#Haunting of Hill House: what (positive)

[the-golden-ghost]

I finished Rebecca and what

[whencartoonsruletheworld]

Hey so like many of you, I saw that article about how people are going into college having read no classic books. And believe it or not, I've been pissed about this for years. Like the article revealed, a good chunk of American Schools don't require students to actually read books, rather they just give them an excerpt and tell them how to feel about it. Which is bullshit.

So like. As a positivity post, let's use this time to recommend actually good classic books that you've actually enjoyed reading! I know that Dracula Daily and Epic the Musical have wonderfully tricked y'all into reading Dracula and The Odyssey, and I've seen a resurgence of Picture of Dorian Gray readership out of spite for N-tflix, so let's keep the ball rolling!

My absolute favorite books of all time are The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson. Classic psychological horror books about unhinged women.

I adore The Bad Seed by William March. It's widely considered to be the first "creepy child" book in American literature, so reading it now you're like "wow that's kinda cliche- oh my god this is what started it. This was ground zero."

I remember the feelings of validation I got when people realized Dracula wasn't actually a love story. For further feelings of validation, please read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson. There's a lot the more popular adaptations missed out on.

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier is an absolute gem of a book. It's a slow-build psychological study so it may not be for everyone, but damn do the plot twists hit. It's a really good book to go into blind, but I will say that its handling of abuse victims is actually insanely good for the time period it was written in.

Moving on from horror, you know people who say "I loved this book so much I couldn't put it down"? That was me as a kid reading A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. Picked it up while bored at the library and was glued to it until I finished it.

Peter Pan and Wendy by JM Barrie was also a childhood favorite of mine. Next time someone bitches about Woke Casting, tell them that the original 1911 Peter Pan novel had canon nonbinary fairies.

Watership Down by Richard Adams is my sister Cori's favorite book period. If you were a Warrior Cats, Guardians of Ga'Hoole or Wings of Fire kid, you owe a metric fuckton to Watership Down and its "little animals on a big adventure" setup.

A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansberry was a play and not a book first, but damn if it isn't a good fucking read. It was also named after a Langston Hughes poem, who's also an absolutely incredible author.

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury is a book I absolutely adore and will defend until the day I die. It's so friggin good, y'all, I love it more than anything. You like people breaking out of fascist brainwashing? You like reading and value knowledge? You wanna see a guy basically predict the future of television back in 1953? Read Fahrenheit.

Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain and To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee are considered required reading for a reason: they're both really good books about young white children unlearning the racial biases of their time. Huck Finn specifically has the main character being told that he will go to hell if he frees a slave, and deciding eternal damnation would be worth it.

As a sidenote, another Mark Twain book I was obsessed with as a kid was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court. Exactly what it says on the tin, incredibly insane read.

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin is a heartbreaking but powerful book and a look at the racism of the time while still centering the love the two black protagonists feel for each other. Giovanni's Room by the same author is one that focuses on a MLM man struggling with his sexuality, and it's really important to see from the perspective of a queer man living in the 50s– as well as Baldwin's autobiographical novel, Go Tell it on the Mountain.

Agatha Christie mysteries are all still absolutely iconic, but Murder on the Orient Express is such a good read whether or not you know the end twist.

Maybe-controversial-maybe-not take: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov is a good book if you have reading comprehension. No, you're not supposed to like the main character. He pretty much spells that out for you at the end ffs.

Animal Farm by George Orwell was another favorite of mine; it was written as an obvious metaphor for the rise of fascism in Russia at the time and boy does it hit even now.

And finally, please read Shakespeare plays. As soon as you get used to their way of talking, they're not as hard to understand as people will lead you to believe. My absolute favorite is Twelfth Night- crossdressing, bisexual love triangles, yellow stockings... it's all a joy.

and those are just the ones i thought of off the top of my head! What're your guys' favorite classic books? Let's make everyone a reading list!

[dantesunbreaker]

Scary Movie Night with the Papas(Headcanons)

No warnings just spooooooky season!!!

Primo

Prefers the old black and white classic films(Frankestein, House on a Haunted Hill, The Invisible Man, etc.)

If you prefer more modern horror, Primo of course will still sit with you. But honestly, finds movies like Saw that rely on gore or shock factor to be a bit boring and lacking creativity

Try avoiding anything with extreme and constant jumpscares, unless you want to try giving the old man a heart attack

Doesn’t find them scary, but he can be startled 

Will let you cozy up to him on the couch wrapped up in either his robes or blankets with snacks

Makes brownies with some of his own “special” grown plants to make the night extra fun and relaxing

Comforts you and lets you curl into his side if you ever get scared, softly reassuring you that it isn’t real. He would never allow any monsters to hurt you

Primo always falls asleep halfway through the second or third movie, every single time without fail. Doesn’t matter how many times he reassures you that he won’t this time, he will get too comfy and fall right asleep. His soft snoring is cute and comforting however.

Movie night always ends up with you both sleeping on the couch wrapped up together.

Secondo

Takes movie night VERY serious

Also tends to prefer the more classic movies, but Secondo is willing to watch anything at least once

Thinks of himself as a movie critic, so be prepared to listen to his complaints or criticism throughout the movie if he doesn’t like it

Only allows snacks that you would typically find at a movie theater such as candy or popcorn. Even went as far as to get his own popcorn machine to make it feel extra authentic

Secondo will tease you if you ever get scared, but pulls you into his side and lets you bury your face. Laughs at the idea that he would ever let anything hurt you, so you should have nothing to fear

It is one of his favorite things though, when you nestle yourself up against him seeking his comfort and protection. Emotionally constipated, this man craves any sort of positive reinforcement. So the fact that he makes you feel safe gives him a bit of a warm fuzzy feeling that he hates to acknowledge

But Secondo totally also gets spooked sometimes by some of the more suspenseful films, just would rather die than ever admit that to you

You always fall asleep first. Depending on how he feels, Secondo either will situate you both to sleep comfortably on the couch, or he will carry you back to bed

Terzo

Always being extra, Terzo turns every movie night into a big extravagant event

Gathers the finest blankets and pillows for the couch

Along with the stereotypical snacks of popcorn and candy, he also has the ghouls on catering duty. Hungry for a steak in the middle of the movie? Say less.

Has no particular preference for the films, so it is entirely your choice for what to watch

Just know that Terzo will scream

Both of you will end up comforting each other when the movie gets too scary. Holding each other tight, taking turns of who hides their face and who watches to say when it is safe to watch again

Loves movies that are a little more on the silly side, such as Cabin Fever or Evil Dead. Together you love to mock the characters for making dumb choices or being oblivious and how unrealistic the effects are

Most of the time you both end up falling asleep together on the couch in a bit of a food coma. Omega sometimes comes into the room with the random food you requested only to find you both passed out. The ghoul will throw you each over one of his shoulders and carry you to bed, neither of you ever wake up as he does this somehow.

Terzo has specific fuzzy socks and matching pajama sets reserved only for scary movie night

Copia

Absolutely one of Copia’s favorite things to do together and makes it a very regular occurrence

Open to all types of horror movies, but still has his preferences. Comedy horror is definitely top of the list

Tucker & Dale vs. Evil, Tremors, and Cabin in the Woods are among his most commonly picked

Movie talker for sure! Gets really excited and into the film and constantly will comment on things that are happening on screen. It is kind of adorable

Will let the rats join you for part of the night. They love to cuddle in your laps with their own special bowl of plain unflavored popcorn

Copia is more likely to be the one that gets spooked by the movie, so be ready for him to have a death grip on your hand

Regularly changes who passes out first, but generally it is Copia. With how hard he works, you can’t really blame him. But if he is out, that generally means the end of movie night. Dude snores like a chainsaw. 

Both of you end up sleeping on the couch in weird positions that generally would not be considered comfortable, but by some miracle you never wake up with aches and pains

The morning after is always spent with a warm full course breakfast

[adolin]

my locked tomb hot take of the day is that the way Harrow’s symptoms are presented in HtN line up much more closely with religious OCD with poor insight and psychotic features than schizophrenia. She shows almost no signs of paranoia or delusions (G1deon really was trying to kill her! It’s absolutely true that the other houses would swoop in like vultures if they knew her house’s true position! Her sword and psyche were both actually haunted, to the point that Alecto could hitch a ride in her body. She is never shown in the text to hold a belief that is inconsistent with reality, IMO) and her only true psychotic symptom that we see is hallucinations, and she seems to most of the time have some idea that they aren’t real, which indicates a level of self awareness incompatible with schizophrenia. She also doesn’t seem to display many cognitive symptoms like thought block or disorganized speech and thinking. The rest of her behavior is highly obsessive (compulsive praying, wearing face paint even when nobody is around, obsessive studying, needing her food to be arranged on her plate a certain way) and is very in line with someone suffering from religious scrupulosity. As someone who has experienced both OCD and psychosis, and knows how the symptoms can overlap, this is is the hill I will die on.

I don't feel like I can contribute in any meaningful way to your points, so I'll just put this out into the world and say that I appreciate your insights!

Speaking from a #meta perspective: I know that around the time HtN came out, Tamsyn gave interviews talking about her own experiences being hospitalised for mental health reasons and implied that was what she was partly drawing on when writing HtN. I can't remember if she called Harrow schizophrenic or stated that it was her intention to write her as such, and the author is dead anyway. Plus, obviously, the fact that someone's writing was informed by irl experiences doesn't have to mean that said writing is a 1:1 parallel for those experiences, expecially in a sff setting where ghosts exists and in fact there's something that Harrow can see and nobody else can.

TO ME, the fact that people who experience psychotic episodes can recognise themselves in Harrow's internal monologue and experiences is more meaningful than whether Harrow “really” has a given specific disorder or she's just seeing ghosts. The point is that SHE feels a disconnect from reality and that she's delusional and cannot trust anything she remembers or reads. Nobody in-universe is ever going to diagnose her, you know? The series itself doesn't claim to be straight-up representation for any specific named issues — things like Cytherea's cancer or Harrow's mental state are left ambiguous and partly influenced by magic. I think the fact that readers can relate to some symptoms some characters experience is more meaningful than whether these symptoms all point to something that can be diagnosed unambiguously.

Thanks for sharing your thoughts with me!

[disappearinginq]

I’m so excited you like Steve Crain too! He’s been a favorite character of mine for years at this point, and doesn’t deserve the hate he gets.

It bothers me when people don’t recognize the responsibility that weighs on characters. They essentially lost both of their parents at the same time, and you know Steve had to be the one to step up.

This isn’t just applicable to Haunting of Hill House, of course. But I’ve noticed that fans vilify the characters that aren’t victimized as obviously / aren’t the main character.

Anyways, just wanted to share with a fellow Steve-enjoyed lol

New Bestie - same. I got into a very heated discussion about how if the Crain siblings are supposed to represent the 5 stages of grief, the fandom has Steve and Shirley switched around, because everyone says that Steve is Denial and Shirley is Bargaining.

Meanwhile, in the show, Steve spends his adult life going around not necessarily trying to debunk ghosts, but hoping that maybe this time, it will be ghosts, because then maybe his family will just be a different kind of crazy. He says his mom and his sister are sick, and they needed help. He reminds me more of Fox Mulder - the "I want to believe" vibe. But he also is in the unique position of seeing ghosts and not knowing about it. All of his ghosts are people with jobs, moving around the house like normal people. Everyone hears the dogs at night, not just him. He doesn't hear banging on the walls, he doesn't see creepy zombies in the basement, he doesn't have his future self freaking the hell out of him his entire life. He sees his mom - and as far as he's concerned (because this is a horror show, not supernatural, the world he occupies is the one we're in - no vampires and ghosts, etc, and that is Understood) it's just the mental illness that has gone through his whole family finally catching up with him. Anyone in this world who has a family member swear they're being stalked by a faceless ghost while they're high on drugs is going to come to same conclusion Steve does, which is that they're nuts. BUT - he looks for any signs that he is wrong. And I'm still mad that they cut out part of the first episode that has Steve refusing to write about his family anymore, no matter the price, while driving by an accident where he sees multiple people standing around, but when he turns away and the camera is the only one on the accident, you only see the firefighters/first responders.

Meanwhile, Shirley is 100% in denial about everything, including what her own ghosts were. In her House Nightmare at the end, she even denies what actually happened - in her version, she doesn't have an affair. The House actually calls her out on "But that's not what happened, is it?" When Steve is doing CPR on his dying brother, Shirley's first words are "This isn't real". She denies Luke from going to Nell's wedding. She denies that their mother had anything wrong with her, she's in denial that she's running her own business into the ground, she's in denial about the death of the kittens, she's in denial about ghosts too - even though she has much more explicit contact with them with the knocking, and with a witness both times (Theo). She's in denial about the night that they had to flee Hill House. Like if she says it often enough, then it will be true that her family is fine and nothing is wrong.

Sorry. Long rant. But I love this character and this show so much and no one ever wants to talk about it (except @amandagaelic, and she has listened to me for literally hours at this point). One of these days, I will actually finish the Haunting of Hill House fic I have, and it will be posted.

We might all be dead from old age, or so senile we don't even remember the source material, but I'll stipulate in my will that it has to be posted. :-D

AND YES - people have a weird habit of like...picking one character to defend and that's the end of it. No one else can do any right and that character can do no wrong. I see it in Yellowstone fandom a lot. Or in Marvel (the Steve/Tony argument made me leave it altogether). I don't know if it's because fandoms are now predominantly younger, louder/more obnoxious from the safety net of internet anonymity or what, but Seeing Things from Someone Else's Point of View seems to be a lost art in both media and reality.

[gwen-ever]

Chapter 2: Cry me a river

HELLOOOOO, my favorite band of chaos gremlins! 💖 Guess what? We’ve got NEW CONTENT! Yes, finally, the wait is over—this chapter has some juicy new info about the oh-so-complicated past between Geira and Thorin. 🎉And oh, we’re not stopping there! Let me throw some questions your way (because I love torturing you all with mysteries): 1️⃣ What do you think the tattoo means? Is it just some cool dwarven ink, or is there something deeper at play? 2️⃣ What about the bracelet? Is it just a shiny trinket, or does it hold secrets that could change everything? 3️⃣ And seriously, what could Balin have done to make Geira hate him with the fire of a thousand dragons? 🐉🔥 Was it something petty, or is there a major betrayal lurking in their history? I NEED to hear your wild theories, folks, because honestly, your guesses fuel my creativity (and my endless need for drama)!Now, go on, dive in, and let me know what you think—your comments give me life! 💬✨

Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived… whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin’s past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins’ house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC Rating: M Warnings: none. AO3 LINK: HERE

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The following days seemed to mirror the Company’s gloom: the relentless sky sent forth its dark grey clouds heavy with rain. Even the trees' canopies failed to shield them, allowing raindrops to seep through, drenching them despite the hoods of their cloaks.

Thorin hadn’t glanced at her even once, nor had he spoken to her since that evening. Bilbo always rode beside her, but aside from exchanging a few simple words, he remained silent, sneezing loudly or muttering unpleasant remarks about the rain or Gandalf. The wizard was perhaps the only one undeterred, continuing to ride and humming occasionally.

It didn’t take long for her to realise that their argument hadn’t just torn her own soul apart but had also wounded the entire Company. In the end, her aunt had been right about one thing when it came to the line of Durin:

"A kingdom reflects its king."

And at that moment, Thorin's kingdom was this Company. Like it or not, her presence and very existence had exacerbated the oppressive silences that had hung over her from the start.

Surprisingly, the rain vanished suddenly by mid-morning, replaced by a clear sky devoid of even a wisp of cloud. And as she had expected, the collective gloom of those days was swept away by the song of a handful ofswallows and the chirping of distant crickets under the warm spring sun.

"Stop, wait!" Thorin commanded loudly, raising his hand sharply and tugging Minty’s reins.

The dark mare reared onto her hind legs.

Geira pulled her reins and halted instantly, as did the rest of the line, taken aback by the sudden order. The only one who failed to stop—and she wasn’t surprised—was Dwalin.

The warrior had been riding directly behind her, but with a couple of nudges to his pony, he moved up alongside his leader as usual, positioning himself right at his side.

"What’s wrong?" Dwalin asked bluntly, leaning toward Thorin.

Puzzled, Geira turned her head to peer past the cluster of dwarves ahead. They were near the edge of the forest, just before a valley filled with small hills and thickets. Yet strangely, instead of leading them out, Thorin had come to a complete halt and remained silent.

A glance at the sinking hooves of Thorin’s pony in the mud was all she needed to understand the problem—and why they had stopped.

"A marsh. And it’s raining," she muttered to herself, a growing unease creeping over her.

Bad news.

Perhaps her words carried clearly, for around her arose grunts and sighs, along with a few accusing glances directed at her as the bearer of unwelcome news.

"You're joking, right?" Bombur sighed heavily from behind her, murmuring with a full mouth.

Gandalf, riding beside her, slightly turned his horse to look at the dwarf.

"I fear not, Master Dwarf... and this is not to our advantage, particularly given the hour," he murmured, casting an enigmatic glance toward the sun. She understood instantly, looking up.

It was low—too low. Sunset was approaching, and they could not stop here for the night.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bilbo draw closer, examining the expanse of mud and grass.

"What do you mean by ‘marsh’?" Bilbo asked, perplexed.

"It means we can’t proceed without risking the ponies drowning in the muck and losing our damned supplies in this swamp, Master Hobbit," Dwalin snapped, his stony face turning toward the end of the line.

"Oh no, no, no, no!" Dori cried out, his voice growing increasingly shrill, drawing her attention.

The dwarf gently tugged the reins of his dragging pony and shook his head, much to the bafflement of his younger brothers. "I’ve endured four days of rain, six days of riding, but this—I will not. I am not about to crawl through a filthy, stinking swamp. You’ll have to drag me!"

Gloin squinted, his mouth drawing into a firm line beneath his red beard. “As if we’ve got any other choice, Dori,” the dwarf retorted sternly.

“My alternative is to turn back and find a way around. There’s got to be some route that avoids this hellhole of mud and filth!”

“And add miles and miles to our journey? Brilliant idea, brother,” Nori said sharply from his side.

“Any other bright ideas?” Bofur chimed in with a wry grin, his accent lilting as he leaned forward on his pony. “Or are ya just lookin’ to moan us all to death, eh?”

Quickly, another round of bickering broke out over what should or shouldn’t be done.

Geira, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from Rosalie’s hooves, noticing how short her legs seemed compared to Gandalf’s horse. Crossing the marsh would be a risk—not just for them but for the ponies as well. Yet turning back wasn’t an option. There simply wasn’t enough time.

The voices around her grew louder, overlapping and drowning out the cheerful chirping of birds. Even Bilbo attempted to chime in, stammering something incoherent amidst the racket. But then, a low growl cut through the noise.

“Enough! Silence!” Thorin roared, his eyes flashing as he glared at the Company. Instantly, all voices ceased, and every wide-eyed gaze turned toward him, including hers. Thorin gestured sharply toward Dwalin at the back of the line.

“Dwalin, move to the rear and ensure everyone stays in position! Fili, Kili—take the centre and do the same,” he barked, glancing at the two brothers before shifting his gaze to her.

Geira held her breath but met his eyes squarely, refusing to be intimidated. Thorin’s lips parted slightly as if he were about to give her an order, but he quickly closed them and turned away, ignoring her entirely as he had for days.

She bit her lip. If he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist, he was free to do so.

Gently, she tugged Rosalie’s reins and shifted into the newly ordered formation. Cautiously, she positioned herself in perfect alignment, ahead of Fili and Gloin, and preceded by Balin, Bilbo, Gandalf, and Thorin, forming a straight column where everyone would be covered.

“I don’t like this at all,” she heard Bilbo mutter with a resigned sigh.

“Nor do I, lad,” Balin replied unexpectedly.

Cautiously, they began trudging around the edge of the dark mire. As soon as the ponies stepped in, the muck rose to their calves, accompanied by a foul stench of mud, leaves, and rotting wood.

A shiver of disgust ran down Geira’s spine, but she bit her lip to keep still, while the others made no attempt to hide their revulsion. Groans, coughs, and colourful expletives echoed as each struggled with the foul conditions.

The brown mud clung to her hands; leaves, twigs, and tiny insects stuck to her clothes, crawling or buzzing as they went.

“Keep the ponies’ noses up. Don’t let them lower their heads into the mud,” Thorin ordered, marching ahead without looking back.

Geira leaned down, pulling Rosalie’s reins and placing a firm hand beneath her neck to steady her. The pony was far from pleased, shaking her head irritably.

 “Stay still, that’s it… just a bit longer,” she murmured into the animal’s ear, stroking its neck soothingly.

Midway along the edge of the marsh, the mud had climbed nearly to their knees, and the ponies were quickly growing restless, nickering and pausing intermittently.

“By Durin’s beard…” Gloin grumbled irritably ahead of her when Bungo , Gloin’s pony, came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the line, blocking everyone behind him.

The pony whinnied loudly as Gloin tried to coax him forward with a tug, only for Bungo to shake his head stubbornly.

“Gloin…” Balin tried to interject, but the elder dwarf’s voice was drowned out by another loud groan.

“Why won’t you move, Bungo?” Gloin demanded insistently, giving the reins another sharp tug—harder this time.

The pony neighed again, thrashing more violently, clearly confused and frightened by its inability to move.

“If he keeps struggling, he’ll get stuck!” Geira shouted, raising her voice above the increasingly agitated cries of the pony.

But Gloin persisted, yanking the reins again. At that moment, Bungo reared, kicking his hind legs dangerously close to Rosalie, who began to panic in turn. The chain reaction spread quickly, and soon all the ponies were jittery and frightened, starting to move on their own.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as Rosalie jerked forward so hard that the reins scraped painfully against the buckles of her bracer, reopening a freshly healed wound.

Dwalin growled loudly, wrestling to calm Myrtle with visible difficulty. “Hold still, you stubborn beast!” he barked impatiently at Gloin, whose actions were making matters worse.

“Mr Gandalf, do something!” Dori called out anxiously.

The wizard remained unruffled, murmuring something to his horse to settle it, sparing only a brief glance at Dori as he lifted his staff slightly to keep his own steed steady.

If this continued, they’d all sink into the mud, losing their supplies and nearly all hope of success.

Without thinking—or weighing the consequences—Geira acted: she leapt off Rosalie and waded into the swamp, sinking nearly to her neck in the filthy mire under Bilbo’s astonished gaze.

She held her breath as the stench reached her nose, a shiver of disgust running through her from head to toe.

“Gloin, Fili, dismount the ponies!” she ordered sharply, moving towards Gloin’s pony and throwing a glance at the prince. He looked at her in confusion but followed suit, plunging into the mud with a horrified expression.

Gloin’s pony bucked even more stubbornly at its rider’s insistence, nearly landing a hoofed kick square in her chest.

“I don’t take orders from you!” Gloin roared, refusing to spare her even a glance.

“I’m not giving you orders—I’m trying to help!” she shot back firmly, trying to grab the pony’s reins and keep it steady.

“If you want me off this pony, you’ll have to pull me down yourself!”

“If you don’t get off that pony, Gloin son of Gróin, the swamp will swallow us whole!” she pressed, growing weary, too weary even to check her acid tone.

For once, they had to listen to her!

The pony, distressed by their bickering, started to move in panick nearly unseating Gloin. Her attempts to grab hold of the pony’s halter became increasingly futile as she wrestled with its thrashing.

With a deep sigh and an even deeper effort, she silently sent a prayer—a damned prayer for help and a blessing to the only one who might knock sense into Gloin. Still trying to calm the pony with her hands, she cast a pleading look towards Thorin, who stood watching impassively. His cold gaze shifted between her and the pony without offering a word or command.

 If they waited for his direction longer, they’d drown thanks to his pride.

“Uncle…” Fili called out to Thorin, approaching her through the mud and branches, looking bewildered and concerned by Thorin’s lack of direction.

Thorin pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening before fixing his stern gaze on Gloin.

“Gloin, do as she says,” he commanded sharply, holding her gaze briefly before turning back to Gloin.

The red-haired dwarf seemed unconvinced but obeyed nonetheless. He dismounted the pony with great difficulty, grumbling in irritation as his beard sank into the brown muck.

No sooner had Gloin left Bungo than the pony calmed enough for Geira to grasp the straps at its head in a quick motion.

She turned to Fili beside her, gesturing towards the two unaccompanied ponies. “Fili, take Daisy and Rosalie’s reins and make sure they follow,” she instructed with a grunt as Bungo tried to free himself from her grip.

Then she looked over the pony’s neck at Gloin. “Gloin, go behind Bungo and push steadily. I’ll pull from the front. Let’s try to keep him calm, or he might get stuck.”

Though visibly irked at the thought of taking directions from her, the dwarf nodded silently, casting a glance upwards in search of further orders from Thorin—which did not come.

Once both dwarves were in position, she moved in front of the black pony, gripping the sides of its bridle tightly to steady it as much as possible.

“One… two… push!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, beginning to pull on the straps.

She clenched her teeth, groaning with the effort as her muscles trembled under her skin. She threw her head back, pulling with all her strength.

“Come on, Bungo, move…” she muttered through gritted teeth, glancing back to see the other ponies had made it to the far side of the swamp.

Before she realised it, the reins suddenly became lighter to pull. Astonished, she looked to her side and saw Thorin, as mired in mud as she was, pulling the pony by the reins from the opposite side.

A lump formed in her throat as she found him beside her. His white teeth flashed as he pulled harder on the reins, his gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring the mud that smeared his blue cloak and half of his dark hair.

The shock of his gesture froze her briefly. Only when Thorin frowned, ready to pull again, did she follow his lead.

Bungo continued to resist, though Gloin tried to soothe him with murmured words. But after a few more attempts, she felt the ground beneath her shift as the pony’s hoof stepped forward. Thorin noticed it too, and as she stepped aside to let the pony pass, he did the same, wrapping the reins around his wrist and continuing to pull.

When they finally reached the far bank, Geira felt as though the ground would give way beneath her. Taking a few steps, she freed herself from the mud, leaning both arms against a tree trunk and pressing her forehead against it in exhaustion.

It was perhaps the most arduous and absurd thing she’d done in years, but they were safe—every one of them, along with their supplies.

“What a mess…” she heard Dwalin mutter behind her, followed by the thud of someone likely stepping off a mud-caked steed.

“Many claim mud is good for the skin and works wonders on beards, you know?” Bofur teased.

“Shut your mouth, Bofur,” came the retort, followed by a disgusted grunt and the muffled sound of coughing as Bofur’s laughter rang out, joined by a few others she couldn’t identify.

Bilbo’s groan grew louder, accompanied by gagging noises. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he murmured weakly.

“Oh, come now, Mr Baggins—a bit of mud never hurt anyone,” Kili jested.

“A bit of mud? I look like I’ve emerged from a dung heap—or worse, my bath! Damn it all,” Bilbo snapped shrilly, provoking more laughter and jests from the company.

As soon as Geira felt she’d recovered some strength, she tried to lift her face from the moss-covered trunk. Her heart was still pounding furiously, not just from exertion but also from what Thorin had just done.

He had helped the company, not her, she told herself. Don’t dwell on it.

She glanced down at her clothes, completely covered in muck. The filth clung to her shirt, black leather vest, and trousers, even seeping into her boots. She didn’t dare imagine what her face looked like. With a shrug, she let the heavy fur cloak drop to the ground, though the sticky sensation and stench clinging to her nostrils didn’t diminish in the slightest.

Her gaze shifted to Gloin, who stood with his face close to Bungo’s head, speaking to the pony as though addressing another dwarf. He responded in a low voice while stroking the animal’s muzzle with both hands. Her eyes wandered to Thorin, standing a little further ahead. He had just removed his cloak and laid it over Minty, his brown mare. Balin assisted him by holding Deathless , Thorin’s sword, which he had carried for as long as she had known him.

Almost involuntarily, she ran her fingers over her own sword, brushing a layer of mud from its pommel and clearing the sticky foliage from the grip with her thumb. She would have to clean the blade as soon as she found a place to wash—a necessity for everyone at this point. Both ponies and dwarves were caked in filth, and even those who hadn’t leapt into the swamp to help Gloin were covered in sticky brown muck up to their waists.

In the distance, Dori’s beard braids were smeared with mud, and with a disgusted expression, he tried wiping them clean on his shirt sleeve, muttering indignantly all the while.

“Well, Master Dori, at least we’re out of the swamp! Surely you’d have preferred this over more rain?” Gandalf teased, riding his horse near him.

Dori scrunched his nose, looking down at his soiled clothes and hands. “It’s a pity we now smell worse than goat dung!”

Gandalf chuckled heartily, giving his horse a gentle nudge with his heels as he rode towards the edge of the forest, disappearing briefly behind it while humming a little tune.

Geira shook her head.

Wizards and their mysterious ways.

Bifur was riding nearby, muttering to himself as he tried to clean his axe on a leaf as large as his head. “ Ei Nai’rikhi jalaibsêk inîn !”

“You’ve got a point, cousin,” Bofur chimed in, waving the hat he always wore in front of his face. “Finding a nice spot to clean up would be a miracle right about now. We’d need to find a…”

“A river?” Ori cut in suddenly, his tone surprised.

The young dwarf was standing at the forest’s edge, peering through the bushes and trees ahead.

“Exactly, Ori, a river!”

“N-no… no…. a river…” he stammered, still pointing towards a small gap between the trees.

Curious, Geira looked over at the youngest member of the company, as did everyone else. Ori pushed aside a cluster of branches with his arm, revealing how the grove ended abruptly, opening into a small clearing. At its centre flowed a narrow river, with small rocky hills rising in the background—hills that had seemed so far away only moments ago.

In astonishment, Geira blinked several times, wondering if it was a mirage.

“A river…” she murmured to herself, a spontaneous smile forming on her lips.

“Could we not take advantage of this and have a bath?” Balin suggested to Thorin, who was still gazing at the small passage. “Given our condition, lad, it seems an ideal opportunity.”

Whether it was the advice of a friend or Balin’s own desire, the decision was made before Thorin could protest.

“Oh, praise great Durin! I’ve never been so happy to see water in my life!” Dori exclaimed enthusiastically, throwing his arms into the air. Without waiting for approval, he grabbed his pony’s reins and hurried towards the small path Ori had indicated.

There was barely time to head towards Rosalie before they all followed one by one, making their way through the bushes.

Gandalf observed them with amusement from his horse as they passed, cutting through the undergrowth and sparse trees that separated them from the clearing, taking the ponies with them. Judging by their whinnies, the animals were delighted to smell water.

This was all too perfect—too perfect to be real.

They should have heard the sound of rushing water, yet there was none. In that moment, Geira remembered how Gandalf had slipped away earlier, ignoring Dori’s questions and humming as he vanished. 

The answer to all her questioning dawned on her.

She watched as everyone followed Ori’s directions unquestioningly, under the watchful eye of the wizard, who was busy packing tobacco into his pipe. She picked up her cloak from the ground and placed it over Rosalie’s back, the pony nudging her cheek in gratitude.

“A little rest for you too, at last,” she whispered into Rosalie’s ear, receiving another gentle nudge in response.

As Geira passed Gandalf at the entrance to the narrow path, she gave him a knowing look.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” she asked bluntly, a smile of amusement tugging at her lips.

The wizard widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Me, my dear? Absolutely not! Whatever gives you that idea?” he replied slyly, giving her a quick wink and clearing the path ahead of her with the tip of his staff.

“Thank you,” she nodded in appreciation.

The wizard didn’t reply, only widened the path further with an enigmatic smile.

Holding Rosalie’s reins, she made her way through the light brush, weaving between branches and broken tree trunks. Once she emerged, she had to take a deep breath, though opening her mouth wide was difficult. This was Gandalf’s handiwork. In her entire life, she had never seen anything in nature as perfect as this clearing. A small waterfall tumbled from a hill into the clearing, encircled by clusters of trees. A well-trodden path of smooth, round stones led to the river, across which a ford of large flat rocks led to pastures on the other side of the crystal-clear, almost transparent stream.

The entire company was already inside the clearing. Many had tossed their soiled clothes onto the short grass, leaving a trail leading to the water. They splashed about in the stream, laughing boisterously and pouncing on each other like children, though most were well past that age—far, far past it.

Others, mostly the older ones, sat on the rocks beside the river with their eyes closed, savouring the moment. A few who had not yet entered the water were busy undressing. Geira spotted only the black curls of a certain dwarf in the middle of the water and had to make a conscious effort not to let her eyes linger on him.

After freeing Rosalie, she settled on the riverbank and began removing her boots, placing them neatly beside her. She did the same with her sword, unfastening it carefully from her belt and setting it next to her after cleaning the blade lightly with her palm.

Next, she tackled the intricate laces criss-crossing her chest. With a sigh of relief, she finally managed to free herself, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like an eternity after removing the infernal contraption. In moments like these, iron armour would have been a dream compared to the torture of  leather bodice.

“Geira?” her name was called hesitantly.

Distracted by her thoughts, her hands, which had been fiddling with the ties of her shirt collar, paused as she looked up.

Bilbo stood beside her, still fully dressed except for his pink jacket and blue waistcoat. His fingers fidgeted nervously, and he was deliberately avoiding her gaze, his eyes dramatically fixed skyward.

“Bilbo, is something wrong?” she asked, noting his reluctance to speak.

“W-what are you doing?” he stammered, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I’m undressing. I need to wash too, you know?” she said with a chuckle at his embarrassment.

“Yes, yes, of course, you need to wash,” he muttered in a deeper voice, “but… here? With us?” he asked, scratching his chin nervously.

Confused, she raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I’ll bathe here with you… where else would I do it?”

“But… but… don’t you see the… the problem?” he asked, glancing at the river and then quickly back at the company already splashing about, blissfully unaware of their conversation.

Geira couldn’t understand why she shouldn’t bathe there. “What problem?”

Bilbo’s face grew redder as he darted his gaze briefly to her chest before jerking it away again. Clearing his throat, he raised a hand to his mouth. “You know… you…” he gestured vaguely, pointing first at her and then at the dwarves in the water. “And them…”

“You mean… the fact that they might see me without clothes?” she asked, starting to grasp his point.

“Y-yes, that they might see you without clothes… others… I mean…” he stammered, gesturing wildly towards Fili and Kili, who had just launched themselves at Nori and Bofur with splashes and laughter, only to be thrown into the water amidst roaring guffaws.

“You’re worried the company might see me naked?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Exactly…” he confirmed, still refusing to look directly at her.

Geira had to resist laughing at the sight of his trembling hands. His naïvet�� stirred a deep sense of affection in her.

He truly knew nothing of the world, it was true. He knew even less about his companions.

She stood up abruptly, and even then, Bilbo refused to glance her way, despite her being fully clothed. Instead of reaching for his hand, she placed her own gently on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, his wide green eyes finally meeting hers.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” she reassured him. “They’ve already seen me naked… more than once, actually,” she admitted, barely stifling a laugh as his eyes widened further in shock.

“What?!”

His startled exclamation only made her smile. “Most of them, at least. And I’ve seen them naked too.”

“How?!” he exclaimed again, gesticulating wildly.

Geira searched for a suitable explanation, or at least a half-truth, to avoid revealing too much. She wasn’t ready for Bilbo to know her past—not yet.

“When travelling like this, as we are now, we have to make compromises. One of them is deciding what we can and can’t do,” she began, gripping his arm gently. “For us, a body is just a body—nothing more. We don’t feel shame or embarrassment about it. It’s like… it’s like being clothed, in a way,” she explained in the simplest terms she could.

Bilbo’s expression shifted from embarrassment to curiosity. Tilting his head slightly, he squinted at her. “So, you’ve travelled with them before?”

Her jaw tightened, and she felt her breath catch. She had said too much, betrayed herself.

Nodding stiffly, she released Bilbo’s shoulder. “A long time ago. I travelled with… with some of them… a long time ago,” she murmured, her gaze drifting towards Dwalin, who was reclining among the water and stones, basking in the sunlight. Her eyes traced scars across his abdomen and chest and the thick muscles of his arms. She still remembered how he had gotten those scars. She had been there.

“So… what you did… what they hold against you… it happened while you were exiled…”

“If you like, Bilbo, I can move further away from you if it makes you uncomfortable to see me,” she interrupted with a smile, unwilling to continue the conversation, especially about those terrible days.

Bilbo pressed his lips together, then offered her a gentle smile. He had clearly realised this wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. She felt guilty, but she wasn’t ready—not yet, and perhaps she never would be.

Bilbo shook his head. “No, it’s not fair—I’ll turn around,” he muttered, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender before shrugging nervously.

“As you wish,” she murmured softly, more to herself than him. She quickly shed the remaining layers of her clothing—the trousers and her red shirt—placing them with the rest of the pile near the riverbank.

The moment she was naked, a slight chill sent goosebumps across her skin.

As the soles of her feet touched the smooth but firm pebbles, her face twisted into a grimace, though it softened the moment the cool, clear water enveloped her. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she sank into the river up to her neck, tilting her head back to let the water soak into her hair.

She stayed like that for a while, basking in the sun’s warmth on her face and the river’s coolness, which eased her weary, aching muscles. The sunlight painted small spots on her closed eyelids while the water’s currents brushed softly against the scars on her arms and legs.

Dipping her head fully underwater, the sounds of the forest and joyful cries became muffled. She could hear only the faint hum of the riverbed as her breath slowed. When her lungs began to burn, she surfaced quickly, gasping and rubbing the water from her eyes, pushing her hair back from her face.

With a few strokes, she reached a rock in the middle of the river. She leaned against it, crossing her arms and resting her head atop them, exposing her back and letting the water soothe every fibre of her body.

She deserved a moment of peace.

For long minutes, she lay there, listening to the birdsong and the rustling of water, along with the distant chatter and laughter of the company. The droplets on her skin dried under the gentle warmth of the sun. It was so tranquil that she felt as though she had travelled back in time, wandering through forests as she had in the past. How many streams and rivers had offered her respite during her journeys, witnessed the same melancholic and wistful expression she wore now?

She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time she opened an eye and glanced towards the company, no one seemed to be looking at her. Yet as soon as she closed her eyes again, that strange sensation returned.

“Geira?”

Bilbo’s uncertain voice made her open her eyes and turn to her left. The hobbit, still wearing his shirt and trousers, was swimming nearby, trying not to look directly at her.

“May I?” he asked, motioning towards a rock close to hers, clearly hesitant.

“Of course,” she said with a nod, inviting him to join her. Without hesitation, he settled onto the nearby rock, leaning back as she had, letting the cool water lap around him.

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, the river’s gentle flow between them, and the noisy chirping of birds. Her unease lessened, knowing Bilbo was nearby. It’s brief whistle further eased her spirit, calming the storm within her.

“What does the tattoo on your back mean—the two ravens?” he asked suddenly. A terrible pang struck her chest as she straightened in the water, placing a protective hand on her scarred shoulder.

“Why do you ask?” she whispered, her fingers brushing the outline of the bird’s wing.

“They were talking about it earlier,” he explained cautiously, gesturing vaguely behind her. “I’d tried to approach the others, making my way through the chaos, and as I got closer, I overheard them mentioning your tattoo. It seemed important to them, so I wondered…”

“Thorin?” she interrupted, gritting her teeth as pain stabbed through her chest.

Bilbo nodded silently, staring at the water lapping his stomach. “Fili and Kili were asking questions… then he and Balin…”

Geira’s gaze drifted to Thorin, seated on the opposite riverbank, talking with Balin. The older dwarf’s eyes were fixed on his king, but for a moment, she swore Thorin glanced her way. She could only see his broad back, yet it was enough. That back, sculpted like pure marble, bore scars and a tattoo she knew by heart. His tattoo was similar to hers—a single raven, crowned.

Old anger stirred within her chest, and the more her fingers touched the permanent mark on her back, the more it begged her to unleash her wrath. But she restrained herself; she had to. She had promised.

Enough of the past—her last confrontation with Thorin had been enough.

She dropped her hand from her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest and lowering her gaze. Rising from the water, she headed for the shore.

“It means nothing, Bilbo,” she said hastily, grabbing her clothes from where they lay near the river. She clutched them to her chest, determined to wash them and rid herself of these intrusive thoughts.

“From the way they spoke, it didn’t seem like nothing,” Bilbo countered softly.

She must have shown too much vulnerability, even to Bilbo.

Trying again, she spoke firmly, as if issuing a warning. “Please, Bilbo, it truly means nothing…” She hesitated. “Please, let it go.”

Bilbo didn’t respond further. She only heard him sigh as he let the matter drop. Perhaps he had realised the situation was far more complex than he had anticipated.

In silence, she scrubbed her clothes in the river, washing away the dirt, as though trying to cleanse her mind of negative thoughts. Soon, she would do the same for her sword.

“For what it’s worth,” Bilbo said after a long pause, shaking his head as if banishing unwanted thoughts, “I… well, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it was—if it’s any comfort—I think Thorin or anyone you might have wronged will forgive you, in time.”

“And what if I don’t want to be forgiven? Or if it’s I who must forgive?” she snapped, scrubbing the last layer of mud from her trousers and leaving Bilbo no time to reply.

Yet, as before, she immediately regretted her outburst. Her emotions would be her undoing.

With a heavy sigh, she lowered her gaze to the water, brushing her fingers over the intricate metal bracelet always fastened to her wrist. “You don’t know dwarves. You don’t know Thorin.”

“And you…?”

A faint smile graced her lips as her fingers traced the delicate craftsmanship of the bracelet. Its links were as light and strong as dragon scales, precious enough to construct a palace.

“I thought I knew him, a long time ago… a very long time ago,” she murmured, her voice fading.

“What happened between you two? I mean… before… before the exile?”

“There are events that leave a deep mark on you. The coming of Smaug was no different. It changed us—both him and me,” she said, pausing to take a steadying breath. “He used to smile more,” she murmured, a painful ache tightening her chest as she fought back a tear she had sworn never to shed again.

She heard Bilbo inhale, preparing to ask another question, but before he could speak, the voices of the company rose. Many of them began emerging from the river, signalling to both that it was time to move on.

Geira left the water quickly, eager to put distance between herself and the emotions Bilbo had stirred within her. Gathering her dry clothes in her arms, she left the wet ones near the sacks and sheathed her sword. With brisk steps, she walked towards the forest.

The grass brushed against her toes, the leaves of low-hanging trees grazed her skin, and the approaching sunset warmed her gently. Its rays dried the tips of her short hair, curling them slightly at the ends.

The grove grew denser, with oaks and shrubs increasing with every step she took, as did the silence enveloping her.

She was retreating again, needing those few minutes of privacy only a cluster of trees could provide. She didn’t want to see anyone’s face—not for a while.

She stopped after a short distance, unwilling to wander too far and risk making them search for her.

Scanning her surroundings for any uninvited visitors, she eventually felt assured of her solitude, though not entirely at ease. With a huff, she draped her clean clothes over a curved branch and began dressing quickly, piece by piece.

She secured her trousers, covering the two rune-like stripes tattooed on her thighs, and slipped on her white shirt, hiding the tattoo on her back and ensuring no one—not even herself—could see it again.

Tense as a bowstring, she reached blindly for the leather corset on the branch, but as she grasped it, her wrist caught on two small twigs.

Geira tugged her hand free, but the green wood didn’t break immediately. She was forced to look at it again, and her gaze fell on the bracelet of pale metal glimmering like moonlight in the waning sun’s rays.

Until the last breath.

“No, no, no, no!” she muttered aloud, yanking herself free and looking away immediately. “Let it rot! Let it all rot, him and everything else!” she growled, fumbling with the clasp that kept the cursed thing secured to her wrist.

She wanted to throw it away right then and there, in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t even want to sell it—she just wanted it gone, never to be seen again. She didn’t want it near her or on her, didn’t want to see it anymore. It was the last reminder of what she had been—not for Erebor, not for herself, but for him. What he had once meant to her.

Her hands began to tremble, her breath came in uneven gasps, and her throat tightened, making even breathing painful.

She tried to remove the bracelet, but the more she pulled at its clasp, the more the indestructible metal seemed to cling to her arm like a vice. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed at it, yanking it with such force that it hurt, but it refused to move.

With a despairing groan, she gave up, slumping against the branch in front of her, resting her elbows on it and burying her face in her hands.

Tears threatened to fall again, but she forced them back, clenching her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep reacting this way—she had to be strong, as she had always been taught, as she always had to be.

She needed to be like she was in battle—unfeeling, unemotional. Even now, she had to remain hard, unable to cry any longer.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she ran a trembling hand through her damp, tangled hair. Suddenly, a rustling sound different from the others made her ears perk up. Something had stepped on fallen leaves.

She straightened immediately, her senses on alert, scanning the area for the source of the noise. She knew exactly what it was.

“Go away, Bilbo,” she said wearily, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Her head throbbed as though a hammer was repeatedly striking it, adding to the exhaustion weighing on her body.

“You still have the habit of making assumptions without first being certain, lass,” came a rasping voice, making her lift her head from her hands. “You’ve always been so impulsive.”

At the sound of that voice, Geira hastily pushed the bracelet back under her shirt sleeve.

“Some habits are hard to break, Balin, and flaws are even worse,” she replied coldly, not even turning to face the older dwarf.

Hearing his voice alone made her skin crawl. Looking at him would only worsen the turmoil within her. Instead, she continued dressing, grabbing the corset she hadn’t managed to don earlier and wrapping it around her shoulders and waist.

“I’m sorry. I never intended for this particular trait of yours to be considered a flaw,” he said calmly.

“It’s always been treated as one, though, if I remember correctly,” she retorted acidly, fastening the straps around her waist. For days, he hadn’t given her so much as a glance, and now he wanted to talk as though nothing had happened, as though the years between them didn’t exist. As though everything that had transpired was a fleeting memory. And he wanted to talk about her faults.

He had no right. He could go back to scheming with his king.

The older dwarf chuckled softly. “Not when it came to taking charge. You’ve always been the most capable in that regard. It’s one of the reasons you were always the best.”

“It was only training,” she interrupted tersely.

“I didn’t mean the best at fighting—I meant the best overall…”

Geira stayed silent, hoping in vain that time had made Balin less intrusive, that he would leave her alone without trying to twist the situation to his advantage, as he always had.

He was, after all, a politician. He had always been one. She remembered when he would visit her home with her father, sitting in his study for hours, filling out documents and preparing speeches for the king. She didn’t want to be yet another page for him to analyse.

“Why are you here, Balin?” she asked bluntly as she finished fastening her corset. “If you wanted me to hurry up, you could have just left. I would have caught up in a few minutes.”

“I came to apologise for what my brother said to you a few days ago. It wasn’t fair of him, and I wanted to thank you for what you did today.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“Dwalin does what he wants when he wants, as he always has. Your apology, like his, isn’t necessary. And your gratitude isn’t either. I did what needed to be done to ensure everyone survived,” she explained, kneeling to pull on her boots and avoid letting the situation spiral further. “I can handle things on my own without anyone’s thanks.”

The older dwarf sighed, remaining silent for a few moments. “I know, I know, and so do the others…” He paused, taking a heavy breath. “Even Thorin. Though he’ll never admit it, he knows.”

At the mention of that name, she felt her back burn as though the tattoo beneath her shirt flared to life. Her eyes itched to glance at her wrist where the bracelet lay hidden.

“I don’t care what he knows or doesn’t know. He has nothing to do with my decisions anymore. I do what’s right, not under his orders—and certainly not for him!” she snapped, nearly growling as she bent to tighten the straps on her boots.

Balin took a small step forward. Instinctively, she stepped back, clenching her teeth.

“You’ve taken the hobbit under your wing. For that, I think a thank-you from all of us is warranted. He wasn’t quite the companion we’d expected,” Balin continued, his tone measured.

“I don’t want your gratitude, Balin. I don’t want gratitude from any of you!” she shot back sharply. “Bilbo deserves the same chance to survive as the rest of us. He deserves it. He was thrown out the door with nothing but a push and nothing to guide him, without so much as a clue how to cross the threshold.”

Balin remained quiet, offering no reply. The birdsong filled the silence, and she had no intention of adding to her earlier words. She had told him what he needed to know.

She secured the leather strap around her calf, then repeated the motion with the other, waiting for Balin to leave.

“Your father… where is he?”

Her hands trembled, and she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the ground, clenching her fingers with all her strength.

“He’s dead. A hundred years ago, near the banks of the Adorn,” she murmured, her voice as controlled as she could make it, stripped of all emotion. “He’s buried there, at the base of the highest hill I could find,” she added, recalling the small cairn she had built with her bare hands and the runes she had carved in mere hours. “The closest thing to a mountain for miles,” she muttered to herself, rising to her feet despite the sharp ache in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not sorry, Balin. So don’t waste your breath on these empty platitudes,” she snapped, her voice low but cold. “My father died in exile, and his grave is in exile. Nothing can change that—not your sorrow!” she spat, glaring directly into his eyes.

“What happened, Geira,” Balin began cautiously, “what happened to you… it wasn’t an easy decision for anyone to accept—or to make, for that matter. On either side.”

“Don’t speak as though you opposed it, Balin. No one did. No one said a word that day!” she shouted, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at his chest. “We were cast out like wild animals, forbidden from speaking to any of our kind for the rest of our lives! Everything was taken from us!”

Her voice rang out, echoing through the small grove. The fury she had suppressed for years finally poured out.

He had been there—Balin, like so many others, had watched silently as Thorin, Thráin, and Thrór had exiled her and her father. They had seen, they had heard her pleas, and yet no one had done anything then, nor in the 120 years that followed.

Balin’s lips quivered beneath his white beard, his face clouded with sorrow. “No one could have said anything in the face of such a verdict. It wasn’t easy, Geira—not for anyone,” he said softly, emphasising the word anyone to make his meaning clear.

“It wasn’t easy?” she shouted again, her voice raw, almost breaking into tears she refused to let fall. “For whom? It didn’t seem hard for him—or for anyone in this company!”

A shadow passed over Balin’s eyes, and his expression darkened.

“It was a very difficult time, Geira,” he murmured, lowering his gaze.

He couldn’t even look at her.

“... far too difficult.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, laced with pain and words left unsaid. It was laughable, how Balin still believed Thorin might have cared, might have suffered for her, when he had been the one to order her banishment.

With a wry smile tugging at her mouth, she stepped closer to Balin, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Look me in the eye and tell me you think I’m not a traitor. That I didn’t deserve what happened to me—or what my father endured. Tell me he doesn’t think the same.”

“That day was terrible, and the years leading up to Smaug’s arrival were even worse. What happened to you is…”

“Answer the question!” she hissed, her voice as cold as ice. “Look me in the eye and tell me, Balin!” she then shouted, her voice erupting with all the strength she could muster.

Balin flinched at her outburst but continued to gaze at her with sorrow, his mouth slightly open as if ready to respond. Yet no words came. His eyes met hers, searching her soul, but he could not offer the answer she already knew.

“See? Your apologies, your regrets—they’re meaningless to me, just like all the other lies,” she whispered icily.

Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him, leaving the old dwarf and all her anger and pain behind her. She headed back to the others—and inevitably towards the source of her suffering.

------------------------------- TAG LIST: @mrsdurin

[labellefleur-sauvage]

The Curse of Sleepy Hollow

In the quiet village of Sleepy Hollow in the human lands south of the Wall, there’s a local legend: that every All Hallow’s Eve, the ghostly form of a headless fae on a horse from the lands north of the Wall haunts the town for an evening, looking for his missing head and a human woman to take as his bride.

Too bad for Elain Archeron, the headless fae has found his head; now he’s looking for a bride, and he’s set his eyes on her.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7K

Read on AO3

Happy Monstertober! Thank you to @wilde-knight for the gentle encouragement and inspiration you provided for this fic. I guess if we want ye olde sexy times, we gotta write it ourselves.

XXX

“Don’t forget your letters, Timothy! I’m expecting a perfect assignment from you on Monday!”

Elain sighed to herself as she watched the crowd of schoolchildren tear off down the hill towards the small village. Young Timothy, in particular, paid his teacher no heed, his school bag full of hand me down books, crumpled parchment and half-broken pencils hanging precariously from his bone thin shoulder. In truth, Elain was surprised he’d come back to school this year; after the untimely death of his older brother, she thought for sure the young boy would be pulled into the fields to work day in and day out to harvest what meager crops managed to grow in the family’s rocky soil. 

Some of her other charges showed more promise, or at least a more stable home life. Clare had dreams of becoming a school teacher herself, and Isaac, with his parent’s approval and coin, had applied to the University in the south to study mathematics. 

Whatever became of these children, Elain hoped they would do what she couldn’t seem to do: get far, far away from this desolate, cursed town, and the nearby Wall haunting everyone who lived nearby.

Elain shivered as a sudden cold breeze whipped the air around her. She pulled her shaw closer around her shoulders. Just thinking about that damned Wall—what it stood for, and what was on the other side—always seemed to bring ill omens to her.

No one had warned Elain about the peculiarities of Sleepy Hollow when she took the school teacher position just a year ago. “The position is usually vacant,” her professor had said haltingly, avoiding her eager gaze. “The village may be willing to pay more, considering…”

Elain had ignored—hadn’t even noticed—her lecturer’s clear hesitation to speak about the job opening, too caught up in jealousy over her peers who had no trouble landing teaching positions around the realm. When the small piece of faded paper had been tacked onto the jobs board that morning, the weekly pay crossed out time and time again and a new, higher amount subsequently written in, Elain had grabbed it and sent her application letter that very day. 

And Elain had regretted that decision for the past 364 days. 

She shook herself from her memories. “No point in standing outside gazing at nothing like a crazy woman,” she muttered to herself. Elain walked back into her one room schoolhouse and tidied up as best she could and as much as she wanted. Like everyone else, she wanted to get home as soon as possible to enjoy her weekend.

When the floor had been swept, the chairs pushed in, the slates wiped clean and the books straightened out, dusk had fallen. Elain glanced down the hill towards Sleepy Hollow. The town was tucked in a small valley, and isolated from other settlements and villages. Warm, cozy lights flooded the dirt streets out of small houses. Chimney smoke lazily floated above the settlement. 

If only Elain were going there. When she’d arrived in town for her teaching position a few weeks after she’d applied, she’d been dismayed to learn the small house included in the job’s room and board had inexplicably burnt down the day she had sent her application. “But don’t worry,” the aldorman had said, putting on a brave face. “Housing was included in the posting, so housing you’ll get!”

What she had gotten was a small, cozy stone cottage that had been previously abandoned but quickly tidied up by the village when word of a new school teacher got out. The bed was large and comfortable, the rugs surprisingly soft, and the fireplace busy with an unlimited supply of wood from the villagers, all free.

If only it weren’t through the forest, on the other side of the town, and far too close to the Wall.

Gathering her cloak around her, Elain set off down the hill towards the forest. Most evenings she didn’t mind the stroll back home. It was an easy walk, one she could complete at a leisurely pace and admire the beautiful trees and singing birds. 

Tonight was different. Tonight was All Hallows Eve, and Elain had been a fool to forget it. 

As Elain neared the forest, she paused. The back of her neck prickled in unease. There was no one around her, yet she felt eyes on her, appraising her form, her appearance. Her breath escaped her mouth in a white vapor as something dragged across her neck, her throat—

Elain whipped around. She was alone. Even the birds had abandoned her.

Breathing harshly, the sudden chill making her weak, Elain turned back to the forest and marched onwards.

XXX

Sleepy Hollow had a…heaviness to it. It was as if the town was stuck in a permanent dream-like haze, a stupor hanging like the morning fog over the area. The town had a way of sinking its claws into anyone who stayed there too long, dragging them into its lair until it was too late, until they realized that they just couldn’t leave. Your one horse might fall and turn lame and need to be put down, or the money you’d been saving for months, years, had to go towards putting food on the table because you lost your job or the fields suddenly turned barren. Even those attempting to leave on foot always came back, one way or the other: they got lost in the woods and somehow turned around so badly they ended right where they started, or, in Timothy’s older brother’s case, his body returned in a wooden casket after it was fished out of the river, his neck unnaturally bent. 

And Elain worried that she had been here too long now, that Sleepy Hollow would never let her go. 

She had tried, this past spring. Deciding that life in the valley wasn’t want she wanted and missing her family, she’d written home to her father, requesting a small advance to ship all her belongings home and to secure passage home. But he had gotten sick, his following letter revealed, and could no longer work. With no income and all his money going towards his medicine, there was no money left to bring Elain home. Elain hadn’t earned nearly enough money as the one schoolteacher for Sleepy Hollow, and so, she had stayed. It was just an unfortunate turn of events, she reasoned. 

But Elain couldn’t help blaming it all on the Wall. 

That damned Wall, put in place to separate the weak human lands from the unnatural fae lands to the north. Erected more than 500 years ago, after a long and bloody war, it was supposed to keep the two sides apart, supposed to keep the humans safe and the cruel, animalistic Fae sanctioned away.

If only it actually worked. 

Elain heard it all, eventually, whether overheard from villagers along the streets or in the one lone pub, or from her pupils who blurted out the long held truth they didn’t know they were supposed to keep secret: the Wall had never held in Sleepy Hollow, and the town had been cursed by the Fae because of it.

At first, Elain dismissed it as false, the silly superstitions of a backwards, barely literate isolated village that needed to blame its bad luck on something other than themselves, rather than admit its own shortcomings. But then odd things started happening.

It started small: lentils scattered within her ashy fireplace when Elain certainly hadn’t spilled them there, or her clean stream water suddenly turning brown and filthy whenever she tried to scrub the floors. 

Then it progressed: a dead rabbit, clean of its fur, left on someone’s doorstep. The local blacksmith’s tools melted down overnight and his forge ruined, forcing him to use his life’s savings to keep his family in their home.

Then winter came. 

“It comes—hiccup!—in waves,” the town drunk, Aranea, whisper-shouted to her one winter evening in the corner of the pub. A local child had gone missing that day, and everyone gathered at the pub after a long day of searching to regroup and warm themselves up. “First, small things: broken cups, stolen food, things like that. Then, as spring comes and summer deepens, things get worse. Destroyed crops. Someone vanishes. Then it’s All Hallows Eve and…”

“And?”

“Get me another cup of wine and I’ll tell you.”

Gritting her teeth and returning with wine, Elain set it down in front of Aranea. “And then, on All Hallows Eve?”

Aranea reached a shaking hand out and drank half the glass in one gulp. In the low light of the pub, sweat dotted the older woman’s temple and upper lip. “Then He comes.”

Elain had to use all of her patience learned through dealing with unruly children to keep herself calm. “And who is this man?”

“Not a man.” Aranea looked around, reaching for her drink and taking another large gulp. “A fae.”

Elain’s stomach dropped. She put on a false bravado. “If it’s just a fae—“

“But it’s not just a fae.” The corners of her mouth turned down and Aranea swallowed. “He’s worse. Different. Only one night a year, just one, He—“

Perhaps the wine was not needed to soothe Aranea’s drunken ache, Elain realized, watching the terror gradually overwhelm the old woman’s face, her eyes red and panicked. Perhaps the sweat was not due to the roaring fire. 

“But you need to know,” Aranea said quietly, like she was talking to herself. “It’s not right.”

“What’s not right?”

Aranea looked around again and lowered her voice. “The aldorman doesn’t like us talking about Him. But it’s not right that you’re left out.” She took a deep breath, and Elain forgot to breathe in anticipation. “The fae’s got no head—“

Elain couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her mouth. Clearly, she was getting worked up over nothing. 

“It’s not a joke,” Aranea replied harshly, and Elain stopped. “Every All Hallows Eve, the headless fae rides on his horse through the Wall and into the valley, looking for his missing head he lost in the war over 500 years ago. He only has a night, and when he finds his head, he goes on a rampage, killing and murdering. But some say…”

“Some say what?”

“Some think he’s looking for more. Looking for a woman to take as his own.”

The din of the pub quieted. Glancing around, Elain saw several groups filing out, no doubt starting another patrol for the missing child. She should go too. Soon. 

“Has anyone ever actually seen this fae?”

Aranea paused. “I did. When I was younger. He cut down my husband when we were walking back to town. A flash of red on a steed as black as night, then my husband’s head rolling down the road.”

Elain stared wide eyed, open mouthed at the old woman. “I’m sorry,” she whispered eventually. Then, confused. “Why doesn’t everyone leave, move away?”

Aranea turned towards Elain, and where her eyes had been red, bleary and hazy before, now they were dull, flat. Dead. “You don’t think we’ve tried?”

XXX

They found the child, eventually. The girl’s mother opened their door one morning to find the child sleeping on the dirt right outside the door, curled around her stuffed straw doll and looking like she had never left.

(The child wasn’t the same, though, Elain heard later on. A shame, the women of the village clucked amongst themselves, to be cursed with a changling for a child.)

The year progressed as Aranea had predicted: the random and odd events became dangerous, threatening, culminating in the death of Timothy’s older brother. A part of Elain—the educated, logical part—still railed against everyone and thought these were all just unfortunate and odd situations. Accidents, or the work of a mischievous child. As for what Aranea said, her own history, well, clearly a red-haired highwayman murdered her poor husband. It was tragic, but not a dead Fae come to reclaim his head and wreak havoc. 

But a smaller part couldn’t completely dismiss what she’d seen and been told, and it wasn’t a stretch to imagine a galloping headless fae terrorizing the woods, especially on a night like this. The wind seeped into Elain’s wool cloak, making the fabric feel thinner and lighter than the lace doily covering her kitchen table. Above her, the bare tree branches creaked and groaned in agony, like they too wanted to be free of these woods and put their roots somewhere else. 

She scoffed to herself. This was another normal night in a completely normal wood. Soon, she’d be in her perfectly normal cottage to settle down with a cup of tea and a good book by the fire. 

In fact, Elain thought happily, she could see one of the last landmarks along the forest path that signaled her walk was almost over. She had four such landmarks: a wide tree with a particularly large knot at its base, a rock worn down by the elements so that the top was a natural basin, two snarled and thorny bushes, and a small trickle of a stream. She’d just passed the snarled bushes, and right around the bend should be the stream—

Except there was the wide, knotted tree that marked the beginning of the path when she entered the forest. “What is this?” Elain murmured, looking around. Had she gotten mixed up by mistake? 

She must have, she decided, walking a bit faster now. Most of the trees above her were bare, but the thick branches still managed to conceal the last weak rays of light the sun had to offer. It would be dark soon, and Elain had never traversed the path at night.

Picking up the bottom of her cloak so as not to trip, Elain moved as fast as she dared. There was the basin rock, there the bushes and there—

Elain felt a sob rising in her throat, her chest tight. There was the knotted tree. It made no sense, she knew she hadn’t walked off the path or gotten twisted around. She ran now, heedless of her cloak. The cool air bit her cheeks. If she could just run fast enough, surely she’d get home.

Somewhere behind her, a faint gallop echoed throughout the trees.

Eyes wide and breath choppy, Elain stopped, nearly tripping over herself. She listened, but all she could hear was the hammering of her heart. Eventually it slowed. It was silent around her. ‘A trick,’ she thought to herself. ‘Just my nerves playing with me.’

The galloping resumed. Closer. Louder.

Elain didn’t wait. She sprinted down the dirt path, the path she’d already walked down thrice. The galloping was now accompanied by harsh, animalistic breathing and grunting, like whatever hoofed beast was working as hard as she was. She darted a look behind her and wished she hadn’t: through the slim sliver of moonlight that passed between the branches, Elain could make out a huge, black horse, its eyes blood red, and a cloaked figure atop it.

Pumping her arms and legs faster, Elain charged ahead. Perhaps she could get off the path, run into the woods. But she knew that would only put her in more danger, that she had no hope of evading her pursuer through an ancient forest she wasn’t familiar with.

There—there was the stream, the last landmark before her cottage. If she’d had the air in her burning lungs for it, Elain would have cried. She could feel the giant beast’s warm breath right behind her, its presence looming. Just a bit further, almost safe…

A strong arm wrapped around her waist and lifted her easily onto the back of the horse. She landed hard on her stomach on the back of the running horse and whatever breath that was in her lungs fled.

Momentarily dazed, Elain looked up. She couldn’t see her captive’s face, but she could just make out a jagged, rough cut around his entire neck and a shock of long, red hair.  

There was screaming coming from somewhere, louder and louder, a wail that reminded Elain of her mother’s funeral when she’d been a little girl. It took several seconds to realize the sound was coming from her. Her capture’s bare hand darted out. A large, warm hand settled on the nape of her neck, and Elain knew nothing else.

XXX

Elain’s back ached. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so horribly—probably the first night in the stone cottage outside Sleepy Hollow.

Sleepy Hollow. Her cottage. The woods. The Headless Fae.

She gasped. It wasn’t a nightmare, what had happened to her. Elain tried to roll over but couldn’t. She flailed her limbs but made no purchase. 

“I’d stop struggling if I were you. It would be a shame for your beautiful skin to bear such ugly bruises.”

Elain blinked and finally took in her surroundings. She was laying on a large, stone slab several feet off the ground. Some fabric was underneath her body, protecting her from the brunt of the cold, sharp stone—small mercies, but she acutely felt the sting of the wind across her body. Her arms were tied above her head and the rope secured to the stone; her legs were spread and similarly tied and bound to the stone. Dozens of wax candles were placed on the ground and hanging from tree branches above her, creating a hazy, shimmering effect that her eyes struggled to adjust to.

And there, sitting at the foot of an ancient tree several feet away, watching her, was a man so handsome Elain thought he must be the devil.

But no, that can’t be right, she thought groggily, her brain gradually waking up. Not unless the devil was actually fae.

Odder things have happened.

The figure wore a flowing, long-sleeved, deep green shirt, the top few buttons undone to reveal bronze skin. His shirt was tucked into brown trousers, and riding boots covered his calves. Overall, his outfit wouldn’t be out of place in a more affluent town south of the Wall.

The rest of him, however, would mark him as other. His long, luscious red hair hung straight down past his wide shoulders, more vibrant than any human hair could hope to be. His ears were long and pointed, as all fae’s were. The eyes staring at her were mismatched: one was dark brown, and the other looked…golden. No, Elain realized, squinting at his left eye, one of his eyes appeared to be made of actual gold. It glittered in the candlelight. Long, white scars criss crossed over the side of his face as his golden eye.

“Had I known you would be looking at me so much, I would have procured some painting supplies.”

His voice was raspy, like he wasn’t used to talking much. Or maybe, Elain thought, panic bubbling inside her, it was because his head and body had only recently been reunited. A grim, jagged line was etched across the long column of his throat, and his face appeared slightly ashen looking.

It was true, then. The silly, far-fetched tale she assumed the bumbling villagers of Sleepy Hollow concocted to blame their misfortunes on was real. Very real, sitting just a few feet from her, and looking at her like she was his next meal.

“Or perhaps I should have brought the paints for myself, to paint your beauty. Your eyes are like stars—“

“Where am I? Why am I here?” She tugged on her bonds. Elain didn’t want to hear whatever mocking words he had for her. The sooner she figured out why this creature had abducted her, the sooner she could plan her escape.

The being frowned at her. He sighed. “Fine, no pleasantries then, human. You’re in my realm, north of the Wall.”

Elain’s stomach tightened. She wanted to scream, but what good would it do? She’d been warned, when she first moved to Sleepy Hollow, to never cross the Wall, and to stay as far away from it as possible. Not that she didn’t already know that. Although fae were nonexistent in her home in the south, everyone knew the threat they were to those who dwelled in the north.

There were humans who didn’t share the same view of the fae, though. The Children of the Blessed worshiped the fae for some twisted reason, too easily charmed by their supposed riches and otherworldly beauty. Every now and then rumor reached the Hollow that a few of the fanatics had breached the wall, but they haven’t been seen since.

She’d never heard of a human who ventured beyond the wall and returned, Elain realized, cold dread trickling down her spine. What hope did she have of ever returning to the human lands, dreary and dangerous as it was?

“Who are you?” Elain croaked. “Why did you take me?”

He gave her a calculated look. “Are you aware of the curse that hangs over this land?”

“Er, not really,” Elain said haltingly. “I know odd happenings occur to the people in Sleepy Hollow. Stolen goods, ruined crops. And the headless fae who, who…”

He nodded his head to her. “My name is Lucien.”

Lucien. A nice name. Certainly a nicer name than Elain assumed her dead fae captor would have.

Lucien’s posture was casual—sitting, leaning back against the base of the tree, one long leg stuck straight out, the other bent at the knee, an arm lazily resting on top, like this was a normal situation to find oneself in. Like Elain was perfectly safe. 

She wasn’t fooled by his relaxed demeanor, however: whatever this being was, whether ghost, demon, or devil, she knew, in her gut and her brain, that he was dangerous.

Elain should have been terrified, and she was, but she also felt curiosity towards the fae in front of her despite the danger, like a mischievous kitten tempting an old, ornery work horse. She knew she needed to tread carefully, but…

“Alright, Lucien,” Elain said as calmly as possible, noticing the flash of surprise that flicked across his face. “You say there’s a curse.”

He nodded slightly. “A fae curse. Cast over 500 years ago at the Wall. A human general from the valley betrayed his fae lover, and her sister cursed his people to suffer forever in their homes in the valley.” Lucien looked at her shrewdly. “But you’re not from Sleepy Hollow, are you, human?”

“No. How can you tell?”

“There’s more…life to you,” he replied, looking around her. “It clings to you, barely. But give it another few months and you’ll be stuck here like everyone else.”

Elain scrunched her eyebrows. “What do you mean stuck?”

“Well, human, as I just said—“

“My name is Elain!” she interrupted. “If you’re going to steal me away and tie me up, at least have the courtesy to use my name!”

Lucien smirked. “Very well, Elain,” he purred, and Elain momentarily lost her breath. “The curse over Sleepy Hollow ensures the humans here are to suffer forever in the valley. Those who dwell in Sleepy Hollow cannot leave, no matter how hard they try.”

“But I wasn’t born in Sleepy Hollow!” Elain exclaimed, stomach sinking. “I’ve only been here a year!”

Lucien shrugged. “That makes no difference. The curse prefers adults. It doesn’t mind letting a youth wander free every few years. Not the adults though. The curse feeds and grows more powerful off the misery and despair of those under its thrall, and nothing is more delicious than humans realizing their lives are forfeit, and that they’ll only be more miserable year after year after year, and are powerless to stop it. Children with their innocence usually don’t realize this until their late teens, and by then it’s too late.”

Silence. There was a buzzing in Elain’s ears. “I’m, I’m stuck? I can’t move home, or leave? I’m trapped in this cursed town forever, to be tormented by a fae curse?”

Lucien shrugged again and began inspecting his finger nails. “Appears so. Seems you’re doomed to a life of loneliness and constantly watching your back so the curse doesn’t finish you off.” His head was lowered but his eyes darted up to look at her. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“I too am affected by a curse. Help me break mine, and I’ll see if we can break the human curse after.”

“You're cursed?” Elain asked, surprised.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Did you think I was a ghost or a dead abomination?”

Elain flushed. “Well, you’re headless! I just assumed…”

“Stupid humans,” Lucien tsked. “I’m not quite dead, though not quite living except for one night a year. Every All Hallows Eve I am doomed to ride south of the Wall to retrieve my head—that’s not difficult, it’s usually in one of two or three places every year—but it’s the second part that’s tricky.”

“Second part?” Elain asked faintly, head swimming.

“To break my curse, I am to find a human bride and she is to live with me for one year and a day. Then, I’ll be fully restored and free to live my life.” He said this without any dramatics, as if he were inquiring about the weather, or what Elain had had for breakfast that morning. 

“What a specific curse,” Elain muttered. Her head felt like it was being smothered by cotton. She bit her lip. “But surely you don’t mean…?”

“Oh my dear,” Lucien said silkily, in a voice that sent heat straight between her legs, “I most certainly do. Become my bride, and once my curse is broken, I’ll work on breaking the curse that hangs over Sleepy Hollow and you.”

It was ludicrous. Madness. Become a cursed fae’s bride? In what world was this possible?

But then she remembered what Aranea had told her, all those months ago. Some think he’s looking for more. Looking for a woman to take as his own. 

“Why me? Surely there are other humans you could have chosen over the centuries.”

“You’re the first outsider to move to Sleepy Hollow in decades. I can still see the faint vestiges of life surrounding you, life the curse hasn’t completely sapped away yet. Any other human from Sleepy Hollow I would have taken would have died the instant they crossed the Wall, as the curse dictates.”

Elain took a steadying breath. “And what if you can’t break the curse over Sleepy Hollow?”

He raked a long hand through his long hair. “I’m not that concerned about it. It’ll probably involve tricking the fae who placed the original curse, or beating them in a duel.”

Elain stared at the fae before her. He seemed a bit too confident for her taste, with a barely concealed danger to him that kept the gooseflesh on her body raised. What if he was lying to her?

Did she have a choice?

She mustered what little confidence she had. “I accept. How are we to, uh, seal our arrangement?”

Quicker than she could see, Lucien was suddenly above her, standing above her at the head of the altar. This close, she could smell a faint whiff of smoke and damp earth lingering on his skin. It wasn’t unpleasant.

Lucien cocked his head and stared down at her. “With a kiss,” he said, then bent down to press his lips to her.

As far as kisses went, it was rather tame, especially considering the reputation fae had for their passions. Elain held herself still, the faint press of Lucien’s lips surprisingly warm against hers. A faint stab of disappointment pierced her—she had expected a bit more than this.

He withdrew, and Elain sighed. She was about to ask him to untie her when sharp teeth nipped her bottom lip. She gasped, and Lucien’s lips and tongue tangled with hers.

This was the passion Elain had heard whispered about the fae. Still above her, and upside down from her, Lucien slotted his mouth fully against hers while his tongue stroked hers. His hands, warm like his lips, cradled the sides of her face and stroked her cheeks lightly. 

“So responsive,” he murmured when he broke their kiss and Elain objected. “Will you make such sweet noises for me if we continue?”

“Yes,” she whispered, craning her neck towards Lucien. Smiling, his mismatched eyes gleaming in the candlelight, he trailed a hand down her throat, squeezing slightly. Elain gasped, more heat flooding her core. 

“Such sweet sounds you make, my bride,” Lucien said appreciatively. Elain blushed. His hand released her throat then slowly made its way down her chest. “I wonder if I can create a symphony with you by the end of the night.” He caressed a breast through her thin shift, stroking an erect nipple, and Elain moaned loud enough to be heard south of the Wall.

Lucien chuckled and withdrew his hand, stepping away from her. Elain arched her back. “Don’t stop!”

“I can smell your desire,” his voice slithered out from around her. Elain couldn’t see him but she knew he was nearby. She squirmed against her bindings on the stone—an altar, she realized at last, to her and their union—desperate to be free for reasons she never thought: to touch, taste and feel the cursed fae she had bound herself to for the next year. 

Cool air hit her breasts and legs and dripping core. Elain looked down to see Lucien tearing her shift from her body and stepping in between her feet at the other end of the stone slab. In the low light, he looked otherworldly: his face sharp, pointed teeth just barely visible from his panting mouth, shoulders hunched. His eyes were focused on her spread legs. “Do you taste as sweet as you smell?”

Without waiting Lucien leaned down and licked a hot stripe through her wet folds. Elain let out a strangled groan as his tongue swiped over her sensitive bud. 

“You do,” Lucien remarked, raising his head. “Better than the sweetest wine.” He gave her an appraising look. “Although I love your moans, I think I can put your mouth to better use.”

His hands came up to his neck and Elain stared, first in confusion, then horror, as with a wet pop Lucien tugged his head from his body. She screamed as his headless body set his head down between her legs. His head was alive, conscious, and Lucien’s head immediately stroked her sensitive pearl, his eyes intensely staring at her.

Elain wasn’t sure whether to scream in terror or ecstasy. A fae, who had just detached his head from his body, was licking her folds, tasting her, bringing her such intense pleasure she thought she might faint from the emotions tearing through her body. She struggled on the altar.

There was a hand on her shoulder. Elain leaned her head back and shrieked. She’d been expecting it, but seeing a headless body above her, moving on its own, was unsettling and disturbing in a way she’d never before thought. 

“Be still, wife, and open your mouth.” Lucien’s head stopped feasting between her legs to utter the command. Elain broke out of her terror and bared her teeth down at her new husband. She was about to tell him where he could shove his head when his hands grabbed her head and shoved the tip of his throbbing cock in her mouth. 

Elain froze, shocked. Lucien’s hips gently rocked into her mouth, putting more of his thick length in her mouth. Through the dim light, Elain could just make out the rest of his substantial manhood she still had yet to take. She hadn’t been aware of when he’d taken off his trousers.

“So good,” Lucien praised from between her legs, giving her bud a small kiss. “Relax your jaw and use your tongue, just like that. Good girl.”

Elain whimpered, his praise sending bolts of lightning to her quim. Above her, Lucien’s body kept using her mouth for his pleasure, gradually thrusting more and more of his length down her throat, all while his head continued his sensual assault on her lower lips. Elain gagged and tensed as a particularly rough pump of Lucien’s hips cut off her air. 

“You look so good with my cock stuffed down your throat,” Lucien’s bodiless head said. She coughed when he withdrew his length and Lucien’s hands stroked her cheeks. Without waiting, Elain silently opened her mouth.

“So perfect for me,” Lucien sighed as his body placed his cock back in her mouth and resumed a gentler thrusting pace within her. Elain focused on licking and sucking the fat tip of his length while Lucien took her bud between his lips and sucked hard.

Elain moaned around his cock as a tingling began in her lower spine. It grew, quick and intense, and Elain came, whimpering around Lucien’s hard girth as his tongue stroked her pearl. 

Lucien’s body withdrew his cock from her mouth. Elain gasped, her chest heaving. She wasn’t aware of Lucien’s body reattaching his head, or the bindings falling away from her trembling body. The next thing she knew was Lucien, in one piece, as naked as her, taking her head in his hands and kissing her. 

“Magnificent,” he whispered. Lucien pulled her off the altar and turned her around so she was bent over the stone with her legs on the ground.

But Elain needed more, now. Keeping one leg on the ground for leverage, she lifted her other leg onto the altar and crooked it at the knee, widening herself for Lucien.

Lucien hummed appreciatively. “My good little human, spreading her legs for me, dripping for me. All it took was licking your perfect cunt and you’re willing to offer yourself completely to me, aren’t you, Elain?”

She didn’t answer, instead continuing to move her hips against the altar, hoping to entice the fae into finishing what he started. 

“Use your words.”

“Oh, please,” Elain whispered, wishing he would just slide himself inside her, quench the fire he’d somehow ignited within her. She could feel her release dripping down her thigh, the moisture cooling against her heated skin.

Lucien hummed. She felt him step behind her and Elain tensed with anticipation, excitement. Just a short time ago she’d been scared for her life. Now…

Now, she’d been pleasured beyond words by a cursed headless fae (who she still wasn’t quite convinced wasn’t at least partly dead), who wanted her to be his bride and help break his curse. Elain was too lust drunk to think how ludicrous this all was.

Her thoughts were broken by a pressure at her entrance, and his finger entered her in one stroke. Elain gasped as Lucien leisurely thrust his finger inside her.

“So tight,” he praised her. More pressure, and Elain felt her walls stretch as he pumped two of his long fingers into her willing channel. 

“What a perfect bride you’ll be,” Lucien whispered into the back of her neck. “I think you need more.” Three of his fingers slowly entered her body, working her tight quim open. 

Elain buried her head into her arm and groaned. Now the stretch was tinged with pain, pain that gradually lessened as Lucien cooed praises in her ear and stroked her tender and swollen bud with his other hand. She was going to come again. She rocked back onto Lucien’s fingers, taking everything he had to offer, wanting to feel him inside her as she found her release…

“No!” she begged when Lucien withdrew his hands from her between her legs. She tried to rise off the altar but one of Lucien’s hands pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her top half against the stone. One of her legs was still propped up on the altar, the other on the ground.

“I think you’re ready,” Lucien growled, deep from his chest, and Elain remembered that this wasn’t a human man she was with, this was an undead fae male who stole her from the Human Lands for the sole purpose of claiming her. A thrill of excitement shot through her lower stomach as Lucien fit the wide head of his cock at her entrance and thrust inside her.

They gasped in unison. Even though Elain had had his cock down her throat, she didn’t realize how thick he’d be in her channel. He was right to ready her with his fingers, Elain conceded, resting her forehead on the altar and gripping the stone as he pulled out to the tip and sunk back in.

“Good,” Lucien praised her, working more of his thick length inside her. “So good. My beautiful bride. My perfect mate.”

Elain didn’t know what a mate was, but she didn’t particularly care at the moment, not when she felt his hips finally reach her bottom. She moaned at how full she felt. 

Above her, Lucien’s body quivered, from his strong legs pressed to the back of hers, to his hands gripping her hips. He snarled something in a foreign language—harsh, full of hisses and sharp consonants—then withdrew his cock and slammed back deep within her. 

He gave Elain no further time to adjust to his conquering manhood. Keeping his hands on her lush body—squeezing the fat of her hip, plucking a peaked nipple, digging his hands into her shoulder—Lucien claimed Elain like a male on a mission. Which he was, Elain thought dazedly, holding onto the stone as he pumped within her, hitting a sensitive spot of her walls.

All the while, Lucien murmured words—some she couldn’t understand—into her skin and into the wind: “So lovely, so soft,” he rasped against the shell of her ear; “Mine. Only mine,” he grunted as he bit where her neck met her shoulder. It was pain and euphoria all in one, and Elain never wanted it to end.

One of his hands slammed down on the altar not far from hers. His forearm was corded with muscles, the brown skin gleaming with sweat. Elain watched, hypnotized by the strength in his body when his other hand reached between her legs and began stroking her bud again in time with his hard thrusts.

She squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. She was going to find release again, soon. Without thinking, her hand nearest to Lucien’s reached out and touched his, just barely grazing his smallest finger, wanting to feel more of him. Lucien stuttered and stopped. Elain wanted to cry. She’d ruined it, gotten sentimental, human—

Lucien resumed pumping his cock into her cunt and his fingers touched her bud at the same time he moved his hand over hers and intertwined his fingers awkwardly with hers. He was so warm, so big, and she felt the pulse in his wrist beat erratically against her arm.

Pleasure unlike she’d ever felt before—bone deep, primal, and all-encompassing—ripped through her body as Lucien’s clever fingers and cock worked between her legs. He paused, letting Elain work through her release. Eventually her breathing evened out.

Lucien withdrew his cock and gathered Elain in his arms. Snatching their cloaks and throwing them on the ground, he gently laid her down on her back and spread her legs. “Again.” His hips snapped into hers with brutal efficiency, hitting deep inside her. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”

Elain could only hold onto Lucien’s shoulders as he rode her and drove her higher and higher towards another steep precipice. He bent her legs over his arms and opened herself even wider. The angle of his cock and the closeness of his body made her see stars behind her eyelids. Elain felt drunk and dazed, having never felt so exhausted before in her life.

His hand reached between them towards her cunt again and Elain shivered. “I—I can’t,” she gasped. “Not again.”

“You will,” Lucien said simply, his thumb brushing the tender hood of her bud. He looked down between their bodies and growled so fiercely Elain craned her head to see what elicited such a response. She felt her face redden: in the orange candlelight, she could make out her swollen folds, his slick cock, and the white cream of her release staining the base of his length. 

“My beautiful bride,” he whispered against her lips. He kissed her, slow, steady, completely at odds with what the rest of his body was doing. If Elain didn’t know any better, she would say it was almost loving. 

Lucien tenderly cradled her head as he kissed her. It was far too early to have feelings for him, Elain knew as she stared at him deep in the eyes, and he stared back, but there was something there. They both knew it. 

“Mine,” she whispered against him, her tongue darting into his mouth, and Lucien groaned. His thumb circled her bud as his hips thrust wildly into her. With a shout to the skies Lucien came, emptying himself within Elain’s body. She took everything he gave her, even one final release that seemed to rob her of her bones and leave her a shaking, tender mess.

Eventually, Elain’s heart slowed. “I’m assuming you haven’t done that for 500 years?”

“No.”

Elain huffed a breath. “That’s impressive, considering.”

Lucien chuckled. He rolled them over so he was on his back and she was laying against his chest. They were silent for a few moments, the only sounds their hearts beating together. Eventually, Elain spoke. “What has the last 500 years been like for you?”

Lucien didn’t answer right away. “I’ll tell you everything sometime later. It’s…difficult for me.” He kissed her forehead. “Besides, we have a year together, I don’t want to run out of things to talk about well before then.”

“Only a year?” Elain asked hopefully, casting a shy glance up at her headless fae. 

Lucien grinned.

[myhauntedsalem]

The Lizzie Borden House

“Lizzie Borden took an axe, And gave her mother forty whacks, When she saw what she had done, She gave her father forty-one.”

The grisly poem above was inspired by one of the most famous cases of murder to ever occur on U.S. soil. The Lizzie Borden murders captivated the entire country during the late 19th century and continues to inspire ghost stories and tales of paranormal activity by anyone who dares to enter the home of Lizzie Borden.

It’s not surprising that reports of haunted activity and paranormal occurrences have been whispered about at the Lizzie Borden House for quite some time. The violent and emotional nature of the tragic events that transpired there have been forever burned into it’s walls and the memories of residents in Fall River, Massachusetts.

The haunted history of The Lizzie Borden House begins on a Thursday afternoon during the year of 1892. Lizzie Borden was the daughter of Andrew Jackson Borden, who was a wealthy and influential citizen of Fall River. He was not particularly friendly to people, but took his business matters seriously. He was the board director for several banks in the local area and had his hand in commercial real estate as well.

His choice for a home wasn’t very impressive when compared to homes of other men of his stature. Lizzie Borden had openly expressed her desire to move into a better area and a bigger, more beautiful home. Andrew Borden would have no part of this and being the penny pinching type of fellow that he was, preferred the lesser expensive home that was close to his business dealings. Many have attributed the sense of entitlement that Lizzie felt as one of the factors that Lizzie Borden began to put a strain on her relationship with her father and his second wife, Abby. The relationship between Lizzie and her stepmother wasn’t particularly great either.

Nobody would ever have guessed that Lizzie Borden, a Sunday school teacher and well known member of the community would have been responsible for what would happen that day.

Sometime before noon, as Andrew Borden napped on the couch, he was attacked by someone wielding an axe. He was struck repeatedly until he was dead. The body was hacked to the point that it was unrecognizable by most. Little did he know as he laid down for his nap that his wife Abby was already dead on the floor above, her blood seeping through the cracks of the wooden floor. She had been attacked with the same axe. The position of her body when found suggested that she was kneeling down beside the bed when the gruesome attack occurred. Some say she was praying, others say that she was simply making the bed. Either way, Abby Borden didn’t have a chance when her murderer entered the room, filled with rage and armed with an axe.

The news traveled fast in those times and sinister acts such as these were practically unheard of. Lizzie Borden was arrested for the murders although she maintained her innocence. The trial made headlines nationwide as the world became fascinated with the Sunday school teacher that had hacked her parents to death. Eventually, Lizzie Borden was found innocent of the crimes by the courts.

Some of the local townsfolk however, had a different opinion. Lizzie Borden was somewhat of an outcast from the community and forever marked as a murderer. This didn’t bother Lizzie very much as she immediately purchased a grand home on the hill along with her sister who had always been equally unhappy with the home that Andrew Borden had chosen for them. They named the home “Maplecroft”. Lizzie lived in the home until her death at age 67. She was buried alongside the graves her father and stepmother in Fall River’s Oak Grove Cemetery.

Over one hundred years later, The Borden House has been turned into the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast. Many patrons of the inn have reported various accounts of ghostly activity within the house. The most popular room and reportedly the most haunted is the room in which Abby Borden was hacked to death. People have witnessed a woman in 19th century clothing making the bed. Disembodied voices have been heard coming from empty rooms and echoing through the house. Footsteps that belong to no one are also a common experience inside The Lizzie Borden House.

Perhaps the most spooky reports are that of a woman heard crying throughout the home. Is it the sobbing spirit of Lizzie Borden, riddled with guilt for the slaying of her parents? Or perhaps the spirit of Abby Borden whose life was cut short by the edge of an axe? Either way, The Lizzie Borden House will forever remain one of the most interesting and allegedly haunted places in America. If you are ever in Massachusetts, You can always reserve the most special room at the Lizzie Borden Bed & Breakfast and test the local legends for yourself.

[omgkatherine01]

Moonlight Beta: Prologue

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

Pairing: Scott McCall x Fem!Liam Dunbar

Please comment, like and share

Jenna Geyer regretted her marriage.

She regretted getting married so young to someone with anger issues and had to constantly leave for work. But Jenna never regretted having her daughter, Lia.

She was the only light in the woman's life.

Lia couldn't think of any positive memories that had to do with her biological father. All she remembered was her parents constantly arguing and yelling at each other, one in awhile she could even hear glass shattering on the hardwood floor as she cowered in her closet, squeezing her stuffed teddy bear tightly as she sobbed. Those were memories that would still haunt her as she got older, her first memories.

Jenna finally divorced Lia's biological father when the little girl was five years old. Instead of moving, Jenna kicked him out and the two stayed in their house. Lia never saw her father after, not that she really cared. She hated the man for always upsetting her Mom.

When she was eight years old, Lia's mother married her step-father Dr. Samuel Geyer. He had known her mother for over a year before she got divorced, Jenna was a forensic scientist who worked with Samuel quite a few times on cases with the police.

The man quickly filled in the 'Dad' role that had always been absent in her life. Samuel and Lia shared their love for lacrosse and superhero movies/comics, much to Jenna's amusement.

During these times, Lia was always grateful for her best friend Mason Hewitt. The two grew up a block from each other; they knew each other since they were in diapers because Mason's parents were childhood friends of Jenna. He anchored her, kept her calm even when she was filled with so much anger.

It wasn't until the sixth grade when her parents and the school realized that her anger issues weren't normal. This was the year where she saw her biological father again for the first time since she was five, he was attempting to try and get into her life again. Lia was very upset, she already had a Dad who did more for her in the few years she had him so far and a father compared to what he did for her in her entire life.

One day a group of eight graders were messing with Mason, making fun of him because of his sexuality. The kids at their the prep school weren't as accepting as other schools. Mason was used to it and told Lia to ignore them as they tried to go to their next class. It wasn't until they called him a homophobic slur that Lia didn't hesitate to defend her best friend and fight the older boys.

A student named Hayden Romero, another sixth grader, accidentally walked into the middle of it and got a punch that was made for the eight grader which resulted in her getting a broken nose. In return, she punched Lia in the face too, resulting in harsh bruising. That was the day that her frenemy Hayden declared she hated Lia and did everything she could just to spite her.

Mason's parents had him transfer the next school year to Beacon Hills Middle School to get him away from the teasing. Their middle school and high school were extremely accepting of all different types of people. Kids in that school district, such as a well-known jock named Jackson Whittemore, were willing to fight anyone else if they tried to bully any kid for their sexuality. It was a great place for Mason to feel like he belonged.

Lia was happy for her best friend after hearing how amazing that school district was. Mason became the president of their GSA club. Lia was now lonely at school, the only friend she had was a girl named Savannah. Her former friend Brett turned on her out of nowhere in the middle of the seventh grade and started doing everything he could to upset her.

Lacrosse seemed to be the only time where the other kids didn't try and mess with her or seclude her. They respected her in that particular sport because of her amazing skills that won them many championships. But, of course, the coach who was also their teacher had some sort of vendetta against Lia.

He often picked on the girl for her difficulties in controlling her anger and not performing well in school. Lia was able to handle it because it wasn't hurting anyone else.

But then the coach made the mistake of picking on her only friend Savannah for her GAD and ADHD. This is when Lia's anger blew out of control. The now ninth grader destroyed her coach's car, getting her expelled immediately. She was then diagnosed officially with IED, Intermittent Explosive Disorder.

Lia felt like a failure, like a mistake to her family. Her parents were super smart and calm while she was just as angry as her biological father.

Her parents were grateful when Beacon Hills High School allowed her to transfer there without judging her for what she had done. Mason was overwhelmed with excitement that his best friend was joining his school. She was even able to make new friends like freshman couple Garrett and Violet.

Everything felt like it was going great until she got the attention of the two famous juniors Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall.

[halloweenvalentine1997]

Scars Inside Pictures by Vivica Salem

In May of 2024, a month of rebirth and bright sky, I felt like a scar inside a tarnished gold picture frame. Forever captured, capsizing inside a life I did not choose. I long for somewhere halcyon and idyllic. Violet lights, a place without teeth in the center of its heart.

I’m an adult still living with my parents. I’m a felon who is not allowed to live anywhere else. Many apartment applications were denied, despite the pettiness of my felonious behavior. In May, I was obsessed with a man I shall not name. His perfect self on Instagram filled my rotting soul with iridescent butterflies, even though he doesn’t live in my awful hometown and I’ve never met him. I saw him on TV.

I have no interest in dating the men who live around me. The people I’ve wanted to fuck are either dead or famous. In the middle of May, I sent hatemail to the official website of this man I was obsessed with. What I told him (out of jealousy and spite) is too barbaric to describe. Afterwards, I quickly fled the house I grew up in. 

I walked past flowers and traffic lights and picture windows until I reached downtown at the bottom of the hill. I found the park with a creek running through it like a liquid spine. It is adjacent to one of the local hospitals, Sacred Heart Medical Center. The world blurred and became liquid salt in my eyes as I allowed myself to rest for a moment. I decided to relapse on methamphetamine, my former drug of choice. Before that relapse, I had been clean from it for two years. 

So I went to an old haunt of mine, the freight train bridge by the men’s homeless shelter. I bought ten dollars worth of meth outside the 7-Eleven. I smoked several hits off a pipe with multiple people. We all had the same goal in mind: getting high off of hard drugs. I even tried some fentanyl for the first time. A partially crushed tablet that I smoked out of a meth pipe. I could not tell what color the pill had been originally because of the night and dim moon. I laughed in a gravel lot like a wolf, hallucinating. I felt so happy I could die.

I meandered around town for two days, unable to collapse and feel any of the sedating effects of fentanyl. After all, I did lace it with meth, which keeps one awake for a long amount of time. I tried to fall asleep at the women’s homeless shelter and prayed for the devil to take me, feeling no fear of what could be lingering beyond my tenuous life. I wanted to sever every tie that binds me. The obsession I had with that man was not the only event in my life to push me so far over the edge. 

I might as well crawled out of a chamber in hell, somewhere that reminds people of names like Dante, Satan, Lucifer. I wanted to crawl out of that chamber in order to chase eternal peace and heavenly firmaments. Is it possible for the dead to haunt outer space? I longed to find out if I could inhabit a star.

Since I had medication to take that I did not bring downtown with me, I took the bus back to my parents’ house. I became violently sick and admitted myself into the E.R. In the waiting room, I was told my blood pressure was normal and that my organs didn’t appear to be failing. I didn’t come as close to death as I thought I would. I found a bench and curled up in a fetal position on it, unafraid of death as the voices and electronic beeps and swishing double doors whirled around me. I passed out willing to fade.

Later, I awoke in a room in the back of the E.R., an IV drip attached to my elbow. I can’t remember how I was escorted into that room from the bench in the waiting room. I don’t know if they had to wheel me there, or if I sleepwalked. I instantly recalled what happened with the internet and the drugs, along with a vision I had while I was unconscious. I was in a red hallway with white doors. At the end, a dead man I’ve loved a long time (who died before I was born) was at the end the hallway, a perfect picture framed by a doorway. The sky was behind him. I didn’t die. I woke up instead.

I called my father and asked him to pick me up. While him and me chatted with one of the nurses, I thought I saw someone familiar to me peering into the room from the doorway. He retreated from it instantly. What is he doing here? I thought. My life is so fucked up.

Once I was revived, I didn’t have any persisting symptoms of a drug overdose. Four months later, I’m not going to chase a fentanyl high again, because I’m glad I survived in the end. I haven’t done meth since then, either. I cannot allow myself to die like a prisoner behind a fence of concertina wire, in a box like a gerbil festering with rage. 

I guess every obsession I’ve had with someone has died by now. I feel like being misanthropic and nihilistic is an ideal way of life. I want to avoid humans and disappear into isolated nature. Gone like a wisp of cigarette smoke, but still alive without a trace of me to be found. 

[lenaschin]

The Haunting of Hill House

In “We’re Going to Make You into a Proper Woman: Postfeminist Gender Performativity and the Supernatural in Penny Dreadful,” Pedro analyzes two female protagonists in relation to their supernatural abilities, or "uncanny doubles," a term used to personify the socially deviant side of one's identity--ones 'otherness.' Pedro critiques the lack of liberation for these women, whose tragic endings frame their 'social deviance' as not only failed, but as worthy of punishment. The show thus reinforces gender norms despite its focus on female perspectives. The Haunting of Hill House similarly explores “uncanny doubles,” which take the form of supernatural spirits that haunt Olivia and Nell Crain (mother and daughter). The show surrounds the Crain family reunion (4 siblings and 1 father), as they gather for Nell's funeral. We soon learn of the family’s complications, all of which are tied to their summer at Hill House (~30 years ago), where Olivia (wife & mother) was driven to hysteria and committed suicide. I focus on Episode 5, as Nell’s perspective is shown through flashbacks, and the supernatural forces behind her death are revealed.

1. How does the series form and content inform the relationship of female physical and emotional growth and development?

The show’s form as a gothic horror enables a fictitious and creative exploration of loss, grief, & trauma's effect on female growth. Nell’s trauma takes the form of the Bent Neck Lady, a spirit whose random appearances cause paralysis and constant fear. This hinders Nell's development, resulting in her social withdrawal. Flashbacks reveal the spirit emerged at Hill House, creating a tie between the trauma experienced there, the Bent Neck Lady and Nell’s resulting development. While Nell temporarily finds a loving partner and shows positive growth (confronting her emotional trauma and fighting her physical paralysis), his death both halts and reverses her positive development, as her childhood grief resurfaces. At his death, the Bent Neck Lady stands next to his dead body, and visually marks the parallel between this loss and that of her mother. This marks the beginning of Nell's end, as she becomes emotionally weak and returns to Hill House. Her final development occurs at death, when she falls through time and realizes that she has just become--and has always been--the Bent Neck Lady. The series illustrates the role of loss in female development through Nell's final transformation into the Bent Neck Lady, aka, her trauma; trauma defines her--she has internalized her loss, and we watch grief literally consume her from the inside out.

Arthur's Death

2. In what ways does the series use cinematic timing to chronicle character transformations? 

The show provides information surrounding the Cain family members’ individual character transformations through its editing style, in which flashbacks to 1) ~30 years ago at Hill house and 2) the recent past–prior to Nell’s death, are interspersed throughout the present (Nell’s funeral). Each episode focuses on one character’s perspective, and reveals their individual childhood experiences at Hill House in relation to their current adult lives. Luke, Nell’s twin brother and the second most affected of the Cain children, exemplifies a stark transformation through two back-to-back scenes. We flashback to childhood, and see him as a strong, self-sufficient boy who takes care of Nell–he teaches her a counting method to use as a distraction from the Bent Neck Lady. This is contrasted by a switch to the recent past, in which Luke–an addict a dirty, scratched face–walks the streets alone. The Tall Man—a spirit that emerged at Hill House—floats behind him. He uses the counting method he previously taught Nell, now attempting to distract himself, rather than helping her. His initial youthful fearlessness and positivity contrast with his current vulnerability and anxiety, and this transformation is heightened through the switch from the past’s bright, colorful clarity to the dark, sickly yellow tones of the present. The Tall Man’s presence and his switch to represent Olivia at the end of the scene visually highlights this transformation as directly tied to his childhood trauma and loss.

Luke's Transformation (15:55 - 17:25)

3. How are the primary characters’ ages and development coded by the characters around them? 

All of the primary characters develop with age, and initially represent narratives of youthful innocence, but take a turn after their summer at Hill House. I focus on Nell, as her siblings play a particularly large role in the choices she makes, including her eventual death and final development into the Bent Neck Lady. Nell’s siblings treat her as a naive child during both childhood and adulthood, leading her to internalize feelings of “invisibility.” This invisibility follows her throughout life, as her siblings disregard her fear of the Bent Neck Lady and ideas of the supernatural, blaming them on mental illness. This treatment results in Nell feeling unheard–invisible–, and leads to feelings of worthlessness and isolation, which are framed as partially responsible for Nell’s eventual despair and return to Hill House/death.

Nell's Invisibility

4. In what ways does the series reflect narratives of youth and represent narratives of adult functionality or dysfunctionality?                               

The series focuses on youth as a key part of the Crain childrens’ later identities as adults, connecting their level of functionality to the varied levels of trauma they faced as children. Youth is portrayed as naive and innocent; a blank canvas to create a fully functional adult. Those touched by trauma develop into dysfunctional adults, while those less affected are more functional. The two most dysfunctional adults are Luke and Nell, who experienced the consistent appearance of evil spirits at Hill House. Steven, who experienced the least supernatural trauma, is framed as the most functional sibling, and as such, doesn’t understand the source of his family’s dysfunctionality. He blames his mother’s haunting on mental illness, and later does the same with Nell. Nell’s dysfunctionality is framed in contrast to Steven’s functionality, evident in a scene where she crashes his book signing at the height of her grief.

Nell's Breakdown

5. How does the series use the fantasy genre as an area for framing virtue and villainy?         

Just as Pedro notes in the reading, the supernatural can be used to empower women, but this series fails to do so, and instead frames the two most narratively significant characters as villains. While Olivia is initially framed as a warm, loving mother, her victimization quickly leads to her villain hood. Poppy Hill, an evil spirit, feeds on Olivia’s loving emotionality, and convinces her to kill her children to save them from the “evil” of the outside world. While this plan fails, Olivia accidentally poisons a little girl in the process and is framed as hysterical. Years later, her vilification continues when Olivia's spirit fully consumes the role of her uncanny double (Poppy's spirit), orchestrating Nell’s death just as Poppy did to her.

Poppy Hill (spirit) urges Olivia to "wake her family up" from the nightmare of life--to kill them, keeping their spirits 'alive' and 'safe' in Hill House, forever.

Nell's Death (TRIGGER WARNING: Stop Before 1:35)

Nell illustrates an even clearer clash between victimhood and villain hood, as she has always been her uncanny double, the Bent Neck Lady. By framing Nell as her own villain, the narrative blames her for her own victimization, and thus punishes, rather than liberates her. While last episode allows her to reclaim virtuosity, as her dead spirit helps her trapped siblings escape from Hill House, the truly impactful act is framed as her father's sacrifice, shifting the focus to male heroism and away from Nell.

Moments before Death, Olivia blurs Nell's view of Hill House. She hallucinates beauty and the presence of her loved ones, and only wakes up when it's too late, and Olivia literally pushes her to death.

Critical Thinking Questions:

Do you think that Nell and Olivia are victims, villains, or neither?

Hill House is framed as a place where time is non-linear, which enables the characters (Nell) to interact with themselves in different time periods. How is this meaningful in relation to confronting their trauma?

In the end of the show, Hugh sacrifices himself, fully calming Olivia down and enabling his children to escape from Hill House. Do you think his heroism overshadows the horrible fates of the female protagonists?

Nell's constant anxiety is only truly resolved when she returns to Hill House, the source of her trauma. In response to this, do you view her ending as closure instead of punishment/torture?

#oxyspeculativetv @theuncannyprofessoro

[open-hearth-rpg]

The Worst Thing: Great RPG Mechanics #RPGMechanics Week One

“Imagine the worst thing possible, assume it's true, and go from there.”

— Theodora Crain, The Haunting of Hill House, Season 1: Open Casket

Strong collaboration in play has changed my gaming in the last two decades. I come from the tradest of traddy backgrounds, learning D&D at a wee babe in the late 1970s. I grew up in a gaming community split between roleplayers, miniatures grognards, and classical wargamers. Given how young I was, I almost always played with GMs older than me, in a position of narrative and rule authority. You might get to define your character’s backstory a little, but you had little wiggle room before they’d say, “that’s not how X is.” That became my model and I kept hold of that for years.

The cracks came when, while complaining about prep and the need to revise the campaign gazetteer, my wife pointed out I didn’t need to do that work. She asked me how much of that material meaningfully impacted the table vs. how much I made up on the fly. That was the first break in the dam. The second was Dogs in the Vineyard. That swept everything away with the idea that you could just not prep at all beyond a basic framing concept.

And once you’ve allowed yourself to improv– and trust your own instincts– you can begin to trust others. You can start to respect and even seek out their input. For me it starts with a basic writer’s characterization technique: having the players describe where their characters live. Then once they’ve painted that kind of scene, giving them the space to develop other meaningful features of characters and play.

Like the horrors which await them.

There’s a great admonition in horror that the thing you imagine behind the door is much scarier than what lies behind the door. We have to embrace that moment between the introduction of the horrific and the revelation of the truth. That’s where you get dread, the real horror feeling you can create via games, books, and movies.

Bluebeard’s Bride does this with a simple collaborative concept. The Shiver from Fear move sets this: name the thing you are most afraid will happen, the groundskeeper will tell you how it’s worse than you feared. It engages you, and everyone else, with this imaginative process. You get to set some of the stakes for the moment. And you begin a light, meta-competition with others. How bad can I make it? What can I handle? What would really spook me out?

Jesse Ross’ Trophy Dark takes and builds on this concept, making the whole table complicit in the building of the horror. Rather than a single move, the whole thing game stands atop this: When you attempt a risky task, say what you hope will happen, and ask the GM and the other players what could possibly go wrong. Then gather dice.

There’s a phase of the whole table digging into this question: what’s the worst thing which could happen? Now when you roll, you have a panoply of possible fates to dread. You know what fates could be in store for you. Now we have that dread. You will get to pick your fate, but that’s even worse, because of course you want to make it interesting– and you know what scares you.

[henrioakley]

❝ i guess that's just the way them wild horses run ❞

Age: 35

Gender identification: Cis woman, she/her

Residential area: Downtown

Occupation: pharmacist, part-time roper & barrel racer

Two positive traits: Passionate & adventurous

Two negative traits: Headstrong & hot-tempered

Length of time in Briar Ridge: 35 years

Faceclaim: Kylie Bunbury

haunted eyes and vacant stares, mismatched furniture, leaving texts on read and not answering the phone, well worn jeans and boots, a fridge full of beer, shiny buckles displayed on a disorganized mantle, burning off secrets in hot baths, a longing to be anywhere but here, disassociation with the family name

parental neglect tw, drug dealing tw

Born and raised in Briar Ridge she turned out to be everything her mother didn't want her to be. Half the time she would criticize Henri for being more like a boy rather than the daughter she'd always hoped for.

The house she grew up in Briar Ridge Hills had always been too big and empty for her tastes. Too well put together and always kept immaculately clean. Nothing felt real in her childhood home. Like it was an image rather than a life.

With her mother a politician Henri always had to be on her best behavior because whatever she did reflected on her mother. For the most part as a child she abided by that. It wasn't until she hit her teens and when her father skipped out on the family that Henri rebelled.

She'd always been jealous of her school friends and neighborhood friends who got to play and have fun while she had either piano lessons or dance class. She also had extra school work because her mother wanted her to take on more because she was meant for some big ivy league.

What she wanted the most was a horse and to work at a stable so that she could learn her way about what Henri was obsessed with.

She'd been drawn to horses and the rodeo since she was a small child. One of her childhood friends had invited her to come along to a rodeo event and from then on she'd been hooked.

There were hardly any women in any of the events and that had only motivated her more. She was tough, strong, and incredibly athletic with all her training so she knew she could do it.

When she was sixteen her mother went off to the state capital and left local politics behind. For some reason her mother thought it was fine to leave her own child behind. An aunt moved in but what little control Henri's mother had on her soon evaporated.

Not only did she get herself in with some of the cowboy crews, they also taught her to ride and the ways around the lifestyle.

Henri began traveling with them and helping out. Even before she was fully good enough to give competing a go she tried anyway, thinking it was the best and quickest way to learn.

Turned out to be the hardest and most brutal but she wouldn't have changed it for anything.

When her mother found out what Henri was doing the threats came that she would cut her off if she didn't straighten out and the fear of being further abandoned hanging over her head sent Henri to university where over time she worked to become a pharmacist.

Aside from her uni work, pharmacy tech job, Henri continued to rodeo whenever she could. There was something wild in her heart that couldn't be contained.

Once Henri finally became a pharmacist after extensive schooling she found herself a lucrative side business of selling medication on the side. It's all going into a savings to eventually buy herself a ranch and support her real passion in life.

potential connections:

childhood friends — anyone within age range that she could've grown up with. either they got along or didn't but would love to have some historic connections!

side hustle customers — anyone that would buy prescription meds off of her. she doesn't judge and can keep a secret if they can.

uni buddies — easy one here! people she met through the local uni.

rodeo family — whether they're apart of the scene as a fan and supporter or a competitor as well gimmie all of this!

neighbors — unfortunately until she can buy her dream property for her ranch she's suck in a townhouse downtown.

fwb/flings/hookups — a casual thing here as she has no real interest in a serious relationship. it's pretty much stuck in her head that all relationships/connections are fleeting and that everyone will eventually leave at some point.

don't come near me at all — the person she's in love with but she's kind of an asshole to them to keep them at a distance. last thing she wants is to become vulnerable and get herself disappointed and hurt. something to be plotted out!

more to come! this is just a jump off point!

[thunder-rcp]

Good day Mr. Thunder, how are you doing? I hope all is well with you. I have a few questions, one of them will be more or less positive, I suppose?

But anyway, if you could touch things for a day, I mean actually hold things, try different foods, etc., what would you like to do and would you try to do it with your team if they were here?

And my other question… Excuse me for saying this and changing the subject so abruptly, but… Do you know why the people of Brooms town might forget your teammates? And… Do you remember your last moments of your life? I mean, it must be unpleasant to remember how you and your teammates (especially if they are dear to you) died. Sorry for asking such questions, I really would like to somehow, well… give a hug, but I think you yourself understand why I will not be able to do this, but I hope one day at least someone from the townfolks will remember that you weren't the only hero in Brooms town who saved the lives of others.

...

When my teammate died...I was devastated. They passed away one by one. Frankly, the townfolks did remember them for some time. But it wasn't for long.

There were a few things that lead to that. With our coming the town became full of life. People. Moneybags for the last mayor of Brooms Town. He tried to downplay their deaths, making sure that no person felt unsafe of broken at the news. And they believed him. They willing forgot their names since "the first one is still with us" "he's the first one. He's the special one. He's the one that matters".

Nonsense!

I watched time wipe out their names. Days turn into weeks. Weeks into months. Months into years. Soon there'd be no one to recall them. And it killed me.

It drove me insane. Grief I could never overcome. My wife was there for me of course but it didn't matter. Nothing did. We'd have arguments. Weeks would pass without saying a single word to eachother. I'd come home less and less, trying to drink the pain away. So when I found out that she was pregnant with our daughter and didn't tell me anything, I knew that our love has died completely.

A few months later, I made myself a house out of an abandoned building at the edge of Brooms Town. So one day, I write my final letter to her.

I walk to a hill. Stand on the edge. Take my gun.

And I shoot myself.

...

....

.....

I committed. I couldn't take life any longer, so I chose to embrace death. Imagine my reaction to just waking up like this, forced to forever haunt this place, watch my wife curse upon my name as she had to raise our beautiful daughter alone, watch people build this damn monument for me, seeing how the town was getting abandoned because every team that came after me died WHEN ALL I WANTED WAS FOR NIGHTMARE TO END!

ALL I WANTED WAS TO BE FORGOTTEN WITH MY TEAM BUT NOOOOOO! I JUST HAD TO GET STUCK LIKE THIS AND FACE THE CONSEQUENCES OF MY ACTIONS WITHOUT BEING ABLE TO DO ANYTHING!

.. Maybe that's the reason why I'm still here.

After what feels like a century, nobody has found my body. It's still rotting outside my house where I ended my life.

...

But if I was alive.. If... They were alive too then--

I'd hug them. I'd hug them and say how sorry I am for everything.

[justaboot]

Advice on getting a job

TV show recommendations (besides DuckTales)

-> Use a resume formatter like “buildmyresume.com.” Build it through the website, it gives great formats and “Duties/expectation” suggestions that really help you pump up your resume and remind you just how much you did and what is considered expertise that you thought was just part of the daily grind. Buildmyresume filters by TONS of niche positions and is a great resource. At the end when it tells you to pay to download the resume, flip it the bird and just recreate it in google docs.

-> Haunting of Hill House is v spooky and I 10000% recommend it. Not really a huge fan of the others in the series but Hill House is art. (Definitely check the content warnings on the show, though, before you watch.)

[if-not-now-tell-me-when]

I have more thoughts about The Fall of the House of Usher. Be warned, they aren't positive thoughts. So scroll past or even unfollow if you don't want to read them. Also there are spoilers in this post.

So, on the one hand, I get why the Usher family was portrayed in such one-dimensional terms, with virtually no redeeming qualities to speak of. They were supposed to be caricatures of the very real Sackler family, the family behind America's opioid crisis.

But, on the other hand, their portrayals fell flat for me when compared to other Mike Flanagan works. In other works like The Haunting of Hill House, Midnight Mass and The Midnight Club, "evil" characters were portrayed as deeply, painfully human, with all of the complexity that being human entails. Poppy Hill, Viola Lloyd, Bev Keane, Julia Jayne. They weren't cruel in spite of their humanity, but because of it. By contrast, I found the Usher siblings to be flat, shallow, and almost cartoonishly evil at times. Frederick pulling his paralyzed wife's teeth out with pliers comes to mind as an example.

The Flanaverse is a world of deep, rich emotional complexity, where even the most despicable characters have *something* about them that gives you a moment of pause, a moment to see the humanity and the deep pain behind their actions. A moment that makes you care about them. And that's what I found to be missing when it came to The Fall of the House of Usher. The siblings were for the most part such awful people and such one-dimensional characters that I just didn't care when they died their horrifically gory deaths.