#Beyond the veil

[mmothmanners]

Sometimes you have to do a fun minimatic featuring your DND campaign's BBEG.

[thoughtfulobservationcollection]

I was busy with solo assault on Arasaka during my 1st playground so completely forgot to take shots

[drconstellation]

Lifting the Veil on the Bentley

Because I’ve been talking about the Bentley being Crowley’s black horse of late, I’ve had a nudge to talk about the number plate. I know it’s explained as an easter egg in relation to Monty Python, but I think we can explore it a bit further than that.

It’s worth having a quick look at this older post from @fuckyeahgoodomens where they explain the inspiration was from an animated scene from Monty Python's Meaning of Life .

The following is from the linked article.

As a nod to Terry Gilliam, who once tried to do a movie version of Good Omens, Gaiman and Mackinnon threw in a little reference to Gilliam’s origins doing animation for Monty Python. “The license plate of Crowley’s Bentley is ‘Curtain’ backwards,” Gaiman said, because of the writing on the mausoleum in the suicidal leaves section of Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life. “Curtain backwards, like it’s the final curtain,” Mackinnon explained.

Before I get into all the connotations of “curtains,” there should be two things you notice about the “CURTIN” written on the mausoleum. The first is the spelling itself. It’s shortened to look like the Irish surname Curtin, so the mausoleum appears to belong to a real person. Curtin is an anglicized version of Mac Curtain, which means Son of the Crooked, or Son of the Harp, as the ‘crooked’ refers the hunchback shape of the Irish harp. I wouldn’t read too much into that, its probably more just a way of getting an actual curtain reference into that scene.

The other thing is that is not just backwards, it is mirror-image, as if you are looking at it from the other side of the mirror. So we should ask ourselves – which side are we looking from? And why does this matter?

While director Mackinnon mentions it referring to the “final curtain,” we need to start even further back than that to understand what the final curtain is, because even that has two meanings, even if only in a general sense. But because this is the GOmens AU, you can guarantee we’re going to find out there is more to it than that.

We need to go beyond the veil.

To go “beyond the veil” has become a euphemism for passing into death, or that unknowable place people go once they die. It was originally a figurative reference to the area in a Jewish Temple that was separated from the main body of the Temple by decorative curtains, called veils. The veils were specially woven, often with the image of a Cherubim woven in by a skilled worker; it was not allowed to be sewed on or added later. Each panel of the veil would display a different face of the Cherubim, such as the lion on one side, an eagle on the other, and so on. Only the priests could go past the veil into the most holiest of places. The veil was symbolic of separating men and their sins from the glory of God.  

The word ‘veil’ can be translated into English as ‘curtain,’ so the two words are almost interchangeable in respect of this discussion. I was interested to see that the word veil comes from the Latin word velum, which also means ‘sail,’ as in “to move, to drive a vessel or vehicle forward.” I have previously commented that the Bentley should probably be a “she,” as traditionally all ships were female, and that’s a tradition we still see carried into the modern day, thousands of years after its origin. I’ve even seen modern day space probes – little ships sailing the solar system – referred to as she! But I’ll not be pedantic about it, don’t worry.

Keep your hands off my bitch, bitch.

So the curtain, or veil, is the boundary between life and death. Only – we are seeing it from the other side. And in the GOmens AU this “other side” is very real, and one Aziraphale and Crowley walk through with both ease and without much thought. They are agents of those on the other side of the veil, yet they walk with Humanity in a solid reality on the surface of the Earth. They know the other side is real. When wee Morag complains about Elspeth’s body-snatching activity that the ones she digs up and sell won’t be able to go to Heaven because they will be cut up, Aziraphale tries to tell her it’s not like that, but she's not listening:

WEE MORAG: Aye. Tell that to the poor souls who will not get into heaven 'cause their bodies are all chopped into wee pieces. AZIRAPHALE: Well, that isn't how it actually… CROWLEY: Heaven isn't all it's cracked up to be, you know. WEE MORAG: It's no right. I'm telling you. CROWLEY: Yeah.

For humans, though, there is supposed to be no return once you cross that threshold.

When we, the viewer, see the two worlds meet, it's usually signaled by the presence of fog, mist or smoke. When Lesley the delivery driver meets Death, the fog arrives, as he is no longer in the living world. When Aziraphale and Crowley leave Tadfield Manor, we have smoke telling us we are seeing two different times and places at once - the past and the present are overlaid on one another.

The Bentley must exist in both the Human and subliminal worlds at the same time - how else can it drive like it does? It doesn't really need Crowley's hands on the wheel to guide it. It couldn't have started out like that - it was made by humans, but we all know the Bentley is more than just a car now.

It chooses the music to play on its radio, it refuses to speed when taking Aziraphale to Edinburgh until Crowley yells at it, it tries to follow the angel after he gets out at the end of the journey. How it got like this we will probably never find out, but we figure its become an extension of Crowley by close association, much like Aziraphale tends to influence the world around him without effort as well.

In terms of it being a black horse - well, now we get into some interesting stuff!

Horses have been companions to humans for longer than cars have been around, so there is lots of lore and symbology associated with them. Previous metas around S2 have focused on "dark horses," as they were specifically mentioned twice in the script. But a dark horse is not necessarily a black horse, and vice versa, so lets look at some of the aspects of black horse symbology in particular that could be relevant to the Bentley and it role in traveling between worlds.

Horses were the original vehicle of the ancient world. While Famine was supposed to ride a black horse (the others were white, red and pale green for pestilence,) the black horses could also be messengers of death, a demon bringing death or a guide to the afterlife. In the Illiad, Achilles sacrifices four horses on the funeral pyre to accompany Patroclus to Hades.

[Edit: I've just put myself through the pain of watching S2E6 again, for reasons, and realised why the ethereal lift is in the entrance to the Dirty Donkey - because a black horse is a guide between worlds! Of course!]

They became associated with the Devil during the Middle Ages as the church tried to break the link to old pagan rites. The broomsticks witches ride are supposed to represent horses. And then there is the sexual connection to horses...which leads in a round-about way to the practice of nailing horseshoes up for luck and protection. Although perhaps the burning horseshoe on Jasmine Cottage is more directly linked to the story of St Dunstan tricking the Devil and making him promise he would never cross the threshold of a house that had a horseshoe nailed to the door.

Our favourite Bentley has been beyond veil and returned. Though it was kept valiantly alive through the sheer will of Crowley to escape the unnatural flames of the Sigil of Odegra, it expired at the Tadfield airbase once Crowley arrived and finally released it. It was only appropriate that Crowley took a moment to acknowledge its service.

Then Adam restored it the next day. Resurrected it, one could say.

Time for the "final curtain" to wrap this meta up.

To "face the final curtain" is another euphemism for facing death, or at least an ending. It's the final curtain of a theatre show, after the encores are done. Its the final fall of the curtain at the end of a run. Sometimes we might say its just "curtains" for something or someone, meaning it will be ending, as a shortened form. But both Aziraphale and Crowley knows death isn't the end; its a beginning as well. Its just matter of perspective to them.

I've seen other writers associate this final curtain with the first Armagedon't, and now we appear to maybe be facing the "big one" in S3 - the Second Coming. I think that is too simplistic an association, especially for GO. The reversed side of the veil could be so many things: the final battle, the ability of our ethereal heroes to move between worlds, it could even be Crowley returning from the "death" of being one of the Fallen. As always, the meaning will be need to be considered within the context of the scene, and which side of the curtain we are looking from.

[wayti-blog]

Your dead are alive. You will see them again someday. Do not be afraid of death. How sad the parting may be. The soul continues its way and sooner or later you see each other back in the Spheres of Light.

o

[vir-tanadahl]

Beyond the Veil

A rewrite. AU. The Gods are said to dwell above, but she has never laid eyes on them. Her mother, a high priest of Mythal, and her twin brother, a devoted hunter of Andruil, have never seen them either. The Gods don’t visit the weary, the starving, or the ill. But Isera does. If she were ever to meet a God who came to the bedside of the suffering, she might bend the knee. Until she meets a stranger… F!Lavellan x Fen'harel

[Ch1]

Chapter 1: Where the Gods Don't Dwell

Isera floated effortlessly in the middle of the lake, the cool water cradling her weight as she gazed at the vibrant night sky above. Colors rippled across the heavens like silk, the aurora’s glow casting faint reflections in the crystal-clear water around her. Beneath her, the immense form of the sea creature stirred, its haunting melody vibrating through the depths, a song only she could hear. The gods were said to dwell above, somewhere among the shimmering lights, but no matter how long she stared, she saw no sign of them.

Her mother spoke of them often, her voice reverent as she led ceremonies in Mythal’s name. Her brother hunted with the precision of Andruil’s chosen. They all followed, blindly reaching for something they’d never seen. And yet, they believed.

Isera didn’t.

They whispered her father’s name with awe, spoke of his control over the Fade as if it marked him divine. She’d never met him. Maybe that’s why they said he was different—godlike, even. The stories painted him as a bridge between worlds, but to her, he was just another absence, a shadow of a figure she couldn’t understand.

She drifted further, the water cool against her skin. I’ve'an'amelan, the People had called her. Blessed like him. Chosen. But the power that flowed through her felt like chains, not a gift. They expected her to kneel, to fall into line, to embrace the gods they cherished.

But Isera kept her gaze on the stars, her lips pressed into a firm line. Power or not, the gods weren’t hers to worship. She wasn’t meant to follow.

The world shifted before her eyes, sharper and more alive than it had ever been. The Veil above her rippled in vibrant hues, each wave of color more brilliant than the last. The song of magic was no longer a distant hum—it filled her ears now, a constant, pulsing melody that seemed to weave itself through the very air she breathed. She could feel it—feel the Veil move, as though it had a heartbeat that pulsed in time with the shimmering lights. Yet even as the power around her intensified, even as it tugged at her senses, she refused to bow to it.

Prayer was for those who needed something to believe in. Isera didn’t.

The spirits were never far, always lurking just out of sight, like shadows cast by the flickering light of the Veil. One, though, lingered longer than the rest, an unseen companion she’d grown accustomed to. It never spoke, never reached out, yet its presence was undeniable—a silent observer in her dreams, drifting at the edges of her consciousness. She had grown used to feeling it near, like a breath on the back of her neck, familiar yet elusive.

But today, the spirit was gone. The stillness in her mind was strange, almost unsettling. She searched for its familiar weight, the way she always felt it watching, waiting. Instead, there was only the quiet hum of the Veil and the distant, empty space where the spirit should have been.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers brushing the surface of the lake as she drifted. It wasn’t like the spirit to leave. And yet, just like the rest, it could disappear as easily as it had come.

Eventually, her mother stopped trying to drag her to the Temples. After her brother dutifully chose his god, falling into line with the faith that governed their family, the attempts to make Isera follow suit dwindled. Her mother no longer asked, and the pressure that once weighed so heavily on Isera’s shoulders seemed to lift. But the distance between them grew, unspoken yet palpable.

Of course, Isera still attended the holiday masses. It was the least she could do, a gesture to maintain the fragile peace with her mother. She could see the flicker of pride in her mother’s eyes when she stood there, silent and present. But beyond that, Isera couldn’t pretend. The rituals, the prayers—they weren’t for her. She couldn’t force herself to believe in something she never felt.

Instead, she found freedom elsewhere. She ran through the forests, her feet light on the soft earth, far from the expectations that clung to the temples like shadows. She spent hours hidden in the library, devouring books that had nothing to do with the gods, searching for answers that couldn’t be found in prayer. More often than not, she talked to the People—the slaves, the ones who lived on the edges of her mother’s world, their stories raw and real, not shaped by divine edicts.

The nobles whispered about her behind their jeweled hands, their eyes narrow as they watched her from a distance. Odd, rebellious, defiant. But none dared to challenge her. Her mother was the High Priest of Mythal, after all. Mythal, the Protector. The All-Mother. Goddess of love, justice, and vengeance.

And even the most powerful nobles knew better than to cross the daughter of Mythal’s chosen.

Isera knew exactly how to play the perfect child, the one everyone expected her to be. When questioned, she offered answers that were polished and polite, the kind that earned approving nods from the elders. She delivered the right words, said the right things. It wasn’t difficult—she knew the game well. What she didn’t answer, she let drift by, untouched, as though it had never been asked. Her smiles, soft and serene, mirrored the devotion around her, and her voice held the same reverence when she spoke.

The devoted, the truly faithful, would approach her afterward, their eyes gleaming with approval. They would tell her how she could rise even higher, be more devout, earn favor from the gods. Isera smiled, nodded, let their words roll over her like water. And when they were done, she would quietly slip away, the façade falling from her face like a discarded mask.

She could recite the creation stories as easily as breathing, the tales of Mythal taming Elgar’nan’s fury, their children shaping the world. She could speak of Falon’din and Dirthamen, guiding the People into uthenera, of June teaching them how to build, and Andruil teaching the way of the three trees. She knew how Sylaise brought fire and healing to the People, how June crafted with his hands what others could only imagine.

And then there was Fen’harel—the Dread Wolf. The trickster, the betrayer, the god who cared nothing for teaching. His stories were darker, more whispered than spoken aloud. Rebellion and betrayal were what the elders called him, a warning to those who might stray too far from the path.

Yet, Isera found herself lingering on his name. Not in worship, but in quiet curiosity. They feared him, but she wondered if there was more to his story than what was told. After all, rebellion had its own kind of power—one she understood far better than prayer.

Isera could sing the hymns to the gods, her voice soft with practiced ease, but it never truly soared. The words never took flight, held down by something deeper, something unspoken. Even as her lips moved with the melodies of praise, her heart remained quiet, untouched.

The sharp contrast of the cool water against the warm breeze stirred her from her thoughts. The stillness of the lake had always been her sanctuary, but the sun would rise soon. She inhaled deeply, filling her lungs with the crisp morning air before she let herself sink below the surface. The water enveloped her, a brief moment of silence, a respite from the noise of the world. It was only when her lungs burned for air that she broke free, swimming smoothly toward the shore.

The sky above had begun to lighten, and the early morning stillness clung to the air. As she stepped onto land, Isera murmured a spell, her skin tingling with warmth as the water evaporated from her body, leaving her dry and ready. She changed quickly, her movements practiced and efficient, and began the walk toward the fields.

The slaves would be rising soon. Their wounds would need tending—wounds that spoke more of cruelty than necessity. Her feet carried her through the familiar path, but her mind drifted, lingering on the faces she would see, the lives bound by shackles not of their making.

Upon reaching the fields, Isera scaled one of the trees at the edge, finding her usual perch on a high branch that overlooked the golden expanse. From here, she could see everything. The land belonged to a noble who worshipped Dirthamen, the God of Secrets and Knowledge. His devotion was twisted into cruelty, his slaves forced to bleed in his god's name. She had seen it countless times—the sharp crack of the whip, the slow seep of blood into the earth. All for the sake of devotion.

The first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon, bathing the wheat fields in gold. Slowly, the slaves emerged from their quarters, moving in a tired line to begin their day’s labor. Scythes in hand, they set to work, cutting the plants with rhythmic strokes. Isera watched from her high vantage point, her eyes steady as she took in the scene below. She would descend soon to tend to them, but for now, she remained still, a silent observer.

In the growing light, the wheat swayed, golden and endless. Yet all Isera could see was the blood that stained the hands of those who harvested it.

From her perch, Isera’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the field, waiting for the inevitable. There was always someone who struggled, someone too slow or too weary to meet the unrelenting pace demanded of them. Her gaze settled on a woman as she faltered, crumbling to her knees, her scythe slipping from her grasp. Isera's heart clenched at the sight. She knew what would come if no one intervened.

Without hesitation, Isera moved. Her form dissolved into a swirl of white smoke, her body shifting into that of a sleek, pure white fennec. She darted across the field, her paws light against the earth as she raced toward the fallen slave.

Anise.

The woman had been here for as long as Isera could remember, a single mother of three daughters, trapped by the chains of servitude. As Isera neared, Anise hissed at her, a weak attempt to ward her off, fear and pain etched into every line of her face. But Isera wasn’t afraid. She weaved around Anise's outstretched hands with a dancer’s grace, her small fennec form a blur as she summoned the magic within her.

The soft glow of her healing spell washed over Anise's legs, mending the torn skin, soothing the wounds. Isera could feel the heat of the fresh lashes fade beneath her magic, the pain dissolving as she worked in silence.

Anise’s eyes widened as she realized what was happening. "Lady Isera!" she whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "If he sees you here, he will kill you!" Her hands moved to shield Isera's small form, trying desperately to hide her, to protect her from the wrath of their master.

“Mythal curse him,” Anise muttered under her breath, anger and desperation bleeding into her words. “Fen’harel take him!”

Isera’s eyes flashed, her magic swirling just beneath her skin as she finished the spell. She lingered for only a moment, her white fur brushing against Anise’s hand in silent reassurance before stepping back, her form dissolving into smoke once more as she disappeared into the shadows.

She wouldn’t be seen, not today. But she would be back. And one day, they would not need to whisper curses under their breath.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

Isera paused, her magic receding as the glow around Anise’s wounds faded. The injuries would heal in time, without the full force of her power, but at least the pain would ease. Anise nodded in silent gratitude, eyes brimming with a mixture of relief and fear. Isera offered a brief, knowing look before darting away, her small fennec form bounding lightly across the field.

She moved swiftly, her paws barely brushing the earth as she helped where she could—offering brief moments of relief to the weary, a soothing touch to those most in need. Her magic was subtle, just enough to ease the worst of their suffering, never enough to draw attention. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and with it, the risk of being seen grew. As the heat bore down on the golden fields, Isera knew it was time to leave.

Her body shimmered once more, shifting back into her elven form as she sprinted toward the edge of the field. Cloaked in shadows and smoke, she slipped away unnoticed, heading for the village where the poor and enslaved lived.

As she neared the outskirts, Isera tugged the hood of her cloak over her head, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. The village was a stark contrast to the pristine estates of the nobles. Mud-caked roads and worn-down huts lined the path, yet the sounds of laughter and life still echoed in the air. The children, spotting her approach, let out gleeful squeals and ran toward her, their faces lighting up at the sight of her.

Isera couldn’t help but smile. She dropped to her knees, arms open wide as the children threw themselves at her, wrapping her in tight, enthusiastic embraces. Their small hands tugged at her cloak, their voices all blending together in a joyful chorus, each one eager to share their stories, to tell her about their day, their families, their small triumphs and troubles.

She listened, her heart lightened by their infectious energy, her fingers gently combing through tangled hair and wiping dirt from smudged faces. Here, in the laughter of the children and the warmth of their trust, Isera felt more at peace than anywhere else.

The children eagerly led Isera into a small, abandoned shack, their eyes wide with anticipation. With a simple gesture, Isera conjured food before them—warm bread, ripe fruit, and sweet cakes—and the children squealed in delight, their faces lighting up at the sudden feast. Her abilities, granted by being i've'an'amelan, were unlike those of ordinary mages. She could bring forth life, create sustenance, even shape buildings and landscapes both in the waking world and in her dreams. The power came naturally to her, a quiet hum in her veins.

The Order of the Keepers had tried, time and again, to recruit her into their fold, promising knowledge, power, and divine purpose. But to Isera, their promises were hollow. She called them a cult, hidden away from the world, claiming to work for the gods while neglecting the very People they were supposed to protect. She couldn’t see how isolation and ignorance pleased any god. Her path was different, quieter, more tangible. She helped where she could, in small ways, touching lives in ways that mattered.

As the children tore into the food, laughing and chatting with mouths full, a boy burst into the shack, his voice panicked. “Isera!” he cried, breathless and tearful. “You must come!” He pulled at her cloak, jumping up and down, tears streaming down his cheeks. “My mamae, my mamae!”

Isera's smile faded instantly, and she knelt down, placing a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Stay here,” she murmured to the other children, her voice steady but filled with urgency. Then, she stood, following the boy as he bolted out of the shack, leading her toward his home.

The child ran ahead, his small feet kicking up dirt, his cries echoing in the empty streets. “My mamae, my mamae,” he repeated, his voice breaking with each breath. Isera quickened her pace, her heart pounding in time with the boy's frantic sobs, knowing that whatever awaited them was not good.

When she finally caught up, she reached for his hand, squeezing it gently, offering what little comfort she could as they neared his home. She only hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

Isera stepped into the dim shack, the air thick with the stench of sickness. Her sharp senses picked up the faint, sour smell of illness and desperation. The low light cast shadows along the walls, but her focus remained on the fragile figure lying on the thin mat in the corner. She could hear the woman's labored breathing, the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

Before the boy could follow, Isera knelt in front of him, gently blocking his path. “Da'len,” she whispered, her voice soft, a gentle balm against the panic in his eyes. “I will look after your mother, but I need you to stay out here. Can you do that for me?” Her hands enveloped his, small and trembling, and she ran her fingers through his tangled hair in a comforting gesture.

He nodded, tearful but determined, before Isera whispered a request for herbs. The boy turned and darted away, eager to help in any way he could.

Once he was gone, Isera stood and turned her attention back to the room. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, and that’s when she noticed a figure already at the woman’s side—a hooded figure, bent over her, murmuring words she couldn’t quite catch.

The man’s hands glowed faintly as he attempted to heal her, but there was something different about his magic that she couldn’t quite describe. Isera remained quiet, watching from the shadows, her own instincts flaring to life. She took a step closer, her movements deliberate and silent, studying the way his magic moved through the air. It felt familiar, yet distant, as though it lacked the warmth and life she was accustomed to in her own healing.

Isera's eyes flicked over the room, taking in the small details—the herbs strung from the rafters, the scraps of food scavenged and rationed with care. The woman had been hungry, desperate, trying to survive on whatever she could find. It wasn’t hard to see the traces of her struggle.

The hooded figure cursed under his breath, frustration etched in every movement as he pulled back his hood. His sharp intake of breath signaled that he hadn’t realized she was there until now. He turned to face her, his eyes dark with exhaustion. His simple cotton clothes were stained with dirt, and an open healing bag lay beside him. Isera’s gaze lingered briefly on the dark, jagged jawbone necklace hanging against his beige shirt before meeting his eyes again.

“You should go,” he said, his voice low, weary. “There is a sickness here runs too deep to be cured.”

Isera didn’t flinch. She stood quietly for a moment, her face still obscured by the hood of her cloak, her eyes calm and unyielding. A soft hum escaped her, a noncommittal sound that hung in the air between them.

“I haven’t tried,” she replied simply, stepping forward with steady resolve, her gaze shifting from him to the woman on the mat. She could feel the faint traces of magic he had already tried, the flickers of hope that had withered before they could take root. But hope was not something she was quick to abandon.

The man stepped forward, blocking her path with a firm hand raised in caution. “It would be best if you did not,” he warned, his voice steady but tense. His proximity brought the earthy scent of moss and dirt to her senses, the smell of someone who had spent too long in the wild. His presence was unyielding, a wall between her and the dying woman.

Isera’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile as she tilted her head to the side, her eyes glinting with a challenge. "Step aside, please," she commanded, her tone calm yet unmistakably firm.

He frowned, clearly taken aback by her refusal to heed his caution. The air between them crackled with tension, his authority suddenly uncertain. He had expected her to back down, to trust his word and leave the shack. Instead, Isera’s gaze remained locked on him, unflinching.

“She is going to die,” he muttered, stepping aside with a resigned sigh. His words hung heavy in the air, but Isera barely acknowledged them as she dropped to her knees beside the woman, her focus sharp and unwavering.

Her fingers brushed the woman’s clammy skin—cold, yet slick with sweat. The rapid thrum of her heartbeat, barely steady, pulsed beneath Isera’s touch. Her shallow breaths were faint, barely enough to keep her tethered to life.

Without hesitation, Isera reached into her healing bag, pulling out a small vial filled with a deep amber liquid. Gently, she pressed the tip of the vial to the woman’s cracked lips, her voice soft and soothing as she whispered for her to drink.

The woman’s lips parted weakly, and the liquid slipped past her tongue. For a moment, there was nothing—just the same ragged breaths, the same fragile existence teetering on the edge. But then, the woman let out a long, slow sigh, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was less strained, more peaceful. Her body, once tight with pain, began to relax.

Isera stood smoothly, brushing the dust from her knees as she turned to leave the shack. Behind her, the stranger’s voice broke the silence. “You gave her something to relieve the pain then?” he asked, his tone uncertain.

She paused, her gaze lingering on him for a moment. He seemed out of place here, an unfamiliar presence in a village she knew well. His confusion was evident in the way his brows furrowed, but Isera met his question with a calm, steady reply.

“No,” she said evenly, her eyes flicking to the woman behind her. “I gave her the antidote to the poison fungi she ate.”

The man's eyes widened, his expression shifting from uncertainty to surprise as he glanced around the shack. His gaze finally landed on a small mushroom, half-crushed on the floor. Realization dawned on his face, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease as he took in the scene with fresh understanding.

Isera didn’t wait for further questions. She knew the signs of poison when she saw them, knew how to act swiftly, and in this case, the antidote had been the only thing that could save the woman. Unfortunately, incidents of accidental poisoning have been increasing recently, largely driven by limited access to food.

As Isera stepped out of the hut, another man rushed toward her, his eyes wide with desperation and relief. He stumbled to his knees before her, his voice trembling. “By the Gods, you came!” he cried, collapsing onto the ground, his hands reaching out as if to grasp some hope. “I prayed to all of them for weeks. No one answered. But finally—” his breath hitched, “Fen’harel must have sent you.”

Isera paused, her brow arching slightly as she regarded him. The weight of his words washed over her, but she shook her head, her tone even as she replied. “Faron, I visit the village weekly,” she said calmly, pulling her healing bag closer to her side. Her voice carried a gentle reminder that she had been there all along, quietly helping, not summoned by any god.

Faron looked up at her, confusion mingling with his gratitude, but Isera was already preparing to move on. She had more to do, another village to tend to, more people in need of her care. The prayers of the desperate were often cast to the gods, but she didn’t need divine guidance to know where her place was.

Without another word, she turned to leave, her cloak billowing softly in the breeze as she made her way toward the path that led to the next village.

Before she departs, one of the villagers starts to approach her. “My lady, you came early. You usually visit on Ghi'lan'vun'in, tomorrow,” another villager called out, their voice laced with awe. “He had to have sent you, my lady.” The murmur of agreement rippled through the small crowd, others nodding their heads and whispering their shared belief.

Isera exhaled softly, the weight of their reverence pressing down on her. They clung to their faith in the gods, their hope wrapped tightly in the belief that divine intervention had brought her early. She didn’t bother correcting them. For them, doubt was a luxury they couldn’t afford, something she could not take from them even if she wanted to.

As she moved toward the next villager, her eyes tracked the man from the hut, watching his slow, deliberate steps as he began to leave. A shadow of unease flickered in her mind. Lowering her voice, she leaned toward an elder who stood nearby. “Have you seen that man before?” she whispered, her gaze still fixed on the stranger.

The elder squinted, his brow furrowing as he looked up at the man. His weathered face showed no recognition as he shook his head. “Never in my life, my lady,” he replied softly, his tone tinged with suspicion.

Isera frowned as she quickened her pace, catching up to the stranger before he could fully leave the village. “Excuse me!” she called out, her voice carrying over the distance.

The man halted, turning slowly to face her. “Yes?” he asked, his expression calm and unreadable as she begins to walk in-step with him

"Who are you?" she demanded, her hand settling firmly on her hip as she fixed him with a steady gaze as she keeps pace. There was something off, something that tugged at her instincts, a familiarity she couldn't place.

He stops walking. "Just a traveler," he replied evenly, his face betraying nothing as they stared at each other, both sizing the other up. His presence felt strangely familiar, a subtle undercurrent that hummed in the space between them. Yet, his answers were frustratingly vague.

“Traveler from where?” she pressed, suspicion edging into her voice. It wasn’t common to see someone, especially a lone traveler, helping the poor with such intent. Most who did were part of larger organizations that only ventured out when there was social praise to be earned.

“A village in the North,” he answered, his gaze still locked with hers, his tone unwavering.

Isera’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowing at the lack of detail in his response. "There are many villages in the North," she countered, her patience thinning. His evasiveness set her on edge, but there was something more—something just beneath the surface she couldn’t shake.

“There are,” he replies, his voice calm, offering nothing more. Isera’s scowl deepened as frustration flared in her chest if he won’t tell her what village he is from, he at least needs to have a basic understanding of the fauna and flora.

“You would have let her die,” she snapped, the weight of her words hanging between them. “If you're going to heal these people, you should at least know that the species of fungi varies between the northern and southern regions. What grows here is poisonous." Her tone was sharp, laced with the anger she felt bubbling inside her. Without waiting for a response, she brushed past him, the air thick with her simmering frustration.

She couldn’t shake the image of the woman lying helpless in that shack, her life on the edge, saved only because Isera had intervened. Had she not arrived, the stranger would have unknowingly administered a potion that would have eased the woman's pain—only to hasten her death. He had deemed the woman a lost cause before he had even truly assessed the situation, before he had taken the time to understand the land, the people, the delicate differences that could mean life or death.

The man lingered in place for a moment, his expression unreadable, before hurrying to catch up with her. “The villagers,” he said, his voice softer than before, more cautious. “They know you?” There was a quiet curiosity in his tone now, as if he was probing for something deeper, gauging whether she was someone he could trust.

Isera kept walking, her pace quickening as her thoughts churned. She couldn’t help but notice him out of the corner of her eye—strong jawline, high cheekbones, and those blue-gray eyes that sparkled with interest. Despite his plain clothing and dirt-covered appearance, there was something undeniably attractive about him. She noted the absence of vallaslin on his face, which meant he was no slave, and yet, he remained a mystery.

“You don’t know them,” she finally answered, her tone brisk as she increased her pace. She had never seen him before, and neither had the villagers. And if he planned to stay and help, as it seemed he might, he couldn’t afford to make the kinds of mistakes he had almost made today.

The villagers were a deeply superstitious people, and their faith was fragile. If too many died under his care, it wouldn’t take long for them to turn on her as well. They would see the deaths as a sign—that she had fallen out of favor with the gods. The whispers would begin, and soon they would ask her to leave. To them, her continued presence would bring more death, more suffering, and no amount of healing magic would convince them otherwise.

She knew how quickly fear and suspicion could grow, and she wasn’t about to let this stranger, with his careless assumptions, put everything she had worked for in jeopardy.

“You’re right. I don’t know them,” he admitted, matching her pace with ease. His voice was steady, but his eyes—blue-gray and full of curiosity—seemed to spark with questions he hadn’t yet voiced. “Why do you help them?” he asked, his gaze never leaving her, as if searching for something deeper beneath her sharp replies.

Isera’s jaw tightened, and she glanced away, her voice low. “No one else will.”

He nodded, as though her answer made perfect sense to him. “Yet they call to the Gods for help,” he remarked, his tone soft but probing. She could feel his eyes on her, watching closely, studying her every word.

Isera let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Do you see any Gods here, stranger?” she asked, her voice hardening slightly. “I’ve traveled these parts for years, helping these people when no one else will. I have never seen any god come down from the heavens to tend to the sick or feed the hungry.” She stopped walking and turned to face him, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “Which begs the question—who are you?” she pressed again, her patience waning.

But the stranger didn’t answer. Instead, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and he continued walking alongside her, silent. The mystery in his eyes only deepened, and the smirk suggested he knew more than he was letting on, as if he enjoyed her frustration.

“Do you find this amusing?” Isera asked, her voice sharper than before. She could feel her annoyance bubbling up, frustrated that her agitation seemed to bring him enjoyment.

“I find you quite amusing,” he replied with that same smirk, his head tilted slightly as he continued to watch her, eyes alight with mischief.

“Is that so?” Isera snorted, pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, her lips curling in disdain. ’What an ass’, she thought, inwardly scoffing at him. He wasn’t the first man to respond to her anger with condescending amusement, and she doubted he would be the last. His words, though lightly spoken, only irritated her more.

“Yes,” he continued, seemingly unfazed by her reaction. “You care passionately for the People. Is that why the villagers trust you?” Isera shot him a cold glance, her patience wearing thin, shaking her head. “They trust me because I’ve been doing this since I was a child, and because I treat them with respect. Passion has nothing to do with it,” she replied, her tone brisk, though she couldn’t help but glance at him from the corner of her eye, wary of his constant questions.

But then he dropped the words like a stone in a calm pond. “Is that why you help them escape?”

Her body went rigid. The world seemed to narrow, the weight of his accusation crashing down on her. Isera’s heart pounded in her ears as she slowly turned to face him fully, her expression carefully composed, though fear stirred just beneath the surface. How could he know?

It was true. For years, Isera had been quietly, methodically helping slaves escape, guiding them along a network of safe havens where one person would hand them off to the next, like passing a flame through the darkness. Each step of the way, someone else would take up the responsibility, leading them further from their chains, until they disappeared into places even she didn’t know. Once they left her care, their destination became a mystery, their future unwritten.

It was a crime punishable by death, a risk she’d always known, but hearing those words aloud from this stranger’s mouth was something else entirely. If anyone overheard, it would be enough to start an investigation, to ruin everything she’d built here.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you’re referring to,” Isera replied coolly, her voice regaining its usual composure. She had always been cautious, careful not to draw the wrong kind of attention from the nobles. The slaves, the villagers—they all kept their silence, a mutual understanding that what they did had to remain hidden. She couldn’t afford to let her panic show, not now.

The stranger hummed, unbothered by the shift in her tone, continuing to walk beside her as though they were discussing the weather. “Why do you think the villagers called for Fen’harel?” he asked, his voice casual, as if the question held no weight.

Isera shot him a glance, her confusion quickly turning to annoyance. “They pray to all the gods in times of stress,” she replied curtly, keeping her words sharp and to the point. “The man said—”

“If you want to know why the villagers called upon Fen’harel, I suggest you ask them yourself,” she interrupted, her patience thin. “I’m not a mind reader.” Her pace quickened, the conversation wearing on her nerves. She didn’t care to entertain his cryptic questions or his sudden interest in her world.

The man paused for a moment, and for a brief second, Isera thought she might have shaken him off. But then a grin spread across his face, as if her deflection amused him even more. He easily matched her pace again, unbothered by her attempts to put distance between them.

After a few moments of tense silence, Isera could still feel the stranger’s presence at her side, his occasional glances adding to her growing irritation. His smirk lingered, as if he were enjoying her discomfort.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you following me?” she asked, shooting him a sharp look. “It’s creepy.”

He chuckled softly. “I’m not following you. I’m simply walking in the same direction as you,” he said smoothly, pausing briefly before adding with a teasing tone, “As I recall, you chased after me first. Perhaps it’s you who’s following me.”

Isera scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I am making my way through the villages,” she replied curtly, her gaze fixed ahead as the outline of the next settlement began to rise over the horizon.

“So am I,” he countered, his tone light but still holding that hint of amusement.

Isera gave the stranger an incredulous look, her disbelief clear, but she quickly rolled her eyes and kept her silence. She would yield for now—if he wanted to follow her through the villages, so be it. It wasn’t worth the energy to argue further.

He walked beside her with an almost obnoxious spring in his step, humming a tune that grated on her already-thin patience. Isera resisted the urge to display her annoyance, keeping her face impassive as they entered the village. Almost immediately, the atmosphere shifted.

The children spotted her first, their faces lighting up with excitement. Just like in the previous village, they rushed toward her, their small voices filled with laughter and delight. They tugged at her cloak and chattered all at once, eager for her attention.

Isera quickly pushed thoughts of the stranger from her mind as the excited children surrounded her, their infectious laughter and eager chatter pulling her into their world. She spent a few moments with them, smiling softly as she entertained their stories and antics, letting their joy lift the weight of her earlier frustrations.

But soon, she moved on, her focus shifting to the true reason she had come. The village elders—those too old and too ill to care for themselves—awaited her in their modest homes, their frail bodies unable to partake in the rites and offerings required for a peaceful passage into the deep sleep. It was a sacred tradition, one they could not afford, their poverty keeping them from the holy chambers they so longed to enter.

Isera knelt by their sides, one by one, refilling their medicine jars with herbs and potions to ease the pain in their aching joints. She worked quietly, her hands gentle as she massaged their gnarled fingers, listening as they recounted stories of the past. Their voices were soft and trembling, some still sharp with memories of days long gone, while others faltered as they struggled to remember their lives, their loved ones, or even her.

Her heart ached as she listened to them, knowing that no magic could truly ease the suffering of forgetting. All she could do was offer comfort, a familiar presence, and a soothing touch in their final days. Isera remained patient, murmuring soft reassurances, promising that though the world seemed to slip from their grasp, she was still there, watching over them.

For a brief moment, the weight of her role seemed to lift as she lost herself in the simplicity of care. But in the back of her mind, the reality of their situation lingered. There was so much more she wished she could do—more than just temporary relief, more than just a few moments of peace.

Isera moved with purpose through the community garden, her hands gently brushing the leaves and stems of the plants she had helped the villagers cultivate. She had taught them how to grow hearty crops, resilient enough to thrive despite the harsh conditions they lived in. Now, she guided them, offering advice on how to spot early signs of disease, how to protect the plants from blight. It was a task she took seriously, one that filled her with a quiet sense of pride.

As she crouched down to inspect a particularly delicate sprout, she felt the stranger's presence beside her once again. Wordless, he simply stood there, watching her as she worked. When she looked up, she saw that he had a plant stem hanging loosely from between his lips, his eyes full of curiosity and amusement.

“The villagers are quite fond of you,” he declared, breaking the silence as his gaze remained fixed on her.

Isera paused, still holding a leaf between her fingers, her mind flashing with imagined whispers from the villagers. She could already hear the speculative questions they would ask—wondering if this man was her apprentice, or worse, if she was being courted by him. The thought made her inwardly cringe. She could already see the smirks and the teasing glances.

Isera sighed loudly, standing and brushing the dirt from her hands with a sharp clap. Without a glance back at the stranger, she strode past him, determined to ignore the weight of his lingering presence. But when she turned, intending to ask him once more why he continued to shadow her every move, he was gone.

She frowned, her eyes scanning the area. He had vanished as silently as he had appeared, leaving no trace of his departure. For a moment, she felt an uneasy twinge, but quickly dismissed it. She had more pressing concerns than a mysterious man with a penchant for showing up uninvited.

With a shake of her head, Isera resumed her walk, heading back to the city. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the fields. Her mind returned to her usual worries—there were still medicines to prepare, people to see, and her endless tasks awaiting her.

A low, distant howling drifted through the air behind her, eerie yet familiar. The sound tugged at her, but she paid it no mind. It was likely just the wind, she told herself. Or perhaps a wolf, though she hadn’t heard any this close to the villages in some time. Either way, she didn’t slow her pace. There was nothing here for her now but the road ahead.

[killiansprincss]

Head empty just ✨ Darius Acrux Vega ✨

[casualfoxwitch]

[vintagenews]

Source and details.

[ashesandhackles]

Beyond the Veil (masterpost)

Co-written with @thedreamermusing

Sirius Black/Severus Snape. 97k.

A canon-divergent rewrite of Half Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows that follows the relationship between Sirius Black and Severus Snape. Think of it as mine and Dreamer's character study with romance.

Our list of chapters (and tiny previews where you can see we have experimented with multiple POVs) under the cut! Also a Snape and Lily prequel written by @thedreamermusing here: January 30th, 1975 (Happy Birthday Lily)

Chapter 1 - Prologue

Time was a standstill in these long hallways and empty rooms, full of memories that ticked under his skin like a pulse under a livid bruise.

Chapter 2 - changing perceptions

He was tempted to laugh, laugh like a maniac, at the absurdity, the injustice, out of grief--let out all his curled up emotions in a big hearty laugh. But then again, that hadn't worked out so well for him 15 years ago.

Chapter 3 - 12 Grimmauld Place meets Spinner's End

What Pettigrew lacked in skill; he made up for in malice.  This seemingly pusillanimous creature hid within him a rusty sword whose efficiency lay not in the sharpness of the blade, but in the unnoticed poison of the rust.

Chapter 4- Enemy of my Enemy

"I brought him here because I finally see the advantages of being brawny rather than brainy," Snape smirked.

Chapter 5 - The Prince and Padfoot

"You disgust me.” rang over and over in his head like a church bell, a judgement in a confessional, a whisper that haunted his ears when he dreamed and lay awake, sometimes unable to tell the difference.

Chapter 6 - Monsters and Old School Friends

His wildness hung over him like an aura of a predator. Long-limbed, lax, but there was danger bubbling within him, an inexplicable ferocity that filled the air around him. How could anyone else not see that monster?

Chapter 7 - Circular Path

When Severus saw it for the first time, he was amazed. It was an answer to a question he had all his life, a representation of what could be built if he just reached out for the future and grabbed it with greedy hands. Now, as Narcissa opened the door with a stone face belied by the terror in her eyes, he was able to see the Manor for what it really was--a mouldering dump of pureblood affectations that concealed its decay as well as Grimmauld Place accentuated it.

Chapter 8 - Tale of Two Black Stars

Severus had known all along how to see who held the room. It was ingrained in him since he was a child. In Spinner's End, it was his father. A looming presence of overbearing violence that his mother, his magical mother, cowered against. He noticed it again in the playground - where Lily flew in air, in a burst of extraordinarily controlled magic. 

Chapter 9 - The Wounds of Men

He did not know where their sudden leap of faith for the ferret came from ( “C’mon mate, I know Malfoy is a git but Death Eater is serious business!” ), but it made him feel stupid and ridiculous--it was almost as if he was back at Aunt Petunia’s, listening to her sweet talk the neighbours about Harry’s delinquency. ( “He told you he sleeps under a cupboard? A nasty, nasty lie! But the poor dear has got no one else; his parents didn’t leave us any money as well. It’s been such a strain on our finances…” 

Chapter 10 - By The Light of The Full Moon

The first week at Azkaban was truly horrendous. Peter valued his mind - it was his best weapon and it helped him fade into the background. Losing the ability to think clearly, unable to tell dreams and memories apart; it was a sensation that terrified him. It felt like getting sucked into the quicksand of his resentment and anger and guilt that he kept at bay. He didn’t want to feel it. What use were those emotions, if they failed to help him survive?

Chapter 11 - Face Death in Hope

Death, Pain - all unavoidable things. Things he had to play with - in hope that one day, he would be able to expiate what he was carrying.  He would not live to see it, he was sure. But he could hope. The only relief he had is that he would not die by his - Gellert’s- hand. “I am the only one who should be allowed to kill you,” he had said, a declaration, a threat - he wasn’t sure. “It is me that keeps you alive.”

Chapter 12 - Who Are You?

He was a son of the House of Malfoy, a noble house, one of the sacred 28, whose line went back generations. Their legacy was set in stone, the purity of their blood unquestioned. It infuriated him that nobody recognised that--that Potter, with his filthy mixed blood and mudblood mother--didn’t recognise that. And now, it had become so much worse. His father was a laughingstock. His mother looked pale and frightened all the time. It was up to him to bring things back to normal.

Chapter 13 - The Last Enemy (Part 1)

There were so many things that he thought were forgotten, so many memories whose life and colour had been drained away by grief and Azkaban. But standing here in the square, it was clear that they had always been there. He had felt something similar after walking into the doors of Grimmauld Place for the first time, but the only memories rising to surface there were of misery long-replaced. Here, every bit of youthful joy and love rose and flickered through his mind like stained-glass colours through snow, and every unremarkable step they had ever made on the square seemed precious in a fragile kind of way. 

Chapter 14 - Shedding the Maker's Skin

“Lyall Lupin,” Fenrir said, smiling at the infinitesimal jerk Remus’ body gave. “I knew you came from money, boy. You’re his son, aren’t you?”

Remus went cold. 

“Soulless, evil and deserving of nothing but death,” Fenrir quoted. “That is what he believes.”

A rage Remus had never felt before was travelling up his spine, fossilising hatred into the marrow of his bones.

Chapter 15 - Ozymandias

Once upon a time, Voldemort had looked at Snape and seen a mirror, a broken mirror of course, because Severus did not have even a shadow of his charisma, charm, looks, or skill. But even so, when Severus had come to him, an angry, profoundly gifted young half-blood brewing with hatred over his Muggle heritage, he had been so hopeful at his promise. They had both seemed to view the world in the same way; they both understood that magic was where power lay. Magic had made Voldemort immortal and then mortal again. They both respected it in a way nobody else did, and Voldemort had thought he found someone who could equal Bellatrix’s esteem. 

But Severus’s weakness had been disgustingly banal. To think that it was lust of all things to claim him, and lust for a plain Mudblood at that. And now, it was the same, only for Lucius’s dullard of a wife.

Chapter 16 - In Noctem (Carry My Soul)

The idea of it makes me feel ill. He is no longer whole; his soul is distorted. He is no better than those vile creatures that guard Azkaban. He intended to murder Kreacher, who has been serving our family for generations. Our family, whose blood is pure and unbroken, has been used to destroy the soul of a magical being. It has become clear to me now. This monster will ruin us all more than any mudblood ever will. 

Chapter 17 - Wings to the Kingdom

Until the time Death claims me, let the moth sing to your bones: I loved you since I saw you. I loved you when I hated you. I loved you when you betrayed us. I loved you when you destroyed me. 

Yours, Gellert.

Chapter 18 - The Last Enemy (Part 2)

The window brought in a draft of salt as Remus cut up chicken for the Order lunch.  Tonks was just beside him, mashing the potatoes with zeal, her arm brushing up against his own on occasion. He felt embarrassed, it was ridiculous the degree to which any proximity to her affected him. It was the isolation of the cottage, he thought, that seemed to keep them away from the dark cloud hovering above them.  It was the rhythm of the sea, a comforting lullaby of a different world, a different life.

Chapter 19 - A Lament in the Ashes

Where is my golden palace? Where is my ivory bed? Where is the joy of my morning hour? Where the Sons of Eternity are singing, Draco thumbed through the book from the shelves in the bedroom. Years ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of perusing a book of poetry written by a Muggle.

Chapter 20 - Epilogue

“It must be nice,” he said. “To start again every time you die. You can make as many mistakes as you want and be reborn from them.” 

Fawkes trilled. The corner of Serverus’s mouth lifted. 

[cuddlebugsirius]

Warning: I cried writing this, so you might cry reading this, but oh well 🤷🏻‍♀️ this @wolfstarmicrofic is for the May 23rd prompt 'pool' and is a beyond the veil Wolfstar reunion scene, post-Second Wizarding War. Everyone's dead. But no one is alone!

Remus woke to a murmur that was slowly growing louder, his head pillowed on a strangely familiar surface. As the voice grew louder, he recognised it: Sirius.

“My Moony is here, my Moony is here, look Prongs, he's finally here!”

He coughed just once, blinking in the low light, and saw the radiant face of his love leant over his frame. It was then he realised why it was so familiar, this place.

“We’re in the clearing?”

“Moony,” Sirius breathed, toppling Remus off of his lap so that he could flop on top of him in a hug; “Gods, Moony, I've missed being able to touch you so much,”

Eyes watering, he caught James hovering a few feet away from them, Remus' arms full of the boy he loved and the clearing full of their long-gone friends and family. The sun was just rising, casting shadows of the lush fruit trees across the wide open space as everyone he'd been missing came closer and closer to them. Potter Manor was far in the distance, but he would recognise the grove of trees they'd lounged in every summer from fourth year on for eternity.

“Did he live?” He asked, watching Lily and James’ reactions closely, “did we manage it?”

“He lived,” Lily nodded, silent tears streaming down her face as they pooled in James' eyes; “I’m so sorry it cost you your life too, Remus, we never meant to-“

“Don't,” he cut her off, holding Sirius tightly as he sobbed to Remus’ chest; “don't ever apologise for letting me save your boy, or for bringing me back to my love, Lily Potter. If you do I'll, I’ll…”

She was smiling now, cheeks wet but eyes bright; “you’ll what?”

“I’ll- I will never braid your hair for you again!”

A broken laugh escaped Sirius, Remus slowly sitting the pair of them up and nudging him back so that he could see his face more clearly. To take his face in his hands again near knocked the wind from him, but he gathered all the strength he had to say: “hi, Pads,”

[mmothmanners]

For the five year anniversary I drew my players' characters for our finale arc. We're in the home stretch and so I made them tarot themed cards as a lil gift to show my love for them and the stories they weave.

[thedreamermusing]

Aaand it’s a wrap!

 The final chapter of ‘Beyond the Veil’ is up. @ashesandhackles and I wrote this fic out of shit posts we’d sent to each other during the pandemic, and we’ve gone through so many life changes since then. I couldn’t have asked for a better writing partner than you! Fun fact, chapters 17- 19 were written exclusively by her when I was caught up with my master’s degree. It’s because of her that it’s finished and as great as it is. Thanks so much for sticking with us this long. We hope you enjoy the final chapter! 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31267934/chapters/122203897

[sleeplessdreamer123]

Harry: My father didn't strut.

Meanwhile, beyond the veil

James: You're right, Harry. I didn't strut.

Lily: 🤨

James: I trotted, I trotted like the majestic beast that I am!

Lily: James-

James: I trotted through the halls, through every classroom, I trotted in the Gryffindor common room, hells, I trotted into your mother's heart! And I will trot back to life if you ever say otherwise!

[dd-dailybarks]

This Tumblr user understands that adversity and existence are one in the same.

[vsslxo]

Asymmetry

One of the benefits of channeling art on a daily basis is the opportunity to recognize patterns and recurring symbols, imagery, or themes over a span. Sometimes these are things we don't expect or understand at first, but over time or upon questioning, layers of meaning emerge.

For example, I channeled a set of images with Hadit yesterday. The resulting images were conceptual and forced me to expand my ways of thinking and seeing in order to engage with them. This morning, while working on something else, my attention was drawn to three collages from a series I had channeled a little over a year ago.

The first image was of Hadit, as we had learned after it was created. It is relatively minimal in appearance, but took many layers to create. When I zoomed in on the image, I noted that some of the geometric shapes were not perfectly symmetrically aligned. As someone who is generally obsessed with details like this, it irked me. I had spent many hours creating each of these collages in deep trance and each tiny nudge and digital placement was guided and confirmed. Knowing this, I mentally took a step back and realized that it was intentional.

When channeling the most recent images with Hadit, I received some imagery related to portals, wormholes, and interdimensionality. Often these initially rub me the wrong way because they do not exhibit the symmetry that I've been trained to desire. But they speak to something more, a way through. The way the geometric shapes in the collage were offset echoed this. Once I was able to grasp this, this reframing of my mindset helped me to better understand the collages as well as the newly channeled images and subsequently identify more symbolism and meaning that I had previously overlooked.

—IYNX

Images in post: 1 - "A," digital collage, Oct 2022 2 - Untitled, channeled AI art, Feb 2024

[ihsnamih]