#and continue until winter then continue again until spring then the endless cycle continues

[trans-phone-eater]

[santaasi]

yours: forever and always

pairing: ex!james potter x fem!reader

summery: even after betrayal you're still ready to accept James in your heart.

warnings: angst, mention of cheating, no use of y/n, english isn’t my first language

word count: 1.6k

a/n: I know I promised you fluff but I fell terribly sick and lately i’ve been kinda depressed, so I could only write and edit angst right now. but nevertheless, i hope you will like it :3

You stood on the marble staircase of Hogwarts, gazing out at the garden blanketed in a thick layer of snow. In winter, it seemed as if life had paused there: the trees no longer echoed with birdsong, bees no longer flitted above the flowers, and the once-vibrant colors and scents no longer captivated the senses. The garden was barren, a reflection of your own inner emptiness. Yet, unlike the garden, destined to burst into life with the arrival of spring, you doubted if your own renewal would ever come. As the garden would awaken, its cycle of life beginning anew, you remained uncertain if you could ever reclaim the sense of confidence and joy that your parents had instilled in you since childhood. You felt hollow and adrift, struggling to hold on to the person you once were, while the weight of your emptiness made that task seem impossible.

"Aren't you cold?"

He came again, as he always did.

Until now, you had been comfortable standing in the cold, clad in nothing but a light dress, barely noticing the chill your companion had mentioned—perhaps you had simply grown too accustomed to the cold. But that was before James Potter arrived. With him came a change in the very air, sending a shiver down your spine and freezing your heart within your chest. Yet, as soon as his jacket brushed against your bare shoulders, your heart resumed its rhythm, beating faster with every passing second.

James stood silently beside you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his expensive black trousers. Despite the fabric of his jacket separating you, you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. An urge welled up inside you—to lean into him, to nestle against his neck and breathe in the scent of campfire smoke and freshly cut grass, to feel his arms encircle your waist, pulling you close to his solid chest, and in that embrace, to feel alive once more. But in reality you didn’t even spare him a glance.

You stood as still as one of those ancient Greek marble statues, your gaze fixed on the lifeless winter garden. Memories flashed before your eyes like scenes from a film, each one a reminder of what James Potter had put you through in these past two months. Two months that felt like years, as if they had suspended your life in an endless pause, leaving you an observer to your own story.

Even now, after everything that had happened, you still couldn’t grasp why—despite all the hurtful words, despite all of James's actions that shattered your heart into countless fragments—you continued to wait for him, to love him. You weren't weak, and you certainly didn't see yourself as spineless. Yet, with him, you became someone else entirely. You transformed into a version of yourself that no one, not even you, had ever known.

"I want to talk."

His voice cut through the silence once more, and you allowed yourself five seconds — just five fleeting seconds — to look at him, to etch his image into your memory, so you could hold on to it before you closed your eyes tonight. Those five seconds were all you needed to take in the sight of his unruly curls, the ones that always fell over his eyes, which were the color of rich cognac, a gaze that could make your head spin in an instant. You remembered how you used to brush those curls away with a smile, tucking them back with a tenderness that was yours alone, or how you would braid a tiny braid in his hair when it grew too long. You still kept a pack of those little rubber bands in your bedside drawer, bought just for him.

Five seconds were enough to notice the watch on his wrist— the one you gave him for your second anniversary, the one that marked the beginning of the end. The end that came when you discovered James Potter had cheated on you with Lily Evans.

Lily Evans, who had always been flawless, utterly perfect. You never liked comparing yourself to others, but next to Lily, you couldn’t help but despise every part of yourself. Every cell, every atom. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t her fault. It was James Potter’s love that changed people. Once you had basked in the warmth of his attention, you could never be the same. You would always crave more, always fear he would leave, because beside you was the unattainable, perfect Lily Evans. And the worst part? You couldn’t even blame him for his choice. If you had been in his place, you might have chosen her too.

But what hurt the most was that in those five seconds, you fell in love with him all over again. How pathetic.

"Love, I know that I have hurt you many times, but..."

The sound of his voice made your head spin, and the endearing nickname he had used all these years pierced your heart anew. Yet, you had grown accustomed to this pain, so much so that it had become almost comforting. A sad smile touched your lips as you lowered your gaze. The snow beneath your feet creaked softly, almost soothingly. You exhaled, and it felt as though something within your chest shifted. Before you could fully process your thoughts, words began to flow gently and unbidden from your lips.

"Y'know, I've been thinking ‘bout this for a long time... ‘bout everythin’ that had happened. I've been trynna find answers to the questions that have been botherin' me all these months. I've been trynna figure out what's wrong with me, because no matter what you do, I always want you back"

You interrupted James's familiar speech, one you had memorized through years of breakups and reconciliations, and decided it was time to speak your truth. You could no longer keep hidden what you had been afraid to admit for so long. You were exhausted by the rumors that swirled through the Hogwarts corridors, weary of the judgmental and pitying glances you endured. You were tired of maintaining the facade of strength and righteousness.

"In the end, I have come to the conclusion that I will always keep the doors to my world and my heart open for you"

You chuckled softly at the thought that anyone overhearing your words might see you as a foolish, naive girl hopelessly in love. But it wasn't like that at all. The euphoria of your relationship had long since faded, and now you were reflecting with the clear-eyed perspective of an emotionally mature adult.

"It’s not that I’ll put my life on hold, waitin' for you and sheddin' endless tears. No, I will live, I will find joy, and perhaps I’ll meet someone who will love me. But… if one day you come to my door, tell me that you love me, and ask me to be yours, I don’t think there’s anything – and i mean it – anything in this world I wouldn’t give up for you, James"

You finished speaking, a small puff of steam escaping from your lips. Slowly, you turned to face James. He stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the snow-covered tops of the bushes, his hands buried in the pockets of his black trousers. A few snowflakes had settled on his white shirt, leaving tiny, wet traces behind. He remained silent, his eyes finally meeting yours with a mixture of frustration and longing.

With a sigh, you smiled with mild irritation, carefully slipping his jacket from your shoulders and returning it to him. For a brief moment, your fingers brushed against his, and a familiar electric current surged through you. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, filled with both softness and yearning, but you kept your head lowered. Turning away, you walked back towards the ballroom, bracing yourself for the inevitable barrage of questions from your best friends, Mary and Kate, about James and all this situation.

"Love, I…"

You turned around, watching James as he struggled to find words to respond, but you had long lost interest. His lengthy, insincere apologies, filled with empty promises, no longer held any meaning for you. You were weary of it all and only wished, just once, to hear him say the words that could have made you surrender entirely. Three simple words that, even for a short time, might restore what you once had. Because James Fleamont Potter was, and always would be, both the beginning and the end for you.

"I don’t need your answer or your opinion, James. I just wanted to tell you that there will always be a place for you in my heart, and that I will always love you. Maybe someday I’ll be the one for you, and our feelings will be mutual. But even if that doesn’t happen, know that there’s at least one person in this world who will always be waiting for you, ready to give up everything for you. Let them call me pathetic or foolish, but I will never leave your side."

With those words, you finally walked away. James heard the heavy door slam shut behind you, and with it, the sound of his chance slipping away. He never intended to hurt you, yet it seemed he would forever be the villain in this story. Not the hero who rescues the princess from the evil dragon, but the dragon itself—destined to guard her from harm, while inflicting the deepest pain.

thankx for reading <3

so that it. i don’t think it’s my best work but there something about it that i like very much. in some way this work helped me with my current emotional state. so i just decided to post it. hope everything is fine in your life and you are happy.

also i want to remind you that you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox. i’ll appreciate it :3

- your santi 🪐

masterlist

[catcze]

hey, it’s kiwi anon! there’s still a long wait until kazuha comes out (i play on the na server ;;), so i took it upon myself to write some cheesy thing i had on my mind. :)

warning,, it’s cheesy, lengthy, and comfort fluff because i happen to be into that stuff.. sorry, you have been warned!!

(there might be mild grammatical errors too,, sorry i haven’t written something this long in a while- ><)

(it’s also first person because i literally struggle writing second person stuff but i’ll work on it!!)

i’m here today to feed the kazuha simps. 💗

“

Eternity be,

In your fond embrace I find

The warmth in the storm.

”

Clouds shrouded the once sunny streets of Liyue in an unusual darkness. As the streets emptied itself of its plentiful merchants, a silence fell upon the harbor. Perhaps, it was a shadow looking down on my own misfortune.

For months, I had sat idly by the shores of Liyue Harbor, though my efforts were to no avail.

Although the spring had come along to introduce the snug welcome of blossoming flowers, I longed for nothing more than to return to the autumn, when the leaves showered from above and a strange breeze swept me off my feet. Except, that figurative breeze was a human.

I could only grasp what was left of the past and the memories of a mystery I could never solve nor have the courage to investigate, for his gentle smile was something no mortal could uncover. It was like holding onto a thin string that’s only mere seconds away from ripping apart; as the fierce winter wind blew and the sun rose and set in its ever endless cycle, I feared that the ronin had decided to follow his own promise-less wind and that our promise was too much of a burden for him to carry.

I breathed in the earthy scent of rain and heaved a heavy sigh. It was a day of unfruitful waiting made worse by the disruptive weather.

And though the clouds began to thicken and gather from above my head, I was in no rush to hurry into shelter: my show of stubborn grudge against my hapless fate. But as the thunder began to rumble and the familiar touch of raindrops on my skin multiplied, I gave in. I grunted as I stood slowly, still purposely taking my time.

As the fabric of my clothing began to soak and stick to my skin tauntingly, I strolled across puddles, unhurriedly dragging my feet along them. I watched my feet and noticed the ripples I made with each step I took. The little waves reminded me of him and his ventures out at sea. And as the rain poured seemingly without end, I began to dwell on the samurai’s safety. May the Sevens keep him safe through any storms he may face, I prayed to myself.

Storms at sea are treacherous, he once told me; just as the wait for his arrival was quite treacherous, with my patience almost completely spent.

This time, the walk to my home was unusually time consuming. Maybe, despite the rain, part of me refused to admit another defeat.

My pace came to a pause and I spaced out, asking trivial questions in my clouded head. But as I continued to stare down at the drenched ground, looking into my warped reflection, an unfamiliar figure came into view, caught briefly by the edge of my eyesight.

Perhaps, the streets weren’t as empty as I thought they were.

I felt sorry for blocking their path, so I began to shift forward. “Sorry, please excuse me,” I apologized. But when I began to lift my head, I paused in a sudden motion.

There stood my purpose, holding an umbrella; it was as if he was immune to the rain. My eyes traced along the features of his face, taking in the coziness of something so familiar. The depth of his fiery red orbs engulfed me in a newfound warmth in the cold rain. His gaze took in the scene, and we shared a comfortable silence for a while.

“What curious serendipity, Y/N,” he spoke in a soft hum, a tender smile creeping onto his face. I had forgotten how much I missed the way he voiced my name; there was nothing like it. He always spoke with poetic intent, like he was writing a song with his words alone and singing it as they left his lips.

But before I could speak, he abruptly interrupted, “Join me under the umbrella before you catch a cold.” He motioned me towards him with his bandaged hand.

I began to walk towards him, but after such a long wait, I couldn’t hold myself back from running into his arms. Instinctively, he let go of the umbrella and caught onto my figure. When he had processed what was happening, he chuckled lightly, wrapping an arm around my waist and the other around my neck, playing gently with my soaked hair and holding my head close to his chest.

His heartbeat matched the pitter patter of raindrops reaching the ground beneath us. There was no other feeling like this one, for the embrace we shared in that moment felt like something both of us had been waiting for for a lifetime’s worth.

Even as the rain poured onto our bare heads, it felt like autumn had returned once again; the raindrops almost reminiscent of maple leaves in the wind.

“Kazuha,” I mumbled, not knowing what to say next. “Yes, I’m here,” he answered affirmatively, resting one of his merciful hands on my cheek as his thumb wiped a tear that I never noticed I shed.

He was here and that was all that mattered.

- kiwi ! (writing out of self indulgence!!)

(i may or may not be coming for catte’s career. /j)

ajnd KIWI OMG THIS WAS SOO GOOD AAAA <3333

Baby I've been out of inspo for the whole day, so PLEASE Thank you for feeding the Kazuha nation for me 😭💞 My career is yours for the taking, love ♡ /hj

ajdna LITERALLY THO THis was so good?? OMG I'm so bad at putting my compliments into words because I just wanna scream aout how good it was!! But the writing style, the way you described things–– PLEASE I'm in love <333

akjnad That was literally so cute and so sweet and so aAAAA<333 Kiwi anon ilysm omg <333 Please feel free to send me these if you ever feel self indulgent again–– The Kazuha simps and I would be so thankful 🙏😭💞

Also I hope you get Kazuha soon my love!! I don't know how many more hours the NA server has left, but hopefully it's not too long!! <333

[the-fae-folk]

A Quiet Walk

“Ardri?” “Hmm?” They were out at the city’s edge again, wandering among the trees while still in sight of the towering city walls. Nod had told them that the Lord of Autumn had requested that they refrain from wandering too far from the city without some kind of guard or someone powerful enough to protect them if they were attacked by some fell monstrous Fae under the dominion of the Dark Fire. But though their host’s home was beautiful, and the parts of the city that hadn’t been touched by the invasion were pleasant and grand, it was like suffocating after a while. Ardri had lived in the forests and hills all his life and never seen cities nor even buildings until late into his journey. While Sam  had lived in the Midwestern U.S. in a very small town surrounded on all sides by endless fields , low rolling hills, deep streams, and the occasional copse or even a mostly untouched woodland in the distance. Neither felt comfortable being told they couldn’t leave the confines of the high walls and opulent, decorated, buildings. Though, as Nod thoughtfully pointed out, the Lord of Autumn had only said that they not wander too far. Not that they actually couldn’t leave. And of course, their accompaniment only had to be someone powerful enough to protect them, but not necessarily some official officer from the guard or a bodyguard. So now the pair was comfortably strolling through the trees, accompanied by the Phoenix, who had happily come along with them when Sam asked it to. Though it did not, or perhaps could not speak, it seemed to understand what they said to it and make its thoughts known through expression. And it seemed to like Sam, which was a good thing, especially since the rest of the Folk in the city seemed to be a bit afraid of it. The fire from the great bird’s feathers did not burn or even set alight any of the trees, grass, or ferns they brushed against, instead sending little dancing wisps of golden flame into the air behind it, only to have them vanish away after a moment. “What are the crowns exactly? Where did they come from?” It was a fair question, thought Ardri. Most Faeries had some idea of the crowns or had heard of them at least. Though even then they were hardly ever explained. Once the old Faerie who had told him stories under the tree at the top of the hill had told him a bit about the four crowns of the Courts of Season. “Well,” he said, trying to remember the details as best he could. “The crowns of Summer, Winter, Autumn, and Spring are newer, but still very old. They were made just before the great wars, long before humankind was born or your world came to be, during the Golden Age of Faerie. Then they were lost and not found for a long time. And the ones who found them made new courts, the Courts of Season. It’s their power that lets the courts control the seasons, lets us dictate the turning of the the cycle, our courts extending our territory into your world so that you might share in the gifts of winter and spring and summer and autumn.” From the expression Sam was making, this was a very strange, though fascinating, idea. Ardri couldn’t help a small smile from inching onto his face as he continued. “They were made to house some of our strongest magic of the Golden Age, to bring prosperity and wonder to our people. But they were also a source of devastation in the wars. I suppose it depends on who uses them, and why. “As for the other crowns. Well the Crowns of Light are ancient, incredibly old. I don’t know their story, but maybe some other Faerie knows or has heard of it. The Crown of Shadow is from the time right after the Imprisoning War, when we were trying to rebuild our world. I don’t know why it was made, but its just as powerful as any of the three crowns of light, and is equal to all four of the crowns of seasons at once.” Sam thought about this. “Alright,” he said with a nod. “What about the one you’re seeking then? The First Crown?” With a shrug, Ardri glanced ahead of them to where the direction of their travels would lead them right back to the main path and out of the woods. “I know its the oldest. The first. It’s supposed to go all the way back to the very beginning of Faerie, maybe even before. But what it is, who made it, or even why they made it... has been forgotten. All we know is that it’s powerful enough to make whoever has it the King over all Faerie. Powerful enough to stop everything from being destroyed or consumed by the dark fire. At least, that’s what we hope. Its really our only hope.” They walked in silence for a while, Sam’s thoughts racing as he thought about the magical crowns of Faerie, and Ardri wondering what life might have been had he never needed to know or hear about the crowns or the great courts at all. If he’d just lingered forever in the forests of his home, dancing beneath the trees, swimming in the rivers, playing under the stars. But then... if he hadn’t gone on his journey to better Faerie in some way, if he hadn’t gotten caught up in the old and terrible consequences of days and deeds from before his time, he might never have ventured into the Human world... and never met Sam.

[greaterspawnislands]

the shrike to your sharp and glorious thorn | of the seed and the sickle

their first meeting

(or, hades and persephone, i suppose that’s one way to look at it)

links in the notes/reblogs :) 

In the center of a valley, past evergreen trees that border a rushing, bubbling river, past tall, spindly aspen trees with leaves that are just starting to turn sunset shades of orange and yellow, is a small farmhouse. Bordered by fields with crops ready for harvest and the forest beyond, the idyllic house crafted of spruce and stone sits alone. The dwelling is still and silent, save for one restless being, who stands at the kitchen window and stares at the stars.

Phil exhales lightly from the counter, fingers tapping alone the smooth-cut stone. The house is quiet. Tommy is fast asleep, the nine-year-old tired out from another day of running through fields and forests on another adventure. Wilbur, not much older at thirteen, is just as tuckered out from keeping up with the younger blond, though whether he's actually asleep or using the moonlight to read books by is hardly Phil's concern.

Humans exist to fail by trial and error, after all, by consequence or natural progression. In the end it doesn't matter in the slightest, as mortal lifespans pass in the blink of an eye. Little changes from one life to the next, absolutely unchanging when it comes to books read by moonlight and heavy eyes refusing to sleep.

Children learn, and change, and learn, and change, and die.

Phil sighs again, wings fluttering behind him with a never-ending restlessness. His mind is a cycle of endless, meaningless thoughts that swirl like the clouds in the sky above him, parting briefly to reveal unconnected constellations that span across the dark sky.

The kitchen is barely big enough to fit his wingspan but Phil extends his extra limbs anyways, wings trembling as they brush against cabinet doors and pass the open doorway to touch upon the main room. Some of the moonlight catches on his feathers, glossy cream feathers dappled with the floral hues of light green, pink, and blue, the colors of a clear spring sky over a field of campions.

He wants nothing more than to take flight, now, soar until he finds a field exactly like that, but there will be no flowers blooming this late in the year, not without his coaxing. It is the time for deciduous trees to change the colors of their leaves from a summer green to a display of fire without the heat. A burning, brilliant showcase of shades before winter winds sweep in to douse the flames and bring bare branches and bright white snow to cover the ground completely.

Spring can not come early, nor disrupt the flow of the seasons that mortals so desperately rely upon to track the course of their lives until they no longer make it to the next turn of temperature. The Winter-Bringer flies the skies now, with his wings made of dark, opaque ice and endlessly calm disposition, for fall and winter move slowly, relentless yet patient in their arrival. Phil, in great contrast, is scattered and hasty, ready to melt snowdrifts with a flap of his wings at any second to watch bright flowers bloom under his gaze.

He has lived far too many centuries now to try and disrupt this cycle that he and Bad have fallen into, not willing to push his luck with The Balance any more than he does already.

Phil folds his wings and steps outside, pausing carefully to listen for either of his human sons' movements in the dead of night. There is silence, and so he steps outside, shivering as a cool autumn breeze rushes at him from the forest beyond. Hours left until they wake and he can fill another day with the love and care he has set aside for them, but now is no longer that time.

Outside, standing on the porch and looking out over his fields that he coaxed from the earth with careful hands, his fingers twitch. The knife sits in its sheath against his side, and he knows how trivially easy it would be to call upon Technoblade. Centuries ago, now, he could have flown into battle over Techno's head, landing his own blow as the Blood God took what was within his name to do.

Phil held his tongue to keep from cursing out The Balance aloud. It wouldn't give him anything except a visit that would fucking terrify his kids, which is the last thing he wanted. Now, he knows, that when he calls upon Technoblade that all he'll receive is a sorrowful look hidden behind the gentle smile given to the two mortal children who crowd his legs and beg for stories of grandeur and glory.

His wings catch the breeze a little as he steps out into the fields, barefoot, and he flaps them once, twice, watching the grain ripple out like the waves of the ocean. It shimmers, briefly, before settling, and Phil casts his eyes to the skies, wishing for something he can do nothing about except wait for.

Waiting, that's all a god's existence is, these days. Waiting for the moment of allowance when what was within a domain could be used or brought upon the world. Order, it was called. Balance, it was decreed. Chaos, dosed out in controlled segments, punished for being overused on a whim.

Bullshit, Phil sometimes privately thinks, when selfish thoughts crowd his mind.

He reaches the edge of the forest, casting a backwards glance at the house before departing into the treeline, forced to bend his wings to accommodate the interspersed tree trunks and bushes that crowded the forest floor. His fingers snatched leaves from the sky and scooped them up along the forest floor, feeling the cool plant matter against his fingers before he released it back to the rest of the rotting leaves along the floor. A trail of freshly green leaves followed him, from his footsteps and fingertips, turning in wandering circles until he is entirely surrounded by trees that are slowly blossoming to life again underneath his touch. They are the same leaves that thread throughout his hair, an array of flora blossoming along his scalp, intertwining with his blond locks. His coat, too, is made of those same spring-green leaves, shifting in dappled sunlight, sadly stagnant so late at night.

Around him, the animals that haven't already found shelter for slumber scamper across the forest floor, looking for a place undisturbed by a deity and his widespread wings. Crickets chirp in the undergrowth, and a few curious birds flutter along the treetops, wings beating among the leaves as they settle on branches to peer down at him from their perches above.

Soon, Phil stops underneath the stars, a spot where the trees have pulled back from each other just far enough that when he tips his head back, he can see the clouds clearing to display the stars, and when he looks around again, he can see no fields just beyond.

"Oh, shit," Phil mutters aloud, slowly realizing how far into the forest he's walked. "Where the fuck have I wandered to?"

He isn't answered so much as heard by a single crow, hopping down a few branches to perch upon a limb just a few feet taller than him. Phil meets the bird's gaze, and the two winged beings look curiously at each other for a moment, searching for more than what might meet the eye.

The crow takes flight in a blur, brushing right past Phil's cheek in a brush of wing that makes him yelp in surprise, turning his head to follow the crow's movements. "Hey!"

A few paces away, the bird waits on another perch in a different tree, still staring dead in his eyes, head tilted in clear expectancy.

Two more crows join the first, hopping on branches and the knots that jut out from various trunks of aspen trees. Phil continues to follow the first crow even further into the forest, a sense of uneasiness curling within him as more and more birds populate the trees around him, all staring down at him with the exact same inquisitive eyes, staring, watching, waiting.

It would be easy to turn around, or to fly out of here in an instant, back to the safety and stillness of the farmhouse and the two safe children that sleep within it. It would be easy to shake off the curiosity and excitement that mingles with this nervous feeling, to return to a routine of simplicity and ease.

But there is not much that Phil would consider to be beyond his knowing, these days. Now, hundreds of crows stare down at him from the trees that stretch high in the sky, nearly blocking out the orange leaves entirely as their round black bodies press together and their wings fluff out, all identical and yet Phil is certain he knows exactly which crow is the first one to appear to him, the one continuing to hop between branches as he follows, nearly dashing across the forest floor. Even more crows flutter around him as he moves, wings brushing against his own and landing on top of his striped hat or resting on his arm for a moment before taking flight again.

It's overwhelming, it's overbearing, and it's exciting. A wide, wild grin stretches across Phil's face as he spreads his arms, turning and laughing as the crows fly around him in a blur, hiding even the trunks of the trees from him now as he spins with them.

And then they're gone, off in a mass of beating wings and flurrying feathers, and Phil stands at the mouth of a large, dark cave, watching as the murder descends down into the darkness that lies below.

"Wait!" he calls, but the crows do not answer. They move as if they had never pressed their wings close to his cheeks, they move as if direct by something else entirely, they move as one.

Phil analyzes the structure of the cave, the width and angle of descent in a few quick glances. The cave is wide, and he cannot remember if he had been able to see the walls of it before, but when he looks at it again the slope is more than wide enough to accommodate his wingspan, walls consumed with shadow. The calls of the crows are growing fainter, and Phil does not spare a glance back to the forest and what rests outside of it.

His wings snap out, pastel coloring swallowed by dark shadow, and he flies, wings carrying him down in a quick descent as he takes off after the murder of crows who had led him here.

A breathless laugh leaves him as he flies again, wings maneuvering through the wide tunnels and closing to dart between smaller spaces held up by pillars of dirt and stone. He can barely see, and yet instinct takes over, following the distant cries of the crows through turns and tunnels and pausing, once, in a wide open space where a pool of water opens over a great cavern. Phil stays aloft there for a moment, marveling at the dark water he cannot see the bottom of and the ceiling he cannot reach, before taking off after the crows he can still hear, though deep inside him he knows they should be so much farther now, and he knows that they are waiting for him.

The tunnels narrow the more he flies, and soon Phil is struggling to keep his wings from brushing harshly against the sides of the tunnels, wincing as he dives through narrow gaps and struggles to keep aloft. He can no longer hear the crows, but he continues to fly anyways, pushing himself through the ever-narrowing tunnels until he can no longer flap his wings. Phil tumbles to the ground, pulling his wings against his back before standing again, staring at tunnel that waits ahead for him, barely taller than he is, and just as dark as everything before him.

Phil frowns, the sense of adventure draining from him as the mobility of his wings is restricted again. He scoffs lightly, listens out for the crows and hears nothing, and turns to find his way back out again.

The tunnel shakes, and rocks begin to fall around him.

[maxparkhurst]

River Stones

The air was thick with summer heat, tasting of salty brine and realism. Hot winds rolled in over the fetid Sounde. Quietly suffocated the last inkling of spring idealism in the relentless humidity. Oppressive in the morning with only the scorching promise of a sunburnt blue sky in the afternoon, the days dragged on at an unforgiving drawl. Boralus responded in kind. Men shed their shirts and women bathed by luncheon. Children doused themselves in the sea and elderly sheltered in the shade. By the third bell toll, the Harbor was quiet as some retreated for an afternoon nap.

With the bustle of the city fading into a distant hum, Max waded knee-deep through brackish waters. Majority of her afternoon was spent in the Winterdeep Basin searching for Riversbud. The channel flowed near Bridgeport, just on the outskirts of Boralus. Waterfalls brought run-off from the mountain peaks, tempering the water with tepid pleasantry. Max appreciated the reprieve from summer’s blistering heat as she cut through the water’s glass surface and rummaged through its depths. Her skin greedily drank from it. The sun had rubbed her shoulders, elbows, and cheeks raw on the trek here.  Dried and stretched her skin like a piece of papyrus waiting to become parchment.  Having just her elbows submerged sent chills down her spine. She could only imagine how heavenly it would feel to sit beneath the waterfalls until she shriveled like a prune. Alas, there was work to be done and o’ so little time to play.

Her fingers skidded over river stones, feeling along their worn-smooth faces. It probably spent years hidden in the creek. Its story eroded by an endless stream until only a featureless stone remained, evolving into a perfect version of itself. As all things do. As it is written. A disquiet smile touched her lips as she flipped the stone over. The mud beneath was chilling and rife with algae. She bit back a disgusted whine as she dug through the slime. Buried beneath the muck, a stalk of Riversbud grew. Its sewn blades brushed against her fingers. Elation warmed her numb hand.

Max saddled back on her haunches and plunged her other hand into the brackish waters. She took a deep breath, counted to three, and pulled with all her might. The stalk didn’t need much coaxing. It ripped from the mud without so much as a protest, and all her efforts sent Max reeling back. Her feet slid over the smooth stones. Her arms windmilled for purchase. She blinked incredulously as she found herself staring up at the sky, creek water slowly seeping through her clothes. The execution was far from perfect…

Bemusement melted into quiet contemplation. Inspite of it all, the water felt incredible against her flushed skin. She blew out a sigh and closed her eyes. Allowed the stream to wash over her and smooth away all her imperfections. It murmured secrets in her ear. Foretold the cycles from summer to winter and back again. And she listened. Listened to the whine of bloodflies and the hum of cicadas; to the whisper of a sea breeze and the drawl of the creek; to the flushed song of an encroaching season which blanketed the Sounde in a scent of cotton meal seed. And clenched in her fist was evidence. Riversbud caught in a clump of still drying mud that seeped through her fingers.

The sound of laughter dancing through the air broke Max from her stupor. She peeked an eye open and searched the creek bank. Master Reynold’s met her gaze with a withered smile as he leaned over his cane. He canted his head and breathed another laugh. “Having fun?”

Warmth swelled in Max’s chest. Her lips curled into a wide, toothy grin as she threw herself up and hoisted her prize. “Yes!”

All things have their seasons. A young apprentice should cherish their summers. Embrace them. Keep them close for they will need them when winter comes. When the water stops flowing and the lake freezes over. All an apprentice will have are their summers to keep them warm as they tread across brittle ice.

*** Max stood at the door where Light, Death, and the Deep meet. Surveyed the second-floor apartment with an air of familiarity despite never having stepped through its threshold. The sky was still grey as the sun began its slow crawl into the sky. Winter’s touch lingered on the crisp air, sending goosed-flesh along her arms. She warmed herself by lighting a cigarette, allowing the buzz of nicotine to settle thick over her skin as she searched the closed off windows for answers.

“Where did you go?” she muttered, tendrils of smoke spilling over her lips.

She breathed a single syllable laugh when she was met by the distant squalling of gulls. Foolish of her to think she’d find a response. The curtains were closed and the apartment was empty. There’d be no unfolding of truths- not here, at least. Not any more.

Max sucked down the cigarette in a few greedy puffs before tucking the bud in her pocket. She chewed on the remnant burn in her throat. Let it ground her in the moment as she slipped from the apartment’s shadow and into the street. The path she followed wasn’t one marked by map or sign, but by the footsteps of another’s nightly ritual. Its stones weathered and worn, possessing stories hidden in their little imperfections. With half-lidded eyes, Max traced the path. Only barely aware of the awakening city as she coaxed secrets from the stone.

Did the scent of salt feel nostalgic? Make her think of summers spent wading through creeks? Or was it the quiet of a road less traveled that allured Seraanna? The temptation to steep in shadows too much to ignore?

She paused just below the entry arch in King’s Rest, a scowl pulling her lips taut. Those were all her own thoughts. Truth be told, Max found it hard to conjure an image of the Ren’dorei. Nothing but wisps of shadows and whispers came to mind. And in their depths, within the dark between the stars, she found inklings of doubt.

Have you considered the idea that this is all deliberate? A ploy for attention?

Those accusations rang cold and hollow. She didn’t want to believe them,  but as she stood alone on the narrow streets she began to wonder. Max shoved her hands in her pocket. Continued her walk down into the promenade. Gone without a word or trace. Seemed so uncharacteristic for someone who thought in layers; someone clever enough to name her home the place where Light, Death, and the Deep meet; someone like Seraanna. Or, so she thought… The dynamic between her and Seraana had always appeared fair; a truth for a truth. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps she didn’t know the woman as well as she thought. Not enough to devalue the idea that this had all been part of a greater design.

Max finally came to rest at a lamp post. She leaned against it with all the familiarity of an old friend, looking out over King’s Rest as she stewed in her own misgivings. Felt pointless to continue the walk. Wasn’t much else she could do. Nothing that Mary and Foxrun couldn’t. Another sigh passed from Max’s lips as she reached into her pocket for her cigarette tin. Perhaps this was for the better. It’d be one less person who knew about Crimson.

The metallic tin glistened in the morning’s light, her reflection casted back. She gave herself a melancholy grin before popping open the tin. It’d be one less person who listened.

Max chewed on a fresh cigarette.

There are no such things as coincidences. Just a single narrative written by the same hand. Just like a river stone born to be smoothed of imperfections, everything has a destiny. And the whole of the universe conspires for your success in achieving your destiny. You just have to listen.

You need to take action and listen…

And a smile crept on her lips. There rested her problem.  Not with a one-sided trade of truths. No. She simply hadn’t been listening.

[Mentions: @longveil​  & @foxglovethings ]

[ Continuation from here ]

[ivendarea]

The Wylaai

Strength in Unity

Banner art based on and supported by my Patrons ♥

The icy tundra and deep forests of Ivendarea’s north and northeast are the home of the Wylaai. Having a reputation of being the proudest of the Nyr, they strongly believe in fate and prophecy, in the importance of unity, and in daring to walk out of their usual path. Iovana Neron, the founder and unifier of the nation was the leader of a Wylaai tribe. Through him they have been given the reputation of being charismatic, provident, and diplomatic even in the face of great challenges.

Table of Contents:

Culture and History

Cultural Heritage

Language and Dialect

Shared Values

Common Etiquette

Historical Figures

Fashion

Art and Architecture

Ideals

Beauty Ideals

Courtship Ideals

Relationship Ideals

Continue reading below or on World Anvil

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Culture and History

Once spread far along Ivendarea’s eastern shoreline, from the northern capital Canwyl to Beldran and beyond, the Wylaai suffered heavy losses during Zerenda’s invasion. After Beldran had fallen many of them returned to the north or fled to the west and south. Until today they are persistent advocates of the nation’s unity. They look forward to a time of being at peace again, be it under Assadin rule or with their own Iovana at the head of government again.

Cultural Heritage

Once wandering nomads at home in the Ivendarean tundra and taiga, the hunter-gatherers, ice-fishers, and animal herders were always used to a life of extremes. Travelling far distances with sleighs that can be re-purposed into carriages and vice versa depending on the weather conditions, the Wylaai roamed for many years before settling down for the first time in the area that is now Canwyl. While the Wylaai aren’t nomadic anymore for the most part, their sleighs are still an important part of their culture and have become the centre of sporting events and spare time.

The same applies to their hunting and fishing days - both aren’t practised anymore by the majority of the population ever since Aman rose to godhood and their Teachings of not killing animals for food or clothing were spread. The Wylaai early on recognized the importance of the “cult” around Aman. After the Gideya were one of the first to fully integrate Aman’s teachings into their everyday lives the Wylaai quickly followed suit.

The old capital is characterized by its use of glass in many aspects of its architecture. This dates back to the founding days of the nation, when the Gideya helped the Wylaai in setting up farmland in the cold north, sharing their knowledge as well as seeds and workforce to bring in the first harvest. The Wylaai would never have to suffer hunger again, even in the harshest of winters. Most of the farmland lies within large green houses still standing until today, and the glass-elements, symbolizing warmth and life, have found their way into many residential and commercial buildings.

The inhabitants of the cold north can also pride themselves with their extensive bath-house culture, brought on by the many natural hot-springs in the region. Canwyl has many public bathhouses, and the relaxation and health benefits a day in the bathhouse promises was already enough incentive for this piece of culture to spread across Ivendarea and be greeted with open arms.

Language and Dialect

The Wylaai speak the purest version of Nyrval - no wonder, as it was through their efforts that the language was standardized to begin with when Ivendarea was in its early years. In day-to-day life most Wylaai speak exclusively in their native language, but Trade or Azash for example are also spoken by most.

Shared Values

Standing strong together as a unity is everything to the Wylaai. Perseverance is a virtue taught to children from an early age, as is looking out for each other and seeking help if needed. The Wylaai easily forgive, even missteps that might not be as easily overlooked by others. But they aim to solve all problems as a community and want to uphold their unity. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and making mistakes is part of the learning process. 

This does not mean that there is no punishment. In fact, though it is, important and carried out consistently, it always goes hand in hand with social rehabilitation. Remembering the past and history to prevent the same mistakes from being made over and over is necessary to build a future together.

The Wylaai are known to be the most cheerful people of Ivendarea. Despite or maybe because of the often-harsh living conditions of their original homelands, the Wylaai always have a hopeful outlook to the future. Difficulties and obstacles are a challenge they tackle with fierce ingenuity - and if a plan fails on the first attempt there’s no shame in asking for help and trying again.

Despite their remote and isolated main settlement Canwyl the Wylaai are open to new ideas, wanting to honour the memory of Neron, whose life’s work it had been to celebrate the Nyr’s differences and commonalities alike. Many would call their open-mindedness “naivete”, especially cases such as Iovana Fannyel inviting king Zerenda to the Emerald Palace - still believing that after the destruction of Beldran the invader would be willing to come to a peaceful arrangement. Surviving thousands of years in a hostile, infertile environment has made the Wylaai resilient and inventive - they believe a failure always means new chances, too. Without a positive attitude and a willingness to walk new paths, to go out of one’s comfort zone and trusting in intuition rather than logic, they might not have lasted as long and come as far as they did.

Historical Figures

Neron, called “Iovana”, the unifier; was once an influential chief of a Wylaai tribe. He was the first Nyr to go out of his way and formed alliances with other far away tribes during a series of particularly harsh winters, which eventually led to the birth of Ivendarea as a united nation.

Fannyel was the last Iovana before Zerenda conquered Ivendarea. He tried to make peace with the invader but ended up being slain in front of his throne, and his partner Ylla and daughter Brestine fled to Maan Garth.  

Common Etiquette

The Wylaai are open-minded and hospitality is particularly important to them, especially when it comes to strangers from far away paying them a visit in the cold north. A lot of time is spent with family and friends, big dinners for a whole community coming together to are common. Refusing an invitation without a very severe reason is considered rude - even if the host would never tell this to your face.

Positive thinking is a virtue and speaking ill of others (or oneself) is frowned upon. Everyone has a bad day or horrible encounters with others now and then, but chronic moaners and complainers not doing anything to make their unpleasant situation better aren’t well-liked. The same goes for spreading gossip, rumours, and panic; sensationalism and causing a fuss without a life-threatening reason are not favoured among the level-headed Wylaai.

Humour on the other hand is cherished, not taking oneself too seriously, or putting on a smile even in the darkest times can be observed often. This is another reason why outsiders would call the Wylaai naive or even accuse them of never taking anything seriously, but these critics couldn’t be further from the truth. The Wylaai believe that nothing makes your enemies more insecure than brightly smiling at them. Humour and a positive attitude show strength of will and character, not giving in to intimidation tactics.

Fashion

Similar to how red hair is associated with remembering the past and pride for one’s identity, green clothing is a sign of pride for Canwyl and Ivendarea as the Wylaai’s homeland. The Green River is Ivendarea’s lifeblood, the first green saplings of spring symbolize the cycle of rebirth, and Canwyl’s green glass roofs show the great achievements and ingenuity of the Nyr as a nation.

Green, particularly emerald tones are also associated with themes of nobility and heritage, although not exclusively worn by those of a higher social standing. Wylaai clothing is also characterized by its many functional layers that insulate against the cold. The top layer is usually thick and held in neutral tones that blend in with the bleak surroundings. Robust fabrics that are easy to clean and not too much of a loss when damaged during work are also a common choice when it comes to the coats worn on top.

The layers underneath though, the clothing worn for social gatherings, around the house, to the temple - they are richly adorned, bright, vibrant colours of all possible combinations and patterns resembling Canwyl’s famous mosaics, materials ranging from fine wool and linen to silk.

A Wylaai individual in typical work attire with tight-fitting trousers and a short coat as well as thick scarf, compared to a more casual, even festive outfit for indoor wear. On the right a flowing coat richly adorned is worn on top - these types of coats are mostly seen in casual everyday life as well as during travel.

Art and Architecture

The architecture of the Wylaai is truly one of a kind. Canwyl, which was built on their lands, is Ivendarea’s oldest city and has been its capital for millennia until comparatively recently. Considered the birthplace and heart of the modern Ivendarea, immense effort and work went into making the city the most outstanding one using the resources close by, but also not hesitating to incorporate materials from all over the nation in equal parts.

The huge Emerald Palace in the heart of Canwyl is the most unique piece of art and architecture. Built from metal, marble, and stained glass its tallest tower can be seen from miles away, higher than the surrounding forests, and in the harsh winters a lighthouse in an endless white sea guiding lost travellers to safety. Its name stems from the emerald green colour of its glass windows and roofs. In the centre of the building lies a huge garden frozen in ice all year round, beautifully kept and its pools of water adorned with mosaics retelling the events leading up to the founding of the nation.

Canwyl’s architecture isn’t only impressive and beautiful, it is also technically ingenious, looking on the inside. Not only the palace, many buildings have elaborated, often decorative heating elements and running water powered by the subterranean hot springs.

Ideals

Beauty Ideals

The Wylaai grow their hair out long, often wearing it intrinsically braided or pulled to the back for practicality. They Wylaai are a people of artisans also known for grand celebrations. Glass- and metal pearls and other ornaments are sometimes incorporated even in day-to-day life hairstyles. This is a long-standing tradition from before Ivendarea’s tribes were united and the Wylaai were still traveling nomads. The use of decorations of a specific colour or number can give clues to social status, but more often nowadays hair ornaments can also be just that: accessories without any deeper meaning.

Red hair and red eyes are considered particularly beautiful and express a certain melancholy. Iovana Fannyel had both these features, as does his daughter Brestine. Both are symbol figures of the old Ivendarea before its conquest) and dyeing one’s hair red is a sign of Nyr pride and valuing the past.

Courtship Ideals

Courtship is direct and playful, handled a little like a game where the waters are carefully tested, and honesty plays a big part. There are no strict rules, social conventions, or a lot of seriousness involved. Happy small surprises like small gifts left in unusual locations only the receiver would know about are common. It has become tradition to leave a plant sapling in its pot on one’s object-of-desire’s windowsill - symbolizing a new hopeful beginning, life, and growth.

Adventurous escapes to secret natural hot springs and the like are also an activity many couples engage in - it’s so popular actually that it happens on a regular basis to run into a different couple already at the spot one had thought was a top-secret romantic location. It’s all taken in good humour though and who knows... something interesting can sometimes blossom from random encounters like this as well.

Relationship Ideals

Comfort, home, unity - all those are especially important to the Wylaai in daily life and in relationships. Polyamorous and open relationships are common, love and partnership are celebrated, and children are regarded as particularly precious. Childhood friendships usually last a lifetime and even over big distances it is ensured to stay in regular contact. Strength lies in unity.

[sproutspright]

Forget Me Not

A/N

This is my first writing and its not very good, but I figured I’d just post it anyway. I kind of struggled with the ending. Let me know if you’d like to see more /.\

Pairing: Doyoung x Reader 

Genre: Fluff, Angst

Word Count: 4.1k

Song Rec: Summer Love- Aseul

“Please darling, it won’t be the same without you,” your mother pleaded over the phone as you began to stack up a semester’s worth of textbooks and scrawled note paper. Your dorm window was propped open to invite the warm balmy May breeze into your bedroom. You had just finished your second semester of college, and were looking forward to moving into your own apartment. Though you had been away from home for two years, you only had just begun to feel truly independent.

“I’ve gone every year though, can’t I just enjoy my new place? I have so much to do,” you replied, boxing up the books for good. Of course you loved the yearly summer vacation tradition of going to the seaside town of Cape Azure. Yet somehow, you felt it would hinder your momentum. You had been on the trip every year without fail, but it only symbolized a part of yourself that was now in the past.

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that afterwards, it’s only three weeks. It’s the only time we all have together,” her voice cracked, and you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but it struck you still. Your father was a professor, and worked tirelessly over the fall and spring. Summer really was the only time you could say you had spent with him for as long as you could remember.

“Fine,” you sighed, knowing there was no arguing with her, “I’ll see what kind of flight I can catch later tonight, okay?”

“He’ll be so happy to see you,” your mother sang. You laughed, suddenly looking forward to it. In the back of your mind, you wondered if he would still be there too.

The familiar salty breeze ruffled your sundress as you strode across the road and onto the boardwalk, colorful sailboats dotting the turquoise shoreline. The air was slightly humid, and sweat had already begun to stick to your neck. You gazed up at the endless sky, so crushingly blue it only served to contrast the stark white beach houses hugging the sand. You had arrived at Cape Azure only yesterday, but you were already eager to immerse yourself back into nostalgia. You had walked along the boardwalk so many times, enjoying the view and the different kinds of people scattered about. Some local, and many others just visiting like yourself. Although you didn’t want to admit it, you had come to see if he was still here.

Your steps took you back to the kayak rental stand, nestled between the dock and a gelato shop that you never failed to revisit. You had met him here at fifteen, when your parents had asked you to pick out a kayak. That entire summer was spent together, an innocent friendship blossoming. He was all you thought about until you’d seen him again.

Your eyes scanned the inside, but you were only met with a middle aged man reading a book from behind the counter. Your heart sank a little and you turned around, heading for the edge of the dock. The expanse of blue took your breath away as you trailed the edge of the railing, looking down to see if there were any seals swimming below. Peering down from such a drop made your head spin, and you quickly turned back up, staggering slightly.

“Are you alright?” a soft voice chimed beside you, and you froze.

“Ah, I…” you managed, looking into the eyes of the concerned boy. His black hair tousled in the wind and his dark eyes blinked into the sun. It was him.

“I-I’m fine, I just get dizzy easily,” you brush your hair out of your face, your pulse beginning to quicken.

“I see, well be careful then,” he said kindly, turning his attention to the water. You stood there for a moment before resting your arms against the railing, not sure of how this interaction would continue. It was like this every time, and you cursed at yourself for not being able to get used to it.

“My name’s y/n,” you said courageously, balling your fists and biting your lip. The sheen of sweat against your skin had become more noticeable to you now. You hoped the bright sun was a good enough excuse for the deep blush that colored your cheeks.

“Ah,” he said shyly, looking down, “I’m Doyoung.”

“Have we met before?” you asked, gritting your teeth. You knew it was a meaningless question.

“I-I don’t think so,” he said, looking over at you. His words were the same every time, but they still hurt nonetheless. It had been five years since you had known each other, and not once had he remembered you. At first you thought it was a joke, or his cruel way of trying to get rid of you. It didn’t take long for you to realize he had truly forgotten, and you had no way of knowing how he could possibly remember you. Each summer, you would meet again for the first time, become close, and then repeat the cycle. Though at first you were simply interested in him, your feelings quickly grew into something more.

“Do you want to get some gelato with me?” you smiled at his confused expression.

“Um, s-sure,” he agreed, and you heaved a sigh of relief as you both walked down the dock together.

“Are you here for the summer?” he asked timidly, his eyes glancing in your direction for only a moment.

“Yeah, just a few weeks. I usually come with my family every year.” His brow furrows and he nods as if he’s trying to recollect the broken pieces of his memory. You try not to let your disappointment show as you introduce yourself to him once again, pretending that you had never met before. But your memories of the previous summer made it all the more difficult.

The both of you picked out your ice cream and strolled along the white sand of the beach, the crashing of the waves calming your anxiety as you tried your best to make an impression on him. This was always the most critical time, because you were always afraid he would lose interest and you’d never get him back. But he always returned to you somehow.

Long after you had finished your gelato, you realized the sun’s angle in the sky and how long you had been “out for a walk”. Though it pained you to leave him, you weren’t sure how you could keep his attention much longer.  

“Shit, it’s kind of late,” you looked at the clock on your phone, standing up from the stone wall you both had been sitting on, “I should probably go.”

“Wait,” he rose, “Can I give you my number?” You looked into his dark eyes, and you could swear they were sparkling. Your breath caught in your chest as you handed him your phone. Though he had given you his number many times before, you had always ended up deleting it as soon as you were back home. Even after a few days he didn’t know who you were, and it was pointless reaching out as you had learned.

He handed you the phone back and you smiled, “I’ll text you later. It was nice meeting you!” He returned your smile and nodded, “You too.”

You hadn’t wasted a single moment after your reunion with Doyoung. Every day he waited for you on the boardwalk, and you would talk until your parents would call asking where you had gone. It was blissful being around him again. The way he would laugh until he fell over, how he would always pick out a shell for you from the beach. As much as you tried to contain your feelings, you couldn’t help but fall in love with him each time. You had never met anyone like him.

“Hey, let’s go for a picnic today,” Doyoung suggested over the phone as you threw your wet hair up into a towel. Your mind immediately recalled the year before, when he had asked you to go on a picnic. Your cheeks flushed and you bit your lip, remembering how he had kissed you that day. It wasn’t your first kiss, but it was somehow different. Both of your feelings had progressed so much then, it felt like an entire lifetime within that span of three weeks. You had gotten better at distancing yourself from that part of your life, but the feeling of his lips lingered long into the cold winter months. You had spent countless nights lying awake, wishing you could just talk to him again.

“Yeah sounds fun,” you inhaled sharply, becoming flustered, “I’ll meet you at our usual spot.”

You finished getting ready, throwing on a denim skirt and light blue blouse, and applied a tinted gloss to your lips, just in case. As you headed out the door, you were greeted by bright sunshine and a temperate breeze, the sky so blue it made your chest ache. Doyoung met you at the boardwalk, a jean jacket draped over a black t-shirt and jeans, his lean figure propped against the wood of the kayak stand. He seemed startled by your appearance, unable to take his eyes off of you.

“You look...pretty today,” he breathed, taking a moment before grabbing your hand and leading you to a red tandem bike resting against the wall.

“I thought it would be fun if we tried this,” he said as he swung his leg over. You grinned and hopped your leg over carefully, grabbing onto the small bars for balance. This was one of his favorite things to do, and you loved it each time. The both of you rode to the sandwich shop nearby, picking up your favorites before heading through the rows of beach houses, securing your bags onto the handlebars. Before long, the houses dwindled into nothing but a wide road and a sea of grass and trees. You knew exactly where you were going, but it was still thrilling all the same.

At the large willow tree, he stopped and you both hopped off the bike, laying it on its side. He spread his jacket on the ground and offered for you to sit. You became nervous as memories flooded your mind, his soft lips and gentle hands.

“You know, it’s so weird,” Doyoung started after finishing his sandwich, “I don’t really know you, but you feel so familiar. I think that’s why I probably can’t stop thinking about you.” You gulped your strawberry soda and turned away, your cheeks ablaze.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” he said softly, his knee against your thigh, “I just really like you y/n.” Your heart pounds in your chest at his words. You can feel the electricity from his close proximity. You understand the moment, knowing all too well.

“I like you too,” you say quietly, the wind ruffling your hair a bit and cooling your face. Doyoung grabs your chin in his hand, looking at you intently as you try to avoid his gaze. His touch is like a searing hot iron on your skin, and you nearly flinch away.

“Can I kiss you y/n?” he whispered, his breath fanning your face and you nod, looking up at him through your lashes. He closes the distance between your lips and his, kissing you softly. All the tension in your body melts away as you both tentatively taste each other, becoming blissfully unaware of your surroundings. The sweetness of his kisses become slightly fevered, and he slips his hand to the back of your neck, curling his fingers in your hair. You shiver at the sensation, but this only seems to encourage him further. He pulls your waist closer to him until your chest is against his, continuing to deepen the kiss as you both become melded together. Your head is spinning but it’s the loveliest feeling, and you wish you could stay in that moment forever.

After awhile, Doyoung pulls away and watches your face as it becomes more and more overcome with emotion. He looks down at the grass, lacing his fingers between it as his hand falls from your cheek. You’re silent, heart wrenching as you try to remain composed. You had been longing for him for what seemed like decades, but you’d never allowed yourself to cry. Now it felt as if all those tears were prying their way from your eyes, suffocated by your suppression.

His hand reaches up to catch your tears that had already begun to fall. The look in his eyes was so beautiful and sad you felt you would weep.

“I do know you, don’t I?” Doyoung mumbled solemnly. You couldn’t look at him, your face entirely covered in tears. Why did you have to miss him so damn much? There was no future between you two. It was a vicious cycle of trying to get him to hold on to your memory, but you hadn’t accepted the fact that you yourself were trying to hold onto the memory of him.

“Please don’t forget me again Doyoung,” you whispered, clutching at the bottom of your skirt, shoulders twitching as you cried softly.

“I’m so sorry y/n,” he hushed, pulling you into his arms to lay your head on his chest. Usually it would take much longer for him to remember, but your lips had been enough for him. The pain in his chest now mirrored yours, only from guilt and hopelessness.

“I tried so hard to remember, I don’t know how long it even lasted,” his voice was heavy with shame, holding you tighter as if it could erase all the pain he had put you through, “But I’m here now. Let’s just try to make the most of the time we have.”

You weren’t sure if you should have tried to find him again. To unearth these feelings you so desperately tried to hide. But the steady beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his breathing intoxicated you. His presence was a temporary high, making everything okay as long as he was there. You knew this choice would only hurt you more, but for now you didn’t want to waste any time.

Days had gone by in a blissful blur as you both reminisced of the summers past. It always happened this way. You simply waited for him, and all of his memories of you came flooding back. In some ways it made things complicated, but you’d never felt so close to him before. He couldn’t stand a day without you. You were gone so much, your parents had started to complain. They had no idea, and you had no intention of telling them.

“Honey, let’s have one last sail on the water today,” your mother called to your father from the kitchen of their vacation home. You were lying on the couch, scrolling through your phone lazily with a leg hooked over the side.

“Hmm,” your father grunted, keeping his eyes fixed on his laptop from the lounge chair adjacent to you. Even now he was still focused on work. It made you sad, wondering if you’d end up like that too. You hoped he at least felt it meaningful or fulfilling in some way.

“Y/n, get dressed so we can all go out.” You sighed and rolled off of the couch and into the bathroom. You only had until tomorrow, and then your fleeting romance with Doyoung would be quickly extinguished. It made your body feel heavy. You couldn’t imagine forgetting all the wonderful new memories created, the smiles and kisses. It would all come to an end. And you weren’t sure if you could ever continue this again.

With much effort, you managed to look presentable and followed your parents to the harbor. Your father’s yellow sailboat sat tranquilly rocking back and forth, awaiting its next voyage. As you hopped aboard, you looked around to see if you might catch Doyoung hanging around somewhere by the beach. You wished you hadn’t felt so guilty for wanting to stay back.

After setting out on the water, you checked your phone to find that there was no service. Any hopeful texts would have to wait, and you begrudgingly took out your book you had brought with. Your parents chatted as you read, honing in on the sound of the waves lapping at the boat and the cry of the gulls overhead. Finally, you grew impatient and stripped off your shorts and tank, diving into the deep blue abyss. You popped your head from the water to the annoyed screams of your mother.

“Y/n, don’t scare me like that!” You shrugged and swam out a little, loving the feeling of the cool water on your sun kissed skin. The sky above you looked so infinite, you felt as though you’d fall into it and drown.

The sun had sunk low on the horizon, a burning, enduring red bleeding into the waters. You had never given much thought to sunsets, but it stirred something in your chest and you felt a lump begin to form in your throat.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?” you mother mused, her eyes glued to the vibrant seascape. You nodded, not trusting your own voice to sound normal. It was so beautiful it hurt.

“Sad it never lasts long though,” your father hummed as the colors quickly began to ice over into a subdued purple. He began to steer back to the harbor before it got too dark, docking just as the sky became a dusty blue. Your footsteps were heavy with fatigue as you all walked back to the beach house, supposedly satisfied with the day.

“Oh dear you got a terrible sunburn,” your mother fretted as she took a good look at you. You had just sat back down on the couch, wincing at the rough fabric brushing against your skin.

“Guess I forgot sunscreen today,” you sighed, getting up to see if there was any aloe vera hiding in the bathroom cabinet. To your disappointment, there was none.

“Hey, I’m gonna go walk to the convenience store,” you called as you grabbed your purse from your room and shuffled on a pair of sandals.

“Are you sure? We could go for you,” your mother offered, but you insisted. You were exhausted, but you needed the fresh air to clear your head. The store wasn’t very far, only about a fifteen minute walk. There were still quite a few tourists out, heading to restaurants and enjoying evening beach strolls. You wondered if Doyoung had tried to call you, seeing as there were no texts coming through.

After picking up a bottle of aloe vera, you stepped back outside and shivered, the air considerably colder. You tried rubbing your arms, but it only aggravated your sunburn. As you turned the corner, you felt the weight of someone else crashing into you. You exclaimed in surprise, taking a step back. It was Doyoung.

“Y/n, I need to talk to you,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. You stood dumbfounded for a moment, but his presence brought such relief you finally felt normal for the first time that day.

“Doyoung,” you gasped slightly, “of course. I-I’m sorry I was out all day.”

“It’s okay,” he wrapped his arms around you, “I was just scared. I didn’t want to forget you.” Your heart sunk and you held onto him, burrowing your face in his chest. You didn’t know what to say. The agony of missing him paled in comparison to the thought of him fiercely yet futilely protecting his memories  

“I’m leaving after tomorrow,” you said finally, and his body became stiff. He pulled away, looking at you with pitifully empty eyes. You bit your lip, feeling the lump in your throat once more.

“That’s okay. We’ll get through this,” he reassured, but even his voice wavered. You remained silent, blinking as you took his hand and began to walk. You didn’t know where you were going, but you couldn’t think straight. The moon had risen and painted a pale yellow streak on the waves, rippling and twinkling like stars. The both of you had made your way down to the sand, your hands still entwined.

“I can’t believe it’s been three weeks already,” you sighed, gazing up at the half moon, “I don’t want this to be over.” Doyoung stopped to place his hand on your cheek, his lips gently pressing against yours.

“We can make it work somehow,” he said as he kissed you again. You allowed yourself to be taken by his lips, committing the feeling to memory one last time.

“Doyoung, I don’t think it’s possible. At least, not anymore.”

“What are you saying? We can talk everyday. There’s no way we couldn’t-”

“You don’t remember,” you interrupted him, casting your eyes to the tide that snaked closer to your flip flopped feet. His brows knit together.

“But-”

“We’ve already tried. It never works. I don’t know what it is, but as soon as I’m gone you can’t remember anything.” He looked lost. Of course those memories never return. He’d never remember the way you cried over the phone, chanting your name over and over until the line went dead. It was never going to work. You cursed yourself for thinking otherwise at any point.

“Y/n, I don’t want to forget you,” his eyes glistened with tears, and your heart wrenched in your chest at the sight. There was no way you could do this to him again, or go through this. This was the last time.

“You won’t care as long as you don’t remember again,” you said solemnly, hating how your words sounded so cold, “I won’t come back.” He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, turning towards the sea with a helpless expression.

“Please, we can just take up where we left off. Can’t we?”

You shake your head, “I’m sorry, I just can’t. I should have let you go. I was being selfish and I’m sorry. I’ve just never met anyone like you before.” Your voice became quiet, the waves overpowering you.

“I think I’m in love with you though,” Doyoung said restlessly, and his words pierced through your chest. The waves became louder and you felt the splash of water as it nipped at your ankles. He looked so lovely in the moonlight, his features soft despite how distressed he was. Your heart ached at how much you would miss him.

“I can’t do this anymore. I won’t.” Your tears escaped you and you hugged him so tightly as though he would disappear at any moment. He kissed you again, though with such intensity you became dizzy, as though he was trying to convey all he had to you. When he lead you to the ridge of the sand, you let him. You let his hands explore your body, feeling the crackle of electricity running through you. You let him make love to you right there on the sand, for the first and last time. And it was both poignant and devastating, the only way you could say goodbye.

The next day, you didn’t see him or speak to him. You had already deleted his contact from your phone, ready to brace yourself for the pungent remorse. You tried not to think about how many times he would try calling you, how he must hate himself for being the reason it would never move past what it already was. It was all just too bittersweet.

As you packed your things the morning after, you took a deep breath of the salty air spilling from your window. You thought of your apartment waiting for you, your new life just beginning. It was something you so desperately wished you could share with him. But this place was a limbo, never changing, and he was another part of that. Though it broke your heart to admit it.

On your way to the car, you saw Doyoung’s soft black hair from down the sidewalk. You wanted to call out to him, but you were afraid he had already forgotten. There was still a bad taste in your mouth for leaving things like this, but it was the best you could do. Though you would be erased from this place, you would keep the memories alive in you. You were afraid of finally accepting what was never meant for you, but you could never, ever forget him. You knew the most beautiful things in life were too quick to vanish. And he was certainly beautiful.

[makeyourfantasydreamscometrue]

Falling for Hoseok Chapter 1

Ever since you were a little girl, you were captivated by the idea of romance. Nothing quite beat the fuzzy feelings described in story books and children's animations. The prince swept the princess off her feet. Cinderella sang "So this is love." The mermaid sacrificed her fins for it. Thumbelina danced in the air with her man on wings and gold dust. Love. You wanted to know what it feels like... to experience the strongest emotional attachment and feel your heart pounding at the sight of the one person you were meant to be with forever and ever.

Little did you know, how painful, love really could be. If only you knew earlier, you never would have wished for it.

And then you met him, the one. And your life changed forever.

~~~ It was your usual walk through the park on a Monday after work. Taking a little time for yourself before home, you loved to walk in the orange rays as the sun sets and sit on your favorite bench. There was never many people in there, which was just perfect for you, only the occasional couple or an older woman sitting watching the birds, or the young woman who always yapped on her phone talking to her friends about the latest gossip. It was mostly quiet and hidden away from the rest of the world, your own little secret spot where you were mostly alone to distress from the day's work and get away from it all. You allow your thoughts to drift away as you stuff your hands in your sweater's pockets.

It's almost that time of year again, you think to yourself. Winter wasn't something that you looked forward to. It was the coldest time of the year, both physically and emotionally. It was at winter when you had bad seasonal depression and was always reminded of the fact that you had to spend it alone, the same day over and over, with less sun, icy temperatures, and less excitement. The endless cycle of just going through the motions of the same life you've had for a few years now.

It wasn't that you had no friends. Your coworkers were nice, always inviting you to happy hour after work, but you never really felt like hanging out or talking much, sitting through office parties or dinners with a forced smile on your face. You were more the laid back type, and just didn't have much in common with them, they wore heels with their dresses or suits, you opted out for comfortable sneakers with your black pants and blouse. They clubbed on the weekends, and you slept in, ordering Chinese take out or reading that book you placed a hold on from the library. They had one night stands and crushes and boyfriends or girlfriends and flirted with the other men in the office; you only had one serious relationship before, but the only one who apparently took it serious was you, and he cheated on you with his ex girlfriend behind your back. He broke your heart and made you cry and you started to believe love did not exist, so why try, and ever since then you focused on work and threw yourself into self-love books, but deep down you always felt scarred by that experience, your mind telling you that you weren't worthy of being loved.

As you've come to think of what you're going to have for dinner, you sigh, closing your eyes and soaking in the last bit of sun for the day as it's warmth lights your face. You might as well get home before rush hour hits, and you slowly walk out of the park towards the main gate, away from your peace and back to reality with every step.

Just as you exit and round the corner of the block, you suddenly collided with another, squinting as your body falls to the ground with a thump, your hands out on the ground at a failed attempt to break your fall.

"Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!"

You take a moment to process what the warm liquid spreading across your lap and seeping into your clothes is, and see an empty coffee cup next to you, the plastic lid not far from it.

"Are you okay?" The concerned voice above you says, and you look up through the sun's glare and adjust your eyes on a handsome face and soft eyes, blonde hair peeking from out from underneath his hat and illuminating his milky white complexion. His hand is outstretched towards you, and you nod.

"I'm fine," you say, and try to get up on your own but yelp out as a small pain strikes down your bottom and down your leg. You take his hand and he lifts you up with surprising strength, and in a second you're face to face with the most beautiful man you've ever seen in your life. Suddenly, your nerves catch you and you stay stunned, his well fitted sweater in a powder blue grasping his muscles and tight ripped jeans and sneakers and white scarf making him look masculine and gentle at the same time. You almost get lost in his dark almond shaped eyes until brought back to reality when he touches your wrist, turning your right palm up and gasps.

"You're hurt!"

"Huh?"

You look down in confusion and see both palms of yours scraped and bleeding. That's when the sting sets in. You wince as the scraped skin is exposed to the cool air.

"Im so sorry, and your clothes are all ruined. It's all my fault," he says as his eyebrows scrunch together

"Really," you shake your head, "it's no big deal, it's just a scrape. I'll be okay. And as for the pants, ill put them in the wash it's not a problem."

He studies your condition and your face, guilt and concern all over his features. "Please, let me pay for your injuries to compensate for the damages, at least come with me to the hospital. It wouldn't feel right just leaving you here like this."

Your back stings a bit and you consider his offer. It would be good just to be sure nothing's broken you think to yourself.

"Okay," you slowly nod, and the stranger hails a cab down the street and gestures for you to get in.

~~~

At the hospital the young man insists you do an X-ray and the doctor assures you that your back is just a bit sprained, then the nurse cleans up your wounds and wraps your hands accordingly. When all is finished, the man goes to the front desk and takes out his credit card to pay for your medical bills and speaks to the doctor about your condition.

You slowly walk up to the front desk after signing your discharge papers, overhearing the conversation he's having with the nurse.

"And make sure she doesn't pick up anything heavy. She should rest at home for at least a few days until her back is in better condition. Then she can go back to work."

He nodded.

"Will you be taking her home sir?"

"Oh no-" you jump in the conversation and put your hand up, "I don't live with him."

"He isn't your boyfriend?" The nurse asked, to which you flushed a bit, and the guy opened and closed his mouth, at a lost for words.

"N-No, we just met today," you stated.

"Ah." she said, continuing to type on her computer. He awkwardly turned around to face you, a soft smile on his face.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah, just a little," you said, leaning on your left leg to alleviate the pressure on the right side of your back and leg.

When you limped out of the building and walked to the front of the hospital together, he handed you some money.

"Here, at least take the bus home, and for your dry cleaning," he said looking down at your stained pants.

"Really, you've done enough," you said waving it away, put he wasn't taking no for an answer.

"You have to be off work because of me. And I want to make sure you get home safe."

Your eyes searched his and you felt his sincerity, and even though you would never take money from a stranger, you really wanted to sit down and relieve some of the tension off your back. You nodded and thanked him, and he walked you to the bus stop across the street, waiting with you for it's arrival.

You felt funny with a guy standing next to you, all strong and tall and you felt so small next to him as passerby's turned their heads to look at you both.

He shuffled his feet back and forth and dug his hands in his jean pockets. Within a few moments the bus came.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay?" he asks and you reassure him you don't need any further assistance.

"Thank you again," you said turning to him, and he shook his head sweetly with a small smile, like if it was no big deal. He waved as you got on the bus and took a seat, and watched as it drove you away.

[senboago]

SEASONAL  AESTHETICS !

WINTER. a chill right down to the bones.    tobogganing.   teeth chattering.    sleeping all day.  sitting by the fireplace.    spending time with family.   layered clothing.    seeing another’s breath.   loving the cold.   a state of inactivity.    cold hands.   blistering winds shaking the closed windows.    a bookcase full of brand new books and all of the time in the world to read them.    cable knit socks.   a bitter remark.    a log cabin in the middle of nowhere.  hating the cold.    full length windows to peer out of.   pale skin.   deep conversations.   watching the snow fall.   sharp  edges.  hot cocoa.   smelling every candle in the store.   a wild snow storm.    melancholy.    lighting candles around the bathtub.   snow globes.   expressing yourself but never finding quite the right words.    the softest of blankets.    liking, but not loving something or someone.

SPRING.     the smell after it rains.  being in control of yourself.  a soft breeze blowing your hair.  lightning when it strikes.    cherry blossoms.   bright mornings.   the first sign of hope.   the relief of finding something you lost.   paris in the spring.    birds chirping.    the art of growing.    a kiss on the cheek.    the clap of thunder.    a tornado in the valley.    smiling at a stranger.    planning.    saccharine pinks.    making promises.    trying something new.    hugs when you need them most.    a bee sting.    sitting on the steps of the met.   coming inside drenched from the thunderstorm.    picnics on a red checkered blanket in the new sun.   that feeling you get when you put on a good dress.    a long hike.  rushing when you can take your time.    going to the gym/training at ungodly hours.    excitement for what’s coming.  becoming yourself.    rain boots.

SUMMER.     lanterns lit around a campfire.   seeing the sunrise like it’s the first time again and again.   melting ice cream.   the warmth of sun rays upon skin.   fireworks.   the feeling of never wanting something to end.    beach days.    the lone blow up floaty left in the pool.     drifting with the warm nights breeze and nothing else.   music blasting at 3am, loud and proud.     palms trees on sunset boulevard.   longer days and shorter nights.    wanderlust.  nights spent staring at the stars.    sand castles.   road trips.    blood orange sunsets. leaving the laundry to hang outside.    flowers in bloom.    sneaking out of your room late at night.    pure contentment.    barefoot in the sand.  the street lights coming on.    the sound of the ocean in a seashell.    freshly squeezed lemonade.    loose clothing.   a cannonball into the pool.    sunflowers.    the hazy pink before dusk.  relaxation.

FALL.     the leaves changing colors.    a heavy backpack.    the smell of old books.   eating until you’re stuffed.    deep, dark woods.    the silence in loudness.    abandoned houses.    ripped jeans.    crunching leaves beneath feet.    feeling like you’ve been somewhere before.    sitting at a bay window.    having endless amount of work.   charcoal drawings.   screaming into a pillow as loud as you can.    pumpkin patches.    creaky floorboards.    accepting that some things do have to change.    museums.     small talk.  being ignored.    procrastinating.    a door slamming shut.    going to bed early.    baking pies.    the fear of walking alone in the dark.    feeling  completely and terribly lost.    a twig snapping.   crisp, cool days.    belly laughter after crying.    converse.    foggy mornings at the shoreline.    writing a daily entry in a journal.   a lonely day.

tagged by:  stole it tagging:  just continue the cycle

[captivesrp]

From her place seated on a pile of pelts, Anwen looks around the cluttered stone hut. Crocks and barrels line the walls, packed with fish and other winter preserves; piles of sail canvas lie waiting to be mended; bunches of fragrant herbs hang from the ceiling rafters. The smoky fire casts a flickering light over the rough woven tapestries that line the damp walls.

This space which once seemed so empty because of her father’s absence is now full to overflowing. Ffrewgí sits near Anwen; she has been showing him the different knots she uses for sail and rope repairs. Beside the fire, Anwen’s little sister Cadi is curled up on Heulwen’s lap, sleepily playing with the hound Bychan’s floppy ears. Outside, Anwen can hear the sound of Cydwag and Anwen’s old friend Siana, newly returned from a hunt. Murchadh sits at the table polishing an old sword. His arm is crippled no more; Ffrewgí had used his magic to heal him soon after their escape from the Gwaedwn. Anwen smiles as she thinks about the expression of awe and delight that Murchadh had for days afterward, and still shows whenever he finds another task that has to re-learn how to do.

Anwen’s mother bustles back and forth between the fire and the table, cleaning up after the evening meal. Her endless stream of chatter now seems pleasant, rather than grating, filling all the cracks and corners with the sounds of home.

It has been more than three moons since the children’s escape from slavery. Although many of her friends have homes they want to return to, Anwen had more hope of finding her home than the others did. Living on the coast, she knew she just had to make her way to the sea and travel south along the coast; so she invited everyone to come with her. It would be safer than wandering in the wilds with the risk of pursuit and it not being long until winter. Everyone had come—except Ainsley. He slipped away from the group the day after their escape, without an explanation or a goodbye. That grieved Anwen, but she found peace in the thought that wherever he had gone, that is where he wanted to be, and perhaps their paths would cross again someday. The rest of the group had continued on to Anwen’s village. Without a boat, the journey took nearly a whole cycle of the moon, but finally they climbed the rocky crags that Anwen knew so well, and looked down at the small cluster of stone houses that is the village of Chwythu.

The surprise at their arrival was unbounded. Anwen’s kidnapping had thrown the village into a state of chaos, but the search parties up and down the coast had not discovered anything. Finally, they had given her up as lost; so they could scarcely believe it when she walked into the village on that clear, late autumn day. Her mother screamed, and Siana looked like she had seen a ghost, but Cadi ran into Anwen’s arms.

The celebration lasted for days, as the children were asked to tell their story again and again. Homes were opened to them, and they were all given a place to stay. Anwen was not sure how the villagers would respond to the magical gifts wielded by Anwen and her peers, but that only increased the awe and respect that were shown to the children.

All of the attention and enthusiasm was a little overwhelming, though, and Anwen was glad when life began to settle into a regular routine again. Winter soon broke over the village, with its storms and bone-chilling cold. Now, everyone stays indoors, for the most part, working on repairs and small projects in preparation for the days when more favourable weather will return.

Murchadh has told Anwen that when the winter has passed he will leave to go travelling with his cousin Tyree. Murchadh was a travelling storyteller before he was captured, and longs to wander the roads of the world again—and he has told the others that as he travels he will search for their villages, so that one day they can each return home again. Knowing that one day she will have to say goodbye to her friends, Anwen enjoys every day she has while they are still with her.

Cadi runs across the room and gives Anwen a big hug. It is her bedtime, and she always says goodnight to Anwen first, then goes on to give a hug to every other person in the room. Anwen smiles as she watches Cadi run from friend to friend, leaving a trail of laughter behind her. Last of all, Cadi grabs Heulwen’s hand. “Come on!” she begs. “Tell me a story! Tell me a story!”

Heulwen lets herself be pulled along after her enthusiastic young friend, and together they disappear from view.

Soon afterward, Anwen’s mother retires for the evening, and silence settles over the small stone hut, disturbed only by the rustle of logs settling in the fire and Bychan’s snoring. Anwen feels the wind picking up outside. There must be another storm blowing in. Quietly, she sets down her work and glances around the room. Everyone seems busy and content with their tasks. Taking her cloak off its hook by the door, Anwen wraps it around her shoulders and slips outside.

A rush of cold sea air greets her and takes her breath away. Solitary raindrops sting her face, heralds of the oncoming storm. Pulling her cloak tighter, she follows the old, familiar path up to the crags.

Once again, Anwen stands on the heights, braced against the onslaught of the wind and rain. This place is just as much home to her as a stone hut could ever be. She stands with head uplifted, reveling in the moment, until the rain passes and clouds overhead tear into pieces and sail past the stars, revealing the light of a crescent moon.

Anwen turns toward a great stone, standing solitary upon the crag. Kneeling in front of it, she takes two small candles from her pocket. Carefully, she presses them down into the turf so they stand upright. With a little smile, she forms a bubble of still, calm air, just around the candles. She lights them, and their flames rise straight and tall, with only the slightest flicker, even though all around them the wind rushes by.

The warm light of the candles glistens on the stone, illuminating the ancient carvings on its face, worn almost invisible by constant exposure to the elements. Reverently, Anwen kneels before it. For two years she had refused to light a candle for her father. Now it is time.

Slowly, Anwen becomes aware of a disturbance in the flow of the wind behind her. Looking around, she sees Ffrewgí, standing unsteadily in the tumultuous wind. Anwen smiles and gestures an invitation for him to join her.

Hesitantly, Ffrewgí crouches beside her. He starts to speak, but the rushing wind carries his words away. Anwen reaches out to the pocket of calm air around the candles and enlarges it to encompass both herself and Ffrewgí. The exhilaration of the rushing wind fades into a feeling of deep calm. Anwen smiles at Ffrewgí. Now they can talk.

The candle light flickers in Ffrewgí’s eyes as he looks at her, then his gaze moves to the stone looming above them. “What is it?”

“The Great Stone,” Anwen explains quietly. “It watches over everyone who is lost at sea. When we grieve for those who are gone, we light a candle by the stone to remind it to watch over them for us.”

Ffrewgí looks down at the two small flames. “Who are the candles for?”

“My father and Alaric. I know they weren’t lost to the sea, but I like to think that the stone is watching over them anyway.”

Ffrewgí stares at the flickering candles in silence for a while before asking, “Do you think you’ll see your father again?”

Anwen lets out a long breath. “I don’t know. It’s strange to think of him being out there, somewhere. But, if I never see him again, I think I’m okay with that. I am where I want to be, and he is where he wants to be. But I still miss him.“

Ffrewgí nods thoughtfully. “Do you have any more candles?” he asks, then blushes under her glance. “I—I miss people too.”

Anwen squeezes his hand. “Next time we can come up together, and we’ll bring more candles.”

They wait in silence, watching the candles slowly burn down and sputter out in the damp turf. Shadow falls over the stone again. Anwen looks over at Ffrewgí. “Do you miss your home?”

Ffrewgí pauses. “I do. I … I want to go travelling for a season—or more—with Murchadh, if he will have me. I want to see my village, my family.”

Anwen nods. Of course Ffrewgí wants to go home. There is a catch in her voice as she admits, “I’ll miss you.”

Ffrewgí looks at Anwen for a moment. “I want to see them one more time. I want to say a proper goodbye.” Seeing Anwen’s questioning glance, he continues. “Too much has happened. I picture myself back in my home village and I can’t see a place for me there. I’m not a weaver anymore. I’m not a hunter, not a warrior.” There is a short silence, then Ffrewgí continues hesitantly, “If you will have me, I have found a place with you—with the others too—” he adds, his face reddening, “and after Murchadh and I have found my village, I would like to return here.” He looks out over the sea and smiles. “If I can get used to the wind.”

Anwen laughs in delight. When Ffrewgí glances back toward her, she adds quietly, “I’d like that.”

Anwen stands up into the wind. It has been gentling, and no longer takes her breath away. Ffrewgí stands beside her. A comfortable silence falls as Anwen lifts her eyes above the distant horizon. The wind has driven the last of the clouds from the sky and the stars shine brightly overhead.

Maybe in the spring she will learn how to sail. She does not have to worry whether the wind will blow her right off the boat, like her father always teased would happen if she was not careful. Maybe Ffrewgí could come sailing with her. That would be fun. If they become confident enough, maybe they could even try sailing at night. She looks over at Ffrewgí and grins.

Ffrewgí is staring intently into the distance. “What’s that?”

Anwen moves closer to Ffrewgí and follows his gaze as he points out across the water. In the distance, the shadowy sea glimmers with the moon’s reflection, the line of the horizon showing clearly against the starry sky. But one dark shape stands out against the stars. Anwen’s eyes trace its familiar shape. There, on the far horizon, is a sail.

[secretlyatargaryen]

Going off of this awesome post by @joannalannister, and also what I said about how we need to talk more about Tyrion and food, Tyrion’s love of food, like his love of wine and sex, are very important to his narrative. Food is life, food is joy in life, and food is also bodily autonomy, and Tyrion’s indulgences in life’s pleasures are there to affirm his determination to live even when others thought he would die, to live in a world that was not made for him, a world that equates living as a disabled person to living as an ascetic.

Medievalist fantasies are often dominated by scenes of war and sumptuous banquets. By definition, this life of danger and excess, of violence and orgy, fits able people (particularly men) and would seem to exclude disabled people. Yet, this is Tyrion’s world, and he has learned to excel in both areas. (x)

This connection is established in Tyrion’s very first chapter, when Tyrion interrupts his brother and sister’s breakfast, demands food, and disrupts the balance of things by implying that he knows the twins’ secret and giving cause for Jaime to wonder “whose side [he’s] on.”

"Even if the boy does live, he will be a cripple. Worse than a cripple. A grotesque. Give me a good clean death."

Tyrion replied with a shrug that accentuated the twist of his shoulders. "Speaking for the grotesques," he said, "I beg to differ. Death is so terribly final, while life is full of possibilities."

Jaime smiled. "You are a perverse little imp, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes," Tyrion admitted. "I hope the boy does wake. I would be most interested to hear what he might have to say."

His brother's smile curdled like sour milk. "Tyrion, my sweet brother," he said darkly, "there are times when you give me cause to wonder whose side you are on."

Tyrion's mouth was full of bread and fish. He took a swallow of strong black beer to wash it all down, and grinned up wolfishly at Jaime. "Why, Jaime, my sweet brother," he said, "you wound me. You know how much I love my family."

In this scene, Tyrion is seen immensely enjoying his meal and looking “wolfishly” at Jaime, a word that implies a certain hunger and desire to consume. Tyrion confirms his status as not quite one of the Lannisters, but also affirms at the same time his place among them, and makes a statement in affirmation of his determination to enjoy life despite Jaime’s statement that life for people like Bran (and by extension Tyrion) is not worth living or devoid of enjoyment.

Contrast this scene, one of Tyrion’s first scenes, with his first chapter at the beginning of ADWD. Here, Tyrion has lost his connection to his Lannister name, and seems to have given up on the pride he usually takes in himself, and is even contemplating suicide. Consequently, his appetites have also diminished. He barely eats, foregoing life-giving food (and the food presented is extremely unappealing), and overindulges in wine in an attempt at self destruction (although he vomits that up, too).

The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food tasted even worse when retched back up. But why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. Sometimes he heaved the wine up too, but there was always more.

There is always more wine, creating a circular series of events, Tyrion overindulging and then ending up with an empty stomach yet again. On the ship to Essos his life has become an endless cycle of self-loathing and suicidal ideation.

At Illyrio’s, Tyrion, in his depressed and traumatized state, continues to refuse food, instead asking for wine, until he is confronted by Illyrio’s sumptuous table.

They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. The sight of it all made Tyrion feel queasy, but he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of politeness, and once he had tasted it he was lost. The cooks might be old and fat, but they knew their business. He had never eaten so well, even at court.

For all his cynicism and self-loathing, Tyrion can’t yet get rid of that part of himself that joys in life’s pleasures, and once he tastes the food, he is lost. But here, food becomes a double edged sword, also carrying the potential for destruction, and the danger here is especially seductive.

Tyrion speared a goose liver on the point of his knife. No man is as cursed as the kinslayer, he mused, but I could learn to like this hell.

Tyrion is in a symbolic hell, and is offered a pomegranate in the form of a mushroom. (And winter is coming, but Tyrion’s earliest memories are of spring.)

"Mushrooms," the magister announced, as the smell wafted up. "Kissed with garlic and bathed in butter. I am told the taste is exquisite. Have one, my friend. Have two."

Tyrion had a fat black mushroom halfway to his mouth, but something in Illyrio's voice made him stop abruptly.

In contrast to Tyrion’s earlier determination to survive despite the odds against him, here he contemplates how easy it would be to give in.

“The pain is not so much, I am told. Some cramping in the gut, a sudden ache behind the eyes, and it is done. Better a mushroom than a sword through your neck, is it not so? Why die with the taste of blood in your mouth when it could be butter and garlic?"

The dwarf studied the dish before him. The smell of garlic and butter had his mouth watering. Some part of him wanted those mushrooms, even knowing what they were. He was not brave enough to take cold steel to his own belly, but a bite of mushroom would not be so hard. That frightened him more than he could say.

If food represents like, it also represents the allure of death, specifically the allure of an easy death. But more importantly, I think it represents the allure of apathy, and the danger of a life not well-lived.

"You mistake me," Tyrion said again, more loudly. The buttered mushrooms glistened in the lamplight, dark and inviting. "I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …" His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

If Tyrion is to survive the winter, he must regain that sense of determination to live, and find what it is that he has, that makes his life worth living.

Of course, the mushrooms turn out not to be poisoned at all, and Illyrio punctuates this reveal by eating one himself. The danger here Tyrion faced was only an existential one, and the meaning is double, because the other danger faced is Tyrion’s own cynicism. His paranoia about the mushrooms highlights his depressed and destitute state. To survive, Tyrion must find balance in his life. That goes for his other indulgences, too, but here I’m primarily talking about food so I’ll save that for another post.

[thegreenhorseman]

We hear it every year, year after year…”This is going to be the worst year for ticks yet.”  It seems to get worse every year.  If this is unfamiliar to you, you might be fortunate enough to live in an area where the concern is not so prevalent.  In the northeastern United States, however, you’d be hard pressed to find a group that hasn’t expressed concern.

Why ticks?

These tiny vile creatures spread several diseases, most commonly Lyme Disease.  Since May is Lyme Disease Prevention Month let’s work to understand HOW Lyme is transmitted. We’ll also explore some steps we can take to keep ourselves and our animals (horses, dogs, cats) safe.

In 2017 nearly 30,000 cases of Lyme disease were diagnosed and another 13,000 were suspected as “probable.” Most of these cases originated in the northeastern United States as seen in the map below thanks to CDC.gov.  The chart following shows the upward trend of Lyme disease throughout the years.

Cases confirmed in the United States 2017.  Courtesy of CDC.gov

Cases of Lyme Disease in the United States 1997-2017 courtesy of CDC.gov

Ticks are arachnids, or eight-legged creatures, that thrive in deep grass and wooded areas.  Often areas where our horses enjoy, of course.  There are several different species of tick and they all have different life cycles, feeding habits, and habitats.

What is a bit more alarming is a new tick to the United States called the Asian Long-horned tick, which can reproduce without a mate.  The video below talks briefly about it.

Most of the time when we think of ticks we think of the most common threat; the deer tick/black-legged tick.  The deer tick is often the source of Lyme disease along with several other illnesses including Anaplasmosis, Powassan, and Tick-Borne Relapsing Fever.  Blade suffered from anaplasmosis in 2017 (Blade’s Got the Blues and Equine Affaire). 

The deer tick begins its life cycle as an egg laid by the females in springtime.  By summer the larva emerges from its egg and waits for a host.  Hosts are typically birds and small rodents.

Freshly hatched ticks they are free of the bacteria that causes Lyme disease.  Only when they feed on their hosts do they pick up the pathogens.  In the United States the bacteria transmitted is either Borrelia burgdorferi or Borrelia mayonii.  Across the pond in Europe and Asia you are more likely to find Borrelia afzelii and Borrelia garinii.

The birds and rodents that feed tick larva carry these species of bacteria without illness; they are simply hosts.  By fall the tick falls from its host and enters its nymph stage. The nymphs are barely visible to the human eye.  These critters lay dormant through the winter but by April/May they begin to emerge again.  They wait for a host to walk by so they can catch a ride.  Using their barbed mouth parts, the tick digs in for a blood meal.  The pathogen inside the tick enters the salivary glands and can be released through the tick’s saliva.  These hosts include us and our loved ones.  Nymphs are often the cause of Lyme disease since they are small and difficult to spot.

By fall the nymphs become adults looking for new hosts.  At 45°F they seek wooded areas to survive the winter.  When they emerge again in spring they continue to look for hosts and mate.  A single female tick can lay 3000 eggs!  After a two-year life cycle the new batch of larva hatches and begins the cycle again.

As you can see, we can become infected by both the nymphs and the adult ticks. The more hosts carrying the bacteria, the more likely it is to spread to us.

The hallmark sign of Lyme disease is the bullseye, a circular rash around the bite.  Symptoms may appear weeks after the bite.  This appears in a majority of cases…but what of our equine friends?

Horses suffering from Lyme Disease may have subtle symptoms.  They might be off mentally, emotionally, and physically.  They may be sore or lame, lethargic, grumpy, neurological, or have a low-grade fever.  Lyme is known to mimic other issues so a vet is critical in ruling out other problems.  Lyme will also elude testing, as there are many cases of Lyme that appear negative on test results.

I’m even learning that Lyme can be a cause for some headshaking in horses.  Headshaking is not commonly listed as a symptom nor have any of my vets over the past two years suggested the possibility.  This is, however, something I plan on looking into after this research. As you may know from past articles, Blade developed headshaking about 18 months ago (shortly after his run with anaplasmosis). Though our tests were negative it could have been one of those instances with a false negative.

Once Lyme has been diagnosed (or suspected) there are a few treatment options.

The most common treatment is called Doxycycline, an ingestable antibiotic often given in a powdered form with food.  A similar drug is called Naxcel.  Despite their popularity with horse-owners they only happen to be 50% effective.

The most effective treatment is more pricey… a study in 2005 reported 100% effectiveness.  The reoccurrence levels were considerably lower in the study as well.  What’s this treatment you ask?  Daily intravenous oxytetracycline.  My vet once called it the “gold standard.”  The reason most horse-owners don’t opt for this treatment is the administration. Having a vet visit and administer the shot every day for 3-5 days is pricey so most horse owners use the Doxy.

If I remember correctly I paid somewhere around $450 for three daily IVs of Oxytet for Blade.

So what are some ways we can prevent this problem from happening in the first place? As the Benjamin Franklin saying goes, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Lyme vaccines for horses are not available yet.  Studies have shown some effectiveness using canine vaccines on ponies, but it is still far too early.  There are no studies out (yet) showing the safety of this methodology.  Until we have vaccines we are tasked with the footwork that we should be doing anyway.

Checking for ticks often is the first thing you should be doing. Check yourself, check your dogs, check your cats, check your horses.  It takes 24 hours for a biting tick to transmit the disease.  I tend to find most ticks under the cheek, the neck, the chest, and the barrel (especially up behind the back legs).

There are a lot of Facebook experts who have tips, tricks, and endless opinions on tick removal.  The simplest thing you can do is use a good pair of tweezers and pull the tick up slowly and steadily so you remove the whole bug.  Another useful tool can be found in most pharmacies and pet stores.  The tick twister.  This little hooklike tool comes in a couple sizes (at least mine had 3 sizes in the package).  When you find a tick you slide the bug between the openings at the end so it becomes wedged.  From there twist and pull gently.  I have successfully removed many ticks using this tool and I love it. After a tick is removed you may choose to save it in a plastic bag for testing.  Apply alcohol or antibiotic ointment to the affected bite wound to be safe.

Since ticks prefer wooded areas, you can try to stay out of these areas.  That’s easier said than done if you enjoy the outdoors.

Keeping the grass and pasture mowed can be helpful.

Removing piles of leaves and moist ground cover is an excellent way to prevent ticks.  That leftover hay pile?  Let’s get rid of it!

Keeping down the rodent population could be useful.  Non-poison rodent traps, barn cats, and proper food storage go a long way.

Chickens and guinea hens love to eat ticks!

DEET and permethrins are of course some good chemicals that have proven efficacy for the prevention of ticks and other pests.  Some people use them others don’t.  That’s your choice to make.  There are many products on the market including fly sprays, spot-on applications, and even wipes.

I have had mediocre success with feed through pest repellant.  The more I use it the less effective it seems to be (though the first year seemed to make a big difference).

If you are opposed to chemicals more research has been finding useful essential oils that are as effective as the CDC recommended products. The key to the best product is perfecting the volatility ratio of oils.  High volatility essential oils disperse into the air faster.  This helps by preventing ticks from attaching in the first place.  Lower volatility oils will disperse into the air more slowly and have a longer lasting effect.  Check out the Tisserand Institute’s “Tick Talk” (link below) for more information on these oils.  I’ve also shared with you their formulation for DIY tick repellant.

Credit to Tisserand Institute

The thought of ticks and the disease they spread makes my head hurt.  Lyme disease is rarely fatal but it does lead to some frustrating and debilitating complications.

Other diseases like Powassan are rarer but a lot more deadly; this virus is associated with brain swelling.  Here in New York we are already beginning to hear reports of Powassan virus.  One group has found 25-50% of deer in the Adirondacks are positive for the virus and it only takes 15 minutes for the tick to transmit the virus to humans.

Whether Lyme, Anaplasmosis, or Powassan we can take steps to stay healthy and prevent ticks from biting.  It may take some time and effort but it’s completely worth it.

What are some of the methods you use to keep ticks at bay?

REFERENCES AND FURTHER READING

http://ssequineclinic.com/pages/services_lyme.html

https://ker.com/equinews/lyme-disease-horses/

https://equusmagazine.com/management/protect-against-lyme

https://www.vet.cornell.edu/animal-health-diagnostic-center/testing/protocols/lyme-multiplex-horses

https://igenex.com/ticktalk/2018/01/01/a-closer-look-at-the-different-types-of-ticks-and-how-to-identify-each/

https://www.cdc.gov/lyme/stats/graphs.html

http://www.aldf.com/deer-tick-ecology

https://www.cdc.gov/ticks/life_cycle_and_hosts.html

https://www.cdc.gov/lyme/index.html

https://www.lymedisease.org/get-involved/take-action/lyme-awareness-month/

https://tisserandinstitute.org/tick-talk-2/

https://www.adirondackdailyenterprise.com/news/local-news/2019/02/powassan-virus-on-the-up-tick/

What Ticks Me Off We hear it every year, year after year..."This is going to be the worst year for ticks yet."  It seems to get worse every year. 

[iinuyashaa]

Winter - sesskag oneshot

Winter, Sesshomaru decided, was the least pleasing season of all. It was a season of serenity and quiet, in bold opposition to his underlying instincts to fight, roar, and claim. It was a season that chilled his pale skin, and no matter how much he chose to feign indifference in the presence of human or demon alike, even he could become bothered by the annoying nip in the air. More than anything, however, it was a season of stillness that stood directly in contrast to his perpetual desire to roam. A deep, concealed tuft of air that embodied distaste blew from his nostrils as his golden hues gazed out towards the garden that was tucked in the interior property of his home. Once filled with the vibrantly colored petals of every possible flower he imagined would please his mate, the garden was now a shadow of its former self, covered in a seemingly innocent blanket of glistening snow. Even with his demeanor, Sesshomaru had in recent years become appreciative of the beautiful sights and sweet smells that the season of spring had to offer.

A flicker of hope sparked to life inside his thoughts. Time will continue to drag on at its meager pace, the Taiyoukai began in his mind, but with each spring, the same flowers will bloom, and life will begin again and continue in an endless cycle, just as I will. Although, he paused, slowly blinking, perhaps I am simply being too melancholy. What was it she had mentioned about winter? Something about making one ill... “Cabin-Fever,” she called it? Sesshomaru, had he allowed himself to do so, nearly scoffed. The blood that coursed through his veins was pure and strong; to think that he could become ill due to simply the presence of a season was absolute ludicrous. With that ultimatum, Sesshomaru tucked his hands neatly into the sleeves of his night robes and allowed his eyes to follow the trail of a few more falling flakes of snow before turning to walk back to his room. His footsteps were light and nearly silent against the wooden floors as he walked, as he did not want to be bothered by an onslaught of greetings by his servants on this quiet morning. In the dim background of Sesshomaru’s mind, there was a certain feeling of something different in the atmosphere today; the light from the cloudy, snow-filled morning outside dimly illuminated his trail, and, scolding himself, was ashamed to admit that he had not noticed this until now. Finally, he made it to his destination. Furrowing his eyebrows in a rare display of emotion, Sesshomaru paused before entering his room, allowing himself the chance to listen to the soft breaths emitting from his mate. No longer cautious of this once foreign feeling, Sesshomaru accepted the gradual warmth that spread through his chest at the sight of Kagome laying across their bed sheets as he peered into their chambers.

Raven-colored hair tousled and spread out unevenly against her pillow, Sesshomaru felt a low rumble escape his throat as he gazed upon her, his eyes soaking in the sight of Kagome- indeed, his Kagome- resting so peacefully. Her plump, pink lips were parted in a way that made her look more endearing than usual, if that was possible. Porcelain skin, unmarred save for the few scars that lingered upon her body, seemed to gleam like a pearl in the early morning light. His mate was undoubtedly a beautiful creature, indeed.

Sesshomaru remembered a time when she had been as nervous as a fawn to even explore the home he had built for them, and begrudgingly he had to admit that when she had appeared after her three year absence, this is the last situation he thought their relations would ever be in. He had watched from afar, confused and frustrated with his own delicately jealous emotions as Kagome longed for the same emotional depth that she had formed with his half-breed brother before her leave. As time passed, however, the two companions discovered that their opportunity to grow as one had vanished, and Sesshomaru suddenly found himself picking any reason necessary to travel back to the small village where Rin resided just to be in the miko’s presence, much to his dismay. It was not merely Kagome’s physical beauty that had entranced him; her uncommon wit, loyalty to friends, and prowess in battle had admittedly impressed him. Kagome quickly became an enigma that Sesshomaru wanted to understand. He challenged himself, and promised that once he understood her that the ridiculous notions of caressing her skin with his claws and perking up at her flowery scent, one that reminded him of the springs from his youth, would cease once he could comprehend her.  

When she still lived in that village, his visits grew more frequent. Many nights were spent waiting in the solitude of the nearby forest for her light footsteps to grace his senses, and once she was in his sights, he would spend hours listening to her talk- mostly babble- about various topics that she felt like discussing. Back then, he had not been much of a conversationalist, and to a large degree he still was not, but these nocturnal escapades were a whimsical and innocent opportunity to quench his thirst for knowledge of her. Of course, as many policies in Sesshomaru’s life apparently went, these moments only made him more inclined to see her eyes brighten as she laughed or hear the warm inflection in her voice when she spoke of her fox-child, Shippo, and Rin. In one specific conversation that Sesshomaru paid particular attention to, one that even Kagome could visibly see the Taiyoukai concentrating on her words, for the first time in his existence he felt the sudden desire to claim another for his own when she spoke of living out the days alone and childless in a world she had chosen over her own family. A spark had ignited inside of him, and a heart that he unknowingly owned clenched; Sesshomaru felt the rush of wanting to so vigorously shield someone from the woes of life. Sesshomaru wanted to gaze upon a Kagome that was free from illness, worry, or fear, and a Kagome that was warm, smiling, and content. This realization had appalled Sesshomaru, but alike his stance with any challenge thrust towards him, he knew he would overcome this as well.

It was from this conversation also, and the subsequent moments between the two which followed, that slowly Sesshomaru understood what his father had felt for that “disgusting”- in his once ignorant opinion- Izayoi. Humans, although most were disdainful creatures, were not all intolerable. Some, such as Kagome, held a beauty that even goddesses of that human folklore would envy; even more, some, and in this case especially Kagome, had the ability to make powerful demons such as himself crave not only intimacy but emotional serenity. His father, the former Lord of the West, had fulfilled his duties and honors as the ruler of the lands, and Sesshomaru felt a small sliver of reverence towards his predecessor for doing what needed to be done.

Sesshomaru, too, had found someone to protect.

A soft voice, slightly husky from the hour, poked through his musings.

“Sesshomaru?” Kagome called out intimately, blinking open her eyes and attempting to rid them of sleep dust.

The elder slowly made his way over to their bed mat and lowered himself onto it. With the rustling of blankets, the miko stretched gingerly before rolling over to face her mate. With a deep, content exhale, Kagome closed her eyes once more after seeing his face. In a motion Sesshomaru had become increasingly comfortable with, a clawed hand was brought to cup the woman’s exposed rosy cheek. “I am here.”

“Good." Kagome replied, placing her hand over the one on her cheek. “The bed was beginning to get cold... You’re kind of my indoor heater, you know.”

“Hnn.” Sesshomaru concluded, delicately using his finger and his thumb to brush a lock of her hair out of her eyes.

Kagome opened her eyes and smiled up at him softly. At one time, her memory hissed at her, the demon in front of her that held her so gently had tried to kill her.

“It’s funny how things have changed…” She whispered, and watched as Sesshomaru amusingly cocked his head slightly to the side, but did not change his expression.

“I must admit I find it intriguing as well.”

Kagome looked sheepish for a moment before giggling under her breath. A sudden change in her scent, one that was prickling with nervousness, flooded Sesshomaru’s senses. Golden eyes narrowed in his own form of lighthearted suspicion.

“Things are only going to change more, too.” Kagome began, and before Sesshomaru could inquire about the sudden declaration, the hand that was once holding his mate’s cheek was slowly slid down to cup the top of her belly. An expression that- undoubtedly- was close to a mix of awe and confusion appeared on Sesshomaru’s features. “Considering that I’m carrying your child.”

A pregnant pause ensued, and for a moment Kagome regretted even telling him in this fashion before her worries were swept away as Sesshomaru brought her to him, pressing their lips together to begin a series of kisses that would only end when both were satisfied. Soon, the slow, languid kisses morphed into those of an excited appreciation that led to an even better morning than before.

Later on, the sight of flushed cheeks and the scent of content enveloped Sesshomaru from Kagome as they lay together, his clawed hand already protectively splayed against her stomach. Warmth was no longer absent in their embrace and in the air; the sight of skin shifting from pale to vibrant red had amused Sesshomaru so much that he decided to repeal an earlier declaration.

Winter was indeed a pleasing season after all.

-

-

-

[ Alright, so my first inuyasha fandom piece of writing EVER. I’m sorry if characters were terribly ooc. I haven’t written anything in literal years... please tell me what you think! I know it’s kind of weird to have a oneshot from Sesshomaru’s perspective?? but i thought it might be interesting?? who knows. thanks for reading, though, and have a great day!]

[thathomesteadlife]

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

The Good:

Spring is here and we’ve had the most beautiful warm weather....finally. Ha! After weeks of incessant and seemingly endless rain, the sun made its grand debut. And boy, it really has been spectacular. Garden was tilled, a wood chip path around it completed, a plan, and then the planting. I was able to finish planting it today and I am so excited to have it done. I mostly direct sow the seeds so a)I hope it doesn’t frost again and b)I will anxiously wait over the next week to start seeing some green poke hopefully out of the ground!

We bought a new calf, he is feisty and crazy and we named him Buck, as he bucks constantly around the field any time he sees fit. He is a jersey angus cross, though I feel strongly that he is more jersey than we were led to believe. So far he is adjusting well and we look forward to adding another calf this coming weekend.

The chickens have been laying like champs and are loving the sun as much as I am.

We finally fixed the farm truck after it blew a head gasket in December. It runs perfectly and after working on that truck every free minute we had this winter, that is reward enough for us.

The Bad:

Pig lice. It is gross. They are huge. And tough to get rid of. I have been using DE (diatomaceous earth) to rid them of these nasties. I believe the lice was in some straw that we bought. It’s taken weeks to rid them of the lice, though the pigs aren’t itchy as the DE continually kills the lice ones as soon as they hatch.

The Ugly:

We lost a steer. Patches always looked a little sickly and after a long hard winter, now matter how much hay was on hand, he continued to lose weight and literally dropped one night. I nearly threw in the towel on this Homestead Life. Winter was brutal this year. We lost two of our young piglets as well to the elements after they attempted to sleep on the outside of their house....sigh....I decided to push harder and take all of this as learning opportunities. No one really talks about how the learning curve of raising farm animals isn’t always pleasant and is often mysterious and unclear....until it becomes painfully clear. Our other steer, Unihorn, shortly after started looking sick as well. After some research I think he had a parasite. I fed him DE on his hay for one week along with some liquid vitamins in his water and he bounced back to his old self after just a couple of days. I have noticed today that he is a little sluggish again, not bad, but enough for me to get a jump on the DE again. I will do a two week course this time as it must be a longer living parasite than the average 7 day cycle I read about.

With all of the craziness of the homestead, the Good, the Bad and the Ugly...I need to remind myself to really see how good we have it here. To see the numerous blessings that sprinkle their way through my life. To remind myself to fall in love with the land, the home, the animals, the reasons we’ve chosen to raise animals, the product we get from raising them. I don’t know that I could bring myself to buying beef from a store after having beef raised by our family. The taste is unparalleled. Sometimes it just takes a little sunshine, some dirt and accomplishing a few goals to bring all the positives back into the light.

I’m certain I’ve forgotten or left out many things in each category, but these were some big ones. The ones that continually come to the forefront of my mind.

[leisurelypanda]

Mundane Miracles (aka, my sermon from this morning)

When I was a child, I believed in miracles. I believed the stories about Jesus healing the sick, feeding thousands of people, bringing the dead back to life, turning water into wine, walking on water, calming stormy seas, and casting out demons from people possessed. I believed that these were what miracles were, things that only God could accomplish, things that could only be achieved by having some kind of divine blessing.

As a child, I also believed that people followed God because Jesus did cool stuff. Jesus was extraordinary and did things no one else could and promised that if people followed him, that they could do cool, extraordinary things, too. Of course there was that bit about God loving all people, but to a kid with an active imagination and who believed that his dogs could be taught how to talk, who tried to talk to the weeping willow in the backyard like Pocahontas did in the Disney movie, and who believed in magic and genies and fairy godmothers, the miracles seemed to be the thing that must be why people followed Jesus.

I tried to perform miracles. I remember trying to walk on water at the local pool because how cool would that be? I remember trying to move a mountain or a small hill, anyway, because that sounded awesome! I remember when my grandfather died and I wondered why the people at the funeral didn’t try to bring him back like Jesus did because surely that would be better than being sad.

But when I tried to walk on water, I fell through the surface and swam back up. When I tried to move that small hill, it stood resolutely and I wonder if it bothered to notice that I was there at all. My grandfather was driven from the funeral home to the cemetery and laid to rest. And as a child, I wondered why no one ever seemed to have enough faith to do any of the things Jesus did.

When I was a teenager and started asking questions, I remember asking the people at my church why miracles “didn’t happen anymore.” Why didn’t praying for someone to be healed of sickness or injury heal them like it had when Jesus did it? Why didn’t blessing food make it multiply endlessly? (Which for anyone who has ever been to a Southern Baptist potluck where that one person brought devilled eggs, you know that that specific platter of devilled eggs needs a blessing). Why didn’t mountains move and why couldn’t people walk on water?

I received a variety of answers for these questions. Some people said that I needed more faith, that God only worked with people who had achieved some hidden prerequisite faith quota. Others said that God moves in mysterious ways and that it’s not our place to question. That never made sense to me. Still others had the most frightening answer of all, that God didn’t perform miracles anymore. That answer in particular came up more in the South, the idea that God was no longer actively involved with humans. That God did not speak to people anymore, that God did not work wonders in the world anymore. And it was always confusing, as well, because these people would always insist that God was active in the world, that God was doing something. God just wasn’t doing anything miraculous or being transparent about what was going on.

I wondered what the point of believing in God was if these miracles people spent so much time focusing on didn’t exist anymore. Why did Jesus feed people if they were going to be hungry again? Why did he heal people if they were going to get sick again? Why did he bring people back to life if they were just going to die again? And I clung to faith because I was waiting for someone to bring me an answer.

I didn’t find a satisfactory answer until I was in college after I came out. One of my sociology professors talked about her work as a nurse while her husband worked as a community organizer and pastored a church in South Africa. There were stories of trials and difficulty and I wondered sometimes why anyone would stay in a place with such hardships when they had the option of leaving. There were stories of joy and blessing, too. Children learning languages, change happening, people receiving medical care. And these stories gave me part of the answer. All life contains both blessing and hardship.

The second part came when I was completing my spring semester of my senior year, the only time I have ever been part of a theatrical production and I did it as a favor to my friend because it was their senior show. The show was called Corpus Christi, and it was a retelling of the story of Jesus from the perspective of Joshua, a gay man. All the disciples are there, and they’re all gay. Simon was a singer, Phillip was a stripper, and Judas was Joshua’s high school sweetheart.

The story was the same as it is in the Bible. Joshua goes out, leaves home, teaches, performs miracles. And when the last supper happens, Joshua and Judas go off alone because Joshua knows that he’s about to die and he’s afraid. He falls asleep in Judas’s lap and Judas makes a deal to betray him with the high priest. And when they’re done, the high priest warns Judas that Joshua is a troublemaker. To which Judas asks, “Because he says he’s the son of God?” The high priest says, “No, because he says that you are also the son of God.” Judas counters with, “We are all the children of God.”

And this is the central message of Corpus Christi, the truth as the playwright saw it, that we are all manifestations of the Christ Spirit. The school shut it down, of course and it was a dark, sad time for those of us in the cast. But life went on. We healed, bit by bit, step by step, through little things and time spent with friends. Through talking and laughing and crying and raging. Through eating and drinking and stressing and playing. Some of us wrote. Some acted. Some protested. Others threw themselves into schoolwork. And three years later, we’re all still here. And that’s when I learned the second part of the answer. Life goes on.

Miracles happen every day. To say that God does not work miracles in the world discounts the wonders we see around us. We live longer than we did a century ago because someone discovered medicines and ways to keep us healthy longer.  We grow food in such quantity that it feeds billions of people around the world every day. We heal, day by day, from old hurts and traumas others may never fully understand. And to say that God is not here in the midst, orchestrating these little miracles, even ones so small as the next breath we take, is wrong.

And just because Jesus’ miracles were temporary does not mean that they were not extraordinary. His teachings, to love with our whole beings, to be kind even to our enemies, to do good, even if all we can do is give someone some water, are what matter. And resurrection, the continuance of life even in the face of death is the greatest of all. When Jesus came back, he comforted those who mourned for him. He forgave Peter for denying him. At the end of Corpus Christi, the actors come out of character and the Actor Playing Judas says, “Sometimes, I mourn for Judas, too. I think Joshua would have.”

Easter is a time of miracles. Jesus rose from the dead and this was so shocking, so absurdly wonderful, that the people who spent every day with him for years, listening to him teach, hearing his words, questioning him, learning from him, eating, resting, dancing, singing, laughing, and crying with him were so flabbergasted that they could not believe that it happened. And the only people who believe the women who come to tell them that Jesus is not in the tomb are Peter and John, the Beloved Disciple. And when Mary Magdalene comes running to the rest of the disciples crying “I have seen the Lord!” they don’t believe her until Jesus himself pops in to tell them.

And yet Easter is often so calm. So mundane. It comes like spring. Slowly, at first, then all of a sudden the world is alive again. Everything is reborn and every year at springtime there’s one day when I go out and I pause and wonder when the trees had grown their leaves back, if I had been asleep for the whole thing or if it happened just a few moments ago. And suddenly the world is alive again after the winter snows. Flowers are blooming, the grass is green, the birds are singing, and the trees rustle in the wind, whispering their secrets to each other as they come awake.

Resurrection is coming and it is a gift, whether we experience rebirth and renewal in this life or are reborn into the next. Resurrection is the chance to do more. To love more. To be more compassionate. To be more gracious. The mistakes we made are not the last word. The cycle continues until we have reached the highest and best good. And that is a miracle, too.

As for me, I believe in only one miracle. Life, and the endless wonder it brings. The feeling of wind at your back, the sun on your face, of rain falling on dry skin and thirsty earth, of dreaming and waking, of living moments of joy and sorrow, of loving and being loved. The greatest miracle of life is that it endures. As life does not, cannot pause in the moments of blissful peace and profound joy, so too does life not stop during moments of incomprehensible sorrow and deep despair. As every sun sets and the long night begins, so the sun rises and new days come to bring their blessings. Every winter ends and life returns to a sleeping world. Life goes on and resurrection is coming. Praise God. Amen.