#the age of calamitous
Text
Aster
I’ve had him on my mind for a long time and he’s kinda the oldest living Zelda oc I had.
I won’t go into his story just yet but some information that I can give is that he’s from the botw timeline and he’s supposed to have a mask on but I’m lazy, I’ll draw it later.
#loz zelda#botw oc#zelda oc#deku scrub#deku scrub oc#yes his name sound like Astor but he existed and had that name befor age of calamit#another name I give him is Asterie but I usually call him Aster because it’s a type of flower:)#zelda art#the evilbath#legend of zelda
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
#a distant mirror the calamitous 14th century#barbara w tuchman#middle ages#black death#currently reading
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Love Across Time Ch. (A SidLink Story)
Chapter 20: A moment of Victory
Link was down too long. He wasn't moving. Yet again the hero that was meant to protect them all was on the ground again.
And Sidon believed it was one too many times.
Knowing his stories and the like he knew Link always pushed himself, never taking care of himself. But he had made the promise. He had promised him they could have the life together that they had wanted together.
The jolt of water on the prince did little to clear his mind. All he knew was that he had to get to Link. The major threats had been taken care of but they weren't done yet.
And he had gone against direct orders to stay on Vah Ruta.
He didn't care. He needed to know that Link was alright. Yes he wanted to see if Zelda was as well but Link would always be his top priority when it came down to it.
He would worry another time about the wrath of his fellow soldiers. Link needed tending to.
And he still hadn't gotten up.
Sidon rushed onto the ground, his gold eyes flicking back and forth around him to make sure that things had been cleared.
So far so good but he knew he still had to be careful. He wasn't stupid and he made sure to grab the spears.
“Link,” he finally gasped out at he made it to Link. The blonde's eyes were open and he gave a weak smile when he looked at him.
“Hey...” Link said softly. “You shouldn't be down here.”
“Hush now,” Sidon said, picking him up carefully. He had wounds but not nearly as bad as they had been back at the Yiga hideout. “What hurts? What can I do?”
“I'm just so tired...” Link mumbled, resting against Sidon's chest.
Impa came over with the princess, Zelda's cheeks stained with tears.
“Princess!” Sidon said with a sad smile on his face. “You're alright.”
“At this cost...” Zelda said softly, looking down at Link. “Is he...?”
“I'm fine,” Link said softly.
Zelda let out a sob of relief and she wrapped her arms around Link and Sidon. “I'm so sorry Link. I'm sorry I got angry, I'm sorry...”
“Don't apologize,” Link said. “I'm sorry we took so long to find you.”
Sidon smiled softly, remining silent as Link hugged onto his friend weakly. They would all talk later about what happened over some hot tea and with full bellies.
“Don't relax just yet,” Impa warned near them. Sidon's head snapped up, looking to see the hooded man clutching to his staff as he rose to his feet.
He should have figured this. He should have figured the blast had knocked back all the enemies but the leader would still be there.
But it looked like he was vastly injured.
Link pushed against Sidon's chest, the Zora having no choice but to set him on his feet. He weakly stepped in front of him and Zelda, holding his arm out as his fingers clutched onto the Master sword in his hand.
Sidon wanted to pull him away, pull him from this mess but he knew that would just make things worse for them.
Likn wanted to at least show he was making a stand.
“You really think you've seen the last of me?” Astor growled as he limped towards them, a snarl on his face. “You think her gaining her powers really mean anything? It means nothing! Just a bump in the grand plan!”
Zelda scowled, raising her hand that started to glow.
“Surrender Astor,” she said. “The crimes you've commited against Hyrule are warrant of imprisonment and even death.”
“Oh shut it princess. You know as well as I do that the king is dead,” Astor sneared.
Zelda tensed and she shook her head.
“You lie. Stop spouting such nonsense,” She snapped, but that didnt stop the tears leaking down her cheeks.
Astor laughed hard, it making him sound crazy. He was then covered in malice and disappeared into thin air.
Zelda crumpled to her knees, crying softly as she tried to cover her mouth with her hands to stifle herself.
Link let his body sink down next to her and pull her into a warm hug to try to help calm her down from this whole thing.
The battle, the news of her father...They weren't even sure if it was true but with everything they wouldn't put it past Astor to have done it.
“Princess-” Impa started but Sidon held his hand up and shook his head.
“Leave her be for the moment. I will watch over them if you will tell the news that we have won this battle and Zelda is safe,” Sidon urged Impa.
The sheikah hesitated but then nodded her head a little bit, heading off towards the other soldiers to spread the news.
Sidon looked down to the two hylians, Zelda hugging onto Link and cried into his chest. Link rubbed her back, looking up at the prince.
Sidon gave a small smile and reached out to rub his head over Link's hair. Link closed his eyes, relaxing into his touch and even rest part of his body against his leg to stay up.
He would watch over them for as long as he needed to.
*
“You do realize you are just as bad as him,” Urbosa said with a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do we need to put you under lock down as well?”
“Would be for the best. The Zora can't be trusted when it comes to his precious little hylian,” Revali added from the other side of the campfire.
Sidon scowled, having Link settled in his lap who was warpped in a blanket and currenlty snoozing away after a long day.
“Is that really necessary to make a jab at Link right now?” Yunobo asked from his seat. “We shouldn't be fighting among ourselves.”
“I agree,” Mipha said looking to her brother who let out a sigh and shook his head a little bit at what they were saying.
“I'm sorry,” Sidon said. “I agree that I should not have done what I had. My judgement became clouded. But we should put this behind us and just relax right now. Take in the moment of victory before we start our next plan.”
“I-” Urbosa stated but Zelda came up to her and rest her hands on the taller woman's arm as she came up behind her sitting form.
“It's alright Urbosoa. We can take at least one night,” she said to her, coming to sit next to her. “After everything that has happened I think we can all just forget about who did what. We won the battle in the end.”
Urbosa realxed and Sidon had to hide his smile behind his hand with what he noticed. The way she looked at the princess was similar to how he looked at the man in his lap.
And just like Sidon it was hard to say no to them.
Link let out a small hum as Sidon squeezed him and turned him closer into Sidon's chest. Right now neither of them cared of who knew of their relationship now.
It was pretty obvious with how much they were around one another.
“I suppose you're right,” Urbosa sighed, resting her hand on Zelda's and shifted over so that the princess could sit with them.
The moment the others noticed that the princess had settled in the questions started coming about what happened.
Was she alright? What did Astor do to her? Though those that had seen the small robot knew what had happened to her.
It was currenlty parked next to her, a silent protector just like Link.
Most questions were aimed about her powers however. How did they work, did it hurt? Though they were all joyous that she had finally unlocked them.
The commotion caused Link to wake and he opened up his blue eyes, a little confused about where he was and what situation he was in.
Seeing Sidon's face above him he couldn't help but flush a little bit in embarassment. The was supposed to be one of the strongest of them and here he was taking a nap in Sidon's lap.
Link made a small noise and Sidon's eyes were right on him, a gentle smile on his face. They had both made it out of this mess so far. There really shouldn't be any form of embarassment being around one another right now.
One question stuck out then to Link and the blonde pushed a bit to sit up. With Sidon's help the blonde sat in his lap, gaining the attention of a few others.
The question was: What triggered you to unlock your powers?
“I can answer that,” Link said to them, a hush falling over the group now that the hero had awoken up once more. “I was the one who needed saving this time.”
“You needed saving? Shows just how weak-” Revali began
“Yes I did. That guy had put so many enmies and I was way in over my head,” Link snapped back at him, quieting the other champion.
“The thought of losing anyone seemed to have brought it out. The goddess showed herself to me and helped me save everyone,” Zelda said softly.
Link gave a small smile and he leaned his head back against Sidon's chest. Sidon smiled a bit down to him and relaxed.
“What's our next move?” Duruk asked after a moment. Zelda was quiet a moment and rubbed one of her arms. She knew that her first knee jerk reaction would be to go to the castle and to take it back but at what cost?
It seemed since she awoke her powers it was like her brain was a little more clear.
“We should check each area and clear them out o any possible enemies,” Zelda said. “Such like Urbosa checking Gerudo Town and the desert, Daruk you and Yunobo checking Death Mountain and so on. Link and I will split the areas. I will go with Urbosa and Revali, Link I trust you to accompany Mipha and Daruk to make sure things are secure.”
Link hesitated but nodded his head. In a way she was offering to let Link stay with Sidon instead of being seperated.
“I think that is an excellent ideas,” Urbosa said. “And then once we made sure things are secure we send word and we meet in central Hyrule. We will take back your home Zelda.”
The princess smiled sadly and looked down at her hands. If there was a home to go back to at this rate...
The group agreed, turning back to their meals and celebrating their small victory. It was a long road before they would be finished with this but for now they could rest.
But Sidon was a little unsure of what he should be doing. He wasn't sure if the other champions from the future were feeling like this as well.
They weren't around yet in this time. But Sidon was. He would be but a boy at this age. What did he do?
Would that do anything to his future if he ended up meeting his younge self?
I’m open for written commissions
want to support? my patreon and kofi (both triforceangel)
my a03 (triforceangel) as another place to read my fics
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
“Blackmail,” Moon Knight (Vol. 9/2021), #4.
Writer: Jed MacKay; Penciler and Inker: Alessandro Cappuccio; Colorist: Rachelle Rosenberg; Letterer: Cory Petit
#Marvel#Marvel comics#Marvel 616#Moon Knight vol. 9#Moon Knight 2021#Moon Knight comics#Moon Knight#Marc Spector#Tigra#Greer Nelson#ouch oof my bones that hurts#it ties in so to the calamitous acts surrounding the Age of Khonshu but…oof it hurts
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Gale and Mystra (and Mystra, and Mystra...)
I did a rabbit hole deep dive into this a few days ago and I have Thoughts. Prepare for long/researched explanations (and by researched I mean I read a lot of wikis and scraps of lore books/novels)
So Mystra dies in the Forgotten Realms something like three times (the “official” number is wibbly because there are many writers messing with Forgotten Realms lore and they don’t always agree). She dies in -339 DR, and then again in 1358 DR, and then kind of again a few months later. Allegedly she stayed dead until 1479-1480, which is roughly 12 years prior to the events of Baldur's Gate 3, but didn't get her body back until 1487, which is 5 years before BG3, which takes place in 1492 (if we're going by the Baldur's Mouth Gazette year).
So...what do we do with that and the current popular theory that Gale was groomed as a child?
If it sounds complicated, don't worry, it's more complicated than you think. Welcome to my TEDTalk. More under the cut.
Mystryl, the first goddess of magic (like, ever) dies hundreds of years prior to the events of BG3 during the Karsus/Netheril debacle. Karsus tried to steal her deity/power and succeeded only to realize his mortal body/mind couldn’t contain or control that much power. Mystryl sacrificed herself (her essence, her power) to keep it out of Karsus’s incapable hands. The Weave went wonky for an indeterminate but brief amount of time, during which the floating cities of Netheril crashed to the ground. This happens in -339 DR, over ~1700 years before BG3. Gale tells us a brief version of this story in his standard dialogue. It's also established lore in campaign books.
Mystryl was reborn as Mystra (still in -339 DR), and this Mystra lasted for AGES. This Mystra is the mother of all magic, the Mystra we basically think of as BG3’s Mystra. This is the Mystra that met and claimed Elminster as one of her Chosen (later they became lovers, it's a whole thing).
But this is complicated. Because in 1358 DR…she dies too.
Long story short, for a brief moment, the Overgod Ao forced all gods to walk Faerûn in their mortal avatar forms and denied them entry into heavens (this was called the Times of Troubles, very complicated, the point is, gods were walking the earth as mortals). Mystra decided to fight Helm, the god guarding the stairway into the heavens, and got promptly smote.
Smitten? Smited? Whatever. Helm DESTROYED her. Death #2.
This time, Ao chose a mortal girl named Midnight to replace Mystra. He imbued Midnight, a wizard girl who worshipped Mystra, with Mystra's powers (Mystra conveniently left an amulet behind with some of her power contained within). Incidentally, the Weave didn't die this time like it did the first time. Convenient!
Midnight-Mystra lasts less than a year before Shar and Cyric (god of trickery) kill her and the Spellplague happens. The Spellplague is basically 10 years of magic going haywire and the Weave kind of ceasing to exist. Again. It's complicated.
Ignoring that some Forgotten Realms writers insist the Spellplague didn't happen, BG3 says it DID. One book in BG3 states:
In the infamous, calamitous year of 1385 DR, a conspiracy between the goddess of darkness, Shar, and the god of trickery, Cyric, sought to end Mystra's control over the Weave and influence over the realms by cravenly assassinating her.
But instead of merely breaking the goddess of magic's dominance, her death threw the Weave into utter chaos and collapse. Magic spells faltered, or failed entirely. Countless spellcasters were killed or driven insane...
Toril would face nearly a hundred years of upheaval before Mystra could return once again, reinstated as goddess of magic in 1480 DR, thanks to the efforts of the legendary wizard, Elminster Aumar and the events of the Second Sundering...
(Curiously Gale’s Countermeasure Abberation at the Netherbrain fight is called Spellplague so...do with that whatever you want. I mean, I know that’s the Countermeasure for ANY wizard in the party but it feels particularly interesting for Gale. Also we're going to ignore the Second Sundering in this post because that's a whole different rant, just know that the Second Sundering means the state of the world and the pantheon of gods basically got soft reset and then locked into place. Which is why it was important for Mystra to return before that happened, or else she would have gotten locked out of returning at all.)
As far as I can tell, between 1385 and 1479, Mystra was silent. Maybe dead, maybe not. There's some suggestion that she existed in the Weave, because other than the Spellplague period, the Weave still existed. The fact that the Weave exists separately from Mystra is important mostly because Shar wants to turn it into the Shadow Weave, which she can't do if Mystra is alive and maintaining control over the Weave. And if Shar can't control the Weave even while Mystra is silent for 100ish years, then...well. Mystra must not be dead-dead.
More importantly than Shar Politics, her being maybe-dead for almost 100 years means she wasn't whispering in the minds of her Chosen the way gods like her normally do. The wikis mention a comic ("Lord of the Darkways") where Mystra spoke directly to Elminster's mind, but that's the only instance before 1479. Mystra was SILENT before 1479...or at least, very, very, very quiet.
So what happens in 1479? Well, long story short, according to the novel Bury Elminster Deep, Elminster travels to a cave where there is a bear carrying some Mystra's remaining essence/power. Why a bear? I have no idea. Point is, she speaks directly to Elminster and confirms that she is, indeed, Mystra. Specifically, she's pre-Midnight Mystra and also...changed into a newish Mystra.
This is some of what Elminster thinks/says when he's speaking with her and notices she's guarding some artifacts:
“Ye collected these things when ye were Midnight?” El blurted, trembling in a sudden chaos of wanting to know so much, yet not knowing what he dared ask. Her love—or at least fondness—was in his head and all around him, but something was subtly different in it, a distance that had not been there once, or rather one that had grown since Midnight had ascended to replace the Mystra his far younger self had first touched and tasted. Gone was the Mystra whose mind would long ago have merged with his to let them converse wordlessly, thoughts flashing.
Bear!Mystra has been guarding things that Midnight!Mystra collected, things that were important to Mystra!Mystra. Confusing, I know. So who is this current Mystra, speaking to Elminster as a bear? This is the Mystra that would then go on to become lovers with Gale.
Now, I'd argue it's basically all the same Mystra. There was Mystryl and then there was Mystra in her many forms. The Mystra that become lovers with Elminster when she selected him as her Chosen 1300 years ago is the same Mystra that took Gale as a lover too—even if she's died and transformed a couple of times.
It’s worth noting that the novels also sort of mingle all the Mystras into one. In the next novel, Elminster Enraged, when another character called the Simbul (another Chosen of Mystra who is also Mystra’s daughter) is speaking with Mystra, they talk about how Mystra has memories both of previous Mystras and of several Chosen. When the Simbul asks if Mystra can sense her current Chosen, Mystra confirms that she can sense her daughters and Elminster.
“Wasn’t that the Mystra before you?” The Simbul dared to ask.
Echoes in the Weave, my daughter, echoes in the Weave…we see and feel so much that happened before us, in the Weave; it becomes part of us, the memories of the Mystra who birthed you becoming part of me, so I become that Mystra…
Anyway. Mystra is Mystra. Basically the same Mystra she's been since the fall of Netheril. Why does that matter? Well.
When Elminster is talking to bear-Mystra, she gives him a command: “I charge you to preserve magic wherever and whenever you can” and also; “Recruit new Chosen and gather them here for me to confer with. I need many, and they must be different from my daughters and from each other…and above all, I must have those I can trust.”
Okay, granted, this specific command probably doesn't apply to Gale. Gale never talks about being gathered as Chosen to help usher in Mystra's return. Remember, she's gathering Chosens so she can restore herself to godhood before Ao clicks the "Save" function on his universe post-Second Sundering. That's what this command is referring to.
Elminster does end up choosing several potential Chosen for Mystra (plus he goes on to steal a whole bunch of magic and gives it to Mystra to restore her back to godhood; this happens at the end of Elminster Enraged). Elminster spends part of Bury Elminster Deep, Elminster Enraged, and The Herald (three back-to-back novels) gathering Chosen or...well, killing corrupt Chosen and stealing their power to give back to Mystra. Mystra begins speaking into the minds of those who worship her in Elminster Enraged (around 1480) and the end of that novel has her appearing as a very grand spirit type of lady, but she's only seen restored to her actual corporeal goddess body at the end of The Herald, which is set in 1487.
So what does this have to do with Gale??
Simple. I have two theories.
Theory 1: Larian just ignores timelines and maybe wanted to create a new grooming narrative for Gale
Listen, Larian has a ton of writers and not every writer can be expected to maintain ALL of the lore Ed Greenwood and other writers wrote for the campaign books and novels. The Forgotten Realms is like 40+ years old. It's been through every iteration of D&D rules. Mystra dies every time the Wizards of the Coast revamps their magic rules, to the point where Ed Greenwood literally had Elminster say, in one of his novels, “I think Mystra’s fall was part of a cycle fated to happen again and again, as the Weave—as all magic of this world—needs renewal.” Elminster fourth-wall calls out a "fated cycle" that is just WOTC remixing magic rules.
Hell, maybe Larian knew that and wanted Gale to be part of the next cycle of Mystra-death-and-rebirth. Raphael certainly suggests something similar if Gale ascends to godhood and plans to usurp Mystra. That's a rant for a different post.
Anyway. Point is, it's a lot of lore, and a lot of it contradicted itself before Larian ever got their hands on it. The writers knew enough to know that Mystra picks Chosens all the time and that she's been known to be lovers with her Chosens. They probably took that and ran with it. Gale was chosen by Mystra and become lovers with her and the timelines don't matter, and maybe there are hints that Mystra groomed him as a kid. Maybe Larian just ignored Ed Greenwood's lore that Mystra didn't speak to any of her followers until like 12 years before the game. That's fine!
But if that theory doesn't seem to vibe, consider theory 2 (which for the purposes of this analysis suggests Gale is a cool 35 for convenient math):
Theory 2: Gale didn't actually hear or meet a corporeal Mystra until he was a consenting adult (NOTE: this does not necessarily mean he wasn't groomed)
Brief timeline, again.
1385, Mystra and Midnight both die and anything resembling a goddess of magic goes silent for nearly 100 years.
Early 1400s? Elminster hears Mystra's voice but she's otherwise silent for everyone else
1479, Elminster meets Bear!Mystra, begins finding other Chosen of Mystra and gathering power for Mystra
1480ish, Elminster restores power to Bear!Mystra and she Officially Returns (but like, quietly and we still haven't seen her body, she seems to be just spirit and stardust)
1487, Mystra now has a body because she does this Big Reveal at the end of The Herald by entering a room where five of her Chosen are
If Gale is 35 in 1492, then he was 30 when she "officially" had a body again, and 23 when she begins speaking to her Chosen (or those who worship her more broadly) after a century of silence.
Obviously this theory breaks the current ongoing theory that Mystra revealed herself to Gale when he was 8, or at least a young child. However, does the game really support that theory either? Elminster's letter to an ascended God!Gale only says:
Do you recall the day we first met, m’boy?
You could have been no more than eight summers’ old, clutching your mother’s apron…
He doesn't say anything about telling Gale that he is a Chosen at the age of 8 or that Mystra personally has an interest in him. Maybe Elminster was just wandering around and met Gale, or perhaps someone wrote to Elminster to tell him there's an exceptionally talented mage boy that he should meet. Elminster doesn't tell us the circumstances of the meeting, so we'll never know. The one thing we do know is that Elminster has known about Gale since Gale's childhood. There's just nothing in his letter proves that Mystra was actively speaking to Gale when he was 8, or even telling Elminster to choose Gale that young.
Keep in mind, if Gale is 35 in 1492, then he was 8 in 1465, well before Elminster had gotten the charge to maintain the Weave and select new Chosens for Mystra.
Then of course we have Minsc's comment that:
While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth I thought it born of caution, after some catastrophe wrought by wizardly men-folk of old. Now I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?
I want to point out that this idea that the Rashemi people hide Weave-touched boys from Mystra's sight is completely new lore. Ed Greenwood explained a bit of how he views vremyonni boys/men being secluded in a series of tweets from 2020. Basically, because a wychlaran (female witch) is also a kind of ruling/religious class in the Rashemi culture, male spellcasters create a power imbalance, especially because they have access to more powerful spells than the female spellcasters. To combat this, male spellcasters are hidden away to avoid political imbalance and end up serving as enchanters/weaponsmiths for the wychlarans. Or they leave and become wizards elsewhere.
The idea that the Rashemi hide the boys away to either a) protect them from Mystra's icky amorous tactics or b) protect their communities from Mystra encouraging grand, destructive ambition in their menfolk, is probably unique to BG3 alone...and that's if we can take what Minsc says at face value.
Can we?
Minsc proves time and again he doesn't think much of wizards. The only thing he likes about Gale is that he can explode. I think he mistrusts male spellcasters in general because of his culture. So his comment could just be Minsc taking a jab at Gale while also not accurately representing his culture (possibly by offering an explanation that he just hasn't thought through all that thoroughly).
The fact that he says "young and prideful boys" is curious, regardless. Does he view Gale as a boy, because Gale is technically younger than Minsc by several decades thanks to Minsc being a statue for a while? Is it derogatory? Is it a remark to say that Gale's ambition is a bit juvenile, as wizard ambitions tend to be? Who knows. Minsc's dialogue isn't always as surface-level as it appears.
So...was Gale groomed?
I guess that depends on your definition of grooming. Adult-to-adult grooming is absolutely a thing. It's a cycle of manipulation, isolation, and gaslighting that leaves one person, the victim, in a twisted, unequal relationship with their abuser. So, yeah, Gale absolutely was groomed by his goddess. Point blank. Period. She rewarded his magical talent with sexual/emotional intimacy. He responded with love, intimacy, adoration, etc., that she was incapable of reciprocating as his equal, because of her power of authority over him (over all wizards) yet she used it to her advantage, and then tossed him aside when it became inconvenient for her. Absolutely she groomed him, and she's an abuser.
But if we're merging Forgotten Realms lore and timelines with BG3 timelines, then our understanding of Gale's perspective of all this shifts a little. Instead of a child chasing after a goddess who is stringing him along, it becomes Gale, the child prodigy, desperately trying to understand magic in a world where the goddess of magic is silent, possibly dead, and the Weave is trying to repair itself after a devastating Spellplague a few decades earlier. It becomes Gale in his teens, not understanding why the others think he's so odd for burying himself in his studies to impress a goddess who might not even care, if she's even alive. It becomes a young adult Gale overwhelmed with awe at the first rumors that Mystra might finally, finally be back, and hearing her voice for the very first time. It becomes Gale, in his late twenties, finally staring into the face of his goddess, someone he's had blind faith in before he even knew for certain she was capable of hearing his prayers. It becomes mid-thirties Gale, who has grown up with a patchwork Weave and a missing goddess, plotting to restore even more power to her by finding an elusive bit of errant Weave and making the biggest mistake of his life. It becomes a story of Gale who probably looked forward to the return of Mystra with so much awe and longing, only to be used and cast aside by her within a dozen years of her return to godhood.
No wonder he felt that godhood was not only well within his grasp, but that he could be a more deserving kind of god.
It's not a perfect theory, and a lot of Gale's dialogue suggests he was a young man, probably early 20s, when he began an intimate relationship with Mystra. He also implies that she spoke to him for some time before they ever became intimate. He describes her first as the Mother of Magic, and then his teacher, and then his muse, and then his lover. So what are we to believe?
Well...that's the frustrating beauty of D&D and Forgotten Realms and Baldur's Gate I guess. The lore is wibbly wobby and malleable. You do what you want with it.
#long post#bg3#bg3 lore#baldur's gate 3#gale#gale dekarios#fandom discourse#bg3 discourse#in this essay i will#who let me do this to myself tbh
121 notes
·
View notes
Note
🥤 affair with ward cameron. you’re his secretary. age gap. you know my kinks already 😏
ty for opening it up to daddy ward. he deserves the slutty love too
OVERTIME AT THE OFFICE
WARNINGS: extreme domination, mentions of alcohol consumption, mentions of cheating, etc. 18+ readers only
PAIRING(S): Ward Cameron x Fem!Reader
SUMMARY: in which Fem!Reader stays late at the office with her boss, Ward Cameron.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: thank you for the request, my sweet Harley. I hope you enjoy my baby daddy as much as I do!
let’s have a sleepover at mine!
Her boss's door was ajar, and as Y/N peered through the gap she could see him leaning back in his large easy chair, removing his tie and unbuttoning the collar of his shirt.
As she entered the room, Ward swung round and greeted her with a mischievous grin. She was somewhat taken aback by his casual appearance; usually he was impeccably dressed in a three piece suit, highly polished shoes and expensive ties and commanded a great deal of awe and respect from his employees.
However, tonight Ward’s hair was ruffled, his shoes kicked off and his pale blue shirt open at the collar to reveal a tuft of dark hair at the top of his chest. Y/N was alarmed to find that the sight of him had involuntarily increased the rate of her breathing and she could feel her heart thumping in her chest.
"You wanted to see me?" Y/N finally stammered.
"Yes, I wanted to thank you for all your hard work and wondered if you'd like to join me for a drink.” Ward gestured towards his desk where a half-full bottle of whiskey nestled amongst a number of empty bottles and piles of documents and files. "That is, if you haven't got anything else planned for this evening?”
"Uh, no, nothing else planned."
"Excellent. Will bourbon do?”
"Bourbon will be fine.” Y/N heard herself say, although in her head she was reminding herself loudly that whiskey made her extremely pissed, extremely quickly with calamitous results.
Ward pulled a chair around from the other side of the desk and indicated for her to sit down. “Come and see the fantastic view." The entirety of the wall of his office was made from tinted glass.
"You'll be needing this.” Ward said, holding out a bright, shiny liquor glass.
As Y/N leant across to take it from him, she noticed that his gaze had shifted. As she followed the line of his vision down, she realized that the top few buttons of her blouse had somehow become dislodged from their buttons to reveal the soft flesh of her breasts spilling over the top of her blood-red lace bra.
Y/N’s face flushed as her fingers brushed his and she could feel her hand shaking as she took the opener from him. As she went to twist open the Bourbon, she gasped as the bottle of liquid came gushing out, covering the front of her blouse and dripping down her short skirt onto her stockings.
Looking down in dismay, Y/N could see the wetness from the liquor spreading out over the front of her blouse, the red bra underneath becoming more and more visible and the damp fabric clinging increasingly to the curves of her breasts. She felt her nipples harden instantaneously and, as she raised her gaze to meet his, it was clear that this had not escaped his attention.
"I have a shirt that you could borrow, if you’d like.” Ward said.
As he slowly stood, the extent of his reaction to her unfortunate 'accident' became clear; his hard-on visible through his straining trousers and she felt herself becoming wet just at the sight of it. She watched his reflection in the huge window as he walked over to the cupboard and retrieved a white shirt from its depths.
As she watched, Y/N could see him loosening his belt, unzipping his fly and releasing his erection from the confines of his trousers. Their reflected eyes met and Ward smirked at her from the other side of the room as he started to massage his cock.
Emboldened by his actions, her eyes still on the reflection of his, Y/N started to slowly undo the remaining buttons of her blouse and was pleased to see his movements become quicker and more urgent, dropping the white shirt onto the floor.
Once undone, Y/N removed her blouse with a deft flick of her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Still staring at the window, she could see him walking slowly towards her and, after what seemed like a lifetime, she suddenly felt his hot breath on her neck. The sensation made her shiver and she could feel her nipples harden further and an urgent throbbing began in her groin.
With one movement, Ward released her hair from its clip and watched it cascade over her shoulders and back. He roughly grabbed at it and pulled it to one side so he could continue kissing and licking the nape of her neck whilst he pressed his hardened prick into the cleft between her buttocks, so palpable in her tight skirt.
"I've been wanting to do this for months, Y/N.” Ward whispered. “You really are the most sexy woman I have ever met. You put my goddamn wife to shame.”
In reply, all she could do was whisper, “Thank you,” and gasp as his hand came snaking around her waist, cupping the soft mound of her right breast and squeezing firmly on the already hardened and sensitive nipple. Ward steered her around the desk so that they were both behind it and still able to see their reflections in the window, which were becoming sharper and more clearly defined as the sun set and the sky darkened.
With one movement, Ward swept the empty bottles, files and carefully piled papers onto the floor and pushed her face down and onto the tabletop, her pointed toes just reaching the floor. He slowly ran his hands in circling movements, up the back of her stockinged legs, teasing her and never quite reaching the top.
Y/N’s breathing became rapid and shallow as his fingers eventually reached the soft smoothness of her bare inner thigh and continued to circle their way upwards. It was his turn to gasp as he moved his hand further upwards and instead of the material he expected, he felt the soft wetness of her lips.
"You little slut.” Ward exclaimed. "You're not wearing any panties.”
Y/N gasped as he pushed his fingers deeper into her wetness and eased her skirt up to reveal her taut buttocks. The sight of this made his cock even harder and he feverishly rubbed his hand back and forth, pulling back harder and harder on his foreskin until he felt he could hold on no longer.
Ward moved his right hand forwards, feeling for the nub of her clit and, once found, rubbed gently around it until he could feel her shivering and gyrating beneath him to the rhythm of his hand. With his left hand he released the catch of her bra and in the reflection from the window, he was able to watch as her full breasts came tumbling out of their restraint.
"Jesus Christ.” Ward whispered and grasping her ass, he pushed his tense cock between her wet lips and into the warm, moistness of her pussy.
Y/N leant further and further forward, grabbing the far side of the desk and lifting her ass higher so that the whole of his shaft was swallowed up by her.
"Do you like that?" Ward breathed.
"God, yes. Please, don't stop, Mr. Cameron.” And with that, Ward slipped his finger inside her.
As he watched their reflections in the window, he saw her move a hand upward and start massaging her breasts and squeezing the nipples until they stood to attention. Y/N moved her hand slowly downwards and began to finger herself. The cold feel of her hand on his shaft and the image of her in the window brought him close to the edge.
"You're too fucking amazing. I can't hold on much longer.”
But as Y/N heard his words, she felt the familiar sensation working its way up her thighs and into her cunt; she gasped and began to press her arse harder and harder into his groin. She could feel him grabbing roughly at her hips and pulling on her hair, yanking her head back and kissing and biting hungrily at her neck, and with a loud cry, she felt him cum hard inside her.
As Ward continued to thrust deep inside her, the muscular spasms of his orgasm became indistinct from her own and she suddenly felt the explosion inside her pussy.
Their paired rhythmical movements gradually slowed as each tried to slow their breathing. As they lay there on his desk, hot and sweating, their chests heaving, they both noticed a visible light coming from the doorway.
As their eyes adjusted to the changing light, they were able to focus on the silhouette of a man. Not just any man, Y/N’s boyfriend, who just so happened to be her boss’s son.
“Rafe?”
-
TAGLIST: @lovedetlost @valeriiecameron @outerbankspov @ailee-celeste @adventuresinobx @tee-swizzle @pankowperfection @blueicequeen19 @maybankslover @drewbooooo @penny4yourthoughts @variety-fangirl @fangirlwithlou @thecameronchronicles @lafantasiaworld @softsatnin @glutenfreepeach @rafesmoon @drewsuncrustables
#answered 💌#rafe cameron#drew starkey#2k milestone celebration#outer banks#outer banks imagine#outer banks fic#outer banks fanfiction#outer banks rafe#rafe cameron smut#ward cameron#ward cameron x reader#ward cameron imagine#ward cameron smut#ward cameron x fem!reader#obx ward cameron#outer banks ward cameron#outer banks ward#rafe outer banks#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron outer banks#outer banks season 3#outer banks smut#outer banks s3#outer banks season three#obx season 3#obx season three#obx drabbles
520 notes
·
View notes
Text
For the Hell of It - Date Night
Characters: Jason Todd x fem!oc
Rating and warnings: G, no warnings.
Word count: 1,237
Summary: Dating a vigilante is hard, but worth it. Early on their relationship, she has to face that.
Masterlist
--------
On an early autumn night they strolled across Robinson park. Actors in Elizabethan costume were prancing around the low concrete stage, doing some warm-up crowd work. Jason’s arm was slung over her shoulder, and her dog Marlow trotted happily alongside them.
They weren’t great at the actual Dating aspect of dating just yet. It was still early days, and they had sidled into being together by following the same trajectory as their friendship, now with sex. They supported and trusted each other, they were both loyal and committed. They had already had two years to figure all that out.
Romantic nights out had been planned, postponed, and cancelled. Andy had eaten alone at a restaurant booked for two, not to know until later that Jason was fighting Killer Croc in a cage match. The week after he was blowing up an exotic animal trafficking ring before the major players could flee to south america.
He was apologetic and self recriminating. She could already see the barbed little seeds of ‘can this even work?’ trying to take root in his mind.
But she wasn’t a quitter.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced to stand her up. It wasn’t even in the first five, and she’d long since made her peace with it. It just felt more calamitous because now it was called a date.
It wasn’t a big deal, she decided. If other people could make it work, the partners of firefighters, nurses, other on-call professionals, then Wonder Woman help her, she could too.
Despite telling herself it wasn’t a big deal and she wasn’t worried, when Friday night swung around: bright, warm, and dry she let out an audible sigh of relief.
The light was swiftly dying but the park was surprisingly busy. It was the last Shakespeare in the Park of the year, and there were food trucks and little battery-powered candles for sale. Families and couples of all ages milled about looking for good spots. A polite group of children came over and asked if they could pet their dog, to said dog’s eternal happiness.
“I propose a strategy,” Andy said.
“Hit me.”
“We split up to look for clues, and by clues I mean the best food trucks. That yellow one has empanadas, and we passed a flag before that said something about paella.”
He nodded seriously. “You take Marlow, I’ll take the backpack, and we’ll meet back here in ten.”
They broke off like fighter jets zooming away, and roughly ten minutes later they returned with arms full of delicious smelling cardboard boxes. They set up their picnic blanket on the slope some distance from the stage where they had a good view of the whole area. They’d arrived at the perfect time, because the park was filling up.
They sat on the ground and laid out the spoils of their hunt, just as the show was starting.
The empanadas were sold out, but they had choripan instead, which Andy picked up for Jason. The paella was with shrimp and mussels, and was absolutely delicious, if a little small. Jason had found Korean fried chicken, and little skewered things called tteokkochi that neither were familiar with but were excited to try.
It was a confused and messy dinner that they dove into with relish, and some negotiations over final bites.
Getting the choripan was a strategic move on her part, because Jason was a sucker for anything in the neighbourhood of a hotdog. The fried chicken was the perfect counter, he knew her weaknesses. The tteokkochi turned out to be deep fried rice cakes slathered in sweet and tangy hot sauce, that had them both licking sticky fingers and promising to try them again some time.
Up on stage a short performance of the play within a play from Midsummer Night’s Dream was finishing up.
Next up, and the main show for the night, was an abridged version of Much ado Nothing. Jason scrunched up their food packages and lobbed it into the nearby trash can, and Andy got out the thermos of non-alcoholic mulled wine from the backpack for them to share.
They relaxed together on the slope, leaning back on their hands, with Marlow sitting up next to them on look out.
Jason glanced away for a moment.
“Hey, can I borrow your scarf?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure.” She handed it over without questioning the strange request.
He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek then wrapped it around his neck so he could pull it up and hide his face.
“I’ll be right back.”
He snuck away through the crowd.
The play continued, the actors hamming it up appropriately. The night had set in properly now, and large lights beamed down onto the stage leaving the rest of them in darkness. The audience around her laughed at the jokes and gags.
She leaned against her dog.
The night was getting cooler.
Why did it hurt more now than it had when they were just friends?
She’d had no expectation of him then, she supposed. She hadn’t wanted him to be hers.
No. That wasn’t true, she had wanted him badly for some time, but squished it all deep down inside of her. Now it was out, with promises made and claims staked, it was hard to keep that once contained desire on a leash.
He would give his life for her if the situation demanded it. She knew that, with the same confidence she knew tomorrow would follow today.
But he would give his life for just about anyone if the situation demanded it. He was never going to change. She wouldn’t want him to.
She looked at the silhouettes of people in the dark around her, an elderly couple on camping chairs to her side, and ahead of her a family with two children who were fast asleep on a blanket. Not very long ago this park was so dangerous people rarely came here during the day.
She looked at her things around her, and thought about what she would need to do if he didn’t come back tonight. She would take a taxi home and bring his stuff with her, hold onto it for him until he could come to her place to pick it up. It could be in two weeks, it could be tomorrow.
This was going to be her life, forever.
She pulled in deep breath and leaned her forehead on Marlow’s neck.
“Okay,” she said to herself. “Okay.”
About twenty minutes after Jason left, Marlow looked up and to the side. She followed his sight line and she saw Jason returning through the crowd. He dropped something into the trash can with such a casual air it took a few moments for her to recognise it as a disassembled pistol. Nobody else noticed him at all.
He stretched out on the blanket behind her and gently pulled her back against him, his hands around her waist. He returned her scarf, wrapping it loosely around her neck. The knuckles of his right hand were grazed. He drew no attention to it, acting for all the world as though nothing had happened and nothing was ever going to happen. He definitely hadn’t just disarmed whatever dangerous hooligan had been planning to do something terrible.
She loved this man so much it hurt.
“What’d I miss?” he said in her ear.
“Not much.” She leaned back against him. “But I’m starting to think this Benedick guy doesn’t actually dislike Beatrice after all.”
He snorted a laugh. They settled in for the long haul.
Next>>
#jason todd#red hood#dc#jason todd x oc#red hood x oc#jason todd x fem!reader#jason todd x reader#for the hell of it#my fanfic#fluff#angst#yearning#dating a vigilante is hard and lonely#but no less rewarding
139 notes
·
View notes
Text
Padme literally had more training to rule at age 14 than Dooku did running Serenno at age 60 and I genuinely believe the only reason he wasn’t immediately deposed was because Jenza was just so happy to have her only non-psychopath family member back (...an opinion that would age like milk) that she secretly fixed a lot of his early calamitous floundering behind his back.
#the planetary budget is stalled for weeks because the new Count locked himself out of his Quickbooks account#Dooku: (failing utterly) I did it :)#Jenza: haha yeah kind of :)#count dooku#serenno#star wars meta#jenza#padme amidala
63 notes
·
View notes
Text
Yennskier to Geraskefer concept (Yennefer x Jaskier with some + Geralt at the end)
Ok so what if the very first time Yen and Jaskier ever defend each other, it is a complete shock to both of them and happens (of all places) in front of his parents?
(TW: Yen is in disguise so some of the flirting could be read as dubcon but no bards were hurt in the making of this fic, I promise)
So when they first meet, Yen and Jaskier snipe at each other relentlessly, right?
Scheming, devious, calamitous witch.
Useless cock for brains.
Geralt has taken to tuning them out completely.
By complete random bad luck, Yen learns one night in tavern gossip that Jaskier isn’t his real name. She becomes suspicious of his intentions. She brings her concerns to Geralt.
“They said that his true name is Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz. Is that true?” she asks Geralt.
“His name is Jaskier,” Geralt answers, sounding exhausted.
She pushes. “I know that family. They are well connected, prominent, and bigoted. Your bard could very possibly be asked to turn Ciri in to curry their favor.”
"This is insane, Yen." Geralt drops his head and looks miserably into his tankard. “You two need to start getting along, or I’m going to age at least a century before winter.”
"That's not what this is about!"
She gives up on him. He will never think clearly in these matters. She suspects he has romantic feelings for the bard, which she wouldn't mind, she isn't much for monogamy herself, but oh god, the bard??? That smarmy, whorish little bastard? Unthinkable.
She decides to pay Jaskier’s parents a visit just to reassure herself that they aren’t interested in her daughter.
She disguises herself with a glamour and gets herself on the guest list of one of their fancy parties. She is playing the part of a voluptuous blonde wife of an absent Duke.
Jaskier is supposed to be back at Oxenfurt. That’s what he told Geralt, anyway. But she walks in the door and there he is, holding court at the party in his well fitted satin, with his glinting charming smile, and his flushed cheeks and…and…well…other things that Yen would never admit to noticing.
But what was he doing there?
Why did he lie about being at Oxenfurt? Could he already be colluding with his parents?
At the thought, she expects to feel rage. But an entirely different feeling wells up in her.
Disappointment. Hurt.
She shakes it off. Stupid. She's used too much magic for her glamour. It's making her weak. She takes a seat directly across from him at dinner.
He introduces himself to her and kisses her hand. Julian Alfred Pankratz.
His lips brush the top of her hand and in response she acts like one of his tarts. Only because she has to get him to trust her, obviously. Yen smiles and flutters her eyes at him. His smile is charming. So is his admiration of her form. When his gaze drops ever so briefly to her cleavage she feels something else unexpected.
Warmth.
She shakes that off too.
His parents sit on either side of him. Yen doesn’t waste much time. By the time the second course is served she brings up Ciri and the war.
She doesn’t expect Jaskier’s mom to immediately bring up the horrid witch who is hiding the child. The slut who doesn’t know her place. The evil women who schemes and plots and who gets what she wants by manipulating men with her whoredom.
Yen is used to being called these things by conservative wives. But she finds her eyes flick to Jaskier, and her heart leaps to her throat. It makes her so, so angry that she cares what he will say.
He has always seemed like an enemy? But here? Behind actual enemy lines? He feels like a friend.
Fuck.
But Jaskier averts his eyes. He stares at his plate. He isn’t going to join in, but he isn’t going to defend her either. Obviously.
She DOESNT care godsdamnit. She’s just caught up in the moment. She DOES NOT CARE.
So it is entirely incidental that she experiences immense, sweet relief when he smiles softly to himself before he replies.
“Oh mother,” he says genially, “but I know you. It is simple envy that moves you to such crude accusations.”
His mother splutters. “Do you think I covet her false beauty—“
“Not her beauty.” Jaskier says, still calm. Still affable. “She is beautiful of course, but nothing like that. It’s just that you and father are so small minded and so constantly desperate for the approval of other, equally small minded people, that when you see someone who has a soul and who lives in a free spirited manner, that you ache with envy and impotent rage. And that is why you use such uncharacteristically crude and low language to describe her. That is why you yearn to oppress her and control her. That is why you want to put her in her place.”
Jaskier smiles genially and takes another bite of his lobster.
His parents turn so pink with rage that they look purple.
Yen hasn't felt such satisfaction in so very long. She also isn't used to people taking up for her. Not in places like this.
His father is the first to regain his composure. He smiles and looks around the table at the nervous nobles who are trying their best to ignore the awkwardness.
He smiles around the table. “You have to excuse my son. Instead of accepting the position at Oxenfurt he roams the earth thinking with nothing but his base impulses. He knows nothing of the real world. He is young, idealistic, and completely useless.”
There are nervous chuckles around the table when Yennefer speaks up.
“Actually,” she says in between sips of champagne, “I have heard of your son. Jaskier is that right?”
Jaskier looks at her, surprised and deeply pleased.
His parents smile tight lipped.
“Ridiculous name,” his mother says.
“Well,” says Yen, “you’re probably right. The vaunted thinkers and academics who laud his poetry coast to coast are probably incorrect. The soldiers who offer their undying gratitude that he has documented their deeds are wrong. The traumatized war orphans who cry and say that he has saved their lives with his art are surely absurd. It is you who are correct, I’m sure. Of all the ways you can spend your life, comforting and inspiring people does sound like an utter waste of time.”
She primly sips her drink and the grateful, genuine smile that spreads on Jaskier’s face like the sunrise rockets straight to her soul.
The rest of the dinner is tense, but Yennefer is having a wonderful time. Conversing with a Jaskier like this---he is adoring and attentive--it is addictive. She never knew it could feel like this with him.
And after dinner, when he finds her outside the privy and steps incredibly close to her, his hand sliding around her waist, she is shocked into silence by her desire. She doesn't find her voice until he has kissed her ever so softly and tenderly that she almost melts onto his parents stone floors.
"J-j-askier," she manages to mumble.
"Yes, love. Marina, is it?" he murmurs into her ear, his nimble fingers trailing from her neck down, down down. "Beautiful name. Beautiful woman."
She steps back and lets his arms fall heavily to the side.
"I must tell you something. And you will regret what you just did."
It could have sounded like a threat. She meant it to sound like a threat. But it just sounds sad. The glamour falls from her and his face transforms into shock.
She swallows the lump in her throat as he steps back so hard, he hits the wall and covers his mouth with his hands.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demands. He looks white as a sheet. Terrified.
"I just did!"
"Earlier!"
"Because!" Yen squeaks. (She never squeaks) "I was...flummoxed. I--oh a pox on it, Jaskier, I liked it. Is that what you want to hear? You asshole? You bastard?"
His hand falls slowly from his face. Then a soft, tiny, smug little smile begins to form.
"Ha. I knew it."
He did not know it.
She smacks him. He laughs.
Then he remembers something and falls back against the wall againt groaning. "Oh, Geralt. Geralt. I'm a terrible friend. I will have to run off, to never return--"
She smacks him again.
"Ow, what?"
"Calm down. Let's go see him together. I have a feeling he is going to like what we have to say."
The next time they kiss, it is in front of a roaring fire in her home in Vengerberg, with Geralt caressing them both, and watching with fondness.
"If I had known that it was this easy to shut the two of you up, I would have insisted on it a long time ago."
266 notes
·
View notes
Text
Laurie Dann led an unassuming childhood, growing up in an affluent northern suburb of Chicago. She was remembered as being somewhat awkward and lacking in confidence. It's believed that’s why she completely altered her face with plastic surgery at quite a young age.
She attended the University of Arizona for several years but never graduated. While working as a cocktail waitress at Green Acres Country Club, she met Russell Dann, the son of a wealthy family. The duo were inseparable and settled down and got married in September of 1982. They moved into a large mansion - something that had always been a dream of Laurie.
Shortly thereafter, Russell began to notice some bizarre quirks about his new wife. For example, she would keep her makeup in the microwave, would throw money into the back seat of her car, and would put clothes away while they were still soaking wet. While the couple remained together for several years, Laurie’s quirks began to worsen and worsen.
Eventually, she completely stopped leaving the house and refused to cook or clean up after herself. The relationship was doomed but it reached calamitous heights in September of 1986. Police received a phone call from Russell. Somebody had stabbed him with an ice-pick while he slept and he was certain it was Laurie. In fact, a store clerk would come forward to say Laurie had indeed purchased an ice-pick just days previously. The ice-pick missed his heart by just an inch.
Considering Russel was asleep and didn’t see his attacker, the charges against Laurie were dropped. The couple divorced shortly afterwards. As the divorce was underway, Laurie’s ex-boyfriend from five years previously started to receive threatening phone calls from Laurie in which she claimed she was pregnant with his child. The harassment finally ended when his lawyer contacted her parents.
Laurie moved from the marital home and decided she wanted to become a babysitter but this quickly failed when she was accused of stealing from her client’s homes and slashing up their sofas, rugs, and curtains. Following this failed business idea, she moved into a dorm room on the northwest campus. This too fell apart when Laurie starred to hide rotten meat inside furniture as well as hiding rubbish in other student’s rooms.
In January of 1988, she moved to a dorm in Madison, Wisconsin, where she became known as “elevator lady.” Students recalled her riding up and down in the elevator all day long. Once again, she started to leave rotten meat around the dorm and would often be seen stark naked in the communal areas. A month after moving in, a dorm room was set alight. Many believed Laurie had caused the fire intentionally but with no evidence, she was never charged.
By now, Laurie’s sanity had completely unraveled and nobody thought to get her more suitable professional help. After threatening a fellow student and slashing his clothing, Laurie baked buns and injected them with arsenic. She sent these laced treats to several frat houses and homes in the area before making her way to the home of a former babysitting client, asking if she could take their kids to the local fair. She gave the two children poisoned milk. Thankfully, they threw it out after saying it tasted strange. The arsenic in the laced treats she had sent out was so diluted that it caused no damage.
From here, Laurie went to a local daycare and tried to set it on fire before returning to the former clients home which she then set on fire. They were lucky enough to escape out of a smashed window. By the time the family escaped, Laurie was en route to Hubbard Woods Elementary School. Armed with two handguns, Laurie started shooting indiscriminately as soon as she entered the building. She shot and killed 8-year-old Nicholas Corwin before critically wounding another five.
Laurie ripped off the bloody shorts she was wearing and tied a plastic bag around her waist. After fleeing the school, she crashed her car into a tree and then broke into the home of Ruth and Phillip Andrews. Laurie held the terrified family hostage for six hours, claiming she had shot and killed her rapist and was now on the run from the police. Phillip grabbed the gun from Laurie as his family escaped. During the scuffle, he was shot in the chest but managed to stagger into the garden.
Alone in the Andrews home, Laurie shot herself dead.
26 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Damnable Spot
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Relationship: Elwing & Maglor
Characters: Maglor, Maedhros, Elrond, Elros
Summary: Elwing is dead, but she will not let Maglor alone, no matter how he pleads.
AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG
__________________________________________________
The ships sailed towards Losgar, but the wrath of Ulmo, Uinen, and Ossë was on them. Waves like heavy blades bashed against the hulls of the swan ships, dumping water over the sides as if to fill the ships and weight them down under the surface. Maglor could not tell if the howling he heard in the distance was still the uncomprehending wail of the Teleri, on bloody knees amid the carnage on the docks, or the aggrieved ululations of Lord Manwë on the wind at the slaughter of Eru Ilúvatar’s Children.
“Father!” Maglor cried. There was something Fëanor wished him to do—in those hours and the subsequent days, there had always been something to do—but Maglor could not find him. He could not find any of his brothers either, crying out first for Caranthir, and then for Celegorm, his nearest in age, then Maedhros, and the twins.
The swollen, slick wood of the ship groaned underfoot as if Ossë had a grip on the hull and meant to drag them under the water. Abruptly, the voices of the first-time sailors rose in a calamitous clamor, just before the creaking of the ship became a deafening series of cracks.
Unbound from emotions like pride or dignity, which belonged to a world apart from the black sea on which they were now tossed about, Maglor screamed. Even his mighty bellow of terror was engulfed by the snapping of sturdy wood planks as the waves overstressed the swan ship and the hull rent in two.
The ground fell away from his feet; he was thrown about with the carelessness of a child swinging around a rag doll, and in the tumble, he lost track of which shade of terrible gray was the sky, and which was the sea.
The water so far north hit with such cold that it knocked the breath out of him; Maglor sucked for air, but his seizing chest muscles would not obey, would not draw breath. The ship continued to shriek as Ossë in his grief ripped plank from plank; a foremast fell and clipped Maglor’s shoulder as it went down; his vision went white with the pain as his arm was bludgeoned from its socket. This time when he opened his mouth to scream, the vile swirl of saltwater poured down his throat, squirted up his nose. It should have been cold, as cold as the water already numbing his extremities, but it wasn’t—the water that filled up his lungs was warm as a fresh spill of blood, and Maglor would have sobbed, if he had had breath for it.
But he did not. Instead, his body surrendered the fight against the lack of air, and drifting, directionless, he was blown by ocean currents away from the splintering, sinking wreck of Alqualondë’s ship. It was impossible to tell, lost in the utter blackness of the water, which direction was up, and which was down—if he had been able to swim, he might very well have been bearing himself deeper into Ulmo’s realm.
Black spots danced at the edges of his vision; he closed his eyes, feeling his body enter the final death throes and the terrible loss of physical control. It was a terror that never failed to overwhelm him: the realization that his body was giving up. This far under the water—the close to death—sensations winked out one by one. Absence enveloped him: of sound, of sight, of temperature.
A vacuum.
When he awoke in bed, the first pale pink fingers of dawn brushing over the sky outside his grimy window, he tried to remember how many times this month he had dreamed of drowning.
Usually it was as it had been, on the flight from Alqualondë, but not always. Other times, he went out to fish on a lake and capsized; or found himself for some reason or another in the seas around Balar; or was simply at sail for no reason and on no waters he could discern. Other things were constant—the bloody water, the confusion, that moment of petrifying realization. It was a uniquely frightful experience, Maglor found, perhaps one of the worst things he’d felt, that moment of comprehending there would be no rescue—that one’s death was imminent, that his body was letting go of him.
He found he could not recall precisely how many nights he had dreamed of drowning. Four or five? Surely not more than seven! Or was this the first this month?
Water drooled down the window. He was quite sure that was an additional streak of bird shit on the dingy glass. Someone really needed to get to cleaning those.
It took a few minutes for his heart rate to return to normal.
After several other aborted trains of thought and considerable coaxing, Maglor got himself out of bed, mainly because it was time to wake the twins. Once dressed, with his unruly hair brushed back into order, he flung open the door and rang the bell he had installed just inside.
“Up and up!” he announced. “Time for little things to prepare for breakfast!”
The boys were sprawled in the manner of young children across the bed they shared, with Elrond’s head inexplicably towards the foot of the bed, his feet in his brother’s face. Jolted awake by the clanging, they both sat upright and looked not at Maglor, but at each other, with length that gave Maglor pause. They had told him they did not possess the Elven ability of ósanwe. But sometimes they showed behaviors that reminded Maglor eerily of Amrod and Amras, and he wondered if anything could be a peculiarity of twins across species, or if they had lied (or, he supposed with reflection, they were growing into something they had before lacked).
They both turned to look at him at the same moment.
“Did you see Nana last night?” they asked together.
Maglor’s pause lengthened.
“Now what a silly question that is,” he said with forced placidity. “Dreams are dreams, little ones. Up you go. If you’re late to breakfast, I shall give you extra times tables.”
***
“Someone really needs to clean the windows,” said Maglor as he dropped down into an empty seat at the table. Maedhros gave his “good mood” morning grunt, nibbling at the end of a sausage speared onto a fork with his natural hand, while his attention remained on the parchment unrolled beside his plate. “They’ve gotten truly repulsive.”
“Feel free,” Maedhros said, ripping off another hunk of sausage.
“That is disgusting,” Maglor said. They had had the conversation about Maedhros eating like a civilized person too many times for Maglor to bother to rehash it now, but not so many he wasn’t still willing to share his opinion.
Maedhros, predictably, did not respond.
The twins shuffled into the room and quietly filed into seats next to each other. No matter how Maglor arranged the table, they would always sit so, even if it meant squeezing into the same chair together because there were no two available chairs adjacent. He had given up (for now) on trying to separate them for meals.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have clean windows?” he said.
The boys blinked owlishly at him, seemingly unclear if they were meant to be a part of this conversation or not. The subject matter suggested not, but Maglor was using the chirpy tone he only ever directed at them.
“Of course it would!” he answered, when they said nothing, and cast a far less generous look at Maedhros, who lifted his eyes without raising his head.
“Do you need me to remind you where the buckets are?” he asked. “Or are you going to make them do it?”
“Well I certainly won’t rely on you,” Maglor snapped.
“That would be first,” Maedhros replied. Maglor’s lips thinned and he pressed dangerously hard on a spoon that was not sturdy enough for his full wrath.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” he said at length. Maedhros rolled his eyes, as he did when he wanted to suggest Maglor was delusional or hysterical, and went back to his reading. Maglor wished he’d leave the table in a temper, but he almost never would—staying was part of his revenge on Maglor.
The rest of the meal passed in miserable, awkward silence, except where Maglor expounded on the twins’ lesson plan for the day. Even the boys’ minor squabble towards the end was silent, as they usually were whenever they took place within view of either lord of Amon Ereb. Maedhros did not like it when they were too noisy, or bickered over small things.
Maglor helped himself to the pitcher of watered-down wine, only to regret it the instant he’d taken a sip. It was warm, and salty—without thinking, he spat it immediately back into the cup, which got the attention of everyone else at the table. Nervously, he arranged the goblet beside his plate and went back to eating as if nothing had happened. It must be the dream, he thought to himself. It was still too close; that was why the wine tasted wrong.
He just needed to wake up a bit more, and he’d be fine.
***
A light rain spit irregularly down over Amon Ereb. Maglor stood under the eaves of the armory, holding an umbrella over one shoulder, watching the twins run laps around the courtyard. Their feet slapped through the muddy ground as they wheezed towards him, doubling over when they made it back to him.
“Another!” he said cheerfully.
“We’re tired!” Elros cried, looking up, while Elrond fixed him with a pitiful expression. Their cheeks were ruddy with exertion.
“Young things need to get proper exercise!” Maglor sang.
“We’re not Elves!” Elrond burst out, a flash of anger on his small face. “We can’t run as far as you!”
Maglor considered. It was true the twins had physical limitations that he himself was unfamiliar with. But he was also inclined to believe they were children looking to shirk their lessons.
“It will do you no good to be sitting around the entire day,” said Maglor, something he had engaged in quite frequently at the same age. “Take another lap around the armory.” The twins glared at the dirt, but exchanged a silent look, and trudged off at a pace that could only with the utmost generosity be called a “run.”
“Both feet off the ground!” Maglor called after them as they rounded the building out of his view.
The sound of their shoes on the slick earth faded. Maglor stared blankly across the courtyard; he remembered, for some reason, an occasion when Mother had sent Caranthir out to play, insisting he had spent too much time inside lately. He had skinned his knee falling on the paving stones, and come home in wrathful tears that it was all Mother’s fault for forcing him out. He had come into Maglor’s room with his bandaged knee, bemoaning this situation; Maglor could not remember what brief and placating words he had shelled out. He was sure he had not given Caranthir the attention he was looking for; he barely remembered what most of the family had been up to then, when he had been so busy working on creating the next Great Noldorin Masterpiece (an effort that had begun around age twelve).
He jerked himself out of his solipsism as the twins came around the other side of the armory. At first, he thought they were still annoyed about being made to run. They slowed down several yards from him, and shuffled nearer, not meeting his eyes.
“There’s…over there…” Elros said, gesturing back towards the armory while Elrond looked faintly queasy.
“Hm? What is it, my lovelies?”
“Something happened,” Elrond whispered, his lower lip quivering. Maglor sobered, a faint frown turning down the corners of his mouth. Both boys gestured wordlessly back where they had come from, so Maglor circled around the armory, looking for what could have upset them so much. As he went by them, Elros gripped Elrond’s hand and they watched him go with those sober gray eyes.
Nothing seemed out of place to Maglor’s eye until he reached the rear of the armory, at which point he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a shriek.
Crumpled in the rocky mud, the pasty, waterlogged corpse of Elwing Dioriel stared sightlessly back at him, seaweed tangled in her hair, limbs bent at unnatural angles, one hand stretched out as if to grasp at something. Maglor’s body reacted with only one thought: away. He stumbled into the wall of the armory with a choked whimper, and the vision shattered.
It wasn’t Elwing—of course it wasn’t Elwing. It couldn’t be Elwing. It was…it was…well, her name wasn’t important. He’d forgotten it, if he’d ever known it. At once, he was filled with terrible wrath for this dead Elf who had been so thoughtless.
He growled some unkind words under his breath as he arranged the body more neatly; she hadn’t bothered with a cloak before going out, apparently, or he could’ve used it to cover her.
He apologized to the twins for having seen something like that.
“We’ve seen bodies before,” Elros said dully, still holding his brother’s hand. This gave Maglor pause, as remarks about the Havens at Sirion usually did, while his brain scrambled for a response.
“Well. Nevertheless. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen again. Now, what will distract you from these nasty thoughts, hm? How about a spelling lesson!”
Later that day, still fuming, he tracked Maedhros down in his study. What exactly he studied in there anymore was a mystery, but Maglor had learned not to ask. He launched into his complaints without troubling himself to check that Maedhros was listening.
“Honestly! As if they aren’t aware the twins pass by that area! It was so thoughtless. How could she be so selfish? You must do something about it. I cannot have the twins exercised properly if they fear stumbling across corpses lying in the yard! Do you know how difficult it has been trying to engage them today? And what if it reminded them of—It must be dealt with, Maedhros.”
“Right you are,” Maedhros said in that tone of voice he used to indicate this was the stupidest conversation of which he had heretofore been a part. To say it grated was something of an understatement; that tone made Maglor want to hit him in the face with something heavy. Maybe then Maedhros would consider his conversation worth his time. “I’ll be sure in the next bulletin to let the troops know that they should be committing suicide somewhere more out of the way, so the hostages aren’t upset.”
Maglor’s lips were as thin as a knife edge.
“Could you consider just for a moment, the impact on their still-developing psyches—”
“You didn’t seem terribly concerned with child psyches when you told Curufin that if he didn’t talk for a week he’d spontaneously develop a better singing voice.”
“Do not change the subject,” Maglor snapped. There was a shift in Maedhros’ expression as he entered more fully into the conversation.
“Do you really want to have a discussion about the harm being done to their psyches?” he asked. Maedhros was good at arguing—too good. If Maglor tried, he knew he would only end up with Maedhros more convinced of his own correctness, and with Maglor doubting himself. Nevertheless, he wanted to argue, and it showed on his face and the way his mouth contorted. “Do you want to talk about the impact on their psyches of being now in the guardianship of the one who—”
“I didn’t kill her!”
The room went silent after Maglor’s outburst. Maedhros just looked at him and Maglor looked anywhere else, fussing at his robes with twitchy fingers.
“It was. Complicated. The twins would…”
“Would what?” Maedhros asked, leaning back in his seat as if daring Maglor to fill in something appropriate on the end of that sentence. Maglor ground his teeth; he couldn’t tell if Maedhros enjoyed digging his fingers into that wound, or if there was some other purpose behind it.
“Deal with the men,” was all he said, then showed himself out of Maedhros’ study without another word.
***
Maglor would’ve rather dreamed about Daeron. He had, about six months back. Dreamed of Daeron as he had been at the Mereth Aderthad, all bright eyes and dark skin gleaming soft and smooth under the lamplight, with that mischievous twist to his smile and that sly, slanting gaze that said he’d found fodder for another insulting rhyme.
He found himself coming back to that feast more frequently in thought of late, and he couldn’t say why. Perhaps it had been one of those moments it felt like they truly had a grip on the situation in Beleriand and everyone, regardless of their goals, felt hopeful about the future. Perhaps because he would’ve liked to hear the sound of Daeron’s panpipes once more—but it was a useless wish now. Daeron was gone; the Iathrim were gone.
Maglor had never bothered learning the panpipes, and he went on dreaming of drowning in warm, thick water to wake with tears on his cheeks and Elwing’s final words ringing in his ears: All this you have done for nothing.
***
Normally, the twins’ horseback riding lessons was one of the things Maglor enjoyed doing—if only for how it made the world feel so simple for a time, so long as he was choosy about what memories of the Gap he allowed to surface. Other times, though—well, childcare turned out to be rather a full-time job, and he was tired.
It did not help that going to bed every night felt like prepping for battle rather than laying down for rest.
So once in a while he handed the lessons off to someone else, and took a few minutes for himself instead.
On this day, he went back up to his bedroom, shut the door, and exhaled into the quiet. Not silence—he could hear the movement of people below on the first floor, and out in the yard—but quiet in no one clamoring for his attention and no problems making themselves known and no bickering with Maedhros. He could perhaps close his eyes for a few minutes…
He shed his coat and cast himself down on the bed, thinking back to his dream about Daeron, and the sweet melancholy of his song. He had not wanted to believe it then, that Daeron could match him—even exceed him—but now it seemed silly to deny it. Daeron had been a unique talent. Maglor had wept to hear him play.
How dreary Amon Ereb was when it was Maglor alone who still sang! He couldn’t remember the last time Maedhros had, and any song he heard amongst the men was soft, almost embarrassed, and quickly stifled if they noticed anyone else within earshot.
How dreary everything was.
With a quiet sigh, Maglor spread his robes aside and loosened the ties of his undershorts, sliding his hand down the front to rub hopefully at his cock. Most often he lacked not only the time, but the mood for this anymore, even when the release would have been most welcome.
That day, though, he had some luck, and his member stirred to the memory of the vibrancy and warmth of the Mereth Aderthad, and his mind’s many fantasies about what could have been, if he had only been less focused on their goals. Relieved, he settled back against the pillows with a more pleasured sigh, drawing his rising sex from his shorts to stroke with more vigor.
In his mind’s eye, his flesh’s imagination, the other Elf was warm and solid against him, supple and eager and welcoming; their voice was soft and inviting; their hands knew just how to guide him without too much force.
It was just as he was losing himself into that fantasy of mutual pleasure and connection that he heard the ragged nails on the window, scraping down the shit-stained glass, rattling the panes; the witch had come for him!
The screeching sound, jarring and deliberate, send Maglor flailing of bed with a half-stifled shriek, slamming into the dresser as he flung himself away from the grasping hands at the window.
“Will you give me no peace!” he shouted hoarsely, goosebumps pebbling his flesh head to toe, ready to flee the room when he managed to focus his gaze on the sill and see the large black bird there, pecking at the casement and scraping at the glass with one clawed foot. “You wretched beast,” Maglor nearly sobbed, grabbing a shoe to hurl at the window. With a startled caw, the crow removed itself at once. “I hope something eats you! If you come back I shall pluck out your eyes and use them for jam!”
Nearly in tears—of frustration, of fright—Maglor threw himself back down on the bed, tugging desperately at his limp cock, but the moment was gone, and his body was no longer willing to play that tune. He let out a wordless wail and jerked his clothes back into order.
There was perhaps time to take over the latter half of the twins’ riding lesson, but he found himself unwilling. They were in good hands—perhaps more time to himself would be…(As if Maglor had ever enjoyed time to himself, outside composing, and it was a joke to even consider how long it had been since he’d done that in earnest.)
Nevertheless, he stayed away from Elrond and Elros until dinner that night.
***
After they tracked the twins down two miles out from Amon Ereb’s walls, they were given a perfunctory dinner and sent to bed early, with admonitions of Maglor’s disappointment. This meant Maedhros and Maglor dined alone, an experience which proved grimmer than even Maglor’s imagining. He contemplated impaling himself on a fork.
The situation was not measurably improved by the wet woman in the corner.
It was only context that really got the point home—Maglor felt relatively certain he did not recall Elwing’s face clearly enough for it to be there so vividly, looking at him in such bitter fury. Yet there she was. Her sleek dark hair hung lank and dripping around her shoulders, soggy ropes of it clinging to her face and neck; her robes were nearly translucent with seawater; her armor beginning to rust around the décor that had been beaten into it. The room felt like ice.
Maedhros said nothing about it.
Maglor cut his stringy duck into smaller and smaller pieces, but tapped his fork nervously against the edge of the plate rather than take a bite, as if Elwing might take that moment to seize him around the throat.
“Maedhros,” he began. Maedhros grunted to show he was listening (presumably), but Maglor’s words stuck in his throat. Maedhros lifted his head.
“What is it?” he said impatiently.
“I…wonder if it’s time to give the twins their own horse,” he suggested. “Perhaps…something of their own to care for…” It was something he hadn’t really thought about until right then, but with Dioriel’s gaze boring into him, it felt impossible to acknowledge her existence. It felt like there were pins being jabbed into his spine.
Maedhros exhaled his sigh of lacking the energy to argue with Maglor; it was rare.
“Fine. Claim the next foal for them then,” he said. “But you will see to it that you know where that horse is every night. They manage to get quite far enough on foot without you giving them a mount. And I will be displeased if you make me kill it because you could not control them.”
Oh, right. Perhaps it was not a good time to gift them a horse, then. Well, he’d said it now. Maedhros would want to know why he backed out, if he did. Perhaps it would be a while before any of the mares foaled again.
Cold sweat was prickling the back of Maglor’s neck and at the hollow of his throat.
He went on massacring his duck and scraping unhappily at the mushy grain on the side. (He’d heard some of their troops muttering that the land around Amon Ereb was blighted, and that was why their crops were always so sickly and tasteless.)
“Maedhros,” he said.
“What?” Maedhros demanded, glaring as he looked up. His eyes were remarkably like Father’s, Maglor thought. He wondered if Maedhros ever thought that. (He remembered how Maedhros had terrified and delighted them with impressions of Fëanor when they were children; now, he thought he’d take Father if he had the choice. At least Fëanor could at times be placated.)
Maglor’s eyes drifted to the corner, and the plinking of water dripping off Elwing’s armor into the puddle on the floor.
Maedhros did not follow his gaze.
“Have the twins seemed agitated to you, lately?” he asked at last.
“No more than usual,” Maedhros said. “Why, have you done something to them?”
“Done something!” Maglor exclaimed in affront. Realizing he had raised his voice, he flinched and immediately flicked his gaze back to the corner. Elwing lifted the corner of her mouth in a rictus leer, but otherwise remained where she was. (As if she couldn’t cross the distance any time she chose! And what would his blade even do against such a phantom?) Maglor’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. “No. Just. Perhaps bad dreams. Or perhaps the onset of adolescence.”
“It’s a little early for that, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Maglor said, unable to keep the thread of annoyance out of his voice. “I’ve never raised a a Peredhel.”
“They seem normal to me,” Maedhros said with finality. “Did Elrond bite you again?”
“No,” said Maglor stiffly. “They’ve just…been odd.”
“They are odd,” Maedhros said. “I would not linger on it.”
“Maedhros,” Maglor pleaded.
“What!” Maedhros slammed down his fork. “What do you want, Maglor?” Maglor gestured broadly at the west end of the room.
“Do you see nothing?” he cried. “There is nothing out of place here?”
Maedhros passed a slow, deliberate look over that side of the room, his gaze passing right over Elwing’s corner, and then fixed his gaze once more on Maglor.
“I see nothing,” he said, and Maglor knew that if he pushed further, there would be a fight.
Maglor felt at times he had lost some ability to read Maedhros. Once, he would have proudly counted himself as the one who was best at doing it, but now it felt he was wrong as often as right, or that Maedhros deliberately obfuscated Maglor’s efforts to understand him. But he could not always succeed—Maglor knew him too well, and he knew without a doubt in that moment, with a chill that pierced his heart and spread out through his chest, that Maedhros was lying.
***
It took Maglor several weeks to comprehend that the gut-churning anxiety that had begun to overtake him when dinner neared its approach and bedtime closed in was directly related to his nighttime horrors. Some nights, he swore he lay awake the entire time, flat on his back and tense as a board, unwilling to cede to unconsciousness that the wrath of Thingol’s heir could torment his mind. Sometimes he wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t just dreaming of being awake all night.
The nights he stayed awake were little better than the ones he slept, and at times he felt a stupid child again, lying there in tremors with his eyes squeezed shut, desperate to believe he was alone in the room, but fighting against the rising hysteria that it was not the case.
When the paranoia waned, it was as if she had left some imprint on his mind—which invariably turned to moments he would rather forget: that sickening resistance of his blade first cutting through another, though Maglor could no longer say if that was truly a memory, or only a feeling his mind had attached to the horror of the moment; that cold, dark march past the line of the Girdle where once the protection of Melian might have stopped them; the screaming of the Doriathrim in Menegroth.
Oh, the screaming!
How they had wailed to realize what was being done to them!
Even the memory of the fight in the Thousand Caves made Maglor’s chest seize up with sudden claustrophobia. Driving through those winding, seemingly endless tunnels, with enemies liable to leap out of every corner! He knew several of their troops had slain one another out of sheer nerves, caught by surprise and not realizing until too late they looked upon a friendly face. Maglor himself had been a hair’s breadth away from demanding they burn the whole place down and damn the Silmarils when one of his scouts had reported finding the bodies of the king and queen—and Maglor’s brothers.
Celegorm, Caranthir, Curufin—half of Fëanor’s brood slain in one fight, but when Maglor thought on the scene now, what he remembered was Dior’s horrible, wet breathing and how he gasped, a dying animal which seeks with all force to preserve itself in vain. He remembered that the fingers of Nimloth’s right hand were broken, no longer able to hold a blade, and her ribs on one side crushed, and the savage bruising on her right ankle; Dior’s immortal queen had not gone quietly, of that they were sure.
Maglor would have rather thought of Caranthir, and how he used to trail after Maglor as a little boy, and how proud he had been when Maglor paid any attention to his childish achievements (how pleased he had been to welcome Maglor to Thargelion on the few occasions of his visits).
But Elwing allowed him to think only of Dior and Nimloth, and the two little boys shivering alone in the woods, and the bodies he had stepped over to report to Maedhros and Amras that the royal family was dead, but the Silmaril had not been found with either king or queen, or the princes.
(None of them had thought of Elwing then, except for Maedhros, who pointed out they were one Peredhel short.)
Sometimes, these thoughts gave way to black sleep, but those instances seemed to come fewer and further between, as night after night Maglor relived the visceral experience of drowning in the warm, salty water, again and again and again and again: the shock of first terror, the dread of realization, the vain fight, the gradual failure of his body, the snapping of his spirit away from his flesh.
On one of the last of the black nights, he woke to a tickling in the back of his brain, and pins and needles going up and down his back. There was a voice in his head, some thought trying to dredge itself out of his mind, some thing that was not his own. Maglor sat upright and pressed his hands over his ears, trying to drown out that alien whisper.
But it built and built, until Maglor opened his mouth to gasp out: “Eärendil!” His heart hammered against his ribs.
The presence was in the room with him. The needles were driving into Maglor’s spine. The blood was rushing in his ears; his tongue was too thick to command her away. It felt like his throat was starting to swell up.
“No,” he managed to whisper at last, forcing the word past his constricting throat muscles. Then, as a chill began to descend over him, louder: “No!” He twisted in the sheets, but the cold came anyway, winding its arms around him, pressing against his face. Maglor screamed and flailed out with arms and legs. “No! Get out of my head!”
He was choking; he was drowning again, without a drop of water in the room. During his thrashing with the shadow, he unbalanced and went over the edge of the bed with a shocked intake of breath, but when he hit the ground and stilled, he could no longer feel the apparition there. For several moments, he lay quiet, nearly holding his breath, waiting, but nothing came. Gradually, he relaxed.
His nose and throat hurt from how quickly he had sucked in air. He felt as chill as if he had spent the entire night out-of-doors. How much longer could he go on like this? A useless question to ask—he would go on as long as he had to, as long as there was still a goal to fulfill. As long as there existed still Silmarils in the world which might be obtained by Fëanor’s kin.
It said nothing good about Amon Ereb, he thought, that no one investigated or even commented on his screaming.
***
Maedhros advised Maglor cease the twins’ lessons for several days as punishment for the knife Maglor had recovered from one of their pillows, but Maglor could never manage more than a day, during which he assigned them chore after chore until they collapsed in bed, too tired for running. The next morning, they sat at their lesson table and stared sullenly at him with those gray eyes so eerily like the empty stare of Dior the Fair (Maglor had never seen him truly living, only surrounded by the bodies of Maglor’s brothers, breath rattling as the final death throes overtook him. Amrod had estimated afterwards it had taken him over an hour to succumb to the injury, slowly suffocating as his lungs filled with blood and failed.)
Maglor always regretted having to punish the twins. How much easier it would be if they simply behaved, and saved him the trouble! It wasn’t as if he liked making them do chores all day!
Now, they were in bed already, but perhaps still awake…As he warmed a pan of goat milk over the fire and poured it into mugs, he heard Maedhros’ voice snorting and accusing him of trying to buy their favor back with a bit of warm milk. Brushing off his brother’s imaginary sneer, Maglor nevertheless stirred a bit of sugar into the milk and took the cups on a tray up to the twins’ room.
He paused outside the door and listened, but he couldn’t hear them. Perhaps he was too late, and they were asleep already. Nevertheless, he unlatched the door and pushed it open.
“Elrond? Elros?” Maglor’s keen Elf eyes had a good view of the room even in the dark, but it still took him a moment to adjust to the empty bed. With a wordless shout, the tray slid out of his hands. Gone again! He rushed to the windows, just slightly ajar, and propped open with a scrap of wood. They were on the roof! Maglor flung the window open. “Elrond! Elros!” he cried, trying to pitch his voice to carry to the twins, but not loud enough to catch Maedhros’ attention elsewhere in the building.
What if they had fallen and broken their necks already? They were so fragile! They were mortal, blessed Elbereth! Maglor gathered his robes and climbed out the window himself, realizing as he did so just how narrow a strip of roof they must have edged across to get wherever they were going.
“Peredhil!” he hissed into the wind. “Where are you?” There was only one viable direction to go, so he scooted to the right, over towards a broader stretch of roof. At one point, a shingle slipped sickeningly under his feet and he prayed the twins’ lighter weight had given them less trouble. How could they do this to him, so soon after he had talked Maedhros down from harsher punishment for their last misdeeds? “Peredhil!”
A cold night breeze cut against him and Maglor swore to himself. He squinted across the roof. He couldn’t tell if the cold was natural or not.
“Not now,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. “Not now, not now! I’m trying to help them!” At the sound of creaking behind him, he whipped his head around and nearly pitched over a gutter.
“Elrond!” he wailed, no longer caring if Maedhros heard and knew they had been out at night. “Elros!”
Something swooped overhead and snagged in his hair and Maglor’s strained nerves screamed.
“Leave me alone!” he howled. He flailed violently, fully intent on cold-clocking a ghost, and shrieked when his hand struck something solid; then he unbalanced and went over the edge of the roof.
***
Maglor came to quickly lying on a crushed bush, with two sets of curious gray eyes staring at him through the darkness. Twigs were attempting acupuncture on his back, which he was amazed to realize seemed to still be in one piece, if very badly bruised.
“See? I told you he was still alive,” said one boy. “More’s the pity.”
“Do you think he can hear us? It looks like his eyes are opening.”
“We should get someone,” said the first voice.
“Who? Maedhros? Are you insane? We should go back inside.”
“I’m fine,” Maglor croaked, twitching his hand in a failed effort to wave it and indicate how fine he was. The twins jumped back and hung warily away from him, clutching hands. Maglor pushed himself upright, his back and head protesting vociferously. He was groaning like an oak tree being felled. “You should be in bed,” he said to them, which sounded feeble even to himself.
“We weren’t tired,” said one of them. “We wanted—”
“—to see the stars,” the other finished.
Maglor sighed and held his head in his hands for a moment. What was he doing? What were they doing? Was there any goal anymore, or were they just flopping around like the death throes of a fish on the hook?
“Let’s go,” he said wearily after a few moments, heaving himself to his feet. His head throbbed. The twins didn’t move.
“Nana is angry with you,” said one—he thought it was Elrond.
Maglor froze.
“What did you say?” he asked, turning back to them.
“Nana is angry with you,” the twins repeated together. Maglor’s sympathy disappeared beneath the explosion of his nerves.
“She wants to see us again,” said the other—actually, maybe that one was Elrond.
“That’s enough!” Maglor shouted, and this time he wasn’t sorry for making the twins clap their hands over their ears. “You are making up stories. You know what happens to little ones who make up stories?”
“We aren’t!” they cried. “We aren’t!”
“You are!” Maglor snapped back at them. “You are making up terrible stories and you have been out at night when you were not meant to be and you were on the roof, which is dangerous! Tomorrow you will muck the stables clean by yourselves, and memorize one long-form poem—”
“No!” they wailed.
“Apiece,” Maglor raised his voice easily over theirs. Blackly, he wanted to consign them to another full day of labor, to make them scour the floors of all Amon Ereb for striking such fear in his heart, but he bit his tongue back for the time being. “And you will do nothing else until you can recite it in whole! Next time you wish to tell tall tales, think of that! Now get inside to bed, before I tell Maedhros where you’ve been!”
In mutinous dejection, the twins shuffled back inside.
Maglor took a moment to gather himself. He supposed there was no need to bar the window that very night, and it seemed the twins hadn’t actually left the estate this time. He was angry with himself for believing he didn’t need to worry about the windows, or that being on the second floor would be enough to stop them. It was as if they wanted him to shut them up in the cellar!
They were long gone up to their room by the time Maglor came in. He didn’t bother lighting a candle to make his own way up to his room, and perhaps that was how the chill was able to creep up on him. Needles darted up and down his spine; his hands began to shake. He felt woozy. Leave me alone! he wanted to scream, but his voice, his best and mightiest talent, would not obey him. Fingers of ice laced around his neck and he saw in his mind’s eye, as clearly as if someone had dropped the image into his head, a forest in the thrall of winter: bare of foliage, of food, of shelter. The chill sapped the warmth from his fingers and toes, creeping up towards his knees and elbows, and soon it would claim his heart and lungs.
All this you have done for nothing, she whispered. Children’s graves in your name, and what have you to show for it?
He dropped to the floor in a swoon, where he woke early the next morning.
***
Maedhros did not ask what the commotion had been that night. Maglor was too frazzled to say if this was because he had truly remained ignorant of any goings-on, or because he simply did not care enough to ask.
Maglor could not remember the last peaceful sleep he had had. At the twins’ lessons that day he was dazed and unfocused; several times they prompted him after he had been staring into space unspeaking for minutes at a time; eventually, he set them at a phenomenally long series of multiplication and division problems, and left them to finish.
He needed fresh air—or better yet, a drink.
But when he reached the private store of alcohol which he and Maedhros kept—which he had had the far better part in depleting—it was empty. He tracked Maedhros down in the armory, honing his weapons.
“What happened to the baijiu?” he said.
“It’s in the cellar,” Maedhros replied.
“Not that,” Maglor said with faint disdain. “Ours.” Maedhros’ hand paused just a heartbeat at his work with the whetstone.
“It’s gone,” he said when he had resumed.
“Gone where?” Maglor asked sweetly, as often precipitated a tantrum from him.
“Gone.”
Maglor wanted to throttle him. He imagined Maedhros was purposefully as irritating to him as possible, as if to punish him for not dying in the Havens at Sirion like Amrod and Amras, for staying in Amon Ereb rather than wandering off into the gloom as a number of their men had done since they had resettled there, for reminding him about the Peredhil. For a moment, he envisaged putting his hands around Maedhros’ neck, but there was no way that didn’t end with his gut swallowing the sword in Maedhros’ hand.
“Did you drink it?” Maglor asked, as if he were speaking to a particular idiot. Maedhros’ eyes flashed up.
“No,” he said, and Maglor was irritatingly aware he was telling the truth.
“Then forgive me, brother dear, but I don’t see what else might have happened to it.”
“If you want to drown what little function is left to your mind, take the baijiu from the cellar,” Maedhros said unsympathetically. That was where the booze for the rest of the estate was kept; that which the men were more or less free to take and replenish as they pleased.
“I don’t want the baijiu from the cellar,” Maglor said, and regretted it as soon as he’d said it, for he sounded as petulant as the Peredhil being served another boiled vegetable.
“Shall I add that to the list of critical tasks in estate maintenance?” said Maedhros, his tone saturated in contempt. “‘Maglor is unhappy with the quality of booze available.’ Would it suit his highness to have beer? Some huangjiu? Perhaps instead of rice for dinner for the Peredhil, we’ll make you wine; would that satisfy you? Or perhaps I can oblige you by striking you very hard on the head, which may achieve the same goal you were looking for with the baijiu.”
Maglor was walking away before Maedhros had finished speaking, fists clenched with a private fury that Maedhros had to turn so many of their conversations into battles.
The weather was unseasonably warm, the air still sticky from the last rain. Back inside, in the library, Maglor threw open the windows and laid down on one of the benches, thinking he might at least take a few minutes’ rest, if not sleep. His mind tried to return to familiar, well-trod paths regarding the burning of the Havens at Sirion, but he was too tired even for this rumination; before he knew it, his eyes had grown heavy. He closed them, but made himself focus on the sounds beyond the window—primarily someone hammering at an anvil in the yard—to keep himself from falling asleep.
It was the sound of rustling paper that made him open his eyes.
Somehow, it did not shock him at all to see that she was there. Armored, dripping wet, stone-faced. She stood by one of the bookshelves, a decay-mottled hand on the hilt of the short blade at her hip, watching him. A cut on the side of her neck dribbled blood thickly from one end.
Maglor lay half-upright, frozen on the bench, and then, to his unspeakable relief, rage bubbled up in chest: molten, searing, Feanorian rage.
“You cannot do this to me!” he bellowed, his deep voice ringing through the library. “Your fight is over; you lost!” Seizing the knife at his belt, Maglor catapulted himself off the sofa and charged at her, fully expecting Elwing to meet him with her blade. Instead, she darted away in a flash of light and Maglor swung the knife into empty air.
“Coward!” he screamed as Elwing danced towards the door. “Stand and face me!” But she quitted into the hallway. Maglor ran after her.
He burst into the hall; there was no sign of Elwing but a flash of something white around the corner at the end of the hallway. Maglor took off in pursuit.
“Stop running! Fight me!”
The branch down which she had disappeared ended in a a spiral staircase and into the servants’ quarters; Maglor sprang down it, skidding around a hallway corner and plunging through an open door into a dark little bedroom. As his eyes rapidly adjusted to the low light, he saw the figure in the bed and leaped upon it, wielding the knife.
“I will have no more of you!” he screeched, seizing the throat presented to him, raising the knife up to strike down.
“My lord!” the figure shrieked. “My lord Maglor, let us speak!” It was enough to make Maglor pause, and the figure threw him to the floor, grasping at its neck.
Maglor lay discarded on the bedroom floor and looked up at the wide-eyed Elf in the bed, who was certainly not Elwing Dioriel.
“Whatever I have done,” she gasped, trembling, “surely we may discuss it! If it is my lord’s wish that I go, I shall go!”
Maglor blinked stupidly at her.
“No, there’s no need for that,” he said calmly, hearing his voice as if it were someone else speaking. “As you were.” He rose only slightly unsteadily to his feet and sheathed the knife. “Thank you,” he said absurdly on his way out the door, gesturing incoherently with one hand.
***
Maglor went for a ride.
Sometimes, he went out so far he could no longer see Amon Ereb on the horizon, and closed his eyes, and imagined he stood in one of the wide, undulating plains of the Gap, the wind dry and cool on his face, the grass whispering around the legs of his horse, the birds of prey wheeling overhead.
Maglor had never wanted to rule the Gap, or anything really, but it had prided him to be useful, and he liked to think he had done a decent job, before the Bragollach. His men had liked him well enough then, hadn’t they? They’d sung many songs together, and slain many orcs.
Most of them were gone now. A few remaining had been killed in the Havens, but not by the Sirionites. One of his captains from those days on the plains, even, had turned her blade on Maglor there. Maglor had left her in a gutter already running red.
Maglor went for a ride, because he had to get out of Amon Ereb, away from Maedhros with his cold cynicism, away from the Peredhil with their accusing eyes, away from the men with their sullen mouths. There was a fey part of him that wanted to spur his horse and just keep going—going, going, going, until something stopped him. Middle-earth had seemed so massive, so unconquerable when first they had arrived. Now he felt suffocated in it.
When he put the horse to a gallop, the wind seemed to whistle away his thoughts. It chilled his nose and cheeks until he thought of little else, and it was as near as he would ever come to flying (a thought which had once put an ear-splitting grin on his face), but the moment he brought the mare to a slow and then a halt, everything came rushing back.
He stood alone in the field, looking at the trees’ edge in the distance, and further beyond still, the pinpricks of mountains, but the ball and chain around his ankle which weighed him down in Amon Ereb was there still, and there could be no running from it; it would drag behind him forever, and someday, he thought, it would take him down into that void from which Melkor had emerged.
What would they destroy next? There would be no more assaults on Angband, on that they were agreed—Maedhros would not go near it since the Niraneth and Maglor…he would never have done it, truthfully, unless Maedhros asked it of him. Was it possible they had already lost their only chance to obtain even a single one of Father’s jewels? Or would there be another Lúthien, to pry one loose and put it within the their grasp?
Maglor hadn’t realized he had closed his eyes until he opened them again. The light was gray over the dull lands of Amon Ereb, a thin mist in the air, a limp breeze nudging the grass. His back prickled painfully along the spine.
On a hill not far from his position, there was another rider. It was none of the men of Amon Ereb that Maglor could tell, though when he first noticed them, a breath of wind blew a cloud of fog between them, obscuring the figure momentarily. When it cleared, Maglor saw from the size of the mounted figure that it was a child, and he started towards it, thinking it must be Elrond or Elros. But before he could spur his horse to greater speed to overtake them, he realized the they were too small to be Elrond or Elros. They were not trying to move away from him; they were staring at him.
It was not one of the twins.
And they were not alone.
Maglor was no good at guessing the age of mortals, but the child on the horse could not have been long out of infancy. Behind her sat an adult, but even so near, even with the mist clearing, Maglor could not make out any details about this shadowy figure. The child, though, was cleanly visible. Maglor was uncomfortably aware of his own heartbeat in his ears.
She had sleek black hair all in a tangle from her ride, and the cool brown eyes of Nimloth of Doriath, and even in her face plump with baby fat, there was contempt when she looked on him. Around her small neck was a necklace almost comically large on her, with a gleaming, glowing jewel set in the center.
Maglor was frozen, staring. The scorn in her eyes was like a flail; his chest felt tight with the knowledge that this child possessed something which could wound him, that she was a threat.
The obscure adult swept their cloak over the child, but her eyes continued to glare out at him from over their arm. The adult spoke, but Maglor could not discern the words, and turned the horse away from him, towards the woods.
There was snow flecked onto the horse’s hooves, although it rarely snowed in Amon Ereb, and there was none now on the ground.
Maglor opened his mouth to call out, but he knew not what to say, and the thought of that mount and its riders turning towards him made his blood freeze. Initially he had wished for their identity; now he dreaded it.
Don’t look at me, was all he could think, a silent prayer or plea for some invisibility which did not exist. In the throes of his dread, he became wholly convinced that if the child looked directly at him, some terrible, unnamable thing would happen. Not death—that was too prosaic. Some thing his mind had yet to fully fathom. He could not remember such a fear since he ran through the house screaming for Mother after a childhood nightmare, certain some primordial creature of darkness nipped at his heels, ready to subject him to eternal and everlasting torment. Don’t look at me, don’t look at me. Don’t see me.
But the strange horse and the adult astride it seemed to take no more notice of him; rather, something else which Maglor could not discern grabbed their attention, and abruptly the horse was urged to a gallop. The figures fled from him as if there were a fire at their heels—or a killer.
The wind blew over the field once more, stirring up the mist, and this time, when it cleared, the figures were gone, and Maglor felt as if something had slipped between his fingers.
It took a great while before he was willing to turn his back on the place where he had seen them and try to ride back to Amon Ereb. It seemed to take much longer to make his way back than to come out, and it caught him by surprise when he finally crested the last small hill that would reveal the entirety of Amon Ereb in the distance. Normally, before reaching the peak of this hill, one could already see the roofline of the estate. But when Maglor came over the hill, there was only a dark spot there, and no roofline had he seen before.
He came to a dead halt on the hill. Even at this distance, he could see that Amon Ereb was gone. A lifeless ruin lay where the estate had been, and he saw no movement there.
“No!” The shout burst from Maglor’s mouth without thought and he jerked his horse into a run, but she went only a few hundred yards before coming to a sudden halt, nearly throwing him over her head, and despite all of Maglor’s coaxing, she would go no further.
Casting himself down, Maglor continued on foot, but he knew how long it would take him to make it all the way there without his horse. He stopped and straightened and looked again at Amon Ereb, straining his eyes to discover some explanation of what had happened; there was none.
He felt unsteady on his feet, as if he were trapped between the memory of the figure behind him, and the promise of the ruin in front of him.
“It’s not real,” he whispered, reaching a hand out towards the crumbling stone. That was it, wasn’t it? That kind of damage could not have been done in the short time that Maglor had been out. He was looking at buildings which had not been touched in decades, maybe more. “It isn’t real…”
He stared.
Maglor had never been gifted with foresight; none of those in his father’s house had been, but he felt with arresting certainty in that moment that he looked upon the end of the House of Fëanor in Middle-earth—perhaps the end of the Noldor there entirely. They were not of Beleriand, not truly, if they had once been, and someday, they would be gone from here. But was it truth? Or a vision from the queen of the Iathrim meant to torment him with the futility of his task?
“It cannot be,” he whispered, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He sank down to his knees, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. “We will succeed. We must…we must.” They had come too far to give up now…they had done too much! Surely! The thought of failure now galled him beyond words; it was anguish. It was an empty hole where his heart ought to be. “You will not turn me away from this!” he cried. “You cannot…”
No one could.
Maglor sank down until his hands were pressed into the dirt, his forehead resting against them, and for a long time he lay that way, thinking of the gleam of the Silmaril in the sky, and wishing with an acid taste in his throat that Eärendil had had the grace to take the other two with him also.
When he finally raised himself up, evening was on the rise, and Amon Ereb stood just as it always had, with no more imprint of Maglor’s madness than any other instance of it. Maglor returned on foot.
***
“What are you doing?” Maglor have believed the rest of the house was asleep, outside the night watch, so he was startled to hear Maedhros’ voice and turned at once towards the doorway. What he had been “doing” was staring bleakly into the fireplace, fighting the urge to lie down and close his eyes, but he wasn’t sure Maedhros would find this any kind of satisfactory answer.
“Nothing,” he answered at last.
“Then why are you using up firewood?”
Maglor shifted on the sofa—which could have used a great deal more padding—and looked up at Maedhros.
“I can’t sleep,” he said softly.
Maedhros loomed in the doorway.
“I keep…” Maglor trailed off and shook his head, resting his chin unhappily on the back of the couch. “Let me be here,” he muttered. “I won’t go to bed.”
To his surprise, Maedhros entered the room, and not to douse the fire and command him to bed anyway. He took a seat on one of the creaky wooden armchairs around the hearth. Maglor straightened up a little and regarded his brother. It was easy to let one’s eyes glaze over familiar things: to see them without really noticing them, but now he focused his attention, and he thought that above all, Maedhros looked tired. With the flame of his eyes quieted, his posture relaxed, he seemed to possess far less of the manic energy that had driven him since they made the decision to assault Doriath.
But Maedhros would not rest, Maglor knew that. The human part of his brother which had once enjoyed laying out in the grass in the sunshine, and spending whole days reading or reciting in the parlor, and sleeping late after staying up too long the night before working on projects was gone. Sometimes Maglor thought that part of himself was gone as well, and that he merely amused himself with a pale imitation because he could not bear to let himself be entirely as Maedhros was. When had they lost these things, he wondered? Had it happened all at once, was there a moment when it had slipped from their grasp, or had it crumbled away a little bit at a time, slowly leaving behind a mere husk, a pitiable mockery of an Elf, something more akin to the work of Morgoth than Ilúvatar?
“Are you dreaming?” Maedhros asked at length, and the words seemed to slide through a stiff jaw.
“Yes,” Maglor whispered, curling more in on himself. His throat constricted. It was the first acknowledgement Maedhros had given of any awareness that his brother was completely falling apart. Maedhros said nothing else, but into the silence, Maglor was willing to speak: “I keep…drowning.”
Maedhros’ eyes flicked over to him, away from the fire, into which he had been staring with the hypnotic look he got whenever he was around a fireplace these days.
“Drowning?”
“Yes. Over and over and over again…It’s unbearable. But then, when I wake…” Maglor shook his head, his throat tightening. “It never ends,” he whispered. He lifted his eyes to Maedhros’. “Have you seen her?” he pleaded. Tell me the truth, Maitimo, he begged silently.
“Seen who?” Maglor’s heart sank, either because Maedhros was lying now, or because he had misunderstood before, and Maedhros had been telling the truth both times. But he had been so sure that Maedhros was untruthful before, in the dining hall!
“Elwing!” Maglor burst out, his voice filling the room. “I see her, and I think you do as well!” He jumped to his feet to pace around in front of the fire. Hadn’t there been a rug there, once? “She will not leave me alone!” he cried, wheeling to face Maedhros. “She torments me! I think she is the one drowning me every night! I have no peace, Maedhros! She will not let me rest! I slew her, and now she will kill me too!”
The room was silent, but for the snap and pop of the fire.
Maedhros observed him.
“I thought you didn’t kill her,” he said flatly.
“I…”
“You have been very emphatic on this point,” said Maedhros. Whose side was he on, exactly? And why did all the world wish to torment Maglor?
Maglor sank to the floor, allowing tears to well up in his eyes, and blinked up at his pitiless brother.
“She wants me to die,” he blubbered. “She wants me dead! Do you care not at all?”
“She is not real,” said Maedhros. “She is dead.”
“She is tormenting me!”
“Perhaps you torment yourself.”
Maglor gaped at Maedhros, shocked out of his relatively performative tears.
“You think I am mad!” he accused. Maedhros shrugged.
“Of course you are. Aren’t we all? Isn’t that why we are here? Control it.” Maglor’s misery warred with his anger as Maedhros rose to his feet.
“And you!” he cried, gesturing. “Do you control it as well? Do you torment yourself as well?” Maedhros paused halfway to the door and did not look back.
“Of course not,” he said. “We did what needed to be done. She gave us no choice.” Something about that phrase stuck in Maglor’s mind, but he couldn’t say why. “It does not do to dwell in the past.”
And he left Maglor there on the floor, trying to fleece truth from lies and reality from insanity.
***
The long and wearisome days since Maglor had last slept had granted him no particular insight into the mind of Elwing Dioriel. He found himself staring at the twins, as if she might use one of them to impart a message on him, but they seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be just children (However, just in case, he interrupted them whenever they looked at each other too long without speaking, in case they were able to use ósanwe as they had told him they could not). He stayed up late at night staring into the fire as Maedhros did, but if the flames gave some clarity to Maedhros, they held it back from Maglor. He demanded to know if any of the men had seen anything unusual around the estate—nothing they reported jived with what Maglor had seen, and at least two of their stories simply suggested the place was infested with rodents (and in one instance, investigation revealed a small bat colony in the roof of a disused tower).
Nothing that revealed to Maglor for what purpose Elwing haunted him.
“What do you want from me?” Maglor murmured aloud.
“What?” said Elrond.
Maglor dragged his attention with effort back to the twins at their study table.
“I want you to copy down that list of prepositional phrases,” Maglor said, pointing to where he had scripted out the phrases they were studying for that hour.
“We did that already,” Elros complained. Maglor narrowed his eyes, and Elros held up his sheet of paper, which did indeed have the phrases on it, in clumsy, childish hand.
“Well, copy it over again!” Maglor took the paper from him and flipped it over. “Or…” He trailed off, staring at the wall, his mind wandering off from whatever new task he’d meant to appoint them. When he refocused, the twins were staring at each other. “That’s enough of that!” Maglor exclaimed, waving a hand between them. “Perhaps you will work better in separate rooms.”
“No!” they chorused. “No, no!”
“This is not a collaborative exercise, it should not make any difference if you can talk or not,” said Maglor, rising to his feet.
“No!” the twins wailed, grabbing at each other. “No, no!”
“Elros, come over here,” said Maglor. “I’m putting you in the library.”
“No!” They remained where they were, their fingers knotted up in each other’s clothes, and Elros did not move an inch.
“Elros.”
“No!”
Maglor did not want to physically separate them; it was never pleasant for anyone. He went over and put a hand on Elros’ shoulder, which made the twins jerk back away from him, stumbling out of their overlarge chairs to cling to each other at the far end of the table, and as usually happened whenever anyone tried to separate them, they looked on the verge of tears. There was little that drove them to immediate hysteria more easily than an adult trying to move them apart, but it was a reality they would have to accept sometime, in Maglor’s view.
“Leave us alone!” Elrond cried, gripping his brother’s tunic until his knuckles went white. “Don’t—”
“—touch us!” Elros finished.
“You are overreacting to this,” Maglor tried to rationalize them, taking no more steps towards them. “It will only be for an hour or two. What do you think, I mean to spirit one of you away forever?” He laughed, and then, on reflection, realized that was probably a less-than-ideal joke to make to this specific audience. The twins trembled, so near together now their cheeks almost touched. “It’s just until you finish your literature lessons,” he coaxed gently. The twins regarded each other again, seemed to come to some agreement, and then hand-in-hand sprinted past Maglor out the door and down the hallway before he could blink.
Shit.
Maglor touched his forehead between his eyebrows. He knew from experience how difficult it was to track them down in Amon Ereb when they were hiding, even when they had no intent to leave the estate. They fit into so many small places! The thought of doing it now was so wearisome he nearly collapsed into one of the now-available chairs.
“You’re doing to this to me,” he mumbled. “You’re making them uncooperative…” He shuffled into the hall, swaying against the doorframe. Even as he stood there, his head tipped to the side, to rest against the wood, and his eyes attempted to close. He snapped them back open at once and moved on into the hallway. “You’re making them hate me.”
That’s not true though, is it? said a voice in his head. You have done that yourself. Every day that you keep them here, you do it.
“That isn’t so,” Maglor said aloud as he passed a pair of men in the hallway. “I take good care of them. I…” I do my best! Didn’t that count for something? He laughed derisively. “Of course it doesn’t! Why on earth should that matter?”
He found himself in the lower part of the building, staggering into the pantry with little memory of how he’d gotten there. He couldn’t tell if there were needles pressing into his spine or if he was just imagining the feeling.
“Is it real?” he murmured, holding his hands out in front of him. “Is it real?” He grabbed a radish off the table and then set it down again.
His legs seemed to buckle out from under him; he sank in a heap to the floor, gripping the edge of the table. The air pressed down on him with a terrible weight, as if he were again sinking under the thrall of the waves, with the crushing weight of the ocean on top of him.
“What do you want from me?” he cried. “What is it? What do you want from me?” He raised his voice in supplication, throwing his shaking hands up. In the flickering candlelight of that plain room they appeared almost stained. “Is it my apologies? Is it my regret? Think you I have no regrets?” Maglor clawed at his robes. “Is it the foreswearing of my oath? That you know cannot be! What’s done is done. Blasted shade! What will it take to satiate you?” He raised himself up on his knees. “What can I do to put you at rest, to banish you from me!”
The candles wobbled; shadows danced across the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The rest of Amon Ereb seemed very far away.
“Tell me what penance you demand!”
A flickering on the wall drew Maglor’s attention and he saw there the shadow of a loop, drawn up near the ceiling.
“No,” he gasped, clawing at the floorboards. “No, no…This I will not give you! You cannot ask it of me! Nothing will this solve! Blood for blood? This is what you seek? Never ‘til then will you leave me?” Maglor’s eyes burned as if from smoke, and he fell forward on his face, quivering on the floor. “I cannot, I cannot!”
“My lord?” Maglor whipped his head towards the door, wild-eyed and trembling. “Is…is everything well…?” One of their men was in the doorway with a saltbox, staring at him.
“She asks too much of me!” Maglor cried. “Do you see!” He waved a panicked hand at the wall and the shadow. “She asks too much! She will take no repentance but death!” Slowly he sank back down onto the floor. “Too much,” he whispered. “Too much, too much…I am stained now; never will I be clean again! Our road leads only into deeper darkness!”
He did not see the man back away from the pantry door, or the way his steps hurried down the hall, away from Maglor and his phantoms. He did not see—all he saw was the woman on the edge of the cliff, her eyes fixed on the two children he held with armored hand and blade to his sides, and the shape of her mouth as she spat her final curse at him:
All this you have done for nothing.
#maglor#maedhros#elwing#elrond#elros#the silmarillion#tolkien tag#fanfiction#tolkien fanfiction#rocky writes
27 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Tortured Poets Department but it’s all tbosas (two favorite things combined, cannot get any better. Both pivotal for my well-being) 🤍
1. Fortnight
A period of 14 days, so I’d like to say it’s something the mentors put together during the preparation and running of the hunger games. Perhaps even one of the tributes? Though I believe the calamitous events of suffering went on for a week or so (reaping to death)
2. The tortured poets department
Definitely about our dear favorite covey. Referencing to themselves as tortured poets in the way of being locked down, unable to use their voices to express their minds freely due to peacekeepers banning their songs (such as with the hanging tree) The feeling of being told what’s right and wrong about THEIR EMOTIONS. Obviously also from the mistreatment.
3. My boy only breaks his favorite toys
Ladies, gentlemen and beautiful souls - it’s time for a Lucy Gray ballad about Billy Taupe begging at her feet, as well as Coriolanus fucking up. I don’t believe it would be a downbeat melody, but a real statement.
4. Down bad
Coryo realizing he’s in love with both the lovely district 12 songbird, and his handsome friend originally from 2. Said what I said.
5. So long, London (So long, Panem)
A song the covey’s ancestors left behind as they got killed during the dark days. It’s about how they saw Panem change, and that what they used to know is long gone. Their nomadic days are over. Their freedom is gone.
6. But daddy I love him
OKAYOKAY my very first thought was Sejanus confessing with teary eyes to his father about his feelings and caring for Coriolanus. How he wishes him the best even if he got caught cheating in the game.
7. Fresh out the slammer
CORIOLANUS COMIN BACK FROM 12 HAHA
8. Florida!!! (Once again, we’re changing it to “Panem!!!”)
Grandma’am singin about her beloved country of Panem. Poor Tigris and Coryo are about to suffer through another one of her banger morning concerts.
9. Guilty as sin?
Lucy Gray accused herself, putting the blame on herself for being “responsible” for the deaths of children in the arena. Wouldn’t point directly onto the victims, but use metaphors to make the situation transparent for those who knew her in and out.
10. Who’s afraid of little old me?
Young age, old soul. Why am I imagining Maude Ivory singing something about people not taking her seriously cause of her age. Invalidating her feelings & fear when Lucy Gray got reaped.
11. I can fix him (No really I can)
First thought is ironically enough Livia Cardew? Though I believe a great amount of people viewed the blond boy’s change as an empowerment of the state, unwilling to even try and change his obvious controversial behavior (apart from dear Tigris)
12. Loml
Barb Azure to her girlfriend <3 IDK I THINK IT’S SO CUTE?!?! Now let’s wait and see if it really means “love of my life”, or ends up being “loss of my life”.
13. I can do it with a broken heart
Lucy Gray can do anything at any fateful condition. Even with a broken heart she will kick the ass of anyone who does her wrong.
14. The smallest man who ever lived
SLAP EM LUCY GRAY BAIRD. Definitely pointed against her former lovers assholes who betrayed her. None of them will ever manage to break her, because she’s stronger than any haunting scar.
15. The alchemy
GAUL GAUL GAUL LMAO. The most absurd thing about this scary woman is how she enjoys chemistry and biological genetic engineering?
16. Clara Bow
Old covey song from centuries ago about a tortured actress, first it-girl and country’s thirsting desire.
#tbosas#the hunger games#taylor swift#hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes#lucy gray baird#coriolanus snow#hunger games#the tortured poets department#ttpd#sejanus plinth#livia cardew#maude ivory#tigris snow#taylor’s version
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
TS Eras Tour Mash-Ups Braindump
You All Over Me x Clean — no amount of freedom gets you clean, i've still got you all over me → like a wine-stained dress i can't wear anymore
Maroon x Clean — the burgundy on my t-shirt like the wine you splashed into me → you're still all over me like a wine-stained dress i can't → hung my head as i lost the war and the sky turned black like a perfect storm → that's a real fucking legacy to leave
The Moment I Knew x Lover — we could leave the Christmas lights up till January, this is our place we make the rules → Christmas lights glisten / i've got my eye on the door, just waiting for you to walk in
The Moment I Knew x Hits Different — what do you say, when tears are streaming down your face in front of everyone you know → i trace the evidence make it make some sense why the wound is still bleedin' → standing there in my party dress in red lipstick with no one to impress → don't need another metaphor it's simple enough
Hits Different x mad woman — is that your key in the door? is it okay it is you? or have they come to take me away? → there's nothing like a mad woman (what a shame she went mad) no one likes a mad woman (you made her like that)
Death By A Thousand Cuts x Paper Rings — paper cut stings from our paper thin plans → i'd marry you with paper rings
Death By A Thousand Cuts x exile — you said it was a great love, one for the ages → i think i've seen this film before, and i didn't like the ending → but if the story's over, why am i still writing pages? → i think i've seen this film before, so i'm leavin' out the side door
closure x Death By A Thousand Cuts — don't treat me like some situation that needs to be handled, i'm fine with my spite and my tears and my beers and my candles → my time, my wine, my spirit, my trust / trying to find a part of me you didn't take up / gave you too much but it wasn't enough
Cornelia Street x Death By A Thousand Cuts — we were a fresh page on the desk, filling in the blanks as we go / as if the street lights pointed in an arrowhead leading us home → i take the long way home, i ask the traffic lights if it'll be all right / they say, "i. don't. know."
happiness x Cornelia Street — when did your winning smile begin to look like a smirk? → i don't wanna lose you, hope it never ends → when did all our lessons start to look like weapons pointed at my deepest hurt? → i'd never walk cornelia street again
happiness x mad woman — i hope she'll be a beautiful fool, who takes my spot next to you / no, i didn't mean that, sorry, i can't see facts through all of my fury → every time you call me crazy, i get more crazy, what about that? and when you say i seem angry, i get more angry
Haunted x Cold As You — oh, i'm holding my breath, won't lose you again, something's made your eyes go cold // i've never been anywhere cold as you / you never did give a damn thing, honey, but i cried, cried for you / and i know you wouldn't have told nobody if i died, died for you → something keeps me holding on to nothing
Say Don't Go x Sad Beautiful Tragic — i'm standin' on the sidewalk alone, i wait for you to drive by / i'm tryna see the cards that you won't show / i'm about to fold unless you → kiss me, try to fix it / could you just try to listen?
hoax x False God — your faithless love's the only hoax i believe in → but we might just get away with it, religion's in your lips, even if it's a false god (we'd still worship)
hoax x the lakes — i want auroras & sad prose → don't want no other shade of blue but you // you know i left a part of me back in new york. you knew the hero died, so what's the movie for? you knew it still hurts underneath my scars from when they pulled me apart → a red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground with no one around to tweet it / while i bath in cliffside pools, with my calamitous love and insurmountable grief
the lakes x I Know Places — i'm setting off, but not without my muse → and you know for me it's always you (i know places)
Come In With The Rain x I Almost Do — i'll leave my window open 'cause i'm too tired at night to call your name → i hope you know that every time i don't i almost do → i've watched you so long, screamed your name, i don't know what else i can say → oh, we made quite a mess, babe / in my dreams you're touching my face and ask me if i wanna try again with you → i could go back to every laugh, but i don't wanna go there anymore
I Almost Do x All You Had To Do Was Stay — i bet it never, ever occurred to you that i can't say "hello" to you and risk another goodbye → i've been picking up pieces of the mess you made
Begin Again x King Of My Heart — and i want to talk about that, and for the first time what's past is past → is this the end of all the endings? my broken bones are mending, with all these nights we're spending up on the roof with a school girl crush
Babe x Forever & Always — i break down every time you call. we're a wreck, you're the wrecking ball → 'cause it rains in your bedroom, everything is wrong, it rains when you're here and it rains when you're gone / 'cause i was there when you said, "forever and always"
Question...? x Is It Over Now — did you leave her house in the middle of the night? → baby, was it over when she laid down on your couch? → did you wish you put up more of a fight when she said it was too much? → was it over when he unbuttoned my blouse? → did you wish you could still touch... her? → "come here," i whispered in your ear in your dream as you passed out, baby - was it over then? and is it over now? → it's just a question!
Dress x "Slut!" — inescapable, i'm not even gonna try / and if i get burned, at least we were electrified → but if i'm all dressed up, they might as well be lookin' at us / and if they call me a slut, you know it might be worth it for once
Mary's Song x Timeless — a few years had gone and come around / we were sitting at our favourite spot in town / and you looked at me, got down on one knee → you're always gonna be mine / i'm gonna love you when our hair is turnin' gray / we'll have a cardboard box of photos of the life we've made / and you'll say, "oh my, we really were timeless"
#the eras tour#taylor swift#ts#surprise song guesses#i'm literally just thinking aloud pls feel free to add to this if anyone wants
13 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Venture Bros.
The Venture Bros. comments on many assumptions from the Golden and Silver Age of comics. It parodies certain elements of comic book history, including ‘the boy adventurer’ (Jonny Quest) trope and space-age fiction themes and aesthetics. The series follows Dr. Thaddeus “Rusty” Venture, a sad failure of a Super Scientist living in the shadow of his late larger-than-life father, Dr. Jonas Venture. Rusty is a superhero in title but not in practice, yet he still has a rotating cast of villains and sidekicks around him. His arch nemesis is a villain called The Monarch, who I focus on for this piece. I think Rusty represents the more cynical, morally ambiguous Silver age of comics while his father represents the authoritarian Golden age, to put it into Williams’ framework from “(R)Evolution of the Television Superhero”. The Venture Bros contributes to a misanthropic view of superhero narratives. All of the characters have major flaws directly connected to their association with Super Heroism and its flipside, Super Villainy. Changes in values over time are shown in the narrative through flashbacks and convoluted storylines involving many characters over several seasons. Overall, though, the series pokes fun and levies criticism against prevalent superhero notions.
The Monarch, Dr. Venture’s Arch Nemesis, is a scrawny, goateed, middle-aged white male who has made a career out of being evil. In some ways, he is very successful, with an awesome spaceship headquarters, a team of devoted henchmen, and a sexy villainess girlfriend. However, the Monarch is shown to oscillate between overconfident and insecure, as seeking validation, and as unable to thwart his self-proclaimed nemesis, no matter how many opportunities he gets.
The Monarch represents an attitude of dissatisfaction among men who actually have quite a bit going for them. I feel like this reflects a culture of misplaced victimhood held by some men as the liberation of women and other oppressed groups makes them feel like they are losing some kind of power or status.
The Venture Bros. is all about funny costumes and character design. The Monarch has leaned all the way into his butterfly-and-insect-themed villainy. His costume is an integral part of his character, and he is rarely seen without it.
His voice and mannerisms are enough to make the Monarch recognizable even when he is not in costume, but he derives much of his power from his outfit, the consistent theme of his evil operation, and his flashy technology. The Monarch has a hard time performing villainy when not in costume. In this universe, Villany is a career, and the job requires a uniform.
The show is definitely influenced by 9/11 and the entrance of Gen Xers into the media scene. The show debuted in 2003, when the Cold War Kids (not the band) were finally entering the workforce and the public eye and expressing their feelings and attitudes about social and political realities of the time. The Monarch is an expression of social, economic and political disillusionment that can go in divergent directions and lead to extremism. Venture represents apathy and adherence to established systems, despite their idiocy.
In Season 1 Episode 11, the viewer gets a glimpse into the normal and domestic side of super people when they meet members of The Guild of Calamitous Intent when Venture hosts a yard sale at his compound. He invites all the Villains he works against and among, with the understanding that no harm can come to him because it is not guild-approved and therefore the villains have no legs to stand on in terms of evil.
Even so, the Monarch, Dr. Venture’s sworn enemy, wreaks non-approved havok at the yard sale, causing a brawl in search of a suitable bathroom. Monarch and Dr. Girlfriend sneak into the compound and see the sad emptiness of Dr. Venture’s life. For a moment it seems the Monarch has a realization about his Villainy and almost gives up “Arching” Dr. Venture, but when the security team gives him a fright, the Monarch vows to destroy Dr. Venture and reconstitutes the Nemesis status.
I think this faltering of ideology that the Monarch experiences shows how perceived obligations are subject to change situationally. This applies to foreign relations because attitudes about domestic policy, domestic views on other countries, and also relationships between nations and states are products of history but also are fluid.
@theuncannyprofessoro
19 notes
·
View notes
Text
There’s something quite soothing about how every Tory PM has a clear goal for how they want to be seen, and their falls from grace are almost always down to them absolutely failing at that.
David Cameron wanted to be seen as a strong, wise statesman leading the UK into a new golden age of global conservatism and stability, and had to resign after Brexit, inarguably the most calamitous, damaging, destabilising thing to happen in recent UK history.
Theresa May wanted to be seen as someone who could unify the Tory factions, a Machine Tory who would heal the rifts caused by Brexit and find a middle way. She was forced out by factional infighting.
Boris Johnson desperately, needily wanted to be loved. He’d go to pubs and boxing gyms and pull stupid faces while drinking beer. He wanted so much to be Your Fun Mate, Boris. When he left, most of the country hated him, and he was forced out by his own party turning on him en masse, leaving him isolated and hiding in his office.
Liz Truss wanted to be seen as an economic firebrand who history would remember as reshaping the UK into a hyper free market, hyper capitalist, hyper libertarian banker’s paradise. She and Kwarteng had literally written and published a book saying all the things they meant to do and how they would help the UK. The moment she instituted one (1) of those policies, the pound crashed, the free market told her she was an idiot, and she spent forty days on political life support before she had to resign.
Rishi Sunak wants to be seen as Very Important, Perhaps Even The Most Important Person. He goes on interviews and talks up how his job makes a difference. He gets a private plane to Leeds and then briefs the press on how it was ‘an efficient use of his very important time.’ He talks to interviewers like he’s a middle manager giving a careers talk to schoolchildren.
I cannot wait for his downfall to involve the country collectively deciding he’s useless, which they’re already starting to do.
89 notes
·
View notes
Text
hello friends! last month was full of wonderful reads that i’m excited to share. there’s a good variety of pairings this round of recs too, with majority drarry and a few others sprinkled in. wishing everyone another month of amazing fics in august! and now here are my favourite fics from july:
Drarry
The Heart of the Manor by @kedavranox | M | 3k
i love drarry and horror and this fic was masterful. it’s able to weave such a vividly eerie atmosphere with an incredible, ominous ending in only 3k words. skillfully concise and quick, it’s like a well placed gut punch in the best way possible.
Not Nineteen Forever by @sorrybutblog | E | 5k
i am a sucker for any fic involving de-aging/age difference between Harry and Draco, especially when it has a generous dose of pining. i absolutely loved younger draco in all his funny, sexy, teasing glory!
Progressive Displacement by GatewayGirl | E | 20k
this one was a reread, but one i’ll never get tired of. universe hopping is always so so fun, and all the different versions of harry and draco were amazing.
The Matchmaker’s Spell by @kbrick | E | 20k
messy drarry has such an exquisite flavour. their dynamic when it’s a little bit fucked up is just *chefs kiss* the energy of this fic is so wonderfully intense and i felt like i was buzzing the entire time i was reading it. and can we talk about that ending? brilliant!
The Day Before the Wedding by @kbrick | E | 39k
when i saw that kbrick dropped a new fic and that it was a timeloop fic, i pretty much dropped everything to read it. harry reliving the day before he gets married to ginny over and over is all at once spectacularly calamitous and cathartic. harry and draco both work for their growth in this one, and the timeloop aspect is done wonderfully, as per expected from kbrick!
The Art of Our Necessities by dcfg21 | E | 52k
this one was another reread and one that i’d consider one of my personal drarry classics, at least in the vampire genre. we have unhinged vampire harry who is bonded to draco to keep him on a leash, with a gloriously hot dynamic featuring a possessive and protective harry. i love how much these two cant help but want each other. a drarry vampire must-read.
The Remnant by @kbrick | E | 71k
i must admit that i went on a bit of a kbrick splurge this month but i couldn’t resist this one when i saw the demonic possession tag,, possessed harry has got to be one of the most creepy hot things i’ve read and i thoroughly enjoyed everything about it (as did draco 😳)
Others
Snarry
Ingredients of Respect by Lizzy0305 | E | 27k
harry gaining a genuine interest in potions is something i love reading, especially when severus helps him realize it. but when harry also gains an interest in severus, the tension is strikingly hot. i loved the dynamic between them!
In Between Days by atrata | E | 68k
the characterization of snape in this fic is so good! he’s the perfect mix of bitterness, snark, and self loathing. paired with a messy, angsty harry, you get a snarry dynamic that feels absolutely electric.
Tomarymort
Break it Down by @acciotomriddle | M | 1k
prisoner voldemort and harry in a smutty power struggle? yes, please.
Dark Heritage by @dropsofnightshade | 342k
it’s always lovely reading harry-gets-adopted-by-adult-who-actually-treats-him-well stories. i especially liked the depiction of the black family in this one! and harry’s relationship with the greengrass family was such a treat as well. also notable is the world building, wizarding politics and dark magic!
Sirius/Voldemort
It runs in the blood by @metalomagnetic | E | 121k
this fic has haunted my mind since i started reading it. voldemort courting sirius to be a death eater, and maybe even more was something i didn’t know i needed until i got it and then suddenly it was all i’ve ever wanted. this fic immersed me into a setting i don’t read too often—during the first war with voldemort. and we really get into the thick of it with sirius and all his different interactions. highly recommend!
#this is quite late but so many good fics last month!!#reese recs#drarry fic#drarry fanfic rec#drarry fic rec#drarry squad#tomarry#tomarrymort#snarry#tomarry fic#harrymort#harrymort fic#snarry fic#sirius x voldemort#sirimort#?#voldius#??#hp fic rec#hp slash
201 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
jentonic
lee dong-wook brain rot
curlyissues
CARPE DIEM
bluejey
azure passerine
teddydeer
🧸☕🧸
uhbsessed
SWFS