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hysterialevi · 3 years

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Hjarta | Chapter 16

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

A WHILE LATER

TEARS OF YMIR

Sigurd trudged through the snow-veiled woods, wishing desperately that he could veer off this path the gods had constructed for him. His mind was trapped in a perpetual state of fear, and the thoughts racing through his head only seemed to grow louder with every step he took.

He could feel it in his heart that Ulfar spoke the truth. There was merit in the accusations he threw against Dag, and Sigurd had even seen the man’s treachery for himself. He made it quite clear that he wasn’t on their side with the way he manipulated the assault at Kjotve’s Fortress, and the prince could no longer ignore the reality that was standing right in front of him.

But even then, Sigurd’s gut twisted at the idea of causing any harm to Dag. His entire childhood was formed of memories between the two of them, and he still saw him as the same little boy he once loved all those years ago.

He remembered the days they’d spend running around in the wilderness, only to end up covered in mud by the time they returned home. He hadn’t forgotten the way Styrbjorn would scold them for their reckless behavior, and how they’d make the exact same mistakes immediately afterwards.

The joy they shared, the sorrows they experienced, the burdens they had to carry -- it all stayed with Sigurd to this very day. He loved Dag like a brother despite the conflicts between them, and the thought of banishing him from Midgard tore a hole inside his chest.

But he was a leader now. A future king. With Ulfar dead, Sigurd would have to step up and protect the people he left behind. His position as prince would no longer be a mere title, and he would have to do whatever it took to keep his clan safe.

Even if it meant making a sacrifice as great as this.

“We’re here.” Sigurd said bleakly, stopping in his tracks once the waterfall came into view. He took a deep breath and gazed at the dreary environment, unable to even recognize the nature surrounding him.

This place once served as a sanctuary for the prince. It used to be a safe haven where he could take refuge when the troubles of his world proved to be overwhelming, and he often found a sense of tranquility in its earthly embrace. It always seemed to breathe with the spirit of the gods, and part of Sigurd even believed they walked with him sometimes when he ventured down this path.

Today though, the forest was barren of any life. The tragedies of the war had burrowed themselves into its very marrow, and it almost felt as if it could sense what was about to happen. The air was leaden with a suffocating anchor of dread, and it only seemed to crush Sigurd more and more the further he progressed.

He didn’t want to kill Dag. Every fiber in his being was screaming at him to stop.

Part of even him was even considering simply exiling the man in order to avoid further bloodshed. Deep down though, he knew that wouldn’t be enough. He knew that Dag would most-likely run back into Kjotve’s arms once he broke free from the judgement of his clan, and cause their people a plethora of problems that they didn’t need.

It seemed like death was the only option here, and Sigurd hated himself for it.

“...Sigurd,” Dag said, approaching the man from behind. “Will you tell me what we’re doing now? Why have you brought us all the way out here? Is this about what happened between me and Ulfar?”

The prince kept his gaze on the view before him, leaving his hand close to his axe. His back was currently turned to the other man, and yet, he felt as if he could detect his every move.

“...Do you remember the day we met, Dag?” Sigurd asked. “All those years ago?”

The warrior noticed how his friend skirted the subject, but said nothing of it for now. “Of course. How could I forget? I was what, ten years old? Maybe younger? I had just given you a black eye during a training spar.”

Sigurd chuckled softly at the precious memory. “Indeed. And if I recall correctly, it wasn’t too long beforehand that I was boasting about how easily I’d be able to fell you. I was the king’s son, after all. Nothing could touch me.” The prince smirked. “...It seems that arrogance was my greatest enemy back then. The day I met you was the day I learned humility. It was the day I gained a brother.”

Dag leaned against a nearby tree, crossing his arms. “And do you still feel that way?”

The other man paused, his voice hardening with a cold edge. “...Yes. But I suspect that the sentiment is no longer mutual.”

Growing restless with anxiety, Sigurd finally decided to put this game to an end and shot an icy glare at his childhood friend, practically boring through his skull. He approached the older man and looked him in the eye, trying to keep his breath as steady as possible.

“...Dag,” he whispered, “you know how I feel about you. We may not share the same blood, but you are my family. No matter how distant we may grow, there will always be a link between us. And I will always see you as my brother. That’s why... I need you to tell me the truth.”

Sigurd took a few steps closer, barely shifting his gaze. “...Are you the traitor?”

Dag scoffed at the question and shook his head, reluctant to give a direct answer. “You can’t be serious. You actually believe in the nonsense Ulfar was spewing?”

“I believe his words held merit,” the prince persisted. “You can call it nonsense if you like, but that doesn’t change the fact that you stand as an accused man.”

The warrior stammered for a moment, taken aback by the preposterous notion. “What are you talking about, Sigurd? You were there! You saw what happened. I defeated Ulfar in honorable combat. I cleared my name. Isn’t that enough?”

“Enough for the Allfather perhaps, but not enough for me. Everything Ulfar said was true. The way you handled the assault nearly got all our people killed, and I know you well enough to know that you’re too smart to make such a grave mistake. You did it intentionally.”

Still, Dag remained in denial. “I don’t believe this. You would trust the word of a paranoid old man over someone you consider to be a brother?”

Sigurd raised his voice slightly, unable to hide his anger anymore. “I trust what I see! And over these past few weeks, I’ve seen you do nothing but traipse through the shadows like a thief in the night, hiding like coward whilst our men died on the battlefield. I saw you return from Kjotve’s Fortress without so much as a scratch on your armor, and I saw the apathy in your eyes when they fell on Thora’s corpse.”

The prince’s expression darkened with ire. “You claim you are innocent, but innocence always speaks for itself. I see no good reason why I should question Ulfar’s accusations, and I doubt you can give me one. So I’ll ask again--” he leaned in, “--are you the traitor?”

Dag rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the waterfall, furrowing his brow in disbelief. It was evident that he had something to say, but the stone shackles of pride hindered his ability to come clean.

“How do you know Ulfar wasn’t trying to save his own skin by throwing me to the wolves? He was in a much more powerful position than I. He could’ve done anything he liked and gotten away with it!”

“What reason could Ulfar possibly have had to turn against Arngeir? You really think he would’ve been willing to endanger Thora’s life? Or Eivor’s? He saw them as his own children.”

“Who knows? All I’m saying is -- he was awfully quick to pass judgement on me. We had hardly set foot on Bjornheimr’s shores, and he was already prepared for a fight. The way I see it, Ulfar wanted to use me as a scapegoat. He was the jarl’s right-hand man, after all. He knew he could’ve said anything about me without raising suspicion. I mean, just look at how easy it was to fool you.”

Sigurd’s glare only sharpened at that. “You think I’ve been fooled, do you?”

“Am I wrong? I know you held Ulfar in high regard, but typically, the largest shadows are cast by those who stand the tallest. He may have been a good warrior, but that doesn’t mean--”

The prince shook his head in frustration. “--Enough, Dag! Enough with the lies. Enough with the deflection. Just give me a straight answer. I’m done running in circles with you.”

The other man fell silent, completely at a loss for words. “...You still don’t believe me, do you?”

Sigurd lowered his head in sorrow. “...I wish I could, Dag. Trust me. I wish I could. But if I’m going to keep this clan safe, I can’t allow anything to hinder my judgement. Not even when it concerns you.”

Dag let out a sigh and nodded in defeat, staring blankly at the ground. It was clear to him that his arguments were doing nothing in terms of swaying the prince’s mind, and he didn’t know what else he could say to divert the man’s skepticism.

“...I see.” He murmured, looking back up at Sigurd. His demeanor had completely shifted compared to when they first arrived at the waterfall, and a grim sense of treachery clung onto his shrewd face. “...Very well then, old friend. If that’s how you wish to do things.”

Dag pushed himself off the tree and straightened his posture, finally deciding to reveal the truth.

“...Indeed, your conviction is rightfully placed, Sigurd. I wasn’t sure how long I’d be able to keep up this facade, but I see no point in maintaining it any longer.”

The warrior paused for a brief moment, taking a deep breath.

“I was the one who warned Kjotve.” Dag confessed. “I was the one who assisted him when he ambushed Bjornheimr, and I was the one who told him to flee his fortress before our clans could arrive. I told him of this alliance.”

Sigurd’s heart instantly shattered upon hearing the confession, and his jaw clenched in rage as a spark of betrayal flared inside his chest. He knew his suspicions had to be correct, but even then, nothing could’ve prepared him for the immense disappointment he’d receive from a revelation such as this.

The prince wandered away from Dag in shock and began pacing along the waterfall’s edge, uncertain of how to respond.

“...And why exactly... did you do it?” Sigurd questioned, his tone alarmingly quiet. “What led you to commit such... foolish treason?”

“I did it for the good of our clan.” Dag answered monotonously. “I did it to protect us.”

The other man threw a puzzled glance at him, bewildered by his justification.

“To protect us?” Sigurd gestured to the distant village, storming towards the warrior. “Bjornheimr lies in a bed of its own ashes thanks to you! The jarl’s daughter has been murdered, and you have the nerve to act as if this was an act of heroism? I grow tired of your deception, Dag. Just tell me the truth. What is the real reason you did this?”

The traitor’s nose crinkled in envy, and a newfound sense of contempt twisted his expression. He was behaving in a manner that Sigurd had never seen before, and yet, the prince felt as if he had known this side of Dag for his entire life.

“We don’t need the Bear Clan,” Dag said. “All they’ve done is weaken us. They’ve even weakened you. Especially that boy.”

Sigurd cocked a brow. “Boy? What boy? You mean Eivor?”

“Yes. He’s turned you soft, Sigurd. Everyone can see it. Before we came to this forsaken village, you were a warrior. A leader. A man worthy of holding a crown. You led raids on our enemies, and you crushed anyone who dared threaten our people. You were a king in everything but name. But now? You’ve just become another pawn.”

“What are you talking about, Dag? How have I become a pawn?”

The traitor laughed. “Are you joking? I see the way you look at Eivor. That man has you wrapped around his finger. He’s distracting you from the war, and you’re allowing it to happen.”

The prince’s face was plastered with a look of dread. “You know about me and Eivor...? Who told you?”

Dag waved a dismissive hand. “No one needed to tell me. It’s as clear as day. You may be wed to Randvi, but we all know where your loyalties really lie. You’re only fighting this war for one reason, and that’s so you can take Eivor to bed while the rest of us do the hard work.”

Sigurd’s eyes snapped onto Dag with an iron grip, and his voice dropped to a dangerously low level.

“Watch... your tongue, snake.”

The other man chuckled. “The truth is painful, isn’t it? Nothing stings quite like the bite of a harsh reality you can’t accept. But please, by all means -- continue to ignore it. Ignore it like you ignore everything else, and let your kingdom crumble for your own selfish needs.”

Sigurd brushed off the traitor’s taunts and got straight to the point, eager to put this to rest. “So you’re a puppet for jealousy now? Is that it? You did all this... just because you envied Eivor’s position?”

A scoff escaped Dag’s lips. “Pfft. I want nothing that man has. Like I said before, I did this for the good of our people. Whether or not you choose to see it that way doesn’t change the fact that it’s true. The gods know this too.”

“The gods spit on oath-breakers like you! Odin has no need for men such as yourself in his company, and neither do I.”

“Then deliver your justice, my lord. Strike me down with the judgement that you deemed so righteous you had to hide it away from prying eyes. The people of Bjornheimr may not be able to see you here, but the Allfather does. And he will remember.”

Sigurd turned away from Dag and rested a firm hand on his axe, using every bit of his strength to stifle the tears that threatened to spill. He wanted nothing more than to scream at the gods for putting him in such an impossible situation, and he could already feel himself breaking down from what he was about to do.

But he had to keep his promise. He had to. Although no longer in this realm, Ulfar was depending on him to protect their clans, and Sigurd didn’t have the heart to deny the man his dying wish.

...But he loved Dag. In spite of all of his crimes, the prince still saw the traitor as the same boy he grew up with, and his memories of their time together only seemed to be resurfacing with every second he spent delaying the inevitable.

What was he going to do when the man was dead? Sigurd may have despised Dag for going behind his back, but a piece of his soul remained bound to him nonetheless. There was a link between them that couldn’t be broken, and the prince felt as if he was about to sever one of his own limbs.

A part of him would undoubtedly go with Dag once the man departed from this realm, and Sigurd couldn’t imagine himself ever getting it back.

He just prayed he would be able to forgive himself someday.

“You... you were my brother, Dag.” Sigurd said, his spirit collapsing with every word. “I loved you. I did. You turned my childhood into something that I’ll always hold dear. I’ll never forget the time we spent together, or the joy I’d feel when you were around. Those memories are something that no one will ever be able to take from me.” He tightened his grip on the axe. “But I can’t let you walk free from this. I can’t let you hurt my clan anymore. I... I have to keep my promise. I’m sorry.”

Yanking the weapon out of its sheathe, the prince lunged at Dag without saying another word and buried the axe in his chest, immediately causing the man to stiffen in his clutch. The two of them toppled over onto the snow after a single strike, and within seconds, the traitor was already gasping for air.

He writhed in Sigurd’s embrace like a worm on a hook and desperately tried to pry the blade away from his heart, but to no avail. The other man simply held him down and forcibly kept the axe in place, pushing it deeper and deeper into his torso as tears began streaming down his cheeks.

Sigurd couldn’t believe what he was doing. As a child, he always pictured himself leading their clan into a glorious victory that would forever grace the lips of bards across the kingdom, and spread into endless sagas for generations to come. He thought his role in the war would be one of grandeur just like in the tales his father often told him, and he believed his path to Valhalla would be laden with silver and gold.

But now that he was actually here... he was finally realizing just how torturous the nature of war really was. He wept at the sight of Dag’s life vanishing from his eyes, and his stomach churned at the feeling of the man’s blood staining his hands.

There was also the fact that the traitor died without an axe in his grip. He left it with Ulfar back in Bjornheimr, and thus, paved the way straight to Hel’s gates. His soul would forever evade the magnificence of the Corpse Hall, and a part of Sigurd crumbled at the thought of never being able to reunite with his friend again.

Dag was gone for good... and it was all his fault.

Letting go of the axe’s hilt, Sigurd allowed himself to relax and climbed off of Dag’s body, taking a seat beside him as a series of breaths fled from his lungs.

...He did it. He actually did it.

The traitor had been removed from their midst, and their clans would be able to proceed without worrying about betrayal. Kjotve would no longer have an ally inside their walls, and Gorm would give them the last step they needed before taking him down at last.

Sigurd supposed he should’ve been relieved now that things were finally in their favor, but all he felt was emptiness.

His closest friend lay defeated under the blade of his own axe, and his world remained shaken by the multiple losses it had just suffered. He experienced no pleasure in the face of this so-called victory, and the only thing he had left to hope for was the sight of Kjotve’s head.

He just wanted this war to end. He wanted the constant turmoil of these never-ending battles to become a thing of the past, and he wanted to cleanse the seas of the blood that stained their shores.

Sigurd dreamed of a future where people wouldn’t have to share his clan’s pain, but deep down, he feared it would never become a reality.

The war had already lasted for a couple decades, after all. He saw no reason why the gods would allow it to end anytime soon.

“Sigurd?” Someone said abruptly, dragging the prince back to his senses.

The man glanced upward from where he sat and gazed in the distance, only to find Eivor watching him from afar.

“Eivor...?” Sigurd whispered, quickly wiping his face dry. “What... what are you doing here?”

The blonde viking stepped out from the trees and approached his lover, careful not to distress him even further.

“I saw you leave with Dag earlier,” Eivor answered softly, still drained from the shock of Ulfar’s loss. “The two of you were gone for a while, so I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He paused for a second, allowing his eyes to wander towards Dag. “...You really killed him.”

The older man stared helplessly at the sky, peering into the canopy of branches swaying above him.

“...Yes. I did.” He said, his voice trembling slightly. “I had to.”

Sighing morosely, Eivor pushed his way through the mounds of snow and walked over to Sigurd, crouching down in front of him. He comforted the distraught prince by gently caressing his cheek, and flicked away some stray tears with a simple swipe of the thumb. Afterwards, the young man reached over to the axe protruding from Dag’s chest and carefully removed it, wiping it clean before laying it in Sigurd’s lap.

“You did the right thing. I know it wasn’t easy, but our clan will sleep better at night thanks to you.”

Sigurd loosely met Eivor’s gaze, entirely devoid of life. “...I feel like a monster. Dag was... he was my brother. I know everyone else saw him as a traitor, but to me, he was always that little boy I met in Fornburg.” His expression sank with grief. “...That little boy is dead now because of me. I killed him.”

Eivor held the prince’s face in his hands. “No, Sigurd. You didn’t kill that boy. Dag did. A long time ago.”

The redheaded warrior offered nothing but silence in response, causing Eivor to return to his feet.

“Come, my love.” He beckoned, reaching an arm out. “We should return to the village.”

Sigurd remained motionless on the ground, simply looking over at Dag’s body.

“Wait. Could we... bring him back with us? I’m aware of Dag’s crimes, but even then, I’d like to give him a proper burial.”

“Of course,” Eivor assured. “Many in the clan will question his presence at the funeral, but I’ll send someone to retrieve him once we return. Don’t worry. We won’t leave him behind.”

Sigurd propped himself up on one knee and grabbed the other man’s arm, rising from the snow. “Thank you, Eivor.”

The Wolf-Kissed guided his lover away from the waterfall and called for his horse, leading the prince back home.

“Come on.” He whispered lovingly. “Let’s get you out of here.”

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loruleanheart · 3 years

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Desired Fate, Chapter 8

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The sky was an overcast grey, giving little light to Zelda’s chambers as the princess sat on a small settee, trying to focus on the book she held which contained her carefully written research notes. Urbosa, Link, and Impa had left that morning for Gerudo Desert where they would all board the Divine Beast, Vah Naboris, and set out for the Yiga Hideout.

There was a light knock at her door.

“Come in.”

Zelda turned her head to see one of her ladies-in-waiting holding a tray with a teapot and a cup for her.

“Thought this might lift your spirits, Your Highness.”

This gave Zelda pause. Was it that apparent she was feeling low?

“That’s very thoughtful of you, thank you.” The Princess acknowledged but barely smiled.

The attendant poured her a cup and gave a bow before turning to leave.

The tea gave off a pleasant earthy aroma, and as Zelda waited for it to cool she anxiously wondered what sort of news her champions would return with.

She redirected her attention back to her research which she’d gathered from books at the Royal Tech Lab as well as the castle’s library. She skimmed what she’d written down, finding it helpful to return to these notes every so often. Perhaps she’d add more soon where she’d record everything she’d learned thanks to the little Guardian with knowledge of the future.

This made her recall records that Robbie and Purah had shared with her before the arrival of that mysterious Guardian. These records indicated that there were many different types of Guardians stored in five giant columns that rested beneath the castle. These Guardians would be key in combating the Calamity, just as they had 10,000 years ago.

But how do I access them? Despite knowing every inch of the castle, I’ve never seen these columns. They must be buried deep underground, but I can’t give up looking… Even if I can’t find the columns themselves, maybe there’s something to activate them?

She thought she’d go insane from the feeling of impending doom if she didn’t do everything she could. Especially after being excluded from accompanying Urbosa to the Yiga Hideout, Zelda was feeling especially useless. She couldn’t afford to waste a single moment. She could at least agree with her father on that, even if they didn’t see eye to eye on what constituted a waste of time.

As unproductive as she was feeling, she forced herself towards the first area that came to mind for her to begin her search. She made her way to the secret passage in the library that led to the docks, praying she wouldn’t cross paths with her father on the way there.

After traversing the castle’s long hallways, she reached her destination and breathed a sigh of relief that she had gone unnoticed by castle staff. She began to descend the darkened staircase, illuminated only by torches that lined the natural rock walls.

As she rounded the corner and began to descend the last flight of steps she froze. She wasn’t alone down here. Her heart leapt and she audibly exhaled when she perceived who it was. The strange variation of the Gerudo emblem on the back of the Prophet of Doom’s robe had been etched into her mind both from her meeting with him in Korok Forest as well as the newest image on the Sheikah Slate.

“Halt! Take down your hood.” The princess ordered.

Astor turned to her slowly, appearing caught off guard by her presence. He rolled his eyes and smirked, doing as she asked.

His collarbone length dark hair nearly covered his Hylian ears. He gave her a look as if to say ‘Are you satisfied?’

Zelda stared at the man before her, speechless. A little in relief that he hadn’t put up a fight, but also feeling that he wasn’t as intimidating without his hood. She wondered if he ever got distracted by the braid that hung in front of his right eye. Still, he was undeniably beautiful to her, and she hated herself for thinking so, given who he was and what he’d done and probably would do if she couldn’t stop him

This man is going to be the death of me… If not literally, then figuratively… He seeks to revive Calamity Ganon. You should find him repulsive just from that fact alone. Ugh… What is WRONG with me… I truly am just a failure in more ways than one… I’m just broken… Horribly and irrevocably broken...

Astor was transfixed by the princess’s serene expression as she descended the stairs coming into the light of a nearby torch. She looked at him imploringly, and it unnerved him how she held him in her gaze. She only averted her intense gaze away for a brief moment to sweep a lock of her golden blonde hair away from her face before folding her hands in front of herself in a self-conscious manner. The luxurious fabric of her royal blue dress melded nicely to her figure. This girl, a woman and a queen-in-practice really, was the picture of Hylian beauty, not that Astor would allow himself to acknowledge that. She appeared so out of place in this dark, underground environment. The urge to look away was strong, but still, Astor held her gaze. He almost felt ashamed that this delicate girl was his mortal enemy. She didn’t look capable of sealing Calamity Ganon. She didn’t look like she was capable of sealing anything really, even though he’d so clearly seen it play out in prophetic dreams - more like nightmares, really - and he knew better. It would have been so easy to call upon his Hollows to end her existence right then and there, but something stopped him.

Zelda spoke softly. “Astor… How did you get in here?”

It had been such a long time since Astor had been addressed by name. Hearing it on the princess’s lips was somehow sweet.

“You think it would be difficult for me? Don’t insult me! This isn’t my first time.” He said in an intimidating manner, his voice smooth. He’d been called here before by Calamity Ganon. That was when he’d found his Harbinger. He now sensed something or someone different calling him to this place. Normally he’d disregard such a calling. It was just a distraction from his purpose as Calamity Ganon’s chosen. But the pull towards this place on this occasion was so strong, he couldn’t deny he was curious. And it had led him to the princess of Hyrule.

The Princess continued to hold him in her gaze, her voice taking on a more serious intonation. “Here to make another attempt on my life?”

Astor gave a wicked smile, questioning the vision he’d seen of her. Pathetic girl is being run ragged by fate… She’s practically begging to have her thread cut.

“Are you inviting me to do so? The princess with the blood of the goddess volunteering herself as a blood sacrifice to the Calamity… Exquisite… Your power could be mine for the taking forever.” His irises constricted in desire, and then his expressions darkened. “Then maybe I could, at last, get you off my mind….”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. It was a morbid sentiment, of course, but hearing him say it sent her reeling. There was a strange energy between them, a sort of magnetism.

“It’s not mine to give. I have my own destiny to fulfill.”

“Your answer doesn’t sound very confident, Your Highness.” He purred.

He’d seen right through her somehow. The Princess’s eyes widened and her face paled a bit in shame. Her lips parted to speak, but she said nothing.

“You… Certainly aren’t what I was expecting. I could never foresee that Hyrule’s princess would spare me, a disciple of Calamity Ganon.” Astor said, his voice held a sense of awe. “I wonder what your appointed knight had to say about that? Where is that despicable little pest? I thought he never left your side.”

Zelda bit the inside of her cheek. “Well, I… I couldn’t just stand by and watch you get killed.”

“Why not? I nearly succeeded in killing you. And you know I am bound by fate to try again…”

The princess sensed his words were just as hollow as hers. She narrowed her eyes at him, taking a few steps closer to the Prophet of Doom.

He takes a step back, his smile faltering. “You dare to test -” But it was too late, as he was hit with a multitude of images flashing through his mind's eye’. He recoiled, holding his head.

Zelda looked on with concern. “What was that?”

Astor tried to clear his mind, shaking. For a moment he had been back in that strange place that seemed to be an amalgamation of Korok Forest and the Lost Woods. A surreal place where the Silent Princess flowers grow abundant.

“Stay away from me….” He growled.

Zelda blinked, perplexed as to what had just overtaken the prophet. “Astor… Why would you want to destroy Hyrule? This is your home, too. What have you to gain from destroying it?”

Astor bristled at the question. This foolish royal girl wouldn't be able to comprehend his motivation given her station and role in this world, so he just answered simply, “This world is rightfully Calamity Ganon’s.”

Zelda reflected on this a moment. His answer was off-putting for her to hear, but still, she was determined to better understand what had led him down such a dark path. “But, why devote yourself to Calamity Ganon? How do you even know Calamity Ganon isn’t using you? Or do you plan to sacrifice yourself for this insane cause?”

Astor recalled Sooga’s words. He wanted so much to lie through his teeth and say yes, but he honestly wasn’t satisfied with that answer. But, to answer truthfully would be a weakness and disloyalty to Lord Ganon. Not that he was ready to accept that the Great Calamity would ever require such a thing of him, or worse betray him.

Instead, he simply said, “My fate is to be at the right hand of Calamity Ganon.”

“I see…” Zelda said unconvinced. “I’m no prophet, but if you continue on your current path you’re almost certainly going to fall, either by the sword that seals the darkness or by your master when your usefulness has ended. Please stop what you’re doing… I… I don’t want to see this dark fate consume you.” Her answer sounded so confident this time.

The prophet’s insides twisted up. He hadn’t been prepared for the princess of Hyrule herself to beseech him in such a forthright manner. No, he had just expected her to oppose him with only righteous anger and nothing else. Why did she care so much? Why did she have to make this so complicated… and even uncomfortable. It was one thing to hear such a warning from Sooga, as rudely as he had put it. But it was another to hear it again from his mortal enemy, and he was so unaccustomed to kindness. And here she was… She wasn’t begging for her life. She was begging for his. This wasn’t going how he expected. No, she just felt like an unwanted distraction, perhaps even.... a temptation?

“Spare me, Your Highness, “ He spat. “I don’t need pity from the weakest chain in the goddesses’ bloodline!”

Zelda shifted her posture, turning her head slightly away from him, wounded by his words. He might as well have stabbed her in the heart and left her to bleed. But she held back. If he thought she was going to cry over insults she’d heard before and internalized, he had another thing coming.

“It’s so much more than pity...” Zelda said softly as she looked at the ground, her voice wavering.

However, It was painfully obvious he was a force she wasn’t going to be able to persuade, she thought, losing hope. Not that she was surprised.

Astor turned to go and Zelda let out a little gasp, knowing where he might be going. “Wait… Please, don’t leave…”

He turned and gave her a strange look.

Zelda chose her words carefully, knowing her champions were still in the middle of a dangerous mission at the Yiga Hideout, and she couldn’t put them at risk.

“Astor… If you don’t heed my warning... you will almost certainly face defeat… And it may come sooner than you think…” Zelda wished her final warning wasn’t so cold, so sterile, even vaguely threatening, but it was the best she could do all things considered. Still, she knew the moment he left she’d be in a world of self-loathing and regret. Self-loathing that she cared a little too much for him, and regret that she had failed to stop him.

He scoffed at her warning. “Your pleas are meaningless to me. I am a great seer and prophet of the Calamity. And you… are but a mere nuisance in my path. You will not impede my fate any further. Farewell, Your Highness…” He paused a moment as if hesitant to leave. He almost looked a little sorry. “If you should survive the Calamity... What will I do with you?” And with that, he vanished.

#Hyrule Warriors: Age of Calamity #Age of Calamity #HWAOC #Astor #fanfiction #Some real interaction here between the two #I can just imagine all the Zelda's of the past judging AOC Zelda and being like #"Don't despair he's got plot armor and he'll be around at least until the final battle.#Zelast

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bisexualfelicity · 4 years

Text

No Other Version of Me - Chapter Two

Amalia Queen was once said to be so important that the universe made sure she happened. Yes, it was her mom who said that but it still counts. Now, she's an adult and struggles to be worthy of such sentence. She doesn't want to be a vigilante and make so many sacrifices like the rest of her family, but it doesn't mean she doesn't want to save the world.

Sequel to "Five Lives"

Next Gen, not canon compliant.

Previous chapters on AO3

“I think you got the wrong place, the bunker is on the other side of town,” Amalia hates how bitter she sounds, but can’t help it.

Naila doesn’t seem affected by it though. Amalia expects her to look hurt over it, maybe try to say there was no need for that, but the other girl seems completely indifferent to Amalia’s tone, inspecting her room and settling on top of her bed.

“I need your help,” she repeats, as if Amalia hadn’t heard the first time. “Samyia is in danger.”

“What have I got to do with that?”

“I need help rescuing her,” she says.

“I’m not a part of the team. Have never been. Did you forget that?” Amalia asks, hurt giving place to confusion. “Besides, we already know that. Team Arrow has been talking to Sara, everything is already handled.”

Continue reading under the cut or on AO3

“I didn’t come to ask for the team’s help. I’ve come to ask for yours. I know our parents are working together and they have a plan. This is not about that.”

“What is it about then?”

“They are not accepting my help. They think it’s too dangerous, considering…” she doesn’t end her sentence and Amalia does not ask what she means, she’s more curious about how she fits in all of this. “But I know going there is the best chance to get Samyia out safely.”

“That sounds like a discussion you should be having with the rest of the team, Naila. If you don’t mind, it’s late, I’ve had a long day and would like to rest now.”

“Mali, please,” the nickname only makes Amalia less inclined to listen to her, but Naila doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, “Just listen to me. I’m not asking you to do anything crazy, I just need someone to watch my back while I go save Samyia. The others won’t risk it, but I know you’ll do what is right.”

Amalia stays quiet, trying to understand what was happening. She very much wants Naila to leave her room, so she can just think about all of that. Half of what she was saying doesn’t even make sense. And besides why come to her? Amalia is not a vigilante. She’s trained, of course, she needs to know how to defend herself and it had been needed over the years, but she’s not used to being in combat and would rather be safe at home.

“I’m sure if you explain your side they are going to understand.”

“Why don’t you ever listen to what I’m saying? They won’t. Don’t you think I tried? Do you think coming here was my first option?”

While Amalia herself thought it was not logical to ask for her help, it still hurts when Naila put it like that.

“Why don’t they want you going?” Amalia asks, trying to decide if it’s even worth losing her time like that.

“It’s a long story. Maybe… Maybe I can tell you later. Will you help me if I tell you?”

“Of course not. I’m pretty sure the best way I can help you is by getting out of the way,” Amalia says, crossing her arms and raising her eyebrows.

“Fine. I see you’re still mad at me. I thought you were a lot of things, Amalia, but I never thought you’d be that selfish to deny help to someone you once called your friend.”

“I called you a lot of things, but, guess what, when you end a conversation by disappearing for five years you lose any right to complain!”

“I didn’t come here to complain. And I definitely didn’t come here to have a repeat of that fight, okay? I’m here because I’m desperate! I’m here because my sister is gone and she’s going to do something very stupid and if I don’t go people are going to get hurt. I know you care, Amalia, you can’t have changed that much.”

Amalia stays quiet at that. Tears are burning in her eyes but she refuses to let them fall, she is not a teen anymore, she’s over this. It is true that she cares, she cares about Naila, she cares about whatever is happening with Samyia, she cares about anyone possibly getting hurt and she cares about whether she is being selfish or not.

She likes helping people. She built her entire life so she could help as many people as she could. Being called selfish and sounding like she didn’t really care about the outcome of all of that? That damages her core. That’s not who she wants to be. And Naila knows it very well, Amalia is not naïve enough to think Naila didn’t use these words on purpose, the girl is trying to manipulate her and knows how to do it well.

“Here’s what I can do,” she finally says and almost shivers as she sees the hope in Naila’s eyes. “I will go to you with the bunker, I’ll help you convince them to hear you…”

“No! That’s not what I said,” Naila interrupts her, the hope giving way to anger and impatience. “Sara is going to arrive at any minute. She can’t know I’m here.”

“Your mom can’t know you’re here? What the fuck did you get into?”

“Look, are you going to help me or not? I don’t have enough time for this.”

“Then go. I didn’t ask for any of that. You didn’t say anything good enough to convince me I should go with you. I don’t even know what I’m dealing with and if you’re hiding that from Sara, I’m not sure you’re even on the right side.”

“Fine. You don’t trust me anymore, I guess I deserve it. Just… Don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

Before Amalia can even think about answering her, Naila gets up from the bed and heads to the window. Naila looks back at her and Amalia thinks of saying she could just leave through the door, but it sounds like the wrong thing to say – and she doesn’t really want to explain to her friends in the living room what is going on – so she says nothing. Naila doesn’t say anything else either, just stares at Amalia and goes through the window, disappearing into the night. There is no anger in her face, but there is something there and it takes Amalia too long to realize what it is.

Disappointment.

Amalia tries to forget this meeting ever happened. She puts her pajamas on, goes to the living room, joining her friends in watching TV and laughing for the rest of the night and, when it’s day again, she throws herself in work and pushes thoughts of Naila as far as she can. There might be a part of her that is a little over the edge for the next day, but if her coworkers ask what’s got her in a mood, she’ll definitely just smile and says she has no idea what they mean.

Maybe she activates notifications on many news websites and keeps checking to see if anything comes up, but if that’s the case it’s certainly because she’s a concerned citizen and why shouldn’t she care about what happens in the world? She likes being updated. There’s nothing wrong with that.

But all the lies can’t hide forever from her mind. Her fast heartbeat is a constant reminder that she’s anxious and she has reasons to be. Did Naila talk to the team? To her mom at least? Did she go alone? Have they saved Samyia? Is everyone okay? She can only assume nothing terrible has happened or else she would have heard about it by now… Right?

By Friday, her phone aches next to her. Emma is on a date and Ilana always goes to her parents’ for shabbat dinner, so she finds herself alone in her apartment after work with nothing to do but wonder. Sure, she has other friends, she has stuff she meant to do, there’s always more work waiting for her, but it’s been 48 hours and she hasn’t heard anything and she can’t stand waiting like this all weekend.

Amalia is debating which family member she should call when she gets a message from Mom asking about having lunch together the next day. She confirms it, telling herself it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody is in the hospital. Mom would have just said that otherwise.

She considers herself a practical person most of the time, but can barely recognize herself now. The practical thing would be to just call literally anyone in the family and be done with this, ask everything they know and satisfy her curiosity. Even following her instincts again and showing up on the bunker would be more practical than laying in bed for hours, thinking of the worst scenarios and then arguing in her mind about how unlikely it is that it would happen. But it’s too much; she can’t move.

The night goes on like this. Amalia has spent sleepless nights before, many during college, a few having fun, but never because she was too worried to relax. Just close your eyes and think of nothing, it isn’t that hard. Except her brain won’t shut up, no matter how she says that it’s too late now and everyone else is asleep, nothing is going to happen until the morning. But what is going to happen in the morning?

When did she become that person?

Amalia is about to have a full identity crisis by the time the sun comes up. She tries to sleep one last time, fails to do it, meditates with an app she just downloaded and eats breakfast. It’s the longest she manages to stall before heading to her parents’ house, ready to just face the truth, whatever it is.

She lets herself in without ringing the bell and finds that she can already breathe better just by being in her family’s home. The house is completely silent and Amalia assumes everyone is still asleep. Not thinking much about it, she goes to her old room, lays in her bed and closes her eyes. For a moment, she thinks she might actually sleep this time and wouldn’t that be ironic? But her insomnia doesn’t have much of a sense of humor and doesn’t give up just because she’s home.

Meredith, the cat, soon joins her in the bed, meowing at Amalia’s face, either asking for cuddles or complaining it’s been too long since she visited last week. Amalia really misses the cat and wishes she could steal Meredith and go home. Life would be much better if she had her cat with her. But Mom would be really angry if she did it and Libbi would definitely steal her back. Meredith didn’t need that kind of stress.

Amalia is telling all of this to the cat, hugging the cat against her will, when she hears a knock on the door.

“Mali? What are you doing here so early?” Dad asks as he comes into the room and sits next to her in the bed. Finding the bed too crowded, Meredith decides to leave.

“Lunch,” she says not answering it at all.

It shouldn’t surprise her that her dad is up and dressed like he had just came back from running. Dad had never been one to sleep a lot and is getting worse every year, of course she wouldn’t be able to arrive before he woke up. Dad just stares at her, waiting for her to complete.

“Couldn’t sleep, sorry,” she’s stalling to ask and kinda wished Mom was here, because she’d just try to guess what is happening instead of looking at her and respecting her time. “I need to know what happened.”

Dad seems surprised by it, like he had no idea she even suspected anything. He sighs and stays silent for a bit, but Amalia doesn’t pressure him, she knows he’s trying to find the right words and she’s not sure she wants to hear them. Her thoughts start spiraling and she only focus again once Dad touches her shoulder, steadying her.

“The League asked for our help on a mission,” he starts, Amalia just nods even though part of her wants to say she already knows that and he can just fast forward to what happened. “They had been dealing with a threat and Samyia was captured in action. Their enemies are based just outside Star City and we could help retrieve her so they could go back safely to Nanda Parbat…” Dad pauses and she knows the worst is to come. “We had everything ready to go, but then Sara found out Naila went alone without back up when she was supposed to stay behind. I’m sorry, Mali, but Naila was captured as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s missing. We’re still going to try to get them back, but you have to know… Naila was what they were after. Samyia was being used as blackmail. There’s no way of knowing what they intend on doing to Naila now that they have her.”

She tries to breathe in and out and not freak out, she tells herself she was expecting it. Yes, Naila was taken. Of course she was taken. Because she had no back up and she had literally told Amalia that she needed someone to watch her back. They wanted Naila, this is why Sara or the Team wouldn’t let her help. They were scared this would happen.

She should have gone with her. Or, better yet, she should have told her family or Sara what Naila was doing.

“It’s going to be okay, honey, breathe with me,” Dad is saying besides her, his hands comforting in her back, breathing slowly and waiting until she did she same. “I know you care about her, Mali, but we’re going to bring her back safely. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Don’t worry?! How am I going to do it when it’s all my fault?”

August 2036

When Amalia finds Naila standing in her living room, her first thought is that someone died and she’s here for another funeral. She can hear her parents’ voices echoing through the house, laughing with Sara, so she assures herself that nothing bad happened again. Naila looks uncomfortable, sitting alone on the sofa in an extremely poised way, but Amalia makes no movement to join her.

Last time they’ve talked to each other it was Quentin Lance’s funeral and it was not a good day. Amalia had heard about Naila since, Becky commented about her cousins and Naila had been in Star City a few times since, but never in her house. Amalia doesn’t know what her presence means and doesn’t like it.

She knows why Sara is here: because everything sucks right now. There have always been bad guys creeping around, always some danger, but it got worse. She doesn’t know who’s behind, she thinks there are superpowers involved but she’s not sure and she honestly doesn’t want to know. All she wants is to forget that this is her life.

But she can’t. Because Uncle Roy died and she had to look at her little cousin Elliot and know that it could have been her without a dad. And then Laurel got hurt last month and still hasn’t recovered. She knew it was only time before something happened to her parents and then it did. Her dad was thrown from a bridge and could barely leave the bed now.

She knows she’s lucky. Dad’s at home, when he could very well had ended up in the hospital or in a coffin. If it served for anything, they should all have just learned that vigilantism is not worth it.

But instead Sara showed up. Not just to see her sister and make sure this side of the family was okay, but to fill in for Dad in Team Arrow.

And she’s bringing her daughter? That is just weird.

Amalia is still standing in the door when Naila looks directly at her, not saying anything. Amalia tries to smile but Naila doesn’t bother to copy her, staring with curious eyes. Not knowing what to do, Amalia decides to join Naila at the sofa, sitting next to the girl, still silent.

“So.. You’re visiting Laurel?” Amalia asks, trying to start a conversation.

“We’ve visited her yesterday, we’re visiting your parents now,” Naila says, frowning and Amalia can’t help but laugh at that answer. “Sara wanted me to meet you. I’m Naila,” she extends her hand and Amalia finds herself shaking it even though it feels weird to shake hands with someone her age.

“I know that. I’m Amalia. We’ve met already.”

“I remember, but we weren’t formally introduced then. I’d like to get acquainted with you since I will be attending school where you go comes September.”

“Are you… staying in Starling?”

“Yes, Nyssa and Samyia are going to continue in Nanda Parbat for most of the time, but it was decided that I should accompany Sara while she’s here. Sara thought I would enjoy experimenting formal education, so I am here.”

“Did you not go to school there?”

“I had lessons with my moms and other members, but there isn’t anyone else my age in the League, so no school.”

Amalia frowns at that. No wonder the girl sounds so weird if she doesn’t interact with anyone their age. Amalia could only imagine how shocking would be to suddenly start high school with hundreds of teenagers, well, being teenagers. Amalia had some difficulty belonging there and she had studied with those people her entire life.

“I can help you around in school,” Amalia offers, “I can introduce you to my friends and we can hang out, if you want that is.”

“That would be lovely,” Naila smiles for the first time and her whole face transforms, she seems so happy at that moment that Amalia for a moment thinks she has offered more than just helping in school.

Naila is looking at her expectantly, waiting for Amalia to continue the conversation. Later, Amalia will be able to pinpoint this as the exact moment she decided to befriend Naila. They’d have to be friendly with each other anyway, Naila didn’t know anyone else in the school and it’d be the right thing to do; but it’d be easier if it was something genuine and not a friendship out of parental obligation. It’s the bright in her brown eyes and the way she blushes after smiling that sticks for Amalia, the red hardly apparent in her sand skin. Naila looks shy in a way that Amalia has never pegged Sara and Nyssa’s daughter for.

“Tell me about Nanda Parbat, what do you usually do there?”

While Naila talk about her life, Amalia can’t help but find it all fascinating and soon they are able to maintain a conversation without much awkwardness. Naila takes a while to be comfortable, but by the time their parents arrive in the room, it’s clear that Felicity won’t have to ask Amalia to hang out with Naila, they have already made their own plans.

Amalia thinks of her two best friends, trying to think of how to introduce Naila and wondering if they have a good backstory planned. Amalia is not ready to explain to her friends what the League of Assassins is and how she’s associated with then. Luckily for them, Amalia is a great liar and has been doing that since she was young enough to talk.

Somehow, even though she sounded like she was from a different world, Naila would fit right in her life.

#olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #nyssara #olicity #olicitysquee #arrow fic #arrow

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jane-ways · 4 years

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Of Things Made to be Destroyed, Ch 3

Read it on AO3 & SWG!

Morning dawned cold and misty. To Caranthir it seemed the damp earth itself was shivering under the wan early light. But there was light, and for that he was grateful. He had slept little, but there were many who had slept even less: those tasked with setting up camp, organizing the hospital, tending to the wounded, and burying the fallen. (It struck him, how both his people and Haleth’s buried their dead in the earth: for the Noldor, it was a tradition forged in Beleriand, a way of connecting them to this land; for the nomadic Haladin, it symbolically marked their journey and the places where, for however long, they made their home.) A long rest and a lazy morning was perhaps warranted, he thought. It was almost certainly desired by all, yet it seemed that sleep escaped more than Caranthir: even by the time he dressed and left his tent, the large camp was wide awake with the sounds of talking and the pungent smell of woodsmoke.

Damn, he thought, all the wood’s soaked through and smoking something fierce. I’ll be lucky if any of my meals for the next day taste like anything more than soot. Caranthir detested a smoky fire. Supplies of food, medicine, cloth, and dry wood were on their way from his castle, but the supply caravan would take a day or more to reach them. As he approached his head cook for the cavalry, he was already making a mental inventory of food that either would not be strongly affected by the presence of smoke or that might actually be by improved by it. And then, as he passed one of the women of Haleth’s guard, an idea struck him.

“Hail the victorious dead!” Haleth’s voice rang out strong and clear across the field.

“Hail!” answered Caranthir, raising his goblet in toast.

“Hail!” came the chorus of replies from the gathered combatants and survivors. They had set their feast at many long tables arranged in a sort of central “square” in their tent city, a large area at the head of camp left intentionally clear. Caranthir was pleased to see a certain amount of mingling between the two peoples, if not much conversation (which he hoped was simply the result of limited Sindarin on the Haladin’s part).

Having instructed his head cook to consult with the Haladin concerning their supplies and dietary preferences, he had approached Haleth with his plan. “It will be a symbolic celebration,” he had explained. “It is a tradition among the Noldor. With the sun still in the morning sky, almost at the peak of noon, we celebrate both our past successes and the promise of good health to come.”

“Have you a name for it?” Her question had thrown him.

“Have—what? A name for a victory celebration?”

“You said it was a tradition amongst your people.”

“Oh, well, yes, a meal taken late in the morning. Not necessarily a victory meal, although such an occasion would not be excluded—”

“What do you call it?”

“We call it ‘brunch.’”

Leaning back in his camp chair to let his food settle, Caranthir turned to look at Haleth. She was still eating intently. He noted the soft roundness of her ears—still such a novelty to him—and the beginnings of lines around her eyes, tiny folds in the delicate skin. Mannish age was a matter of some confusion for Caranthir. Dwarves, with whom he had more familiarity, he had learned to judge fairly accurately, and like Dwarves, Men did age and die, but how the two peoples’ lifespans and signs of aging compared he did not know. Haleth could have been still a young woman or one well into her middle age. Whatever her age, she carried weight and wisdom beyond her years, though. That much he could tell.

“What, pray tell, are you looking at?” Haleth’s voice startled him from his thoughts. She had not turned her head (or, Caranthir noted, paused her eating while she spoke). “I can feel your eyes on me, Lord.”

“You have keen senses, then,” he countered.

“I have led a dangerous life; I have had to develop them,” she answered, eyes still on her food. Still, he did not answer her, but held his gaze steadily. At length, she turned to him. “You did not answer me, Lord. What are you looking at? You have the look about you of a man searching for something.” Haleth cocked her head, and although she did smile, there was a laugh in her eyes. “What are you hoping to find in my face?”

For that, he had no answer. “Merely looking,” he said softly.

Shaking her head, Haleth turned back to her food. “I am grateful for your hospitality, but you Elves have strange ways.”

Caranthir paused. “Yes, ah, well…” Excellent diplomacy, Carnistir, very princely, he berated himself. “I am sure many of our customs must seem different and unusual,” he said in what he hoped was a recovery. Seizing an opportunity where he saw one opening up, he pressed on. “I am unfamiliar with many of your people’s customs as well, Lady. Please, enlighten me as to the origin of your earlier toast. I found it very moving.”

Haleth hummed a moment while she finished chewing. “In truth, I know not. But as you said, I too have always found it moving. The idea that their sacrifice was not in vain. That we are celebrating their lives rather than mourning their deaths.”

“It is a pleasing sentiment,” Caranthir agreed. “My people, being of eternal life, are often inclined towards intense sorrow at death. It is not permanent for us—we are re-embodied in the Undying Lands, after our time in the Halls of the Dead; we do not continue on past the circles of the world,” he interjected hurriedly at the gape-mouthed stare from Haleth at his statement that death was not permanent for Elves. “I think it because we do not understand death, not truly,” he continued, “not in the way mortals must. But I do not feel it must always be so, for us. I should like if we adopted an attitude not unlike your own.”

Haleth nodded slowly. Her face, usually steeled in a veneer of stern unreadability, had softened in surprise at this last admission. Perhaps, he surmised, she was astonished that such a proud lord as he would so openly admit her people’s customs preferable to his own. But Caranthir was above all a practical person: there were no trade networks built upon prejudice, and no profits to be gained by clinging to pride in the face of a better option. (And besides, his cousin Ingoldo’s funeral dirges really were abominable.)

“Now you have asked me a question, I should like to ask you one of my own,” Haleth said, settling back in her own chair. This was going to be a long conversation, apparently.

“I welcome it.”

Alone in his tent, Caranthir plucked away at the design before him. It was a small piece, a white horse courant on a field of green, interspersed with golden flowers. In time, the edges would be circled by a pattern of interlocking stalks, leaves, and flowers. He hadn’t decided what it would be—probably a handkerchief—or to whom he would gift it—at the moment, he was leaning towards Tyelko, but that would rule out its being used as a handkerchief. (Caranthir was not sure the last time he had seen his brother use anything remotely resembling a handkerchief. Or a napkin. Maybe he would use it as a hand towel? Maybe.)

As he sewed, Caranthir considered his earlier conversation with Haleth (which, in all honesty, had not left his mind since he had reluctantly left her side). What had started as a gaffe had evolved into a discussion of many hours, lasting well into the afternoon as tables were cleared around them and people dispersed to their various duties. Caranthir did not think his reputation as a difficult person was always deserved, but he had to admit that he rarely found a conversation so effortless and enjoyable. That his partner was a Mannish woman he had just met did not escape him. His hand stilled.

Haleth did not seem any more the sort of person to use a handkerchief than his brother Tyelkormo, but perhaps she would like the embroidery on the horse.

“And then I caught him staring at me!”

“What was he looking at?”

“Me, I think.”

“Why was he looking at you?”

“Who knows? Probably to stare at how hideous a mortal I am!” Haleth laughed loudly, and the group of women around her burst into snorts and giggles. Even here, in the privacy of her own tent, in the company of her own guards, in the safety of her own language, she could not admit that the idea stung. So she laughed it off. Made a fool of the poncy Elvish princeling and his airs. What did she care why he looked at her, so long as he gave her people food and supplies? Let him entertain himself how he would. (An alternative way he might entertain himself with her flitted through her thoughts, and she pushed it away, silently cursing her traitorous mind.) The conversation turned to other matters, and Haleth followed along with half a mind, laughing or hmm-ing where appropriate, but her thoughts remained with Caranthir, and the way his eyes glinted like mica in the sun when he looked at her.

#haleth #caranthir #caranthir/haleth #The Silmarillion #silmarillion #silm fic #tolkien #my fics

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redroseinsanity · 4 years

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Ōmagatoki - Day 2

@daisugaweek2019 | Day 2 - Haste/Wish

Chapters: 2/7

Summary: In the Kamakura period, a fallen samurai undertakes a journey to pray for the mountain god’s mercy as a famine threatens his people, but instead meets an enchanting tree spirit. Daichi knows that the kodama is possibly the most dangerous being he has ever encountered, and yet, he falls.

—

“What if I told you that there’s a price to pay for saving your people?”

“What kind of price?”

“A sacrifice.”

One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven

Daichi woke with the dawn. In the early strains of morning light, the clearing that he had decided to take a chance and fall asleep in proved to be a good choice, with a thick amount of vegetation providing ample buffer from the chilly night winds.

As the night’s memories streamed into his consciousness, he glanced around and found that he was alone. With a wry grin, he shook his head. A dream, after all.

The alluring stranger was nothing more than a figment of his exhausted mind or the result pushing his body too far after months of inactivity. Nevertheless, he shut his eyes and recalled the way his name had sounded in that musical voice, holding it the way one held a piece of candy on their tongue.

Daichi.

He drew a deep breath, and proceeded to banish it from his mind.

After washing up in a stream nearby, he ate some of his rations and drank his fill before moving off, taking care to mentally mark his route lest he lose his way.

He had no clear idea what he was looking for, but if he were to believe the stories, he would know it when he found it. A place or a landmark or something that he would see, and know in his bones that it was where he ought to be paying his respects.

By midday, he had plunged so deep into the heart of the mountain forest that he had the nagging feeling he might have gotten lost. The logical part of him demanded that he turn back and head down the mountain, go home and return to the meaningless wallowing in self-pity that he had indulged in prior to this.

But he hadn’t found what he was looking for and he refused to revert to the despondent creature he had been. Daichi’s sense of duty had been unwavering even in the blur of his purposeless moping, and it had been the sense of responsibility he felt for his people that had dragged him out to practise his combat drills, to take tours to see the extent of the problem and eventually, had forced him up this very mountain. So, on he pressed, past hanging vines and gleaming blades of immaculately shaped leaves, careful not to disturb intricately constructed webs.

In the thick of the woods, he grew increasingly uneasy as he manoeuvred across fallen logs and mossy stones. A stream trickled along in the distance and by this point, he was fairly certain he had chanced upon some kind of untouched paradise, given the surreal beauty of the scenery.

Yet, there was a cold prickling at the back of his neck and something in his gut had his hand clasped loosely around the hilt of his katana. This place was perfect, too perfect, in fact. Was this it?

“Daichi?“

Keep reading on AO3 or read after the cut

Daichi whirled around, half drawing his blade as he struggled to locate the source. From the thicket, the stranger seemed to have been pulled from thin air, his figure rippling in the wind while Daichi blinked, trying to focus on him.

"It is you,” the stranger’s hazel eyes were no less beautiful in the daylight than they had been at dusk, but they held a measure of concern and something sharper, something Daichi tried and failed to put a finger on.

You’re real, Daichi thought in disbelief, his gaze flickering over a slight build clad in pale jade cloth and faltering at the same silver spun hair, dripping over his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” The stranger asked, taking bold steps over just as he had quietly and unhesitatingly sidled up to Daichi the night before.

“I could be asking you the same question,” Daichi shifted into a defensive stance, “Who are you? Why are you here?” How is it that I have not met you sooner?

The stranger seemed surprised, then a delighted smile lit his face and Daichi promptly forgot all the other questions he had.

“You can call me Suga,” he stopped right in front of Daichi, bringing the faint scent of cedar with him, “I am wandering, just like you.”

Up close and in the light, Suga was far more beguiling than Daichi had anticipated and he groped for words or any form of coherency in his brain while valiantly attempting to recover the power of speech.

“I am not wandering,” he managed to say firmly, “I am searching for a specific place so I suppose you can say that I am questing.”

“Well, I can tell you this is not the right place,” Suga declared cheerfully, turning towards the direction he originally came from and starting off.

When he realised that Daichi had not followed, he threw a look back and frowned.

“Are you not coming?”

“Do you know where it is? If not, I- I am afraid I must keep going,” Daichi fought down the instinctive urge to go wherever Suga did and willed his feet to stay planted where they were.

“I know what you need and I know how to get it,” Suga flashed a winsome smile, eyes twinkling as he continued in his original direction and now, Daichi hastened to catch up, heart pounding faster than his brisk walking warranted.

“How do you know?” Daichi asked, pulling back a branch to allow Suga to walk past it and was rewarded with a beatific curve of pale pink lips.

“I live here,” Suga replied simply, and as if to prove it, he hopped deftly over three ridiculously uneven stones to cross a stream.

Daichi hovered at the edge of the bank before deciding that he could clear it and took a single leap, stumbling a little as he landed on his bad leg only to catch himself and straighten quickly in a painstakingly rehearsed move.

He looked up to see Suga watching him with a peculiar expression and instantaneously, his stomach seized. He had no use for pity, not here, not when he had undertaken this precisely to prove (to whom, he had not yet figured out) that he was nothing worth pitying.

“I did not think there was anybody living here,” he blurted, hoping to distract Suga and feed his own curiosity at the same time.

“Of course there are,” Suga replied off-handedly, picking up his pace and trotting confidently on, “You people down there believe differently simply because none of you have met anyone who does.”

Daichi reined in ten different rebuttals and questions on the tip of his tongue to remind himself that the logic that had guided him for the past twenty four years seemed to evaporate on this mountain.

“But now I have,” He was unaware that he had spoken aloud until Suga whipped around to face him again, he smiled gently at Suga’s surprised look, “I’ve met you.”

He didn’t expect Suga’s face to soften into fondness, and he certainly didn’t expect his traitorous heart to fall out of beat for that moment.

“Yes,” Suga’s eyes, growing endeared and yet, filling with an age old melancholy, looked brighter than ever, “Yes, now you’ve met me.”

Standing there in a fern coloured set of robes, Suga seemed to fit right in with the foliage they were surrounded by and Daichi could see why he constantly failed to see him until he was practically right in front of the samurai. Not for the first time, Daichi speculated on just how much of this encounter was real. For all he knew, he had accidentally tripped into the spirit realm and was doing nothing more than talking to ghosts or figments of his imagination.

Just to be sure, he looked down at the dirt track that Suga was leading him along, eyes trailing past the hem of the cloth to where Suga was taking small but confident steps ahead. And his own gait stuttered.

There were no footprints.

Chancing a casual look back to his own tracks he saw his own sturdy shoeprints in the dirt and checking again, he ascertained that there was only one set of footprints despite there clearly being the two of them.

He supposed he ought to be frightened or that he ought to start running away in terror, but all he felt was a calm sense of acceptance, as though a piece he had been struggling to comprehend had fallen into place and that seemed about right.

He did not stumble again as he followed Suga, accompanied by the notion that nothing he knew held true anymore and simultaneously, that person in front of him was the truest thing he would ever know.

“This is further from the heart of the forest,” Daichi said dumbly as he got his bearings a long hike later. Suga had guided them into another small open patch on the crest of the mountain, adjacent to where Daichi had started out. This angle afforded him both a view of his land and the spectacular stretches of mountains that lay beyond it, and Daichi winced as he was reminded of how poorly his people were doing.

“The heart of the forest is not somewhere you need to go to save your people,” Suga came to stand next to Daichi, “It is not safe for you.”

As silently as he had approached Daichi, Suga left to recline against the slanted wood of a large beech tree.

“What if I told you that there’s a price to pay for saving your people?”

“What kind of price?”

“A sacrifice.”

Daichi mulled over it for a brief instant although he already knew the answer.

“Then I will pay it.”

Daichi wondered if they had arrived at the point whereby Suga would demand that he lay down his life for what he was asking. He waited but all that came was a scoff as Suga wiggled to make himself more comfortable.

“You say rash things for someone so steadfast,” Was the simple reply and Daichi let out an exhale, relieved and disappointed.

From where he stood, it was a steep dive down to the neatly fenced farming plots and village that Daichi was familiar with. Here, with the breeze toying with argon strands of Suga’s hair and the sky settling into a rich blend of reds and oranges, Daichi felt far removed from his life down below.

Not even when he was an unimaginable distance away fighting the war did he feel so far from where he called home. As he watched Suga’s lids flutter closed, observed the slow inhale, the way the other man seemed to lean into the touch of the tree trunk he was resting against, he could not help but feel as though he was much closer to the sky than he was to his land.

Guiltily, he wondered what it would be like, to keep going up, to stretch his fingers toward the horizon instead of tilting his chin downwards.

He was out of his depth, this he knew. He knew it when he was walking behind Suga and desperately wishing he could test the silkiness of that maddeningly silver hair. He knew it when he failed to get the answers he was looking for but believed that he did anyway because the voice that gave them was so enchanting. And he knew now, when the sun was setting and he had no idea what he was doing except that as long as it involved this mysterious man, he wanted to keep doing it.

“What are you hoping for?” The question startled Daichi out of his thoughts and he turned to see Suga still with his eyes closed and head pillowed on the dark brown of the bark.

“I’m hoping that I can find a way to feed my people, maybe a miracle so that not so many die when the winter comes,” Daichi confessed in a low tone, searching in the distance for an answer he did not possess. It was the tail end of spring, but one good harvest in the summer could be his people’s salvation.

“No, that’s what you want for your people,” Suga’s eyes opened languidly and he focused a glittering hazel stare on the samurai.

“What do you want?"

Daichi drew a blank. Samurai were taught to put their community and nation first. Nobody had ever asked him what he wanted before. Rather, no one had ever asked him what he wanted without having a standard answer that they expected to receive. His brows knitted as he slowly made his way over to Suga and dropped into the spot next to him.

Around them, dragonflies lit on taller blades of grass, as though surveying the area before heading back. Daichi thought of the picture they made, Suga’s light green fabric against his dark brown sensible clothes amidst the verdant field, the branches swaying overhead and the pale warmth from the fading day.

All of a sudden he was biting back a ‘You’ from the tip of his tongue. You, he thought, with surprise and abandon, I want to stay here with you.

Instead he cleared his throat, and pondered the question, deliberately avoiding the unnerving weight of Suga’s gaze.

"I think I would want to find peace,” Daichi said more to himself than anything, “To find purpose and to be at peace with the path that life has shown me."

He looked up to see Suga eyeing him thoughtfully, and for a cold second he imagined that the other man knew that he had not been completely truthful.

But Suga broke into a grin, a flash of white in the dimming light.

"Well then, Daichi, would you not say that it’s peaceful here?” With me? Remained unspoken, but it rang out in the evening regardless and as if on cue, the last of a flock of swallows hurtled past, racing to get back before nightfall.

Daichi smiled, shoving the clamour of uncertainty into the far reaches of his mind, clamping down on the urgency that prodded him to find what he was looking for and go home. He could not stay in this haven for long, he could not dodge his responsibilities forever and although he knew all of that, for now at least, he could linger just a little longer.

“Yes,” he gave that smile, wist swallowed only to leave a genuine albeit bashful crinkling of his eyes, to Suga, “I would say so.”

#daisuga #sawamura daichi #sugawara koushi #haikyuu!!#daisugaweek2019 #redwrites #haikyuufanfics

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promin-blog · 7 years

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The New Shadow – Morgoth and Human Sacrifice?

Regarding Tolkien's unfinished story The New Shadow, Christopher Tolkien wrote: "it will never be known what Borlas found in his dark and silent house, nor what part Saelon was playing and what his intentions were."

I offer my (textually-backed up) speculations on the possible development of The New Shadow. Also, I discuss some of the philosophical implication of this story and its thematic connections with (or better said ‘fractalic reiterations’ of) other parts of Tolkien's opus, mainly the Ainulindalë.

The New Shadow was published for the first time in HoME 12. It is unfinished and has two fairly short fragments that don't differ greatly in content.

For those less familiar with this story, I will give a quick recap. It takes place during the Forth Age, in Gondor, during the reign of Aragon’s son, Eldarion. Borlas, an old man, is sitting in his garden with Saelon, a young man who is a friend of his son.

While sitting there they have a discussion on the nature of Evil in the world, or more precisely, on both the re-appearing nature of this Evil:

‘Deep indeed run the roots of Evil,' said Borlas, 'and the black sap is strong in them. That tree will never be slain. Let men hew it as often as they may, it will thrust up shoots again as soon as they turn aside. (HoME 12)

and it's omnipresence:

For a man may have a garden with strong walls, Saelon, and yet find no peace or content there. There are some enemies that such walls will not keep out; for his garden is only part of a guarded realm after all. It is to the walls of the realm that he must look for his real defence.

Both of those ‘characteristics’ can be traced back to the Music of the Ainur and Melkor’s discords, which the story actually insinuates by mentioning the Great Theme:

I do not doubt that many of those we spoke of would use words as solemn as yours, and speak reverently of the Great Theme and such things - in your presence.

as well as the discords of Melkor, and Eru creatively ‘overgrowing' them:

My judgement as one of them you know already. The evils of the world were not at first in the great Theme, but entered with the discords of Melkor. Men did not come with these discords; they entered afterwards as a new thing direct from Eru, the One, and therefore they are called His children

It seems that the new identifiable spurt from this ‘tree of Evil’, that is, Melkor’s discords which are both “nowhere absent” (HoME 10, p422, while talking about ‘the Melkor-ingredient’ in matter) and reiterating, is someone named Herumor:

'Why!' said Saelon. 'We have hardly begun. It was not of your orchard, nor your apples, nor of me, that you were thinking when you spoke of the re-arising of the dark tree. What you were thinking of, Master Borlas, I can guess nonetheless. I have eyes and ears, and other senses, Master.' (…) 'You have heard then the name?' With hardly more than breath he formed it. 'Of Herumor?'

Borlas's and Saelon's discussion could be considered as a kind of an reenactment of the Music on the micro-level, with Borlas and Saelon offering their arguments 'one atop of the other', like in a singing duel. Saelon is even "humming softly” during their discussion.

Plotwise, Saelon insinuates that he is in some way in contact with Herumor and/or those dissatisfied with the way things are in Gondor after ‘the King’ (meaning Aragorn) has died. We are led to believe by Saelon that these men make Herumor's following. Saelon offers Borlas to come with him tonight if the wants to 'learn more'.

Let's now take a look at what Tolkien said about the plot of The New Shadow:

I did begin a story placed about 100 years after the Downfall [of Sauron], but it proved both sinister and depressing. Since we are dealing with Men it is inevitable that we should be concerned with the most regrettable feature of their nature: their quick satiety with good. So that the people of Gondor in times of peace, justice and prosperity, would become discontented and restless - while the dynasts descended from Aragorn would become just kings and governors - like Denethor or worse. I found that even so early there was an outcrop of revolutionary plots, about a centre of secret Satanistic religion; while Gondorian boys were playing at being Orcs and going round doing damage." (HoME 12)

My speculations:

1) Herumor and his 'cult' are practicing human sacrifice, which would make them ‘satanists’, by Tolkien’s definition. Morgoth accepting human sacrifice as the proper way of worship goes back to the Tale of Adanel:

Then in fear lest he (Morgoth) should hear them and punish us all, we slew them (those who spoke against worshiping Morgoth), if we could; and those that fled we hunted; and if any were caught, our masters, his friends, commanded that they should be taken to the House and there done to death by fire. That pleased him greatly, his friends said; and indeed for a while it seemed that our afflictions were lightened. (HoME 10)

2) Herumor would turn out to be a Sauron-type evil leader, but human, claiming to be Sauron reincarnated, like Sauron claimed to be Morgoth reincarnated, after the fall of his master:

"At least in the Elder Days, and before he was bereft of his lord and fell into the folly of imitating him, and endeavoring to become himself supreme Lord of Middle-earth." (HoME 10)

The connection with Sauron could also be deduced from the title of the story - The New Shadow. Throughout LOTR Sauron is referred to as ‘the Shadow’, and the chapter of Fellowship in which Sauron is for the first time mentioned in LOTR is titled ‘The Shadow of the Past’. Sauron is even mentioned as ‘the Shadow’ in-story, by Saelon:

I do not mean of wild men only, or those who grew "under the Shadow", as they say.

Why do I think Herumor is human, and not Sauron returned?

There are two reasons why. Firstly, if Sauron (or Morgoth) was to return in this story, Tolkien would not, according to C.Tolkien, talk in this way:

‘I could have written a "thriller" about the plot and its discovery and overthrow - but it would be just that. Not worth doing.' (HoME 12)

The second, stronger, reason is this:

Sauron was a problem that Men had to deal with finally: the first of the many concentrations of Evil into definite power-points that they would have to combat as it was also the last of those in "mythological" personalized (but non-human) form.' (HoME10)

Sauron was the last ‘non-human power-point of Evil’ Men would fight against. From that follows that Herumor must be a human Evil power-point.

In accordance with the Sauron-model, Herumor would probably be presiding over human sacrifices in a manner of an ‘evil priest’, like Sauron did in Númenor (therefore we definitely have here also some shades of the Akallabêth).

3) Borlas gets sacrificed, or more probably, almost gets sacrificed

Why Borlas would not join Saelon, you ask? Perhaps Borlas would turn out to be a Morgoth worshiper, in the end. I don’t think so, and there are two reasons for that: the first one is that Borlas held fast to his arguments in his philosophical discussion with Saelon and the second one is that Saelon is described in very sinister tones, treats Borlas with almost open contempt and has a grudge against the old man because Borlas berated him when he and some other boys picked unripe fruit to play with.

Just look at Saelon talking about that presumably very humiliating event and how he wants Borlas to have a taste of the ‘Orc-work’:

It was a mistake, Master Borlas. For I had heard tales of the Orcs and their doings, but I had not been interested till then. You turned my mind to them. I grew out of petty thefts (my father was not too easy), but I did not forget the Orcs. I began to feel hatred and think of the sweetness of revenge. We played at Orcs, I and my friends, and sometimes I thought: "Shall I gather my band and go and cut down his trees? Then he will think that the Orcs have really returned.”

Saelon would not want to work together with Borlas. He still wants revenge for the perceived mistreatment. Even Borlas picks up on this one:

(...) there was something disquieting in the young man's tone, something that made him wonder whether deep down, as deep as the roots of the dark trees, the childish resentment did not still linger. Yes, even in the heart of Saelon, the friend of his own son, and the young man who had in the last few years shown him much kindness in his loneliness. At any rate he resolved to say no more of his own thoughts to him.

No, Saelon probably doesn’t want to convert Borlas to Morgoth worship. But an old man would surely make an easy victim for a human sacrifice. Moreover, Borlas would make a very appropriate victim, since he is an ‘orthodox’ believer, in a sense, like those first human sacrifices made to Morgoth in The Tale of Adanel had been. And like the Faithful of Numenor, who were also deemed by Sauron as 'appropriate' human sacrifices.

Even Borlas seems to think he might end up sacrificed because of his beliefs:

And yet - why invite me to go with him? Not to convert old Borlas! Useless. Useless to try: no one would hope to win over a man who remembered the Evil of old, however far off.

What is also interesting here is that we have some justification for Borlas tolerating Saelon’s insolent tone throughout their discussion - “the young man (...) in the last few years (has) shown him much kindness in his loneliness”, much like Melkor did in Valinor, for some fifty years (see Annals of Aman in HoME 10, p106), after his own humiliation ‘at the feet of Manwë ’:

But fair-seeming were all the words and deeds of Melkor in that time, and both the Valar and the Eldar had profit from his aid and counsel, if they sought it (...) it seemed to Manwë that the evil of Melkor was cured. (Silmarillion)

I dare say that we get a glimpse at Melkor’s ‘psychology’ through these Saelon’s words:

Even then you were not content to let ill alone: to deter me with a beating, or to strengthen your fences. No. You were grieved and wanted to improve me. You had me into your house and talked to me.

Well, Manwë certainly took Melkor into his house and wanted to improve him. And Melkor definitely saw this as a humiliation and wanted revenge for this ‘slight’.

So, that is why Saelon gives off a sinister vibe - he is Melkor under the magnifying glass - that is, some of the previous ‘mythological’ events (like ‘the song of the Ainur’ or ‘the unchaining of Melkor’) get reiterated on the smaller level in The New Shadow, also shedding some ‘new light’ onto those past mythological events, fleshing them out, so to say, furthering our understanding of them.

EDIT: @feanorus-rex : Yeah, I didn't really address the actual cliffhanger, lol, that is, I didn't try to identify the 'intruder' in Borlas's house. But I don't think anything really crucial was about to happen at that point of the story.

Remember, it is already established at that point that Borlas is really shaken by his conversation with Saelon:

For some while after Saelon had gone Borlas stood still, covering his eyes and resting his brow against the cool bark of a tree beside the path. As he stood he searched back in his mind to discover how this strange and alarming conversation had begun.

It even takes some time for him to recover and get back to the house. I think that his mind is somewhat susceptible to play tricks on him at that point, so that he, kind of, convinces himself that he actually smells that ‘old Evil’, the Orcs:

Suddenly he smelt it, or so it seemed, though it came as it were from within outwards to the sense: he smelt the old Evil and knew it for what it was.

He also becomes afraid that he might end up dead himself:

He was to be lured to some place where he could disappear, like the Shipmen?

However, he does find the doors of his house open. If the doors weren't forced open, it might be his son, Berelach, that came home. But I think that the real danger was supposed to come a little later, at full dark, when Saelon returns. I was more intrigued by where Saelon might take Borlas.

#silmarillion #melkor #thenewshadow #meta

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spectrumscribe · 7 years

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aftershock.

because literally no one showed any sort of concern about Mikey having basically died for a little while there, and then sacrificed himself so they could all get to safety, i present you all a How Things Should Have Gone fic for post-When World’s Collide. i will have family hurt/comfort dammnit even if i have to do it myself

The moment Mikey steps into the lair, his brothers sweep him off his feet and plant him on the couch.

Mikey is still kind of discombobulated from disintegrating his atoms over and over- that had been such a head rush- and doesn’t quite register what just happened until his nunchucks are being taken away from him.

“Um, guys?” Mikey asks, squirming a little as he’s relieved of his weapons. Aw no, there goes his favorite throwing knives, too. Not cool.

“If you move from this couch, so help me god, Mikey,” Donnie says in his scariest doctor voice.

“Um??”

“I’m getting blankets and pillows,” Raph says, disappearing with Mikey’s belt and weapons. Still not cool, he tends to feel better with them in reach.

“Tea, sandwiches,” Leo says shortly, disappearing similarly but towards the kitchen.

Donnie starts poking and prodding all over Mikey’s body and he is just so, so confused.

“Okay, what the fuck is happening.”

“You nearly died, dipshit,” Donnie says, still in scary doctor mode. “Hold still so I can give you a full body checkup before I end up needing to do an autopsy.”

He starts pinching bits of Mikey’s body. “How much sensation are you getting right now?”

“Ow, all of it, god. Stop pinching- ow!”

“Your nervous system seems to still be intact. Good.”

“No shit, genius,” Mikey grumbles, and Donnie gives him a flat glare for that.

“I lost sensation in majority of my nerve endings for over five hours after I was disintegrated,” Donnie says in an even flatter tone. “I’m checking to see if your post-disintegration status is anything similar.”

Oh. That puts some of Donnie’s urgency in perspective.

Mikey stops complaining as he lets Donnie finish the checkup. It’s still a little weird, though. Getting so much attention like this, and he’s not even bleeding anywhere. Just some cuts here and there and feeling a little drained. All the psycho energy he’d had earlier is gone.

Being filled to the brim with electricity had been like chugging twenty energy drinks and then adding pure adrenaline to that. It’d felt like he was on top of the world, like he could do anything- even if every time he used his powers it made the edges of his body get blurry, and every time he teleported it made his heart do something just on the side of painful.

Maybe there’d been something to Bishop saying it could do long-term damage to him. Hm.

Mikey thinks about that, the pros and cons of staying the electro-turtle, while Donnie sits back with an exhausted sigh.

“Okay, you seem normal enough, and Bishop’s gun should have pulled the excess energy out of your body. I’m assigning you three nights of downtime; no training, no patrolling, and no practicing backflips off the pool ledge.”

“Aw what. Dee, I’m not hurt or nothing. I barely need a bandage.”

“Doctor’s orders, and you’re going to follow through with them even if I have to sit on you the full three days.”

The look in Donnie’s eyes makes it seem like he really would do that. On the one hand, aw, he cares so much. On the other hand, lame.

Mikey then finds the lair a lot darker than normal, as a blanket descends over his vision.

What.

There’s a bunch of soft thumps all around him, and also on him. Said soft thumps are indeed very soft and feel like the pillows Raph promised.

“Move over, idiot, I need to arrange this right.”

What is happening.

Mikey gets his vision back, shoving the blanket off his face, just in time to be lifted up by Donnie and hoisted off the couch. He yelps, and grabs his brother’s shoulders as Raph bustles in to start pulling the couch cushions onto the floor.

“Oh my god,” Mikey says, wrapped awkwardly in a blanket and Donnie’s arms both. “What is even going on.”

“Put him down here,” Raph directs, and Donnie sets Mikey right in the center of the massive pillow-cushion pile. It’s warm and comfy, and Raph throws like five blankets on top of him right after. Then sits himself down on Mikey’s left side while Donnie goes to the TV.

Wait a second. This all feels familiar.

Didn’t they do the same thing, but with Donnie instead, right after he got disintegrated?

“Am I being aggressively cared for right now?”

“Yes. Shut up and accept it.”

Mikey laughs. “Oh my god, Raph. I’m fine. You’re all overreacting soooo badly right now-”

Raph growls at him, and puts a hand on Mikey’s blanket covered plastron to shove him deeper into the pile.

Mikey laughs again, and accepts the forced action of snuggling. “Okay, shutting up now.”

“Good.” is all Raph replies with. And, ugh, he got to keep his weapons but not Mikey? Unfair.

Leo comes back out of the kitchen, pushing through the curtains with a plate of sandwiches and a platter of mugs. He sees how Mikey has been bundled into being the turtle-burrito, and nods at Raph and Donnie like this is exactly what’s supposed to be happening.

Mikey’s brothers are all ridiculous. He’s fine. So he kind of lost his physical form for a bit there- no biggie! He reached out- which had hurt, it had hurt a lot and it’d been the kind of hurt you feel with your mind, body, and soul- and pulled all his molecules back together into a Mikey-shape. Then he’d gone to the place that had the most people who felt like his family, and shoved his way back into reality.

And then ta-da, one electro-turtle at your service.

His brothers were so overreacting, he’d only been in itty-bitty pieces for what, like a half hour tops? Maybe he’d nearly lost sight of who he was in that half hour, and maybe he’d had a really hard time finding every single piece of himself in all the other scattered pieces lost in the weird halfway dimension he’d been trapped in, and maybe it’d hurt like hell to bully his way back to life and his family-

-and okay maybe it was all hitting him right this second how fucked up his evening had gotten. Okay. Breathing is a little hard all of a sudden.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh and that would be the shock ending. Oh boy.

“Mikey?” Leo asks, stepping close to him and Raph with his food tray.

Mikey has lost the will to raise his head. He settles for staring at the ceiling and making a short wheeze sound.

“He’s coming out of shock,” Donnie narrates from his fussing with the television.

“Right,” Leo says. He lowers the platter to Raph’s level. “Give him this.”

Mikey gets a sandwich and a mug pushed into his hands, and a firm instruction to eat the damn things from Raph.

Mikey eats the sandwich and drinks all the tea, suddenly feeling like he’s starving. His last meal was forever ago, and he burned probably every calorie he had just by coming back to life. The last time he slept also seems to be forever ago, and he’s got all his exhaustion catching up with him all at once.

So maybe his brothers making a big fuss about him is a little warranted.

“Could have told you that,” Raph says, because Mikey is apparently speaking out loud without noticing it.

Mikey laughs shakily, and burrows a little deeper into the comforting sensation of pillows pressed around him. He remembers still how it felt to have no physical boundaries between him and the free floating molecules of the world. What it was like to have no substance.

The blankets and pillows are a good level of weight to combat those sensations. So is Raph’s bulk beside him.

Mikey counts ten slow breaths and focuses on them.

Better.

Donnie takes a place on Mikey’s free side, slumping into place and securing another peg to Mikey’s reality. Leo ends up between Mikey’s feet, reclined and a solid weight on the blankets over Mikey’s legs.

Even better, he’s covered on all sides now and feels like he couldn’t dissipate if he tried.

The film The Grand Buhdapest Hotel starts up on the television, and that adds to the good feelings steadily surrounding Mikey. They all love this movie, because it’s ridiculous and bizarre in ways even they aren’t.

They get through the first act of it, before someone breaks the silence.

“That was ten times scarier from the outside,” Donnie says quietly, right next to Mikey’s ear slit. “You guys never told me how scary that really was.”

Mikey’s got most of his sense of control back, and shrugs nonchalantly. “You never told me how freaky it is to lose sense of who you are.”

“Neither of you know how terrifying it is to see it happen twice,” Leo says, leaning his head on Mikey’s kneecap.

“And you three don’t know how painful it feels to see one of you guys sacrifice yourselves for the billionth time,” Raph says bitterly. “No more of that shit, okay? We’ve lost enough people as it is.”

Their father’s absence looms for a brief moment, as that grief still tends to. It’s been a long while, but that sensation of loss just never seems to completely leave.

“No more disintegration,” Leo adds. “Ever.”

“Agreed,” Donnie mumbles, turning his head into Mikey’s shoulder. “No more sacrificing ourselves and no more disintegration. That means you too, Mikey. Okay?”

Mikey thinks about how it felt to havean entire ship blow up around him and his physical form go with it.

He thinks about how it got his family to safety, and then thinks he’d do it all again no matter what it cost him.

Then he thinks of one of his brothers or friends in his place, and the hole his father left widens just at the thought of losing one of them.

He couldn’t do that twice. Couldn’t bury a family member again. It’s an unrealistic thing to think he can prevent forever, but… not so soon. He couldn’t take it again so soon.

“No more of those sounds good to me,” He agrees.

He lays his head on Donnie’s, like Raph has put his head on Mikey’s other shoulder and Leo’s remains on Mikey’s knee- and sighs.

Shock and post-shock are over. Now he’s just plain tired.

Feels not too bad, surrounded by care and stubborn affection like he is.

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optiprimus · 7 years

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lost light #7, or: i’m suing for whiplash because that’s the fastest i’ve ever gone from loving an issue to...NOT

All of the spoilers under the cut.

Breakin’ in the sideblog with a reaction to lost light 7! It’s a shame I fucking hated it.

I liked the first...fifteen pages--I liked everything Rodimus did, I liked Magnus’s actually really tragic not-breakup with Megatron-who-is-no-longer-around. I liked Tailgate’s teen drama reaction to Whirl’s news! It’s exactly the kind of silly, over-the-top solution I’d expect from him (and, let’s be honest, most of the rest of the crew.)

The ending? Did not like that. For anyone who’s interested, here’s why. TL;DR at the end.

COMPARABLE DEATHS OVER THE COURSE OF THE TRANSFORMERS: MORE THAN MEETS THE EYE (i.e., deaths of one half of a romantic relationship where the other half is left alive to mourn)

REWIND AND CHROMEDOME. This is the O.G. Dead Gay Robot Tragedy; I wasn’t around when it happened, but I hear the outcry was so great that we, uh, got Rewind back. Because killing off one of your two canon gay men at the time is not a particularly progressive storytelling choice. And I’m glad James has no problem fixing his mistakes--hell, in this issue we get another reference to the whole “estriol positive” gendered sparktypes situation, specifically to hammer it into the ground that just kidding, that was a poor decision on my part and I apologize for it. But I digress.

Rewind’s death was INCREDIBLY fucking sad. I cried. My high school friend who knows absolutely nothing about trans formers cried. But narratively, it was satisfying. Rewind dies as a heroic sacrifice; he dies saving all his friends and the person he loves, and while that is tragic, it makes you feel proud of him. His last act is selfless, which is, in my opinion, the best note to end on.

The romantic nature of his sacrifice (romantic in the “idealized view of reality” sense as well as “expression of love”) is somewhat undercut by the apparent brutal nature of his death--if we’re to believe Overlord, he got, uh, ripped to pieces and cried for help the whole time. Which, to be fair, is what I would be doing too.

From a metafictional point of view, Rewind’s suffering is a consequence of his choice to be a hero. While this isn’t fair, it’s an established convention, and it’s what makes “making the right choice” difficult. That’s why it carries the weight it does.

Also, he, uh, comes back to life. Although the “alternate universe version of my lover returns to replace the one that died” plotline is its own can of worms, the fact remains that at the end of the day, both living members of the couple are happy again. As happy as you can be in this sort of comic.

Carrying on.

SKIDS AND NAUTICA. Hoo, boy, this one makes me cry. I will be honest: I did not realize this was meant to be a romance until issue...fifty-two? Maybe? And then I went back and looked at the panels where they’re there in the background but don’t speak, and I was so impressed by the visual storytelling that I forgot to be sad for a few minutes.

But then I was sad again. I liked Skids. I really like Nautica. I want them both to be happy. I think they made a cute couple--but Skids’s death served as a necessary part of the story in so many ways. He gets a heroic sacrifice that allows his friends to stand firm in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds (although you could argue that their powerups were pointless; they are set to lose anyway until Megatron shows up, because it’s always about Megatron. Just kidding; I like that guy.)

It’s a natural conclusion to his character arc, and although it’s a tragic one, it’s one I really liked, in the same way I liked Sunstreaker’s death in All Hail Megatron. It’s sad, but it’s narratively satisfying (there’s that word again), because at least when they’re dead, they’re at peace.

It serves Nautica’s development, in a way that’s incredibly reminiscent of the countless dead-girlfriend-in-fridge narratives we’ve seen since time immemorial. Skids’s death pushes her towards violence in an actually really sad nod to her ongoing desire to learn more “practical” skills. When they’re up against the personality ticks, she laments her lack of combat ability, and then outsmarts the enemy instead of punching it. With Skids, there’s nothing she can fight or outsmart--but at least she can get some revenge, and put his sacrifice to good use.

Skids gets the death of a romantic hero, and for what it’s worth, I doubt he’s gone forever. I doubt any of these guys are gone forever, given what little we know of the Big Plot of the comic so far. But we can’t assume, so for now, he’s dead; he just died well.

LUG AND ANODE. Who are confirmed girlfriends, to the surprise of hopefully no one. This one feels almost like it shouldn’t count, because we see Lug in almost every issue (even if she’s a brain ghost for a lot of those) but it fits the pattern.

Lug’s death and reincarnation are one hundred percent fodder for Anode’s character arc. Let’s get that out of the way now. She dies because of Anode’s reckless adventuring ways, Anode hallucinates her presence, Anode overcomes her fear of blacksmithing to resurrect her, and Anode’s grief is resolved. In this arc, she is a storytelling tool that serves to introduce Anode and what she’s like as a person.

I don’t think this is necessarily bad. Lug has a character of her own, even if she has no agency in this arc, and from now on she gets a chance to have her own angsty plotlines. I’d be on edge of Anode were, you know, a dude, but she’s not, so this is something I’m willing to give the benefit of the doubt...on. about. I don’t think that works

Lug doesn’t die a hero’s death. Her death is an accident, resulting from someone else’s carelessness; it’s not a conscious choice on her part, which means it’s also not her fault. The story doesn’t blame her for her own death. It’s not the inspiring sacrifice we get from Rewind or Skids, but that’s okay; not every death is like that, even in fiction.

And again, she comes back. Which we sort of knew would happen, given what Anode used to do for a living. In the end, everyone who’s, you know, alive doesn’t have to be alone. It’s perhaps a bittersweet ending, but it’s a happy one.

And now the main event.

TAILGATE AND CYCLONUS.

Here’s a fun fact: I don’t think Tailgate is actually dead. I think he’s going to make it out, one way or another. I don’t know how long he’s going to be gone. We lost Rewind for upwards of a year; I don’t want to do that again. Either way, this is written with the assumption that he’s perma-dead, because as of right now that’s what we’re being led to believe.

Here’s a fun fact: if one of these two had to die, I would have preferred Cyclonus. In a heroic sacrifice. Yes, I know he wasn’t the one scripted to die way before this. No, I don’t want either of them dead. But if any character would be one hundred percent satisfied and at peace dying to save someone he loved, it’s that guy.

But instead we got this.

Tailgate dies a horrible death as a result of being a dick (apparently due to powers that...make him lash out at people and be a dick. If I’m reading that right.) You can argue that Fangry (who had such a good name, man, why did he have to be a throwaway villain. Assuming he is one) was justified in what he did; personally, I don’t think he did his due investigative diligence. Also if he was helping Kaput with this project wouldn’t he have heard him mention that Tailgate’s aggression is due to his magical girl powerup? Digression.

Here’s what the order of story events is. Tailgate breaks up with Cyclonus in a teen drama esque scene complete with a very sad visual callback to issue whatever is the one where he does bomb disposal. Cyclonus leaves and is sad. Whirl comforts him. Tailgate says “please Doc remove my dangerous superpowers so I can not die and also finally get together with the boy I like.” Doc says okay I’m going to irradiate the fuck out of you. We bury Tailgate in what is transparently a coffin a BIG BOX and then Fangry shows up and says “enjoy death fucker.” Some flowers grow. The end.

Tailgate gets revenge-killed...because he wanted to be alive and happy with the person he loved. Within the story, that’s of course not how it went down, but narratively, his death is a consequence of wanting a happy ending.

If he hadn’t had the audacity to want that, he wouldn’t have been in a position to be murdered. From a meta point of view, he is responsible for the situation and for the motivation of his killer, because he had weird superpowers and liked a boy. And he had weird superpowers because...oh. Because he liked a boy.

Maybe he’s not really dead. Maybe he escaped the death box! Maybe he’ll come back like so many others have. But even if that’s the case, I don’t understand the point of this fakeout. I don’t get it! What emotion is this supposed to engender in me besides disappointment? I’m not concerned for Tailgate because I have no way of knowing if he’s survived and I doubt I’ll find out either way for a while. I’m sad for Cyclonus, because uhh yeah I’m sad for Cyclonus, but I’ve been sad for Cyclonus since like the first issue! This isn’t new!! Anyway.

TL;DR: Every other couple split up by death has had the death be a heroic sacrifice, or not a direct result of the dead person’s mistakes, and most of them came back. Tailgate died because he beat up a dude (bad) maybe because of his magic powers (not his fault)--and because he asked Kaput to fix him so he wouldn’t die or kill anyone else and he could stay with his not-boyfriend. He died because he asked for a happy ending. Even if he’s not dead, I don’t see the point of the cliffhanger; if he’s dead, he’s dead, and we’ll be wondering indefinitely if he’s going to come back. If he’s alive, we spent [x] issues being needlessly anxious about him. That’s not a fun cliffhanger.

Drama thrives on conflict. Them’s facts. But some conflict feels good to read, and some just makes you feel sick, because it’s scary or unfair or hits a little too close to home, and I don’t know about you, but I read this comic about space robots that turn into cars for fun. Not because I want another story about “life isn’t fair” where good people die in horrible ways and bad guys get away with being bad. And if you dare to ask for a happy ending, with the person you’ve been fighting to be with for sixty issues, you suffer for it.

It’s pain for the sake of pain. It’s pointless. God knows we have enough of that already, thanks.

P.S. holy shit sorry to all the people who were invested in megs/mags that SUCKS and I feel for you

#mtmte #lost light #mtmte spoilers #lost light spoilers #tailgate #it's time for bre's opinion

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