#(the lighthouse metaphor; the ground and the light)

[kiwibirdlafayette]

along the line of musical themes, cassell and flash’s relationship in aitheaca is described really well by helium by glass animals and thats very much intentional

i just got. reminded of it again bc im listenin to the song. But yeah. Yeah

[thefreakandthehair]

weaponized insomnia strikes again, my friends. I wrote this between the hours of 2am-3am so if you see errors, simply ignore. I don't even really know what this is but I just think the idea of Eddie reaching out for Steve is neat. <3

It starts innocently enough— a simple touch of his fingers to Steve’s forearm.

A ghost, a whisper of skin to skin, is all it takes to ignite a fuse that’s been destined to burn since the second Eddie held that bottle to Steve��s throat in a rundown shack. Eddie shouldn’t be surprised that that’s how their story starts, really. What had he expected? Something traditional? Laughable. No, instead, the very tips of his fingers reach for Steve’s arm from the lumpy mattress of his hospital room, surrounded by beeping monitors and sterility, and that’s all it takes. 

When he learns how to walk again, it’s Steve on the other end of the room, an encouraging smile plastered across his face and ready to grab his hands to steady him at even the slightest wobble. 

When he wakes up screaming, it’s Steve at his bedside before even the nurses. They’re ready with sedatives but Steve rubs his shoulder, traces over the scars on his collarbone to quell the phantom burning, and sure, the medications help but he keeps reaching for Steve first anyways. 

When he finally leaves the hospital, flanked by Hopper, Wayne, and Steve to shield him from ignorant townspeople who don’t get the he’s innocent memo, it’s Steve he finds himself reaching for once they’re safely in the backseat of the Hopper’s cruiser. 

It only makes sense, then, that it becomes a habit. Outside of the hospital walls, Eddie keeps reaching and Steve’s always there, reliable as a lighthouse guiding ships to shore. 

It evolves slowly as the fuse sparks, and sure, Steve’s still the one he reaches for when the anxiety sets in, like the time the old clock chimes in the library as he studies for his GED, but he finds himself with his hands on Steve for less dire reasons, too. 

Movie night? Their forearms touch from the cramped quarters of Eddie’s living room, or their thighs line against one another, or Eddie’s arm drapes over the back of the couch so his fingertips graze the soft material of Steve’s Henley. 

Smoking in the back of the van? Eddie knows that Steve can light his own joint, he’s seen him do it hundreds of times at this point, but he can’t help the urge to light it for him, letting his fingertips graze the warm skin of Steve’s knuckles in the process. 

Lugging the kids to and from the arcade? Steve makes a joke about someone’s attitude (the someone depends on the day, honestly, but Dustin’s emerged as the most frequent offender) and Eddie can’t hold himself back from nudging their shoulders together and watching Steve’s smile grow at the touch. Eddie knows he’s reaching for a reason, but he tamps it down the best he can with his metaphorical Rebooks because it’s Steve. He can’t risk losing his tether, his anchor, by fucking it up with feelings. He can ignore it. It’s fine. 

And it is, until one day, Steve reaches for him. 

The movie they’d chosen didn’t warn them before showing a brutal slasher scene and Eddie’s skin crawls at the sights and sounds of the victim being torn apart. Every scar on his body feels like it’s on fire but before he can reach, before he can grip Steve’s arm tight enough for his fingernails to leave little crescent moon marks in the summer-baked tan of his flesh, Steve’s hand is on his thigh. Warm, heavy, and grounding, Eddie stares down where their bodies connect. 

“Not really feeling this one, let’s do Ferris Bueller again?” Steve stops the VHS and sets it to rewind.

Eddie’s still staring at Steve’s hand on his thigh. Even before it was Steve, Eddie’s always been the one reaching. For friends, for comfort, for companionship. He’s reached with his hands, his heart, his words. Hellfire and Corroded Coffin are both tangible expressions of the depth of his reaching but for all of the ways he’s extended olive branches to those he felt deserving, few have reached back— and the ones who had felt nothing like Steve. Steve touches beyond something his skin, touches something buried deep, perhaps a locked chest to which his fingers hold the lone key.

“You alright?” Steve asks, turning his body slightly to face him and leaving his hand in place. 

Eddie finally tears his eyes from his thigh to meet Steve’s gaze. His eyes, green specks and all, watch him with such fondness that it makes him ache. He nods and swallows the lump in his throat. 

“Yeah, yeah I’m good. Thanks.” His voice is barely more than a whisper and Steve’s brows knit together, a little wrinkle appearing between them. 

“You sure? You look, I dunno, off. Wanna talk?” 

It's a loaded question and the facade of it’s fine that Eddie's built up over months shatters like the glass it’s made of. 

“You— I— Steve, please don’t let this fuck up our perfectly good friendship, please—” He’s sure that Steve can hear the clattering in his chest but just ignore it, opting instead to move his hand from Eddie’s thigh up to his shoulder. Soft fingers brush his hair away from his face, rub small circles into his skin over his shirt, settle there like a weighted blanket. So many soft touches, so much reaching, and Eddie doesn’t know what to do with any of it. 

“Take a breath, man. I’m here. What’s up? Was it the movie? You looked fucking tense, I probably should’ve picked up on it soone—” 

“Why? Why should you’ve picked up on it sooner?” Eddie interrupts, turning to face him with wide eyes and hope and terror. 

“Uh, because it’s you? I know your tells, Eddie. I do pay attention.” It’s almost indignant, the way Steve phrases it. I know you, I see you, duh? As if it’s not the first time in his life that’s happened. 

Eddie thinks he’s going absolutely batshit when he hears himself say, “Steve, I like you.” The fuse that’d been lit creeps down to its final thread and Eddie explodes. 

“I like you way more than I should, way more than a friend should like another friend, you know? And, and touching you the way I have been has been enough for me, really, because I’d rather have that than have nothing because those are the obvious two options and I just— fuck, I don’t know why I’m talking or saying any of this but I convinced myself it’d be fine but now you’re touching me and you’re seeing me and I don’t— I don’t know what to do with that?” Eddie stops for a breath and pushes on, talking himself in circles. 

Steve watches with the same raised eyebrows and beguiled expression he gives Robin when she rambles, except the drumming of his heart is a dead giveaway that no, this fondness in his chest is not the same. Finally, his own fuse burning out in tandem with Eddie’s, Steve lets his hand travel from its resting place on Eddie’s shoulder to trace his collarbone, the side of his neck, and landing gently against his cheek. Eddie’s mouth snaps closed mid-sentence and he glances down, trying to see his own cheek and the hand that’s thumbing beneath his cheekbone. 

Silence is a heavy blanket, wrapping them together in the warmth they’ve created on the oversized couch. 

“I’m gonna kiss you, okay?” Steve’s close enough that Eddie can smell the pizza they’d eaten for dinner and feels his breath against his skin. His lips part unconsciously and he nods, the only response he can muster. Steve gently pulls him in and presses their lips together, his other hand gliding across to grip Eddie’s waist while Eddie’s tangle themselves in the front of Steve’s shirt. It’s slow, and it’s patient, and it’s just as wonderfully soft as Eddie’s imagined the many, many times he’s let himself imagine. 

Eddie keeps reaching, and Steve reaches back.  

[clay-cuttlefish]

we should really get see more of the lighthouse as a home/base of operations for tot, vic, and renee.

it's a cool spot that's away from either of their main cities, so it works as neutral ground where neither of their histories are totally driving the story

visually interesting, which is good when they spend significant amounts of time sitting around and talking

big fan of the "home/tot/connection to each other as a guiding light" visual metaphor

vic's current status is super unclear and it'd be good to establish what he's generally up to

renee needs to get out of gotham SO badly

i miss tot

i also think it should be clear that it's Tot's House. like, it's home for all of them, but tot lives there full-time, pays the bills, and has actual hobbies and opinions about decorating, while vic and renee show up randomly for anywhere between a couple days and six months at a time and see nothing wrong with their terrible bachelor pads. they should show up and find out that one of the bedrooms is unusable because there's a litter of foster kittens in it.

[qqtxt]

[💜] anchor (jjk)

✿ pairing: jungkook (bts) x reader / non.idol!you / idol!bts / minor cursing (none with ill-intention!) / mentions of food and eating / comfort fluff, slice-of-life(ish) 🌸 🍰 / 1,158 words ✿ on a day when jungkook feels heavy, you make it effortless for him to feel light again.

💌: as a part of @kflixnet​​​​‘s exchange event, i’ve got the opportunity to write for @mikrokcsmos​​​ 💖 i’ve never spoken to you before but i’m a lil’ shy so i did a little snooping around and wrote you this piece (i also wanted it to be a surprise, hehe). i know i don’t write bts on here but i just knew i had to write something with jungkook for you! 👻 (i haven’t written for bts in a long while, so i hope it is enjoyable!)

the weight of the world today seems to weigh heavy on jungkook’s shoulders. on any other day, perhaps, he would’ve surfaced on his own. be his own lighthouse and lifebuoy; be the one he’ll pull through for himself because that’s the survival mechanism he’s been drilled to rely on himself since day one but today... today he’ll succumb to barely scraping by, hanging loosely by a thread.

apparently, life has other plans when he feels hands on his shoulders. smoothening over the expanse of his back to reach exactly where the metaphorical weight would’ve pressed him down to the ground and it already feels like the weight has been removed.

jungkook turns around to see another version of home despite just coming home. the small quirk of a smile on your lips; warm eyes beckon him to shrug off the denim jacket with the aid of your fleeting touch. before you can go too far (to hang air his jacket by the coat stand), his arms reel you in. the quiet admission, a soft chuckle leaving your lips and reverberating along his chest as he moulds against your back, lips dipping down to brush along your neck with a sigh.

you do your best to toss his jacket to a nearby chair, so your hands are free to roam along the imagery of his tattoos embedding his skin. goosebumps form along the way of your skin rubbing on top of his. jungkook instinctively curls his arms around you; tighter, closer. his eyes flutter shut, letting out a deep exhale that strums along your heartstrings, feeling the heaviness that follows.

“how was your day?” you ask, keeping one hand on his arms, the other reaching up to merely go through his curled locks that grant his head move closer to your palm; relishing the way your fingers meet his scalp in a gentle motion.

“don’t wanna talk about it,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your skin, inhaling your scent and trembling against your back as he breathes. your hand that lingers in his hair moves so you’re able to find the purchase of his cheek. to your best ability, you stroke along his skin, turning your head slightly to catch a glimpse of the way he submits to vulnerability in your presence.

“you sure?” at your questioning tone, he lifts his head up and meets with your eyes. how concerned you were, but the hint of playfulness is what makes him smile because you look pretty. “i think someone on quora said it’s good to talk about your feelings than bottle them up,”

he snorts, uncurling himself from being hunched over your figure with a raised brow and that handsome cocky smile that appears so effortlessly.

“who the hell even uses quora these days?” 

“me,” you snicker, managing to turn around in his grasp. he barely lets you slip away, adjusting his arms so he can still have you close to him. your hands sneak up to frame his face, warm palms to pillow against his cheeks, “because it made you smile. so, y/n gets a point. jungkook’s bad day gets absolutely nothing and can suck it.”

jungkook’s eyes close as he submits to laughter. he didn’t even think it was possible to relieve the heaviness so quickly but with you... it’s like it didn’t stand a chance. he opens his eyes after taking a breath, meeting with your gaze that settles into this feeling that makes him feel at ease. like he can say anything he wants; anything he feels, and it wouldn’t change a single thing of how you feel about him.

“so...” you start, voice gentle as your thumbs stroke the under of his eyes, “how about you tell me how i can make you feel better?”

his voice is strained and tired with a small crack that gives away a portion of his emotions. “what if i don’t know?” his answer is quick, yet, it’s uncertain. he looks like he doesn’t quite know what’s bothering or why it’s bothering him but... his heart just feels heavy.

“hm...” you hum softly, one hand sliding from his face to rest on his shoulder, the other acting as a pillar of support as he rests his head on it with an expressionless face. “then... we can just...” your voice trails off and jungkook has to lull his head forward as you move your hand from his face. you shift your position to put your arms around him. with one hand wrapped around his figure, the other gently nudges his head down so he’s resting his face in the space between your neck and shoulder.

“we can stay like this first.”

you feel the imprint of his lips on your skin and it makes you smile (and jungkook hears it). your fingers gently stroke his head and you shuffle your feet just a little to be as close to him as possible. jungkook’s body reacts naturally. arms like vines reaching towards the nearest light source and it’s always, always you. radiating heat, warmth, comfort; his safe space, his person, his home. 

you can tell that he appreciates how you’re not trying to force an answer out of him and instead, sit with his emotions until he’s ready. jungkook doesn’t answer with words, only nodding into your embrace as he stays like that with you. swaying a little left and right from time to time but for the most part, just there with you. it wasn’t a substantial gesture. it wasn’t the grandest of things but... it was the most sincere that roots jungkook to the ground of your love; here, with you, it’s safe.

and it’s his.

((”not yet,” jungkook huffs as you try to pry him away from you, his distaste showing by locking his arms around you so that it’s impossible to break free. you chuckle, patting his back, “but you’re hungry.”

he scoffs, “i’m always hungry.”

“yeah, so we need to do something about it.”

“don’t wanna let you go,” he grumbles, stubbornly standing his ground, refusing to move.

“then... how about we move to the sofa and i can order takeout for us?”

you don’t have the chance to process his answer until he’s half-dragging you towards the sofa. your hearty laughter is what replicates the soundtrack of happiness in jungkook’s ears. your compliance makes his heart swell. and if it wasn’t enough, the way you snuggle into his embrace and accept the new position he puts you in makes it near impossible for him not to smile.

he makes you grab ahold of his phone before his arms go back to being banded around your waist. with one hand you’re searching through what to order to eat while your other rubs circles on the arm that’s closest to you. though nonchalant, feeling your attention on him despite being occupied with something else, truly lets his mind rest easy in the presence of you.))

[illmamnim]

Hey guys, you should read Grey Is...

Spoilers for volume 10 (and previous)

A while back, I found this post about "to be loved is to be seen" with a quote by Marguerite Duras: "I don't know if love is a feeling, sometimes I think it's a matter of seeing." And this line captured me, but I wasn't sure why. There's much to say about eye content breeding intimacy, but that's not it. It's not about mutual looking, only looking. As if something only exists when you look at it, and it can so easily be gone once you look away. While love, if you can call it a singular emotion, doesn't need seeing to be felt, it demands it to be understood. It wants to shift your entire focus, if to analyze it or to involve your senses in it. So maybe "seeing" isn't entirely literal, but a matter of focus.

In Grey Is... the lighthouse is a major theme, in both text and subtext. It symbolizes many things, from loneliness to guidance to security, but I'd like to look at it as a representation of focus. Fittingly, I used to compare focus to a flashlight, where one thing is seen clearly but everything else is shaded and almost non existent. Shifting the flashlight itself is possible, but then you have to trust that you'll remember where the object was among the darkness. The lighthouse represents this thought similarly, with a lot more nuance in story.

To White, Black needs to be in his light or else he'd lose him. If White won't pay attention, if he'll lose Black in the darkness, he doesn't know if he'll be able to find him again. This is one of the points Danial analyses- watching over Black gives White purpose. But this isn't entirely true, because it's not a sense of purpose, "Black makes me feel like I exist." as he said to Lana. If love is a matter of seeing, what is existence? What are we beyond how others see us? Is being perceived not what makes and builds us? And if it is, what are the unloved? Unseen? Non existent.

To Black, with his memories obscured and unorganized, this focus is nearly impossible, and so he uses White's light to guide him. The truth is that he doesn't know how brightly he shines. If White assumes that any darkness from him would dim the whole world, Black assumes he can never be a light at all. But he's looking now. White spent chapters trying to fight his need for perfection so that things can go wrong and fix themselves. He's letting the lighthouse spotlight turn, exist in motion, and let Black sail to him on his own.

Taking a small step back from metaphors, this chapter is all about looking and love. Black's on a quest to find missing puzzle pieces of his memories and for the first time allows himself to take off the mask. A mask that protected his loved ones but obscured his view. He looks at Irina, who was there for him more than he thought. He looks at Waseem, not as a sweet kid that can do no wrong, but as someone who's aware of things around him, good and bad. He looks at Ritta and their family, the people he wanted to protect by pushing away and keeping in the dark but who want to be there for him and could only do so through White. He looks at Jad (and recognizes that he can't look back) and sees a reflection of his childhood through the eyes of someone who watched over him. Now he's looking at White, and sees him look away. He knew this already, that White looks away when things get to close, but now he refuses, he won't let him. A half moon in the sky, the way Black shines and the way White dims is so moon-like (Chapter 13: Page 34) and they're shattering this fragile happiness in favour of a solid ground.

There's much more that can be said here, honestly - Jad's blindness, the car lights, even about just this and going panel by panel to dissect it - but it's pretty late and I don't know how readable it is at this point lol

[whatgaviiformes]

Favorite Fics - Self-Rec

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favourite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love❤

I was tagged by @mrmustachious. I'll tag @the-original-sineater, @gumnut-logic @tracybirds @mariashades and @womble1. Because if I've had to pick out of my children.... *evil laugh*. But in seriousness, I also want to hear from anyone else in the fic writing space. And only if you are interested. No pressure, but please also share your favorite personal fics if you want. We have amazing writers in our fandom, and you all have so much to be proud of.

...so, if I share that my favorite are AUs - will that further encourage you or further discourage you in reading them? I feel very torn about that. I'll mark which ones are the AUs with a *, I know they aren't for everyone, but I put so much heart into these.

These are in no particular order.

We Tried the World - Oneshot

Summary: “We tried the world... it wasn’t for us.” John invites a restless Gordon to visit him in Thunderbird Five while he's healing from his injuries. They talk Characters: John, Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: There's a catharsis to this one, and a meditation that I adore. Meanwhile, I feel like I succeeded at channeling John in way that may not be everyone's cup of tea, but captures one aspect of how he speaks to me. His art is his science, and I am quite proud of the prose in this one.

Directionless - Oneshot

Summary: Two Tracy's and a Lighthouse: "You actually want to avoid lighthouses," Gordon tells him. "The light's a warning that there's land nearby and not to come too close." "Hmm. Still. I imagine if one is lost at sea any light on the horizon, even a warning light, is a welcome symbol of hope, of change to come." He breathes the smell of sea salt. "Are you?" "Am I what?"  "Lost at sea?" Characters: Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: I feel strongly about the message in this fic and Gordon's struggle to figure out what's next, and I so love Virgil's presence to ground him amidst his thoughts. The light house was a lovely metaphor for the bonds I wanted to portray, and this story just feels like a warm hug when I read it.

Hold Fast* - Multi-Chap

Summary: Autumn, 1775. “The rigging ran through his blood; it was an energy, a lifeforce.” Characters: Gordon, Virgil, Scott, John, Alan, OCs Why I like it: It just felt right, despite being an AU. And though it's nothing I've ever read before, the heart of it very much is Thunderbirds. This is Gordon's hydrofoil story, just under the lens of the privateers AU. It was my first full exploration of adding depth to OCs. It also was posted weekly, which was a challenge for me that I actually succeeded in. And most of all... this story absolutely wrecked me. The feelings are raw, and very visceral.

The great wide open* - Multi-Chap

Summary: Gordon binds himself in the blue and meets the eyes of a dolphin trying to reach him in ways he can't understand. But maybe Virgil can. A prequel to "lend me the courage of the stars." Kermadec AU-djacent. Characters: Gordon, Virgil Why I like it: If you're going to go for an AU that's not too out of the box, choose this one. I enjoy that I've gotten to explore science Gordon in a way that feels right for him (to me anyway). I always see him as more hands on, but entirely competent, and with this series it's his oceanic soul that allows him to explore his brand of science with the calls of his heart. Enki and his family was a joy to discover, and I would be remiss not to include them in this list.

Tracy Seaside Orchard and Farm* - Multi-Chap

Summary: An alternate universe. Gordon has a successful farm... and seems to have nothing to do with this International Rescue thing. Characters: Gordon, Virgil, OCs Why I like it: The beginning of chicken!Dad which has since become almost synonymous with me as a person. That and ships (I have no chickens nor have I sailed). But I also like that this story feels unique and that I had the honor to explore who Gordon would be under different circumstances. I feel like I successfully wrote an argument - a horrible one - and still managed to show that no one was in the wrong or the right. I'm proud of how tender the boys' reconciliation feels, and I hope this story feels genuine and organic and compassionate.

In summary, the ones I am most proud of are the ones that allow me to play with imagery and poetic prose, that allow me to explore the bonds of brotherhood and human nature, and that feel a little different despite also being as Tracy as it gets.

[afierycusidhe]

A Writer's Path

The light is warm and blinding. You didn't expect that, considering the door you just opened was set into the base of a lighthouse. Well, maybe you expected a light, but nothing like this. On the side of the door you came from its still night, cool and crisp. You can even feel the night breeze against your back. You see it as your eyes adjust to the sudden light. It shouldn't be possible, and for a moment you wonder if maybe you've finally gone mad. Maybe the stress and exhausting work of your day-to-day life made you snap.             Well you should probably try and make sure hadn't you? You step back out the door into the cool night air. It's very much your hometown still. Still very much the same lighthouse you've seen keeping watch over the coast since you were a child. There's nothing out of the ordinary about it at all except what you see through the door. You pinch yourself to make sure that you aren't dreaming. It stings. The corners of your eyes even well up with tears because of it. Alright, not dreaming then. It's seeming more plausible that you have simply lost it.             But how absolutely unfair it would be of your mind to only come up with something like this now? Weeks spent struggling to write something worthwhile that would satisfy your publisher but creatively bone dry. Like a great big damned desert. Character concepts, setting, plot. They'd all been empty drawers in your metaphorical writing desk. You'd only come out here to the lighthouse hoping that the mystery and atmosphere of the thing would spark something creative.             Which, in a sense, maybe it had. After all, you hadn't seen or thought of something like the view through that door before. A winding little brick pathway leading out into the aether above the clouds? Maybe you were punishing yourself a bit. You didn't like heights, so what were you doing imaging a pathway suspended in midair with no visible ground below. You poke your head back through the doorframe, clutching onto it. Just as it looks, there's nothing holding the walkway up. At least you can see where the path leads. Not that that bit makes any more sense.             You can almost hear it now. Fans and readers would be all over you shouting plothole this and plothole that and on about their precious physics. You're well aware of that thank you. It's not your fault the setting looks like that. Or is it? But still, if you could only show them what it looks like. Actually show them, not conjure up a picture with words. Would they be able to appreciate the majesty of a mountain range that encircles an island the size of Britain? Well maybe they could, but they couldn't possibly imagine the sheer scale of a tree whose boughs can be seen over the top of it could they?             Well that's a sudden thought. Do their thoughts and opinions mean all that much to you? You always wrote for yourself didn't you? You crafted worlds and stories and characters for your own sake. Only cruel reality and the pressure of others had made you monetize it. Maybe, maybe it was time to get lost in a story you created for your own sake again? How wonderful that would be. And before you know it you're stepping into a new world and closing the door behind you.

[red-riding-wood]

@call-sign-shark I adored this fic!

The idea of her marriage to Tommy being for protection purposes is already an intriguing concept, and the way you write the story is such a believable yet wholesome way of them falling in love!

You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

This is PURE POETRY, Shark. Seriously.

In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

Again, such a poetic line. This whole story and your writing in general is full of them but I loved this one.

I really enjoyed the part where she comforts him from his nightmares. It was so beautifully written and so is this whole section really where you describe her taking care of him and the Shelbys in general.

That scene between her and Arthur was so sweet and playful... why is it that in your Arthur fic I'm shipping Heaven with Tommy and in your Tommy fic I'm shipping the girl with Arthur??

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much.

This is what I would expect from someone who had a relatively "normal" life now being immersed in the crime world. I think this line communicated that very well.

For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart.

Again, pure poetry.

The whole ending scene obviously was just so masterfully written! I loved her finding the details of him and using them as a means to ground herself, and the lighthouse metaphor tied in so well with your description of his eyes being "vast oceans".

What a beautiful fic, Shark!

Of Bending and Breaking || Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Always being the one who cares for others comes with a price: you break down, but the most unexpected person is here for you: Tommy, the man you were forced to marry.

Words: 2,3k

TW: Hurt/Comfort, very tiny mention of past sexual assault, no proofreading 'cause it comes from clearing my drafts.

Notes: Aunt Isabella's is a tribute to my own aunt Isabelle who, unfortunately, died because of cancer a few years ago.

It all started with Polly shaking Tommy like a tree, her thin hands firmly grabbing his nephew’s broad shoulders: “You can’t keep sabotaging yourself like this, Tom.” These were the words that left her quivering lips as she dragged his staggering frame to the bathroom and pushed his face into the bathtub right under the tap. When the freezing water splashed all over his neck, Tommy opened his blank eyes wide and inhaled sharply, as if he had suddenly come back to life. Since Grace’s awful death, the gangster was the shadow of his former self. When he wasn’t waging a senseless war with Father Hughes and the Italian, or when he wasn’t keeping his buzzing mind busy with work, Tommy usually numbed himself with a deadly combination of whisky and opium until his deep-seated pain became bearable. It was the night he almost overdosed that Polly decided to take charge of his nephew and found him a new wife, in the hope of soothing his nephew’s mind and finding a mother figure for poor little Charlie. The idea had obviously sent Tommy in a fit of anger but Polly Gray couldn’t care less.

Regarding your own situation, it was not the opium nor the loss of a dear lover that had led you to Birmingham’s most dangerous man but rather the bump in your belly. Aunt Isabella had understood what you were suffering from the moment you had stormed out of the vardo to throw up your breakfast in the nearest bush. The tall and lean woman, whose light brown and curly mane danced in the cold autumn wind, had looked at you right in the eyes and raised one of her thin eyebrows. If there was something pleasant with her, it was that words weren’t necessary.

Yet, later she encountered Polly, with whom she had been a great friend since childhood, and explained that a powerful American man had forced his seeds in you during his stay in England. Not willing to go through the traumatic experience of aborting, Isabella only saw one solution to your problem: you needed a husband who could protect you and your future baby from the evil man with his scarred lip. A wedding would be your salvation. At the realization of what Aunt Isabella had planned for you, you tried to run away from the camp in the middle of the night but she knew you too well and soon caught you, her sly hand firmly grabbing your wrist: “Y/N! It’s for your sake! He’s rich, he needs a wife and he is feared! You’ll be safe with him, don’t you understand?” She explained, cupping your face with her long fingers adorned with claws painted in red and far too many rings. “I don’t need a man to protect me! I don’t need anyone. He’s older and he’s a criminal! Who’s going to protect me from him eh? Have you think ‘bout that?” You cried, the soft light of the sunrise turning your tears into liquid gold.

But still, you wedded him and what was supposed to be the happiest day of your life turned out to be a dull event during which you dissociated the whole time. The only memories you had in mind were two piercing and frightening turquoise eyes staring right at your soul and soft whiskey-tasting lips stealing a quick peck from your cherry lips. A kiss devoid of any form of affection. And then, the groom left.

From what Aunt Isabella told you, your husband had spent most of the celebrations with his brothers, drinking and taking bets outside of Arrow House. Months had passed and still, you felt estranged to this place and its staff. The only moments your heart lightened were when Aunt Isabella visited you, or when Charlie spent time with you, otherwise you remained emotionally closed, trapped in your own mind. Overall you could not complain: You had a house far too big for you with plenty of workers willing to exhaust every one of your wishes. Charlie was a sweet boy, who loved you with all his heart even if you were well aware that you’ll never replace his mother. As for the Shelby clan, they were cordial with you without being really friendly either. And there was Tommy…

Cold and distant Tommy, who you only saw late at night when he discretely slipped under the bedsheet and turned his back to you without uttering a single word. Busy Tommy, whose replies remained concise and spoken with a quiet husky voice each time you asked him something — at least he talked to you a little bit. Trapped in a loveless marriage, that was what you were: Tommy was more a stranger, a mere gust of wind in your life, than the love of your life.

Still, the gangster stayed true to his words and he provided for everything, never refusing to give you money when you asked, and protecting you from the man who had taken your innocence. He even gifted you a wonderful stallion because he knew how much you missed riding. In exchange for his protection and riches, all you had to do was take care of Charlie and do your best to be there for your husband when his darkness threatened to swallow him whole.

You found out about the nightmares shortly after your wedding and quickly decided to do something about it. When he woke up screaming and drenched in sweat after tasting the tunnels’ dirt and Grace’s crimson blood in his troubled sleep, you always cradle him, your fingers losing themselves in his wet dark hair to pet his head gently. At first, you feared his reaction, expecting the infamous Tommy Shelby to push you and not-so-kindly ask you to keep your distance but, to your greatest surprise, he never did. Instead, he would bury his face in your cleavage, panting and trembling, and let you reassure him. Just like he let you bring dinner to him each time he drowned himself in paperwork and forgot to eat. He never commented on your cooking skills though, even if he always handed back empty plates.

The blood on his skin? You cleaned it.

The wounds of his flesh? You never failed to patched them up.

The hole in his heart? You tried to seal it off with caresses, soft kisses, and shoulder massages. Maybe one day he would slowly turn his iciness into affection. Little did you know that he needed it. And by it he needed you. Just like the whole family. How many times did you walk the streets of Birmingham at night, seeking for Arthur and then bringing him home to take care of a wasted and high him? Far too many to keep track. Similarly, you had spent countless evenings helping Ada when she felt overwhelmed, either nursing Karl or cleaning her house when, just like her brother, she overworked herself. And finally, Polly could never thank you enough for everything you did to soothe her mind after the gallows, still haunted by the bite of the hanging rope on her throat.

“Thanks Poppy.” Arthur muttered, the gravel in his voice coated with shame now that you were down clearing and disinfecting his split knuckles. The oldest brother had started to affectionately call you so for the sole reason that, according to him, you must probably grow better when blood was considering how much you had seen when patching the Shelby siblings. “Sorry for errr… For the mess.” He went on, his steel blue eyes fleeing yours.

“That’s okay.” You replied in Romani, “You, sweet idiot.” Endeared by how surprisingly soft Arthur’s harsh complexions could turn, you couldn’t help but gently put your hand on one of his cheeks. And during this tender display of affection, Arthur was convinced he had caught sight of a smile — a scarce event barely happening on your beautiful but resigned face. Comforted by the warmth of your palm, he leaned into your touch and looked at you through dark lashes, his lids half-closed.

“Tommy’s one lucky bastard to have ya for himself, eh."

"Let's both flee together then." You teased, the familiar tone of Romani language rendered even more melodious by your siren-like voice.

"Don't tempt me, little one." Arthur replied, softer than intended and probably only half-joking.

The oldest Shelby brother had barely closed the door when your smile disappeared and tears flooded your eyes. Admittedly, spending months of repressing your own anguish didn’t do any good to you despite thinking that focusing on others would have helped. Quite the contrary, all those negative emotions you had left on the back burner turned into a silent and deadly parasite that was eating you up. Dragging your tired frame to the cold and empty marital bedroom, you curled up in a ball in a corner of the room, your bruised knees pressed against your chest, “Positive. You gotta stay positive and push forwards y’see Y/N? Do the right things for the family…” You whispered to yourself as your breath started to quicken for the ball of sorrow in your throat was growing more and more. Yes, you had to smile and say that all was just fine because you knew you were lucky to be here and that you hadn’t any real reason to complain now according to the rest of the world. And yet, the truth was you were tired. So tired and overwhelmed by everything around you. With your wild soul trapped here in the mighty walls of Arrow House, you could not help but drown in an excruciating feeling of worthlessness.

You were lost in a world too difficult for you to understand. Lost and unprepared for a life that asked for too much. When you were living in the vardo with Aunt Isabella life seemed so much easier despite the lack of money and, sometimes, food. Prior to your wedding, she used to tell you that everything would become clear once you’d be a wife and a mother. You’d be an adult adult, you see? But she lied. They all lied. Even with a husband and kids, you still felt like a scared and confused child, who wanted to hide under the blanket of her warm bed and never face the world ever again. These concerns of yours? You never shared because you wanted the Shelby to keep seeing you as a reassuring presence— moreover, God knew how much their broken hearts needed your silent care.

Bringing your trembling fingers to your mouth, you muffled a first sob, convinced it would be enough to keep you from crying. What you didn’t expect was to burst into tears, uncontrollably weeping. After all this time forcing yourself to be strong, your mind had enough. As your heart-wrenching cries echoed in the room they muffled Tommy’s footsteps that were coming closer and closer. When the door flung open, you did not even move, lost in a spiral of pain and psychological exhaustion.

“Y/N?!” Tommy called you, his usual coldness swept away by a surge of panic. He closed the distance between you and him with hastened steps, and put one of his knees on the floor to be at your level, “What’s wrong, ay?” His husky voice asked, worries thickening his Brummie accent even more. You hiccuped and raised your flooded eyes towards him, parting your lips to answer. Yet, as soon as your gaze met his turquoise iris you started weeping again, louder this time. Words were at a loss by dint of never having the chance to express what you felt throughout your life. “Bloody Hell, Y/N! Speak!” Tommy hissed, his heart now drumming in his chest at the sight of his young and always-so-strong wife crumbling in bits in front of him. Never in his life, he had felt so powerless, not even in the tunnels… And, God, he hated it.

“N-nothing. I don’t… I don’t even know it’s just that— I’m so fucking tired, and lost, and confused, and afraid!” You spoke with a very fast pace, spitting years and years of repressed emotions flowing from you all the while feeling deeply ashamed of your mental breakdown. When you were done venting, you simply turned your head and waved off the topic, tears still rolling down your reddened cheeks “Anyway! You’ve got — more important things to do.”

“Stop it, Y/N,” He scolded, low voice rumbling in his chest. His strong and calloused hands, damaged by the war and hard work, cupped your face with a softness you didn’t know he possessed. For the first time in your life, his grip felt utterly reassuring as if you knew these scarred palms were not going to let you fall apart. Never. “You’re what’s important right now.” With that being said, Tommy leaned his forehead against yours and his enchanting eyes soon met yours to force you to focus on nothing else but the vast blue oceans which composed them. “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t, I can’t—“ You tried to speak but you couldn’t, struggling to breathe under the crushing weight of your panic attack. Your mouth gaped, looking for the oxygen it couldn’t find.

“Oi!” Tommy said louder. So loud that his voice managed to overcome the cacophony of your beating heart and the buzzing sound of your anxiety that filled your head, “I want you to breathe with me, Y/N. Alright? You can do that for me, ay?” He asked, his eyebrows slightly frowned and charming crowfeet appearing at the corner of his eyes — how odd it was to see Tommy’s face veiled with something else than unsettling placidity. Caught off guard by the sudden realization of how close he was, you quieted down a little bit and soon followed the pattern of his breathing.

One long inhale through the nose, one longer exhale through the mouth, and a short pose.

Do it again.

Your shaky hands slowly grabbed his wrists in a desperate attempt to anchor you to reality. This, as well as the focus you had on his mesmerizing complexions.

His long dark lashes — you inhaled slowly.

His cat-like turquoise iris — you exhaled.

His salient cheekbones — You stopped breathing for a very short while.

The myriad of freckles — “Breathe with me, Y/N.”

The soft, hoarse lilt guided you through the dark and thick fog of your own brain, just like a lighthouse. Coming back to clearer waters, your body finally relaxed and fell almost limp in his arms. And once again he caught you, keeping you all safe against his chest. Tommy’s voice, low and steady, resonated one last time in the bedroom with a reassuring warmth as he uttered the simple yet powerful phrase, "I'm here." Each word carefully enunciated, carrying a quiet strength that soothed and reassured, like a comforting anchor in a stormy sea.

Keep your writers motivated: Reblog and/or comment if you liked it, you filthy animal! o/ English is not my first language btw.

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[blam-marie]

A Metaphor's Guide to Rewriting Destiny

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Chapter 01

The Lighthouse - cont

It was a long walk down the promontory and through the woods that surrounded the prison, but despite the horns and yells, no one came after us. The wind was biting, winter chill freezing us to the bone, but neither of us cared much about that. Cold could slow us down, but never stop us. There was no snow on the ground, despite it being the early days of the year. In fact, it looked more likely to rain than to snow. Weather in Theos had never made sense to me. It wasn’t that much farther south than the Wallen isles, in the grand scheme of things, yet it still rained while Riverhill would be buried in white by now. No matter. The lack of snow was useful to us, as tracks would be much harder to follow on hard packed earth. The wind even did us the decency of shuffling leaves after us, making it seem as if we’d never been there at all.

Past the woods was a road. Compassion led me to a large boulder behind which we would be out of sight of that road and retrieved two carpet bags that had been hidden under piles of branches. He turned to hand them to me but hesitated.

“We thought to hide your face. We did not… know.”

I ripped the bags from him. Inside, I found the black clothes of a widow in full mourning.

I put them on.

Compassion watched me do so with cautious eyes, having seemingly weighted the danger of me against the danger of what might come down the road and found me more important to monitor. In this at last I found the comfort of familiarity, until I realized that he did not watch me for fear of what I might do. Instead, his gaze lingered on my ribs, my sunken cheeks, and my dull and dirty hair, all of which must have been clear to see in the rosy evening light. I snarled but he did not turn away. 

There were too many clothes in the bags, and not enough time. The fashion of this time and place was particularly annoying that way. I remembered when we all used to wear loose tunic and went to war in sandals. But we also lived much further south back then, and January hadn’t been invented yet. I didn’t bother with the underclothes. I tore at what I had been forced to wear for four years, shoved the pieces at Compassion — let him figure out what to do with them — and started pulling on the corset bare-skinned. I saw him wince at this, but Pride had beat it into my head a long time ago that shape made the clothing, and I needed that dress on and fast. I had been provided with two petticoats, both cotton, one quilted and one not. I growled. How ridiculous. Whoever had prepared the bag had obviously thought to be considerate of the weather, but the two seconds that it took me to separate both garments and shove one back in the bag was two seconds wasted. The quilted skirt went on, then finally the dress. I didn’t change my shoes, as my old boots were perfectly adequate and the hem of the dress would hide them anyhow. There was a bonnet, gloves, even a woollen shawl. All of these I ignored, pulling out the long mourning veil instead.

Once I was dressed and he had helped me arrange the veil, we both grabbed a bag and Compassion guided me down the road until we found a waiting carriage half hidden between the trees. A coachman and a footman were arguing quietly. Their clothes were elegant for people of their station, and the posh carriage marked them as belonging to a wealthy house. But that was nothing but an appearance, meant to fool people from afar. As we approached, I saw that the footman was in fact a young girl dressed in the manner of a boy. She had made a good effort but could not quite pull it off. Her stance, while angry and brash, was wrong; something about the way she held her weight. It was also obvious that long hair had been pulled up and hidden under her woollen cap. 

She was the first to notice us. She glared as we approached. 

“You’re late.”

“Only a little bit, though!” hurried to add her companion, trying to soften our impression of her. I disliked him immediately. 

He was tall and thin and nervous, which was not a good combination for a prison escape. In fact, given their clothes, both of them were far too conspicuous. I glared at Compassion. He ignored me.

He thanked the humans and tried to guide me into the carriage with a hand on my elbow. He was lucky that I let him keep that hand. But he had agreed to help me retrieve Astoria, I reminded myself. She would not be the same now, I knew. Many things had changed four years ago, and imprisonment always left a mark. But that was not her fault. It was my grief to bear.

I settled into a seat as docilely as I knew how to be — which was not very — and let the others do their parts. The humans guided us back to the small road then turned onto a larger one where our carriage merged with a file of several other just as elegant ones that were all going in the same direction. The urgency and costumes explained themselves now. There was a dinner happening somewhere, or a ball, the guests of which were rich enough that searching their carriages would be out of the question. Either they would complain or they would ask questions, neither of which the King of Theos could afford.

If the lords and ladies of the land knew that the Exemplar of Rage was loose, they would whip themselves in a frenzy imagining what sort of revenge I might be capable of visiting upon them. If the King had any sense at all, he would keep my escape a secret until I made it impossible for him to do so. I sank into my seat, grateful for the softness of the cushions. Revenge would be mine, but it would have to wait. I was safe now, but I needed a plan. I needed to situate myself. And most of all, I needed to figure out Compassion’s angle. 

“How did you find your little helpers?”

“They’re not here for me. I told them that I needed help rescuing the Exemplar of Rage. They thought…” he trailed off and sighed. “I told them not to involve you, but there is a revolution coming.”

“I’m not interested.”

Compassion nodded, as if he had expected me to say that. I bristled. What did he know of me? I wanted nothing more than to claw that understanding expression off his face. 

But. Astoria awaited me, and I needed him. I settled down.

“That is what I said, but they insisted that they should present their case to you themselves. I could not deny them that.”

I would just have to refuse them in person, then. I knew why this kept happening, why people always expected me to join revolutions or wars. I was Rage, wasn’t I? I was supposed to yell and fight along with the rest of them. But what most failed to understand was that I was an old rage. A rage who had lived for thousands of years. I no longer had anything in common with the hot flame of youth that blazed bright in the night and died quickly. I had turned into a deeper ache, the sort of scream that settled inside and slowly hollowed you out until you were nothing but a burnt out shell of yourself. I was the unbearable, forced to endure. Never mellowed and never appeased; tired of myself but without rest. Rage, they called me and expected me to howl. Rage, I called myself and wept.

Joining their revolution would not help them; it would only make them careless, and put expectations on my shoulders that I could not fulfill. I would only consider doing so if it helped Astoria in some way. 

“And what of you?” I asked. “Why are you here? You are not Wallen, you have no duty to me.”

“Surprisingly enough, I am actually Wallen now.”

“No, you’re not.”

He chuckled. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“You are Compassion. There is none of you to be found in Walls.”

“I beg to differ, for I have found myself in Walls more than once.”

His little joke was not amusing. I made sure that he could see it on my face. His lips twitched. 

“Have you ever heard of a place called Sinen-Zi?”

“No.”

“It’s an island, with a very deep bay. A good place for a port. When Zheinzou lost the war to Walls seven years ago, they ceded that island.”

“…And?”

“And it just so happened that Sinen-Zi was my home.” 

He laid a hand flat on his chest. The uninjured one, I noticed. His right hand rested uneasily on his knee. He had pulled his sleeve over his fingers. Blood seeped slowly through the fabric, which at least was dark enough that neither the coachman nor the footwoman had yet noticed. 

“This host was born there,” he explained. “And I am quite attached to the place.”

I stared at him, not understanding his logic at all. 

“That doesn’t make you Wallen.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one would allow that! What does Sheinzhu think about it?” I saw him wince at the use of the Wallen version of his homeland’s name. It only made me angrier. “I doubt that they would have conceded the island if they had known you would try to go with it. No one trades or surrenders an Exemplar when they have one.”

“No,” he said very quietly, “but they traded my home.”

He was so serious, so solemn about it, that I should have let it go. But I was suddenly so angry for no clear reason, and I needed an outlet. His reasoning still did not make sense, and my reaction to things that did not make sense had always been to try and break the exterior so that I could see how it worked on the inside. 

“Places change hands all the time,” I insisted. “You’re an Exemplar, what even is the point of caring about that? We’ve both been alive since long before Walls or even Sheinzhu existed.”

Compassion went very quiet then, and spoke against his nature for the first time that I could remember in my experience of him. He said, with a gentle cruelty: “Perhaps you do not care, but the people in whose world you live do. I heard that your current host’s nationality is part of the reason Walls didn’t come for you.”

I clenched my fists and only by virtue of being an old rage and not a young one did I manage not to punch him so hard in the throat that he flew out of the carriage’s window and into the road. 

It was true. The Empire of Walls saw my dark skin and darker hair as an embarrassment. They would have preferred me in a different host and would be relieved the day that someone finally killed me and I Manifested into a body more appropriate.

I had not done it on purpose. It was common knowledge that Exemplars did not choose their hosts. We died and then woke up having replaced some poor human inside of their own body, and if we were unlucky we could still feel them trashing around inside of us for a while as our horrible divine essence burned them out of existence. But we could not choose and we could not aim, and blaming us for the circumstances of our incarnations was a fool’s errand.

This made killing us a gamble. Who knew where a dead Exemplar would show up next, and on whose side? Would they wake up back in the same land, or on the other side of the world, in a country no one even knew existed yet? This was why Theos had put me in the Lighthouse. At least there, they had known where I was. 

Only a few of us were attached enough to a country to return there time and time again. Most Exemplars chose to simply belong to wherever they Manifested for the length of that lifetime. I personally could not care less, but unfortunately Walls seemed attached to me — or at least, to the idea of having me. They were a land of conquerors, of devourers, and once they had it in their minds that you belonged to them, they never let you go. For several hundred years now, whenever I died and someone else became me, Wallen envoys came to find me and escorted me “home”. I was never given much of a choice about it. And once they had me back, they seemed to forget quickly that I had ever appeared elsewhere. The boast was that Rage was Wallen, and the myth was that I always Manifested there. 

(Of course, that was easier now, given how large the Empire had grown. It was a challenge to not Manifest somewhere their hand had touched.)

Anydrite knew why they wanted me that much. It wasn’t like I’d ever won anyone to my side with my shining personality, no matter which shape I happened to wear. I made people uncomfortable. Oh, certainly, in times of war I was much desired. But in times of peace, I was a disruption that could not be suffered. I had to be watched, just in case I went and did something inconvenient with all of that divine rage that I had been named for.

But that delusion of theirs was easier to maintain if I looked the part. When I had Manifested in Aditya almost a decade ago, no one had been very happy about it. On the one hand, it was a good sign when a colony had absorbed enough of “your” culture to manifest one of your “traditional” Exemplars. On the other hand, a colony manifesting Rage of all possible things was the sort of event that made a lot of people very nervous. 

It also made a lot of locals very foolhardy. The poor doomed things. Just because someone on the other side of the world had shot the Exemplar of Rage at the same time as a young woman’s parents had died and she had taken up a knife to strike back at the one responsible — therefore making herself a vessel for me at a time when I was without one — that did not make it a sign, or a message, and even less a blessing. It was a coincidence. If my divine arrival was a sign of anything, it was that Aditya was angry. Not that it was prepared or armed enough to retake its freedom. A revolution at that time, without supplies or even a plan, would have been a bloodbath. One that my sole presence would have been the cause of. Again.

In the end, it was only the interference of Pride (and their quick talking and ability to reframe the situation, insisting on how Wallen the Adityans had to be if I had been called to them) that prevented some unfortunate decisions from being made. That was why I always returned to Walls, in the end. There was no other choice. 

It wasn’t the first time that something like that had happened, but it was the first where my Manifestation was not immediately followed by another one, elsewhere. The last time that I had ended up in the wrong type of host, for example, I had awoken on a ship. Between one thing and another, the ship had sunk, and all aboard had perished. But they had perished free, for all the good that did them. 

Perhaps that was why Pride had been on the lookout for me, and their hunch that I would land in the current hot spot of Wallen’s cruelty had been correct. They knew that I hated Manifesting, that it broke me for months, and that doing it twice back to back was even worse. But for all of Pride’s clever words and influence and power, even they could not change the fact that I looked wrong. 

I was not a fool. I had wondered if the origin of my host had not been part of the reason for abandoning me to rot in Theos. I had raged at the possibility. Having it confirmed now felt… freeing.

I unclenched my fists and relaxed back into my seat. Compassion looked like he regretted his words, but there was none of his namesake in me, so I hit him back where it would hurt without qualms. 

“So your island was given away to the empire who poisoned your people. And you decided to join that empire?”

It was his turn to look away, but he was not a coward. He did not stay turned long. Instead, he chose to meet my stare dead on.

“Not join. Just visit, for now. Someone who poisons others must have something wrong with them, and I wanted to find out what.”

Of course they had something wrong with them. I kept manifesting there. 

“That’s called colonialism. Rots the mind.”

He shrugged. His calm was infuriating. I had no idea how he did it.

“How did you even know how to find me?”

He rummaged awkwardly into a pocket — still with his left hand, the clown. He should have used his non-dominant side to break through the barrier — and produced a letter. I saw that it was in Pride’s handwriting and snatched it out of his hand.

It said:

My dearest, I can no longer tolerate the humiliation of the way you are being treated. Do teach respect to your current neighbours for me, will you? PS. I still owe you for the latest decoration you brought to my dwellings, so I have decided to send you a companion whose presence I believe you will enjoy greatly. Love, Pride <3 

I groaned and crumbled the paper into a ball. That explained everything. Pride had sent Compassion specifically to annoy me, as a payback for terminating their last host. 

“I’m assuming the last part is sarcasm?”

“You read it?”

“It is incriminating evidence. There was a concern that I might have to destroy it before reaching you. I assumed you would still want to be informed of its content. So yes, I availed myself of it. I apologize if that was an overreach.”

I tossed the paper ball back at him. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“You say that a lot.”

I didn’t bother answering that. I looked out of the window for a little while, watching the scenery pass by. We had reached the edges of a city. The carriage turned, separating from the line of rich bastards at last. As they carried on towards their nightly entertainment, we passed under an arch into a narrow street. Our wheels clattered over cobblestones. 

“Why did Theos even keep you prisoner in the first place?”

I frowned in surprise. “You don’t know?”

“No, and neither did Pride, whom I would expect to always be au fait of the political landscape.”

“Well, I assume it had something to do with the war.”

“What war?”

Now I turned to look at him fully. “The…? How should I know? Peace died, didn’t she? I at least know that much. Peace died, which always means a war, then I was found on Theos territory.”

I had actually been captured because Peace had died. I had had the misfortune of being in the vicinity of her new host as she Manifested. I had never been so close to a Manifestation — other than my own — but I could now attest that such a thing was very much not subtle. The bright divine light of Anydrite had pierced the sky and the shock-waves had rippled for miles. Soldiers had come running, certain that they were under attack. And when they had, they had found me. Rage. As well as the proof that somewhere out there in the world, someone had killed Peace and started a war. Put together, the two facts had done nothing to dispel the impression that they were being invaded. 

“Oh,” he said. “That. Yes, Peace did die.”

I waited for a beat, then prompted: “Do we know who did it?”

“Unfortunately no, we don’t,” he replied with obvious frustration. “Whoever it was, perhaps they wanted to wait until they’d returned home before making some grand announcement. But they ran out of time. As soon as the news hit the rumour mill, at least five separate groups claimed the murder and jumped on the opportunity to commit whatever violence they’d obviously been dreaming about.”

I groaned. “Of course. Walls?”

“Surprisingly no, for once. But Theos initiated two distinct conflicts near the border of Wallen colonies.”

He shot me an oblique look. “Perhaps they didn’t want you to interfere.”

“Perhaps.”

I had no idea. Unlike Pride, I didn’t keep up with politics as it only made me angry. Take the entire thing with Peace, for example. Killing the Exemplar of Peace was the traditional way to start a war to the point where entering a conflict without committing the symbolic murder essentially doomed you to failure, as your armies would refuse to follow your lead and your allies would desert you out of superstition. It was one of many beliefs around the Exemplars that I loathed. No one ever thought about how Peace felt about all of that, didn’t they? They only saw her as a thing, a tool for them to use. A symbol. 

I myself was tired of being a symbol. Being a symbol had resulted in the death of my husband and the loss of my child. Those soldiers, when they had found us, had not waited to hear our explanations, or even looked at us long enough to see that my love was very obviously not a warrior, but a poet. They had only seen Rage, and been afraid. So they had struck, convinced that they were defending themselves. 

It could not have been otherwise, I knew. I had loved because it was in my nature, because you could not truly rage unless you loved deeply. And then I had lost, because it was written in the stars that I should do so. It was a rotten fate, and it was inevitable.

[indig3aux01]

CTS A — Week 10 - Compulsory Question 1

The word “navigate” comes to mind at the thought of critical thinking skills. CTS helps me navigate my way through daily life so that it may always be filled with intention and deliberate decisions. The same goes for the module, only that it is geared towards my creative practice. This was why I felt like our metaphor should convey navigation. I suggested a compass and we were leaning towards it until the lighthouse idea sprung up. It seemed like a vague idea but the experience of working on it together reminded me of how crucial it is to listen to each other’s ideas so we could develop them collaboratively.

A lighthouse was our starting point. From there all the other elements branched out. It is a metaphor alluding to a “guiding light” that leads someone to the right direction (Invernizzi). It guides sailors safely to shore across turbulent waters, the same way CTS guides us in our creative practice. Each element appropriately corresponded to the topics, especially because each of us thought hard to connect them (See figure 1 caption). Thus in terms of content, I was satisfied. I only wished we did better in drawing it, like how the group with the burger did.

Among the topics, my favorite was growth mindset. It was something I strongly aligned with. Our metaphor represented it as the land which the lighthouse was “grounded” upon. I found it suitable because it was what I believe growth was all about—grounding yourself so you can be present and grow in a way that is in alignment with your vision.

Looking back, what I recall the most is the slide with the growth vs fixed mindset. These were phrases I usually ponder on—only that I roam between both columns. This session made it clear to me how I could better practice a growth mindset. It also reminded me of a book quote that inspired me to do something beyond my abilities for studio.

(329 words)

Invernizzi, Anna D. “The lighthouse. For my love of metaphors, I couldn’t… | by Anna D. Invernizzi.” Medium, 7 August 2018, https://medium.com/@annainvernizzi/the-lighthouse-dd676d3ed2ec. Accessed 16 November 2023.

Akikawa, Tetsuya. Sweet Bean Paste. Simon & Schuster, 2017

[bonesofapoet]

Melted Stars, Melted Sea

[arthur curry x you]

author’s note: me, deep in chaos territory atm: hey remember that aquaman thing you wrote over two years ago when you watched the movie ten times in three days? yeah you should post that since you havent posted anything in a While + you watched the snyder cut two times in 24 hours

words: 1370

He found you on the dock, eyes spellbound by the infinite celestial sky above you.

It was common, that he found you like this. Back pressed against sturdy wooden planks, hands tucked behind your head or mimicking the rise and fall of your abdomen. Air, cool from the ocean would caress your face, your hands, your skin - it kept you grounded just enough, so you wouldn’t forget you were still on planet Earth. Your eyes would remain glued to the deep lavender, cobalt blue, and midnight black. They would search the crystalline sprinkles above for familiar shapes, and then shapes you wished to know. You hunted for far off moons or tails of the galaxy and hidden planets you longed to see with your own bright eyes. You imagined what, or who, could be residing in the eerily empty spaces between the glitter in the sky.

Arthur Curry loved that about you.

It was ironic, he thought - his own head was usually down underwater, lost in the darkness below. Yours was tilted up and up and up to see where no human had gone before.

In the middle of your impromptu star-gazing session, soft footfalls on the dock began to bring your mind back down to your own rock in the cosmos. A nudge to your calf brought wandering eyes back down to land.

“Want to go for a drive, Stephen Hawking?”

You smiled at the sky; a grin that could put ethereal moonlight to shame.

“Always,” barely made it past your lips before you were hauled to your feet and into the arms of the Aquaman himself. He pulled you close for a moment, before he took your hand and guided you to the truck idling at the edge of the docks. You tilted your head back one last time; trusted Arthur to catch you if you were about to bite the dust.

You tripped over a rock.

He laughed. You shoved him.

||

This is what peace feels like.

It was the lone thought that thrummed through your entire being.

Brisk night air stained with the brine of the sea ripped through the open windows - a welcome comfort, just like the hand the meta-human had rested on your thigh with his other on the wheel.

“This never gets old,” your voice was quiet, but your eyes were alert. Clear. Drinking in the New England coastline, the rise and fall of the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. The moonlight illuminated cresting waves and seafoam that kissed the shore. Cliffs from far up the road looked deadly and beautiful in the deep hours of the night, and you never tired of driving these winding paths. The hills in front of you, the depth-less, unforgiving sea to your right, and the man you loved keeping you close while he drove on your left.

“Nothing is, with you.”

You barely heard him over the howl of the wind in your ears, or the explosion of the waves rushing each other over and over and over. A small smile blossomed on your lips.

“We’re being so soft I want to punch us in the face.”

Arthur’s laughter roared louder than any crack of thunder you had ever heard.

The king of Atlantis was inclined to agree with you.

Your fingers mindlessly traced exposed tattoos of the arm in your lap the rest of the drive, more preoccupied with the movement than the silence that filled the air until you returned to the lighthouse. The quiet was nice. It was soothing. It was rare, spending time with Arthur like this; even more so now that he had a whole other world to look after. A whole other kingdom to live in and govern and protect.

You accepted his decision long ago, reassured him you would be fine, because you would, and you were. He had your unyielding support both while he was away, and while he was with you.

It made you love him more, even, for refusing to pull the age old cowardice bullshit: “I can’t give you the attention you deserve anymore, so I’m breaking up with you, sorry.”

No - that was far from Arthur Curry’s style.

There was no walking on razor sharp eggshells around the subject, no hiding behind false truths and white lies about your truest thoughts and feelings, no internalizing or projecting your worst fears and horrifying nightmares that suddenly became real because he was leaving and he was fulfilling his destiny and you were staying here, on the surface, without him.

And yet - neither of you questioned this was how it had to be. How you wanted it to be, even just a little. He wanted to be there for his people, and you wanted him to stop running from his responsibilities, to embrace who he truly was. So you wanted this, for him, even though you missed him more than the sun missed the moon and the constellations missed their previous lives on the Earth. You knew he felt the very same way.

The truck eventually crept to a stop. The full moon shone snow-white rays through the windshield, making your bodies glow in the radiant light. It was enough to convince Arthur that maybe angels were real, and he had been with one all along.

It was enough to convince you that instead of Poseidon incarnate, Arthur could rival that of Apollon, God of Light.

“It’s almost time,” he said into the quiet, breaking the hushed spell you both had fallen under. His eyes were trained on the monumental expanse of the ocean now. Serene urgency laced with his voice, but he hadn’t moved to untangle himself from you, hadn’t moved except to press a kiss into your lips slow and grounding.

You moved instead, when you broke apart.

“Then why don’t we get out of this truck so you can kiss me goodbye properly?” you teased. The process of leaving had begun once more.

He stood by your side under the starlight, who broke the darkness with it’s poetry.

Arthur took your face in his hands and kissed you so fiercely you felt like the world was about to burn into nothing. It was a kiss that could end wars and bring hurricanes crashing down to land. It was a kiss that stole your breath, stopped your heart and rose the dead from their graves, the kind of kiss that restarted the cycle of life after death. It was a kiss that spoke so many words, so many phrases and spoke of feelings that were deep enough no words in any language existed for them yet. It was a kiss that made the mere mention of happiness seem like a figment of your imagination, because there was no way happiness could compare to what you were feeling in that one moment.

You felt it in your bones, felt it melt your bones.

All with the sea as your witness.

You pulled away breathless, not remembering what oxygen felt like or how you were supposed to breathe. The only anchor to this world was the gentle spray of the ocean on your skin, the light embrace of a salt breeze that felt like it was breathing for you, instead of on you. The cool tendrils of darkness and contentment kissed your spine, and you shivered just for a second.

This was peace, you realized.

This was peace and it was always only temporary, but in those last moments before Arthur told you he loved you more than Atlantis and the Surface and more than the sea combined –

Before you watched the dark waters swallow him whole again, you acted on those feelings. You followed your gut and threw yourself into the icy waters before he ever had the chance.

(Metaphorically, of course.)

“Marry me,” it flew past your lips so effortlessly, so fast - your hands were still lost in Arthur’s hair and neither of you had the chance to catch your breath.

A beat of silence.

And another.

It sunk in for both of you at the same time, what you just asked.

The shit-eating grin that moved mountains in your stomach graced his lips in a heartbeat.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

[deergravity]

i'm just going through my likes and WOW WOW WOW! this is giving me feeeeelsss

things i'm noticing-- so iryna is reaching down for desa, like she's on solid ground and desa is falling or drowning, and drowning strikes me particularly because of the instinctual reaction to grab whatever comes near you when one struggles in water, an instinct that can doom you both if the rescuer doesn't approach correctly, and you push your would-be savior down under the water so you can take a few last breaths. and would you look at that, desa is gripping her wrist, pulling herself up? or pulling iryna down? the balance between them will decide their fate.

and then, and then, the light in desa's eyes. while we're in this water metaphor, she's a lighthouse, filled with power, an ever burning flame, but one that is guided, directed, that must be controlled if it will serve its purpose. a guiding light, yes, and a warning--danger lies here. don't come any closer. there may be land, safety and comfort, even, just over the horizon, but can you reach it? is the vessel light and quick enough to avoid the rocks? or maybe sturdy enough to survive being dashed against them? what desperation, what desire drives the ship forward?

turning the metaphor a little-- seeking the light in the darkness, longing for the flame because it is better to be burnt than to freeze, better to live quick and hot than die cold and alone. and the flame reaches back. what then? does it consume you? do you smother the fire? or does it light your own wick?

the divine magic of fire, to multiply itself. one flickering candle, now two. twice the light, twice the heat. the circle of light grows.

Her anchor

[rowanthestrange]

If we are currently in and seeing Timeline-B where the Timeless Child was ‘saved’, I think we know where she was kept safe.

I think she was/is/will be in the Division Ship.

On the grounds that Tigmi leads to Martin!Doctor, this explains why ‘Ruth’ thought she lived in and felt safe in (though despised) a lighthouse with her not-good-with-people parents (plural, not singular as in Tecteun).

Obviously with multiple timelines of Division agents obsessed with trying to get to their child, that would be a safe place, necessary paranoia meaning the exile is now also self-imposed, and potentially links to the wormhole that’s in the next universe.

A lighthouse isn’t just a good remote place to set that metaphor in. That Master-vibe text also says ‘follow the light’ which ‘Ruth’ receives in a cathedral, and the whole thing when put together with all our other references to religious stories and themes, puts me in mind of the phrase ‘Let there be light’ from Genesis.

If you’ve been following the Jewish themes, you already know the Division ship is the garden of Eden - it’s literally a seedbank for the universe tended to by its (False) God gardener, with a bloody great big tree in the middle.

We already know the Timeless Child is Adam for Time Lords as we know them.

At some point it can be assumed that this Doctor eventually chooses knowledge/exhibits freedom to obey or disobey safe instruction, meaning they leaving it.

Presumably our Frankenstein-Rib Master is part of this, trying to Spy Master control of Division - or their ship at least - attempting to play God because what could be more him, by trying to make it so the Time Lords never existed (and probably also trying to keep his and his Doctor’s own existences by smashing the timelines together even though it can’t make sense - the house.) Whatever backup plan that may lead to the baby-Master we saw on the cliff with the Timeless Child may well come into play, assuming that’s relevant if the plan goes awry - the Master choosing to be a full ouroboros loop by wiping his mind and turning back into a child feels very on brand.

It would also very much tie in with the famous Book of Ruth quote that has the insane Master-Doctor energy:

"Do not urge me to leave you or to return from following you. For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge. Your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die, and there will I be buried. So may the Lord do so to me and more also if anything but death separate me and you" (Ruth1:16-17)

[lanawinters-ily]

The Way We Were

The reader has a stormy, bittersweet relationship with Lana; when they meet again, will it end in happiness, or will she walk away?

Based on the Barbra Streisand song ‘The Way We Were’

Pairing: Lana Winters x Reader

Word count: 1400

Warnings: a LOT of metaphors & a turbulent relationship

Memories Light the corners of my mind Misty watercolour memories Of the way we were

There she was. Lana Winters. Your Lana.

Well at least she was at some moment in time.

You had met on a typical stormy Tuesday; yet another grey, bleak day in what seemed like a melancholic lifetime at that point. Your job was the same every day, no change, no variety to break up the never-ending cycle of life.

Until you saw her. The rain had been streaming down the train window, mirroring the tears of pure frustration that fell down your face, monotony overwhelming & reminding you of just how ordinary you were. But then she had tapped your shoulder, turning to meet sad eyes with chocolate orbs of wonder.

And you fell for her immediately.

Because if there was one thing that was for sure in such an unpredictable universe, Lana Winters was far from ordinary.

Scattered pictures Of the smiles we left behind Smiles we gave to one another For the way we were

Make no mistake, Lana was just one woman, but her presence packed an almighty punch, transforming your outlook by filling it with positivity & absolute joy. The tedious routine of life soon became glimpses of heaven in every moment, the beauty of simplicity revealed by the love of your life.

Before you were looking at the wide view, insignificance in such a vast planet making every aspect of life some sort of mocking cosmic joke; as if you were the extra in the movie of someone else’s existence.

Then Lana pointed out every detail that made up the world around you; the details on the petals in the flower fields you walked, the birds chirping each morning from your bedroom window, the leaves rustling in the gentle breeze singing a lullaby to rock you to sleep.

She turned the negatives to positives, the rain no longer a reflection of God’s sadness, becoming Mother Nature’s nurturing of the planet; watering to sooth the wilting souls that walked the ground.

She was your personal land of Oz – bringing plain Dorothy into a bright technicolour vision, worlds away from the black & white Kansas you had been stuck in for so long.

Can it be that it was all so simple then? Or has time re-written every line?

But once a plane has left the ground to soar above the clouds of dreamland, at some point it must return to lucid reality. Romanticizing love is never idealistic, the honeymoon period often fades into truth when the couple learns all they can about their partner, bringing along the flaws & sufferings of life.

Only the Gods are immune to the human affliction of pain; immortality granting wisdom & maturity that only originates in the freedoms away from the confines of time.

Despite the naivety of the beginnings of a relationship, Lana was not a Goddess, & not a Queen; she had cracks in her porcelain surface, deep ones at that. You had your own insecurities of course; cruel voices pointing out every blemish, every sentence spoken, every outfit worn, but not to the multitude of how Lana had suffered.

Her horrific traumas were never verbally revealed to you, triggers providing peepholes into the haunted era of her twenties – scars both physical & mental slowly chipping away at the bridge of your union. You would never know if the truth could have saved you both, or ripped the bandage of the inevitable split, but either way, you never fully understood each other.

The romance of nature seemed to be your only continuous bond, reliance on surroundings to further linger the magic spark of your first glance at each other.

A distraction from the fractures slowly creeping over the glass, ready to shatter at any given push.

For some, putting two broken halves together heals the damage, comfort providing the ultimate cure, but not for you. The shards were too sharp, too jagged, too complex to be fixed with a few words or physical affection.

Really, fate had doomed your love from the beginning, the universe’s entertainment as the new Shakespearian- style tragic romance of the century.

If we had the chance to do it all again

Tell me, would we? Could we?

Oh, but how you yearned for her. It was like having a half ripped away, functions of the body barely surviving, not even close to thriving like you had been with Lana.

It was as if you meant to have your appendix removed, but lost a lung instead. How long would it take for you to not be able to pull in a breath without her nearby?

No matter how broken the sides where, you were willing to try every single possibility to make it work again, but was she?

Is there such thing as a one-sided soulmate? The sun gives so much to the earth; a way to survive, hope for the future & security with the warmth that radiates.

But the Earth simply looks back in appreciation, not providing much in return.

One simply orbiting the other.

Memories May be beautiful and yet

The times shared were just too wonderful & joyous to be abandoned; a lighthouse shining through the grey fog of memories.

Every time you heard Lana’s name, all you could think of were the bright summer days in which you would both sprint through flower-filled fields, chasing each other & giggling like you were little girls again – a childish blissfulness under your shining sun.

You were surrounded by Lana in those glory-days; she was radiant to you, with comfort in all the seasons.

And you would kiss softly under a blanket of darkness as night fell, whilst the stars looked on with their bright, twinkling smiles.

You longed for that eternal summer again, the beauty, the meaning to every moment.

What's too painful to remember We simply to choose to forget

But of course, the seasons carry on, melting into each other as the weather changes. And, as the weather fluctuates, so does the mood of nature; calm, peaceful summers fading into temperamental, dreary winters.

You were children of the earth, the outside world shaping your love for each other, so how was it to last as the seasons moved on? There was no eternal summer for you.

Like frostbite you nipped at each other, the snow beating down outside; stamping on the flowers of hope that you had nurtured in the sunlight.

Frostbite if left untreated, will only spread, much like the little flaws in your relationship that were growing as the days advanced, darkness threatening to hold you hostage.

So your sunshine left, & the flowers were buried under the ground again.

So it's the laughter We will remember

And here she was again, in the present day.

She peered at you with those muddy eyes & flashed a smile, igniting a switchboard of emotions within your very core.

The smile sounded like a thousand jokes shared on a beautiful day, & seemed to last for eternity in your mind. It was bright & warm, evoking a feeling of security, of home at last.

The smile sounded like bickering & arguing; short insults hit in a cruel game of lover’s tennis. It was pierced with venom, teasing with the prospect of a future that was promised, but never received.

It seems that the seasons were now inside of you, a turbulent cycle sped up to feel like an entire year worth of emotion as you flitted through them wildly.

Well, at least she had followed through with the vow that monotony & blank feelings would escape you after the day you met.

It was so bittersweet; should you live in the past or move forward with a different future?

Whenever we remember The way we were The way we were

As if to answer your question, Lana broke your gaze & looked up at the sky as grey clouded the sun, & rain started to spit onto the ground.

She just turned around & walked away, leaving you with the hums of life you began with, beautiful song dimming into the last teasing notes.

The crescendo of your existence faded into the distance, as you wondered if you would ever hear music quite like this,

Ever again.

Taglist: @ka-s @ninaahs @stayeviildarling @babypocahontas @lilypadscoven @winters-witch-bitch @basicasshole @bottom4delia @forevercountess @violentwavesofem0tion @sporadicsupercorpquotesmonger @liberosisaspire @mellowalieneggsknight @thecasualgeek1 @lucykilljoy

[chipper-smol]

Vanilla 1 Chain

Prompt: The Aftermath of Ghost banishing the Grimm Troupe from the Troupe’s perspective.

lAST ONE!

( https://twitter.com/BerryCannibal )

Grimm let out a hum as he danced with himself, going through yet another imaginary routine as he allowed his thoughts to drift. The tent was unusually quiet without Brumm around - he was still surprised that his worried conduit had offered to take up a torch and pass out some of the scarlet flame this time around, perhaps he was finally warming up to the ritual? - allowing the perfect space for him to practice his final audience with The Pale King’s vessel.

He chuckled to himself at the memory of that wyrm... Always so frazzled, with his thoughts scattered all about, never in one place. He never did get to teach that fool how to relax before he up and disappeared, leaving this kingdom to be ravaged by Her incurable sickness. What a shame...

He was just coming out of a twirl when he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His knees buckled. He fell. Where were the Grimmkin when he needed them?

Letting out a faint growl, he tried to get back onto his feet as he clutched his- His... He looked down to where his hand was ​supposed ​to be touching the smooth, red carapace of his chest, horrified at the sight that greeted him. An open wound, leaking with bright, scarlet flame where the heart of any normal bug was supposed to be located. It was only after that first moment of shock that the pain set in.

Collapsing to the ground once more, Grimm let out a roar of misery and shock and anguish and pure, unfiltered ​agony​. It felt as if the fires that once kept him fed and warm as a child was now burning him up from the inside, taking every part of his body with them. Under his claws he felt his body coming apart, leaving less and less shell to grip on to as he was consumed by what once kept him alive. ​What was happening? This was not how the ritual went. This was not ​supposed ​to happen-

~ Curtains closed. Lights out. Our lead actor has disappeared. ~

Grimm jerked up into a sitting position, breath laboured and raspy as he clutched his chest. It was solid now. Ok. He wasn’t dead, at least. The legacy didn’t end with him as he had feared when... Wait.

He glanced around the room, feeling his metaphorical heart sink when he saw the stitched-together crimson and plum and wine-coloured fabrics that covered the floor, the ever-gently pulsing veins, the scarlet, firelit lanterns... He wasn’t in the physical realm anymore, he quickly realized.

Rolling over, he grabbed a small hand mirror from beside the bed, frantically checking his physical appearance. The ritual hadn’t failed, had it? No. It was still going if the coal colouring of his crescent-shaped horns was anything to go by. Then that must’ve meant...

Oh. Oh, that ​traitor.​

Grimm could feel a growl bubbling up from his chest as he considered what might’ve happened. He must’ve tried to stop the ritual ​early,​ perhaps even tried to ​kill​ the troupe as a whole by banishing them back to the dream realm. He must’ve manipulated Grimms poor co-actor in this important play into following him, they seemed so glad to help out with the ritual, after all...

Wait. The ritual. The child. Where was the child? Why hadn’t it called out to him yet? Where was the child?

Frantically, and yet gently, he began searching through the satin sheets of the bed he had woken up in. If the child wasn’t dead, it had to be there somewhere, right? Right? Ri- Ah. There it was...

He carefully picked up the limp grimmchild, studying it for a moment. It worried him how he could only barely see it’s chest move, and it wasn’t chirping or making any other kind of noise at him like it usually would, even in its sleep. Not that one could truly sleep in the dream realm.

“My child...” He rasped, quietly, holding it close to his chest, still feeling the gentle pulse of fire inside it. It was still alive, that much was true, but it would not remain that way for long at this stage of the ritual. It would need more flame, and quickly, but finding it could be difficult without his grimmkin to scour the vast wastelands between kingdoms for something worthy of the presence of the troupe in its entirety. Sighing, he cradled his child close as he sat for a long moment in hopelessness, considering his options.

“Marintide...” A voice murmured in his mind, the rasp undoubtedly belonging to The Nightmare King himself.

Right. Of course. They had received another call while performing their ritual in Hallownest. The other kingdom was far geographically, but travelling large distances had never been

much of a problem for the troupe. But then again, the troupe hadn’t been in this situation for several centuries. Last time they were banished was way back in-

A soft cough and whine of complaint sounded from the starving child. Right. Best not to dwell on that with a starving grimmchild in his arms.

Slowly, Grimm laid back down on the satin bed, still holding the child close to his chest as he focused on the brief glimpses he had been given of the kingdom when they had received their call. He admittedly struggled a little with remembering the less interesting details, such as the dying corals and thick bramble forests, but he managed none the less.

--

Waking up on cold, hard stone was not a welcome experience, but it was the best way to tell that they had arrived. Huffing as he got up, Grimm took a moment to look around. Without the Grimmkin to go before him and set up a comfortably warm tent, he was immediately exposed to the cold breeze coming in from the ocean and the sight of the beautifully ruined architecture that once was this great kingdom.

The stone beneath his feet was a brilliant cobalt blue, and he could see the sunlight reflecting off something gold in the distance. Sunlight? Ah. An aboveground kingdom, then. Something that looked like a lighthouse of sorts was off in the distance as well, just barely visible if he squinted through the gleam of gold from fallen pillars and monuments. The sun was glinting off the sea as well, the water so reflective that he almost missed the large, pale form that smoothly broke the surface and went back under in the same movement. A seawyrm, perhaps. He had been told of these before, though he couldn’t recall much...

Shaking his head to clear his mind of thought and clutching the grimmchild closer still, he made his way through the ruins towards the woods he had seen. Extracting flame from living creatures was a painful process for both him and the second party, but in this case, it would have to be done. The Grimm lineage would not end with him.

Stepping into the woods, there was immediate rustling to his left. He barely had time to think before a large, hunter-esque creature had him pinned to the ground, teeth bared, ready to end him.

He remained calm, though, reaching up and firmly placing his open palm over its eyes as he focused, sending into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep... Sighing, Grimm nudged the large creature off of him, finally untucking the grimmchild from his cape. His expression quickly dropped when he saw the state they were in, flopping over limply in his hands instead of flying up and readily feasting on the nightmares of the sleeping hunter.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Quickly, he crouched down by the sleeping hunter, carefully placing his child upon their head. “Sorry about this...” He murmured, though he knew his apology would never be heard, though he knew there was no forgiveness to be had for what he was about to do.

Then, he started chanting.

The words that spilt from his lips made the fire inside him roar back to life. It was painful, but he had to endure. For his child. For the troupe. He gritted his teeth together to keep himself from screaming, wanting so dearly not to distress his child...

“Ngahhh...”

Grimm glanced up at the noise, finally stopping his chanting, smiling when he saw his child just as lively as ever. But...

He brought his hand up, gently touching his left horn, quickly finding a large patch missing, replaced by openly roaring scarlet fire. He was weakening, he realized, tucking the child close once more. They would need to finish the ritual soon. He’d just need to find Brumm so-

Right. Brumm wasn’t part of the troupe anymore. That traitor.

He didn’t have a conduit now. And he didn’t have a helper either. As sure as he was that he could get the vessel to meet him outside Hallownest, the banishment ritual would not allow him within several miles of the place.

He’d have to wait.

Slowly wasting away into a fire ghost, he’d have to wait.

He’d be willing to make that sacrifice for his child, yes.

He’d keep them alive and safe until a proper ritual could be conducted again, or until he finally grew unable to help it and it’d have to starve.

He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

( donotgogently )

( @wasabi-arts​ )

Grimm pets the small creature in his arms, looking over Dirtmouth from the cliff. “What a shame for our little friend to abandon you in such a place,” he cooed, starting his descent down king’s pass, “ and a place so dangerous and cold. To think that vessel didn't even bring you back to our Trope.” The child purred in his arms, content with the situation despite the abandonment.

The trek back to the troupe wasn’t long, and Grimm made his way into the tent. “Good evening, Master.” Brumm said, already offering to take the torch from Grimm’s hands, surprised by the sight of the child, as well as Grimm’s damaged horn. “Master, why do you hold the child? And may I ask what happened to your right horn?” Grimm simply smiled at Brumm, dismissing Brumm’s second question while petting the child. “I hate to admit such a circumstance, but I do believe our little visitor has abandoned the child. Brumm was silent for a moment, looking at the child. He didn’t like the idea of Grimm dying for the sake of a ritual, and would much rather let the ritual die. At least for a bit longer, if it must continue.

“Why do you think they abandoned it?” Brumm asked, curious. “The traveler seems attached to it.” With a thoughtful nod from Grimm, he pet the child once more to hear it purr. “Maybe it has something to do with the roar heard earlier?”

“Roar?” Grimm asked, cocking his head with curiosity. “I heard no such thing.”

Brumm was surprised at this comment, stopping his music at the thought. “But Master, the roar was quite loud. It rattled the tents of our troupe and the homes of this here town. The bug near the bench described it as something akin to a cry.”

“I see...”

Grimm looked out of the tent in the direction of the crossroads. The abandoned Vessel of the Pale King himself had likely gone down below, Grimm thought. That ​was the location of the black egg that the king set up long ago to contain the infection. And since The Knight was a vessel themself, that is likely where they went.

“I don't think we’ll see them for a while, my dear Brumm.” The child snored in his arms. “May I ask why not?” “Well, do believe our small friend has gone to fight the creature inside the

crossroads.” “...”

Brumm looked back at Grimm’s shattered horn. “Master,”he asked,resuming his music,”May I ask what happened to your horn?”

Grimm turned away from the tent’s entrance to face Brumm.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” He stated, touching the broken spot with his hand.”I had gotten into a bit of a scuffle with the creatures up in the cliffs trying to obtain the child.” The spot hurt, yes, however Grimm paid it no mind. It was merely a minor injury, he was far more concerned about the child in his arms.

“Well, Brumm, we should take care of the child in the knight’s absence, hm?”

Brumm nodded in agreement. “I do think we should take care of your injury too, Master.”

( @ouliarts​ )

( @null-icon )

It is the dead of night and the big top is quiet with the whispers of a phantomly audience. Your Master had told you to keep watch before he had rushed out in a hurry - the fastest you’ve seen him move outside of performance - but it is still the same dark, dreary town at the base of the looming cliffs off to the left. Winds still whipped about and crept underneath the tent fabrics, the scarlet haze of an ethereal presence flickers with the chill, and with a rumbling sigh gathered from the depths of your chest, you reach behind you to pull out your trusty accordions and begin to play a slow melody from something beyond your time as a Troupe member. It’s a delicate number though sharp and stuttered even to your skilled hands, suggesting that the you of another lifetime had not gotten to learn it well, but you are alone with your thoughts and the mumble of an uncaring audience so you practice and improvise in hopes of making it something worth playing for someone beyond deserving.

The tent flaps flutter open long after you’ve sat down with your legs crossed and your instrument falls silent. The winds outside had gotten stronger, but it was hardly an observation relevant when shortly after the flaps are sealed you feel your fur near singing from the blast of furious heat. Where you previously would have no need to look up at the looming figure that storms past, you can’t help but to draw your gaze upon him. His stance is proud and he glides elegantly through the entrance chamber, nodding to you his curt greeting as he adjusts something under his thin cloak. You would have assumed nothing was off if he wasn’t radiating the hellish heat of his rage, and when he exited into the main ring, one of the heads of his curving black horns snapped clean off bleeding an otherworldly vermillion that trickled into his wiry fabrics.

Sometime when the sun should have broken over the peaks, you decide to pay your Master a visit, your curiosity and concern uncharacteristically getting the best of you. You don’t get much more than a few strides into his secluded part of the big top when the maroon walls shudder despite his quiet rasp, “I do not believe I summoned you, Brumm.” 

“Mmmrr… So it may be. You are not well.”

“Is that so? What makes you question my state of being? What is it you find in the need to bother my rest?”

“The tent still simmers with your anger. My sight did not deceive me when I spotted your-” You are interrupted when the soft grizzle sounds, the pale pink of small irises blinking through where your Master is concealed. “... If that is all you dare approach me for, be on your way, Brumm. You have disturbed me, and now my child. Let us sleep.”

“Have you bandaged yourself, Master?” The hesitance you are greeted with tells you all you need to know, and you go digging in your fur for the roll of fabric you sew onto the shreds of your patchy sleeves. “Mmmh. Let me cover the wound, then I will leave.”

“I do not remember giving you permission.” “I do not require it for this.” Grimm uncovering himself enough for cat-like eyes to stare into your mask is simply affirmation to your statement. His horn had stopped oozing, now simply glowing dimly, but still you settle beside him to begin carefully swathing his horn in gray linen. “Did you fight, Master?” “Yes.”

“What for?” “My child. You must understand, the child is the future of this troupe. Of us.”

“Hrm. Why was the Grimmchild beyond the big top?”

“I do not know, Brumm, but it does not matter. Our caller approaches us soon, and the ritual will soon begin. That is what’s most important.” After the timbre of his voice falls out, you have nothing left to say and so you shift the rest of your energy into securing the wrap you have now made. “It will grow back, but thank you regardless, Brumm.” And when you turn to leave as promised, Grimm speaks up again. 

“Will you play me a song, musician?”

( https://twitter.com/Heck_Yena )

( tfwhynot)

The troupe was always on the move. When the ritual wasn’t in the picture they, for the most part, had to travel the old fashion way. The tents could be instantly packed and unpacked with a snap of Grimm’s fingers, coming in and out of the Nightmare realm with ease. The Grimmkin were a similar story, though they themselves were in control of which realm they were in at any time. It was the more unique bugs that couldn’t though, Brumm, Divine, and the Grimmsteads were anchored to the waking realm.

Grimm led the caravan on a wagon all his own. It held everything he needed to plan, maps, lists of supplies they had or needed, and written plans for performances of future and past. Brumm followed in the wagon behind. It carried all the other things that didn’t originate from the nightmare heart; containing currencies from lands of all sorts. Things to trade away for other things they may need or want, rations of food and water, and nicknacks collected for sentimental purposes.  In the very back, the strongest and most loyal steed followed, wheeling Divine’s wagon with them. Jars of the various substances she excreted were stashed, herbs, and remedies, each with their own uses.

Brumm’s music floated around the caravan, the familiar tunes of his accordion helping fight off complete boredom. Grimmkin popped in and out, joking and chatting among themselves. The newest of them excited to be on the road again, the long darkness to come not quite setting in on them yet.

The road they traveled slowly grew rough, the wagon wheels bouncing slightly on the rocks that were sprinkled across the road. Two mountains off in the distance came into view, a thin and winding path was carved through, old and uncared for; it was made a mess by time. It had been made by a kingdom long gone and forgotten. 

He waved down a few Kin that was chatting above him, “Explore the hills we are to tread,” He rasped out, “Report any dangers or curiosities you come across.” They nodded and dashed off, nothing but a rapidly disappearing blaze of scarlet fire left behind.

Time passed as Grimm waited, the steed pulling his wagon huffed at them, silently asking to rest soon. The road was still uneven, each wagon still bouncing off the occasional rock, tilting to and fro at the uneven path.

The Grimmkin still hadn’t returned as the wagons began to pull through the mountains. The walls of rock were high on each side, holes were mirrored on each side. A few old corpses could barely be seen, legs and arms of bugs both wild and sentient lay idle, their chests gaping open, innards long eaten by what lived here. He placed a hand on the child’s back where they were curled by his side in worry. They murmured in their sleep, still so small and weak. It’d be a while till the next ritual.

The walls were close together, they only just let the wagons pass without the worry of scraping the sides. There was no way to turn around once the caravan walked past the entrance, let alone run the other way if something happened.

“The path through should be short,” Grimm thought, “We’ll stop for rest and food on the other side,” he waved down more kin, a dozen more than last time, “If something happens we can deal with it,” He instructed them to carry torches and light the path, and most importantly, report back if they saw something, “We’ll always make it through.”

Music seeped through the artificial canon, echoing through the caves along each side. The old familiar tune felt uneasy, the vague feeling of nervousness permeating through the troupe enough to effect Brumm. The steeds began to slow, the sounds of their marching quieting as they pushed through the fatigue encasing their shells.

A puff of red smoke and a small novice was sitting beside Grimm. Their shrill and panicked voice woke the child, their words were spoken quickly, half slurred together, and hard to understand.

A sharp scree cut through all the noise, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake.

The Grimmkin immediately started to panic, “That’s the noise! Tha-”

A kin was slammed against the wall with a loud crack, their shell breaking on impact as a creature dug into them, shredding their garments as they fell, the Grimmkin wailing.

Jumping up Grimm tossed the reins to a nightmare kin. As he got on top of the wagon another scree rang out; the grimkin this time successfully dodging. Brumm’s wagon shook as the creature collided with it, the steed leading it letting out a panicked whimper.

The creature hissed on the ground, mandibles and legs flailing as for a moment before righting itself. It crouched down, ready to strike again when the wheels of Divine’s cart rolled over, only pinning it at first,  the steed struggling to pull over the living speedbump. A squeak and a squelch and their rigid shell shattered, Divine letting out a startled yelp as the wheel suddenly dropped back to ground level.

Another screech, Grim immediately aimed to intercept it when yet another rang out. 

It was like a domino effect, one after another after another screaming before leaping at the caravan. Grimm dashed, intercepting as many as he could before they hit, the air was just as full of fire as it was the creature as the kin attempted to help kill their attackers.

Still more kept coming, “Take them through as fast as possible,” Grimm barked at the nightmare leading them.

“Master?” Brumm called out, worry lacing his voice as much as panic.

“I’ll meet up with you on the other side, just go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice, the steeds immediately attempting to move as fast as their tired legs could carry them. 

Flinging himself into the air Grim puffed up with a loud scream, doing his best to draw all of their attention. Fire flung from around him, lighting the small canyon with fire. 

It worked, the beasts focusing on the largest threat. The wagons now having to deal with fewer things under their wheels could actually hurry, fear coursing through the steeds giving them new energy. The sound of Grimm’s fight growing more and more distant till it was nothing but an echo on the other side.

Once out the steeds couldn’t go any further if they tried. Their shells heaved as they drew breath, legs shaking as they unhitched themselves, collapsing on the ground with exhaustion. They huffed at the kin who immediately checked on them, shaking any attempts to get them to stand up, just wanting to be left alone.

With a grunt Brumm hopped out of the cart, afraid of what he might see. 

It looked like the fuckers had attempted to burrow through the wagons. Shallow divots in the repurposed shells that made the walls and ceilings were spread across all the wagons. 

He made his way to the front, seeing the nightmare doing their best to comfort Grimmchild as they cried.

“Mrmmm. Is the child hurt?”

They shook their head no, rubbing their back as they clung to the kin, “scared and worried for their father, but completely unharmed,” they rumbled.

Brumm nodded as he looked to the other kin. A few quickly busied themselves but most were unsure, not knowing what to do without instruction from the master. No one could properly hunker down for the night without him and there wasn’t really a second in command for situations like this.

“Try and get some to start repairs on the wagons,” Brumm told the nightmare. He shifted in place trying to figure out what to do, he wasn’t a leader, he hated giving directions to others. There was a reason he was the only musician, as the sole bug who composed the music he just could never direct others to play something right.

Walking back to Divine he could hear her talking, her airy voice louder and sharper than usual.

“Aaaah! Where’s the master? He said he’d meet us! I can’t smell him here! Where is he?” The kin outside her wagon shrugged.

“Mrmmm. How are you fairing Divine?” Brumm asked, already knowing the answer.

“Aaaahhhhh! Just terribly! What are we supposed to do? The master said he’d be here!”

“All we can do is wait. Master will come with time.”

Divine hissed in worry, she shifted and wiggled as much as she could, “But couldn’t he just puff back in any second? Why isn’t he here!” Her face was in a deep frown, something no one saw often, it made her smiling mask half look out of place and strange.

“Mrmmm. He may still be trying to buy time, he can’t see how far we are.”

“Aaahhhhh! But what if! What if…” She trailed off, not wanting to say what she thought. If she said it, what if it came true?

“Impossible, it’s never happened before. He’ll return. Master may come back hurt, but he will come back.” Brumm reassured.

Divine still wasn’t sure about that but dropped it, “What are we supposed to do till he comes back?”

“Mrmm,” Brumm had to think for a moment, “I don’t know. I’ll start getting food ready I guess. Keep medical supplies at the ready when he returns.”

“Ahh… But what am I supposed to do? I’ll worry myself into knots if I don’t do something!”

“You can watch the child. The nightmare caring for them now has more important things they can do. Just make sure they’re calm, try to get them to sleep.” Divine nodded at Brumm and he set off to try and put things together. 

As time passed though Brumm couldn’t stop worry from clouding his head. He kept a bag of medical supplies on him while he cooked while doing his best to focus on the task at hand, making a basic soup from what they had. Though the spot they were at wasn't the best, the kin were able to find a river, grabbing buckets to add to the cauldron and give to the steeds. There wasn’t any promise of something that tasted amazing but everyone would appreciate having something in their stomachs for now.

There was little conversation as food was passed around. Not even the novices, often cheerful and mischievous, found it in them to crack jokes. Brumm at least took the chance to fully get what damages were. The wheels would need to be replaced, many cracks and deformations from the blasted things would make it risky to set off too soon, they’d need some material to make some final repairs but the wagons were still okay enough that there wasn’t worry of them falling apart or rain seeping through, the steeds were tired and a bit scratched up but would be okay with rest, and while a few Grimmkin had been lost the majority were okay, shaken up, but okay.

The tents appeared in a flash, faster and more sudden than Brumm had seen in a long time. It was almost dizzying, everyone having to be moved and placed within different rooms.

“Master!” Brumm realized. He had to find him, figure out what happened, make sure he was okay.

Where was he even? A quick turn around and he was in the main stage with a few other confused kin, a few mourning over dropping their meal in their daze.

Master’s room, Grimm had to be there. He was quick to shuffle as best as he could in the darkened stage. 

“Master?” Brumm called.

“Come in Brumm.” 

Brumm tentatively moved the curtain, peering in. His mast was sprawled out on a fainting couch. 

“Master! Your horn-”

“I know Brumm, it looks worse than it feels.” 

Brumm couldn’t believe that. One of Grimm’s horns had been torn off, the thick shell left was jagged and cracked around it. The soft flesh within weeping blood now that it was exposed. 

Grimm had been injured before but this… This had never happened. Maybe a crack or scratch, but even during the ritual Brumm had never seen a piece of Grimm torn off.

“You-You need to get that cleaned immediately!” Brumm moved closer, trying his best to see if there was anything else.

Grimm chuckled, “I haven’t heard you order someone around in a long time.”

That made Brumm freeze, “I… Mrmm. I’m sorry master that wasn’t my intent.”

Finally, Grimm turned to face him, “There is no need to apologize, my friend, I was only teasing.”

Grimm had a tired smile, blood slowly winding its way down the side of his face. There were a few other scratches and cuts, small tears in his cloak, but nothing nearly as bad as his horn.

“I’m just glad everyone is okay,” He turned back looking down to what Brumm could now see was the Grimmchild. They rested their head on their father's arm, purring softly as Grimm’s other hand lightly scratched their head.

“Please master, let me dress your wounds. Even if it’s not as bad as you say it still needs to be taken care of soon rather than later.”

Grimm looked back at Brumm, seeing him fidget with worry, “Very well.”

He shifted into a better position, sitting upright with his cloak completely out of the way, much to the complaint of Grimmchild. Grimm shushed them as Brumm moved in front of him. Even sitting on a couch this low to the ground Grim was still at eye level with Brumm.

Brumm had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pulled out supplies to clean his master, “Mrmm. This is probably going to sting,” he warned. 

He poured a cleaning acid on a clean towel, it wasn’t strong enough to do much more than sting, but it still cleaned. He carefully dabbed at the wound, waiting to see if there was any reaction. Grimm’s eye twitched slightly but he kept calm as Brumm thoroughly cleaned his head. 

Placing the used rag aside, pulling a large pair of tweezers out. Grimm bowed his head slightly, allowing Brumm easier access. Carefully Brumm pulled bits of shell that had embedded themself in the wound. Grimm huffing as a large piece, roughly the size of a piece of geo, was taken out.

After cleaning it again Brumm placed a layer of protective shell over it, a large circular disk of shell cleaned and cut to help cover a wound till it healed so nothing got in. It was a bit big but it did the job. With some adhesive strips, it was secured.

Brumm stepped back, “It’s done, master. Mrmm.”

That same tired smile from before appeared again, “Thank you for caring for me, my friend. Tell me, was the rest of the troupe okay?”

“Yes, a few kin were lost but given some time to rest everyone will be okay. The wagons will likely need to be replaced soon though.”

Grimm nodded, “Rest, that certainly sounds nice. Would the troupe be okay if I rested for now?”

“Mrm. I believe so, though it would be a good idea to talk to everyone and address what happened.”

“Of course, of course,” Grim, let out a slow sigh, looking down as the child got comfortable again. “Could you leave me to rest then?”

Brumm nodded silently and left. As he lifted the curtain he turned again, taking one final look at his master. He was too tired to hang as he usually slept, instead opting to curl around the child on the fainting couch.

“Rest well master.”

( @kiwikoala​ )

( @vibeseeker​ ) 

Crimson flames slowly licked up the draping curtains, draining away all color except the ocean of red that surrounded the young king and the visage of the ever beating Nightmare Heart. The ever present silence within the realm was only pierced by the steady thump of the constantly beating object, joined soon by the child's own pulse.

That is until a sharp crack echoed through the red hued abyss, quickly following the noise the growing troupe master had been blinded by a bright light. He quickly beat his wings in an adrenaline fueled struggle to wipe away the blazing heat that seared into his retinas, only to be met by a new presence that felt somewhat familiar. However the very energy called out to him, drawing him to cautiously approach.

"So I see the mewling cub shows its strength, choosing to find me within my own realm," The figure slightly turned and with a snap set their hand alight with a crimson flame, unveiling the form of the Nightmare King "It's almost cute, though that won't prove you as a worthy enough vessel alone."

"I... I just... I wasn't trying too..." Grimmchild nervously spoke as he pushed off the larger beings baited words, fanning out his wings and drifting to the floor below "my... my father, he... where is he? I... I was just with him..." panic started to grip at the small things words, as his eyes darted around and finally took in the lack of a landscape around the pair "...where am I? Who are you? What did you do?"

"Hah, poor thing, did your father never tell you of your purpose?" The Nightmare spoke with a chuckle and slowly bent down to be a little closer to the child's level, the pinkish red of his eyes burning deep within "a shame then, a kin not properly warned will make the process far more difficult than it should be..."

"...kin? My... my purpose? Wh..what do you mean?" Grimmchild asked with a slight hitch to his voice, pulling his wings back as worry tugged at the edges of his mind "I... I really want to go home... where is home?" He asked again, not expecting a real answer but hoping that the strange 'kin' would take pity upon him.

The larger figure let off a deep sigh as it drew back up to its full height, looking away with an almost bored expression adorning their face.

"Fine, perhaps you were simply dragged here out of pure luck then, as I doubt a weakling could get here of skill alone..." The Nightmare King then lifted one of his hands before giving a simple snap that caused the child to burst into crimson flames, almost immediately cooking them inside and out as their skin was charred and reduced to ash.

Grimmchild awoke with a start, jolting up upon the soft sheets of a fine bed deep within the maze of tents that was the troupe. His breathing was laboured and irregular, and a tear was starting to build up on the edge of his eyes, that is until a black wing gently pulled him back into a kind embrace.

"Is everything alright little one?" Grimm spoke out with a softer tone, moving himself a little closer in order to better comfort his son.

"A... a nightmare... it... it felt s..so..." the child stuttered for a while, struggling to form words until Grimm tightened the hug a little further and carefully wrapped his wing around them. Laying the both of them back into the bed.

"Its okay little one, nightmares are just that, nightmares. Just try and get back to sleep, alright?"

"A..alright..."

( @doodle-chris​ )

[mysterious-crimson-lotus]

Note #Lost-Count

Just a thing from my fanfiction A Trail of Notes. Well, it’s related. Consider it my fanfiction for my fanfiction. The next chapters to my fics are gonna come out soon, just have had stuff going on that I needed to deal with. But hey, take this, and while you’re at it, have a look at this other mini writing that I did recently. 

This is a small thing. Just had some spare time and decided to abuse metaphors. 

A hypothetical note from adult Naruto, if adult Naruto enjoyed overdoing literary devices. And had a vocabulary that included words aside from “dattebayo,” “ramen,” “Hokage,” and “Sasuke.”

Dear Guardian Angel, 

People desperately kissing the Earth after leaving a ship is a common thought. I see it in the stories I read to the children, in the play Boruto said he didn’t want to act in, and saw it in the missions that I used to take back when I was on the field. It usually happens when one has been at sea, unsure of their survival, or else when they hate the water. The act is symbolic of our desire for stability, for peace and calm. The sea is dangerous; the constant motion of the waves pulling and pushing, the winds and the uncertain weather all amount to instability, chaos and uncertainty. The ground is firm, unmoving. It is stable, and, in its reliability, comforting. The steadiness births security, and spawns the potential to build foundations to greater and brighter things. It is not only in the dangers of the waters that spawns adventure and excitement; a strong foundation can give endless possibilities. The turbulent seas may be more enticing, more alluring, but in the end, a plant with no roots is destined to wilt and fade. When connected to the Earth, the plant can flourish. Reach new heights. Grow. A strong foundation gives the strength and confidence to begin one's journey, to explore and grow, for adventure without direction and a strong base is nothing but self destruction.

So of course we would embrace the earth when we see it. We love it.

Do you know that? Do you know that's what you mean? How steadying your comfort is? How you root me to the spot with your gaze? How the sight of you in the distance in the midst of a destructive and voracious storm gives me hope? How, in my moments of weakness, you have been the lighthouse shining a beacon of light through the vein of darkness and uncertainty?

Do you know that you are the shore, firm, unyielding, strong? You can be shaken, be struck by disaster after disaster, face constant adversity, but you remain resolute? Uncompromising?

So do you understand that when I see you, I, like a sailor lost at sea, see you as my salvation? As the one constant that is always there?

The way you always scrunch your face when I tap your nose. The way you lace your fingers through mine when I sneakily place them on the back of your hand. The way you pout up at me when you want me to kiss you more, or tickle me when I least expect it. When you sigh when I kiss your neck. They're features more beautiful than the most magnificent lakes or forests.

I've always been obsessed with material possessions. Friends and people were never really something I could count on. The only constant was always me, and ramen. So I tried to tether myself. My foundation was shaky, so I've attempted to anchor myself with them. If only I had more people, I would say. Now, I realise that you cannot, should not rely on others to anchor you in place. I need to be my own person. Find stability in myself. Yet you have been so wonderful at helping me build my anchor. You have shown me comfort and love that has shaken my flimsy concepts of stability. We may all have to find our foundations ourselves, but you have always let me lean on you when my base was shaky.

So, I want to kiss you. Hug you. Hold you. Have you hold me. I want to brush your hair away from your face and trace your beauty with my fingertips. I want to feel your breath and body heat on me as we embrace. Want to walk with you, talk with you, until I physically can't, then keep going. Run my thumb down your face and see the way you smile when you're happy.

If I could preserve that smile and that happiness, that would be enough. More than enough. That smile, that look that shines through the shadows like the sparkling of the Northern Star, guiding the lost.

Or, perhaps, I can lose myself in it's light. Lost, wrapped in your security and comfort. Lost in your smile.

Lost at sea. 

But it’s okay now. I know what land is now. 

I have my anchor. 

With love, 

Naruto

PS: Where is all my cup ramen? Boruto keeps saying that Hima ate it all while “training to beat your Queen of Gluttony record.” That can’t be true, right?