#Barrows grave

[thesilicontribesman]

Prehistoric Bronze Bracelet, Amesbury, Barrow G41

This bracelet was placed on the arm of a child, buried with two adults and another child in a barrow overlooking Stonehenge.

Wiltshire Museum, Devizes

[vertigoartgore]

2025's Superman: Lex Luthor Special Vol.1 #1 cover by penciller Eddy Barrows and inker Eber Ferreira.

[valen-dreth]

i think we can make crowley more fucked up and even dare i say worse. he WAS stuck alone in a small room for 20 years theres no way hes remotely normal

[hardcore-gaming-101]

The Excavation of Hob's Barrow

After a short break in activity after Unavowed (though some studio members assisting on projects by other studios), Wadjet Eye has become active again with the publication of two horror games in the early 2020s. Neither is exactly what you would expect. The first of them, Strangeland, was made by the Primordia developers and was a very abstract and artistic game about personal tragedy the developers dealt with in their lives. The other, The Excavation of Hob’s Barrow, is a folk era, eldritch horror story that has influences even older than Lovecraft.

Read more...

[just-two-blokes]

Me: 'There is no moment from a Fanfiction that left me speechlessly sobbing while wanting to scream and throw my laptop away. I mean, it's just fanfiction. It can't be *that* dramatic.'

Also this moment:

Philip looked over his shoulder and smirked. “But I want to see you again, Thomas. And you will not keep me from taking what is rightfully mine. You might be too virtuous to kill m-“

A shot that didn’t come from the weapon in Thomas’ hand made him flinch. Thomas stared at Philip, who stared back at him, still with this terrible smile on his face. Only now there was a neat little hole in the middle of his forehead. The Duke’s body remained standing for a small fraction of a second before gravity took its course, and he slumped to the ground like a puppet with cut strings.

Thomas whirled around and couldn’t believe his eyes.

“He is. But I am not.” Richard whispered with the last ounce of strength he seemed to have left before John’s revolver fell from his shaking, bloody fingers. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, and if Thomas had ever imagined what Richard had looked like in these bloody trenches, now he knew. “And you will never touch him again.”

And then Richard’s eyes rolled back into his head and he lost consciousness.

--

These authors are destroying me.

Fanfiction: And suddenly there was a new door

Author: MemberOfTheFates

Fandom: Downton Abbey

[lith-laugh-love]

21st June 2023

Tregiffian Barrow (Hirvedh Treguhyon in Kernewek), also called Cruk Tregyffian, is a stunning Scillonian chamber tomb located a stones throw from the Merry Maiden’s circle, just past Nansmornow. It’s been cut in half by the road right beside it, but 4.3 meter long & 1.2 meter wide chamber survived, while half the kerbstones did not. There are three massive capstones still in place while their fourth fellow has fallen. The most visually exciting part of the tomb is now kept safe in Cornwall Museum over in Truru – a cupmarked stone. There’s a cast in situ at the tomb as part of the entry so the impression is not lost.

Archaeological study has found both bone fragments from cremation & urns along side flints, as well as the potential for the tomb to have been used at least twice by a community – if not more. The contents have been dated to 1900 BC and there are some light theories that it formed a ritual or religious complex along with the surrounding stones.

megalithic.co.uk

[mothervvoid]

all my mobile task force agent ocs have the same last name

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Topographical Elements

Ideas for Naming your Fictional Places

Buildings and stones brough, burton, caster, church, cross, kirk, mill, minster, stain, stone, wark ⚜ Examples: Crossthwaite, Felixkirk, Newminster, Staines, Whitchurch

Coastline features ey, holme, hulme, hythe, naze, ness, port, sea ⚜ Examples: Bardsey, Greenhithe, Sheerness, Southport, Southsea

Dwellings and farms barton, berwick, biggin, bold, by, cote, ham, hampstead, hamton, house, scale, sett, stall, thorpe, toft, ton, wick ⚜ Examples: Fishwick, Newham, Potterton, Westby, Woodthorpe

Fields and clearings combe, croft, den, ergh, field, ham, haugh, hay, ing, land, lease, lock, meadow, rick, ridding, rode, shot, side, thwaite, wardine, worth, worthy ⚜ Examples: Applethwaite, Cowden, Smallworthy, Southworth, Wethersfield

General locations and routes bridge, ford, gate, ing, mark, path, stead, stoke, stow, street, sty, way ⚜ Examples: Epping, Horsepath, Longford, Ridgeway, Stonebridge, Streetly

Hills and slopes bank, barrow, borough, breck, cam, cliff, crook, down, edge, head, hill, how, hurst, ley, ling, lith, mond, over, pen, ridge, side, tor ⚜ Examples: Barrow, Blackdown, Longridge, Redcliff, Thornborough, Windhill

Rivers and streams batch, beck, brook, burn, ey, fleet, font, ford, keld, lade, lake, latch, marsh, mere, mouth, ore, pool, rith, wade, water, well ⚜ Examples: Broadwater, Fishlake, Mersey, Rushbrooke, Saltburn

Woods and groves bear, carr, derry, fen, frith, greave, grove, heath, holt, lea, moor, oak, rise, scough, shaw, tree, well, with, wold, wood ⚜ Examples: Blackheath, Hazlewood, Oakley, Southwold, Staplegrove

Valleys and hollows bottom, clough, combe, dale, den, ditch, glen, grave, hole, hope, slade ⚜ Examples: Cowdale, Denton, Greenslade, Hoole, Longbottom, Thorncombe

NOTE

These elements are all found in many different spellings. Old English beorg ‘hill, mound’, for example, turns up as bar-, berg-, -ber, -berry, -borough, and -burgh. Only one form is given above (Thornborough).

Several items have the same form, but differ in meaning because they come from different words in Old English. For example, -ey has developed in different ways from the two words ea ‘river’ and eg ‘island’. It is not always easy deciding which is the relevant meaning in a given place name.

This resource does not distinguish between forms which appear in different parts of a place name. Old English leah ‘forest, glade’, for example, sometimes appears at the beginning of a name (Lee- or Leigh-), sometimes at the end (-leigh, -ley), and sometimes alone (Leigh) (K. Cameron, 1961).

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Worldbuilding ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

While we’re marking the tragic and noble death of Théodred today (we’re all marking this, right? We should!)… here are a few thoughts on his last words:

“Let me lie here — to keep the Fords til Éomer comes.”

I don’t think it’s 100% clear exactly what he meant by “let me lie here.” A lot of people read it literally with “lie here” meaning “left here undisturbed” until his beloved cousin can arrive. But I also like to think that he’s specifically asking to be *buried* at the Fords, with “let me lie here” being in the sense of “here lies Théodred, son of Théoden,” for a very specific purpose.

All throughout Middle Earth (and, more broadly, Arda, because this is a thing that happens in the Silm a *bunch*, too) the final resting places of good and worthy people can take on a special hallowed quality. The land itself seems to hold some memory of the dead person that is manifested in both physical and metaphysical ways — grass and flowers flourish where they might otherwise not, and (critically) enemies and dark things become afraid to tread there. So perhaps Théodred wanted to be buried at the Fords rather than at home among the kingly barrows so that his final resting place could protect a strategically critical location (as the only place where a crossing of the Isen was possible) and forestall a full-on invasion until such time that it could be better defended by actual reinforcements from Éomer.

I think there’s good evidence for this reading. For starters, Elfhelm and Grimbold did bury Théodred at the Fords, and it makes sense that they’d act based on his expressed wishes if he had any. In addition, Théodred would have been perfectly aware of the almost magical hallowing effect of certain graves, and not just because of the tradition of simbelmynë spontaneously appearing on Rohirrim grave barrows. His own great grandfather had twin brothers, Folcred and Fastred, who were slain together in Gondor and buried there in the Haudh in Gwanûr (Mound of the Twins), which the enemies of Gondor thereafter always “feared to pass.” So it’s entirely plausible that he was thinking specifically about that when he spoke those words and hoped to achieve a similar effect. 

Éomer also gives some credence to this reading when our heroes pass by the Fords on their way to Isengard after Helm’s Deep. When they see the burial markers there for Théodred and his men, Éomer says, “Here let them rest. And when their spears have rotted and rusted, long still may their mound stand and guard the Fords of Isen!” He may just be speaking metaphorically there, but he may not. Based on a known phenomenon of his world, he may actually see their graves as a legitimate source of protection for the river crossing.

Anyway. There’s obviously an appealing emotional element to the idea that Théodred wanted to be reunited with his beloved cousin/quasi-brother at his death, and that’s what he meant by his final words. But I think there’s an equally emotional element to the idea that even as he lay dying, he was still trying to think of how he could use himself, in death as much as in life, to help defend his people and his land. ♥️

Either way, what an incredible person!

@sotwk and @celeluwhenfics fellow Théodred enthusiasts!

[a-gnosis]

4: The Waking of Angantýr

And at that she sees where the grave-fire is burning over on the edge of the island, and she goes up there and is not afraid though all the mounds were in her path and the dead standing outside. She waded through the flame as if through fog till she came to the barrow of the berserks. Then she called:

"Awake, Angantyr! Hervor wakes you, only daughter of you and Svafa; from your crypt give me that keenest blade, the sword dwarves struck for King Sigrlami."

The Saga of Hervor and Heiðrekr, translated by Peter Tunstall, 2005.

[frodo-with-glasses]

More Reading Thoughts: Fog on the Barrow-Downs

At long last, our journey resumes!! And ohoho what a chapter to start off with X-D

Oh my word THIS is where the “far green country under a swift sunrise” line comes from. I might cry.

There’s something about getting ready to leave early in the morning, when the air still smells cool and clear, that’s just nearly magical. I love that Tolkien leaned into that vibe here.

Frodo being distressed that they didn’t say goodbye to “my fair lady Goldberry” is so darling of him X-D

GOLDBERRY SPARKLES WHEN SHE DANCES

Once again, Tolkien’s descriptions of the country they traverse are beautiful at atmospheric.

Oh yes. One singular cold rock, standing upright all by itself, like a finger pointing towards the sky, in an area where you KNOW there are ancient graves nearby. That’s not worrying at all. Let’s just use it as a cooling pad. Great idea.

And now they took a too-long afternoon nap and are surrounded by fog. Great job, guys.

In which Tolkien reminds us that he ABSOLUTELY can write horror…

“‘Where are you?’ he cried out miserably.” Oh poor Frodo 😭

The Wight answering “HERE! I AM WAITING FOR YOU!” is NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE NOPE

Oh sure just leave it until the end of the paragraph to mention that the hobbits are lying surrounded in treasures with a SWORD ACROSS THEIR NECKS

Bruh reading the Wight’s incantation actually gave me chills oh my word

FRODO HACKED THE HAND OFF THE WIGHT’S ARM LET’S GOOOOO

The fact that Frodo falls on top of Merry specifically is making the Cousin Feels part of my brain go brrr

I cannot WAIT to draw this ahahaha >8-D

SUDDENLY: TOMBADIL

The severed hand is still WRIGGLING EUGH 🤮

Did Tom stomp on the hand like a spider??!? That’s hilarious LOL

THEY’RE ALIVE!!!

Sam being annoyed with the burial clothes is PEAK 🤣

The ponies are okay!!

Tom like “seems I’m gonna have to babysit you boys until you get to the Road so you don’t get freaking lost again” 🤣

Tom choosing a brooch from the treasure pile for Goldberry is adorable actually

THE DAGGERS LET’S GOOOO

One of those is gonna kill a troll, and the other is gonna stab the Witch King in the knee >:-D

A vision of a Man with a star on his forehead?? Aragorn foreshadowing?? 👀

The two stones Frodo rode between earlier have mysteriously disappeared. Thanks I hate it.

Turns out the line of “trees” they saw in the distance was actually a line of bushes that marked off the boundary of an ancient kingdom. But we don’t get to learn anything else about it, except that the memory of it makes Tom sad. Yet another example of Middle Earth being SO FREAKING OLD.

THEY FOUND THE ROAD 🥳

The hobbits like OH RIGHT, CRAP, THE BLACK RIDERS

Bye Tom!

Sam like “welp, I suppose he’s the nicest and weirdest person we’ll come across” 😂

Of course the Brandybucks visit the Prancing Pony every now and then!!

Frodo like “if you tell anyone my name is Baggins then SO HELP ME—”

[skaldish]

odd question: did the norse people ever worship or venerate the warriors of Valhalla? or was it just a goal to aspire to?

The Old Norse people worshipped their ancestors, some of which went to Valhalla, and some who were definitely heroes. But I don't think they worshipped "the warriors of Valhalla" as an archetype, or as paragons to emulate. Valhalla wasn't even viewed as a goal to aspire to. Rather, it was a consolation prize for dying far from home.

Prior to the Viking Age, the Norse people believed they rejoined their family and ancestors after they died. However, this was dependent on the fact they would be buried in the family grave or barrow.

But going a-viking meant risking death far from home, and this death would most likely happen while out at sea or during a skirmish.

In order to reconcile the question of "Where do we go if we can't be with our families?", the Norse people concluded that if they died out at sea, they went to Njord's hall, and if they died in a skirmish, they went to Odin's or Freyja's hall. This way, they had the comfort of knowing they would still be with their gods and people if they perished far from home.

It's important to keep in mind that the vikings were not exactly a warrior class; as in, "being a warrior" wasn't their job. They were pirates. And like all pirates, their goal was to retrieve goods, either by trade or by raid. Most vikings had every intention of making it home alive, and just like being a skilled sailor improved these odds, so did knowing how to put an axe through a man's skull.

Dying while going a-viking was honorable for the same reason that successfully returning home with goods was honorable; it's the fact that a person risked their life to travel very far away and gather resources for their family and community. It's an honorable deed.

But just because this death was honor-worthy doesn't mean it was a goal.

First of all, let's consider the practical aspect here: In a pre-industrial era, no one in their right mind would waste an entire ship on a crew that didn't plan to come back in it.

Secondly, "dying gloriously on the battlefield" only has widespread cultural importance in imperial nations; nations motivated by dominion, conquest, and establishing their widespread rule. Not only were the Norse societies not imperial, they didn't even have a centralized military, let alone the manpower to fight the rank-and-file wars we associate with the term "war."

So I guess the short answer to your question is "neither." Heroes were definitely venerated, but the notion that becoming ulfhednar makes someone the worthiest of all worthies is a retroactive interpretation.

[lovers-tucked-into-a-quiet-cafe]

Chapter 6 [IKYLHT]

~2.5k Words | Series Masterlist | Prev | Next Chapter [Coming Soon]

-

Brushing the last of the water droplets off your arm, you fling the remnants of your shower towards the sleeping giants you call your partners.

“Johnny, Simon.”

The men peak their eyes open, letting out a hum of acknowledgement.

“I’m done showering. Up up, let’s go.”

You move to slip on your boots, lacing up as Soap complains.

“C’mon, Bun. We’ve got plenty of time. Lay down for a bit.”

He reaches his arms out, making grabby hands and scooting towards the far edge of the bed.

Ghost pats the space in the middle, shifting over as best he can on the mattress. Their bodies dwarf the bed in comparison.

“We’re not gonna fit, Johnny.” You laugh out, hands measuring the gap between the men against the width of your hips. 

“C’mon now, we’re gonna be late. If we miss the flight, Price is sticking us on a commercial flight. You know he won’t pay for upgrades.”

He looks towards the small space, resting his arms over his stomach and giving a small shrug with his signature smile.

“It’ll be fine, I promise.”

“No John! I’m not letting you win this one. We really can’t be late, let’s go.”

Shrugging once more, he sighs out with a semi-smug tone.

“Can’t force ya’ to rest. We’ll take ten more minutes, then.” He rolls over, nuzzling into Simon. 

His statement takes you by surprise, but you don’t think much of it. He’s acting like a cocky little shit, as he tends to do (a blessing and a curse, really) so you give him the benefit of the doubt that he’d trying to persuade you into napping with them via the ‘calling chicken’ method.

For two soldiers, it was surprisingly effective. Not entirely sure how we still have all ten fingers.

Now normally you’d play along, let him win since it benefits the both of you anyways. But something was just off this morning. Maybe it was the lackluster sleep last night, maybe it was those feelings that carried over being a little more intense than you initially realized. Whatever it was, you didn’t feel like you could just let him win this one. For whatever reason your subconscious had rationalized, this was the hill you’d die on.

“Uhh, Johnny. It's breakfast. We always have breakfast together. Come on, don’t be lazy.” You force out a small laugh. 

He nuzzles a little further into Simon.

“It’s just breakfast, Bun.”

You try to hold the bitterness back as you quietly scoff.

It is just breakfast. 

“Okay. Yeah. Whatever. I’ll just go by myself.”

He hums.

Eyes landing on Simon, you watch his blank stare, both of you completely unmoving. 

You wait for his response- verbal, physical, anything- and huff when you’re met with nothing. 

Fine then.

Practically slamming the door as you stomp out of the room, you turn to walk towards the mess hall but stop no more than three feet into the hallway. 

Looking over your shoulder, you wait.

A few seconds go by.

A few more go by.

Then fifteen.

Then you check the time on your phone, owlishly blink as the number changes.

With a small nod, your eyes shut as you feel the irritation puddle into something akin to grief. 

It’s so much easier being angry, you realize, as you quietly make your way to the mess hall.

Maybe that’s what this is. This new way of being that had suddenly taken hold. 

You’d been angry before- at your parents and their cruelty, at your teachers and their negligence, at the military recruiters, at Barrow, at Graves, at Shepherd, at yourself. 

But this wasn’t anger anymore. This was something else entirely- something that smelled like Santiago’s cologne, something that tasted like his chapstick, something that looked like his empty casket.

It’s dramatic, and you realize that, but you can’t help but feel it.

Something was happening. Maybe it was Johnny’s close-call with Hassan, maybe it was your separation in Las Almas- whatever it was, you couldn’t help but feel cursed.

You’d sworn off having a partner, not to mention one in the military or even worse, on your team.

You’d already felt that pain once. Discovered what it was like to witness your spouse taken from you right before your eyes, all under your command. To watch your comrades, your friends carry his body for miles and miles as you tried to muffle your breakdown, only to leave all six of them in the desert.

I couldn’t carry them all.

Now you’re in the same situation, you’re losing him all over again and he’s not even dead. 

He’s a hall’s length away, napping with a man you so eagerly roped in, a man that was so quick to embrace the two of you in a way you so desperately needed.

He could give the two of you the lives you’d always wanted, he could give you all he has to give.

He could give Johnny everything, something you simultaneously love and absolutely despise him for.

He understands Johnny. Understands him in every way you do and every way you never will. 

You push around the food on your tray until it’s practically inedible, picturing the two men peacefully sleeping in your room as you force away the last realization your mind conjures up.

For the first time since Santiago’s death, you were sitting in the mess hall, alone.

-

Staring at the blinking cursor, you rack your brain on what to reply. The small group chat was mostly empty, save for a few grocery requests, as the three of you almost always communicated in-person or over comms. 

Suds: where’d you go bunny? weren’t in the mess

05:16

Fantasma: 0700 flight. See you on the tarmac.

05:58

Sighing out, you switch from the chat you’d left unanswered for quite some time now, opening the group made specifically for 141-UK. 

Captain Price: CRAF, 0735. Tarmac by 0700. See you soon.

06:00

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick: See ya soon Cap

06:07

Suds: rog :p

06:12

Simon was with Price, evidenced by the flight information being sent at nearly the same time. That meant he wasn’t with Johnny, which meant you wouldn’t have a way to bail yourself out of a conversation with Soap if you ran into him. 

You just weren’t ready- and if there’s one thing good ol’ military therapy ever taught you, it was that you didn’t always have to do things on other people’s timelines.

You type back a quick ‘Affirm’ and slide your phone back into your pocket, watching as the sun begins to splay its golden rays over the outdoor training grounds. 

It’s almost refreshing. Brings you back to simpler times. 

If Johnny was here you’d already be telling him some story from way back in basic, all the shit you’d endured throughout training alongside the small group of friends you’d made early on into Pendleton.

But he’s not here. 

Truthfully, you don’t know where he is. You hadn’t stuck around long enough to find out. You could’ve gone back. Could’ve said something, had him fix all your problems the way he always managed to do. Could’ve let him know how you felt.

But as always, just like Santiago would always tell you, you were self sabotaging. Pushing him away so he couldn’t do it first. Making it your choice. 

It’s not like you don’t know what’s happening. You’re aware of it, probably more now than ever before. 

You know, you just can’t stop. 

Pushing off the wall, you begin to make your way from your position near the far edge of base to the barracks, flinging the last of the orange peels in your hand to the birds. You hadn’t skipped breakfast entirely. You’re still a Marine, after all.

Flying CRAF was always shit- being sardined into cramped seats with a hundred other soldiers awaiting their next orders.

It provided one major upside today, though. 

A chance to work through your thoughts in peace. 

Well… relative peace. He still has to know he fucked up.

Walking back to your room, head held a little higher than before, you knock and unlock the door once more.

This time when you’re greeted with silence, it’s due to their lack of presence. Johnny’s duffle sits on the bed next to yours.

He’s either showering in his accomodation or grabbing a quick breakfast, so you take the opportunity you’ve been given.

Slinging both duffles over each shoulder, you make your way to the tarmac where Price and Gaz stand watching the other soldiers board.

“Captain, Gaz. Good morning.”

Lifting a shoulder and gesturing towards Johnny’s bag, you never cease walking as you continue your small talk, effectively forcing the two into following you onto the aircraft.

Gaz a tad more eager to jump into conversation than Price, he happily chats on with ease as you make your way down the aisle.

The seats are in 2-4-2 formation, and you make a point to set Johnny’s bag- fit with Union Jack and Saltire patches- in the window spot of the two seater in your desired row. 

Gesturing to the four seats on the other side of the aisle, you turn back to Gaz.

“Is here good?”

“Wherever’s fine by me. Cap?” He turns, asking the older man.

“Go ahead.” Price gestures towards the seats with a small shrug.

Gaz puts a foot forward but you slide in front of him before he gets the chance, moving down to the third seat and allowing Gaz, Price, the aisle, then Ghost to fill the space between you and Johnny.

That’ll do.

The seat to your right is empty, and you quietly pray to some higher power it remains that way.

Sliding your duffle under the seat, you turn to Gaz with a smile.

“That’s perfect. I prefer the middle section.”

It’s a half truth, one you don’t feel bad about telling.

You don’t let him get a word in, tapping the book in his hand with your newly regulation-approved painted nails. 

“Whatchya reading, Sarge?”

He flips over the book with a small shrug, scanning his eyes over the synopsis before handing it over with that boyish grin he so often sports. 

“Haven’t looked, to be honest. Mom mentioned she meant to pick up a copy. Figured I’d drop by home before heading back to base.”

“You visit her a lot?”

“Whenever I’ve got the chance, really.” 

You hear him before you see him, Johnny coming down the aisle clear as day in your peripherals. 

You smile back at Gaz, tilt your head a little closer to his.

“The missus isn’t too happy at that, then?”

A light blush dusting over his cheeks, he’s glancing at Johnny, then down at his lap- shaking his head with a bright smile and a small laugh- before letting his charm override his shyness.

“No misses to upset, ma’am.”

“Still just Rabbit, Gaz.”

Catching Johnny’s eye, you smile and give a single nod before angling your body slightly away from him and opening the book Gaz had handed you. 

Your eyes scan the words but they don’t process in your mind, too busy focusing on your peripherals again. 

You see Johnny turn his head, gaze falling on his duffle sitting on the far window chair. You see the way he looks back at you in confusion. Whether he connects the dots or not- it seemed as though he was more confused at what was happening than why- he begins putting his duffle in the overhead, turning to Ghost and gesturing for his. 

Braving a look at Simon, you rake your eyes over his form.

Damn, he looks good. 

He’s wearing a black medical face mask, probably showing you more of his face at one time than you’d ever seen before.

Johnny may have looked him dead in the eye in Las Almas, but you’d chosen to grant the man some semblance of privacy and look away. 

Mentally you piece together the top and bottom portions of his face- try your best to commit it to memory while reminding yourself you’re still mad at him.

Well, sorta. 

Johnny scoots into the window seat, almost clipping his head on the luggage compartment he’d just closed, if not for Simon’s hand padding the collision. 

He turns to you and smiles, you see it by the small squint of his eyes and the way his cheeks rise.

You let a smile grace your lips, a real one, spurred on by the simple fact that he’s so good at this. So good with Johnny, so good with you. 

He motions to the seat in front of him, offering it up, but you give a barely noticeable shake of your head and smile once more. 

I know I’m being unfair. You’re doing everything right. It’s not you I’m mad at, I promise. 

I’m sorry, Si. 

You watch the way his eyes travel between Gaz and Price, then back to you, before he nods his head and lowers into the seat.

That’ll be a serious talk later, you can tell by the blank look he quickly adopted, but at least you have eight hours to avoid that conversation.

A small sigh passing your lips, you shut the book and settle your eyes onto your knees. 

“Boy troubles?” He teases with a small smile, raising a brow knowingly. 

You lean forward to glance at Price- who sits legs spread, arms crossed with his boonie hat tilted and covering his face- and reply to Gaz quietly.

“No. No, we’re all good.”

His smile dips, turning a little more into a grimace.

“Yeah, I’m sure he thinks that. Doesn’t seem like you do, Rabbit.”

Your eyes snap back up to his, eyes squinting slightly. You can’t help but feel defensive for both yourself and Johnny, even if he is right.

He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Forgive me if I’m overstepping, I just mean-”

“No. No, it’s fine.” You glance up at his side profile and barely murmur out, “It’s just… Is it that obvious?”

His eyes shift from semi-playful to empathetic.

“I mean, listen. I hardly know you. But what I do know is you two are attached at the hip. I do know that I’ve never seen Johnny so smitten over anyone. Whatever’s happening now? Water under the bridge once we’re home. Yeah?”

“Yeah” You murmur, the cogs in the machine that is your brain pulling at top speed. “Can’t get anything past you, now, can I?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, that charming smile back once more. 

“Or Price. He just won’t mention it like I will.”

Your own smile returning, you bump your shoulder with his before scooting yourself down your seat and copying Price’s stature.

Gaz does the same, pulling his cap over his eyes and leaning his head back.

Glancing past him, you look towards your boys once more.

Ghost catches your eyes and tilts his head in question. Johnny’s already half passed out, leaning against his shoulder and slowly nodding off.

You smile at Simon, a real, genuine smile, before turning straight once more and closing your eyes.

Shifting your right leg, you quietly inch your boot closer to your duffle under the seat in front of you. 

Shoulders relaxing, you let out a deep breath, tapping your boot against the blue and white Saltire patch twice.

-

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[nightshadesmusings]

text under the cut

Whale Fall

As the last flickers of life fade She sinks into the depths.

The great journeys of her life remain etched into her skin Until the sharks tear it away, erasing the record of where she’s been

The life bleeding out as she sinks, but she is not alone In her final journey to nourish the starving depths of the unknown.

As her corpse settles on the seafloor She begins to be stripped away.

The hagfish follow the scent leaching out into the frigid ocean In search of the promise of life for their world of slow motion They burrow into her body to tear flesh away from bone Relishing in the muscle memories of warmth that she has known.

As the deep sea cleans off her bones She exists to be picked clean.

Squat lobsters make their homes in the shelter of her system Chiseling away the scraps of blubber that held her wisdom Working around the boneworms whose roots siphon the marrow And free the stories of her ancestors from her deep-sea barrow.

As the abysses exhaust her flesh She continues to sustain life.

The deeps worship her skeleton; great sustenance falling from the light None of which is ever wasted, for the abysses are sympathetic to her plight Bacteria extract the lipids from her bones so they may enrich The sediments around her grave, creating an oasis in a ditch.

As the deep sea strips away everything She still has more to give.

Even hundreds of years after her death and decay After the deep sea has consumed the stories her body could convey In a seemingly empty world of muddy plains Anemones and corals cling to her mineralized remains.

And through them, she is still alive.

[geopsych]

One more from this day in 2018. I got to go out and walk the chalk hills that day with friends I’d never met and as we walked and talked they showed me flowers and identified butterflies. I saw a chalk horse in the side of a hill and climbed a big barrow grave at the top of another. It seems like a dream now.

[thesilicontribesman]

An early Bronze Age Beaker burial, dated to 2,400-2.100 BC, was discovered at Kingshill North on the edge of Cirencester.

The female skeleton revealed interesting facts about her life. The scientific investigation of her teeth showed that she was born on the chalklands of southern England. This means that she was not from the Cotswolds and had travelled a long way to live here.

The skeleton, aged between 30-40 years old, had been placed in the grave with a fine decorated Beaker vessel. A cow hide was used to cover the grave. The burial was finally covered by a large round barrow measuring 12 metres across.

Corinium Museum, Cirencester