#/ my soul lays in this promo

[romanoffsbish]

Surprise, Surprise

Scarlett Johansson x Reader (no pronouns used)

Scarlett was wrapping up another day on set when she got unexpected news… Aka, R visits her on set | WC: 1,366

A/N: Purely fluff — R is not given any description but their infant is described as looking like them both.

"Your son is the cutest!" Elizabeth sang as she giddily approached Scarlett who had been stood behind an accordion panel, changing out of her characters outfit. The blonde grinned and nodded along, it was the truth and she was used to her costar gushing over your son, but it was usually over photos she'd show her...

——

“His cheeks are just so chubby, and so squishy—you and Y/N created a little cutie; bring him to set more."

"What do you mean more?" Elizabeth's smile fell, "I am now realizing I might've ruined a surprise."

Scarlett smiled at her aloof friend, "Thanks for that!"

Then she took off in a hurry, abandoning her plans to change, leaving in her favorite pair of sweats and her character's black and blue striped crop top instead. It had been a week since she last saw you two, as you both agreed moving your son a lot wasn't ideal, so she filmed during the week and was home on weekends.

Except the last one since she had to film promo for The Outset in New York while your current home was in LA so it was random fleeting hours over FaceTime, and that made her dream for the day her schedule clears.

Scarlett needed you in her arms more than she needed anything else, well besides to kiss your son's cheeks so she kept up a decent pace even though she was winded. Just as she rounded the corner of the lot she caught sight of you walking up the steps of her trailer, her eyes sparkled with joy, but then they narrowed when she saw the diaper bag lowly dangling from your arm, with your other hand cradling your sleeping babies head to your chest, you were clearly trying to safely ascend.

The blonde jogged a little faster, concern ebbing its way into her soul as she saw you move up another step. Just as you were about to move again she arrived, her hand seamlessly took the diaper bag so you could grip the side rails while her other firmed against your back.

Scarlett felt as you sighed and it made her smile, you opened the door and almost as soon as you entered she had circled you and stopped in front of you. "Thanks."

Your wife smirked, "No need to thank me love,” her lips then closed the distance left between yours and her hand pushed you into her, “I always got your back."

Scarlett giggled when you threw your head back with a playful groan, “you’re just so cheesy Scar, stop it…”

Your wife instantly pouted, feigning offense, “Why?”

“Because I can’t have our son following your lead,” you responded while gently cupping his ears to make sure your wife understood the message. “He’s vulnerable.”

Scarlett scoffed, “If I remember correctly it was my corny quips that won you over baby, you ate it up.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” you deflected with ease as you slid from her hold and started to move towards her bed so you could set Noah down, but just before you could she pulled you back in and kissed you until you had forgotten what you were planning to do.

The blonde felt warmth slowly spread throughout her body as she melted into the feeling of your thumbs gently caressing the soft skin of her fuller hips. Just beneath her chin lay the adorable, snoring cause. It was hard for her at first, adjusting to the physical demands of pregnancy but then she had your son.

Not only was he the most adorable infant she’d ever seen, but she saw the natural way in which you took to parenthood. With the unwavering love you not only held, but expressed, like in small moments like these, she learned to cherish the changes and to crave more.

If not for her predetermined, already rearranged once schedule she would have convinced you to make more. Hell, she even considered asking you right now… This is her last commitment for a long while, and shooting was set to wrap up next month. It was the perfect time.

A soft whine pulled the two of you apart just in time for a pouting baby to whip his head back from your chest, his eyes and frown shone with deep grumpiness as he slowly blinked, eyes fluttering with a clear fight as his body decided if it was even ready to be awakened yet.

Scarlett smirked at you and you nodded your head in agreement, the two of you shared another peck before both of your lips firmly planted on your son’s cheeks. He grunted initially but the two of you felt them upturn and a gentle giggle left him at the tickling sensation.

“There’s mama’s happy boy,” Scarlett coo’d and your son’s head whipped to the side as if he had only just realized who it was that kissed you and his right cheek. His giddy babbles warmed your heart but his inability to keep still strained your back and led to you swiftly removing him from the harness so he could leap to her.

Scarlett caught him with ease and you sighed in relief. It was his new favorite habit, he’d just leap from one person to the next, hence the need for a baby carrier to restrain his urges and the potential script for Xanax you’ll need as he becomes more daringly independent.

The two of them were in their own world the moment you were no longer attached to them, swaying softly as she told him all about her week. It almost hurt your feelings but you knew it was their time to bond and hers to finally spill the movie secrets even you weren’t allowed to hear so you ventured off to the bathroom.

When you returned thirty minutes later, after having slipped off to take a walk—something you also needed, they were calmly laying in the bed, your sons sleeping face was now smushed against her exposed abdomen and you smiled at the scene from the ajar door.

“You’re letting a draft in,” your wife teased as she shut the book in her hand. Without a word you replied by shutting the door and moving further into her trailer. Scarlett watched you curiously as you slipped your shoes off then as gently as you could you joined them.

Her fingers softly stroked over the skin of your cheek, then it did the same for your sons right after as you were both currently utilizing her stomach as a pillow. As her hand returned to rest on your head yours moved to continue to caress your son’s sweet face.

Noah was your first of hopefully many, miracles, the perfect blend of you two in both features and attitude. Scarlett’s heart nearly combusted as she saw the same desires she held for months now blossom in your eyes.

“How much longer until you’re all ours Scarlett?” The blonde gently guided your face until your chin was resting against the softened muscles of her abs. “I am always all yours,” she smiled gently, her gaze genuine as she stroked your cheek. “My entire heart is here.”

“Entire?” She nodded, gaze a bit confused as you questioned her level of loyalty. “That’s too bad…”

Now she was amused, and played right along, “Why?”

“Kinda hoping there’s room for more,” you began, voice light and lovestruck as you cradled your son’s face in one hand and reached out for hers. “More?”

You nodded, then confirmed her hopes, “More little ones just like this goober that’s drooling all over you.”

Scarlett beamed, “I’ve been hoping you’d say that for actual months now baby. I want endless little you’s.”

You smiled as you placed a gentle kiss to the subtle ridges that adorned her stomach before nuzzling against the warm skin—an attempt to burrow into her which you knew to be impossible, yet you always tried.

“I love you, my beautiful baby mama,” you mumbled tiredly, lips gentle as they kissed her belly once more. The blonde chucked then stared down at your calm face in relief. “I love you too, you beautiful fool.”

#scarlett johansson #scarlett johansson blurb #scarlett johansson fluff #scarlett johansson imagine #scarlett johansson x reader #scarlett johansson x female reader #scarlett johansson x you #scarlett johansson x y/n #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #gxg

[yiga-hellhole]

TFTK CHAPTER 20: ENDURING RESOLVE

Ganondorf has gone into hiding. His two most loyal servants guard the desert in his stead. Hyrule approaches, knowing not what kind of death awaits them, deep beneath the sands. Zant tests out his blade.

FINALLY DONE! sooo sorry my beloved tumblr readerbase. this update has been available on ao3 for a little over a week now, but i had to steam through a pretty bad art block to get this promo image done exactly how i liked it. so without further ado, here it is!! i have a real doozy for you all today! again, thanks so much to @bulgariansumo and @orfeoarte for betareading the chapter! there's a couple secret languages in this chapter again... thanks very much to @unironicallycringe for helping me with figuring out Akkadian. as for the translations, well... you go puzzle it out!

content warnings this chapter for: graphic violence, animal death, medical gore, domestic violence/physical abuse (for lack of a better term)

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

ao3 mirror

They rose before the sun had even fully set, thieving their love-nest of its purpose hours too early. Any preparations they could do, save donning arms and armor, would have been too late in this final moment before battle, but they had to be ready to defend themselves at any moment. The air was tense, dead-silent so as not to alert any potential enemy scouts. But in that deep silence, every nervous sigh, every jingle of chainmail, grated the ears from miles away. 

So sat Zant in his chambers, eyelids still thick and heavy with sleep, but nonetheless perched at the edge of his bed, gazing out into the night sky. Ghirahim lied where he’d left him, sunken into his pillows and layers of sheets. In this companionable silence, there was as much to be said, as there was a lack of words to convey them. Indecision to what topic could suit the last hours before this all-out battle, they spoke of nothing at all. Yet there was deep understanding in it, a bond between them that only needed a glance of the eye to be conveyed. 

Pacing anxiously was unnecessary. Ghirahim lay comfortable; to him, nothing enriched the soul like battle, and he was ready to rise every minute of the day. No need for armor, for food, for a minute to come to his senses. He could jump up the second the warning horns blared.

Thus, he dozed, his eyes on the tense Twili beside him until they wandered to the portrait above him. When had he moved it above his bed, he wondered? To think a man so reserved could be so vain. The gold of its canvas glittered in the weak light, egging on the stars in the sky beyond with its own splendor. Ghirahim felt a smile creep up on him and his eyes drew to a close.

He didn’t quite keep track of how long he lay there simply sifting through the favorite contents of his core, before that line of thought was interrupted, and a warm static forced itself through his mental imagery. It started deep in his chest, washing over his every extremity in waves. His skin tingled, his breath hitched. A contented sigh dragged out from him and joined the warm air in the room. This feeling, how long ago it was since he last felt it. It could only be…

Sat on the carpet beside the window was Zant, the Demon Scimitar before him. Moonlight could not hope to pierce the deep black of their blade; their masterpiece was a shadow among shadows. A vibrant teal glow pulsed throughout the veins in its fuller, like light beneath the ocean waves. That glow slowly grew richer, occasionally interrupted by the stroke of a cloth across the blade. 

Ghirahim shuddered. There was the source of that odd feeling, that sent shivers up his back and caused his face and stomach to flush an embarrassing red. Soon Zant caught him staring at him past the mound of sheets and met his eyes – glowing, giving him no choice but to witness them – with a smile.

“Pardon me. Did I disturb you?”

“Disturb is a strong word,” Ghirahim said, unable to suppress a shuddering groan. From fingerguard to its point, the cloth rubbed away every speck of dust and smudge of oil.

The sound that escaped him piqued Zant’s interest immediately. Eyes that should pay attention to the razor-sharp edge of their sword widened at him. “You can feel this?”

Taps of powder against the blade. Puff, puff, little clouds of white dissipating in the gentle breeze. “To some degree, yes.”

Bright, amber eyes narrowed. “What is it like?”

Adjusting comfortably, Ghirahim sank back into the sheets, hiding half of his face. He stared him down no lesser, though. “There is hardly any equal to this feeling, Zant,” he hummed, pleased by the sensation of gentle polishing. “But if I had to describe it… Something akin to having my hair brushed, or hands stroking my back, I suppose.”

Zant’s eyes turned to the sword, now carrying a certain spark. He beheld it in a different light. “I see. How fortunate to know.”

Ghirahim shifted, curling himself in the mass of sheets to get a better look at his machinations, but without abandoning the glow of their joint warmth. Their companionable silence returned, the quiet room filled only with the whisper of cloth against metal, and the gentle churning of his core. Warmth buzzed through him in waves, like fingers with long nails tapping and tracing the features deep in his chest. That so-abstract sensation turned ever warmer, more squeezing, when that familiar smell of cloves arose, and Zant turned to oiling the blade. Ghirahim cocked his head, watching intently. “Tending to it again? So soon?”

Zant only glanced at him before returning to his focus. “Our sword is in its infancy, Ghirahim. It has to be nourished in its first year.”

“You’ve done your homework,” Ghirahim smirked.

“You hardly gave me any choice, Ghirahim-hasir,” Zant smirked right back.

Another honorific! He laughed fondly, ever-so-amused by Zant’s habit of slipping into mother tongue. “That one is new! What nonsense are you up to, this time?”

“No more than usual,” Zant hummed, a touch of cheer in his voice. “Now get back under the covers and leave me to do my bidding. We must be in top shape before dawn, you and I,” he crooned, stroking the cloth down their blade in emphasis.

Ghirahim smiled, sighed, and complied.

That morning, Hyrule conquered the southern settlements in a matter of minutes. The market streets the pair had grown so familiar with, committed to memory through the smells of spices, pastries, and smoked meat alone, decimated at once. Not that they’d made it particularly difficult for their adversaries; a minimal amount of monstrous troops were stationed there. This was their bait. A little trick tucked in falsely heightened morale, to fool the Hyruleans into thinking them weaker than they were. Besides, the locals stationed within sight would surely be healthily enraged by the sight of their beloved settlement being torn to the ground. Zant had planned for a bloody start.

The two of them were thoroughly locked away in the North. The Gerudo Temple Complex was a dark and swirling thing, a monumental goliath of sandstone and brick, its dimly lit corridors designed to trap anyone outside the clergy in the bowels. Deep within, it hid the Coliseum. A holy ground to desert peoples, later desecrated by Hyrule and turned into an executioner’s oubliette. Better known as, ‘The Arbiter’s Grounds’. Since its reclamation by the Gerudo (according to Zant, one of the few good things brought on by shattering the Mirror of Twilight), Hyrule was to never touch it again. The labyrinth would guard it for as long as it stood.

In other words, it was the ideal place to watch the battle unfold from afar. Their intel detected signs of three commanders: Link, the Goddess’ favored hero; Lana, still missing her counterpart; and an unfamiliar Sheikah warrior. Knowing the Hyruleans, they likely had more tricks up their sleeves. They needed caution above all. 

Zant was eerily silent for most of their stay, retreating within his helmet. Had Ghirahim not known any better, he would have suspected him of sleeping on the job again. On the contrary, the Twili could not have been more alert. The ace up their sleeve was heaving and buzzing restlessly deep underground below their feet. The Twilit Bloat, Queen Mother of Zant’s favorite pets, spent days spewing forth countless Shadow Insects, which he’d hidden away in every nook and cranny he thought would make a decent vantage point. They were acting as his eyes in the field and to keep track of them all required his utmost concentration. 

Until at long last Zant withdrew from meditation, the segments of his helmet squeaking as he straightened himself and turned toward his co-lieutenant. 

“They are inching closer to the oases. While they busy themselves there, now is the best time to start our preparations,” he said, beckoning him with a wave of his hand as he made his way through the keep.

Ghirahim, glad to finally have something to do, grinned. “You mean to set up the… Shadow puppets, you mentioned, yes?”

“I have told you of my plan,” Zant agreed, scaling the steps to the decrepit altar at the center of the Coliseum. His visor rolled up to reveal a grin. “But not yet of its execution. It should be most familiar to you, however,” he turned, his hand outstretched and palm facing the skies.

Ghirahim smirked and followed, taking his hand to have him lead him further up the steps. An arm curled around his waist, and he rested his on Zant’s shoulder in return. “How courteous of you, Twilight King. Won’t prancing about distract you from your own casting, though?”

Zant smiled in turn. With a small pull at his waist, they quickly sank into a rhythm, waltzing under the sunbeams that peeked through the stone walls. “We must enact our spell in utter synchronicity, Ghirahim-ili. This is the best way.”

A pulse coursed through him. Diamonds rose from their footprints, flickering with signs of their blooming magic. The beating of their feet and chiming of his core accompanied their dance like a dozen tambourines. Through their joined hands, sparks of power crossed into one another, melting together until the pictures in their minds became clear as day, a single being.

“I shall be the source, and you, my conduit. My power is yours to steer, puppeteer of mine,” Zant’s words echoed, but Ghirahim couldn’t be sure if they came from his lips, or snuck into his mind without his notice. How cheeky. 

And soon, that power manifested into being. Rising from the shadows, Ghirahim’s second pair of eyes came into view – or rather, he came into its view. A second Ghirahim took shape, its features growing more defined by the second. Terrible vertigo struck him, causing a temporary lapse in his steps. There was a disconnect, a duplication of his sight, but no identical one. He could see through his own body but through his double’s, too. His core swirled as he looked himself in the eye, standing in the sand with its muted colors and stiff stance.

“It’s easier if you close your eyes,” Zant whispered with a low croon, “try not to think. Let me lead you, my Blade.”

Easier said than done, he’d say, did it not make such a drastic difference. Ridding himself of his second-sight made it all the easier to at least gather his bearings without the spinning surroundings there to distract him. But reaching this double somatically remained a challenge. It was like trying to steer a phantom limb. The tether was weak, but undeniably there, and getting it to move was akin to timidly pressing the keys on an old harpsichord. All the while this buffoon requested him to dance.

But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Channeling their magic? He was no stranger to their bodies becoming one, in many senses of the term. It wasn’t just his own magic he had to focus on, but the force linking its fingers with it, too. 

Synchronicity. The picture through the eyes of his double became vibrant and clear as day.

His double twitched its fingers until they were veritably his, then took a stumbling step. Then another. Then more, stably, rolling its shoulders and bouncing on its heels. The shuffling of dancing feet was soon nothing but background noise, far removed from where his mind settled. Housed in this spectral clone, Ghirahim grinned, braced his fingers, and snapped.

The desert heat felt like room temperature. Or rather, like nothing at all, in this doubly-false skin. Having teleported himself, he stood a ways from the Southern Oasis, surveying his surroundings. Friend nor foe had spotted him yet, concealed as he was by the heat shaking the sights of their surroundings, but they’d have no choice than to witness him soon. He sprinted across the desert, intending to snicker to himself, only to find not a sound passed his lips. 

A gap in their illusion. How embarrassing it would have been! What if he had attempted to taunt their foe, only to be caught missing his voice? He quickly suppressed the urge to scold Zant for failing to inform him of this flaw. To cause dissonance between his two selves would collapse their plans like a house of cards. Which, obviously, he couldn’t afford, as he was already perched on the walls of the Oasis Keep, staring right into fiery red eyes that pierced into him with malice. 

The Sheikah man would be his first opponent.

His perch high up above did nothing to deter this stranger whatsoever. A long dagger whistled through the air just past Ghirahim’s ear, missing him only thanks to his own last-minute dodge. Ghirahim hadn’t yet the chance to righten himself before his adversary took a running start and leapt against the corner wall, kicking himself off to clamber up and meet him at eye level. It hadn’t even taken him five seconds to get to him. 

This was going to be interesting. Ghirahim knew he couldn’t lose his composure so early in the battle, but a warrior so quick and nimble made the stars dance in his core. The Sheikah was upon him in a split second, a long knife in each hand, eyes red and full of death. His strikes were lightning-fast and precise, but not fast enough to break past Ghirahim. This man was an entirely different territory from that white-haired dog. Where Impa combined her tremendous speed with heavy blows, her replacement depended entirely on the fleetness of his feet. And it carried him well. The two of them danced across the walls, locking blades like a pair of cats fighting atop a fence.

But, truthfully, Ghirahim was only humoring him. Against another human, the slashes of the Sheikah’s knives would have been lethal. But to Ghirahim, razor edges struck his sword with gentle taps at most. He had to put this boy in his place. Hilt in both hands, he boldly raised his blade to bait him with an opening – swung down quickly, to bait a crossing of knives, and catch his sword in between. 

The Sheikah were a near-ageless folk, living potentially centuries longer than Hylians, if they so chose. This very moment, the Sheikah proved his youth, his inexperience, despite his prodigal martial skill. He acted exactly as Ghirahim predicted. 

Now locked, Ghirahim shot him a grin, before pushing his bulk into his sword and tossing him sideways. The Sheikah shouted in surprise, stumbled. With the assistance of a showy flip and roll, he dropped off the wall and down into the dirt, quickly righting himself in fear of being ambushed.

Not a second too late! Ghirahim leaped for him, point of his sword aimed for the heart. Or, rather, aimed for the dirt, as the Sheikah darted away quickly. The pair exchanged blows, barraged each other with throwing knives, but their mutual bulk and speed resulted in nothing more than superficial injuries. 

Ghirahim couldn’t outspeed him. So, he’d just have to surprise him, instead. With only a small chime to announce his departure, Ghirahim disappeared into diamonds and landed himself square in the Sheikah’s way. The boy gasped in surprise, only barely managing to stumble out the way of the obsidian sword that flew toward him in a pitch-black streak. Now, all bets were on discombobulating his foe. The Sheikah was forced to face him more carefully, locked in a fierce combat. For every escape, every attempt at sprinting away for another trick, he was punished by the phantom that appeared in his shadow and threatened to rend him to pieces. 

Dark blue Sheikah armor tore to show flashes of skin and bleeding gashes, staining a deeper red every second. But Ghirahim found himself not as unscathed as he’d normally be – this puppet was fragile, meaning even the small enchantments on this warrior’s knives could hurt him. It wasn’t the same pain as he’d feel on his surface when injured. This was a magical, conjured pain, manifesting as a headache and stuttering of his core. But, injuries or not, he was winning. The Sheikah was slowing, growing into an easier target for his thrusts and merciless cleavings with every pace. And there he darted off again, some desperate manner of escaping! Of stalling time! Blood hung in the air, its particles catching delectably on his lolling tongue. He chased its source hungrily, wishing so it was his true self instead who would get to kill this wretched little thing, a mere pup in comparison to his superior. Ghirahim ached to run him through with this blade! Just a few more paces, another leap –

There was a track in the sand. In the corner of his eye, he spotted another. The Sheikah stopped at the joining of lines, readying something curved and golden.

The harp. The harp! His eyes shot to the Sheikah, who grinned at him with a squint, fingers at the ready over his blasted holy implement. Ghirahim looked back to the ground, where he now spotted an outline… And himself spot in the middle of it. An ominous hum, a faded glow, resonant below him as fingertips tensed the strings. Ghirahim turned to flee, but a second too late. With a mockingly cheerful tune, the magic glyph was activated, and a blinding field of light magic launched him out the gates of the Oasis Keep.

He skidded to a halt, clouds of sand trailing his heels as they coursed through. In his concealment, he was fortunate to find his first flaw; a black patch, crackling on the surface of his puppet. Their illusion was falling apart. 

Now is the time to flee. 

They thought it simultaneously, with Ghirahim immediately annoyed by Zant’s meddling. 

Shielded by this cloud of sand, he turned tail and fled. Soon enough, fleeted feet dashed through the sand a little ways behind him.

Just like he wanted! Bloodlust made blind! 

The next phase of their plan was imminent. He had to cross the sands to get to the cliffs, where he could funnel this little songbird into its cage. This seemed easier said and done, because the Sheikah’s tendency to make pot-shots at the enemy made it increasingly more difficult to conceal the black cracks left on his surface. He kicked up as much sand as he could in his sprint to keep himself shielded from prying eyes.

It was a mad chase. In short bursts, his adversary seemed to be faster than him, leading him to blink around to get away from the scatter of needles flying his way. A haphazard, zigzagging trail of metal pins traced their trajectory. Yet, the Sheikah seemed to be letting him escape, at least a little bit. Did he hope he was fleeing to some kind of hideout, and lead him straight there? Oh, if only he knew!

It was a good thing he didn’t. They crossed into the Cliffs Keep, revealing a dead end. Realizing it’d been a trap, before the Sheikah could fully turn, the gates slammed shut behind them.

The enraged eyes of a cornered animal met with a dark grin. The two men flung at one another, daggers in hand. But Ghirahim felt weakened – the magic holding this form together barely persisted through its many cracks, and it was slowing his reflexes. To save himself some power, he dismissed the false cape, at once revealing the web of deep black fractures spreading across his skin. 

This staggered the Sheikah for a moment, but baited him all the same. Daggers crossed, he lunged forward, and drove the tips towards his core. They tangled, tipped over, and landed in the sand, Ghirahim pinned between steel and soil.

For all this man knew, this was how a Sword Spirit died. The daggers sank into his chest, and Ghirahim let the illusion crackle into shards with a pained groan.

But not before leaving his parting gift. The Sheikah choked out a breath, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. Ghirahim had driven a dagger right into his side.

He didn’t have the privilege to see if this caused his opponent to collapse or not, for his eyes caved into dust soon after this deceitful blow. Then followed the rest of his body, leaving only a cackle to fade on the wind.

Deep black turned into an outrageously bright light. With a gasp, Ghirahim came to, finding himself held up by Zant’s arms. Never before had he felt this unsteady on his feet, this jittery like a newborn foal. His shadowy double was gone, which left him to deal with the dizziness of returning to his body. How convenient that this animate coat rack of a man was there to assist him in doing so.

Ghirahim patted Zant on the sleeve, wobbling to righten himself. “Deliciously dramatic timing, Twilight King.” 

“Thanks. I thought so too.”

Zant laughed, patiently assisting Ghirahim through the last seconds of his vertigo. Once Ghirahim collected himself, Zant parted from him, again turning his gaze meditatively to the skies. “We shall let them struggle with this predicament for a little while. Then, I will take your place on the battlefield, Ghirahim-ili.”

The battle unfolded just about how they expected it would. The gates they so merrily left open were breached by opportunistic troops zealously at first, but with the imprisonment of their Sheikah general, anxious caution took the wheel. Nevertheless, critical movement took place: Lana, who had been moving through the desert, succeeded in capturing the Northern Oasis; while Link, having first guarded their home base in the Bazaar, crossed the southern sands to attempt a rescue mission. 

This was their cue. While their demonic troops clashed against Link’s brigade, Zant hopped back on his feet, extending his hands.

“Care to assist me once more?”

Locked again in dance, they watched as a shadowy form knitted into being by their pedestal. The illusory shape of Zant, darker and more muted than usual, readied itself for its host. Much to Ghirahim’s chagrin, Zant was clearly more adept than he at shifting his consciousness, as his double was up and moving in mere seconds.

“You close your eyes too, Ghirahim-ili.”

“Then who will keep watch of where we’re putting our feet? Moron.”

Ghirahim jested, but nonetheless allowed himself a brief respite, and did as he was told. Behind his darkened eyelids, he saw (though subtly) the world through the eyes of Zant’s shadowy double. He briefly worried if Zant had been spying along with him, too. Then, he felt some smug satisfaction in the knowledge, as he thought he’d made for a riveting battle just then.

Not a second longer did Zant let his puppet stick around and promptly sent it away. Just in time for Ghirahim to spin the both of them around and prevent them from tumbling off the altar.

Ghirahim’s impressions of this battle were vague, bestowed upon him in flashes through Zant’s incomprehensible sense of sight. The world was a blur of overly saturated colors in the Twili’s eyes, splitting into sharply defined contours at every moving object. Of course, the rapidly approaching emerald green and blue was then clear as day, as was the glowing blade that cut through the air towards him. 

But Link could not land a single hit on the Usurper’s false shape. Zant blinked himself across the sand and clapped his hands pompously, a playfully mocking tribute to Ghirahim’s favored spellcasting. At once, every gate in the battlefield slammed shut, isolating the three generals in their own death traps.

Wrathful Gerudo, Bulblins, and Stalfos poured from whatever crevice they could force themselves through to descend upon the now-isolated warriors. Whether they would surpass the Hyruleans in martial prowess remained to be seen, but surely, they’d leave not a shred of their morale untouched. 

Yet Zant led the Goddess’ little hero away from the onslaught, seeming to prefer a one-on-one duel, though there’d be nothing honorable about it. This battle was an absolute waste of time, drudging Link along through the scorching desert to chase after his constantly teleporting apparition. Even if his opponent couldn’t hear it, Zant couldn’t help but giggle. With such a jovial mood, one would expect victory, but aside from Zant’s violent retaliations, his health rapidly failed him. Not only was his double on the verge of collapse, but nearly every hack and slash it endured bore down on its host. Dancing with a smile, blood gushed from Zant’s nostrils with every hit he took. Ghirahim doubted whether the desperation on his double’s part was an act –  it contorted, stomped, flailing its arms and hurling wild bolts of magic at whatever blue banner-bearing shape it could see. But Zant seemed at peace, even as his puppet raised its arms to ready a bomb of pure, hexing shadow, only to find itself ran straight through by the Knight’s holy blade.

At once, the tether to their puppet was gone.

“... That’s it… Our first ruse is up,” Zant mumbled, before slumping forward, just barely caught by Ghirahim’s frame. The blood trickling from his nostrils was worrying still, so Ghirahim allowed him to collapse, lowering him carefully to sit at the edge of the pedestal. Yet, Zant declined any fussing over him, preferring instead to retreat into his mind again and survey the damage they’d done. With his ‘death’, every single gate in the battlefield flew back open – save for the Temple complex. Sitting side by side, Zant relayed what he saw through the eyes of his countless insect servants. Among the Hyruleans, there was relief, rallying cries spreading through the battlefield as they once again rushed forth to seize new territory. Their own forces still held fast. The defeat of their Lieutenants sowed seeds of anxiety, which their captains and commanders did not allow to sprout among the common infantry. Though the full plan of today was relayed to very few, every officer of repute knew not to lose hope when all seemed over. 

They’d seen the captured beasts in their chains, after all, and had yet to see them surface in this battle.

One unexpected problem remained. When the gates to the Sheikah commander’s imprisonment were opened, he was already long gone. The trail of blood scaling the cliff wall toward the Temple clued them in where he could have gone. He was trapped in here with them, somewhere. Zant seemed to take nothing but amusement in that thought.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait for a surge in confidence among the Hyruleans that would raise their might and lower their guard. If this took mere minutes or hours, then the blood spilled to tip the scales would simply have to be an acceptable sacrifice. Time ticked away mostly in silence. On occasion, Zant orated an update from the battlefield with his vacant, manic gaze. Ghirahim stared at the man beside him, bloodstained as he was, and wondered how far the gray blight had crawled up his arms today.

Zant perked up sooner than Ghirahim expected and turned to him. “Their bases are almost settled. They are transporting their goods. Now is the time, Ghirahim. Will you do the honors?”

Ghirahim grinned. “Gladly.”

Within a blink, Ghirahim disappeared from the Arbiter’s Grounds and materialized far below the earth. Deluge streams of sand poured down from above – he found himself in an underground cave, discovered long ago by the Gerudo when digging for water reservoirs. Quicksand pools from above fed this ever-filling chamber with gold, like an hourglass that would never tip. Behind him was a nearly-buried gate leading to the old waterways. In front of him were cages. He didn’t want to keep the beasts inside waiting any longer; he’d kept them unfed a little too long. They frothed at the sight of him, spurred on by Zant’s blood caked into his suit. 

“You’ll find something far tastier on the surface, my dears!”

One, two, three showy snaps of his fingers, and the chains bearing the monsters down disappeared. With a flex of his hands, his fist cloaked itself in glowing, purple magic. He took a running start, heading straight for the back of the cages (where the monsters’ eyes hungrily followed him), and launched himself at the massive lever that stood there. With one solid punch, the old mechanism screeched back to life, and past all its rust, the switch was flicked. A rattling that could only be produced by a machine at the end of its life echoed throughout the room. Tugged upwards by heavy chains, the cage doors were lifted, and out stormed their inhabitants. 

But before they could make for the little creature that stood antagonizing them, a cascade of sand cued them in on the blue skies above. A ring tunnel of diamond magic pried open the quicksand pitfall in the ceiling and allowed these beasts the first glimpse of sunshine they’d seen in weeks. 

Not to mention, the smell of fresh carcasses. 

The Manhandla, a four-headed, man-eating plant; threw itself against the wall and clambered up through its web of roots. The Molduga, the very giant sandworm Ghirahim had stolen away scarce a month earlier; took to the skies and flew through the opening. The Lanmola, a cyclopean centipede; swam up the stream of sand.

But that was merely the first wave. This was the Southern Desert’s treat: the North would get its very own collection of nuisances. His next teleportation took him to the mesas in the northeast, where six pairs of eyes furiously eyed him down from within their cave prison. The caverns in these rocky mountains were straightforward tunnels, opening right into the deserts. After opening the cages, all he had to do was give them an incentive to break free.

So, naturally, he brought the entire cave to a collapse. As soon as the beasts panickedly rushed out of their prisons, Ghirahim snapped his fingers and perched himself on the Mesa’s edge, overlooking the monsters’ exit holes. 

The first to break free were the two Dodongos, bulky, rock-clad lizards; curled up and rolling, shot out like cannonballs. Then came the Helmaroc King, a giant prismatic bird; shrieking wildly and leaving a storm of feathers in its wake as it beat its wings and flew off. Finally, poking out one head after the other, came the Gleeok, the three-headed dragon; with stout little legs and clumsy, serpentine necks, it sauntered to the mouth of the tunnel somewhat timidly. But at the first sight of prey below, it roared viciously and spread its draconic wings, and set off in pursuit of violence.

Ghirahim returned to his post at once, finding Zant just as vacant as he’d left him, but with far greater amusement sketching his face. The Twili didn’t appear to notice him as he sidled up next to him, hands in his sides. 

“Satisfied by my handiwork, Twilight King?”

“More than, Yima Zeeioitneit,” he responded. Zant had cleaned himself up a bit in his absence, but was looking no less gaunt. “Would you like to see the fruits of your labor?”

“Gladly, I would,” Ghirahim said, keeping his apprehension about Zant’s intrusive, meddling magic to himself. 

Zant shook himself out of his daze, at once standing with his eyes bright and glowing. “Then allow me some time to recuperate. I will share my clairvoyance with you in the meantime, Ghirahim-ili.”

Before Ghirahim could utter a word of questioning or protest, Zant’s shape turned pitch-black, becoming no more than a silhouette with shining eyes. A rustle sounded as the shade before him ducked down and turned into nothing more than a smudge, and, shockingly… Melted into the floor. Just like that, Zant seemed to have crawled into his shadow. There was the alarming presence of magic, certainly, but otherwise, he felt not a thing of it. At least, not until Zant fulfilled his promise. Ghirahim then learned, intimately, just what he meant by ‘clairvoyance’. 

A sudden burst of droning visions took over his sight, shaking him into an unsightly stumble. Each flashed by for mere seconds before Zant flicked him over to the next, all blurring into the same haze. Only after sitting there, hands in his hair and groaning audibly, did he piece together just what he was looking at. It seemed that Zant had planted more of his Shadow Insects on the skulls of their monsters, and thus, allowed the both of them front-row seats to each individual rampage. 

To the north, the Helmaroc crested to dizzying heights, carefully eyeing its companions. Yards below it, the Gleeok was circling the desert, scarcely avoiding flurries of arrows from piercing its wings. It found its point of interest in a line of provision wagons, which already had its many hands full with the giant lizards besieging it from both sides. Claws extended, it swooped down in an instant, plowing through the line of them with its razor-sharp talons. 

Now out of a meal, the twin Dodongos sought their fortune elsewhere. They turned straight to the oasis, where they expected to rake in the biggest rewards, only to find the place heavily guarded. Grimoire in hand, Sorceress Lana nervously eyed down the two approaching beasts. She was a nimble woman, swiftly evading raking claws and blazing fire, but she did not take well to being surrounded. From the eyes of this Dodongo, she swooped in dangerously close. Just as the massive reptile thought to swallow her down in one gulp, a large, translucent cube was lodged in its gullet, and with the touch of the Sorceress’ hand, electrified. It shrieked and convulsed, reflexively clamping its jaws hard enough to crack its teeth, and just like that, collapsed.

This Dodongo was down for the count. But before its Shadow Insect died with it, it captured just a few more seconds. From the sound of blazing fire and the screams of their opponent, the beast’s twin appeared to hold fast.

The southern desert was similarly infested. The Manhandla had dug its roots throughout the sand, sprouting additional heads across the desert to drown it in a poisonous haze. Soon, only the dead could wander here, and the very bold. Those who dared approach the floral menace disappeared quickly past its massive teeth. Monitoring this monster led the pair of lieutenants to begrudgingly note that one of its four heads seemed to have gotten hacked off somewhere along the way. Though, they doubted they minded. If the victory was all too crushing, there would not have been any honor in it. Much less satisfaction. 

This next vision was fully dark, until it burst with sudden light. How the fragile insect managed to cling on to this creature through all the sand was a mystery. From the shrill bellowing, these could only have been the sights of the Molgera, soaring through the skies in pursuit of prey. And what a target it had chosen! Skidding away from the sandworm, bow and arrow boldly drawn but visibly alarmed, was their favorite green-clad menace, his blue scarf long lost in the scuffle. He had felled the Lanmola in record time. From the look in his eyes, that wouldn’t be his only trophy of today. Whether he would fulfill that ambition was another question. The Molgera roared and dove for him, but shrieked when an arrow pierced it someplace unseen, and veered off course. It burrowed beneath the sand once more, plunging their vision in darkness. Through the roaring of sand surging past the giant beast, there was a sound; footsteps, hurrying away. The Molgera homed in on its source and launched for the surface. 

It breached, it opened its maw. A scream was heard, then muffled by the resounding clap of the Molgera’s jaws snapping shut. As the Molgera twisted itself through the air, not a trace of the Hero of Legend remained.

Cackles and shouts of triumph and astonishment echoed through the Arbiter’s Grounds. Had the Twili stood beside him, rather than lie hidden in his shadow, Ghirahim would have embraced him and thrown him around the arena for good measure. What an undignified end for the little Hylian! Ghirahim was ecstatic. Already he swell with pride over the thought of informing their Master of this victory. The pair of them sang praises of this magnificent sandworm. Even after they’d treated it so cruelly, it hadn’t let them down in the slightest. Whether it could hear their words conveyed through the Shadow Insect, wasn’t their concern. 

Amidst their celebration, the Molgera suddenly groaned. Shuddered. Slowed in its flight. It contorted itself, squeaking in pain, until it tore its mouth open in a shriek. The Shadow Insect lost all functionality. Its host could only be dead.

What happened? It was in the air – how had it perished!? 

Zant apparently had the same questions. He frantically browsed through the Insects still alive, until he found a proper view of the events through the eyes of the Manhandla. The Molgera fell from the skies, its spiked belly slit wide open. A rain of blood and guts splattered onto the ground before its multi-ton body hit the sand, sending forth an explosive dust cloud to shroud the battlefield from all.

Surfacing from that shroud, visible through the makeshift sandstorm by a glowing silhouette, was a newcomer to today’s battlefield. Fi, doll-faced as ever, but her blue gemstone surface now tainted with viscera, had surfaced from the Hero’s blade, and freed her ‘Master’. Offering her wing, she stuck herself halfway into the Molgera’s eviscerated stomach to pull Link free, soaked in mucus and blood. The morbidity of it all seemed completely lost on her gentle smile, as she stood watching him gather himself.

Ghirahim grit his teeth. “It seems they’ve taken a page out of our book, Twili… They’re hiding commanders!”

“And where there is one, there may be more. They think they have us for fools.”

With the appearance of Fi, a Hyrulean war horn sounded in the Southern Desert. The troops in the North responded. Surfacing from Lana’s shadow was none other than Midna, who immediately clenched a keratin fist around the head of an ambushing Bulblin commander. A sense of fury bubbled forth from his shadow, and lingered somewhere in Ghirahim, too. But as much as the arrival of the Twilight Princess spelled trouble, something about her appearance soothed Zant’s mood into a bubbly giggle. 

She was an imp again.

The war horn sounded in the North. Two responded; one from the Western mesas, and one from the South. Through the eyes of the Helmaroc King, a far more alarming sight poured into the desert. The troops they had fought so deftly to thin out were filling their numbers again. Vast swathes of Zora and Gorons arrived through glowing portals and raced to assist the overthrown Keeps. Only to then clash against equally large numbers of frothing demon forces, pushing each other back and forth past a faultline of trampled steel. This visceral desperation of gnashing teeth and battered armor only left the frontlines in stasis for so long. The Zora Princess, her arrival announced by a tidal wave sweeping along her own troops in massive schooling, forced an opening through the simple measure of washing away everything in her path. She came out the other end of the first line of infantry clad in silvery armor, spear in hand, looking back at the dizzied and drowning mass of demonic forces behind her. This very measure would carry her to the northern desert, where she quickly joined Lana’s side. 

Lana startled when the Dodongo just in front of her was sucked into a maelstrom and launched across the sands. When she turned to find Ruto, some sort of sentimental conversation was surely being carried out. Watching from the Gleeok still soaring above the keeps, neither Ghirahim nor Zant cared to hear it. Their despairing, confused prattles were far more interesting.

The Gleeok swept in closer, ducking out the way of an impending lightning bolt sent from the Sorceress’ grimoire. 

“I don’t understand, Ruto,” Lana cried. “Ghirahim and Zant were defeated, but their armies haven’t slowed down whatsoever!”

Ruto intercepted an incoming belch of fire with a watery shield, bursting it apart in glittering projectiles as she dismissed it. The Gleeok shrieked when one of its many eyes was pierced. “Desperation, it must be. It takes a pair of cowardly men like them to rig such posthumous traps!”

“Are we sure it was really them Sheik and Link defeated?” Midna cut in, surfacing from Lana’s shadow to glare down the limping Dodongo in the distance. “Like you said. They’re cowards! I’ll bet my entire treasury that the foes we saw were nothing more than illusions!”

A troubled expression dawned on Lana, which soon turned to anger. She burst out in front of the Zora Princess, spellbook at the ready, and sent out another burst of lightning. Though, this one was different. It broke apart like fireworks, each spark lighting its own deadly branch, that darted in zig-zags through the air. The Gleeok, hopeless to dodge such a flurry, lost one of its wings to countless tears and perforations and then crashed to the ground. 

Before the beast could stomp its way inside the keep, Lana blocked its entrance with a crackling barrier and whipped around to look at her companions. “Then- The real Ghirahim and Zant… They must be hiding somewhere, commanding from afar!”

“Oh, they can’t be that far. Those two draw to carrion more than a common fly,” Midna grimaced, squinting to peer out into the scorching desert. “Just so happens, I got just the trick up my sleeve to get to the bottom of this. Ruto! Cover me!”

Ruto nodded, readying her spear to join Lana’s side. Lana’s barrier did not hold much longer. Every passing second, the Gleeok was driven to madness by two voices balking commands into its triplet minds, and could only think to throw itself at the magical wards harder. Finally, it burst through, and wasted not a moment to start snapping at the two warriors in its way. Lana fought grimoire in hand, turning scattered parchment into razor-sharp projectiles, while Ruto threatened every impending bite with a thrust of her spear. 

While the Gleeok was rapidly losing scales to the combined assault, Midna stretched out her hand, readying a spell amidst the chaos. A gap tore itself through the fabric of reality, manifesting as a spreading shadow on the ground, soon thrumming and glowing with runes.

Stepping out of the shadows was a little girl, no older than eleven, who curtsied under the protection of her parasol. “Agitha has waited patiently as you ordered, Miss Kitty! How can she be of assistance?”

Lana was almost as disturbed by the girl’s appearance as Ghirahim and Zant, but clearly for different reasons. “A-Agitha? But… The two of you can’t just go out there alone. There are still giant monsters alive!”

The Zora Princess glanced over her shoulder, the second of distraction nearly costing her a fin to the jaws of the Gleeok. “Sorceress, if you wish to accompany them, We will hold down the Oasis.”

“Ruto, are you sure? In this weather, the Zora-”

“Do not doubt the resilience of Our people,” Ruto interjected, jabbing her spear between the plates on one of the dragon’s jugulars. “We know where their limits lie. Place your trust in Us. Now, go! Waste no precious seconds!”

“My, what a shame,” a voice echoed from the dragon. “They’ve become aware of our little plan quicker than expected.”

Zant figured to broadcast his mockery through the Shadow Insect still perched on the dethroned creature. Bleeding heavily from one of its throats, its still-living heads contorted their faces into toothy grins, the Gleeok puffed out its chest and stanced imposingly. The spread of its wings blotted out the sun above the keep, casting it in shadow.

Ghirahim found it a fine idea. “Then let them come find us! We’ll finish them off right away!”

Thus, precious seconds were wasted. By some incomprehensible measure of lollygagging, Midna stuck around while Lana and Agitha made for the desert. The pair of girls slipped past the Dodongo only thanks to Midna’s uncouth taunts, who sent wolves yipping and nipping at its front legs. A little of Zant’s own hatred for the Twilight Princess must have leaked into it, then, because the beast took the bait hook, line, and sinker. So focused it was on the hounds and the woman cheering them on behind them, that it failed to notice its remaining surroundings. Its maw opened wide, readying a blazing inferno, and aimed straight for its annoyance. 

Only for said target to dodge out of the way at the very last second, dragging the Zora Princess out of the trajectory along with her. Instead, the hellfire launched across, square into the chest of the already wounded Gleeok and melting everything in its way. A weaving path of coarse glass glittered in the sand, tying the two monsters by a thread of aggression. Their dragon could not resist retaliation and lunged for its treacherous comrade.

Thus, in the Oasis, two of the beasts were tearing each other down. In the sand wastes, one last beast made itself useful. The King Helmaroc, contrary to its name, was an obedient creature, and soared as high or hovered as low as they needed it to. Through its eyes, they saw Midna had joined the pair a little after her charade of chaos. 

From this vantage point, Ghirahim and Zant quietly observed their desert trek. At least, until Zant clicked his tongue, seeming annoyed. “I see now why they brought the girl. I should have expected this.”

“Somehow, even when we share the same thoughts, you manage to puzzle me. Get to the point.”

“Look closely. They have a Goddess Butterfly. It will lead them straight to us, and the labyrinth will not keep them.”

Once again, silence fell between them. Less time wasted in the labyrinth meant fewer opportunities to whittle down their strength. With this many enemy commanders, such a head start was crucial.

Even so, the thought of their plan failing ever so slightly, filled Ghirahim with a strange sense of excitement. “An unfortunate twist, but… Frankly, I was getting bored. I’m itching for a fight.”

Then, as if Zant had taken note of his excitement, he felt the warmth of a smile inside his mind. “Ghirahim-ili… When they arrive here, let us fight our hardest.”

Of course, the Helmaroc understood nothing at all of such banter. It was far more focused on the triad of two-footed creatures zipping through the sand sea. To a bird, this entourage of warriors must have looked awfully like a line of ants. 

It dove down for them, talons outstretched, as if they were. 

The first to react was not the Sorceress, nor was it Midna. Instead, the young girl turned a pouting face to the sky and popped the cork off a glass jar.

In an instant, a massive, emerald beetle appeared from thin air and swung its horn full-force into the Helmaroc’s gullet. Their eyes in the sky shrieked. An explosion of feathers obscured their vision as the panicked bird flailed its wings, knocked entirely off balance by the throttling of this massive bug. Zant’s quiet marvel for the adversary’s familiar was drowned out entirely by Ghirahim’s rage. How preposterous! This massive bird of prey, knocked out of the sky by a mere insect!? He took the reins immediately. 

The beetle now dismissed, the Helmaroc King chased after the girls on foot, pouncing at them with its claws and jabbing with its beak. But just as it started to get the drop on the group, the Temple complex was in sight, and the doorway they slipped through would never fit their bird.

When the Helmaroc was left behind them, squawking and pacing indignantly at the gate, the trio chased the little glowing insect through the Temple’s ever-twisting halls. Following this journey proved to be a pain. Zant had only set up Shadow Insects in so many corridors, and tracking their trajectory was a dizzying flurry of different angles and crowding soldiers. Yet, Zant managed to follow them in glimpses. Hyrulean and Demon soldiers alike had swarmed the place, fighting pointless battles in corridors leading nowhere. Undead gaolers were already scavenging the heaps of dead and injured, either locking those still breathing in chains, or ripping the bones from the freshly deceased to replenish their own limbs. Thus, the pair of women led a child over this carpet of corpses. The girl’s fighting ability mattered very little here – they were under the protection of Midna and her wolves, but even then, little ‘Agitha’, as they’d called her, looked too stunned to do anything but keep running. 

Along the way, found tearing the talons of a Dinolfos to replenish his throwing needles, was the Sheikah warrior. He had forfeited his turban to use it as a makeshift bandage for the wound in his side. The group swiftly urged him along. Striking down whatever station guards stood in their way, they reached the deeper bowels of the temple, where lines of defense grew more and more scarce.

The three eldest of the company grew more skeptical with each step. Midna leaned closer to Agitha, whispering something the Shadow Insect could not perceive.

“The Goddess Butterfly is never wrong, Miss Kitty,” the young girl assured. She seemed to have full confidence in the butterfly’s sense of direction, and faltered not even a second in chasing after it. And that confidence was well within her right, for Ghirahim recognized these corridors. They would reach their location in no time flat.

Soon, the ground beneath the group’s feet turned sandier and sandier, until the stone tiles were completely covered. They reached a dark chamber, lit only through the cracks of ventilation slits above the massive stone door across them. The butterfly fluttered across without a care, landing on the dusty surface of the door, and fanned its wings in rest. Agitha was about to tromp right after it, but the Sheikah stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. He pushed her back, right into Lana’s protective embrace. 

Painfully slow, annoyingly cautious, the Sheikah inched into the clearing of the room step by step. He could check for traps, he could listen for mechanisms and dowse for curses or enchantments, but he would find none. Instead, something found him.

A stinger, tall enough to almost scrape past the ceiling, shot out from the sand, and jabbed at the intruder. Its menacing needle missed only by the grace of the commander’s reflexes, pushing the tail out of its trajectory with a talon dagger, but failing to crack carapace. Shaking itself out of the sand, the final bastion had revealed itself. The Moldarach, a massive scorpion of centuries old, screeched and chittered a word of warning. Its pincers snipped menacingly, tendons tight and fierce. Yet, under the threat of its lightning-fast stinger, the little girl was least afraid of them all. 

Agitha looked up at the Moldarach in awe and rummaged in her basket, not taking her eyes off the creature once. “Ohh, I’d hate to hurt such a beautiful bug… I’m sorry, li’l one! But I don’t have a big enough bottle to keep you in!”

From it she retrieved an armful of glass jars, brandishing them as if they were explosives. Her entourage backed away hastily, clearly knowing far more about the contents of those jars than the Moldarach could. She tossed the jars with a sweep, racking them on the scorpion’s hard carapace at first impact. Out swarmed dozens of glowing, spectral butterflies, that headed straight for the first sign of soft flesh they could find: the Moldarach’s eyeball. The beast recoiled, pawing at its face in an attempt to shake the pests off, but it was fruitless. It could now only depend on the eyeballs hidden within its pincers, but in doing so, it revealed the soft tendons holding its claws together. Midna and the Sheikah exchanged a look, seemingly sharing an idea. 

Getting up close to this creature proved to be a challenge. Lunging in to take out its claws also meant being subjected to the monster’s lightning-fast reflexes, and Midna found herself trapped in its clutches soon enough. It squeezed, digging the teeth of its claws into her flesh dangerously. They hardly even needed the Shadow Insect for this – they could hear her cries of pain through the door. A little more and it might have killed her, had the Sheikah commander not severed the tender meat in its other claw. Its grip on the imp loosened in its distress and she managed to slip away, evading its gaze long enough for it to lose sight of her. The clash of claw, stinger, and blade continued, though the Moldarach grew more fatigued by the minute. Butterflies continued to eat at its face and attached themselves to whatever nerve opening they could find. Thus the creature slowed, its jabs and lunges losing their accuracy, until at long last it ceased its attacks altogether. They saw no use in waiting until the monster fully died; their little band of foils took this earliest opportunity to flee and push through the door.

The door slid open, grinding down coarse sand of centuries old as it slotted into the wall, and allowed the quartet of Hyruleans into the Coliseum. In the center they saw Ghirahim, lounging atop the Keep’s crumbling walls and examining his nails. 

Midna scowled, her fangs bared. She felt at the wounds on her chest, already scabbed over – so quickly? – and glanced to her side, where the child stood waiting expectantly. “Great work, Agitha. Now get out of here.”

At this command, Agitha looked to the Sheikah man with big, glittering eyes, smiling when he met her gaze with a nod. She curtseyed – if Ghirahim didn’t know any better, he’d think it was at him – and, with a dainty clutch of her frock, hopped down a Twilit portal.

“There you are, Demon!” Midna turned to foul, biting language the moment less-matured company was out of earshot. “Just you, huh? Go on. Cough it up! Where’s Zant? I don’t believe we got rid of him back in the desert. Not one bit!”

Ghirahim laughed, once again donning his gloves. Now more appropriately dressed, he hopped down from his perch and landed with a feathery flourish. Now that he seemed to be alone, and outnumbered at that, he decided he could afford a bit of taunting. He hummed, tapping thoughtfully at his chin with a wildly exaggerated gesture. “Oh, who can say? You make such a poor host out of me. All these questions, yet I’ve no intent to answer them!” Resting his hand on his cheek, he turned to Midna with a grin. With a puff of diamonds, he vanished, then reappeared before Midna, leaning down to glare at her with one pair of big, buggy eyes to another. “Say, I have one of my own. You look different. New haircut?”

Midna bared her teeth in a snarl, the fist at the end of her ponytail balling tightly until its fibers threatened to give. She lunged for him, the massive orange hand open and clawed. When his defending sword caught on the curved metal of her bangle, she leaned in with a grin. “Real jester you are! I take it this was your idea, then? That gaudy-masked imp told me to send you its regards.”

Majora. Ghirahim winced. It was getting a little too quiet on the Arch Demon’s front, he’d thought. But to rear its head again and mess with the Demon King’s enemies… There was no telling of its little plans. He turned his blade with a flick of his wrist, threatening to sever her hair at the shackle, and forced her back. “If I wanted you to be cursed, I’d ask someone more reliable.”

His eye flicked to the ground. Where he stood now, the low angle of the light stretched his shadow to that of the Keep’s walls… 

Zant emerged from the shadows in an instant, mere inches behind Midna, and swung at her like wings on a windmill. She shielded herself with the hair-clad hand of her ponytail, only to realize within a split second that the Twilight King’s new blade cut right through it. Ducking quickly out of the way, she spun through the air, launching herself to stand closer to her two companions. 

“It is a shame about your plight, Twilight Princess. I would have preferred to fight you in a more dignified form.”

When Midna forfeited a reply to glare him down, he laughed, turning to the altar behind him. “Nostalgic, is it not?” Zant waxed, his arms spread as he spun himself to the center of the coliseum. “The birthplace of our people. And perhaps, where the last of us will meet our end.”

Midna then made the grave mistake of taking his poetics as an opening and launched for him, the hand on her ponytail outstretched. The giant fist clenched around empty air when Zant promptly warped out of her way. Placing himself beside her momentum, he swung his scimitar down like a cleaver.

In an instant, magical wards were shattered. Showered in a foreboding glitter of gold, Midna cried out and smacked to the ground. But before Zant could lift his blade again and cleave her in half properly this time, the Sheikah dashed in to intervene. Only to then, himself, be driven to his knees by the daunting force of the Twilight King’s blade. It was two against one; each time Zant had subdued the one foe, the other would step in to try and take him out through his flanks. But Zant was too quick, his blade too sharp. Screeches rang out when the scimitar coursed past the edges of the Sheikah’s daggers, filling their cutting edges with worrying chips. Then, the first of them shattered to pieces completely.

Amidst it all, Zant cackled maniacally, madness tugging at his sweat-drenched brow with each swing of his sword. “Witness me, Ghirahim! We are unstoppable!”

But Ghirahim had very little time to witness. Lana had chosen him as her opponent and did everything in her power to keep him from uniting forces with his co-lieutenant. Frankly, he was a little amused that the Sheikah had not dared to face him a second time. But moreso, insulted, that the Demon Lord was not deemed a terrible enough foe to require backup to challenge. Tongue lolling from his lips in mockery and Annihilation in hand, he decided to make the Sorceress severely regret underestimating him.

Scratches tore through his robes and the strikes that hadn’t broken through his leather mail had surely bruised him, but Zant didn’t seem discouraged by injury whatsoever. Instead, he pushed through, seeking risk after risk and tearing through everything that opposed him. Soon, that boldness was awarded. Midna held up her hair-clad fist to defend herself, and Zant carved through two of its fingers as if it were made of wet paper.

Zant screeched with delight. “Your weeks of bedrest have atrophied your skills, Princess! While you lay there rotting in your own misery, I have gotten stronger!”

Midna growled, ducking behind the Sheikah to conceal herself from his bloodthirsty glee. Ghirahim, though, could see everything. Portals appeared in the shadows and from it surfaced a trio of wolves, each raising its hackles before bursting past the Sheikah and charging at the Usurper.

“Such cheap tricks will not work a second time,” Zant clicked his tongue.

Then, with a gust of wind, he launched himself backward and well out of range of the two warriors. With a single twirl, he drew a circle in the sand with his feet, and raised his arms to the skies. When he parted his lips to speak, every shadow stilled at once, slithering beneath the feet of each combatant, turning the air thick and heavy.

The air grew heavy, stopping every warrior in their tracks. A pale blue light shone from above, but none dared take their eyes off him to look for its source.

One by one, limbs limp and gangly in their descent, three creatures fell from the sky. Upon hitting the ground, their bodies contorted as they rose, each more bizarrely and stiffly than the next. They were massive, gray things, fitted with stone masks upon their faces and a mass of wet, slithering tentacles pouring from their faces.

Without even having to command them, the monsters galloped on all fours to throw themselves at the hounds. They entangled in a mess of rune and shadow, tumbling through the dust in a bestial scuffle. Midna looked on with horror.

Her companion had different concerns. Distracted by the sounds of magic, she whipped around. “That spell… How does he know that spell!?”

Just as Lana yelped, beset once more by the Demon Lord’s blade, Zant scoffed. “Did I not say I have gotten stronger!?” he taunted, knocking another brittle dagger out the hands of the Sheikah.

“Stronger!? And yet you rely on them?” Midna shouted, hurtling herself past her fellow commander to throw herself at Zant in a raging flurry. Where Zant could not parry her, he settled for shooting her from the air at point-blank with his projectiles. “How dare you utter even a word of affection toward our people, when you force their mutilated bodies to fight for your own gain!”

“Make your dogs stop attacking them, then,” Zant said, thoroughly nonplussed. At last, he forced both combatants off of him with a resounding shock wave, rattling even Ghirahim’s core where it rested in his metal.

When the ringing in his mind subsided, a different, familiar sensation took over Ghirahim. A blinking sound deep within him, imperceptible before, now alerted him to the presence of his kin. Fi – and by extension, most likely the green-clad knight tagging along – was fast approaching. “Oh, thank Our Lord, your cavalry is arriving. I was worried it would get a little too easy.”

Lana fell to the ground as Annihilation jabbed into her ribs. Its point bounced off stronger wards than he’d been met with before, and though Ghirahim didn’t exactly break skin, she clutched her chest with a groan either way. All three of their opponents exchanged a worried look, doubtlessly contemplating how to best gang up on them as they were bound to do.

Just as each of the Demon lieutenants took a step forward, deciding whose head to lop off first, new presences made themselves known. Pointing the glowing Goddess Blade forward in dowsing, Link entered through the stone gate, with Fi soon joining by his side. This second of distraction, a spark of hope for Hyrule, was just enough for the lot of them to scramble back to their feet and cluster into tight formation.

“Everyone, watch out,” Lana shouted, grimoire at the ready. “Only those with the Triforce can wield that magic!”

“He still has it?” Midna asked, eyeing Zant with her fangs bared.

Not expecting that reply, Lana turned to Midna, eyes wide with shock. “Still!?”

“Oh, so you remembered,” Zant chimed, making his way to the clustered group without hesitation. “Our Master is quite generous with his gifts. A small piece of that power is all I need to decimate the lot of you, who now have none at all. You would do better not to underestimate us!”

Midna’s eyes darted between her companions. A heaving, determined sigh tore through her. Then, her enraged expression twisted into a malicious grin. Her arms raised, she placed her hands on either side of her helmet. “Doesn’t matter. I could best you then, and I can do it now!”

The Coliseum was bathed in shadow. Midna drew darkness to her like a cyclone. Where Zant’s shadowy magic was warm and suffocating; a pulsing, all-consuming parasitic disease, hers was an eerie chill. From the pitch-black surrounding her feet, three ancient stone artifacts, the Fused Shadows, surfaced and encased her like a tomb.

When the first spidery legs burst forth from the bottom of the Twilight Princess’ stone-hewn armor, Ghirahim found himself beset by his own opponents. Link, drenched almost completely red with monstrous blood, ran for him, aiming right for his chest. Disappointed, almost, that the boy had learned nothing, he took hold of the blade with his bare hand, flicking it aside just in time to be able to step out the way of Fi’s impending kick. They were teaming up against him again, just as their other, more wounded companions were now piling on Zant. Where worry once would have possessed him, Ghirahim was now buzzing with nothing but thrill. The boy was already exhausted. He would get to tug the cords of his life from him strand by strand, and he hardly had to break a sweat to do so.

With that ever-lasting nuance and his dancing blade demanding his every second, Ghirahim couldn’t spare a glance at his battling compatriot. Not even as tendrilous arms, gnarled and glowing like smoldering branches of wicker, scampered around this battlefield, their incessant thumping shaking the rubble off the walls. Dust and pebbles rained down from above, only to be meticulously carved into halves by his sword. Some time ago, the duo of Link and Fi had bested him. 

But back then, he didn’t have this blade. Annihilation soared and carved, striking hard enough to make even the stone-faced Goddess Blade wince as he parried her swinging legs. With this power, enemy numbers didn’t matter – he would win.

A twinge of anxiety simmered in him nonetheless. While he could indeed not spectate the battle behind him directly, he caught impressions from the piece of himself, wielded by his co-lieutenant. A screech of metal, a beast recoiled. Hair-coiled fists he so easily carved through minutes past now felt solid as rock. Midna could not find a way through his defenses, and the ground shook as she struggled away from his offenses. Those that dared to try left a taste of blood upon his blade, however slight. Weapons crashed into each other in such a cacophony he could no longer distinguish the flashes of light in his own battle, from the ones imposed on him by Zant’s hands. To any mortal, such a barrage of violence would render them collapsed in the confusion, but to Ghirahim, it was Paradise.

Yet, this could not last long. Caught in bladelock with Link, he swiftly kicked the boy off of him when an alarming sensation overtook him. The part of him resting within the Demon Scimitar overloaded him with visions. With the uttering of strange words, Lana had bypassed Zant’s wards. Metal groaned eerily, then exploded, shrapnel shooting into the sand. An inky-black fist clutched around an equally black steel javelin, then threw it whistling through the air. But Midna didn’t aim for the now staggered Zant – she aimed at the ceiling. Chunks of stone and wispy sands rained down, blinding all who waited below, until the dust cleared. Zant noticed it before anyone else, and burst out into a shriek when sunlight flooded every corner of the Coliseum. 

They hounded him like a pack of starved wolves. More blinded than ever and his skin blistering, Zant couldn’t defend himself from the Sheikah’s assault, nor Link’s, nor Lana’s, all the while Fi kept Ghirahim across the arena. His guard dog, forced away from its flock. With every second in the sun, Zant was weakening. He simply couldn’t keep up, not while blinded and in agony like this. With desperate flings of their sword, he only barely managed to deflect the blows that would have otherwise sliced his head off. Blood stained the sand around him as strike after strike tore through his armor like it was no more than air. When his weapon finally fell from his hands, Midna took it as a sign, and grappled his battered body with a tendril for each limb. When he lifted his face, his stare was aimless, but full of malice.

“Sheik, now!”

Lana commanded, desperately eyeing the still-bleeding Sheikah commander. He complied with a nod too serene for such a boyish warrior. A glow gathered in his palms, abstract and foggy at first, until he grasped it, held it before him, and drew the string. Fuzzy sparkles shed from the light-made object, revealing its true form.

A bow. With a single blink, the Sheikah’s eyes turned from red to crystal blue.

It was the Princess! Ghirahim’s body froze over. In Zant’s current state, that single arrow would be fatal. What could stun their Master was deadly poison to his underlings.

An inhibition, once hard-coded into every fiber of his being, now shattered. Annihilation felt feather-light in his hands but crashed into Fi with the force of a stampede. A single facet chipped off her core, and would still be floating in the air when Ghirahim bolted to the center of the arena. Step, after step, after step, pummeling the sand into craters. The arrow nocked and braced, was then released. Ghirahim disappeared. A whistle, fletchings quivered in the air. Ghirahim burst into view in the middle of the Coliseum, arms outstretched. He grabbed Zant by the shoulders, and with a chime of diamond magic, they were gone.

The arrow pierced into the Keep wall. A piece of Fi’s core fell into the sand. Out of the five warriors present, none of them had been able to prevent their escape.

He needed shadows. There was only one place that would suffice. Around them, the world turned monochrome. With the Twili tucked carefully in his arms, he set his sights far beyond the labyrinth and took them both to the Palace. Nowhere would be darker than the quarters of the Twilight King.

Sheets hastily ripped off, bedding drenched in darkening blood. Zant lay stiff and unmoving, gasping like a fish, struggling none as Ghirahim ripped his clothes from him. A decorative fastening pin flew and clattered across the tile floor. Zant’s portrait above them looked on with a smirk.

Hyrulean weapons had gone right through his armor. He was a mess of red-stained wool and torn leather, gaping wounds pulsing fresh blood. Far too much of it. Ghirahim ripped the cork off a potion bottle with his teeth and shoved the glass opening to Zant’s lips, who coughed and sputtered as the thick liquid gushed down his gullet. 

“Just this- Just this, and you will be alright. Stay with me,” Ghirahim hissed, keeping a close eye on the Twili’s battered body. Wounds closed up, but too many remained raw and open. Cursing under his breath, he snipped his fingers, keeping one hand – glove bunched underneath his grip – pressed heavily to a gash on Zant’s thigh. And what a useless measure it was. This wound was just one of many that needed his attention. The sheets he tore from the cupboards, drenched in water from his nightstand washing table and spilled bourbon, soon lost their white cleanliness to deep, deathly red.

Needle and thread summoned themselves with a snip of his fingers. Sewing implements, but Ghirahim had little else in his reach. Zant cried and whined when the makeshift gauze was now pressurized by a knee, Ghirahim’s hands too occupied with the needle. Bent into a rounded angle around his finger, sterilized with a flame. He thread the needle and set to pushing it through flesh.

“I’d say your crying brings me misery, Zant,” he grinned, an expression creeping on him purely from his nerves, “but do not stop. At least then I know you are alive and conscious.”

Pierce, tug, tie, and snip. Rhythmic and perfect, Ghirahim mended wound by wound. He knew how to carve flesh, so too, did he know how to sew it back together. Each wound bled with different severity. His midriff, his legs, his chest. There, he’d been carved down to the rib, surrounded by irritated flesh and glowing veins. The body tormented by these injuries cried and cried, but had not the strength to even writhe. As focused as Ghirahim was, his eyes still strayed and flicked to his right. Zant’s naturally pallid complexion helped him absolutely none in telling how much time he had. But his fading patterns did. Their teal glow almost ceased. Another potion. This time, he poured some of it directly on the still-opened wounds, hoping their sizzle would burn the veins shut. Zant was awake enough to swallow the rest of it, but not to protest against the drops that snuck into his windpipe. Only when Ghirahim had turned him on his side to tend to his back did the healing liquid’s magical effect rejuvenate him enough to rasp and hack it up. He shrieked immediately when the sudden jolt caused Ghirahim’s needle to stick him.

“Keep whining, please,” Ghirahim muttered. “If you have enough energy to act childish, then…”

Zant hissed, growled, snarled, every tug of the thread now an affront. His toes curled and his fingers dug in the sheets, weakly, but characteristically, either way. When every wound he could see was stitched, Ghirahim took the cords of lacing out the loops at his back and rid Zant of his final layer. Red, white, black; teal slowly returning, if it wasn’t simply the phosphorescent glow of the room around them. In a few days, this body would be a rainbow of bruises. Should he last that long.

Only then did Ghirahim allow himself to draw breath. Not as a necessity, but as a soothing tic, to come back to his senses and for a second empathize with a mortal man. He slumped onto the bed, his head resting on Zant’s chest. It was in this rest that the full gravity of the past minutes reached him. Rather, it jumped full force onto his back, its weight forcing him into immobility and sinking him into the bed. Ghirahim couldn’t recall when he started weeping; he’d been on auto-pilot from the second Zelda nocked her arrow.

Zant’s heartbeat thumped against his forehead, hard and heavy as it would whenever the Twili had a lump in his throat. Its pace quickened when Ghirahim spoke. “I almost lost you.”

Zant’s hand raised, then dropped onto Ghirahim’s back. Cold fingers stroked him softly. “You may still, Oibedelrik, Yima Daegge Esweteli,” Zant whispered hoarsely, forcing his words out with the nigh manual contracting of his rib muscles. “Odowuni kem idzidiy Iya, ee Iya-” he murmured, his eyes rolling to the backs of their sockets. His eyelids fluttered shut, then shot back open, revealing darting pupils as if he’d just remembered where he was. “I am not yet bandaged,” wheeze, “and when my blood returns to me,” wheeze, “I may yet fall to fever.”

“Shut up.” Banish the thought. As if he would be so negligent! A doctor, he was not, but as much as he could bring death, he could also spot its tellings, and he did not intend on letting it rear its head again. Ghirahim closed his eyes, listening intently to his pulse – as if it would slip away if he turned away for even a second – then raised himself to finish the job.

He had to go back to the battlefield. There was no telling whether all their beasts had been defeated or not, or whether they even had a chance to take down Hyrule’s commanders. He would return, alone if he had to, Ghirahim decided as he stroked a warm, wet cloth along the dried blood on Zant’s torso where his stitches did not taint him. But he’d only leave when Zant was stable. 

In his spiraling, Zant’s hand had found its way to his hair, running its fingers through the strands. For once, Ghirahim cared not how bloodstained he would get. Zant’s weak voice muttered, slipping between heaving breaths. “All of them, at once… I foresaw many, but every caste and clade…”

“I know, I know,” Ghirahim responded, wringing the blood from the reddened cloth. “But the more we whittle down today, the less prepared they’ll be when Master strikes.”

“There is no ‘we’, Ghirahim. I cannot fight like this. I was bested once again.”

“I will take care of it,” Ghirahim muttered, a frown on his brow. He thought it ripe time to change the subject. “The Princess, disguising herself as a Sheikah... I’d almost say she exceeded us in trickery today.”

Zant sighed, his arm quickly becoming deadweight in his hand as Ghirahim took it for bandaging. That strange gray on his skin had spread almost no further. “Posing as a substitute for General Impa, I reckon.”

Ghirahim left Zant to his musings and grew oddly giddy with his own. The thrill of battle and clawing his companion away from death’s door scalded him from within, filling him with an inexplicable well of energy. 

“But if the Princess is here… That’s good news, wouldn’t you say?” Ghirahim began to prattle, a manic tug at his brow as he pinned the last few bandages in place. “Fewer commanders are guarding the palace than we expected. If we hurry and inform Master Ganondorf, surely–”

“Ghirahim–”

But Ghirahim did not hear him. Whatever he said then, he could not even recall himself, so thoroughly he was caught up in a whirlwind of plans.

“Ghirahim, stop.”

The pair met eyes in silence, one still wearing a bewildered grin, the other lying grim and pale on what was almost his resting place. “There is no point. Your revelation will fall on deaf ears. We were never meant to leave this desert.”

Ghirahim’s expression dropped, managing only a slight grin in his confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Master sent us here to die.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ghirahim frowned, fighting off a pit of dread in his gut. This was just his usual delirium, he thought. The same madness shaken into him by fear and injury, like it had Volga.

Zant, however, did not take his struggle kindly. He frowned at him indignantly. “You call me ridiculous? You deceive even yourself. Face it, Ghirahim. We are two against seven of Hyrule’s finest commanders. This was a suicide mission from the start, as I suspected Death Mountain must have been, too.”

“... But-” Ghirahim struggled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Zant was a liar, he knew this. But now? To him? About something like this? Neither possibility, not Zant deceiving him so brazenly, nor being abandoned by his Master, computed in his mind. “We were- What could I have done to displease him to this degree? Why would he want to be rid of me? You speak nonsense!”

“You did nothing, Ghirahim. You are perfect. Your sole crime was associating with me. For me, it was only a matter of time until he did away with me. He is unworthy for the throne, and, one way or the other, I would have stopped him from seizing it.”

Ghirahim froze. Pieces fell on the ground before him but he didn’t dare to watch them assemble. Something hot and furious was starting to thaw the ice of his shock from within. “What?”

“Your surprise tells me he did not even bother to confirm his suspicions before abandoning you.” With a huff and groan, he shifted, trying to prop himself upright on his pillow. The grimace he pulled in his pain remained in his face, molded from rage and hatred. “I detest him, Ghirahim, and finally he has noticed it. He must have known I wished for his death, and that I intended to follow through.”

Ghirahim staggered away from the bed as if pushed. An instant revulsion forbade him from staying anywhere near the wounded man before him, and in his disgust, he willingly followed this instinct. He scowled at him, wide-eyed and vicious, tongue lashing and drenched with venom. “So your title was given to you for good reason. I cannot believe my ears. Immature little boy, you are! Our accursed usurper, unable to keep his grubby claws off any throne when he grows the slightest bit displeased. You ungrateful wretch!”

“Ungrateful? You know not what you speak of,” Zant scowled right back, tears of rage welling up in his eyes and his teeth bared. The Lord of Twilight turned to him unflinchingly, hunched like a pouncing beast as if his drive to convince him had filled him with fresh vigor. “In my time, Ganon was to me what Demise was to you. My God, I adored him,” he waxed, hands covering his face in grief. “I did his bidding. I worshiped him, freed us both from our decrepit prison. Yet, when I gave my life for him, he broke his promise to me. Instead of freeing my spirit to rule by his side, he took everything I ever worked for. And then- then-” Zant paused, hands falling limply into his lap. “When defeated by his little foil, when the strings of his soul dared touch upon mine to beg for my assistance, I denied him.”

Zant’s eyes turned to him again. The first hints of a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “You understand, don’t you? It was no hero, no princess, who slayed the Demon King in the age of Twilight. The one to deliver the final blow, was me.”

That very second, a little part of Ghirahim’s world shattered. When he realized the consequences of plotting alongside a man so treacherous, the rest shattered with it. Right under his nose, Zant had made an enemy of his Master, and by extension, of Ghirahim. There were questions he wanted to ask, insults to be hurled. He could only think of one question, that bubbled to the surface of his heart like scum in a boiling pot. “How long have you plotted this?”

Zant lowered his gaze, for as far as the stare of a near-blind man mattered. “From the very start,” he admitted, sighing. “After such a betrayal, to awaken to another manifestation of my tormentor, and have him once again demand my services… He may as well have spat in my face. Though, I admit, for a little while, I buckled. Somewhere, I must have loved him still, drawn to his power and our shared hatred for Hyrule as I was. I wanted to see if I could trust this version of him, who seemed so noble. But after your stories, Ghirahim, how his incarnations cast you aside so carelessly… I made up my mind. Ganondorf does not change.”

“So then all of this was just a lie, part of your plans?” Ghirahim asked, his voice quaking. He didn’t care for Zant’s excuses, not when they pulled every minute he spent by his side into question. Not when they sabotaged everything he’s ever stood for. “I, too, just a little scheme for you?”

Zant gasped, inching closer to the edge of the bed to look at him in pleading. “No, Ghirahim. How could I have foreseen this? I came to you seeking an ally, and I found a new reason for my heart to beat. For every lie I have told you, I have spoken to you as many truths tenfold, in how I’ve grown to love you. It is only because of you I have made it this far. You’ve given me peace, soothed my soul when I threatened to bubble over. And, more importantly, Ghirahim-ili, you have made a warrior of me.” Zant urged, attempting a smile, his hand outstretched. “Which is why I ask you to join me.”

Ghirahim was too stupefied by his words to answer. So Zant took advantage of his silence to continue. “You know now of my hatred, my every motivation. Yet you stay loyal to him, even if you must know he will not spare you. He has not spared you, for he resigned someone so loyal to him to the same fate he did a traitor.”

His arms snaked around himself, his nails digging in the false skin of his arms. Ghirahim took another step back; the Twili’s presence alone made it feel like insects were crawling inside his steel, tunneling through him like termites. His mind hit a roadblock, reached a final terminal, and the logic Zant asked from him sat horizons away where his tracks would not reach. “... Then if Master wills it-”

Zant shot up in his seat, snapping at him before he could finish his sentence. “Do you know how it hurts me, Ghirahim? To see someone so precious to me tear himself apart over someone who would shatter him on a mere whim? After all you do for him, he denies you at every turn and punishes you for the barest things. It has taken every shred of composure I had not to tear into him when he threatened to hurt you. If I had not hated him before, the way he treats you would have convinced me to.”

He’d avoided his eyes up until then, but Ghirahim now shot his gaze straight at him. They exchanged a scowl, each gnashing teeth, one from hatred, one from love. Desperation seized him and sharpened his edge. 

Ghirahim made for him and pushed him back into the pillows. “You know not what you ask of me. To think I would care what hurts you now, after what you’ve told me! You speak of whims? You’re asking me to abandon my every purpose for something as small as your mortal love. My purpose is all I have. It is me. To ask me to betray Demise is to doom myself to scrap, Zant.”

Zant had refused a squeak when he was shoved. With tears in his eyes, he simply laid there, glaring at him. He cradled a freshly ruptured suture through its bandages. “You are not yourself when you speak of him! Listen to the words you spew! Scrap!? So highly you think of yourself, you carry yourself as the priceless artifact that you are, yet when around him, you are degraded to the ranks of mere tools.”

Ghirahim gripped his hair in wild frustration. “Because- I am precisely as perfect as I am because of Him! Without Him, without a hand to wield me, I am nothing.”

Zant stared at him, perturbed, before groaning in his agony and sinking into his pillows. For a moment, he wilted again, speaking bitterly as he resigned himself. “Then you have been, and will be nothing, for a very long time.”

In an instant, his vision went red. “How dare you!”

Ghirahim pounced him, hands outstretched and clawed, landing square upon his chest, ignoring the grit of Zant’s teeth, his squirms, his pained squeaks. All he paid attention to were his wide-open eyes and the fear he could milk out of them. He gripped him fiercely by the shoulders and shook him as he spoke. “It’s all your fault, isn’t it!? Why he would not wield me! Why I could not gain his trust!? All because of your greed, he now sees me as a conspirator to your rotten betrayal.”

His hands found Zant’s throat and squeezed. Ghirahim leaned in close, fangs bared. Zant did nothing. Just the sight of those glowing pupils fueled the fire of his rage. “A thousand miserable years I’ve waited, working hard to see him again. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? Your puny, mortal mind could never comprehend the lengths I’ve gone to!”

He reared back his fist, and still Zant did nothing. “Now I can wait thousands more, and he will never wield me again!!”

Ghirahim panted amidst his accusations, tears streaming down his cheeks the second they beaded in the corners of his eyes. He scanned the Usurper’s eyes for substance, for anything that wasn’t pity. When he didn’t find it, he snapped. Before he knew it, his fist connected to Zant’s cheekbone. Crack. “How could you do this to me? We were going to win!” Crack. “I would finally have been happy, after I’ve been alone for so long, and you RUINED everything for me!”

Crack. Snap. A whimper. There wasn’t an inch of Zant’s face untainted by blood and bruising, and still, that horrible fool did nothing to stop him. “I should kill you!”

He sent Zant’s head twisting left to right, right to left, with each punch. His heart had broken twice over today. First, shattered to pieces from all hope of becoming his Master’s blade. Then, its shards were trampled by the very man below his relentless assault, who had punished him so severely for daring to open himself to that mortal love. What a complete and utter fool he’d been. He should have expected to be punished like this, for entering a world he didn’t belong in.

And still, past the swollen, blood-smeared skin, Zant did not take his gut-wrenching eyes off of him, trying to fool him into loving him again to save his own measly life. It was an outrage! A betrayal this massive, and Zant had the gall to try and garner his sympathy. To assert they were alike in fate. There was only one who had lost everything, whose prospects were null, and who was only living on borrowed time. Only one banished from his home, his every goal snatched from before his nose. Only one whom his Master truly abandoned, to never be forgiven.

… No.

There were two.

Before his fist could crash into him once more, a convulsion tore through Zant’s body below him. Within the blink of an eye, he changed. His skin lost all color, turning a deep, shadowy black, while his patterns dimmed, and his hair bristled into a brittle white, like spider’s silk. 

Zant was dying.

The ties to the Demon Scimitar pulsed in his chest. There lied that rebellious little dagger, the one that thumped against the walls of his core whenever this wretch would look at him in his strange ways. Did it not feel good? Its little voice whispered in his mind. Even if it was such a small piece of you in his hands, did it not fill you with joy? Master will not wield us, and this world has so few who are worthy of us. Is it not better to rest part of you in capable hands, than in nothing at all?

Ghirahim clutched his head, begging for silence. He could not handle even a second of doubt, of weakness. If this man were simply dead, everything would be so much easier. If he were the one to kill him, Master would forgive him. But are you ready for him to die? 

He was. He would have to be. He wanted to be. It would be so simple. He just wanted to be wielded. To be held in someone’s hands, to be part of something greater.

He wanted to be loved.

Please, help him.

Oh, God. What has he done?

He detested the despairing little squeak behind him as he walked away from that deathbed. Even more, he reviled himself, for glancing behind and allowing the teeth of guilt to sink into him at the pitiful sight of that beaten creature. 

What he hated most was how he’d been convinced to return after his brief departure, healing elixirs in hand, and seeing tear-drenched eyes looking at him with a bloody smile. 

Don't look at me like that, you horrible man. You’ve ruined my life.

But that pitiful part of him felt relieved how Zant could smile at the sight of him still. How Zant was glad to see him, even after attempting to take his life mere seconds earlier. A withered hand shook as it reached out for him. Ghirahim took it and squeezed.

The room was silent as Ghirahim nursed Zant back to health. Far, far into the desert outside, chaos was unfolding. The few remaining giant monsters were now surely being slaughtered, and their troops would have to cherish idle hopes of succeeding in their reign of terror, in their commanders’ absence. Deep, deep below the ground, Gerudo and Bulblin who could not fight were taking shelter in the dungeons, waiting for the pounding footfall to fade away and leave them in peace.

Neither side knew they were here. They would sit in this room, disturbed only by the glare of Zant’s portrait, judging this pathetic display. Zant strained to breathe. His complexion had inverted almost to its original colors, while his hair returned to its original, rosewood shade. However, some strands retained that ghostly white from before. Ghirahim hoped it would be permanent. He hoped he would remember this accursed day every time he was confronted with his reflection. 

Never before had shadows bothered him. Now, in the deep darkness of Zant’s bedroom, it suffocated him. Neither of them said a word. There was nothing to say, but in this stifling pit of nothingness, he began to crave the slightest noise. He wished he could go back to a time when this dark was comforting, to be filled with nothing but idle chatter and the grappling of their bodies. Like this, through noise, through touch, Ghirahim could only think to hurt him.

So, Ghirahim seized the bridge of Zant’s nose and cracked what cartilage he hadn't shattered back into place. He took hold of his jaw, counted to three in his head, and popped the crooked thing back in its sockets. If Zant had cried out in pain at any of this, he wouldn't have noticed. The ringing in his ears was just too loud. His handiwork now finished, he trusted the potions to do the rest. 

Then, he waited. For anything, really. For the battle raging outside to dissipate. For their forces to come bursting through the castle gate cheering with glee, or for the enemy to come raid it of every worth and woman inside, and drag the two of them to the gallows, while they were at it. But mostly, he waited for any change in Zant. 

Look at him. He cannot even raise a finger to hurt you. You could end this right here, right now, Ghirahim thought to himself. Yet he sat and did nothing. When his eyes met the ones that stared glossily back up at him, filled with agonized gratitude, that thought snuffed out, and its wicker would burn no longer.

Ghirahim swallowed his apprehension, inhaled sharply, and sighed. “What will you have me do?”

Zant opened his mouth to speak, but the shards of crumbled teeth fell into his throat as he uttered his first syllable. Ghirahim sat and watched as he choked and spat them out on his pillow.

“We are to wait out the right time to strike back for the throne, but today, we cannot. So we will have to fool them with one more ruse. Return to the battlefield, Ghirahim,” he wheezed, swallowing the blood from a dry throat. “Strike at whoever is closest. Be vengeful. Be fierce. You must fight like you never have before.

Zant breathed deeply. With each chug of air, another wound closed up, though their scars and deep black bruises remained. “You are to disappear with me. They must be convinced that I succumbed to my wounds.”

You should have.

“And, to their knowledge, you will take to the grave with me. Come closer,” he said. His hand searched beside his face on the pillow and retrieved a shard of tooth, long and pointy, almost complete. With a tiny crack, he then reached over, and fastened it to Ghirahim’s earring, to an empty link remaining there. “A memento, to convince them of my death.”

Ghirahim rose again in silence. A little piece of bone so small dangled from his ear, but the weight of its burden could tip him over. Zant continued to speak as if this was the simplest matter in the world. “Take our blade. My power rests within it, still, and it is all the help I can afford you.”

Listlessly, mechanically, Ghirahim rose from his seat before Zant even finished his sentence. The sword lay by his bedside, hastily thrown to the side along with Zant’s armor. He picked up that shard of himself and apologetically wiped it of its grime. 

A roar reverberated from outside, echoing past the sands and through the castle walls. Zant called to his attention again with his glowing eyes aimed straight at him. “The Gerudo are innocent in all this. The least we can do is scare this vermin away from their homes. I trust you to have tricks up your sleeve, Yima Mionaida.”

Despite it all, his little nicknames stirred in his chest. Ghirahim clenched his fist harder around the grip of the Demon Scimitar, as if to smother it. His Diamond. The miserable, manipulative cretin that he was. And Ghirahim was doing all his bidding. 

Just before he could turn his back to leave, he was halted one last time. “Ghirahim,” Zant started, but he knew saying his next words would only draw his ire. His face said every letter anyway. I’m sorry.

Ghirahim ran. Within a flash, he was back in the sweltering heat of the desert, bolting from the Temple Complex and kicking up sand trails in his escape. He tore past keeps, the slain corpses of their monsters, and field battles still unfolding between forces too stubborn to believe the war was won. Those who dared bar his way were dealt with swiftly, their heads rolling. He left the perfect trail like this. A pristine white lightning bolt with a sword sharper than the cruel edge of time, such a description could only fit one man. The eyes he sought snared onto him. Enemy commanders, skeptically scouring the desert and leaving not a stone unturned for a trace of Ganondorf’s finest. Now, they found him and were giving chase just like he wanted. 

Blood and plate mail carpeted the vast sands racing below his feet. Rock outcroppings raced past; trampled patches of desert scrub – Safflina and a type of sagebrush. The smell of drying vegetation filling the air was the same as when Zant held sprigs from them up to his nose for inspection – and, finally, the gate to the bazaar, zipped past him. Almost, he, the false deserter, had gotten away with leading the lot of them out into the wider desert, until a familiar rumble ripped him from his concentration. 

Ghirahim swerved to the side, narrowly avoiding a boulder that barreled past him. It skidded to a halt before him and unfolded, though he didn’t have to see that transformation to know what nuisance stood before him. There was, once again, Darunia, Chief of the Goron Tribes.

“Not one step further, Pebble.”

The sight of him was enough to startle even Ghirahim, though he was too jaded to find any delight in it. Darunia’s torso was heavily scarred, and his right arm, gone. In its place was a jumble of machinery, with pistons and gears whirring noisily to heave the weight of a massive hammer at the very end of the prosthetic limb. Beyond a solid steel helmet, the Goron Chief wore a wide grin, though one less eye stared back at Ghirahim than last time.

“Thought to slip by us, did you? All on your lonesome?” said the Goron Chief, brandishing his weapon. “I wasn’t looking forward to facing off against that nutcase anyhow, but a lil’ something tells me my siblings took care of that for me…”

Ghirahim looked back. The peaks of Gerudo Palace were no longer in sight. For whatever chaos he would unleash… This would have to be far enough. All he had to do was stall for time until the rest of the Hyrulean commanders caught up to him.

“You truly wish to keep me? Very well,” Ghirahim replied, holding the Demon Scimitar up to the sun. Sand powdered his bodysuit from top to bottom, crusting gray and gold in every crease. But their blade remained immaculate. Its silvery edge still shone into his pupils, like teeth flashing in a hungry grin. “Make this worth my while.”

Darunia’s hammer pounded into the ground fiercer than ever. The springs on his arm, hefty as it might have been, gave him untold speed and force with each swing. Ghirahim couldn’t stop the speed of that hammer anymore – where there were once bulging veins now sat machinery, forged from a steel he dared not chip the Demon Scimitar on. So, he had to settle for the rest of this massive creature. They clashed like this for what felt like hours, neither showing any signs of tiring. The resounding clanks of the warhammer striking upon resonant steel had surely deafened them both, and everyone daring to come near them. It was thoroughly inelegant. Ghirahim hissed, roared, lunged at him with wild swings wielding a sword leagues to big for his frame. Such wild desperation hampered him as much as it worked in his favor. A grief-stricken foe was always quickly underestimated. Even with his new accessories, Darunia would not leave this battlefield unscathed. A blade made from the heart would know how to find another without effort. As he riddled the Goron’s bulging ribcage with scars, a foreboding chime in his core once again alerted him of his pursuers. They were getting closer. He could feel it. 

Then, for a second, he could feel nothing at all. A split second of distraction cost him dearly, when it allowed for Darunia to come within arm’s reach and drive his hammer straight into him. The flat of the giant hammer drove into the side of his head with such a deafening impact he thought his head might snap clean off. Instead, he remained intact, launched across the bazaar to tumble through ruined market stands and trampled carpets. When he came to a halt, all he could see was dust, the approaching Darunia not more than a shadow in the clouds of sand. Ghirahim stood up, a hand to his wounded cheek to find it just that – wounded. Through his false skin, he could feel chips taken out his face, like little razor-sharp dimples on his cheek.

The rest of them were approaching now, right outside the gate. Ghirahim found the least he could do was give them a proper welcome spectacle. Concealed by the dust, he launched forward at the shape of the Goron Chief in ambush. Its wicked, curved tip aimed at the jugular. Darunia staggered away, but every twitch of movement just made the scimitar slice him deeper. With just one more stumbling step, Ghirahim got the vengeance he wanted. An arc of blood gushed from the Goron’s collarbone, splattering to accessorize Ghirahim’s wounded face. Clutching his bleeding wound, Darunia thrust his metal arm forward to push the Demon away from him and hobbled back into the dust. 

Ghirahim gave chase until he remembered his task. Wind whipped through his hair and took the sands with it, revealing at last his surroundings to him. Standing in an arc around him, barricading his way to the desert, stood the mightiest of Hyrule’s army. There was nowhere left to lure them, this would have to be his final stand. He could not fight all of them at once – not Link, not Fi, not Zelda, not all of the other pompous royals gathered here. But he could make them see. The blade, the tooth dangling from his ear. Now, he would make them witness his sorrow. To their knowledge, it would be grief for a fallen friend, but in the depths of his core, he felt nothing more than disgust for obeying the word of another.

Tears gushed from his eyes. He was doing this – he was betraying his Master. Ghirahim (was he even worthy of a name?) contorted his face into a maddened grin. The carnage, the destruction, the pure, unfiltered chaos this final gambit would unleash might have pleased Him, but it would not be in His name. It was moot! He should have accepted his fate in the Arbiter’s grounds. He should have stood patiently waiting in executioner’s row, to be pierced by the very same arrow that he saved his conspirator from. If his Master willed him to shatter, to turn to dust and forgotten in the eyes of history, then that was to be his fate, and nothing more. 

Instead, the Sword Spirit glared down the approaching Hyrulean commanders with the same manic grimace, and readied his spell.

“Šamu dullu-ya, Majora! Bēlu ellāmu-adāni, Lā Naparkû Umṣu! Anāku bussuru kâti bursaggû, naqrabu napištu. Banû annûm āra-šu ašītu, baqāru tidintuka!”

He danced and danced through the sand, flickering himself atop every surface he could find to evade the grasp of his assailants. Midna and Lana were the first to stiffen, to call for someone to put a stop to this, but none of the arrows sailing past could hit their mark. Every word drained more and more energy from him. This was a true summoning, a bargain driven. Within the first uttering of the Arch Demon’s name, he could feel it watching, stalking around him like a wolf with gnashing teeth, licking its lips until it found his offer sufficient. 

He would have thought it an infernal illusion, ripping him to some other plane of existence, did he not notice the straw hat atop the mask and the blue sky expanding behind it. The Skull Kid floated before him upside down, looking him dead in the eye. With a single tap on the nose, it shook him out of his paralysis.

“Took you long enough. Don’t let me get bored again, Ghirahim-ili!”

It mocked, it shrieked with laughter, and it rattled its mask. Arms to the sky, it hovered squeaking and groaning with strain, and then with the same great effort, swung its clawed little hands down as if pulling a massive lever. Then, it waved cheerfully and disappeared within a blink. 

Silence. Nothing at all. The commanders still around him stood waiting with caution, alarmed by the Arch Demon’s arrival, and just-as-sudden departure. Only when a rumble shook the pebbles on the bazaar grounds did they think to look up.

Not Ghirahim. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the skies for even a second. He saw it the second Majora disappeared. A small dot, a mere speck in the endless blue of the cloudless heavens, approaching rapidly. The Moon was falling down on Gerudo Desert.

Cries of panic, of retreat. Chimes of magical transportation rang around him. Hyrule’s commanders were fleeing en masse. Perhaps he would not strike his intended targets, but he didn’t care. This battle would find no spoils or prisoners. Nothing but a wasteland would be left, leaving not the slightest bone for the vultures to scavenge. Swirling clouds of condensation shrouded the Moon in its rapid descent. It was hypnotic, almost, Ghirahim thought, standing in the center of its massive shadow. He considered then what would happen if he simply stayed here. The clouds dissipated as the Moon crossed their threshold. By all means, he was insane for dawdling here, and yet he took the time. 

Head cocked curiously, but eyes blank, he peered up at a giant visage that scowled back. Like it challenged him, almost. He was forged to survive any impact, surpassed only by weaponry that rivaled him in magic ability. But he’d never been hit by a meteor before. Would it shatter him? Did that matter? Oh, how tempting the thought was. He was a dead man walking either way. Where would he go if he survived such an impact? Master would break him. 

Ah, his trump card was getting a little close for comfort now. He could feel the heat of its approach on his skin, its tremors shaking the ground beneath his feet. There were mere seconds between this moment and the inevitable crater the Moon would leave. He turned his stare away from the skies and turned to look around. Not a soul remained in the bazaar, but the soldiers that fled – be they friend or foe – certainly weren’t far enough to escape the blast radius. They’d be dust soon, blend in with the sands.

Playtime was over. He’d fantasized plenty. Zant was waiting for him; whether he’d find him succumbed to his wounds, or in a prime state to kill him himself, he’d have to see when he got there. Whether he’d have the guts to see him to his end…

Now, to get out of here. 

#beararts #bearwrites #zant #ghirahim #ghirazant #hyrule warriors #loz fanfic #now theres a lot of characters in this one... give me a moment... #sheik #link loz #zelda #fi loz #lana loz #darunia #princess ruto #midna #agitha #skull kid #majora #tftk #whew thats all of em i think

[lindsaywesker]

Good morning! I hope you slept well and feel rested? Currently sitting at my desk, in my study, attired only in my blue towelling robe, enjoying my first cuppa of the day (green tea!) Welcome to the weekend and welcome to September!

Wow! Here we are again: Friday! Where did that week go? No, seriously, where did that week go?

First of all, many thanks to everyone that got involved with Throwback Thursday on my page. Yesterday’s word was HOME. Again, another emotive word! It has both good and bad connotations for people. I could lay my hat in all sorts of places but it wouldn’t feel like home! I like my bed, my sofa, my armchairs, my remote, my fridge, my study. You know I’m a creature of habit and routines, so I need to things to stay the same. Am I a little OCD? Maybe I am?

Looking forward to the weekend. After the show, we are popping down to Hove to see Lady Wesker. She’s been a bit out of sorts. A Curry’s delivery van totally wrote off her car (while it was stationary) and Curry’s stingy insurance company only gave Mum £2k. What can you buy for that? Anyway, she’s sorted now, so hopefully we can go out in her new (second-hand) car? The last thing your mum needs is some big oaf in a big van destroying the key to her independence. We will not be shopping at Curry’s again! Heartless corporate bastards!

A quick word on the England squad. The word is pathetic (and that’s being polite!) Maguire, Phillips and Henderson? Really, mate? Where are Sterling, Watkins, Bowen and Ward-Prowse? Southgate must think it’s still 2020?

Naturally, I’m very grateful to receive a lot of promos via email. However, it takes a lot of time to work through them all. I wouldn’t mind this if most of them were decent and playable, but most of them are NOT! Even new music by established names! Maybe I’m fussy but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. Doubtless, loads of people will say, “Oh, there’s plenty of good, new music, Lindsay!” Well, it might be good enough for YOU but I’ve been collecting top quality music since the late sixties and most of this new stuff is not cutting it! I look at the charts to see the most popular tracks, check them out on iTunes and, more often than not, I am seriously underwhelmed!

Really hope you can join me tomorrow at 1.00 p.m. for ‘The A-Z Of Mi-Soul Music’: The final part of The Letter P. We will have one week of Q, then move on to the next letter. I have made contact with the executive producer of The Letter R (Pt. 1) and she has built a superb show! We’re going to Jamaica in mid-September for a wedding, so I’ll miss one radio show but I’ll be back in time for the start of The Letter R on September 23rd.

Absolutely buzzing! Friday: my favourite day of the week! No work ‘til Monday, The Mighty Josiah arrives, Chinese for dinner and my team are on telly! Very excited!

Have a fabulous and funky Friday! I love you all. You’re probably thinking, “You don’t even know me!” but, if people can hate for no reason, why can’t I love?

#mixcloud #mi soul #dj #music #new blog #lockdown #coronavirus #books #weekend #democracy #brexit #cronyism #election #radio

[spngeorg]

Episode 107 - 6.03 The Third Man

CAS! IS BACK! FINALLY. And also unfortunately just in time to set him up to take the big fall for basically all of s6.... >.>

So much of season six makes SO MUCH MORE SENSE on a rewatch, which is one of the reasons I was so excited to get to this point in the podcast. For folks who’ve never rewatched the series, or maybe only rewatched favorite episodes, hopefully we’re all learning a new appreciation for some of the less-loved parts of canon. But I think we can all agree that Balthazar is very lovable in all his nihilistic hedonism.

Plus we get new lore about angels, souls, and what’s been going on in Heaven for the last year... sort of...

Something is very wrong with Sam, and Dean’s reaching a breaking point about it that will still take multiple episodes to really come to a head, so I do some griping about that s well.

And we learn that Dean and Cas do share a more profound bond (he wasn’t gonna mention it!) in the very episode where (oops!) the handprint mysteriously disappears from Dean’s arm AND we learn about angels being able to lay claims on human souls... so all that’s very interesting, yes?

LINKS!

The Superwiki page for this episode

My tag (about six pages of posts)

Filming locations map

CW Promo

Listen now on Spotify, or wherever you enjoy podcasts!

#spn podcasts #spn 6.03 #spiders georg of the tnt loop

[adultswim2021]

Moral Orel #21: “Praying” | April 30, 2007 - 12:15AM | S02E11

I forgot to post this last night! SORRY. Hey, I saw Plantasm, by the way. I wrote a review of my first reactions to it on letterboxd. Check that out if you don’t wanna wait years for it to show up on this blog. Maybe I’ll have a different opinion by then.

This one was vaguely familiar to me, and I’m pretty sure I watched it once. I remembered little bits and pieces from it, but don’t remember being super fond of it. Weirdly I found the ending to be rather moving, and I’m not sure why. 

In this episode, Orel is getting a lot of pressure from the adults in his life to practice extensively for the Moralton praying bee. Everyone has him practicing all god DAMN day, to the point where he sustains achy prayer joints. When he seeks out comfort and support, he only gets scorn for not practicing correctly. Looking for a sign from god, he winds up with a flyer for Stephanie’s sex shop. It’s just a piece of trash that blows into his face from the wind, but Orel believes in miracles and stupid shit like that.

Orel shows up at the sex shop, looking as stressed out as he feels (very). Stephanie teaches him to meditate, and he starts using the practice to de-stress. Soon he finds that it actually seems to help him get closer to god in a way that traditional prayer doesn’t. His father walks in on him and punishes him, telling him that “here in the land of the free, we’re lucky to have restrictions. Those restrictions are called dogma.” He instructs Orel to “throw dogma a bone” and lay off the Buddhism. 

The day of the competition comes, and Orel can’t turn off the noise in his head, which are the voices of the adults in his life. They are so loud that they are personified by barking dogs (the adult’s human heads are on Bartholomew’s body; Orel’s beloved dog that was basically murdered by these same adults). Orel finds himself meditating on stage, to the disapproval of everyone in the crowd. Orel also throws a metaphorical bone, causing all the dogs barking around his head to chase after it. Orel finds himself in the clouds having a conversation with Buddha, who inexplicably has a wacky Southern voice, who lets him know that it’s okay to use Buddhism to become a better Christian, but also the people in Moralton aren’t going to get it, so he should probably just keep it a secret. 

I never had a strong opinion of this episode, though I think it’s perfectly well-written. It’s light on laughs, though the comedy is present throughout. I never found this episode to be particularly moving either, but this time I did get a little emotional at the end, which is this: 

Orel’s opponent collapses after praying too hard, and Orel’s unorthodox methods have won him the competition. Orel gets carried out of the auditorium in triumph, but we see his non-corporeal form (his soul, perhaps) stay back on the stage, floating in the lotus position. He unbends his legs so that his feet meet the stage. I don’t even know how exactly this moment reached me, but I found it beautiful and it caused me to cry for a few seconds. Weird.

EPHEMERA CORNER:

Moral Orel Volume One DVD (April 24, 2007)

Moral Orel’s only volume released in North America (a second and third volume, comprising of the entire series was released in Australia). This was a great package, and it included a few commentaries, a little making-of documentary, promos and bumps, “odds and ends”, and the crowning jewel: video of “The Awkward Comic-Con Panel”, where the Moral Orel crew (Dino in particular) got drunk and disruptive and began attacking the Venture Bros. guys for having dyed hair. This video contains commentary from not just the Moral Orel crew, but also a second track by the Venture boys. 

I wish I could tell you what “odds and ends” refers to, but my DVD copy of Moral Orel went rotten and I can’t watch it. I literally had to download the Australian DVD when I was consulting the commentary tracks for this blog.

MAIL BAG:

What would you do for a Klondike bar?

?

What's next for Adult Swim now that Tim and Eric is done?

Coming soon we’ll be treated to three scamps with an even bigger flare for subversive comedy and making fun of mentally ill people. One of them is in my avatar. You’re going to love them. Six seasons and a movie

you just gotta love what saul is trying to do. there's a reason jimmy kimmel still considers gardner "a personal friend". Wow!

You do not, under any circumstances, “gotta love” what saul is doing. He’s doing a bad job

Who do you like more: Josh Gardner or Scott Gairdner

Scott’s a proper lege, his banter’s good, and Tiny Fuppets is the definitive joshing of the Vídeo Brinquedo canon. Lotas great Youtube stuff, and Neon NIghtriders or whatever it was called was underrated. Moonbeam City. I just remembered what it was called. A certifiable genius of comedy. You gotta love what Scott is trying to do.

Who are these movie pals? Do they have any personal stats? Do they have blogs of their own covering other TV blocks?

One of them has been reviewing fast food bathrooms and another one is getting arrested on purpose and reviewing the food in various jails and prisons. Another guy ranks horror movies based on how fuckable the killer is, and he’s very hard to get a hold of. I do not like being close to these people. But, they are my friends, and friends stick together.

#adult swim #adultswim2021 #moral orel

[spookyvalentine]

If you're taking the Shep asks, how about 8, 15, 28, and 49 for Mercy and Stellan?

Omg!! Yes!! to me stellan is my soft clean ragdoll cat and mercy is the feral raccoon snarling from inside the dumpster

8. What is their reaction to the Alchera mission? And after?

Man I wrote these questions without expecting I’d have to be writing answers. These are hard!!

stellan I think has it a little easier than mercy. karin chakwas was one of their aunts living away from the family commune, working for the alliance when mindoir was attacked. she took them in and together they grieve the loss of their vibrant (enormous) family. once stellan enlisted, the two of em didn’t serve aboard the same ship til the normandy. stellan was definitely boggled, wounded and a bit offended by the alliance sending them the mission, and ooooh karin was pissed at the audacity. they go down to alchera together, but explore and process the site separately. and stellan is with someone who was there, experienced the same floor cracking beneath their feet, lost the same people—they share and process grief together, again. and with joker :,)

as for mercy… well. mercy reads the message and goes what. what?? wow, fuck you! doesn’t tell anyone about the mission or where they’re going. purposely has edi guide the ship while joker is down with chakwas for pt and checkups (and the rare occasion when both are asleep during the same shift) and takes a shuttle down by themself. orders edi to lock the garage. no one’s following. stays out there until they’ve managed to claw every last dog tag out of the ice. 28 hours. mercy forces themself to lay down next to the twisted rails of what used to be the command deck and stare up at the sky and the stars past it, clutching at the dog tags and counting the seconds stretching between heartbeats (and has a total breakdown)

(and of course by this point joker n chakwas are super awake, and very aware they are orbiting goddamn fucking alchera locked inside the normandy, which is pointedly missing its commander. garrus and tali are also Not Happy. outrageously miserable start to the day. mercy what the fuck. why are you doing this by yourself. answer the phone. the rest of the gang is like what is going on. and like yeah mercy gave edi permission to share minimum biostats but that’s hardly any better, shepard)

also if you want to read extraordinary fic, the frozen sea by @zet-sway. Devastating, gorgeous, i think about it all the time, and 1701% inspired this question

15. What colors does Shepard prefer for their armor?

stellan obviously has an affinity for blues. alliance navy looks amazing on them. they settle on something that looks like moonstone for regular use, and a deep navy for stealth missions

in me1 mercy wears literally whatever color as long as the armor is good. me2 they wear this crazy stealth armor that’s not like kasumi’s cloaking but color shifts and slides to echo the environment. me3 is the GOLD ARMOR ERA that was cooked up between liara and hackett as some good promo. mercy’s like wtf is this shiny ass clown suit i will be blasted to pieces immediately. impractical. tacky.

and liara n hackett are like it’s for morale

28. What about hyperfixations? What’s the topic that will get Shepard rolling no matter the person or place

stellan can recall entire kepesh-yakshi games of legend, move by move, in the same gushing, wondering tone of a sports commentator, even hollering at times when recounting something especially remarkable. and their pet turtle along with the whole excruciatingly in depth journey of the aquascaping/aquaculture that went into building his enclosure

mercy loves music. can never get enough kind of love. to mercy, music is magic. the soul made tangible. they’ll excitedly discuss all sorts of up and coming artists across the galaxy with an awareness in trends that at first glance seems out of character. very passionate about music theory and instruments, fucking adores live performances. mercy is the type to spontaneously sweep someone into a dance

49. What is Shepard’s happy ending? What’s the dream that keeps em going

broooo why did i ask this question. hoisted by my own petard, the one petard i never thought would hoist me 🤡🙈

well by me3, stellan is thoroughly in love with shiala, who they’ve been in regular contact since that chance reunion on ilium in 2. they dream of joining her on zhu’s hope, of reconnecting and nurturing the earth beneath their feet. of watching shiala tend to her flowers while they make jam and bake bread before being swept up into an impromptu dance across the kitchen. of being warm and safe curled up in shiala’s big beefy biceps

mercy,,, im really not sure. all i can think of is that line (i am absolutely butchering) frodo knew he would not survive the journey

fifty questions for commander shepard

#grateful for the stellan cottagecore so I don’t drown in angst thinking about mercy #out here in the club hurting my own feelins #also got extremely carried away #thanks for the asks!! #oc: stellan shepard #oc: mercy shepard #themshep #commander shepard #shiala #shepard/shiala #mass effect

[what-if-nct]

A husband and seven (7) boyfriends too? I admit to a more than passing curiosity to who they are as I can manage to get 4 or 5 but the last 3 stump me. The 5 being Lay of EXO, Hyunjin, Johnny, Jungwoo, and Chan. My one uncertainty is whether YangYang is in there or not....

A d on a side note, bless you for the posting of some of the latest Doyoung pics from his promo's. Man's looking so fine and I'm trying to be loyal but man is he testing me lol.

Oh yeah I don't really talk about all of my biases. Yixing and Chanyeol are my top two husbands, then Chan and Johnny are my new husbands. Hyunjin is my fiance. Still counts as boyfriend, then Jungwoo, Yuta, Jaemin, Hendery and Xiaojun are my boyfriends and Yeonjun is my secret boyfriend. There's no reason he just feels like he'd be a secret boyfriend. So 4 husbands, 1 fiance and 6 boyfriends. I also have three sons Shotaro, Heuning Kai and Soul

Ever since the debut of DJJ Doyoung has been relentless actually I think he's gotten too powerful. He is ready to wreck so many homes.

[moonstitched]

TAGS 01

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ abt. — ↳ but if your hope should pass away simply pretend that you can build them. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ aes. — ↳ and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ cloth. — ↳ every dream inside my soul. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ hc. — ↳ it seems like a flaw in design. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ mus. — ↳ there must be something inside. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ song. — ↳ that was the soul singing in your head. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ vis. — ↳ who’s to worry if our hearts get torn when that hurt gets thrown? ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ want. — ↳ beauty lays behind the hills. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ wish. — ↳ why they changed it i can’t say.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ v. umbrella — ↳ tomorrow is another day. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ v. quiet — ↳ and you won’t have to hide away.

☆ﾟ*・ﾟ sc. — ↳ because we all have wings but some of us don’t know why. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ promo. — ↳ and you’re an all time legend. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ memes. — ↳ don’t ask me what you know is true. ☆ﾟ*・ﾟ jabberwock. — ↳ your future dream has sure been seen through.

#☆ﾟ*・ﾟ abt. — ↳ but if your hope should pass away simply pretend that you can build them. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ aes. — ↳ and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ wish. — ↳ why they changed it i can’t say. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ want. — ↳ beauty lays behind the hills. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ mus. — ↳ there must be something inside. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ v. umbrella — ↳ tomorrow is another day. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ v. quiet — ↳ and you won’t have to hide away. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ promo. — ↳ and you’re an all time legend. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ hc. — ↳ it seems like a flaw in design. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ vis. — ↳ who’s to worry if our hearts get torn when that hurt gets thrown? #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ memes. — ↳ don’t ask me what you know is true. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ sc. — ↳ because we all have wings but some of us don’t know why. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ cloth. — ↳ every dream inside my soul. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ song. — ↳ that was the soul singing in your head. #☆ﾟ*・ﾟ jabberwock. — ↳ your future dream has sure been seen through.

[cullweak]

CULL (/kəl/)

1. to select from a large quantity; obtain from a variety of sources. 2. to reduce the population of by selective slaughter. 3. to send (someone or something) to be slaughtered.

indie & private Jacob Seed from Far Cry 5 as instructed by FP

#video game rp #far cry 5 rp #fc5 rp #crime rp #im shit at tags lay my soul to rest #sᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ sɪɴɴᴇʀs ꜰʀᴇᴇ | self promo

[omg-just-peachy]

a (mostly hurt/comfort) sambucky fic rec list:

@fuckyeahsambucky is doing promo monday today, so i wanted to share some of the sambucky fics i've loved recently!

****

Nurturing by @the-buzz-ao3 | pre-sambucky, friendship, getting together | 3k

Bucky isn't the only one who feels alone after coming back from the Blip.

Light at the End of the Tunnel by @the-buzz-ao3 | hurt/comfort, love confessions, hurt sam and protective bucky | 5k

When Sam and Bucky are trapped in an abandoned mine, they must rely on each other to survive. They also realize a few things along the way.

Only Human by @starkravinghazelnoots | hurt/comfort, hurt sam and protective bucky | 2k

Bucky grabbed a tube of neosporin. “And I’d prefer you stop recklessly throwing yourself into danger like it’s no big deal. Guess we’re both unhappy.”

Sam snorted. “I do not need the geriatric without a lick of self-preservation criticizing me about so-called reckless behavior.”

(Sam gets hurt. Bucky patches him up. They argue—but they patch that up, too.)

Safe Like Springtime by quidhitch | fuff, domsticity | 7k

“I already told you it looks good. What more is there?”

“I don’t know, man, you’re gonna live here. I just wish I knew a little bit more about how that’s sitting with you.”

Sam knows Bucky feels fine. What Sam’s probably actually after is how he feels about the fact neither of them have anywhere else to go, not with Natasha dead and Steve wrinkly. Therapists. Even the good ones, always so circular.

“I like the terrace,” Bucky offers, mostly to appease him.

Mind of Stone by @capnwinghead | hurt/comfort, pining, grief | 6k

Sam is staying with Bucky temporarily when Zemo breaks out of the Raft. Instead of laying low, he invites Sam to dinner.

Behind Everything That We Do by cm (mumblemutter) | hurt/comfort | 5k

Bucky takes care of Sam, in a way.

I wanna be the place you call your home by notcaycepollard | sickfic, hurt/comfort, protective bucky | 2k

Sam is pretty sure he’s gonna die.

He’s been fucking sick with this fucking cold for two fucking weeks now, and he’s reasonably goddamn certain this is how he’s gonna go.

It’s not the cold that’s going to kill him. Bucky’s looked after him so well he’s in no danger of dying on that front. Honestly, Bucky’s the best nurse Sam’s ever had, which is nice and all, of course it’s nice, but he’s still fairly sure he’s gonna die right now, or at least soon, because he is so sexually frustrated he’s just gonna go up in flames.

Keep the Ashes From My Hear (and Walk Away) by coffeeinallcaps | hurt/comfort, mutual pining, idiots in love | 4k

“Jamie asked me out on a date,” Sam says. Bucky swallows. “Took him long enough,” he says, keeping his tone light. He bumps their shoulders together for good measure. “You should go for it.” “You really think so?” Sam asks, looking at him. “Yeah, man,” Bucky says. He fixes his gaze on Torres, high up in the sky, sunlight glinting off his wings. It hurts Bucky’s eyes. He blinks, rapidly. “You should be with somebody who can make you happy.” (In which Sam starts dating someone who is not Bucky, and Bucky pines, gets seriously injured, and proves himself wrong.)

Chicken Soup for the Soul by bioloyg | sickfic, hurt/comfort, sick sam and protective bucky | 4k

“S’not my bed time,” Sam says as he buries his face in Bucky’s upper arm. Bucky laughs. “Tough. You’re sick.” Sam lets out a loan groan and says, “But my bed is cold. I was so warm, why’d you move me?” “Because your neck would’ve hated you if I didn’t.” He tries not to be so amused by how fussy Sam is when he’s both sick and half-asleep. It’s cute.

#sambucky #fic rec #really exposing myself with this one adksgfhaksdf #give me every hurt/comfort moment ever #fysbmonday #fysambuckyweek #long post

[spngeorg]

Episode 111 - 6.07 Family Matters

The Campbells are up to some shady shit. The Alpha Vampire gets to break some delightfully terrible news. And oh yeah, Sam popped outta hell wrong!

I think I covered pretty much everything I wanted to in this one, so I’m gonna lay out some puzzling conundrums in this space for everyone to ponder instead:

The Alpha Vampire could tell Sam had no soul at ten paces, but apparently none of the other supernatural beings Sam had encountered in the previous year-plus could tell (or at least none of them bothered to tell ~him~ or any of his cohorts). (obviously leaving out Veritas last week who was shocked he could lie to her, assumed he wasn’t human, but didn’t pick up on the why...) I feel like this was written for a “make for a shocking and badass moment for this episode” while not really considering the wider implications of this statement meant for the cosmology and supernatural beings in their universe on a larger scale.

(maybe because they’re predators vampires have different senses for detecting prey, and more finely honed skills at differentiating what they’re sensing? as opposed to angels and demons who don’t specifically prey on humanity in this way? eh... there’s just so many holes in the logic to poke at! and this is in an episode I generally enjoy!)

It’s never really explained later in canon how the Alpha Vampire survived being taken directly to Crowley for torture, unless Crowley just didn’t have a weapon capable of killing him. Or just like... came to an accord with the Vampire and released him, or the Alpha escaped yet again. He just turns up again next season like nbd. And I have questions :’D

But all that’s not exactly relevant to the episode. What is relevant to this one and upcoming canon for the rest of s6 is that I truly believe this is the first time that Cas actually learns how tragically wrong he’d been in his assumption that he’d rescued Sam from the Cage. (and makes me question the logistics of how that cage rescue actually happened... Crowley-- we’ll learn in later seasons-- had been studying the magic of the cage for his own purposes, he would’ve had access and either granted access to Cas or else yoinked Sam himself and handed him over to Cas to raise from Hell. I just cannot reconcile Cas having done the deed all on his own, all by himself, and *not* realized he’d missed a significant bit. Because he is *genuinely* shaken and disturbed in this episode when he learns the truth about Sam... and it’s one of the main reasons he continues to avoid Dean... guilt, shame, horror...

Anyway, on that cheerful note, please have some LINKS!

The Superwiki Page

My tag

Filming Locations map

CW Promo

SpaceTV Promo

SpaceTV sneak peek

Listen now on Spotify, or wherever you enjoy podcasts!

#spn podcasts #spn 6.07 #spiders georg of the tnt loop

[forever-rogue]

Patricia!! First of all congrats on a new follower milestone! Those are always so exciting and asking and you deserve every one of them! Could I possibly request 39: “I wish we could stay like this forever” and 80: “let’s run away together” from promo list 2 with Oberyn? I love how you write him and would die to see what you do with this 🥺 ily Patricia! And congrats again! ❤️

Anything for you, my love! Enjoy 🥺

(also not necessary but I am a fool - this could totally be read as a slice of life in INO)

Oberyn Martell x Fem!Reader ; warnings: references to sex

Pedro Characters Masterlist

»»————-　♡　————-««

The warmth, golden light filtered in through the sheer curtains, and the fresh, salty smell of the ocean and sound of chirping birds hit you all at once. It was a late, but beautiful and blissful morning and you were loath to get up. All you wanted was to stay here forever, wrapped up in the arms of your beautiful lover. Almost as if he sensed that you were up, you felt him grinning against your skin as he pressed a flurry of gentle, saccharine kisses to your chest and collarbones. You mumbled something into the soft pillow, something about wanting just five more minutes of sleep, but he just chuckled. 

“Sleep is for the dead, sunshine,” he murmured as he worked his way up your neck and stopped at your lips.

"I wish we could stay like this forever," a small huff of air escaped your nose as you pouted at him, slowly opening your bleary eyes. You found his soft brown ones, crinkled sweetly in the corners as he grinned at you, studying your face intently, “good morning.”

“Speak for yourself,” you teased him, “it cannot be a good morning if I am being woken up at such an ungodly hour!”

“Ungodly hour,” Oberyn laughed - a twinkling, beautiful sound - before laying back down and pulling you on top of him. You made a small sound of surprise at the sudden motion, but quickly quieted down when you felt his warm, bare body against yours. His golden skin on yours was delicious and warm, soft and strong at the same time, a perfect juxtaposition - just like him. You laid your head onto his chest, “it is almost the afternoon, sweet girl, it’s hardly ungodly.”

“Why can I not enjoy the day in bed with my prince?” you sighed softly, running a hand through his dark curls, “why should I allow the world to part me from my lover in such a manner?”

“Unfortunately the world requires us to be present,” he chuckled as kissed the top of your head. You huffed lightly although you understood what he meant. You'd always known - from the moment you had met the handsome prince.

“And what’s more important? The world or me?” you joked as he grazed his fingers up and down your spine, leaving a wake of gooseflesh under his fingertips. You sighed into his touch before pressing a few kisses to his bare chest.

“You, of course,” he promised, “and you have me always, first and foremost. But sometimes the world needs their prince.”

"And what about me?" you said softly as his large hands landed thoroughly on your backside, giving the firm flesh of your ass a squeeze. You giggled wildly before turning to look up at him and grabbing his jaw, "play fair!"

"I am," he insisted as you kissed him, "you will always manage without me. For the world needs their prince, but what is a mere prince to the queen?"

"Shut up," you groaned at him before moving to sit up so you were straddling his lap, his body humming with gentle love under yours, "you are not even a prince - only a mere fool!"

"A fool for you," he insisted softly as his hands found purchase on your hips. You beamed at him, golden as the sunlight and causing his heart to melt, "let me show you how a queen - my queen - is treated."

"Oberyn," you gasped slightly as his hands wandered up your body and to your breasts, "I thought we had to get up and rejoin society?"

"I've changed my mind," he grinned, "the prince needs you instead."

»»————-　♡　————-««

"Its beautiful here," you were sprawled out on the lush, soft blanket, soaking up as much sun as possible. You were near the edge of the stunning lake, secluded and alone, as you listened to the soft lapping of the waves onto the shore. It was so serene and blissful, for a few moments you almost forgot that a world outside of this place existed. 

Oberyn hummed in content as he popped a few fresh, plump berries into his mouth. He grabbed a particularly plump looking strawberry and held it out to you, dangling it just in front of your lips. You made a show of taking a large bite from the berry, letting the juice dribble from your lips and down your chin.  He tuttled lightly before using his thumb to collect the juices and holding it out to you. 

Grabbing his wrist, you pulled his thumb into your mouth before sucking it clean before slowly releasing it with a loud pop. He grinned at you, before pulling you in for a kiss. 

"You are a very tantalizing little thing," he licked across your bottom lip, savoring the sweetness that lingered. You grinned against him before pulling away and lying back down on the blanket. Oberyn watched you for a few moments before lying next to you, his large hand grabbed yours and he defty laced your fingers together, "you're thinking much too loudly."

"I am doing nothing of the sort," you shrugged innocently, keeping your eyes closed in order to shield them from the sun - and Oberyn. He had a knack for being able to read every thought and feeling almost as if he was able to see into your soul. Naturally, there were a million things running through your mind at once, but you weren't going to tell Oberyn any of that - not yet anyway, "perhaps you're being too analytical."

"It wouldn't be the first time I've been accused of such a thing," he snorted in laughter, "but I, my sunshine, am also able to read to you - easily. Tell me what's going on in that pretty head of yours."

"And if I refuse to speak my peace?"

"Then I shall be forced to pull it out of you," he insisted softly as he brought your hand to his lips and pressed a delicate kiss to your knuckles. Sighing contentedly, you rolled onto your side so you could properly face him.

And he was beautiful - so stunning in his golden glory. He was older now, than when you'd first met him, calmer after everything he'd survived in King's Landing, even more wise and world weary than the best men. Which you supposed he was; a man with words as sweet as roses or sharp as hawthorne - it was easy to see why everyone fell at his feet, but he still reminded them of why he was the Red Viper.

The soft brown of his eyes, flecked with gold in the light, always seemed to betray him.  At least to you anyways. His hair was longer these days, softer much like him, lightened by the sun and flowing into luscious curls. His facial hair has greyed slightly (from keeping up with all of the kids he always claimed), and he was more...him. 

You'd always loved him, from the day he seemed to save you from a life of uncertainty and domineering men. But it has been a privilege to watch him grow, to see him become the best version of him - it was always thanks to you, he claimed, a guise you greatly disputed. But you loved him - your husband - more than the moon and all the glittering stars in the night sky. 

Playing with you a lock of his soft hair, you continued to brush off the insinuation that anything was wrong, "nothing is the matter, Oberyn. I am merely enjoying the private company of my husband."

“And yet there is so much going on in that mind,” he mused, as you shrugged innocently, “so much buzzing, I’d think we were in Honeyholt and tending to the bees. My dear sunshine, you should know better by now - when have I ever let such a thing go?”

“You are incessant,” you groaned lightly, but appreciating the care and concern nonetheless, “it is silly - a mere folly that should not even worry me and alas, here I am.”

“If it matters to you, then it is not a mere folly,” he promised, “you can tell me anything.”

“I know,” you agreed with a small. You sat up slowly pulling your knees to your chest as you looked out into the sparkling water. Oberyn followed suit before moving to sit in front of you, putting his hand under your chin and turning your face up to his. He almost left you breathless with his easy beauty and warmth, “it’s just...I like this. Just you and me, no one else around, no worries, no duties. I...I hate to think once we return home it will all cease to exist - you will be forced to your duties, as I understand you must, and I? Well, I suppose I will be your dutiful wife, hoping and wishing for a chance to see her husband.”

“Then I suppose we should run away, shouldn’t we?”

“I...Oberyn...what?”

“I’m serious,” he insisted softly as you just laughed at his idealistic ways, “let’s run away together, even if just for a while. No one has to know...and when we are ready we shall return.”

“That is a temporary solution for a permanent problem, my love,” you gave him a weak smile before pulling out of his touch, “what about when we return to Dorne?”

“Always so serious, my sunshine,” he chuckled softly as you huffed at him, “you must ruin every little surprise, mustn’t you?”

“I have done nothing,” you insisted, sticking out your tongue at him, “all I do is care about my husband and I am teased and punished for being woeful and caring!”

“You have not been teased -”

“I have too, Oberyn Martell!”

“I will make it up to you, sweet girl,” he praised with a glint in his eye, “however, whenever, and wherever you should fancy. Now - will you let me finish?”

“I have not been-”

“Your prince demands it.”

“Well your queen insists that she hasn’t been doing anything of the short,” gave him a little smirk, “but go on and tell me about this so called surprise.”

“When we return home to Dorne, things will be different,” he promised as you raised your eyebrows in question, “I have been thinking, and don’t even say a word, and I think it’s time for me to...take a step back and let Doran and Arianne, as his heir, handle things from now. I am getting tired...weary, of all these tasks that should be left to the next ruler. Besides, Arianne is more than ready to take over. I think I should quite enjoy a quiet, leisurely life.”

“Oberyn,” your mouth dropped and formed a small o as you studied him to try and see if he was being honest. A smile tugged on the corners of his mouth before he broke out in a wonderful grin. You leaned over and kissed him, unable to stop yourself, “do you mean it? Please tell me this isn’t some sort of cruel joke.”

“I would never do such a thing,” he whispered as he pulled you into his lap and you wrapped your arms around his neck, “I just think...it’s time. Besides, there is nothing more I want than to spend my day with you, and the girls - think of all the things we can do. There are still ways to help our people, but we will do it together.”

“You continually amaze me,” a single tear, this one of nothing but happiness and love had rolled down your cheek as you pressed your forehead against his, “and I will never know what I did to deserve you, and I will be forever grateful to the universe for bringing you to me.”

“Now you’re just flattering me,” he reached up and gently wiped away the tear, “for it should be the other way around. I take it as though you are not opposed to the notion?”

“Not at all,” you smiled softly, “I could have asked for nothing better.”

“Then what do you say?” his hand found the back of your neck as he gave you a gentle squeeze, “shall we run away? To Essos - the Summer Isles - far away from everything? Only to return when we decide we are ready to?

“Yes,” you eagerly agreed, delighted by the prospect of spending the days and nights at your husband’s side, without a care in the world, “I want nothing more.”

“Then it is settled,” he promised, “now, will you let me show you every way in which I love you?”

“Oberyn!” your face flushed with warmth as you looked around to make sure no was within ear shot, “we are out in the open! Anyway could...see.”

“And that is not our problem,” he shrugged simply, “we have told them not to disturb us, hopefully they heed our advice. But now, sweet girl, you are all mine.”

“Always,” you promised softly, “I am forever yours.”

»»————-　♡　————-««

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#oberyn martell #oberyn martell x reader #oberyn martell x you #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #got #oh my sweet prince #forever-rogue's follower celebration

[foxys-fantasy-tales]

Arigale: Spite in the Spirit Ch. 2 - Blood

Since the first five chapters are up on Amazon as a free preview anyways, I may as well bring them on here to remove the middle man and have it up to promo myself. I will not share more since the book is for sale and this is my job, but there is other free content for the series and more on my website at ArigaleFantasy.com. Now, here's the second chapter! (Keep in mind this is copy/paste from google docs and not my final pdf since it's taking away all my breaks doing that.) You can find the first chapter here.

“Ugh!” He grunted and coughed as he lay in the dry earth he was knocked against. His spear lay within reach, but though he grasped it, he couldn’t find the strength to raise it again as his arm shook. His forehead felt warm, and his free hand dabbed at it and came back red at the fingertips. Vision was blurry at best, but he could make out the glinting sword his opponent was wielding and hear his quiet chuckle. The gray, weathered brick walls that surrounded them were so high that it only seemed to focus the rays of the sun down on him.

“Up! Now, Chit!” A whip cracked the stones that their teacher stood upon at the edges of the training area.

Chit struggled to raise himself as he watched a few drops of blood spoil the sand. He managed to get back on his feet, but his knees were buckling as his head swam. His loose, deep blue curls stuck to his forehead where he’d been injured. A foot slid back in the sand and raised a cloud of dust as he settled back into a low stance and rushed toward his opponent. The other boy was shorter but more stocky. Chit’s spear strike was deflected as his sparring partner held up a shield, then bashed him in the head with it again on a downward swing that rang his ears and left him in the sand again with his eyes squinted at the row of weapons along the wall of the church.

“You’re never going to get anywhere that way. You’re fast, but you don’t try to dig into someone you know? Use that beast-like strength you got there.” The other student looked at their teacher, who just groaned and wound up his weapon to place at his side. They both gave up on waiting and walked off together into the shady archway while Chit found his way back up again. When he could finally stumble into it, the wall of the entryway was a blessing, as the cool stone soothed his bruises and bumps while he turned his body against them wherever it hurt worst. He touched his head again and sucked the air in through his teeth in a sharp hiss.

“I’m not going to be able to deal with this on my own this time, am I?” He sighed as he walked back inside, one hand pressed against the wall the whole way just in case. The halls were dimly lit with torches, and not a single window cast any light from the sunny day most were enjoying just over their walls in the city square. He took slow and careful steps in his state on the uneven stone floor. These floors were also likely laid out in the dark. The thought made his mouth twitch to a near smile. He passed many men and a few older women in the halls, but not a soul saw him, not really.

Not until he crossed the threshold of the other side of the Order did the sun finally find the interior of the church. Bright yellow rays intermingled with the silks of the same shade strung around the grand circular room. The windows stretched from the floor to halfway up the walls and were tinted with cheerful and warm shades of color. The room was large enough to house an army and held a kaleidoscopic array of couches, cushions, daybeds, and glittering tables of gold dispersed between them. It was like being inside a noble’s goblet, the way the glass windows shone all around flaked with gold reflections in this high rising and circular room. This space was crafted to hold such lavish and, dare he think upon it, perverse events on a daily basis.

Chit thanked Yani that today seemed to be a slow one, as only the priestesses of the Order’s light side were present. They flitted about in their bright yellow and orange robes of various fashions, each suited to their body in ways that made heat rise to his cheeks as he walked by them. They chittered at him with fleeting looks ranging from passive to concerned. One of the older women waved him down and tsked at his wounds.

“You know you aren’t to bring blood here.” She took off her sheer scarf and wrapped it quickly over his head after cleaning off his fingers. “Come on. Chinea is in the back.”

“I’m s-sorry F-Freena.” He mumbled and bowed his head forward until he stared at the ground as she led him by his hand through the pillows and hanging veils.

“What in the world…” He felt a tender touch at his temple. The blood must have stained through the wrapping. There was no way he could afford to replace that cloth, and the realization made him wince as much as the sting from the air as his makeshift bandage was removed. He heard the veils ripple again as Freena went back to work.

“I’m sorry. I tried to do better this time. I know I can’t keep showing up each time I get knocked around, but there’s a demonstration tomorrow and I-”

“Shh.” Chinea pressed a cold, wet cloth to his head. “It’s alright, child. I was the one who told you to come if you needed help, so don’t you dare start apologizing to me for it now. You take the gifts people give you, alright? Yani knows you’re short on them.” She shook her head, and even with his eyes downcast, he saw the long, thin ponytail sway past her knees like the threads that made up those pricey silk curtains above. Her plump arms worked fast as he felt himself pushed back into a large cushion on the floor. The magic always made his muscles go limp in relief, and within minutes all that remained of his wounds was the bloody cloth in her hands. She tucked the fabric into a small bag at her side.

“Thank you so much.” He smiled earnestly at her from his reclined position as she handed him a glass of water.

“It’s the least I can do with how they treat you. It’s barbaric. If I hadn’t sworn an oath and could get my hands on that old moth bitten bag of bones, then I’d-”

“Chinea, please. No talk of the Dark here. I rarely have a chance to show up at all, but they just left me in the sandpit this time. Frees up my schedule some.” His sharp teeth flashed in a grin, belying a hint of vindictiveness.

“You’re right.” She sat on the edge of a velvet chair that looked like a cloud the way it ruffled and rumpled at its borders, her round form all puffed up like a mother hen as she drew in her arms. “I haven’t seen you but in the dining hall for the last month. What have they had you doing?”

“Looking through a ton of old scrolls. Anyone who isn’t in the top percentage of the fighters in class has been tasked with researching the old archives for information on Yani that may have been lost over the centuries. They refuse to tell us why, but it gets me out of the extra lessons Silas is giving those not reading, so I’m fine with it.” He sipped from the glass still in his hand. Even the water carried a sweetness here, though it was probably laced with some sort of sugar or soaked with berries. He couldn’t tell the difference.

“That’s a relief at least, yet of course, it doesn’t excuse you from your regular lessons.” She said as she looked him over again and wiped a smudge from his cheek. The pleasure of seeing him faded from her face. “I am attempting to convince Master Brenner that you deserve a place here. It’s much more suited to your personality. Those caves they live in are suffocating you even more as you get older. I see it. I see it changing you all the time, Chit.”

“You know that’s never… Men aren’t allowed.” He sighed and pulled at the long points of his ears as he set the bejeweled cup aside.

“I know that, but I’m the Mistress of the Light side of the Order, and there is a first for everything. Why, up until a short while before I was born, they still had rules against interracial mingling.”

“A lot of those still hold weight.” His mouth formed a hard line, and he looked away from her just as Freena returned. She opened her thin lips, but before she could speak, Master Brenner pushed past her and struck his staff down hard on the floor to mark his point.

Chinea rose and bowed at a slight incline to him, which was overshadowed by the way her hands hit her hips and she glared at him after the formality. He nodded at her without returning the favor, and between the two of them, Chit wished he knew a spell to disappear. The older man was tall and languid. His jowls hung low, and his brow was high above a pointed and short snub nose. Like Chit and all others of the Dark side of the Order wore, black robes enshrouded him but were ordained with edges of silver and gold with a bright red broach clipped to his high and stiff collar. Light reflected off his head from the large windows, and he scoffed in Chit’s direction. “We had a meeting. Why did you see the need to bring the riff-raff in question to it?” Chit folded in on himself, but Chinea looked two feet taller.

“His name is Chit. You had the gall to give him a name sounding so close to a slur, so you can at least use it instead of coming up with new ones. Our meeting was supposed to be at six. You’re early, my Master.”

“My Mistress, surely the wine here has addled your brain. I suggested four strokes past, not six. I have more important matters to attend to then.”

“Of course. Please.” She gestured for him to sit, but Chit could see from where he was how she clenched her other hand behind her back.

“No need. I won’t be here long. Now, exactly what makes you think that this young man deserves to break all our rules and traditions by joining the Light? That he be allowed to do so at his age? He’s spent nearly twenty years training to be a valued member of the Dark half of our Order. How would he possibly be fit for this transference when his whole life to this point has been trained to fit his proper role? Would you allow someone from the street to leap into serving the people who come to you in dire need?” The elder’s deep and slow tones rumbled through the room as he spoke. Chit flinched away as the staff the Master held struck the ground again near his ankle. “Do you understand my confusion at your request?”

“I understand that he hasn’t been trained, but if you would give me just two years, I can educate him on all the secrets of the Light. I am sure of it. There is no mistaking the kindness and intelligence he has displayed the more he ages.” Chinea looked down at him with a smile, and Chit’s shoulders relaxed, but it didn’t last long as the Master scoffed and grabbed one of Chit’s horns to lift him to his feet. Chit yelled and shut his eyes while Chinea stared with horror. The wrinkled hand wrenched at the ivory ridges of bones that curled around his grip, which sent the cobalt-skinned boy reeling.

“This demon flesh that was left on our door, this is what you want to train to serve you? Who in their right mind would come to him for comforts and healing? Do you expect he could even learn your arts? With his blood? Just because you have helped raise him, do not fall prey to your womanly instincts. This is clearly not your child. This is someone’s burden we were left to deal with until the proper time he is set on his own. We both know of why, and that fact alone makes this beyond sacrilege for you to even suggest.”

“You want to talk about sacrilege? How about how you are hurting him in MY domain.” Chinea gripped the Master’s wrist, and he dropped Chit to his knees. “No harm is to come to any who enter these doors. You forget yourself.”

“Then I’ll light a stick of incense on my way out.” His expression didn’t shift at all. “You will no longer make such requests of me. These pointless endeavors only harm your standing the more you retreat to such folly. I would hope for better for you by now. Chit has his home, and it suits him well.” Chinea helped Chit to his feet and dusted off his robes.

“You will offer up your prayers here in front of all my maidens and mothers present, and you will do it on your knees. Truer repentance than I’m sure you are capable of, so at least it will look honest.”

As Chit rubbed his head and found the nerve to look upwards, he caught a glint of anger in the man’s eyes. His heart leaped, but it was hard to hide the mix of joy and fear the recognition gave him as his large, smooth tail began to tap at the floor. Chinea hauled it up into one arm to act like she was looking him over for injuries as she held it still.

“As you command, my Mistress.” The Master turned away, but just as Chit began to breathe again, he had to stop. “You will be back in your room with new research to keep you busy by the time I finish this exaggerated rite. It would be in your best interests to hurry.”

“Y-Y-Yes. I will m-my Master.” Chit stammered and took his tail back from Chinea in both hands before he let it fall limp to the floor along with his gaze.

The master nodded and pushed his way through the heavy curtain as his staff raked along the floor with each pronounced stride. The two waited until they heard the footfalls cease, and Chinea turned Chit around to face her. Her burgeoning wrinkles seemed a lot more present in the way she stared at him with so much concern watering in her amber eyes. Words fell short as she shook her head low and hard. Chit patted her shoulder and tried to quiet the trembling in his hands.

“It’s alright. I t-told you it wouldn’t w-work.” He winced at hearing his stutter and sighed. “I need to g-get b-back to w-work now. The a-archives aren’t f-far, but…”

“If you don’t make it back, he’s going to make sure you pay for that and more. I know, dear… Please, hurry and be careful. I’ll figure something out. I’m not letting you rot down there for the rest of your days.” She touched his cheek and beamed up at him. “You’ve gotten so tall I barely reach your collarbone. You’re well old enough to choose on your own.”

“There’s n-no exit to the D-Dark. He’d never let me l-leave.”

“The only end to the days of pain and toil is death itself. I’m well aware of the rites.”

“I do not believe those are the exact w-words.” He scoffed with a light smile.

Chit kissed her cheek and parted the curtain to leave her quarters. He dragged his feet as he walked back through the enormous room. Each twinkle of sunlight was as bright as the golden tables to him, and it struck him like always how the velvet and silks his hands caressed as he pushed through the drapery were likely the softest things those damned blue hands of his would ever touch.

The walk across the street to the archives and back allowed him to warm himself by the sun’s gleam more directly, but it came with more hazards. The eyes of the townsfolk were all on him, even with his hood up and his tail tucked as well as he could manage under his robes, he was still clearly different the second they saw the color of his face and the way the thin, ragged cloth fell over his horns and dipped down to his head. Some of the looks were frightened, others were disgusted, but each one cut the same way as he decided to make his way in and out as fast as possible. He broke into a sprint up the spiraling central staircase surrounded by shelves that reached the ceiling. It was all owned and controlled by the church, but the men of his order had access to materials on the highest floors barred from standard entry. He passed through the thin, blackened barrier at the top of the stairs and crammed a bag full of any scroll his eyes met that had something to do with Yani.

Chit reached his room just before the dinner hour, but there was no way he was going to risk heading out to eat and being caught out of his room by the Master, no matter how his stomach grumbled in protest. He dumped the pile of scrolls onto the one desk in his room with no chair or adornment, just flat oak wood stained by repeated use through decades. A couple of scrolls rolled off and onto the damp floor, but he picked them up quickly with his tail and dropped them back onto the desk. The last one he grabbed with his tail was snatched up in his hand as he sat in the corner of the tight space and opened it up. Focusing on the words was difficult, as each time the name and nature of his god were brought up, he couldn’t help but imagine the lines he saw so much more clearly on Chinea’s face and hear her promise that he wouldn’t spend the rest of his days down here. Here, in this tiny room with one flickering candle and no windows. The ceiling that dripped and was never going to be fixed would be hanging over him for decades more to come. The bed in the corner, which was only slightly better than sleeping on the floor, was to be his for life. The age on his only friend’s radiant face made him want to see his own suddenly, but there were no mirrors allowed; of course, it would be too vain to wish to see oneself.

Rage bubbled beneath the surface until he realized he wasn’t even reading the scroll any longer, just staring at the ink. He threw the paper onto his bed before laying his head down upon his knees. Chit’s tail constricted around his thigh until he could feel it start to throb and ache, but he just kept tightening the grip more and more until his leg went numb. The room had disappeared from his consciousness, even if for only a moment, but a bright rush of purple light that overwhelmed the dinky flame of his candle caused his head to jerk back up fully alert again.

“You are going to need those legs. Try not to lose one.” A stranger’s voice called to him.

“What?” Chit scrambled to his feet as his tail swished in the air behind him. It would hit harder than he could in a pinch.

“Good. They still work.” The whole room was now bathed in a bright purple, and he had to squint to make out the face of a man, or rather an elf, with long white hair that fell straight as a blade over his shoulders and dark skin. “My name is Maleth. I have something I need to ask of you. Please, come to my tower outside town. I know you have never been far from here, but go west and you can’t miss it.”

“W-What!?” Chit said louder and even more confused. “I-I can’t leave. T-Tomorrow is a special t-tournament, and I-”

“I have already spoken with your Master, and he has granted permission, albeit not entirely willingly.” The tone in the elf’s voice struck him as somewhat full of himself about it all.

“I-I have no idea how y-you… or even who you…”

“I introduced myself. I am certain of that. I did not want to make the same mistake twice.”

“S-Same mistake?”

“Oh. You are not the only one I am calling on, Chit. I may have jumped into things too soon and forgot to tell her my name. You know, my commands used to carry a lot more weight around here…Now I have to stoop to mostly empty threats.” The face in the light was sulking if he wasn’t mistaken, but it was so bright it was hard to look at the details.

“You even know m-my n-name.” It was clear this Maleth was plenty powerful and persuasive if he could convince the master to let him out at all. “Is… Is this a-a matter of importance?”

“I am not calling you all the way out there to recover and read some dusty old papers I already know about if that is what you are concerned over.”

“Then what use w-would you h-have for me?”

“I can’t talk about it in detail, especially not in this place. I can promise you though, that my offer will be of even more significance to you than it is for her. It will change things forever if you choose to take on my request.” Chit stared as the confusion subsided at those words.

“Nothing ch-changes for me.”

“Come to my tower, and I think you will see things differently. I cannot linger here any longer. Come, please. It is of the highest importance that you both meet with me immediately.” The glow in the room was snuffed out all at once and left Chit rubbing his eyes at the sudden darkness.

#writeblr #booklr #indie author #arigale #writers on tumblr #book #fantasy #epic fantasy #writing

[howtosingit]

“if this is goodbye I can’t even hold your hand” oh my god the absolute pain in his voice I just want to give him a hug and tell him it’s going to be okay😭😭 I’m not even over last night’s episode yet and I’m already broken by next weeks 😭😭😭

WE ARE GETTING CARLOS TALKING ABOUT HIS FEELINGS, THAT'S WHAT I WANTED AND NOW IT'S COMING AND I AM NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO HANDLE IT

just that little promo clip gave me end of 2x12 vibes and we all know how fucking amazing and significant that moment was for Carlos - absolutely cannot wait to watch Rafa thoroughly demolish my heart and soul as Carlos lays his heart bare 🥺

LISTEN I'VE NEVER HAD TO SAY GOODBYE TO THE LOVE OF MY LIFE BUT I IMAGINE IT'S LIKE TEARING OUT YOUR HEART WITH YOUR BARE HANDS AND BURYING IT AND WE'RE GOING TO ACTUALLY FUCKING WATCH HIM DO THAT WITH OUR OWN EYES

#asks #THE MAN IS FUCKING SHATTERED #brian talks #ls spoilers #ls speculation

[stablersolivia]

Elliot/Olivia Rant About Last Night's Crossover (Sort of)

So, much like everyone else.... I have some thoughts on last night's SVU/OC crossover. Mainly... yes, the Elliot/Angela [redacted].

While I do want Elliot and Olivia together (soon), I do get why he [redacted] Angela. She's a manipulator. A lot of fans (including myself) have been suspicious of her from almost the very beginning.

Her son Rafiq's death is her only connection to Elliot on an emotional level since he's grieving his wife's death as well. So, with that being said, there's a deeper connection between it all IF she ends up being guilty as accused. We see her in jail in the next episode promo, so that leads us to believe she's been arrested. There's more to it, I'm sure.

But, to continue, I get it. I get why Elliot connected with her. He's grieving not only the loss of his wife, he's also grieving the loss of what he once had with his family (notably his Son Eli moved out so now he's alone) and the loss of his connection and partnership with Olivia. She is so close yet so far away and not only is it grief and mourning but also, guilt for leaving. (I just wish they would explain more of why he left and didn't show up during her darkest hours).

Then this woman comes up, Angela, with all these relatable feelings he's having. Obviously, before Isaac Bekher tells him it was her, Elliot doesn't suspect her of anything. He thinks she's the only one he can relate to in that moment. He thinks she's a victim in all this too due to what happened to her son because of what seems like his connection to her ex-husband's (Richard Wheatley) "business."

I genuinely feel that Elliot [redacted] Angela is what he 'thinks' is a connection that, in a way, will protect HIMSELF from doing something with Olivia that he'll regret because he's not in his sound mind.

Remember, toward the beginning of the SVU ep, Olivia tells him people (she doesn't name) are telling her to stay away from him? He looked hurt that she'd tell him that, and or that someone is telling her to stay away from him. She's all he has in reality and maybe he does recognize that eventually. It already seems he feels she doesn't want him in her personal life as of yet (he's yet to meet her son) so he probably feels like he can't talk to her like that quite yet.

He knows he left her, he knows he's hurt her so why go to her in his most vulnerable, insecure, reckless moments and hurt her even more? He may feel like he's connected to Angela through shared trauma but he has nothing to lose with her whereas, he'd lose what he has left in Olivia which is hanging by a thread as is.

While I do believe Elliot and Olivia are slowly rebuilding that trust, having brief moments of honesty, it's nowhere near where they need to be for him to make a move like that with Olivia. It would kill them both if it was the wrong time.

Now my favorite parts of last nights crossover?

First of all, loved the parking garage scene which seems to have replaced the diner scene from what I saw other SVU aficionados state.

I feel the hurt in him when she discloses that there are people warning her about him. But loved the moment he asked if they were ok and she goes, "I hope so." Burned parallel. Gotta love it.

I also loved the way he protected her in the shooting.

On OC, it's like night and day. While they had some tension at the beginning, the whole hallway scene at the OC precinct was so ... Season 12 EO. The way they looked at each other, the way they said Uncle K in sync, the way he pulled the chair out for her, and the way she grabbed his hand and he held on for a split second longer.

I feel like it was a bit of regret on Elliot's part, it was right after - you know. But I feel like he's realizing what he didn't before. He's connected to Olivia more than he'd realized through shared trauma as well. She gets what he is going through and he didn't see that before going to Angela multiple times.

What I didn't like?

Hated the way they had him initially react to Simon's death. "I'm sorry to hear that," is not good enough and I lay that purely on SVU's shoulders because they seem to not want anything to do with Elliot and it shows and it's... quite frankly petty.

He is much more tender and sincere when he and Olivia were talking in the hallway on OC.

I was also a little confused by the Bell comment. She said "Captain Benson means a lot to you, " and in the same scene says to move on. It wasn't clear at first and I feel like... I do now think she meant to move on from Kathy's case, but at first it sounded like she meant that she knows Olivia well enough to know he should move on from her because he'd hurt. Which, you know is probably why he went to Angela again. I don't know, it was confusing. I get it, but it's confusing.

And one last thing I don't like, is that they can't seem to get EO to just have one honest, bare to soul conversation. It's always deflected by the case or Olivia asking about any developments on Kathy's case which she also tells him to step back from so he can help himself heal.

Overall

I do genuinely feel like they're setting up EO, which I'm happy about. I just want them on the same page and on solid ground. They're trying to cram everything regarding Elliot's healing into eight episodes, I get that, but I feel like it'll all tie in better when Olivia's POV is more apparent and when they actually talk about the last ten years. I hope when Season 2 is picked up, they delve more into Elliot making up the lost time in the right way with Olivia. Including major explaining and groveling. Also, hope before Season's end, we get some sort of answers to that letter. I still feel like what he said in it, is why Olivia hasn't given up. He's said something we need to hear that she has already thus why she's just... there for him. I also wonder if Angela's seeming involvement in Kathy's death will allow Richard (Dylan Mcdermott) to stay on past season 1. Seems like a big name to only sign on for eight eps.

Guess we'll find out.

I'm just trying to believe Chris and Mariska when they say it'll take time to rebuild their relationship. I just have to believe it'll be something great when they get there.

#svuxoc #svu #organized crime #elliot stabler #olivia benson #bensler #eo #eoisendgame #svuxorganizedcrime #law and order svu #law and order organized crime #elliot x olivia #benson and stabler #my text

[freezing82]

Riverdale 6x03 "Mr. Cypher" - Theories & Speculations

I thought I'd share my takes/speculations/theories based on what we know+what is shown in the promo. We know Mr Cypher is the actual Devil. I mean, nobody made the slightest effort not to disclose his identity, so..there's that. I presume he's gonna descend - or ascend? LOL - upon Rivervale like the 10 plagues of Egypt and snatch as many souls as he can, while enjoying free drinks and showtime at the Lodge-Mantle casino.

First, the promo:

1) Tabitha is in a hospital room and talks with Mr. Cypher. We can see someone's laying in bed but we don't know who that is. The two most obvious options are Jughead or Pop. My bet is on Jug. Is he trying to offer Tabitha a deal for the safety/recovery of the person in the hospital bed in exchange for her soul? I believe so. Could this be the 'infamous' motorcycle accident Tabitha refers to in 6x07 or something?

2) Jug is presumably in the B&G/The Voice of Riverdale (what is it a talent show?) offices and he 'agrees' to someone's terms. That someone is Mr Cypher, again. A little digression here: as much as I like the reference at one of the very first Bughead scenes when Jux is dubious about the B&B being the right place for his 'voice' and all, I think they'd better leave the original name. But the most important question is: what does Jughead want/desire so much to literally come to terms with the Devil? Getting rid of that hideous grandpa jumpers, perhaps? Seriously, though. I hope it's not Tabitha related. I wouldn't trust the Devil with my love life (of sorts) LOL

3) Apparently, Kevin is still a citizen of Rivervale. It's so hard to tell nowadays. He's either singing musicals or being the awkward presence a room. So, since he has a fetish for cults, rites and dubious preachers, OF COURSE he's more than willing to sign a pact with Mr Satan himself in exchange of God knows what. To get Fangs back? He's had months to try to fix things with Fangs, besides, he's the one who called the angagement off. Quite hypocritical of him. (Sorry, not sorry.) Seriously, his character is downright useless at this point. Either the writers give him a decent plot or they make him move out of town.

4) Nick St. Clair. I'm repeating myself: how many times does he need to be kicked out of town? He's disposable, so if what we saw in the promo is Veronica trying to sell Nick's soul to the Devil for her own profit, so be it!

5) Betty & TBK. First. I hope Mr Cypher doesn't reach out to her, too. Or maybe he will and she'll ask help to find the TBK? I don't like this option. I want BUGHEAD to solve the TBK mystery. I'm inclined to go with the flow and embrace the popular theory: Archie is the TBK, or at least, he's the Rivervale version of TBK (if that makes sense). There's an interview that KJ did for a NZ tv in which he's on set and he's wearing a mud green/grey shirt. Oddly enough, the TBK seems to be wearing a very similar - if not the exact same - shirt in the promo. Coincidence? Mhmm. Also...I'm 98% positive that's KJ's voice we hear under the mask.

Alright, this is what I've got. Anyone who wants to reblog/add up is very welcome!

#rivervale #riverdale season 6 #riverdale spoilers #riverdale 6x03 #mr cypher