warnings: hurt, no comfort ; body horror ; violence ; drug abuse ; death

general: raha surfs the waves of space and time with a crystal board ; spoilers for shadowbringers and tales from the shadows (kinda?) ; feels ; hurt, no comfort—yes again quit complaining

noun

• a coming or flowing together, meeting, or gathering at one point
• the flowing together of two or more streams

The Ocular’s crystal walls fade to shining rainbows and thence to blackness. Streaks of light speed by, flashing like schools of fish dancing in the deep

The whispered goodbye dies on G'raha's lips, lost in a howl of pain as the crystal crawls ravenous over his skin. Ilm by horrifying ilm it spreads and grows, pulsing outward from his heart to methodically emtomb him, down to each finger and toe, in shining azure.

Eaten alive.

He begs for a swift end to this maddening torment, either through his own death or via his successful arrival on the First.

The tower and the river of time upon which it rides grant him no succor, nor could they. They care not who directs the tiller or why. They only ride the currents.

They simply flow.

Time's river bears him onward as he gazes transfixed and helpless at hurtling infinity, the constant undulating threads of fate, the shimmering fragments of unrealized potential mingling with painful memories.

Past, present, and future overlapping, tangling, melting into each other, merging the real and recognizable with the fantastic and strange. He sees them all, bound together like pearls on a radiant webbing, ensnaring his mind as surely as the crystal feasts upon his limbs.

His physical agony shrinks to insignificance against the weight of this knowledge. The mind, beholding the fabric of the universe, can do naught but fray; no mortal can withstand the face of god.

He breaks and the tide takes him, inhabits him, experiences him.

And he—it.

Huge golden doors slam closed, the glimmer of sealing magic over their surface punctuated by a single lament which then rises to a trembling crescendo—a thousand, thousand voices crying out for salvation.

A pitiless moon hangs gravid over a blasted horizon, stripped branches reaching corpse-like fingers to the bleeding sky. Wide fields of colorless gas grow the dead rather than flowers, each futilely gasping, desperate to prolong a meaningless existence. Death comes to claim the Warrior and she breathes her last, the violet sweep of her lashes falling closed to rest against a sallow cheek. Her armor becomes flowing cloth of silver and gold, a crown of red and purple blossoms nestled amongst her locks. The world falls apart, reality disintegrates, unmade in an instant, until her beautiful corpse is all that remains.

In a small room filled with blue haze, the Warrior lays spread-eagle on a pile of crimson silks, opalescent skin glowing and pupils blown wide. A blond man with the Garlean third eye fucks her torturously slow, broad hand switching between cupping a bouncing breast and squeezing her windpipe, his blue eyes fixed upon the ruby curve of her lips. The pale Doman woman at the Warrior's side is beautiful as the dark side of the moon, the long pipe at her lips exuding thin smoke from a tiny bowl. It smells of burning petals, sweet but not cloyingly so. She seals her mouth over the Warrior's but neglects doing the same to the Garlean.

Both have eyes only for her.

The Warrior again, but alone, her smooth skin unnaturally pale, streaked with shining gold in a grotesque mockery of veins. Ethereal wings like those of a moth wrap around narrow shoulders, burning hate like a cold sun, a majesty of blinding white emptiness behind her eyes. Where once there was life and laughter now there is only stillness and bland ennui, drained away much like the vibrant heliotrope of her hair and eyes. A goddess of gluttonous lethargy, her clawed hands and gaping jaw encrusted with blood and fouled by dripping viscera.

Flashes come faster, what is muddled with what could have been.

Himself and the Warrior in the tower and yet not, fighting back to back with sword and spell against clockwork beings nearly 8 fulms in height, their glass cores filled with a swirling magic sandstorm.

The Warrior and another miqo'te, holding hands as they watch a small dark-haired kit—doubtless their child—play in the sun. The man's slate skin bears heavy scarring save his left arm, which is not flesh but a facsimile wrought of delicate machinery. The pair share a smiling kiss, soft and sweet—the sight of it makes his heart ache.

Himself again, tangled with her in soft sheets. Hands grasping curves slicked with sweat, his mouth filled with the taste of her skin, her sex. Chests pressed close enough to feel the leaping beat of her heart as if it was his own.

His mind reels, sanity almost gone to tatters, tears streaming down his face. He screams, collapsing to the chill crystal floor and screaming more. Even after he goes hoarse. Even after the never ending tears make him retch. Even after the walls return to crystal and the tower beneath him returns to solid reality.

He screams. He dreams of screaming, though he's not sure he slept, much less dreamt.

Finally, feeling hollow as an insect's molted carapace, he falls into ringing silence, more certain than ever this plan must succeed and he must sacrifice himself to see it done.

The First awaits.

warnings: none

general: uhhhh. it’s not what you think it is lol.

noun

• the bed where a natural stream of water runs OR the deeper part of a river, harbor, or strait OR a strait or narrow sea between two close landmasses
• a means of communication or expression
• a way, course, or direction of thought or action
• a band of frequencies of sufficient width for a single radio or television communication

verb

• to form, cut, or wear a channel in OR to make a groove in
• to convey or direct into or through a channel
• to serve as a channeler or intermediary for

She swallows hard, every muscle tensing in anticipation as the pressure builds behind her eyes.

“Steady,” mutters Raha, lips slightly parted as if he can taste the heavy air.

He doesn’t touch her, but stands near enough she feels the heat of him on her skin.

A whimper catches in her throat, her knees press together and tremble as she fights to maintain focus on her task as a whirling maelstrom of power roars within.

Raha steps to the side, the sound of his boots and the cinnamon scent of him so distracting she almost loses control.

However the Warrior of Light is no stranger to unexpected interruption.

She holds fast against the storm and finishes the casting with a masterful stroke.

Stelmaria’s eyes flutter open. She utters a word of power, an empty structure wrought of theory, a skeleton framework of hope and desire, soon to be covered over by will manifested as magicked flesh—a vessel for the divine spark of inspiration to inhabit.

To experience both its own existence and that of all creation.

To live.

And to adventure.

The largest fragment of her shattered focus vanishes from her hand, accepted.

“You've done it! I knew you could. You should be proud, love.” G’raha folds her in a tight embrace, scattering kisses over her face and shoulders.

For him the exertions are over. The months upon months of study on esoteric topics first uncovered by ancient Allagan mages, only recently unearthed by Raha himself. Then he embarked upon the laborious work of translating these amorphous concepts into a theoretical foundation Stelmaria might then apply to real-world experimentation.

Stelmaria grins at her husband’s enthusiasm, but she has eyes only for the coalescing lump of gentle pink-tinted light nearby.

As it assumes the shape of its own choosing, she chews her lip, suddenly nervous about this first meeting between new acquaintances. What will she do if it dislikes being channeled into an incarnate form? Resents her earnest plea and her presence? Or Raha’s?

“Say hello,” he prompts.

“Hello.”

A vibration reaches across the infinite space between souls to probe her thoughts, tentative and sweet as though seeking permission.

She responds in kind with a filament of her own, gentle, slow—determined to have this first impression go well.

‘Mother?’ The creature hums, unsure. ‘Master.’

‘Stelmaria,’ she answers, thinking of herself as a concept. ‘G’raha,’ she continues, thinking of her companion.

‘Friends. Warm,’ comes the reply and the light shimmers, twisting and lengthening, pulling and folding in on itself like the taffy she’d loved as a child.

It seems to reach a decision, assuming a form with an audible ‘pop’.

It settles into the shape of a carbuncle, though it’s longer and far more lithe than any carbuncle she’s ever seen in Limsa or Idyllshire. Reminiscent of a ferret or whittret as opposed to a rabbit or kitten type creature.

“Welcome, friend!” exclaims Raha.

The carbuncle just stares, cocking its head. Its long, thin ears lay flat above the clever black eyes—almost too clever—which turn to gaze at her, ‘Where? Go?’

“Adventure,” explains Stelmaria, both aloud and in her mind.

warnings: blood ; description of a deep abdominal wound ; i be spoiling everything up in here

general: feels ; hurt/comfort kinda; this just kinda took on a life of its own ; fuck if i know

adjective

• (especially of a liquid) only slightly warm; lukewarm.
• showing little enthusiasm

Glowing logs crackle and snap, then rustle as the soft piles of ash collapse under their own weight. Flames flicker and dance, casting grotesque and outsized shadows on the walls. The heat spreading from the grate is strong and steady, yet it barely takes the edge off the omnipresent chill.

Stelmaria slouches deeper into the thick quilt, pulling her stockinged feet up off the freezing floor. This unrelenting cold weather makes her bones ache and her nose run  freely no matter how many warming tonics she forces down her throat.

Camp Dragonhead is silent as a tomb this late, or this early, depending on your point of view. These bells before the first delicate peach and gold stripes of dawn reach for the eastern sky is the best time to sift through her muddled thoughts.

“Would you like company my friend? I’ve brought you a little something.”

Heavily distracted, an awkward amount of time passes before Stelmaria realizes Haurchefant is speaking to her, much less to register what he's asking. His smile never falters, even as the silence stretches on.

“Oh,” she murmurs, scooting to make him a space beside her. “That’s very kind of you.”

He shakes his head, silver-blue hair sparkling in the firelight, “Please, think nothing of it.”

There is a gently steaming mug in each of his broad, calloused hands. They, much like everything else about the elezen, are sturdy and dependable at any time of day or night.

And Stelmaria had cause to know.

She takes one from him, chapped skin greedy for the accumulated warmth of both mug and palm.

Except it isn't as hot as she assumed it would be.

“Did I burn the milk?” His voice is concerned.

Her confusion must have been obvious. “I just assumed it would be boiling hot,” she explains, letting the wafting chocolate and cinnamon smell bolster her heart.

A single brow lifts before he chuckles, warm and sultry enough to shame the blazing fire. “Ah no... I always thought it impolite to serve a drink so hot your guest cannot enjoy it at its most delicious. As it cools the chocolate settles to the bottom. If you daub cream in top it melts right away.”

“I see,” she says, without truly seeing.

He grins, cheeks coloring as he replaces the quilt slipping down her narrow shoulder. “In my admittedly inexpert opinion, hot chocolate  should be served at a temperature just above tepid. That's when everything is in balance, the taste, the scent, even the look of it. As a host that is the moment where I can maximize my guest's enjoyment.”

“And being a true paragon of knighthood—living to serve and all that—hospitality is all about giving your best for another,” she teases.

That first sip is smooth and rich, everything a sweet drink meant to warm from the inside out should be. Heaven contained within a humble earthenware mug.

“Indeed. Though the way may be difficult and the task daunting, to be a knight is to throw yourself against the odds and succeed,” he says heartily, clinking the lip of his mug against her own.

The more of Haurchefant she sees the more she grows to like him. His flowery offers of shelter, sympathy, and friendship unnerved her at first, but with every word and deed he'd proved himself the genuine article—a true man of virtue.

Her second sip is even better than the first somehow, spreading warmth and comfort from her heart to every ilm of her tense limbs.

“You would go so far for just a friend?”

“No such thing as ‘just a friend’ my dearest Warrior. Every soul is special to someone and should be treated as such.”

Her throat tightens, “And if the someones have all gone? What then?”

He puts his mug on the side table and faces her, clear blue eyes quite serious, “They haven't gone. The missing Scions will be found in time. Alphinaud and Tataru love you like family. And...”

Hesitating, he glances away.

“And?”

“And I would care for you as well. If it's not...”

“It's not,” she says, and resettles the quilt to cover him as well. Two against the world, instead of just one.

“Stella? What’s this?” asks the innocent, bird-like voice, so very different from the imperious tone that haunts her dreams.

Dreams of opium scented smoke and sharp pinpricks of pain. Of moon-pale breasts clasped to moon-pale breasts. Crimson lips and fragrant petals.

Gunpowder and blood and castles falling into the sea.

Tsuyu’s wide, guileless eyes gaze at Stelmaria over the steaming mug, politely waiting for an answer.

Tsuyu and not Yotsuyu.

“It's called hot chocolate. Drink it before it gets cold.”

“Hot?” Tsuyu repeats, concerned.

“Well, it’s more warm than hot really,” Stel admits. “Go on. You won’t burn your mouth, I promise.”

“All right!” the Doman woman chirps, before quaffing the lot in one go like a greedy child. “Thank you!”

Stel does her best to smother a giggle. “What did you think?”

The carmine lips purse under a thin film of hot chocolate. “More, please?”

“Lyna, I beg you. Leave me to my rest.” G’raha Tia does his utmost to sound terse.

Really, he just wants a few bells of peace to catch up on his reports. He’s been shamefully behind since Stelmaria appeared in the First and his extended convalescence upon returning from The Tempest hasn’t helped matters in the slightest.

The knock comes again, more insistent this time, but the accompanying voice isn’t Lyna. “There’s no tricking me with that half hearted nonsense, and if it wouldn’t fool me you can be certain Lyna won’t believe it either.”

His crimson ears flatten, eyes darting everywhere to locate an escape only to come up empty. Every ilm of his flesh aches and the wound where Chessamile pried the flattened round from his shoulder itches like demon’s fury. He’s refused to accept help to bathe himself, neither has he finished a meal nor slept more than a bell at a time.

In short, he’s a mess and the Warrior is about to find out how low he can sink.

She must have grown tired of waiting for his reply because she breezes into his bedroom while he’s still debating jumping out the window. “Drink this,” she commands and places a steaming mug on his bedside table, heedlessly upsetting his careful piles of notes, books, and broken quills to do so.

He identifies it by scent alone. “Hot chocolate?”

“Yes,” she replies, without elaborating. “Drink that while I run a bath for you.”

The Lord of the Crystarium nearly spits the sweet mouthful across the room. “Bath?!”

“Lyna tells me you seem uncomfortable at the idea of her assistance, but she’s worried you’ll make yourself ill.”

He tries a confident chuckle before having a nonchalant sip of the chocolate, “Lyna is—“

“A lovely sweet woman who’s put up with her beloved grandfather’s ridiculous foolishness for decades? Yes I’ve heard all about it. Leaving aside Lyna’s observations, Chessamile tells me you smell like an unwashed amaro and you’re neither eating nor sleeping.”

Her entire diatribe is delivered in bursts as she stalks between his bedside—where she oversees his hot chocolate consumption—and his adjoining bathroom, where presumably a tub full of hot water awaits.

There’s no use in further obstruction. He swallows the last of the drink like an obedient kit and accepts her help in rising from his bed.

She smells of myrrh and orange blossoms, staying close to his side in case he trips, patiently attending his plodding steps. The chocolate, much to his surprise, radiates warm contentment from his belly.

“I’m glad you came. That you’re here,” he murmurs.

He doesn’t mean the drink or the bath.

Her face relaxes, the slow smile spreading over her features the same one he remembers from their adventures in the tower, all those years ago, when things were simple and a future together wasn’t an impossible dream.

“Me too,” she replies.

They had gone to the end of the universe together, just the two of them, all the way out past the razor edge of existence where the fabric of time and space begins to unravel. A place where anything that might be imagined can and does spring into being.

An eternal new beginning, the promise of life and hope stretching across that endless expanse the way that dawn brings a new day, all color in motion and joyous to behold.

She fought Zenos to the death there. She watched him breathe his last, whispering words to speed him on his return to the aetherial sea.

She bled there. Shrapnel from her shattered rapier embedded like diamonds in her skin. The hole Zenos put in her belly oozing dark, dark blood. The smell... all wrong... He placed a spell there, for healing, but it wouldn't stick. He tried staunching the wound the old fashioned way, using the pressure of his hands.

But the hole... it was so big... he couldn't... it wouldn't... something soft... the blood...

She was dying and he could not save her.

Yet, with a miraculous series of beeps they reappeared aboard the Ragnarok, spurring a frantic rush of movement and sound. Everyone trying to heal her all at once. Alphinaud, Alisaie, Yshtola, Urianger, at one point Thancred found a potion that he tipped down her throat, and Estinien snapped commands to the Lopporits to 'get this woman to a healer and do it now.'

Sharlayan.

The best doctors the nation could claim decided some of her organs were obliterated but no one will give him details. He just can't stop thinking about how far into the hole his hands could slip.

It turns his stomach.

A hot bath in the annex. The water red as wine, red like Dalamud, circling the drain to slip away and disappear.

A comfortable bed where he won't sleep.

He can't sleep. Not until she wakes.

Exhausted but tense, he pads to the kitchen and puts milk in a pan to warm. Then finds the chocolate and cinnamon and sugar and cream.

He decides to make it exactly how she does, down to which hand she uses to stir the finished mixture—always seven times clockwise—to set the magic charm. He adds everything she likes, as though he's planning to bring it to her, extra cream, extra shavings, extra cinnamon, and extra sweet.

Extra sweet, like her.

His throat tightens, burning as if he's swallowed the sun. He breathes slow. Concentrate. Breathe again.

It's done.

He takes it to her, thinking maybe she'll wake.

The bed seems huge, or perhaps she seems smaller than usual. The gleaming violet curtain of her hair fans over the pillow like a goddess' halo. Her narrow chest rises and falls but she's so ghostly pale, the only spots of color aside from her hair are the ugly bruises from the rapier shrapnel.

Her chocolate goes on the nightstand and he sits beside her, the burst of anxious energy that carried him this far finally spent.

He takes her freezing hand and rubs it between his own, trying to ignore the insistent belief that they've come to the end of things before they had a chance to begin.

“Is that chocolate?”

His laughter turns to tears as he runs his lips greedily over the back of her hand, and “Yes. Yes it is. It should be the perfect temperature for you to drink.”

warnings: implied bullying/blackballing due to prejudice

general: endwalker/shadowbringers spoilers ; the ancients were poly af, change my mind ; watch me make this shit up as i go along in 3, 2, 1…

adjective

• (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.

Interminable.

These long ceremonies of investiture are absolutely interminable.

Boring, pompous, long-winded, and frankly unnecessary when there was so much work to be done these days.

And yet here is Hades, suffering at Hythlodaeus’ behest; which isn’t that unusual to be fair but at least today’s reason is something of a novelty.

Today, Hythlodaeus’ twin sister ascends to the seat of Azem.

Hades knows of his companion’s sister, but he’s never seen her. This sad state of affairs is not for lack of trying on Hyth’s part—far from it. It’s more to do with the woman’s odd habit of sequestering herself deep within the bowels of the Words of Halmarut for weeks or months at a time.

‘To better focus on her research,’ explains her smiling twin, as if that explains anything at all.

Outside the obvious shared parentage with his partner, Hades is aware of very few solid facts.

Firstly, her name is Freyja.

Secondly, she’s considered the preeminent protégée of Halmarut and Emmeroloth, having excelled in the creation of new, useful concepts that blend the best aspects of both subjects.

This work with concepts alone should have been enough to see her a seated member of Convocation, or at the very least the frontrunner to replace her mentors, however…

A rumor runs quickly for great distances and on legs longer than any concept known to mankind, nor does it tire or suffer from forgetfulness.

Unfortunate then that rumors are the only source for the paltry remainder of his knowledge.

Lastly, she takes after the twin’s father, Njörðr, an odd man so enamored with the peoples and cultures not of Amaurot he’d taken one of these unnamed outsiders to wife, adopted as his own name the one gifted him by the tribe, and even going so far as to name his offspring following the same tribal traditions.

Hence the twin’s unusual paired names: Freyja and Freyr.

Besides being held to account for her father's perceived social wrongdoings, Freyja indulges in eccentricities of her own including the refusal to change her birth name even after her twin changed his, and a propensity toward working with her hands, mixing odd concoctions from physical specimens rather than experimenting on concepts via theoretical calculations—among other things.

All of which is anathema of the highest order to run of the mill Amaurotines.

Her stubborn refusal to give up manual labor is likely why she smells of some fragrant spice, discernable on the air as she walks past with her long black veil dragging behind, while the Convocation waits, seated and dour on the dais ahead. More then half of their number seem less than pleased at this turn of events, the corners of their mouths turned down sharply enough to cut stone.

Nonconformity is the greatest social evil amongst modern citizens of Amaurot. Most would do anything required, pay any price to go unnoticed and unremarked.

They wish to be normal like everyone else.

It can be inferred then, without hyperbole, that eccentric is not a label one would wish to be saddled with in Amaurot, and the proof of the theory requires no further investigation than the case of Freyja.

Upon Halmarut’s retirement it seemed obvious who should succeed, yet Freyja remained a simple researcher through (rumored) no choice of her own. Talented yes, but just a researcher.

Similarly, when old Emmeroloth desired a return to the star, Freyja’s name surfaced again and again as a suitable replacement among those familiar with her work, however in the end the honor of the seat was extended to another.

Some say that both positions are now lesser for this blatant favoritism, but this, like so much else, is rumor and no more than that.

Hades shakes himself from deep reverie at Hyth’s insistent tugging on his sleeve. His gaze happily glowing lavender eyes, which haven't faltered for a moment in the face of his lover’s complete inattention. “Here we go,” Hyth murmurs, soft and dewy with pride at his sibling finally gaining the recognition she’d been denied.

Azem begins to speak ponderous words regarding ‘the vibrant soul that now stands before us.’ The blue eyed, silver haired woman launches into an exhaustive listing of Freyja’s many accomplishments, both solo and in the company of Azem.

Hades has long since lost the thread of the presentation entirely, unable to focus on anything but the poor veiled woman’s hands, clenched white-knuckled into fists and shaking like the final leaves on a tree.

“A lucky thing indeed that Azem took an interest in Lady,” whispers Hyth, stirring Hades’ white hair as he speaks into his partner’s ear. “She’d have spent an eternity locked away in a basement somewhere just singing to her plants, the flowers in her hair growing wild. All that talent gone to waste from sheer stubbornness.” He clucks like a mother hen worried for her smallest chick, “At least as Azem she can live, expand her horizons, broaden her friend circle outside of just Óðinn and I, maybe even fall in love?”

It takes Hades a long moment to remember that Lady is one of Hyth’s many pet names for his sister and to further recall the name Óðinn refers to a childhood friend of the twins, yet another hopeless eccentric.

“You shouldn’t meddle Hyth, it makes people irritated,” Hades grouses in an undertone. “Your sister is a woman grown and from the sound of it eminently capable. I have no doubt she will excel as Azem.”

His lover only smiles, “You are right of course. How easy it is for those of us who are comfortable with affection to forget the way that love can smother as well as uplift.”

Hades opens his mouth to reply to the—in his opinion—uncalled for jab but in the same instant Azem finishes speaking.

Solemn, she removes her crimson mask of office before replacing it with the simple white one most Amaurotines wear, including Hades himself. Turning, she lifts a smaller version of the same crimson mask, meant for someone with more delicate features, and extends it to Freyja like a gift.

The pale, shaking hands take the mask and draw it beneath the dark veil.

A moment passes.

Two.

The hand extends once more and Azem, now Venat, places a glowing yellow-orange crystal in the very center of the slim palm.

The fingers close, the stone brightens, and a low hum fills the room.

The Convocation members watch with baited breath.

The heavy veil drops with a sensuous rustle to the gleaming floor and Azem, newly masked, turns to greet the gathered assembly.

A tall man with brilliant red hair and striking sanguine eyes rushes to embrace her, but there is a moment where Hades catches a glimpse of Freyja’s face.

It is enough to leave him breathless.

Her long, flowing tresses are several shades darker than Hythlodaeus’ lavender locks, and seemingly composed of both hair and blossoms in the same heliotrope shade. She’s small for an Amaurotine and slight of build, almost bird or doll like, and gifted with her brother’s otherworldly beauty to boot. They are, quite unmistakably, twins.

Surrounded on all sides by a crowd of well-wishers she doesn’t speak, only smiles. Her redheaded companion—doubtless Óðinn—stays close, observing others as they interact with her with open curiosity, as if he is just as interested in her reactions as he is the behavior of those who wish to congratulate her.

“We should offer our most heartfelt congratulations, don’t you agree Hades?” asks Hyth, though he isn’t really asking, as he’s already out of his seat and darting toward his sister through the crowd like a fish slicing through water.

Hades heaves a sigh and follows, though it takes him at least three times as long to reach the center of the crowd. When he does finally manage the task and stands next to Azem, his partner is nowhere to be found. Such is the way of things.

“I wished to congratulate you, though I wonder if I should. You seemed nervous,” remarks Hades with his characteristic bluntness.

“I will accept whatever my brother’s partner wishes to extend to me,” she replies smoothly in a voice as warm and comforting as a nap in the sunshine. “I hope the nerves will wear off after sufficient time has passed. Besides, Venat plans to refrain from returning to the star for some while yet, so I shall have her wisdom to guide me.”

Ah… an eccentric soul drawn to an eccentric soul. Of course. The retiring instructor that refuses to follow custom and the wide-eyed student grateful for an experienced puppeteer.

Venat has managed the trick of retiring while still having a voice in the Convocation.

Hades is suddenly very glad indeed that this burden, this mantle of responsibility for the safety and growth of the star has not passed to him. Nor shall it ever if he has anything to say about it.

He simply doesn’t have the temperament for it.

“Doubtless she will be of great comfort to you, should you need her, Freyja.”

She shakes her head, the flowers rustling and scenting the air, “It’s not Freyja anymore. Changing it was a requirement for accepting the seat.”

A thin filament of anger rises in him at the pettiness of those chittering old fools in their straight backed chairs. He smothers it viciously—that battle is not his to fight, though he would dearly love to, if only to make them all terribly uncomfortable, “Azem it is then.”

He bows and makes to leave, bored of playing the game for today.

“My brother's beloved should never address me by such formal means, Hades. Please, my name is Persephone.”

Persephone?

He freezes, rooted to the spot as his every hair stands on end.

What is she doing? To choose that name as a replacement and then to have the Convocation just accept it?

Persephone, the thresher of men.

He very nearly laughs aloud at the cleverness of it. The sheer gall, to make a show of yielding to their wishes then proceeding to choose a name so old… So cursed.

She is clever indeed, this unassuming little woman with her blossoming hair and her subtle insubordination.

No doubt Venat had a hand in this as well.

Woe betide any doddering old fart who places themselves against these two united.

Hythlodaeus reappears like magic and restarts the conversation with his sister and friend as though he never disappeared before Hades can fully digest this information, let alone act on it. Surprised, he finds himself at a rather embarrassing loss for words, choosing to cover it by raising her hand to his lips.

At this distance he comes to realize how different her eyes are from her brother’s—a strange and beautiful amber color, a red gold like ambrosia or warm, liquid honey.

“Despoina Persephone,” Hades says, nerves coming alive at the old honorific tumbling from his lips. “I wish to know you better, as my partner’s sister. Perhaps—”

“You should come to dinner!” interrupts Hyth, in unrestrained glee. “You too, Óðinn. No excuses.”

The crimson haired man laughs and bows, eyes dancing with boundless curiosity. He is beautiful too, in his own way. “The pleasure would be ours, my friends.”

Hades will not, will never, allow himself to be drawn into these political games and machinations for which he has no patience.

However he will shoulder any burden, fight any foe, or move any mountain for those he loves.

warnings: dubcon, animal cruelty, sadism, obsessive behavior, violence

general: touch starved, frottage, fingers in mouths, zenos is combatsexual and i love that for him

noun

• a lightning stroke, a shaft or missile designed to be shot from a crossbow or catapult
• a wood or metal bar or rod used to fasten a door, the part of a lock that is shot or withdrawn by the key
• a metal rod or pin for fastening objects together
• a roll of cloth or wallpaper of specified length

verb

• to move suddenly or nervously, to move or proceed rapidly
• to break away from control or a set course, to dart off or away
• to secure with a bolt
• to eat hastily or without chewing

Even as a boy, Zenos yae Galvus lived for the thrill of the hunt.

To catch a vermin one must first understand its way of thinking, its desires and its fears. This understanding allows for anticipation, and anticipation for preparation. Only then can the trap be sprung.

In the frozen wastes of his native Garlemald he'd spent an infinity of bells tracking the small, nervous snow hares as they fled hither and yon, his broad shoulders hunched against the endless howling wind, following the meandering, panicked paths back to secret boltholes where he dispatched them.

He would watch in rapt silence, breathing fast, pink tongue moistening dried lips as red wetness crawled over soft, white fur, the blood in his veins thrumming to a fever pitch. He observed every twitch, memorizing the signs of impending death until the final stillness reigned. The young man meditated upon the heart's fickle flutters, its frantic headlong rush through the last of its allotted beats, as though the creature was excited to die.

Between those fleeting seconds he could understand somewhat the misguided barbarian obsession with the divine. Magnificent were the violent delights which blossomed from this sort of power. His breeches would tighten, imagining what thrills might be savored if one could achieve power like unto a god.

It was the first taste of what would eventually consume his life's flame.

Many years had come and gone since Zenos found any sort of challenge in the minds and spirits of his prey. It seemed he'd reached a zenith where no other could reach or touch him. The clear path from which he had not strayed now became lost in a shroud of heavy fog, a veil separating his current state from the godhood he deserved.

An emotion sprouted within him, one he had no name for; a great gaping emptiness which chilled his blood the way the Garlean winters never had, a greedy worm festering within the ripened apple of his heart. He floundered there, lost and searching, devoid of the contentment he found only in the ringing clash of blades.

In the end she was the one to name this feeling, and in so doing she gained absolute power over him. In so doing she was named friend.

At first she cowered, crawling away on hands and knees. He put a foot on her back and pinned her to the blood-spattered soil but quickly lost interest when she retreated into herself, growing still and silent like the rabbits of his youth.

When he saw her again in Yanxia she had changed so much he did not recognize her. She looked sickly, pale and sweating, her eyes bright and pupils dilated but when her sword met his...

Fate.

It was but a matter of a few scant seconds by all accounts, however for Zenos each moment stretched onward into shining infinity. She fought with the strength of ten men and the shock of each blow ringing in his bones made his blood sing and his soul take flight.

He laughed and so did she, the wild cacophony of their joy mingling into one transcendent experience he would do anything to experience again. They danced in beauty, together, blood slinging heavy and wet from the moon bright edges of their swords with every mad swing. Her breast heaved in time with his own, the synchronized beating of their hearts bringing them closer to divinity.

To revelation.

He caught her sword hand and swung her around hard, closing his mouth over the leaping rabbit pulse at her throat to bite down and claim it as his own. The taste of her blood muddled his senses, a high better than any wine or drug he'd ever tried. She screamed in pain and stomped savagely on the arch of his foot before driving the curve of her rump against him.

The stars overhead exploded, their light reflected in her skin and hair, glinting off the fangs in her open mouth. Her wamth presses close, a being of fury whose skin smells of opium smoke. His achingly hard cock grinds into her, pulsing bliss, releasing spend, as wild as an animal in rut.

She licked her parted lips and whispered, voice strained, “Are you lonely, Zenos? Does it frighten you to know you are unloved and unwanted?”

The fog on his brain clears, the tightening pressure in his groin vanished like morning mist.

Fear. That was its name.

“Yes,” he grunted, struggling to master himself but unable to release her.

She waits, still and quiet, once more the rabbit of his childhood hunts. He buries his nose in her violet hair, redolent with the scents of starlight, spices, and sex. Her small figure is soft, just as her sword's edge is deadly sharp. A gauntleted thumb slips between the sinful curves of her generous lips, hooking the lower line of white teeth.

He jerks. She follows, moaning.

He shoves her away roughly.

Fear.

She tumbles to the packed earth, streaked with dirt and bleeding from the mouth. Her eyes pin him, strange in color and luminosity—one onyx, the other amethyst, both giving a faint glow of reflected moonlight.

A realization strikes him as he gazes at her, the gravity of it growing larger with every passing moment; collecting certainty as a planet gathers accretions: this is his destiny.

Her.

Her face is the last he shall ever see. His demise is hers to witness. The fading thrum of his heart, the dwindling number of its alloted beats is hers to savor and hers alone.

Zenos sees his own death. He now knows its shape, the curve of her breasts, the taste of her skin, the weight of her sword. The mania that spawns from a single perfect moment gone too soon.

Only now does Zenos truly understand the frantic impatience of the rabbit's final heartbeats. How one can long for the presence of another called “friend.”

warnings: murder by knife, descriptions of stabbing, blood, brief mention of torture (fingers), grief, revenge

general: fray takes the wheel, is that a motherfucking telltale heart reference?, 3.0 spoilers

noun

• A mark, object, or figure formed by two short intersecting lines or pieces

verb

• Go or extend across or to the other side of (a path, road, stretch of water, or area)

adjective

• Annoyed.

She crosses the wide, glittering expanse as the forms of Thordan and his knights return to their original proportions. Her swift stride carries her to the far end where the Archbishop, still in his finery, crawls upon his belly like a wounded hound, keening, “Who are you? What are you?”

Estinien stops to catch his breath, watching the Warrior with curiosity, relief, and elation at discovering the battle already won and the Warrior alive and well.

Then Stelmaria speaks and every syllable buries a sliver of cold fear deep within his brain, “Retribution, your Holiness.”

Quick as the spark consumes tinder she falls to one knee and draws an unseen dagger, dark as swirling shadow save the keenly silvered edge.

It winks at him as he tries fruitlessly to goad his exhausted body into a sprint.

Her knife parts flesh, slipping neatly between ribs with nary a squeak of steel on bone. She leans, whispering into Thordan’s gnarled ear, the old man's face twisting into a hideous grimace of fear. His wide, dimming eyes slide to hers and remain, fixed, until he shudders and grows still.

The knife retreats. A torrent of steaming wet red flows to the gleaming floor, worming its way into the folds of her clothes, bold crimson smearing across her face and hands—a sharp contrast against her moon pale skin.

She rises, uncaring of her state and oblivious to his presence, then stalks toward the crumpled figure of Ser Zephirin, who scrabbles desperately at the smooth floor, trying to skitter away like a trapped rat.

Estinien steps to block her, seizing a thin wrist. “Warrior?”

An unfamiliar laugh rasps from her throat, an utterly alien sound unlike any he's heard before. “Leave us to our reward Azure Dragoon, and we shall leave you to yours in turn,” She says, turning to face him.

His mind reels in horror at this waif of a miqo'te.

Though her form is unchanged, it is most certainly not Stelmaria.

In place of the Warrior of Light is a creature wrought of hardened steel and burning coals, eyes bright and mouth aflame as if all hells' legions dwell deep within. She twists in his grasp, moving as though her flesh has separated from sinew and bone, turning the tables by wrapping her thin fingers around his forearm. The scales of his armor grind against each other like the screeching of a thousand, thousand demons.

The Azure Dragoon has faced countless wyrms in his time, emerging triumphant again and again, but now he fails against the cold sweat trickling beneath his elegant mail. “You know as well as I this is not the way, woman. The dead are gone. They do not grieve. An eye for an eye achieves naught but the death of the soul, a wound that cannot be closed.”

Again she laughs without mirth. He must bite down lest his teeth rattle loose from his jaw.

“We care not for our soul, ser; we seek justice for those condemned to silence... or worse. These liars, swindlers, and hypocrites cannot leave this place with their throats uncut.” She smiles but it’s strange and feral, all fangs and too much tongue, then sidles closer, as though imparting a great secret. Her breath tickles his cheek, her tone is sweet as birch syrup, but she reeks of clotting blood. “You would deny us the satisfaction of a foe dispatched? A true debt repaid in kind? How noble to share this sentiment with us when your own nemesis was unceremoniously cast down moons ago... Or so you believe.”

The demon's languid gaze flicks to the eyes of Nidhogg, discarded and brooding far across the room's expanse.

They call to him, even now.

A reverberation inside his skull forces him to close his eyes and swallow. He masters the urge to look again.

She continues, a virulent whisper spreading tendrils in every corner of his mind, “We know what we are about Estinien Varlineau. We are in control. Can you say the same?”

Those damnable eyes.

The great wyrm lies slain. The war is won.

Yet still they call his name in the soft velvet purr of a lover.

So long as they exist, Nidhogg lives.

Unable to resist he drops her arm and hurries toward the eyes, deaf to his ringing footsteps. The mad, feverish peals of her laughter go unnoticed. Any anger he feels at her assessment of his weakness is lost in a frantic need.

All he sees, all he knows is the eyes.

He bends to grasp them just as Ser Zephirin begins to scream in pain, the knife relieving him of his fingers one by one.

In an instant, Estinien shatters beneath the wave of Nidhogg’s overwhelming rage, a lone cork bobbing upon an eternal expanse of roiling seas.

When he claws back from the edge of nonexistence, some moments or eons later, the screaming has stopped.

There she is.

The silent Warrior, bow strung across her back, the knife shining like a crescent moon in her slim hand, her expression inscrutable beneath the streaks of blood. Rosy gold glints upon her third finger, spattered with scarlet ichor once more. He recalls seeing it smeared with Haurchefant's blood before, her hands soaked in it as he breathed his last.

The irony.

Next is the great Midgardsormr, unafraid of the monster beside him. He speaks softly, the Draconic weighted down by the millennia of grief he carries for this wayward child. Me, in a manner of speaking, muses Estinien, dimly aware of his predicament.

At their feet lie a pile of thirteen corpses, mouths and throats gaping wide as fresh caught fish, the pure white of their raiments gone red, sullied with gore.