#farewell eamon

[graceandfamily]

Prince Rainier III of Monaco, second left, with his wife Princess Grace and their children Princess Caroline and Prince Albert, say farewell to Ireland's President Eamon De Valera, second right, outside the Presidential residence in Dublin, on June 14, 1961.

[sapphim]

I posted a video of this cut sidequest from Dragon Age 2 featuring Teagan and Connor a few years ago, but because I wasn't able to figure out exactly where the encounter was supposed to take place, the cutscenes didn't appear as they were originally intended. All the files for the quest are named with an Act 1 prefix, but I recently did a search again and discovered the missing piece: the cutscenes are still properly positioned in the files---in Act 2!

Dialogue under the cut.

Connor: They're looking for us, Uncle.

Teagan: I hoped to avoid violence, but the templars are determined to make that impossible. Teagan: You're not with the templars, are you? Can you help us? Hawke: (I might help.) I'm not with them. What's going on? Hawke: (Fight the templars?) Oh, just attack the templars? You know they practically run this city, right? Teagan: I'm all too aware. Hawke: (Why should I?) I don't know you. I have no reason to help. [Eamon is chancellor:] Teagan: My name is Arl Teagan. [else:] Teagan: My name is Bann Teagan. Teagan: And this is my nephew, Connor. Connor: Uncle, they're here for me. I caused enough suffering at Redcliffe. If you are harmed… Teagan: Loghain and Jowan are to blame, not you. I will not let these templars imprison you. Hawke: (Why do they want Connor?) I take it your nephew is a mage? [Connor sent to circle:] Connor: I'm a mage of the Circle Tower of Ferelden. [else:] Connor: There's no use keeping it a secret. Yes, I'm a mage. Connor: Years ago, I fell prey to a demon. I did… unspeakable things. Teagan: The Kirkwall templars must have learned of that incident. Teagan: Connor is a good boy. A good man. Hawke: (I won't fight templars.) A fight's inevitable. I won't kill any templars for you. Teagan: Who could blame you? Farewell. Hawke: (I'll help.) What's the plan? Teagan: Our ship isn't far. Once we're aboard, we should be safe. Teagan: Let's go.

Teagan: We just need to make it to the ship.

Templar: Hand over the abomination. Teagan: He's not possessed, you fool. You have no right! Templar: The Maker will shed no tears if the boy and his uncle die. Attack!

Teagan: We made it. Connor: We must get below decks, Uncle. [Warden and Hawke are both female:] Teagan: You remind me of someone… I hold dear. Though I never had the courage to say that to her. Teagan: You're very brave. Take this, with my blessings.

Journal entries: The Getaway Escort Teagan and Connor to their ship. Connor and Teagan were safely escorted to their ship. It is not known whether Connor and his uncle escaped from Kirkwall.

If you meet Teagan again in act 3 with King Alistair, he recognizes Hawke.

Alistair: Right! I'm Alistair, uh… king of Ferelden. And this is Teagan, my uncle. Sort of. Teagan: We've met—a few years back. Thank you again, Champion.

The headmorph in the video is Teagan Fix by DragonReine/dragoragirl.

[wheelchair-wizard]

Irish Myths

VOL 9. The SELKIE. An Irish Mermaid Story

The Selkie’s Secret

In a forgotten corner of the Emerald Isle, where cliffs stood like ancient guardians and the waves whispered forgotten lullabies, there dwelled a fisherman named Eamon. His cottage clung to the rugged coast, its thatched roof weathered by countless storms. Eamon was a man of few words, his eyes etched with the sorrows of a lifetime spent chasing elusive fish and memories.

One tempest-laden evening, as rain drummed upon the windowpanes and the sea roared its defiance, Eamon stumbled upon a sight that would forever alter the course of his existence. There, nestled amidst the seaweed-strewn rocks, lay a treasure—a seal pelt of silver-gray, soft as moonlight and shimmering with otherworldly grace. Eamon’s gnarled fingers traced its edges, and he knew he held something more than mere fur. This was the skin of a Selkie—a creature of myth and melancholy.

The legends whispered of Selkies—of their dual existence, their fluidity between land and sea. By day, they swam as seals, their sleek bodies slicing through the icy depths. But when the moon hung low, they shed their skins, emerging as ethereal women, their eyes reflecting the mysteries of the abyss.

Eamon hid the pelt beneath his bed, its presence a secret shared only with the wind and the salt. Days turned into weeks, and his cottage became a sanctuary for the lost and the weary. Sailors sought refuge from raging storms, widows mourned husbands swallowed by the sea—all found solace within those walls. Yet Eamon’s gaze often strayed to the hidden pelt, wondering if the Selkie would return.

Then, one moonless night, as the stars blinked like ancient eyes, Eamon heard it—a melody that tugged at his heart, a lament woven from moonbeams and longing. He rushed to the window, and there she stood: the Selkie. Her skin was pale as foam, her hair a cascade of seaweed green. Her eyes held the wisdom of ages, and her lips curved in both fear and hope.

She was naked, vulnerable—a creature caught between realms. Eamon retrieved the pelt, its silvery strands slipping through his fingers like water. He held it out to her, voice barely a whisper. “Take it,” he said. “Be free.”

The Selkie’s tears glistened. She reached for the pelt, her fingers trembling. But then she hesitated, torn between love and duty. For Selkies faced a cruel choice: to remain with mortal lovers or return to the sea. Their hearts were bound by moonlight and salt spray.

Eamon understood. He had glimpsed eternity in her eyes, tasted salt and starlight on her lips. And so, with a bittersweet smile, he released her. The Selkie donned her pelt, her form shifting until she became a sleek seal once more. She nuzzled his cheek, a silent farewell, before slipping into the waves.

As the sea swallowed her, Eamon wept—for love unspoken, for a Selkie lost, and for the ache that would haunt him till his dying day. He walked the cliffs thereafter, eyes scanning the horizon, listening for her song—a melody carried by the wind, sung by a Selkie who danced beneath the moon.

And so, the legend of Eamon and the Selkie passed from generation to generation—a tale of sacrifice, of love that transcended realms, and of a fisherman who held the sea’s secrets close to his heart.

And there, my friend, ends our journey—a whisper of magic and longing that lingers in the salt-laden air, where Selkies still dance upon moonlit shores

Christy,

Male, Husband, Dad, Family man, Friendly, Easygoing.

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[evita-shelby]

We didn't start the fire

Jack and Katie Nelson end up meeting Rose and Samuel Coldwell after getting arrested for the same crime in the same neighborhood

rose and sam belong to @justrainandcoffee

cw: drinking, drunk people, arson, absent dad, arrests

When Jack and Katie decided to track down his father, whom not even his elder half-brother knew, they didn’t think they’d end up in London.

Eva had come on business and while she did what she came here for, Jack had called Katie, who was visiting Colin’s family here, and went pub crawling for old time’s sake.

He should’ve known it was a bad idea when, despite being busy with vlogging everything they did, his sister managed to find his dad’s address. Katie was white girl wasted by now and Jack had reached that point of fuck it we ball moment of the night.

Jack had gotten a bottle of Bushmills Whiskey for the road somehow remembering that was his dad’s favorite drink when Eamon O’Neil met Rosemary Nelson during graduate school.

When they found the nice house empty and showing signs of a happy upper middle-class family it brought up all those times his mother struggled to raise him and his sister and all those times he could’ve used a fucking dad.

“Fuck him! Fuck that guy, you don’t need him, Jack. You hear me!” Katie pulls him down to her height as she assures him that his father doesn’t deserve to even know him.

And suddenly the ribbon in Katie’s blonde hair is shoved half ways into the bottle they were sharing at the curb and the lighter he kept from that day he met Eva in Vegas is in his hand.

The Instagram video has him tossing a Molotov cocktail prefaced with the words, “Fuck you!”. An iconic moment followed by him angrily ranting at the security camera closest to him about how Eamon O’Neil was a piece of shit who abandoned two pregnant women in Boston during his time at MIT.

In the same neighborhood, Rose and her brother had done the same to the house of Samuel Coldwell.

They are put in the same cell and nature takes its course.

Katie leads the way, always the funny charming one who knows how not to step on people’s toes while Jack has the subtlety of Godzilla trampling Tokyo. But with a few drinks in, a shared hatred of their absent fathers and being in here for the same crime two Irish Catholics and two English Jews become unlikely friends.

“Yeah, Jack can make molotov cocktails because he w---” Jack using his sister’s drunk state and his greater height to successfully put his hand over her mouth to prevent her revealing where his skills came from.

“Huge fan of the Good Place.” He says with a laugh that works good enough for the two women who end up changing the topic while Sam Coldwell silently agrees to keep his secret.

He’d been in a gang until he got too good at it and pissed off the leader causing him to end up in fucking Melbourne, Australia to avoid prison. Luckily there had been no proof and Jack was able to return with a masters in finance and a short but lucrative career as a webcam model.

Now he had graduated from Harvard Business College, gotten the investment firm off the ground to great success and would marry the love of his life if she could just get here to bail them out.

“Do you guys need any help getting bailed out, my girl says she doesn’t mind.” He offers after the phone call goes well enough.

“My brother-in-law is already coming, thanks for the offer.” Sam rejects the offer, and both guide their sisters ---who are tearfully bidding each other farewell and exchanging numbers as jumbled as they come out their mouths--- out of their cells.

Jack finds Eva chatting amicably with what he presumed is Rose’s husband and greets his future wife with a short kiss and threw his arm over her shoulder before asking, “How do you guys know each other?”

“We fucked the same guy.” Evie answered far too casually as she led them out the station and into Colin’s car.

[mourn-and-watch]

Some time after the Blight ends, they're invited to Redcliffe. There's going to be a statue in their honour, the letter says, made by one of the best Fereldan artists — and it needs their approval for some reason. A formal one, of course. “At least they didn't pay Orlesians. Let them stick to their fancy chateaus,” Alistair says jokingly, but he seems excited — and Keeris, well, not that much. She doesn't tell him about it anyway. He deserves to feel like a hero for once. Statues and celebrations and all.

It's nice to see Redcliffe rebuild though. It's nice to see anything rebuild — no more darkspawn and barricades, no more walking corpses and burning roofs. Former wastelands are green and full of blooming spring flowers that cover the ruins of something that cannot be restored anymore, completely destroyed houses and fallen mill wings that no one had time to take away; it's a beautiful sight. She'd better stay here instead of going to the castle. She's, frankly, sick of the castles — and they are probably sick of her.

People inside are still friendly, though. Cheerful even. Keeris sees the shade of nervousness crossing Eamon's face when he shakes her hand, but it's not unexpected, really — he couldn't be that fond of her, not after what happened at the Landsmeet, she's aware of that.

The Fereldan sculptor, on the other hand, is very proud and just can't stop talking — about the greatness of his project and how honoured he is to work on it and set the Heroes of Ferelden in stone. Before he bows his head, he gives her a brief look, a strange one for sure, almost terrified — Keeris doesn't know what to make of it nor she wants to try.

Then, he shows it. The art, the concept. It's a big, big piece of paper full of little sketches and drafts and one glorious drawing of a statue in the middle of it.

For a moment, no one says a word.

“What is that?” Alistair asks and his voice sounds genuinely baffled. There are tones of anger in it, loud and clear. Keeris slightly squeezes his hand.

She's not surprised at all.

The statue is a man and a woman in Grey Warden uniforms standing in pretentiously heroic poses. A man resembles Alistair very well, with the same features and even the way he holds his shield. It's almost like him, really, just lifelessly stony grey.

A woman is slightly shorter than him: her features are smooth and pretty, her braided hair is long and wavy, scattered by the wind, and her ears are flat. Her face is so strangely, unfamiliarly bare.

Oh, it does make her angry, furious even. Just a little. Even if she shouldn't care.

She shouldn't care, a girl with vallaslin and sharp features and sharp ears and hair too short to cover them.

“Somehow,” she says calmly, looking Eamon straight in the eyes, “I didn't expect less from your kind.”

They argue. Alistair and Eamon, mostly — she herself wouldn't waste time on it nor she thinks it would change anything, but now they can't go away and loudly shut the door.

Eamon says something about his gratitude. Something about the gratitude of his people and how they all cherish both of them here. Something about the cruelness of the world around. Something about the vile, vile people, who are obviously not there, but they will come and they will not tolerate an elf standing in the middle of their beautiful human town. They will not let it be.

Of course, they won't. She saw the alienage in Denerim. She saw what Anora did to it after she gave her a crown and was proclaimed a friend. It always ends up like this. All the promises and gratitude — they never matter. She learnt it the hard way.

“Then,” she says finally, “Don't make it. Don't place it here. If not for my people's sake — don't lie to your own at least.”

Nobody dares to object.

They leave in awkward, unpleasant silence: no farewells, no partings. They don't even stay for the night at Redcliffe. Alistair keeps repeating he's sorry, that he never wanted it to be this way, that he was sure his uncle would do better than this — Keeris laughs with just a little bitterness in her voice. He shouldn't be sorry. She was the one who took his statue away, wasn't she? He promises they will get a nice, proper one. Maybe somewhere in Amaranthine.

Another letter comes, informing them it is going to be a griffon. A beautiful creature, a symbol, a compromise, it says. None of them respond.

When they get to Redcliffe a couple of years later, there it is, standing in a square. No faces, no names and no shameless lies.

People here still recognise them. They wave their hands when they pass by and promise to buy them a beer if they happen to be around. An elven servant in the crowd blesses her path with Mythal's name. A young girl throws her a flower crown.

They do not put portraits in the archives of Weisshaupt after all.

At least there is no woman who never was.

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 16/09/2023 (Olivia Rodrigo, V, Leigh-Anne/Ayra Starr)

Content warning: Brief sex references

For a second week, Doja Cat grabs the #1 with “Paint the Town Red” - welcome back to REVIEWING THE CHARTS!

Rundown

As always, we start every episode of this show - however much of a non-event - with our notable dropouts, songs exiting the UK Top 75, which is what I cover, after five weeks in the region or a peak in the top 40. We don’t have much here but they are some heavy-hitters we say farewell to: “Pink” by Lizzo, “I Can See You” by Taylor Swift, “Padam Padam” by Kylie Minogue and finally, “People” by Libianca

As for our gains and returns, outside of the top 40, not much happened in this week’s chart, and even then, the top 40 happenings are mostly new entries. We do see Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams” at #74, and as for our gains, we do see some notable boosts for “I Remember Everything” by Zach Bryan featuring Maggie Roggers at #45, "DNA (Loving You)" by Billy Gillies featuring Hannah Boleyn at #43, "City Boys" by Burna Boy at #23 and "Strangers" by Kenya Grace at #12.

This week’s top five of the UK Singles Chart actually had some decent change-up, particularly “Prada” by casso, RAYE and D-Block Europe at #5, “adore u” by Fred again.. and Obongjayar at #4, “bad idea right?” and “vampire” by Olivia Rodrigo off the album boost to #3 and #2 respectively - more on that later - and of course, Doja at #1. Now that’s out of the way, I suppose it’s time to talk about the new songs that entered this week.

NEW ARRIVALS

#55 - “Water” - Tyla

Produced by Sammy Sosa

That was a short introduction, wasn’t it? Usually the rundown is at least a bit longer, but this may be a short episode in general. We do have around seven new songs, but I can already tell not many of them will warrant all that much discussion. Anyway, whoever the Hell Tyla is, she definitely isn’t the Creator, because this song has many other writers, including names familiar to me like Tricky Stewart and Ari PenSmith. It’s not often that an R&B song, which it seems to be by the credits, blows up without name recognition here in the UK, except for like… Eamon but we don’t want him back so I was wondering how this would sound and… turns out it’s really good. It’s a lot funkier than I expected, going off a faster-paced almost dancefloor-ready house groove accentuated by Afrobeats-sounding percussion, in a style known as amapiano - we might have covered it here before. Hailing from South Africa, Tyla isn’t the most unique singer but she has enough little inflections to function within the pretty minimal song, even if there’s a bit more Auto-Tune than I’d want. Regardless, the harmonies are the tightest thing here, as the song is otherwise pretty loose and fun: not everything is perfectly on-beat, there’s random stray snares, cute 808 patterns mixed really low in the chorus and flailing vocal loops just developing outside of an otherwise set-in-stone sex jam, which is an approach I can appreciate for this “let’s make love right now, no questions asked” kind of content. That choir vocal chorus is absolutely infectious and even if the mix gets a bit muddier by the end, I think that actually makes the song feel more intimate and in tune with itself. The song isn’t exactly fully developed, I feel, and could use a proper climax bridge but is otherwise a pretty decent track I’m honestly surprised is here though I could see it lasting a lot longer. Just a bonus thought, I’d also love to hear Doechii on this. Remix, anyone?

#52 - “Tip Toes” - Clavish and Aitch

Produced by WhYJay and LiTek

Clavish making a song with Aitch is like Snorlax making a song with shiny Snorlax at this point. Aitch at one time was a charming, kind of obnoxious nuisance but he and ArrDee alike have quickly become indistinguishable rap stars. And Clavish, well… it’s Clavish. I did say last week that I’d like more 2000s G-Unit-type beats in British hip hop and this does deliver on that trend, with the stock steel pans and faux-luxurious pianos under a clapping beat that is overall pretty good. I’ll admit, WhYJay and LITek did a good job here, no-one else did. Clavish says a whole lot of nothing talking about girls, and well, at least Aitch says that he doesn’t do crypto. That’s… reassuring, I guess. He’s on full bore mode here though, just being dull and gross as usual. The hook isn’t even all that memorable, even if it at least has a much more substantial melody than a lot of UK rap hooks, so it might get stuck in my head. As a whole though, this is just not engaging at all to me.

#35 - “Bongos” - Cardi B featuring Megan Thee Stallion

Produced by DJ SwanQo, Breyan Isaac and We Good

I’m sure a lot of people were expecting a sequel to “WAP” for this one and it most certainly took some people aback by not sounding like it at all. Sure, compositionally, it’s there - there’s a looping vocal sample, the song is structurally nonexistent and bass-focused but on the surface level, considering how it actually sounds, the two are night-and-day. For one, the vocal sample this time is a complete fragment under what sounds to me like a Brazilian funk beat, or maybe a dembow track, but still a minimal, incredibly annoying one, which is a shame because Cardi’s pretty fun on here with basic but memorable punchlines and sassy lines accentuated by her no-darns-given demeanour, which is kind of needed given the complete lack of a hook, and the fact that none of the dirty lyrics are remotely surprising anymore. Then Megan comes in, steals the show with an impeccable flow and commandeering presence on the track that almost makes the beat sound good. Truth is, just like “WAP”, without the overwhelming video, this song is just kind of nothing. By the end, Cardi’s repeating herself as much as the beat and Megan’s presence winds down into sharing verses and ad-libs, so it’s like one shining moment in a whole lot of sludge. Again, whilst it sounds nothing like “WAP”, I pretty much have the same opinion on it. Huh.

#34 - “Angry” - The Rolling Stones

Produced by watt

Oh, hey, the Rolling Stones! When’s the last time they charted? Must have been decades ago. Oh, 2020? Well, damn, nevermind then. This is their first time in the top 40 since 2005, though even that seems a bit recent. I guess these guys are still kicking in a major way… I never got them. I don’t think I like a single song from them that I’ve heard past “Paint it, Black” and that is including their other big hits. They’re one of the most legendary rock bands of all time, but I simply cannot get into them. Their newest single, propelled into the top 40 thanks to a livestream with Jimmy Fallon - wow, that aged quickly - is probably the worst place to start but it is produced by watt, who since working with Post Malone has kind of styled himself as a modern rock producer for older bands, and as you’d expect for a song by an aging rock band from the 60s written with a modern pop producer, it sounds completely competent and serviceable with very little risks. I will admit that riff is kind of incredible in just how simple yet earwormy it is, but the drums feel flat, the content isn’t exactly compelling and whilst Mick Jagger’s voice doesn’t so much signs of aging, it’s not like he wasn’t a nasal annoyance to begin with. That chorus especially feels like it has an unnecessary pop swell that could have been replaced with the drums going double-time or a crunchier guitar, something that would really make this rock, you know? This band would probably complain about songs on the radio not going hard enough, and I know their audience definitely does, but this one goes about as hard as a jaffa cake fresh out the box. I’ll give it to the Jagger-Richards writing duo though, they can still write catchy and sometimes just bizarre songs. “I’m still taking the pills and I’m off to Brazil”? You’re just gonna let that lyric sit there in the outro? Not rhyming it with anything even? Alright, man.

#28 - “My Love” - Leigh-Anne featuring Ayra Starr

Produced by PRGRSHN, Khristopher Riddick-Tynes, Alex Goldblatt and Magicsticks

Leigh-Anne’s follow-up to “Don’t Say Love” actually landing in the top 40 was kind of a surprise to me but she has more potential than Ms. Nelson so I’m not exactly complaining that she’s the solo act with at least a little longevity out of Little Mix. She even brings on Nigerian singer Ayra Starr, who I tend to like, so this could easily end up as a good song, though maybe not matching up to the Timberlake-T.I. collaboration of the same name (plug my 2006 list here)… and I mean, yeah, of course it is. The distant synth lead is backed by a slick guitar in a mix that eventually embraces all the elements of a good Afrobeats song: the layered percussion constantly bordering on both chill and tense, the choir vocals that are always just a winner for me, it’s all here. In fact, Leigh-Anne and Ayra Starr do a little back-and-forth throughout pretty much the entire song and it’s wonderful. The song’s lyrics are where it might miss out just a bit, largely because there’s nothing too unique or poetic about the love she’s giving here, even if the very female-centred perspective is refreshing. I’m more focused on how well the ladies’ vocals blend, the way they play off the bass and rhythm so tightly, the echoing backing vocal from Ms. Starr in the chorus, the breathy ad-libs after the first chorus that just flutter effortlessly off of the drums, pretty much everything else. This is a rather detailed song in terms of throwing a lot of proven pop and Afrobeats tropes but with immense sound design, and the production here from the quartet we have is genuinely impressive, not that our performers aren’t, because Leigh-Anne kills it with her bombast and Ayra is the perfect vocalist to play off that, because of how relaxed as well as just slick and fast she can be at her best, cool dripping off her constantly. This is an excellent song through and through so I’m glad it’s here - whether it’ll last has yet to be seen, and since “Don’t Say Love” tumbled second week, I have my concerns but I hope this continues to chart because it’s fantastic.

#24 - “Slow Dancing” - V

Produced by freekind. and FRNK

Our latest BTS member to chart with a solo hit, this is V, who recently released his debut solo EP, Layover, this being one of the singles it produced. Once again, I find myself kind of at odds with the direction BTS members are going in, with this feeling like a bit too programmed version of a smooth R&B song, which V doesn’t fit just as well as he wants to. Now I’m still a sucker for smooth R&B jams so I end up still liking the melodious elements of this, like those cheesy strings and the jauntling keys jammed under a pretty remote, stagnant-sounding drum pattern. In fact, the chorus just worsens it, as I’ve yet to fully understand why the synth his producers chose sounds like a video game sound font for a glass or smoke sound effect instead of, you know, a synth. V’s performance isn’t bad, even if it’s stuck between sounding like other guys - YUMDDA and Joji come to mind - and being so laidback that it kind of stifles much of the emotion - so it gets off the intimacy pretty okay and… okay, that flute is beautiful. That flute solo is incredibly gorgeous and has no business being in such a song. It caught me way off guard originally and honestly it’s such a shame there aren’t punchier organic drums or an actually bearable synth for it to lay upon. I did listen to the “piano version” out of curiosity - it is considerably worse thanks to the lack of flute, but is mostly the same and suffers from a lot of the same problems, just being kind of identity-less, lacking in second drafts. I wish I could like this more but yeah, it’s not it for me. Sorry.

#7 - “get him back!” - Olivia Rodrigo

Produced by Dan Nigro, Alexander 23 and Ian Kirkpatrick

The intro to this song is Alexander 23 asking if it’s “the song with the drums”. What do you mean, the song with the drums? You made a rock album, Mr. 23, most of the songs have drums. Anyway, I think it’s no surprise that O-Rod’s #1 album GUTS did not appeal to me, as the teen melodrama didn’t wear off whilst a lot of the rawer pop catharsis I feel has, replaced with a sheen that wants to be taken off by sheer emotion but just never finds it footing as anything else other than a faint desire. There’s something raucous and real in here, it’s just not coming out thanks to clumsy (yet unique and very easily recognisable) writing, softened blows of buzzy production that only fully rip on occasion and honestly shoddy sequencing. “get him back!” is a pretty good example, given the drums and fuzz that would go harder if it weren’t for O-Rod being the Beastie Boys for Gen Z girls for whatever reason in those verses, and a kind of bratty chorus that just doesn’t resonate with me on any significant level. I understand it fits with the pathetic, vengeful content, but it’s also just not something I’m going to appreciate, especially not with those faint “ohs” in the verses that seem like last-minute attempts to add a distinct melody, and a bridge that started as a cool a capella idea and ends up as just a mess, not consolidating into the uppercut she mentions because of how she’s not front-and-center in that weak final chorus, and the… can you call it a guitar solo if it’s basic, I can barely hear it, and it’s drowned out by rambling? This isn’t my thing, probably never will be and it’s a shame because I can tell everyone involved is talented, I just don’t think this is ever going to appeal to me. I did like the opener though, and “pretty isn’t pretty”, mostly because I feel like they had a bit more to say. Otherwise, yeah, I’m not a fan.

Conclusion

I might just be getting old - I feel like the amount of songs I consider middling has increased a lot in the past couple months. With that said, nothing here is bad so I probably have to half-sincerely give Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion the Dishonourable Mention for “Bongos”, even though the song’s mostly just decently pestering, whilst Worst of the Week goes to “get him back!” by Olivia Rodrigo, as you should probably expect by now. It’s the only song this week I feel actively fails at what it’s trying to do. The best falls out a lot easier: Best of the Week goes to Leigh-Anne for “My Love” featuring Ayra Starr - by far - and the Honourable Mention ends up going to Tyla with “Water”, I think I’ll check out more of her stuff. For now though, thanks for reading. I’ll see you next week!

[juju-or-anya]

Wednesday and Xavier: A Tale of Unlove in 50 Songs

Here is a story of heartbreak between Wednesday Addams and Xavier Thorpe, where Wednesday is not in love with Xavier and finds him intolerable, while Xavier does not accept a no, accompanied by 50 songs that reflect different moments and emotions of their relationship:

"You Give Love a Bad Name" - Bon Jovi

"I Will Survive" - Gloria Gaynor

"Irreplaceable" - Beyoncé

"Since U Been Gone" - Kelly Clarkson

"Not Fair" - Lily Allen

"Love Stinks" - The J. Geils Band

"Breakin' Up" - Rilo Kiley

"It's Not Right, But It's Okay" - Whitney Houston

"Creep" - Radiohead

"I Hate Everything About You" - Three Days Grace

"You Oughta Know" - Alanis Morissette

"Gives You Hell" - The All-American Rejects

"Somebody That I Used to Know" - Gotye ft. Kimbra

"F**k You" - CeeLo Green

"Before He Cheats" - Carrie Underwood

"No Scrubs" - TLC

"I Will Always Love You" - Whitney Houston

"I Don't Need a Man" - The Pussycat Dolls

"Ex's & Oh's" - Elle King

"Hit the Road Jack" - Ray Charles

"Bulletproof" - La Roux

"U + Ur Hand" - Pink

"I Don't Want You Back" - Eamon

"It's My Life" - Bon Jovi

"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together" - Taylor Swift

"Stronger" - Kanye West

"I Don't Care" - Ed Sheeran ft. Justin Bieber

"Go Your Own Way" - Fleetwood Mac

"So What" - Pink

"Cold Hearted" - Paula Abdul

"Cry Me a River" - Justin Timberlake

"Forget You" - CeeLo Green

"You're So Vain" - Carly Simon

"Problem" - Ariana Grande ft. Iggy Azalea

"Tainted Love" - Soft Cell

"I Don't Love You" - My Chemical Romance

"I Hate Myself for Loving You" - Joan Jett & The Blackhearts

"We Are Never Getting Back Together - cover" - Noah Guthrie

"Love Hurts" - Nazareth

"Breaking Up is Hard to Do" - Neil Sedaka

"Goodbye to You" - Michelle Branch

"Sorry Not Sorry" - Demi Lovato

"I Will Follow" - James Taylor

"Bitter Sweet Symphony" - The Verve

"I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles)" - The Proclaimers

"So Long, Farewell" - Sound of Music Soundtrack

"Don't Speak" - No Doubt

"Hit 'Em Up Style (Oops!)" - Blu Cantrell

"I Want You to Want Me" - Cheap Trick

"Bad Blood" - Taylor Swift ft. Kendrick Lamar

These songs capture Wednesday Addams' struggle to free herself from Xavier Thorpe's unwanted persistence and express her disdain for him. They also reflect Wednesday's determination to stand her ground and overcome this uncomfortable situation.

Yes, I am aware that I first included a song by Taylor Swift and then one by Kanye West, and I am also aware that I included "We Are Never Getting Back Together" by Taylor Swift twice, but the second one is a cover by Noah Guthrie.

[elyksteven]

Title: Forged in Another Realm

Chapter 1: The Portal's Call

In the bustling town of Forgehaven, lived a skilled blacksmith named Eamon. His strong hands had crafted countless weapons and tools, making him an indispensable part of the community. One fateful night, as Eamon worked at his forge, a shimmering portal appeared before him, its swirling colors reflecting in his eyes. Drawn by an unseen force, he stepped through, leaving behind everything he knew.

Chapter 2: A World Unveiled

Eamon found himself in a realm unlike any he'd ever seen. Vibrant forests stretched as far as the eye could see, and creatures of myth and legend roamed freely. Startled and bewildered, he soon encountered a group of locals who explained that he had crossed into the realm of Eldoria, a land where magic and nature were intricately woven.

Chapter 3: A Blacksmith's Gift

Eamon's blacksmithing skills quickly earned him respect among the Eldorians. However, their weapons were unlike any he'd forged before—enchanted with elemental powers and crafted from mystical metals. Guided by his determination to learn, Eamon began to master the art of magical blacksmithing, blending his expertise with the realm's unique materials and enchantments.

Chapter 4: The Quest for Balance

Eldoria was not without its problems. An ancient imbalance threatened to plunge the realm into chaos, and a malevolent sorceress sought to exploit it. With his newfound friends—a resourceful archer named Elara and a wise mage named Thorne—Eamon embarked on a journey to restore equilibrium to the land.

Chapter 5: Trials and Tribulations

Their quest led them through treacherous landscapes, enchanted forests, and forgotten ruins. Along the way, Eamon faced challenges that tested his resolve and creativity. As he forged weapons to combat the sorceress's minions, he discovered the true potential of melding his blacksmithing prowess with Eldoria's magic.

Chapter 6: The Final Forging

In a climactic showdown, Eamon, Elara, and Thorne confronted the sorceress. As magic clashed and swords gleamed, Eamon realized that only a weapon of extraordinary power could defeat her. Drawing upon his experiences, he set to work, channeling the essence of Eldoria into his creation.

Chapter 7: Legacy of Two Worlds

With a resounding strike, Eamon's enchanted blade shattered the sorceress's defenses, and the realm of Eldoria was saved. Grateful for his bravery, the Eldorians bid him farewell as he stepped back through the portal to Forgehaven. Eamon returned with newfound wisdom and a heart forever linked to two worlds—one of steel and fire, the other of magic and wonder.

Epilogue: The Eternal Craftsman

Eamon's tale became a legend passed down through generations. His legacy inspired blacksmiths in both realms to bridge the gap between craftsmanship and magic. And as the years turned to centuries, a singular truth emerged: the bond between worlds was forged not only in the fires of the forge but also in the hearts of those who dared to dream beyond the boundaries of their reality.

[the-dragon-folk]

random 1 am drabble

"Is that all then, Arl Eamon?" Partha asked. 

The formalities had not died between the two highborn, though they had worked closely together day and night. They spoke of business, plans, and futures and little else. The future of Ferelden, the spreading Blight, and the whole great width of Thedas was far more pressing and necessary than warming small talk. It was late in the evening now. Partha and Arl stood alone in his study before a table littered with a variety of treatises and books on the state of law, strategy, and other important subjects they could not afford to ignore in their making of a great many plans. 

"I believe so, Lady Aeducan," Eamon said. He sighed deeply and tiredly. Then, he slowly began to collect the books into a pile, and collect the treatises, taking a great deal of care in the organization of these materials.

Partha nodded. "Very well. May I assist you, my lord?" 

Eamon did not regard her as he crossed the room to a heavy oak bookshelf and began to replace the books. Partha stood patiently awaiting any further command until, thinking she had given it enough pause, dipped her head and opened her mouth to bid him farewell. 

"Lady Aeducan, could you go to the cabinet? I have a bottle of wine there, and a glass. Please, bring them to me?” Eamon asked suddenly. 

Partha turned her head to the cabinet behind her. It was another ornate, oaken thing, fitting with the Ferelden style. It was an odd request, but Partha obeyed politely. She crossed to the cabinet and knelt. Partha took the dark bottle of liquor, the corkscrew, and the single crystalline wine glass. She returned to the table where Eamon stood.

“Thank you,” the Arl said simply. He took the bottle and held it to the dim light of the candle, looking deep with the blue-black glass. “An Orlesian brandywine. Isolde and I were gifted a case from her uncle on our wedding day, though it was purely a courtesy. Are you familiar with brandywine, Lady Aeduan?” 

“None from Orlais I believe, my lord.”

The Arl nodded. “Very well then,” he said, and asked nothing else. He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass. Eamon took a small sip and turned his head to some empty corner of his dim, windowless study. 

Partha moved once more to excuse herself. “Goodnight, Arl Eamon. I will be returning to my chambers if you need me.” 

"Partha?”

Partha paused in the doorway, turning to Eamon. He still did not face her. For a moment, there was only a growing unease as Eamon slowly poured himself another glass of the Orlesian brandywine. He held the glass in his hand, swirling it wordlessly. 

“Yes, Arl Eamon?” Partha asked finally. 

Eamon sighed. He took a drink from the glass and took a deep breath. “I understand it was you who… killed my Isolde, yes?”

Partha stared in disbelief. Suddenly, she found her heart racing in her chest. Tension Partha had been previously unaware of now electrified the air, and all of Eamon's odd behaviors suddenly made sense. Another moment of silence passed between them before, gravely, Partha responded. “Yes, my lord. I am… greatly sorry. She was a good woman who gave her life for her son. I imagine there is hardly a greater sacrifice a mother can give to her child.” 

Eamon placed the glass heavily down onto the table. He responded only with a small “Hm,” from his throat, and Partha felt herself dismissed. Partha quickly turned and left the room. As she walked to her bedchamber, a familiar sense of dread and remorse followed at her heels. It was as if her shadow had suddenly dragged long and heavy behind her. She swallowed hard once, and then twice. Her status in Eamon’s estate had suddenly become strikingly, startlingly clear. 

[neckbreakers]

"‘cause… that ain’t how it works, babe," ray started, scooting a bit closer to eamon. "i gotta do a farewell tour before i hang up the boots for good. give the folks one last show, let ‘em say goodbye proper, you know? i owe ‘em that much." his hand found his partner’s arm, rough fingers tracing lightly. "we’ll turn this place into somethin’ real once that's done. might even get some animals to fill up the field - cows, pigs, or whatever you want."

eamon took a deep breath to ease the tension in his chest, but it did little to aid with that. "right, yet another year." he grumbled and looked over at his partner. "i don't understand why you can't just quit now. i hate having to wait," he whined, in a voice only ray was allowed to hear. "and honestly... this place is so damn big." he explained. "i just ramble around in it."

[incorrectseagrove]

incorrect seagrove quotes: 118 /  ∞

[graceandfamily]

Princess Caroline of Monaco yawns broadly as she waits at doorway fo the residence of Irish President Eamon DeValera in Dublin while her parents, Princess Grace and Prince Rainier bid farewell to their hosts. Little Prince Albert finds it amusing. June 15, 1961.

[retrowondergirl]

In Glory We Rise

Chapter 5: Trevelyans and Decisions

Chapters: 5/?

Word Count: 3498

After telling his siblings everything that has transpired so far, Eamon said his farewells to Flissa and started to lead his siblings to the Chantry. “So, are you two ready to meet the leaders of the Inquisition?” He said with a playful smirk.

“Hehehe, well, from what you tell us. It sounds like your Inquisition needs a lot more help than just a few extra hands, right Declan?” Orlagh said with excitement shining in her teal eyes.

“Mm-hmm.” Declan was in deep thought about how he can turn the Inquisition’s army into a greater force than anything else and how so much wrong can go with this. “Declan?” Orlagh’s call snapped him out of his train of thought. “Hmm?” He responded, his eyes were a bit wide and his head tilted just a bit.

“You didn’t hear anything I said, did you?” Orlagh teasingly questioned.

“Of course I did. I was just, uh, erm.” Declan said as he looked away from his sister’s stare. She raised her eyebrow. “Oh? Then what did I say?”

“Uh, erm. That, uh, the Inquisition needed, um.” Declan scratched the back of his head absentmindedly. “That the Inquisition needed more help than just a few extra hands?” Declan looked back at his sister, her lips pressed together as she looked away. She breathed in to regain control before she burst out laughing and looked back at him giving him a warm smile, which Declan warmly smiled back.

They finally reached the imposing Chantry doors and already Eamon could hear the argumentative voices from the other side of the tall, wooden doors. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, wishing that just for once they’ll get along. He pushed the doors in a grandeur style that hushed the arguing voices.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I would like to introduce my siblings!” Eamon presented with a cocky smile as he did a splendor gesture with a mischievous glint within his eyes.

“There’s three of them?” Cullen quietly said, his voice filled with dread and weariness. One of the siblings looked familiar. The woman with the outrageous blue makeup he remembered seeing stuck in the crowd and hugged the taller man, but there’s something about her. She seemed familiar but from where?

“It….appears so, Commander.” Cassandra confirmed, her voice interrupting Cullen’s recollection. It seemed she too was already exhausted from the sight of the three red heads standing before them.

Read More on AO3!

[queenvidal]

Worth It

- My part of the @14daysdalovers​  Prompts by @scharoux​ -  

Chapter 3: You Drive Me Crazy

Paring: Alistair x Cousland Warden

Wordcount: 500

It’s early in the morning, when Alistiar readies his horse. It’s going to be a three days long trip from Denerim to Radcliff and they have to move out soon. It’s been two and a half months after the blight ended and the rebuilding has just begun.

Arl Eamon will accompany the King, but sadly not Juliette. She wanted to stay, dealing with the other Arls and Banns, who demand help and resources for rebuilding as well. She may not be the Queen just yet, but the other nobles respect her for her name and status regardless. Being the one who slaughtered the archdemon helped as well.

But Alistair was disappointed, even though he understood her reasoning. 

“Why the long face?” Her sweet voice charms behind him. He turns around and his eyes go wide, his heart missing a beat.

Juliette smiles at him sweetly with dark red lips. Her hair is pinned up with several braids that meet in a fluffy bun. Her cheeks glow in a lovely shade of rose and her sapphire eyes are decorated with a thin line of black charol. 

“Makers breath…” Is all Alistair's brain can come up with. His eyes wander from her face to her dress. It’s dark green and hugging every curve. 

“Seeing something you like?” She asks, trying to sound innocent.

Alistair nods. “Very much. Wh- What’s,” He has to clear his throat, heat rising on his cheeks. “What’s the occasion?”

“Oh, I just wanted to say my love farewell.” She gestures at herself “Is that too much?”

“You know it.” He states half annoyed and half amused.

She laughs. “I do. You’ll be gone for quite some time and I wanted to give you something to remember me by.” Juliette steps closer, entering his personal space. She places her hands on his chest and slowly leans forward.

Only now does Alistair notice the lack of watchers, realising the two of them are actually alone for the first time in months. He closes his eyes and leans forward as well to meet her half way. 

Only to get desturbed by the gates opening right before their lips could touch. Juliette takes two steps back and Alistiar blush intensifies. Guardsmen and Arl Eamon enter the stables as well, the pair greet them before returning to their conversation as if nothing has happened. “How long will you be gone?” Juliette asks in a hushed tone.

“About two weeks, though I hope we can come back a little bit sooner. Without you, it’s going to feel much longer anyway.”

“I’ll miss you greatly as well, but I hope you’ll enjoy your time in Radcliff.”

The others saddle their horses and the King does as well. 

“Safe travels.” Juliette wishes him before he replies with a whispered I love you.

“Oh and Alistiar?”

“Hm?”

Juliette comes closer to his horse, whispering so only he can hear her “I’m not wearing any undergarments.”

Blushing would be an understatement. Alistair's turning crimson red “I hate you.”

[obliviouskind]

Solstice

---

---

Off the beaten path upon Unova’s mainland, nestled within the forests on a privately owned property of which carried a name he now shared; Cyrus sat within an uncomfortable, yet comfortable, plastic chair. Lush green grass spread beneath his feet, unkempt where it seemingly was most needed not to be so – while beneath him, burrowed and cramped, his hound found refuge from the relentless summer’s heat… As well as the hands of curious, snobbish children – of which there were an abundance running about. Upon their knees sat bruises and stains, while within their light locks fashioned into pigtails and braids, flowers of different colors were woven together by that of iron wire and leaves.

His own head sat bare of any such decorations, though not from the lack of offers. The wife of his current seat mate, Eamon Nechayev, had been one out of many whom had brought more than their fair share of floral crowns. --Eamon was a man who married into the family, rather than having entered it by blood; and he took his wife’s last name in a manner that Cyrus himself, admittedly, saw as rather unbecoming. Just as Cyrus, however, his eyes were light in color. Gray boarding on blue, with a frame of charcoal of which matched the little hair he still carried upon his head.

”Have you taught that dog to behave around the children yet, Damian?”

… The partaking of nationwide holidays – or simple, personal celebrations such as birthdays, had been a phenomenon that Cyrus never truly had gotten to enjoy as a young boy. For the Akagi had been a family of simplicity and accomplishments, rather than that of mindless pleasures and joys. What should be celebrated were feats and triumphs – not divine fertility and other such ‘useless’ fallacies. That was, at least, the explanation his father had given to him when he had mustered up the courage to actually ask.

But, the Nechayev’s?

Though most of the family laid outside of Sinnoh’s vast boarders these days, the clan seemingly never lost contact with their roots. Thus; Midsummer was celebrated.

Every. Single. Year.

He and Nikita (his cousin in papers alone, as well as the designated ‘babysitter’ of himself for these past three years) had taken the earliest ship offered back towards Unova’s mainland for the sake of meeting with the aunt of Nikita’s own father – Alexandra Nechayev. Together, they had traversed the country roads within her modest car, and for over an hour in its short trunk, his hound had nestled in as best as he could’ve managed given the circumstances. --By all means, it wasn’t necessarily the longest of treks… But it was one everyone had to make. And once they arrived, Houndoom had made quick work of stretching his legs before activity was certain to be thoroughly limited.

(Mindlessly, his hands settled within the dog’s short fur between his knees.)

“Damian?”

His eyes cast towards the vast yard, of rolling hills merging into that of forgotten, disheveled fields – and the sea of towheaded family members unsurprisingly spread as far as the eye could see. In the wake of dinner not yet having been served (though dishes slowly but surely traveled out of the small farmhouse by that of feminine hands), many children had taken it upon themselves to play tag or fly kites; far too close to the telephone lines for comfort, but with seemingly little care for the harm that so easily could befall them with but one small mishap.

Closer to where he himself sat, the quiet chatter of women easily were overshadowed by the boisterous laughter of their hefty husbands, and inside himself he quickly realized that within his mindless actions; he was looking for something.

Or, rather, for someone.

Cynthia, it seemed, had yet to arrive at the scene of their family gathering; and he supposed it perhaps wasn’t so strange. If she had just arrived within the region, or had come at an earlier date; he didn’t know, nor did he particularly care to properly figure out.

But what it nonetheless meant was that her trek to the family farm would be one of considerably greater distance. --Childish it was of him, perhaps, but the longer until she showed; the better. For one thing was certain about that woman.

Once she found him in this sea of blondes… She would not let him go.

Something that did find him, however, were the narrowed gaze of Eamon.

“Damian, I said-“

“I’m sorry,” Cyrus interrupted – something clicking within his mind. Though lost in dreams, he had caught the voice of the other man. ‘Have you taught that dog to behave around the children yet, Damian?’ “I’m thinking, is all… He always does behave, but he is not a dog to play with. The children shouldn’t approach him as though he’s a young Lillipup.”

Eamon scoffed and leant his full weight back within his chair, which lacked guests beneath it. Behind him, however, stood a young girl clad in a checkerboard patterned summer dress. The only daughter of that particular branch of the family tree.

“I will take that as a no, then.”

Cyrus cast a glance towards the girl, one that was apologetic. “Precisely so.”

The disappointment upon her features was theatrically exaggerated – with her cheeks puffed up and her shoulders and back hunched; she quietly walked away from the scene in short, drawn out steps. The hurt, however, seemed to roll off her back as soon as the invite for play came in the form of her brothers – then, all seemed to be right in the world again.

He smoothed his hand over short, black fur one last time.

“Y’know,” Eamon broke the silence. Within his hand sat a bottle of beer, and Cyrus had to wonder if it was the first or second of the day that still sat fairly young. “You always look deeply unhappy being here. Like you would rather sit at home during a fun celebration like this. Are you that terrified of us?”

“No such thing,” Cyrus admitted; and it was not a lie in most regards. As far as holidays went, midsummer was one of the easier to manage. No duty for gift giving, no stress. Just food and music that, at times, fell within his tastes. It was innocent enough and, admittedly, pleasant to get to experience once more. --What he did mind, however, was the new coming sound of an approaching vehicle. Whatever else he may have had to say got lost within his throat, just as out of view to where the dirt road snaked out onto the landscapes, barely hidden behind that of forests shrubbery and old cobble walls, the clear arrival of the one and only late guest came rumbling through.

Taking care not to hurt his hound, Cyrus pushed his chair back (meeting resistance from where its feet had sunk into the grass below) and slowly rose. With a wave of his hand towards his company, he bid his momentary farewell – all the while Eamon let out a hearty, full laugh that rumbled within his very gut.

“Ah, so that’s what scares you, then.”

---

As Cyrus ascended the modest hill towards the summer farms main building, he thought to himself that he and Eamon perhaps weren’t so different. However unbecoming he had thought the man’s obedience towards his wife’s family name to have been – to say that he couldn’t understand it, would been a bit of a lie. For, sometimes, the choice simply isn’t yours to make… --He had, after all, taken Cynthia’s name himself.

(Not in marriage, no, yet still as she always had said that he would…)

Forgoing stepping out of his shoes – a forced habit since the day that he landed in Unova – and ducking past curtains that carried Venipede holes, the chattering of the women whom tirelessly worked on the deserts that would be shared that evening slowly quieted.

Until one brave soul spoke up.

“Oh, Damian, just in time. Would you mind giving us a hand…?”

---

Midsummer was a holiday as exciting, as it was draining. But it was also one that served to be very, very distracting. --Not to him, oh no. But for their newly arrived guest. Cynthia was not only the darling to the people of an entire region – a monarch beloved by all. No, she also, within her own family, stood above the rest as someone divine. Someone to strive towards, someone to aspire to become.

Someone whose attention and aid you wished for at every waking hour of the day.

This served Cyrus quite well – as his escape into the farm house had come to an end much quicker than he would’ve ever liked for it to. The women of the family, one of which had a newly born darling by the name of Jamie sat in a sling upon her breast, had been much preferred company compared to that of the rest of the gathering. Though no less towheaded and plain, the air had laid different.

Tender, yet diligent. And with an extra set of hands, the making of the deserts had gone by that much quicker.

This had meant, however, that dinner could start but a tad bit earlier than previously expected. Quickly the sea of Nechayev’s filtered into the many tables set up upon the estates grounds – families, trying their hardest to figure out how to best fit themselves into groups of husbands and wives, children and cousins and everything in-between.

And to his delight, his hound had served as a wonderful buffer in securing his previous seat… off-center to the crowd.

(Away from the ends of which had been reserved to Cynthia and her immediate family; very much a deliberate choice.)

Eamon welcomed him back by that of a groan in his throat and a wave of his hand, and Cyrus favored the latter in return. Houndoom was quick to change position from underneath his seat, to behind it, as to not be a bother to the rest of the guests (and to avoid a kick to the face, should the gentleman before his owner decide to have a few too many drinks before six) and with that, Cyrus settled down.

“No more hiding?” Eamon teased, and down the length of the table Cyrus caught the gaze their newly arrived guest.

She smiled.

He looked away.

---

If Midsummer was a holiday for the children, then Christmas was one for adults.

As the sun lulled its way to its bed upon the tree crowns, the vast fields of the Nechayev property no longer littered with that of children and teens. The younger laid worn out and asleep either within their sober mothers laps; or sat propped before a movie within the farmhouse until they inevitably would succumb to the same exact fate. While the teens, he noted, mostly took to playing adults – or found activities inside to partake in and enjoy. Be it to prank call friends and play cards, or sit around upon the rocks beside the recently renovated outhouse. It didn’t seem to really matter as long as they could manage to get a cider or two from their intoxicated fathers to share.

If he strained his ears and listened, he could recognize a few tunes being played at the foot of the hill – that of old folk songs as well as new, and many of which spoke of alcohol and obscurities better left untold.

All done in a language he hadn’t favored for three odd years now. --Or, was it perhaps closing in on four…?

In his hand sat nothing but a plastic cup of water; and Cyrus came to wonder if that was exactly why his own family never truly had fancied themselves the celebration of this particular holiday. Noboru rarely had drank, as far as he could remember, and the moments that he had; it most often had been in the company of business officials and clients. Never did he take a beer with dinner, nor a shot of liquor in the evenings to aid his aged self settle.

(His mother, he knew, drank – but she certainly had thought herself to have been rather unassuming about it.)

Another reason, he supposed – as he whirled the tender cup between his fingers – was for the fact that their family had been but a small one. Maternal grandparents, he knew that he had though never had he gotten to properly know them. His paternal grandmother was but a distant memory of early childhood, while his paternal grandfather was a ghost hidden within picture books and quarrels.

A big family was required for an event to feel both special… as well as needed – and without them, there simply had been little point to even bother.

“There you are… If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you had been trying to avoid me, Damian.”

Past his shoulder, he caught sight of her – clad in a gown far too extravagant (revealing) for the evening at hand. In one hand, gathered and wrinkled, she held the length of her dress while within the other; a glass overfilled with velvet red wine. Her slender, feminine hand eventually came to settle against his shoulder – a weight that was hauntingly familiar – and he wasn’t surprised (nor pleased) when it traveled up upon the nape of his neck so that it could cradle the back of his skull.

His brow’s subtly dipped, but she caught it nonetheless. A chuckle mingling alongside her words. “Did I sour your mood that badly, dear?”

Nonchalantly his arms folded across his chest and a shrug followed shortly thereafter. That her hand upon him, in turn, fell, was an outcome that he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased with. “Tired, more so than anything else. These events aren’t exactly my forte… but you knew that already.”

“Oh, I certainly do.” Theatrically, one slender fingers settled upon her painted lips and her auburn eyes gazed towards the lightly specked sky. “You were most unhappy when I dragged you out to Solaceon Town to spend the holidays with just little ol’ me.”

Her lips smiled against the brim of her ambrosia. “I remember having had a lot of fun with you, though.”

---

Though she had been but a foreigner in her youth to the region she eventually would come to claim as her own, Cynthia – since the day that they met – seemingly fit in with the population more so than he himself ever had. Her first months upon Sinnoh’s land, she had cried false tears and begged for him to come with her to the celebration up north; for, in her own words, she would ‘die’ if he left her all to herself come summertime. And though he now could understand that those had been shallow, meaningless words of which she would continue to spew until their eventual parting – back then, he had felt it cruel to not do as she wished out of fear that she indeed would decide to disappear from the world.

Foolish, perhaps, for she was the sort of girl whom would rather break down others than see her own self earn a single scar. --But, he hadn’t known that back then.

What he also hadn’t known, was that though Cynthia enjoyed the holiday for what it was; what she most had liked about it, was the opportunity it gave for her to play her own little made up games.

Games with rules that he never got to learn, but was expected to follow nonetheless.

Instead of having her dearest dance with her like all the others, linked together by hands around the pole as accordions and pianos blared the tunes to follow – she had wanted for him to do nothing but hold her from behind so that he may sway them back and forth. Her hands, trapping his just below her bust…

All so that she could guide them wherever she pleased when eyes inevitably came to stray their way...

---

(He had felt sick at the thought.)

---

She had always carried herself with something akin to faux grace, even as but a teenage girl. And gracefully, this evening, was exactly how Cynthia sunk to a squat beside his standing self. That the heels that she wore sunk into the lawn below, to the point where he imagined she would struggle to tug them out, was a guess that he felt confident enough to quietly make – and as she adjusted the fall of her dress (an act that left little to the imagination, where it dipped and fell to simply show more of the creamy flesh of her breasts) and dangled the glass by its lip between her parted thighs; a longing, dreamy sigh left her lips.

“What I would give, just to go back to that for an hour or two…”

Cynthia had, indeed, taken to the holiday much easier than he himself ever had.

But only because she had made it her own.

---

She had much rather played the game of adults behind that propped up stage at the event, crouched upon her knees between his parted, shaking thighs. His heart had hammered within his chest from the fear of being caught doing something so foul.

And with her lips stained with his boyish seed, as though a mockery of a young girls lip-gloss, she had praised him for being such a naughty church boy… --To change who he was, and remind him of the fact, had perhaps been the true name of her game.

---

“You know, I did so much for you back then,” came her quiet, soft admission, and Cyrus felt bile rise into the back of his throat. For she spoke as though every word was gospel – the good and honest truth. “Had it not been for me, you still would’ve been that lonesome choir boy whom never could say a word for his own personal sake…”

When he spoke, his voice was stern. Interruptive. “This dance of formalities is unnecessary, Cynthia…”

Laughter bubbled within her throat, as she brought her glass to have another taste of red.

“Simply talking is considered ‘formalities’ to you?”

“You have something to tell me, I can tell that you do.” Almost as an afterthought, after a beat of his own heart – he added: “… What is it that you want?”

Her mindless giggles, then, abruptly stopped. What mannerisms she had displayed to her family that evening evaporated out of her fingertips like smoke; and what was left, was a woman much more familiar to his eyes. --One less fake, less plastic… A Cynthia who finally decided to play as her honest self.  

A smacking of her lips introduced her coming words.

“Oh, Cyrus…” The admittance of his past identity stirred him enough to glance down at her. Eyes framed by white – narrowed. “Why is it only me that you’re this way with? That you won’t talk to.”

For once, he felt he had no words. Perhaps because to admit to her the reason why felt wrong. --Felt dreadful, felt pathetic… childish.

(He loathed the way she made his chest constrict.)

“Is it because you don’t know what you should be saying to me?” Came her probing suggestion.

She never had wished to hear his thoughts regardless of which words he chose.

“Is it because you worry you will say something that you will come to… regret?”

Every moment with her had been filled with nothing but.

“… Is it, perhaps, because I’m not… her?”

The world, it seemed, fell quiet.

A deafening silence.

‘Her’, in truth, could be none other than she… Yet, still, anyone else. His hands wrung at his sides, his blunt nails finding their way to dig into the bed of his palms. If he once had considered himself masterful in disguising but a simple dip of his brow, then now – his eyes would be but windows for the lambent of emotions that flickered within his soul. Before a comment (a guess, an accusation) of his own could be made, however, Cynthia supplied him with his answer.

“You never had been this hesitant when you talked to that girl… When you told her all those lies and tried to get her on your side.”

His breath got lost in his throat as she turned, as she twisted her body so that she may stare up at him with those familiar, sultry eyes.

He felt a knot form within his stomach.

(A fox’s grin danced upon her lips.)

“Quite disgusting of you to have played with a little girl like that, don’t you think?”

When her hands, smaller than his, brushed their knuckles over the leg of his pants – up to his thigh, where they came to rest, sprawled and wide; Cyrus stood static and immobile, as though he was carved out of marble rather than flesh. And as she gently laid the glass of wine down onto the lawn, unconcerned of the blood red spillage upon it – raised onto the toes of her heels – and gripped at the buckle of his belt; Cyrus wondered if he still was that boy all those years back, who couldn’t for the life of him say no to a little bit of human contact…

“Didn’t you know that you could’ve played with me instead? I have never been anything short of willing…”

(What a repulsive, vile comparison she makes… As though his actions with her ever had been shrouded in perversion.)

What this knot that he felt was, was not one born out of lust; out of desire. No. For as he gazed down upon Cynthia – older than she once had been, filled out in all the ways that would set her outside the desired norm for a woman of Unova, yet no less the girl she once had been; when he looked down upon her now, he saw nothing but a woman with death painted lips.

A child’s blood, of whom she had once declared heroine.

His earthy, cold hands fell on top her feminine ones, and removed them from his person in one swift motion. The fact that she didn’t provide much resistance was perhaps a show enough of exactly how uncertain she truly had felt in her own chosen actions (fearing he would do something such as this, perhaps… A glimpse past the façade of unrivaled confidence and poise).

Had she been as she displayed herself to the world – unshakable, assertive and proud – then her hands most certainly would’ve fallen onto much more inappropriate places.

Places of which her eyes flickered to for but a split second, then traveled up to meet his very own; and if there ever had been a moment where one could say that the dearest champion looked like a child caught red-handed – then now certainly was the time.

“You were the one who played games with her, Cynthia.” His hands tightened where they held hers and a display of discomfort spread onto her features. “It was you who told her stories of heroism and it was you who promised that the world would be hers should she just give up her life in return. What I did was nothing but an attempt to get her away from the ledge that came to claim that same life and you-“

“Didn’t anyone tell you?” Came her hitched, shrill query. As though there was humor to the topic at hand – as though her death had been anything but tragic and immoral.

Cyrus choked on his words, his tongue thick within his mouth as though it was made out of cotton. His hands around her wrists were impossibly cold and, as he glanced down upon them; he found they carried a subtle, yet defined, shake.

(Calm yourself, Cyrus… Stay. Calm.)

Low within his throat, as his shaky hold shifted to grasp around her forearms, he aided in pulling her back onto her feet. “Don’t make a fool of yourself before your family like this. Stand.”

She easily did as was asked of her, allowing herself to be pulled up like a daughter lifted by her father; and though he attempted to push her away from his person so that she would stand on her own – she had different ideas. Slender, pale arms snaked their way over and around his broad shoulders. Her fingers, dancing at the nape of his neck where a patch of snow white spread. And as her chest pressed against his own, as her pelvis fell in tune with his; a repetition of her words whispered against his ear in a tone that almost bordered on that of… concern.

“Cyrus… Didn’t anyone tell you about her? That she came back?”

No.

No one had told him.  

---

They had found themselves huddled against the backside of the family home – overlooking rocks, a dried up creek and an abundance of ferns of which surely were littered with bugs and other such small critters. His right shoulder laid to rest against the worn wood paneling while her back did the exact same thing. Hunched, her arms folded beneath her chest and with her head titled away from his person. --Like this, she felt so much smaller compared to him… So much like they once had been.

What space they had earned, however, left little room for patience. His heart felt as though it was leaping directly within his throat; and he may as well have lost his words by the way he fumbled to find them.

In the end, he simply hissed them.

“… Why haven’t I heard about this until just now?”

She behaved as though she was but fifteen once more. Mousy, slouched and pouting with the entirety of her bottom lip. “You’re acting as though I deliberately kept it from you.”

“And you didn’t?”

“Of course I didn’t.”

He spat at her claim. “Do forgive me for not believing you, Cynthia. You haven’t exactly proven to be the most forthcoming when it comes to information of the past-”

A single painted finger bravely jabbed at his chest. “… Even if I had, it shouldn’t matter. You’re a criminal, Cyrus. A convicted felon that I saved from a life in prison and you should be fucking grateful that I’m even letting you know about that stupid girl-“

At midsummer’s eve, she had wanted nothing but for his hands to be upon her. She had wanted nothing but to feel the weight of them upon her flesh. But as Cyrus twisted where he stood, as he set his weight onto the palms of his hands just above her own two bare shoulders – as he trapped her between himself and the aged old wood of the Nechayev farm – she ended up wishing that she could be anywhere but. --Wishing that she wouldn’t be the target of his dismay, because she had never wanted for anything other than for the two of them to be good.

(Was that not why she had done what she had? Out of a twisted, self-fulfilling desire to claim him as her own once more?)

What accusation he had carried in his tone dilapidated into that of pure and honest anger. The corners of his lips, tightly drawn into a scowl while the bridge of his beaked nose brushed against her own – and he barked at her; scolded her.

“How dare you call the child you killed with your negligent promises stupid?”

Her own ire met his. “I told you already, she’s not dead.”

And so, silence fell. Save for the echo of crickets to be lost by morning light – save for the giggles of youth that spoke of crushes and first loves near the nest of human waste. --Save for the beating of their hearts, the mingling of their breaths.

And he, this time, was the one to break through the void.

“… Why now?” There was something raw to his throat. His words. A man like him – someone such as he shouldn’t speak as though he hurt. And, yet, he did. “Why tell me this now, am I no longer the despicable villain in the eyes of the world? Why?”

(He had thought he killed her twice over, for all these years.)

There was something unknown in his eyes.

Glassy.

Cynthia’s hand, for the first time that evening, hesitated. Paused to hover awkwardly at the curvature of his left shoulder. When he gave no inclination that he would retreat, shake her off or grow angry with her for touching him; she did exactly that.

His weight shifted to fall onto the length of his forearms.

“There’s… someone searching for her. And I thought, perhaps, that it had to do with you.” The confession was but a whispered breath – as though she knew, in her heart, that it was a claim without rhyme or reason. “I… realize now how stupid it sounds but I...”

If he felt he could’ve, then he would’ve laughed right at her. “You thought I would risk my parole to search for a dead girl?”

Luckily, Cynthia decided that she would do it for him. A hollow, soft sound; but a laugh nonetheless. And, perhaps, the most honest laugh that she ever had given him. “It wouldn’t have been your first otherworldly search…”

… He supposed that that would be a rightful claim to make.

She always had known, despite perhaps acting as though she hadn’t, that he had planned his actions since the tender age of seventeen. Perhaps not in full, perhaps not as defined and straight forward – but Cynthia had known. --When laid to share his boy room bed, with their fingers intertwined beneath the covers and beyond; he had told her that there were things in this world that he absolutely loathed. (She, in typical fashion, had wondered if she was a part of that ‘thing’ – to which an answer had not been given.) That there were people who deserved to live better than they did, yet could not; that there were people who did not deserve what they had, for they had done nothing in their lives but cause anguish to those around them.

He had told her that he wished to change the world from what it was, into something better.

And she had told him, between a tender touch of her palm to his cheek and a kiss placed upon his lips, that he was sick for having such thoughts in his mind. That to chase a dream such as that was to set oneself beyond reality; into insanity.

She had told him that he was insane.

And that she loved him for that fact. Because those not right, can be changed – and he was her own personal project.

And, perhaps he had been.

But if he had been insane, then she was equally so. To use a child in steed of your own prowess could not, or perhaps should not, be regarded as anything but exactly that. Insanity.

A disregard for human life for your own personal gain.

Even now, Cynthia saw what she did as but a minor slipup rather than the disgrace it had been. All proven by the fact that she still, even after so long, had the stomach to label the young girl as ‘stupid’.

(He wondered if she even could hear herself, the way that she spoke – or if she was willfully blind to her own personal faults.)

Strength returned to his limbs one by one. From resting all of his weight upon his own two forearms (his brow, almost flush against her own), to standing upright once more. And where his steps led him, was away from her. --Towards a creek that once had been.

He supposed that she had reason to worry of his involvement.

After all… There had been a promise made.

His hands fell to sit comfortably at the small of his back. His fingers, interlocked and settled - despite it all, he hadn’t changed all that much in these past three years.

(… Had she?)

Eventually, the one last lingering question bubbled to the frontlines. The end of the topic, the end of the conversation; all so that they could move on from whatever plane of existence they had come to find themselves upon.

“… Would I ever have known?”

Her voice was distant. Far. She hadn’t moved from where she rested against the chipped farmhouse exterior – nor had he expected that she would. She never had liked confrontations – at least not with him.

“… Known what?”

“If there hadn’t been someone seeking her out, if there hadn’t been a cause for concern in regards to my compliance of the rules… Would you ever have told me?” An hour of sunlight was, perhaps, what was left of the evening. In the creek before him, the singing of crickets already fell in tune. A familiar sound in all the wrong ways, of Kriketot’s and Kricketune’s lulling their young to sleep.

His hands wrung.

“… Would you ever have told me that she lived?”

Her answer was one that he hadn’t wished to hear, but had known to be the only real answer that she could give. --Because she always, always, had liked to keep him in the dark. Always had liked to lie, persuade and do whatever it would take to cause him the most harm.

So why would this have been any different?

“… No, I wouldn’t have.”

She would always be the same.

“I’m sorry, Cyrus.”

‘You’re not.’

---

The Nechayev was a family of great proportions, and its people held an even greater appetite for declared beverages of sin. During events such as Midsummer, it was typically accepted that every single member (save for, perhaps, the elderly – of which all had left hours prior) were to stay the night at whichever location the celebrations had been decided to take place upon that year.

(Last year, it had been set at a manor off the coast of Nimbasa City – and Cyrus distinctly remember having had to share a bed with an overtly drunk Nikita, where they had slept head-to-toe. --A memory that was, by all accounts, unpleasant…)

The farm was petite and quaint – and with barely half stuffed within its thin walls; they already pushed its tender limits. Therefore, some lucky few were left to either pitch tents of their own, or to sleep within the cars of which had brought them all there in the very first place.

This was the fate that himself and his ‘cousin’ had been afforded this time around – as it was for most of the men of the family.

The gentle rumbling of a car was a sensation that, as a young boy, always had been able to tire his restless self into deep and somber sleep. An oddity, though it may have been, for it had taken him until the age of five until he had able to properly fall sleep anywhere but against the swell of his mother’s breast.

Cars, however, had seemingly been a substitute of which had been equal in its soothing capabilities.

… So why was it, then, that he simply could not fall asleep?

For the first time in a long time, Cyrus felt… Restless. Despite the bright summer night, all that his eyes could truly see were the fuzzy, gray interior of their carpool vehicle while against his back – he felt the seats coarse fabric gnaw at his pinstripe shirt. To his left, curled up and slumbering like a young infant upon the reclined driver’s seat; Nikita laid – his knees, high against his chest while in the confined space, his bare feet bent awkwardly against the car’s side door. His mouth hung agape, displaying to the world teeth that were artificially whitened and pearly, yet still with the distinct speckles of unmined coal littered about in the back-most rows. --If he lulled his head back, then Cyrus could see that he wasn’t the only one awake, either.

Houndoom’s ruby gaze shone like headlights from their sockets, there in the trunk of their car.

… A thought came to him, then, that a mare may as well have been sat upon his chest – given the way he so relentlessly seemed to be fighting away any ounce of sleep that came his way. As though afraid that, should it claim him – then the vexing creature would crush the bones of which kept his heart caged. Just so that she may suffocate him, cause him concern; and give him exactly what it was that he deserved.

Perhaps it was simply that his mind was distorted by the memories of her – and nothing more.

They say guilt is a rope that wears thin, and his, it seemed, was at the point of breaking.

---

He had first met her at the brink of the winter, a few days past her twelfth birthday, at the lake embedded within the forests of which almost swallowed her small home town whole. To her eyes – and surely, to the boy whom had been at her side – he would’ve appeared as someone ominous. Someone untouchable, towering… Cold.

Yet he could remember how she eventually had come to reach for his hand to hold upon their very next meeting.

As though he was someone dear, and not a stranger.

(Perhaps he never had been as frightening as he had thought himself to have be.)  

---

Cyrus sat up, and for the first time realized that though the sun had long since been replaced by the moon; the heat of summer still lingered. His wear felt clammy and warm, his hands equally so – and it was with sweat upon his palms that he reached for the window lever to roll it all the way down.

It took him three deep breaths to realize that somewhere far within himself, his heart was beating painfully hard. One, for his worn hands to palm at the collar of his shirt and, in turn, break the button of which pinned it closed over his throat.

Breathing, then, felt but a little bit easier.

Over his shoulder, he heard the shuffling of weight and by a glance towards the rearview mirror, he caught sight of the hound standing as tall as he could within the meager, confined space. With grace unbefitting his stature; Houndoom traversed over and onto the backseats to plant himself firmly upon them.

His muzzle felt wet and cold as it pressed against the shell of his ear, despite the wildfire of which festered within the dogs barrel chest.

“… Are you being disobedient, Sir?” He softly asked, a brow jutted and raised in mock question. His head turned and his nose came to settle against the dog’s short, dark coat while quietly to himself, Cyrus could admit that the sensation was somewhat ticklish.

Houndoom huffed.

---

He once had told her that if someone ever asked her if she was afraid – and her answer were to be a clear ringing yes – that she should tell them exactly that. Admit that she was terrified, that she was afraid… And that she hoped that things would just turn out okay. --This had been advice, however, of which he never ended up allowing for her to properly put to use. For though he never had thought himself to have been a man capable of causing such harm and she, most likely, had thought so as well; in the end, it was he whom had put her into fatal dangers way.

They had faced off like the caricatures that they were in Veilstone – the Hero against the Villain, and his true colors had come through. The ugly, frightened part of himself who had seen the possibility of his work being torn from his hands by that of a young little girl.

Had she been able to ask him the question back then – “Are you afraid, Cyrus?” – then his true and honest answer, as one by one she brought down the creatures he himself had never trained, as she beat his work (his dreams) beneath the earths rotten soil; Cyrus would’ve told her that yes.

He was afraid.

Terrified.

And that he had hoped that things would turn out okay.

She never had asked him that question (and why, truly, would she have?)… Just as much as he never asked her what she had felt, when he had sent the agape jaws of his hound at her to tear out the insides of her thin, tender throat.

He had not asked her, then, if she had feared him.

If she had feared for her life.

---

He gazed into the darkness beneath half-mast lids.

“… You would’ve done it, wouldn’t you Houndoom?” His words felt quiet and foreign, and as he turned in his seat to sink low within it; his arms crossed, and his feet settled upon the glove compartment box. If he was accusatory, then he cared not – he knew deep down that had he not been the one to have given him the command, then the hound would’ve stayed seated at his feet all those years back.

Still, he felt he simply had to ask: “You would’ve killed her, that girl. Without a second thought.”

As though there ever would be an answer to be found.

---

(She would’ve told him that she had been afraid. Terrified. And that she had felt as though things wouldn’t have turned out okay.)

---

Houndoom’s head was heavy against his shoulder, but no words left him. No matter how much Cyrus may have wished for him to have explain away his own personal faults. --What a stupid desire to have.

Out past the windshield, just above the line of which designated a cracked within the glass from where a pebbled had been carelessly tossed, the serene landscape rolled into misty, cold hills. The suns tangerine glow would not arrive for another hour still, perhaps two, and in a world within himself, Cyrus recalled that she – Hikari – once had said that she enjoyed the taste that the mist oftentimes brought forth. It had been a display of which had put forth just how childish she still had been back then, despite having fallen into her earliest teenage years.

She had wandered across logs and into shallow pools of water with her arms held out as wings at her sides, and she had asked him if he could hold her hand to make sure that she would not fall.

Her tongue, half stuck out past glossy, stained lips.

Quietly, with but his hound as witness; Cyrus laughed. A laugh of which brought a shake to his shoulders and rattled the lungs hidden within his breast. A laugh of which was dry, just as well as wet – a laugh at the notion that the girl he had thought he killed was alive somewhere there in the world, and he hadn’t known. --Hadn’t been allowed to know…

His eyes trailed from the outside world, to where his sock-clad feet were set. The compartment box of which housed anything but gloves, but rather knickknacks and stuffed out fags of which Alexandra shamefully hid from the world.

There were many things of which Cyrus no longer was allowed to do. Many things of which he no longer was allowed to partake in, nor indulge within. As far as punishments went, he knew that he had gotten away with matters that were – in truth – unforgivable.

He had stolen and harvested recourses that had not been for his taking. He had destroyed an eco-system for his own personal gains.

He had attempted to rid the world of its life, with the miniscule and uncertain possibility of being able to rebuild it once more.  

He unraveled where he sat, and fingered at the clasp of which kept the treasures of the glovebox from his sight.

… Did he believe in it, still? That he would’ve been God in place of Him. Did he believe, still, that he did it out of love – rather than a sense of vengeance and hate?

He had once told her that to lie was the foulest of sins that someone could commit – and liars, no matter what, could not and should not be trusted. Yet, he supposed; he had lied to her still. --Had expressed that he never, ever, would be able to hurt her. That she could trust him, unlike Cynthia, on this path that she had found herself upon.

He had lied and told her that he was going to create a better world, when he had had no knowledge of if such a thing was even possible.

With a click, the drawer fell open and alongside it came droves of paper and pens, burned out cigarettes and empty gum containers. All of which gathered at his feet, within his lap or wherever else there was room to fill. Rather than clean after himself, however, Cyrus rummaged. Sought a pen whose nub was not broken and gone; sought a piece of paper of which wasn’t already scribbled upon and destroyed.

Houndoom whined behind him, while Nikita quietly snored.

There were many things of which Cyrus no longer was allowed to do. Many things of which he no longer was allowed to partake in, nor indulge within.

There were many rules of which he had been asked to follow, and in turn he would be granted his greatest wish. --He would be able to go back home.

---

Seated almost hip to hip on a hill stained by painter’s hands, she had once asked him;

“Do you think I will grow to be just as big as you?”

And he had pondered for a moment, eyes of which almost were a mimicry of her own dancing over the height of her childish cheeks and bug-like gaze. She truly had been nothing but a child, way back then. “You can grow in many different ways, Hikari. I am simply… tall.”

Such answers never were satisfactory to children, although she had seemed to muse over it all for a moment in time. Her lips, gnawed at by her teeth while her fingers had played with her off-white scarf.

(He had wondered when it was last that she gave it a good wash.)

---

What he sought, he eventually found; and wasn’t that just typical of Cyrus Akagi? Without taking care of the mess of which he had made, he slammed the compartment box close in one swift motion. One that rattled the inhabitants of the vehicle, yet did not awake those who slept. (And thank the Gods for that…)

With pen and paper in hand, Cyrus stared blankly at the sheet of white. Like freshly laid snow within summer time, far up north where the sun no longer settled and the tips of the trees were left bare. --His throat felt thick. Dry.

He hadn’t felt this way since he was but a child.

… Indeed, there were many rules of which Cyrus had been asked to follow in return for his greatest desire. To not seek out the faith of which had fostered his entire being from the day that he turned three – to the people of which he called mother and father.

Cyrus had been asked to never, ever, seek to contact anyone from his past until his Time. Was. Up.

---

“… But, do you think?”

Cyrus hadn’t lied to her. Had spoken nothing but the truth, with the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the strings his cheeks.

“… No, I don’t think you will.”

---

And yet, as he braced the led tip of his pencil against the pale, unmarred paper; the thought of consequences evaporated out of his fingertips like water off a ducks back.

And so, he begun to write:

‘How tall are you now, Hikari? ...’

[mrs-theirin]

♫ + Alistair!

warriors by imagine dragons!

for one, uh POWERFUL VIBES MUCH? this song very much gives me alistair preparing for the final battle vibes. he’s come so far and nothing will stop them from losing. they can’t.

two, it talks about humble beginnings, and i can only imagine alistair in those stables (eamon eat shit challenge) and imagining how much good he could do.

three, farewell, i’ve gone to take my throne above / but don’t weep for me / cause this will be / the labor of my love - like??? i mean regardless of whether you make him king or keep him as a warden, he takes a “throne” either way, one that keeps him away from the action, and i just think that’s so cool. plus it hits harder if you make him king because everyone knows he doesn’t want to be king, so “don’t weep for me” HITS.

send me a ♫ + a character or ship and i’ll share a song associated with them!