#from grief and sudden lowered quality of life

[canisalbus]

(im sorry)

Vasco would change after Machete's death, I think. He'd always be a good, kind man, and in time his smile would return, but never with its old radiance. Sorrow would age him prematurely, and white would creep over his muzzle like clouds blocking the sun.

But perhaps he'd look in the mirror some nights, and run his fingers across the white fur with fondness, remembering the white fur that used to press against him once upon a time. A last reminder of his love, forever on his lips.

.

#let out such a pained exhale at that ending jeez #yes I agree #Vasco always came across very youthful and resistant to wear and tear #especially compared to Machete who looked sort of prematurely aged by health issues stressful lifestyle and general gauntness #but I think he started greying soon after Machete's death #from grief and sudden lowered quality of life #eventually he'd mend and go on to live a long life mostly free from further heartbreak I think #but he'd never be the same as before #answered #anonymous #loving the 'I'm sorry' preface #death #cw death #you scroundel you romanticized grey muzzles #Vaschete scenarios

[snazzy-jas-z-is-a-fan-of]

a merlin thought:

what if merlin put enchantments/blessings on his tools/cleaning supplies (to make sure they don’t break and get the job done right on the first go?)

everyone is wondering (aka the other servants are) how merlin is doing everything so efficiently

then one day, gwen’s something or other breaks, so she asks merlin if she can borrow his, and he trusts her (and forgot about the blessings) so he says: here keep it, I’ll make his royal pratness get me a new one

all of a sudden gwen is becoming really really efficient at that one chore. she thinks nothing of it at first until someone else asks to borrow that tool, and suddenly that someone else is more efficient and she isn’t as anymore

and then it happens again

and again

until eventually some of the other servants put it together that these tools came from merlin and are somehow, magically curiously better tools and think maybe he just has like very very minimal hedge witch skills?

and someone brave enough goes up to merlin

and merlin now used to everyone asking to borrow some tool or other from him asks what he needs lent

but is surprised when Anne from the kitchens asks:

Actually, and I promise I won’t say anything about this! I was wondering if you could,,,, just ench- bless! bless! my tools too? I feel bad borrowing your tools all the time because well I’m sure you need them too! and I know everyone is borrowing from you all the time but I really really would like to have that extra time in the day that comes when I use your tools and again I promise, I swear on my little isaiah’s and my live’s that I won’t turn you over to the king! I’ll even sneak you extra sweets on your meal trays!! just could you maybe perhaps uhhh upgrade my tools?

and merlin, who has just gone through the five stages of grief, created some new ones, and had his life flash before his eyes can’t help but say yes, to help out where he can

and soon he’s “blessed” the tools of half the castles staff and even some of the tools in the lower town shops

anyway tl:dr what if all the servants thought merlin was a hedge witch who specialized in quality tools?

#merlin #merlin bbc #merlin emrys #and by tools I mean like posts and pans or brushes and mops or anything really that the servants would use for work #merlin thoughts

[blzzrdstryr]

Generous offering

Yandere!Zhongli x gn!Fatui Harbinger!reader

Wordcount:1843

CW:Yandere themes

There are several simple things one should know before dealing with the archons - be respectful and polite, speak only when you’re allowed to and most importantly - never forget that archons aren’t humans.

The first two rules are instinctive - it’s natural for humans to simper and bow before the forces far greater than them, while the latter is not; on the contrary it’s counterintuitive and unexpected. People tend to project, tend to humanize - they see kindness when there’s none and make a huge mistake of assuming that archons see things the way they see it.

Tsaritsa, for example, lacks humanity, despite holding the title of Goddess of Love. The love that she holds for you is different from love mothers and fathers give to their children, or love that young sweethearts share at night, it’s cold and impersonal and undeniably cruel.

Tsaritsa says that she loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, yet she lashes out a harsh and gruelling punishments at every perceived failure and rules her land with an iron fist, one would think that the cryo archon is a liar and a hypocrite, who uses pretty, flowery words to hide the atrocities she commits, but this perspective is flawed. Tsaritsa loves all of you and she loves Snezhnaya, she’s just not human enough to properly express this.

That’s why it’s a bit jarring to see the ancient lord of these lands in his mortal form - he lacks the same otherworldly terror and grandiose that every of Tsaritsa’s move and word carry, yet he also possesses the air of wisdom and elegance so refined that rare person can reach it. It’s easy to assume that he’s human.

Rex Lapis, or “Zhongli” as he calls himself now invites you to the Liuli pavillion the second day after your arrival, for tea and local cuisine as he says, and who are you to decline a God?

Liuli staff hurries and dashes around, preparing their best room for you - Fatui are known for their seemingly endless finances, no wonder they’re in haste. “Please make yourself comfortable, dear guests”, the waiter curtsies and leads you to the dining room, which happens to be richly furnished and decorated with high-quality darkwood furniture and the hand painted wall panels further accentuating the luxury of the restaurant.

One of these panels illustrate different scenes from the Liyuen mythos - a battle of mighty and wise adepti against the horde of demons, Rex Lapis aiding his people in building the Harbour and the most spectacular one - a majestic dark brown dragon with golden fur and feathers descending to the devoted worshippers, who in turn present him with their offerings and gratitude.

He orders tea and meals for both of you, as you start to converse about the plan that he is determined to bring into life - the so-called test of Liyue, and the guarantee of you obtaining his gnosis.

“And what about your colleague?”, he sips a bit of his tea, intense amber eyes piercing right through you. He looks both human and non-human in this moment, both undeniably mortal softness and frailty seen in his figure and the barely concealed divinity, the sense of awe slowly seeping into air mixing in one person.

“And what about him? Tsaritsa and you have negotiated everything beforehand, I will make sure that he plays his part properly”, he hums at your answer, lowering his gaze deep in thought. You start on your own tea.

Ah, Childe, if only he knew why exactly he’s here - a distraction and a scapegoat. You even feel bad for him - it’s truly unfair to be lied to by your own Goddess. However, it’s also not a big surprise - Childe is the loudest out of all Harbingers in all senses. Infamous for his skills and battle obsession, his name is enough to have people both shivering in fear and cursing him.

“What do you think of your archon? Was serving her of any use to you?”Rex Lapis unexpectedly asks.

You lean back in your seat, thinking what to say.

“Tsaritsa is a gentle soul, she declared war only to protect us, her subjects and I am ready to aid her in whatever undertaking she starts”.

“Will you continue to serve Tsaritsa, if her action might put you in danger, make you suffer and bring unnecessary grief?”, he leans closer to you, his human features distorting enough to reveal the ancient dragon sleeping inside. His eyes shine a cold golden glow and accurate fingernails morph into sharp, dark claws.

“Yes”, you breathe out, mesmerized and terrified by the sudden change: “Her love knows no bounds, yet she always puts the needs of the nation before anyone else. If my suffering can help Snezhnaya, then I will accept it with open arms”, he moves back at your answer, all draconic traces gone in an instance, upper corner of his lips subtly rising - whatever you said must’ve pleased him immensely.

The conversation flows back into the territory of plans to be realized, yet the cold sensation of dread still clings to you, your gut feeling yelling at you to get up and run. You remain seated to the end of your meeting, politely conversing with the God that terrifies you.

***

Days slowly grow into weeks and Childe acts just as you have expected - the Eleventh Harbinger might be smart, yet even he wouldn’t be able to see what two of you are scheming. Still, you request Ekaterine, a spy you planted in Northland bank, to keep you updated on the Tartaglia’s actions - extra caution never hurts.

You continue to meet up with geo archon, as you two discuss your next actions. Tartaglia has started cooperating with that blonde foreigner Signora has warned you about, and while this union doesn’t pose any threat to your plans, it’s always good to have a plan B, just in case something happens.

Sometimes your conversation develops into a more unexpected direction, as you find the archaic lord more chatty and tending to ramble, than any of Liyuen historians would dare to picture him as. One on such occasion he talks with you about dragons - benevolent deities who protect and bless their people in an exchange of generous offerings.

His eyes devour you, as he retells you ancient folktales and you suppress your discomfort, preferring to attribute his honestly unnerving behaviour down to his lack of humanity - he was never human in the first place.

That’s why you also prohibit yourself from viewing him as anything but God - Rex Lapis in his “Zhongli” persona is genuinely attractive, he’s well-mannered and obviously handsome and far more knowledgeable than any mortal should be. If you didn’t know of his true nature you would have fallen for him by now - it’s hard not to.

Life, how strange that wouldn’t sound, goes as usual - you get Ekaterine’s report on what Childe’s up to and if it’s something unexpected you book a Liuli pavilion room and send an invitation to the funeral parlour consultant. You only need to wait until Childe gets desperate enough and decides to use the sigils of permission to unleash the well-awaited chaos.

This routine however is soon broken by the appearance of familiar ashy-white hair in the distance. She doesn’t wear her signature mask or dress, nor are there agents at both of her sides, yet you can still clearly recognize her. Signora leaves the Wangsheng building in haste, cape with the hood concealing most of her face and figure, except the long locks of hair, peeking from inside.

What is she doing here?

You thought that Tsaritsa sent two of her servants - Tartaglia and you, him to “test” Liyue, you to oversee the former’s actions and obtain gnosis, there’s no need to send her too.

Your mind races, as you search for a logical explanation of Signora’s presence as your memory supplies the piece of first conversation you had with “Zhongli” - could it be that Tsaritsa also sent you to play a role you have no idea of?

Cryo archon is a goddess of love and her love is cruel and unforgiving, she has sacrificed countless chess pieces before, so it wouldn’t be surprising if she did that again - you are nothing but a pawn after all, one of the tools she uses to exact her will and force her vision, all of the Harbingers are.

You want to believe that you can accept and resign to whatever hardship and fate your Goddess might subject you to. You can’t.

***

Adepti and Qixing converse at the pier of the seaport, as you hurry to the Northland Bank, a slight smile playing on your lips - Childe has finally done it - he summoned an ancient god to lure out Rex Lapis, ultimately proving that Liyue can stand without him.

There are sounds of heated argument heard when you open the building’s door and then you see it - Signora and Tartaglia exchanging barely concealed insults and “Zhongli” standing nearby.

“[Harbinger]? What are you doing here?”, the ginger shifts his gaze onto you, a rare emotion of hurt and disbelief flickering in his dead fish eyes. “Of course, Tsaritsa sent you too”, he smiles, angry and disappointed. “Seems that whole world wants to make a bad guy out of me”, he stomps out of the room, leaving you with Signora and “Zhongli”

“[Harbinger]”

“Signora'', you acknowledge each other, after she trails exiting Childe with her eyes.

“I am here to take the gnosis of Rex Lapis”, she says and you nod, accepting that your Goddess lied to you too: “Tsaritsa also asked me to give you this letter”, she extends her arm, a thick envelope with the familiar seal catching your attention.

With the trembling hands you snatch it out of her hold and almost rip the envelope - for what reason did Tsaritsa send you here?

She writes that you need to stay in Liyue for an undetermined period of time to upkeep “the agreement” made between her and Rex Lapis. You read her message silently, yet when your eyes trace over these words, the sensation of “ “Zhongli’s” eyes on you becomes ten times sharper and stifling. You don’t know what to do.

The other Harbinger leaves too, taking the gnosis with her, as “Zhongli” takes a couple of steps to you, touching your shoulder in a somewhat reassuring gesture. “[First]”, he starts, tone sympathetic and soothing. You don’t fall for it.

“You had your hand in it, didn't you?”, you hiss and accuse, throwing an angry glance at him, momentarily forgetting about the first two rules of dealing with archons.

He smiles, revealing two sharp fangs, his surprisingly scaly hands snaking around yours. “Yes”, Rex Lapis admits, and looks nothing like gentle and knowledgeable “Zhongli”. How could you forget? Archons aren’t humans, humanity is just a fancy dress they don to toy with mortals. He is the dragon, not the benevolent deity that is painted on the wall panels of Liuli pavillion, but a greedy and ancient creature, hungry for gifts and gratitude.

You are his generous offering.

#yandere genshin impact #Yandere genshin #Yandere Zhongli #Yandere Zhongli x reader #Yandere genshin impact x reader #Yandere genshin x reader #Male yandere #my writing #Yandere x reader #Male yandere x reader

[jadekitty777]

Fate’s Arrow: Chapter One

Today’s entry I actually started before Valentine’s Day, and it was supposed to be for the holiday. But I fell behind on my goal line - then FG week was announced with the exact theme I was using for the entry I decided I would repurpose it for the shipweek instead.

And I still didn’t finish this one.

So I’m cheating a little bit. Unfortunately, for as great as I have done for the week (and I won’t lie, I’m very impressed with myself) a month to do seven stories is VERY demanding for me. I’m just not fast enough nor do I have enough free time to make it happen without my quality dipping. And I want y’all to read a product I’m proud of.

SO, all this to say... that this is the first chapter of this tale. I will readdress it at a future time, but I hope you enjoy this one!

Day 4: Soulmates

Rating: K+

Pairing: Qrow/Clover

Word Count: 1.4k

Ao3 Link: Chapter One

Summary: It was said to be the work of Fate: A date etched one’s wrist, in the color of another's eyes, that foretold a destined meeting with one's soulmate.

Qrow took one look at his and decided the person with teal eyes he was meant to encounter on February 14th was more trouble than they were worth. [Modern Soulmate AU]

Qrow was pretty sure when he was born, Fate took one look at him, laughed hysterically, and then, like the conniving mistress She was, etched in the color of his other half’s irises what had to be the most ironic date in the world to find his soulmate:

February, 14th

That’s all he got. A day and an eye color. Nothing more, nothing less. Not even the year – for all he knew, he’d met his soulmate before he could even talk.

He thumbed at his wristband, where below the teal green ink was hidden. Then scoffed at himself when he realized what he was doing.

Soulmates, pah! What good was a soulmate, anyways? He’d seen what it had done to his best friend, how Tai had practically danced on Cloud 9 for five years only to lose Summer and trade in all that joy for Stage 5 depression instead. There was nothing romantic or fulfilling about that. It was just sad. And to think the same could happen to him?

Qrow was pretty sure he had enough problems to fill out the Dignostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders himself, thank you very much.

He reached across the bathroom sink, plucking out his contact lenses from their case and placing them in either eye. He blinked rapidly a few times to get used to the feeling, looking into the now blue orbs staring back at him.

He had no intention of being a pawn of Fate whom was already twittering away over destining them to meet on the so called “Day of Love”.

He set the case aside, gave himself one more appraising look, before heading out the door.

Besides, with his luck, even if he did find them, his soulmate wouldn’t even like him.

~

Tai was intent on giving him hell for it – just like every year before.

“I just don’t understand why you insist on making yourself unhappy.” He was saying as he slowed the car down for a stop light.

Qrow looked up from the emails he was riffling through (mostly junk about it being the ‘Last day to buy for his one and only!’), to frown towards the blond. “Hey, who says I’m unhappy?”

Tai rolled his own naturally blue eyes at him. “Oh, I don’t know, why don’t we ask Jack Daniels?”

He rolled his eyes right back. “Just because I knock back a few every now and again-”

“Every now and again? Qrow, for awhile, it was almost every night!”

“Yeah, and I got better. What more do you want from me?” He huffed. As the light turned green and they started moving again, he added, “What does this have to do with anything, anyways?”

“Because I don’t want to see you like that again man! It was, scary.” Tai brow had furrowed with stress, a crinkling at the edges of his eyes that made it look like he might cry.

Gods, Qrow hated it that expression. It made his gut twist in unpleasant ways.

So, he looked out the window instead. “And what, finding my soulmate will be the cure to my alcoholism?”

“No, but it would be something positive for you. Which you do need more of in your life.” He replied, taking a right onto Beacon Boulevard.

Leafless trees framed either side of the street. Last night’s snowfall was still heaped heavily into the knots of trunks and today’s sun caused the icicles clinging to the branches to shine brightly. They only had a few houses to go before they pulled up to the curb of their destination – a moderately sized two-story house that sheltered a rather unusual collective within its walls. Oz’s Home Away From Home was a group home for recently orphaned kids as well as teenagers who fell out of unfavorable foster home situations. The facility was meant to provide a safe space for kids to recover from or deal with trauma and grief rather than immediately allow the government social workers to chuck them into the system and forget about their pain.

Having been fosters themselves during a time when the organization was an even more unfavorable mess, Tai and Qrow had both been volunteering for nearly a decade now at Oz’s. They came by every other Saturday, working with the kids there to rehabilitate or counsel them. It was difficult, trying to instill hope into the children when Qrow knew they felt at their lowest. He’d been there right along with them once, and hoped that the man they could see now acted as an example that things did get better. That there was still a future out there for them.

Tai pulled the break and cut the engine, but that did nothing for his motormouth. “Look, all I’m saying is, are you really going to be satisfied letting the opportunity to meet your soulmate pass you by?”

He shrugged as he unbuckled his seatbelt.  “There’s plenty of people who don’t have a date on their wrist and they seem to make it through life just fine. I don’t see why I’d be any different.” He threw open the door, adding as he got out. “Just ‘cause I have one doesn’t mean I need them.”

“It’s not-”

He slammed the door closed before he had to hear anymore.

He enjoyed the blissful silence for all of two seconds, when Tai got out from the other side, “You bast-”

This time he was saved by the front door flying open. “Oscar-!” He heard Oz yelling from inside.

But it did nothing to pause the freckled-faced boy from running down the steps of the stoop, calling brightly, “Mr. Qroooow!”

Qrow grinned, swooping up the little five-year-old in his arms and lifting him high just like he liked. “Hey you lil’ rascal.”

He giggled holding his arms out. “I’m the crow now.”

“That you are.” He laughed. As he peered past the boy, he could see Ozpin making his way over.

It was easy to tell from his unusually rumpled appearance that it had probably been a hard morning for the caretaker. “Sorry, he got away from me.”

“No need to be sorry, I can’t think of a more wonderful greeting.” Tai said as he made his way around the car. He held out his hands, letting Qrow deposit Oscar into them.

“Mr. Long!” The boy immediately started fiddling with the fringed ends of Tai’s yellow scarf. “Did you bring gifts?”

The blond made a show of thinking really hard. “Hmmmm, I can’t recall. Maybe we need to check the trunk and see?”

“Need help carrying anything?”

The new voice was unexpected and had Qrow looking towards the door, eyebrows rising at the man coming down the steps. He remembered Ozpin mentioning a new volunteer would be joining them today – a friend of a friend, was what he had said. But he hadn’t mentioned more than that. Like, perhaps, the slightly more interesting fact that he was from the military.

From head to toe, the new fellow was decked out in the white uniform of a navy officer, even the circular, wire-frame sunglasses. The only thing he didn’t have was the low-brimmed cap. Probably didn’t want to contain that slightly ridiculous updo he had, which reminded Qrow of a crest of feathers certain birds had. Something glinted on his chest, catching his eye, and he tried to make out what it was.

“Any help would be appreciated!” Tai called from where he was trying to juggle Oscar and get the trunk open. The new guy hurried over to relinquish him of the boy which turned out to be a bit more difficult when he refused to let go of Tai’s scarf.

Oz joined in the effort, helping to untangle them, and once he had a good hold of Oscar, the soldier stepped back to stand beside Qrow instead.

It gave him a chance to get a better look at the medallion on the collar of his shirt. He snorted as he realized it was a brooch in the shape of a four-leaf clover. “Hey shamrock, I think you decorated for the wrong holiday.”

“Huh? Oh, you mean this?” He flicked one edge as he adjusted his grip on Oscar. “Nah this is just an old keepsake of mine.”

“Mr. Bee? Can I wear your glasses again?” The little boy asked, wide-eyed and hopeful.

“Sure kid.” He lowered his head so he could reach up and take them.

Qrow snorted again. “Bee?”

“Ebi, actually. Clover Ebi.” The other man corrected, looking up at him with a grin that was almost blinding.

But only almost – and almost just wasn’t enough.

As he stared into the other’s teal green eyes, Qrow swore the sudden rushing in his ears was the sound of Fate pouring Herself a glass of well-deserved wine.

Oh fuck.

#qrow branwen #clover ebi #fair game #fairgameweek2020 #rwby #fanfiction #Chase Firekitten's Tale

[wrathofthewind]

ix. Key

First, there were very few people who knew how to cast a mirage maze. Gala was especially known for her realistic fabrics and how well set each mirage was. She’d often play around and leave boxes with hints and clues about the next step. When done in jest, it could even be said to have a semblance of fun, or nostalgia, not all mirages were unwelcome. She probably had plenty of fun with Ithana in a mirage all the time. But some… some were brought up from the recesses of your memory, often a memory you had surpassed or couldn’t live down. No one knew what Tyssen had seen to make him break down that day. One of the strongest people Arnalt had ever known, but even Pallax was protective after that. Which, of course, Tyssen punched him for, at least as soon as he had his wits back.

Then again could it count as a day if Tyssen hadn’t punched or shoved or been aggressive in some way towards Pallax? Arnalt unconsciously shook his head. They clearly cared for each other, what was the point of such grief?

Of course Arnalt had never been in a situation where any relationship was ambiguous or complicated. He placed everyone into a neat little folder, filed them into their designated box, that was that. Tyssen and Pallax, his loyal guards. Ithana, his sister with a temper and a reputation to back it up. He admired her. They had a bit of a rivalry, he didn’t know why he just felt like they understood each other. So what if she could break his bones? Ithana was simple and to the point, her language was something he could understand; same as Bael, good food, good wine, good laughs. It was a whole different story with Ronan.

As if his thoughts had conjured the person, Arnalt the illusion melting into a familiar scene: he was walking through the corridors in Ronan’s palace, but this was an area slightly different to the one from his memories. There were several doors and because this wasn’t Arnalt’s first mirage, he randomly picked one and opened.

It was the oddest thing. The first door he opened clearly showed the kitchen back at his own palace. He closed it and tried the door next to it. The next sight was a courtyard in Ithana’s palace. Alright, alright… the person who created this illusion, and he already had his suspicions, was familiar with all these households. They were a servant, because while the residences were different, giving the illusion that this person traveled frequently, it was only the most humble areas. A private courtyard here, another kitchen there, the laundry rooms, a nondescript hallway in the lower floors… only one door led into a place he hadn’t expected: a luxurious and ample bedroom, fit for a King. Arnalt felt a chill.

He… he wasn’t ready for this one, but that was precisely why he went in first.

There wasn’t anything remarkable in the room, it’s just that Arnalt knew these tastes. For some reason, after that first encounter, he’d expected the illusion to show him Ronan’s chambers… but Ronan was of a marshal mind, his chambers decked to the nines with trophies from his wild hunts, animal pelts, or wooden shelves he’d carved himself. Ronan believed in a discipline of the body and the mind.

These chambers, with delicate fabrics, gilded doors, freshly cut flowers, and the juxtaposition of battle armor and axes… this room belonged to the 3rd Prince, Luka.

But how… why would this person know Luka?

A few paintings of Luka were hanging next to the mirror, positioned there as if to aid him when getting dressed, to remind him of his own visage when captured by the masters. Luka was truly… not someone Arnalt spoke with often.

He finally noticed a painting that was slightly askew. It depicted a glittering mountain of jewels, dripping from a heavenly ledge towards a mortal pagoda like a waterfall of riches. The strokes were vivid, delicate, and quite gentle, giving the painting an appearance of vaporous water, with muted tones that lit up as a single golden stroke lifted the yellow here, or a sudden deep vivid crimson touched the edge of the canvas here… as if jewels upon jewels could not all shine at the same time, but rather only a few stood out when chosen by the painter. It was exquisite, and slightly dull. There was nothing else to the painting but the technique and the subject. A waterfall of gems, wouldn’t that hurt? Who wants that? Rivers of yellow flowed around the pagoda, enshrining it with what was probably meant to be a river of gold, but all Arnalt saw was a syrupy bowl encircling a pagoda pancake. Or, if he was more honest and vulgar… a river of pee. He let slip a quiet “Pft!”, and a low chuckle rumbled in his throat when he noticed the signature on the piece. “Azuria, Luka”.

Wait.

He glanced at all the paintings by the mirror. No. He painted himself all these times? He really wanted to just break out in laughter. Luka was quite good looking but— never mind never mind, that’s not what he was here for. He subconsciously straightened the painting before him to correct its angle and a small “clack” noise drew his attention. The painting unhooked itself from the wall and moved to the side of its own accord. A door was revealed, covered in bright gems. It was such a magnificent door, why would it be hidden behind a painting? Was this Luka’s treasure chamber? Curious about the inside he jiggled the door but couldn’t get it to budge. It had a keyhole with a strange design.

Ah. There it was. The puzzle in the dream. The maze in the mirage.

Alright, well, he could end up spending weeks traveling up and down the hall of this illusion, opening random doors and peering through random memories to look for clues, or he could apply what he’d already learned from dealing with Gala so often.

The person who crafted the mirage might make a very intricate maze to keep you inside, the longer you were in, the more they could absorb your life force after all… but their subconscious wouldn’t be able to control itself and sometimes a mirage would be repeated, certain things would show up in the various chambers. A single spoon, always on a table, or a mirror with an eagle carved on top showing up in both a bedroom and a dining hall… those were the clues, and one could avoid a great deal of grief by finding those mimicked objects.

Arnalt went back into the hall and opened a few door, not bothering to step inside, knowing it would be a waste of his time, and he already needed all his energy properly circulating to heal his shoulder… he didn’t stop until he noticed exactly three things:

A ceramic bowl.

A horse-shaped kite.

Needles and thread.

The first one was the easiest, a ceramic bowl of that shape and size either belonged to a kitchen or a dining room. Out of all the rooms he’d opened, only one had been a kitchen, so he doubled back there and went in. This time the door shut and clicked, locking. Aha. Well done Arnalt!

Once again he found himself in his own palace, and this would be the second time an illusion occurred there, but he knew everyone on his staff, down to their celestial sign and birth town. He had never met that woman from the first illusion before. Had never seen the face of that figure that burst like paper.

As if on cue he heard Ronan’s voice once more: “Shut the gates then and don’t let them cross anymore.”

“Sire that might cause a revolt.”

“Good, let that idiot Luka sweat a little for once.”

The voices came from Ronan, and next to him, a monk of Aegeria, one of the caretakers of the Ancient Library.

“It’s not advisable to… to have something break out near the Old Libraries. Those records haven’t been properly copied yet, and we still have all that recovery work from the recent incidents—“

Ronan was never patient, hardly allowing him to finish before bellowing “Alright already! Open the gates but ensure every single one of them has a sealed pass, and Luka better get those in order that little shit!”

Arnalt could vaguely tell what this was about, it was fairly recent… the townspeople of Luka’s region were fleeing from a sudden Craigh, a crack in the Earth that became a sinkhole. No one knew when they showed up or why, and just as they came they would disappear. A sudden gap in the Earth and monsters would crawl out, devouring everything. A Craigh could last a few days, or a few months, properly annihilating an entire region before closing up and disappearing, as if it never happened. Not even its teeth marks on the ground remained. Of course, a few Craighs were seasonal, and because they were larger, and possible thicker with dark energy, they would always show up in the same place. One of these was the Craigh of the Crescent, located in the Glaes Winterlands. It was precisely near that time of the year too…

Arnalt ignored the rapid beating of his own heart, anxiety gnawing at him. The faster he got out of this damn mirage, the quicker he could deal with everything else and find a way to reach Marius before it was too late.

He lifted his gaze, the sounds of Ronan and the monk had long since been swallowed up by all the activity in the kitchen. He saw his own figure emerge from the door, a stoic expression on his face as he put away his bow, and behind him, the ever-obedient pup, Marius, his growing frame panting as he wiped sweat from his forehead and tugged at his collar slightly. This was barely a year ago.  

“Marius again…” Why was Marius in every illusion?

There wasn’t much he could do but sit in a stool nearby and watch.

“Run laps tomorrow, it can’t be that you’re this young and still can’t keep up with the hunting foxes.”

“Y-yes, My Lord…” the quality of Marius’s voice was a lot lighter back then. To think it had only been a year. He was also so much taller already, sometimes he felt like Marius was a Nigella flower, seemingly blooming overnight.  Was that how he’d been in his early adolescence too? He felt a bit fatherly. Look at his boy!

“Eat well tonight, we’re doing it all over again tomorrow, and this time I expect you to surpass your own record.” Arnalt in the illusion had come into the kitchen out of impetuousness, he couldn’t wait to be served and just reached straight into one of the trays the servants were preparing and grabbed a puff pastry. Of course, he wouldn’t actually eat it in front of anyone, that was not proper, so he had no patience, hunger clawing his insides, and simply packed a napkin with several of the confections and quickly left the room with a passing, “bright and early Marius! Tomorrow!”.

Arnalt half expected Marius to follow suit and just reach his paws into the tray as well, grabbing some of those flaky, buttery, delicious pastries, but of course, Marius wouldn’t do that, much less a Marius that had been properly educated by Arnalt this whole time.

He straightened his back and felt his chest puff with a bit of pride at the sight, as Marius merely put all the weapons away, neatly tidied up the kitchen island where Arnalt dropped everything, then cleaned the arrows one by one and placed everything where it should go. He grabbed a dirty rag that was near the washing area, meticulously washed it himself, and then, soaking it with some cold water, rubbed the damp fabric over his arms to cool his own skin. He was young, but those arms were already corded with barely contained power. In the present they were about the same height already, and Marius’s build wasn’t quite as fair as Arnalt’s, so he seemed like a puffed up rooster next to a graceful swan when they stood next to each other.

He paused. Yes, he’d just compared Marius to a fat cock. Why was this so funny to him. What the hell. His shoulders were shaking with laughter because he knew this was a side of his own sense of humor that he couldn't share with anyone, often laughing at his own vulgar and stupid jokes. Arnalt would never! He berated himself and even softly smacked his own hand. Bad Arnalt. Do not call the Kurian a fat cock.

He burst out laughing. It’s not like anyone would hear him anyway. But it’s just, he’d been a tiny chick when he found it and fed it corn diligently and look at how big he’d gotten!

He waited to see what else they’d fed this baby chick that had helped him grow so big and strong in the last year. He waited and waited, and found himself yawning as the night slipped.

Marius was ever so polite. He simply sat and let the kitchen staff do its work. Let them serve a meal for the Lords, let them serve a meal for the guards, for the monks, for the servants, for themselves. Waited and waited until the last counter was wiped clean, and not a speck of the glorious meal remained, and everyone had left the kitchen. They even blew out the last candle without bothering to address him. They closed the door.

The scene was enfolded in gloom and Arnalt felt his heart itch. Was he not hungry?

Only now Marius stood up and re-lit that candle. He went to the pantry but it was locked, then searched through the drawers and apparently found nothing. There was a single discarded onion, the bits of it that were still edible had already been carved away. He took that sad leftover piece of onion and pierced it with a stick, then held it over the candle fire.

What the fuck was this?

Arnalt stood up and walked near him. Was Marius insane? Was this some sort of strange habit he’d picked up in the jungles? Could he not let this uncivilized behavior go? Why didn’t he grab a bowl of rice or one of the many braised pork plates and stuffed potatoes that’d been prepared earlier. Was this little dummy so polite he forgot he had a right to eat?

Arnalt thought back and realized he’d always assumed Marius ate well, and of course he had to, hello! He’d just compared him to a fat rooster, how did he grow up so healthy if he wasn’t eating properly? It’s not like Arnalt was tasked with checking even that minutiae? Wasn’t it enough already that he sometimes requested a special menu to fatten him up when he’d found him? Did he also have to supervise his daily diet?

Marius was about to bite into the roasted onion when a shadow appeared and he quickly turned towards the door.

One of the cooks had come in, apparently forgotten something or other. They leveled Marius with a glare. “What are you doing?”

“None of your concern.” Marius leveled them back.

Arnalt had assumed he would answer back politely, maybe meekly, something like “not much? Eating an onion? Hungry?” Something stupid like that, because obviously this mutt had to be stupid to be eating an half-roasted bad onion, but he certainly hadn’t expected him to narrow his eyes with such violence at the cook.

“Well, I certainly won’t stop you from poisoning yourself.” The cook sneered.

“How kind.” Marius.

“Guards!” The cook called.

Marius immediately dropped the onion into the wastebasket. He hadn’t given it a single bite.

“On second thought…” the cook said, “we can’t have you stealing from the royal family and just let it slide right? That would be the same as being complicit?”

Wha—

A guard came over and grinned, locking eyes with Marius. “Again little dog? Which will it be? Rope or wood?”

Rope or wood? The hell was he talking about?

“I’d request wood but… you barely have anything to work with so.” Marius had glanced below the guard’s belt.

Arnalt’s face turned purple.

The guard came up and soundly slapped Marius across the face. He was a 15-year old boy, this was a 29-year old guard, a mountain against a tree. The slap should’ve broken his jaw.

“Two crimes and counting.”

But this was not possible. Nobody should dare to punish Marius in his own estate? Everyone knew he was under Arnalt’s protection? Why hadn’t Marius said anything? He remembered the next day, remembered Marius being more quiet, more attentive, and also more vicious as he hunted. He remembered Marius suggesting they roast them, asking Arnalt to teach him how it’s done. Arnalt had no idea how to roast anything. Marius had said “let’s try anyway.” He’d botched a few birds and finally cooked up a half-decent pheasant. Marius had eaten his half with such intensity and bad manners Arnalt had forced him to copy the entire book of rules and etiquette 50 times.

Now, in this gloomy kitchen, Marius shuddered and breathed a few words. “I won’t ask for mercy. I hope you kill me.”

“Good.” The guard cracked his knuckles. “But I won’t kill you. That would be a violation of the decree. I’m just following my own liege’s mandates, it’s just our lot in life. Yours to be a cursed creature, mine to obey my Prince.”

Before he slammed his fists on Marius’s back, a familiar female voice interrupted.

“Malak, His Highness requests your presence.” The woman bowed slightly, but Arnalt already knew the shape of her hair, the size of her frame.

She bowed to the cook as well. “A tray of cheeses and figs for the Lord.”

“Right away!” The cook was suddenly all meek and smiles.

Marius still remained on the ground breathing.

Once the chef had the tray ready, the young woman took it, she also asked to heat up a quick bowl of soup, and toast some bread. As the cook went about producing ingredients, he took out a small key from his pocket and opened the locked pantries. Meanwhile, she kept her back to Marius and let some pieces of cheese and errant figs slip to the floor.

Marius took them and ate them right away. Like a small beast, uncaring that they’d already touched the floor.

Arnalt wasn’t sure he could continue to watch. He forced himself to stay, eyes wide open. The guard had mentioned a prince, so, someone with a higher ranking issued an edict. Arnalt’s mercy extended to Marius’s life, but when it came to corporeal punishments or policies… he was outranked by nearly everyone in his family. He hadn’t really given it much thought, Marius always looked glowing, healthy, occasionally with a few scraps and bruises he attributed to being a young, wild thing.

And now, as he watched that hunched proud figure lap at a soup bowl from the ground, “quickly quickly!”, the young woman said, having sent the cook on some other foolish errand—she hid bread in his pockets—and Arnalt felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He kneeled next to Marius. “I’ve wronged you.” He whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He really couldn’t fathom a reason, and if he felt an urgency to head to the Glaes Winterlands before, now he tacked on a furious desire to ask him all about this, this and any other things that might’ve happened when he wasn’t looking.

Feeding corn to a chick, and then releasing it into a snake pit. Arnalt’s lashes trembled. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, that he was actually so weak, that his palace wasn’t his own, that Ronan came and went because he had the right, just how the council used his chambers, or the 2nd Prince, Finneas, came and went with his affairs, rumpling sheets in whatever chamber he felt like. Because this palace, as long as he was an Azurian, would forever be only an estate of the King, to house and protect a 19th prince… but not to be owned by said prince.

No, he didn’t want to go down that road. He wiped his mind. Took a breath. One thing at a time. Not his family, not those politics, not the memories of his mother… closed, shut off, done. He was water, he was a lake. And once he found Marius again, he wouldn’t let the boy go thirsty. He might not be as powerful as his brothers and sisters, but he could still provide. Maybe he should consider a chamber near him, and having him join him for dinner, maybe the Kurian should be his actual friend! A guest! Ha! What the fuck would they be able to do to him then? Not in Arnalt’s face! Would he have to keep him next to him 24/7? Well so be it!

…though, that was probably easier said than done.

His hand had unconsciously reached out to stroke Marius’s hair, the boy still hunched over and scarfing down whatever the young woman threw at him in between bouts, she, meanwhile, guarded the door, hastily retreated when someone else came, and Marius just kept his position on the floor, appearing for all matters and purposes as if he’d been leveled by the one slap and just couldn’t get up, which seemed to please everyone. Arnalt’s hand went through the strands, it was just an illusion. Just as well, he really didn’t know why he’d reached out to pet him just then.

Finally Arnalt remembered what he was here for, eyes sharply looking around for extra clues… Marius was key to this illusion, and key to this woman’s encounters and memories, but why? Why was she going out of her way to help him? Did they know each other? Was she someone from Marius’s past?

Just then the cook came back and placed the pantry key on the table as they busied themselves reaching for some ingredient or other.

The key was fine and ornate. It did not look like the key to a pantry.

Was that it?

The carvings and the shape matched the orange keyhole of that door in Luka’s room.

But it couldn’t possibly be that easy, could it?

A new figure entered the room, and Arnalt had half expected it to be Ronan once more. Instead, he found himself staring into a pool of jade eyes that were as muted as the paintings on his wall. His voice was soft and melodious, his outfit ornate and brilliant, which seemed ill-fitting against the paleness of his skin and the icy blankness of his face.

Luka.

And the words that came out of his mouth were just as icy, directed towards the young woman who Arnalt now noticed had gone completely pale and was unconsciously holding herself against a wall, trembling.

“As if I wouldn’t recognize you, Iris.”

[griimreaping]

@utternocries​ - one word fic prompts

Lower ( part 1 )

The tolling of the church bells was genuinely ominous. An impending sense of dread dominating the grey morning fog, which blanketed Novigrad. Those silvery sounding clangs ringing out through the mist to call forward its faithful masses from the gloom. Pulling the traveling cloak tighter around her shoulders, if only to stave off the nerves rather than the general chill that harkened the coming of autumn, Jean flinches when Geralt's shoulder lightly brushes hers. Nerves had been high in the woman's chest as they neared the city, the last time she'd stepped foot in those walls being the night before her family died. Now with the cold solid stone rising around them, Jean couldn't help be reminded of a tomb.

This must have shown on her face from the flicker of a frown that graced the Witcher's mouth. He'd been summoned on a contract put forth by one of the wealthy governors that had come to occupy a mansion in the northern district of Novigrad. Since he'd taken up residence there, it's caused the man nothing but grief. Deaths in the family, along with some more insidious spectral activity that made even the most persistent of tenants shy away from even renting the place. Which only added to the misfortunes befalling an otherwise uninteresting and mundane man of wealth. With such wealth, he enlisted Geralt's help, and by some lucky stroke, Jean as well. Who had insisted she come along since the governor had mentioned something about black vines overtaking most of the house. 

"What plant has black vines?" Had been the first question Geralt had asked when done skimming the frantic letter that had been sent forward to Downwarren. The Witcher had to stop spending so much time in her little hut, now even people outside of the village were beginning to notice. Plucking the letter from his hands and chewing on the inside of her cheek as she read, Jean's mind crunched over all the various odd species that thrived in this environment.

 "Devil's bramble is the first that comes to mind, but it's more of a shrub than vines. Could also be just a mistaken color?" Placing the letter back down and folding arms across her chest, the Druid casts an uneasy glance out of the dewy glass in her kitchen to the misty bog. She hadn't been to Novigrad in nearly fifteen years. The harsh smell of a house fire coming back in a wave so sudden it took a considerable amount of will not to choke on the air stuck in her lungs. Hugging herself tighter, Jean forces the words out of her lips in an attempt to cast away unwanted memories. To drown the screams.

"You'll probably need an expert on plants and herbs," a glance is cut at the Witcher to gauge how the words are received. "I won't ask for any of your payment, I'm just genuinely curious now and could do with a bit of adventure away from the bog and corpses." Geralt grumbled a few words about how things were dangerous, and Jean's rebuttal of how she could handle a sword along with magic seemed to lessen the worries only marginally. Or at least enough that he put them to bed. Now walking among the cramped sewage reek which clung to the southern district like a diseased lover, Jean begins to miss her bog. Roaches hoof beats echo in the dull mist as they weave through cobblestone streets going north. A beggar approaches before seeing the Witcher and thinking better of his choices, slinking back into a darkened patch of fog that yawned into an alleyway. The struggling morning sun had yet to touch these streets, sleepy shop windows gazing out onto quiet abandoned boulevards. A liminal moment in time before the meager warmth of an autumn day shone through the slate clouds above.

 That invisible line between districts isn't so invisible in Novigrad. A stark change between cramped tenant buildings that had begun to go crooked like a thieves smile, to the gaudy colors in the markets almost hurt the Druid's eyes. Even at such an early hour, a merchant in puffy gold pants tried valiantly to hawk some bruised peaches to her, claiming they were the city's sweetest. More polite "no thank yous" than Jean figured were necessary, and he'd given up his venture only to flag down another tired traveler bustling away. They did not make it out of the markets without expending a small amount of coin, which Jean put out to receive a small set of glass bottles in return, which now clinked softly in her bag. Geralt eyed the merchant selling her the glass wear with a critical eye, waiting to see if he was going to swindle her or not. This intense cat-eyed stare is more than likely what got jean a reduced price just to make them go away.

"I think I have a new idea about what the vines are." The Druid pipped up as another jarring change in scenery happened from the markets to the northern district. Now polished iron gates bore their teeth at them from the mouths of massive walkways up to ostentatious villas. No longer is the lower districts' corpse stench lingering; instead, a delicate waft of mountain roses and lemon trees walk in step with the Witcher and the Druid. Jean felt dirty here like she shouldn't be permitted to touch anything for fear of sullying it beyond rescue.

"There's a rare type of flower which only grows on the site of immeasurable evil. I've only ever read about it, though; the drawing seemed close enough to the description he gave." Rummaging around in the folds of her cloak, Jean produces a very worn and overly bookmarked tome. Roughly the size of her palm, the books brown and yellow pages had the look of something that had been steeped in bog water and perhaps blood at one point. Leafing through to the proper page, the pages crackle with age under the woman's touch.

"Here, Dagon's breath. Black vines with leaves about the size of a supper plate, able to produce flowers but only on full moons. Dried flowers turned into a powder can produce some of the most potent madness-inducing potions known to the world. Since this is such a rare specimen, there are speculations that even the scent of the flower can cause severe hallucinations." Reading this passage aloud, the Druid could feel a cold hand drag down her spine. If this was what they were dealing with, then whatever cast the curse even to make it grow had to be obscenely powerful.

The Dagon is old magic. Older than what most perceived as life it's self, coming from the chaos before time. From all that Jean could find in the books in her home, it was a god born of entropy and discord but required strict worshippers to ensure that it would have a proper host to inhabit when the void took back over. Mages and fanatics alike that dabbled in the Old Gods were ones that put their minds in the hands of babbling madness willingly, hoping to be rewarded with some form of forbidden insight to the world. The thought made the Druid shudder. She'd tasted the sharp edges of madness once before, those dark whispers in a language lost still snaked into the blackest of nightmares that she couldn't wake herself from. They'd always promised such alluringly unfathomable things to her.

It's lost in these troubling murky visions that cause the woman to bump into Geralt when he stops at one of the ornate gates. Placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her, the Witcher's disquiet shows fully. He'd had many half-hearted qualms about bringing her along on this, and now that she was becoming so distracted, it only furthered his worry about her being a liability.

"You should go wait back at the inn. Now that I have a better idea of what this plant is, it shouldn't be a problem." I don't want you to get hurt; goes unvoiced, but his cat-like eyes' narrowing conveys the sentiment. Jean's face flares pink around the ears at her embarrassment, but she doesn't allow the dialogue of the inn to go any further. Making a vague gesture at the nameplate affixed to the gate, the woman lets out an irritated breath, the frustrations more directed at herself.

"We're already here; it wouldn't make sense just to send me away now. Plus, I don't remember which roads we took to get here through the fog. Come on, Geralt, just let me continue, and I'll keep my head on straight, okay? No more distractions." A half-hearted smile that she hopes will cement the words into place only has Geralt absently rolling his eyes. Producing the key that had been sent along with the letter they'd received, the gate is unlocked. A horse post just inside the iron portal is where they part with Roach, who busies themselves with munching on the fresh hay that had been left out.

Path flanked on either side by overgrown flower beds containing every flavor of poisonous plant known to the region. Even a few that look notably exotic had a tight knot of anxiety forming in the woman's chest. A breeze sighing up the path causes the nefarious blooms and grasses to seethe in a green ocean around them, their ghostly voices curling in Jean's ears. Reaching out to place a holding hand on Geralt's arm, Jean freezes in her tracks when the house looms into view from the dismal fog, which had turned into a light misting rain.

When the governor had stated the vines were growing along the house, she had expected a few sparse fingers grasping greedily at the spaces between the bricks. Instead, what they were greeted with was a building that seemed to move with a life of its own. Thick coal-black leaves nearly the size of Geralt's head shiver in the breeze giving a sinister shivering quality to the house from foundation to rain gutters. Interspersed with wine-red flowers sporting elegantly curved petals and long golden yellow pistils that reminded Jean of a great blood-sucking insect searching for its next meal.

Then the whispers.

"Geralt, we shouldn't go in there." We're the words Jean heard herself saying, startled by how her voice sounded so terrified. While the Druid can listen to most of the passive voices of the plant life around her, these held that same nebulous darkness that only spoke to her in deepest nightmares. They carried the same voice as the madness. Their saccharine-sweet smell only there to lure you in closer with beckoning leaves and candy red petals.

Before responding to such a statement, a loud voice calls to them excitedly from the house. A gaunt man in a midnight black traveling cloak hurries toward them, waving his arms and wearing an almost crazed smile that shows far too much of his gums, which are far too pale to be healthy.

"Witcher! And... company. So good of you to finally arrive, and when I fear I am at my wits end!" The man nearly shouts at them, reaching out to vigorously shake Geralt's then Jean's hand with both of his clammy skeletal paws clasped around theirs. When his fingers leave the Witcher's, he notices fresh raw wounds on the man's forearms peeking out from his dark robes' confines. They looked almost like symbols carved into his skin, but such a quick glance hadn't been enough time. Deep-set eyes that once would have struck a woman dead with a glance now flit in their sockets nervously, the striking ocean blue ringed with bloodshot scleras and the deep shadows of exhaustion. The man looked to be hand in hand with death, yet the cold grip that clutches Jean's own spoke of fierce hidden strength that still dwelled like an angry spirit inside him.

"You must come inside! He has told me so much about you. I am looking forward to speaking with you before we get to such dark and dismal affairs. Come come." Voice and grip offering no rebuttal, the governor loops his arm with Jean's, nearly dragging the woman toward the house of dark whispers. Following close behind, Geralt notices the low humming of his medallion as they approach the building. There was nothing good contained within, the corrupted magic oozing out and tainting the air around them.

#‘ﾟanswered » JEAN MASTERS — ❝ here the light only dies to remember ! ❝ #‘ﾟships » UTTERNOCRIES — ❝ two sides of a scarred coin ! ❝ #verse﹕WITCHER ► the dead they speak so ﾟ* LOUD #utternocries #alright so look this is part one #part two will get posted tomorrow because I’m trying to edit it to give it an actual endinstead of rambling for like 10000 words

[pinehurst]

Unwrapping the Fourth Episode

It’s safe to say that the fourth episode absolutely destroyed the internet. Fugou Keiji was trending on Tumblr and Twitter in many countries with many others out of the loop asking, “Where exactly can I watch this anime?” This surge in popularity makes sense though as this episode had it all: the boys in casual clothes, hair down Daisuke, drunk Haru, and some quality bonding. Score one for the fangirls.

Disclaimer: This discusses the fourth episode as well as my thoughts on how the show may progress. My theories and beliefs are reminiscent of the only four episodes out at the moment so this may not be the most accurate thing out there.

Disclaimer #2: The way that I set up the entire review is more of a “live commentary” but I do offer my thoughts throughout so please bear with my rambling.

When the official Fugou Keiji team teased the fourth episode on their Twitter, I was speechless to say the least. Right off the bat, it was obvious that this episode would be much more lighthearted and relaxed than the previous episodes: Daisuke trying to survive day-to-day life without his life source? Let’s see this millionaire try to last in our shoes. This anime has a record of unveiling new information every episode, so I was interested to see how the story would progress. 

The episode opens up dramatically with Suzue running after Daisuke as he storms out of the mansion. In fact, he’s so irritated that he leaves without HEUSC or his money. Ok two things. First of all, Daisuke’s unforeseen emo side is showing. What could possibly make him want to leave that suddenly that he forgets the two things that practically define him? Secondly, Suzue addressed our beloved millionaire as “Daisuke-sama.” Wait, what? Being unfamiliar with Japanese culture, I decided to do a quick Google search as to when the honorific “-sama” is used. Wikipedia noted the following: 

Sama (様、さま) is a more respectful version for people of a higher rank than oneself or divine, toward one's guests or customers (such as a sports venue announcer addressing members of the audience), and sometimes toward people one greatly admires. 

At this point, it’s still unclear as to whether or not Daisuke and Suzue are siblings or spouses; however, it is now known that, whatever their relationship may be, Suzue holds Daisuke to a higher regard. Only three seconds have passed, no need to rush. The remainder of the episode must contain answers. 

After the opening comes to a close, Haru asks Daisuke for some help with a lost dog as he hopes to use his “magic” to trace the dog’s path. Immediately afterward though, Haru affirms that “it’s not like [he] absolutely needs [Daisuke’s] help.” It’s pretty clear from this one sentence that Haru doesn’t want to seem inferior to Daisuke. Even when asking for assistance, he doesn’t want to lower himself just to get Daisuke’s help. After all, he needs to assert that he’s got the better philosophy out of the two. 

This call does, however, represent the growth in their relationship that we ever so hoped for. The fact that Haru called Daisuke at all showcases two things. First of all, it reinforces that fact that Haru’s morals and humanistic mindset dictate his actions. He not only helped a child in his spare time (which I’m sure many people wouldn’t do) but also called his coworker (that rich boy with completely different morals) for help with assisting a troubled child. It also emphasizes something much more important for the upcoming epiosdes though: Haru is beginning to trust Daisuke more. Episode 3 already helped lay the foundation for their acquaintanceship (soon to be friendship), and this episode only works to add onto that footing. He knows that Daisuke has the resources to help others; in this sense, it may seem as though Haru is only exploiting Daisuke for the greater good, but that doesn’t lessen the fact that he feels comfortable enough to even think of Daisuke as an option.

Once again though, Daisuke and Haru’s views clash when dealing with this child. Haru is determined to help this poor child whereas Daisuke blatantly states that “looking for a dog isn’t a police officer’s job.” This entire situation did teach us a little bit more about Daisuke’s personality though. He’s easily swayed by a child’s tears as he reluctantly agreed to help once the child wept crocodile tears of grief. Even though he is generally unconcerned, anyone would feel guilty leaving a poor child alone. As Haru put it, “[he’s] a human being after all.” 

We also learn that Daisuke likes to do his work swiftly and quickly if the past episodes didn’t already emphasize that. He interrupted the child, who we learn is named Tsuyoshi Nomura, asking him where his house is located. The entire time it’s clear that Daisuke oh-so-dearly wants to finish up this business. He even convinced the child that the dog returned home, indifferent to whether or not that may be true. When Haru called him out, Daisuke smirked, “That has nothing to do with me.” Even if he feels guilty, that doesn’t mean he should waste his precious energy trying to help find a lost dog. He may even regard it as trivial. 

The episode cuts back to Suzue as we see another side to her that the previous episodes failed to display: her obsesssion with Daisuke. I know what some of you may be thinking, and yes at first I thought that “obsessed” was too strong of a word too. The exact definition of obsessed is to “preoccupy or fill the mind of (someone) continually, intrusively, and to a troubling extent.” Nevermind, Suzue definitely fits this definition. She scattered messages all throughout town, watching Daisuke’s every move. My favorite message of all though was the one in front of the grocery store: “I am eagerly waiting for your return.” Emphasis on the eagerly. That gave me a good laugh; she is so devoted to Daisuke to the extent that she’d give up sleep just to ensure his wellbeing.

Suzue, however, did give us an insider’s look at Daisuke’s life. The fact that she was in utter dismay when she found out that Daisuke left his precious wallet behind goes to show that Daisuke depends on his money to indulge in his everyday activities. Even though we already knew that, Suzue’s reaction really put emphasis on the fact that this was going to be a new and maybe even tough experience for Daisuke to endure. He is pampered by his family, with Suzue worrying about trivial things such as the fact that maybe he “didn’t like the patterns on his shirt”or that she “upgraded his shoes from +5 centimeters to +7 centimeters.” The fact that that put a dent in their relationship made it all the better since it just goes to show that Daisuke is so conditioned to having everything done for him that a sudden shift in behavior wrecks havoc. 

It shifts back to Haru and Daisuke shopping, something that I never realized I needed until now. Daisuke’s spoiled side shows once more as he questions why Haru doesn’t just let others do the shopping for him. Running errands? Pathetic. Let someone else do them for you. 

Now this is where the million dollar question is answered: what exactly is Suzue to Daisuke? After being questioned by Haru, it’s finally revealed that Suzue is, in fact, Daisuke’s relative. This is where fifty questions popped into my mind, all of them being “Huh?” Suzue is clearly devoted to him on an incomprehensible level, but to be a relative? After much thought and a quick scroll through the Discord servers, someone mentioned a website that got my attention. One website, Nakasendoway, stated the following: 

“A main or stem family might have affiliated to it branch families. Each branch family at some time might itself, while maintaining its subordinate position to the main family, become the stem family to several branches. Thus, a well-established, well-organized, and rich family could become extremely large.” 

Aha! Now this is something I can get behind! This would explain her sincere devotion to Daisuke and why she referred to him as “-sama.” This doesn’t, however, really explain why Daisuke is holding her in the opening with such passion. Or maybe it does explain everything and I’m just not processing it correctly. I mean it is midnight at the time that I’m writing this and maybe I just need some sleep. Nevertheless I believe that there’s still more depth to Daisuke and Suzue’s relationship that hasn’t been explained yet. Maybe it’ll be explained in the future episodes in the midst of some event that reminds Daisuke of his backstory (that was briefly mentioned at the beginning of episode 1).

Anywho, back to the episode. Daisuke stays over Haru’s house, where he is shocked by the lack of grandeur. That apartment is where he lives? Not some grand mansion? Wild. Ah the adventures that occurred in that tiny apartment sure were grand though. We are once again reminded of Daisuke’s lavish life when he accidentally cuts himself. He immediately requests for a first-aid kit and when Haru makes the grand reveal that he doesn’t actually have one, Daisuke is forced to almost lower his standards. How is he going to heal himself? Why, he’s going to lick his cut! He is away from the comfort of his home so he must accommodate to his needs by doing going through the “harder,” more economical approach. He is finally starting to have a taste of the real world, outside the comfort of his own home.

After this scene is the moment we all have been waiting for: hair-down Daisuke with an oversized hoodie. All I can say is yes. Daisuke once again rediscovers his love for commoner’s food as he chowed on Haru’s recipes. This was wonderful bonding between the two as Haru tried to satisfy Daisuke’s wealthy plate and even taught him a few recipes. The two even watched a show together. Now this is where I believe foreshadowing will take its course.

The show that they’re watching follows a humanistic detective (with attire similar to Haru’s) arguing with his boss (whose attire is similar to Daisuke’s). The detective insists that they act on some case without affirmation from the higher-ups, but his superior refuses to budge. Later on, it’s revealed that this boss dies from a gunshot. Now I theorize that something similar will happen between Haru and Daisuke. Besides the similar attire between the two, the opening also shows Daisuke disappearing before a gun’s line of sight. Maybe this disappearance symbolizes that Daisuke may get shot or even suffer from severe injuries in the later episodes. Whatever it may be, I doubt any of the (relevant) characters will die since they play important roles and I just don’t see Fugou Keiji as the type of anime to do so (now this is obviously subjective but it’s just my opinion).

We are also let into Haru’s internal struggle: the difficulty of balancing their roles as heroes and civil servants. This practically relates to his philosophy as he would do anything to save anyone, carrying heroic acts of kindness and service. He is definitely the type to disobey orders in the name of justice, but in doing so he would be tarnishing his reputation as a civil servant. He wouldn’t be doing as his job wishes, and wouldn’t that be a crime in itself? Not doing what your superiors, who supposedly know better, and all. 

Haru and Daisuke part ways after the night together comes to a close. Haru’s off helping that child find his lost dog while Daisuke is out doing whatever he must. All hope is lost when Haru and the child just can’t seem to find the dog. But surprise! Acting as a beacon of hope, a light that came amidst darkness, Daisuke appears holding a dog leash with a dog attached to it! Oh how the tables have turned. Daisuke now decided to help find the dog. It became his obligation to find the dog now. Maybe Haru used his own magic and caused Daisuke to have a change in mindset over night. Maybe he finally came to realize that it’s worth the trouble to help others. Or maybe he had nothing better to do and decided to do his job without his display of wealth. No matter the reason, Daisuke still helped out. He still did what he didn’t want to do in the beginning of the episode. Ah how we love a change in mindset.

Daisuke finally returns home after two eventful days. The first thing he does when he returns? He recreates the “Kato family recipe” for Suzue, and he is very clearly satisfied with the result. After spending the night together, Haru served Daisuke natto for breakfast (love the recurring theme here) in the form of some sacred family meal. Daisuke replicated this recipe for his family WITH the natto. Oh how we love character development! He concluded by saying something along the lines of “It’s called the Devil’s Natto Recipe.” I found it kind of cute how he referred to Haru as a devil considering it was his recipe. It really shows that they still recognize their differences despite becoming closer over time. It’s safe to say operation friendship was a success as the episode comes to a close.

In my opinion, this episode’s sole purpose, besides showing us their lives away from work, was to help Daisuke get out of his little bubble as he was exposed to the real world. He no longer had Suzue’s welcoming warmth nor the unlimited wealth that his wallet provided. Rather, he was put in a situation where he had no money and was thrown into the “working class” for the first time ever. He would have had to scrap by if it weren’t for Haru. Heck, Haru paved the way for Daisuke’s character development as he taught him how to make inexpensive recipes and save money. 

However, this episode also raised the question: “Is Suzue going to merely be a comic relief character?” This episode really just utilized Suzue for the laughs as she’s presented as a character who’s overly worried about her dear relative. Personally I view this episode as a much more lighthearted one so of course Suzue would be much more exaggerated. At the same time, it introduced her devotion for Daisuke, unveiling an important plot point. This may make it less shocking if she does end up putting her life at risk for Daisuke’s sake. This certainly explains why she didn’t mind trying to swoon the smuggler in the second episode. Nevertheless I believe that she will be of utmost importance in the future, helping to turn the gears of story development through her gadgets. Her sincere devotion to Daisuke will most likely still serve as comic relief, but it won’t undermine her other characteristics.

As for how the series will progress, personally I believe that the future episodes will have more of an overarching plot and follow a more serious storyline, as we still need to see Daisuke and Haru confront the struggles fettering them down. It seems as though the anime wants to first develop a solid relationship between the two main protagonists before any sort of angst occurs.  

Edit: The Fugou Keiji team confirmed in a commentary article that things went downhill between Daisuke and Suzue because of the shoes. Love that!  

#Daisuke: Into the Kageyama-verse #we better get slicked hair Haru next #fugou keiji #the millionaire detective #balance unlimited #fkbul #fugou keiji balance: unlimited #fkbu

[beclectic-witchcraft]

Giant List of Color Properties

I’ve been working on a huge compilation of color correspondences and properties and decided to share it here! It should be useful for color magic. I will likely update this in the future.

Disclaimers: Never attempt to substitute professional medical help with magic. This list does not represent the traditional color properties/correspondences of all cultures and religions. I am a pagan American and this list may reflect that. Many of these correspondences were compiled from other sources, which are listed at the bottom. Some are my own speculation.

Red 💋

Astrological Correspondences: Aries, Mars, Pluto, Scorpio

Body/Health Correspondences: Blood, Bones, Colon, Nails, Prostate, Rectum, Tail Bone, Teeth

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Anger, Fire Element, Heat, Intense Emotions, Material World, Mechanical Things, Rebirth, South Direction

Can Increase/Improve: Ambition, Confidence, Courage, Desire, Energy, General Health, Joy, Leadership, Love, Lust, Motivation, Passion, Passionate Love, Physical Energy, Power, Protection Against Being Attacked, Self-Esteem, Sexual Energy, Sexual Love, Stability, Strength, Willpower

Can Increase Success in: Battles, Business Deals, Buying Things, Confrontation, Energy Work, Health Magic, Hunting, Love Magic, Repairs, Selling Things, Sex Magic, Sexual Activities, Warming Up 

Can Decrease: Depression, Fatigue, Fear, Weakness

Orange 🍁

Astrological Correspondences: Leo, Mercury, Sagittarius, Sun 

Body/Health Correspondences: Addiction, Adrenalin, Alcoholism, Bladder, Digestion System, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorders, Lower Abdomen, Lymph, Kidneys, Pelvis, Sperm, Uterus

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Adventure, Emotions, Fire Element

Can Increase/Improve: Attraction, Confidence, Creativity, Dominance, Emotional Connections, Energy, Enthusiasm, Fertility, Fun, Happiness, Joy, Kindness, Opportunities, Material Gain, Mental Alertness, Power, Sexuality, Stimulation, Strength, Vitality, Warmth 

Can Increase Success in: Adapting to Sudden Changes, Art Magic, Attracting What You Need or Want, Being Active, Breaking Down Barriers, Dealing with Major Changes, Encouraging Self/Others, Energy Work, Harvesting, Legal Matters, Making Emotional Connections, Sealing a Spell, Self-Expression, Sex Magic, Sexual Activities, Transitioning, Warming Up 

Can Decrease: Boredom, Creator’s Block, Depression, Fatigue, Feelings of Abandonment, Hesitation, Weakness

Yellow 💡

Astrological Correspondences: Gemini, Jupiter, Leo, Libra, Mercury, Taurus, Uranus 

Body/Health Correspondences: Digestion, Gallbladder, Liver, Lower Back, Pancreas, Spine, Spleen, Upper Abdomen 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Air Element, East Direction 

Can Increase/Improve: Beauty, Communication, Confidence, Creativity, Friendships, Happiness, Humility, Ideas, Imagination, Inspiration, Intellect, Inventiveness, Knowledge, Mental Clarity, Optimism, Persuasiveness, Productivity, Prosperity, Protection, Self-Confidence, Self-Control, Self-Esteem 

Can Increase Success in: Beauty Magic, Being Counseled, Business Ventures, Communicating, Counseling, Divination, Healing, Health Magic, Life, Making Friends, Persuasion, Self-Empowerment, Strengthening Intellect, ,Studying 

Can Decrease: Creator’s Block, Depression, Impulsiveness, Negative Thinking, Pessimism

Green 🌿

Astrological Correspondences: Aquarius, Cancer, Capricorn, Libra, Mercury, Neptune, Pisces, Taurus, Uranus Venus, Virgo

Body/Health Correspondences: Breasts, Chest, Circulatory System, Heart, Lungs, Respiratory System, Shoulders, Spine, Upper Back 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Abundance, Architects, Artists, Balance, Change, Chiropractors, Cosmetologists, Dancers, Designers, Earth Element, Emotions, Engineers, Entertainers, Faeries, Gardeners, Growth, Immortality, Luxury, Models, Money, New Beginnings, North Direction, Rebirth, Renewal 

Can Increase/Improve: Achievements, Affection, Alliances, Artistic Ability, Balance, Beauty, Compassion, Courage, Empathy, Fertility, General Health, Grace, Growth, Harmony, Hope, Income, Love, Luck, Platonic Love, Prosperity, Romantic Love Trust, Wealth, Wellness

Can Increase Success in: Architecture Work, Art, Balancing an Unstable Situation, Cosmetology, Chiropractic Work, Dancing, Design, Earth Magic, Empath Work, Engineering, Entertaining, Existing Relationships, Faery Work, Fashion, Fertility Magic, Finding Soul Mates, Forming New Relationships, Gardening, Garden Magic, Getting Employed, Gifting Things, Health Magic, Healing, Herbal Magic, Household Improvements, Love Magic, Making Alliances, Marriage, Modeling, Music, Nature Magic, Shopping, Social Activities, Transformations, Transitioning, Work Life

Can Decrease: Bad Luck, Clumsiness, Distrust, Instability, Poorness, Unemployment

Light Blue 💧

Astrological Correspondences: Aquarius, Mercury, Neptune, Libra, Pisces, Venus, Virgo

Body/Health Correspondences: Neck, Throat 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Air Element, Truth

Can Increase/Improve: Communication, Harmony in the Home, Health, Honesty, Inner Peace, Inspiration, Openness, Patience, Trust, Trustworthiness, Understanding, Wellness, Wisdom

Can Increase Success in: Being Fair, Being Open, Communicating, Discovering the Truth, Healing, Health Magic, Telling the Truth

Can Decrease: Creator’s Block

Blue 🌊

Astrological Correspondences: Aquarius, Cancer, Capricorn, Jupiter, Libra, Moon, Neptune, Pisces, Taurus, Uranus, Virgo

Body/Health Correspondences: Brain, Ears, Forehead, Lungs, Neck, Throat, Thyroid

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Doctors, Emotions, Growth, Guardians, Horses, Masculinity, Merchants, Ocean, Religion, Truth, Water Element, West Direction 

Can Increase/Improve: Charity, Communication, Empathy, Expressiveness, Fidelity, Fluidity, Group Success, Growth, Happiness, Harmony in the Home, Honesty, Insightfulness, Joy, Loyalty, Luck, Occult Power, Opportunities, Patience, Peace, Protection, Psychic Abilities, Social Standing, Trust, Trustworthiness, Understanding, Wealth, Wisdom

Can Increase Success in: Broadcasting, Calming Down, Communicating, Dealing with Foreign Cultures/Countries, Empath Work, Expanding, Forecasting, Guardianship, Healing, Higher Education, Introspection, Legal Matters, Letting Go, Long Distance Travel, Medical Work, Meditation, Psychic Work, Reading, Research, Self-Improvement, Self-Realization, Selling Things, Spiritual Healing, Sports, Studying, Traveling Safety, Working with Horses

Can Decrease: Anxiety, Confusion, Depression, Stress

Indigo 🌎

Astrological Correspondences: Jupiter, Sagittarius, Saturn, Uranus

Body/Health Correspondences: Depressive Disorder, Forehead

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Emotions

Can Increase/Improve: Clarity of Purpose, Emotional Vulnerability, Empathic Skills, Expressiveness, Fluidity, Insightfulness, Psychic Abilities 

Can Increase Success in: Empath Work, Letting Go of Emotional Baggage, Recognizing Emotional Baggage, Self-Mastery, Self-Realizing, Spiritual Healing 

Can Decrease: Depression

Purple 🔮

Astrological Correspondences: Capricorn, Gemini, Jupiter, Mercury, Neptune, Sagittarius, Saturn 

Body/Health Correspondences: Bones, Ears, Eyes, Face, Fibromyalgia, Forehead, Nervous System, Pituitary Gland, Top of Head, Upper Respiratory System 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Contracts, Emotions, Hidden Forces, Idealism, Merchants, Messages, Occult, Royalty, Students

Can Increase/Improve: Ambition, Clairvoyance, Connection to the Divine, Connection to the Universe, Devotion, Fame, Forgiveness, Happiness, Humility, Intelligence, Intuition, Justice, Memory, Nurturing Qualities, Peace, Power, Progress, Protection, Psychic Abilities, Spiritual Development, Spirituality, Spiritual Power, Spiritual Protection, Success, Wisdom 

Can Increase Success in: Advertising, Astrology, Balancing Sensitivity, Clairvoyant Work, Communicating, Conflicts, Connecting with Deities, Connecting with Higher Realms, Correspondences, Dream Work, Divination, Editing, Education, Getting Promoted, Invoking Spirits, Meditation, Secret Dealings, Selling Things, Spiritual Healing, Visiting Friends, Writing 

Can Decrease: Depression, Emotional Hurt, Wounded Pride

Pink 💕

Astrological Correspondences: Libra, Taurus, Venus

Body/Health Correspondences: Breast Cancer, Muscular Systems

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Children, Emotions, Femininity, Infants, Innocent Love, New Beginnings

Can Increase/Improve: Affection, Compassion, Family Relationships, Forgiveness, Friendships, Goodness, Harmony, Honor, Morality, Passion, Peace, Personal Harmony, Personal Success, Physical Energy, Romantic Love, Self-Love, Sleep, Sweetness

Can Increase Success in: Being Forgiven, Buying, Selling, & Adopting Animals, Calming Down, Childcare, Companionship, Emotional Healing, Exercising, Family Life, Forgiving Self/Others, Friendships, Gay Love, Gardening, Getting a Move On, Love Life, Love Magic, Making Friends, Relaxing, Sex Magic, Sexual Activities, Spiritual Awakenings, Spiritual Healing, Surgery, Taking Action, Woodworking 

Can Decrease: Anxiety, Insomnia, Self-Hatred, Stress

Brown 🐻

Astrological Correspondences: Capricorn, Pluto, Saturn, Scorpio, Taurus, Venus, Virgo 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Animals, Balance, Earth Element, Hearth, Home, Nature, New Beginnings

Can Increase/Improve: Balance, Concentration, Endurance, Focus, Friendships, Fruitfulness, Generosity, Health of Pets/Livestock, Material Gain, Security, Solidity, Stability, Strength 

Can Increase Success in: Animal Magic, Communicating with Nature Spirits, Finding Lost Things, Grounding, Harvesting, Home Life, Making Friends, Nature Magic, Solidifying, Sound Decision-Making, Telepathic Work

Can Decrease: Distractedness, Weakness

Black 🕷

Astrological Correspondences: Capricorn, Mars, Pluto, Saturn, Scorpio

Body/Health Correspondences: Bones, Teeth

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Beginnings, Challenges, Civil Servants, Death, Debt, Earth Element, Elders, Force, Grief, Rebirth, Sacrifice, Separation, Truth 

Can Increase/Improve: Dignity, Justice, Material Gain, Patience, Power, Protection, Stability, Willpower 

Can Increase Success in: Absorbing Energies, Banishing, Binding, Creating, Discovering, Divination, Enlightenment, Farming, Legal Matters, Letting Go, Manifestation, Neutralizing Forces, Overcoming Obstacles, Parting, Plumbing, Real Estate Matters, Removing Curses/Hexes/Etc., Repelling Curses/Hexes/Etc., Tests, Transforming, Transitioning, Understanding One’s Limits

Can Decrease: Animosity, Jealousy, Negativity, Weakness

Grey 🐺

Astrological Correspondences: Cancer, Capricorn, Moon, Saturn 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Neutrality, Reservation, Secrets 

Can Increase/Improve: Psychic Awareness, Stability 

Can Increase Success in: Binding Negative Influences, Complex Decisions, Contemplation, Divination, Reaching Compromise

Can Decrease: Competitiveness, Weakness

White 🕊

Astrological Correspondences: Cancer, Mercury, Moon, Neptune, Pisces, Uranus 

Body/Health Correspondences: Brain, Pineal Gland, Semen, Top of Head 

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Cycle of Life, Freedom, Illumination, Innocence, Neutrality, Purity, Truth 

Can Increase/Improve: Clarity, Connection to Higher Self, Connection to the Divine, General Health, Peace, Protection, Safety, Spiritual Growth, Understanding 

Can Increase Success in: Any Magical Endeavor, Becoming More Outgoing, Blessings, Cleansings, Consecrations, Enlightenment, Establishing Order, Initiation, Unifying, Substituting Other Colors, Transforming, Transitioning 

Can Decrease: Confusion, Shyness

Gold 👑

Astrological Correspondences: Leo, Sun

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Courtrooms, Inner Strength, Justice System, Masculinity, Money 

Can Increase/Improve: Ambition, Financial Gain, General Health, Good Fortune, Higher Intuition, Honor, Inner Strength, Inspiration, Intuition, Power, Prosperity, Solar Connections, Success, Understanding, Victory, Wealth 

Can Increase Success in: Business Endeavors, Divination, Legal Matters, Overcoming Obstacles, Self-Realization, Solar Magic, Work Life 

Can Decrease: Bad Luck, Confusion, Creator’s Block, Poorness

Silver 👽

Astrological Correspondences: Cancer, Moon

Miscellaneous Correspondences: Femininity, Mysteries, Secrets, Tides, Truth

Can Increase/Improve: Insightfulness, Intelligence, Intuition, Lunar Connections, Memory, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Awareness, Psychic Development, Spiritual Development, Wisdom

Can Increase Success in: Astral Travel, Astral Work, Divination, Getting Pregnant, Lucid Dreaming, Lunar Magic, Meditation, Reflection, Warding Off Negativity

Can Decrease: Negativity

[Source] [Source] [Source] [Source] [Source] [Source] [Source] [Source]

#color magic #color magick #witch #witchcraft #witches #witchblr #color #color correspondences #color properties #witches of tumblr #colors #red #orange #yellow #green #light blue #blue #indigo #purple #violet #pink #brown #black #grey #white #gold #silver #pagan #pagans of tumblr

[aswithasunbeam]

Rated: G

Summary: "The flame within him had burned too bright, too hot, too out of control, until it had consumed everything in its path: their marriage, their son, and, finally, Alexander himself. He was left exhausted and defeated in its wake. She didn’t want that—she’d never wanted him to be so guilty and broken." __ As the Election of 1800 approaches, Alexander and Eliza finally take that walk by the lake. 

                                                _________________

Eliza turned her face into her shoulder to cover a yawn before slipping her hand out of the warm cocoon of blankets, turning the page of her book. Though it was still early evening, the overcast day and the warmth of the fire both served to make her prematurely drowsy. She felt Alexander shiver beside her. Quickly gathering the blankets back around them, she snuggled against her husband. “Sorry, sweetheart.”

He gave a sleepy grunt. His breathing was slow and even, his chest rising in a steady rhythm beneath her. She twisted around so she could see his face.

“Do you still have chills?”

“Mm.”

She wasn’t sure he’d even heard the question. Stretching up, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Honey? You need to wake up. You’ll never be able to sleep tonight.”

He rarely slept through the night these days. The nightmares saw to that. All too often she found him slumped over his desk or dozing in the parlor at odd hours.

“I’m awake.” His bruised lids fluttered before falling closed again.

She reached towards him to run the back of her fingers along his cheek. He leaned into the affectionate gesture, but a wry smile began around the corners of his mouth. “I don’t have a fever, if that’s what you’re checking.”

No, he didn’t, she confirmed. If only it were something so simple. Fevers, at least, she knew how to fix. When she shifted again, his arm snaked around her waist to keep her close.

“Stay. I’m cold.”

He was always cold lately. The flame within him had burned too bright, too hot, too out of control, until it had consumed everything in its path: their marriage, their son, and, finally, Alexander himself. He was left exhausted and defeated in its wake. She didn’t want that—she’d never wanted him to be so guilty and broken.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested with forced lightness.  

His eyelids peeled open at last. “A walk?”

“To the lake,” she said. “The fresh air will do you good.”

He frowned in a way she felt sure meant he was going to refuse. Rather than let him, she pushed aside her book and the blankets, rose, and brushed the lint from her dress before reaching out to take his hand. “Come on. Walk with me.”

With a tired sigh, he nodded, and let her pull him up from the sofa.

After affixing their cloaks, they set out into the cool, gray twilight. The back of her hand bumped his as they walked, and she twisted hers around to press her palm to his, their fingers entwining. His fingers felt icy. She rubbed a circle with her thumb over his hand, hoping to encourage his blood to circulate.

Dried leaves and undergrowth crunched under her boots as she led the way through the forest path, using her free hand to push away stray branches while she tugged her husband along with the other. His breathing sounded heavy in the quiet. When she glanced back, he paid her a weak smile. The muted hoot of an owl overhead heralded the approaching dusk as the lake at last came into view.

“It will be dark soon,” Alexander said. “Will you be able to find the way back?” A little worry wrinkle had appeared in his brow when she glanced back again.

She squeezed his hand.  “Of course. You’re safe with me, my love.”

A lesser man might have laughed at that sort of reassurance from his wife, but Alexander looked nothing but comforted. “I never doubted it, my angel.”

They made their way along the circular path leading to her father’s dock, where he kept his fishing boat tied during the summer. Impulsively, Eliza tugged her husband down across the creaking planks. She bounded towards the end of the dock and plopped down on the edge, immediately bending her leg to unfasten her shoe.

“What are you doing?” Alexander asked around a breath that could almost have been a laugh. She paused for a moment, looking up at him with wonder. It had been so long since she’d last heard him laugh.

“Sit,” she instructed, patting at the wood beside her. “We can dip our toes in the water. I used to do it all the time when I was little.”

He lowered himself into a seat, but protested, “The water must be freezing.”

“Live a little.” The reply was meant to be flippant, but her voice took on a desperate quality. That spark within him that she’d first fallen in love with had fizzled out to nothing. His hair had gone gray in the past months, his face stamped heavily with grief and heartache. He would never truly forgive himself, she knew, but she wants him to try. Please, she implored him silently, please try to live.

He studied her for a long moment, then contorted to start unfastening his own shoe. Their stockings both followed, the silky fabric carelessly tossed aside on the dirty wooden planks as they dangled their bare feet into water. Eliza shivered as the water lapped over her skin.

“Cold?” Alexander asked, almost teasing.

“A little,” she admitted. A hint of flirtation entered her voice as she inched closer to him. “Keep me warm?”

He gave an exaggerated sigh, his eyes rolling up towards the heavens even as he stretched an arm around her and said, “I suppose.”

The playful dramatics, once so familiar from him, made her laugh with delighted surprise, and she saw his expression grow soft and fond in response. Brushing a stray hair away from her face self-consciously, she asked, “What?”

“I’ve missed your laugh.”

They used to laugh together so easily. Everything had gotten so hard, so dark, and she’d wondered for a long time if she’d ever feel true happiness again. Smiling softly, she said, “I’ve missed it, too.”

Alexander’s thumb stroked over her upper arm. His head tipped forward and his lips brushed over hers. She leaned her head on his shoulder when he pulled away, content. The shadows behind the trees were growing long, the sun nearly set behind the horizon. Despite the impending dark, she had no desire to start back for the house.

A long stretch of companionable silence followed. The cloud cover shifted as the sun disappeared, and the waning moon emerged over them, reflecting in the glassy surface of the lake. Eliza turned her eyes upward to see the first twinkling stars peeking out overhead.

“What a beautiful night,” she said.

“Hm?”

When she looked at her husband, she saw his focus pull away from the water under their feet. “The stars are coming out,” she said, gesturing upwards.

His chin tilted up. “Oh, yes, so they are. How lovely.”

“What were you looking at?”

She felt him shrug. “Just…the ripples.”

“Ripples?” she asked, amused. Her gaze dropped down to where Alexander’s foot was tracing lazy circles. Ripples were whirling out across the water, distorting the reflection of the moon above.

“Some don’t go very far.” His voice was serious, almost melancholy.

She sensed his distraction, something larger weighing on his mind. The memory of the morning’s headline occurred to her, and things seemed to fit into place. “Have you heard any more news about the election?”

He gave a dismissive little grunt.

His legacy and his ability to be of service in the future would both be at risk if his old rival attained the highest office in the land. How her husband liked his metaphors, she thought fondly. Ripples, indeed.

“Well, I hope Mr. Jefferson won’t win, for your sake.”

Alexander’s head whipped towards her. “But he must win.”

Her mouth parted slightly in surprise. “Surely Mr. Burr—”

“I disagree with Jefferson about almost everything. But at least he has principles. That’s more than I can say for Burr.”  

“Alexander,” she sighed. Her standard admonishments were already on her tongue—let it go, focus on your family, what we have here is enough—but she couldn’t quite bring herself to verbalize any of them.

His eyes, just visible in the moonlight, were flashing suddenly with a familiar spark. Beneath the lines set deep in his face, she glimpsed her young, fiery Colonel. She hadn’t seen that spark in so, so long.

“You should let your opinion be known, then,” she said instead. His head tilted slightly to the side, studying her. “Whatever else has happened in the past few years, the people still respect you, and they look to you to show them the way. You should warn them about Mr. Burr.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue, loaded with a significance she didn’t yet understand.

But the fire that blazed back to life behind his eyes made them impossible to regret.

--

The full heat of summer clung to the night air when Eliza next returned to the lake. Alone and dressed all in black, she seemed almost to melt into the darkness, illuminated only by the moon hovering high in the sky above her. She wandered out onto the dock and sat heavily, pulling off her shoes and stockings to dip her feet into the water. As she sat, a cloud shifted overhead, and the sudden light from the moon appeared bright as the fiery sun in the reflection below. Swirling her toes, she watched with satisfaction as ripples flowed ever outwards across the glassy surface.

She would make sure they never stopped.

“Don’t worry, my love,” she whispered. “You’re safe with me.”

#hamilton fanfic #alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #hamliza #election of 1800 #hamilton: an american musical #hurt/comfort

[longsightmyth]

Myth reads The Naming, Chapter 23

PELLINOR

The group troops back to Nelac’s house where Saliman takes the excuse of grabbing something to drink as a way to absent himself from Cadvan and Maerad. I mean the book doesn’t put it that way, but given Cadvan and Maerad and their overall Thing, I assume Saliman went ‘a storm, it is a’brewin’ and noped out to the kitchens at the first opportunity.

And, well. A storm. It is a’brewin.

Cadvan can tell that Maerad is upset and tries to console her, assuring her that it wasn’t her fault that the council is full of dickfaces, but he mismeasured and is genuinely shocked when she looks him in the eye and he can tell exactly how furious she is. She tells him she doesn’t need him and she and Hem are going to go off alone.

“Have you gone mad?” Cadvan’s face was pale, and the whiplashes stood out starkly against it. For a second Maerad faltered.

“No.” She thought again of the Hull Likud at the Broken Teeth, and hardened herself. “Please let go of my arm.”

“What’s possessing you?” Cadvan said. “Where would you go by yourself? Do you think that you and Hem would have a chance, with Hulls all over Annar hunting you down?”

Maerad glared at him scornfully and shook herself free of his grasp. “I’ve managed before,” she said. “I might do better if I’m not traveling with a Hull in the first place.”

The blood drained out of Cadvan’s face, and his hand fell nervelessly to his side. For a few seconds he was speechless. Then he gazed intently into her eyes, and spoke softly in the Speech. Il ver umonor imenval kor, dhor Dhillarearë de niker kor.

The words fell as gently as rain into Maerad’s mind, but she winced as if they bruised her. “By all we have suffered together, by the sworn bond you owe me as your teacher, and by the deeper bond you owe me as your friend, I bid you tell me now: what has happened to you, Maerad of Pellinor?”

She stood mutely before him, her overwhelming suspicion and fear warring with other memories: her first sight of Cadvan in the cowbyre, and her instinctive trust of him; their many days together, riding side by side; shared jokes; Cadvan’s face, innocent in the vulnerability of sleep, or stricken by the Hulls, or blazing with light, fearlessly standing against the Kulag and the wight. She turned her head away, feeling sick.

“You followed the Dark,” she said thickly. “You betrayed the Light. I can’t stay with you now.” She looked into Cadvan’s face, and he lowered his eyes. “Do you deny it?”

“No,” he said. “No, I cannot deny it.” Maerad had expected him to argue, and was momentarily at a loss. “I have never been a Hull, but I . . . did things I should not have done. I have paid for it, Maerad. And I have never betrayed you.”

He says he should have told her all of this before (YA THINK).

“It’s a simple enough story to relate,” he said, with an edge of bitterness. “I was a young Bard in Lirigon, newly fledged, arrogant in my powers, and despite my talent, ignorant of many things. There came another Bard there whose abilities almost matched mine, and we were rivals.” He paused, and sighed. “Or, to be more precise, I felt he was my rival. He didn’t think like that.”

“What was his name?”

“His name was Dernhil of Gent.”

Cadvan, trying to prove himself a better Bard than Dernhil, summoned a revenant that he couldn’t control, knowledge courtesy of Likud who we met before. Said revenant killed Cadvan’s girlfriend and escaped, and Cadvan eventually had to track it down. Dernhil and Nelac are the only reasons he wasn’t exiled like Mirlad, Maerad’s teacher at Gilman’s Cot.

“Who was . . . who was the Bard who died?”

For a while she thought Cadvan was not going to answer. When he did, his voice was muffled.

“Her name was Ceredin,” he said. “She was very young, and very beautiful, and my love. She was a Bard of great quality. She might have been greater than me. She was certainly more wise.” Beneath the bitterness in his voice, Maerad heard the anguish of an undimmed grief. For a second, as if she were a burning glass, Cadvan’s emotion flashed through her, and she fleetingly saw Ceredin in her mind’s eye: a dark-eyed, slender girl, with the same proud straightness she remembered of Milana. “I shall wear that death always,” Cadvan said harshly, though Maerad heard a catch in his voice. “I cannot forgive it.”

Maerad scries him and he lets her, and she believes him. She apologizes for doubting him, but says she couldn’t help it after everything, and stops and thinks more about Enkir.

“And now,” said Cadvan, breaking her reverie, “you can tell me what caused all this.” His voice was normal again, and she remembered what Nelac had said of him: If he seeks to keep something hidden, it is near impossible to find it out. Yet Cadvan had permitted her to see what he kept hidden, and his humility and trust in doing so had shaken her. She tried to order her thoughts.

She explains.

“I thought you were betraying me to Enkir,” Maerad said. “I didn’t understand how you didn’t know.”

“I would swear on my life that Enkir is not a Hull,” said Cadvan, turning to face her. He shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it. “Maerad, I can’t tell you how difficult this is to believe. Enkir is ambitious and cold, I agree, and I do not love him, and I disagree deeply with much that he has done. But he has been a noble Bard, a man of great learning and great wisdom, and he is the First Bard of the Circle. He has done much in the service of the Light, great deeds of magery, and has spent himself without mercy. How could that be so? How has he concealed his designs and actions from so many Bards? For none of those who sat at that table are fools, or easy to deceive.”

Maerad sat silently. It seemed perfectly obvious that Enkir was cruel and eaten up with malice. He did not seem noble to her.

“Perhaps the other Bards are like him,” she said at last. Cadvan glanced at her swiftly, but did not demur.

Saliman comes back in with Hem, and Maerad and Cadvan relay the whole Enkir business. Saliman, unlike Cadvan, is not Shook with a capital S. He does take a moment to think about how shocked Enkir must have been to have Cadvan announce Maerad of Pellinor after everything, and seems to take some pleasure in Enkir’s presumed discomfort. I don’t blame him tbh. He also says that Enkir will have to move quickly now.

Cadvan says that’s true, but since Enkir is Super Sexist he probably won’t consider Maerad much of a threat so they might have a teeny bit of wiggle room here, especially since Enkir doesn’t know they have Hem, who Enkir thinks is the foretold. They do have to gtfo out of Norloch, they have to do it fast, and they should probably split up if only to keep Enkir from knowing they have Hem.

“The best thing,” said Cadvan carefully, “would be for Saliman to take Hem south, and for me to go north with Maerad. For I think we must go north, and I think Maerad still needs my guidance. Yes, Maerad?” He looked across at her, a painful doubt in his eyes. Maerad met his gaze steadily. She hesitated for a long second, and then nodded slowly. She felt his surge of relief wash through her own body, and she was overwhelmed by a sudden emotion she couldn’t name.

They all go to pack and Nelac busts in, knowing that Maerad saw Enkir for what Nelac has figured out he is, ie evil. He tried to arrest anyone with a dissenting vote and thankfully was shot down for the moment. Nelac doesn’t think it will take long for him to regroup.

“No,” [Nelac] said. “But I see already that Enkir is a monstrous traitor to all the Knowing of the Light. No, he’s not a Hull,” he said, putting up his hand as Maerad opened her mouth to question him. “He is too proud to enslave himself like that. Nor is he the Nameless himself, in the guise of Bard,” he said, fending off another question. “He seeks rather to use the Dark to his own ends, and to make himself the seat of absolute power. He concealed himself in the very heart of the Light, following his recreant stratagems. I am sick that I did not see it.”

I actually appreciate that there are different ways of being evil and that being incredibly selfish is one road to it that doesn’t involve tossing off humanity or whatever. Enkir can probably sleep at night knowing he isn’t a hull and there are people technically worse than him, but here he is, actively contributing to destroying the world.

Not that anything like that is currently happening irl. That would be silly.

Nelac has already arranged to get Cadvan and Maerad out by boat, while Saliman and Hem will take Darsor and Imi providing the horses agree (I really appreciate that Maerad and Cadvan consider the fate of their horses).

“Farewell, my friend,” she said to the horse. “Guard my brother well.”

Your brother? said Imi, pricking her ears forward in surprise.

“Yes,” said Maerad.

I will, Imi said.

“I’ll miss you!” said Maerad, feeling tears prickle her eyes again. She dashed them away impatiently. Too many partings . . .

And then, all too quickly, Darsor and Imi were clattering over the cobbled courtyard. Nelac opened the broad outer doors and looked out into the street. It was empty.

“Go now!” he said. “May the Light speed you!”

Then the horses surged out in a swift gallop. Within seconds they had turned a corner and were out of sight. The three Bards stood in the doorway for a little while after they had vanished, Maerad with her head bowed low, struggling with her grief.

End chapter

THRONE OF GLASS

Chapters 51 and 52 here we come.

The next morning, Dorian kept his chin high as his father stared at him. He didn’t lower his gaze, no matter how many silent seconds ticked by. After his father had allowed Cain to toy with and hurt Celaena for so long, when she’d clearly been drugged … It was a miracle Dorian hadn’t snapped yet, but he needed this audience with his father.

I’m shrugging right now. Anyway Dorian wants to make sure Chaol won’t be punished for killing Cain. The king says he won’t be after some prevaricating. There’s some weirdly straw-man-y sexism in regards to Celaena:

“The assassin …,” his father mused. “She was rather disgraceful at the duel; I don’t know if I can have a blubbering woman as my Champion, poison or no. If she’d been really good, she would have noticed the poison before she drank. Perhaps I should send her back to Endovier.”

Dorian’s temper flared with dizzying speed. “You’re wrong about her,” he began, but then shook his head. “You’ll not see her otherwise, no matter what I tell you.”

“Why should I see an assassin as anything but a monster? I brought her here to do my bidding, not to meddle in the life of my son and empire.”

Dorian bared his teeth. He’d never dared look at his father like this. It thrilled him, and as his father slowly sat down, Dorian wondered if the king was considering whether he had become a genuine concern. To Dorian’s surprise, he realized that he didn’t care. Perhaps the time had come for him to start questioning his father.

“She’s not a monster,” Dorian said. “Everything she’s done, she did to survive.”

“Survive? Is that the lie she told you? She could have done anything to survive, but she chose killing. She enjoyed killing. She has you at her beck and call, doesn’t she? Oh, how clever she is! What a politician she’d have made if she had been born a man!”

It pains me to agree with anyone in these books, especially a strawman misogynist, but, like. He isn’t wrong about the murder. Even a stopped clock is right twice a day?

Dorian drowned in the cold rage that lay inside of him. Yet an image came vividly to his mind: Nehemia handing Celaena her staff at the duel. Nehemia was no fool; like him, she knew that symbols held a special kind of power. Though Celaena might be his father’s Champion, she’d gained the title using a weapon from Eyllwe. And while Nehemia might be playing a game that she had no chance of winning, Dorian couldn’t deny that he greatly admired the princess for daring to play in the first place.

Symbols don’t mean anything on a grand scale unless people can see them, so forgive me for sighing.

Dorian says they shouldn’t use Nehemia as a hostage for her people’s good behavior and the king acknowledges his point. Dorian leaves.

Celaena’s PoV!

She wakes up in pain and swathed in bandages. Nehemia comes to visit and says that she saved Celaena’s life (again, to be accurate) and that Celaena wasn’t hallucinating the ghosts and demons and stuff.

“No, you didn’t [hallucinate],” the princess said. “And yes, I saw everything that you saw; my gifts enable me to see what others normally cannot. Yesterday, the bloodbane Kaltain put in your wine made you see it, too: what lurks beyond the veil of this world. I don’t think Kaltain intended that effect, but it reacted to your blood in that way. Magic calls to magic.” Celaena shifted uncomfortably at the words.

Oh does magic call to magic how does that work if there is no magic on this continent, book, HOW.

“Why did you pretend to not understand our language all these months?” Celaena asked, eager to change the subject, but also wondering why the question stung as much as her wounds.

“It was originally a defense,” Nehemia said, gently setting her hand on Celaena’s good arm. “You’d be surprised how much people are willing to reveal when they think you can’t understand them. But with each day that I pretended to not know anything, being around you became harder and harder.” “But why make me give you lessons?” Nehemia looked up at the ceiling. “Because I wanted a friend. Because I liked you.”

Good spying, Nehemia. Poor choice in friends. I guess Elena didn’t give you much of a choice, though.

Also there’s a lot of magical explanations for a continent where magic doesn’t work anymore, because Nehemia opened a portal between worlds to bring Elena in to help Celaena (doesn’t that make ELENA the queen who walked through worlds FIRST, book? DOESN’T IT? I swear when you read the first books again it’s deeply evident how much the author decided to throw in later for kicks and to sound awesome without considering how it effects or contradicts earlier events). Nehemia says she only knows OF Elena, which as we know is a lie but I don’t blame Nehemia.

Anyway a wyrdmark burned on Celaena’s forehead during the duel, per Nehemia. Nehemia doesn’t know what it means, but suggests (after once again confirming that she came to spy on the king) that she and Celaena keep no more secrets from each other. Celaena agrees. Nehemia takes Fleetfoot for a walk. End chapter.

Celaena awoke the next day, unsure what time it was. There had been a knock on her door, and she blinked the sleep from her eyes in time to see Dorian enter. He stared at her for a moment from the doorway, and she managed a smile. “Hello,” she said hoarsely. She remembered him carrying her, holding her down as the healers stitched her leg …

He came forward, his steps heavy. “You look even worse today,” he whispered. Despite the pain, Celaena sat up.

“I’m fine,” she lied. She wasn’t. Cain had cracked one of her ribs, and it ached every time she breathed.

Dorian can’t sleep for thinking of what happened to Celaena at the duel. Celaena tells him not to worry. He continues to agonize over how he should have saved her instead of Chaol, who is, when Celaena asks after him, fine.

“Dorian,” she began, and he flicked her on the nose. “Ow,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Though her face was peppered with bruises, miraculously, Cain hadn’t marred her in any permanent way, though the cut on the leg would leave yet another scar.

“Yes?” he said, resting his chin on her head.

She listened to the sound of his heart beating, the steadiness of it. “When you retrieved me from Endovier—did you actually think I’d win?”

“Of course. Why else would I have bothered to journey so far to find you?”

She snorted onto his chest, but he gently lifted her chin. His eyes were familiar—like something she’d forgotten. “I knew you’d win the moment I met you,” he whispered, and her heart writhed as she understood what lay before them. “Though I’ll admit that I didn’t quite see this coming. And … no matter how frivolous and twisted that competition was, I’m grateful it brought you into my life. As long as I live, I’ll always be thankful for that.”

“Do you intend to make me cry, or are you just foolish?”

Dorian leaned forward and kissed her. It made her jaw hurt.

So that happened. We swap to the king’s PoV. Boy, it would sure be awkward if we had bits from the king of Adarlan’s head confirming that he was the mastermind here and Perrington was his flunky, wouldn’t it.

Seated on his glass throne, the King of Adarlan stroked Nothung’s pommel. Perrington knelt before him, waiting. Let him wait.

Super awkward.

things to worry about. “Your manipulation of Kaltain was interesting,” said the king at last. Perrington remained kneeling. “Were you using the power on her?”

“No; I’ve relaxed it recently, as you suggested,” the duke replied, rotating the obsidian ring around his thick finger.

Like, the most awkward.

“Duke,” the king said, his voice echoing through the chamber. The fire in the mouth-shaped fireplace flickered, and green light filled the shadows of the room. “We will soon have much to do in Erilea. Prepare yourself. And stop pushing your plan to use the Eyllwe princess—it’s attracting too much attention.”

The duke only nodded, bowed, and strode out of the chamber.

Good thing that never happened, amirite.

COMPARISON

So Rowan in later books has a refrigerated girlfriend for plot reasons too. I don’t like it in Cadvan’s case either, but at least Cadvan doesn’t go around talking about how Maerad is his REAL true love and Ceredin was his lie of a mate or whatever. Also, Cadvan’s flaw is consistently pride: he tries to work around it but it is always evident, and the book and characters don’t shy away from knowing that. Not only did he succumb to the dark in order to prove he was better, in the end he wasn’t even that good at it. He couldn’t control the revenant and it went merrily around the countryside for a bit. I’m not sure how to convey the difference between the way ToG handles this sort of thing with how Pellinor does, except that in ToG even when one of the important characters loses it still turns out that they won in some way and in Pellinor the characters can and do fuck up and get called out for it. Cadvan eventually getting rid of the revenant isn’t portrayed as a real triumph, because it was him fixing a catastrophic decision that got people killed. The only triumph here is that he learned better.

STATS

Throne of Glass:

Pages: 17

Fragments: 17

Em-Dashes: 37

Ellipses: 17

Pellinor:

Pages: 15

Fragments: 3

Em-Dashes: 3

Ellipses: 7

#myth reads #myth rags on throne of glass #myth reads the naming #myth reads the books of Pellinor

[kokina-kizoku]

Noblesse Painter AU: The Meeting

Go here for the presentation of this AU.

Frankenstein was in a state of deep torment. His emotions were dueling: admiration against disgust, wonder against rage. He had finally arrived in Lukedonia, the world capital of painters, and was certainly not disappointed by the artistic quality of what he saw: everywhere on the walls of the buildings were painted magnificent frescoes, each with a unique theme. For example, the Kertia mansion was decorated with images of wind and lightning, representing speed, and the Landegre mansion was very imposing with its elegant columns, painted with nobility and distinction.

However, wherever he looked, he saw the injustice that enraged him: ease. The children born in Lukedonia were supported by great artistic masters, brought up in luxury, lodged and fed like princes. And all their paintings represented opulence. Frankenstein was thinking about his mother, who died for lack of money to cure her, and to himself who had to search the trash and sometimes even steal to get a tiny amount of paint to express his art.

At one point, he passed a large mansion decorated with frescoes representing the fire, with the sign "Avgain Family" written in gold letters above the door. These warm colors made him think of Tesamu and he felt a poignant sadness add to his anger. Fucking Union. Fucking humans unfair and selfish.

The heart hardened by this memory that still hurt, even after three years of separation with his little assistant, he took a dark resolution. That night, he was going to add his colors to the rich and pretentious city of Lukedonia.

The brush slowly slid against the canvas, bright red mixing with the black to create a blood-colored hue. Raizel knew this mixture by heart. In each of his works, there was at least one small red spot. It was his signature, for lack of a real one. Raizel did not know how to write. The only thing he had always been able to do was paint over and over again. He had no idea of the letters that made up his name, but why sign his works? Anyway, there was no one to admire them.

That night he was sketching the image of angel's wings on his canvas. Two scarlet and bloody wings. Those whom his brother had not had to fly when he had pushed him off the cliff to prevent him from doing evil.

A tear fell on Raizel's pale cheek, devoid of color because he was never exposed to the sun. The pain that filled his heart was impossible to express, even with the greatest artistic talent in the world. He hated crying. His father had always told him that it was a weakness. That his emotions should never be expressed otherwise than by art.

Raizel's fingers were shaking. He hated his talent. He would have liked to learn something else... To learn love, happiness... Now that he was alone, he had nothing left. Just hundreds of useless paintings adorn his huge, empty house.

Suddenly, a sound of fast footsteps echoed across the door of his studio and Urokai Avgain entered. He was out of breath and his eyes were furious.

''Sir Raizel! There is a poverty-stricken who wreaks havoc in the city... We hastily painted his portrait. If you have seen it, report it to us!’’

Urokai placed a folded sheet on the table, bowed with deference, and hurried away. Raizel sighed. This sudden visit had at least had the advantage of distracting him from his grief.

He rose slowly. His body was thin and weakened by inaction and lack of food. Indeed, he had already spent 24 hours painting, completely forgetting his physical limits. But his health did not matter to him. He took the paper and unfolded it carefully.

The man in portrait had young and beautiful features. His blond hair in battle fell on his broad and strong shoulders, his lips were tight with determination and his eyes seemed troubled, lost. Blue like the sky. This portrait gave off power and wandering. Raizel recognized, for having already seen it before, the characteristic signature of Ragar Kertia at the bottom of the sheet. This man had always been talented, drawing with extraordinary speed and perfect precision.

Raizel brought the sheet to his easel. He had just found the inspiration, the person he was going to illustrate as an avenging angel with scarlet wings.

Frankenstein was exhausted. His arm was aching and the cold of the night made him shudder. He always wore rags, worn clothes on his travels, and had no time or money to buy a good coat. But he plunged his brush again into the purple paint. On the main wall of the Kertia mansion, he smeared furiously another streak of color. He had time to finish blackening these offensive designs; he was returning from the Urokai mansion and the men were still looking for him.

He took a few steps back to evaluate the whole, then raised his brush again in order to make the final line that would create in his drawing without a definite shape, that wild and unstable harmony he so much loved. But his movement stopped in the air when a soft and severe voice called to him.

‘’I ask you to stop now.’’

A few steps from him, the Kertia clan leader was standing, looking very calm, alone in the middle of the street. Frankenstein gritted his teeth. He would have preferred to see the man start screaming at him and attacking him. It would have been worse than the impassive gaze as he faced her, his cashmere scarf hiding the lower part of his face and his silk coat. As for him, he was panting, dressed in torn clothes, covered with paint and trembling with cold. This contrast of richness between them made his anger even more vivid and he said defiantly:

'' What if I do not stop? ''

"These frescoes were painted by my father, in honor of our family. I politely ask you to respect that. I do not wish to fight you; I am a painter, not a warrior. ''

"Oh, do you see that?" Frankenstein mocked. ''Your little bourgeois hands can not be damaged by giving a blow? ''

"It would be dishonorable for me to do it out of anger, you are clearly not in a normal mental state at the moment, and, moreover, sick and shaky. Be reasonable, stop now. I know very well why you are if angry with the nobles, your art is eloquent and denounces opulence, but there are many things you do not understand... Please, calm down and let me help you."

'' BULLSHIT! Why would you help me? You do not know anything about me! ''

"I know what suffering is."

"That's enough, Ragar," said another voice, more serious and ripe. "He is not able to think and listen to you right now. The mayor has given us the order to capture him and bring him behind him. Let's fulfill this mission now."

Frankenstein watched with resentment as the second, silver-haired, older man emerged from the shadows. Ragar looked sad and nodded.

"You are right, Gejutel. I'm sorry, but we're going to force you to-"

He paused when Frankenstein grabbed the paint bucket with one hand, ready to swing it in his face. But he changed his mind at the last second and instead threw it on the named Gejutel, who was splashed with violet paint from head to toe.

He barely heard the old man's shout of surprise, running at full speed. He hated to run away but he had no choice at the moment if he wanted to save his life. The members of the Urokai family had tried to kill him and he did not trust the mayor of this town, which certainly should not be less radical. The man called Ragar had seemed kind and understanding, but he could not take any chances.

Frankenstein ran as far as the city, a terrible pain oppressing his chest. His cough increased and he had difficulty breathing. He found himself in a field and without the cover of the buildings, the cold wind slapped him without pity and he could not see anything in that absolute darkness. There were not even stars in the sky.

He saw the lights of a manor shining in the distance. A manor house in such an isolated place? Strange... He was getting ready to go into the forest, but he felt his head spinning and realized he could not stay outside anymore. The cold would end up killing him. He also had a chance to die if the inhabitants of the manor found him, but between that and let his corpse be found in the morning in the middle of a field...

He gathered his last strength to get to the mansion. It was tall and imposing, and even in the dim light, Frankenstein noticed that he was not decorated with frescoes like all the others. It gave him a good impression. The owners of this mansion were not eager to show what they had to others.

As he entered, a flush of heat made him shiver with relief. But the house was not as hot as it should have been, and despite the lit oil lamps in the hallway where he walked, the mood was dark and empty. Dust covered the floor, and there were only two footprints track on it. He was so exhausted, his mind so lethargic that he automatically followed this track instead of trying to hide. He had a presentiment that he was not in danger in this manor.

As he passed, he put on a white shirt hanging from a coat rack, ignoring the fact that it was not his. It was a beautiful linen garment, the same one he had dreamed of wearing when he was a kid. As he climbed the stairs, trying to drive out those sad memories of his memory, his gaze stopped on the huge paintings hanging on the wall and his breath was cut off.

They represented ragged landscapes, with fuzzy and faded colors, with spots of red spotted in a few places. Such a poignant emotion filled them that Frankenstein put a hand to his heart, upset. Other paintings represented people with empty eyes, wandering in the fog and completely alone...

Suddenly, footsteps on the first floor brought him out of his contemplation. He had to hide. A coughing fit shook him and he pressed a hand against his mouth, leaning against the wall. His legs were close to collapse, but his survival instinct was stronger and he forced himself to walk to the end of the hallway and open the door to the last room.

He froze on the spot. It was a painting workshop, filled with pots of all colors, high ceiling. Paintings decorated the old tapestry. And near the window, an easel was installed. A man sat with a brush in his hand and stared at him. This man was frail and livid, his skin white as snow, his hair black as night and his eyes glistening with a reddish glow. His deep eyes pierced Frankenstein into his soul.

'' I ... I ... ''

He could not speak. The silence of this man was an invincible weapon. The window, open despite the intense cold, let in the wind that whipped the thin figure of the painter and fly through the air immaculate curtains. A flash of light suddenly illuminated the sky, creating dazzling lights in the room, and the thunder sounded. Frankenstein, like electrified, says in a whisper:

‘’Good evening. I came to work here.’’

Raizel, bewildered, looked at this intruder who had desperate and suspicious eyes like those of a wild animal. It was him, the one who was wanted through Lukedonia. He has released as much power and torment as in his portrait. Raizel could feel his panic, his anger, his loneliness. Then, gently, he did something he had not done in years, naturally, to appease the terror he saw in his blue eyes like the sky. He spoke.

‘’You wear my shirt.’’

The man looked embarrassed, but relieved at the same time not to be hurt.

‘’Ah, uh, yes. I did not find anything else, forgive me.’’

The door opened suddenly, and panic returned in his eyes. Frankenstein took a step back. The old man with silver hair, looking satisfied, or at least the most we can be when we are covered with purple paint, stood next to Ragar Kertia in the embrasure of the door. The latter, on the other hand, did not seem very happy and rather guilty of not being so.

"We found him. It was the last place I would have thought ... "

"He came to work here."

Gejutel paused, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He looked at Raizel as if to ask him if it was really him who had just spoken.

"You ... um ... what do you mean?"

"He came to work here because I live alone and I need someone to maintain my paintings."

Frankenstein did not understand much about his situation, except that the ebony-haired painter was defending him. He tried to support his words, but a violent cough shook him as soon as he opened his lips. He placed his palm in front of his mouth to repress it, and blood fell on his palm.

"You are sick," Ragar said. Frankenstein gave him a annoyed look.

"I know how to take care of myself."

"We have to take him to the mayor," Gejutel said authoritatively, ignoring the dialogue between the two. Raizel replied in a whisper:

"I will send him when he is healed."

The two clan leaders bowed, and came out after giving Frankenstein a last look. The latter, once the door closed, found himself without words. The painter looked at him with compassion, and got up to close the window from which the cold draft was coming.

"Thank you for saving me," he finally said. '' My name is... Frankenstein...''

"Cadis Etrama di Raizel."

Frankenstein printed this name in his memory. He was not at all like the other nobles... Faded, silent, and surrounded by an aura of power and calm. His eyes fell at random on the canvas he was painting. He stepped forward, fascinated. The painting depicted a man with scarlet wings... A man with blond hair and blue eyes like the sky...

He realized with shock that it was himself and the memories poured into his memory.

"Mom, you always say that angels protect us. Who are they?''

'' They are the artists, my treasure. Those who create beautiful and moving things for humans... "

"Can I become an angel, mother?"

''I think so. You are so good for others.''

Frankenstein's lips began to shake. There was no reason for him to be combed like this; he was more of a demon than an angel. But this painting was moving, more beautiful than any other he had seen in his life.

"It's so beautiful ..." he said in a panting breath. The painter lowered his eyes. Frankenstein convulsed as another fit of coughing him, preventing him from breathing and filling his mouth with blood.

He fainted.

Coming soon in Noblesse Painter AU: Frankenstein's healing, his first moments with Raizel and his confrontation with Ragar.

#noblesse #noblesse Painter AU #frankenstein #cadis etrama di raizel #raizel #gejutel #ragar kertia #noblesse AU #I love Franky and Ragar friendship #even though in this chapter Franky does not want to know anything

[the-everqueen]

asw meme: 48? any pairing/'verse is cool, but i first thought of ghosts?

48. life would be easier if i were easier (fact)

He comes to her after he dies.

It is not a tearful reunion or bittersweet goodbye. There is screaming, fumbling in the dark, coldness so severe and steep it makes Eliza’s heart seize in her chest. Alexander cries out, his voice wavering between banshee wail and please, Betsey, it’s me. It has been a week since the funeral, the first night Eliza managed to fall asleep in their bed rather than with one of the children, rocking them through their furious, uncomprehending grief. She could never stop being a mother, not even to mourn the loss of being a wife. But loss is lost as Alexander floats above her, his face rendered familiar through pain, as he tries and fails to grasp at her wrists.

Eliza thinks, I cannot go mad. The children can’t lose us both so soon.

She pulls the covers over her head, squeezes her eyes shut tight tight tight, like a child hiding from monsters. He wails, sad or enraged or desperate, plunging the room into a frost that makes her tremble beneath the blankets. Or maybe it’s terror. She grits her teeth and presses palms against her ears. There is no rest for the widowed.

Alexander isn’t the first.

She remembers when he got the letter, the one that informed them John Laurens had been killed in action. A waste, everyone said, as though he were a bank note foolishly spent and not a man half-mad with fever. Alexander was inconsolable. He threw himself into the Annapolis Convention, and then the Philadelphia Convention, and then the Federalist essays — must there be another one this week, what happened to twenty-five, I thought this was a collaborative project, you have to sleep, Alexander. And his eyes bright with exhaustion and fervor as he insisted, I just need to write something down, one more thing. Back then, when she left him in his office, making the careful trek upstairs to bed alone, she saw the figure in the corner of her eyes, hovering by her husband’s side. She never met John Laurens, but she recognized the leonine eyes and wild curls from the miniature Alexander had shown her — and even if she hadn’t, the uniform would have been a clue.

He appeared at intervals until the Constitution was ratified. That night, as Alexander collapsed on the bed like a puppet cut from its strings, Laurens came to his side with an expression of both fondness and disappointment. His ghostly fingers brushed at a stray piece of hair over Alexander’s slack mouth, the gesture familiar even if it had no material effect. Eliza watched him, motionless as a doe that’s heard a twig snap. For the first time, he met her gaze. He mouthed something she did not understand.

“What was that?” she whispered.

He repeated it.

Eliza swallowed hard. She felt a sudden, shameful gratitude that there was the ultimate barrier of Death between her and John Laurens. “I’ll tell him,” she said. She hoped that would be enough, but Laurens watched her for another moment, as though weighing the worth of her soul. Then he faded, leaving a breath of cool air in his wake.

When Alexander comes back to her, she realizes she never told him Laurens’s last words.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander tells her the second time. “I should have realized it might be a shock. But you have to understand, I had to make sure you were okay and assure you that I was okay —”

“Alexander, please.”

“Right.” He drops his gaze contritely. His long, dark lashes fan over his cheekbones but cast no shadows. There is a general translucent quality to him that’s hard to ignore in the afternoon light; Eliza can see the parlor settee through his shoulder. She concentrates on that, instead of the familiar twist of his mouth as he bites his lower lip.

Her husband is dead. Her husband is dead.

Her husband is standing in the parlor, wearing the same black suit she peeled from his body as Doctor Hosack worked to staunch the bleeding. Eliza recalls the iron sour smell of blood and feels as though she might faint.

Of course, Alexander cannot be silent for long. “You got the letter?”

She lets out a hysterical laugh. “Yes, Alexander, I got your letter. I suppose I should thank you for sparing me the wait to see you in a better world.”

He winces. “I just meant —”

“Oh, I know what you meant. You only ever mean anything.” Her voice is pitching higher and sharper with the anxiety splitting her carefully constructed seams. “When has your so-called honor changed my opinion of you? How dare you justify yourself to me after the fact! When you know I couldn’t possibly hate you for it because you’re dead, you’re gone, you left me and the children for your stupid honor…” She bursts into tears, hands coming up to cover her face.

“Shh, shh, oh Bets.” Flutter touches of cold raise goosebumps on her arms, shoulders, the back of her neck. Without looking, she knows that Alexander is hovering around her, eyebrows knit together in desperate resolve to Fix Things. “Hey, you’re all right, it’ll be all right. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I don’t want to be strong,” she sobs, but her tears are ebbing. She cried for so many nights, alone in their bed, face muffled in the pillows, that now she can only weep in short cloudbursts, as sudden as a summer storm and just as quick to evaporate. She lowers her hands, and Alexander gives her a tentative smile. “There we go.”

“This is your fault,” she says. His smile slips away.

“In my defense, I didn’t think Burr would shoot me. I thought he’d dither over it like everything else in his life.”

“This isn’t a courtroom, you don’t have a defense.”

“Darling, if I’d known —”

“Don’t pretend. Don’t pretend that would have changed things. You’ve always prized your reputation, as though that’s ever mattered to me. I married you when you had nothing but your brilliance and ambition.” She swipes angrily at the wetness on her cheeks. “I fell in love with you. And I knew you’d go far, because how could you not, but all I ever wanted was to be your peace of mind.”

He reaches for her. She jerks back. “No, it’s — you died. You’re not here.”

He looks more hurt at that simple statement of fact than her previous accusation. His face falls, his shoulders droop. He becomes so transparent he seems little more than an outline, a preliminary sketch over the carpet and wallpaper.

There’s a knock on the parlor door. “Ma’am?” the maid’s voice calls, quiet and trembling. “Are you — is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” Eliza says. Isn’t she always? She turns back to Alexander, but he’s gone, the slight shiver in the closed parlor the only sign he was here. She feels a burst of nonsensical panic — what if those were her last words to her husband? What if he thinks she doesn’t miss him so terribly sometimes it’s hard to breathe? But those questions fade, replaced with a calm certainty.

Alexander will return.

“Have you seen them? The others who have…passed?”

Eliza does not say Philip’s name, but she relies on Alexander to know what she means. Over the years their conversations have taken on the faintly surreal air of a guessing game, or riddles, both of them circling around the topics that weigh on them the most. Alexander’s visits have become shorter and less frequent — she can’t be sure whether he’s losing his tether to this side of eternity, or whether he’s reaching some limit on crossing over. Eliza has been Dutch Reformed from childhood, but encountering her dead husband makes her wonder whether her theology might need revision. Maybe his soul is passing into Heaven, out of some Purgatorial state. Maybe his visits are just a more painful and protracted goodbye, as he watches her and the children keep on living without him.

Alexander frowns. He watches as she tallies numbers in the Society’s paybook, her pen scratching neat figures in their proper columns. She feels a shiver of frisson at their reversed positions: how many times did they have conversations while he labored over their finances or scribbled down another idea? But she doesn’t give it words, not even in teasing.

She pauses. “Alexander.”

“Mm? Oh. I — I can’t say.”

It is Eliza’s turn to frown. Alexander is never at a loss for words; even on his deathbed, he managed to keep speaking, until the sight of the children all lined up at the door overwhelmed him. She wants to ask whether he’s all right — but what can she do if he isn’t? A chill washes over her arms.

A moment later, she realizes it’s Alexander, embracing her from behind. His mouth gives a puff of cold air when he murmurs in her ear, “It’s not what I imagined. There are rules about what — but I didn’t expect this, getting to see — You’ve done so much. I’m so proud of you, Bets.”

Cool lips brush a kiss against her cheek, turning her tears to brittle tracks of frost.

She’s never understood Alexander’s sense of running out of time. There is so much to do, yet the years stretch on, no fin in sight. If Alexander’s personal Hell is to be cut short, obscured, forgotten, hers might be to outlive everyone she’s loved, unable to cross over to the Other Side.

“I’m so tired,” she says. “I want to see Hamilton.”

He comes to her before the end.

She doesn’t know what woke her until she sees him at her bedside. He smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners. The moonlight brings out the greyish streaks in his hair. “Hi, darling,” he murmurs. He looks, impossibly, both like the dashing young Colonel she fell in love with and the older, more subdued figure she kissed on the night he wrote his last letter to her. “It’s time.”

She takes his hand. It’s warm and solid in hers.

#my fic #hamliza #i'm not entirely satisfied (ha) with this #if i had endless time i'd probably have weird ghost sex in this #with meditations on longing and desire #but here! #happy christmas eve? #idk how to tag this for warnings #ghosts tw #death tw

[akaiikowrites]

thicker than water

Notes: for @zutaramonth​ 2017, day one, amongst the fire lilies. this is a canon divergence au where zuko joined the gaang in ba sing se. in other news i’m still That Bitch™ who reads a perfectly good soft aesthetic prompt and thinks, you know what this needs more of? gothic ruminations on morality and loyalty.

After, she is too shaken to heal him.

Blood stains his throat and crusts over a thin line where his dao had pressed in. When he cleans the wound he remembers her voice, high and scared like the girl she hasn’t been for a year, no Hama don’t hurt him please I’ll do anything— More than the cold well water beading on his skin chills him.

Villagers had brought them back to the inn. It’s the largest building in town. A logical place for everyone to group. They’re the new town heroes. Former prisoners had recounted Toph’s daring rescue. No one thought to ask how a child brought down a metal door. Sokka herded Katara up the stairs toward a bedroom. Tired, he claimed to anyone who tried to stop them, his sister is so tired. Villagers looked at the tear stained dullness of her eyes and stepped out of the way with murmured thanks.

For Zuko, it’s too much like the last town Katara saved. People look at her with thinly veiled worship. If the Spirits allow it he thinks she will save his entire Nation village by village. And by now he knows that if she does the cost will be too high for either of them to bear.

Closing his eyes, he bends over the well and tries to breath through the sudden pain. His pulse thumps in his ears. Quietly he wonders how long it will take before his heartbeat stops reminding him of her tears.

“Zuko?” Sokka’s voice has a raw quality to it that hasn’t been there since Aang abandoned them.

“How is she?” It’s not what he meant to ask. Comes out too hard. Because he’d been there, kneeling in front of her, fingers wiping desperately at the tears streaming down her face. Helpless in the face of her pain. Unable to protect her from the people staring at her or the woman laughing madly into the night or the blood still streaming down his own neck. “How’s Katara?”

Silence answers him. Zuko turns around.

Lamplight floods the area, enough to give a golden glow to things and maybe drown out the heavy silver of the full moon above. In it, Sokka looks tired and young and grim. “I don’t know. I went to get her some water and when I got back she was gone.” Shadows fall in the sudden rage that contorts the other boy’s face. “I never should have trusted Hama!”

Somewhere in town, Hama is under lock and key. Awaiting transport come the morning when she’ll be stripped of her moon granted strength. Zuko’s carefully been avoiding the thought because if he thinks about it, he’ll take justice into his own hands. Justice will look like vengeance.

But. “Katara’s gone?”

As quickly as the rage flared it now extinguishes. They’re just kids. They’re not meant for this. Sokka rubs his arm with one hand. “I think she’s gone to be alone. Katara doesn’t...” Doesn’t let people see her break. It’s something she and Zuko have in common. “You were the one following them the last few days.” Because Zuko hadn’t trusted Hama either, with her knowing eyes and her nails digging into his wrist, but he’d trusted her with Katara even less. So he watched Katara and Sokka watched the village. “Is there somewhere she went with Hama? Somewhere she might go now?”

Yes, he knows where Katara would go. “The fire lily meadow,” Zuko says. It’s an open area with little cover. Katara’s exposed, vulnerable, and it doesn’t matter that she’s the most powerful bender he’s seen in his life aside from his sister and the Avatar. Instinctively he walks in the direction of the meadow. After a few paces he realizes that Sokka hasn’t followed and he slows. Stops. Turns again and demands, “Aren’t you coming?”

“I tried to help her,” Sokka says. “I think it’s your turn.” Zuko doesn’t have the patience to ask what that means.

Pivoting on his heel, he breaks into a run that eats up the distance between the village and the meadow. Outside the protective circle of firelight he feels defenseless. It spurs him to go faster, to call up fire that sparks along his tongue, to ignore the thunder of his heartbeat.

Minutes later he breaks out of the treeline. Somehow the sight of her, lonely and hushed and watchful, isn’t what he expected. Agni, she looks unreal. Lined with silver and so beautiful it aches.

Zuko eases his pace until he’s only a little away from her. She doesn’t even turn to face him. “Katara?” he asks. Carefully. Katara flinches then stills. Only now does he wonder if this was a good idea. His tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth. The last time they spoke, he almost died, and the time before that they argued. Sokka should have come with him. “Are you...”

“No,” she says. Only a syllable but her voice cracks over it anyway. It’s got him reaching for his dao before he can stop himself. Ready to send fire and steel at whatever has hurt her.

Forcing himself to calm, he pries his fingers off the handle of his dao and takes a step toward Katara. “Let’s go back to the village,” he says.

“I can’t.”

When she says it so simply he feels like he cannot argue. “Okay.” Two more steps and he’s right next to her. If she will not go then he will stay.

Because he thinks she would not want him to look at her now he looks forward and realizes that what he’d initially taken for shadow is in fact a ring of dead flowers. They stand at the edge of it. Earlier he watched them wring all life from the trees—shattering them from the roots up—but this somehow is worse. Delicate, dry petals rustle in the wind.

A muffled sob comes from his right. Without looking at her, he curls his arm around her shoulders and tugs her toward his body. Katara comes easily. Almost collapses into his side. Hot tears press into his neck and he wraps his other arm around her.

The moon begins to descend. Slowly, so that he doesn’t realize it’s going until it brushes the edges of the treetops and he feels the slow coming of the dawn.

“No one knows the Southern Water Tribe bending traditions,” Katara says. She turns her face so her cheek presses against his chest. Zuko tightens his grip reflexively. “When I was born, there hadn’t been a Waterbender in a generation. We never wrote down the styles. I know Northern bending, and Foggy Bottom Swamp bending, and now...” Beneath her touch, his heart beats steady and sure. “But I’ll never know Southern bending.”

Fire Nation histories dictate that the war came about to enlighten the world. To bring to them new prosperity under benevolent rule. For years now he’s known it to be a lie but it’s sharper. An ache he knows now will never go away again. Here is Katara, strong and kind and fearless, the last waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe. Grieving for what she has lost. What has been lost to her for her entire life. Perhaps Hama gave her hope. Offered a glimpse of possibility before drenching it in vengeance. But in the end it was always the Fire Nation that brought this about.

Zuko is of a line of kings who took history away from the girl in his arms.

“I’m sorry.” Words are not enough. Holding her is not enough. Nothing is ever going to be enough. “I’m sorry, Katara.”

Small hands come up to push at his chest. Everything in him says not to let her go but he does. If this is what she needs. But she does not step away, just looks up at him with red rimmed eyes and slides her hand up his chest to his throat til her fingertips meet the blood at his neck. “I’m sorry, too.”

Protests die in his throat. They had argued before she went with Hama. It’d been their first real argument since he joined the group in Ba Sing Se. Zuko wishes now that he’d been wrong then.

One of her hands whips out in an elegant, vicious movement. Flowers crumple to the earth as water comes curling up toward her hand. Already it glows blue for healing. “This is what I know now,” she says. Muted venom coats her voice but her hands on him are gentle. When they finally drop away he knows that she’s healed him.

Agni, he wishes he could heal her as easily. Only. Zuko’s eyes widen and he reaches out, catching her hips with his hands and pulling her back into him. Fumblingly he says, ��Katara, I—”

“No,” she says. “Don’t apologize. You almost...” Died. The word doesn’t come out and he wonders, for the first time, if the haunted look in her eyes isn’t just because of what she’s lost.

Even like this, exhausted and tear stained and grieving, she’s magnificent.

“Close your eyes,” he whispers. Somehow she trusts him enough to do it and he sucks in a shaky breath. Moves his hands to her neck and unties the red ribbon that had replaced her mother’s necklace. It means nothing and he lets it drop to the ground with the dead lilies. Reaching into his tunic, he pulls out the blue silk he carries with him always. Ties it around her neck carefully and lets his thumb brush over the polished stone. “Open them.”

There’s no way of know what she sees when she opens her eyes. Whatever it is has her lower lip trembling. Hesitatingly she touches the stone at her throat. “Zuko...”

Leaning down, he rests his forehead against hers. Wraps his arms around her waist again. “There are prisons everywhere in the Fire Nation. After the Day of Black Sun we’ll go to all of them. We’ll find the Southern Tribe waterbenders. I promise. It won’t always be like this.” Like grief, like loss, like memory. “I promise, Katara.”

“Okay,” she breathes. “Okay.”

Calluses rasp against his skin as her strong small hands cup his jaw. Then she surges up, lips crashing into his, artless and wonderful and alive. Kissing sets his blood on fire and it doesn’t matter, anymore, that his nightmares will be her tear streaked face as she begged for his life or that he’s never going to entirely manage to deserve her. All that matters is that they’re here and somehow they’re going to save the world.

#zutara month 2017 #zutara #sometimes i hurt myself #thinking oh what a fun prompt #zuko in the gaang when they encounter the puppetmaster #but no not fun #kaii writes zutara

[timestowander]

I don't think Jimin was crying just because they couldn't give any concert. It seems like he has something inside of him. What are you thinking?

I don't think Jimin was crying just because they couldn't give any concert. It seems like he has something inside of him. What are you thinking?

Liz Anderson

Answered October 16

He has frustration and genuine despair inside him. Unfortunately because of his status as an idol and global superstar he isn’t able to express his emotions as readily as us everyday people. When people such as Jimin become celebrities they unfortunately start getting trapped in this double standard world where they are obviously human like the rest of us but aren’t allowed to act like it because “they aren’t living in the same world as us”. I’ll explain this further in a second.

Jimin lives to perform and be on stage. Him and Jungkook, more so than any of the other members, truly find their happiness and purpose on stage. Being forced to cancel tours with no end in sight has to be devastating to them. Jungkook though has many passions such as drawing, painting, learning instruments, making his mixtape, etc. while Jimin doesn’t have all of those extra outlets where he can pour his emotions into. During Dynamite interviews the other members talked a bit about how they got to try things that they didn’t have time to do before (like play the guitar, paint, etc) but Jimin just said “think about how I could help the other members” and there’s something kind of heartbreaking in that. The other members, though they obviously had their struggles with all the cancelations and sudden upheaval of their life too, seemed to adjust decently to things calming down a bit. Yes, V talked In The Soop about his struggles and how he was depressed at first and how he was seeking love from his fans online but he said in the radio interview after that filming that he truly found happiness again during that time off. Jimin though….. I think is very lost in life right now. This quarantine has to be making him sit and wonder what’s next for him? That is a scary question, regardless of how much money you have. While I think Jimin is one of the most business smart members of the group and could honestly be successful doing whatever he chooses, that doesn’t mean he also feels that way about himself or that makes figuring out the next step any easier.

I’m now going to go back to the first thing I talked about where celebrities are trapped inside this weird double standard dilemma. You hear things like this a lot from the general public when celebrities get political or they open up about emotional difficulties:

“they don’t even live in the same reality as us how would they know our struggles”

“I’d rather cry and be depressed in a mansion than a one bedroom apartment”

“they have more money than they know what to do with, they have no idea what type of situation we are in”

“it must be easy to say “it’ll get better” when you’re rich and famous and don’t live in the real world”

These are things that BTS is VERY hyperaware of, Jimin especially. When they were discussing songs and topics for their new album it was Jimin who warned the group of toxic positivity and that saying “oh, it’ll get better” can come off wrong to people. Jimin is very aware that his social status keeps him from being able to express his emotions openly without having to consider how they may come off to the general public or to fans. He knows that many people hate when celebrities try to console fans or say “we are in this together” because the truth is, we aren’t. Whether it’s during a pandemic or not people in a higher social and economic class have a very different quality of life than people in lowers ones. Jimin is very aware of how many people consider him lucky and privileged during this time even though he is struggling just as much or more than people with a lot less money than him. All of this together means that he isn’t really able to publicly express how hard this has been for him.

They now are constantly performing in empty venues with fake fan cheers and nothing but cameras staring them in their face while trying to perform as if their fans were actually there. There comes a point where you just can’t pretend anymore. You can’t pretend like the fans are there and everything is fine because it’s not. This tour that got cancelled was most likely going to be their last as a seven member group. This album BE will very possibly be their last album as a seven member group (Jin enlists next December) besides maybe some more singles. As of right now, no one is touring in the US or Europe in big venues for the foreseeable future, not just the rest of 2020 but most likely a good chunk of 2021. So, Jimin finally publicly snapped. I think seeing the fans on the screens and performing the sets that were meant to be done for the tour just got to him. He couldn’t fake smile anymore and he finally broke down and said “it isn’t fair, why is this happening to me”. It wasn’t an elated, I love my fans cry. It was a brutal and deep cry of genuine despair over his current life situation. He loves BTS and performing for ARMY with his whole being despite being unable to live a normal life with privacy.

Now he has no privacy and no fans to perform in front of. These guys can’t even quarantine in peace without paparazzi constantly outside their houses or obsessive fans trying to figure out who they are dating. And for what now? So they can perform in front of an empty stadium and be immediately sexualized by minors on Weverse, Tik Tok, and Twitter all day claiming to be their fans? I’d break down too. These guys have earned the right to be frustrated, depressed, and heartbroken at how things have turned out this past year. Its honestly about time we saw some genuine grief from one of them because now I know they feel the same way I do. Jimin has the courage to let his emotions out while many of us try and shove it down so instead of making memes about him crying people need to learn from him and respect where he is coming from because it’s a place many of us are currently at.

All that being said I hope he has found some peace in this down time. I hope he spent this time getting to know himself better and forming a healthier relationship with himself. I hope maybe he found new friends, was able to rekindle old friendships, or found a possible soulmate. I really hope that he is able to continue to release his emotions in a healthy manner (crying is a very healthy release) and that he figures out a way to move forward with excitement for the future. I think he and the rest of BTS have a lot of figuring out to do during these next few months about what the future holds for them as a group and individually. We just have to support them in a respectful way and be grateful for all the content and music they continue to give us regardless of how well they are doing mentally and physically.