#writing from the void

[supernovaa-remnant]

a small drabble for @sixteenth-day-event with the prompt "a silent grave"

tw for implied/referenced torture because, well, torture box, y'know? also potential slight suicide ideation

Sleep in Pandora’s Vault is fleeting, coming in flashes, quick increments that leave Dream more dazed and restless than before. It’s never an escape—even in his bursts of sleep, the incessant dripping of the crying obsidian plays the role of a backing symphony, and the ache of his body never leaves him for a moment. He’s never sure how long the sleep lasts—the last clock he burnt still hasn’t been replaced—but with how tired he feels, he can’t imagine it’s that long. 

Before, he used to shift around between his moments of slumber. He’d walk up and wander around the cell, settling down in a different corner as if searching for a more comfortable spot. Now, though, his vision swims as rushes of vertigo overcome him whenever he tries to sit up, let alone walk around. He definitely got a head injury of some sorts a few visits ago, and not even healing potions provide an instant fix to those. But, even before he became afflicted with light-headedness, the prospect of moving lost all appeal, considering how his entire body flares with pain at any sort of motion. So, he stays still, even as the jagged obsidian digs into his back, aggravating the wounds there. 

Sometimes, rarely, he’s granted true sleep, and he dreams. The dreams are never pleasant—it’s as though his mind only wishes to cycle through a few dreams, including recounts of sir’s visits, that day in the attachment vault, George and Sapnap, and more. Most of the time, he’s unaware that he’s dreaming, but this time he finds himself in the one dream he’s always lucid for. 

He’s sitting beside a small, unremarkable grave, unable to move, as though he were tethered to it. It’s always silent. Not even the creatures of the world venture close, and it makes something perhaps akin to bitterness coil in his heart, that even the animals of his world that had been his steady companions don’t bother to visit him in death. 

But, all things considered, it’s not the worst dream. Sure, the laughter of his friends the server members that echo from outside his vision grate on him, and their obvious joy in the world post-his demise is unsurprising but stings nonetheless, but it’s not painful. It’s not limbo nor Pandora, and sure he can’t feel the sun, and he’s not entirely sure his mind is conjuring the apparitions of the sky and trees correctly, but it’s still peaceful, in a way. He thinks if death were like this, maybe solving its mysteries wouldn’t be such a necessity. 

And when he awakes to the sound of pistons, he thinks that maybe spending eternity in a silent grave wouldn’t be so bad.

[a-space-in-the-void]

Oops wrote a thing

Its Lucifer/Alastor's Shadow and I fully blame the discord for it so.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

got a worm nibbling my brain. can someone help me find a piece of obscure media?

webcomic/indie comic from the 2010s. basically a sci-fi short story about a young girl (with red hair?) who was being raised by scientists as part of an experiment. she receives a haircut/has her head shaved, in preparation for her annual brain scan/testing. it is revealed that while her body is human, her "brain" is artificial, made of computer implants throughout her skull and spine. at some point her biological mother (also a scientist on the same campus?) encounters her and is repulsed, viewing her as a machine who has murdered her daughter.

it was very poignant and it bruised my heart and i can NOT find it anywhere

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home.

The streets no longer know them. They do not seem to fit in their own bodies as they stroll the cobbles, Lucy’s hand tucked carefully into Peter’s, Edmund trailing watchfully behind Susan like a shadow. Their eyes are sharp, their smiles crooked, and those who see them cross to the opposite side of the road, afraid of the ancient gleam they see reflected back at them that does not belong in the eyes of a child.

Water murmurs to Lucy when she flits past, and lamplight follows her wherever she goes, even in broad daylight when the lamps are unlit. Their flames sputter into existence when she walks by, flickering at her in a way that seems to whisper I know you. Lucy looks at them with feral teeth and smiles, and vines twist from the cobbles at her feet. She laughs like a wild thing, eyes glowing, but a moment later she blinks and it is gone. Her feet hardly seem to touch the ground at all as she darts through the alleys.

The sky is clearer when Peter walks the streets, clouds vanishing like they were never there at all. His eyes are too much like a lion’s, struck through with gold and filled with a brooding fierceness, yet he laughs as he twirls Lucy around, and claps Edmund on the back as they share a stupid joke, and smiles with Susan when she tells him of the bow she plans to carve. He is all warmth and friendliness, but there is something about his eyes. There is something about all of their eyes.

The sun caresses Susan as she moves about, and she is graceful, too graceful, her hair seeming to be alive of its own accord as she steps lightly along the streets. Her skin is pale like ice, and sometimes her gaze appears almost silver as she stands by the river, gazing into its depths with a distant, siren-cold smile. She is gentle, but her fingers look a little too long sometimes. Her laugh is a little too unsettling.

Trees lean towards Edmund when he walks past, branches scraping his clothing, leaves showering around him. Books and journals and pages covered in notes perpetually fill his arms, spilling from his grasp but never quite falling. His voice is even-keeled, quiet, but there is something wild about it, something unhinged. He speaks of things none have ever heard before, dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth unsmiling and hands perfectly still, and for a moment he seems to be someone else, fangs beneath his lips, dirt on his tongue. He tilts his head just a little too far, sometimes.

The Pevensies are foreign when they return home. They do not fit their bodies. They do not fit the streets. People who encounter them cross to the other side of the road to avoid them, terrified of the oldness they see in the children’s faces. Such depth does not belong in the gaze of a child.

And yet four sets of eyes, ancient and deep and flickering like candlelight, stare out from the children’s faces, and their smiles are sharp, too sharp. Their laughter is a little too wild as they walk, the oldest and youngest hand-in-hand, the middle children trailing each other like shadows.

There is something about those children’s eyes.

There is something about those children.

[copdog1234]

War never changes. War never changes. WAR NEVER CHANGES.

That is the entire point of the series. That is especially the point of the show. War does not change.

Humanity was trying to rebuild, yes. But the entire point is literally that any one single selfish arrogant human can cause it to end it again. War can happen again. War will happen again. It is an endless cycle. And as people covet power, the whole thing will eventually topple.

That is why it is not a whole country that ended the world, it is a handful of heads from corporations.

That is why it is not a whole faction that "ended" the NCR, it is a single man from a bygone era who had a hand in ending the world the first time, that does it.

And I think that New Vegas showed us that the NCR was kinda crumbling already, too. The "fall of Shady Sands" wasn't the bomb itself, it was the beginning of the NCR's struggles. If I'm recalling New Vegas' plot correctly, the NCR was already struggling to hold the wasteland, to integrate people into it. There were resource shortages, it was getting too big, they had other factions battling them for power, and maybe your actions as a player had some pull either direction, but it's possible it wouldn't last.

If it wasn't a bomb, something else could've ended it at some point, too. Because war doesn't change.

As long as there's resource shortages, as long as there's mistrust, as long as people don't learn right from wrong, and as long as people muddy right from wrong.

That's the show, that's the games. Maybe the writing of that isn't always the best, but that's what it dwindles down to.

It is not a retcon, it is the main idea. It is not a "dumb take," it is how the world is.

Even in real life, there is sometimes hope and some things improve, but it doesn't stay improved, ever. Hope and despair comes in waves.

And war never changes.

[proxycrit]

Part 1 / Part 2

Emmet remembers when he and Ingo first brought Elesa to explore Celestial Tower, back when they were fourteen and thought they were immortal.

“Allegedly, the bell chime will bring ghosts home”, ingo had told emmet with the pompous knowing energy of a child who read way too much brochures. “It’s culturally significant! We must ring it.”

“Hmmm,” emmet had responded suspiciously. “Brother. The bell is at the top of the tower.” The implication stands: Ingo, there are thirty flights of stairs between here and the top, and no elevator to speak of.

Don’t be a coward, Litwick had told Emmet with the blaise tone of somebody who’s going to be piggy backing off of somebody else. Go ring the bell. Tynamo, sensing a litten fight, floated towards a loitering blitzle.

Ingo turns his lilipup eyes on Elesa, who’s squinting at the carved stone faces of the front door.

“Elesa? What do you think?”

Elesa thinks. She shrugs. “We already made our way here,” she said in accented galarian. “Might as well make it the rest of the way. Ganbatte!”

Emmet sighs. “This is a mistake,” he tells the two in exhaustive patience, but lets himself be dragged into the building.

Last time the twins were here, Ingo caught litwick— but not before she managed to nab a good chunk of Emmet’s soul. It’s not terrible; he felt fatigued for a week and bounced back pretty quickly, but it was the principle of the whole situation— celestial tower’s a pain in the ass and Emmet will stand by that until the day he dies.

Like right now.

The map isn’t working. Emmet checked it once. He’s checked it twice. He’s taken out his pen and written on it, which he would usually never do but desperate times call for desperate measures. The compass he brought spins useless circles. It’s like chargestone cave up here, but worse because instead if electric pokemon it’s all ghosts.

“We’re lost, yyup yup!” He announced to the crew. “I vote we eat Ingo first.”

“I love you too,” Ingo told Emmet placidly. “But we all know between the two of us, you’re the tastier one.” Litwick gives Emmet a thumbs up. Emmet gasps in mock affront.

“Elesa, help!”

Elesa gives the two of them a wary look. It took two floors for her to realize this is not just a weird temple with strange rocks, but a full out graveyard. She’s not very happy about that development.

“Don’t drag me into this,” she tells them. “Teme wa urusaii.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Ingo reports back.

Emmet, who’s cheerfully struggles with Galarian on a good day, simply gives her a thumbs up.

The three painstakingly crawl their way up. And up. If all else fails, Emmet told himself, at least they can orient themselves towards high ground.

“We’re like pidoves,” Ingo gasps. He has fallen behind them on the stairs, with Emmet taking the lead through sheer spite despite his legs going numb on floor twenty two. “We, hah, we are attracted by the magnet of the bell, like, like probopass-“

“I am emmet! You are not making, sense!” Emmet called back. Elesa, who’s stuck between them and looking two steps from perpetual collapse, giggles.

“No, no hear me out, Ingo wheezes. “What if the bell’s a magnetic pole? And that’s why your compass doesn’t wo, woo, hahh, work.”

Emmet stops to rest, just because Ingo is using precious breathing air to infodump. Elesa gratefully slumps against the railing. Tynamo and litwick, lazy in their still small size, have settled on a weary blitzle and look very smug doing so. (Emmet is not jealous, he tells himself. Emmet is also lying.)

“The bell’s important,” Ingo had repeated.

“Okay,” Elesa responds. “If it’s important to you, then it’s important to us.”

And Emmet finds that he agrees with Elesa. Partially because they crawled up twenty fucking three flights of stairs, but also because Ingo thinks this is important, so it is.

And here’s the thing—

— emmet doesn’t remember much after that.

The rest of that trip was a blur of exhausted groaning and burning legs, and by the time the trio managed to breach floor thirty, people’s brains have all but dribbled out their ears. Emmet remembers being disgustingly sweaty. He remembers blitzle almost tripping to death and litwick’s swearing. He remembers tynamo sticking to his neck like a damp towel. He remembers Ingo’s excited sneasel smile, and the way the sunset bounced off of Elesa’s hair.

He remembers the brassy ring of the Celestial bell. It sounded like victory.

But it was Elesa’s cackle turned scream as Ingo swiped cold hands down her neck that sounded like home.

—-

So when the conductor at thirty one, lost and disoriented in the Impossible Place, heard the sound of a familiar bell, ringing over and over and over-

-the sound of laughter-

-EMMET! Elesa cried-

-like a homing pidove, the conductor, thinks nonsensically as something in him perks up.

(Emmet had always liked winning, more than anything else, and the sound of victory calls him home.)

—

Elesa catches lightning in a bottle. Elesa, arms outstretched, finds purchase in her brother, and does not let go.

Emmet is so, so cold, Elesa thinks as the wind steals air from her lungs. (That’s okay. She’s already breathless from a terrible business called hope.)

Emmet stares back. His hands flap against Elesa’s jacket. Elesa desperately drinks in his wan face and too wide eyes and his frost bitten lips. In a tiny, meek voice, almost lost to the wind, he asks:

“Are you real?”

Elesa lets out an ugly sob. Her tears whip away in the wind as they fall. Emmet’s frightened countenance turns immediately to alarm. His shaky grasp becomes a solid grip as they spin through the air, cushioned by chandelure’s psychic.

“I think so??” Elesa warbles. She sees Emmet’s eyes dart to her mouth. He’s reading mirroring her, she realizes with giddy delight— it’s such an Emmet thing to do, to read lips, and-

“I am Emmet,” Emmet breathes. His eyes have started to water. “Yyou are Elesa- Oh dragons, Elesa!?“

Elesa reaches. Hesitates.

Emmet grabs elesa by the lapels and crushes her tight against him. Elesa holds on, and the grief and relief in her accumulates into a wet sopping mess. She’s ruining his jacket, she mourns, but its okay because he’s dripping all over hers.

She can’t hear what he’s saying into her shoulder, can’t read what he says, but everything’s okay because every part of her is chiming

You came back

You’re here

I’m not alone anymore.

Around them, the air distorts as Chandelure’s psychic wavers, flutters, and solidifies. Gravity reverses its call as they settle gently on the ground, dust billowing in all directions.

The ghost pokemon drops next to them, shaking so hard the musical clang of glass makes Elesa flinch.

You fucks, Chandelure gasps. DON’T GO LEAPING OFF BUILDINGS, I AM NOT YOUR EMERGENCY PARACHUTE.

“I’m sorry,” Elesa gasps, still giddy from the adrenaline.

AND YOU! Chandelure howls, whirling on Emmet, who’s still staring at the ghost with huge eyes. He’s gripping on to solid ground with the energy of a man who realized he could have been a splat on the ground.

YOU LEFT!

Emmet winces.

You- You left us, you left me-

Ah, ah no, Elesa thinks as golden globules of light shed from Chandelure. This is what a ghost looks like crying.

Emmet holds out his arms. Chandelure drifts into his embrace, and shakes, and shakes, and shakes.

You left me, the ghost pokemon whispers. How dare you. How could you.

“I didn’t mean to,” Emmet whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Stop doing this to me, Chandelure demands. Golden brine joins human tears, like drops of sun trapped in wet glass. Stop going where I can not follow.

And Emmet holds his tongue, because he knows he can not promise staying. Not while Ingo and Eelektross are still in Hisui.

(In the back of Emmet’s hurt and shattered mind is a spark. Synapses connect. The cold breach of the Distortion does nothing to drown out the sudden flare of hope in Emmet’s chest, so great he can not breathe, so strong he can not feel, because there’s a path. A difficult, painful path through the Space that Can Not Be, but a path all the same.)

“Elesa, Chandelure-“ Emmet’s voice breaks. He wants to tell them about Eelektross. He wants to tell them about the terrible past that is Hisui. He wants to explain how the last five months were filled with horror and wonder and fear and hope.

Hope, he thinks. So he says this:

“I know how to get Ingo home.”

NOTES:

AAAAAND THAT’S ALL FOR THIS DRABBLE. ITS OUT NOW. I CAN FINALLY GO BACK TO POSTING HAPPY SHENANIGANS! (Now you know the shape of their story.)

Thanks for reading this monster of a post!

[shrimpchipsss]

read Living With a Tiger by x_los !

[antiqua-lugar]

aside from everything else about durgewyll I am loving how it highlights wyll and gortash as narrative foils. both their upbringings lead them to interact with demoniac entities, both can only become archdukes and join baldurian high society through uldred, both are swaying the dark urge from simply following bhaal (and arguably the dark urge sways them from simply pursuing an ideal and the dark urge can recognise both as their equal)

and by playing your card right in act 3 wyll just...gets everything gortash was trying to get? wyll really is a hero saving baldur's gate from the legion of the absolute. wyll influences gortash's favourite assassin into becoming someone they can defeat the netehrbrain together. they can even become archdukes together! ...or they can turn it down and then they can go to he hells to sneak around and have adventures (like gortash and durge used to) and save karlach's life (the same life that is at risk because gortash mindlessly threw it away).

like. it's a lot, wyll and durge can even murder raphael.

[a-ramblinrose]

“But first and foremost, I learned from Whitman that the poem is a temple—or a green field—a place to enter, and in which to feel. Only in a secondary way is it an intellectual thing—an artifact, a moment of seemly and robust wordiness—wonderful as that part of it is. I learned that the poem was made not just to exist, but to speak—to be company.”

― Mary Oliver, Upstream: Selected Essays

[seraphinesaintclair]

~ Seraphine Saintclair

[syrupfog]

AU where Sanji never actually left Germa, and Judge made him a test subject early on, successfully getting rid of his empathy after years of torture.

But like, he has those years of bullying from his brothers first, and his empathy’s gone but his anger’s still there. Also with no Zeff, he fights with his fists and doesn’t treat women Like That. Because Zeff’s the one who instilled in him to never hit a woman (and made it weird but that’s not the point).

He’s out on some mission in the Grand Line when he runs into the Straw Hats and he sees Zoro’s green hair and associates it with Yonji and he just haaaates him on sight.

The fight is super evenly matched and Zoro manages to knock him out eventually but he’s like what’s the guy’s DEAL. Wtf is his problem.

Maybe Law’s with them when it goes down and he recognizes that costume and fanboys…

Oh actually yeah— Law’s with them! And after Zoro knocks him out, Law goes into Creepy Surgeon Mode and is like for the love of god please let me get my fingers in that chest cavity

And everyone else (bar Robin ofc) is like Σ（ﾟдﾟlll）

But Law gets a room going and finds all sort of odd Germa technology literally implanted in him and starts pulling it out and messing with it and suddenly Sanji wakes UP and he’s— he’s scared. And overwhelmed. He’s in real time having to reckon with years of torturing people.

And Law’s like oh the emotional part of this is not in my pay grade this is not my job anymore and dips.

So Sanji’s there in the Sunny’s infirmary like “I’m a monster I need to be put down oh my god” and Luffy shows up like HEY you’re cool as hell join my crew.

Zoro is not a fan of this option and also it turns out neither is Sanji BUT sanji has nowhere to go so he makes a deal to sail with them until the next habitable island. So Zoro watches him like a hawk bc he’s like “you’re definitely faking this and are gonna turn evil and try to kill people again right”

But instead he just keeps finding Sanji being really pathetic and sad and looking longingly at the kitchen (Robin doubles as the cook and her food is damn near inedible but that’s just the life of a pirate innit)

Late one night Zoro comes off watch and he sees Sanji sneaking into the kitchen and he thinks OH he’s going to try to POISON US so he sneaks in after him and confronts him, swords and all. And Sanji, who knows what an awful person he’s been and knows he deserves death, just starts crying and is like “yeah you can kill me just let me cook one thing once I just want to remember what it feels like”

So Zoro lets him cook, and is like yeah I’m killing you after this, and Sanji spends a long time sniffling as he re-familiarizes himself with pots and pans and spices and knives and ends up making something garlic-y and delicious that smells strong enough to wake up the crew, and everyone traipses in enraptured by the smell. So Sanji serves them and Zoro tries it first because if it’s poisoned he’s not letting EVERYONE go down. But it’s not poisoned and it’s really good, and anyway Zoro can’t kill him now in front of everyone.

But three nights later the same thing happens— he sees Sanji sneaking into the kitchen and follows him and Sanji says “I know you should’ve killed me last time but you couldn’t, I get that, but I’m dangerous. So let me cook just one more time and then you can kill me.”

And it doesn’t happen of course. Everyone comes in and everyone eats and Zoro watches Sanji recover a little of himself.

And so it goes. At first every few nights and then every other night, and then every single night.

And whenever Zoro comes in, Sanji says, I know I deserve to die but let me cook just one more thing.

And at some point Zoro stops thinking about killing Sanji. He’s a part of the crew now. He’s proving himself, and anyway Zoro can beat him and hold him down and Law can reverse whatever it is again if needs be.

So it’s just a thing they do. Zoro lightly threatens him and Sanji begs for his life and they move on. It’s routine but it doesn’t actually MEAN anything anymore.

That is, until one really bad night where Sanji doesn’t show up in the kitchen like he always does, and Zoro goes looking and finally finds him deep in the steerage, and Sanji says, “I can’t keep living like this, please just kill me. I can’t keep living knowing I’m going to die the next day.”

And Zoro’s like ???? You’re not gonna die the next day wtf

And Sanji says, please, just get it over with.

Zoro realizes that Sanji has continued all this time assuming Zoro really is coming to kill him every night

But it’s been MONTHS at this point. Surely he wouldn’t still think—

But Sanji’s wracked with more than a decade’s worth of guilt, is so sure he deserves the worst the world possibly has to offer.

Too bad Zoro’s a little in love with him at this point. And says anyone who wants to kill Sanji will have to go through Zoro first.

Which Sanji DOESNT UNDERSTAND and he doesn’t understand the kiss Zoro follows it up with, but he returns it. Greedily.

Because as much as he knows he deserves death, he also relishes every moment of life, every chance to feel the emotions he wasn’t allowed. And Zoro goes from jailer to protector in his mind. Slowly. Hesitantly.

He spends years working through the trauma, decades really, but the simplicity with which Zoro sees the world helps. Zoro doesn’t blame him. Zoro loves him. Sanji doesn’t know much but he knows he’ll defend this ship that saved him with his life.

And he knows Zoro wouldn’t let Sanji defend HIM with his life, because Zoro views his life as precious and important.

Which is something Sanji is still learning.

He’ll get there.

[supernovaa-remnant]

Sixteenth Day Event Prompt:

Ghostbur confronts Dream on Doomsday

Baptise Your Anger

Dream & Ghostbur | Gen | 1.4k words | Hurt No Comfort @sixteenth-day-event

Dream’s not sure how to feel about Ghostbur. Whenever he’s around the ghost, his thoughts are filled with the stench of cigarette smoke and the feeling of knuckles brushing against his own. For all that everyone insists Ghosbur is different from Wilbur—or Alivebur, as everyone’s taken to calling him—all Dream can see are the similarities. Sure, Ghosbur is more naive and trusting, but he’s still Wilbur. He still has the near-inhuman ability to spin simple words into poetic prose, and he still has the same smile and the same laugh and the same anxiety tells of biting lips and tugging on sleeves. He still has the same self loathing, too, and though Ghostbur tries desperately to push all of that onto the image of Alivebur in his mind, Dream can tell the ghost still harbors hate for himself as he is. 

That’s one difference between the two; Dream can read Ghostbur much easier than he could ever hope to be able to read Wilbur. 

But even with that, Ghostbur is far more similar to Wilbur than anyone cares to see. His fingers still feel the same when they curl around the edges of Dream’s mask, a silent question of May I? lingering in the air before Dream folds and nods his head. (Because Dream will always, inevitably, bend to the will of Wilbur Soot, regardless of which name the man uses to call himself). His lips feel the same, too, whenever they brush against the back of Dream’s hands or dust over the freckles on Dream’s cheeks. 

And yet, even with the similarities, it’s undeniable that there are differences. Ghostbur is like Wilbur in many ways, but only in the way an echoed phrase is like the original words spoken. So, Dream’s not sure how to feel about Ghostbur. 

He’s especially not sure how to feel, now, watching as the tears falling from desaturated eyes burn the ghost. 

He’s especially not sure how to feel about the look of utter betrayal that paints over the ghost’s face. 

“How could you?!” Ghostbur cries, his words accented by the sob that shuddered through his body afterwards. 

Dream sighs; he’d been hoping to avoid this confrontation. 

“I don’t know why you’re surprised, Ghostbur,” Dream says. “It’s not like I’ve hidden my dislike of L’manburg from you.” 

“But–” the ghost starts, pausing to try in vain to wipe his tears. Dream tries to suppress his wince as he watches the tears burn the ghost’s hands, but he still finds himself instinctively reaching out to his inventory to look for a healing potion. “But I liked L’manburg,” Ghostbur finishes quietly. 

Confusion washes over Dream. 

“Why would that affect my actions?” 

Ghostbur looks somehow more upset at his words. 

“Because I thought you cared about me,” he says, and Dream desperately tries to ignore the way his words make his heart squeeze. “It wasn’t about whether or not you liked L’manburg! I thought Phil cared enough about me to not destroy my home. I thought you cared enough not to.”

Dream grabs the healing potion. He gets closer to Ghostbur, internally sighing with relief when the ghost doesn’t back away, and offers the potion. Ghostbur takes it with mumbled words that might have been a thanks but also could have been an insult. Dream pays it no mind, though, instead focusing on softly wiping away the remaining tears whilst Ghostbur drinks the shimmering pink liquid. Dream places a hand on Ghostbur’s chest to keep him stable, uncaring of the vibrant blue that will no doubt stain his glove. Ghostbur doesn’t seem to mind the contact, wrapping a pale hand around Dream’s wrist whilst Dream tries to not think about the lack of a heartbeat under his palm. 

“Do you really think L’manburg was that good?”

“Of course I do!” 

“Even though Alivebur made it? Aren’t you always talking about how bad Alivebur was?” 

A troubled look passes over Ghostbur’s face for a moment, and Dream briefly wonders if this is when he’s going to forget this conversation.

“Bad people can make good things sometimes,” Ghostbur says. “And Tommy helped make it, too.” Dream stiffens at the mention of Tommy, but Ghostbur continues as if he doesn’t notice Dream’s reaction. “Besides, you cared about Alivebur. I don’t understand why you did, but you must have had a reason, so he couldn’t have been all bad.”

Dream inhales sharply. He tells himself that one of these days Ghostbur’s words will stop having such an effect on him, but he knows he’s just lying to himself. 

“Who said I cared about Alivebur?” He asks, trying to save face. He doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard, especially when Ghostbur is bound to forget this encounter anyway, but maybe he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince the ghost. 

“Who said I cared about you?” He adds for good measure. 

“But you said–” 

“Does it matter what I said? Does any of this matter? You’re going to forget it all anyway like you always do,” Dream says, and he internally scolds himself for being unable to fully remove the accusatory tone. 

Ghostbur squeezes Dream’s wrist in what may be an attempt at a comforting gesture. 

“I’m sorry I’m so forgetful,” he says. “I really really am. And I know that I always forget the bad things so I might have a skewed perception of the world, but I remember the good things. And I remember that you care about me. And I remember that I love you.” 

Dream tries to pull back at the words, but Ghostbur tightens his grip. 

“And I don’t just remember Alivebur’s love for you, either, as twisted as it may have been,” Ghostbur continues, “I remember my love for you, because I’m not Alivebur. And this love is mine. Which is why I’m so hurt that you’d do such a thing to me. Because I can still remember the fondness in your eyes when you look at me—you never were good at hiding your expressions without your mask.” 

Dream hisses, frantically putting up walls in his mind because he has a plan to complete and a path to walk down as he’s guided by hands that smell of cigarette smoke. He’s going down hand in unlovable hand by the one who gave him this role, and attachments are a weakness he can’t afford.

“Why would I ever love you?” He asks, venom filling his tone. Ghostbur didn’t accuse you of love, a voice in the back of his mind says, you’re revealing your hand by claiming he did. But the voice doesn’t matter, now when all Dream can think about is a nest that may have one egg left after all, an egg that can’t be there if he’s to continue with the plan. “I don’t care about anything, Ghostbur! Least of all you!” 

Ghostbur pulls back with a whine. “You’re lying,” he says. “I know you are, but that doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“How would you know if I’m lying? All you have are fragments of memory from someone you could never hope to compare to! You could’ve died again when I was blowing up L’manburg, and I wouldn’t have cared! I wouldn’t have even noticed.” Dream can barely hear the words he’s saying, just letting them tumble out of his mouth in hopes something will cut whatever thread stretches between him and Ghostbur. 

“Stop lying!” Ghostbur’s turning intangible in his distress, tears burning him yet again, but this time Dream forcibly locks away any part of him that aches at the sight. “Why are you lying?!” 

“Don’t you get it, Ghostbur? I want you to forget this. I want to taint every happy memory you have of me so you can forget about every delusion of care between us.” 

A stricken look passes over Ghostbur’s face, but despite it all he manages to find more words to make Dream bleed. “It’s not the end of the world if someone cares about you, Dream. You don’t have to be what Alivebur made you.”

“Yes I do,” Dream says, and then he walks away, not stopping until the sobs behind him fully fade into the distance.

[windwenn]

Obsessed with how good wtnv is at manipulating you. They'll tell you that you feel as though youre staring into the void at the end of an episode and you will truly be feeling as though you have gazed into the dark abyss and seen no distant light at all. And you WILL NOT realise until the last minute.

[anamelessfool]

I imagine after Primo puts young Copia to bed Nihil wanders in and wakes him up. Sits on the edge of the bed, wide eyed and excited.

"I was reading just now... Did you know that the Blue Whale, the largest animal to ever live on this planet, emits a sound so deep that it is mostly unheard but can travel across the entire Pacific Ocean?"

Copia blinks, bleary eyed but polite.

Nihil continues, his Infernal Eye bright and illuminated in the dark. "And humpback whales--you know humpback whales don't you, boy-- have family songs. Over centuries they teach their family the song, can you believe it? That's just...that's just far out, isn't it?"

Copia glances quickly at his quilt, debating if he should just flop over and ignore the old man.

"These family songs can be linked all the way back to the ancestral portals of Atlantis, code across the centuries, the Akashic records! The Atlanean intrrdimensional knowledge, my boy---"

"Nihil, what are you doing?" Primo is at the open door now, a practiced frown across his face. "You can't just...wake a kid up. We've been over this. They need their sleep."

"Terzo enjoyed it," Nihil says back defensively.

"Actually, he--" Primo catches himself and displays a thin smile. "You know what Dad, I want to hear about whales. Come on, I'll put on a fire and we can talk about the Atlanteans all you want."

my fic list

[always-a-king-or-queen]

Miss Pevensie, they say, can you identify these bodies for us? And you try, gentlest sibling, you try your best. But the tears are thick in your throat and the grief is bitter on your tongue, and when you shut your eyes you see fire and steel, twisting together and crushing the breath from their bodies.

You look at your father, and mother, and cousin, still and silent on their backs, bruised and bloodied and unsmiling, and their faces are anything but familiar. Were their eyes open you would be looking into the face of a stranger. You press your hand over your mouth, and you do not cry, and you tell them what they want to know. These are my parents, you hear yourself say. This is my cousin. They nod, they thank you, they direct you forward. More, more, more corpses to identify. More losses to count.

You look at your eldest brother, golden blond hair spread across his forehead, thick like the mane of a lion. There is gravel in his skin and soot on his cheeks and his face is pale, hands folded over his chest and blood threaded into his yellow sweater. Red against gold. For a moment the combination brushes your brain, touches a distant memory of battle and clashing swords, but you blink and it is gone. This is my brother Peter, you say, in a voice choked with grief. The sky looks black outside the window, and your brother’s arm still feels warm when you touch it a final time.

You look to your younger brother, dark hair tousled, blood leaking between his lips. His skin is frost pale, like snow, so white he appears to be made of stone. Shrapnel cuts into his cheeks and sends crimson trails across his face. His hands are clenched, cap askew on hair smeared with blood. They tell you he died with his sister in his arms, body curled around her in a vain attempt to keep her safe. You stare at him with a lump in your throat, and for a moment you seem to see him, silver crown upon his head, smiling with quiet gentleness. It fades, and you whisper, This is my brother Edmund. The tree outside the window seems to wilt a little as you speak. Your brother’s cheek is like ice beneath your fingertips.

You look last at your sister. She is peaceful, lips lifted in a smile, hair tangled beneath her head and shoulders. She grips something in one hand— a tiny wooden carving. A lion. Your throat clenches to see it, but you do not know why. Her skin is warm, like sunlight, but there is such coldness in her face. Such emptiness. Blood smears her sky blue dress, and you weep to see it. Blood does not belong on your baby sister. For a moment the red makes you remember her, dancing wild by a fire with berry juice smeared on her hands and mouth, but surely not. Surely such a thing never happened. This is my sister Lucy, you murmur, and are able to say no more. For a moment it seems as if a mist touches the window, and your sister’s skin is hot against your palms.

You turn away, raven-dark hair falling over your cheek, and stare out the window with tears burning your throat. There is no sun, and you think that perhaps there will never be sun again. It has been taken away forever.

(For a moment you seem to hear a voice, deep, gentle, loving. To the radiant southern sun. For a moment you feel the weight of a crown in your hair. Perhaps you are losing your sanity, bit by bit. Perhaps it was shattered the moment you heard the news).

They asked you to identify the bodies, and you did, because they are your family. They were your family. You loved each and every one of them. You loved your mother's soft fingers in your hair and your father's deep chuckle. You loved your older brother's fierce kindness and your little brother's quiet demeanor and your baby sister's merriment. You loved them all. And now you stare through the window at a sky that is heavy with rain and think of flames and twisted metal and the blood on your siblings' skin.

You close your eyes. For a brief moment you think you smell lilies, and salt, and Lucy is laughing and Edmund is smiling and Peter's arms are slung around their shoulders, and then they are looking at you and beckoning and there is a lion with golden eyes and the sun is rising into a damp new sky.

Your eyes open slowly, glazed over with tears that spill down your cheeks like rain.

And for a moment, just for a moment, you remember.

[saphira-approves]

I’d love to know Rhünon’s thoughts on how Riders name their swords. Does she have a no-judgement policy? Did Vrael have to sit her down for a chat when her bluntness reduced twelve new Riders into tears because of their terrible name choices? I mean, just look at Brom and Morzan:

Morzan: I name this blade Misery, for misery it shall bring to all my enemies!

Brom: And I’ll name mine Void-biter, for its edge carries the bite of death!

Rhünon, bribed copiously by Vrael to keep her thoughts to herself: Who let these edgelords have dragons—