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sheepwithspecs · 1 month

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The Sorcerer & The Moon Bride

|| FFXIV || Rated G ||

Here is my entry for @fauxlorexiv minibang! This Eorzean original(?) is the tale of an ageless sorcerer and his beloved moon bride. Featuring FANTASTIC art by the ulta-talented @trarioven that you can see here! I had so much fun with this!

read on Ao3

Urianger stepped from the dimly lit interior of the Bookman’s Shelves, squinting against the brightness of the Il Mheg morning. The sun, seemingly oblivious to the horrors he and his compeers had faced at the bottom of Malika’s Well only days before, lay warm and heavy on the rolling hills. Longmirror Lake was a smooth sheet of glass, barely rippling at the corners as it lapped onto the shoreline. Far above the submerged city, the spires of Lyhe Ghiah stretched towards the newly-revealed firmament. Fluffy clouds, no longer hidden by a foreboding sheath of Light, drifted lazily towards the distant horizon.

The breeze stirred his hair as he crossed the threshold, pulling the heavy oaken doors shut behind him. The hills surrounding the Shelves were carpeted in a dazzling array of wildflowers, humming with life as morphos the size of large birds fluttered amidst towering stone formations. Pixies darted to and fro above the dewy petals, scampering about and giggling like children in their play.

A well-worn cart path led towards Lydha Lran; he followed it down the slope, breaking away at the last moment to make for the young sapling that grew in the shadow of his borrowed home. The newly-christened Ryne sat beneath its shady boughs, hunched over something in her lap. As he drew closer, Urianger found that she was hard at work making bullets for Thancred’s gunblade. Her lap already contained far more than the gunbreaker would ever need, even with present circumstances taken into account. Ryne lifted her head at the sound of his approach, her worried brow smoothing in welcome.

“How fares thy task?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. The earth was warm beneath his crossed legs, the tree bark rough against his bared shoulders. From far away, his sensitive ears could make out the faint sound of the herd that sheltered in the abandoned stables. “’Twould seem there are bullets enough to furnish the Crystarium guard to a man.” Ryne’s cheeks flushed deep with color at his mild teasing, chin dipping into her neck as she hid behind the long curtain of her hair.

“I want to make sure that Thancred is prepared,” she explained, cupping her fingers protectively around the bullets in her lap. “I remember when he rescued me, how hard it was to escape Eulmore. And now we’re going back…. But we have no choice.” A resolute nod punctuated the statement. Even so, Urianger had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to convince herself of the fact, rather than express it to him. “There’s no other way to save everyone. We all have our roles to play, and we have to succeed, especially now that… that….”

“Ah. Thou art worried about our friend.” He put a soothing hand on her shoulder; the muscles were rigid beneath his palm, fraught with nervous energy. Ryne shook her head, chewing absently on her lower lip.

“It’s just… they’ve already done so much to help us, and it’s clearly starting to take a toll. We need to do more to help! I know the Warrior of Darkness is the only one able to defeat the Lightwardens and contain the Light within them, but it doesn’t seem fair that they’re suffering while we’re sitting around doing nothing!”

“Why isn’t there something we can do to help ease that burden, even a little?” She hiccoughed, turning aside in a vain effort to wipe her eyes without being noticed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t raise my voice. It’s just that I feel so… so helpless whenever I think about it.”

“I understand thy frustrations.” Urianger rubbed small circles between her shoulder blades, attempting to loosen the tense muscles. “I too have oft lamented that I should stay behind, in relative safety, while others… bear that burden.”

His heart twisted as the faces of Scions lost in battle flashed through his mind. The happy voices in the Waking Sands, silenced forever by Garlean arms. Louisoix, who bore the prayers of a nation as he faced the primal Bahamut on the bloodstrewn Flats. Papalymo, standing tall on Baelsar’s Wall as he followed his master to oblivion. Moenbryda—

Swallowing thickly, he cleared his throat and tried again to impart what wisdom he could to his young friend.

“Though these words may ring hollow in the present moment: do not underestimate thy own ability. Not everyone is built for the front lines, but there are other ways in which thou might offer assistance to thy comrades. There is no shame in supporting those who fight for our sake.” He picked up a bullet from her lap, turning it between his thumb and forefinger so that the smooth metal surface caught the light. “For instance, would’st thou proclaim the smith who forged these bullets has less claim to a victory on the battlefield than the man who wields them?”

“Well….” Ryne thought a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

“The soldiers of the Crystarium would be remiss in their duties were it not for the food, armor, and shelter provided by those who live there. They who provide succor are not weak for eschewing the path of a warrior. Neither are we the lesser for our more modest roles in our friends’ success.”

“You’re right, of course,” Ryne admitted softly. “Even so, I suppose I just feel… useless, sometimes.” She looked down at her hands, still curled protectively over the bullets in her lap. “I did everything I could to help the Warrior of Darkness to contain the Light, but they were still unconscious when we left the Crystarium. Since the day we met, they’ve done their best to help Thancred protect me. But when they needed my help, I couldn’t do the same for them.”

“If I tried my very best, why does it still feel as though I’ve failed them somehow?” She sniffed, no longer attempting to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. “And what if I can’t—what if I fail the others, too? We’ve lost so many already! What should I do? What can I do?”

Such heavy thoughts, for one so young…. Urianger frowned. Ryne was yet a child in many ways. Her days ought to have been filled with studies, with friends and outings and all measures of happiness. Instead, the universe saw fit to grant her a life of warfare and bloodshed. He cast about for something, anything that might be a balm to her troubled thoughts. But his mind was empty; there was nothing within him that could ease the ache in his own heart, much less hers.

“Failure,” he began slowly, attempting to formulate something whole from the fragments of his thoughts, “does not always mean defeat. Sometimes ‘tis simply….”

Simply what?

Ryne looked up at him with large eyes, keen for answers he could not readily give. What could he possibly tell her that would bear the weight of her hope? Sometimes failure was simply failure. Sometimes one’s best was not enough, never enough.

Work thy fingers to the bone, until thy last reserves of energy are depleted, until thy every breath is a desperate struggle for air. Even that is not enough to keep the ones you love alive evermore. And when they are gone, when their souls have departed this mortal coil, no amount of desperation will be enough to undo what has been done. Fall to thy knees, scream thy grief unto the heavens, pray until thy voice is broken—it matters not. The gods will not deign to answer. Accept this, or go mad with grief: no other choice is at hand.

A simple truth in and of itself, but not the sort of truth a young girl needed to hear. Laid bare, its sharp edges would scour the depths of her soul. But neither could it be sugarcoated; to lessen the blow would be a disservice.

As he pondered the best way to move forward with the conversation, his ears caught the familiar rasp of a long coat against tall grass. A white-clad figure was heading towards them from the direction of Lydha Lran, taking a shortcut through the fields in his effort to reach the Bookman’s Shelves.

“T’would seem Thancred hath returned to us unscathed.” Ryne followed his gaze, her eyes lighting up at the sight of her guardian. She hurriedly scooped the bullets from her lap, gathering them into a leather pouch before racing to meet him as he crested the hill.

“Thancred!” She pressed the pouch into his hand, hovering at his side with a hopeful expression. He greeted her with an absent smile, letting fall the linen sack that hung over his shoulder.

“Supplies,” he explained brusquely, stretching his neck now that he was free of the burden. “Just for tonight. I thought we might join the others at the Crystarium tomorrow— Still unconscious, I’m afraid,” he added, already anticipating Ryne’s question. “Though resting more easily than before, if Y’shtola’s word is to be trusted.”

“Oh.” She wilted, wringing her hands in the folds of her dress. “Well, at least we’ll see the others tomorrow….”

“Hmph! A fat lot of good that does us!” Without warning, a pixie descended from the treetops, hovering inches from her face. Ryne blinked in surprise, flinching away from the iridescent wings glittering in the dappled light. “If you leave, we’ll have no one left to play with!”

“How rude!”

“Selfish! You people never stop to think about how we might feel!”

More pixies emerged from the flowers, buzzing angrily around their heads like so many indignant flies. Thancred—who had never quite mastered the art of weathering their mischievous antics—swatted at the lithe bodies irritably. He retreated beneath the outstretched boughs, leaning against the sapling’s knotted trunk with a scowl.

“We would love to stay and play with you, honest!” Ryne said appeasingly, allowing the pixie—Jul Feo, if memory served correctly—to rest on her upturned palm. “But there are more important things we have to do right now!”

“Oh, you’re always saying that!” Aenc Uin groaned, clinging to strands of her long hair.

“Perhaps we should change them all into leaf men!” Wyd Lor giggled. “Then they can’t leave!”

“Yes, let’s! Then we can all play together forever and ever!”

“Oh, no!” Ryne protested weakly. “Don’t do that!”

“Aye, we best not.” Jul Feo sighed, thin shoulders slumping. “They’re protected by the King, after all. You know what they said would happen if we didn’t play fair.”

“Well,” Aenc Uin huffed, “if you’re all leaving tomorrow, the least you can do is play with us today.” Thancred glared at them from beneath the tree, but did not answer. Defeated, Ryne glanced at Urianger, who often played the role of mediator in these sorts of conversations.

“Hmm… very well.” He settled into place, lifting his hands amicably. The pixies descended, clambering over his long arms the way younglings scaled trees in the Gridanian forests, dangling from his fingers before dropping to his lap with peals of laughter. “Ryne and I will gladly play with thee, provided thy antics will not disturb Thancred. Now… what game shall we play first?” he asked, lifting his hand to eye level. “Or shall it be a tale?”

“A story! A story!” the pixies chirruped happily. Though they enjoyed their little games, they seemed to adore Urianger’s fairie stories and tales of grandeur even more. Many a night he had successfully thwarted their mischief by capturing their attention with the same tales beloved by youths across the First.

“Yes, a story,” Ryne agreed, sitting back down and crossing her legs beneath her. The pixies settled in around her, some perched on wildflowers at her side while others braided knots into her hair. “I could use the distraction,” she added with a heartfelt sigh.

“Very well. If we are all in accordance… what tale shall it be? Something from Voeburt legend, perhaps?”

“Oh, we’ve heard all those stuffy old legends,” Aenc Uin protested. “Tell us about the Warrior of Darkness.”

“We’ve met the Warrior of Darkness, you ninny!” Wyd Lor snapped. “Who cares about them? Tell us about the Warriors of Light instead.”

“As if we haven’t heard that story a million-bajillion times over in as many years!”

“What’s your grand idea, then? All you ever want to hear is how the queen looked at her own arse in Handmirror Lake—”

“You take that back or I’ll— I’ll rip your bloody wings off!”

“That’s enough!” Urianger raised his voice just enough to silence them. A hush fell over the small crowd, leaving only Thancred unaffected by his sharper tone. “��Tis clear the classic tales of yore no longer hold thy interest. Instead, I shall enchant thee with a new tale, one thou hath never before had the pleasure of hearing.”

“But you’ve read us so many stories already!” the pixies gasped. “Do you mean there’s something you still haven’t told us?”

“Aye, the very same.” Urianger smiled. “’Tis an old fairie tale from my homeland, which goes by the name of….” He paused, looking around at the little mismatched group. Eager faces stared back at him, waiting with bated breath for the grand reveal. “Erm… the name escapes me at this particular moment. Nevertheless, ‘tis a harrowing tale of an ageless sorcerer and his many heroic adventures—”

“Oh, for the love of—!” Thancred jabbed him in the spine with the toe of his boot. “Would you stop with that already?! I’ve never heard any such tale.”

“I am unsurprised, seeing as thou art no ready scholar,” Urianger retorted plainly, his face an expressionless mask. “I discovered this tale within an ancient tome dating before the rise of the Allagan Empire. Furthermore, I believe its contents may impart some wisdom on those gathered here.” Lifting his brows, he gazed impassively at his friend. Thancred acquiesced with a groan, shaking his head in defeat but making no marked effort to leave their little gathering. “Now, if there are no more question, I shall begin.”

Once upon a time….

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Long, long ago, in a far-off realm known as Eorzea, there once lived a magnificent and ageless sorcerer. Though he hailed from a kingdom beyond the sea, he was known far and wide by the people of this land, for his deeds were the stuff of legend itself.

The sorcerer, it was said, had the ability to conjure amber beasts from the aether to enact his bidding. He could use the power of the stars to protect his comrades. It was even rumored that he could foretell events before they happened, being a master of prophecy. He was adept in all manner of magics, having studied at the feet of the realm’s greatest minds in his distant youth.

And, of course, he was impeccably handsome.

Being a benevolent man, the sorcerer had sworn from a young age to only use his powers for the benefit of the star and its people. Along with his comrades, he dedicated his life to protecting others from wielders of malevolent magics, who used their power for ill-gotten gain. It was their dream that every living being upon the star would know what it meant to live in a time of peace. Though this dream often took them far from home, they were determined to see its fruition.

The sorcerer was just as determined as his compeers to see this dream fulfilled. Though at times he yearned for the serenity of his island abode, he could not deny the inherent value of his work. He traveled to distant lands, and beheld sights that took his breath away with the scope of their majesty. He encountered the best and worst of mankind in equal measure, with valuable life lessons gained from both. Each encounter, each experience gave him cause to expand his knowledge even further, and as time passed his abilities soared to even greater heights.

Upon first glance, one might easily believe that the sorcerer had everything a heart could desire: a handsome mien, a wealth of knowledge, a plethora of tomes at his fingertips. He could travel wheresoever his heart desired, his associates were loyal and kind, his understanding of their star was ever-expanding, and yet….

Although he was eternally grateful for the opportunities provided by his position and his powers, the sorcerer often found himself discontent with his lot in life. Rather, he felt that there was something missing: a deficit that ought to be easily discernable, even unmistakable… yet he had no idea what that something might be.

Sometimes, when he was too tired to apply himself to his work, the sorcerer passed time on a solitary bench near the harbor where he made his home. The rushing call of the waves, the creaking ships, even the seabirds dancing above the glittering ocean all reminded him of his homeland. When he sat there, immersed in his thoughts, he felt closer to those he had been forced to leave behind.

But as he watched the sailors and merchants, at work or milling about in the plaza, the sorcerer found himself envying their existence. They seemed overjoyed as they reunited with loved ones following a long voyage, or spent their meager earnings on food and drink at the market stalls. Some chose to flirt with the dancers that entertained the layfolk, while others retired to their warm beds at the end of another long day. But while their lives were simpler, more piecemeal than his own… why was it that they seemed all the happier for it?

The sorcerer knew that they had the answer to his conundrum, the hole in his heart that would not be filled no matter how hard he tried. But how had they found that answer, and how could he arrive at the same conclusion?

It was not in their profession, to be sure; in any case, the sorcerer had no intentions of trading his livelihood for the life of a dockworker or merchant. It could not be in coin, for he lived a lifestyle that—while not extravagant by any stretch of imagination—left him wanting for naught. They laughed with their friends, pursued their interests, shunned pain and embraced joy. He did the same. At the end of the day, they seemed perfectly content. He… was not.

What, then, could it possibly be?

More puzzled than ever, the sorcerer sought the help of his most trusted compeers. His closest companion in this foreign land was a sage bard: a man well-entrenched in the world and its workings. After hearing the sorcerer’s troubles, the bard advised him to be more social in his spare time.

“You should spend your time in the company of pretty women! That’ll cure what ails you!” the bard stated confidently. “In fact, come drinking with me tonight. Together, we shall find you a bosom companion to wile away the midnight bells, and tomorrow you’ll rise an entirely new man.”

The sorcerer attempted to follow the bard’s advice, but to no avail. He awoke the next morning a new man indeed: bleary-eyed and nauseated, with the sort of pounding headache that only an overindulgence of ale can provide. The hole in his heart remained.

Next, he sought the aid of a powerful witch, a fellow conjurer who shared in many of his interests. The witch invited him to tea, and listened patiently to his troubles without saying a word. When he was finished, she explained that rest and relaxation was the key to his recovery.

“You are working yourself too hard, my friend,” she said, the words punctuated with a cryptic smile. “If you would only spend an evening to yourself, with your favorite tomes as your companions, you will find your woes are naught more than a symptom of overwork.”

The sorcerer again took his friend’s advice. However, instead of relaxing and taking his ease, he found that he had more time to fret and worry about his dilemma. He spent a sleepless night pondering the reason for his heartache, and when dawn came he found himself neither relaxed nor refreshed.

Finally, the sorcerer brought the problem to the Antecedent who oversaw their workings on the star. The Antecedent, rather than advising him to rest, wondered aloud if he might not be working hard enough—or, rather, if his work was taking an unexpected route.

“Perhaps, my dear sorcerer, you find that your mind is not adequately stimulated? When was the last time you took it upon yourself to invent a new spell? Or pursue a new avenue of research? You always seem happiest to me when you are elbows deep in a new mystery to solve; maybe that is what your heart desires.”

The sorcerer did find temporary relief in applying himself to his work. But the moment he glanced up from his notes—roused to action by hunger, or thirst, or exhaustion—he found his mind again wandering to that ever-present ache in his breast.

At his wit’s end, the sorcerer awoke one day to realize that he was obsessed with finding the answer to his exhausting riddle. The spells and inventions which had once captured his attention no longer held any interest for him. He no longer felt joy in his life’s work, nor did he frequent his bench near the sea. Instead, he holed himself up in his bedchamber, shunning the company of his friends and only emerging when on the brink of starvation. Night after night, he meticulously dissected every aspect of his life in a desperate bid to discover where—if indeed anywhere—it had gone wrong.

One such night, when all hope seemed utterly lost, the sorcerer threw open the shuttered window in the hopes of clearing his mind with the fresh air. The plaza was deserted, the harbor quiet; the ships rocked to and fro on the calm waves, the seabirds nestled in their nests along the cliffside. His only companion was the moon, hanging low over the far horizon. The pale light flooded his bedchamber, calm and serene, at odds with the heaving turmoil in his breast.

In that moment, it seemed as though he was the only person left on the face of the star. Clasping his hands, the sorcerer bowed his head and closed his eyes.

“Divines,” he began, the voice of a man at the end of his tether, “if ever in thy benevolence thou doth heed the prayers of mankind, let it be now. What is it that I crave more than aught else upon this star? Why doth my soul spurn that in which it once delighted? Am I broken? Bewitched? Should this be a simple ailment, with a simpler cure, I beg thee: impart thy wisdom upon thy humble servant!”

In truth, the gods rarely divulge their secrets to mankind, and the sorcerer did not expect much of a response. He had only wished to believe, even for a moment, that a higher power heard and understood his plight.

But the moon glowed even more brightly as he spoke, and when he opened his eyes the sorcerer found that the room was flooded with a near-blinding light. A blast of icy air, far colder than he had ever experienced in Eorzea, sent him to his knees. At that moment, he realized that he was no longer alone.

Standing before him, illuminated in the ethereal glow of the moon, was a woman. Her hair was the color of the northern seas, a glacial blue that harkened to the distant winters of his homeland. She was dressed in regal garments, and upon her brow was a golden crown. Their eyes met, and the sorcerer recognized the divine presence for who she was: Menphina, the Lover.

Amazed and dumbfounded, the sorcerer immediately prostrated himself at the feet of the goddess. He dared not lift his eyes from her sandals, lest she strike him dead for his arrogance. But Menphina smiled, guiding him onto trembling feet with one wave of her golden gauntlet.

“Gentle sorcerer, dearest child,” said she, in a voice that rang throughout the bedchamber like finest crystal. “Thou art most loved.”

“B-Blessed am I to stand in t-thy presence,” the sorcerer managed in reply. “I-If it should be that my prayer hath offended thee—” The goddess shook her head, silencing him without a word.

“Thy prayer was both earnest and entreating. If anything, it served to move my innermost heart to action. Come.” Menphina sat upon the windowsill, beckoning him closer with a gentle smile. “Place thy woes at my feet, that I might grant thee succor.” The sorcerer was emboldened by her winsome nature and, basking in the glow of her brilliance, he found the words spilling unchecked from his lips.

“Sweet goddess, I am perplexed by this ever-enduring pain in my heart. I hath scoured every treatise, every tome that crosses my path in search for answers, yet there are none to be had. In good faith I asked the guidance of my closest companions, but their many suggestions brought about no relief. Even now, I ache with the want of something—I know not what! Merely that I am without it, and I suffer all the more for its absence.”

As he spoke, his words choked with emotion, Menphina sat motionless before him. When he was finished, his reserves exhausted, she took his hand in her own. Resting in her palm, his long fingers were like that of an infant’s, delicate in their mortality.

“The answer to that question, my darling one, is love.” Menphina smoothed the back of his palm with her unarmored hand in a comforting gesture. The touch of her skin was like freshly fallen snow upon the vast Coerthan plains. “To be sure, there is love in they heart, and in thy life.”

“Thy love for our star drives thy determination to protect it from those that might cause undue harm. In love, thou sought answers from thy companions, with the trust that they should not lead thee astray. ‘Twas love for the Twelve that brought thy prayer to mine ears, and in return my love for thee brought me to thy realm, so that I might offer the answer thou seekest.”

“But the love thou cravest is deeper than that of friendship, or duty. ‘Tis born of understanding, of being nearer to one who sees thee for the person thou truly art. The pang in thy breast is not a spell gone awry, my dear one. ‘Tis loneliness of a profound nature, and its cure lies within true love.”

As she spoke, the sorcerer found that he had known the answer all along. His comrades loved him, but they did not understand him. His quirks endeared him to them, but what he wished for more than anything in the world was for someone who not only recognized his many eccentricities for what they were, but also made room for them in ways his friends could not. He wished for someone who could know his mind as well as he knew it, perhaps even better.

To be sure, the sorcerer was a man of solitude. But was it wrong of him to wish for more? To see that long days and longer nights might well be spent in the company of a kindred spirit, and long for a time when that might be so?

“I see thy point,” he stated slowly, “but where might such a person be found? In the whole of my travels, I have never known another who was like myself in nature.” Menphina laughed, the sound cascading over him in a refreshing burst.

“My child, the answer is not to seek thyself in another. Instead, it can only be found in one who compliments thy own nature, and is complimented by thee in return. Together, thou art like the two halves of an interlocking puzzle: different on the surface, yet part of a whole.”

“Ah, but I see doubt within thee yet,” she exclaimed, catching a glimpse of his vexed frown. “Thankfully, ‘tis within my power to reconcile.” Rising to her feet, she reached into the sky and gracefully plucked a moonbeam from the heavens. “I will create for thee a bride from my very essence, that thou might understand what it means to love with all thy heart.”

“I shall use these moonbeams for her tresses,” she explained, gathering more of the silken light in her fingers, “and her eyes shall be the brightest stars the firmament may offer. Her skin shall be as soft and white as moon dust, and her strength shall be equal, for ‘tis the power of the moon that moves the tides. So shall this moon bride move thy heart.”

Although the sorcerer had no recollection of falling asleep, or even retiring to his own bed, he awoke in the morning as though from a dream. The night had passed, and through the open window the sun filled the bedchamber with the first rays of a new dawn. Rubbing his eyes, he lifted his head to find that he was not alone in the room. A strange woman stood in front of his desk, studying the papers scattered across its cluttered surface.

“Who goes there?!” Alarmed, the sorcerer yanked the bedsheets up to his chin in fright. The woman turned from the desk, and he saw at once that she was uncommonly beautiful. Her eyes twinkled like stars, and her skin shone far as finest porcelain in the morning light. Long, silken hair fell over one broad shoulder like moonbeams across a rippling lake. She grinned at him, and the sorcerer’s heart fairly leapt in his chest at the sight of her face so animated and gay.

The visit from Menphina had been no dream. Before him, clothed in the pristine garments of an accomplished scholar, was his moon bride.

“Good morning!” she greeted him, in a voice that thundered like the tide. “I suppose you’re my sorcerer then, eh?”

“I-I believe that I am.” He managed to untangle himself from the bedsheets and crept towards her, his wariness overshadowed by his mounting curiosity. When she beamed down at him, the sorcerer saw his reflection mirrored in her pale eyes. Before he could move, he found himself caught in a crushing embrace. His feet left the ground and he was unable to free himself from her tight grip; neither was he entirely certain that he wanted to free himself. No one had ever dared to touch him in that manner, not even his closest comrades.

He found that he almost… enjoyed it.

“I think I’m going to like you.” The moon bride rested her forehead against the sorcerer’s, peering deeply into his startled gaze. “Now that you’re awake, what shall we do first?”

“I… erm… we shall breakfast, I suppose.”

“Wonderful!”

“Do… Doest thou know what breakfast is?”

“Not a clue!”

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As time passed, the ageless sorcerer found that he was more often than not puzzled by the behavior of his moon bride. He was a calm, contemplative sort of man, not prone to outbursts or fits of wild passion. His life was one of careful order, with the sort of practiced fastidiousness that many of his companions deemed “rigid”.

In contrast, the moon bride found delight in everything that passed through her eager fingers. Being new to the star, she sought to learn anything and everything about its workings; there was no end to her quest for knowledge, and no bounds to her enthusiasm upon finding the answers she sought. She studied the finer details of spellcraft, and after a fashion began to branch out and test new theories on her own. In addition she quickly befriended his compeers; often she could be found in the Antecedent’s castle, assisting others both at work and in pursuit of leisure. But no matter how far she ventured, the moon bride would always return at the end of the day, overbrimming with news of her latest discoveries.

There were times when the sorcerer felt driven to the brink of insanity at her more irrational behavior. More often than not he was called to assist with some scrape she’d gotten into, only to find that his well-meant scolding fell on deaf ears. But for all his new frustrations, he could not shake Menphina’s words: different on the surface, yet part of a whole.

First weeks, then moons flew by, and he found that the goddess had spoken true. The moon bride was not like her sorcerer on the surface. She was loud where he was quiet, boisterous where he was calm, quick to act where he hesitated. Even so, despite these difference they made perfect companions for one another. His patience tempered her enthusiasm, and her vigor mellowed his more assiduous traits. In time, the sorcerer found that he did not wish to spend even a day without her company. He valued her above any other upon the star, and—though he did not know how to properly convey these feelings—his loyalty and devotion knew no bounds.

For her part, the moon bride was almost overbearing in her wealth of affection, both to him and their associates. While the sorcerer was often reluctant to touch her, even in passing, she thought nothing of tackling him in one of her constricting embraces, or peppering his face with more kisses than a meteor shower has falling stars. On the coldest nights, when the ocean breeze rattled the shutters and wailed in the surrounding cliffs, she cozied up beside him beneath the thick quilts and listened as he read to her from his favorite tomes. Then, when they could no longer hold their heavy eyelids open, they passed the night in peaceful repose.

Sometimes, when he believed her to be sleeping, the sorcerer would press his ear to her chest and listen to the steady pulse of life within. I see you, the rhythm seemed to say, firm beneath his cheek. I know you. I love you. In these unfathomable moments, the sorcerer would find himself overwhelmed with the profundity of his emotions, and wholly unable to offer them a proper outlet. It was at those times that he wished himself the sort of man who could pour his love into her the way she poured hers into him, overjoyed exaltation and physical affection in perfect tandem. But it was simply not in his nature to do so.

In the end, it was all he could do to press his lips to her forehead in ardent fervor, wishing that the gesture might leave a permanent mark upon her brow as proof of his love. Each time he would pull away to find her awake, her answering smile sleep-sodden and content. He did not have to explain himself to her; without his speaking a word, she seemed to understand what it was he meant to convey. It was then that the sorcerer knew that he had not misheard the thrum of her heart, and that every word it spoke to him was infallible truth.

To his surprise, the sorcerer soon found himself perfectly happy for the first time in ages. The presence of his moon bride awoke within him emotions he had never before cared to explore, and her opinions on the star—and everything it contained—served to broaden his own horizons, which he was astonished to find were quite narrow. She was his soulmate, a gift from Menphina herself; their entire lives were stretched before them, full of boundless possibility.

At least, that was his thought.

During these halcyon days, the nefarious sorcerers had been working harder than ever to plunge the star into utter chaos. Of course, the moon bride had joined the ageless sorcerer and his comrades in their efforts to undo these schemes, and for a while they succeeded in staving off what some believed to be inevitable.

One day the moon bride rose early, so early that the only other creatures awake were the chittering birds in the harbor. She packed up her latest creation and set off for the Antecedent’s castle, a long and rather perilous journey that would take her the better part of two suns. When the sorcerer awoke, he found the bed empty and a note on the bedside table promising a heaping plate of cockatrice meatballs upon her return.

But unknown to either the sorcerer or the moon bride, the evil sorcerers had discovered the castle’s whereabouts and were lying in wait, ready to attack. The sorcerer was roused from his work by an alarum, a call for aid that sent him running for the nearest chocobo porter. He raced to the castle, forgoing food and drink in his hurry, his heart pounding in his chest. As he rode, he could not help but wonder if the moon bride was already at the castle. Perhaps—he hoped beyond hope—she had been waylaid on the road, and was even now heading back to their shared home with disappointment in her eyes.

By the time he arrived, however, he found that it was already too late. The enemy had stormed the castle, attacking his comrades with ruthless abandon in their attempts to bring about a Calamity upon the star. In their wisdom, which far exceeded the sorcerer’s own knowledge, they had worked out how to reverse Menphina’s spell. They unraveled the moon bride at the seams, returning her to naught but moonbeams and starlight. When he reached the inner sanctum, panicked and panting, he found that there was not even a body left to hold.

The ageless sorcerer was alone once more.

In his foolishness, he had thought himself immune to heartbreak. Many a compeer had been felled by these cruel wielders of magic over the years, and though he was always severely grieved, he had not yet been stricken by the powerless anguish spoken of in poems and prophecies. But at the loss of his moon bride, the sorcerer felt his heart shatter into countless pieces, too small to even make an attempt at mending. He feared that he would die from the agony in his breast, which seemed to choke the very light from the room. Never before had he felt as bereft as he was in that moment; no matter which way he turned, seeking solace and succor, all that lay before him was endless despair.

In his pain, he called to Menphina for aid. When the goddess did not answer, he called to the rest of the pantheon, praying with all his broken heart and shattered soul that his moon bride might somehow be returned to him, and all could be as it was before. But the gods heeded not his cries, his prayers left unanswered. It seemed to him that their silence was at once mocking and cold, wanton in their malice.

His companions were no more able to aid him now than they had been before the moon bride’s coming. They could only attempt to comfort him in his sorrow. The bard sat with him when he could not sleep, plying him with drink and allowing the tears to fall upon his shoulder. The witch scoured the realm for anything that might bring him a modicum of happiness, arriving unannounced first with his favorite foods, than a new tome. The Antecedent spoke to him with calming words of shared pain and solace, taking his hand in her own whenever he felt that he was truly alone in the world.

The sorcerer loved his friends all the more for their efforts, but their labors were ultimately in vain. He felt that he had fallen into deepest despair, unable to feel anything beyond rage at the evil sorcerers, and grief at the loss of his beloved bride. The void within his heart, which had so recently been filled to overbrimming, was now a gaping chasm—

- ☾ - ♡ - ☾ - ♡ - ☾ -

“Stop it!” Jul Feo interrupted with a screech. “I don’t like this story!” They covered their ears, willowy limbs trembling with anger. “I won’t hear another blasted word, I tell you! I won’t, I won’t, I won’t—”

“Fairie stories are supposed to be fun and… and full of adventure! And happy!” Aenc Uin flew to their feet in a tizzy. “This is not happy in the slightest, not at all! I hate it!” The other pixies voiced their agreement, scolding and posturing in equal measure.

Faced with a less than enthusiastic audience, Urianger turned to Ryne. She sat amidst the buzzing swarm, a serene statue in the face of their growing fury. Her blue eyes were large and sad in her wan face, hands wringing in her lap.

“That… that’s not the real ending, though, is it?” she ventured, when he made no efforts to quell the shrill protest. “Surely there’s a way to save the moon bride, to bring her back… isn’t there?”

Urianger was all too aware of Thancred’s heavy gaze pressing down on him, a terse silence that spoke of action. A moment’s hesitation, one sidelong glance, and he would scatter the pixies with a few brusque gestures. A man all too willing to shoulder the burden of (temporary) villain, if it meant even the shortest respite from the echo of a bone-deep grief. The pixies would be sent scurrying to the flower strewn fields, and Ryne would be assigned some mundane chore of little value, leaving him alone to gather his thoughts as he might.

A welcome relief, to be sure… but it would solve nothing.

“Calm thy anger,” he commanded his little assembly, clearing his throat to mask the sound of his pain. “Settle, and I shall bring this tale to its rightful conclusion with due haste.”

- ☾ - ♡ - ☾ - ♡ - ☾ -

It seemed as though the ageless sorcerer would be eternally mired in his pain. Time passed slowly, the weeks no longer seeming to fly on joyous wings. Day and night held no more meaning for him, nor did the passing of the season. He ate only when pressed to by others, bathed only when could no longer bear the feeling of dried sweat on his skin. Not once did he attend to his many duties, nor could he bear to look at the workbench which he had but recently shared with his departed bride.

One by one, his associated attended to him. They commiserated, cajoled, scolded and pleaded in turn, but for once the sorcerer had no ear for their many supplications. He appeased them in the moment with false smiles, only to sink back into the familiar embrace of his stupor once they were gone. Finally, with all other hope exhausted, the Antecedent left her castle—a rarity for one so imperative to their cause—and traveled to the sorcerer’s home. On bended knees, she begged him to rise and shake off the yoke of grief.

“Without your assistance, I fear we are losing ground,” she pleaded, in tones that plucked at his frayed heartstrings. “Please, we are in desperate need of your expertise! I have lost a dear friend; I cannot bear to lose another. Do it for her sake, it not for ours.” In the end, the Antecedent returned to her castle alone, hopeful nevertheless that the sorcerer in his wisdom would heed her words. The sorcerer had not the heart to refuse her, but no longer did he share in her unshaken conviction.

“Let the star be destroyed,” he muttered as he lay in the semi-darkness. “If I am dead, at the very least I shall no longer feel this pain.”

Well! That’s a bloody awful way to think, isn’t it? And after all we’ve done to stop it from happening? Honestly, I’m surprised at you.

The sorcerer sat up in his bed, his heart a thick lump at the base of his throat. He looked around the empty bedchamber like a man crazed, searching the shadows for the source of the voice.

“Who—? Or, what—?”

Who else? It’s me, you silly old fool.

The voice was his moon bride, but he could not see her. Moreover, her voice did not come from the room itself, nor the world beyond his shuttered window, nor even the corridor beyond his bedchamber. It seemed to come from inside of him, from that place deep within that ached so terribly at the mere thought of his beloved.

“Oh, gods!” the sorcerer cried, clutching at his chest. “Have I gone mad? Is this the end?”

Not hardly!

“What doest thou want from me?” He shrank into the bedclothes, trembling with fright and not quite convinced that he had not fallen into insanity. “Specter or spirit, fiend or friend, what would’st thou have me do?”

Our friends need you, and you’re not about to lie around feeling sorry for yourself just because I’m not there to drag you out of bed. Go on, get up!

“I… I cannot,” he admitted feebly. “I did always admire thy strength of spirit, but I never possessed the same. ‘Tis… ‘tis too much.”

Oh, rubbish! It’s just a matter of standing up and taking that first step. Go on, take your feet out from under that musty old quilt. The sorcerer obeyed meekly, shivering as the cold night air touched his bare skin. Now swing them over the side of the bed—that’s it! He found himself standing on trembling legs, faint with hunger and exhaustion and heartache. Take one step.

“I tell you, I cannot!”

Just the one? For me?

In that moment he could see her in his mind’s eye, as lovely and radiant as ever, grinning widely as she stretched out her hand for him to take. Do it for her sake, if not for ours.

The sorcerer took one step. Then another, and another. Stumbling across the bedchamber, he finally reached the workbench and stared down at its cluttered surface for the first time in weeks. Tears blurred his vision at the sight of her familiar handwriting, her notes filled with dreams of the future. Ideas that would never reach fruition, hypotheses that would remain unsolved. He picked up her final creation, the key to stopping the evil sorcerers in their tracks. A revolutionary concept, but unfinished, incomplete. Waiting for hands that would never again touch anything with joy or delight.

You know what you must do.

The sorcerer wept bitterly, for he did know what must be done. His moon bride must be allowed to claim her part in the salvation of the star she had so loved, however briefly. If she could not be here to complete it, then it was up to him to complete it for her. He sat down at the workbench, dried his tears as best he could, and began to work.

As he poured over her notes, the sorcerer found a smile on his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. The pain remained, of course, but the sorrow was tempered with something not unlike joy. To continue the work that she had so loved was to keep a small part of her alive in some way. It was proof that she had existed, that those shared moments had not been a figment of his imagination. He had loved, and he had been loved.

The sorcerer’s work lasted him many days and many nights. When at last it was finished, he threw open the shutters and looked out upon the world for the first time in ages. The night was balmy, calm and quiet. It seemed so much like that same night so many moons ago, when he had cried out his pain and the gods deemed it fit to answer. They had been silent since; he knew without trying that should he pray now, they would remain so. A sudden flash of anger flooded his veins and he gripped the windowsill where Menphina had sat with white knuckled hands.

“Why!?” he called to the stars, trembling with rage. “Why grant my wish, when I was ever fated to lose her? Was it a mere whim, or do the Twelve see fit to curse me in mine innocence? What lesson was I meant to have learned? What knowledge did I gain? Oh, that my prayers had never been answered! I wish that I had never known her!”

His only answer was the distant lap of waves, the quiet contemplation of the faceless moon. In the wake of his anger, the silence seemed magnified. He sank to his knees, fresh tears glistening on his cheeks in the moonlight.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, sobbing as the pain swept over him afresh. “Oh, forgive me… I did not mean it! She was my light, my life. How am I ever to continue on without her at my side?”

“My poor child… my poor, suffering child….” Perhaps the sorcerer had fallen asleep, or perhaps he had been transmuted elsewhere by a higher power. When he lifted his head, he found himself floating in a sea of stars. A light shone down on him from somewhere high above, a comforting presence that seemed to fill all the emptiness inside of him with some to spare. He basked in its radiating warmth, stretching out his limbs to take as much of it into himself as possible. The goddess Menphina had been nothing to this… to Her.

Hydaelyn, the Mothercrystal, creator of all things.

“My child,” She said again, and tears flowed freely from the sorcerer as he beheld Her voice. It echoed all around him, inside and out, thrumming through his blood and organs. How small, how insignificant his life must seem when compared to something so great and powerful as She! But in each word he could hear Her love, the bottomless wellspring that seemed to cup him and hold him the way a mother holds a crying infant close to her bosom.

“Why?” he asked, too awestruck to voice anything else. The Mothercrystal has no face, of course, but he could almost feel the way She drew away, pained by his pain.

“It is simply the nature of thy existence,” She finally answered. “To live is to suffer. An unfortunate truth, but a truth all the same.”

“But why must it be so? Why… why allow me to know love, and to love so deeply, only to allow that selfsame love to be stolen from me at the height of happiness?”

“Stolen?” She echoed. “My dear one, thy love remaineth! I see how brightly it shines within thee, even now! It is thy misfortune that sorrow maketh love shine all the brighter. Thy moon bride cannot be returned to thee, but she remaineth forever in thy heart. Tell me, hath she not spoken to thee when the need arose? Doth thou not feel her at thy side, even now? So long as thou lov’st, and lov’st true, she will never be far from thee.”

“Thou speaketh true, Mother Hydaelyn,” he ventured after a moment’s reflection. “But thy words heal not the wound which, even now, gapes too wide to be closed. If to live is to suffer, why should I carry on? Why… why bother?”

“Because thou art yet loved, and thou art yet needed. Think of thy comrades, thy friends. Think of those thou hath watched upon the bench in the harbor, or met upon thy travels. We have lost many to the powers of Darkness, but there are many we may yet save. Live, sorcerer. Live so that her memory is honored through thy deeds. Live, and be comforted with the knowledge that thy moon bride waits for thee, even now.”

“She… she waits for me?”

“Death is not “farewell”. It is “welcome home”. One day, when the candle of thy life burns dim, when thou hath breathed thy last, she and I shall welcome you together.” Her light shone even brighter, surrounding him, embracing him. “Thou shalt be reunited in my sea, never again to be parted.”

“I understand.” The sorcerer’s wiped his eyes, his tears suspended in the heavens as though they were stars themselves. “I shall live for her sake… and mine own.”

“It brings me such joy to hear that. May you walk ever in the light of My Blessing. Know that thou art loved, my child.”

And so it was that the sorcerer awoke upon the windowsill, as warm and safe as though he were still held in Hydaelyn’s calming embrace. Her words did bring him some small measure of comfort, and he found himself with a new determination to live the sort of life that would have brought his moon bride happiness. As time passed, the burden of his pain grew easier to bear. It did not leave him, not entirely, but he found strength in it, for it was proof of their enduring love.

It is said that the ageless sorcerer and his associates went on to have a great many more adventures, and—lest anyone remain in doubt—they are probably still having them to this very day.

- ☾ - ♡ - ☾ - ♡ - ☾ -

“The end.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Then—

“That’s it?!” Wyd Lor groaned. “Cor, that was the most boring fairie story I’ve ever heard! There wasn’t a single swordfight!”

“The bad guys didn’t writhe about in their blood or anything!”

“We should have just asked to hear about the Warrior of Darkness again. At least thathas sin eaters in it.”

“At least give it a happy ending!”

“I am afraid I understand not thy meaning,” Urianger asked, blinking in feigned shock. “’Twas a happy ending if ever there was.”

“If you were going to make it that boring,” Jul Feo concluded, “you could have at least had the moon bride brought back to life as a revenant or something.”

“Oooh, yes!” Aenc Uin giggled. “With her blood and guts hanging out about the place!”

“She wouldn’t have blood and guts, you idiot! She was made of moon dust!”

“Oh, what do you know? Anyway, come on Ryne.” They rose into the air. “I’m tired of all this ancient fairie tale rubbish. Let’s play tag instead!”

“Yes, let’s do!”

“Well?” Urianger said, rising to his feet and holding out a hand for Ryne. “Doest thou share in their discontent? I fear I may have bored thee with my tale.” Ryne did not reply, instead rushing forward to wrap her arms around his torso in a tight embrace.

“I loved it.” Her voice was muffled by his tunic as she hugged him even tighter, as though attempting to squeeze the life from his bones. “Thank you, Urianger.” From the way she clung to him, it was clear that she was grateful for far more than a simple fairy tale. Still a child yet….

“Thou art most welcome.” He patted her head fondly, his surprise melting into a calm smile. “Now run along, and enjoy what remains of the sun. I fear it may be the last calm afternoon we see for some time.” She nodded, returning his smile before racing off to join the waiting pixies.

“Don’t fly so high, Aenc Uin! That’s cheating!”

Thancred joined him on the rise, the two of them silent as they watched Ryne and the pixies tumble amidst the wildflowers. For the moment she was a young girl, engaged in a lighthearted game with her friends. All was as it should be, and yet….

“Do you ever wonder?” Thancred began, crossing his arms with a pensive frown. “If one day she’ll think of us the way we think of them. Moen and Minfilia, I mean.”

“She will.” Perhaps one day, Ryne might draw strength from his memory the way he drew strength from the memories of those long departed. His love would remain etched onto her heart the way others were etched onto his: Moenbryda, and Minfilia, and Louisoix…. But these were somber thoughts for such a sunny afternoon. He turned to Thancred, offering a nugget of his finest wisdom:

“I would believe Ryne loath to ever forget her dearest bodyguard for his curmudgeonly nature, if naught else.”

“Cur—! On that subject….” Thancred advanced towards him, a sinister grin lifting the corner of his mouth, “sage bard? As though I were sitting in some tavern with a pipe dangling from my lips and a lute in my hand? And on that note, I don’t recall telling you to drink that much—you did that yourself, seeing as you can never remember to stop after the first tankard!”

“What?” Urianger rolled his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. “I cannot discern thy meaning, Thancred. As I said, I discovered that tale in an ancient Allagan—”

“Allagan my arse! I’ll wring your neck first, before I hear it again!” He scowled, but his lips quivered in the beginning of a true smile. A chuckle escaped his lips before he could hold it back. “Ancient sorcerer, really?”

“Ageless sorcerer. There is a difference.”

“Shut up.” He fell into real laughter, and Urianger found himself joining in despite his attempts to remain stoic. It was a welcome relief after the stressful events to simply be, laughing with one’s friend, enjoying the fresh air, the troubles of tomorrow pushed to the side.

This was how she lived, he thought to himself, wiping his eyes before the tears of mirth could fall. This is how she would want me to live, too. Urianger turned his face to the heavens, gazing up at the perfect blue, unimpeded by Light. He lifted a hand to his heart, taking a deep breath.

I am grateful to have known thee, he thought, not for the first time. I am grateful to have loved thee. To love thee still… my Moen. Somewhere far away, perhaps in the aetherial sea, perhaps betwixt the pages of another star’s tome… she repeated the words back to him.

The echo of love everlasting.

#ffxiv #fantastic fauxlore #moenuri #urimoen #urianger augurelt #moenbryda wilfsunnwyn #urianger x moenbryda #my writing #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy XIV #fairy tale

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amaurotine-daydreaming · 7 months

Text

XII. Dowdy

A chorus of giggling awakens Urianger from his slumber.

“Rise and shine!” sing-song a trio of pixies.

Urianger opens his eyes. He is laying on a threadbare bed in a small chamber nestled at the back of the Bookman’s Shelves. A faded blanket has been thrown over him, and the door to the main chamber is wide open.

He sits up, rubbing the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Good morrow to thee and thine.”

Light slants in through the long, elegant windows at an angle that suggests, at most, late morning. Urianger only went to sleep at dawn, at the blessed end of that riddle contest, and–

“We were feeling generous, so we let you sleep for a bell or two–” says Nyl Ul, poking his nose.

“–but since you’ll be living among us now,” adds Fyr Or, twirling in a wide arc over them, “there is something veeeery important we must do!”

Urianger sits up and gently pulls aside the blanket, knowing there is no more respite to be had until he has entertained his guests.

“I prithee, enlighten me,” he says, but the pixies need no such invitation.

“Your clothes are horrid!” Fyr Or exclaims, poking at his collar, his chest, his sleeve. “Is this what you mortals wear? So dowdy!”

The robe is, like most of the few possessions Urianger has on the First, a gift from the Exarch. ‘Tis plain in appearance, true–light gray in color, with only modest accents on the hem, the sleeves, and the sash–but Urianger finds it suits him well. He has not sought to be overly ostentatious, nor would he ever cast aspersions on gifts…even gifts which also serve the purpose of being able to present oneself in public after having arrived with not a stitch on.

“Aye, such boring, dowdy clothes!” Selg Bir says, inspecting the hem with distaste. “Boring, boring, boring!”

“Dowdy U-ri-an-ger!” sings Nyl Ul.

“We must dress you, something befitting our [Kingdom of Rainbows]!”

“Lots of colors, oh yes!”

“And pretty shiny things!”

“Scales of a water snake!”

“Stones from the river! On the hem, in your pockets!”

“Cloth from the wings of morphoi! Their dust will make the cloth shimmer! You don’t mind a teensy bit of poison with your garments, do you?”

“A robe, a dress! Something to frolic in!”

“You do know how to frolic, don’t you?”

Urianger smiles wanly. “Pray, ere you begin, I wouldst fain give unto thee a gift in return.” The Exarch has warned him that “gifts” from the pixies may later incur debts at their whims, and to never let the ledger go unbalanced for long.

“Oh?” says Nyl Ul. The trio of pixies gather back together, hovering just above Urianger’s knees. “What’s that?”

“A hundred years hath passed since thou perchanced to look upon the night sky in all her splendor, hath it not?”

“Aye. In truth, none of us have ever seen it,” says Selg Bir. All three pixies settle upon the bed’s footboard, intently listening.

“Pray allow me to weave for thee a tapestry of words to illustrate that ink black expanse, twinkling with countless pinpricks of colorful light…”

---

When the story concludes, the pixies are satisfied–and restless–enough to go on their merry way. Taking advantage of the respite, Urianger sets about tidying the lodgings he has earned from the fae. Books are reshelved; linens are taken outside to be beaten of dust and then washed; a broom is fashioned to sweep the floors with.

The pixies’ eventual return some bells later is only apparent by their giggling. When Urianger turns, he does not catch sight of any fae, but something else has appeared.

Draped across a chair is a sleeveless chiton, dyed black as night yet which delicately shimmers when Urianger lifts it. Strung across the garment are ornaments of brass inlaid with rubellite in the shapes of the moon, stars, and other celestial bodies of Urianger’s tale. He checks, but detects no hex or other tricksome spell woven into the fabric. In the pockets he does indeed find rocks, but they are naught more than a few water-smoothed pebbles, which he arranges neatly atop one of the shelves.

And when he dons the chiton, he finds it fits perfectly.

#ffxivwrite2023 #ffxivwrite #ffxiv #urianger augurelt #shadowbringers

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umbralaether · 2 years

Note

8. shielding the other one with their body >:3

I went a little lore-bendy, because I can >:)

She had suspected for a while that the Sin Eaters could sense her from malms away; the more Light she took in, the more they seemed to flock to her with an almost incoherent whisper of no kill, only follow. She'd only seen it in action once, when she sought them out herself in an overly delirious decision to discover the truth in her theory. The winged beasts were small, easy to dispatch on her own should she need, but found they had no interest in killing her, satisfied with hovering near her instead. Watching, or perhaps waiting for the inevitable.

She was running out of time.

The knowledge that the Sin Eaters could find her at any moment and endanger those around her didn't sit well. It nagged her, a constant reminder of what she could become. Or will become, at this rate, she thinks. The Light was all consuming and that included even her mind. She was changing; becoming erratic, losing chunks of time. She'd find herself alone, far from civilization and have no memory of getting there. A swell of panic when the stretches of time grew longer, the fear of losing herself a never ending chill along her spine. She covers her absences with white lies, a harmless don't worry about me, I'm fine!

The others may have let it go, but Thancred knew something was very wrong. When her absence lingers into the next endless day, he resigns himself to search the entirety of Il Mheg to find her. Urianger and Ryne seek help from the Pixies, who flit and flutter around spinning tales of only needing to look to the skies to find her. At first, he assumed this to be nonsense, until he saw a group of Sin Eaters circling overhead a stretch of land. He breaks into a sprint, reaching their circling dance to find her sitting motionless in the midst of the Sin Eaters, hugging her knees to her chest, eyes closed.

They sense his presence, a few swooping down towards him that he easily kills with one slash of his gunblade. The death of one seems to send the others into a frenzy -- their movements no longer fluid like a slow-moving twister around her but instead darting wildly like jagged bolts of lightning. He makes quick work of the ones who come at him --one hit seems to be enough for the smallest ones-- but he almost fails to notice the largest of the group has landed, focused solely on Eisha sitting statue-still before it. It lunges, but Thancred is faster, shielding her from the blow with his own body and sustaining only a slight slash across his shoulder for his efforts.

When the last of them are slain, he turns his attention to Eisha. He crouches down to her level, shaking her shoulder gently, "Eisha? Can you hear me?"

She gives no response, seemingly unaware of anything around her. He scoops her up into his arms, and begins the trek back to the Bookman's Shelves.

Both Ryne and Urianger have many questions, radiating worry when they see a mostly catatonic Eisha in his arms, but Thancred only shakes his head. He brings her to his room, sitting her down on the edge of the bed. Her eyes are unfocused, body trembling, and he kneels down before her. She doesn't flee at his touch, but doesn't soften into the gentle hands that cup her face or react to the soft words asking, what happened?

It takes some coaxing to bring her out of this fugue state; his fingers combing through her hair, whispering words of praise and love on repeat. He strips her of her worn and torn armor, kissing each faint white scar that branches from sternum outward. He's never seen them before --could the light truly do something so monstrous?-- and it sends an ache through his chest to know just how much she has had to suffer to save the First.

He strips himself of his own armor, leaving only his underclothes. He wraps blankets around her shivering form, and climbs into the bed besides her. She finally seems to reappear in this reality, moving to climb onto his lap. He repositions the blankets around them both, and sighs in relief when she kisses him before her aqua eyes meet his own.

The silence stretches onwards before she finally speaks, "They sing to me, the Sin Eaters. I think it's why I lose myself… because they're similar to me now."

"Eisha…" He is at a loss of words, terror slowly building within his own chest, "Why didn’t you say anything before?"

A pause, "I suppose I didn’t want to make you, or anyone else, worry." She takes a shaky breath, "But I need you… I need you to keep me from losing myself. Please." She buries her face into the crook of his neck, clinging tightly.

"You are mine, and I am yours. I won’t stand by and let anything take you from me." His own grip tightens on her, holding her closer. A cherished thing.

He makes a silent promise that anything trying to hurt her will have to cross him first, and he swears it won't be an easy fight.

#admit it: you like the angst >:)#not super lore-bendy but i kind of adapted dragon age lore to the sin eaters so there you have to deal with it :D #i love writing prompts for you though <3 #i am in wolthancred hell still obviously #ffxiv #my writing #wolthancred #wol x thancred #wolcred #eisha pantera #shadowbringers #ffxiv writing

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starbudspresents · 1 year

Text

Re.Gray 027 - Suspicion

[ Masterlist ] [ Read on AO3 ] [ Raws ]

Summary: Bookman and Lavi introduce themselves, and tell us a bit about the Noah. Allen goes for an ill-advised walk.

C H A R A C T E R S

Allen Walker Lavi Komui Lee Lenalee Lee Bookman The Millennium Earl Arystar Krory Eliade

S T O R Y

It all began about a hundred years ago, with the discovery of a single Cube.

The substance it was made of, God-crystal (also known as "Innocence"), was imbued with a strange power. Inscribed upon it was an apocalyptic prophecy from an ancient civilization, as well as instructions for the handling of said substance.

7000 years ago, those who inscribed the Cube bore Innocence into battle against the Millennium Earl and his demonic cohort, and were eventually victorious. However, as written in the Biblical tale of Noah and the Flood, the world was then destroyed.

To prevent the recurrence of this apocalypse, nicknamed the "Three Days of Darkness", Exorcists — Accommodators chosen by the Innocence — join the battle against the Millennium Earl.

In the phenomenon-stricken Rewinding Town, Allen clashed with Road Kamelot, a girl who called herself a member of the "Noah clan". But she vanished, leaving many unanswered questions in her wake....

What orders will the Black Order give Allen and his compatriots next?

C O N T E N T S

27th Night - Suspicion 28th Night - Uniform 29th Night - Marshals in Distress 30th Night - Whereabouts Unknown 31st Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ①: Mysterious Messenger 32nd Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ②: Exorcists v. Vampire 33rd Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ③: Castle Krory 34th Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ④: Anathema 35th Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ⑤: Eliade 36th Night - Vampire of the Lonely Castle ⑥: Repatriation

♦ 8

Bookman: How strange.1

Bookman: Your obliterated left eye has begun to regenerate.

27th Night - Suspicion

Bookman: You can't see with it right now, but I think that will pass. sfx: shu [he slips a needle back into its sleeve alongside many others] Bookman: You have no need of my needles. Bookman: It's a curse, Bookman: isn't it.

Allen: From my father, whom I turned into an Akuma some time ago.

Bookman: "Allen Walker", Bookman: the child who was given the "Time Destroyer" prophecy. Bookman: We are those you call "Bookmen".2 For our own reasons, we have become Exorcists.3 Bookman: The brat's name is Lavi. I myself have none.

♦ 9

Bookman: Please just call me "Bookman".

27th Night - Doubt

♦ 10

sfx: gacha [Allen cautiously opens the door to Lenalee's sickroom] Allen: Komui? It's me. Allen: ...... Allen, side: Lenalee's buried alive....

sfx: pi— [Komui whistle-snoring; he's on the floor beside Lenalee's bed, surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books and documents, a quill in his hand still poised in the middle of signing one] sfx: pi—ko— [wheezing exhale and inhale] On forehead: OFFLINE

Allen: Komui?

sfx: osugi— [the wheezing changes slightly as Komui's head lolls on his shoulder]

Allen: Lenalee's going to get married.

sfx: gacha! [Komui is abruptly on his feet, scowling, helmeted, drill in hand, glasses doing the villain glint]

Allen: Morning, sir.

Komui: Oh, Allen...? What is it?

Allen: Just visiting Lenalee.... Allen: Looks like she's still asleep, though.

♦ 11

On box: MANDARINS

Komui, side: How's the eye?

Allen, side: Fine.

sfx: ton ton [Komui briskly taps a sheaf of documents on a flat surface to straighten them] Komui: Bookman has seen to her, she'll be all right. She's just having a very long dream.

Allen: Bookman, hm.... Those medical instruments were unusual.

Komui: It's acupuncture, an ancient Chinese healing art passed down to the present day. Komui: The old man's an absolute whiz at it. ♪

Allen: ...... Allen: Komui? Allen: Why are you really here? It's too hectic for you to be away from HQ. Allen: It isn't really for Lenalee and I, is it. Allen: Who are the Noah clan?

♦ 12

Lavi: He came to ask us just that. sfx: do—n [boo; Lavi emerges from the stacks, surprising Allen and Komui] Lavi: To ask Gramps, I should say.

Allen & Komui: !! Allen & Komui: How long has he been here!?

sfx: niko [Lavi grins, once again unsettling and insincere]

Lavi: "Noah" is the name of a rootless family only spoken of behind the scenes of history.4 Lavi: They show up at major historical turning points time and time again, but you won't find them mentioned in any books or records. Lavi: And now here they are with the Earl. Lavi: That's why Komui came all this way.

♦ 13

Lavi: To talk to the only ones with records of all that underhistory: us BookmEGH—

sfx: DO [Lavi is interrupted by a boot the face, courtesy Bookman] sfx: dogyan [rest in pieces kiddo]

Bookman: How many times must I tell you to watch your mouth? Bookman: Bookman secrets are not for outsider ears!5

Allen & Komui: How long has he been here!?

Lavi: Aw, c'mon, it's fine! I'll be succeeding you any minute now, right?

Bookman: Like hell you will be! You're so wet behind the ears you're dripping! sfx: puh [so emphatic he's nearly spitting in Lavi's face]

Lavi: Kiss my ass, grampanda. 🤍

sfx: chira [Bookman glances over at Allen] Bookman: Allen Walker.

sfx: biku [startle] Allen: Y-Yessir!?

♦ 14

Bookman: Take this time to rest. Bookman: When Miss Lena wakes up, you'll have to head out again. Bookman: Don't be in a hurry.

sfx: BATAN [door slamming; Lavi and Allen have both been unceremoniously evicted]

Overhead: FROZEN OUT

sfx: pata pata [Tim flapping at Allen's shoulder]

Lavi & Allen: ......

♦ 15

Lavi: How old're you?

Allen: Fifteen, ish.

Lavi: Aha, I'm older. I'm eighteen. Lavi: Only fifteen, huh? That grey hair geezers you up. Lavi: You can call me Lavi, by the way. Or Junior; some people use that, too.6

Allen, side: Grey...

Lavi: Hey Allen, can I call you "beansprout"? sfx: gusu [snicker]

Allen: WHAT? sfx: bobu [the big snowball he was making crumbles in his hands]

Lavi: I mean, Yuu calls you that.

Allen: ? Allen: "Yuu"?

Lavi: You mean you don't know? That's Kanda's given name. Lavi: Kanda Yuu, that's him.

Allen: Is that so... I had no idea. Everyone just calls him "Kanda"....

Lavi: You should use it next time. His eyes'll bug out of his head, just you watch. sfx: kekeke [villainous giggle] Lavi: Well, you might not get the chance for a quite a while now, though.

Allen: What do you mean?

Lavi: Mm, call it a hunch.

♦ 16

Lavi: Kind of suspect this next mission will be a pretty long campaign. Lavi: The Earl's making his move. Lavi: That's what the Noah showing up means.

Road, flashback: This time, within the bounds of our lord's Scenario.

Lavi: Gotta watch our backs.... sfx: pon pon [patting the snowman face he's just finished making smooth]

sfx: gigi [Allen clenches his left fist tight in front of him] Allen: I... became an Exorcist to destroy the Akuma.

♦ 17

Allen: Not to kill human beings....

Lavi: ......

sfx: zah [Allen begins to walk away]

Lavi: Hey, what's up? Lavi: Beansprout—

Allen: It's ALLEN!! Allen: I'm just going for a little walk, you go on ahead! sfx: zukazuka [stomping off]

Lavi: Oh boy. Lavi: He is just a kid.

♦ 18

sfx: kiiii [the sun shining in a beautiful sky; five missiles streaking through] ?: Entering drop zone. ?: Proximity: 2800 ?: 2000... 1500... ?: 1000... 500. ?: 100.

♦ 19

Allen: What is it? Allen: What is it?

♦ 20

Allen: What am I so afraid of? Allen: Is it being in a crowd of people? Allen: They all look human. Allen: Right now my left eye sfx: doh [thump; heartbeat] Allen: doesn't work. Allen: Are they human? sfx: doh [thump]

♦ 21

No dialogue. Allen walks through the cheerful human crowd, and as he passes, the faces now out of sight behind him twist into leering, fanged monsters.

♦ 22

sfx: bah [he spins around, on high alert] sfx: kui kui kui [all seems normal, the faces blithe and human again]

sfx: ho... [phew....]

Babykuma: Ekthorthist?

sfx: DON [impact]

♦ 23

Lavi: Whew, close one.... Lavi: What are you doing, Allen?

sfx: bushuuu [air blows past Allen's face from the impact, which was Lavi's giant hammer smashing the babykuma and its mommykuma into the street] sfx: dan [he's balanced easily atop it, one foot and a hand on the long handle]

Lavi: Get up. Lavi: We've got incoming.

♦ 24

LAVI

As a Bookman successor, he cast off his real name at the beginning of his journey.

His true nationality is also unknown; he's the product of many mingling bloodlines.7

18 years old Height: 177cm, 5'9 ½ Weight: 68kg, 150lbs Birthday: August 10th Leo, blood type O

Lavi wasn't originally a D.Gray character, but the protagonist of an entirely different story called "BOOK-MAN". I'm very fond of him, and delighted that I finally get to introduce him here. The Bookmen, archivists of underhistory, and their successor, Lavi, may now become integral key figures in the story of D.Gray.

Someday (if this doesn't get cancelled) I'll show you why he wears that eyepatch, so stick around.

♦♥♦

FOOTNOTES

奇怪 kikai "strange, mysterious, weird" is the same word used to describe Innocence phenomenon, though it's unlikely that Allen's Innocence has any hand in healing his cursed eye. If anything, it might be the opposite: something Dark-Matterish about Mana's curse. [ ♠ ]

我らは　ブックマーンと呼ばれる相の者 warera wa "Bookman" to yobareru saga no mono, "we are those with the nature/destiny to be called Bookmen"

There's something really difficult to translate here: that word saga refers to "nature" in the sense of "human nature", or "destiny" in the sense of "biological destiny".

"Bookman nature" obliges them on a fundamental level to fill a particular role in the world, and it's almost certainly something they're born with, something inherent to them. [ ♠ ]

Hahaha, he just comes right out and says it: he and Lavi chose to become Exorcists for Bookman reasons.

I've theorized before that Bookmen are able to jailbreak Innocence and Dark Matter at will so they can position themselves ideally as observers (and, relatedly, that Cross was able to jailbreak Chomesuke and prevent himself from Falling because he's the "lost successor").

This line makes it pretty clear that Innocence didn't really choose Bookman and Lavi as Accommodators; Bookman and Lavi co-opted it so they could be in the field as Exorcists. I assume they have backdoor hacks enabling them to be wherever they need or want to be because they're not exactly participants in the "simulation", but something more like dev or tester avatars, coming in from "outside the framework" to make error logs and bug reports. [ ♠ ]

無根 mukon "groundless, baseless, rootless". I think this actually means something like sourceless in this context: nobody can figure out where they came from, where they originated. They're just there, out of nowhere.

Also: 裏歴史 urarekishi describes a "hidden, unilluminated, unseen, behind the scenes" history, the history beneath or behind known history. I plan to translate it pretty consistently as either "behind the scenes" or "underhistory", depending on sentence structure and context. [ ♠ ]

This is almost exactly what Lero said to Road when it was scolding her about sharing Noah secrets with outsiders. Lero and Bookman insist on secrecy; Road and Lavi don't see the harm in spicing things up a bit. Parallels! [ ♠ ]

As I recall, the next and only person to call him that is Chomesuke, the aforementioned jailbroken Akuma. Which means the "some [people]" here refers to Cross, who hasn't been back to HQ since before Bookman and Lavi joined up. Early hint that Cross and the Bookmen are acquainted, and not through the Order. [ ♠ ]

様々な異種族の血を引く samazama na ishuzoku no chi wo hiku "descended from the blood of a variety of interracial matches"

Weird line that could either just mean he's a bit of a melting-pot, a mixed-race kid born to mixed-race parents, or mean that he's the product of a deliberate breeding program of some kind (which, yikes). [ ♠ ]

#dgm #dgm translations #re.gray #dgm meta #d.gray-man #d gray man #lavi #bookman

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wildcreativemastermind · 2 years

Text

I’d like to talk to you about a 5th dimension, beyond that which is known to man. It as a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. It is a dimension which we call

The Twilight Zone

So, I’ve recently been getting into classic Twilight Zone. So far, the episodes have been pretty good. The one I want to talk about today (and is my favorite at the time of writing this post) is Season 1 Episode 2, One for the Angels.

warning: this review will contain spoilers

The main character is Lew Bookman (played by Ed Wynn), a 69 year old pitchman who is friends with the local children.

Note on Lew and the kids: this episode originally aired in 1959, and the way Lew’s interactions with the children are written and portrayed makes it clear that it’s simply intended to be a man who’s good with kids. However, there are a couple lines that, while something the original audience wouldn’t have found anything wrong with, may come across not so well to a modern audience. Since I’m reviewing the episode, I figured I should mention this.

Lew returns home after an unsuccessful day pitching on the sidewalk, giving presents to some of the kids. When he walks into his apartment, he finds a certain Mr Death (played by Murray Hamilton) there.

yes that gif is necessary

Mr Death tells Lew that he will die that night at midnight. Not wanting to die, Lew makes a deal with Mr Death that he won’t die until after he makes a big pitch, one for the angels. Mr Death agrees. However, Lew reveals that he never intends to make a pitch again, making him immortal. Mr Death is obviously not happy about this and informs Lew that he’ll take someone else. Who is that someone else? An 8 year old girl named Maggie, who Lew cares about, and who is hit by a car.

The rest of the episode is basically Lew trying to convince Mr Death to take him instead of Maggie.

Later that night, when Mr Death comes before the deadline to take Maggie, Lew decides to distract him with a sales pitch. So he makes the pitch, convincing Mr Death to buy ties from him and spinning at least one outlandish tale about how he gets the thread. It works, Mr Death misses his appointment, Maggie gets to live, and Lew accepts that it’s time for him to go.

General Thoughts

I already mentioned that this is (at least currently) my favorite episode. It is a bit on the predictable side (at least for me it was), and it’s clearly from a different time, but I still found it to be a good watch. Ed Wynn is enjoyable to watch as Lew Bookman and Murray Hamilton was good as Mr Death. In general, I really the portrayal of Death here. I especially liked watching Lew’s and Mr Death’s interactions with each other. By the time the episode ends, I simultaneously want to see more of them interacting and think what we got is enough. Maggie (played by Dana Dillaway) was also adorable. In general, I recommend watching the episode.

I noticed when looking at other reviews (since I was curious what other people thought) that I don’t the share the same interpretation a lot of others have of the pitch scene, I’ll get into my own interpretation under the cut. Basically, everything under the cut is my interpretation.

From what I can tell, a lot of people hold the position that Lew truly distracted Mr Death, but Ed Wynn doesn’t really manage to portray a fast talking salesman, so the scene doesn’t really land.

1. Lew is not shown to be a good pitchman. No one is buying from him at the beginning, and he tells Mr Death that he wants him to let him have a chance to be successful for one moment in his whole life. Basically, I don’t think Ed Wynn was supposed to portray a fast talking salesman at all.

2. I don’t think Mr Death was actually fooled during the climactic pitch. I think it was more Mr Death letting himself be distracted and playing along. Why would Mr Death need ties and thread? Also, look at his face when the pitch really gets going and Lew isn’t looking at him.

Does that look like a man who’s being distracted or a man who’s getting exactly what he wanted?

I think it looks more like he knows he’s getting what he wanted.

#twilight zone #one for the angels #review #late night posts #lew bookman #mr death #i had to much fun making gifs from the episode #that last gif could just be a picture but i already had the gif so i figured why not use it?#in case you're curious #i spelled it as lew instead of lou since it's mentioned that the full name is lewis j bookman #so it's a nickname for lewis #i also thought it was kind of interesting how mr death never uses lew's first name #he only calls him mr bookman #also during the apartment talk scene #mr death is in a chair #and he teleports around the room a few times #and the chair always teleports with him #so i keep imagining murray hamilton finishing a line and then just getting up and dragging the chair across the room #and while i don't think mr death was genuinely distracted during the climactic pitch scene #the idea that death himself is really into ties is an objectively amazing idea

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shadowshrike · 1 year

Text

2022 in Review (Fandom Stuff)

This year was extra strange because I spent the first chunk of it extremely sick. However, I was still able to create a bunch of new fandom stuff (if slower than I used to), so I wanted to celebrate what I put out there in 2022 and share some links!

Fire Emblem: 3 Hopes

I did a lot of work with 3 Hopes behind the scenes this year, but the community's reaction to the game snuffed out most of my enthusiasm to go deep into lore analysis or to write any new fic.

The biggest thing I posted from this was all my meta about social perception per route as told by the NPCs, which can be found here on Tumblr.

Fire Emblem 3 Hopes Tag - https://www.tumblr.com/shadowshrike/tagged/fire%20emblem%203%20hopes

Fire Emblem: 3 Houses

It's been slow-going, but I finally posted two new chapters to Viridian Sky: Wyvern's Flight this year, my massive fic set in Almyra after a joint route between Claude and Dimitri. The series as a whole has been renamed to Kingmakers. There are only two chapters left, and then the series will be more or less complete!

Viridian Sky - Wyvern's Flight (incomplete) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21289694

I also posted all my extra lore for the universe, previously compiled on Twitter and in my notes, to AO3. My biggest regret is not having a chance to explore Dedue's wife further in this verse because I love her character. At least she has a chapter in the 'lorebook'.

Constellations: The People and Places of Kingmakers- https://archiveofourown.org/works/43311937

In other FE news, I finished up an old Dimiclaude Beauty and the Beast oneshot after being inspired by writing for the game again.

Bookman and the Beast - https://archiveofourown.org/works/40847772

And in November, I transferred all my fe3h drabbles from Twitter and my notes to two compilations: one for Faerghus, and one specifically for Claude, Sylvain, and Dimitri.

Tales of the Frozen North (Rated M)- https://archiveofourown.org/works/43078971

Schemers, Kings, and Beasts (Rated M) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/43079442

Daiya no A / Ace of Diamond

Almost everything in here is Chrismiyu of various flavors. I wrote a lot of this pairing and tried out a bunch of new things as a writer since this whole series is way outside of my comfort zone. There are enough separate one-shots in 2022 that I'm just going to list them by month.

February

Risque Rewards (Rated M) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/36613144

The Truth in Writing - https://archiveofourown.org/works/37417759

March

Fathers and Sons - https://archiveofourown.org/works/37512598

Catcher's Paradise (Rated E) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/37533604

Friends, Rivals, and Baseball - https://archiveofourown.org/works/37861258

April

Burning - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38317438

May

The Long Road Home (incomplete) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38606367

Sick Day - https://archiveofourown.org/works/39276561

June

A New Home - https://archiveofourown.org/works/39662358

July

Time to Rest - https://archiveofourown.org/works/40510533

September

Daemon verse comics and art - https://twitter.com/shadowshrike2/status/1565723803476496384?t=1xxysO3Rj9ctB6mrXH7v0Q&s=19

November

The Importance of Being Senpai - https://archiveofourown.org/works/43074588

Chris' Other Memo (Rated E; episodic, stylistic drabbles) - https://archiveofourown.org/works/38831124

December

A Baseball Carol - https://archiveofourown.org/works/43674198

Looking to 2023

For Fire Emblem, my hope is to finish Viridian Sky at long last. The final chapters are fully outlined but unwritten. I don't plan to buy Engage at the moment, so I doubt I'll be writing much more fic for FE in general unless the community chills out with its release or I hop back to Fates.

For Daiya, I have a truly crazy number of fic ideas ready to go. I tend to be slower writing them since the audience is small and I struggle with that genre, but it's good practice! The things I'm currently most interested in writing are:

Continuing the "growing up as friends" AU (Friends, Rivals, and Baseball and Sick Day)

Continuing the "dad as unlikely friends" AU (Fathers and Sons)

Continuing The Long Road Home to the point where he actually meets Chris

A Chrismiyu Xianxia AU from Sawamura's pov that I have something like 19 pages of notes written for

Picking up one of my shifter or daemon verses again. Although I have lots of 'canon' ideas, writing fuzzy things is always relaxing.

At least one more adult work. I have a couple things in mind, but mostly on the slightly comedic end of the spectrum. Apparently, that's my favorite flavor for M+ works in Daiya.

Happy new year and here's to a great 2023!

#year in review #fanfiction #fire emblem 3 hopes #fire emblem 3 houses #daiya no ace #ace of the diamond

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books-i-finished-reading · 4 months

Text

Books read in 2023

January

Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston

The slow regard of silent things - Patrick Rothfuss

The magic faraway tree - Enid Blyton

February

My summer of pink and green - Lisa Greenwald

Clockwork Angel - Cassandra Clare

Clockwork Prince - Cassandra Clare

Clockwork Princess - Cassandra Clare

Chain of Gold - Cassandra Clare

Chain of Iron - Cassandra Clare

March

Chain of Thorns - Cassandra Clare

City of bones - Cassandra Clare

City of Ashes - Cassandra Clare

City of Glass - Cassandra Clare

City of Fallen Angels - Cassandra Clare

City of Lost Souls - Cassandra Clare

April

City of Heavenly Fire - Cassandra Clare.

The Bane Chronicles - Cassandra Clare, Sarah Rees Brennan and Maureen Johnson.

The Red Scrolls of Magic - Cassandra Clare and Wesley Chu.

May

Tales from the Shadowhunter Academy - Cassandra Clare, Sarah Rees Brennan, Maureen Johnson and Robin Wasserman.

The Shadowhunter's Codex - Cassandra Clare and Joshua Lewis.

July

Red, White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston.

Red, White and Royal Blue (Collector's edition) - Casey McQuiston.

October

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen.

How to think like Mandela h Daniel Smith.

Aristotle and Dante discover the secrets of the universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz.

November

Fantastic Beasts and where to find them (The original screenplay) - J.K. Rowling.

The Bookman's wake - John Dunning.

December

Fantastic Beasts and where to find them (The original screenplay) - J.K. Rowling.

The boy in the striped pyjamas - John Boyne.

The first teacher - Chingiz Aitmatov

Total number of books read : 28

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bewitchingbooktours · 5 months

Text

Potion Master

Fate Cycle Series

Book One

Sam Fairburn

Genre: Urban Fantasy Romance

Publisher: Sam Fairburn Publishing

Date of Publication: November 16, 2023

ISBN: 978-1-998204-01-4

ASIN: B0CJ8DVMNT

Number of pages: 340 pages.

Word Count: 93976 words

Cover Artist: Erick Robillard at Kinos

Tagline: Moderation is key… That being said, when not one but two enigmatic liars creep into my life, what’s a witch to do?

Book Description:

Riley

All I want is to start this new chapter of my life in peace, brewing beer and mixing potions at The Drunken Sailor. Simple. Safe. Single. But when my skills as potion master and healer are noticed by a mysterious stranger, the stalking that ensues leads me to ask more questions than I should. Things take a dark turn as the secret I fought all my life to protect gets uncovered by the deadliest magical mob boss in the city. Now, my best chance at survival is down to a cocky criminal and a bookman that is too clever for his own good. As their presence haunts my every waking hour and the situation gets dire, I don’t know if I can keep fighting this relentless pull between us.

Finn

I have focused on only one thing for the last three years—work. But when Riley comes into my bookshop, searching for a way to undo the tracking spell placed on her, I am caught up in a journey that ushers me right back to the one man I am trying to forget. I was his to cherish, his to punish, yet the worst wound he gave me was not a physical one. And she might be my salvation.

Erick

My blood is made of hunger and fight, which serves me well on my side of the law. No one but him knows who I am or where I come from. And I have all the intentions for it to stay that way. But when witches start to disappear in the city and no one, not even the Sennex, does a damn thing about it, I make it my business to investigate. Grave mistake. My efforts only lead me to desires I should steer clear of and discoveries darker than I could ever fathom. I fought to keep them away, to keep them safe, but life is never as kind as to bring hope without taking something in return.

Witchy meets steamy in this tale of soul-wrenching magnetism, dreadful secrets, and magic that could wreck the world.

Potion Master is a slow burn dark urban fantasy MMF romance. It’s book 1 in the Fate Cycle series.

Amazon

Excerpt from Potion Master :

The blue liquid is shimmering like its magic is trying to get out. One of my better cocktail recipes, I would say. The Siren, I call it, in honor of Evie. Even though she is not one of those long-extinct creatures, her voice bewitches her crowd all the same. Her tales captivate the audience with their rhythm and poesy.

“Hey! Will you give me my drink or not?” the patron shouts over the buzz of the crowded room.

Keeping hold of the glass, I swiftly glide it over the wooden bar toward him. “I don’t know, Carl. Maybe a little more respect and a smile now and then could do miracles for your shitty personality and help you get what you want.” I look the bastard straight in the eye, drink the shot myself, and take the money he had put on the bar top to pay for it. The liquid goes down like the charm that it is, giving me a boost of strength and energy in its wake.

Carl seizes my gloved forearm, “Listen, girl, I know that you’re new here, but when I ask—”

His touch is gone in an instant. A big, burly man hauls Carl by the collar of his shirt toward the pub’s door. Albert’s gray-brown ponytail sways in time with Carl’s feet off the ground as he carries Carl out the door. If I didn’t hate being manhandled by drunk pieces of shit so much, I would be laughing at the sight.

Albert grunts as he throws Carl on his ass out in the street. “Take the rest of the night to cool off,” Albert says, his voice deceptively calm. “The next time you touch one of my employees, you will lose your hand. Is that understood?”

Carl has the good sense to shut his mouth and skitter off. The patrons all shout in triumph and merrily raise their glasses to Albert. When he turns from the door, Albert’s green eyes find me. His face is all red under his thick beard. I nod my head once to show him that I am okay and can handle myself. It’s not my first rodeo, after all.

I don’t have much time to dwell on what happened, though. The Drunken Sailor is packed tonight. Every sticky table and disparate chair is in use. A small crowd has already gathered before the stage in the corner where my best friend will perform tonight, sipping their drinks. The decor is no different than any other Irish pub in Québec City. The only noticeable distinction really is the customers themselves—the vast majority of them have magical abilities or ties to the magical world.

My long black hair annoys me tonight, so I quickly tie it up in a messy bun before filling another pint of my first batch of beer to give to Albert as he passes behind me in the bar area. Then I go back to the steady flow of orders coming in. I am very proud of my first brew. It’s a white ale with faint notes of lavender and rosemary. The balanced taste of the herbs makes for a bittersweet lightness that, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t taste like perfume.

Being potion master and lead brewer are both my pride and my passion in life. It also allows me to work anywhere, in any magical establishment I want, since there are a lot of people that seem to either want to get drunk or out of a hangover—or another predicament—at some point. My healing balms and potions are particularly good if I do say so myself.

Healing is my specialty, after all, and I was well taught. Diane. A sharp pang of grief makes my eyes water at the reminder of my mentor’s passing. They say that home is where the heart is. Well, it feels like my home vanished with her last breath. Throughout the years, she’d always been there for me—be it to kick me in the butt for acting stupid or to help me regain my footing after yet another failed attempt at making something of my life. Her passing is too fresh for me to be able to recall the good memories of her with fondness or a smile. I am still at the anger stage, where every fiber of my being wants to cry hysterically and punch a wall about it, hating death, hating myself for not being able to heal her. I wipe furiously at my eyes and wrestle my mind into a better headspace.

I was lucky to get this job. The Drunken Sailor is one of the best breweries in the province, and its owner is allowing me carte blanche to do with the product creation as I please. All the equipment is state of the art despite the pub’s building being more than a century old—and looking it.

Perfect work arrangements, awesome new apartment, my best friend nearby—it’s all I need, really. This time, I will plant roots. This time, I won’t bolt at the very first mild inconvenience—I can’t. I have no one left to catch me from a fall. I am here to stay, and I mean it.

At the table by the door, four casters are playing at levitating objects in the air while arm wrestling. The first to either lose the strength contest or lose their concentration and drop their object pays for the next round of alcohol. A stupid game if you ask me, but still fun to watch and good for the tip.

Evie pokes her head out from the kitchen door with a mouthful of I don’t even want to know what. “Hey, Ry! I’m on in a couple of minutes,” she says while finishing chewing. “Do you need anything before I get up there?” She motions toward the stage with her head. The movement makes her silver dress sparkle in the dim light, contrasting nicely with the soft coffee of her skin. She recently buzzed her hair close to her head, which accentuates the graceful curve of her neck.

Her hazel eyes drift to the liquid I am currently mixing. She looks fascinated and with good reason. As soon as I sprinkle my last ingredient into the potion—dried hibiscus flowers—red fire seems to emanate from it, although it’s not hot to the touch. Passion is a difficult thing to capture, and it’s always mesmerizing when it’s encapsulated successfully. It’s easily the most expensive thing we sell here. Only one swig is needed to fuel your inspirations and fantasies, allowing you to create at will. Although it cannot put ideas into your head, it will allow you to birth your ideas into the world. Well, until it wears off, that is. I pour the liquid into a small vial and hand it over to the young woman who ordered it.

“I’m fine,” I tell Evie over my shoulder. “I don’t need you mothering me.” I wink at my best friend and turn back to the clientele at the bar. I hear her huff and puff before letting the kitchen door swing behind her. Not a minute later, she swaggers onto the stage, her generous hips swaying as she walks. The usual auditory chaos of the pub falls to whispers.

We’ve always been complete opposites, Evie and I. Where my best friend shines bright on stage, I prefer the darkness at the back of the room. She is all heat and sensuality, while I am all frost and contrast. My moonlight skin, she calls it. Which is a nice way of saying that I am ghostly pale.

As soon as Evie opens her mouth to sing, the crowd starts to sway in time with the rhythm of her voice. The ones closest to the stage are completely enthralled by her story of epic love. They smile and huddle closer together, not aware that they are moving. The casters abandon their game to stare in fascination. As far away as I am, I only feel a small wave of fullness and happiness, but it’s still very nice. I have not experienced the brush of love for a very long time.

I pour the next beer directly onto my gloved hand, which then splashes onto my black tank top and jeans. I curse and shake my head slightly. I must have been more affected by her singing than I thought. Taking off my gloves and wiping them on a dish towel, I smile to myself. I have not been exposed to her kind of powers for some time now. I’ve lost part of the endurance I had built for it.

When I finally succeed at mostly drying my clothes, I throw the rag in the sink and lift my head to take the next order, but most of the patrons have now moved from the bar to the tables closer to the stage, listening quietly.

Most, but not all.

About the Author:

Sam is a Canadian author of dark fantasy romance and dark urban fantasy romance with a healthy dose of spice (because why not?). She loves daydreaming about new characters and can often be found staring into the abyss of the great nothingness, completely lost in thought. She also dislikes talking about herself in the third person. Hence, I’m going to stop this author bio here.

I am deeply grateful for every reader who takes time out of their day to lay their eyeballs on one of my books. I couldn’t be an author without you.

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