#Let grief be a fallen leaf

[planettrust]

Let grief be a fallen leaf

It is a very personal journey that requires being uncomfortable, patient, and diving deeper into what it means to live fearlessly in spite of death. It is important to establish boundaries with not only what but who you give your time to as you heal and go through discovering what it means to live in the wake of loss. There will be a plethora of advice, people trying to relate and-though they have good intentions-they will never be able to understand the vastness of your emotions. These rituals provided a guidepost for me when I needed it most.īefore getting started, I would like to remind you to do whatever feels right for you as an individual. They did not erase the pain, nor do I think they ever will because that pain is rooted in a deep irreversible loss. These grief rituals have given me a semblance of routine and connection to my son. Kids still needed to be fed, needs needed to be met and the everyday life of society was rapping at my doorstep. I was still a mother of two other children and a wife. Despite my loss, time never stopped for me. These rituals for me were not based on religion but had social and cultural influences.ĭue to the sudden and unexpected nature of my son’s death, I was in no way prepared to face the realities that we would suddenly be subjected to. Norton and Francesca Gino, behavioral scientists and professors at Harvard University say that, “Although the specific rituals in which people engage after losses vary widely by culture and religion-and among our participants-our results suggest a common psychological mechanism underlying their effectiveness: regained feelings of control.”Īs someone who has experienced the debilitating-and at times overwhelming-effects of loss, I can personally attest to the positive results that I continue experiencing from performing my own grief rituals in the wake of my 3-year-old son Legend’s passing. It is thought that rituals performed after loss help aid in the healing and coping of extreme loss. Make an Annual or Commemorative PilgrimageĮventually, most will move on in some form or another to return to their lives, to fall into new or old routines and though they will always carry sadness the initial paralysis that accompanies loss can subside.With a loss for words to express the feelings then how may one express the deepest parts of their grief? Jump ahead to these sections: Words can fail to express the enormousness one feels in the wake of losing a loved one. Grief throughout has moments of being so overwhelming that it numbs the mind and body while at times succumbing one to deep catatonic states.

[abyssruler]

would they choose you over the world?

aether (traveler), dainsleif, scaramouche, raiden ei, lumine (abyss), venti, xiao x gn!reader

AETHER thinks he can save both, no, he knows he can. The powers of this world rests at the tips of his fingers. He’s faced monsters and gods and come out alive and better than he was before. There’s no reason to hesitate, none whatsoever to consider his decision but—but. He has never been made to choose before. There was always another way, another choice, another something he could rely on. It’s a moral dilemma, like the situation with the train where you either save five people and kill one person, or kill five people to save one person. It’s easy enough to answer when it was simply that—a moral dilemma created to confuse him, not a world ending decision that lies on his shoulders. To choose one is to doom the other. Most people would choose the world, but while Aether is called a hero and the savior of nations, he is also a person. He looks at your resigned smile, like you already know which one he’ll choose, and he decides to prove you wrong.

DAINSLEIF clings to loss like a dying man does to the edge of a cliff. The inevitability of death and your mortality rests on his shoulders much like weight of his entire nation’s death. He wonders what it says about him that he’d rather have you safe and sound than have the world be saved. Five hundred years of aimless wandering, fighting against the remnants of his fallen nation and watching the world move on while he remains untouched by time, the ghost of a past that can never be returned to. Dainsleif isn’t a hero, he’s tired. All that’s left of him are fading memories of a time gone by and moments with you that he clings to like a lifeline. What has this world ever done for him except cause him pain and needless grief? What has it done to deserve his sacrifice? Nothing. And so he rests, hand in hand with you on withering grass and waits for the world to end. At least, this time, he won’t be alone in watching the heavens descend.

SCARAMOUCHE laughs, and laughs, and laughs until he’s sure even the gods that reside in Celestia has heard the scorn and mockery in his voice. It is so laughably easy to choose you and denounce the world. Let it be turned to ash and dust, let his body dance on top of a desolate world, let him pull you in an embrace and delight in the fact that no sun and no light (for none of these exist anymore) would ever outmatch the brightness in your eyes, the smile on your face, the tinkling sound of your laughter amidst the remains of a world that once threatened to snuff your life like a candle left in the dark. He is like a flame and you, the spark. There’s a tsunami gathering on the horizon, threatening to drown everything in its wake, but instead of preventing it, he revels in the ruin it will bring. It is either your death alone or yours and everyone else, and if you have to die either way, then he will die with you and drag the rest of the world along in his self-appointed destruction. You taught him what it felt to no longer be alone, so he will make sure you’re never lonely, even in death.

EI feels weightless, like a leaf adrift in the wind. It feels like she is back to that moment five hundred (a thousand) years ago, a dilemma, a decision, a choice—follow Makoto to Khaenri’ah, or defend her people from the monsters ravaging the lands? There was uncertainty there, a small seedling of hope that she would arrive not far from Makoto and see her sister alive and waiting, and so she had made the decision to stay—but this? Faced with an ultimatum, the world or your death, Ei finds that the decision is much more difficult, much more devastating but no less heartbreaking. Had it been before, in her lonesome at the Plane of Euthymia, the choice would have been easy, barely a thought in her mind, but everything has changed and Ei wants, in a way she has never wanted before, to be with you. You with your smiles and your laughs and the warmth you induce in her frigid heart—and she finds that she cannot make a choice… so you do it for her. For the greater good.

LUMINE doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even flinch before she turns her back to the world and takes your hand. What good is the world if you’re not there in it? She won’t just stand by and watch as everything she holds dear is destroyed in front of her—not anymore. There is you, there is her, and there is the world burning, and Lumine finds that she can hardly care. Her heart has no place for faceless people, no love left for a world that has done nothing but spurn and trample on everything she had offered. Let it burn if it means having one more second, one more minute, one more lifetime with you. A choice isn’t truly a choice if the other option was never considered, and she will never consider a world without you. There are millions, billions, countless other worlds out there she could take you to. Damn this place, damn the heavens, and damn the consequences. Her brother would understand, he always has, and when Lumine meets him again in a new world, she’ll make sure to introduce you to him.

VENTI wants, like Icarus yearning for the Sun, but Venti is Venti, and Barbatos is Barbatos. Right now, he cannot afford to be that carefree bard who spun tales of your lovely hair and lovelier still lips (cannot be Icarus who flew too close to the sun and fell). Venti wants—but Barbatos knows the best option, the best choice, the least devastating one but the most heart-wrenching one. The situation is funny, laughable, hilarious, really, the kind that makes his stomach ache and brings tears to his eyes that drip down his cheeks and onto the ground and—oh, he’s crying. He’s crying and holding you close and apologizing, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, and he doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, doesn’t deserve the hand carding through his hair and the soft press of your lips on his forehead as you murmur, don’t cry, it’s alright, you’re doing the best you can. But the best means not doing this at all, the best means not having to make a choice at all, the best means not having to say goodbye. It’s okay, you tell him, I forgive you. But he never forgives himself.

XIAO thinks there must be another way, there has to be another way. He won’t accept this, won’t allow himself to choose between losing you or losing everything, because he knows, deep down, that the choice has already been made and it is not the one he wants. But he knows better than most that doing what he wants isn’t always what is needed, that certain sacrifices must be made despite his unwillingness, despite his entire body protesting against it. Rex Lapis once told him that being a god means making difficult decisions. If this is what it means to be a god, then he will accept a life of service, a life of war and fighting and breathing like every second is his last—because pain and suffering are infinitely better than having to wake everyday without your voice by his ear, giggling about how you finally caught him asleep. A world without your light, without your presence, without you is a desolate one. There must be another way, another sacrifice to be made that doesn’t involve you. Just—anything, anyone but you. Even if it has to be him.

[dawneternal]

I Have Loved You For the Last Time

Sad Eris ✅

Gay Eris ✅

Soft boy Eris ✅

Based on the theory that Mor and Eris had secretly agreed to a lavender marriage. Forgot Eris's hounds are supposed to be big don't roast me

TW: angst, homophobia, loss of a loved one, inner circle critical (from Eris' perspective)

Word Count: 1.4k

Eris pulled his scarf up to cover his nose and nuzzled into it. The autumn wind was bitingly cold today, as if it was also restless with grief. It pressed against him as he walked, as if to say

we know we know we know

The sun cast golden light along the path, illuminating each fallen leaf with tender care. Bare tree branches twisted into a sparse canopy, fracturing the sunshine as it fell. The bittersweet smell of decaying leaves mingled with the scent of distant swaying wheat fields. All carried on that fluttering wind.

Eris looked down at the hound that walked by his side, donning a little plaid cloak to protect against the cold. So content to follow him wherever he went, looking up at her master every once in a while with only admiration and eagerness in her eyes. The most loyal creature he had ever met.

The path curved toward the edge of the woods and Eris pushed through the wards at the treeline. He entered the protection of the little clearing and let out a deep sigh. From the outside, the clearing was empty. If his father, or anyone else, ever tried to enter it they'd be struck with a sudden headache so fierce they'd forget what they were doing in the first place.

But Beron would never bother with this corner of the autumn court. A place where the High Lady used to play in her childhood. Inside it, hidden from prying eyes, sat the ruins of a beloved hand-made play house. And beside it, two gravestones.

There were no bodies buried here, only the stones for visiting and remembering. Away from cruel brothers and guards who would only ever be loyal to the High Lord. Away from that complex world of secrets and games, weaving as wide as the halls of the sprawling Forest House and wider all the time. Here, it could be simple for a moment.

Eris ran his hand across one of the gravestones and murmured a blessing. His fingertips brushed over the name carved into it.

Jesminda

He wondered about her sometimes. What her family had been told about her death. If they knew anything at all, if they blamed Lucien for it. Nevertheless, the flowers he had sent to Jesminda's family on her birthdays were always anonymous. It was something he did more for himself than anyone else. But he did it anyways, though it did little to lessen the deep well of guilt inside him. Neither did enchanting the flowers that grew on her grave to never wilt or die. Forever blooming, like Jesminda was supposed to be.

Eris knelt on the ground before the other gravestone. His hound sat next to him and leaned into his side, as if she remembered what it meant when they came here and knew he would need the support. Eris mindlessly stroked the little beast's fur and lost himself in his memories.

This second stone was not marked. He could not have anyone carve it. Some knew of Jesminda's story -- Lucien's young love and her untimely death. But no one would ever know of Sebastian, the one who held Eris's heart. No one but Beron. And Lucien, the nosy busybody.

It was Beron's doing that no one knew of Sebastian. Jesminda, he could turn into an example. But Sebastian's existence infuriated and shamed Beron so thoroughly that he had any evidence of his life wiped from the Autumn Court. Like mud scrubbed from the palace's polished floors.

Sometimes Eris wondered if his father had gone as far as to have Sebastian's family's memories erased. If Beron had known that his youngest son was in on the secret, Lucien would surely have been made to forget. But Beron would not make Eris forget. Eris's punishment was to remember.

Of course, it was Eris's fault. He thought he could juggle it all, keep it all secret and safe. But Beron had found the one loose thread and pulled until he had discovered the whole truth and Sebastian was lost to him forever. Perhaps part of him had hoped Beron would not react so terribly. After all, Sebastian was from a noble family. He was proper and polite and trained perfectly. An ideal match for a High Lord. Except, of course, that he was male.

A tear slipped down Eris's cheek. This was the reason for the impenetrable wards. So he could let his tears fall and not immediately be torn apart. He let out a bitter laugh as he remembered his reputation -- cold, petty, and unfeeling. And yet here he was, crying over the empty grave of his lost love and a lesser fae girl he had barely known.

It was Morrigan who had started that reputation, keeping his character in a chokehold with the stories she spread about him. Twisted and incomplete, painting him in such a cruel light.

Such dark bitterness filled him with the memory of the Night Court. He thought about them often, more than they deserved. More than he wanted to. Like it was a habit.

That infernal inner circle, drunk on happiness that he would never have. Even brooding Azriel had more tenderness in his life than Eris could ever hope for. Azriel, who had wrapped his hands around Eris's throat and kept squeezing, even as Eris laid still and did not fight back. He had not wanted to spit those venomous words. Had not wanted to taste them in his mouth. But Beron was always watching, and he must keep up the appearance of a grudge against Morrigan, his "ruined" bride. So Eris let himself be Azriel's punching bag just for the show, knowing that he deserved it anyways.

But then Azriel had the gall to act like a wounded animal, comforted and calmed by the High Lady. He had sat by her, been served by her. And none of their circle seemed to see how ridiculous it looked, watching them all play house together at a High Lord's meeting. It was a joke, all of it.

An inner circle that would die for him. A mate that would tear apart courts for him. A city of peace filled with lovely trivial things, plagued by only the smallest of worries.

And he wanted it. All of it.

"You're all I've got, Marigold," He whispered to his hound as she laid her head in his lap. "You're my inner circle."

Eris shook all thoughts of the Night Court from his head as he noticed a glint of Emerald green among the goldenrods planted over Sebastian's grave. He pulled a little velvet box from among the flowers and golden ring blinked back at him when he opened it.

He held it close to his eye to examine, and found that a word had been carved into the inside of the ring. Written in an old and mostly dead language. Memories came to him of he and Lucien learning that language to use as a code, one their father couldn't read.

Sebastian.

A smile tugged at his lips. When he slipped the ring on his finger, it vanished completely. It looked as if he wore nothing at all. He had no idea how long it had been there waiting for him, but the metal of the enchanted ring reminded him of a certain redhead's golden eye. The only other one who knew of this place and what Eris had lost. If it wasn't him, then the ring was not a gift at all but a threat from someone who had discovered his deepest secret.

He held the ring in his palm for Marigold to inspect. She gave it sniff and turned away disinterested. Golden light filled Eris's chest. It had been left by Lucien.

In the blink of an eye, the world became much less bleak. The air even felt a bit warmer. He leaned forward to press a kiss to the gravestone and then stood,  Marigold immediately at attention by his side. He said goodbye with his usual prayer and slipped the ring on his finger, practically skipping back to the forest path. And he clung tightly to that sunrise in his heart. The closest thing to hope he could allow.

Mother hold you. May you pass through the gates and smell that immortal land of milk and honey. Fear no evil, feel no pain. Go and enter eternity.

[oogaboogasphincter]

Deceits of the Devil (priest!marcus pike x f!reader) | chapter one: the high priestess

series summary: when you find love in a priest, a litany of spooky events begin to follow you that can only be described as a haunting. is it your own guilty conscience that disturbs you... or could it be something else?

chapter summary: you're visiting your best friend in her new town for the first time when you are begrudgingly thrust into her devout way of life. however, something - or someone - makes you rethink your plans of avoiding the church at all costs.

word count/series~chapter-specific warnings: 6.4k+ words // MATURE (18+ ONLY) MDNI!: reader uses she/her pronouns and is incredibly non-religious, SLOW BURN TABOO RELATIONSHIP BABYYY, lots of religious/spiritual talk, horror elements and general spookiness ~ lots of character introductions so pls bear with me, mention of the death of a loved one and some light grief, food and eating mentions, sudden illness, potentially cringe banter, take a shot for every time i wrote 'father pike' in this (trust me we learn his first name soon enough but for now it's all formalities between him and reader), is this whole thing blasphemous? probably

a/n: sooo this is something very different from what i normally write, but i'm so excited to be trying something new! :) i'm not too sure where i want to take this story yet, so i don't have a total number of chapters or an ending planned (i really don't even have much of the plot figured out LMAO) but i'd really really appreciate any and all feedback from my readers! ♥️ let me know what you liked and what you want to see more of in future chapters!

“So I won’t burst into flames when I walk through the doors?” 

You ask your best friend, Lucy, sending her into a fit of laughter. She clutches your hand tighter in hers, squeezing it with pompous affection. Despite your best efforts to maintain your feelings of impartialness towards the church, your palm slips against hers with a sheen of clamminess as you travel closer to the hulking cathedral. 

“No!” She laughs, that breathless laugh you’ve always found comfort in. “You’re holier than most of the people who go every Sunday.” 

You scoff and give her some side-eye, something that just makes her shake her head even more. Whether or not this is how you wanted to spend your first day in Carmeltree visiting her, you are going to this harvest dinner. 

She sighs contentiously, contrasting the playful smirk on her face, “Trust me, you’ll be fine. Now come on, we’re gonna be late!” 

——

Lucy has been your best friend since kindergarten. The maple leaves that swirl around you both in the crisp autumn air as you run through the streets now invoke a fierce sense of nostalgia, one that’s almost painful. One of your first memories together is making leaf rubbings in class with the fallen leaves that blanketed the frosted school grounds. She liked warm colors and you liked cool colors; she liked maple leaves and you liked birch leaves. Two complete halves made an even brighter whole when you came together, and the rest is history. 

Despite the big city you grew up in, somehow you always managed to be in the same classes, share the same hobbies. But your luck had to run out sometime; when you both graduated, you got accepted into universities on opposite sides of the country. You kept up your communication, talking to each other every day and spilling your guts about everything, from the monumental to the regrettable, the joyous to the devastating. 

You thought something was amiss when she called you in the middle of the night a few months back. At first you brushed it off, thinking maybe she fell asleep with her phone in her hand and dialed you by accident, something you’ve both done plenty of times over the course of your friendship. When she called you back as soon as you didn’t answer, you knew there was something wrong. That’s when you learned her mom had passed away. 

It wasn’t sudden, but that didn’t spare her any devastation. You were there for her all day, every day. Consoling her when she wept, relishing in the happy memories that brought a rare but vital smile to her voice, sympathizing with her grief. But without a physical shoulder to lean on, Lucy went looking for more support to help her. 

Her mom was a devout Christian and, by proxy, so was Lucy. She isn’t as rigid in her faith as her mom was, but she always viewed it as a guiding light to betterment, a sturdy foundation to catch her when she crumbled. Luckily, the whirlwind of life events in the past six months that displaced her from her college friends to the small town of Carmeltree was gracious enough to gift her a tight-knit, painfully orthodox population. 

On the contrary, you grew up in a household without any influence of organized religion. Your family celebrated Christmas and Easter, but it was mostly for all of the gifts and chocolate. 

Religious differences never caused any turmoil between you and your best friend, because you love each other for who you are, regardless if you share spiritual beliefs. If praying and attending sermons helps Lucy to process her grief and gives her something that uplifts her soul, what kind of a friend would you be to forbid her from that? 

—— 

That doesn’t make you any more enthused about being dragged to the dinner held at the church to celebrate the autumn harvest. Lucy dropped the plan on you the second she picked you up from the major airport, whose segregating miles seem to swell with every second that passes. Knowing you would come up with an alternative plan you’d both like better, she didn’t give you a chance to back out, and you didn’t fight. Committed to being a good friend, and with a curiosity pricking your heart, you run alongside her through residual puddles as the street clocks chime eight times. 

And let’s get one thing straight - “church” was a dishonorable term for the structure you’re going to. For hundreds of years, since the first round of colonizing settlers that invaded this square patch of disparate land, the citizens have been addicted to worship. They would lend their last cent to their religion, egregiously ignoring their growling stomachs and dilapidated houses for the sake of a prosperous God. The result of this frenzied generosity is the biggest cathedral you’ve ever seen. 

You’re still a few blocks away, but the spires reach over the trees and spear up at the moon; whose craters can be seen with miraculous clarity on this autumn night. As you move closer and closer, the details in this spectacular of gothic architecture reveal themselves. There are a litany of pinnacles that stand like soldiers guarding their fortress and clerestory windows that dance and swish with light coming from inside the maw of the beast. When your eyes drift to angular beams that aid the structure - flying buttresses, if you remember correctly - your marvel is suddenly absent.

“No gargoyles?” you ask. 

Lucy matches your disappointment with a shake of her head, “They come too close to the pagan border.” It’s unmistakable the way she lowers her voice, though there’s only a handful of patrons a hundred feet away from you. 

Against the cloudless, darkening sky and a comically-eerie full moon, anyone would be dosed with at least a few drops of intimidation by the staggering black outlines. You fail to find any ease once you come to one of three entrances. The carvings of ancient tales you don’t know loom over your head in the angular tympanum and greet you with uncertainty. Are they supposed to make you feel welcomed or warned? 

The gigantic doors are swung and held open by their own weight, giving way to the narthex. There’s a singing choir hidden deeper within and their melodies echo all around you. A large chandelier emits a soft orange glow, which is peculiarly swallowed up instead of reflected by the intricate, gilded etchings that coat the walls. Maroon velvet beneath your feet turns into a dark abyss of shadows from the unprecedented amount of people in here. You cling to Lucy’s coat with both your hands, somewhat subconsciously, and she laughs before taking your hand in hers and parting though the sea. 

You’ll admit it, you can be very shy when you’re overwhelmed. Though for some inexplicable reason, crowds usually didn’t give you a fuss. You actually found a sense of comfort in being lost in the blur, blending in as just another body amongst hundreds, sometimes thousands of others. But you didn’t like this crowd, didn’t know these people, and not in a stranger-danger kind of way; you’ve unknowingly crossed the line of some Christians in the past and have dealt with their fiery ravings. From knowing Lucy all these years, you seem to have an understanding of their way of life, but then you slip up - use His name in vain, talk about a crush you have no plans to marry a little too fondly. You’ll be chewing on your third forkful and look up at the table, meeting ghastly stares and wanting to smack yourself in the face for completely forgetting grace. 

Lucy never scorned you about forgetting or misunderstanding the rules. She knew that you didn’t mean any malice, you just simply… thought it was all a little silly sometimes. Between lighthearted Lucys and tyrannical Karens, it felt like walking on a minefield. So, you guess, you do know these people; it’s their unpredictability that worries you. 

The claustrophobia wanes as you enter the nave. The ceiling spreads out, breathes, and is lined with stained glass windows that bend the moonlight into faint rainbows. Some of the outermost pews have been moved to accommodate long tables, adorned in chestnut velour, copper filigree and serve as the throne for only the most impressive squashes of the harvest. A buffet joins the autumnal decor, sitting in sterling silver that you can imagine was forged at the beginning of the century and is used only for occasions such as these. 

Ever atune to your mind and body, Lucy pulls you into the line of hungry patrons just as your stomach grumbles. You’re transfixed by the magnificent altar at the back of this illustrious cave, your eyes climbing up the grand steps of the sanctuary to the stone table where you know the priest stands when mass is held. You try to picture one giving a sermon and reciting from scriptures. Doesn’t he have a cup or something too?…

A plate is stuck in front of you, waving a little, and the priest laughs at you when he finally gets your attention. You take the plate with a little embarrassment, your smile a sheepish one. “Sorry,” you mumble with pity. 

The tall, wispy-haired man smiles with his teeth and places his arthritic hands around one of yours as you hold the plate. “Oh, it’s alright, my child. I myself have gotten lost in the wonders of the cathedral many times.”

Lucy chimes in, reading your awkward gaze. “It’s her first time,” she whispers with a little too much excitement for your liking. The priest puts on a goofy surprised expression, his eyebrows going up and his mouth forming a small 'o'. He looks back to you with a softer smile, “What a beautiful thing to witness, then. I’m Father Gala, pleased to meet you.” 

“There’s no one better to come here with for the first time than Miss Finkle. You’re in very good hands.” As you nod in agreement, you can’t help but wonder… what would this elder man, in his starched and pressed vestments, think if he knew you and Lucy had “practiced” kissing so you’d know what you were doing when the “real thing” happened? 

You wave the thought away like a gnat, not wanting to feel like you’re keeping another clean secret that’s considered dirty by some. You’re already under the guise of being a practicing Christian; Lucy had said they were more readily accepted than anyone else, despite the church’s proclamation of aiming for cultural diversity. 

The choir has ended their singing, replaced by applause then the soft, overlapping chatter of the religious folk, and their red robes merge seamlessly into the surrounding crowd. Three other priests emerge from doors on either side of the sanctuary, two from the door closer to you and one from the other. You don’t get a good look at the singular man, since the door is on the opposite side of the grand hall from you. The two others are deep in talk, gesturing with their hands and keeping their faces close to one another while they walk as to not let anyone eavesdrop. You move ahead in line and depart from the eldest priest, whom the two new faces greet and guide a few feet away from everyone. 

You don’t mean to pry, but you can’t help your curiosity and look back at the men. You can’t hear them, only watching their mouths move, but Father Gala’s sweet smile grows somber, then bitter. With scowling brows to match, the other two priests keep up their gestures laden with well-maintained passion as they tell Father Gala a story. 

In the first lull of this conversation, the eldest priest, with his arms crossed over his chest, flickers his eyes to yours without moving his head. Your heart springs from your chest to your throat. His glower lessens when he bites the inside of his cheek, but you feel a doubling, tripling of stress when the other two priests turn to look at you too. The taller one, with a jet black, scraggly bowl cut, mirrors Father Gala and crosses his arms. He looks down his long nose at you in dignified annoyance. The third, with stocky limbs and strawberry blonde hair, glares at you from his periphery. Your eyes widen, in an attempt to show them you’re not a threat, expose your remorseful guilt, or provide a silent apology, you don’t know.

Lucy snaps you back forward with a gentle push against your back to get you to move in the line. You’ve finally reached the buffet, but suddenly the smells that wandered up your nose in wispy, tempting little tendrils earlier instead worm their way down your esophagus and instill a powerful nausea. She can sense your discomfort, your disorientation from what just happened, and supplies your plate for you. With a protective gaze over your head at the men, and a loving hand on your bicep, she guides you to sit in the pew farthest away from them. 

She has to stick a fork in your petrified fist for you to speak. “What the hell was that about?” You question, chancing a glance over your shoulder at the offending party and see that they’ve gone off to greet guests with friendly smiles again. “I wasn’t trying to listen in, they just looked worried and-“

Lucy pats your knee once, “Don’t worry. There must be some sort of drama happening behind the scenes, something that the town would inquire about. Since they’re priests, they think they have immunity from gossip.” She scoffs lightly and you think you catch your devout friend rolling her eyes at those most holy. “They’ve been acting weird for a while now, off and on. One week, Father Gala is like Mr. Rogers, and the next, he’s Dracula.” 

That earns a snort from you, hiding your smile behind the back of your hand. She gives you a reassuring smile, filled with her signature warmth that’s comforted you all these years, “You’re doing great. Now eat.” 

Thankfully, your nausea has quelled enough that you taste the delicious food as it’s meant to be tasted. Maybe you don’t have to worry about foraging during your stay in this town void of all fast food, only relying on two quaint grocery stores to feed itself. You’ll just have to become friends with whoever made this delectably gooey mac and cheese. 

Lucy interrupts you, “Oh, by the way,” she covers her full mouth and then swallows, pointing daintily, “that’s Father Thorn,” at the tall one, “and that’s Father Angus,” at the blonde one. You nod once in understanding, taking a look at their faces to match their names with, before Lucy turns away with a laugh. She teases under her breath, “Maybe they’re all pissed they could never be as handsome as Father Pike.” 

“Priests can be handsome?” you ask of the mysterious fourth priest, bemused. Priests, deacons, popes and the like all conjure up images of men with wrinkles as delicate and numerous as the pages in the ancient books they abide by. If they’re not a million years old, they’re unsightly at best and possess a visceral lack of sensuality, like Father Thorn and Father Angus. Lucy has got to be pulling your leg. 

“Yes,” she breathes, a soft pink blooming in her cheeks, “and young, and warm, and have a voice that makes every sermon a lullaby, and big, tender hands…” she trails off in a dream.

You let out a laugh, amused by her dramatics. “Oh, so he’s really ugly, then,” you sneer, trying to expose her hyperbole. 

She giggles at your tone, shaking her head. You reign down on her, spurring her giggles on with a barrage of sarcasm until they’re uncontrollable.

“Is that why this place doesn’t have gargoyles, because he can take its place? Does he have leathery skin,” you drag your hands down your face, pulling your cheeks down to expose your eyes, “rotted fangs,” hold your hands by your mouth and snarl your fingers, “hairy feet with long, twisting toenails that tear through his shoes?” You get up and drag your feet along the floor, growling and licking your lips rabidly. 

Lucy doubles over, tears threatening to spill over her eyes every time her lungs have to suck in a breath, “Stop!” She’s wheezing and you drop the act, putting your hands on your hips. 

“Well, you gotta tell me if I’m wrong or not!” Tapping your foot, you await her retaliation, until a voice warm with a smile cuts through the air.

“You forgot the giant rat’s tail that drags behind me.” 

Your heart stops for a second, thumping wildly when it starts up again to catch the missed beats. Turning tentatively on your heel, you’re met with… exactly what Lucy described. 

Before you is one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen, if not the most handsome ever. Chocolate waves that crest over top one another in a cute, slightly overgrown style glisten like ganache on top of his head in the candlelight. He’s got a scruffy beard that’s cut close to his cheeks and jaw, avoiding looking unkempt, threaded with two or three streaks of gray. His aquiline nose is gorgeous, there’s a little dimple in his cheek that deepens as he’s smiling, and his eyes… oh, his eyes…

“I’m Father Pike,” he extends his hand in greeting, keeping his other tucked behind his back. He has to bend forward slightly to reach your height better, aiding your descent into enchanted madness as he gets closer. You take his hand and introduce yourself- GOD Lucy was right. His grasp is light, comforting. Where Father Gala made you feel stuck in his eternal cage, Father Pike sets you free. You fall into a stupor fantasizing about what his hugs must feel like.

He smells like cinnamon. It could be from the pie you suspect he ate, from the apple undertones you detect, but you wouldn’t be surprised if that’s just how he naturally smelled. A warm, cozy, inviting dream; he sure looked like one, at least. 

His gaze lingers on your expression frozen with intrigue before he turns and welcomes Lucy. They begin a polite banter that allows you to stand back and try to quell your blood that throbs with nerve. If you had known someone like Father Pike was going to be here, you would’ve dressed in something nicer, possibly sexy - the modesty expected in a place of worship be damned. You curse yourself for choosing these well-worn jeans and roomy sweater over the opaque tights and a dress of an acceptable length you were going back and forth on in your mirror earlier. But, in an odd sort of way, you still felt exposed in front of Father Pike from underneath all your thick layers. You couldn’t hide yourself from him, no matter how many clothes you armored yourself with. 

He turns back to you, and he doesn’t ogle your nervous body, or try desperately not to; he looks into your eyes with a soft smile that crinkles the skin around those big brown puddles. It makes your chest feel like it has a big, gaping cavity that you could look inside of and see your heart thumping hard, vulnerable blood spilling from all your edges and trickling down your legs. The flustered emotions of a blooming crush rapidly morph into something malicious and parasitic, causing you to put the back of your hand to your forehead that has broken out in clamminess. It’s hard to hear Father Pike over the rushing buzz in your head when he speaks to you.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before, are you new?” 

And just like that, your knees start trembling beneath you. Your heart misses a beat, causing your lungs to seize in anger and you suck in a harsh breath. In a flash, Father Pike’s friendliness snaps into genuine concern and he steps forward, taking your elbows and catching you on your way to the floor. You make a startled sound and his timbre slashes through your panic, “Let’s get you sat down somewhere, okay?” 

You can barely muster a nod, tears threatening to spill over your eyes and join the rivulets of sweat on your cheeks. Father Pike more or less carries you by your middle as you pathetically cling to his arms, dragging your debilitated form a short distance to a secluded, abandoned pew by the door he entered from earlier in the evening. Father Pike sits you down and takes the place right beside you, putting his left arm around your shoulders and his right hand in yours. As soon as you’re grounded on the unforgiving wood, your vision stops spinning, even though you didn’t realize it had started. Breathing suddenly feels easy again, returning to its involuntary glory instead of being laborious. It’s like your body resumed its regularly scheduled programming with an invisible snap. 

Away from the hub of the crowd, his voice seems louder, its velveteen quality more clear, “You alright?” 

You take a precautionary, steadying breath before meeting his eyes, fearful that something in him will set off all your alarms again. But when you meet his eyes, everything is serene. “Y-yeah, I’m okay.”

A pause to verify your sincerity, and then he chuckles, trying to uplift the atmosphere with a lighthearted tone, “I didn’t mean to frighten you, I just…”

You laugh, as much as you can muster in your breathless state, “No, no, you didn’t!” He retracts his hand from yours slowly and you instinctively grasp his forearm with a reassuring touch. Once you notice what you’re doing, you let go of him with an embarrassment like he’s burning you. “I- I don’t really know what happened, all of the sudden I just felt… sick.” With your confession, a wave of nausea infiltrates your stomach and makes you feel a little queasy again. It’s climbing to its previous intensity quickly. The fossilized church feels like it could cave in on you at any moment. 

Father Pike touches your shoulder softly, “I’m going to go get you some water, okay?” You nod and the waning gleam in your eye sends him swiftly disappearing into the crowd. 

A decent number of paces away, an older woman looks at you with fear as Lucy speaks to her, no doubt explaining your abrupt qualm. Drawing any more attention than you already have will just worsen your panic, so you thwart the drama. You raise your hand at her with a thin-lipped smile to deter her worry and she places her hand over her heart with a happy sigh before walking away.

Father Pike reappears behind Lucy and drifts by her with your drink clutched tight in his hand. Lucy’s eyes flit from the priest’s chivalry to your shy, measly form and she raises her eyebrows and opens her mouth with a scoffing smile. You could read your best friend’s face better than written word: she thinks that you’re doing this on purpose to get the Father’s attention. 

You wish you could say you were reeling him in with salacious spite, however, you were anything but. Your illness was true and unforgiving. You shake your head at her in defiance, but you can tell she doesn’t buy it. She turns away to busy herself with the rest of the party, but really she’s intending to give the two of you some privacy from the wink thrown over her shoulder. With a roll of your eyes, you think about how you’ll have to defend yourself with a foolproof case under her gavel later tonight. 

Father Pike retakes his seat next to you, handing you the bottle of water, unopened, that your puny fingers struggle with. Kindly, he offers his hand and you pass over the bottle for him to open. He hands it back to you and sits hunched over his lap, hands clasped between his open legs, staring at you intently as you take a few slow sips. You feel a little awkward, looking down at the bottle in your hands and fidgeting with the wrapper on the outside, so you take a note from his book and try to lighten the mood, “I knew I wasn’t a big fan of parties, but I didn’t know I was this bad.” You chuckle dryly, risking a glance at him. It works: he’s laughing with you. 

“I’m not a big party person, either,” he smiles, his dimple creasing within his beard. You raise an eyebrow at him, a little befuddled by his statement, given he inserts himself into the lives of others for a living. He takes your hint, “I enjoy talking to people, giving sermons and all of that… but even this feels a little overwhelming for me.” You nod, finding comfort in the fact that you’re on the same page. He keeps that endearing smile with a measuring eye as he continues watching you, looking from the crease of your brow to how your legs squirm uncomfortably. 

There’s something about this man that makes you feel… transparent. Like how you felt exposed to him earlier, even underneath all your coarsely knitted layers. You feel like a fraud, sitting next to one of the holiest figures in the entire congregation. And for some reason, out of all of the people here, you feel that he deserves the truth. There’s nothing about him that has given you any indication that he won’t turn on you like the rest would if you confess to your disguise, but at the same time… he makes you feel safe. Of course, he just recovered you from some undisclosed blight, but you can write that off as convenience. You were sick, he was right there, certainly he would’ve tended to you. There must be some moral code within the priesthood to never let a sick person lie. But even before that, putting aside his obvious handsomeness, there was something in his eyes that held you. Let you know that it was all okay. You decide to ply him with honesty. 

“Um… so, I’m not very religious. Like, at all.” Your voice is a little shaky, worried if his nice-guy facade will finally melt away to reveal a sneering orthodox. He doesn’t seem to have a reaction, so you keep going. 

“So, if I’m not religious, and I’m drinking this, does that mean…” You trail off in question, and he doesn’t understand what you’re getting at. 

“It’s holy, right?” You raise the water. 

Father Pike looks like he can’t believe what you just asked. He shakes his head in amusement, void of condescension, leaning the slightest bit closer towards you. He lowers his voice slightly, protecting you from any invasive ears. He softly explains, “Just because it’s water in a church doesn’t mean it’s holy. A priest or some other figure has to bless it.” His smirk deepens at your visible relief, “You’re not sinning, or anything near it. You’re perfect.” 

He said you’re… what? Your heart skips again but this time it’s not from sickness. Well... is it sick to be attracted to someone who is virtually untouchable? You get to thinking; you know enough about the church and its inner workings to know that priests usually take a vow of celibacy. Consequently, most never date or get married. Does that mean… are they barred from all things sensual? Are they allowed to tenderly brush their fingers against someone else’s, and not for the purpose of prayer? Can they share a glance that lingers a little too long for it to be considered chaste? Can they… can they even think about anything remotely sexual? 

There’s no way that can be true. You can understand physical celibacy, sure, but it’s impossible for one not to have a thought that makes them quiver at least once in their life. In your own experience, sensuality sometimes has nothing to do with sex. You’ve felt the warmth of eroticism lying under the sun’s rays in the middle of spring, savoring a delicious meal, when you finish a book with a satisfying conclusion. If Father Pike starves himself of such pleasures, you can’t fight the pity that chokes you. 

“What if they have priests at the packaging plant?” You joke, hoping to simultaneously break the silence that has swelled between you two and put a wedge in your brain’s cogs so they’ll stop churning. 

Father Pike laughs, genuinely from his belly, and oh you could get used to that sound. His eyes crinkle at their corners with a grin, “Then the church would be thrilled at our outreach.” 

You go to take another sip of your water, but his hand comes out to touch yours. The impossible delicacy almost makes you flinch. He puts gentle pressure on your skin, making you stop in your tracks. He shifts closer to you, his voice dropping an octave, warning you, “I’d be careful though; there is a possibility that you could grow rotted fangs and hairy feet, if I’m remembering correctly.”

Your fluttering nerves make your laugh squeak out of your tightened throat, louder than you intended, in a bark. Slightly mortified, you hide your smile behind the hand that isn’t suspended in the air by Father Pike. With mercy, he releases you. 

“What about a rat’s tail?” You ask with a teasing glint in your eye. 

He ponders for a moment, comically deep in thought. “That only affects the most sinful of us,” he reveals. 

...What? That was flirty, right? It had to be flirty. There’s no way he didn’t mean it to be flirty. Your imagination can be very active at times, but there was no mistaking the twitch of his mustache to repress a smirk. 

Trying to ignore the furious heat that has instantaneously kindled between your thighs based on that singular tone change, you latch the bottle to your mouth and avert your eyes elsewhere. Out of your periphery, you think you see Father Pike’s shoulders droop and his gaze lower to the ground with a silent huff. Shit, did he take your silence as a blow to his humor? 

You can’t think too much now because the clocks outside in the streets resound ten chimes. Lucy appears and her beaming at the two of you seems to rejuvenate Father Pike a little. He straightens his back before he stands and they begin talking, shaking hands. Their mouths spew unintelligible babble to you as your entire nervous system is locked on one thing: Father Pike’s back. His gorgeous personality had swept you up and away into a cloud of bubbly giggles and blushing cheeks that you hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. Maybe if the robes had made a greater impression on you, they would’ve served as a reminder to restrain yourself from dreaming about the forbidden, but alas. 

Father Pike is dressed identically to the other priests: black clerical shirt, cassock, pants, and shoes, and a white tab collar. But he wears everything so much better. The garments are majorly obscured by the enveloping cassock, but even the thick, flowing fabric can’t hide the broad width of his shoulders. When he gestures with his hands, you can see the muscles move dreamily in reaction by the flickering candlelight. He’s tall, and this fact is only emphasized as you continue to sit motionless on the pew watching him and Lucy. 

When he turns with a hand outstretched to help you to your feet, you bite your lip with ravenous desire. Somehow you didn’t notice - probably because you were too enthralled with everything else about him - how his Adam’s apple sits on glorious display with the white tab collar as its pedestal. The tempting image makes you swallow hard. God, that shouldn’t be as hot as it is. 

“Time to get going,” Lucy says, motioning from behind the Father’s back for you to take his hand. You do and stand, drifting to the front of the church on autopilot. It feels like the calm quiet of your time with Father Pike and the chummy, sociable atmosphere of the dinner has dissipated and a sense of urgency has taken root. The friendliness remains in the goodbyes and promises of meeting again you hear all around you, but you’re definitely being ushered out with the rest of the herd. You guess, remembering a tidbit about religious folk, that they have a curfew. 

It feels like you’re being ripped away from Father Pike and you don’t like that. Although you’ve only known him for all but two hours - which sounds ridiculous when you put it like that - you’re desperate to know more. You’d find genuine, complete contentedness in simply watching him go about his daily activities. Recording what details he decides to give you privy to and admiring his boundaries when he reserves himself. He’s the first possibility of a new friend in this conservative township and you don’t want to let him go. 

You’re grateful that he ghosts your back as Lucy leads you to the entrance, it gives you comfort and makes this dream last as long as it can. You don’t sense just how close he’s following behind you until you get to the heavy front doors and the toe of his shoe snags on the heel of yours. It makes you trip and fumble forward, but Father Pike reaches to catch you. His hands grip your waist, molding your oversized sweater to your body. Then, he gently steadies and pulls you back upright. The foreign sensation of your flattened heel tickles your foot and sends you stumbling back into his chest. He looks down at you, his hands still on you, “I-I apologize.”

Through the darkness you see the tips of his ears glow red. Before you can say anything in return, he renders you speechless by getting on his knees. Without a word spoken, moving in tandem with implicit choreography, you lift your foot up so he can fix the heel back into place. He doesn’t give you the choice of wobbling on your lonesome, placing one of your hands on his right shoulder to keep you balanced. And god, you wish he hadn’t done that. 

Your lips part as your breaths gain some weight, but you snap your oblong mouth shut when you hear an ancient, warbly voice. “Oh, no, what have we here?” Father Gala teeters over just as Father Pike finishes retying your shoe. Imperceptibly, you squeeze his shoulder in reverence as he stands up and then you let your hand fall innocently to your side. 

You shrug, giggling a little uncomfortably, “Father Pike stepped on the back of my shoe, it was an accident.” 

“Young and clumsy,” Father Gala jokes, you think, with a grumbly tone. He claps a hand on Father Pike’s left shoulder with more effort than you thought the old man could muster. As Father Pike steadies the elder priest’s cane, you reason he more so fell into Father Pike than anything else. Your favored Father chuckles with accountability. 

Father Gala passes off his cane for a moment to take your hand in his two, like he did when he gave you the dinner plate earlier this evening. Clearly the party has tired him out; his hands are quivering and his back is permanently bent at an angle. “Peace be with you,” he croaks with cheerfulness, despite his withered voice. 

You freeze. You know you’re supposed to say something back to complete this exchange and from the innermost depths of your brain you think it should be a simple phrase, something that any ardent Christian would remember. Between your disinterest in the church and the Father Pike fog that has eclipsed your mind, you’re dumbfounded.

An angel appears in your midst and comes to your rescue: Father Pike, peering into your eyes over the shoulder of the crouched figure before you, mouths the words silently, “And also with you.” 

“And also with you,” you recite amicably. Father Gala smiles, pats your hand twice in delight and turns to give Lucy the same departing sentiment. You release the air of worry you held inside and take a few steps to meet Father Pike, whispering close by his side so only he will hear, “Thank you.” 

The handsome Father closes your height difference by leaning down and pretends to brush some invisible dust off of your shoulder, an excuse to be this close to you. 

“Don’t mention it. Your secret’s safe with me,” he murmurs. 

And you trust him to keep his promise. Sure, he could go behind your back and spill your lies to the other priests, the entire community, let them know that there’s a rat infiltrating their congregation. 

The mischievous sparkle in his gaze as he looks at down you, biting your lip to suppress your giggle and keep your little inside secret just that, tells you he won’t let one word slip. 

Father Gala has returned for his cane, so Father Pike clears his throat and stiffens himself. Clasping his hands together, he builds an appropriate distance between the two of you before anyone sees it was anything otherwise. 

The night winds have picked up, biting at bits of exposed skin with a malevolent appetite. To shield the older priest, Father Pike guides him back into the cathedral. “I hope to see you two back soon,” the handsome Father interjects as you’re turning to leave. 

“We’ll be here Sunday!” Lucy shouts over an unnatural gust that howls and warbles her voice. With one arm over each other’s shoulders, holding tight together, you begin the trek back to her house to take refuge for the night. Behind you, you hear the cathedral doors shut, sealing you off from a final parting glance to Father Pike. You aren’t too disheartened by that and the cold can’t gnaw at your heart, either; Sunday is only two days away and you can’t contain your excitement. 

—— 

The whole night has felt like a whirlwind. To your complete and utter surprise, visiting the church is no longer seems like it’ll be a chore, but rather an opportunity. For what, you’re not exactly sure just yet. But you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks and skirting down your spine at the infinite possibilities. Maybe you should start praying for your salvation now.

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[sanctuary1988]

~ Fate's Cruel Hand |9| Gwi

French: /the petals of love/

Pairing: Gwi x fem! noble! Reader

Summary: A heartless vampire falls in love for the first time in centuries of loneliness. Passion, secrets, betrayal and love drown the royal palace. Will your love for Gwi prevail through time or will it wither away like a fallen rose petal? Maybe love was his punishment, maybe love was your salvation. Or wasn't it a curse to you both? Because, who can beat a race against time? Who can love in the dark? Who can love without truth? After all, even the most beautiful flower will wither away and end in ashes of time, remembered only by the one who cherished her the most.

Warnings: strangers to lovers?, fluff, angst, TENSION (again), general vampire stuff, melancholy, mentions of illness, crying, character death, HEAVY ANGST, feelings of grieving and sorrow, power play, secrets, period typical misogyny, age gap (huge), dark romance, conflicting emotions, feelings of lingering and wishing for someone/something, historical! AU, royal! AU?, cannon copilant, (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count: 5.1k words

A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME & Welcome to chapter 9, darlings! A little treat from me to thank you all for all the love this story I began writing for sheer fun is receiving. Tagging @yumisventingmachine and @my-day6 for their unwavering support for this story. And by @yumisventingmachine wish, I wrote another poem for this chapter as well! Let me know your thoughts in the comments! I'd love to hear from you, loves. Enjoy! 🫶🫶🫶

*A/N: There's a poem I wrote for this story that you'll find in this chapter, I do not allow for it to be used in any other media or to be reposted/translated.

In solitude, I find your voice. 

A voice that’s already dead. 

My light was consumed by darkness within. 

A punishment, a curse that I cannot forgive. 

The petal has fallen from the rose. 

The nightmare awakened at dawn. 

An instinct that comes and goes. 

An immense power, yet also my one flaw. 

I have killed my heart. 

Like poison, my words command. 

A demon of temptation, 

a monster of damnation. 

The echoes of your voice are gone,

I can no longer hear you say my name. 

A name from a man that is now dead. 

Killed by the claws of my own fate. 

With a sigh, you closed the book before you put it aside. Each time you read one of the poems of the mysterious book you grew more and more melancholic. For they were beautiful in their own bittersweet nature. You understood that the author had lost someone or something precious to them. And the thought of it made your heartstrings being pulled cruelly. 

It was late at night but you couldn’t sleep. The news of your mother’s illness were still too fresh in your mind. Your heart ached at Gwi’s negation for you to go to her side and be there for her when she needed it the most. Defeated, you stood up, taking up the silver chamberstick at your side, you couldn’t help but observe the intricate design of it. The plate was made with cravings and subtle undulations that resembled a round leaf while the central socket was made into a beautiful rose where the candle stood proudly among the darkness. 

You left your room in silence, ignoring the whispers of your soul as they spoke to you about sorrow and grief. The shadows around you seemed to swallow down the only beacon of light you had in your life. You entered the throne room only to find Gwi sitting on the magnificent chair. You bowed down at him, not uttering a word before you continued to walk to the other side of the underground palace, where the library, your sanctuary, was. 

“It’s late, petal.”

You stopped in your tracks at the sound of his deep voice resonating across the walls. You gulped, turning slowly to face him while your heart raced within you. His eyes, as dark as the night itself were fixed on you with a mixture of authority and concern in their depths. 

“Why are you wandering the halls at this hour?”

You didn’t question why he was up himself. You didn’t question the slight worry that flashed in his eyes, or had it been the candles flickering around him? You didn’t protest about his decision that had crushed your heart. 

“I can’t sleep, My Lord. You said I didn’t need permission to visit the library.”

He hated it. He hated how sad your voice sounded. He hated how dull your eyes looked. He hated how cold you had grown to him. And he hated that he had caused all your pain. His expression softened at your words before he stood up and walked towards you, his movements graceful and commanding. Gwi stood in front of you, his presence was both overwhelming but oddly calming as well. 

“You have been troubled ever since I refused to let you visit your mother.”

His fingertips lifted your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes that you were so trying to avoid. His touch, that had once sent shivers down your spine, now felt cold against your skin and you missed the warmth that had blossomed between you both before the dreadful letter arrived. 

“I know that my decision hurt you, but I will not apologise for it. You belong to me, flower, and I will do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

“Even if that means breaking my heart?”

Your eyes held a fierceness he had never seen before, the tension rose like a tidal wave. The room spinned with unspoken words that were left to linger in the realm of your thoughts as you lost yourself in his eyes.

“Write to her.”

It sounded more like a command rather than a suggestion. But the softness of his eyes gave him away. His touch left your skin and he straightened back up, towering over your figure with his intimidating gaze. 

Gwi avoided your question for he did not want to speak the answer. He looked down at you with a mixture of longing and sorrow that swirled in the depths of his power. 

“Words are not compared to one’s presence, My Lord.”

Your answer was said without emotion whatsoever. It lacked your usual happiness, your cheerful tone. Your curiosity. It was flat as it danced through the night. 

“But do not deny the comfort they bring. There’s a reason why you are going to the library right now. Write to her, petal. I will see that your letters reach her and I’ll personally hand you her responses. You have my word.”

You looked up at him, searching for any sign that he was deceiving you, that he was making you believe a false truth so that you could move on from your worries and early grief. But you found none. There was not even a spark of lies in his dark eyes. So you sighed to yourself, in either surrender or acceptance you did not know anymore. 

You nodded at him, a subtle movement of your head that was enough to calm his heart as it weighed down with guilt for your heartbreak. A heartbreak he knew was necessary. A pain that rooted into the selfish desires of the vampire lord who claimed you as his one and only rose. 

You sat in the library, your mind wandering beyond your soul. Gwi watched you as he pretended to read a book, his eyes glancing at you from time to time. Silence drowned the sanctuary of books, the soft scraping of the brush against the paper filled your ears, quieting down the screams from your mind that threatened to pull you down a pit of anxiety. 

He watched you write, pour down your heart into the ink and parchment. The rose chamberstick you had carried with yourself rested at the corner of the small desk you were currently working at. The single flame flickered softly and the shadows bathed your beauty in darkness that suited your grey soul. 

Time was a foreign concept as you wrote, character after character, emotion after emotion. Word after word until the paper was filled with your handwriting. You sighed, putting the brush aside and waiting for the ink to dry. Your mind was still lost in your own cruel sentiment. Your heart felt heavy within you, was love really such a punishment? 

You looked up, your eyes meeting the ones of the vampire lord as he watched you with a certain sorrow in his dark eyes. You could have melted if you weren’t feeling betrayed by him and his decision of keeping you with him. 

You broke eye contact, a silent conversation that only you both could understand. A silent testament of pain and regret. A subtle wave of emotions that neither of you were fast enough to grasp. You folded your now dry letter before standing up, your yellow hanbok dress a contrast to your dulled out emotions. With silent steps, you walked to where he sat, his eyes followed your every move until he looked up at you from his sitting position. 

“You promised, My Lord. Please make it so that my mother receives this letter.”

Gwi looked at you, his eyes glued to the letter in your hand as you extended your arm to him. Then he looked at your expression, completely ridden of any emotion that had once graced your beauty. 

He took the letter from your hold, his fingers brushing yours. With a gentle motion, you bowed down at him before turning around with the intention of returning to the desk and picking up your chamberstick so that you could go back to your room but his hand stopped you as it held yours with a firm yet still gentle grip that sent shivers down your spine. You swallowed, only for then to look back down at your lord and master of the heart. 

“You do not love your father at all yet you have an interesting affection for your mother. Why’s that, petal?”

Your hand gripped his subconsciously as the question spoken by his deep voice made you remember things you had long since buried in the depths of your mind. 

“Would it make a difference if I told you?”

But he did not answer. Silence was his response. It wouldn’t matter whether you spoke of your burden or not when it came to Gwi’s decision of letting you go and visit your mother. It wouldn’t make a single difference. But his eyes spoke a language of silent compassion that made you sigh to yourself. 

“Sit down, flower.”

You obeyed. His murmured order made you act on command as he pulled you softly to the soft cushion next to him and you sat by his side while shadows swallowed the underground palace in its secrets and lies. 

“I spent the happiest years of my life with my mother. She taught me many things, even when I was just a mere child, her experience and her love made me survive in the world my father lived in.” 

The vampire lord listened to you with his complete attention. His eyes never left your face, even when you broke eye contact and stared into the burning flame of his own chamberstick, lost in your world of memories. He was still holding your hand, and his soft squeeze over your fingers brought you back to reality as you took a deep breath before continuing. 

“My father travelled a lot. There were things happening between them, things that I was too young to understand so he took me away from my home when I was twelve. I never saw my mother again.”

“Is that why you hate your father?”

You looked at him as he voiced that question. Your eyes shining with unshed tears at the confession of your soul that you had kept hidden for so many years it felt strange to let go. To speak of the secrecy. Of the past. Of the unchangeable times you had to live through. 

“At first, yes. But then I realised he was never a good father to me so I simply did not love him as a daughter is supposed to do.” 

It broke his heart to see you so shattered and vulnerable. So sad. For you were his flower, the beacon of light that had suddenly appeared in his life between the darkness he was drowning in. You were his most precious possession, his treasure. And it pained the seemingly heartless vampire to see you suffer like this, more so because your pain rooted to his cruel negation. 

“You really miss your mother, don’t you petal?”

A tear slipped down your cheek as you nodded. A lump formed in your throat, killing the words you so wanted to voice out. His other hand lifted in the air, hovering over your cheek as he hesitated for a moment. A second. A second too long before his skin touched yours. Wiping away the tear that slowly rolled down your precious skin. 

“Give me a week. Then we’ll go visit her.”

Your eyes lit up at what he said. His words had such power, such command that he was able to either make you sad or give you the world with a couple of sentences. It made your heart skip a beat and your hand squeezed his in gratitude. 

“Really? You are not playing with me, are you My Lord?”

Gwi tilted his head to the side, a soft, nearly hidden smirk danced over his lips at your evident change in mood. From sour to sweet. From grey to yellow with just two sentences that left his lips in deep waves of truth. 

“I’m not that cruel, sweet flower.”

You smiled. That smile he had secretly missed. That smile that was enough to light up his life. Even when he didn’t voice it out to you. That smile that was your most beautiful jewel. 

Ever so subtly you leaned into his touch, his warmth hand cradled your face with such delicacy as if you were going to break. 

“Thank you, My Lord. Really, thank you. I can’t express how much this means to me.”

Your words were whispered only for him to hear. The intimacy of the moment grew in your heart like petals that wrapped your soul with feathering touches. His touch lingered on your skin, his hold gentle and almost reverent. He could see the myriad of emotions that swirled in your beautiful (e/c) eyes– the relief, the gratitude and the rekindling of a fragile hope he’d do anything in his power to keep alive.

“Don’t thank me. Just because you serve me doesn’t mean I want to see you sad. Your tears are like poison, flower. They kill the heart of the poet ever so slowly.”

Your heart skipped a beat, losing yourself in his eyes that held so many secrets and so many emotions you couldn’t decipher. So many things were left unsaid. So many things said in silent understanding. 

Gwi noticed your change in mood in the next couple of days. You weren’t back to your usual self but his promise gave you hope. Gave you something to hold onto. He watched you with warmer eyes as you poured down his evening tea. The tension as palpable as the robe he subtly fisted as your addictive scent invaded his senses. 

“We are leaving tomorrow, petal. Have you packed already?”

His dark murmur made you lift your gaze from the tea you were making, there was a delicate spark in your eyes that had turned emotionless. Grey in its nature. 

“Yes, My Lord. I have everything I may need.”

He hummed softly, a dark sound of acknowledgement that made you feel bothered inside at the deepness of it. You handed him his tea and he took a sip, the sweet taste making him sigh softly. 

“My tea has turned sweet ever since you came into my life, petal of mine.”

You looked up, surprised at his sudden words that left you both, yearning for more and scared of their true meaning. A meaning you were starting to understand as the silence stretched on between you both. Gwi took another sip before his eyes locked with yours and your heart skipped a beat the moment you met his intense gaze. 

“I’m not talking about tea.”

“I know, My Lord.”

He smirked against the cup, sipping the last bit of the sweet beverage as your cheeks dusted in pink at his words and the confirmation you blurted out about your understanding. You didn’t dare say another word because you knew something stupid would be spoken once more. And the vampire lord seemed amused at your flustered state that you could have sworn you heard him chuckle. 

“Go and rest, my sweet flower. You’ll need your strength for our journey, we’ll leave at nightfall.”

You bowed down, your eyes meeting his for a split second before you turned around, walking down the steps that led to his throne and across the grand room. Your back towards him as you made your way back to your room. 

Gwi watched you go as he held the empty cup of tea in his large hand. The sweet taste lingered on his tongue as he remembered your warm presence. Never has his tea been so sweet. But when he said he wasn’t talking about the tea, he meant it. For the vampire lord referred to his life. A life tainted with power and immortality. Master of the night. Owner of the Crown. Yet drowning in the shadows of his past choices. Darkness was bitter. But your light had sweetened his life in a way he never thought it to be possible. He never allowed it to exist before. But it felt right to have you so close. Almost as if your fates were tangled before he had seen you that day in the gardens. The day he claimed you as his flower among a garden of thorns. 

Back in your room, you prepared yourself to sleep, changing your beautiful dress to a comfortable nightgown before you lay in your bedding. A sigh left your lips as you got comfortable, sleep quickly claimed you, stopping the racing thoughts in your mind about your journey tomorrow at dusk. 

You were already asleep when Gwi entered your bedroom. His silent steps carried his looming figure across the room before he stood next to you, his eyes, tainted with crimson desire, watched you sleep ever so peacefully. He held your rose-like chamberstick and he couldn’t help but think how it could only belong to you. His flower. His sweet flower. The vampire lord allowed himself that moment of admiration. That single fragment of time of complete lust over your innocent soul, mesmerised by your beauty and enhanced by the nature of your heart. 

He returned you the chamberstick before he left you alone as you lived in the land of dreams during his domain at night. The candle extinguished not long after that, leaving you in the darkness of the room while thoughts of you pierced Gwi’s mind without mercy at all. 

You waited anxiously for dusk to settle. You sat in a bench at the gardens, the last rays of sun kissed your skin and Gwi couldn’t help but admire your golden beauty from the shadows of his underground palace. You were reading something, he couldn’t tell exactly what it was. The book seemed worn out by time and you were so engrossed in it he almost left you be as you read all by yourself in the last and gentle rays of sun. 

But when the sky began darkening you closed the book and stood up, walking back to the underground palace with hurried steps. You walked through the halls, the torches illuminating your beauty as you made your way through the place you now called your home. 

Gwi was not in the throne room so you walked directly to your room with haste; you put the book aside before putting on your long cloak that would protect you from the chilly breeze at night. You fixed your hair, arranging your preferred hairpin, the one Gwi gave you, before you walked back to the throne room only to see the vampire lord walking down the hallway opposite from you, his robes moving gracefully with each step he took. 

You bowed down at him, approaching him with less quick steps. His eyes never left your figure, feeling how his heart skipped a beat upon seeing you wearing your red hairpin. His gift. His claim over his flower. 

“My Lord.”

You greeted, your voice soft and filled with emotions he wasn’t quick enough to grasp as they passed over your eyes in a split second. A second too fast. 

“Are you ready, petal?”

You nodded, a small smile dancing over your lips as you both left the underground palace in silent harmony. Gwi watched you from the corner of his eye, how you took two steps while he took one, how you bit nervously at your lower lip, either in desperation or anxiety he couldn’t tell. But despite all that, you were as beautiful as ever. With your dark cloak trailing behind you and the hairpin catching the torches’ light, you appeared next to him as an angel in disguise. Happy after his orders, feeling safe knowing that he was going with you on the long journey back to a place you hadn’t been in years. Back to a place you once called your home. 

The sun no longer burned his skin as he stepped outside of the underground palace, the last rays of sun hid behind the mountains and the stars began painting the darkening sky instead. His kingdom began. For he was master of the night. And you, his precious flower, stood next to him. 

“Your things are already loaded in the carriage, flower. We’ll arrive tomorrow at night time.”

You stopped walking and he subconsciously mirrored your actions. Your eyes, wide and happy, met his stoic features that softened upon gazing down at you. 

“Thank you, My Lord.”

You were looking at him with so much tenderness his heart felt tight in his chest. Decades of living in eternal power only to succumb to you, a beautiful mortal woman that mesmerised a heart he thought to be death, frozen by time and fate. 

He sent you a soft smile. Small and rare in his usually dark beauty. The chilly air made your hair fly in delicate strands, you never tied it up. Not like the other women in the palace, you always opted for a half updo, adorning it with beautiful hair pins and jewellery that only made you look more enchanting in his eyes. Perhaps that was one of the reasons he was so mesmerised by you, it was a simple thing to do but you, despite your high status in society, did not abide by its rules. 

You bowed to him and only him. And with the small gesture of leaving your hair down, you were different. Just like him. Worthy of your place at his side. As his flower. As his jewel. 

His hand grabbed yours, the contact made your breath hitch as your heart skipped a beat. A shiver ran down your spine and you nearly shuddered at the sudden contact. He pulled you with him wordlessly. You were never going to admit it, at least not for now but you loved the feeling of his larger hand around yours. Unknowingly to you, Gwi thought the same thing as he led you through the gardens and to where the carriage was waiting to take you both to your home. 

The night was peaceful. There was still some light being reflected from the last rays of the sun and you took a deep breath, preparing yourself for the journey and to be with your mother. You tried to not think too much of the outcome of your visit but the news of her grave illness made your heart sink deeper within your soul every time you thought about it. However, Gwi’s presence next to you grounded your racing thoughts and anxious mind. He remained by your side like a rock to your thunderous life and subconsciously, you squeezed his hand a little bit tighter with that thought.

“My Lord! My Lady!”

A sudden voice interrupted your peace. You tensed ever so subtly but Gwi sensed your change in mood. How the quiet night was shattered as he turned around and you did the same only to see a man walking with hurried steps towards you both. 

You swallowed, his hand squeezed yours as the man finally stood in front of you as he panted softly. 

“Forgive me, My Lord, but I bring important news.”

“Speak.”

Gwi commanded, his voice lacking the warmth to which he spoke to you and you shivered at the detached sound that came past his lips. The word was spoken so harshly it made you flinch. 

“I bring news about your mother, Lady (y/n).”

Your breath hitched in your throat yet you so desperately gripped onto hope. A spark that had bloomed in your soul over the past week. The last straw that kept your heart alive. 

“Is she alright? Did she receive my letters?”

You asked, your voice sounded curious above everything else. You have written to your mother for the last week every day. Gwi had promised to send your letters and you trusted in his word. You only hoped this man before you was here to bring you her sweet responses. 

“My Lady… your mother passed away last night. My condolences.”

The man bowed down at you in respect. Your heart stopped and your hand went limp in Gwi’s hold. You took a step forward, silently pleading to the messenger to tell you it was false. That your mother was fine. That she was better. That she had written back to you. 

“No, it can’t be.”

Your broken whispers tore at the vampire’s heart. Tears welled up in your eyes as you shook your head. It could be real. It couldn’t. You were just going to visit her. You were going to spend the last moments with her. A tightness filled your chest just as a lump began forming in your throat. 

“Forgive me, My Lady.”

The pain numbed you. It crashed over you like tidal waves; you weren’t even able to cry despite the need to scream out your agony. You simply turned around without a word.

“Flower, wait.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t hear him over the sudden ringing in your ears that took hold of you. You didn’t hear Gwi’s voice inside the turmoil of your heart. You didn’t hear anything. Your mind was empty. Blank of any thought. He watched you walk away with a sorrowful expression, your steps were defeated and agonising in a pain he very much understood as well. 

“Her Ladyship left a letter, My Lord. For Lady (y/n).”

Gwi turned to look back down at the messenger with silent urgency, his mind screaming at him to go back to you. To comfort you. As a guilt he had never felt before gnawed at his heart. A heart he once claimed to be dead. The vampire lord snatched the letter from the messenger’s hold before he was walking back to the underground palace, his steps in a hurry as he grieved with you. 

It wasn’t until you arrived at your room that you finally crumbled. Falling to your knees as a heartbreaking sob escaped your lips. The tears rolled down your cheeks like endless rivers of pain you could no longer contain and you cried. You grieved. You screamed. You died as well as the hope in your heart, extinguishing like a flame at night. Drowning in sorrow as your sobs filled the once happy room. 

The petals from the cherry blossom fell over you like a constant reminder of how life goes on. How time will never stop. And the tears came harder, like arrows that pierced your heart; merciless in their nature and poisonous in the darkness that was your pain. 

Your heart broke, your chest hurt. How come grief could hurt so much? How could you endure such an amount of cruel pain? How were you meant to go on? There were so many things left unsaid, so many emotions that lingered in the air. So much time that was stolen by fate’s cruel hand.  

A sudden presence made you look up, the tears did not stop falling. Gwi knelt next to you, his eyes mirroring your sorrow as your lip trembled. You felt crushed, betrayed. You felt dead. 

“She’s gone.”

His hand cradled your cheek with a tenderness that made more tears spill from your beautiful eyes. Your whisper held so much pain within the words that it felt as if you had made him swallow poison coming from the roots of your own thorns. 

“I know, petal. I know.”

Your eyes closed as you welcomed the pain as if it had always existed. You felt robbed by fate, stolen of memories you were meant to have. And the next second, he embraced you. Pressing you against his chest and you clung to his robes in desperation. He shushed you, his big hand cradling the back of your head as you mourned for your mother, for a life you were robbed of, for the opportunity of seeing her again and the memories that were now alive only in your mind. 

Every sob and cry that escaped your lips pained him profusely. Never in his astonishingly long life had Gwi ever felt such pain. Such worry over a mortal human before. Making your pain his own. Your sadness was his sadness. And your grief was his to embrace as well. 

He didn’t say anything. There were no words that could offer you even an ounce of comfort. So he just held you. He pressed you against him, making your sorrow melt his frozen heart. You buried your face in his chest, seeking comfort in his embrace as his arms grounded your screaming and guilty mind. Your broken heart. Your dead touch. He grounded you. He offered you comfort. Perhaps there were no words that could ease your pain but his presence was enough. 

If anyone had seen the mighty vampire lord embracing you in your grief they would have fainted from the shock. Because after decades of suppressing his emotions and hiding behind his cold facade, he showed sparks of life in his broken soul. But that revelation was only for your eyes to feel and for your hands to touch. It was you who wrapped his heart in your petals of love. It was you who revived his dead soul. 

And even in your heartbroken state, it was him whom you clung to. Him whose comfort was enough to keep you in this headspace. You fisted his robes, crying and whimpering as the pain only intensified. 

“It’s okay. Just cry, my flower. Cry, it’s alright.”

And you did that. You held onto his words. You allowed your sadness to spill in the form of your pearls of pain. You cried. You cried until there were no tears to spill. You cried until your soul was empty and only Gwi held you through the darkness that fell upon you by fate’s cruel hand. 

In solitude, I find your voice. 

A voice that’s already dead. 

My light was consumed by darkness within. 

A punishment, a curse that I cannot forgive. 

The petal has fallen from the rose. 

The nightmare awakened at dawn. 

An instinct that comes and goes. 

An immense power, yet also my one flaw. 

I have killed my heart. 

Like poison, my words command. 

A demon of temptation, 

a monster of damnation. 

The echoes of your voice are gone,

I can no longer hear you say my name. 

A name from a man that is now dead. 

Killed by the claws of my own fate.

May/28/2024

A/N: Thoughts? O.O

My inbox is open, darlings! Or feel free to leave a comment! I'd love to hear your thoughts and inputs for the story! Take care, everyone 🫶

~ Masterpost

[acquity]

Hate Is Easy | Obito x Reader

Summary: After the Fourth Great Ninja War, Obito survived and changed his ways. He was allowed to return to the Hidden Leaf Village where he met you. You were a kunoichi of the Leaf who was also a part of the Anbu. You had fought against him during the war. You were one of the few besides Kakashi and Naurto who didn't shun him giving him a second chance. The two of you started dating after a while and when you went on a mission you were almost killed before he came to save you.

Warnings: Mention of injuries, suicide, and death. Notes: First time writing Obito in a while, hopefully, I did him justice. Enjoy! :) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You laid inside your bedroom tucked under your fluffy blankets with your boyfriend spooning you from behind. Obito's embrace was warm and comforting as he clung to you, burying his face into your hair. He was always extremely clingy always having a hand on you. You couldn't help but find it adorable and as of late, he got even more clingy when you two moved in together. When you first brought up the idea of him moving into your apartment a bright red blush coated his cheeks. His eyes widened and he tilted his head to the side asking you if you were sure. Thinking back on it now, brought a smile to your face as you shifted a bit to look at his sleeping form.

His eyes were shut and your eyes traced the scar on his right side before looking down at his arms that wrapped around your waist. He wore no shirt only boxers allowing you to feel his muscular body press against yours as he kept you warm. He held you like you were a priceless gem that even the slightest touch could cause it to break.

He was always so gentle and sweet with you that it was hard to believe he was once a hardened criminal driven by grief and hatred toward reality. But, you knew he wasn't like that anymore. He really had changed, and even though you were a bit biased as his partner you had noticed changes in him.

So did Kakashi, who when you last spoke, he commented how Obito seemed more like his old self. You let out a content sigh at the thought happy he was recovering even if many of the other villagers couldn't see it yet.

However, you were interrupted by your thoughts as your alarm clock went off on the nightstand next to your shared bed. You moved quickly to shut it off to avoid waking your lover up as you sighed again rubbing your brow. You knew you had to get up, the sun hadn't even risen yet, but you had a mission and that couldn't be avoided as much as you wanted to stay in bed with Obito.

As you went to get up, his grip on your waist tightened as he groaned his eyes flickering open as he looked up at you. "Don't leave just yet…" he spoke softly, "Stay with me a little while longer…." he added in a quiet and gentle tone his voice still a bit groggy from just waking up.

You smiled weakly as you gave him a kiss on the lips which he happily returned pressing his lips against yours in a gentle but passionate kiss as you pulled away with a chuckle.

"I wish I could but I have a mission." You moved your hand to his cheek caressing it before continuing. "I promise to get it done as quick as I can."

The former criminal reluctantly let his hands fall down from your waist- his arms felt empty without you but he knew you had a mission to get to. He soon spoke giving you a tired smile, he would always be your biggest supporter even if you had to leave him for a few days to go on a mission he just hoped you returned soon. "Just be safe out there."

You nodded, before sneaking in another quick kiss on the lips before getting up and going to change. You quickly changed into your Anbu uniform putting your mask over your face and your katana in a sheath on your back.

As you exited the bathroom you looked back at your boyfriend one last time before you left. He had fallen back asleep his chest moving up and down slowly with each breath. You were tempted to just write a quick note to Kakashi saying you couldn't go on the mission so you could crawl back into his protective embrace but you knew you couldn't.

Instead, you admired him a little longer before leaving heading to the gates of the village to met your unit.

______________________________________________________________

A little over a week had gone by, and Obito was worried sick. Your mission was due to end three days ago you should have been back by now. He knew you could handle yourself but he couldn't stop himself from thinking the worst.

He couldn't lose you like he had lost Rin- you meant too much to him. Your bright smile and laugh were what gave him reason to keep on living after all the horrible things he has done. He knew if you died he would join you soon after as he would be incapable of going on without you.

So, he did what he does best making a risky decision by tracking you down. He had to know if you were safe, a lot of people would be interested in harming you to get to him if they knew how much you meant to him- he couldn't allow that. Even if you would be upset with him for going after you.

It was hard for him to track where you and your team had gone as Anbu missions were kept top secret. But, he pleaded with Kakashi and after seeing how distraught his old friend was gave him your general location.

He rushed there immediately wearing his usual kimono with the Uchiha Crest on the back unable to teleport as he didn't know the exact area you were only to find the bodies of your teammates. His heart fell to the pit of his stomach as his Mangekyō Sharingan spun into place as he feared the worst.

A feeling of dread and worry overcame him as he managed to focus his mind enough to sense you. He breathed a quick sigh of relief- you were still alive for now.

When he found you, you were falling to the ground. You were surrounded by ten enemy shinobi and by their wounds and a few others lying dead it was clear you put up a good fight but were outnumbered.

Obito caught you before you hit the ground cradling you in his arms and as he looked upon your unconscious face he saw red. It reminded him of when he held Rin's dead body in his arms. Your side was gashing blood and you had a cut caused by a kunai on your neck.

"You have made a grave error when you dared to even lay hands on her." He spat as he looked at the enemy ninja and they noticed the Mangekyo Sharingan and stepped back.

But, he wouldn't let them get away that easily after what they had done to his beloved girlfriend. Using his eyes he made swift work of most of them leaving only one remaining. He laid you gently down onto the grass as he grabbed the last ninja by the throat.

The shinobi's eyes widened in fear as he recognized Obito fearing for his life as he tried to fight out of his grip. "Wait- you are him! The one who started the war, you are supposed to be a heartless bastard full of hate!" He muttered. "Why are you here?"

"Hate is what motivated me in the past." he continued, "but that's different, this is different." 

His grip on his throat tightened more as he spoke. 

"You harmed my lover, my soulmate, the reason I still value living. I am not killing in the name of some plot anymore I am killing for her and her only." He paused looking into the other man's eyes with a cold look.

"You were just unlucky you encountered her, now I'll make sure your death is as painful as it could possibly be." He finished as he burned the man's face using his fireball jutsu letting him suffer for a few moments before finishing him off.

He threw the ninja's corpse to the side like a worthless piece of trash as he ran back to you bending down and putting an arm behind your head as he ripped off the sleeve of his kimono using his free hand to bandage your wounds to slow the bleeding.

When you lay there motionless your blood covering his arms and chest he lost his mind as tears fell from his eyes. He quickly picked you up hoping it wasn't too late to save you.

He felt like it was his fault you were in such a state. He should have followed you or not let you leave his warm protective embrace then you would have been safe. Now, he was going to lose you like he lost Rin- you too would die in his arms as he yet again failed the woman he loved with all of his heart as he prepared to teleport back to the village.

But, he soon felt your hand on his cheek and he looked down to see you smiling weakly at him. Your eyes reflected the light of the moon and you chuckled a bit as you spoke.

"You are definitely a sight for sore eyes, Obito." You whispered and he immediately felt a sense of relief that you were awake as he held you even closer tears still falling from his eyes as he responded.

"Don't speak too much, you are injured I'm taking you back to the village." He was not surprised the first words out of your lips were a lighthearted remark, you always cracked jokes and remained positive even in the worst of situations and he loved you for it.

"I was so worried about you... I am so sorry I should have come with you." He added as he rested his forehead against yours his tears falling onto you as you looked to see the dead bodies of your teammates.

It was a tragic loss but there was nothing you could do for them now, you had fought to protect them but in the end, you were outnumbered and probably would have joined them in death had Obito not come to save you. That would have meant their deaths would have been in vain anyway and you would have completely lost the information that was the goal of the mission in the first place.

"It's alright Obito, besides it was an Anbu mission I'm surprised you even found me." You replied as you moved your hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, you closed your eyes a bit wincing from the pain as you focused on him to distract yourself from the deaths of your teammates.

He looked at your expression with a frown. "Kakashi told me where you were after a bit of pleading." You smiled again at his words only imagining how your boyfriend had begged his old teammate to tell him where you had gone, it made you even more grateful for Obito and you would also make sure to thank the Hokage later.

"I'm still grateful you came for me." You whispered in response your voice a bit weak.

He sighed as he tightened his grip on you kissing your forehead as he prepared to take you back to the Hidden Leaf Village Hospital. "I'll always come for you, my love." You blushed at his comment as he quickly realized what he said a blush coating his own cheeks as he teleported you and himself back to the village hospital before you could question it.

He didn't regret it though, you were the love of his life. The words just slipped out before he could stop himself, but it felt right and if you were comfortable with it he would make sure to call you that more often. Besides, the blush on your face was adorable.

[danses-with-dogmeat]

I hope it's okay because I don't know where the crab or crown is but the crab and Crown please with female lone Wanderer and Charon

❛ let’s go somewhere, just you and me. ❜

More Charon? So soon after the other prompts I've done for him? Well... Yes, is my answer. Always more Charon.

This one is also a lil angsty, but also a lil fluffy, so, you know... my bread and butter lol.

I hope you enjoy! 😁

Charon stood watch, as he was so accustomed to. Still as a statue, and just as imposing and unmovable as the material the strongest ones are built from. His broad shadow cast itself over Lone's kneeling form, where they had collapsed down on their knees a few miles from the Jefferson Memorial.

The dust had long since settled from their abrupt movement, the sun was slowly bowing it's head below the horizon, as though in respect for the man that Lone had lost.

Their last bit of family in the world, just... gone before their eyes. Charon remembered the wideness of them, the disbelief that drew their brows up their forehead and showcased the prevalent whites of their gaze, the color of their irises, all the more vibrant with the assistance of the glossy tears that had spilled down their dust-caked and sweat-slicked skin, leaving clear trails through the filth that the wasteland had wrought upon them.

His chest ached as he looked down to their crumpled form. Their body had ceased the wracking sobs that left them shaking almost ten minutes ago, and even the sound of their breaths had calmed and stilled like the dead land around them.

Charon had seen more than his fair share of death, had seen the light leave many a pair of eyes. Wrinkled eyes, the milky-blue eyes of ghouls, young and bright eyes of those taken far too soon. He'd closed some of them-- many of them himself, and yet this one hurt him more than any he could remember. Not because he was particularly close with James; he seemed a fine enough man, a decent father to Lone, a do-gooder, just like his kid. Suited Charon fine.

Yet... the way Lone had fallen to the ground, as though the weight of their grief dragged them down with tooth and nail, falling over them like a weighted blanket and sealing their form to the earth, like they were ready to be buried down in it just like he would be. Like their father would be, if he was lucky enough to ever be laid to rest... That sight was like a grief-stricken scream sent straight to the thick marrow of Charon's bones, making his limbs, his ribcage, his spine ache with a soreness not caused by physical hurt.

Asking them if they were alright seemed like a crime, and so he simply waited, standing close, but not too near. Giving them space to wallow, but not enough to do something rash in response to their overwhelming low.

Stark, blue eyes re-focused on his companion as Lone slowly heaved themselves to their feet, not shedding the weight completely, but shifting it enough to where they could take a step in a forward direction.

"There's nothing left here." Their voice came out as a rasp, more akin to his own than their usual smooth timbre.

Charon's brows scrunched further over his cool eyes.

"We should just... Just go. You know?" Lone's gaze met his, their stare hollow and sullen as a wilted winter leaf.

"We should just go somewhere else. Just you and me. Leave this place behind."

"This place?"

"What's left here for us? Underworld? Vault 101? The cities, the settlements, the people. They don't want us, Charon. They've made that clear. Even when my father tried to help them all, even now, after he..."

Their throat constricted, pulling their voice from them before they could finish properly. Charon reached out a large, scarred hand, brushing his fingers over their wrist in a rare show of affectionate encouragement.

"It won't matter to them." Lone continued quietly, "We're outcasts, you and me. And that's... no matter what the Brotherhood says, what anyone does, that's not gonna change. Might as well beat them to the punch, you know? Just go, before they can kick us on the way out."

The ghoul nodded to them, his lips tight with consideration.

"We can go and be ourselves somewhere, not expect anything from anyone around us, not be expected to make a difference when no one seems to give a shit whether we live or die trying to solve their problems for them."

"Where would we go?"

Charon's fingers continued to stroke over his partner's hand lightly, feeling the slight rise of their veins, the hardness of their knucklebones, the warmth of their smooth skin.

"Where-? Anywhere. Anywhere that's not here, that doesn't have this history that haunts us. Somewhere there's no Ahzrukhal, no Alphonse, no Amata, no vaults or owners or family or memories of any of it, just... a blank slate. A place we can start again, without all... All this."

Their free hand gestured around to the ruins surrounding the pair, the greyness of it, the dusty shadows of the past, pressed to the walls of their inner memories like ashen outlines blasted into concrete by the atomic bombs that started this all.

Charon's jaw tightened at the sight of all the pallid listlessness around them, the way he viewed the world, the way that he hoped Lone never would. A troubling thought shoved aside the bliss of this future his partner promised for them.

"Lone." His large hand enveloped theirs, giving it a light squeeze as he folded it into his grasp. "If we do this... If we leave... do you think you'll ever know peace?"

"What?"

He took a breath, trying to organize the thoughts as they approached his lips.

"You're not unlike your father." Charon said, as gently as his rough voice would permit, "A need to help, a need for retribution for him... an unwillingness to rest, knowing that the Enclave is still out there... Do you think you'll be able to stay away for long? Will you be able to live with yourself if you do?"

"Charon--" Their hand was tugged from his grasp as his partner stepped away from him. "You think I don't know myself? You think I didn't consider all that before I talked to you?"

Charon's gaze fell to the ground, his brow furrowed.

"Maybe that's who I was before... Before I lost him, before I was cast out of the only home I've known, before I lost the only family I have left and was banished by the only friends I've known... Maybe I was that way before the Capitol Wasteland kicked the shit out of me."

They paused, their expression softening along with their voice as they started again.

"The only saving grace, the only fucking break I've had... Has been you, Charon. If not for you, I'd... I don't know. I just... I know that I want this."

The ghoul nodded to them mutely, a meager smile tugging at the sides of his ruined lips at their sentiment.

"And maybe you're right." Lone continued, their hand reaching for him again, almost like an apology for tugging it away in the first place. "Maybe one day I'll change my mind, I'll want to come back, I'll hear about something the Enclave have done and it'll piss me off so much that we'll come right back and finish whatever the Brotherhood are trying to start with them, but for now... For now, I think the only way I could know peace is by leaving this place. By being with you, and you only."

[incorrectbatfam]

could you do any stephanie and bruce headcanons

I need to work on using the "keep reading" cuts

Bruce's grief after Steph died was much more silent than Jason's because otherwise the public would've started prying, but he also placed every ounce of blame on himself and seriously considered retiring Batman (and in turn, Robin, so no more kids have to get hurt)

She jokingly made him pinky promise to take her to Belgium for waffles on her 18th birthday and he stuck to his word

They sold rainbow cookies at Pride and the proceeds (plus an extra donation from Bruce) went to Steph's high school GSA

Steph changed Bruce's lock screen to her double-chin selfie with a psychedelic filter. When one of his coworkers at saw it, he just said, "Kids, am I right?"

They are contractually obligated to sing the Space Jam theme together at karaoke

Whenever they travel as a family, Steph and Bruce each get their own hotel rooms—Bruce because he snores and Steph because she thinks she's Adele performing at Wembley Stadium

She trolled Bruce's Twitter so hard that people were convinced she was a rival CEO

Steph refused to let Bruce pay for college, so instead he visited often and helped her write the perfect scholarship applications

She found a five-leaf clover and stuck it to Bruce's cowl in the middle of his town hall speech

They tried to cook together and reeeally overshot the amount of salt

Bruce cried a little when she moved to her first apartment

They went to a family therapist for 3 months after Steph came back from the dead to sort everything out

Steph doesn't remember when she told Bruce she doesn't like licorice, but he never forgot

She decorated Bruce's motorcycle helmet with Spoiler stickers

They have a shared hatred for people who don't put their shopping carts away

Bruce learned the "make a wish on a dandelion" thing from Steph, and he does it when no one's watching

In her senior year of high school, Steph was on the freshman orientation team and to stand out from the other orientation leaders, she had Batman stand next to her handing out free t-shirts

Bruce follows her suspicions, no matter how silly they might seem at first—she has a better eye for details than him

One time he found her tinkering with a non-functional music box she found in the attic. They stayed up all night to restore it together and when it was done, it had a newly painted ballerina and played Martha's favorite childhood song

When she was Batgirl, people constantly compared her to Babs and Cass and it made her question every tiny thing she did and whether she could live up to the mantle. Bruce knew this, and he also knew this wasn't something he could fix for her in one fell swoop. Still, that didn't stop him from leaving the positive comments on her mission reports and telling her she's doing a good job in the middle of a fight

"Bruce, I can read your mind." "What am I thinking right now?" "Why is her thumb in my ear?"

Her way of waking him up involves a squirt gun in each hand

Bruce thinks Steph is really brave for showing up to the Wayne gala in an outfit that's half of her Spoiler costume mixed with pajamas

Bruce failed his own company's drug test because Steph gave him a poppy seed bagel that morning

Steph played an important role in Bruce and Selina's wedding: making sure villains stayed away and the cake didn't topple over

One time they were the only ones awake at sunrise when the snow had just freshly fallen, so they raced outside for a snowball fight

One of their undercover disguises was as a father and daughter—with Steph being the father

Steph forgives Bruce for her death because she was the one who put herself in danger, and she hopes someday he can learn to forgive himself

They both picked the worst wallpapers for the bathroom so Alfred had to override their decision

Steph made him watch all the Tinker Bell movies

[breakingmorphine]

Mockingbird's Flight

In solitude, a mockingbird did dwell, A broken spirit, in a lonely spell. I reached out, with love, to heal her wings, To mend her soul, with all the care it brings.

Cheered her on, through darkest, lonely night, A beacon, guiding her towards the light. I feared to hold, too tight, this fragile soul, Afraid she'd leave, my love, my heart, my soul.

With trembling hand, I set the mockingbird free, Hoping she'd return, back home to me. I sought nothing more than her soothing embrace Her company, a solace, in that sacred space.

In my palm, I held an open hand so wide, To mend her wings, I let my love reside. But now, she's gone, there's darkness in the sky, No light, no love, not even a goodbye.

The mockingbird has flown, to other skies, And I am left alone, with tear-filled eyes. No solace found, no love to ease my pain, Just endless questions, and a haunting refrain.

Those echoes haunt the vacant air, No more love's warmth, just an endless stare. The open hand, now clenched in silent grief, A love once vibrant, now a fallen leaf.

In this vast void, lost in stricken thought, I'm left to ponder, with a blackened-out heart: Was love a dream, or just a cruel deceit? In this bleak world, where hope can't find its shine.

I mourn the song that used to fill my heart, In this empty space, where love and I depart. A hollow shell, where once a soul had thrived, In the absence of her, my identity torn apart. The October bird has flown with my heart.

[notyour-valentine]

On the Brink of Winter ~ Tommy Shelby Angst

[Masterlist] [Taglist]

Summary: Tommy can't bring himself to join the fair and instead thinks of the summer he missed

Note: Written for the wonderful K @runnning-outof-time 2k celebration. Congratulations - I hope you have the best time with your celebration! I feel a bit bad because this is a sad one, but I hope you enjoy it anyways

All my writing is produced by an adult and created with an adult audience in mind (18/21+). You are responsible for your own media consumption. I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other.

Warning: Grief, mourning, mention of sickness, mention of death, mention of fighting and drinking

Wordcount: 1745 words

Tommy leaned the back of his head against the tree, feeling the bark tangle in his long black hair as soon as it touched it. 

By now, his spine was aching from how long he had been sitting on the ground, without luscious green grass to cushion the roots digging into him. 

This feeling was nothing new, not after countless nights he had spent sleeping under the stars, but it was the first time he didn’t mind the pain. 

In fact, in a strange way he got satisfaction from every second he endured it without shifting, or getting up or stretching to relieve even the slightest bit of strain. 

Undoubtedly, he’d discover a brand new collection of bruises tomorrow. 

They’d look even darker now, he thought, glancing at his hands. 

The pale skin was mocking him. 

Usually he’d carry the tan all the way into november. He didn’t darken quickly, not like Arthur or Ada, but he didn’t burn easy like John did. After all, Tommy spent every day outside and so his skin had time to adapt to the seasons. 

His hands, his neck and face - by July they’d be so dark he could almost pass for an Italian. 

Not this year though. 

Not this year. 

Things were different this year. 

Even the good old fairs. 

He could see it now, see the dancing and the arguing, could smell the smoke and the scent of cooking meat over open fires, even the sweetness of beer was carried all the way to where he lingered in the shadows. 

And he could hear them, the singing and laughing and joking. 

It was the same, but it was different too - the men were a little too boisterous and the laughter a little too loud -  warped the same way sound was warped when it carried from a distant, unknown shore. 

Or maybe he had just forgotten what it was like, after all, most of the fairs were during the summer months and Tommy had not been to one. 

In a way, he wasn’t even at this one, was he?

He wasn’t singing, he wasn’t dancing, he wasn’t down there drinking or getting into fights. 

He was here - away from it all. 

If he tried, he could imagine Polly’s laughter or even Ada’s giggle among the sea of sounds. 

Arthur had come with the intention of getting drunk, finding a woman and starting a fight. Undoubtedly by now he had accomplished at least two of these things. 

John was down there too, with his Martha and their two children. The eldest boy was undoubtedly trying to keep up with Finn, the way John had tried to keep up with him. Years had passed since they had been the ones running between the campfires, but he was still doing it to this day. 

Chasing after me. 

That had not been his intention, but they all wanted it - Freddie, Jeremiah, the boys from the factories, even the bloody Lees and Black Country Boys. 

With a sigh, he picked up one of the fallen leaves and twisted it between his fingers. 

It was one of the brown ones, not the reds, that had fallen prematurely. 

It would be a long time before Thomas Shelby would ever choose something red. 

He let his fingers brush over the dried leaf, following the lines. 

In some stories they spoke of the life inside the trees and when he inspected the fallen leaf further, those thicker lines he felt under his thumb almost felt like veins, like lifelines. 

When he heard the crunch, he flinched. 

I must’ve pressed too hard. 

But even when he removed his thumb with greatest care, he could not deny the hole he had made, a gash, that allowed the golden red glow of the flames to flicker through - showing his shame. 

He had torn it and now there would be no repairing. 

It wouldn’t have happened the last time he had been outside for this long, back when the meadows were filled with flowers just bursting to show their colours, when the birds chirped and the trees stood in a proud dress of green. Then he could have plucked a leaf and rolled it up without it breaking.

But that had been in spring. 

And now the flowers had wilted, the birds had fled south and the trees were shedding the last memories they carried of this year. 

Tommy had seen none of that, hadn’t even seen the flowers bloom and hadn’t heard the children’s laughter while spitting cherry cores down on unsuspecting passers-by.

He hadn’t felt the cooling water of a lake on his skin during a hot summer day or enjoyed the slight breeze while galloping over green plains. 

It had been John, not him, who taught Finn to swim, and he had only seen the flower crowns Martha and Polly made with Ada in passing, when they were already half dried up and laying on the kitchen table. 

He hadn’t seen the trees turn their blossoms to fruit, nor the people scaling their branches to pick them. Soon enough they’d all stand bare and empty, with rot and rain washing away any last traces of the spring that had once been. 

It would all be gone. 

Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths - that way he wouldn’t scream and draw attention to himself. 

By the time he dared to open them again, the sun had set completely, and the only light was coming from the silver moon and the red fires. 

And the only warmth too. 

His legs had gone stiff by now, and his fingers ached. 

Down there, the fires and the drink and the people would warm him up - or at least the voice in his head that sounded like Polly tried to convince him. 

But Tommy was tired, tired of the noise and the pitiful glances and the meaningless words. 

He was tired of all of that, the same he was tired of the pain and the anger inside of him while nothing from the outside made him feel anything at all anymore. 

No smells, sounds, tastes or touches - nothing could ever get through the icy cold pitch black darkness inside of him. 

With a sigh, he watched the black shaped figures dance together. 

Hand in hand.

Arm in arm. 

Down there, they celebrated about a dozen marriages, if not two, all in a rush, all hasty and unplanned, with little thought put into it apart from the one: to get married before it was time for the men to leave. 

They all wanted something to come home to while all the girls were scared of missing out, meaning both feared that if they didn’t do it now, they wouldn’t get a chance too. 

It was ironic really, the way all these people hardly planned anything while they had it all laid out. 

They had talked of it, because somehow making plans for the unknown future was easier than revisiting memories from before. 

It had even become a joke between them, the kind one clung to in the night to keep the fear at bay and in a way, it had carried a little bit of hope too. 

They’d talk about where they would get married, even argued back and forth a little bit, bickering as if they had already been wedded for a few decades. They talked about what he would wear - she had insisted on a proper Italian suit, not just for him but all his groomsmen too. Even little Finn. 

And they of course, would get boutonnieres to match her bouquet, and the flower crown she would wear over her mother’s veil. 

They talked about the music and the food they would serve after, about their first dance and even where they would go on their honeymoon weekend. He would have had to save up for that. 

The only thing they had not talked about was the dress, after all, she had insisted time and time again, the groom was not supposed to see that before the wedding. 

Only Tommy had seen it. 

It wasn’t a proper wedding dress, not really, but he had seen the white lace with the high collar, and hadn’t failed to notice how it was a little wide even after her mother and sister had pinned it to fit better. 

They had buried her in it after all. 

By that time seeing a piece of cloth without droplets of crimson on it had become a strange sight to him. 

His hands closed around a fistful of leaves each and the sounds of them turning to dust in his grip eased the desire he had to pound the ground until the skin over his knuckles split. 

Perhaps he really should go down there, even if he didn’t belong. 

It wouldn’t be too difficult to find a woman, even one with soft hands and dark hair. He could find one and kiss one only to stop the words from escaping her lips that would spoil his fantasy. 

After all, Tommy hadn't kissed anyone for months. 

She had forbidden him from kissing her so that he wouldn't get infected and so all they had were kisses to her forehead, cheek and hand. 

Perhaps kissing someone would make him feel something, anything, and even if it wouldn’t change anything inside of him, he could drown himself in the warmth of their body. Warm, not hot like her skin had become towards the end, and not cold as her hand had grown in the night after.

Just warm and soft. 

Or he could go down there and start a fight until his blood boiled and the fire of it would get to his head - that would warm him up better than any drink ever could. 

Because right now he felt desperately cold. 

He scoffed and looked down once more. 

In the night, all leaves were equally dark and he had no way of telling if they were brown or treacherously red. 

They all sounded the same too and it betrayed them, but it betrayed him too. 

They were all dry and lifeless and dead. Just like he felt. 

Tommy sighed once more. 

Perhaps he really should go down there, get drunk, find a woman or start a fight.

This was the last chance, wasn’t it?

This time next week they’d all have their hair shorn and their jackets fitted, well into their training before it would be time to leave.

~

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always I'd love to hear your thoughts!

Taglist

Overall

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @chlorrox @watercolorskyy @books-livre @quarterpastmidnight  @lilyevanswhore  @polishcrazyone  @zablife  @just-a-harmless-patato  @stevie75 @flyingjosephine-blog @runnning-outof-time @cillmequick @babayaga67

Tommy

@knowledgefulbutterfly @babayaga67 @signorellisantichrist @lespendy @geeksareunique @look-at-the-soul

[slverblood]

I will polish this up later. For now, here are some bullet points on Aylin’s post-canon activities. Probably take place over the course of 20-ish years? These are not closed events; I’m open to other people’s characters being involved if they wish!

Part One.

The threat attacking Selûnite enclaves that Aylin is hunting in the immediate aftermath of the game is an agent of Mask. He’s taken a leaf from his mother’s book and hopes to absorb Aylin’s power to grow his own so he can reclaim the portfolio of intrigue from Cyric.

He plays the long game, so he’s fucking with Aylin over a period of years while she’s ignorant of who’s truly behind it all.

Meanwhile, she works on rebuilding Moonhaven + the Swords of the Lady, and supports Isobel in rebuilding Reithwin.

She becomes close with the head of the Selûnite temple in Moonhaven, as one would expect. This cleric begins researching the soul cage in the hopes of protecting Aylin from it. Aylin is aware of this.

Mask has been steadily wearing Aylin down, though, and is finally able to prey on her traumas to make her turn on the cleric. Makes her believe the cleric intends to cage her.

This leads Aylin to slay the cleric, thus breaking her oath and becoming riddled with guilt + grief. The Silverlight shatters in her hands.

She then excommunicates herself from Selûne / her worshippers, and leaves on a quest to seek the Oathbreaker Knight. She hopes he will guide her toward atonement and reforging her oath.

Part Two.

She finds the Oathbreaker Knight — or believes she does. It’s actually Mask masquerading as him.

He tells her that 12 of her body parts, originally harvested by Balthazar, have fallen into other hands and must be reclaimed by her. I’m thinking heart, lungs, liver, womb, tongue, intestines, stomach, eyes, ears, kidneys, and skin (flayed from the whole body). I’ll decide the specifics of these quests later.

He also reforges the Silverlight for her. What he of course does not tell her is he’d reclaimed, at cost, the pieces of the Godsbane and combined them with the shattered Silverlight. (I’ll name this blade later.)

Unbeknownst to her, any being slain with this blade has their soul or essence consumed by him, as was the case with Godsbane. It also slowly corrupts her, as was the case with Godsbane.

I think, too, he feigns helping her lay her reclaimed body parts to rest but actually consumes them to absorb the power therein.

Part Three.

Selûne doesn’t just let this shit happen, though.

Aylin excommunicating herself in shame combined with Masks’s interference has made it difficult for her to reach her daughter, but that doesn’t mean she stops trying. I haven’t decided how she tries to reach her, though? Problem for future me.

End result is Mask screwed himself over by consuming those pieces of Aylin. When she confronts Mask, they rebel against him.

This allows her to wrest the Houndsbane from him. She does not unmake Mask, but Kezef has now resumed his pursuit of the god, and he must eternally flee the hound. He won’t trouble Aylin for a good long while.

I think this should also allow Aylin to undergo apotheosis. What he deceived Aylin into giving him was reclaimed by her, now drenched in his divine essence. This would logically make her divine as well.

This has been her lifelong goal, but I’m on the fence as to whether she’d accept it in the end.

[gardenofadonis]

Snippet of my Jude Polymestor write-up that makes me very unhappy because I feel incapable of even capturing even 0.01% of his performance.

One thing I loved about his Polymestor is that he's the only one (that I saw) whose immediate reaction after killing Polydorus was not about himself (be it self-pity or regret or guilt or whatever emotions he feels), but instead was to think about the victim and say a prayer for him before processing his own emotions. I wish more Polymestors would do that. But then I simply just miss Jude terribly.

*******

The omniscient caretaker knows he’d be here. Everything’s prepared for him. He opens the suitcase and the boy drops onto the ground, still shaking and alive. He spreads the sacrificial sheet on the ground, too engrossed in his own deed and remorse to notice a distressed cry and two figures, one holding another, that quickly disappears into a tenement flat. Turning back, he takes Polydorus in his arms and lays him down onto the sheet, now dirty and battered from carrying dozens of kids. He has a catalogue of them in his office. Sometimes in private, he would look at them, black and white photos of young boys and girls looking back at him, their image forever imprinted onto paper while they have long perished. He puts the leaf charm on Polydorus’ necklace into the kid’s mouth - it was this charm that sealed his fate, not the drug.

The door opens and Kronos’ imposing figure stands against the blinding light from within. He takes a step back from the kid, kneels, and raises his hands in the pose of Moloch. ‘Hail Moloch.’ He declares, trying to not let the caretaker see his grief that will be taken as evidence of him being unfaithful. Moloch is a strict god who will not tolerate any second thoughts. The caretaker begins dragging the sacrificial sheet, pulling the boy, whose dilated eyes are now staring at him in disbelief, into the door. And then it’s over. The boy is now with Moloch.

He feels all the strength and defiance in his body slip away as he stands up. The boy’s death touched him more than he could ever have anticipated. He heads upstairs, to Askalaphos’ greenhouse.

Sitting on the stool, he thinks about the crime he just committed with his own hands. But moreso, he thinks about Polydorus, the young boy who grew up in the war, who’s lost most of his family and his kingdom; a boy separated from his mother; a boy who desperately wanted to join the army but couldn’t; a sweet and timid boy with a hidden ego and sass. He’s like a son he always wanted. And he just murdered him. Taking a handful of sand, he is reminded of a long-forgotten prayer - a prayer to the Olympian gods he has long abandoned, the Olympian gods Polydorus would have worshipped.

He raises his hand and watches dark sand slipping through his fingers. ‘Give him cool water from the ever-flowing spring of memory, and place him among the heroes,’ he draws a constellation with his fingers in the air in front of him, ‘for he is a child of the earth and starry sky.’ It’s been so long since he prayed to the Greek gods he doesn’t remember the rest of the prayer. But he tried, and hopefully it was enough to ease the kid’s journey to the underworld. At least now it’s all over. The kid will suffer no more - not from Moloch and not from having to find his way in this world as an orphan of a fallen kingdom. It is he, the one who’s still alive, that will continue to suffer. He rises and leaves the greenhouse, unable to be alone with his guilt any longer. ‘It’s done.’ He whispers under his breath. His duty to Moloch, his betrayal to Hecuba and Apollo - they’re all done. The gods forced him onto this path, and they succeeded.

[hercrusadesheep]

Lonely winter nights by her crusade sheep

This was the most dreadful year ever. My whole town had a blasting blizzard hit that hasn’t happened since 1975 that took months to get rid of all official snow, now it’s worse nobody can’t even drive without black ice spiking on people’s cars and Constant snow pouring down like theres flour being thrown out of space into our atmosphere I sat in my chair watching the weather get worse, the sky was an awful gray bluish color the fireplace warmed up the house but it had no chance against this cold air blowing inside the building I couldn’t get hold of my family and friends the power lines were wrenched  in frozen ice and dripping ice sickle’s making the lines unstable and the workers couldn’t do anything about it so everyone had no power.

I slowly got up from my chair, wrapping around my blanket on my shoulders and started to walk around the house with my hands in my pockets feeling sick within my bones..

The only reason why I moved I’ve gotten bored from watching 24/7 snow special I walked into my dark room it was quiet. eerily silent..I slipped my body in my bed my sheets made my skin crawl feeling the cold air hit every inch of my Nervous system making me shiver like a little baby leaf  I glanced over at my bedside table my radio, it was inherited from my grandfather  sat before me. I slipped my hands out

Turning on the radio it blinks red and static started to frill the whole room up I changed the station to classic blues my favorite genre for these lovely times. A song I haven’t heard since my grandfather died St. James infirmary cover by Louis Armstrong it was his most favorite song ever and he played when he was at his lowest point or just feeling lonely it was his greatest comfort a tear fell from my eyes as my heart aches in sorrowful pain hearing the soft,cold,bitter melody of the trumpet and bass slowly transformed into Louis voice faintly coming out I closed my eyes seeing him visually standing on a stage with his bandmates behind him playing ever so gently as the crowd was in complete awe and enjoying the sounds “i went down to St James infirmary saw my baby there, she was stanched out on long white table. So cold,so sweet, so fair” more tears begin to flow down my face into my sheets but it wasn’t sadness. It was emotional joy yes, I was lonely but I found comfort in my grandfathers grief and sadness when he passed away this year. soon enough I didn’t care about the coldness outside and let the loneliness consume me until I fallen in a deep sleep

maybe one day I can see him soon…hopefully he’ll be happy I miss him….

The end

[warishaaa]

It's almost summer, the grass is still covered with dews of last night but the air is deprived of fog now, and I can see beyond the endings, where lies continuity preceding the beginnings. The sun surely doesn't take me to brighter side but doesn't even melt me down.

Today i am the bee on top of rosemary sucking nectar out of it and puking honey on my wounds because I've carried the bitterness of my venom long enough, tearing up still haunted by blood, war, loss and grief of pricks that healed during the last time it rained when i drenched my heart to let the flow take the pain towards the river of eternal sunsets.

Today i am glad to be the rival of Autumn turned into dust because of the miles every part of me covered. A fallen leaf is as dead as carcass of past which would stay to decay until is stepped on and turned into crumbles, letting winds carry each part, some into oblivion and others into immortality brushing past a poet's pen.

Sometimes high tides come only to take away what doesn't belong on the shore anymore. The waves do a tough job taking away all that didn't have my name on it and is meant for somewhere else no matter how strongly it is gripped.

Something as ordinary as water breaks sand castles made on land that didn't belong to the maker and i thought i could make a home on the lines of the palms that belonged to the intersection of someone else's fingers.

Some endings are meant to be celebrated after the grieving period is over because it were so long due.

Today i am thinking of the day i would visit all the lanes of my city and won't sink in the shadows of those who aren't even blocking the light anymore and would watch everything all over again like watching a childhood show after years and realising the missed aspects.

I would walk on the streets like I owned the past like i would own the present, a butterfly would appear from the canopies and rest on my arm and fly away into the meadows, the soil would be cold and moist, i would brush the dews from the grass and the rush of roads would be much slower that day. The echoing laughter won't make me cry.

Today i threw away my tinted glasses that made rainbows out of pain and I found comfort in starless nights accompanied by quickly melting candles. Today i am not afraid of darkness.

The edge of Cliff I was standing on has merged with what lied at the bottom and i am not afraid of heights anymore because i am not afraid of falling down as I have seen what lies there and found my way out. The safety pins don't prick my fingertips as I have learned to be careful of things that's meant to be loved. I've learned to care about myself.

Today the evening is subtle, smelling of new perfumes reminding me of new people who have felt like the moon watching me throughout my existence and I have found my tunnel though it's a long way to home.

For today I've accepted my fate of a nomad and I am grateful for all the flowery routes and sharp turns hiding poison ivys.

[throwaway3844893]

Chapter One of my Post-Ballad fic!

Here is chapter one of my fanfic, Vipers and Virtues, a continuation of The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes and what I think may have happened to Lucy Gray Baird at the end. The full fic, on ao3, can be found here.

I lay in the underbrush, my breathing slow as I calm my beating heart. Night has fallen, and I stare up at the stars. They're hard to see, as a fog has settled, but I spot the Orion constellation easily. It shines bright, and I take it as a symbol of hope from the stars. They've always looked out for me, and you're never lost when they're around you.. I once believed my destiny was written in them, but Coriolanus is long gone.

    Coriolanus.

    His name is poison in my mind. I was so stupid to trust him. The moment he'd told me he was responsible for three deaths, and his avoidance of my question, I pieced it all together. The look on his face at the hanging tree wasn't grief. It was guilt. Coriolanus had blamed Mayfair and Billy Taupe's murder on Sejanus, despite killing Mayfair himself. Sejanus just wanted a better life. We all wanted a better life. Sejanus, a district boy... it all made sense. How Coriolanus disliked him, as subtle as he tried to conceal it. He viewed Sejanus as he viewed the rest of us: inhumane. Lesser beings. Savages. If it had been his choice, he would've left Sejanus in the Games to die in the hands of Reaper or the snakes. I took it upon myself to thank the stars for the snakes' behavior toward me, perhaps the one act of kindness Coriolanus provided me. Yet, he may have done it for himself, not for me. I was no stranger to the gifts presented to the mentors. If I won, he received a full scholarship to the Capitol's university, as well as fame amongst the Capitol. His acts were not out of care for me, they were to ensure his success. While I get nothing, he gets everything.

I can feel my heart pulsating in my arm where one of his rapid-fire shots struck me. I clutch it tightly as blood flows between my fingers. Sticky, red, hot. It reminds me of Reaper's pile of bodies in the arena. I tremble at the thought. Despite my efforts, memories of the Games will always remain.

It's been a few hours since Coriolanus fled, so I make myself stand. Whether it be from laying for so long or blood loss, I'm not sure exactly, but my head swims and I lean on the tree next to me for support. My legs tingling, I take one step, then another. A twig snaps under my foot. I flinch, but the only ones listening are the mockingjays above me. I watch one spread its wings and flap away in the direction of District 12, the only home I've ever known. This is no time for sentiment, so I continue my journey toward the lake. Thorns prick me, and more than once a branch scrapes me, but I continue on, determined to reach the small shed at the edge of the lake. Coriolanus must've fled back to the headquarters. If he reports me, I have to flee, and quickly, but I'm exhausted. I need to tend to my wounds and drink.

As I clear through the forest, I see a warped glint of light, signifying the lake is nearby. I let out a jovial cry, panting as I continue through the bushes. Twigs snap and trees rustle, but I don't care. The dirt beneath me gets slicker, and I catch myself half-running toward the water. Exhaustion, heat, and dehydration catch up to me, and I slide down the rest of the way, mud caking my legs as I submerge myself into the fresh, cool water. Shaking, I put my hands together and splash water on my face, letting the dirt trail off in little streams. I scoop water into my mouth, rejoicing in the freshness and how it soothes my aching throat. My arm angrily jabs in pain, reminding me of my wounds, and I slow my motions. On the shore, I find a large leaf and ball it up before wetting it. I bring myself to a shallower end, sitting upright as I assess my body. My legs are riddled with scratches and dirt, though those are the least of my worries. My left arm is caked in blood, the gunshot aching. The pressure I've applied to it helped a great deal, but if I don't treat it soon, it could become infected. My best bet would be to fashion a tourniquet, but I don't have any spare fabric on me. Unless Coriolanus left his scarf near the trap.

Begrudgingly, I stand up, despite my aching loins. I walk out of the sopping mud, my legs once again covered by the thick soil. I continued uphill, retracing my steps, carefully this time. For all I know, the snake, albeit it's limited danger, could still be around. Soon, I spot it, the small patch of orange that was his scarf. It had been trampled on, made obvious by the dirt stains and rumpled effect of it, but I hunch over and reach my left hand out to it, right hand still gripping my arm, and-

The snake returns, jumping at me in a flash. I recoil quickly, stumbling back a few steps. He seems to be guarding the scarf, circling around it while he hisses at me. His tongue darts out to me and I look from side to side, trying to figure out which angle to take it from. Sure, he isn't poisonous, but a snakebite on top of a gunshot wound? It increases the chances of infection, and in the woods, an infection could be a death sentence. Cautiously, I take another step back, watching his movements. Considering I set the trap with him and the scarf, any attachment was my fault. How ironic. Strange, though, how it protected something it was used to. It reminded me of the muttations that were dropped in the arena, how they protected me. The scarf smelled like Coriolanus, and it'd struck Coriolanus. It must have a connection with him.

No. I shook my head. This wasn't a mutt, it was a real creature, formed biologically, not in a lab. It needed a distraction, not a forged connection. I still myself, creeping down as slowly as I can, my legs barely touching the twig-filled ground. The snake recoiled, sticking its tongue out as it slowly backed away, eyes trained on me. I still, looking slightly to the left for anything I can use. All I can see is thick weeds and thorns, overgrown tree roots and puddles from the rain that haven't dried completely. I lean slightly, adjusting my weight so as to not make a sound. It's a very awkward position, my right hand grasping my arm, dried blood caked and sticky between my fingers, my entire body wobbling on its left side, my left and extended outward. It doesn't help that I'm in a dress. My eyes remain on the snake, who has completely retreated in its own circle on top of the scarf. I lower my hand, wincing as I get pricked by a thorn, but make no noise. My hand continues to lower until I touch soggy ground and drag it around. Soon, my fingers land on something smooth and solid, and I grab it. Or, at least, attempt to. Half of it is lodged in the thick mud, and in this position, with my weakened arm, it's nearly impossible. I bring my nails to the side, thankful for the lack of clippers in my old home, and begin to rake at the side of the mud. It's grueling work, but after a few minutes I have one side completely dislodged. I wipe my fingers, slippery with mud, on my dress, and dislodge the rock. Due to the force, my arm shoots up quickly and sends a bit of dirt toward the snake. I flinch, but it doesn't budge.

I groan quietly as I stand up, my muscles protesting. I need to get rest, and quickly. If I can't get that scarf, it's hopeless. The chance of getting an infection is low, but a risk is a risk. I raise my arm as high as I can without pain, which isn't very high, and throw the rock. It makes a loud thump, causing the snake to jump and bolt after it. In my haste to grab the scarf, I fall to my knees and blindly reach around for the scarf. I grab hold of it before slipping straight on my face with a grunt, loud enough to divert the snake's attention. It slithers back toward, fangs outstretched. I turn away, and suddenly I'm slipping. Down, down I go, running into twigs, bushes, and thorns, scraping and scratching everywhere. I stop with a thump against a particularly large tree root, gathering my bearings. I still have the scarf, a bright orange in the moonlight, and climb over the tree root. I can no longer see the snake, and the lake is only a few yards away. I sigh in relief once more, grabbing hold of a few sticks as I continue to the water. I waste no time in getting in, submerging myself fully before swimming to the shore nearest the shed. My stomach grumbles, my cuts sting, my arm screams in pain, everything hurts. Exhaustion tries to take over, but for my own survival, I must keep going. I manage to clean off my scrapes with a single hand, and then remove the pressure. I almost vomit at the sight of my arm, all bloody and holy, but I take to cleaning it, ignoring the stinging, before assessing the damage.

It was a clean shot, but the bullet didn't go all the way through. There is no way for me to remove it, so I have to hope for the best. Whatever "the best" is. I gulp down some water, before using the sticks and scarf to fashion a tourniquet. It's nowhere near perfect, and quite messy, but the best I can do. I drink some more water and properly rinse the dirt out of my hair before rising and heading toward the shed. I shiver a bit, and look to the sky. It's about midnight now. If Coriolanus were to alert the other Peacekeepers, wouldn't they have come by now? Or was he waiting until the morning? Either way, I have to rest up to keep myself moving by sunrise.

Only the embers of the fire I'd started hours ago remained, and the stench of burnt fish filled the room. Of course, Coriolanus had burnt the food. The satchel containing the guns that killed Billy Taupe and Mayfair was missing, too. Not that I care. Those weapons held the truth about their murders; It wasn't Sejanus, it was Coriolanus who'd killed them. Rightfully so, but Sejanus had hung because of Coriolanus' lies. You cannot come back from that.

I assess what's left: my metal can, some matches, the dry wood, a few packages of cracked nuts, courtesy of Maude Ivory, a bottle of water, and our fishing hooks. I displaced my knife somewhere near the katniss roots, but my hunt for it will begin tomorrow morning. I pile a few sacks on top of each other as a makeshift pillow, chew on a few tasteless nuts, and allow myself to drift to sleep.

Are you, are you

Coriolanus' voice rings in my ears. I can hear him, but I can't see him. I can't see anything. My eyes are covered, and stiff hands lead me down a gravel path. Someone is walking beside me, their feet dragging, and I can hear murmurs all around. I stumble on something large, but the hand pulls me back up and growls "Keep moving."

Coming to the tree

Blindly, I do. My only guide is the person behind me, who walks straight up, as if he has a purpose. The murmurs become louder, and the ground becomes bumpier as we continue our journey. When my foot knocks on wood, we halt to a stop.

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three?

The sack is removed from my head, and I gaze up at the hanging tree. My mouth opens in terror, and I see the hand on my shoulder is that of a Peacekeeper's. I look to my side, and my partner is Maude Ivory. "Maude Ivory?" I hiss, my heart beating wildly. I look around me, seeing the dusty, lined faces of the people of my district. "What's happening?"

Strange things did happen here

Tears streak through her dirt-covered face. "I'm sorry," she whimpers, lips trembling. She heaves, and a loud sob comes out. I shush her before a loud stomp grabs my attention, and I look up the platform. Two nooses, as customary, are tied to branches above trap doors. It only takes me a moment to register that they're for us. My jaw drops, and I look to Maude in horror, who is stuck on a silent sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she sobs, before our Peacekeepers lead us up the stairs of the platform. I'm trembling, but I keep a straight face. I remember something Coriolanus said to me once, in one of our private meetings before the games. Never let them see you bleed. I steady myself, climbing the stairs on my own accord. His voice continues to ring throughout the crowd.

No stranger would it be

I step on the trapdoor as Maude Ivory's Peacekeeper pushes her on hers before straightening her back. We stand tall, facing members of our district. Maude Ivory is hyperventilating, and I look at her, pressing my finger to my mouth. It's the only solace I can give her. There is no comfort: this is how the Covey's end. I spot our friends in the crowd, and they present grim faces.

Someone clears their throat behind us and begins to speak. "On this day, we bring you the faces of two traitors: Maude Ivory and Lucy Gray Baird. They have betrayed the Capitol, therefore all of Panem, and are charged for the murders of Billy Taupe and Mayfair Lipp. The weapons found in this satchel-" I assume the speaker holds up a satchel- "are confirmed to be those that caused the death of the mourned. Near the weapons we found Lucy Gray Baird, asleep in a shed, and upon the search of her home found Miss Maude Ivory, both popular members of the Covey. The hunt for the rest continues."

Murder? Treason? We'd done nothing. Maude Ivory, out of the two of us, was most innocent. She discovered the bodies, I was merely a witness to their murders! I'd never even touched the weapons, where was the proof I'd touched them? Why wasn't Coriolanus standing up for me? Surely, Sejanus had already been hung, had they not put the case to rest? Spruce was dead as well, so was Lils. Everyone connected was dead. Except Coriolanus. Something he said to me pinged. Snow lands on top.

No matter what, the blood on his hands would be placed on someone else. Who else died at his expense? First Bobbin, then Mayfair, then Sejanus... who else? Maude Ivory? Me? The rest of the Coveys? What was his plan, to kill off everyone in District 12? Become Head Peacekeeper? There was no prize in that. Then, I remember how he hoped to become a national hero. To return to the Capitol, a place he spoke so fondly of.

His selfishness got the best of him. He'd blamed me, said I framed him and Sejanus, to save himself. Coriolanus shows no mercy. Snow lands on top.

Someone stepped beside me, slipping the noose over my head. I swallow, looking straight ahead. I would be avenged. A hand brushes against my skin as the noose slips over me, a hand that I know all too well. "Coriolanus," I say under my breath, no kindness in my voice. I can sense his smile next to me.

"Lucy Gray," He murmurs, almost mocking me. "How shocked I was, learning of your involvement in the deaths of these poor citizens." Now, he was. I flare my nostrils, continuing to look ahead. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of meeting my eye.

"You'll pay for this," I growl, my voice harsh. He merely chuckles before whispering his mantra in my ear.

"Snow lands on top."

I can tell he goes to the trap door, to open it, to conduct the execution. Quietly, I hear him.

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree

Before he opens it, I hear the mockingjays begin to sing. It gives me satisfaction, and I smile before the trap door is opened beneath me.

I wake up in a cold sweat, grasping at my throat. I breathe heavily, taking in my surroundings. Sunlight spills in through the lone windows, and I gather my bearings. Slowly, I remove the satchel from under my head, and begin to fill it with my few supplies. For good measure, I take all but two dry logs. I remove all traces of myself, leaving everything the way it was, spare the missing logs. If the Coveys came looking for me, they'd know I was long gone. I step out of the shed silently, rubbing my eyes as I adjust to the sunlight. The sun is still rising, and I couldn't have gotten more than six hours of sleep, but the more distance between me and District 12, the better. I drink from the lake and refill my water bottle, then set off to find the katniss roots. Sure enough, my knife lay abandoned, a few uprooted katniss roots surrounding it. I grab a few more and store them for good measure. I return to the shed, sure to cover my tracks, and begin to follow the lake. I wade knee-height in it to hide my tracks, while also keeping note of any fish that swim by. The sun bears down on me, proving it will be a hot day. I'm thankful I have the lake near me. After putting an hour between me and the shed, I begin to hum the tune about Clementine. It's a sad song, really. Soon, a mockingjay picks up, and the forest lightens up with my song. They tell me that I'm not really alone.

Another few miles down, I find a fallen tree on the side of the lake and allow myself to rest. I sit back, basking in the sunlight as I assess my wound. The gunshot still aches, and the skin I can see is a bright red. I remove the makeshift tourniquet and wash my skin again, trying not to grimace at how awful it appears. I fasten it with new sticks, bathing my feet in the water. It's shaded here, and I watch a small bunny hop behind me. She pauses, staring at me as her nose quivers. I watch her deep, black eyes widen. The cloud moves and the sun shines down upon her as she goes back on all fours. How beautiful, a wild animal, free from the horrors of the world. She'd probably never encountered a human. Probably never again. The flowers blooming behind her created a perfect image, and if I were a skilled painter, I'd have painted the scene before me in a heartbeat. I feel a pang in my stomach. Despite my hunger, I let her roam free. She didn't choose her life, who am I to dictate hers? I don't need any more blood on my hands, human or animal. She hops away, heading east through the foliage. I watch her go.

I will not end up like Coriolanus. I refuse.

Despite that reasoning, after ten moments of rest I begin to fish. I catch some easily, quickly ending their misery with my knife and eating one raw. It's gross, and a bit demeaning, but anything to keep myself alive and healthy. I store the remaining two in a spare satchel before standing and continuing to wade down the path. The forest grows thicker, and soon I'm stuck with no shore, just deep water surrounded by thick bushes and overgrown trees. Nobody has stepped foot here in years, maybe decades. I would eventually have to swim to keep going, and that's not good if I end up in a storm. I turn around and walk the mile back to where I saw the bunny. All is still, and just as I left it. I sit down against the log again and drink, before rising and heading east, toward the bunny. Perhaps she was my savior. I bend under low branches and navigate through thorns, the lake behind me. There are still puddles around me, and it rains often. If I run out of water, I'll be able to follow my tracks back to the lake. I continue my trek until nightfall with no incident, sweating profusely. There are many miles between not just me and the lake, but me and District 12. The further I go from there, the closer to freedom, to the north. I've traveled east for some time now, but I can continue north whenever I please. Anywhere that isn't Capitol is good to me.

There's a large willow tree a few yards away from me, and I cross over to it easily. Slinging my satchel over my back, I begin to scale the tree, climbing until the vines conceal me and I find a sturdy branch to lay on. It isn't the comfiest, but if I fall I'll have a soft landing. Not that I plan on falling.

For the first time in my life, I peacefully lull off to sleep without danger of being discovered.

[izzyeffinhands]

“Izzy,” his voice is quiet as he calls for him, turning and nuzzling his face into his shoulder with a soft whine. “Can you sing to me? Please?” They were laying down to sleep, but Stede was struggling. His head hurt and he was feeling nauseous and he just… needed to hear his fiancé’s soothing voice. It never failed to calm him, to relax him. Israel in general, really. His touch, his voice… all of him. He was the only person, the only thing, that could calm Stede. That could take away his pain, his nightmares, any ill feeling.

Izzy was almost asleep. It was getting late, the leg was off, he was tucked into that ridiculous bed they acquired for their cabin and starting to drift off until he heard the whining. It was almost like a small child waking up a parent to ask to sleep with them. He groaned, muttering softly. “ I was almost asleep.. “ Of course he hadn’t told him he was feeling sick or anything just yet, but he knew he’d never get to sleep unless Stede relaxed.

So he shifted in the bed a bit, moving to wrap an arm around him and put his fingers into his hair, slowly rubbing his scalp as he sang softly and sleepily. “ On Raglan Road.. on an autumn day I saw her first and knew.. “ He turned and kissed the top of his head, smoothing out the blonde as he continued. “ That her dark hair would weave a snare..that I might someday rue. I saw the danger and I passed.. along the enchanted way.. And I said let grief.. be a fallen leaf.. at the dawning of the day.. “

@avastyetwats