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asongoficeandfiresource · 3 months

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Meta: A Tale of Three Daenerys’

An element of authenticity George R. R. Martin adds to the ASOIAF universe is the repetition of names. The same names appear repeatedly within specific cultures and the spread and popularity of certain names is used to illustrate how one culture has influenced another. Just look at the wide popularity of Targaryen names throughout Westeros, especially Alysanne.

With Daenerys Targaryen, GRRM has created two other characters with her name, so far: Daenerys, daughter of Aegon IV and Naerys, and Daenerys, daughter of Alysanne and Jaehaerys I. Both of these characters seem to be used to lay the groundwork for elements of the canon era Daenerys’ story and character arc.

Daenerys, the Retconned Princess

In The World of Ice and Fire, Jaehaerys I and Alysanne do not have a daughter named Daenerys. In fact, in the main series, Daenerys of Dorne is referred to as the first. But with the release of Fire and Blood Vol 1, Martin restructured the birth order of Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s children, which included not just reshuffling, but also removing and adding children. One of those additions was Princess Daenerys, who took the place of Alyssa as the second born child and oldest daughter of the family.

So the question is, why did Martin retcon TWOIAF just to add a new Daenerys? Part of the reason is likely to flesh out the reign of Jaehaerys and Alysanne with more information and loss. But why name her Daenerys and not Rhaenys after their grandmother or any other name? There is a wealth of Targaryen names Martin could have given this new child, but he chose Daenerys, the name of one of his main five characters in the core series. He likely made that choice to give additional foreshadowing for the canon era character.

At first glance, the two Daenerys’ don’t have much in common with Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s daughter being born into a stable family and kingdom as their oldest living child who grew into a confident girl but died young, while our Dany was born an orphan and an exile, and grew up constantly afraid, gaining confidence and strength in her teens. In that way, they are narrative foils. But where the foreshadowing comes in is with how Alysanne views her daughter.

Based on a combination of moments in Fire and Blood, there is a possibility that Alysanne had the gift of foresight, like other Targaryens in the series. For some unexplained reason, Alysanne is very insistent on Daenerys becoming queen after her father. This is strange because equal primogeniture is not the norm in their culture. Visenya did not become queen regnant, her younger brother Aegon became king. Rhaena did not become queen regnant, her two younger brothers and uncle became kings, though Aegon the Uncrowned was only a claimant. What’s more, Alysanne never pushes for Rhaena’s rights over Jaehaerys’. But she does push for Daenerys’ rights over her son’s. Why? Because she knows Daenerys will be a great queen:

[Princess Daenerys] so enchanted Alysanne that for a time Her Grace even began to eschew council sessions, preferring to spend her days playing with her daughter and reading her the stories that her own mother had once read to her. “She is so clever, she will be reading to me before long,” she told the king. “She is going to be a great queen, I know it.” – Fire and Blood

This is a rare issue where Alysanne is certain about something, but turns out to be wrong, since her daughter dies before having the opportunity to become queen regnant. It is very possible that Alysanne’s certainty over her daughter’s future and Martin’s purpose for retconning this child into existence was to foreshadow Dany’s eventual position as Queen of Westeros. Often with prophetic visions, they can be misunderstood by the person experiencing them as seen with Daeron the Drunken and Daemon II Blackfyre in the Dunk and Egg novellas. While both of their dreams came true, they happened very differently than what they initially believed. So the great queen named Daenerys who Alysanne might have seen wasn’t her daughter but her distant descendant.

Daenerys of Dorne

The Princess Daenerys who married Maron Martell was initially mentioned in passing in a Dunk and Egg novella, The Sworn Sword, but wasn’t named in the text until A Dance With Dragons where her connection to both the series era Dany and Martell family was emphasized. She is cited by Davos as the person Dany was named after and is the source of the Targaryen blood that gives Quentyn the belief that he can tame one of the dragons. She is also the reason the Water Gardens were built and through that palace was able to impact every generation of Dornish children after her.

Unlike the previous Daenerys, there are quite a few parallels between Daenerys of Dorne and the canon era Dany. They were both the products of extremely unhappy and abusive marriages. They each had significant age gaps between them and their siblings, with their older brother having reached adulthood and had a child or children of his own by the time of their birth. Their brothers married them to men outside of their culture. While Dany was exchanged for the promise of an army to take back Westeros, Princess Daenerys’s marriage was part of a treaty that united Dorne with the rest of Westeros. Both women marry for duty despite loving other men. Each of them are particularly protective and caring toward children. They also look beyond the social status of individuals and see that everyone is equally worthy of protection and a quality life.

While Dany pushes for freedom and justice in Slaver’s Bay, Princess Daenerys used her position in Dorne to benefit children regardless of class:

“Beautiful and peaceful,” the prince said. “Cool breezes, sparkling water, and the laughter of children. The Water Gardens are my favorite place in this world, ser. One of my ancestors had them built to please his Targaryen bride and free her from the dust and heat of Sunspear. Daenerys was her name. She was sister to King Daeron the Good, and it was her marriage that made Dorne part of the Seven Kingdoms. The whole realm knew that the girl loved Daeron’s bastard brother Daemon Blackfyre, and was loved by him in turn, but the king was wise enough to see that the good of thousands must come before the desires of two, even if those two were dear to him. It was Daenerys who filled the gardens with laughing children. Her own children at the start, but later the sons and daughters of lords and landed knights were brought in to be companions to the boys and girls of princely blood. And one summer’s day when it was scorching hot, she took pity on the children of her grooms and cooks and serving men and invited them to use the pools and fountains too, a tradition that has endured till this day."

——

"I told the story to Ser Balon, but not all of it. As the children splashed in the pools, Daenerys watched from amongst the orange trees, and a realization came to her. She could not tell the highborn from the low. Naked, they were only children. All innocent, all vulnerable, all deserving of long life, love, protection. ‘There is your realm,’ she told her son and heir, 'remember them, in everything you do.’ My own mother said those same words to me when I was old enough to leave the pools. It is an easy thing for a prince to call the spears, but in the end the children pay the price. For their sake, the wise prince will wage no war without good cause, nor any war he cannot hope to win.– ADWD

It might seem like a simple thing to allow a large amount of commoner children to partake in privileges alongside highborn and royal children, but this is hugely significant since it allows children of higher stations to form positive relationships with children of lower classes. The rest of Westeros does this at a far smaller degree, but usually at the convenience of the highborn. This act essentially put all of the children who stay at the Water Gardens on equal footing, even temporarily so they can all see that at their core, they are all made the same. This allows the royalty and nobility to empathize with commoners which will impact the choices that will impact everyone. Princess Daenerys’ impact on the ruling family kept Dorne mostly out of the War of the Five Kings, meaning that while the common people of nearly every region have been slaughtered and abused in the conflict, only one Dornishman has died so far, Oberyn Martell, a prince in full control of his actions rather than thousands of commoners ordered onto the battlefield.

Even though Dany is still a queen at war in the series, there are similarities between her motivation and choices. As noted above, both Daenerys’ have a weakness for children. Princess Daenerys fills the Water Gardens with “laughing children”. Dany wishes to do the same:

I want to make my kingdom beautiful, to fill it with fat men and pretty maids and laughing children. – ACOK

But more than that dream, when it comes to children Dany shows she is willing to take direct action to protect and avenge them. When the slavers of Meereen murder slave children and taunt Dany by mounting their bodies on milepost, Dany made sure to see them herself: "I will see every one, and count them, and look upon their faces. And I will remember.” (ASOS) Then she avenged them by killing the exact number of slavers in the same way the children were killed. Even when she doubts whether she did the right thing, she insists it was done for the children. Then, when Drogon kills a child, Hazzea, Dany tries to chain all of her dragons so that never happens again, though she only manages to capture two of the three. Despite the fact that she considers the dragons to be her own children, it only takes the death of one child to push her to imprison them, showing just how much she prioritizes the lives of these people. Even when it comes to the children of the slavers, Dany refuses to harm them regardless of what crimes the adult slaver commit:

Dany had grown fond of her young charges. Some were shy and some were bold, some sweet and some sullen, but all were innocent. – ADWD

Where the strongest parallel comes into play is with the way both Daenerys’ realize that there is no fundamental difference between people of different social classes since they are the same when brought down to their bare essentials:

On another island two lovers kissed in the shade of tall green trees, with no more shame than Dothraki at a wedding. Without clothing, [Dany] could not tell if they were slave or free. – ASOS

As the children splashed in the pools, Daenerys watched from amongst the orange trees, and a realization came to her. She could not tell the highborn from the low. Naked, they were only children. All innocent, all vulnerable, all deserving of long life, love, protection. – ADWD

The only thing that separates the highborn from the low or the free and the enslaved are societal restrictions. Since there are no natural physical differences between people of different ranks in society, that means they are all deserving of freedom and good lives. While Princess Daenerys acted upon this realization to effect change through the inclusion of all children from different walks of life into the Water Gardens, Dany fights for the freedom of slaves and allows freedmen places of power in her government and gives them a voice at court alongside people who were born free. Here are just a few of the many examples of Dany attempting to establish equality for the freedmen:

Reznak would have summoned another tokar next, but Dany insisted that he call upon a freedman. Thereafter she alternated between the former masters and the former slaves. – ADWD

Rylona Rhee had played the harp as sweetly as the Maiden. When she had been a slave in Yunkai, she had played for every highborn family in the city. In Meereen she had become a leader amongst the Yunkish freedmen, their voice in Dany’s councils. – ADWD

“The freedmen work too cheaply, Magnificence,” Reznak said. “Some call themselves journeymen, or even masters, titles that belong by rights only to the craftsmen of the guilds. The masons and the bricklayers do respectfully petition Your Worship to uphold their ancient rights and customs.”

“The freedmen work cheaply because they are hungry,” Dany pointed out. “If I forbid them to carve stone or lay bricks, the chandlers, the weavers, and the goldsmiths will soon be at my gates asking that they be excluded from those trades as well.” She considered a moment. “Let it be written that henceforth only guild members shall be permitted to name themselves journeymen or masters … provided the guilds open their rolls to any freedman who can demonstrate the requisite skills.” – ADWD

Princess Daenerys also helped to cement a permanent peace between House Targaryen and House Martell with her marriage uniting Westeros. That combined with the tradition of creating a closer bond between people of different classes and the continued caution on thinking of the people while making decisions that will affect them, she continues her legacy of peace. Our Dany also keeps the people who choose to follow her at the forefront of her thoughts with every decision she makes. She too wishes for peace and takes action to achieve that, even at her own detriment.

“Peace is my desire. You say that you can help me end the nightly slaughter in my streets. I say do it. Put an end to this shadow war, my lord. That is your quest. Give me ninety days and ninety nights without a murder, and I will know that you are worthy of a throne. Can you do that?” - Daenerys IV ADWD

She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, of Eroeh … of a little girl she had never met, whose name had been Hazzea. Better a few should die in the pit than thousands at the gates. This is the price of peace, I pay it willingly. If I look back, I am lost. - Daenerys VIII ADWD

Like all good queens she put her people first—else she would never have wed Hizdahr zo Loraq—but the girl in her still yearned for poetry, passion, and laughter. – ADWD

Conclusion

While the three Daenerys’ don’t have anything close to similar lives, each of the Daenerys’ of the past seem to intentionally have call backs or call forwards to the series era Dany. Both of them seem to foreshadow Dany’s current and future storylines with pushes for social progress and her future as the reigning Queen of Westeros. So far, Martin has included only three characters with this name, but with the positive change Dany is bringing to Essos and will bring to Westeros when she helps save the world from the Others, it would only be natural for the name to grow in popularity.

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angelkissiies · 1 year

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prophetic

abby anderson x scar!reader

cw : mentions of canon violence, injuries, canon doesn’t exist here, slow burn as fuck, literal bare minimum romance but like ,, you can feel it.

wc : 5.5k

a/n : i did NOT proof read this ,, i finished it at 4am and it was 11 pages. nooooo way. hope you enjoy !

The rain pelted you as you followed closely behind the boy, shielding him from sight as you pushed through the dense forest, hearing sharp whistles coming closer and closer no matter how fast you’d tried to run. It felt endless, the harsh scratches of the branches on your skin as you held the machete close- praying you didn’t end up having to use it.

“Demons!” Lev whisper-shouted, altering you to the growling that seemed to be encroaching faster than the seraphites could- their hellacious moans of plea ingrained into your memory. He tried to ready his bow, pulling an arrow from his quiver before your hand rose to stop him- hand securing around his wrist.

You shook your head, pointing ahead to the glow of fire in the distance, the area was populated solely by seraphites now- seeing as the treaty fell through. That meant even the smallest noise that could indicate human life would be used as a call sign, sending the hunters out. With a group coming in from behind you and no way to go ahead, you nodded towards the right path, that being the only one seemingly uninhabited. You loosened your grip, urging him to take hold of Yara and run.

Yara nodded swiftly, understanding your plan wordlessly. It was just like that between you two, spending so much time together growing up- despite the age difference, you could read each other like a book. “May she protect you.” She spoke in a hushed whisper, coming to take hold of Lev and practically drag him away from you. She didn’t want to leave you, but she knew you wouldn’t take no for an answer, choosing to trust you knew a way out of this.

“May she guide you.” You whispered, not loud enough for her to hear as you bolted towards the left, hearing a sharp whistle follow your movements. The goal was to make as much noise as possible, draw them as far as you could from Yara and Lev so they could find a safe place to hide out. They were the ones the elders wanted most of all, your collaboration being shaken off as rebellious youth. If you got caught, your punishment wouldn’t be half as bad as the torture that awaited them back home.

The rain picked up, soaking through your clothes as you flew blindly through the trees. You could feel the branches snagging your clothes, causing rips in the loose material before you came to a sudden stop- the whistling seemingly coming to an end as you panted. It was quiet, not even the growling of demons permeating the tense overhang of silence, causing your stomach to lurch. They knew you were here, so where were they?

You got your answer as you felt two arms wrap around your waist, pinning your arms to your side, causing your machete to fall to the damp forest floor. “We found an apostate!” A gruff voice shouted, making your ears ring, their fingers digging into your skin hard enough that you began to feel blood trickle. “No more running.”

You stifled a scream, not wanting to give them the satisfaction. You knew this was bad, worse than bad actually, feeling another set of hands come to grip your left arm- allowing the first man to settle into the flesh of your right. You’d begun to make peace with the idea of dying tonight, your suffering surely ending in a much swifter way than they’d allow Lev or Yara. It was worth it, in your eyes, to die for such a cause. “The prophet abhors blind followers of evil.” You choked out, trying to dig your heels into the ground as they drug you back towards the fire.

The man on the right snorted, almost choking on his spit as he laughed. “Don’t tell me what the prophet abhors, apostate.” He snarled, squeezing tighter as he pushed through a thick brush. “You hold no right to her words.” As much as you hated to admit it, he was right. Your ties to the prophet being cut when you chose to leave, to search for freedom elsewhere.

They pushed a thick branch out of the way, the harsh orange firelight blinding you as they came to a stop before a woman you recognized as Helah. If there was one person you’d always be able to find in a crowd, it was her. From her spindly arms to the mass of dark hair pinned to her scalp, she’d always sent a chill down your spine, now more so- her focus being on a girl struggling to keep her feet on a bucket just a tad too short, a rope tightening around her thick neck.

Her impossibly dark eyes settled on you as she turned, letting her knife fall to her side as she looked upon you in contempt. “You.” She spoke, tilting her head as she came closer. With every step she took towards you, you could slowly begin to make out the splatter of blood that burned her unnaturally pale face- making you shift uncomfortably in the men's arms, from what you could gather- these bodies were her doing. “Your mother begged us to find you, to save you from the demons.”

You winced at the mention of your mother, imagining her falling to her knees before the elders- begging them to spare the only daughter she’d ever come to bring full term. You tried to shake off the thoughts, knowing this was her game, manipulation being her weapon of choice. You couldn’t let her get the high ground, not knowing what could possibly come of her supposed ‘mercy’ as allotted by the elders. “The only demons I need saving from are you people.”

One of the men kicked your legs out from under you, making you fall forward as they finally relinquished their grip on your arms. The feeling of the moist earth under you was an almost welcome sensation if it hadn’t been for the words you’d heard slipping from the lips of the woman standing above you now.

“Clip her wings.”

A horrified scream was ripped from your throat as you tried to scramble off of the ground, motions halted by hands pushing you back down- cheek pressed roughly into the hard ground. You could feel the rocks digging into your skin as you tried to wriggle away, harsh sobs falling from your lips. As a last resort, you cast your eyes upward, coming to connect with the dangling girl.

She looked on in gargled disbelief, face turning an unhealthy shade of red as she held your gaze. What did they mean by clipping your wings? It wasn’t something she’d ever heard of in passing during the time of the treaty. Her stomach lurched, as she watched you closely, almost forgetting the fact that she was also fighting for her life. Though, she couldn’t manage to tear her gaze away, the horror in your eyes sending shivers down her spine. In those moments, it felt like time moved in slow motion, watching as the repulsive-looking man brought down a massive hammer to the joint of your elbow. The screams embedded themselves into her chest, every shrill, ear-piercing noise committed to memory.

You couldn’t breathe, the white-hot pain filling your entire body as you felt him hand off the hammer. The shock had sent your body into a primal shudder, twitching uncontrollably as you tried to conceptualize the pain- you had to get up. You had to get up now. Your working arm was held down in place, dirty nails cutting into your skin, leaving you to try to use your broken one as leverage. “Oh, god.” You whimpered, the pain shooting into your shoulder with every movement.

Suddenly, the man’s hand on your wrist went limp- the large hammer coming to land with an obnoxious thump on the ground by your head. The newfound freedom giving you the chance to pull yourself away from the other man, hand securing on the fallen hammer. As you turned yourself around, you saw the man lying with an arrow poking out from the back of his head, though your curiosity was short-lived- attention being caught by the short, struggling breaths coming from behind you.

The girl secured her legs around Helah’s throat, holding her in place as she struggled with catching small puffs of air. You stared in amazement for a moment before sense kicked back in, pushing yourself off of the ground. The pain took a backseat to the problem at hand, legs trembling under your weight as you used your remaining strength to swing the hammer to wedge into the woman's skull- seeing her instantly fall limp, the girl letting her fall to the ground as she relaxed her legs.

“Help me.” The blonde wheezed, eyes beginning to roll back into her skull, face turning a sickly shade of blue. The bucket was long gone, lost in the struggle between her and Helah, causing her to swing haphazardly on the tensed rope. The world was beginning to dot in black, pupils tiny from the lack of oxygen. She didn’t even have to grab the woman, it was a choice she made in the moment- seeing the way she delighted in the suffering of a seemingly innocent girl. Maybe it was her conscious dictating her actions, or maybe, it was a nagging voice in the back of her head- telling her that if it was her, she’d like to think you do the same thing. How she could know that was beyond her, it didn’t make sense logically, but it was enough for her.

You nodded quickly, hissing as you grabbed your broken arm in an attempt to not strain it anymore. You eased yourself onto the ground, feeling around under Helah’s body for the knife she’d been planning to use on the girl. “I’m sorry.” You huffed, stifled breaths breaking your words as you finally found the blade. You got back to your feet, wasting no time in your sawing of the thick rope. It came apart with a harsh snapping noise, sending the girl onto the ground hard.

Yara bounded out of the darkness, your lost machete in hand as she looked at the two of you frantically. “Demons, we have to go!” She rushed, motioning to the path leading left, Lev following her lead as she pushed forward. Her eyes tried to avoid your limp arm, the discoloration seeping from your joint down to your fingertips, guilt overtaking her.

You nodded, urging them to go, as you looked at the girl. “Are you okay?” It was simple, something so seemingly meaningless, but enough to convey the appreciation you felt towards her. She was the only reason you weren’t dead, feeling absolutely sure that Helah would’ve ended you before your friends could save you.

She nodded, pulling the rope from around her neck before dipping down to jerk the hammer from the woman's skull. “Can you still run?” She asked, hearing the noises of infected closing in. The last thing she wanted was to let you die, seeing as she now felt just as indebted to you as you did her.

“Yeah, yes. I think.” You grunted, pulling your lifeless arm to your chest as you gave her a curt nod. “We have to go, come on.”

The blonde eyed you for a second before giving in, giving you a small nudge forward as she took off in the direction of what she assumed were your friends. She could hear your slowed footfalls behind her, making her cut her pace to let you pass her. If anything was to catch up, she could handle them- but in your state, you’d be too easily overtaken.

It didn’t take long for the two kids to come into view, their bodies moving nimbly through the trees as they seemed to have a rendezvous spot in mind. You didn’t even consider asking about their plan, focusing solely on just making it there- the mind-numbing pain being the only source of drive you had left. You stumbled, feet getting caught up on a root that blended into the dark earth, acting just fast enough to catch yourself on a nearby tree, your arm falling limply to your side.

“I can carry you if you need.”

You shook off her offer, panting lightly before pushing forward- not even able to grab at your arm anymore. Every breath rattled your body, sending indescribable jolts of pain reverberating through your nervous system, if you’d not known any better you’d have assumed this was what dying felt like- but you’d always been classified as the dramatic type, so you tried not to dwell on it. “I can make it.” You attested, not fully believing your own words, but pushing forward nonetheless.

The forest felt endless, from blindly following Yara’s lead to dodging infected spewing from unknown sources- it was like it was trapping you here. In a constant state of suspended terror, you dragged behind, feeling the burly girl's unrelenting aura looming over you with every step. She was different from the other wolves, you’d gathered in your short time with her, her attitude about your situation border lining empathy. It was something you’d never expect from her kind, having spent most of your life running from their old-world weapons.

“Here!” Lev called behind to you, seeing your figure slowly encroaching on the two of them, he wanted to run back to help but restrained himself- seeing the shadows morph into fungus-ridden figures trailing after the pair of you, he nocked his bow in preparation.

The girl ushered you forward, turning her back to you whilst you slid through behind Yara, allowing Lev to enter before she followed behind him- making sure no infected managed to come in behind the four of you. Her hair was sticking wildly to her face, eyes blown with adrenaline as she pushed herself through the hole. “Where from here?” She gasped, catching her breath as she peered around at the three of you standing at a fenced-in gap.

Yara was inspecting your arm silently, leaving Lev to speak on her behalf. “The fence, it’s new, we have to go through there.” He explained, his bow remaining tense in his hands as he watched the girl carefully.

She nodded, coming to kneel next to the fence. Her hands latched in the lattice holes, grunting slightly as she pulled the wire away from the pole. She managed to get it loose, holding it open for the three of you to pass.

“Go ahead.” You halted Yara, pushing her gently towards the exit, not giving her the option to object. Her eyes lingered on your arm before giving a hesitant step towards the hole in the fence, giving it a once over before getting down on her hands and knees to crawl through. “Lev, you next.” He bore no hesitation, following Yara’s motions.

You bent down next to the girl, ducking your head through the hole and using your feet to push yourself out to the other side, hearing her mutter a soft ‘watch your arm’ unconsciously. You heeded her words and pulled the limb to your chest, holding it firmly in place as you found your footing again, only to be grabbed by a force strong enough to rival that of what you imagined a god could. A choked scream passed through your lips, cut off by the neckline of your shirt coming to press uncomfortably around your throat- whoever had you was using the fabric of your shirt to dangle you just above the ground.

“Goddamn it, leave her alone!” Her gruff voice rang out, finally wriggling herself free from the fencing, coming to bring the hammer down on the person's knuckles. It was enough for them to release you, letting you fall to your feet, their attention now solely on the wolf. Something she didn’t mind, her abilities lying mainly in her uncanny strength, as you’d come to notice. She took in the massive woman, eyes zeroing on the straps of an oh-so-familiar bag that hung on her back- practically straining against her massive shoulders. It lit a fire in her, her fingers tensing over the handle of the hammer- tilting her head slightly. “Is that my fucking backpack?” She shouted, quickly dodging out of the way of her massive pick, and taking a few stunned steps back.

You stumbled away from the pair, whipping around just as Lev let an arrow fly- landing in the woman's shoulder- sharpened stone burying itself in the muscle, giving the wolf a moment to strike. It was like watching feral dogs fight, strike- yelp- strike. They both had the strength to overpower normal people, but when paired together it was one immovable force meeting another.

The girl locked her hand in the strap of the backpack, jerking the woman back just as she struck- hammer embedded in her skull. It was like destroying a sand castle, her body crumbling right before you in a mass of blood and muscle, it took one hit. “Fucking hell.” She hissed, kneeling down beside the woman’s body to strip her of the backpack that was rightfully hers- not hesitating to retrieve the hammer either. “We almost there?”

Yara nodded quickly, pointing towards a building marked with a large seraphite symbol. “I-it should be right through there,” She began, glancing around nervously, anticipating the arrival of more soldiers- or worse wolves. “We have to hurry, she might not make it much further.”

The words sent a pang of guilt into your stomach, causing you to shake your head. “I’m fine, I promise. I can make it.” You assured, glancing over to the bloodied girl, not letting your eyes linger for too long. You didn’t want to be seen as a burden, even now with a lame arm, you could still keep going- you had to. It wasn’t for lack of trying, that your convincing words fell through, no it was the sight of your now blood-red fingers peeking out from your shirt sleeve that caused the three of them to share a look of concern. “Let’s go, now, before they catch up.”

The wolf stayed close behind you, eyes trained on the crimson of your fingers as she racked her brain for a possible explanation. Her father being a doctor meant nothing in the long run, leaving her with a basic knowledge of injuries, not nearly enough to account for what had happened to you. “How’s the arm?” She hummed, not wanting to bother you too much in case her presence began to cause you to recoil from her, seeing how differently you two were.

“Bearable.” You managed, doing anything to not think about the numbness that had begun to creep into your arm. You knew it wasn’t a good sign, seeing as normally when you got injuries- even bad ones, they continued to hurt. This was a new sensation, one that sent a dread-filled ball into your stomach. “Thank you, by the way.” You added, your dull eyes coming up to meet hers as you pushed a bramble push to the side so you could pass.

She chuckled, the noise lightening the mood for a moment, shaking her head in disbelief. “Don’t mention it.” She spoke quietly, coming to a stop in front of the warehouse ledge, lifting herself effortlessly onto the platform before turning to you- offering her hand. “Can I ask a question?” It was something she hadn’t been able to shake, the idea of ‘wing clipping’ being something regularly used in scar life, she wanted to gain perspective- though after she asked, she realized how bad a time this might be.

You took her help gratefully, scaling the wall with minimal effort. Once your feet were back on solid ground you nodded at her, using your good arm to pull your lame one close to your body, trying not to hit it on anything. It had gotten easier to deal with the arm, though you’d begun feeling an uncomfortable chill creeping up your spine as the minutes dragged on. “Ask away.” You prompted, watching as she took hold of the latch- pulling the heavy metal off of the ground so the three of you could slide in under the door.

“Do the scars clip wings.. a lot?” She spoke once you’d all made it under, letting the heavy door fall closed with a ridiculously loud bang. Her hands came to her pants legs, wiping off the rust that had detached from the old metal, leaving red stains on the taut cargo.

The words made you shudder unconsciously, the flashes of burning hot pain plaguing your memory. For something so recent, you could’ve sworn this ache was ancient, rattling even the strongest pieces of your will. “Seraphites, and,” You paused, shaking off the unwelcome recollections. “It’s not the go-to method of punishment if that’s what you’re asking.” It was mainly true, wing clipping being reserved only for the apostates they had no will to kill. Their goal was to maim them enough that they wouldn’t consider disobeying again, and usually, it worked. “It’s reserved for the ones the council decides to spare.”

Her brows knitted together, “Spare?” From her viewpoint, this seemed worse than death, the bones surely crushed into powder by the sheer amount of times she man brought the hammer down onto the joint. The memory made her want to crawl out of her skin, hammer suddenly feeling much heavier, the screams being the worst thing she’d ever heard in her life. “This is what they consider sparing people?” She wanted to say more but stopped herself, not understanding why she cared so much about the goings of scars.

“I’m just glad to be alive.”

She nodded, finding that a good enough reason to drop the conversation there. “Grab any supplies you find, okay?”

Lev almost choked on his own spit, looking at Yara and then at you. “We can’t touch this stuff, it’s old world.” His words hung in the air between you as you gave him a half-shrug. His mouth snapped shut before he turned on his heel, using the tip of an arrow to move stuff on the tables around- your reply wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but he didn’t dare to fight against it.

You came to stand with Yara, her hands trembling as she thumbed through different stacks of old material. “You okay?” You hummed, swallowing thickly as her glossy eyes met your own, indicating she was nowhere near it. She was such a strong girl, pushing aside her emotions for the sake of others. She was so good at it, it had become her fatal flaw.

She nodded curtly, dropping her eyes back down to the sheets of fabric, stuffing them in her pocket haphazardly. “I’m sorry, sister.” She whispered, doing everything in her power to keep her voice steady. “I went back for your machete, I... I thought I’d be able to get to you in time.” She turned on her heel, coming to face you fully, tears brimming her dark eyes. “I was wrong.”

The sight made your stomach twist into knots, free arm coming to wrap around her shoulders gently- pulling her small frame into your chest. She’d been the sister you needed through childhood, becoming the closest thing to blood you had besides your mother. It crushed you to hear her blame herself for something that should've never had to happen, the blame falling on the group you’d once thought was home. “She sees your love, she doesn’t blame you. Neither do i.” You hummed, squeezing your eyes shut to avoid letting the brimming tears escape, ignoring the faint feeling that had crept into your head as you held her.

A cough drew you from the embrace, causing you to turn in response- the movement almost knocking you off of your feet. “We found a way forward, might even be a couple places to rest.” The wolf spoke, nodding towards a door Lev stood by, seeing it barely hanging onto its hinges as rain droplets slowly raced down the corrupted frame. “Are you feeling okay?” She spoke suddenly, not letting you fit a word in before stepping forward, the back of her hand coming in contact with your forehead.

You almost took a step backward, your heart jumping into your throat at the heat of her touch. It felt like she was on fire, her skin burning into yours as she spared Yara a nervous glance. “What’s wrong, why are you so hot?” You asked, tearing away from her touch with a slight tremble in your legs. You brought your own hand up, pressing it to your forehead in the same manner she had- pulling away quickly, finding your hand coated in sweat.

“You have a fever, we need to get you out of here, now.” She pushed forward, not letting you object as she scooped you into her arms- careful to not crush your arm further. This was something she knew wasn’t a good sign, meaning you’d contracted an infection or worse.

The sudden change left your head spinning, the body heat radiating off of the girl making you uncomfortably hot as you writhed in her arms, fighting in a sense. Not against her but against her unbearable heat, though in your eyes currently- they were one and the same. “You’re so hot, wolf, I can't breathe.” You knew she wasn’t doing this out of malice, quite the opposite actually, but sense evaded you in your current state.

She pushed through the doorway, eyes locking on a trailer on the far side of the yard- her feet picking up pace as she held you firmly in place. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” She managed, on any other day she would’ve made some tasteless joke about her being hot, but she settled on this not being the time for it. She could feel your body shuddering, still trying to fight off her warmth as she practically broke down the trailer door- kicking it open so hard it left a door knob-sized hole in the panel wall.

Lev followed closely behind her, closing the door behind Yara to avoid drawing any more attention. “Is she gonna be okay?” He asked gingerly, putting his bow to rest on the dusty countertop. He knew the wolf didn’t seem like a healer, so she probably wouldn't know, but it was worth it to at least ask.

The girl gently let your body press into the moth-eaten couch, her arms sliding from beneath you with ease. “Can I?’ She asked, nodding to your arm, seeing the purple tint your fingers had taken on in the time it had taken the four of you to get out of the woods. A nod was all she needed, her hands coming to your arm.

One hand held your wrist, and the other pushed the linen of your tattered long-sleeved shirt up past your elbow. As the extent of your injury came to the light, nobody moved. The air felt stale, not even a ragged breath cutting through the anxious silence. You glanced down, the sight drawing a sharp gasp from your mouth, dark red pigmented your skin down to your fingers, which now took on a darker more purple hue. It looked like something a child would draw, devoid of all sense of tone, hung high in some disease-ridden home.

“I can set it, That might help.” The wolf spoke, eyes betraying her thoughts as she glanced up at you, trying to make it less scary. If maybe by some miracle this could work, she’d try just about anything. “Let me do that, okay?”

You didn’t even think to object, giving her a tiny nod. “Yara, the cloth.” You spoke, looking between her at the girl. “That would help, right?” You checked, having the most inept idea of healing from your time spent sneaking around the healer's hut for herbs.

Yara dug into her pockets, drawing out a handful of thick strips of cloth- immediately placing them into the hands of the girl. “I can go find more if we need more.” She rushed, watching closely as the girl turned them in her hands.

She nodded, “This is perfect, thank you.” She gave the younger girl a tight-lipped smile, kneeling beside the couch. She brought the chair leg to rest on her knee, popping the fabric on top of it, as she placed her hands at the wrist and just above the elbow. This was going to hurt, a lot, and the only way she could think to do it- was by distracting you. “What’s your name?”

“It’s-,” You began, only to be met with a harsh crack and a searing pain filling your arm. From your fingers to your shoulder, it felt like someone had sent you through initiation again, fire licking at your skin. “-My god!” You hissed in response, a choked sob escaping your trembling lips.

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts.” She shushed gently, letting your arm come to rest on the cushions as she picked the chair leg up- fitting it to your arm. “You’re gonna be okay-?” She drew out, waiting for you to finish your previous sentence

“(y/n), my n-name is (y/n).” You forced through the pain, breathing labored as you felt her secure the wood to your arm- straightening it permanently to let it heal. You had no idea if it would work, but you chose to trust her, not considering the fact that she might have just been lying for the sake of your comfort. “What’s yours?”

She smiled slightly, finishing up her work, letting her forearms come to rest on her knee. “Abby.” It was like some switch inside of her had flipped, all thoughts of her original reason for coming out here being lost in her subconscious, heart jumping with anxious beats at the idea of leaving the three of you here- but she had to go, much to her dismay.

“Abby.” You repeated sluggishly, getting a feel for it on your lips, earning a small chuckle from her. “Thank you, Abby.”

Abby stood, glancing between the two kids standing off to the side- looking visibly relieved. “I have to go, try not to make any noise. '' She warned, knowing the wolves had not cleared this area of infected yet. If they needed to be scared of anyone, it was the flesh-hungry infected that ran these woods. The ache to stay threatened her chest, forcing her to move faster. She pushed out of the door, halting on the wet steps as she turned on her heel- coming face to face with the boy she now knew as Lev.

“Listen, kid. Whatever shape she’s in, you need to be out of here by tomorrow.” Her words came out rushed, her hand digging into the door frame as she loomed over him, watching as his lips set into a thin line. She didn’t know what else to say, already conflicted enough, so she just took a step back. “Don’t let her die because you wanted to be a hero.”

╰╮later

The night passed in a blur of delusion-filled hallucinations, the pain creeping back into you when you least expected it. So when the light of morning poured through the tattered curtains, you thanked the prophet for the ability to even see another day- having thought many times you’d just die with the next flutter of your eyelids.

“Here, drink this.” Yara hummed, holding a small water bottle up beside your head- waiting for you to part your now chapped lips. Her hands shook slightly, letting the liquid drip out of the bottle slowly to avoid making you choke. She’d not slept, spending the night hovering over you just to be sure you were still breathing, making her even more cautious in her pouring.

You swallowed the water gratefully, feeling the ache in your throat dull slightly with the moisture. “Thank you, but really, try to rest before we have to leave.” You pleaded, eyes glossed over with the usual maternal worry you reserved for the siblings. “It’s gonna-,”

Your words were cut off by the door swinging open, Yara immediately reaching for Lev’s bow on the counter her hands moved faster than you could follow, nocking an arrow and letting it fly in just seconds before a familiar voice called out from behind the door. ‘It’s me!” They began, slowly coming around the corner, face flushed.

Yara let out a stressed breath, watching Lev rise from his sleep with a confused expression on his face. “On the prophet, have you heard of knocking?” She huffed, letting the bow fall back onto the counter as she crossed the room to collect Lev’s (definitely broken) arrow.

“Abby?” You spoke quietly, voice hoarse as you gazed up at her approaching form, her name still feeling foreign on your lips. “What are you doing here?”

The blonde shook her head shortly, kneeling down by the edge of the couch- leveling with you, letting her gaze rake over the sickly flush of your face. “You deserve a shot, (y/n).” She spoke, bringing a hand to rest on your uninjured one tenderly. “I’m here to give you one.”

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cowboymater · 1 year

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controversial opinion maybe:

I KNOW. i know. hear me out

i saw a couple edits on tiktok of mcspirk to soldier poet king and like. i’m not putting anyone on blast but good lord some of those choices made my head hurt. it’s taken me a couple days to synthesize my reasoning for the superior choice (as pictured above), but here goes:

the problem with assigning characters to soldier poet king comes when you take it at face value, flattening the paradigm to angry-sad-tired or violent-artsy-authoritative. if we want to get down to the root of it, the song is based on the threefold office of christ as priest (soldier), prophet (poet), and king. like i’m not christian, but on a textual level it gives us context: the concept that as prophet jesus gave us counsel and words of wisdom, as priest he sacrificed himself to redeem us, and as king he provides for, defends, and forgives us

maybe the most famous priest/prophet/king (& thus soldier/poet/king) allegory in all of literature is frodo, gandalf, and aragorn. frodo bears the burden, though he wishes he did not need to; gandalf offers words of wisdom and mercy; aragorn is a born leader, on the front lines with sword in hand, ready to die with his men if he must

KING: capt. james t. kirk is the easiest one to place. it is a burden and a privilege, an honor and a horror to have the lives of so many depend upon you to make the right call under fire. he makes the call. he leads the landing parties, he puts himself at the head of the charge because by god he is not about to send his men into a battle he wouldn’t fight himself. he leads—with heart when he can, steel when he must—and people follow him. bones and spock are always right behind because they believe in what he believes in, and more than that they believe in him

POET: bones serves as kirk’s emotional sounding board, his moral peer review. he lends an ear, and the word of an old country doctor who’s seen much and understands more. man has ascended to the heavens, to hurtling through the void in a glorified tin can, and it would be no great hardship to forget that our place in the universe is not that of higher life—we are not as quasi-gods, moving pieces on the great three-dimensional chessboard, but flesh and blood, and we must attend to each other. bones tempers the pure logos and rationality offered by spock; he offers grounding in this age of technology that wrinkles the fabric of reality, offers the kind of emotional intellect that cannot be taught, and has always been sorely needed

SOLDIER: this is the one where you really get tripped up by surface-level analysis. yes, spock is reserved and collected. yes, vulcans are pacifists (as you may recall, so are hobbits, and yet frodo remains the soldier in allegory)

the thing about vulcans, though, is that despite the vegan pacifism, they are warriors. it’s tangled up in their history and their DNA. the koon-ut-kal-if-fee survived through centuries of analytical dogma for a reason; even now, they cannot wholly escape their inheritance of violence. their forefathers ran the sands of vulcan green with blood. they venerate logic and condemn emotionality so that they will not

your average high-achieving vulcan, probably on the path to kolinahr, commits their lifetime to the pursuit of knowledge at the vulcan science academy. it’s a measured, rational decision. a controlled environment, where there will never be any logical reason to resort to violence

spock joins starfleet

he joins starfleet, and pursues knowledge in the vast unknowable universe. there is reason for violence, frequently. and sure, the purpose of their mission is peaceful. it’s true that spock would rather resolution be reached without force. but a soldier needs not want to be a soldier. he only needs go to war

when it comes down to blows, he will match them. he makes the sacrifice play, jumps on the grenade, goes into the radiation-soaked engineering room alone. it’s only logical, after all

spock is there to pick apart the universe, unravel the threads of logic until it all makes sense. bones is there to stitch it up. kirk is the hand that holds it all steady, the gravitational field that binds the people of the enterprise to their purpose. soldier-poet-king, commander-doctor-captain. it’s a story old as dirt, and we’ll keep telling it, i think

edit: my bad vulcans have. green blood

#puts on my “no one understands these characters like i do” hat #spock. (raucous applause)#star trek #star trek tos #star trek the original series #jim kirk #spock #bones mccoy #character analysis #soldier poet king #the oh hellos #lotr mention #longpost #mcspirk #triumvirate #txt

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kckt88 · 5 months

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Harrenhal and the Rivers Part II

Summary:

Spurned by Prince Aemond, Alys resorts to other methods to get what she wants.

Will she succeed?

Warning(s): Non-con touching, Anger, Violence, Swearing, Prophetic Visions, Mentions of child loss, Character death.

Word Count: 984.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated.

Alys was getting very frustrated.

Her repeated attempts to seduce Prince Aemond were failing quite miserably.

The Prince was completely entranced and gripped by the deep love and adoration that he held for his wife.

A man of honour and duty through and through, she could almost respect that, but time was rapidly running out.

Aemond was making plans with his garrison of soldiers to return to Kings Landing.

Back to the waiting arms of his wife and their young son.

She needed to act and fast. Her visions of a son with silver hair wearing the conqueror’s crown, were fading rapidly with each passing day.

As Aemond made his plans, Alys quickly uncorked the vial she clasped in her hand and poured it into the Prince’s wine.

The potion would soon take effect.

All Alys had to do was watch and wait.

Eventually the Prince excused himself and retired to his chambers for the night.

Alys had to be careful, this was her only chance, he need only spend inside her once for his seed to take.

Giving herself a moment, Alys hovered by the ashen door and took a deep breath.

It was now or never.

The Prince was laid on the bed, his eye closed. The sapphire that replaced his other eye shimmered eerily in the low candlelight.

He was beautiful in a way that Alys had never seen before. His high cheek bones and sharp jaw gave him an almost ethereal look.

He had truly been blessed by the gods.

The simple black cotton shirt the Prince was wearing had been left on but unfastened.

No doubt in his haste to get to bed, the Prince had given up on removing it.

Alys gently caressed the sleeping Prince and smiled as she ran a singular finger along the smooth hard planes of the Prince's pale skin.

He was a skilled swords man, yet his skin bared the marks of his rigorous training sessions.

Little scars adorned the Prince's body, yet it only added to the allure of such a creature as this.

Alys smiled slightly as she moved to unlace his leather breeches.

However, the young Princes’ amethyst eye snaped open and he lurched forward grabbing a handful of Alys’ dark curly hair.

“Do you think me a fool my lady” snarled Aemond viciously.

“My Prince. I do not understand. How did you-?” gasped Alys trying to prize herself away from Aemond’s vice like grip.

“I saw you slip your little concoction into my wine. Tell me my lady what was your intention”.

“I simply wished to satisfy your desires for the flesh” replied Alys desperately.

“I have a wife who’s more than capable” quipped Aemond as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand still twisted around Alys’ dark hair.

“But your wife is not here. Tell me my prince are you not tempted?” whispered Alys her voice low and sweet.

“No” snapped Aemond.

“But surely-“

“What you told me before. Was that a lie?” asked Aemond.

“No, I told you the truth” exclaimed Alys.

“I don’t believe a word you say. You stooped so low as to use the memory of my dead son against me, all so you could lure me into your fucking bed” shouted Aemond.

“My Prince I-“

“I am not your fucking Prince. Do you understand” roared Aemond.

“A-Apologise” stammered Alys.

“I spared your life, and this is how you repay me, by manipulating me all so you could birth a bastard” retorted Aemond.

“All the babes I had before were stillborn. I-I just wanted to be a mother”.

“Why me?” asked Aemond.

“You are a Targaryen; the blood of old Valyria runs through your veins” explained Alys.

“What about Daemon. He spent enough time here. Did you not tempt him with your lies”.

“He-We indulged in pleasures of the flesh, but his seed didn’t take,” said Alys.

“-And your so sure mine would?”

“Yes. I saw it in the flames” sniffed Alys.

“You disgust me. I should have beheaded you when I first arrived” growled Aemond.

“I will do as you wish without complaint,” said Alys.

“Anything-” questioned Aemond, his eye narrowing.

“Yes, my Prince. Anything” whispered Alys.

“Hm”

Aemond lunged off the bed with Alys still within his grasp.

“My Prince. Where are you taking me?”

“I will never betray my wife in such a manner, I am blood of the dragon, and your cheap tricks don’t work on me witch” said Aemond.

“Please” begged Alys.

“On your knees” commanded Aemond as he released his hold on Alys.

Alys fell to her knees and whimpered as she saw the Princes great dragon Vhagar looming over her.

The dragon snarled ferociously, her razor sharp teeth caked in the dried blood of whatever she'd feasted upon previously.

“Apologise. I beg you. I saw him in the flames, a boy with silver hair wearing the conquerors cr-“

“Dracarys” shouted Aemond.

Alys screamed as she was quickly incinerated by Vhagar’s flames.

Aemond watched wordlessly as the witches burning body collapsed to the ground.

Flakes of her skin flew from her body like leaves as a gust of wind moved through the air.

Suddenly the roar of another dragon echoed across the dark starry sky.

Vhagar lifted her head and answered with an equally load roar of her own.

Aemond quickly looked towards the sky, as three dragons circled the ruins of Harrenhal before landing with a ground shaking thud.

Aemond's hands curled into fists as he took a cautious step closer to Vhagar, pausing only when he saw the other dragon's silver haired rider.

“Vaera” exclaimed Aemond as he spotted his wife helping Rhaegar to climb down the membrane of Cannibals wing.

“Daddy” shouted Rhaegar loudly as he ran towards Aemond as fast as he could and jumped in his father’s arms.

“What’s happened?” asked Aemond as he held Rhaegar close to his body.

“Kings Landing has fallen”.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #hotd fanfic #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #alys rivers #vhagar

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thoughtsafterdark · 25 days

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Stigmata

The world is quiet. So quiet. The silence deafens, bends backs, breaks minds. It holds its breath, waiting, biding its time. Still and poised yet tense, every pebble and grain of sand prepared to strike. Like a big cat stalking its prey, shoulders rolling so smoothly as it inches closer and closer. Like oil sliding off the skin of the water. Those moments when it crouches and becomes one with the Savanah. When the golden light of the setting sun sets the land aflame and blades of grass blend with raised heckles until they are one and the same.

It waits for you, for your conception and birth. Molecules aligning, cells dividing, flowers blooming. The water of your mother’s womb is surprisingly thin given the precious life it cushions. It is expelled from your lungs like a sacrament, like a fountain that once erupted from a desert rock millennia ago. Strong lungs as befit a firstborn son. Your first cries pierce the air and shatter the stillness into a million shimmering fragments. The diamonds spill across the inky blackness. A burst of colour from the Lord’s brush, arcing across the sky. Another promise, another new beginning. Yet Gods are foolish, lonely creatures. Their promises ring hollow and false to our suffering ears. The whips crack and our skin splits, oozes all the same. Where was God when my brothers withered and died, the cries ripped from their throats going unanswered?

And yet tell me why as I gaze upon you now, I am compelled to fall to my knees? As if every fibre of my being yearns to bow, to yield - as if your voice bursts from somewhere deep in my squirming gut and heart and not your lips?

Tell me why I itch to bury myself in the crook where your thigh meets groin and inhale the musk there as if your scent holds the Eye of the Needle, as if the grooves of your skin map Heaven’s Kingdom. Would you let me cry tears of rapture at your coming and wash your feet with them and my tongue?

I wonder if such a wonton display of devotion would anger you, frighten you. Would you toss me away in disgust, smash my face into the ground? Break my nose against rock and let me feel the warm flood of blood flow backwards down my throat, let me savour the salt and iron as I swallow devoutly. Tell me why I have never felt so alive as when your holy wrath rains down upon me like fire, like the destruction of Sodom.

I watch you now, standing proud against that same setting sun, gazing across the expanse of your new kingdom. Here as it dips low upon the dunes and the sand lashes at us. Its rays frame raven curls and fracture all around you, as if afraid to touch you and be seduced. A halo that revers yet fears you. It hardens your features as if you were hewn from granite Your jaw tightens against the onslaught, sharp enough to fell armies. Your eyes become the harsh ringing of blade against blade. Gone is the boy with the easy smile tugging at the corner of a mouth, crow’s feet wrinkling eyes. In his place is the cold pyre of divine righteousness. The commander of earth and sky, made to wield sound and air itself. I think of the icons of old, the waxy mournful faces of saints and note what a pale imitation they must be, if they had even a third of your weight.

You are a black hole - all-consuming, inescapable, inevitable - and we are all trapped in your orbit, edging ever closer to the Event Horizon that will surely destroy us. But tell me if our path is so doomed why my heart leaps at the prospect of pledging my death to you? What finer gift is there but that of my last breath, freely given?

In your face I see rivers of blood and the thrum of charging men. I hear the chants of our forefathers and the long line of prophets that came before, accumulating across the centuries into the tapestry that is your flesh.

Yet as you lie here beside me, the darkness kept at bay by the stubborn flame of a lone candle, your face serene with sleep and your sweat acrid and sharp in my nose - I see just a man plagued by a crown of thorns. I think of my hands, bathing in the blood of innocents in your name. Your name, a mantra, a hymn that ignites us all with awe and hunger. I wonder if knowing deep down you are just a man makes me more or less the fool.

Then your eyes open, lashes fluttering, and I see the light burning there and I know messiahs are not born but made in the hearth of a home, in the fierceness of a loyal heart and the beating lifeblood of a people starved of hope. I care not if you bleed red or ichor, I know only that I will follow you into hell itself, until we burn to ash and we become whispers, legends. Until we are nothing but dust floating across the dunes, the wind that stokes the flames of a thousand more rebellions.

#creative writing #poetry #religious trauma #religious imagery #love #devotion #stream of consciousness #love poetry

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shit-taster-connoisseur · 2 months

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For the qsmp valetines event, for my giftee @routeriver

howdy!! sorry for the hold up on this one, i went through 4 drafts of this story idea many times until i settled for this one ultimately dhjex hope it's at leasy up to ur taste!!

Some warnings:

-mentions of cannibalism

-unhealthy relationships

-just girls being girls

-some relgious imagery

-a whole lotta demonic imagery/mentions of it at least

But please enjoy some demon!tina x human!bagi :)))

Word count: 1500

The other wordly consumed Bagi's mind, far longer than she was capable of remembering anything.

As where there were meant to be memories were feelings, thoughts–ones she drew down with crayons and a tiny fist. Ranging from spooky men in clothes, the shadowy figures in her room, and more often than not, demons. Demons whose horns curled into knife-like edges, gangly bodies, and claws who knew just how vulnerable human flesh is.

Her obsession sent her into a spiral.

From scrawling demonic pentagrams out of crayons, to drawing pentagrams out of her own blood in high school. It all amounted to nothing in the end.

No breakthroughs or simple summoning gone right.

So she had to become an adult when she was out of excuses. She became the proud graduate her parents wanted, and went to solve the mysteries of the real world.

But the itch to settle old affairs never left her.

So her brother presents her with a book, rustic and its bindings rotting–but ancient with a story: A witch that lived isolated in the woods. One day, the children of the nearest village began to go missing, one-by-one. A mob was sent knocking at the old hag's hut the next day, and what they found was not a rugged woman cooking their children for stew, but a creature ripped from the underworld. The mob forced to watch in horror as it gnawed their children to the bone.

The witch disappeared and was never found, and the story's ending equally lost to time.

The book had been the only trace left behind. Awaiting for its next champion.

So Bagi accepted it and followed it like a commandment and she was a prophet. She wasn't quite in her right mind. Like the witch, perhaps she too was going insane from her isolation, from the mundanity of real life.

And the book offers to fulfill her what she desired most in the world.

So she gets Tina.

There'd been many scenarios Bagi played of what ifs, the first was of what if she had gotten her hands on a demon. The first was taking its head to the street and proving everyone wrong.

But she couldn't do that. Because Tina was much prettier with her head attached to her body.

If Bagi had summoned her with the holy bible, she'd have gotten down on her knees and believed she was a goddess herself. And gladly Bagi would've spent the rest of her years groveling just at Tina's feet to be saved.

But no, Tina is a demon, a woman from hell who makes Bagi feel small, with claws that know the exact pressure to make her bleed, and skin that's a delicious shade of violet.

And Bagi loves her.

It's a realization that shouldn't have taken so long to deduce–Bagi would argue that she fell in love the moment she laid eyes on Tina; her chest had burned with a fire so hot when she took in the demon for the first time, Tina who was still doused in the glow of the summoning circle for which she came from.

The fire in her chest never ceased–even when Tina pestered her, when she once pushed a plate to the ground in an act of defiance when Bagi rejected her deals, offers of riches and fame, time-and-time again. Even when Tina had watched Bagi's chest heave up and down in her sleep every night, it only ever added fuel to the fire.

Because Tina cared. Sure, Bagi had been the reason Tina was bound to her, a chain handcuffed the demon through an oath before Lucifer himself, an unspoken tie between an evoker and the very thing invoked into the existing in the same plane. But she stayed, and she stayed even when she wasn't exactly trapped in Bagi specifically. There had been a world beyond Bagi's shabby walls, Tina could readily explore at the tips of her claws, a world she surely missed. She stayed.

The night they changed, Bagi asked only a question.

“Were you a human before?” She asks through her fatigue. The flashing colors of the tv bathed them both in its artificial light.

Tina had stood behind the couch where Bagi lounged, while her stature dwarfed it, she somehow leaned up against it, craning her spine.

Tina looked cute being so memorized by things so simple–so human. The tv has only a rerun of a show which had been background noise for Bagi, but somehow the center of Tina's world that night.

Such a simple question had ripped Tina out of that world. Bagi had to learn to forgive herself for it.

She looked perplexed, almost solemn as she had lamented over decades of her life.

Still she hadn't speaked, so Bagi almost forgets about it in the fog of her mind.

But like the sun, Tina parts it like clouds. With a, “yes.”

And it hadn't been a shock or a revelation for Bagi. There'd been the small things, like how she'd somehow recognize and listen to niche singers, how she seemed obsessed with an American cartoon show about a bird and cat, that she knew the aroma of tea by heart–all of these things hell wouldn't have.

After that, Tina became shy, a shell of that cocky demon when she thought she had Bagi wrapped around her finger on behalf of all of hell–which she did. When Bagi so much as spotted her, whether a shadow or of the mortal plane, she'd rush off in a flurry of mist.

Bagi hadn't blamed her; she felt like a teenage girl all over again. Obsessing, overthinking every little move a girl of the week made–for a second, she believed Tina hated her, was tired of the mundanity Bagi trapped herself in.

But that wasn't the case. When the thought manifested, a delusion always shoo-ed it away because as she said, Bagi was obsessed. And when she's obsessed, Bagi vision tunnels where she sees only her feelings–and it's unfair, it's unfair to Tina who's been back on earth for however long, who's still not used to the changes that manifested in her absence, and snuck into the world as visitor than a human, a mortal.

So the only thing Bagi was left to do was wait. She was willing to wait forever. As whatever haunts Tina, she'll talk about it–she'll talk to Bagi.

And talk she did. When Tina was finally tired of hiding in her shadows, and places far from Bagi's grasp–she leaned down into Bagi's embrace one day.

The smell of flora choking Bagi in its intensity, but it's addicting, like the cigarettes she had in her pocket that'd surely kill her one day, but no, Tina is a different type of addiction. Because she saved Bagi, and never will Bagi promise to stop the day after.

“I'm fucked up, Bagi.” Tina pleaded against Bagi's neck. But her warnings fell to deaf ears, as all Bagi could remember was the warmth of Tina's breath on her neck, and the vicious grip Tina had on her hips.

Tina ripped herself away, to balance both hands on either side of Bagi's head – she desperately missed her touch.

So Bagi took her cheeks in both hands to wipe away the stray drops of blood pouring out her eyes with a thumb–she could only remember Tina crying.

“You'll fucking hate me.” Tina warned the second time.

Bagi couldn't help but smile to her. Because it was ridiculous, a nightmare never to come true.

“I would never.”

“You will.”

Bagi's hands explored the ever foreign anatomy of her love's face–they eventually found its home, nestled behind and in Tina's white hair.

“It's impossible, Tina.”

“Why not?” Tina hissed, a claw sinking into Bagi's pillow–fluff leaking out. But Bagi had never been deterred once.

“Because I love you.” It made Tina's face soften, her bloody tears slowing, her shock had been palpable–but there'd been a doubt, she studied Bagi's face, looking for any crease in her expression that'd contradict her otherwise. Hoping she had been lying.

To silence it, Bagi leaned up to do something she'd been wanting, praying to do for eons. But it was Tina who kissed Bagi first, maybe, because it's Tina who pulled Bagi up further and connected them at last.

It's not what Bagi had dreamt of. It wasn't as passionate as she wanted, but better, so much better because it's Tina, and her world seemed more bright with Tina.

Amidst it, Tina whispered against her lips between breaths: “I will hurt you.” Spoke like a prophecy rather than a doubt. Bagi would allow it, she'd let Tina feast on her flesh before she went a day starving, she'd let Tina's claws draw wounds on her back if it meant she wouldn't be bored. God, Bagi would accept every slap or scratch, or really anything if it meant Tina would stay.

It hadn't occurred to Bagi then, but perhaps Tina meant hurting her in a different way.

#qsmp #qsmp bagi #qsmp tina #bagina #teaduo #again sorry for the late-ness of this gift #school and life tied me and throw me off a cliff for days #but stilk thank you forbyour patience #if i made any mistake let me know :))#six's writing

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knightsickness · 4 months

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If you like TMA and HOTD, which Fears do you think the HOTD characters would be?

!! fun question had to think about it

broadly the targs are desolation-aligned fire and blood lets burn another woman to death in childbirth to produce our unburnt messiah etc. rhaenyra and daemon(+aemond) especially desolationpilled bc theyre both mimicking visenya the most desolation targ ever. however i dont think they actively worship the desolation in the way most cults do i think its almost a byproduct of their family imperial cult and idealisation of old valyria. viserys idealises a kind of glorious conquerer’s desolation of the past but is not cognisant of the destruction his own wellmeaning peoplepleasing is wreaking

velaryons strongly vast-aligned the wide open sea and the wide open sky, fear of majesty and the dizzying superiority of others, but as the dance goes on and they lose everything become more lonely-aligned. me and the sea with my children at the bottom and the fog and the fog and the fog

otto is eye-aligned but not in a sincere faith actually believes in the cult’s goals or ideals way but in an elias following the eye bc the insight it grants him can be used to further his own murderous scheming way. alicent is eye-aligned in a being raised by otto has made her constantly obsessively paranoid about being watched by others or a higher power and found wanting and has in response developed a sort of spiteful self-defensive watching rhaenyra’s indiscretions with her lip curled faith

larys has some eye tendencies type of guy to crank off to a four car pile up and there is something to be said for him being a bit like otto as part of his relationship w alicent. however imo he’s corruption-aligned fear of rot deformity/disease and unhealthy love relationships. hes not into the flesh hive or the collective angle but i would lean into the he controls and listens through vermin theory thats vv fun

i think the horror of the construction of harrenhal was a huge fear event it got the attention of half the entities i think the bones of harrenhal are aligned with the flesh/corruption/buried/web/slaughter and any lord who holds it never leaves without taking one with him

all knights slaughter-aligned to some extent chivalric cult and soldiers are a slaughter institution but criston is like. ridiculously insanely slaughter aligned. senseless violence and butchery especially when enmeshed in some papery shell of i didnt have a choice it was out of my hands hands bloody all the time even when they arent. lancelot did many people see me while i was mad quote

helaena is strongly end-aligned fear of death often prophets and dives much further into this after b&c thats her madness. cassandra girl also not a single person notices

i want one of the great houses to be hunt-aligned (in a combination of jocular aristocratic hunting culture and peasant fear of being a resource hunted for sport cannon fodder) or flesh-aligned (eat your young class and body horror) feeling baratheon and lannister

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #hotd #house of the dragon #tma #the magnus archives #rhaenyra targaryen #daemon targaryen #aemond targaryen #corlys velaryon #rhaenys targaryen #viserys targaryen #otto hightower #alicent hightower #larys strong #criston cole #helaena targaryen

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propheticfire · 2 years

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Dyed my hair today! Couldn't believe this 6-year-old manic panic still worked 😂

Bonus there was a sunbeam and I looked so badass pic:

#Prophetic Fire in the flesh

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darkestprompts · 9 months

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What class of enemy would each class fear the most?

I included some bosses and DD2 enemies for variety, hope you don't mind! Also excluded some obvious choices like the HoD and the DD2 chapter bosses.

Jester: Sarmenti is terrified of the Courtyard nobles. They are an even more twisted mirror of his past. He deals with his fear by way of stabbing.

Shieldbreaker: Come on. You know what it is. It's her special character mechanic.

Houndmaster: William's skills are suited for the Weald. Doesn't mean he likes it. Having Fergus bite into poisonous mushroom-people and rabid hounds makes him very nervous. He'd much prefer to take down cultists, damn bastards.

Musketeer: Monsters and humans she can understand, but the pelagics/fishfolk are just organized and human enough to make her disturbed. They aren't as obviously savage as the pigmen, but still hunt humans as prey. She's NOT ok with that.

Bounty Hunter: Tardif hates the Farmstead. Damn husks doing the same thing over and over without a thought in their minds without past and future without anything but the same work that goes on and on and on and he's NOT projecting!!

Flagellant: Templars. One hit from Revelation and his brain turns into spaghetti. And fuck DD2 Death, that shit makes no sense.

Arbalest: Look, Missandei has seen a lot of death. She doesn't like to think about it, nor even about the future beyond her immediate needs. She was very helpful in that fight, but the Prophet gave her a hard time.

Grave Robber: DD2's Gentry. Yes, darling, that could have been you.

Runaway: DD2 Fanatics. Like I mentioned in that ask: fire-wielding religious zealots burning themselves and others alive is like every trauma Bonnie has distilled into a faction. Additionally, she's unable to properly fight the Woodsman.

Hellion: All the witch-like enemies of the Weald. Her culture has a lot of suspicion and fear of malicious magic. She will face any behemoth, but what is she to do against those sneaky, cowardly sorcerers?

Vestal: Had nightmares about DD1's Fanatic ever since she learned he was prowling about. She has watched public burnings in the past. It's a horrific way to go.

Crusader: Everyone hates the Collector, but no one got as traumatized by it as Reynauld. He's friends or at least friendly with all of the collected. The first time he saw a "head", he came back to the Hamlet half-mad and screaming his lungs out.

Leper: Baldwin can endure much, but he's terrified of an enemy that can turn his strength against his friends. He'd rather not ever deal with the Siren, please and thank you.

Highwayman: If you go by the theory that Dismas is a retired brigand, the name Vvulf should send a chill down his spine.

Plague Doctor: Paracelsus crunched the numbers and found out the highest mortality amongst heroes is caused by nothing other than spiders. Her fear is scientifically justified- JUST HIT THEM, BALDWIN, OH GODS, THERE'S ANOTHER ONE!

Man-at-Arms: Barristan doesn't like to face any kind of undead soldier. He feels like he might see a familiar crest at any moment. Only the risk to his present comrades got him to unfreeze the first time he saw one.

Occultist: The fucking pigs, man. Why would you tear the veil between dimensions to put eldritch beings inside PIGS? They are brutal and disgusting and they make the Black Beast trash inside his head every time they screech their hellish squeals. Not to mention the interdimensional clusterfuck that is the Flesh.

Abomination: Cultists, full stop. They remind him too much of the Order, and their magic has the bad habit of making his other side go ballistic.

Antiquarian: Josephine prides herself on her pragmatism and rationality, and the reasonable question to be asked here is: WHY IS THAT FUCKING CANNON ALIVE?

#darkest dungeon #asks #dd lists #dd ensemble

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walkswithmyfather · 3 months

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‭‭Joel‬ ‭2:28‭-‬32‬ ‭(ESV)‬‬. “And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Even on the male and female servants in those days I will pour out my Spirit. “And I will show wonders in the heavens and on the earth, blood and fire and columns of smoke. The sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the great and awesome day of the Lord comes. And it shall come to pass that everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved. For in Mount Zion and in Jerusalem there shall be those who escape, as the Lord has said, and among the survivors shall be those whom the Lord calls.”

“Looking Forward” By In Touch Ministries:

“Because God promises a glorious future, Christians can find the strength to wait—even when it’s difficult.”

“More often than not, waiting involves a lot of stress—especially when we don’t know how long it will be until the holding pattern ends. During the wait, we sometimes turn away from God and yearn for a time when things felt easier. But what if we turned towards God and looked forward instead?

The prophet Joel spoke to God’s people during a challenging time when their land had been invaded by locusts. Livelihoods were destroyed by drought and pestilence, and people were starving. Those were days full of destruction, darkness, and utter gloom.

Yet God did not point them back to the good old days. Instead, He pointed them to the future, to Himself. He called them to return to Him and reminded them that a day of vindication and redemption would ultimately come. And while it’s true that “ultimately” could be generations away, there is comfort in knowing His promise of restoration is certain. On that day there will be tremendous rejoicing—vats will overflow and “everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved” (2:32).

By turning our eyes forward towards that certain-yet-far-off day, we too may find the strength to keep waiting.”

[Photo by Joshua Earle at Unsplash].

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officialyourdailyinspiration · 2 days

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Devotional Hours Within the Bible by J.R. Miller

Elijah on Mount Carmel (1 Kings 18)

Elijah challenged Ahab to a test of Baal’s power. He demanded that the question should be settled, whether the Lord or Baal was the true God. Baal’s prophets were summoned, therefore, to meet with Elijah on Mount Carmel. On one side stood Elijah, alone, as the prophet of Jehovah; and on the other side the four hundred and fifty priests of Baal. All day, from morning until evening, Baal’s priests had been about their altar, crying, dancing, and gashing their flesh, after the custom of their heathen worship. But Baal had not answered, and, with mortification in their hearts and curses on their lips they turned away in defeat. It is now Elijah’s turn. Will Jehovah answer by fire and thus prove Himself the true God?

Elijah called the people to come near to him, that they might see all that he did, for there were no secrets in the worship of the true God. Then he repaired the altar of Jehovah, which had been broken down. Once the fires had burned on this altar but it had been neglected, the people having turned away to worship calves of gold, instead of the true and living God.

While this picture of the ruined altar is before us we may think of other altars that are broken down. There are homes where once the voice of prayer was daily heard, where the family bowed in worship. But now no longer does the morning and evening prayer ascend. There are those who at their mother’s knees were taught to kneel, and who through infancy and youth continued to pray but who no longer bow before God. All about us, everywhere, are these broken - down altars. The first thing the prophet did at Carmel that day was to rebuild God’s altar which was in ruins. The first step toward blessing in prayerless homes and lives is to build again the old altar of God.

Elijah then made preparation for the great test. He prepared the altar, put the wood in order, cut the bull in pieces, and laid it on the wood. That was all he could do; the fire must come down from God. Common fire would not do it must be fire from heaven. It is the same in our sacrifices. “Present your bodies a living sacrifice” to God, is our part. God will never lift us up on His altar we must lay ourselves there willingly. We present our bodies a living sacrifice when we yield our will and surrender ourselves to God with love and praise, ready for obedience and service.

We cannot change our own heart Elijah did not bring fire from some furnace or smoking hearth to kindle the wood on his altar; he prepared the sacrifice and then waited for God to give the fire. When all the preparations were made, Elijah prayed for God to send the fire. We get nothing spiritual from heaven, without prayer. Prayerlessness receives no blessings. A day without prayer is a day unblessed, unsheltered, and open to all disaster. If we are seeking blessing and are ready to yield our wills and affections to Christ we have but to cry to God, and He will send down the divine fire to consume the sacrifice which we have laid upon His altar. But we must always pray. “Ask and you shall receive.” Mere waiting is not enough there must be supplication as well as consecration .

The form of Elijah’s prayer must be noticed. “Let it be known this day that You are God in Israel.” The prophet was not seeking his own glory but God’s. He was not trying to work a miracle to show his power but to show the people that Jehovah was the true and the only God. We should never think of honoring ourselves in doing God’s work our aim always should be to honor God. After anything we have done for God, we should not exult in our own exaltation but should thank God and honor Him.

A king, when his army had won a great victory, bared his head in the presence of his soldiers and reverently repeated, “Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us but to Your name be the glory!” We should never concern ourselves about our share of the honor, about the reputation or the glory we are to get from any work we have done, any duty, any sacrifice we have made; we should seek that God’s name alone shall be honored, that it may be known that He is indeed God.

All day, the prophets of Baal had prayed in vain beside the altar but the moment Elijah began to pray “the fire of Jehovah fell, and consumed the burnt-offering.” A god that cannot answer prayer is not the God for needy, tempted, perishing, dying men. Baal had been proved no god. He was unable in that great crisis to give any answer. But the moment Elijah prayed, the fire fell.

The test of Mount Carmel is being repeated every day in thousands of places on the earth. Our God is the Hearer of prayer. Burdened hearts are crying to Him and He is answering their requests. Blessings are falling upon needy, suffering lives in response to earnest, faith-filled supplications. The fire of the Lord is always falling. It fell on the day of Pentecost on the praying disciples. It has fallen since on millions of heart - altars, consuming earthliness and sin, and leaving the glowing flames of love, devotion, and holy service.

The effect on the people was tremendous. When they saw it they “fell on their faces, and they said, Jehovah, He is God !” Jehovah had been forsaken and His worship abandoned. Jeroboam’s sin had thus ripened into its full, terrible fruitage. Baal was now accepted as the god of the nation. Jehovah’s prophets had been hunted to death. So utterly had idolatry driven out the true worship, destroying or sending to hiding places, the followers of the true God that Elijah thought he was the only one left in the whole land who was loyal to Jehovah. Then came this test. It was a magnificent occasion one man against king, prophets, priests, people; but one man with God is more than a match for all the world against God.

This test is going on still. Baal’s worshipers are yet prominent in the world, though known now by other names. What are the evidences of Christianity? What demonstration of power have we ever had which shows that Christianity is divine? We may point to the whole history of the Church, in answer to this question. Wherever the gospel has gone through the centuries, divine power has been with it. A little study of history and a little examination of the map of the world will show thousand of Carmels. Idolatry and false religions have done their best but nothing has come of their experiments no moral improvements, no lifting up of the people, no sweetening and purifying of homes, no building of hospitals and asylums, no restoring of lives, no saving of souls.

Then Christianity entered with its simple story of divine love, its fire from heaven, the power of the Holy Spirit; and wherever it has gone all has been changed. Men have turned from their sins unto God. Evil hearts have been made holy. Cruelty has given place to gentleness. Happy homes have been built up. Society has been transformed. As we see these wonderful results of Christian life the Carmel days over again we can say with joy and triumph, “ Jehovah, He is God !”

The victory was complete. The fire consumed the burnt offering, even the stones and the dust, and licked up the water that filled the trench. Baal’s prophets had been defeated and must die. They had been proved guilty of high treason, as representing idolatry. Events moved rapidly. Elijah announced to Ahab the coming of rain. The prophet then went to the top of Mount Carmel, and we see him next in the attitude of prayer praying for rain. Although God had promised the rain yet it was necessary that Elijah should pray for it. “Ask and you shall receive.”

Elijah’s prayer suggests to us also the importance of expectation. When we ask for things which God has promised, we should look for an answer. The prophet sent his servant to watch for the clouds. The picture is very beautiful. The answer did not come immediately but the prophet continued pleading with God. Again and again and again the servant went up and looked but there was nothing to be seen, no cloud in the sky. At last, a little cloud as small as a man’s hand appeared. The answer was coming. The prophet ceased to pray and set out on his journey to Jezreel.

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cannibalcaprine · 7 months

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Very interesting to see you come to the conclusion that an entity is overseeing the archives

all I know about entities at the moment is that they revolve around certain fears, and that they can. . . extend themselves to people

like, take Simon Fairchild or Michael Crews. I don't exactly know how to describe their relationship with the Vast, but they sorta act like. . . prophets? patrons?

like they signed some contract with the Vast and gained some power from it, in exchange for doing SOMETHING. Crews had to add the Lichtenburg Figure to Ex Altiora, but I dunno what Fairchild is up to

anywho, there's no other force that we could actually assign to the Archives than an entity. the files that "won't convert properly" or whatever the hell forced Sims to use the tape recorder were the "real" ones, and they all COULD revolve around an entity.

I don't actually know what to look for for anything beyond the Vast, the End, and the Flesh, so I don't know yet which else goes where

there's definitely others. one for fire, one for infestation, one for darkness, one for being watched, one for burial, one for Michael Fingers'. . . patron

I don't think Michael Fingers is someone who's been extended to. I think he's just a copy of something already taken in

I think it's called the Distortion

fear of madness

#hera and the archive #tma spoilers

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shmorp-mcdurgen · 1 year

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Mandela Prophet AU: Confrontation

After a couple of months of dealing with, and being controlled by the parasitic alternate living in him, Adam decides to confront the being that cursed him.

CW: Body horror, religious imagery, blood

Notes: around 4′300 words. I’m actually decently proud of this one, and. stayed up late making it but either way hope you enjoy!

-----

Adam awoke on the cold, damp asphalt of a parking lot.

His back stung, feeling as though it had caught fire, the barely healed wounds pressed against the ground, the small stones digging into his skin. Adam slowly opened his eyes, gasping as he glanced around the empty lot he found himself on. He looked down at himself, seeing he was missing his shirt, and that his pants and parts of his pale skin were stained with crimson; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know if it belonged to him or not. Either way, he hated that he was used to the sight of blood.

He attempted to sit up, only to let out a quick yell, immediately falling as he felt the muscles in his back cry out in pain at the motion. Adam grimaced as he curled his hands into fists, suppressing more cries of discomfort as he forced himself to stand on his feet, stumbling as a wave of dizziness hit him at once. He took a few steps back, his bare feet cold as they pressed against the asphalt. His breathing was uneven as he steadied himself, trying to ground himself by grasping and running his hands through his ratty, pale brown hair.

He grasped his head, groaning as he shook his head, as if he was trying to literally shake off the migraine that was developing. The rising sun shone from just under the horizon, with even the dim light from it making Adam’s dilated eyes sting. It was as if his eyes didn’t work as well in the light as they did in the dark anymore, like an owl, or a bat. The night vision would’ve been nice, if it meant he wouldn’t tear up during the day sometimes. Though, the feeling of dry tears on his face proved that he had been crying anyway.

Adam reached behind him, his cold, clammy hands lightly pressing against his back, the action making him wince. There were deep, pale reddish pink indented parts of his skin, just barely healed over so it wouldn’t bleed out. Dried and coagulated blood was stuck to his flesh, trails of it running down from the large blotches on his back. Every muscle and bone in his body ached, his spine and ribs popping and cracking with every motion he made, the ligaments and cartilage burning from stretching and bending in ways they weren’t made to bend. Adam simply sighed, his voice growling slightly before he crossed his arms and hunched over, beginning to walk down the sidewalk, hoping to get back to the BPS HQ without being seen; he needed some fucking clothes.

He stumbled down the sidewalk, his eyes darting around erratically as he hoped that the people in the cars passing by didn’t pay much attention to him, nor his haggard appearance. He could only imagine being mistaken for an alternate due to his pale skin, sunken eyes and the blood staining his clothes, and though the person wouldn’t necessarily be wrong, he didn’t want to be shot by someone due to that, instead trying to stay in the shadows, taking any shortcuts he can to get him to his house quicker. His legs felt wobbly, and his head was foggy, though nevertheless he continued, the thought of sleeping being far too tempting for his own good. Hell, he would’ve felt fine falling onto the grass of a random person’s yard, sleeping for a few hours, not being able to feel the overwhelming soreness that overtook him. However, he didn’t think of the idea much further than that, deciding to walk the last few blocks instead of having the cops called on him.

He trembled uncontrollably, rubbing his shoulders as he walked in an attempt to comfort himself, telling himself reassurances under his breath:

“It’s over, it’s alright, it’s not going to hurt you for a while, you’re okay.” Were among the statements he told himself, feeling comfort over the fact that the parasite within him wasn’t moving in the slightest; no twitches, no shifts, and no prodding. It was asleep, and hopefully it would stay that way. Despite the lack of motion in his torso however, Adam couldn’t help but feel the pressure in his chest, and the feeling of dread that clouded his thoughts. He felt like complete shit, in and out, physically and mentally. He shut his eyes, letting out a shaky breath, getting his thoughts together before he flinched at a sound nearby.

“Are you alright?”

Fuck.

Adam looked to his right, seeing a woman on her porch, staring at her with a look in between fear and concern. Adam didn’t even realize how haunting his crazed stare was until he looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat as he attempted to speak. “U…u-uh…I-I-I…” Adam could do nothing but sputter words unable to create a story to explain his state.

“Do…Do you need a doctor?” The woman asked innocently, though Adam couldn’t help but think she was stupid for asking; what would a doctor do to help him at that point? He didn’t need a fucking doctor, he needed a priest.

“N-No…no, I d…don’t.” Adam stated. “I’m…fine.”

“Hold on, I’ll call an—”

“DON’T!” Adam shouted, immediately regretting doing so when he saw the woman flinch. “Don’t…I-I…fucking hell—”

Adam glanced at the woman before running down the sidewalk until he was out of view, ducking behind another house as he shook; fucking shit, what if she called the cops? How the fuck would he even begin to explain his situation? He felt the fear coming from her, and he hated it. He hated that he could sense fear towards him, coming from a woman that only wanted to help out. He leaned against the outer wall, putting his hands over his face, staring through his fingers with wide, crazed eyes. He slid down the wall, sitting on the cold, dewy grass as he crossed his arms on his knees, curling into himself as he held his head low.

Such a fucking moron. Took a deal from the devil just because he wanted to know more than his mind could handle, finding out he was never human in the first place. God damn it, even his harsh breathing and crying sounded inhuman. Why couldn’t he have lived as a normal kid? Why was he chosen to be this stupid prophet? Why him of all people? Why him? Why him? WHY HIM?

“Why…me…?” Adam squeaked under his breath through the tears.

Sarah opened the door to see Adam leaning against the doorway, his stare vacant and fixed on the floor before he slowly looked up at Sarah’s face. He looked like death; a look that had become the norm for him. Sarah let out a breath, glancing towards the ground in a mutual understanding before stepping out of the way, muttering a defeated “Get in” under her breath before Adam walked inside of the apartment.

“Is that where you’ve been all night?” Sarah asked as Adam fell onto the couch, lying across it with a wince as the fabric pressed against his back.

“…Yeah.” Adam sighed quietly.

“It’s only been…what, a week? Two maybe?” Sarah said. “It seems like it’s been…especially irritable lately.”

“Yep.” Adam rubbed his face with his thin, bony hands.

“What haven’t we tried yet?” Sarah asked. “Antibiotics do fuck all, bullets work but…only if we hit you square in the chest with them; Surgery maybe?”

Adam scoffed. “What would a doctor do?” Adam said softly, a slight, disingenuous smile on his face. “They’d cut me open…dissect me. Gawk at the fact there’s a new species of alternate living inside me.” Adam pressed his hands against his face. “I’d rather take my chances with the stupid thing than be some…science experiment in a lab.”

“Okay, then what?” Sarah asked, her shoulders tensing. “Nothing seems to work, so…” Sarah gasped. “…exorcism.”

“No.”

“…Hey it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“Since when have fucking exorcisms worked against alternates?” Adam sat up slightly. “You hold up a crucifix to them and they laugh at you. If anything, that would probably just piss the thing off more.”

“Come on, I’m just trying to help.” Sarah sighed.

“Whatever…” Adam groaned as he stood from the couch. “I need to take a fucking shower anyway. I’ll figure something out myself.”

As Adam walked down the hallway, Sarah glanced at the floor, grasping the sleeve of her jacket as she thought to herself. There had to be some way to get rid of the parasite…right?

That night, Adam laid on the couch, dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and a black hoodie, its hood covering his head. He had his hands folded on his stomach, absentmindedly staring at the wall as Sarah sketched something in her notebook. He glanced over towards her, seeing a blank, yet focused expression as her pencil scratched across the paper. “…What’re you drawing?” He asked.

“Oh…” Sarah said, her eyes glancing around before making brief eye contact with Adam. “Just…thoughts.”

“…What ‘thoughts?’”

“I don’t know.” Sarah sighed. “Just doodling stuff I guess.” She glanced down at the drawing she was working on, being a diagram of what she believed the parasite looked like inside of Adam’s body, with its own “heart” under his sternum, and “veins” reaching through his limbs. She stared at it before shutting the sketchbook entirely. “Nothing important.”

“Right.” Adam looked away, sighing before leaning his head backwards to hit the armrest of the couch. He barely even fit on the couch anymore, with his legs seeming to be longer than he remembered. He stared at the popcorn ceiling, brows furrowing as he thought to himself. “…You think…I’ll ever be cured?”

Sarah paused, staring at Adam with uncertainty in her eyes. “…I don’t…know, maybe?” Sarah said. “There’s got to be a way to get rid of it, if it works like other parasites—”

“But it doesn’t, Sarah.” Adam stated with a half-lidded glare. “It works nothing like other parasites. It’s alive, it’s…able to make its own decisions.”

“Doesn’t…seem like that to me.” Sarah said. “Always seemed like it ran on instincts from…you know—”

“That time I almost killed you?” Adam said, despite the sour feeling in the air when he said it. “I get it. I don’t know it sometimes acts like…this dumb animal, and other times it feels like it’s being—”

Adam froze, his eyes widening as his mind began connecting the dots. He sat up, planting his elbows on his knees and covering his mouth with one of his hands. Sarah looked at him, feeling pressure building in her chest before she spoke. “You…alright?”

“I’m fine.” Adam shut his eyes for a second. “Don’t worry about it, just…figuring some things out.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah…” Adam sighed. “Just…thinking.”

Adam sat on his bed, still in his normal clothes before he glanced at the clock on the wall: 1:00 AM. He stood up, walking towards the door before slowly opening it, glancing at Sarah’s bedroom door, his eyes gleaming in the dark. Seeing that it was closed, Adam turned to the other side of the hallway, seeing the moonlight pouring into the living room through the window. He sighed through his nose, walking down the hallway and into the living room, grabbing his boots and slipping them on, tying them up quickly and quietly. He grabbed a flashlight from the coffee table, taking one last look around the room before shaking his head and walking through the front door.

Adam drove down the dark road, passing by the last home on the edge of town as his piercing gaze fixated on the road illuminated by the headlights. His throat felt dry, feeling the mandibles curled up next to his jaw scratching at the flesh in his inner cheek. The Parasite seemed to be slumbering, though he couldn’t help but feel as though the mandibles were scratching at his jaw and cheeks, trying to get him to turn back despite him having no desire to do so. He ran on intuition, following the road towards where he knew he needed to be, trying his best to ignore the faint blood stains on the dashboard and the fact that he was sitting in a car that belonged to someone…Adam preferred not to think about. It made him sick just thinking of him.

He drove silently, seeing a fence to his left, stretching on in front of the forest beside it until it ended at a large metal gate. Adam parked the car on the side of the road, sighing deeply before shutting it off and opening the door. Despite the darkness, he could see clearly, reading the metal lettering above the black gate: “ST. GABRIEL’S CHURCH”

Adam stared at the sign before looking down at the gate itself, seeing that it had torn police tape draped across the rusted metal. It swayed in the wind like ribbons as Adam pushed open the gateway, hearing the shrill squeaking and screeching the hinges let out as he passed through, walking down the gravel road as he turned his flashlight on, seeing the two large bell towers of the cathedral above the tree line.

He walked into the large opening where the church sat, his boots echoing off of the parking lot pavement as rain sprinkled down from above. He looked up, his determined gaze fixed on the larger-than-life church that sat before him, staring at the tall doors that led inside. He felt his heart beat hard in his chest, the mandibles in his cheeks scratching even harder, to the point where he could taste blood. Despite it and the intense dread building within him, he took in a deep breath and walked towards the doors. If that angel was anywhere, it would be here.

Adam pushed open the doors, seeing that it was nearly pitch black inside of the building. He looked forward, seeing the rows of pews to his left and right, the large pillars on the left and right walls reaching for the tall, vaulted ceiling. Steel, tall candle holders lined the walls, the candles unlit. The only light aside from Adam’s flashlight in the entire great hall was the moonlight shining from behind the giant stained-glass window behind the elevated stage, depicting an angel in white garb and long, flowing hair, holding their hands out with their eyes closed, along with a faint smile on their face. Their wings were pristine and perfect, and the background of the piece was made of blue, green, and yellow shards of glass.

There was a large pedestal in the middle of the stage, around the size of a desk but made of what seemed like carved stone. There was writing on the front of it, though Adam couldn’t make out what it was due to the staining covering it. Adam walked down the red carpet in between the rows of benches, his eyes fixed on a shadow in front of the stained glass window, hearing the faint clinking of metal as it swayed in an unfelt wind. Adam pointed his flashlight at the object, finally making out what it was; an analog television, being hung up by the chains wrapped around it, suspended above the large stone pedestal.

Adam’s expression turned to one of confusion as he pointed his light behind him, seeing nothing aside from the empty benches and unlit candles, despite the feeling of being watched. As he looked around, a bright white light hit his back, with the sound of static filling his ears as he swung around. The TV had switched on by itself, despite the cord hanging loosely underneath it, not connected to anything around it. Adam stared at the TV, swallowing hard, unable to help but notice that the mandibles abruptly became still.

Adam switched off his light, the static reflecting off of his dilated eyes before he saw random cords begin to appear from behind the screen, hanging from inside of the screen and spilling out from it. Adam stumbled back a few steps, staring at the TV as he saw something come into view from behind the glass; a thin, bony hand. It pushed through the screen, grasping the side of the television before being followed by the other, cool grey colored hand. Soon, a head appeared, along with a thin torso, both being concealed by a black hoodie. The beings head faced down as its hands gripped onto the sides of the TV, all before he looked down at Adam, his face finally being visible to Adam as his breath hitched. It was the man in the TV; the one who took him away.

Six’s right eye appeared to have been gouged out, dark, thick blood running down his thin cheek and staining the patchy facial hair below it. His remaining yellowed eye was fixated on Adam, seeming more surprised than anything else. His hoodie appeared to be stained and torn near where his torso was protruding from the TV, with cords seeming to be attached to the skin in his arms and his torso, attaching him to the television. Adam didn’t even let himself wonder what happened to him before he clenched his fists and grimaced.

“It’s YOU.” Adam stated through clenched teeth.

“…The…prodigal son…returns.” Six wheezed, his voice deep, and as rough as sandpaper. “How…stupid.”

“You…you’re the reason I’m here.” Adam stated. “You made me into this fucking THING; I COULD’VE HAD A NORMAL LIFE IF IT WEREN’T FOR YOU.”

“Adam…you don’t understand…the…mistake you’ve made by coming here.” Six continued, glancing around the room. “It…knows you’re here now.”

“I don’t care!” Adam shouted. “Why?! Why me, of everyone you’ve taken, why me?!”

“Adam, LISTEN TO ME! You’re a FOOL for coming here.” Six snapped, leaning down as more of his torso revealed itself through the static, Adam finally being able to see it fully. He didn’t have any legs or even hipbones; his spine was all there was, wires and cords wrapped around the bones, forcing him to stay inside of the television. He was trapped.

Adam stared at the exposed spine before Six caught his attention yet again. “What I did…was for a reason.” He continued, his voice going back to the wheezy, out of breath inflections it was in before. “A reason RUINED by…it. The false shepherd.” Six spoke that statement with pure distain, staring off into space before fixing his gaze back onto Adam. “I…am not to blame. They…are the reason…you’ve been made into…this.”

“I know that…” Adam stated. “But I wouldn’t be in this situation if you didn’t replace some poor kid with ME.”

“I am just as stuck…as you, Murray.” Six stated. “Yet you refuse…to see what is right in fr—”

Six was interrupted when the TV began to short circuit, sending shots of electricity into his body as he screamed, his voice distorting and stuttering before he quickly retreated into the static, the screen flickering off soon after. Adam stared at the TV before he noticed faint orange lights appearing behind him. He turned around, seeing the candles lighting themselves, illuminating the dark hall as Adam’s flashlight shut off. He looked at his own torch, smacking it to get it to work, only making it flicker on before shutting off right after. As he looked forward, the flickering light caught something on the pedestal, Adam’s breath hitching when he saw it. A blackened, bony hand pressed against the top of the stone, soon followed by a thin, grey arm.

A figure emerged from behind the pedestal, standing tall above Adam, her long, black cloak covering her skeletal body. Her head was partially covered by a hood, along with white coif which was wrapped around her long neck and forehead. Her mouth was wide open, slack as if her jaw was dislocated, Adam only being able to see yellowed teeth in it. Large black eye sockets were situated high on her face, with two eyes being visible from inside of them, sunken into the void. Her skeletal face stared at Adam as she stood up straight, walking around the pedestal, her cloak flowing as her sharp, pointed legs silently walked across the floor, with her long arms moving to fold her hands in front of her.

Adam stumbled back from her, recognizing the haunting face from the home he and Jonah were investigating, shocked it wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. He tripped over his feet, falling backwards onto the ground as his flashlight clattered against the white tiles. He stared as the figure looked at him, her head tilting slightly as if she was waiting for something. She only looked away when everything went eerily silent and see looked right behind Adam, her head lowering as she kneeled on the ground.

“Coming here…searching for answers?” An echoing, raspy, choked voice stated from right behind Adam, making his hair stand on end as it chuckled. “How stupid. For once, I must agree with the tulpa; you’ve made a mistake coming here to see me.”

Adam scrambled to his feet, swinging around to see the tall “angel” in front of him, their gaze trying to be soft and inviting, though it gave the stark opposite feeling looking at it. The monochromatic entity stared at Adam, folding its hands in front of their chest as their giant, half-formed wings spread out across the church, blocking off any exits. Adam stood his ground, standing up straight and trying to shake off the overwhelming dread he felt growing within him.

“Y-You…you’re the one to blame for…all this, huh?” Adam stated.

“So…it’s a blaming game?” Gabriel asked, pressing their palm against their cheek as he tilted their head. “How fun! I suppose I can play it as well. First off…you are the one that took my deal, Murray. You were free to walk away.”

“That’s complete BULLSHIT!” Adam shouted. “You told me I’d learn everything I wanted to know, not that I’d get this…this fucking PARASITE!”

“Every deal comes with a price.” Gabriel leaned down towards Adam. “I told you to follow me…that was your end of the deal. I’ve given you everything you needed to know, yet you seem to resist holding your end of the bargain.”

“No.” Adam growled. “Never.”

“…Really.” Gabriel cackled, the sound drilling itself into Adam’s ears as he reached for something attached to his belt, covered by his hoodie; a pistol. “You think you have a choice in the matter anymore, Murray?”

Adam swung up his pistol, pointing it up at Gabriel’s smiling face, their all-too-wide smile not fading despite it. “Get. It. Out.” Adam commanded. “The deals off. Let me live my fucking life…and we’ll never see each other again.

Gabriel let out another loud cackle, Adam’s stern and determined expression fading slightly before he regained it, moving his finger to the trigger. “Oh, Adam.” Gabriel laughed. “The deal has already been made, there’s no going back now. However…I am capable of following one of your demands.”

Gabriel’s distorted laugh continued as Adam stared up at them with fury, all before the brave expression on his face disappeared in an instant as he felt a sharp pain in his torso. He shook, dropping his pistol before falling to his knees, loud ringing piercing his ears as Gabriel’s laugh and crazed, impossible expression taunted him. Adam could feel the parasite wriggling inside of him, awoken despite just having gotten out the night before. The pain seemed worse however, as if he was in the late stages of the parasite taking over instead of going through the discomfort and droning on and on he was used to.

“Adam…you have yet to follow your end of the deal…” Gabriel said calmly as Adam convulsed and shook, the parasite prodding at his skin and one of the mandibles pushing out of his mouth. “You disappoint me. I hope you won’t end up the same as the previous prophet; such promise…disappointing that his mere human form couldn’t handle the task.”

“F-F-Fuck…y…y-you.” Adam stammered through the pain, choking each word out.

“I’m giving you the option to start simple, Murray.” Gabriel continued as Adam slammed his fist against the floor, inhuman whining and screeching being audible from deep within his form. “You see…your friend, Sarah…she’s beginning to get in the way of your tasks. Still stuck in the past…thinking about her poor brother, as if he isn’t rotting underground already.”

Adam wanted to yell at them, but found himself being unable to.

“Or…perhaps that girl you were with…you don’t like her much anyway, do you?” Gabriel smiled. “Oh…of course; the cop.”

“I…I w…I won’t…” Adam growled, yelling right after as he felt the parasite jab itself into his back.

“Won’t what, Murray? Don’t you remember?” Gabriel said. “You’re mine. You are under my control…I’d recommend you don’t forget that…lest you regret it.”

Adam shut his eyes tight, clenching his teeth before he suddenly felt the parasite stop moving, as if it abruptly fell back asleep. The mandibles retracted, the sudden lack of pain making Adam fall onto his side, lying on the ground as he gasped and coughed. Gabriel stood up straight, the tall “nun” approaching them and standing by their side, her gaze also fixed on Adam’s form. “Tick tock, Murray.” Gabriel said. “My patience is waning. If you refuse to uphold your end of the deal…I’ll make you do it instead. You have so much potential…don’t waste it.”

Adam shook, drenched in a cold sweat as he watched Gabriel and the “nun” disappear, the candles blowing out and plunging the church in darkness. Adam couldn’t make himself move, curling into himself as tears ran down his cheeks. He wanted to tear Gabriel apart; limb by limb. He wanted to tear the smile off of its face and see its wings pinned to the wall. However, despite the rage in his heart, he wondered if it was worth resisting. He shook off the thought, shakily and weakly pushing himself onto his feet, stumbling a couple steps before he looked down the hall, his breathing harsh. His brows furrowed, his fists curling up tight enough to make his knuckles pop.

As long as there was time on the clock, there was time to fix things. All he needed was help, and soon. Tick tock, Adam. Tick tock.

#mandela catalogue #tmc #mandela prophet #adam murray #sarah heathcliff #alternate gabriel #tmc preacher #tmc six #body horror #blood tw #religious imagery cw #shmorp writes sometimes #I don't know what possessed me to write this cause. the motivation was. so sudden-#Literally stayed up until 2 AM last night writing this. was it worth it? actually yeah kinda #Adam you big dumbo you can't just go up to basically satan themself asking for a damn favor-#Here's me back on my bullshit. being fixated on my own aus. /lh #also yes I'm aware. 10/10 titles for my fics. so cool so. descriptive- /s #Prophet Adam (tmc)

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