m just going to miss you, that's all. But you’re right we always make it work. I’m so proud of you. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I’m going to miss you too, just hang in there okay, you’ll be back in the states soon, remember you’ll be back here for the Today Show. Plus, I made sure I’ll still be able to go to the opening night of your tour. I wouldn’t miss that for the world.” She reassured him

That made him feel a little better. “Good. I love you, M. So much.”

“I love you too. No matter what. Have a good show and I’ll talk to you soon.” They said goodbye once more before hanging up the phone.

Jack flopped back on the bed, running his hands roughly through his hair. He wanted nothing more than to just be home, and if not home then just with Maryse.

Trying to dust off these feelings he stood so he could get ready for the show later that night, to perform lyrics to songs he wasn’t even sure he believed anymore.

He just tried to remember that he just needed to get through the next couple months, and he’ll be home.

***

🥺 as always tell me your thoughts, thank you for reading

and thank you @harlowcomehome for reading the first half and letting me know if it makes sense or not lol 🫶

Tag List:

(message me if you'd like to be added or removed)

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[viasplat]

I typed up the Pentiment bibliography for my own use and thought I’d share it here too. In case anyone else is fixated enough on this game to embark on some light extra-curricular reading

I haven’t searched for every one of these books but a fair few can be found via one of the following: JSTOR / archive.org / pdfdrive.com / libgen + libgen.rocks; or respective websites for the journal articles.

List below the cut!

Beach, Alison I, Women as Scribes: Book Production and Monastic Reform in Twelfth-Century Bavaria. Cambridge University Press, 2004

Berger, Jutta Maria. Die Geschichte der Gastfreundschaft im hochmittelalterlichen Mönchtum die Cistercienser. Akademie Verlag GmbH, 1999

Blickle, Peter. The Revolution of 1525. Translated by Thomas A. Brady, Jr. and H.C. Erik Midelfort. The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985

Brady, Thomas A., Jr. “Imperial Destinies: A New Biography of the Emperor Maximilian I.” The Journal of Modern History, vol.62, no.2, 1990. pp. 298-314

Brandl, Rainer. “Art or Craft? Art and the Artist in Medieval Nuremberg.” Gothic and Renaissance Art in Nuremberg 1300-2550. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1986

Byars, Jana L., “Prostitutes and Prostitution in Late Medieval Barcelona.” Masters Theses. Western Michigan University, 1997

Cashion, Debra Taylor. “The Art of Nikolaus Glockendon: Imitation and Originality in the Art of Renaissance Germany.” Journal of Historians of Netherlandish Art, vol.2, no.1-2, 2010

de Hamel, Christopher. A History of Illuminated Manuscripts. Phaidon Press Limited, 1986

Eco, Umberto. The Name of the Rose. Translated by William Weaver. Mariner Books, 2014

Eco, Umberto. Baudolino. Translated by William Weave. Boston, Mariner Books, 2003

Fournier, Jacques. “The Inquisition Records of Jacques Fournier.” Translated by Nancy P. Stork, San Jose University, 2020

Geary, Patrick. “Humiliation of Saints.” In Saints and their cults: studies in religious sociology, folklore, and history. Edited by Stephen Wilson. Cambridge University Press, 1985. pp. 123-140

Harrington, Joel F. The Faithful Executioner: Life and Death, Honor and Shame in the Turbulent Sixteenth Century. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013

Hertzka, Gottfied and Wighard Strehlow. Große Hildegard-Apotheke. Christiana-Verlag, 2017

Hildegard von Bingen. Physica. Edited by Reiner Hildebrandt and Thomas Gloning. De Gruyter, 2010

Julian of Norwich. Revelations of Divine Love. Translated by Barry Windeatt. Oxford University Press, 2015

Karras, Ruth Mazo. Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing Unto Others. Routledge, 2017

Kerr, Julie. Monastic Hospitality: The Benedictines in England, c.1070-c.1250. Boydell Press, 2007

Kieckhefer, Richard. Forbidden rites: a necromancer's manual of the fifteenth century. Sutton, 1997

Kümin, Beat and B. Ann Tlusty. The World of the Tavern: Public Houses in Early Modern Europe. Routledge, 2017

Ilner, Thomas, et al. The Economy of Dürnberg-Bei-Hallein: an Iron Age Salt-mining Centre in the Austrian Alps. The Antiquaries Journal, vol. 83, 2003. pp. 123-194

Làng, Benedek. Unlocked Books: Manuscripts of Learned Magic in the Medieval Libraries of Central Europe. The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2008

Lindeman, Mary. Medicine and Society in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge University Press, 2010

Lowe, Kate. “'Representing' Africa: Ambassadors and Princes from Christian Africa to Renaissance Italy and Portugal, 1402-1608.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society Sixth Series, vol. 17, pp. 101-128

Meyers, David. “Ritual, Confession, and Religion in Sixteenth-Century Germany.” Archiv für Reformationsgeschichte, vol. 89, 1998. pp. 125-143

Murat, Zuleika. “Wall paintings through the ages: the medieval period (Italy, twelfth to fifteenth century).” Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences, vol. 12, no. 191. Springer, October 2021. pp. 1-27

Overty, Joanne Filippone. “The Cost of Doing Scribal Business: Prices of Manuscript Books in England, 1300-1483.” Book History 11, 2008. pp. 1-32

Page, Sophie. Magic in the Cloister: Pious Motives, Illicit Interests and Occult Approaches to the Medieval Universe. The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2013

Park, Katharine. “The Criminal and the Saintly Body: Autopsy and Dissection in Renaissance Italy.” Renaissance Quarterly, vol. 47, no. 1, Spring 1994. pp. 1-33

Rebel, Hermann. Peasant Classes: The Bureaucratization of Property and Family Relations under Early Habsburg Absolutism, 1511-1636. Princeton University Press, 1983

Rublack, Ulinka. “Pregnancy, Childbirth, and the Female Body in Early Modern Germany.” Past & Present, vol. 150, no. 1, February 1996. pp. 84-110

Salvadore, Matteo. “The Ethiopian Age of Exploration: Prester John's Discovery of Europe, 1306-1458.” Journal of World History, vol. 21, no. 4, 2011. pp. 593 - 627

Sangster, Alan. “The Earliest Known Treatise on Double Entry Bookkeeping by Marino de Raphaeli”. The Accounting Historians Journal, vol. 42, no. 2, 2015. pp. 1-33.

Throop, Priscilla. Hildegard von Bingen's Physica: The Complete English Translation of Her Classic Work on Health and Healing. Healing Arts Press, 1998

Usher, Abbott Payson. “The Origins of Banking: The Primitive Bank of Deposit, 1200-1600.” The Economic History Review, vol. 4, no. 4, 1934. pp. 399-428

Waldman, Louis A. “Commissioning Art in Florence for Matthias Corvinus: The Painter and Agent Alexander Formoser and his Sons, Jacopo and Raffaello del Tedesco.” Italy and Hungary: Humanism and Art in the Early Renaissance. Edited by Péter Farbaky and Louis A. Waldman, Villa I Tatti, 2011. pp. 427-501

Wendt, Ulrich. Kultur und Jagd: ein Birschgang durch die Geschichte. G. Reimer, 1907

Whelan, Mark. “Taxes, Wagenburgs and a Nightingale: The Imperial Abbey of Ellwangen and the Hussite Wars, 1427-1435.” The Journal of Ecclesiastical History, vol. 72, no. 4, 2021, pp. 751-777.e

Wiesner-Hanks, Merry E. Women and Gender in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge University Press, 2008

Yardeni, Ada. The Book of Hebrew Script: History, Paleography, Script Styles, Calligraphy & Design. Tyndale House Publishers, 2010

[the-six-official]

commander week day 2: profession

the weaverrr

content warnings: some vague spoilers for EoD

note: weave self has crazy lore implications if you squint hard enough 👍 this post explains it better than i can. also the mantra he says is from the earth spear etching skill… i felt like it was fitting for the situation 

The chaos of the battlefield moved in slow-motion as Lazarus narrowed his focus to a white-hot point in front of him. He breathed deeply and shut his eyes, eliminating the distractions of the battle and tapping into the primordial energies of the world. He had learned through his Weaver training that everything was constantly in motion. The forces of the world cycled like lifeblood through Tyria, swirling into a primordial chaos that would surely destroy those that could not move with it.

Fire.

“Moving mountains is as simple as thinking,” Lazarus began with a barely audible whisper, carefully walking himself through the mantra. With practiced precision he pressed his hands together, drawing out a strand of fire energy that started to furiously orbit around him. Casting the spell felt like following in a dance; though he continued to fight as normal, his will took a backseat as he switched his focus to the next element. 

Water.

The two opposing elements began to twist and turn, melding into one. His ears rang as he danced through the battlefield, delicately balancing his focus between the increasingly volatile elements and his strikes. 

“It’s simple. Adapt. Thrive. Crumble.”

The element’s power washed over him and he felt the gentlest tug of chaos at the fringes of his consciousness. The boundaries between the two began to break down as he continued.

Air.

“All things come back to me.”

To weave was to unwind the context between the building blocks that made reality possible. Lazarus kept a sturdy grip on the chaos magic he cultivated as the wind whipped around him, moving through carefully practiced stances to keep the elemental energies in balance. So delicate, yet so strong. Nothing from everything. The Void.

Earth.

The chaos magic gnawed at the edges of his psyche and buzzed in his ears like a rising crescendo as the unfiltered energies coalesced into Void magic. Lazarus allowed his mind to scatter as he wove himself into the chaos around him. It was like a veil was lifted from in front of his eyes; the All was as clear as ever, and the patterns of the world made themselves clear to him. 

“If all things have limits, where are mine?”

The balance he worked to maintain had been thrown to the wayside, and the Void he had cultivated struggled towards entropy. Had he not been careful, he would have lost himself to its potent grip.

Unravel.

With practiced calm he threw his hands down and unleashed the singularity of Void magic. Light and shadow alike burst out from around him, unwinding the tethers of gravity around his foes. Void magic surged around them as they levitated, torn from the familiar weight of gravity. Lazarus quickly returned to the rhythm of combat as his opponents crashed to the ground, paralyzed by the chaos magic he was wielding mere moments ago.

Lazarus sheathed his sword and stepped over his incapacitated foes. His mind walked in circles from one thought to the next, still reeling from the primordial chaos that threatened to tear it apart. He counted along to the rhythm of the world as it finally settled.

It was time to keep moving. 

[lordhavemurthy]

i think what people tend to not understand about She-Ra (reboot) is that none of the characters (minus Horde Prime) are meant to be seen as pure good or evil. People get really pressed over how the princesses treat Entrapta (which i don't agree is right) or how Entrapta did betray them, thus making her a "morally grey character" because she has obsessions and shows signs of autism. But this isnt just something that happens with Entrapta, it happens with all of the characters. Catra and Glimmer are the next obvious, so i wont go into depth there, but for instance Adora can be very prideful. She lets the fame get to her head and isolates herself from everyone else in attempts to save the world. now, the latter isn't all her fault, Light Hope and Shadow Weaver made sure of that, but its still there. Mermista wants to be the center of attention, she wants to be the most powerful of the group and have something unique like She-Ra. Perfuma struggles to get along with people who are pessimistic or even more objective because it interferes with her "vibes." Scorpia isn't the greatest with boundaries, Frosta's a fucking child, Sea Hawk is a fucking arsonist (seriously why do we skip over that one? love him but my guy needs therapy), Angella is a coward who (despite her attempts to keep her away) sends her own daughter into battle before going out on the front lines herself, and yes, Entrapta betrayed her friends. Which, despite it being manipulated into something else here, wasn't good. She may not have understood how badly she hurt her friends (until S 5), but she actively knew that what Hordak was doing was wrong because she agreed to help the rebellion. She shows later on that while she doesnt pick up on emotional cues, she does understand what is going on, she just focuses on tech, but she gets the danger and the stakes, she knows. Let me say, however, that none of these traits, from any of these characters, make them "morally grey" (i hate that fucking term btw) it makes them human. none of us are perfect. we all have flaws, we will all hurt someone in our lives, we all make mistakes. it is how you try to rectify those mistakes, that determines whether or not your character is "good." Hordak, despite every terrible thing he did, realized he was wrong in the end, and rebelled. Entrapta apologized and sacrificed her life multiple times to save not only her friends, but the entire planet, even Shadow Weaver, who I could make a whole other separate post on, sacraficed herself so that not only Catra and Adora could live on together and save the world, but so that she wouldn't be tempted with the power that was about to be unleased. The only character i can possibly think of that doesn't have an obvious flaw (that i can see) is Bow, but he's not perfect either. To suggest so would to put in on a playing field in which no human (or complex character) could survive. So for the love of god, stop looking at it like Nate made only Entrapta "morally grey" because every character in that show made mistakes.

edit: thank you for those who made me aware of the proper name/pronouns the creator (Nate) uses now, i appreciate you!

[that-ari-blogger]

The Turn Of The Seasons

If you were to look at an episode of television, or any self-contained story for that matter, the first few minutes would probably establish the themes and core questions of that story. For an overt example, Star Wars tells you outright in its opening.

Obviously, you can apply this analytical framework to a series as well, with the first episode setting up the plot of latter episodes. The second season of She-Ra and the Princesses Of Power begins with The Frozen Forest, and I would argue that it establishes three core themes: Consequence, change, and harmony.

Let me explain.

SPOILERS AHEAD

Here is something interesting about She-Ra and storytelling as a whole: Themes aren't separate. There aren't moments where change is the entire focus, for example. All of the themes weave together to tell the story. Think of it like the rgb colour wheel, every part of this story has bits of each theme in it to form a whole. It may focus on one element, but the others will still be there, influencing the scene in minour ways.

With that said, I am going to try and talk about the themes separately for a moment, before bringing them all back together. I will talk about the constituent parts of the story, and then see the end result. I just feel it is important to understand that the separation is artificial.

Consequence is a theme carried over from the previous season and the series as a whole. Although, where the first focused on the overarching cycle of trauma and abuse and the direct result of that, this season focuses in on the consequences of specific actions on the world on a whole, and on the fallout of the story up to this point.

First, the framing of this episode. The Frozen Forest takes place not long after The Battle for Brightmoon, and so the Whispering Woods is still recovering from the ice that nearly destroyed it. This is a series that engages with the fallout of spectacle, and now, even though they have won, the princesses are on the back foot. Where the Woods Provided a border, now the alliance has to hold off the attacking army itself, and it is spread thin trying to do so.

Meanwhile, Catra and Adora are dealing with the consequences of not learning the lesson of the previous season. Adora is still working for Light Hope, and still processing Catra's words at the end of the previous season. Her response to any new development in the Horde is "ah, Catra," and her self-confidence has been eroded, and Light Hope has found that as a weak point and is keeping pressing.

Catra, on the other hand, has moved past Shadow Weaver. Right? She has defeated her in single combat and now her abuser sits in a cell, in shambles. So... why am I talking about it?

Unfortunately, that's not how healing works. Moving on isn't as uncomplicated as hitting someone in the face. Catra hasn't quite worked that out, so she goes to Shadow Weaver to gloat, and Shadow Weaver reads her like a book.

"If you're doing so well, why are you here? It's Adora, isn't it?"

But how does Catra respond?

"I let her win one.  We're gaining ground, and our armies are growing!  When they're ready to roll out, I will be at the head!!  And you'll be here rotting. Thanks, I needed this."

She lies and she blusters, because Catra wants to feel powerful, so she puts Shadow Weaver down. But, does she want to feel powerful? Is that the core desire going on here?

I would argue for something else. I think that Catra wants to feel safe, and she has associated control with that safety. I think Catra lashes out because she feels herself losing control and gets scared. That last line, "I needed this". I don't think its entirely a lie. Catra did need that, at least in her mind. She needed a moment to release all of her anger, but I don't think she recognises that. I would argue that Catra just said that to try and get at Shadow Weaver, to try and tell her that she hadn't won, being correct was entirely accidental.

There is also the fact that Catra's only release is letting out her anger at Shadow Weaver, and whether or not that is healthy is debatable, but what happens if Shadow Weaver was to escape. Where would all of that anger go?

Catra also leads into the theme of change rather well, specifically with her treatment of Lonnie, Kyle, and Rogelio. Once again, Catra has tried to move past Shadow Weaver, but here we show where she has gone after that. Catra is taking her authority the only way she knows how; she is becoming Shadow Weaver.

Back on the princess side of the war, there is a meeting about a change in tactics. Things have been going ok for the alliance, but nobody is sure how often they can continue, so Bow proposes a new strategy, and we see what that means to him. Intelligence comes in various forms, and while Entrapta is the inventor and scientist, Bow is a strategist, capable of maintaining a big picture perspective eternally. So, Bow suggests doing something different, a tactic that won't win the war, but it will buy time to figure out the next step. Bow also prioritises a change in perspective, focusing on knowledge about the opponent, believing that will inform his decisions.

Glimmer is also changing, and her development is mirroring Catra of all people. Overly Sarcastic Productions has a video on the parallels between these two characters later on in the series, but it is neat how early that starts. Glimmer takes on a role that is a lot like her mother in this episode, specifically in her relationship with Frosta. She becomes overprotective, and panics when Frosta gets herself in danger, and because she is Glimmer, her instinct is to push away responsibility. She is rebellious, so it takes her intentionally thinking about her actions to develop and apologise.

I’m sorry I yelled. It's just -- I guess you remind me of... me.  And I can do some really dangerous stuff sometimes.

And this weaves in with the final theme of this episode and this season: Harmony. Specifically harmony with each other.

The opening of the episode shows how the alliance is all made up of individuals who are formidably fighters, but who's miscommunication is holding them back. The band is together, but they ain't playing the same song, so what's the point? This episode shows them why they need to think as a team, and the conclusion where the power of friendship literally saves the day shows this off. Magic in this world is associated with that harmony between princesses, and so when they achieve it, the magic rewards them.

It is telling that Entrapta, Scorpia, and Catra do have this harmonious relationship already, and to me it actually looks like more of a found family than the princesses. These are people who all feel safe around each other, and in this episode at least, Catra actually shows some healthy behaviours towards those in her life. She is supportive of Entrapta, if a little overbearing, for example, and the scene of all of them watching tv on the couch deliberately evokes that familial atmosphere.

All of these moments connect with other themes as well. Adora's attempts to get over Catra are the collision of change and harmony, for example. She wants to get over Catra, but there is that loyalty there. The war council shows the consequences of the Horde, the need for a change, and the complete disharmony of the alliance.

But, the scene that, to me, shows the three themes in full, while letting them both individually shine and mix with each other, is that final scene of the episode.

Consequence: Entrapta's "death". Change: Entrapta's "death". Harmony: Entrapta's "death"

The desire for change stands on its own with Bow trying to adapt his methods and taking a more scientific approach to the war.

The consequences are on display from the previous season and the episode up to this point. The bots are getting better, and the war is getting more tense.

The harmony is on display through what got Bow here in the first place. The fact that it took the entire alliance to bring down the bot and let Bow take a look inside it.

But that all comes crashing in on itself with the reveal, and how it is framed. Often, a fake out death would be brushed off, but here Bow dwells on it. A single change has altered the way he sees both the consequences of the previous season, and the harmony of the princess alliance. Suddenly, he has more agency in Entrapta's fate than he realised, and Marcus Scribner kills that final line.

"Hold onto your hat, Future Bow. Entrapta's alive, and we left her behind."

Final Thoughts

Thus begins another season of She-Ra, and I do like this episode as an opener. The themes are really well done and its telling that, when you think about it, everyone in that War Council Meeting was right, and wrong. Perfuma was right in that they needed cohesion, Mermista was right about needing that change of perspective. Its just the ways that they went about it that was wrong, because teamwork takes time and understanding of each other's boundaries, and the group hadn't worked that out yet.

Next week I'm tackling Ties That Bind, so stick around if that interests you.

Previous - Next

[dayseternal-blog]

Summary: The folktale of the Japanese summer festival Tanabata, the story of Orihime’s and Hikoboshi’s love.

Rated M.

Finally updated after 4.5 years for NaruHina Fair, NH Month 2023 Day 8: World Mythology 💝

"The Cowherd and the Weaver Girl" - Chapter 4: With well wishes and prayers

It was gut-wrenching.  

He thought that he was already at his worst, at his lowest point, but it didn’t compare to when he heard that Hinata was pregnant.

In fact, really pregnant.  It was the talk of the celestial realm.  Everyone looked at him with pity.  

Each look his way reminded him of his failures.  He lost his wife.  And now he would never be a father to his child, to his rumored son.

To his children. 

When he heard that Hinata had given birth to twins, his heart ached only worse, only harder for his family.  He worried incessantly for her health, wishing that he could support her, be there for her, or at least, just once, lay eyes on her and his newborns.

He overheard acquaintances and friends saying that he changed.  That he was no longer the vivacious, dependable lord he once was. 

He could hardly care less.  

There was no one he wanted to see, no one he wanted to talk to, no one he wanted to seek out for comfort and assurance more than his wife.  Anyone else would just be someone else, just another awful reminder of what he had lost.

But new hope flooded him when he got the message from Tentei to meet Orihime at the Amanogawa.  He let unchecked tears of happiness form and fall, and he rushed to the misty riverbank to wait for her.

When she appeared, he felt out-of-body, his entire existence centered on her distant figure and the precious little lives she held in her arms.  

He stood there, still, waiting in restless anticipation.  Waiting.  Waiting.  

Until it became apparent.

That was all he would ever do for her.

Hope mutated into fear. 

Then shocked denial.

Into despair.

He watched her collapse to her knees at the riverbank, and he stood there frozen, dull, his eyes the only thing burning with any sort of emotion.  The rest of him was empty, as if all else, all vitality, all motivation, had been sucked out of him.  

He would never hold her.

He would never hold his children.

He would only get to see them, their vague, small forms.  Once a year.  For one night.

The Amanogawa would forever separate them.  

He closed his burning eyes and yelled out in anguish then, but it was hardly a sound compared to the thundering of the mighty river.  He let himself fall to his knees, to forcefully express his misery into the ground with his fists.  The Heavenly Sky King was untouchable.  He had only himself to blame.  

When he finally found the desire to at least burn her distant image into his memory, he was astounded at the sight of thousands of birds gathering at the far bank.  His heart skipped, jumping to cautious hope again when he saw her step up on the backs of the birds.

-

With each step, she gained confidence, until she was running across the magpies’ bridge, desperately rushing to her lover.  

She saw the birds keeping her pace, flitting beneath and before her to extend the path to the opposite end.   

Midway, her chest burned, her legs felt numb, her arms were tired with the weight of her children, but she refused to stop.  She could see the edges of his form sharpening, the blue of his eyes brightening.  

She pressed onward until the shout of her name was clearer to her ears than her heavy gasps for air.

Naruto ran to the water’s edge.  Once the magpies appeared before him, he didn’t wait, he couldn’t wait.  

He exchanged looks with the birds, who invited him forward, and without any more hesitation, he stepped up on their backs to meet her.   

“Hinata!” He caught her exhausted form and swept her up as she clutched their children.  He kissed her, reveling in the lips he missed so much, in her tired breaths against his cheeks.

“Naruto,” she whispered, her breath on his lips a blessing.

He held her tighter, finding that even her tear-streaked face, her puffy lids, and her pink-stained eyes made a more breathtaking picture than his memories of her. 

The magpies returned them to the banks swiftly.

He set his wife down carefully, his arms never fully leaving her, his gaze never leaving his children.

Their eyes were blue, like his.  One child’s hair, golden, like his.  The other child’s a midnight blue, like Hinata’s.  

She passed them to him, and he held them close, their weight filling the holes of his heart.

“Thank you,” Hinata whispered to the magpies as they began to fly away.

He turned to the remaining ones, reminded to express his appreciation.  “Thank you,” he called, his voice still hoarse from his earlier cries.  “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“We wish for nothing other than your happiness and continued love.  We will be at your service,” a magpie responded.

Naruto and Hinata exchanged looks of amazement before thanking the magpies once more.

-

The morning passed swiftly in carefree play.  Their children ambled through the fields surrounding Naruto’s home, exploring nature exactly the way Hinata had imagined.  Their curious voices rang across the grasses, unchecked babbles of excitement with no one to scold them to behave and be quiet.

Hinata explained the symbolism on their children’s clothing, roadmaps of their little lives so far, and Naruto found he could trace each important milestone, from first steps to first manifestations of holiness, along his wife’s embroidery.  She spoke of their routine in the palace, the monotony of their children’s rigorous training and academics despite their young age.

“They don’t get to play?” he asked, incredulous and disturbed.

“Oh, they do, but it’s not enough…They have too much energy for the caretakers to handle, and my father…Tentei, he has me working so much, I cannot take them out of the palace often enough...”

The shadows across Naruto’s face lightened at the sound of their children’s bubbling laughter.  He picked them up, bouncing them in his arms to their absolute glee, and walked them across the field to his grazing cattle.

Hinata watched with bated breath as Naruto introduced their children to his famed herd.

Having never seen any of the heavenly beasts before, they adored their father’s cattle with wide eyes, eager petting, and affectionate hugs.  The gentle beasts allowed them to sit on their backs as they grazed and wandered around the field.

By the end of lunchtime, both children preferred their father’s strong arms and broad chest to rest against than their mother’s slight frame.  They fell asleep that way, snuggled into his body.

With ease, Naruto laid them down in his bed, and Hinata kneeled close to admire them with him.

He sighed, heart heavy with love and sorrow.  “Thank you, Hinata, for raising them so well.  They’re beautiful.  They’re perfect.  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t be with you all this time.”

She leaned her head against his arm, humming her disagreement.  “I’m sorry, too, Naruto-kun, that we haven’t been here with you.”

He turned to hold her better, and they kissed their tears away, murmuring how much they had missed each other and renewing their promises of devotion.  Moving to a nearby room, they gave outlet to their frustration, longing, and adoration in intimate, warm embrace.  Tracing and relearning each other’s shapes and comfort, they held and moved with each other eagerly, desperately, then tenderly.

In the remaining moments of their children’s nap, and with Hinata snuggled into his side, Naruto brought up the delicate issue he could sense was weighing on his wife’s mind.  “I’m sure you’ve considered this…would you let me have them?”

She nodded, tears already refilling her eyes despite how she had mentally prepared.  “It would be better for them.  I’ve never seen them so relaxed.”

He thumbed away the silent tears damp on her cheeks.  “You would let me take them on my journeys across the star plains?”

“I trust you.”

He pressed his forehead to hers gently, breathing her in.  “I promise to take care of them.  I’ll teach them everything I know.”

“I know you’ll take care of them,” she whispered.  “There’s so much more for them here than in the palace.”

“They won’t have you, though.  They’ll miss you.”  He looked into his wife’s eyes, the ones that had enamored him from the moment he saw her.  “I’ll miss you,” he murmured.

“Mm, I’ll miss you.  I’ll miss them.”  Her breath shook, her voice choked with suppressed tears, yet she found her thoughts tumbling out all at once.  “It will only be one year that we’ll be apart.  My father can’t break his promise.  Even if he’s angry with me, he can’t retaliate against our decision and he will have to let us reunite every year.  One year will feel like nothing after the eternity of not knowing if we’d ever get to see each other again.  So this will pass quickly, and,” she took a steadying breath, “I’ve…I’ve discussed this with our children already.”

Surprised, he watched the grief in her expression harden into determination.  “You have?”

“Yes.  I didn’t know if you would agree, but I told them your stories just in case.  I told them that they might join you on your adventures, that they would grow up to be strong and smart like you.”

“Hinata,” he breathed out, amazed and moved.  He held her close.  “I won’t let you down.  Thank you.  Thank you so much.  I love you.”

She rested her head into his chest and listened for the strong beat of his heart.  “I love you, Naruto-kun.”

-

When the twins awoke, the rest of the afternoon flew by in preparation for their journey.  Hinata held them close whenever she could for as long as she could before they wiggled out of her grasp.  She helped Naruto pack the necessary belongings.

And all too soon, the time came for her to journey back to Raira.

The magpies took the family halfway across the Amanogawa, where they shared a parting embrace.

“Listen to your father.  Be good,” she murmured to her twins, planting kisses on their cheeks and foreheads.

“Yes, Okaa-sama.”

Naruto chuckled at their diligent answer.  It was hard to imagine the children of the famed Orihime being too much for the palace caretakers when he himself as a kid couldn’t have even been bothered to give anyone such a polite response.  “We’ll be too busy and on the move for them to be naughty.”  He gave his wife a reassuring smile.

She held each of their faces, committing their matching, electric blue eyes to memory.  “I love you all.  I will see you all again very soon.”  Already, she could feel new inspiration for her art dazzle through her mind, this temporary sorrow and determined hope to be immortalized in binding thread.

“Take care, Hinata.”  Naruto found strength in Hinata’s bright gaze.  He clutched their children to his heavy heart, endlessly grateful for the living, beautiful proof of their love.  “By the time we reunite, our children will have traveled to the zenith of Northern Genbu.  They’ll be able to name all the cattles’ starhouses.”

She found herself smiling with pride and excitement even as the calls of the magpies intensified with the turning of the celestial bodies at the horizon.  She held on to her children’s hands for as long as possible before the magpies separated them, and even then, she smiled and called after them, and they did the same.

Returned to Raira, she watched as their distant forms at the opposite bank of Akira were enveloped in the thickening mist of the thunderous flow of the Amanogawa.

And not allowing herself to wallow in her self-imposed solitude, she set to work.  Weaving and embroidering, she lavished fabrics with glorious designs of her family’s tale, surrounding her workshop with prayers for their good fortune.

Impressed with her meticulous, auspicious work on display, visiting clients spread her story through the courts, and the tale of the power of Orihime and Hikoboshi’s love swept across the Symbols of the heavens into every god’s ear, down to the mortal realm below.

With the well-wishes and prayers of worshiping human maidens, young couples, and other mortal sympathizers, the skill and value of Hinata’s weaving grew, and Naruto and his children safely passed through every crossing.  Their status and fame brought prosperity to the heavens.  Tentei couldn’t punish his daughter any worse than he already had.

On the seventh day of the seventh month, magpies, more numerous than the first time, bridged the Amanogawa’s banks again.

Successfully reunited, the family rejoiced in each other’s presence and growth, and the rest of the world celebrated with them.

[vinyatar]

OC Questionnaire Tag Game

I was tagged by three people (thank you friends!!) so my rambling will be in a 'read more' below. My own questions for you all are at the end.

As the relative of several notorious kinslayers and the last representative of her House, she must work harder than others to gain people's trust and love, even though she does not feel responsible for her family's deeds.

from @linden-leaf - answering for Eilian (arantea cinnamon roll)

What’s a core lie your character believes about themselves or the world, and where did it originate?

Who are/were the most important people in their lives? Did they choose those people for themselves (and would they choose them again)?

Is there a choice they’ve surprised themselves by making? (And did they learn anything about themselves through making it?)

- her fiancé, one of the Gwaith-i-Mirdain. Before he died in Eregion he requested that the betrothal rings were returned to her, technically releasing her from the arrangement. His fate shapes her role in Middle-earth for the next two Ages. They choose each other again when they are reunited.

- her adoptive brother Naerchil, brought together by the trauma of Dagor Bragollach as children. They were sent away from the Fëanorians together and he was her guardian. They are somewhat co-dependent.

Despite knowing the havoc that oaths have wrought on her family, she ends up swearing her own oath of vengeance (to either destroy Sauron or herself die in Middle-earth). She fights many battles and takes many lives and upon introspection, begins to understand a little more the rest of her family.

What is their biggest regret, and why?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

from @yellow-faerie - answering for Teithril (marsh elleth)

Teithril has reconstructed many texts and preserved countless stories but was not able to save Dírhaval (the mortal author of The Children of Hurin, and a close friend of herself and Pengolodh) from the Kinslaying at the Havens of Sirion.

Do they have a craft? When and where did they learn it, and from who, and why?

She's no Therindë but is a resourceful sewer and weaver using various basic/foraged materials, due to her upbringing in a small marshy Sindar village in Nevrast.

She is an excellent scribe and learned from Turgon's people in Nevrast (her characteristic small neat script is due to a tendency for manuscript-hoarding after the fall of Gondolin)

How do they sleep? Is it restful, or full of nightmares? Do they only sleep in short bursts or are they the sort to sleep deeply all night?

she combines these two skills to make Pengolodh a quilted coat, but it's stuffed with manuscript copies in tiny font. It's arrow-resistant!

She sleeps restfully but dreams vividly due to all the stories she's accumulated through the Ages

Has your OC ever burned or otherwise destroyed something that reminded them of unhappy times or experiences in their past? Was this part of an arranged event? Or something they did spontaneously or in anger?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

from @the-journey-was-the-point - answering for Ancalimon (the bright trashlord)

many of Ancalimon's possessions from pre-Angband were destroyed by his mother during a grieving period. She does not recognize that he ever returned.

Ancalimon destroys the watchtower belonging to his father during the Dagor Bragollach, removing all traces of his family. It was spontaneous but intentional as it had been overrun by enemy forces

What is your character's preferred way of coping with stress or difficult situations?

Who's a character your OC cannot stand! It's on sight when they see them! (whether other OC or canon)

externally:

- inside or outside the Fëanorian circle, among peers or if social norms are in play: by being annoyingly charming and facetious

- outside the Fëanorian circle, if anything goes: with violence, ruthlessly

- inside the Fëanorian circle, among rank superiors: efficiently and with competence. If hard pressed on a personal level (relating to his past or the Lúthien incident) he withdraws into himself

internal issues: doesn't deal with them at all

Finrod: too wise to fool, too powerful to harm, too important to ignore during the Fëanorians' time in Nargothrond

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Here are my questions:

would your character step in harm's way for someone else, and who are they? would they do the same for your character?

how does your character handle betrayal?

if your character were a video game boss, what do the game guides say about them? What is one piece of loot they would drop?

I'm not tagging anyone in particular because I am so late in answering, and many people I would have tagged have already gone through some questions! Please feel free to answer if you'd like - I'd love to hear more about your OCs!

[curiouselleth]

Unable to See the Starlight (ao3)

Gone. Gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone gone GONE. It was GONE and there was no saving it - no return from this darkness, such a lack of light it was seemingly to be a physical force in itself, silencing voices, cries echoing in the dark and shadows in every corner and hall. The trees bearing no fruit or flower but only bringing forth cries and cries and such sorrow it bent oneself over and inward inward inward until one became a husk, as the dead inside as the twisted trunks and dried leaves that once poured forth light.

Every attempt, in that all too brief time of the last mingling and waning failed. crushed flowers, smashed fruits, infertile seeds, and nothing. No weak shining, not a glimmer of light, nor hope.

So many had tried in that hour, gathering flowers and fruits in skirts, cloaks, and robes, followers of Nesa and Vána, Irmo and Manwë and Varda, climbing up into the weakening branches, heedless of the danger and desperate to do something - anything - to try to save them, to save the light. Aulë and Vairë, all their followers, all kinds of smiths, sculptors, weavers, artists, masons and glassblowers, all tried in vain to preserve the little we had left. All not trying to help Yavanna, Varda, and Estë sought some way, if not trying to preserve the light, struggling to find some way, any way, to help. Gathering water and leftover food left forgotten in the banquet hall, bringing blankets and tea to the ones in shock, trying to bring some meager comfort to those in the throes of grief, or trying to claw back some semblance of governance amongst the panic.

The weavers working in threads, silks, and satins, or tapestry and dyes. All crumbled or dulled.

Glassblowers and stonecutters and jewelers trying to create works as captivating as the stolen gems of Feanor, grim, as it had never been when some fancied themselves a match for Feanor and tried to create their own radiant stones.

The smiths working in metal, reflective and harsh, first promising but ultimately cold and dark.

Sculptors perhaps the closest to a vessel to preserve them - fine, delicate forms built of all things, wood, clay, glass and crystal.

All failed, all the valar. Those who tried to heal the trees and those who tried to plant the flowers and fruits.

Only one true flower, and one true fruit remained. It was decided that Aulë was to try to make a work, not to preserve the flower and fruit to plant new trees, but vessels to sustain them in light and memory. A great work, a long, hard work.

After the last two were taken by the valar, a child found a way to preserve them. The light faded, but a child of one who tried to save a flower had placed the flower on the table, and a book carelessly on top. Hours, perhaps days, perhaps minutes later - without it it was simply too hard to tell, and too painful to mark the hours - it was found. Pressed flat and dry, dead but not decaying. She showed her friends who gathered more, and slowly, slowly, these pressed flowers, and later dried seeds, they remained. With the rest of us. Not to last forever, not anymore. We know better now. But to last a bit longer, to bear us to the new ages of the world where all is changed.

[pollenallergie]

billy billy billy billy....how does he hold hands? i know thats such a like weird question but does he tangle his fingers with yours? does he hold one of your hands in both of his? is he overhand? underhand? are his hands sweaty? do you hold them anyways??? can u tell the brainrot is beginning

it may be a weird question, but it’s also the BEST question.

OKAYYY

so, i think it depends on the circumstances how he’s holding your hand, so let’s tackle the obvious first:

his hands are a little clammy, but not necessarily sweaty… mostly because his hands have never ever in his whole live been warm enough for his palms to be truly sweety. @eddies-hid3out told me once that billy probably has poor circulation so he’s always a lil chilly and his hands and feet are like icicles, and i firmly believe that to be true. the man is cold all the time. he is in need of hugs and warm tea and wool jumpers all the time. without his daily 10+ cuppas, the man just wouldn’t survive. the amount of earl grey he goes through in the span of a week is both impressive and concerning.

but obviously you hold them anyways even if they’re clammy!!! because the poor lad needs to warm up and you’ve made yourself his living handwarmer, that’s one of the unspoken requirements of being in love with him… you will make it your personal responsibility to keep him warm and cosy. he always goes on and on about how you don’t have to worry about him and how you do too much for him, but honestly? he can (respectfully) shut up about all that, because the man deserves to be pampered and well taken care of!!!

in public, like when you’re walking places together, i think billy’s mostly a finger-weaver. it’s more practical for those occasions and it gives him something to hold onto, something to tether himself to when he gets particularly anxious about being in public… it also gives you something to tether yourself to when you get anxious about being in public, which makes billy favour that sort of hand-holding even more in those situations.

however, in more intimate, private settings (at home, huddled up in a quiet corner in a bookstore, sat a quaint little table in a mostly empty café, etc.), billy’ll be holding one (if not both) of your hands in both of his own, cradling it/them as if it/they were the most precious, lovely thing(s) in the whole world (to him, they are). he’s holding both of your hands, cradling them gently within his own and pressing warm, chaste lil kisses to your knuckles while he listens attentively to you as you talk to him about any and everything that comes to mind. if billy’s feeling particularly affection-starved, he’ll forsake the hand-holding in favour of bringing your hands, gently held by his own, up to cradle his rosy cheeks, and the minute he feels your warm palms on his cheeks, he’s nuzzling into your touch like a greedy lil housecat who’s luxuriating in the pets it’s owner gives it.

bestie i am sooo soooo immensely glad that the billy knight brain rot has infected you too!!! obsessing over billiam is my favourite hobby of all time and the more people i can share that with (aka the more people i can relentlessly spam with my thoughts), the better. <3