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itsbuckytm · 2 months

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"We'll meet Again." Feyd-Rautha

Summary: As the twin or eldest child of the Atreides, numerous responsibilities came with the territory. Among them was the obligation to navigate diplomatic relations with various houses, particularly evident as your father finalized the contract for Arrakis and oversaw the spice harvest. During a meeting with the Harkonnens, Feyd-Rautha found himself captivated by the presence of the second pair of twins, unable to shake off his fascination.

Ps: English isn't my first language, so I apologize for any small grammar errors!

XOXO

Being the Atreides eldest child meant responsibilities. Some suggested getting married and yet the Duke Leto’s most profound plan was more than that. In fact, training his most prestige and intelligent children was yet to become a fruitful generation of the Atreides family itself. With how the Duke was just establishing his agreement for Arrakis. Things were just getting started.

In the early hours of the morning, Duke received messages first from Harkonnen, then from the Bene Gesserit, expressing their desires to put Paul through the long-awaited test. And potentially discussing a marriage proposal for the daughter. A sister of the Bene Gesserit, Helen, sought Paul’s testimony, the agreement for which was expected that same evening. Despite the unspoken bond within the family, evident in your brother's gentle gaze and the shared understanding, the weight of his father's gaze lingered heavily. ‘Will my children endure this infernal place?’ he pondered, resolved to safeguard their legacy.

You, on the other hand, couldn't help but dwell on your own outcome. Your brother's training sessions had just commenced, while Duncan had departed for the day as usual. You remained in your study as your mother fetched your brother's attire for his test, that same morning. Despite her attempts to mask it, her eyes betrayed her worry and sorrow at witnessing her second child assuming the mantle of their House. Being descended from the Bene Gesserit, you understood her emotions intimately, benefiting greatly from the shared similarities. A sense of satisfaction washed over you as you caught your mother's gaze, exchanging a knowing smile. Her subtle nod reassured you that everything would be alright. ‘Yes, everything will be okay. Paul is strong,’ you reassured her, the words lingering in your memory.

As the Atreides tended to their familial matters, the Baron of Harkonnen, accompanied by his nephew Feyd-Rautah, received an unexpected but rather fruitful invitation to today's council from Duke Leto. Paul's inclusion in the invitation was urged strongly by your father, whose beseeching eyes left no room for refusal. With Paul's future as the Duke in mind, you felt compelled to comply. "Will father object?" you queried during breakfast, noticing your mother's absence as she assisted Dr. Yueh in preparing Paul for his impending test. Initially hesitant, you cited the traditional exclusion of women from male-dominated spaces and political affairs. However, your brother's persistence, coupled with his revelation of your father's endorsement, swayed your decision. "Father’s orders," he disclosed, highlighting the potential impact of your presence, particularly concerning the Harkonnen. With reluctance, you acquiesced, stating, "Very well, but understand that I do this for you." Paul's satisfied expression betrayed a hint of amusement.

The following day dawned with Paul's early hours consumed by Helen's final test. The Bene Gesserit sister arrived unexpectedly early, not only focusing on your brother's training but also involving you both. Despite the Bene Gesserit's usual bore for daughters, Paul's exceptionalism as the heir and you being twins altered the dynamic. Helen took matters into her own hands, prioritizing Paul's training just as she had done with yours, although you were included as part of the package deal, inseparable twins as you were.

Contrarily, you were well aware that today involved attending your father's council and orchestrating a proper reception for the Harkonnen. With a portion of their fleet bound for Arrakis, the Baron saw fit to bring his nephew along, a gesture of goodwill as they preferred to present it. While your mother urged you to accompany your brother, it was during breakfast that the next generation of Atreides convened. "Y/N," your mother's voice echoed in your mind. The test had concluded, your brother standing beside her, his expression inscrutable. This time, he exuded more confidence, yet there was a noticeable change from days past. His gaze barely left you as he silently confirmed his test's success. The trial had instilled apprehension in Helen, for both her daughter and now her son. Jessica had undoubtedly made an impression on her Reverend Mother, as expected. But something felt off–

"Father is awaiting your presence; the Council convenes shortly. Come, dress quickly," Jessica urged, her concern evident in her voice as she ushered both of you towards your father's chambers. "Of course, mother," You affirmed, Paul opting to fetch by your side as you readied yourself. His unease at the prospect of you encountering the Harkonnen was unmistakable, yet as you rose with assurance, adhering to your mother's instruction to dress appropriately, your brother remained silently supportive within the confines of the family abode. "Father will be pleased to see you alongside our new guests," he remarked, though the term 'guest' felt inadequate for the Harkonnens, known for their relentless pursuit of perfection within their domain—a trait reminiscent of the Bene Gesserit's own household.

"Ah, don't even get me started," you chuckled in response to his cynical remark, finishing your final adjustments in front of the mirror before approaching your brother. "You’re beautiful, Duncan would be damned not to see you right now." Paul admitted, though he was just as sparing with compliments as your father, if not more so. You chuckled again and tousled his hair affectionately. "Shame for him, indeed. Let's go then, Father must be waiting for us."

Duke Leto awaited his children to join him as he heard approaching footsteps, realizing they belonged to you and your brother. It was evident from their tardiness that they would likely be teased by Halleck. Paul, with a subtle smirk, leaned towards the man, who promptly assigned you to sit beside him as your father entered the room. "Paul, Y/N," Duke Leto acknowledged, and both of you nodded, maintaining impeccable etiquette. A moment of silence hung in the air as your father took his seat next to Halleck, acknowledging the arrival of the guests, unmistakably the Harkonnen. "Bring them in," he instructed.

Feyd-Rautha, accompanied by the Baron and Glossu, made their entrance. You couldn't help but notice the Harkonnens' air of perfection and similarity, a trait you had been warned about during your training sessions with Halleck, who delighted in describing them as ruthless monsters. It was surreal to see Halleck now sitting beside your father without so much as a flinch, as if their inevitable downfall was already evident and he felt no fear in displaying his disdain for their kind. Meanwhile, both Paul and you were filled with curiosity, and you caught sight of someone observing you from a distance. Just as introductions were about to be made, your gaze met that of Feyd-Rautha. His name was revealed by the Baron in a manner that attempted to convey affection but came across as somewhat grotesque.

Feyd-Rautha's gaze seemed fixed on yours, but thankfully, your father's voice signaled the beginning of the council, prompting everyone to take their seats for further discussion. Paul noticed, as he always did. He observed you clumsily attempting to handle a cup of water in a manner befitting of civilization, all the while sensing Feyd's unwavering focus on you. To him, you were his prey, much like how the Baron sought amusement during his stay on Arrakis. If it weren't for his insistence on accompanying the group, he might have missed the opportunity to encounter a face as captivating as yours. His smirk became more pronounced when the topic of your potential betrothal to a House chosen by your father was broached. You couldn't help but cough in surprise, prompting Paul to lean towards you and whispered, "Are you alright?" You nodded quickly, and you could have sworn you heard him chuckle.

"Yes—" You started, but your coughing grew more pronounced as all attention turned towards you. Your father expressed immediate concern and moved to summon medical assistance, but you objected, requesting a moment alone. Rising from your seat, you were just moments away from agreeing to the medical aid. You couldn't shake the feeling of Feyd-Rautha's penetrating gaze, and perhaps Paul's knowing glance. To Feyd-Rautha's evident amusement, this seemed only the beginning. "Farewell, you may depart," your father concluded, dismissing the attention focused on you.

"I suppose she's quite spirited, discussing marriage at such a young age, Poor thing." Halleck's voice remarked. It was something you had come to understand during your time in the opulent halls and corridors of House forces—that even the venerable Halleck, with all his gravity, possessed a degree of perceptiveness uncommon among men. However, this observation didn't sit well with Feyd. In fact, he couldn't resist making a remark, perhaps ill-timed and ill-phrased, which prompted Paul to rise from his seat, ready to confront him. "Surprising for an Atreides, she's not much for entertainment," he quipped, just before being cut off by Leto, redirecting the conversation towards political matters. But Feyd had other intentions. Aware that you had likely stepped out for some fresh air, he seized the excuse to excuse himself to the bathroom.

Fortunately, you arrived just in time as Duncan returned from his visit with the Fremen. Upon hearing of his return, he also was well aware of the impending arrival of the Harkonnens. If it weren’t for Fremen business keeping him so late. Sensing your presence as their ships prepared to land, Duncan swiftly removed his mask and embraced you. "Is Paul not here?" he pondered, surprised as Paul typically would be the first to greet Duncan, followed by a later rendezvous in your study for practice. "In council, with father. Father insisted we both attend, and guess who's here," you replied, making it clear with your eyes that you were referring to the Harkonnens. You were cautious not to reveal too much, knowing that any hint would only provide more amusement for Feyd to torment you with.

"Harkonnen. I'm aware," Duncan affirmed, sharing your sentiment, until his gaze shifted from yours to someone in the distance. It was someone who perhaps wasn't welcome if intruding but was expected at today's event. Duncan leaned in carefully, recognizing that whoever the man was seeking out for, it was likely you. "I suggest you go speak to that man. If there's one thing my mother taught me, it's to never ignore your own apprehension," he advised, tousling your hair gently as you tried your best not to pout in response, before he hurried off to join your father.

On the other hand, Feyd couldn't tear his gaze away from the man's eyes. Was he someone he'd eventually have to confront? Such thoughts were irrelevant. All he craved was you, completely. As the pilot room emptied, a haunting silence filled the air. Duncan's words echoed in your mind, reminding you of the inevitable encounter with Feyd-Rautha as part of collaborating with the Harkonnens. As he approached cautiously, you flinched, muscles tensing. His nearness seemed to radiate warmth, almost as if your skin would brush against his. "So... It's you," his voice pierced the silence. It wasn't the tone you anticipated or sought. It was soft, yet carried a comforting warmth reminiscent of Arrakis's weather. “Atreides’s very own princess.”

Your eyes never leaving his gaze. You could’ve sworn yourself that if you even tried to escape you couldn’t. In fact, your eyes even tried to sorrow for comfort elsewhere, but the darkness and contrast beneath his skin felt cold, slowly loosing yourself entirely within him all together. As his hand drawing near you, his fingers brushing around your waist…

"Y/N. They're leaving." Paul's voice echoed in your mind, interrupting any chance of leaning closer and feeling the faint touch of Feyd's lips. You pondered: was this love, or merely a trap ensnaring a woman's blind eye? Oddly, your brother's voice now felt distant, but you quickly regained your senses as Feyd realized the moment couldn't last. He must resist, for now. His smirk grew more pronounced upon hearing the Baron's voice calling out his name, one of the most memorable yet unsettling utterances you'd ever heard. As Feyd cast one final admiring glance your way, he whispered, "We'll meet again, my Queen..."

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emiliosandozsequence · 2 months

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requested by @crystalclrs

the borgias (2011-2013) cr. neil jordan / no exit and three other plays, 'the flies', jean-paul sartre / bone, yrsa daley-ward / carmilla, joseph sheridan le fanu / a literate passion: letters of anaïs nin & henry iller 1932-1953, henry miller / absolute solitude: selected poems, 'lxxxiii', dulce maría loynaz / granted, 'in tennesse i found a firefly', mary szybist / romance or the end, elaine kahn / henry and june: from 'a journal of love', the unexpurgated diary (1931-1932), henry miller / pine to sound, nancy kuhl / hiroshima mon amour, marguerite duras / autobiography of red, anne carson / plainwater: essays and poetry, 'canicula di anna', anne carson / the selected plays of hélène cixous, 'the perjured city', hélène cixous / half light: collected poems 1965-2016, 'elegy', frank bidart / the sorrow festival, erin slaughter / melancholia, 'seventeen', dc de oliveira / white is for witching, helen oyeyemi / postcolonial love poem, natalie diaz / wuthering heights, emily brontë / the caged owl: new and selected poems, 'going out', gregory orr

#the borgias #theborgiasedit #cesare borgia #lucrezia borgia #cesare x lucrezia #francois arnaud #holliday grainger #mine #mww #tbww #comparative #comparatives #web weaves #web weaving #web weavings #web weave

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poppletonink · 9 months

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Books That Are Fairytale Retellings

The Sleeper and The Spindle by Neil Gaiman

A Court Of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maal

Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron

The Girl In Red by Christina Henry

Once Upon A Time: A Story Collection by Shannon Hale

Lost In The Never Woods by Aiden Thomas

The True Story Of Hansel and Gretel by Louise Murphy

Cinder by Marissa Meyer

The Big Over Easy by Jasper Fforde

The Mermaid by Christina Henry

House Of Salt and Sorrows by Erin A. Craig

Girls Made Of Snow And Glass by Melissa Bashardoust

The Storybook of Legends by Shannon Hale

The Wishing Spell by Chris Colfer

Forest Of A Thousand Lanterns by Julie C. Dao

Geekerella by Ashley Poston

The Fourth Bear by Jasper Fforde

Gingerbread by Helen Oyeyemi

To Kill A Kingdom by Alexandra Christo

Six Crimson Cranes by Elizabeth Lim

Once Upon A Broken Heart by Stephanie Garber

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bccfggffbgv · 11 months

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How's everyone celebrating Mother's day?

Ross is planning to use fireworks to show his appreciation to his mom...Just don't ask where he got them.

Eda is getting a s*** ton of gifts with all the kids she's gathered/acquired.

Uzi and Molly are planning on visiting and paying their respects to their deceased mothers.

Hank and the others from the Mad-verse don't really know/understand the concept of Mother's day, so they don't celebrate it.

Jackrow firstly celebrates it by taking his birth mother on a relaxing day out and then he visits the cemetery where his adopted mother had been buried to pay his respects as well.

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fatehbaz · 2 days

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Just in case, some might enjoy. Had to organize some notes.

These are just some of the newer texts that had been promoted in the past few years at the online home of the American Association of Geographers. At: [https://www.aag.org/new-books-for-geographers/]

Tried to narrow down selections to focus on critical/radical geography; Indigenous, Black, anticolonial, oceanic/archipelagic, carceral, abolition, Latin American geographies; futures and place-making; colonial and imperial imaginaries; emotional ecologies and environmental perception; confinement, escape, mobility; housing/homelessness; literary and musical ecologies.

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New stuff, early 2024:

A Caribbean Poetics of Spirit (Hannah Regis, University of the West Indies Press, 2024)

Constructing Worlds Otherwise: Societies in Movement and Anticolonial Paths in Latin America (Raúl Zibechi and translator George Ygarza Quispe, AK Press, 2024)

Fluid Geographies: Water, Science, and Settler Colonialism in New Mexico (K. Maria D. Lane, University of Chicago Press, 2024)

Hydrofeminist Thinking With Oceans: Political and Scholarly Possibilities (Tarara Shefer, Vivienne Bozalek, and Nike Romano, Routledge, 2024)

Making the Literary-Geographical World of Sherlock Holmes: The Game Is Afoot (David McLaughlin, University of Chicago Press, 2025)

Mapping Middle-earth: Environmental and Political Narratives in J. R. R. Tolkien’s Cartographies (Anahit Behrooz, Bloomsbury Publishing, 2024)

Midlife Geographies: Changing Lifecourses across Generations, Spaces and Time (Aija Lulle, Bristol University Press, 2024)

Society Despite the State: Reimagining Geographies of Order (Anthony Ince and Geronimo Barrera de la Torre, Pluto Press, 2024)

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New stuff, 2023:

The Black Geographic: Praxis, Resistance, Futurity (Camilla Hawthorne and Jovan Scott Lewis, Duke University Press, 2023)

Activist Feminist Geographies (Edited by Kate Boyer, Latoya Eaves and Jennifer Fluri, Bristol University Press, 2023)

The Silences of Dispossession: Agrarian Change and Indigenous Politics in Argentina (Mercedes Biocca, Pluto Press, 2023)

The Sovereign Trickster: Death and Laughter in the Age of Dueterte (Vicente L. Rafael, Duke University Press, 2022)

Ottoman Passports: Security and Geographic Mobility, 1876-1908 (İlkay Yılmaz, Syracuse University Press, 2023)

The Practice of Collective Escape (Helen Traill, Bristol University Press, 2023)

Maps of Sorrow: Migration and Music in the Construction of Precolonial AfroAsia (Sumangala Damodaran and Ari Sitas, Columbia University Press, 2023)

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New stuff, late 2022:

B.H. Roberts, Moral Geography, and the Making of a Modern Racist (Clyde R. Forsberg, Jr.and Phillip Gordon Mackintosh, Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2022)

Environing Empire: Nature, Infrastructure and the Making of German Southwest Africa (Martin Kalb, Berghahn Books, 2022)

Sentient Ecologies: Xenophobic Imaginaries of Landscape (Edited by Alexandra Coțofană and Hikmet Kuran, Berghahn Books 2022)

Colonial Geography: Race and Space in German East Africa, 1884–1905 (Matthew Unangst, University of Toronto Press, 2022)

The Geographies of African American Short Fiction (Kenton Rambsy, University of Mississippi Press, 2022)

Knowing Manchuria: Environments, the Senses, and Natural Knowledge on an Asian Borderland (Ruth Rogaski, University of Chicago Press, 2022)

Punishing Places: The Geography of Mass Imprisonment (Jessica T. Simes, University of California Press, 2021)

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New stuff, early 2022:

Belly of the Beast: The Politics of Anti-fatness as Anti-Blackness (Da’Shaun Harrison, 2021)

Coercive Geographies: Historicizing Mobility, Labor and Confinement (Edited by Johan Heinsen, Martin Bak Jørgensen, and Martin Ottovay Jørgensen, Haymarket Books, 2021)

Confederate Exodus: Social and Environmental Forces in the Migration of U.S. Southerners to Brazil (Alan Marcus, University of Nebraska Press, 2021)

Decolonial Feminisms, Power and Place (Palgrave, 2021)

Krakow: An Ecobiography (Edited by Adam Izdebski & Rafał Szmytka, University of Pittsburgh Press, 2021)

Open Hand, Closed Fist: Practices of Undocumented Organizing in a Hostile State (Kathryn Abrams, University of California Press, 2022)

Unsettling Utopia: The Making and Unmaking of French India (Jessica Namakkal, 2021)

---

New stuff, 2020 and 2021:

Mapping the Amazon: Literary Geography after the Rubber Boom (Amanda Smith, Liverpool University Press, 2021)

Geopolitics, Culture, and the Scientific Imaginary in Latin America (Edited by María del Pilar Blanco and Joanna Page, 2020)

Reconstructing public housing: Liverpool’s hidden history of collective alternatives (Matt Thompson, University of Liverpool Press, 2020)

The (Un)governable City: Productive Failure in the Making of Colonial Delhi, 1858–1911 (Raghav Kishore, 2020)

Multispecies Households in the Saian Mountains: Ecology at the Russia-Mongolia Border (Edited by Alex Oehler and Anna Varfolomeeva, 2020)

Urban Mountain Beings: History, Indigeneity, and Geographies of Time in Quito, Ecuador (Kathleen S. Fine-Dare, 2019)

City of Refuge: Slavery and Petit Marronage in the Great Dismal Swamp, 1763-1856 (Marcus P. Nevius, University of Georgia Press, 2020)

#abolition #ecology

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crazy-maracuya · 26 days

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Bashing my head in the ground and sobbing at how Briseis and Patroclus mirror the kind relationship (both platonic and somewhat familiar) with Helen and Hector. How they both treated the women with kindness and respect, how both women mourn their deaths and are given their dialogue to do so. How both women were trophies of war to a man that took them away from their first husband, but Patroclus swore to Briseis how she will be revered as the legitimate wife of the hero Achilles, and Hector stood up for Helen all time, both as friends. How they both wailed out to the deaths of the beloved heroes, merciless in battle and kind to their people, faithful to their loves all the same.

No one stop me I'm moving to the sea to drown my sorrows.

#This was mostly about the m and f platonic friendships but I also want to say that Patroclus and Hector mirror each other quite a lot #which makes me wonder if. down to their deaths. this simily was supposed to be intentional #i might have to keep some notes on this but anyways #SOBBING YOU KNOW IM WEAK FOR WOMEN BEING RESPECTED IN ANCIENT TIMES #ESPECIALLY WHEN IT ISNT JUST THEIR HUSBANDS BUT OTHER MEN AS WELL LIKE PLEASEEEE #right tags #tagamemnon #briseis #hector of troy #helen of troy #helen of sparta #patroclus #illiad #the illiad #greek mythology #i cant put the translations bc i keep reading this bitch in spanish

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yeehawesome · 1 year

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Helen did not know her children.

They were in the same bodies and they still called her mother, yet they had age in their eyes and walked with the assurance of adults.

Peter had taken up drawing, when they got home. She found one of his sketches, wrinkled up and tossed to the ground. It was him, or a version of him anyway. This Peter was wearing the same schoolboy clothes. But he had a long scar that cut across his eyebrow. There was a burn mark on his hands. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken, healed, then broken again. This Peter carried a sword. This Peter wore a crown. There was something sad in his eyes, a look that she only saw in the old soldiers that frequented their neighborhood cafe. Sometimes Helen found Peter there, talking with them. They showed him their battle wounds and he looked upon them not with the jealously or awe of boys his age, but with grief. He drew them, too. In their civilian clothes, worn down by time, but with guns in their hands and determination in their eyes. He recognized them, and they him.

Helen put the drawing away and didn’t speak of it to anyone, unsure of the life her son had lived within it.

Susan had taken up shooting, when they got home. Helen felt some reservations at allowing her young daughter to go to the range alone, but she could see the hunger in Susan’s eyes. Her daughter was no longer the blushing schoolgirl trying to be older than she was. This Susan was assured, capable. Helen could see her daughter suffocating in London under the restrictions placed on a girl her age, and couldn’t bring herself to turn her daughter down. Helen accompanied her, that first day of shooting. It only took Susan a few tries before she was hitting the target with deadly accuracy. The gun seemed an extension of her body. Helen asked her about how it felt. “It feels like cheating.” Her daughter had said, frowning, before she turned back to the target and shot it dead center. When she saw the concerned look in Helen’s eyes she smiled, kissed her mother on the forehead, and murmured a word of thanks.

Helen did not watch her daughter shoot anymore after that, unsure of the sorrow in Susan’s eyes when she held the gun.

Edmund had taken up reading, when they got home. Helen had tried and tried to foster a love of reading in all her children, but he had been the one to resist. Now he voluntarily spent hours on the couch, turning pages with a speed that surprised her. He didn’t speak with his old friends, anymore. Helen was pleased with his new appetite for books, but that soon turned into concern when he delved into worlds like he was trying to escape the one he was in. Once, she picked up a book of his and leafed through it, searching for a clue as to why her son was swallowed whole by it. There was a poem he had underlined. It spoke of regret and grief and the killing of the monsters within. Helen remembered the look on Edmunds face when his friends had come to the door after they first got back, inviting him to join. He politely turned them down, but Helen saw the fear in his eyes. She had loved Edmund before they left and she loved him when they returned, but she could not deny that this boy was different, more than any of them. He had done a lot of growing up in a very short time, it seemed.

Helen did not read through Edmunds books, anymore, unsure and afraid of what exactly he was running from.

Lucy had always sang, her happiest child. She came into the world with a song bursting forth. She still sang, when they got home. But these songs were different. When she sang, the faces of the flowers turned towards her. The grass seemed to grow taller around her bare feet. The world was greener, when Lucy sang. Once, Helen had gone to retrieve her as she stood on their porch during a storm. Lucy was singing a song unlike the others, a sorrowful song for soldiers marching off to war. It was unlike anything Helen had heard, and it seemed the storm felt that way, too. The wind blew harder around Lucy, the rain hit her face as the trees bent towards her, the ancient things trying to bow. Lucy had laughed in delight, throwing her arms wide. That was the first real laugh Helen had heard from any of her children upon their return. When Lucy laughed, it sounded like she was finally taking a breath. The storm kept raging on when she stopped, and Lucy kept smiling until Helen found her voice and asked her to come inside.

Helen did not find her daughter in the storms, anymore, unsure of the way her daughter relished the power of something so dangerous.

When together, Helen felt the most relief. The others seemed to age when Peter spoke, but they didn’t have the sorrow in his eyes and it lessened his. The others seemed more dangerous when Susan touched their shoulders, but she knew they would never be dangerous to each other, and that was all that really mattered. The others were more solemn when Edmund informed them of his readings, but Helen saw how they savored the joy in his eyes when he did so, as if saving it to remember later. The others straightened when Lucy entered the room, as if their youngest daughter was reminding them to keep their heads high. Together, they were more changed than ever.

Helen did not know her children.

#susan pevensie #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #lucy pevensie #helen pevensie #narnia #the chronicles of narnia #aslan #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #tltwatw

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owlbee-writing · 1 year

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TheArchivist: my three archival assistants,

And yes, they smoke weed

Michael distortion: do they smoke weed?

TheArchivist: yes, actually.

Jane prentiss: You mean they aren’t just smoking cigarettes? But weed cigarettes?

TheArchivist: it’s called a bunt… not a weed cigarette… and yes, it’s a weed bunt. They all smoke weed bunts before we read statements. (They are my archival assistants.)

Helen distortion: they don’t look like they smoke weed

TheArchivist: Fuck You.

Fuck You.

I’m so angry you are so lucky my three weed smorking archival assistants are researching statements to calm me down I’m so mad.

Melanie: Your “weed smoking archival assistant” has a Hello Kitty tattoo on his belly. The one in the middle.

TheArchivist: I printed out a photo of your avatar and taped it to my punching bag that I punch and I mutter your URL with every strong punch I punch you twerp…. Don’t ever Talk about Martin or the wicked Tat(tattoo) I drew on him ever again I Don’t wanna see you standing outside my home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again ok leave us alone this is the FINAL FUCKING WARNING

Basira: Well that escalated quickly……

TheArchivist: What, was that? Hmm? Come again. *martin grabs my shoulder* Come on Jon, they aren’t worth it, please. * I jerk my shoulder shaking his off* NO! NOOOOO!!! *starts to just pummel you with my big fucking fists. With each blow I let out a furious yell. The blows come quicker and harder and the yells get louder. I’m yelling so loud and now I’m crying. BREAKING POINT. The week was hard and I can’t take anymore. I’m opening sobbing at this point while you blood gurgle. All three of my archival assistants struggle to pull me off and they finally succeed and lead me away from the goo pile that is now your body*

Elias: haha oh my god

who even is this dude? someone needs some anger management classes.

love how he keeps reminding us that “I HAVE THREE ARCHIVAL ASSISTANTS”, “THEY ALL RESEARCH STATEMENTS”, and “THEY SMOKE WEED HURRP DURR”.

and let’s not forget the “Martin” and his “wicked tat”, or that he doesn’t “wanna see you standing outside [his] home at 3 am holding your weird dripping brown bags ever again”, and that this is “the FINAL FUCKING WARNING”.

“the goo pile that is now your body”

i’m dying over here, jesus

please, Jonathan, come challenge me to a bout of internet witticsisms; i promise, it’ll be fun.

TheArchivist: *shoots you dead* Heh, idiot…

*leaves with my three weed smorking archival assistants to go hold hands and research statements.*

Daisy: this dude playin omg

TheArchivist: Come again? *The institute falls silent. No one dares to make a sound, as you have just said a very poor choice of words at a very dangerous time. I remain slumped over the bar, not looking back to you. One hand limply holding an almost empty bottle, the other hand cradling my head. I repeat the question, this time louder.* Come again?! *You can hear me slur the words, the sentence sounds like a real struggle for me to get out. I’m clearly intoxicated. A bead of sweat rolls down your face as you realize you might have just fucked up in a very major way. Everyone else in the institute is pretending to not notice what is going on. The bartender idly washes a mug with a cloth. His eyes are closed and he’s muttering something to himself. A handful of people hurriedly leave. One person looks back at you, a look of sorrow on their face. They almost say something, but shake their head and cast their eyes down to the floor, and leave. But not you. You stand, petrified. A quick look at me reveals I’m still at the bar. You look to the exit, there’s still time. But there’s not, there’s not, there’s not. Your fate was sealed the moment you opened your mouth.* Mother fuck.. what did you say?! *I slowly rise from my stool and being to lumber over to you. I look a mess. My hair is unkempt, I haven’t shaved in what looks like months, there are dark heavy bags under my eyes, my shirt is stained and has holes in it, and I’m missing a shoe. But the main thing you notice is the gun tucked into my jeans, and my massive muscle arms that look like they were made for punching. You know that song about the boots that were made for walking? Yeah, it’s like that only instead of boots it’s my muscles and instead of walking it’s punching. As I drunkenly sway over to you, you think of your family… Will they mourn you, or will they try and forget this blotch of stupidity, that their child insulted the Archivist publicly, ever happened to their family? Your thoughts are cut short as I now stand face to face with you. I grab your face and pull you even closer.* Playin?! There was nothing playing… no playing you fuck. No playing… it was real.. the realest thing I’ve ever know.. felt… Love. I loved them… Martin…. Sash-sasha… Tim… I loved all three of em… but they…*My face is wet with tears and I’m blinking constantly in vain to hold them back.* They left me… left… *Almost instantly the sadness leaves my face and is replaced with pure anger.* Playin? Playin?! *My hand leaves your face and starts to head to what you think is the gun. You close your eyes and see Beholding looking at you, shrugging. ‘Pft, you brought this upon yourself dude.’ He says as he waves his hands at you dismissively. But instead of the gun, my hands grab yours. Your eyes jolt open and the anger is gone from my face. There is only sadness.* Left me… * I fall to the floor and sob.*

Wow, grow up. *You say before you leave the bar but are hit almost immediately from a car and are killed upon impact.*

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sorryseraphim · 2 months

Text

She would greet it like an old friend if emptiness could devour her entirely.

Hunger and exhaustion finally took over the sadness that consumed her for the last three days. She stirred lightly from her bedroll, which Helene had purposely moved out of everybody's view after their return from the dank and horrid abode where the Netherbrain resided.

She had isolated herself from everyone else when Enver died three days ago.

The memory of his sudden death replaying inside her head tormented her even in sleep, that she had stopped closing her eyes to avoid them. But even when she was awake, she could still see how his body slumped to the ground, his face blackened and twisted, forever contorted into a scream.

How she stomped her fist in vain across his chest, hoping it would restart his heart, but to no avail. She had screamed, trashed even when they tried to take her away, cradling his lifeless body, desperate for even a tiny bit of evidence that she could save him. They stowed her away along with the tyrant’s once warm body, just before the brain tried attacking them.

Helene had wailed, tears streaming from her cheeks, raining down Enver’s unmoving face, but he wouldn’t be able to hear or see it. She had lost her voice three days ago; she might also lose her heart entirely in the following days or so.

Astarion almost never left her side the first day she had begun her grieving. He had tried to console her, brought food she had barely touched, and even cried along with her, hoping she would notice how every time her voice cracked from trying to speak or began crying again, his frozen heart would shatter too into a million more pieces.

And yet, she remained cathartic, oblivious of Astarion’s effort: her silence echoing across the camp, the unusual quietness putting a lump to everyone's throat as their leader remained in a state of despair.

On the third day of his death, Helene finally had the courage to approach one soul she trusted the most from camp, just as the campfire started crackling during supper, startling everyone around her as her ghostly figure, ashen and still in her camp clothes from three days ago, started walking towards Jaheira.

The old Harper caught her as she slumped by the entrance of her tent; Helene's eyes were bloodshot, her crimson orbs darker than usual, looking up at her like a child looking for an answer from a God, clinging for dear life.

“Why… why does it hurt?”

“Have you never known hurt or pain, child?” Jaheira whispered as she stroked her hair, brushing her trembling lips as tears started threatening to spill again.

“I thought I knew pain, but I don't know what this is. I can't get rid of it. Please help me get rid of it.” Helene struggled to speak, her chest heaving as the weight of grief started to suffocate her lungs once more.

Jaheira’s hand cupped her cheek, looking at her with those stern eyes that had seen far more sorrow than hers, reflected through the wrinkles on her face, her unwavering tenacity shared through wisdom. “You had hoped. A selfish decision at that, given the gravity of his crimes, and yet you still went behind everyone's back to accept his request. And that hope now shattered before you, is your punishment.”

“I just want this to end.” She pleaded, uttering the same words over and over, clinging to the Harper’s arms, tears soaking her shirt as her eyes gave out once more. The rest of the camp convened around the mournful scene; none dared but the pale elf to come near Helene, who was now a wallowing mess, her face buried against her palms as Jaheira let Astarion take over and wrap her in a cape, his arms around her as he showered her with comforting words, drowning again from despair.

“My dear, you will be fine. No one will hurt you again while we’re here. While I’m here.” Astarion shushed above her weeping, arms clinging onto his neck as he carried her frail body away from the crowd, concealing her away from everyone’s gaze once more in his tent. She was still sobbing as he laid her down, tucking her with the cape, gently brushing the hair out of her face.

“I’m sorry,” Helene whispered between the hiccups, her voice scratchy from screaming and wailing that hadn’t yet recovered. Astarion let out a pained smile, still brushing her hair with his delicate fingers, a gesture that used to calm Helene when the Urge struck now served as futile at the moment of her grief.

“I know.”

Her heart went heavy at the realization that he had now realized the depth of her betrayal. How she had traded her newly built life with Astarion for the one she had once shared with Enver, rescinded by a miscalculation of their plan—-her plan— now fell to pieces. “I’m sorry if I–”

“I know. Rest, my sweet. I will still be here when you wake up tomorrow.”

Rolling to her back, her sobs started to subside, blending with the evening quietness until there was no more sound coming from where she lay. In the dark, she chased what little light spilled inside the confines of the tent, stretching her hands to gaze at her fingers where two rings had now slipped.

One signet ring with a single ruby on it, Enver’s gift to her many years ago he had relived inside her head one night she probed his mind, memories flooding and overwhelming her to chase and want her old life.

The other was her very own gift: a golden ring band she once bestowed to him as a symbol of her promise back then to be his, and only his.

The gift returned to her, but not her memories. And most certainly, not Enver now that his soul is trapped under the lord of tyranny’s hands, impossible for her to reach.

Her old life, now forlorn and voided of ever returning.

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