warnings: death (a lot) ; illness ; grief

general: i hurt myself in my confusion

noun

• a means of solving a problem or dealing with a difficult situation
• a liquid mixture in which the minor component (the solute) is uniformly distributed within the major component (the solvent)

On the day she was born, Hydaelyn wept.

From her solitude deep within the aetherial sea she watched. Looked upon the squalling kit encircled by the mother's ghost-pale arms, her little red face squinched against the indignity of the world outside. Heard the father's earnest prayer of thanks to Menphina, coupled with a dedication that all three shall devote themselves to love in Her shining name.

In that moment Hydaelyn bequeathed the traveler's charm to this newest shard of Azem. A gift she knew the child would one day need.

One day was not now, however, and in watching the doting parents cuddle and kiss the tiny kit she was overcome by joy and hope. A sorrow most bittersweet, a sugar confection laced with wormwood. Hydaelyn sobbed at the scene and the Mothercrystal wept along with her.

This most precious daughter grew under the care and love of her blood parents. They named her Stelmaria, after the sea of stars through which Menphina sails upon her silvered boat each night. Like her mother, she was blessed with a sweet manner, alabaster skin, and delicate features, but the child's shining amaranthine locks, formidable will, and clever subtlety were her father's.

They were happy. Until the sickness came with fevers high enough to cause one endless hallucinations, headaches, vomiting, a crimson rash that grew to blisters—even inside the mouth—and finally death.

Mother died first. At her loss Father became unwell in mind and body. Then he too, flew to the aetherial sea.

The child was alone.

Hydaelyn could only watch her struggle to comprehend what happened. The confusion, the fear, the loneliness, the grief; she felt it all, as though she experienced it through the child's eyes.

Stelmaria hadn't eaten in two days. Her cheeks were flushed. She seemed tired. She lay down beside her father and grew still.

Bells passed.

A woman arrived and bore her away to safety. Hydaelyn wept again, this time from relief.

The woman, whose name was Kona, and her mate, Rhaya, nursed the child through the sickness, fed and clothed her, and raised and loved her as one of their own.

She learned to hunt by moonlight, to climb trees, swim, and fish. Kona taught her letters, numbers, and to fight with sword and dagger. Rhaya imparted cooking, sewing, and gardening. She made medicines and tanned leather and grew close with her sister Miah.

Both girls fell in love and found mates.

Stelmaria's mate disappeared without a trace.

Then Dalamud fell.

She became trapped in visions of Amaurot as the Shroud burned. The soul within her fully awakening but rendering her unable to help anyone, including herself.

Miah died alongside her mate and her unborn kit.

Hydaelyn wished with all her heart it wasn't so—but it was. Indeed it must be so in order for the woman she met in Elpis all those millenia ago to deliver Etheirys through Meteion's infinite lament.

More years passed.

Stelmaria joined the Gridanian archer's guild and started her life over again. The third time in the two decades.

She worked hard, she made friends, and she healed. She learned to mix potions and distill herbal remedies from recipes developed by Miah, the better to keep her sister's memory alive.

Yet more time passed.

The Scions take notice and her true test begins. No god or mortal could stand against her, but the pain... the rage she kept inside.

Many of Stelmaria's days were given over to grief and despair. What little comfort she managed to grasp was soon lost, whether by death, stubborn misunderstanding, or betrayal. Years upon years unceasing, both the warrior and Hydaelyn shedding tears over the deep wounds a withdrawal of love can leave behind.

Still she fought without ceasing, the hope that better days would come burning fierce and bright inside her small, delicate frame.

Finally they meet again. Here at the heart of the world. At the end of her long, long life.

Hydaelyn couldn't be more proud of her chosen successor. Forging each hurt into scales for her armor. Pushing past tears and sorrow, to bear a torch through the cthonic silence of darkness and death so others may follow. Diminished in body but never in spirit, that was the true essence of Azem.

The essence of Persephone as well, her devoted friend and student.

And of Stelmaria, the brave spark that guttered and struggled, but never died out.

“Tell me, my love, has your journey been good? Has it been worthwhile?” asks Hydaelyn.

“Yes Mother Venat, it has. I thank you. For everything,” answers the warrior, her shining star, standing on tiptoe to brush a kiss across the goddess' fading cheek.

Diamond tears fall like rain, but in this moment, just this once, Venat does not weep alone.

warnings: none

general: fluff-ass fluff in the ex libris au setting

noun

• a long printed story about imaginary characters and events

adjective

• new and original, not like anything seen before

Her numb hands shake, the leaden serpent in her gut shifting and twisting over on itself.

Stelmaria knits and unknits her fingers, alternating between staring out the window and watching the stub-tailed tabby Tisiphone arch luxuriously in a beam of bright sunlight.

If only she was a cat too, and not a miqo’te woman, then there would be no need for anxiety about someone else’s opinion.

G’raha turns the last page of the manuscript, setting it aside to rub a hand absently over Tizzy’s sun-warmed belly.

“Well?”

“Well,” he echoes, thoughtful.

The pause drags on long enough to take up not only a substantial physical presence but fully move in and owe one-third of this month’s rent.

“G’raha please don’t leave me hanging…” Thankfully only words come out when she speaks and not what she was expecting.

“To be honest, it’s great! Like, really good.” He smiles as the smoky seal-like shape of Megara jumps into his lap, mewling for attention, but it fades when he spots her white-knuckled grip and pale face. “Why so jittery? You’ve published novels before this.”

“Yes but never under my real name, and certainly not so… “

“Personal?”

“Yes.” She chews her lips. “You have no criticisms at all?”

He pets Meg for a moment before shifting on the couch. It’s enough to send her leaping off his legs and bustling down the hall, affronted. “The only thing that bothered me was how easily the heroine fell for the hero.”

Stelmaria looks like she might cry. “What?”

“He’s an oblivious goober and a bit of nerd,” he explains, ruby eyes sparkling. “Certainly not at all a character I identify with. In my opinion, she deserved better.” He joins her on the small loveseat; it’s a tight fit, but that’s the point.

Comprehension dawns, all the tension leaving her in one big exhale. She traps him between her thighs, settling herself in his lap in much the same way Meg had moments ago and coyly toys with the buttons on his shirt, grin spreading.

He spreads gentle fingers beneath the hem of her shirt, greedy for soft skin under his palms, squeezing her curves and teasing the lacy edge of her bra.

“He’s such a sweetheart though—smart, funny, and sexy. It just took a while for him to trust her. That’s believable, right?”

“I suppose so… He did get better, in his defense, but he’s still a fucking idiot,” he chuckles, tilting his face up to kiss her.

She obliges. “An idiot?”

“How could he look at her and not at least try to express himself? He couldn’t just say ‘Hey. You want to get dinner sometime? We could kill a bunch of monsters beforehand, eat, then come back to my place to fu—’”

Laughter cuts him off. “—What are you saying? He did ask her to dinner,” she wheezes.

“Anyway, he should have admitted he was into her from the beginning. Way easier.”

“Not as much fun though.”

“Hmmm. Not as true either, I guess. You did say it’s based on a true story.”

“It is,” she hums, nosing at a russet ear.

“I’d hate to meet this emotionally constipated dude with a sexy librarian fetish in real life, knowing he somehow met an actual sexy librarian who was super into him, and still managed to fuck it up royal,” he murmurs, sucking small red marks on every ilm of pale skin within reach.

“He must be dying of shame, wherever he is. Do you think he’d ever be confident enough to—” She finishes her sentence by whispering the absolute most depraved filth in his ear. Her words and the lilting tease in her voice sets him ablaze, just as she knew it would.

He grins wolfishly before picking her up and carrying her off, scattering snoozing house cats and almost tripping on the wrinkled edge of a rug.

warnings: toddlerfic?

general: toddlerfic

verb

• involuntarily open one's mouth wide and inhale deeply due to tiredness or boredom
• (of an opening or space) be very large and wide

noun

• a reflex act of opening one's mouth wide and inhaling deeply due to tiredness or boredom

Rosemary Molkot, aged 4, hated bedtime.

There were very few things Rosie hated more than bedtime.

Rosie cannot yet write anything besides scribblings, however if she was capable of such a feat her greatest hates list might look something like this:

THINGS ROSIE HATES

1. Medicine

2. Vegetables

3. Bathtime

4. Worms

5. Bedtime

6. The dark

Needless to say Wee Rosie did not care for her parents calling bedtime all willy-nilly, after just one single, tiny yawn.

Not even a yawn so much as commentary on the interminable banality of her modern existence. An existence laced with indignities such as—but by no means limited to—the aforementioned bedtime, a strict limit on the amount of ginger-cinnamon cookies she's allowed to consume in a day, and the time outs she must endure on the rare occasions she succumbs to temptation and chases ma's chickens into a frenzy.

A temptation she'd indulged in today, as a matter of fact.

The long, shuddering yawn was an act of protest against these injustices and should be treated as such, but her kind, ill-informed parents failed to grasp this nuance and sentenced her to bedtime.

How dare they just assume? When conclusive proof existed to show that not only was she not tired, she had never been tired, not once, in all her one thousand five hundred some odd days of life.

If only she could better resist the heaviness of her eyelids, the weakness in her limbs as da gently scoops her up from her ~~nest of blankets~~ fort by the fire and cradles her against his chest.

No doubt her inability to fight back is the result of some wicked magic of ma's; all the neighbors called her a witch and she never denied it, just laughed as she handed them sparkling bottles of sweet-smelling liquid to treat so-and-so's fever or to help their auntie's cousin's wife's niece three times removed’s milk flow freely after her baby came early.

Whatever that means.

Still, despite her parent's treachery she loved them and looping her short arms round da's neck is a surrender she accepts, even enjoys. She nuzzles close to the warmth emanating from his dusky skin and metal prosthetic alike.

“Not sleepy,” Rosie grunts.

“Aye? What ya think ma? Can she go another quarter bell or tuck 'er in ta bed?” Da looks at ma, dragging his chin over the silken fur of a tiny, tufted ear.

“Well I'm tired, certainly, and my poor chickens are exhausted. Regardless of what she says, seeing as the Princess Rosemary's servants and playmates are all succumbing to the sleep of the just, she may have no choice but to join them.”

“I love it when ya say a buncha stuff I don' understan'.”

“So you just love anything I say then?”

“Aye. 'An not just whatcha say neither.”

Rosie grumbles to herself, eyes squinched tightly against her parents' ridiculous wordplay. She's already surrendered to their impertinent demands, must this humiliation be dragged on further?

Da takes her to her room then deposits her between the sh