#Ashen Anecdotes

[oh-no-another-idea]

WIP Update Tag

Tagged a long time ago by @thewritingcoroner -- thanks, friend! Sharing a little about some WIPs sounds like a lot of fun--and I will try try try to be brief :)

The Invisible Girl

Operating out of the first half of draft 2, we are moving very slowly, because draft 2 is really about tightening the plot, and in some places, there is very little plot to be found! (this is clearly a place where I thought previous oh this is a problem for later Cass. Later Cass is here, guys. this problem still is too) I just need to tighten up motives and...figure out the plot. ughhhhhhhhh ;)

Here's a bit of the last written scene:

“Do you paint?” Paris’ lips twitched. “No. Paint is expensive, you know.” Antonio ducked his head. “Ah, yes. Of course.” “Charcoal,” Paris said. “Nice pencils, on occasion. I’d like to get a set of watercolors sometime.” “Are you good?” Paris held up his hands. “Well, I don’t know—” “I’m sure you are,” Antonio blustered. “You’re excellent at the violin.”

Stars and Ships

Very much on the back burner right now, our space crew is also stalled in draft 1 due to my biggest enemy, and if you're guessing that it's plot, then you are correct! I know where they're going. I know how they get there. I just don't know why, yet. But I'm still writing ideas that come to me about how the characters interact :) that's the most fun part.

Jax swiped and grew more bored by the second. If he saw one more diagram of an engine room he was going to scream. Too bad. Someone else could deal with the problem when the engines overheated. Surely Sepia would whip out some clever anecdote, like oh, the engine rooms are equipped with service bots that cater to their every need.

Bonus: Bent Nails or Something

Currently still quite excited about this one! We are in our zero draft phase of slinging out scenes like our lives depend on it, and praying they'll string together soon. Since this is a quieter slice of life story we don't have to worry about plot as much--we just point the characters in a certain direction and then try to get them to cry. Haha but also seriously. ;)

“Are you knocking it down?” Michael said, unable to keep his vows when faced with the calamity of the porch they were standing on, Sutton supposed. The boards underfoot were of dubious disintegration. Jacob had been waiting for it, apparently. “Nope,” he fired back, hands in his pockets. “Ain’t getting paid for that.” “Who’s paying?” “Owner,” Jacob said. “Wants it spruced up, doesn’t care how I do it. I get free rent while I’m here.” Michael looked affronted. “Why’d he hire you?”

Congrats if you made it all the way down here! (and thanks for reading) Passing on the tags to @charlesjosephwrites @writernopal @zmwrites @sparrow-orion-writes @dontjudgemeimawriter and anyone else who'd like to report in!

Putting some taglists below here 🥽

Invisible Girl Taglist: @a-sunflower-at-night @blind-the-winds @drippingmoon @elgringo300 @thats-my-type-writer @sleepy-night-child @writing-is-a-martial-art @viskafrer @croctears @talesfromaurea @necros-writing-stuff @ashen-crest @conundruminprogress @teaflint @princeofthecactus @imaginationxlost @fiercely-raging-writer @memento-morri-writes​ @josephinegerardywriter @stuffaboutwriting @outpost511 @reneesbooks  @jellybeanswriting @charlesjosephwrites @yejidoesthings @sparrow-orion-writes @somealienquill @theunboundwriter​ @lady-grace-pens​ (ask to be added or removed!)

Stars and Ships Taglist: @indecentpause @memento-morri-writes @jellybeanswriting @blind-the-winds @outpost51 @cilly-the-writer @charlesjosephwrites @yejidoesthings (ask to be added or removed!

[preciouslandmermaid]

"as the tides turn" (c.m.)

summary:

The BAU, joined by Emilia Wren, are called to Florida to investigate a case where the unsub drowns their victims and then dumps their body at a secondary location. Can they locate and stop the killer before it's too late?

This story was written using the "showrunners challenge", so at the end of each chapter, I rolled a D12 and followed whatever prompt was listed...which resulted in only minor hiccups.

cw/tw: mentions of drowning. it's a case fic, so they're talking about murder and unsubs and all the usual things that happen during a CM episode.

(read on ao3) || fic has 5 chapters

CHAPTER ONE: "as the tide rolls in"

“What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark? It would be like sleep without dreams.” - Werner Herzog

Florida's oppressive, wet humidity ran its sticky fingers down the middle of Spencer’s back and cupped the nape of his neck in clammy rivulets of sweat. He shifted uncomfortably and swatted away an errant gnat that flew into his face. The rank of low tide and the sound of crying gulls surrounded the team, though he suspected they would soon be overwhelmed by white vans and clamoring reporters. This was, ironically enough, their few seconds of peace before the storm hit.

“Man was out walking his dog and saw her,” Deputy Roman said, “called it in right away.”

Hotch asked, “No other witnesses? And he didn’t approach the body?”

Roman shook his head. “I think it’s pretty obvious she’s been here awhile,” the deputy said while lifting the yellow police tape for Spencer and their newest member, Emilia, to enter the crime scene. Although considering Emilia was barely five feet tall, she didn’t need to duck as much as he did to cross the line. They maneuvered past crime techs taking photographs of the beach, and the body, and collecting samples of sand and seaweed.

“The unsub has familiarity with the tides,” Emilia said as she crouched next to the body, her short dark brown hair swaying in the seaside breeze, “he knew when to dump the body.”

“So, the unsub wants the victims found.” Hotch’s dark brow furrowed.

Spencer shot a glance toward Emilia, though his attention was swiftly drawn to the deceased—murdered–woman on the beach. She was Caucasian, likely in her early to mid-twenties, with blonde hair and dark roots. Her cheeks were puffy and ashen, and he could see her eyelids' delicate, blue veins. The deputy said the body had been here a while, but that couldn’t be accurate.

“A coastal area like this one would experience two tidal bulges,” Spencer said, “and it takes about six hours and twelve and half minutes for the water to go from high to low tide.”

Morgan crossed his arms and looked at the tall, blonde-haired deputy. “This is a small beach for residents only. How many go through here in a day?”

“This time of year? Not many, I’m afraid.” He rubbed his mouth. “Most of the residents in this area are snowbirds. They start flying to their second homes by mid-June.”

“Her body has started to bloat which means she’s been dead for at least seventy-two hours,” Emilia cut in, “and based on the tidal bulges, as Reid said, there’s only a six-hour window before the sea would’ve swallowed her.”

“We need confirmation from the medical examiner,” Spencer said, “humidity increases the decomposition rate.” He met Emilia’s honey-brown eyes framed by long lashes clumped with mascara. She tilted her head slightly in acknowledgment but said nothing more. A surge of relief swept through him. He had lived with himself long enough to recognize that sometimes his instinct to fact-check or correct, could rub people the wrong way, and put them on the defensive, and thankfully that had not happened with Emilia. Not ever, actually, now that he considered it. Usually, she’d reply with a soft and pensive ‘thank you’ whenever he’d share an anecdote.

Hotch said, “Either way, it’s clear the unsub killed her and then moved her here.” He took his phone from inside his blazer pocket. “Reid, head back to the station and start the geographical profile. We’ve got two bodies and two different dump sites that are miles away from one another.”

Spencer nodded.

“Deputy Roman, I need your people canvassing the area. If there’s a chance any of these homes are being rented while their owners are away that means someone could’ve seen something.”

“I think if someone saw or heard a woman being murdered then they would’ve called 911,” said Roman smugly.

Spencer opened his mouth to reply, but Emilia beat him to it.

“Our suspect likely drives a van or truck, considering they were able to transport a body,” she said, “have your guys ask about suspicious or unfamiliar vehicles within the past week or so.”

“Week?!”

“This unsub is organized and would’ve vetted the area beforehand.”

“Garcia,” Hotch said into his phone while walking toward the car, “we need catastrophic incidents in the area within the past five years.”

“I shall wave my magic wand and return with your wish granted, sir,” Garcia said, as chipper as ever before disconnecting.

“Wren–” he looked at Emilia, “I want you and JJ to interview the first victim’s mother.”

“Yes, sir.”

Spencer slid into the backseat next to Emilia. The leather interior stuck to his palms, though he was grateful for the rush of air conditioning that expelled in a rush from the vents and tousled his light brown hair.

Morgan twisted in the passenger seat, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and his attention on Emilia. “Nothing like returning to your hometown, huh little bird?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes and Spencer’s body went taut and quiet. Hometown?

“First of all, we lived fifty miles upstate,” she said while leveling Derek with a flat, intense stare. “And it hardly constitutes a ‘hometown’ when I lived there for a mere two years when I was fourteen.”

Derek smiled. “Fourteen is an impressionable age. You could’ve been a lifeguard instead of an FBI agent.”

Her lips quirked. Derek had that easy-going charm to him that most – especially women – found either irresistible or endearing. He scanned her face, checking for the telltale signs of attraction: dilated pupils, quickened breath, flushed cheeks, or mirroring body language. It was instinctual to him. He had to consciously turn off the parts of his brain that profiled and analyzed. But, Emilia leaned into her seat, crossed her legs, and replied to him with a casual, and straightforward tone.

“I think my innate sense of morality and justice would’ve put me on this path one way or another.”

“Nature versus nurture.”

Spencer found his moment to chime in, “John Locke said that ‘the mind is like a tabula rasa, a blank slate, which is later filled by experience,’ and that we, with the freedom of our individuality, must fill our lives with experiences to gain knowledge and understanding. If we follow Locke’s philosophy, then we wouldn’t be born with a sense of justice built in, but rather experience hundreds to thousands of different moments and memories that shape our perception towards the world, our interpersonal relationships, and our relationship to the concepts of justice, morality, and ethics.”

“Says the boy genius with an 187 IQ,” Morgan teased.

“Hey, his mom was a professor,” Emilia said, rising to Spencer’s defense with a light smile which in turn made his chest glow with warmth.

Before Morgan could make a counter-argument, his phone rang and Garcia’s bright voice sang out over the speakerphone. “Hello, my beauties. I’ve got the deets on our first victim, Mary-Anne. She was majoring in fashion design, although, she took several of her general education classes at the local community college before transferring.”

“Nice work, baby girl,” Morgan said, “how’s the staff look? Has anyone fired or filed grievances in the past six months?”

“No terminations, although one professor was put on academic probation.”

“Keep digging, Garcia,” Hotch said, “until we identify our Jane Doe, Mary-Anne is the only link to the unsub.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Chapter Two ->]

Some general housekeeping if you are curious: 1) Every roughly 1k words, I end the chapter and roll my d12 to see what happened next. 2) I told myself that this fic would take place over a single case and would end once the investigation did (much like the in TV show). 3) credit to this challenge goes to Runawaymarbles (also sorta by sprintingowl) on Tumblr 4) I'd love to hear any feedback considering this was my first time writing a challenge :,) Enjoy!

I rolled my D12 and got the number 3 which reads: Fan favorite. Your most recently mentioned character (or named object) is now beloved by the audience. You must give it a bigger part in the story, a special destiny, or an important new romance or friendship. If you get this twice for the same character or object, the adoration cools and you must go back to treating the character or object normally.

[randomnameless]

AG AU where Billy is recruited, ignores Jerry and hangs out with those people who look like the gremlin in his head (who apparently logged off their mind otherwise the plot wouldn't work).

The shady lady Jeralt always told them to watch out for has a strange hat, but she talks to them and even said she enjoys spending time with them, even if they don't say a thing or eat a strange fruit together. Sometimes she talks about their mom, a woman called Sitri, and recalls stories and anecdotes and Billy feels closer to the mother they never met than to Jeralt.

(then Billy felt immensely wrong and guilty, because they are the reason why Sitri isn't alive anymore and is it their fault? Jerry drunkily said Sitri died to birth them, it's as if they killed her :( - the shady and evil lady then hugs them - it's so awkward for the both of them but Billy feels so strange and they hug the evil lady back, crying for the first time, and they cry even more when the evil lady tells them Sitri would never have wanted them to feel sad about her fate because she chose their life over hers (she still doesn't tell them about the magic rock).)

The young lady who loves to talk about romance and to ask them how was the world they saw was saddened when they told her they don't like to be called Ashen Demon - so she calls them Billy, and gives them a new nickname : "Big Tuna", because they can catch a lot of fishes.

Billy found this nickname so ridiculous, but was happy to have something else, that they laughed, and from now introduced themselves as "Big Tuna".

The "not-fun" man who always frowns, well, frowns but often asks them to help him "supervise" stuff here and there - but he is different from Jeralt, because when Billy does something he thanks and congratulates them - saying it is important to convey his gratitude for the help he received through Billy's actions, which leaves Billy puzzled - what even are thanks? They grow more and more puzzled when some randoms, from kids to knights to monks to random persons thank them, and they finally ask the "not-fun" man if they could continue making people smile after the war.

Seteth is surprised, but nods : if they want, when the war will be over, they could join a place called Garreg Mach, to help and make people smile all around Fodlan.

(Jerry returns from a two weeks long mission, and sees his kid eating an inedible fruit with Rhea and her clique, sitting a on magically warmed rock, and now Billy call themselves "Big Tuna" and say they want to make people smile by helping not by killing anymore, just like their Mother did before, and even now after, her death.)

Post AG when the war is over : Billy joins Garreg Mach and learns Faith magic to heal people (without charging them a fee!) and becomes the fishing instructor of Garreg Mach, thus becomes popular with the students who leanr how to focus and how "it is important to rest. And please, try not to drop your belongings on the floor."

[shmowder]

SO I was about to say that we never spoke on your BG3 blog, but I actually found one question by me, asking if you were playing the original Pathologic or P2 😂 By the time I found that blog you'd already pretty much moved on to this one (which is fine!). But I rb'd a couple fics to my sideblog. Certainly never imagined myself reading about a giant half-spider woman but here we are ♡ The thing about Minthara is that I adore her but I don't know anything about the rest of the game and it's too expensive for me to commit to right now - and I'm always hearing about her romance being bugged anyway.

Yuria <333 And Sister Friede but more importantly, Yuria! I love that you love her too! I confess that I never got past the Abyss Watchers but tbh I'm amazed I got that far. And at least my Ashen One got to meet Yuria (and heard her best line "And I, of course, am also thine" hehe). Good for you for getting through it! Bloodborne is the one Fromsoft game I've beaten and it was rough getting used to the Dark Souls combat, so I watched a walkthrough of the rest. And I've also watched a ~90 hour walkthrough of Elden Ring, which did put me to sleep occasionally lmao but I just don't have the willpower to play huge open world games anymore.

I almost finished a NG+ playthrough of Bloodborne recently, until I started the DLC and promptly got my ass handed to me and I was like hmmmm actually now is the perfect time to start a new SDV farm 🤔

But, I'm taking a little break because I've indeed started Patho 2 again!! It's the beginning of day 5, I'm using super easy settings again and I found my old notes of where the Dead Item Shop is every day and which items to save for upgrades etc. Despite that, I seem to be missing more than ever. I may have focused a little too much on trading and collecting herbs and caches. Forgot the bell rang on Day 3 and didn't gather the Apple Basket Gang rip :( (I noticed that Lara and Artemy both have dialogue about not being 30 yet, so there's that question out of the way) But on the bright side I have more eggs than I could ever need (maybe…) and I'm on my 3rd inventory upgrade.

Haha, based on that anecdote I'd say you know more Russian than I do. I know a lot of people listen to other things when playing games but I've never tried that except when hatching Pokemon eggs. I love hearing the in-game sounds and music. Victor and Yulia have the same theme playing in their houses!

Yes of course we can be friends! Requesting from writing blogs is what originally got me interacting with others, so, kind of like you, just the other way around 😅 Then I discovered it can be nice just to talk sometimes. It seems like you're having a good time on this blog! Chill is good. Part of me is still flabbergasted that there's a Pathologic x reader blog that exists and it's run by a great writer who obviously has so much love for the characters which is a huge plus <3 But I like the memes too :) I can't speak for other anons, but I always check my entire dash until I'm completely caught up.

Moving on… WHEN I TRANSLATED THE TITLE OF THE VICTOR X READER FIC!! Hooo boy, I'm a simple girl and the "You're good, my little dove, you're good. Despite it all, you're good" quote is one of my favorites. It's like you read my mind with the description - SOFT, TENDER, and UNSTABLE? Three of my favorite things 😇

So!! I am the human embodiment of this emoji while reading 🤭🤭🤭 Honestly so galaxy brained of you make it into a fic, I could never be upset about that. There's such an atmosphere to this from the very beginning, I don't know how to describe it but I want to bite it. Playing house with slightly off vibes, "Like handling a stray cat" OUGH. (I agree that'd he'd want to play at domesticity.) The way he notices everything, his solicitousness. Reader as sacrificial lamb imagery. "He takes and takes like you're the cure for his morose soul."

The immortality vs mortality thing! That's when I really got why this works so well as a fic instead of hcs. I love that it feels like a character study as much as a smut fic (and ofc I appreciate all the little details about time). TOP TIER SMUT ALSO. His endless patience while also being in emotional/spiritual/physical agony, him praising the reader's patience, he does seem like the type to draw it out a while - "He'll hide you from the world and everything dangerous outside" 😳

And the end!! What a beautiful, brilliant mind, what a sensitive fragile heart, what a lovely soul. My goodness. Just - [keysmash] [disintegrates]

That was AMAZING and you should be proud. Thank you for taking my request and running with it <333

If my overzealous reaction to the froggy chair birthday pic never made it through, thank you for that too! It's delightful.

Happy birthday!! 🧁🎉 I hope you enjoy the day.

🐿️ anon

You remembered my birthday! I love you!

God I was refreshing my notes waiting for your reaction over the fic. I'm so happy you liked it <33 Especially how you qouted your favourite lines and your reaction to them, that's literally the highest of praise I could receive. You understand the underlying themes, the whole playing house but something seems off, Victor's inner fits of monologue occasionally completely going off-rails and showing how lost in his head he tends to get. How his brain switches focus between topics constantly before snapping back to reality and vice versa.

Conflicted in everything. At times, he appears as if he's pleading with you, below you as loyal as a guard dog. At others he appears above you, pulling your strings with sheer authority and nothing else.

The whole turmoil of deciding to let Reader die a natural death, to be selfish and never allow them into the Kains grand scheme of immortality, to know you'll only exist by his side before your soul is lost to the cosmos forever.

I avoided bringing Nina by name but her presence is heavy in each line of the story. How much he would let you hurt him and others as much as you want like she used to do, how he lets your sins slide and sweeps your wrongs under the rug. How he clings to your mortality because part of his resents humanity for taking his wife away, for stealing his own life and future away.

The whole wings and feather symbolism. Immortality is the wings the Kains are sewing together one thread at a time, each feather plucked being a brilliant person's soul. That eventually, maybe they too will ascend past the larva stage and be able to live freely with no fear of death much like Icarus flew above the seas without regards to his father's words. They're flying straight into the sun and they mistake its blazing fire for the heavens above.

His little dove petname fitting perfectly with the Icarus symbolism, with you being a beautiful bird he wants to keep caged in the mortal real out of selfishness, out of the desire to finally call someone his own. All his life he has give for the future of humanity, both his wife and two kids turned into chess pieces to be sacrificed in times of need.

And that's fine that's okay. He can handle it. His family may belong to the future, they may belong to mankind and the utopia they're slowly shaping. He is strong and pragmatic, he can more than understand why heavy costs and live with the consequences. He will carry that burden of guilt indefinitely.

But you, oh you.... He won't allow it. You have to slip away from their clutches, from his own sharp claws. You won't belong to the future, you will belong to the present forever with him, forever to him.

I enjoyed writing it so much. I started as Headcanons but the words piled up and the sentences started weaving themselves on their own. It was so beautiful, I didn't have the heart to trim the growth and force it back into the headcanons mould, so i let it blossom into a full story even if it meant more work.

Headcanons are usually effortless, stories are not. I had several open tabs by the end of writing it searching for various idoms, symbolism and word synonyms. Looking through Victor's qoute then remembering the latin endearment term for dove.

I really wanted to paint the picture of how he makes loving you a form of self-flagellation, but I had to keep the message subtle so it shows how well he hides it. How on the surface you can easily mistake his infatuation for any adoring partner, but deep down he's completely unstable behind the calculated hardened face. I'd argue that he was as crazy as Nina if not even more. He just happened to be better at hiding it. It was an elaborate plan for him to play the role of the reliable soft-hearted self-sacrificing leader to win people's favour, to paint the Kains in an angelic light so their women may be as cruel as their hearts desire.

Again, thank you for leaving such a sweet message afterwards. People rarely do, you get accustomed to fulfilling requests then throwing your writing into the ocean after posting it. The reblogs and likes are good and all but I just want to hear another human's words at times you know? Another soul's opinion, something that proves that this exists and was read by an actual person rather than a number counter going up.

Although oh my god you read THAT Minthara fic?? A beautiful webbing?? IT'S ONE OF MY MOST PROUD WORKS! One of my most ambitious too! The descriptive scenery in that fic took a lifetime out of me, so much blood and tears poured onto the layout of the garden, of the sussur tree and blood rose. Writing it felt like my magnum opus at the time, although now I'd say Lingum Vitea holds the spot for the amount of Latin I had to research for that Burakhovsky fic.

I'm so glad you liked that fic! They're my favourite children <333 I like the rest too but sometimes I write things purely out of passion and they shine brighter than the rest in my eyes.

You've already started your P2 playthrough hell yeah! I hope it goes well and it's fun! I actually missed the apple basket gang meeting too in my playthrough- I thought it was scripted to be missed because it directly coincident with the Bachelor calling people to town hall and proclaiming quarantine so I thought oh, it must be cancelled duh! I didn't realise you could still walk to it ah-

You can never have too much eggs, trust me.

Being a trader hoarder is good! you'll eventually learn which people overpay for which items and look out for them. Usually trading is rng depent on which npc you meet on the road to your current mission because straying from the path means losing precious time.

Good for beating bloodborne and going on ng+! Hell yeah! I've never played it but it seems hard bc of the parries and no shield. I miss my shield in ds3 :( During the end of the game, my brother was watching me play and he tricked me into going to the end boss unprepared. He claimed it was just another npc for a quest and I didn't know it was the end boss bc I didn't watch anything about dark souls before playing it- I just walked to the soul of cinder all like "omfg hiii bestiee :3 " then got stabbed.

BUT I FUCKING BEAT HIM IN ONE TRY! EVEN WHEN I WAS TRICKED AND ALMOST DIED. I managed to clutch with my trustyyyy shieellldd.

But also I died to that weird balls tree 90+

I am not exaggerating, I genuinely couldn't handle that lame mini boss tree. I killee the abyss watchers in two tries and the soul of cinder in one but a fucking tree is responsible for 70% of my deaths through all of the game.

I'm celebrating my birthday today. it's not going well but at least I have a lot of cake and will buy myself flowers in an hour after the shops open. I got cheesecake! I love cheesecake! I think Yulia would like cheesecake or is she more of a dark chocolate person? I still have your request for her nsfw hc so don't worry it wasn't swallowed by tumblr.

Honestly I can't believe I'm the only pathologic x reader blog- Seems almost blasphemous tbh. I hope more pop up in the future, this fandom is surprisingly chill and nice. Especially for such a hardcore game.

I hope your day is amazing <3

Oh and I did receive your froggy chair submission! I just wasn't sure whether to reply to it publicly or not in case you wanted to stay anonymous to others on this blog. I'm glad you liked the meme I threw together and my other memes on this blog hehe. I like making them, it's like visual storytelling.

[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 12

Cw: refrenced sexual assault, underage drinking, violence

Gif by @athousandtales

Taglist: @arrthurpendragon

It is said that while Princess Aemma never came to like her stepfather, Prince Daemon felt a fatherly sort of pride for her.

All agree that he treated her the same he treated his twin daughters.

Mushroom claims the Rogue Prince would often ask his lady wife why Aemma disliked him so.

Mushroom also relates an anecdote that had the prince laughing loudly and toasting to the girl he had then said the following, “Queen Alysanne would have accomplished more if she had been allowed to use violence.”

Septon Eustace confirms such thing did take place and reminds us all that the Faith nor the Iron Throne had yet to call the rape of a wife by her husband a crime.

In fact, the High Septon and the Most Devout at Starry Sept were quick to defend Ser Otto and his daughter for having ordered Aegon the elder to commit such heinous crime against his sister, the Princess Helaena.

----

The wedding was fine, a bit dark, but a fine way to spend the evening.

Helaena is beautiful in white. Her gown is embroidered with her family’s sigils and very clever insect motifs.

Dreamfyre, Sunfyre, Vhagar and little Tessarion fly over the Hightower on the front panel of her dress.

Aemma wonders how many moons did it take for the seamstresses to embroider a spider web that covers the entire dress.

Alicent tries to calm the bride who cries not for joy, but out of anguish at her own wedding banquet.

Would it had been so awful if they had just let Helaena remain unwed for the rest of her life?

Did they not see she had never wanted it?

“It would gladden my heart if you and my daughter would agree to betroth Aemma to Aemond.” Grandfather tries to distract his wife who is not happy about the bride’s tears and the groom’s longing looks at his cousin’s wife, Lady Sam Tarly.

“They will not suit, husband, you may try all you wish, but Aemond will not marry Aemma.” The queen pursed her lips in irritation.

As much as she would like to be a bride someday, Aemma has too much to do before she resigns herself to marry a man. Perhaps she might fall in love with a perfectly suitable man, but there is still three more years left for that.

“I am sure Prince Aemond will make a fine prince consort, but they are too young and my late nephew was disgusted by the notion of anyone marrying below their majority. If he is worthy of our Princess he will wait until she is six and ten to court her properly.” Vaemond looks at the Queen and her father as he speaks.

“I will strive to be so, my lord.” Aemond says to his mother’s horror.

----

The party is great and Aemma dances with whoever Teora and the King ask her to dance with.

She dances her first dance with Aemond, her next with Lord Beesbury’s grandson, the next with Daeron Targaryen and then with her Velaryon cousins.

Then there is the Maiden’s dance where Aemma dances with Helaena who forgets her worries as they dance her last dance as a girl.

Only unwed girls dance it, it is a last goodbye to the bride’s girlhood or so the tradition states.

After this is the bedding ceremony and Aemma can see Helaena’s hands shake as she drinks sweet wine Alicent says will calm her nerves.

Aegon is too drunk as he joins the young men in their revels just as the musicians begin the song that is played at all the beddings.

“Tonight, I make sons for House Targaryen, my friends. A shame they will be minor princes, but they will be trueborn sons, of that I can assure you.” He proclaims and his sycophants cheer.

Helaena turns ashen.

Aemma vows she will kill him tomorrow morning if he hurts her.

----

They are to break their fast as a family as it is tradition.

But Helaena refuses to come out of her new chambers. Aemma can hear her sobbing from the other side of the door and its when she sees the Queen’s ladies display the bloody sheets, the Princess knows what has occurred.

Aemma stalks over to a hungover Aegon and pummels him.

“I hate you; I hate you, I hate you!” She scratches Aegon’s face and flails as Cole pulls her off him. “I hope you die a thousand deaths, you son of a –"

He will have bruises and scratches on his face, and yet he will not have suffered like Helaena did.

“Are you hurt?” the queen coddles her misbegotten son and Criston Cole of all people try to talk her out of murdering Aegon with her bare hands.

“Not as hurt as your own daughter is!” Aemma answers and lunged at Aegon again.

“I had to; do you know what they would have said if I hadn’t done my duty?” Aegon holds the handkerchief to were Aemma’s nails drew blood.

They.

The Queen and her father.

They had ordered Aegon to rape his sister last night.

They are the true monsters.

“They are your blood; they are your own children.” She shouts at the queen. “Are you so black hearted that you do not even care for their well-being?”

Aemma seethed and didn’t even care that the Head Smasher had tightened his grip.

It will leave bruises, but Aemma will wear them with honor.

“Is that it, your grace? You wanted your son to feel forced to rape his own sister because you and your father ordered it?”

The hall is silent.

The Queen cannot seem to make any noise come from her lips. The Lord Hand is stone faced and angry at being chastened by a child and the King sighs with resignation.

He had been against it, but his hand and his bitch of a wife had overruled him with lies.

“What is done is done. There is no going back now.”

-----

Court gossip is afire with Aemma’s outburst.

“She lacks discipline.” Cole says as he escorts her to the Sept.

“She is three and ten and did not cope well with the murder of her father. Point me towards a child her age who does not have such outbursts.” Teora defends her charge.

“I heard the princess refused to believe he was dead, spouted some nonsense about him being alive.”

The Greens do not need to look far to find something to support their gossip about Aemma’s state of mind.

“She was a child of ten, Ser Criston. What child does not wish for their father to be alive instead of facing a reality where their father is gone?” the septa asks him knowing well that he too has lost so many to the Stranger.

Aemma had given him a lock of hair and the first ribbon she had embroidered with the more complicated stitches.

Laenor’s body did not have them, nor a specific mole he had on is right hand.

Perhaps the girl’s theory was correct, but the only way to prove it was by capturing the ever-elusive Qarl Correy.

“They will not be kind to her.” The knight says and forgets to include himself in that sentence.

“No, at least the people not worth their salt won’t. But you yourself have heard, for every person who speaks against her, ten speak for her.

I would advise you something, as a friend, Cole. Sleep with one eye open, House Velaryon has not forgiven you for Ser Joffrey’s death nor will they forgive you for the bruises you left on her.” The Velaryon bastard warned as they stopped in front of the Warrior.

[jjsanguine]

Call me J, J Sanguine, or J Ayọ̀-Yímiká

Here are some tags for non fandom posts because for some reason it's easier to write a stream of consciousness on the internet than in my journal but when you have a small number of followers you're basically still talking to yourself anyway.

Jjsanguine

Tag me

Foodie sanguine

talking about cooking experiments

Yaanin' sanguine

anecdotes, rambling

Siblings: J Aqua he/him, J Verdant he/him, J Florid she/her. These are fake names but their names do all start with J IRL because Nigerians love a naming scheme. Yes I am J Sanguine even though my entire theme is blue. The extra j in my handle is for vibes

Parents: O Gilded, mother. C Ashen, father

Me and oftentimes my sister and occasionally my brother are watching

live blogging film and tv. I've been doing this on twitter but I want to have them somewhere where the search function actually works somewhat

Family film night

When the entire family watches films together, which is a very different vibe to the regular live blogging

Memento Mori :D

Stuff about my disabilities that I think is funny or mundane that would probably alarm my abled compatriots

Linguistics hobbyist

Jokes about linguistics

I got into linguistics because I happened to watch a bunch of teen shows where conlangs featured heavily before game of thrones was a huge thing so this should set the expectation for how serious I am about it

adjective + people e.g. queer people, GNC people, disabled people etc

Posts about people from specific marginalised groups

disability

stuff about my disabilities or disabilities in general

advice

it's advice

art advice

it's advice about all forms of art, including writing

ql (queer love)

about queer media not neccesarily bl

stories

short stories that i liked

art

art that i liked

I laughed

Funny posts

I heart digital art / I heart traditional art

Talking about the process of making these types of art

[gammaray-burst]

Living up to your ancestor.

[randomperson351]

Bucky cockblocking your dates - BB

Summary: After you and Bucky broke up he regrets nothing more and is counting on his ability to win you back, even if he has to scare a few guys into an early grave to do it.

Note: I'm going through a bit of a Sebastian Stan fix right now so prepare for a few of his characters in upcoming posts.

Do not repost or rewrite any of my work. Minors and ageless blogs get blocked.

Masterlist

1. "It was literally insane!" Your date across from you exclaimed excitedly after telling you what himself and his friends got up to on the weekend. You hadn't been on many dates with him but you were definitely moving forward; this was date number five. "You should so come hang out with us tomorrow it's gonna be sick!" He tried to coax you.

You smiled down at your drink and swirled the straw around while he finished his persuading speech. You had both decided on coming to a cafe for a quick get together this time. At last he finished and looked at you expectantly.

"Well I-"

"Why would she want to do it after you just spoiled the fun?" You froze at the interrruption of a voice all too familiar and lowered your gaze to the half eaten brownie in front of you.

"Excuse me?" Justin said in an indignant squawk at this random guy who'd just pitched up on his date.

"I mean Jesus, what happened to having a bit of mystery in a relationship, huh?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Justin ignored Bucky's comments.

You looked up from scrubbing your hands along your forehead and took a deep breath. "Justin, this is Bucky, my ex boyfriend. Bucky, this is Justin, my date." You emphasised, as if Bucky didn't already know that from the tabs you know he's been keeping on you.

"Seargant Barnes, actually." Bucky corrected you, glaring pointedly in Justin's direction which made you huff and roll your eyes.

"And we can help you how?" Justin's voice didn't loose the judgemental tone.

"Get lost, dickface."

"Buchanan." You warned lowly yet sharply, an expression of steel on your face when Bucky turned to face you. He relaxed a little but just winked at you all the same and turned back to Justin, jerking his head in a 'get out of the booth' motion.

"Really, and what if I don't want to get lost, dickface?" Justin stood and tried to square off against Bucky. Heavy emphasis on the 'tried'.

Bucky reached forward with his metal arm and grabbed onto Justin's collar roughly, jolting him forward so that Bucky could whisper something in his ear.

"Barnes, that's enough!" You exclaimed, but he kept talking for a few seconds before releasing Justin's collar and patronizingly smoothing over the creases he'd made in his clothing. Justin cleared his throat and bent down only briefly to grab his backpack from the floor.

"Goodbye y/n." He mumbled, avoiding eye contact and racing faster than lightning to the front door looking terribly ashen faced.

You groaned and went back to resting your head in your hands as Bucky silently slid himself in the booth opposite you that was previously occupied by Justin.

"I mean no offence when I say this, but you have horrid taste in men honey." Bucky stated as he munched on the leftovers of Justin's food.

"Clearly, I dated you." You replied monotoned.

Bucky pouted a fake pout and frowned at you. "Harsh, I wasn't that bad."

"Whatever you say Bucky." You sighed in resignation as you stood and collected your bag, wrapping up the brownie and taking it with you as you began to leave.

"See you soon heartbreaker." Bucky called after you. You lifted a hand without turning and waved at him.

"Probably Barnes, probably."

2. By some miracle a guy from work had asked you on a date after the whole Justin escapade (Justin who was so unnerved by whatever Bucky threatened him with he hadn't had any contact with you since that day) and brought you to the movies.

He was a nice guy and he was cute, a win-win so far as you both sat in your seats and waited for the previews to end. You quietly chatted while they played, laughing at a few of his jokes and telling anecdotes about work when the film started so you stayed quiet.

Just as the beginning credits finished and the actual movie began, a heavy figure plopped into the seat next to you. Naturally you didn't pay any attention to it until a bag of popcorn was tilted in your direction followed by "Popcorn?" made you sag in defeat.

"James." You greeted him in a whisper, not looking over to see the smug expression on his face but focusing on the film playing instead.

"Y/n."

You said nothing afterwards in hopes that maybe he would settle and watch the film quietly since he was practically on the date with you, but no such luck.

"So Brad huh?" He lent over and whispered into your ear, still you said nothing. "I mean come on, what's he got that's so special? A premature beer gut and hair loss?"

"Shut up Bucky!" You replied harshly.

"A hideous nail biting habit and lack of an ironing board?"

"Barnes." You warned.

"No sense of fashion and loafers?"

This time you said nothing and just flung your hand out to give him a hit to the stomach, but thanks to the super soldier serum it meant that he wouldn't really feel anything.

"Hey, is he bothering you?" Brad picked up on the commotion and asked.

"Yes, yes he is."

"Lets change to the seats in front." He suggested, you nodded your head in agreement.

When reaching down to pick up your bag from underneath your seat Bucky grabbed your arm; the shock making you turn to face him as he moved closer to you.

"You know I won't stop doll, not until you give me another chance, at least to explain."

"I don't want your shitty explanations James, I want you to leave me alone." You tugged your arm but he didn't release it.

"You know I can't do that, it's for your own safety." His eyes pleaded with you to understand but you just couldn't.

"I don't care anymore." You whispered shaking your head; this time when you pulled your arm Bucky let you go and you climbed to the seats below where Brad was waiting for you, although now you weren't really in a date mood, but you could fake it for one night.

Bucky sat behind you silently for the rest of the film much to your relief, but little did you know he wasn't actually watching any of the film; he'd actually kicked his leg up to block Brad from reaching his arm over and putting it behind your shoulders.

As long as he didn't touch you, Bucky could handle it.

3. Things over the past couple of weeks between you and Brad had been going really well, which is why you couldn't understand why he had stood you up on this date.

It had been over an hour and you'd only just received a phone call from him saying he couldn't make it because he was watching a football match with his friends. You didn't even dignify him with a response and just hung up the phone, somehow maintaining a stone cold façade while you finished off the last bit of wine in your glass.

It had been a total waste of time, you'd gotten all dressed up in your favourite dress, hair and makeup done just for him not to show. And the worst part, you didn't even order anything thinking Brad was going to show. You stood from your table and put your coat on, payed the check and left to walk back home, a ball of misery and hunger.

You got about half way when the tingle in your eyes indicated how close you were to tears; however you refused to let them fall just because of a stupid date. You were convinced it was just because you were hungry and bordering on drunk from not having much to eat today.

"Hi doll." A voice interrupted your inner whinge fest and you spun around to face the one and only.

"I know you want to rip into me about my dating choices but now's really not the time okay, you can yell at me tomorrow." You told him, voice thick with unshed tears.

"No y/n, no no no, I'm not gonna yell at you. I wanted to come see how the date went, when I saw you leave I came after you, not seeing Brad anywhere." Bucky placated you, walking closer slowly.

"That's because he didn't come." You said sharply.

"What?" Bucky's face went from soft and concerned to murderous in record timing.

"Had a game to watch with the boys and forgot about our date. He didn't come."

"I'm gonna kill him." Bucky whispered under his breath, opening his arms immediately when you sniffled and tucking you safely into his unzipped jacket to hide you away from the rest of the world.

"And the worst part is I'm starving!" You began full on crying, wrapping your arms around Bucky's waist as he hushed you and gently started swaying your bodies, using his hand on your back to give you a few gentle pats.

"Shh shh, I know doll, I know, I'm sorry." He cooed softly in your ear. "Come on, lets get you home, hmm?"

You pulled back and wiped harshly under your eyes with the sleeves of your coat and sniffed one final time before nodding turning around to lead the way. Bucky walked with you, his flesh arm wrapped snuggly underneath your coat against the material of your dress, keeping you tightly against his side all the way back to your apartment.

You reached the front door and ferreted around for your keys, unlocking it and spinning to face Bucky who was looking at you with a face full of trepidation.

"You wanna come in? I have snacks." You offered. Bucky's face lit up in a smile you haven't seen in a long time and he nodded, stepping forward but catching your wrist before you both entered. You turn to face him with question in your beautiful eyes.

"On one condition, lets stop with the dating for now, okay?"

You smiled a little and agreed. "Okay."

That night Bucky made you dinner and stayed with you all night till you felt better, successfully taking your mind off of the horrible date. He carried you to bed after you fell asleep on the sofa and took your shoes off before covering you with your duvet and laying next to you (but on top of the duvet; because of his serum induced body, he literally feels like he's melting if he's under the covers).

The next morning when you woke, your bed was empty but upon walking into the kitchen you found that Bucky had made you breakfast and left you a note explaining his whereabouts.

Morning love,

I decided to let you sleep in (even though I really wanted to tickle you awake, you looked so adorable) while I ran some errands. I made your favourite, hope you enjoy, I'll be back soon.

Love,

Bucky.

If that errand happened to be kicking Brad's ass, well you didn't need to know that was the reason behind his terribly smug face when he came back 10 minutes later and greeted you with a kiss to the cheek.

[pheita]

Flash Fiction Friday: Bitten by You

I wanted to write something spooky but somehow my mind decided it is time for more Ylva backstory. @flashfictionfridayofficial The irony that Mithelia acts just like Lyran when she wants to annoy people happened by accident. At least you can't say the siblings have nothing in common. A lot of people will start to hate this. I also used prompt 15 of this years Fictober prompt list

Tagging @ashen-crest @adie-dee @abalonetea @cometworks @viskafrer @vivian-is-writing @kainablue @contes-de-rheio @writingamongther0ses

Grumpily, Ylva looked over the rim of her mug. On the other side of the pub, Jafeni sat with a few others, entertaining half the room with his anecdotes. He kept winking at her, which only made her want to drown herself in her diluted wine. "How long are you going to keep this up?" asked Mithelia with an amused grin. As much as Ylva liked the new addition, right now she was pondering how to make a body disappear in the middle of the city. "I don't know what you mean," Ylva murmured under her breath. Mithelia leaned forward. The spirit of adventure just shone from her eyes. Ylva had seen it too many times before: Newcomers to the Free who can't wait to get their first assignment. In moments like these, she wondered if the hunters had such a problem, too. "Come on. Jafeni was clearly bitten by you." "I didn't bite anyone." Confused, she looked at Mithelia, who just rolled her eyes. Even though visually they were the same age, it was just becoming clear that Ylva was ten or eleven years older, maybe more. She didn't know Mithelia's age that precisely. "That's just a saying. Haven't you heard? Jafeni is interested in you." "I know." "But?" Mithelia slid even closer, her head forward as if they were two conspirators. Her wild dark curls framed her face, making her unnatural green eyes shine even more in the little light from their dark corner. Mithelia had only been around a year, but Ylva was sure that demon blood flowed in her as well. There was no other way to have those eyes. "Say it." With a finger, Mithelia poked her in the ribs. "Don't do that," Ylva hissed back. "So there is more to you after all." "Tilly, I like you. I really do. But don't stick your nose in my life."

"You will never hook up with anyone otherwise." An astonished chuckle escaped Ylva. "What makes you think I care?" Again, Mithelia rolled her eyes. "Sweetie, I have the room next to you. The walls are thin, and I have good ears." "Fuck..." breathed Ylva. She felt how first her ears and then her whole face turned red. Mithelia put an arm around her and grinned at her. "I like that about you. One moment you're like a pissed off harpy and the next you're blushing like a young thing seeing a man naked for the first time." Ylva took a deep breath, remembering that all violence was forbidden in the Free's Pub and that she loved her job. "You'll be your own death someday." "Don't. Just confess it, you like me just the way I am. So, what are we going to do? I mean, you seriously need sex and Jafeni is into you. So, what's the problem?" Slowly, Ylva turned her head towards her and gave her a dirty look. "Jafeni is an idiot who will tell it all around right away because he'd rather count his accomplishments in bed than the jobs he's successfully completed." A snort of understanding was Mithelia's response. "That's really a problem." "It's not, as long as he stays far away." Ylva watched as Mithelia looked at Jafeni and put on a thoughtful face. Ylva had already learned to fear that face during their last mission together. "Whatever you're going to do, don't," she admonished, but the grin on Mithelia's face told her that the warning came too late. Before Ylva understood what was happening, Mithelia was sitting on her lap with her hands clasped behind Ylva's head. "What are you doing now?" hissed Ylva. She was sure she had just turned a very unhealthy shade of red. Mithelia leaned forward so that it must look to everyone else like they were kissing. "Making Jafeni think he doesn't stand a chance." "Tilly, everyone knows that's not your side of the bed." Mithelia snorted with a laugh and leaned in further. "You never know. If anyone can prove otherwise, you'd qualify as the biggest possibility." "Tilly?" "Yeah?" "I hate you." "You don't, sweetie. If you did, I'd already been on the ground with a dagger to my neck." Ylva narrowed her eyes. Inconveniently, Mithelia was right. "I still hate you."

[demi-shoggoth]

2021 Reading Log, pt 10

I've ready 50 books and it's only April? Keeping track does help put things into perspective.

46. Terrible Old Games You’ve Probably Never Heard Of by Stuart Ashen. In these Quarantimes, I’ve started watching more YouTube channels than previously. One of these channels is Ashens, in which Stuart Ashen reviews bootleg games, cheap consumer goods and dubious foodstuffs. So I was delighted to find that he had a book (two, actually), with more of the same. The games covered here are from an era of video gaming I was mostly unfamiliar with—the home computers of 80s Great Britain, things like the ZX Spectrum, Amstrad CPC and the Atari ST. A heady dose of nostalgia for a time I was too young to remember, it is also very funny. The production values are good for an independently published book, with glossy paper and full (8-Bit) color.

47. The Secret Life of Cows by Rosamund Young. There are a ton of books out there about how animals are intelligent and have personalities, and this is yet another one. Only the focus species, cows, makes it a bit unique. This book turned up on a bibliography crawl from other books I’ve read semi-recently, and I kind of feel like I shouldn’t have bothered. The very concept, “cows sure do have their own personalities and individual behaviors!” is basically the book in its entirety, with some mostly cute, occasionally gross anecdotes (man, there’s a lot of ways a dairy cow can get sick). It’s also very small for the price—140 pages in paperback size sets you back $23! Another “glad I got this from a library instead of paying for it” book

48. Terry Jones’ Medieval Lives by Terry Jones and Alan Ereira. This is a book adaptation of a BBC documentary series, and it feels like it—some of the paragraphs end in the same quips that Jones uses to punctuate ideas and transition between topics on the show. The advantage is that you can spend more time lingering over the images from medieval manuscripts, of which there are quite a few. It’s also less of a time investment than the series, at least if you read as fast as I do. The main theme of the book is that medieval people lived more complicated lives than the simple Hollywood version, and that the period wasn’t stagnant—a tenant farmer had a different way of life in 1100 and in 1450. Of course, science marches on—this is notably written before Richard III’s body was found in a parking lot, so it dismisses his hunchback as pure fabrication as opposed to scoliosis that was exaggerated rather than invented by Tudor propaganda.

49. The Alchemy of Us by Ainissa Ramirez. In both the foreword and the epilogue, Ramirez talks about how she wrote a book that spoke to her soul. Unfortunately, it didn’t speak to mine. The book feels like it’s trying to do too many things at once, being simultaneously biographical sketches of inventors both famous and obscure, the materials science behind many inventions, how culture and technology reinforce each other, and a clarion call to the hazards posed by modern industrial civilization (particularly artificial light and the internet). The biographical sketches are probably the strongest part. The best of these is the section of Caroline Hunter and Ken Williams, who were employees of Polaroid who exposed its dealings in apartheid South Africaand fought for racial justice in the company. I would have also liked more emphasis on material science. Perhaps the most useful part of the book is the annotated bibliography, where Ramirez talks about her sources and gives recommendations based on audience, tone and level of technical detail.

50. Life’s Edge by Carl Zimmer. Zimmer is one of the best biology writers around, and this book is up to his usual standard. The topic is very ambitious: the definition and origins of life. Zimmer looks at the difficulty with defining exactly what life is, the history of thinking about the origins of life, and some of the major missteps along the way. The widely agreed upon hallmarks of life (metabolism, homeostasis, evolution) are explored, especially in their manifestations that break the commonly considered rules. I would have liked to see more talk about the corner cases of things that show some of, but not all of, the hallmarks of life (viruses get ample discussion, but prions are merely mentioned, and transposons and desert varnish are not discussed at all). But what this book does cover is covered very well, and this is a highly recommended read.

[tremble-and-shake]

I loved your post on charlotte ! could you do one about Jimena! coz i know nothing about her & his relationship other than they had three kids, i’ve seen also that she wasn’t legally married and then on like wiki it says they were 🤷🏽‍♀️💜🦋

This has got to be months late by now, so very sorry. I put this in drafts with an introduction and my full intention of putting a post together in a prompt manner but clearly that did not happen.

Any how:

As you pointed out, the exact dates and details can be hard to pin down.   Jimmy met Jimena Gomez-Paratcha in Rio de Janeiro between 1994 and 1996 depending on the source.  Most sources say Jimmy was 50 and that it was 1994, although the No Quarter tour, which started in 1996, is usually referenced.  She was supposedly 23 at the time.  I’m shitty at math so make of the dates what you will.

Their love supposedly ‘blossomed’ and together they expanded upon the charity work that she had already been doing in Brasil and other countries since she was a tween. She toured with him and then moved back with him to England.

Jimmy officially divorced Patricia Ecker in 1995, (I get the impression that they were already in the process of the divorce, or recognizing that it was headed that way, when Jimmy went to Brazil. As opposed to Jimmy’s meeting Jimena as the reason for the split).  

Not long after the divorce, he did legally marry Jimena and adopted her infant daughter, Jana.  They went on to have two children together, Zofia Jade (1997) and Ashen Josan (1999).

They had what seemed to be a quiet divorce in 2008 and it wasn’t until 2011 that Jimmy let it slip in an interview that he was single.

Since Jimena is a post-Zep relationship, and she didn’t have the rock & roll connections that Charlotte had, there is next to nothing anecdotally about her in Zep books like I did in my Charlotte post.

Interesting that you said you weren’t sure she and Jimmy had actually wed, because I was never quite sure about Jimmy and Charlotte in that regard.  I did not think they were, but one or two references I had come across in my reading implied otherwise. I don’t recall specifically what they were, but they were legit enough (maybe Jimmy even said the word ‘married’ in reference to her?) that it made me question what I thought I knew.

Anyway, bless you if you’ve made it this far and thank you for deeming me knowledgeable enough and worthy of your ask!

(Here is my post on Charlotte)

[saudadeonly]

leave a light on

Read on ao3. Third part.

Death Eater! Sirius Black AU

Euphemia Potter, a retired Healer, is woken up in the middle of the night - quite rudely, according to her husband - by someone she thought wanted her dead. Dragging along his near-dead brother. And, well, she always has had a soft spot for Sirius Black.

Word count: 4557

___

September 1979

Euphemia Potter violently jerks awake when a shrill alarm, sounding like someone is tearing a Hippogriff’s guts out and doing a very bad job of it, blares through the house.

Beside her, Fleamont, always a heavy sleeper, awakes more slowly, but his eyes are sharp when he opens them. He checks his pocket watch, carefully deposited on his bedside table in the evening, and glares. He’s always appreciated sleep, her husband. “It’s nearly two in the morning,” he grumbles but reaches for his wand anyway. “Any Death Eater who’s attacking us now better have a damn good reason.”

“I really don’t think they care, dear,” Euphemia says with a pat on his back, reaching for her own wand. She climbs out of bed and wraps her dressing robe around herself, slipping her wand into its pocket, her fingers still closed around the handle.

“Still impolite,” Monty, who has always been rather set on politeness, says, white brows furrowed. Then, “Linsy,” and with a pop their loyal house-elf materialises in front of them, bowing deeply.

“What can Linsy do for you, Master?” she asks, big brown eyes blinking up at them.

“Please check if all our wards are still intact and prepare to notify St. Mungo’s if we are attacked,” Monty says, as breezily as he might order some breakfast. Then again, death really isn’t scary to them, not anymore. They both know they don’t have much time left, anyway.

Linsy’s eyes get even bigger, as impossible as it seems, but she bows and disapparates with a quick bow and a murmured, “Sir.”

“Come now, Effie,” Monty says as he walks out of their bedroom, wand held in front of his to light his way.

Euphemia follows after him, counting on the light of his wand and her familiarity with the house to get her to the front door without having to pull out her own wand.

The portraits along the walls, depicting various Potter ancestors, are unsettled but dignified as ever, quietly moving from one frame to another and murmuring amongst themselves rather than shrieking all over the place. Euphemia used to detest their reserved manner but with time (and with age) she’s learnt to appreciate their quiet presences, always ready to offer a kind word or a wise anecdote. Her son has yet to agree.

She skips the fifth step on the way down the stairs, the one that swallows your whole foot for three hours and sixteen minutes before abruptly letting you go—James made them time it, once—and stops at the end of the staircase when Monty opens the front door.

He raises his wand to eye level and says loudly, “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

There is no answer but for a horrible scraping sound as if someone is dragging something across their paved path.

“Show yourself,” Monty says again, voice harsher.

There is only that sound for another second, two. Then, “Help us,” says a voice, so startlingly young and so terribly familiar, and Euphemia, tying her robe securely around her waist, walks up to the front door just in time to see two silhouettes outline in the edges of Monty’s light, one leaning heavily on the other.

As they come forward, slowly, she barely holds in a gasp of horror.

It’s Death Eaters, all right, but that’s not what makes a strange clump of bile rise up in her throat.

They’re both tall and thin, one more so than the other, pale in the face of Monty’s harsh light, with dark hair wet and tangled. What she’s sure must have been beautiful robes are now soaked through and torn haphazardly, as if someone had not let go of them until they ripped.

“Please,” says Sirius. He’s in better shape than his younger brother, but that can only be said because he’s still conscious and the blood tainting his robes seems to not be his—well, mostly.

Regulus, on the other hand, is white as a sheet, head leant against his brother’s shoulder as he drags him forward, his eyelids fluttering. His hair is black as the night, drip-drip-dripping wet and there are several deep gouges along the line of his jaw and one longer one down the column of his neck, bright red streams running down from them. They look strangely like claw marks.

“Not another step forward,” Monty says, voice deep and firm, but Euphemia can hear the undertone that tells her he’s just as rattled as her. “Or I’ll hex you.”

Sirius stops, both arms wrapping around Regulus to keep him up. “Help him, please.”

Monty surveys them with hard eyes, just like James’s when he told them about Sirius’s betrayal. He clenches his jaw and says, “We can’t do that.” He points his wand at them, level and unwavering. “You should leave before I send for Aurors.”

Sirius’s grey eyes are wide, but not exactly from surprise. “He needs urgent help,” he says, nothing but pleading in his voice. “He’ll die otherwise.”

“Take him to St. Mungo’s.”

Euphemia’s heart constricts. Regulus is just a boy, just a year younger than James. She touches Fleamont’s shoulder blade. “Monty.”

“We can’t take them in, Effie,” he answers, softer than to Sirius. When he turns to look at her, she can see in the lines around his eyes, the tightness of his mouth that tell her he’s torn. “It might be a ruse.”

“It’s not,” Sirius says. They both turn back to look at him, finding him slowly sagging underneath his brother’s weight. “It’s not, I swear it on Regulus’s life. You’re the only one I know who can help him.” His voice takes on a raspier note, desperation evident in his whole posture. “You can take my wand, tie me up, I don’t care. I’ll do anything. Just, please, save him.” His eyes meet Euphemia’s and she sees not an adult, self-assured and brave, in front of her, but a little boy who shrunk away from her when he broke a glass the summer after his first year, fearing the consequences more than cutting his hand hurt. “Please, Effie.”

Something in her screams and heaves and then melts. She nudges Monty aside, ignoring his noise of protest, and holds out a hand to Sirius. “Come inside.”

Sirius sags, this time not only from Regulus’s weight, and Euphemia finds nothing but pure, unadulterated relief in his eyes when he rasps, “Thank you.” If he’s acting, he’s doing a brilliant job at it.

Euphemia turns on her heel and hurries to the kitchen to fetch the potions she’ll be needing, but not before she can hear Monty ordering firmly, “Give me your wands.”

She rummages around the cupboards, levitating potions onto a tray as she goes, and deposits a pair of muggle bandages she has found most useful when the wounds are cursed and won’t close up on it as well. She levitates the tray into the drawing room, where Monty and Sirius have already managed to manoeuvre Regulus onto the sofa.

Monty is standing by the fireplace now, wand not pointed at anyone but held firmly in his hand all the same, and is surveying Sirius with sharp eyes. Two wands lie next to his other hand, resting on the shelf.

Sirius is sat on one of the armchairs, though it can hardly be called sitting as he’s leant so far forward that he’s barely touching the edge of the cushion. He must have shirked off his cloak and is now in only a pair of light robes, blood soaking the material over his shoulder and Euphemia wonders if she was wrong in her initial assessment of him.

He looks up from Regulus’s ashen face upon her entrance and she can clearly see now how hollow his cheeks are, how dark the bags under his eyes. He draws himself up and there is no trace of that frightened boy in him now. “What can I do?” he asks, calm, collected.

Euphemia sits down next to Regulus, who’s moving and whining on the couch, his eyes jumping around underneath his eyelids. He is deathly pale and the blood from his wounds shows no sign of stopping. His cloak has been taken off too, and his robes opened up to reveal a pale heaving chest so thin she can count his ribs. When she touches him, his skin is cold as ice.

“You can tell me what happened to him,” she says to Sirius, already hearing herself slip into her Healer’s voice, even and soothing.

“Inferi,” Sirius says immediately. Euphemia doesn’t allow herself to flinch. Dark, dark creatures, Inferi. “They dragged him underwater and nearly drowned him.” He pauses, his swallow audible. “He stopped breathing for a couple minutes. I had to resuscitate him. And he—” Another pause, and she turns to see him rummaging around his robes’ pockets.

Monty moves away from the fireplace, wand slowly coming up, but Euphemia shakes his head at him and he stops, though he doesn’t lower his hand.

Sirius, oblivious to their exchange, pulls out a small vial, barely bigger than his thumb, filled with a glowing green potion. “He drank this,” he says, handing the vial to Euphemia.

She holds it up against the light. It’s a brilliant colour, like emeralds, but the sight of it reminds her of the Killing Curse and makes something in her stomach turn uncomfortably. “What is it?” she asks, looking back at Sirius, who shakes his head.

“Voldemort’s creation,” he says, eyes like steel even as he uses his master’s name as so many fear to do. “It guarded—something important to him and Reg had to drink it in order to obtain it. I think he had hallucinations. Actually—Kreacher.”

There’s a crack of apparition and the Black family elf, even more wrinkled and unkempt than the last time she saw him—she called on Walburga Black a long time ago, back when she still thought Sirius could be saved; she didn’t leave on her own accord—appears in their living room, wailing like Euphemia has never heard from anyone, and drops on his knees toward to the couch, next to Regulus.  

His spindly fingers touch and grasp onto whatever they can reach of Regulus—his hair, his cheeks, his robes. “Master Regulus!” His voice is higher than the last time she heard it and intermittently interrupted by his hiccupping sobs. “Wake up, Master Regulus!”

“Kreacher!” Sirius snaps, eyebrows knitting together as he looks down at his servant. “Pull yourself together. I need you to answer some questions.”

Kreacher turns his eyes toward Sirius, his expression visibly darkening with it. It’s obvious which master the old house elf prefers. Nonetheless, he takes in a deep breath and his voice is back to his deeper tone when he croaks, “How can I be of service, Master Sirius?”

“The potion in the cave,” Sirius says, pointing to the vial in Euphemia’s hand. “Tell her what it does.”

Kreacher faces her and she can see the tear tracks down his cheeks. He seems to recognise, his ears laying down against his head, and for a moment, she thinks he might refuse. “The potion, blood traitor,” he starts and Sirius looks like he might hit him, already halfway out of his seat, his face a mask of fury, when he seems to catch himself.

He settles for growling out, “Don’t call her that.” He tilts his head, eyes glittering, as he settles back into the armchair. “She’s saving his life.”

Euphemia studies him, trying to find a hint of insincerity in his expression, but she finds none. His anger seems to be real and she can’t, for the life of her, figure out why. She is forced to avert her eyes when Regulus starts violently coughing.

He bolts up, heaving and gasping for breath at the same time, his skin as white as a paper.

Sirius is already pushing out of his seat but Monty points his wand at him and growls, “Don’t.”

Sirius glares, looking vaguely like something out of a nightmare with a halo of dark matted hair and blood on his hands, but sits back on the edge of the armchair, glancing at his brother before he looks at Euphemia and asks, “Can you help him?”

Euphemia looks at him, at the way his eyes trace the lines of Regulus’s face, gently, painfully, as if losing him might break him, at the way his fingers twitch forward: to reach out for him and never let go, or to brush his hair out of his eyes, she can only guess. She isn’t sure if she can heal him, but the love so obvious in Sirius, the devotion written in the lines of his face, is enough to make her want to try.

She turns to Kreacher, who stands silent beside Regulus, his large eyes full of tears. “Tell me what he drank.”

*********

Euphemia leans against the counter in the kitchen, sipping her much-needed tea and enjoying the way its warmth spreads through her body.

A soft crack of apparition alerts her to Linsy’s presence, finding her standing only a few paces away when she opens her eyes. The house-elf bows, even though she’s told her a million times it’s unnecessary. “Good morning, Mistress,” she says in her light, almost-squeaky voice, “the Black boys are sleeping, Master Monty is sitting with them now.”

“Thank you, Linsy,” she answers, noticing the way the elf seems to sway on her feet, “you may take the afternoon off.”

Linsy bows. “You are too kind, Mistress,” she squeaks and disappears with another crack.

Euphemia swallows down the last dregs of tea and makes herself another cup before she dares brave the way to the drawing-room. It had been a long time since she had to perform healing magic as she did the day before and it has drained her more than she expected. Without Linsy’s help, she’s sure she wouldn’t be standing now.

In the drawing-room, she finds the men in much the same positions as she did the night before – Regulus lying lifelessly on the sofa, Monty in an armchair by the fireplace, and Sirius in the armchair right next to Regulus.

Monty looks up as she enters, giving her a small smile, and she crosses the room to press a brief kiss to his lips.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, voice low.

“Tired,” she says, aware that it is well past noon. “I could sleep for another day.”

He gives her a soft look, fingers brushing against her outer thigh. “That’s normal. You had to use powerful magic yesterday.”

She looks at Regulus, swathed in no less than three blankets, his eyelids’ fluttering the only sign that he is even alive. “How is he?”

“No better than yesterday, but no worse either,” he answers, shrugging slightly. “Linsy redid his bandages before she left and she said he didn’t writhe so much after you healed him.”

Euphemia nods thoughtfully, then looks at Sirius, curled tightly into the armchair he’s occupying, a blanket pulled snug around him. Most of his face is covered by his hair, dry and tangled, but what little is visible seems even paler now in the daylight. He looks so impossibly small, so young, and she cannot reconcile the sight before her with the rumours of what he’s done. Twelve dead in a suspected Death Eater attack. Three more missing. The most charming of You-Know-Who’s followers revealed.

“He didn’t cause any trouble,” Monty says, answering her unspoken question. “He let me tie his hands and sent Kreacher away without one complaint. He only fell asleep a few hours ago.”

“He cares about Regulus more than anyone.”

“Indeed,” Monty agrees and Euphemia wonders if he’s thinking about the same thing as her; wasn’t James that person too? Weren’t Remus and Lily and Peter?

She sighs. Wondering will get them nowhere. She moves towards Regulus, reaching out to sweep aside his hair and check for fever.

A hand shoots out from the abundance of blankets and closes around her wrist, causing her to drop her mug of tea. It bounces off the floor, its contents spilling all over the fluffy rug. Regulus’s grey eyes are wide and panicked, but his grip is strong, almost painful. “Where am I?” he asks, voice like sandpaper. “What did you do to me?”

She feels more than hears Monty shoot to his feet and pull out his wand, but another pair of hands is there faster—a pair of hands still specked with dried blood and bound with a thin cord that take ahold of Regulus’s and draw it away from Euphemia’s with fragile tenderness.

“Reggie, hey, Reg,” Sirius says in a soft voice, then continues in a language that Euphemia needs a few seconds to recognise as French. She’s far from well-versed in it but what he says seems to calm Regulus down, for he sinks back into the sofa with a few murmured replies. Sirius holds onto his hand for a moment longer, then lets go reluctantly and steps away, back toward his armchair.

He reaches for his hair, but his bound hands seem to prevent him from brushing it back smoothly and he lets them drop back down in front of him. He’s in the same light robes as yesterday, the material now thoroughly soaked with dried blood, and Euphemia feels a stab of guilt when he winces at the movement.

She steps forward, reaching slowly for her wand. “Let me look at your shoulder.”

He looks her up and down, expression somewhere between unsure and pained. He reminds her a little of a cornered stray dog. “You’ve done so much already,” he says. He turns to pick up his coat, but Euphemia steps forward and touches his uninjured shoulder. He faces her again, his eyes wide. They are Walburga’s eyes, she notices, steel-grey and willow-harsh, but there has always, always been a softness to his that Euphemia would never dream of seeing in his mother’s. A warrior’s eyes. A survivor’s. She wonders if there was ever anything she could have done to help him. There might have not been then. But there is something now.

“Sirius,” she says. “Let me.”

He sighs, though it is more of a breath of surprised air. She has to ask herself when was the last time anyone’s offered to help him. “Alright,” he says. He shrugs off his right sleeve, revealing the long gash from his armpit to the line of his collarbone. It’s mostly scabbed over but there is a too-light tint to his blood and she can see any movement or touch to it pains him.

She doesn’t have to ask who caused it. It matches Regulus’s.

As she gets to work on it, tapping her wand and summoning bandages, Monty says, “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

Sirius winces, whether from a particularly strong poke to his wound or Monty’s words. “I know.” He looks at Monty, face open, earnest. “I had no choice. Voldemort would kill Regulus if he knew he was still alive. I couldn’t bring him to St Mungo’s and there are no other wizards I trust to keep him alive.”

Euphemia doesn’t need to look back at Monty to know his hazel eyes are dark, that his wrinkled forehead is creased in a frown. “Why are you two in his service in the first place?”

Sirius swallows, the line of his pale throat bobbing with it. “Regulus was a fool. He was desperate to please our parents and I joined to protect him.” He glances at Euphemia and she sees herself in his eyes, exhausted, messy-haired, but attentive. “To protect—James.”

Euphemia straightens, her bones snapping in place at the sound of her son’s name.

But it’s Monty that says, in a low, harsh voice, “How does your shooting Unforgivables at our son protect him?”

“My mother—” Sirius’s eyes dart towards Regulus, sleeping peacefully now. He’s wringing his hands, biting his lip. She’s certain he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. “My mother threatened me when I came come the summer after 5th year. She threatened his life and Regulus’s and Remus’s if I didn’t behave. If I didn’t follow her instructions.” He touches his Mark, through the sleeve of his robes, absently. As if reminding himself of the pain. “Regulus still believed then and I joined with him. To keep him safe. He only recently came to a realisation that Voldemort isn’t what he makes himself out to be. He tried to—” He cuts himself off, swallowing.

Euphemia stays quiet, putting away her wand in her pocket. So does Monty. She can feel his defences slipping, melting away for this boy that has only ever known fear and violence and taught himself to be brave in the face of it.

“You have to believe me,” Sirius says, voice hoarse. “I would never deliberately attack James. Whenever we met in the field I did my best to get him out of there alive.” He cracks his fingers, the sound sharp in the bated silence of the room. “But I cannot defect now, even if Regulus has. The Dark Lord trusts me and I am in a perfect position to pass on information.”

“To whom?” asks Monty.

“I cannot say. I will not endanger h—them.” A tense pause, considering. “But you know them. You trust them.”

Monty exhales, a long breath of air that seems impossible with his failing lungs. Euphemia looks over her shoulder, meets his hazel eyes. Her husband, her dearest companion through all of life’s hardships. They have taken their toll on him, as they have on her, and they are both tired of it. She knows his heart better than her own and they are both too old not to have faith in people anymore.

“Alright,” she says, softly, barely above a whisper.

Sirius smiles, as quick and bright as a flash of lightning, but it is gone just as quickly.

Somehow, Euphemia knows exactly what weighs on him. “James will not find out from us,” she says, bending her head toward him until their foreheads are almost touching. She can hear his sharp intake of breath.

“I cannot possibly ask of you—”

“You’re not asking,” Monty says, his voice firm. He rises and joins them, wrapping an arm around Euphemia’s waist; she leans into his warmth, the broad, solid form of him. She’s glad he’s here, that he’s always been here. “We’re trying to protect James, too. We trust you to do so the best you can.”

Sirius’s eyes crinkle, mouth curving up, and Euphemia can see a fraction of the boy that used to send her Mother’s Day cards in him, the one that only knew to live and laugh and love as if the world would never let him do otherwise. Oh, I missed you.

*********

The last dusk of September is just beginning when Euphemia Potter stands with Sirius Black on the porch of the Potter estate. The final dregs of sunshine catch in his hair, turning it near-brown, and paint long lines over the hollows of his face. It’s hard to believe he is only weeks away from his twentieth birthday.

“I cannot thank you enough,” he says, looking down at her with a strange sort of pain. He is in formal black robes, embroidered with threads of grey and green, as is customary for the Black scions to be dressed to funerals of one of their own, but his dapper appearance is disturbed by a new, just-healing slash across his right cheekbone. She offered to heal it and he refused.

“You know you don’t have to,” she answers, giving him a small, downturned smile.

“Still.” He reaches inside his coat pocket and pulls out a small silver locket, engraved with the Black insignia, and lined with the tiniest of emeralds. He holds it out to her, but she doesn’t take it. “It contains a sort of concoction that will aid you in escape if Death Eaters attack you. It will give you a few precious minutes if you open it.”

Euphemia’s heart feels heavier than her limbs, which is a feat in itself, these days. She reaches out but not to take the locket—instead, she closes his fingers over it. She smiles at him again, a sad, slow thing. “Monty and I—we will make do without it.” She pauses, considering, then adds anyway, “If it comes to that at all.”

He frowns but before he can reply, there is the sound of two pairs of footsteps from inside the house. Monty and Linsy emerge a second later, both tired-looking, the latter’s magic holding up the body of a sleeping Regulus Black. He looks better than he did a week ago, but then he did look like death then.

“He’s ready,” Monty says.

Sirius steps to him, touching the side of his relaxed face. He stopped crying out in sleep just a couple of nights ago. “It’s not every day that you get to take a dead man home just after you’ve buried him,” he says, looking down at his brother. The wound on his cheek gleams and Euphemia counts to herself the number of people who could have inflicted it on him.

“Not everyone is so lucky, no,” agrees Monty. His white hair is awash in the dying light, the creases of his face smoothed out. He looks—calm.

Sirius looks up from Regulus’s face and at them. His eyes are sharper now, fiercer, but no less kind. He crosses the space between himself and Monty and offers him a hand. Monty looks down on it as if Sirius has just caused him a great offence and uses it to pull him into a hug. Sirius goes rigid, then relaxes into her husband’s arms.

“Thank you,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice.

When they separate, he is immediately engulfed by Euphemia, her arms coming around him in a fierce hug, a kind she’s sure he’s never had too many of. His own are strong around her, fierce. They pull back and he looks down at her, eyes searching her face. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. He only closes it and offers her the locket again, the question, the plea in his eyes clear. She shakes her head.

“Remember to give Regulus the potions I prepared for you,” is the only thing she says.

He doesn’t argue. Even though she knows he would like to, he doesn’t have the time. His absence, like the ones over the past week, could be questioned at any time and can be blamed on the distress upon his brother’s death only so many times.

Regulus dips a little when Sirius’s magic replaces Linsy’s with a swish of his wand. “Thank you,” he says again and walks down the paved path, Regulus’s sleeping form drifting after him, the same way they came on that night. He turns at the end, where the protective enchantments end and he is free to apparate. He takes Regulus’s limp hand in his and uses the one with the wand in it to wave a greeting.

The last one, if Euphemia’s bones tell her right.

The Black brothers disappear just as night settles, warm and comforting. Beckoning.

[darkswanlife]

wall.

“Someone’s humming” I said out loud. I brush my hair still. Who could it be? There’s no one here. Oh, a ghost perhaps? That’s fascinating. Something new I daresay. Something new in this mundane life. “Hello?” I say in hopes the ghost hears me. Nothing. That’s disappointing. I stare at my reflection, “maybe the ghost doesn’t understand English?” I nod at myself. But how will I know what language they’ll understand? There’s only like a gazillion languages out there, easy. I put my hair brush down, “¿no habla ingles?”. Well, that was obviously not going to work. Impeach my head please, I cannot believe I choose to socialize with an imaginary ghost. I sigh, there’s nothing more to it. It’s simple really, I’m going mad. “That’s what your mother said the last time!” there go my abominable neighbors. If my brain wasn’t enough, then this… this would turn me mad. This is where I live. A tiny studio apartment next to these incorrigible masters of dog fights. Are they lawyers? Last time they fought over an apple. Yes, an apple. Apparently, she really wanted to eat it but he had it before her. Talk about priorities. Ah, but my little nook in the big apple is a haven even if my neighbors are the incarnation of Satan. A beautiful window facing the Brooklyn life, a little barber shop, pizza place, musty old bookshop with books you’ve never heard of and an odd Chinese place with food that suspiciously tastes like it has been cooked days ago. I forgot to mention the blatantly placed subway, few yards away. I stare around my room as I hear the cacophony of the train zooming past and the ignorant neighbor’s song of love. The room I call haven, even if it's like a rat’s hole, I still adore it with every fiber in my body. The walls are a shade of pewter grey although they look more charcoal now. A small crimson handprint on it, right next to my cupboard. It looks like a child’s handprint; I wonder what stories it holds. Oh, is it a child’s ghost perchance? I’ll never find out anyway. The cupboard next to the handprint looks even more so like a child placed it. With its rickety old legs and copious amount of rust all over, holding few of my bearings inside. Yes, it definitely looks like it has never been in an adult’s care. The wrought iron bed resting next to the window. A window to my eyes, my soul, my own personal drama. And this vanity table with a looking glass; it has seen me go through everything. Many a times I’ve pondered about that Lilliputian handprint on my ashen wall. Where did it come from? Whose child was it? Where are they now? Well, I might just have too much time on my hands but isn’t it enthralling? Stories; aren’t they enthralling? They captivate me with such extravagance, I’m always making one up whenever I deem it to be the right time to… which is always. I’ve fathomed a hundred different variations of the anecdote behind the almost ghoulish handprint. One of my cherished one has to be where I imagined a girl with flaming red hair dancing and singing to her heart’s content. Little twinkle toes; a smile as big as a Cheshire, donning an exquisite silk dress - ghostly white, a perfect contrast to her fiery red hair. So red, so angelic, so divine. She danced and sang in every corner of the room, never tired, never bereft of her benign grin. Her walls; silver gleaming engrossed in her dance and humming along with her favorite song. Her hair kept glowing brighter and brighter with each step, with each note; the blazing red lighting up the whole room. The beauty of her own dance, scintillating in her eyes. Reflecting through the looking glass; the fiery mane dancing through the night. Her reflection moves steadily yet dancingly towards the gleaming walls, her fire engulfing her in all its glory. An inextirpable flame; she leaves her mark with her hand drenched with ignited power. The walls hum her favorite song. Clear as day, you see the glistening handprint of the diminutive entertainer on the wall through the looking glass. Beautiful, isn’t it? The story. I have to give credit where it’s due.

I let out a deep exhale, the neighbors still seem to be fighting. “Well at least I didn’t eat the apple this time!”. What was so special about that apple? I chuckle. Sometimes I’m entertained by their idiocy, they can fight absolutely about anything. Maybe that’s what they enjoy about their company. Being able to fight and still find peace with each other. It’s nice to have someone. I too have someone, it’s inanimate but it’s everything to me. It’s my ancient mirror, I feel like it has known me forever. You know that one priceless object you have that has known you and been loved by you since inception? This is it; this is that object for me. It knows all my stories, all my esoteric secrets. The beauty of my vanity glass may be obsolete to other’s eyes but immortal in mine. I hear the next-door slam. Sounds like the neighbors finally decided to leave. “You don’t have the keys?! You know this house gives me the creeps.” My pretty little mirror. “It’s really sad what happened to the girl next door.” Wish I could talk to my mirror, well it would just be my reflection then but wouldn’t that be amazing as well. She could tell me how much she loves my white dress. “Still, how could she burn herself up just like that?!” I would tell her how much I love her dress as well, I giggle. “she was just eight… oh come on let’s get the keys.” My reflection stares at me; I brush my red hair and start humming.

[shepardyke]

so my thoughts on the dlc:

-the story was very predictable imo

-aelfric not only looked like a bad guy but spoke like one (*points at rhea in act one*)

-his weird infatuation of sitri screamed incel and once he started talking about the chalice I KNEW he was gonna try some shit with that to bring back mom

-the fact that they learn there’s four apostles and the four ashen wolves have those same crests and they were all too dumb to put the dots together (except yuri but we know why)

-contance started getting it right that aelfric might be traitor and she should have shouted it

-I was surprised metodey showed up, and edelgard’s interaction with him in the fight left me confused,, what did it all mean ?

-who the hell is the mysterious woman? why can we go in the wayseer’s room but not do anything .. explain

-was confused why they didn’t show us the rendezvous to the holy mausoleum but then it made sense once yuri played his trap card

-the battles were challenging which I appreciate but??? why not allow our classes to level up as well??? I felt weak as hell and I hated it lmao

-weird that we got some anecdotes on sitri but we still HARDLY know our mom... AND how they left no room for the house leaders at LEAST to comment on your lack of heartbeat...

-and rhea admitting it to you to your face before Jeralt had even died and you find his journal

-did sitri ACTUALLY get absorbed with aelfric to become the umbral beast?? cos that shit is fucked and NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT

-jeralt should have been around a LITTE

-the houses interacting was cool but I KNEW we were getting crumbs from this

-was hapi’s nickname chatterbox for yuri or byleth? cos if it was for byleth that’s cute

-upset that while predictable, the story was probably wrapped up better than the main routes .. so like good job ig intsys

I’ll have to start a new playthrough and recruit the wolves to get more lore but not surprised that i wasn’t amazed by the dlc lol and like I know I went into this very biased but I was right ..... if they can wrap up this story as good as they did they should have done it for crimson flower periodt

[bookrecollection]

Do I have a diverse bookshelf? Pt 4: Gender & Equality

Protagonists—whether they be human, animal or inanimate—are overwhelmingly male according to our reference blog. In the last post, I mentioned that many minority writers write politically whether they mean to or not. And I think that’s true of gender; it is about social justice, and that social justice deals a lot with sex. However, since I already touched on some gender inequality in the last post, in this one, I’ll focus on titles with protagonists who strongly identify as women or LGBQT. Or I’ll add books by authors who are seriously discussing the condition of being a women or being LGBQT.

Men Explain Things to Me by Rebecca Solnit How can I not start with this one? For those who don’t know, this essay collection begins with an anecdote by Solnit of a party. At the party, she is talking to a man who continually tells her to read a book he hasn’t read but heard about. Another partygoer (she) tries several times to explain that Solnit is the actual author of said book. But the man doesn’t hear or acknowledge them till more than 4-5 attempts later. As Solnit describes: “And then, as if in a nineteeth-century novel, he went ashen.” The situation is awkward for everyone. When feminists talk about gender equality, it includes situations like this—of women not being heard for our perspectives and wisdom. Of how often women seem to be required to just listen and validate a male perspective or train of thought. Remember the purpose of a diverse bookshelf is to help broaden our understanding of the experience of others. For women like me, stories like this validate our own humiliating like experiences. For others, it makes them visible. It declares they are real, and they are not cool! Also, it’s very humorous even if the topic is grim.

Plant Dreaming Deep by May Sarton A professor gave me this book to help with my own writing, and I fell deeply in love with May Sarton’s style. For the purposes of this list, Sarton identified as a lesbian and lived her life as such. However, her famous journals of which this is the first are about being human, about being a poet, about living life through the years. They’re about friendships and even love (of which she doesn’t hide the fact that her loves are women). They’re about change and how we move through time. They’re very very beautiful. Don’t miss out!

Kushiel’s Dart by Jacqueline Carey I used to read a lot of fantasy series as a child, but as I grew older I tired of them. One reason is there is a LOT of violence against women in them even if there is a heroine protagonist. As such, much like in Game of Thrones, sex is ugly. It’s not about mutual love or being a good partner. It’s about power and how people weaponize it. In contrast, what I love about the Kushiel series is how much Carey turns typical fantasy tropes on their heads. The hero is a courtesan. However, the culture doesn’t denigrate her; instead the culture is built around the sacred religious tenet of love as thou wilt. This means that courtesans are akin to priests. And because of that, typical societal sins: nonmonogamy, homosexuality, BDSM and sex work are treated as normal since they are consensual. What would be salacious in other fantasy stories is just culture here. And Carey does an amazing job showing how consensual sex and personal preference is sexy whereas weaponized sex is not. But go read it; the whole book is really about how our heroine needs to save her country from invasion by her wits alone. Quite adventurous and filled with political intrigue.

The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson This nonfiction book is many things, but its back bone is relationship between the author and artist Harry Dodge, who is transgender (she to he). There is so much beauty and love and thoughtfulness in this exploration of so many things. I’m an avid Maggie Nelson reader. She’s a genre-bender so dive into her work!

Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser Known as one of the great novels of American realism, Dreiser recounts how young country girl Carrie moves to Chicago in the late 1890s. She’s in pursuit of the American Dream, and for a woman, that involves becoming the mistress of several men who seem more powerful and then ending as an actress. Because Carrie lives against societal mores, the author had to fight against censorship attempts at the time. Today, it’s praised for its accurate portrayal of the human condition. For my part, I don’t know if I like Carrie, but I admire her grit. And unlike many other classic novels with female protagonists who end up badly in their bid for independence because of MEN and SOCIETY (i.e. Portrait of a Lady, Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, etc.), Carrie gets exactly what she wants and thrives.

[mrslittletall]

I always wondered, is there a anecdote behind your header image??

Oh, nothing too special. Basically, I wanted to try and get a few good shots of Nameless King to look better at his size, weapon and armour and see how big he is in relation to my Ashen One, so I cooped him and spent a lot of this time angling my camera for screenshots instead of helping the host (I feel a bit guilty for this).  Naturally, this led to me taking some unneccessary hits and I managed to press on screenshot right the moment when my Ashen One, wearing Ornstein’s armour got knocked back NK.  I found this screenshot too funny and made it my header.