#TW: Grief

[mournfulroses]

Gregory Orr, from The Last Love Poem I Will Ever Write; Poems; "Song of Aftermath,"

[witchesnet]

I was really, really happy.

[tvuniverse]

BOBBY NASH and AMIR CASEY | 9-1-1 → 7x08 Step Nine

[wield-the-mighty-pen]

Sometimes I think about how Adrien must grieve

How, when he lost his mother, it was a gradual thing, where he lost more and more of her, where he was slowly prepared for an eventuality and a future in which she would not be there anymore. How it was longstanding and tormenting and how his grief began long before the day he would never see her again. How though the pain of loss must have been sharp and aching for him, and he must desperately miss Emilie, at least he achieved some solace in not having to see her in pain anymore.

But then once he's reached a healthy stage and coping style in his grief for Emilie, the wounds are reopened once again.

How his father went from existing to suddenly being gone to Adrien. How he had no warning, no indication that he would never see him again. How even though the grief is sudden and unexpected, it had really started months before Gabriel was gone, and even long before he became injured.

It's how despite the fact that Gabriel was seemingly in good health, and Adrien had no reason to fear losing him, Adrien has actually been grieving for Gabriel and their relationship for a long time. How Adrien has had to watch his father slip away, lose himself, and slowly give less and less of himself over to Adrien, until Adrien could hardly recognize the man that was supposed to be sitting across the table from him.

Sometimes I just think about how grief became a comfort for Adrien, a lifestyle, because he has been taught that all good things in his life, all things he loves, must come to an end eventually.

And I think about how that must affect him as a person.

[cerealbishh]

"Hey, we found you."

"I guess you did!"

[crescenthistory]

i’ll hold your hand through all of christmas day

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: Based on a DM request sent from this anon. Remus supports his partner through how grief affects their holiday celebrations — or; when everyone stays behind at Hogwarts for Christmas, you plan on sneaking off to visit the family grave. Luckily, you never have to do anything on your own anymore.

Words: 3.7k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, grief and loss, vague talk of multiple losses intended to be universal (said to be family, but does not need to be biological), talk of a "family grave", visit to a graveyard, reader has a purposefully ambiguous background, feelings of heaviness, found family trope, established and secure relationship, hurt/comfort, lots of fluff, whipped!remus, domestic bliss (even the hard bits), crying and kissing

A/N: i hope this finds those who need it 🤍 you are never ever alone

It required some well-written letters to various homes, some strategic orchestrating and convincing, but eventually James Potter got his desperate wish – for all of his friends to stay at the castle for Christmas in their final year, to help truly commemorate the end of their time at Hogwarts. He even managed to sweet talk Regulus and his friends into joining, despite being the year below most of you. It would be the picture-perfect Christmas.

You hated to feel as if you were ruining that.

With all of your friends having moved into an unusually vacated Gryffindor for the week, making the empty common rooms and dormitories your own, you truly could not be happier. Most evenings were spent gathered around the fire, playing board games and telling stories, loud laughter rippling through the cozy air. You even got to spend most of it cuddled up with Remus under a blanket, presented with the perfect view of all of your closest loved ones finding love and contentment in each other. 

You enjoyed the holidays, you enjoyed Christmas with all the snowy, candlelit and toasty atmospheres it involved. You enjoyed it even more when you had Remus softly singing Welsh folk Christmas songs in your ears with that soothing lilt that seemed to reach even your coldest bones. You enjoyed it all – on paper.

Despite yourself, the holidays always came with a certain blanket of heaviness for you; in every room filled with lovely people, you could almost see the shadows of those who weren’t here. The smell of gingerbread brought forth saddening associations before much else, and laughter had residue echoes that never escaped your ears. It was like this every year, the losses piled up by time only weighing you down further. For exactly that reason, you were one of the first people to enthusiastically agree to James’ masterplan, thinking that maybe it would be easier when you weren’t at home, surrounded by natural reminders of loss – but, turns out, those reminders are present everywhere when you’re looking. 

And unfortunately you couldn’t help but look.

You hadn’t brought it up to Remus, not from thinking you couldn’t, but just not knowing how to. How do you begin to unpack the layers of grief that live beneath your skin? How do you explain the years of both with and without in a matter of minutes? You would rather hold him close and let him kiss you as you wallow in a solitude that he could certainly spot but deigned not to comment on. 

There was only one exception to this, one tradition you refused to let go of, even as you all holed up at Hogwarts – on Christmas Day, you visit the family grave. You have done it every day since the first loss without fault, and you couldn’t bring yourself to break that pattern now, especially not when Hogsmeade is a mere walk away and you have received your apparition certificate already. 

The problem there was how to slip away for a few hours without causing concern. With the lively bunch you had chosen as family, it would not be easy.

Around noon, after a hefty shared breakfast in your pajamas followed by Lily reading muggle Christmas literature aloud for everyone, you made the decision to retreat from the common room. By now, there were friends flurrying all around you, preparing to decorate the gingerbread wix you had made yesterday, and you hoped to be able to excuse yourself to get some fresh air in the middle of all the chaos. There would be enough hands on deck for the decorating without you, that’s for sure. Perhaps naively, you hoped you could use the momentum to go off on your own.

Definitely naively.

“Mind if I join you, dove?”

Remus’ voice was soft in that way where you can tell he has been perfectly content for a few days in a row, almost lazy in how he pronounced his words, yet the sentiment remained just as fiercely rich. If James Potter is the epitome of Christmas traditions, then Remus Lupin is the epitome of yuletide calm, and if he already was stupidly in love with you on a normal day, during Christmas there were no words to describe his attachment.

While it sullied your plans, your sad smile shone brightly just for him anyway. “Of course not, my love. Come, come.” You stretched out your hand towards him as you spoke, whisking him away towards the portrait door, fingers intertwined.

There were mumbles of “bye, lovebirds” and “see you soon!” called out behind you, but your heavy mind didn’t register much beyond the steady beat of Remus’ pulse that you could feel where your wrists touched. It was odd how easy it was for you to notice his heartbeat, it was as if you were searching for it at all times, but you embraced it happily, gratefully. 

When in the much cooler, quieter hallway, you wandered silently down the halls together, hand in hand. You tried to carefully lead the way, moving your bodies in the direction of the castle entrance, with little to no reaction from Remus. His lips were just barely curled up into a smile, happy in the quiet with you.

Gods, you loved this boy.

Perhaps that in itself was enough reason to be direct with him about how you were feeling, but his serenity felt too holy to disturb.

“Are we going somewhere specific, dovey?” Remus asked lightly once the grand entrance was within sight – and just maybe because you had begun to appear flighty more so than melancholy.

You sighed and came to a stop, turning your body towards him. You bit your lip as you regarded his face, heart soaring at the attentive draw of his mouth, his eyes boring into yours, yet clenching in guilt at the furrow between his brows. With shaky fingers, you brought your hand up to cup his face and bring it towards yours, pressing a sweet kiss against the furrow to smooth it out.

When you pulled back, his smile had settled more assuredly.

“Actually, I have some errands I need to run in Hogsmeade today,” you said, trying to seem absentminded. “Since I needed some air anyway, I figured now was as good a time as any to head down.”

Remus’ head cocked ever so slightly to the left. “Great. What errands are we running?”

We. You felt your lips curl downwards ever so slightly in what you could only describe as a lovesick guilt-ridden frown. 

“It’s more of a single-party errand run, love.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, and you found sudden interest in the statute behind his head. 

Remus took a step closer to you, reaching out to grab your other hand and clasp both of them together, bringing your knuckles up to his mouth to kiss them soundly. “Dovey,” he said, almost chiding. “What’s going on with you, hm?”

There was no accusation in his words per say, just knowing. His eyes told the same story. You relaxed more in his grip, hands resting trustingly between his and your body slumping against him where you stood in a near-embrace.

Your eyes flicked between his two for a moment before sighing. “I… I have a Christmas tradition. One I can’t forego just because we’re spending it at Hogwarts.” You took a steadying breath. “I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you with it, because I trust you with everything, it’s just – I don’t know, it can be heavy. A lot to put on someone for the holidays. So I thought I could just head off for an hour now, and then we can cuddle up with that book later, yeah?”

Remus gave your hands a light squeeze before dropping them in favour of cupping your face. He engulfed your face in his big hands, tilting your chin up with his pinkies to meet his eyes more steadily. There was a certain sadness etched on his face, but it didn’t look to be because of you – rather it seemed to be for you.

“Whatever tradition you need to carry out, I will be there with you, lovely,” he murmured, stressing every word and chasing your gaze if it so much as flickered. “I plan on spending every Christmas with you for the rest of my time – might as well embrace it in full already.”

You almost felt like fighting back the tears that welled in your eyes; but his eyes begged you not to, and when a couple fell, he closed the minimal distance between you to catch them with his kisses. “Okay,” you whispered, no fight left in you – not that there ever really was any to begin with. 

“Okay?” He was smiling now. “Then tell me what we’re doing for the next hour?”

You matched his smile, and it didn’t feel heavy to do so. “Every Christmas Day, I visit our family grave. You know, clean it up, light the candles, the sorts. Say Merry Christmas.”

You felt small as you spoke, but his hands on your face kept you grounded and the love dripping from his every move kept you assured. “Alright,” he said through a melancholy yet knowing smile. “That’s very alright, dovey. Is it in Hogsmeade or will we be apparating?”

That was all – no queries, no judgments, just inquiring about the mode of transportation. You wondered if he knew he was all you needed.

“No, it’s in my hometown. I figured we walk outside the wards by Hogsmeade and then apparate all the way. We can hold hands to make it easier, like in class.”

Remus chuckled, kissing your forehead before letting your face go in favour of bringing out his wand. “Questioning my apparition skills, are you?” 

You actually chortled at that, at ease with his banter. “Oh, most definitely. Gotta keep an extra eye on you, Moony.”

He poked your side with his wand teasingly, muttering a quiet “minx” before turning the wand in the direction of your dorms and casting an accio. You quirked a brow at him, but before you could ask, he said, “What, you didn’t think I would actually let you walk out into English December wearing cozies?”

A second later, you saw your coats and scarfs come flying towards you two, and caught them before they dropped to a heap before you. Remus did the same, throwing his scarf over your head to begin wrapping it securely around you, letting no air flow in.

“What would I do without you, hm?” you asked teasingly.

Remus leaned in to give you a quick peck. “We will never have to know. You’re quite stuck with me, you see.”

Despite him pulling away to button his own coat, you chased after his lips for another kiss, bringing him back down to you with a hand to his cheek. “Well, if you insist Mr. Lupin,” you mumbled against his lips.

“I do,” he whispered in turn before circling his arms around your waist and parting your lips with his to give you a proper, confessional kiss. You could feel him smile against you when you began to come apart.

As you put on your own coat and ensured you both looked properly protected, you mused out loud, “Reckon we should warn the others we’re ditching for a while?”

Remus looped his arm around yours and began pulling you with him towards the exit with a rather cheeky grin playing across his face. “No, I think the coats flying past them might have given them an idea that we will be gone for a little while.”

The walk to Hogsmeade was brisk but comfortable, Remus never once straying from your side. When you occasionally in your distractedness didn’t walk straight and bumped into him, he smiled in that way that crinkled around his eyes, holding you even more securely.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Remus asked eventually. “Or them?”

You hummed, genuinely considering it for a moment. “I don’t think so,” you mused. “Not right now at least. Maybe it’ll come to me as we go along with the celebrations, though. A memory or two that I want to share, good or bad.”

Remus already knew the gist of your family and history with loss, and was painfully patient with you at every turn – and he readily accepted that that was enough for now. He let go of your hand only to wrap his arm around your shoulders and bring you closer to his side, dropping a sweet kiss to the crown of your head. “Sounds good to me, dove.”

“When do the apparition wards end, anyway?” you asked, musing through the horizon that was foggy with snow that was so light you couldn’t even feel it when it landed on you. “I’ve never apparated away from Hogwarts before.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to, seeing as we only learned that earlier this term,” Remus teased, squeezing your shoulder. “You’re not that far ahead of the curve.”

You reached up to pinch his nose, delighting in how it scrunched up. “Maybe I am, what do you know?” you whispered conspiratorially. Then, you pointed to the first line of houses belonging to Hogsmeade that appeared. “Over there should probably be fine, though, I think.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. If not, it will be a good story to try and fail.” 

“Always is, with you.” You brought him down for a sweet kiss when you came to a standstill right past the first line of houses. You sighed against him, heavier than you had intended, yet grateful for it to be let out.

He seemed inclined to agree, if the look in his eyes was anything to go by. Your patient, sweet, understanding boy.

“Ready?” you whispered, taking both of his hands in yours.

Remus squeezed them reassuringly. “Very.”

You closed your eyes in concentration, but suspected he didn’t do the same. With a deep breath, you focused your mind on the graveyard, visualising yourself stepping into it – you knew you were successful in the apparition when you felt a tug in your stomach and a darkness engulfed you before there was a distinctive soft ground beneath you, contrasting to the gravel you were on seconds ago.

The smell hit you before anything else. It smelled exactly like your hometown, an odd mix of childhood and the frozen earth. You opened your eyes to see Remus standing before the stonewall lining the graveyard, his head turned away from you to look at the view behind him with slightly parted lips. With his tawny curls slightly covered in the dew of melted snowflakes and his side profile on display, he looked rather angelic, which you thought fitting.

“It’s beautiful,” he commented quietly, finally turning his head to find you already looking at him. While it might have been the cold, you could have sworn a faint blush took over his cheeks.

You took a deep breath. “It really is. Oddly so.” You took a small step away from him, releasing his hands to smooth your own down the front of your coat, brazing yourself. “I’ll lead the way.”

Remus followed your lead both physically and metaphorically, quietly reading your mood and needs, at least as best as he could. He walked right behind you, not touching you and giving you space to take in being in this emotionally charged space, trusting you to reach for him when you need. At the same time, he took in the space on his own terms, letting his eyes roam over the stone structures, the lampposts and the frozen flowers.

“I haven’t been here since last Christmas,” you confessed quietly as you walked a path you knew by heart. “I feel like I probably should go more often, but I haven’t been able to.”

“There’s no right amount to visit,” Remus added lightly, smiling softly at the back of your head. “Only what’s right for you.”

“I don’t really know what’s right for me when it comes to this. I’m figuring it out.” You felt lighter at speaking the words out loud, realising with some coyness that perhaps that is why Remus often urges you too.

“That’s alright, too, dovey. There’s no rulebook, just a journey.” 

You looked over your shoulder, allowing yourself to match his smile. “Wise man you are, Lupin.”

“Mm, glad to hear you finally admit it.”

The casual conversation might seem contrary to what you were doing and where you were, but at the same time, it wasn’t really. You tried to view this as visiting your loved ones rather than going to a graveyard – after all, you weren’t here for the graves, you were here for the people. And they would have wanted the easy, light conversations.

When your tombstone came into view, a certain feeling you were never quite able to name settled around your heart. A longing, but also a recognition. Almost a familiar face by now, just not quite the one you wished for.

“It’s this one,” you mumbled distractedly to Remus and made the final beeline for it. When you reached the plot, you came to a stand before it, just staring down for a moment. As Remus walked up beside you, you leaned your shoulder sideways against his, and he lifted his arm to wrap it around you. 

Together, you stood there, regarding the names etched into stone, almost a minute of silence. 

Once he deemed it safe to move, Remus dropped a kiss to the top of your head and bent down to pick up some twigs that had fallen from a nearby tree at the change of the seasons. Any questions died on your tongue when he brought out his wand and performed a quick transfiguration – suddenly, instead of holding dull and dead sticks, he held a wreath, all decked out with red ribbons, pinecones and Christmas decorations.

Silently, he held it out for you.

You looked between the wreath and Remus’ face, feeling stumped at the rather simple yet incredibly meaningful gesture. You opened your mouth, thank you already forming on your lips when he beat you to it.

“I know,” he whispered with a small smile.

You beamed back at him as you best could, slightly teary, and accepted the wreath from his hands.

Turning around to the grave, you came to a crouch beside it and placed the wreath for safekeeping on your knees as you brushed snow and leaves aside from the plot. You could easily use magic to do it, reenforce the spells you have already placed to keep the grave mostly maintained, but it felt good to touch it with your own bare hands, to do this act of service yourself. Even when you heard Remus hiss at your lack of gloves, casting him a somewhat sly smile over your shoulder to which he flushed once more.

As you went, you murmured quietly whatever you felt like saying to the inhabitants.

When you declared the grave properly dusted, you placed the wreath delicately in the middle of it, careful not to cover any of the writing on the stone. You did bring your wand out to magically light the eternal candles you had placed around the plot, casting extra protection spells to ensure they would burn through at least the rest of the year. If you could call a grave cozy, yours was nearing it, and it warmed your heart, even as a tear rolled down your cheek.

Remus came to crouch beside you, and you took his hand in yours, swallowing your apology for how cold it must be; he didn’t seem to mind.

“I wish you could have met them.” You didn’t think you would say the sentence before you did, but once it was out there, you felt no need to fight it.

“Me too,” Remus said wryly, squeezing your hand and rubbing his thumb back and forth on the back of it. “But I’m glad to be able to do so now, even if it is in a different way.”

You turned your head to smile tearily at him. “They would have loved you.”

Remus leaned his forehead against yours, nose pressing into your cheek. “And I them.” He seemed to turn his attention to the engraved names. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of our shared angel,” he addressed them, in his perfect meeting-the-parents voice. “They’re safe with me, as are your memories.” 

You took a shuddering breath, feeling a momentary sense of closure. With a squeeze to his hand as a signal, you made to stand, and he followed suit, steadying you with an arm to your elbow. 

His hands came up to wipe determinedly at your face, and you used the opportunity to bring him down to a short but searing kiss. “I love you,” you whispered against him. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for, my dove. It’s family.”

You brought Remus in close for a hug, your face turned towards the grave in his firm embrace. His hand was splayed over a spot on your back where it felt like he held you together and lifted the weight of the grief – and it reminded you of how much that felt like love. In the drafty graveyard, in the flickering candlelight, you were able to carry it all.

You turned in his arms to give your little family a final look. “Merry Christmas,” you whispered into the void, smiling both in spite of and because of. 

“Merry Christmas,” Remus echoed, squeezing your hips. 

By the time you made it back to the castle, you were emotionally and physically spent, but lucky for you, so was most of the others from what had been an intensive decorating session. When you walked in to find them all splayed across the sofa seating area, their eyes landed upon your tear-streaked, flushed faces and your loaded smiles, and they did what they do best.

Your friends opened their arms for you.

[offhanddesign]

We need to talk about Oliver and the grave scene. (spoilers)

Barry Keoghan's improvisation in that scene completely changed Oliver's character and the film as a whole. It encapsulates a critical moment of emotional catharsis for Oliver, marking the first and only time in the film where he completely lets down his guard.

Throughout the film, Oliver maintains a distance from Felix, constantly holding back parts of himself, standing in front of the bathroom door but not allowing himself to enter. At first glance, it appears almost masochistic, but it's critical to understand that Oliver's feelings for Felix go beyond love. He's obsessed. It's as if he fears that getting too close to Felix could expose his true, empty self. And deeper than that, Oliver perceives Felix as something ethereal, akin to a living god. How could you even begin to approach such a being?

His confession in one of the last scenes with Felix where he admits that everything he did was to meet Felix's desires, underscores this guarded nature. Even in this moment of apparent honesty, Oliver is totally incapable of being fully vulnerable with Felix, as evidenced by his backup plan involving the drink.

In stark contrast, the grave scene is where Oliver's walls finally come crashing down. His open weeping, undressing, and act of penetration with the grave soil are profoundly powerful symbols of his extreme vulnerability and his unfiltered emotional state, now finally free of all societal pressures. As disturbing as this act may be, it symbolizes his intense longing for a deep, unfulfilled connection with Felix. In death, where Felix can no longer see or judge him, Oliver finally finds the freedom to express his true self and desires.

The act of penetration can be seen as a desperate, symbolic attempt to maintain a bond with Felix, a way to bridge the unbridgeable gap between life and death. It's a poignant and tragic manifestation of his grief, the complex emotions of longing and obsession he silently harbors throughout the film.

The grave scene is a turning point in Oliver's character arc, perfectly complimented by the finality of the grave beneath him.

Oliver loved Felix in the only way Oliver knew how to love Felix.

[adulthoodisokay]

I kept a scarf because it smells like her and I kept a bracelet because she wore it when I was little and I kept the flying pig necklace because I got it for her when she had cancer 18 years ago and she said she would get discharged “when pigs fly” and I feel like the saddest girl in the whole world

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Aftermath || LN4 {1}

Pairing: Lando Norris x widow!reader Summary: A year after losing your husband to an F1 crash, his teammate comes by and regrets never coming to check in on you. Warnings: 18+ only, grief and loss, depression, mentions of blood, alcohol WC: 2.2k

F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten || Eleven || Twelve || Thirteen || Epilogue

It doesn’t matter how long the night may seem, dawn will find a way to fight the darkness and break in a new day. Another day without him. 

365. It had been 365 days since he left this world for an eternity among the stars. Even now, a year later, you struggled to say his name without spiraling into the abyss where you wished you could join him. 

“Racing is my oxygen, I need it to survive.” That is what he had said whenever someone asked him if he was thinking about retiring.

“I hate you,” you murmured to the picture of your wedding day, the bright smiles something that hadn’t been seen inside these four walls for a year. 

You could almost hear his mocking laugh and you sighed at the truth, you could never hate him. He was your other half, he completed you. You hated that he had left you and the emptiness that had remained in his absence.

“I miss you.”

A knock sounded at your door and you dragged yourself through the silent house to see what had been delivered. You didn’t want to have to interact with anyone, let alone on a day like this one. “Just leave it on the step.”

“Y/N?”

You stumbled at the voice and froze, wondering if it was too late to climb back into bed and pull the covers up over your head and hide from the world. 

“Please, Y/N, open the door,” Lando called out.

They had been teammates. They had been friends. The three of you had spent so much time together the media joked Lando wasn’t third wheeling but a part of a throuple. 

Your hand trembled as you reached for the stiff deadbolt, the harsh scrape evidence of how long it had been since it was last opened for a grocery delivery almost two weeks ago. 

After the funeral, everyone else moved on with their lives while you were left with dozens of decaying bouquets and sympathy cards that could never replace your husband. For a while there were phone calls and invitations but leaving the house had become daunting and eventually those had stopped entirely. You couldn’t blame them.

“Jesus,” Lando muttered as you opened the door. “Are you alright?”

“What are you doing here?” you asked as you pointedly ignored his question. 

He shuffled on the doorstep as he shifted his balance about. “It’s the memorial unveiling today, I thought you might want someone to drive you.”

If you could feel anything, you might have felt angry. “I didn’t know there was an unveiling.”

“Shit, seriously?” He ran a hand through his curls that had grown longer than he used to keep them. “You should be there.”

He carefully stepped around you and into the house, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled the stale air before he frowned. You couldn’t remember when you last opened the curtains, preferring the dark where you could sit in his shirt and pretend he was still with you even after his scent faded from the material.

Lando stepped into the kitchen next, opening the fridge and cupboards to find them almost empty before slamming them closed. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you said lamely as he stormed across the room to grab your shoulders. “I’m fine. I was going to order groceries today.”

“This isn’t fine, Y/N!” He sighed and released his grip so he could pull you into his arms. “I should have come by sooner.”

You froze as you felt the first human contact in months and felt his heartbeat against you, the rhythmic thump enough to jolt you back into control and you pulled away, wrapping your arms around yourself protectively.

“I’m not your problem, Lando.” You turned to the door that was still open, his comical Fiat Jolly parked in the drive. “You should go.”

His head dropped as he slowly walked past, pausing only a moment to say something before he thought better of it and shook his head, closing the door behind him. 

The road noise in the retro pastel blue car was too loud to hear anything when Lando’s phone rang so he pulled over into the next parking lot off the busy streets and found Oscar’s name on the caller ID. 

“Hey mate, what’s up?” 

“Where are you?” his teammate asked in a hushed tone. “The ceremony starts in five minutes and you’re the one who actually drove with the guy.”

Lando stared out ahead at the shop space he had pulled into and saw it was a food mart. “I’m not going to make it.”

“What could possibly be more important than this?”

“I’ll talk to you later, tell them to start without me.” Lando hung up without a goodbye and rushed out of his car, an apology sent to his friend in heaven. 

There was no knock at your door this time, there was just the quiet scratch of the pot plant moving across the concrete step before it was unlocked and swinging open. 

You didn’t even have the energy to rise from the bed you had crawled back into, there was only one person who knew where the spare key was hidden. He pottered around in the kitchen and you heard the doors opening and closing before his bare feet padded softly down the hallway. 

“Coming in,” Lando warned as the door creaked open and he stepped into your room. “I hope you’re wearing something.”

Before you could ask why he gave you the answer and ripped the blankets off the bed. Cold air rushed in and you shivered as you pulled the hem of your husband’s shirt further down your thighs. The orange and grey pattern on the shirt caught Lando’s attention and his eyes turned down before he turned away and opened the closet.

You weren’t sure if he was expecting to see one half empty but you hadn’t been able to box up a single item. You were clinging onto them, and the memory they represented, for dear life. 

He grabbed a casual dress he had seen you wear before and tossed it over, the soft cotton covering your legs. “Get dressed.”

“Lando!” He had already disappeared back down the hall and you groaned as you rolled off the bed and onto your feet. The material hung loose around your body in a way it hadn't before and the dress was no longer flattering as you stood in front of the mirror. 

It was the first real time you had looked in the mirror and you barely recognised yourself. Your skin no longer glowed, your hair was knotted and unkempt and your eyes held no life where they were sunken into your face.

Needing to try salvage something of your dignity, you tried to brush out the knots but the handle snapped and you stared at it in disbelief. Sudden rage hit you as you failed at such a simple task and you threw what remained of the brush at the mirror, shattering the image but somehow making your reflection more true to how you were feeling.

“Y/N?” Lando skidded to a stop, barely missing the shards of glass on the carpet. “Are you alright?”

“No,” you admitted aloud for the first time and your legs gave out as reality crashed into you. “I miss him so much.”

You didn’t feel the glass slash your legs or the sharp pain as they stabbed your knees. You didn’t feel the warm blood seeping into the carpet or Lando’s arms as he picked you up. You didn’t feel anything but the overwhelming sense of loss like a fist squeezing your heart from inside your chest.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you,” Lando murmured as he sat you on the kitchen side and cupped your face. “I’m sorry I wasn't here.”

“I’m not your problem,” you reminded him as you shook his hands off your face. “You were his friend and I’m not an inheritance.”

“I’m your friend too. A shitty friend, but I’m going to fix that,” he said as he looked down at your bleeding knees, “starting with this.”

He went to the cupboard above the fridge to find nothing had changed and the first aid kit was still on the shelf you struggled to reach, but he easily did. You tried to get a bandaid from it as he placed it on the benchtop beside you but he moved your hands back and gave you a warning look.

“This might hurt,” he apologised as he broke the top off a saline bottle and started to rinse the blood away. “There’s some glass stuck in there - maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“I’m not going back there, especially not today,” you said with a lick of venom and a shake of your head. “There’s whiskey in the back of the pantry, just give me some of that.”

He seemed dubious about the idea but knew how stubborn you could be and exhaled a resigned sigh before getting the half empty bottle. He looked at you through the clear glass, above the sloshing amber, and you could feel the judgement in that stare.

“I have trouble sleeping.”

He didn’t give you a response as he handed it over before getting a chair to sit on, placing your foot on his knee so he could try to get the glass out with a pair of tweezers. To be honest, you were numb to everything and didn’t even need the alcohol but you gulped greedily at the spiced whiskey. 

“What’s that?” you asked as you noticed a pot on the stove, steam softly billowing up, and then you noticed the mouthwatering scent. 

“Vegetable soup. You need to eat.”

“When did you get so mature?” The joke fell flat as he looked up and you saw the depth of his own grief that he let escape from where he had buried it.

“A lot has changed in a year.”

There was no appropriate response to be said so you took another swig and felt the warmth of the alcohol hitting your empty stomach while he continued to pull shards of glass out.

“All done,” he said as he gathered the rubbish and left you to inspect the bandaids plastered all over your knees and skins too.

“If you ever look for a change in career, nursing isn't the answer.”

His lips curled up with a small laugh as he checked the pot and gave the soup a stir. “You’re meant to say thank you.”

“Thank you, Nurse Norris.”

Lando returned to where you were sitting after lowering the heat on the stove and tapped his finger on the stack of mail beside you. He picked up an envelope with the F1 symbol beside the return address and flipped it over before seeing almost a dozen others just like it. 

“Your invitation is probably in one of these.”

“Did you know there’s a clause in the contracts for ‘surviving spouses’?” You laughed bitterly and tipped the bottle back, no longer feeling the burn of the alcohol rushing down your throat. “They send a cheque every month, the very people who killed him and I want nothing to do with, and if it wasn’t already bad enough, they send it in his name.”

Lando looked at the envelopes and frowned. “Seriously?”

You took the top one and ripped through the seal to show him the cheque address to René Gauthier. On and on, you tore them all open and Lando swallowed deeply as the mess grew.

“Do they think €10,000 a month is going to make everything better? Nothing they do can bring back my husband.”

“Nothing can fix what happened,” he said as he wiped your cheeks that you hadn’t noticed were damp with tears. “I know it doesn’t make it any easier but they brought in new regulations this year, so it doesn’t happen again.”

“Sometimes I wish he hit those officials,” your voice broke at the whispered confession. “He would have had to live with that guilt, but at least he would be alive. Oh god, I’m a terrible person.”

René had been labelled a hero for the manoeuvre he had done to save the lives of the officials that were in the wrong place. He had put himself into a wall swerving away from them and while they had walked away unscathed for their mistake, your husband had died for his. It wasn’t fair.

“You’re not a terrible person, Y/N,” Lando reassured you as he pulled your hands away from where you had hidden your face in shame. 

The alcohol had hit your system and you closed your eyes as the room swayed, your words falling unfiltered as your head spun. “Racing was his life, Lando, but he was mine. I don’t know how to live without him.”

The bottle disappeared from your fingers and you lifted your heavy eyelids to see Lando putting it on top of the cupboards out of your reach. 

“You find a way to live because it's what he would want.” He scooped you up off the counter and your head fell into the crook of his neck without resistance. “You find a way to live because we’ve already lost too much. I’m not going to lose you too.”

Click here for part two.

[take-a-dip-in-the-deadpool]

Heres a video of Andrew Garfield and Elmo talking about grief. Ive only seen it in gif form here on tumblr and seeing it in video hits like 1000 times harder.

[elderwisp]

◁ || ▷

Icarus: Did you have to set up your pool right next to me?

Winona: I thought the shade here was nice. 

Icarus: There’s like five other trees.

Winona: But I like this one.

Icarus: I mean you can at least help me.

Winona: Nah, your project. You do it. 

Icarus: Winona-

Winona: Besides, I have a friend coming over, I can’t really do much.

Icarus: Wonderful, let’s have ‘em sit on the plastic wrapped sofas.

Winona: Ah! There she is!

Talia: Cool pool. 

Winona: Thanks! I stole from the last place.

Icarus: Christ.

Winona: It won’t be missed. Anyways, come on! I need to change out of this.

Sienna: She a handful?

Icarus: More than usual.

Sienna: It’s that age. 

Icarus: [ huffs ] You don’t say. 

Sienna: Do you need help?

Icarus: Oh! It’s alright, I can take care of this later. [ thud! ] Shit!

Sienna: Shoveling near your pipes, that’s dangerous. 

Icarus: I’m starting to feel like my IQ level is at a zero.

Sienna: [ small laugh ] Or you’re just hard headed. 

Icarus: That too.

Sienna: How are you liking it here so far?

Icarus: You ask me that when I just got nuked by water?

Sienna: HAH! Aside from the total annihilation.

Icarus: The people are cool. 

Sienna: The community’s amazing! Wait til you meet the whole lot. I couldn’t imagine Talia, Flapjack and I wanting to live elsewhere.

Icarus: I’m sorry, Flap-who?

Sienna: Oh! My horse. 

Icarus: OH-UH you’re a horse girl!

Sienna: Wow! Was that an insult?!

Icarus: Listen some of us are fools and some are horse girls, it’s just the way it is.

Sienna: Ah. My bad.

Icarus: Would you like to come inside?

Sienna: Why not?

-

Icarus: I take care of animals for a living. My practice is about half an hour away but the drive’s not bad. 

Sienna: The I-12 has some nice views.

Icarus: And it’s always so empty. I feel like it’s the only time I get to think.

Talia: S’cuse us!

Icarus: So is Talia your… Daughter?

Sienna: Ah, no. Her parents were childhood friends of mine. 

Icarus: Oh. I see. 

Sienna: Flash flood. I didn’t want to see her end up in the system, so here we are. 

Icarus: I’m so sorry to hear that but it’s good she has you.

Sienna: [ clears throat ] Yep. Talia, uh, tells me you and Winona… I feel like I shouldn’t- I’m sorry.

Icarus: It’s… Alright. It was a drunk driver and well, now it’s just us three.

Sienna: You doin’ okay?

Icarus: I guess I haven’t really stopped to ask myself that. I don’t know. Sometimes things feel good. Happy, even. 

Sienna: Then you remember. 

Icarus: Exactly. So how do you cope?

Sienna: My family, Talia, my friends. I sorta hate admitting how much I rely on them. But it’s good to have people, Icarus. You shouldn’t do it alone. 

Icarus: Surround yourself with people. Gotcha. To new friends?

Sienna: To new friends and to not breaking open your pipes.

Icarus: [ snorts ] I wasn't gonna-

Sienna: Sure.

[mournfulroses]

Anne Michaels, from "Infinite Gradation," originally published in October 2017

[queermatcha]

"Tommy? Are you okay?"

Tommy looks up over his shoulder from where he is standing at the banister of Evan's balcony, his arms leaning on it. He has been watching the traffic down the street for quite a while now, just standing there. He feels very tired, conflicted even - but the fact that Evan just got home from his 12-hour shift makes him smile a little.

Before he can turn around, his boyfriend's strong arms wrap themselves around his middle and Tommy closes his eyes. A gentle weight is added to his back - Evan has leaned his head against it. Exhaling softly, Tommy places one of his hands on Evan's that are lying on his stomach. His boyfriend is holding him, steadying him. Evan is like an anchor right now and Tommy feels unshed tears burn in his eyes.

"Did something happen?" Evan asks, his voice soft. Worried. Evan Buckley is the most caring man Tommy has ever met and he adores him for being like that. The fact that he immediately noticed that something is wrong makes Tommy's heart beat a little faster because he feels seen. Cared for.

"My mother called today," Tommy tells his boyfriend after a few seconds of silence, his eyes opening again. After brushing his fingers over Evan's hand for a few seconds, he laces their fingers together. It feels good to hold on to Evan. A cold breeze makes him shiver a little. Or at least he thinks it's the breeze. "My father passed away two days ago."

Tommy hears Evan inhale sharply and the other man tightens his hug around him. "Oh Tommy," Evan breathes. "I am so sorry." Tommy squeezes Evan's fingers. "I haven't talked to him - or my mother - in over six years. They basically disowned me after I outed myself to them. Threw me out of their house and told me that I'm not their son anymore." It was hard to speak when there was a huge lump in his throat and Tommy laughs, but it s a bitter laugh, without any amusement or happiness in it.

"We've never been that close, but they broke my heart back then. And still-" Tommy swallows thickly and his voice is trembling. The tears in his eyes sting. "Still, I feel like so damn sad because he died."

Evan moves their intertwined hands up, from Tommy's stomach to his chest, and places them right above his heart. "I understand how you feel," Evan then says. There's so much emotion in his voice. Again, Tommy closes his eyes what causes a few tears to drip down his cheeks. "I don't have the best relationship with my parents either. But I'd be devastated if they died." There's a soft kiss to Tommy's back, right between his shoulder blades, and even more tears fall.

"Whatever you're feeling right now, it shows how much you care despite everything. Whatever you feel is valid, Tommy. It makes you human. And whatever you need, just say the word. I am here for you."

Now, it is Tommy who raises their hands. He presses a kiss to Evan's palm and then leans his cheek against it. And even though his heart feels heavy and his cheeks are wet, there's a small smile on his lips. Tommy inhales. And exhales. "Thank you," he breathes. Evan's lips brushing against his neck make his heart feel less heavy. Because he's not alone in this.

[tiya-minuscule]

can we see the university gang as their in game canon (older) selves but dressed as in their university clothes/outfits? :>

(tbh i just wanna see hot punk old man don pauly wolly my beloved)

Never forget that I'm here to rip your heart.

For real, I got a bit over excited with this one... But thank you so much Anon for the ask, it gaves me the opportunity to draw adult Clark and... Well... He's hot.

Hope you all enjoyed this little bonus :)

[howling-medic]

Impertinence

Summary: Five times Pippin call Aragorn Strider in places he shouldn't, and the one time he didn't. With an epilogue and bonus snippet because I couldn't leave it where it ended. This is entirely unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

A/N: Holy shit. This was kind of a beast to write. I also wrote it mostly while on shift, so I'm really hoping I caught all my mistakes, and it's mostly decent. I am not sure how happy with this I am, but I think it is as good as I am going to get it. If I keep agonizing over it, I'll never sleep today. So, up it goes. Also, I am too lazy to make this into multiple chapters right now. Maybe one day I will, but it is not this day. For now, there are headers at the start of each section

This whole thing came about because I mentioned to someone that I want Fourth Age content because I wanted to see Pippin being a little shit in court, and I was told emphatically that Pippin would clearly grow up and behave himself. I think that's insane. Pippin is a socially skilled class clown with a high level of intelligence. He also has zero regard for authority figures. So I wrote a whole fic about how much of a dork Pippin is and how Aragorn adores that dork - even if he a giant pain in his ass.

TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, angst, sadness, heartbreak, mentions of alcohol

WC: 7562 words (This was never intended to be this long, y'all.)

Making An Entrance

“Strider!” The shout cut through the den of the courtyard of the Citadel. King Elessar sighed fondly and turned to find Pippin jogging towards him in his road dirtied court attire. In the past two years Aragorn had learned one thing: every time the young hobbit came back to court, he would call the King by his old moniker in public at least once. Usually more. As with each time, everyone in the vicinity turned to search for the source of the disrespect to their monarch.

“Thrain Took,” Aragorn called in greeting. At the use of his title, Pippin’s ears went pink, and Aragorn laughed at the sight of the very moment the young hobbit realized his mistake. To the utter shock of any in the area who did know of Pippin or the story of the name Strider, including the Harad emissaries who had come to discuss a new trade agreement, Aragorn knelt to welcome his friend with a warm embrace. “How are you my dear friend? How was your journey?”

“Ach, I am as well as ever! The road was long, but certainly shorter than my first journey here.” Pippin was about to launch into a long winded tale of the trip and all those he and Merry saw along the way, as well as all the doings of The Shire. Aragorn could see it in the hobbit’s eyes. Just before he could open his mouth, Aragorn interjected, “And I cannot wait to hear all you wish to share. I am certain we have much to discuss politically and personally, but I do not wish to keep you from getting a bite and a bath, so go freshen yourself. Then come to my quarters for dinner.”

Pippin glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder and saw the assembled group of men waiting on his liege to return, and then he looked back to Aragorn. His lips pressed into a thin line. The group of Harad dignitaries looked utterly aghast at his apparent impudence. Aragorn shrugged nearly imperceptibly and rolled his eyes, at which Pippin’s face lit up anew. “As you wish, Strider.” Aragorn barked out a startled laugh and shook his head. 

“Fool of a Took,” he murmured and rose to return to the Harad behind him. “Gentlemen, where were we?”

“You accept such disrespect from a creature so small? Was that a child?” One of the men asked while his eyes followed the retreating form of Pippin.

“That,” Aragorn said in a voice still light with laughter while watching Pippin disappear inside the Citadel, “Was a hobbit of more renown and valor than you could imagine. His name is Peregrin Took. He is the Thrain of the Shire, and a Knight of the Citadel. He was also one of the nine of the Fellowship of the Ring. He, the others of that party, and the Thrain’s kin are the only people from whom I accept that name. So no, my lord, I suffer no disrespect, nor was that a child.” The laughter in Aragorn’s voice died, and he turned back to the group before him. “I would advise you to not disrespect hobbits in this court - particularly those who were a part of the Fellowship. They are much beloved by myself, my household, and this land.” The three assembled emissaries took a collective half step back. Looking at each of the three in turn, Aragorn found his humor and patience was spent. Silent judgment and covert murmurs about his patience with Pippin he could handle, but the incredulity in this man’s voice with no knowledge of what he spoke, of who he spoke, was not something Aragorn could not abide. “I believe we are done with negotiations for today.” He broke off for the briefest of moments and pushed aside the temptation to put these three men, the truly impudent ones in this situation, in their place in favor of remaining diplomatic. “Let us resume tomorrow for I desire to inquire after Thrain Took’s companion, Meriadoc, and hear the news of a region of my land from which I receive very little.” 

“My lord,” they said in unison. 

Aragorn took his leave. As he turned, he caught their shared look of disbelief. “Strider?” he heard one ask. “Hobbits?” another asked. “Strange land and a strange people,” the final man declared. Aragorn chuckled. Once again, he was going to have to have a word with Pippin. No matter how much more he loathed the Harads’ words, Pippin had to watch around whom he spoke in such a manner. Even if Aragorn wished it was not so.

However, later that evening as Aragorn entered the sitting room of the Royal Apartments, the earnest look of joy Aragorn saw in Pippin’s eyes when he exclaimed the name - the one given to him by an innkeeper that Aragorn once loathed - stayed his tongue. With a sigh of relief, the High King of the Reunited Kingdom lifted the winged crown from his head and placed it upon the black velvet cushion on a side table that was as near to the door as possible without blocking it. Then he did away with the heavy blue velvet cloak adorned with the crest of the House of Telcontar selected by his attendants specifically for his meeting with the Harad dignitaries. “Strider indeed, my friend,” Aragorn said with a fond chuckle. “You truly will never let that name remain in the past, will you?”

“Why ever would I?” Pippin asked. His brows furrowed in earnest confusion. “It is the name I first knew you by, and someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear.” 

Aragorn laughed. It started as a choked back sound of surprise and devolved into a truly uproarious, booming laugh. So few dared to speak to him in such a manner that it was refreshing to hear such cheek. “Verily, and I suppose one so close to the ground would be just the person to do so?”

“Precisely! I am glad you understand!” Pippin beamed up Aragorn with mirth and mischief dancing in his eyes that spelled nothing but trouble. The Ranger of the North could not find it within himself to fret over it. 

Of Hobbits and Their Food

“Strider! Do not be absurd!” Pippin cried with his hands thrown up in exasperation. Aragorn resisted the urge to let his head fall to the wooden table before him. The assembled council looked in utter disbelief at the impudent hobbit in their midst. The annual meeting discussing each region’s harvest dragged on well past lunch and was showing no signs of stopping - despite the originally listed eleven o'clock end time for the meeting. Several regions’ summers had been unusually dry, and The Shire’s harvest outperformed all others. As a solution, one of Aragorn’s advisors proposed requisitioning a small portion of its grains and preservable legumes to help offset the dearth from the other areas of Gondor. Pippin was displeased with the notion, to say the least, and turned that displeasure to Aragorn. The King sat with his fingers steepled on the table. It was logical, but many hobbits viewed ‘Big Folks’ with intense weariness. Declaring a portion of their harvest the property of the crown would only validate that weariness and breed resentment in a fledgling political relationship. The crown was meant to protect that vulnerable region, not pilfer from them. Yet, his other territories were in a precarious position with meager stores to last the winter.

Of all the times and days to use the old nickname, this was the least ideal. Years with poor harvests led to contentious, and frequently panicked, fall assemblies of regional Lords. This assembly included many from outlying communities who did not frequently make it to court. Protesting a proposal was one thing. An outburst that - given their ignorance to the background of the familiar title - would appear to these Lords as impudence was another. Impudence they would perceive as tolerated by their King, which they would likely take to mean their King lacked control of his troops and court. Aragorn could feel every eye in the room trained on him, awaiting a response. Awaiting his rebuke to the comment. 

“Nothing has been decided Thrain Took,” Aragorn responded coldly. The emphasis he placed on Pippin’s title drew smirks from several Lords. Pippin did not flinch. 

The ever genial hobbits looked back at his friend with narrowed eyes. An unmeasured emotional outburst may have drawn the name from Pippin, but he showed no signs of being cowed that easily. “My apologies, Lord,” Pippin said bitterly. Aragorn suppressed a sigh of defeat and smile simultaneously.  

“State your case for reserving your resources. It is only right we hear your rebuttal after hearing the argument for requisitioning some of your bounty.” Aragorn’s tone took a more neutral tone. Arguments could remain behind closed doors - in places where the defiant nature of his friend would not raise eyebrows. Now was the time to draw an already overlong meeting to a close without further incident, so Aragorn could rein in his frustration for the time being. 

Pippin spoke eloquently of the need to keep The Shire’s resources within and not dispersing them, his tone turning to a dispassionate recitation of facts and history. He outlined the way they often support outlying communities like Bree and the general distrust nearly all the ‘shire folk felt’ of any situation where resources were taken in such a manner following Saruman’s abuse and subjugation. It was a persuasive case that Pippin would not have possessed the maturity to articulate five years ago when Aragorn met him in the Prancing Pony or four years ago when the hobbit first rode back to his home. The spirit and fierce protectiveness of his kin was the same, but the ability to debate over argue was a new development that Aragorn felt privileged to have witnessed. The inability to relinquish the old moniker of Strider in public seemed an enduring habit, however. 

Lunch was sent for as soon as the King left the meeting hall. Pippin sat before him with defiance radiating off him in waves. The look in his eyes was so similar to that which Aragorn saw in Rivendell when Elrond attempted to send Merry and Pippin back to the Shire instead of with the Fellowship that it nearly made him laugh at the old memory. Almost. “Peregrin Took,” Aragorn started, “We have had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and I have told you before that I am not likely to ever truly change. I may be older, and I may have fancy titles, but I am still no more than a hobbit from the Shire.”

“Is that so? Are you not a knight of the citadel and a member of this court? The designated ambassador from your land and representative of your people?” Aragorn asked, voice stern and lacking any of the humor with which he typically spoke to his friend. Even in their most heated political debates and spirited debate over old history, neither were prone to harsh tones. 

“Aye, I may be, but I am still simple folk. Unschooled in court and prone to gaffs.” Pippin’s protest held no water, and he knew it. Five years of serving in the court as Thrain of the Shire left him well schooled in court affairs - even if he traded on his humble, rural appearance and accent frequently in court dealings.  

“You know it causes a stir throughout the whole of the court each time you do that?” Aragorn asked sharply. “It reflects on how I manage my advisors and troops. I know things change slowly in The Shire, if they change at all, but are you so incapable of change yourself? Can you do as your King and liege lord commands in this, if you won’t do it for your friend?”

Pippin visibly deflated as Aragorn spoke. His shoulders drooped and his eyes fell to the cluttered desk before him. “Aye, Strider. That I can do. So long as I can still call you as I ever think of you out of earshot of those who fuss about such odd things.” Aragorn softened then. As I ever think of you. The simple statement drew a lopsided smile to his face that was reminiscent of the first night he met Pippin in Bree, the one that played across his face each time the four hobbits impressed him with their boldness in the face of fear and peril and each time they showed their heart and wisdom along their long journey. “Do you still see old Strider in me? You did once promise to ground me in that version of myself, did you not?”

“That I did, and that I do. You may wear fancy clothes and bathe regularly now, so your old rascally look is gone, but that does not mean you are not the rascal I first met. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

“I dare say it will be many times yet in the years we spend together. I find less and less of the Ranger in myself each day I spend in these stone halls.” “Do you not sneak out anymore? Slip past your guards and flee to the woods?” Pippin asked.

“Not in many months. I have been tied to this desk long into the night, and when I am not I am with the little ones. It also seems that many people who have no right to an opinion on the matter feel rather strongly that I ought not to ever be anywhere without a guard.”

“Would it please my lord to escape this evening then?”

“Did we not just say that we need not use titles away from listening ears?” Aragorn inquired through a laugh.

“That we did, but I am still an ass and a Fool of a Took after these many years. I shall do as I please behind closed doors and do as you please beyond them,” Pippin answered simply and grinned.

“I suppose I can abide that,” Aragorn replied and fell silent for a moment. “I do believe an escape into the woods sounds like a wonderful idea - plus none can protest that I will be unprotected with a Knight of Gondor at my side.” 

“Excellent! Then let's settle the matter of the Shire’s crops, so we have no work to haggle over while we are beneath the stars…Strider.”

Feasts are for celebrating

It was the Midsummer’s Feast, and all the remaining members of The Fellowship, their spouses, Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, and Faramir sat at the head table. A few notable dignitaries from Aglarond and Legolas’s kin in Ithilien had also been designated seats of honor with the tightly knit group of nobility. Eight years into the Fourth Age left the lands prosperous and healing. Areas that had long since not seen inhabitants were being rebuilt. Maps were being redrawn with each passing year because they lacked new settlements. That was a struggle all were thrilled to have. 

Eight years of retelling stories, however, meant they only still possessed roots in the truth. With each new recitation details were exaggerated anew. Drama was added. Some events were simply fabricated from nowhere. Some were far guiltier of these transgressions than others. Pippin was fairly notorious throughout the Reunited Realm for embellishments - especially when the wine and ale flowed freely as it did at feasts. As it was at this Midsummer’s Feast. “Strider! Strider!” Pippin called from halfway down the table. The guests of honor from abroad, who were seated next to Pipped, gaped at the hobbit who had already shared many fascinating tales that evening. “I was rather indisposed with dancing and singing, and you were the only one with Frood at the time in the Prancing Pony. Could you tell us the story of what you saw - or didn’t see, for that matter - in the tavern when he disappeared? These lovely gentlemen from Aglarond have not heard that story yet, seeing as we had not yet met Gimli!” 

Each person well acquainted with Pippin, and his propensity to forget proper etiquette, looked around the table and then to Aragorn. Every feast it happened eventually, no matter how many times Pippin was lectured, and each time his friends reacted the same. Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Pippin acted as he did simply to get a rise out of those around him. Someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear echoed in Aragorn’s mind as he watched the familiar sight of the friends he called family react anew to Pippin’s antics. Faramir grumbled something incoherent into his glass of wine, for which Éowyn promptly kicked his shin. Éomer snorted out a rather undignified choked laugh. Lothíriel glared at him. Merry groaned into his hands to muffle the sound. Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line to hide a smile. Sam shook his head in dismay. Rosie giggled into her napkin. Gimli had no such compunctions and chuckled rather loudly. Diamond sighed and looked apologetically at Arwen. Arwen visibly fought back laughter. Aragorn, donning the Winged Crown and Star of Elendil, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and proceeded to give a full recount of the events in the Prancing Pony the first night he met the hobbits. That retelling quickly led to several more tales shared - and debated. Tales of travels and battles, and all the embarrassing mishaps and pranks along the way. The formality of the night quickly devolved, and strict court manners gradually faded from each of the friends. 

After a few more glasses of wine and ale, Pippin was far from the only one at the table who had their fun at the expense of the King sitting at the head of the table. Merry recounted the time Aragorn “mercilessly taunted me while I was ailing in the Houses of Healing! I had just stabbed the Witch King himself, if you’ll believe it, and here was my friend telling me I had lost my gear that was sitting by the bed the whole time!” Gimli and Legolas shared many tales of their time as ‘The Three Hunters’. The one that earned Gimli the most laughter was the abject horror of being awoken well before dawn only for Aragorn to lay himself flat on the ground for “nearly a whole age of men” to declare many horses were nearby…only for Legolas to be able to see them on the horizon and correctly count them. Éomer was all too happy to chime in that Legolas had been only three riders off on his count, before adding his own note on how he nearly killed all three of them on sight. He then apologized to Merry and Pippin, for easily the hundredth time, for almost inadvertently killing them while killing the band of orcs who had captured them. 

By the end of the night, King Elessar doffed his ceremonial headwear and pulled out his pipe. Once he lit it, he tossed a bag of pipeweed to Pippin with a grin and a nod. The court gaped at the King who had turned into a Ranger before their eyes, though many who had seen this mood take their Lord before just chuckled. Aragorn looked around and grinned. They could gape and murmur, for this night was a celebration of all that had been hard won, and the uncouth and unendingly frustrating hobbit gesturing wildly while telling all there was to know of the Battle of Isengard and the Final March of the Ents won much of their bounty back for them. Tonight needed no lecture. 

Joyous News

Nearly silent feet padded down the hallway outside Aragorn’s office. Had Aragorn not spent several decades around hobbits, and a decade listening for that sound in his own palace, he never would have heard it. Pippin had been in Minas Tirith for only two days, and mischief was already afoot apparently. “Stri-” Pippin started and skidded to a halt, and his jaw snapped shut. “My Lord,” he began again and then addressed the Captain- General standing before Aragorn’s desk. “My sincerest apologies to you both,” he mumbled. Glee still danced in the hobbit’s eyes despite the faint hue of pink on his cheeks. “I will come back later. I did not mean to interrupt.” 

“Peregrin,” the officer said and gestured him into the office, “join us. There is clearly news to be shared. Do not let me keep you from it.”

“Sire, please. I mean no offense, but this is news I need to tell Str- King Elessar alone.” Pippin caught himself midway through the old nickname. When he did, he looked up at Aragorn rather abashedly - the pink dusting to his cheeks darkening. Rarely did Pippin truly feel shame for breaking proper court etiquette, but breaking rank in front of his superior military officers was one of few things for which he felt ashamed, however. His place within the army was more ceremonial than anything else at this point, but he drilled each time he came to court and practiced with any those he could at home. It was a matter of pride that he maintained his skills. The practice of going through his drills kept the memory of Boromir alive, and Pippin meant to honor his promise to Denethor to serve Gondor until his dying breath in repayment of his debt for Boromir’s death.

Aragorn sighed and rose from his seat. He was not escaping the back and forth of deference that was brewing between these two. Pippin had already derailed the meeting and taken the focus off the report of Southrond raiding parties harrying several outlying communities. “Captain-General, if you would please excuse us for the briefest of moments. Clearly something urgent of a personal nature has come up, but I will return shortly.” Aragorn’s voice was tight, but he motioned towards the side door that led to a private side room off the office. Pippin shuffled in behind Aragorn. The embarrassment at his multiple slips of the tongue were gone from Pippin’s face when Aragorn turned to face him. All that remained was a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “What on all of Arda is going on? And did no page or guard inform you I was in a meeting?” Aragorn asked.

“Well, as for pages and guards…no, but I did not really give them a chance to stop me either, for all my excitement.” “Then out with it, man!” Aragorn laughed, shaking his head with disbelief and amusement alike. His aggravation was quickly waning in the face of Pippin’s delight.

“I’m going to be a father! Diamond is pregnant!” Pippin exclaimed. 

The Captain-General standing on the other side of the thin wall with his urgent report no longer held even a fraction of his importance as he had moments before. Aragorn dropped to his knees to embrace Pippin. Aragorn’s lingering annoyance at the interruption and Pippin’s continued struggle to keep the name Strider behind closed doors was forgotten. “Well, that is a worthy reason to interrupt a meeting - and a reason to celebrate!”

“I would say so! Though, had I known you were otherwise engaged, I would have at least waited in the hall. It’s not as though the bairn is not going anywhere just yet.”

“No, indeed, but I will gladly be interrupted for joyous news, my good hobbit.” Aragorn looked to the door and then back to Pippin. “I have to hear this last report, but go find Arwen and Diamond. I think we are all done working for the day. It is time to celebrate a new generation of Tooks.” As Pippin turned to leave, Aragorn added, “But Pippin, you have to let the staff stop you next time even if I welcome interruptions for good news - and please, after ten years, stop calling me Strider while we are working.”

“As you wish, Strider!” Pippin called halfway out the door. Aragorn groaned and shook his head, gesturing for the Captain-General to take the seat across from the desk.

“Do not ask, for I have neither the time nor the energy to explain,” Aragorn said in answer to the inquisitive look the man gave him.

Infrastructure of the Fourth Age

“It will never work, Strider,” Pippin interrupted in the middle of Aragorn’s explanation of his plan to dig new wells in the lower levels and outlying communities surrounding Minas Tirith as the city’s population outgrew the confines of its walls - and the limits of their water supply. Most of the assembled advisors, craftsmen, and lords present were well used to the behavior of the Thrain of the Shire. However, Several were not, and they looked wide eyed between the King and his Knight. Aragorn looked at the ceiling as though he expected to find an answer to the riddle of Pippin’s behavior there. There was none. Strictly speaking, he was not even needed or invited to this meeting, but he had a habit of poking his head into court sessions that were not pertinent to his duties or position. 

“Thrain Took. Please. I welcome your thoughts and opinions, but I cannot abide your interruptions or use of familiar names during council meetings. We have discussed this at length,” Aragorn said sternly once he looked back at the hobbit and after a long sigh.

“My apologies, your majesty, but I do not beg your pardon. You cannot hold this old hobbit at fault. I simply forget myself in my advanced age,” Pippin said. The room stilled. Aragorn laughed despite himself. At one point, he hoped and expected Pippin to mellow as he aged, but the opposite proved to be the case. Each year the hobbit became bolder, but he was savvier about it. There were few times, however, where he sounded much like his younger self. 

“I have heard that excuse before from an old hobbit in Rivendell who blamed senility for gaffs. I did not believe him then, just as I do not believe you now,” Aragorn said and smirked.

“You may choose to believe me or not as you wish,” Pippin said with a shrug, “but that does not change the fact that I think this plan is entirely foolish and ill conceived - and I agreed to march on the Black Gates with you. And that was a plan with near certainty of death and small chance of success. This, I would wager, has no chance of success.” A few of the younger people in attendance gasped. Most of the older council members laughed under their breath. Pippin matched Aragorn’s smirk and did not flinch. This was the level of pointed discussion they reserved for Aragorn’s study and had over a bottle of wine. However, Aragorn had not shared this plan with Pippin - as it truly was not a plan that impacted the hobbit in any fashion, nor did it seem a plan that would interest him. Apparently, he should have.

“And do you have another suggestion then, Thrain Took?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Pippin declared in a smug tone with a grin to match. “We just had to manage the exact same issue in Hobbiton - granted we lack the many levels and such owing to most hobbits not even handling homes with second stories well, let alone a city of multiple levels with buildings of even more levels - but good ol’ Merry and some of Legolas’ elves came up with a brilliant way to reroute some of the water from the Brandywine to make new distributaries! I think we may need to do the same here.”

“And why would wells not work as they always have?” Aragorn challenged, but his words held no heat, nor did he ask unkindly. There was an elegance to the idea Pippin was proposing, and Aragorn was keen to hear it. Now came to the political jockeying needed to sell opposition to one of Pippin’s less tactical rebukes of a plan proposed by Aragorn. “How in the world do you think you are going to find new well sites that nobody in the history of this city has found? Are you going to go digging up roads all over the first and second level? No. You most certainly aren’t. Instead you can reroute some small distributaries off the Anduin to create a water source in the outlying communities and then work with Gimli and the other dwarves of Aglarond on a system for running that source up to the first and second levels. They have to have a system for it in their caves.”

“Master Thrain,” Aragorn said flatly.

“Yes, my lord?” Pippin asked.

“I am commissioning you back into my service for this project. You are now the lead on it. But, Peregrin, do not interrupt me like that or address me so in any of the meetings on it again.”

“I shall do as my lord bids me,” Pippin said. The smug grin on his face had never faded for a moment. The old members of the council rolled their eyes, and the young ones still gaped at him. Aragorn sighed and shook his head once again. 

Sounds You Miss

Years dragged on and Aragorn found the gift of his long life became a curse once again. His friends were aging before his eyes while he stayed ever young. Sam sailed after Rosie passed away. Éomer died in the autumn two years before. The men of Aragorn’s guard when he first took the throne were dead or fading before his eyes. Their sons served him now. This was not the first generation of men that had passed before his eyes, but this was the first he had spent the majority of in one place, the first he tied himself to closely. 

Aragorn sat upon his throne and attempted to focus on the day’s open court. Truly, he put a valiant effort towards it, but his mind refused to bend to his will. The citizens of Gondor brought their woes, struggles, and strife to him once a week - more often if he could manage it- and he always listened intently. He did his best to resolve each issue that came before him, and he was known for his attentiveness and benevolence amongst his subjects. Today he simply could not manage to keep his focus trained upon the proceedings. It was instead in the building nearly directly below him where Merry and Pippin had resided for some time now. Neither were well. The ravages of age spared none of the mortal beings of Middle Earth, no matter how desperately those who would outlive them wished it to be otherwise. Their aged bodies looked like shadows of the young hobbits Aragorn had once known. Merry struggled to use his right arm no matter how Aragorn strove to heal it. Pippin fared far worse. His lungs failed him frequently, and his knees plagued him with pain. Despite it all, they still insisted on coming up to the citadel for nearly every meal, and their spirits were high as ever. Age and weariness could not diminish those, nor could it quiet their laughter. Withered as he was, Pippin continued to be as unruly as in his youth. Except for the past few days. Of late, He seemed distant - like he had one foot beyond this land. 

Heavy boots thundered down the hallway towards the throne room. Aragorn tensed. All eyes turned to face the source of the sound. Eldarion came to a skidding halt before his father. He faced King Elessar red in the face and panting. “Pippin?” Aragorn asked. His voice was already thick and choked with tears. His son need not answer. Lest peril had befallen his siblings or mother, there was nothing that would have made him run so. All the same, Eldarion nodded. Aragorn rose slowly from his seat and composed himself enough that he hoped his voice would not shake. “Court is adjourned for the day.” His voice held an air of finality which none dared defy. “Please see the Master of Ceremony on your way out, and he will take note of that which you came to address. When I am able, I will review all issues submitted. Now I must attend to a matter that I fear cannot wait.” With instructions given, Aragorn stepped down from the throne and moved as hastily as he could without looking entirely undignified through the crowd of subjects, but as soon as he was out of sight of the main hallways and corridors, he was running.

The air in Bair Nestad felt stifling. There was a tension that could have been sliced through by a sword. Every healer stepped aside wordlessly and bowed their heads as Aragorn made his way to Pippin’s room. Typically, he was greeted with warm smiles entering this space, and not infrequently he offered aid or advice. Not this day, however. The scene that greeted Aragorn on the other side of the door brought him up short. Merry - old and stiff as he was - was seated cross legged on the too big bed. Tears ran silently down his cheeks while he dabbed at Pippin’s forehead with a wet towel. The younger hobbit’s face was pale. Far paler than he had been even the night before. A cough had plagued him for weeks, but he had continued to claim all was well. Now his lips had gone blue. Even the sound of heavy footsteps did not rouse Pippin. “The fever took him in the night. Didn’t tell a soul,” Merry said without prompting, “he can’t catch his breath anymore.”

At the sound of Merry’s voice, Pippin’s eyes opened slowly. His gaze was unfocused and distant until he saw Aragorn. At the sight, his face broke into a weak smile, but before he could say a word a coughing fit that wracked his entire frail body overtook him. “Let me go fetch some herbs. We can treat the fever and soothe the cough,” Aragorn began, but Pippin shook his head with what little strength he could muster.

“There is nothing left to try,” he croaked. His voice was so faint that it could barely be heard even in the silent room. “Just come sit with me, my old friend.” Aragorn sighed. Every part of him yearned to fight the invisible foe that plagued Pippin. This was no battle that could be won with Andúril, nor yet by all the trainings of Elrond in the days of his youth. This battle was the same one that destroyed the Númenoreans and nearly decimated Gondor itself. It was one with no victory. The battle against time and age. 

“As you wish,” Aragorn answered reluctantly after several seconds.

Aragorn sat beside Pippin for hours. There was idle chatter here and there. Sometimes with Merry while Pippin slept. Every once and a while, he would wake, and the three friends would recount the old days, rather Merry and Aragorn retold Pippin’s favorite stories to him with Pippin correcting them when they forgot the fabrications he added over the years. Eldarion and all those who had come to love the Thrain over the years came by to say their goodbyes. The King never left his Knight’s side. Eventually Pippin let him send for Athelas to ease the pain that came with each coughing fit. It comforted all who sat vigil, and the tension lessened in Pippin’s face while it brewed beside him. The room smelled of the woods of The Shire, and when Pippin first smelled it, he smiled and sighed. “Home…would that I could see it once more.”

“Maybe you can, Pip! We might be able to take one last grand adventure yet!” Merry tried to make the words sound hopeful, but they came out hollow.

“I think the only adventure that awaits me, old Merry, is whatever comes next. If you do make it back to The Shire, tell Faramir I love him for me. I’ll tell Sam and Frodo ‘hello’ for you, when I get wherever I am going - if they ever went there, that is.” Pippin’s words were weak. 

With each time he woke, his gaze became more distant. Both Merry and Aragorn clung tightly to his hands as though they could keep their friend with them for even a few extra moments if they just held on tight enough.

“Merry lad,” Pippin murmured at length. 

“Yeah, Pip?”

“I don’t know if I ever thanked Treebeard for making me the tallest hobbit on record. Could you do that for me, please?” Both Merry and Aragorn laughed through the tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I think I can manage that, but I think he knows you are grateful to him for it. Don’t worry about that just now.”

“I wish I could see him again. Him and Quickbeam. They are such odd fellows. And Bombadill. We never would have made it home without them.”

“We will make sure they all know they were on your mind,” Aragorn said gently and had to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

“We never could have made it home without you either, and to think we almost didn’t trust you to go with us at all.”

“Well, don’t go counting me in that tally, Pip. I wasn’t there to not trust him, remember?” Pippin laughed. The sound came out more as a wheeze that caused him to start coughing once more. His lips were even more blue than when Aragorn first reached the Houses of Healing, and Pippin’s fingers were cold in his hand. “But I won’t fight your revisions - just this one time,” Merry added as an afterthought.

“Our King and protector from the day we met you,” Pippin said. A smile graced his features, and for just one last moment Aragorn could see the young hobbit that asked him about second breakfast, and then Pippin’s eyes fell closed for the final time. The name Strider seemed to hang in the air, but Aragorn never heard it again. 

Epilogue:

Pippin laid in state for a week. Tradition stated he be laid to rest in his uniform, but Merry insisted he wear his favorite coat and scarf, and so it was. At Aragorn’s insistence, Pippin’s livery lay folded at his feet to carry his honor with him wherever this last journey took him. Aragorn would not dream of laying Pippin to rest in his uniform either. He was a hobbit of The Shire foremost and a soldier second, but he fought valiantly. He needed that honor to stay with him. His sword, in true warrior’s fashion, was placed upon his breast. It was an odd picture: the bright colors of a hobbit’s traditional dress paired with the barrow blade. It felt fitting for the hobbit who caused trouble everywhere he went. Aragorn could think of nothing that would bring Pippin more joy than to know he caused a ruckus in court even in his death.

Mourners lined up all the way down to the fifth level to bid farewell to Ernîl Pheriannath. Each day the queue would begin at sunrise, and each day they came to lay flowers at the base of the bed upon which he rested and say their final goodbyes. A mere few hours before Pippin’s funeral, Aragorn stood before him. Aragorn wore no royal finery - hadn’t since he returned to his chambers from Bair Nestad - instead he wore the same clothes he wore the very first night he met the hobbits in Bree. The coat had more patches and the shirt was more threadbare than that night, but it mattered not. They were more treasured to Aragorn than any ceremonial tunic and cloak. No other hand mended them, not even Arwen. Now more than ever before they felt sacred. A last anchor to the Ranger of the North to which Pippin swore to serve as anchor. 

Each time Aragorn thought he could cry no more tears, more welled in his eyes. Now he wept openly. The sobs rang off the stone walls. It was not the first time in the past week he found himself in this position. The first night Merry found him there, and they cried together. When there were no tears left in either of them, they took a bottle of elven wine to the outer wall and drank and shared stories until the sun rose.

This night nobody came, and Aragorn was glad for it. Anger held his heart as much as grief. Blessed with long life, they said. It was no blessing to watch nearly all he held dear fade before his eyes. It was a curse greater than any he could fathom. There were only so many friends one man could lay to rest and watch sail away from him. Each time Aragorn stood before a crowd and spoke of the courageous deeds of those he fought beside and journeyed with it felt like his world shrunk that much more. Pippin left the world far smaller than his small stature accounted for and quieter than Aragorn could have ever predicted. At each turn he expected to hear “Strider!” called from down the hall followed by the sound of small bare feet slapping the stone. 

With a shaky step, Aragorn stepped up to Pippin. For just a moment, Aragorn saw the hobbit as he was during the War of the Ring: a young hobbit asleep in a bed roll who needed to be roused for another day on the march. A simpler time - albeit infinitely more perilous. A time before Aragorn wore the weight of the winged crown. “Strider I shall ever remain, my dear hobbit, ere I draw my last breath. I shall not let the wings of my crown fly me away from my roots.”

Bonus:

Aragorn never experienced the Sea Longing of the elves, but he knew when it was time to lay himself down for his final rest. His body did not move as it once did, and he was weary. This world no longer held him like it once did. When the time came, he said his goodbyes and felt no regrets. Arwen asked one last time for him to say, but Middle Earth was no longer his home. Aragorn had given every piece of himself to it. To saving it. Rebuilding it. Nurturing it. Growing it. His time had come to an end. When Aragorn shut his eyes for the last time, rest took him quickly, and at last he was at peace. 

He tried to roll over and shield himself from the light to sleep a few more minutes, but then his mind caught up to what he had just done. Aragorn’s eyes snapped open, and he was forced to blink against the brightness until his eyes adjusted to light around him. It seemed to have no clear source. He was laying in an unfamiliar bed. The room was nondescript and unadorned with no windows. Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, assessing the situation. An open door faced him with an even brighter hallway beyond it. With no other clear option, he slid on the boots beside him. The feel of the old leather brought a smile to his face. Then he grabbed the familiar green leather jacket laying on the end of the bed, and walked out into the hallway. 

One end of the hall was a dead end and the other was the source of all the light. It was a blindingly bright glow that obscured any terminus. Aragorn faced it and concluded that was the only way he was supposed to go. With a sigh, he set out to whatever lay beyond. As he neared the light, it resolved into a large, open corridor with many hallways branching off of it. Aragorn looked from one direction to the other and froze. His eyes flitted from side to side. Anxiety seized him. Just as he was about to choose a direction at random, the sound of small, bare, running feet came echoing down the hall on his left. Aragorn froze. He refused to feel hopeful. Refused to look. “Strider!” a familiar voice cried from his left. Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat. Fifty three years he had waited to hear that voice say the name that had hung in the air since after he died. “Strider!” he called again, and Aragorn turned to see Pippin barreling towards him at a pace the hobbit had not been able to run for many years. He looked just as he had that first night in Bree down to his jacket and scarf. 

“Pippin,” Aragorn sobbed and fell to his knees just in time to catch Pippin in his arms. “My dear, dear hobbit. How I have missed hearing you call that name.”

“Did you manage to stay firmly on the ground, or did those wings you wore fly you away? I hoped I reminded you who you are enough times before I left you, but I have fretted a few times that I didn’t quite do enough.”

Aragorn shuffled back from Pippin enough to take a good look at him and shook his head in disbelief. “You did plenty enough to remind me who I am, but I hope I never have to go without hearing you call my name - whichever you want at any time and in any place - ever again.”

“Well, you are in luck, Strider. As it turns out, we hobbits go the same place men do, and everyone is waiting for you.”

A/N: So I made myself cry like 17 times writing the last parts of this thing. I apologize for the pain, but I hope you enjoyed!

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[oh-katsuki]

yk when someone dies and you just have to... sit with it.. and you're like... how do i tell people something is wrong. how do i tell people who never met them or knew them or spoke to them that something happened. and it feels selfish somehow to even talk about it out loud but at the same time for some reason you feel like you have to. like somehow you're telling a lie or being disrespectful or being self-indulgent. when the reality is that you just don't want to be alone in grief. but they didn't know them and even after saying something, you're alone anyway.