#The Grief Keeper

[lgbtqreads]

Fave Five: Queer YAs About Grieving the Death of a Sibling

Summer Bird Blue by Akemi Dawn Bowman The Ghosts We Keep by Mason Deaver The Great American Whatever by Tim Federle  The Honeys by Ryan La Sala  The Grief Keeper by Alexandra Villasante 

[spacebar2]

A variety of sketches

(Characters, not creators.)

[huntress-of-stories-and-dreams]

Silence

It's quiet when Vox Machina brings Percival back to Whitestone.

One by one, they pass through the portal Keyleth had opened; Grog cradles Percy like a parent would a sleeping child, making sure he's not jostled too much, even though he knows it doesn't matter anymore. Their friend, his friend is gone and the only thing the giant can do now is carry their group's gunslinger back to his home.

There are no people on the streets for now, a blessing and a curse all the same. They can grieve on their own before they arrive at Whitestone Castle, battered and charred and fallen yet still standing despite all odds, just like Percy should have. The castle's walls aren't the same white as they have been just a few days ago, their shade matches Percy's hair, covered in soot and smoke: grey, not white like he remembers. It shouldn't be this way, he has to ask someone to fix this. At least this... this can be fixed.

People are gathering at the top of the stairway, already suspecting the wrongness but not knowing yet the extent of it. Then Grog sees Cassandra sink to her knees and the little (for him) weight of Percival's body grows tenfold suddenly yet unsurprisingly in some way.

He walks up the stairs, with feet of made of lead and each step a mile long. But he will walks those stairs with his head up high, with spring to his step, because he's bringing his friend home for the last time and this is how his friend would have walked those steps.

Read the rest of the story here.

[firefletch]

The main takeaways from Dracula so far:

Communication is good and healthy and important and if you stop doing that everything will go horribly wrong and people will die (based of him honestly and I agree)

Everyone who is smart and intelligent keeps a diary

[iriz-the-telepath]

Okay but what if Sophie actually dies fr and Fitz still hears her voice in his head (like when she “died” in book 1) except this time…

he really is just imagining it.

[shyguygubbs]

I was thinking about kotlc recently and how the Black Swan originally wanted to wait to bring Sophie into the Lost Cities until way later, probably when she turned 18, and how different of a person Sophie would have been if that were the case.

Like at the start of the series, she's this child prodigy who has to go to community college in the fall at the age of 12 because her parents won't let her go to Yale (a totally valid parental choice btw), and the thing is I think she would have THRIVED in that environment. Like at first she would be scared and hesitant because in all other school environments she has been bullied for being as smart as she is, but now she's going into a school that people choose to go to in order to learn. Community college doesn't just have mean, jealous teenagers who attend, there are people of all ages and all walks of life who are ready to learn. Sure, Sophie would still be the youngest one there, and I doubt it would be super easy with the whole mind reading thing, but she would be in a much more supportive environment when it comes to learning than anything else she's experienced.

She'd be able to make friends with her peers, being able to bond over a shared love of whatever they're studying, and these friends don't think she's too smart or too weird. She maybe finds some way to muffle the voices in her head better than her earplugs did. Yeah, she still gets headaches, but she can manage it. I can see her taking as many classes as she can, figuring out her passions and what she might want to do as a career. She'd be in a fantastic place academically to transfer to any school she wants when she turns 18. I can even see her parents letting her graduate when she's 17 and allowing her to transfer to a four year college to get a bachelor's in whatever she wants to study, whatever she finds her passion for, because she worked hard for this, and doesn't hate school now, and has found a path for herself in life that feels right.

And then the Black Swan shows up and whisks her away from all of that, and she's heartbroken because she doesn't need to be taken away from everything she's worked so hard for. Yeah it feels nice to finally have the whole mind reading question answered, but she doesn't need a new place to belong, she has one. I imagine this Sophie being a lot more confident in herself, but a lot angrier too. She's fascinated by her new world, but desperately wants to go back home, to just live out the life she's been working towards. I can see her working side by side with the Black Swan from the jump, because she's in a world with injustice and she can't just sit back and let this slide, but constantly fighting back this resentment for them and how they took everything from her. I think of how canon Sophie had a brief moment of hesitation when it came to training her Telepathy, and I think this older Sophie would be conflicted between wanting to know more about this abnormality that she's been dealing with her whole life, and wanting to cling to her human identity and her old life as much as she possibly can. Because she's been ripped away from it, and no matter what her genetics say, this Sophie still views herself as human.

[stellar-jay]

redesigning him. bonus warriors tail doodle under the cut

[chainlxnk]

fucking around w tam designs again bc it's my favorite thing to do ever

[thebloodmoon-chaos-house]

I got infected with Gjinka Disease and decided these guys’ human variants needed extra lore, so!

Grief trio!

As you may see, Amnesiac has crutches, that’s due to their mobility issues stemming from a head injury they sustained, which is what caused their amnesia and personality changes, which can also be seen by the bandages on their head.

Retired doesn’t seem to change a lot, though they have a scar over where their damaged eye would be, if, uh, if they still had it, that’s a glass eye.

And Lone… is there, I didn’t really focus much on Lone for this so there’s not much for me to say about him sadly

Grief trio + Keeper!

I get the distinct feeling Keeper might not be the best to look after Amnesiac, I can already see it trying to teach them how to make homemade bombs 😅

Then there’s Lone and Retired, just hanging out, Lone is probably the only Bloodmoon in here who’s allowed to carry Retired when they can’t walk

Keeper! So fun fact, they are being held together by several metal strings wrapped around their body in canon, which means that must happen in its human variant as well. Out of all the Bloodmoons, excluding the two gods, this one is the most zombie-like of them all, but don’t worry, they’re fine

Speaking of Keeper, here they are again with the string thing in action

Retired and Amnesiac during laundry day. The teen is showing Retired something in their Switch, Retired appreciates the distraction

Lone and Retired! Going back to the whole ‘Retired can’t walk sometimes’, yeah they kinda really hate that. They will push themselves to walk and ignore any and all pain they may be in.

As you may expect, this doesn’t end well for them

And lastly, Keeper and Retired

[snug-as-bugalugs-in-rugalugs]

WAIT NO YOU GUYS DON'T EVEN GET IT THO cuz when you think about it way too hard Watts having a gambling problem and losing all his money to a bad bet in 1902 is actually so interesting.

Like. Have you considered the fact that 1902 was the same year that Daniel Marks was brutally murdered? And that in all likelihood the gambling thing started when he was lost in grief after losing his little brother? After he failed to protect him?

And have you considered the fact that in the season 12 finale when John gets shot and Watts blames himself for it, his first instinct is to go to a bar and place a stupid little plinko ball on the same exact spot on the board over and over and over again? All so that he can somehow discern how much he actually has control over (and can be blamed for) and how much of what happens is just cruel, unpredictable fate... based on a children's game?? Have you considered the fact that he was literally just compulsively testing the parameters of luck? I mean, what even is gambling if not that??? I barely feel like I'm clutching at straws at all here, it's kinda crazy

[inlovewithquotes]

There should be a statute of limitation on grief. A rulebook that says it is all right to wake up crying, but only for a month. That after 42 days you will no longer turn with your heart racing, certain you have heard her call out your name. That there will be no fine imposed if you feel the need to clean out her desk; take down her artwork from the refrigerator; turn over a school portrait as you pass--if only because it cuts you fresh again to see it. That it's okay to measure the time she has been gone, the way we once measured her birthdays.

-My Sister's Keeper

[sayitan]

how to say goodbye brother's keeper au , drabble .

❝ grandmother, ❞ neteyam said, lowering his bow instantly as he stepped out from the overgrowth. mo'at crouched close to the streams edge, her fingers trailing through the clear waters. she seemed unsurprised by neteyam's arrival and somehow he knew that she had been waiting for him. for a moment he felt stunned that she still looked the same. he knew that it had been less than a year since they had said their goodbyes but it felt longer, as if decades had passed since he had last seen her. he felt older, aged and weathered beyond his years.

mo'at didn't move or respond to his presence and neteyam took his opportunity to move further into his camp grounds. there was little in way of belongings, a bedroll and a basket stash of dried foods and water but it lacked the familiarities of home, a camp of necessity only.

❝ how did you find me? ❞ neteyam asked. he had crossed paths with few of his omaticaya clanmates, those hunters he had met had been weeks prior, how mo'at had tracked him and so far from the ayram alusìng he could only guess. ❝ you should be with the clan, ❞

❝ i am tsahìk, i go where eywa wills it, ❞ mo'at informed matter-of-factly and only then did she look up at him. neteyam flinched when he met her gaze, turning away to set his bow aside.

❝ when the hunters told me of this . . . nightshade, ❞ mo'at began, the name heavily accented in english, ❝ i knew it could only be one of two, ❞

neteyam grimaced uncomfortably. he had not chosen the name, yet that was the title the rda had given him. from what neteyam had gathered the name referred to a toxic plant native to earth. awkwardly, neteyam thumbed his bowstring, suddenly feeling too big for his own skin. mo'at stood and faced him, walked towards him with a light foot and he cowed beneath her knowing gaze, guilt and shame coiling around him.

❝ i have news, grandmother, ❞ neteyam said, speaking to his bow rather than look at her, ❝ news from awa'atlu, ❞

❝ oh? and what news have you brought me that you could not come to tell me? that i had to find you here, so far from home? ❞ she spoke calmly yet her disapproval weighed her words heavily. for a moment, neteyam couldn't bring himself to speak, yet mo'at did not press him. she did not reach out or rush him, she only waited. patient as an old willow.

neteyam gathered his strength, though it trembled, composed himself and finally raised his gaze to meet hers. mo'at stared him down, her presence familiar and warm, her expression open and welcoming. the lines upon her face were deeper, but her eyes remained the same. wise and ever seeing.

❝ lo'ak . . . ❞ his brothers name choked in his throat and he felt his eyes burn with emotion. his heart leaped, pounding against his chest and neteyam swallowed thickly, blinking rapidly as he willed himself to be strong.

❝ lo'ak is dead, grandmother, ❞ his voice was a whisper, less than a whisper and yet the words felt as loud to him as crumbling stone. mo'at watched him with those same wise and ever seeing eyes and neteyam trembled. slowly, she reached out to him and neteyam let her. warmth rippled across his skin when her hands found purchase upon his shoulders and something within him burst wide open.

tears streamed freely down his face and mo'at pulled him into an embrace that warmed him from his core. she smelt of flax oil and elder roots, she smelt of home and safety, and all he could do was crumble in her arms. neteyam wept into his grandmothers shoulder, chest heaving, stomach cramping, and he fell apart. arms curling around her waist as he sunk into his grief.

mo'at shushed him gently, soothing his sobs as she stroked his back but he couldn't hear her over the sound of blood rushing through his ears and the ache of his broken heart. she murmured softly against his ear and into his hair, a stream of words woven together that reminded him of hot nights lounging beneath the roof of her marui while she told him stories of their ancestors. together, they sunk to their knees and mo'at pulled him still closer, rocking carefully back and forth. neteyam let every emotion, every sound and tear he hadn't thought to shed fall from him unrestrained and eventually he finally succumbed to exhaustion.

it was late when neteyam awoke lying on the jungle floor, his head in his grandmother's lap. she hummed gently as she brushed her fingers through his hair, slowly picking out his braids with long practiced fingers. eclipse had long past and twilight had fallen over them. his eyes felt heavy, swollen and dry, his throat tight and raw, yet he couldn't bring himself to move. he lay still in his grandmothers lap and imagined that he was still a child, that the rda had never landed, and that his brother still lived.

❝ you have neglected your braids, ❞ mo'at scolded. neteyam remained silent and his grandmother allowed him to, tutting softly. once she had completed one side of his head, she tapped his shoulder and neteyam rolled over, facing her stomach so she could continue her meticulous efforts with the other side of his head. it was an awkward position for her yet she did not complain. neteyam closed his eyes and mo'at began to hum a familiar song, threading her fingers through his hair and combing out the knots and tangles as she went. slowly, his hair came undone beneath her trained fingers, falling in crinkled waves all around them. the long hours has stretched between them until first light slowly spilled across the grounds.

❝ up now. i will braid your hair, ❞

neteyam obeyed. pushing himself stiffly into an upright position, his back to his grandmother as she continued to fuss with his long hair. he could smell the scented oils used to help protect their hair from harsh temperatures and he wondered if she had expected to do this when she had found him. as tsahìk, and as his grandmother, perhaps she had. it was only in the early hours of the morning, when she began braiding his hair around his queue that neteyam found his voice again.

❝ you already knew, ❞ neteyam said quietly. ❝ yes, ❞ mo'at said and neteyam's chest ached with a sudden pain that left him breathless. ❝ then you know it was my fault, ❞ ❝ neteyam, ❞ mo'at's voice was gentle, yet firm, ❝ the fault lies only with the humans and their weapons, ❞

sudden and stiffly, neteyam pulled away from the comfort and the warmth of his grandmothers hands, pushing himself to his feet. when he looked down at her, mo'at's gaze was filled with such sadness and sorrow that he had to look away.

❝ no, the fault lies with me, ❞ neteyam argued, ❝ it was my responsibility to lead him, to keep him safe, and i didn't. i let him go. i knew better, i knew what would happen, and i did it anyway, ❞ ❝ neteyam— ❞ ❝ no! ❞ his voice was harsh and cutting, ❝ you weren't there. you don't know, you didn't see. ❞ ❝ do not do this, ❞ mo'at warned, a familiar weight to her voice as she watched him. she didn't move from where she sat, she didn't stand and yet she seemed larger than life all the same. ❝ you are not to blame. come home with me. ❞

she reached her hand out and neteyam ached. a pain that had grown as familiar to him as breathing seemed to grow and expand within his chest like a balloon and when he looked into his grandmother's eyes, he saw the same pain reflected back at him. neteyam shook his head and stepped back.

❝ no, ❞ neteyam turned away, snatching his bow from the ground even as mo'at called his name. she stood now, her hands reaching out desperately but neteyam was faster. he slipped around her, pulling further and further, distancing himself from her love and her care. ❝ don't look for me again, you will not find me, ❞

❝ neteyam! ❞ he fled, disappearing into the wilds of the forest as mo'at called after him, sorrow and mourning wrapped within her every word.

[cherry-pop-elf]

Diary Of A Tavern Keeper: Madam Rosmerta

April 1st: 1999

The Day I Learned The World Is Truly Heartless, And Unforgiving

Dear Diary: I know I haven’t written in you in ages, but today has made me require you. I’ve come to need comfort from you, because I’ve had my world crumble. I thought I was so lucky, leaving with all my family alive, but it seems there are some burdens I’ll need to carry.

I better start from the beginning, dear Diary. It’s April First, and the tavern was bustling as it normally was. More playful than normal, of course. Was smiling all the same, as the kids were being kids. Playing pranks, and able to move on. The world was healing, and it was about damn time.

Was cleaning up some little ruffles of paper, from some exploding spells, when I saw a sad sap come in. Not uncommon for some homeless soul to find safety in my tavern. I welcome with open arms. The war has damaged everyone. Like hell I would turn away a face that needed help. Placed my wand in my hair, and tried to offer a welcoming smile.

Poor bastard looked like shit. Hair was so long and mangled. Such a dark color from never washing, I couldn’t tell if it was red or brown. Tucked under a beanie, and hidden in a warned out sweater. Bandages on his head, from the war I bet, and just looking broken. Teary stained on those freckles cheeks. My poor heart broke.

He would slump himself towards a booth, and just seemed to collapse in it. Trying to hide from the world, as he covered his head with his lanky arms. Poor baby. I just couldn’t leave him be. Had my kid make something fresh, before I came over with a warm butter beer for the poor thing.

As I set it down, I heard him humming. Was hard, with the noise of the tavern, but I knew that tune. I know my music. Poor lad was humming ‘Happy Birthday’ to himself. The last time I heard anyone sing happy birthday, on April First, was those wild twins.

I didn’t want to believe it, and I think my brain was in denial even. But when he noticed me there, and looked up, the world came crashing down on me. Seeing those familiar doe brown eyes. Big and brown, and looking so empty. Those freckled cheeks so flushed from his crying. I didn’t want to accept it, but it happened. A pair became one.

“Hey Mama Rose-“ That poor baby’s voice choked out. Through it all, he was still trying to force a smile. Try and brighten everyone’s world. This poor baby was trying so hard to be happy. Think he realized it wouldn’t work this time, because he hiccuped.

“Oh baby-“ I was soon in the booth with him, and just had to hold him close. I knew it was George. He was always the more emotional of the twins. If it was Fred, he would have been as silent as a Grave. Seems like he took the old saying too literal. That damn war.

Don’t know how long we were like that. How long he was sobbing. How long I stroked that poor greasy hair, or how long I even cried for. I couldn’t imagine the two of them being separated. That they were no longer a pair. They were ALWAYS Fred And George. The Weasley Twins. The Twin Terrors. Double Trouble. They were to fill the world with so much happiness.

I never let go. He needed a mama. Mrs. Molly wasn’t quite the best. I’ve seen her howlers. She’s rather aggressive. He didn’t need shouting. He just needed someone to cry on, and not try and tell him everything will be ok. Shit won’t be ok. His twin is dead and gone. I won’t sugar coat it, or hide from it, like I bet everyone else is. That’s not how you get closure.

“Stay here as long as ya want, lad. Ain’t turning you away.” I comforted. I knew why he was here. He was trying so hard to celebrate their birthday together. They came here every time it was. To prank the unsuspecting tavern goers. I loved it. I missed it. This baby is so brave, trying to keep the tradition.

He needed an escape. He couldn’t go somewhere familiar. It’ll remind him to much of his twin. He needed a change in scenery, and I’ll offer it. As long as he needed it. Those two were just little devils for my bar. Loved every minute of it. I’ll make sure he knows it. He needs someone to help him move on. And it seems his mother can’t solve all his problems this time.

As I write, I swear I can hear him sobbing right next to him. He’s just in the room over, and I tell you he’s crying away. His whole world is shattered, yet he’s trying so damn hard to keep living. To do it for Fred. He is truly the bravest man I have ever met. No one will ever compare.

This poor baby. Don’t worry George. Mama Rose will take care of you. You brought me laughter when no one else could. When I went through my divorce. Like hell you won’t have the gesture returned.

Good night, Diary. And good night Fred. Wherever you are, in this terrible world out there. We miss you.

[ghostplanet59]

ngl, i want a puppy for xmas..

[transmasc-tabris]

.

[sashada-g]

*slap slap* Johnny Silverhand is a character who can fit so much symbolism in him. He's a dog. He's a cat. He's a terminal illness and the ghost it leaves behind when it kills you. He's a demon. He's a guardian angel. He's the Hanged Man AND the Lovers AND the Temperance tarot cards simultaneously. He's Satan. He's the Sword of Damocles. He's fire. He's a haunted house. He's Dante Alighieri. He's Orpheus. He's Cassandra. He's Samson. He's your conscience. He's your sense of morality. He's your time of the month. He's addiction. He's America's horrible failure to support veterans. He's your will to live. He's your subconscious desire to rebel against the status quo. I love him; Johnny is a character than contains multitudes and half of them are actively trying to rip the player character's throat out.