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#writing excerpt
words-on-pa-per · 2 days
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“Don’t do this.”
“Why are you protecting them? They killed-“
“I’m not protecting them, I’m protecting you. I know you’re going to regret this.”
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ghostplasmas · 4 months
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“So… what happened?” Twilight asked, walking over to time. He was undeniably a ghost, that much was obvious. His form shimmered under the moonlight, a soft, pale blue. Twi sat down next to him, and Time looked back up at the moon.
“I died.” He said joyfully, and Twilight rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, I got that much- but. How? And why are you in… a puppet body?” He clarified, and Times' cheeky grin dropped to a soft smile.
“I died to a black blooded monster. There was a camp near the Lost woods in my era, and… I didn't realize how strong they were until it was too late.” He spoke, his voice soft, like chimes blowing in the wind. Twilight wasn't entirely sure Time was even talking- his voice rattling around in his head.
Twilight looked down at the grass, chewing the inside of his lip. “What about your new body?” He asked. Time made a strange face, staring at the moon intensely. Twilight mentally smacked himself- Time never talked about his past, why would he want to talk about this?
“It was a compromise with Hylia.” Time said, and Twilight’s eyes blew wide, staring at him.
“What?”
“My journey wasn't over.” Time said. “I wasn't supposed to die- at least. That's what she told me. She needed to bring me back, but… I couldn't stand the thought of Malon losing me again- so. I asked for a body that made it so I couldn't. I asked for enough time to be with Malon for the rest of her life.” He said quietly, before barking out a laugh. “I didn't expect her to turn me into a Puppet.”
Twilight stared at Time, baffled. This made Time laugh loud and clear, finding his surprise immensely humorous. “You don't believe me?” He asked, and Twilight shook his head.
“No! It's just.” Twilight struggled to find the right word for how utterly insane it sounded.
“Crazy? Yeah. It does seem like that.” He smiled. And Twilight couldn't help the nagging feeling in his chest. Seeing him now- the armor, the markings, and the way his voice echoed in his mind-
“at the beginning of my journey…” Twilight started, before clenching his jaw. He already started. He needed to finish it. “There was a ghost I met…”
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evanbegins · 9 months
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"I want to make you my Medical Power of Attorney."
Eddie's words shocked Buck, in the hospital, hours after being saved from near-death.
"Eddie, what- what did you say?" Buck stared at him, eyes wide and weary and scared and curious all at once; he still had that fear lacing him whenever Eddie nearly died, like when he had been shot, although this time, it wasn't as bloody.
"I know you heard me," The words didn't hurt, they were fond, but Eddie was still serious with a look that made Buck swallow dryly, "I want you to sign the papers to make sure you'll choose what happens when I die."
"What brought this up?"
Buck knows what brought this up.
Eddie's brown eyes softened at the questions, "I nearly died, Buck. Again. Our entire little crew nearly did, even you. I got out with broken ribs, but that might not be the case in the future."
Buck stared at him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling through his head, yet his face was grim, "We nearly die a lot, huh?" His voice lilted, like he was sad.
Eddie subtly nodded his head.
"I trust my parents, but I trust you more. You're as much as my family as they are, but you're the one who would do what I want."
Buck hoped that he wouldn't keep going; he didn't want Eddie to keep talking about the ways Buck loved him without explicitly shouting it out.
Fuck. He loves Eddie.
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flaint · 3 months
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HAPPY NEW YEARS!!!!! 🎉🎉
CONFETTI!!! HOPE EVERYONE'S HAD A GREAT YEAR !!! Here's a little excerpt from the Christmas Fic I'm making to say thanks for the support on my stupid writing and also sorry it's talking so longhdghf
...Glancing around the room, he could see so many people. He didn't remember the last time one of Scrabby's parties had a turn-out this good. Through the endless sea of beings, he spotted Orbo and Cos whispering to each other off to the side. It instantly piqued Prism's interest, he didn't even know they knew each other. They worked in completely different departments after all.
Prism stared at the pair, trying to deduce what they might be talking about when they both glanced in Prism's direction, meeting his eyes. Both Orbo and Cosmic's faces shifted in what could only have been alarm, both hastily and not very conspicuously making it seem as if they were never talking to one another.
Clearly, they were devising some kind of scheme, he knew what both of those men were like to be able to guess that much. He could only imagine what they could be devising. Whatever nefarious deeds they were planning, Prism wanted nothing to do with it. He had half a mind to stand up and confront them directly, but this idea was quickly quashed when Scrabby appeared in front of him. Successfully taking up most of Prism's vision and consequently blocking him from watching what Cos and Orbo were planning. The bug loomed over him, looking down at Prism with a cutting smirk...
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thecomfywriter · 2 years
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Writing Tension
Hey! It’s your girl— @thecomfywriter— back with another post. Apparently, an anticipated post :) Fr though, before we start, I want to thank you all for the warm welcome and kind comments since coming back to this account. It makes me really happy to see these posts help people, and hopefully I can continue to be a resource for you guys, or even share my own works too! I started doing writing prompts on my instagram, so that’s always an option. 
Anyways, today’s post is about writing tension. Perhaps one of the greatest devices you can use as a writer, as it allows you to utilize the narrative to grip your reader, immerse them into your story, and have them truly feel for your characters and the events. Because of its power, it's also not the easiest thing to navigate. Thus, this post is here to help, as rather a launching point or hopefully a guide on how to implement and work tension into your story. 
Before we get started, here are all my socials. Do pop on, give it a visit, spread the love. And if you find my posts particularly helpful and you want to show your appreciation, you can tip this post &/or buy me a coffee using the link down below. 
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Tension is a subdevice of foreshadowing, in which readers are made to anticipate the worst occurring and/or face a conflict. Tension adds mood, depth, atmosphere, and engagement with your story. It is a tactic employed to cause emotional distress to your readers and characters alike. There are multiple different facets to developing tension successfully, each with its own purpose in crafting your perfect narrative. Not every story is going to need all of these to build tension but every good story with proper tension that leaves your readers unable to put the book down because, “what’s going to happen next” will have at least more than one.
Conflict: 
The foundational aspect of tension is conflict. Your character is experiencing a tense chapter, or the narrative has an increased sense of tension in it because there has been an introduction of conflict, whether that be through internal or external forces. Internal conflict may result in emotional distress and the reader's anticipation of when those bottled up, unresolved emotions will come to fruition and make a muck of character relations (as an example). Or, it can cause the retrograde degeneration of a character’s arc. Meanwhile, external conflict gives your characters a focus, an opposition to combat. Conflict is a natural breeding ground for tension because it festers resistance and opposition. Depending on the type of conflict within your story, the effect and consequences will be different. However, some things to bear in mind for each are such: 
Internal conflict: 
Internal conflict is the idea of “man vs. self,” in which your character is their own antagonist. When dealing with internal conflict, understanding the character’s motivations (or lack thereof), their personality, their morality/values, and their perspective is key to understanding their reaction and thus the outcome of this conflict. Personally, I love using internal conflict for building tension, because it creates a sense of dichotomy and indecision that puts the reader in a sense of discomfort. It’s powerful because it's uncomfortable, and it's uncomfortable because it's confrontational. It requires the characters to face the most undesirable, the worst, deepest, darkest, most heinous parts of themselves and question how it aligns or rejects against their self-perception. When writing internal conflict, the tension should arise predominantly from the character’s emotions and their struggle, putting them at a crossroads within themselves. Here’s a brief outline of each of the types of internal conflict:
Religion/faith: your character is questioning their spiritual stance 
Desires: these can be regular old desires or sexual ones, but your character is left repressing or struggling to accept/control their untamed/scandalous/unacceptable desires 
Morality: your character is questioning/forced to confront their sense of morality (or lack thereof), usually inspired by an external conflict
Identity: your character is attempting &/or struggling to form an image of themselves OR they are struggling to accept their self-image, typically in contrast to the image/identity they desire or have been prescribed to
I want to do another post on identity because my sister made this brilliant presentation on the types of identity for her global health class and I think it can really be helpful in understanding how to forge your character’s identity in respect to the rest of the story/society
Love/guilt: these are two of the most powerful emotions a character can feel, specifically emotions that drive action, which is why I grouped them together. Also because they’re often connected, whether it be the internal conflict of rejecting love, repressing it, being in denial, trying to force or reject it, or feeling the guilt of lost love, unrequited love, unethical love, or hurting a lover. Or, of course, the entire ballpark of dealing with guilt itself. Guilt is the needle for a person’s moral compass; remember that when exploring the dynamics of a character's internal struggle when it comes to guilt, regret and shame. 
Existential: the character must face themselves and come to a decision about their purpose/the meaning of life. This type of conflict typically involves an internal struggle against what the character knows or is prescribed to believe versus what they themselves truly find meaning in. 
Interpersonal: kind of like identity and existential, interpersonal conflict is a struggle in which your character opposes their role or their identity and its place within a larger context. For example, your character grappling with their sense of identity versus the societal norms and expectations is considered interpersonal because it goes beyond their own self-image, but instead of how their identity contributes to a larger scale. 
External Conflict: 
This type of conflict is your classic, “man vs other,” in which your character is opposing a force beyond themselves. When dealing with external conflict, setting up a basis for motivation for each party and allowing your readers to understand why these motivations clash is key in developing character intentions, which keeps your story consistent and is also a helpful reference tool for areas where you want to add tension. There are also a plethora of external conflict types, which I will outline here: 
Antagonist: this is a character who doesn’t necessarily have to be a villain, but they do have to be in opposition to your character. For example, your character’s antagonist can be the tyrant who conquers and enslaves tribes and cities of these ancient lands, or they can be the crush of your character’s love interest. The crush didn’t do anything wrong. They’re not a bad person. They’re just in the way of the protagonist’s goals in the story, which in this story, would be to woo and romance their love interest. 
Nature: natural disasters. The world is ending. Radiation. Alternate planets with weird, mystical, and dangerous wildlife. Surviving the outdoors. 
Society: character is combating against society, whether it be norms, authority, or the community itself.
Technology: character against technology that has gone too far. Typically in sci-fi, futuristic settings. Think AI, robots, nuclear bombs/weapons/warfare… the list goes on. You can be so creative with this one, I love it. Technically, Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” was character vs. technology. 
Fate: character is trying to prevent, oppose, or deter a certain inevitability or destiny they’ve been prescribed to. Think of oracles or prophecies, maybe even soulmates for romance books. I always like to think of Oedipus as the classic example.  
For example, character X has lost their father in a lynching after his father spoke up against the corrupt government that was leaching off their already struggling and vulnerable village. Thus, X has a strong vehemence towards the corruption, the government, and specifically the authority + everyone involved in the lynching. His motivation lies in his grief (which, in it of itself is an internal conflict, as he struggles to process the traumatic incident and cope with the violent and public murder of his parent) and thus may motivate his desire to dismantle the government and abdicate the leader that ordered the lynching to begin with. In this example, there are 2 external conflicts. Conflict 1 is the authority who ordered the lynching (antagonist) and conflict 2 is the society that endorsed the corruption that his father was rebelling against to begin with. Your character’s motivation may be to honour his father’s memory by dismantling both corrupt regimes, and his antagonist's motivation may be to silence any acts of rebellion in order to maintain governorship, power, and retain authority. These motivations, when outlined, are in direct opposition to each other, and being able to recognize that can help you as the writer facilitate scenarios in which those motivations and oppositions are exacerbated. By forcing your characters to make a difficult decision that reveals their intentions or puts their intentions on blast, you create tension in the story (i.e. if X had to choose between telling the authorities of a near-broken dam that would flood their village to save the innocents at the cost of increasing their hold on the population by embellishing their reputation, or allow the dam to break, killing the innocents and forcing the authority to go under higher investigation that would rule them out of power. What does your character value more?)
Building the atmosphere: 
Okay, lemme explain what I mean about this because I feel like this is a common trope in horror that always has me shitting BRICKS. Basically, there are elements of horror (that's the next point I’ll be explaining, fret not), in which one of them is the overdescription of a scene. Essentially, I like to think of it as, say your character is in the middle of a super tense scene. They’re alone in the house late at night. They live in a cabin wood area, no neighbours for a couple of kilometers. Their phone—blasted! They forgot to put it on charging. The hairs on their spine are rising. An odd sense of urgency has replaced their relaxing movie night when multiple creaking floorboards sound from upstairs. Your character slithers into the kitchen, grabbing the first knife they see, trying to make as little noise as possible as they slowly trek up the stairs. One hand is on the railing, the other raised with their knife ready to stab. Their eyes are darting. Their senses are heightened. Shadows from outside cast onto each step in non-symmetrical patterns, making each step more difficult to see than the last. The top of the stairs is  a void. The wooden banister is the only thing illuminated by the shreds of moonlight, and it reflects as though polished. What is that? On the railing? Why does it seem wet? 
Your character checks their hand, realizing it too has been trailing over a sticky fluid. Sticky and viscous. They can’t see in the shadows. They don’t want to look down, even for the second it would take to check their hand. Do they look? Do they keep going forward? 
A creak sound behind them. They spin around, slicing the knife into the air. The whoosh of it cutting empty space rattles their bones. It was only their own foot behind them. Though, when they look back up towards the banister, they notice the railing isn’t reflecting as much as it used to. Whatever liquid had stained it had matted to dullness. 
This is stupid. I should be leaving. Your character pivots swiftly, rushing down the stairs, when suddenly, a firm hand covers their mouth and yanks them back. 
In that uncalled for example, the environment is built through perceiving the entire scene in the character’s frantic and limited vision. We are following their frantic eyes, processing all the information and observations they make, whether they make conclusions with the observations, or set them aside for later use. I dunno what it is about this device, but it gives me the heebie jeebies everytime because DAMN stop describing the shadows in the corner of the room and the chills up your arms at the brisk wind that shouldn’t be indoors considering you locked all the windows. I dunno, that kind of writing puts me on edge, and that’s exactly the point. 
Elements of Horror: 
Briefly, I will outline some of the elements of horror and perhaps make a more detailed post on it separately, if y'all would like that. 
Overdescription 
Being vague with crucial details (limiting the characters and readers POV)
Loss of senses 
Overstimulation (creates a sense of anxiety)
Emphasis on a character’s reaction to the events around them // bodily fear (the pit in her stomach clawed into her chest, lodging itself in her throat. A sick acidity overcame her in waves as the sharpness of his fingernails traced along her collarbones. His hot breath feathered the cold skin of her neck, rendering her paralyzed within his clutches) 
Varied sentence structure:
The actual construction of your sentences influences the tone and fluidity of your writing // the scene. General rule of thumb: if you want to draw out a scene, use longer, connected sentences to build anticipation, anxiety, and atmosphere. On the contrary, if you want to blast your readers with a quicker, faster pace, short sentences can jar your readers and give the “loss of sensation” effect to help stun them.
Personalization: 
This is the idea of creating stakes for your characters by making whatever event is occurring to them personal. When thinking of personalization, the key questions to ask yourselves are:
What does (character) have to lose?
Why is losing (thing being lost) significant to (character)/the narrative?
How will (character) change as a person/the narrative change its course if (thing being lost) was lost?
Why is (insert character goal) worth the risk of losing Y? 
What other risks is (character) willing to take for (insert character goal)? How do these risks interact with each other?  
What are the consequences of these risks/decisions/actions? Consider emotional and narrative consequences. 
By personalizing each risk to your characters, you are upping the stakes of their goals, thus increasing the tension because there is more of a gamble to it now. NOTE: in order for this to work, your readers must truly believe that real consequences exist in your story. Not half-assed. Real, proper, committed consequences. Don’t give your character this deadly illness only to immediately present them with a cure. Don’t give them this life altering injury and have them heal within a week. Do NOT give them the easy way out. If you want to increase your stakes, show your readers you are willing to make your characters hurt. Show them that real consequences exist. Your characters, no matter how darling they are to you, should not be immune to the laws of your world. When in doubt, always remember the genius case of Ned Stark— he was the classic hero protagonist who everyone loved and rooted for. And then he died, and he stayed dead, because the story had consequences and he took unforgivable risks. An added weight, a sense of gravity was added to every character’s decision and the reader's perception of safety after that, because if Ned wasn’t safe, no one was. 
Readers on edge: 
Taking away your reader's sense of certainty is one surefire way to build a source of tension and anxiety, as it removes the sense of security that allows them to otherwise remain comfortable in the narrative. By decreasing the sense of security, you increase the tension within the narrative, allowing it to drive the plot forward and increase reader engagement. It also forces the reader to question everything. Will they make it out alive? How did she escape? Who was on the stairs? What was the mysterious reflecting liquid? What happens next? 
If you are able to keep your reader asking these kinds of questions, you are able to maintain their apprehension, which seeks to lock them in and truly sell your story as immersive. 
How do you pull this off? When building tense scenes, consider yourself in the character's shoes. What in that situation would make you feel secure? What would make you feel like you were aware of what was going on? That you could rely on your wit and foresight to help you in your quest? What would give you confidence? 
Now take that away. 
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Anyways y’all, I’m spent. Hope this helps! Feel free to suggest more posts through my asks and inbox. Until then, I’ll be working on some super in-depth posts for my buymeacoffee page. 
Happy Writing! :)
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hamletisgone · 4 months
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grabbing and shaking my characters by their shoulders. youre going to be the worst of me and someone is going to think its the best of me and i dont know which one of us is wrong.
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i know i posted a snippet already today but. the horror in this rewrite fucks severely and i need to share this latest bit ft. autumn, who has stayed willfully ignorant and avoidant of Plot for the last two books only for it to catch up to her now in the worst way possible
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Transcript in Alt <3
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captainbogwitch · 8 months
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For the one word ask box challenge:
"Tackle"?
Love your writing btw💙💙💙💙
Link was a fair fighter when it came to sparring - he knew that his life wasn't on the line and it wasn't truly necessary to tackle anyone once he lost his weapon, but Sidon knocked away his silverscale spear and Link instinctually pounced, catching the larger Zora very off-guard.
It wasn't very often that Sidon felt small, or even weaker than an opponent - if anything he thought he would hate it - but Link's hands were on his shoulders and there was a spark in his eye that looked a little dangerous.
Sidon found that he rather liked this.
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kaylinalexanderbooks · 2 months
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Last Line Tag
Thanks lovely mutual @chauceryfairytales for the tag!
Rules: post the last line you wrote/edited for your WIP
From The Secret Portal Part One (Lexi POV)
“Then what?” I demanded, trying to hide my voice cracking.
This chapter is much better now that I fixed this plotline.
Anyway @gracehosborn @theelfauthor @theeccentricraven @buffythevampirelover @thepeculiarbird @jezifster @ohnomybreadsticks @hippiewrites @eccaiia @mikathewriter @mysticstarlightduck @ceph-the-ghost-writer @aalinaaaaaa and anyone else
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unorthodoxx-page · 1 year
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I honestly love the way you write your fanfics! I'm planning on writing my own but im not really good at writing one (I know this because of past works i did). Any tips to share?
LONG POST BELOW  Also this is just my opinion, and I’d love to hear what everyone else thinks!
My best advice is to write the stories anyway. Even if you never post them, if you have something finished, you have something to edit. It's easier to see plotting mistakes, inconsistent character voices, and weak exposition in a finished piece.
The plotting process is different for everyone, and I don’t plug my story into a 3 Act outline, but it’s a good idea to have an understanding of some of these structures.  Especially if you’re just starting out, it kind of gives you a base to build off of and gets you thinking about smaller sections of your story.   I also always suggest knowing your middle before you even start writing. Many people (including myself lol) have really good beginning and ending ideas, but struggle to connect them. Even if it's just one sentence explaining the middle, then you at least have something to work off of.   An unclear/unknown middle will kill a story, trust me.  
Now, writing style is subjective, but I think what's around the style is what people focus on when they say ‘I don’t/do like this writing style’.  For example, I started with poetry, so a lot of my prose reads like a poem in certain spots. Now, this gives me interesting sentences, but not good paragraphs.  It’s the delicate balance of explanations around those sentences that’s typically the hardest part.  Too much or too little can be glaringly obvious to a reader, and it can be hard to find a sweet spot.  I personally struggle with too much when explaining action.  I have an example below: 
Example below is from an old personal work so be kind lol.
Brianna flicks the dead blunt over the banister and bumps Imani on the shoulder on her way back to the party.  Imani nods in acknowledgment but she follows the blunt as long as she can to the ground below.  She doesn’t see it land, but her eyes snag on single red cup.  Her cup, she’s sure of it.  How did she find herself in this cycle of shitty interactions that end with her buzzed and alone on this railing.  Imani should be in there dancing, making memories that she’ll laugh about and decisions that she’ll regret.  Not introspecting like some philosophical bitch.
Now, the above isn’t bad but it definitely has a chunky beginning.
Brianna bumps Imani in solidarity and flicks the dying blunt over the railing.  Imani doesn’t look up when the girl leaves, instead, she tracks the faint glow as far down as she can.  She doesn’t see it land, but her eyes snag on a single cup in a sea of red.  It’s the one she dropped, she’s sure of it.  How does she always find herself in this shitty cycle that ends with her buzzed and alone?  She should be in there dancing, making memories and decisions that she’ll regret.  Not introspecting like some philosophical bitch.
See?  The first two sentences had too much explained action, so it took away from the scene and the solid sentences at the end.  The second one condenses those actions into something more character driven.  Which is another point to keep in mind: What can your character voice add to this scene?  Even if you’re describing the world, you’re doing it from the POV of the character.  What word choice would they use?  Is it big or is it massive?  Is it a warm sun or an unforgiving one?  Even one line of character observation in a paragraph can change the entire feel. 
Even in the example above “bump in solidarity” hints at the conversation before this sentence.  You don’t have to read it to know Brianna was comforting her about something.  Just the fact that Imani sees it as a solidarity motion tells you everything you need to know.  
I don’t know if that helps, but those are some of my broad tips that I keep in mind when I’m writing.  
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verba-writing · 1 month
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Heads up, Seven Up!
Hello there, lovely Writerblr's! I was tagged twice by the lovely @little-peril-stories & @tryingtowritestuff24
I would like to tag @owlsandwich @faeriecinna @sleepywriter00 feel free to join in if you fancy and open tag to anyone who see's this :)
So here goes a new piece I'm drafting to insert into Chapter Four of Her Fate:
Fog from her breath was slowly rising up the glass, but before her vision was completely obstructed, her eyes settled on something tall in the corner - a stack of cadet grey footlockers and a clutch of guns to accompany them. Swallowing the clot of fear in her throat, Karou’s shoulders hunkered down as she ducked away from the window to press her back against the log walls. Facing the lonely woods and their creeping darkness, she clamped her teeth down into her lower lip, which threatened to tremble. In the same vein, she clenched her shaking hands into fists; the tension or the cold burned her skin. Her eyes stung, dry from the cold, now wetting with the disappointment that nowhere was safe. Her ears pricked at a chorus of voices and creaking footsteps as the inhabitants of the cabin returned indoors. Instinct moved her to flee into the cover of the trees; scrambling down the porch steps, she stumbled through the snow, a slow getaway if ever there was one.
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words-on-pa-per · 3 days
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“I was raised gently by light and shadows. When I didn’t pick a side, they both tore me apart.”
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shakarian excerpt of my canon divergence fic where they meet years before the events of me1 👀✨🔥
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evanbegins · 9 months
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"I have a sunburn."
Eddie could hear the pout without having to turn his head. His sunglasses pushed down the bridge of his nose, sun beating down on his skin.
He gave an exasperated look at buck, skin warmed with a red-pink that coated his shoulders and face, from cheek to cheek, brushed on his own nose.
Buck gave a sheepish grin.
"I told you to put sunscreen on," he pushed down the shades to really look at him. All the other did was give an embarassed look, brows furrowing.
"Sorry, Eds. I'll remember what you told me before we left the house an hour ago next time."
Eddie raised a brow; Buck just tucked his chin to his chest with a small little smile.
He looked real nice like that. He always did to Eddie, really, but the saltwater had really brought out his curls and his pretty eyes, that pearly white smile really tying it together.
Buck looked gorgeous, the early-evening light framing him perfectly, sun starting to set. It cascaded from his stubble-soft cheeks to his broad shoulders, down to his hard-earned muscles on his toned stomach.
He loved Buck.
"Let me apply it next time?" He brushed a thumb over his burnt shoulder, the skin not yet peeling like it would in the days to come, freckles from being out in the bright sunlight standing out on the peachy skin.
The action could be played off as just a best friend being tactile, but Eddie knew why he had done it.
Buck knew too. He always knew.
It'd be left unsaid, like all the other subtle little touches that they liked to share. A squeeze on the other's nape just a little too lingering to be considered platonic, or holding hands under a table.
They loved to sneak those little things.
"Yeah," Buck gave him that pretty smile that pulled at his cheeks, eyes scrunched up and his nose crinkled.
Eddie knew it was his smile reserved for Chris and Eddie, and both of them alone.
It probably hurt when it tugged at his burns, still sensitive, but it'd be okay, because it was for him. He knew Buck would let anything good happen for him, even if it happened to hurt himself a little bit. Like cooking and continuing even after a burn, or getting up to take Chris to school despite the throbbing ache deep in his knees.
He'd do anything, and Eddie would too.
"Yeah, I'll let you."
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6vaguebook · 29 days
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Excerpts from a random Greek myth retelling I've had in mind for a few months. There's only the thinnest vial of a plot so far, but I wrote a couple scenarios I thought would be funny or interesting (half of them will probably have to go) but it is so unhinged I couldn't not share
Note: these are all from Ares's POV
“ ‘As the protector of young boys, I hereby declare Hermes a young boy, which makes it my duty to protect him!’, Apollo yelled. ‘Hey!’, Hermes protested, but Apollo was already slinging him over his shoulder and heading for the exits. Good riddance. Ares was getting tired of having the spikes on his sword stolen.”
"Athens should have picked Poseidon. Except they were currently in the process of fighting Poseidon, in the ocean, so forget he said anything, actually."
“You know what? Forget the war. He would move to the south pole and become the god of penguins.”
“But if he knew his mother at all, which he did, he knew she was definitely not above doing something so despicable. She’d thrown Hephaestus off mount Olympus when he was born because he was lame and ugly, and yes, his brother was in fact terribly ugly, and Ares had definitely contemplated throwing him off a cliff before, the guy was mega annoying at the best of times, but still. Not Cool, mom.”
“Well, Hera, he was tempted to say, if you didn’t keep ruining their mothers’ lives, maybe they’d be nicer to you. Not being suicidal, he held his tongue.”
“He was tempted to throw the horseshoe in his face, but he doubted the gesture would be appreciated.”
“Hestia was everyone’s favourite aunt. Unfortunately, he would have to drop Poseidon in her hearth, which was an unforgivable insult to her pride above all else. He felt no remorse for throwing Poseidon in a giant fire place, though. The guy’d been getting on his nerves all week.”
“Thanatos was a workaholic. Why couldn’t the guy take a vacation for like, a month or two? He said this out of concern for the guy, of course, but he wouldn’t argue it would be nice if his soldiers didn’t keep dying.”
“Athena threw her shield in his face and bolted for the door. How was she the smart one again? The shield broke in half on Zeus’s forehead, and he roared in anger. Ares darted after her.”
“Persephone threw the bouquet in Hermes’s face. Hermes screamed, which, valid. Persephone throwing anything was scary.”
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drunkenskunk · 3 months
Text
Another place, and another time...
The following is an excerpt from my currently in-progress fanfiction project, Ashen Exile. I figure this sequence might gain more traction here than otherwise, for reasons which I'm sure will become apparent by the end.
- - -
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Grey.
It didn't matter which way one looked, everywhere was that same lifeless grey, permeating every surface, smothering everything. The mottled, crumbling soil, the color of cold ash, was cracked and broken, torn asunder by thousands of boots and aeons of war. Broken spears, tattered flags, rusted swords, dented shields... so many discarded tools of warfare littered the ground, alongside their results: the scattered broken bones of countless long forgotten dead. A thick grey fog enshrouded the edges of this wasteland, and an oppressive grey sky hung heavy overhead, both featureless and foreboding. It was difficult to tell where the ground ended and where the sky began; ruin and devastation stretched out in every direction.
This was not a place anyone would want to be.
In the center of this wasteland of dead and long forgotten carnage stood a child, no older than 14. Locks of unkempt, greasy raven hair fell around a sharp, serious face. A pair of ruby red eyes peered out from beneath a fringe of wild bangs. Skin the color of polished oak stood in sharp contrast to the overwhelming grey of the landscape around them. Robes of black and red, the fabric inlaid with arcane sigils and runes of power, hung loosely in unappealingly flat and indistinct shapes. Entirely too-long sleeves seemed to swallow the child's hands till only two pairs of skinny fingers emerged. In one of those hands, the child tightly gripped a black metal staff tipped with a sparkling green crystal, humming with a barely contained energy that seemed eager to be unleashed.
The child inhaled deeply, held it, and slowly exhaled. Lingering in this brief moment of silence and peace, trying to draw it out for as long as possible... in preparation for what was coming next.
A voice boomed. Though it uttered only a single word, the voice dripped with authority. The sound carried the bellowing weight of a man who would never ask, when he could command.
“Begin.”
In an instant, the stillness shattered like the breaking of glass. From out of the foggy haze, dozens of figures emerged: vaguely humanoid in shape, in that they had two arms, two legs, and a single head, but that was where the similarities ended. These hulking, monstrous brutes were far too tall and far too broad, each of them a twisted mass of meat and metal. Half of their bodies were encased in blackened metal, either fused with or bolted directly to their bodies, armoring their heavily muscled forms unevenly. What wasn't armored was marred by red scaly flesh, jagged horns protruding from their heads and back, and feet ending in bulky, cloven hooves. These unholy amalgams of scarred meat, bleached bone, and daemonic steel filled the air with bellowing war cries, brandishing all manner of deadly weaponry, and charged directly at the child in the center.
Naught but a second had passed, and the child was already on the move. Feet kicked off the ground, and they ran to the side, putting as much distance between them and the charging horde as possible. A hand peeked out from the sleeve with a quick, yet precise, gesture; sparks and scintillating smoke trailed off the edge of their fingers, coalescing into a glowing rune, hovering in the air next to the staff.
“Shaza-kiel!” they shouted, aiming the tip of the staff towards the closest of the demonic brutes. Ethereal chains shrouded in dark light erupted from the crystal, spiraling around itself through the air, before plunging into the chest of the demon. It shuddered and halted in its advance, with eyes that started glowing with the same dark light as the chains. The enslaved demon swiftly turned to another of its fellows and swung the halberd in its hand in a wide arc, catching the other across the knees with the giant blade.
More demons were coming, and the child continued to run. With another gesture of their free hand, a new rune appeared. “Katra zil shukil!” they muttered, raising the staff. The crystal shimmered, releasing clouds of sickly green miasma and ethereal flies which shot forth towards the next closest beast. It shuddered and briefly halted in its advance; boils and sores began to appear on its scaly flesh, bursting just as quickly as they appeared, leaking torrents of blood and pus. Even the metal armor and greataxe in its hands started to visibly corrode and rust. The miasma began to spread, catching several of the other charging demons, inflicting them with the same corruption.
But this only slowed a few of them... and there were still so many more.
“Ashj-rethul!” the child said, tracing a burning rune into the air. A spark appeared, suspended in the center of the shimmering rune, and they plunged the crystal tip of the staff straight through. The rune imploded around the crystal, and the spell exploded forward, sending a massive gout of flame at the next closest brute. It corkscrewed through the air and exploded against his chest, showering him in superheated globs of molten metal. The monster's entire body – and the area surrounding it – instantly caught alight, as if it had just been dropped into a furnace.
Their numbers were starting to thin, but nowhere near quickly enough. The child looked to the grey clouds overhead, and raised the staff to the sky. Another rune was traced in the air, and more daemonic words of power were spoken: “Melar ril'daz!” The clouds began to darken and churn, and the child brought the staff down in a motion akin to yanking on a rope or a chain, right through the rune. With a crack of thunder, the sky split open in fire, raining down dozens of fireballs directly onto the charging horde.
Sparks of spent mana condensed on the child's hand, dripping away like droplets of sweat. The air was heavy with the stench of rotten meat and burning sulfur. Screams echoed in the air, some in pain... but more in anger, as many of the daemon soldiers simply ignored the rain of fire and continued to charge straight through.
There was no time to cast another spell. One of the monsters was bearing down on the child, brandishing an immense black iron greatsword as big as they were. The child gripped the metal staff with both hands, and lifted it over their head in a feeble attempt to block the oncoming strike. The impact sent a shock through their entire body, sending the child crashing painfully to the ground. Ash and dust billowed out in dirty clouds around the two of them, and while the child desperately tried to scramble back to their feet, the towering daemonic brute pulled the sword away, readying it for a final, deadly swing.
“Rakir.”
A crackle of magenta lightning shot straight up, bursting from the child's open palm like a flurry of buckshot. The daemon reflexively let go of the massive greatsword as it screamed in unbearable agony, its body wracked by blast after blast of terrible, unnatural pain. By the time the weapon clattered to the broken ground, the child was back on their feet and on the move.
But it was already too late.
A titanic mailed fist slammed into the side of the child's head, sending them reeling. They saw stars and stumbled. Before they had any chance to rally, an armored hoof caught them across the midsection and sent them flying. The child sailed through the air, crashed through a broken shield, tumbled end over end through the shower of wooden splinters, and eventually rolled to a stop flat on their back. The child was in a daze from the impact, staring blankly into the grey clouds above; they coughed several times, each reflexive hack sending a gout of blood spraying into the air.
The demon was standing over them now. Trails of blood were gushing out of every wound, pooling onto the ashy soil beneath the child's motionless body. Time seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl. The axe in the daemon's hand hovered no more than an inch above their scrawny neck.
Do it, the child thought. Just do it already. Their wide eyes were filled with manic desperation, fixed squarely on the jagged blade, its edge marred by dozens of deep nicks and gashes. What are you waiting for? Another cough, and more blood splattered onto their face.
“Stop.”
It was the same authoritative voice as before, just as commanding. A deathly chill appeared as a deep, dark shadow blanketed the landscape. The daemon lowered the weapon to its side, stepping away from the child before dropping to one knee.
“Leave us.”
The daemon disappeared without a word, leaving the child to lie on the dirt, silently cursing their ill fate. They rolled over and pushed off the ground with trembling hands, each movement punctuated by another gush of leaking blood. The child did not get back on their feet fully, instead kneeling before the towering shadowy figure, with head bowed and eyes averted; gobbets of blood and mucus continued to trickle out of their nose and the corners of their mouth, dripping onto the soil. The man loomed over the child menacingly, his every feature shrouded in darkness.
Venthrax had arrived.
“████████,” he boomed. “What are you doing?”
“I...” the child paused, trying to swallow some blood so they didn't gag. “I'm doing my best, Lord.”
This was apparently the wrong thing to say. An intense pressure began to weigh down on the child from all sides, as if they had just been dropped directly onto the ocean floor and the entirety of the fathomless depths were trying to crush them.
“Do you think me a fool?” he said, with words that dripped with venom. “I created you. I know what you are capable of. And I know that you are lying.”
“M-my Lord...” the child spoke in a trembling voice, trying not to collapse onto the blood-soaked soil beneath them. “I... I swear on my life, I'm trying my best.”
“You and I both know your life means nothing,” Venthrax snarled. “Swear on something that matters.”
Silence reigned for several seconds. The child said nothing, their mind entirely consumed by the effort required to push back against the spell threatening to crush them. This was, of course, a lie: they were very deliberately concentrating on that thought, dissembling in case Venthrax was reading their mind. The truth was far more simple. They could not think of a single thing they cared about enough to swear on.
Venthrax sighed heavily, the disappointment radiating from him almost palpable; the pressure relented as the spell evaporated, and the child gasped, practically choking on the air forcing its way back into their lungs.
“What do you think this is, ████████?” he asked. “Do you think this mere playtime? A game?” Venthrax fixed the child with his cold gaze. “What do you think will happen if you face a real foe, unprepared? One who does not hold back like my thralls? Do you truly think they will yield? That they will show mercy?”
Thunder boomed in the distance, as the grey storm clouds overhead began to slowly churn.
“The Alliance... the Horde... even the Legion. They are nothing. Mere pebbles at the foot of the mountain which lay before us. The first stepping stones on the path to my Ascension. There are far greater threats, waiting for the both of us among the stars. And you, as the instrument of my wrath, must be stronger than all of them. You will be stronger than them. So your 'best' is not good enough. Not yet.”
Venthrax twitched a finger with the subtlest of gestures. The child's staff was lifted by an invisible hand from the wreckage where it had landed, and sailed through the air with not even a whisper of a sound. It hovered before the child's face for several seconds before unceremoniously dropping to the ground with a clatter.
“The future is not a river to carry us. It is the ocean in which we will both drown, if we are not prepared. And we will be prepared.”
Thunder boomed once again.
“You will do it again,” he said, turning on his heel and walking away. “And you will not stop until you succeed.”
- - -
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time after time after time, the child stood alone against impossible odds. Over and over and over again. Each and every time they failed, the same word echoed across the desolation:
“Again.”
And each time, the assault would begin anew. The child lost track of how long they had been there. How many times they tried. How many times they failed. How long since they were last able to rest. Last able to eat. Last able to stop. Until finally...
The dust settled one final time, revealing a wasteland littered with dozens of fresh bodies. A deafening silence reigned supreme. The child stood alone, staring at the carnage with bloodshot eyes: wounded, bloody, and exhausted beyond measure... but the last one standing.
A deathly chill washed over the battlefield, and the monolithic form of Venthrax reemerged from out of the shadows. The child dropped to one knee, bracing for the inevitable reprimand. Wondering just how they had failed this time...
“There. You see, ████████? I knew you could do it,” Venthrax's voice was barely above a whisper, yet somehow louder than a shout. “I am proud of you, my son.”
Teeth clenched, and skinny fingers wrapped into a pair of fists. Nails dug sharply into palms. The color drained from the child's knuckles, and tiny dribbles of blood began to slip through their fingers.
- - -
Green.
All around, the forest was awash in a sea of green. Massive, gnarled trees with trunks covered in thick mosses could be seen in every direction. The sun was blotted out entirely by the densely packed canopy of leaves overhead, with branches twisted together in a mirror of the tangled mess of roots snaking into the ground below. Shrubs, ferns, and wildflowers were growing everywhere, linked to one another with wrist-thick vines, as clusters of mushrooms and other fungi grew in abundance out of every shadowy crack and crevice. Ethereal pinpricks of light glittered in the darkness, lingering in the air between the trees; they were flickering in and out of sight like lanterns, in a manner that was at once natural, and yet very obviously not.
This was an ancient forest, untouched by the works of Man. The air was thick with Old Magick. Wild Magick. The unpolluted power of Elder Things.
There was only one person in this strange forest. The child was running through the woods, heedless of anything around them. Tears streamed down their face, obscuring their vision. And while they were, in fact, the only person... they were hardly alone. Within the shadows, just beyond the path that was taking shape just ahead of them, eyes peered out of the darkness. Indistinct shapes clustered together. Hidden. Watching. Whispering.
Suddenly: a crash!
The child lost their footing and fell, collapsing in a heap onto a pile of damp moss. The shock was enough to pull them from their stupor, and they looked up and around, trying to find the fallen log or errant branch that had caught their foot.
The path behind them was suspiciously clear. The only sound that could be heard was that of their own ragged breathing, filling their ears like wads of cotton. Slowly, cautiously, the child got back on their feet, dragging the end of a sleeve across their face to wipe away the tears. With hesitation, they turned, intent on resuming their trek deeper into this ancient forest...
An elongated face of bone appeared out of the darkness, and the child came to a halt. A pair of emeralds glistened from within the empty eye sockets of the vaguely-equine skull. It hovered silently in the air before them, long tassels of multicolored cloth spilling from the bottom of the skull where its jawbone should've been, swaying in a non-existent breeze.
It was almost enough to distract from the echoing sound of laughter, fading in and out of earshot.
“Oho? And what mann'r of creature doth trespass within our borders?” a strange voice spoke in an odd sing-song cadence, seemingly from two places at once.
“You smell it, don't you brother?” another voice, much harsher than the first, chimed in from somewhere above. “It carries the rotten odour of Fel. We should kill it, ere the taint chances to spread.”
“Let us not be too hasty...” the first voice said, its source still unclear. “Perhaps she has good reason for this offense.”
A tiny head emerged from the other side of the skull, followed by a pair of proportionally tiny arms. Iridescent wings, like those of a dragonfly, also appeared from behind the tiny faerie and began to flutter. Its face broke into a wicked grin as it looked at the child with coal-black eyes, resting a pointed chin atop its interlaced fingers.
“Well? What say you?” the faerie continued to smile from a mouth that was far too wide and filled with far too many teeth for its size. “Art thou friend or foe? What're thee doing in our forests, little girl?”
“I.... I'm not a girl,” the child stammered out, eventually finding their voice. The faerie furrowed a brow in puzzlement.
“Oh, are you not? My apologies,” the faerie began to chuckle once more. “Never could tell with mortals, in truth.”
“This Creacher is not mortal, brother. It reeks of the daemonaic,” the other voice snarled. A pair of crimson eyes with an unclear owner emerged from the darkness. The form of this other fae was... indistinct; everything about its shape seemed to shift at random, and the child could only every catch glimpses of them out of the corner of their vision. “Why is it here?”
“You...” the child swallowed hard, trying to maintain their composure. “You are fae of... of one of the Seelie Courts, correct?”
“Not quite,” The small faerie leaning atop the floating skull chuckled again. “But... close enough.”
“I seek an audience with your queen,” the child said as firmly as they could muster. The small faerie atop the floating skull suddenly stopped smiling.
“A trick!” the shrouded one snarled again, its crimson eyes vanishing back into the darkness. “This foul daemon aims to bring ruin!”
“No tricks, and no ruin,” the child replied, steeling their resolve. “I am here to bargain away the only thing I have of worth.” Not entirely a lie, but...close enough to the truth.
“If thou know of our kind, Creacher of Fel, thee should well know our fair monarch is The Queene, and not merely a queen,” the faerie had dropped any pretense of amiability. “Pray tell... why shouldst we grant thee audience?”
The child opened their mouth to speak, but the answer came not from them... but from the skull. The emeralds within its eye sockets burned brightly, and a single word echoed from the bone:
Granted.
In an instant, everything changed. The skull and the fae vanished in a wink, replaced by a large raven. The corvid spread its wings, flew straight up, and the canopy of leaves overhead swiftly parted for the bird. The forest did not disappear entirely, but seemed to melt and shift before the child's eyes. They found themselves in a grassy clearing, encircled by a ring of mushrooms, and illuminated by a shaft of moonlight revealed by the freshly open canopy. Just beyond the fairy ring, the trees were just as thick as before, and dozens of eyes peered at the child from within the darkness.
“You have ventured far from home, little one,” a gentle voice wafted through the midnight forest air. “I wonder... why have you come before Me?”
The voice brought the child's gaze into focus: the owner was a titanic being of unparalleled alien beauty. Sat on a throne of bark, wrapped in a cloak of leaves, and crowned by a headdress of antlers, the Faerie Queene was impossible to look directly at, and yet it seemed equally impossible to look anywhere else. Her iridescent skin glittered like diamonds of the purest clarity, and her eyes seemed to carry within them the very depths of the infinite cosmos. For the briefest of moments, the child felt rooted in place, utterly captivated and enthralled by this majestic and terrible sight before them.
“I... I'm...” the child began to speak hesitantly... and then, a pair of fists clenched. They swallowed hard, and spoke with renewed resolve. “My name is ████████.”
Silence. The Queene furrowed her brow, gazing down from her throne with curiosity. Hushed whispers and breathless mutterings echoed among the figures hidden within the trees. The child stood before the Queene, wild-eyed and looking expectantly from side to side, clearly anticipating... something.
“... well?” they asked. “You're all faeries, aren't you? I've already given you my Name... What else are you waiting for?” The desperation in their voice was starting to become evident. “Do it!”
For the first time in millennia, the Faerie Queene was caught off guard, and this made her curious. There had certainly been mortal trespassers who had freely given their Names within the domain of the Aos sí before... but they were always ignorant of where they were, and with whom they were dealing. Those with Knowledge were far more guarded, and required tricks and deception to reveal their Name. That this child with Knowledge was so reckless was... unexpected.
And that made it the second unexpected event surrounding this child.
“I am afraid you have Me at a loss, young one,” she said, eventually. “Did you not say to my messenger that you came to bargain? What is it you desire, in exchange for your Name?”
“I...” the child's voice cracked, and they lowered their head, their face now shrouded behind their bangs. “I've heard of what happens to those who give up their Name to the Fae. They disappear. Vanish. Never to return.” The child looked up, briefly, and one of their fierce crimson eyes caught the moonlight. “...so. Go on then.” They looked down again. “Get rid of me.”
More mutterings from the trees. The Queene considered these words, trying to probe the child's mind to gauge their true intent. Yet, she found this mind frustratingly clouded and almost impossible to make sense of... quite unlike any of the other creatures touched by Fel magicks she had dealt with over the aeons. Normally, their ill intent was clear, and impossible to hide. But the only ill-will harbored within this child was... directed inward. It was just as unexpected and confusing now as it was when she first peered within, the moment this child set foot within her domain.
“My Courtiers...” the Queene eventually spoke up, gazing into the trees with a raised hand. “Please, disperse with haste. I wish to speak with this one, in private.”
One by one, the pairs of eyes in the darkness vanished, and the voices vanished with them. The moonlit glade within the fairy ring fell silent. The alien eyes of the Queene gazed down at the child, whose face was still mostly hidden behind the tangled mess of bangs.
“I wonder, young one...” The Queene began, once she was sure they were alone. “Do you wish to die? Was that your true goal in trespassing?”
Silence. The child refused to look up or answer. Their hands, still clenched into fists at their side, began to shake.
“You have certainly gone to an awful lot of trouble to come before Me, if that is, indeed, the case,” she continued. “If taking your own life was your aim, then surely there are easier...”
“I've already tried that!” the child practically shouted, cutting them off. “It never works!”
Silence fell once again, and the Queene's confusion deepened.
“My... my father, Venthrax. He... every time I try to...” the child's voice began to crack. “I can't escape. He always brings me back, no matter what I do to end things. And every time, it... the punishments for my... defiance. They just... keep getting worse.” The child looked up, and it was the moisture welling up in their eyes which caught the moonlight this time. “But... he's spoken of you. Of all the Fae Courts. He tries to hide it, but you're the only ones he truly speaks of with fear. You're stronger than he is. More powerful than he is... and you can make it stick.”
That was when their legs gave out. They dropped to their hands and knees, and their whole body began to shake.
“I... I just...” they began to quietly sob, and teardrops fell onto the grass below. “I want to be free of this pain...”
A pair of slender hands appeared, gently cradling the child's face. With a sniff, the child looked up, and they were met with a heart-shaped face: someone they'd never seen, yet who was instantly familiar. Kind eyes gazed at the child, sparkling in the moonlight as if they were gemstones of the clearest emerald. Long tresses of red hair, decorated with pure white flowers, cascaded off her shoulders in waves, shining like the last embers of a fire in autumn.
“Oh, you poor thing...” the Queene said, kneeling before the child and using the sleeve of her silken gown to wipe away the tears. She began to smile sweetly, and it felt like the sun against the child's face, its radiance filling them with warmth. “I think I understand, now.”
The Queene gathered the child up in her arms and held them close, embracing them as a kind and caring mother would. Instinctively, they tried to return the gesture... but were so overcome and overwhelmed, all they could do was lean against her for support, and continue to weep.
“Shhh... it's alright. It'll be alright,” the Queene whispered, cradling the child's head against her chest. “I cannot grant you what you ask, young one... but I shall grant you what you seek.”
The child said nothing, too stricken by a flood of emotions to do anything except continue to sob. Even now, they were denied... but the Queene was not finished.
“I have gazed into the future, child. It is not a river that ends here, but an ocean of infinite possibility, stretching out before you. I can see that you are brave enough to endure, and one day you shall discover a very important Truth.”
“Truth?” the child whimpered softly, confusion momentarily winning out over grief. “W-what truth?” The Queene shook her head.
“That, I cannot say. It is obscured from my Sight; a Truth that only you can find. But when you do, I give you My Word: I shall take from you all of this pain, wrap it up in the Name you have given Me, and I will scatter it to the winds of Time and Space.”
“Always remember this, young one,” the Queene held the child's face in her hands, smiled once more, and planted a gentle kiss on their forehead. “No matter what happens, you are not alone.”
- - -
Tuera stood at a window in her Sepermeru headquarters, still as a statue, staring at the maelstrom of sand churning just on the other side of the glass. Except, she wasn't really looking at the sandstorm; she was lost within the labyrinth of her own thoughts.
These memories of days long past were playing in her mind, over and over again. And while it was true, she held these memories... they did not belong to her. They belonged to someone else. These were the memories of a man who had been dead for years. She had killed that loyal lapdog her father wished her to be, and the agony of both his life and demise had fueled the fires of her own creation. But despite emerging from those ashes as herself, the wounds of that previous life still ran deep. These scars flayed across her soul could not be seen, yet still they remained, and would never go away.
If nothing else, the Queene had kept her Word from that day. The Name given to her had, indeed, been scattered to the winds: when she became Tuera, her deadname was simply erased from existence. And these memories she held were not truly painful. Not like you would expect. They just left her... numb.
Tuera sighed heavily, and forced these unwanted memories back into the depths of her mind, where they could be safely locked away again. Dwelling on these thoughts would do her no good... especially since she could hear footsteps approaching.
“Tuera?” Ioanna asked, rounding the corner with a cup held in each hand; trails of steam spilled from the liquid within. “Oh, there you are. Obsun brewed us some tea, and I thought you might want some...” She paused, looking at Tuera with concern. “Are you alright? You seem troubled.” Tuera reasserted a smile, completing the mask that was her face.
“Oh... yes. Yes, I'm fine. Just... lost in thought.”
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