#a Wanderer's Entreaty

[agentc0rn]

[wri0thesley]

non-con somnophilia where you are safe and protected and captive; where a yandere has put you in a bed draped with blankets, bolstered with pillows. where they've ensured you have soft pretty things to sleep in and tended to any wounds you might have gotten in the capture process, where they've talked to you and cooed to you and almost made you believe that they're not really going to hurt you--

only for the sight of you so peaceful and lovely to drive them to distraction. without acid on your tongue, it's all too easy to tell themselves that this is a relationship and not a kidnapping; that you would not mind if they let their hands wander over the softness of your hips, to part the pudge of your thighs. only for them to be able to explain away that the sighs in your sleep are sighs of pleasure; quiet entreaties for them to keep going--

and if you do wake up? if your eyes snap open, if your lips fall apart as if to protest? if their hand is quick enough slapping over it to muffle any noise . . . then they don't even have to let that interrupt them.

[daisychainsandbowties]

thinking about bea catching a cold in switzerland and ava making toast and tea for her and putting a little bouquet of wildflowers in a mug on the bedside table and bustling around their apartment wishing there was more she could do, more she could be, any way at all she could help bea feel better

standing watching Beatrice doze in the patch of light from the window, freckles picked out against her skin in tiny constellations. Ava who used to dream about lying underneath the stars finding them here on the ground, on earth.

the loose-limbed grace of her. Ava picking up a battered copy of Cosmos and reading to her from it, squinting at the little notes she’s left in black pen, red pen, blue.

‘from an intergalactic vantage point we would see, strewn like sea froth on the waves of space, innumerable faint, wispy tendrils of light.’

perched on the edge of the bed furthest from Bea. afraid to touch the edges of this ocean.

‘these are the galaxies. some are solitary wanderers; most inhabit communal clusters, huddling together, drifting endlessly in the great cosmic dark.’

she’s not good at making toast. the butter is always too hard, tearing the softly browned slices. or the bread is half-charred, heavy on the tongue. she carries each offering into their bedroom - stumbling over that statement, picking up the laundry on the floor because Beatrice is tired. lays her love down on the bedside table.

milky tea with a spoonful of sugar, paracetamol tablets from the store in town. she wants to be good at this, the making of toast and tea. keeping her hands at bay, how the tips of all her fingers ache for Bea’s skin, taking her temperature and staring at the residual heat on the backs of her hands.

Bea’s been teaching her about thermodynamics. loss and entropy and systems always in danger of unraveling.

you forgot to teach me this. toast and the exact angle of the butter knife. teach me your deft hands, your smooth motion, your warmth.

yes, she wants to know everything. yes, most especially Beatrice.

later, in moonlight, street-lights, Bea waking up and eating cold toast with relish. sipping cold tea. Ava almost phasing through the wall in a rush to make more, to make better, but Bea’s voice arresting her.

‘Ava.’

turning and seeing her, dressed in all their blankets, crumbs in the bed.

‘yeah?’

god, her voice. she slept for a day and Ava felt herself in mourning for it. dying from the want of it.

‘you look exhausted.’ her eyes are caught up in the shadows sprawled over the bed. maybe that’s for the best.

they close, she sighs. ‘come to bed.’

usually they’re exhausted at night. no negotiation in their touch. Ava just curls up around her, pretending to think it’s natural, normal.

(it is, it is, it is)

but now? Bea’s awake, watching her, asking for her.

‘i should-’

‘Ava, please.’ the entreaty is soft, like light. ‘just lie down.’ she pauses, calculates. ‘it’s chilly.’

‘you’re cold?’

Bea nods. it’s definitely a lie - she has all their blankets and there’s sweat on her brow.

maybe there are different kinds of cold, Ava thinks, climbing into the bed.

watching Bea’s eyes slip closed, like permission. sliding over the sheets, crumbs spilling as Bea turns toward the window, offering up the slope of her shoulder, her neck, the firmness of her waist.

touching her is like touching fire. Bea’s been teaching her poetry, too, and there’s one about a candle. silly, short, what Bea calls a ‘useful exercise for memorisation’ because she’s also teaching Ava how to scan a room for danger. to see what others don’t.

unbeknownst to herself, she’s teaching Ava to see her.

the poem goes like this. Ava recites it silently against Bea’s neck, feeling her relax into their shared space. this ocean, this shore.

“my candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but oh, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light.”

[lailoken]

Greetings!

If I may ask, what delineates an interesting natural find in the woods or river and a find that is a gift from a spirit?

How does one tell the difference?

I often find hagstones, calcite, and quartz geodes in just about every waterway I've come into contact with (albeit, nearly always after asking) and while I would love to believe that I've somehow interacted with the local water spirits, there always lingers a doubt within me that maybe I'm just lucky, or good at spotting patterns and I don't realize it. I a similar fashion, as of late, I've been stumbling upon whole, pristinely preserved white snail shells during my wanderings in the woods (again, usually after being struck by a sudden urge to move a specific pile of leaves, picking up trash, or being moved to place a different shiny in a specific location). It just strikes me as strange and wondrous that such things seem to happen in this manner for me, and I'd honestly like to know if my experiences are mere chance or if they are encounters with the Other.

On this note, what can one do with a surplus of hagstones and what are the uses of stump/tree hollow water? I recently "discovered" such a hollow in a tree I've frequented many times before but somehow never noticed the hollow in the trunk. I feel I'm supposed to collect water from it for something, but I'm not sure what.

Thank you again for your time!

That's a good question, though it can't exactly be satisfying answered in a one-size-fits-all sort of way.

For me, personally, I generally tend to consider something a Spirit Gift if it comes to me one of four ways.

The first is when I explicitly ask my Spirit Kith for help locating something and then end up discovering it within a reasonably swift window of time following my entreaty.

Secondly, I will sometimes find something I've been looking for in a particularly strange place or especially well-timed way, and it's hard to overlook those cases, even if I didn't specifically entreat a numinous entity for assistance.

Thirdly, I occasionally find something entirely by chance that I wasn't actively looking for, but which is so striking or unusual to find that I suspect that "hand" of the spirit world.

Finally, sometimes I'll find something without thinking much about it, only to discover later that this item is exactly what I need for a given ritual or magical operation.

As the circumstances I listed above descend in order from 1 to 4, it becomes less clear whether something is definitely a spirit gift or not. But in the end, I often choose to simply view it as such with gratitude, and leave offerings to cover my bases. In situations where it does prove important to know whether I've really gained the attention of a spirit or not, I use divination to clarify

As for your last additional questions: There is plenty you can do with a surplus of hagstones; you could incorporate into spellwork, you could use them to make amulets, you could gift them to others, or you could simply collect them. And I actually have articles on my website that talk about both Stump Water and Hollow Water.

[thelegolashairappreciationclub]

Noldorin Music; Afrobeat from Cuivinen to Valinor and back again.

Wanted to make a list of some afrobeat and adjacent songs that I associate with the noldor and other elven groups and why. It's great to see more elves of colour in art but skin colour isn't just an aesthetic, and its weird to see black characters only ever given white voices in music recs or playlists. This is just a small selection of headcannons I personally enjoy, I greatly encourage y'all to seek out other black artists to listen to.

Soso by Omah Lay. Older hymn from before the crossing, passed down more as a relic of old fear, has its resurgence among the noldor in Beleriand especially after the bragolach. Less of an entreaty to the valar than a demand for intervention from anyone who might hear. A desperate plea for anyone to take pity.

Love Nwantiti Remix by Ckay. You know the tra-la-la-lally elves that sing at bilbo and the dwarves in Rivendell? This is the Valinor equivalent. You are wandering Oromë's woods when you walk into a clearing full of half naked somewhat tipsy elves all dancing around and singing this.

Johnny by Yemi Alade. A song from before the crossing about a lady hunting down and beating up her cheating bf who is going around promising other women marriage and knocking them up. I have a vivid image of Míriel wine drunk at a party post-reimbodiment bursting into this song with Indis joining her. Everyone else is holding their breath waiting for an Incident... except Finwe, who is pissing himself laughing and actively cheering them on.

Pull up by Burna Boy. My hc is that Fingon is singing something similar to this in angband. It's completely unserious, just a fun song he remembers from home, remembers singing it outside Maitimo's window to bother him and make him come out faster. He's not expecting the wavering voice following his, thinks he's imagining it until it breaks away from his entirely and continues when he stops.

AKWAABA by GuiltyBeatz and Mr Eazi. Specifically a song for the weird cultural mishmash that occurred in communities built by thralls who escaped angband. Songs tend to be light on lyrics or include multiple languages. More about the sound of the music and embracing the feeling that your body is yours again, dance with us, you are free, go crazy, you are welcome here.

Bloody Samaritan by Ayra Starr. A prayer sung by Beleriand noldor, but not a serious one. Essentially used as a way to warn others you won't take their judgement while using the format of a prayer, like saying "God do you see this shit??" I associate this song with Galadriel in Doriath, dealing with rumours spread about her.

Bank on it by Burna Boy. The closest thing to a prayer that the thralls of angband's fighting pits have. A prayer for survival and for forgiveness for what they must do to survive. It's in Old Quenya, the first tongue. There's an intimate solidarity and fear between those who know it.

[fakesurprise]

A park, one evening

The first death was not easy. She had a hidden blade and anger both: she fought the Master, and he bled. From his blood I was formed, in the way of shadows but not quite. The first thing I saw was her death and his power both. The Master had too many teeth compared to his prey: long and sharp like his fingers.

He laughed, and I would have hid if I could. He saw me, and blinked.

“Curious. But this is a night for curious things. Fear is thick in the air, and my power runs deeper still. I bring death, and fear, and sweat glorious ruin. You will be a Witness to this.”

I had a name, and eyes, and a crushing purpose.

“Even my own blood fears me.” The Master smiled, delighted.

I followed. I could do nothing else.

The sun was a dream that might not come, the sky thick with dark clouds and distant thunder. Warnings the humans did not hear. The woods darkened. Fairy circles hid themselves away, but those were omens that humans did not see. Even so, their instincts warmed them away from the Master. Groups of people veered away from us without knowing why. Laughter turned nervous, excuses were produced that everyone agreed with but no one believed.

The Master could not leave the park; I was wise enough not to wonder why.

The woman arrived after others had warned each other away, headphones in her ears and walking without fear. Her blood was calm and still, and I knew that power lay within her. Which meant the Master knew that too. He circled her, and whispered charms that were almost entreaties. He was very charming. All monsters are.

The woman stopped, removing her headphones. She did not look afraid. “It is Halloween, I know, but that costume. Really?”

The Master moved, faster than humans could.

The woman stepped back, but claws sliced across her left arm.

She let out a hiss of surprise more than pain, eyes wide in shock.

“Are you stupid?” she said, which even I knew was unwise.

The Master drove his fingers into her belly in order to feast.

The woman did something. Closed the wound in a way that some power wasn’t meant to, scrambling back. “You’re new. To the world ,and to existing. Listen: run away. I am friends with the wandering magician, and you don’t want him involved in your affairs.”

“I am fear,” the Master hissed.

“Hi, fear! I’m Jay,” and a boy was behind the Master.

Fear - the Master - turned, confused.

The boy was eleven, with a smile that also reached eleven on the scale of one through ten. He had on a lab jacket. “Oh! I bet you don’t know me because tonight I'm a ScienceJay!”

“He’s very impressed,” the woman said, and the pain from the cut seemed gone.

“Did you need anything, Charlie? Cuz some bindings went weirdy you know!”

“I’m fine,” she said, so quickly the Master was nonplussed.

“That is not what I call being mine,” the Master said, and lunged.

The woman stepped back, swearing sharply.

The boy was between the Master and her. He had not moved, but simply was.

“You hurt Charlie.”

The Master sneered, and lashed out.

The boy caught the Master’s hand, his expression devoid of anything I understood. I realized that I could not hear his blood at all, though every sense I had swore he was a human child.

The woman pressed a palm onto the back of the boy’s hand. “I’ll be fine, Jay. He didn’t know.”

“He didn’t know he was hurting anyone?”

The woman blinked at that.

The boy stopped smiling.

The forest went still.

The Master is Fear. Only now it was because the Master was afraid.

“You hurt Charlie on purpose.” The boy’s voice was a whisper of slowly growing understanding. He did not need teeth to scare. Something unfolded that could not be.

The Master moved, and then the Master wasn’t.

The boy’s expression shifted from emptiness as he stared up at the moon in something close to surprise.

“That was a big unbinding,” the woman said, almost steadily.

The spot in the world where the Master had been was bruised.

The boy let out a shuddering breath, and then was beside me.

“I didn’t get rid of you. You’re you more than you are him, like I’m me more than I’m me,” he said, and somehow that made sense.

And the boy hugged me, for all that I wasn’t something he could hug.

He put me inside a flower, to enjoy the sun and forest both.

Then vanished, because of a phone call.

The woman stood on the path, staring at nothing at all until she looked at me.

“That almost went very badly. If the moon hasn’t howled out a hello to Jay -.” She trailed off. “You have a duty now, if any recognize you and come this way: warn them that Jay is very jaysome, and they should never want him to be otherwise. Tell them that Jay isn’t a monster, even on a night of monsters. And be very thankful that a ScienceJay can’t do most of what a Jay can.”

The woman walked away.

I did not understand her, not then. I did not want to, for many years.

Some fragments of the Master’s kind tried to return later, but I laughed it away.

I wait, in the manner of flowers. And I warn, in the manner of thorns.

[theseshipsshallsail]

Happy 3 year Call Me-Versary to me 🍑

Prequel to the journal fics, so can be read as a stand-alone.

Heaven, he’s found, exists within in a precocious brat with a penchant for classical music and obscure French novels, and Oliver can’t help smiling as he props his chin in his palm, the tips of two fingers tracing reverently over the rose-bud pout of Elio’s lower lip. 

A lip his malakh then bites; a too-knowing trait that drives Oliver half-wild with wanting each time he does it.

Breathless, he continues his explorations to the freckled constellation behind his left ear. Sweeps the pad of his thumb along the smooth curve of Elio’s jaw. It’s a familiar journey that somehow still feels like a discovery, and Oliver commits the details of Elio’s face to memory as he drops a kiss to his bobbing Adam’s apple, earning a heart-felt moan when wandering digits slide southwards to the waistband of his bathing suit.

Oliver’s bathing suit, technically, and the possessive thrill of seeing Elio in his clothes has yet to fade.

The cords at his naval are tied loosely, and recent experience shows that one sharp tug will bring them to Elio’s knees, exposing his secrets and eager manhood alike. That’s not what Oliver craves right now, though - flanked by gnarled olive trees and stunted pines - and the lean grooves of Elio’s stomach tense as he picks at the knot slowly. 

Already, his erection strains beneath the yellow cotton, and Oliver knows he’s just aching to be free of the netted material. But patience is a virtue, or so they say, and still he takes his time. Stretching out Elio’s desire and need. Feeding it. Rewarding him with a second kiss to his nipple when slender fingers wrap around his wrist, flexing repeatedly in silent entreaty.

“Look at you,” Oliver murmurs, angling up to sample that tortuous bottom lip for himself.

The way it plumps and swells in his mouth holds him in thrall, and Oliver nibbles playfully as he squeezes the jut of Elio’s hip once, twice, three times deliberately. His cheeks ache from an unstoppable grin. Blood thrums at his temple. Happiness spreads through every corner of his being, and it’s only when Elio’s breathing picks up that he finally, finally, eases the bunched material from his pearling crown.

“What about me?” Elio asks belatedly - squirming to kick the borrowed trunks from his ankles - and Oliver allows it, struggling to focus with so much beauty laid sprawled in a canvas of aster and cornflowers.

He’s hard himself - uncomfortably so - but his focus is otherwise engaged as it flicks from Elio’s wiry forearms to his heaving chest. His tapered waist to the dark curls at his groin. Monet himself could paint no better masterpiece, and put together the sum of his parts leaves Oliver desperate for more. 

“Sometimes,” he murmurs, removing a leaf that’s gotten snagged in Elio’s hair. “...I can’t help thinking I wasn’t real until I met you.”

Elio hums. Soft and playful. “That’s funny,” he says, draping his arms around his neck. “Sometimes I think I dreamed you into life.”

There’s a quiet moment of understanding. Gentle as the ocean waves lapping the cliff’s edge below. They might be a secret to the rest of the world, but the pair of them know what they mean to one another, and Oliver’s eyes burn with unsatisfied tears as he slips a still-clothed thigh between Elio’s, pinning him down as the steady push-pull of stimulation drives them ever higher. 

Elio goes immediately pliant - content like always to be naked before him - and Oliver pins his wrists above his head, wondering if love always feels so overwhelming. So electric. So gut-wrenchingly painful. There will never be enough time to slake his longing, and loath as he is to admit it, Oliver’s already preparing for the day he can’t quite recall the sound of Elio’s pleasure. 

The specific point on his side that makes him giggle and squirm. 

The sense of utter completion he’s discovered nowhere save the sanctuary of his arms.

He knows who he’s supposed to be. Who he needs to be. And despite his deepest wishes Elio Perlman will soon be lost to the relentless march of time. The burden of family responsibility is Oliver’s only option, and in following the path of least resistance he must consign his first love - his forever love - to some tchotchke-ridden corner of his consciousness.  

A sun-bleached chapter of freedom and candour, when if he were just a little braver, it could be an entire book.

[aaknopf]

A multi-generational saga courses across the pages of Ædnan, by Sámi-Swedish author Linnea Axelsson, translated from the Swedish by Saskia Vogel. The verse epic follows an Indigenous Sámi family who have herded reindeer for generations, as the forces of colonialism and modern development of their ancestral lands threaten their culture and livelihood. The story is told by a small chorus of characters from the 1910s through the current day, and we become especially close to Lise, who left her Sámi family, following her brother Jon-Henrik, to be educated at a residential school for “Nomad” children. This excerpt from Chapter XII takes place in the early 1970s, along the Great Lule River Valley, where the state-owned Vattenfall company was developing hydroelectric resources, and Lise is graduating into a world unimaginable to her parents.

. .

The river climbed silently up the hills

as soon as Vattenfall whistled it came creeping:

–

Streamed backwards up its deep channel and drowned the earth

When the great Suorva Dam for the third time was to be regulated

–

Entreaty

shone from Mama’s eyes

–

She explained clearly to the Swedes 

that the fishing will suffer if the water rises

–

There was probably no one who understood what she was saying

– –

After the social studies lesson I went with the others to sit on the gymnasium floor

–

Almost all of Malmberget’s students had been dismissed from class

– To participate in the miners’ strike meeting

 –

Someone had heard that Olof Palme was coming

that he would travel all the way up here 

–

To the mining company’s and Vattenfall’s world the one that he himself had helped build

–

It is what he is guarding

It is all that he can see

–

The mine boss���s voice

flowed wildly above the crowded hall which was hot with bodies

–

His voice was so robust his conviction so intense

–

I glanced at Anne who was sitting beside me leaning against the wall bars

and she smiled back at me

–

Soon we would be leaving school too 

–

And could start working join the union

–

You took the job you wanted that’s all there was to it 

– 

Switchboard cleaner or cook

with the old folks at the Pioneer or the children in day care

– –

I spend the weekend up at Mama and Papa’s 

–

I stand with Jon-Henrik

 –

Watching the river flow murky across the slope

–

That brushy slope

where he and I used to go it’s underwater now

 –

How are our tracks ever to be heard Among the Swedes’ roads and power stations

–

It’s Jon-Henrik who says this he had also been drawn down to the dam

–

To work for Vattenfall as soon as school was done

 –

I’m surprised when he says

That he’d preferred to have taken up with the reindeer

–

Been elected into the Sámi community

And learned to guide that wandering gray soft ocean across the world of the fells

–

Just as the lot of us were once taught at the Nomad School that this is what the Sámi do

that this is how we all live

–

He laughs and says:

–

Who knows what the spring flood will bring with it

this drowned  earth may yet be fertile

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Ædnan by Linnea Axelsson.

Check out The Rumpus for a conversation between Linnea Axelsson and Susan Devan Harness about Axelsson's Sámi heritage and the decision to write Ædnan in verse. 

Click here to read Linnea Axelsson's op-ed piece for LitHub on Scandinavia’s hidden history of Indigenous oppression.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[andromeda4004]

"new tag game fuck it

For my writing pals, mostly. But Who's Counting. It's cocky hours but make it communal.

For as many as you want of your published works, pick your favourite line/paragraph and post it up here. Let yourself feel proud of your creations."

I was tagged by @voluptatiscausa - thanks very much!

So let's start with my personal favourite, Mission: Ineffable:

The bag over his head was itchy and thick, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The barrel of a gun was pressed into his temple, but that wasn’t the worst of it, either. No, the worst of it was knowing that if this didn’t pay off, he had no other ideas left to try. “I thought I was going to see J?” he tried.  “Perhaps I misunderstood.” A pause, and the bag was lifted with unforgiving speed.  He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to sudden daylight.  The glare resolved into a figure dressed in black, draped over the seat and arm of a wingback chair like a discarded scarf.  Long lines of arms and legs in studied relaxation, except for the chin propped forward onto a hand, and the unreal focus of a pair of – Aziraphale blinked again – bright golden eyes, framed by a tousled auburn bob.  This had to be J.  Good Lord. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” To the point, then.  “Ah, hello.  I need one point five million dollars.”

From my Regency human AU, Morningstar Abbey:

The General found his anger once again.  “Then you may leave, sir; the hospitality of my house is withdrawn from you.  I will not have Anthony wasting his time on someone so beneath him.  The carriage will be waiting for you in an hour to take you as far as Oxford; you may find your own way home from there.” The shock, the disappointment, the offence warred in Aziraphale’s breast as he heard Crowley and Adam both exclaim at their father, with entreaties and curses.  There was no purpose to fighting this moment; he had dared to harbour a fragile bud of hope that something might be done, that he might at least get to stay until the New Year, but this was only confirmation of what he had already known; the General would never accept this match.  He summoned his dignity against the storm of emotion and took two steps towards the General, who was glaring at him, ignoring the rushed words of his sons. Aziraphale pulled himself to his full height.  “I would not stay another minute if you begged me.”  The door slammed heavy behind him.

And from my latest, The Serpent of the Loch:

His mind wandered briefly to that easily-offended nemesis, with his dignified huffs of disapproval, and his rather less dignified flouncing.  Crowley’s mind had been wandering in that direction quite a bit lately.  It was the greenery, he was sure; that and the free time to sit and philosophise about Good and Evil.  It was just so much more interesting to do that with the angel around to argue with him.  Argue, and share a drink, and maybe even, by the end of the night, a smile.

Tagging @afrenchwriter, @theyhadcrepes, @sabotage-on-mercury if you want to share something 💖👀

[acommonloon]

Homeless Jesus

This was the first day I can remember wandering Bardstown Rd without being approached by a black man who wanted me to give him money.

My street wandering, curtailed by Covid, has only recently become a thing again. Leading up to Covid, the panhandlers in every part of Louisville had become aggressive. Gone were the days of humble entreaty. “Could you spare a dollar or anything?” Instead they would hail me loudly from across the street, Hey Hey my man! Can I talk to you for a second? They would hurry over and start their con.

Most people would just put their head down and walk away. It’s what D wanted me to do. I struggle to embrace meekness. I’ve nothing to inherit.

These harassers weren’t homeless, just grifters running a con. Like 45.

[miirshroom]

"Events may be horrible or inescapable. Men have always a choice - if not whether, then how, they may endure." - Cazaril, "Curse of Chalion" by Lois McMaster Bujold

"As the golden barbs inflicted eternal agony upon him, Midra held fast to Nanaya's entreaty: 'Endure.' The word was a curse." - Remembrance of the Lord of Frenzied Flame

Have been listening through "The Curse of Chalion" by Lois McMaster on audiobook. Early 2000's fantasy novel that I'd not encountered before, but has similar tone to Carol Berg's Rai-Kirah trilogy and Robin Hobb's Farseer trilogy from around the same era. It was a slow burn on the fantastical elements but once they kicked off I'm finding some familiar themes around death magic in the way that it is applied in Elden Ring.

Like, I have a concept of the characteristics of a "ghost" from pop culture osmosis, and the prose here describes it well:

"Old lost souls…No god takes up a sundered soul. It is left to wander the world slowly losing its mindfulness of itself and fading into air. New ghosts first take the form they had in life, but in their despair and loneliness they cannot maintain it".

This recalls to me mostly the ways that "souls" are presented in Demon's Souls, actually, but it carries through to Elden Ring in the way that the most degraded form of the soul detaches and hovers in various places waiting to be collected. Or how the Spiritgraves in Shadow of the Erdtree are the fading ghosts of graves.

There's the titular curse of the Bastard god, which corrupts the royal family like the demi-gods are tainted by their great runes. Also bringing to mind that the Remembrance of Astel, the Naturalborn of the Void can be used to craft the "Bastard's Stars" flail. Another design feature of the Astel being the gold rings around its tail, suggesting a connection to the Golden Star that delivered the Elden Ring with all of its corrupting influence.

But the parallel that is hard to overlook is in the mechanics of the death magic. To cast a death curse always is to slay both victim and caster and have their souls carried away by a demon. Due to a conflict between two divine powers acting at the same time there is a half-finished assassination where a soul is prevented from leaving and manifests to all mundane appearances as a cancerous tumour in a person's body. Similarly, the double deaths of Ranni and Godwyn are half-completed and this is connected to the deathroot which spreads across the Lands Between like a cancer.

BUT, did I enjoy The Curse of Chalion? I liked about the first 3/4 of the book but have mixed feelings about the ending. On the one hand, it's interesting to see a protagonist who recognizes that being ignorant of the truth does not protect people from consequences and has a fairly quick turnaround on keeping his allies informed, even of the crazy supernatural stuff. And the curse is lifted in the end, which effectively amounts to lifting the influence of a god - cool.

On the other hand, there was a literal Deus Ex Machina required to accomplish this and the main character concludes that for at least the last 3 years of his life everything that he has suffered has been orchestrated by this god to fulfill a prophesy that will lift the curse. All he had to do was endure and keep devoted to the higher purpose and in the end he is miraculously cured of an ailment, gets the girl, and is advisor to a queen. It's the kind of contrived outcome that only makes sense where gods are real and take active interest - and the text makes a point that faith in the existence of gods is absolute (due to a guaranteed miracle that everyone gets at end of life that shows which of the 5 gods their soul has gone to). So it's instructive about how to imagine what theology would be like in a world where the gods and demons being debated are literally real and active. But the ending is a little less intuitively cathartic for observers living in a world that is not like that. So if intuition fails I try analysis.

"If the gods saw peoples' souls but not their bodies in mirror to the way people saw bodies but not souls it might explain why the gods were so careless of such things as appearance or other bodily functions. Such as pain? Was pain an illusion from the gods' point of view?" "Perhaps heaven was not a place but merely an angle of view. A vantage. A perspective" - Cazaril

The pain of the character is indeed an illusion from the point of view of the author writing the story. I can see the thoughts (soul) of this character on the page and I know from those thoughts that he has gruesome and painful scars, but I can't see his body so if he didn't keep thinking about them I could forget that they exist. I wonder if there is an intent to partially deconstruct faith in this story. Some of the theological musings at the end dance around the idea that it is easy to read stories as validating religious belief, because 'faithful' characters will always be objectively correct that there is an omniscient divine being - the author - who deals out trials and rewards, and to whom people are puppets pulled along on strings. And once a character grasps this new perspective how could they not be struck by an obsession to describe the experience to other characters? Resulting in a sudden change of personality and detachment from former desires?

The only remaining point of contention would be on whether that author is a benevolent god for giving life to these souls or malevolent demon for causing suffering (an in-universe debate in the Curse of Chalion between the 5-gods religion and 4-gods religion - which honors the 4 gods of the 4 Seasons but insists that the Bastard god of Unseason is a demon!). And speculations on how the gods themselves are made and what happens if they die.

"Death ripped a hole between the worlds…If a god died what kind of hole would it rip between earth and heaven?"

If "god" is the author then what happens upon "death of the author"? There is no more mediator between the imagination of the reader (heaven) and the author's text (earth). In short: fanfiction. One may imagine that characters freed from the hand of the author can find happiness. Or, it can be imagined that their illusory struggles continue. Otherwise, they simply return to non-existence.

[agentc0rn]

The Visionary’s Soliloquy

-> The Professor's Elegy

-> A Wanderer's Entreaty

I feel at peace after finishing this! While it was great to finish, I do miss working on the process though. Nonetheless, it took a good while to complete this due to real life stuff and creative stumbles. I wanted to nail Lysandre's character and stay true to canon as much as possible, but at the same time show more facets of his that were not addressed/fully fleshed out in the games as opposed to the anime and manga counterparts. I found him difficult to draw and write lol. Lysandre was a pretty interesting character with an actually well built evil organization if XY went deeper with them.

With that, a three-part comic series, unofficially titled as the Triad of Kalos, has been finished! This mini project was a way of dabbling in good ol Kalos' story and its potential, added with my ideas.

[lothiriel84]

So They Went to Cromer

AU. Margaret has no living relations who might take care of her after her father's death, and Mr Thornton feels compelled to beg his mother to do so in his stead.

A North and South ficlet. Background John/Margaret.

“She cannot stay here, John. People are already talking, and you know well enough the mill would hardly survive a scandal of these proportions.” 

Her son merely scoffed at what he clearly perceived as a most trivial objection, and she knew from the stubborn set of his jaw that there was nothing she could say that would make him see reason. “The way matters are standing, I have very little hope as it is to keep in business much longer. Mr Hale was my friend, and I owe it to his memory to see to his daughter until alternative arrangements can be made for her comfort.” 

Hannah shook her head but relinquished any further attempt at persuasion, at least for the time being. Conscious of her duties towards her unwanted charge, she took herself upstairs to check on that girl. She found Miss Hale precisely where she had left her, her tea untouched as she sat very still with a book in her lap, lost in contemplation of the magnitude of her grief.  

“This will never do, Miss Hale,” she sighed, struck afresh by the unwelcome memory of those terrible days she had once spent in a daze of stupefied apathy, before her motherly instincts had finally spurred her into action. “We ought to find you some useful employment – you will feel better for it, I promise.” 

She saw a shadow of recognition flicker across the girl’s ashen features. “You are right, Mrs Thornton,” Miss Hale murmured as she stood with aching slowness, and put the book aside. “I would not be more of a burden than I already am.” 

.

If there was one thing Hannah felt sure of, it was that she quite disliked the seaside. So used had she become to being in charge of her son’s household, and helping with the running of the mill besides, that she found this state of forced unemployment quite unsustainable – and if it were not for John’s pleading entreaties that they removed to Cromer for the summer for his own peace of mind, she would not have hesitated to pack herself and Miss Hale on the first train to Milton.  

She knew her son was finding Miss Hale’s continued presence in his house exceedingly difficult, despite all his protestations that he was merely concerned for her wellbeing as the orphaned daughter of his late friend, and they could not very well leave the girl to fend off for herself without any friend or relation to protect her. Mr Bell had initially offered to care for Miss Hale, but it had rapidly become apparent that the indifferent state of his health would soon prevent him from undertaking any such a commitment; although some mention had been made in passing of a relation of Mr Hale’s settled somewhere in Spain, there was no question of removing Miss Hale from England until she had recovered sufficient strength to face the journey.  

Why Miss Hale’s mysterious lover had not come back to fetch her was something Mrs Thornton could scarcely account for; and while she would not think so badly of the girl as to suspect her of an illicit attachment, surely there had to be some serious impediment preventing the marriage.  

All her careful enquires in that direction had yielded nothing but a melancholy declaration on Miss Hale’s part that she knew now she would likely never marry; her relation in Spain would take good care of her, and in turn she would look after his children as if they were her own, and be content. 

.

“I cannot see why John does not offer for her and has done with it,” Fanny stage-whispered once her new husband had taken his leave of both ladies, and Miss Hale had wandered off to stare out to sea as had lately become her habit. “He thinks I do not know, but one ought to be blind not to realise he still cares for her.” 

“Your brother will not thank you for meddling in his private business,” Hannah swiftly reprimanded her, and if her tone was more cutting than she meant to employ, it had more to do with her growing suspicions about the state of Miss Hale’s heart than with her daughter’s more immediate transgression.  

“John is as much of a fool as Miss Hale is,” Fanny went on, undeterred. “It is not quite the thing, to provide for an unmarried young lady who is entirely unconnected to him – she cannot be blind to the impropriety of it, and yet, for all her pride, she does not object to it.” 

“You will not mention any of this before Miss Hale, Fanny, and that is all there is to it,” Hannah commanded in such a manner as brokered no objection. Her daughter pouted, shrugged, and launched herself into a detailed account of all the delicate attentions her dear Mr Watson had seen fit to bestow upon her over the entire course of their wedding trip.  

.

“It is my John, is it not?” Hannah demanded quite brusquely, her hand clasped around Miss Hale’s arm in a vice-like grip. “This man you always speak of with such regret, he’s none other than my son.” 

The girl met her penetrating stare with a pensive glance of her own; but it was only for a moment, then her eyes went back to the perpetual movement of the waves crashing onto the seashore. “It does not matter. I have very little doubt he will soon find someone better suited to him – and I wish him every joy of it, for there is scarcely any other man more deserving of such happiness than he is.” 

“Miss Hale, you do not know what you speak of,” Hannah shook her head in exasperation, the burden of a beloved son’s disappointment bearing down on her conscience like a millstone. “I know my son’s heart better than my own, and there is very little room in it but for the woman who once saw fit to reject him under no uncertain terms.” 

“He told me himself, that he no longer cares for me,” Miss Hale acknowledged in a small voice, her quiet composure wavering only for a moment. “So you see, Mrs Thornton, he is quite safe from me.” 

Mrs Thornton all but dismissed the notion with an imperious wave of her hand, and turned to face the girl more fully. “He will not offer for you again unless he is made aware of your changed opinion, Miss Hale. Indeed, he might not even then, because of the precarious state the mill is in – through no fault of his own, if I may add.” 

“If he thinks any such consideration would prevent me from accepting him, then he does not know me at all,” Miss Hale declared with unanticipated passion, her cheeks colouring as she instantly regretted her forwardness.  

Hannah regarded her for a long moment, and it was as if she was seeing the girl for the first time; then she nodded to herself, and accepting Miss Hale’s arm once more, they strolled back in a silence that was, if not companionable, at least no longer hostile on either part. 

.

John had come at last to fetch them back to Milton, and there was something so distracted about his manner his concerned mother could scarcely refrain herself from enquiring about it.  

“He was her brother,” her son uttered, as if in wonder, holding out a letter marked from Cadiz, Spain. “I have been such a fool, Mother, and now it is much too late.” 

“Nonsense,” Hannah declared with unmovable conviction. “She is right here, and unmarried still. I have been wrong before, but I know for a fact she would more than welcome your addresses now. All you need do is ask, son, and you shall be given.” 

“I cannot credit it, Mother,” he replied, slowly, and there was something exceedingly pained to his tone. “And even if by some miracle she has indeed come to care for me, how could I ever – she deserves so much better than to find herself tied to a failed mill Master, unable to provide for his own family in the manner any respectable man ought to.” 

“I have every faith in you, son,” Hannah proclaimed, placing both hands on his shoulders. “And so you should have faith in God’s own Providence, and the strength of a woman’s true devotion through many a shared adversity.” 

She saw his gaze drift, almost against his will, in the direction Miss Hale had walked off. “Her brother has a greater claim on her, you must see that.” 

“Go to her, son,” his mother entreated him once more, and when he finally did, she found her lips curling in the faintest suggestion of a smile.  

[just-horrible-things]

Shorts

I am pulling out everything less than 300 words from my misc writing post. They get their own category now.

View them all: #short

Catalogue:

In House 93 words Snippet on the origins of “contestants”

Do You Realise 36 words Aggressive dialogue

The Angels And The Rocket 250 words Angels observe humanity and are unsettled

On Love And Endings 145 words Nearly poetry

No Blood 43 words They say we all bleed the same...

A Cut Above The Rest 167 words A gifted individual rejects an offer to change sides

Naïve 80 words Snippet of retrospective on judging one another’s world views

A Good Job 115 words Blunt honesty in the aftermath of an unspecified disaster

Think of Me 196 words Do you think of me, when you play your helpless little songs of defiance?

The Wanderer Returns 262 words Poetry. A homecoming to ruins.

Temple of Rust and Ruin 94 words A warning regarding safe conduct within the temple

Guinea Pig 279 words A prisoner is enrolled in a drug trial without consent.

I Had It Handled 278 words Torture victim saves herself -- mostly.

Don’t Mind Me 247 words Victim wakes restrained with a creepy figure at the foot of the bed

Sources 298 words Magic is powered by suffering. But it doesn’t have to be your own.

Falcon 25 words Almost poetry

Too Beautiful To Grow Old 51 words Faerie entreaty

For Once Needy 91 words Creepy captor with defiant victim vulnerable in their sleep

Punish Me 74 words Generic character begs for punishment

Not To Be A Creep 76 words Internet weirdo plugs whump website

The World Ended 57 words On living through the end, and carrying that with you

The Dead Speak To Me 168 words Brief horror piece on hearing ghosts

Prisoner Delivery 254 words Historic/fantasy prisoner treated roughly

Command Decisions 127 words Monologue on the decisions that war demands

The Pit 206 words Where monsters are made

Pinned 135 words Brief interaction between telepath and a victim pinned by her power

Negotiation 95 words We don't negotiate with hostage-takers -- until we do

Capture 182 words Violent manhandling

Alike 141 words A promise of the inescapable influence of an enemy

Another Dose 176 words Prisoner goes through withdrawal as captor withholds drugs

Cope 145 words Rant on living through the intolerable

Masterpost created: 26/09/23

[yhwhrulz]

Charles Spurgeon's "Morning & Evening" Devotional for January 9

Morning

“The Lord reigneth.”

Genesis 11:1-9

Genesis 11:4

They would found a universal monarchy of which this tower should be the centre. They planned the tower that they might not be scattered, and they thus forgot the command to replenish the earth. Ambition was at the bottom of the plan; by centralising all mankind they hoped to build up an empire, which, like their tower, should defy heaven itself.

Genesis 11:5

To him their huge tower was a mere nothing; he is said, after the manner of men, to come down from heaven in order to see such a trifle.

Genesis 11:8

How easily can God thwart our plans, and bring to pass his own purposes, despite all opposition. The scene has been very graphically sketched by Bishop Hall. “One calls for brick, the other looks him in the face, and wonders what he commands, and how and why he speaks such words as were never heard, and instead thereof brings him mortar, returning him an answer as little understood; each chides with other, expressing his choler, so as he only can understand himself. From heat they fall to quiet entreaties, but still with the same success. At first every man thinks his fellow mocks him; but now perceiving this serious confusion, their only answer was silence, and ceasing: they could not come together, for no man could call them to be understood; and if they had assembled, nothing could be determined, because one could never attain to the other’s purpose.”

Psalms 33:10-22

As a fit comment on the transaction at Babel we will read apart of

Psalms 33:22

We have done with self-confidence which is but a vain tower of Babel, and we fly unto the Lord our God who is a tower of defence to save us.

In his providential reign,

Oh, what various wisdom shines!

He confounds the pride of man,

Blasts the people’s vain designs;

Brings their counsels all to nought;

Only his abideth sure;

What the gracious Lord has thought

Shall from age to age endure.

Evening

“I am a stranger with Thee.”

Genesis 12:1-8

Genesis 12:1-3

God had elected Abram, and therefore in due time he called him, and so separated him unto himself. All the chosen seed must in this be conformed to the father of the faithful.

Genesis 12:4

The grace which chose him made him obedient, and he left all at the divine command. Only in the separated life could he inherit the blessing, and therefore he cheerfully forsook all to follow his Lord.

Genesis 12:5

It is not enough to set out, we must persevere to the end.

Genesis 12:6

Though the land was given to the patriarch by promise, yet he did not actually possess a single foot of it. Unbelief would have reckoned this to be a very shadowy inheritance; but faith is the substance of things hoped for, and makes us content to wait. The Canaanite is still in the land, yet we rightly reckon that all things are ours.

Genesis 12:8

The patriarch was careful to maintain the worship of God wherever he might be placed. Go where we may, let us not forget to render devotion and obedience to God.

Hebrews 11:8-10

The secret of Abram’s prompt action may be seen in

Hebrews 11:8-10

Abram had to come out from idolatrous Chaldea, and so must we be separate from the world which lieth in the wicked one. He became a pilgrim and a sojourner, and so must we. This is not our rest, ours is a pilgrim’s life, we are wanderers till we reach the city which hath foundations. He pitched his tent and wandered up and down in the land as a stranger, but he was no Canaanite: here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come. He who finds a rest here has none in heaven.

2 Corinthians 6:14-18

2 Corinthians 6:18

Oh, that the Lord may make us, as a family, separated unto himself.

We’ve no abiding city here;

Then let us live as pilgrims do:

Let not the world our rest appear,

But let us haste from all below.

We’ve no abiding city here;

We seek a city out of sight:

Zion’s its name the Lord is there;

It shines with everlasting light.

Copyright Statement This resource was produced before 1923 and therefore is considered in the "Public Domain".

[skeleton5]

Ovid's Metamorphoses, tr. Anthony S. Kline

A complete English translation and Mythological index

'I change but I cannot die.' Shelley, 'The Cloud' 76

Bk III:339-358 Echo sees Narcissus

    Famous throughout all the Aonian cities, Tiresias gave faultless answers to people who consulted him. Dusky Liriope, the Naiad, was the first to test the truth and the accuracy of his words, whom once the river-god Cephisus clasped in his winding streams, and took by force under the waves. This loveliest of nymphs gave birth at full term to a child whom, even then, one could fall in love with, called Narcissus. Being consulted as to whether the child would live a long life, to a ripe old age, the seer with prophetic vision replied ‘If he does not discover himself’.

    For a long time the augur’s pronouncement appeared empty words. But in the end it proved true: the outcome, and the cause of his death, and the strangeness of his passion. One year the son of Cephisus had reached sixteen and might seem both boy and youth. Many youths, and many young girls desired him. But there was such intense pride in that delicate form that none of the youths or young girls affected him. One day the nymph Echo saw him, driving frightened deer into his nets, she of the echoing voice, who cannot be silent when others have spoken, nor learn how to speak first herself.

Bk III:359-401 How Juno altered Echo’s speech

    Echo still had a body then and was not merely a voice. But though she was garrulous, she had no other trick of speech than she has now: she can repeat the last words out of many. Juno made her like that, because often when she might have caught the nymphs lying beneath her Jupiter, on the mountain slopes, Echo knowingly held her in long conversations, while the nymphs fled. When Saturnia realised this she said ‘I shall give you less power over that tongue by which I have been deluded, and the briefest ability to speak’ and what she threatened she did. Echo only repeats the last of what is spoken and returns the words she hears.

    Now when she saw Narcissus wandering through the remote fields, she was inflamed, following him secretly, and the more she followed the closer she burned with fire, no differently than inflammable sulphur, pasted round the tops of torches, catches fire, when a flame is brought near it. O how often she wants to get close to him with seductive words, and call him with soft entreaties! Her nature denies it, and will not let her begin, but she is ready for what it will allow her to do, to wait for sounds, to which she can return words.

    By chance, the boy, separated from his faithful band of followers, had called out ‘Is anyone here?’ and ‘Here’ Echo replied. He is astonished, and glances everywhere, and shouts in a loud voice ‘Come to me!’ She calls as he calls. He looks back, and no one appearing behind, asks ‘Why do you run from me?’ and receives the same words as he speaks. He stands still, and deceived by the likeness to an answering voice, says ‘Here, let us meet together’. And, never answering to another sound more gladly, Echo replies ‘Together’, and to assist her words comes out of the woods to put her arms around his neck, in longing. He runs from her, and running cries ‘Away with these encircling hands! May I die before what’s mine is yours. She answers, only ‘What’s mine is yours!’

    Scorned, she wanders in the woods and hides her face in shame among the leaves, and from that time on lives in lonely caves. But still her love endures, increased by the sadness of rejection. Her sleepless thoughts waste her sad form, and her body’s strength vanishes into the air. Only her bones and the sound of her voice are left. Her voice remains, her bones, they say, were changed to shapes of stone. She hides in the woods, no longer to be seen on the hills, but to be heard by everyone. It is sound that lives in her.

Bk III:402-436 Narcissus sees himself and falls in love

    As Narcissus had scorned her, so he had scorned the other nymphs of the rivers and mountains, so he had scorned the companies of young men. Then one of those who had been mocked, lifting hands to the skies, said ‘So may he himself love, and so may he fail to command what he loves!’ Rhamnusia, who is the goddess Nemesis, heard this just request.

    There was an unclouded fountain, with silver-bright water, which neither shepherds nor goats grazing the hills, nor other flocks, touched, that no animal or bird disturbed not even a branch falling from a tree. Grass was around it, fed by the moisture nearby, and a grove of trees that prevented the sun from warming the place. Here, the boy, tired by the heat and his enthusiasm for the chase, lies down, drawn to it by its look and by the fountain. While he desires to quench his thirst, a different thirst is created. While he drinks he is seized by the vision of his reflected form. He loves a bodiless dream. He thinks that a body, that is only a shadow. He is astonished by himself, and hangs there motionless, with a fixed expression, like a statue carved from Parian marble.

    Flat on the ground, he contemplates two stars, his eyes, and his hair, fit for Bacchus, fit for Apollo, his youthful cheeks and ivory neck, the beauty of his face, the rose-flush mingled in the whiteness of snow, admiring everything for which he is himself admired. Unknowingly he desires himself, and the one who praises is himself praised, and, while he courts, is courted, so that, equally, he inflames and burns. How often he gave his lips in vain to the deceptive pool, how often, trying to embrace the neck he could see, he plunged his arms into the water, but could not catch himself within them! What he has seen he does not understand, but what he sees he is on fire for, and the same error both seduces and deceives his eyes.

    Fool, why try to catch a fleeting image, in vain? What you search for is nowhere: turning away, what you love is lost! What you perceive is the shadow of reflected form: nothing of you is in it. It comes and stays with you, and leaves with you, if you can leave!

Bk III:437-473 Narcissus laments the pain of unrequited love

    No care for Ceres’s gift of bread, or for rest, can draw him away. Stretched on the shadowed grass he gazes at that false image with unsated eyes, and loses himself in his own vision. Raising himself a little way and holding his arms out to the woods, he asks, ‘Has anyone ever loved more cruelly than I? You must know, since you have been a chance hiding place for many people. Do you remember in your life that lasts so many centuries, in all the long ages past, anyone who pined away like this? I am enchanted and I see, but I cannot reach what I see and what enchants me’ – so deep in error is this lover – ‘and it increases my pain the more, that no wide sea separates us, no road, no mountains, no walls with locked doors.

    ‘We are only kept apart by a little water! Whenever I extend my lips to the clear liquid, he tries to raise his lips to me. He desires to be held. You would think he could be touched: it is such a small thing that prevents our love. Whoever you are come out to me! Why do you disappoint me, you extraordinary boy? Where do you vanish when I reach for you? Surely my form and years are not what you flee from, and I am one that the nymphs have loved! You offer me some unknown hope with your friendly look, and when I stretch my arms out to you, you stretch out yours. When I smile, you smile back. And I have often seen your tears when I weep tears. You return the gesture of my head with a nod, and, from the movements of your lovely mouth, I guess that you reply with words that do not reach my ears!

    ‘I am he. I sense it and I am not deceived by my own image. I am burning with love for myself. I move and bear the flames. What shall I do? Surely not court and be courted? Why court then? What I want I have. My riches make me poor. O I wish I could leave my own body! Strange prayer for a lover, I desire what I love to be distant from me. Now sadness takes away my strength, not much time is left for me to live, and I am cut off in the prime of youth. Nor is dying painful to me, laying down my sadness in death. I wish that him I love might live on, but now we shall die united, two in one spirit.’

Bk III:474-510 Narcissus is changed into a flower

    He spoke, and returned madly to the same reflection, and his tears stirred the water, and the image became obscured in the rippling pool. As he saw it vanishing, he cried out ‘ Where do you fly to?  Stay, cruel one, do not abandon one who loves you! I am allowed to gaze at what I cannot touch, and so provide food for my miserable passion!’ While he weeps, he tears at the top of his clothes: then strikes his naked chest with hands of marble. His chest flushes red when they strike it, as apples are often pale in part, part red, or as grapes in their different bunches are stained with purple when they are not yet ripe.

    As he sees all this reflected in the dissolving waves, he can bear it no longer, but as yellow wax melts in a light flame, as morning frost thaws in the sun, so he is weakened and melted by love, and worn away little by little by the hidden fire. He no longer retains his colour, the white mingled with red, no longer has life and strength, and that form so pleasing to look at, nor has he that body which Echo loved. Still, when she saw this, though angered and remembering, she pitied him, and as often as the poor boy said ‘Alas!’ she repeated with her echoing voice ‘Alas!’ and when his hands strike at his shoulders, she returns the same sounds of pain. His last words as he looked into the familiar pool were ‘Alas, in vain, beloved boy!’ and the place echoed every word, and when he said ‘Goodbye!’ Echo also said ‘Goodbye!’

    He laid down his weary head in the green grass, death closing those eyes that had marvelled at their lord’s beauty.

    And even when he had been received into the house of shadows, he gazed into the Stygian waters. His sisters the Naiads lamented, and let down their hair for their brother, and the Dryads lamented. Echo returned their laments. And now they were preparing the funeral pyre, the quivering torches and the bier, but there was no body. They came upon a flower, instead of his body, with white petals surrounding a yellow heart.