#It's a Great day to be stoned before noon though

[0silver0dreams0]

"Whispers of Devotion"

Pt. III

Yandere House of the dragon x ModernReborn!Reader

Summarized: Gradually, as time passes, the girl she once was begins to transform into a woman. Those around her take notice, and the actions of those in her life start to bear consequences. As tensions rise, rivalries deepen, and complex feelings begin to intertwine.

Warning: hatred, love macking, mutual masturbation, clues of incest, forbidden love and stalking.

<< Pt. 2 — masterlist — Pt. 4 >>

When will they finally leave you alone? Letter after letter after letter. They just don’t understand—you don’t want them anymore. Jacaerys, Rhaenyra, Daemon, even that insufferable boy Lucerys. You burned their letters in the fireplace without hesitation. You don’t care about them; you only wish for their suffering and demise, imagining it vividly before see them with your eyes. But you force yourself to set those thoughts aside. They are a distraction, and distractions displease your mother. Every minute of your day is accounted for, each task meticulously planned to maintain the illusion of perfection. If you falter—if you make a single misstep—Alicent will not forgive you. She will punish you, lock you in your chambers for hours, sometimes days, leaving you isolated with nothing but your thoughts.

You live to please her. To earn her approval. To become the daughter she expects you to be.

8:00 - Etiquette lessons 9:00 - Dance lessons 10:00 - Bath 11:00 - History lessons 12:00 - Go to the Great Sept with Alicent 13:00 - Have tea with Alicent 14:00 - Valyrian lessons 15:00 - Lunch with your family 16:00 - Watch Aemond train and encourage him 17:00 - Talk to Alicent about everything that happened during the day 18:00 - Sneak into the kitchen to eat something 19:00 - Pray Alicent doesn’t notice you ate something 20:00 - Read 21:00 - Prepare for bed 22:00 - Sleep

It’s almost noon, which means it’s time to accompany Alicent to the Great Sept. Yet, as the clock ticks closer to the hour, temptation claws at you. There’s a small gap in your schedule, just enough time for a stolen moment. You glance around to ensure no one is watching before slipping away to the gardens.

He’s waiting for you, leaning casually against a stone column, his armour glinting faintly in the sunlight, he was there, with his brown eyes, his blonde hair, Ser Alaric. The sight of him brings a rush of warmth to your chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says softly, though the smile on his face betrays his words. “I could say the same to you,” you tease, stepping closer. “But I’m glad you are.” He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours—a touch so fleeting it almost feels like a dream. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess. If your brother finds out…”

You tense at the mention of Aemond. He must never know about this, about you and Alaric. Aemond’s protectiveness would turn violent in an instant, and you dread to think what he might do.

“He won’t find out,” you assure him, though your voice is quieter than you intended. “I won’t let him.” Alaric studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he nods. “Just be careful. For both our sakes.”

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps makes you both freeze. Your heart leaps into your throat as you whip around to see Aemond standing at the edge of the garden, his sharp gaze fixed on you.

“(your name),” he calls out, his tone neutral but his eye narrowing slightly. “What are you doing here?” You force a smile, stepping away from Alaric as casually as you can. “I had a bit of free time before prayer. I thought I’d take a walk.”

“And you, Ser Alaric?” Aemond’s voice hardens as he shifts his attention to the knight. “I was ensuring the Princess’s safety,” Alaric replies smoothly, bowing his head. Aemond’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before turning back to you. “Mother is waiting. You should go.”

You nod quickly, glancing at Alaric one last time before following Aemond.

When you arrive at the Sept, Alicent is already there, her gaze darkening the moment it lands on you.

"You’re late," she says, her tone sharp and clipped. “I apologize, Mother. I—” “I’ve no interest in your excuses.” She steps closer, her expression cold and unyielding. “You’ve been acting irresponsibly of late—sneaking off like a petulant child. I won’t allow it any longer.” Her voice is calm but cuts through you with the precision of a blade.

“After prayers, you will return to your chambers,” she continues, each word deliberate. “And you will remain there until I decide otherwise. Perhaps solitude will instil the discipline you so clearly lack.”

You open your mouth to object, but her piercing glare stops you mid-breath. Any protest dies on your lips.

The prayers are long and stifling, each moment stretching painfully under the weight of her disapproval. When they finally conclude, Alicent herself escorts you back to your chambers, her grip firm as though she fears you might slip away.

The heavy door shuts behind you with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

Left alone, you search your bed, hoping the books you’d hidden earlier might still be there. They aren’t. In fact, none of your hidden belongings remain. Realisation dawns—she must have discovered them. That’s why she was so angry.

With no distractions to occupy your mind, you lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe sleep will offer a reprieve. But the hours drag on, the silence pressing against you like an iron weight. Just as the last light of day fades, a soft knock breaks the stillness, startling you.

“Aemond?” you call out hesitantly.

The door creaks open, and your brother steps inside, a tray of food in hand and a book tucked under his arm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, though relief rushes through you.

“And leave you to starve?” he replies simply. He sets the tray down on your desk before sitting beside you on the bed. “Mother can be harsh, but she forgets—you're human, not an extension of her will.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a tentative bite of the bread he brought. “But if she finds out, she’ll punish me even more.”

“I’ll speak with Father,” he says, his voice calm but resolute. “Perhaps he’ll see that Mother has gone too far.”

Your fingers graze the book he hands you, and for the first time in hours, a faint smile graces your lips. “You’re always looking out for me,” you say softly.

Aemond’s gaze lingers, his voice low but steady. “They don’t see you for who you are. To Mother, you’re a pawn; to them, a symbol. But I see you.”

Your breath hitches, his words stirring something deep within you. Before you can reply, he gently brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“I know how she treats you,” he continues, his tone measured but intense. “Always demanding, always expecting. But you don’t have to bear it alone. I’ll always be here.”

“Aemond…” you begin, unsure of what to say, but he interrupts with a faint smile. “Rest. If she troubles you again tomorrow, come to me—or Father. I’ll handle it.”

Without waiting for a response, he rises, his movements deliberate. At the door, he pauses, glancing back with a rare softness in his eyes.

“Remember, I’m always here.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left with a strange mixture of comfort and unease. Aemond’s presence was your refuge, but his intensity… it left a lingering weight in the air.

It was already dark when you decided to take a bath. Perhaps it would help ease the tension gripping your body. Surely Mother wouldn’t mind—not if it was just a few minutes to the bathing chambers nearby.

The corridor was silent as you slipped out, your footsteps a soft echo in the stillness. You moved swiftly, heart racing with the thrill of disobedience. Reaching the bathing chamber, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, pushing the heavy door shut behind you.

But before it could close, a hand shot out, stopping it. Panic flared as another arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back, and a hand covered your mouth before you could scream. Your heart pounded, every nerve on edge, until the faint scent of leather and cedarwood registered.

“Relax,” came a low, familiar voice, its velvety tone tinged with amusement. “It’s just me.” You pull his hand away and whirl around, your expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “You scared me half to death!” you whisper fiercely, mindful of the echoing corridors outside.—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I couldn’t resist.”

“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “If Mother knew you were here—”

“She’d lock you away again?” he finished, his smile fading as his brown eyes softened. “I know. That’s why I had to see you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you trapped in that room, alone, while she wields her control over you.”

His words sent a rebellious spark through you, a flicker of validation in the face of your mother’s suffocating expectations. But just as quickly, the reality of your situation weighed it down. “Alaric, you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, glancing nervously at the door. “If Aemond finds out…”

At the mention of your brother, Alaric’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “Aemond won’t find out. And even if he did, I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “He’d kill you if he thought—”

“That I cared for you?” Alaric said quietly, his gaze piercing.

Your breath caught, and you looked away, heat rising to your cheeks. “You shouldn’t care for me,” you muttered. “It’s not safe—for either of us.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up, his touch gentle but insistent. “I don’t care about the risk, (your name). I’d rather face Aemond’s sword and your mother’s wrath than stay away from you.”

The weight of his words struck you, before you can stop yourself, you close the distance between you. Grabbing his arm, you pull him back, your heart pounding. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your waist as you lean in, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that drowns out every rule, every fear, and every consequence.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was desperation and lust, a silent scream against the forces trying to pull you apart. For a fleeting moment, the world dissolved. No Mother. No Aemond. No suffocating expectations. Just Alaric and the reckless hope he represented.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came fast, and your cheeks burned. Alaric’s eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak, his thumb brushing the curve of your jaw.

“I…” you started, but your words faltered.

His lips curved into a faint smile, tender yet resolute. “Say the word, and I’ll stay. No matter what.”

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No. Not tonight. But… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he echoed, one brow lifting in curiosity.

“Here,” you said firmly. “The same time, the same place. I’ll find a way.”

He studied you for a moment, as if weighing the risk against the determination in your eyes. Then, he nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

With a final lingering kiss to your forehead, he stepped back toward the window. “Don't let her break you. Be careful, (your name).”

“You too,” you whispered, watching him slip into the night, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows.

As the quiet of the chamber settled around you, your fingers brushed your lips, the memory of his kiss still vivid. The enormity of what had happened began to sink in, but instead of fear, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

The following day dawns with an air of tension you can’t quite shake. As you dress for your morning lessons, the memory of last night lingers like a forbidden dream. You replay every word, every touch, every moment with Alaric, but reality presses in too soon.

When you enter the dining hall for breakfast, Alicent’s gaze immediately locks onto you. Her expression is stiff, and her tone, when she speaks, carries a sharp edge.

“Sit,” she says curtly, her eyes flicking toward the chair opposite her.

You do as instructed, lowering yourself into the seat. Aemond is already there, silent but watchful as always, and Viserys occupies his usual place at the head of the table. His expression, however, is uncharacteristically lively this morning, his gaze softening when it lands on you.

“Good morning, my dear,” Viserys says warmly, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Good morning, Father,” you reply, a cautious smile tugging at your lips.

He waves a hand dismissively toward the plate before you. “Eat well. And don’t worry about that ridiculous punishment. You’re free to go about your day as you please.”

You blink in surprise, your fork pausing mid-air. Alicent stiffens visibly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Viserys—” she begins, her voice tightly controlled, but he raises a hand to silence her.

“She’s done nothing to warrant being locked away, Alicent,” he says firmly, though his tone remains even. “Our daughter is a credit to this family. She carries herself with grace and dignity, and I won’t have her treated like some wayward child.”

Alicent’s hands clench in her lap, her composure barely holding. “It’s not about grace or dignity. It’s about discipline. She’s been sneaking off—”

“And you dealt with it, as you always do,” Viserys interrupts, his tone softening but leaving no room for argument. “But she’s learned her lesson, hasn’t she?” He glances at you with a fatherly smile.

“Yes, Father,” you reply quietly, your gaze lowering to avoid Alicent’s piercing stare.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Viserys returns to his meal, clearly considering the matter closed.

The tension at the table is palpable as Alicent pointedly cuts her food, the sound of her knife scraping against the plate unnervingly loud. Aemond exchanges a glance with you, a subtle flicker of support in his eye, but says nothing.

After breakfast, Alicent corners you just outside the hall, her voice low and sharp.

“Your father may see you as flawless, but perfection comes with a cost,” she hisses, her gaze cold. “You will not jeopardise what we’ve worked so hard to build with your recklessness.”

You swallow hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, Mother.”

Her glare intensifies, her tone biting. “You are the model of what a princess should be, and you will act accordingly. The court looks to you for inspiration, and I will not have them see weakness. Your lessons will continue, every one of them, and I will ensure your Septa does not coddle you.”

“Yes, Mother,” you reply, your voice steady but soft.

She studies you for a moment longer before sweeping away, her skirts rustling angrily behind her. The encounter leaves you standing tall, not because of fear, but because you know the weight of perfection that has been placed upon you—a weight you have always borne with grace.

The day stretches on, a never-ending cycle of lessons and expectations. Each moment is meticulously scheduled, a testament to your role as the perfect princess. Etiquette lessons are followed by hours spent discussing history, with each lecture becoming more and more of a blur. Valyrian is mastered with grace, the elegant words flowing from your lips as if they were second nature. The pressure to be flawless weighs heavily on you, but you bear it with an air of calm, never allowing it to show.

Throughout it all, Alicent remains a constant presence. She watches your every move, her sharp gaze never leaving you. You know she is pleased with your progress, but there is always a lingering sense of expectation in the air, as if the tiniest misstep would undo everything.

Even as you move from one task to another, the thought of Alaric flickers at the edges of your mind. The stolen kiss, the promise made—these moments linger in your thoughts like a secret thread woven through the fabric of your day. You push the thoughts aside, knowing you must focus on your duties. There is no room for distractions, not when you must remain perfect in every way.

Lunch comes and goes, a quiet affair with your family. You speak with your mother and Aegon, though your words are carefully measured. They don’t know—none of them do—but you catch Aegon’s eyes occasionally, a silent understanding passing between you. Afterward, you attend more lessons, this time under your mother’s watchful eye. Her gaze is always on you, sharp and piercing, but there’s also an unspoken encouragement there. She expects greatness, and you deliver it.

As the afternoon wanes, you move to your final task of the day: another meeting with Alicent. She inspects your progress with a critical eye, praising the things you’ve done well and reminding you of the things that still need perfecting. Her voice is firm, but there’s a gentleness there, too, the kind that only a mother can convey.

The hours pass like this, one after another, each duty completed to the highest standard. Finally, the evening arrives, and with it, the promise of a brief respite. Dinner with the family is a quiet affair, the room filled with the soft clinking of utensils and murmured conversation. You eat in silence, your mind elsewhere.

Afterward, you retire to your chambers. You change into your nightgown, the fabric cool against your skin. You look in the mirror for a moment, seeing the poised princess staring back at you. No mistakes. No cracks in the façade. Everything has been handled with perfect care.

You make your way to the bath chambers, the solitude of the corridors a small comfort. As you approach the door, you hear a voice from behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, and you freeze mid-step.

Turning slowly, you face her, the tension building in the air. “I’m going to take a bath, Mother,” you answer calmly, offering her a small, composed smile.

Alicent looks you over, her gaze lingering on your attire. “In that? Why are you dressed like that? You know it’s improper to go without the servants’ help.” Her tone is questioning, but not unkind.

“I didn’t want to trouble them, Mother,” you reply smoothly. “I thought I would go on my own this time, just to... clear my thoughts.”

Alicent studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Very well,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “But you must remember to call for help if you need it. Don’t forget your place, (your name).”

You nod quickly. “Of course, Mother. I won’t be long.”

She gives you one last scrutinising look before nodding, satisfied for the moment. “See that you don’t. You’ve done well today, but there’s always more to be done. I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the quiet of the corridor. You exhale slowly, the tension in your body relaxing. Without another word, you slip into the bath chambers, and then you hear a sound outside the window. It’s him.

You approach the window, heart racing, and peek through the gap in the curtains. Alaric stands there, his presence unmistakable even in the dim light. His gaze meets yours, and the weight of the promise you made to each other the night before hangs in the air. The excitement builds in you as you move away from the window, quickly securing the door.

Moments later, the door creaks open just enough to reveal Alaric slipping inside, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. His gaze lingers on your nightgown, the soft fabric clinging to your form in the dim light. You feel his eyes on you, heat rising in your chest. Neither of you speaks immediately—words are unnecessary now. The anticipation crackles between you, and it’s clear that tonight will be different.

He steps closer, the air thick with tension, and the space between you is filled with a promise of more. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding with the realization of everything you’re about to risk. But you don't care, and you know that neither does he. Without a word, you begin to unlace the ties of your nightgown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet, leaving yourself exposed completely to him. He watches you, his gaze intense, and then, without hesitation, he closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s both hungry and desperate, a mix of desire and an unspoken understanding of the consequences. The kiss deepens, pulling you both into the moment, where nothing else matters but the heat between you, a connection neither of you can deny.

“Wait, I don’t want to be impure, even if I love you too much, and I need you so much that even words can’t describe it,” you say, voice trembling with a mix of desire and guilt. “I don’t want to disappoint my family by being impure before the wedding.”

Alaric watches you, his eyes dark with an intensity that both comforts and unsettles you. Even though you know he’s hungry, his gaze softens with concern, a frown tugging at his features. “Then don’t do it,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost like a promise. “We can always do other things.”

His words are a balm to your anxious heart, yet there’s something deeper in his tone, an unspoken suggestion that he’s willing to go to great lengths to keep you safe, to protect you—his obsession so deeply rooted in his care for you, and yet, there's a hint of something darker behind his gaze.

You hesitate, your hands shaking slightly as you look away, unsure if his care for you is truly all it seems. "But what if... what if I'm not enough for you?"

Alaric steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he lifts your chin gently with one hand. "You are more than enough," he says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "And no matter what happens, I'll make sure you're never alone."

His lips brush your forehead in a tender gesture, but the warmth doesn't quite reach your heart. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken promise of his love—and perhaps something more—pressing on you.

"You don't need to worry," he adds, his words both comforting and possessive. "I'll take care of everything. You just need to trust me."

And before you can say anything, he runs his hand down your body, touching your tits, your belly, all the way down to your private parts. You feel his fingers on your clitoris, circling, you want to moan, but before you do, his other hand goes to your mouth. As his head moves down your neck, kissing and sucking, but not leaving any marks. You were feeling so good, you don't know what he is doing down there and then he move away his hand of your mouth, and grabs yours, and guide to his dick and star to make moves.

"Just let me make you feel good too, all right, my lady?" Alaric’s voice is soft yet commanding, a tone that leaves no room for doubt.

You nod silently, your mind hazy and overwhelmed. You don’t fully understand what you’re doing; all you know is that you feel so good, so utterly consumed by the moment, that everything else fades into the background.

You barely notice what he’s doing with your hand or how quickly he’s guiding it. His touch is deliberate, firm, yet somehow gentle enough to keep you entranced.

You don’t have any idea what’s happening; the world around you blurs into pleasure and nothingness. All you know is the sensation—the warmth spreading through you, the dizzying rush of emotions—and the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in his entire world.

Pt. 4 >>

Author’s note: My apologies for the delay, I’ve had a busy few months, but I’m here now, and I hope to release part 4 very soon. Tomorrow, I’ll be posting some headcanons that I hope you’ll enjoy.

Taglist: @ursinaw @dakota-rain666 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @pookiedragonfire @jjggdfvvy @maryldrsstuff @1soultaken @ceramic-raven @eissaaaa @moodyblueberrytree @xadaboo @labryel @zoeyburton @hopingtoclearmedschool

[spxllcxstxr]

Kintsugi • K.R

(Gif not mine)

Request: Pls pls I need Kendall x young reader wife with a kid living in a remote place away from all the post waystar drama — anon

Summary: Six months later, Kendall still believes he's broken

Warnings: fem!reader (referred to as girl and mommy), usage of mommy and daddy but in pure parental terms, you have an unnamed daughter, rehab mention, kendall takes meds and goes to therapy now, past suicide implication/mention?, normal ken stuff, spoilers for the end of succession

Word Count: 1.2k (I didn't think it was gunna be this long lmao)

A.N: this was a little angsty im not gunna lie lmao, I’m going feral over this request—I just want Ken to be HAPPY, not enough happy Kendall gifs, also i am not entirely great with writing modern bros so like sorry about the characterization? first kendall piece so if you have any tips let me know, hope you all enjoy!

Kintsugi - a Japanese art form that involves repairing broken pottery with gold

•

"Ken? Ken honey do you want to join us at the beach today?" Your words cut through the painful silence of your master bedroom, shrouded in darkness despite it being past noon.

Kendall gives no indication that he heard you; no vague grunt or shift in movement. He just lays there--the blanket covering everything below his nose as his eyes stay closed. He isn't sleeping, you've been married to him long enough that his shuddering breaths and still as stone rigid posture was a poor attempt to convince you otherwise.

It’s like he thinks the blanket is the only thing holding him together. Like if he leaves that spot he’ll crumble to pieces right in front of you.

Your heart drops just looking at him. Being away from the city had obviously done some good, along with his month long visit to rehab, but Ken was still…healing.

You kiss his forehead before leaving, telling your disappointed daughter that daddy wouldn't be joining you today.

"It's one of daddy's bad days?" She asks once you feet hit the sand. Her childish voice laced with her innocence almost makes you tear up.

"It is, sweetie..." You nod, before quickly distracting her with placing your towels down and bringing out water bottles from her little pink lunchbox.

The ocean is what occupies her little body for the first hour or so. She jumps over the little waves and collects sea shells. Like what any parent would do, you snap photos of her with the biggest grin on her face.

Eventually, though, the two of you end up in the sand, using her plastic bucket and shovel to build a castle fit for a queen. She's actually not half bad, you notice, as the usual clumsy movements of a toddler are no longer present when she details her sandcastle.

“How’re my girls?”

You look up from the sand beneath your fingers to see your husband, clad in shorts and t-shirt.

“Daddy!” Your daughter shrieks, practically stomping all over the sandcastle the two of you were working on to get to Kendall.

She hugs his knees, squeezing them between her little arms, and he crouches down to hug her back.

Your husband smiles and it’s enough to convince your daughter—but not you.

He's tired, you notice; though it wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. At just a glance it looks as if your husband has aged 50 years in six months. His eyes are sunken, not mention the dullness of his usually bright brown eyes. Kendall's normally sun-kissed skin now a deathly grey, which makes sense, he has barely left your bedroom much less the house. It’s almost as if someone had taken a spoon and hollowed out everything that made him human. Frown lines are etched into his face, your heart almost shatters at the overpowering aura of sadness and despair surrounding him.

Six months isn't enough time to wash away the years at Waystar.

You smile at him as your daughter takes his hand and drags him to the crumbling sandcastle.

Once he sits down he kisses you, placing a large hand on the side on your face. You taste the mint of the mouthwash he must've just used before his trek down here. Kissing Kendall was addicting, it always was, but with your daughter's groan of disgust you slowly pull away from him.

"Oh don't be like that kiddo, that's just what mommies and daddies do when they're in love." Kendall teases, ruffling her hair in the process.

She sticks her tongue out before turning her attention back on the ruins of the castle in front of her. Instead of crying about the state of it, she happily starts rebuilding with the help of you and Ken.

One eye never leaves his figure.

This sort of mood swing isn’t uncommon, for years you’ve experienced Kendall’s drastic moods, but this certainly wasn’t one of his highs.

The sandcastle slowly morphs into a sandkingdom; once she starts she never wants to stop. That is, until your daughter finally gets tired after the sun sets and she curls into Kendall’s lap.

You know you should get back to the house, it’s late, but it’s just too peaceful out here, alone on the beach.

Careful not to stir the little girl in his lap, Kendell leans his head on your shoulder, shifting closer to your warm figure. The stars flicker above you--a sight you almost never saw in the city. You take a deep breath before kissing your husband's recently buzzed head. Kendall hums, nuzzling even closer into you, like he was trying to burrow underneath your skin so you never had to leave him.

"I love you, Kendall. And we're ok." You whisper, the words getting eaten by the crashing waves just feet away from the two of you. Still, he hears you, you can tell by the sniffle against your shirt. Your daughter groans in her sleep, shifting.

He swallows roughly at your words.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/n)…I fucked it.” Ken chokes out quietly, trying not to disturb the child. “I fucked it and I’m broken.”

His tears seep into your shirt. You angle your head down, your nose brushing against the top of his head.

"Oh Ken honey..." Your own lip wobbles at your husband's vulnerability. "You're not broken...you were never broken..."

"Then I'm--I'm fucking cracked, (Y/n)! I'm just not whole anymore! I don’t know if I ever was!"

Thoughts race through your head. Kendall had been doing better. He was consistent with taking his meds and he went to therapy every week. What if he tried to--? You clutch him closer to you, trying not to make yourself spiral when Kendall needed you.

His body shakes with silent sobs, your daughter still peacefully sleeping, unaware of the world around her.

The cool ocean breeze dances across your skin. You take a deep breath.

"Have you ever heard of kintsugi, Ken?"

"What? I'm having a complete breakdown and you're asking me about whatever the fuck that is?" He huffs, annoyed.

"Just listen to me Ken, it'll go somewhere." You kiss the top of his head to comfort his suddenly tense figure beside you. He eases at the contact. "I read in some stupid magazine that it's a Japanese technique where they repaired broken pots and stuff with gold." Kendall lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are red with unshed tears and his eyebrows are furrowed, listening to you. "They were made whole again; made more beautiful and were stronger than before."

Kendall purses his lips as you bring a hand up to stroke his tear stained cheek. Your other hand lightly strokes through your daughter's hair, careful not to rouse her.

"We'll be your gold, Kendall."

All at once the tension leaves his body, tears cascading down his face. His once dimly lit eyes brighten to reflect the stars above.

"Right," He nods, almost like he doesn't know how to respond to what you just said. "My gold..." His eyes flick between you and your daughter before his head settles back onto your shoulder, almost as if he couldn't take anymore emotions for the day.

You sigh, leaning your own head against his. Closing your eyes, you let the sound of the waves wash over the otherwise silent night.

The stars still shine above you and the saltiness of the ocean tinges the air.

You were all going to be alright.

•

[cheerycherrycandy-resurrected]

What You've Done, You Cannot Undo (Medieval AU)

Chapter 9

The journey north begins. They might be out of danger for now, but will things run smoothly?

I finished this chapter on the aeroplane on the way on holiday, and I was itching the whole time to post it once I was back!!

Rating: M Content: Dew has more issues with self-hatred, none of the ghouls know how to communicate effectively Words: 5143

Links to full fic: Tumblr | AO3

Hi tag gang! As always, lmk if you want in or out! @everybodyshusband @rainsbasspick @revengeghoulette

Read below, or on AO3!

Dew awoke to find a water ghoul plastered along his side. Rain was still cold, but his normal cold rather than the dangerously icy temperature he had been the night before. Dew extricated himself from the bear grip Rain had him pinned in, shaking his long limbs off and crawling out from under the blanket. The sun was beginning to creep above the horizon, bathing the land in a pale grey light. He found Swiss sat watching the sunrise, his eyes scanning the horizon periodically. They frequently lingered on the village in the distance, his gaze sad and wistful.

“Morning.” Dew whispered, sitting down next to him and leaning his head on his shoulder in an uncharacteristic show of affection. Swiss had been more withdrawn than usual the previous night, and Dew was worried about him. The naturally more tactile multi ghoul rested his own head on Dew’s and let out tired sigh.

“I was gonna wake you soon for the next watch,” he muttered quietly, “but you looked so comfy over there, I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

Dew growled lightly at the comment, but there was no venom behind it.

“Let Aeth sleep.” He agreed instead. The quintessence ghoul still looked dead to the world, drooling slightly in his sleep but otherwise unmoving.

“How’s Rain doing?” asked Swiss.

“He’s less cold now,” Dew replied, “but I don’t think any amount of sleep will be enough for him for a while.”

He twisted he head to look up at Swiss. There was a haunted look in his eyes, one that Dew recognised all too well.

“You saw him, down in the cells.” Dew stated. Swiss nodded, his stricken face giving away just how much it had affected him. “How are you feeling now?”

Swiss shrugged.

“Not great. Seeing him down there, especially after the guards attacked him…” he trailed off, pulling Dew closer to him and burying his nose in his tangle of platinum hair. “I was so scared.” He whispered into Dew’s hair, as though letting the words be spoken into the air could make them hurt more.

Dew hummed in understanding; the thought of Rain, quiet and sweet young ghoul he was, stuck all alone in the dark cell had haunted him all the time he’d been gone. Dew had endured hardship before, he was no stranger to suffering, but Rain had always seemed less aware of the evils in the world. He must have known pain at some point, Dew reasoned, or he would still be with his birth clan. Much like Dew himself though, Rain had always stayed relatively quiet about what brought him to run away.

“I couldn’t see anything, Dew. It was like someone had covered my eyes, everything after noon yesterday was just black.”

Dew let himself be pulled closer to Swiss, manhandled like a teddy bear – it wouldn’t be the first time that morning he reasoned, and Swiss clearly needed the comfort.

“I went to see him every day,” he shuddered, “I hated it. Even when he seemed to be getting stronger, just seeing him there but not being able to help…”

Swiss trailed off, his breathing shaky. Dew guessed he hadn’t told the others about these feelings – Swiss was never one to burden others, always putting on a brave face, but they wouldn’t have let him shoulder this alone if they had known. Dew was the only one who could begin to understand what he had seen, who could know the feeling of abject hopelessness at seeing Rain trapped by stone walls and iron bars first-hand.

“It’s alright, we’re all alright now.” Dew said, trying to be as soothing as possible and mask his discomfort. He attempted to make a joke, to deflect from their shared emotional vulnerability.

“At least you didn’t take one look at him and run for the hills, eh?”

Swiss chuckled weakly, the sound was wet and choked, and rang hollow in Dew’s ears.

“When they attacked him, it felt like was like I was the one being struck instead. After days of feeling nothing, it hurt so much.” A shiver of pain lanced through his body, making him twitch violently and squeeze Dew almost uncomfortable tight. “I was so worried we’d lost him.”

Neither of them liked to add that they were worried they still had: despite Rain being slightly more responsive by the time they went to bed and showing signs that he recognised them, he still had yet to speak a word.

“He’s a tough kid,” Dew admitted, “Satan knows I gave him enough trouble before all of this.”

“Marriage turned you soft already?” Swiss joked, mask slipping effortlessly back in place.

“Something like that.”

The pair sat in comfortable silence a little longer. Swiss might have been free with his affections, reflected Dew as he remained encircled in his strong arms, but he was more like him with his vulnerabilities.

“I can see why you left like you did.” Swiss said finally. “If I’d had any idea how to get Rain out, I’d have flown there as soon as possible too, explanations be damned.”

“It was never guaranteed,” Dew pointed out, “just in the moment it seemed like asking for help was the only idea, and there was no time to explain.”

“We’d never have let you go.” Swiss told him bluntly. “We’d have insisted we could get Rain out ourselves, and neither of us need my foresight to know how that would have turned out.”

Dew nodded grimly.

Around them, the birds began to wake up and sing their dawn chorus. On cue, Swiss yawned widely, his jaw audibly popping.

“You should get a bit more sleep,” suggested Dew with a sigh of his own, “we’ve got a long trip coming up. I promise I won’t leave again, you can trust me despite what Mountain seems to think.”

“I know.” Swiss said simply as he stood up and stretched out his legs. “Don’t take his words to heart, okay? He’s just a bit frustrated that he couldn’t take care of Rain alone.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, you know how he is, always thinking he’s the pack leader as the oldest and strongest.” Swiss’s tone implied that he did not fully agree but would happily humour his ego, if asked. “Mount knows what you did was best for the pack, just give him some time to sort out his bruised pride.”

Dew shrugged, but dropped the subject.

Soon after Swiss had wriggled back under his blanket, Dew could hear his light snores drifting towards him. He sat for a few hours more, loath to wake his exhausted pack. With the early sunrise of long summer days, they could rest a while longer before they would risk bumping into anyone from the village on the road.

As the sky grew lighter, he sat and contemplated how his life had changed over the last few days. He was married now for starters. Even though he didn’t believe in any of the humans’ customs, let alone in their God, he still believed in the sanctity of a promise made in front of his pack. He’d sworn in front of all of them that he would protect Rain, so protect Rain he must. For now, that meant taking him to the Abbey and it host of experienced quintessence ghouls, but damn, that journey was going to be frustrating. Dragging his pack of exhausted ghouls who were all prone to bickering northward was going to fray some nerves.

Part of him was anxious about their destination, too. Not only for their reaction to the Abbey and its inhabitants, he realised, but for the ghoulettes’ reaction to his pack. He wanted them to think he had made a good choice with his life, to be proud of him. Dew supposed this was what it felt like bringing home a potential mate to meet your family: the potential of acceptance, of joyfully blending families, but mixed with the fear of disapproval and rejection. He wouldn’t know anything of that relationship dynamic; his mother had made it quite clear to him how hated his father had been by everyone except for her. Instead of bringing home a mate however, Dew was bringing a brand new husband and three additional ghouls who were varying degrees of excited for the meeting themselves. He hoped they would make a good impression.

His thoughts drifted to Rain; to the catalyst of this whole situation. Rain had been the baby of the pack ever since he arrived, even though he was only slightly younger than Dew himself. The difference between them lay in how Dew prided himself in acting more world-wise than he really was, whereas Rain always seemed to be stuck in the past. Maybe neither one of them had the right attitude, reflected Dew. His insistence on self-reliance had led him to bully Rain into taking on tasks he wasn’t capable of, whereas Rain’s dependence on others had made him desperate to prove himself. Providing they got out of this, they’d both have learned a hard lesson.

Who was he kidding, thought Dew. He could try and blame Rain all he wanted, but he felt sure that he should shoulder most of the blame. If only he’d been more supportive when he had the opportunity, they wouldn’t be in this mess!

He felt himself descending into the all-too-familiar spiral of self-loathing. If he weren’t so hateful, he wouldn’t have felt the need to pick on Rain, and if he had been nicer to Rain they wouldn’t be in this situation now. Everything was his fault. He detested the ghoul who walked around in his imperfect skin.

Dew shook his head to dislodge the thoughts and turned to look at his pack: the time for should’ves had long passed, he had a new task ahead of him. Similarly, he couldn’t find it in himself to shift the blame for their situation onto Rain. Even if his inexperience was what pulled the trigger, Dew had loaded the gun. Looking at him now, sleeping peacefully, compared to seeing him in those dingy cells, Dew felt only a rush of protectiveness. Damn those pack instincts were strong.

They were his real purpose now; nothing that came before mattered apart from his pack. He couldn’t undo his actions any more than Rain could have pulled the raindrops back into their clouds, but he could make amends. That meant starting with an apology, and Dew was never very good at those. Staring back towards the village on the horizon, Dew contemplated what to say.

Eventually, the ghouls began to rise. By the time they had rubbed bleary eyes and blinked sleep away there was some activity in the distance, people scurrying around as tiny as ants. They would have to be careful to give the village a wide berth when they left.

“Wha- why didn’t you wake me for a watch?” yawned Aether, the last to wake.

Dew, Swiss and Mountain all levelled him with identical glares.

“What?”

“Aeth, you were exhausted,” Swiss sighed, “you used all your energy on Rain yesterday, you needed the sleep the most.”

Aether didn’t dare argue further.

After a slow start, all five ghouls and one horse had finally eaten and were all packed up ready to leave. They loaded Rain onto the mare, and some of their belongings into her saddlebags and set off. Cautiously, they skirted around the village, keeping several miles between them. Even with the distance, Swiss and Mountain kept a vigilant lookout as they hurried along the small back roads. They would need to stop to hunt and forage at some point, but that could wait until they were on neutral ground. They cautiously navigated their way forwards, taking a large detour to avoid all the small farms and dwellings that surrounded the town. They were especially careful to avoid the stables near the main road north: the townsfolk may not have recognised the horse from a distance, but up close her owners were sure to.

Only once the sun had reached its peak and begun its slow descent back towards the horizon, did they feel safe enough to pause for breath. The atmosphere as they walked had been somber, cut through in brief moments by flashes of tension during their escape. Rain still hadn’t spoken a word, although he seemed more lucid after his warm night's sleep. Ahead of them they could hear the gentle rushing of the river, the sound guiding them back towards the main path north. They kept walking until they reached its shores, the temptation of a cold drink pulling them onwards.

From here, the road forward was clear. Leading off the path was a small slope down towards the water, which partially shielded a small grassy patch from the view of any passing traveller. They picked their way down the gentle incline, collapsing to the soft undergrowth at the bottom.

“Well, that’s the hard part done.” Said Aether, as he helped Rain down from the saddle. He guided the water ghoul to sit on a rock next to the water, and scooped up some water in a small wooden bowl for him.

“Small sips, remember?”

Rain drained the bowl in one gulp and held it out for more.

“Be careful,” murmured Aether, “you’ll hurt your stomach.”

Rain ignored him in favour of unglamouring his tail and gently swishing it through the water beside him.

Aether watched, nodding in approval. The further they got from the village, the more alert Rain seemed. He’d been relieved so see Rain looking relatively human yesterday, no horns or tail in sight, the slight blue pallor to his skin easily explainable by his underground imprisonment. The first thing any young ghoul born topside learned about their magic was how to hide it. Rain had always struggled with that, reflected Aether, but then he had struggled with all aspects of his magic. Maybe some combination of the strengthening tinctures and herbs Swiss had brought to him, and whatever mysteriously unlocked his water connection so violently had helped him finally get it under control.

“We should forage a bit, whilst we're stopped here.” Mountain's low voice shook Aether from his thoughts, as he appeared beside him to collect water from his cupped hands, drinking it and splashing his face. His thick auburn hair was tied back with twine, but beneath it he was still sweating in the heat. “I think I saw some of the herbs you need for Rain's poultice back by the road.” Aether dipped his head in agreement and quickly drunk from the river himself.

“Are you good with Swiss and Dew for a bit, Rain?” he asked, passing another, smaller, bowl of water up to him. Rain nodded, content to continue basking in his element for as long as he could.

Swiss looked up from where he and Dew were sprawled on their backs on the warm grass, heads resting on their packs.

“We’ve got him Aeth, don’t worry.”

Looking like he would continue worrying regardless, Aether sorted through his knapsack taking out all but what he needed. Once Mountain had done the same, the pair headed back up the slope to the path and the wooded area beyond.

Their feet recovered temporarily, Dew and Swiss also migrated to Rain’s spot by the river to get a drink. He sat there, tail stirring the water as he watched the fish swim past. The longing to join them in his eyes was unmissable.

“You wanna paddle?” Dew asked him, thinking the cold water looked pretty refreshing himself. Rain nodded enthusiastically, so Dew helped him roll his borrowed trousers up before doing the same with his own. Carefully, he and Swiss balanced Rain as they waded out into the river. As they got deeper in, the water lapping at their knees, Rain seemed to gain in strength.

“Don’t get your clothes wet,” warned Swiss, “you’ll catch a chill, even in this weather.”

Rain acted like he hadn’t heard him, suddenly dropping into a crouch in the moving water and pulling the other two ghouls down with him. He grinned wickedly at their shouts and shrieks from the chilly shock of the water, before pausing and lunging towards a trout as it swam past his ankles. All three of them were completely soaked.

“I thought you were meant to be at death’s door!” spluttered Dew, pushing sodden blond hair out of his face and plucking at the uncomfortably wet clothes now clinging to his body. Rain snickered at them, and despite their protests, both Dew and Swiss were relieved to see him getting some life back. The water ghoul held the fish out towards Dew with a polite and slightly apologetic head-tilt, and Dew found himself unable to supress a smile.

“F-for you?” Rain spoke with a halting stutter, the first any of them had heard from him in over a week.

"Oh, you have it." Dew laughed, delighted at his progress out of his silent and withdrawn state. Rain licked his lips gleefully, before sinking his fangs deep into the still-wriggling fish. Dew sighed internally at the huge mess he was making; this was going to be his fault, somehow, wasn't it?

Once Rain had polished off the unlucky trout, making a tremendous mess of himself and his clothes in the process, Dew and Swiss tried their best to clean him off in the river still rushing around them.

“Right, let’s dry you off,” announced Swiss, “Mount and Aeth will decide we’re dinner if they see we let you get all wet!”

Ignoring his whine of protest, Swiss scooped up the squirming water ghoul and carried him back to dry land. In his weakened state there was no chance for him to fight back, but that didn’t stop him pouting petulantly the whole time. Dew plopped down between the two and heated his skin up like a space heater, the steam soon rising from his wet clothes and skin and beginning to dry the others.

“Thank you, Dew.” Whispered Rain, so quiet Dew almost missed it, but with a conviction that made the words reverberate around his skull like prayers in a cathedral.

The sun beat down on them from above and, led on the soft grass in the peaceful sunshine, the three ghouls could almost forget the problems they faced.

A while later, Mountain and Aether returned with a few bundles of herbs and some berries they found on their way back.

“Why are you all wet?” exclaimed Aether.

“You should be more careful, he'll get sick,” Mountain reprimanded them, “what were you thinking?”

Swiss rolled his eyes, ignoring the dig at them.

“Relax, he'll be fine. It was Rain's idea anyway!”

Dew however, took the criticism to heart: he'd failed his packmate again. Sure, it might have been Rain's idea, but he should have stepped in and stopped him; he should have been more responsible.

It soured his mood for the rest of the day. Mountain caught them a few more fish using a line and earthworms as bait, and after gutting and cleaning them, they packed up their haul to continue moving while it was still light. Several hours later, the sun was kissing its final farewell to the horizon, the sky fading through a kaleidoscope of colours. Rain hadn't spoken another word since earlier, and Dew began to think he had imagined it. They went to bed in silence, not even making eye contact as they settled on opposite sides of the bedroll.

Dew lay awake in the darkness, thinking to himself. He needed to apologise to Rain, that was clear. He'd missed his chance earlier, too caught up in the light-hearted mood to ruin it with a serious talk. The rest of his pack clearly thought he was to blame; Rain must do too.

Eventually, Dew must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he was being shaken awake by Aether for his turn at a watch. Rain had again migrated to the centre of the bedroll, his gangly limbs taking up the limited space and claiming Dew's warmth for themselves. He sat sullenly at the edge of their camp, stewing in his thoughts until morning.

Throughout their second day on the road, the weather broke. The glorious sunshine vanished, giving way to never-ending clouds and cold, drizzling rain. This seemed to be helping a certain water ghoul, tipping his head back to catch droplets of his namesake on his tongue. Rain's strength was coming back in leaps and bounds, he'd finally attempted to speak again, holding a quiet and stuttered conversation with Swiss and Aether from his perch on the mare's back. The pair seemed to be trying their hardest to keep him entertained, Swiss leading a continuous stream of small talk to distract Rain from thinking about his recent ordeal.

Dew, however, was not doing so well. He was cold, his feet were wet, and he had exhausted himself early on trying to keep them dry with magic. He trudged behind the others, dragging his feet forward and moping to himself. After their conversation the previous morning, he had hoped that Swiss would see how much he needed support too, and maybe turn to Dew for support of his own. That didn't seem to be the case at all however: Swiss had his cheerful mask fixed firmly back in place and was laying one hundred percent of his attention on Rain.

Dew had wanted to have a word with Rain today, now he was able to speak again. The guilt that had wracked his mind last night had only intensified while he slept, and he knew there was only one realistic way to settle things. Getting Rain alone had proved almost impossible however: aside from the fact that his two companions never left his side, Rain himself seemed distant. Dew could understand – he would be distant with him too, were their roles reversed.

Mountain was clearly still upset as well, not speaking to Dew unless he couldn't avoid it. He was less bothered by the rain than Dew and was ploughing of ahead of the pack. Dew remembered what Swiss had said, and knew he was likely just stressed, trying to cope with the situation in his own way. He was worrying about where and when to make camp, where to find food, and trying to be the best provider for his pack as possible having felt like he failed to protect Rain before. As Dew trailed along behind his packmates, he thought bitterly that if Mountain paused for a second and thought, he could realise that Dew had made this journey twice over the last week, and remembered most of the locations he had camped in. Rather than offer his advice though, Dew stayed quiet: his input wouldn't be appreciated, so why bother? The rain became heavier as they exited from under a canopy of trees, and Dew resigned himself to several more hours of misery.

From atop the horse, Rain was enjoying the gentle drizzle. They'd been slowly moving forward all day, the monotony of the journey only broken up by Swiss leaping between conversation topics. Rain was grateful for the distraction. His mind still felt fuzzy, like it was lagging several metres behind him and walking alongside Dewdrop. Huh, though Rain to himself. He had seen a new side to Dew yesterday when he helped him wade around in the river: a more caring ghoul who didn't snap at him for wanting to indulge in childish things like paddling on a hot day. Everything had felt like it might be okay in that moment – the cool water and gentle support of his packmates had cleared the cobwebs that shrouded his brain away, and he'd finally managed to form words. This Dewdrop was an entirely different ghoul from the one who found any excuse to gripe at him: this Dew could be expected to pull off a risky stunt to save him from the hangman's noose; would let him cuddle up close at night for warmth.

Now though, that Dew had disappeared. He was back to his familiar and grouchy self, dragging his feet as he brought up the rear. Rain wasn't sure what he'd done wrong, if anything. As he dried off yesterday, the clouds had descended around him again and he had not been able to pay attention to his packmate's interactions, even if he had wanted to. They were only starting to lift now with the tiny sharp shocks of individual raindrops striking his exposed skin, making him alert enough to hear Swiss recounting the time he'd met a dog he thought was half ghoul, but wasn't. Rain appreciated him trying but really, he could have done with some silence in this precious moment of mental clarity. Still, he sensed Swiss was chattering about similarly banal topics more for his own benefit than anyone else's, so he helped him keep the conversation going, replying when he could and enjoying the encouraging smiles it would pull from the multi ghoul.

Rain wondered if he should try to speak to Dew. They would need to have a conversation about what had unfolded in the square at some point, that was clear. However, Dew didn’t seem in the mood for an emotionally vulnerable talk – if anything he seemed to want to be left alone, staying far away from the others. Whenever Rain sensed a chance to catch Dew by himself, the stony frown on his face made him anxious that it would make things between them worse, and all ability to form coherent thoughts vanished as swiftly as he had recovered it.

That night, Dew griped and grumbled all the while as they prepared for bed. Rain had thought he would be pleased: Mountain had declared that they were far enough away from people who would do them harm as to not need a watch anymore. His and Aether’s old senses from their travelling days had come right back to them, and they were convinced they would wake at anything suspicious. Combined with Dew’s fire, Mountain’s protective wards, and their location off the path, they had decided it was safe enough for them all to all get a full night’s sleep.

Now that they had stopped moving, Rain was beginning to get cold in the damp evening air. His affinity with his element only went so far, especially given that he already ran cold and was still severely malnourished. He shivered as he tried to settle on his side of the bedroll, keeping his distance from a frosty Dewdrop. He desperately wanted to shuffle closer to him, to hold the smaller ghoul tightly and absorb every scrap of warmth he radiated. However, stronger than the heat was the anger emanating from him, so Rain kept a cautious distance.

He curled into himself, his back to Dew who was mirroring his position and almost off the edge of the heavy canvas. Rain tried to suppress his frozen trembling long past the time the others had fallen asleep. Dew was still awake however; Rain could hear his breathing. With the clearest head he had had since his actions of the week prior, the enormity of his situation suddenly hit him and his shivering turning into the shaking of silent sobs.

Rain had been trying to put on a brave face since his rescue, not wanting to seem ungrateful in any way when he knew he owed his pack – especially Dew – his life. However, he had barely started processing what had happened, how close he had come to dying, how his actions had killed people. How Dew, the one ghoul who had never warmed to him, had saved his life. How they were married now? It all seemed like a crazy dream, like the ones he had experienced as a kit after eating a pretty, red-spotted frog he had found in the marsh.

Now though, the same ghoul who had apparently cared for him enough to agree to marry him hadn’t spoken to him since the river yesterday. Rain took a shuddering breath, trying to get his tears under control. What was his life coming to? Now, to top it all off, he and his pack were moving across the country to a place he had never heard of before, with none of his own belongings, and wearing a spare set of Swiss’s clothes. All because he couldn’t control his emotions, like he was failing at doing now, and let himself be goaded into attempting something he wasn’t ready for.

He hadn’t attempted any water magic since they left. He certainly hadn’t tried tapping into that alien electrical buzz either; he didn’t even know if he would still be able to now that he was out of direct danger. So much for practicing his skills. Maybe Dew was right, he really was a failure. He would have been better off sticking to his own slow pace, even if that meant being called the pack burden by Dew. His crying intensified, knowing what his mistake had done to his pack and their stable, happy life.

Dew rolled over to face him, a thunderous expression on his face.

“Can you shut up?” He snapped. “Go to sleep. It’s your fault we’re in this situation in the first place!”

Hearing his own worst thoughts out loud only made Rain sob harder. He tried to muffle his cries in the blanket: the last thing he needed now was for Dew to call him weak again or, Hell forbid, disrupt the others’ sleep to make them comfort him.

Rain drew in a shaky breath, and hissed back at Dew,

“No one asked you to rescue me. I don’t know why you bothered, since you clearly hate me so much!”

Dew seemed stunned into silence by Rain’s sudden acquisition of a backbone. He flopped back onto his side to glare into the darkness away from Rain, and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

“If you hadn’t stupidly tried to prove yourself with something you knew you couldn’t handle, we would be in this mess.” He growled.

“Well if you didn’t spend every waking minute making me feel like I needed to prove myself, we wouldn’t be here either!” Rain shot back.

The air crackled with tension and the echoes of both of their deepest insecurities spoken aloud. The pair lay there, stewing in anger. Dew’s thoughts of apologising went out the window – Rain clearly wasn’t in a forgiving mood, what good would it do now?

They eventually fell asleep when their exhaustion won out, as separated as the narrow bedroll would allow them to be. When they woke, they were still on their opposite sides, the space between them cold for the first time since their journey began.

[queenlucythevaliant]

The remnant there who survived the exile is in great trouble and shame. The wall of Jerusalem is broken down.

After the door in the air was shut, King Caspian brought together an assembly of his friends and advisors. There, he called the dwarf Trumpkin to speak concerning what he had seen of Cair Paravel.

“Well,” said Trumpkin, “I can’t say that there was much left of the place when I was there. The walls are in pieces and it’s all overgrown. You’d scarcely know it was ever a castle, if you weren’t expecting to find one.”

“But could it be restored?” asked the king. “In your opinion: as a craftsman and a Narnian?”

Trumpkin seemed to ponder this for a moment, but his answer came readily enough. “We’d have to rebuild it from the foundations. Quarry stone, cut timber, and tear out all the plants that have grown there by the root— and that’s all before we so much as lay the new cornerstone. But if we go about it the right way (I mean, with the good guidance of Aslan and all)—yes, I think we can manage it.”

“But is it the thing that we ought to do first?” asked Doctor Cornelius. “After all, the Telmarine castle stands, and it will serve. There’s much else that needs doing at present.”

“It is a worthy undertaking,” piped Reepicheep, who was now standing atop his seat almost at attention, one small paw on the hilt of his rapier. “One more urgent and noble than any other work before us now. Cair Paravel is the ancient seat of justice in Narnia, and the graves of Old Narnian kings are on its grounds.”

A silence fell, and when it became clear that no one particularly felt like disputing the Mouse’s words, Caspian nodded his head solemnly. “Very well then. We rebuild.”

.

It was a little after noon and the sun was high on the day that Old Narnian exiles first returned to the shores of Cair Paravel. They arrived in row-boats and dinghies and on ferries from the mainland, for no ships had yet been built. Trumpkin and the King were in the lead boat together, and by Trumpkin’s direction the boats made landfall along the stretch of beach that ran alongside the ruins of Cair Paravel. Behind them came a host of Red Dwarves and Black Dwarves with their tools. There were Centuars, led by Glenstorm and his sons, and Beasts of all kinds: Clodsley Shovel and his Moles, the Hardbiters and the Hares, nimble-footed Harts, mighty Bears, Sables, Hedgehogs, Dogs, Horses, and the Mice with Reepicheep their Captain. Then came the fauns, with Mentius and Obentinus. Last of all were the Birds, soaring over the ships and calling to one another in high voices as they went.

When the first boat alighted on the shore, a great cheer went up, starting at the king’s boat and fanning out to all the rest. Caspian stepped onto the soft sand with a crunch and surveyed the place where the ruins of Cair Paravel sat. He could not think of anything suitably momentous to say, so he sank wordlessly to his knees and looked up, giving thanks to Aslan.

That night the whole rebuilding party camped on the beach. The dwarves built bonfires and the fauns played their flutes and there was song and dance. A few of the centuars were old enough to remember living in the lands around the Cair before the Telmarines had driven them off, and those that did wept. A few of the younger creatures wept too, though they could not express why. Yet Dumnus led the singing of loud choruses and some of the others whooped and hollered for joy. The sound of their voices, both the weeping and the singing, mingled together and fled into the night.

The next day, the dryads and naiads of the land around Cair Paravel came down to the beach. The giants, who had come from the mainland on foot, arrived not long after. Their number complete, the Narnians set to work.

.

“One thing we have in our favor,” Doctor Cornelius said, scroll still half open before him. “The historical records on the construction of the castle are exhaustive. There are plans and specifications for every inch of the place.”

Caspian straightened, wincing a little. He’d been helping one of the naiads clean debris from the courtyard well, and his back ached from bending over. “You might try telling that to the black dwarves,” he said. “They still haven’t figured out where to dig.”

Once the dwarves had assessed the ruins of the castle, they used a kind of scrying magic which Caspian did not understand in order to find a quarry of new stone to match the old. The trouble came when the time came for the stones to speak: they would only sing, in voices too deep for words.

“They’re too busy celebrating to tell us where they came from,” said Winnibrik gruffly when Caspian inquired about the progress of the quarry. “And I can’t blame them for that, really. It’s good that there are Narnian feet in this place again.”

Dryads guided parties into the forest to show which trees could be used for timber, and then Horses and centuars dragged the beams back to the Cair. In general, such work would have been beneath them, suitable only for dumb beasts of burden; but they did it without complaint. They knew, as everyone did, that they were in the midst of a great work.

Yet it was the cleaning and removal of debris that occupied most of the workers. Trufflehunter knelt in the dirt, patiently pulling broken bits of twisted metal from the ruin of the small armory. He hummed as he went, something lilting and wordless. A little way behind him, in the courtyard, a group of fauns hoisted a fallen apple tree and carried it away.

.

It was shortly after the foundation had been laid that a band of efreets appeared from the north. They arrived late in the evening while Caspian was dredging one of the cellars and asked to be brought before the king. “If it please you, sire, let us build with you,” said their leader, a broad creature with a toothy smile. “After all, we are Old Narnians too.”

Caspian, who was knee deep in water and soaked to the skin, called for a halt and went to confer with his councilors.

“You ought to have nothing to do with them,” said Trumpkin firmly, “not by my advice.”

“I should think not!” echoed Trufflehunter. “We’ve no need of any congress with creatures of that sort. Cair Paravel must be rebuilt by those who follow Aslan.”

The efreets, however, were less than accepting of this verdict. A few nights later, a Dog reported that he’d smelled men in the woods and a few scouts confirmed that Telmarines were camped a few miles upriver. “It seems that our ghoulish friends are angry with us,” said Caspian, “though I can’t for the life of me imagine what an efreet could have said to make a Telmarine come with him this close to the sea. At any rate, we ought to be alert. Send someone down to the treasure chamber and distribute whatever weapons you can find to anyone who can use them.”

So, as the walls of Cair Paravel rose up, the Narnians carried swords as they worked. At night everyone camped together inside the great footprint of the castle, with guards stationed on the half-built watchtower under the stars.

Reepicheep took more watches than anyone, for he said that he liked to be alone in the stillness of such a sacred place. “We needn’t be afraid,” he told Caspian softly one night. “Cair Paravel is ours, and we are Aslan’s. What can hurt us here?”

.

The Brothers of Shuddering Wood built the entrance to the main foyer, armed with heavy dwarven hammers that seemed to split the air when they fell. The hung the gate one glittering morning when the sun was on the sea. They left it wide open for the rest of the day.

Clodsley Shovel took the Moles to set the king’s garden to rights, and one day the Mice joined them in repairing the Tombs of the Kings. When they were through, they brought trimmings from the garden to decorate the monuments. The Dogs dug holes for posts, and a greenhouse soon followed. Then came the armory, the buttresses, the tower of guard.

“Was all of this really here before?” Caspian asked in astonishment. The water-gate had just been completed and his old tutor was beside him, looking up at the intricate device of bolts and bars that kept it securely lowered.

“Yes, my boy, it was,” said the old man. “It’s all in the books, you see?” Caspian felt a lump build in his throat: something like pride and another something like hope. He tried to swallow around it.

Hogglestock and Trufflehunter split the middle-sized Beasts into pairs for the construction of the broad wall. They told stories as they worked, in loud voices so as to carry down the length of it: stories that usually started with “Remember…” and occasionally, “In the days when Peter reigned at Cair Paravel…”

The great feasting hall came together little by little. The eastern windows were cast by dwarven artisans from enormous panes of glass while Glenstorm and his sons built the dais and drew sketches for the skylight. Wimbleweather carried great stone pillars in his arms and set them down where Ravenscaur instructed from his perch in the rafters. The Oak and the Beech made carvings on the seven heavy doors that led into the hall, and when they were through dwarven smiths fitted them with handles of silver and gold.

They ate in the hall together when it was built, though the walls were still bare and their voices echoed. The Bulgy Bears carried in the first piles of food from the kitchens, which were at last in working order. They heaped it on makeshift tables with little concern for appearance: grilled fish, pheasant, and apples prepared in every imaginable way.

.

When the last stone was laid in the castle, Caspian decreed a day of general celebration. But when he turned the corner down the hallway to the grand staircase, Caspian saw Trumpkin standing at a window looking morose, with tears in his eyes.

“Come now, Trumpkin, what’s the matter?” said Caspian as he came to a stop beside his friend. “Today is a happy day, and there’s no room in it for tears.”

Trumpkin made a sound between a snort and a sigh as he turned to face his king. “Certainly, your majesty. No tears today. But—” he smiled beneath his beard, “—Turnips and thunderbolts, Caspian! If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have laughed myself silly rather than imagine that any of this was possible.” He swept his hand towards the window and Caspian looked out.

It was a crisp, cloudless morning, the sky bright and clear, and the sounds of singing and of instruments being played filtered all the way up to the tallest tower. Caspian watched the Dogs running to and fro as they prepared for a hunt. Dryads danced in the courtyard and fauns played their flutes. Beyond the wall, a group of dwarves were coming up from the beach, where they’d just arrived with several boats full of gold and jewels from the mainland with which they meant to beautify the castle.

“Why Trumpkin!” laughed the king, “I’m surprised at you. Wasn’t it on your recommendation that all of this was done?”

Trumpkin shook his head ruefully. “My foolish optimism, perhaps. Aslan’s Mane, but times have changed.”

He cleared his throat and nodded towards the beach. “King Edmund said he’d have built a bridge if Cair Paravel had been an island in his day. What say you, King Caspian?”

The castle still needed furnishing, but there were finally tables in the feasting hall and the armory was stocked with swords. Doctor Cornelius was well on his way to reestablishing the library, and soon Cair Paravel would be adorned with the finest dwarven jewels.

“Next year,” Caspian replied. “I’ll put you in charge of its construction.”

Remember me, my God, for good.

[scotianostra]

On June 18th, the day after Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned at Lochleven Castle, The Palace of Holyrood House was overrun by religious zealots destroying the Royal Chapel and plundering the building.

The author James Boswell lamented in May 1758 the state of the church in his poem “An evening-walk in the Abbey-church of Holyrood-house” mentioning the state of the Royal Vaults as also the “venerable roof” which fell “a prey to the rude winds, and Winter’s stormy blasts!”

The biography of Mary Stuart describes the event as such:“The insurgent nobles, on the 18th of June, seized the Queen’s plate, jewels, and other moveables, in Holyrood-house: They coined the whole of her plate. On the same day, Glencairn went with his servants into the Queen’s chapel of Holyrood-house, and broke down the altars, and demolished the pictures, images, and ornaments. This outrage was highly commended by the preachers, as a work of great godliness: But, the other insurgent nobles were somewhat displeased; as he had done this mischief, without any order, and before they had resolved, how to deal with the Queen.

It is a curious circumstance, which marks the real design of the rebellious nobles: They immediately took the most decisive, and vigorous measures against the Queen, in violation of their public professions, and in breach of their solemn engagements, to serve, and obey her; while they did not pursue Bothwell, or take any measure to prevent his escape; though they always avowed one of their chief objects to be, to inflict condign punishment on Bothwell, for the King’s murder: Morton and Maitland, who were his complotters, knew, that he could charge them with their guilty conduct, in that abominable deed.”

So it really shows the anger shown towards Bothwell was merely an end to a means, they wanted Mary dethroned. This was confirmed on 24th July 1567, she was forced to abdicate.

In the years that followed the Abbey’s alters and stain glassed windows were destroyed along with the tombs of Kings David II, James II and Mary’s father James V.

There were attempts to rebuild the building, these were after 1758 when its high vault collapsed, but the repairs were disastrous and did not stand up to the task, by 1766 they were beginning to deteriorate.

Scots Magazine and reported a two stage failure.

“On the 2nd of December, about noon, part of the walls and roof of the church of the Abbey of Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh, gave way and fell in; and in the night following a great part of the remainder fell also. This is said to be owing to the enormous weight of a new stone roof laid over the church some years ago, which the walls were unable to support. The pillars and ornaments of this edifice, though for many years waste, and almost ruinous, were greatly admired, as one of the finest Gothic remains in the Island. The vaults, where the bodies of some of the royal family, several of the nobility, and a great number of the gentry, were deposited, were by this accident laid in ruins. – The church however, is, it is said, to be speedily rebuilt.”

Throughout these times the Abbey was still a place of interest for the people of Edinburgh and visitors alike, it was especially popular as a romantic place to take a walk, especially in the the twilight.

The Abbey is now in the care of Historic Scotland, but much to my annoyance you cannot just go and visit, you have to pay the best part of £20 to the Royal Collection Trust, which look after the royal palaces, I have no interest in visiting the Palace of Holyrood House, nor contributing to the trust, so only have vague memories of visiting when it used to be free when I was a young bairn.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Vigil. idril & aredhel. ao3.

TW: references to kidnapping, implied/referenced sexual assault.

"Aunt," said Idril, rather stiffly, where once she would have used her name, and would not have asked at all. "Might I join you?"

Aredhel fought the urge to bare her teeth, and kept her eyes on the crowded clouds above.

Pink-washed and round-bellied, west-bound. The wind was fierce with currents only clouds and birds sailed, but the courtyard Aredhel had chosen for her rest was well-sheltered, the stone rich with heat.

It had been some effort, to go the long way alone; but she had a cane, and a son to lean on. She had been weary and pained enough to send the son gladly away; and be gladdest of all to be alone.

She heard Idril come, her silver feet making their familiar song upon the mosaics of Gondolin's courts. That was more kindness she was used to in Nan Elmoth, where many things scurried, and few gave a warning of their proximity.

A glorious warmth seeped into her bones. She had been so cold, in Nan Elmoth. Not a first - but it was a damp mist that sank through the skin, a dizzying weariness. Sunlight - only occasionally. Eöl kept to the starlit-ways. 

Aredhel had kissed Arien Sun-Star once, and crowed to voicelessness when first she saw hard land, and thawing frost. She had missed this - it made her angry so. What a waste of years she might have spent otherwise.

And still Idril was waiting. It was not kind, to set a test upon her; but Aredhel could not do otherwise. And it was good to know Idril would wait; that she was not so changed as to have lost her persistence.

"Sit, if you like," Aredhel said. "I am not your master, to tell you what you might do."

Her voice sounded rough with long illness to her own ears, but she took her time gathering it in her throat, made it strong. In her sujourn under the curling boughs of Nan Elmoth, it had been needful to speak, and always it had been done with effort. She might have forgotten the sound of her own words, let them fade entirely.

Was he your master, then, Idril thought. Were you not free to do as you would, even to sit in the sun?

Aredhel did not hear it, but she knew her niece. The same wisdom that kept Idril's thought away from the walls that Aredhel had raised about her mind would make her draw conclusion. 

Not the wrong ones. They spoke in Sindarin. Aredhel was not certain yet she would speak the language of her people again; if she could, even inside the high walls of Gondolin, where Quenya was used in the market, in the king's chambers, in songs of devotions.

Gondolin's benches were wide and sturdy enough; two might lay abreast, and not touch.

Idril's hair smelled of laurel and honey, still. Few things had made Aredhel's eyes sting on her return to Gondolin. The white stone shimmering in the heat had been a great relief, but an indifferent one, as a hunted beast might feel at the sight of a cave or a tall branch. Now only did Aredhel feel - how familiar it was. This smell, Idril's closeness, the whirring machinery of her mind close enough they might have shared a moment of wry understanding, as they had so many times before.

They did not touch.

Now a small army of cirrocumulus overhead, sweet clouds all following on one another. She had tried to teach Lómion the different cloud names, but he had not the love for the skies that she did. Her son was busy in the forges. He had found his source of warmth, learned at his father's side. Aredhel had loved him less the day she understood he would not need to live as she did.

Possibly her measuring scale of love had grow skewered. O, now Turgon never would allow her out! But the worst of it was that she was tired. Not her wound alone caused it, though that healed slowly regardless.

 She willed herself to see it - herself on horseback again, crossing fields of clover, narrow passes. Her body thrummed with exhaustion at the thought of it. 

The high noon sun pressed against their lids, turned the world to a blinding gilt. Idril surely felt Aredhel's fever rising, the warmth that rose from her skin; but Idril was wise, and knew how to measure her silence. Aredhel had forgotten a little, how worthy her niece was.

At times dark shadows swirled overhead through the clouds. Slow, broad wings high above, coming from all corners of the mountainside.

The vultures that fed most often by Amon Gwareth had flown days ago to the city walls for a feast: Eöl, they cried. Eöl is dead. More and more came, eager, hungry.

 As a widow she had woken from near-death, knowing with rare foresight that her body would not be her own, and whole and hale again, until Eöl was eaten entire, bowels and eyeballs and marrow. Aredhel of Gondolin waited.

It was a good wait; long enough to learn the skies again, to be sun-warm all the way through.

She touched her fingertips lightly to Idril's, when it was done, and felt her stir, her thought turning to Aredhel, a constrained joy and grief and relief. But Aredhel was in no hurry, and did not wish to open her heart again, nor leave to return to her chambers; not till the last birds of rapine were borne slowly away in the wind.

[blorbologist]

Hold court among the sweetbriars

Gen / mild Feywild spoilers / 6.7k / Syldor/Elaina prologue that's mildly shitty but not completely

Once upon a time fox-woman-dreaming, or the fox-wife, left her ungrateful husband when he bemoaned the musk about her paws. What they never tell you is of what happened after: to her foxcub twins, and the cursed castle they found deep in the briarwoods.

For @percahliaweek day 5: Fairytale / Class

Chapter 1/2: To tame a fox

--

There was once a great and splendid manor within the deepwoods. Wealthy in every way, including in magic. In it lived a lonely man of great pride, who left it empty each day to tend to business in town. Each evening he returned to find it just as empty without him. He had lived long as such - it suited him fine. 

 

One day upon his return, he found his home tended to in his absence. Floors swept, carpets beaten, spiders evicted of their corners, and even a fire spat merrily in the hearth.

 

Weary of the tricks of fey - for he was one of their number - the proud man left a small gift upon the doorstep and went to bed.

 

The man was proud, not simple. Thus it was that on the second day he marched back home at noon, not nightfall, to catch what trickery was afoot. 

 

As he glanced upon his door his eye caught upon bright red fur. A fox! A fox had come a-slinking, to steal from his pantry! In a rage the man stormed in, throwing open the door to glimpse only a tail as the fox slipped away.

 

Now the shutters had shed their dust, too, and his clothes had been mended with hairfine thread. Not a loaf of bread out of place neither. 

 

Upon the third day the man did not leave for his work. Instead he followed foxtracks and gamepaths round his land, unable to find where the creature nested. 

 

Returning to his manor in defeat, the man found no fox pilfering his icebox. Instead, to great surprise, he found the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She tended to a rich meal upon the stove, and on a peg hung a foxskin.

 

"I am to be your wife," she said plainly. "I wish to be the woman of this house and mind it and mend it as my own." 

 

Overcome, and pleased the woman was already so studious in her duties as to snare and skin the vermin, the man took her indeed as his wife. And, for a time, they were happy.

 

She tailored his clothes and polished his shoes and dusted the cabinets, and fetched water from the brook and weeded the garden, and kissed him sweetly and laughed of his days and took him to bed each night. What a lucky man he was!

 

But in time the proud man found a musk about his home. In his meals, his laundered clothes, his wedding bed. Something he could ignore, as he once ignored much. However, grown accustomed to his tidy home, he complained of this to his wife, and so bid her to rid their home of this odor.

 

Oh, beloved, how fanged was her frown!

 

"The musk is mine, o husband dear," she said, "and if after minding our home so well this is my thanks? Then I am gone." 

 

Without another word she bounded to the door, finding the foxpelt on its peg. Her fur draped over her, for it was her fur, whiskers to tail, and the vixen vanished without a backwards glance.

 

I am sad to say the story does not end here. This man, lest we forget, was proud, and lonely, and thought himself no fool (though perhaps he was one). 

 

With a handful of magic and a burlap sack, he sought out her den, and returned home with foxkits two, scruffed and wailing. 

 

And so the manor was no longer empty, but it was just as lonely a place as before.

 

--

 

There was once a great and splendid castle within the deepwoods.

 

A different palace to the tale before: white as snow and old in its history, richer still in all things. Yet it sat just as empty and just as lonely. Briars ribbed its outer walls and within soot stained the upholstery. Haunting its halls was a young man, white as the stone and ghosts both. His name was long and tedious and grating, and so we shall call him Percival.

[Keep reading on AO3!]

[sezja]

Undercover, Part 3

Part 1, Part 2

The path from their cabin to the beachfront restaurant is a gentle, winding slope, elegantly paved in grey and black stones, flanked here and there with small brass lanterns. With the sun still blazing high overhead - Sanson gauges it to be perhaps two bells before noon - the lanterns are still dark, but they'll be a welcome guide once the sun sets. He peers behind him, back up the trail: the paved path winds up past their own cabin, vanishing into the treeline, no doubt tracing a path from one cabin to the next.

"If we wished to do so," he muses aloud, "we would have no trouble at all finding the other cabins."

Guydelot nods thoughtfully, pausing a moment to follow Sanson's line of vision, as well as his train of thought. After their years of working together, Sanson could nearly swear Guydelot can read his mind. "Aye, it ain't half so wild as it seems at a glance, is it? Wouldn't be hard at all to find a cabin, wait 'til someone went inside..."

"...And vanish back into the trees." Indeed, thick vegetation lines the path... though it's evident much of the greenery has been trimmed back by several fulms, and recently. Doubtless the island's owners are taking what steps they may to prevent future murders from taking place on their piece of paradise.

Sanson hopes they work.

It's a mixed blessing that their own cabin is closest to the beach, he reflects; while it will be easy to make their way to the beach each day, they'll have no ready excuse for wandering deeper into the forest toward the other cabins. Taking a romantic stroll, perhaps? There is a great deal of the island to explore: forests, mountains, rivers... surely no one would find it odd that they might seek out some quiet scenic vista? Part of the island's appeal, after all, was its many secluded romantic nooks and crannies; surely no one would take it amiss if they happened to go missing for a time while they were investigating-

"Ah!" Sanson lets out a startled squeak; Guydelot wrapped his arm around the shorter man's waist while he stood there ruminating.

"Right, that's enough woolgathering." The bard steers him back down the path, his arm resting comfortably around Sanson while they walk, as though they've been doing this their whole godsdamned lives! "I don't know about you, but I'm starving. What sort of food d'you reckon they have here? Fish?"

"They..." He can't quite make himself return Guydelot's embrace, and he prays his face isn't burning quite as hot as it feels, but he manages to keep himself from pulling away. It is best if they maintain their cover even when they presume themselves to be alone, after all... and this close to the beach, who knows who might be watching? And what will anyone observing have seen so far - they've left their cabin, taken in their surroundings... and then cozied up to each other to resume their walk to the beach. Harmless. Unassuming. Even their conversation - should it chance to be overheard - has been innocuous. Sanson thinks. He hopes.

Matron, what he wouldn't give to have this mission in more experienced hands!

"Th-they keep livestock on the island," he continues at last, stumbling over his tied tongue. "And they farm their own produce. Some species native to the Cieldalaes, some imported from Vylbrand and the mainland. The cuisine here is highly praised."

"Someone read all the advertisements. And the information booklets." Guydelot smirks. "Glad one of us did."

"It was research! I wanted to know what we were getting into-"

"I'd rather learn on the ground. You know me." The bard gives him a teasing little squeeze. Unaccountably, Sanson's heart stutters; he tenses.

It isn't quite a flinch, no, but it's enough to make Guydelot frown - frown, and release him. "Gods, Sanson," he says, quietly. "How long's it been?"

Now he knows his face is aflame. "Never mind that." He takes a deep breath. "I'll adjust. I must. We cannot guess who might be watching-"

"When this is over, remind me to set you up with somebody." Guydelot slings his arm around Sanson's shoulders instead - more familiar, more comfortable. They've walked home like this a thousand times. The wave of trepidation that threatened to swallow him recedes... leaving something in its place that feels curiously like disappointment. With himself, surely? He should be more than capable of rising to any challenge his commanders place before him, no matter what those challenges might demand...

But that is neither here nor there.

He shakes his head, smiling. "You know I've no time for a personal life."

"We'll make you some time." The bard grins. "Carve out a little space between you and the Adders where we can fit someone else. It'll do you good, Chief."

"Hush." He elbows the fool in the ribs, laughing despite himself. "How will it sound if my husband is plotting to set me up with someone else? Is the idea not to save this marriage?"

At last, they reach the beach: golden sands warmed by the sunshine, glowing beneath a perfect blue sky. A humble-yet-serviceable pier stretches out into the water, but at present, no ferries are docked; the island has its own private ferries, Sanson recalls, having arrived on one just that morning, and they make regular, alternating trips to and from the mainland. It wouldn't do to leave their prestigious clientele stranded, after all. Just now, both ships must be somewhere en route to Vylbrand...

"How well do you suppose the ferry captains monitor their passengers?" Sanson speaks quietly, glancing up at Guydelot. "One would hope-"

The bard nods, his own gaze flicking toward the empty pier. "The way things've been lately? I'd wager no one gets on without proof they've got themselves a reservation."

Sanson nods. "They did request that we identify ourselves." And there had been a guard onboard - a quiet, stern Sea Wolf who'd kept a careful eye on the passengers. How recent a development is that, Sanson wonders; there had been some grumbling among his fellow passengers, complaining that they were being watched as though they were common thieves. "He glares as though we might peel the gilding from the doorknobs," one woman had huffed, clutching her purse tightly - and glaring at Sanson in all his scruffy glory, as though he might very well be a thief.

Well, he couldn't very well tell her the man was likely meant to ward against far worse than thieves, could he? He and Guydelot are meant to be ignorant of the murders-

A small shake of his shoulders brings him back to the present: Guydelot is alerting him that they've reached the beachfront restaurant. Sanson drags himself out of his own woolgathering to better take in their surroundings.

And pleasant surroundings they are, at that; the restaurant is surprisingly cozy, for a building whose walls are open to the elements - the better to allow patrons to continue enjoying their ocean view, uninterrupted. Aside from a few private booths in the corners, the tables are spaced well apart, Sanson observes to his dismay; it will be difficult to listen in on conversations for any potential leads... but the open layout ought to make it easy enough to observe, he supposes. Surely they can find reasonable excuses to listen in on - or perhaps even follow - anyone who appears to be acting strangely...?

"Awful quiet for brunch," Guydelot says, and he isn't wrong - aside from themselves, only a few other patrons have deigned to descend to the beach just now. An elderly Lalafellin couple have nestled into one of the corner booths, whispering and giggling quietly to one another, their plates neglected. An Elezen man reads a book, taking occasional sips of his coffee, while his wife kneads his shoulders with a small, self-satisfied smile. A sulky-looking Seeker sits alone, fingering the truly ostentatious triple string of pearls around her neck, with fingers bedecked in gaudy rings.

Before Sanson can further observe any of their fellow breakfast-goers, however, a young Sea Wolf in a neat, crisp uniform approaches, her golden-amber eyes alight.

"Ah, new faces!" From her apron pocket, the woman plucks a notepad and quill, with efficiency even Sanson has cause to envy. "Welcome, sirs, to the Radiant Queen. Will ye be havin' a table? We've booths aplenty, if ye prefer."

Before Sanson can trip over his tongue, Guydelot gives his shoulder another small squeeze - this one a reassurance that he will take the lead here. Thank the Matron. The bard gives the hostess his most winning smile. "I reckon we'll take a cozy spot in the corner," he says, turning that smile on Sanson himself. "Don't you think so, love?"

Why in the world has his mouth gone so dry? Sanson clears his throat, praying he's not blushing again. Over a smile! Honestly. He's seen Guydelot smile a thousand times!

Matron preserve me, I'm bad at this.

Fortunately, the waitress reads something into his dizzy silence, giving them a knowing little smile - quickly covered, artfully masked by swiftly brushing a stray lock of dark hair over one ear. "'Tis a lucky thing ye came so early, it is; the booths go quick in the evenin'." she says, then bows, straightens. "Right this way, sirs?"

Pull yourself together, he orders himself, furious. He shrugs off Guydelot's arm, the better to follow the hostess. A corner booth isn't a bad idea, he reasons; they can observe the rest of the restaurant in relative peace - and without fearing eavesdropping. He fears he might know what the hostess suspects they'll be about in the privacy of their booth; mortifying as it is, he hopes it might convince her to give them some privacy, the better to make their observations...

Although... who better to ask about the island itself?

"Have you worked here long?" He asks, pleased to hear his voice emerge steady.

The woman nods as she walks, leading them to a booth not far from the kitchen; heavenly smells waft out. "Oh, aye, since the first! 'Tis me parents what own this slice of paradise, after all."

"Your parents!" Startled, Sanson glances over his shoulder at Guydelot; the bard looks just as surprised as he does. "And they have you seating patrons at tables?"

She laughs as they take their seats. "What are we, blood royals? Nay, sir; me folks were born to piracy, took to adventurin', and when they had ample gelt to toss about, they took to this place. We're workers, sir. We don't sit idle, and we don't scratch our bums while others do the work." She taps her notepad with her quill. "Right, then, lads. Me name's Mynarael, and it'll be me honor to take yer drink orders."

With their orders well in hand, Myrnarael saunters her way into the kitchen, calling orders as the door closes behind her. Guydelot watches her go, a look of admiration plain on his face.

Sanson kicks the man's shin beneath the table.

"Ow!" Guydelot scoots an ilm or two away, scowling. "What? She's got a commanding presence, is all."

"She's very likely married."

"There's no crime in looking." The bard's gaze slides sideways, toward the dining room. His voice lowers. "And speaking of looking..."

Sanson needn't follow Guydelot's eyes to know what the bard sees. The Miqo'te woman. "Aye. I saw her." Without looking - it won't do for them both to stare at her - Sanson recalls what he took in at his brief glance: she's their age, more or less; it can be difficult to gauge a Miqo'te's age. Coppery red hair, pinned up. Fine clothes. Tail swishing, agitated. No partner in sight - perhaps that was the source of her frustration? She'd not be here on the island alone, surely.

"Not a chance in any hell she belongs to those jewels," Guydelot observes. "She's as fiddly with them as you are with that ring." He looks pointedly at Sanson's hands.

He'd not realized he had begun fussing with his false wedding ring again.

Placing his hands - pointedly - flat on the table, he asks, quietly, "Do you think we may have our first suspect?"

"I reckon she's worth a look." Guydelot shrugs, leaning back in the booth. "She's all alone, eh? Reckon I could talk to her, see what's on her mind..."

"Tell me you don't mean to flirt with her," Sanson says, fighting the urge to groan, and struggling to keep his voice down. "Guydelot! She's at a couples' retreat!"

"And all by herself. No other half in sight. She's lonely, I'd wager."

"You'll blow our cover."

"I say I'm just bein' friendly-"

But their conversation - very well, argument - is interrupted by the return of Myrnarael with their drinks. "What's all this, then?" She sets the drinks down carefully, then stands with her hands on her hips, looking like nothing so much as a disapproving mother. "Trouble in paradise? In my Queen? What's all this bickerin', lads?"

Once more, Guydelot comes to the rescue (As well he should, Sanson thinks, worrying about what the woman might have overheard). He lifts his hands in a placating gesture. "We were just curious about our fellow patron," he says, nodding toward the Miqo'te woman. "Seems like an odd place to be all by one's lonesome, eh? We wondered if she might be lonely, is all."

To Sanson's surprise, for a moment, Myrnarael's professional mask slips - he catches a glimpse of something, too quick to name.

He thinks it might be fear.

Then it's gone, replaced by a smile that doesn't quite light up her golden eyes anymore. "Never you mind Miss R'Shenna," she instructs, shifting to position herself between them and the Miqo'te, blocking their view. "She's something of a regular here, and we take her privacy very seriously."

"A regular," Sanson repeats, before he can stop himself. Who could commit multiple violent crimes on the island, if not someone who returned to it again and again? It would have to be someone who spent a great deal of time here - an employee, he'd thought... but what if the murderer was a visitor?

A regular client, visiting the island over and over, taking advantage of her fellow patrons...

He meets Guydelot's eyes, and sees the same realization reflected there.

Guydelot recovers first, of course, blinking in not-entirely-feigned surprise. "A regular," he also repeats, but this time with a sense of awe. "Huh! I didn't think a place like this'd have regulars. Cost us an arm and a leg just to come the once, didn't it, love?"

His heart is hammering in his chest; he wants nothing so much as to arrest the woman - R'Shenna? - at once... but without proof, his hands are tied. "Yes," Sanson manages, smiling. "But... but surely she isn't here alone?" An accomplice acting as her lover, perhaps?

Some tension fades from Myrarael's shoulders, and she smiles, nodding. "Ah, it's kind boys, ye be," she says, warm. "But never ye fear. She's here with her man, same as you. He just don't take kindly to the sea - like as not, he's still green-gilled back at his cabin. Might be as he'll turn up for dinner... but you mind me," she adds, stern. "You leave 'em both be, you understand me?"

So there is a partner! Gods, if only they could find some way to convince Myrnarael to tell them which cabin the couple were staying in... perhaps by pretending to be concerned for the sick man? But no, 'tis best not to tip their hand too early; perhaps they might be able to tail R'Shenna back home...?

"You'll have to excuse him," Guydelot is saying; Sanson blinks, resurfacing from his thoughts. The bard is smiling at him, all soft and warm in a way that makes Sanson's stomach flutter (even if he knows it's all an act, damn it all), and he gets the uncomfortable feeling he's been staring intently into space for several heartbeats. "My Sanson's a fretful sort; he's likely working himself into a fit," Guydelot continues, "worrying about Miss R'Shenna and her man."

"I-"

"Myrnarael's been trying her damnedest to get your order," Guydelot replies, sounding tremendously amused. "Unless you want me to order for you? You know I know what you like."

Stop that. Sanson manages an indignant squeak in response. "I swear-"

"He'll have the same as me," Guydelot says, all innocence, beaming up at the woman. "And another cup of coffee, by the time you're done."

She glances at Sanson for confirmation, to her credit - and to Guydelot's, Sanson reluctantly nods his agreement; though he doesn't know precisely what the bard ordered, history suggests it will at least be something Sanson can stomach. While Myrnarael bustles off once more, he kicks Guydelot's shin again.

"Ow! You know, I'll probably have to walk around with my bare legs showing at some point, and people'll wonder about the bruises-"

"'You know I know what you like?'"

"Am I wrong?" Guydelot grins. "Just playin' the part, Chief. Relax a little. Have fun with it."

Sanson sinks in his seat, taking a deep swallow of his much-cooled coffee. "We have a lead."

"Aye, and fast, too." Guydelot's looking at R'Shenna again; she's eating her own food, with a ferocity that suggests she's angry with it. Or perhaps she is angry that her man's not here? Frustrated that she's left to work alone, maybe? "We'll keep an eye on her. And her man. We'll pick him out tonight, if he shows."

"Ought we try to follow her?"

"Reckon we can make it look natural?" Guydelot shrugs. "We don't want to put her on edge, eh? Let her think we're just a pair of bumbling Gridanian lovebirds... shite."

"Wh-"

"She's caught me staring."

"Guydelot. Stop staring, then!"

"Say somethin', will you? Loud enough she'll hear it."

"Wh-"

"Act the jealous lover, will you? You were doing it so well earlier."

"I was not-" He takes a deep breath. Puts on his very best offended face - not difficult; he's frustrated as it is - and sets his coffee down firmly on the table with a smack. "You know, perhaps the reason this marriage is failing is your wandering eyes!"

The room, already not terribly loud, quiets abruptly.

As though being startled from a trance, Guydelot turns to blink at him - batting those lovely eyelashes of his, with only Sanson to see the pure amusement lurking in the depths of his bright eyes. "My eyes might wander," he says, having the audacity to slide his hand into Sanson's, lacing their fingers together. "But I assure you, light of my life, my heart never does."

Sanson's vision swims. "Oh."

Guydelot lifts Sanson's hand to his lips, the better to hide his wicked grin. Quietly, he adds, "At a loss for words, Chief? That's new."

A ripple of quiet laughter spreads through the room, and the interrupted conversations resume. Sanson, his heart racing for new reasons, risks a glance at R'Shenna. Her violet eyes are still on them, narrowed... but she looks away at last, returning her attention to her meal. Sanson lets out a breath.

"Not bad," Guydelot says, plainly fighting the urge to laugh.

Sanson tugs his hand back, gripping his cup once more with hands that are not trembling, from nerves or anxiety or... or whatever he felt just a moment ago. "You laid it on too thick."

"Aye, well, next time I'll smack your arse and say, loud as I can, 'What more does a man need?'"

"You are insufferable," Sanson says, mortified, but he can't help laughing; the sheer ridiculousness of this mission... but with a target in sight, he thinks, surely it won't last much longer. They'll find some proof of R'Shenna's crimes - and her man's, like as not - and put an end to the bloodshed, and return to their lives. Their lives, and their usual relationship, with none of the odd twists and turns that make the very ground beneath Sanson's feet feel queerly unsteady.

Strange, how he isn't quite looking forward to that part.

[jinxxangel13]

Ancient Enchantment

Chapter 2

The name of this series is up for change, so let me know if you have any ideas! Hope you enjoy!

Again, I've made these photos with my own reference photos, and used the Dream AI app. They are the loose ideas of how I want Alistair and Azara to look. More to come!

~Masterlist~ ~Prev~ ~Next~

Recap:

“I said, I’m sure you all have plenty to do before classes begin tomorrow!” 

The house tables seemed to get the meaning, and all started getting up to leave out the door. Anyone could tell that these students knew each other for the most part, each sticking to their group of friends in the same house, but some mingled with the others.

“Quite an entrance the two of you made. It is very lovely to meet you, I’m-”

“Professor Weasley. Would you be so kind as to show our new students to their common room?” His question was more phrased as a statement, though Professor Weasley seemed not to notice or care.

“I shall see to it sir.” She nodded to the headmaster, who dismissed himself without another word.

Professor Weasley turned towards the both of you again with a kind smile.

“As I was saying, I am Professor Weasley. Pleased to meet the both of you.”

Azara smiles, “It is nice to meet you as well, Professor.”

Alistair nodded in agreement, staying quiet for once.

“As Deputy Headmistress, it is my honor to show you to your common room. Right this way!” Professor Weasley led the two of them toward the double doors. 

“This is the Great Hall, by the way. Breakfast is before morning classes at 8, lunch is available between noon and 2, and dinner is served at 6, following afternoon classes and prior to detention. Not that I believe either of you will need to know that last bit, but just in case.”

The three of them were led down the hallways and farther down into the castle. 

“It is quite uncommon for a student, let alone two, to begin as a fifth year. It may be a bit of a challenge, but one I'm sure you’re up for.” Professor Weasley stopped them in the middle of an open corridor with an almost green hue around them.

“Of course!” Azara smiled brightly. 

“We can be quite resourceful when needed.” Alistair shifted to be next to Azara in front of the professor.

“I suspected as much. Now, this is the entrance to the Slytherin common room.” The professor motioned to an empty wall to the side of them.

The twins both looked at the bare wall with confusion written across their faces.

“Professor Weasley? There is nothing there.” Azara spoke up, looking towards the professor, her head slightly tilted, and her eyebrow raised in question.

“Right you are, Miss Valentine. In order to enter, one must simply speak the correct password. ‘Aspiration.’ Now you.”

Azara nodded towards Alistair who stepped closer to the wall and spoke calmly, though very unsure of why. 

“Aspiration.”

Suddenly, the twins could feel the vibrations of the floor beneath them. They stepped back as the snake from the stone ground underneath them moved up against the wall to form an archway, a set of double doors appearing within the arch of the snake.

Azara’s eyes widened, a disbelieving chuckle left her lips as she turned to the professor in glee.

“Exciting, isn’t it?”

Azara nodded happily to Professor Weasly, to which she laughed softly.

“Now, the two of you go on in and get some sleep. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow. I shall be back in the morning to collect the two of you for your first classes.” 

“Thank you, professor.” Azara pushes at the door, going in first and waiting for her brother. 

“Yes, thank you, Profesor Weasley.” Alistair nodded towards the professor.

Professor Weasley waved them off. “You’re very welcome, Mr and Misses Valentine. I hope you enjoy your first night at Hogwarts. Sleep well.”

“Thank you.” Azara took a hold of Alistair’s hand and brought him into the common room.

They ended up being pointed toward a long hallway around the corner directly to their left. The metal grated floor below them echoed softly above the water underneath it, giving Azara a sense of nostalgia, her smile never leaving her face. 

The twins walked into the first door on their right, the door opening up to a medium sized room with only two beds. It seems as if the headmaster and Professor Weasley took into account what Fig and their prior Academy had suggested with the twins staying together. It makes things easier for everyone if something were to happen; that way, one twin wasn’t too far away from the other.

“Dibs.” Alistair ran towards the closest bed to the door, jumping face first, starfish style, onto the green comforter. 

Azara rolled her eyes, taking her robe off and placing it on the standing rack near the door, opposite to her brother's canopy bed.

There was awkward space where she assumed would have been another bed, but instead, there was a small table and set of chairs, as well as a study to the left of her brothers bed and to the left of the door, and one to the right of her own bed, closest to the door on her side. She had a side table to the left of her bed with a candle-lit lamp on top, as well as a couple personal items she didn't even know she had packed, silently thanking the family elves for thinking of her.

She went over to her trunk that was mysteriously in front of her bed. She unlocked and opened it, pulling out a nightshirt she stole from Alistair a few weeks prior. 

Alistair himself had already stepped back out from his own folding changing screen next to his bed against the wall. Azara took her time switching out of her uniform, neatly placing it on the chair to the left of her bed before making her way to sit on the foreign bed space. She ran her fingers over the blanket, pulling it back partially to lay down her own blanket underneath that she made back home. 

“Think we’ll be okay here, Atlas?” 

After a moment of not hearing a response, Azara looked up to find her twin already passed out on his own bed. His blankets were thrown off the bed to pool at his side table, the lamp there still on, and his uniform strewn about.

She rolled her eyes, waving her hand to wordlessly extinguish the flame of his lamp, then leaning over to do the same with her own, only using her pointer finger and thumb to snuff it out, plunging the room into almost complete darkness. The room, their whole common room moreso, seemed to have an endless green glow, and at that moment, she was appreciative of the soft light.

Azara slipped under her blanket and comforter finally settling in as her mind went blank after the stress and surprises of the past 24 hours.

It took Azara a few moments after she opened her eyes to realize where exactly she was. She had been laying there in a panic, her vision foggy like smoke. She felt like she was a child again, when her home was-

No. I don't need to be thinking about that. It was a long time ago. 

She sat up suddenly, bringing her slightly shaky hands up to her face before running them over her previously braided hair. 

Alastair sat up in bed after hearing her slightly labored breathing, eyes snapping open in alarm. He did a once-over of his sister before realizing everything was okay, and thumping back against the bed. 

“Ugh. I’m never going to get used to this.” He grumbled.

Azara took an extra moment to calm herself before she stood up. She stretched her back, glad that it popped where it did, then walked over to her laid out uniform and changed into it behind her screen. It took her a good bit of time to get everything straight and even, but she didn't mind, especially since she was up early anyway. She adjusted her tie as she walked back over to her bed to tug her boots on. She took another couple of moments to release her wavy black hair from her sleep braids and redo them into two fishtail braids to stay out of her face.

She stood up and grabbed her cloak then looked over to her brother just sitting on the edge of his bed, seeming to debate if it was worth getting up. She smirked mischievously before grabbing a pillow off the ground in front of her bed and chucking it right at him.

The pillow slammed right into the side of his face, causing him to completely fall onto the ground with a hard thud. Azara burst into laughter, clutching her stomach and almost doubling over with hysterics. Alistair sat up, leaning against the side of the bed for a moment before hoisting himself up completely.

“Want a head start?” his dark hair was tousled beyond belief, and dark eyes set in a menacing glare at her.

Azara’s eye went wide before she suddenly bolted, ducking under his outstretched arm, narrowly avoiding being caught and rushing out the door.

“Better luck next time, Atlas!”

“Az! You’re lucky I’m not dressed yet or I’d have gotten you by now!” He yelled from their room as she slammed the door behind her. 

Azara could tell that Alistair was rushing to get dressed, so she took a deep breath and calmly strolled down the hallway towards the common room. 

“I suppose some introductions are in order.” Azara muttered to herself as she looked around.

[foxes-that-run]

From the Dining Table

Note the subtle tattoo kiss. Like MMIH, Harry hasn't played FTDT live since 2018. Harry told the Grammy Museum:

Styles’ favorite track on the album is “From the Dining Table,” which he said is, “The one that makes me feel the most,” adding that, “it’s the most different than what I expected myself to write and it’s probably the most honest that I’ve been in a song as well.”

To Rolling Stone he said:

"The more vulnerable the song, he learned, the better. “The one subject that hits the hardest is love,” he says, “whether it’s platonic, romantic, loving it, gaining it, losing it  …  it always hits you hardest. I don’t think people want to hear me talk about going to bars, and how great everything is. The champagne popping  …  who wants to hear about it? I don’t want to hear my favorite artists talk about all the amazing shit they get to do. I want to hear, ‘How did you feel when you were alone in that hotel room, because you chose to be alone?'”

This quote is interesting because the song is self-aware of the wrong choice to be with be with someone who looked like his muse.

Why is it called from the Dining Table

When performing the album in his first ever solo show Harry introduced from the dining table by explaining it was written at the dining table in Jamaica and it kept the name.

Lyrics

[Verse 1] Woke up alone in this hotel room Played with myself, where were you? Fell back to sleep, I got drunk by noon I've never felt less cool

The open is remicinet of his comments to Rolling Stone above. So many One Direction songs, in particular Perfect portrayed that fun image of "trouble up in hotel rooms". FTDT strips it away to leave a lonely 22 year old guy who lost someone he loves and misses and does not feel cool. To me, what's special here is addressing some misconceptions about his life and what being that guy cost him.

[Chorus] We haven't spoke since you went away Comfortable silence is so overrated Why won't you ever be the first one to break? Even my phone misses your call, by the way

Harry and Taylor sing a lot about never communicating, and have said in interviews that they can say things to an instrument but not each other.

[Verse 2] I saw your friend that you know from work He said you feel just fine I see you gave him my old t-shirt More of what was once mine

Taylor's friend from work is often thought to be Ed, however Ed was Harry's friend first, and more a personal than a work friend to both.

When Harry was starting his Debut album he worked with a lot of music producers, including Max Martin, who worked in 1989. Harry spent a week with him in November 2016 before starting to work Tom and Tyler.

There are several shirts of Harry's that Taylor's worn and could have given to Max. To me, it's this Genius Jumper, which Max has worn, she lent to to lots of friends before it disappeared. have no reason to think Harry ever wore it though, other than it is a UK high street brand and it looks like the Cardigan-cardigan.

[Bridge] Maybe one day you'll call me and tell me that you're sorry too x3 But you, you never do Woke up the girl who looked just like you I almost said your name

1989 largely focuses on Taylors experience, in her later work she has reflected more on how things played out in tracks like Afterglow, Coney Island and The 1.

At the end of 2014:

October 1989 was released, Taylor jaded in interviews, November 1D released Four with Stockholm Syndrome and Fool's Gold. Harry and Taylor had been hanging out, made heart eyes at the AMAs

2 December may have left the VS Secret show together, (So it Goes, Pick you up). On that, this is the closing track, Ready for it is the opening track of the next album in order.

22 December - HS pictured with VS model Nadine Leopold, this was in NYC before he bought an apartment there. She looks well...

So I think this song is set in late 2014 rather than the boat, though I must admit I still imagine it in the Virgin Islands.

[saneabandoned]

Rating: Mature

Category: F/M

Fandoms: My Chemical Romance I Brought You My Bullets You Brought Me Your Love - My Chemical Romance (Album) Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge - My Chemical Romance (Album) Black Parade - My Chemical Romance (Album) Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album) Original Work

Relationship: Gerard Way/Original Female Character(s)

Characters: Gerard Way Original Female Character(s)

Additional Tags: Based on a My Chemical Romance Song I Wrote This While Listening to My Chemical Romance's Music

Language: English

Summertime

Chapter 5

The statue looked like it was crying.

Its head was bowed, the eyes closed, hands joined as if in prayer, even though it was an angel, and it was to be prayed to. Heavy raindrops were falling down its stone cheeks and dripping soundlessly on the ground, just like tears. Its gigantic stone wings were raised behind its back, like it had just come from heaven and was seeing earth for the first time, in this old misty cemetery. It looked so sad, so very sad.

Raven put out her cigarette in the mud and took one last look at the angel statue before turning around and leaving. Why did they always put sad angels in the cemeteries? It wasn’t like they were a happy place anyway, but the statues only made her shiver, they looked too real with their calm, beautiful features, exuding emotions that looked too human. Too human for a ten feet stone statue.

She pushed open the cemetery gate and left, careful not to step in the mud that was getting deeper now, the more it rained. Jersey had no mercy this time of year and it was quite annoying, to say the least. Raven hated the fact that she had to now walk through the city all muddy and gross to get home, but she couldn’t not visit the graves.

Not today.

Having the day off work and it being only around noon, she wondered what to do. It wasn’t a great time for taking walks, which was honestly her wish, she longed for fresh air, a couple of cigarettes and a cup of coffee. Somewhere away, somewhere warm; lively. Far away from the cemetery. From the angel and its rain tears.

It was always raining though, stupid city. The clouds were gathering and everything was gray. It was as if the sun was completely gone. For all Raven knew, it might have been in this forsaken city with its stupid crying angels.

Sighing, she decided to take a look at the comic section at her favourite bookstore. They also sold coffee there and it wasn’t half bad. Not as good as the one she usually got in the café where she worked, but it was her day off. She really wasn’t in the mood to meet any of her colleagues. Or customers, especially some of them.

Especially one.

Shaking these thoughts off and pretending not to notice the annoying little voice in her head, she headed towards the bookstore, her hands tucked deeply into her leather jacket pockets. Her feet were wobbling, the wet street was slippery, and she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink yet today. Or yesterday, for that matter. It was always hard on that day.

Soon, Raven saw the familiar sign of the bookstore, and picked up her pace, excitedly anticipating the peace and quiet that the place provided. It was a tiny space, stuffed with books, CDs and comics and the oldest coffee machine known to mankind. However, almost no one ever went there, except the staff of course and they were not the talkative kind, which Raven was immensely grateful for. They consisted of mostly boys her age, the nerdy kind, and usually didn’t feel comfortable making small talk to customers, even regulars, which contributed to Raven visiting there as often as she could. It was a haven, her own safe space. Away from everything.

Away from that stone face.

The warmth crept over her as she opened the door and hurried inside and it was more than welcome. The bookstore was like a labyrinth, full of identical shelves with crooked handwritten signs that indicated their contents – Raven looked around the ones closest to the entrance – FICTION, ROMANCE, NON-FICTION and, what she came for - COMIC BOOKS.

Careful not to make too much noise, as the cashier seemed to be either falling asleep or very deeply interested in the ceiling, she reached the shelf and started pulling out everything she could reach. It was, technically, for sale, but since she came here so often and half of the comic issues had her name printed on, she could borrow them instead of buying all she wanted. Not that she didn’t leave money, she usually did, in the tips jar, against the numerous objections of the staff.

She opened the newest issue of her favourite series and started flicking quickly through it, too excited to notice what was going on around her, too invested in the story to hear the door opening and closing, her mind oblivious to the outside world. Until suddenly, someone stood next to her. Barely noticing, she moved a bit to the side, not breaking her frantic reading. She’d waited a whole month for that comic.

The someone cleared their throat.

“Raven?”

She almost dropped the comic and turned around in horror, her heart thumping painfully against her chest.

Her eyes made their way up from the person’s feet (and the wettest shoes in existence) to his face and were met with the familiar cat-like hazel gaze.

“Hi.” She almost whispered.

Gerard.

Of course.

A soft smile grew on his lips.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She stared but didn’t answer, too stunned to speak. How many times in the last few weeks had she dreamed of a moment like this, but had thought she’d never see him again? She had tried to kill the hope, convincing herself it was better that way. Alone was good. Alone was what she knew, what she managed well. Alone couldn’t hurt her and wouldn’t evaporate.

It wouldn’t appear in her dreams, wouldn’t make her long for something she couldn’t name.

And there he was, standing right in front of her, all yellow eyes and soft smiles, the faint smell of tobacco, messy black hair and ink-stained fingers, which were clutching a CD.

It felt like a joke. Her head was spinning.

“I guess I’ll go then, just wanted to say hello”, he mumbled nervously, his hand scratching the back of his head, obviously taking her silence for annoyance. He turned around and made to leave, but Raven finally found her voice.

“Um, Gerard?”

He stopped and turned to look at her, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in surprise.

“You can stay, sorry, I was just… surprised to see you, that’s all”, she managed to say, avoiding his eyes. How and why were they so bright?

His shoulders relaxed a bit and he took a step back towards her.

“You sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

“No, it’s fine, you’re not bothering, I’ve been here for a while. It’s not my bookstore anyway, you can stay here as long as you like. Or as little as you like, don’t feel pressured to stay now just because you saw me, you can leave. Or… stay. Whatever you feel like.”

Why couldn’t she stop babbling now?

He smiled and reached for a comic book.

“I know. It’s just that you spend a lot of time here, I didn’t want to… be… the reason for you to… leave early.”

Raven nodded and looked at her shoes but then reconsidered and looked at his face, but his head was tilted to the side, focused hard on the shelf in front of him.

“How do you know?”

“Hm?” He was still looking at the books.

“That I spend a lot of time here, you said that.”

No answer, just his soft breaths as he was studying the back of something which seemed to Raven as one of her own issues. Not a good one though.

“Gerard?”

“This one looks promising.”

She sighed.

“It’s one of the first issues. Pick up something newer. And answer my question, please?”

He put it back and started looking for something else.

“What question?”

Raven scoffed and this time he looked at her, her hands crossed, eyebrows raised. She was looking directly at him.

Blue and hazel. Thunder and lightning.

“I come here too. My brother works here and… I have seen you a couple of times.”

Oh.

“Your brother?” Raven blinked.

“Yep”, Gerard popped the p.

She looked around but except the sleeping cashier, there was no one in sight.

“He is usually in the back. Inventory and stuff, you know, helps the band to put some of our demos in the CD section occasionally. Not that it helps a lot, but…” he laughed quietly.

Raven nodded.

“Like the one you gave me?”

“Yeah. You… liked it right?” He looked a bit insecure.

It was her turn to smile.

“Loved it.”

He looked cheered up now.

It was her most prized possession, but she didn’t tell him that. She didn’t say she listened to it every day either.

The first and only gift she ever received.

They went back to reading their comic books, breaking the silence only to exchange comments such as “oh, that one’s cool” or “read that last year, wasn’t his best work” and “did you like it? I thought it was crap”.

It wasn’t much, but Raven had never done it before. Comics were her whole world, one she never thought possible to share with someone else. She didn’t think there could be someone that enjoyed it as much as her, no, someone that lived there like she did. It was a whole universe, but she never supposed that another person would understand that. Not until now. They didn’t agree on everything, but it was thrilling to have someone listen to her ideas and point out stuff she had never thought of before.

The day suddenly got a little brighter than it had started.

Soon, they moved on to the music section and started talking bands and, on Gerard’s side, inspirations. He spent so much time dissecting and analyzing, and Raven thought she’d never seen someone so passionate about art, so involved with the concepts and feelings it was provoking, someone so meticulous and just so… noticing, so there. Sure, she had heard people talk about their interests, but never in a way that made it so clear that they were their life. Gerard looked like he didn’t spend a second outside without music, without thinking about it, without noticing how the colors of the day painted a whole picture. Raven could imagine him observing the city and seeing a whole bunch of things the ordinary person would never even think existed. Not in Jersey, not anywhere.

Lost in thoughts, she didn’t notice Gerard had stopped talking and was looking at her, wearing a slightly amused look on his face.

“You okay?”

“Hm?”

“You look… zoned out. Did I bore you? Sorry, I tend to…” he bit his lip slightly.

“No! I mean, I’m fine. I mean, no, not boring at all. I was just… thinking. I was listening!” Raven hastily said.

He relaxed. “Okay, well… How about some coffee? I should probably go after.”

“Oh. Yeah, no, sure!” Raven tried to smile encouragingly, but she deflated a bit. Go? That meant she would probably have to go too, go home.

She didn’t want to be alone. Not today.

Not anymore, either.

However, she followed Gerard to the cash register and stood behind him as he was waiting for the cashier to check out his books. Once done with that, he made space for Raven and mumbled something about waiting outside, leaving the faint smell of tobacco and coffee after him. She was tapping her fingers on the counter as she not-so-patiently waited to pay for her new comics and the one CD Gerard had recommended to her. She’d never listened to the band, but he said it was worth it, so she bought it instead of borrowing it. Seemed worth the try?

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she gathered her things and left the cashier to his work. Or sleep, most probably, seeming as his last (and only) two customers had just left the shop.

Outside it was chilly, but the rain had stopped for now, leaving only a slight reminder of itself, the wet concrete of the street oozing with the familiar city smell, and the ground reflecting the yellows and oranges of the streetlights.

When did it get so dark?

“We must have spent hours in there.” Raven said aloud and Gerard shrugged, one hand tucked deeply in his worn jacket’s pocket. Raven followed his movement as he raised the other which was holding a cigarette to his lips, inhaling the smoke, and slightly closing his eyes when it filled his lungs. Her throat felt dry.

“I liked talking to you.”

Raven was glad it was so dark, otherwise she’d give up how happy these words made her. No one had ever said that to her before.

“Me too.”

A comfortable silence fell upon them as they both smoked, looking at the cars passing by. Raven was desperately trying to prolong it, but cigarettes could be smoked for only so long. Even if they were two. Or three.

She lost count.

They seemed to stand there for such a long time, Raven was starting to feel her fingers going numb from the cold. Just as she finally decided to say something, Gerard cleared his throat.

“I should be going. Band practice.” he pointed in a direction Raven was sure had nothing to do with the actual place the practice was going to be held.

She nodded.

“I’m going that way,” she nodded towards the nearest bus stop.

Silence again. Two familiar lamps were staring at her, their owner curiously studying the face he was seeing. She kept his gaze, her eyes wide open.

I wanted to reach my arms and touch you, I longed for you to be next to me, hear you sing to my soul as you had done before without even being there.

I cried and screamed for you.

I need you, Gerard; all my life I’ve been starved, and I can finally see the light.

Please.

I beg of you, don’t turn it off.

“You can come if you want.” he blurted out.

She froze.

“Huh?”

“Come. To the practice. You’ll meet the guys, they’re nice.”

So she hadn’t imagined it.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to…”

He interrupted her.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want. I just thought it’d be fun. If you’re free, that is. But if you don’t feel like coming, it’s---”

“I’ll come.” she said quickly before he had changed his mind.

His face lit up.

He was… pretty, it suddenly occurred to her. Raven couldn’t deny it. Not with the way the soft light from the street was hitting his face and his eyebrows were so dark against his pale skin, making his bright hazel eyes pop. Not with the way his lips were forming the crooked smile she grew to know and always imagined him with.

“Really? Cool! Um… I promise it’s… warm. There.”

Raven laughed for the first time in a while. Real, genuine laughter that made her head spin a bit, her breath ease and her body feel lighter. It was like a drug.

“That’s good.” she said, still unable to stop smiling.

“Yeah, right? Let’s go then. It’s that way,” he tilted his head, pointing in the opposite direction of the one he had previously named, and she followed him, once again tucking her hands in her pockets, and smiling wider now that she was behind him, where he wouldn’t be able to see her.

It started raining.

“Fucking Jersey”, she chuckled under her breath.

Find this on:

Quotev

AO3

[mayheminmagic]

One big recap post before I call an end to the day. I was actually pretty upset when the day started because the past two days had been absolutely lovely T-shirt weather (and I put it to good use, weeding, pruning, potting etc) but by noon I was still in my long hoodie. Despite my melancholy I still set up and planted my sunflower seeds even though they won't even start growing until like April probably because it's spring break and I know I won't have the energy to do all this once I'm back in school.

Something really cool happened though, just as I was really starting to feel down, the pit was starting to bloom in my gut and I asked "so is this really going to be the whole day?" and almost as if to answer the clouds finally, FINALLY, blew away from the sun and it was so warm I almost forgot how sad I just was. I finished up the last three holes and put my name sigil, and my equinox sigil on two of my stones then put the border back around my plot.

I swept the dirt from the last 3 days of garden work across the patio and down the stairs, as a kind of finalizing ritual? Took a break for lunch, and then it was tarot time! (Outside, bad idea. Nearly lost my cards) After which the thunderstorm started so I moved inside to freshen up the altar and deep clean my room, which gave me the very cool idea to finally hang up this pothos plant I got back in December. Now my altar looks like this

All in all a surprisingly great day. Now I just have to hope that storm didn't molly wop my plants

[dasboligrafo]

Short-ish Takes

Dark Noon (sometime in summer 2024?) at St. Ann's Warehouse -- ughhhh...the play that finally, definitively dispensed with my tolerance for S.A.W.? Has St Anns ever staged anything not apparently calculated to earn my loathing? A play celebrated for its "South African" take on American racism and violence (lol like seriously? what a glass house to aim a stone from), and sure the actors were all black South Africans, but the playwright is...Danish. Not surprisingly the play exploited them. Unpleasant, at times grotesque, entirely devoid of even a moment of original aesthetic beauty, the only tolerable parts being samples of (American) music. I even hated the sets, which I guess were supposed to look like South African shanty towns (way to subversively showcase the beauty of South Africa I guess). Incoherent underdeveloped message about the exportation of violent culture via American popular media, a clear example of "when a good idea lands in the hands of someone too literal, simple and self-satisfied to develop it."

We Are Your Robots (Theatre for a New Audience 11/12/2024) -- also underdeveloped (arguably), but this was merely mediocre and corny, maybe a little disappointing because it's an interesting and timely idea: a musical about robots gaining sentience. The music was...clever, I guess, but only ever that. This is the kind of content that tickles your whimsy until you feel dead inside. There was a woman/twee monster next to me (on a date?) who (literally) snorted with laughter, so loudly and frequently, that she may have shaded my interpretation of this performance. A true artifact of painfully white culture (there were other non-white people in the audience though, something I genuinely love about TFANA).

Gatz -- by Elevator Repair Service (Nov 3, 2024 at the Public Theatre.) This is the play where they read The Great Gatsby, in its entirety, on stage. This was very good, though my impression is surely shaded by admiration for the feat that is this work: an EIGHT hour long play (there are intermissions, including a dinner break) that actually works as a play. Gatsby is legitimately great, a rightfully hallowed American literary classic, a book that yields new meanings every time I pick it up, decades apart, a book about the promise and impossibility of the American dream (specifically for Black people, queer people, women and those who don't inherit wealth. Not to sound woo, but I knew Tr*** would win after I saw it, mere days before the election.) Can you feel us dancing at the edge of the roaring 20s, car driving up the darkened driveway because nobody told us [the free media is dead]/only finding out when we get to the darkened mansion, that the party is over, and we are being borne back ceaselessly against the past etc. So like maybe this play would be more impressive with a book that wasn't this great and timely, though faulting it for picking a great source material feels miserly.

[othernaut]

Character Creation Challenge, Day 17: The One Ring

Came at last the final evening the company was to spend in Lindon, the last evening in the East of the world. Though the Towers were behind them, and though they made a good pace over the flower-downed hills that rolled steadily to the inevitable sea, the sun seemed quick to end the journey and rolled the day swiftly to bed. They would not make the Havens before the night was on them, and so turned to the wayhouse at Menhennas to rest in peace before the final rest would come.

Tirdineth knew the wayhouse well. It was the start and end of every journey, a welcome presence forward and back. Their Ranger guide had left them at Annuminas for business she would not guess at, but each step southward along the river paths seeded the world with familiarity, and slowly she had taken over the role. It was a hard thing - not the guiding, which was as easy now as breathing or writing, but keeping her love of this place safely inside her throat. To the Elves who came with her, 33 in number outside the presence of scouts and scribes, this landscape had a different connotation. This was the end for them, the last passing of a lonely world, where for her, it was home.

The house at Menhennas was clean and well-stocked, though no one came to greet them, as the Elves had become so few, even so far to the West, that none could be spared as a keeper. Still, a little light leapt to the fireplace, and tea was boiled and food prepared. Some of their company retired to their rooms to sleep. For many, though, the swift-falling night outside was defined by the fire inside, the stars a contrast to this little star made, for one evening, to live in their hearth. The Elves took from their packs their little motes of comfort, the harps and honey-sweets and wineskins heavy with nostalgic miruvor, and little by little, there came the singing.

She tried to listen, truly, but it was a difficult endeavour. Myldaer, her companion and fellow librarian, sat in the curling vapours at the edge of the hearth, noting the lonesome words and falling notes; these would likely be the last these songs were heard in the world. Tirdineth, still restless from the journey and buoyed by this closeness to home, sparked and burned with an eagerness - to add a counternote, to rhyme in opposition, to contrast these lost and lonely things with the joy still visible in every leaf and stem. She had a thousand years in this world so far: how could one grow weary of it? The sun off the river still glinted in secret angles, the gulls still screeched their grasping calls. There was still and forever newness and change, and she loved it with a strength equal in opposition to her companions' professed grief.

At the dawn, the horses were brushed and packed, the last embers extinguished and the firewood replenished for the next travellers to empty Menhennas. The company resumed their travel in the fullness of the morning, and it was not yet noon before they saw and smelled the presence of the water. Small boats were spied on the river, white glints caught between the shores, and the call went up from sea to land: travellers returning. Here, Tirdineth could not keep it contained. The joy of homecoming was absolute and burst from her, the great sun to the East painting the curving stone of Mithlond with the silvery-gold of an eager summer. She sang in welcome, and Mithlond sang in response, a great looping call and reply that grew in complexity and subtlety until the company strode beneath the gates and bridges and came to rest, at last, at their final destination.

She had always wondered what that felt like. Would it feel differently for her? Her companions paused, wondering at the sound and the sight of it, the sheer presence and amount of the water; Tirdineth had grown with it, slept with the sound of it. When she worked in the towers of the Library, the sea was a constant presence, surrounding her, consuming and becoming the horizon. But to those Elves who came with her out of Rivendell, it was the end of forever, the final fastness of memory. She wondered what they would leave behind.

The welcoming Elves of Mithlond came from quiet doorways and shaded halls to greet their brothers, to take up their burdens and stable their horses - but the thought of the Library was in her, now, and she could not wait to see it again. She took the notes and books from Myldaer, the boxes rattling half-empty with things abandoned unstoried in Rivendell, and strode swiftly down the looping streets to where the sea loomed big and bright. There, one of the last buildings in this last city of the world - she knew its outline, saw the noontime shadows creep beneath its eaves and lintels.

The resting-place of all the precious things the passing Elves could neither take nor leave behind, all those final stories and testaments, long-loved tokens of life in a living world - the Last Library of the Grey Havens, her duty and her home.

Inside, the noontime turned to dust and dusk, fragrant and old and welcoming. All libraries bear a presence noticed immediately by a visitor, and in the Last Library, it was overwhelming - varnished wood and living trees, curled parchment and pressed paper, gold-smells and bone-smells and the acrid promise of fresh ink. A darkness, welcoming, like the oncoming of a dream. A silence, respectful, like a bowed head before a great power.

A librarian worked behind a curving, dark-wood desk - what had they discovered in her absence? What new stories gleaned from passing Elves, what last confessions spoken into the waiting silence of this final fastness of memory? What new treasures - what trinkets, what bracelets, what instruments, what books, and scrolls, and secret locks of hair held close to the traveller's breast until, at this point of finality, it must be surrendered to memory?

What would she leave behind, when she went?

No, abandon the thought. Fill its absence with newness, with the stories yet to be analyzed and catalogued, filed and labeled for reference by any who would make the journey. They would be coming to her soon, the Elves, her late companions. Once they settled in, met any waiting loved ones or waited in turn for those they loved, everyone came to her. All the secret songs and histories of the Elves - and so few great tales, but so many personal ones, private pleasures and regrets - all left, at last, in the Library. It was the nature of all living beings to hold close those small and secret things until, at last, there must be a confession. So often, these things were nothing more than, "I loved the shine of her hair" - but was this not enough? Was this not enough of a story to define a life entire?

Tirdineth loved the sound of the squabbling gulls, and little fish packed in salt, and what few halfling-cheeses could be bartered away from a reclusive Took. She loved the heavy storms on the deep nights when the waves rose to touch the moon. She loved the flower-fields in springtime and the bent pines in deep winter. She loved her work - the remove of it, the existence in a world of ideas, with reality reduced to a candle in the glass and the scrape of pen on paper. Every piece of her adored the world and was pleased, every day, to be a part of it. Except...

Except when last she had made the journey to Rivendell, there had been 56 travellers who returned with her. The time before, 101. She could not deny the dwindling, the quieting, the stilling. Mithlond itself was half-empty, its great houses home only to the wind. Fewer new voices to add to the Library; her world was becoming part of the past. When would it be suitable to call the thing complete? When would it be suitable, in the long lull between fresh histories, to put down her pen and admit, at last, the end?

So often, in their stories, the passing Elves spoke of the sea as a longing, a desire as much to pass from the world as to pass into another. Tirdineth had no stories of that other place - nothing personal, anyways - so how could she long for it? But on quiet nights, with nothing to do, she could admit a... resignation, perhaps. She had vowed in her heart to be the last Elf to climb aboard the last ship and only ruefully leave the world. It was something sworn in youthful passion, but still - it would come. It would come, and what then? Who would listen to that final story?

She could comfort herself with the thought that it would be some time yet - until that time, at last, is gone. Perhaps there would be snow-bowed pines, in those undying places, and gulls that fought on the wing. Perhaps she could learn to love it, too. But it would never be the same love as she had for the world of the living.

But, until then, the work. The filing and compiling in candlelit hallways hidden from the sound of the sea. She would learn to love those waves again, unreservedly - she always did. The work was enough for now. Just enough to fill her up, for now.

Just enough. So she worked, and let the world become beautiful again.

*****

Tirdineth of the Last Library Culture: High Elf of Mithlond (Rivendell) Age: 1011 Blessing: Against the Unseen Standard of Living: Prosperous Background: Last Librarian of Mithlond (Guardian of Imladris) Calling: Scholar Shadow Weakness: Lure of Secrets

Traits: Specialties: Elven Lore, Boating, Rhymes of Lore Distinctive Features: Keen-eyed, Just

Basic Attributes: Body: 6, Heart: 6, Wits (favored): 11

Skills: Awe 2, Inspire 0, Persuade 0 Athletics 2, Travel 1, Stealth 0 Awareness 2, Insight 0, Search (favored) 2 Explore 0, Healing 2, Hunting 0 Song (favored) 2, Courtesy 1, Riddle 2 Craft (favored) 2, Battle 2, Lore (favored) 4

Weapon Skills: (Spears) 2, Long Sword (favored) 1, Bow 1, Dagger 1 Gear: Winter encumbrance 3, summer encumbrance 2, instrument: elven-harp War Gear: Great spear, Bow, Daggers; Leather armor (1d), iron-and-leather cap (+1), buckler (+1 parry) Rewards: None (yet). Virtues: Artificer of Eregion

Endurance: 31 Fatigue: 20 Hope: 13 Damage Rating: 6 Parry: 12 Valour: 1 Wisdom: 2

*****

This is your warning.

The One Ring is a good system. It can be a bit janky to figure out at first - it has a weird dice-rolling system if you're working off a standard set of gamer dice, and character creation requires a lot of flipping back and forth to figure out what to put where, and when - but it succeeds at the one thing I ask a role-playing game to do, which is set up a venue for people to tell a specific kind of story. It doesn't draw from anything but itself and a deep love for the work of JRR Tolkien, and being a good system, the mechanics both express that love and make it easy to slip into the kind of mindset that can tell a Tolkien story without too much fiddling around.

But with that comes your warning. You cannot run The One Ring without being a bit weird about it. It's that thing with role-playing in any established universe, really - you get it with Star Trek, you get it with Star Wars, you get it with any property that people get weird about - but Tolkien weirdos are special creatures. If you're trusting your rewatch of the original trilogy and system appreciation to guide you through, while one of your players has read the Silmarillion enough to have an accurate timeline of events, while one of your players can spell their own name in Sindarin from memory, while one of your players has specific and passionate opinions about Beren and Luthien? That's the trap.

They may be courteous about it. They may understand that you're not as deep into the lore as they are. But the brain worms will still be there. They're going to be really invested in their hobbit family tree and you will not have any context to it. They're going to vibrate with barely-contained infodumps every second sentence. There's going to be those strained pauses where you, like, might not get something wrong, really, but miss a detail that they think is notable. There will be that tragic realization when they realize you're only capable of telling your version of Tolkien, not Tolkien's version of Tolkien.

No, you gotta make them run the thing. It'll be your responsibility, too, when you're the only person that's weird about something. If you're lucky enough to find yourself in a group with more than one weirdo, they have the responsibility of crowning the biggest freak, and now that guy runs the RPG. It's going to be disappointing any other way - frustrating for an insufficiently weird GM, a pale imitation of the dream for any unfulfilled weirdo.

That said, there's enough blank space in Tolkien's work - he hyperfocuses on specific things and leaves others as a Here Be Dragons - that you can kind of conceivably shove all manner of precious original content in there. And, frankly, that's the best thing about playing in an established universe for me - going off the map, asking where the red brick road goes, making a guy who comes from the great and storied land that's only passingly mentioned in half a sentence. There's still stories to tell here, absent the lasering in on the Fellowship of the Ring, and this is a good way to tell them, should you be weird in the right way.

Next up: OH GOD I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS ONE FOR SO LONG.

[basilfern]

Hi gang

(I am well aware noone will read this, I just like to throw my thoughts and life events into the abyss, and also I would probably pee my pants if the abyss stared back at me)

Anyyyyways, as of the 6 days ago I no longer have a boyfriend.....

...

We got engaged, yayy 🎉

And listen to me gang, the first words he could get out of his mouth were, and I kid you not

"chat, am I tweaking"

(i would like to point out, English is not our first language, but he did say it in)

So, yea. It's going great, I love him, he's so silly. Sometimes I'm a little scared that we're moving too fast (we've been dating 6 months before getting engaged) and that I'm in some way gonna get hurt. But I truly want to marry him and wanted him to have a physical proof of it. I don't think I'm idealising him and while I don't have any experience even dating beside him I want to be with him, and don't want my occasional worries affect our relationship. He knew I wanted to propose and also wanted it but he didn't know exactly when it would happen, I did it when we were in matching pyjamas and it was very cozy and cutesy. I'm sometimes scared that I'll screw something up because he's the first person I ever dated, and basically my first everything, and he has had some bad events in his life that I don't want to accidentally remind him of. He has diagnosed PTSD after some things and sometimes when he sleeps he'll get scared though sleep when I move my hand and always wakes up if I move in almost any way, I in no way blame him for it but I really don't want to scare him and wake him up completely every time I have to pee at night.

Ending on a brighter note, I really like the rings I got, they're like silver bands, they're pretty simple and elegant while not being too simple for my taste. We wanted both of us to have one, and there was this old tradition where there were two silver engagement rings, actually I wanted to use the rings after my grandparents but we would have to resize them quite a bit and not only would it be way more expensive than buying new ones, it also could make them loose their look ruining them. So I got new ones that had a part of the look of the old ones in them, but I didn't have the chance to correctly size his finger and got his one a bit oversized but it's not too big of a deal even if I need to buy a new one (because of being silver and not having a stone they're pretty cheap for engagement rings).

So, yeah, I got engaged, wow. I might post pics of the ring to give some idea of what I'm talking about but I'm not sure I should.

And yes, he did actually say it, and can't deny it because I recorded the while thing, along with me not being to pop the question for 20 minutes.

OH, I almost forgot the funniest part, I got a ring pop and tried to be funny and "fake" proposed before actually pulling out the rings but bro was ready to accept the ring pop as his engagement ring.

[scotianostra]

On June 18th, the day after Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned at Lochleven Castle, The Palace of Holyrood House was overrun by religious zealots destroying the Royal Chapel and plundering the building.

The author James Boswell lamented in May 1758 the state of the church in his poem “An evening-walk in the Abbey-church of Holyrood-house” mentioning the state of the Royal Vaults as also the “venerable roof” which fell “a prey to the rude winds, and Winter’s stormy blasts!”

The biography of Mary Stuart describes the event as such:“The insurgent nobles, on the 18th of June, seized the Queen’s plate, jewels, and other moveables, in Holyrood-house: They coined the whole of her plate. On the same day, Glencairn went with his servants into the Queen’s chapel of Holyrood-house, and broke down the altars, and demolished the pictures, images, and ornaments. This outrage was highly commended by the preachers, as a work of great godliness: But, the other insurgent nobles were somewhat displeased; as he had done this mischief, without any order, and before they had resolved, how to deal with the Queen.

It is a curious circumstance, which marks the real design of the rebellious nobles: They immediately took the most decisive, and vigorous measures against the Queen, in violation of their public professions, and in breach of their solemn engagements, to serve, and obey her; while they did not pursue Bothwell, or take any measure to prevent his escape; though they always avowed one of their chief objects to be, to inflict condign punishment on Bothwell, for the King’s murder: Morton and Maitland, who were his complotters, knew, that he could charge them with their guilty conduct, in that abominable deed.”

So it really shows the anger shown towards Bothwell was merely an end to a means, they wanted Mary dethroned. This was confirmed on 24th July 1567, she was forced to abdicate.

In the years that followed the Abbey’s alters and stain glassed windows were destroyed along with the tombs of Kings David II, James II and Mary’s father James V.

There were attempts to rebuild the building, these were after 1758 when its high vault collapsed, but the repairs were disastrous and did not stand up to the task, by 1766 they were beginning to deteriorate.

Scots Magazine and reported a two stage failure.

“On the 2nd of December, about noon, part of the walls and roof of the church of the Abbey of Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh, gave way and fell in; and in the night following a great part of the remainder fell also. This is said to be owing to the enormous weight of a new stone roof laid over the church some years ago, which the walls were unable to support. The pillars and ornaments of this edifice, though for many years waste, and almost ruinous, were greatly admired, as one of the finest Gothic remains in the Island. The vaults, where the bodies of some of the royal family, several of the nobility, and a great number of the gentry, were deposited, were by this accident laid in ruins. – The church however, is, it is said, to be speedily rebuilt.”

Throughout these times the Abbey was still a place of interest for the people of Edinburgh and visitors alike, it was especially popular as a romantic place to take a walk, especially in the the twilight.

The Abbey is now in the care of Historic Scotland, but much to my annoyance you cannot just go and visit, you have to pay the best part of £20 to the Royal Collection Trust, which look after the royal palaces, I have no interest in visiting the Palace of Holyrood House, nor contributing to the trust, so only have vague memories of visiting when it used to be free when I was a young bairn