A Witch without a Doll, but a Doll without a Witch.
It sits, perched, watching over the hangar as the simulsun casts the drab metals in orange.
Another assignment complete, left wanting.
A Witch without a Doll, a Doll without a Witch.
It drifts from Witch to Handler and back again, nary a word from Command.
"The little one does what it needs to. It needs no discipline from its higher-ups. Let the strings drift and it'll find where it's needed."
A lonely state, but it understands. It curls up with the other Dolls some nights, others with their Handlers.
A wrongful feeling, its strings lax, complacent. Doll without a Witch. It hears the others chide behind its back, trying to find a place again. Again.
Doll without a Witch, but with loose Purpose. A loose cannon, a mechsuit tech called it once. It supposes he wasn't wrong, but why's it matter as long as it works diligently? He's not the one in the crosshairs, the name on its list.
Doll without a Witch, but with a home, different bodies to sleep beside each night.
in honor of me seeing zayn live today, and also today being the 9th anniversary of the mind of mine release, might i interest you in a one-shot based on BoRdErSz i wrote last year for the mwpp...
fic: i don't wanna cool off
pairing: rosekiller
rating: E
“Silent treatment again, huh?” said Barty with an audacity only an idiot should have. His tone sweetened with condescension as if everything was alright and Evan was just being dramatic.
or
who doesn't love a good heart to heart in the middle of sex
and as always, here's the playlist i listened to while writing this, you can also find both links on my pinned!!
I have been thinking about these tags since I saw these on my meta analysis post about Gale's romance. Here's specifically MY Tav unpacking it because it's definitely different for every Tav but I've been rotating this thought in my head. Thank YOU for your wonderful addition to my post.
"What did you mean?" She asks softly.
He looks up at her from the book he's reading. "About?"
"you said," she says slowly. "That you loved me more than Mystra. What did you mean by that?"
"I think it's rather self explanatory."
She closes her hand around her holy symbol and presses it against his chest softly.
He looks down at it, "that's your conduit for magic, why are you trying to give it to me?"
"Just, hold it." She instructs.
He takes it in his hand, metal in the shape of a rising sun still warm from being against her skin. Or is it an innate part of Lathander's domain? He does not know.
She exhales slowly, "there are... A lot of ways to love a God, Gale. None of them are fitting of a mortal. You said... You said you love me more than Mystra do you really feel that way?"
"of course, I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true."
"would you be able to produce magic with that?" She asks softly.
"no, it's not my holy symbol."
"you're not a cleric, Gale. Mystra's domain is the weave but she does not grant you your power. Your study, your skill, that does. You say you love me more than Mystra you are placing me among the Gods. I- I'm not... Worthy is the wrong word."
"you're worth so much more."
"I am not." She cuts him off. "I am not, not because of loathing or some innate humbleness that you could not hope to achieve. No, I am not to be placed amongst the gods because I am a person. To place me...on that pedestal. It's unfair to you. I will fail you."
"you won't." He insists.
"I will, because I am human. I will make mistakes. I want to spend a lifetime with you Gale, to pretend otherwise, to pretend that I won't carelessly ignore your feelings or you I, on accident, or say something that hits a little too close to home... It's a folly. You have... You have devotion in you, the likes of which most clerics could only ever dream to possess. You sought this orb in some greater move for your Goddess and she cast you out for it. But you are not a cleric, you bend the weave with skill far more than I could ever dream of possessing. She does not make you. I do not make you. If Lathander were to cast me out..." Her tongue feels heavy. "Shadowheart was...lucky. Selunê maintains her abilities... You told me. You told me to hold onto the great gift my God gives me... And I think you're right, it is a gift, one that can be taken away. What you have is a skill... So what did you mean when you said you loved me more than Mystra? Because to place me among the Gods alienates me too far from you. I do not want to be worshipped, I just want to be with you."
There is something unspoken in those words.
If I had to, I would reject everything I've ever studied and practiced and worshipped to keep you by my side.
In a move surprising literally no one, I am once again thinking about Philippa Eilhart. Dress and how Philippa is dressed in the books as a whole are very important to her characterisation but the outfit I think is peak characterisation is her Thanedd Banquet Dress.
We consume this banquet from Geralt's point of view, we see the politics at play, are told the politics at play, but Geralt does not have a wider understanding because he is not a politician. The outfits are meant to describe a lot about the characters, they're easy to pick out at first, Sabrina, Keira with her Ankh juxtaposing her dress so sheer you can see the mole on her left breast, etc. And then Dorregaray of Vole talks with Geralt. Geralt has been pulled every which way told everyone is spying for someone and Dijkstra and Philippa are the most obvious yes? No. Dorregaray points out Philippa's dress is trimmed with an extinct fur, Diamond Ermine. When Philippa comes to steal Geralt away he points it out explicitly, he even adds that the species was officially declared extinct twenty years ago. No, corrects Philippa Eilhart, it was thirty years ago. She even mocks it, saying that she thought about instructing her dressmaker to trim it was raw flax, but then the colours wouldn't have matched.
This says nothing to Geralt, this says EVERYTHING to the reader. The two most notable aspects, the trim of her dress is a fur that is extinct now. The trim of her dress is ermine.
Ermine has historically been defined by heavy sumptuary laws and is a status symbol of royalty. The pointing out of its extinct nature serves to show you the reader she's been at this longer than we suspected.
This dress trim tells us many things about Philippa Eilhart Geralt doesn't know, that he will see through Keira's eyes next chapter more clearly. Philippa Eilhart is not Redania's spy, Dijkstra is. Philippa Eilhart is Redania's Queen Regnant, a puppet master. She has brought Redania's spy, and is there dressed as Redania's Queen in the interest of Redania as well as to have an alibi for the usurping of Vizimir the Second of Redania.
As Tissaia says in the next chapter, Redania hasn't had a King, not for a very long time. This dress shows that.
Joan is not one to stay up late. It is a type of demand that she cannot put herself through. Yet here she is awake at the darkest hour of night and her thoughts race.
Mystra, goddess of magic, has asked...no, commanded, that Gale kill himself for her forgiveness.
She cannot breathe, anxiety creeps onto her skin threatening to sink into her pores and drive itself into her heart. The Gods could demand her life she realises.
Her God could command her to kill herself for the greater good. In death there is light, in light there is life, and there is rebirth. It does not comfort her.
Slowly she stands, walking over to his tent. He is reading.
"you're up late," he muses when he sees her.
She kneels in front of him, looking at his face closely. "I-"
Her words freeze on her tongue. Instead she just embraces him. He is warm, he is here, he is safe.
He adjusts them slightly, now holding his book in one hand, and looks down at her. "Are you okay? You're not usually..."
"She wants you to kill yourself Gale." She whispers.
"And that's my burden to bear, it's alright." He says softly.
She is shaking.
"Gale."
"If your God asked you would you?" He asks gently.
She makes a pathetic whimper. "I don't know."
The realisation settles in the tent making it eerily silent. Her fingers grip tighter onto his robes. "Gale... I..."
Selfishness has never been in her vocabulary. Her life, her soul, has been dedicated to helping people.
"I think I'm a bad Paladin." She mutters. Sleep takes her.
so i wrote something for @hpfemininomenonfest !!!!
i hope you enjoy it!! you can find it here or the link on my pinned post!!
pairing: marylene
rating: T
She couldn’t hide behind excuses anymore, no more promising herself to forget in the morning, no more “it’ll pass when I’m sober”, no more anything. Marlene had to admit to herself, she was in love with her roommate, had been for quite some time now, no denying it anymore.
or
Marlene is painfully oblivious about her feelings towards Mary until she's not, so she comes up with a plan to make her fall in love too. (Un)lucky for Marlene, Mary is just as oblivious as she is.
and ofc you can find the playlist below or my pinned!!
‘King Vizimir,’ interrupted the fair-haired medium in an unemotional voice, ‘was murdered yesterday evening. Stabbed by an assassin. Redania no longer has a king.’
When Philippa had gotten back she found her son knelt before the place where the assassin had stabbed his father. Hedwig refused to look at her, Dijkstra had finally regained the ability to stand, and the Prince was knelt before stained dried blood. Sufficed to say, Redania was in disarray.
"Radzio," she said softly sitting on the bench next to the Prince. "My little eagle why do you do this to yourself?"
Dijkstra glanced at her from across the bloody room. "He refuses to let anyone clear it out."
"He's not coming back," The teen prince chokes out. He was out of sobs months ago. "I want him back."
Philippa stood, "come on, this is unbefitting of someone of your stature."
"I don't care." The Prince hisses. "He was my father."
"This isn't going to bring him back, stand."
The Prince flinches, but obliges—arms crossed sourly.
Radovid doesn't have many good memories of Lady Eilhart. But she did not lash nor scold nor meter out a punishment. She pulled him gently into a hug.
"You'll be okay." She soothes. "We're cleaning this room."
Adda is an older sister, and older sisters are supposed to take care of their younger sisters. Adda doesn't understand this concept but she does remember when Arabella was born and she looked over the crib to the very small tiny human sleeping there.
It took Foltest months to get Adda to stop leaving scraps of meat on the baby. But when she held the impossibly small child she screamed and cried when her father took her away. Adda did not understand how something was so small, but those big eyes looked up at her and she babbled and clung and she knew she'd do anything for her.
No one really understood Adda, but the toddler wobbled as she walked and babbled on and on. No one really seemed to understand the toddler either.
Adda remembered the first time though, that she realised her sister might be like her. Those big eyes were usually starry and bright but, in an impossibly itchy dress, during the middle of a loud ball, her sister started screaming. She rushed over instinctively grabbing her sister away from the noble boy she was playing with. Her sister screamed and kicked and bit and the realisation hit her.
It's loud. Adda thought. And despite the protests and screams she brought the girl out to the garden, not even noticing she was bleeding. She wanted to scream too. But instead she sat her by the lake, with nothing but the crickets and the frogs. The screaming died down and the thrashing stopped and she was left with a hiccuping crying little sister who started bawling more when she realised she was hurt.
She didn't know what to say, so she grabbed a frog and held it up to her. The child, between hiccuping sobs, looked at the frog and quietly reached out and held it. And there they stayed that night. It was better than the loud ball anyways.
Adda is not a typical older sister, meek and demure, she does not tend to her sister's wounds with grace and elegance. That has never been Adda, that will never be Adda. But older sisters are supposed to take care of their younger sisters and what Adda knows how to do is protect, fight.
When their father got home he found his daughter, so small and little, in a bed being tended to by people much more skilled than Adda at caring for those wounds. His other daughter lay there at her bedside, refusing to move. But the dead bodies in her bed chamber of the would-be assassins were not there because of guards or Vernon. No, because Adda had never been disturbed by the sight of blood before, and had taken on men greater than they. But there was one exception to the rule. It should never, ever, be her little sister's blood.
Because Adda is an older sister, and an older sister protects her little sister.
