#boughs enshrouded

[thenighteternal]

𝕭𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖘𝖍𝖗𝖔𝖚𝖉𝖊𝖉 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰

[auburniivenus]

"Death marches on these lands, it is pointless to fight against it." Ketheric Thorm

In   the   beleaguered   realm   of   Shadow-cursed   Lands,   where   the   skein   of   existence   wears   threadbare   and   apparitions   of   doom   slither   like   sinister   serpents,   DEATH   unfurls   itself   in   a   dolorous   display.   A   heavy   atmosphere   suffused   with   the   susurrus   sighs   of   disembodied   spirits   enshrouds   the   skeletal   remains   of   once   resplendent   forests.   Vaporous   tendrils,   as   diaphanous   as   the   recollections   held   by   the   living,   meander   amongst   twisted   boughs   as   grieving   wraiths   entwining   in   a   sombre   minuet.

Here,   dark   forces   are   more   than   a   mere   dearth   of   radiance—they   are   invidious   beings   hungering   for   life's   fervor.   Amidst   decaying   memorials   and   forsaken   villages   that   embody   desolation,   death   frolics   with   an   OPULENCE   that   belies   its   inherent   barbarianism.   Osculated   by   the   insidious   embrace   of   nightshade   limbs,   vestiges   of   once-fecund   life   merge   with   sepulchral   caresses   while   lugubrious   zephyrs   bear   away   lamenting   requiems—the   melody   of   diminishing   echoes.   Determined   to   repel   the   stygian   entwinement   stands   she,   a   personification   of   LIGHT.

"No   matter   how   far   death   encroaches,   my   spirit   never   yields!"   Resolute   and   self-assured,   her   voice   rings   clear   above   the   spectral   dirge.   Her   every   breath   was   committed   to   healing   the   fractured   and   scorching   shadows   from   whence   they   came.   "It’s   my   destiny."   Proclaims.   With   unwavering   conviction,   she   embraces   her   purpose   as   a   beacon   of   hope   amidst   the   crested   darkness.   Her   continuous   commitment   to   vanquish   the   malevolent   forces   that   threaten   to   consume   the   cosmos   fuels   her   every   action.   Inoue   knows   that   her   ultimate   goal   is   intertwined   with   the   salvation   of   all. @fallesto

[madamlaydebug]

The Alchemical Marriage is generally defined as the marriage of elements (like salt, sulphur and mercury). However, it can also be classified as the marriage of Heaven and Earth (the coalescing and binding of the "As Above, So Below.") And in that same vein, that of Man (usually a King or a ruler) to the Heavenly forces.

In mythology, Sir James George Frazer in his nominal work "The Golden Bough" explained that "the Barotse believe in a supreme god, the creator of all things, whom they call Niambe. He lives in the sun, and by his marriage with the moon begat the world, the animals, and last of all men."

The Veil Symbolism is equally rich. (According to J. Cirlot in his Dictionary of Symbols) "To tear aside the temple-veil, or to rend one’sgarments, represents a desperate attempt to achieve, by force of analogy, the tearing aside of the veil that enshrouds the mystery of the other world." He goes on to say about the Veil, " In addition to partaking of the generic symbolism of fabrics, the veil signifies the concealment of certain aspects of truth or of the deity. Guénon draws attention to the double meaning of the verb ‘to reveal’ (‘re-veil’), which may mean either to pull back the veil or to cover again with a veil. The Bible tells us that when Moses came down from mount Sinai ‘the skin of his face shone’ so that he had to cover his face with a veil while he spoke with the people because they were able to look upon his shining face.

In Kemet, the Veil of Isis represented the division between Man and the Divine. To "pierce the Veil of Isis" was to be initiated into the Mysteries, essentially to view the face of Deity, to whom all Secrets are known.

[inun4ki]

[ chin up ] sender lifts receiver's chin to stop them from hiding their tears

He'd been cowering in some hidden room, doing everything in his power to dodge, escape, and keep concealed the overwhelming emotion washing over him now. The likes of Gojo Satoru, Principle Yaga, any of the students, anyone anyone anyone finding him, when the sorrows he'd fought so hard to keep at bay suddenly snapped their jaws shut around him and dragged him blindly back into the dark. Tunnel-vision, running and running as though a child from a monster, mental health lurching without warning - an episode; He wouldn't remember this, and that was his only saving grace.

All he could see was tearful blackness, none of the wooded warmth of the school providing him with any clarity, tools for grounding. No, no, despite the walls that closed in on him all lined with filing cabinets and storage bins, he was surrounded, crushed under the wait of countless mistakes, blood, death, failure, misery, and hardship - memories stained in abuses of power, manipulation, lies, and the intent to kill. It made his head hurt, brain twisting with electrical impulses to make sense of the horrors, of the contradictions and hypocritical feelings he drowned himself in, blaming himself without reason, clenching his jaw so tightly his teeth might've cracked under the pressure. Dizzy, confused, blinded by what he never wanted to remember again, forcibly forgotten memories piercing through the barrier and demanding to be seen, to be heard.

He couldn't stop himself from hiding. Deeper and deeper into boughs of lacquered wood and traditional Japanese architecture, stumbling into walls so caked with dust - out of time and out of place. He couldn't see that he'd scrambled into the morgue, couldn't smell the scent of preserved flesh over the illusion of that which'd been freshly torn open and still warm. Heartbeats thundered in his ears, hands clawed at them, black-painted fingernails catching and cutting into skin and cartilege, his brother's corpse strewn about in pieces before him - then mother and father, Tsubaki, Kusabi, organs tied together in twisted knots around him, slick and foul on his wrists, dribbling down his lips-- But he cradled it, held Terin's head in his hands as if afraid the smile on his face would disappear and he'd be left to face it all alone again. Tripping all over himself down a hallway or two, panting and panting, so desperate to go deeper, hide better.

But something stopped him, some obstacle enshrouded in the panic assailing him now. He wanted to vomit, nerves ablaze with fear and insecurity, pulling at hair, gnawing, biting, shaking, flinching-- Hands. Hands touched him, his face, fingertips light as a feather and gentle as could be. He hadn't realized he'd been crying, heart torn in two, and he couldn't have foreseen that someone, anyone would so tenderly draw his attention. Soft, lightly powdered with what they put on the inside of latex gloves. The panic did not subside, but it became easier if only just, achingly wheezy breaths and burning lungs slowing to a quiet pant and dull simmer. Still, he couldn't see that his senpai, Ieiri Shoko, had found him in his state of irrational distress and saw fit to check him over - to care, for a time. It was alien, it made him sick, made him freeze to the spot and bring the anticipation of getting hit rushing to the surface.

Clouded gaze sharpened, wide with fear yet narrow with single-focus, too many faces muddied in the dark. Every instinct told him to take off, dart away like a frenzied bolt of lightning until at last, finally, he could be alone. His head throbbed, knees threatened to buckle, and the tremble of his shoulders crippled what hope he had to suffer in peace, away from the watchful eyes of his coworkers, bosses, and whoever else may have crossed his path. He couldn't bear to be seen like this, known like this - even in this state, he was secure enough about that.

What would they think of him now? Was he as weak as the day of the massacre, powerless to stop Taisho and his curse let alone any others? Was he pathetic, a frightened, insecure man, shadow of what he could've been? He wouldn't remember this, right? He wouldn't remember the comforting warmth hooked around his chin, or the thumb smearing something wet and hot away. His skin burned, his heart ripped at its every seam - and he was stupid, so stupid as to lean into hit, throat dry and tight, pressure building.

"Senpai..." he rasped, voice a strained whisper at best. A sob shook free of him then, shaky hands looping around slender wrists. "Make it stop. I'm tired. I don't want to feel this way anymore. Please, make it stop... Make it stop."

[zoecwriting00]

(Short Story) The Tree of Life

“And at the end of everything, they all come to settle beneath the tree.

“It is nothing remarkable – just an ordinary oak – yet it somehow brings them peace at the end. For some it is a tree, others a person or place, and sometimes nothing at all. But for all, the end is whatever you need it to be, whatever you've always needed it to be. It will be peaceful, and it will be kind.

“Now, I believe some people settle willingly, greeting the final destination with a weary smile on their face, and a vague quickening to their gait; others will scream and lash out, doing everything in their power to escape the journey to the tree, protracting it for as long as they may; others will never remember the trip and will find themselves lying in ease under it as if they'd been there forever. 

“I like to imagine when my time comes, that I shall see my dear Eloise there, or the tree shall be my childhood home, piping hot cookies perched and cooling on the window ledge, ready for my sister and I to return from school. Perhaps it shall be both, and perhaps it shall be neither. None of us know what lies in wait at the end of our journey, and any fool who claims otherwise is just that.”

“Just what?” 

“A fool,” he grinned at me.

My grandfather drew me closer still into his lap, the musty tang of the cigar he'd just extinguished enshrouding me; I took in a deep breath. 

“But you.” He leaned closer to my face, his whiskery beard tickling my cheek, and I bit back the urge to giggle. “You have nothing to worry about, my dear. The tree does not call for children, and you are the smallest I know; don't waste away your days thinking about their end, that's no way for a wee one like yourself to go around.” 

His breath was moist, and a part of me tried to recoil from it, but I sat as still as I could – as I always did. These words were practically ritual now, I needed to hear them as much as I needed clothes on my back, food in my belly, or as Grandpa needed his cigars. 

It was a habit both of us found necessary these days – he needed to remind himself of his own looming end, though arrogance in old age seemed to have made him slightly tone deaf to this fact. And I myself needed reassurance that, though absolute, my death was far off and would be kind and peaceful. My mother found the tales of the Tree and the Ever-War macabre, and did not appreciate my grandfather feeding my pre-occupation with death any more than I already found ways to – she would walk in the room, nose turned up in disgust, and scold Grandpa for indulging my unhealthy habits. He would promise that this story would be the last. And that's how it always went. 

Today, however, my mother was not here, and I'd been left under the sole watch of my grandparents; I could have as many stories as I wanted. 

“What if...” I speculated, as he bumped me up and down on his knee like an upset bough of a tree in a thunder storm, “I had an accident.”

“Not on my watch,” Grandpa chuckled, tilting his head toward the long-case clock in the corner of his study. 

Folding my arms ignoring the poor joke, I continued as if he hadn't spoken, “If I had an accident which was so so bad no one could help, and then the tree had to call for me. What then? Would it matter that I am small?”

Grandpa settled his knee, and frowned. It was not a look which sat well on his face. “I'm sorry Aster, I don't have all the answers you want.”

“But-” I began, realising that this was not the way it was supposed to go – not the way at all. He was supposed to continue in the exact vein as before, that of course children couldn't be hurt and the tree would never demand that they reach their end before they were ready. 

“I know how you wish me to continue, my dear. I know exactly what you want me to say, and yes, of course the tree would never ask for children for nothing. No one wishes for that.” At this, he gently peeled me from his lap and set me standing in front of him, “But you've said it yourself, and you are a smart girl, I can't lie to you and tell you that there aren't sad, horrible, rare, but awful times when the tree has no choice other than to take people – no matter how old, or young, that they may be.”

And as I looked at my grandfather in that solitary moment, and willed myself to disbelieve everything I'd just heard, I knew he was correct. I'd pushed my curiosity too far this time, and I'd finally cracked the one man I thought, at the tender age of five, who knew everything there was to the world. It is a shattering realisation to come to at any point in your life, that you aren't infallible and invincible, especially against something that you'd decided was for solely the old or ill unfortunates.

It was a truth I finally learned when my grandfather died just a few months later, promising the week before that we would see one another very soon as we always did. My mother had come to me as I was sitting on the hearth with my books one early morning, with what I could only describe as a melancholic kind of smugness as she told me that I wouldn't be seeing Grandpa again – he'd grown tired and had gone to a better place. In truth, her condescending did nothing to ease my shock and grief; I was not a stupid child and her own naivety had led her to believe that I didn't grasp the finality and true nature of death after so many months of my weekly conversations with him. It didn't take me much longer after that to put together from snatched whisperings of conversation when my parents thought that little ears weren't within eavesdropping distance, that he'd made his own trip to the tree in a manner befitting him as ever, and had overreached when picking berries down by the river, that he'd fallen in and cracked his head open on a rock. He had died in arrogance, under the assumption that he'd not needed to wait for the rain to stop, or that he would be fine if he went alone – of course the thing about arrogance is that you're always right… until you're not. And this was a very final way to learn to listen to common sense. 

I suppose in the way many children do, I cried, missed him for a while, and then I kind of forgot. It was never that I forgot who he was, or that he'd been the grandfather I'd visited every week who smelled of cigars and aniseed, nor did I ever forget that he told me stories as I perched proudly upon his lap – but there is only so much one can remember from such a young age. I let the specifics of our limited time together blend into the rest of the childhood murk; it is so easy to confuse knowledge I'd taken for granted as a certainty, or completely fabricate memories altogether. So as the years passed, and the vestiges of my Grandpa diminished from around me, so did my recollections of our time together; at best he became a very dear chapter of my life. But a chapter, sadly, I would never open again and revisit.  

[clawsextended]

you tighten up when he touches you, teeth setting down to grind unkindly against enamel. your incisors forfeit sheddings of ivory with every moment. his words touch you in a place you’ve always enshrouded, in a faint light that breaks through the touches of your dark, dark heart. there are cracks in all things so the light can seep in and you feel that sometimes, so closely, so factually. you have to break to be whole again. you’re always the only you.

“gods don’t care about you. none of them. they’re all fucking worthless. every last one. given the power of divinity, choosing to take advantage of those lesser than you? the way i see it, it’s them that’re weak. shar, selune — to the fucking hells with all of it.”

a hand waves dismissively, clawed black gauntlet shining softly with obsidian shadow.

there are dark bruises under your eyes where they’ve hollowed from your sleeplessness. all you do is feel a churning fear in your gut the bough of no tree can ever seem to banish. you’re choking on this fear. every moment your blunted fingertips ache.

“shadowheart thinks this will give something back to her and all it will do is take more away.”

your eyes burn. your heart slams. your mouth is dry. you have to make sure he’s safe, safe, safe. you think this obsessively. you can’t stop it. if he’s safe, if he’s okay, if he’s breathing, you’re doing your job. if you’re bleeding, you’re doing your job. if you’re hurting you’re doing your job.

(what you know of shar (too much at the sound of shadowheart’s incessant zealotry and too much on basis of reading swiped from the house of grief), you know she venerates suffering, openly adores the sensation of a death rattle, and that you’d make a wonderful sharran. you taste the irony, hot metal in your back molars. your dagger yearns for a goddess’s breast to bury it in.)

you glance away. fleetingly.

“fuck you.”

your throat is dry. your eyes burn. a tear falls idly and it dots the ground in a wet spot you stare at. you sit back on your haunches.

“you don’t know that. don’t sell me a tall tale. i expect more from you, wish. you’re better than that.”

@mindhallow

[wellntruly]

BRUMAIRE by Ann Wroe

From the 1843 magazine, years ago when it had a different name, and was running a series of writers on their favorite months

Brumaire is the second month of the twelve-month French revolutionary calendar; it runs from mid-October to mid-November. Its heyday lasted long enough to leave one date in history, 18 Brumaire (in Year VIII, roughly 1799), when Napoleon established the consular government that led to his despotism. Otherwise, like its companions—snowy Nivôse and rain-sprinkled Pluviôse, garlanded Floréal and Germinal of the green, growing shoots—it has faded into the fogs of human arrangements past.

It’s not just perversity that made me choose it, but also a sense of dissatisfaction with Western months as they are: a dull march of gods, emperors and numerals, with no flavor or scent of the seasons they are meant to represent. Bengalis know that in Phalgun the dust flies like a harum-scarum boy down village lanes, and in Sraban the loud monsoon soaks the thatch; just as, in revolutionary France, Frimaire brought hoar-frost creaking under the sabots, and Ventôse the blasts of late winter roaring through the oaks.

Brumaire expresses—rather than marks—Keat’s season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. It is the quintessence of autumn, damps as well as brights, in a way neat October or pure November can never ben. Its essence is stillness: the lull before the storm, the lit pipe, the comfort of apples laid up in newspaper and heavy barn doors shut. A quiet cloak of vapor announces the day, gathered in bushes and hanging in the trees. Through the mist colors appear, glowing like separated flames. The same fog enshrouds the sky, which clears slowly to a cold, deep blue before, in mid-afternoon, the air thickens perceptibly, as if filled with smoke from the pinkly burning sun.

Leaves still crowd the boughs, but they are falling fast, the trees shedding and reflecting themselves on the muddy ground. It was in Brumaire, give or take a day or two, that Dorothy Wordsworth saw her favourite birch tree, bright yellow against the dark mountains, swept by a “flying sunshiny shower,” to become a spirit tree. This is the moment the autumn palette spreads the woods. Pale gold, dark crimson, yellow ochre, burnt umber, now join with lingering green, as if the leaves turned over in the minds their memories of the sun. Besides fresh-sloughed fields, stray straws and stubble still glint golden in the sunlight before bonfires consume them and the night mists rise.

This is the month of scarves and boots, when hope of any brief return to summer is finally put away. We batten down, and turn our faces towards the dissolving and vaporising and failing away of things. It is a month of letting go, as the trees do, the lighter leap towards the spring—as if the dead weight of winter did not lie in between.

Ann Wroe is the obituaries editor of The Economist and author of "Orpheus: The Song of Life" | January, 2013

[atvir]

Duality

In front of the Kaldorei stood a resplendently crafted statue made in the image of the Waywatcher, Malorne. In front of such majesty stood a shallow basin, crafted with as much consideration as the magnificent stag himself. The cool hums of the glowing waters echoed softly beneath the emerald boughs of Val’Sharah.

As Atvir stood beneath the wonder, he traced his hands upon the basin and immersed them within the star-blessed puddle. Content with the handfuls he carried with him, he crooked his head up towards the star-kissed skies and outstretched his arms as if mimicking the Stag’s great horns.

He closed his eyes as his hands acted like a sieve as the glimmering waters made their descent towards the worn stone foundations.

“O husband of Elune, father of Cenarius, I come to praise in thanks. I seek not your blessing but hope I can do more with the gifts given to me in the future. Know that I will watch over the land with careful eye and take upon your blessing when swiftness is needed to protect that which I hold dear."

The water began to run dry from his palms. He took a deep breath, and lowered himself in a bow of reverence towards the shrine.

"Ande'thoras-ethil, Malorne. May your burden of duty be lessened by those who would watch in your stead."

Atvir took a deep breath and sat in contemplation for a brief moment as his onlookers dispersed from the shrine.

As if awakening something locked within, a memory reemerged from the back of his mind. Atvir was back in Darkshore.

The man carried the weight of fatigue, sorrow, and coldness as he made his way towards the ancient, cracked basin.

The last to arrive, the awaited procession were wrapped in dark cloaks, enshrouded within the shadow of the Great Eclipse. All traces of identity were obfuscated within the darkness, only the soft glow of each Kaldorei’s eyes being the sole distinguishing feature. Rested upon their raised hoods were antlers of various ornamentations and sizes.

Donned in a black armor and the only individual to reveal his face, Atvir carried a small cloth bag, contents dripping through the frayed fabrics.

As Leafshadow approached the precariously balanced font of leaking water, one of the figures lowered themselves and offered a curved, silver blade. His sullen gaze focused upon the calloused, spindly fingers that presented the item, and he extended an arm towards it with a trembling hand.

The voice is somber, yet even-toned. “This is your first, so you must enact the ritual. Know that we stand with you, brother.”

Atvir swiftly stole the blade from the offerer. As soon as he established a firm grip upon it, the dagger glowed with a blackened twilight, speckled with flecks of white. The trembling that was once there ceased as he felt an unnatural calm take over him. He took a deep breath and unfurled the first item in the bag.

Within his left hand now rested the great heart of a stag, blood still flowing from the recently-departed beast. What should have been a healthy, meaty red was shriveled with a sickly yellow. Atvir paid no mind to the blood dripping from his hand. As if mimicking the horns of a stag, he raised both hands up to the near-impenetrable darkness.

“O father of Cenarius, groom of Lady Moonshadow, great Horned Host, we beseech your blessing as we call upon the ritual of the Ancient Hunt. As you have been the first to walk this world when we were but nothing, we seek you as witness and judge to consider our hunt worthy of your boon.”

Atvir lowered his arms and raised the bleeding heart over the basin.

“Great Horned Host, provide us with the Watcher’s Sight to seek our prey. We first offer the Mourning, as the hunt is meaningless if it is for sport. With this, we share our sorrow of the senseless destruction of our world. Let the blood weep upon the waters so you may bear witness to it.”

The Kaldorei raised the shadowed dagger over the heart and surgically carved an incision in the shape of a crescent moon. At first, the heart bled with tears of crimson, pooling the water with red ink. In a short moment, however, the heart withered and shriveled as a sickly, thick, yellow pus exited the moon-incision, which coated the top of the basin in a foul sludge.

Even with the miasma that exited the heart and entered the waters, Atvir retained his composure and immersed the rest of the heart within the afflicted pool. His blood-covered palm unfurled the second item in the bag - the dessicated hand from a Forsaken. He looked down at it for a moment and glared in disgust. As the rage swelled within him for a moment, he gently rested the decayed palm atop the floating heart.

“Horned Host, behold the Quarry, the very hand of those who would defile the Law of the Land in order to destroy our way of life. We seek your sight and swiftness to end those who would destroy ceaselessly. Lady Moonshadow, we have asked for far too much of you already, but we humbly seek your blessing to cloak us within your twilight so we may be unseen.”

As words were uttered, the water in the basin was consumed with the same blackened midnight that enveloped the dagger. Both hand and heart evaporated from the very waters, as if they were never there to corrupt anything at all. The dark currents swirled within the pool, followed by a subtle, white glow that began to radiate upon the very rim of the water.

Leafshadow raised his hood to join the procession. Antlers protruded from the sides of the hood in both reverence and to remind their quarry that the Horned Host was on their side. The attendees’ heads were all forcibly crooked upward as their eyes all glowed in unison. Nothing could distinguish pupil and iris as the eyes flashed with inky blacks and milky whites. The Great Eclipse’s shroud draped itself as a great cloak of shadow covered their figures.

The Ritual of the Ancient Hunt was completed. It was time to seek out the prey.

The memory receded, and Atvir was once again in Val’Sharah.

[sdottkrames]

Hiya friend! I l.i.v.e. for Ironfam christmas! From the December prompts do you think you could write a little something about Peter and the fam with Ornaments and Christmas Lights? Fluff,H/C, wherever you wanna take it my dear!

For you, my dear 💜 thank you thank you for sending this ask! It was so freakin fun to write! I absolutely love writing for people, so this made me very happy. It’s all fluff, because Christmas and comfortember make me soft and fluffy! I hope you enjoy!

The Stark house was full of boxes.

Red boxes with green lids, overflowing with garland and tinsel and lights and fake little Christmas trees filled nearly the entire living room. Tony hadn’t realized when he married Pepper how much she loved Christmas, but since it had never really been a huge Holiday for him, enshrouded as it was in hurt and grief, he had honestly been excited to make better memories surrounding it. A few years and many, many shopping sprees later, the Starks had collected enough Christmas decorations to open a small store.

Tony loved decorating the lake house, especially once Morgan got old enough to appreciate trimming the tree. He would never forget her face as she watched with wide, wonder-filled eyes as the lights turned on and glistened serenely from ornaments and tinsel.

This year, he got to enjoy it with both his children.

“Peter Benjamin Parker, get down from there right now!” he heard Pepper yell from outside.

Maybe Peter shouldn’t be decorating, after all.

Shaking his head, and letting out a groan, Tony stood to go investigate.

Peter was grinning as he hung from the gutter by his sticky feet like some kind of curly-haired bat. The cutest bat ever, but Tony would never admit that out loud.

“Kid, you’re going to give everyone a heart attack,” he admonished, rolling his eyes as Peter flipped down, landing easily in a graceful crouch.

“Someone’s gotta put the lights up, old man.”

Tony shoved the boy’s shoulder, scoffing playfully. “Yeah, but I would do it without the theatrics.”

Peter raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Mr. Parker.”

“Then don’t pretend that you, Mr. ‘I am Iron Man’, Mr. ‘I waxed poetic last week because Peter ate the last donut’, Mr.-”

“Okay, okay, I get it!” Tony interrupted with a laugh.

Peter laughed, too, and Tony was pretty sure he’d never heard a better sound.

“Alright Pepper, go ahead and light ‘em up!” Peter called.

The sun was just starting to slip below the horizon, painting the sky beautiful reds and yellows on its way down, and the Pepper plugged the extension cord in to light the house in beautiful reds and greens.

“Nice work, kid,” Tony said, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulder. Peter cuddled closer.

“Thanks. It really was a lot of fun!”

“I’m sure. And again, I fully expect you to foot the bill if Pepper ends up with a heart condition like mine.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say!”

The two headed inside to help trim the tree, the last of the decorating for the day. They joined Pepper who was fluffing up the branches of their tree. After having Morgan, Pepper had opted for a fake tree to avoid the hassle of cleaning up falling pine needles and the worry of the little one eating said needles.

“Hey, Peter, would you plug this in to see if they work?” May asked, handing him one of the long strands of lights she was untangling.

“Sure, May.”

He helped check a few strands, and once Pepper had deemed the boughs sufficiently full, they set to work stringing the lights. It was all fairly easy until they needed to get to the top. The tree was one of the tallest trees available, and even Tony couldn’t reach that high.

“Here! Give me the lights,” Peter said, and Tony handed the string over. Peter jumped up to the ceiling and crawled over to the tree, carefully wrapping the lights until the branches were equally covered.

Peter stayed on the ceiling as Pepper handed him ornaments to place on the higher boughs, too. She directed him on where to put them, while Morgan helped May and Tony decorate the bottom portion.

“Now for the star,” Tony announced. “And of course the youngest one gets to put the topper on!”

Tony scooped Morgan up, tickling her a bit to make her giggle. before swinging her up into Peter’s waiting arms. Peter gently hung her over the top of the tree so she could place the star topper just so.

“Got it? Great job, Mo!” He cheered, and swung her back and forth a few times, making her laugh again.

May was less amused.

“Peter, someone is going to get hurt!”

“I’m literally sticking to her!” He complained, but handed Morgan down to May, who gently placed her on the ground and Peter flipped down to join them.

“Alright, ready to light her?” Tony asked. “Fri, honey, lights at 10%.”

“Wait, Tony!” Peter said, and Tony didn’t miss the slight blush that darkened the kid’s cheeks, piquing the older man’s curiosity. “I, uh, actually have one more ornament.”

“You do?”

Peter rummaged through his overnight bag.

“It’s in the right side pocket. Wrapped in one of your socks,” May called.

“Oh! Found it!”

And he came bounding over to Tony with a small, wrapped bundle.

“It’s for me?” Tony questioned, and Peter nodded.

Tony peeled back the paper layer by layer (he was honestly shocked someone didn’t make a comment about “not saving the wrapping”) until he got to the present inside and felt unexpected tears wet his eyes when he saw what was underneath all the white paper.

He held a flat, circular ornament, personalized with a picture. It was him and Peter from last Christmas. Peter had gotten Tony an ugly Christmas sweater, hot rod red with an iron man mask outlined in black right in the center, reindeer antlers adorned with Christmas lights sprouting out the sides. Peter himself was wearing a matching one, except it was a deep shade of blue, and it was his own superhero mask outlined in red in the center. They had arms tight around each other, their faces lit up with matching grins.

“I love it, kid, thank you,” he finally said, crushing Peter in a hug.

They hung the ornament in a choice spot on the tree, close to the snowman Morgan had painted him when she was three. It was more a snowman shaped slop of colors (like most crafts from toddlers are) but he treasured that ornament and definitely didn’t still cry when he looked at it. Nope, definitely not.

“Alrighty, Fri,” he said once it was situated. “Light her up!”

And then the lights turned on, and they all let out little gasps as the dimly lit room was illuminated by the magical soft glow of Christmas lights. The lights reflected off the ornaments, further adding to the magic, and everybody felt the peaceful happiness the sight brought.

“It’s beautiful,” Peter murmured.

“It’ll look even prettier with presents under it!” Morgan declared, making everyone laugh. “One for daddy, and mommy, and Petey, and me! And May, and Happy, too.”

Eventually there would be presents for everyone (more than one, of course) but for now, with everyone they loved all together and safe, it was beautiful just the way it was.

[violettesiren]

O soul of mine, burst from your chrysalis, Autumn is come. The sun, with long-drawn kiss, Gilds red the ponds; far off, a crimson glow Colors the leaves; the rainbow, bending low, Drives back the storm atop its arch, where blend Clear stained-glass hues; the ground-mists form, suspend Their droplets round the flock, now and then rise Skyward, before the sun, that, to our eyes— Befogged flat disk—presents a full-moon face, Enshrouded, on the very edge of space.

My soul, burst from your flesh's shadows deep: Now is the moment when the meadows keep Their silence pure and still, and when the breeze, Holding its chill wing back, rocks reveries To sleep—adventure-dreams—entwining there Among the boughs and, sweeping through the air, With chubby fingers, golden leaves that fall, A-heap, about the poplars, pointed, tall. The dragonfly, in brittle zigzaggings Flitting here, there, the cry of autumn sings; The lamb's hoarse voice cackles and cracks, repeats The sound of crackling branches in its bleats; The sunbeams drizzle on the woods in sheaves...

My soul, in golden robe, woven of leaves Now dead, yields to the whirlwind swirling round, Gust-blown, goes falling to the sun-lit ground On tiptoes, yet brisker than spring's wild rose. And, all the while, she sees in distant pose My body, bent, listening at the door, Wrapped in a winter shawl as, more and more, The dead leaves pile; and my poor soul feels quite The stranger to my flesh. But when, by night, The windows, closed, reflect the pink lamps' flower, Pale in the docile darkness of the hour, Then she will wear again her mask long-worn, And, servant pertly-aproned, modest-born, Will patter through the bitter chambers, trying To hold back her chimeras, sobbing, sighing.

Autumn's Flight by Cécile Sauvage (Translated by Norman Shapiro)

[rumraisinregret]

Unhooded chapter 2: Varda

When Varda awoke the next morning, the sun was streaming through the branches above her head. She squeezed her eyes shut and rolled over, hoping to get a few more minutes of precious, fleeting sleep. That’s when a songbird flitted to her bedpost and began singing at the top its tiny lungs. She glared up at it through one squinted eye.  “You just had to ruin it,” she grumbled. It stared at her quizzically, hopping in place and puffing out its feathers in that twitching way of small birds, before taking off through her bedroom to the other side of the enormous tree she was to call her home. She sat up slowly, still wishing she could fall back into the Fade. Unfortunately, sleep never came easily to her once it had been interrupted.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and curled her toes on the smooth wood planks of the floor. She stood and stretched toward the boughs above her. As she crossed the short distance to the basin on the table at the foot of the bed, she looked around her new home. In the twilight of last night, she couldn’t explore all of its dark corners, but now she took it all in. She was on a raised platform around the trunk of a large broad-leafed tree. A bed, a writing desk, a small chest of drawers, and the table with the basin took up one side of the platform, a tub and an armoire the other. There were walls around the periphery in strategic places where privacy would be most wanted, but ultimately, the room was open to the surrounding branches. The foliage was thick enough to provide adequate concealment, but there were places where one could stand at the edge and look out over the camp on one side or the mountains on the other.

Varda conjured some water into the basin and warmed it. And as she swiped a dampened cloth over her face and arms, she reflected on the events that led her here.

**************

Only weeks ago, just outside Wycome, the city she had called home for a few short years, she and her father along with several other craftsmen from her clan were gathering materials. They were ankle deep in wetlands that in five hundred feet opened into a wide beach and the ocean beyond. She had bent to cut off another of the reeds she used to weave her baskets, when they heard the roar of the resident dragon.

The locals knew to avoid the gully where she made her nest, but any unsuspecting travelers through the area would likely be caught unawares if they ventured that way, especially since she had a penchant for sitting, quietly concealed, with her young under her wings, until the prey was well and securely within her territory. And it certainly sounded as if her current prey were putting up a fight, something no herd of wild ram could do. One quick glance amongst the group of elves and they took off at a run up a steep rise toward an overhanging ridge that would provide a line of sight down into the dragon’s nest. Being craftsmen, none of them had been trained as warriors, but most of them had bows and were decent enough hunters, her father included, and they had Varda. She was an outcast amongst her people, but they all still knew what she could do. Had seen demonstrations of the ancient magics her mother had taught her even if Keeper Deshanna never continued the education. They had no reason to fear the dragon if they kept well enough out of its way.  

At the bottom of the small canyon were a group of about a dozen elves trying to escape dragon and young. There were two arcane warriors in gold armor at the front covering the rest who were dragging three of their number already fallen unconscious and bleeding.

Varda stood and slammed the butt of her staff into the rock, sending a spike of ice up into the dragon’s belly. Beside her, an archer released an arrow that found its intended mark in the dragon’s eye. The beast shrieked anew and in its frenzy, released a jet of flames that one of the warriors failed to block. He fell screaming. A dragonling immediately pounced and clamped onto his left arm. The female warrior stabbed it in the neck and slung her fallen comrade over her shoulder in one swift motion.

Varda slid down a gravelly slope to position herself between the angry mother and her fleeing prey as the twang of bowstrings sang behind her. Another elf fell to dragonling fangs before she got there. She sent a bolt of lightning arcing through the dragon young, knocking them back. The dragon breathed fire again, but it rebounded harmlessly off of the shield wall Varda cast. Her father slid to a halt beside her and yelled to gain the group’s attention.

“This way!” he motioned to a narrow pass through which the dragon would not be able to pursue.

He and Varda bent to each sling one arm of the fallen man over their shoulders and made toward the thin opening. The rest of the elves followed them in a panic, tripping over each other to make it through, but dragging their wounded behind them. Varda conjured as thick of an ice wall as she could manage to seal off their escape. The sound of claws scraping against ice could be heard from the other side.

The group wound their way through the pass until they came to a place where it opened onto flat ground. They found the craftsmen from Clan Lavellan waiting there for them. The wounded were shifted so their weight was shared more evenly, and the enlarged group hurried to safety outside of the dragon’s territory.

Once they knew they were beyond pursuit, they stopped to take stock. Varda tended to the more serious of the injuries, the burns on the male warrior’s face being the most grievous. The female warrior, having introduced herself as Adhlea, went about staunching the blood flow on someone else’s shoulder.

“We need to get back to the city,” Varda proclaimed, her hand hovering over the warrior’s cheek as a blue aura enshrouded it. “This is beyond my skill to heal in the field.”

The trek to the city gate took the better part of the afternoon with being as careful as possible of the five injured elves. Word was sent to Keeper Deshanna and she met them at the elven hospital in the lower part of town. Varda and the Keeper spent the small hours of the night making sure none of the dragon’s victims died. When there was a few minutes of breathing time, Adhlea told them their purpose in travelling to Wycome was to recruit elves to join Fen’Harel’s cause.

Deshanna’s expression turned instantly to indignation. She stood and demanded the group leave the city. The injured would be healed enough that they could travel by horseback, but nothing else would be done for them, and no Wycome elves would be leaving with them to join the Dread Wolf.

Varda and her father shared a hard look and then he stood, too. “We will be goin’ with them,” he quietly declared.

Deshanna took him out of the sickroom to try and make him see reason, but Varda, still tending the wounded, could hear them arguing through the thin wall for several more hours.

The next morning, Varda was clanless. She packed her meager belongings into the small aravel that had been in her father’s family for three generations. They led it with their halla Gavemah to the city gates where Adhlea waited, having procured five harts for the injured to ride. The group now consisting of fourteen elves, left the city without looking back. No one from Clan Lavellan watched their departure.

It took them nearly a fortnight at their slow pace, by the end of which there was a friendly companionship forming amongst the group. Souren, the wounded warrior, was overtly grateful for the care and the attention he was receiving from Varda. Adhlea kept expounding to Radavur how desperately they needed a good blacksmith at their camp. They were getting to know everyone until at last, they approached an Eluvian where three guards met them on the other side. Adhlea gave them a whispered message and two of them took off to deliver it.

The next day they met Fen’Harel.

Varda had been under no impression that he would welcome them with open arms, but he also didn’t turn them away. They were led through his camp. It was clear that every person they saw was preparing for a war; troops practicing drills, weapons being sharpened, soldiers sparring. The camp was in a thick forest dotted with tents and wagons, occasionally an aravel, but there were also some wooden houses being constructed on the ground and in the trees. Radavur was taken to where he would establish a smithy. Construction could begin within the week.

Then in the dying light of the day, they were shown to a small clearing where they could set up their aravel. The clearing was entirely encircled by giant trees, most with stairs spiraling up the trunks into the branches. Adhlea led them to one, mumbling about its previous occupant recently perishing on a covert mission, and proudly stating that this is where they would be staying. Then she gave them both a hug and declared she was going to go have a bath and sleep for two days.

After she left, Radavur guided Varda to the stairs. “You go up,” he said, wearily. “I prefer to keep my feet on the ground at my age. Gavemah needs tendin’ to anyway.”

She furrowed her brows at him. “Are you sure, Babae?” But she was too tired to put up much of an argument. She grabbed the small bag of her belongings and extra clothes out of the aravel and climbed the staircase.

She was too tired look around the first level of her new tree home either, other than to confirm there was no bed in it. When she found the bed after ascending another spiraling set of stairs, she was barely able to undress herself before crawling under the blankets. She fell into a blissful, dreamless sleep even before night had truly fallen.

**************

Now, adequately bathed (she eyed the tub with longing and promised herself later) and dressed, she went in search of breakfast and her father.

On the lower level, she found a sitting area with a couch and two upholstered hassocks, a dining table that could probably seat six if she found some more chairs, and a small, plain kitchen. It had an ice box, a cupboard under a worktop counter and a stove. She thought a stove in a tree house built entirely out of wood an inadvisable idea at the least, but when she examined the heating rune in the top, found it was designed specifically to keep the fire where it was meant to be. She checked the ice box next. It was empty and warm. She would have to refresh the rune in there before she could store any food. The cabinet was barren as well, not even a ration biscuit to spare.

Well, breakfast would have to be acquired elsewhere. She went in search of her father.

Their aravel stood alone in the middle of the clearing, its red sails fluttering in the breeze. It was surrounded by grazing halla. Gavemah trotted up to her as she approached.

“I see you made some friends,” Varda said and found the spot between the ear and the base of the horns that she knew the animal liked to be scratched. Gavemah lowered his head to nibble on the hem of her tunic in response. She brushed the creature off with a “Don’t start that,” and continued to the aravel.

Her father was not there, but she did find a pan, covered and nestled in the mostly cooled embers of a fire, which contained sausages and some hearth bread. She snatched them up, blessing her father’s name.

Walking back through the camp to the only other place she could think to find her father, the future site of the smithy, made her feel like some rare creature on exhibit in a zoo. Heads swiveled around to watch her pass and occasionally two people leaned together to whisper. She had passed several such groups when the name Lavellan was uttered loud enough for her to hear. She grit her teeth and walked faster. It seemed the name had become famous everywhere now, and despite her not being the right Lavellan, she still felt the consequences of such fame: gossip. She was relieved she had at least had the foresight to tie her tale tell long red hair in a tight knot on the back of her head.

When she finally spotted her father, he was tracing the outline for a forge and bellows with his steps, and talking over his shoulder to the group of workmen who would be building the blacksmith’s stall. He turned to watch her approach.

“There you are,” he said and he beamed that big smile he reserved for his daughter alone. “I was beginnin’ to think you would sleep the whole day.”

She chuckled at that. “I’ll admit I was tempted. Thanks for breakfast, by the way. How are you getting along?” She gestured to the men who had gathered around a table drawing up plans for the new construction.

“Good! Faron here,” he said clapping a muscular elf on the shoulder, “says they should be able to start diggin’ the posts tomorrow mornin’.”

Faron, who she assumed was a foreman of sorts, nodded at her. “Once we get the posts set and the gravel laid, the walls and roof should not take long at all. Radavur may have a smithy up and running in a three weeks’ time.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That soon? You don’t waste any time, do you?”

He shook his head gravely. “Lord Fen’Harel wishes to expand our armory as quickly as possible. We can’t do that without a blacksmith.”

“Of course.” She looked around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Her father smiled good naturedly at her. “Always willin’ to help, huh, even if it means tryin’ somethin’ you never done before. Best leave it up to the professionals,” he chuckled. He reached out and squeezed her arm. “Besides, I heard that Souren was askin’ for you. You better not keep him waitin’.” He gave her a wink and pointed her in the direction of the camp clinic.

She grumbled at that, but set off through the camp again, anyway. After the healer’s reluctance to accept her help yesterday, she wasn’t sure the clinic was a place she wanted to visit.

And while Souren’s… enthusiasm… with her presence was sweet, she didn’t want to encourage whatever affection might be forming on his side of their acquaintance. She wasn’t here to fall in love. Her father on the other hand, felt quite the opposite. He had been trying to find a suitable mate for her for over a decade, but with her not having been a fully recognized member of the Clan, there hadn’t been any men who had wanted to bind themselves to her. Besides the occasional fling, or the even rarer romp behind the aravels, they all ran once things started getting serious. So someone, anyone, finding an interest in her, especially a strong warrior like Souren, was beyond Radavur’s wildest dreams.

She came to the long tent that housed the clinic and ducked her head under the flap. The other four who had been injured in the dragon attack were no longer there, time and her care having mostly healed them on the journey here. But Souren still had some burns on his face, and the bones in his forearm would take at least another week to fully mend.

She glanced down the long row of cots and saw him sitting up in a bed toward the other end of the tent. She also, to her dismay, saw that he wasn’t alone. The stern faced elf who had been standing at the Dread Wolf’s side was seated in a chair by Souren’s bedside. He had seemed the grim, forbidding sort. She didn’t know how to feel about the hardness in his eyes as he had looked her over yesterday, other than that she didn’t care to be on the receiving end of such a glare again.

Souren noticed her and waved her into the tent. She steeled her nerves and went to them.  

[thenighteternal]

Boughs Enshrouded - Forever

[congregenturanimarum]

@starsfreckled​ || LIKED for a STARTER - 

Silence enshrouds him, the blissful shade of the boughs of large trees belonging to the Greatwood welcomed after a long afternoon collecting herbs and the poisonous roots of various plants; for both healing and harming. He sits, calmly, sipping from a flask of tea as he takes but a few moments off of his exhausted feet - eyes wandering around his surroundings to note rather unexpected company.

A being, as starry as himself, could be seen in the distance. Whether they’d seen him, just yet he didn’t know, but from his quiet position did he simply watch for the moment.

[ceruszael]

Reviled by the Living, Scorned by the Dead

((This is something I’ve been working on over the past couple weeks. It’s long, it’s a bit ranty and weird, scroll past it if you like. I considered a read more break or even dicing it into a couple posts but decided to keep it cohesive and accessible. Scroll past if you want.))

One of the interesting dualities of my existence is how the ambitions of the living so often drive me to seek time among the dead. Not that their desires directly send me, but that the inconsequentiality of it all spurs me to understand something greater. And yet, after each journey I take, I find my way back to a kingdom of men, of flesh and blood, seemingly to await the next moment I become disillusioned with those around me. It is also important to note that I don’t mean the denizens of Acherus when I refer to the dead. Those unquiet souls, who find kinship among the ruins of Lordaeron, the halls of Scholomance, and all manner of Northrend’s wastelands, are not truly dead. Nor am I. No, where I go to pursue meaning amidst the mire of simple ambitions and petty grievances is the very place which scorns me perhaps more than the most zealous of Light-worshiping conclaves.

The Shadowlands.

A realm with more names than I care to count, and a relevance which shifts depending on the culture which accesses it. To the undead of Acherus, those souls bound to the Lich King for service in war, it is a source of endless torment. That is where the Ebon Knights and those who came before them were dispatched to when life fled their forms, and where the Lich King tore them from. Although at the height of His power much of the Shadowlands fell under His sway, its wardens now forever hunt after the souls stolen from them. Perhaps at His behest, once, when the Ebon Hold first broke free. Now, I think, of their own volition. Still, it is a place I yearn to understand and often travel to when time among the living has soured me. Preparations are due before such ventures. I often speak to the Liches, Darkmasters, and others versed in the mysticisms of the Scourge to glean what they know. Salanar the Horseman has been of most use, though I strongly suspect he keeps a plethora of secrets to himself. In this, it is advantageous for me to be seen as naught but another Ebon Knight. Few suspect, when lecturing me in condescending tones, that I have heard all they have to say before and perhaps even seen and learned more first-hand. One cannot be too careful, however. I remain all to keenly aware that it takes but one mistake in the Shadowlands for its denizens to descend upon me in force and reclaim a soul since torn from their grasp.

Yet here I stand once again, on the threshold between life and death in more ways than one. As I step through from relative vibrance and an ever-present din of living beings so often gone unnoticed to stillness in a mire of misery. When everything turns to shades of black and grey, the wind ceases its breath, and all notion of temperature is replaced by unshakable discomfort one realizes they have entered a place where the stimuli of life hold no meaning. The Shadowlands, I have come to believe, are truly formless. They have appeared to me in so many ways I cannot begin to recall them all. Some days, a hollow shell of the world I walk in undeath. Others, an endless sea under whose tides dwelled nameless, ancient beings.

Today, a pathway through a dense forest. Dead leaves fell like snowflakes from a canopy either too darkened or too far up to see. The earth was matted with them. I crane my head, noticing a hood encompassing my head. Though I entered the realm armed and armored as per usual I was now cloaked in cascading darkness, at least the larger of my blades yet strapped across my back. Looking back down, I note the trail before me. It winds to and fro, barely distinguishable between the trunks and boughs. Formless things moved just beyond my vision, seeking to guide astray those taking the path. A road paved in familiarity for those not of this realm, intended for the living to navigate the paths of the dead. Or to lead them where the dead desired. My first steps, as such, take me off the trail to within the forest.

It took several forays before I realized this realm despised me equally, if not more, than that which I was born upon. My first endeavors were of escape. To flee the prejudices and scorn of life into a world more suited to former instruments of the Scourge. Instead the Shadowlands sought to lead me astray, through traps and pitfalls, to the dens of beasts beyond imagining or into the waiting claws of vengeful specters. I have learned since then. I am enshrouded in spellwork. My mind is guarded against ceaseless whispers and dark, probing intelligences. I walk with care, and ever watchful for threats. Such precautions have allowed me to glean much from this realm. The power dwelling within it, the nature of its denizens, the cost and benefits of having been removed from its sphere of influence. An appreciation for the immeasurable power required of the Lich King to shield his subjects from its wrath.

Such sights I have seen.

I have witnessed the Stormwind of old, prior to its destruction and rebirth, forever trapped in its final moments. Each man, woman, and child frozen in the instance of their demise and the entire city in a state when all who called it home knew their kingdom had fallen. I have seen Lordaeron, in all the glory of its height as a kingdom, immortalized in the realm of death with its denizens joined in a ceaseless chorus of torment as they wander its spectral paths. Whole fields of bone with great vortices of souls raking across them as flocks of wraiths patrolled overhead. Sections where it seemed, against all reason, that the Shadowlands had borders. Here the avatars of death stood vigil. Some intruders I recognized, the silhouettes of Val’kyr or the spellwork of necromancers. Others assailed sanity by their very being, shapeless things that were outside the cycle entirely, rather than bastardizations of it as I am.

On this journey, as I make my way among the gnarled grey trunks of this petrified forest, I emerge to a familiar landscape. Although now dwelling in eternal twilight in both realms, it was not always so for Silverpine. It once was a vibrant place. Rich in resources, nestled along the coast, sharing borders with two kingdoms while regularly accepting envoys from a third by ship. I recall it vividly from my life and even now, at times, struggle to see it as it is rather than what it was. Fields of green grass. Lordamere lake’s clear waters at which countless peasants, nobleman, and all in between gathered for fishing, merriment, or relaxation. Carriages and other travelers moving up and down the road about their business. Here, however, I recognize more. I know these hills more intimately. I can navigate these paths more easily. As I crest the nearest rise I lay my eyes upon the walls of my upbringing.

Tierwalde Keep.

Nestled along the southern mountains bordering Silverpine and Hillsbrad, it served as the seat of my family’s influence for generations. Not for the Harkon line was politicking or economic domination the objective, but military strength, honor, pride, and the security of our kingdom. My father upheld long standing traditions. His sons were spread about neighboring lands imparting tactical insights and instilling battlefield prowess among sworn allies. Such was the value of my family demonstrated, and the whole made stronger for our efforts. As I march through the gates I see my home for what it was when the Scourge came. Stones marred by fire, steel, and the claws of aberration. Death and decay settle as a miasma in every corner. Subconsciously, as I move between spectral memories of bannermen, soldiers, and workers, I find myself inexorably drawn to the great hall in the central tower.

I enter with no bated breath, for the sight before me is one played out a thousand times over in my waking nightmare. Three figures, clad in the worn echoes of once proud battleplate. They surround an altar upon which rests an elegant hand-and-a-half sword overtop a tapestry, which bears the crest of crossed poleaxes beneath the rearing head of a violet dragon. Each face rises to regard me as I take my place to complete the circle about the altar.

“You have been errant too long.”

“The line is ended.”

“The Drachenmoot will name no successor.”

Now, all in tandem, they speak.

“Return to the fold.”

It is not a request. I turn my back on the figures, scouring shadowed walls and the rolling mists obscuring the floor. Haunting shapes coalesce. Unnaturally long, taloned hands grasp toward me. I have tarried too long. The wardens have closed in, despite all precautions. My first instinct is to draw the runeblade slung across my back, but another thought strikes. I turn to regard the three again, inclining my head to each in turn.

“The line is ended. But I am not. And so we endure.”

Before any can act I reach to pluck the blade from its alter, turning to the spectres closing in.

“And in this place, in the world of the living or here, I will tolerate NO INTRUSIONS!”

Though faded in its former glory, the weapon I now hold twists and writhes in the grasp of one far deeper steeped in darkness. Shadows writhe from my grip upon its hilt, coursing along its length as a cold wind tears through the tower’s hall. The undulating gloom rises from blade tip, to hilt, to swiftly encompass my form. Cloak and hood are replaced with sectioned armored plating of deepest black, the skulls of past conquests seated upon my pauldrons with empty sockets ablaze in baleful amber. The weapon itself elongates and convulses, taking the appearance of a macabre hooked blade adorned in the same dark magics and the petrified skeletal visages of countless foes slain.

A veritable gale howls against the wraiths, tearing at their substance and forcing them back. As tendrils of mist are carried out beyond the struggling Shadowlands denizens, they at last falter and dissipate. Shortly thereafter the winds die down, my form and the sword in my hand diminishing to their former selves, I again turn to regard the figures gathered about the altar. They appear frozen in the murky purgatory of this realm, as if my actions were so jarring as to separate me from them even further than the bounds of life and death. I cannot help but feel a pang of regret and remorse. Even moving to replace the sword upon its altar, I note that it feels out of place. It no longer belongs there, yet neither should it follow me back to Azeroth. It is as I am, belonging to neither the dead nor the living. Even now it fades from my eyes and grasp, wispy tendrils of its existence clinging to my hand before it is gone entirely.

In time, I will dwell on the lessons taught to me here. I will take the time to reflect on the landscape shown to me, the twisted reflections of Azeroth and unimaginable visages revealed on this journey. The power to be tapped, which I have experienced only a fraction of today, will be fully understood. After all, I have an eternity to do so.

I know all of this to be true, even as I conjure a death gate to spirit me from the Shadowlands. It has been an eventful, and useful, foray. I must dwell upon its deeper meanings, but now turn my attention again to my charges among the living.

((Tag Lineup; @householt @adhelin for vague mentions))

[dragonshost]

There Are Corpses Beneath The Cherry Trees

GrayTear Rating: T (for safety)

Written for the GrayTear exchange, as a gift to @itsajoshyboy! Super late, but in my defense life recently beat the shit out of me, and I lost a ton of WIPS to a crashed computer. Wanted to do so much more symbolism with this, but ran out of time. Please enjoy.

Inspired in part by Kajii Motojirou's short story, "Beneath the Cherry Trees."

It's chilly.

Or it would have been for anyone without the constant flow of ice magic in their veins. But for Gray, it was a comfortable sort of feeling. The cold wind blew with it the perfume of sakura, tinged with the bite of winter. Lungs filling with it, it burned inside Gray's chest. It was as familiar as a favorite blanket to him, and did not even warrant the opening of his eyes to investigate further.

For he was... not entirely sure where he was, or how he had come to get there. A suspicion tickled the back of his brain - a sense that he was somewhere elsewhere from where he was supposed to be. And while this should have alarmed him, the lulling breeze forced the notion under a heavy insulation of calm, and Gray found himself without the motivation to dwell too deeply on the abnormality.

Then he felt a gentle pressure on his cheeks, and Gray finally opened his eyes, blinking rapidly against the sudden bright light sending spears of pain through his skills.

"Looks who's awake after all." Gray thought he caught a glimpse of a half-smile and long, dark tresses bound with white ribbon, before a hand lifted from his cheeks and rested over his eyes instead. "Your sight should adjust in a second; just be a little more patient."

He sighed, relaxing and closing his eyes once more. "Alright. Whatever you say, Ultear."

Though he couldn't see it, he could hear the wry smile in her words. "I don't recall you being quite so compliant with me before."

"Yeah, well..." Gray's voice trailed away, whatever he was going to say lost to the pervasive calm enshrouding him. "Things are different now," he finished, the surety in the words surprising him.

Different? From what?

"I suppose they are." Light drenched the back of his eyelids as she removed her hand. "You should find it easier to see, now."

Gray blinked. Although still intense, the brightness no longer hurt him. He turned his head, grass tickling his nose, and stared at the woman kneeling beside him in a white dress, unmindful of potential grass stains. Behind her, the wide trunk of an ancient rainbow sakura rose from the earth - the boughs high above them casting them in intermittent, many-hued shade.

Ultear raised an eyebrow at him. "Just going to lay there and stare at me, are you?" Then she patted her lap. "Well if you're going stay lying down, I don't mind being your pillow for a little while."

Heat flooded Gray's cheeks, and he quickly rose to a sitting position. "No way, that's too embarrassing." But as he moved, his vision swam with darkness and firework flashes, and before he knew it, Ultear had pulled him down to her lap.

Her cool, calloused hands stroked his hair as his vision returned to normal. "Almost had a blackout there," she teased. "Try to sit up too fast?" Gray turned his face away from her and her smug expression, and she giggled at his petulance.

They remained like that for some time - Ultear running her hands through his hair, and Gray staring out at the orchard that surrounded them. He was all too aware of the warmth and hard muscles beneath his head, and the prickle of unseen twigs on the ground he laid on. The rainbow sakuras from which they came stretched on without an end in sight, their petals drifting on the breeze in great clouds of color. Through their branches, Gray could see a blank white sky - cloud cover so thick and so bright that he couldn't tell where the sun was at, or guess the time. The light cast strange halos around the sakura and the images of the trees wavered, as if they were reflected on the surface of oily water... no matter how hard he tried to focus. His head starting to ache from the strain, Gray closed his eyes again.

"So... Gray," Ultear began to say, and then paused, her hands stilling their movement.

"Hmm?"

"How have you been? It's been quite a while."

Had it?

"Been fine, mostly." He didn't feel it appropriate to return the question.

"That's a lie and you know it," Ultear admonished.

Gray frowned, but didn't correct her. "...Better," he amended.

Better from what, though?

Her reply was soft, hardly louder than the rustle of the sakura leaves. "Liar."

Pain squeezed his chest, dark claws digging into his flesh and robbing him of breath. "Where... did you go, Ultear?" Like hers, Gray's voice was a hoarse whisper. His throat and eyes burned. "Meredy looked for you, you know. After the Eclipse Gate."

Fingertips pressed against Gray's temples, not hard enough to hurt. "Jellal didn't, did he."

The bitter hurt in her voice struck true. "I looked for you, too," Gray offered.

She was silent for a long moment. "...I'm sorry."

Opening his eyes again, Gray looked up into Ultear's, which glistened with unshed tears. "We missed you."

She let out a short laugh. "Meredy is one thing, but what was there for you to miss? You and I hardly knew each other. Even if you combined all of our time together, you and I have maybe only known each other for a day. Maybe two. You didn't know me, Gray." She swallowed thickly. "There shouldn't have been anything to miss. What impact did I have on your life? Is it because I look like Ur? Is it because I'm her daughter?"

"Of course not," he said, his frustration stirring. "You know that's not it-"

"Is it because I made the same choice?"

Her quivering voice strangled whatever response Gray had been about to provide, comforting platitudes dying in his throat.

The same... choice?

"What difference did I make, Gray?" Another laugh, and a teardrop slid down her cheek. "One minute. That's all my life was worth. One measly minute."

Gray had no clue what she was referring to.

And that felt a worse betrayal than her disappearance.

His stomach began to burn.

Ultear shook her head, and then smiled at him. Gently, she stroked his cheeks with the rough, calloused pad of her thumbs. "All I wanted was to make a difference."

"You did," he insisted. "You did."

To Meredy. To me.

"I wish I could believe that," she whispered.

"Yeah. Me, too."

A sigh fell from her lips, and she shut her eyes. For a moment, Gray watched her steady breathing, soaking in the touch of her hands on his face. Gray couldn't remember the last time someone had been so... tender with him. Juvia was mostly force, even though she could be endearing in her quieter moments. But she wasn't like this when she tried to touch him.

The burning in his abdomen was spreading.

Ultear licked her lips, and then opened her eyes to gaze down at him once again. "I fear we're almost out of time." The thought made her lips curl into a half-smile. "Ironic though that is."

Confusion met sorrow, as Gray stared blankly up at the woman.

"Why did you do the same thing we did, Gray?"

His heartbeat thudded in his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The smile she gave him was pitying. "Yes. You do."

Pain shot up his gut.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he repeating, with a groan.

Ultear's gaze drifted from his, resting on his exposed stomach.

Gray's, too, shifted to look down at himself.

Dark, dark liquid poured from a gaping hole in his body, seeping into the ground and staining Ultear's white dress crimson.

"Why did you repeat our mistakes? Aren't the students supposed to learn from their teachers?"

Gray gasped, as intense pain overloaded his senses, and images of battle and chains of ice assaulted his mind. "I... I didn't..." He let out a strangled laugh, though it came out more like a sob. "I didn't see another option!"

"Shh," Ultear hushed. "Don't worry." She smiled at him, affection clear in her eyes. "I won't let you face the same fate as us. It's the only thing I can still do for you. It's all the time I have left in me, but I can close your wound."

"But... your magic doesn't..."

"My magic does affect living things - it's always been able to. I just hadn't seen it before. Think, Gray. How else could I make trees grow? And unlock your second origin? I can reverse this time, as well. Although... I can't put your blood back in your body. But Juvia is already seeing to that, and I've asked Wendy to come. She'll reach you and Juvia soon, I think."

"Then what's going to happen to you?"

She shrugged slightly. "I'll become one with time, and lose my sense of individuality here." Ultear laugh rang out, clear as a bell, at the anger and sorrow that clouded Gray's face. "Don't make that face! Time is a stream that flows through all worlds, and all streams lead to the ocean." Her smile was more brilliant that the unchanging sky in this place. "I'm going home."

"And now... it's time for you to do so as well."

"No. Please, no," Gray whispered. "I don't want to go just yet."

She leaned down, and placed her lips against Gray's forehead, even as he clung to her hands like a man drowning.

"Goodbye, Gray."

There are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees!

You've got to believe it. Well, otherwise you couldn't possibly believe that cherry trees could bloom so beautifully. I've been out of sorts these past two or three days, because I couldn't believe in such a beauty. But now I've finally understood it: there are bodies buried beneath the cherry trees. You've got to believe it.

-"Sakura no ki no shita niwa", by Kajii Motojirou

[ecotone99]

[mf] It was the Middle of Winter

This is my first post here, hope you guys enjoy it! :)

The cold wind blew through the valley; the trees shivered as it blew harshly by. It was the middle of winter and the trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t. They still trembled in the icy wind and broken blasts of snow. Their bows bent and even broke as the snow grew thick upon them: it was the middle of winter. The trees should have been used to the cold, but they weren’t.

A man walked through the valley and clutched his jacket tighter around him, the wind racing about him. His name was Nathaniel Town, but everyone called him Nat. He had been through many winters and, like the trees, should have been used to the cold, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t more than twenty years old, and everyone in his hometown knew him as a happy, joyful person. He was known for his quiet but intelligent manner, his odd sense of humor, and his soft smile. Everyone loved him. Yet, even with all that love, Nat was alone.

He lived in a cabin nestled in the valley, a few miles away from the town and far enough removed that he seldom had any visitors. It was because of this distance that Nat felt so alone. Most days he was fine with it; he had grown used to it after all this time. However, there were often days when he felt the weary loneliness seeping over him. Today was one of those days.

“Should just get used to it,” he mumbled to himself as he pulled his coat closer to his shoulders. “Should just give up. It’s not for me.” The wind howled back in response and he shivered: it was the middle of winter. He should’ve been used to the cold, but he wasn’t.

Nat thought back over the days’ events and frowned, his normally pleasant and hopeful demeanor crushed. The day had started out normally, he had made the mile and a half long trek into town and gone to work. He worked in the printing shop and seldom spoke to anyone other than his coworkers, but today it had been different. Mary Hamlet, a young woman whom he had known in school, had stopped by to talk with him. She had stayed there all day and the two had even gone out and had lunch together. There was nothing too abnormal in this as Mary had been visiting Nat more and more frequently over the past month, but then something strange had happened.

Nat shook his head and grimaced, “Shouldn't have hoped it would happen. Should have known better.” He looked around and saw the trees, their boughs heavy with snow looked about ready to crack and break. He felt the wind rush around him, but his body had grown numb to the cold and he continued, unperturbed by the harsh wind. The snow gusted down in flurries now; it was the middle of winter. The valley should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t.

Nat dropped his eyes back to the ground and continued on through the painful part of his day. He and Mary had been sitting on a bench in the park when it had happened. He had reached over and brushed his hand against hers, almost as if it were an accident. Mary had looked down, noticed the attempt, and looked back up at Nat. He smiled at her warmly and she smiled back, but the warmth wasn’t there.

“What’s wrong?” Nat had asked.

Mary smiled, shrugged, looked at the snow dusted ground and said, “I’m not sure.”

The conversation that ensued was too much for Nat to bear and he turned his attention back to the snowy path. He saw the distant shape of his home and plodded drearily through the snow. His boots were soaked, but he was used to the cold by now. His eyes listed from side to side as he searched for something to distract himself. He saw a rabbit spring quickly across the path, moving fast in an attempt to stay warm. Nat chuckled to himself darkly, “Silly Rabbit. Don’t you know it’s the middle of winter? Shouldn’t you be used to the cold?” But the rabbit wasn’t used to the cold.

Nat felt himself drift back into the memories. He heard Mary’s voice, “I just don’t think we can do this.”

“What do you mean?” Nat had been stunned and confused by the revelation.

Mary had looked away, “I’m just not ready for it.” She hadn’t said anything else, just gotten up and walked away without saying goodbye. Nat was left on the bench, his face an expression of shock and utter confusion at what had just happened. Soon enough, the sadness had crept into his heart as he realised Mary wouldn’t come back. He had clenched his fists and stared down at the dusting of snow, watching small clear patches form as the tears dripped out of his eyes.

It wasn’t the first time Nat had been turned down. He always seemed to be just about to start something when it was ripped away from him. “Stupid thing, hope,” he said to himself as he reached his house and opened the door. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, hope only brings sadness.” He walked into his house and started to build the fire. He didn’t hate Mary, or any of the others who had turned him away. He didn’t hate them at all. He was more angry with himself than anyone else, for ruining the chances he was given. He thought back to the moment on the bench, “What if waited a little longer? What if..” He pondered the question and felt a weight in his chest as he thought of the future.

He knew he couldn’t blame her, that it wasn’t her fault, and he didn’t want to. Instead, he blamed himself. He put his head in his hands and cried; the tears flowed down his face like small rivers. “I shouldn’t have ever started. I should have just let it all go.” He spoke in between sobs, but no one could hear. It was the middle of winter: the world outside was frozen over. It should have been used to the cold, but it wasn’t.

Nat stood up and walked away from the half-built fire. He made his way over to the door and stepped outside, his jacket still hanging inside the house. He walked barefoot in the snow, the cold unable to hurt him. He saw his breath come out, misty in the cold wind, and sighed. He kept walking. He walked into the woods, towards a place where he knew he could think clearly. He passed the frozen trees and bushes, his mind and body just as icy as them, but he was used to it. He walked deeper into the forest and lost feeling in his hands. He rubbed them subconsciously, not intending to keep them warm. “It’s the middle of winter,” he whispered to himself.

At last, he reached the clearing he had been looking for. It was a dark glade, covered by the trees so only a dusting of snow lay on the ground. In the center of the clearing was a small pond. He drew close to the pond and looked down at his reflection. The icy blue water stared back up at him and he saw his bare face. It was the face of a broken man. He saw the red rings around his eyes, the tear stains down his cheeks, and the soulless frown that enshrouded his lips.

He didn’t know how long he stood there. It could have been a few minutes or hours, the light in the deep woods was already so dim that he couldn't tell what time it was. He looked at himself in the water, thoughts floating through his sorrow ridden mind. He remembered times before today, times when he had fallen for the same trick. He began to hum a song to himself. He repeated one line more than the others.

“I guess I should be used to it,

Just go ahead and get used to it,

Because I know it’ll happen again.

It just seems no matter what I do I can’t win.

And even if it seems like everything is great,

The truth is the world ain’t so great.

I guess I should just get used to it.”

He stayed there, humming the song and singing what verses pleased him until he finally sighed and turned back the way he had come. His feet were cold and he shivered as he trudged back towards his house. “Should’ve worn shoes. It’s the middle of winter, who walks outside without shoes?” He smiled to himself, “Only idiots, Nat, only idiots.” He chuckled and grinned, color returning to his face as he felt his soul begin to reform. The walk back was much faster than the walk into the woods, and he ran through the frozen world rather than stop and admire it. Within a few minutes, he was back at the door to his house. He quickly swung the door open and walked inside.

The fireplace was still ready to be lit and he walked over to it, “Maybe I’ll go on a trip,” he said as he pulled out a matchbox. “Somewhere I haven’t been before.” He smiled at the thought. The heaviness in his chest was still there, but he could bear it now. He glanced outside his window and saw that the wind had died down. “Good,” he said, “ ‘Bout time that storm stopped.” He smiled again. It wasn’t a happy smile, nor was it a sad smile. It was the smile of someone who understood one of life's greatest mysteries.

Nat looked down at the small pile of wood as he struck a match and started to light a fire. The flames licked the wood and flared to life. He sighed in relief as he felt the warmth flow into his hands. He was happy to be warm again. He looked outside and saw the wind flurry one last time before it died out. It was the middle of winter. He knew he’d never get used to the cold, no matter how many times it came.

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