#the heroic legend of arslan
this is how i feel all the time, guiscard.
(the crowd groans and rolls their eyes)
i seriously empathize with everybody’s disappointment… i don’t want to go back either. lol
the long awaited
sorry for taking such a long time, but school was taking up 110% of my free time lately T__T
the more important thing to be sad about is that turan is here to ruin everybody’s day :/
there’s still one more chapter left until we are officially done with book 4…. i promise it’s more exciting than this one lmao
i might take a little bit more time between posting here pretty soon because i uhhh… have to start working on my master’s thesis… and that’s unfortunately more important T__T
ironically, it’s about venemous snake conservation! :D
i don’t remember if anyone has ever posted this here before but, uhh…
https://web.archive.org/web/20071013042109/http://yaoiluvr.net/yaoiarslanfanfics.html
if you ever want to read any daryun/narsus fanfiction written in the early 2000s.
i’ve gone through everything on here and my personal favorite can be found by clicking here:
and then here:
and my SECOND favorite is down at the bottom:
(just trust me on these) i’ve read both of these several times and they’re just. so much. 2004 arslan senki fandom was a whole different world…
*dragging myself through the mud* we are almost done with book 4!
enjoy some etoile moments
everybody’s favorite weirdos!
i thought it was funny how the other 5 really are said to be just… standing in the dark corner.
yessss at last one of my favorite chapters… i’m sure it’s a popular fan favorite tho.
i hated etoile for so many years but recently i have decided that she’s pretty endearing, actually…
the battle for saint emmanuel… gotta be honest, not a whole lot to say about this one. but the next few chapters are pretty good. lol.
once again, only one chapter this week while i work on getting further ahead with the translations (i like to have a few weeks out done in advance so i have time to reread over them, etc) and life has been kicking my ass. but never fear. i am still driving this train.
10 days of anime openings challenge
Day 2 - opening with a dark theme
♪ Boku no Kotoba de wa Nai, Kore wa Bokutachi no Kotoba ~ Arslan Senki (The Heroic Legend of Arslan)
❝, , ❞
challenge by hanakumamii
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Arslan Senki OVA Screening event ad for cites Sapporo, Nagoya, Osaka, Fukuoka and Tokyo in the last page scanned of the 7/1993 issue of Newtype. Ticket prices and special telephone cards for the event was priced at 1,000 yen.
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It takes two months. A month for Tahamine to realize she did not suffer from her menstrual blood and blame it on her earlier pregnancy, and another to figure that she is in fact with child once more.
This is all it takes. Two months for her to mourn the only man she loved, two months to see her child ripped from her arms by her new groom once he was thorougly healed, sent to be raised as the common child of a maid. Two months she spents fearing for her son’s life, dreading Andragoras would change his mind and go back on his words, only to be met with the cold understanding she must hide another of her children.
Tahamine never laid with Andragoras. Not once, not ever since she started to be called his wife nor ever before. The only one who shared her sheet had been Osroes, Osroes the betrayed king, Osroes whose life had been stolen from the very man she is now wed to.
The one who could end her unborn child were he to ever hear of his mere existence.
What Tahamine choses to do next is as simple as the name it bears; motherhood. She sends away all her servants except for the dowry maid she brought with her from Maryam, a gift of her sister, and refuses to ever see eye to eye with Andragoras for months on ends. Pretends it is the custom from where she hails, that a husband and a wife shall not share a room for a year and her now buried youth serves as an example, for she did not lay with Osroes, Osroes who she loved and adored, so she shall not lay with his brother either. She has all her meals sent to her room, confines herself in it under the guise of bad health, and it is both a blessing and a curse that Andragoras drowns too much in his hunger for wealth and power to question her claims. That he sees her as nothing more than a conquered trophy but it does not matter, she will wield every tool she can lay her hand on and brandish it as the deadliest weapon if only it can assure the future of her children.
It is a few busy months, until she gives birth. She writes to her sister in Maryam hoping she will shelter her son, and she knows Andragoras reads them before they are sent away but his knowledge of their language is weak, he always chose to speak with battle cries rather than let the heavenly flow of her mother tongue consume him so he cannot understand it, shrugs it off as a woman’s affair once he decifers that his Queen will bitterly send her maid back to Maryam because she betrayed her and bore a child to a unknown soldier while she vowed to remain a maiden.
Andragoras doesn’t know it is false, nor does he need to. He doesn’t know the child her maid will bring to far away lands is hers and not her maid’s.
The day he is born, Tahamine names her child Arslân. Arslân the lion boy, Arslân, who bears the name of those who once were Kings of Pars. Because it his his legacy, his gods-given birthright, because he is Arslân, son of Queen Tahamine, heir of King Osroes and no one shall seize it from his grasp.
Especially not Andragoras.
During the Great Fire Tahamine stands in the ashes of her home, the sole of her feet bloodied by her husband’s passing. She stands in what was once their sacred bedroom and her tears leave ashen gray paths on her cheeks and she is nineteen when she is forced to see the man she once thought of as a brother seize the life out of her Osroes, moved by the remnants of the adoration he once gave her.
She is nineteen when she is forced to kneel with burned nightclothes in the pool made of his blood, when she grovels at Andragoras’ feet and begs with crimson stains in her ivory hairs for him to let the child she bore to Osroes live, to spare the last piece of her once golden future. She begs despite the thundering fury which crowd her heart chanting it isn’t fair, she begs and cries and promise to be his bride before the sun rise if he would only see her son and not think of him as a threat.
Andragoras agrees. She will be his bride and he will be her groom despite how revulsing the idea is to her, because she is a mother before she is a woman. Because Angragoras allowed her child to live, because in the aftermath of the coup, when she sits at the edge of the marital bed she shared with Osroes and stares with disgust at the ivory ring on her finger, she can still see a maidservant applying balm on her son’s burned face next to her.
Osroes named him Hilmes the night he was born. Hilmes, the dweller on the hill.
A tender way for a smitten man to echo the day of their first fateful meeting, on the hills of Pars.
Arslân grows up in the beloved lands of Maryam. It’s an oasis compared to the arid lands of Pars for the sun is fierce but gentle, the wind blows yet sand does not follow and his people walk barefoot in the desert, treating it as nothing but a warm caress against their feet.
Arslân loves the seashore, the gentle, salted breeze, the soft melody of soaring birds in the infinite sky. He sits on the pontoon like a common man and soaks his feet in the cold water, feels the wind chilling his cheeks and tangling all of his hair, something he knows his dear cousin will complain about as soon as he returns.
Gieve sits beside him, quietly. Arslân did not see him coming, but truthfully he never does. He looks at him from the corner of his eyes, smiles at the grief barely concealed under his face. His cousin has never been one to let despair court his joy away, prefering to shrug his duties away with a flirt of his lips or the hundred songs of his Dozaleh. There are not many reasons that would allow such gloom to overcome him. Arslân has a feeling he aleady knows which.
“What’s wrong?” He still asks, if only to fend off the ineluctable for a few blessed moments.
“The prince of Pars died in the night.” Gieve answers him, his voice already mourning him.
And then, then Arslân sighs. He looks up to the horizon, the deep blue sky of Maryam. Balances his feet in the water, can feel it gently dripping from his ankles.
“Is that so.”
Gieve clenches his hands around the soft fabric of his clothes. His rage is held solely by the respect he has for his cousin, and the selfish wish not to make it more painful than it oughts to be. Than it alrady is, with a cut far too deep. “An emissary will come in the following weeks.”
“Alright.” Arslân nods, and the strings which puppetted Gieve’s fury away break.
“How can you be so calm?! ” He yells and cries out, seizing him with both of his arms. “They’re stealing you from our home!”
“It’s my duty.” He simply says. Not because he wishes to believe it, but because he must. “Our kingdom promised if the prince were to die, we would send an heir to replace him.”
“Still—”
“It’s either that or they march in armor on our lands and burn our people to the ground.” Arslân snaps. “Pars’ hunger for power has no limits, they already hold my mother as a prize for conquering our country. Do you want me to let them take everything else?”
Grieve’s answer is but a long sigh. The silence falls along it, as if it had been the far sound of a horn.
“I don’t want you to go. They’re barbaric. Who knows what might happen to you.”
Arslân shrugs. It does not mean he dismisses the gentle care he hears in his retainer’s words, “I’ll be fine as long as the king treats me as his heir, and it’ll be easier since mother is the queen. I guess they will pretend I had a weak constitution and was only brought home after the tragedy. Really, it’s as simple as this.”
His voice goes down in a whisper, escaping through smirking lips.
“Who would feel threatened by a kingdom in ruins, anyway?”
Gieve’s mouth opens agape in awe. “You cannot be serious.”
“What if I am?” Arslân stands, fists clenched. “They expect a bird trapped in a golden cage, a fragile and scaredy prince from a nation long subdued. I will show them of which metal the people of Maryam are forged.”
Arslân extends a hand toward his friend, his cousin, his retainer - his accolyte, even, a soft smile barely covering the anger, the determination under. “Will you help me?”
Gieve is surprised, for a moment. But if his prince, if Arslân asks for his help to restore Maryam’s glory and sow sorrow on the ones who wronged their people, how can he refuse it to him?
PREVIOUS(x)
When Arslân looks at Daryûn, it’s like gazing at a blazing sun. He’s shining, exercising in all his splendor, sparing with the knights. It’s mesmerizing, a work of art, one Arslân cannot take his eyes away from. (Daryûn never complains, never asks why. Maybe he should, then Arslân could finally put a name on it, on this craving, on this sense of belonging, and he tries, walk closer to his sun, so then he might, will burn himself, cherish his wounds like some holy relic.)
Arslân wishes he could touch this sunburnt skin, hear him call him his Highness again, let all the dreams of his mind come alive, without shame, without fear. (But he can’t, won’t, he isn’t brave enough, something his father never fails to remind him.)
Daryûn charges. The knight blocks. Repels. Attacks. Arslân’s heart misses a beat, he holds his breath. Daryûn fights back, moved by grace, his spear dances with him, disarms the knights, bringing him victory. Arslân misses another beat, and another, like a flash of silence before his heart beats again.
The fight is over.
Daryûn stands on the burning sand under the fiery sun, breaths, his chest rises, falls, hair sticks to his forehead as sweat runs on his temples, his jaw, reaches his neck and Arslân cannot breathe, gasps for air, his throat is dry yet he still swallows, it does not ease the fire in his mind, and it is fine, Arslân does not wish for it to end. He will embrace it, entirely, and devote himself to his beloved sun.
Arslân is a prince. It’s as simple as that. The Gods cherished him as their successor, swore him to a life borne of good fortune, yet he is nothing like the king.
It is fine, as he does not wish to. His “father” lets his people starve, feast on the glories of war, on the tears of his mother, and it is not a path he wishes to follow, not when it leaves a sour anger pooling in his guts, threatening to breach through with every mourning wail of his people.
But in the middle of all this hate, Arslân can still remember those sweet, sweet times when his father told him thousands of stories at night before sleep, remembers the soft, caring smile on his lips as if he was the most precious of his loots, the one jewel, the one piece of gold which shone brighter than any other.
And Arslân is bitter, bitter for these times forever lost seized from him the moment he grew into a man and no longer stood as the boy his father once knew for he became a threat to his reign, became the one who would one day take the throne away from him, although Arslân never wished nor longed for it.
So, Arslân is a prince. But maybe it is, he was never meant to be king.
NEXT(x)
Limited Arslan Senki Keychains!
☆ International Order Form
☆ Local (Indonesian) Order Form
Hello! In celebration for the upcoming Arslan Senki: Fuujin Ranbu anime, I decided to sell these keychains worldwide and with special price~☆
Each keychain is $5, but if you buy the whole set (5 keychains), it’s only $20! And the first two buyer will get a Hilmes keychain as a bonus, because there are only two Hilmes left in stock, sorry… ;v;
The acrylic keychain is 4.5 cm x 4.5 cm, double sided with 4 mm thickness. Payment method is Paypalonly.
Shipping Price:
For Indonesian order, I will use JNE, for International order, there are two options: EMS or Registered Airmail Service.
Registered Airmail ranges between 7USD-10USD worldwide.
EMS ranges between 10USD-25USD.
- Malaysia/Vietnam/China/Japan - 10USD/11USD/12USD/11USD
- Australia/Russia - 18USD/ 20USD
- Spain/Germany/Great Britain - 22USD/ 24USD/ 25USD
- USA/Canada - 16USD/ 18USD
- Argentina/Brazil - 27USD/ 14USD
- Feel free to ask me for more country options
EMS takes 5-10 days to arrive, Registered Airmail takes 2-4 weeks to arrive. Starting March 2016, Registered Airmail Service doesn’t provide tracking anymore when the goods have been sent out of country, but don’t worry, usually it will arrive safely although it takes much longer than EMS. (Thank you Mage for letting me use her shipping price as reference!)
If you have questions, please don’t hesitate to ask me via inbox, tumblr message or mention to @forsegle at Twitter. Thank you very much! ♡
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