avenrue  asked:

"Would you want to live forever, 'Stasia? Also. Guns or bows? Lay this argument to rest for me." -Rue

“DAMN IT, WHY CAN’T YOU STAY DEAD?! Psychotic creeper-bitch…” Stasi huffs and crosses her arms. “Bows, of course, though guns might possibly have a marginally-better range. The fact that one gunshot will ruin your position isn’t really worth it—plus the damn things hurt my ears. As for immortality? Eh. If it means losing my soul and sanity to some god, forget it. At some point, I’ll see all that’s worth seeing anyway, and all that’ll be left is boredom.”

“IamAvenrueDray!” she said in a single breath.

“…Dray…” He hung on the name a moment. “Can I see the coin? We’re friends, right? I don’t want you to forget…” The girl looked at the coin, then the Charr, then the coin, then back to the Charr.

“Promise to give it back?” He replied, “Of course,” and she offered the coin after he set her down. He dragged a claw along the coin, forming a very peculiar glyph. After he was done, he flipped the coin down towards Avenrue. “Here you are, human-cub. Do you know where your gates are?” Avenrue shook her head and the Charr sighed, the cub of Banastre Dray was an opportunity too tempting to pass up. He slammed a foot to the ground and a seven foot long stone snake rose from the ground. “Sally. Take this little… Whitehair and leave her within sight of the gates.”

The rock snake obediently coiled between Avenrue’s legs and lifted, carting her towards the gates of Ebonhawke.

“THANK YOU, SIR!” she called back to the Charr.

She wass the firsst of my Children and now sshe movess on her own planss.

The word Pride comess to mind.

The Reylo Senate, otherwise known as the Sinful Friday Reylo Chat proclaims:

@radiojamming as Keeper of the Compactor, Swamp Senator and Den Mother; providing guidance and quite possibly, a cracker barrel fanfic.

@ms-qualia as AU Senator, though somewhat conflicted at first with the title, will grant us with her never-ending knowledge in alternative universes.

@avenrue as The Archivist and Maker of the Keystone.

@juulna as the Reylux Queen, Defender of all the Ships, she will grace us with stories of odd numbers (usually, three).

@and-then-bam-cassiopeia as Ambassador of Overly Detailed Meta, in her we trust to nitpick until the end.

@ohtze as Empress of Literary Criticism, also retaining her previous title of Mama Shark, eternal source of Legends knowledge and wonderful essays.

@tiaraofreylos as Senator of Drawn-Out Story Arcs, she will share with us her gift of eternity.

@katyj19 as The Lurker Queen, always minded for reading, yet never writing fanfiction.

@uleanblue as Ambassador of Ludicrously Slow Updates, who wishes to first finish with her WIPs before plunging full into Reylo matters.

@hyperscanvindicator as Dark Lord of Unromantic Smut, who will teach us the benefits of avoiding entanglements.

@fireatlast as Empress of Fanfiction Newbies, she will give us a glimpse of the maelstrom the freshly introduced writer experiences coming into the Reylo.

@thegrayship​ as The Princess of Rarely Updated Multichapters and Snoke Being a Creepy Fuck, blessing us with accurate villain descriptions and cursing us at the same time with long waits between chapters.

@feckyeslife as The Anti-Paladin of Dark!Rey, defending the ranks of shippers against the foul orcs.

@nightsick as General of Angst, bringing all the feels we never asked for.

@rachel-greatest as The Reader Who Always Comments, raining kind, supportive words into our AO3 and Tumblr accounts.

and myself, @dauntlesssubconscious as The Scribe, the Chosen to compile and gather the whirlwind that is the Friday’s Reylo Chat for the world to see.

(Of course, there’s a lot of people missing here, so feel free to add yourselves and friends here, whether by reblogging or sending me an MP for me to edit this post.)

When I started this blog FOUR YEARS AGO TODAY I was a junior in high school. My url was overthehill-andacrossthewater. My icon was a painting by Alan Lee. I had one of the three free themes. And this was my first post lol

I’ve come a long way since then. I struggled through two gap years and now I’m a freshman in college. I’m writing fanfiction that apparently people like! I took up photography. I’ve figured out html. And I’m starting to learn photoshop. I’ve learned so much about what I like and what I am like. 

My interests and fandoms have changed drastically. I’ve followed and unfollowed a lot of blogs over the years. But I want everyone to know and appreciate the blogs and the people behind them that have inspired and supported me!

IRL Friends 

@apollosprophet - @nadja-kaninchen - @sarahkindalikeshockey

Internet Friends

@glowstickia - @ohmyhowstrange - @professorkirke


@avenrue@baekenobi@beauyega - @criticalranger@emodarthkylo - @foreverdelighted -@futurerustfuture-dust - @i-walk-with-heroes - @kylrns - @peterpannerisms@princessofreylo -  @sebastiaens - @stvehrrington@tigerstark - @the-way-im-feeling

Awesome People

@asoiaf-aus - @captainofalltheships - @damnitfili@feanory - @fuckyeahwomenfilmdirectors - @leeeeeeeeeegooooooooolaaaaaaaaas@lizziebennet@myfairgolightly - @ohelrond@princessaryaunderfoot@winterofherdiscontent

By the time she musters up the courage to raise the mug to her lips, her palms are raw with heat.

Swaddled in old scarves and a loose knit throw she snags from the couch each evening, she is an unobtrusive pile of beige in a very bland lavatory. The throw never stays in one place for long. She can’t count the times Taire has reached for it whilst lounging around downstairs and complained loudly up the stairs about her possessive nature over knitted items.

Memory triggers that little notation – her ears pick up the sound of his big body shifting in the cramped space of their bed as he sleeps, the groan of the old bedframe muffled through the door.

She thinks of how selfish she is, her soul as reptile and base as that which slithers through grave dirt.

The bitter smell of camphor fills the cramped space.  Calves brush the curved foot of the tub. She tries to make herself as small as possible, hunching into the blanket as she takes the first slow sip.

Her mouth works to keep the liquid on the flat of her tongue, the faintest hint of the bitter taste hitting the back of her throat.

It is like holding a slow-moving bullet between her teeth. Soon she’ll feel the warm weight of it all slip past the muscles she can voluntarily control. Take the choice out of her hands and into her body.  

She thinks of Mark’s face. The slow moving knot climbs her throat as she works up the courage to take the first swallow. But nothing will move. Even her thoughts stagnate to a flickering impression of repeated scenes.

A decade ago. Cramping and blood sluicing down her naked legs. A stained tub with the faint red of a line puckered into the porcelain like a scar.

A night past. Weakness as a mortal. Weakness as a human. Weakness as a woman. The slow vice of his words and power cinching her pride, girding it into a thing of insignificance. She can feel Sir’s disappointment press in like a weight on her mind, unspoken and as weighted as a blade waiting to cut through the meat and tendons of her neck.

One swallow and she gets it all back.

One swallow and she is her own once more.

Her mind and body thaw out of the stasis. In motion once more as she leans across the cramped space and calmly spits out a mouthful of the bitter brew.

This, she decides, is power. The alternative is to be that weakness bending to the superimposed will of others.

A decade later, it’s not the frothy pink making tracks in the field of white as it disappears down the drain.

This time it is the faint sediment of herbs trailing into nothing.

And she considers that progress.

He came out in a blaze. Tiny arms were extended under those over sized sleeves, fingers unleashing bright orange flame. It was spectacular watching him tear her apart. And the whole while he was doing it, I sat there staring… wondering. Was it him? I didn’t know what was going on. The red head with the mask was fighting the man? I’m lucky I wasn’t attacked, because I could not take my eyes off that spirit.

Once it was all over, he turned to me, lowered his hood, and I fell to my knees. I couldn’t do anything else. I couldn’t say anything. My throat closed up, and it took all my will to remain strong for him. My chest ached fiercely as my heart swelled behind it, as if it would burst from the intensity of emotions I felt. Love, sadness, regret, failure, happiness. And to make it all worse, he smiled at me. Knowing. As if everything I felt was spelled out on my forehead.

When I finally could speak, all I could say was, “Mark.” Just his name, and my strength took a heavy blow with the very utterance. The tears barely held back and I very quietly whispered of my failure to protect him. A father’s biggest job: protecting his child. And I failed that. But he just kept on smiling at me and took my face in his hands. There was no warmth in his touch. A very heavy reminder to me.

“I love you, Dad. Tell… tell Mom I love her, too.” His voice was so quiet I could barely hear it.

“We love you, too.” That was all I could manage before I lost it. I lost complete control of myself emotionally and just cried. A little over four years this past season I wrestled with never being able to say goodbye, and now was my chance. I wanted to tell him I’d see him again, but I couldn’t find the words. I couldn’t speak it was so suffocating. All I could do was cry, yet he knew.

“We’ll be waiting,” he said, and I saw my mother’s face as she stood behind him. She said nothing, but her look said it all. She was proud and I could feel it, and she’d be there with him until it was my time. I held him until they faded away to rest where they should have been years ago. And even though I knew he was gone now, I got to tell him I loved him and that’s all I ever wanted. Under all the immediate pain, there was a great sense of closure.

I don’t remember anything about the sail, too lost in my own thoughts to pay attention to reality. When I got home, Avenrue was asleep sitting at the table, hunched over a book with her head buried in her arms. She was waiting for me. I couldn’t help but smile inwardly at the scene, and moved towards her. As I crouched down to pick her up, she shifted and let out a few quiet mumbles before focusing on my face. She looked concerned, relieved, and curious, and all those emotions just flooded back as I met her gaze.

“Taire,” she whispered, her green eyes flicking back at forth as she studied me.

I thought I might have been able to stay strong all these hours later, but almost immediately, I took her in my arms and broke down once more. Her fingers combed their way through my hair, gently scratching at my scalp in that affectionate manner she always did. She cradled my head against her breast, hushing me softly. It was a couple minutes before I found my voice to speak.

“He… said he loves us. Tell Mom he loves her…” And I lost it again. She slid on the floor beside me, her hands taking the sides of my face as she urged me to look at her. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, we looked each other in the eye, both of us crying.

And then her lips touched against mine and I melted in her arms. My hand immediately pressed over her stomach, swelling with her pregnancy, and she leaned into it. Her arms hooked around my neck, holding me close to her, loosening only when she finally broke the kiss.

“I love you,” she said softly, almost reassuring.

“And I love you,” I replied. We sat there for a few brief seconds, absorbing, reflecting. Finally, she ran her hand over my hair and pecked my lips.

“Come to bed. It’s late. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

As she wiped her eyes, I gave her one last smile and carried her up the stairs. Someone asked me if I was happy two nights ago, and as I looked at Rue, all I could wonder in that moment was how could I not be. She was my rock. She stood by me through it all. Forced me to live when all I wanted to do was hole up at home and do nothing.

And finally, after all these years, we could move on.

Rest in peace, Mark. You will always be in my heart.

Saman’thiel Duskflame,

We’re coming up on the anniversary of the day we received that letteras winter surges and spring quickens. While that date is so very far away, your absence has left us reaching for the writing desk or scanning through a registry. Only when we find the absence of your name, we are left sobered. Whether it be at the table, or in the quiet of our evenings, the void is a sad reminder that for as long as the centuries may drag on, words will not revive you.

Our race, long lived as we are, has become accustomed to the tense changes of she is to she was, marking the passing between the lines. An old Quel’dorei passage reminds me of you.

You had come to that state where the horror of the universe and its smallness are both visible at the same time—the twilight of the double vision in which so many of our kind broker in our long age. If this world is not to our taste, well, at all events, there is the afterlife, the in between, and the void —one or other of those large things, that huge scenic background of stars, fires, blue or black air.

The letter that brought the news rests in a dovecote, gathering as much dust as possible in our effort to forget that you’re gone. Evan burned her own on arrival, insisting that its mere existence was a slur on your name.

But you are never gone. Not your ideals, your clever smile. As that author said, we can neither act nor refrain from action, we can neither ignore nor deny Infinity. She is you and you are given over to her, and we will meet you both in due course. Rest well, headmistress. Ancestors keep you.

We remain,

Rue D. and Taire R.