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humanpurposes · 1 year

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Karma is a God

Chapter 8: Dragonstone

The Dance of the Dragons begins on a lie, and Aemond owes a debt, one Lucerra will see repaid in Fire and Blood // Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Aemond x Lucerra Velaryon (fem!Lucerys)

Warnings for this chapter: none

Words: 5700

A/n: Originally posted on AO3, posting to Tumblr before I get back to regular updates.

They rode through dusk, darkness and daybreak, far above the clouds to evade the prying eyes of friends, foes or otherwise.

When the wind picked up, Grey Ghost began a descent and the Narrow Sea sprawled out underneath them. At the sight of the water and the rush of waves, Luke gripped the dragon’s scales a little harder.

She couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. She looked over her shoulder, and every time she saw nothing but empty space.

They finally rounded past Claw Isle and a fortress of grey and black stone faded into view through a salty mist. Dragonstone was forged with fire and magic, so the histories claim, the last outpost of Old Valyria, with stone dragons adorning the walls and towers against a backdrop of smoke swirling up from the Dragonmount.

This is where Aegon, Rhaenys and Visenya planned their conquest, and now Queen Rhaenyra plots a war of her own.

Grey Ghost settled just outside the castle walls. She had tried to guide him to the courtyard, but he wouldn’t do it. Too loud, too busy, too vulnerable.

Two bodies collided into her the moment the gates opened. One was small, wrapping his skinny arms around her and pressing his head of dark curls against her waist. The other encompassed them both, pulling them into his chest.

Luke clutched Joffrey so tightly she worried she might squeeze the air from his lungs. She could think of worse fates than being smothered by the embrace of a loved one.

There had never been a day when the Velaryon siblings were parted, not until Storm’s End, not until their uncle had tried to tear her away from them. And yet here she was, in spite of it all, in spite of him, running her hand through Joffrey’s hair and leaning into Jace’s arms, pledging a silent vow to never leave them again.

For a few precious moments she allowed herself this bitter happiness.

Two dragons called out in sorrowful joy from the Dragonmount, Vermax’s rippling screech and Tyraxes’ almost feline growl. Some of the strength she had gathered shattered at their cries. No matter how long she held her brothers, the reunion was incomplete without Arrax.

Eventually she followed Jace to the hall of the painted table, where their Queen stood before a raging hearth, flickers of flame dancing in the gleam of her gold crown and silver hair. Her eyes were wide and glassy, fixed upon the map before her.

Every other pair of eyes in the hall fell to the Princess, Lords Celtigar and Bar Emmon standing by the Westerlands, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent by the Vale, Lord Corlys and Baela by Driftmark and the Gullet, and Rhaena, standing by the Queen’s side.

Daemon, she noticed, was not present.

“Princess Lucerra,” Ser Lorent finally announced, “of houses Velaryon and Targaryen.”

She must have looked anything but royal, draped in a heavy Northern cloak, her hair a tangled mess and the skin of her cheeks red from the wind.

She hadn’t stopped for food or rest during the flight from Winterfell, but she had been so desperate to make the journey that the thought of delaying by even a moment had filled her with dread. Another moment for something to go wrong. Another moment for someone else to die.

Her eyes were sunken, her lips downturned and effortlessly solemn, still, she looked to the Queen with a childlike innocence, waiting for a spark of recognition in her mother’s eyes.

Rhaenyra looked up from the map slowly. “Lucerra,” it came like a question, muddled as though she had just woken from a dream.

She wanted to run across the room, to collide into her mother and melt into her arms as she had done with Jace and Joffrey, but something kept her frozen where she stood. There was an emptiness Rhaenyra’s in eyes, like one of Alicent’s statues of the Seven, ethereal, but lifeless.

“I am here, mother,” Luke said.

Rhaenyra wordlessly reached out a hand, and Luke approached her cautiously. When she curled her fingers around her hand she found her skin was cold.

Rhaenyra brought her other hand to cup Luke’s cheek, barely hovering a thumb over the almost faded cut below her eye, unable to take her gaze from it.

Her lip trembled. “My sweet girl,” she uttered, “my precious girl.”

Living on Dragonstone is nothing like the quiet isolation of her childhood. Now it is like living in a history book. Soldiers train in the courtyard, knights patrol the hallways, Lords gather and debate around the painted table, and a fleet of ships hover beyond the shore.

Rhaena tried to suggest a walk through the village, to take their minds off it all, but even that left Luke with an uncomfortable feeling gnawing at her insides. The people scurried about like mice, quick and avoidant, terrified at what might come should this war get bloodier.

She does not find comfort in her bedchamber. It feels too large, too empty, and when the wind is too harsh her mind starts to slip, to the rain, the storm, Vhagar’s open jaws…

When the nightmares persist she goes to Jace’s chambers. If he’s awake he’ll let her have the bed. If he’s asleep she settles on the settee and watches the embers in the fireplace fade until she can’t keep her eyes open.

Her mother’s council gathers daily to discuss the war, but it is not the Queen who takes command of these meetings. Jace has aged again after their time together in the North, only now it shows through the assuredness of his voice, the way he carries himself, the eager glimmer in his eye as he addresses their allies.

Luke ensures she is present for every meeting, standing alongside Lord Corlys and her step-sisters.

Daemon sends ravens from Harrenhal; their numbers are increasing every day as more and more houses of the Riverlands pledge their fealty to the one true Queen, either of their own admission or with some ‘persuading’ by the Rogue Prince and his dragon. Given the pact made with Cregan Stark, the North will soon come to double their numbers.

Baela gives her a suggestive glance at the reminder of her betrothal. Luke’s eyes dart down to her hands as she runs her nails over her fingertips.

Lord Celtigar asks about Dorne. Maester Gerardys notes Prince Qoren is keen to avoid this conflict and similar sentiments come from the Tyrells.

“We should not disregard the Reach,” Jace insists. “Highgarden may not want a part in this war but the Hightowers have influence enough in Oldtown to form a formidable host.”

“Indeed, Lord Ormund has already begun the march to King’s Landing,” says Lord Bar Eammon.

Jace presses his lips together and inches the Hightower figure along the map. The Greens have the support of the South and the West of Westeros, and their allies are closing in to defend the capital against Daemon’s growing host.

Then comes the concerns of dragons.

Rhaenyra straightens her shoulders. “We still outnumber them,” she says stiffly.

Lord Corlys’ eyes darken. “The simple fact remains,” he says, hands clenching into fists by his side, “as long as the Greens have Vaghar, we are at a disadvantage.”

Luke feels Baela tense beside her and reaches for her sister’s wrist, stroking her thumb over her sleeve, the same way her mother had always soothed them as children.

Rhaenyra returns Lord Corlys’ glare and the room settles into a restless silence.

Eyes flitter everywhere, between the Queen and the Lord of the Tides, locked in a cold conflict neither have any intention of backing down from, and to Luke herself, the Princess who should be dead. She grips Baela’s wrist a little tighter.

Rhaena had told her of the day the raven came from Rook’s Rest. Rhaenyra had simply stared at the letter from Lord Staunton, begging for aid in the face of the Green host. She said Jace had volunteered to go with Rhaenys, and that Rhaenyra seemed to come to life when he did, only to forbid him from going. So Rhaenys went alone. And shortly after word came of her demise.

With Meleys dead and Craxes in the Riverlands, no dragon they have could hope to stand against Vaghar.

For this though, Jace has a solution.

She wakes with the sunrise and Jace is already gone. She returns to her own chambers where a maid is waiting for her with new riding leathers. She slips into black leather leggings, a crimson skirt and matching undershirt. Then the maid helps her into a black leather tunic, patterned with intertwining dragons of red and gold. The material is thicker than she’s used to, for keeping out the cold presumably, it would hardly save her from Vhagar’s teeth and talons.

Her eyes are drawn to a breastplate and pauldron set, laid out by the window. The metal is plated with silver and layered like dragonscales. Beside that is a sheathed sword.

“Do you like your gift?” Even when softly spoken, the voice of Lord Corlys is booming and demanding.

Her eyes dart to where he stands in the doorway, his tall and broad frame obstructing her view of the hallway behind him. She has never known him as a young man, and yet for the first time she truly sees his age on his face. She wonders what has finally cracked the Sea Snake, the six years of war in the Stepstones? The fever that had his family fighting over his throne? The death of his beloved wife seems the most obvious answer.

He offers her a small smile that does not reach his eyes, and nods towards the blade.

When she looks closer, she sees the golden hilt is fashioned into the image of a seahorse, the sigil of house Velaryon. She supposes she should feel some sort of pride to wield the image of her father’s house, and yet…

She wraps her fingers around it and her brows twist into a delicate frown. “This is for me?”

Lord Corlys sighs. She listens to the thud of his boots against the stone floor as he makes his way to her side. If he understands her reservation, he will not satisfy it. “Prince Jacaerys tells me you are a rather capable combatant.”

She grips the hilt tightly despite the resistance in her fingers. Her strength is still not what is once was.

“Daemon made sure of that,” she murmurs.

Her step-father’s name comes with an image of the silver-haired twins she had only gotten a glimpse of in King’s Landing, the terrified little glares on their pale faces as they hid themselves behind their mother’s skirts. It is too easy to imagine their linen gowns stained with blood.

She dispels the swelling in her eyes and looks back up to her grandsire, the man who had put himself between her and a vengeful Alicent all those years ago on Driftmark, who had held her as she had cried herself to exhaustion on the night of Ser Laenor’s death. She forces a smile of her own.

He tilts his head down to her, bewildered for a moment, before he opens his arms. She settles unsurely in his embrace, but he holds her firmly, resting a hand on the back of her head. She takes a few shuddering breaths to find he smells like Laenor.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters.

“Whatever for?”

She takes another shaky breath, breathing in his bitterness and warmth, and the lingering scent of the sea. She wasn’t the one who ordered a dragon after Meleys and Rhaenys, she wasn’t the one to sever Jaehaerys or Jaehaera’s heads from their bodies and yet she feels the burden of their deaths in her heart. “Everything.”

Corlys gently pulls away from her, so he can look into her eyes. “War enacts a terrible price…” the thought seems to get caught in his throat.

“The pain must be worth something,” she says in a shaky voice.

He does not answer her.

It will be worth it, she tells herself, when the Black banners line the halls of the Red Keep and Rhaenyra Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. It has to be.

Lord Corlys follows her to the entrance hall where Jace is already waiting with five others, all dressed in riding leathers, though their faces are unfamiliar to her.

Two spark some kind of vague recognition. They must be brothers, the same features in their faces, the same dark skin and shade of silver hair. The taller one has an assured smirk on his lips and locks that fall to his shoulders. The shorter one has a slightly more timid, wide-eyed gaze and close cropped hair.

Her grandfather greets them warmly, gripping their hands and slapping their backs. Then she realises, their smiles are identical to the Sea Snake’s. She glances at Jace. He raises his eyebrows at her.

Corlys introduces them as Alyn and Addam of Hull, bastards of Laenor’s, her half-brothers. Luke grins, she can think of several ways why that might be a lie. At least they seem more savoury than the other pair of men with silver hair.

Hugh Hammer is a monster of a man, tall and built like a bull, and he frowns like one. By contrast, Ulf, ‘the white’ as the people of Dragonstone call him, is thin and wiry, next to Hugh, he looks like nothing more than skin on bones. They only make gruff grunts of acknowledgement when Jace introduces them, glaring at her through harsh violet eyes.

The last of their group is a girl, with black braids and dark skin, dressed in humble brown riding leathers. She’s shorter and slimmer than Luke, but the scar across the bridge of her nose and the creases around her mouth lead her to wonder if she is older than she appears.

“Nettles,” she says, extending a small but calloused hand.

Luke doesn’t understand at first.

Jace huffs a laugh. “Princess Lucerra, might I introduce Nettles.” He turns to the girl. “Nettles, Princess Lucerra is the daughter of the Queen, you should address her accordingly.”

She tuts to herself and bends her knees in an odd attempt at a curtsy. “Sorry, Princess.”

Luke takes her hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “That’s alright, I’m not usually one for formalities at the best of times.”

Once Baela appears, dressed in leathers that match Luke’s, they make their way out to the yard, towards the Dragonmount.

In all her years living on Dragonstone, she has only seen glimpses of the larger dragons, heard their roars from the mount, seen their distant figures soaring through the sky. And all of a sudden she is faced with Vermithor, Silverwing and Sheepstealer, stalking towards their new riders.

Her heart leaps at a familiar whistling screech as Seasmoke rises from the mount, twirling through the air before he lands to come to Addam’s side.

She watches as Jace’s eyes light up at the sight before them; six dragons, eager for flight, ready to take their place in this war.

She has to wait until the others have taken flight before Grey Ghost finally comes to join her. Not too eagerly, she summons some of the dragon keepers, bringing with them heavy bundles of leather. The dragon grumbles at the company, but she keeps a hand against the scales of his neck, stroking where his hide is delicate, uttering phrases of reassurance.

It takes her a while to figure out how to fit the saddle. The dragon keepers had always helped her with Arrax, but she manages it, helped immensely by Grey Ghost’s unusual but welcome show of patience.

Once she has given him a few moments to adjust to the feeling of the saddle, she gives the order, and they bolt into the sky.

At first they are a restless mass, flashes of bronze, silver, pale green, emerald, and grey dancing over the castle, until Vermax emerges from the group, darting out towards the sea. The others follow behind him, forming an instinctive formation, Grey Ghost and Moondancer, Seasmoke and Sheepstealer, with Vermithor and Silverwing bringing up the rear.

Luke looks over to Baela, her silver curls flailing in the wind behind her, a wide and eager grin across her lips. Ahead of them, Jace keeps his eye fixed on the horizon, leading them all through twists, turns and dives down towards the sea until seven tails skim the surface of the water.

“Today is only the beginning,” he promises once they have dismounted. “We’ll be an army in our own right, the most formidable force of dragons since the conquest.”

“An ambitious standard,” Baela says with a sly smile, tearing her gloves off with her teeth. Luke can’t help but agree.

There can be no room for error in a dance of dragons. One faulty manoeuvre and you fall. One oversight and you are claimed by teeth and talons. And that’s so long as you can keep control of your dragon. Restraint and unity, above all else, is essential. Fly as one. Think as one. Die as one.

Jace has the Dragonseeds training from the early morning until dusk each day and Luke is keen to include herself. Grey Ghost is still wary of the other dragons, especially the larger three, Vermithor, Silverwing and Sheepstealer, but he warms to Vermax, Seasmoke and Moondancer well enough. They fly over Dragonstone and Driftmark, along the routes she and Arrax had well memorised.

Grey Ghost eases under her guidance every time they fly. Each day she pushes him a little further, urges him to fly faster, climb higher amongst the clouds where the air is thin and dive back down to the sea until there are tears streaming from her eyes.

When she comes back to the ground she goes to the yard, to spar with the sword Lord Corlys has gifted her and practise with her bow.

The sun fades with no great bursts of red or gold painting the sky. Darkness creeps in slowly, and the clouds above Dragonstone turn to a deep violet. The wind howls against the battlements around the courtyard, but the air is still. Luke’s fingertips are raw as they pull back on the bow. She has promised herself she will not return to the castle until she can shoot ten bullseyes in a row.

She releases the arrow. It cuts through the air with a whistle and lands in the straw, perfectly centred. One.

She traces her fingertips over the feathers of the next, squinting at her target through the low light of the evening and the dull fatigue in her eyes.

Two… three… four…

She hears the crackle of dirt underfoot as someone paces behind her.

Five… and the sixth is a little off centre. She gnaws at the flesh inside her mouth, but allows herself the benefit of the doubt and lines up her next arrow.

“You are relentless, Princess.”

She finally lowers the bow, realising the ache that has appeared in her left arm, but what is pain to her now? She’s suffered worse. “Would you expect different of me? We are at war.”

Alyn takes a step closer to her, plucking a finger against the string of her bow to her frustration. “Lord Corlys speaks very highly of you... and your brothers.”

She flicks his hand away from her bow. “How endearing, but it is a shame he has never mentioned you.”

“Addam and I are bastards, nothing of note.”

An attempt at humility, or perhaps he means to insult her? But there’s a sadness in his eyes, despite the small smile playing at his lips.

She presses her teeth together. Sometimes she feels foolish for not having realised why her hair was brown sooner. Jace whispered it to her, as they watched Harwin Strong leave the Red Keep from a window.

“Have you always known?” She asks.

“My mother always told us stories of our father, a great warrior and an even greater sailor; some might say the greatest the world has ever known. Imagine my surprise when the Lord of Driftmark paid a visit to Hull and told me my true father was Laenor Velaryon.”

One of her hands curls into a fist. “Don't you dare. Laenor was an honourable man."

“I wouldn’t dream of denying it," he says with a slight tilt of his head. "Though he had an incredible talent for fathering children, despite his... preferences."

In a fluid flash of movement she positions another arrow into her bow and shoots. Seven. “So you’ve decided to approach me merely to insult my father?”

“He is my father as much as he is yours, Princess.”

She huffs a disbelieving laugh and lets another arrow loose. Eight, though slightly off again.

Alyn’s eyes follow her strike. His lips curl into a strange sort of smirk. She can’t decide if he’s impressed or amused. “I've gotten off topic. No, I only meant to say that Lord Corlys is fond of you.”

“Why would I need to hear that from you?” She asks, keeping her eyes on the target as she lines up her ninth arrow.

“Surely it hasn’t escaped your attention of his-”

Crack. She grins as number nine splits right through the first arrow.

“-current displeasure.”

"Have some sympathy for our grandfather, Alyn, he is still in mourning for his wife after all."

His nostrils flare as he takes a slow and steady breath. “He believes Rhaenys might have had a chance, if only Rhaenyra had allowed Prince Jacaerys to join her at Rook's Rest.

Luke stands rigidly as a shiver slips down her spine. Burned beyond recognition, their scouts had said. The Queen who never was, left as a pile of ash in a pool of dried blood underneath the rotting carcass of her dragon. Meleys was a force enough on her own, and Rhaenys had a lifetime of skill and experience. It still hadn’t been enough to save either of them.

“To send Jace would have been to condemn him to death," she decides.

“And yet you managed to survive an encounter with Vaghar.”

Crack. Number ten cuts through number nine, leaving a scattering of splinters on the ground below the target. They both watch them fall.

The howls of the wind become more ghastly with every passing moment, as does the sound of the waves, crashing and retreating against the shore below the castle and the cliffs. If Laenor were here she is certain he would anticipate a storm approaching.

With a grim “hmm” through a clenched jaw, she sets the bow aside and marches to pick the arrows from the target.

Alyn trails her at a respectable distance, standing just over her shoulder. “Rhaenyra needs the Velaryon fleet,” he says under his breath, “she cannot hope to win this war without us, without Corlys.”

Luke sighs. “The Targaryens and the Velaryons are kin. Corlys will defend his family.”

“If we are so closely bonded, why did Rhaenyra need to betroth her son to Lady Baela?”

Rhaenys had seen right through Rhaenyra and called the arrangement for what it as. A desperate offer, but they needed Driftmark. It seems a lifetime ago they were stood in the throne room of the Red Keep, arguing over petitions.

With a particularly tough yank, she pulls the final arrow and turns to face him with a vacant glare. “Are you trying to bait me?”

“I wish for you to know that we can speak freely with one another, we are family after all.”

She pouts her lips disapprovingly, not realising she's doing it.

“I do not doubt Lord Corlys’ loyalty,” Alyn says, “but the Queen would do well to earn it.”

A flash of anger fades from her chest as quickly as it comes. He's insulted her family so brazenly, but somehow she understands him.

Because he’s right. The Velaryons have sided with Rhaenyra by the will of one man, even after she named Joffrey heir to Driftmark and Daemon beheaded Vaemond Velaryon for daring to speak against them. Her mother treads on thin ice, and should Corlys decide his interests could lie elsewhere…

“Luke!”

She snaps her lips shut and glances over her shoulder. Baela is waiting for her on the steps to the castle.

“You’ll be late for dinner if you delay any further,” her step-sister calls, striding towards them, uncaring as the hem of black gown drags along the dirt of the yard. “Gods, are you still in your riding leathers?”

“You can help me dress,” Luke says, reaching for her bow and her sheathed sword. She buckles it to her hip, letting her fingers run over the golden seahorse hilt. She tilts her head to Alyn. “I wish you a pleasant evening,” she says shortly.

“And you, Princess,” he says with a smile. His gaze doesn’t linger on Luke for long before he turns to the woman beside her.

Baela looks rather immaculate this evening, her hair pulled into a bun to display a pair of delicate pearl drop earrings and a silver necklace sitting on her collar.

“Lady Baela," he says in a surprisingly warm tone.

Baela mutters a formality, glancing at him for only a moment before her eyes dart to the ground.

Luke grabs her arm and the two march back through the doors of the castle.

Baela shoots a few glances over her shoulder, to find the corridors as quiet as they had left them. “What did he want?”

Luke sighs, knowing she can’t stall for too long. “He spoke of my father- our father, I suppose.”

“Anything else?”

I wish for you to know that we can speak freely with one another. He’d certainly been honest in that regard.

“Nothing of any significance,” she says as lightheartedly as she can.

Baela pouts her lips and presses no further.

Lord Corlys’ displeasure eases once Jace names him Hand of the Queen. Rhaenyra presents him with the very pin she tore from Otto Hightower in a brief ceremony before the council. Alyn and Addam stand by his side, now proudly bearing the name Velaryon.

With the Velaryon fleet holding the Gullet and the Dragonseeds patrolling the skies, Jace puts forth his strategy to take King’s Landing within a matter of weeks.

Luke stands by her mother’s side and keeps her eyes fixed on the floor.

There is just one detail keeping Jace from mounting Vermax and leading the other dragons to the capital.

“We have Vermithor and Silverwing to match Vaghar on strength,” Addam says, “and aside from that we have the numbers to overwhelm her.”

“It would require sacrifices nonetheless,” Rhaenyra says, clutching at Luke’s fingers. Her touch is still cold.

Jace stands at the other end of the table, leaning on his palms over the vast expanse of the North. “Vhagar may be their only fighting dragon, but Aemond is ruthless.”

The Queen agrees. “We will wait upon Prince Daemon’s word.”

Luke frowns. Wait for what?

Until then, Jace sets another plan into motion. Two ships wait in the harbour, one headed for The Eyrie, the other for Pentos, and the dragon keepers have been instructed to prepare Tyraxes, Moondancer and Grey Ghost to leave Dragonstone.

Viserys is too young to put up any resistance. He sits in Rhaena’s arms, fiddling with a silver bead in her hair and cooing to himself. But the boy knows something is wrong when his sister holds him a little tighter and his brother, Aegon, starts to wail.

Joffrey clings to Luke’s hand, his head darting between his older siblings. Jace can’t look any of them in the eyes, but Luke glares at him all the same.

“You can’t be serious, Jace,” Baela says, crouching beside Aegon to muffle his cries against her shoulder.

“It’s for your own safety.”

“No,” Rhaena breathes, “we can’t be parted from each other.”

“It won’t be forever, just until the war is over.”

“But you cannot say when that will be,” Luke says.

Jace meets her eyes.

Her brother has always been her protector, the voice of reason where she had an impulse for recklessness. Braver than her, stronger than her, stubborn in his own way but not as determined as his little sister.

Now looking at Jace is like looking in a mirror, two pairs of brown eyes, with the same flecks of gold around their pupils, glaring back at each other with passive fury that could bring the Targaryen dynasty to its knees.

“I won’t go,” Baela grumbles.

“Nor will I,” Luke says.

“And me!” Joffrey pipes in, “please, Jace, I want to fight alongside you!"

“Enough!”

The older siblings cease their bickering, the stunned silence interrupted only by the cries of the little ones as Rhaenyra rushes to take Viserys into her arms. She looks more like a mother than she has for weeks, without a crown, her hair loose about her shoulders and wearing a simple gown underneath her black robe.

“Oh my loves,” she breathes, rocking her youngest into a settled sadness. Viserys gurgles little sobs into his mother’s neck, but the quiet It dispels Aegon too, clutching at Baela’s skirts and gazing up at Rhaenyra with sad, lavender eyes.

Luke squeezes Joffrey’s hand. What she wouldn’t give to be that small again, curled into her mother’s arms.

Keeping Viserys in one arm, Rhaenyra brings the other around Baela’s shoulder, pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead. “You have all been so brave, but you should not have to be.”

“It is our duty, is it not? To stand by your side and claim what has been taken from us,” Baela says.

Rhaenyra’s eyes fall to Luke. “I have already asked too much of my children.”

Luke frowns. She was not ready to go to Storm’s End, she knew it the moment she saw Vaghar over the battlements. But she will be ready the next time she crosses paths with her uncle.

With the little ones handed back to their nursemaids, and Baela and Rhaena taking Joffrey’s hand to bring him to bed, Luke stands before her brother and her Queen.

The heat from the hearth, almost the height she is, burns against the right side of her face and lights a fire in her eyes. “I want to fight for your throne,” she says.

“Out of the question," Jace snaps.

“I have already survived an attack by Vaghar.”

“Barely. And Arrax didn’t.”

“Grey Ghost is not Arrax.”

“You’re being foolish.”

“Do you think you know better than I what is at risk? Is that why you get to play war and I do not?”

“This is not a game, Luke,” Rhaenyra warns.

She shakes her head frantically, hardly aware she’s doing it. “Of course it isn’t, but there has to be a reason, a reason why I suffered.” Her breath seems to fade from her lungs. “Aemond- the Greens must suffer for what they have done to our family!”

“You think you could be the one do it?” Jace sneers. “You slashed out Aemond’s eye and had nightmares about it for eight years.”

She digs her nails into her palms to stop herself from screaming at him. She allows herself a moment to slow her breath, to gather her thoughts through the pumping of her heart in her ears.

“Things are different now. I am different.” She sees it in the world around her, fixing her attention to the cold and the colour grey more than she used to. She feels it in the constant ache in her muscles, like every movement she makes is wrong. She’s so tired and yet restless. “Please, mother, do not send me from your side.”

“She should return to Winterfell, to her betrothed-”

“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra holds a hand to silence him. When she looks back to Luke, she seems equally exhausted, hardly able to muster neither a smile or a frown. “I would not have you be a warrior.”

“But-”

“Promise me, Lucerra, promise me you will stay by my side.”

“I… I promise, your Grace.”

Joffrey and Rhaena leave the very next morning. After a tearful farewell, Rhaena boards the ship that will take her to the Eyrie with her pale pink hatching, Morning, perched on her shoulder. Once the ship sets sail, Tyraxes swoops down from the Dragonmount, to fly alongside them.

And the day after that, the little ones begin their journey across the Narrow Sea, to be fostered by the Prince of Pentos. They make their way down to the harbour in the early morning, the Queen and her children, with Ser Erryk to accompany them.

Aegon toddles along the dock with his dragon, Stormcloud, clutched in his arms like a doll, while Viserys keeps his egg close to his chest.

“Don’t lose it, Vis,” Jace smiles, “hold it tight.”

The boy shakes his head and tightens his grip as much as his pudgy little arms will allow.

Rhaenyra holds them for what must be an eternity, knowing it will never be enough time. She lets them go, choking down a sob as she bids farewell to two more children. She cannot bring herself to linger for long. Once the ship leaves the harbour, she walks with Ser Erryk back to the castle.

Luke, Baela and Jace stand and watch the ship until it vanishes over the horizon. The sun has started to set and the sky burns a blood red, illuminating the sea in a similar shade.

“It won’t be for long,” Jace says, “the moment I step foot in King’s Landing, I’ll send word, and we’ll be together again.”

Luke looks to the West as the sun sets. The Red Keep is there, somewhere beyond the skyline, it always has been, but now she feels more aware of it than ever.

She doesn’t dream much as of late. Her sleep is broken, fading in and out of darkness. Sometimes she sees glimpses of faces, flashes of silver hair, spurts of blood and flickers of flame.

Other times she feels a breath teasing the skin of her neck, a cruel whisper of a voice as a hand traces along her body. Her own voice hums in her throat. She utters the last half of a name that makes her blood burn.

She shifts up to see if Jace is still in his bed. Luckily for her, he’s fast asleep, jaw slack and snoring.

After that she starts sleeping in her own chambers, no matter how loudly the wind howls or how the sound of the sea makes her shiver. When Jace asks her why, she lies and says it’s because her nightmares have stopped.

Tags: @boundlessfantasy @toodlesxcuddles @starwarssslut @skikikikiikhhjuuh @arcielee

General Taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy

#aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond x oc #aemond x ofc #aemond x fem!lucerys #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #aemond x original female character #aemond x reader #my fics #karma is a god

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cmyksky · 5 months

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soulless creatures

Summary:

Today, emptiness, and a child in the mist. And yet, Daleth cannot bring themself to look away until the vision departs on its own. They suppose that has always been their weakness.

Isle Elder oneshot. Rated G. 925 words.

Read on AO3 here!

The brilliant flare of Eden feels eons apart from the Isle of Dawn’s shores.

It is a simple truth, but a bitter one nonetheless. There is beauty in being a place of beginnings, Daleth tells themself, despite the erosion of their stone mask. Despite the quiet murmurs of departing souls growing further away, and despite that untouchable, ever-looming peak.

To think their kingdom’s prosperity would bring such profound sorrow.

Each time the ocean fog rolls in, Daleth sees the ghost of curious eyes amidst dawn. Young and ambitious, almost profound in their childlike nature. The pair of eyes blinks inquisitively, and the Dawn Elder gazes back. A shiver from the sea breeze—

—and they’re gone, just like that.

Daleth doesn’t dare sleep unless necessary, but their dreams seem to catch up with them in the waking hours regardless. Yesterday, visions of the now-departed prophets gathered in celebration of their new ruler, boats and mantas alike dotting the sky’s tapestry. Days of festivities, adept hands carrying and weaving light, divine shades of orange, white, and gold bathing the masses.

Today, emptiness, and a child in the mist. And yet, Daleth cannot bring themself to look away until the vision departs on its own. They suppose that has always been their weakness.

Long gone are the days where Lamed would spend hours in Isle’s temple to discuss magical teachings and the kingdom’s history. Teth and Tsadi no longer linger in the doorway, poised in that way where they wish to say more but bite their tongues. Daleth is lucky if they hear anything of Samekh at all; Ayin, always a generous neighbor, shares what they hear of their fellow Elders, but there’s always a touch of something that leaks into their expression when it comes to the twins. Pity, perhaps. For Samekh or Daleth, one cannot quite tell. Daleth is not sure they want to think about being the object of pity of the gentlest Elder.

Of course. Daleth thinks the Elders have made it rather clear whose allegiance takes priority, and thus, the injury is laid bare. Sore, wound, ache, crack. No matter which name, the pain always lingers. Wind stirs the seas all the same, chilling Daleth to the core with its whispers of storm. A promise of destruction brought about by none other than the prince they once took under their noble wing.

Still, the days pass with little care for such sentiments. Newcomers arrive on the Isle’s shores periodically, albeit more sparsely than in the past. They always speak with a barely-contained anticipation for realms ahead, singing words of praise for the Elders and the kingdom. Daleth has heard it all one too many times. A wish for a quiet, relaxed life among the rippling Prairie grasslands. Words of contemplation among scholars and magic-wielders of the Vault’s vast halls. Hopes for prosperity amongst the Valley’s bustling roads.

And indeed, they treat the Isle with no small amount of wonder. Daleth has stood at the temple doors and gazed far below at the rising boats, newcomers’ faces morphed in quiet awe as dawn breaks over the clouds, streams of birds beckoning them onward. Reverence spills from their mouths as they seek blessings, recounting the telltale swathes of flame-colored tents and emerald grasses with excitement. A new beginning. A new life.

Daleth cannot even bring themself to loathe such sentiments. Not after this many centuries of living. There is only the quiet voice in their soul, wondering if the newcomers will ever know that this realm was once greener, warmer, softer, that the sand once did not pull so far inland.

Perhaps the birds will be the only life left in this place one day. The Isle Elder has always shepherded people and light creatures alike over the centuries, first and foremost. They do not dare to crowd the grass with anything more than travelers’ tents and simple stone structures. Above all, the temple’s bell will continue to ring, and the birds will heed its call.

No, Daleth does not yearn for the looming spires of Eden nor the gilded gates of Valley. At the very least, they know Alef will respect this request in the end, if nothing else. Daleth has spent far too many days searching the prince—or rather, king’s face for even a sliver of sentimentality. And too many times, the king has risen from their seat, discomfort and frustration radiating from their posture, quietly asking Daleth to leave.

“Is this the sort of king you wish to be, Alef?”

Alef’s eyes are carefully blank. “I am the king the people need. And I am certainly not someone who will be forgotten.”

Daleth suppresses a flinch.

“I promised this kingdom a life in the stars. We are not simple creatures like the jellyfish dwelling in our caves or the mantas in our skies. We have built these beautiful temples that touch the clouds, not I alone. We are a people, and I will do what is necessary to keep my word. And you, Daleth… I fear you have not done the same.”

And cold stone slams shut in Daleth’s face.

They breathe.

Standing at the foot of their temple, the beating of white wings and echoing birdsong bring Daleth back to the present. There has always been a different promise sealed within Daleth’s heart, a promise only spoken in whispers to creatures, stars, and waves, to the Light herself. One predating the King’s arrival.

A bird lands on Daleth’s staff, and just for a moment, it burns brighter than the sun.

#sky fanfic #my writing #thatskygame #sky: children of the light #sky cotl #daleth #alef #resh #isle elder #eden elder #skyblr #i also realized i forgot to add the actual fic under my last post instead of only making it available on ao3

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middle-earth-mythopoeia · 2 years

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Some of my favorite parts of The Lays of Beleriand

I’m going to copy some of my favorite parts here, but this isn’t all of them, because that would just be the entire book. Still, this will be a long post. No one can stop me. This book is so good and I need to talk about it!

One of the versions of the Lay of the Children of Húrin begins like this:

Lo! the golden dragon of the God of Hell, the gloom of the woods of the world now gone, the woes of Men, and weeping of Elves fading faintly down forest pathways, is now to tell...

There is just something about the feeling this conveys. The gloom of the woods of the world now gone. That line is so good. It’s like these fragments of epic poems are from a real oral tradition passed down from the First Age, from the world now gone. Don’t get me started on the alliteration. Given who wrote it, I think it’s safe to say the alliterative style of Beowulf was definitely a major influence.

Another version begins:

Ye Gods who girt your guarded realms with moveless pinnacles, mountains pathless, o’er shrouded shores sheer uprising of the Bay of Faery on the borders of the World! Ye Men unmindful of the mirth of yore, wars and weeping in the worlds of old, of Morgoth’s might remembering nought! Lo! hear what Elves with ancient harps, lingering forlorn in lands untrodden, fading faintly down forest pathways, in shadowy isles on the Shadowy Seas, sing still in sorrow of the son of Húrin...

I can’t stand how good it is! How this is addressed to the Gods, and then addressed to Men who have forgotten the tales of the First Age. And then it tells you to listen to what Elves still sing in sorrow of the son of Húrin... They remember. They still mourn. There is this sense that even though the Gods have cut themselves off from the world, and Men have forgotten much of the past, there are still those who remember Túrin, and his story is worth telling. It gives me chills.

Here is Húrin in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, one of my favorite passages:

For Húrin standing storm unheeding, unbent in battle, with bitter laughter his axe wielded—as eagle’s wings the sound of its sweep, swinging deadly; as livid lightning it leaped and fell, as toppling trunks of trees riven his foes had fallen. Thus fought he on, where blades were blunted and in blood foundered the Men of Mithrim...

This is so heroic I cannot stand it. I can’t even process it, it’s so good. The alliteration is amazing. The imagery is incredible. That the sound of his axe is like a eagle’s wings recalls the fact that eagles carried him to Gondolin. The comparison to lightning reminds me of another heroic final stand, that of Fingolfin. In this passage there is such a vivid picture of the chaos and violence of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and how brave Húrin was in this battle. He is a truly great character. And speaking of which, there are several versions of his conversation with Morgoth, and they are incredible!

Said the dread Lord of Hell: ‘Dauntless Húrin, stout steel-handed, stands before me yet quick a captive, as a coward might be! Then knows he my name, or needs be told what hope he has in the halls of iron? The bale most bitter, Balrogs’ torment!’ Then Húrin answered, Hithlum's chieftain— his shining eyes with sheen of fire in wrath were reddened: ‘O ruinous one, by fear unfettered I have fought thee long, nor dread thee now, nor thy demon slaves, fiends and phantoms, thou foe of Gods!’ His dark tresses, drenched and tangled, that fell o’er his face he flung backward, in the eye he looked of the evil Lord— since that day of dread to dare his glance has no mortal Man had might of soul.

Is it possible to love Húrin even more? This is just unbelievably good. Morgoth threatens him with torture and that is his reply! Steadfast indeed! I love the way the dialogue is composed and all of the alliteration, which really enhances the intensity of this scene. And I literally cannot convey how stirring this entire section is. It also has a lot of dialogue, which is exciting, since that is something often lacking in the prose Silmarillion.

The Lays of Beleriand also has an early version of the Darkening of Valinor, the flight of the Noldor (the flight of the Noldoli) and the Oath of Fëanor. The entire section is amazing.

The Darkening of Valinor:

A! the Trees of Light, tall and shapely, gold and silver, more glorious than the sun, than the moon more magical, o’er the meads of the Gods their fragrant frith and flowerladen gardens gleaming, once gladly shone. In death they are darkened, they drop their leaves from blackened branches bled by Morgoth and Ungoliant the grim the Gloomweaver. In spider’s form despair and shadow a shuddering fear and shapeless night she weaves in a web of winding venom that is black and breathless. Their branched fail, the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched. Mirk goes marching, mists of blackness, through the halls of the Mighty, hushed and empty, the gates of the Gods are in gloom mantled.

I don’t even know what to say. This is as poignantly and beautifully written as it is painful to read, because the death of the Two Trees is so horrible. In death they are darkened...the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched. There is a sense (as there is elsewhere in Tolkien’s writing) that the Two Trees were not just living things, they were beings that could feel. The fact that they bled (as they also did in The Silmarillion) lends even more horror to this moment. The death of the Trees was not just tragic because they were beautiful and the Gods and the Elves loved their light—it was tragic because they were living things and they suffered. Tolkien never wrote the Aldudénië, the poem lamenting the death of the Two Trees, so I think this is the closest thing we will ever have to what the Aldudénië may have been like (except it would have been in Elvish, of course). Also, I can’t help but notice that Ungoliant is in spider’s form, like in The Silmarillion. It’s easy to forget that she is not a spider, she is in the form of a spider, and that really adds to how mysterious and terrifying she is.

The next lines are amazing too:

Lo! the Elves murmur mourning in anguish, but no more shall be kindled the mirth of Cor in the winding ways of their walled city, towercrowned Tun, whose twinkling lamps are drowned in darkness...

I love how the imagery of the city is conveyed—winding, walled, towercrowned, twinkling. Tolkien doesn’t interrupt the poem to give a full description of what Tirion looks like, and he doesn’t need to; he hints at it with just a few adjectives in a few lines, and it’s just enough for readers to form a picture.

And here is the Oath of Fëanor:

Then his sons beside him, the seven kinsmen, crafty Curufin, Celegorm the fair, Damrod and Diriel and dark Cranthir, Maglor the mighty, and Maidros tall (the eldest, whose ardour yet more eager burnt than his father’s flame, than Fëanor’s wrath; him fate awaited with fell purpose), these leapt with laughter their lord beside, with linked hands there lightly took the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter it spilled like a sea and spent the swords of endless armies, nor hath ended yet: ‘Be he friend or foe or foul offspring of Morgoth Bauglir, be he mortal dark that in after days on earth shall dwell, shall no law nor love nor league of Gods, no might nor mercy, not moveless fate, defend him for ever from the fierce vengeance of the sons of Fëanor, whoso seize or steal or finding keep the fair enchanted globes of crystal whose glory dies not, the Silmarils. We have sworn for ever!’

This is amazing. I have so many thoughts. It’s so interesting that Maedhros is here described as more passionate about the oath, and more full of wrath, than even Fëanor himself. Also, it’s so cool how it speaks of the oath as a present tense thing: nor hath ended yet. And that whole part is so chilling: there lightly took the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter it spilled like a sea... That is terrifying, and such vivid imagery. I love it! It gives me chills every time! And in the oath itself you can really see the origin of the later version which appears in Morgoth’s Ring.

Another favorite passage of mine is this part about the Dagor Bragollach, which is not in alliterative verse like the other parts I’ve quoted, but in rhyming couplets:

Rivers of fire at dead of night in winter lying cold and white upon the plain burst forth, and high the red was mirrored in the sky. From Hithlum's walls they saw the fire, the steam and smoke in spire on spire leap up, till in confusion vast the stars were choked. And so it passed, the mighty field, and turned to dust, to drifting sand and yellow rust, to thirsty dunes where many bones lay broken among barren stones. Dor-na-Fauglith, Land of Thirst, they after named it, waste accurst, the raven-haunted roofless grave of many fair and many brave.

Those last two lines are so haunting. There’s something about the way this is written, what it says and doesn’t say. It doesn’t describe the fighting itself, just the beginning of the battle and the aftermath. And there are descriptions of the sky and the field and how it turned to dust before it tells you of the many bones of the dead, and then hits you with those last two lines, which are just brutal. It’s so tragic. When I read this I want to ride to Angband and challenge Morgoth to single combat myself. I can understand why Fingolfin felt such wrath and despair.

Speaking of which, The Lays of Beleriand also has a version of Fingolfin’s challenge to Morgoth, and it is so good! This is just the beginning of it:

In that vast shadow once of yore Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore with field of heaven’s blue and star of crystal shining pale afar. In overmastering wrath and hate desperate he smote upon that gate, the Gnomish king, there standing lone, while endless fortresses of stone engulfed the thin clear ringing keen of silver horn on baldric green. His hopeless challenge dauntless cried Fingolfin there: ‘Come, open wide, dark king, your ghastly brazen doors! Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors! Come forth, O monstrous craven lord, and fight with thine own hand and sword, thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls, thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls, thou foe of Gods and elvish race! I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!’

This is...YES. I love this so much! I’m so overjoyed that Tolkien wrote it! The Silmarillion doesn’t tell us Fingolfin’s actual words to Morgoth when he called him forth to single combat, only that he named him craven, and lord of slaves. This is Fingolfin’s actual challenge, or a poetic retelling of it at least. This is larger than life. And the entire rest of this section is just as good. It describes the fight itself, and how Thorondor rescued Fingolfin’s body and bore it away to the mountains above Gondolin. And it is full of incredible descriptions and absolutely awe-inspiring lines. I will never recover from the sheer epicness of the line at the end of the section which reads, till Gondolin’s appointed doom.

Another of my favorite parts is this passage about the halls of Menegroth:

Then sudden, deep beneath the earth the silences with silver mirth were shaken and the rocks were ringing, the birds of Melian were singing; and wide the ways of shadow spread as into arched halls she led Beren in wonder. There a light like day immortal and like night of stars unclouded, shone and gleamed. A vault of topless trees it seemed, whose trunks of carven stone there stood like towers of an enchanted wood in magic fast for ever bound, bearing a roof whose branches wound in endless tracery of green lit by some leaf-emprisoned sheen of moon and sun, and wrought of gems, and each leaf hung on golden stems. Lo! there amid immortal flowers the nightingales in shining bowers sang o’er the head of Melian, while water for ever dripped and ran from fountains in the rocky floor. There Thingol sat. His crown he wore of green and silver, and round his chair a host in gleaming armour fair.

I mean this is just unbelievably beautiful! It’s gorgeous! The descriptions are so vivid! I want to go there! It’s also the most detailed description of Menegroth that exists, which makes me wonder what other details we might have gotten if Tolkien hadn’t abandoned the poetic Silmarillion.

Another part that never fails to give me chills is this, when Beren departs from Dorthonion:

Southward he turned, and south away his long and lonely journey lay, while ever loomed before his path the dreadful peaks of Gorgorath. Never had foot of man most bold yet trod those mountains steep and cold, nor climbed upon their sudden brink, whence, sickened, eyes must turn and shrink to see their southward cliffs fall sheer in rocky pinnacle and pier down into shadows that were laid before the sun and moon were made. In valleys woven with deceit and washed with waters bitter-sweet dark magic lurked in gulf and glen; but out away beyond the ken of mortal sight the eagle’s eye from dizzy towers that pierced the sky might grey and gleaming see afar, as sheen on water under star, Beleriand, Beleriand, the borders of the Elven-land.

Chills! Chills every time! First of all, shadows that were laid before the sun and moon were made is a terrifying concept and I love it so much. And second of all, Beleriand, Beleriand, the borders of the Elven-land! I love the way the momentum builds as the poem continues, and the sense of longing that those last lines convey... it gets me every time.

I don’t know what the point of this post is except to say I love The Lays of Beleriand so much! I could have made this post twice as long. Or three times as long. There are so many incredible parts of it. I just love this book and I wish it got more attention. I think when some people try reading HoMe they give up somewhere in the Lost Tales and never make it to The Lays of Beleriand, which is a tragedy. If you haven’t, please read The Lays of Beleriand!

#silmarillion #tolkien #my writing #lays of beleriand

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gilgalahad · 6 months

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"On Good-Friday that event happened in Caithness that a man whose name was Daurrud went out.

He saw folk riding twelve together to a bower, and there they were all lost to his sight.

He went to that bower and looked in through a window slit that was in it, and saw that there were women inside, and they had set up a loom.

Men's heads were the weights, but men's entrails were the warp and weft, a sword was the shuttle, and the reels were arrows. They sang these songs, and he learnt them by heart:

"See! warp is stretched For warriors' fall, Lo! weft in loom

'Tis wet with blood; Now fight foreboding, 'Neath friends' swift fingers, Our grey woof waxeth With war's alarms, Our warp bloodred, Our weft corseblue.

"This woof is y-woven With entrails of men, This warp is hardweighted With heads of the slain, Spears blood-besprinkled For spindles we use, Our loom ironbound, And arrows our reels; With swords for our shuttles This war-woof we work; So weave we, weird sisters, Our warwinning woof.

"Now Warwinner walketh To weave in her turn, Now Swordswinger steppeth, Now Swiftstroke, now Storm; When they speed the shuttle How spearheads shall flash! Shields crash, and helmgnawer On harness bite hard!

"Wind we, wind swiftly Our warwinning woof Woof erst for king youthful Foredoomed as his own, Forth now we will ride, Then through the ranks rushing Be busy where friends Blows blithe give and take.

"Wind we, wind swiftly Our warwinning woof, After that let us steadfastly Stand by the brave king; Then men shall mark mournful Their shields red with gore, How Swordstroke and Spearthrust Stood stout by the prince.

"Wind we, wind swiftly Our warwinning woof. When sword-bearing rovers To banners rush on, Mind, maidens, we spare not One life in the fray! We corse-choosing sisters Have charge of the slain.

"Now new-coming nations That island shall rule, Who on outlying headlands Abode ere the fight; I say that King mighty To death now is done, Now low before spearpoint That Earl bows his head.

"Soon over all Ersemen Sharp sorrow shall fall, That woe to those warriors Shall wane nevermore; Our woof now is woven. Now battlefield waste, O'er land and o'er water War tidings shall leap.

"Now surely 'tis gruesome To gaze all around. When bloodred through heaven Drives cloudrack o'er head; Air soon shall be deep hued With dying men's blood When this our spaedom Comes speedy to pass.

"So cheerily chant we Charms for the young king, Come maidens lift loudly His warwinning lay; Let him who now listens Learn well with his ears And gladden brave swordsmen With bursts of war's song.

"Now mount we our horses, Now bare we our brands, Now haste we hard, maidens, Hence far, far, away."

Then they plucked down the woof and tore it asunder, and each kept what she had hold of.

Now Daurrud goes away from the slit, and home; but they got on their steeds and rode six to the south, and the other six to the north. A like event befell Brand Gneisti's son in the Faroe Isles."

Njal's Saga - Ch 156

Art Credit: Einherjar_manga

#njal's saga #valkyrie

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scotianostra · 5 months

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Tragedy struck when the naval yacht Iolaire struck a reef on approaching Stornoway Harbour in the early hours of New Years Day 1919.

There are no shortage of tragedies I post about throughout the year, to me this is one of the saddest. The Iolaire were carrying troops home from the horrors of World War One, many on the Yacht would have been looking over to the lights of Stornoway when this cruel twist of fate took the lives over 200 Lewis men and 24 crew, the vessel was only about 20 yards from Stornoway Harbour. Some have labelled it the 'crowning sorrow of the war'

A report in the Stornoway Gazette recorded the impact of the tragedy:

No one now alive in Lewis can ever forget the 1st January 1919, and future generations will speak of it as the blackest day in the history of the island, for on it 200 of our bravest and best perished on the very threshold of their homes under the most tragic circumstances. The terrible disaster at Holm on New Year’s morning has plunged every house and every heart in Lewis into grief unutterable. Language cannot express the anguish, the desolation, the despair which this awful catastrophe has inflicted. One thinks of the wide circle of blood relations affected by the loss of even one of the gallant lads, and imagination sees those circles multiplied by the number of the dead, overlapping and overlapping each other till the whole island – every hearth and home it is shrouded in deepest gloom.

Messages of sympathy were received from far and wide, including from the King and Queen and from Lord Leverhulme, who had purchased the island of Lewis the previous year. He also led calls for a disaster fund to be set up and fund raising events were initiated. The Cinematograph Exhibitors’ Associations of Edinburgh and Glasgow arranged to take collections in all picture houses under their control for a week. A fundraising concert was arranged in the Usher Hall in Edinburgh on 14th February 1919, at which Scott Skinner, the acclaimed fiddler and composer and many others performed.

Calls for an enquiry came quickly, amidst suggestions of negligence on the part of the crew. A public inquiry was held in February 1919 and the jury found that insufficient care had been taken on the approach to Stornoway, as the vessel did not slow down or change course. In addition, it was not carrying enough life-saving equipment and there had been delays in the emergency services reaching the scene. HMY Iolaire was equipped with lifeboats for 100 men but was sailing with more than 300. There followed various recommendations, including that the Lighthouse Commissioners consider putting up a light on the Holm side of the harbour, and that the Government should improve travelling facilities for naval ratings and soldiers.

A naval inquiry held at the time was not made public until 1970. It had concluded that no blame could be attributed to anybody as the ship’s log had been lost and all of the officers had perished.

Even before the Iolaire sinking, The Outer Hebrides had a hard war even before the sinking, Lewis and Harris, the two northern islands of the Western Isles, had a population of 34,600 in 1911. Estimates report about 1,500 of those were killed during the war, and with another 201 lost on the Iolaire, that was an immense cumulative loss of young men and fathers.

There were 79 survivors in total of this disaster, it remains the UK’s worst peacetime maritime disaster since the sinking of the Titanic.

There are accounts of drenched, numb survivors immediately walking home across the moors in the storm, too traumatised to wait for help; of women who rushed to the shore to find their sons’ and brothers’ inert bodies among the rocks or surf, their baggage and presents strewn over the sand; of the stream of coffins being taken by horse and cart to be buried every day throughout the following week.

My previous post about Iain Crichton Smith featured a poem by the Lewis man about the tragedy.

#scotland #scottish #history #tragedy #WWI #lest we forget

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lauvra · 18 hours

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The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode by Thomas Gray

I.1.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I.3.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.1.

Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II.2.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II.3.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.1.

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III.2.

Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III.3.

Hark, his hands thy lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

#poetry #text

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darklordazalin · 9 months

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Azalin reviews: Darklord Blake Ramsay

Darklord: Dr. Blake Ramsay Domain: The Isle Domain Formation: 658 BC Power Level: 💀💀 ⚫⚫⚫ (2/5 skulls) Source: House on the Edge of Midnight (Dungeon Magazine 76; 2e)

Dr. Blake Ramsay once resided in the small seaside town of Mordentshire located in the Domain of Mordent. Blake had a particular fondness for performing unnecessary and experimental surgeries on his patients, all without the aid of anesthesia. It is commendable to devote such foresight into the art of medicine, for how else would one be able to determine a threshold of pain with the use of anesthesia? The people of Mordentshire, however, saw his methods as a form of inhumane madness than genius. Thus, Blake fled Mordent with his wife Helen and his daughter Liza. Together, they sailed the Sea of Sorrows until they reached an uncharted island, known simply as “The Isle”.

The Isle is surrounded by large, steep cliffs along its northwestern half and the rest of the island is a dense forest of deciduous trees and sloping lowlands. Blake saw this island, and it’s lack of any formal settlements, as the perfect location for him to conduct his medical experiments in peace. He built a home, complete with an expansive laboratory, and continued his experiments on those native to the island and unfortunates who found themselves shipwrecked there.

In time, Helen bore two more children. The first was Gregory and the second Blake Jr. Blake was severely disappointed in both of his sons. Gregory had been born with oozing sores all over his body and a hunched back; Blake determined Gregory would not be able to perform medicine and thereby could not carry on his experiments after he passed. Blake Jr. had had a feeble mind and could not comprehend the intricacies of his father’s work. However, Liza, his eldest child and only daughter, was of sound mind and body. Shunning the rest of his family, Blake named Liza the heir to his research and focused on grooming her to carry on his work upon his death.

Now, this is completely understandable. One must ensure one’s heir is properly suited for ruling after one perishes. Ahem, I mean…ensure one’s research is continued and in the right hands. Perhaps Liza was not as bright as Dr. Ramsay believed her to be or mayhaps she was caught in a sudden storm. Either way, at age 12, she fell to her death from the cliffs that surrounded the Ramsay Estate after a strong wind threw her from their great heights.

Blake saw her fall and flew to her in a panic. He found her at the base of the cliffs, her limbs torn and smashed. In desperation, he carried her into his laboratory and spent fourteen days trying to revive her. Nothing he attempted saved her, which leads me to conclude that his experimentation is certainly nothing that required an heir to uphold.

The Doctor decided the best course of action was to utilized his useless family members to restore his daughter to life. He murdered them all, taking their organs and limbs to craft Liza new ones. Giving new life, true life, to dead flesh is nearly impossible in these lands except when our tormentors decide to interfere for their own amusement. The Dark Powers granted Liza her new life at exactly 1 minute before midnight. The clocks of the estate froze at this time and…so, it seems, did time for Dr. Blake. He believed he restored his daughter himself, but she was not as he had envisioned.

Liza was remade as a flesh golem and her eyes, once bright blue in color, were a putrid green. Blake, seeing this as a deformity that would prevent others from seeing her true intelligence, attempted to restore her eyes. He used his wife’s eyes and his sons, but each time her replaced her eyes they changed to that inhumane green. Frustrated, he burnt the rest of his family’s remains and his wife and two sons rose as spirits who haunt him, reminding him constantly of what he had done to them.

Some part of Blake might have realized that the inhuman appearance of Liza’s eyes was an indication that she was not truly alive and only a mere semblance of what she once was. Or perhaps not. For the Doctor continues to attempt to replace her eyes, using any that are suitable for his needs. This is a rather difficult task for the Darklord, for Blake cannot leave his own manor. Even if he is forcefully removed from his home, he fades and reappears within.

Blake, as most Darklords do, has his own unique set of powers. He can cast the spell “shadow door” at will, which allows him to vanish into one shadow and emerge from another. Considering he is not much of a combatant, this allows him a way to escape potential hostiles. However, he is also nearly immortal. Any wound he suffers, he heals almost immediately and the only way to kill him is to engulf his entire family in fire at the same time. I suggest sending a group of wizards and a few fireball scrolls to his estate and be done with it.

#darklordreviews #ravenloft #azalin rex #Dr. Blake Ramsay #The Isle #A strange take on Mordenheim really #the eyes are windows to the soul...or in this case lack there of

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firefox7895 · 12 days

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Bury Me At Sea ~ A Drink to Drown the Sorrows

"Aye, there he is! Scar!"

The ginger-haired Heron rose her ale mug she was serving in acknowledgement as they called upon the Kestrel from behind their usual spot behind the tavern bar, beckoning him to come and sit down. The brunette looked over at her, raising a hand in reply as he moved towards her.

"Back for more, eh?" she asked, tilting their head and raising an eyebrow as she smiled and served the drink she was holding.

Scar laughed heartily - a happy, melodic sound that seemed as though it could part the furious clouds overhead when caught in a treacherous storm - and offered a smile as he took a seat at the bar stool.

"You make the best in all of the Faction Isles, Cleo - where else am I supposed to get a good, strong ale?" he responded with a negligent shrug of his shoulders, and Cleo spun away from the tabletop to ready his drink.

"You flatter me, really," they joked as they shuffled through the cabinets and drawers, barely audible over the conversational air and general hustle and bustle of the tavern. It was rather busy tonight, it seemed.

Not so much busier than the usual, but the tavern had been rather quiet in the past week.

Scar would know.

"You've been round here a lot lately," Cleo added observantly as she handed him his drink. Holding out her own, the two held out their mugs and hit them together, making a musical sound of clinking greetings before they both took a swig.

"Hm, I have, haven't I," Scar agreed before taking another sip.

Cleo wasn’t lying when she had said it - this time was maybe Scar’s fifth or sixth (Drunk nights were a blur to him if he were to be honest) consecutive night in which the usually boisterous Kestrel had spent the early hours of the evening right up until just after midnight, drinking at the tavern, downing a couple mugs of ale.

She would often catch the brunette staring blankly at the clock on the wall, or the moon outside, or even the rather ugly potato patch that was planted just over yonder, outside the tavern bar, illuminated by the gentle moonbeams from the sky above. Sometimes, he’d unhook the small, vibrant feather earring that hung from his scarred ear, the colours so dazzling and beautiful that it looked as though it had come right out of the heart of the jungle itself. He’d gently run a single, calloused finger over the delicate rachis of the feather, before putting it right back on, carefully but with much haste as though he were scared someone would snatch it from his own scarred fingertips.

More often than not, he’d take off his ginormous stack of four hats and his neckscarf - Cleo was always stunned by how he managed to balance all five headwear pieces on top of his head with such ease - and lay them out in front of him. He’d pick up each one and flick off any specks of dust he could spot, stopping to admire each headpiece before neatly stacking them atop his head again, one by one. The corners of his mouth dipped into a small frown every time he took the time to stare, accompanied by a permanent expression of remembrance and perhaps even the slightest trace of mild regret scribbled all over his face, clear as the sky on a brilliant summer’s day.

It was always the same thing, too.

He’d seemingly stop and just admire the clock, or the moon, or the potato patch, or the earring, or the many stacked headwear he bore.

Just like he was trying to… comprehend something.

Like...

Like not being able to accept something.

When Cleo would ask what he was staring at, or why he’d clean the hats, he'd just mutter something along the lines of "Hurts to remember", making a sort of sympathy ring in the ginger's chest for the Kestrel's pain and sorrow.

They got the feeling that there was something they were missing when he just took the time to stare or hold with care.

The Heron could never figure out what it was - and she was pretty sure she never would - but the thought was always lingering, weighing on their mind.

They couldn't help but worry for the brunette.

He just seemed so... helpless.

The Kestrel had always been able to make her smile.

It felt like she wasn't repaying him when she couldn't find a good way to help him.

It was part of the reason they hadn't sold the clock on the wall.

If she wanted to, she could. After all, anyone would pay handsomely for the smart, sheen, black and gold rim with the ornate purple carvings.

It was part of the reason they never drew up the curtains.

Even if she had lost a few customers to their pushy insistence on it 'taking away from the illusion of a bar'.

And it was part of the reason they hadn't dug up the old, ugly looking potato patch.

She had always thought that a flower garden would look nicer there, and most of the Herons encouraged the idea as well, but she hadn't.

Cleo could never tell if she was helping him or trapping him in whatever past the brunette had.

"Well, I'll tell you this much, Cleo-" he began, taking a swig of his drink and interrupting her train of thought. "One sip takes away a worry of mine, and it makes the world seem a whole lot brighter. Drinking away your sorrows - it makes you forget,"

He took another sip of the alcohol in a meaningful manner as if he were trying to prove a point or justify the unhealthy habit he had taken on - or rather sunken knee deep into - and the Heron simply nodded in agreement, her emerald green eye searching his scarred face for something, yet the brunette couldn't be quite sure on what she was particularly looking for.

Whatever it was, however, was to no avail, since after a moment, the woman looked away and took another sip of her own drink.

"You aren't far off with that one, Scar," they agreed as they put their mug down with a clunk. "A good old swig of some strong beer ought to take your mind off things-"

He cut her off suddenly, nodding frantically with the agreement that the two had settled on.

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" he exclaimed emphatically as he essentially dropped his - now empty - mug of ale onto the counter with a loud thud. "I said it before and I'll say it again - a good strong drink takes away your worries, and sometimes all you need is a bit of time to calm the ocean instead of drowning in a raging sea of your own regret and sorrow,"

Cleo looked as though she didn't quite agree when she took his mug for a refill.

"Ain't it easier to just build a boat and set sail instead of calming the ocean before the inevitable crashes onto shore?" they inquired, seemingly curious as they handed him the ale of which he downed a full mouthful, his face souring as the bittersweet taste attacked his taste buds

"Aye, but it won't be any more thrilling," he laughed, his mug once again thudding against the bartop.

The Heron didn't smile.

"Why'd you choose the Kestrels over the Nightingales?"

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ posting the finished version to ao3 tmrw!!!! inspired by @applestruda

boatem pirates au has been playing on my mind for AGESSSSS

#goodtimeswithscar #pirates smp #zombiecleo #please read

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azulas-daddy-kink · 18 days

Note

You willing to give a sneak peek into your Azulon/Ozai fic?

Yes, I am actually!

Ironically, it was something Brother had said not so long ago, after having indulged in far too much ale.

"A woman's greatest weapon is between her legs. Learn how to use it while you can, Ozai, beauty fades."

Crude as it was, he was right and thus the seed had been planted.

That idiot Zhao had been a trial run, of sorts. It didn't take much at all on her part, he was so eager, and now he was head over heels for her... which was actually starting to become annoying. At least she hadn't fully given herself to him, there was no telling how utterly obsessed he'd be right now had this gone beyond oral pleasures. How pathetic he was.

Well, if she could make Zhao love her, why not her father? The man whose love she truly wanted, the man she was prepared to give everything to.

This very night.

The anniversary.

Exactly seventeen years ago, his beloved wife, Fire Lady Ilah, had died. And born of her corpse was she, a crime her father and brother both never forgave her for. Yes, Princess Ozai had taken her mother’s life to come into this world as the storm of the century battered the Fire Isles.

It was raining now, too, though nothing like it had been that night. Or so Ozai could gather from what she’d been told over the years. It remained to be seen whether this would be a hindrance or a help to her but what she did know was where to find her father.

The same place he always was on the anniversary - his chambers.

Drowning his sorrows in wine bottles, no doubt. Father was nothing if not sentimental. He’d never remarried despite having been relatively young for a widower and being encouraged to do so by his advisors for the simple fact that he hadn’t another son besides Iroh who was now fighting in the war.

Some even said Fire Lord Azulon had never taken another woman into his bed since his wife’s tragic death though Ozai personally knew that to be untrue.

She may be young but she wasn’t completely ignorant. Every so often, she’d see a scantily clad woman leaving his chambers in the small hours of the night. Once, she had even witnessed her father sit a girl on his lap during his nameday feast and bury his face in her generous breasts.

Back then, she hadn’t been jealous (alright, maybe a little) but now? Now she could feel herself burning with rage at the memory of a lowly peasant girl on the receiving end of the Fire Lord’s affections - especially since she herself was so much prettier!

She deserved Father’s love, no one else. Of that Ozai was certain as she examined herself in the full length mirror, satisfied but nervous enough that she almost felt sick. She looked desirable, there was no doubt about that but it was a calculated risk, wearing one of her mother’s dresses.

While it showed off the swell of her ample breasts and the curve of her ass so nicely, she could just as easily imagine her father being furious at her audacity as she could him tearing it off and fucking her in a flurry of longing and lust.

Would he find her to be a worthy replacement, or a hollow mockery?

She could only hope it was the former, and she had gone to such great lengths to sway him. As well as selecting the perfect dress from among her dead mother’s luxurious wardrobe, her hair was done up the way hers was in her official portrait, and even their make-up was the same. A dusting of black kohl around her smoldering eyes and pink lip paint, rather than Ozai’s preferred shade of deep red.

And, if Ozai did say so herself, she was much more beautiful than the woman in the portrait which was definitely a good thing. Often, such portraits exaggerated positive attributes and camouflaged negative ones. Not her own portrait though, of course, hers was her spitting image.

Princess Ozai didn’t need any help to look more attractive.

She gave herself a final once-over, applied a few dabs of pilfered jasmine perfume behind her ears and in between her breasts, then off she went.

#anon ask #ask response #atla fanfic #fanfiction #ozai x azulon #shipcest #firecest #tw incest

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dyrewrites · 2 months

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"Do we know why the Isle basically abducted this ship of men, and two vampires?"

"They were nice to her."

"That doesn't track, she already saved them from a storm for that."

"Okay, so when she saved them from that first storm she didn't really. What she did was bring them ashore to try and save them. But she didn't expect the scary tree man in her woods would become obsessed and attempt to keep them forever. She had to intervene and get them back out--planting that schooner they were on close enough to their ship for them to reach on their own."

"Gross, weird and very inconvenient--and not at all in the book for some reason?--also doesn't answer the question."

"It's not in the book for a very good reason, because they don't remember it and just get hints when on the isle this time, horrible horrible hints. And I think it answers the question just fine. She feels really bad about facilitating their becoming a plaything to a monster for let's just say a while, so she not only saved them from another storm, she's keeping them safe from current threats."

"In the woods...with the scary tree man?"

"No, different tree, lady this time. Not interested in gross fleshbags."

"And the Isle knows about the people hunting them...how?"

"She swims all over the world, hears everything that travels on any sort of breeze, and while she can't speak herself--without causing mass devastation--she understands all languages."

"O...kay and how long are they staying on the eldritch horror?"

"She is not a horror. And until Sorrow falls."

"Just gunna stuff all the Mar we can into this, aren't we?"

"Yup."

"Whatever, how many years is that in earth-time?"

"Twenty years, give or take."

"That's way too long."

"I disagree, and they won't even notice until they leave."

"Leaving, yes, how's that gunna go?"

"The tree lady hates them, she's been a good host because the Isle likes them, but so does the other tree--and she loves him. She can't tell them outright that they're in danger if they stay, or that they've already experienced said danger. So she just makes very obvious suggestions that they leave before the Isle shifts/rolls over and all that doesn't belong to the woods they're in move to the woods on the Isle's chest...which are the scary tree's woods."

"Seems convoluted."

"See, that's your problem, since you'll be revising it. For now it is just happy funtimes."

#talking to myself #writing rambles #i think i hate myself #before deluca

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herbs-and-poultices · 7 months

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More of my stranger-than-fiction music tastes...

A Vaguely Whumptober-Themed Anthology of Folk Songs from the British Isles / Transatlantic Tradition: Part 2

(Part 1)

16) "Would you lie with me and just forget the world" / Don't go where I can't follow: Clyde Water / Drowned Lovers

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

The very next step that she went in She’s up unto her chin And the deepest part of Clyde water She found sweet William in Saying, you have had a cruel mother, Willie, And I have had another And now we’ll sleep in Clyde water Like sister and like brother

17) "Leave Me Alone": Edward / Son David

There are so many versions of this ballad, here is a sampling: X X X X

A murder ballad: "Blood on my sword, what blood on my sword? Oh, yeah, that... Wonder how that could have gotten there..."

18) Hit Them Harder: Haughs of Cromdale

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

A rousing Jacobite song dramatizing two battles on the haughs of Cromdale. The first was a humiliating defeat; the second, they were out for blood. (The historical accuracy ends there, but what it lacks in veracity it makes up in spirit.)

Day 19: I'm not as stupid as you think I am: Turpin Hero

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

The exploits of an infamous highwayman whose career came to an anticlimactic end

Now Turpin is condemned to die To hang upon yon gallows high His legacy is a strong rope For the shooting of a dunghill cock

Day 20: Found Family: Boys of the Old Brigade

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X

An Irish rebel song. I'd be remiss if I didn't manage to fit in at least one.

It was long ago we faced the foe, the old brigade and me And by my side they fought and died that Ireland might be free Where are the lads who stood with me when history was made Ghrá Mo Chroí, I long to see the boys of the old brigade

Day 21: Restraints: MacPherson's Rant

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

Another notorious outlaw come to the end of his luck. James MacPherson was also talented fiddler, and with his final hours he gave the world this fine tune.

Untie these bands from off my hands and bring to me my sword For there’s no a man in all Scotland but I'll brave him at a word

Day 22: Vehicular Accident: Lowlands of Holland

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X X X

Do shipwrecks count? I think shipwrecks should count.

23) Stalking: Johnny o' Bredislee

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

An intrepid poacher is ambushed while out on a morning's hunt; despite being sorely outnumbered and wounded in the first exchange, he puts up quite an impressive fight.

But he's rested his back against an oak His foot upon a stane And he has fired at the seven o' them He's killed them a' but ane He's broken four o' that one's ribs His airm and his collar bane And he has set him upon his horse Wi' the tidings sent him hame

24) Goodbye 'Note': The Cruel Sister / Wind and Rain

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

A chilling tale of jealousy, murder, and a haunted fiddle made of human bone and hair. Depending on the version, the fiddle only plays one tune, compels the murderer to confess, or forces her to dance herself to death.

The first string that those minstrels tried And terror seized the black-haired bride The second string made a doleful sound The younger sister, oh she is drowned The final string played beneath the bow And surely now her tears will flow

25) Storm: Three Score and Ten

Nothing compares to hearing Roberts & Barrand perform this one live some 8 years ago, and as far as I know they never recorded it as a duo. Here are my favorite of the recordings I've found: X X

October's night brought such a sight, 'twas never seen before There were masts and spars and broken yards came floating to the shore There was many a heart of sorrow, there was many a heart so brave There was many a hearty fisher lad who found a watery grave

26) Exhaustion: The 51st Highland Division's Farewell to Sicily

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

Then tune the pipes an' drub the tenor drum Leave yer kit this side o' the wa' Then tune the pipes an' drub the tenor drum Puir bluidy swaddies are wearie

27) Let Me See: Holland Handkerchief

Listen to my favorite recording here: X

A ghostly tale of love beyond the grave

With this young man she got on behind And they rode swifter than any wind They rode on for an hour or more Till he cried, “My darling, my head feels sore” A holland handkerchief she’s then drew out And with it wrapped his aching head about She’s kissed his lips and these words did say “My love, you’re colder than any clay"

28) Bloody Knife: Matty Groves

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

CW: domestic violence

An old and well-traveled murder ballad: an affair ends with a lady and her lover dead at sword-point

29) "I only sink deeper the deeper I think" / troubled past: The Outlandish Knight / The North Strand

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

A murder ballad with a twist

Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man Lie there instead of me For six pretty maidens have you drowned here And the seventh has drowned thee

30) Borrowed Clothing: William Taylor

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

A tale of betrayal, cross-dressing, bloody retribution, and women's empowerment, set against the backdrop of the Royal Navy

31) Setbacks: Johnny Cope

Listen to my favorite recordings here: X X

In which the Jacobites send the redcoat army running back with their tails between their legs. Many thanks to General Cope for his contributions to the Scottish musical tradition.

#whump playlist #about me #the formatting is refusing to cooperate with me for some reason

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margonite-seer · 1 year

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The Tragic Love Story of Zohaqan & Nakis, or: a rant about the unnecessarily lonely tormented grief of the storm djinn and how to fix his broken heart

So yesterday I finished reading one of the best long fanfictions I've ever found. If you are interested, here is the link. But by the gods, it made me sad that ANet never continued the story of this canon inter-species homosexual couple.

Down below, I put my own ideas on how their story could end.

But to provide the context:

A powerful male djinn lived on mainland Elona, around the Elon Riverlands. He was not only attuned to one element, as most djinns are, but to three: water, air, and earth. His name was Zohaqan.

Some unknown time before the beginning of the events of Living World Season 4, he fell in love with a male human. His name was Nakis.

Something or, more probably, someone, made the Riverlands undesirable, maybe even dangerous for them. And so, from their dilemma, we have one letter, which Zohaqan left in a cave:

"My darling Nakis, my tender Nakis, my clever Nakis…you're right. Let's go. We'll flee tomorrow."

Eventually, they found their new home on the eastern coast of the northern Sandswept isle. There, they left their own marking. They burnt an image of themselves into a tree on the beach. With it, also their initials, Z + N, in a heart.

Their happy life wouldn't last long, though.

The nearby Inquest somehow managed to capture Nakis.

And eventually killed him, presumably during experiments in Rata Primus.

Poor Nakis's prayer beads would later be found inside the main complex. It is not known how Zohaqan learned of his death. Maybe he stormed the facility Nakis was being held in and found him dead there, most probably from experiments on the scarab plague. Or killed by a mutated specimen. Or turned into a corrupted subject himself. Or maybe, given how magical djinns are, Zohaqan just felt it.

But it is definite that it absolutely broke the powerful djinn. By the time the Commander made it to the islands, Zohaqan had turned mercilessly hateful towards all mortals. In his deep grief, he created large violent storms that threatened everyone on the islands. This is known in the game as the "Gathering Storms" meta event.

Blinded by rage and sorrow, he didn't let anyone near his cave which was very close to his and Nakis's tree.

During the meta event, he would scream:

"There shall be no mercy for your trespass!"

"Heartless fools! You will pay in blood!"

"You mortals feign civility, yet speak nothing but treachery and lies!"

The Stormcaller, as he was nicknamed, was confronted in his own cave at the end of the meta event.

One of the last things he said before he was defeated was:

"They stole from me, and now you barge in here with empty demands? You know nothing! You ARE nothing!"

Some Olmakhan say he was destroyed for good. Some say he is powerful enough to return and continue his grief-stricken rage. Depending on how you understand the canon or non-canon repeating of the meta event, anything could be true.

Either way, his story never had any real closure.

Zohaqan either died alone and was metaphorically spat on, with no memorial or grave for either him or Nakis.

Or, he is now stuck in a loop of living in tormenting grief, getting beaten to a pulp, laying dormant for a while, and then living in grief again. And that's such a horrible horrible fate.

The Commander helped Efi, an Olmakhan cub, with her grief of losing her mother.

I'm asking: Why nobody helped Zohaqan?

Much worse people than him have been redeemed and forgiven in this game's story...

Why not him? He deserves it just as much.

Now finally to the theories and my ideas on what to do next:

First things first, we don't know what exactly happened to Nakis. Or where his body is. However, the closest we have to a hint is what I mentioned about him getting turned into a corrupted subject himself. And I could be simply reading too much into this, but: in the southern meta event of the Sandswept Isles, you fight in The Specimen Chamber. Two out of six possible mutated bosses spawn, all of them results of experiments with Elder Dragon magic.

Five of them have names. The last one is simply "Subject Beta".

Subject Beta is a Branded. A male human Branded.

You already know what I am hinting at...

Moving on, there is one more object related to Zohaqan. Under certain circumstances, one of the drops from the event where you defeat him is called "Smashed Vase". Its description says "A small vase, reminiscent of work from Vabbi."

Could it be what Zohaqan was bound to after he and Nakis fled the mainland? If so, does it mean smashing the vase released Zohaqan's spirit all over the islands? Or was the vase smashed before the event?

Lastly, how to fix Zohaqan's broken spirit?

As I mentioned, he is a very powerful djinn. I have never encountered any djinn in the game who could command two elements, let alone three. An Olmakhan elder also thinks that he's powerful enough to come back and return to his mad rampage.

But I do not blame him in the slightest for mourning in such a violent way.

Zohaqan should be redeemed and mainly, given his peace.

Who knows how long the djinns live? How deep their love can go?

However, he sure is suffering alone.

And I wish he wasn't. I wish the writers looked at his story again and gave him a proper closure.

He deserves it.

I, personally, can see three ways this could potentially go in the future:

1: Zohaqan joins the Olmakhan and/or fights with us to destroy the Inquest for good

A friend of mine got me thinking about this, and honestly, it's perfect. Zohaqan is an elemental being. He's commanding entire storms. He shouldn't have to be necessarily human enough to better avoid conflict and soul-rotting revenge at all costs.

But instead of blind rage, he could have taken the years since the second episode of season 4 to calm down just a little and finally not be an enemy of the Olmakhan. I am sure they would be understanding enough to accept him. Instead of putting the innocent in danger, he could finally, after all those years, have a goal, an ambition now: take revenge on the ones who brutally murdered his love, not on simply everybody near.

Zohaqan is voiced by Tommie Earl Jenkins, who voiced Blish, Cloudseeker, or the Wolverine Spirit. That being said, quite recent characters. Shouldn't be that big of a stretch to have him return to this role, too, no?

Still. The Inquest are one of the few major enemy groups that haven't been dealt with yet. It'll surely need quite a big story arc to destroy them for good. The Commander will need all the help they can get.

Why not the Olmakhan, still mourning their lost ones, together with Zohaqan, the heartbroken yet mighty and powerful three-elemental djinn, with revenge on his mind?

After he finally sees the Inquest are no more, he could consider Nakis avenged. And could finally move on with his life as not a threat to everybody around him, though still forever scarred.

2: Zohaqan puts up a fight one last time and is finally and definitely put out of his misery

The saddest of the three ideas.

We did not get any definite answer to what happened to Zohaqan after the end of the meta event. So, even if the writers want him dead and never redeemed, why not make it final?

Just destroy him to the point where his soul simply ceases to be, as the djinns seem to work in the way I assume.

That's better than living in centuries of torment.

3: Zohaqan and Nakis find peace in the afterlife, somehow

I doubt the djinns have an afterlife when they die. They're basically sentient elementals, after all. And though they have souls, could they be ghosts? Have there ever been ghost djinns in either of the two games? I don't think so.

But humans do have an afterlife either in the Underworld or as ghosts in the mortal realm.

Couldn't Zohaqan somehow find a way to the Mists? Or couldn't Nakis's spirit-ghost somehow be bounded to his and Zohaqan's tree so he could be with him for centuries?

If Belinda could infuse herself into Marjory's katana, why can't Nakis stay bound to the tree and use its life essence to be able to communicate and move around, too?

Would that even be possible if, given the worst-case scenario, Nakis's spirit is still trapped in the Domain of the Lost?

____

And this is the end of my rambling essay. I'm very emotional about these two poor guys as they have been my perhaps favorite queer GW2 couple ever since I learned about them a year or two ago.

Their love was so unexpected, so rare. Yet they decided to live so far away from their homes just to be together.

Only to be torn apart by violent death.

And only to have almost zero backstory, no definite answer as to what happened to the bereaved, and no answer to whether the spirit of the dead one is already in peace in the Underworld, or not.

I hope these two will get a closure sometime.

#guild wars 2 #gw2 #long text #zohaqan #nakis #queer couple #gay couple

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foodandfolklore · 8 months

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The Mermaid of the Magdalenes

Photo by Artemis Winterford

Canada has a weird hodge podge of folk tales. Our stories tend to be a blend of first nations mythology and European fairy tales. Then as books and later movies came into popularity, traditional oral story telling started to die out. One might think, Canada was just too young of a country to develop it's own folk tales to pass down. Well, think again. In 1918, former member of the house of commons Cyrus Macmillan, compiled a number of Canadian Folk Tales into a book called Canadian Wonder Tales. He wrote them in the style similar to the Brothers Grimm, sometimes adding vessels for magic. His hope was these stories would be accessible to not just more people, but schoolers as well. However, while he thanks the first nations people or "Indians" as he got many of these stories directly from them, he called Canada "a country with a romantic past." with many stories told in a way where it looked like the white man and the Indian were old chums. For those unaware, Canada has had a very problematic history with oppression of our first nations people. For that reason, today I'd like to focus on a Maritimes story, likely shared by sailors. It is a uniquely Canadian story about a girl who just longs for some sardines. Sardines when used in Kitchen Magic can attract luck, health, boost family bonds, community, and prosperity. This is the story of the Mermaid of the Magdalenes.

Far off the north-east coast of Canada is a group of rugged islands called the Magdalenes. They are a lonely, barren group, where grass and flowers and trees grow scantily. There, the northern storms rage with their wildest fury, and the sea breaks with its greatest force upon the bleak rocks. Numberless birds of strange cries and colours fly constantly about. On days when the storm dashes the sea white and angry against the coast, even the thunder of the surf is almost shut out by the screaming of countless gulls; and on clear days the sun is hidden when the birds rise in clouds from their nests. The "Isle of Birds," the Jesuits called one of the islands when they first visited the group hundreds of years ago, and it is an "Isle of Birds" still. It is a wild and rock-bound desolate land.

But although the islands are barren of grass and flowers and trees, the waters around and between them are rich in fish. "The Kingdom of Fish," men call the place, for adventurous traders grow wealthy there reaping the harvest of the sea. The greatest product of the waters is the lobster. He always inhabited these northern seas, and about his power in olden times strange tales are told. Away off the coast of one of the islands, you can still see on fine moonlight nights in May, and also during the day once a year, a maiden holding a glass in her hand, combing her long hair, and looking wistfully to the land. Sometimes, too, on calm nights you can still hear her strange song above the murmur of the waves. She is the phantom lady of the Island over whom the Lobster in far away days used his power. She is now a prisoner in the deep, held there as a punishment for her deeds.

Now, it happened that long ago when fish were first canned for food there was a great slaughter of sardines—the tiny fish of the sea—by cruel money-greedy traders who caught them, packed them in small boxes, and shipped them to far countries, just as they do to-day. These traders received large money rewards for their labour, for people all over the world liked the little fish and paid a high price for them. The sardines saw their number slowly growing smaller, for, being little, they were helpless against their captors, and among all their family there was great sorrow. In despair they asked the big fish of the sea to help them. At last, in answer to their appeal, a meeting of all the fish in the sea was called. Here the big fish took an oath to help their small cousins in their struggle with man, and to punish when they could all who ate or fished the sardine family. And the little fish rejoiced greatly.

One May day a large ship loaded with packed fish was wrecked on the sunken rocks of the Magdalene Islands. Soon the ship was broken up by the heavy surf on the sharp reef, and her cargo was strewn along the shore. It happened that in the cargo were many boxes of sardines, and they too were washed up on the beach by the tide. In the evening, after the sea had calmed, a fair maiden who lived on the Island with her father, a fish trader, walked along the shore alone to view the wreckage of the broken ship. She found, to her delight, one of the boxes in which the sardines were packed. She resolved at once to eat the contents, for she too, like all the world at that time, liked the little fish. But although she tried as hard as she could, she was unable to open the box. She sat by the side of the sea and sang a song of lament, calling on anyone who could to open the box for her. She sang:

"I love sardines when they're boiled with beans And mixed with the sands of the sea."

Away out from the beach a skate-fish was resting on a sand-bar. Hearing the song of the maiden, he quickly swam towards the shore. When he came close enough to hear the words of the song and to know what the box contained, he swam away in great disgust, for he was cousin to the sardines in the box, and came from the same family tree as they. But he was too timid to try to punish the maiden. Then a bold merman heard the song. He had long looked for a land wife to live with him in his home under the sea; now he said, "Here at last is a shore maiden for me," for the voice of the singer was beautiful to him. So he went to his looking-glass to dress himself in the most genteel fashion. From bright clean sea-weeds and sea-leaves he quickly made himself a new suit, all green and yellow; and he covered his feet with bright-coloured shells, and his neck with pearls which the oyster gave him; and dressing himself carefully, he hastened in the direction of the song. But when he came close enough to hear the words and to know what the box contained, he remembered his oath at the great gathering of the fish, and although he loved the singer he swam hurriedly away. For, like the skate-fish, he too feared to try to punish the maiden.

The maiden was now sore distressed, for it was growing late and the moon was already far up in the sky. The box was still unopened, and the girl was hungry for the fish. Going to the edge of the sea, she knocked the box hard against a large rock that lay in the water, hoping thereby to break it open. But the box would not break. Now, it chanced that under the rock a large black lobster lay sleeping quietly after a long battle with an enemy in the sea. The tapping on the roof of his sleeping-place awoke him, and he rubbed his eyes and listened. The maiden was again singing her song:—

"Oh I love sardines when they're boiled with beans, And mixed with the sands of the sea. I am dying for some. Will nobody come And open this box for me?"

Then the Lobster remembered his oath at the great gathering of the fish. Unlike the skate-fish and the merman, he had no fear of the maiden, for he knew his power. He determined to punish her, and he resolved at once upon a crafty trick. He came out of his hiding place, and waving his claw politely he said, "Fair lady, I can open the box for you; give it to me and let me try." But when, in answer, she held the box out towards him in her hand, he grasped her by the wrist with his strong claw, and, holding her fast, he swam with her far out to sea. Where he went and what he did with her, no man knows. It is believed that he sold her to the merman who had long sought a shore-wife, and that she is still being slowly changed into a fish. One thing is certain,—she never came back to land. But on the first day of May she always appears on the water away off the coast of the Island; and if that day is fine and clear you can still always see her there. She holds in her hand a looking-glass in which in the sunlight she looks at herself to see if she is nearer to a fish than she was on May Day the year before when she last appeared in the sun; and she is combing her long hair which is now covered with pearls; and she looks with longing eyes to the shore and her old home. And sometimes on moonlight nights in May, when the wind is still and the sea is calm, the fishermen hear her strange sad song across the waters. They know then that she is lonely, and that she is singing her song to lure land-comrades for company to her side. And on these nights they stay on shore, for they know that if they venture out to sea she will seize them and carry them off for playmates to her home of bright shells far under the sea.

#food and folklore #Canadian folktales #Maritimes #kitchen witch #kitchen witchcraft #sardines #mermaid #merman #paganisim #witch #klickwitch #Mermaid of the Magdalenes #Magdalenes #story #sea witch

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mask131 · 2 years

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Deadly fall: Geography of Hades

THE UNDERWORLD, aka THE HADES

Category: Greek mythology

So, the Greek underworld has a long and rich history with an equally complex and fascinating geography – but given this “Deadly Fall” series is all about introducing people to new concepts and things, or revisiting things they know already, for this post I will focus myself on only three main features of the Greek underworld: the Elysian Fields, Tartaros and the rivers of Hades.

1) The Elysian Fields

Also known as Elysium or the Elysian Plains, the Elysian Fields was the Greek’s equivalent of a paradise.

In early literature, the Elysian Fields was considered an afterlife different from the one of Hades. Homer describes them as being on the western edge of the Earth, beyond the vast ocean that surrounds all landmasses, where there is no snow, no storm, no rain and no cold wind, while Hesiod calls them the “Blessed Isles” or “Fortunate Islands”, a land without sorrows on which grows three times a year “honey-sweet” fruits. Later, the poet Pindar reduced these “Blessed Islands” into one, a paradise-island of sweet breezes and gold flowers where the blessed souls rest without having to work under wreaths/garlands of flowers and splendid trees. The exact ruler of this realm separate from Hades can either Cronos, who repented from his crimes and was forgiven by Zeus who gave his authority over this paradise, or the legendary wise and kind king Rhadamanthus.

However, with time, the Elysian Fields were moved inside Hades’ own underworld, and became simply a part of his realm. This coincided with a change in the idea of who the “blessed ones” were. Originally, in the stories of Homer and Hesiod, the Elysian Fields were only reserved for legendary heroes and for mortals related one way or another to the gods – you need to be an exceptional being to go there after your death. But as time evolved, the Elysian Fields became a more “normal” paradise open to all righteous and heroic people: even if you weren’t chosen by the gods, as long as you honored them, kept your oaths and were a very good person, you could access Elysium to enjoy there a pleasant and happy life without tears or toils, enjoying rest, music and painless athletics, shielded from all the hardships of the mortal world, among beautiful landscapes, a moderate weather and delicious nourishing fruits.

2) Tartaros

Also known as Tartarus. This is the complete opposite of the Elysian Fields. Tartaros is a deep abyss, a chasm at the bottom of the earth, where the wicked and the enemies of the gods are sent to live an afterlife of torment and suffering – it was the closest thing Greeks had to a “hell”. As with the Elysian Fields, there is an unclearness as to whether or not Tartarus is part of Hades’ realm: some say it is a section of the Underworld, while others claim it is located “far below Hades”. But what we know is that Tartaros is the polar opposite of the divine heaven, and that if you dropped a bronze anvil from heaven, it would take nine days to reach the earth of the mortals, and then take nine more days to fall into Tartaros (Hesiod said it).

Originally, Tartaros was used as a prison for gods: as such we know that when Cronos became the ruler of the world, he imprisoned his siblings the Cyclops and the Hecatoncheires in Tartaros, only for Zeus to free them ; and when Zeus vanquished the Titans, he threw them (Cronos included) into Tartaros. Some versions of the vanquishing of Typhon also say that he was thrown into Tartaros.

But many other tales and legends rather present Tartaros as a hellish afterlife in which those who broke the most scared laws of Greece are sent to live an endless punishment. Sisyphus, for having tricked death twice (plus other crimes such as incest and breaking the law of hospitality through murder), was sent there, condemned to rule a boulder up to a hill, only for the boulder to always fall down as he is about to reach the top, forcing him to repeat his task again and again. Tantalus, for killing his son and serving his meat to the gods as a meal, was punished by being plunged in a river from which he cannot drink, in front of a fruit-covered tree that he cannot reach – a torture of endless hunger and thirst. Ixion, who killed his father-in-law and tried to rape Hera the queen of the gods, is there too, stripped to a fiery wheel constantly spinning ; and so are the Danaides, sisters who murdered their husbands on their wedding night and are now doomed to fill a cauldron with water, an impossible task since the cauldron is covered in cracks through which the water escapes.

The philosopher Plato extensively talked about Tartaros. For him, Tartaros was the place where all souls unjust and perjured were sent – but if they were “curable”, Tartaros would just be a place of “purification” before a trip to a better afterlife. If they were incurable, however, they would stay forever in torment, as a warning for the living. It is said that Plato considered the souls stuck in Tartaros to be the ones of tyrants who used their might to commit crimes and inflict injustices ; temple robbers ; and cold-blooded murderers (at the difference of regretful murderers and accidental killers, who could leave Tartaros after one year of supplice if they managed to obtain the forgiveness of their victims).

III) The rivers of the Underworld

Greek mythology identified several rivers flowing through the Underworld, each becoming famous in their own ways. We have collected to this day five of those rivers in total:

# The Styx. The most famous of the five, said to be the river that the dead need to cross to enter the Underworld (see my post about Charon). The river Styx was also an extremely sacred and powerful river: when a god made a vow upon the Styx, this vow would become unbreakable and they were forced to hold their promise. Similarly, it was said that if a living being bathed in the Styx they would become invulnerable: the mother of Achilles attempted to make her son immortal by doing so when he was a babe, while holding him by the heel so he wouldn’t drown. It is why Achilles only weak point was his heal: not touched by the Styx waters, it was the only way he could be killed.

# The Acheron. The river of “woe and misery”, which takes the place of the Styx as the “entrance of the Underworld on which Charon rides” in some texts: Homer claimed that the two following rivers flowed into it.

# The Phlegethon (also called Pyriphlegethon) is a burning river of fire: for Homer, it flows into the Acheron, while for Plato it rather flows into Tartaros and its liquid flames are used as a punishment for those who abused their own parents.

# Cocytos, or Kokytos, the river of wailing and lamentations, described by Homer as a branch of the Styx that flows into the Acheron, while for Plato it flows into Tartaros and its cold waters are used to punish murderers.

# The Lethe. The last river of the Greek underworld: the river of forgetfulness, whose waters of oblivion can erase the mind of anyone who comes in contact with it. Its waters were used on the souls of the dead before reincarnation,and Romans claimed that the river flowed by the cave of Hypnos, the god of sleep, who used a branch covered in Lethe waters as his symbol. Some mystery religions, such as the Orphic myths, rather claim that it flows under cypress trees near Hades’ palaces, and that if given a special password, the dead could force the guards and servants of Hades to make him drink instead from a different river under poplar trees: the Mnemosyne, or river of memory, so as to keep their previous life intact during their afterlife and possible reincarnation.

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Interestingly, many of the rivers of the afterlife also acted as gods and divine entities (as the Greeks believed that rivers had their own gods, or that there were river-gods). For example, Lethe was not just an Underworld river, but also the goddess of forgetting and oblivion, daughter of Nyx, the goddess of night ; while some myths declare Acheron was a river-god, son of Helios and Gaia, punished by Zeus to be thrown among the dead for having quenched the thirst of the Titans during the Titanomachia (war of the titans). And contrary to this first myth, Styx would have been a water nymph daughter of Okeanos who was rewarded for helping Zeus during the war with the whole “oaths on your name will be unbreakable” power.

#deadly fall #greek mythology #underworld #hades #elysian fields #tartarus #rivers of the underworld

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