#worse than pyrrhic victory

[pistatsia]

for old times' sake

ao3 | M | Michael Kaiser/Alexis Ness | 6k

Ness’ gaze radiates concern. "I'm glad we met. It's great to see you're still the same. Oh, and have a good game!" For a moment, Kaiser sees it as if it were real - the face flushed with pleasure, the trembling tension of the other's thighs over his own and the soft sobs, the moisture on his shoulder and the softness of youthfully curling hair. "Likewise," Kaiser replies in a friendly manner. His smile is perfectly even and soft, on the thin line between cold politeness and detached friendliness. Only the teeth beneath it are perhaps clenched a little tighter than they should be. But that's it.

Two boys meet again. One of them is a liar.

Tags: Post-Canon, Angst, Hurt No Comfort

read on ao3 | kainess short meta

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 2

summary ;; Your burning determination to prove your father wrong and Jake's wish to teach you a lesson both end up in a pyrrhic victory. PART 1 | PART 3 pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; im speechlessly overwhelmed at the sheer amount of love you guys showed me these past couple of days. like. literally never had something like this happen to me before. i got too excited to finish this chapter to give back to yall, there was an attempt to proofread but... i hope it's not too bad, please enjoy! as always, if you see any mistakes, im sorry!

The path further into the floating mountains was all the worse to navigate thanks to the lack of light, the only useful guides you had were the faintly flickering bioluminescent lights from the forest deep below. The branches twisting around each other to create a naturally built bridge from mountain to mountain benefited from this, contrasting as a clear obscured line to your eyes against the glow underneath. 

The easiest part of your journey, in hindsight, was just skipping along this line. 

You weren’t exactly happy about this.  

The more you left behind, the more you were freaked out that Neteyam or anyone else was onto your intentions already and hot on your trail right this moment. Imagining father making a beeline to you in the air with Bob, a cruel, merciless whistling arrow, made you all jittery and almost puking kind of nervous, pulling at the depths of your stomach. 

Your rationality told you that it was a half an hour walk to your spot from the tent, and Neteyam would be hurrying the more he thought he wasn’t able to catch up with you along the way, so you had around twenty minutes until the whole family was panicking and raising the clan to look for you. 

Tuk had gone missing once thanks to some hide and seek game with Lo’ak (she’d hidden so well and was waiting for her siblings to find her already, blindly sticking to the game for an entire day, not out of stubbornness but childish purity), and this was exactly what had gone down —

the resentful part of you questioned if father thinks of you highly enough to resort to that. 

If something happened to you, he would maybe urge your brothers to search for you for a while, and drop it then — leaving you to your own devices happily. 

Maybe. 

Were you even worth it in his eyes for a search party? You wondered if he cared enough that you disappeared. 

But that was a stupid, childish thought you knew you fantasized about a lot — perhaps this was why he’d called you immature. This was no mindset for a strong, independent, confident hunter. The thought father was right, even a miniscule bit was bitter on your tongue, worse than what he called black coffee. 

Disappearing so you’d find out just how much he cared was unfair to mom, for one. 

She had lost so much in such a short amount of time, the stories she sang poignantly about were hard to listen to without tearing up. Her home. The trees of voices, all the lost ancestors. Her father. Uncle Tsu’tey. Her first ikran, Seze. Loss upon loss you think there’d be nothing left to give anymore, but sky people’s fire was always hungry, always willing to waste more to grow bigger. 

You wouldn’t forgive yourself for making her cry in your pursuit to punish father. Never. 

You weren’t a child.

Just wanted to be one, sometimes.

Wanted father to babytalk you, pet your head longer than a passing touch as he walked away hurriedly to attend to other matters, make beads for your braids the way he always did from pretty stones he found on ponds, carve you little trinkets when you graciously had to give up your toys to Lo’ak and Kiri’s greed. 

Your neck piece was all them in fact, he’d see it if he ever paid enough attention, or perhaps it was all insignificant to him, five kids meant countless belongings for each individual child had been passed down from his hands, it would be a miracle for father to recognize you still wore his clumsy creations. But again, it had been too long since he’d even looked at you affectionately, he wouldn’t See. 

He’d transferred those habits entirely to Neteyam at one point in time. 

Your older brother would always ruffle Lo’ak’s hair and tease him the way father used to, comfort him in his own playful way, and even though the younger looked discontent at being babied, you knew he was happy Neteyam was quite literally his shadow to look after him through tough times — including shielding from father’s line of fire. In return, he was suffering from being a foil to the older son, you understood the struggle because you were going through the same comparison, you just weren’t obsessed with catching and living up to father as much as Lo’ak did. 

Win some, lose some, I guess.

Plus, Neteyam was trembling under the massive planet-weight pressure, he had to set the standard, he had to live up to the older brother title. He was becoming more of a father figure to Tuk as days passed and the Olo’eyktan became more transparent from his family’s life as a dad to five. 

Besides, Lo’ak made trouble enough for two people to go around that you felt bad for your big brother, Kiri was thankfully more mellow (despite frequently hanging out together with him and Spider) compared to him that Neteyam could breathe, not having to divide his attention. 

You were in awe of her about how disconnected she was from all the changing dynamics. She had her own problems you could never understand, more spiritual than your grandmother, and ever the ethereal soul who you thought would disappear into Eywa if flesh wasn’t holding her down to Eywa’eveng.

You were the teeniest, tiniest bit jealous of her (and Tuk) holding the softer sides of father, the boys thought he was deliberately softer because they were girls — but you were also a girl, so why weren’t you allowed in?   

Well, thanks to that, you’d gotten closer with Neteyam and known him better after the whole clan had settled on High Camp, so it wasn’t all that bad. You could badmouth father all day long sitting on some rock and make him laugh abashedly, guilty that he was smiling along with the trashing of the father’s name he respected so much — it was therapy, as Norm had taught humans frequently sought back on earth. It got you trying some things with Neteyam, becoming more of a companion and ranting buddy for him who he could be honest and open with, so that he didn’t have to worry about taking up a larger role in your life to fill father’s missing presence. You were concerned about him more than he could be concerned about you. 

That got you contemplating if father had noticed how comfortable his two oldest children were with each other that it was always Neteyam who he sent after you. A girl could dream, no? For one moment, it wasn’t because it was Neteyam’s responsibility, but because father was paying attention to how his kids got along.

The image of him pushed you to be frantically fast to reach your destination as the fear returned with might. If he caught you right now when you had no ikran to prove him wrong, the punishment he was sure to give would be way more humiliating, you at least wanted something in your name to taunt him with if you were going down anyways. 

A smile crept up your face at imagining him discombobulated and speechless, unable to pick out one thing that you did wrong. 

The carelessness that came with your speed combined with how dark it was to see where to clutch and put your feet on caused you to slip up countless times when climbing, the sharp rocks scraping the insides of your palms and insides of your forearms, lifting your skin up. What you cared about more than the pain was that the blood was now tracking material for your family to sniff you out — you couldn’t exactly wipe the rocks clean, so you carried on with a hammering heart, more afraid of father ruining your perfect moment than whatever ikran that would soon be going straight for your throat. 

At least you were able to wash the blood off your hands in the waterfall. 

Downside? You couldn’t see shit. With your bare back flushed straight to the wall of rock and your feet feeling out the thin edge, the shrill cry of ikrans and the roaring of water was about to overwhelm your senses too much to pay attention — 

and you slipped. 

The shriek that ripped out of you at the sensation of falling and the drop of your stomach alone almost made you pass out, and for a split second it was a good thing that you wouldn’t feel the moment you died, but your body, once again, was one step ahead of you, it twisted in the air the last second and your hands gripped the ledge. 

The wet rock and your blood made all that your life was hanging on slippery as you dangled into the abyss, swaying with the strong winds at this height. 

You didn’t know if it was the adrenaline or the nervousness, but something made you laugh out loud, and the bubbling laughter continued until you were able to pull yourself up safely at the ikran rookery, finally. 

Looking around like a fish out of water, how you hadn’t cracked your skull open shooting down to the forest below was a total miracle. 

You’d made it?  

No one was there to witness what you just pulled off in total darkness. Your whole body was shaking, and you weren’t even chosen by an ikran yet. This was happening. Shit. This was totally happening! 

Your excited and terrified, “Hell yeah!” went unheard apart from your aerial crowd. 

But. 

One among them answered your holler with its own that cut into the night like a battle horn. It was the closest one to you that was apparently watching you the whole time, starting to roar at you and twitching on its feet, shadow in the night informing you of its movements.

You’d seen from Neteyam and Lo’ak’s iknimayas that you only had a few seconds to pull your shit together until it attacked, this was meant to be dangerous, serious, you could end up as a late night snack to them if things went wrong, but you couldn’t stop grinning from ear to ear that it had chosen you.

You were chosen. 

It wanted you as its rider. 

If only father could see you now. The sensation of being the one — being special was unmatched. Now you could somehow get the fraction of the high he must have felt as Toruk Makto.  

The, “Let’s fucking go!” that left you kept echoing into the night as you lunged at it, dodging to the left when it snapped at your head, hooking one arm around the ikran’s slender neck and clamping your legs around it the moment it started thrashing around wildly. 

You didn’t know why father had made a big deal out of it. You formed tsaheylu in no time, breaking Neteyam’s record — and you didn’t even have the rope to hoop around its neck and jaw. 

Firstborn daughter excellence. 

Confidence restored and triumphing wildly to the pulse of your heart, the flickering smile on your face in wonder turned into a full-fledged smirk. At that moment, nothing mattered. It was just you and your victory. Proving father wrong. 

Feeling the ikran’s lifeforce through the bond, a shiver went down your back as his beady eye looked up at you, pupil shrinking and expanding rapidly while you both took a minute to catch your breaths after the fierce wrestling. 

“Gotcha,” you panted. “You’re mine now.”

The adrenaline made everything sparkle and shine, your spirits soaring high and unbothered about literally anything else in the world, and for one glorious moment, lost in the memories of your brothers’ iknimayas boasting with cheers from the clan and sometimes encouraging, sometimes fearful screams of your parents, your spirit sought them out to be soaked in the same pride — forgetting that it was night and nobody was there to celebrate you. 

You were all alone. 

The smile dropped from your face and crashed down like paper thin porcelain upon the slightest movement. 

Right. 

You’d forgotten you were doing this out of spite. It snuffed every twinkle of magic away from the previously shimmering milestone of your life. 

Your ikran felt the crushing disappointment through your connection and chirped at you, almost like an excited sibling pulling on your arm to show you something, weirdly comforting. Mom’s ikran was a spitfire, but also nurturing — this one felt different somehow, you felt him bouncing from wall to wall in your head, hyperactive and cheerful.

Flying! He wanted to fly! 

The first flight sealed the bond, after all. 

You weren’t alone even if none of your family members were here to share the joy — you had your new buddy. And the drop of gravity was thrilling this time, not the terrifying chaos that had your asshole shriveling up as it was when you’d missed your step. 

The flights with mom were something you looked forward to, drying up in frequency as you aged, you’d missed the wind on your body and the greenery dancing below as you maneuvered in the air — but mom reserved nighttime rides for father only, and after the move to High Camp, the skimpering chance you could get your way if you begged cutely enough was gone too. You’d never flown at night. 

The sight was out of this world. The stars leaving a glowing trail above you, the forest pulsing with faint purple, green and blue lights underneath, everything was elevated in beauty because darkness let them shine. 

You made loops in the air with your ikran, got as high in the air as you could before your breath thinned, and scraped at the tips of trees before shooting up again, all the while laughter you’ve never screamed before bubbled out of you. 

And you were all alone. There was no mom to gleefully taunt your ikran with hers to get both of you dancing in the air. There was no father to watch on with a small smile he was fighting. There was no Neteyam to stop you from dipping too close to the ground, and no Lo’ak to challenge you to get closer to race with him — no Kiri to complain how all of you were being so childish, how stupid this was all the while she was the worst of you all, instigating all the chaos. 

No Tuk in your mom’s lap whining about you guys leaving her off the fun. 

Instead, there was the scent of a bogey in the air, snapping you out of the haze of sorrow.

When had you ventured out further into unprotected territory? 

Linked with your thought process, the ikran stopped advancing forward and started beating his wings downward to stay unmoving, you observed the surroundings to get a better feeling of where you were, and noticed this was around the old shack, artificial lights were gliding between the leaves and branches that obscured your view of just who was roaming the grounds at night, definitely not a natural part of the forest’s flora.    

Father’s voice materialized in your head, drilled into you and your siblings’ heads over and over again. If you come across any threat at all, do not engage, fall back and inform me. Got it? You call for me first.

And that split second of being afraid was your death sentence — that father would be so angry at you for your ignorance, amateurism, carelessness and idiocy that he could throw you out of the family for almost leading the demons to base simply by being there that they could figure out what direction you’d come from. That moment of weakness was enough for someone to snipe you out, and get you falling down from your ikran straight into the forest below, the cries of your new friend falling silent on your ears as you did your best to hug giant leaves to cushion your fall to the best of your ability. . 

 Barely any time was left for you to shake the disorienting motion sickness off, you couldn’t even attempt to run into the accepting, protective hands of the forest before whoever just shot at you was onto you, harshly gripping your arms and raising you up. 

Father’s gonna be so mad if he finds out. Shit, I gotta get out of this. 

But… Avatars? In full camo, armored, even. You hadn’t heard of this from anybody in camp!

“Damn! Didn’t actually think you’d be able to land the shot from all of that tree, man! Up-top!”

Two of them high-fived, you were actually going to be sick. 

Thumb between his belt and stomach, another Avatar strutted towards you. The saunter and confidence meant that he was their leader. “Now, now… What do we have here?”

“A native.” You were being pushed down on your knees, one hand being grabbed and shown like a trophy. Just how many were there? You couldn't calm yourself enough to focus! “Four fingers.”

The speaker this time was a woman. “How unusual. Those monkeys don’t leave their coven at night.” 

“Where were you flying, little bird?” The leader, a sleazy smirk on his face, leaned down to take a good look at you. “Leading away from the nest, perhaps?”

“She don’t understand, Colonel, don’t bother. Ya think Sully could ever manage teaching one word of English to those?”

“Watch how she learns in three seconds.” He yanked on your queue so hard you saw white light in this hour of darkness — and when your vision came back, a screen with your father’s face was being shoved to your face. “Jake Sully. Toruc Mactoe. Where is he?”

You screamed when he pulled with increasing strength, keeping up with the act you didn’t understand. And the state of pain and terror massively helped, contributing to you looking frantic and lost, only knowing that you were being zapped to your core. 

“Seems like I don’t need to ask you.” His fingers snapped your head back to get a good look at your earpiece, late to notice you had it on at all because of the dark. “Can directly ask the man himself.” 

All you could form to think was, ‘Father’s gonna kill me for this. He’s actually gonna kill me this time.’

You weren't terrified of what the Avatars would do to you. You were afraid of him.

One empty shell from the reloaded machine gun flew away, tinkling hollow when it fell down, and rolled until it stopped in a small pool of water that had formed on the jagged ground of the cave systems. In the scarlet and orange glow of the campfire he’d haphazardly put together right outside of their home out of impatience after Neytiri had basically thrown him out, Jake almost mistook the liquid for blood. 

An ominous cloud of dread settled on his shoulders, a paranoia every father tended to go through.

“Big Brother, this is Devil Dog. State your status, over.”

Neteyam didn’t miss a beat to answer, thankfully. “Devil Dog, this is Big Brother. I’m still en route to Foxcove, over.”

“How much longer?”

“Ten minutes at best, sir. Over.”

What he wanted to say was how come he hadn’t met you halfway, but it was empty talk. No need to stress the boy out. “Devil Dog signing out.”

This girl was half the reason for the wrinkles on his forehead, Jesus Christ. He was basically waiting you out like a father sitting in the dark to ambush his daughter who had snuck out at night, for that single glorious moment of yeah that’s right, you got caught, after the light would come on to ruin that moment of relief of successfully making it back in. 

His mate had scolded him to be nice and understanding, a Marine was anything but, the closest he could compromise was not being as mean to you than he had to be. Sassing, “So how was your Iknimaya?” like he planned was out the window — Neytiri was spot-on to say the girl would simply give the same mean energy right back at him, and that could only mean another erupting volcano of a fight and a good night’s sleep ruined for him, overthinking where he went wrong and how else he could have salvaged the situation. 

He’d just make you tend to the ikrans for a week for some patience practice, cleaning shit for hours on a daily basis would certainly throw the temporary whim of the rite of passage hyperfixation out of your system. The possibility of you shouting you hated him was unavoidable, but Jake had to get his point across, no matter how terribly it nauseated him to hear something like that from his child. 

It was strange to remember he couldn’t care less for what people thought of him in the past. Some shithead he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about hated Jake’s guts? Good. He was living in their head rent free, it was fun even — Neytiri too, Jake absolutely enjoyed her hating game at first. 

Being legitimately resented by his very own child, though, was a heartbreak he didn’t expect to hurt him the way it did, knocking air off his lungs the first time he heard it. A burning stab right in his heart that wouldn’t go away until he had to hear it for himself you hadn’t meant any of what you said.

Because that said hate actually stemmed from hurt Jake must have inflicted. Because you could actually despise him, and never allow him to reconnect with you again if he could ever manage to garner the courage to reach out to you — a mightier challenge than hunting Toruk in the sense it actually scared him.   

His teenage daughter. Scared him. 

Jake didn’t know what to do about it, he couldn’t even show what exactly this made him feel, too ashamed and proud for it in the first place. 

The growing distance between you and him was an uneasy, frightened bird he tried to shush and calm in his heart in favor of other pressing matters that drilled small holes in the depths of his stomach, and over time, those little holes had fused together to create one big pit with greater gravitational pull than the sun — until Jake didn’t know how to stitch them back together anymore. 

He told himself he would talk to you later, for sure. The morning after every argument, every fight, every jab from you he snapped at he would try to make amends for, definitely. 

And then he didn’t. 

“What is this, are you palulukan ambushing prey? I told you to make up with her, not prepare for hunting.”

Jake shook his head, dropping the machine gun back inside the crate. The warmed metal was some sort of consolation to his nerves. Marine habit. Always felt safer with a gun near. (Or was it the American in him?) “Neytiri,” he acknowledged, bobbing his head. “I’m just passing time.”

“What do you think will happen when she comes back and sees you waiting for her like this?”

Ah, like the old times when Jake couldn’t do one thing right in her eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” he said playfully, but with no mirth behind it, closing the crate with a muffled thunk. With nothing to do with them, one elbow went to his knee and the other hand’s fingers started a rhythm on the lid he’d just shut. 

His mate’s hand gingerly came down on his shoulder, kneading the nerves. “Just talk to her, Ma’Jake.”

“I don’t know how to,” he admitted, he covered her fingers on her shoulder with his, and she immediately held his hand back. “Don’t know what to even tell her.” He gave an exhale from the deeper, tired parts of his soul, gazing at the path leading away from their tent. “With Neteyam and Lo’ak, it’s easy. I tell ‘em what to do and they—”

Neytiri took a seat next to him, gathering their hands together. “Suffer just the same.” Jake was about to brush her off, but she didn’t relent. “What you’re doing is hurting them.”

This now was about all of their children rather than you, specifically. Neytiri was trying to get him to see the bigger picture first before moving to cover what he did wrong with each child of his, they had had this conversation countless times before. 

Here we go again, Jake thought.

“Doesn’t matter if that’s what it takes to keep them safe.”

“Does it?” Neytiri leaned in, and calmness washed over him despite the disturbing nature of what she was saying. “Does it keep them safe? Or push them to act out more, get in worse situations?”

He grimaced. “I have to—”

“You feel like you have to.” His mate shook their clasped hands, rattling his bones. “I keep my children safe with trust and honesty. Transparence, Ma’Jake. So that they listen to me when I mean it because they See me. You shut them out.” Her lips bared to show her pearly teeth as she was practically beseeching him. “You don’t get your children’s trust by treating them like a squad.”

“They trust me plenty.”

“They trust Olo’eyktan. Toruk Makto. What about their father?”

“I make sure they’re safe.” Neytiri dropped his hands with an agitated snarl, she thought they were back at the beginning again, he couldn’t make her truly understand no matter what he did. He poured his heart out through their tsaheylu everytime, but her values and beliefs were wired so differently from his at the end of the day. “I make sure they stay where I want them to stay for their own good.” Jake shook his head, his voice soft, hushed. No force behind it when Neytiri was heated in return. “One day they’ll understand.”

“They won’t if you never tell them.”

“Tell them what?” Jake asked. “That I’m being harsh on them to prepare them for war? You think they’ll take it seriously after this?”

“Na’vi were in war long before you. There will be wars after you. No parent sullied his child’s happiness for the price of becoming a warrior. You still don’t get our ways even after all these years.” 

“The sky people’s way,” Jake emphasized with his arms. “I have to teach them how they think, what they go through, so they know what they’ll be facing, okay? I can’t simply teach them by telling them.”

“You’re deluding yourself, Jake. Contradicting.” Neytiri was gentle in her cruelty, the flickering flames burned less than her amber eyes. “Tuk and Kiri are getting none of this. I know your heart isn’t allowing you. Why can’t you do the same for your other children?”

Because he had gone too far already with the older three. 

Trial and error. 

He couldn’t take back the things he did and say back — and quite honestly? Jake was being pulled from all sides to sit down and rethink his parenting. All he thought anymore was how to protect his family, frequent nightmares of losing his children in gruesome ways were haunting his every step. 

A father protects his children, that’s what gives him meaning. 

Jake had his own desperate ways to do so.  

He opened his mouth to say something back, anything, but was interrupted by the communication line coming on. “Dad.” 

Jake immediately knew something was wrong, body sitting ramrod straight. If the frantic breathing and barely controlled voice wasn’t any indication of it, his eldest’s behavior was. Neteyam didn’t slip up in the codenames like Lo’ak did, dropped all formalities only when he was borderline panicking.  

“Dad. I’m sorry, dad, sir, I can’t find her, dad, I’ve looked everywhere around here, I thought maybe she was hiding underwater, behind rocks—but I can’t, I can’t—.”

“Slow down.” Jake could barely contain his own panic rising from the state his son was in. The boy wasn’t able to see it, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning in as if Neteyam was right in front of him, and started gesturing with his hand. “Slow down, son.”

“Dad—”

Jake tsk-ed. “Neteyam, slow. Slow.”

Neytiri took his elbow. “What is it?”

He told her to wait with his gaze, and turned his attention back to Neteyam. This could only mean one thing, he was praying to be wrong — needed clarification. “Now tell me calmer. What’s going on?”

“She’s never been here. She never came here in the first place. There’s no sign of her. No trace. I’ve tracked.”

Jake’s instant response was fear. Domineering, ice-cold, cutting fear. Bodily and emotionally both. You were clockwork, similar to him in having unchanging routines and patterns. Angry? Went for a walk. Depressed? No talking to anyone until it passed. Happy? Wanted to go to the forest to spend time with your siblings and always craved sweet fruit. Didn’t want to be around anyone? Hid in the little bioluminescent cove with a pond two little mountains away, always. Always.  

Neytiri sensed this, observing the change of demeanor in him.“Ma’Jake?”

“Okay, son.” He seized back control. One missing child was enough. “Stay right there and don’t move. I’ll contact you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jake,” Neytiri hissed finally, at the end of her ropes.

“She didn’t go to the cove,” he said, face icy neutral as always, but his eyes showed dizzying concern. Neytiri put a hand on her mouth as Jake wasted no time in changing channels. “Night Owl, this is Devil Dog. Come in.” He couldn’t even wait two seconds before trying again. “Night Owl, what is your status? Where are you?” 

Silence.

The more fear dug deeper into his skin, the more his anger and annoyance soared up, his tail was whipping the air erratically, the finger on the earpiece could send the metal right into his brain with how hard he was pressing on it. “I know you can hear me. This is no time for playing games. You know what you did to your brother? Do you know how panicked he was, not being able to find you—” 

Then Jake remembered what Neytiri advised, he didn’t change strategies because she was right next to him to dig his eyes out, but because his heart was picking up its pace by the second. “Tell me where you are, I’ll leave you alone, I promise, alright? If you’re somewhere open, get to safety, I’m only asking this from you. Or else—”

“Don’t.” Neytiri raised a warning finger at him, voice just above a whisper so they could hear their daughter if she decided to cut in. “Threaten her.”

He couldn’t stop her from snatching the communication device off of him. “Ma’ite, it’s mom. Can you talk to me at least?”

His ears twitched at picking up on you responding, not quite making out the words.  

Jake’s eyes shut close for a long time as his whole eyebrow line migrated upwards, he physically had to get a few steps between him and the earpiece so the obliviating worry that’d almost blinded him wouldn’t cause him to say something he’d greatly regret later. He could feel himself deflating. A migraine could be coming anytime soon.

You wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence but the moment your mother interrupted, you did? Fine. Fine. He didn’t care. Jake could live with it. At least you were alive.

A rippling shudder shook him the moment that thought hit him, an image of you lying dead in a ditch, pale blue, flashing in his mind, he had to run a hand down his face. 

When Jake looked back, irked by the silence, he found Neytiri standing completely stock-still. And all of a sudden, her petrifying glare was on him, ears pinned all the way back, hands gradually starting to tremble. 

“Neytiri?” 

She wordlessly handed him the device, and with a deep frown, Jake put it back in his ear. 

“Hi there Corporal, you hear me? Yeah, I know you do. As much as I’m charmed by the fatherly love I could give you a big old sloppy wet kiss, we have unfinished business.”

And the ground disappeared right under Jake’s feet, plunging him into hell itself.

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[dollfaced-erin]

𝔻𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕠𝕟'𝕤 ℂ𝕣𝕒𝕕𝕝𝕖 (Blade x F!Reader x Jing Yuan)

PART 18

PART 1 , PART 2 , PART 3 , PART 4 , PART 5 , PART 6 , PART 7 , PART 8 , PART 9 , PART 10 , PART 11 , PART 12 , PART 13 , PART 14 , PART 15 , PART 16 , PART 17

A/n :

i'm trying my best to schedule myself, but reading all the rqs i have, im getting pumped up to write again ! though i am having some trouble writing some rqs and it either may take me some time to think about it, or i'll really be stumped looking at it... these days i havent been feeling much motivated so i've been taking time for myself to reconstruct words and redevelop nice and pretty sentences again. I...also am feeling like changing the pictures i use for dragon's cradle...i'm not sure how to though...dw, i'll canva through it ! PENACONY 2.2 IS DROPPING TOMORROW AND IM SO EXCITED-- (this is pre-2.2 dont come at me please,,,) ROBIN WANTERS WILL BE HAVERS TRUST !

Taglist :

@rebeccawinters , @nayukiyukihira , @pix-stuff , @fluffy-koalala , @swivy123 , @starxao , @kaoyamamegami , @kimura-uzuri , @rsvye , @seikouryuu , @just-here-reading , @matsulovesyou, @sincerely-aaronette , @prettyliliy , @chibiduck , @hermosacolibri , @la-diablas-thingz , @farelady-fate , @everi-eve , @shadowfoxey , @helloyuki , @immahuman , @samptlay , @boomie-123

Vidyadhara elegies are the traditional music of the Vidyadhara people. The Vidyadhara use only simple castanets for musical instruments, relying on extremely diverse sets of melodies.

Originating from their folk songs, the style is generally that of mournful dirges. Vidyadhara elegies can be said to represent all of the most tragic aspects of Xianzhou culture, as Vidyadhara players tend to sing about loves lost and pyrrhic victories.

"The previous High Elders have all met with a fate worse than death..." Said an old voice, troubled by the troubles that have been plaguing him ever since his rise onto the position.

"From the first Imbibator Lunae...they have all met their demise in a way no one would expect. The challenge to overthrow them is just getting audacious by the day !" Exclaimed another voice, a woman, perhaps trying to convince someone with her thoughts and principles.

Yes...there was always the threat of assassination from all corners, and if he didn't choose well and right before his time came, be it naturally or by the hand of a forsaken soul, the Luofu shall be plunged into peril without the proper head of a scion to properly guide them...

The horned man thought deeply about this, his gaze looking out the window. His bright and intelligent eyes were gazing up at the moon, as if asking for the guidance of the entity that graced his name. He was supposed to be the wise one, guiding his people and stirring them away from chaos and destruction that may befall upon them. Be it in his time or another...he had his responsibilities set out for him.

So the dragon sighed softly, hoping that none of the Preceptors had heard his little act of impatience and negativity, apprehensive that they may assume that he was finding this all a hassle for him to think about, or even find his improper and impolite behavior discourteous.

It was...too much for him to assume alone. The matter now was in his hands, and not those before him. What he did now would paint portraits towards his ancestors and previous incarnations, and stain the names of his future reincarnations...

He looked beside him, where there was a beautiful young woman, sitting, minding her own business. On her hand was a lovely ring, a sentiment that she was taken by her betrothed. Her (h/c) hair gleamed under the moonlight's grace, letting it shine brighter that the waves of the deep ocean that submerged Scalegorge Waterscape.

Her bright eyes landed on his troubled figure, gracing him with a smile that washed away his worries, akin to a waterlily floating on the surface of the water of an untouched lake. She got up, silks embroidered by the masterful hands of the Vidyadhara craftsmen cupping his cheeks lovingly.

"What's troubling you, my beloved...?" She asked sweetly, her glossy lips still gracing the smile that he wished to protect with every fiber of his draconic being.

Though she wasn't a High Elder, and didn't possess much abilities that were deemed extraordinary to the eyes of the Preceptors. But she was the one that managed the quell the rage that continued to flare in his heart, calming him down with a mere caress of her smooth hands, smoother than the moondrop flowers growing in the silence of night.

To him...she was wiser than anyone else of their caliber.

Being childhood lovers, she watched him grow, she was by his side when he received the eye of abysm, she stood proud in the crowd once he was declared the full-fledge Imbibator Lunae.

His beloved wife.

"My...moon..." The saddened High Elder whispered, his hands rising up to cup her gentle hands that caressed her cheeks. "I...am deeply sorrowed..."

"I must choose the next descendent for our lineage..." He said, leaning into her healing and comforting touch. "Perhaps...we could choose the egg together...?"

"Like...choosing our own children...?" The wife asked, almost jumping in place in surprise. Her (e/c) eyes were wide, almost elated at the prospect of...children.

It was a foreign concept to them, since Vidyadhara's aren't able to reproduce like regular Xianzhou natives. But imagining it...

"Yes...just like--huh ? Children ?" The Imbibator Lunae said, blinking his eyes at her with confusion. Was she serious ? No, that cant be...

"Wait, not one child ?" "Huh, why just choose one when we can have two ?" "But what about the Dragon Heart ?"

"What about it ? One could have it, and we could ask the Perceptors to bind them as siblings, or...perhaps, grow them together to be siblings."

"Siblings..." Imbibator Lunae thought, remembering that Xianzhou natives and Foxians had that concept. It clicked in his mind. His lover had a point, and he had come to realize something.

This...burden of being the Imbibator Lunae...was too much for one person to handle. One responsibility too much for one soul. He...wouldn't be able to protect himself if he was too occupied with the affairs that concerned him more than his own being, like his beloved...

Even the past High Elders had met with a demise no one could foresee, meaning...that there was also no one else to back up and they only had one goal. His stress was thankfully managed by the presence of his beloved, which had grown by his side since she had broken off her shell. But what about the past Imbibator Lunae...?

It was...too much for one person. Too easy to overthrow.

But before the couple could properly choose their heir...the beloved...had fallen before he did.

In his arms, he held the dying and distraught woman in his arms, a gaping hole in her chest from the knife that pierced her without warning, leaving it to penetrate her body before she managed choose their heir together.

Today was supposed to be a joyous day...a day where the two of them would hold hands and walk with the Pearlkeepers to look at the eggs that gleamed brightly, hoping to find potential that would help the Luofu prosper more than in his time. But as they turned their backs, they were blinded by the threats that still lingered to take the couple down, and not even Cloudhymn magic could save her now...

The Imbibator Lunae roared in pain and despair, holding his beloved's dying body close to him, knowing he had to quickly rush her to the egg and let it heal her. But he just...wanted to see her one last time, and give her one last kiss.

The dragon bent down its mourning self, lips pressed against its mate's forehead one final time as tears streamed down his eyes, now dull after the tragic robbery of his beloved from his embrace.

He...couldn't survive this world without her. He couldn't bear the days where she would no longer stand by his side, holding his hand, cupping his face with her small and warm palms. He couldn't bear the days where she wouldn't smile at him, where she would no longer be able to press her lips against his.

No...he couldn't...

So he decided to take the final step, and return his beloved into the egg the Pearlkeepers had kindly provided for her, quietly leading the mourning husband to give his wife her final goodbye.

"I'll see you again, my beloved." He whispered, kissing her forehead with tenderness he had never shown her, not even on their wedding day.

"And...my heart will always be with you. Because one the day we met...you have stolen it, and had always kept it safe. So I'm giving it to you, to remember that only you will ever have my heart, be it the one pumping blood in my body, or the one that my power stems from."

"Without you here by my side...what is all this power for if I cannot protect the one I love...?"

"My dear...Saltator Lunae..."

So he chose his new descendent.

And thus...was born two dragons with beautiful horns on their heads, the older brother's arms curling around his newly hatched sister protectively. His grip was tight, arms holding her close and his teal colored tail coiling around her small form. Their embrace was too heartwarming, not even the maids dared to separate them.

Perhaps this child wished to protect her, vowing deep in his heart to never let anything happen to his precious baby girl. A dragon who had horns just like him. A little smile was etched on his face as he inhaled the scent of lilies that radiated from her soft tufts of hair even though he was deep in slumber.

The Preceptors had to hold a meeting amongst them, trying to figure out what to do with these two set of children. It seemed that they had inadvertently inherited the power of the Permanence, both with the outstanding traits of the true heir to power.

"But the boy was hatched first before the girl ! He is the one with true power to the throne !" One argued, quickly hushed by the other. "But the shell he was cast off from wasn't the one which the past Imbibator Lunae had instructed us to watch over so carefully !"

"The girl is the one with the heart. The one that had passed those trials and irrefutably inherited the power of the Dragon Heart. Both...succeeded in the Transmutation Arcanum..." the oldest of them said, his voice ruling over all other reasons.

"The boy had hatched earlier, with horns and the potential reeking from his form no one dared doubt." Said the wise Vidyadhara elder. "Even the inspectors from the Xianzhou Fanghu had acknowledged that power and potential seeped from these two eggs..."

"But no one...could have ever anticipated the birth of two individuals with draconic traits." Said another. "Everyone had experienced the tremor of incredulous potential, yet we merely betted on which would be the true successor..."

"What if...their fate was to rule together...?" said a woman's voice, loud amongst the chatter and discussion.

"The previous High Elder once wrote in a will, that shall it be a boy that was hatched from the shell, his name Dan Feng, and if she was a girl...name her Dan Jia." The wisest of them all spoke, his voice thundering through the hall as they began to rise to a conclusion.

"But those were the terms for the egg so closely guarded..." He said, little confusion at what was apparently happening.

"Born first, we had called the boy, who bore an uncanny resemblance to his predecessor...as Dan Feng." The old clan member reminded. "And for the egg that had been announced as the next heir...with the dragon heart in the small vessel...she will be named Dan Jia."

"For the first time in the Xianzhou history, let there be two High Elders ruling on the Luofu, siblings, who would equally rule and succeed in aspects failed." He said, rising upon his seat at the head of the table. "One destined for power to eliminate the abominations of celestial bodies, and the other, protecting the heart that stems greatness for them both !"

"The boy is named Dan Feng, the Imbibator Lunae as his predecessors once were...and the girl...shall be named Dan Jia. Saltator Lunae, just as the couple that reigned before they were born."

The table of Preceptors began to clap, finding this new embodiment of power astounding and magnificent, never seen before. Their sounds of clapping was thunderous, almost disturbing the pair that was sleeping a couple rooms away.

"Ngh..." muttered the young boy, curling around his little sister even further, hiding her in his chest to prevent the sounds from hurting her ears and frightening her.

The paper written for the will was yellowed, yet the words on it were still clearly visible to be read. It was preserved despite the passage of time, reflecting the man who sat by his desk, holding the brush in his hand.

"Imbibator Lunae is for the man who enjoys his drinks, watching the moon that gazes so brightly upon him. But where lies the joy of drinking such fine liquor without a desirable dancer ? For the Saltator Lunae would accompany him in his darkest days, moonlight bathing her skin and showing him the way."

(Y/n) looked at the soldier, kneeling before a Foxian healer who had...an unnerving smile on her lips. She didn't have a good feeling about this. Why wasn't this healer laying him on the ground, treating his wounds ? Or why was she standing over him, as if waiting for something to happen...?

The soldier looked as if he was really experiencing torment, his head cradled in his hands as if it were about to burst. Yet the healer did nothing, merely watching as his progress began to deteriorate.

Before (Y/n) could warn and pull March back, the unaware girl began to take her hand and rushed towards the pair.

"Here ! There are still survivors !" March said, almost relieved to see that there were still living people despite the blood battleground she had just witnessed earlier. Perhaps it was a sight to behold, as she wasn't as trained on these grounds as Welt or (Y/n) was.

But Welt seemed to catch on quite quickly, his gaze sharp as he observed the scene before him. It was as if he knew that something was indeed amiss, the same something that (Y/n) was experiencing.

"Hmm...?" Hummed the woman, turning around to face the group that had approached them. Her gaze seemed to be pleased for a bit, before it turned into a scowl. "You're not the Knights...what is your purpose here ? It's dangerous."

There was something in her tone that made (Y/n) feel uneasy. She sounded like she was...worried, but there was a certain hiss in her voice that made (Y/n) sure that she wasn't happy with them intruding in her...business with this knight.

"We're reinforcements sent by the General. Where's everyone else ?" Welt asked, trying to keep the situation under control and calm. Well...with this situation, it wasn't hard to see where it would eventually end up.

The Foxian woman scoffed, crossing over her arms as she heard what Welt had just relayed. "Tsk, resorting to short-life species as reinforcements...hehe, Jing Yuan is really running out of options..."

The taunting and worrying smile was back on the 'healer's' lips as she mentioned that Jing Yuan was possibly running low on manpower to properly eradicate the current problem. And it seems that she hadn't yet noticed that (Y/n) was with them.

It was expected, since communication the the Alchemy delve has been cut off since a few system hours ago. There would be no way for them to know of the current issue happening on the other bodies of the Luofu, such as (Y/n)'s awakening.

"They're here to escort me. The General and the Master Diviner had laid out specific orders for them to tread safely, as well as ensure my safety to tend to the casualties." (Y/n) said, stepping forward to face off this 'healer'.

"You...who do you think you--" The angered look on the woman's face was quickly replaced with shock and fear as she realized the horns that grew from (Y/n)'s head.

"You cant be..."

"All of you ! Run !" Cried out the Knight who was still weak on the ground, battling his own pain that seemed to be almost unbearable for him. "She's a disciple of Sanctus Medicus !"

All color began to drain from everyone's skin, leaving them pale and terrified at the 'healer' lady before them. March's grip on (Y/n)'s hand tightened, indicating that this was not the outcome she had expected to be. A direct face off with the supporters of the Plagues Author !

"Silence." The woman hissed, looking at the fallen soldier. "If my healing worked, you'll become one of us. Then..."

She looked at (Y/n), the grin almost impossibly widening on her face.

"It wont be just me they'll be running from."

It all happened too fast. As if on cue, the fallen Knight began his gruesome transformation. Branches began to sprout from his skin, tearing it apart. His armor began to be one with his skin, almost molding entirely with his being. His body began to surge with incredulous power, rendering his senses numb and murderous intent increasing tenfold.

"Lady (Y/n) !"

"GET BACK !"

(Y/n) quickly pushed March behind her, taking up front with Welt by her side, who came to terms with the situation faster than the younger women. With a nod to the brunette, (Y/n) produced her glass hand fan from thin air, the weapon of choice materializing in her hand quicker than light. Welt held his cane, ready to unleash the power of the black hole that he had kept sealed, hoping to never unleash its full potential.

The knight began to rush towards them, tears in his eyes as he tried his best to land his lightest attacks for as long as he remained conscious, for a soldier's dignity lies in their death. Losing control and his mind...would be a warrior's worst nightmare.

His attacks were still deadly and heavy, but he had no control whatsoever over his doings. Though he was experienced with enhanced abilities, (Y/n) and Welt did their best to fend off the regretful man, hoping to put him to rest in the calmest and most humane way.

"Please...I'm sorry..." the man pitifully cried as (Y/n) parried his attack with her fan, swiftly landing a kick to his side. The dragon woman was indeed merciful, and she had her sympathies for the man who had lost all hope of regaining his former pride.

But why couldn't she get close in and quickly put him to rest...?

Unlike the Exhalting Sanctum...she didn't have much memory of herself to full deploy and outlet her power. But now that she was aware...why wasn't she...

She felt like there were still a reign of shackles tying her down...

"Why are you apologizing ?! Didn't you all come here to the Xianzhou to seek immortality ?!" The woman screeched, watching from the backlines as more celestial beings of abundance began to advance towards them.

"You don't have to appease Jing Yuan ! The Disciples of Sanctus Medicus can grant your every wish ! To be immortal like the Natives ! To have a long and prosperous life like the Vidyadhara people !" She cackled, eyes glinting with malice and insanity as she watched the group begin to get surrounded.

(Y/n) was busy fending off the lost soldier as well as getting herself surrounded left and right by borisins and their shadow kin. Though how many times she had launched attacks, she was never able to fully push them back. She was at a loss, she was afraid and worried...

She understood now. Why she couldn't blindly charge in...

She was afraid of losing control of her power if she used it without her brother by her side...

Welt was by her side, exerting himself to his greatest ability to never cause harm, potentially plunging everyone into deep danger if he lost control. March and Stelle were backing them up, with March using her bow and Stelle with her bat, coursing with the crackling power of destruction.

They were all fighting...they were all in danger...

"Please, Lady (Y/n)..." the soldier begged her. "Let me meet the end I deserve."

"Let me die with honor..."

"Honor...?" (Y/n) whispered, her voice coming out in breaths of white, cold from the ice she produced. But the man before her nodded, hoping she'd do the best thing she could.

She was afraid...hoping to never misuse her power in fear of destruction it entails. But he was right. She had people she must protect, whether or not her brother was there to properly keep her power in check.

"I understand."

With a small smile on her lips, the dragon lady began to come close to her companions, hoping that they'll be within her protection. With a single rise of her fan, just as she had done with Yanqing, rose an illusion of an ice lotus, trapping her companions to keep them safe.

"I'm sorry." (Y/n) whispered, looking at the infected before her, before her eyes began to glow, and her tail appearing behind her. She never wished for her power to be out of control, yet to protect, one must go through lengths far beyond boundaries.

(Y/n) held her fan tight in her hand, close to her chest. With a single swing of her fan, water from the sea surrounding the delve began to rise, turning into waves as it began to sweep away the entire colony, picking up the borisins and the disciples in its way, pulling them off to the edge with their powerful forces.

For those who managed to withstand her waves, she cast upon them winds that would cut through them and hinder their sight. With a single stroke of her fan, she sent amplified ice blizzards, cutting through their regenerating skins time and time again like tiny razor blades, faster than their demonic abilities.

With fingers to her lips, her pointer and thumb forming a circle, she blew on the tips of her fingers to send out her ice, freezing those in her path, starting by freezing the droplets of water on their body, piercing deep into them, and freezing the fluids that coursed as a source of life.

It was like the sea. So gentle and soothing, yet with forces so strong to pull enemies deep into the heavy and dark depths. Some place so comforting like a warm embrace, yet terrifying with depths of unknown danger.

Once the waves had washed off the pavilion, all that was left...were the frozen bodies of the loyal worshippers of the Plagues Author. It was cleaned out from the remaining infected lives that were threatening their own, reminding her of the sins that would be washed away by the sea when they were reborn...

"Woah ! Looks like the frozen statues of the antimatter legion back on Jarilo-VI !" March excitedly said, looking at the figures encased in ice for as long as (Y/n) willed for it.

The young pink-haired woman then turned to look at (Y/n), wanting to know more and perhaps ask about if she could do the same as (Y/n). But as she turned around, (Y/n) was already walking into the 'exhibit' of her power.

"Lady (Y/n) ! H-hey, where are you going ?!"

Then she heard little voices as she walked past the frozen statues...

"Brother...shall one day we cast off our old shells...would we be able to find each other again...?" Said a young child voice from afar.

"Maybe...my little moonflower. We'll never know..." Replied a slightly more mature voice, explaining to the young child in the kindest way possible.

"But should you ever forget me...the things you've done in this life is bound to make you remember little by little, no matter how hard you try."

Before her was the fallen Cloud Knight, who begged her to end him in the most honorable way. He was on the ground, kneeling, trying to control the plague that threatened to run rampant despite his exhausted state.

"It seems...that even you...haven't found the path yet, my Lady..." The knight said, laughing bitterly, yet still respectfully. "Leave, my Lady, for they have 'converted me'. I don't have much longer..."

"I'm here...to give you one last gift..." (Y/n) said softly, cold air leaving her thin lips, frosty like the gaze in her eyes.

"One...that may even help prolong your path to your fated end." She said softly as she knelt before him.

She was tired, having exerted most her powers into summoning the tides, still unused to properly controlling it over the centuries of unending dormancy. She wanted to rest, perhaps even curl up while she cuddled her tail like a child. But now wasn't the time for it.

There were duties to be fulfilled...

Swiftly lifting up her hands, she exercised hand signs of various meanings as if it were her second nature, much more precise than that blind woman that existed before she broke those shackles binding her down.

The only way to progress in life...was to accept and adapt.

Her pointer finger and middle finger together held up before her, she shut her eyes as she began to trace the spores that existed within the man's body. With swift and precise movements, she immediately moved swift as the wind, and as piercing as a dragon's talon.

Unlike the woman that had just awoken, blind and foolish to the world that revolved around her, tossing smiles and laughter like the fleeting leaves in the air...she was no longer shackled, nor bound.

Unlike her past...she would never act foolishly again fearing the recurring pitiful demise of a dreamer who lived to dance and love.

(Y/n) stood up, a soft sigh leaving her lips as she dusted off her clothes. The team approached her side, looking down at the soldier before them, lying on the ground as if he were taking a nap from a grueling shift. Her eyes softened, the feelings of mercy and regret ebbing away at her soul.

"What...happened to him ?" March asked softly, holding Stelle's hand for comfort.

"Did you...give him his final embrace, Lady (Y/n) ?" Tingyun slowly asked, trying to step around the bubbling waters.

(Y/n) didn't turn around to face them, but instead parted her lips to give her response, a hand raised to her ear to gently touch the trinket that hung from her pointed organ. "Nothing. Just...soothed his pain a little."

Then she took in a deep breath, looking forward, as if regaining her peace by touching the windchime. "Right. Should we stumble upon a recuperation camp, let's inform them of this one. At the very least, they would be able to send this one to the Ten-Lords Commission."

Along the path, they stumbled across more bodies that have been swept up in the clashing of worlds. Divine celestial beings on the ground with wounds healing at an impossible rate, fallen bodies of the Knights that have half transformed into the forsaken, life leaving their beings before their twisted methods were complete.

There were even some which (Y/n) had them stop in the middle of the way to provide relief, either putting them to sleep to induce the pain, or freezing their cores and helping them relax as they healed after fierce and relentless battles.

But one thing caught her eye. That amicassador.

The Dragon Lady's gaze never left her being, always keeping her in the outermost corner of her sight. There was...something odd about her. Perhaps the striders of the trailblaze would've never noticed, but she sensed...a cosmical energy emanating from that Foxian girl.

There's just something...off with this girl. The way she talks, her interests, her stance during the fight earlier. Something wasn't right.

She didn't have much time to ponder. Due to their thundering steps of different weights and paces, they began to alarm the individuals standing guard past the wall they were about to round.

"Who goes there ?! Show yourselves !" Called out a clear voice of a male, sense of urgency and alert in his tone.

Cloud Knights. They had really reached their temporary base.

Welt took charge, walking ahead of them to confront the guards. "We come in peace." He said, almost making the rest of them snicker in amusement with the way he walked up to them with raised hands.

The guards, of course, didn't seem to take this lightly. But there was relief shining in their eyes when they see the esteemed guests of the General of the Xianzhou Luofu escorting the long awaited Dragon Lady.

"Saltator Lunae !" They sighed in relief. "Quickly, in here ! It's dangerous outside."

"You knew we were coming already ?" March said as they were escorted by one of the guards into the camp, the other standing guard. March was quite curious to how the Cloud Knights weren't that much fazed by their arrival.

"The Master Diviner prophesized your arrival. We were ordered to wait for you under any circumstance." He assured with a steady nod of his helmeted head.

"So...the Master Diviner is already here ?" (Y/n) asked, storing away her fan since she deemed it to be safe for her and her companions.

"Yes. The Master Diviner ordered us to remained stationed here and went to scout ahead." He affirmed again. "They're saying the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus have returned-- they haven't been seen for an age. The troops are anxious."

"I...can imagine." She said with a slight nod of her own head.

"It's good you arrived. The Master Diviner said the Knights weren't to move out until you arrived." He said, but then remembered one more important note.

"Right. While you are here, and we're awaiting the next orders of the Master Diviner, there is something that needs to be clarified." He said seriously, looking at the group. "This is as far as Lady (Y/n) will follow you, esteemed guests of the General."

The group gasped a little, but they were by no chance much surprised. They knew they were missioned to just escort her, but was it just until here, or would they re-group ? But it was the General's orders.

"May I ask what happens from now on ?" (Y/n) asked, a little curious to her next course of fate that awaited her.

The Cloud Knight nodded, standing straight before the honorable woman before him. "Yes, my Lady. General Jing Yuan himself had ordered us to have you wait here. He will come soon, and lead a separate path from the Master Diviner."

"As far as we are informed, you will be joining him on a more confrontational matter."

For some reason she felt a tingle spark up her spine. For some reason she was anxious. For some reason...she was scared.

Something bad was bound to happen.

[bietrofastimoff23]

Here's the thing that really gets me. Objectively speaking, Aegon in the original story is not a good person stretch of the imagination. He's unfaithful to his wife, he's a lazy drunk, he's spiteful to his nephews, and he becomes a crueler person as the civil war spirals out of control. And he is kind of a fucking loser if we're being totally honest. He's clearly out of his depth when it comes to military planning, and happily goes along with ideas by Criston Cole that he perceives to be "manly" ways of fighting a war. With even his victories being pyrrhic ones that see him receive crippling injuries.

So like...this is not a character who you should be able to do dirty, right? But somehow they keep finding a way! The writers are so insecure about their affection for Rhaenyra that they go out of their way to invent new scenes and flaws to add extra humiliation to a character that already got pretty brutally humiliated in the original story. Taking the one account for Mushroom that we're pretty much told outright was likely bullshit (since he literally wasn't even in King's Landing), and somehow making it even worse. And making up that nonsensical dragon pit scene for his coronation just to have Rhaenyra's side make him look impotent. People try to defend these changes with the excuse that the historical records might have missed subtle details, and I'm just like fuck right off with that bullshit. People would remember a fucking dragon bursting out of the ground and killing a hundred civilians (something that gets completely glossed over, while the Ratcatcher mass execution is dwelled upon as an atrocity).

I thought at first that maybe they were slowly improving things a bit with his depiction in Episode 2. Because bless the actor, he's fucking trying with what he's got to work with. He nailed the raw emotions of a parent that's just had their child get brutally murdered. But no, they're regressing yet again. And rewriting Criston's plan just to make Aegon look like a moron who derails everything for his own side. A rewrite that when you think about it for literally 5 seconds actually makes Criston and Aemond look like idiots. A 2v1 ambush plan is objectively a smarter and safer strategy for taking out Meleys than a 1v1 ambush plan.

Sorry to keep you waiting. I agree with everything!

The writers' favoritism is so obvious in the parallels between Rhaenyra and Aegon, where they can both do stupid things, but in Rhaenyra's case it is presented as heroism and sacrifice, and in Aegon's case he is exposed as a worthless idiot. Rhaenyra can order the torture of her mutilated brother and the murder of an innocent servant in order to legally have fuck with her uncle, and it will never be mentioned again. but when Aegon hangs the rat catchers because they can't identify his son's killer, they talk about it in a negative way in every episode and even include it in the opening.

In fact, Aegon didn't even mess up the plan in RR. Aemond could easily have joined him and their victory would have been quick, but the writers decided to spoil that for the sake of unnecessary drama.

They could easily make Aegon the bad guy of this story without trying to make him look pathetic in every damn scene. We don't have a single triumphant moment for Aegon. Even his coronation was not only depicted as gloomy and dark, but it was also spoiled for the sake of Rhaenys' girlboss moment (a mass murder that the fandom prefers to ignore). No one respects Aegon, does not appreciate him, everyone tries to manipulate him, his own council does not tell him about the plans, his mother does not care about him, his brother betrays him. And the few good things he had that made him happy (Jaehaerys, Sunfyre), he loses on the same day when hotd bothers to show them as an important part of Aegon's life.

They just can't let Aegon have anything good, because even when his character is at the very bottom, he remains one of the most interesting.

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Tell me something Miller gave up

Do you ever think about media and stories reflecting the anxieties of the cultures that create them? Or how sci-fi sometimes predicts or inspires technology? Do you ever think about Halo and Aliens and Starship Troopers and disaster movies and real life and

I poured my brain out onto a page stream of consciousness style so it's a mess, but a fun, terrifying one I hope

hi

-

There's a lot of buzzwords people throw around. People saying one thing but meaning seven different things. The difference between sacrificing and giving up. Victory at any cost, pyrrhic, hollow. A play for time.

Sacrificing something is good and noble and for the greater need of the many. Giving up is cowardly and shameful. These words are black and white, most of the time. Other words like risk, are more complicated. A risk can pay off or it can put everyone in danger. A risk can be a sacrifice or it can be worse than giving up.

Miller's from a generation that doesn't know what it's like to live without war. To live without the threat of surveillance, both foreign and domestic, enemies listening in or sacrificing privacy for the greater good. Some planets get labelled with the words too, once they're glassed. As a kid, Jared thought it was strange to think anyone gave up their planet, their home, or that somehow the planet gave up. It was the bad guys.

The bad guys are scary and if they find you they will kill you. They destroy your homes and your way of life. They might eat you! They speak a different language and have technology that can kill you before you can blink. That's why you need to be careful and a good citizen. The UNSC is doing its best to keep the colonies safe, but if they would just listen then the bad guys wouldn't get them. That's why you can help be a good citizen and fight the bad guys. All you have to do is sign up when you're 16! You can be a marine or a pilot or drive a tank or maybe even meet one of them. The UNSC needs you, but also it is doing great on its own! The war effort requires everyone! But do not panic, panicking is weak and cowardly and helps the bad guys.

The bad guys are unstoppable, but also weak and stupid. They can't stop the UNSC's greatest weapon.

The Master Chief is a hero and he stops the bad guys. There are other Spartans too and they always win. They never give up. They never die.

Miller enlists. He works hard. He's an asset, not a drain. He won't give up.

The war ends. The news around Master Chief quiets. Miller becomes a Spartan IV. There's always still more work to be done. There are different bad guys now. Some of them look like him.

Miller learns that not every alien is a bad guy. There are asylum seekers on multiple worlds, even Earth. Refugee is another word for asylum seeker.

Miller's in an early enough class of IVs to become a mission handler. He works intelligence and planning. He keeps his head down and ears open. He learns more than he wanted. Sacrificing children. Giving up homes? Childhoods? Giving up requires a choice in the matter. He thinks about it. Sacrificing also implies a choice.

IVs have a choice. He was an adult when he signed on. To be a Spartan. He was still under 18 when he joined the UNSC but that's okay. He knows other Spartans who are in the same boat. Other IVs are older. They have even more skin in the game, they've been fighting the bad guys longer.

The bad guys have changed but that's okay because while they're strong they're weaker than Spartans and Spartans never die. Except Miller has lost Spartans. He's seen whole Fireteams wiped out in an instant. He's heard people dying on worlds a million miles from home for no clear reason.

The bad guys are there because the good guys- the UNSC - are there. Spartans are the UNSC's gun they point at the bad guys. Some of the bad guys are humans again. Some of the aliens are good guys. Why is there still a war? Why do they need Spartans for this? Manufactured conflict.

Sacrifice or giving up? Wasted or Spent?

[nesiacha]

Another Frustration with the Series (Spoiler Alert for Blood and Fire and House of the Dragon)

Me after see the episode

Alert spoil

I watched the new episode. Maybe I'm a masochist, but honestly, I didn't like it at all. This is just my personal opinion. I’m probably not going to be thrilled with what I have to say about the Blacks and the Greens.

Let's start with the death of Rhaenys. In the book, she is totally badass from beginning to end. Even more so at her death: I mean, she saw Aegon and Aemond charging at her with their two dragons, including Vhagar. It’s clearly stated that she had a chance against Vhagar (in my opinion, she would have beaten him one-on-one since she has a lot of combat experience—just look at Aemond getting beaten by Daemon and Caraxes. As for Aegon and his dragon, she would have made short work of him). But instead of retreating, knowing it would probably be her end, she decides to engage in battle. She dies a warrior’s death, fitting for her life. Here, she is taken by surprise by Aemond... I mean, the trap was there to catch the two dragonriders from the Green camp from the start, the Blacks fell into it, but from the beginning of the confrontation, it was Rhaenys against Aegon and Aemond at the same time. The series did not respect the book's Rhaenys, who is a thousand times better in my eyes.

Similarly, Aemond could usurp his nephews and seemed in the book not to care about his sister Helaena (just like Aegon). He would have said that the crown suited him better, but he never tried to usurp Aegon (one of the few positive points because frankly, I don't understand the whitewashing of Aemond—GRR Martin deliberately made him resemble Maegor without any strategy, and Maegor was less worse in his usurpation of the throne because Visenya brought him not out of ambition but to fight the militant faith that was rampant everywhere; seriously, Aemond would be the equivalent of Gregor Clegane with a little more intelligence, although very gullible if he possessed a dragon).

The rise of Cole as Hand of the King. I’ve talked about him many times. This guy is Littlefinger if he were less clever and more acclaimed (he is a deliberate contrast to characters like Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane, who are more hated in Westeros but more honorable than him). The series overlooks what he did first as Hand of the King. He put all of Rhaenyra's supporters in the dungeons to the sword (he directly told them to choose between submitting to Aegon II or dying—most chose to die). Moreover, the writers make him seem more competent than he is (he is slightly more intelligent than Aemond but not by much). Yes, he practices scorched earth, won a Pyrrhic victory, and tried to rule by terror. But GRR Martin made it clear that an enemy might seem more powerful and oppress the smallfolk, but he can have people stand up to him precisely because of that terror (see the example of Tywin Lannister who is beaten militarily and even when he kills Robb, the fights continue subtly in the book). Here, I feel like the show presents him as competent.

Let’s not talk about Otto Hightower. It's not a question of saying he ruled wisely—I mean, he inherited a stable policy under Jaehaerys (although I don't like that character at all), didn’t care about the Stepstones, and let the Triarchy take it, which is a crucial route for Westeros' trade. Not very brilliant, not to mention that the Greens stole the royal treasury and spread it out in several places, causing the smallfolk to suffer, and Rhaenyra found nothing when she arrived at King's Landing and had to raise taxes.

Alicent Hightower... Honestly, I still don't understand her connection with Cole in the show. Cole only cares about power and not Alicent (in my opinion), and Alicent is Cersei with ambition, knowing that it’s better not to have adulterous relations unlike Cersei. Nevertheless, I don't like book Alicent much for trying to shame a 12-year-old Rhaenyra regarding Cole (when she wonders who will protect Rhaenyra from Cole), while if there was any ambiguous behavior, it was from Cole who is an adult and acted creepily. Honestly, Viserys was a horrible father for tolerating a Cole when any father would have at least kicked him out and let that slide.

Moving on to the Blacks, even though there are characters I really like (like Baela and Rhaena—thank you very much, show, for not showing them well), Jacaerys (who shows that diplomacy is better than force since it’s mainly the Starks who turned the tide), Rhaenys, and even Corlys... Even if the Greens initiated the first thing that can be blamed like the usurpation of the throne by ambition, stealing the royal treasury, and that Aegon II was a horrible king and unleashed dragons on the smallfolk... The Blacks also had things to reproach themselves for, like the murder of Aegon II and Helaena's eldest son in response to the gratuitous murder of Lucerys. Even if the murder (deliberate, sorry show, I don't accept it) of Lucerys was horrible, they also inflicted this death on an innocent in front of their mother’s eyes. Even though Daemon wasn’t a Tytos 2.0, unlike his brother, he was competent in wars or with the Goldcloaks, and he was rightly annoyed with Otto, there was a caprice and cruelty in him (certainly not as much as Aemond or Tywin) that did not fit a consort king (plus his horrible phrase about the heir for a day).

As for Rhaenyra, even though in some aspects she is tragic and I won’t blame her for her mistakes in trusting a creepy Cole as a teenager (in my eyes, she is a victim here, so we don’t blame the victim), there are things that clearly indicate she was destined to be a bad queen from the start. It's not that she had bastard children because Laenor couldn’t have given her children as he was very gay, and she respected that, plus she was forced into this marriage by her father Viserys (and after all, Catherine II had illegitimate children as her husband was apparently incapable of giving her any, and one of them reigned). It could have worked with great political intelligence, but she took it for granted that she was going to be queen (even though I don't understand why the series says she left the castle and settled at Dragonstone when she was more or less forced to leave) when her stepmother Rhaenys was the living example that being accepted as queen would be difficult. At the start, she was ready to handle the Hightowers with care but refused to renounce her rights (and she was right). She tried to use soft power until Aemond deliberately killed Lucerys. But there is no trace of her condemning the murder of the son of Aegon and Helaena . As the tragedies unfolded, she became increasingly paranoid and alienated even her allies. I understand that she had to raise taxes because of the Greens’ theft of the royal treasury, but she lived a lavish lifestyle. Even if Rhaenyra was, in my eyes, lesser compared to Aegon II among the Greens, as Kelsey L. Hayes so well said, the tragedy is that neither side proved worthy of the crown. The main victim was the smallfolk. Incidentally, I didn't understand the propaganda saying that Maegor is Rhaenyra because if that were true, she would have thrown Cole to a dragon, maybe even other Hightowers, and massacred all of King's Landing at the slightest protest (and if Tywin or Maegor were actually in Daemon and Rhaenyra's place from the start, they would have ordered the murder of all the Hightowers to the last, including infants—just look at the murder of Elia Martell and her children to be convinced, as Tywin acted both opportunistically and to take revenge on poor Elia who simply had the "fault" of marrying Rhaegar instead of Cersei).

And frankly, I was happy when Cregan Stark arrived, came to restore order, and scolded both sides. That’s why he is in my top 20 favorite characters.

In short, why this long message? Because none of the tragedy so well done by GRR Martin is conveyed in the show, there is too much whitewashing of some characters, and characters inconsistent with the plot (Mysaria, Alicent, etc.). Unlike the producers of Game of Thrones (who made bad scripts and destroyed or erased very good characters), the writers of House of the Dragon have no excuse as they know the ending. When I learned there was a prequel, I was happy because I thought I would reconnect with the spirit of Game of Thrones before it went off the rails. Huge disappointment. I don't think I will continue watching this series. It's sad but I don't want to make another facepalm by watching this show XD

Once again, just my opinion :)

[vendetta-if]

Hi! I discovered Vendetta like a week ago and I'm literally hooked, I had to subscribe to you Patreon! 🤣 I scrolled through the past asks on your Tumblr and after reading the ROs reactions to MC dying to save them I got curious, (but since something similar is already been asked feel free to ignore!) what would be Luka reaction if MC died to save him? Would he be able to recover? And what if MC died to save Tyome?

Aww, thank you so much for the support! 🥰😀 As for your question... Oh man... 😥The angst...

If MC died saving Luka... Nothing worse could've happened to him. It's a fate worse than death since he'll be forever haunted twice by his failures. He still struggles with survivor guilt from Viktor's death all those years ago, and now, his nephew/niece/nibling, the one person his brother entrusted to him in his final breath... has met the same fate all because of him. He'd be eaten alive with guilt and I don't think he could ever be the same man anymore and he'd be forever broken.

Now, if MC died saving Tyoma (Jackal), Luka would not put the fault on Tyoma's head. He'd still blame himself. What kind of man is he? Not only being able to protect his family, but also his love... And not being able to keep the promise he made to his brother years ago. IT would be a similar ending as the first one where MC died saving him.

In short, MC dying is just bad for all of their remaining family members... 😓Even if MC managed to kill the Killer, Grandpa, Ash, and Luka would not be happy and they all would rather have MC still alive than having their vengeance fulfilled. It's just a Pyrrhic (and hollow) victory for them.

[aprito]

hi! do you have any recommendations for sasosaku fic with more than 10k words?

a couple (a lot) of the top of my head (burned into my retina) in no particular order finished and unfinished (they are all important to me)

!!! IF YOU READ ANY OF THESE BE A COOL KID AND LEAVE A REVIEW !!!

hope springs eternal by simplelations (wholesum retelling of p1 naruto but with same age au sos i have made fic art that's how you know the love is real)

incantations by thirrin (extremely underrated howl's moving castle inspired magic au)

the neighbourly thing to do by koneko_taichou (wholesome middle aged sos are neighbours au. especially love the reason ss divorced in this fic and cant wait to see where this goes)

against all odds by koobabear (unfinished but platonic canonverse sos that's very fun)

these days by stormdragon6 (the one and only extremely long and extremely fullfilling mutual pining sos childhood friends modern au. scenes from this fic are burned into my brain)

a second chance by invisibleninja12 (200k literal retelling of p2 naruto with same age au sos where sasori got yeeted into the future and sakura is committed to help him before he makes the final turn for the worse. incredibly wholesome)

deep into the woods by muffin_ride (twisted beauty and the beast meets horror meets sos in their 40s far too old for this bullshit. thats the type of content we love around here)

lost year by omgitspocky (the fic that literally started my obsession with same age au basically sakura goes back in time and not only distracts sasori from defecting but also gets to hang out with a young tsunade)

bait and hitch by aelynthi (after the fantastic previous fic homesick comes one of the funniest takes on the fake dating trope with outrageously good characterization. i am emotionally invested in this one)

acaso mi madre engaña a mi padre? by takewaelel (i recommend this cheating fic at least once every full moon cycle because it has some of my favorite characterisation ever. every reread i discover some other amazing take)

lady of the blackthorns by vesperchan (amazing fantasy sos au. and thats why vesper is the GOAT)

pyrrhic victory by watevermelon (same age au sos with sasori's parents alive is one of the three ships and we're rooting for them)

grading on a curve by sayyikes (100% pure comedy and we're here for this painfully realistic and hilarious modern au)

sword of damocles by angelofdeath10 (medieval sakura is sasori's knight au. sasori is extremely pathetic but that makes it fun. i recommend everything they write in general <3)

spring fever by tsuki hoshino (sakura quits her job with sunan royalty and is ready to settle down and have kids in the middle of sasori's 10 year meticulously planned how do i get her to date me plan. watch as he desperately tries to bring his plans to fruition in the most sasori way possible)

invocation of the muse by nenalata (toxic college au sos that ruined me as a person, it's so fucking good even if i took immense psychic damage after deluding myself sos somehow will make it work. you need to read this immediately. this is exactly how i envision a bad ending outcome)

porcelain by shoujojunkie (not 10k but i will rep this doll maker falls in love with his tiny vain selfish creation fic until the day i die)

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, episode 7. If my Latin serves me, that must mean star traveler

Finally made it. Ticked that box. Doubled Cape Fear. I deserve an ice cream, I suppose.

To be honest, I was expecting way worse. And it ends much better than it started, despite SS moaning like a banshee, despite the chopped editing, despite that finger-in-mouth failed transplant (I shall not thank thee, Vanessa Woman) and despite an almost unreadable storyline for us, show-onlies.

A few words on this season's Lallybroch set. I know the Eighties were dubiously fond of shrieking orange shades, diarrheic golden browns and horribly impractical furniture, of course. But am I the only one that feels modern-day Lallybroch is tacky and kitschy AF, as compared to the wonderful, really perfect J&C& the Murrays' timeline? I also find it disturbingly confusing, a failed hybrid between a Texas ranch and a Brittany gentilhommière. To bear the shock, my gaze needs the active help of details with a story and a destiny, such as the Jacobite 'Nemo me impune lacessit' saltire I've noticed ever since Mrs. Graham was reading Claire's teacup, in season 1 - now almost an afterthought. Therefore, the overall result feels like J&C's shrine has been colonized by anachronistic hipsters, not to mention that horrible caravan. There is a complete lack of coziness to a space that did not have the time to become a real home. That only makes things worse when #Broger try their best at mimicking a functional, credible marriage, sex included.

Let's be done already with the Phil Collins moment. And go tell it on the mountain that, despite the multiple warnings received recently, my reaction somehow managed to surprise myself. Reader, I HOWLED, which is beyond redemption and potentially much more cruel than a heavy disappointment. The hydraulics were shaky. The afghan was mustard. She was indescribable and he was elsewhere. I shall only add that my brain refused the connection with In the Air Tonight and went instead for I Can't Dance. If there is any truth in that old symmetry between dancing, driving and canoodling - go figure. Enough said.

The two people who totally slayed this episode were Buck Mackenzie and Vandervaart - I know, indulge me, I am a poor woman of feeble mind. I do not intend to insist on young William, simply because I don't think it's savvy to shamelessly fangirl two days in a row. He shines in that very difficult battle scene, and yes, it reminded me of Culloden J sans the kamikaze touch. And yes, by the end of Saratoga 1.0, William is easily ten years older: the whole world's burden weighs on his shoulders and there is a taste of ashes to that Pyrrhic victory.

Spoiler: [looking at Jemmy's toy plane] Of all the things I have seen... have you been inside one? (...) My Jeremiah would love this. Buck is phenomenal. He is versatile enough to seamlessly transition from a hungry animal to the 18th century lawyer to the unwanted, macho cousin-ancestor to the father who misses his children, all of this in less than an hour. And even if I shall never forgive Herself for not bringing You-Know-Who through the stones, this could be as good as it gets, in terms of a second-best narrative solution. Still, unfair, Herself. Unfair to bits.

Spare the cosmic booing in the air these days, the J&C/S&C PDA issue has also been debated at length, in quite tired terms, to be honest. What I did see was a couple sure of itself and completely at ease with one another. And if you think S&C were nowhere to be found, think again about C's chuckle just after J cheekily tells her she needs spectacles, with a very 21st century flirty-coffee-in-town attitude that is not J.

I believe the next and last episode is on August 11th. That should be the one with the blue light mojo, right? Right.

I can't wait.

Credit given again to @flllk. Of course.

[leomeoi]

Happier

The title is from the song "Happier" by Marshmello Bastille. The lyrics "I want you to be happier. Know that means I'll have to leave." spoke to me. Please read the wonderful @tapakah0's comic and watch the amazing animatic they did that this work is inspired from. (Please forgive any out of characterness or grammar mistakes, I had no Beta Reader and wrote this in one sitting.) Thank you so much to Tapakah for drawing this amazing comic and answering my questions, as well as allowing me to write a fic for their work.

Oh, obligatory warning. This is angst. There is major character death, violence, and sadness. It ends unhappy (for now.) Proceed with caution and make informed decisions!

Click here for a link to the Archive Of Our Own version!

--------------------------------------------

Today's a big day.

Arguably, every day that they go out to fight the Krang that have infiltrated every nook, cranny, and crevice of their lives all those years ago is a big day. Raphael can't help but feel the bone-crushing load of responsibility that weighs down on his shoulders as he watches the hubbub of activity from the head. As he scans the faces of each person—human and mutant alike—with his one good eye, Raph feels as if his shell might just crack. He's not naive. There's nothing normal about this. He knows that they won't be able to save everyone, there'll be casualties. Their days are numbered, and the world just isn't fair in that way. The Krang aren't merciful. It could be anyone that they lose, there's no off-limits, and there's no way of predicting what shade of grief they'll experience today. As more and more days go by, Raphael can't shake the feeling that every victory they have is just a pyrrhic one. Even still, they fight. Everyone currently in the shelter of this hangar does. They all hope for a better future, a chance to reclaim all that they lost and there's not a single person who isn't willing to sacrifice it all. There's nothing more important than to ensure the success of this battle they're about to fight in the world war they've been waging against the invading advanced alien species.

He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to think about all the people that they've lost. It sends ripples of agony tearing through his chest, a physical ache that he can feel permeate even his plastron. It's a horrid fact that death is actually the most merciful thing the Krang can gift them with. They've lost countless others to infection, the result of that blasted plague yielding pink, fleshy atrocities, the host twisted and manipulated into a mere shell of their former self. They cannot be qualified as a person by then, bestial creatures hellbent on destruction and controlled by the very violators that infected them to begin with. It's a fate worse than death, the loss of will and self; they move only to the will impressed upon them. Raph's arms cross even tighter across his broad chest, his teeth grinding. The cold metal of his right arm reminds him that he's gotten off lucky. His fingers dig into his elbows as he stands, a grim and foreboding figure against the thoughts that plague his mind. He knows that he's gotten lost under the pressure of his thoughts when he stirs only at a warm touch against his forearm.

"Raph? You okay, big man?"

The sound of Leo's voice snaps him out of it further. His tone is bright, but Raph can hear the undertow of concern. Raph tears his gaze away from the milling crowd and looks down, meeting his brother's gaze. Even though it's been years, Raphael still can't help the flare of pride every time he sees Leo and how much he's changed over the years. It seems like yesterday that Raphael had to scold, nag, and practically plead with his younger sibling to get him to take things seriously. He knows that being the leader was a pressure that Leonardo never wanted, but once he's received it, he'd learned the gravity of the role. Sometimes, Raph thinks Leonardo has outgrown him, just the way that Raphael thought he would. A lesser turtle would have broken under the pressure, but Leonardo is as strong as he is stubborn. He stands against the test of time and loss, brave and unrelenting. He now leads with a certainty that has saved them on numerous occasions, and Raphael truly couldn't be prouder of how much he's grown into the role given to him.

Leonardo must see the way Raph's eyes soften because the sharp grin on his face loses its charming edge, too. Raph's chest feels tight as if his heart would burst out from the confines of his plastron. It's an entirely different reason than just a few seconds before when the grim reality was moments from overwhelming him.

He really is so proud.

"Yeah, Raph's okay. Just thinking." Raphael flashes his snaggletooth in a wide smile, and Leo mirrors it.

Normally, the conversation would end there. Raph wasn't the best at expressing his feelings, and Leonardo was even less so. He doesn't have the same connection to Leo that Donatello seems to have—they are self-proclaimed twins after all. They communicate almost solely on looks and gestures as if that's enough to convey exactly what it is they want to say. They leave nearly everything unsaid, but that's simply not something Raph can do. It's easy to communicate with Mikey; he's the best of them all. Still, there's so much that he wants to say to Leo, but it's almost time to leave. Raph can tell by the way things are quieting, the chaos of getting prepared sinking into the hum of calm and determined poise. Even with it all, Raphael is gripped with the unshakable feeling that he simply needs to get out. He doesn't know what it is, but it's an undeniable urge.

Leonardo's about to turn away. Despite the eternity that Raph feels like he just went through in his struggle to find the right words, mere seconds have passed. Raph decides that he doesn't need pretty words like Donnie, or the innate ability Mikey has to say exactly what a turtle needs to hear. Leo will understand. He knows Raph. He knows that they're connected and understand each other in a way that only those who have and are responsible for the lives of many can.

"Leo," he starts, and Raph almost winces at how serious he sounds. Leo blinks at the sudden change in tone, but he doesn't falter. His easy grin changes almost immediately, and the fact he no longer tries to deflect serious conversation with humor when it comes to Raphael brings yet another wave of pride. Leo stands before him, waiting. He's listening.

Raphael nods to himself, lifting a hand to place on Leonardo's shoulder. He squeezes and shakes Leo lightly, a reassuring gesture. His snaggletooth makes even more of an appearance as he smiles wide. "Raph is so proud. You've kicked ass and grown. You don't need lil ol' me anymore. I could not be more proud."

Surprise flits through Leo's eyes before it's replaced by something else. His gaze is piercing, eyes dark and almost unreadable. Almost. In another time, Raph wouldn't have ever thought that he'd know Leo so well. The feeling is potent, and Raph can feel it, too. It charges him with strength, and a new lightness finds his spirit. The iron trust that Leo has in him shines in his eyes, and Raphael had almost felt too small to withstand the weight of it once. Now, it gives Raph the strength he needs to continue on.

It seems to have been the right time to say what he was thinking.

Leonardo's shoulders square, and he seems to grow even taller before Raphael's very eyes. "Don't kid yourself, Raph," Leo chuckles. He slaps at Raph's arm lightly with a pat. "I'll always need my big brother." They both laugh at that, the serious mood broken up as their chortles sound in the room. With that, Leonardo turns away, moving his attention to something else that they need to be as prepared as they ever will be. Raph doesn't really concern himself with that anymore unless Leo needs him to. Bolstered by warmth, Raph knows that he needs to make his own rounds. He walks through the crowd, and people part way for him to accommodate his bulk. He stops and talks to a few, bumps elbows with April, and high-fives Cassandra. Somewhere along the line, Cass and Raph had grown closer. Undoubtedly, it was because of a certain young individual they spent any spare moment they had with.

Somewhere in the middle of that, Raph finds who he's looking for. "Donnie," he calls, and his brother whirls towards him. Donnie's battle shell remains engaged in what seems to be furious typing, his purple holographs buzzing with ninpo. A fond smile lights up Raph's face—even in the midst of preparing for a big battle, Donatello is always moving. His mind is always working, and Raphael wonders if it's because it's so loud that Donnie rarely ever sleeps.

"Raph," Donnie greets, the lenses of his red and blue goggles whirring as they adjust to parse Raph. Then, Donnie groans. "What did Nardo break now? I swear, I told him I'm gonna kick his shell if he breaks one more damn thing, so he decides to send you to break the news? I'm gonna find him-" He starts to grouse, and Raphael is sent into a frenzy trying to placate him.

"No, no! Leo didn't break nothin'. Just... Raph just wanted to talk to you. Before everything." Raphael shrugs, his hands outstretched and spread to show his surrender. Donatello squints and it's obvious that he's suspicious. His drawn-on eyebrows arch, and Raphael can't help but laugh again. There is no doubt that Donatello is the most expressive one of them all. His eyebrows only add to his charm, and over the years, he's grown into his skin even more. Raph thinks that Donatello is also the one to hide his emotions the most, choosing pragmatism and logic over the pursuit of emotions at all times. It's also why Raph thinks that Donatello's mask—the persona that he adopts—rivals Leo's.

In truth, Donatello is generous. He's a genius, a maniacal scientist, and Raph knows that his mind works in ways unmatched. He knows that it's because Donnie is Donnie that they've been able to maintain a semblance of a life. Raph knows that Donnie works himself to the bone for them, and fixes every problem that crops up that others don't even know where to begin. The thing with Donnie is that he's so, so generous, with a heart that's about as soft as his shell. Raph knows that he doesn't want anyone to know. Donnie gives them his all every day, every minute, and every second. It's enough for Raph to worry that one day, Donnie will give, give, and give until there's nothing left. Raphael has always silenced that voice, knowing that it comes from a selfish part of Raph that wants his brothers cared for, apocalypse be damned. Now, though. Raph thinks he can convey what he wants to say to Donnie at least once in a way that he can't be misunderstood.

Taking Donnie's suspicious look in stride, Raphael reaches up to rap his knuckles against his metal prosthetic. It makes a sharp sound each time he does, and Raph grins in spite of it all. "I know I've said this already, but Dontron... Thanks again. I know that this-" Raph gestures to all around him, and then again to his arm, "-couldn't have happened without you." Donnie seems to have been caught off guard by the sincere way Raphael is saying what he wants to say. Still, he recovers fast.

"Why, of course. I'm glad you realize that you need my brilliant mind and recognize that this is all in courtesy of the great Donatello, a.k.a. moi." Donatello's eyes are half-moons, his goggles retreating to the top of his head. His grin is smug, but Raph can see the genuine curls of delight that cause the corners of the said grin to twitch into an almost smile. Donatello's arms outstretch to gesture to the entire facility, and the simple movement makes him look bigger than life. It's grandiose, enthusiastic, and just as bombastic as Raph would have expected Donnie to respond with. Raphael doesn't bother stopping the laugh that escapes him, and his deep laughter seems to infect Donnie, too. He laughs with Raph, a small rumble mixed with the beginnings of a chirp. After the laughter dies down, Donnie gives Raph another grin. "Okay, now that you have me sufficiently buttered up, what did you break?" Donnie asks, his voice teasing. Raphael recognizes it for the jest that it is, and he snorts again.

"I keep tellin' you, nothing's broke!" Raphael's hands lift and they settle on Donatello's shoulders. He can't be too serious. Donnie will be too busy trying to make light of the words leaving Raph's mouth in his mind to truly understand what he's trying to say. Raph smiles. "Just tryna say thank you, Dontron. You're right, we need your brilliant mind, but that's not all we need," he gently reminds the younger turtle. "You're our Donnie, too. Our brother. Raph just wants to make sure that you take care of yourself, too. Less coffee, more sleep." He shrugs, his voice light. For a moment or two, Donnie says nothing. His eyes are wide, fixated on Raph's. It's enough to make Raph nervous and wonder if he's gone too far, but his fears are dispelled when Donnie's shoulders slump slightly under his hands.

"When did you turn all Dr. Feelings? Isn't that Michelangelo's job?" Donnie jokes and makes a face, but his voice shakes just enough to convey that he understands what Raph is trying to say. Raphael chooses to act mock-offended, going along with the bit.

"Hey! Are you saying Raph can't say that he loves his brothers?" He huffs, and Donnie rolls his eyes. The heavier moment dispels and Donnie's attention is suddenly needed elsewhere, judging by the beeping that he can hear. Raph lets his hands fall from Donatello's shoulders.

"Duty calls. No rest for the wicked." Donnie sighs, somehow dramatic and sincere at the same time. His eyes are closed as he says this, but he peeks out at Raph. That's enough for Raph to spot the gentle glint in his brother's eye. "But..." he intones, combining the sound with another sigh. "I'll try." Raph grins.

"All I ask." He nods, and Donnie hums. He's reorienting himself, Raph has heard that noncommital hum too many times to not know. "I'll see you later, Dontron," Raphael says before he loses Donnie in a string of mutters, and Donnie gives him a wave as his goggles return to his face, already focusing on what had pulled him away.

Raphael keeps walking. He dodges children, people, and mutants. It's not easy with his build, and he sticks out like a sore thumb from size alone. Still, it's not enough to deter him from finding Mikey. Mikey's as easy to spot as it is to spot Raph in a crowd. His powerful ninpo rolls off him in waves, mysticality crackling under his fingertips. It surges through his entire body, and it's almost impossible to miss. He's often haloed in a golden light, something that's as warm as his spirit. Over the years, Mikey has only grown more powerful, but with his abilities, so does his wisdom. Mikey is no longer just the goofy turtle he'd been before; he is wise beyond his years, capable, and strong. He's the inspiration within the Resistance, the ever-burning beacon of hope. Raph has leaned on him for support more times than he can count, and Mikey has more than once single-handedly born the grief of hundreds after a bad battle. Many turn to him for guidance now.

Raph finds him in the exact position that he thought he would.

"Mikey," he says, trying to hold back laughter. At Raph's voice, Mikey looks up, expression bright.

"Raph! Hiya, bud. Apparently, my hair's getting too long!" He says, voice full of cheer and contentment. He's surrounded by an ethereal glow, and floating. His legs are crossed, and there is a gaggle of giggling children running around him. They dip below him from where he's floating, dodging each other while they play tag. The innocence of the view seems to heal all the old wounds and the scars littering Raph's heart momentarily. There's another taller child with her fingers in Mikey's hair, and upon closer inspection, she's braiding it. Mikey already has multiple little braids here and there in his hair, and it's a sight that makes Raph's caught laughter burst free.

"Really? Raph thinks it's fine." He tilts his head as he inspects Mikey, and he's sure his expression mirrors Mikey's. Raph edges closer before he sits down with a mighty groan, and maybe a bit of a heavier thud than he'd wanted. The children crow as the ground shakes a little when Raph sits down, and he's swarmed. They crawl all over his legs, chattering excitedly, and Raph sits and listens. He and Michelangelo both do. They bask in the simple joy that the children exude. They ask him all kinds of questions, and Raph answers the best he can. They tell him nonsensical stories, about everything Mikey has been telling them, stories of times before the Krang. It's a bittersweet experience, knowing that there's a chance that these children will never experience what they had. Still, the tenacity and hope these children hold to someday seeing all that they've been told of is infectious. It reminds him of something their dad has always told them.

Hope is a ninja's greatest weapon.

Eventually, the children go off to Mikey's gentle shooing, as if he knows that Raphael has something important to say. The bond they share is close to the silent bond that Leonardo and Donatello share. In the past, Raphael and Michelangelo had clashed on more than one occasion. Raph knows he could be overprotective. He had been, back then, and Raph is old enough to admit that. Michelangelo had been the youngest, and even though he still is, Raphael trusts that he can protect himself now. That he can protect all of them. More than anything, Raph trusts Mikey with the Resistance. He trusts Mikey with their family. It's an all-encompassing trust that's hard to explain, even if he tries. After the Krang, after they'd been forced to grow, their relationship had changed forever. It was for the better. They'd grown closer, and the need for verbal communication has nearly faded from existence. Michelangelo can read Raph like a book. Even now, he waits for Raphael to collect his thoughts because he knows that his older brother has something to say. Raphael is grateful for it, just like all the times before.

After another few moments of silence, Raph wordlessly leans. He leans enough that their shoulders touch. He can feel the warmth spilling from Michelangelo, and it's comforting in ways that he can't describe. Mikey hums, but he doesn't say anything. His short braids are slowly coming loose, and they both stare from the sidelines as their people gather the rowdy children, scooping them up for hugs and kisses. Raph swallows. The heavy feeling from earlier returns. How many of these children would end up orphaned after this fight? He ignores a palpable thought about Casey Jr. that flits through his mind as fast as lightning. He doesn't want to think about that now. Raphael knows that Mikey can sense the dread that is approaching, the muted fear and grief that is already threatening his horizon. In front of Mikey, Raphael doesn't really find the need to appear as strong as he feels he needs to be around everyone else. He knows Mikey understands.

"Mikey," he starts, his voice suddenly hoarse around the lump in his throat. Michelangelo doesn't respond, just nudges his shoulder into Raph's harder. Raph takes a deep breath. He needs to say what he actually has on his mind, or he might burst. He's mentioned it to Donatello before, but Donnie hadn't let him finish. He'd dismissed the notion, he'd been angry with Raph for thinking such things. Raph hadn't broached the subject again. Now, he thinks it's a good time to. "If Raph doesn't make it back, please take care of our family." He smiles, feeling a hot pressure starting to build behind his eye. He knows that it's tears. Michelangelo still doesn't say anything. Raph presses on. "If- Donnie said somethin’ before about the mission goin' wrong and said that it's likely going to be Leo who's out for the count. I dunno if Donnie's goin' to be right, but it's Donnie. He probably is." He laughs, trying to free some of the building pressure in his throat. He swallows, again. Harder this time.

"Don't let Leo blame himself. Or Donnie. An'... An' I don't want you blaming yourself either. Okay?" Raph finally turns his head to look at Mikey and finds that Mikey is staring at him. Michelangelo is looking at him with a pained expression on his face. He doesn't bother hiding it. He knows what Raph is talking about, and even if he doesn't interrupt, Raph knows that Mikey is struggling already with the thought of something going awry. "I know it's goin' to be hard. But... But you're the strongest of us all, Mikey. In here." Raph reaches over, placing a hand over his brother's plastron. "They're gonna need you. It's not fair, I know. But they are. Just... Just remember me for me, an' the good things. Keep goin'. Keep them goin'." Raph's smile is trembling, he knows. He sees Michelangelo struggle for a moment or two before he feels and sees Mikey let out a harsh, near-guttural breath. His eyes are glassy as if he's holding back tears. Then, Mikey nods.

"Okay," Mikey whispers. Raphael keeps the smile on his face and nods back. Then, Raphael pulls Mikey into a hug. He hugs him tight, and he can't help but notice just how small Mikey is compared to him. He feels even more sorrowful, knowing that Mikey is still the youngest but Raph is asking so much from him. He's come to realize and know that Mikey is incredibly powerful, and because of that, sometimes he forgets just how young Mikey still is. Raph tightens his grip. That seems to be enough for Michelangelo. He hugs back, and they stay that way for a few heartrending moments. Raphael eventually pulls back, and if he did so with a sniffle, no one is going to call him out on it.

Raph gives Mikey's shoulders one last squeeze before he releases his brother. He swivels his head back to their people, and Raph knows that they're ready. He finds his way back onto his feet and pushes through the crowd again, heading towards the front lines. He sees Leo. He's waiting for Raph. Raphael takes a deep breath to collect himself before he lets his focus overcome the dread that he'd experienced mere moments ago. He finds his rightful place next to Leo.

"You ready?" Leo's voice is quiet, a muted question. There's the slightest hint of uncertainty, and Raph knows more than anyone what Leo's feeling.

"Ready." Raphael agrees, and his response seems to bolster Leo. He grins. Raph returns it with a smirk, straightening as he turns to face the crowd. "We're moving out soon! Everyone get ready!" He rumbles, voice filling the hangar. There are a few cheers, and everyone scrambles to get last-minute preparations underway. Among them is Cass. He watches as she stoops to hug her son. Raph watches, his heart in his throat as Casey giggles in his mom's arms, his little head poking up past Cass' shoulder. He squeals when he's lifted up by his mom, and Raph feels like he shouldn't intrude on the moment. He turns away despite his aching heart. He's about to walk away when he hears Casey's unmistakable voice. It's not Casey's voice that stops him dead in his tracks. It's what he says.

"Pap?"

For what feels like an eternity, Raph's brain blanks. He stands still as his brothers all laugh, equal parts disbelief and amusement. All Raph can do is flounder. Flashes of Splinter enter his mind, memories of their father dancing before his very eyes. Suddenly, it all makes sense. It's like his world realigns. What his brothers say becomes mush, and he can't seem to process anything but the single word he'd heard. The tears that he's been holding back well up, and Raph turns around on his heels. He strides forward and then stoops down, making himself as small as possible with a waterlogged smile. "Casey!" Raph calls, and his voice cracks, arms reaching forward. His chest is impossibly tight again, but he doesn't care. This is all that matters.

Cassandra's expression melts from one of stark surprise to a quiet fondness, and she crouches to let Casey back onto the floor. Upon the sight of Raph's outstretched arms, Casey races over to him. There's no hesitation until he reaches Raph, and suddenly, Raphael doesn't know what to do with himself. He's become this small human's pap, and he loves little Case with all of his heart. His hands shake, and he can't seem to stop them. He hovers, more concerned than ever that he would somehow hurt Casey. It turns out that his uncertainty doesn't matter. Casey blinks at Raph owlishly, then turns towards the hand that isn't a prosthetic. Raph's heart clenches. Casey reaches out, settling his tiny hand in Raph's. It's barely big enough to circle around one of Raph's fingers halfway. Casey smiles, holding onto the hand even tighter. He hugs it with his whole body, and Raph can only stand so much. His throat burns and his tears make an appearance as he pulls the child—no, his son—close. He holds him against his face, eye closing. He's so small. Everything is clear now.

This war, this fight… It’s for their future. They fight for their right to hand down a world that is secure, safe, and bright. They fight for the right to live freely. They fight to ensure that their children will never have to face the same hardship that their guardians did. It's worth fighting for, down to the last drop of blood, and the last shred of breath.

Raphael doesn't want to, but he knows he has to. He pulls back, releasing Casey from his hug. Case giggles again in response, and his small hands reach for Raph's face. "Oh, Casey. Papa will be back very soon." He smiles through his tears, and Casey grows serious. Raphael can't help but be startled at the determination on Casey's young face, and he has to hold his breath as Case brushes away the tears from his face. Raph nudges his forehead against Casey's one last time, gentle and loving. He pushes his child towards the crowd that's accumulated to bid them luck and goodbye. Despite his young age, Casey seems to realize that it's time to say goodbye. He backs away, but he waves to Raphael the entire time.

With newfound strength and courage fortifying his soul, Raph can feel his ninpo practically crackling. He's going to bring down the Krang, no matter what. For his brothers. For the Resistance. For all those that he lost. For Casey. He lifts an arm to scrub at his face, getting rid of the remainder of his tears. When he talks again, his voice is strong and booms through the halls. "Let's move out!"

Raphael leads the entourage. His expression is set in stone, and his remaining eye burns with untamable fire.

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Somehow, Raph has always known that it would end this way. He's not one for grand maniacal plans like Donnie, not strategic like Leo, or even as mystically talented as Mikey. There is one thing that he knows how to do, something that he's better at than anybody else.

He knows it'll take everything he has.

But that's okay. It gives his brothers, Casey, April, and everyone in the Resistance a fighting chance. A shot at a better future.

He doesn't tell anyone that his mind is already made up. The chaos of the battle rages around them, but all sound is muffled to Raphael. There is an eerie calm descending on him. He can feel the dead weight of Leo in his arms. He glances around, and that's all he needs to conclude that they're in trouble. They're out of options. The sound of screams and cries of their people fighting—and losing—echo. It pierces through the shrouded veil that is surrounding Raphael. A newfound clarity settles, and the knowledge of what he's about to do makes him ache for all those he's leaving behind.

I'm sorry, Casey, he thinks, swallowing. Papa won't be making it home.

"Donnie. You were right," Raphael chuckles, the sound dry and wretched. He looks toward the holographic screen that has Donnie's face. "It is Leo that gets knocked out." At his words, Donatello's face twists. A flicker of understanding seems to bode before it disappears, a fierce look of denial taking over the lines of his face.

"Yes, well, I'm almost always right. 99.99% of the time," Donnie responds, his voice wrecked. It's a low sound, full of pain and a new kind of desperation.

Raphael lays Leonardo down, his ministrations endlessly careful and gentle. He forgets about his strength often because he's a tank; he's as destructive as he is obstinate. Even still, he is careful with his unconscious brother. Leo's prosthetic is destroyed. Raph glances at his own.

A Krang hound overwhelms Leo while he fights hundreds of others; it manages to sink its teeth into the metal of Leo's arm. Raph can do nothing but watch in horror as the hound shakes Leo like a ragdoll. The hound continues to slam the turtle around repeatedly with brutal strength as if it was determined to rip Leo's arm out of its socket as it had already done once before. In Raphael's hurry, he tackles the dog with his full body weight after he wrestles his way closer, sending Krang creatures sprawling from the sheer force he plows through them with. Leo slams into the ground, and the impact is hard enough to knock him out cold with a pained grunt. Raphael growls, the sound twisting into a bone-chilling snarl. His hands grasp the top of the Krang mutt's jaw in a crushing grip, the other latching onto the lower jaw. With a furious cry, Raph wrenches the dog's mouth open. Unnatural howls leave the creature's mouth as it struggles, its screams of pain growing more frequent. Raphael doen't stop there. Once the alien releases the wreckage that had once been Leo's prosthetic, Raphael gives a mighty heave accompanied by a roar of rage. How dare the Krang take Leo's arm again?

The gory sound of bones snapping and the wet, horrid sound of skin ripping fill the air until Raph releases the remains of what had been a Krang creature from his hands. He sucks in deep breaths of air, panting from the extra exertion of strength. He steps away from the bloody carnage, stumbling towards Leo. He presses his head to Leo's plastron, relief flooding in at the sound of a heartbeat. "Leo," he calls, throat hoarse. He shakes his brother, hoping to rouse him. "Leo!" There is no response. He's out cold, injured, and without an arm. Raphael has no way of getting him to safety.

His closed eye opens. Raphael shakes himself out of his reverie of recounting memories. He knows what he has to do. "Don, how long until the shuttles arrive?" He questions. He sounds calm, even to his own ears. He sees Donatello look away towards his wrist screen, and Raph knows what the answer is before Donnie even says it. Donnie's eyes are distant, his brain racing. It's going a mile a minute only to come to the same conclusion. Nothing. Donnie can't move, Mikey is overwhelmed and fighting to get people to safety, and Leo is unconscious. Raph is the last mutant standing.

"Donnie." Raph calls again. He still wants to hear the answer. His gaze is fixed on the holo screen, and Donnie looks back at him with fervent eyes.

"15 minutes." The answer is delivered in a voice that sounds small and defeated. Raphael nods. His nod is more to himself than anything. Everything comes at a price.

"Don. Remember what Raph said, okay?" That's all Raph has to say before a wretched cry sounds from Donnie.

"No! There's another way, we still have time! Raphael, don't fucking do this!" Donnie's panic, rage, and pain are imprinted clearly in his desperate plea. He knows what Raphael is about to do. Raphael only looks at him through the holo screen. He knows what he looks like. He looks grim, determined. Fierce. Donnie reads his intentions loud and clear and tries again anyway. Raph feels as if someone is twisting a katana in his heart when he sees the way Donatello's face crumples, the way his head slumps. He tips his head downwards. "Please, Raph. Please, don't do this. Please," Donnie begs, but there's nothing Raphael can give him as an answer. They have no choice. Donnie knows this. Raphael looks away from the screen. He looks down at Leonardo and the destroyed prosthetic. Wordlessly, Raphael smiles. It's soft, affectionate. Leo looks so young like this. Raph reaches over, and his large fingers find the spot he's looking for on his arm. His prosthetic detaches with a hiss. He presumes where he's going, he won't need this. He hears Donnie make a sound that sounds like a mournful, cut-off cry. Donatello is smart. He's already put together why Raph is doing this. There aren't many supplies to rebuild prosthetics anymore. Raph carefully places his metal arm over Leo. It positions over him as if it's cradling and holding the younger turtle.

"Donatello." The use of his full name forces Donnie to look up, and there are tears running down his face without reserve. Raphael grins, his infamous snaggletooth making an appearance. "Take care of yourself. Raph will always be with you. Don't blame yourself, or anyone else. I know you all, and I know you will keep fighting. Beat them for me. Then, when you win, like a boss-" Raph emphasizes, his voice trembling for just a moment, "-remember me. Tell everyone how much I love them." Donnie says nothing. He's looking away from Raphael now, and Raph understands.

Raphael stands up. The dust and wind generated by the battlefield whip the tail ends of his bandanna around. He takes a deep breath. His mind flashes to all the people he's met in his life. Behind his eyelids, all his memories play out. Mikey. Donnie. Leo. April. Splinter. Barry. Cassandra. The Resistance. Casey. His heart seems to swell. It's for them. A fierce inferno suddenly sparks to life, fueled by all his grief, love, and passion. He's doing this for them. He will protect them, even if it's the last thing he does.

When Raph opens his eye, it glows red. Surges of energy crawl over his body as electricity would, and his teeth grit. There is no more fear. He takes a step forward, and the very ground shakes from the force. Already, his ninpo has grown his size. Bigger, he thinks.

Another earth-shattering thud. Pain surges through him, his body warning him of its constraints. He ignores it. Bigger.

This time, the earth cracks open under his foot as he takes another step. The pain is excruciating. Raphael can see the red lines spidering through his flesh, the cracks he absorbs with his entire body. His form remains solid. With each movement, his body is falling apart. He knows that if he continues, his body will tear itself apart. He will break like glass, and he will die. The thought doesn't do anything for him, and it only emboldens him to go faster. "Bigger!" He roars, his voice carrying through the battlefield in a cry so searing and fierce, he gains the attention of the lead Krang.

Krang creatures scatter from under his feet. Those that don't, he crushes. He is far from caring. He moves his way forward, soul on fire. If he can protect his people, his family, Raph will gladly feed his soul as fodder to his ninpo. His eye is fixated on the lead Krang as he fast approaches. Even from this distance, he can see the way the disgusting pink flesh alien's arrogance melts away into pure, unadulterated fear. It feels good. Raph grins, and he knows that his form follows suit. By the time the Krang realizes his intentions, it's too late. The roar of rage, fear, and defeat that Raphael hears is music to his ears as he grasps the Technodrome. His sheer size dwarfs the once massive ship. It fits into his hands the way a ball would, and his sudden fury at the thought of all those he lost to this alien ship causes his fingers to grasp tighter. His fingertips dig into the ship, and the groaning creak it gives as he crushes it bit by bit is exhilarating.

Raphael lifts it above his head. His ninpo holds strong, but he can feel every molecule of his body breaking under the pressure. He looks up at the sky. He'd wanted to see the blue skies with everyone at the end. At least, this way, he could help them do that, even if it's without him. His eye closes. I'm so proud of you all. I'll see you again. For now, this is Raph out. Like a boss. With a heaving cry that threatens to cleave the sky open and rip the very fabric of time, Raph opens his one eye. Tears fall from it as he fixates it on the lead Krang, his savage smirk only growing wider. He swings his raised arms down, slamming the Technodrome ship down with all of his strength. He screams, channeling every fiber of his being into ensuring that the ship is completely, utterly destroyed. They will never endanger their people with this ship again.

There is a burst of light accompanied by an earthquake that topples buildings and splits the ground, dust clogging the sky in a dirty mist that is impossible to see through. With it, shards of red float and swirl through the air. Everyone who knows what it is also knows what it means.

Raphael is gone.

--------------------------------------------

There's nothing Mikey can do. He watches as his brother tears himself apart to fight against the Krang. He watches in horror as Raphael screams in equal parts fury and agony, destroying something that is a detrimental blow to the Krang. His hands shake, and his vision blurs, but he can't look away. A sob rips from his throat as he holds Leo, his eyes fixated on the crackling red figure in the distance. One hand cradles Leo while the other is clenched tightly on Raph's prosthetic arm. Somehow, Raphael knew. Somehow. Mikey doesn't know if Raphael is able to hear him, but he grasps the fingers of Raphael's prosthetic as if he is clutching onto his hand. "I'm here! Raph, I'm here! You're not alone, I'm here!" He screams like a wild animal; his tears and grief are unending. He screams as loud as he can, hoping, praying, willing that Raphael hears that he's not alone and that Michelangelo will keep his promise.

He looks until he is forced to close his eyes at the burst of light. There is no one but Mikey to catalog Raphael's final moments. He has to remember, to see everything.

When he opens his eyes. all he sees is a crumbling red figure. It deteriorates, shards floating in the air before it disintegrates. Almost like it never existed. As if Raphael never existed. Mikey stays where he is, too stunned and grief-stricken to even cry out anymore. He watches as Raphael's ninpo disappears. He feels reality slipping from his grasp. His mind can't help but shy away from the possibility that Raphael is truly gone. He denies such a reality, but even that comes to a stop. Something red flits down from the sky, and Mikey reaches up. His ninpo grasps the item, and when he brings it closer, Mikey feels his heart shatter. In his trembling hand is Raphael's bandanna. The only remnant of their brother's body. The only proof that he existed, other than their ashen memories. With shaky hands, Michelangelo brings it closer. He lays Leo down and looks around. Almost numbly, he takes Leo's abandoned odachi. He ties the strip of red around the handle, closes his eyes, and presses his forehead against it. He's only like that for a moment before his eyes open again. The fire that burns within is an anger that burns brighter than magma in a volcano.

In another time, Mikey hadn't understood the word hate. The concept had eluded his grasp. Now... Now he knows what hate is, and more. His loathing now knows no bounds. He hates the Krang. He loathes them. The embers of his hate lodge in his throat as he snarls silently, eyes beginning to glow a fierce yellow. He burns with the force of the sun, his usual warm rays of light turning cruel. He will destroy them all. His orange bandanna falls from his face in ashes, and with it, his hair is released. He faces the enemy that has regrouped shakily from Raph's attack. The enemy that now has set their eyes upon their allies and the rest of them. Mikey knows that the shuttles have landed. He is the last line of defense against the enemy and his allies that need time to escape.

He's never been more glad for that fact. His power crackles, surrounding him like a violent whirlwind. The power surges through his body, and he can feel it chipping away at the years he has left in his body. His hair grows longer, blowing in the wind of his rage without his bandanna to hold it back. He floats, rising higher and higher into the sky as his power builds like a hurricane. He raises his arms, and Michelangelo holds onto his ninpo with a savage ferocity that almost outweighs the pain at the knowledge that Raph is now gone. His fury reaches new heights.

The coals that burn in his throat finally give, and the scream he lets out is like a banshee's. With it, he releases his ninpo. His power is as unforgiving and brutal as the sea, waves of light matching the caliber of a primordial force perhaps as old as time. It floods over the battlefield like an ocean, golden light rolling in with the strength of a tidal wave and the speed of a riptide. He screams again, but it is a wordless cry of unmatched wrath. Michelangelo will burn them. He will destroy every single one until there's nothing by ash and death. They will suffer the way that they have suffered. The blinding wave of light engulfs the approaching Krang, and with inhuman, blood-curdling shrieks, they burn in the fire of Michelangelo's hate.

Mikey lands down, his feet on the ground. He pants as he looks at the razed land before them. Suddenly, all his strength ebbs from him as he falls to his knees. He feels empty. With a sudden hiccuping sob, Michelangelo raises his hands to his face, burrowing into them as he cries uncontrollably. Raphael is still gone.

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Donatello numbly watches as his wrist pad notifies him that the shuttle is arriving in 10 minutes. He feels detached. Everything is hazy, layered in a white fog. He feels as if nothing matters. He stays where he is, his eyes distant. His thoughts are quiet, for once. There's just... Nothing. He stares blankly at the horizon. He hadn't been able to see Raph's sacrifice. He isn't sure if he should feel grateful for that or not, so he doesn't think about it at all. There are other Krang and people fighting, but Donatello can't seem to pull himself together. It's all just so... Distant. Like he's not with this reality anymore. The logical part of his brain wonders if the powerful surges of energy and the earth-shattering showdown that has occurred have somehow transported him into a different universe. He almost laughs at the thought. Why does he feel nothing?

The shuttles arrive. The shuttles arrive but Donatello doesn't move. He watches as others run to the shuttle. He can't help but feel a little resentful towards them, a dull flare in the dark abyss. Do they know what sacrifice just occurred to save their lives? Are they grateful? A distant part of him observes from its detachment the observation he makes is unfair. Donnie doesn't care. In the far distance, he sees April looking around. He can even see her face wet with tears as she searches. Some part of him knows that she's looking for him. She's looking for Leo, Mikey, Raph, or him. His distant thoughts suddenly screech to a stop. Raph. Raphael. She... She won't be able to search for him anymore. She won't find him. Suddenly, everything becomes too sharp. Too clear. The agony that rushes in almost makes him wish for the detached daze he had just been in.

It's at that time that he hears Mikey's scream. It emotes all that he's feeling, and it delivers a blow so gut-wrenching that whatever breath is left in Donnie's lungs is stolen away. Another blinding white light envelops the field, and this time, he knows that it's Michelangelo. This knowledge makes this new reality jarringly, horrifically real.

Raphael is dead.

Just as the numb daze is about to return, Donatello is made aware of the hiccupping sobs that undoubtedly belong to Mikey. All his doubts disappear, and he is confronted with the reality that they've gone from four brothers to three. It's here that Donnie realizes—he'd never gotten to say goodbye. He'd never been able to tell Raphael that he loves him, too. Something wet trails down his face. He's shocked for a moment before he realizes, once again, that it's his tears. They run hot, splashing down his cheeks and onto his collarbone. Then, it's like the floodgates open. His shoulders shake as he wails, face upturned towards the sky as he screams, shouts, and rages. He can't breathe, but Donatello doesn't care. He doesn't. Everything hurts. Raphael had died alone, protecting them.

Donatello's sobs join Mikey's as they howl at the sky like feral, wounded animals, their grief raw and insurmountable. It presses on both of their shoulders, through their plastrons, and into their chests; the weight is so heavy that Donatello wonders if he'll ever be able to stand up again.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Hello Mr. Dapper! I've set my players to find a city of gold, where the citizens transmuted everything (including themselves) into gold, and a labyrinth to exclude people entering. The city is now lost, and as my players are soon to find it, I struggle to find something more concrete to put in there. Any ideas are appreciated (thank you)!

Going to be quick with this since it sounds like time is short:

The ruling class of the city were a caste of occult alchemists who sought to "purify" themselves and achieve some level of ascension, believing that gold was more pure than base metals (assigning spiritual value to the fact that it does not tarnish) They succeeded in transforming themselves and their inner circle to living gold while also gilding quite a lot of the city and being waited on by their still flesh and blood servants.

After weathering one too many attacks from jealous neighbours, the masters of the city raised the labyrinth, inadvertently cutting off their home from the farmlands that surrounded it and creating a famine that killed off all of the mortal inhabitants. With no one to do the labour for them but no need for food, the masters got increasingly worse, delving into more and more obscure projects as they contemplated higher levels of ascension.

After hundreds of years of golden immortality, a faction of these masters fell under the influence of Cezil'Tek, outergod of empty perfection, wiping away the last of traces of their former lives ( faces, names etc) and began working to convince the other ascended to leave behind these markers of base mortality. This schism eventually devolves into a full on war, with both sides unleashing alchemicaly created pawns against one another and leaving few survivors on either side.

Riding high on hubris and pyrrhic victory, the faceless faction begin working to open a portal to the astral sea, where they could create a new world that had never been blemished by the lowness of the material plane. Things didn't quite go as planned, the astralspace the faceless ascended opened a portal into happened to be home to clockwork horrors, metal eating constructs that saw a gold plated city as a perfect spawning ground.

The swarm stripmines the city, leaving behind nothing but broken edifices and abrasive gold-dust sandstorms. These storms reach out into the labyrinth and even into the countryside beyond, inadvertently keeping alive the rumours of the city's prosperity.

By the time your party finds it the golden city is in a rough shape; passing through a labyrinth and countryside filled with alchemic warbeasts and the ghosts of famine, they discover not the wondrous monument they sought but a ruin pitted with hollows and cracks like a rotten tooth. A few of the ascended survived the swarm, and now live in hiding knowing that what few of the scavengers remain can scent their golden flesh. While most are maddened from pride and loneliness, one might be willing to offer the party as much gold as they can imagine should they help it escape.

[coffiocake]

I have been more than platonically in love with this one eggnog bread recipe for a solid demidecade. Following its simple instructions produces a transcendentally delicious cake every goddamn time. Behold:

(pic is from girl vs dough 's Eggnog Bread with Spiced Rum Glaze page, linked above, because I once again forgot to take a picture of the one I baked yesterday and it's half-eaten already)

I have made this quick bread at least once every year since 2018 and it has proven nigh impossible to fuck up or render worse than merely holy-mother-of-god-that's-tasty. But for some unfathomable reason, the last and only reviewer to rate this recipe gave it 3 stars out of 5.

This is, objectively, Incorrect.

In an eggnog-fueled outrage yesterday, I rated the Correct Bare Minimum (5 stars) and wrote a review that compared the experience of eating this bread to Bernini's "Ecstasy of St. Teresa." I then lamented that the recipe hadn't been chiseled into stone like the Code of Hammurabi (yet). It occurred to me only after submitting this totally objective assessment for moderation that my effusive enthusiasm, while entirely justified, could be... tonally misinterpreted by the very serious professional pastry chef who runs the site... which in turn means that my rating might never get factored into the average, and thus this divine product of her epicurean genius might still languish in three-star hell until someone else acknowledges its ambrosia-drizzled magnificence...

Since I may have chosen the path of righteous defeat on HER site, I'm recommending the eggnog bread recipe HERE so maybe just one other person will dare to attempt this devastatingly scrumptious and super easy quick bread despite its single lackluster review. You deserve nice things and this recipe is proof one needn't make deals with the devil to live deliciously.

(Note: One does, however, need to make this quick bread during the two months in which eggnog is available, or suffer the Pyrrhic victory of cooking their own nog just to pour it into cake batter. Godspeed either way.)

[larrythefloridaman]

For character bingo, someone I'm sure you have no thoughts or opinions on,,,,Crimson CPUK?

i had a whole extended fucking tirade written about crimson but tumblr ate it so fuck me i guess. most of it'll be in the crimtoinette fic in Spirit because im psychologically incapable of writing shipfic that isnt also a character study of at least one participant but the point of what i wrote was this:

"imagine if a Paradise Lost 'daddy-issues-satan' type guy was an insufferable 'love is a neurochemical conjob'-ass selfish lonely hedonistic ex-catholic atheist reddit doomer who tempts and enables people to explore the worst parts of themself in a principled war of rebellion against god in an 'arent you tired of being NICE? dont you just want to go APESHIT?' sorta way fully convinced of his irreconcilable separation from good and good things without Taking them like a parasite because his abuser trapped him in a vicious inescapable cycle of punishment and death. and imagine if he got to start healing and rediscover hope again when he learned that this was all a worthless effort because his abuser, again, Kind Of God, wanted to and would've always demonized him regardless of what he did by nature of her own arbitrary choice defining him as inherently evil by nature of birth and so he had no reason to shackle himself to cruelty any longer because there was never any revolutionary point being made in doing it he was just making her job easier and his own life harder for no real gain, not even a spiritual victory of pyrrhic resistance against her toxically positive absolutist power, so he can let his guard down and soften and grow and there will be people who despite everything will meet the real, honest him with compassion, instead of him dragging others down with him into the tar pit of his own toxic misery he's been privately stewing in for longer than most of the cast has been alive trying to be something he isn't, trying to make a point to someone who was never listening and never going to, if he will meet punishment and hurt no matter what, whether its deserved or not, whats the point in making it worse? but hes still kinda trying to be a little bitch about it as he babysits children and saves lives by force of habit. would that not be fucking harrowing. would that not be fucking incredible. would that not be fucking hilarious. is that not profoundly endearing to everyone else. also transgenderism is SO cool"

[huntershowl]

‘I played god once and it did not end well.’ *SATORU

EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT THROUGH the eyes of a curse.

if, in fact, that is what the collector has turned her into. she certainly feels like a curse. corporeal and incorporeal, human and inhuman like the one they call mahito, but at the same time still a host for the soul of persephone aisa. she still feels like ... herself. though, looking in the mirror reveals something closer to what she saw herself as in her mind's eye. deep gray eyes now glow a bright purplish red, black markings score across her face, and she feels at all times the sharp-toothed and many-limbed creature that threatens to tear loose from their skin.

playing god is the most accurate description, she supposes, for what the collector can do. their body ( the body they've stolen, rather ) is weak and feeble, but their power stretches so far across cosmic possibility that it matters very little. when they first approached seph years ago, trapped in a house with a monster, they explained that they could create binding vows on a world-altering scale — other than the vow affecting only the contract holder, there was no limit to what wish they could grant. it was simply the collector's choice, piece of shit they are, that their targets had to agree to the contracts without knowing what toll they were going to extract. or when they were going to extract it.

persephone, as lethe, told them to go shove a contract up their ass. sure, she was miserable — but no amount of misery alleviated is worth putting their entire life in the hands of a cruel deal-making god. what if they took orion from them? what if they caused some horrible consequence to befall her later that made it all worthless anyway? from what she was able to dig up, that is an extremely common outcome with the collector. the victory is always pyrrhic. the price they pay makes life worse for them, in the end.

some part of the collector must have been a masochist, however, because they never left her the fuck alone. time and time again, with each misery that fell upon her came the whispered offer of a deal from the shadows; a dark-suited form haunting the corner of her vision. but seph never paid them any mind. she treated them like another one of her many hallucinations: there one second and gone the next, unreal and unimportant.

that is, until the world fell to pieces around her.

as it turns out, persephone would stake everything on a deal if she was desperate enough. that desperation came in the form of a very real, very imminent threat to the one person she thought could never be threatened.

satoru gojo has been their safe haven, their shelter, a home to come back to. persephone never expected to become so close with him — it was an accident, a bond borne of mutual isolation and a fondness for smoking that brought them back together again and again and again. both of them had loved and lost. they'd put up fortresses around themselves and promised never to let someone close enough to hurt them again.

regrettably, beautifully, it didn't pan out that way. still she refused to feel the pain of loss again, but this time, she was going to fucking do something about it. MAKE ME POWERFUL ENOUGH TO SAVE HIM. one sentence, a single domino crashing to the ground, and a handshake threaded with power, and the course of their fates was altered forever. as far as prices from the collector go, it wasn't so cruel to be turned into whatever the hell she is now — curse, half-curse, some fucked-up third thing. orion is safe; thanks to the deal, satoru is safe; persephone grapples with a very real monster now, but they are still themself. at their core, underneath it all, something heart-like still beats.

but it's his heart she listens to now, ear pressed up against his chest, its steady rhythm proof that he isn't a hallucination — that he is alive, here, true and existent. she feels their world-altering auras meld together, their cursed energy swirling into each other like two different colors of smoke. now that her body is — this, this otherworldly shapeshifting vessel, her cursed energy no longer screams to be set free from a cage. it simply is, written into their re-formed bones, their new and untested power finally expansive enough to fit. after a few more moments of silence other than the rush of blood and the beating of his heart, seph tilts her head up and rests their chin on his chest to look at him. ❝ what happened? ❞

[mariacallous]

In the hours following Hamas’s large-scale surprise attack on Israel early this morning, Israelis on social media quickly dubbed the day a “second Yom Kippur”—referring to the surprise attack on Israel by Egypt and Syria in 1973—or an “Israeli 9/11.” Not since the 1947–49 Arab-Israeli War had Palestinian or Arab forces captured Israeli villages.

Hamas executed a stunning military surprise, breaching the Israeli border in multiple ways and attacking more than 20 Israeli population centers, as well as military bases. Militants kidnapped dozens of Israelis—apparently including children and the elderly—and captured military personnel. Israeli social media and news outlets filled with calls for help from families in southern Israeli towns occupied by Hamas, sheltering in their homes as armed terrorists went door-to-door. The failure of Israel’s intelligence and preparedness is second only to that in 1973.

But this Hamas victory might prove Pyrrhic. In fact, Hamas itself might have been surprised by the extent of its initial success. The trauma in Israel today should give pause to those thinking that Israel will simply acquiesce to a short tit for tat. As bad as things have been in Gaza in the past two decades—and they have been terrible—the coming weeks could prove even worse.

Israel will now likely go to great lengths to hunt down those involved. The Israel Defense Forces have already begun bombarding the Gaza Strip. Once they finish clearing Israeli towns of Hamas militants, they will turn their focus in earnest toward Gaza.

The government will feel immense pressure to send ground troops into the Gaza Strip, perhaps even to end the decade-and-a-half-long bloody and stifling stalemate with Hamas and topple the group militarily. Israel has refrained from doing so to date in part because it would be an extremely bloody affair. Israel has had no answer to the question of what might replace Hamas, and still doesn’t. Yet the Israeli public will demand decisive action, including ground operations, even if these again fall short of a complete takeover of the Strip.

Israeli sensitivity to POWs and MIAs is world-record-setting. The current Hamas leader in Gaza, Yahya Sinwar, was himself released from an Israeli prison with more than 1,000 other Palestinian prisoners in exchange for one Israeli soldier, Gilad Shalit. Sinwar now holds dozens of Israelis. The Israeli government faces a conundrum: Enter with force and risk many more Israeli casualties, both military and civilian. Refrain from it, and find yourself at the mercy of a terrorist organization on your border. Freeing all Hamas and Islamic jihad operatives from Israeli prisons, as these organizations demand, would be difficult for the Israeli government to agree to. Israel might eventually try to negotiate, or it might embark on risky rescue operations inside the Gaza Strip with the best-case outcome being only partial success.

Israel’s foes to the north shouldn’t overlook this moment either. In 2006, less than three weeks after Shalit was captured and taken prisoner in Gaza, Hezbollah launched an attack on Israel’s northern border, starting a bloody war that lasted more than 30 days and brought terrible damage to Lebanon. Israel’s northern neighbor, already suffering a devastating economic collapse, should hope that Hassan Nasrallah, Hezbollah’s leader, does not make the same mistake now. Because Israel is feeling cornered and under grave threat, its response might be harsher than Hezbollah imagines, especially in an already reeling Lebanon.

The United States has a difficult but vital role to play. Israel and Hezbollah have no direct contact. To help contain this deadly situation, Washington could make clear to Nasrallah the price he would pay for intervening. President Joe Biden has already publicly warned “against any other party hostile to Israel seeking advantage in this situation.”

Hezbollah and Hamas are not Egypt or Syria. Israel doesn’t face an existential threat from these groups, despite the horror Hamas inflicted today. In that sense, the current warfare is not remotely a repeat of 1973. Yet the psychological effect of these attacks, the public outrage already emerging at the authorities who failed to prevent it, the sense of military blunder—all of these factors are reminiscent of the trauma of that war, exactly 50 years and a day ago. And although not as audacious or sophisticated an attack as 9/11 was, the death toll, relative to Israel’s size, is comparable.

Today’s attack resembles these prior attacks in another way too: Israel is in a genuine state of war—not merely one more round of Israel-Hamas fighting. The psychological impact of these attacks creates political cover, and political demand, for Israel to go much further than it has in the past, to be willing to pay and to exact prices it has previously stopped short of.

These attacks are uniting Israelis—temporarily, of course—after years of growing division, allowing the government more room to maneuver aggressively if it so chooses. The massive demonstrations in the country in recent months have now been halted, and Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s attempt to overhaul Israel’s democratic institutions will likely have to wait. Reservists have shown up for duty by the thousands, including many who had refrained from volunteering in recent months in protest of the government’s radical agenda.

A popular theory holds that Israelis compromise only after being attacked, the prime example being 1973, when Israel reached a peace agreement with Egypt in return for giving up the whole Sinai Peninsula. In truth, because Israelis are often attacked, this argument is overdetermined: Any compromise can be retroactively explained by a prior attack.

The current situation might prove, not for the first time, something else entirely: If you convince Israelis that they are in a fight for their lives, for the lives of their families, they will fight. And Israel remains far stronger than its enemies, today’s debacle notwithstanding.

[ofglories]

Title: N/A Warnings: Uther pov, references to burning a someone alive A small drabble for when Emrys defeated Vortigern as was foretold by Merlin in a prophecy

The tower was tall, built of ancient stones in an age long in the past.

It would have been an impressive sight, had it not been so vexing a structure now. Heavy doors, made of oak sturdier than iron, were barred from within. The ivy vines that climbed and twisted round the building fluttered lightly in the breeze, almost mockingly. Uther scowled, tapping his fingers anxiously against his bracers as he looked upon the sight. Around him the men milled, quiet murmuring filling the air.

They had expected a battle, not for their prey to flee to his den.

With a sigh the general turned, grey-blue eyes scanning until he spotted the familiar white of his brother's hair and cloak. So stark in the golden evening light, shining like a beacon of pale fire as the dying sun's rays landed upon him. It was a sight that could inspire countless bards and poets, that would have moved the playwrights of Rome to tears. Uther's mouth twisted slightly, discomfort at the entire situation souring his mood and made worse by the expression on Ambrosius' face. Instead of the usual cool neutrality or even anger...

His mouth was set in a hard line, pale eyes rimmed with dark circles and reddened lids.

Despair and determination were a poor look for the man, in Uther's opinion, especially with the crown of woven silver and gold resting on his brow.

But what else could he expect?

Vortigern had been a dear friend, a mentor, and then to learn the man was their elder half-brother as well... In a way the general surmised he would have been more shocked had even Ambrosius managed to put aside his feelings when a man like that turned enemy. Madness had claimed the sorcerer king quickly, twisting him into something that struck fear even into Uther's heart. But something of the man his brother had admired still seemed to remain, if the way he had fled from the battlefield to this lonely tower was anything to go on. Shaking his head, Uther began to approach his brother-king. There was little to be won from a siege, particularly against one as adept in magic as Vortigern. But a pyrrhic victory would still be a victory. His men could take the tower, if only by sheer force of numbers.

Such was the plan upon his lips as he drew near.

Ambrosius paused his council with Sir Ector and Merlin, giving Uther a nod of welcome once he was close enough to join the small circle.

"My Lord, if you would, my men can easily break through the defenses and-," A hand was raised, stopping his speech in its tracks. Uther blinked, caught off guard as he looked down at the older man who slowly shook his head.

"No, Uther, I will not risk any more lives than what we have already lost in this war. I know..." He paused, licking his lips briefly, voice wavering. An unmistakable sign of the old nervous stutter being barely held back. "...I know the best way to handle this. Even stone towers contain wood, after all. And he will hesitate to strike me, even in his state, with his magic should I approach."

For a long moment there was silence, Merlin bowing his head heavily against his staff. And then, with a sharp hiss, Ector took a half-step back, eyes wide. Uther, too, was struck, staring with new eyes at his brother who he had begun to take for overly merciful in recent years.

It was the most Roman choice to make.

Horrifying, and a little thrilling, to see for a brief moment their famed conquerer ancestor's features in his sibling's face.

"Are you certain, brother?" The general questioned, if only to be sure of what was to happen.

Ambrosius was silent, turning to face the tower. The sun shone through his silver-white hair, blinding. A crown of fire, for a man who was soon to weaponize the very element.

"Yes."

There was no other discussion to be had.

Word spread, the men all standing silently now as they watched their King draw his sword, blue flames bursting to life along the blade with a brush of the man's fingers. Time seemed to slow as Ambrosius approached the Tower of Vortigern, a building built to be a fortress, now to become a massive pyre. A swing of the King's left arm, flames arcing forth, catching first on the vines and spreading rapidly.

Crimson flames, a scarlet and gold sky.

And Ambrosius Aurelianus Pendragon, crowned in white and blue standing starkly as the sky and tower-turned-pyre burned together.

Uther inhaled slowly, shuddering as a familiar stench began to mix with the acrid smell of smoke and ash. A roaring, shrieking howl mixed with the crackling of the flames, the creaking of the building. It was the most ruthless choice he could ever recall his brother making, made all the more so as the man himself stood still within arm's reach of the fire. Pale blue eyes stared, unblinkingly, into the conflagration, like it was nothing. Like he didn't even feel the heat upon his skin.

It was only by sheer chance did Uther spot the shine of tears on that still face, the only sign of humanity in features that could have been a god carved from stone.

Somehow...

The sight made him want to laugh.