#cemetery scene my beloved

[momowoah]

Eddie asking himself how could Buck be the same after the lightning strike and wondering if that means they lost the something that they had before. Telling Buck "Experiences like this, they change us. So what changed in you?" during the cemetery scene knowing full well that what changed for him when he died was that he realized he was in love with Buck, but that wasn't what changed for Buck. After being told by Buck that he feels like Natalia truly sees him. Eddie's death pushing him towards Buck and Buck's death being the reason why Eddie decided to pull away, because Buck didn't find it out and he thought it meant he didn't feel the same. I'm unwell.

[lover-of-mine]

[simmingonthelow]

"You Are My Eternity"

~Macha Wording

Poses (slightly maybe edited) by @rebouks (top 3), @hannahssimblr (mid 2), and @lonerswhimsie (bottom 1).

[eularin]

I was watching some scenes from Naruto, and then I saw the one where Obito summons the Kyuubi in the cemetery, apparently next to Rin's grave and I was like "WTF you crazy? Right there next to your crush's grave? What the hell man" and then I remembered that Obito always does things with some justification (every villain does), but it is Canon that Obito likes to prove his PoV to others, and also to himself. So I asked myself: why the hell did Obito summon the Kyuubi near Rin's grave? What could he be thinking? And I came to the following conclusion:

He wanted to prove to Rin, and to all those other dead ninjas who probably sacrificed themselves for Konoha that their sacrifice was in vain. Obito's story, and especially Team Minato's story, is about sacrifice, promises, and tragedy.

Obito sacrificed himself for Kakashi (and the Team) bc he thought it was the right thing to do and the most important thing. He was more loyal to the team (his friends) than he was to Konoha (am I the only one who noticed that by going to save Rin, Obito basically abandoned the Kannabi Bridge mission?)

On that mission, Obkk made his promise, Kakashi gained his Sharingan, Obito "died" believing that by joining his power with Kakashi's, it would make them stronger and in a way invincible to protect Rin (his precious people) so of course the cruel world and cruel destiny proved to the two that the sacrifice and their promise were worthless.

When Obito finally realized that his shared power with Kakashi was not enough, and that Rin's loyalty to Konoha far outweighed her loyalty to the Team, Obito had a meltdown (another meltdown). I can reflect on Rin's character later. Let's focus on Obito.

When Obito chose the graveyard to summon the Kyuubi, he was making a strong statement. He literally wanted to tell Rin (and the other ninjas who sacrificed themselves for the good of Konoha) this: "hey Rin, look! You killed yourself to stop a Bijuu from destroying Konoha, but your sacrifice can't stop this Bijuu now. See? No sacrifice is worth it. You only delayed the inevitable. You died for nothing and without meaning" - Obito must have been very angry with Rin and Minato. At least I think he was.

During the 4th war he was literally mocking Minato and his acclaimed speed. Basically he was saying "there's no point in being the fastest man in the world if you don't arrive at the moment that matters most", and I don't think he was referring to the Kannabi Bridge mission. So there's that weird conversation where Obito tells Kakashi that Rin is an impostor?!? I don't remember that dialogue anymore (I watched it with subtitles, so I really don't remember what I read years ago)

the only thing I understood was "Rin killed herself, so she's not the real Rin, she's just an impostor that this world created!" – Obito is so... crazy? logical? delirious that I couldn't keep up (I always rewatch the 4th war arc)

also, i'm thinking about it 🤔 i think obito might have been bitter towards Minato bc out of all team 7, Minato was the only one who got along in the end. get my drift: obito "died"; kakashi and rin were devastated and minato probably suffered too, but the anime only shows kakashi for most of the whole story, suffering much more. (unfortunately, the anime shows almost nothing of Rin and her personality. she's portrayed as... idk, easily disposable background character. we don't see anything about her dreams, her struggle to be a great ninja, we don't see her other friends or family... she's almost an empty character, even though she's important to the story of two big prominent characters.)

So back to the main focus: Obito "died"; Rin and Kakashi suffered, then Rin died and Kakashi was left to wallow in his guilt and pain, then Minato went and put a traumatized child in the ANBU. And we know that Obito was already spying on all of them. He certainly didn't like seeing Minato being a beloved hero, enjoying his laurel leaves after the war, so he fulfills his dream of being Hokage, marries his wonderful Kushina, plays house and has a child. In other words: Minato moves on while Obito doesn't (and Kakashi doesn't either). I bet that made Obito pretty angry. I can imagine his anger at Minato's good life. So he went there and ruined it all. 💁🏻‍♀️💀

Well, that's it. That's my theory (?) about why Obito summoned the Kyuubi at the graveyard that night.

So, what's your take on this?

[rtfics]

Seeing BJ2 the 3rd time.

LONG & FILLED WITH SPOILERS

SO much to think about, and my memory is shit.

I rapidly scribbled notes during the film. But when I got home and tried to read them:

So here's an overview. I'll post other details if I ever translate my notes.

First, the casting was perfection. I'd never seen Jenny Ortega, Justin Theroux, and Monica Bellucci before, so for me they were the characters.

It was interesting that the film opens with the Warner Brothers Studio lot in black & white. Why B&W? It sort of sets the tone.

Donna Summer singing lines from "MacArthur's Park" was a foreshadowing. This film was made by a guy who was a teen in the 70s, and it's for others his age (he's only 2 years older than me). BJ2 is packed with 70s nostalgia that only those who were alive then would get.

This sequel was also made for die-hard fans of the original Beetlejuice. Burton took special care to give us the Winter River we love, but updated it to show the story and its characters aren't stuck in the past. The covered bridge is there, the church, cemetery, Miss Shannon's, and fire station are there, and so is the Maitland's building, but it's a coffee shop now.

Seeing Lydia as shell-shocked and pill-popping threw me, but the plot gave it sense (I'll go into detail in a separate post).

Rory, OMFG, I've known Rory. Anyone who's had anything to do with the entertainment/media biz, even peripherally, knows Rory. His "enabler" bullshit was so spot-on; faking that he's going to get Lydia off her dependency on drugs while keeping her hooked by making it seem that he's doing it because she's begging him. Classic user methodology. You just know he's the one who got her on "coping" pills in the first place; all the better to manipulate her. I loathed him immediately.

I adore what they did with Delia. It completely fucking made sense, and followed what's happened in the modern NYC Arts scene. I love how she and Lydia now get along, I mean, shit, Lydia's in her 50s and Delia's in her 70s, they're both middle-aged women, and, bless their hearts, the screenwriters and Burton made them act like grown women.

Astrid seemed older than 16 to me, but hey, I'm not around teenagers these days. I appreciated that she wasn't a brat. Her resentment and having her back up were appropriate for her family situation; a beloved father whose body was never found (I think); a mom always working or promoting because of Rory, doped on pills and famous for being a ghost-seeing nutjob, who can't see Astrid's father. That's a lot to deal with.

The way they handled Charles was perfect, especially his claymation demise. His afterlife body was comically gross, and an ingenious way of including Charles in the film without having to recast another actor, except for his voice. Charles being in the Netherworld provides a great thread to Delia's later death. His headstone being the shape of a shark's fin was a humorously grim touch.

The Sylvia Young Theatre School Choir sang at Charles' funeral, and their voices were beautiful.

Arthur Conti was fantastic as Jeremy (70s teens remember his grandfather, Scottish actor Tom Conti). His American accent was flawless. He was the perfect balance of cute and mature, and his niceness made his being evil all the worse; while Astrid says the incantation you can see him slightly out of focus behind her, smiling in a chilling way. I love that there isn't the slightest hint that he's a multiple murderer, and of his own parents! When he's about to get his passport stamped he shows absolutely no remorse toward Astrid, which makes his damnation all the sweeter.

Beetlejuice . . . . What can I say? Michael Keaton created Beetlejuice as we know him, and he fit right back in character as easily as drawing breath. His body language, his weird way of walking, his expressions, everything is just as you'd expect Beej to be. But then we get to see more! I can't express how happy I was to see Beej's origin story, which turned the throw-away line about having a pretty good time during the Black Death into something more substantial. Seeing Keaton as human Beej was a delight.

An important detail was that, even though Beej says his heart had long since withered, he fell for Delores. He says he was "bewitched." Perhaps not love, but lust certainly. It's quite clear that Delores was much higher in social station than Beetlejuice, so he must have thought he'd won the lottery with her choosing him. My god, his ego had no problem with his drunken ass being hauled to bed by his new wife, and his enthusiasm was huge. I love that they gave him the gut in his human form (Keaton doesn't have one).

Richard was the nice guy I hoped he would be. But it was telling that, when he says goodbye to Lydia at the ladder in the mausoleum, they don't hug. They don't even shake hands. It shows the truth of Lydia's previous statement to Astrid that she and Richard's relationship had ended long before his death.

Wolf is every 70s crime drama/movie distilled. Hammy, over the top, constantly spouting his Catch Phrase.

Why are there so many shrunken head guys? And why did Beej hire people who can't talk to answer his phones? It's loony and fits the Netherworld random logic. They're Beej's Minions.

I've seen a lot of people on tumblr, as well as professional movie critics, say there were "too many villains" and that the plot was "too hard to follow."

For those who agree with this, I recommend you never attempt to read anything by Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Victor Hugo, Edgar Allan Poe's detective stories, or Agatha Christie. Because your brains would fry.

Look, there are two villains. Just two.

Delores poisoned Beetlejuice, he killed her with an axe in revenge, in the Afterlife she reassembles and hunts him down, killing others in her wake, which sets Wolf Jackson and the Ghoul Squad after her, until she's defeated with a sandworm.

Rory has been manipulating Lydia, keeping her doped, gas-lighting her, until under the Truth Serum injected by Beej he spills the beans and Lydia rejects him, until he's eaten at the same time as Delores by the sandworm.

As for "Delores and Rory weren't given enough story," what more do you want? How Delores joined a soul-sucking cult? How Rory became a user, seeking out vulnerable, grieving women to exploit? We learn as much as we need to. Anything more would have stuffed the film with unnecessary crap.

The only shit I didn't care for was the baby.

The whole Counseling scene was a big gross-out, and I'm sure Tim Burton intended it that way. The original couldn't have been more gross than it was or it would have earned an R Rating, keeping out everyone under the age of 18 (21 in some states; this was the 80s). But now, Burton could be a lot more graphic. I was stunned that he had Lydia go through the "pregnancy," but it obviously didn't hurt her. For me Babyjuice has no point. It doesn't advance the plot, and its reappearance only drives home the weirdness of the ending.

What the ever fuck was the ending??

Especially Astrid giving birth to the Beetlebaby. It would suggest Beetlejuice is its father, which means he and Astrid had sex. Which we can be pretty sure they didn't . . ? In the counseling scene Beej refers to the baby as his "inner child." So its not his literal child? Even so, why would Astrid give birth to it the same way her mother did?

I've read all the theories about the ending, and at this point one's as good as the other. Perhaps that's the point: To keep us all guessing. Because I'm sure, all along, there's been a plan for Beetlejuice 3, IF this movie was a hit. If it wasn't, if it bombed (since 2010 all of Burton's films have bombed), the ending would lead to speculation forever, to people writing fucking dissertations about its symbology and metaphors, etc.

But if it was a hit, which it is, the seeds are there for a third and final film. But so fucking murky no one can guess what it'll be like.

The only part of the ending I liked was Beej shaking awake and saying, as he glances at Lydia, "I just had the weirdest dream." And Lydia looking over. Not terrified. Not screaming or leaping out of bed. Not seeing the indentation in the pillow and yelling in protest. Just staring.

Do I want a third film?

I love Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. I love it more every time I watch it. I accept everything in it as canon, even the baby, resentfully.

But Burton might fuck up the last one. He might do things I never wanted to be canon. When a sequel is made of a hit film, the creators sometimes become self-conscious. BJ2 wasn't, because it'd been 36 years since the original. They had no idea whether this version would fly. Since it has, massively, I'm afraid the screenwriters and Burton may become too aware of the audience and try to cater to it. OR they'll go the opposite direction and try to come up with a plot they think fans would never imagine.

So I'm pretty much stuck in the same place I was before I saw Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. Wary, skeptical, and cynical.

[wanderingwomanwondering]

Today’s buddie obsession brought to you by the s6 cemetery scene. I did a rewatch, now I’m unwell.

Buck noticed that eddie was feeling some type of way at the grave, so he offered comforting words. He tried to care for eddie’s heart but didn’t see that eddie wasn’t at ease (metaphorically he couldn’t breathe in that moment, something more was sitting on his chest!!)

Eddie noticed that buck wasn’t at ease and tried to reassure him that he doesn’t have to be anything but himself but eddie also *eventually* realized in the scene that he’d missed some important feelings that buck had been having about the lightning strike.

Eddie has learned to spot when buck can’t breathe (aka be himself) and buck has learned to spot when eddie’s heart needs a beat (aka emotional support), but then they both (to varying degrees) miss when the other is dealing with something that they think is their strong suit! Eddie missed buck’s deeper heart/feelings about dying and buck missed eddie’s lack of ease/comfort with himself in the cemetery. I read that scene as a lack of ease/comfortability on eddie’s part because he started off being open about his feelings (fear of dying alone) but quickly shifted to focus on buck’s needs. He was metaphorically out of breath…in a cemetery…looking like death. Buck didn’t fully catch that something deeper and important was going on with eddie.

The trauma of buck’s death made their communication in the cemetery difficult, because they both have big unspoken feelings about it and about themselves by extension. As others have said, and I agree, buck and eddie were talking past each other in that moment. But interestingly they were still somehow talking about the same thing.

Eddie was talking about his fear of dying alone. Earlier in the episode he was with Chris at Shannon’s grave and Marie said what she said before she died so it makes sense that eddie would be thinking about these things. What feels (mildly) extra is how clearly he wore the weight of those feelings during the scene??? It only starts to make sense because eddie was literally standing next to the person who’s recent death has been weighing on him the most. The actual person who he lost and couldn’t imagine his life without. But that person is talking about another LI, feeling seen by that LI and feeling unable to see himself…or eddie’s emotional turmoil.

Buck was talking about dying alone too but in a more roundabout way. He was exploring the power of feeling seen and understood. While standing next to the man who spent years in a marriage where he wasn’t seen by his partner or by himself. While standing next to eddie as the embodiment of the kind of living death that sets in when a person feels entirely unseen in a way they want to be seen! Buck talked about natalia with hope and awe because he felt seen by her which made him feel alive and energized. Meanwhile eddie looks like he’s dying during their entire conversation! He looks pale, distressed, he’s drowning in his clothes, he’s saying words but barely talking about himself, he’s deferring to buck because buck is the only breathing person complete with a heartbeat in that scene!! Buck being lost/misguided aside, he’s still feeling like he’s on the right path and grateful to be alive to explore it, but eddie doesn’t seem to come to life or catch a second wind at any point in the conversation.

Then we have the grave itself. Marie Ellis is the woman whose grave all of this happened at. The name Marie is a variant of Mary and can mean many things. One of the popular meanings, “beloved”, stood out to me. I think what eddie buried in that cemetery was his hope for a romantic relationship with buck 🫣 Shannon’s been gone for years and eddie seems to have peace on that front, if his conversations with chris are any indication. Tía Pepa encouraged him to date and he was relieved when Vanessa said she wasn’t ready to date . In my brain all of the above makes eddie’s glow-down in 615 all the more pointed! He was in mourning, burying his hope for something with buck and trying to accept that he’d need to find a different path to romantic love.

The second name meaning for Marie that jumped out at me was “bitterness”. That one seems relevant to the way the scene played out. Before eddie understood buck’s feelings, frankly he seemed annoyed. He was frustrated that buck was dating natalia. He used the excuse of her being from a call but buck’s s2 gf, Ali, was from a call and eddie didn’t have any objections to that. Taylor was technically from a call and eddie said nothing about that (even though we KNOW he didn’t like her). Eddie was either reading history and cautioning buck against falling victim to his old pattern and/or he was full-on fishing for a reason to discourage buck from dating natalia specifically.

Tbh I know it’s a long shot but I think eddie knows that he has or is developing feelings for buck and he was finally starting to admit that (to himself at least) then buck fell into natalia’s arms. I think it was a double whammy for eddie that buck felt truly seen by her after just five minutes; I can’t get over how shook eddie looked after buck said that!! It wasn’t until after buck revealed that he felt seen and didn’t know how to be with everyone else and that he didn’t feel like he was the same person after the lightning strike that eddie accepted it and resigned himself to the idea that he doesn’t have a chance with buck. Hence eddie’s constant parade of mournful glances between the distance, buck and marie’s grave!! Bonus points to the writers because Marie also has meanings connected to the sea, and water was a constant theme in s6.

Hopefully I’m not completely delulu. I’m sure I missed stuff and there’s always more to say but damn that cemetery scene had a lot going on!!

[therantfairysblog]

The final meeting

✍️ note: let's talk about sanemi and giyuu heart to heart convo post their final hashira meeting, the 21 trio and their beloved comrades too ❤️

Spring 1920s. The final hashira meeting. The end of hundreds years of sacrifice and legacy of a demon hunter's corps.

And them being the last hashira ever stood in the end. Both of them didn't moved yet from their place after kiriya and his sisters concluded the meeting. Sitting there reminiscing their days as hashiras and comrades.

"...you have anywhere to go after this?" Shinazugawa started the convo. It's turn awkward as they both arent even friend at the first point.

"... I'll go to the cemetery, i thought it'll be okay to tell them about the meeting" Tomioka getting up from his siting. "....you want to go too?" It's a hesitant invitation from him, but tomioka feel he need to opened up first to him. He was aware how his own attitude causing a lot of misunderstanding between them. He still feel a bit of regret with the fact that he never clearing his misunderstanding with Iguro.

"yeah, i want to see genya too"

....

A nice spring wind caressing them as they pay respect for the fallen heroes, their comrades, fought with them alongside to defeat muzan. The memories comeback, swirling with the fresh scene of banter and laughter among them like a movie scene.

In front of Iguro's grave, Tomioka sit a bit longer than usual. After he offering his prayer, he talk to shinazugawa."i wish i know him better like you do, Shinazugawa"

"....to be honest there's much that i dont know about him. He didn't really talk a lot about himself... I'm surprise u actually care about him" shinazugawa moved beside him, putting a nice warm bitter tea as an offering, his bestfriend favorite drink.

"i never hated him."

It was a little silence in between them. Shinazugawa watching iguro's marker and talk to him " iguro, i thought tomioka aren't that annoying after all'" he chuckled a bit. "he's a funny fellow"

Tomioka looked a bit confused.

" hey actually, what do you mean by the statement that you are not like others, like us? Watching u always alone piss me off to be honest. It as if we are dealing and talking with a huge statue. It's great that kanroji and kocho doesn't mind about it" shinazugawa sipping his tea.

It's take a while but Tomioka started to open up his story of him, Sabito, and his reason to join the corps. The spring breeze slip in between the silence. Shinazugawa didn't interrupt at all.

"... I'm really sorry. It's too late aren't it, its my own selfishness. I wish Iguro didn't hate me this much. I wish i could ask him forgiveness." Him watching his comrade's grave with a heavy heart. Thinking about it, he didn't even bother about fixing it. And all was too late in the end.

".... I don't think he'll hate you that much, especially if he know about your story. You two actually similar in a way that it's funny. Well after all, people are dealing with their hardship differently. I think Iguro will understand, right iguro?" A sudden breeze of wind seems to answer him. Shinazugawa smiled.

The two having a nice convo and telling their comrades about the disbandment of the corps, joking about their unemployment, as if all of them are there, in a peaceful dinner, talking about their respective mission, their tsuguko and their hatred for demon.

Perhaps it's the time Tomioka feel included, and how he feel a little lighter after he told them everything about him.

For the living two, live must still go on and perhaps, this time their relationship will become much better.

"uzui san inviting us to his home next Sunday. You want to come together? I heard he will become a father soon." Tomioka asked him while they walking away from the cemetery.

"well yeah, why not."

[ancientprettythings]

The well-known grave monument of a woman named Ampharete, which was found in the Kerameikos cemetery in Athens, also shows a seated woman holding a baby. That stele has a rare inscription that sheds light on the meaning of the scene:

My daughter's beloved child is the one I hold here, the one that I held on my lap while we looked at the light of the sun when we were alive and that I still hold, now that we are both dead.

[Source]

[sibylsleaves]

I wonder if any of the hardcore BT fans who only started watching after 7x04 will take the hiatus to watch the show from the beginning and turn into buddie shippers.

wait you guys are hardcore shipping BT??? I thought that was just a bit.....

Honestly I do not understand how you could come out on the other side of the tsunami/the grocery store fight/the kitchen apology/the well/the shooting/the will reveal/the s5 breakdown/all of 6b/the poker date/3 minutes and 17 seconds/the cemetery scene and still be like. well they seem like very good friends who are normal about each other 😊

but i also don't understand how you get through 2x01 Under Pressure (my beloved) without your brain chemistry being altered so.

[androgynousblackbox]

Welcome to Hazbin Vale. 9 [Radioapple, Appleradio]

"Mmm? Oh right, I still have to do this.

I mean, good morning, dear friends! How are you all waking up today? Refreshed up? With a load of new energy to carry and face a new day? I truly hope so, because a day like no other is exactly what we are going to get.

But don't let me too ahead of myself. As any cooker know, you must let the food simmer for a bit, to cook on it's own juices, before hastly just gorging it out like a pag. And here, in Hazbin Vale, if there is anything that we have is class. Manners. Patience.

We have waited for so long, dear listener. We can take it as calmly as it comes.

Last night I am sure some of you noticed a distinctive lack of moon and stars on the cloudless sky. And if you didn't, well, now you know!

If any of you had ever bothered to pay more attention to it, then you would have also realized that stars systematically have been falling from the sky for a while now, one by one. It was actually quite an impressive view, but my, my, everyone is so busy right now that nobody was outside admiring the espectacle.

Truly a pity. When the end comes, the least you could do is watch.

I saw it all from here the entire night. I didn't want to risk it. As it turns out, desk of studios make for a horrible bed! Who knew!

But I am told to tell you all to not worry at all. Carry on as usual. The sun just looks bigger than normal and less warm because of some astronomic mambo jambo nonsense I do not care at all, so you shouldn't either. What we have above our heads, dear listeners, and also right under our feets, is so beyond our understanding that sometimes we should avoid questioning it at all.

The cemetery and community center are from today both open. Everything is out in the open now. There is absolutely no place to hide. You might satiate your insatiable curiosities to your heart's content all that you like without any concern. If you are ever so lucky, you might find that a nice surprise that will make it quick for you.

Interpretate that as nasty as you want if that will make you stop being a stain on the surfice of the earth, listener.

The cave on the outskirt of town has finally cave in. Oh, we do have to admire how much it managed to stay as it was for, well, for even longer than I have been alive. That is quite impressive. Let's give an applause for the rocks that gave a valiant fight, the broken beer bottles and the blood shed as a result.

I told you all that could happen, didn't I? I just happened to pass by while seeing some hungry raccoon trying to get themselves a bite before the police arrive. Somehow a hand was sticking out from under the rocks and it was still moving! The human body is truly a wonderous mystery. Just the amount of abuse and torment that it can withstand is enough to make a man smile.

It didn't last long, of course. Raccoon will make sure of that and you know what they say: the fresher, the better! But a good effort nonetheless.

I have also been informed that our transmission of today will last for as long as it needs to be. That's right, as far any of my dear beloved listener is out there left to listen, we will keep transmitting to your satisfaction and joy.

Don't try to turn off your radios. It won't work.

The only time we went out of schedule like this was when the kindergarten burned down after that teacher was killed by an ex boyfriend. Do you all remember that? So many people screaming all around made it difficult to speak, but it was a fun moment all the same. The one and only time that we used the portable equipment to be right on the scene and report you the last updates. Don't you miss it sometimes, dear listener, when things were a lot more simpler?

Oh, but no disaster of that nature is what is happening today. Of course not. Today is a normal and common day like any other. Don't pay attention to the sun, that must have gotten bigger since the last time I talked about it. Suns do funny things like that sometimes, everyone knows that!

Ah, but I am afraid that we won't be getting any guest or calls for today. I had Niffty ripping the phone line off after… certain someone tried to call in. I am sure they would say that they were just trying to solicit some song or something like that, but no matter, nobody can do that now! It's just Niffty and me here on the good old studio for the entire day, and Niffty has gone up to her attick again so it's only just me!

A one man show. As it was always supposed to be. And aren't we all lucky that man is me?

I just have some curiosity left, listener. Do you feel that anything is different at all? Did those teenagers that were looking to hang out in the cave? Did they felt like a peak on the electricity in the air, some kind of static that puts all the nerves on high alert for the potential danger that it can't even behind to fanthom? Or was it just the sound of one rock falling to the ground, after another, before everything else was on top of them?

The only thing I lament is not being able to ask them. Not even the owner of that solitary hand would have been able to say anything, not with a broken jaw like that. Not that I saw their mangled body or anything. I was, and I always am, nothing but a respectable model citizen so I just took a look and made my way straight here, to do what was asked of me.

You are welcome, by the way.

There is a window here, did I ever mentioned that? I can't imagine in what context that would have come out, but regardless, there is. It offers a lovely view of the main street that goes to the end of town, right before the hallway opens up to empty wastelands in direction to the next civilization. I can see everyone who comes out or comes in if I wanted to.

I usually keep the curtains extended over it because, let's face it, outside of the rare crash or manslaughter of those who didn't looked both ways before crossing the street, not a lot of interest to be had there. Been good at road safety has always been one of the few flaws of this town, sadly.

Up until now it has been rather peaceful. Not a lot of people who were planning to go out to the nearby town to maybe visit grandma on her birthday or were planing to go pick their stranged daughter at the airport. But I hope it will pick up at some point in the morning. The day is young and we have so much time to enjoy it to it's last second.

The sky getting slighty darker might give you a wrong impression of the time, though. But rest assured, your watches still works perfectly fine. The only issue is that I can't see the sun from here. This building cast a long shadow from this window.

Has it started to smile yet? If not, don't worry about it. There is nothing to concern yourself with. It's when the eyes open that it's truly interesting part begins.

Oops, I wasn't supposed to say that, ha ha! Spoiler! My bad. Please ignore it as you go about your normal and completely irrelevant day.

Let's instead just remember how wonderful and great our town is. We used to be a great tourist center, a convenient space between other cities for people to stop by on their way. One where people find joy watching our huge ball of yarn, that it was mostly filled with styrofoam and twig before yarn ever came into the equation.

We had that adorable bowling alley with the greasiest pizza anyone could eat with it's own karaoke on the side. The businesses were thriving. There was so much things to look at and play with back then. Our young weren't constantly leaving to look for bigger opportunities elsewhere, only to waste years of education in careers they are never going to take.

But things change, don't they? They get stagnant with enough time. They become boring. Predictable. And that might be the biggest tragedy of it all. What is life, I ask of you, dear listener, if not a constant symphony of screams all in perpetual crescendo until it's dying end? How else a man is supposed to know that they aren't truly dead yet without it?

There is just no end to this. This is all your life has been and all everything will ever meet you as. For some weaker minds this can be frightening, paralyzing even. They let themselves become part of the scenary, another potted plant on the corner that does what it supposed to do, because I guess that is easier than take control of their own lives.

For others, this might be just the push they need to finally learn a few new tricks. So you study and you work and exchange words with the right people, others who also refuse to just let the monotony kill them silently.

And what if you have to step on a few toes? It's not your fault that they didn't wise out before. And what if some of those toes fall out or get crushed like mashed potatoes under your feet? That at least is something new.

And the new starts are always so exciting, dear listener.

Your journey begins where it was supposed to end. That is an exhilitaring thought not many get to have.

If life won't give you lemons or oranges or apples or anything at all, then you carve into the ground with your own bare hands until you find something, covered in mud and your own blood from the nails that are ripping apart from your skin. You grip it as tight as you can despite the pain, despite the burning sensation that is chipping at the soul you didn't know you had, and won't let go until you make it your own.

You let it grab onto you and take what it needs to survive. You feed it, you protect it, you do whatever is necesary so none of you ever gets forgotten again. You form bonds you never expected to make before becuase it's either that or come back to how things were before, to the sad, dull, predictable nature that you had to escape from.

They promise you that you will always have an ally on your side even if this chapter ends. No matter in what new book are you thrown into or how much you change, that constant hand on your shoulder will never abandon you to remind you of where you come from and where you still have yet to go. It will follow you more loyally and closer than your own shadow ever could, even in total darkness.

The only thing that it ask in return is that you keep it well fed for as long as you exist. The bottom of it's stomach is neverending like outerspace itself and, let's be honest, you are never going to fill it. Which basically garantees that you will always have a new beginning to find more food. You will always a new playground to have fun with even if you already burned down the previous one. Completely consequences free. The only thing remaining being your own memories of it and you can fill it with as many screams as you want.

Doesn't that sound just ideal, dear listener? Who wouldn't shake hands with a promise such as that one?

Ah, but for now, I will leave you for a moment with the weather. I have to take a look outside, I can't resist the curiosity anymore.

See you soon."

[aprilblossomgirl]

flower/plant in dramas

Prompted by the conversation I had with @colourme-feral about plumeria and jasmine being featured in the first episode of I Feel You Linger in the Air (and also, plumeria was featured in KinnPorsche during the scene with Khun Spikes our beloved), I was tempted to write this post. Honestly, I always love to see how flowers or plants or even parks (not theme-parks) are used in dramas. Flowers and plants give visual localities and in many cases it's a part of natural and cultural elements of a place where the drama is set. And for me, it is always interesting to see how people 'place' their priority on parks, or to some extent, forests, through a piece of media; are they treated just as a side / decorative elements (as an escapade, or simply a break, destination, maybe), or as center stages? (Sorry, I was once an architecture/landscape architecture graduate and still, until today, have this default interest towards these living elements -- tropical flowers and forests my beloved! --, and since I LOVE watching my Asian shows, how they were presented there - will I always write about them, though, that's another case.) So, I am thinking of making some posts about flowers in dramas (specifically in Thai dramas). As I focused more on the Southeast Asian context, I might miss some facts about of the flower(s) from the perspective of other regions, but hopefully I didn't leave out anything significant.

part 1 - plumeria/frangipani

Plumeria (or also popular as frangipani) is a genus of flowering plants native to the Neotropical areas (including Mexico, Central America, the Caribbean, Brazil, and Florida in the US) but had been spread throughout the warm tropical regions as ornamentals. I'm not going to list its different types of species but given that Plumeria is known more as a common name, here's a list of how the flower is also called across Southeast Asia's region: Frangipani, Cempaka, Kemboja, Bunga kubur (Malaysia); Kamboja (Indonesia); Kalachuchi, Kalasutsing-puti, Kalasutsing pula (the Philippines); Lan-thom-khaao, Lam-thom-daeng, Lee-laao-dee (Thailand); and Dai (Vietnam). Please feel free to correct me if you see any of these names to be wrong.

There's no clear evidence on how and when exactly the plants came to Southeast Asia, however, two temples in Indonesia (one built in the 9th century and the other in the 14th century before the European came to the region) had the flower trees depicted in their relief.

In Southeast Asia, both the flower and the trees of Plumeria are considered sacred. The flower is strongly associated with religion and temple life in both Hindu and Buddhist cultures, for examples, it is used by the Balinese Hindus in their temple offerings.

The Plumeria is also linked to ghosts and graveyards in the Philippines, Indonesia, and Malaysia where the trees are often planted at cemeteries both to give shading and to function as signage. Bunga kubur, one of the known names of Plumeria in Malaysia, literally means cemetery/graveyard (=kubur, or kuburan in Indonesian) flower (=bunga). Locals believe that the flowers give shelter to ghosts and spirits. In Malaysian-Indonesian folklores specifically, the flower's fragrance is even associated with a certain type of mythological creature that is a vampiric spirit (who likes to hang out on the trees), thus the flower often perceived as bad luck.

However, on the other side, Plumerias are also commonly used as ornamental plants in houses, parks, parking lots, and other open area as part of the elements of modern landscaping.

This interesting article compiles five interpretations of Plumeria flower meaning across various cultures, those are: (1) Peace, joy, and warm welcomes; (2) Openness to new relationships or loyalty to existing ones; (3) Ties to death and immortality; (4) Fertility, rebirth, and femininity; and (5) Medicinal healing powers.

The article above, with additional information taken from here, said that in Thailand, the way they would say Plumeria (ลั่นทม / lân-tom) was similar to the word for 'sorrow', or 'gloomy, sad, and depressed' (ระทม / rá-tom). This might be why the flower had a negative meaning to the people or community in the past and considered an unlucky plant. However, this perspective is changing and now Plumeria (or Frangipani) has a new name that is ลีลาวดี / Lii-laa-wá-dii/Lee-laao-dee.

Lastly, here's another article that talks more about Kalachuchi (another name for Plumeria) flower.

the flower in dramas:

KinnPorsche -- Remember our Khun Spike. Plumeria flowers here were used as offering or signage on top of the grave.

I Feel You Linger in the Air -- A Plumeria flower here was used as a prop, depicted falling from the sky onto the top of a plate of jasmines. It might hold some symbolisms: a welcome, an openness, or transfer of 'spirit' or soul across the time dimension.

Next, I plan to write about jasmine (Part 2) and hibiscus (Part 3).

Sources: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] and the book "A Field Guide to Tropical Plants of Asia" by Engel & Phummai, 2008.

[introvertllux]

Whispers of Redemption (Chapter One)

Genres: Action, Thriller, Romance

Warnings:

Graphic Violence

Intense Action Sequences

PTSD and Trauma

Emotional Distress

Age Gap Romance (John is in his mid-40s, Sera is in her late 20s- early 30s)--> Will have the ages solidified in the story to make things more clear (might have to make John younger I read they wanted him to poetically be 35 years old).

Word Count: 4,689

Disclaimer: I DO NOT own any rights to John Wick or anything related (Just my OC! characters).

Chapter one: Aftermath and Peace

The sky over New York City was a somber gray, a fitting backdrop for the mournful scene unfolding at the cemetery. Winston and the Bowery King stood in silence, their expressions shadowed with a mix of sorrow and respect. They were positioned in front of John Wick's grave, where he was now eternally beside his beloved late wife, Helen. The headstone, a simple yet dignified marker, bore the inscription "Loving Husband," fulfilling John's final request.

John's dog, a loyal companion left behind, sat quietly by the grave, its mournful eyes reflecting the loss of its master. The dog's presence was a poignant reminder of the bond between man and animal, a silent witness to John's relentless struggle for peace. The Golden Retriever's ears perked up occasionally as if listening for the familiar steps it would never hear again.

The Bowery King, a figure of strength and resilience, broke the heavy silence. "I never thought I'd see the day," he said, his voice a blend of disbelief and sorrow. His gaze remained fixed on the gravestone as if trying to reconcile the legendary assassin with the peaceful words etched in stone.

Winston, ever the picture of composed authority, stood with a straight back, his eyes slightly moist with unspoken emotions. The Bowery King turned to him, a question lingering in the air. "Do you think he's in Heaven or Hell?"

Winston's response was measured and thoughtful. "Who knows?" he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of their shared history and the uncertainty of what lies beyond. The Bowery King chuckled, a low, ironic sound that spoke volumes of his own views on the afterlife and the life John led.

With a final, respectful nod, the Bowery King turned and walked away, his coat billowing slightly in the breeze. Winston remained, his gaze fixed on the grave. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to touch the cold, unyielding surface of the headstone. The moment was intimate, a private farewell to a man who was both a friend and a son in spirit.

"Farewell, my son," Winston muttered in Russian, his voice breaking ever so slightly. The words were laden with a deep, paternal affection that John, perhaps, never fully realized. As Winston stood there, the weight of his words hung in the air, a testament to their complex, profound bond.

______

Undisclosed location, Upstate New York (Monday)

John woke with the dawn, the first light of day casting a soft glow through the windows of his secluded cabin. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying the earthy scent of the forest surrounding his new home. Outside, the world was cloaked in a gentle mist, the landscape appearing as a dreamscape of rolling hills and dense, shadowy woods. The serenity was palpable, starkly contrasting the chaos he had left behind.

He donned his running gear and stepped outside, his dog, a playful and loyal Golden Retriever named Max, bounding eagerly at his side. Max's golden fur shone in the early light, his eyes bright with uncontained excitement. He nuzzled John's hand, seeking a moment of affection before their run. As he patted Max's head, John smiled a rare and genuine expression.

*Picture of Max*

The early morning silence was broken only by the rhythmic sound of his footsteps and the soft rustling of leaves. The mist clung to the trees, creating a mystical aura that seemed to envelop him in its embrace. John took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool, clean air, feeling a sense of calm.

John and Max ran along a well-worn path through the forest, damp ground and yielding beneath their feet. The towering trees' branches interlaced like an intricate canopy allowed slivers of sunlight to pierce through, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor. Birds chirped softly, their songs a gentle reminder of the life teeming in this secluded haven.

As they reached a small clearing, John slowed to a stop. This was his sanctuary within a sanctuary, where he could train and maintain the skills that had kept him alive. The clearing was modest, surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers, with a few simple targets for practice. Max sat patiently, watching as John went through his routine.

John began with hand-to-hand combat drills, his movements fluid and precise, each strike and block a testament to his training and discipline. The physical exertion was a release, a way to channel the restless energy that still coursed through him. Next, he moved to marksmanship, drawing his pistol and firing the targets with unwavering accuracy. The sound of gunfire echoed briefly through the trees, then faded back into the tranquil silence. Max's ears twitched at each shot but remained calm, trusting in John's control.

By the time he finished, the sun had risen higher, burning away the last remnants of mist. John wiped the sweat from his brow and called Max to his side. Together, they returned to the cabin, the morning's peace settling around them like a comforting blanket. Max trotted happily alongside, occasionally glancing up at John, seeking reassurance in his presence.

______

In the late morning, just as the soil began to dry from the dew, John turned his attention to his vegetable garden. The plot was modest but meticulously maintained, a patch of order and life amidst the natural wilderness. He knelt down, his hands moving with practiced care as he inspected the plants. Tomatoes, peppers, herbs, and leafy greens thrived under his diligent attention.

Gardening had become a therapeutic ritual for John to reconnect with a more straightforward, grounded part of himself. Each plant was a testament to his patience and care, a small but significant triumph over the chaos that had once ruled his life. He delicately pruned the plants, ensuring they had room to grow and flourish. The rich scent of the earth and the vibrant colors of the garden provided a sense of satisfaction and peace.

As he worked, John found his thoughts drifting back to his past, the people he had lost, and the battles he had fought. The garden, however, anchored him in the present, reminding him of the life he was trying to build. The rhythmic tasks of watering, weeding, and nurturing the plants helped him find balance and purpose.

Max lay nearby, contentedly chewing on a stick, occasionally glancing up at John with adoring eyes. The bond between them was a quiet yet profound comfort to John. With each careful motion, John felt more of the tension ease from his body. The garden was more than just a food source; it symbolized his healing and a promise of the peace he sought. He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans, and surveyed his work with a quiet sense of pride. This was his sanctuary, where he could begin rebuilding himself, one day at a time.

Max trotted over, his tail wagging slowly. John knelt down, scratching behind the dog's ears. "Good boy, Max," he murmured. Max responded with a joyful bark, his eyes shining with unwavering loyalty and affection. John smiled, feeling a rare moment of contentment. 

As John continued to his garden, a gentle breeze rustled the leaves around him, and memories began to surface, unbidden and vivid. The rhythmic motions of gardening seemed to unlock doors in his mind, allowing the past to flood in with startling clarity.

The first memory came from the High Table, a shadowy council controlling his life for so long. He could almost feel the cold, oppressive atmosphere of their clandestine meetings, the weight of their expectations, and the constant threat of violence that hung like a thick fog. The faces of the influential figures, masked in shadows, their voices echoing in the chamber, left an indelible mark on his psyche. Each figure, a specter of power and control, returned the suffocating sensation of being a pawn in their deadly game.

His thoughts drifted to Helen, his late wife, and the heartache of losing her. He remembered the quiet moments they had shared, the tender touches, and the deep conversations that made life feel full and meaningful. The memory of her smile, warm and genuine, pierced through the darkness, bringing both solace and pain. The garden was a small way of keeping her memory alive, a tribute to the life they had dreamed of together. He could almost hear her laughter, feel the warmth of her presence, the gentle way she had made even the darkest days seem bearable.

John's mind wandered to the intense battle with Vincent Bisset de Gramont. The scene replayed with brutal clarity: the clashing of steel, the deafening gunfire, and the raw, visceral struggle for survival. He could still feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins, the acute awareness of every move, every strike. Vincent's face, twisted in arrogance and desperation, was etched into his memory. The final moments of the duel, the precision and inevitability of the kill, were both a triumph and a curse. It was a reminder of why he had to leave that life behind. He remembered the feel of the cold metal in his hands, the weight of each decision, the fleeting moment of victory overshadowed by the endless cycle of violence.

As he pulled a weed from the soil, another memory surfaced, one that was both tender and bittersweet. Sera. Seraphina Jones is a bright light in the darkness of his past. He remembered her intense stare and those large, expressive brown eyes that seemed to see right through him- Bambi he affectionally used to call her. Their connection had been almost romantic, a bond forged in the crucible of shared hardship and fleeting moments of peace.

In his mind's eye, he saw her dancing, her movements fluid and powerful yet graceful. She had been a beacon of hope, a glimpse of what life could be beyond the blood and violence. Their conversations had been deep and meaningful, touching on dreams and fears that neither had shared with anyone else. He recalled how she had tied her pointe shoes, her fingers nimble and precise, and the times they had sparred together, her determination matching his own. The way her face would light up with passion when she spoke of her dreams, the unspoken understanding that passed between them, was something he cherished deeply.

The memory of their parting was a jagged wound. The High Table's intervention, the forced separation, and the knowledge that she had been sent to the Expanse program to endure unimaginable hardships. He had tried to keep her in his heart, but the brutality of their world had left little room for such fragile connections. He remembered the last look they shared, a silent promise of reunion that seemed impossible to keep.

Max nudged his leg, sensing his distress. John knelt down, wrapping his arms around the dog, finding solace in his companion's uncomplicated loyalty and love. Max licked his face, a simple gesture that spoke volumes about their bond.

John's hands stilled in the soil, the weight of these memories pressing down on him. Max, sensing his master's unease, came over and nuzzled his leg, offering silent comfort. John looked down at the loyal dog, his eyes reflecting a gratitude and connection that words could not capture. He knelt and buried his face in Max's fur, drawing strength from the unwavering loyalty of his canine companion. "I'm okay, Max," John whispered, though the words were as much for himself as for his dog. He needed this reminder of his humanity, the reason he had faked his death and sought this peace. 

The past was a part of him, a series of scars and lessons that had shaped the man he had become. But here, in this garden, with Max by his side, John could find moments of peace and clarity. He took a deep breath, the fresh air filling his lungs, and continued his work, grounding himself in the present, in the life he was striving to build away from the shadows of his past. With each careful motion, he felt more of the tension ease from his body, the garden's therapeutic rhythm offering a respite from the ghosts that haunted him.

__________

As the day wore on and the sun climbed higher, John and Max returned to the cabin. John fed Max, watching with a small smile as the dog eagerly devoured his meal. The simple act of caring for Max brought a sense of normalcy and purpose. John then focused on his needs, preparing a simple yet hearty breakfast.

The small kitchen was filled with the scent of sizzling eggs and freshly brewed coffee, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest that drifted in through the open windows. John ate slowly, savoring each bite, a stark contrast to the hurried meals of his past life. Max lay contentedly at his feet, occasionally glancing up with adoring eyes, his tail thumping softly against the floor.

After breakfast, John cleaned up and returned to the garden to check on a few more plants. Then, he noticed something unusual at the edge of the garden, partially hidden beneath a low-hanging branch. Curiosity piqued, he walked over and crouched down, carefully lifting the branch to reveal a small, intricately carved wooden box.

John's heart rate quickened as he picked up the box, its weight solid and reassuring in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite, the surface adorned with delicate patterns that seemed to pulse with a hidden energy. He carried it back to the cabin, Max following closely, sensing the shift in his master's mood.

Inside, John placed the box on the kitchen table and sat down, his eyes narrowing as he studied it. There was no prominent latch or hinge or visible way to open it. He ran his fingers over the carvings, feeling the subtle grooves and indentations. There was something familiar about the patterns, something that tugged at the edges of his memory.

As he examined the box, he noticed that the carvings formed a series of interlocking shapes, almost like a puzzle. He pressed gently on one of the shapes, and to his surprise, it shifted slightly. Encouraged, he began manipulating the other shapes, each sliding into place with a satisfying click. It was a complex, delicate process, requiring both patience and precision.

The box seemed to come alive with each movement, the patterns shifting and rearranging into new configurations. John's mind raced, piecing together the clues, his training and experience guiding his hands. Max watched intently, his head cocked to one side as if sensing the significance of the moment.

After several minutes, the final piece slid into place, and the box opened with a soft, almost imperceptible click. Inside was a small, folded piece of parchment, the edges worn and delicate. John unfolded it carefully, his eyes scanning the elegant, flowing script.

The message was brief but laden with meaning:

"The shadows know you still walk among them. The dance is not yet over. Beware the dawn, for it brings new light to old secrets."

John's mind raced as he deciphered the cryptic words. The shadows were an apparent reference to the High Table, the unseen forces that still sought to control him. The mention of the dance was unmistakably tied to Sera, her life, and their connection. The warning about the dawn hinted at something imminent, something that threatened to disrupt the fragile peace he had found.

He sat back, the weight of the message settling over him like a heavy shroud. His sanctuary was no longer as safe as he had believed. The shadows of his past were closing in, threatening to pull him back into the world he had fought so hard to escape.

Max, sensing his master's unease, came over and laid his head on John's lap, offering silent comfort. John absently stroked the dog's fur, his mind racing with possibilities and plans. He knew he couldn't ignore the warning. The shadows were moving, and he needed to be ready.

The tranquility of the countryside seemed to waver, the peaceful façade hiding the storm about to break. John took a deep breath, steeling himself for what lay ahead. He had found peace, but it seemed peace was not ready to see him.

________

Brooklyn, New York (Monday)

Brooklyn, New York City, is teeming with life and energy, starkly contrasting John's secluded sanctuary. The sound of traffic and the city's hustle create a constant hum, a symphony of urban chaos. Amid this, The Étoile Ballet Theatre is a beacon of grace and discipline.

Inside the theater, Seraphina "Sera" Jones moved with an intensity and precision that commanded attention. The studio's mirrored walls reflected her every movement, capturing her dance's fluid grace and raw power. Sera was the principal dancer, and her presence on stage was mesmerizing. Her brown skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, her muscles taut and defined under the form-fitting dance attire. Her hair, usually pulled into a messy bun, was now slicked back, emphasizing the sharp lines of her face.

Each movement was a testament to her inner strength and discipline, a powerful display of years of rigorous training and unyielding determination. She was practicing for the upcoming performance of Swan Lake, a role that demanded both Odette's delicate grace and Odile's fierce intensity.

As the music swelled, filling the studio with an emotional crescendo, Sera's body responded in kind, each leap and turn a harmonious blend of power and elegance. Her feet executed perfect fouetté turns while her arms moved with the fluidity of water, each gesture telling a story of longing and transformation.

The other dancers watched in awe, inspired by her dedication and skill. Despite the admiration, Sera remained focused, her intense stare fixed on her reflection, pushing herself to the limits of her abilities. She executed a flawless grand jeté, her body suspended in mid-air, a moment of pure artistry that defied gravity.

Sera's mind, however, was only partially in the studio. As she danced, fragments of her past flickered in her thoughts—memories of her parents, the harsh training at the Expanse, and fleeting moments with John. The raw emotion coursed through her, infusing her performance with a mesmerizing and heartbreaking depth.

She finished with a final, breathtaking flourish, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Applause erupted from the instructor and fellow dancers, but Sera simply nodded with a small, appreciative smile before she turned to leave. The praise was appreciated, but she always sought perfection, a relentless pursuit that often left her empowered and exhausted.

________

After practice, Sera retreated to the solitude of her apartment, a small but cozy space filled with books, plants, and the warm glow of ambient lighting. It was her sanctuary, where she could shed the pressures of the stage and embrace her other identity. Apollo, her beagle, greeted her with enthusiastic barks and a wagging tail. She knelt down, scratching behind his ears, and he nuzzled into her, offering the comfort and companionship she cherished.

*Picture of Apollo*

"Hey, Babas," she whispered, her voice soft and affectionate. "Miss me?"

Apollo responded with a joyful bark, his eyes shining with unwavering loyalty. Sera smiled, the tension from the day's practice easing as she spent a few moments cuddling with her furry friend.

She moved through her apartment, tending to mundane tasks that brought her a sense of normalcy. She filled Apollo's bowl with food, watching him eagerly devouring his meal. In the kitchen, she prepared a simple dinner for herself, the familiar motions of chopping vegetables and stirring pots grounding her after the intensity of rehearsal.

Sera ate her meal slowly, savoring the flavors and the quiet of her apartment. Afterward, she washed the dishes, and the warm water and rhythmic scrubbing soothed her frayed nerves. She caught her reflection in the kitchen window, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the city lights outside. For a moment, she studied herself, seeing the determination and resilience that had carried her through so much.

She let her hair down, the thick, curly strands falling around her shoulders in a cascade. It was a small act of liberation, a way to shed the day's weight. She combed through her hair with her fingers, easing the tension from her scalp.

With Apollo at her side, Sera settled onto the couch, turning on the TV. She chose a Disney movie, Dumbo, one of her favorites from childhood (Making it a personal goal to go through every classical Disney first before the newer, more modern-day ones). As the familiar music and vibrant animation filled the room, she felt a sense of peace. Apollo curled beside her, his head resting on her lap, his warmth comforting.

Sera found solace in the quiet of her apartment, with the movie playing softly in the background. She stroked Apollo's fur, her thoughts drifting between the ballet, her hacking, and the fragments of her past. She was a woman of dualities, living two lives that were her passion and burden.

As the movie ended, Sera glanced down at Apollo, his eyes closed in contentment. "Good boy, Apollo," she whispered, her voice filled with affection. He responded with a contented sigh, his tail thumping softly against the couch.

The peaceful moment was fleeting. Sera knew that soon enough, she had to transform into NYX, her hacker persona. She skillfully navigated through layers of cybersecurity, taking on a new job that challenged her abilities. The screens in her small office lit up with lines of code, a puzzle she was eager to solve.

Sera's fingers flew over the keyboard, her mind sharp and focused. She cracked encryption, bypassed firewalls, and deciphered the intricate web of digital defenses with a precision that mirrored her ballet performances. The adrenaline of the high-stakes hacking was as intense as any performance on stage.

Apollo lay at her feet, his presence a constant comfort. He occasionally looked up at her, sensing her concentration and offering silent support. "You're my rock, Apollo," she would whisper, giving him a quick pat before diving back into her work.

__________

Brooklyn, New York (Thursday)

A few nights later, the city outside her apartment was alive with its usual nocturnal rhythm. The hum of distant traffic, the occasional siren, and the murmurs of late-night revelers supported Sera's intense focus. The glow from multiple computer screens cast an eerie light, reflecting off her determined face as she navigated through layers of cybersecurity, her fingers dancing across the keyboard with the same precision she brought to her ballet.

Her apartment, usually her sanctuary, felt oppressive tonight. The air was thick with the tension of her concentration. Apollo lay beside her, his soulful eyes watching her every move, sensing her strain. The gentle whirr of the computer fans and the soft taps of keys were the only sounds inside, a stark contrast to the cacophony outside.

Suddenly, a sharp, searing headache struck Sera as if a white-hot spike had been driven into her skull. She gasped, clutching her head, the pain radiating behind her eyes. The room seemed to spin, and her vision blurred as fragmented memories surged forward with brutal clarity.

She saw the fire—vivid and terrifying—the flames consuming her childhood home. The heat was palpable, the roar of the inferno deafening. Her parents' screams echoed in her ears, mingling with the crackling of burning wood. Sera's heart raced, her breaths coming in shallow, rapid gasps. She felt the suffocating smoke filling her lungs, the overwhelming terror of that night gripping her once again.

Images shifted abruptly to the Expanse program. The cold, sterile environments, the harsh, unyielding instructors, the relentless training that pushed her to the brink of breaking. She saw the other girls, their faces blank, eyes hollow—victims of the same merciless conditioning. The commands barked at her, the pain of every strike and fall, the exhaustion that seeped into her bones. Her body shook with the remembered agony, her muscles tightening as if expecting another blow.

Then, the fragments of a more personal nature. The face of a young boy with kind eyes and a gentle smile, a presence that felt achingly familiar yet painfully distant. His touch was soft, a whisper of comfort in a world of brutality. They were in a training room, the surroundings harsh and unforgiving, but his presence made it bearable. She saw his smile, felt the warmth of his hand holding hers, and heard his whispered promises of a future they would never have.

"Who are you?" she whispered, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking under the weight of the unknown. The fragmented memories were like shards of glass, cutting into her consciousness. The intensity of the emotions was unbearable, each image a jagged wound reopening.

Sera collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs, hyperventilating as the weight of her past overwhelmed her. Apollo, sensing her distress, rushed to her side, whining softly. He nudged her with his nose, his eyes filled with worry and an almost human understanding. He licked her face, trying to offer comfort, his presence a small anchor in the storm of her emotions.

The PTSD and anxiety from her past were relentless, tearing through her with unyielding force. She cried, her sobs echoing through the apartment as Apollo pressed closer, his warm body against hers a reminder that she was not entirely alone. His tail thumped lightly, a silent reassurance of his loyalty and love.

The memories receded as the night wore on, leaving Sera drained and trembling. She clung to Apollo, her breaths gradually slowing, her tears subsiding. The weight of her traumas was heavy, but in these moments, she found a strange solace in the presence of her loyal companion. Apollo's steady heartbeat against her helped ground her, his soft whines a reminder that she had survived yet another onslaught of her past.

"I'm okay, Apollo," she murmured, her voice hoarse from crying. She stroked his fur, drawing strength from his unwavering support. "We'll be okay."

Sera returned to her computer with a deep breath, her resolve hardening. The code revealed more connections, each leading her deeper into the High Table's labyrinth. She saw names and faces, some familiar, others unknown. Her heart pounded as she realized how close she was getting to a world she had once barely escaped.

______

Meanwhile, in his secluded cabin, John felt a similar unease. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming, a storm brewing on the horizon. He glanced at Max; the dog's ears perked up as if sensing his master's unrest. John sighed, running a hand through his hair. The tranquility he had fought so hard to achieve was slipping away, the shadows of his past threatening to engulf him once more.

Sera's and John's worlds moved inexorably closer as the night deepened. Each line of code she cracked, each shadowy connection she uncovered, brought her a step closer to John's hidden life. The parallels between them were striking—they were warriors in their own right, searching for peace in a world that refused to let them go.

The tension built with each passing moment, the air thick with anticipation. Sera felt the sense that she was on the brink of something monumental in every fiber of her being. Apollo, ever her faithful companion, stayed close, his presence a steadying force.

She finished the decryption, her eyes scanning the final line of code. The realization hit her like a physical blow—she was about to enter a world far darker and more dangerous than she had ever imagined. The High Table was no ordinary target, and she was no ordinary hacker.

As the first light of dawn began to break, Sera and John prepared themselves for the battles ahead. Though separated by distance and circumstance, their lives were bound by the threads of fate. The shadows were closing in, and neither could afford to look back.

In the quiet of her apartment, Sera took a deep breath, the weight of her past pressing down on her. She glanced at Apollo, his trusting eyes giving her the strength she needed. "We'll be okay," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "We have to be."

_____________________

Chapter Two: Saturday June 8, 2:00 PM EST

Taglist (I apologize if I didn't tag you!):

@yinx1 @somedays-i-just-feel-bad-bitch @upductablemsft @greeniegreengreen @mistytwooo @mistyyyy @when-bops-drops @patrickbatemanswifee @strangersomeone @generaldumb @moon-drop-witch @xxabrixx @itsmedipshit @sabrina1cat  @princess-of- @roses-luckride @onyx-guardian @ko-kimchi @lostsilver @calminggoat4u @chaoticqueen33 @forgotten-sleep @shittyprofilebutfuckit @almosthumongouseagle @darlingangel-17 @supergeek13 @24travellingwheel @adoredidi @blackrosariovampire @loonylidu @ultimate-gay-mess @teh-vampire-bunny  @abnoses @caityrayeraye  @nelly-belly @theemissingchild​ @abdorable-and-amazing @minimisthios @stankyou @jax1118 @huh206 @curiously-lazy @maggieosey @dietothemusic  @omisdolly @grimmbunniee​ @hereforagoodtimenotalongone @wherethelightdoesnotalwaysshine  @mikyapixie @teechallas-blog @duhitzdae  @themidnight-romances @plainjane18 @viloletevergarden @l-o-v-e-galore @wifeyeddie @wilsonsamerica @when-bops-drops @ilovedesert-20089 @venomransom  @iloveeverthing-09 @joonsmoonchild @daddylizzzy  @hvnlyaphordite @4522-08  @fanartcollectorwriter  @randi98  @cherry-bomb19  @momoko-world @toulousewayne  @taniyahtaniyah @innercreationflower @nollythewalrus @adbeverly991 @gialove11  @etherialblackrose @jujuicypop @iamascrazyasisoud @velvetatte @thewonderlandartist @ultraxavbo

Thank you for the support!

Story Premise and Character Profiles Here

[lover-of-mine]

your post about how eddie fell first is literally what made me follow you last year 😄

i know you said you’re enjoying the time before the show might… well, squash the theory… but you never know! it could be the reveal/pining/slowburn of the century!

what are your theories for if they don’t go that route? eddie didn’t know all along?

I love that you followed me through that post because I feel like that one really sets the mood for the madness you're about to experience following me kspakspakpakapaka

No but can you imagine, revealing that Eddie has been in love all along and aware of it for whoever long they decide (I know I say even all the way down to the lawsuit could work and that the shooting was his oh moment, but my guess if they ever went that route it would be post breakdown, like, he figures it out and accepts between dumb luck and starting over, so confirm he was pining during all of season 6) and then make Eddie canonically explicitly pine as Buck dates a guy who's literally him in a different font? What kind of fanfic bullshit would that be? I would die, like legit. Buck being bi almost made me call my psychiatrist to adjust my meds, Eddie being in love with Buck all along confirmed would put me in a psych hold kspalapalapopkspsk

That being said, if they are going there with buddie, which I'm 90% sure they are, since Buck is fully unaware of the Eddie of it all and Eddie is about to have problems with Marisol, you can have Eddie watch Buck with Tommy and be like "I want that", especially when it seems like they'll focus a lot on being soft and fun and something that just makes Buck happy, and then be like "oh shit do I want Buck?" Because they never really saw each other in a happy relationship, so that can absolutely spark something for Eddie and Eddie wouldn't need something as on the nose as being grabbed and kissed by Buck to realize he loves him, yk? So he can be longing for what they have, even more if he does break up with Marisol before he finds out Buck and Tommy are dating, and then have him be like oh fuck. Because even though I strongly believe Buck needs to make a move, the show needs to explicitly state Eddie's interest in Buck before that happens or else you risk people saying it came out of nowhere or it's just repeating the bucktommy start. Like, I wouldn't be surprised if there was something like Buck and Tommy dancing at the wedding, and Eddie watching them, and you just see the progression happen on his face (that Ryan would BODY because the way that man can make you feel exactly what Eddie is feeling without saying a single word amazes me) and then we enter a pining era that eventually would evolve into a mutual pining era and eventually getting them together. But my guess right now is not that Eddie is gonna be jealous, it is that he's gonna be longing, and that will lead to him finally being like oh! for real.

Fantasy scenario though, is the reveal that Eddie has in fact been aware of it at least throughout all of season 6, settled into the fact that Buck was "straight" and he had to move on, now has to pine as he watches Buck with a guy he has so much in common with, and not do anything about it again not because he thinks Buck can't feel the same way, but because Buck just doesn't want him and is happy, so he won't mess that up and take the secret to the grave. Especially if you consider the way you can totally frame the cemetery scene to make it seem like Eddie thinks Buck "broke up" with him (cemetery scene my beloved 🫶), you have him double down that feeling, "I'm still not what he wants, that doesn't change just because he's attracted to guys" and you have him try to figure out what to do with it since moving on didn't work he and he would want to be as supportive as possible because Buck is still Buck and he is his person and he wants Buck to be happy, all while trying to figure out how to be happy with himself, and while Buck and Eddie work on their friendship (talk boys, please, I'm begging). Then Buck and Tommy break up, Buck and Eddie almost die together in the finale and we have a buddie cliffhanger to close the season (drown Buck 2024 I will always believe you) and buddie get together at some point during the beginning of season 8.

Also, can you imagine the CHAOS if the show gave us bi Buck and buddie canon on Eddie's side within a week of each other after only 5 episodes in the network? We would LEGIT break the internet. And I would owe everything to abc lol

[onlyplatonicirl]

For Your Safety - TAU Fic (pt 1)

Hello! This is a quick deviation from my normal utmv posting but uhhh Gravity Falls transcendence AU my beloved. This fic specifically focuses on the Drift AU, (Mabel can't see Dipper).

main blog for info about the AU is here: @transcendence-au

AO3 Link

Read below the cut: I hope you enjoy!

“…story tonight covers a breaking tragedy at the Michigan State Department of Demonology and the Supernatural regarding famed demon most commonly addressed as Alcor the Dreambender. As of now 167 have been identified as dead, however some of the bodies are mangled too far to be recognized and identified as individuals. The estimated death count sits at around 340. No survivors have been discovered currently. Developments are currently being made so stay tuned for…”

“Grunkle Ford, can you turn that off please?”

Stanford Pines exhaled heavily in response, slinking further in his chair. “I’m sorry, but this is extremely important to me. I’ve studied these creatures all my life, and yet now…”

The woman on the TV kept talking.

“…in an attempt to bind the creature with a variety of binding circles and other holy paraphernalia. Experts from across the country had been brought in, in an attempt to cage the demon for good. The project was initially classified and was worked on for months before eventually summoning the creature, but evidently it was not enough to keep it contained. All of the details have not yet come in about what exactly happened during the incident, but the resulting scene was gruesome. The demon Alcor has gained a reputation for being impossible to contain or bind, with very few limits regarding ability and power. It has been labeled as a double S class demon, the highest ranking in regards to magical capability, although many experts claim it meets the qualifications of a god. Some argue it could even be beyond that. Any attempts at summoning or researching this demon is highly advised against, as all movements and actions are unknown and severely dangerous, and there is nothing you can do to guarantee yourself protection from it. Stay away from-“

“It just shouldn’t be possible,” he muttered to himself. “Demons shouldn’t be able to do things like that - their link with the physical world and blessed objects are usually massive obstacles and limiters on ability and-“

“Grunkle Ford.”

“…Alright.” Ford shut off the television, the woman’s voice dying as the picture compressed itself into a thin line, eventually swallowed by the blackness of the empty screen.

“I’m sorry Mabel, I know you don’t like that stuff being put on the TV.”

“I don’t,” Mabel replied. “There’s a new tragedy every day, you can tune in tomorrow when I’m gone. But not today, Grunkle.”

“I know. Have you decided on the flowers yet?”

“No. I was trying to research flower symbolism last night but I gave up halfway through. I might just go with something blue.”

Mabel rubbed at both of her eyes and took her half-eaten bowl of cereal to the sink, washing it out as she spoke. “I have a movie date with all the girls tonight and I’m going to spend the night at Pacifica’s place, it’s not too far of a drive. Will Grunkle Stan and all the others meet us at the cemetery at noon?”

“Nothing would stop Stanley from being there, you know that. Did you make arrangements with your parents? Are they going to make the drive up here?”

The wiping motions came to a slow. Mabel gently set the bowl down. “I don’t think they’re coming this year.”

Ford leaned forward to stare at her. 

“I think they’re still sore from last year, and the argument with Grunkle Stan. Mom called me this morning. They might come later on their own time.”

There was a grandfather clock in the adjacent room, ticking loudly. Taking up the silence.

“I see,” said Ford. He settled back into his recliner, trying to ignore the rise of unidentifiable emotions in his chest. Either that or an oncoming heart attack. At this age he couldn’t tell.

Mabel stood hunched over the kitchen sink, her hands gripping tight against the countertop. Long strands of hair fell in front of her face as she inhaled raggedly. Ford said nothing.

Ford stared blankly at his reflection on the television screen, observing his surroundings mirrored back at him, yet difficult to distinguish through the black. His copy stared back at him, eyes wide and searching for something to pretend to look at.

Eventually Mabel straightened herself out, brushing a sleeve against her eyes before turning around. She met her great uncle’s gaze.

“Happy birthday, Mabel,” is all he can say to her.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “The number that I’m supposed to be celebrating right now is twenty years, but the only one I can bother to count is eight.”

“Eight years since…?”

“…I’m going to go upstairs,” she muttered. “We’ll all say happy birthday to Dipper when we see him.”

Ford nodded. She didn’t see it. 

----------~*~*~----------

Everyone showed up to the cemetery. They always did.

Except her parents. This year, at least. They had gotten into a massive blowout last year with Stanley, blaming him for the incident and for the death of their son. It got ugly pretty fast. 

Wendy, Soos, Melody, Stan and Ford, Robbie, and many others who were close with the family had been present. Mabel was hugged tightly by every single one of them, and she could feel Wendy’s tears soak through her sweater. It was a private affair; They didn’t want it made to be a spectacle for the public. They had all changed since that summer, some more dramatically than others. Soos still ran the shack alongside Melody and Stan, but it was slowly being converted into an informational center (Because who would care to see a taxidermied monkey sown to a fish when droves of real mermaids would show up at the beach?) while Wendy had taken up demon hunting. Gone were her long locks of fiery red hair, chopped off for ease and convenience in combat. Despite only having been serious about it for around five years, she had already racked up an impressive kill count, along with a name in supernatural defense. It didn’t take a genius to figure out her inspiration for going into that field.

The gravestone they crowded around was wreathed in flowers, with a beautiful bouquet of baby blue roses in the center, set by Mabel. Bushels of half-wilted blossoms and cards had been there long before Mabel and the others had arrived, however. The entire town had gone to visit the gravestone just a few days earlier. To honor the hero that had killed Bill Cipher, and in the process changed the entire world.

But Mabel didn’t like celebrating the day of her brother’s death. 

Not when his birthday had been so close.

To put emphasis on his death would kill the part of him that lived within them. He deserved to be wished a happy birthday, to have existed for twenty years. Because he may have died when he was 12, but he lived on in their memories.

He would forever. ----------~*~*~----------

The visit had been nice. Everyone had gone around, recounting their adventures to the tombstone, and telling it how badly they missed him. It was a bittersweet day - people cried while they laughed. But eventually, after an hour, it was time to leave. Those not a close part of the Pines family wished them well and departed, knowing most of them would see Mabel later that night, but the rest of the Pines (plus Wendy) stayed together, electing to get Mabel a birthday lunch at Greasy’s Diner - as per tradition.

The diner was sleepy, but Lazy Susan was overjoyed to see Wendy back in town again. She ushered all four of them over to a booth, wishing Mabel a happy birthday and letting them have all of their food on the house. Both Stans got a stack of pancakes that went up to their necks. Mabel wasn’t very hungry, and instead tried to strike up some conversation.

“How have you been these days, Wendy?”

The redhead shrugged, stuffing a sausage in her mouth. “Eh, things have been slow. Most of the stuff I’ve been called in for is for out-of-control sprites or other annoying pests. There was a case with a rogue angel a few weeks ago which was cool - I had to use completely different equipment and tactics but I enjoyed the challenge.”

“Did you win?” Asked Ford.

Wendy snorted “‘Course I did, dude. That thing was glitter by the time I was done. Opened up a lot of sick job opportunities.”

“Incredible…” Ford put his chin in his palm, and Stanley rolled his eyes, ready for his brother to launch into a tangent. “The dichotomy between angels and demons as they are in the real world is obviously different from the way they’ve been portrayed in a decent amount of religions when it comes to multiple factors, yet what does remain consistent is their alignment with good and evil. From what I’ve observed angels are set on order and will take any measures to achieve it which results in the occasional incidents we hear of, however demons are naturally aligned with chaos and maleficence, and thrive upon sowing chaos.”

“I think you mostly got it right,” Wendy said, waving her fork in Ford’s direction through a mouthful of eggs. “But there’s also the fact that angels are rarely summoned and don’t bother much with mortals. When they do is when we get problems. Demons, on the other hand-“

“Demons bite at the bit to interact with humans. It’s their source of power.” Ford finished.

“Exactly.”

Stan scratched at his stubble and rolled his eyes. There was definitely syrup on his shirt. “Eugh. You two should get a room or somethin’. Better yet, talk about your demon baloney someplace else. I don’t think Mabel wants to hear about any of this right now.”

With a mention of her name, Mabel finally tuned into the conversation, blinking in surprise. She put down the fork she had just been mindlessly passing over her fingers. Had she been this sweaty when she first sat down? “Uh, no it’s fine, don’t worry about it. I asked about Wendy. Wendy hunts demons for a living. That’s kind of - her thing!” She gave her Grunkle a big smile, but it didn’t seem to convince him.

“I know sweetie but today-”

“Today is mine and Dipper’s birthday. What killed him is long dead, so I don’t care if you want to talk about demons.”

Ford shared a glance with his brother. “This morning, you told me-”

“That was about a mass tragedy , Grunkle Ford! That wasn’t just some report on an imp getting loose from a binding and eating a cat like usual, this was over 300 people dead trying to bind a demon that has transcended all known limitations.” She could feel herself starting to get worked up. A small part of her mind warned her about raising her volume too high but she paid it almost no mind as she rambled over all of her own thoughts. “It wasn’t just any demon it was the demon with the most connections to the transcendence and its origin, it's the demon who’s been making nonstop headlines globally, talking about its latest massacre. It-”

She stopped midway through speaking, the words dying in her throat as she looked at Wendy’s crestfallen expression. 

“Alcor,” she said. Mabel nodded.

Wendy looked pained. “You saw the news this morning then?”

“...Grunkle Ford was watching it on the TV this morning.”

“I figured. My phone’s been blowing up about it nonstop since this morning. After I finish visiting here I’m probably going to make arrangements to try and head to the wreckage and take a look at what I can. Whatever I can learn about Alcor the better for when I finally confront him with the intent to kill.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of going after the Dreambender. That’s just… that’s suicide, Wendy!” Ford’s glasses began to slip off his nose. “He cannot be bound, he cannot be wounded, there has been observably no limitations to his power - Wendy I’ve been looking into him as much as you have since the transcendence occurred and the supernatural went widespread, and I know you know there’s something off about this one. He’s not just powerful, he may be at a level that even Cipher wasn’t.”

“You think I don’t know all of this already, old man? I’ve seen him personally, I’ve stared him in the eyes. His touch burns and freezes your skin all at once. He’s stolen kills from me, I’ve watched him grin at me with a mouth of fangs and bits of a heart of the demon I was commissioned to kill stuck between his teeth. He laughed at me, told me that an “ice bag” such as myself ought to stay away from the heat. Do you know what color the fire that comes from his hand is, Ford?”

Ford clearly knew the answer. He said nothing, staring at her with wide eyes. Stan and Mabel were both dead silent. Mabel felt a horrid wave of nausea wash over her . “He called you…?!?”

“You were right when you said the Dreambender has connections to the transcendence, Mabel. I hate to say it, but I don’t think Bill Cipher is dead.”

[mana-jjk]

tw: lisa frankenstein spoilers, jjk implied spoilers, violence, implied suicide, horror themes, im not kidding this is a hilariously violent movie, bullying, non-explicit loss of limbs, you know the works

I AM THE SPIRIT OUTSIDE RATTLING YOUR WINDOWS

i watched lisa frankenstein and immediately thought of inuokko because i am entirely not normal !! the greatest part is that this story would work both ways so just sprint with me right now

my preference for insane yuuta is entirely prevalent btw

option 1:

yuuta’s entire family moves after the sudden death of his childhood friend to give him a fresh start. he struggles to find a place to belong in school, and struggles even more in the bad relationship with his parents. his little sister is one of his last positive relationships and tries her best to keep him included. he spends most of his time in an abandoned ceremony, at a grave of a boy who died at his age, accused of witchcraft.

he has a parasocial relationship with him in that he’s absolutely obsessed with the concept of a loner, rejected by society, just like him. and spends hours just talking to him, taking care of his grave, and staring at his statue like a weirdo !

after a party gone wrong, where he drank spiked punch and after being pestered about a girlfriend, he goes back to the cemetery in time to see the beloved grave get struck by lightning. hence toge rising from the dead, confused but recognizing yuuta’s voice from being the only person to talk to him. his throat is damaged from being hanged, some of his skin has been damaged enough to see the bone, and he’s missing an arm.

yuuta hides him in his room, and toge hears everything. one night, after a particularly bad one-sided argument between yuuta and his father, toge thought he was going to hurt the only person to be kind to him. so for the first time since he died, he used his abilities and killed the man. immediately after he was remorseful and afraid yuuta would hate him, but he got the exact opposite reaction. yuuta was so touched that someone would go to such lengths for him, and strangely delighted by the gruesome scene. enough to where he wanted to recreate it.

so yuuta starts picking off the people who bullied him, harvesting what toge needs to be put together again. they diy a lab with lightning and every time toge looks more and more alive until you couldn’t tell him apart from any other person. he gets more confident in school too, becoming friends with maki and panda who see him as a little weirdo. in the process, yuuta falls in love with him beyond the parasocial relationship of before, especially when toge accepts his new murderous habits so easily.

eventually they’re found out after yuuta ends the second parental figure and his sister walks in on him. she’s devastated, traumatized, and runs out of the house covered in blood. he decides then to join toge and so they can start a new life together. a few months later, they’re not even a thought in anyone’s mind, except for his sister who keeps their existence a secret, living with their uncle gojo.

option 2:

toge has just moved in with a distant relative after the last of his immediate family was murdered. the trauma of witnessing their deaths led to his already selective mutism to complete silence. he is bullied at his new school, especially since he doesn’t defend himself. his classmates maki and panda take him under their wing, but he spends most of the time at the cemetery.

it’s quiet there, abandoned and full of greenery. there’s also a grave of a boy who died of a broken heart after a life of sadness. he spends a lot of time there, just sitting alone and keeping company to this lonely boy. he leaves behind a handmade charm, hoping to give him a little peace. it’s something he hopes someone might care enough to do for him someday. he’s already planning to request his very own burial at this peaceful place.

panda invites him to go to a party, but after being harassed about his voice and separated from his friends, he ends up stumbling home, half-drunk from an awful concoction. it’s there that he finds yuuta, fresh from the grave. he’s missing an eye, ear, leg, and covered in cuts that crisscross across his face and chest. in his hands, he holds the charm toge made for him. after a mini freak out, he cleans him up and hides him in his room. yuuta talks in slurring words but his eyes are full of wonder at the kindness he gives him. he follows him like a hobbling lost puppy, nearly getting him caught several times.

it’s when one of the biological, older, slightly bum kids who has been harassing toge since he came that he moves to protect him. he doesn’t even hesitate before he’s bursting out of the closet to strangle him. afterwards, they take his leg and toge sews it onto yuuta, who almost looks up at him like he’s waiting for approval. toge knows it was wrong, should tell him not to do it again, but part of him couldn’t help but feel protected for the first time in his life. and yuuta, who was so kind to him, was still suffering, wasn’t he? so maybe he couldn’t help but notice that one of his bullies has striking silver eyes.

it’s not hard to lure them, and yuuta takes care of the rest. diligently, toge replaces the lost parts until yuuta looks just as alive as he does. in return, yuuta encourages him to stop hiding his face, enough to where others begin to notice him. the moment yuuta is complete, he swings toge around until he laughs and then kisses him.

they aren’t actually caught before they leave, they both want to start over, and hearing that toge is a suspect is enough for them to book town. he decides to join yuuta, it works as now everyone thinks he’s dead. the only person with their suspicions is maki, who visits his grave with panda regularly, and sees the charm she knows toge made.

listen to me very carefully when i tell you we NEED more dark inuokko, and by that i do not mean sadness. i physically cannot read angst without a happy ending. i mean unhinged, crazy, mutually obsessed inuokko that don’t burn each other, they just burn the world around them. THANK YOU AND GOOD NIGHT !!

also please watch lisa frankenstein, scream about this with me in my asks, and share your dark inuokko fic ideas !!

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Chapter XXIV

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength and composure; it moulded my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion.

My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had belonged to my mother, and departed.

And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not die, and leave my adversary in being.

When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled; and I wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it, and approached the tomb which marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was nearly dark; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner.

The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside over thee, to pursue the dæmon, who caused this misery, until he or I shall perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life: to execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread the green herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I call on you, spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."

I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost assured me that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion; but the furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.

I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I should have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. The laughter died away; when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper—"I am satisfied: miserable wretch! you have determined to live, and I am satisfied."

I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil eluded my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed.

I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same ship; but he escaped, I know not how.

Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new, and agony unknown, how can you understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, and fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit of good followed and directed my steps; and, when I most murmured, would suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate; but I will not doubt that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish.

I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the dæmon generally avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen; and I generally subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.

My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most miserable, I sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I was dreaming until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in the arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the destruction of the dæmon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the ardent desire of my soul.

What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided me, and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over," (these words were legible in one of these inscriptions;) "you live, and my power is complete. Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the misery of cold and frost, to which I am impassive. You will find near this place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive."

Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search, until he or I perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and my departed friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and horrible pilgrimage!

As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and the cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance.

The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One inscription that he left was in these words:—"Prepare! your toils only begin: wrap yourself in furs, and provide food; for we shall soon enter upon a journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred."

My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on Heaven to support me, I continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! how unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to meet and grapple with him.

Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him: so much so, that when I first saw the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the sea-shore. I enquired of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun and many pistols; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts.

On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey across the mountainous ices of the ocean,—amidst cold that few of the inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty tide, overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I prepared for my journey.

I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the Frozen Ocean; and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from land.

I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the paths of the sea secure.

By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a well-known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might not intercept the view I had of the dæmon; but still my sight was dimmed by the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept aloud.

But this was not the time for delay: I disencumbered the dogs of their dead companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an hour's rest, which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I continued my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose sight of it, except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it; and when, after nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my heart bounded within me.

But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly extinguished, and I lost all trace of him more utterly than I had ever done before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a hideous death.

In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and I myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I saw your vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars; and by these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a death which I still dread—for my task is unfulfilled.

Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the dæmon, allow me the rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the ministers of vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live—swear that he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and survive to add to the list of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had even power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, full of treachery and fiendlike malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel aright.

Walton, in continuation.

August 26th, 17—.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in infinite wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones, and related the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change to an expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his persecutor.

His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest truth; yet I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however earnest and connected. Such a monster has then really existence! I cannot doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation: but on this point he was impenetrable.

"Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or whither does your senseless curiosity lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own."

Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he asked to see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places; but principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not that a mutilated one should go down to posterity."

Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul, have been drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated and gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel one so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring of solitude and delirium: he believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse with his friends, and derives from that communion consolation for his miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.

Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes. On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge, and a quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours to move the passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! He seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.

"When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, until I fell, never, never again to rise."

Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.

"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so miserable a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh affections, think you that any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the conversation of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead; and but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die."

September 2d.

My beloved Sister,

I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none to bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are the cause.

And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely children; you may be happy: Heaven bless you, and make you so!

My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators, who have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence: when he speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and, while they hear his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are mole-hills, which will vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny caused by this despair.

September 5th.

A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is highly probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording it.

We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in his eyes; but he is exhausted, and, when suddenly roused to any exertion, he speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.

I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend—his eyes half closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly,—I was roused by half a dozen of the sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered, and their leader addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the other sailors to come in deputation to me, to make me a requisition, which, in justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably never escape; but they feared that if, as was possible, the ice should dissipate, and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward.

This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived the idea of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said—

"What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so easily turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror; because, at every new incident, your fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage exhibited; because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your species; your names adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death for honour, and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they were chilly, and returned to their warm fire-sides. Why, that requires not this preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your captain to the shame of a defeat, merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable, and cannot withstand you, if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma of disgrace marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who have fought and conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."

He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another, and were unable to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had been said: that I would not lead them farther north, if they strenuously desired the contrary; but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return.

They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in languor, and almost deprived of life.

How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die than return shamefully,—my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to endure their present hardships.

September 7th.

The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess, to bear this injustice with patience.

September 12th.

It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and glory;—I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards England, and towards you, I will not despond.

September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in the most imminent peril; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in such a degree, that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked behind us, and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprung from the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. When the sailors saw this, and that their return to their native country was apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England."

"Do you then really return?"

"Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly to danger, and I must return."

"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely the spirits who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; he fell back, and fainted.

It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was entirely extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty, and was unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my friend had certainly not many hours to live.

His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I sat by his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said—"Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire of revenge, I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blamable. In a fit of enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and was bound towards him, to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was my duty; but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention, because they included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the first creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in evil: he destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may render no other wretched, he ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When actuated by selfish and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this request now, when I am only induced by reason and virtue.

"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil this task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have little chance of meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion.

"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."

His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his effort, he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips.

Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the depth of my sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey towards England, and I may there find consolation.

I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night, my sister.

Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it; yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and wonderful catastrophe.

I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe; gigantic in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and horror, and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer. I called on him to stay.

He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the lifeless form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.

"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed: "in his murder my crimes are consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me."

His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested to me the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying his enemy, were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in a pause of the tempest of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the stings of remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived.

"And do you dream?" said the dæmon; "do you think that I was then dead to agony and remorse?—He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he suffered not in the consummation of the deed—oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of the anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change, without torture such as you cannot even imagine.

"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the master, of an impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she died!—nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!"

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was rekindled within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings; and, when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power."

"Oh, it is not thus—not thus," interrupted the being; "yet such must be the impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be participated. But now, that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, while my sufferings shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.

"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of them, he could not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood boils at the recollection of this injustice.

"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination will haunt my thoughts no more.

"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your vessel on the ice-raft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest but in death?

"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever.

"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."

He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness and distance.

THE END.