Iâve renamed this blog and moved the REAL sinnawrites to a separate account, so if you like my stuff, follow me over there! More details and link to the new blog in the top post. Thanks!
Hiya! So even though Iâve BARELY started this blog, Iâm already super annoyed that itâs not my main, so Iâm moving over to a separate account so I can do replies, asks, and other such things with the right blog name! Yay! This one is gonna change to âsinnawrites217âł in the mean time, and the one Iâm actually gonna start using will be the classic âsinnawritesâ
Thanks for your patience! That blog has all the same posts as this one - I went through and reblogged and retagged everything. T-T Not so funâŚ
Any new posts will be goin over there! Thanks so much for the follows!!! I hope Iâll see you on the other side, but if not - itâs been nice!
Hiya! So even though Iâve BARELY started this blog, Iâm already super annoyed that itâs not my main, so Iâm moving over to a separate account so I can do replies, asks, and other such things with the right blog name! Yay! This one is gonna change to âsinnawrites217âł in the mean time, and the one Iâm actually gonna start using will be the classic âsinnawritesâ
Thanks for your patience! That blog has all the same posts as this one - I went through and reblogged and retagged everything. T-T Not so funâŚ
Any new posts will be goin over there! Thanks so much for the follows!!! I hope Iâll see you on the other side, but if not - itâs been nice!
Hiya! So even though Iâve BARELY started this blog, Iâm already super annoyed that itâs not my main, so Iâm moving over to a separate account so I can do replies, asks, and other such things with the right blog name! Yay! This one is gonna change to âsinnawrites217âł in the mean time, and the one Iâm actually gonna start using will be the classic âsinnawritesâ
Thanks for your patience! That blog has all the same posts as this one - I went through and reblogged and retagged everything. T-T Not so fun...
Any new posts will be goin over there! Thanks so much for the follows!!! I hope Iâll see you on the other side, but if not - itâs been nice!
Story Summary: If Kuwabara hadnât wanted to live in a haunted apartment, he probably shouldâve toured the place before putting his name on the lease. Alas, foresight was never his strong suit, and now he must learn to live alongside a rambunctious spiritâone whose unfinished business keeps her bound to the world of the living, not to mention the inside of Kuwabaraâs closet. [Kuwabara/OC]
Iâm not mad about it or anything, but there are only two Kuwabara/OC fics on AO3 (that are tagged as such, at least).
⌠OK, so maybe Iâm a little salty about this, because WHAT THE HECK DO YOU MEAN, THERE ARE ONLY TWO KUWABARA/OC FICS IN THE ENTIRE AO3 ARCHIVE?
FFnet is a bit better.
There are⌠six.
Six Kuwa/OC fics in the entire archive that are searchable via the tagging system.
âŚâŚâŚâŚ. ಠââŽŕ˛  Excuse me??
One is a drabble. One is a finished multi-chapter story (huzzah!) but itâs short (not a bad thing; I just really love long fics). The other four are unfinished multi-chapter stories, among them The Ghost in You.
⌠Iâm not shocked. Kuwabara/Yukina is adorable and popular and basically canon so most people donât have the heart to break them up. Itâs the same reason there arenât a lot of Yusuke/OC fics: Yusuke/Keiko is canon and popular. Not to mention Kuwabara got made fun of when the majority of the fanbase was younger and watching the show for the first time. Kuwabaraâs amazingness has kind of only recently been realized by the fandom at large. Heâs the goofball of the group and heâs not a bishounen pretty-boy like Kurama or a tsundere cutie like Hiei. People donât look at him as a romantic interest, it seems.
So like I said: Iâm not shocked by the dearth of Kuwabara/OC fics.
But I AM incensed by it.
Kuwabara is freaking fantastic and a model boyfriend. Iâd date him first out of any of the YYH guys. My IRL boyfriend is basically Kuwabara made flesh and I love him so ding-dang much it hurts. Kuwabara SHOULD be the wish-fulfillment fantasy of most of us OC/Canon authors, but nOoOOoOooOoOo. He doesnât have big green eyes or a bad attitude and therefore he gets the short end of the fandom stick. UNFAIR, NOT OKAY, I AM INCENSED BY THIS, WHY DONâT HIS GLORIOUS ABS DRAW IN MORE OF THE LADIES, I ASK YOU????
I MEAN???
JUST LOOK AT THEM???!?
(*deep breath*)
Iâm mostly just ranting in jest, of course, but I wanted to bring this up because someone recently said to me, âI canât imagine Kuwabara with anyone but Yukina so I donât read Kuwabara/OC fics.â Buuuuut there arenât many Kuwabara/OC fics to even read in the first place, so itâs like⌠how many opportunities have readers actually had to see Kuwabara with another woman?
Do we, as a fandom, even know what Kuwabara would look like paired with an OC?
We pair him with some of the other guys sometimes, and those yaoi ships are decently popular (and also very cute), but for some reason we never seem to pair him with women other than Yukina though I have seen a few rogue Kuwabara/Keiko fics out there, which area neat, because I can totally see that pairing. I feel like itâs hard to imagine Kuwabara with any woman but Yukina because no one seems to write him with any woman but Yukina. Hard to imagine something that hasnât been done before, at least not very often.
Thereâs really no point to these observations. Iâm just happy to be forging into somewhat unexplored territory with The Ghost in You. Hopefully seeing Kuwabara with a woman other than Yukina might help authors who like the idea of Kuwabara/OC start writing their own stories, or at least feel like thereâs someone out there whoâd read their work? Wishful thinking, probably, but I can hope.
Honestly, I just want some Kuwabara/OC to read.
PLEASE. GIVE ME SOMETHING TO READ. IâM SO ALONE. (*sobs into her shirt*)
also this post is definitely an excuse to use a lot of Kuwabara GIFs for my own personal amusement and joy SO DEAL WITH IT
âScratchâ is my Graphospasm KuwabaraxOC ficâone of the few, the scarce, the hidden. Really need to finish that someday. I had big plans for it but lost my outline.
Will have to get back to Tora and her story eventuallyâŚ
i am SO SICK of unhappy endings. idk about anyone else but the #1 reason i like fiction is because everything can always work out no matter how bad it is. âwhat if the good guys lostâ shut up. you are so fucking boring. give me happy endings or give me nothing
not that y'all have to reblog this version but i wrote this post because i was frustrated that people claim that happy endings are âunrealisticâ and âdisrespectful to real peopleâ but i feel like that misses the point of Fiction, i.e. Not Real, and like. whoâs to say happy endings Arenât realistic? of course thereâs more than one way to tell a story and process experiences etc etc but maybe i spent too long being abused and wanting to die to accept that Everyone is Destined for a Sad Ending. isnât it reassuring to read about characters who, against all odds, triumph and find happiness? doesnât that give you a shred of hope for your life?
This post got a lot of hostile responses and passionate rebuttals in the notes. This actually came across my dash with some snarky âgee OP maybe some people like to feel something other than happinessâ response as if that was a legendarily hot take. Disappointed by the person who reblogged that one, to be honest.
I get that people are attached to their sadness porn, and get defensive at the idea that some may find constant suffering boring, but a lot tumblr took this one personâs preference for happy endings way too personally⌠like OP was gonna come into their homes and take their angst fic away from them.
So. This reminds me of when I was like 19 or so, and I was all about angst and unhappy endings. Like, I still kind of am an angst writer, but one thing really made me rethink my stance that unhappy endings were somehow better and more true and authentic than happy ones.
I made a friend over the internet who hated sad endings and said âno thanksâ to any media I recommended to her that didnât have a happy ending. At first I thought that is was childish and immature of her, even though she was around 30 and I was just about to turn 20.
But I was definitely the one being childish.
She had had a much, much harder life than me. Yeah, I had struggles, and I was depressed. But she had gone through A Lot. Death of family, chronic sickness, estrangement from family, homelessness, failed relationships that left her so broken-hearted she had sworn off dating and self-isolated to protect herself from more disappointment. In the time I knew her, she would often go AWOL for weeks or months because she was homeless due to being unable to work because of her chronic illness, and so she couldnât access the internet, and I would worry that she was dead. I had no way of knowing.
She could write some pretty angsty fiction, too, mind you. We were friends because of loving each othersâ writing. But she wanted happy endings. She challenged me to end my stories in less tragic ways than I had planned. To try to figure out happiness even when I thought it would be easier just to end it sad. She wanted the suffering to be worth something, in the end. And how could anyone in their right mind begrudge her that? To argue against that? To tell her that her stories should end badly? Should I have told her that her sadness defined her more than her hope for joy? Is that more respectful?
So yeah, if youâre gonna be on tumblr talking about how happiness is trite and boring, all I can say is that you donât fucking know the life stories of people who only want happy endings, who reject sad, tragic endings, or who are tired of entertainment that is chiefly derived from death and trauma and loneliness and hopelessness. Maybe itâs fun for you to vicariously experience struggle because your life has been easy and that bores you. Or maybe itâs cathartic for you precisely because you have suffered⌠but if thatâs the case Iâd think youâd all have more empathy. Hey, maybe you just really like to feel emotion when you consume fiction and watching other people be happy doesnât elicit any emotional response in you, and you cannot fathom why it is comforting for some people to see things work out well. Who knows.
look, im just a slut for some magical exhaustion okay
give me your whumpees overusing their magic and having physical repercussions from it, bloody noses, unable to stand, getting progressively weaker, utterly exhausted and spent !!Â
bonus points:Â if they know they are running low on magic but they have no choice but to keep using more until they just collapse
bonus bonus points: if their magic is somehow connected to their life force!!
I think the best piece of character design advice I ever received was actually from a band leadership camp I attended in june of 2017.Â
the speaker there gave lots of advice for leadersâobviously, it was a leadership campâbut his saying about personality flaws struck me as useful for writers too.Â
he said to us all âyour curses are your blessings and your blessings are your cursesâ and went on to explain how because he was such a great speaker, it made him a terrible listener. he could give speeches for hours on end and inspire thousands of people, but as soon as someone wanted to talk to him one on one or vent to him, he struggled with it.Â
he had us write down our greatest weakness and relate it to our biggest strength (mine being that I am far too emotional, but Iâm gentle with others because I can understand their emotions), and the whole time people are sharing theirs, my mind was running wild with all my characters and their flaws.
previously, I had added flaws as an after thought, as in âthis character seems too perfect. how can I make them not-like-that?â but thatâs not how people or personalities work. for every human alive, their flaws and their strengths are directly related to each other. you canât have one without the other.
is your character strong-willed? that can easily turn into stubbornness. is your character compassionate? maybe they give too many chances. are they loyal? then theyâll destroy the world for the people they love.
it works the other way around too: maybe your villain only hates the protagonistâs people because they love their own and just have a twisted sense of how to protect them. maybe your antagonist is arrogant, but theyâll be confident in everything they do.
tl;dr âyour curses are your blessings, and your blessings are your cursesâ there is no such thing as a character flaw, just a strength that has been stretched too far.
I like writing fanfic because I can have as many plotless fluff scenes as I want and just play with the characters and it doesnât matter because thatâs exactly what the readers want
At the top of the hill where nothing ever grows, stands a stone statue of a warrior frozen mid-battle. Most of the people have already forgotten its story, but the elders still whisper sometimes, in the darkest nights of the coldest winters, about the Silent Guardian, cursed by the gods to forever stand watch, neither dead nor alive. Tell the story of the Silent Guardian.
âI think tonight is a night for tales and legends.â The voice was creaky, and the words weighed down with age. Gnarled hands, appearing much like the twisted branches of some ancient tree, gestured carefully to one of the windows of the small cottage. Two pairs of green eyes followed their movements, and searched to see something beyond the darkness.
Across the room, with a shuffling, unhurried gait, an old woman puttered around the cooking fire. Upon the comfortable silence of the home being broken, she looked up at the others, strands of dull gray hair that had fallen from her bun framing the mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
âOh,â she said, âDo you think, Undosa?â She lifted a wooden spoon from her pot and shook it threateningly at the other woman, small droplets of stew spattering across the floor. âJust because it looks dark from inside, doesnât mean-â
Undosa let out a wheezing laugh.
âYou know me better than that, my dear. I have been keeping track for some time. Tonight is the new moon, and with a new moon, comes the time for old stories.â Undosa nodded firmly, sure of her decision. âYes, Otaia, tonight will do perfectly.â
Otaia shook her head but smiled fondly, and returned to her cooking.
At Undosaâs feet, staring up between to two women with wide, wondering eyes, were a young boy and girl. Undosa leaned towards them in her rocking chair, smiling warmly and looking between them expectantly.
âWell?â She rasped. âArenât my niece and nephew the least bit curious as to what this silly, wrinkly old woman is rambling on about?â
The girl, the older of the two and with short, tousled brown hair, shook her head furiously. The little boy next to her, with his much lighter curls, nodded with just as much energy, and Undosa could not contain her laughter.
âWhy not, Imora! Youâre brother certainly seems eager for a tale or two!â
Imora shook her head again before she stood from her place on the carpet and grasped the older womanâs hand.
âYouâre not wrinkly or old, Auntie!â Imora paused for a moment, as though thinking something over very carefully before continuing. âYou are very silly though,â She added seriously. On the floor behind her, her brother Orimbel nodded again.
âYeah! And you have a funny smell sometimes, Auntie!â
At this, Undosa once again found her humor could not be contained and laughed and laughed and pulled her niece in for a hug, managing to reach over and tug her nephew in as well. She squeezed them and ignored their protests until she was satisfied, and released them with a content sigh.
âOh, you two are so sweet, but Auntie Otie and I are very old and wrinkly indeed, Iâm afraid to say.â
Otaia walked over with bowls of stew and scoffed as she handed them down to the children.
âSpeak for yourself, you old crone! Iâll have you know I look as young as the day I turned 67!â The two woman laughed, and Otaia bent down to give Undosa a kiss on the cheek. They grasped hands for a moment, before Otaia straightened up and went back to get the other bowls.
Undosa waited with a smile until the children were settled with their stew, bundled up in their blankets and pillows on the floor, and her wife was settled with a blanket and her own meal in the rocking chair next to her. She placed the bowl on her lap to cool, and allowed its heat to seep through the ceramic and into her fingers.
âAlright,â she began, ânow that weâve gotten all of our giggles out of us, I think itâs about time I tell you this story.â
Beside her, Otaia nodded, much less patient than her wife, and already with a spoonful of too-hot stew making its way to her mouth.
âItâs a very good story,â Undosa continued, âbut one of the most important things you must remember about this tale is that it is not ours. It does not belong to Auntie Dosa, or to Auntie Otie, or to Imora or Orim, or anyone in Thesam at all who will try and claim that it is theirs.â Undosa retracted her hand and paused for a moment, looking between Imora and Orimbel with an uncharacteristic seriousness behind the warm brown of her irises.
Otaia placed a hand on Undosaâs shoulder, and the two woman shared a look, before she too turned and regarded the siblings gravely.
âThe story that Auntie Dosa is about to tell you is a very, very old one, little ones.â She made sure to look between them, to make eye contact with them both to make sure they understood what she was saying.
âIt is not a story to be shared with your friends on a cheerful day, underneath the shade of an apple tree. Nor is it a story to be told around the fire at a celebration, or whispered behind closed doors and sturdy walls.â
Otaia slid her palm down to grip Undosaâs hand in hers. In front of her, she saw Imora and Orimbel do the same, their stew half-eaten and forgotten as they inched closer together under their blankets.
âThis story,â Otaia continued, âcan only be shared on nights like this one - nights where the moon hides her face, and clouds blot out the stars. When it is bitterly cold, and not even the light from a flame can fully warm a room, or chase away the dark.â
Otaia did not let go of her wifeâs hand, but did settle back in her chair before she looked to her to continue.
Undosa, who had closed her eyes while she listened to Otaia speak, nodded three times before opening them again. But she did not look down at her niece and nephew, nor did she look to her wife. Rather, Undosa stared straight ahead, in a distant, haunting way that Imora and Orimbel would long remember in the years to come.
Their auntâs eyes, normally a cheerful, warm brown, for a moment, looked as dark as the sky outside the window.
âBeyond our humble village there is a place.â Undosa rumbled. Her voice seemed to dip and flow around her words, and she rocked steadily back and forth in her chair.
âIt is not so far past Thesamâs gate,â she said, âbut too close for manyâs comfort. From it, the river shies away, and directs itâs waters to flow elsewhere. The trees, too, are wise, and hold back their branches, fearful of what the old oaks whisper about having once seen. The creatures of the forest beyond this place tread its ground no longer, and not a living soul dares step foot upon the slope where nothing grows, but something never dies.â
Otaiaâs eyes were closed as she listened to Undosa. Orim appeared transfixed by Undosaâs tale, and found himself rocking back in forth in time with her. Imora, too, found herself captivated, but she could not help herself when she asked, in barely a whisper;
âWhat is it, Auntie?â
Undosaâs eyes seemed to shutter closed for a moment, before they opened again and, still with her deep, almost vacant stare, turned to Imora. Imora stared right back. Finally, Undosa blinked, her eyes regaining some focus, and smiled.
âIt, Imora, is the one to whom this story belongs.â She craned her neck forward, prompting the children to do the same. âListen carefully, little ones.â
Imora nodded, and Orim next to her did as well, and the both of them strained their ears to hear what their aunt was going to say. After squeezing Otaiaâs hand and closing her eyes, Undosa leaned back and continued to rock gently in her chair, and remembered the words that she, herself, had heard so very long ago.
âAt the top of the hill where nothing ever grows, stands a great warrior, made of stone. It was said that, many years ago, they were protector of our village. It was said that they fought all sorts of beasts, and monsters, and those that would do us and our loved oneâs harm. They were revered a great hero.â Undosa sighed softly. What she said next was so quiet that Imora and Orim almost didnât hear it. âThey were well loved.â
Beside her, Otaiaâs face twitched, but otherwise, she did not seem to hear the whispered words at all.
Undosa opened her eyes and looked down at the children, the hand not holding her wifeâs once again curling around the steadily cooling bowl of stew. Undosa - who despite her great age and many wrinkles, and who normally possessed a youth and joy more becoming of one less than half her years - in that moment appeared weighed down by all the days and sorrows she had ever lived.
âBut it couldnât last.â Undosaâs voice, at first strong, had cracked with that same age that seemed to be pressing down on her shoulders, and seeping into her bones. After a deep, shuddering breath, she looked to Otaia with pleading eyes.
Her beloved nodded, rubbing soothing circles on Undosaâs hand with her thumb as the childrenâs focus shifted to her. Otaia smiled gently at them, and continued where Undosa had left off.
âThe warrior, that great protector of our homes, of our families, one day encountered a foe stronger than any other they had ever faced.â
As she spoke, Otaiaâs other hand drifted to her bowl of stew. She gestured towards the steam rising from the bowl, and as Imora and Orimbel watched, it seemed to thicken, and darken, and grow.
âIt began,â she said, once pale steam now a thick, black smoke, curling delicately around her gently twisting fingers, âwith a deep fog that rolled over hills, and crawled through forests. It crept ever closer to Thesam, and the people were afraid. We knew not what it was, or where it had come from, or why it was here.â
The smoke twisted to match Otaiaâs words, and raised a small forest from itâs twisting tendrils. All around the base of the trees more, darker smoke drifted. As it left the forest, each tree that had been touched by its oily fingers seemed to shrivel, as though the very life had been sucked from itâs branches.
âIt destroyed everything it came across. Trees first lost their leaves, then they became rotten, and their roots no longer held them firm in the ground. Any creature that entered within itâs hungry grasp was consumed by darkness.â
The siblings watched with rapt attention as the smoke twisted by Otaiaâs command, creating and then enveloping wispy rabbits and deer and wolves, and fields of corn and wheat, and then gardens, and then fences.
Otaiaâs fingers twisted and jerked sharply and the smoke settled into one final scene.
A wall of thick, sickly black fog, towering over a village. Only one thing stood between them - the silhouette of a warrior. They stood alone.
They held sword and shield, and had a bow strapped to their back. As the fog approached, they fired arrows, and slashed with their sword, but nothing they did seemed to help.
âThey fought, desperately.â
Imora and Orim both jumped at hearing Undosaâs voice, so focused were they on Otaiaâs display. Undosa herself was watching the ghostly figure slash at the fog, to no avail. Her eyes never wavered, but she continued to speak, her voice rasping over the words.
âThey fought, but how does one fight something they cannot touch? How does one protect from something that cannot be cut, or struck, or slain?â
The fog encroached ever closer to the warrior, until it reared back suddenly, before diving forwards and swallowing them whole.
Imora could not contain her gasp, and next to her, Orim clutched desperately at her nightgown through the blankets. His eyes were watery, already filling with tears, but before the tears could fall, the smoke suddenly changed again.
The oily, inky color slowly drained down to the bottom, lightening until everything was a warm, uniform gray. It gradually began spiraling where it hung in the air, before swirling once more into the form of the warrior, now frozen with their sword raised high above their head.
âThe enemy was defeated.â Undosa said, eyes dull as she stared at the figure. âBut at great cost.â
For a moment, it was quiet. All eyes remained transfixed on the warrior until, at last, Otaia relaxed her hand and the image and smoke dissipated entirely. With it, Otaia let out a heavy breath, and slumped back into her rocking chair with closed eyes. Undosa gently tucked a strand of gray hair behind Otaiaâs ear, and received a soft smile in return.
Finally, Orim could not contain himself. Rubbing at his watery eyes with one hand and still clinging to his sister with the other, he looked up at his Aunties and asked a burning question.
âBut what was the cost?â He paused for a moment, his brow furrowed as he thought of something else. âAnd how did they win?â
Undosa smiled down at him, but it was brittle, and worn.
âNo one knows how they won, Orim. And now, not many care to know. It was a very, very long time ago. And a tale not many tell.â
Imora frowned, thinking hard about the story they had just heard, and the things they had seen.
âAt the end,â she said quietly, âall the fog turned gray, and there was just the warrior.â Imora looked up from where she had been contemplating her bowl, glancing between her two Aunts. âWhat happened?â
Undosa turned to her niece, that same brittle smile plastered on her lips, and a deep sadness in her eyes.
âThat was the cost, Imora. That is what was left, once the battle was done. That is the place where nothing ever grows, but something never dies. Up on that hill, the warrior, the protector of Thesam waits. Turned to solid stone, and surrounded by a circle of death, they wait. They watch. They protect us, still, though many people are ungrateful of it. Some people believe it was a punishment. But still they stand, utterly silent, utterly patient.â
Imora thought about it a for a moment, what her Aunties had said. Someone who stands watch over Thesam. Over her and Orim, and Mama and Papa and Auntie Dosa, and Auntie Otie, and her best friend Rydel, and her cousins and uncles and less interesting aunts.
She wasnât sure where the words came from, but suddenly they were there, in her head, and the more she thought about them, the more she liked them. They reminded her of something Mama said once, something about an angel.
âSo theyâre...our Silent Guardian?â
Finally, Undosaâs smile turned more real, and her eyes gained back some of that familiar warmth. Next to her, Otaiaâs eyes opened and she looked softly at her wife and then at her niece and nephew.
Undosa let out a soft, wheezy chuckle, and gestured for Imora and her brother to come to them. They scrambled to put their bowls on the ground and untangle themselves from the blankets, Orim climbing up into Undosaâs lap and Imora wedging herself happily into Otaiaâs chair.
Otaia began gently combing her fingers through Imoraâs hair and Undosa rocked Orim back and forth with her. Her eyes shone as she looked to Imora, who smiled brightly back.
âYes, Imora, I think thatâs the best way to put it. Our Silent Guardian.â
((Rules for the challenge can be found here (X)! You can also block the tag caffeine challenge if youâd prefer not to see it!))
You can watch me type mine here (X)
The prompts:
1) Submitted by Anonymous: Â Song lyrics from Nana Grizolâs âMississippi Swellsâ. âYou dream of transportation, infrastructure, the bus stations / On the blocks between the shops the lights flicker on and off and on / And my imagination too travels those streets / Thinking of places and the people that we meet / And conversations with strangers on bus seatsâ.
2) Dialogue prompt: âWhat does it mean to be immortal? A long time ago, I was fool enough to think the answer my mission.â
Caffeine Challenge 25: When Man Discovered Magic, The World Stood Still With Wonder
âYou broke the rules, Asthenethor.â
Everyone is reunited. Itâs the first time ever, probably. Not the last time, hopefully.
âNice to see you all.â
âAsthenethor. You are the youngest of us. You appeared after us. Yet you wished to be given right to create. And now, look at the mess.â
No one needs to look. Everyone knows. No eyes to see, but they all know what is happening.
A human is about to discover Magic.
âIt was meant to be.â
âIt was not. When you created Earth, we said nothing. When you created life, we said nothing. When you created man⌠We told you enough. We told you no more. That you had the choice between destroying it, or never interacting with it again. And now you have brought Magic. You have both interacted with your creation, and traced the path to its end. No living thing should have Magic.â
âBut Magic has always been part of humans. They exist because of Magic. My Magic. And they have created their own, through words and smiles and gestures, and they will discover more Magic as the millenias go by, and I will not be responsible for it.â
The others let out a breathless sigh.
âYou forget. We see everything. You placed stardust in the heart of one that will be born soon. You. Interacted. And when your humans discover him, they will discover Magic. True Magic, the one no living thing should have.â
âWhy?â
Silence. Once more:
âWhy shouldnât they have it? Is it because of fear? That they will then learn about us? That they will then come for us?â
More silence.
âMe, I am curious. I ask myself: what will they do with Magic? Use it for good? Bad? Maybe they wonât understand it and move on. Thatâs the beauty of life. Itâs unpredictable. And I enjoy every part of it.â
âAsthenethor.â
This voice comes from another direction.
âAsthenethor, we cannot bet on what happens next. We granted you too much. You cannot break the rules.â
âItâs not betting. Or it wonât be in a few seconds. The human is about to be born. His eyes will open and he will breathe his first breath. And humans will discover Magic.
âStories, songs and much more will spread about golden fingers and silver eyes and healing and floating and flying.
"And you, who think so highly of the rules I have broken, will do nothing to stop it. For if I have brought Magic to humans, I will face judgement. But no judgement can be brought unto humans. Those are the rules.â
Everyone can feel the moment approaching. The birth is mere seconds away. And everyone has to wonder.
Silver eyes surely are not that strange, and surely golden fingers are not much more so. But when he burns the grass with merely his hands, what will they see in this dangerous glow?
If he cries at the moon and the moon answers back, maybe theyâll think it is only echo. But when he returns with an entire wolf pack, how will the story go?
âHe is born.â
And with these words, everyone waited. As Man discovered Magic, the World stood still.
ââ
This is for @caffeinewitchcraftâs writing challenge! (Iâm so late sorry)
It is also the first thing Iâve written in at least a year! Sorry if my English is bad.
I like the idea of having an ambiguous narrator. By that, I mean that there is one, but you cannot tell who. Is it Asthenethor, is it the reader? Is it third person? There is nothing in the narration that can tell you that. No âyou hear thisâ, no âhe says thatâ, no âI know what that isââŚ
This turned a little into poetry at the end but Iâm going to bed so eh.
mood: i want to read a story exactly like one of my favorite stories iâve read a thousand times but not THAT story because iâve read it a thousand times and i want to read a new one but it should be exactly like this one.
âUnless you are following the dialogue with an action and not a dialogue tag.â He took a deep breath and sat back down after making the clarifying statement.Â
âAndââ she waved a pen as though to underline her statementââif youâre interrupting a sentence with an action, you need to type two hyphens to make an en-dash.â
âThis is a battleground. Iâm caught in the crossfire. My words are weaponry. And Iâm waiting patiently. You win the battle now. But I will return the fire. âCause Iâd crawl on broken glass. To be the one who laughs lastâ
She remembered the stories, in the courts. Humans - always so fearful of what they didnât understand. At least they understood their place, understood that the fair folk were their betters, that they were to be treated with respect. Nenthyris didnât understand the fascination with humans. They were barely able to form words, from what she had heard. Stumbling, slobbering, stupid - but if they were all of those things, then why was it that so many fae were so - so captivated by them?
She knew fae that spent years in the human realms, toying with them, playing mind games and pulling tricks. What was the fun in messing with a creature that barely had enough awareness to give itself a name? Nenthyris was all for a little fun, but eventually it just seemed pointless. She could get more entertainment from another fae - how complex a mind game could a human even play?
But, eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. She took leave of the courts, of political machinations and riddle-rhymes and subtle insults wrapped in flowery words. She enjoyed it, yes, or she should have. But it had all become so boring, so repetitive, so tiresome. Routine. And humans, well, maybe they wouldnât be quite as uninteresting as she had come to believe.
She hadnât been in the human realms for long when she met her. Long dark hair, loosely bound near the end, tan skin, and golden eyes that looked at her with open curiosity. She wasnât the first human Nenthyris had met by this point, no - she had played with some others, but so far no one had been any challenge at all. It was just as she thought - fae that wasted all their time manipulating humans were just as boring as the fae she had left behind in the courts.
At the very least, this one was something new. She was different from the other humans she had encountered so far - in appearance and demeanor both. This woman did not have to say a single word, but she had already caught her attention.
Though intrigued, Nenthyris doubted that this human could be very different from the others. The way she held herself boasted confidence, yes - but foolhardiness as well, surely. This human would be like the rest - undoubtedly she would give Nenthyris her name, or ask for a trade, or follow her dumbly back to the faewoods. It was inevitable, and there was no doubt in her mind that this woman would be just like the rest.
Nenthyris allowed the woman to approach her. Her sly grin blossomed into a welcoming smile, and she stepped forwards as well.
âGreetings, traveler,â Nenthyris began, voice sickly sweet and filled with a shallow warmth. âIt has been some time since I have seen one of your kind come to visit this place. I would know who it is that has come to spend time with me. Give me your name?â
Nenthyris outstretched one hand, tendrils of fae magic invisibly curling over her fingers and wrist. It was a simple ploy, but one that most humans fell for. This would be easy.
Except it wasnât.
Instead of handing off her name as others foolishly had before her, the woman smiled. She adjusted the bag across her chest, and from it retrieved a  loaf of bread, wrapped carefully in parchment to preserve its freshness. Then she turned back to Nenthyris, a cheerful light dancing in her eyes and the meal outstretched towards her.
âI canât give you my name, because it is not mine to give. It was given to me by my mother, as a gift, and gifts given should be kept. But I can tell you that most call me Sarithsi, and you may call me by it as well. I can also tell you that bread is best eaten when you are not alone. Would you care to join me?â
Nenthyris was unable to keep the smile held in place on her lips, instead it drooped, slowly, like a wilting flower, as she stared incredulously at the bread, and then at the woman offering it. Sarithsi. Magic retreated back from her fingers, delicately winding its way back into her core, and Nenthyris carefully lowered her arm.
For the first time, Nenthyris was speechless.
When Nenthyris did not respond, Sarithsi shrugged her shoulders and tossed her bag down on the grass, before settling beside it with a soft thud. She began carefully unwrapping the bread, and as she did Nenthyris caught the scent of pumpkin and spices. She hadnât eaten anything, in the human realms. She didnât see a point to it. But for the first time, she was tempted.
As the woman unknowingly taunted the fae with the delicious smells coming from her bread, Sarithsi spoke up again, this time glancing at her from the corner of her eye with a mischievous grin.
âItâs fine if you donât want to join me, even a shy stranger standing ominously over me is better than eating alone.â
Nenthyris fought off the urge to scowl, before gathering herself once again and making a bit of a hasty decision. But now this human was a challenge, or so she told herself, and so she would see it through.
âNo, I will join youâŚSarithsi.â Nenthyris settled down across from her with an intentionally eerie grace, trying to unnerve the woman, but Sarithsi didnât seem to mind. Instead, she tore the loaf of bread in two, and without prompting, handed the larger half to the fae.
Nenthyris grabbed it on reflex, and then immediately cursed her own foolishness. What was she doing? Sharing food with a human on the ground in the middle of a forest? Accepting things thrust into her hands before first thinking through the ramifications, like some kind ofâŚsome kind ofâŚ
Nenthyris physically sagged a bit, staring down at her bread. She could have no debts, not even over something as insignificant as bread. She would have to give her something. Had she been outwitted so easily, so quickly?
Feeling almost physically pained, Nenthyris managed to choke out her next words.
âWhat would you like in return for thisâŚmeal?â
Sarithsi had her mouth full, but shook her head back and forth, and used her free hand to wave away Nenthyrisâ words. Once she had swallowed, she smiled once again at Nenthyris, eyes shining.
âNothing at all! I already told you, bread is best eaten when you arenât alone. Itâs a gift! Besides, Iâve also found bread to be one of the best ways to make new friends.â
Nenthyris knew that she probably looked like a fool, staring at the human as she was. Friends. This human, this woman, this Sarithsi, met a fae in the woods, and instead of allowing her name to be stolen, or even waiting for the next trick, had the opportunity for a boon from a fae, denied it, and offered friendship in the same breath.
And, looking into this Sarithsiâs eyes, she felt something odd seem to twang in her chest. She couldnât identify the feeling. It wasnât something familiar to her, so instead she turned to something that was. That one she let grow, let bubble up through her lungs and her throat and all the while this human woman just sat and ate her bread and acted like she had done nothing at all. Acted like she had not said anything so absolutely ridiculous, so absurd, so mocking and impossible-
Abruptly, Nenthyris stood up. She was infuriated.
âDo you not know what I am?â She demanded. The woman, Sarithsi, remained on the ground, wide-eyed, startled perhaps, but not scared. Not intimidated, like Nenthyris wanted her to be. Her aura was practically lashing the air around her, but still, Sarithsi remained confident. The lack of fear made Nenthyris boil.
âDo you not know what this is?â She hissed. Those golden eyes remained uncomprehending - and unafraid. âThis!â Nenthyris said, angrily waving at the space between the two of them, and lacing her voice with as much venom as she could muster. âThis, this is a battleground. My words are my weapons and you - you!â
But no words would come. Nenthyris threw her hands up in the air with a wordless shriek of frustration. No words would come. This human had barely spoken three sentences and yet - and yet!
And yet she had stolen the words from a fae. Every single thing she said was not how humans were supposed to act, supposed to be, and she had made a fool of Nenthyris a thousand times over already, outsmarted, outwitted, outmatched.
Finally, after a long, breathless moment, Nenthyris once again found her voice.
âI am a Fae.â She said, bringing her eyes back down from the sky, but choosing to glare at the bread and the grass and the womanâs sandals rather than her eyes. âI deceive, and I trick, and play games and take things like names, - but you have not allowed me to do any of these things. You gave me a gift, and IâŚâ
The bubbling, boiling anger drained from her swiftly, but left behind that original twanging feeling in her chest. She continued to stare at the bread, now half crumbled, in the grass. She had crushed it and thrown it on the ground when she stood. She hadnât realized. She felt like a fool.
And then, there was a hand on her shoulder. And Nenthyris looked up.
âI didnât know what you were. But I didnât think it mattered.â In her hands, Sarithsi held a piece of her half of the loaf, still uneaten. Nenthyris looked at the bread, and then back at the face of the human that had so quickly confounded her.
âBut,â Sarithsi said, that same eager smile on her lips, âI do think I would like to know who you are. You have already explained what fae are, and what they do. What do you do? Who are you?â
Nenthyris spent a long moment, studying those eyes. She thought carefully, considered the way Sarithsiâs smile curved gently, and genuinely, and wondered about gifts and friendship instead words that were poised like weapons, and the willingness to do anything to be the one who got the last laugh.
Delicately, the fae took the bread from Sarithsiâs outstretched hand. She took a moment, cleared her throat, and then she met Sarithsiâs eyes once again.
âIâŚam Nenthyris. I think that I, would like toâŚget to know you, too. As aâŚfriend?â
That time when Sarithsi smiled, Nenthyris had one that was just as blinding to match.
â
I know I went waaaaaaaaay over the time limit! But I was on a roll, and also I type and think veeeeery slowly lol. This is my first time doing a challenge, it was super fun! Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! :DDD
Edit: I ALSO POSTED IT WRONG THE FIRST TIME WHOOPS HERE WE GO
