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morgana-ren · 9 months

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Has your opinion/understanding on Astarion's character changed much as you play through the full game?

Actually, yes! Big spoilers again btw.

So, I will admit, my perception of characters is always slightly biased. It's always tilted in favor of my own predilections and desires, so I tend to see things in a skewed way. The less information I am presented, the more my brain will fill in the gaps thusly.

In the early access, Astarion is presented as a selfish vampire spawn clawing for his own survival from the vicious vampire lord that spawned him and has held him captive for centuries. It should be noted that he is one of the only companions open to the idea of abusing the tadpoles rather than removing them and only seeks to cure them if they cannot be controlled. It becomes apparent that he craves power above all else. He dislikes altruistic speech options, tends to veer directly towards ones that bolster said power, especially at the expense of other people. He seems the closest to a stereotypical 'chaotic' follower that you really get.

However, he isn't evil. He's a very rounded character despite his inherent selfishness. He is manipulative and vicious, but he is also desperate and afraid and slow to trust. Most of what he does, he does for his own survival and comfort rather than active malevolence-- though that isn't always the case.

You get an alright idea of him in the early access, as in enough to know if you're going to want to keep him around and invest time into him as opposed to just dropping him at camp perpetually. You catch glimpses of the man he is behind it all, but mostly he appears flamboyant, resourceful, flirtatious, and of extremely dubious morality. Fun, right?

Very, very wrong, actually.

As you progress through the game, you come to understand him better, and it's... tragic.

The first thing to slip is his explosive temper. He is confused, bitter, and frightened. He expects Cazador around every corner, stalking in every shadow, watching and waiting to sling the collar around his neck and yank once more. Paranoid. He has mystery scars painstakingly carved into his flesh that he cannot see because of his condition, in a language he cannot read, with horrible memories he doesn't want to recall. He is angry, and he isn't in the company of people he trusts even remotely at first and literally cannot remember the last time he was in centuries. He bottles up all those emotions to avoid the devastating vulnerability of showing emotion and shoves them down beneath his posh and nonchalant facade, and eventually, it finds a way out.

Occasionally, he snaps. He becomes enraged and has these moments of intense anger.

And then, there is what you might think to be a moment of connection.

Astarion, once he decides that he approves of you, will make a move to seduce you. Should you accept, you might find that he says something along the lines of "Isn't that why you came? To lose yourself in me?"

It seems like typical seduction dialogue at first, but this is very deliberate. The wording is very deliberate as is everything he does. Like a choreographed waltz that he has danced again and again and again--

Until it comes as natural as breathing.

After your night together, he evades a conversation that would take anything any further. No relationship, no nothing. Just a one off that turns you into the equivalent of ye olde fuckbuddies. He stays by your side, of course, but nothing changes between you other than him acknowledging what happened.

So, you progress a little more.

Eventually, both through necessity and happenstance, he does end up opening up little by little. And you find out bits and pieces about him. But there's one that stands out to me:

The crazy blood bitch in Moonrise dehumanizes him, speaks down to him, and refuses to even acknowledge his personhood. She only speaks to you, and makes you an offer regarding your 'property.' An invaluable potion for a moment with 'your pet vampire spawn.'

And he has a visceral reaction to this.

If you have a fucking heart and you don't make him do this, he comes to speak to you later and confides in you. Cazador had used him essentially as a honeypot, forcing him to use his body to lure unsuspecting citizens back to the vampire's den-- against his will. He was so degraded, so dehumanized, and so looked down on for so many years that he has genuinely come to believe that it's the truth. He thanks you genuinely for considering him and viewing him as a real person with emotions and feelings, but is also... confused. He doesn't understand, because that rotten, stagnant belief is still a truth to him: That he is nothing but a tool and a means to an end; that he doesn't matter. That he is a filthy thing to be used and cast aside when convenient. He doesn't understand why you didn't make him do it when it was only his comfort on the line.

And if you ask him to drink from her, he will. He stiffens his upper lip and drinks despite the fact that something is wrong and he knows it. He does it because you command him to. Because that's what he has done for so long that you don't have to have the lord's control over him anymore for him to follow orders.

There is a moment of stark, dreadful realization that sex and seduction have an entirely different meaning to him but he has still been doing it. That the love and connection that he truly needs might be support and a friend and not a bedfellow. That his agency and personhood have been stripped away for so long that he doesn't even recognize them anymore. He is bitter and mean but vulnerable and confused and terrified and he doesn't know how to seek comfort, so he resorts to what he knows while simultaneously distancing and degrading himself.

He does not believe that he is worth loving or caring for, or anything but being an object to be molded. Used. Discarded. He suffered for so long that this is a fundamental truth to him. He is a monster. A filthy vermin barely a step above the rats he's been fed.

You do what you should do: You give him the power. You try to build him back up. Try to help him understand that he isn't a monster or a tool. He is a man; he is a person, and he deserves a say in his own fate. His wants and desires matter. What he wants matters.

If you've done things right, he will take a gigantic leap of faith. He will be with you-- truly be with you. It's slow and he doesn't understand, but he knows he wants it, and you take it as slow as he needs-- but he's still hurt. He is still scarred.

In the Sharess Caress, there are a pair of Drow twins that will attempt to seduce you into what is essentially a foursome. If Astarion is there and he is a love interest and you attempt this, he will say "I'm really not ready for this." while looking extraordinarily uncomfortable, and almost panicked. The scars are still there, and they're barely healing over, and still so, so tender. Easy to tear right back open. Easy to push back into his shell to never come out again, because he tried vulnerability and it burned him.

He does not think he is worthy of love or happiness. He doesn't get to have a loving partner who adores him. Even slipped free of Cazador's yoke, his claws are still stuck steadfast in his soul. He is taking it slow and barely learning to trust another being again, leave alone put his neck out and care for one. He wears his misery as a shield because it cannot hurt him that way. He is a monster who has done horrible things and deserves to be alone forever. And even if that isn't the truth, then Cazador is still lurking out there, waiting to strike-- to rip away that newfound happiness.

Astarion is, above all things, a truly tragic character, and one that I empathize with. It makes my adoration for him slightly guilty. I'm not all the way through the game quite yet, but what I have seen hurts my heart something dreadful. With my character, he is slowly learning to trust and love again, but it's painfully apparent that he thinks he doesn't deserve this, and he is simply waiting for something to fall apart and send him back into the spiraling black chasm that is his life. He still believes all these miserable things about himself. He was forced into immortality, and he believes he's going to spend it alone, reviled, and wretched - not to mention enslaved.

As fun as it is to have a sexy, dark, controlling Astarion, I don't think it's necessarily true to his character as he is presented if you choose to do things right. He isn't evil - he is a complex, tragic man who desperately needs to be able to see his own reflection in a way that isn't horrifically warped by everyone else's eyes.

Vampire. Monster. Killer. Slave. Pet.

It's been so long he's lost track of himself. Of Astarion the man.

He needs to find himself and find peace. He asks to view himself through your eyes, maybe because he's looking for something-- anything-- within himself to hold onto.

If you ask me again in a few days, I'll probably have a fully fleshed out idea of his character, since I'll probably have completed the game or at the very least gotten a bit further, but this is what I have at the moment. Doesn't mean I'll stop writing Astarion as I adore, but I've always openly admitted that my writings on characters are skewed despite their actual content lmao.

#morgana and friends #astarion #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 spoilers

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cassaloopa · 3 months

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A Night to Forget

Reposting this scene, updated and with dialogue between Astarion and my Paladin, Zoia (she/they). Set after Raphael reveals the truth of Astarion’s scars, he shares the memory of how he got them with Zoia via tadpole.

CW/TW for torture, knife work, blood, compulsion, and some degradation. Happy ending to the scene.

He never called any of them into his chambers. It was a space that was sacred, private, barred to lowly spawn such as himself. So when the command came down to him, Astarion was justifiably terrified. And well he should be for what transpired that dreadful evening.

Cazador was in his study, waiting with eerie serenity. Almost… happy. It made Astarion’s skin crawl and his instincts screamed run run run. He entered the room, bowing low and keeping his eyes cast downward, never looking at his master directly. “You wanted to see me, lord,” he said as a statement, knowing no questions would be answered for him.

“My child, come to me, let me see you,” Cazador beckoned gently, a hand extending in welcome. Astarion’s feet dragged a moment as his body wrestled with the urge to flee, stepping in close and willing himself to remain calm. Cazador took his chin in a firm grip, turning his head this way and that, inspecting him like a prized hog at fair.

“My my, you are such a pretty thing. Such a waste, really, but there is time yet.” The look in his gaze was full of intent Astarion could not begin to comprehend, so he simply forced his face to stay neutral, allowing Cazador to fawn over him before he switched his grip to the back of Astarion’s neck and led him towards a stone table at the far end of the room.

“Get onto the table and take off your shirt, pet.” A wave of panic washed over Astarion, and he hesitated. The grip on his neck tightened painfully, sharp talon nails biting into him and forcing him to obey. He pulled away and climbed atop the table, removing his shirt with shaking fingers.

“Lie down, child, face down.” Another wave of fear hit him as he complied, cold cheek against colder stone. Cazador grazed his nails down his spine, sending a shiver through him, before seizing and binding his wrists and ankles to the slab. Astarion bit back a whimper and his whole body shook with adrenaline as he waited in dread for what would come next. He couldn’t see Cazador from where he lay, but he heard movement and the sound of implements being prepared. He craned his neck to get a glimpse of the room, trying to see anything that would give him a clue as to what misfortune was to befall him, but just then Cazador was beside him, a jagged blade in hand and a smile so malicious it would have stopped Astarion’s heart were it yet beating. “And now we begin,” he said easily as the knife came down to meet flesh.

Cazador began the first incision slowly, like drawing a hand through water; the pull of it achingly careful in its precision. Astarion arched reflexively away from the blade, crying out at the shock of sharp steel to skin, but there was nowhere to run from the knife where he was pinned against the table.

“Hold still, boy. Do not disrupt my lovely poetry with your writhing.” His words were sharp, annoyed; a clear and decisive compulsion Astarion was helpless to resist. His body stilled instantly even as he shrieked through another slice into his back, the muscles unnaturally loosened while his nerves felt the fullness of the pain. It was acute and excruciating, like fire burning through his delicate skin as each new cut shredded him to ribbons. Rivulets of his precious, vermin-stolen blood pooled on the tabletop and dripped to the floor, and all the while Cazador composed with delight and single-minded focus.

The carving seemed to carry on a lifetime as his master sliced circle and runes into his back, taking his time to savour the torture, make it right for his purposes. Astarion remained statuesque throughout, gasping and wailing like a wounded animal caught in a snare, desperate to flee but unable to for how his body betrayed him. Cazador mocked and praised him as he screamed: “what a voice you have, my boy. Such sweet music you make as I rend you. Your cries are the loveliest of all your brethren, you know. They make my soul revive with the anguish of your body beneath my hand. How pathetic you are, truly.”

Eventually, when the night was all but spent, the deed was done and the blade was removed from his flesh. Astarion whimpered pitifully, delirious from the pain and weak from so much blood lost. He was unbound and without care Cazador compelled, “begone now my vile creature, my sundered spawn. Back where you belong.”

Astarion slid slowly and gracelessly off the table, crumpling to the floor in a bloody heap. He paused only a moment before pushing himself to his feet with a groan, inhuman strength born of a long cultivated terror forcing him upright even through his wretched sobs. Every movement gave a fresh shot of pain to his nerve endings as he staggered his way out of his master’s chambers, collapsing to the floor of the hallway as the door swung magically shut behind him. How long he lay there, he could not say. Eventually he was aware of hands on him, of torches flickering and his own feet dragging across the floor, of a straw pillow beneath his head and the smell of blood in his nostrils, on his lips, down his throat. He swallowed desperately, nearly choking on the acrid liquid, feeling it course through his dry veins once more. It returned some of his vigour and with it sensation, the pain coming back to him in agonizing clarity.

That night, like many others before and after it, he wished he would have chosen death instead of accepting this cursed existence. But such choices had never been his to make then. And perhaps it was meant this way, to lead him to this moment for redemption. For revenge. A chance to choose, to see vengeance done, finally. And maybe not, maybe it is all folly. But he has to at least try.

He opens his eyes again, looking at Zoia as the connection severs between them, gauging their reaction. The vision is a risk, a vulnerability much deeper than the talk they had so many weeks ago in the wood, but it’s necessary if he is to convince them to aid him in this.

She looks pained, angry, in grief. Their hand twitches toward his own but doesn’t grasp it, and a small part of him wishes for the touch even though he knows he would spurn it in this moment. Perhaps she senses this too, their minds still tethered with delicate strings.

“So, now you know the whole sordid thing. And more of why I need to stop him. If what Raphael said is true, a vampire like Cazador can’t be allowed to wield the kind of power he seeks. I won’t let him have that glory after all the centuries of torture and depravity he inflicted on me. I have to kill him, I will kill him. I’m just… not sure I can do it alone, much as I’m loath to admit it.” He looks away from them, conflicted and bitter, smaller than his words would have him seem.

The impulse finally wins out, an opening sensed despite the thorny exterior he exudes, and Zoia steps carefully closer into his space, a hand tentatively settling on his arm. He tenses but doesn’t flinch away, brows furrowing deeper and eyes clouding with an aura of wetness that never fully materializes. He looks up again, meets her eyes with a challenging defiance, daring them to mock him for his plea for help in this grave matter. But she doesn’t, only holds up a hand for him to take, and when he does they pull it to their lips with a reverent kiss. “You have me and will never be alone so long as you let me stay with you. You will kill Cazador and I will be there by your side when you do it. That is my promise to you.”

His defensive front breaks then, crumbling away to leave only awe and relief in his crimson eyes. He falters, at a loss to reply to such an oath given when none before have ever thought to swear anything to him in kindness or loyalty. “You are astonishing to me, truly. I… thank you. Thank you.” He lays his free hand on their face and leans in, resting his cool cheek to hers in a simple act of intimacy, of gratitude. He whispers, “I don’t… I’m afraid I am not worthy of the faith you have in me…”

“You are worth everything to me,” Zoia whispers back as she pulls away to smile at him, their faces still close in confidence. “I had hoped you would know that by now. Just let me remain with you, Star, that’s all I want.” His breath shudders quietly, emotion swelling before he reigns in it, keeps that mask on still, but Zoia knows their words have found a home in his heart.

He nods lightly, acknowledging without words, and plants a gentle kiss to their cheek. Then he turns away with a final squeeze of hands to rejoin the group once more. He coughs to get their attention and dons a roguish grin. “Well! I suppose you all best prepare yourselves then. It would seem on top of everything else transpiring, we’ve got a vampire lord to slay for Baldur’s Gate, too. And I don’t know about you, but I would really like a new set of knives for the occasion.”

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xalygatorx · 3 months

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Unbound | Chapter 14, "In Waters Deep"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: The group reaches an impasse in the mountains. En route back to the goblin camp, Voss pays them a visit with a proposition for Lae’zel. Áine finds herself in a difficult conversation with an inebriated, existential Gale away from camp. Gale puts Áine in an uncomfortable (and triggering) position. Astarion is not pleased.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: 18+/NSFW; non-con/attempted assault (start and end will be noted in the copy; specifically descriptions of a nonconsensual kiss and a physical struggle) by a canon character (Gale); descriptions of feeling triggered, vague flashbacks, and a panic attack; angry/violent Astarion; suggestive content (in memories) & dialogue; brief descriptions of graphic violence and blood; angst; lightly proofread

Word Count: 7k

Listening to: Organs - Of Monsters & Men

Áine hung her head, her hands painfully clenched on her hips. All this way and the godsdamned pathway to Moonrise they’d counted on being at the base of the mountain pass was sealed off. Her heart pounded, hurling itself against her ribs as if it too could hardly stand her, and she felt the beginnings of a feverish headache building just above her right eye.

A tug at one of her digging fingertips jarred her mixed self-pity and self-loathing. The tug returned, this time successfully removing her bruising grip on her flesh. The icy touch threaded its nimble fingers through hers, clumsy but ever more practiced in the gesture. The pad of Astarion’s thumb swept her knuckles and Áine lost a little steam.

“This is on me,” Halsin was insisting, gazing at the gnarled sealed passage with lingering shock. “Last I was here, this seal did not exist—that was however years upon years ago.”

“We had no way to know until we arrived,” Gale suggested, offering an understanding look to Halsin despite the strained fix of his brow. “And there remains the Underdark passage. Which, in fairness, could be just as blocked. And in that case…”

“In that case, we find another way,” Wyll posited, ever the optimist or at least the champion of persevering. “The cult is traveling between this stretch of Faerûn and Moonrise one way or another. We will find their path and use it against them.”

“Fuck yeah,” Karlach rallied to the plan.

Áine nodded, drawing in a deep breath to steady herself. “Well said, all of you,” she agreed, listening to everyone’s footsteps starting anew to begin the path back up the mountain. She looked up at the vampire beside her, gently squeezing his hand. “Thank you.”

“For?” he wondered, keeping their hands joined as they followed the others.

The bard shrugged, swinging their entwined fingers up a little as she said, “This, I suppose. And just in general.”

Astarion tsked in disapproval. “Just ‘in general’? That hardly answers my question, my dear.”

Áine provided only an angelic smile in response and the sight caused Astarion to blush. Her smile brightened into a grin. “You know, I think my blood looks better on you than it does on me,” she commented, admiring his pinkened cheeks and ear tips.

“Hush, you,” Astarion grumbled, feeling his skin heat further and feeding into an embarrassment cycle he would have a difficult time subduing for the next few minutes. He sought to change the subject. “How fares your shoulder today?”

She gave an experimental roll of the joint, her eye twitching faintly as she rounded it back into place. “Still a bit stiff, but much better than it would’ve been otherwise thanks to you,” she said.

“Are we discussing your shoulder?” Shadowheart had slowed to walk with them, pleased to find that they were already discussing what she’d dropped back to ask Áine. Astarion stiffened when the cleric cast a proud glance his way. “How did my student manage?”

Gods above, his face was going up in flames again. Well, as much “in flames” as a vampire’s flesh could be.

Áine, however, was very interested in finally getting more of an answer to the unanswered question she’d posed the night before. “Student?” she repeated with interest. Her thumb was tracing small, soothing circles against the side of Astarion’s hand and he couldn’t decide if he was comforted by the fact that she seemed to know this conversation was already putting him on edge. The affectionate strokes did keep him from grumbling and stomping away at least.

Shadowheart smiled wider. “Of course,” she said, getting what she saw as a full-sweep benefit of embarrassing their vampire and letting Áine in on their exchange to properly act as Astarion’s unappointed wingwoman. He didn’t recognize her actions as helpful yet, but he would. “We had an impromptu lesson last night on how to use massage in a medicinal sense,” the cleric explained to Áine, lowering her voice and adding, “he was worried about accidentally hurting you, which was quite sweet.”

“That’s enough of that!” Astarion was grousing, but he fell silent as his eyes caught on Áine’s face. Her wide chocolate eyes shone with an appreciative tenderness, her free hand subconsciously hovering over where her heart beat and signaling just how touched she was by the whole thing.

Áine suddenly blushed harder than he had and turned her gaze to the path beneath their feet to try hiding it, processing the strong reaction she’d had to learning he’d laid his pride at Shadowheart’s feet to ask the cleric for something…to help her. It was such a small thing, but it wouldn’t have felt like a small thing to him to ask for someone’s assistance, and knowing he’d done so despite that because he wanted to make sure she was okay made her positively melt.

Bewildered, Astarion looked over Áine’s bowed head to Shadowheart, who was already looking at him. She gave him a smug look as soon as they made eye contact, but it wasn’t the sort of smug look she’d shot him before. This was a smug look one might give a teammate after a strategic move in a game bore success.

Shadowheart mouthed, “You’re welcome,” to him and smoothed her features just as Áine looked at her again, the flustered bard none the wiser.

Astarion was fascinated by several aspects of what had just happened. The most of which concerned Áine’s reaction to hearing what he’d first thought to be simply embarrassing on his part and also the fact that Shadowheart had just helped him continue to endear himself to her. Even while Áine was faced away and chatting with the cleric, he could still see the dark flush of her skin decorating her neck—especially around the bitemarks he’d left her last night—and on the tips of her ears.

Gods, he was doomed. The entirety of him was coming undone by sentiments he hadn’t even known he was capable of. It hardly seemed fair. To either of them really. After all, at the end of this, if she even gave him the time of day after she realized the only thing she would get with him was baggage. He was a tangle of trauma steeped in shame, his every touch with tainted intention from a body that he’d lost ownership over long ago, he was just a boy who amounted to nothing—

Astarion’s jaw flexed as Cazador’s voice clawed to the surface unbidden in his mind. His teeth gnashed tightly together, a dull pain forming in the grooves. Phantom pains ghosted across his back in the imagined pattern of his scars, his memories of how deeply and how many times Cazador had carved in those lines his only reference to what they looked like. He’d never known, so he didn’t know why it was bothering him now. Perhaps because this was the first time he’d gazed upon his own flesh and had been able to tell himself that it belonged to him, not Cazador, in the better part of two centuries.

“Why is the poem in Infernal?” Áine had asked the morning after their first little tryst in the woods. His stomach fluttered faintly at the extra memories that thinking back to that night evoked. Those feelings, what he’d experienced that night, were all another aspect of this that he needed to try to better understand.

First and foremost, though, he had a duty to himself and he needed to find a way to better understand what he still carried with him from his old master. And if it was indeed Infernal and perhaps wasn’t even a poem at all, then…

What exactly had that monster done to him in the end?

They all managed to retrace their stale steps back to where they’d first begun to crest the mountain path before setting up camp became the priority. A small clearing just uphill from the stone archway marking where they’d begun this leg of their journey made for an acceptable campsite and, within the hour, they’d established their temporary abodes and begun their nightly routines.

Áine had taken an armful of laundry to a nearby spring, carefully scrubbing out dirt, grime, and blood from her and her companions’ clothes. The bard still carried a tiny sense of embarrassment for how hard Shadowheart’s earlier divulgence about Astarion seeking medical advice for her bad shoulder had hit her. Feeling her face warm again, she scrubbed a bloodstain from one of her shirts with renewed fervor.

It was just…sweet. She felt seen. She felt cared for by both of them, but something about his effort to not only help her but let down his walls a little to learn how to best help her was a heady thing to take in.

Áine adjusted the mint leaf she was fiddling with in her mouth with a careful prod of her tongue. She sighed, defeated by her own too-loud heartstrings. “You poor sweet thing… Are you in love with me yet?” Astarion’s voice drifted through her mind, the memory even holding the faint echo of the ruined temple’s acoustics. She’d not answered him then and she wouldn’t answer him now if he asked again, but she was starting to grow concerned that she didn’t even need to answer for the truth to be discovered.

It was his fault for being so damnably easy to love. Even as much as he tried to hold himself back, cement that awful little rake mask to his honest, beautifully open face that could rend her heart in half at a moment’s notice, and skirt the hard topics with playful smirks and coy banter, she either enjoyed their dance or succeeded in seeing through it.

Last night there had hardly been any dancing around each other at all. At least, for a while.

After they’d successfully used their tadpoles to connect their minds and she’d been able to show him what he looked like, both as a mirror would and also through her own eyes after he’d asked, she’d refocused to see tears streaming from his eyes. And before she could check on him, before she could apologize for any of it being too much too soon, he’d kissed her hard. Desperately, hungrily, passionately. Before she’d had time to react at all, she was on her back and he was all she could feel, his hands on her body and in her hair, his tongue in her mouth, his tears occasionally hitting her cheeks like faint, icy pinpricks.

Áine blushed anew and one of her hands raised to brush her spring-cooled fingertips against the fresh bitemarks in her neck, a shiver running through her that had little to do with the chill of her skin.

Up until last night, their coupling had felt careful, and controlled at times too. Their first time had held moments of released inhibition on his part, the height of it when he’d so beautifully come apart in her arms, but she had meant it when she’d asked him the next morning if he’d been all there. If he was alright. The night after had felt even more careful, but it had been sweeter and more romantic, and she’d taken it to be because she’d been upset not long before and he’d intentionally taken things more slowly.

And then there’d been last night. When the only thing he’d done “carefully” was position one of his arms around her back in a way that stabilized her shoulder while he’d railed her within an inch of her life, his fangs deep in her neck as he’d repeatedly buried himself inside her.

Her face reddened at the memory alone. It’d been all she could do not to wake the damn camp and based on the way he’d needed to stifle the occasional grunt, growl, or groan against her neck or her lips, she could only assume he’d run into a similar dilemma. A faint, smug smile tugged at her mouth. He was still cautious with what he let her do, but she looked forward to discovering all of his most secret, sensitive little spots.

Her smile faded a little as she plunged the shirt she was working on back into the cold mountain water, thinking that she also looked forward to getting him a little more used to the idea of aftercare. Not even necessarily for her—it was something she wanted to do for him, another way she wanted to convey that she cared about him. She’d so far just seemed to confuse him with her affections out of bed.

Áine’s first real attempt—given that he’d managed to exquisitely exhaust her the first night they’d spent together and on the second she’d excused herself after a while because she overthought the fact that he’d seen her cry—had been last night. Astarion had all but collapsed atop her after they’d finished and she’d been more than content to gather him close, her legs still wrapped around his hips and her arms following suit as she’d pressed a kiss to his temple. Áine had felt him start to lean into her, but he’d suddenly stiffened and cleared his throat as he reached back to slide her ankles off his backside.

“Something wrong?” she’d asked, letting her arms loosen so he could lean away if he wanted to. She wanted him to stay or to at least rest a moment and bask in the afterglow a bit, but she also didn’t want him to stay if he preferred not to. And it had seemed at first that he simply wasn’t the sort that enjoyed a bit of pillow talk and snuggling after the main event. However, she’d thought back to how foreign handholding had seemed to him on that first-morning walk back to their camp and Áine had started to wonder if this was all just new for him too.

“Not at all,” Astarion had responded and he’d been just a touch too slow to hide the longing look in his eyes. She’d mentally latched to it like a fish to a hook, deciding that he could tell her the moment her little attempts at extra affection got annoying or unwanted and, until then, she’d simply try as the mood struck her. Maybe he’d think she was odd, but then again maybe he wouldn’t. “Simply allowing us both to get some rest after…that.” He’d looked embarrassed as he added, “Apologies for being a bit sloppy.”

Áine had cocked her head. “Passionate, you mean?” she’d corrected him. “Don’t be.” He was already pulling his pants back on and had just chuckled at her words. She’d hesitated, afraid of seeming needy, and said, “...You can stay, you know.”

Astarion’s hands had stilled on his shirt as if he’d been briefly considering it before he shuffled the garment back on. “I’m afraid if I do I’ll be unable to keep my hands off you, darling,” he’d replied, but she’d sensed that this was simply a way to dodge her offer.

She’d let it go, kissing him goodnight when he’d turned to capture her lips one more time, and watched him leave with a sting of disappointment as she went about cleaning herself up and properly readying herself for bed.

Now, gathering up the washed clothes in her arms, Áine let out a sigh. Until he informed her that he abhorred the idea of post-coital cuddles, he’d be getting them from now on. She wanted them and she just had this nagging feeling that he simply didn’t know what he was missing and she’d be more than happy to show him.

It was almost comical to her how the importance of getting an illithid tadpole out of her brain felt on par with the importance of ensuring that, even if it ended up irritating him, Astarion understood he was someone who was cherished. She was an utter fool, but, as she’d said more than once in her life, she’d never professed to be smart.

Áine congratulated herself upon her return to camp for setting up her makeshift clothesline ahead of time before she’d done the washing, making the task of hanging the clothes a more straightforward one. She’d hardly started when Wyll joined her and held his hands out to relieve her of the wet garments. “Thank you, but I can—,” she started to say, but faltered when she saw his wary expression. “What’s the matter?”

“Leave these to me,” he said, removing the load from her arms as he added, “You may want to check on Astarion. I heard him muttering in his tent and tried to ask after him, but he barked me away before I could get a word in edgewise.”

Áine’s brows rose. “Oh… I wonder what that could be about,” she mumbled, noticing as she looked toward Astarion’s tent that Halsin was fireside tonight managing supper. “Where’s Gale?”

Wyll shrugged as he hung the laundry. “Couldn’t tell you,” he admitted. “He’s still not himself. He seems to be getting better and then he’s just…not quite Gale again. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he isn’t there yet, I don’t think. Though who could be after a salutation like Mystra’s?”

Áine grumbled at the mention of her name. “Who could, indeed.” She sighed. “I might try talking to him. Later, after I see what Astarion’s up to… I need to start a list.”

Wyll chuckled, but his expression remained troubled. “You think you’re ready to talk to Gale?” he asked. “At length, I mean. After yesterday.”

“I’m feeling more comfortable about the idea if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied. “I just need to catch him in a ‘Gale’ moment rather than a ‘not quite Gale’ moment, I suppose. But I think waiting too long will do more harm than good.”

“I think you might be right,” Wyll agreed. “Good luck. With, well, all of it.”

Áine laughed softly and patted his shoulder. “Thank you, my friend,” she said as she began the short trek to Astarion’s tent. She passed out hellos to anyone she passed by, including Halsin and Karlach who were stooped over the fire, Karlach seeming to be less of an assistant and more of a student under Halsin’s patient instruction.

As she drew nearer to the familiar wine-red canvas structure, her ears honed in on her lover’s voice just past the half-parted entrance. His tone sounded stressed, anxious, and almost a little sad.

“A line with a fork and…one…two…three dots?” Astarion was mumbling to himself, his fingertips tracing the base of his back and traveling as high as he could physically reach behind him. A twinge in his muscles made him jolt faintly and swear. “Bloody Infernal… How is anyone meant to read this garbage?”

Figuring he’d already heard her approach, Áine leaned in to peek through the open part of his tent door, finding him cross-legged on the floor with his shirt off and his arms wound behind him. “What are you up to, handsome?” she asked.

Managing what she’d thought next to impossible, Áine realized she’d startled him. “Ah!” he gasped. With kneejerk agitation, he asked, “Wh-What are you doing?!”

Áine flushed with chagrin and quickly said, “Sorry, sorry! I’ll go,” as she turned to duck out from under the opening in the canvas.

“No, no, wait…,” Astarion said hastily and when Áine turned to look back at him, she found one of his hands outstretched in front of him as if to guide her back. He sighed and let the hand rest against his knee. “I’m sorry. You caught me by surprise, that’s all.”

“I should’ve found a way to knock,” Áine suggested, but she was appreciative of how quick he’d been to apologize for his snap. “Everything okay?”

Astarion paused, trying to find his words. “I’ve…been tracing the scars on my back with my fingers, trying to read them by touch, but…,” he sighed and it was a sound of pure frustration. “I can’t. They may as well be written in Rashemi.”

Áine’s heart gave a sympathetic pang. “Would you like me to take another look?” she offered.

“I…,” Astarion hesitated again. Briskly, he said, “This isn’t your problem, you know.” Áine gave a quiet snort in response but said nothing as she waited for him to decide for himself. At last, Astarion’s pride buckled and he murmured, “...Fine.”

Áine entered his tent and knelt as Astarion shifted to turn his back to her. “If you intend to touch them,” he said uneasily, “would you tell me before you do?”

The bard smiled and gave his arm a gentle pat. “I would, but I won’t touch them.”

At his nod, Áine began to study the marks, subconsciously tilting her head as if it could somehow help her read the language she was hardly at all familiar with. She hummed under her breath, contemplating showing him the markings by using the tadpole again, but she knew that she’d taxed it plenty the night before to show him his face and it wouldn’t be wise to use it again so soon.

Agitated by the silence, Astarion prompted her. “And? What can you see?”

Áine sighed. “I’m honestly not sure. But maybe I could draw it for you?”

Astarion glanced toward his books and loot all lumped in a small pile at the corner of his tent. “I haven’t any ink or parchment,” he said, audibly tense.

“No need,” Áine mumbled, already tracing the markings she saw on a smaller scale into the dirt beside his bedroll. He was careful not to turn fully to look at what she worked on, reminding himself that the longer he let her study his scars, the sooner he’d get to see for himself. Still, he found himself fidgeting impatiently as he listened to the meticulous scratching of her fingertip piercing the ground. Silence stretched for a moment as Áine compared his scars with her rendition one more time. “I’m done, I think.”

Astarion turned to look at what she’d drawn, dread pooling like bile in his stomach. “What in the Hells…,” he mumbled, his brows forming a deep crease between them. She was right—it was most certainly Infernal, but…why? “What did he do to me?”

Áine pursed her lips, rubbing the dirt from her fingers. “It’s an…odd poem,” she murmured, although she wasn’t convinced the line he’d been fed about what these lines meant was the truth either.

He seemed to agree. “If it’s a poem at all…,” Astarion said, his hand resting across his mouth. A sigh eased past his lips and Áine looked up from the drawing to his face, seeing something unreadable there. “Two centuries carrying this, and I can finally see it.”

Gods, she wanted to help him, she just didn’t know how. Áine suggested, “Maybe Karlach could read it?”

“Perhaps, but… Let’s just keep this between us for now,” he said, his jaw setting. Asking for her help, despite it being her, had taken enough out of him for the day in the way of depending upon other people. He disliked the idea of being studied like a test subject by the larger group. Astarion’s eyes finally met hers as he added, “Thank you, by the way. This is…well, it’s something.”

“Anytime,” Áine murmured, feeling his conflict like it was her own. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Astarion smirked. “Will we now? How…,” he paused, metering his negative outlook with his next words. Or word, rather. “…sweet.”

Áine smiled, raising her hand to trace her fingertips across his cheek. “‘Sweet’ from me isn’t on offer for just anyone,” she commented, earning a snort from Astarion. “What?”

“You are by and large one of the kindest people this wretched world has to its name,” he informed her, turning his head toward her hand while maintaining eye contact with her. He breathed deeply at the pulse point on her wrist. “The fact that you seem to think that’s not the case is laughable.”

“Kind is different than sweet,” Áine declared in a soft voice, her eyes dipping to trace his lips as she leaned closer to him. “My ‘sweetness’ stocks are smaller and on a more exclusive reserve.”

Astarion still wasn’t accustomed to being the one flirted with, especially by someone who could so easily set his silent chest aflame, but gods he loved it when she looked at him like that. “From what I’ve tasted of you, you’re plenty sweet, my love,” he murmured. He leaned in to meet her halfway, brushing his nose against hers and savoring the feel of her warm breath against his lips. “However, I think what you might be getting at is that I’m,” he gave a soft theatrical gasp, “special?”

Áine grinned, skimming her fingertips up from his cheek to run through his curls. “Very special,” she murmured. She loved the little way he nudged their noses together, she realized. It was cute, but it had also been the first little gesture from him that had felt natural, like him and not just like a seduction tip from a paperback romance novel. She savored all his gestures now, even the more practiced ones because at least she now knew that he felt something for her. Áine wasn’t so sure that he was pleased about that, but she’d enjoy it however long it lasted.

The scrape of steel and Lae’zel’s voice raising outside caused Áine to look away from Astarion, frowning as she angled her head to try and see what was going on outside. Astarion huffed and leaned further in, kissing up her neck in an endeavor to reclaim her focus. Áine was amused by his persistence but started to worry that another spat was brewing between Lae’zel and Shadowheart or that they were on the precipice of being attacked. “What’s going on?” she murmured, starting to get up.

“I don’t know, darling, pay attention to me,” Astarion grumbled against her throat, making her laugh. “If they’re all dead when I let you leave in, say, a few hours, we’ll furnish that cryptic old mummy with a bit of gold and buy them back in installments.”

“He referred to you as my ‘bosom-companion’ the other day, you know,” Áine informed him, looking back at him to gauge his reaction.

Astarion arched a brow up at her and remarked, “Far be it from me to disappoint,” before he pulled her to him and buried his face against her breasts.

She left him laughing at the shriek of surprise he’d managed to draw from her, ruffling a hand through his pomaded hair to get back at him as she ducked out of his tent.

Fixing her neckline, Áine glanced toward Lae’zel’s tent and saw…Kith’rak Voss? He was kneeling in submission with his sword set across the ground in front of him and speaking to Lae’zel and Wyll, it seemed, who was helping to play mediator. When she caught Wyll’s eye, Áine glanced meaningfully between him and the two githyanki, wondering if he needed her to step in. Wyll nodded once back to reassure her that he had it under control before he turned his attention back to something Voss was saying.

Áine relaxed at that, mentally performing a headcount around the camp now that night had thoroughly fallen.

Karlach lingered near the conversation taking place, her gaze shifting occasionally toward Lae’zel with some measure of concern. The githyanki warrior had remained understandably fragile in spirit since all that happened at the crèche and ‘Mama K’ was defaulting to overprotective of her friends, even as her engine roared to an all-time high.

Halsin had retired to his tent and looked as though he was reading a tome that looked like a pamphlet in his large hands, his scarred brow furrowed in concentration as his eyes scoured the pages. He only occasionally paused to have a bite of his quickly cooling dinner sitting beside him when he remembered it was there. She recalled him mentioning that he’d missed reading and was glad to see he’d already found something to pick up on the road.

Shadowheart was nowhere to be seen, but Áine soon gathered that she’d retired early when she noticed thin spindling threads of smoke making their way out of her nearby tent, born from some incense she’d been pleased to find on their way from the temple grounds.

Áine’s thoughts turned to Gale and she sighed, knowing she needed to go find him. He’d been gone for hours at this point, ever since they’d set up camp, and as much as she wanted to just turn around and fall back into bed with Astarion, they needed to talk and smooth some things over. With a resigned sigh, she trudged away from her lover’s tent and toward the edge of camp to start scouting for their missing wizard.

It didn’t take her too long to find him. Gale had found himself a small clearing to settle into and looked almost peaceful to Áine as she approached. However, there was still something very off about his demeanor, the way he held himself, even seated in the grass.

Not wanting to scare him, Áine announced her presence. “Gale?”

Gale turned his head at hearing his name, seeming dazed. “Oh. Hello,” he said, clearly surprised to see her. “Brave of you to venture so close.”

Áine sighed. “Come off it,” she murmured, sitting down next to him. The mountain foliage around them offered a crisp, pleasant smell amplified by the cool night air. She breathed deeply of it to ground herself.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Gale agreed, his eyes tracing the leaves making up the canopy. “It’s the little things. Even in as much as we’ve weathered thus far.”

Áine nodded. “They’re what get us by in the end, it’s true,” she agreed. She looked at him, frowning. “Gale, I owe you an apology, I think.” And you owe me one, too, but I can only own up to my own shit, she added mentally.

“I suppose it is indeed time we dealt with the hollyphant in the room,” he said, his tone terse. “I’m listening.”

Áine’s pride flared, but she tempered the burst of incredulous anger in her chest and continued. “I stand by why I was upset,” she said candidly. “However, I reacted before I heard the whole of what Elminster said. And now knowing what the whole of his visit was about, that feels unfair of me to have done.”

“An audience with Elminster is never less than memorable,” Gale mused. “You reacted how I would have expected you to, all said. You can hardly be faulted for feeling betrayed just because you pity me now.” He sighed. “I couldn’t find a way to tell you. To tell any of the others. That was my mistake and I should have shoved my fears aside the moment I realized that absorbing the power from the magical items you provided me was no longer working.”

“What exactly is it?” Áine asked, her eyes moving over the marking across the center of his chest, its tendrils that wove up toward his eye. She’d always just thought it was a tattoo, but was it the result of the orb too?

“That’s a rather long and complicated story…,” Gale sighed, unsteadily turning toward her. “It would be easier for me, in this moment, to show you.” Áine met his eyes with confusion and he said, “Place your hand over my heart.”

Hesitantly, Áine raised her hand and let it hover over his chest where the perfect circle marked into his skin resided in the vee of his robe. Purple light flooded the space between her palm and his chest and her tadpole shivered in recognition as Gale used his own parasite to let her into his very existence.

Into the dark.

Áine’s body seized as her eyes filled with Gale’s memory—a dread vision of a hallway, a book bound, and then opened, and a horrible remnant unearthed. The book holds nothing but swirling energy, the blackest threads of the Weave that lie in deadly wait. They hurl themselves at Gale—and now at Áine too through his eyes—and shred through the layers that make him, seeking to unmake him in mind and magic if it means a tender meal. And gods is it ever hungry.

< Beginning of non-con content warning >

Losing herself in the memory, feeling his soul wrenching in her very being as if it were her own, Áine fearfully tried to draw her hand back only to find Gale’s hands grasping hers, his grip turning painful when she tried to pull away. His fingers crushed hers like the dark Weave crushed his spirits, its claws and its teeth scraping still at the base of his heart. Even dormant, it struggles to wake, seeks to feed…

Áine succeeded at last in wrestling back her hand, clutching it against her chest as she stretched her aching fingers. “Gods above,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Please,” Gale pleaded with her in a whisper. His eyes still looked half-fogged from the vision and as he came closer and closer, Áine caught a pungent scent of wine on his breath. She realized that a faint glint that she’d seen just past him on the grass when she’d arrived had been moonlight catching on the curve of an empty wine bottle. No, two… No, three empty bottles. He reeked of it. “Áine, please don’t leave me there alone.”

“Gale, you’re not there now,” Áine asserted, leaning away and balancing against her hands. She was starting to get nervous. Gale was drunk and seemed utterly lost in his own dark memories. She’d been in scenarios like this before with faces long faded within her past and she felt the familiar constriction in her chest, the sensation wrapping against her heart and lungs even as they began to work in overtime. “Gale, st—”

But he didn’t stop encroaching. The whiskers of his beard scratched her face and the scent of alcohol stung her nose when he put his mouth on hers, her protest swallowed and silenced. Áine grappled with him, one of her arms pressed against his chest to fend him off while her other arm stayed propped behind her. “Please, Áine, a chance,” he mumbled, his words slurring. “Just one chance before my world upends…”

She gave a muffled yelp of protest against his lips, tears stinging her eyes as she was finally able to at least wrench her head sideways. Áine tried to push him off, but he was bigger than she was and her paladin strength of old—the strength that had gotten her out of these many similar situations her mind called back to her now—was long gone, a broken oath ringing hollow. She just had herself, her own body, to rely on now.

“Gale, get off me or I’ll scream,” she gritted with panic rising in her voice, squirming away from his hands fumbling to hold her in place. He was too close for her to swing at him and, even as she had the passing thought, she felt her shoulder flare again under their weight. Her arm, the last thing keeping her upright, buckled underneath her with her old injuries’ betrayal, sending them both into the dirt.

When he put his greedy mouth on hers again, his heavier body pinning hers down, she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. That was enough to shock him and make him lean back. “You little—”

Áine tried to use the space he’d added between them to push herself up and shove him away, but her shoulder stayed locked up and she only succeeded in flailing a little. She struggled to get her pinned legs out from under his knees, knowing if she could manage that she’d be able to kick him and get away.

Just a little more, she urged herself, her right leg in a painful position but almost free and mobile again.

But suddenly Gale was no longer on top of her to struggle against.

< End of non-con content warning >

Áine remained sprawled on the grass in a mixed state of shock. She was sure she hadn’t imagined the whole thing out of some horribly lucid trauma response, but she had trouble putting two and two together until the wizard was slammed back down onto the dirt nearby by a very angry vampire.

The bard turned onto her stomach, shifting her shaking knees beneath her and trying to control her panicked breathing. A flash of silver caught her eye as a dagger pressed to Gale’s throat and her panic blossomed anew but, with it, an urgent clarity. “Astarion, hold on!” she choked.

Astarion looked every part the terrifying image of a vampire that most people held as their source of truth for the creatures. His eyes blazed crimson, aglow in the shadows blanketing them here, and his lips curled back from his fangs with a viciousness she’d never seen in him before.

He half-spat in bewilderment at her plea, his words coming out in a near-animalistic growl. “You would defend him?!”

Áine forced enough air into her hyperventilating lungs to respond, “I’m not keen to get blown up and…he’s very drunk… He’s not himself…” She was barely staving off the panic threatening to overtake her, the reactive onslaught coming now that she was no longer in immediate danger. But Gale was.

Astarion sneered down at Gale, his fingers flexing against the hilt of his dagger. “Then I’ll ask you, Gale, which will you miss more?” he wondered, his voice deadly pleasant. “Will you miss your eyes most? Or perhaps your balls?” His eyes flashed as he bore down on the prone wizard too fearful or too dazed to move. “Because I will be taking something from you this night.”

He had felt rage like this in his lifetime. Plenty. He knew it intimately. But he’d never felt it flare so violently for someone else. He’d checked Áine’s tent for her after he’d not spotted her amongst the group seeing off Voss and had taken it upon himself to follow her scent out of camp.

Assuming he’d either find her in a little spot they could make into another of their pieces of “nowhere” or off scouting ahead for their best path forward, he’d been mildly surprised to catch Gale’s scent, staler than hers, on the same trail. Perhaps they were finally smoothing some things over. And, upon seeing them in a darkened tangle in the grass, he could admit that he’d first thought that “smoothing things over” had led to some sort of realization on her part. He’d even started to brace himself to go back to camp and wait for her to return and tell him they were done.

Then he’d smelled Gale’s blood. He’d heard him when he’d started to swear at her or say whatever it was that he’d cut off from saying. And then the palpable smell of Áine’s fear had hit Astarion’s nose, punctuated by a tiny yelp of pain when she’d hurt herself in her struggle to get away from Gale.

And without another thought, Astarion had rushed them like a man possessed, his entrance silent until he’d ripped Gale off her by the back of his robe and hurled him into the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. And there they were still while Astarion debated the wizard’s fate from a place of pure, unbridled anger, where only one thing could still permeate his red-tinted tunnel vision.

“Astarion, please,” Áine breathed raggedly. “It’s not worth it, just leave him!”

“It’s ‘not worth it’, is it?” he snarled. His addled mind translated Áine’s words to mean that she thought she wasn’t worth his ire and, bleeding Hells, was she ever wrong. “In what sense?”

Áine floundered for something, anything to dissuade him from the wizard pinned beneath him. And she could only come up with one thing. The truth.

She inhaled and her breath shook as much as her voice as she said, “Because I need you more than he does right now.”

It worked. Astarion hesitated, his eyes briefly flickering toward Áine on the ground and losing some of their blind wrath. He clenched his teeth and forced himself to steady as he regarded Gale. She was right about one thing—he reeked of wine and self-pity.

Astarion growled low, but flicked his dagger away from Gale’s throat, sheathing it. Partway through standing, Astarion drew his fist back with inhuman speed and punched Gale once hard across his face. The wizard groaned, his hands going instinctively to cup where he’d been hit.

Astarion’s voice was all velvet and steel as he spoke down to Gale with a gesture toward Áine. “Thank her for being the sole reason you’ll walk from these woods tonight,” he ordered in a barely controlled snarl. When Gale didn’t immediately speak, Astarion roughly turned Gale’s head with the toe of his boot to face the bard. “Thank. Her.”

Gale’s nose was dripping red, a welt forming already under his eye at the apple of his cheek. Áine’s eyes were round with shock as she met his eyes and, wetly through a thin stream of tears and blood, he said, “...Thank you…”

“Very good,” Astarion muttered with venom, removing his boot from Gale’s cheek. “Now don’t speak to her again unless or until she permits it.”

The vampire stepped over the bloodied wizard and silently walked to his bard. He said nothing as he knelt, gathered her close, and plucked her off the grass, carrying her back to camp. He stayed silent when curious questions rose around them from their still-awake companions, ignoring them all.

Áine found herself almost afraid to break the silence between them, but she didn’t have to as he gritted through his fangs, “Would you like me to take you to your tent?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “N-No.”

“Good,” he growled, his arms tightening around her as he ducked down and took her with him into his.

Next chapter: Chapter 15, "Their Jagged Edges"

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geryone · 2 years

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the she said dialogues: flesh memory, Akilah Oliver

#quotes #quote #poetry #poem #Akilah Oliver

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familyabolisher · 10 months

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do you have any favorite quotes or passages from the locked tomb series?

mmm i don’t really think about prose in terms of “quotes” (not trying to sound like a snob i just find it difficult to make value judgments about a piece of writing when it’s isolated from its broader context!) but i think some of my fav bits of prose in the series are:

like, the whole of john 1:20, but especially the creation of alecto—’from my blood and bone and vomit i conjured up a beautiful labyrinth to house you in, i was terrified you’d find some way to escape before i was done,’ ‘adam and eve, galatea, barbie, frankenstein’s monster with long yellow hair,’ ‘i hid you in me i hid me in you’ etc. just a really really good sequence lmao.

the couple of parts of the john chapters where tm drops the monologuing conceit to have john & harrowlecto do some like rapid-fire dialogue (‘“[...] i couldn’t do a damned thing” / “so what did you do” / “a damned thing, didn’t i” / “i still love you” / “you always say that, harrowhark”’; ‘“do you remember what you said to me once i had done it? when we stood here together? / “yes” / “you said, i picked you to change and this is how you repay me?” / “what else did i say?” / “you said, what have you done to me? i am a hideousness” / “what else did i say?” / “where did you put the people? where did they go?” / “i still love you” / “you said that too”’) are really good.

the final few pages of nona before the epilogue where alecto’s memories start bleeding through into the present-day action (and the splicing of kiriona killing crux with the entry into the tomb + alecto’s memories of entombment … Screaming and throwing up) have some good turns of phrase—’the scrap of black-eyed meat had asked for it—the chain of a kiss: the ice that burnt the flesh of the mouth that had stuck to the mouth that was frozen. the teardrop on the hand. the hand that john had fashioned.’; ‘most human voices sounded alike, after all. they were not beautiful. the waters parted for her and it became possible to walk, crunching through the bones at the bottom. the bones at the bottom; what did they make her think of?’ ‘the terrible face with the terrible arms and legs and the terrible middle part, the terrible hair, and the terrible ears: the nose too short, the ears too brief. [...] her own edge had been pushed out, her swinging edge, her toy.’ walking a VERY fine line between lyrical and overwritten and actually landing it.

really fond of varun the eater and nonalecto’s exchanges—’green thing, green-and-breathing thing, big ghost, the drinker, transformed, what will you eat now? where will your body go? what did he do to you to make you this way? [...] they are coming out of their tower, salt thing. i will pull their teeth. i will make it blank for you.’ REALLY goes. ‘what did he do to you to make you this way’ immediately after asking nona if she ‘loves’ and nona saying ‘ i don’t know what it means, did i ever know what it meant?’ and ‘john loves alecto, john needs alecto’ as the thing that forces alecto’s ‘return’ of sorts … every day i get emails

‘the shimmering white figure of the dead kiriona gaia’ is a very satisfying turn of phrase. i am fond of it

nona epigraph poem (‘you told me sleep, i’ll wake you in the morning / i asked what is morning and you said / when everyone who fucked with me is dead’ etc)

some of the language used in gideon to describe canaan house sets off my little fictional house sensibilities so bad. ‘castle that had been killed,’ ‘the look of a picked-at body [...] a beautiful corpse,’ ‘abandoned and breathlessly waited to be used by someone other than time.’ horrid horrid house i love her so much.

arm scene, obviously. incidentally—and this is present throughout harrow but i think i notice it more in scenes like the arm scene—i really enjoy how much harrow moreso than the other two is written in a voice similar to that of lolita, wherein you have a protagonist with an incredibly affected pretension which the narration pokes fun at them for but which also enables a kind of indulgence in pretension even whilst painting it as such. anyway—'an exquisite conglomeration of bone beneath skin and meat, pocketed in the middle with soft treasures of parenchyma and muscle [...] you were able to see her skeleton as though she had shyly undressed herself for you, as though in the orange hues of the daytime light she’d sloughed capillaries and glands off the budding rose of her scapula’; ‘prayed for a woman you loved to assist you in disrobing a woman you did not’ (insane line sorry); ‘the lovely cup of the radius, the forked embrace of the ulna.’ cowards will call it overwritten but not ME i love sex scenes

& finally, the descriptions of alecto in harrow (which, incidentally—something to be said for the text of harrow referring to alecto predominantly as the Body and the text of nona referring to kiriona pretty heavily as the corpse prince—anyway) but especially the ‘that night the body consented to embrace you’ bit spliced in with john bringing up annabel fucking lee for the first time. deranged.

#ask #tlt #nona the ninth spoilers #it's so funny how many of these are nona considering if you'd asked me which has the best prose i would have said harrow i think

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emiliosandozsequence · 1 year

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for HARROWHARK NONAGESIMUS from The Locked Tomb by Tamysn Muir

daphne guinness “laid to rest” wearing a sheer alexander mcqueen bodysuit and antique veil / the freezer door, mattilda bernstein sycamore / kingdomland, 'simple men', rachel allen / blind faith by emil melmoth / rilke's book of hours, rainer maria rilke / birthright, george abraham / harrowhark nonagesimus by tommy arnold / bless the daughter raised by a voice in her head, 'hooyoo full of grace', warsan shire / the she said dialogues: flesh memory, 'so where do you enter memory', akilah oliver / alexander mcqueen: ss1998 ‘untitled’ spine corset, made of aluminium and leather / hapless-hollow / água viva, clarice lispector / '† memento mori III †' by billelis / mlchelangelo / la trabajadora, elvira navarro / woman poets of japan, 'candle', yoshihara sachiko / death and the maiden by ana sanchez

#the locked tomb #thelockedtombedit #harrowhark nonagesimus #harrow nonagesimus #harrow the ninth #gideon the ninth #web weave #web weaving #web weavings #comparative #comparatives #mine #me #mww

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thelustybraavosimaid · 4 months

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Hey! i wanted to know about your thoughts about how Jon would be like post-resurrection with the time skip grrm originally considered?

So that really took hold of me for the first three books. When it became apparent that that had taken hold of me, I came up with the idea of the five-year gap. "Time is not passing here as I want it to pass, so I will jump forward five years in time." And I will come back to these characters when they're a little more grown up. And that is what I tried to do when I started writing Feast for Crows. So [the gap] would have come after A Storm of Swords and before Feast for Crows. But what I soon discovered — and I struggled with this for a year — [the gap] worked well with some characters like Arya — who at end the of Storm of Swords has taken off for Braavos. You can come back five years later, and she has had five years of training and all that. Or Bran, who was taken in by the Children of the Forest and the green ceremony, [so you could] come back to him five years later. That’s good. Works for him. Other characters, it didn’t work at all. I'm writing the Cersei chapters in King's Landing, and saying, "Well yeah, in five years, six different guys have served as Hand and there was this conspiracy four years ago, and this thing happened three years ago." And I'm presenting all of this in flashbacks, and that wasn't working. The other alternative was [that] nothing happened in those five years, which seemed anticlimactic. The Jon Snow stuff was even worse, because at the end of Storm he gets elected Lord Commander. I'm picking up there, and writing "Well five years ago, I was elected Lord Commander. Nothing much has happened since then, but now things are starting to happen again." I finally, after a year, said "I can't make this work."

George R. R. Martin — The Complete Unedited Interview

You know, this is something that I haven't really thought about. I only haven't thought about it because there's something we just don't know: when was George planning to kill Jon with the gap in place? A year or two into the skip? Later? Earlier, or even after the skip, when he's had a few years of rule under his belt? It's probably more likely that it was going to happen after the skip, so I think the end result would be the same as the current book!Jon.

We know that death changes a character to the point where in some ways, they're not that character anymore:

And as I got older and considered it more, it also seemed to me that death doesn’t make you more powerful. That’s, in some ways, me talking to Tolkien in the dialogue, saying, “Yeah, if someone comes back from being dead, especially if they suffer a violent, traumatic death, they’re not going to come back as nice as ever.”

George R. R. Martin on the One Game of Thrones Change He ‘Argued Against’

And we have this, from Varamyr Sixskins:

"They say you forget," Haggon had told him, a few weeks before his own death. "When the man's flesh dies, his spirit lives on inside the beast, but every day his memory fades, and the beast becomes a little less a warg, a little more a wolf, until nothing of the man is left and only the beast remains." (Prologue, ADwD)

Jon's connection to Ghost takes the front seat in ADwD, so we have moments like this:

Jon expected hot mulled wine, and was surprised to find that it was soup, a thin broth that smelled of leeks and carrots but seemed to have no leeks or carrots in it. The smells are stronger in my wolf dreams, he reflected, and food tastes richer too. Ghost is more alive than I am. He left the empty cup upon the forge. (Jon II, ADwD)

He was walking beneath the shell of the Lord Commander's Tower, past the spot where Ygritte had died in his arms, when Ghost appeared beside him, his warm breath steaming in the cold. In the moonlight, his red eyes glowed like pools of fire. The taste of hot blood filled Jon's mouth, and he knew that Ghost had killed that night. No, he thought. I am a man, not a wolf. He rubbed his mouth with the back of a gloved hand and spat. (Jon III, ADwD)

Jon smelled Tom Barleycorn before he saw him. Or was it Ghost who smelled him? Of late, Jon Snow sometimes felt as if he and the direwolf were one, even awake. The great white wolf appeared first, shaking off the snow. A few moments later Tom was there.

...

The shield that guards the realms of men. Ghost nuzzled up against his shoulder, and Jon draped an arm around him. He could smell Horse's unwashed breeches, the sweet scent Satin combed into his beard, the rank sharp smell of fear, the giant's overpowering musk. He could hear the beating of his own heart. (Jon VII, ADwD)

So ultimately, I think the five year skip!Jon would have the same outcome as the Jon we have in the books: a little ruthless, a little different, and far more closer to Ghost.

#sorry this is a little late!#i wanted to get into more detail—about how some of jon's language regarding arya has an air of possessiveness #and how that would potentially intensify when he returns #or how george changed jon's adwd story to be fairly arya-centric #regarding his pain and despair to rescue her #but my head hurts like a bitch rn #forgive me

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jamespotterthefirst · 1 year

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Question...? (Ethan x f!MC)

Book: Open Heart, book 1 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 1.3 K Rating/ Warning: E/ None

Premise: After their last night together, he gathers up the courage to ask her out. Properly.

Note: So this is inspired by that scene in 2.12 where Ethan tells MC he was thinking of asking them out at the end of their intern year (See the end for the screenshot). I know you only get this dialogue if you never slept with Ethan but I was so angry about that (because akljaksdjkls that’s so sweet, Ramsey) that I decided to write this.

They approach the front door of her building. With every step, his heart thrills at the memory of waking next to her only moments before, warm bodies fitting so perfectly together, it is difficult to ever imagine them apart. The companionable silence carries memories of their night together, of how her name left his lips in yearning, desperate little whispers. The space that separates them as they walk toward their inevitable end is a burning reminder that he never wants to leave her side.

Outside, the morning is as ordinary as any other, the city of Boston moving at its usual pace among a sea of rusted, red brick. It disconcerts Ethan that life continues so seamlessly when the best thing that happened to him is ending. Everything should be standing very still.

“Sorry about Sienna and Elijah,” she says after a small pause. Neither of them want to say goodbye.

“I trust they'll be discreet.”

Lilac peers at him in the dim, gray light of the overcast day. “They will be. No one will find out about… us.”

Us.

There is a small silence, Lilac's eyes scanning his face as though memorizing it.

“Goodbye, Ethan,” she whispers, moving in to press a tender kiss on his cheek. The finality of the moment—of the way his arms circle around her a little too fiercely— cuts through him like a jagged knife. Lilac, the bravest of the two, pulls away, her face tense as she fights back the tears.

She doesn't wait to hear him return the words, perhaps too afraid the tears would win.

Her kiss is all he can think about an hour later as he travels down the halls of Edenbrook, the imprint of her soft lips burning his flesh. The tips of his fingers ache without the planes of her skin beneath them. His mind, intent on torturing him, replays the curve of her sleepy smile and the melody of her whispered words.

In less than two hours, her absence has driven him to the brink of insanity. Ethan had no other name for what he was about to do except pure, unbridled stupidity.

The locker room is almost deserted except for one person. The tiny brunette jumps at the sight of him, dark eyes growing wide. Perhaps it's his presence alone that inspires shock or the determined purpose in his stride.

“Dr. Ramsey!” Trinh all but squeaks.

He wastes no time on pleasantries.

“Have you seen Lilac?”

She pauses, gathering her wits.

“She said she wanted coffee.”

He pauses at that. After everything they'd been through the night before, the least he could've done was get her coffee. Ethan had been too distracted by their impending end. His focus had been entirely invested on bracing himself for the pain of their inevitable goodbye.

“I'd try the lounge,” Trinh adds kindly. There is no doubt she picks up on his intentions, particularly after what she saw that morning.

Ethan lingers, unsure of what else to say. A desperate, terrified part of him wants advice and Trinh, with her kind smile and understanding eyes, seems like a treasure cove of wisdom. In the end, he opts for a grateful nod before retreating.

Just as Trinh predicted, Lilac is in the staff lounge, moving expertly as she fixes herself a cup of dreadful coffee. The prospect of caffeinated dishwater doesn't damper her mood, however, because she hums as she stirs copious amounts of cream into the dark liquid.

Ethan watches her from the doorway, as though watching something precious, unattainable, and out of reach. He lingers at the fringes of the room, an uninvited spectator to this tiny fraction of her life: morning coffee and a hummed melody. He has no right to be there, drinking her in, but everything in him longs to just take a step forward…

A single step. That's all separating him from what he wants most in this world.

He wants mornings with her and that lively smile, no matter how dreadful the coffee is. He wants to wrap his arms around her waist and greet her with lazy kisses and a “Good morning, beautiful.” He wants to tease her about the ghastly amounts of cream and sugar in her coffee.

He wants to be with her.

And all there is left separating them is his pride—a formidable wall that is finally crumbling for once in his life. There is his fear for her career. There is one step, one hello, one question.

Do you want to go out with me?

Lilac deserves more than a few nights in his bed. She deserves to be asked out properly. This time around, he wants to do things right.

“I heard you can make the shit coffee here taste pretty decent.”

It's that handsome, grinning surgeon, Bryce Lahela. He appears through the other entrance to the tiny break room. Lilac laughs at that and the sound carries no indication of the sadness he saw in her eyes that morning.

“The secret is tons of cream and sugar.”

“I have something better.”

“Oh, yeah? And what's that?”

“The magic touch.”

The surgeon raises his hands to eye level. This makes her snort with laughter.

“Your hands? What are they going to do to make this coffee taste better?”

“Steal Varma's hazelnut creamer from the fridge.”

With a flourish, he does just that, setting the jug on the counter before Lilac.

“No, thank you. I don't feel like getting strangled today.”

It's his turn to laugh. The surgeon watches her as she sidesteps the creamer with the conviction of someone avoiding a landmine. Soon enough, amusement turns into something else, something more serious and almost uncharacteristic for Lahela. From the doorway, Ethan can see the same unspoken question shining in his eyes.

“Hey, Lil—”

The simultaneous buzz of their pagers interrupts him.

“Oh shit, Chief Emery wants to see everyone in the atrium.”

The bustle of the crowd dies down momentarily when he enters the room. It's something that occurs naturally among interns when Ethan makes his presence known. Several pairs of eyes study him, as though he holds information about why they were called there.

As the crowd parts for him, he comes face to face with Lilac.

Their eyes meet and electricity strikes through his insides. He stops, unsure of how to address her. Part of him is afraid that opening his mouth will result in a lengthy confession.

Do you want to go get dinner tonight?

Instead, he says—

“...Dr. Allende.”

Lilac pauses.

“Dr. Ramsey…”

There is nothing else to be said. They continue to walk past each other, nothing more than attending and intern to anyone who casually glances their way.

It was pathetic to think he could ever fully ignore her because his eyes find her only moments later. With a bravery only Lilac can inspire, he realizes he doesn’t have to pretend any more.

You could ask for a different attending to supervise her. You’re not her only boss.

HR paperwork, red tape, bureaucratic bullshit— he’s willing to go through all of it.

All he had to do was ask her.

If she even says yes.

There is a very real possibility she wants nothing to do with him. The image of Lilac, fighting back tears that morning as they said goodbye, tortures him right then and there. After putting her through that, he wouldn’t blame her if she wasn’t interested…

Green eyes meet his, rooting him to the spot like they always do.

They hold each other’s gaze for a moment. He can see Lilac studying every plane and ridge of his face, no doubt reading him like an open book. Something softens in her own expression, her green eyes darkening with something that takes him a millisecond to name. Shining there is a reflection of his own feelings, his own want, his own agony at being apart— she feels them just as fiercely as he does.

Harper addresses the crowd then but Ethan barely catches the words.

One step, one leap, one question.

He decides then he will ask when they’re finally alone.

Note: And then Naveen says “LOL no. You’re her boss now.”

Okay so I spent an embarrassing amount of time looking for the screenshot but I can’t find it. This is what Ethan says about asking MC out:

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

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woodland-ghosts · 11 months

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Okay, here it is!

3,545 words.

I hope it makes sense, tbh. I am used to writing more for broadcast and poetry than fiction, but immersing myself fully in the world of fiction writing is my goal for the year.

Some of it was rushed, some of it only went thru the editing process once bc I wanted to be done and get it posted (so there is some stuff that I still would’ve liked to flesh out, but) I still had fun! I love Victorian/Gothic literature and try to write in that style. Getting the chance to write about Unicorn: Warriors Eternal is an excellent opportunity to practice.

Next chapter will hopefully be short, better, more concise, more dialogue and action driven, and more Copernicus and Seng. Also the formatting didn’t cross over bc I posted this on mobile 😌🙃

Anyway, like I said, I hope it makes sense! 🥰

Title: Slipping the Glove from Your Hand

Pairings: Melinda/Edred, Emma/Edred

Summary: Melinda suddenly disappears into Emma, allowing Emma to fully take control over her body once more. Before Melinda disappears entirely, she allows Emma a single glimpse into a very troubling memory.

For, if you weren’t born at the right time, my dear,

just keep trying, and trying, and trying again.

As for the end, it is not what you fear,

you’re just slipping the glove from your hand-

Like this-

down,

down your wrist.

Down,

down,

down the list of lives,

husbands and wives,

dozens of times

around, again, and then —

‘Marie at the Mill’ Joanna Newsom, 2023

Suddenly, violently, and with a terrible pounding in her chest, Emma awoke.

She had been lost, meandering in the shady arbor of her shared consciousness with Melinda, her spirit circling the catacombs of Melinda’s memories and experiences(that strange limbo where Time and Space ceased to abide by the rules of the physical realm and that had brought Emma to the edges of worlds she once found only in storybooks) when it happened.

Up until that moment, Melinda and her great, dark power had been mostly at the helm of their physical embodiment, weaving herself through Emma like the strings of a marionette. Though Emma was small and winsome in stature, Melinda wielded her like a weapon. Unable to comprehend even how, for weeks, Emma had watched Melinda conjure great and terrible strength through her own tiny hands. Melinda took her soaring high above the formidable skyline of Londontown, over the vast network of steam stacks and clock towers, even over the dirigibles that patrolled the air like the Scotland Yard.

Melinda used Emma: her body, her voice, her eyes. She used her so prolifically that Emma felt as though it were her own self wielding such incredible power.

Melinda also mostly ignored her. Emma could squeak, howl, stamp her feet still laced in their wedding boots, come to Melinda through the mirror or their reflection in a windowpane pleading with her, yet Melinda never let the girl gain purchase through any one of her attempts. Melinda was frustratingly good at suppressing Emma and banishing her to the realm of their subsconscious. But, she didn’t always win. Sometimes, Emma’s resolute spirit would blunder through and Melinda would be suddenly thrust into the back-seat, forced to watch as the girl directed all her feistiness and rage at Melinda’s elfen beloved, Edred.

It did not happen very often. It mostly didn’t happen at all - the problem of their shared existence was that each of the women engaged one another in a perpetual struggle for supremacy over Emma’s corporeal vessel. Their battles were unceasing, and the result was a strange chimera of their aptitudes, personalities and dispositions.

That is until a most inopportune moment, the moment Melinda began to lose herself and Emma was wrested from the ethereal depths of consciousness and memory and thrust to the surface.

“Where - where am I?” She pondered aloud. She was high above the earth somewhere on the outskirts of the city, heading north. From over the little wisps of clouds, she could see the edge of Hertfordshire and the gentle green country just beyond it.

Why are we leaving the city, all alone? she wondered. Not but a moment later, a ferocious wind sprung up from nowhere and sliced right through her, causing Emma to sputter and catapult downward through the rings of white. Oh, God forbid! Melinda’s power was waning!

A jolt of fear passed through her and she closed her eyes, turned herself inward, and called out to Melinda.

Melinda, where have you gone? Where’re Edred and Seng? And Copernicus?

I’m here. Came the swift, but feeble, reply. But you must help me.

How can I help you? Emma asked. What’s happened?!

Emma anxiously waited for Melinda’s response, but silence was her only return. Melinda’s power seemed to be dwindling further and Emma grew heavy in the spectral arms of the atmosphere.

She was falling. And quickly.

Melinda, please! We’re falling! I’m falling -

She plunged through the stratosphere in a wicked blur, her black hair trailing behind her like smoke. It was like the most hellacious carousel ride as bright gusts of wind and whirls of color were enclosed all around her. It would be just moments before she crashed to the earth in a bruised and broken heap.

Melinda! Please! It was her final plea before she prepared herself for the impact.

But then, all at once, she was stopped. The wind had died down and bent itself warmly around her and Emma let one eye open.

She was levitating just above the dirt, trickling along, the black tips of her feet dragging in the ground and leaving behind her a trail of jagged, muddy rivulets. She opened both eyes and gathered her thoughts as her surroundings came into view. All around her loomed a labyrinth of weathered granite and marble: imperious, moss-eaten mausoleums half-sunk into the soft earth which had been quietly gnawing away at the structures for centuries, and tombstones that jutted out of the earth at severe angles like the the crooked, rotting teeth of some terrible beast.

The air was damp and cloistering and the cemetery grounds were hemmed in by a grove of ancient yews, their trunks growing wide and thick out of the ground. The way the trees wove around each other reminded Emma of the fanciful gates of Kensington Gardens; the trunks themselves had borne natural portals wide enough for a person twice her size to enter.

I know this place. We’re at Highgate Cemetery. But, how did we end up here?

Emma felt a lump swelling in her throat. She swallowed hard.

Melinda, are you there?

Feeling the trepidation building within her, she allowed one foot to touch the ground.

“Melinda!” A furious cry rang out from behind her, accompanied by a coppery cacophony of whistles, clanks, and bangs.

Emma spun around and observed Melinda’s three companions trundling towards her, Seng and Edred clinging to Copernicus’s bronze thorax as they descended from the sky. They had just lumbered across the cemetery’s wrought-iron threshold when Edred abruptly descended Copernicus and surged towards the girl in flight, hand gripping the hilt of his sword. A bright, confused-sounding whistle erupted from Copernicus as the force of the action took him by surprise.

Edred’s moon-colored hair fanned out behind him, and his wool coat flapped over his boots as he continued his pursuit. Emma barely had time to comprehend the sight when a memory flew up unbidden in her mind’s eye. She saw a flash of delicate, green laurels braiding across glistening silver armor, a stony and ancient-faced man coming towards her in much the same manner as Edred was now, and a sword - hungry for a sheath - the bite of its blade so hot and wretched as it sunk down into her shoulder.

Emma’s heart pounded in her chest and she felt the black scrim come over her at once, clouding out her eyes and engulfing her in a kinetic fire the color of ink.

“Stay back!” She howled, balling her small hands into fists.

Edred saw the transformation and desisted immediately. He landed right in front of her and planted his feet in the mud. His hands dropped from the hilt of his sword and flew up in front of his chest like an experienced lion-tamer prepared to subdue the lion.

“Melinda…” he called to her gently this time. To Emma it sounded gargled as though his voice had been swallowed up by a tempestuous wind. She stood stock-still as the black fire ranged all around and through her. Its power was heady like the incense that permeated the seance parlors of the Spiritualists. It dulled and dizzied her and made her ill. Instinctively, she began to fight it, and in doing so, Melinda grew ever-dimmer.

She could feel Melinda slipping away.

Edred called to her once more. This time his voice was as clear and sobering as a church bell and it thundered through the murky haze, cutting right through to her. Emma’s knees buckled and she surrendered herself to the ground. Quicker than Mercury, Edred caught her and held her there in his arms. Not even a second had passed before Copernicus’s own bronze appendages went whizzing past the elf’s head directly to the nape of Emma’s neck. The robot clanked past with Seng in tow, brandishing a bronze stethoscope with an ear like a phonograph which he placed gently over Emma’s heart.

It felt horribly heavy and as cold as ice.

The girl groaned in protest but Melinda’s power, along with Emma’s physical strength, was waning. Melinda was dissipating into her and she could no more push her three companions away than she could conjure the ferocious energy required to transport herself out of there.

Seng’s face peered out over Copernicus’s metal shoulder, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Melinda, are you alright?” His voice was small and wavering.

“She’s alright,” Edred grunted at the boy. “She overpowered herself. It has happened before.”

The elf gathered the girl in his arms and, looking all around, laid his eyes on a particularly gloomy mausoleum. Its old iron door hung half-ajar and it was surrounded by a thick colony of thistles. They guarded the tomb like little purple soldiers.

“Wait out here,” Edred barked at the robot and the boy and whisked the girl away inside before pulling shut the iron door. Edred stepped forward into the thick darkness and lay the girl on the dusty crypt. Errant streams of light wound their way through the tomb, dappling the stones with drops of sunshine.

The slab of granite was cool and damp. Emma slowly drew herself up. Her eyes wandered over the tomb - the scent of wet dust and aging stone clung to the air and the rheum of epochs, black mold, had gathered in the tomb’s four corners. Her eyes flickered over Edred who stood facing the corner of the tomb most heavily shrouded in darkness. His right hand hovered over the hilt of his sword and she could see the black of his pupils as he glared at her from out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry,” she offered weakly. Edred’s countenance remained as unchanged as the tomb’s stone facade.

“Which one?”

The question made Emma’s heart flutter like a swarm of butterflies.

“I’m sorry—”

“Which one are you, now?”

The girl shook her head and she produced an agitated sigh.

“I don’t know, I don’t know if there is a way I can know. She’s me and I’m her, and I’m her and she’s me, and –”

Edred turned round to face her, his dark eyes rinsing over her. Quite frankly, Emma found the elf formidable. She didn’t understand Melinda’s fervent attraction to him – he possessed none of the gentleness of aptitude that had always drawn her to Winston.

“Well, I believe you’re that Emma-person, right now,” his voice was silvery and sharp in the mausoleum air. “And I want to speak to her.”

Emma leapt from the stone slab to the floor. His incessant haughtiness helped pummel her fear of him into outright irritation.

“You’re going to get who I give you,” she scowled and jabbed at the air with her finger. “And you’re going to leave me alone until I get this all sorted —“

With an unearthly quickness, Edred bridged the small distance between them. His sword hand went to her wrist still hanging in the air and before the girl could even think to resist, the elf had one hand wrapped around her wrist, the other ensconced to her shoulder and he had begun to pull her closer to him.

Emma’s heart beat faster now, as if an entire field of feathery-winged butterflies had taken up residence in her tummy. The elf prince was really quite adept at overstepping himself. As his hand lingered on her wrist, Emma felt yet another sensation overtake her - a bewitching, pleasing desire to acquiesce at once to his strength concentrated on her wrist. It wove itself around her like an enchanted skein, binding her and bringing her to heel inside a web of warmth. It was wonderful and awful and something Emma had herself never known….

Suddenly, it came to her. Is this his magic?!

MELINDA! Emma called out to her internally. Your Prince is a blackguard! A horrible scoundrel, a truly ignoble man! A vill—

“Emma.” Edred bent himself down to her height, their foreheads nearly brushing. He sounded rather like a grown-up trying to allay the temper of a spoiled child.

“Emma, please listen to me,” he said. “Melinda must have full control over her power. Without that control, she is capable of leveling whole cities. Even murder.”

At this, Emma recoiled - she could feel the darkness bubbling and roiling within her like a tar-pit. It was blacker than beetles’ wings, blacker than the eyes of Anubis, blacker than the abyss of passing centuries. Melinda had not wanted to be reminded of that. Emma shivered.

“Please, Emma, give yourself over to her. Something…happens…when she tries to go through you,” he was pleading with her now. “She can’t control herself and it is putting us, and the world, in danger.”

“Well, that’s not very fair.” Emma’s voice was soft. She did know that to be true - what was happening to her was expressly unfair - but his requests bothered her in another way. She couldn’t quite place it. Melinda, what–?

“Fair?” A crimson blush murkied the elf’s frosty pallor and he tensed his grip on her shoulder. “The fate of all humankind is at risk and the only thing you can say is that you think it’s unfair?”

The black murk began its bubbling once more. The longer Edred held her there, the more irate she became. Their bond bled through to her and she knew the truth of him all at once. She knew his cruelty disguised as chivalry, latent cowardice in his heart. Take back your arm, Emma! The words were spectral commands in her mind.

“Oh, I have plenty more to say. First, what happened back there? Why was I out there all alone?” The girl put her lower lip forward quite petulantly. Edred balked and frowned and clasped her wrist with greater force.

“You - I mean, Melinda - were uncontrollable. You were - she was - destroying everything around her. She fled to avoid causing more destruction.” Edred narrowed his eyes. “You caused this.”

“Excuse me,” Emma sniffed, lifting her arm from Edred’s hand and ducking out from under him. “But, I’m not the one going ‘round stealing other peoples’ bodies,” she narrowed her eyes back at him. “And furthermore, I don’t know if I trust you.”

At that, Edred’s mouth fell open and his chivalrous veneer slipped entirely.

“Don’t trust me?” He snarled out the words. “And what – what – EXACTLY does that mean?!”

“I think you know what I mean. I think you know exactly what I mean.”

“Emma!”

The terse exchange must’ve alerted both Seng and Copernicus for as soon as they had started in on one another, a tremulous knock sounded at the door of the mausoleum. The strength of it shook the cobwebs and crumbling stones loose and even made the little dapples of light jump all around. Emma shot Edred a look - it was the kind of look that could make milk curdle and rivers run dry.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, Winston’s face flashed before her in place of Edred’s. It nearly sent her wobbling. There he was - sweet, dignified Winston, who never cast a cold eye upon her and always regarded her with a smile. Winston, whose warm, chaste arms held her but once before she had been spirited away by the elf, his blustery paramour, and their strange companions. Winston, whose fiery mutton-chop whiskers had tickled her face when she leaned in to kiss him for the first time. Winston, who always told her not to worry, who wore a gold ring braided with her canary-yellow hair bearing the inscription ‘Ever Thine.’

Ever thine. Emma’s heart crumpled. She wanted so desperately to return to Winston, to go far away from these strange, unearthly beings and the medieval horror of their tryst. Before she had slipped away, Melinda had yanked back those horrid memories and withheld them from the girl. Emma couldn’t discern why exactly Melinda did not want to her know (and frankly, she felt it a little hypocritical that the foreign spirit should expect to occupy her body without sharing anything in return), but though the memories had been taken back, Emma had already felt the sting of their betrayal.

In the first few weeks following her possession, Emma had come to know Melinda well, much to the woman’s chagrin. Emma had poked around Melinda’s unruly subconscious, turning up her memories the way a miner unearths precious stones. She knew that Melinda carried an insurmountable pain, and Emma knew that pain quite well. Whether or not Melinda wanted it (and Emma knew she very much did not), a strange sisterhood had begun to grow between them. Melinda was unable to resist her more and more, unable to prevent the girl from wandering into the tender things Melinda had occulted behind a multitude of centuries.

So, it was to Emma’s own surprise that she had not yet uncovered that hideous memory. What had Edred done to her? And had she not forgiven him? It certainly did not seem like it - but, how long had she kept this hurt from him? What a strange love this was - however cold and marked with betrayal, it was also true. Edred loved Melinda, and she, him. And they had loved one another across oceans of time. Perhaps…if they could mend it, mend this torturous sundering of their love, then Melinda could return as herself in full.

The illusion of Winston’s face began to wane as Edred’s came back into view amidst the darkness of the tomb. Emma knew she could not return to Winston, not now. If it be true Evil that dogged these peculiar lodgers then Emma knew more of it than any mortal ever should. And she knew, in her heart, that there was work to be done.

Winston, wherever you are, know that I am ever thine. Even if we shall not meet again until after we cross the threshold of eternity.

“Look,” she said to Edred. “I know you want her back and,” the girl softened, “She…she wants you. But earlier today, I lost her. She lost me - I think that’s what happened- anyway, we lost each other. And now I’m mostly Emma, again. I think.”

Another knock sounded at the door, followed by a furious whizzing and sizzling as Copernicus began to lay into it with a bronze drill.

“Melinda! Edred! What are you doing in there?” Seng’s muffled voice rang out.

Edred and Emma look towards one another and then to the door that had begun to crumple beneath the force of Copernicus’s tools.

“Just a minute!” They called out together. Emma turned back towards Edred, her eyes glistened furiously in the dark.

“Melinda needs our help.”

“I think,” Emma continued. “I think I know a place that can help bring her out. But we have to go there alone.” Edred looked on her with grave curiosity and suspicion, and the butterflies stormed around her stomach once more. She dropped her own gaze to the sword at his left hip.

“Can, err, can your sword –”

“Twillion.”

“Right. Can Twillion get us there, you think? I don’t know if I can, um, fly, right now.”

Edred unsheathed the magnificent sword and held it aloft. It glowed like krypton in the gloom, its pale blue fire outshining all the street lamps, candles, and hearth fires Emma had known in her short life. It really was a pretty thing, with those wispy laurels winding across its length. She wondered how Edred could ever have used it on his own beloved.

What did your elf-Prince do to you, Melinda?

“Emma, make note of this. I don’t trust you, either.” Edred stood there, unmoving.

And then, he held out his hand. There was determination in his gesture, and the girl tacitly understood. If it meant finding and recovering Melinda in full, Edred would go to the ends of the earth many times over. Her heart swooned a little at that, but the pragmatist in her (the side of her that had learned to use a typewriter and to ride an ordinary bicycle and to even wear the dreaded bloomers her dear father so detested) knew that the elf had kept hidden his brutish secrets.

She went on wondering if Edred treated everyone and everything as a subject - a constituent to be protected, guarded, even served, but to bend in obedience to his every command. From way deep down, she knew he had always been that way.

“Are you coming, Emma?” His silvery inquiry called her out of her ruminations and she eyed his outstretched hand.

The girl had no choice but to take it. She grasped it quickly and tightly and braced herself for the force she expected would come as they crashed through the ceiling of the mausoleum like a fiery dirigible. And so it took her somewhat by surprise when she felt Edred squeezing back. But somewhere, deep down, she’d been expecting it.

Hoping for it.

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