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#its hard to find a good affordable pitch black dragon
cruelangelstheses · 5 years
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something lonesome
fandom: dragon age rating: G characters: fenris/m!hawke, original child character, anders words: 3k additional tags: canon compliant, kid fic, some implied past violence description: when fenris finds an orphaned elven child in the kirkwall alienage, all he knows is that he has to help her somehow. a/n: hello everyone!! i wrote this fic for the @fenriszine and now that the orders have been shipped out i can finally post it!! :D i’m thinking about writing more fics in this ‘verse as well :0 title is from “from eden” by hozier
read it on ao3
The alienage is so busy, Fenris almost doesn’t hear the cries—almost.
It’s not rare to hear an infant wailing, but this is different. It’s plaintive, almost mournful, the howl of someone crushed under the weight of a terrible loss. Intrigued, Fenris stops in his tracks and listens closely, furrowing his brow. Some elves bump into him or brush past him, shaking their heads or muttering something under their breath. After a few seconds of standing in the middle of the street like a fool, he hears it again: tiny, high-pitched sobs.
Fenris had planned on just dropping off the food for Merrill and then leaving the alienage before he could get roped into anything. Too late for that now, it seems.
Turning his head to the side, he quickly pinpoints the probable source of the sound: an alleyway partially hidden by barrels and the shadows of buildings. When he takes a few steps forward, his suspicions are confirmed—the cries get louder the closer he gets.
At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be anything in the alley. Fenris peers behind one of the barrels, and there he spots the perpetrator, huddled in the dirt and the darkness: an elven child, probably no older than four, curled up in the fetal position.
The child must have heard his footsteps, or otherwise sensed his presence, because she lifts her head up abruptly, revealing a reddened and tear-streaked face. Her skin is only a shade or two lighter than his, and her pointed ears protrude from underneath a mess of long, tangled black hair. Upon seeing Fenris towering over her, the girl gasps, her bright green eyes widening in fear.
Fenris isn’t quite sure what to do, so he holds his hands up in a universal gesture of surrender. “Hold on,” he says, his voice steady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The girl sniffles and wipes at her eyes, her lip trembling. She doesn’t seem all that convinced.
Fenris kneels down in front of her. “What happened?” he asks softly, trying his best to adopt a less threatening demeanor, a difficult task when he looks quite...well, threatening.
Unexpectedly, the girl stands up and points toward the alienage, her expression suddenly solemn. Without a word, she steps out into the street, gesturing for him to follow her. Fenris raises a confused eyebrow and rises to his feet.
The girl scurries halfway across the alienage, darting in between groups of elves and ducking underneath their hands. Fenris, being much larger than her, almost crashes into a few of them in his effort to keep track of her. Finally he finds her standing in front of a little home similar to Merrill’s, only Merrill’s front door has never been knocked off its hinges (as far as he knows). It lies broken against the wall, a signifier to all who enter that the rest of the place will probably be in a similar state.
“Is this your house?” Fenris asks the girl. She nods.
When he steps into the main room, he catches the distinct scent of corpses and burnt flesh. He doesn’t even need to see the bodies to get an idea of what may have happened—one glance at the broken furniture, bloodstains, charred wood, and half-frozen weapons is enough.
The first body he finds is that of a templar, badly burned, lying near the entrance to the back room. Fenris already knows what he’ll find on the other side, but he forces himself to take a look.
The smell of death is worse in this room, where pools of blood surround two dead elves on the floor. Though neither wear mage robes, the woman holds a staff in her hand; the man seems to have fought with daggers.
“They came for Mama.”
Fenris jumps at the sound of the voice and spins around to see the young girl standing in front of him, speaking to him for the first time. “They wanted to...to take her away,” she continues. “She didn’t want to. And Papa didn’t want her to. And things got scary. So I ran.”
“I...I see,” Fenris says slowly. Templars sometimes take children of mages away, to be raised by the Chantry—perhaps they never found her after she fled the house. “And you have no other family that could take you in?”
The girl shakes her head.
It doesn’t take long for Fenris to come to a decision. He can’t just leave her here. With an awkward half-smile, an attempt at comfort, he says, “Well, I suppose you will just have to come with me for the moment.”
The girl narrows her eyes in confusion. “Huh?”
“I can help you find somewhere to stay,” he explains. “Will that be alright?”
Some part of his mind wonders if it’s silly to negotiate with a child. He hasn’t had much experience with them; he wouldn’t know. But the way the girl looks at him—with trust and possibly even respect—makes him think that it isn’t, or it shouldn’t be.
“Yes,” the girl says finally. “Thank you, messere.”
For a moment, Fenris wonders if he heard her correctly. Messere—the title one uses when speaking to someone of greater social status in the Free Marches. It’s a title he never expected anyone to be able to use for him, not even a four-year-old. Clearly her parents taught her to be polite. Caught off guard, he says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “I—yes, well—you’re welcome. But, ah, feel free to call me Fenris instead.”
“Okay,” the girl says. “Um...I’m Lyra.”
“Lyra,” Fenris repeats. He likes the way it feels on his tongue. “Well, then, Lyra. Let’s find a place for you, shall we?”
“Finding a place” for Lyra turns out to be a much more difficult task than Fenris expected. The Kirkwall Chantry isn’t willing to take in the elven daughter of a mage, so he couldn’t give her to them even if he wanted to. The elves in the alienage are already struggling under the weight of poverty, so none of them can afford another mouth to feed, and none of the other humans want an elven child.
Lyra, for her part, doesn’t seem to want human parents, either. Already naturally shy and skittish, she shrinks in fear whenever Fenris tries to introduce her to a human acquaintance, even Hawke, who has always been popular with children. Hawke offers to take her in—says the estate feels too big and empty without his mother in it—but when Fenris mentions this to Lyra, she simply shakes her head furiously. It doesn’t matter that two dwarves and an elven servant also live there; all that matters is that there is a human.
That just leaves Varric and Merrill, and Varric respectfully declines. “The Hanged Man is no place for a child,” he says, and Fenris is inclined to agree. Merrill offers, but she can barely take care of herself at the moment, so focused on her mirror that she forgets to eat—that’s the whole reason Fenris was even in the alienage that day. It very rapidly becomes clear that Lyra will probably have to stay at his place for a little while, a prospect that alarms him far more than it should for reasons he can’t quite describe.
It’s not that he’s embarrassed about the mansion; it’s as good as anywhere else, and he likes the idea of destroying things that Danarius considers “his,” of letting a symbol of depravity crumble around him. Still, he feels the need to warn Lyra about its deterioration so that she isn’t surprised by the stark contrast between it and the surrounding mansions.
Lyra, however, is in awe of the place, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the double staircases, the statues, the high ceiling. As he leads her up the stairs, she asks timidly, “How come you don’t live in the alienage?”
“It’s a long story,” Fenris replies. “Let’s just say I got lucky.”
The irony of that phrase isn’t lost on him. Having been a slave isn’t exactly something to be envious of.
Days turn into weeks with Lyra living in Fenris’s mansion. He doesn’t mind, necessarily, and he has enough coin to feed them both, but Aveline is getting antsy. It’s been hard enough for her to hide an elven adult squatting in a deteriorating Hightown manor; adding a child to the mix has only made the neighbors more suspicious. No one has contacted her about actually taking Lyra, though, even temporarily, so there’s nowhere else for the poor kid to go.
Besides, Fenris realizes that he actually rather likes her. She’s quick and clever, but he soon discovers that she can also be playful once she gets comfortable. Sometimes she asks him to tell her a story, only for her to argue with him the whole way through. Occasionally, he’ll find her trying to lift one of his weapons or playing with kitchen knives. She’ll sneak up on him to startle him or climb onto his back while he’s sitting and demand a piggyback ride—but she also listens when he speaks seriously and comes to him when she gets upset.
Fenris can’t watch her all the time, obviously, since Hawke is always bringing him on some sketchy mission or another, but that’s where Bodahn comes in. Lyra takes to him and Sandal immediately, and she seems to see Orana as almost an older sister figure. When he and Hawke return, though, she shrinks behind one of them at the sight of a human, a pitiful transformation from vibrant and animated to the terrified girl she was when Fenris found her.
Eventually she does warm up to Hawke, who still insists on visiting the mansion for reading lessons, but it takes some time. At first, she just sits on the other side of the room, watching them carefully without a word. It isn’t until Hawke’s third visit that she actually speaks to him, asking questions and making comments. Hawke, of course, takes it all in stride, and slowly but surely, Lyra starts to look at him not with fear but with awe.
After close to three years, the sessions aren’t so much “lessons” as “Fenris reading books to Hawke and occasionally stumbling over a word or two.” Fenris constantly reminds him that he doesn’t have to do this anymore, but still Hawke visits once a week, a grin on his face and a book in hand. “He’s just using it as an excuse to visit you,” Isabela said about it once, smirking, but Fenris didn’t quite believe it. He still doesn’t.
It’s during one of these sessions that Fenris notices something different about Lyra. She seems more subdued than usual—at this point, she’s gotten comfortable enough to make comments about the story they’re reading from underneath the desk, where she likes to sit and listen (while playing with Fenris’s toes). Today, though, she doesn’t say much of anything, not even at a major plot twist that nearly makes Fenris toss the novel across the room. He tries to engage her by asking what she thinks, but the most he gets out of her is a noncommittal grunt or a one-word answer.
At first, he figures she’s probably just grumpy. After Hawke leaves, though, Fenris hears her coughing.
“Lyra?” he says, peering underneath the desk. He finds her lying on the ground, cheeks flushed, breathing labored, forehead beading with sweat. At the sound of his voice, she gazes up at him with heavy-lidded eyes.
Fenris tries not to immediately launch into a panic. “Lyra, how long have you been feeling like this?”
“Since...yesterday,” she says weakly. “Got worse...today.”
Fenris groans and runs a hand through his hair, mentally kicking himself. He noticed that she seemed drowsier than usual this morning, but other than that, she showed no outward signs of sickness. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want...to worry you,” Lyra says, closing her eyes and coughing again.
Fenris’s mind races, and the solution comes to him almost instantly. Breathing deeply and trying to sound calm, he says, “Listen. I’m going to take you to a human in Darktown. He is good at what he does. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
Lyra doesn’t protest. When he picks her up, her head lies limp on his shoulder.
The sun is almost below the horizon by the time Fenris reaches the clinic and shoves the door open.
Anders is the only one there, in the process of cleaning a bloody cot when he looks up and registers Fenris’s presence. “What—?” he starts, narrowing his eyes in confusion, before his gaze drops to the now-unconscious child in Fenris��s arms. “Oh, no.”
“Do something,” Fenris says, almost pleading.
Anders doesn’t hesitate. Gesturing to a clean cot nearby, he says, “Lay her down over there.”
Fenris spends most of his time in the clinic pacing back and forth, agitated, his focus always on Anders and Lyra. He should have noticed sooner. He should have paid closer attention to her. He should have made sure she knew to come to him. He should have—
“Fenris.” Anders’s voice breaks through his panicked thoughts. Fenris glances over at him, at the way his hands glow with bright blue light as they hover over Lyra. Without looking up from her, Anders says, “She’ll be alright.”
Automatically, Fenris breathes a sigh of relief and sits down on the next cot over, watching them. “It’s a pretty common illness,” Anders continues. “Children just aren’t as resistant to it because their bodies haven’t built up immunity yet. She’ll have to stay here overnight so I can keep an eye on her, but after that she should be fine.”
Fenris nods slowly. He’ll admit, Lyra already looks a bit better. “I...thank you,” he says, somewhat awkwardly.
“It’s nothing.”
For a moment, neither of them say anything. Then Anders finally looks up at him with the faintest smile and says, not unkindly, “You’ve gotten quite attached to her, haven’t you?”
That catches Fenris off-guard. He opens his mouth to deny it, but he can’t come up with any plausible excuse. It’s only been about a month and a half, but in that time he’s come to enjoy Lyra’s presence in his life. He hates to think of anything bad happening to her, and he’ll be sad to see her go with another family.
“I...suppose,” he mutters, but now that someone has actually said it, it can’t be ignored. He has gotten attached. It’s almost pathetic.
About two weeks later, Fenris learns that Varania is in Kirkwall.
When he returns from the Hanged Man that fateful day, Lyra bombards him with questions. “How did it go? What did she look like? Was she nice? What did you talk about? Am I gonna get to meet her?”
Fenris only answers the last one. “No,” he says brusquely as he opens the door to the mansion. “You will not get to meet her.”
Lyra frowns. “Why not?”
Fenris sighs. “Because sometimes there is a difference between being linked by blood and being family.”
He says it offhandedly, a statement filled with bitterness and loneliness, but as the words leave his mouth, he glances down at the child he’s been caring for and realizes that perhaps it’s true in more ways than one.
The next day, things start to fall into place.
Danarius is dead. He is free to do whatever he wishes. More importantly, though, Hawke is still there. Hawke wants to be there. As they talk, Fenris wonders if perhaps Isabela was on to something. He’s never felt such longing in his life, never allowed himself to—but Hawke has proven to be an exception more times than Fenris can count.
When they finally, finally kiss, Fenris feels his chest brim with something akin to hope. He can still have a future. He can still have a family.
As if on cue, Lyra waltzes into the room about four seconds later. “Ewww!” she groans, sticking her tongue out and immediately walking away. “I knew it! I knew you were like Mama and Papa! I knew it!”
Hawke and Fenris separate almost instantly. Fenris can feel his cheeks heating up. Hawke mutters, “How much tension must we have had, for even a four-year-old to figure it out?”
“Don’t underestimate her,” Fenris replies. “She is quite clever.”
Hawke nods and scratches his beard in thought. “You know, speaking of the future,” he says slowly, “what are you planning to do about her?”
Fenris pauses before finally speaking the ludicrous idea that’s been bouncing around in his head. “I’ve...been considering...keeping her. Raising her.”
He waits for Hawke to call him crazy, but it never happens. Instead, Hawke grins and says, “Two can play at that game.”
Fenris just smiles and kisses him again.
It happens a week later, at the estate.
One minute, Lyra is running around the house with Sandal. The next, she’s sobbing on the floor, despite not being visibly injured. Fenris and Hawke both rush over to her and kneel down to see her better. Sniffling, she says, “I can tell you anything, right?”
“Of course,” Fenris replies immediately.
“Okay,” Lyra says, wiping at her eyes. “I was...just playing with Sandal, but then…”
She holds her palms out. Almost immediately, a tiny flame starts to form at her fingertips. Fenris thinks back to Lyra’s mother, dead on the floor with a staff in hand.
Lyra buries her head into Fenris’s shoulder. “Don’t let them take me,” she pleads.
Hawke and Fenris exchange glances, but if he’s being completely honest with himself, there was never any doubt. Hawke is a strong mage, a skilled mage, raised by an apostate. If anyone can teach Lyra to control her powers, it’s him.
“We won’t,” Fenris says softly, pulling her into an embrace. “They will not take you from us. Nothing bad will happen to you.”
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foxghost · 5 years
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鎮魂 Guardian [Zhen Hun] extra 3 full translation
No real spoilers in this one, just fluff and crack. [TN: the other extras are here, you may want to check out #4 for notes on names.] Original Chinese character count: 4363 English Translation + notes word count: 4042
===
Later, the Special Investigation Department moves away from 4 Bright Road to 9 University Road, just one pedestrian crossing away from Dragon City University.
Lin Jing lingers at their old address just before the move, reluctant to leave and goes around and around the empty office with his recently upgraded equipment — a long barrel SLR camera — and photographs every last detail; not even the cobwebs escapes his scrutiny. When he’s done, Lin Jing picks out the few he’s satisfied with and sends them to a magazine publisher, hoping to make a name for himself in the “Former Haunts” series.
Thus leading to the editor-in-chief of the magazine suffering a great blow to his delicate psyche.
The editor-in-chief ends up in the hospital over the incident, and reporting what they perceived as a 'malignant, intentional manufacturing of supernatural photographs for the purpose of scaring people" to the police. As familial shame cannot be spread abroad, Zhao-chu can only show his face and quietly settle things behind the scenes. When he comes back, he beats the crap out of that idiot fake monk in the path of his innocent gaze.
Eat, sleep, beat Lin Jing; the crew at 9 University Road finally fall back into their ordinary, everyday routine.
The accommodation at their new office is decadent to the extreme, with a sunny attic upstairs and a double cellar below. The second cellar houses their book collection, while the first cellar is a shrine-like space with a mahjong table surrounded by a circle of memorial tablets. During the day it provides a resting place for their ghost employees, and any individual suffering from insomnia can get up and play a round of mahjong.
… And so, during the day, one can often hear the sound of shuffling mahjong tiles from the mysteriously locked first cellar.
On the top floor, the attic is warm and bright with sunshine, painted with a thick layer of soundproofing paint; those who are tired can take a noon nap, and opening the windows affords one the view of the whole courtyard — unfortunately there is no beautiful scenery to be had.
Since members of the S.I.D. could not come to an agreement regarding a plan for the garden, there’s no unified theme. After they divided up the space, the courtyard has become a weird mixture of styles containing a little bit of everything.
Zhao Yunlan claims the entire rear courtyard for himself. With an oddly cultivated aesthetic that has nothing at all to do with the arts that he’s ignored his whole life through, he vetoes Zhu Hong’s favoured Japanese roses, vetoes Chu Shuzhi’s suggestion of vines, vetoes Lin Jing’s request of a Bodhi tree … ultimately planting an entire rear courtyard worth of vegetables.
There’s mini cole, cherry tomatoes, pumpkin seedlings, pea sprouts, Chinese cedar sprouts … a veritable neighbourhood of assorted vegetables growing side by side. In the middle of it all stands a coquettish eggplant surrounded by all the other plants the way stars surround the moon.
[TN: 風騷茄子 / Coquettish Eggplant is a dish…this ia a pun.]
Zhao Yunlan hints that come winter he’ll even fill the entire rear courtyard with bok choi.
From then onwards, neither mortal nor ghost has played in the rear courtyard that has become a vegetable garden.
By the time Shen Wei finishes class, the sun has already begun inclining towards the west. It’s still warm outside, and the short stroll from school even counting the time it takes to wait for the light to change is only five, six minute at most.
The entire staff of the S.I.D. each holds a copy of Teacher Shen’s class schedule. They wait eagerly for his arrival daily as one watches for the stars and the moon. There was once a time that the soldiers skipping out on work along with the leader was routine, because when the ceiling beams are crooked the pillars came along; since their leader Zhao Yunlan stopped messing around and started calmly spending all his days in the office like a hermit though, those days are long gone.
In this respect, everyone feels a little depressed, even in light of their new surroundings.
Yet when Teacher Shen arrives he can always swiftly take the leader away. And if the leader is gone, naturally it implies that everyone else can leave work early as well.
As he steps through the door, Shen Wei is greeted by countless “good day Teacher Shen” and “good work Teacher Shen” and many more besides along with such fervent looks from everyone that it’s borderline like the staff are held in enemy territory awaiting a liberating army. Shen Wei finds it hard to adapt to this at first, but as time goes by he’s no longer fazed by all the attention.
Guo Changcheng is zoning out, Zhu Hong is doing some online stopping, Chu Shuzhi is watching the candlestick graph, Lin Jing is tinkering with a new model of wiretapping device: a fish scale-like thing the size of a girl’s fingernail that turns invisible and records in secret once it sticks to anything.
Black cat Daqing nests on the staircase handrail, waving his tail at Shen Wei. “He’s in the attic.”
Shen Wei makes an approving hum, nods as he says “Thank you,” but when he’s just about to pass by, he lifts a brow slightly and glances at Daqing. “Be careful, don’t fall off now.”
… The handrail only looks half as big as Daqing’s stomach. The way he’s lying prone on top of it looks extremely weird.
Daqing stares blankly for a full second, then with a wail he turns into an angry furball. “I’m practicing—Yo—ga! What’s wrong with practicing yoga? You got a problem with that?”
Keeping a smile on his face, Shen Wei reaches out to stroke his head, and goes upstairs.
Daqing furiously drapes himself back down on the handrail. Lin Jing asks, teasing, “Aiyoh, little princeling Daqing, which yoga pose are you practicing?”
Daqing says after a pause, “Cat pose.”
Those who follow the Way never lies, so goes the doctrine. Lin Jing appropriately shows his evaluation with a peal of laughter.
… As a result he gained two new bloody scratches on his face. The wiretap in his hand goes flying towards destination unknown, turning invisible.
Lao-Li, who’s always appearing without a sound and vanishing without a trace, appears now to quietly supply cotton swabs and bandages as if he’s the hapless master responsible for the aftermath of his cat’s crimes. Yet the cat has no appreciation for his love at all, and doesn’t bother with even a snort as he jumps off the railing into a cat stretch and leaving the scene.
There are times when such a thing as love is like a fragile pane of glass. It doesn’t matter what kind of love it is: nothing can glue it back together after it shatters, even if the ones involved no longer cared, even if they have already chosen to forgive.
That’s why a person should be faithful to oneself unto death. Whether choosing to be so selfish as to hurt countless without regrets, or to cherish another’s affection from the beginning, even at the risk of looking like a fool.
Shen Wei pushes open the door to the top floor lightly. There’s a sofa bed in the attic situated for a full day of sunlight, and Zhao Yunlan naps there with a blanket thrown across his waist, fingers still trapped between the pages of a book in his hands.
Shen Wei approaches quietly, stooping to kiss him lightly on the lips. Zhao Yunlan doesn’t bother opening his eyes, he hums lazily with sleep and says, “You’re done with class?”
Shen Wei answers with an agreeing noise, reaching out to prop up Zhao Yunlan by his back so he can sit down. “Wake up a little. It’s not early anymore, and if you fall asleep again you won’t be able to sleep later.”
Zhao Yunlan takes advantage of the shift in position to lie down on Shen Wei’s thighs. Yawning, he says blearily, “I didn’t actually want to sleep.”
With half-lidded eyes he waves the “Vegetable Planting Techniques” in his hands and grumbles, “I’m telling you, this book has to be cursed. I can’t ever get to the first chapter. Just the forward is enough to knock someone out. I only made it to the 8th page now and I’m still stuck in the introduction.”
Shen Wei picks it up and flips through its pages. It’s a textbook from the agricultural university, and not a single centimetre of white space is wasted — even the pictures are black and white and so serious it has no entertainment value whatsoever. Shen Wei puts it aside and says without thinking, “Why do you bother reading it? If luck’s on their side, whichever seed you sow may even chance into a refined essence and become Yao. There is no chance that any of them wouldn’t grow.”
Zhao Yunlan says, “No, only science and technology is the primary productive force.”
[TN. he’s quoting fundamental principle of Marxism here so that’s why SW makes fun of him.]
Shen Wei says after a pause, “Why don’t you go back to study science and technology then.”
Zhao Yunlan rolls his eyes, and harbouring ulterior motives, says, “The primary productive force and I are jinxed. It reduces me to sleep in a single glance.”
[TN. 犯克 roughly means “it disagrees with my birth hour.” So it does mean jinxed, but with him ONLY.]
Shen Wei looks down, discovering that whatever sleepiness in Zhao Yunlan’s pitch black eyes have already evaporated, and they stare up at him with wordless amusement.
Zhao Yunlan reaches around so he’s holding Shen Wei by the waist. “If I can’t keep reading, then I’ll forget my meals, my mood will plunge, and if it goes on any longer I’ll fall into a depression!”
Shen Wei just looks at him without saying a word.
One lie after another comes out of Zhao Yunlan’s mouth. “Listen, the suicide rate is really high in Northern Europe because the cold climate leads to depression. Kunlun mountain is covered in ice and snow that never melts — it doesn’t even have heat, so my bones must carry the genes for depression.”
Shen Wei is silent for a time before saying, “You must forgive my inability to see this.”
Zhao Yunlan says, “You must not love me anymore! You … man of easy virtue!”
[TN. ZYL says SW has a “nature as ever changing as running water and alights on all like flower petals,” and it’s usually a phrase meaning ‘fickle woman.’]
Shen Wei pushes at his temple as if to hold back a headache. “Stop acting so spoiled. What would you like?”
Zhao Yunlan laughs a mischievous laugh, revealing a row of neat white teeth.
“Fine. I’ll read it to you when we get home,” Shen Wei says, helplessly gentle, before uncomfortably averting his gaze. “But if you’re going to listen, then be good and listen. If you get drowsy listening then sleep. You’re not allowed to mess around.”
His ears are taking on a flush, and he looks like a half-willing young bride that’s just been picked on by an evil tyrant taking liberties, only half-willing because he’s left without a choice.
Zhao Yunlan grabs hold of Shen Wei’s collar indignantly and pulls him closer. “Can I trouble you not to be such a pure white lotus okay baby? From the fucking moment we met 'til now have I ever successfully taken a single dime of advantage of you … fine I’ll admit I’ve had more criminal attempts, but I haven’t any criminal reality!”
Shen Wei hastens to placate him. “Okay okay okay, get up. Let’s go home.”
“I can’t.” Zhao Yunlan turns his face to the side, expressionless. “The muscles in my lower back are strained.”
Shen Wei says softly, bashful, “Then should I carry you?”
Zhao Yunlan takes a look at him in silence, and stands up in silence. He finds that his back doesn’t hurt at all anymore — but he does feel a pang in his stomach.
As soon as they step through the front door, the rest of the staff scatter like birds and beasts. Zhu Hong’s the first to slip out, with Lin Jing closely following. Chu Shuzhi pours himself a cup of cheap tea, holding fast until the stock market closes before leisurely putting things away. As he’s about to go he raises his head to discover that Guo Changcheng still hasn’t left yet.
[TN. 茶水 / cha shui / lit. tea water / cheap tea is the kind of tea you get in diners, usually ceylon, comes in a plastic cup, made with cheaper leaves and brewed bulk in a metal dispenser.]
The room is empty save for them. Guo Changcheng sitting there staring into space without a word looks like a painted stage set, dazed to distraction. Chu Shuzhi asks casually, “Why haven’t you left yet?”
As if shaken from a dream, Guo Changcheng trembles violently and bumps the water-dwelling plant, spilling it all over his desk.
Chu Shuzhi subconsciously reaches for his own face; suspecting that maybe he’s been slack in the cultivation of his arts and his livor-mortis is showing, somehow managing to scare this unfortunate child until he’s beside himself.
Guo Changcheng stammers, “I um I’m leaving,” and cleans up in a flurry of activity.
Chu Shuzhi can read body language well enough, so he asks, “Are you planning to go bomb a bunker? Why do you look like you’re going to war?”
If Guo Changcheng has a pair of dog ears, he guesses now they would be drooping.
Twenty minutes later, the two emerge from 9 University Road with Chu Shuzhi furrowing his brow and coming to a conclusion. “That is to say, your second uncle wants you to go to a xiangqin.”
[TN. 相親 / Xiangqin. A marriage interview arranged by a matchmaker. A direct equivalent is the Japanese o-miai. The characters mean mutual-intimacy.]
A spray of sparks explodes out of Guo Changcheng’s pocket.
Chu Shuzhi quickly sidesteps. “Watch it. What’s with the groundless worry? Is this girl you’re meeting a tigress?”
To avoid setting his pants on fire, Guo Changcheng hurriedly takes the stun baton out of his pocket, but that only attracts the attention of passersby instead; they don’t even manage to make it to the parking lot before the traffic cop at the crosswalk yells at them, “What’s going on? You can’t set off fireworks within city limits! Where’s your sense of civic responsibility?”
Chu Shuzhi silently covers his face and pretends to look up at the sky.
The lich king is reclusive and detached; aside from the occasional garrulous words he exchanges with acquaintances, his entire person gives off an aura of do not approach, so he’s often lonely in the cold emptiness of his life. Outside of cultivating his essence, he has little to do in the long hours outside of work, leaving his well-hidden desire to gossip eternally unsatisfied. He feels a sudden curiosity of how this human custom of xiangqin is conducted, and with a tone like he’s volunteering to join a war, he says, “Ok, stop spraying fireworks. You’ll get a fine. Why don’t we do this — I’ll sit by you pretending to be just another customer the whole time for your xiangqin, alright?”
[TN. 屍王 / lit. corpse king. I suppose it could also read “necromancer” but he’s a corpse himself, so closer to a lich.]
Guo Changcheng gives him a tortured look, and from Chu Shuzhi’s solemn face he can just glean a hint of the curiosity of a gossiping fishwife.
They arrive more than thirty minutes earlier than the appointed time, and it’s only after Chu Shuzhi flip through an entire old magazine to pass the time before the girl arrives.
Chu Shuzhi looks on as Guo Changcheng freezes solidly into a human stick, and thinks with some amazement that he hasn’t seen a mortal with such great potential to become a jianshi for many years.
[TN. 人棍 / human stick is actually a brutal ancient torture that’s best not described here. CSZ uses some harsh language in his head…
殭屍 / Jiangshi / what Chu Shuzhi is, is a culturally unique mythological creature that originated from the way undertakers were said to have ordered corpses to jump as they led the dead back to their hometowns for burial. Depending on the telling, they eat flesh, drink blood, sleep in coffins, fear the sun, and only in some stories do they have minds of their own.]
Chu Shuzhi moves his gaze downwards, finding Guo Changcheng’s pant cuffs shaking uncontrollably, his entire body resembling a quail that found itself falling heavily on its ass on broken glass. He congratulates himself for confiscating Guo Changcheng’s little stun baton beforehand, otherwise he’s sure the young lady’s perfectly ironed straight fringe would have been fried immediately into natural curls.
“Oh, come on. Grow up,” Chu Zhushi thinks, feeling rather disappointed on his behalf.
Fortunately, the young lady has a good temperament, and doesn’t go on Weibo on the spot to start a post titled, “Ran into someone outrageous at the xiangqin” as a souvenir. Instead she confidently attempts to keep the conversation going by cycling through a list of seemingly endless topics. From the start Guo Changcheng acts exactly like a criminal at a trial, whatever question thrown his way he must tremble thrice, all the while sending a continuous distress signal in Chu Shuzhi’s direction. Unfortunately Chu Shuzhi feigns interest in the menu and is utterly unreceptive.
Ten minutes of trembling later, the lady finally can’t help asking, “You … are you a little nervous?”
Guo Changcheng, red all over, nods at her.
The lady smiles a little. “It’s not important. We’re only having a casual chat.”
Guo Changcheng, still red all over, nods again, and carefully gives her a single glance before looking extremely ill at ease, turning his gaze away.
Normally when coming across someone that can’t even speak clearly, the other side would flip desk and leave, but this young lady who’s come to this xiangqin seem to have an odd weakness. Facing someone like Guo Changcheng, a sense of protectiveness inexplicably grows in her heart.
“I think you’re just like Raj from the Big Bang Theory,” she says happily. “Especially cute — my aunt says you’re a police officer. Really?”
Guo Changcheng makes a sound of agreement that comes off like a mosquito’s hum.
The lady says, “Really! I can’t tell at all. Then what do you do normally when you meet a bad person?”
Guo Changcheng spends a moment recalling, then truthfully illustrates just how he catches ‘bad people.’ He makes a clawing gesture, pretending to pick up his ‘secret weapon’ and says, “Just like this, and I tell, tell it, ‘you you you you you can’t come over here,’ and then I catch them.”
The lady stares at him blankly a second, and realising that it’s possibly a joke, she laughs, swaying back in forth in her mirth. “You’re just too cute!”
With naive eyes Guo Changcheng stares at her, utterly clueless.
Chu Shuzhi watches with his cheek in his hand and all the coolness of a bystander. When he thinks back on what they actually get up to during work, he does manage to find a hint of what one may call ‘adorkable.’ As he takes another look at the still happy girl and the utterly out-of-form Guo Changcheng, he glances at his watch. It’s starting to feel rather dull sitting here.
But once these two start chatting they seem to go on and on; Chu Shuzhi reins in his impatience, takes out his phone and plays games for ages until his vision’s starting to blur and he can’t take anymore. He waves at the waiter, “Ready to order.”
The waiter diligently comes over only to hear Chu Shuzhi say in a quiet and eerie voice, “One order of Kung Pao chicken, make sure the meat is only three parts done and still bloody.”
The waiter is silent.
Guo Changcheng overhears this from across the room and immediate turn around to glance at Chu Shuzhi, recognizes the gloomy corpse-like scowl on the lich (corpse) king and finally realises that he’s gotten carried away.
But while he racks his brains trying to wrap up the conversation, the other side suddenly goes from easy to stern and says to him, “Oh, right, actually I still want to say that …”
She pauses then, as if what she wants to say may be too embarrassing to mention.
Guo Changcheng asks, “What is it?”
The lady stares down at her lap and seems to think for a moment before saying, “This is our first meeting, so it’s probably not appropriate for me to be saying this, but I really do like you quite a bit …”
Guo changcheng sits as straight and stiff as a red Songhum tree — even his eyes seem to turn vertical.
She continues to say, “So there is something I want to say before anything else. I didn’t really want to come here today at first because my aunt said you were a criminal police officer. I don’t think living with a cop is especially stable, really. Everyday I’d have to be on edge all the time thinking about how you are, and as time goes on,” she trails off then, sighing. “Is this line of work something you must do?”
Guo Changcheng stares blankly for a second, and before he’s able to answer, a hand grabs onto his shoulder without any warning, hauling him right up from his seat.
Guo Changcheng says, “Chu-ge?”
It’s too sudden for the lady at her xiangqing to react, and her gaze at Chu Shuzhi shows no reaction.
Chu Shuzhi gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, before his attention shifts down towards Guo Changcheng, and he says with a tone that’s meant to cause confusion, “A Xiangqing behind my back? Why, you certainly have such gall!”
Guo Changcheng is shocked to silence.
What, what is this situation?
The lady’s eyes widen, captivated, completely in awe of the lich king’s aura and this utterly contrived plot. Chu Shuzhi reaches into Guo Changcheng’s pocket, digs out a few Renminbi bills and leaves them beneath a cup. Without another word of explanation, he stuffs Guo Changcheng beneath one arm and carries him out.
[TN. Renminbi, lit. The People’s money, the cash of the PRC.]
Guo Changcheng BSOD on scene and remains unresponsive until Chu Shuzhi stuffs him into the car. Chu Shuzhi stretches out his legs, and like an arrogant master of old, commands, “Start the car. Drop me off first.”
Guo Changcheng telegraphs ten thousand emotions tied up in knots in a single glance.
Chu Shuzhi says, “What are you glaring for, I’m doing this for her sake. To think she would dream up an idea like that, go digging at Kunlun-jun’s foundations. Really…”
[TN. 挖牆腳 - lit. dig at the foot of a wall. Applicable both in the case of someone seducing your husband or a competitor trying to lure away an employee.]
His speech halts, and a phrase comes to him unbidden like good fortune. He blurts out, "Stupid humans.
…Stupid human Guo Changcheng doesn’t say anything, and with his face still bright red, he silently starts the car.
On his satchel, a little round disc that resembles a scale invisibly transmits.
The next day, a rumour seem to spring up from everywhere at once: Chu-ge and Xiao-Guo’s gone steady, 9 University Rd is a nest for gays.
[TN. 搞大象 lit. setup-big-elephant. It came from 搞對象 lit. setup a partner. It’s just slang to replace the middle character with 大 / big, or 小 / small to indicate whether the partner is serious or casual.]
And what’s become of the person unfortunate enough to hear something he should not have, the Lin Jing who spread the rumours?
Oh, may the lord Buddha preserve us, he’s gained so many bumps on his head it’s wrapped in enough bandages to resemble a turban.
===
Much thanks to @lifeishwaiting for the final once over.
I’ve been sitting on this draft forever trying to get around the couple of derogatory terms the author used, and I did change them above, so I’ll note them here:
Raj from BBT was referred to as “The little Indian from BBT”
The last line used 印度阿三 and here’s the Baidu entry. I ended up using “turban” instead because it’s what she really meant as a description, and it’s a word used in Chinese history — think “Yellow Turban Rebellion” before the Three Kingdoms period.
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neuxue · 5 years
Text
Wheel of Time liveblogging: The Gathering Storm ch 33
You know that feeling. When you read a particular line and it just. Makes you feel a lot of emotions simultaneously and it’s almost too much and you don’t so much want to say something about it as you want to immerse yourself in it completely and make high-pitched keening noises?
Chapter 33: A Conversation with the Dragon
Well at least this one’s upfront about the fact that it’s probably going to hurt. Because any conversation with Rand is going to hurt, at this point.
Or…Dragon? Could also be referring to Lews Therin, I suppose. Which doesn’t actually lessen the probability that it’s going to hurt, so.
Even Rand’s pyjamas are red and black. Going to start dyeing your hair black again too, Rand? Better hope you and Moridin don’t turn up at the same fireplace anytime soon or it’ll be a major fashion faux-pas. Tabloids all over Tel’aran’rhiod will be sneering at you. You won’t be able to set foot outside for a week.
I’m stalling again, aren’t I?
It was getting harder and harder to see in him the boy Nynaeve had known in the Two Rivers. Had his jaw always been set with those lines of determination? When had his step grown so sure, his posture so demanding? This man almost seemed an…interpretation of the Rand she’d once known. Like a statue, carved from rock to look like him, but exaggerated in heroic lines.
Memory becomes legend…
This is an interesting description from Nynaeve, because it gets to the heart of what so much of his path has been: leaving Rand al’Thor behind to become the Dragon Reborn. Trading humanity for destiny, self for role. We see it early on as a struggle, as he only wanted to sit, and remember a shepherd named Rand al’Thor and then a little later as ‘I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be’ and it just escalates from there. He becomes the role, the Dragon, but the only way he sees to do that is by letting go of pieces of himself until there’s almost nothing left, until what remains what he believes he must be; what he believes prophecy and the world and the Last Battle demand. And strong enough – hard enough – to withstand it. Stone rather than human, statue rather than flesh, figure rather than human. A legend in the shape of the memory of a man.  
But unlike most, Nynaeve still looks for the boy she knew; she sees the changes because she holds on to the memory of what was there. He’s still human to her, and that’s why the changes even register.
“Last I checked, I didn’t need your permission to channel. You’ve grown high and mighty, Rand al’Thor, but don’t forget that I paddled your backside when you were barely as tall as a man’s shins.”
And, being Nynaeve, she shows that recognition of his humanity, and her care for him, in her own…special way. Some things never change.
Rand’s very much not thrilled to be awoken in the middle of the night for a ‘spindly, terrified youth’ but is very slightly less not thrilled when Nynaeve tells him why.
That got Rand’s attention, and Min’s as well. She’d poured herself a cup of tea and was leaning against a wall. Why weren’t they married?
That’s…honestly so far down the list of important questions I don’t think it has a number. But Nynaeve is Nynaeve; this would have been her responsibility, once, back in Emond’s Field. And it’s part and parcel of the fact that she still sees the person he was in him; this wouldn’t even come close to registering in most people’s minds, because he’s the Dragon Reborn and one doesn’t wonder such things about the Dragon Reborn. I mean, not that it’s actually anyone’s business whether two people are married or not, but the fact that Nynaeve immediately thinks about it shows how much she does still see him as that boy she knew. And herself as his Wisdom.
“At the dungeon where you sent Milisair Chadmar,” Nynaeve said, eyeing him. “It is terrible, Rand al’Thor. You have no right to treat a person in such a manner.”
He didn’t rise to that comment either.
This puts me very much in mind of a doctor hitting your knee with one of those little rubber hammers to make sure your reflexes are working. She’s testing his ‘reflexes’ here, tapping at the buttons she knows were once there, scoping out the shape of what’s wrong. I mean, she knows what’s wrong, I think. But she’s trying to understand it, trying to draw more of Rand out if she can, trying to better understand what’s wrong so she can help make it well. But he’s not responding like he used to, and that in itself is an indication.
“I think he killed the messenger.”
Does no one remember you’re not supposed to do that? There’s a saying about it and everything!
Rand glanced at Nynaeve, and she could almost feelhim connecting the comments to figure out what she had been doing. “You Aes Sedai,” he finally said, “share much with rats, I have come to realise. You are always in places where you are not wanted.”
Nynaeve snorted. “If I’d stayed away, then Milisair would be dying and Kerb would be free.”
She’s not rising to his bait, either.
Also, that particular comparison makes me think of Moridin again, I have to say.
Ah, so Nynaeve does recognise that the kid is blocked by Compulsion. I guess we’ll get to find out whether ta’veren can out-do Compulsion after all.
“Stop,” Rand said softly. “Do you believe that I can kill you?”
The boy fell silent and – though Nynaeve wouldn’t have thought it possible – his blue eyes opened wider.
“Do you believe that if I simply said the word,” Rand continued in his eerie, quiet voice, “your heart would stop beating? I am the Dragon Reborn. Do you believe that I can take your life, or your soul itself, if I so much as will it to happen?”
So that’s…um…
A new favourite trick of his, certainly, it would seem. He tried it on Cadsuane, and we’re seeing it again here, and it’s the softness of it that makes it so terrifying.
That, and the fact that – maybe just because his choice of colour scheme and the comparison of Aes Sedai to rats has me thinking of Moridin – he sounds rather like Ishamael/Ba’alzamon here. Your soul is mine, death is mine, I can claim your life and your soul…
It’s very, verydifferent from how Nynaeve intimidated and threatened the prison guards. Soft and gentle and dangerous and utterly without feeling.
Nynaeve saw it again, the patina of darkness around Rand, that aura that she couldn’t quite be certain was there. She raised her tea to her lips – and found that it had suddenly grown bitter and stale
Okay, that’s it. The rest, I could forgive. But this? Making tea go bad? Ruining tea? That is truly irredeemable. You have gone too far.
“You will have to unravel the web of Compulsion, wipe it from his mind, before he can tell us what he knows.”
So it is a conversation with Lews Therin, at least in flashes.
Also, um, what?
No pressure, Nynaeve! Then again, if anyone can figure out how to heal Compulsion, it would be her.
“I have little skill with this kind of weaving,” Rand said with a wave of his hand. “I suspect that you can remove Compulsion, if you try. It is similar to Healing, in a way. Use the same weave that creates Compulsion, but reverse it.”
Does that mean Rand has, or would have, little skill at Compulsion as well? He’s never actually tried to use it, that I know of. Maybe some things are still too far, even for him as he is now. Or maybe he simply isn’t good enough at it to make it an option.
Can any weave be countered this way, or its effects healed? By using the same weave that creates it, but…reversed? Because there’s another forbidden weave, you see, that causes irreparable damage…
“I can’t tell you how it is done specifically, not for a woman, but you are clever. I’m certain you can manage.”
His unintentionally patronising tone sent her back into a rage.
Yeah, I mean, he shouts at her not to patronise him, and then turns around and basically pats her on the head and calls her a clever girl. She’s an Aes Sedai, not a raptor.
But then, she’s always done her best healing when she’s angry.
How had Rand known? She shivered, thinking of what Semirhage had said about him. Memories from another life, memories he had no right to. There was a reason the Creator allowed them to forget their past lives. No man should have to remember the failures of Lews Therin Telamon.
Allowed them to forget. Not made them forget. Others might see madness, but she just sees the pain it causes. Sorrows and his own suicide. Is it any wonder he tried so hard to push those memories away, to distance himself from them, terrified of sharing that fate? Is it any wonder he’s done what he has to try to insulate himself from the pain of not just this life but last? It’s not enough to carry the weight of the world; he has to remember letting it shatter.
And yet, those memories are almost certainly necessary. The knowledge in them, for one, but also…I feel like there’s still something to the fact that he’s fighting against himself, and that he has reached a point where he’s effectively lost all hope of surviving what is to come, and any desire to do so. Where he believes he’s already damned. But I feel like there’s something to be learned there about…the Wheel of Time turns and each victory might only lead to another battle and sometimes there are failures and sometimes they hurt but at least there’s still a chance to keep trying.
And okay, he’s pretty much on the other side of the galaxy from anything even remotely resembling that kind of take on it, but. It feels like the lighter side of the fight Rand’s been fighting against himself – insisting that he will not be Lews Therin, that Lews Therin failed but he won’t, that Lews Therin Kinslayer killed everyone he loved but Rand will not kill where he doesn’t have to…but it’s the wrong fight. It’s the difference between rejecting failure and learning from it. And it’s the difference, I think, between fighting just for an end, and fighting for a reason, fighting to give the world another lease on the future and if not certainty then at least hope.
It’s why I’ve been shouting at him for several books now to stop fighting himself, to accept who he is but also who he was, because then it’s not about fighting against the past but instead moving on from it.
Still, easier said than done when, as Nynaeve acknowledges here, no one should have to remember that. But he does, and if he can accept it, that itself is a victory of sorts.
And just like that, Nynaeve heals Compulsion. Round of applause.
Rand lowered himself to one knee, cradling the youth’s chin in his hand, staring into his eyes. “Where?” he asked softly. “Where is she?”
It’s the gentleness of this that absolutely kills me. There’s something almost…sorrowful to it, or mournful (Morr-nful? I’ll see myself out), except there is no sorrow, no feeling at all. It’s soft and lovely and terrifying.
So it turns out there wasn’t much left to this kid’s mind than the Compulsion, which…might have been a good thing to tell Nynaeve before she removed it?
“Instructions cleverly designed to wipe whatever personality this poor wretch had and replace it with a creature who would act exactly as Graendal wished. I’ve seen it dozens of times.”
Dozens of times? Nynaeve thought with a shiver. You’ve seen it, or Lews Therin saw it? Which memories rule you right now?
There are a few layers to that question. Nynaeve is framing it as a question of  whose memories dominate at the moment, but Rand has been hugely affected by the very existence of those memories as much as he ever is by the memories themselves.
Which…well, see above, I suppose. Trying to deny those memories, trying to deny who he was, doesn’t make them go away. And doesn’t make them any easier to cope with, no matter how many layers of ice and steel he tries to wrap himself in. Because at the end of the day, it’s still denial, and the truth is still there weighing on him. So he fights it, even in moments like these where he acknowledges the memories that are useful to him, lets them come to the forefront and shape his words. He still doesn’t accept their entirety, because he still, I think, believes that would mean condemning himself to that same end, that same failure. He does not surrender to them, so he cannot control them. He doesn’t embrace them, so he cannot move past them.
Rand spoke to Kerb again. “I need a location,” Rand said. “Something. If there is any vestige within you that resisted, any scrap that fought her, I promise you revenge. A location. Where is she?”
It’s almost a kindness, almost a mercy.
I guess he would know all about a vestige within you that resisted, any scrap that fought, even when the rest is gone, replaced, torn away. (He named you friend. Do not abandon him…)
“Natrin’s Barrow.”
Rand exhaled softly, then released Kerb with an almost reverent motion.
This is just so lovely. The way motion and gesture are done in this chapter, these soft, gentle, almost reverent movements against the gravity and pain and horror of it all, lightness against weight frozen in a moment and a gesture. There’s a shift here, in that exhalation – an end to a waiting, or a decision that comes with an answer. It’s the sort of scene where you’d have a single mournful violin and soft lighting and the whole thing is overlaid with an almost desperate sadness but all you see is simplicity.
It’s not a Big Dramatic Moment, but it’s very clearly a moment. Even if it’s not clear precisely how or why. It gives him a focus, a direction, and you can feel that shift.
What right did he have to look as exhausted as she felt? He had done barely anything!
And yet. He cannot let himself care, but somewhere on some level it weighs on him. And I also get the sense that it’s not a presentexhaustion so much as a…future one, if that makes sense. He’s been waiting for this for a long time, for evidence that Graendal is here, for a location. And he means to kill her. And now the waiting is ended, in two words, and so you get a soft exhalation and a look of exhaustion because it never ends; there’s never enough time to rest, and even rest isn’t restful.
“I did nothing, Nynaeve. I suspect that once you removed that Compulsion, the only thing keeping him alive was his anger at Graendal, buried deeply. Whatever bit of himself remained, it knew the only help it could give were those two words. After that, he just let go. There was nothing more we could do for him.”
Nothing left but anger, and a single purpose or intention, and after that he just let go. Sound familiar, Rand? You don’t think there’s anything more that can be done to for you, either.
“I don’t accept that,” Nynaeve said, frustrated.
Yeah, somehow I feel like we’re not just talking about Kerb the chandler’s apprentice here. Just a feeling, you know?
“Don’t you feel any guilt at all?” she demanded.
They locked eyes, Nynaeve frustrated and helpless, Rand…who could guess what Rand felt these days?
Certainly not Rand.
“Should I suffer for them all, Nynaeve?” he asked quietly, rising, face still half in the darkness.
Oh okay so we’re doing pain now. Alright. Sure. Why not.
It’s still so…soft.
Also, I see what you’re doing there with the face still half in the darkness.
“Lay this death at my feet, if you wish. It will just be one of many. How many stones can you pile on a man’s body before the weight stops mattering? How far can you burn a lump of flesh until further heat is irrelevant? If I let myself feel guilty for this boy, then I would need to feel guilt for the others. And it would crush me.”
It’s just too much. (Am I talking about the quote or about what Rand has to endure? We may never know).
It’s too much, and it would break him. He knows what he’s doing, and the simplicity of it, the willingness to just explain it, explain his pain and what he’s been through so simply as if the magnitude isn’t overwhelming, and say so matter-of-factly that it would crush him, is…
Perhaps strangely, it reminds me of Lan telling Nynaeve what had happened to him, in Mashiara. Telling her simply ‘you would not want me bonded to you’ and calling it his last gift.
It’s not self-pity; it’s just fact, plainly stated and devastating.
“Oh, Rand,” she said, turning away. “This thing you have become, the heart without any emotion but anger. It will destroy you.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
She looked back at him, shocked.
“I continue to wonder,” he said, glancing down at Min, “why you all assume that I am too dense to see what you find so obvious. Yes, Nynaeve. Yes, this hardness will destroy me. I know.”
He knows. He knowswhat he’s doing. And he knows why; he has all along, as he’s fought to make himself harder and then harder still, patiently forging his soul in the fires of pain, bringing up the list of names, all so that he could harden himself enough to do what must be done. It’s always been deliberate. It’s just that at one point he thought he could stop short of that last line, could hold on to enough of himself to be worth saving. But now…now he knows better, or thinks he does. And here we see this softness of resignation and resolution; this is all there is for him now, this is how it must be, and he will not survive it much longer, so it doesn’t matter now. All that’s left is the doing, and the dying. He’s accepted it, stopped fighting, so there’s nothing but this calm, this clarity and the softness of finality.
They think he can’t see it, because who would willingly do this to themselves? They think he can’t see it, because he is supposed to be salvation even alongside destruction, hope and Light against despair and shadow and oblivion.
But that hurts too much.
I just. The self-awareness, and the gentle fatalism of it, is…oh, Rand.
(‘Your logic destroyed you, didn’t it?’)
“When I was much younger,” he said, voice soft “Tam told me of a story he’d heard while travelling the world. […] Tam’s stories claimed no man had ever climbed to Dragonmount’s peak. Not because it was impossible – but because reaching the top would take every last ounce of strength a man had. So tall was the mountain that besting it would be a struggle that drained a man completely.”
Leaving nothing left for the journey home. Yeah. Also, two things. First of all, the fact that he calls Tam by his name rather than saying ‘my father’ is just one more soft and sad thing in a chapter already overflowing with soft sadness. He resolved that inner conflict a long time ago; Tam is his father in all the ways that matter, so I don’t think that’s what this is. I think it’s just another measure of detachment, of relinquishing any last vestiges of emotion or humanity or hope. He is the Dragon Reborn, nothing else, and if the Dragon Reborn cannot be human then he certainly cannot have a father he loves, or a home he is bound to, or anyone he might want to stay alive for.
Second…yeah, about climbing Dragonmount. I joke a lot about Rand’s penchant for climbing on top of and then falling off of things, but Dragonmount has been both foreshadowed and honestly kind of inevitable more or less since the Prologue, I feel like. I just can’t see it remaining purely metaphorical, though I can’t see what purpose it would actually serve, except as a full-circle kind of thing.
“So they never climbed it. They always wanted to, but they waited, reserving that trip for another day. For they knew it would be their last.”
“But that’s just a story,” Nynaeve said. “A legend.”
“That’s what I am,” Rand said. “A story. A legend.”
YES THIS IS EVERYTHING I WANTED AND IT’S DEVASTATING.
He knows. It’s part of what makes this so painful, is that he walks into it eyes open. He knows the role he must fulfil, knows he must shoulder this duty or the world dies, knows it will be all but unendurable, knows what it will cost him. Always, at each step, each time he tore away another part of himself, he knew what he was doing, even knew, I think, where it would lead if taken too far.
“I don’t know how human the Dragon Reborn can afford to be,” he told Nynaeve in essentially the precursor to this conversation (and I think there’s a reason we see both through Nynaeve’s eyes, rather than his). When he truly didn’t know, but had begun to suspect. When he knew he would need to let go of at least some of himself, some of his humanity.
Because the Dragon Reborn is a legend, a story. “He belongs to the Pattern now, and to history.” He saw Rhuidean, saw the threads of the Pattern that wove him. He knows the prophecies, knows what they demand. And for a long time he fought to find some balance there, some way to be both himself – even if just to die as himself – and to be what prophecy and story and history demanded. But now he’s stopped fighting that, because it’s too much for anyone or anything but a legend and a story to carry, so that is what he will be. No longer a shepherd named Rand al’Thor, but the Dragon Reborn. And that’s all. The rest is gone.
But he…stopped fighting the wrong thing. Instead of surrendering the fight against himself, he surrendered the fight to live, to salvage anything of himself. And it’s the wrong surrender.
And the whole mood of this is almost like that of the time Rand wandered into Moridin’s dreams and the two of them sat quietly by the fire; that sense of inevitability and of being pulled into these roles and of ‘your logic destroyed you, didn’t it’ except this time Rand doesn’t bring any hope or balance with him. Just the gentle calm of accepting his own destruction. Welcoming it. As Moridin himself seemed to welcome the concept of a true ending.
But it’s all overlaid with this gentleness, this sadness that comes through even if Rand can’t feel it, and so it’s harder to see the horror beneath it. The wrongness of it all. Because that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? There’s less pain this way. Easier, softer, to just…let go.
“You all claim that I have grown too hard, that I will inevitably shatter and break if I continue on. But you assume that there needs to be something left of me to continue on. That I need to climb back down the mountain once I’ve reached the top.”
I still just cannot get past the honesty and clarity with which he recognises exactly what he is doing. It’s one thing to know he knows, and another thing to sit here and watch him state it like this, holding nothing back, not trying to disguise or mitigate it, but also not…caring anymore.
And it hurts because again, he’s done this to himself so that he can endure agony long enough to do what needs to be done, to fulfil his duty in the world’s salvation, and then die.
Just.
He didn’t want to. It’s not out of anger or malevolence or even temptation. Its done out of determination, because he didn’t know what else to do. Because he didn’t know how else to hold on long enough.
And now the only answer he sees is to not hold on anymore. To give up that last part of himself. It’s a sacrifice, and it just hurts more because it’s the wrong one.
It’s watching the slow death of hope in someone who has been forced to withstand too much in its name. It’s a lot.
“That’s the key, Nynaeve. I see it now. I will not live through this, and so I don’t need to worry about what might happen to me after the Last Battle. I don’t need to hold back, don’t need to salvage anything of this beaten up soul of mine.”
Except it doesn’t work that way.
He cannot go to the Last Battle like this, devoid of hope or care for what comes after, with no reason to fight except that it’s the last thing he must do before he can die. That’s too close to what Moridin is coming to it with, and what is the point of the Light’s victory if it isn’t to sustain and renew hope? The whole pointis that it means they get a future, a chance to salvage something from a broken soul or a broken world, and keep going. There are neither beginnings nor endings, and that means either an endless cycle of despair and pain, or a continued cycle of hope and renewal, and I think when you’re the champion of the Light, it matters which one you choose to see.
The Dragon is one with the land, and the land is one with the Dragon. He cannot succumb to despair, because to do so would damn the world. No one ever said it was fair.
“We can find a way, Rand,” Nynaeve said. “Surely there is a way to win but also let you live.”
Again, it’s like what she said to Lan, only…slightly higher stakes, perhaps. But this is who she is; Nynaeve doesn’t believe anything is impossible, doesn’t believe anything can’t be healed. She’s very much a creature of hope, in that sense, hope and determination and sheer force of will. She’s not going to stand by and let him die any more than she will Lan, no matter what either of them says must happen or will happen.
“No,” he growled softly. “Do not tempt me down that path again. It only leads to pain”
YEAH NO KIDDING IT DOES. I’M IN PAIN RIGHT NOW.
This is fine.
It’s the first break in that gentle, soft calm, as well. Because there isa temptation there, a part of him that still wants to keep fighting, and he has to fight notto. Once again she can almost get through to him, and he can’t let her. But it is a vulnerability in that armour. There is still a temptation there. And the fact that he sees it as a temptation, rather than as a lifeline…oh, Rand.
It just hurts too much. To hold on to any hope that maybe he can survive this, to let himself want anything at all anymore. It hurts to feel. Apathy is easier. But it’s a false sense of…absolution, almost, except its exact opposite. Absolute certainty of destruction and damnation. But through the lens of apathy they look almost the same, because they grant illusion that nothing else matters. That you don’t have to think about it anymore. Don’t have to weigh those choices or that pain or that action or inaction. It’s all the same, now. There’s no changing your path, so no need to try, so no need to struggle, so no need to hurt. It’s a powerful illusion.
But he can’t let go of it, because of the sheer magnitude of pain. And no guarantee that it would bring him anything but more suffering in the end.
So that’s…yeah. It’s just hard to condemn him for choosing the path he has, because at every turn it seemed like the only option, and he tried so hard.
“I…I used to think about leaving something behind to help the world survive once I died, but that was a struggle to keep living. I can’t indulge myself.”
He can’t let himself want, because wanting would be selfish and human and he doesn’t get to have that. He’s a legend and a story and a piece in the Pattern; he doesn’t get to have things like wants, or choices. Those are for humans and he’s the Dragon Reborn.
It’s irony bordering on paradox that to be the Dragon Reborn, he has to accept his place in prophecy and give everything he has to the world’s salvation…but in order for that to have any meaning, he has to see it as a choice, and retain his humanity and capacity to hope and also to want. He has to be willing to die, but has to want to live.
“I’ll climb this bloody mountain and face the sun.”
As if the sun, light and warmth and life, is something to be faced, something to be endured, rather than something to strive for.
“You all will deal with what comes next.”
There’s some truth to that, perhaps; I have a hard time seeing a place for the Dragon Reborn after Tarmon Gai’don, should Rand find a way to live by dying. If that is an immediate sort of thing rather than an eventual rebirth sort of thing. I think it is, but I’m far from certain. Anyway, I still don’t see him being the one to actually shape that future; his role is to enable it.
But he has to care about what comes next, because that’s what he’s doing all of this for.
“You did well tonight,” Rand said. “You have saved us all a lot of trouble.” “I did it because I want you to trust me,” Nynaeve said, then immediately cursed herself. Why had she said that?
Because he’s ta’veren, and because it’s true.
Rand just nodded. “I do trust you, Nynaeve. As much as I trust anyone; more than I trust most. You think you know what is best for me, even against my wishes, but that is something I can accept. The difference between you and Cadsuane is that you actually care about me. She only cares about my place in her plans. She wants me to be part of the Last Battle. You want me to live. For that, you have my thanks.”
WHAT. AM I. SUPPOSED. TO DO. WITH THIS.
HELP ME.
To have him just say all of that, so simply. To see that he knows, that he understands how much she cares about him and that it means something to him even if he can’t let himself feel it.
“You want me to live. For that, you have my thanks.”
Even if he doesn’t want to live, doesn’t believe he canlive, doesn’t want her to even tempt him into wanting it. Despite that, he thanks her for it. Because it matters.
And it’s kind of fascinating to see this through Nynaeve’s POV because from the outside it almost looks like he cares, like he’s touched by this. But we know from his previous chapters that it’s just…like when he said ‘I’m sorry’ after she told him about Lan. There’s no true feeling behind it, because he can’t permit that in himself.
And yet he thanks her anyway, because still it matters. Even unfeeling, even cuendillar, it matters that she wants him to live.
…….oh.
“Dream on my behalf, Nynaeve. Dream for things I no longer can.”
………
…………………
I’m just. Going to lie here, on the floor, forever.
What a line.
What a beautiful, perfect, absolutely devastating statement that is.
It’s as if the entire chapter has built towards this, with its gentle gestures and quiet sadness and stark acceptance of self-destruction and surrender to legend and story. With its calm and the knowledge that he feels nothing and yet somehow this means something to him despite that. The knowledge itself that he has gone beyond feeling, but that it shouldn’t be that way, and so he leaves the dreaming to someone else, because someone should.
That’s one of those lines I need to read several times over just to try to feel it.
Dream for things I no longer can.
The acknowledgment in that. The acceptance, the sadness felt as much through its absence as anything else, the secondhand hope alongside perfect calm despair.
Why is this HAPPENING WHAT DID I DO.
The gentleness of all of this just ruins me and the way it contrasts with and yet follows perfectly on from Rand’s own chapters just before, and how it all feels so final and almost at ease and yet is wrong but is still so beautiful and
Akfsleaksjralekjrljelsatea
Help.
Why couldn’t she come up with an argument against what he’d said? Why couldn’t she make herself yell at him that he was wrong? There was always hope. By surrendering that most important emotion, he might make himself strong – but risked losing all reason he might have to care about the outcome of his battles.
That says in about thirty words what I’ve been trying to say for about thirty thousand.
And she’s right, but it is hard to argue with his logic not because she’s wrong but because it means causing him pain. It means asking him to shatter this peace he’s found – dark and illusory and cold as it is – and and go back to the pain and the struggle and the guilt and self-hatred and anger and fear. She’s a healer; she doesn’t want him to be hurting, doesn’t want to ask that of him because it’s too much to ask. What right do they have to demand that of him? And yet he can’t go on like this.
But it’s part of why I think he needs to come to that realisation himself; it has to be his choice, not something he feels he is forced to do, or required to do.
And I would maybe have more to say but Dream on my behalf, Nynaeve. Dream for things I no longer can has effectively destroyed me so I’m just going to stop now, and maybe eventually pick myself up off of the floor, and go make a cup of tea, and stare at a wall.
Next (TGS ch 34) Previous (TGS ch 32)
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missmeikakuna · 4 years
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Tired Girl Ch. 1- F/F Fantasy story
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Rated: T
Fandom: Original story
Relationship type: F/F
Description:
High schooler Nosderag is childish, impulsive and- worst of all- powerless in a magical world. Her strong sense of empathy leads her to rescue an injured fairy and bring it back to her dorm, to the chagrin of her love-powered rumoured lesbian roommate Dalzonf. Together they try to return the fairy to its enclosure before they get arrested for animal theft.
The problem is, people with love powers are seen as criminals, putting a giant target on Dalzonf’s back. CONTENT WARNING: This story will have homophobia, bullying and discussions of sexual assault.
Chapter 1: Powerless Girl
Nosderag tried to tune out of the conversation, she really did. 
But sitting a table away from an incredibly loud person made it rather difficult to focus on reading her spellbook. Not that Nosderag could ever use the spells anyway.
Sosoka was talking about herself. Of course she was. Her name literally meant ‘mine’, so was it really any surprise? 
Her monologuing was interrupted by the sight of a familiar girl passing by them. Dalzonf kept her head down, inadvertently showing off her frizzy black hair. Her skin was dark, even for an Astrabolerian. She was tall and lanky. Her broken glasses just barely kept their grip on her tiny nose. She wore the uniform poorly, a long black skirt and an ill-fitting blood-red sweater over a plain white button-up shirt.
‘Hey, don’t get too close to me!’ Sosoka ordered with a mocking tone. ‘Wouldn’t want to fall in love with you.’
Dalzonf opened her mouth to respond but decided it was as useful an endeavour as climbing a snowy mountain in a bikini. She put her head back down.
The visual of a girl as defenceless as this almost got Nosderag to take her side but, just like Dalzonf, she kept her mouth shut.
Sosoka didn’t like the silence. Much too uncomfortable. ‘So how many people have you manipulated into bed? How many girls?’ Dalzonf gritted her teeth and glared at her. ‘What? Everyone knows what you are. You’re a tired woman. Well, a tired girl sounds more accurate, but whatever.’
That last accusation was enough to finally open Nosderag’s mouth. ‘She’s not married, Sosoka.’
Sosoka scoffed. ‘You know what I mean. That’s why I said tired girl. I bet she’ll become a tired woman to some poor guy and lead him along until he finds out the truth.’
She put on a high pitched voice and place the back of her hand on her forehead like she was about to faint. ‘Oh no, honey! I can’t sleep with you tonight! I’m too tired!’ 
Her voice went deep and gravelly. ‘Oh, but sweety, you say that every night! Why don’t you use a love spell on yourself for once?’
Her voice returned to normal as she leaned forward in her seat, smirking at Dalzonf. ‘Can lesbians use a love spell on a normal girl? Do you need a different spell or is it the same if a female love tolxer uses it on a man?’
Dalzonf looked around her, seeing everyone staring her. It took a couple of tears to convince herself that the best course of action was to run out of the cafeteria.
‘Wow, rude,’ Sosoka said. ‘I was only asking a question.’ She turned to Nosderag. ‘No need to butt in on private conversations, omler!’
Omler. The thorns of that word pierced Nosderag’s eardrums. She shut her mouth, trying to act like no one had turned their attention from the love tolxer to her, the omler. 
She knew she didn’t belong at this school. She was alright at the theory side of things but as soon as she tried to make something come out of her hands or use a wand or do anything magical herself, she couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t fair. Her mother wasn’t omlerous but her father was. Her older brother was a powerful fire tolxer like his mother, but Nosderag? She lost the genetic lottery. No magic powers for her.
She often comforted herself by saying that she was lucky not to be a fire tolxer. At least she wasn’t feared by most people. She didn’t have to wear special handcuffs when going to sleep to prevent herself from sleep-setting the bed on fire. No one ran away from her any time she got the slightest bit angry.
And hey, at least she wasn’t a love tolxer and rumoured lesbian at an all-girls school. 
At the end of the day, Nosderag shuffled home with a hunched back, made worse by all the books in her backpack. She dropped her backpack by the couch in the living room and collapsed onto it.
‘Hey mum, can we talk-’
‘Oh, yes, we have something very important to tell you.’
That wasn’t her mother’s voice. It was her father’s.
‘We?’ Nosderag asked.
Her mother left the kitchen to join the two. She still wore her apron, tied tight around her portly figure. Her round, dark face looked much younger than she was. Magic can do that to a person.
Nosderag’s father, on the other hand, had wrinkles just about every place someone could have wrinkles. His remaining hair surrounded his head like a ring. Time can do that to an omlerous man.
He turned to his wife. ‘Is Gosin coming home soon?’
She shook her head. ‘The station gave him more paperwork. Apparently he got too angry during an interrogation and has to write a formal apology to the suspect.’
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I see.’ He put his focus back on Nosderag. ‘Anyway, how does spending a bit of time in the dorms sound? Just a few months.’
Nosderag’s eyes grew. ‘Wait, what? Why?’
Her mother sat by her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Your father and I have to work in Madagascar for a bit and we can’t afford to take you with us. And besides, we want to keep you in school.’
‘What the hell’s going on in Madagascar?’
‘Nothing, really, just a small… insurgency. We’re just helping our ally.’
‘So you’re burning superpowered terrorists alive?’ Her mother paused, then nodded. ‘Can’t I live here with Gosin? I can’t be sharing a dorm with people there.’
‘Your brother’s got a lot on his plate right now,’ Nosderag’s father said. ‘And why can’t you share a dorm with others?’
Nosderag looked at the fists on her lap. ‘No one there would want to sleep in the same room as an omler.’
Her mother chuckled. ‘It’s not like your lack of magic will rub off on them.’ 
‘You tell them that. And besides, didn’t you tell me to learn more about the world? Kinda hard to do that in Astraboleria. Take me with you.’
Her father narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t give me that. You have books. You don’t need to go somewhere to learn about it.’
‘All I’ve learnt here is how many people think I’m useless and how I’d be better off living in the normal world with omlerous people.’
‘Trust me, people in the omlerous world are just as prejudiced as the ones in the crilerous world. At least you get to see amazing magic. You wouldn’t be here if your mother didn’t show me her fire tricks and introduce me to this world.’
‘Amazing magic that I can’t use,’ Nosderag spat, pouting like a child as she crossed her arms. ‘I’m not going into those dorms.’
Her mother wrapped her arms around her and pulled her close. ‘Look, we’ll make sure you’re put together with a girl who won’t judge you.’
‘You mean an omler? No way. I don’t want to wallow in shared misery with someone.’
Her mother stroked her hair. ‘We’ll figure something out. Come on, sweetie. I don’t want to do this either but we have no choice. Please be reasonable.’ Nosderag sighed in defeat. ‘There’s my little dragon.’
Her name meant ‘great dragon’ in Astran. After the birth of their first son, her parents had expected another powerful fire tolxer. Now the name stung whenever she heard it.
A week later, Nosderag faced the 113-story building in front of her. The wheels on her suitcase squeaked as she entered the building and headed to the supervisor’s office. 
‘Um, Nosderag Zotmin, student id NZ487856. I’m new to the dorms.’
The supervisor checked the list for her id and ticked a box next to it. ‘You’ll be in room 112-B,’ he said, handing her a keycard. Nosderag was on the verge of tears when she looked up the spiralling staircase. ‘You can use the elevator.’
She pulled her suitcase to the elevator with newfound hope, which was immediately crushed when she saw no buttons.
‘It’s powered by your magic,’ the supervisor explained.
Nosderag groaned before beginning her trek up the long, long staircase. By floor three her breaths became laboured, by floor 12 her legs felt like they were about to fall out of their sockets.
She tried to distract from the soreness with thoughts about who would be her dormmate. That barely worked since it added a layer of worry on top of the agony.
At level 20 she decided to take a five-minute break. She planned in her head how many breaks she could take without spending all week walking up these damn stairs.
By level 40 she considered dropping dead. After all, she would have to walk up and down these stairs every day.
‘This fucking school,’ she muttered. She took to counting each step, which made her more aware of how hopeless she was in this situation. There was no way she could walk up 112 stories. At least the counting did numb the aching in her calves a little.
‘Level 70 step one, two, three, ugh… four.’ 
When she reached the 80th story, the pain in her body converted to murder in her eyes. Once she made it to her dorm, she was going to kill her dormmate and go to jail and never have to climb these stairs every again.
She reminded herself that her roommate would probably be a tolxer and therefore have the upper hand in a fight. She eventually managed to calm herself down by listening to the loud thud of her suitcase as it hit each step behind her.
‘Level 100,’ she said with a borderline insane grin and deep laughter to match. ‘Hah, take that, internal doubt! Now for the almost unlucky twelve.’
Once she made it to the magical level 112, she sat on the final step and panted for a good ten minutes. Then she stood up and swayed as she shambled to her room.
It took all of her remaining energy to raise her fist and knock on the door, which was opened by a familiar face.
Dalzonf, a girl whose arms could barely hold Nosderag as she collapsed into them.
Nosderag woke up in a bed she had never been in before, in a room she had never seen before. Her breaths sped up as she tried to figure out where she was. They slowed down upon seeing Dalzonf reading a book on her own bed. 
It was not a spellbook but a children’s book, the first in the Black Helmet, Grey Heart series.
‘Man, I haven’t read that series in years. I didn’t know people over the age of twelve still read it.’ Dalzonf glowered at her without even looking away from the page. ‘Sorry. I didn’t expect a tolxer to read an omler’s book.’
‘Dinla Horas comes from the omlerous version of Astraboleria. Of course she’s an omler.’ Dalzonf’s voice was light and airy, as soft as a pillow and high in pitch as the chirp of a chick.
‘Still, reading a book from that world…’
‘I don’t see the issue. So long as she doesn’t fall into people’s arms and then insult their taste in books, I’m fine with an omler.’
Nosderag laughed awkwardly as she sat up. She watched Dalzonf read silently. She took note of her warm honey eyes and plump lips. She wore a low-cut black crop top that somehow didn’t reveal much body fat, shorts also in black and a small blue denim jacket with one side slipping down her shoulder.
Dalzonf turned her head upon hearing the smack of Nosderag’s head against the wall. She couldn’t quite see it against her dark skin, but Nosderag was blushing. Hard.
‘How did you do that?’ Nosderag asked in an accusatory voice, pointing at her suspect.
‘Do what?’
‘Do a spell without using your hands. Can you tolx with your eyes?’
The book in Dalzonf’s hands thumped as she shut it. ‘What are you talking about? I didn’t use my powers on anyone. There’s no one else here.’
‘But…’
Dalzonf’s warm eyes went cold, matching her suddenly calculating smirk. Her voice deepened. ‘Oh, I see.’ Any shred of shyness the other girl was used to seeing from her was scrapped. ‘We wouldn’t want that getting out now, would we?’
‘Huh?’
‘How sweet. My dormmate’s already got a crush.’
‘What? No, no way. You put a spell on me. I know you did.’
Dalzonf stroked her finger up Nosderag’s neck, causing the other girl to gulp. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Maybe what everyone said is right. You’re a tired girl.’
‘Oh, please. You’re not my type.’
‘So you are-’
‘I never said my type included women.’
Nosderag grinned. ‘But you never said it didn’t.’
Silence, followed by a slow clap from Dalzonf. ‘Well played. Except for, you know, suddenly becoming attracted to me. You were so close to winning this conversation. If only I didn’t have dirt on you. I guess it makes sense for you to fall asleep in my arms. You must have been so... tired.’
Burning cheeks turned into blazing fury as Nosderag leapt out of bed. ‘I’m changing dorms!’ she yelled as she stormed to the door. ‘Why should I have to go through all this effort just to see your ugly face at the top of the steps every day?’
Dalzonf blocked the door with her body. A body that Nosderag definitely didn’t like looking at. No siree.
‘I guess your type must be ugly girls, then.’
Nosderag’s cheeks got so hot that their redness was finally visible. ‘I’m not… I’m not one of you! I’m never defending you against bullies again! Why do you even need people to defend you anyway? You can clearly throw words back in people’s faces.’
‘I guess you’re just too easy.’
That last insult dropped onto Nosderag’s already fatigued shoulders like the roof of a crumbling temple. She huffed as she lied back on her bed and closed her eyes. It was as if she thought she would wake up again to a world where her dormmate wasn’t such a prick.
Her eyes still closed, Nosderag asked, ‘So, since you’re apparently blackmailing me now, what do you want me to do?’
The sound of a page turning reached Nosderag’s ears. Dalzonf chuckled. ‘I’ll think about it.’ 
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sammuroth-blog · 7 years
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Lomdeal Giantforge (fantasy world main character bio)
Name: Lomdeal Giantforge
Age: 350 yrs old
Race: Bryf (dwarf)
Description: Lomdeal stands at 3’11” and weighs 300lbs, but don’t let his weight fool you. Far from being overweight the majority of his weight come from rock hard muscles forged in battle and smithing. He has a long black beard that he keeps tied in twin tails and his head is clean shaven. He carries a warhammer at least twice his size which he wields with practiced ease. His preferred armor is made up of pure Scolamite, a mineral found deep beneath the earth said to be the fossilized remains of ancient dragons. He has brown eyes and a jovial personality when among friends, but in battle he is like an angry bull, throwing his enemies left and right with his warhammer, Mountainbreaker.
Bio: Lomdeal was born 350 years ago in the Bryf kingdom of Golduar to the then king of the Giantforge clan. Lomdeal was an only child and therefore groomed from birth to take over as king when his father passed. He was taught, diplomacy, mathematics and engineering at a young age. Once he reached the Bryf equivalent of his teenage years he was trained in the art of combat and blacksmithing. Lomdeal was a fierce warrior, but his propensity for charging head on into battle kept him from being at the top of his class. Because of this his father decided he needed to be trained in strategy as well. Unlike most races the Bryf believe that the best training is to be thrown into the figurative fire.
Lomdeal was given a contingent of soldiers and craftsman and charged with establishing another city for the Bryf. Lomdeal’s father also sent along one of his most brilliant tacticians to help and teach Lomdeal. At only 100 years old Lomdeal was charged with the potential future of his clan. Lomdeal and his forces traveled across Sheon for 30 years before they found what Lomdeal believed to be a suitable place for his new city, upon the mountain of Khern Buldohr, which in the Bryf language means Heavens Reach. The mountain wasn’t uninhabited however, it was infested by orcs and their goblin slaves and so the War of Heavens Reach began.
Lomdeal did not have the resources for a prolonged campaign and he knew it would take too long to get word back to his father. His normally headstrong way of charging into battle was tempered by his desire to not fail his clan and for the first time in his life the young Bryf used his head. Along with his father’s tactician the two devised a strategy, the Bryf did not know the cave systems of the mountain and the orcs and goblins did. Charging headlong into battle was a sure way to get everyone killed and so the plan was to exterminate the vermin one system at a time.
The first battle was for one of the entrances to the cave systems in which the Bryf waited until nightfall and their enemies to be asleep to strike. The battle was over in a matter of minutes with only a few minor injuries to the Bryf forces. Lomdeal wasn’t foolish enough to believe they had gone undetected and ordered his men and women to begin building temporary fortifications and they came into use almost immediately. As the morning sun rose a host of goblin slaves charged down the tunnel leading to the entrance, but they were met with a hail of crossbow bolts and the sturdy shield line of the Bryf. The Bryf had won two battles in short succession and earned a brief respite.
Their position allowed the Bryf access to the outside and the ability to hunt in relative peace and afforded them a good defensive position with only one entrance and an easily accessible exit. Lomdeal had the craftsmen continue fortifying their position as he took out a handful of soldiers to scout the tunnels. The Bryf are known for their knowledge of the earth and mountains, so despite the fact they didn’t know the tunnels they were easily able to navigate them and never lose their position. Several skirmishes broke out during these scouting missions, but the Bryf were well trained and excelled in close quarters and pitched battles so they came out of said skirmishes with few losses.
The purpose of the scouting missions was to find more cave opening that could be used as a staging point, once another point was found the Bryf left a token force at the entrance and moved forward making sure to build temporary fortifications and leaving a small force at any forks in the tunnels. This allowed the Bryf a safe supply line to continue receiving food from the outside. Following this method the Bryf systematically cleared each and every tunnel, pushing the orcs and the goblins deep into the mountains.
Finally, after 5 years of constant battle the Bryf cornered the remnants of the orcs and goblins in a large cavern. Lomdeal’s forces had been depleted significantly over the 5 years due to battle and sickness, the tactician his father had sent with him had been killed during one of the scouting missions and now it fell to Lomdeal to finish what he had started on his own. The cavern had 4 entrances, Lomdeal devised a plan that would split his forces thin, but he trusted in his clan’s battle experience and his tactics to make up for it. Lomdeal would lead the main force through the main entrance and engage the enemy while 3 other units would flank around to the other entrances and surround the enemy.
Lomdeal led the charge and in the initial attack hundreds of monsters were killed, but as the monsters reorganized and began to fight back Lomdeal found his forces pushed back, but that was the plan. Once the enemy was fully engaged with the Bryf in front of them the second unit charged in from the eastern tunnel and then the third unit charged in from the western tunnel and finally the fourth unit charged in from the northern tunnel. The monsters were caught completely by surprise by the Bryf’s tactics and their organization fell apart making them easy pickings for the disciplined Bryf soldiers.
Lomdeal had won, but at great cost, he left the majority of his forces behind to begin cleaning up the tunnels and preparing them for Bryf habitation as he and 10 others returned to Golduar to report what had happened. Upon their arrival they were met with cheers and celebration, Lomdeal immediately reported to his father and told his story. Fully expecting his father to reprimand him he was surprised when his father brought him to the famous Golduar forge and presented him with his hammer, Mountainbreaker. “A fine name considering what ye had to go through eh?” Lomdeal couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, a father gifting his son with a weapon, forged in Golduar’s forge was the symbolic passing of the torch. Lomdeal’s father had just told his son that he was now king of the Giantforge clan.
Soon after Lomdeal’s father left Golduar to make one final adventure, taking with him only his steward. He would never be seen again and Lomdeal moved his seat of power to his new city to oversee its construction. He named the Khern Buldohr after the mountain it was built in. A tunnel was eventually built linking Golduar to Khern Buldohr. The mountain he had conquered was rich in the rare mineral Scolamite. Many beautiful things came out of the forges of Khern Buldohr and it was eventually named the new capital of the Giantforge clan.
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