#and the tragedy that it is he betrayed her faith?

[unknowablea]

something something the caged animal that rather chew its leg off than be caught way that hae in decided to reveal she's sick even though she spent 10 episodes hiding it from everyone she could, the you can't dangle this sword over my head because i've already used it on myself, the wretched (affectionate) stubborn i only lose to myself kinda woman that she is

#note how she never tries to hide it from hyun woo #she could've but she didn't #the faith in her husband it required for her to tell him first thing? #and the tragedy that it is he betrayed her faith? #but still #STILL #she turned to him when in need #i'm normal about this drama #queen of tears

[bidisastersanji]

I'm impatient as fuck so here is part 2/3 of the "Zoro gets lost because he uses the red string of fate like a compass" :))) Part 1 here, Part 3 here, read it on AO3 here.

Sanji’s lungs burn, like a sharp blade incessantly scraping his chest from the inside. The unbearable, searing pain in his head, his legs, his ribs- his everything, really- are this close to making him pass out on the spot, but he’s used to dissociating from his battered body. He knows he’s bleeding out in various places, a familiar warm wetness seeping through his clothes, he knows his bones are bruised and broken. He keeps going. 

He’s not a hundred percent sure that him running isn’t a hallucination. 

But he has to find him. That absolute fucker of a swordsman. 

His vision of the red thread he’s desperately running towards blurs a little bit- there must still be smoke in the air- but Sanji doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. Not for a second. Single-minded, relentless, he throws his legs forward, one after the other, ignoring each sharp, fresh stab of pain as he does so. He won’t stop until he finds him. 

The red string is there again. Is still there.  

He’s still alive, he repeats to himself. But for how much longer... 

- 

His mom was the first to explain it to him. He could still remember her bright, cheerful smile when he told her about his soul mark, the way her elegant hands excitedly danced around when she explained what soulmates were, and what a wonderful thing it was that he had one. She’d seemed so happy for him, elated that someone out there was meant to be for her beloved son. 

Starry-eyed and brimming with curiosity, he’d impatiently asked her every single question that popped into his mind- what were they like? Were they close by? How were they chosen? Why was it a red thread? Did he have to marry them? Were they pretty? Or kind? What if they were mean like his brothers? Would he get to meet them someday? Were mother and father soulmates too? 

In her trademark fashion, Sora had patiently, lovingly answered all of them-all but one- but he didn’t notice, nor the way her smile faltered, just a little bit. Her hands were warm, cradling his own like he held all the treasure in the world between them. He, in turn, kept her words, her answers, her stories from that day, like a treasure as well. Sanji clung to this dream, of someone loving, caring for him unconditionally, despite his deficiency, his weakness. Just like the All Blue, it seemed almost too good to be true, but little Sanji didn’t let go, his belief an oasis to comfort himself with. 

With every new tragedy fate brought him, his bright-eyed idealisation gradually made way for bitter disillusionment.  

The unimaginable violence his blood relatives regularly inflicted on him served to remind him of his dreams’ unfeasibility. After all, how could anyone love a failure like him? How could he find such a legendary place when locked down in this cell? And yet, he clung to both dreams, the comfort of the paling red thread keeping him tethered, weakly fanning the dwindling flame of hope in his chest that he would one day be free from his torment, free to chase his dreams. 

He tried not to worry about the thread fading. Guilt ate at him- maybe it reflected the strength of his belief, and that somehow felt like betraying his mother. She wouldn’t have lied to him, would she? She wouldn’t. 

Sometimes, his brothers taunted him about it. Told him that having a soul mark was yet another proof of his weakness, and that they pitied whoever was stuck with their failure of a brother. Sanji cried and pleaded as the blows, physical and mental, bore down on him. The red string kept getting lighter and lighter, nearly translucent as they eroded his faith in it, until one day he no longer saw it at all. 

Soul marks didn’t mean anything, really. 

Because why would have fate wanted his sweet, kind mother to end up with a monster like Judge? How else could she have married this cruel tyrant who did not even mourn her death, or let their children mourn it? 

No. 

Soul marks’ meaning must be something ascribed by people, Sanji reasoned. 

He escaped. Found people that were good to him, just like Reiju told him he would. With Zeff’s gruff but nurturing presence, Sanji slowly built himself back up. As he grew older, he let himself fall back into his romantic tendencies, daydreamed and idealised the concept of love, of intimacy. His body twirled and buzzed with the comfort that throwing himself at and serving beautiful women always brought him. For what better way was there to protect his brittle heart than to reach for something he already knew was unattainable? There was incredible safety in professing his love to a lady just passing by the restaurant for a night. No stakes at all to worry about. 

On some sentimental days, he saw a flicker of red on his pinky.  

Deep in his thoughts, prepping for the dinner rush, the rhythmic chops of his knife hitting the cutting board, he sometimes thought of the soulmate he used to fantasize about as a child. Wondered what he would do if that person found him, or if he stumbled into them. Would he even know? Feel anything? He wondered if his mother’s words had truth to them, offhandedly entertained the idea that love like the one in story books really existed out there. Zeff seemed to think so- had confided in him about his own soul mark on that godforsaken rock. Made it sound like, from what he’d seen on this wide, wide sea, soul marks were nothing to laugh at- just as much as how dreaming of the All Blue was nothing to laugh at. 

It was in those moments that his heart imperceptibly opened, albeit temporarily, to the possibility of love, and he saw red flash in the corner of his eye. He didn’t linger on it. He didn’t even linger on it when it appeared with increasing frequency after leaving the Baratie. 

Joining the straw hats breathed a second wind into Sanji. His smiles, his laughs became fuller, almost childlike at times, reminiscent of simpler times, as the unconditional love- given so freely by the captain and his crew- soothed his deep scars like a balm. Sanji learned that people could love him, rely on him, care for him. Perhaps his mother’s ideas on love hadn’t been so far off, even if he’d found it in another form. 

There was something off about the shitty swordsman, though. Granted, they hadn’t been purely adversarial from day one. Zoro hadn’t seemed in search of a fight -with him at least- when they first crossed paths on the Baratie. Sanji could only remember weird looks, narrowed eyes searching his face, almost accusingly, even though they’d only just met. It quickly got on his nerves.  

The guy naturally aggravated him, made him feel a tad uneasy, nervous. Which is probably why their fights always felt so satisfying, a blissful outlet to the inevitable tension that rose between them every day. Sanji’s skin sang with each clash and blow, and he tightened his jaw to keep himself from grinning with every petty insult thrown between them. (Zeff may have imparted his love language- words of disapprobation- to him.) 

Nobody saw fit to comment on the odd rivalry between them, nor did they question his uncanny knack for finding the directionally challenged mosshead when he got lost. Sanji least of all of them- it just...happened. He must just have a talent for foraging algae and moss. 

-- 

His stomach drops like a stone when he spots him. 

Arms crossed, still as a statue, an ungodly amount of blood paints the rubble around him and drips from his body. 

Sanji can’t think. Doesn’t even consciously register that, just as he suspected, the red thread on his hand is tied to Zoro’s own as he sprints to close the distance between them. He’s pure instinct, heart hammering in his chest as he furiously questions the injured swordsman. What happened here? Where did the warlord go? Sanji feels like his heart is trying to crawl out of his throat, thick, choking him, each lungful a strenuous effort he has to consciously make. 

“Nothing...happened.” 

Zoro seems a breath away from death and passes out in his arms. Sanji has no choice but to carry him the best he can to camp, hoisting him on his back, limping and near delirious with pain himself. He can’t let this shitty idiot die. He wants to kill him himself.  

Thankfully, he gets to Chopper in time, only passing out when he sees the doctor in his heavy point carrying him away to treat him. His last thoughts as the darkness claims him are of the red string now stretching before him in the direction Chopper went. 

Fuck. 

#zoro x sanji #zosan #zosan fic #zosan fanfiction #zosan soulmate au #one piece zosan #one piece fanfiction #zoro gets lost #thriller bark angst #the vinsmokes fucking suck as always #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro

[rey-jake-therapist]

In the book Hannibal Rising, Hannibal was a little boy during WWII and his sister Mischa was killed and eaten by Nazis who had taken them hostage. They also forced him to eat her, which is supposed to be a very awkward and simplistic way to explain why Hannibal grew up to become hungry for human flesh.

The show however being set up in present times (they have computers, cell phone, tablets and all), there's no way Hannibal was a boy during WWII. And Hannibal states that Abigail, a teenager, reminded him of Mischa, so I think it's possible, if not necessary, that Mischa's tragedy in Bryan's mind was different than it was in Thomas Harris' book. Hannibal says at one point that he was able to forgive her only after eating her, implying that he ate her willingly; nobody force fed her to him. Mischa never betrayed him, but for her sake he betrayed himself for years, to protect her: that's what he needed to forgive her for...

It's also worth noticing that a couple of Birds of Paradise ornate Mischa Lecter's grave. It's an unusual choice of flower for a grave: birds of Paradise, in flower language, symbolize joyfulness and paradise, but it also symbolizes freedom, anticipation and excitement. It also is the official symbol of the ninth wedding anniversary, meaning it's associated with faithfulness in love.

There's no way this flower was picked up randomly: Hannibal grieved Mischa, but he also found freedom in her death. He may also consider that dying made her free as well. But he remained faithful to her memory, hence why he searched for a replacement in Abigail and, I think, in Will too -which wouldn't be an obstacle to see him in a romantic light as well: I don't think that Hannibal's definition of love is as clear cut as it is for everybody else. In the book Hannibal, for instance, he was in love with Clarice but he also wanted her to be a sister and a mother figure. For him, it's all blurred.

One last thing: the only time we saw Hannibal crying was when he talked about Abigail to Bedelia. Now it's commonly thought that he was in fact crying for Will, but I'd rather tend to think that in his mind Abigail and Will had merged in one entity at this moment. OR he was really crying for Abigail, because he genuinely wanted to create a father/brother bond with her, but made it impossible when he cut her ear and forced her to hide and play dead. We saw it in the last episode of season 2, she stayed with Hannibal because she was scared and didn't know what else to do. She would never be his Mischa again. He failed her.

#hannibal tv show #mischa lecter #hannibal rising #show and movie differences #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #Hannibal meta

[oliveroctavius]

Doesn't the decision to get involved with Sam Bullit prove Gwen was a bad person?

Hey, I've been looking for an excuse to post about this. The Sam Bullit arc isn't really about Gwen (though it certainly reveals some things about her character). The Sam Bullit arc is about racist dogwhistles and why they work.

ASM #92 pg 19: "I will bring law and order to the people of this great city! I will show no mercy to the anarchists and all others who would destroy our way of life!"

Bullit's platform is not openly white supremacist in the sense that it doesn't overtly mention race. He talks about laws and safety in a way meant to appeal to rich white voters. The true meaning should be clear to anyone with any political awareness (who are those others and what is our way of life?), so why does this rhetoric attract "otherwise rational" people?

ASM #91 pg 6: "I want to volunteer to help you--in your campaign for DA. Because--I want you to bring Spider-Man to justice!" "We need strength--strength to punish those who mock the law! I will use such strength to bring Spider-Man and others like him to justice! I will not betray your trust."

Gwen makes her decision to back Bullit on the way home from her father's funeral. There's a very real phenomenon of tough-on-crime bills named after (white) murder victims. The grief of families who feel like justice hasn't been served is a powerful tool to push harsh laws while smothering any criticism as "disrespectful" to the victims. What’s in a Name? An Empirical Analysis of Apostrophe Laws, 2020.

Bullit showed up at George Stacy's funeral with this exact goal in mind, and when Spider-Man "kidnaps" Gwen later, he leverages the media obsession with white girls in danger for his cause. Gwen is a pawn, but she did offer her help first. Her desire for closure is very human and her short-sighted reactionary faith in "the law" is very white.

Oddly absent from your "proven bad person" takeaway is J. Jonah Jameson. The Bugle lends Bullit a platform to make Gwen's personal tragedy a political talking point. JJJ has the ~Black best friend~ excuse and everything, and he still blows past red flags like crazy.

ASM #91 pg 7: "Maybe they were better days than now! At least we had law and order then." "Yeah--and lynch mobs, and bread lines, and Uncle Toms..." "Come off it, Robbie! What's wrong with a man standing for law and order, anyway?" "Maybe it just depends on whose law--and what kind of order you're talkin' about, man!"

(Another point of this arc: marginalized groups learn to recognize dogwhistles pretty quickly for survival reasons. If they tell you something is a dogwhistle and you don't see it yet, look closer.)

ASM #92 pg 9: "Parker's story just served to open Jameson's eyes--but I've kept a dossier on you. I haven't been city editor all these years for nothing! I know where your support comes from. I know about the lunatic hate groups who are backing you. I know what you really mean by law and order!"

Late in the campaign, the Bugle switches sides. This scene tends to be described as JJJ giving the racists what-for, but the moment is truly Robbie's. (Note that it took Peter getting roughed up for Jameson to take this seriously!) JJJ can yell at Bullit all he likes without consequences, but Robbie is kidnapped and threatened by white supremacists in retaliation. It's Robbie's determination to speak up that eventually puts Bullit out of the running for good.

The Bullit arc isn't there to sort characters by Bad Person and Good Person. Neither Gwen nor JJJ have to personally hate black people for their self-centered sense of safety to be weaponized by a racist agenda. This is a Stan Lee PSA about masked bigotry and how it might appeal to you even if you consider yourself a Good Person.

But for some ~mysterious~ reason, Gwen's brief agreement and Jameson's brief rejection are the only parts of these two issues I ever see brought up, with Robbie's major role not mentioned at all. Some ideas fit more neatly than others into smug ship-war quote tweets and anon asks, it seems.

#olivertxt #comics #reductionist takes from people who clearly do not care about this arc have been getting under my skin for ages #gwen stacy #robbie robertson #jjj #/ racism

[sparrowsarus]

Walter and Susan; Or, When the Gates of Fairie are Shut

@gogandmagog since you were curious on the why.

When we think of Susan Pevensie, we think of a girl who became a queen; a girl who lost her kingdom, a girl who decided she wouldn't love anything who wouldn't bother loving her back.

We think of siblings betrayed--Lucy, hurt and confused by "Susan The Gentle" caring about boys, and lipstick; about Peter's short "Susan is no longer a friend to Narnia."

We think of a sensible girl, a doubting girl, a girl, not a woman, though she had to grow up twice over.

We think of "The Problem With Susan", a girl cast out of Narnia (Heaven; Salvation; call it what you will) for the crime of perceived femininity.

(So often we forget that Susan made a choice to leave.)

(Is it fair, how we think of Susan? I don't know.)

"There is such a place as fairyland - but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over."

(Montgomery,L.M)

A girl: Just a girl, or a "silly, conceited young woman", who cared more about lipstick and boys than she did anything else--a girl who lost her entire family at the age of twenty-one.

Was it a punishment?

Was it a kindness?

It was a cruelty, regardless.

(Susan was Susan the Gentle, and don't tell me that wasn't a choice she made, every day she ruled.)

CS Lewis mentioned that Susan may find her own way back to Aslan's country; whether Susan would want to remains a mystery.

In contrast, we have Walter Blythe. The "hop out of kin", the dreamer, the coward (until he isn't.) The bard, the chronicler, the sacrificial lamb. Walter is not "sensible", or practical, or inclined to doubt (Note we are told he's a church member, while Jem Blythe isn't, despite being romantically linked with Minister's Daughter Faith, and isn't that interesting?)

Walter has to die in the Great War. There is no other future for him; this starry-eyed boy who knew he was signing up to die. Walter Blythe knows stories, knows he's in one, knows there's no happy ending.

Because even if had Walter lived, I do not believe the gossamer-fairy part of him would never have returned from France. Like Susan, he too would need to find Narnia on a longer, harder road, and there is no guarantee it would be the land he knew as a boy.

Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland."

The Piper called Walter, and there was no denying that call. Walter's way was set before him, and he could not stray; a different, harder path than he was promised as a boy. Walter is no exile; Walter chooses to leave, so others can take his place.

Walter dies, and everyone he loves lives.

Susan lives, and everyone she loves dies.

Now all that remains is:

Can they find their kingdoms again?

#chronicles of narnia #lm montgomery #Walter Blythe #Susan Pevensie #Is this gibberish? Maybe #But I love them your honour

[duchesssoflennox]

"The 88th Anniversary of The Heartbreaking Death of Princess Victoria Melita: A Royal Outcast Who Never Found Happiness" 🤍🖤💔

She was born with a silver spoon but died with a wooden one. She married for love but lost everything. She had a royal bloodline, but no country to call her own. She faced wars, revolutions, and exiles with bravery but succumbed to a broken heart. She was Princess Victoria Melita, and this is her story...🌟

Princess Victoria Melita (nicknamed Ducky) came to Paris on 19 December 1936. She was far from well at the time, but she had planned to go to Germany the next day to see her elder daughter Marie, Princess of Leiningen, who was expecting a child.🥹

Shortly after her arrival in Wurzburg, Ducky contracted a chill but she would not hear of postponing her visit to her daughter. The birth of her granddaughter, Matilda, was not attended by any complications, and in the middle of January they all returned to Schloss Amorbach.

By now she was steadily getting weaker, and the doctors were anxious But by an immense effort of will, she attended the christening ceremony of her new grandchild.

It taxed her strength considerably, and her condition continued to deteriorate.

She suffered a stroke, one side of her body was paralyzed, and she was unable to speak coherently. 🖤

In February, Ducky's youngest daughter Kira was summoned to Amorbach, and Cyril and Vladimir were warned that she had taken a turn for the worse. They left at once to go to her bedside.

Ducky's niece, Missy’s daughter Ileana came to join the unhappy vigil.

By the time they reached Ducky, she could only mutter occasional words which were barely intelligible. There was nothing more the doctors could do.

On the evening of 1 March they noticed a rapid weakening of the pulse.

Ducky's three sisters, Missy (Marie), Sandra (Alexandra) and Baby Bee (Beatrice) all joined the bedside vigil, praying for her to go quickly and instead being tormented at the sight of her lingering. 💔

At fifteen minutes past midnight on 2 March, she passed away...💔

No more moving account of her last days and death can be given than the description in Missy’s letter to Lady Astor (4 March):💔💔💔

The whole thing was tragic beyond imagination, a tragic end to a tragic life. She carried tragedy within her – she had tragic eyes – always – even as a little girl – But we loved her enormously, there was something mighty about her – she was our Conscience. But when he betrayed her, she did not know how to forgive, so she allowed him to murder her soul. From then onwards, her strength became her weakness, her undoing – she was too absolute, she could not overcome herself. And now she had to die, unforgiving! Her lips were sealed because of the stroke which had felled her to the ground – but although she knew we were there and the first day she found a murmur of recognition for each of us in turn, she shuddered away from his touch – Whilst we sat, in turns holding her hand, he stood like an outcast on the threshold of her door not daring to enter her room – It took 11 long days before she was released. The last five she lay in a sort of coma – and the end came Sunday morning exactly at 12¼ – suddenly it was all over, as she lay there grey, gaunt, the mask of grief . . . it was torture – but I am calm, I know it is better thus – she could not have lived as a cripple – but with their egoism, those she loved killed her. They left her too lonely, and she cried continually for three long years & nothing brought her comfort nor resignation, except occasionally her garden or her painting. She would not let us help her. Her faith in humanity was dead. I know how much both you & Waldorf tried to help her – she was deeply grateful, I know she was, only her dreadful habit of never answering made her case hopeless – In spite of our tremendous love for each other, because of her silence, I was never able to keep in touch with her, nor to really help her – There is an unbearable tragedy in it all . . .

The Edinburgh sisters wrapped Ducky's body in a long white robe, and in the coffin, Missy placed white lilacs around her head and shoulders. On 5 March, the coffin was brought to Coburg and placed in the family vault of the Dukes of Saxe-Coburg. The funeral took place the next day, with rain and snow flurries, adding to the gloom of an icy winter scene, as she was laid to rest beside her parents and brother...🌃

Ducky had left a wish that there should be no pomp and ceremony.

Afterward, Missy found it hard to leave the grave of the sister who ‘always hated being alone’...

As Meriel Buchanan would later write, the Grand Duchess Cyril died ‘a bitter, disappointed woman, whose brilliant personality had been warped by failure and frustration’. Now she was alone; but at last, the ‘passionate, often misunderstood child’, who had grown up into a bitter, disappointed woman, was at peace...

On the occasion of the 88th anniversary of the tragic death of Princess Victoria Melita, Grand Duchess Cyril💔💔💔

And the world moved on, oblivious to the tragedy that once graced its courts. 🌟

#Princess Victoria Melita #Victoria Melita of Edinburgh

[tainbocuailnge]

Are Cu Chulainn’s earrings symbolic of his pride in living his life even with the tragedies. Separate his heroic pride because both Caster Cu and Beserker Alter have them. Going through F:HA and the scene where Bazett dies reaching out and grasping his earring + her only wearing them in the epilogue got me thinking thematic thoughts

that's not a bad guess, though I don't actually think it's the case because his spear is mentioned way more often and way more obviously as the multipurpose symbol of his life and pride in it. the earrings meanwhile are only really brought up in the context of FHA

I think the earrings started as just a design element and were given more symbolic weight in being used as connecting factor between lancer and bazett. they're the catalyst that bazett used to summon him and are similar in this to rin's pendant that she used to save shirou's life being the catalyst that summons archer: it's physical proof of a connection they share, even if the parties involved don't realize or remember.

the scene you mention starts with bazett desperately pleading with lancer that they know each other and she won't fight him, but he denies this and forces a confrontation. when they've mutually killed each other she's desperately reaching for the earring in her pocket because upon seeing it all she can think about is that she has one too, that they really do share a connection.

bazett is essentially desperately looking for someone who can "fix her," who can turn her into a functional human being, and in this longing for some kind of external salvation she is unable to recognise any of her own efforts and achievements for what they are. she summoned lancer with the intent of saving him from his fate, but what she really hoped for was for her childhood hero to save her from her own.

the pride in your life part of their confrontation is covered by their weapons: fragarach is the sword that severs fate, the "i wish things had gone differently", and gae bolg is the spear that seals fate, the "I did what I could with what I had". it's a mutually assured kill because neither statement can actually deny the other, you can wish things had been different even if you're proud of what you achieved with what you had, you can be proud of what you achieved with what you had even if you wish things had been different. when bazett's heart is ripped apart by gae bolg it unseals her repressed memories of how kirei betrayed her and she never once received the external help she thought would save her to get where she is now, when lancer's heart is ripped apart by fragarach he voices a complaint about his life for the first time.

the earrings are instead used to symbolise a more personal connection. bazett having those earrings is proof that even if anyone denies or forgets it, they really do share a connection and they really did mean something to each other once. lancer returns the half of the pair he has to finally say the farewells he couldn't when kirei killed her - she meant something to him, even if he can only act on it now. bazett reaches for the matching one in her pocket but is unable to show it to him - she is absolutely certain that they meant something to each other, even if she can't prove it to the rest of the world. she can't cling to him forever, he can't and won't save her, but that doesn't mean he didn't believe in her. wearing the earrings shows more faith in herself, in her own judgement, and in her ability to get through this too.

it becomes a little clearer with the context of bazett's valentines event in fgo too, where the whole crux of the event is that she's scared of seeing lancer again, not because she's unsure of how he feels about her but because servants aren't supposed to remember their other summonnings and she doesn't know if she can take him saying he doesn't know her. it ends on her facing off against a manifestation of those fears by drawing the four branches herself because even if he doesn't remember, she does, and forgetting about it now doesn't change that he believed in her once.

#collectiondump #king of asks #metapost #hound of the irish #for the sake of something new

[no-where-new-hero]

I need to know more about this attempt at a fourth Emily book

Oh gosh, I really haven’t thought about this for YEARS, this was a product of me being like 15 and naive enough to try and write an Emily x Dean happy ending without realizing that a purely romantic Dean was neither in the spirit of how LMM wrote him nor very interesting.

Basically, I erased a few of the years that passed between Ilse calling off the wedding and Teddy coming back to New Moon, so that the year after Emily and Teddy married, WWI began. Naturally, both Teddy and Perry would have been drafted. I envisioned Ilse moving back to PEI, and she and Emily would do comic and Rilla-ish things for the war effort. Meanwhile, Dean—who of course wouldn’t have been able to fight—comes back as well. He writes a book of pacifist poetry or something not particularly patriotic, which doesn’t endear him any better to the locals. In my teenaged mind, he and Emily would then resurrect something of romance. Whether or not it’s actively something consummated, Emily would have betrayed Teddy in spirit if not in body.

Now, though, if I were to follow this war-themed plot thread, I think I absolutely wouldn’t go that route. I think Emily’s attitude to Dean and to herself would have completely changed as she grew older and seen more of the world. She would understand him better and perhaps pity him just a little—she was so nearly him, losing the love of her life to someone else. I’m not entirely settled about how Dean would react to this change: On the one hand, I’m tempted to think that he would miss not being able to patronize her anymore (I'm sure he would try and it wouldn't work the way it used to). As with many Gothic pairings, their relationship relied on inequality. On the other hand, if underneath his possessive jealousy he really does care genuinely for Emily—which we might infer if only from the final scene when he admits that she can write—they might be able to negotiate a new kind of friendship, where Dean can claim his corner of her life without it being unnecessarily fraught. Even now, I'm not sure how much of this is possible--despite Emily's newfound cynicism, she still seems a bit naive at the end of EQ about what he intends about claiming a corner of her home--but I do believe that her own literary achievements would be able to help her hold her own against him.

In the end, I always intended Teddy and Perry to come home—as much as I enjoy tragedy, I couldn’t sacrifice either in good faith—though I assigned Perry many heroic war wounds. Emily also would have written a Great Canadian Novel based on the war that would have been set up as a counter to Dean's pacifist poems. In some ways their literary output would mark more than anything the divergence in their lives.

Thinking about this now is really interesting though in terms of our previous discussions of Walter in a pairing with Dean! I’m tempted to start writing fanfic scenarios about this instead now.

#i originally wanted to write an Emily bk 4 because i found another fanfic for a bk 4 somewhere on the internet and hated it #HATED IT #i think i was irrationally biased against it because ilse has a child and in no universe did i think that was in character for her #i did not contemplate the implications of a society before widespread birth control where she might not have a choice #it was just like. ilse wouldn’t be the type to become a mother. ergo she wouldn’t be a mother #tbh I almost think she would be the type to get an abortion but that’s another issue #i'm also convinced that the same fic included an endgame for dean with a character from the anne universe #but it wasn't even a more kosher romance like there was still an age gap problem and that was weirder to me without the tenuous excuse #that in emily dean had found something like a soulmate #lmm lockdown #emily of new moon #emily starr #dean priest #teddy kent

[jaydeiswriting]

WIP Intro: What The Water Makes of Us

As long as your heart is worthy, drowning is reversible.

Status: ~6K into the first draft

Genre: adult literary fiction

Setting: small town Ontario, on the lake

Overspecific target audience(s)*: sapphics with complicated relationships with religion, folks who are obsessed with bodies of water and the moon, intellectual agnostics, ruth-and-naomi-as-lovers truthers, unbelongers and misfits & anyone fundamentally changed by the scene in Saved! (2004) where Hilary Faye drives directly into the Jesus figure

Synopsis: A worthy heart always rises.

Despite her marriage to the leader, Vinette never really believed in Lambsong's mantra; it was clearly only an endorsement of the baptism ritual approximating the death and resurrection of Christ. As their son's baptism approaches, Vinette swallows her fear and teaches him how to cheat. After all, ritual drowning can't always end with revival, and she only has one son.

Then, she loses him anyway.

With only a dysfunctional family left outside of Lambsong, Vinette must restrain her grief so as not to shake members' faith and earn herself a shunning. But a sympathetic overture by Nora, the precocious daughter of the newest member, unsettles her careful facade. For a single moment, Vinette doesn't feel as if suspended under the cold weight of the entire lake that drowned her son. 

But it can't last. Vinette's clearly not the only one with doubts. Cary doesn't want her daughter close to the tragedy or Lambsong practices at all.

Vinette must contend with a suspicious death case for her son, while heralding night meetings to settle fearful members and a growing allegiance to Cary and Nora that spikes her anxiety as Nora nears readiness for baptism and Vinette husband's intentions for Cary become clear. If she's going to protect them, Vinette'll have to betray her husband and maybe even herself.

Nora never wanted to leave the rundown city apartment she shared with her mother. Cary's phone number might change every few months, but their apartment number stays the same. Her father would remember it if he ever came back for her. But how would he ever know to look in some middle-of-nowhere beach house?

Lambsong doesn't even offer the quiet better life Cary had promised her daughter anyway. The first ritual Nora witnesses ends in the death of a boy only a few years older than her. But as Nora grows closer to both Vinette and Ezra, the boy who lived on the day that darkened everything, Nora's wariness grows cloudier. Ezra, and the practices and rituals he engages in, pull Nora into the Lambsong orbit, rapidly pulling through the ranks in a devotion she doesn't know whether belongs to the boy or the commune or some belief she can overcome her own depth of guilt and find forgiveness for the mistakes that haunt her. 

But to integrate fully into Lambsong and be washed clean of her sins, Nora needs to expose the non-believers and their attempt at escape, no matter who it hurts.

*inspired by @/kjscottwrites' post here

#wip intro #wip introduction #writerblr #writers on tumblr #writerscommunity #why is this so long #was going to do quotes but i'll save them for writing updates #no publishing intentions here so i'll do lots of excerpts

[aziraphales-library]

Hi, I'm looking for angst-y with a happy ending fanfics where aziraphale and crowley are in love, but at first aziraphale thinks he's going to fall or that crowley wants that to happen. Not looking for an specific one, if you know some like this I'd love to read! Thanks so much

Hello. You can check out our #fallen angel aziraphale tag for more fics like this. Here are some angsty where Aziraphale falls or the possibility of him falling is discussed...

Break Free by nsowlwrites97 (T)

There was a meteor streaking through the sky.

The meteor was bright and colorful and beautiful, and somewhere in her soul the girl knew that it spelled tragedy.

Or: Aziraphale begins to fall. Crowley is there to catch him.

the cutting edge of eternity by gazing (T)

When Aziraphale begins to fall from heaven, he tries to hide it for as long as possible. But Crowley has been through this before. He knows the signs. And he's sure as hell (pun intended) not going to let Aziraphale go through it alone.

(Only) In Our Minds by LylaRivers (T)

If he were human, he’s sure his heart would beat out of his chest. His body aches, and it feels as though he’s going to explode. He’s never, ever felt anything like this in his six thousand years on Earth- or in the immeasurable existence before the Earth was created and Time truly started.

Is this what it feels like to Fall?

Post Apoca-nope, Aziraphale starts to experience panic attacks.

Lend To Me Your Hallowed Gaze, Tonight by Juno_Sunlit (T)

Crowley isn't Holy. He isn't loved by the only thing in all of creation that's supposed to. He was loved, loved so very, very much, and then he wasn't. And if he could feel that overwhelming embrace again, he would.

And he's still dealing with that when the world doesn't end, and a fearful Aziraphale starts avoiding him, despite everything. He's thrown into turmoil, seemingly betrayed, and left to loneliness.

But, of course, Aziraphale comes back. He always does, faithful and gentle and lovely. This time, however, it's a genesis.

The Second Great Fire by Twilightcitysky (E)

On the worst night of the Blitz, Aziraphale drops a bombshell of his own on Crowley. He's done with being an angel. He wants to Fall.

Hell Bent by NiwaEngland (NR)

The Sequel to Hell Wins.

Aziraphale looked at him, through him.

"Then why? I don't understand it, Crowley. I cannot comprehend this."

Crowley considered the question carefully. Weighing up the pros and cons.

"I want you to Fall."

- Mod D

#good omens #ineffable husbands #angst #fallen angel aziraphale #mod d

[livdaboba]

Currently still 8%, 100k words demo

And silence spoke to you like a rat biting the rope holding you from falling into insanity.

Justice or your destiny?

All you knew was the cursed,

“Welcome home.”

Born as the son/daughter of the dethroned emperor, you lived much of your life in hiding, being trained to rebel against the current tyrant of a ruler.

However everything changed at the month you turned 16.

The elders of the rebellion decreeing you to gain fame at the upcoming tournament known as the election, you are forced to take your first steps in reclaiming your father’s throne.

Carve your own journey, a passionate rebel or a rebellious anarchist? Take down the tyrant that is nibbling on the lives of his people and discover the rottenness of the rebellion!

Chose your fate

Lead the rebellion/ Be a fugitive wanted by the tyrant and the rebellion/ Infiltrate into the depths of the tyrant’s court

Potentially be corrupt

Customize your pc

Combat centered/ Charismatic/ Wise/ mixed

Male/female

Determine your personality

Determine your self esteem

Dynamic gameplay

Betray and be betrayed

Convert your enemies into comrades

Be convinced to side with the enemy

Different branches of love with same RO

Discover secret routes

Encounter assassination attempts

Romance and rivals

3 Opposite gender RO

2 set male RO

2 set female RO

Adventure theme

Slowly descend into angst and darkness. From the first step of adventure. Enter the mind of your character and chose what to let go.

Customize your faith

Christian (struggling and reborn)

Christian Nazirite (struggling and reborn)

Unbeliever

Romantic options

Aden/Adina [M/F]

A brunette with a knack for decisive and violent response. Aden/Adina is one of the strongest rebel in your generation, with no serious flaws. You often wonder what your childhood friend hides behind those striking green eyes. Calm on the surface but a wreck inside, only you know of the tempest brewing.

*self esteem issues, may be manipulative depending on choices. Aden(distant, yet caring and respects you), Adina (Capricious, yet secretly caring)

Ronnie [M]

A blue eyed red head, Ronnie is charismatic oriented person yet actually a laid back guy who befriends everybody instead of a heart robber. You often wondered how he was so uncaringly positive until you noticed not everything is as it seems.

*Laidback yet protective (bro vibes)

Elias/Liana [M/F]

As mysterious as Elias’s/Liana’s mismatched eyes and as tantalizing as his/her sculpted olive build. Change how you meet this RO and explore three different dynamics with this character. And decide the flow of your relationship. (No spoiler).

*enemy to lovers/ friends to enemies/ lovers to enemies/ enemies to friends

(Elias- stoic|Liana- flirty)

[If you play female pc, Liana would exist as Elias’s siblings and vice versa]

Feiyu [F]

Doe eyes and a cute twin bun hairstyle. Feiyu is Innocent… or is she really? Tied to an organization that still brings goosebumps when you think of it. Deal with the complexity of the game when her allegiance to the rebellion surpasses yours.

*Just a really nice girl

Shanon [F]

Strong headed and a body honed for combat. She is a student part timing as a blacksmith, and partaking the tournament where the winner will be recruited into the empire. Dangerous sense of morals and those amber eyes which hides no emotions.

*strong personality

Zion [M]

The tyrant who started all the tragedy. Loving him would be everything wrong, yet there is something about him that pulls you under. Be it his immoral love and unchecked obsession.

*???

Mark

Potentially more to come.

Prove that black hair does not equal to a calm personality. Mark is dash of energy ready to irk the heck out of you. Mark is an adventurous agent of the Chatoyant who does everything exciting and often desires to drag you into his “marvelous” schemes.

???

An RO that I might scrap.

Demo link below:

#hosted games wip #wip #IF #Interactive fiction #interactive fiction wip #choicescript wip #Romance game #text game

[datastate]

kanna chose sou's life over kai's.

that alone is an action far heavier than she deserved to carry. she feels responsible for her sister's death, and she made another decision on how to disrupt the discussion in the first main game so she could ensure sou lives -- because she alone had the information to make the judgement that sou was more valuable than kai would've been.

by the time kai pleaded with them that he had information to escape, it was too late. the balance had already shifted against him. along with this, kanna risked her relationship with everyone else, but especially sara -- who suffered twice-over with the results of who was to be executed. their relationship was already fractured when kanna felt betrayed at sara following and contributing to these white lies; & in sara's mind, for kanna to go along with sou's lie marked her as gullible at best, or similarly malicious and untrustworthy. sara's hesitant to fully trust or forgive kanna again after this, even if she rationally knows she doesn't want to hurt kanna and that this is the mature route ... the situation of the death game makes it hard to process things, let alone in a healthy manner.

& in trying to repair this, kanna attempts to make the 'ultimate sacrifice' in giving her life for sara's.

most of her reasoning points to sara resembling kanna's sister, but i wonder. if, when she saw kai's messages, that love was also on her mind. kai only seemed to reaffirm what compassion kanna saw in sara, and his words: "please survive, even if it must be you alone" certainly left an affect on her. realizing that, if there is no escape, they really will be picked off one by one... but, in surviving, kanna knows sara will keep a part of kugie alive. and sara's so loving, so kind, that she'll keep the hearts of everyone here and live for them. (kanna doesn't fully recognize the. pain of that... as shown in ch3, she's much kinder to herself than sara is and can genuinely use this as non-destructive motivation.)

but, as it is, kanna as of the second main game feels like she must repent for her actions. kai has failed in keeping sara safe with his last gift -- asunaro destroyed the program through physical means -- but kanna still has faith that sou is still the best option to keep everyone alive, to give them a chance at escape. and that's what all of them - no matter their allegiance - wanted when this all began. if they can put their selfishness aside, follow how selfless kanna is trying to be, then maybe... maybe she'll finally be able to contribute, too. like kai managed, she can still make her death worth something. it won't be a sudden tragedy like the yabusame, or necessarily used for a show of 'power' like mishima... she wants so badly to manage to push the group to work together because she's in a position where both sides care about her. re-emphasize joe's last words, too.

sou wouldn't willingly be the cause of someone's death like that again - that's what she believes, the moment she catches remorse. upon jou's death, a part of that callous, calculating part of him... seemed to break before her. that was his point of no return, and he realized as much. there may have been betrayal when he lied to her on the first floor to capture her trust, but as she's learned abt him, she's willing chosen to trust him.

kanna still trusts every single one of the participants, and will not break her loyalty to sou because she also trusts he also wants to find escape. that's why he was so desperate, wasn't it? on-guard & desperate to put up an act of being emotionally untouchable so he wouldn't be as easily manipulated. both kanna & sou see the 'worse' parts of sara; but kanna recognizes that sara's own 'act' is similar to kugie in her determination to push forward for everyone's sake, whereas sou reads it to mean she'll discard people who dare to stop her path. but when they were given a glimpse of escape, sou could let his apprehension down because there were finally more paths than forward into their deaths. he could be himself and live, again!

kanna genuinely believes that if sou sees that she cared for both him and sara, he'll have it in him to save the group as a whole (shaky as they are, now...) & honestly, even if kai were here too, she'd still choose sou for his more obvious 'humanity' in her eyes. whereas kai's priority was unwaveringly sara, and sara alone, sou is not the man he pretends to be. and that shows itself completely when he asks to be voted for instead of her. meanwhile, kai was not acting for "good" or for "evil" as keiji & sara speculate - he was acting for the chidouins and would ultimately prioritize them and unflinchingly carry whatever the cost is when the opportunity arises. sou gives the group as a whole a chance at another escape attempt in living; all she can do with her death is hope to serve as that connection between him and the group.

but the one thing kanna misses here is that... while trapped in the death game, she really is the only reminder sou had left of this 'life' she wants him to live. of who he wants to be. even if he escapes, it will not be unchanged.

sou didn't want to be... this, they both know that, and yet it's because he couldn't fully use this mask that he ended up letting kanna creep in and realized he couldn't. let her stand by. she's like him; she'd be manipulated and killed. and he stepped in to grab the strings before anyone else could -- only to recognize that this became protectiveness. he ended up becoming someone there to ground her and (harshly) remind her of the others' priorities, even (and especially) if it meant fueling distrust toward those kanna respected like sara or reko (after the doll situation) so she could be on the lookout. while he had puppeteered joe's situation, after those final words, he couldn't manage to let another kid die so. senselessly. sou was willing to give his own life up to stop that from happening, when it came down to it -- because what he's done now is unforgivable, isn't it? and kanna's all that's left of a life worthy of living, in his eyes. that person he can't return to.

in her last moments, when kanna tries to encourage others to trust him and encourages him to give everyone she's learned to care for a chance to survive... it's too late. just seeing the fact the votes are so split on killing a child is enough to shatter sou's trust permanently.

kanna can't live up to these expectations in the end; her death is orchestrated as asunaro intends it. the dead wouldn't scold her for it (& i'm sure there'd be some shame in her trying to follow those displays in the first place, a testament of strength even if she failed to make that same impact), but it's heartbreaking to know it's only gone to waste.

#grah. tears into plywood. this is from last july but i #i think. a normal amount abt kai being 'killed' by kanna & how he partially weighs on her thoughts of keeping sara alive; she must survive. #ahhh. of course sou is furious. at himself and sara for failing kanna. #he can't see this as anything more than sara's charisma giving her the edge. what else could it be...?! #once you know that kai was raised by gashu. raised to kill... it makes it all the more laughable. of course kanna never stood a chance #jestersvaguely #yttdposting #yttd meta #? who know. i'm going to sleep

[magic-in-onyx]

Fakiru Week Day 3: Tie

Inscribe into the Oaken Tree  A tale of One, Two, Three:  One – tied to a debt most painful,  Two – tied to each other, faithful,  Three – tied to a Fate resentful. 

Then recite of Four, Five, Six:  Four – tied to a kingdom hollow,  Five – doomed a frail love to follow,  Six – tied to a father cruel, in his hand a bag of tricks. 

And seven is the Truth unseen. 

What you see cannot be seen.  What you hear makes no sound.  You must hear what mute remains.  You must see what stubbornly its mask maintains. 

The lovers true make their way ahead,  On their journey.  Upon one neck a jewel red,  Upon the other the gem is water clear. 

Two halves, a whole.  Two fates entwined.  Upright should they remain – trials overcome.  On their heads, astray – foolish designs, tragedy. 

One.  The man who should have died,  For his Moira a token he had found.  Clotho maintains a sacrifice profound,  A single duck in the webs it spins it had bound,  For no sin truly her own, save too soft a heart  – condemned and tried. 

The duck herself a foolish sort,  Willingly to the Spinner she had went,  A soul who once kind to her had been,  To save, rekindle, and court. 

But tied to him she could not remain,  So upon herself his freedom lost She had taken.  Still truly free he had not become,  Only desolate and remorseful.  Alas, in learning of this she – both!, would be delayed –  Betrayed!  A duck’s sacrifice in vain, kindness for kindness too great a cost. 

Four.  A man who should have died,  A storyteller he had been,  Of fae, brave heroes, but foes in fall belated,  His stories he had spun. 

A Prince he had envisioned,  Noble, kind, courageous;  In a plot the Spinner trapped him,  Vicious and disadvantageous!  “Heartless become thee!”, he commanded,  “Or as your foil and proxy, one other you must offer!”  A paradox, a paradigm most backhanded! 

The Prince chose his heart to fragment and scatter,  (For what other choice truly had he,)  Before his plan was soiled –  A duck with too soft a heart,  His place to take the words had uttered. 

The Prince’s blood and hers,  The blooming jewel of cruor formed,  Only by another lover true, could the curse  Be broken! 

Three.  One lost boy was saved,  Upon his shoulders a world’s weight.  A lone withdrawn creator,  Of destinies imagined,  Of fae, brave heroes, and foes abated. 

“Write!” he said, “for me a tale,  “To lead me from this town.  “Oh the stars, the moon, and Death itself,  “Guide mine path far, far the hills down!”  In doing so the Moirai he had challenged,  His Fate to the stars, the moon and Death he had tied!  His blood shared with an undead evil,  The scales for him in equal tip  To happiness,  To glory. 

He must hear what mute remains.  He  must see what stubbornly its mask maintains.  Seek he must, what buried is,  In the bog of Truth. 

Seven.  Before the very eyes  Of the creator still unripe,  The shy little Truth gives chase –  For the Truth is lonesome,  And when not sought, its cries  wake the Moirai. 

His lover to a waterfowl’s guise is reduced  As he watches awestruck;  Before fully she would change forms,  Urge him she does, with some luck:  “Seek a kingdom hollow!  “Seek a lover frail!  “Inscribed into the Oak Tree,  “Track the Tale of One, Two, Three!” 

One – tied to a debt most painful,  Two – tied to each other, faithful,  Three – tied to a Fate resentful. 

Then recite of Four, Five, Six:  Four – tied to a kingdom hollow,  Five – doomed a frail love to follow,  Six – tied to a father cruel, in his hand a bag of tricks. 

And seven is the Truth unseen. 

To him who accepts all, happiness.  To him who defies all, glory.

**

&lt;Prev> <Next>

AO3

#princess tutu #ptutu #fakir #ahiru #fakiru #ao3 #ao3fic #my fic #mytho #fakiru week 2023 #Poetry

[saintsofwarding]

BURIAL

Chapter 3

Someone yanked the sack off her head. Elena blinked, eyes adjusting to the gloom. The church, she realized, with a shiver. The same church she sat in every Sabbath-day, to hear the priests read from Miranda's holy writ and extol the miracles of the Black God. Close, and warm, and glimmering with gilt and embroidery and polished wood, it was usually a sanctuary, a place she thought of when she visualized peace.

Now, Miranda stood before her, blocking her view of the altar. The priests moved around her, lighting candles, filling the small church with the shivering glow of their light. It shimmered off Miranda's feather mantle, darkly beautiful, glistening black. It touched each piece of her golden mask, and her eyes beneath, bright as a predator's.

The chain hung loosely around Elena's body. Was Lord Heisenberg gone? It was his power that had made the thing move, had given it life. Now it was dead again, leaving Elena unbound.

She still didn't move. She waited, each breath overloud in the hush. She was alive. Miranda hadn't ordered Lord Heisenberg to smash her skull in. Why?

Why?

"Was that your father?" Miranda asked.

Elena found her voice. "W-what?"

"Was that your father, in the square?"

"No- I...no, he wasn't."

"And yet." Miranda tilted her head, slightly. "You tried to save him."

"Tried?" She glanced toward the windows, but the curtains were drawn. She faced Miranda again. "He was...innocent, please..."

"Innocent," Miranda echoed. "Sweet girl. Do you know how it is we survive here, in the valley of the Black God, beset on all sides by the monsters of the divine? Faith. In each other. In what we can give. So we can search for the truth."

"And...um. What is the truth?"

"That we all must play a part. And if we cannot..." Miranda's hand opened with a sound like knives drawn. "Then we've betrayed the Black God, haven't we? Betrayed its holy work of keeping us alive? That farmer was faithless. And though it pains me, I must do what needs to be done. As must you."

Elena blinked. Her furious pulse had begun to slow, the black spots at the edges of her vision fading. "I..." She had to stop, then start again. "I don't understand."

Miranda smiled. "I know."

Heat pushed at Elena's eyes. All of that, and he was dead anyway, another suitcase delivered to his family, another wound, another hole in a daughter's heart. But as her thoughts formed, and the rage crystallized behind them, that pressure slid into her head. An icy dagger. The tang of blood and mold.

She stiffened. Miranda hadn't moved.

The ice turned to warmth, melting, soothing. It washed at her thoughts and smoothed them over, sand on a shoreline, lapping the rage away. Soon, Elena wasn't so sure she'd ever been angry at all.

"Let me help you understand," Miranda said. "Leave us."

Not Elena. Her priests retreated from the church, leaving Elena alone with Mother Miranda. The candles flickered, filling the dusty air, touching the blackened beams of the holy place. Miranda at last moved aside, revealing the altar, her icon enclosed in gilt and wreathed in flowers and ribbons and strings of dried fruit, flanked by portraits of her Four Lords. Miranda ran her talons along the frame of her icon.

"Your name is Elena Lupu, isn't it?" she began. "I don't see your father with you."

"No, he's...he's unwell."

"A tragedy. And a far worse one if he were to succumb to his illness. Sickness of the spirit is so often more devastating than that of the body. Especially after loss of...a loved one." Her eyes glimmered in the candlelight. "Don't you agree, Elena?"

"He's not going to die. I take care of him."

"A dutiful daughter. I admire that." She faced Elena again, then approached, her step silent on the ancient floorboards. "I admire your courage, loving your family the way you do. How far does that courage go?"

"What do you mean?" Elena's throat wrenched tight as Miranda stopped before her, the incense smoke twining thick and serpentine from the altar not masking her bitter scent. It crept into Elena's head, deep into her lungs; she imagined, on reflex, the insidious veining of something deep belowground, hidden from the sunlight, black and choking-

"I don't want to have to kill you," Miranda told her, sorrow in her voice. "Or your father." She reached out to stroke Elena's head, the points of her talons cold against her skull. "But I have little choice, if you don't perform the Black God's will."

"I...I can," Elena stammered. She felt her father's hands in hers, heard his gruff old voice. His wracking sobs from behind closed doors, after her mother had never come home. Her pulse spiked again, pushing against the drowsy calm in her mind. "I will. Whatever you want. Just...don't hurt him, please."

"Good." She lifted her hand. "Then I have a place for you. Lady Beneviento requires a maid of all work."

Elena went cold.

Lady Beneviento. A mist-wreathed valley. The rumble of vast falls, never ceasing, such that the sound of them might drive you mad. A graveyard that stretched over the mountain flanks, black earth oozing with the diseased blood of those who'd been cut down by plague, by famine that followed, buried ten to a grave so when it rained the bodies had floated up from the dirt, white and swollen with rot.

None Elena knew crept past the plague pits, past the labyrinthine paths and through the misty woods and over the ravine. Not even Andrei would dare, brazen as he was. Things happened to you, past the ravine. Things happened to you, and you never came back.

And Lady Beneviento herself?

A shadow on the edge of her vision. A specter in black. Barely human, clutching at the doll like it was the puppeteer and not her. Lord Heisenberg, who sang to metal and took the dead, a grinning reaper dressed in ash and rags; Lady Dimitrescu, whose palanquin always smelled of blood and roses; Lord Moreau, twisted, tumorous thing, wracked with wolf-sickness, whom Elena had heard wailing from the direction of the reservoir some black nights, the sound both awful and piteous. She knew them, worshipped them, relied on them like she and everyone relied on Mother Miranda, but- Lady Beneviento? No one knew her. No one could. No one came back.

Her mouth was dry.

"Surely..." she began.

"...Someone else is more suited to go?" Miranda finished for her. The icy talons flexed inside Elena's mind; she sensed, with all that she was, it would be no effort at all for those talons to clench down, to tear away all that she was in one swift wrench.

She licked her lips.

"My dear child's last servant never returned, and she requires a new one," Miranda went on, gently. "For her safety, and her comfort. You care for your father. You can care for my daughter."

She paused.

"More than that," she added. "Lady Beneviento is...uncooperative. Ungrateful. I suspect she thinks far more than she allows me and the Black God to know. And that will not do."

Her hand slid to Elena's chin, a single cold clawpoint against the underside of her jaw, pressing in. Elena felt it, the delicacy of it, how it would be no effort at all for Mother Miranda to slide it deep, deep in.

"Watch her," she murmured. "What she does. Where she goes. How she does it. And tell me everything."

She slid her claw in, just the point, just enough for Elena to feel it. The cold, then the heat of blood welling; her breath caught. Miranda's eyes brightened. She was smiling, Elena saw, her perfect lips sliding back from perfect teeth. She was so beautiful, beneath the mask, and Elena knew beyond a shadow of a doubt she had never been so afraid of another living thing in all her life.

"And if you don't..." Miranda whispered.

Her voice trailed away. Elena heard the faint muffled echo of music, in the direction of the square. He was dead, she realized. The man she'd tried to save. He was dead, and they were dancing. Was his blood in the snow? Had Lord Heisenberg taken his broken corpse? She tried to recall his face, but it was her father's she saw there instead, cowering in Miranda's shadow.

And then it was hers.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Yes," she said. "Mother Miranda. I serve you and the Black God, now and always."

"Sweet girl." Her talons slid from Elena's chin, and she stroked her cheek, now, soothing and slow, like her own mother had once done for her as a child. "We all do."

***

She stumbled home, numb and nerveless. Lord Heisenberg hadn't returned to his factory; he followed her, ambling after her as she weaved through the ribbon-festooned streets, the sound of the festivities echoing over the buildings. She couldn't join them. You must leave before dark, Elena, Miranda had ordered her. Otherwise you might stumble and fall on your way, and we mustn't have that.

She put out a hand to steady herself against a house. The smell of cigar smoke rolled over her, and she glanced back. Lord Heisenberg stood a few yards back, his gore-spattered hammer dripping fragments of flesh, his ragged coat black with blood.

"Are you...are you taking me all the way to Lady Beneviento?" Elena managed, voice hoarse.

His grin flashed. "Nah, sweetheart, that place is creepy as fuck. Making sure you don't run before you get going, more like. I'd have to run you down, and I'm more the strolling type."

He made a theatrical gesture with his cigar, smoke trailing through the air. "Nothing personal. You're a lively one. I like that. Hell of a waste of good meat, seeing you get torn apart by hungry lycans."

Elena shuddered. She scrubbed her hand over her mouth and stumbled on, not stopping, not even with his footsteps behind her, not until she reached her yard and her house. Chickens flapped away from her, like before, when everything was still all right. She managed to push inside and slammed the door, throwing the bolt before she realized what she was doing. Would Lord Heisenberg be insulted by her locking him out? Not that it would stop him; he could tear the whole damn house apart with a click of his fingers.

But he didn't force his way in, didn't start breaking things. She heard him pacing around the house, heard him muttering, then humming, some song she didn't recognize. He passed by the kitchen window and was gone again, making his rounds.

Does she really think I'd try to escape? And would she? No, she told herself. No. Maybe someone bolder, someone braver-

Someone with nothing to lose.

Her hands clenched. She didn't hear the shuffle of her father's slippers on the floor, didn't notice him until he said her name.

"Elena? Back so early?"

She whirled. He stood in his bedroom doorway, white hair sticking all ways up, one of his battered old books tucked under his arm. He gestured toward the oven. "Stew's done. You come back to keep me company, girl? Might as well have some stew so long as..."

He stopped. His eyes narrowed, taking her in. Again, heat welled in Elena's eyes. She crushed her palm to her mouth.

"What's wrong, 'Lena?" her father asked.

"Oh, Pa," she whispered.

She crumpled to the table. Her father stayed standing. Don't tell him. Don't frighten him. Not after Mother. You mustn't. "I...I was chosen," she said. "I'm...I'm going to work for Lady Beneviento. As her maid of all work. It's...it's such an honor..."

Her father stared at her. There seemed to be no life in his eyes.

Elena made herself stand. "I have to go," she said. The sound of Lord Heisenberg's humming moved past the window again. Her father didn't even look. "I need- clothes-"

She went to her cot and yanked out her mother's suitcase. Blouses, skirts, her everyday shoes. What else would she need? Would she be provided with a uniform? With tooth powder and night cream? Best to take that. Seemed a little mundane, a little too human, for the house of the Black God's own chosen. She took a couple books, too, her favorites all dog-eared and foxed. Strange, to be thinking of books and tooth powder when by all rights she wouldn't see the morning.

Her skirts rustled at the floorboards. She needed to change. She'd gotten the red silk dress dirty after all, when she'd fallen in the slush.

It couldn't be helped. She stepped behind her dressing screen and changed, tearing at the knots, the frogging, nearly tearing the silk, her hands shook so bad.

Elena re-emerged in skirt and cardigan and kerchief, her hair falling from its braids. Deftly, numbly, she fixed it in the single age-spotted oval of mirror glass above the mantel. She licked her thumb and rubbed at the rusty smear of blood Miranda had left on her face. Elena lifted her chin; the mirror showed the puncture wound, livid and slightly swollen.

It reflected her father, who had sunk into a chair. He gripped its arms in his twisted hands, staring off into a corner.

"Pa," Elena said.

"Don't leave me," he asked her.

Don't you get it? If I stay you die. We both die. This is the way it works, you stupid old man, Elena wanted to scream. Mother died, too, but at least she served a purpose, unlike you- But he was so tired, and if she spoke she'd start to sob.

She couldn't. She couldn't leave him with that. She crossed the room and knelt before him, taking his hands like she had before.

"I'll be back," she told him. It felt like a promise, more so even than the one she'd made to Mother Miranda. She gripped tighter. "I will. It won't be like- like last time. I will come back."

"You don't know that."

"No," Elena admitted. "But I'll try. With all I am. I'll...I'll send a letter to Andrei, ask him to take care of you-"

"That little punk?"

"He's a good lad. He'll do all right."

"Please, Elena, be careful."

She didn't know how much she had control over that sort of thing, but she nodded. "I will. You too, old man."

Impact slammed the front door. "What the fuck is taking you so goddamn long?"

Elena didn't answer. She grabbed her father up in a hug, as long as she dared, holding onto him. Then she let him go.

"Love you, Pa," she told him. On reflex, she took her jawbone charm from round her neck and pushed it into his hand, where it winked, glass beads shining like crows' eyes. "For luck."

"You're the one who needs it."

"No." She stood and went to her rifle, still hanging on its peg. It slipped into her hands, its familiar weight stilling their shake. When she slung it over her shoulder, its accustomed place, she knew there was nothing else she could do. "This is all the luck I need."

***

Eyes followed her as she left town, as she crossed the square, as she looked straight and didn't cry and kept her head up. The morning had darkened, the winter sunlight hidden once more beneath a dense layer of clouds, low and opaque. By the time she trudged up the muddy, rutted track toward the Giant's Chalice, the first flakes of snow had already begun to fall.

Lord Heisenberg didn't say a word to her as he followed her up the track, through the gates and beyond, into the stone circle and the ruins, the massive stone chalice collecting its beard of icicles. He didn't slow, didn't stop, until she came to the great gates emblazoned with House Beneviento's sun and moon crest.

His footsteps had ceased. Elena stopped before the gate, her hand outstretched. She pushed at the gate. It rattled, hinges squealing. Locked.

She looked back. Heisenberg stood by the chalice, smoke curling from beneath the brim of his hat. He'd braced the head of that massive hammer against the ground and leaned on it like a cane.

"Do you have a key?" Elena said. Her voice sounded thin and small in the falling snow, like a little girl's.

"Key," he chuckled darkly, and flicked a hand. There was a metallic chunk from the gate, and it creaked open, releasing a thread of frigid wind.

"Oh. Right." Elena shivered, then braced her palm to the gate. "Guess I should have seen that coming."

She paused.

"Are you...taking me all the way up, my lord?" she asked.

His snarl of laughter was harsh as a hunting lycan's. "I'm not your fucking babysitter."

"If I die, Mother Miranda won't be happy."

"Yeah? And she'll find another girl. Another stupid kid with aspersions of martyrdom to toss into the meat-grinder. You think I care if you end the night at the bottom of the ravine, crows digging around in your orbital socket? Nah. There's always another you. Infinite fuckin' resource, around these parts."

"I'm not a martyr," Elena said quietly. "And I don't plan on falling down the ravine."

"Oh?" He pointed toward one of the statues of goat-headed holy men that overlooked the Chalice. "Ask the saints, martyrs all. Ask how many of them are still fuckin' breathing."

"I trust Mother Miranda," Elena said. "I trust what she asks of me."

He laughed again, dry as an old bone. "Kool-aid," he said, "swigged."

Elena had no idea what this meant. She stood there in silence, only one question left. She knew she had no business asking it, that she'd already taken up far too much of a great lord's valuable time, but- hell, she was going to die anyway, wasn't she.

"What's she like?" she asked.

Heisenberg paused. He lowered his hand. "Huh?"

"Lady Beneviento. She's your sister, isn't she? What should I expect?" She bowed her head. "...My lord."

He snorted, but seemed to study her through his dark glasses. For a moment, Elena thought he might actually tell her.

"Completely batshit," he said instead, cheerfully. He scratched at his tangled gray hair, under his hat. "Truth be told, sweetheart, we don't exactly have heart-to-hearts."

He extricated his hand and made a shooing motion. "Now, go on, be a good girl for Mommy, trot up the mountain to die."

Elena didn't move. She licked her lips.

"Are you-" she began.

Before she could say the next words- scared, too- he'd splayed his hand. "Enough of this shit. Bye-bye, buttercup."

Elena yelped as her rifle snapped forward as if someone had reached through the gate and yanked it, hard; its strap caught at her shoulder, pulling her stumbling and half-falling through the gates. She slammed palm-first into a tree on the far side and whirled, just in time to watch the gate crash shut.

The lock went chunk.

She lunged for the gates, but they were locked tight. Elena grabbed at the handle, rattled it, swore at it, but all she heard was the wind picking up, was the calls of crows circling high, high overhead.

"Bastard," she hissed.

All her energy seemed to have left her. She wanted to slide to her knees, to sprawl in the deep, undisturbed snow and sob until she was empty. Now that she was alone, she could. No Pa, no Miranda, no onlookers, no Lord Heisenberg.

But the longer she stayed, the more daylight she lost. And she couldn't be out here at night. She let herself rest for a moment, forehead pressed to the icy wood, then turned and settled her rifle and stared up the mountain path.

It was so overgrown it looked nearly impenetrable, a tangled wilderness of briars and twisted plants, pine trees and malign branches and mist, shadowed by rock walls, the flanks of the mountains themselves. Elena squinted into the mass, letting her hunter's eyes search for gaps and pathways. She found it soon enough- a narrow, winding track, a way through the wilderness.

One hand gripping her suitcase, the other her rifle strap, she ducked into it and began her way up.

It wasn't long before she caught sight of the first graves.

They swam from the mist- headstones, cracked and water-stained, lichen and time obscuring whatever names had once been set to them. Wind soughed through the trees, singing past carved angels, past extinguished lanterns on long, pendulous chains, past the dried flowers and lemons and stacks of lei set on the graves, the last gifts of the living to the dead.

Elena picked her way through the graveyard, on and on and on, her hands growing numb even inside their gloves. Soon, she was so deep in the graveyard she could barely tell what direction she'd come from. She didn't think she could find her way back even if she tried.

Snow showered from a cliff; she whipped round, but nothing was there, nothing but the descending mist, the endless trees.

Just keep moving. Her mother had told her so many stories of ghosts, how they made nests inside your brain and whispered terrible things, terrible secrets. You're under Mother Miranda's protection. Ghosts wouldn't dare.

But Lord Heisenberg had said- hadn't he?- that Miranda didn't care, that if she died there would be another girl, and wasn't she a replacement, anyway?

No. You can't think that way. You think that and you might as well lie down and freeze to death. Remember why you're here. Who you're here for.

She left the graveyard, crossing a long, long bridge, rope and planks clinging on with rusty nails, a frozen river thundering far below. An eerie, fluting cry echoed from above, leathery wings stirring the mist, but Elena kept her eyes on the path ahead of her. A pair of wrought-iron gates loomed beyond, scrolled and exquisite. A single lamp hung by the wayside, flickering as Elena approached.

The gate burned against her hands, through her gloves. It was unlocked, and groaned wide at a push. She passed through and into a garden. It spread around her, fading into fog- trellises and glasshouses, fences sprouting from tussocks of frozen grass, plants withered and dead in the bitter mountain cold. All except one. Everywhere, alongside the road and in the ditches, at the feet of the statues of cherubs and weeping nymphs that dotted the garden pale as corpses, grew shoots of yellow flowers, bright and abundant.

Pollen drifted round them. It winked in the darkness, and Elena couldn't help but stoop to catch a mote of it on her fingertip and stare in wonder as it glowed on her skin, a tiny ember.

"Beautiful," Elena whispered.

Had Lady Beneviento grown them? There was no place for flowers in their patch of earth out back of their house, in the village. Too much food to grow, and this mountain soil was thin enough as it was. Looking around, Elena saw there were few vegetables in this garden at all, just flowers and ornamental vines and trees. Maybe they were elsewhere. Maybe Lady Beneviento didn't need to grow her own food. Plenty of gardens in the village, after all, and hands to harvest them.

Beyond the garden,

Another grave.

It rose from the heart of a small clearing, ringed with other, lesser headstones like handmaidens flocked about their lady. This one was vast, taller than Elena, a great rock tombstone overlooking a cracked slab carved with floral patterns, with words. Elena couldn't read them through the gloom, even though the stone, the clearing, the trees leaning in as if to listen, was filled with the faint honey glow of candles. Fresh-lit, few had gone out, though the wind was picking up, so strong above the trees it thrashed and raked at them, herald of the coming blizzard.

It touched Elena's hands, gilding loose strands of her hair as she crept closer, stopping at the edge of the gravesite.

The candlelight glimmered off countless eyes, making them look half-alive in the gloom.

Dolls. Dozens of them. All of them the same, or nearly, black-haired and white-faced and dressed in dark gowns, children going to tea. They stared ahead, standing or sitting or slumped amidst wreaths of dried flowers. Other things, too- little wooden animals, beads and sweets, even a book, though it was water-stained illegible. More golden flowers added their glow to the clearing, and in their proliferation Elena tasted what must have been their scent, a bittersweet edge on the back of her tongue.

A doll's eye winked up at Elena from the snow and she plucked it up, rolling the cracked glass marble between her fingers.

She set it swiftly down at the foot of the slab. "Sorry," she whispered to it, like she'd done to the dead rabbit.

Who was buried here? Someone important, no doubt. An ancestor? It had to be. Lady Beneviento had no daughters, no relatives. Except the Lords, of course. And Mother Miranda.

Miranda.

She couldn't stay out here. If she didn't get to House Beneviento fast enough, Mother Miranda might think she'd run off. Elena stepped back from the grave, and with a last look at the massive grave, the silent dolls, she hurried past, into the red gatehouse, into the elevator, and up the long climb toward the summit of the mountain. At last, the elevator spat her out, and she crept from the cave, emerging from its mouth.

She'd arrived.

The house came into view slowly. First, a great dark shape, a looming, crouching void in the world, clinging to the cliffside. The ground vibrated underfoot, the wind lush with frigid moisture; the waterfall, Elena realized. It erupted from some higher point on the mountainside, a massive, ferocious, impossible upheaval of water, huge enough to drown the whole village. As Elena neared the house, the great structure began to take on form through the mist, piece by piece. Turrets and patchy roof tiles, a finial like a stiletto dagger, empty-eyed windows. Cracks in the masonry, plaster sloughing away like diseased skin to reveal the stonework beneath. A great wrap-around the porch, balconies so close to the cliffside they seemed seconds away from sliding off the edge.

Yet more gardens grew from the snow at the house's feet, tangled and blackened save for the yellow flowers growing in abundance all the way to the edge of the porch.

Elena mounted the first step, paused, listened, then the next. The windows reflected her pale face, her wide eyes. She glanced down the porch. Nothing but an old chair, a set of wind-chimes, the sound silvery in the next gust of wind. The doors waited at the top of the steps, double, polished wood and verdigrised brass.

Elena let out her breath and took a few precious seconds to smooth down her hair.

They opened under her touch.

Heat spilled over her. Elena flinched, but nothing jumped out at her. Nothing happened at all. She blinked, took a quick breath, then stepped over the threshold, closing the doors behind her before too much snow got in and ruined the fine antique carpets of the entryway.

She found herself in a hall, wood-paneled walls reflecting the grated fire with a rich, syrupy glow. Her gaze traveled through the heights. Paintings hung on every wall, oils, mostly, still lifes of fruit, bucolic or seaside scenes. Everywhere were bookshelves, and side tables, and ornaments of porcelain or copper or lacquer, chairs upholstered in green leather, rugs slung over the floors and fire crackling merrily and the buttery glow of electric light beaming down from the tasteful chandelier overhead.

Is this really House Beneviento? The stories, the warnings, the ghost tales and night terrors all seemed distant. Elena waited for a snarl, for long, pale fingers to close around her throat, for ghosts to rise from the shadows and pull her into their cold embrace, but nothing happened.

A clock ticked on the mantel. Somewhere, deeper in the house, floorboards creaked. A footfall? Or just an old house with the cold in its bones?

Elena took another step, her brows raised, her lips parted. A rocking chair waited by a gramophone player- she gasped at this; few people in the village had one, and she ached to look at the records, to see if there was any music she recognized- and alongside it, on a small table, rested a basket of knitting-wool.

Elena examined it. A pair of knitting needles was thrust through a ball of wool, and alongside the basket, a long, sharp pair of silver scissors rested on a doily.

Elena ran her hand over the doily. Its linen was so fine it felt smooth as water, the scalloped edge finished in golden silk. Exquisite. Not even her mother could have made something as masterful at this.

Silk rustled.

With a start, Elena looked up. The doll waited for her in the rocking chair, which creaked back and forth as if suddenly disturbed.

She hadn't been there before. Long and lanky, limbs jointed with rusty eye bolts, dressed in layers of antique lace like a miniature bride, her spidery hands were folded in her lap, her little black shoes crossed primly at the ankle. Her face, childlike, yes, but- off, rived down the middle with a curving crack that had been put back together...inexpertly, was crowned in a circlet of dusty silk flowers. She stared into nothingness, blank and wall-eyed.

Elena glanced around, but no one was there.

"How did...?" she began.

Her voice lapsed into silence. She must have missed it. She did, she told herself. No one else was here. Lady Beneviento must be out. And she was alone in the house.

"Just you and me, I guess," she told the doll.

The firelight flickered off its misaligned porcelain face. Maybe she had once been pretty, but time and wear had...well. Enhanced her. Why not fix the thing? With the skills the house's mistress surely had, judging by the workmanship on the doily, she could make her good as new.

It wasn't her concern. Elena brushed past the little bride and looked up at the stairs, which ascended to a mezzanine. A darker rectangle on the wall, a prominent absence, told her there must have once been a portrait hung there.

Out for repairs? Maybe it was an unflattering likeness.

There was no sign of instructions, so Elena explored the house- slowly, in case she wasn't alone after all. There wasn't much to explore, though it was, of course, bigger than her father's house by far. Bigger than anyone's house she knew, honestly, she could have seen a family of twelve comfortably living in this emptiness. She made her efficient assessment of the place. Kitchen, dining-room, a reading-nook with a pair of porcelain teacups on a polished table. Books stacked, stove hot, a sprig of yellow flowers in a bud vase. A flower-papered hallway led to an atrium, and a brass grille fenced off the entrance to another elevator. The grille was locked. Elena was quietly glad. Enough of gates and locks and keys for today.

She circled back to the main hall and up the stairs; most of the doors were locked, too, but one came open under her hand, a small, narrow bedroom. The linens were fresh on the bed, and a candle flickered on the bedside table, illuminating the single cupboard and washbasin in a corner.

That was clear enough. Servant's quarters. She quickly slung her suitcase on the bed and leaned her rifle in a corner, where she'd see it if she woke up in the middle of the night. The water was steaming hot and Elena gratefully plunged her numb hands in; soon, feeling began to ebb back into her body. She washed, all over, and flanneled herself dry, not caring at the threadbare fabric of the towels. She almost groaned in relief when she pulled the pins from her braids and brushed loose the stiff brown tangles of her hair. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she'd bound them up, and over the day they'd begun to ache, pulling at her scalp as if to peel it off.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled it open, humming a dancing-song. Inside-

She went still.

Clothes. Neatly folded, well-made of good linen and wool. Her heart leaped. Are these for me? But when she pulled them out, Elena saw they were much the wrong size for her, made for a girl shorter than her by a good few inches, and significantly more curvaceous. Elena- tall, straight-figured, and bustless- had no business trying to get into a skirt with a waist that small. She searched the seams and found a tag, embroidered in neat letters with a name.

Violeta.

Violeta. The girl who was missing. The last girl from the village who had come here, and who had never gone back.

Elena folded the clothes again and replaced them in the wardrobe. She closed its door with a neat snap. Curtains of hair falling round her face, her skin glowing pink from being scrubbed, she changed into a fresh blouse and skirt and stood, clean, dry, and warm. She glanced toward the window. It overlooked the waterfall, the plunge down, down, down. Such a long way. She couldn't see the village lights from here. It was as if it didn't exist at all.

And when she died up here, vanished like Violeta, her name would be whispered, then silenced, and never said again. And she'd be forgotten, too.

Would her father get the suitcase back this time?

Elena sat slowly on the bed. She went to her side, facing the wall, and curled up, knees to her chest, hands pressed to her stomach. The grief opened inside her like a wound. When she began to cry she let herself, and didn't stop, not even as the darkness fell in the small, cold, unfamiliar room, not even when the candle by her bedside burned itself out.

#resident evil village #re8 #re8 fanfiction #re8 fic #donna beneviento #mother miranda #elena lupu #karl heisenberg #resident evil #angie beneviento #claudia beneviento #donna beneviento x oc #donna beneviento x elena lupu #gothic horror #gothic romance

[kokoa-la]

Holds up my brutalia angst fic

Give her a chance, it's only one chapter 🤭

Excerpt:

"You do not know what you speak of.”

She’s harsh in her tone, devoid of any of the love she had showered him in since their first meeting.

“You’re right. I don’t. I don’t because you don’t tell me anything. You cannot expect me to stand by as you contribute to the destruction of my city.”

“I do not expect you to. I do not expect anything of you, not now, not anymore, but let it be known, if you are to stand in my way, I will not hesitate to push you out of it.”

“Even if it means killing me?”

He tested, a cruel question, laced with the desperation he had kept hidden so far below the surface, below the rage. He was angry. Angry at Talia for what she does, angry at Ras for what he makes her do, angry at the world for being as it is, but most importantly, angry at fate for being so cruel to twist their paths like so. Their love fueled their hatred, their hatred, kept their love alive, never ending, never ceasing, overbearing. How long must they do this dance? Must they prance in circles, biting and clawing at eachother like poison insects in a vase. How long until one of them gives out? Gives their life to the other in a sign of exhaustion, a sign of mercy.

“You cannot ask that of me.”

“I think I can. Your hesitance is enough of an answer to me, Talia. You say you are devoted, absolutely loyal to Ras, but you aren’t. Not since the day we met.”

“You do not know what you speak of.”

She hisses, stepping back, edging ever so closer to the ledge.

“I think I do. You love me, an undeniable fact. You love me, you brought Damian into this world and you betrayed your father in bringing him to me. You set Damian free, and your lack of effort to return him shows you know what place the league is-”

“It is not one fit for a child, never less Damian. He is too weak.”

“He isn't. He never was. He is about one of the strongest people I know, second to his mother. He is not weak, the league is cruel. The league that you praise, that you have and will die for, is nothing but a false faith leading you to your doom. How long are you going to stand on a sinking ship? How long are you going to ignore the boats calling you to safety, to freedom.”

“You know nothing!”

She yelled out, her resolve cracking, breaking.

“You know nothing. You speak as if you are better, as if your word is law, but you do not see. How can you demand this of me, act as if I have such a path when I do not? You, Bruce, are the true tragedy that befalls me.”

Her hand points to her chest, gripping at the cloth covering.

“You speak with privilege, your choice has been law, your decision final. Do not speak as if we are the same, because we are not.”

“Why, Talia? Why aren’t we the same? What is going on with you that you refuse to tell me?”

Talia bites her lip, turning back around and dropping her arm. She had overacted, done too much and spoke of things she’d be punished for saying. She is nothing but loyal, devoted. What is she, if not the perfect soldier?

#brutalia #bruce wayne x talia al ghul #talia al ghul #talia and bruce #angst #argument #queen shit #talia wants to be with bruce and damian #but ras is a controlling creepy ass bitch #THEY DID MY GIRL DIRTY CUS OF RACISM AND I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THATS CANON #author: fights off the racists with a sword #theyre in love your honor but fate is the jury #dc #batman #damian wayne #damian wayne is mentioned

[the-werewithal]

Having all kind of feelings today about the way Endwalker deals with despair and meaning.

Those who are consumed by despair are turned into monsters who in turn fuel further despair in others. But there is no insulting ‘so just don’t be sad, okay?’ offered in remedy. Grief is still given its full due, and in the face of unrelenting tragedy hope is not mocked, nor is it easy.

Having seen their gods made mockery by the enemies schemes, the people of Thavnair still find comfort and peace together in their faith. Reciting their scriptures wards off despair and reminds them that they do not stand alone even in the dark.

The people of Garlemald found their meaning in the empire, with some finding faith in their own superiority complex, others in the cult of personality around the emperor. With the empire shattered at the hands of its ruler, what remains to cling to? The ‘savages’ they vilified and oppressed offer aid freely, and Quintus cannot accept it. To accept help is to render himself meaningless, so he dies instead.

Jullus is furious at Zenos for betraying Garlemald (civilians are dying for nothing, says the centurion in the 1st Legion) as well he should be, for the propaganda he was raised on promised Zenos would lead them to greatness.

Zenos asks if his having a good reason would make him feel better about it, calling out the bullshit for what it is. The promised greatness was always a lie propped up on someone else’s suffering, it is only now that it is his suffering that Jullus cares.

Alisaie calls Zenos out for his own blindness. If nothing means anything to him, then he in turn will mean nothing to anyone else. He cannot complain that he is alone upon his island after burning all the bridges. Meaning is in conflict alone, says the world’s most desperately lonely man, only now realising there is nobody left who wants to fight him.

My Wol is a mother bereaved. She keeps fighting specifically to stop others from going through what she did, her meaning is exclusively found in what use she can be in saving others. (That one quest with Mehvan’s baby just about destroyed her.) When she falls, she gets back up because somewhere out there a desperate single mother really needs the sky not to fall down today. Somewhere a scared little boy needs his dad to come home instead of being eaten by a monster. When she cannot help, when her performance isn’t enough…?

I don’t yet know how endwalker will wrap up, what answers we will present for Meteion. But i am greatly comforted by the slow rumination on the subject, and the refusal to take the easy way out, even when it hurts more to keep on going.

#ffxiv #endwalker spoilers #jullus pyr norbanus #zenos yae galvus #alisaie leveilleur #honestly i wish we spent longer in Garlemald