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oathkeeper-of-tarth · 2 months

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Moon-chosen, Moon-guided - Part II

What's that? The writing got away from me and now the fic has three parts instead of two? Shocking and unprecedented.

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate 3 Characters: Dame Aylin/Isobel Thorm, Ketheric Thorm, Jaheira, Shadowheart, and a bit of Withers and Karlach Length: ~11500 words Rating: M, for canon-typical violence and sexual content

More hurt/comfort, more trauma and coming back from the dead, more pondering mortality. But also some first kiss flashbacks, (un)likely cleric camaraderie, friendly grappling, and stomping mind flayers. This part spans the events of Act 3 of the game.

Summary:

There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave. From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

The brilliant, defiant Beacon of Last Light many revere from afar. Isobel Thorm they do not know at all.

Part I

Also on AO3.

—

Part II - First Light - The City

They call him Withers - a frankly ridiculous name - and none of them seem to have any idea who or what he truly is.

You watch in horrified awe, from what you hope is a safe and discreet enough distance, as he cleaves soul to body with such ease as to be unthinkable. And all the others observe this amazing feat of power (so painfully echoing what your father sold his life and yours and everything for) as if it were a blessing for safe travels and good weather from the village priest. You gape for a few breathless moments, then try to focus.

There is an undeniable air of divinity about him, but it is one you cannot place more precisely than the clear fact it is unlike both Aylin's blaze of moonlight and Ketheric's reek of the grave. Death and fate dance a strange, subtle, orderly choreography around him that has been unmistakeable from the moment you arrived in camp. You would not care to repeat your brushes with either of those two things, so you have found yourself avoiding him in what you can only hope are inconspicuous ways.

Yet still, here you are, your own curiosity playing its games with you. The others leave, take the shaky, freshly restored Gale over to the central campfire for warmth and thin, scrounged-up soup - and then presumably to Shadowheart for further healing. There was an element of urgency to the whole thing that strayed from mere concern for a friend into something oddly specific. You make a note of it to ask about later - though who to ask is a question on its own.

The wight-ghoul-skeleton-lich- demonstrably and evidently none of those things - Withers - tilts his head serenely to meet your gaze with a quiet challenge even as you duck behind the treeline like a child playing hide and go seek.

You pout, worry at a torn seam in your left glove, and wonder. He spoke to Aylin the other day, leaving her unusually contemplative, mood dour. But she refused to elaborate, even to you. And you, coward, squashed with great efficiency any feeble emerging thought of confronting him on her behalf.

So it is a surprise to find your feet carrying you from your woodland sanctuary until you stand before him at last, and it is an annoyance when questions stick in your throat. Who are you, truly? doesn't make it past your lips, and neither does What do you want with us? With me?

He looks up from his tome, after a while, and breaks the silence himself. "Shrink not so from death, grave-touched cleric."

"I do not fear death," you find yourself repeating to yet another, chin raised high - words you have always meant, that have nonetheless always been met with varying levels of doubt. But it is true. You never sought out death, of course, but you never feared it, either, because you knew with such certainty what awaited you afterwards. There is no loss; only temporary separation. We will see her shining spires and walk the silver gardens…

Except you turned out to be wrong. Now, after your grim awakening, you know one thing.

You died, but Selûne did not Claim you. For all your devotion and service, Your Lady did nothing; could, surely, do nothing, leaving your soul forfeit for one reason or another as a century slowly and darkly crept by.

Instead, once you were back - returned by entirely vile, unholy means - and when you called out to her amidst the suffocating darkness, She answered, put you to work and used you as the instrument of the salvation of many. Through you, Her light, Her protection. Through you, Her will.

Oh, it was a duty you took up gladly. You would have yearned to be so chosen, once. You would have been so proud. But reality proved yet again, in cruel, cruel ways, to be quite different from tales and bard songs.

Withers looks at you with those strange eyes, those singular sparks of life in a dead face. Looks into you, almost, as if digging for some hidden truth. "Indeed, thou dost not. But the trace death has left upon thee - that, perhaps, is a different matter."

You know there is something wrong with you, still. You can feel it. Have felt it ever since-- well. Nothing you've tried, no spell or prayer or ritual, has done anything to lighten the foul, rotting thing that has settled within you. Not even the archdruid's excited proclamation that the shadow curse on your home was slowly but surely lifting did much to relieve it. It is differently horrifying, however, to hear it so casually confirmed by another.

"There exist many roads to death, and just as many from it. A number of them known not even to myself, and beyond even mine accounting. And so thine path, perhaps, is something yet to be fully seen and understood. But who could be better suited to navigating the unknown than one of Selûne's shining faithful?"

"Shining," you scoff at that, bitterness rising, ingrained courtesy and highborn upbringing set aside. "Hardly. I have done my best for Our Lady, yes, because it was necessary, because there was no one else. But," you swallow, every syllable sticking barbed in your throat, "She cannot possibly want--"

This time, the words swarm, drowning each other out: me. this husk. anything to do with me.

"And so, moon-devoted, thou claimest to know better than thy goddess what she wilt?"

You feel a hot spike of anger and shame, hear it bleed into your voice. "What concern is it of yours?"

"Matters of balance are ever mine concern, and thine goddess hath a weighty counterpart and rival." He waves an almost insultingly dismissive emaciated hand. "It is no matter. Thine own father was unable to make peace with death, and instead sought to master it - an impossibility, of course. The challenge laid before thee now is different, but a challenge nonetheless."

"I-I was-," you start, stammer, taken aback by the mere mention of family ties, but he continues before you can even attempt to fully form a reply.

"I have said my piece," he states, all finality and eerie calm. "It is not in mine purview to guide."

Of course it isn't. Selûne guides. It feels like She has guided your steps since you were born, a presence in your life for as long as you can remember. Ever watching over you, ready with a twinkle of moonlight to show a path if you but asked for it, a comforting silver hand to envelop yours, to reassure and gently direct if you chose to follow it. A feather-light touch, always, but one you cannot fathom the absence of, a life without. One you feel even now, with the tiniest bit of focus on your part: soft as a warm breath on your shoulder, in this utterly unremarkable evening-darkened wood just off the side of a well-trod road.

From that night of your coming-of-age ritual when you astounded all of Reithwin with the uncanny speed of your return from the woods, to your desperate flight away from your own grave, one thing has remained true. The guidance was granted, no matter the harshness or difficulty of the path. But it has always, always been up to you to walk it.

"Thank you," you say softly to Withers, and receive no response.

Dark clouds catch up with you just outside Rivington. The ensuing storm makes for a day of travel cut frustratingly short then turned into a miserable and damp night in a hastily assembled camp.

Ironically, now that your vigil is done and you have ample chances for it, sleep mostly chooses to elude you. It seems unthinkable, away from Aylin, and difficult even when safely and reassuringly in her embrace.

But you once again have the long, late-night confidences when you're tangled up in each other, ensconced in soft blankets. Those hours were ever your favourite - and while they may be darker-tinged now, they are still a treasure regained. You've never had anyone so enraptured as Aylin always seems to be while listening to your thoughts, no matter how deep or how mundane. Even as you selfishly press your icy feet and hands against her.

And it is really quite easy to understand - after all, you yourself would be hard-pressed to find anything more fascinating than Aylin. The differences between you to be explored and the endless similarities to be surprised by, and the wonder of there always being something more to discover. Thoughtful, almost philosophical discussions that are somehow just as important as the absurd joy of recounting and reliving a perfectly uneventful day through each other's eyes.

But most of all it is the gentle, warm radiance of Aylin herself, when the Sword of the Moonmaiden is set aside, and when the weighty mantle of Selûne's daughter is briefly dropped. She's always struck you as, above all else, profoundly lonely. With her singular position, the unique burdens she bears, now only brought to the fore. You remember wondering, a century ago, amidst lovestruck daydreams in your room atop a tower, if she kept herself apart on purpose. If this was a defence against the inevitable reality of both her immortality and her eternal duty, so entwined with her being.

The thought of any carefully-kept distance, any long-constructed barrier being obliterated for you makes your breath catch all over again, as you hold her close and run gentle fingers through her hair.

What little sleep finds you that night is restless, shallow, riddled with nonsensical dreams of thick, suffocating darkness cut through by flashes of pale bone, picked clean to a shine. Through it all you keep blearily, exhaustedly focused on your efforts not to move too much, as Aylin fell asleep clinging to you tightly, her head on your chest, murmuring drowsy nothings about the sound of your heartbeat and the soft patter of the rain on the canvas of your tent. To disturb her feels unthinkable. Instead, you close your eyes and try to match her steady breathing with yours.

A moment or an hour later you blink awake and groan as your head pounds. A grey light suffuses the tent, the rain still beating down fiercely, and Aylin is nowhere to be seen. Her handiwork is evident, however, in the way you are carefully wrapped in all the mismatched blankets and covers you've collected over the past few days, and it takes some effort to extricate yourself from all except one.

Aylin is gone, but she has left behind a telltale trail of feathers. There are some in the blankets, and as you pick one out of the wool you cannot help but smile at the fond memories that bubble up. They would get caught in your clothes, your hair - yet another way in which the peculiarities of your paramour made secretive trysts all but impossible. You recall Aylin's indignant reaction when you, flustered, once tried to pass some of them off as the result of a torn duvet seam. The surge of warmth is enough to rouse you fully.

You stumble to your feet and into your boots, trying to ward off the worst of the morning chill. A peek through the flap finds Aylin standing a few steps away from the tents and the treeline, in a veritable downpour. She is perfectly still, her chin tilted up and facing away from you, wings present in all their glory and languidly outstretched, altogether more calm than you have seen her be since your reunion.

Holding the blanket tight around your shoulders as the cool air fully hits you, you step outside. Aylin herself is wearing nothing but the threadbare yet comfortable linen shirt scrounged up by your newfound allies to get her out of her century-old prison rags, and you almost want to tut - it was difficult enough to find one that fit her, and now it is utterly drenched.

It can't be very long after dawn, but the endless grey makes it somewhat hard to tell. Even without speaking up you make enough sound that Aylin notices you, inclining her head towards you slightly.

"I used to detest days like this one. Doubly so when travel was required of me, let alone flight. Cold rainwater seeping under armour, well - even Dame Aylin has her foibles." She exhales a small huff of laughter.

Then she stretches her right arm out in front of her, raising her hand to catch raindrops and observe them chasing each other in rivulets, running across and along golden scars.

"I have not felt rain on my skin in a hundred years," Aylin says, so quiet you can barely hear her from where you still stand, shivering. "A mere nuisance, once. Now I am prepared to call it a delight."

She lifts her wings, feathers ruffled up, then spreads them and shakes off what water she can. They are awe-inspiring in their impressive span from afar and beautiful in their detail up close. But what few get to know is just how soft and fine and warm they are. How welcoming.

And welcoming is the only way to describe the way Aylin steps closer, extending a chivalrous hand to you and lifting one wing above you to shelter you from the rain. "Join me, my love? One of the truest wonders of this world is the way all delight multiplies when shared with you."

You gladly take the offered hand, and when she moves to brush a kiss over your knuckles, gazing at you with eyes overflowing with affection, you feel like your chest is about to burst. You press into her side, all thoughts of cold or discomfort forgotten as if they were never there, and stay in that cherished sanctuary until the rain stops.

The bustle of a city as large and as endlessly crowded as Baldur's Gate is new to you, nigh dizzying. It's something you've only ever imagined, listening to Aylin's tales of Waterdeep, and something you planned to see in your travels that never came to pass.

You don't quite share Halsin's discomfort, but the few outings you've made in the days since your odd little band settled in the Elfsong Tavern have been somewhat overwhelming, even with Aylin and her uncanny sense of direction by your side.

But it is also where you've so far felt the least disoriented and displaced - utterly unfamiliar as it is, a hundred years ago or just yesterday makes no palpable difference to you. It is a chance, perhaps, to set aside some of your very particular burdens, at least for a little while. Nothing here is like peering into the gloom and seeing perverse outlines of Reithwin, its very ground torn asunder, the cobblestones you walked what felt like yesterday crumbling under the onslaught of shadowy vines.

And Aylin, well…

You've known Aylin to be a bit toned down - for her standards, anyway - approaching lethargic, even, around this time. Slightly more inclined to bemoan the need to get out from under the covers and leave your embrace when dawn broke. The dark period of the new moon was ever a challenge - a cruel little twist, perhaps, that her powers would be at their lowest when they were most likely to be needed.

This time, feeding your uneasiness, it is all far more pronounced than you can ever remember it being.

And really, how could it not be? Learning of another who sought to chain her and use her, not even a full month after winning back her freedom from a century of captivity - it makes you boil with rage, rage you only wish you could take out on some unsuspecting foe in combat. You barely dare imagine what it must be doing to Aylin. And dispatching the wretched wizard has seemingly done very little to help, all of it only serving to undo the scant, precious progress towards something resembling peace you two have managed to achieve in the time since your reunion.

Your eyes catch on the golden scar that cleaves across her noble chin, so often haughtily tilted, now a picture of despondency. She sits quietly in one of the plush chairs at a beautifully engraved table, a single finger idly stroking the fur of the chittering hamster that Minsc, that loud, endearing mountain of a man, claimed was going to offer her great comfort and wisdom.

She doesn't like telling you of what happened to her, what was done to her. And you only pry and draw out what you think necessary, slowly and oh-so-carefully.

But there are things that cannot escape your notice. The slight hesitance, the brief stiffening when you hold down her arms, caught up in a flurry of passion. That is new. The visible discomfort she still displays after too long a time spent indoors, without a clear view of the sky. The way sleep so often eludes both of you.

Then, her reluctance to have her back touched at all. You think of the perfectly soft trail of downy feathers on her shoulder blades even when her glorious wings are dismissed - now marred, cut through and laced with some of the worst of the gilded scars, save the ones above her heart. She flinched the first time you thoughtlessly, ever-so-casually tried to run your fingers through them, as you had a thousand times before. To have your beloved shrink away from you so suddenly felt like a blade through your very heart.

It was utterly enraging, as well.

You've on a handful of occasions caught Aylin gripping something so tightly rivulets of silvery blood had run down her hand, her breathing ragged. She is somewhere far away in those moments, and you are never sure how to bring her back, more often than not forced to let it run its course despite your attempts at soft reassurances. You have a sinking feeling, a sense of where she could be returning to, and you worry she'll get lost there, sometimes. It is a place you've never witnessed yourself, though you would have pleaded and bargained a thousand times over to take her place.

Instead, you seethe, appearing carefully contained to an outside observer, and cannot fathom how someone could bear to raise a hand to a being so good, so precious. How so many could have laid eyes on Aylin and chosen to hurt. To kill. It is unthinkable.

You take a deep, steadying breath, and sit down across from her. You don't speak, merely offer your presence from a comfortable distance, and leave the rest up to her. After a long stretch of silence, she nudges the hamster and sends him scurrying on his way. Busies her left hand with tracing the golden line that runs from around her right ring finger down to her wrist.

"'Nightsong' they called me," she starts, quietly, not looking at you, then almost snarls. "A cruel jape at my expense - as if I were nothing but Shar's plaything. Her little instrument. Hers." Her hands clench into fists on the table, and you place your own upon them gently, touch feather-light, careful not to suggest restraints.

"A daughter for a daughter," her tone is almost wry, her voice low and gravelly. "Some sick arithmetic of loss concocted between her and Ketheric Thorm."

As Aylin speaks, your eyes land, again, on the scar that goes through her bottom lip, and the one that stops just at the right corner of her mouth. The ones you have felt in kisses, on your own skin. Reminders carved into her, as eternal as she is.

The mouth twists down into a grim arc. "They poisoned him, once. That was undoubtedly one of the worst."

Deaths, she doesn't say. You've known one, and Aylin's full tally is beyond counting. The leaden silence stretches between you again.

She shakes her head, movements heavy, and visibly pulls herself back into the present, as best as she can. "No, Isobel. It is of no use. I picture the destruction of my would-be captors that I wrought with my own hands, I spin a grand tapestry of my victory, and all of it is for nothing. Still I feel… hesitant. Tired. So unlike myself. The joy of righteous battle… diminished, if not gone altogether. Lost to me."

I am lost to myself, her entire countenance cries out, and your throat tightens painfully.

She is different, understandably so - well, understandable to you, perhaps. She is also understandably frustrated by this new ground to tread, unused to something that was never supposed to be her lot.

"My darling," you begin, picking your words out one by one, so very carefully, running your thumb over her knuckles in a comforting rhythm, "time and experiences simply take their toll on us. We cannot expect to stay untouched forever - not even you. We are ever ourselves, of course, but - but made anew, different from moment to moment. There can be a joy to it, to the newness and discovery of it all."

You stop short of pointing out and praising change as one of the main teachings and virtues of Selûne herself. Your try for encouragement does not seem to hit its intended mark, anyway.

"But what if I find," Aylin grinds out through her teeth, "I do not like who I am at the moment? Who I seem to have become."

The darkness roils within your gut and the taste of rot creeps up your throat.

I don't know, my love. I don't know what to do. I don't know.

"What am I to do then?" She asks again, insistent, as frustrated as you are by the lack of a clear answer, chafing against it all. The lines of gold on her brow furrow in displeasure. "Is it my lot to wait for another nebulous change that I am to have no say in - a tenday, or a hundred years hence? Until when? Until Mother Selûne sees fit to--"

She cuts herself off in an attempt to stop her temper getting away from her, eyes squeezing shut, hands clenched into tight fists beneath your palms, breathing loud.

You imagine, sometimes: learning of her predicament and charging off to save her, Last Light be damned. Wonder if you could ever have done such a thing and lived with yourself afterwards - though you recoil at the very thought.

You imagine, then, taking a different turn in your erstwhile flight from the mausoleum. You imagine, instead of stumbling into a dilapidated inn and creating a haven there, reaching the Gauntlet and finding Aylin. Setting her free.

Dreams, nothing more. Flights of fancy. Shar would never have allowed you to reach her. Her prison was right there underneath you when you awoke, but she may as well have been thousands and thousands of miles away. And besides, the worst of the harm to Aylin had already been done. And you yourself readily accepted a different duty.

Still it churns in your mind, over and over, just as it clearly does in Aylin's: Why was there no one else to stop it all a century ago? Why was there no one to try for a hundred years?

Instead, there is this: whatever the two of you are now. Sitting across from each other, eyes locked on the interplay of your hands. There is a part of Aylin still in that cage. There is a part of you still in that grave.

And there is the haunting, niggling thought that all your efforts are merely you trying to make her whole and hale enough again in order to be ready for your own inevitable second death. And oh, she seems to have borne it remarkably well the first time, all things considered - you feel strangely proud when you think of it. But things are different now, and so is your immortal paramour; this unfading, eternal, amaranthine being you've inadvertently burdened with the struggle of mortality.

What future is there in store for you? Some far-flung decade that you would have dreamed up once: you, ancient, and Aylin, glorious, untarnished by the wear of time and untouched by the world.

Except she isn't so above it all, is she?

In the end, you fear the one way forward for both of you is this: moment by treasured or agonising moment. Day by precious or miserable day. It will all only ever be what you two make of it - which, after all, is how it is for any couple in love, young or otherwise, isn't it? A charmingly ordinary thought that makes the corners of your lips want to perk up despite everything weighing you down.

"I think," you begin slowly, "the only thing we can truly do is live on. In the face of everything, in spite of everything, as best we know how." And then, just to drive your point home, you tighten your hold on her hands and her gaze both. "Together. And I want you to know that if you need me to, I am always prepared to simply listen."

For once you are so very certain you have the full measure of her great might and ability: whatever she may claim, Aylin cannot do this alone. Shouldn't need to, besides.

She has you. And you have always been a stubborn one, much to your father's chagrin.

Aylin heaves a deep, heavy sigh, wide shoulders straightening, visibly attempting to pull herself out of her gloomy reverie and reinforcing some internal bulwark. "With you by my side, dearest Isobel, how could I do anything but my utmost best?"

Your thoughts still stray, unwitting, in the direction of mortality and you try to refocus - no loss, only a temporary separation. No loss. You pray it is so. That this time, when the fateful moment inevitably comes, you will be granted the kindness.

In the meantime, you're not about to lie down and wait. You can think of a few less fateful moments you'd like to fill your days with, even as the threat of an unprecedented evil and the culmination of your efforts against the Absolute looms over you all.

"Aylin," you tug on her hand lightly, and she looks back up at you questioningly. "Let's go out - see more of the city, perhaps."

She seems confused, more than anything, but even this is enough to burst the last of the dour, heavy bubble that had begun to settle over the both of you. "My love…?"

"A stroll by the docks, maybe? And then, well, not necessarily today, but…" You trail off, daydreams catching up with you. "Once the fight is done, and we have a moment to ourselves, we can take one of the boats downriver. The sea is a sight to behold, I hear, and lovely this time of year - and, well, I've yet to see it."

The river you've lived by your whole life, but the ships departing Moonrise always left without you. There is much to amend.

Aylin smiles - it is genuine, if still tinged with that uncharacteristic tiredness around the edges - then raises your hand to her lips. "Who am I to deny my darling such an easily fulfilled request?"

You allow yourself another mote of seriousness. "The day seems perfectly clear and warm, and I'd love to share it with you, Aylin. But if you would prefer not to, I understand."

She shakes her head, and holds the hand she has just kissed between both of hers, enveloping it so very tenderly. "I would be honoured, Isobel. You who cherish me, who hold me entire in your caring hands even when pieces of me grind against each other most inharmoniously. What greater prize in this world, but even an hour more spent in your company?"

You swallow against a sudden lump in your throat, stricken by the intensity of the feeling, the naked adoration in her eyes, still tinged with the impossible wonder of your reunion. All of your hours. However many remain. You would gladly give her all of them, as numbered as they are.

Aylin stands up and holds out her arm to you, the very picture of gallantry. "And perhaps - to drive away some of this malaise - a flight? My darling need not wait for a boat if she wishes to behold the sun set over the sea. I will show you the ocean that bathes Argentil in my Mother's light, one day. But for now, this one will have to suffice."

You rise and, instead of taking her arm, you step forward to embrace her and bury your nascent smile against the reassuring beat of her great and precious heart.

The rot within is more subdued than it ever has been, now that you are well and truly out of the shadow. Aylin's mere presence noticeably keeps it at bay - and that is one remedy you truly cannot find fault with. Her insistent, devoted applications of her own brand of healing and blessings help immensely, as well, each time she settles in behind you, enveloping you in her arms and wings and the soft silver glow that is just as pliant at her fingertips as you are in those moments. With her at your back, it feels impossible to doubt, impossible to feel unworthy or tarnished in any way.

But when the last traces of even the most fervent of Aylin's efforts inevitably fade away, it is still there: the foul, unnameable thing. And you fear more and more that it always will be. It doesn't take being apart from her for very long for the cough to start up again, for the insidious cold to crawl relentlessly up your spine and all the way down to your fingertips, and the hitch to appear in your breath at the first sign of more significant strain.

There are more important things to devote your attention to, however.

You conclude your business with the Selûnite enclave with a promise to return with aid and with none other than the Moonmaiden's daughter herself. Emboldened by the warm reception despite their dire circumstances, you bask in the familiarity and sheer sense of belonging among people you've never met before, but who feel tied to you with the same silver threads that once twined around you and your family and your moonlight-bathed home, and wider still.

A way to dull the ache of the keenly-felt absence, perhaps: weaving a new tapestry altogether.

After a prolonged farewell, you set out back towards the city and your companions, all under the still weak but enduring light of the sickle moon only starting to wax. The night is Your Lady's domain, just as much as it is Shar's. You refuse to let her claim go unchallenged, and you march forward confidently, a fistful of summoned silver flame to show the way.

It is early morning by the time you return, perfectly unaccosted and somewhat smug. The streets around the Elfsong are abuzz with everything the start of a new day entails, a veritable hive of purposeful activity.

Your rooms, however, seem to be more than that. The noises of a struggle reach you as you climb the stairs, concern furrowing your brow and driving you to rush, washing away any lingering effects of your sleepless night. But as you reach the door, you realise it doesn't sound like an attack: there is a familiar tangle of voices, none of which sound distressed, and there are… cheers?

"A well-fought and invigorating bout!"

The first words you make out as you carefully crack the door open are Aylin's - as if your very ears are attuned to her somehow, as if all of you is searching for her, always.

"Damn right you're invigorated, you slippery angelic fucker," Karlach's voice is next, unmistakeable, brimming with laughter and only slightly out of breath.

You open the door fully and step inside, only to be faced with what is clearly an improvised arena taking up the majority of the sunken area around the large fireplace, an array of mismatched cushions on the floor carefully delineating a ring. The thick rugs and skins have been piled up in one corner, and Astarion is lounging atop them, trying his best to exude boredom.

The rest of the varyingly invested audience is scattered around the open communal area, Wyll and Minsc leaning against the balustrade eager for the best view, most others sitting in displaced chairs. Some of your companions are still enjoying breakfast, and some, like Shadowheart, are enjoying some breakfast wine. You step forward, eyebrows raised as you take it all in, and move to stand next to Shadowheart's perch on one of the massive hardwood two-seaters that someone took the time to move up here.

"D'ya know, never thought I'd get a chance to duke it out with a godchild. Nevermind fighting alongside one," Karlach is bouncing on the balls of her feet, shaking the strain out of her arms, and you see her flared-up flames slowly subsiding, heat visibly rippling just underneath her skin. "One more round, then? Tiebreaker?"

Aylin, pacing around the other side of the ring from her, turns to face her and inclines her head in a show of respect. But whatever reply she was going to give is cut short when your unannounced presence is finally noticed by her opponent.

"Or maybe not?" Karlach nods towards you, then winks, warm and playful. "Wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of your fine little lady friend, after all."

Aylin follows her gaze and the moment she sees you, she seems to grow a size larger, all aglow. She beams up at you from her place across from Karlach, the two of them obviously tousled and sweaty and still catching their breath. Judging by the way they are both dressed as if they've just rolled out of bed, this… athletic competition is what they've, for whatever reason, decided to start the day with. You give in to the laughter you feel bubbling up, decide not to question any of this, and sit down next to Shadowheart.

"Graced by the gaze of my darling Isobel, defeat becomes an impossibility," Aylin proclaims, and you give her a perfect little ladylike wave, as if dispensing a blessing.

Her wide grin is matched by Karlach's, and they step to face each other again. But Karlach suddenly stops and hastily gestures at a deathly serious Lae'zel who is moving forward to stand between them, one arm half-raised. The… referee of the proceedings?

"Oh, oh, oh. Shouldn't we wait for Isobel to give you a handkerchief or something?"

"There is no need," Aylin answers the teasing, a picture of serious earnestness, radiating confidence and pride, looking up to meet your gaze once more, one hand to her chest. "The truest token is my heart, given to her entire and for eternity, and her own to me."

"Gods, I love that woman," you murmur to yourself, and place a hand over your own heart to mirror her gesture. Shadowheart snorts next to you and you elbow her, not taking your eyes off Aylin.

There was a brief interlude, early in your courtship, where you both decided to try for ill-advised secrecy. Why or how this came about you can't even remember, but you do remember enough to look back and laugh at the sheer futility of it.

A thankfully short period when you thought it very lucky and convenient that your knightly paramour had wings, and your rooms a balcony. As if all of Reithwin didn't see her glow with irrepressible joy when going to see you, as if she didn't perch on your railing in full silver-blue plate. Your everything-but-secret lover is a radiant beacon, and your love was made to be basked in - it was really quite simple.

Lae'zel huffs, signalling for the talk to cease and the bout to proceed. "Assume positions. Fight."

It is a delightful spectacle when they meet in a grapple, and you arch your eyebrow at Shadowheart's rapt gaze as she sits beside you, leaning ever forward, her cup threatening to slip out of her hand.

But a couple of singed floorboards later and a mess of feathers everywhere - really, far from the worst the poor apartment has seen - Jaheira storms in and forces the goings-on to a stop with a single command, ensuring the score will be forever unsettled.

In the aftermath, as the ruckus and disappointment both subside, you do a quick once-over of the damage to mentally add to the proprietor's repair fund tally. The vampire spawn ambush the other night made sure at least one of the rooms of the suite was currently uninhabitable.

Scratch lopes over to you as you do the rounds, not seeming to mind the noise or the lively chaos at all. He knows very well, in that uncanny canine way, who is the most likely to spoil him rotten - and so you do, with very little prompting. Jaheira raises an eyebrow and smirks at you as you give your report to her, sitting on the floor without the slightest pause in the belly rub you are administering, half-occupied by thoughts of needing to find a decent brush for dog fur.

You recall how utterly terrified you were when Scratch approached you the first time you joined the camp - so convinced he was about to take one sniff of you and growl at the wrongness that you simply froze. Instead, he almost toppled you with the sheer enthusiasm of his welcome, tail wagging into a blur, licking your face the moment you crouched down to bury your hands in the warmth of his soft white fur. You laughed until you cried, some dam within you breaking utterly, and drove poor Aylin into a state of confused panic.

With one final good boy as you pat down the fur you've ruffled, you send Scratch on his merry way. Then you get up, only mildly reluctant, smooth down your robes, and pull your gloves back on. As you flex your fingers in the supple leather you try not to think about how the chill comes on so very quickly.

You go looking for Aylin, only to find her and Karlach in a tight embrace, almost clinging to each other, slapping each other's backs, laughing breathlessly with such abandon it makes your heart feel light as a feather and a smile bloom on your face, wide and unrestrainable.

But then you stop and duck behind a corner, because the laughter is turning into a conversation and you dare not risk an interruption. For days you have been trying to nudge Aylin back towards talking to the others, joining in, finding a kindred spirit, to little avail. Now, perhaps, she has managed on her own.

"Sort yourself out, yeah?" You catch Karlach's quiet words, brimming with shockingly kind concern, even as they are accompanied by a light fist to Aylin's shoulder. "And make sure you take care, despite, you know. Despite everything. For her. But for yourself, too."

The inclination of her head towards where you were sitting with Shadowheart mere minutes ago makes your breath hitch a bit, and you feel the burn of guilt for eavesdropping.

"Let's just say… I know the trap of going on like you've got all the time in the world. Fell into that one arse-over-teakettle one time too many. And, well. Here we are now. One very tight and busy schedule to live on."

"I wish I had aid to offer. I would beseech my Mother--"

"What, calling down divine intervention for little old me? Please. We'll figure something out, if it comes to that. Anyway, no time to waste, too much homecoming to enjoy, too many evil and-or tentacled skulls to crack, right?"

There is a smile in Karlach's voice as she stubbornly diverts away all concern for herself, and it makes your chest clench painfully. You feel suddenly overwhelmed with the worry you'll interrupt whatever this nascent and much needed thing between the two of them is, so you do your best to slink away unnoticed.

The enclave has one of the simplest yet loveliest shrines to Selûne you have seen. Outside of the bustle of the city and a little ways uphill, they've housed it in a small, plain-walled circular room in the midst of the enclave itself, its centre left open to the heavens. There are no seats or pews or even tiles on the floor, only soft grass carefully maintained to a perfect length, surrounding an unnaturally still pool. In the middle of it, as if hovering over the water, one arm outstretched in welcome towards the entrance, is a statue of the Goddess herself, wrought in white stone, pearl, and lapis lazuli. Almost miraculously, this place has survived all the attacks of the Absolutist forces untouched, and even served as a sanctuary for those unable to fight, for a little while.

As you make your way inside to enjoy some morning peace and offer up a brief prayer in calm, pleasant solitude, Shadowheart is the very last person you expect to find there. She is sitting, seemingly engrossed in calm meditation. Her newly silvery-white hair matches the mother-of-pearl inlaid in stone so perfectly you pause for a moment to appreciate the sight - for its beauty and for all it truly signifies.

"Hello, Shadowheart," you greet her almost cautiously, stopping a few steps behind her.

"Oh," she turns to face you, startled out of her contemplation - of the pool, or the statue, or nothing at all, you can't tell. "Hello. I-I wanted to see where it was you two'd run off to."

You tilt your head and spread your arms as if to envelop the entirety of the place. "Here we are. Though I'm afraid you just missed Aylin - she is taking some of the more martially inclined faithful out on a patrol."

Shadowheart nods, but still seems oddly distracted, or lost in thought, and turns away from you again. You let her set the pace of the conversation, let the silence be.

"I just thought…" She finally starts, tentative, as if feeling out the shape of the words before she speaks them. She doesn't look at you or face you, all of her attention on Selûne's still, carved visage. "I wanted to know if I'd… feel something new, or different."

"Do you?" You prompt simply, and move to sit beside your unexpected guest.

"Not really," she mumbles, head bowed, brow furrowed, seeming almost frustrated. "I- I don't know."

Silence blankets the small shrine again.

"I found them," Shadowheart says finally, voice carefully level. "My parents."

"That is… incredible news." But you keep your enthusiasm in check, because her face drops immediately.

"I barely got to talk to them. To know them at all, to remember them. It feels like I was introduced to them just enough to be pained by their loss. Their death. By my own hand. In exchange for a chance at being free from her."

Your heart falls at her words, and you shut your eyes and bow your head. You don't need to press for details - Shar's cruelty is something you are all too aware of.

After a moment, you reach between you and place a gentle hand over hers - where that telltale dark purple mark now seems to be fading, healing. Then, you start to muster up the words, voice kept quiet, level, and soft.

"I was a child when my mother passed. There are pictures, statues, but… it's been so long." You've never shared this with anyone, not even Aylin. "I feel oddly nervous, sometimes, that one day I'll make it to the Gates of the Moon and she'll be there, waiting for me, and I won't recognise her at first. Can you imagine? The… awkwardness? It's the silliest thing to think about, I feel, and yet I've fretted over it so many times."

You try to laugh it off, weakly, wryly. Then you squeeze her hand in yours, and it makes your heart feel just that little bit lighter when she squeezes back.

"Grief is but a part of love, I think," you begin again, letting your gaze catch on the way the blades of grass bend beneath your joined hands, soft and pliable. "If I had to choose between suffering through inevitable sorrow or never truly feeling anything, only to be spared the pain - well, I'd like to think the choice is so obvious as to hardly be a choice at all. But I am aware - painfully so, in recent times - that it isn't such an easy choice to make for others."

It is something in which you and Aylin are entirely of one mind, and an agreement without which you are certain your relationship could never have blossomed: refusing love in order to avoid the pain of its loss is no way to live.

The void of Shar, the numbness and nothingness - that is true death.

"You will be reunited with them again, one day, if you so wish. Walk in silver gardens…" The precious words bubble up, as they have so frequently been doing of late. "There need be no loss, not truly, for us. Only a temporary separation."

Shadowheart doesn't say anything, but moves closer to you, and rests her head on your shoulder. You feel a small shudder run through her, and you know you would see tear stains gathering on your robe were you to look. But you do not. Instead, you rub your thumb against the back of her hand in gentle circles.

You stay that way for a while; long enough for the sun to climb in the sky and shine down into the shrine, bringing the water of the pool to life in a rather lovely display. The gold rays reflect into silver, lining the entire sanctuary with intricate designs.

"May I?" You ask Shadowheart as you give her hand a gentle tug, the first words to disturb the peace of the moment.

You twine your fingers through hers when she gives a curt nod, and then nudge as if to grasp at something in the air. Guiding the gestures, more than anything, and waiting for her to follow. As is only fit.

At first, nothing. Then, silver threads weave themselves around both of your hands, winding in between your fingers. Coalescing, finally, into a bright point in Shadowheart's palm. She cups her hand around it, closes, grasps - then brings it down for the two of you to look at.

A small silver half-moon attached to a fine chain lies in her hand.

"Well, look at that. A proper holy symbol." You smile your best encouraging smile at Shadowheart, whose brow is furrowed in mild confusion as she turns the little pendant around and around.

"What- what am I supposed to do with it?" She blurts out, finally.

You shrug. "Whatever you want." Then, still keeping your tone airy and light: "It's a gift. A keepsake. No strings attached, I'd like to point out, despite appearances - Our Lady just happens to be something of a weaver, you see."

"I… didn't really know that, even with all the endless preaching against her I sat through," Shadowheart replies, frown deepening. "I also don't really think she's, well…"

"My Lady, then," you acknowledge, indulging her. You remember your vow to yourself of treating her with patience and kindness. "And I've never known Her to give a gift and expect something in return. It is Hers to give, nothing else. Yours to use it, or not - that's entirely up to you. Like it is for all of us."

It is precisely the lightness of Her touch and the endless respect for mortal will that you would blame for what happened to your father, your home. To you and Aylin. And blame is far too strong and unfair a word, perhaps, and something about it all rings a bit hollow still where you feel it shouldn't - but you stifle a sigh and note it down for the future as something you need to contemplate and work through yourself. Include in a prayer or two, maybe.

But it is certainly not something you feel ready to discuss with Shadowheart just yet.

She gives a little snort-laugh, and you'd almost say you feel triumphant at the sound. "You sound just like Aylin."

You raise an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to claim it unlikely we'd rub off on each other, but my darling is rather unique, and so is her way of speaking. I wouldn't really compare myself--"

"No, no," Shadowheart is insistent now, and her grin is turning dangerous as - you do notice - she very pointedly turns the conversation to different topics. "I'm sure of it. Gods, you two are insufferable. And I'm not sure if you're worse together - pardon the expression - mooning over each other, or when someone's somehow managed to pry you apart for all of two minutes and you instead decide to yearn."

"We've well earned the right to be insufferable, I think," you snip back, cheekily. You quite like this Shadowheart, you find. A bite to her still, but not with the intent to truly harm. Merely… keep you on your toes, perhaps.

Shadowheart scoffs, but without even a hint of malice. Then, very softly, she admits: "Yes. You did."

She smirks again, as the two of you rise and make your way out into the unassumingly lovely day, Selûne's gaze escorting you out like a friendly hand on your backs. "Though you could perhaps work on some subtlety. Take it from a former… well… not-quite-Sharran. It's not always a bad thing, not wearing your heart on your sleeve."

"You know," you tap your chin with a single finger, as if pondering a difficult problem, "I'm not sure Aylin is capable of that."

"You doubt your glorious paladin's abilities? I am shocked, Isobel." Shadowheart places a hand against her chest in mock-horror, pausing in your walk down the gravel path winding in between hastily-erected but comfortable dwellings.

"I do not doubt. I know. And I know I would never ask her to even attempt to subdue herself so. Dame Aylin." The two of you giggle like schoolchildren, what had perhaps begun as forced levity turning entirely genuine.

Then, Shadowheart leans closer, conspiratory, and slightly wicked. "Oh, we've all heard Dame Aylin go on. 'The most precious treasure in the world is the noble heart in the chest of fair Isobel.'" Then, an almost innocuous nudge at your shoulder with hers. "'The most delectable feast in the world lies betwixt the thighs of sweet Isobel.'"

You rub your temples with one hand, your other arm busy sending a sharp little elbow in Shadowheart's direction as she almost skips away. Your face is heated, but not unpleasantly so. "Oh, Aylin. She is incorrigible."

"But you love it."

"Guilty," you let out a heavy sigh that melts into a laugh.

But then you turn towards seriousness again, and muster up something you've wanted to tell Shadowheart for a while but never quite got the chance to.

"Thank you," you say, taking both her hands in yours and standing facing her, forcing herself to meet her eyes. "Thank you for bringing her back to me. I know it has cost you much."

"It's cost me everything," Shadowheart replies simply. "But it has brought me everything as well."

Sharran forces dare attack even here, in the shadow of your father's moonlit fortress, in the very heart of a famously devoted Selûnite region. Perhaps they heard, or tortured out of some poor soul, that their hated Moonwitch was sending an emissary.

But the emissary does not seem to be quite what they expected or prepared for.

You've heard of Dame Aylin's exploits, of some of the many glorious deeds to her name - well, to be quite honest, you've deliberately asked around for them and chased down all the tales, however ridiculous they seemed, with somewhat concerning single-mindedness. But none of them, not even the most outrageous exaggerations with all the force of poetic licence behind them, can compare to actually seeing her in the heat of battle.

It is certainly dangerous to be so distracted in the midst of a clearly planned and organised assault on your home, and it is especially egregious to keep looking up, chasing a vision as it flies somewhere high above all of you, soaring over the head of your father's statue gracing the centre of the embattled town square. But she is so utterly glorious and radiant and filled with unquestionable purpose in all that she does, and you are utterly beyond help.

"Selûne, Moonmother, in Your name!" The clear voice suddenly rings out from somewhere close by, drowning out the din of battle in your ears. You turn just in time to see a flash of silver light engulf one of the masked attackers, burnished black disks brazenly displayed on their armour, and, well, you are not the only one smitten.

But then - disaster. Three of Moonrise's most recently recruited silver-bedecked guards find themselves stumbling into a group of enemies that close a circle around them. You see one of them fall, gripped by inky-purple strands, before you can even start to intone a spell; another one loses his footing and opens himself up for a deadly blow.

Quick as lightning, Aylin rushes down and forward, pushing the stumbling guard fully out of the way. Instead of him, the cultist's scimitar finds purchase in her gut, sliding through a gap between armour-plates like butter, and another's obsidian-black axe bites into her shoulder.

The sound it makes, that Aylin makes, draws a shout from you. A bolt of moonlight dispatches the first cultist, rage and terror somehow making your aim uncanny, and you step forward to bathe the rest of his nearby comrades in deadly, burning radiance before he has even hit the ground.

After this, the battle is over as quickly as it had begun. The last of the attackers falls on her own blade rather than be captured and questioned, crying out some pitiful, ill-conceived mantra about secrets.

You find you do not care: your world, for the moment, has sunk down to the breadth of one woman lying on the trampled ground in a distressingly rapidly growing pool of silver, the guards she saved hovering around her in a mix of awe and alarm.

They let you through without hesitation - you are a cleric, after all. A healer. But as you drop to your knees at her side and attempt to assess the damage, you can tell you are too late.

Your hands fly in well-practised movements all the same.

"Do not worry, fearsome, fair Isobel," Aylin manages, breathily, barely audible, around a mouthful of blood. Her hand makes a very weak attempt at a dismissive wave, or grabbing your wrist to stop your ministrations, you cannot quite tell. Her helmet and her wings are both already gone, and the silver burning in her gaze just moments ago is a weak flicker. "I--"

Her eyes flutter closed and she falls limp beneath your hands and you--

--do not have time to even begin to comprehend what has happened before she is gasping awake again, coughing and groaning, spitting up a clot, trying to sit up.

You gape for a moment, then help her in her efforts, lean her against your chest. The weight of the armour feels like it might crush you, but moving away feels unthinkable.

"No tears, no," she mumbles, half-coherently, as you strain to understand, as a gauntleted hand reaches up to brush against your cheek clumsily. "So mundane a blow cannot… truly fell… Dame Aylin."

It is one thing to be aware of it in theory. Another thing entirely to witness it. Immortal.

There is a crowd gathered around you by now, you register faintly. People crying out prayers of praise and thanks to the Moonmaiden, for Her infinite wisdom and Her endless gifts and the indomitable daughter-champion She has blessed you all with. You feel a tug in your chest, like you should be joining in; like you would be the one leading the prayer in ordinary circumstances.

But you feel terribly far away from it all even as Aylin's breath grows more steady as she leans against you. You see her smile, still bloody, and understand only the most general sense of the reassuring platitudes she is whispering at you.

You bring her to the House of Healing with the other wounded of the battle and insist rather possessively on treating her yourself. Only afterwards do you tear yourself away from her bedside to take full stock of damage and casualties while she sleeps it off.

Your father rushes to embrace you tightly as soon as he catches sight of you from the House's grand entrance, and you let yourself cling to him for a moment. You do your best to assuage his worries, claim - lie - that you were in no real danger, insist on continuing to help here where you are most needed as he returns to his gubernatorial duties. And somehow, miraculously, he lets you go.

As you help the dutiful sisters with the worst of it, you finally manage to focus on murmuring your own prayer of thanks. It helps clear the long-clinging fog from your mind. And it helps, truly, that you count no deaths among Reithwin's faithful - the only fallen today are Shar's to claim if she deigns to do so.

Well - and then there's Aylin.

You go to check on her in the morning, after you've managed - been forced into, rather - a very brief nap.

The glorious and apparently unconquerable Dame Aylin is awake, reclining against the headboard of the only occupied bed in that wing. You don't recall requesting she receive any special treatment, and she doesn't look too pleased with being singled out as if in a place of honour - in fact, she mostly looks bored. She is frowning down at herself, plucking at loose threads hanging off of the bandages that cover most of her shoulder, chest, and abdomen - your own handiwork.

You step into the room and set down the basin of fresh water and an assortment of healing supplies with a deliberately loud clatter, jarring her out of her reverie. The moment she sees you, an expression of blatant joy dawns on her face. You try very hard not to read too much into it.

Instead, you make very standard proper-bedside-manner-dictated small talk as you peel away the gauze. The wounds are mostly healed, as you would expect from your application of any and all magic you had remaining that night, but there is a small line of gold running down towards her left side, where the blade bit in and through, and another one cupping across her shoulder. Oddly beautiful for what is presumably a scar - and highlighting the marvellous build of a finely muscled torso, pipes up a segment of your mind that has no place around a sickbed.

You wrench yourself back into professionalism and lightly press down with your fingers, following the shining gold, the freshly knit-together skin, still reddened and bruised in places. "Do you feel any pain when I do this?"

"None at all," Aylin answers resolutely, entirely back to her old self. But then- "Ah," she winces as you find a particularly sore spot, expression wry, "it would appear I spoke too soon."

You trace back up, murmuring incantations, letting the cool, healing relief flow from your fingertips.

The way she is unphased by all of this seems… uncanny. In fact, she shows more concern for you, completely untouched by the battle, than for herself. It is oddly and slightly frighteningly flattering, in retrospect, that she used her dying breath - well, this particular dying breath - to reassure you.

And it all makes much more sense now, as things slot into place. The recklessness of her fighting style, of her whole manner. The way she shrugged off blows and rushed ever forward, where the battle was thickest and fiercest.

But now you've seen she is immortal, yes, but not invulnerable, however much she might like to act like she is both. And if she pulls herself out from literal death, no matter the scope of the wounds, she does not seem to magically heal much past that - the evidence is before you now. You can already picture her merely patching herself up with her own healing magic in the middle of the fray, as if in passing, just enough to enable her to storm on. All while her enemies gape and turn tail when they realise the futility of standing against her.

"I only hope you did not worry overmuch, Lady Isobel. It is in my nature, inextricable from my being. I cannot fall, not truly. But I keep the reminders, sometimes - wrought in gold."

Then she very cordially points out a few more, as if to indulge you. Some bigger, some smaller, some thin lines, barely there, some wide and jagged. But all of them bright gold seams, seamlessly integrated into her skin.

"Why not silver?" You blurt out, then feel your face burn with embarrassment. And then a mild but growing horror as you think back to the silver staining your hands and robes as you knelt on the damp cobblestones. This is in turn chased away by an odd warmth as you recall how she murmured your name and reached for your face.

Aylin, however, guffaws joyfully, stopped short only by a sudden wince as she pulls something still tender.

"Would you believe, I do not know? It is simply how I am, how I have always been. Perhaps I shall ask my Mother to elucidate, when next we commune." Then she beams at you. "What a joy and pleasure you have proven to be, Lady Isobel. To make me consider things about myself I have never had cause nor inclination to before. A rare treasure."

You blame your lack of sleep on the ease with which she is managing to fluster you without even seeming to consciously try, so you do your best to keep your response polite and nothing more. "The pleasure is all mine, I assure you, Dame Aylin. All of Reithwin treasures your presence and is grateful for it, especially after tonight."

She looks up at you and you meet her gaze, pausing in your ministrations. She looks disappointed, if anything, and the disappointment is shared - those are not the words you truly wish to say to her. And you cannot quite explain to yourself why you feel like a sudden distance has sprung up between you, after months of a beautifully built-up rapport, laid on the foundations of those first few shared star-struck gazes. Why this one out of all the many reminders of her divine nature has shaken you so.

As you continue reapplying bandages and keep distractedly checking in with her about the tightness, she catches your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "My wounds are a distant memory, for they are being tended by fair Isobel--"

There is a naked determination writ all over her face now. It brings to mind her battlefield bearing, more than anything else, but her eyes are wide and soft and almost pleading.

"Truly, I am in the best of hands." A kiss again, and she lets the hand go. It is a perfectly polite and courteous gesture. Nothing… scandalous. But there is a clear ardour to it you did not acknowledge before. Calling attention to a line you have not yet crossed, but that you have both, perhaps, been toeing for a while.

Then she moves to sit up fully, even through visible winces, and shrugs off the steadying hand you place on her shoulder.

"You are the worst patient I have ever had," you state dramatically, laughing. She merely cocks her head in response, so very winning and charming even when still covered in blood, dirt, and partially unravelled bandages. "I will go get some more fresh water so you can clean up - though we've already ruined these sheets, I fear."

But you do not move, despite your words. Your eyes have not left hers in what seems like hours, but can't have been more than a minute. There is a blatant yearning there that you know is reflected in your gaze, that you have both become utterly incapable of hiding.

"I would ask, greedily, another boon of my most gracious healer," she murmurs.

"Oh?" You lean closer, ostensibly to hear her quiet words better. "Why, Dame Aylin, after your valiant performance tonight, I might just grant it."

You are almost nose to nose when Aylin speaks up again, her throat visibly working, her entire impressive self working up the courage to leap the distance - and you find you very much want her to.

"A kiss, then. To drink but once from the lips of the incomparable Lady Isobel Thorm would soothe all that ails me, seal all my wounds."

You watched this woman take an axe to the shoulder and a sword through the belly, and only now does she sound hesitant. Nervous. Afraid, even. The smallest of trembles in that rich, regal voice.

"If… if I have misread, if I have misinterpreted your intentions, I beg your forgiveness with all possible contrition…"

Your reply is wordless as you surge forward, boon happily granted. The first of many to come.

You trained to be a cleric. Uniquely gifted and blessed from a young age, you excelled.

You prepared to travel and adventure, to right wrongs and heal hurts and bring the Lady of Silver's light to all that might find themselves in need of it, your glorious paladin at your side. That, you never got to do, all your life and promise snatched away from you.

After your reawakening, you were chosen, in one way or another, to be a protector, and protect you did.

But now you find yourself cast in the role of a battlefield medic in a city under siege. Nothing could have prepared you for the sights, the sounds, the smells. Not even the shadow curse's foul grip on your home.

You drain every drop of light and magic from yourself every day. And every day you reach within and wring out just a little more, fervent prayers on your lips, bloodied and worn hands knitting together injuries, conjuring up food and water for starving refugees, calming the fog of violence and war in wounded minds. Shielding and protecting from stray arcane bolts and fending off freshly-turned mind flayers, too.

Every day, Aylin takes to the skies, to the walls, to the Upper City, to wherever she is needed, wherever the battle is raging most hotly.

And every night she returns to you and holds you and whisper-pours devotion into your ear until you finally still in the few hours of sleep you are granted.

And then you wake and do it all over again.

The task of steadfast faith, you called it once. It is not nearly as long as your vigil in Last Light, but the few days since the escalation of the tremors beneath the city into an all-out attack are the most draining of your life.

Still you refuse the very thought of stopping. Selûne burned herself to give the world the sun, after all, and did not complain of the pain. Whatever you have left of your own self is the least you can give.

You are fighting alongside a cornered group of Harpers and a few fellow Selûnites from the enclave when it all reaches an explosive finale. The brain-shaped monstrosity topples out of the sky and into the Chionthar for everyone to see, turning its tightly controlled forces on the ground all throughout the city into little more than a confused, easily routed mob.

Aylin alights on the mind flayer that is clutching at its bulbous head and cowering before you just as you are about to finish it off with a well-aimed bolt of moonlight, ending its misery with great finality.

She is covered in gore and soot and far too many gruesomely varied kinds of muck. The feathers of her wings are ruffled and scrambled and some of them even broken, and a telltale imprint of a tentacle lash runs from her jaw down across her neck. But she is gloriously triumphant and resplendent even so, and you do not mind it one bit when she picks you up in a crushing embrace, spins the two of you around with a great, bellowing, utterly victorious laugh you feared you would never get to hear again, then kisses your cheeks and your brow and your lips until you are both breathless.

#baldur's gate 3 #isobel thorm #dame aylin #aylin x isobel #fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #oathkeeper writes things #my fic #what's that you say knight/lady flavoured nonsense oh don't mind if i do #if isobel thorm has one fan it's me if she has no fans i've died or something... how does that spiel go

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sirmatthew1972 · 1 month

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Forever: The Double Edged Sword

Summary To a centuries old immortal man like Lord Hotchner time doesn't hold meaning. Only the sword, and keeping his head. But what about his foolish heart? Why can't he stop it from falling for mortal souls? From breaking? Because here is, counting every agonizing second since Spencer got shot. Desperate for him to wake. Teaser Time. Minutes, hours and days. It's been a long while since Lord Hotchner has contemplated the concept of the clock. How it affects those around him. Mortal souls unaware of what he is. How old he is beyond the facade of a man in his forties. Why he moves on looking the same, defiant of age. Always. Living by a far different schedule than they do… must, since they have no time to waste. No, they live in the now. By the clock. Changing with the years and with age. Living through so many firsts. Adventures. Lovers. Children. Oh, the joy of those!

They are the kind of memories he's long ago left behind in his so extensive past. Some of which he has forgotten, others he will always cherish despite the pain held within. Yeah, his first grey hairs discovered are also his last ones to grow out. His firstborn son lies dead and buried, so his many times down grandchildren can run around in a changed world. In a century when the new land America isn't that anymore to the people around him. When they, unlike him, can but read about the Mayflower or the Civil War or past presidents in books…

Read more on AO3

#my writing #criminal minds #hotchreid #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #immortal!Hotch #alternate universe #highlander inspired #who wants to live forever #there can be only one #so much angst #temporary character death #heed the tags on ao3 #my art

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punchdrunkdoc · 1 year

Text

Chapter 1

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness?

Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 3 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3

Masterlist

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PART 1

CHAPTER 1

At the last moment, the landing turned into a forward roll.

Coming to his feet on the barren rooftop, Matt rubbed at the faint ache in his left knee. It had been niggling at him all night - for the last couple of nights, if he was honest - and he didn't think a harsh, two-footed touchdown after that jump from the other building would have done it any favours.

So he'd softened the impact. Tucked his body, and allowed his momentum to carry him forward in a roll across the hard, damp concrete.

He was learning to accommodate for the toll the years of parkour, jiu jitsu and general wear and tear had taken on his joints.

It was ironic. Now that his mind and soul were relatively at peace with what he did when he put on this suit, it was his body that was turning on him.

He'd spent so long wrestling with his conscience over this double life - the morality of it; the legality of it; the secrets he had to tell; the brushes with darkness when he gave into his rage. But he was finally at a place of equilibrium, and his last encounter with Wilson Fisk had helped get him there.

Because he’d left him alive.

At the height of his rage, and in a state of complete frustration and disillusionment...he hadn't killed Fisk. He had tip-toed up to the edge of his moral red line, but he hadn't crossed it.

Though calling it a line was a massive understatement. It wasn't just some mark in the sand. It was a cliff. A jagged rock face overhanging a dark, turbulent sea. He'd peered over that cliff, stared down into the pitch-black roiling waves below and had contemplated jumping. He had convinced himself that the means justified the ends, and that he could handle the fall.

But he'd been kidding himself.

He never would have survived the landing. He would have been consumed by those waves, forever struggling to catch his breath as he was battered by the churning mass of his guilt.

His friends knew that. Father Lantom knew it. Even Fisk knew it - he'd goaded him on towards the end, as he'd knelt bloody and defiant on the floor of his penthouse. Fisk had wanted to bring him down to his level, to corrupt him completely in one last act of vengeful cruelty.

But it hadn't worked.

And now Matt knew, deep within his heart, that he wasn't capable of taking another person's life. If he couldn't kill Fisk - the monster who had tormented his city and murdered with impunity and threatened his friends - then he couldn't kill anyone.

The knowledge was liberating, in a way.

Of course, the devil still resided in his soul; the beast that was formed of rage, that craved violence with a gnawing intensity, still lurked within him. But it was not a murderous beast. Embracing that side of himself would not lead to the ultimate corruption of his soul. Which meant Matt was now free to don his devilish persona. He didn’t have to sublimate it. He didn’t have to lock away his urges and impulses just like he'd once locked away his suit.

And he didn’t have to let it define him either. After surviving the building collapse, he’d indulged that baser aspect of soul, becoming nothing more than the devil, misguided in the belief that it was his only way to succeed in his mission.

But he’d been wrong. He’d been left lonely and unfulfilled...and ultimately ineffective.

He needed a balance between the two. Between Matt Murdock and the Devil.

And it felt like he was finally finding it.

Which is why it was so annoying that his body was starting to let him down.

He sighed and brushed the moisture from his suit. A warm summer shower had drenched the city - and him - earlier that night. Between the damp, the ache in his knee, and the long day he'd spent in the office before heading out to patrol, he was wiped. He just wanted to get back to his apartment, dry off, then sleep for roughly a million years.

Though he'd settle for a solid fours hours these days. Despite the hard-won acceptance of his fate and his nature, and despite being in a good place with work and his friends...he wasn't sleeping well.

It was like his subconscious and his body were tag-teaming it in their quest to thwart his newly-found peace.

He jogged across the rooftop - avoiding the puddles on the ground - and leapt over the narrow alleyway to reach the building on the other side.

Just one more to go...

Before the thought had finished forming, he came to an abrupt stop and crouched down behind the brick parapet.

There was someone on his rooftop.

He eased away from the edge and sank into the shadows, observing the stranger. The unique way he ‘saw’ the world - the sensorial information that painted the landscape in flames - gave him the impression of long hair that swirled in the breeze, and a tall, lithe figure wrapped in a thick cardigan.

It was a woman.

She faced away from him, her gaze locked on the jagged outlines of high rises apartments, water towers and construction sites that made up Hell's Kitchen. Then she tipped her head back and stared at the vast sky above.

He echoed her movement, tilting his sightless eyes upwards, wondering what she could see. The pinprick lights of a million stars? Or just a blanket of rain-swollen grey clouds. His senses could never perceive the detail of the sky, and it was one of the things he missed the most.

After a few still moments of contemplation, she eventually moved. She wrapped her cardigan tightly around her slim frame, and ducked through the roof access door.

As he landed on the now deserted rooftop, the wind brought him the remnants of her soft sigh and the scent of her skin.

She tasted of strawberries and sea salt.

———

Matt woke the next morning with traces of ripe sweetness and ocean spray on his tongue.

The intriguing combination lingered, even after brushing his teeth and downing his morning cup of coffee. He thought he was imagining the way the molecules seemed to hang in the air around him as he dressed for work, engulfing him in a potent haze.

It felt like his brain’s way of reminding him he hadn’t been with a woman in a while.

But as he opened his apartment door to leave, he realised the haunting scent was no trick of his celibate mind - it was stronger out in the hallway. He froze on the doorstep, head tilted, lips parted, trying to pinpoint the source. It wasn’t surprising that the woman from the rooftop would live in this building.

It was a slight surprise that she lived directly opposite him.

Apartment 6B.

But it was unmistakable. The air around that door was thick with salt and sweetness, and he could sense more beyond. There was also a trail in the corridor, and Matt followed it to the elevator, closing his eyes as the doors shut and enclosed him in with the ghost of her.

Trapped in the confined space, he sifted through the more subtle notes that made up her fragrance. The strawberries and sea salt was a perfume, a clean, organic one, devoid of the harsh chemicals that usually turned Matt off. But beneath that, he could detect…her. Her natural scent.

And it was just as intoxicating.

To most people, beauty was a function of colour and shape.

The curve of a smile, the arch of a cheekbone, the angle of a jaw.

Red hair, blond, brunette.

Blue eyes, hazel or green.

Those details were lost to Matt. He could perceive so much with his heightened senses, but subtleties like that were lost in a world formed of fire.

Instead, to him, beauty began with scent and taste.

And this woman - whoever she was - was beautiful.

The doors opened on the ground floor and he reluctantly exited and walked away from the concentrated dose of her.

But luckily the trail continued.

She had walked this route just a couple of hours before him. Had paused in front of the bulletin board on the wall. Smoothed the curled edge of the flyer advertising yoga classes. She’d ran her fingers over the embossed ‘6B’ that signified her mailbox. Then she’d pushed open the main door and jogged down the steps. And…disappeared.

Matt paused on the streets, a still figure amidst the bustle of the foot traffic as the denizens of Hell’s Kitchen walked to work. He only got one disgruntled “Hey-!“ from a passerby, before they saw his cane and dark glasses and cut off the rest of their rant. He ignored it all, concentrating on the clues the sidewalk was offering. He smelled motor oil. The earthiness of leather. An exhaust - but not from a large engine…

A motorbike.

She’d driven away on a motorbike.

Satisfied that he’d solved that little mystery - and added more pieces to the mental picture he was building of his new neighbour - Matt headed off to his office.

———

If scent was the spark of his attraction…sound was the catalyst for his curiosity.

He first heard her that night.

He’d returned home late in the evening, after celebrating a win with Foggy and Karen. Today had been the culmination of weeks of hard work, the day they’d faced off against a platoon of expensive, high-powered lawyers in arbitration. Their client had come to them with a wrongful dismissal claim against one of the leading investment firms in the city, and they'd managed to clear his name and win him a large compensation package.

A very large compensation package.

Yeah, today had been a good day for Nelson, Murdock and Page. Their little firm was slowly re-building the reputation that Matt had tarnished. They were starting to provide a real service to the community. Fighting for the underdogs. Battling greed and corruption with integrity.

They were seen as the place to come, when hope seemed lost.

It was everything he’d always dreamed of.

And every day that he entered the office, passing the plaque that signalled their commitment to each other, Matt felt grateful to his friends that they’d agreed to give him another chance.

They were - each of them - a little less idealistic. A little more jaded. Scarred by the trials of the past few years. But they were together.

And that was enough for Matt.

He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t save this city - protect the people who gave it life - as Daredevil alone. He also needed to be out in the light, fighting with the law as his weapon, and not just his fists. He needed to seek justice within the confines of system, just as much as he delivered it out on the streets when it failed.

And he needed his friends.

He needed people around him who could talk him off the edge when he became too obsessed. Who could give him the insight and perspective he sometimes lacked. Who cared if something happened to him. And who understood his need to be both the vigilante and the lawyer.

Tonight the three of them had celebrated their victory over a round of beers at Josie’s, just like old times. But unlike old times, when Matt had gotten up to leave, he hadn’t needed to resort to lies or excuses. Foggy and Karen knew where he was going and what he would be doing. They’d simply asked him to be safe, and waved as he’d walked away.

As he travelled in the elevator to his floor, Matt marvelled at how lucky he’d gotten....and wondered if he would ever deserve his good fortune.

His mind occupied by those thoughts, he almost forgot about his new neighbour. The mystery woman.

Almost.

But that scent was hard to ignore. It swirled around him as he exited the elevator and headed down the narrow corridor to his apartment. It grew stronger and stronger, as he approached his door, gentle tendrils of it wrapping around him, welcoming him home.

Beckoning him closer.

This time, when he paused on the threshold of his apartment to savour the undiluted scent, he picked up something new.

A sound.

Footsteps.

Her footsteps.

She was home. Just a few feet away.

The temptation to eavesdrop was one he usually tried to avoid. His abilities were intrusive, he knew that. The things he could detect were….private. Intimate. Mood, emotions, hormones…arousal. Things that he had no right to, could be accessed with little effort on his part. So he reigned in those urges out of respect.

But he was only human.

He couldn’t resist a taste - metaphorically speaking - of this woman. So he cocked his head, closed his eyes…and listened.

This first thing he heard was the steady, slow strum of her heartbeat.

The low resting heart-rate told him she was in good shape - more pieces to the puzzle - and that she was relaxed. At peace.

Footsteps again - muffled on the hardwood floors. She was wearing thick socks. She wasn’t cold, so she must like the feel of the fabric.

A click, and a song filled the air. Slightly tinny - from laptop speakers rather than a stereo.

He heard a rustle as she got comfortable on her couch, ready to enjoy the music. It was a fast, thumping tune from an indie band he remembered hearing in bars in college…but it soon cut off with another click.

Now Elvis was singing about hound dogs.

Another click.

A wordless techno beat.

Another click.

A boyband from the 90s.

Click.

A rapper, spitting out lyrics at double pace.

Click.

A synth-heavy song from the 80s.

Click.

She cycled through songs, sometimes barely allowing a few bars to play before skipping to the next. Between each click he could hear the scribble of a pen against paper, and he could hear her heart rate notching up by degrees and the cadence of her breathing falter.

What was she doing?

And why was it distressing her?

Click.

The soulful, raw voice of Nina Simone filtered through the door.

Her heart-rate plateaued.

Her breathing evened out…

And she let the song play in full.

———

He heard her voice a few days later.

He was in the shower washing off the sweat and grime from the night before, moving gingerly in the small space to avoid aggravating his broken rib. He’d run across a group of baseball-bat wielding maniacs on a destruction spree. They'd been terrorising the patrons of a bar by the docks, smashing up the joint, picking fights, and barring anyone from leaving. Matt had broken up the melee but had taken a bat to the chest in the process - the lucky swing managing to do damage despite his armour.

He ducked his head, hand cradling the bruised area over his chest, and planned out his day. Foggy would be arriving soon; they were meeting here while the new office was being painted, and would strategise their new case before heading off to a plea hearing for one of their other clients. Then Matt planned to speak to a couple of his contacts at the police department and Metro General, to see if there was a new drug circulating the city. Those thugs from last night had smelled…wrong. A harsh, caustic scent had seeped from their pores, and combined with their erratic behaviour and the way they'd fought him, it felt very much like a drug high.

Just not one he was familiar with.

It was gearing up to be a busy day…but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to move. The warm pressure of the water sluicing over his shoulders was easing the knots in his muscles. Soothing his battered skin. The steam-filled bathroom was quiet and peaceful and he just wanted to stay in here forever.

But then he heard the elevator ping, and the familiar rhythm of his best friend’s gait as he exited the car.

Foggy was early.

Or Matt had stayed in the shower longer than he’d thought.

He shut off the water and tasted the air as he reached for his towel. He could smell coffee, cinnamon and sugar - two espressos, and baked goods from the diner down the street.

Foggy had brought breakfast.

The paper cups rubbed against the cardboard carrier, and the bag holding the pastries rustled as Foggy walked down the corridor. Then his footsteps faltered, and he came to a stop a few feet from Matt’s front door. Matt cocked his head, listening intently as dried himself off. He could hear Foggy’s heart racing, and he picked up an inaudible gulp as he swallowed nervously. Then his voice echoed in the hallway, his wide smile curving the syllables in a distinctive way. “You’re not Fran.”

Matt froze, barely noticing the jolt of pain that accompanied the tensing of his muscles. The smile, the gulp, the thundering pulse, they were all signs he was familiar with after fifteen years of friendship…

Foggy was talking to a beautiful woman.

His beautiful woman.

Matt shook his head at that thought as he quickly finished drying off. She wasn’t his woman. Just a woman that he was currently…curious about.

He continued getting dressed, one ear on the conversation happening outside his apartment door, intrigued to finally hear from his neighbour. She wasn't the friendliest person he’d ever come across; she never had visitors, never took any calls, and when she encountered the other residents in the hallways of the building, she never said a word. The other day, Mrs Schneider, the hunched-over octogenarian who lived in 2C, had dropped her purse on the street outside the building, and his mystery neighbour had just stood by and watched as another resident came running over to pick it up.

It would be interesting to see if Foggy's unique charm could thaw her out a bit.

“Not unless you are Fran and you’ve discovered the fountain of youth,” Foggy joked.

A pause. And then he heard it. Her voice. “No, I’m not Fran. She moved out.”

Warmer than he expected, from someone so cold and closed off.

Softer too.

A light and clear tone, that sparked a sudden desire in Matt to close his eyes and surround himself with the sound, the same way he wanted to bask in her scent.

She was like a balm to all his senses.

“Well, then welcome to the building,” Foggy replied. “I’m Foggy. Foggy Nelson - one third of Nelson, Murdock and Page - the most prestigious law firm on West 49th street.”

“Foggy?”

“Technically Franklin, but everyone calls me Foggy.”

“It’s a…nickname?”

Matt finished buttoning his shirt, his mouth curving slightly at the bafflement in her voice. In her defence, ‘Foggy’ was a strange name.

“Yep. Everyone should have a nickname. Where’s the fun in only having one name? You don't have one?”

“No. I’ve never had a nickname.”

He slipped his belt through the loops of his pants and fastened the buckle.

“So what do people call you?”

He grabbed his glasses and headed for the front door.

“Calina.”

Calina.

It suited her. Her scent. Her voice. It was just as beautiful as the elements that formed her.

It was just a shame those elements didn't seem to match her personality.

Foggy echoed his thoughts. “Wow, that’s a beautiful name.”

“Um, thank you.”

“Beautiful…but its three syllables long. Ca-li-na. Any name over two syllables has to have a nickname - its the law. And as a lawyer, I should know-”

Matt pulled open the door, startling his friend.

But not the woman standing in front of him. Her heartbeat never skipped a beat, as if she knew he was about to appear.

Ignoring Foggy, Matt stared at her, finally getting the chance to observe her up close. He took in her height - only a few inches shorter than him - and they way she stood, with her shoulders back and her spine straight.

Like a dancer

Or a soldier at ease.

“Ah, Matthew is here,” Foggy announced. “Time to get to work. See you around, Ca-li-na.”

“Goodbye.”

Foggy pushed past him into the apartment, his elbow inadvertently knocking against his latest injury. A tiny huff of air escaped Matt’s lips at the pain, but he never took his gaze of the woman in front of him.

He sensed the movement as she tilt her head. And furrowed her brow. “Are you alrigh-”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Matt said quickly, interrupting her. There was something unexpectedly…observant…about her. Her eyes roamed over his face, his shoulders, the front of his chest, before dropping to his left side where the broken rib throbbed with a dull ache.

People reacted to his blindness in different ways. Some overcompensated - staring him straight in the eyes, or where they guessed his eyes were behind his dark glasses. Others became nervous, uncertain. Their eyes would flit about, unsure where to look.

Not her.

Her gaze was intent. Evaluating. She took in his lack of sight and moved on, as if it was just one piece of information to catalogue.

It was a little disconcerting.

He tried to disarm her curiosity with a smile. “Or rather, it was nice that you met Foggy. My name is-”

“Matthew.”

“Yeah. Well, Matt,” he corrected, with another smile.

“Another nickname,” she replied, almost to herself.

It was Matt’s turn to frown at her. Calina wasn’t a common name, and her strange reaction to a couple of nicknames suggested that maybe she was a foreigner. But there wasn’t a hint of an accent in her voice…

What was her story…?

He stood there, trying to figure her out for a beat longer - and she appeared content to do the same to him.

But the moment was soon broken by Foggy’s yell from the kitchen. “Matt, coffee’s getting cold. Come on!”

“I’d better go,” Matt said softly, taking a step back.

“Yes,” she said, shaking her head. “Sorry. Goodbye.”

She spun on her heel and took off down towards the elevator, slipping her arms into the backpack she carried. She left behind the blend of berries, salt and leather that he was fast becoming addicted to.

As well as a million questions.

All of which distilled into one core mystery:

Who was she?

———

“No,” Foggy said firmly, pushing the coffee cup to the edge of the kitchen counter.

Matt swiped up the drink and took a sip, savouring the bitter hit of caffeine after his late night. “What do you mean ‘No’.”

Foggy pointed to the hallway. “6B. Not-Fran. The hot new neighbour. Just…no, Matt.”

“She’s hot?” Matt asked innocently.

Foggy rolled his eyes. “You know she is. She is one of the most stunning women I’ve seen in real life, so there’s no way your ‘beautiful woman radar’ isn’t pinging like crazy.”

Matt hid his smile. Because Foggy wasn’t wrong. Her scent, her voice…they were pushing all his buttons. But Foggy didn't need to worry this time. He wasn’t looking to get involved with his new neighbour. Or with anyone, really. He was simply curious about the woman with the beguiling scent. He wanted to complete the picture of her in his mind. Fill in her outline with shade.

Render her in technicolour.

Then he could stop wondering about her so much.

“Describe her to me.”

Foggy groaned. “What part of N-O don’t you understand?”

“Come on, buddy. Indulge a blind man’s curiosity. What’s she like?”

“Fine,” Foggy sighed. “She’s…she’s like Bambi.”

“Bambi?” Matt asked sceptically.

“Big doe eyes, long limbs. And she has this innocent, baffled look on her face.”

Matt frowned. That didn’t fit with the cold, uncaring woman he'd observed over the last few days. Or with the sharp-eyed gaze she’d fixed him with just now.

He tried again. “In non-Disney character terms, Foggy?”

“I can only think in terms of Disney characters right now, because she’s young, Matt. Hence the ‘no’ that I keep repeating, and you keep ignoring.”

“How young?” Matt asked.

“I don't know,” Foggy replied. “Fresh out of college maybe?”

Matt’s frown deepened. Again, Foggy’s description jarred with his impression of her. To him, she’d seemed…confident. Savvy. Not some naive youth.

He wasn’t usually so off base when he assessed someone with his senses.

“She could just look young for her age…”

“Aw shit, you do like her.” Foggy sat up straight and leaned forward, pointing the remnants of his cinnamon roll at him. “Remember Mel from freshman year at Columbia? And that creep boyfriend of hers - the one in his late 20s? How gross we thought that was? That'll be you, Matt, if you go after her. You'll be the creepy gross guy. Do you want to be the creepy gross guy?”

“No, of course not,” Matt said. “I swear, Foggy, I’m not interested in her.”

“Good,” his friend replied around a mouthful of pastry. “Keep it that way.”

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CHAPTER 2

Taglist: @hollandorks

If you’d like to be added, let me know!

#Daredevil #Daredevil fic #daredevil fanfiction #daredevil fanfic #daredevil x original female character #matt murdock x oc #tabula rasa #myfic #post season 3

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oflostinfound · 5 months

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What color is your aura?

Forest

fern leaves, greenhouses, cloaks, bookstores, pine trees, chokers, snake scales. your essence is forest: you are insightful and intense, possessed by your thoughts. you seek the impossible; you are pulled between pragmatism and romanticism, never sure which is right. often you rest in the spaces between black and white, lost in theory. you are the observer. you are the hypothesizer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of green, sage, moss, and teal, who share your deep contemplation. you are also drawn to the imaginative souls navy and amber, who will help you grow and help you let go of the rational. however, you may struggle to get along with the theatrical personalities of magenta and gold who are too loud in their pride.

Honey

friendship bracelets, beehives, school busses, children's books, flower petals, honeyed toast, polaroids. your essence is honey: you are devoted and endlessly enthusiastic. your friendships are your security; you shroud yourself with people who make you smile and feel lost at sea without them. often you are quick to dedicate yourself to whatever hand feeds you. you are the companion. you are the confidant. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of peach, marigold, yellow, and orange, who share your love of teamwork. you are also drawn to the streamlined souls terracotta and chiffon, who will help you grow and discover your own confidence. however, you may struggle to get along with the heedless personalities of orchid and chartreuse who seem like fair weather friends.

Blush

lollipops, warm cheeks, lip gloss, flowers, flamingo feathers, painted nails, heart glasses. your essence is blush: you are outspoken and protect your heart by never offering an apology. you seize your desires; there is a particularity to your passions, and not many are privy to your reasonings. you are protective and extend your heart in a way you will never accept in return. you are the trend-setter. you are the defiant. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of crimson, red, tawny, and coral, who share your aspirational intensity. you are also drawn to the honest souls lilac and cream, who will help you grow and realize you are not always under critique. however, you may struggle to get along with the internal personalities of sky and beige who are too self-effacing.

Tagged By: @xxlordalexanderxx & @thestupidmeanone Tagging: @strykingback, @heylinhenchman, & whoever else wants to do it!

#💛 || about #🔷 || about #🖤 || ever watchful shade #💚 || dash games

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paragraphica · 10 days

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Embracing the Power of Me and My Coffee

In a world inundated with constant connectivity and social obligations, there's a silent rebellion brewing in the corners of our favorite cafés. It's the act of sitting solo, with nothing but a cup of coffee for company, and it's far from a sign of surrender to loneliness. Instead, it's a defiant assertion of selfhood, a bold declaration that says, "I am here, I am present, and I am enough."

At first glance, the solo coffee date may seem like a solitary affair, a fleeting moment of isolation in a sea of bustling humanity. But scratch beneath the surface, and you'll uncover a world of depth, introspection, and quiet rebellion.

For starters, indulging in a solo coffee date is an act of reclaiming one's "me time" in a society that demands constant engagement and validation. It's a deliberate choice to disconnect from the noise of the outside world and reconnect with the most important person of all: oneself. In a culture that often equates solitude with loneliness, choosing to sit alone with our thoughts is a radical act of self-love and self-care.

But make no mistake—this is not a journey for the faint of heart. As we enter the café, heads held high and spirits low, we are met with the penetrating gaze of judgmental eyes and the deafening silence of our own insecurities. But it's in these moments of discomfort that we find our strength, our resilience, and our inner fortitude.

As we sit with our coffee, lost in thought or lost in the pages of a book, we are not lonely; we are contemplative. We are not isolated; we are introspective. And with each sip of our coffee, we feel a sense of empowerment wash over us, a reminder that we are the authors of our own stories, the architects of our own destinies.

And when the time comes to leave the café, we do so not with heads bowed in defeat, but with heads held high in triumph. For we have not only refreshed our minds and nourished our souls, but we have also reclaimed a piece of ourselves in a world that so often seeks to define us by the company we keep.

So the next time you find yourself craving a moment of solitude, don't be afraid to embrace the subversive power of coffee alone. Sit with your thoughts, savor the silence, and revel in the rebellious act of simply being. After all, in a world that's constantly vying for our attention, there's nothing more radical than choosing to be alone—with a cup of coffee as your only companion.

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anasraza25 · 2 months

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Reflecting on the Majesty of Allah: Lessons from Surah Rahman

In the depths of the Quran lies Surah Rahman, a chapter that resonates with the majesty of Allah and offers profound insights into His boundless mercy and grace. As believers, delving into the verses of Surah Rahman unveils a journey of spiritual enlightenment, guiding us towards a deeper understanding of our Creator and His magnificent attributes.

Surah Rahman, the 55th chapter of the Quran, is a masterpiece of divine eloquence. Its verses echo with the repeated refrain, "Which of the favors of your Lord would you deny?" This rhetorical question serves as a poignant reminder for humanity to reflect upon the countless blessings bestowed upon them by Allah.

At the heart of Surah Rahman lies a vivid portrayal of Allah's majesty manifested through His creation. The surah invites us to contemplate the wonders of the universe, from the celestial bodies adorning the skies to the intricate ecosystems teeming with life on earth. Each verse serves as a testament to the power and wisdom of the Creator, reaffirming His sovereignty over all existence.

Water, a recurring motif in Surah Rahman, symbolizes the essence of life and sustenance. Allah draws our attention to the vital role of water in nurturing and sustaining His creation, reminding us of His abundant provision and care. From the rivers that flow gracefully to the rain that rejuvenates the earth, every drop of water is a divine blessing, a manifestation of Allah's mercy.

Surah Rahman also highlights the dual nature of humanity's existence – the physical and spiritual realms. It speaks of the creation of both jinn and humans, each endowed with unique faculties and responsibilities. As stewards of the earth, we are tasked with honoring the trust bestowed upon us by Allah, and Surah Rahman serves as a guidepost on this journey of self-realization and accountability.

Central to the teachings of Surah Rahman is the concept of gratitude. Allah repeatedly implores us to reflect upon His favors and to express gratitude for His boundless mercy. Gratitude is not merely a gesture of acknowledgment; it is a transformative practice that deepens our connection with the Divine and enriches our spiritual journey.

Moreover, Surah Rahman serves as a stark reminder of the Day of Judgment, a day when all will be held accountable for their deeds. It paints a vivid picture of Paradise, a realm of eternal bliss for the righteous, and Hell, a place of torment for the defiant. This portrayal underscores the importance of leading a righteous life and seeking Allah's forgiveness and mercy.

The majesty of Allah, as depicted in Surah Rahman, transcends human comprehension. It is a majesty that encompasses both awe-inspiring power and boundless compassion, a majesty that resonates within the depths of our souls and calls us to submission and reverence.

In conclusion, Surah Rahman serves as a timeless testament to the majesty of Allah and His boundless mercy. It offers invaluable lessons on gratitude, reflection, and accountability, guiding believers on a journey of spiritual enlightenment and self-discovery. As we immerse ourselves in the verses of Surah Rahman, may we be reminded of the majesty of our Creator and strive to live lives worthy of His grace and mercy.

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illithilit · 4 months

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What color is your aura?

Blurg is Chartreuse

handbooks, spring buds, bamboo, forest ponds, glass, vintage sofas, fairy circles. your essence is chartreuse: curious and thoughtful, you are a surveyor of patterns. you enjoy your introversion; you feel most in your skin when you're alone, autonomous and uncontrolled. your enthusiasm comes through when expressing your passions to your close companions. you are the analyst. you are the detailer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of moss, honeysuckle, green, and yellow, who share your natural inquisition. you are also drawn to the intense souls jade and fire, who will help you grow and not be so dependent on your knowledge. however, you may struggle to get along with the people-pleasing personalities of pink and yellow who seem too disingenuous.

Orianna is Royal

crown jewels, portraits, satin chairs, masquerades, nebulas, betta fish, secrets. your essence is royal: you cultivate your strengths and know how to be needed. you attract others; you are flattering and bold, locking everything ugly away. you create an image of decadence and confidence, effortlessly. you are the courtier. you are the networker. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of lilac, purple, indigo, and amethyst, who share your ambition. you are also drawn to the dramatic noir and crimson, who will help you grow and speak your truth even if it isn't pleasant. however, you may struggle to get along with the aimless personalities of gold and umber who lack a strong goal in life.

Grazilaxx is Blush

Luzzireye is Marigold

roller skates, crayons, golden pheasants, sunrises, corduroy pants, sunflower fields, warm summer days. your essence is marigold: you tackle problems head-on and take no prisoners. your biggest pride is the fruits of your labor; you surround yourself with your accomplishments and the people who you can make happy. productive and willful, you cannot ignore something once you've committed yourself to it. you are the strongheart. you are the warrior. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of peach, honey, gold, and amber, who share your love for discovery and ambition. you are also drawn to the astute souls garnet and hickory, who will help you grow and learn to commit yourself to things for the longterm. however, you may struggle to get along with the heedless personalities of amethyst and moss who don't understand your need to champion.

Razzavell is Fire

sunrises, woven blankets, campfires, tigers, whiskey, monarchs, roadtrips. your essence is fire: you are the bold spirit of adventure. you seek out others who can broaden your horizons; a life best lived is one that's vivacious, but also makes a difference. you are steadfastly committed to your values and do not waver from your opinions. you are the inspirer. you are the opportunist. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of coral, bronze, red, and orange, who share your strong opinions. you are also drawn to the contemplative souls jade and chartreuse, who will help you grow and see the fullness of your vision. however, you may struggle to get along with the opinionated personalities of wine and mauve who act above reproach.

Mourndax is Sky

short poems, teacups, clear skies, diaries, dripping icicles, tears, tennis shoes. your essence is sky: you are a hard worker and do not relent on something once you have begun. you are giving to all but yourself and pour from an empty cup; you want to be simple, self-sufficient, easy. you overflow with creativity but throw away your sketches before they're even done. you are the dauntless. you are the venturer. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of blue, navy, periwinkle, and seafoam, who likewise hold themselves to high standards. you are also drawn to the self-actualizing sage and apricot, who will help you grow and relax into your feelings. however, you may struggle to get along with the strict personalities of ivory and blush who seem overly critical.

Amis is Tawny

fall leaves, candles, blood oranges, hawk feathers, ladybugs, clay dust, toadstools. your essence is tawny: you are an energetic force with purpose. there is a genuine care for others that dictates your actions; still, you do not doubt you know best. effortlessly a leader, you extend your wings to watch over the ones you love. you are the protector. you are the consul. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of terracotta, garnet, blush, and beige, who share your strong core. you are also drawn to the open-minded souls periwinkle and peach, who will help you grow and show you how to open your boundaries. however, you may struggle to get along with the internal personalities of seafoam and ashen who are thought-heavy.

Yzare is Crimson

rose vines, blood, apples, velvet, sharp nails, galaxies, dripping jewelry. your essence is crimson: you are the strong, defiant and avoidant. you crave some sort of deviation; to walk in another's footsteps feels mundane, a waste of your time. you are possessive and never look back at the things you've lost or forgotten. you are the rebel. you are the one who will change the world. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of red, blush, garnet, and bronze, who share your impassioned existence. you are also drawn to the confident souls royal and gold, who will help you grow and show that not everyone seeks to break you. however, you may struggle to get along with the slow-acting personalities of navy and umber who never seem assertive about anything.

Ashenah is Peach

shores, headbands, warm hugs, mugs, fruit baskets, blankets, sleeping cats. your essence is peach: you are a gentle, thorough heart who seeks to spread joy. you wish to create a home for others; you are the soil of the garden, hoping others will plant themselves and never leave. your thoroughness is always humble and you scarcely act alone. you are the tender. you are the homemaker. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of honey, marigold, cream, and apricot, who share your want to help others. you are also drawn to the efficient souls tawny and ashen, who will help you grow and stand on your own. however, you may struggle to get along with the shrewd personalities of lavender and honeysuckle who can be too quickly judgmental.

Nethfari is Navy

brush strokes, suit jackets, midnight, comforters, star gazing, arctic waters, starlings. your essence is navy: you are the keeper of your own narrative. you thrive on uniqueness and the unordinary; everything you feel, you feel deeply, and can be dissatisfied with everyday experiences. you do not shy from the intensity of competition. you are the protagonist. you are the indulgent. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of blue, sky, teal, and indigo, who share your depth and enigma. you are also drawn to the creative souls forest and amber, who will help you grow and learn to feel all of your emotions, not just the productive ones. however, you may struggle to get along with the direct personalities of noir and crimson who are too concerned with forcing their perspective.

Asmodeus is Pearl

abalone, perfume bottles, chandeliers, tulle, balljoint dolls, satin, paint palettes. your essence is pearl: you strive for improvement, and see yourself as the grandest project of all. you cultivate a home in what you do; your signature is unmistakable, perfectly you. you know what's best for others before they're even aware. you are the designer. you are the perfectionist. you find kinship in like-minded individuals of wine, amaranth, ivory, and rose, who also act with purpose. you are also drawn to the honest lavender and periwinkle, who will help you grow and see that you can be true to even your flaws. however, you may struggle to get along with the imaginative personalities of seafoam and coral who don't have a strong purpose.

#the moral of the story is I will gut you if I need to; I will carve my way out with only my teeth // Mourndax headcanon.#''you just don't know when to quit do you?'' call me a slow learner but I don't like giving in to tyrants // Blurg headcanon.#here are the women with ancient anger in their veins and the cruelty of a goddess in their hearts // Ashenah headcanon.#it appears that you have mistaken my dislike of causing harm for an inability to do so // Razzavell headcanon.#I am more powerful than I am damaged and I will rise from any abyss you try to drown me in // Grazilaxx headcanon.#we who wield power adorn ourselves with flowers to hide the sting of our thorns // Orianna headcanon.#I regard you with an indifference closely bordering on aversion // Nethfari headcanon.#half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers; real gods require blood // Asmodeus headcanon.#ignore every instinct to flee. remember: you are a monster too // Amis headcanon.#I'm not like them but I can pretend // Luparon headcanon.#live each day as if it were your last because I'm going to kill you but I'm not super good with schedules // Yzare headcanon.

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sasorikigai · 5 months

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"Hanzo, Hanzo, my Hanzo.... whatcha think about a vacation getaway? Just the two of us away from the stage an' the office?" She's definitely not cupping his jaw right now to press small kisses into his cheek. No way if she using affections to get his attention on the matter. "I'll make sure nothin' distracts us." Liv @ Hanzo in modern verse!

Random Inbox Shenanigans || @somniaxperdita || always accepting!

💥 || Commander Hasashi's psyche is used to climbing ever higher on the pile of bodies. However many times he comes across such a gruesome, ghastly sight, he could never be desensitized to such because of his unending, unhinging trauma. A man underneath his feet, skin brown like earth, like earth caking his hands and fingers. Neck lolls under his step and he checks his pulse - none, like always. And he wonders what his name was, who he loved. Life, with all the beauty and sanctity and the accompanying hostility and despair of his trauma becomes an accumulation and essence of Hanzo Hasashi's entirety; all his heart, soul, and mind.

And in his deepest reverie, Hanzo remains so enamored with devotion as violence, because he wants someone to love him even when he is drenched in blood. most days, Commander Hasashi is more teeth than lips; vigilant, tense, taut muscles readying for defiant and resilient battles. More claws than hands. More desperation than gentleness.

Hanzo deeply contemplates in reverie; if I was to love, I want it to consume me as surely as a forest fire. When the smoke has cleared, trees will grow stronger than before. I will only let my unhealed wounds be tended to by someone unafraid of gore, and I fear softness would hurt more than any double-edged sword. if I was to be loved, let it be in a repaired slaughterhouse I might make into a home. then the heartache will be holy, and finally then, I will be whole.

He just needs a few days to love himself; how he wants to simply melt in her arms, feel the pain and weight elevate. Cradled in her warmth and the cadence of her heartbeats, how his rare jovial and almost youthful smile etches beneath his aged solemnness, as his aureate glow fills their atmosphere. How her words fill him with light, his eyes bright, gleaming, and umber.

"Then allow me to have you under my protection; besides me, besides my fire," he also reciprocates to bring tantamount likeness through the waves of raptured warmth, as his lips ensconce and enrapt her flesh. How his unbidden fabric of passion unfolds with such wanting, wanton kiss. "Of course, all I want for ourselves is to softly lash upon the shores of desire, with the candid giving likeness of the tide of respite, as flames of our passion linger upward in the souls of our fire simmering in our hearts." 💥 ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ ugly syllables of conjured vindictive crimson (modern au)#somniaxperdita

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0613magazine · 1 year

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221202 The Atlantic

RM OF BTS IS EMBRACING THE SILENCE

On his debut solo album, Indigo, the South Korean rapper finds meaning within the noise of global stardom.

One year ago today, the leader of the world’s biggest pop group stood beneath bright lights and told more than 50,000 fans about his fears. Kim Namjoon, better known by his stage name RM, had guided his fellow BTS members through the vagaries of early-pandemic life—a canceled world tour, delayed music releases and life plans, illness. In an emotional speech during a Los Angeles concert last December, the then-27-year-old South Korean rapper confessed that he’d spent that time worrying about the future. What if their fans abandoned them? What if he lost his abilities as a performer? But, RM said, those concerns had melted away. “I promise that … I’ll be even better when I’m 30, 35, or 40,” he declared, to an eruption of cheers.

Some people might find this curious—a 20-something artist agonizing over his longevity. Since BTS debuted in 2013, though, RM has been highly conscious of the mark he’s wanted to leave on the music world. In addition to writing a sizable chunk of BTS’s discography, he’s put out two solo mixtapes—2015’s RM and 2018’s Mono—that define his style: cerebral, technically complex, introspective, defiant, wordplay heavy. His lyrics grapple with the nature of art, identity, fame, and love. As the group’s leader and only fluent English speaker, he is often at the forefront of their public appearances, whether in TV interviews and award shows or at the United Nations and the White House.

So it’s fitting that his first official solo album is a record that looks backwards. Today, RM released Indigo, which he calls “the last archive of my twenties.” The 10-track project is a musically omnivorous, profoundly collaborative effort that still feels like the work of an auteur—one who’s spent years refining his own sound and thematic obsessions. At its core, Indigo is a work of hip-hop, but RM infuses it with neo-soul, folk, R&B, electronic, and rock. So instinctive is RM’s tendency to work with others that eight tracks feature other artists (including Erykah Badu, Anderson .Paak, Kim Sawol, and Tablo). Listening to this album is like witnessing a person carve his name into the top of a mountain as a way of saying not just I was here,but also I’m glad you made it too.

When i spoke with rm on Zoom two weeks ago, he seemed nervous about Indigo’s impending release: “I just hope that time flies more quickly,” he told me. Yet a calm, earth-toned aura emanated from my screen. His hair was a natural deep-brown, and he wore dark-rimmed glasses and a loose-fitting olive shirt. I was reminded that, despite being a pop star, RM is drawn to slower, more contemplative forms of art and engagement. He’s an avid reader (and literary influencer), a nature lover, and a museum goer, all of which comes through clearly on Indigo. For instance, the album opener was inspired by the Korean painter Yun Hyong-keun, and the second track playfully extends the metaphor of a “still life” to talk about stagnation and momentum. For RM, Indigo is a way of “speaking silence”—essentially, expressing himself truthfully in a way that doesn’t cause chaos or confusion.

“As a star, or as a famous boy-band member … it’s really hard to be honest and frank,” he told me. “People sometimes misunderstand you. Like, ‘You said something really insensitive’and ‘I hate you’… Emphasizing silence is really hard, because you have a lot of platforms, like Instagram and Facebook and YouTube; people have their own minds but can still be easily manipulated by algorithms and articles and other people.” In this environment, he said, knowing when to talk and when to remain quiet is even more valuable.

Which explains why he hesitated to say too much about the meaning behind different songs. “These days, I’m thinking that empty space is really important to the audience … to digest the music on their own,” RM said. “So I don’t want to reveal too many intentions.” Because of that, we didn’t talk about why his first words on Indigo are “Fuck the trendsetter”; nor did we dig into his exploration of intimacy on “Closer” and solitude on “Lonely.” But I did ask about the gorgeous lead single, “Wild Flower,” which features the powerhouse vocals of Cho You-jeen, of the rock band Cherry Filter. (“For me, personally, she’s a No. 1 Korean rock star. She’s a legend.”) The song isn’t quite like anything RM has released before; an epic that swirls like a hurricane, it is sincere, pleading, and full of hard-won acceptance. The lyrics set up a memorable contrast between fireworks and what he calls “flowerworks”: The former burn out brilliantly and quickly, whereas flowers can exist humbly and peacefully for much longer.

RM has spent a long time—seven years, to be exact—thinking about this particular metaphor and its intriguing contradictions. He noted that fireworks can draw millions of people who want to witness their beauty for a 30-minute show. (I immediately thought of the displays that concluded many of BTS’s concerts.) The spectacle of “flowerworks,” though, is simpler and more anonymous. “I think of a field with tons of wildflowers that you don’t even know the names of. You just hold the flowers and throw them into the sky, and they come down so suddenly, maybe after five seconds,” he said, an edge of wonder in his voice. “I want to have a life like more of a wildflower.”

In some ways, you could think of his career thus far as a never-ending series of fireworks: several Hot 100 No. 1s, sold-out stadium shows, mammoth album sales, historic firsts, and a slew of both Korean and American music awards. The day before we spoke, BTS received three Grammy nominations: two for their collaboration with Coldplay on the song “My Universe,” and a third for the music video for “Yet to Come,” which RM acknowledged is the group’s first Korean-language track to be nominated. When I asked how he felt about the news, he replied so quietly that I almost didn’t hear: “Never expected it.” He paused, then added, “I think that’s, you know, thanks to Coldplay.” Which sounds like something a wildflower might say.

Like much of rm’s past solo work, Indigo is autobiographical without being too literal. He’s keenly aware that much of his youth has been captured online in countless videos, photos, and social-media posts. That willingness to connect is part of what BTS’s fans, known as ARMY, love about the group. But eventually, RM had an epiphany about all this self-disclosure: “My whole life was an exhibition,” he told me. “Unconsciously, or maybe consciously, I’ve been exhibiting my life for decades. So [I said], Okay, then let’s make it into a real exhibition.” He thinks the songs on Indigo unify different facets of his life over the past few years, as well as his different personas. “When you think of Piet Mondrian’s [work], all the paintings are titled Composition, right?” he said, referring to the Dutch painter’s abstract pieces. “At some point, I just realized [my identity] is a composition of my own … I want this album to be a composition of everything.”

That desire to create cohesion out of many parts is reflected in Indigo’s collaborations. RM said that each featured artist added “frequencies of their own,” and that many were “my stars in my youth” whose music he listened to when he was having a hard time. This album will likely serve the same purpose for many of his own listeners in the coming months. In October, BTS’s label, Big Hit, announced that the members are preparing to step back from their career in order to fulfill their mandatory military service under South Korean law, before hopefully reconvening as a group in 2025. Indigo is expected to be RM’s last full-length record until his enlistment ends, and in many ways, it plays like a farewell-for-now. But it also sounds like an artist taking a deep breath and feeling out what new experiences and insights his career might bring in five, 10, or 15 years. He already knows how it feels to stand beneath explosions of color and light. Now it’s time for falling petals.

Source: The Atlantic

Extra excerpt

Do you see a difference between art and entertainment?

RM thinks these two things are different yet equally important, that he sees himself existing on the border of them and trying to tear down the wall between them.

Source: Lenika Cruz

#2022 #bts #rm #the atlantic

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lubdubsworld · 3 years

Text

Blackberry Winters.

Part 1

Check part one for warnings 💔

Part 2.

Namjoon stared at his mother, her words registering but not quite sinking in. He blinked, a couple of times and swallowed dryly, trying to gather his wits that felt like they'd been scattered to the four winds. There was a dull ringing in his ear, a feeling of impending horror and he had to fight to bring himself back to the present.

"She is...?" He couldn't even say it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realised the irony of it. It wasn't supposed to makes him feel that way. The reason he had taken her to bed was for this : a heir to take over the duties of the head alpha after him. And yet, he knew that he couldn't just ignore all the things that would come with having a pregnant mate. All the added responsibility.

At the heart of it , Namjoon was exhausted.

He had been trained for this position but it didn't make it any easier. His wolf yearned for solitude and serenity, peaceful quiet where he could contemplate life and all its mysteries but the duties and responsibilities kept piling up. He had no time to indulge in such whimsical fantasies. From daybreak to sundown, he drowned in problems that demanded solutions, issues that required his intervention and he was always giving so much of himself to so many.

It was as taking a toll.

And now here was the promise of another new soul. A pup. Fully dependant on him for survival. It was hard to be ecstatic.

" Why do you look so surprised? Have you not been sleeping with her?" She frowned, moving closer to the small wooden bench in the corner of the room. She sat down, primly adjusting the large swathes of her skirt. Even at her age, she was a beauty and despite being a widow, she was treated with great respect by all the wolves in the clan.

" I have... Of course...I just didn't expect her to ...so soon. " He muttered hesitantly. He made a quick calculation, Conceived at the end of autumn meant the child would be born at the end of summer. Rains and more rains. He would have to commission the weavers to make a lot of warm blankets and thick bedding for the babe. And make sure that all the birthing huts had their roofs mended. He felt an ache in his chest. He knew he had to have a heir. It was part of what he was responsible for. But he wasn't ready to be a father yet. Especially not with someone like her.

" You haven't been very subtle in your disdain for her, Joon. It makes me wonder of perhaps I have failed in teaching you the ways of a husband." His mother's sharp voice made him wince.

His parents had been deeply in love with each other. His mother had been an equal contributor in running the clan, his father's most trusted confidante. He couldn't imagine having something like that with the woman he had rather recklessly chained himself to for life. But he couldn't be openly defiant in front of his mother.

So he bowed.

" I've tried to talk to her mother. She looks at me like I'm some marauding villain."

Lady Kim scoffed.

" Because, for all she knows, you may as well be one. Think of who she is, how she was raised. Her mother died when she was eight and she has been keeping house for her father since then. It Is a miracle she knows how to read a few words and to write her own name. Old man Gong is unkind and cruel and I've only ever watched him treat her like an unruly dog that needed discipline and never like his own flesh and blood. She knows men to be cruel and powerful and capable of doing her great harm. Add to it your status as the head of the clan, of course she thinks you're dangerous. "

" am I to be blamed for her childhood now?"

" Don't be obtuse. That is not what I'm saying. I just want you to consider her upbringing, before you write her off as dramatic or hysterical. "

Namjoon sighed deeply.

" Alright, mother. I'll try to talk to her again. "

And he knew that he had to. If he wanted some semblance of peace in his life, he would have to make an effort with his wife.

----------------------------

Jiah sat by the haybale near the barn, cross-legged on the dirty floor as she watched Misu and Loshim, two of the stable boys tend to the horses. She stared at the careful way they brushed the large beasts, their tone gentle and soothing as they murmured reassurance to the agitated animals. She found it fascinating, how even an animal that powerful could feel fear and anxiety. It made her feel better about her own shortcomings.

From a very young age, she had known of her flaws. She was jittery, prone to cold sweats and breathing problems, easily frightened and absolutely terrified of confrontation of any kind. Her parents had been, to put it lightly, unkind. They had seen her as a burden, as something broken and useless and cumbersome and that had done nothing for her self esteem.

To make matters worse, they didn't let her attend lessons with the other omega girls, her education limited to scribbled writing on granite with chalk when her father was feeling bored or charitable. She could read a few words with difficulty . Could write her name out if you gave her some time and patience.

At first, her ignorance had been embarassing but over time she realised her education wouldn't serve her much purpose.

She thought of herself as something temporary and fleeting. Not meant to leave any lasting impression on the world. So it was alright if she didn't know what every other girl her age did. She was going to live and die in that hut near the boundary walls..... She would have no use for fancy words or exotic dances.

Or so she hd always believed.

So when the head alpha had asked for her hand in marriage, she had nearly passed out from her heart giving out.

Namjoon was seven years older, almost thirty winters old and she had only ever caught glimpses of him when he came to check on her father's watchpost occasionally. He was a tall man, strapping and intimidating with dragon eyes that glowed red. And one evening he had stopped by her side when she had been tending the beets and potatoes in the small vegetable garden out back.

He had stared at her for a few long minutes while she had sweated in nervousness and then he had promptly asked for her father. When the man had Stepped in and told her father that he was looking to make her his bride, the old man had been jubilant while Jiah had been confounded.

She hadn't wanted to say yes but she had been too much of a coward to say no. Besides, she didn't know if saying no would have any repurcussions....she didn't want to risk offending the literal head of the entire clan. What if they banished her? What would become of her then?

And so she had said yes. And here she was.

Mated to the man for life, her wolf connected to his and his mark on her neck and now....his child in her womb.

She felt the familiar stirring of panic, digging her nails into her palm to ground herself .

Jiah had long come to terms with the fact that her mind was not her friend. It sometimes tried to attack her , tried to make her feel irrational things. It convinced her that she was a bother, that she was useless, that she was a burden. It also tried to tell her that she was in danger, that she had to run and avoid and get away, even when she was perfectly safe.

When she had first come here as the head Alphas new wife, her brain had wrecked havoc on her senses. Had made her feel like a hunted animal, always cowering and hiding and trying to disappear . Namjoon had tried to be friendly, tried to be courteous and all she had done was hide and recoil, skin ice cold and words practically non existent. She hadn't said a word to him those first few days and even the bedding had been a nightmare, her entire body stiff as a board and she knew that he had probably felt like he was making love to a corpse.

She regretted it. Deeply. But there was not much she could do about it now. Besides she wasn't sure she even wanted to. It was obvious her husband's affections lay elsewhere. She had seen the way he looked at that courtesan. Had seen him sneak out for walks with her, had seen them huddled together in the room with all the scrolls and leather bound books.

Jisoo was a beautiful omega, well read and trained in musical arts. She played the gayageum and the flute, knew how to entertain guests with a perfect ceremonial dance and she was always at the helm of every festivity, dressed in vibrant fabrics and full of life.

She was also madly in love with Namjoon.

Jiah sighed, watching the horses paw at the dirty stable floor. She wanted to get to know her husband, yes. But she knew that even if she did, he would only find her wanting and inadequate in all ways.

And that was just not acceptable .

She maybe self aware when it came to her short comings but she also had her pride.

She would rather live like this. Tucked away like an embarassment, hidden like a dirty secret because then there would be no piercing gaze weighing her against her peers and declaring her broken.

Yes.

Pregnant or not, she wanted nothing to do with her husband.

------------------------

" Are you feeling well now?" Namjoon's voice startled her, eyes going wide as she looked around the resting quarters , gaze finally falling on the man standing near the large table on the side. Namjoon was bent over the rough oak surface , papers spread out in front of him, an oil lamp burning bright nearby, casting a sepia shadow on the man himself and she hesitated, debating the pros and cons of excusing herself to go see his mother instead. Maybe claiming a headache?

In the end she did neither, resolving to at least make an effort with this.

" I'm well, alpha. " She swallowed the lump in her throat. " I'm sorry for inconveniencing you. "

He straightened, turning around to look at her finally.

" Do you wish to move into another room?" He said briskly and she startled.

" Another room?"

" Now that you are with pup, there's no reason for us to keep sleeping together. I prefer having my own space. "

Jiah felt the blood rush through her ears. This shouldn't hurt but it did and she could feel the self loathing flood her senses. She stared down at herself, the lack of beauty and the utter lack of any kind of elegant upbringing. Of course he didn't want to stay with her any longer. What had she been thinking , agreeing to this farce of a mating?

" I... Alright. "

Namjoon turned away from her.

" Good. I've already arranged for all your things to be moved to the west wing , next to the gardens."

Far away from his rooms, Jiah thought bitterly. The sudden realization that Namjoon had been looking for some sort of brood mare and not a mate hit her . And it suddenly made sense that he hd picked her.

Someone easy to boss around.

Someone who wouldn't demand anything from him, loyalty or affection or attention .

And it irked her for some reason.

Why did he get to treat her that way? Why must she put up with it?

But she stayed quiet because she wasn't sure what to say.

" You can leave now, Jiah. " He said dismissively and she hesitated before stepping out of the room.

And she wondered if with her departure, someone else would be taking her place in his bed.

-----------------------------

Authors Note : would you guys like first person narrative or should I continue in third person? 👀

#namjoon Werewolf drabble

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fyeah-bangtan7 · 3 years

Text

RM: “I hope I’m on my way somewhere”

There are two gears in his life that RM shifts between: when he has to pick up speed as the leader of a worldwide hit-making group, and when he makes his way back home and slowly cracks open some artist’s catalogue. Let’s take a look at the time in between, at the young artist’s journey to seek out his own canvas.

Do you still work out? Your stature looks very different. RM: It’s been around one year? Since I started doing it four times a week without fail. It’s like my lifeline. (laughs) Since, if you exercise, your body gradually improves. I like to feel like I’m doing something and getting better. If you look at other people posting their progress, you can see their bodies change dramatically, but I’m not very strict about my diet, so it’s not like that for me. (laughs) Still, I can feel my frame changing bit by bit.

I saw in the “ARMY Corner Store” video uploaded to YouTube for the 2021 FESTA celebration of your eighth anniversary that your life is focused on doing work and making appearances these days. Has following that repetitive routine led to any changes in your life? RM: My daily routine has become very clear-cut. Now that it’s been exactly a year since I started doing this mid-last year, I kind of think, So is this how people live? I have to go to work and come home, then there’s things I need to do there, and things I have to keep up with like exercise. And same for checking out exhibits. And so I thought my nature itself has changed a lot over the course of a year, but I don’t know whether it’s good for me as a creator.

Why’s that? RM: There was so much that happened with BTS, but with the current situation, sometimes it felt like those things were just things happening on my phone. When I’m listening to other music or watching something I’ll sometimes think about how I would do it, but my life is what it is right now, so I can only draw on things from my own life.

In that case, how did it feel to keep up the energy for your Grammys performance and for everything related to “Butter”? RM: I was really happy that we added one more thing to our list of accomplishments. I think our team really needed the work itself. It made me realize we still have things left to achieve. And I want to thank ARMY above all others for making all of this possible. I’m Korean, so I’m no stranger to finding joy in accomplishment. (laughs) It was really satisfying and nice. It would’ve been better if we got a Grammy, but so what if we didn’t? In the end, getting it means you have one more trophy at home, and after that your daily routine repeats.

How was writing the lyrics for “Butter”? Your performance with SUGA works to kick the energy of the second half of the song up a notch, but I also think, strikes a balance to improve the song as a whole. Your short rap feels like a fusion of American pop and BTS’s distinctive style. RM: That’s the part I spent the most time on. Even though the song’s in English, I thought we should make it feel like our own, so we kept the original but put a little of our own flavor in at the end.

I felt that fine-tuning turned out well. It’s short, but I think it would’ve been a very different song without that part. RM: It’d feel like something’s missing if it weren’t there, right? (laughs) I felt like we absolutely had to have it in there. There’s something different about us from American pop stars. Our DNA is different.

How was making “Permission to Dance”? You can count on one hand how many BTS songs have a message as positive as in that song. RM: Right. They talked about putting some rap in “Permission to Dance” while we were working on it, but we said it would never work. I have more fun when I’m singing and dancing than anything else. I think this song was one of the few times that I felt like I was just having fun while singing and dancing on it. It feels amazing to give into the song with your whole body and just laugh instead of thinking about it too much. I think that’s the power of the song. I wasn’t stressed preparing for it like I was with “Butter.” When it came to “Butter,” I had to think about what we should show off and how I could do that. I’m always careful not to be a problem within the group dynamic. But I didn’t really have to worry about that with “Permission to Dance.” Honestly, I felt like I only needed to add just a dash of the enjoyment I felt.

After the unimaginable continued success of “Dynamite” and “Butter,” this song feels a little more laid back. RM: Oh, this is really fun. Just like that. And there’s a line in the lyrics that says, “We don’t need to worry / ’Cause when we fall we know how to land.” The message is universal, but you could say it’s also something BTS has been saying all along.

You talked about “2! 3!” on “ARMY’s Corner Store,” saying, “2015 to 2017 was a tough time for us and our fans.” Were you able to say that because you ended up knowing how to “land”? RM: What I do can be thought of as a sort of business—a person-to-person kind of business. That’s why I want to be as honest with ARMY as I can be, almost obsessively so. They say it can’t happen in the world of K-pop, and there’s an aspect of good faith to that because I don’t want to worry the fans, but I want to tell them about the things we’ve been through as much as I can. Another reason I talked about those times was that I wanted to pay off my debts to a lot of people. To pass over this story like it never happened would be like saying “that’s not us.” And because it’s in the past. I think that, since it’s in the past, and since we’re doing all right now, and since those days were clearly necessary, I think we have to be able to talk about just how difficult a time that was.

It feels like that was something you wanted to convey to your fans, too. RM: Sometimes we’re artists whose souls are full to our very cores, sometimes we’re meticulous office workers, and sometimes we’re part of the hyper-patriotic “do-you-know club.” We’re many things all at once—that’s why we talked about persona and ego. It’s sort of painful and lonely to want to talk about these things to this extent, but I guess that’s who I am. I want to express myself in full.

Would you say that the song “Bicycle,” released during 2021 FESTA, shows who you are as a person? You talked about your everyday emotions using a bicycle as a metaphor. RM: I’ve faced a lot of pressure while making music throughout my life to move ahead a little more or make music that stands out better, from minor things like my rap technique to bigger things like trends. I wanted to be good at rapping and I wanted some recognition. In that sense, you could say “Bicycle” is somewhat defiant. I wanted to release a song to celebrate FESTA, but the subject matter is really important to me specifically. Bicycles hold an important place in my heart, so that’s just what I ended up writing about. The song’s something like a compass, telling me where I’m at right now, I feel like. My present-day life is the input, so that was going to end up being the output one way or another.

There’s a part in the lyrics where you say, “When you’re happy, it makes you sad.” I imagined you riding your bike and contemplating your life. RM: My feelings kind of go to extremes whenever I ride my bike. My personality used to run to both extremes sometimes, but it also comes back to me again on its own when I ride a bike. When I ride my bike, I’m free from the pressure of the things I’m supposed to feel and think about. I don’t care if people recognize me, and that’s the closest I get to feeling free, mentally and physically—when I’m riding fast and feeling like I’m up on a cloud.

In my case, there’s a big bookstore in my neighborhood, and there’s times when I’ll walk all the way there by myself and think over what kind of person I am while choosing which books to buy. Somehow it makes me think of that. RM: I read a book by Lee Seok Won from Sister’s Barbershop recently. He was contemplating why he likes bookstores. He remembered how not only is it noisy, but everybody’s staring at their books and not looking at anyone else, and there’s a kind of freedom in that. I really sympathize with that. So I make time to go to the bookstore and spend a little more time reading.

I end up talking to myself just by looking at all the book covers at the store. In a way, it’s contemplation on contemplation, but it seems to be an especially necessary time for you. RM: I think I’d be pretty bored without it, since I’ve been too sheltered lately. Read! Work out! Go to galleries! Ride my bike! (laughs)

So writing “Bicycle” was an experience that you had to go through anyways, even though we’re not sure where you’ve come from, where you’re at now, or where you’re headed to. RM: Exactly. It was exactly that kind of milestone of a song for me, and I think I kept that in mind to some degree when I released it for FESTA. I agreed to do something at first, but then I asked myself what I should do and that came to mind immediately: Let’s just do something about bikes.

Even the music has deep connections to all the music you’ve ever listened to, from folk to the hip hop and Korean indie scenes. RM: You’re right. I drew on music from the people who’ve had an impact on my life—artists I’ve been listening to lately, like Elliott Smith and Jeff Buckley, and groups like KIRINJI.

It’s interesting how the end result is a song whose style is difficult to attribute to any one era. Neither the sentiment nor the sound is retro, nor do they reflect current trends. RM: I, and our team, are, you could say, at the forefront of pop, so after I made “Bicycle” we wondered whether we should go with it. But that’s actually why I ended up doing it this way instead. Because that’s what my life looks like right now. It’s good for me just to get to know myself this way, but I don’t want to trap myself, either. On the other hand, I’m interested in artists from all around the world who are totally different from me. There’s even people who make music on a whim and who don’t care about the genre whose music I’m interested in now. It’s—how should I say this? Anyway, I’m at some place in my life, I guess. (laughs)

Last year, in an interview with Weverse Magazine, you said, “I’m just 27 in Korean age.” I think “Bicycle” might be your own response to that statement—the song of someone who grew up listening to Drake in Korea. RM: You got it. Exactly. Drake’s the one who made me think I could sing, too, back in 2009 (laughs) and that’s what brought me all the way here. In the past I wanted to do something just like Drake—he influences Western music as the musical style he’s after changes. But because I don’t live my life the way they do, I can’t make the exact same music as them.

And for that reason, I figured it’s the kind of song that would end up on the playlists of people like you, as it has a style that can express that sort of person’s overall feelings more than any specific genre can. RM: That’s how it usually turns out eventually. I sometimes think this way: Can’t I put “Bicycle” on the same mixtape as some songs that are made totally off the cuff, like I just talked about? I wish I had that kind of flare or image when I made songs, but nowadays I’m really slow at making them. I can’t think of lyrics as well as I used to, either. I have more avenues to absorb new things, and yet the output coming from inside of me is ridiculously limited, and extremely slow. They say there’s plenty of stories of artists from the past going up to their canvas and being unable to pick up their brush and screaming, “Who am I?” That’s sort of how I’m feeling. I’ve been working on a mixtape since 2019, but I haven’t finished that many songs.

Well, maybe it’s because the direction you want to take with your lyrics has changed. That is, that you’re trying to express the ideas you’ve built up inside yourself, instead of your experiences or social commentary. RM: That’s why I can’t write lyrics as fast as I used to. I don’t know what I’m doing, so I have no choice but to just write first. And that’s why I think Yoongi is such an amazing person. I mean, how does he make that many songs, and so well? Maybe it’s because he takes a producer’s point of view, but I can’t do that. Not only am I jealous, but I also think the starting point when I’m making music has to be the lyrics. I just—I hope I’m on my way somewhere. But that’s how I always feel (laughs) so when I listen to my stuff from two years ago now, it already sounds old.

You’re featured on eAeon’s “Don’t,” which boasts impressive lyrics as well—lyrics that start with the color of waves and end with an image of pebbles. It seem like it’s your interest in art that allows you to keep developing such visual images. RM: I can’t say for sure, but it’s likely a strong reflection. I had seen an article where an artist said that pebbles are the perfect form: a rock worn down over and over in a series of incidents and coincidences, made into some round shape in the end. It said the artist collected pebbles for a long time, saying pebbles are so perfectly smooth without any edges, although they’re neither perfect circles nor ovals. Also, I absolutely love Lee Qoede. I saw a quote in a book about his art: “Let’s become entangled. Let us stand united. Let’s not argue. And let’s become pebbles in the new leadership narrative of my country.” He wrote it in a letter while he was working during the country’s liberation period. I thought it was, what, a very modern way to express things, for someone who lived through the chaotic political circumstances of 1948 to want to become a pebble. I felt like his words still have meaning—like they live on. I guess those two artists’ use of the word “pebble” made a very lasting impression on me.

I was impressed how the relatively large waves give way to the image of small pebbles, and then you end the flow with lyrics like, “Don’t take that name away, the one only you know,” and “I hate being just any wildflower,” about a small presence that is defined by others. RM: Yes, it was fun. I once thought how people’s relationships are like crashing waves, and I think that mixed together with my thoughts about pebbles and it came out all at once. There’s a sentence I wrote down a long time ago while I was thinking by the sea. I thought, Is there any color in the waves? When people talk about waves crashing in, what waves are they talking about? The blue waves, or the white waves? I went completely overboard with emotion when I was thinking that (laughs) but again, that’s just me. So I wrote this one sentence—“I wonder what color the waves are”—and listened to the music eAeon gave me, and it sounded to me like fog rolling over the ocean. It was really easy to start writing the lyrics since the sensory perception of that sentence overlapped with what he gave me. It was a so-called “aha moment” (laughs) and whenever that happens, the lyrics come out of me all at once. It only took about an hour and a half to write the lyrics. I thought of more lyrics later on, but I ended up sticking with the first ones.

What are you looking for that you’re thinking that much? RM: In the end, it’s really important for me to ask about who I am, and I want to express who I found myself out to be, but I’m having a really difficult time because I don’t know if what I found is right. So for now, “Bicycle” is also the result of collecting the selves I found who I think represent the best of me. Even while making a song like “Bicycle,” I have to convey—how do I put this? It’s just about me, this kid from outside the big city—an essence that I can’t get rid of, I guess. I can’t let go of the kid who used to perform in Hongdae. It’s not really something I want to express or hold onto; it’s my essence, so I don’t really have a choice. (laughs)

You’ll just ride your bike, anyhow. RM: Exactly. Exactly that. (laughs)

#bangtan #rm #m:weverse magazine #210730

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estellaelysian · 3 years

Text

It burns (Ethan x MC)

A/N: This is super self indulgent and doesn’t lead anywhere so proceed on your own risk

**********

The alcohol scorched down his throat as he let his mind wander in the memories of the day, which seemed too distant now that it was over. Evening shaded into night beyond the red-brick walls of the bar – which were lined with numerous neon signs, the glow spilling onto nearby tables and people. Ethan chased the shadow of Alishka as his mind jumped from one moment to the next in all those where they had interacted with each other over the day. The image of her deep green eyes, wavy brown hair and full lips remained forever etched into his mind, giving him warmth like an eternal flame would.

It was late when he made it to this bar – Russo and Dale – but it was also when he found Boston the most loveable, shimmering in the glow of night, her streets thrumming with life and beating hearts and cheerfulness. He had taken an unnecessary walk from the hospital to his destination, wanting to feel anonymous in the dull crowd of people who were walking down the street. The permanence of the aged buildings, the restored Victorian row-houses surrounding English-style corners and the glowing yellow street lamps in South End seemed to give somewhat of a reassurance to his bruised and tired soul as he weaved his way among the sea of strangers. Walking wearily past dark shops, while the sky turned to a deep blue-black above him, he tried to find solace in the anonymity.

But now, at long last, when he found himself alone again, the unease returned, stronger than ever. He took a sip of the amber liquid, then another and then a third, but nothing seemed to ease him as he listened to the determined thud of a bass from the neighboring dive-bar. The foolish chatter around him did not drown out the rising voices inside his head – her voice and his, as they had argued in his office long into the afternoon.

That one argument had been enough to disrupt the entire balance he had built with the same woman whom he had disappointed today. But it was a mutual disappointment. She had been irrelevant to.

Shaking his head, he took another sip, letting the alcohol burn down his throat as he stared – quite intently – at the marble counter in front of him. It was amazing really, that the woman from whom he drew his strength could also be one of his greatest weaknesses. That was exactly why he had retired to his old office in the afternoon. He had lost focus, so instead of looking into patient care, he thought drowning himself into paperwork would help.

But indeed, it had not. Did it ever?

His mind, like a blissful dog scampering back to its lamppost, seemed to be stuck at the argument – making assumptions about the way she sounded, acted, spoke – no matter how much he tried to distract himself. Everything blurred around him, as if he had tuned out from his surroundings.

Why, he thought, was it so necessary for her to be insistent about things that did not matter to him? To latch onto one subject and stretch it until his patience snapped?

Or had he been truly unreasonable this time?

Oh dear God…

He swirled the gleaming liquid in its glass slowly before taking another sip, intent on numbing his brain, only that it refused from being so. Over and over again, her voice tortured him from deep inside; calling him out on the stubborn asshole he was before fading, only to return for the millionth time.

But wasn’t that the point of tonight? To get as far away as he could from the hospital, go to a bar in South End, and let the alcohol ease his pain and anxiety.

The door opened and someone stepped in, bringing together a cool Boston breeze and faint traces of wildflowers. Though his senses seemed unnaturally sharpened at this point, his eyes remained glued to his glass. But just a few seconds later, he found the woman right beside him, the scent of wildflowers much more perceptible.

Green flashed in his mind, deep and comforting, as he connected the scent, almost instinctively, to the one person it reminded him of.

Hold yourself, Ramsey.

In his peripheral vision, he saw the woman flag down the bartender and order a rainbow colored cocktail before turning away for a moment or two.

‘Quite the pain-relief, isn’t it?’ she asked in a mellifluous, sweet voice which fell like honey onto his tongue.

He could swear it was Alishka’s voice, but maybe he had dived too deep into the alcohol pain-relief. He had started imagining things.

Sensing that she was probably still expecting an answer, he nodded before looking straight at her.

And almost immediately, thought of Alishka Roy, even though he had put up a boundary between him and those insistent, maddening thoughts.

He didn’t realize it at first, but that smile – he would recognize it anywhere, anytime, no matter how detached he was.

But Alishka?

Nonsense. He was losing his mind.

‘I should’ve guessed my boss would come here after the much-exhausting day he faced at work today. It would’ve atleast saved me the time I spent wandering about.’

He raised his eyes to her face again. This was not an illusion. She was real, he thought, as he glanced at her hot coral lips which now wore an amused smile. He was not dreaming.

But why would she feel the need to wander about for him?

Do you really need an answer for that, dimwit, his mind chided.

‘Ofcourse you’d follow me here too,’ he said bluntly, battling away the sweeter responses, raising the glass to his lips.

‘You are not my boss outside of work, Dr. Ramsey. It is my freewill to do as I want to once I step outside the hospital.’

He looked up at her again, a smirk curling the corners of his lips. ‘Says the woman who bothers me all the same, inside or out.’

She made a dismissive wave, an easy laughter leaving her. ‘You’ve got a horrid sense of humor,’ she said. ‘Perhaps that is why everyone is terrified of you, even now.’

The last two words stung with an unimaginable burn, questioning the character he had spent years to build.

‘What do you mean, “even now”?’ he asked, the words coming out much more defiant than he wanted them to.

She smiled a benevolent smile as the bartender dropped off her cocktail, which smelled strongly of Pernod. Raising the glass up to meet her lips with tantalizing slowness, she said, ‘Even now, when they’ve learned that you can love something, someone more than medicine. Wholeheartedly.’

He choked on his drink involuntarily, but she went on, as if she hadn’t heard him at all. ‘And yet, at the same time, you can manage to be incredibly bitter to that someone.’

She took a long gulp of her cocktail, and again, before he could respond to her grievances, she said, ‘But anyway, I am not here to discuss that.’

Play pretend, he thought.

‘And why exactly, is it that you are here?’

‘Same as you. Pain-relief. My boss can be a real bore sometimes,’ she answered with the faintest traces of a smirk.

Let’s hear it now, shall we. ‘Who is your boss?’ he asked, going along with her little game.

‘Some world class, renowned, grumpy attending diagnostician.’

He liked how she complimented him and got a dig at him in the same sentence.

‘He seems to have a stressful job,’ he said, looking over the glass to her heavenly features, painted in the neon glow of the bar.

‘That he likes to imply. He is good at what he does.’

He nodded, trying to contemplate her answer, thinking that there would be traces of sarcasm in her answer, but found none.

‘Cheers to that,’ he said, clinking her glass with his own, their fingers brushing slightly, setting his body ablaze with the kind of fire that raged through forests. It was the closest they had got to touching that day, morning apart.

He finished the scotch in one long sip under her watchful gaze. Torture or bliss, there was no answer.

Though dulled by the excesses of the alcohol, he felt anger rise inside his body at the men who made glances in her direction, from a distance or even as they passed her. She seemed to draw much more gazes today than she did usually.

What exactly was it? Her rich brown hair, inching down her back, or those emerald eyes that gleamed with cleverness? And why, every time, did his jealousy had him to do things which he shouldn’t have been doing?

He didn’t know.

What he did know, was that he wouldn’t let those men even get near her.

So he raised a hand to her face, smoothing away stray strands of hair and tucking them behind her ear.

If she was surprised, she did not show it, but a lovely blush spread out on her cheeks, spreading down to her graceful neck and uncovered shoulders. She eyed him with a raised eyebrow, and he willfully ignored all the ideas that look gave him. Tonight was different. Even if they left the bar together, they would part ways almost as soon as they were outside, walking down in opposite directions.

Tonight they were fighting, even though it was different.

Even if he had to have his heart tugged and pulled and then torn, tonight was different.

Her emeralds met his sapphires, curious and bewitching.

He wished he could kiss those perfectly painted lips and ruin that makeup.

‘How about we make a deal then,’ she asked, setting down the glass on the paper napkin that was left on the shiny marble counter. ‘Tonight, let’s forget everything. Let’s forget that you are my irritating boss, let’s forget that I am a – what did you call me? – ah, bothersome resident. Let’s forget those men staring down at me from the opposite corner of the bar. Let’s put a pause on this battlefield, even though I am sure I can outwit you in every way, and let’ go home together.’

That was a tempting offer.

The suggestive tone and the desire burning plain in her eyes ignited his need for her.

How could he not resist her, even a single night?

His voice came out dusky when he spoke again. ‘Let’s put them topics to bed, and go fuck on the roof.’

Just to say that we did.

She smiled. ‘I’d rather your body than half of your heart,’ she said, quoting the song back to him, her voice the sweetest he had ever heard it to be.

Ethan blinked. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to tell her that he was far from fighting or if he wanted to claim those lips, right now, right here.

Then he saw, over her shoulder, a man whisper something to another before looking at her neck. He felt disgusted as his gaze traveled lower and lower. He was suddenly overcome by the desire to punch him in his filthy face, but he kept his expression carefully neutral, not betraying a single of the feelings he was feeling at that exact moment.

‘Let’s go home then,’ he announced, rising at once and reaching for her hand.

He led her outside into the cool crisp Boston night and she only felt justified in flagging down a cab to the way home, though it wasn’t that far away.

They could’ve walked there.

But then he wouldn’t get to do as he willed right in the cab, as he decided he need not waste a single minute of the time he had been gifted, by incidence or co-incidence, all the same. He failed to keep his hands to himself in the darkened cab, momentarily being illuminated by headlights and taillights of the passing traffic, as he crowed her into a corner, evoking soft moans. He watched her, bathed in red light, her sequined top glittering as the light shifted against her profile. Her eyes met his and he lost his sane, his coherent thoughts reducing to a small compass in his brain. Her lips commanded his attention, and he pressed his lips against them, evoking a gentle sigh as their breaths mingled. Her soft fingers grazed his rough beard as her hand rested against his cheek.

The music masked their muffled whispers and moans, but he could feel the drivers eyes, moving with unnecessary regularity, from the road ahead to the rearview mirror.

Even in the elevator, they stumbled, failing from keeping themselves from touching each other. The button to the thirteenth floor was pressed before he felt the soft pressure of her lips against his own. Her tongue was cool and sweet and tasted of Pernod.

‘Alishka…’ he managed to say between the kisses. ‘Why do we fight at all?’

‘Because we are …’ a little giggle. ‘Both … very stubborn …’

A few seconds later they stood at his door, which was unlocked with haste and shut close with a loud bang. The moment they stepped inside, he dipped his head and closed his lips over hers.

‘Nothing makes sense without you…’ he murmured into her ear, proceeding to tug her tight against him.

‘Then accept your defeat …’ she returned immediately, making a quick work of his shirt buttons. ‘But then again, we’ve called a temporary pause on this battlefield, haven’t we.’

Albeit reluctantly, he agreed. ‘We have.’

He led her to the bedroom, helping her out of her clothes before easing her down on the mattress gently, deciding the bitterness and pain had been enough for the day. The night had to be different.

Slow, gentle hands grazed the newly exposed skin with caresses too soft, before he leaned down on her, gazing into her eyes, letting his forehead rest against hers.

‘I love you.’

She giggled again. ‘I love you too.’

**********

Kudos to you guys if you made it out of this chaotic mess my brain put together. I honestly don’t know how this happened, but I guess it’s just me after a full, very real college day with loads of note-taking.

Tagging: @tenaciouslandvoidgiant @choicesaddict5 @schnitzelbutterfingers @starrystarrytrouble

Let me know if you want to be added or removed.

#ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #open heart #playchoices #choices

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crisps-craft · 2 years

Note

Hello💕 hope you're having a wonderful day. If it's ok, can I please ask for a soul reading?

Initial - K

My big 3: ♐ sun, ♊ moon, ♒ rising

Take care and thank you sm for offering these readings💞

hello! here are the cards i pulled:

8 of wands, queen of cups, wheel of fortune, page of pentacles, 9 of swords, 7 of swords, world, high priestess and strength

something about your energy is very sensitive. i think that you are very perceptive into people- you can feel energy shifts, you can look at someone and read them very well. in a way, you are like an observer. sometimes you find yourself more on the sidelines, per say. while other people are more social and extroverted and contributing to noise, you like to dwell in your own energy and inner truth. you might like time alone for that reason- you like having time alone so you can search for higher meaning in life- i think you are also very curious! :) i think that you like to be more deliberate with your energy and you prefer more deep and contemplative conversations rather than superficial things. some people might find you sort of intense and almost feel like you can see straight through them (because, well, you can haha) you like spending time alone because you feel like you can get your creative juices flowing, you can reflect on your inner truths and what your soul is lead by, etc. also, you appreciate recharging your own energy. i feel like you listen to music a lot and your energy is more on the upbeat side !! like even with this intensity, your soul is still very bright and happy.

ive definitely seen souls who are lone wolves but have a much darker and dampened energy- but the really cool thing is that in alone time, your energy is very lively, happy, and kind of excited? u just really like to vibe alone its very healing for you :) you know how to be on your own and be okay with just your own company. you know how to take care of yourself and you can find a lot of inner self power in being independent and free! at the end of the day, you are learning and appreciating your worth and trying to keep your best interests in mind. even if you dont realize it, i feel like you have your shit together ! :)

you can get kind of insecure around your family- i feel like you might have a bit of an identity crisis / confusion thing going on around them. you know who you are, but you worry that they do not because they try to project what they want to see instead of what is actually there. you might have struggled with that in the past and you felt very lost in translation. however, i think that you have developed a sort of radical self-love approach to this- you are kinda like "i am who i am, screw conforming to anyone" mentality. you are very strong in who you are- i heard "i know who the fuck i am" haha. this doesnt have to be literal, it can just be figurative, but maybe you come from a more conservative family? or they arent as open to new ideas as you are. in this way, you kinda felt like a black sheep and like you had to raise yourself intellectually. your energy definitely has a fiery aspect to it (esp since u r a sag!) i think you can be very defiant and rebellious! its easier for you to get impatient or angry with close minded people who try to restrict you. you definitely have a fiery attitude ! :)

overall, i really enjoy your energy! i hope that this could help :) working with the element of fire could be good for you. candles, incense, etc. i think that those resources can sort of "warm" up your energy and they make you feel more balanced and in tune with yourself. you also like action and adventure- you like things that give you a rush. there's a sort of excitement in your soul, too. i think you like taking day adventures sort of thing, trying to new things, exploring. you like spending a day with friends with no plan but a car and the open road type vibe. very free and fun :)

#psychic readings

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legendoftheghost · 3 years

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El Kahn quería tu cabeza, debiste morir en playa Komoda.

Random Inbox Shenanigans || anonymous || always accepting

The Kahn wanted your head, you must have died on Komoda beach.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || The passionate blue of the summer sky weathers toward a more ethereal light, softening into a poetic, magic color. The steel of Jin Sakai’s resolve and will is stronger than the steel of his Sakai Blade, and ever since Jin Sakai has vowed himself to take upon the Ghost’s identity, his life as an honorable, disciplined samurai had also died along with him, lest he still carries and talks like one. How he had been a wanderer, who felt the wickedness of the solidified fate’s unfurling paths, as the once hesitant and mediocre samurai had plunged deep into the ravines of the deep river, its strong currents baptizing him in rebirth.

Above the skies, in his soaked unconscious, Jin Sakai could hear that breath of desire in his ear, of faraway soils of Iki Island, longing to touch once irresolute and unrefined body and soul of a young samurai. In his vulnerability and weakness, had the samurai clung to his fear and retaliation, as he had faced the impasse of his betterment and growth, as he hindered himself in the narrowed perception of his battle tactics.

Jin Sakai is no longer the man of the past; his sacred, revivified pulses beat, where he could feel the strong and steady echoes against his skin. For the Ghost’s relentlessness and vicious fury etches and engraves into his soul, and with his resurfacing emotions and sentiments, he becomes more of a human than an mythical legend, the one with the truth and courage unthinkable to a mortal being. While they are not always comfortable, he would never let his human truth and courage become his weakness, in his resilient and tenacity as he will eventually conquer, move forward, in order to triumph over them.

A visible frustration may etch beneath the Ghost’s mask, but Jin Sakai’s façade remains unchanging, resolute, defiant even. “There was a reason why I survived the battle on Komoda Beach. It was to fulfill my father’s legacy, and reverse the unspeakable wrong of tearing the island to pieces.” For who I am and where I come from doesn’t matter as long as I am willing to change, accept past mistakes, and work towards becoming a better person, Jin contemplates, even amidst the hissing flurries of his Sakai Blade, as he cuts through stacks of bamboo, past the sweat-soaked garment adhering to his biceps.

The bruising truths may continue to hollow his resolve and will and paint his hallucinations in livid streaks of moribund death and decay, but Jin vows, he will never let himself be bound by its chains, and let the confines of his memory become a prison which he could never escape. “My head is no one’s, as long as I keep saving people, instead of slaughtering them for the sake of my legacy and namesake.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ ||

#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || will death redeem us (IC)#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || the legend of the ghost (iii)#▬▬ι═══════ﺤ || an innocuous unknown (anonymous)#jin sakai #ghost of tsushima #anonymous

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duskandstarlight · 4 years

Text

Embers and Light (Chapter Five / Nessian)

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list! :)

Ao3

Chapter Five Cassian

Cassian had put a shivering Nesta to bed, piling blankets upon blankets on top of her to warm her up. Her skin had been so pale it had taken on a blueish hue, and he had watched her as she slipped in and out of consciousness for the next hour, unable to leave. She had murmured when she fell under that final time; an incomprehensible string of words falling from her lips that were only silenced when he clasped her hand, as if his warmth soothed whatever images haunted her. He didn’t let go, after that.

Nesta had been lucid enough to tell him what he suspected after the incident; as she begged no, no, no when he started to pile the logs onto the hearth — she was scared of fire. And if her full-blown flashbacks in the camp were anything to go by, Nesta was suffering from an extreme case of suppressed battle fatigue. It was no wonder that she had hidden herself from her sisters… from them all. Her power rose to her fear and if he hadn’t flung up a shield… Well, he didn’t want to contemplate the bodies that he may have had to place on the pyre.

Battle fatigue — or organorum as it was called in Illyrian — was an unfortunate side effect of war that plagued fae and human alike. It was less of a problem for Illyrian’s, where the fighting instinct was so strong that warriors flung themselves back into battle with a stubbornness that defied usual fae, but that didn’t mean it wasn't a problem.

Even a year later, Cassian’s nightmares were proof enough that he himself was still reeling from the war, so there was no excuse for his failure to contemplate the full extent of Nesta’s suffering. Cassian had sat in the armchair by her bed, watching Nesta’s too-still body under the heaps of blankets as he spiralled further and further into a pit of self-loathing at the failure of he, his friends and his family for letting it all get this far.

Although Nesta was skilled at hiding her monsters, they should have pushed — they should have done more — to understand the root of her icy coldness. Nesta had spent a lifetime honing her skill at masking her emotions and protecting herself at all costs, that none of them had even stopped to think that her behaviour may have been to protect them rather than simply push them away.

But today that impenetrable wall had come down, and in its wake that wild power of hers had risen to the surface. Cassian had felt her unleashed terror before he’d even heard her whimper, and then before he’d had time to dissect what was happening, that ice from within her had exploded with such force he’d had to test his own power as he threw up a shield to protect the females, the children…

Cassian had known about the bathtub. Feyre had mentioned it to him prior to Nesta’s arrival in Illyria, and he had installed the spout above the bath because of it, but he had never contemplated the gravity of the other battles she might be facing.

After the war with Hybern, he had been so angry at her for sending him away and so broken himself as he informed family after family that their loved ones wouldn’t be coming home, that emotion had clouded logic. He’d been too distracted by Nesta’s destructive behaviour to look that bit deeper — to see past the excessive drinking and the sleazy males she used to warm her bed.

Because Cassian had felt everything in that moment when she’d lain over his broken body, as if there were a bridge between their souls. It had been overwhelming — the pain, the anguish, the heartbreak she felt — he could hardly bare the unfiltered rawness of it. And in that moment he understood why Nesta was the way she was, because that mask of indifference was the only thing protecting her from the harshness of the world.

By the time his leg and wings were mended, that bridge felt constricted. Rather than fluid it was stiff and muffled, as if he were wading under water. He had seen enough to know it was still there. Snippets of her life as her walls failed, like today, when all he could feel was pure terror at her magic as it swirled around her, readying itself to strike.

He had heard every one of his bones snap and his agonised screams. He had seen her father’s dead eyes as his body crumpled to the floor, and Elain’s blood-coated hands as she pulled Truth-Teller out of the King of Hybern’s neck…

But even though Nesta had pushed him cruelly away, he still wanted her. Cassian had never been so angry at someone in his entire life — had never thought anyone more barbed and merciless when they wished to be — yet there was also a part of him that understood her. She was fire and ice with the sharp and assessing intelligence of a warrior. He had witnessed first-hand as Nesta read a room in seconds and used it to her advantage with that silver tongue of hers.

In all honesty, he had never ever, been more magnetised by someone in his five hundred years of living, and he knew that nobody else would ever come close.

So Cassian had waited until Nesta’s breathing became even before he had left the house. He was desperate for fresh air, to get lost in the monotonous rhythm of feet on mud so he could play their conversations over and over in his mind. He looped them on repeat and when he really started to look, they began to make sense. Because Nesta couldn’t voice her demons like others could. No, instead she had left him clues. He just hadn’t been clever enough to see it and to ask for an explanation why.

Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.

I told you to stay away. You know nothing about me.

I don’t like fires. You’ll soon change your mind living here. I won’t.

It was all so obvious now. When Cassian cast his mind back to Solstice, Nesta had left the town house after he had added more wood to the fire. She had even deliberately chosen the armchair furthest away form the hearth, even though he knew it wasn’t her favourite spot. At the time, Cassian had thought it because she didn’t want to sit with all of them, but now… Had she left because the sound had become too much? To think he had berated her for not talking to him, when she had probably spent the entire evening trying to ignore the crackling fire and hold herself together.

Dragging a hand over his face, Cassian cast a look around. He had already found the closest messenger and sent word to Rhys, letting him know that he needed to speak with his brother face-to-face. He had also visited the spot of the incident, checking in on the females and children to make sure they weren’t hurt. He had been certain his protective shield had contained the explosion but he had wanted to double check. Now, he found himself in the craftsman centre of the camp. In front of him stood the small wooden building of Emerie’s clothing shop, the glass of the large lead windows shining brilliantly in the sun.

Emerie was standing with her back straight and her chin held high — a perfect rendition of Nesta’s I Will Slay My Enemies pose — as he entered the shop, the bell above the door heralding his arrival. Her sharp eyes flickered in recognition as he closed the door behind him, but she only dropped her chin in acknowledgement. The action was defiant yet subservient and so unusual for an Illyrian female that respect flared within him.

“Emerie,” Cassian said, trying to instil some warmth into his greeting, even if the thought of Nesta small and vulnerable back home was still making his blood run cold.

“Lord Cassian,” she replied, her voice low and modulated. “What can I help you with?”

Fingering the thick woollen scarves that hung on some hooks driven into the wall, Cassian swept an assessing eye around the shop. It was a force of habit from years of training, and a quick glance told him everything he needed to know: it was impeccably tidy and despite a few empty hangers, it looked as if she was still fighting the same losing battle when it came to customers.

“I see you have gotten more popular,” he lied, for lack of something better to say.

Emerie’s dark eyes bore into his. “The clothing shop across the street ran out of coats because of the snow storms. Some had no choice but to buy here.”

The corner of Cassian’s mouth tugged upwards at Emerie’s blunt honesty and the image she had conjured. Cassian would have paid good money to see those proud Illyrian’s faced with the dilemma of buying from a female or facing an early death from the bitter cold.

“That must have been quite the picture,” he said after a moment.

“Yes,” Emerie said slowly with a frown. “Can I help you with something?”

“I need blankets and some of these scarves,” Cassian told her, gesturing to the rack in front of him.

His words prompted Emerie into movement and she floated over to the shelf piled high with an assortment of thick, knitted blankets. “How many?”

“Twelve of each,” Cassian instructed, as he strolled over to a rack of soft earmuffs. His fingers immediately found purchase in the dappled grey fur of a headband. It was surprisingly perfect; it was wide enough to sit snugly over pointed ears, and whilst it was more fashionable than something Illyrian’s usually wore, it was ideal for muffling noise.

Plucking it off the rack, Cassian placed it on the counter. “And this, too.”

Emerie’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t say a word as she began to ring the items up on the till.

Leaning against the counter, Cassian watched her work. When he noticed how her posture straightened uncomfortably at his attention, he tapped a large finger against the pine and cast a look around in an attempt to make her more at ease.

“I don’t suppose you can you order in some books for me, can you?” he asked suddenly, an idea blooming within him.

Despite the unexpected question, Emerie didn’t miss a beat. Unfortunately for her, it meant her well formed responses fell to the wayside. “For Lady Nesta?”

The subsequent, awkward pause had Cassian’s lips twitching again in amusement.

Wings rustling uncomfortably, Emerie dared a look at him. It was a look that Cassian knew no other Illyrian female in this camp would have risked and for that, he admired her.

Her tan cheeks were stained with the faintest red and her eyes were apologetic, as she murmured in explanation, “It’s the talk of the camp…”

“Naturally,” Cassian said, with a wave of his hand. Illyrian’s always were nosy bastards. “Nesta is a keen reader and is in need of some more books.”

Emerie started to neatly fold the different colour fabrics. Her cheeks had faded to a dusky pink. “What genre?”

“Romance usually, but she reads anything and everything. I’d stay clear of horror and war.”

Emerie should definitely steer clear or war, but Cassian didn’t want to stress the importance of it. He had a feeling that Emerie didn’t need telling twice, anyway. She was as sharp as a well-honed blade, from what he had gleaned of her.

“I can look into it,” Emerie said finally, as she finished carefully placing his purchases into bags. “I won’t be able to get any in until next week.”

Cassian nodded to indicate he understood. “A small selection will do.”

Handing her the money, he took the packaged bags. “I’ll see you next week. Send word when the books have arrived. In fact,” he put a gold coin down pointedly on the counter. “For delivery. You know where I live?”

Emerie jerked her chin upwards, her dark hair swaying at the movement.

“Until then,” Cassian said with a bow of his head.

He shot straight into the skies as soon as he was outside, forgoing the steep walk to the widow’s camp halfway up the craggy mountain. The snow was far thicker than in the mountain pass and the ice was treacherous at points. It had only been in irritation that he had suggested walking up it this morning. Nesta’s venomous comment about his inability to read had struck a deep insecurity he’d never been able to shake. So he had fought back in his own way, knowing deep in his gut that she wouldn’t take the easy way out, because he had an inkling Nesta was a stickler for self-punishment.

That childish behaviour had only gotten him what he deserved: females and children nearly dead, and Nesta passed out, her skin so wan that he felt sick to his stomach.

Cassian was well in the air when he felt the familiar claw raking down the ring of fire protecting his mind. He let the fire part and his flames licked at the forthcoming darkness in greeting. It was not the sort of pitch black that was full of haunting promises, but the soothing calm that came with the midnight sky.

His brother’s voice sounded in his head only a second later. I can be late afternoon or does it need to be sooner?

Late afternoon is fine.

A pause followed. Cassian rarely called Rhys to Illyria. It was only when he truly needed the power of a High Lord did he relent and ask Rhys to winnow in, so he wasn’t surprised by the next question.

Need I be worried?

Cassian couldn’t hold back the tightness in his voice, as he said silently, We had an incident this morning.

I don’t doubt that by ‘we’ you mean yourself and the eldest Archeron sister?

Something like that, Cassian replied vaguely. He didn’t want to get into it now — not like this.

Show me?

It was a request not a command and one that Cassian didn’t hesitate to refuse. He shook his head — an instinctual habit even though Rhys couldn’t see him. I’d rather not.

His brother’s reply was delayed but understanding. I’ll winnow into the camp in a few hours. I’m in a meeting with Amren and I like my balls where they are.

Good. That left Cassian with plenty of time to check on Mas and fly them back to the house.

Making sure his brother could detect the amusement in his voice, Cassian said, I didn’t know you had any balls.

A dark chuckle as smooth as silk sounded in his head. Meet you at the top of the mountain?

An immediate understanding that Cassian wanted privacy without having to ask. Sometimes having known somebody for centuries had its perks.

See you there.

Snow crunched beneath Cassian’s heavy boots as he landed at the edge of the widow’s camp. Cassian had set himself down at the crest of the sloping path, which led up the mountain in a steady ascent to the widow’s base. Ahead of him, in the middle of the camp, Cassian could make out the towering mass of grey stone, which hunched over to create what he had always sombrely thought looked like a jagged tombstone: an omen of death waiting to claim the outcast females of the Windhaven camp.

When it came to the deep-rooted sexism in Illyrian culture, Cassian was hard done by for choosing the greatest atrocity. Yet one of the worst by far was their treatment of widows. Just a brief stock of his surroundings told Cassian everything he had expected — their numbers had grown exponentially since the war, a direct result of the Illyrian males who had not made it back.

The conditions down in the mountain pass might be harsh, but the exposure to the elements halfway up the mountain were nothing less than brutal. It was a heinous way-of-life to be relegated to the widow’s camp, but for many husbandless females, they had no choice. There was nowhere else for them to go.

Every day at the crack of dawn when Cassian left the house, he saw the lines of females as they trudged down the perilous, convoluted path to the heart of the Windhaven camp. There, they would work themselves to the bone, just to afford the clothes on their back and to buy enough food to survive.

Despite the laws that Rhys had put into motion, widow’s found it hard to find their place amongst Illyrian society. Once a husband died, the financial strain of a childless widow was often seen as too much on the surviving family, and if their childbearing years were behind them, there was often only one place for them to go. It was rarely — if ever — out of choice to live up the mountain. It meant a hard and difficult existence at the bottom of the social ladder with no opportunity to climb.

Swallowing thickly, Cassian took in the rusting steel drums of fire and the huddled figures desperate for any sense of warmth. Females looked up in alarm as he passed, recoiling in fear of the male — of the General — who had travelled all the way up the mountain to their exiled spot.

Nodding at the weathered faces, Cassian headed towards the East side of the camp. He was unsurprised when all of the females quickly looked away from him and trained their eyes dutifully to the floor. Some of them were too preoccupied with tugging their worn clothing tighter around themselves to ward off the bitter chill, than to look at him at all. The action made Cassian wish he’d brought more blankets, but he knew if they had an inkling that he was bringing them clothing, they would never accept it. Instead, he’d been giving Mas supplies for years, leaving it to her — a respected elder amongst the widow community — to distribute the clothing to those who needed it the most.

Cassian drew up beside Mas’s tent just as she was stepping out. Her tent was less battered than the others — he had brought her a new one a few years prior as a Solstice gift — and whilst she had tutted at him, he knew it brought her comfort and protection from the elements.

She looked alarmed when she saw him, those dark eyes widening exponentially. It was incredibly rare for him to set foot in the camp. In fact, he could count on two hands how many times he had visited. It wasn’t because he didn’t care but because of the reaction he got . Many of the females here had been abused by males at some point in their lives and so a male in the camp was a threat to their safety. And even though Cassian meant no harm, he could sense how tense the females were because of his presence.

“General Cassian… I am late?” Mas asked, even though they both knew she wasn’t expected for a few hours yet.

“Are you — ” he started. But then he stilled, because what he saw had red, hot anger washing over him. The temperature of it was so intense it felt like waves of heat rolling across a desert plain and Mas flinched, as if she too could feel it despite the icy bite to the air. Cassian suspected the ferocity of it still had something to do with the female back at the house. He wasn't sure he'd ever get Nesta's broken expression out of his head as she begged him to stay away.

“Who did this to you?” Cassian demanded, because around Mas’ wrist was a thick bandage, and in her gait… she was limping.

He stepped quickly towards her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw females scuttle into tents, his voice clearly too male and full of rage.

It took the restraint of a warrior to dampen his fire.

He lowered his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

Reaching up, Mas patted his cheek tenderly with her palm. She smiled sadly at him. He knew his concern caught her off guard, even after all these years. Cassian suspected it stemmed from never having anyone that truly cared for her well-being. Her poor wings were testament to that.

“Hush, sinta,” she soothed, with a last pat to his face. “I slipped over in the snow yesterday. I was climbing the mountain in the storm and sprained my wrist. Come, you are scaring the females.”

She gestured for him to follow inside the tent and he relented, if only to save the females from hiding away.

“Will you now listen to me and move into the outhouse?” he muttered irritably, as he ducked through the canvas flap. “Then you wouldn’t have to walk up the mountain at all.”

Mas made a tsk sound between her teeth. “And what of the other widow’s, sinta? The orphans? I can’t up and leave them, you know this.”

Grumbling at the truth of her words, Cassian attempted to straighten up. His head just barely missed a lantern hanging from the primary wooden beam that ran across the roof of the tent as it swayed in a gust of wind. He ducked again, before finding a space where he had no fear of being clobbered in the temple, and stood tall.

Mas’s tent was large in comparison to the other females. Although Mas technically had a tent to herself, she usually offered a spare bed to one of the new recruits until they could get themselves on their own two feet.

Today was no different. In the corner, on a makeshift camp bed was a little girl who could be no older than five. She was curled up on the very corner of the thin mattress, her dark eyes watching him warily. Her little wings rustled as he took another step inside the tent, unsettled by his movement, and his heart squeezed with sadness as he watched her too-thin body shrink into itself as she tried to make herself even smaller.

Cassian took a last look at that dirty, haunted face — the face that should be innocent but was already marred by cruel reality of the world — before he worked a kind smile onto his own. “And who is this?”

“We had some orphans join us last night,” Mas explained, with an air that told him that the amount of female orphans joining the camp was far too frequent, too. “This little one is staying with me for the time being.”

Cassian bit back a grimace as he looked back at the scared youngling. Sadly, circumstances like hers was also a recurring addition to the widow’s camp. Unlike male orphans and bastards, whose use would be found in the sparring rings when they came of age, young girls who had lost their families were often taken in by the widow’s. It meant more mouths to feed and more bodies to clothe, but Mas and the other elders who had already lived unforgiving lives, took female younglings under their wings despite the financial difficulties. Unfortunately, many of the orphans had no option but to start working from a young age, often finding jobs in the kitchens or doing laundry, where they were often required to stamp and wring cloth for long durations of time until their feet and fingers blistered from the friction.

“Don’t bother to find her a job,” Cassian said immediately. “Bring her along with you every day. I’ll pay her a salary.”

Mas’ expression softened and she bowed her head gratefully. “You are too kind, General Cassian.”

Cassian nodded tightly. “It’s the least I can do. Bring her with you later so she can have a hot bath and a good meal. You know the clothing store that used to be owned by Proteus? It’s owned by his daughter Emerie now. Drop by there and pick up some clothing for her on the way. Not the store opposite.” He pressed some coins into her hand. “Whilst you’re at it, get a salve for that wrist. If it’s still sore tomorrow, i’ll call the healer. ”

He nodded to the camp bed. “Does this little one have a name?”

Mas sent him a sad smile, glancing at the small figure in the corner. “She’s not spoken yet.”

Cassian nodded in understanding. He knew what it was like to have your life uprooted and be cast out on your own from a young age. Those memories would never leave him, no matter how many wars he fought or how many Siphons he had.

“Let me know if she needs anything else. Do you want me to fly you both down?”

Mas shook her head. “I need to check on the other girls before I leave.”

“Fine,” he replied, his thoughts already running away with him as he tried to figure out how he could help the other orphans, too. Finding them new homes would be tricky — if not near impossible — but he would try…

“General Cassian,” Mas called after him as he went to leave. “You never said why you were here.”

Cassian held up the bags of supplies in his hands.

“I was just dropping off some warm clothing for the females,” he lied, not wanting to mention Nesta’s foresight. “Will you distribute these to the most needy?”

“Of course,” Mas said obediently, but her look was shrewd and piercing. He had already seen her gaze flit to his forehead, where the large gash was still healing. He wasn’t in the mood to tell her what had happened and he knew she wouldn’t push. No doubt she’d learn about it as soon as she reached the mountain pass, anyway.

It was going to be the talk of the camp — if it wasn’t already.

Setting the bags down by a small chest of drawers to his right, Cassian started to head towards the tent entrance, before hesitating. Now was as good a time as any to speak to Mas about Nesta — about what he’d discovered this morning.

Mas was already looking at him expectantly.

“Nesta is feeling unwell today and has taken to her bed,” he started slowly. “I’ve discovered she doesn’t like fire. The log burner in the living room is fine to use as long as the door is closed, but you mustn’t light a fire in her room.”

Mas’s eyes widened as she followed him out of the tent.

“Yes, General Cassian,” she said obediently. “Of course.”

“Good,” he replied and stretched his wings out wide. “I’ll see you in a few hours, then.”

TAGSS @superspiritfestival

#cassian #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #nesta #acotar #acosf

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