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littlejuicebox · 3 months

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Mindwinter Carol 5 / The Repeat

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 2.1K

Story navigation: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

Summary/Setting: Based on the prologue/premise from my OneShot "A Midwinter Carol."

Astarion and the OC broke up after his ascension. She left Baldur's Gate for fifteen years, only to return just recently. Following the events of "A Midwinter Carol," Ascended Astarion has been convinced to pursue a new beginning. Will he be able to change who he has become, with the help of his ex-lover? Or will he ultimately fall victim to his pride and desire for power?

Preview:

Astarion was at the bar, absolutely seething as he downed drink after drink. By the time he caught a whiff of Eirianwen’s blood in the air, he must’ve been on intoxicant number four or five.

He’d lost count.

The Ascendant thinks he’s imagining the smell. It wouldn’t be the first time the memory of that particular bouquet haunted him. But then the coppery, sweet, all too familiar scent of both his dreams and nightmares becomes overwhelming.

The immortal’s heart stops.

It’s a strange sensation, feeling your heart stop in fear. One the Vampire Lord had never known until now.

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / OOC Ascended Astarion because it follows my epilogue / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore

A/N: Ouch. Fun fact, Delilah is a reference to biblical Delilah and Samson.

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“Ani, help me do this. For us. Please.”

Eirianwen is bleeding out, but she can barely feel it under the waves of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Astarion is clutching Rhapsody in his hand. He looks so lost and worried. He’s panting heavily. He’s drenched in splatters of crimson.

She wants to reach out and comfort him.

But she can’t think.

She’s lost a lot of blood.

Everything is moving too quickly.

“Ani…” He says again, this time more urgently, begging her with his big, round, world-endingly beautiful scarlet eyes, “Please, my love..”

She thinks this really may be the end for her.

Her only thought is that she loves him. She loves him so much that it hurts more than the wound in her side. She wants to give him what he wants, even if it’s the last thing she ever does.

Suddenly, she’s using the tadpole to show Astarion the scars on his own back.

She loves him so much she’s ignoring the sickening sounds that arise as the beautiful hands of her lover, the very hands that have brought her impossible moments of pleasure and comfort, gouge giant symbols of a hellish contract into Cazador’s skin.

One moment of weakness from her.

The sickening screams of seven thousand souls.

And then everything goes black.

Astarion had been distracted by the scent of so much blood in the dungeons, the sickly-sweet, coppery, rotten smell overpowered his senses.

He’d nearly died after one misstep in battle, too distracted by the vile memories of this place to operate at his best.

His weakness would’ve left Ani and his friends alone to face Cazador’s wrath. He’d almost been bested by the bastard that held him captive for two hundred years.

And that bastard almost got to his Ani.

That bastard did get to his Ani before she blasted him away with ice.

Suddenly, he’s carving infernal into the bastard’s back; ripping into Cazador the way he himself had been torn into over and over again.

Cazador is getting off easy, in comparison – Astarion doesn’t need to make any revisions.

He completes the ritual. The feeling of so much power is overwhelming, at first, just like the coppery scent of this dungeon reminding him of everything he wanted to escape.

Surely the new power will right all the wrongs, make him forget all the terrors of his past.

Seven thousand screams had been a truly horrifying sound, but it’s no matter, he did what he had to do. He did what he had to do to protect himself. To protect Ani.

After a moment completely engrossed in the feeling of so much raw power, he turns to face his lover, to celebrate.

And the first thing he sees as his new, all-powerful self is the sorceress collapsed on the ground before his eyes, Shadowheart at her side.

How ironic, that the moment he gained power, he felt instantly powerless again.

Shadowheart was out of spells. They had one measly healing potion left between them, and that had been just enough to keep his little love toeing the line between life and death.

The rest of the evening was a blur. He’d carried the elven woman back to the Elfsong; Shadowheart and Halsin did everything they could.

His little love looked so fragile.

He’d been so consumed by his push for power that he hadn’t even noticed the smell of Ani’s blood seeping out of her abdominal wound, drenching the layers of her robes in crimson.

He hadn’t even noticed as she began to fade, pushing herself to give him what he asked for.

If she survived this, he would kill seven thousand more souls to keep her safe.

He would be consumed by nothing but her.

He would sacrifice his own soul if he had to.

He owed her that much… after everything.

-----

Eirianwen doesn’t feel the blade insert itself cleanly between her ribs. But she feels it dragging between two rib bones as Edmund carves a searing arc through her flesh. And then the pain is gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

She tries to move, to cast a spell, but it’s too late. Paralytic oil surges through her bloodstream. Her hands are rigid; her thin fingers, well-made for both playing the piano and spellcasting, are stuck in a curled position.

Useless.

Defenseless.

Astarion was at the bar, absolutely seething as he downed drink after drink. By the time he caught a whiff of Eirianwen’s blood in the air, he must’ve been on intoxicant number four or five.

He’d lost count.

The immortal’s heart stops.

It’s a strange sensation, feeling your heart stop in fear. One the Vampire Lord had never known until now.

In an instant, Astarion is sprinting toward the dance floor and throwing himself into the throng, searching for Eirianwen. All sense of decorum has left him as he shoves aside more than one dancing couple while looking for the sorceress.

By the time Ani sees the Vampire Lord, she is trapped against Edmund’s wide torso. The cold edge of the dagger presses flush against her neck; she feels a gush of warmth run down her side. Something like this is supposed to hurt, but the paralytics have already numbed around the incision. She vaguely recalls the last time she received a gaping wound to her side.

People are still dancing; no one besides Astarion has caught onto the threat.

Just as the Ascendant is about to make the last dash toward Edmund and Ani, the sorceress hears someone behind them command “halt” in an airy, bored tone.

Whispers of magic brush past Eirianwen and she watches Astarion pause on the tips of his toes, mid sprint, before his foot flattens to the ground. He is shaking with the effort to disobey the command; the look of absolute blinding wrath on his face was undeniable.

The damn alcohol had made him slow to react. Idiot.

A sudden gust of wind slams the crowd back, clearing a wide perimeter around Astarion and Ani. Several patrons in the crowd scream as they finally recognize the threat.

Ani cannot see the woman, but she can hear the seductive purr that naturally rolls out of her voice as she speaks, her tone both cool and menacing, “Apologies for the interruption. But would everyone beside Lord Ancunin and his date depart the dance floor? No need for this to get… messier.”

Delilah.

Eirianwen uses every last ounce of her strength in an attempt to blast this woman and her henchman with some kind of magic, but to her dismay she cannot move her limbs at all. She’s barely able to hold herself up; Edmund is bearing most of her weight.

A strangled cry of frustration escapes her throat as chaos erupts and the crowd breaks away from the scene, running desperately from the building.

A bunch of rich cowards. Maybe she shouldn’t have saved them all those years ago.

Astarion is glaring daggers at the half-elven woman. Fucking Delilah. He knew the bitch was dangerous, but in his arrogance he truly never imagined she would dare to turn on him.

Delilah sends another wave of magic from her hands with a second simple, bored command.

“Kneel.”

Eirianwen watches in horror as the previously invincible Ascendant crashes to his knees, forced to obey the command by pink tendrils of malignant magic coiling around his limbs. It was terrifying to see the most powerful elf she knew crumble mere feet from her, outdone by a simple spell he’d unfailingly evaded as a mere vampire spawn.

Her heart thuds in her chest, quickening the spread of the paralytics.

The reality is that Astarion feels the second compulsion, but this command doesn’t truly take. In a split second decision, he willingly dropped to his knees and let Delilah believe she had the upper hand. Anything to keep the focus on him and off of Ani. The smell of her blood was burning his nostrils at this point.

The Ascendant suddenly thinks this all feels too terribly familiar. Has he become the predator, kneeling in front of his prey?

Astarion’s eyes flicker to Eirianwen. And there, in the look on his face, the sorceress realizes that kneeling had been a choice. Ascendent or not, were the male elf truly trapped and forced to kneel before anyone, he would be unable to conceal the terror caused by his lack of control. She is certain of this.

But instead, the Vampire Lord’s face only contains rage mixed with the subtle flickers of the gears turning within his mind.

Delilah reaches her hand toward Astarion and tightly grips his chin, forcing him to tear his eyes away from Ani and acknowledge the half-elf. She flashes him a sickening, arrogant smile as she stares down at the kneeling Ascendant, obviously quite pleased with herself.

The woman murmurs, her voice deceptively sweet, “Hmm… I do believe this is the first time you have ever been on your knees for me. You’re so pretty like this, little Star. Shame it will be the only time I ever get to see it.”

She offers a condescending tut and a dramatic pout before lifting the hem of her dress and withdrawing a petite dirk that had been sheathed at her side. She grins as she flashes the blade at Astarion; she’s loving this.

The knife comes to his face, The Vampire Lord feels a faint sting as she traces a thin line upon his cheek with the point, stopping to let blood drip on the blade as she holds the Ascendant’s gaze. Astarion’s jaw tightens and his nostrils flare as he chooses to allow the woman to move forward with her show. His hand balls into a tight fist.

“Hmm…” She hums as she examines the blood, and then her hands find purchase in his hair and she yanks sharply at the curls behind his ears, causing Astarion to grit his teeth in pain, “And for good measure.”

She uses the blade to cut a strip of the Vampire Lord’s curls.

A yowl rips through the venue, and Edmund releases the blade that had been pressed against Ani’s neck; it falls to the ground with a sharp clatter.

Umber has lodged herself on the man’s back, sharp claws digging into the nape of his neck as she uses her teeth to rip at his ear. He is forced to release his hold on Ani as the cat continues to voraciously defend the sorceress.

Astarion takes the opportunity and launches himself forward, knocking into Delilah on his way to Eirianwen. He barely manages to catch her crumpling form just as the doors to the venue burst open.

Wyll, Jaheira, and a Flaming Fist rush toward the altercation. Someone shouts a stun spell at Edmund, causing him to freeze and fall mid-scuffle, but by the time anyone turns to focus their attention on Delilah, she is gone.

“Astarion–” Ani manages to choke out before her tongue stills within her mouth. Another strangled sound comes from her vocal cords as she tries again. Tears fall from the corner of her eyes as the Ascendant shushes her, quickly swiping at her cheeks to catch the falling droplets.

And then he forces himself to tear his gaze away from the sorceress’s face and fall into commander mode, clinging to every shred of his control and stifling his fear.

But gods, he’s terrified. He hasn’t felt like this since–

No time for that now.

“We don’t have much time,” Astarion starts as the others gather around him, “Jaheira, the rings I won at the auction, I need them. Quickly!”

Jaheira simply turns and sprints back behind the stage without another word. The Flaming Fist focuses on Edmund, working to restrain his passed-out form.

Wyll is glaring at Astarion, “I’m sure this is your fault you–”

“We don’t have time to place blame, Wyll!” The Ascendant snaps, “Delilah’s paralytics aren’t like others you’ve seen. If we don’t move quickly–”

He stops. Eirianwen’s heart is slowing, he can hear it.

His scarlet eyes, filled with the weight of a thousand things he’s never said, pierce into her golden ones. Blood trickles in thin streams down Astarion’s cheek but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

“I’ve got you, little love.” The Ascendant promises, gripping tightly onto the elven woman.

If she survives this, he will do anything she wants of him.

He will find his own soul again if she wants him to.

He owes her that much… after everything.

Ani suddenly thinks this all feels too terribly familiar. Can someone cheat death twice?

The anguish Eirianwen feels because she cannot say anything is incomparable; she searches for an ounce of comfort in the beautiful eyes that haunt her dreams and nightmares. She is going to die, and Astarion will never know she found his mother. And his brother.

Her last thought as she’s gazing into Astarion’s all too familiar scarlet orbs is that perhaps this isn’t the worst way to die. Let her last vision in this life be of the rubies she willingly gave up and yet longed for every day thereafter.

She will find them again in the next life.

Everything goes black just as Jaheira appears from behind the stage and runs toward them with the velvet box in hand.

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#astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #baulders gate astarion #baulders gate 3 #astarion fic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic idea #baulders gate tav #astarion x oc #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x original female character #midwinter carol #ascended astarion arc #ascended astarion #ascendedstar #ascended astarion fic

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sylvanfreckles · 3 years

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Day Nine: Midwinter

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (Over the Mountain and Through the Wood)

Summary: Aragorn arrives at Thranduil's palace to celebrate the mindwinter feast with Legolas.

(Note: I have an upcoming series called "Over the Mountain and Through the Wood" that's basically a fantasy adventure series of Legolas and Aragorn's adventures in Middle-Earth. It's less angsty than the Mellon Chronicles, and has a lot of headcanon I've developed. I'll list the ones from this story at the end.)

* * *

“Aragorn! You made it!” Legolas held his arms out in a welcoming gesture as he swept into the room. “Old Bellyacher thought for sure the storm would keep you away. You earned me a new belt, my friend.”

The ranger let out a snort of laughter at his friend's antics. “Your brother was betting against me?” The thought of Belegdur, Legolas's stern older brother, doing something as trivial as betting whether a guest would arrive before a winter storm seemed uncharacteristic.

“Well, he doesn't know about your winter horse,” Legolas explained. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall, watching the attendant take Aragorn's wet and muddy boots and cloak away to be cleaned and dried. The ranger was now wearing a pair of stiff, soft-soled leather shoes like most of the inhabitants of Thranduil's keep. Not that boot were forbidden, but tramping around an underground fortress in wet footwear was distinctly uncomfortable.

“And you didn't tell him about Song,” Aragorn guessed. For most of the year he rode a bay gelding that had been a gift from his foster father, Eldrond of Rivendell. But in the winter, when the snows of the north washed up in drifts as high as a man's head, most of the rangers turned to the sturdy, powerful animals favored by the local farmers. Song of Thunder was a tall, broad-shouldered mare with the strong build of her sires, a thick mane and tail, and long forelocks that nearly brushed the ground. The war horses of the north were not as fast as the steeds of Rohan, but they were strong and dependable and much more suited for the perilous winter weather.

“Why would I give away my advantage?” his friend asked, pulling Aragorn into an embrace. “Besides, he hated that belt and I needed a gift for Bard next time I go to Dale. Now everyone's happy.”

Aragorn shook his head and looped his pack over one shoulder. “Even Belegdur.”

“He's happy in his way,” Legolas replied airily, leading the way through the halls to the chambers that were reserved for Aragorn's visits. The ranger looked around happily, admiring the palace of the Elvenking in winter. Bright-colored tapestries were hung on the walls to block the chill in the stone and fires were lit in every hearth. The wood-elves moved into the palace for the long, bitter winter, and thus the halls were filled with merry voices and laughter.

“I had hot water sent up,” the elf added as they reached Aragorn's room. “You can wash and change before we join my father and the others.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn's shoulders relaxed in relief when he entered the room. The fire was burning to warm the chamber, and the walls were blanketed in swirling designs of blue and silver, as a nod to the household of Elrond. “That one's new,” he remarked, nodding at one of the tapestries. It was of a silvery tree, with stars peering out through the gaps between its branches.

“Ah, yes. Tathariel's betrothed made that,” Legolas called, as Aragorn slipped behind the room's dressing screen. There was a basin of steaming water next to a small table, where towels and a shaving razor had been laid out.

“Tathariel?” Aragorn frowned to himself. He remembered the name, but not the elf in question.

“She works the northern watch patrol. I think you've met her.”

Aragorn nodded silently. He wiped off the dust and sweat of travel—the palace had indoor baths, but they were not in use at this time of day, so this would have to be enough—and quickly scraped away the stubble on his chin and cheeks. He would have to hope the clothes in his pack weren't too wrinkled...though he doubted there was anything to match the finery of court. Legolas had assured him that the midwinter celebrations were not a formal event, and he wanted to trust his friend...but an elf's definition of “not formal” might not be in line with that of a ranger's.

He stepped back around the screen, wiping the last of the water off his face. Legolas had been busy laying clothes out on the bed—trousers, shirt, and tunic. Not anything Aragorn had packed for the journey, and he approached the bed to stare down at the clothes worriedly.

There was no getting around it. He and Legolas just weren't the same size. While Aragorn was trim and fit for a human, he still had the broad-shouldered build of a man of Numenor, and Legolas had the willowy grace of an elf of Mirkwood.

“Don't look like that,” Legolas teased, flicking him on the arm with the backs of his fingers. “Father had these made for you, to keep in the palace here. He didn't want you to worry about something as trivial as clothes when you visit us.”

Aragorn sucked in a breath, glancing over at his friend. Legolas smiled fondly at him and nodded at the clothes before turning to Aragorn's pack to unload it. “Wear them well, Ranger. We do not dress all of our visitors so grandly.”

The clothes were made in the fashion of the men of Dale. A hip-length wool tunic over a loose linen shirt, both dyed in deep blue and gray. The breeches were black, and they were wool as well, which always felt a little...fragile...to Aragorn after the leathers he wore for the rangers.

“What's this?” Legolas's puzzled voice pulled Aragorn out of his thoughts. He turned around in time to see the elf pull a fabric-wrapped bundle out of the pack and lunged for it with a yelp.

“That's nothing!” Aragorn protested. Legolas held the bundle away, mischief lighting in his blue eyes.

“Nothing? It doesn't look liked nothing.”

“Give it back!”

“Doesn't feel like nothing,” Legolas hefted it in his hand a few times, easily dancing out of Aragorn's reach, then lifted it to his face for an exaggerated sniff. “Smells like leather, not nothing. I think you're lying, Ranger.”

“Legolas!” Aragorn lunged, managing to get one arm around the elf's waist. Legolas gave a shout and tossed the bundle to one side, and Aragorn managed to push the elf over before diving to catch the bundle up and hide it behind his back.

“Come now, Aragorn,” Legolas protested with a laugh. “Why so secretive?”

The heat was rising in Aragorn's cheeks and he looked down, refusing to meet his friend's merry eyes. “It's just nothing.”

“If it's nothing than you can let me see it, hmm?”

Aragorn backed away until his legs hit the bed. He was conscious of his half-dressed state—he hadn't quite managed to pull the linen shirt over his head before Legolas had found the bundle. He wouldn't be able to make a run out of the palace like this, shirtless and clad only in wool breeches and a pair of soft-soled elven shoes.

“All right,” Legolas raised his hands, laughing. “If it's so important to you, Aragorn.”

It was important. It was also embarrassing and so, so stupid. Why had he done it? It wasn't like gift-giving was a particular tradition among the elves...not for midwinter, anyway. That was a human thing, and as close as he and Legolas were the elf was still an elf.

“It's a gift,” he finally admitted, holding the bundle of fabric out. “The rangers have a tradition of exchanging gifts for midwinter. I brought...this is for you.”

Legolas's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but to Aragorn's relief he took the bundle without another word. Quietly, almost solemnly, the elf unrolled the plain fabric to reveal a pair of leather bracers. “These are for me?”

“I had them made. They're...” Aragorn's voice trailed off. He felt small, and ignorant, and far too young. Who was he to think an elf would appreciate a gift from a mortal?

But Legolas was studying the bracer's closely, holding them up so that the firelight caught the grooves of the tooled leather. “This is when we first met!” he exclaimed, a pleased smile lighting up his face.

Aragorn relaxed a little, half-sitting on the bed. The design had taken some time, many long nights spent with the rangers' armorer working out the pattern to apply to the bracers. At the cuff against the wrist were two figures, one with a sword and one with a bow, while at the elbow's end an avalanche tumbled down the side of a snow-covered mountain. Midway down the mountain the rolling snow became the heads of snarling wolves, all intent on charging the two figures at the far end of the bracer.

“Aragorn, these are wonderful!” Legolas exclaimed. “The craftsmanship is excellent—why were you so shy about this, my friend?”

He studied the floor for a moment. “It seemed...it's a ranger tradition, Legolas. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate.”

Legolas threw his head back with a laugh. He dug a hand into the pocket of his tunic and pulled something out, flipping it toward Aragorn. “I was planning on pinning this to your cloak before it was returned to you, then marveling over it the next time you put your cloak on.”

Aragorn caught the small, silvery object and cradled it in the palm of his hand. It was a cloak pin, in dark silver. It was shaped like a leaf, but the intricate design was of a sprawling tree with bare branches reaching toward the sky. Just at the top, an eagle was flying over the tree with a star clasped in its talons.

It wasn't the tree, but it was close enough for those who knew. Aragorn felt himself swallowing back a tear, and looked up at his friend in gratitude.

“Did you think rangers were the only ones who gave gifts at midwinter?” Legolas teased. “Now, come. Dress yourself, Aragorn. Tonight we feast and sing and laugh at bleak midwinter!”

* * *

So. Wanna hear all about how Legolas and Aragorn fought an avalanche full of angry wolves?

Headcanon: 1) Legolas has an older brother named Belegdur. He's a throwback to when I was first writing LOTR fanfic. The two brothers look a lot like their father, except Belegdur has green eyes like Thranduil and Legolas has blue eyes like their mother 2) Aragorn and the other rangers ride draft horses in the winter. Think of the horses in Skyrim. Song of Thunder's name is based on the naming conventions my ex used to talk about for thoroughbreds, where part of one of the parents' names is including in the offspring's names 3) the tapestries on the walls is based off my first apartment, where I couldn't afford to keep the heat up very high. I figured out that hanging blankets on the walls blocked a lot of the chill and kept things warmer. 4) The Mirkwood elves have houses outside the palace, but in winter they all move into the palace to stay warm and share provisions. It's been a while since I read The Hobbit but I know the palace was described as the fortress of Thranduil's people 5) Legolas's mother is not dead, she sailed into the west with Celebrian because they were friends, and she chose to offer her companionship until their husbands could join them again. Thranduil accepted this at first, but his anger built until he shut Mirkwood off from the rest of Middle-Earth. So the fact that he had some clothes made for Aragorn shows that he's trying to move forward.

Please leave a like or a comment! I had a shit day at work or I wouldn’t ask, haha.

* * *

Next time: Sweater - "You traitor!"

* * *

Day Eight - Master List - Day Ten

#Lord of the rings #fanfic #over the mountain and through the wood #Aragorn #Legolas #Aragon and Legolas friendship #found family #no slash #lotr headcanon #midwinter #twelve days of fictmas 2020

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pauline-lewis · 3 years

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Wherever I have played the blues have run the game

L'image qui m'a le plus marquée ces deux dernières semaines, c'est le visage de Cameron à la fin de la saison 2 de l'excellente série Halt and Catch Fire. Cameron attend un homme qui ne viendra pas, assise dans l'avion. Elle n'est en général pas trop portée sur l'effusion de sentiments mais le visage expressif (et sublime, il faut bien le dire) de Mackenzie Davis raconte ce que ses mots ne disent pas. Dans ses grands yeux, dans cet avion, on peut lire la joie d'un nouveau départ et la tristesse de devoir couper certains liens. Cette scène retranscrit parfaitement ce qu'est un lieu de transition. J'ai repensé au trajet en train du retour de Brest, le 1er janvier, où tout se mélangeait : la violence de revenir à deux, la tristesse de ne pas savoir quand nous pourrions revenir, l'envie désormais pressante de ne plus avoir à retourner à Paris et puis le sentiment étrange de sentir son corps être projeté en avant quand son cerveau est, lui, complètement figé. Il y avait là une dissonance presque agressive. Dans Halt and Catch Fire, le corps de Cameron est contenu dans l'avion, mais le son voyage au rythme de Heaven de Talking Heads grâce à la voix, la guitare, la batterie. Son esprit est ailleurs. Et les larmes montent aux yeux, aux yeux de Cameron (et un peu aux miens aussi, parce que ce personnage me touche beaucoup).

Les sentiments sont exacerbés en ce moment et quand je n'aime pas un film je le déteste vraiment au plus profond de mon être (le jaune pisseux et les cadres de travers de Bagdad Café m'ont, en cela, rendue un peu trop furieuse for my own good) mais je tourne aussi en boucle sur tout ce qui "fait du bon" comme on dit chez la psy. Je brode sur mon canevas avec la certitude que quelque chose de magique se déroulera dès que j'aurai serré le dernier point sur la toile. J'ai parlé de pensée magique l'autre jour et pile à ce moment Molly en a parlé avec sa psy dans l'épisode d'Insecure que je regardais. Une coïncidence ! Ça, ça fait du bon. Revoir l'épisode de Seinfeld dans lequel Elaine trouve l'idée de son paragraphe sur les Himalayan Walking Shoes.

But my feet, my feet are resilient !

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En ce moment j'ai développé une nouvelle activité, que je pratique pour remplir les moments de rêverie au travail ou pendant que je tricote des pulls rouges qui ont pour vocation d'égayer mon quotidien. J'imagine que, dans ma future et hypothétique maison, j'installe une pièce pour moi. Dans mes moments de vide je la remplis. Plus je me sens sombrer, plus cette pièce déborde de tous les objets qui, ici, n'ont pas trop leur place. Une grosse fresque au mur dessinée par Aurore, des sérigraphies accrochées partout, une grande table pour mon puzzle, une machine à tricoter, une imprimante laser pour mes futurs zines, un panier pour mon tricot, des figurines des Moomin sur les étagères, des piles de livres par terre, ma machine à coudre avec tout le tissus qui déborde de partout, des tasses anglaises pour prendre le thé et le petit bric-à-brac qui m'accompagne partout. Aucun goût, aucune énergie de "catalogue ikea", ça je ne serai jamais dans les pages inspiration de Marie Claire maison : j'y mets seulement des choses qui prennent de la place et de la poussière. Et devant la fenêtre, il y a une toute petite table pour écrire un peu, parfois. Souvent mon chat fait son apparition dans ce rêve parce que je lui ai bien évidemment prévu un petit coussin cousu par mes soins, mais je dois lui dire qu'il ne sera pas de cette aventure-là. Cette pièce n'a aucune portée politique de la chambre à soi de Virginia Woolf. Elle n'a qu'un but : me faire tenir, encore un peu, jusqu'à demain, jusqu'à la semaine prochaine, jusqu'au mois prochain, jusqu'aux beaux jours.

Pick-up on South Street de Samuel Fuller (1953)

Apparemment je me spécialise ces derniers temps dans les films d'espionnage, puisqu'après Ministry of fear de Fritz Lang, j'ai beaucoup aimé Pick-up on South Street de Samuel Fuller, un film qui commence par un vol dans le métro. Candy se fait dérober, sous le regard de la police, un microfilm qu'elle devait rapporter à son ancien petit ami. Tout le film déroulera ensuite la relation entre le voleur, la voleuse, la police et l'ancien amant. Dans ce film, tous les hommes sont violents, ce qui attire irrémédiablement les femmes qui y voient l'expression de leurs blessures profondes, un stéréotype du film noir qui me défrise toujours un peu, mais passons.

J'ai particulièrement aimé le personnage de l'indic/vendeuse de cravates, interprétée par Thelma Ritter. Elle trahit, elle vend des informations, elle met les autres en danger mais elle est aussi vraiment bouleversante puisqu'elle essaie comme elle peut de mettre de l'argent de côté pour se payer un enterrement digne de ce nom. Dans une scène particulièrement émouvante, elle monologue sur la difficulté de sa vie, sur ses conditions de vie indigentes et la fatigue qu'elle ressent dans ses os à force de devoir marcher toute la journée pour gagner assez d'argent. Je me disais qu'il était rare de voir une femme d'un certain âge, pauvre de surcroit, qui parle de son corps dans un film des années 50. La manière dont elle est filmée, son phrasé, puis le plan large qui fait comprendre au spectateur ce qui l'attend — tout est magistral dans cette scène. Et puis ce film date de l'époque où les films n'étaient jamais jaunes (parce qu'ils étaient en noir et blanc), c'était le bon temps non ?

Je vois des antennes partout de Julie Delporte (éditions Pow Pow)

J'avais beaucoup de livres sur ma table de nuit avec la rentrée littéraire, et je m'étais gardé Je vois des antennes partout de Julie Delporte pour le moment où j'aurai fini ma pile de “lectures-boulot” (même si, bien sûr, la ligne entre lecture-boulot et lecture-plaisir est très très poreuse). Dimanche, j'ai donc lu ce récit autobiographique sous ma couette. Julie Delporte raconte un moment de sa vie où elle s'est mise à se sentir agressée physiquement par les ondes, et par l'illusion du confort moderne. Elle est atteinte de maux de têtes violents et elle devient sensible aux portables et aux antennes qui semblent se multiplier autour d'elle sans qu’elle ne puisse rien y faire. Comment pourrait-on se couper de ce qui nous est imposé ?

L'autrice accepte l'offre d'une de ses amies d'aller vivre quelques temps dans le chalet de son grand-père au nord du Québec, "loin des antennes de téléphone". Commence alors une méditation autour de la nature, des angoisses, de la nuit, des ruptures. "C'est trop tard pour faire reculer le monde" écrit Julie Delporte — et sous ma couette, en pleine pandémie, cette phrase m'a frappée en plein cœur.

J'ai déjà parlé plus que de raison de l'effet à la fois immédiat et très profond qu'a l'œuvre de cette autrice sur moi, et ce livre l'a encore une fois confirmée. Sa manière de dessiner la nature, de rendre compte de ses angoisses, de trouver les couleurs, les mots et les traits pour raconter des sentiments sur lesquels je n'aurais jamais réussi à mettre de mots m'émerveille vraiment. Ses livres pourraient me rendre triste mais ils me donnent ce sentiment précieux d'être moins seule. Merci Olivier de l'avoir mis au pied du sapin <3

Chercher du sens avec Moominland Midwinter de Tove Jansson

En 2020 je devais partir en Finlande sur les traces des Moomin, c'était un voyage que j'avais planifié rapidement mais qui avait l'air super sur le papier. Après l'avoir annulé j'ai souvent regardé les photos du logement que nous avions loué avec ses petites chaises près du lac. Ça ne me rendait pas triste, je fermais les yeux et je m'y installais tranquillement.

Ce week-end je m’y suis finalement rendue via les mots de Tove Jansson. Le conte Moominland Mindwinter m'est apparu comme étant étrangement de saison : Moomintroll se réveille de son hibernation prématurément, alors que l’hiver vient tout juste de commencer. Évidemment, tout le monde dort toujours. Il se retrouve donc obligé de découvrir l'hiver, et tout au long de son aventure il découvre la résilience, la manière dont le familier peut changer selon la saison, le sens de la compagnie et des amitiés improbables. Il découvre aussi un peu d’où il vient. Bref, ce récit m'a fait beaucoup de bien parce qu’il raconte toutes les manières dont on peut s’habituer à des événements angoissants. Et parce qu’il parle d’aventure, et qu’on en manque un peu ces jours-ci.

He looked at the cupboard in the corner and thought of how nice it was to know that his own old bath-gown as hanging inside it. That something certain and cosy still remained in the middle of all the new and worrying things.

(à un moment, un événement triste intervient, et Tove Jansson nous encourage, dans une note de bas de page, à consulter une page de la fin du livre pour nous rassurer. Je me suis dit que c'est ce que j'aimerais bien faire en ce moment, aller voir à la fin du livre de cette année pour voir si cela peut me rassurer.)

Les chansons que j’écoute en boucle

J'ai fait une playlist en janvier pour mettre dedans toutes les chansons que j'écoute, pour des raisons inconnues, en boucle en ce moment. Je la partage comme ça, si jamais votre mois de janvier n'a aucun sens et que vous voulez voir ce qui passe en random dans mon cerveau.

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acatbyanyothername9 · 2 years

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MY TURN!!

1, 2, 7, AND 8 :))

From this ask game :

1. has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you laugh out loud?

Yes there was! I know I already talked about it but non native english speaker left a comment on Pomiar’s birthday fic and lost their english half way through it! It was amazing to read and I kept cackling out loud because I was very proud of myself for that one!

Or when people commented with variations of “HDU” on some of my angsty drabbles 😎

2. has a comment someone left on a fic of yours ever made you cry?

Yes, Pom almost every single time she comments on my fics I end up in a puddle of tears! Your comment on my midwinter fic also reduced me to tears because this is a story I love with my whole heart.

7. what is you favourite sentence/paragraph? read it to us!

o.O that is a hard question my friend! I’m too lazy to go looking through all my drabbles, so I’ll just pick the opening paragraph of my mindwinter fic, I don’t think I’ve ever loved an opening paragraph more.

Illum is much like Coruscant in that it's never silent. Ice bends and creaks and breaks. Snow and wind howl night and day in an unending chorus. But Illum, unlike Coruscant, is dark. The already short days had kept shortening until there was no more daylight and night settled like a cloak over them.

8. If you got a computer virus that deleted all your fics but had just enough time to save one before they were wiped out, which fic would you pick and why?

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME THAT!!! All my fics are backed up on my google drive (￣m￣） so hopefully they won’t disappear. BUT I *think* I would save the fic I wrote for Pom’s birthday because I think plot wise it’s my favourite story up to date, exploring the misunderstandings between Qui Gon and Obi Wan and the delicate question of the nature of the future : is everything predetermined in advance or is it not and by mistakenly thinking so we shape a future into existence that otherwise wouldn’t have come to pass.

#ask game #life with pocket friends #cat answers #aussie for the win

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shelveswithstories · 5 years

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Mindwinter - Fiona Melrose

I would never have picked up this book myself, but it was given to me, so then you must read it.

Midwinter follows a father and son during a winter of conflict. After the family couldn’t pay for their farm anymore, they decided to move to Zambia when the son was about 8. They lived there a while, got their government sponsored farm going, but bad blood rises amongst the local people. The mother gets killed, and father and son move back to England.

The story starts with an accident involving Vale and his best friend Tom, leaving Tom paralysed from the waist down and Vale drowning in guilt and anger. Not having been able to digest the death of his mother, the fragile relationship with his father explodes. They both have to work out their troubles to be able to make it through.

Midwinter is filled with poetic sentences and analogies. From the vixen roaming their fields, to their surname and the title of this book. It’s got a nice flow to the words which makes it easy to read.

This book was definitely relatable to me. I’ve only just started my grieving process and honestly, I recognize my temper in Vale. It’s confrontational, but also cathartic. I think I picked it up at the right time.

#book review #midwinter #fiona melrose #7.5/10

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rafflesbkk-blog1 · 6 years

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littlejuicebox · 3 months

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Mindwinter Carol 6 / The Affliction

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Elf Sorceress OC

Word Count: 2.7K

Story navigation: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6]

Summary/Setting: Based on the prologue/premise from my OneShot "A Midwinter Carol."

Preview:

He’s weak, slow, moody… and above all, he’s hungry. His hunger makes it difficult to sleep. Eirianwen knows this. She knows he’s struggling. So every night she traces her fingers along his scalp and hums an old Elvish lullaby until he’s fallen into a trance beside her. When Astarion wakes in the night his hands always search for her, desperate to pull her close. And she is always there. * He remembers how easy and instinctual it had been to reach for Ani all those years ago. But now, the Ascendant cannot even bring himself to hold her hand as she trances through the worst parts of the poison’s wrath, forced into a slumber by Jaheira.

Warnings: This will be 18+ / in game spoilers / Eventual Smut / Angst, trauma, fluff / Gore

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“You don’t remember anything about your family, Astarion?”

Nighttime seemed eerily quiet in the Shadowlands; no animals or insects rustle in the barren woods and even the breeze is stunted in this horrifying, lightless place. The low, constant hum of Karlach’s snoring is the only background noise in camp.

Eirianwen is perched in Astarion’s lap, facing him, her warm limbs coiled around his torso like vines around a tree trunk as he rests his head in the crook of her neck and breathes in the scent of her skin. She smells both crisp and sweet, like fresh fallen snow. The scent clings to his shirt even when they’re apart; a constant reminder of his attachment to the woman.

Their nighttime activities have consisted of nothing more than cuddles and pillow talk for weeks and yet she’s still here.

Astarion still doesn’t fully understand why.

He pauses, searching through the blurred, fractured memories. Most are smattered with hundreds of faces he’s crossed along the way; almost all of the faces are discomforting. He’s hoping, despite the answer he already knows, for any sign of someone that could be his mother. His father. A sibling, perhaps?

Nothing. It’s always nothing.

“No, Ani. I’ve told you before, darling. I don’t have a single solid memory from my past prior to… him. Just vague, fuzzy pieces I cannot associate with a time nor place.” He sighs, his tone betraying his frustration as he nuzzles his head into the sorceress’s nimble hand, searching for comfort. She idly trails her fingers through his silvery curls, lightly scratching his scalp.

She hums softly but doesn’t say more on the topic. She knows when to stop pushing him. He loves that about her.

He thinks he loves her. He still hasn’t said it.

“Ready for bed?” Eirianwen asks with a soft peck to his cheek, and Astarion simply nods in response. He’s often much quieter when he’s not in front of the others; when he doesn’t have to perform.

She climbs off the male elf and quickly settles into the bedroll before patting the space next to her with an adorable, sleepy smile. He settles in next to the sorceress and she resumes running her fingers through his hair. Astarion is sure it’s incredibly disheveled by now, but in front of only Ani’s warm golden eyes, he doesn’t care.

The Shadowlands have been torturous. The vampire spawn has yet to catch a single living creature out here, and he refuses to drink from Ani more than once every three days, despite her protests. He jokes they can’t both be operating at suboptimal levels or the group would simply fall apart.

They can manage without him, he knows this. He also knows that, like him, they can’t manage without Ani.

He’s weak, slow, moody… and above all, he’s hungry. His hunger makes it difficult to sleep.

Eirianwen knows this. She knows he’s struggling. So every night she traces her fingers along his scalp and hums an old Elvish lullaby until he’s fallen into a trance beside her.

When Astarion wakes in the night his hands always search for her, desperate to pull her close. And she is always there.

He remembers how easy and instinctual it had been to reach for Ani all those years ago.

But now, the Ascendant cannot even bring himself to hold her hand as she trances through the worst of the poison’s wrath, forced into slumber by Jaheira. The average course of Delilah’s prior torture toxins had always been between three to five days. Most people give up their secrets after that. The ones that don’t undergo a second round of poison, and most of those unfortunate souls die; their bodies simply give up on them.

He’s sitting in a plush wingback chair not more than a few feet from Eirianwen, staring at the old metal ring he’d slipped onto her finger before rushing her to the Palace. True Love’s Caress and True Love’s Embrace. Two physical symbols of twisted, tainted love.

How fitting.

Though, this time around, he’s the shield and she’s the ward.

In the Shadowlands, when they first found the rings, it had been the other way around. Ani had insisted upon this particular arrangement because without regular sustenance, the vampire had been weak and sluggish. In his mind, he’d been useless. And the sorceress had refused to wear the matching rings otherwise, ultimately forcing his hand. Despite the fact Astarion hadn’t yet told her he loved her, he wanted everyone to know she was well and truly taken.

Fifteen years ago she was his. He was hers.

Now the vision of the beautiful, silvery-blue haired elven woman in his bed is entirely unfamiliar and he attempts, and yet consistently fails, to sleep in the adjacent office.

The Ascendant lounges idly on a velvet upholstered bench in a well-appointed room of Sharess’ Caress. A golden goblet dangles through his slender fingers as he surveys the salacious scene in front of him.

The Drow twins are there, as well as three other workers, all engaged in different aspects of bacchanalia. It’s been just over six months since Ani’s been gone; he rents this room and pays for this show nearly every weekend, mostly as a distraction. Astarion only watches, never engages.

He isn’t sleeping well, if at all. He thought performing the rite would make the nightmares cease, but the moment Eirianwen packed her bags and left the palace he was haunted by the visions. Many of them were of Cazador; many were of Ani. Both were tortuous in their own ways.

Every time the Ascendant looks at his still-unfamiliar visage in the mirror, the bags under his eyes appear deeper than before.

Delilah enters the room with another bottle of wine and a sumptuous spread of mixed fruit and chocolates on a platter. Her straight silver hair is twisted into ornate braids and she is nowhere near as skimpily dressed as the other workers. The half-elf elegantly places the tray in front of Astarion and then pauses to watch the debauched scene before her with mild interest. Sorn is in the middle of performing his Menzoberranzan Love Trick.

“I don’t pay you to stand there and stare.” Astarion warns snidely as he pops open the second bottle of wine and assesses the woman through judgmental scarlet eyes.

Delilah emits a haughty laugh in response as she turns her hazel gaze to examine the elf, wholly unphased by the Ascendant in front of her, “You don’t pay me at all, my Lord. I assure you, I’m far too expensive for you to have had the pleasure.”

She saunters away before the vampire can counter, and he stews at the insult for the remainder of the night, far too distracted by Delilah to appreciate any of the worker’s finales. What a waste.

A few days later, he enquires Mamzell Amira, the owner of Sharess’ Caress, about Delilah, intending to purchase her services solely to prove a point. He’d been ruminating over the insult for days.

Astarion is informed that the half-elf is a shapeshifter and her lowest rates for different experiences are already three times as high as the next highest paid employee of the brothel. Now that, the Ascendant mused… that was interesting. He could use her services.

Perhaps in more ways than one.

Edmund is held in the dungeons underneath the palace; convincing Wyll to leave the bastard here had been no easy task. But shortly after downing Edmund, the Duke had been called off to another emergency in the lower city, a riot of some sort, and he’d ultimately relented. Nowadays, the Blade’s dedication and loyalty always remained directed at the city. Even his closest friends, his precious Eirianwen, came second to duty.

Astarion is quite aware he has to interrogate the foreign, piece of shit spawn, but he cannot be more than sixty feet away from Ani or the enchantments on the ring cease to work. Plus, a few days without nourishment makes one more inclined to spill their most disgusting secrets. He knows this far too well.

The silver-haired Lord is signing some documents for his steward, Pascal. The love of his life is in a forced trance the next room over, and yet business must go on and money must be made. His control over the city had already slipped since he and Delilah went their separate ways a few years back; he cannot let past-due documents be his final undoing.

The rules of bureaucracy are asinine, but in many ways – far more than he likes – Astarion is still forced to follow them. What is the point of being an all-powerful Ascendant when you still have to dance around nobles and patriars, relentlessly pretending you’re part of a society you do not give a single shit about?

The elf sucks in a sharp breath and abruptly clenches the quill in hand as a burning sensation courses through his system. It feels like pure acid in his veins. The pain emerges from the thin band on his index finger and shoots up his arm in an arc before circling itself around his body, as if following the course of his blood circulation.

It’s truly agonizing. But as the Ascendant, neither a surge of fire through his veins nor the effects of Delilah’s poisons are as potent as they would be on a mortal. He’s certain the rings are not completely doing away with Ani’s suffering, he can see the discomfort strewn across her face, even as she trances. But between the forced slumber and the ring’s enchantments, they’re saving her from the worst of it.

He hopes.

Pascal collects the newly signed piles of scrolls and then hands a small folded note of parchment, sealed with red wax, to Astarion. The Ascendant drinks a simple healing potion in order to combat the effects of the ring.

“This arrived just now, as well, my Lord.” The human male, with eyes just a bit too wide and a scar running along his face murmurs. Pascal had been the elf’s first hire when he took over the palace fifteen years ago. Back then, the man had been a spry thirty-something; now Pascal is a graying human approaching middle age. He’d unfortunately rejected Astarion’s offer to become a spawn.

Seems immortality is not as alluring as one might think. Pity, though. Pascal had proven to be quite useful over the years.

Jaheira appears in the doorway of Astarion’s office. It’s clear she’s quite uncomfortable within these walls, but she’s continuing on for Eirianwen. The druid purses her lips and meets the gaze of the Vampire Lord, “There’s been a new development.”

Astarion leaves the small folded piece of parchment strewn upon his desk and Umber curled sleeping on a cushion underneath it.

“You will regret leaving me… more than anything else you live to regret.”

They are sitting across from one another in their old booth at the Elfsong, a few weeks after their break up. He’d been positive this meeting was called because the sorceress wanted to reconcile. The Ascendant thought he would make her grovel a bit, but then ultimately take her back. Astarion had to punish her, if only just, to ensure she never considered such a ridiculous stunt ever again.

But instead, Ani told him she was leaving the city and going to meet Halsin in Reithwin. Astarion is convinced this is an intentional goad from the elven woman, some sort of manipulation on her end. He said what he did in a pitiful attempt to goad her in return.

Eirianwen tips her chin up pridefully as she smoothly stands from the table and evaluates the Vampire Ascendant. He feels his fingers instinctively flex with nerves as he watches her. Ani is far too calculated and far too unemotional as she glosses her eyes across his face looking for… something, though he still doesn’t fully understand what. In this final, painstaking moment, the male elf realizes this is truly the end between them. She is done. He almost retches on the spot but his pride forces him to shove the visceral reaction down.

“You’re nothing like the man I fell in love with anymore. I don’t know who you are. I hope you find the pieces of him still within you, someday.”

She would regret leaving him, that much was true. But Astarion would regret letting her go far more.

When Jaheira and Astarion enter the room, Ani is drenched in sweat and speaking in strings of broken Elvish as old memories flicker through her mind. In the moments Astarion had spent sitting at her side, the sorceress mentioned someone named Calinion more than once. The Ascendant assumes it’s a lover from her travels and the thought makes his skin crawl; he desires to know nothing more about the man and therefore ignores most of her mutterings.

Astarion’s garnet-colored eyes immediately notice the marred flesh of Eirianwen’s right hand. Small pinprick ulcers are beginning to form along her inner arm; parts of her smooth, vitiligo-patched skin are turning black. It’s starkest against the spots on her arms where her depigmentation has made the skin almost as pale as his own.

Her vitiligo was beautiful. The appearance of this affliction was anything but.

Astarion had never witnessed this from any of Delilah’s previous concoctions. But the changeling was known to experiment with new tinctures quite often; she excelled at torture and seemed to delight in finding new, innovative ways to inflict pain. It had been one of the many reasons the Ascendant had remained involved with her for years; she’d been an excellent informant.

“Necrosis.” Jaheira explains, her voice clinical but grave, as she brings a plush towel to Ani’s face and dabs at bits of sweat along the sorceress’s brow, “I suspect that, despite the rings, this poison — or curse, perhaps — isn’t targeting you because as an undead, nevermind an Ascendant, you are highly resistant. Try as it might, it cannot touch you. But it has to enact its damage somewhere.”

“There must be something you can do.” Astarion responds, brow furrowing as he takes the cloth from Jaheira’s hands and gently resumes the task, mostly to distract himself. He’s angry, and frustrated, but he tempers all of it down because Jaheira is his — their — only hope.

As the vampire blots along the sorceress’s face, his eyes focus on the small patch of vitiligo underneath her left eye. He wants nothing more than to bend over and press a gentle kiss atop it.

If true love’s kiss were more than a silly notion in a child’s fairy tale, he would have kissed her already.

“If there were anything I could do, I would have done it by now. But as you said yourself, Delilah’s concoctions are unlike anything we have seen. The remnants along Eirianwen’s wound contain highly unfamiliar ingredients; your old paramour must source them from quite far.” Jaheira murmurs and then sighs dejectedly, “The most I can do is try to limit the spread. But even my magic and medicinals are struggling to compete against this… atrocity. The poison should be out of her system in another day or two; the most we can hope is that it simply runs the rest of its course with minimal damage.”

Astarion twitches his fingers as he assesses the ill elven woman in his bed.

“I would not think about turning her now, Astarion.” Jaheira warns, reading the Ascendant’s mind as his eyes roam across the sleeping sorceress’ face, “She would never forgive you, and you’re risking Eirianwen remaining frozen, damaged like this for all eternity. Is that what you want? And more importantly, is that what she would want?”

Astarion inhales a slow, contemplative breath. Moments of silence pass between the two conscious beings in the room and then the male elf simply responds, “No.”

Jaheira isn’t sure which question he’s answering. She hopes it’s both.

He leaves the bedchambers without another word. Enough is enough. The Ascendant may not be able to travel down the several flights of stairs to the dungeons, but Edmund can be brought to him. Some of the worst things that ever happened to Astarion occurred in the many halls and rooms of this palace, rather than in the dungeons themselves. Cazador found ways to torture and punish his spawn no matter where they were.

Astarion is certain he can do far worse than Cazador ever did to the bastard responsible for Eirianwen’s affliction in the first place. Because unlike Cazador, the Ascendant has little reason to keep this fucker presentable. Or alive, for that matter.

Edmund will not remain tight-lipped for long.

Special thank you to my friend and lore queen @chickywickers for telling me the owner of the brothel is, in fact, not Sharess. Edited to fix. 😊

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