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hustlenbustle · 6 months

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John Milton

Lycidas

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear

Compels me to disturb your season due;

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

He must not float upon his wat'ry bier

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,

Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

Hence with denial vain and coy excuse!

So may some gentle muse

With lucky words favour my destin'd urn,

And as he passes turn

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!

For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;

Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd

Under the opening eyelids of the morn,

We drove afield, and both together heard

What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,

Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright

Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel.

Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,

Temper'd to th'oaten flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,

From the glad sound would not be absent long;

And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.

But O the heavy change now thou art gone,

Now thou art gone, and never must return!

Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,

With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,

And all their echoes mourn.

The willows and the hazel copses green

Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,

Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear

When first the white thorn blows:

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep

Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.

Ay me! I fondly dream

Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done?

What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,

The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,

Whom universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar

His gory visage down the stream was sent,

Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care

To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,

And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done, as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights and live laborious days;

But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,

And think to burst out into sudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,

And slits the thin-spun life. "But not the praise,"

Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears;

"Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,

Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes

And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed."

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood,

Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,

That strain I heard was of a higher mood.

But now my oat proceeds,

And listens to the Herald of the Sea,

That came in Neptune's plea.

He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds,

"What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?"

And question'd every gust of rugged wings

That blows from off each beaked promontory.

They knew not of his story;

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd;

The air was calm, and on the level brine

Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.

It was that fatal and perfidious bark,

Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge

Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.

"Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?"

Last came, and last did go,

The Pilot of the Galilean lake;

Two massy keys he bore of metals twain

(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).

He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:

"How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,

Enow of such as for their bellies' sake

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?

Of other care they little reck'ning make

Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast

And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold

A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least

That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!

What recks it them? What need they? They are sped;

And when they list their lean and flashy songs

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw,

The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,

But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw,

Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;

Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw

Daily devours apace, and nothing said,

But that two-handed engine at the door

Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more".

Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past

That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,

And call the vales and bid them hither cast

Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues.

Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use

Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,

On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,

Throw hither all your quaint enamel'd eyes,

That on the green turf suck the honied showers

And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.

Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,

The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet,

The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well attir'd woodbine,

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,

And every flower that sad embroidery wears;

Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,

And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,

To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.

For so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.

Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas

Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd;

Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,

Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide

Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world,

Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,

Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,

Where the great vision of the guarded mount

Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold:

Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth;

And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.

Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor;

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,

And yet anon repairs his drooping head,

And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore

Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:

So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high

Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves;

Where, other groves and other streams along,

With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,

And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,

In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the Saints above,

In solemn troops, and sweet societies,

That sing, and singing in their glory move,

And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.

Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more:

Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,

In thy large recompense, and shalt be good

To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills,

While the still morn went out with sandals gray;

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,

With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;

And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,

And now was dropp'd into the western bay;

At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:

To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

E.M 2024

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forestofforever · 9 months

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🔁 (either surprise me orrrr Benjamin, Wester, or Mary?)

@kxllerblond

Clark held little patience for these sorts-—megalomaniacs, as they were. They served as nagging reminders as to what he could easily slip into becoming if he didn't keep himself in check and their presence alone made him uncomfortable, made him want to grind his teeth and scrunch his face. Still, he regarded the other with that painstakingly practiced flat expression; he did little more than blink slowly and glance elsewhere as if to try and reason with himself as to why he should even bother with a reply and not merely turn tail and leave. ❝ -— Strange how easy it is that gods forget their very existence lends to the existence of the godslayer. Only fools would yearn for such an inevitably toppled position. Power will not remain stagnant and in the hands of one for long and any idiot with a brain would understand that attempting to hold onto it in such a manner is as good as trying to grasp flowing water. ❞ he wouldn't have usually been so direct with his indirect and catty insults, but the other had admittedly offered up the first blow. ❝ I find it easier to gain what I need when I am without so many eyes on me. My ego is well-fed and not so shamefully starved and gluttonous that I require such a pitiful following. So, no. I suppose I do not know what it is like, dear. ❞ He already felt so drained, so tired. He was already such an impatient thing and yet he often willingly assumed the role of the one that attempted to roll with the punches, the nonsense, in order to reach some sort of goal. ❝ I have seen plenty of your sorts, the world has no shortage of them, so if you're quite done peacocking-— may we please actually talk professional affairs? If you just intend to goad me into some sort of power contest, I will ask we reschedule to a later date. I came to speak with another adult about adult things, not threaten some position I have no use in stealing away. ❞

"Now, now. I never claimed to be a god, did I?" His voice remains calm and somewhat amused. If he is insulted, he certainly does not show it. His smile is warm and almost somewhat inviting, though his eyes remain unpleasantly empty, like staring into a mirror.

"A god. No. I am not under any such impression, I do not consider myself as such." Wasn't God usually treated like the sort of individual who liked to remain hands off? Who liked to let his creations roam freely? Benjamin wasn't quite so merciful. Not a god, though perhaps a puppeteer of sorts. The comments on keeping power go unacknowledged. There is no point in arguing with these types, they always think they're right, don't they?

"Of course, let's get to business, shall we?" Always eager to make a deal, though admittedly he fully intended to keep his guard up around the other. His sort was dangerous. Powerful but holding back, still aware of his power though and probably not afraid to utilize it if the situation called for it. That required a careful approach, no impulsive decisions or trying to upstage the other, only trying to regain some sense of control and hopefully the upper hand.

#moved it to a separate post #hope that's okay #Honestly he's so right though #I feel like most people are just kinda done with Benjamin lmao #the deer #modern forest of forever au

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keywestlou · 2 years

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WHY FEWER CITIZENS’ VOICE COMPLAINTS…..PEOPLE HAPPIER OR HAVE JUST GIVEN UP?

WHY FEWER CITIZENS’ VOICE COMPLAINTS…..PEOPLE HAPPIER OR HAVE JUST GIVEN UP? - https://keywestlou.com/why-fewer-citizens-voice-complaints-people-happier-or-have-just-given-up/ Key Westers have enjoyed the Citizens' Voice in the Key West Citizen as far back as can be remembered. The peoples' complaint section. The Citizens' Voice has diminished in length. By roughly one third. Why? People are not more happy today than 10 years ago. If anything, more unhappy. Can it be the Citizens' readers have just given up? Have they come to believe no one listens? That theirs is a voice in wilderness? That no one cares? Decided to get up and out yesterday. I had a craving for lobster bisque. The kind made at Hogfish. Sat at the bar. My order simple. A bowl of lobster bisque and extra crackers. I was not disappointed. Delicious! The bartender introduced herself. Julia. She asked if I was Lou. Turns out she worked at the Casa Marina 20 years ago. Remembered giving me foot massages and manicures. Great memory! I did not recall her. Apologized. She noted I still got manicures. I told her of my foot massage friday. Nice person. Sat next to 2 fishermen. We ended up discussing Tom Brady. Bobby Mongelli walked by. Stopped to say hello. I congratulated him on the sale of Geiger Key. He explained the sale was an emotional one for him. More than 20 years ago he bought a shack that only sold cheap beer and turned it into the success it is today. Chief is a juvenile green sea turtle. He was rescued off Cudjoe Key in January. He was a mess. A heavy load of fibropapilloma tumors. He was immediately taken to the Marathon Turtle Hospital. Kind hands brought him to recovery. Chief has undergone a whole blood transfusion, tumor removal surgeries, an eye tumor removal, received broad spectrum antibodies, fluids, vitamins, and a healthy diet of greens and mixed seafood. Chief is going home this morning at 10 am. He is being released to the ocean at Sombrero Beach in Marathon. A crowd of 100-200 is expected to see him off. Close to 2 months with my feet and ankles. Swelling and pain like you would not believe. Two doctors. Water and potassium pills at their limit. Relief minimal. I decided to do a bit of self help. Went to the internet. Ordered 6 pairs of compression socks. Different brands. They all claim they are the one! Only one pair arrived thus far. Yesterday at 2. Ankle length. Put the pair on immediately. Wore them till 9 when I went to bed. Left ankle skinny skinny. The bad right one 95 percent reduced. From larger than a softball to next to nothing in a matter of hours. I also received Krill Oil yesterday. Took two pills with dinner. The claim is in 1-4 days swelling will be gone. This morning right ankle thin thin. After 2 months! I suspected the right ankle would get bigger as today progressed. It has. I understand why. My first 4-5 hours each morning are spent seated at the desk writing this blog. Automatic ankle size would increase. Gets bigger swiftly. I have been at the blog 3 hours and it is already the size of half a soft ball. I am not unhappy. Dr. Louis is making progress. Two days ago I wrote how Switzerland had taken the bull by the horns and passed legislation limiting use of heating gas under penalty of fines and jail time. Yesterday a viral poster began circulating on Swiss social media telling citizens to "rat out" neighbors heating their homes above the new legal limits. The Swiss government immediately issued a statement advising it had nothing to do with the viral poster and to ignore it. The government is conducting an investigation to determine its source. Sound familiar? Things like that occur in the U.S. also. Perverted troublemakers exist worldwide. The Ukraine is on a winning streak. Ukraine has driven Russian troops in northeastern Kharkiv to the Russian border itself. President Zelensky describes the situation: "The enemy is panicking." New York Times reporter Maggie Haberman in a forthcoming book writes of Trump telling his aides that following defeat he was "never leaving the White House.....I'm just not going to leave." The book soon to be published is titled "Confidence Man: The Making of Donald Trump and the Breaking of America." Enjoy your day!

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diary-of-an-onliner · 4 years

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lifelines [g.w.]

hi! first fic, pls be nice!

word count: 2300

warnings: none

After Gryffindor turned the tides at the last second, winning the second most important game of the season after a massive setback in the first hour, the celebrations raged harder than ever. Since Hufflepuff had beaten Slytherin to the ground two days ago, the path towards the Cup was clear. Angelina was sitting on the couch, having passed the point of looking pleased long ago, and now seemed almost frazzled by the result. People came up to her periodically, clapping her shoulder or topping off her drink, directing the buzzing energy of the common room straight into her.

Truly, the atmosphere was phenomenal, the stolen food and drinks from the kitchens juicer and a little more spiked than usual. Or maybe it was the sunlight still streaming through the windows as strongly as ever despite the past gloomy week. Whatever it was that made the day so electrically happy for everyone, it showed no signs of stopping.

This type of unrestrained feeling you always imagined started from the back of your head as s little star-like scribble that cast a net over you and spread the intensity throughout. This week it was stronger than it has been in a while.

You felt electric in the stands as you yelled for your team, an invisible line ripping the words from your throat before you even knew you were saying them. You felt elated as your housemates put their hands around you in delight, screaming themselves sore when they announced the winner. And you were feeling the happiness in your hair now, in every single strand from root to end as it swayed along with the bottle in your hand.

This was happy. This was joyful. This was utterly buttery in your chest and electric in the air.

You idly looked around the red and orange common room, which burned with excitement, deciding how to best spend this time before it runs out on Umbridge's watch and she ruins it.

No. No wasting thoughts on her today. She sucked enough life out of you and your housemates this year, she won't be doing it off the clock too.

Your eyes settled on possibly one of the strongest sources of this warmth - George Weasley, sitting on the arm of the couch next to his brother. The window behind him silhouetted him in gold perfectly, like the sun offered him to you. It accented how attractive he was, even if he burned a little at the top.

You've connected eyes before, talked before, even bantered. One wittier than the other every odd day, you toed the line between acquaintances and friends perfectly. Seeing as he's very popular, catching him in-between conversations was a matter of luck.

You imagined a line going from the center of your chest to his as you approached him. He pensively looked to the side, observing some goings-on on the far end of the room as you interrupted him.

"That was a good game. You got some very nice shots in," you said.

He turned to you with a mild close-mouthed 'hm', a look, and then a grin.

"You sure it was me?" he cocked his eyebrow and look at Fred on the couch next to Angelina, bumping knees with her and accepting congratulations in both of their names.

"You wear different numbers, genius. I know how to count this time."

"And you have my number memorized," he said, his voice glad.

"That would've been a great line if you were a Muggle."

"Pity, I already chose a magical career." he took a sip of his butterbeer and eyed you up, "Maybe I should start using my magical lines on you. Would those work better?" his eyes widened and his tone turned innocent at the end.

"I think I know too much anti-jinxes for that."

He pursed his lips in amusement. "Alright. What would work on you then?"

"Oh, I find responsibility and appropriacy really hot." you shot back, twirling a piece of your happy, charged up hair.

"Contradiction too," he said, "since you're still here."

"I find contradiction a natural state of the human soul, thus if I wasn't contradicting myself, I wouldn't fully be here."

"Hm. Brainy." he chuckled.

"Judgy. If you need me to simplify you can just say so."

"I think I can handle your smart mouth just fine."

"Then why am I winning?"

"I didn't realize this was a competition."

"Rookie mistake." you shook your head dramatically.

"I'm pretty sure it's a rookier mistake to assume you're winning. Who's the judge?"

"My innate inner sense of whether I'm winning or not."

"If it's inside you, then how would one file a complaint concerning an unfair ruling?"

"They wouldn't. It's a noble and just system that decided I'm in the lead. You just need to accept the truth."

"Don't make me come in there," he said, smirking good-naturedly.

"In where?" you shot back.

"In you." his smirk held on for a second before he seemed to realize what he said and his face scrunched up in apologetic laughter.

Your mind slipped into the gutter the way new yorkers fall into sinkholes filled with rats - hilariously fast.

Albeit greatly amused, he started to correct himself, "I didn't mean-"

"No, of course not." you licked your lips, "I understood you the first time " Was karma going to bite you in the ass for that lie? Who knows, but you might even be into that. Everything seems possible when the sun is shining. So he shone.

He grinned with his happy mouth and you once again noted how the light from the window behind him silhouetted him in the golden lining that made him look like a cutout glued onto the scene of this funny collage. His hair was aflame and his face was darker from the shadows but just as loudly burning with laughter.

This was happy.

You drew the word in your mind, line by line. H, a smooth move from the bottom, a decorative loop, then a parallel stroke, and a transversal. A, a circle with a tail, sharp move upward, and an even sharper drop for the backbone of p. P's tummy? Bulge? Nope, your mind shouldn't slip there in the middle of Binns’ class, no matter how boring he was. Another p, as George's knee bumped into yours. He was moved from "Mr. Wester, Phillip." for being disruptive, so he engaged in an under-the-table kind of disruption with his new tablemate.

You smiled. A long diagonal line, and another shorter one that cut into it. Y.

Happy.

You were, truly, right now. It sounded upside down to be happy though, both overall and when stuck in a soul-suckingly draining class, but you were.

George read over your shoulder, then audaciously engaged in over-the-table elbow-bumping-disruption and a cocked eyebrow. You straightened up, feeling a warm line unfold from the back of your head to the core of your brain, through the center of your chest, and straight to your stomach. Your happy line.

I'm happy, you mouthed.

Really? He mouthed back sarcastically yet good-naturedly. I can definitely see why. His eyes darted toward the professor. I say go for it, he's a catch. You might even be his type.

You burst out laughing, then immediately bit your lip. A few students, including Philip, looked at you as you shook with laughter, but professor Binns carried on.

George, on the other hand, shrugged with his shit-eating grin, pretending he has no idea why you were laughing, thus letting everyone know why you were laughing.

You scribbled, I don't know. What if it goes badly. I'd hate to be ghosted.

George raised his eyebrows at the Muggle slang you explained before. His hand slipped next to yours on the table and you felt your happy line thrum in approval. His hand was warm as he gently pressed it to yours, slowly took your quill, and scribbled back: Need someone more physical, huh? And I thought you were the romantic type.

Strong words for someone who never bought me dinner, you replied.

Mhm, as soon as I find a good line get you to agree to it.

Keep writing like that and I'll start thinking you fancy me.

Keep your mind in the gutter and I'll start thinking you don't fancy me back. He accented that line with a wink and an overdramatic lip bite.

You pouted sarcastically at him. Of course not, I only want you for your knobby knees.

He chuckled, reminded of the short line of warmth that connected your knees under the table. He pressed his into yours a little stronger, then pulled away.

That's a funny way of flirting. I'd know, I'm an expert at funny.

Self-proclaimed.

Untrue.

And I'm not flirting. If I was, you'd know it.

Would you? your breath hitched. For reasons you very well knew but refused to sound out to yourself, this short sentence drove the air around you two from joking to serious at breakneck speed.

Know if you were flirting with me? your happy line felt jumbled up in your stomach. He smiled at you.

Would you know if you were flirting with me?

The following week was arduous.

Gryffindors had a record amount of detentions, and Snape tore into them any and every chance he could. Even McGonagall was one edge, meaning lousy or missed homework was a death sentence. You forgot how to read from tiredness, submitting essays patchworked of other people's thoughts without ever having any information pass through your head. Everything was dull, gray, and dragged out.

Despite that, outside the castle the sky was blue and sunlight streamed through the soft clouds and a sweet breeze would blow around aimlessly. It was both comforting and a little mocking. The sky should be as exhausted and as beaten down as you. Good to know stress made you compare yourself to a literal sky. But maybe that's a little cruel. Nevertheless, it sounded like nature itself was turning its nose up at you, saying you're selfish for wanting grey skies, she doesn't care, she's above puny human affairs. The world turns and you have to turn with it or stop, then spend the rest of the time catching up.

You haven't stopped yet, but by all that is holy, you wanted to sleep. As the sun finally descended on a Friday after dinner, you finished your essays in hope that the next week might be kinder if you do everything quickly. The common room was dark, most of the light coming from the fire in the fireplace. It was also oddly empty for nine-thirty in the evening. Apparently, everyone had the same week as you.

Your almost finished essay laid on the table as you dozed, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of your armchair.

The creak of the portrait opening caught your attention, and George Weasley walked in a second later, rubbing his sore hand and cussing.

Truly everyone had a shitty week.

"Love?" you said teasingly.

He looked up at you with a tired grin.

"It's late."

"Not really. You okay?"

"Nothing I can't handle, love." he sighed, leaning against the wall next to the fireplace.

"Can I see?" you crossed the room to stand in front of him. Again, the firelight licked at the lines of his face, clear and sharp. He had circles under his eyes and a heavily nibbled lip.

"It's nothing." still, George raised his hand. "Love." he added, distantly. He seemed to be staring right above your head. You looked at the middle line of his lips again. You imagined him biting it.

Was it him that bit it? That one hurt. You hoped it was him.

You took his hand in your and rubbed circles into his knuckles. His eye winced.

"I'm sorry."

"S'not your fault."

"What happened?" he closed his eyes.

"Two ickle firsties almost brought the wrath of Umbridge into themselves with some dungbombs. You know how it goes," he said, a corner of his lip tugging upwards. Your chest expanded looking at him being satisfied with himself. As he should be.

"How... responsible of you," you said.

His eyes snapped downwards to yours.

"Keep looking at me like that and I might also start being appropriate too, darling."

You stepped closer, your happy line thrumming against your chest like a quivering violin string.

"What if being responsible is enough?"

"Enough for what?" he breathed out before you pressed yourself against him.

At first, that's was it was - a press of two warm lips. Then he started to move slowly, almost gentlemanly. How appropriate.

As he touched you, you felt the daze of last week lift. The little star scribble on the back of your head lit up, pulsing with brightness rather than fogging your thought. This was clear, you felt his every stroke that made up his face and chest and hands. The scribble of happiness extended itself into a web, overtaking your brain - you could feel it and you wondered if he saw it too when he looked at you. You pulled away and lifted your head to check. Probably not, but his eyes were glassy and he gave you a dopey smile. He was glad you were there. You pressed your lips against his again. You were glad he was there too.

The web continued down your neck, arms and chest, into your legs until your toes buzzed with light coursing through you. You were more awake than you have been in a long time.

Your hands were the brightest of all, and as you touched his hands, connecting them fingertip to fingertip, things made sense. The web buzzed and his breath was warm against yours, hands pulsing with energy as your every lifeline connected into his.

#george weasely #fanfic #hp fanfic #george weasley x reader

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klugpuuo · 3 years

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made a couple puyo ocs for a roleplay (or well, One is for a roleplay the other i just wanted to create). info abt em is under the cut

Name: Aloe 'Mint' Wester Curse: Curse of medical herbs and flowers growing on one whenever one attempts to heal someone else Pronouns: She/her flor/flora/floran Sexuality: Aroace Appearance: Long black hair; dark green eyes; dark brown skin; usually wears long green dresses which are surprisingly practical Other: In a QPR with a plant mage (Ruby); likes listening to the music of most traveling bards; fast walker and even faster runner.

Name: Ruby Soleirolia Rosewood Curse: None Pronouns: He/him they/them (prefers feminine terms) Sexuality: Bisexual Appearance: Strawberry blonde hair which is pretty short; usually wears short skirts, thigh-highs and pastel suit tops or Aloe's dresses; dark brown eyes that are usually sparkling Other: In a QPR with Aloe; has a thing similar to Lemres where he has to eat mushrooms in order to use his magic; uses the plants Aloe grows in many of their potions (with consent); really likes birds; has their own garden that they made from the ground up.

#puyo puyo oc #puyo puyo ocs #original character #original characters #original character art #klug's ocs #ruby [oc]#aloe [oc]#klug's sketches #aroace oc #bi oc #eya!<

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toby-and-tornado-anon · 3 years

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Rosies are Red (1/?)

Um...ah, you know what. I’ve had this half-completed story just sitting around for a bit. I might as well post it and see what you guys think. This is set some time before Fastest Red Engine on Sodor.

Vicarstown Station is without a doubt the largest station on the Island of Sodor. Many important trains from across the island as well as the mainland make Vicarstown their final destination, citing its grand station building and its position as the biggest town on Sodor.

Recently, traffic to Vicarstown has become large enough that Sir Topham Hatt has seen fit to expand the station’s goods yard to a size rivaling that of the Knapford Yards. Unfortunately, this increased size has led to some trouble…

One day, about a week after the construction of the goods yard, the Wild Nor’ Wester was thundering down the line, Gordon at its helm. The Gresley Pacific was in a very good mood, having been early to Crovan’s Gate and eager to break his record on the Vicarstown leg of the express’s journey.

“I’ll break it for sure!” he crowed in delight, whistling as he turned the final curve towards the station. “Express, coming through!”

However, as he approached the station, his driver saw danger ahead. “Woah, Gordon!” he called, applying the brakes hard-on. Gordon winced, shutting his eyes as sparks flew from his wheels, the weight of the coaches bashing into his tender as he screeched to a halt just shy of the platform.

Gordon blinked his eyes open, and to his surprise, saw a goods train sitting in his platform, with no engine!

Gordon was very cross indeed. “You silly trucks! What are you doing in my platform?!” he demanded. The trucks said nothing, though, merely laughing at him.

“So much for your record, old boy. We’ll have to wait until this train gets shunted,” the fireman sighed, gazing out the side of Gordon’s cab. He was very surprised to see that Gordon was not the only one waylaid by a misshunted train.

Henry, a heavy goods train behind him, whistled impatiently, a line of stopping service coaches in front of him. “Would someone please move these?” he snapped. “I need to get this delivered to Tidmouth Harbor, or Arthur will never let me hear the end of it!”

“You’re not the only one stuck, Henry!” James, his face nearly as red as his paint, snarled. He had somehow been trapped, light engine, between two goods trains. “Get me out of here!”

That evening, at Tidmouth Sheds, the big engines were complaining about the conditions at Vicarstown. And they weren’t alone with their sentiment.

“It’s all well and good to expand the station yards, but to leave it in such disarray...it’s disgraceful!” sniffed Gordon.

“Disgusting!” agreed James.

“Despicable,” nodded Henry.

“For once,” Edward sighed, “I’d have to agree with you three on that. I came to Vicarstown to pick up a delivery for Crock’s Scrap Yard, and the entire station was a complete disaster. Whoever the station pilot is, it’s rather clear they’re not doing their job adequately.”

“Ah...who is Vicarstown’s station pilot?” Emily questioned, a puzzled look on her face.

The other engines went silent. Now that the Stirling had mentioned it, not once had they seen the station pilot.

“...Philip still works at Knapford…”

“Percy is still on the Ffarquhar Branch…”

“Duck is on the Little Western, of course…”

The engines discussed the matter extensively. So extensively, in fact, that they completely missed hearing the footsteps of someone walking closer. Upon hearing the engines’ discussion, he raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat.

The engines trailed off, their attention turning to the new arrival. There, watching them, was Sir Topham Hatt.

“Well then!” he said, his eyebrows so high on his face that they disappeared under his hat, “what’s this I’ve been hearing about Vicarstown?”

“That yard has been a complete mess all day!” Gordon immediately started complaining. “Constant delays, trains being left in the station to cause a mess...and to top it off, not once has any of us seen the station pilot!”

“Oh dear, oh dear, this won’t do at all…” Sir Topham Hatt muttered, removing his hat to massage his head. “I’d rather hoped it wouldn’t turn out like this...that’s why I gave him the chance to be station pilot.”

“If I may ask, sir,” Edward ventured, “but who is the station pilot for Vicarstown?”

Sir Topham Hatt sighed, placing his hat back on his head. “Dennis is supposed to be serving as the station pilot,” he admitted. “I’d hoped that giving him a responsibility like that would allow him to change his ways.”

The engines were speechless. But not for long.

“Dennis?!” James fumed. “That lazy diesel wouldn’t know hard work if it bit him in the exhaust!”

“No wonder that yard was in such a state,” Emily agreed. “It still amazes me how he can be so lazy.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Gordon rumbled, “Dennis is not a proper choice for station pilot for such a respectable institution such as Vicarstown.”

“Hm...you may well be right, Gordon, after all of this confusion and delay,” Sir Topham Hatt muttered, turning to leave. “I shall have to make other arrangements.”

As Sir Topham Hatt headed back to his office to close up for the night, he noticed a strange sight in the yards.

There, parked in a siding, was Rosie. The pink tank engine was looking very glum indeed.

Concerned, Sir Topham Hatt decided to head on over. “Cheer up, Rosie! What’s the matter?” he asked kindly.

Rosie sighed, looking around the yard. “It’s nothing, sir. It’s just...lately, it seems all I’ve been doing is hanging around the yard and shunting. And I enjoy shunting,” she hastily added, “but ever since Philip arrived, it feels as though everyone is able to manage without me. I don’t feel very useful. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Rosie. Although, you certainly have a point,” he mused. “The yards here are the neatest they’ve been in years. But you were a driving force behind it, don’t forget. Stanley, Stafford, Philip, Charlie...all of them wouldn’t know what to do if you hadn’t been here to lay the foundation.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rosie smiled. But she was still feeling rather glum.

This gave Sir Topham Hatt an idea. “In fact, I’m sure that the same dedication that you used to put things in order here in Knapford would be very appreciated in Vicarstown!” he declared.

Rosie was surprised. “Vicarstown, sir?”

“That’s right. The other engines have been complaining about the state of the yard there. The engine that I assigned to be station pilot can’t...cope with the job, shall we say,” he delicately said. “So, things will have to change! I’m assigning you as the new head station pilot for Vicarstown! First thing tomorrow, I want you to head down there and put the yard in order. And if you can, talk some sense into Dennis,” he muttered as an aside.

Rosie was delighted. “Oh yes sir! I won’t let you down, sir!”

“There’s a good engine. Right, I’d best let you catch your rest. See you tomorrow, Rosie. I’ll be coming down on Gordon’s evening express to see how things are shaping up.” With that, Sir Topham Hatt headed for his office to pack up.

Rosie was a little nervous about being assigned head pilot of such a prestigious station, but she was determined to do her best and be a really useful engine!

However, she hadn’t reckoned on Dennis…

#ttte #ttte fic #ttte rosie #ttte dennis #ttte the fat controller

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mountainvroyce · 2 years

Text

location: a village on the kingsroad

@purpleeyedwaters

the ride back to the mountains of the vale felt as if it were taking forever. he had recently take his ride himself but on a solo horseback he was able to make much better time than this. plus there wasn’t the need to stop every two seconds for the sake of the faint hearted nobles who had never heard how to ride fast. at least most of them seemed happy enough to be stopping in a larger village along the kingsroad. despite the delay this was causing it was nice to stop somewhere to get a good drink.

the small inn was bustling with visitors from all over westerous as many different caravan’s had stopped here on their way home. he saw people from the vale chatting with someone from the riverlands and others from the crownlands with someone who looked they may be from dorne. but right now there was only one person who had caught his attention. he could recognize where those purple eyes came from in a heartbeat. and it seemed as if she was rather popular as a few men gathered near the table she sat, but she did not seem put off by the company. there was no need to play shy or coy it seemed.

holding two drinks in his hand, axell royce made his way over towards her table. the man towered over those who were sitting down, his shadow casting over them. he places his drinks down on the table, one in front of her and one for him. and then there was the need to make room for himself at the crowded table. grabbing the back of the chair of one of the men who was trying to chat with the purple eyed woman, going on about how wonderful of a crop his fields had gotten. with a harsh yank, he pulled the chair out from under the man who was now sprawled out on the floor, looking up at the mountain of a man above him. without a word to him, axell took the chair and sat down in it himself. “promise i’m not going to bore you like these other men are doing.” he smirked.

#;;selene #HERE COMES TROUBLE :D

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laurelsofhighever · 3 years

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Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

She tumbled into the light. Her stomach lurched as if in a dream of falling and then her lungs sensed air and instinct overtook her in great, sawing gulps of it, like she was breaching the surface of the ocean after being held under. The flush of panic beneath her skin paused the tally of her other senses, but slowly the scents of rain and earth rose up to meet her, the sigh of wind against her face and the cold of mud under the claw of her fingernails. After so long, the onslaught of sensation bloomed sparks of colour beneath her eyelids. When she tried to open them, the world reeled and fell behind a red haze of too-quick movement, gravity firm against her back and cool earth pressed under her cheek.

“Rest easy, child. It will take some time to adjust to the world again.”

The familiarity of the voice, wry and cracked with age, spurred her into motion. Shivering, she rolled onto her side and turned her head up into the rain. Fat drops prickled her forehead, forcing her to blink, while grass poked at the back of her neck with every heaving gasp she drew for breath. The sky was white. Not green, not dark and swirling with currents of strange energy, but the blank white of a low cloud heavy with water, of a typical miserable day in the waking world that made travellers turn up their collars and drove wildlife to huddle away in whatever shelter they could.

Distracted, she opened her arms wide and laughed until the sound turned into sobbing.

And then a tendril of emerald energy flickered through the air above her head and dread froze her where she lay. The possibility that she was mired in illusion, that this glimpse of freedom might be ripped from her grasp like a curtain pulled back on an empty theatre, churned in her stomach and brought another wave of dizziness crashing down upon her head. It could not be. Without yet knowing if she would stand to face whatever was coming for her this time, she followed the flare of magic back to the rip in the Veil that had allowed her to cross, lifting her head past the ache growing in her bones to see an old woman in the worn, patched clothing of a beggar, her arms raised and wreathed in ropes of blinding bright energy that fed into the slippery green scar of the Fade. It shrank, twisting and snapping like a wild animal trying to free its ropes, until finally with a crack, a flash, and an afterimage that glowed on the back of her eyes, it disappeared entirely.

The roar of it grew stronger by its absence. Trees shivered around the ring of the hill, the susurration of their leaves like an incoming sea. She lay next to Flemeth within a ring of stones patchy with moss, with the acrid odour of a damp fire nearby, too beaten down by the weather to offer either light or warmth.

From neck to foot, her armour clanked with her shivering, even after her saviour barked a command to the flames to leap from their sulking places under the wet logs. As she dragged herself across the sodden ground to the wash of heat over her face, her senses righted still further and nagged her about her surroundings, the familiarity in the stones. She dismissed it. Her hands warmed as she knelt and thrust them towards the fire, but that only sparked another worry; somewhere along the way she had dropped her charm, the pink-petalled rose that had guided her, guarded her, through her wanderings. A bush of the same pale flowers hunkered a little way beyond the circle, but it only held her gaze for a moment before her eye caught on a more distant shape, the solid form of a castle behind the haze of rain, with the dim shadow of a settlement beneath it.

“This is Harrowhill,” she realised, her own voice out loud grating against her ears. Her heart clenched. Two and a half leagues off, her home waited, along with the life she had left behind. She could have walked there within a day, if she pushed herself.

A blanket folded around her shoulders in the same instant that another spoken word to the fire made it leap higher still.

“How do you feel?” Flemeth asked.

Rosslyn looked up into the gleaming yellow eyes. Her body had yet to catalogue the full inventory of hurts that had been done to it, but even in the moment as she pondered the question, more made themselves known. Her throat stung like she had been drinking seawater and the cold shiver in her limbs had turned into full shakes that shot pain through the length of her muscles, while about her, the world spun on more axes than it should. Groaning, she squeezed her eyes shut and turned to face straight ahead in the hopes it would quell the nausea, but the pounding in her head only worsened, and it brought into focus the face of a man slumped across the other side of the fire, whom until that moment she had mistaken for a bedroll.

“Who is that?”

Flemeth followed the direction of her gaze. “A criminal. It matters not.”

His eyes stared glassily at nothing from unremarkable, ashen features, mouth agape above a rust-dark line that stretched across the width of his throat.

“You used blood magic.” Sickened, she tried to back away from the corpse, but the effort roiled in her stomach and dimmed her vision at the corners.

“Is that the most of your accusations?” The witch laughed. “This man would have died either way, condemned as he was, but he wished to make amends before his execution, and I needed a source of power. This way, he was of use.”

“You murdered him,” Rosslyn spat. The horizon tilted.

“And rid the world of a murderer to return a champion to it. Are you not glad to be back among the living?”

Still trying to stand, she opened her mouth to respond, but the sway in her ears turned her upside down before the words could form, and in a rush everything slid down into darkness.

When she awoke, it was to a long lance of golden light slanting across the bare beams of a shingle roof above her. Whether it came from a dawning or a westering sun she did not know, and decided did not matter. For a moment she let herself sink back and hover just above unconsciousness as she tried to reconcile the memory of the wet, blustery vision of Harrowhill with the present warm scratch of a wool blanket against her cheek. How Flemeth must have moved her was a mystery for another time; as she collected herself, the images of fevered dreams passed through her mind’s eye, hands pressing her back into a mattress, forcing potions down her throat. Her body ached as if she had been in battle, her breath laboured in her chest, and her blistered mouth screamed for even a drop of water.

Birdsong drifted in through the window. She recognised the trill of a blackbird among the general din, with the distinct purling quality of a late summer boast. Evening, then. The boards above her head were all felled from the same tree, with a collection of whorls in the wood that brought to mind the faces of a dog, and between them spiders had strung webs that now hung thick with dust. She counted them. Every detail was sifted carefully to check for truth, from the bite of her nails into her palms to the tame spit of the hearthfire and the scents of woodsmoke and cooking food.

When she was finally satisfied that the world around her had not been presented as a trick for her mind to follow, she tried to move. Flemeth’s dubious mercy could not be trusted. Someone had taken her armour, her weapons, and stripped her down to a plain shift that rasped against her skin.

Her first attempt failed when the protest in her muscles sent her falling back, panting, but with gritted teeth she changed tack and rolled onto one arm instead of straight up, and from there curled around until her feet planted into the curly strands of a sheepskin rug. Even that taxed her, driving the pulse in her neck and the saw in her breath as if she had already been three rounds in the lists, and it galled to have to settle her hand against her sternum –

Alistair’s necklace had gone. The familiar weight of the chain was not around her neck, the amulet bearing Andraste’s image no longer resting against her collarbone. Panicked, she threw herself upright, already searching the pillow and the floor for a telltale glimpse of silverite, but with barely a wobble of warning, her legs refused to take her weight. She went down hard enough that she had to throw out an arm to stop her skull cracking on the flagstone floor, though it didn’t save the skin of her knees.

“Hang it all,” she snarled, as blood welled from the cuts. Her legs trembled, the muscles atrophied into bare cords beneath the skin.

Before her horrified mind could make sense of the sight, footsteps running from outside marked her time. With another snarl she lunged for a candlestick that had been set on the bedside drawer she had narrowly missed as she went down and held it like a club, though by rights it would barely do more damage than her fists.

The figure who opened the door a moment later stopped on the threshold as she took in Rosslyn’s position crumpled on the floor, her large green eyes wide above the Dalish markings on her cheeks.

“Oh – no! you shouldn’t be out of bed!” She started forward, tucking a bobbed lock of black hair behind one pointed ear.

Rosslyn bared her teeth. “Stay away from me.”

“I’m here to help you,” the elf replied, somewhat hopefully.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where am I? The last thing I remember –”

“If your memory’s coming back, that’s good!” But the optimism faded in the face of Rosslyn’s continued hostility. “My name is Merrill, and you’re safe – I was asked to look after you, by Asha’bellanar herself,” she added proudly.

The name stirred something in Rosslyn’s memory, but she didn’t drop the candlestick. Seeing her hands shake, Merrill put up her hands and made her way over to the hearth in slow movements, unhooking the staff slung across her back to lean it against the wall as she crouched in front of the stewpot.

“You must be hungry, it’s been days since you’ve eaten – or years, really,” she said. “I’m not sure what the best way is to measure time in the Fade when you’re physically there. You must have seen some fascinating sights.”

“Years?” The candlestick clattered to the floor.

There was no telling how many. Their surroundings showed the typical interior of a Fereldan homestead, with a levelled stone foundation and walls made from hand-planed timber, a design that had served well for generations but offered no clues for context about where they were, or the state of the world beyond. Rosslyn could well believe Flemeth able to survive unchanged for decades, but thinking on it drew her mind to the terror that perhaps enough time had passed to wither away everything she had left behind. She had seen such things in the Fade, after all, the works of entire ages that rose and fell in in the space it took to draw a single breath. She pushed her head into her hands. Was Ferelden still the same beyond the walls of her prison as when she left it? Had the war ended? And what of Alistair, with whom she had vowed to stand against all hardship? With her body so weakened, she had a slim chance of escaping and finding her way to him. Even if she were still somewhere within the Teyrnir of Highever, the likelihood of being found by her brother’s men or the king’s was outmatched by the possibility of less savoury characters stumbling across her when she would be unable to defend herself.

She looked up through her fingers and her growing panic as Merrill approached with a rough wooden bowl filled with whatever had been in the stewpot. The elf’s anxious smile seemed genuine, and as she offered the bowl with a chunk of dense, crusty bread, Rosslyn breathed deep and decided to take it as such. After all, if any harm was meant to her, she would have woken up in chains instead of a warm, clean house – if at all. Hating how the weight of it made her hands tremble, she took the offered bowl and the bread with a cautious sniff. The rich yellow soup within was thicker than the fine broths served at high table, more like a puréed sauce, with flecks of green herbs throughout and something pale and crumbly scattered over the surface.

“Asha’bellanar… That’s what the Dalish call Flemeth, isn’t it?” she asked cautiously as she dipped the bread into the mix.

“That’s not something most humans know,” Merrill replied, the corners of her mouth ticking upwards in pleased surprise.

Rosslyn shrugged. “Two Dalish came to the palace on Flemeth’s word that we should go to Ostagar. At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe them.”

“That would have been Ethalas and Tamlen.” The elf shifted into the space next to Rosslyn on the sheepskin. “They were from my clan.”

“You sound sad.”

“I haven’t seen any of them since I agreed to follow Asha’bellanar.”

“Did your Keeper send you like she sent them?” Rosslyn asked.

Merrill shook her head and silence fell between them. Not wanting to pry, Rosslyn turned her attention back to the soup, and with it, the unsettlingly bizarre feeling of having food in her hands. The last she had eaten was a ration of hardtack as she was dressed for battle at Ostagar. Since then, she had dreamed of feasts, and rivers of wine where she could drink her fill, but the Fade contained nothing of substance, and eventually even the memory of flavour had been forgotten in her trudge across that endless, empty plain. If not for the need to regain her strength in order to find Alistair and return to her former life, she might have listened to the nausea prowling through her insides and pushed away even this simple dish. As it was, she closed her eyes and brought the mopped chunk of bread to her lips.

The taste exploded on her tongue, salt and sweet and the aroma of the herbs used to season the other ingredients. She recognised the taste of squash and sage, and a gaminess that was almost like goat’s cheese but more pungent, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut. Her stomach heaved.

“Is it that bad?” Merrill cried clapping her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Hahren Paivel always did despair of my cooking but I tried to make this exactly as Sylissa always did when the children were sick. I’d hoped –”

But Rosslyn ignored her, already devouring the rest of the bowl. The bread was too much work to chew so she set it aside, but the soup warmed her and went down in gulps to quench the wakened fire of her appetite, and though more than half of it still remained when she sat back, she could feel the life seeping into her body, fleshing her out as if before she had only been a wash on a painter’s canvas. Though she fought against the well of fatigue that came with the relief, she could already feel herself nodding.

“Thank you,” she said to Merrill, who was still hovering nervously. “I could not have asked for a finer first meal.”

“I’m rather glad I didn’t poison you,” came the answer. “I was worried humans might not be able to eat elvhen food.”

“City elves eat the same food as humans,” she pointed out.

“That’s true, I suppose – oh!” Placing one hand on Rosslyn’s arm, she reached around with the other to one of the pouches belted at her waist, and with a delicate clink of metal pulled out an engraved disc on a short silverite chain. “It’s special, isn’t it?” she asked. “I had to take it off you while you were recovering so it didn’t break.”

Rosslyn took it in wary, reverent fingers. “My husband gave it to me to keep safe.” For a moment, all she could do was look into the serene face of Andraste and swallow back her tears. The amulet might be all she had left of him. “Where are we?”

“I’m… not supposed to tell you.”

“I need to get to Denerim as soon as possible, I need to get word to the king that –”

Unless she no longer had a place at court. With the aftermath of a civil war to cause instability, she could hardly imagine the Landsmeet would sit by while their ruler left the throne unsecured, and even before Alistair was thrown into Valesh Aeducan’s path she recalled the veritable parade of young noblewomen who had tried to make an impression on him after his title was recognised. And then there was Anora. When they had marched south she had been in the tower awaiting judgement, with her crowd of supporters grumbling but appeased by the stay of punishment for her involvement with her father. What if –

No. Giving space to such thoughts could only end in self-defeat. Once more centring herself with a breath, she turned to Merrill, the amulet held tight in her fist.

“Tell me everything you know,” she commanded.

The days passed slowly as Rosslyn worked to get her strength back, the walls of her prison slowly expanding to include first the yard where the chickens pecked for grubs, and then the rim of the clearing where Flemeth had brought her, in a dell where the trees grew too tall to admit any view of the landscape beyond. The mixed stands of oak and beech that barred her path let her guess they were somewhere in the northern part of the country, but nothing more certain, and though she looked in every direction, the only column of smoke she found was the one rising from her own chimney, so she could not hope for a nearby settlement, either.

It did not hinder her determination. Once she recovered enough to walk from one side of the clearing to the other without needing to rest, she donned a cloak, strapped Talon to her belt, and pushed through the scrub into the forest, keeping the sun to her left. When she emerged into the clearing again less than an hour later, the commiserating look Merrill offered barely helped calm the flare in her temper.

She tried again, and again, until her attempts and the days blurred together. Whichever direction she chose, her path inevitably led her back to the house, and even when she tied string to the branches as she went, she could not find her way. Ostagar was eighteen months gone, with no news of the court, and as reality slowly worked its way back into Rosslyn’s bones, the pain of Alistair’s absence grew like a canker. It felt too much like defeat to stop trying, however, so she took up her sword forms instead, running through them all until her limbs shook from exhaustion and she turned feverish again.

“You were in the Fade in your physical body, you can’t expect to be springing about like a halla fawn right away,” Merrill chided that night as she checked her temperature with the back of one small hand.

She offered a wry smile. “I’m sorry to undo all of your good work.”

“Not all of it,” Merrill allowed. “The rules of this world don’t apply in the Fade, so your body was sort of… stuck, like a fly getting trapped in tree sap, but when you came back, everything you went through caught up all at once. Or at least, that’s my best guess. Nobody’s walked in the Fade like that since the days of Arlathan, and never for so long.”

“And so is the Golden City blackened with each step you take in my Hall,” Rosslyn quoted.

“What’s that?”

“It’s from the Chant of Light.” Unconvinced she might be by the Maker’s Word, but like any good noble child, Rosslyn had been thoroughly schooled in its teachings. “Tevinter magisters lifted the Veil and stormed the Maker’s city, only to be cursed with the Blight for their trouble.”

“Well… you haven’t been tainted.” Merrill smiled. “That’s a good thing. You just have to be patient.”

“I will not be kept here.”

Too many people needed her, too much might happen if she lingered.

And yet, how could she face Alistair looking as she did now? Her hollowed cheeks stared at her corpselike from her reflection in the water bucket every morning, the shadows of her ribs swelled with every breath, and the armour once made for her rattled on her frame as if she were a child dressing up in her parents’ clothes. If he were to see her, what pity would follow his touch as he traced her suffering? Guilt would plague him, and perhaps revulsion, and the thought of either was like a stab through the heart, though as she lay on her cot in the dark of night refusing the pull of sleep, those were not the only fears that kept her from rest.

Merrill helped. Her endless optimism infected even the bleakest of Rosslyn’s moods, and she had a way of guilting a person after a disagreement that reminded her of the artful silences Nan used to employ whenever Cuno got loose in the kitchen. Without any other company but each other, they spent their days swapping stories as they divvied up the chores of the house, and in doing so Rosslyn discovered she wasn’t the only one in Flemeth’s debt, though her new companion always changed the subject when it brushed too close to the nature of her deal with the witch.

“If we’re to be tools for whatever grand scheme she’s plotting, surely we would be more use not left to rust out here in the back end of nowhere,” she groused one evening as they shared their meal. “I could have gotten word – said something – but instead I’m trapped here doing nothing.” Summer was fading from the trees, the days growing shorter as the verdancy of their surroundings turned to shifting hues of bronze and gold. “Are you sure you can’t try to lift the enchantment she’s put on the clearing?”

With a sympathetic look and considerable patience, Merrill shook her head. “The enchantments she added when we were brought here are older magics than I was ever taught. If I try to unravel the spells without knowing where they start, it might make things worse.”

“I need to go home.”

“You’re lucky to have one,” the elf replied. “My clan won’t take me back. This is all I have.”

Rosslyn glanced to her sharply, but she refused to say more, and they spent the rest of the night in bitter silence.

A jingle of harness through the morning mist a few weeks later gave them the first sign of Flemeth’s arrival. A pair of mismatched cobs plodded into the clearing ahead of a closed wagon that should have been too big to make it through the dense underbrush, and at the reins an old woman sat wrapped in a cloak, completely innocuous except for the golden gleam of her eyes. When she halted the wagon in front of the house, she pulled the scarf from around her face to reveal the cold twist of that ever-present smirk.

“I see your convalescence has not doused your fire,” she said to Rosslyn, who had emerged from the house with Talon resting on her hip.

“I do not care to be kept a prisoner,” she growled in return. “You had no right to keep me here.”

“Didn’t I?” One fine eyebrow arched. “You entered a bargain when I came to you in the Fade. You said you wanted to live, and I told you there would be a price. You might have thanked me for it before you started berating me, or do Couslands no longer keep their word?”

She lifted her chin. “If you want my debt paid then let me pay it and have done. I have people waiting for me.”

“And people whose lives you fear go on without you,” Flemeth retorted. She climbed down from the driver’s seat, unhurried, joints cracking. “I told you once of the wars and deaths that would happen without your leave, but it takes living through death to see the truth of it, wouldn’t you say? You need not worry. I have come to take you for what’s needed.”

“I want to see Alistair.”

The amusement in the old witch’s face turned to ice. “You are in no position to make demands of me, girl. What would you do, go to him only to say that you must leave again?”

Before she could answer with more than a scowl, Merrill joined them, dressed in travelling clothes and with the bag where she kept her few belongings slung over her shoulder.

“Andaran atish’an, Asha’bellanar,” she murmured, bowing low.

“There now,” Flemeth crowed. “Someone with manners. You should ready to leave, we have a long journey ahead of us.”

Shutting up the house took less than an hour. They doused the fire and caught the chickens to take with them, loaded Rosslyn’s armour into the back of the wagon with supplies for the road, and when everything was settled, Flemeth climbed back into the driver’s perch without so much as a backward glance.

“Aren’t you going to tie me up, or put me under a Sleep?” Rosslyn asked, suspicious.

“I have no need,” came the airy reply. “Because I will tell you what you are to do, and after that, you will stay of your own volition.”

“You seem very sure of that.”

Flemeth chuckled. “I am an old, old woman, and I have seen your like before. Honour and duty will serve to bind you just as well as magic, as it did your ancestors.”

Still reluctant, Rosslyn climbed up next to Merrill, who beamed and offered her a pocket of warm bread filled with honey and chopped nuts.

“Well, you didn’t want to be left behind, did you?” she asked. “I’m sure this’ll be exciting.”

For the first few days, the journey took them through disorienting countryside along barely visible trackways, but eventually the ground rose and the forest opened ahead of the cart into the sparse pine slopes of the Frostbacks. With such a landmark, Rosslyn could have cut her way across-country to a settlement and from there on to Denerim, even with the dangerous weather closing in with the end of the year, but as the witch had predicted, she did not. She had learned what was needed of her, the consequences if she deserted, and she had not forced the Nightmare back into the Fade only for the world to shatter around her mere months after she fell into it again.

So she stayed. She watched the scenery from the back of the cart as it mellowed from frowning, snow-capped peaks to the gently undulating plains of southern Orlais, and she made no complaint when she and Merrill were once more shut away, this time in townhouse in the noble quarter of Halamshiral. A few weeks, Flemeth promised, and then she could reclaim her life and its petty entrapments.

The witch herself faded into the background of the house, the puppeteer behind the curtain as preparations were made to infiltrate the palace with the opening of the winter season. Dresses were made, and introductions, and if the servants were hollow-eyed and their hostess too vacant to hold a conversation, Rosslyn chose not to concern herself with it. Blood magic was an evil against which she could not win alone, one that so far hadn’t been turned on her only because Flemeth needed her mind intact. Alistair would not have approved of her silence, her compromise, but she shoved that knowledge to the back of her mind along with all the other choices she would rather forget. Compared to the dead at South Reach, the sacrifices at Lothering, the fate of one overwrought Orlesian noblewoman mattered little.

With Merrill’s help, by the time the First Night Ball arrived she had charmed, bribed, and enchanted her way into one of the guest rooms of the palace itself. From there, she joined the nameless throng into the entrance hall in the plain mask of someone too humble too be noticed, and waited for Morrigan to appear.

It was then she caught the first whispers.

“Have you seen him yet?”

“He has not made his entrance.”

“They say he still mourns.”

“I saw him in Kirkwall last year, a man so handsome should have company to match, even if he is a dog lord.”

“You, cherie? He’s the empress’ prize – why else do you think she would bring him here as her personal guest? She means to have Ferelden.”

“His advisors mean him to have someone, no matter who. Any of us might catch his eye.”

The words made her heart bound behind her ribs. Who else could they be talking about, but Alistair? Flemeth’s smile as she left for the palace made more sense now, the repeated order to keep herself unknown. She lost the rest of what was said by her neighbours through the rushing in her ears. He was supposed to be in Denerim, far away. But not waiting for her; she had seen to that herself.

She was grateful for the mask when he appeared a few moments later at the top of the stairs to the royal wing with her brother in tow. Fergus hunched slightly, his once-wide shoulders gaunt and his strong resemblance to their father only increased with the time and distance they had been apart, but it was Alistair who held her eye. His hair had grown long, half to his shoulders, still the same tawny bronze as ever where it curled slightly around his ears, the strong line of his jaw accented by the trim of a beard. He had been unable to grow one when they had been together, the hairs on his chin had been sparse and patchy and he had pouted every time she teased him about it. As he breathed deep, she wondered if the same were true for the hair on his chest.

Her own breath sawed in her throat as he descended into the crowd, the cold marble of the balustrade beneath her palm holding her upright during the interminable moment when he passed within fifteen feet of where she stood, completely unaware of her existence. Of course she followed him. She watched him make smiles at the nobles, yearned towards him like a weed towards the sun, reading the tense line of his shoulders and the way his mirth didn’t quite meet his eyes, the whole time aching with the tear between what she had done and what she still had left to do.

And then he looked at her. The glance was brief, a flash like the sun on a shard of glass as it searched the room, but it stopped her breath nonetheless. Only when he turned away again and moved into the ballroom did the tingle fade from her limbs, and by then her purpose had reasserted itself.

Draw attention to yourself and they will know you for a cuckoo, Flemeth had told her. They will not show mercy, and I will not help you.

Alistair’s presence raised the stakes. Before, she might have been able to stick to her borrowed identity if she were caught, but with the threat of recognition came the knowledge that Ferelden would share in whatever punishment Celene thought up for her if she did not succeed.

She could not allow it.

At least growing up as a reluctant court flower had taught her how to be invisible in a room full of nobles. When the castellan announced her name she crossed the floor in the perfect attitude of courtly grace, unable to entirely quell the hope that he would see her, though the hesitation as she glanced to the dais cost her a stern glance from Celene. Others more worthy remained to be greeted, after all. Alistair did not spare her even that much.

If I had to choose between you and Ferelden… I don’t know if I could make that choice. The words, spoken a lifetime ago as if they were yesterday, reared in her mind as the night wore on, hours passing with Morrigan still absent, with Alistair at the centre of the room twisting like a flame on a dark night on the arm of so many eager women that bile rose in the back of her throat. The touch of his eyes burned her with every accidental glance, but she was just another face in the crowd, as alone as when she had awoken at Ostagar and found the other side of her bed empty. The thought had yet to pass when someone knocked into her.

“Oh! Do excuse me.” The familiarity of the voice shook Rosslyn from the bitter line of her thoughts, but not quickly enough to note the flash of red hair as the stranger rose and caught her by the wrist.

“Consider it forgotten,” she muttered quickly, already turning away.

“No please, I insist. I must –” Leliana’s gasp cut off the rest of the words, the mask in her hand rising in a graceful arc to cover the slip.

Against her better judgement, Rosslyn turned. Sharp blue eyes peered up at her, still wide with shock.

“It is you.”

She reached for Leliana’s arm. “You have mistaken me, my lady,” she said, deliberately. “Please, forget the offence, my mind was distracted and I failed to see where I was going.”

“He has seen you,” the other woman pressed.

Hope – wild hope like the thundering of horses – roared in her ears, but only for an instant. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I would not wish to accuse an old friend of lying, nor indeed a new acquaintance,” Leliana retorted, threatening with a steady look, while around them people with their eyes on the nearby dancers no doubt listened with interest.

“It would be an unfortunate thing to do in the middle of a crowd,” Rosslyn agreed.

They wove through the press of bodies to a darker corner where the heat and sweat of the dancing didn’t reach so strongly, with pleasant smiles on their faces to deflect the attention of anyone looking for court intrigue. Rosslyn took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing server, needing the fortification of the alcohol as much as the cover it provided.

“Now, what shall I tell him?” Leliana asked when they were finally out of earshot.

“Nothing,” she replied, after a casual sip. “He can’t know I’m here.”

“If you knew…”

“Promise me you won’t tell him,” she interrupted.

But Leliana stood her ground, a fierce light of loyalty in her eyes that nevertheless remained hidden from those around them. “Will you?”

“You used to have faith in me,” Rosslyn muttered eventually, after a moment of scrutiny. She received a calculating look before the gaze skittered away to the warmer light in the middle of the room.

“Very well, I promise I will not tell him who you are.”

They parted. The relief that swelled, the sense of betrayal that came with it, followed Rosslyn back into the crowd like a dog at her heels. Any glamour she had seen in the spectacle around her had tarnished, and now only the need to not let the night go wasted kept her from stalking out of the ball entirely. She needed Morrigan to be here, distracted, and then perhaps when she had done what was needed she might seek out Leliana again, and then –

The music died away. The castellan’s staff rapped sharply against the polished floor. She stiffened, breath held as a dark-haired woman glided through the double doors at the far end of the room, and as those around her crowded forward to get a better look at the empress’ favourite curiosity, she edged in the other direction, her eyes darting to the palace guard dotted in alcoves around the walls. But it wasn’t an Orlesian who stepped out in front of her to bar her path.

“My lady, your presence has been requested,” Morrence said.

And now, her plans shattered into ruin at her feet, she stood in the cold night air with Alistair’s hand on her cheek, his breath warm against her skin, and her heart all but thrashing loose of her ribcage to be closer still. Moonlight washed the colour from his eyes but she recognised their intensity, bold as the sun as he drank her in. She should have known better than to think she could have ever hidden from him.

“Rosslyn…” He breathed it, strangled and desperate.

She could not say anything at all, only squeeze her eyes shut and lean into the palm resting against her face, and hold back tears when he brought his forehead down to hers. He smelled of leather and sweat and smoke.

“Rosslyn. I – this isn’t real.” He swallowed. “I’m dreaming.”

“No,” she managed, trembling. “I’m real. It’s me.”

“What –” A helpless, hysterical giggle breached his lips. “How?”

She sighed, shook her head, pressed her hand against the back of his so he wouldn’t stop touching her. “It’s a long story.”

At that, he pulled back to search her face, a line drawn between his brows as he brushed a thumb over the corner of her mouth. Her heart fluttered, but instead of leaning in his gaze drifted back towards the ballroom, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips

“You can tell me all about it,” he promised, plucking up her hand to place a kiss against her knuckles. “We’ll have all the time in the world.”

“Alistair, what are you –?”

He stepped backwards, still with their fingers linked as if she would follow after him. “You’re alive,” he said, still with that note of disbelief in his voice. “Celene might not be happy about it but that’s no reason not to tell everyone, right?”

The night-time chill sank around her again as she dropped her gaze, pulled her hand away.

“I can’t.”

Tension crept into his shoulders, and through the silence that reached between them was brief, it left a bitter taste on Rosslyn’s tongue.

“Why not?” he asked, too quiet.

“I told you. I was sent here to pay a debt, and until I do nobody can know who I am.”

“But…” And then he stopped, glanced back to the ballroom again, and licked his lips as cconfusion hardened into something worse. “Was that supposed to include me? Would you have told me at all if I hadn’t brought you out here?”

Unable to bear the hurt in his expression and unable to lie, she turned back to the balustrade and laid her hands flat against the frosty stone. “I didn’t know you would be here. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“That’s your excuse?” he demanded.

“Alistair –”

“You’ve been alive all this time and you didn’t think I would want to know? Do you even know why I’m here, why they’re all gathering around me like blightwolves?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “But what was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just walk up to you and unmask myself in front of everyone!”

“Why not? It’s been two years, Rosslyn.” His voice cracked. “I mourned you. Andraste help me, there was a funeral – your brother sobbed like an infant because the last person he had left in the world died and I couldn’t comfort him because it was my fault for not keeping you safe.” As if of their own accord, his feet took a halting half-step towards her, broken off when he realised what he was doing. “I’ve had to go on and try to rule Ferelden by myself when we promised we’d do it together, and all this time you’ve been – what, swanning about playing hide and seek in Orlais? Has it been fun? Have you enjoyed watching me suffer from across the border?”

She stared at him, refusing to flinch. When they had first met, she might have risen to his anger, snarled back and bitten deep just to have the final word, but facing him now with all the hope for what their reunion might have been crumbling under her feet like a cliff into the sea, she found exhaustion quenching the fire of her battle-blood.

“I was in the Fade,” she told him without inflection. “When I fought the Nightmare the rift closed behind me and I couldn’t get back.” The featureless plain, the shadows of demons hounding her steps, greedy for the life in her veins – she pushed the memories to the back of her mind.

“But you’re here. Now. Which means you must have gotten out somehow – how long ago was that?”

“Three months,” she admitted. “Maybe four.”

“Four months.”

“Don’t you think I would have sent word if I could?” She had passed waystations, merchant caravans, outposts of militia who had all refused to believe her identity or even give her the charity of pen and paper.

“Clearly I don’t – you’ve only told me now because I forced it out of you!”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed. “I could have let you just walk away and forget about me but I didn’t. Maybe I should have.”

Alistair rocked backwards at the acidity in her tone, his expression tightening in a way that let her know the blow had struck, that it couldn’t be taken back.

“You aren’t who I thought you were,” he muttered at last. “The Rosslyn Cousland I knew wouldn’t skulk around some foreign ballroom like a Crow, and she wouldn’t have tried to hide from me. I would have liked to know the woman I loved was standing twenty feet from me while I was getting pawed at and drooled over like a butcher’s bone, but I guess that wasn’t her.”

Pride would not let him see her fall. She breathed, steady with one hand on the balustrade, the moonlight on her back and the faint cadence of the orchestra surging in to fill the gap left by the silence. Loved. Past tense. It would not have mattered anyway. Perhaps this had been part of Flemeth’s plan all along, an added spur of cruelty to keep the mind of her pawn on the task at hand and not running loose with the proverbial bit between her teeth.

“You have no right to stand in judgement of me,” she told him. “Believe what you want. It does not change my purpose here.”

Spine straight in the manner of the queen she had once so briefly been, she set the court mask back in place over her eyes and tied the knots so it would not slip again, and then kept beyond the reach of Alistair’s arms as she headed back towards the light of the ballroom, so he could not reach for her. Whatever fairytale she had expected for their reunion, her heart splintered at the reality, a sapling under the blow of an axe. She still had a duty, and she would do it, as she had been taught since childhood as a Cousland born. Beyond that lay a crevasse she could not have imagined would have yawned so far. Alistair had loved her. And then she had died.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #da:o #alistair theirin #king alistair #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #king alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #f!cousland #cousland #the falcon and the rose

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empressofthesunwriter · 2 years

Text

The Queens Gambit: The Story

The most powerful piece in chess is the queen.

When this piece joins the game of Duel Monsters anything will change.

With two dragon sisters, a magician and her descendant, the queen will take her rightful place.

As it should have been.

8th Millenniums Items

Reborn!Kisara

Reborn!Mana

Queen!OC

QueenReborn!Oc

RedEyesBlackDragon!OC

Pairings:

Atem/Yami YuugiXOC

Yuugi MutoXOC

Seto KaibaXReborn!Kisara

Author Note: Hey and welcome to now the final and real Queens Gambit Story! :D The snippet collection is over and we dive right in into the Plot of YGO! I have to thank my dear friend Light guardine35 from Qoutev and AO3 for it. She offered to help me with the duels and now, the fanfic who is with me since I was a little girl and changed and transformed over the years can go online! I hope you follow along this ride and don’t forget about The Queen’s Gambit: Prequel, I will still write for it too since it’s Afya’s/Yanara’s backstory, but this FanFic takes priority. Again a huge thanks to Light guardine35 for your help and go and check out her own works! I think I can talk for both of us to say, to enjoy this story! And now on to it!

Chapter 1: Happy 15th Birthday!

On the day of her 15th birthday, Sehrazat Faizan woke up like any other school day.

More asleep than awake and with a groan.

She didn’t care that today was also her birthday, it was too earlier!

Why does school start this earlier? That was inhuman!

The dark blue-haired girl put her pillow over her head.

Any minute now Kihana would storm her room and drag her out of bed. She loved her best friend, but these were times when she wished Kihana and her family would live in their own house.

…Yeah, Sehrazat didn’t think that would stop Kihana either.

There!

She heard the familiar boom of her door opening and wanted to cry.

Today was her birthday, even a special one in her family, so why couldn’t she stay at home and sleep?

Fuck, school!

“Rise and shine, your highness!”, sing-songend Kihana. She couldn’t be normal. Who was that happy, at this time?! “Today is your birthday, happy birthday my dear Sehra!”

Aww, at least this was cute.

It stopped being cute when Kihana gripped her blanket and left her in the cold morning air.

Sehrazat hissed like an angry cat and rolled herself into a ball.

Cold, way too cold!

Why were mornings so cold in Domino? How she missed the warm mornings in Lisabon!

Kihanan just tutted at her. The white-haired girl with the bluest eyes Sehrazat had ever seen was merciless. She gripped one of her arms and just let her fall to the floor!

“Hey, what was that for!”, Sehrazat shrieked offended.

The floor was even colder!

Kihana put her hands on her waist.

She was already wearing the Domino High School Uniform, her long white hair perfectly groomed into a ponytail, decent make-up which made her blue eye even more pop and her white porcelain skin glowing healthily.

“That’s the only way to wake you up, Sehrazat and you know it. We do this five times a week.”, reminds her Kihana.

Making a face Sehrazat stood up and has to control herself to make a worse face. She still reached only under Kihana’s breast.

Why was her best friend tall like a supermodel and she was small like a child?

They were now the same age, so unfair!

Only Sadiye, Kihana’s younger sister, was smaller than her! And that was because she really was a ten-year-old child.

Again, so unfair.

Pouting she followed Kihana to the dining room, where both their mom’s already were with little Sadiye eating breakfast.

Even if they all lived in Japan now, they still had a more wester-styled breakfast. With pancakes, cornflakes, bacon, and eggs, you name it.

That didn’t mean none of them had tasted the local cuisine.

For example, Sehrazat loved Ramen like she was Naruto from the same named Manga, but sometimes you needed a bit home.

They were all original from Egpyt, but Rahila, Kihana, and Sadiye’s mom, and her own mother Amira grow up in London, England.

Sehrazat’s Grandmother still lives there, like Kihana and Sadiye’s Grandparents.

Besides Rahila and Kihana, who were white-passing, all of them were black.

Sadiye was the first to note them.

“Happy Birthday, Sehra!”, shouted the ten-year-old, which gripped the attention of the two older women.

Her mother smiled and stood up from her sit. She opened her arms for her.

“Good morning, my little princess, and happy, happy birthday!”

Still tired Sehrazat let herself fall into her mother’s embrace. Ah, nothing to rise her spirits like her mama’s hugs! She was warm and smelled, like always after jasmine and sandalwood. Comforting and homey.

“Happy Birthday, your highness. Now you are finally 15.”, said Rahila to her and Sehrazat felt how her head was patted.

“Thanks aunty Rahila.”

They all sit down at the table and Amira signs wistfully.

“15 years already…I can’t believe time flew so fast. It was like yesterday you wear this tiny and I could pick up you whenever I wanted.”

“She still IS tiny!”, joked Sadiye and grinned at her.

Sehrazat looked at her angrily and bit into her pancake.

Kihana tutted her little sister, who shrugged her shoulders.

Sadly it was true.

Didn’t mean like Sehrazat liked to hear that.

“And you can still pick her up Amira.”, reminded Rahila.

Thanks, aunty!

Sehrazat bit harder into her pancake.

“You know what I mean.”, said Amira and then turned to her daughter. “Don’t forget, today IS a special birthday. Now you will be the Keeper.”

It took Sehrazat any amount of strength to not roll her eyes.

Ah, yes, she became now the Keeper of the mysterious Millennium Fragment which was in possession of her family since the times of the great pharaohs.

She never even saw that thing, because her mother keep it in a little golden box with Hieroglyphs written on it.

But nearly anyone treated it like it was something sacred.

Holy!

The dark blue-haired girl thought personally that it was too much. It was just some jewelry.

Yes, really old jewelry, but jewelry.

There was nothing special about it.

Or let’s say better she didn’t want to believe the stories her mother and grandmother told her.

They were just too crazy!

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEHRA-CHAN!”

Sehrazat and Kihana flinched at the loud shout and the birthday girl couldn’t even look as fast, as Maja, the third in their friend group, launched herself at her and hugged her tight.

The blue-haired girl couldn’t even respond, since Maja’s hug was so strong that it squeezed the air out of her lungs.

“Maja-Chan, let Sehra breath, she is turning blue!”, came Kihana to her rescue.

The brown-haired girl let her go with an ups, but Sehrazat would have nearly fallen on the ground if Kihana and Maja didn’t catch her.

“I’m so sorry, Sehra-Chan!”, whined Maja, while Kihana checked on her.

Sehrazat just made a thumbs-up.

She could feel how nearly everyone in the schoolyard was looking at them.

Like always.

Maja was consistently over the top with her affection, but that’s why she and Kihana loved the other black girl.

The three were a bit infamous in Domino High, the only black girls, even if Kihana was white-passing and Maja half-Japanese, and their morning routine got them even more attention.

After Sehrazat could breathe again, Maja handed her a little gift box.

“Here is your birthday present, my dear Sehra-Chan. I hope you like it!”

“Thanks, Maja, that’s so nice of you.”, told her Sehrazat smiling.

Maja grinnend and rubbed her nose.

Kihana looked at her as she unwrapped her gift. A small gasp left her lips.

“Dark Magician Girl and Magical Hats! I searched for them everywhere, where did you find them?!”, shouted the birthday girl happily.

How long she had wanted these two cards for her deck of Duel Monster? She couldn’t remember and Maja found them and gifted them to her.

“Aww, makes me happy you are so happy! I found them in a cute little card shop named Kame Shop. The old grandpa who owns it was nice and he has a lot of good cards.”, explained Maja, rocking back and forth with her hands behind her back.

“We need to totally visit it!”, decides Sehrazat.

Maja raised a fist in the air and shouted a loud yeah!

“But not today.”, came Kihana, the voice of reason in their group. “You know how important your 15th birthday is Sehra. Our moms expect us back after school, no improvised trips.”

Both Sehrazat and Maja let out a gloomy sound and slouched over. Sadly Kihana was right.

The brunette was the first to gather herself.

“Is this again some of your guys’ weird family tradition? Reminds me of my Obaa-Chan and her demand that we always have Mochi after dinner.”, said Maja.

“Eh, you could say.”, answered Sehrazat.

It was forbidden to tell outsiders about their family affairs, even if Sehrazat didn’t believe one bit and would like to tell Maja, she respected this rule. Also, Kihana was there and would give her a headbutt if she told a thing.

Other than her Kihana believes this shit.

Sehrazat wonders sometimes if she was the weird one in her family or if the others were all the weird ones.

Stupid ancient jewelry and its stupid ancient legend around it.

It was then that the school clock sounded, meaning it was time to get to their classroom.

The three girl pals hocked their arms with each other and followed the long line of their school- and classmates into the building.

The school day was too fast over in Sehrazat eyes. Normally she would be happy, but she threaded what would her await home.

She so doesn’t want to participate in that superstition of her family, yet she didn’t have a choice.

So she had to say goodbye to Maja and follow Kihana home.

Arrived there her mother reminded her that they would go out for dinner today and then the ceremony would take place.

So she had to dress nicely.

Her mother had bought her extra a pretty white dress, with it she should wear her best golden jewelry.

After a shower and dressing up Sehrazat had to let out a sign.

She looked like a modern version of an ancient Egyptian princess…she really hoped no one she knew saw her like this.

Well, at least she wasn’t the only one. Her mother looked like a modern Egyptian queen, while aunty Rahila, Kihana, and Sadiye looked like priestesses.

Besides her little Sadiye whined to her mother that she wanted to wear her favorite red dress, she know the stories too, but she seemed only to half believe them.

Yet Rahila didn’t give her a choice and so not only Sadiye pouted, Sehrazat did it too.

Her mother tutted her and so she tried to smile.

At least they would eat well before the whole weird shit happened.

Since Sehrazat’s favorite food was Pasta, they would eat out in the best Italian restaurant in Domino.

The food, of course, was delicious and as her birthday cake came out, made out of chocolate and vanilla and everyone in the restaurant sang happy birthday to her, the birthday girl forgot for a second what would await her home.

Then it was time for her presents.

From Rahila she got the new CD from her favorite J-Pop Idol Mimi Kawaii! It was even a special edition, with an autograph and an exclusive poster.

From Sadiye she got a self-drawn book, with drawings of her and Sadiye having adventures together. Also, she gifted her a Kuriboh card, which was adorable since Sadiye used her own money to buy it. Everyone cooed at her.

From Kihana, who had a passion for sewing, she got a self-made bag with a large D and M on it for Duel Monster and a new card holder.

From her mama, she got a new dress in her favorite color gold which sparkled like the sun, with fitting shoes and new earrings, and a necklace.

Her granny had sent her money, which her mother gave her.

Sehrazat already know she would buy some new Duel Monsters cards from it.

All in all an awesome birthday.

If it wasn’t for one thing remaining.

“Long ago when the pyramids were still young, the great pharaoh played a game filled with obscure magic. These were the shadow games. But these Shadow Games erupted into a war that threatened to destroy the entire world. Until a brave and powerful pharaoh locked the magic away, imprisoning it within the mystical Millennium Items. His name we don’t know, he is only now as the Nameless Pharaoh.”, told Amira the story Sehrazat had heard 100 times or so.

She had to keep herself from yawing.

This was important.

Oh well, for her mama.

She just wanted to get over it.

They were back home. Currently in their dining room where now the table and chairs were missing and a little altar was placed. On it was a statue of the goddess Isis, lotus blossoms and the famous golden box of her mother.

Rahila with her daughter stood at the side, and beside Sadiye who seemed to wish to be somewhere else, listen to attentive Amira's words.

Amira stood beside the altar and Sehrazat was standing before her.

God, it sounds like they had a cult meeting or something similar. People would call them crazy if they saw them. Thankful the curtains on the window were closed and the room was illuminated by a lot of candles.

“The Nameless Pharaoh had a wife. This wife born our ancestor, the founder of the Faizan family.”, continue Amira. “The great queen gave her daughter a duty that till this day we handle. She gave us the 8th Millenium Item, the Fragment, which belonged only to the queens of Egypt. Sehrazat.”

Oh, dear.

She looked at her mother, who had raised her hands like a prayer, which made this even more sound like a cult meeting, and tried to stay impassive.

Even if she just wanted to go to bed.

“Sehrazat, my dear daughter. For thousands of years, we protect the Millenium Fragment from outer forces who want to use its power for evil. From mother to daughter, when reached the age of 15 the keepsake gets passed down. Now it’s your turn.”

Amira took the golden box in her hands and Sehrazat nearly forgot to hold her hands open, so her mother could place the box in them.

“You will keep it safe till it’s your turn to pass it down to your daughter or when the time will come that its power it’s needed again, then the great queen, our ancestor, told us one day the world would need it again the power of the Millenium Fragment. Fulfill your duty to our family, our bloodline, as all the other daughters before you.”

“I will, mother.”, she responded and stared at the box which was now hers.

So that was it?

Yeah, of course, nothing strange happened.

It was just a box with jewelry.

Nothing more.

At least this ceremony was over now.

Sehrazat was freshly showered and wearing her PJs as she retired to her room for the night. Yawning she closed the door after her.

Well, this birthday was over, she got cool gifts, had an awesome time with her family, eat well and now was the Keeper of a shiny little box.

The Box with the Millenium Item was sitting on her Vanity Mirror where she had it placed before taking her shower.

She frowned at the thing.

Till she had a daughter and she was 15, she had to keep an eye on it. Yeah, she could imagine more fun activities.

Stupid family tradition.

The blue-haired girl bet some of her ancestors got conned with this thing and the story and made anybody believe it to this day.

Well, she surely wouldn’t.

Mumbling to herself about stupid shiny boxes, she sat down on her bed and reached for her deck. She wanted to put the new cards in it and then in the cardholder, Kihana had made for her.

Just…something was bugging her.

She couldn’t explain it. It was something in the deeps of her mind. Something like a whisper.

Something said deep in herself to look at what was in the box.

Frowning she placed her deck on her bedside table and took the shiny box from the Vanity Mirror to her bed. She crossed her arms and sat before it.

“So, now what? Stupid shiny old box, what is so special about you?”, she said to herself.

Meanwhile, a storm was forming with lightning and thunder, and howling wind.

The blue-haired girl took the box in her hand and opened it. There laid this Millennium Fragment.

It was golden, tear-dropped formed with a big eye of Horus staring right into her soul.

She admitted it looked really…ancient.

And the eye was creeping her out.

“So you are the Millenium Fragment, heh?”, was she really talking to jewelry? What had gotten into her? “What is so special about you?”

To demonstrate, herself and anybody else Sehrazat decide to break the rule about not wearing the jewelry.

It was just a story.

She took it out of the box.

It was just a story.

The box was placed on her bed.

It was just a story.

Lighting illuminated its surface and reflected on it ominously.

It was just a story!

Sehrazat took all her courage and put it on.

Her heart beat so fast, that she could feel and hear it. Sweat has broken out on her body, but it was done.

The Millenium Fragment hung now from her throat.

The storm outside got more intensive.

“Heh, that’s it?”, she said with a wobbly voice. “It’s really just-“

The teenager couldn’t even end her sentence as some kind of energy flowed through her being. A golden eye appeared on her forehead and she throws her head back in a silent scream.

If someone saw this he wouldn’t believe his eyes, but the girl seemed to grow taller, her body taking more womanly curves, her hair reaching her bottom and her eyes becoming shaper.

Her mouth closed and she slowly put her head again forward.

She blinked her eyes a few times and raised an elegant eyebrow as she looked around the room.

“Well, this…this is surprising.”, Sehrazat or not said in a melodious sinful voice who belonged to a woman and not a young girl.

She raised her hand to look at it, studying it.

“Really surprising.”

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gingerwritess · 4 years

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Omg I love hands too, can u imagine the reader just out of the blue straddling Loki (who was perfectly minding his own business on the couch reading) & the reader pulls the book from his hands and starts to just feel them. Kiss them. Even nibble them just a little. And our smol bean is just so confused but slowly closes his eyes and just enjoys the sensations. When the reader hears him sigh she looks up and he’s full blushing like ‘oh I actually liked the feeling of that’,real cozy vibe fic

i am aLIVE have this dumb little fluffy piece to tide you over, i have something up my sleeve that i’ll be posting about later but for now...enjoy fawning over loki’s hands

He’s deeply at peace right now, with the most serene softness to his face that you’ve seen in a long time.

Loki’s been needing some peace lately, between hyper kids and an equally hyper brother, plus patients and work and avenging and being a princely diplomat and a husband; yeah, he deserves to curl up with a good book.

But, his hands dare to exist. So graceful. Such long, pale fingers, turning the pages and clutching the cover, you want to hold them, but he’s caressing a book, not you.

What a shame it would be if someone were to interrupt.

You stride over to the couch, pluck the book out of his hands—careful not to lose his spot—and plop yourself down on his lap.

“I was reading that,” Loki halfheartedly protests, half a tired grin creeping over his face—he can’t say this isn’t preferred.

“Read me,” you mutter, already distracted by the hands settling on your thighs. “Give me your hands.”

The god quirks an eyebrow, but does as you say. Always, does as you say, as if he likes it, as if he’s proud to.

You hold his hands like he held the book. Just let them sit in your palms, occasionally running your thumbs along the curve of skin between his thumbs and forefingers.

They’re heavy.

Yet at the same time...perfectly light. At first they float, and Loki is confused, so you lean forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead and his hands fall the rest of the way into yours.

“What’s this about?”

“Appreciation.”

The left hand drops from your grip as you focus on the right, lifting it to eye level and squinting at it.

Holding perfectly still, he watches you trace the undersides of his fingers from the tip to the center of his palm, your touch ghostly and careful, sending a tingling shiver down his spine.

The minuscule jerk of his body under you makes you crack a smile, and you bring his palm to your lips.

“Tickles?”

Loki nods, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Sorry,” you whisper, and place a tiny kiss on each of his fingertips.

“Kids asleep?”

“Mhm.”

He hums right back deep in his throat, his free hand settling in the curve where your thigh meets your hip, his thumb brushing over your skin as you kiss his fingertips.

He’s gone completely limp and looks so difinitively delicious that you can’t help but take the tip of his middle finger between your teeth, watching him through your eyelashes when he cracks an eye open to stare at you.

“Careful—”

Sliding your fingers through his, you cut him off by catching his lips with yours.

That’s when he actually relaxes.

His eyes close and he groans against you, squeezing your hand tight as you stroke your fingers along his knuckles. You’re lifting the weight of a million stars from his chest with one brush of your lips, and you guide his hands to wrap around your neck as you pry your fingers from his so you can slide your palms over his chest, his shoulders, up his neck to lose themselves in his hair.

The smallest whimper leaves his throat.

“Hey,” you whisper, pulling away ever so slightly, forehead still resting against his. “Loki. You okay?”

“Tired,” he replies hoarsely. “So, so tired.”

He hasn’t been sleeping well, you’ve been able to tell, always tossing and turning beside you, trying to hold onto you and see if that will put him to sleep, but most of the time he ends up getting out of bed to go busy himself with anything he can. A book, a small task, writing, you, if you’re awake; any kind of distraction.

You nudge his cheek with your nose, slowly stroking your palm up and down the side of his neck. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. Right now, just fall asleep, I’m right here.”

His forehead drops to your curve of your neck. “Something’s changing,” he murmurs, fingers curling against your back. “It’s waking me. I don’t know what or when or what is has to do with us, but something...something significant is on the horizon.”

Moving slowly from his cheek to just under his eye, you trace your lips along the smooth skin there, placing a soft kiss on his brow. “Something good?”

“Maybe.” He twitches under you and shakily tries to land a kiss to your lips, but he misses and it lands on your chin instead. Breathing a quiet laugh, you take his face in your hands, thumb tracing once over his lips before you guide him into a proper kiss.

“We’ll make it good,” you whisper. “Whatever it is.”

Trailing soft kisses across his cheek and down his neck, you pick his left hand up again, lips moving to the inside of his wrist as he quietly groans.

“What kind of dark magic...”

“Affection, Loki.” A quick kiss to his wedding ring. “It’s called affection.”

He laughs, his fingers curling towards you. “I know. Can I—”

“No.”

You push him back against the couch with a firm kiss to his forehead, not letting go of his hand when he tries to flip the tables on you.

“Unbelievable,” he grunts. His eyes flutter closed and he smiles. “You’re such a pain.”

“Mhm.”

You kiss his wedding ring again, ghosting kisses along his ring finger and down to his palm and back up to twirl his ring around his finger. It’s still one of your favourite things you’ve ever given him—aside from two children, I suppose.

A thin golden serpent wraps itself around his left ring finger, a snake with two tiny emerald eyes, biting it’s tail to bind him as yours.

When you lift your gaze, he’s staring at it.

“You okay, honey?”

He smiles, twists his hand suddenly to grab your wrist and yank you against him, and locks an arm around your neck as you let out a yelp.

“Always,” he whispers, and kisses your giggling lips. “Always, no matter what.”

― ― ― ―

~ masterlist link in my bio ~

loki tags: @bluediamond007 @himitoshi @drakesfiance @destiel1597 @dangertoozmanykids101 @archy3001 @jcalpha1 @yzssie @skullvieplu @forthesnakeofdragons @skulliebythesea @wegingerangelica @storiesfrommirkwood @agarwaeneth @adaliamalfoy @laurfangirl424@fitzsimmons-is-forever @ladylokimischief @katelinwrites @tarynkauai @polaristrange @loavesofmeat @canadian-ravenpuff-multishipper @lou-makes-me-strong @holyn0vak @chocolatealmondmillk @swtnrholland @kenzieam @jessiejunebug @the-republic-and-face-of-texas

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@toozmanykids @brooklyn-times

#loki x reader #loki reader insert #loki fluff #loki imagine #loki fanfiction

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