#flower-draped coffin

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

This cartoon drawn in the 1970s recalls the epidemic of 1878. A skeleton—“Yellow Jack”—escorts a bride past a flower-draped coffin in which the same bride is lying. This illustrates the story of Elizabeth Jane Stafford, a young Mississippi woman who came to New Orleans to be fitted for her wedding gown. During her stay, Stafford contracted yellow fever and died twelve days before her wedding was to have taken place

[banj0possum]

could you ever try writing a poly between 3 vampires and male reader? like, reader is a painter and the vampires ask him to paint them something while in their house, and is just.. evolves. sorry if it doesn't make sense

Love Bites

Poly!Vampires x Male!Painter!Reader

CW: implied kidnapping, murder, implied vampirism

holy shit this is like one of the chillest fics ive made so far :0 anyways enjoy the funny vampire men !!

🌙 You always had a knack for finding beauty in everything, from the calming dance of raindrops amongst the smell of petrichor or the lovely reds and oranges of the fall when the leaves withered.

🌙 It was very handy considering what you did for fun.

🌙 You loved to paint, anything and everything you saw was inspiration for you. After a long day of delivering bread and pastries to the people in your village from your bakery, you would run up to your room and continue on the latest masterpiece you were working on.

🌙 Everyone in the village loved your work, many of them paying you for a painting of their own.

🌙 Life was simple and calm, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

🌙 But life decided fuck that bullshit.

🌙 Rumors and whispers filled the streets of the town, it wasn't like the usual talk like someone's daughter getting married or the like, it was much more...unusual.

🌙 News spread from neighboring towns of coffins being found unearthed and opened, shadowy figures roaming around in the late hours of the night, and bodies being found in the morning, drained from their blood.

🌙 It was a terrifying thought, but you didn't dwell upon it, you weren't the type to believe such rumors so easily, and yet a feeling of uneasiness lingered within your soul.

🌙 Your town was no longer the vibrant, happy place it once was before. Windows that once had lovely flowers and laundry lines hung on them were shut day and night, the busy streets you once traversed were covered in a gloomy fog. It really was like an evil has brought itself to your home.

🌙 Or should I say evils?

🌙 In the midst of all the tension, 3 men came to your town. Eccentric was an understatement when describing them, it was like the horrors and whispers of death and murder didn't faze them a bit.

🌙 Even so, you were happy to see something other than terrified faces and panicked expressions.

🌙 You greeted them politely during a cloudy day and noticed how covered they were. One had a large hat on, the other draped in a black cloak and the last holding a parasol that shrouded him in darkness.

🌙 "Good afternoon to you too, me and my friends here are just visiting this quaint little village, how uhm...calm..it is here..hah.."

🌙 The cloaked one chuckled whilst looking to the empty streets.

🌙 "My, my! Aren't you that famous painter I've been hearing about! I'd love to get a painting done from you, but it seems everyone here is quite busy with other things.." says the one in the hat.

🌙 "Oh no! I'd love to paint for you! Come, let's talk more in my bakery. Painting is more of a secondary job for me." You guide the men to your home as you hear the cawing of crows overhead.

🌙 Days pass and you grow closer to the men. You learned that their names were Viktor, Garrick and Silas.

🌙 Viktor had long, silky hair the color of raven's feathers. His eyes shone like two rubies in the dim light of the lanterns you lit around the house. He wore a black cape which hid a wine-red vest.

🌙 He was a gentleman and had a love for poetry. He would recite his favorites to you as you painted next to him. One interesting thing you learned was that he's scared of mice. 'Dreadful things' he calls them, you found it quite adorable once when you two were talking and he suddenly squealed and pulled his feet up at the sight of a small mouse crawling passed your floors. His face, although still as pale as the moon, turned into a light red.

🌙 Garrick had messy, dark hair. His fingers were always adorned with golden rings, and he wore a somewhat stained white, ruffled shirt, you can't tell what it's stained with though. His eyes were a deep purple, one of them covered by his locks. He was unusually flirtatious with you. You joked how he should be courting women, not a baker's son such as yourself, but he whined and cooed how irresistible you were to him, why wouldn't he be interested in a boy like you!

🌙 Silas is a bit darker skinned than the others, who were unusually pale. he had round black glasses and silver hair under a dark hat. Over his shoulders draped a coat, you weren't able to decipher what he kept under it, only that they were vials of strange substances. His eyes were the color of amber, like the hues of leaves that fell in the autumn. Rather shy, he was, always looking away from your eyes whenever he talked with you. He had an interest in flowers, always handing you one whenever he visited for inspiration purposes of course...

🌙 You wouldn't notice it at first, but they've gotten quite a liking to you, protective even. They would always check up on you, if you've been eating, who you've talked to today, things like that.

🌙 It was only until they scared off a young lady for making small talk with you that you started to notice something was off about them.

🌙 When you heard the next day her body was found dead with bite marks on her neck and drained of her blood, you started to worry.

🌙 You started avoided them after that, making excuses to not invite them over to your bakery, walking the other way the moment you see them down the street. They noticed your strange behavior towards them and knew something was wrong with you.

🌙 They didn't buy your silly act at all...

🌙 "You just had to leave the body there, didn't you?!"

🌙 "What? It's fun seeing them all scared and panicky!"

🌙 "Hahah yes but uhm...there's no food out anymore..."

🌙 You heard their voices by your door during the late hours of the night. The feeling that your new friends were not what they seem festered in your mind, but your kind nature overrode your fear and you opened your door.

🌙 "Hey! It's dangerous out there! Do you want to be gutted or something?"

🌙 The 3 of them were walking along the moonlit streets when they heard your voice.

🌙 "A-Ah! Yes! Uhm...of course, excuse us, we just came back from uh..."

🌙 "A pub-"

🌙 "A pub! Yes! And we've somehow lost our way! Could you, by chance, let us stay the night? Our inn is particularly far you see.."

🌙 You unlocked your door and let the 3 gentlemen in, going to the kitchen to warm up some bread and tea for them.

🌙 "Make yourselves at home! Apologies for the mess, I been really busy lately..." you say sweetly. Viktor nods with a smile and they all sit down, whispering softly amongst one another.

🌙 As you wait for the tea to warm, you get a good look at the 3 men.

🌙 Pale skin, pointed ears, not to mention their eyes, they have to be. You had to stop yourself from gasping when Garrick laughed, revealing his sharp fangs. Fear bubbled in your stomach once more until you heard the whistle of your kettle.

🌙 After giving them their tea, you feigned a yawn and told them you were off to bed, giving directions to the spare quarters before going in your room and waiting by your door for any sounds, grabbing a broken paintbrush you accidentally snapped, a makeshift wooden stake..

🌙 You then hear the men climbing the stairs, a conversation being exchanged between them.

🌙 "Shame we must drink from him now, he was such a darling though.."

🌙 "Oh, but I believe I'm quite well off with those wonderful treats he offered us. It's a mystery how someone as wonderful as him isn' married yet..."

🌙 "Unfortunate as it is, I don't think it would be in our best interest if the boy lives.."

🌙 Your heart pounded faster as you heard them talk about you. Your hunch was true, these men are the demons that have ravaged your town. You scrambled to your bed as you hear them walk to your room.

🌙 Your door creaks open as you grip your blanket tight. Footsteps approach you as you feel a dip in the bed.

🌙 "I can hear your cute little heartbeat darling~ I know you're awake~" You hear Viktor purr, tears start to well up in your eyes as they open.

🌙 A hand caresses your cheek and brushes your hair away from your face. You brace yourself as you feel Viktor's cold breath near your neck. You dare not move lest the beast lying next to you devour you whole.

🌙 "Do we have to Viktor?" You hear Silas say in a sorrowful tone.

🌙 "I'm with Silas with this one, why can't we just..I don't know, bring him with us?"

🌙 Viktor pulls back as he pauses for a moment. You could hear the smirk on his face when he chuckles. "Actually, that's not a bad idea Garrick.."

🌙 The next morning, the townspeople saw that your front door was wide open, a window or two was broken and paintings that hung on every wall was gone. There was no sign of you. The only thing that remained was a stain of blood on your bed and claw marks on the walls of your bedroom...

oOOoOooooOo cliffhanger or whatever :00000 part 2 soon !! sorry this one took so long, i had a hard time with the story and such..

And as usual, gay men doodles <3

[etfrin]

❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter six | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 SFW | mentions of death, Coriolanus, Dr. Gaul, some parts of this chapter are directly taken from the original book!

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 Arachnes' funeral, Coriolanus and you bonding on the rooftop <3

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 hello! Chapter six!! This was finished quickly because some of the paragraphs and quotes are directly from the books and we're finally peeling the layers that reader has, how we feeling about that?

Beta read by the SUN @nowitsmissing

series masterlist | navigation

It was time for Arachnes' funeral. Although it was Saturday, the entire student body reported to homeroom before they assembled on the front steps of the Academy, divided neatly and alphabetically by class. By his assignment, Coriolanus and you found themselves in the front row with faculty and distinguished guests, first and foremost President Ravinstill.

The Academy and the surrounding buildings were festooned with funereal banners and sported Capitol flags in every window. Numerous cameras were positioned to record the event, and multiple Capitol TV reporters streamed live commentary. Coriolanus thought it was quite a display for Arachne, disproportionate to both her life and death, the latter of which could have been avoided if she’d refrained from being such an exhibitionist.

Both Coriolanus and you were wearing black suits with a symbol of Panem embroidered on the suit pocket. Coriolanus was made to sing in front of everyone. It was thanks to his grandma’am and her rules that he sailed through all the notes with a breeze. He received applause from the crowd and an approving nod from the president. He sat down again beside you.

Neither of you had spoken to each other other than the greetings. He hated to admit it but it made him jumpy. He wanted to hear you say something, anything, especially with the fact you had the upper hand with Dr. Gaul with the act you have planned for the funeral. It was impressive despite the initial horror he felt reading it. It was a strategy that would work perfectly with the times.

Now it was time for the show.

The president, who now took the podium, began, “Two days ago, Arachne Crane’s young and precious life was ended, and so we mourn another victim of the criminal rebellion that yet besieges us,” the president intoned. “Her death was as valiant as any on the battlefield, her loss more profound as we claim to be at peace. But no peace will exist while this disease eats away at all that is good and noble in our country. Today we honor her sacrifice with a reminder that while evil exists, it does not prevail. And once again, we bear witness as our great Capitol brings justice to Panem.”

The drums began a slow, deep boom, and the crowd turned as the funeral procession rounded a corner onto the street. Although not as wide as the Corso, Scholars Road easily held the honor guard of Peacekeepers, standing shoulder to shoulder, twenty wide and forty deep, that stepped in flawless uniformity to the rhythm of the drums.

Behind the Peacekeepers came a long flatbed truck with a crane affixed to it. High in the air, the bullet-ridden body of the District 10 girl, Brandy, dangled from its hook. Shackled to the truck bed, looking utterly filthy and defeated, were the remaining twenty-three tributes. The length of their restraints made it impossible to stand, so they either crouched or sat on the bare metal floor. This was just another chance to remind the districts that they were inferior and that there would be repercussions for their resistance.

Another battalion of Peacekeepers followed the tributes, paving the way for a quartet of horses. They were decked in garlands and pulled an ornate wagon with a pure white coffin draped in flowers. Behind the coffin came the Cranes, riding in a horse-drawn chariot. At least her family had the decency to look uncomfortable. The procession halted when the coffin drew up in front of the podium.

Dr. Gaul, who’d been sitting next to the president, approached the mic. Coriolanus thought it was a mistake to let her speak at such a moment, but she must have left the crazy lady and her pink snake bracelets at home because she spoke with a stern and intelligent clarity. “Arachne Crane, we, your fellow citizens of Panem, vow that your death will not be in vain. When one of ours is hit, we hit back twice as hard. The Hunger Games will go forward, with more energy and commitment than ever before, as we add your name to the long list of the innocent who died defending a righteous and just land. Your friends, family, and fellow citizens salute you and dedicate the Tenth Hunger Games to your memory.”

He hated how impressed he was about the fact all of this was your idea. How much he felt proud of you that you managed to spin this around for the Capitols' benefit. He turned to you, on the tip of his tongue a congratulations resting but you were looking down on the ground as if trying to keep yourself from getting sick. Coriolanus found himself shockingly concerned.

“Are you okay?” He whispered.

“As good as I can be,” you seem to choke out before getting out of your seat and leaving the funeral early. Coriolanus looks around and realizes he won't be missed if he leaves either so he follows you inside the academy. You move around the hall without knowing he is trailing you. And then both of you soon reach the roof, forbidden but who cares? He doubted Dean Highbottom could give him any sort of punishment during a funeral, it wouldn't look good.

“What's wrong?” He asked, worried. His face was etched in a frown. What was there to be sad about? You made it pretty clear that you weren't mourning Arachne Cranes’ death. Was it something else?

“I didn't think she would do it,” you said, turning around to face him. Your eyes filled with tears. “It was a joke. A cruel joke of turning her into the rotten spectacle she always was. I didn't think- think-”

You were so contradicting. It was confusing to him. “But you said everything you wrote was for Panem,” he said, his confusion sweeping in his voice and his eyes.

You scoffed, “Would you rather have me admit it was because I wanted to be a bitch? Because… that was me being dramatic, I didn't expect it to be reality. It was disgusting. It was cruel. It came from my head.”

A sob escapes your lips and it makes Coriolanus frown harder, feeling irritated by you. He clenched his jaw before calming himself down. He walked towards you, standing right near you.

He said, “Real or not?” Because you were a performer, in a different way from Lucy Gray but a performer nonetheless. He needed to know if this was fake or not.

You furrow your eyebrows before realizing his question. You wiped away the tears that fell, trying to stop yourself from grinning. You failed, an amused snort leaving your lips.

“Not,” you answered, truthfully. “Let's just say I was practicing for the after-party.”

Coriolanus nodded, despite his mind being overwhelmed. Was it bad that he thought it was hot how easily you switched faces? And he loved how he could now see through your sweet persona and the real you, his soulmate. He couldn't blame you for being like a snake as he one himself, but he was stunned at how you had fooled him for the past eight years as well.

“Perhaps I should too,” he replied, now with a smile.

“Was that obvious?” You pouted, “I thought my acting had gotten better.”

Coriolanus chuckled, “Oh no. It was impeccable. But you said you were a performer after all. That's how I figured it out.”

You nod in reply. A comfortable silence falls as both of you look all over the Capitol. The sun was shining brightly over the roof and Coriolanus could feel the heat. He took his suit.

“I am glad,” you begin to speak, taking Coriolanus' attention away from the sky. “That you know when I am acting… it makes me feel better that at least you get a show. That you now know… when I am performing or not.”

Coriolanus Snow doesn't know how to reply to that, especially with how his heart skipped a beat from your words.

You grin at him, your shoulder nudging his shoulder. “I am glad to somewhat call you my first real friend, Coriolanus.”

“Why did you come to the roof?” He asked, instead, changing the topic. Too much was changing for him, too soon. He was your friend now? What a… He liked it. He lets himself admit that he liked being your first friend. You were different from your district blood, and you were better than most Academy students too.

“I needed a time out,” you said, “I can't believe they called Arachne a hero” You rolled your eyes, “If she's a hero, Dr. Gaul is a saint and Dean Highbottom is not high.”

He lets out a laugh at your words. “Maybe her gravestone could read, ‘Casualty of cheap laughs.’”

You laugh out loud too, and he wanted to bottle the sound, hide it from the world. Because who else was deserving of your laughter if not him?

“Come on,” he said, his hand holding your arm before it slid down to hold your hand. He barely hides the pathetic sound that escaped when you interlocked his fingers with yours. Both of you acknowledge something to each other.

“We need to head to the interview soon.”

NEXT PART

[painted-flag]

OF FLOWERS AND DEATH - Aemond Targaryen

Chapter 3: A Study in Death

☾⋆⁺₊✧ dark elf!Aemond Targaryen x f!human!reader series. ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series masterlist. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ word count: 3.2k ✧₊⁺⋆☾ series warnings: 18+ depictions of violence/gore, eventual smut, warfare, sickness/disease, some moments of misogyny, and mentions of alcohol consumption. ☾⋆⁺₊✧ you begin to settle into your new position in the kingdom and forge tentative friendships.

It was disorienting, waking up in another bed. You had been shown to your room by Helaeana before she went off to sleep herself and it had taken hours for your mind to calm down enough to sleep. Your room was at ground level and made from the same combination of roots and black stone as the rest of the castle. It was larger than your entire home combined. There was a main living space with the most comfortable furniture you had ever sat in. It was all nature-oriented, with hues of green being the preferred choice of colour for decoration. 

The living space was separated by a rise in the floor by a few steps, where your bed was placed horizontally next to a wide set of windows. A desk was placed in front of the windows, along with a bookshelf next to it. There were few books, but you knew with the items you packed it would fill up a good portion of space. Your view was of the palace gardens, where plants and flowers of all types bloomed even under the dark cover of the elder trees. 

Your bed was four posters made of dark oak, all intricately carved in forest imagery. Sheer white fabric draped down on all ends, cocooning you in. Your sleep came slowly as you had tossed and turned for hours the night before. You were in a strange land, surrounded by strange people, with a king who clearly did not like you and had a penchant for killing those he disliked. Naturally, calm had not come to you. 

You had been in a state of being between sleep and awake when soft rapping sounded on your door. Your eyes shot open and you looked around your room. You scrambled out of the silken sheets of your bed and stood in the room, unsure of what to do. You were in a nightrobe that had been given to you, its gentle caress of fabric brushed against your skin. 

“C-come in.” You called out. The door opened and two elves walked in. One who stood on the right was dressed in a light powder pink dress of fine silk with sheer fabric on top that complimented her brown skin with cool undertones. The pink gown had gold embellishments that matched the jewelry draped from her ears and neck. The pink jewel that rested between her collarbones reflected the low lights of your room. Her hair was pin straight and decorated with gold ornaments in waterfall braids that formed a low crown on her head. 

Her companion was dressed in lavender, which happened to be the same style as the pink one. Her pale skin was littered with light and dark freckles that looked like the shimmering fireflies that occupied the grounds outside. Her hair was not done up like her friend's but was curly and a deep amber like the honey you would buy from the market back home. 

You knew there was no getting used to the awe-inspiring looks of the elves. A year here or not, each time meeting one would come with a moment of shock you were sure not to get used to. 

The red-haired one stepped forward, “Good morrow. I’m Amara and this is Liriel,” She gestured to her companion, “We’re to be your handmaids for the time you are here.” 

“Handmaids?” You questioned. You did not think, other than the lodgings you were given, that any other kindness would be extended your way. 

The other elleth pitched in, “We are here to fetch things you need, get you ready in the mornings, and provide company.” That was the nail in the coffin for you. They would provide company for you, a kinder way of saying that everything you did and said was being watched and would be reported to the king. This was Aemond’s way of exerting even more control over you. It was not surprising in the least, but it still made you uncomfortable. 

Another servant stepped through with a silver tray of food; breads, fruits, and cheeses. Your stomach made a slight noise and you became painfully aware of how long it had been since you last ate. The tray was placed down on the table and next to a clear glass pitcher full of water and some matching glass chalices. You moved to inspect the food while Amara and Liriel sat down on one of the couches. They gestured for you to join them and you did, choosing a spot on a chair positioned across from them. 

“Once you’re finished eating, we can get you ready for the day,” Liriel spoke. She shifted her gaze to the large dark oak wardrobe resting against the wall behind you. You had opened it last night to see dozens of fine dresses in a variety of colours and sizes, obviously planned to try and fit the needs of any random guest. However, you doubted the word guest could accurately describe your situation - a prisoner with special privileges felt more like it. 

“Oh! I cannot wait to style your hair. I’ve never done a human’s before.” Amara smiled as she reached out to pluck a cherry from the tray. You were resigned to eating in silence while the two elves chatted away, talking about what it is like to live in the castle. You paid attention but were also focused on the underlying message in your conversation with them. While you had yet to meet many elves, there was always a secret unspoken point when they spoke to you. 

The aspect of your humanness was treated like an oddity. It was something rare and unique to gawk at for a moment before one would become bored and disregard it. You believed yourself to be nothing more than an object displayed on a shelf; meant for entertainment and nothing more. 

You plopped a piece of cheese in your mouth and despite it being delicious, your thoughts bittered the taste.

It had taken an hour for Amara and Liriel to get you ready for the day. Each of them fretted over different aspects of your style, conversing with one another on colours, hues, styles, and jewelry. You had spoken to them many times that you cared little for your own presentation and that you were here on one mission alone; find a cure for the taint. There was no time to fuss over what complimented your undertones or how one particular fabric pattern suited you more than the other. However, you knew putting up a fight and resisting would be pointless and resigned yourself to becoming a doll they could dress up. 

Their intentions were good, but you regretted it the moment you left your room and began to be escorted down the hall. Other elves passed, all servants or members of the court, and they gawked at you. The elvish clothing on you felt wrong and you occasionally tugged on the ends of your sleeves with nervousness. You felt inadequate in any way and just wished to go back to your work, for that was what you could do well. 

You happen upon a set of two doors, not as large as the ones at the grand hall, but still detailed enough that you appreciated the craftmanship. The two guards that had walked you from your room each grabbed a handle and opened it. Inside you could see a large study. Shelves were lined with countless vials, boxes, and chests filled with more ingredients than you knew existed. It was the most exquisite laboratory you had ever seen.  

A door on one of the far ends opened and an elf walked in. He had short silver hair that hung down just past the bottoms of his ears in whisps. He was dressed in dark trousers with high boots. His doublet was made of an emerald-coloured fabric with metal embellishments. His stature was thin but built, and he appeared to be just a few inches taller than you. Surprisingly so, he looked to be a young elf.

“Ah, I’ve been expecting you,” He spoke. The elf waved off the guards, “You can stay posted outside, I can take her from here.” 

He placed down a box he brought in on one of the many tables. His gaze swept over some brewing vials and adjusted some of the fires below them. 

“I am Daeron, the head healer and potions master. I must admit, my sister Helaena did not tell me much about your research, other than the fact that you have been studying the taint.” His eyes, the same shade of blue as Helaena and Aemond, caught yours. He subtly smiled to reassure you, as you had stayed rooted in your spot with your arms wrapped around your stomach. 

“Yes, your grace. I have experience studying the taint’s effects on the land. I am also a healer.” You stepped forward and lowered your hold, letting your arms hang at your sides. 

“That’s good,” Daeron stopped his work and straightened his back, “I’ll take you on a tour and fill you in on what we know.” He gestured for you to follow him and the two of you walked side by side to one of the two doors at the back of the laboratory. Daeron opened it for you and let you walk in first. 

While the grand hall with the throne impressed you, this room far exceeded it. It could not truly be called a room, for it was a vast tower that went up as far as you could see. The walls were covered in bookshelves overflowing with texts. In the centre of the tower was a large open fireplace with a low flame. Around it were a bunch of tables with chairs. 

“This is the library, well, one of them at least. This one concerns all the information we would need regarding medicine, plants, and magic,” Daeron began as he walked around the space, his footsteps echoed off the cold stone floor, “You will find all kinds of languages here, but we have translators should you need them.” He moved back towards the door to walk back to the laboratory, but you hung back for a moment, eyes still scanning the vast array of scrolls and tomes. 

You turned back around to follow Daeron. He led you through the other door that opened up to a grand hall full of elves in sick beds. Other healers were moving about between the patients, offering medicine and comfort. The sounds of murmurs and coughing flooded the room. 

“This place was an old feasting hall, but we converted it to house the influx of sick patients. While we have a decent understanding of the taint’s effects on plant life, the effects on the body are… different to all previous knowledge we have.” Daeron walked down the centre aisle at the foot of all the beds and you followed. 

“I know it spreads through cuts and other openings of the body,” You added while glancing at all the sick people as you pass by, “Truly my expertise remains with the taint's effect on nature, not the body. I have only met a few people who were afflicted by it and only for a moment.” 

Daeron nodded and stood in front of a long white sheet that sectioned off a part of the hall, “Then I must warn you about what you are about to see, it is not pleasant.” He opened the curtain and walked in, holding it so you could pass through. On the other side were more patients, however, they did not look like the ones you passed. The ones you passed were sick with a common fever, coughing and sweaty, but the ones here had visual effects on their body. 

Wounded elves lay in their beds, most asleep, while the ones who were awake acted caught in a perpetual hell. Their skin looked like glass, shiny under thick covers of sweat but had marked cracks as though it was the bed of a dried lake. There was a dark purple, almost black tint on different areas of each person’s body with their veins protruding to the surface. Some were coughing up blood onto rags as their body convulsed. The sight was grim and you had to suck in a breath to refrain from displaying any signs of discomfort. 

“It burns through the body quickly in some cases, eventually rendering them immobile in some limbs. It occurs at different rates as well. No remedies for pain or other ailments even aid in pain relief.” Daeron turned to you and leaned in, lowering his voice so the others could not hear, “The people in this section have no more than a day or two before they pass. At this stage, all they can do is wait.” 

You looked around at the elves, despair rolling over you in waves. It was one thing to hear of the taint killing but to see it was something else entirely. It was an incredibly sad sight, to watch the life be horribly drained from people that did not deserve it. You and Daeron continued on as he began to name patients and how they got infected. Most were injured while inspecting the taint, others approached because they did not know what it was and suffered the consequences of curiosity. 

“Have you tried moonweed? I’ve seen it make surprising effects on the taint I experiment on back home.” You proposed. Daeron turned to you and thought for a moment. 

“Moonweed is a poison,” Daeron stated. 

You nodded, “Yes, but it is known that some poisons can be used to counteract others. I tried it in an experiment once. Tainted flowers began to grow alive again, but it did not last.” You were solemn by your failed experiment just the day prior. You truly believed it had worked, but when the life faded away and the taint took over again you felt a part of yourself go with it. 

Daeron walked closer to you, awe in his eyes as his hands went up to rest on your shoulders, “Are you being truthful? It really receded?” 

“Well, yes, but only for a moment,” You undermined your work, still reeling from the colossal failure. 

“Genius!” Daeron began. He started to walk away from you towards the exit of this area of the sick ward, “None of our healers have yet to accomplish that. You must go over it with me in the laboratory. What a feat!” His steps had renewed vigour at your words. You got the sense that this was an elf with an intense passion for his study, bordering on obsession by his reaction to your words. 

“Genius for a human, right?” You did not mean to say that as loudly as you did, but it had been feelings simmering under the surface the whole time you had been in the elven kingdom. Whenever people talked to you, their compliments always felt backhanded; as though a human was unworthy of such praise but received it otherwise. 

Daeron looked at you with an eyebrow raised, confused that you would ask such a question, “No. Just genius.” As he walked away, you paused for a moment. Your heart swelled at the compliment and you knew that hopefully, you would be making another friend in this place; anything that could make your stay here better. 

You sped up your walking to catch up with Daeron and walked with him to the laboratory, where the two of you spent the following hours swapping notes and other bits of information. The two of you had to catch up on what the other knew, as being on the same page was crucial. 

The time between you and Daeron passed swiftly. Despite the topic being grim, it felt nice to share information with someone just as deeply invested in the same study as you. His passion for healing was much like yours, though his talent for potion-making far exceeded your skills. The two of you spent hours in the laboratory, bouncing ideas back and forth and scanning through books. 

Over that time, your conversation had managed to move into topics that were not strictly work-related. You had gotten to know Daeron beyond that of the role of head healer. He had an interest in horse breeding and animal care. He had a plethora of pets, including some cats, dogs, an owl, and two ferrets. You had instantly seen a resemblance between him and Helaena, as she had an interest in collecting insects. Your thoughts drifted to Aemond and if he collected anything like his siblings. 

Your feet pattered against the stone hallway as two guards walked in front of you. It was as if your thoughts summoned Aemond himself, for at the end of the hallway he turned down to walk by you. His shoulders swayed with the movement of his gait. His lithe figure was tall and lean. He wore a similar outfit to the one you saw yesterday, all dark leather. His longsword was strapped to his waist and moved back and forth with his steps. His hair was done in the same style of half up and half down. 

The elf king was the most exquisite being you had ever seen, but his reputation threw you off entirely. With the stories you had heard, he was like a spawn from the greatest evils deep under the earth’s surface. Another elf walked beside him, with sunkissed skin and dark hair. Thick stubble covered the bottom portion of his face and you realized that he was the first elf you saw that possessed a beard. He was clad in silver armour and conversed with Aemond. While Aemond did not so much as spare you a glance as he passed by, the man to his side was looking at you with an intensity of hate you had yet to receive from anyone. Even the scornful look you had received from the king the other day was not as odious as this. 

The elf stopped glaring at you to give attention to his king. You nodded with respect as you passed, but you doubted it was noticed. The guards in front of you marched at a steady pace while you maintained a step behind them. After Aemond passed, you released a breath of relief. You hoped that he would continue to ignore your presence for the year you were there, for you did not wish to see what would happen if you were to get on his bad side. 

A burning feeling at the back of your head hit you and you knew someone was staring at you. It felt exactly like the stare Aemond gave you when leaving the throne room the other day. You knew the king was watching you as you moved down the hallway. It was with great relief that it faded once you made a right turn and got out of his sight. 

There was a part of you that wondered why he had been looking, but logically you hoped it was nothing but your nerves tricking you. 

Chapter 4: A Night of Song and Dance Preview

“What about,” You lowered your voice slightly, “The Great War?” It had ended centuries ago, but the scars from such gratuitous violence still cut and the blood still stained the minds and hearts of everyone. Daeron’s eyes darkened for a moment as if recalling it himself. You knew he would have been alive during that period and it once again hit you how odd it was to be among elves. They live so long, and everyone in this room was guaranteed to be many centuries, possibly even a millennium, older than you. 

“All that my brother did was to defend our lands, that is all. What about your people? Are you telling me they did not do terrible things to protect themselves?”

☾⋆⁺₊✧ If you want to be added to the taglist, click here!

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[murfeelee]

WWDITS INSP Set & Lot

This upload is inspired by one of my favorite vampire tv shows, What We Do in the Shadows. (It was supposed to be my Simblreen gift this year, but I'm hella late cuz IRL suuuuuucks...blood. 😅)

The DL folder includes 4 zip files:

My WWDITS INSP CC Set, including 37 wives items.

The WWDITS INSP Vampire Residence Lot to go in your Sims 3 > Library folder (in-game it'll be in the empty lots bin in Edit Mode)

A MERGED CC file of allllll the other CC I used on the lot (brace yourselves 💀) to go in your Sims 3 > Mods > Packages folder

Granthe's OMSP from MTS, cuz I wasn't sure if I could merge it or not and decided to play it safe.

WARNING: The lot uses a ton of CC. I have all of the EPs, and a lot of the Store CC too, so if you don't have EA's crap & items are missing, that might be why. But if you're not seeing any of the the 3rd party UGC, then I done goofed, sorry--it's been YEARS since I've shared my lots.

🦇 Enjoy! 🦇

Download folders (package files) : Mediafire | SimFileShare

Descriptions & preview pics under the cut:

Vampire Residence

IIRC, this is a 50x50 fully furnished lot.

The Library

The Fancy Room

Guillermo's "Closet"

Nandor's Coffin Room

Laszlo & Nadja's Coffin Room

Kitchen

Music Room

Bathroom

Other Rooms

Colin's Robinson's Bedroom (Basement)

Floors

WWDITS INSP CC Set

This set includes 37 fully recolorable items:

EA Handy Jar REDONE as Candy (ARSIL Bag of Chips Mod REQUIRED) V2 (misc appliances)

Wall Rack with Decor Slots (SN EP) (misc surfaces)

Horn Rack Frankenmesh (wall art)

Tile Pattern (found under Tiles, duh)

Colin Robinson Roomies Portrait (Surfaces -- the Walls version's included in Nadja & Laszlo Painting (Ruffs))

TS4 to TS3 TheJim07 Versailles Stool as Dining Chair

EA Aurora Skies Spiral Stairs FLIPPED as DECOR (misc decor)

Oval Bucolic Flowers in Glass (Pets EP) (wall art)

Octagon Bucolic Flowers in Glass (Pets EP) (wall art)

Column Round Skinny (columns, duh)

WWDITS-IWTV INSP Vampire Themed Newspaper Clippings (wall art)

EA Farm Fresh Folk Desk REDONE for 1 Tile

TSM Bear Rug as Sofa Throw (misc decor)

Nandermo Glitter Portrait (misc decor)

Goth Posters (UNI EP)

Primitive Hunt by Piero di Cosimo Wallpapers (found under Paneling)

EA DV Celtic Wallpaper REDONE PLAIN (found under Misc IIRC)

Spiral Stairs Tasselled Drapes as Decor (curtains)

EA Boudoir Feathers RECOLORABLE (plants IIRC)

RD's Giant Plumes Decor RECOLORABLE (plants IIRC)

3 Display Cases as Wall Lights with Slots (Reg | Smaller | Taller)

TS2 to TS3 Beck's Doll Dressed as Teddy Bear V2

Nandor's 37 Wives Painting (Walls | Surfaces)

ATS3_object_funeralparlor_coffin3_open_sims4to3 RETEXURED (misc decor)

ATS3 Coffin Table REDONE WIDER as SN EP Altar (beds)

Framed Hook Swords (misc decor)

Vampire Residence Portraits

EA TS2 to TS3 Apartment Life Table Lamp (Shorter | Taller)

Annev Animal Skin Rug REDONE as Wall Art ( + FLIPPED)

Hanging Knives (misc decor)

EA Topiary Pattern V2 (found under IDER)

Most of the items are self explanatory; there's nothing crazy going on, really.

And that's that!

🦇 Enjoy! 🦇

Download folders (package files) : Mediafire | SimFileShare

[vladdyissues]

I have a theory that TUE AU is not AU. Phantom-Plasmius fusion damaged Danny really hard but didn't kill him. Vlad saved the boy whom is in coma since that moment. All next eps are Danny's comatose dream. So, episodes where he's about to lose his power is an attempt to wake up. Although Danny has chosen to dream his 'happily ever after' forever (Phantom Planet is the END), we can imagine that Danny woke up after all. I just want to know what words Vlad would say first to him. (I hope, it's not "Okay, Daniel, we both are going to psychology help")

The image of Vlad caring for a comatose Danny is giving me major Snow White vibes, anon, and I love it.

Picture a frantic Vlad scurrying around his lab immediately following the carnage, trying to get his systems back online so he can save Danny. He repurposes the cloning tanks—or tank; all the others were destroyed—to serve as life support. He gently hooks the comatose teen up to the respirator and inserts the intravenous nutrition tubes, then lowers him into the glowing green stasis gel with his own scratched, scabby hands.

Vlad hasn't showered or eaten or slept in days at this point. Preserving Danny's life is his first and only priority. (He feels so pitifully weak without his ghost half to give him strength. But he must go on, for Danny's sake.)

He watches Danny for a few moments to make sure the boy is breathing normally. The rhythmic expanding of his chest indicates he is. Vlad swings around to check the monitors' cracked screens. They dutifully mark each beat of Danny's pulse, blood pressure, brain activity, and other vitals. Sighing with relief, Vlad seals the hatch on the tank and slumps against the glass.

Now he can sleep.

Over time, the tank becomes a coffin holding all that's left of Vlad's hope. He treats it like an idol. He builds a dais around it, shrinelike, and tends it devotedly, polishing the glass until it gleams without smear or smudge. He lights candles around it, drapes it with cloth to make it look holy and sanctified, and spends long, silent hours on his knees in front of it, staring, praying. He makes living quarters in his lab so he can be near Danny 24 hours a day and leaves the rest of his castle aboveground to molder in ruin. He becomes paranoid. On the rare occasions he ventures into the outside world, he gathers flowers to place around the tank: offerings of life. He plays soft music for Danny, talks to him as he eats his meager meals, reads to him in the evenings. When it's time for bed, he touches the glass over Danny's sleeping face and whispers, "Good night, little badger," before crawling into a ratty army cot that is now his bed. He falls asleep gazing at the tank, waiting for a miracle, waiting for Danny's eyes to open. Waiting for him to come back.

And should he die before Danny wakes, he prays whatever is left of his soul will take up the watch.

[transmalewife]

so back in my overanalizing pretentious fuck days I vaguely remember wanting to write a meta about the madonna whore complex in star wars costume. and while I still think theres a lot to work with there,

(like, a lot)

I'm just gonna focus on padme right now, specifically Padme's hair because something really interesting just hit me.

look at this for a moment

this is the most virginal imagery imaginable.

let's get the obvious out of the way and say the blue dress and shawl are almost on the nose references to the virgin mary (maybe a hint at luke being the real chosen one?). But more importantly, in so many cultures around the world, loose long hair, especially combined with flowers, is associated with young girls. there are countless traditions that dictate that women, once they get married or come of age, should wear their hair up, covered or short.

(this might be a good moment to disclaimer that I am very transgendered and irreligious and none of this analysis is coming from a tradwife mindset. it's coming from a 'this is the archetypes that exist in our culture being very clearly and skillfully referenced here')

her dress is made to look like flowing water, carrying flowers. in slavic cultures, on the summer solstice, young women would make flower crowns and throw them into rivers, so potential suitors could fish them out downstream and court them. They would also wear flowers in their hair on their wedding day, and after that, they would cover it with a kerchief. and those traditions still live on in some form in europe today. most girls in my class got their hair cut short after first communion. women still throw bouquets on their wedding day.

There are in universe explanations I could invent here, from the easy 'this is just naboo funeral tradition' to the political "they wanted to distance her from the secret marriage to spare her family the shame of the scandal" but i'm frankly not about all that. and now that i've noticed this, I can't ignore it. all throughout rots padme is shown with her hair down (partialy. will come back to that), and wearing long gowns and hoods. The virgin mary imagery remains in the cut of the velvet hooded gown, in the blue drape of her nightgown when she cries on the balcony, and the, also baby blue, nightgown she wears when anakin has his nightmare literally looks like 1950s sexy lingerie.

(Also, a note here that I'm not willing to let spiral into a tangent, is that she almost always, and iirc, only, wears blue when she's either on tatooine, or when it's just her and Anakin. And then in her coffin.)

We know, from lucas, from the costume designer and art director, of two costumes that were purposely designed to make her look sexy, romantic, seductive. The corset in the fireplace scene and the iconic lake house balcony dress.

That makes sense. Those are the scenes where she's falling in love with Anakin, but the corset is extremely restrictive both visually, (and physically, according to natalie portman.) She's wearing metal bands around her head, the scarf looks like a noose and prison bars at the same time, and her hair is pinned up tighter and closer that in any other costume (except maybe on mustafar). She's not allowed the freedom to live in the fantasy of their forbidden love. She's imprisoned in the conventions of her station, quite literally trapped by her clothing.

And while the lake dress does look very free and loose and open, which is what she's tying to let herself be, flirty even, her hair is still quite literally behind bars, (and that type of headwear repeats in many of her costumes) as are her neck and arms.

Worth mentioning that in the floral picnic dress, her hair, while the shape is quite obviously meant to reference Leia's buns, is still held neatly in place by hairnets. This isn't the typical imagery of a young woman enjoying her freedom, frolicking in fields of flowers for the last time before she puts her hair up and grows up.

Padme didn't get to grow up, because she was never a child. In tpm her costumes are heavy, royal, extravagant. they not only hide her hair, but her face and body as well. Because she doesn't really matter. The costume, the crown, her duty matters more than the child underneath. There's quite literally six more of her. (Leia goes through something similar, in that she only ever gets to let her hair down after a battle is won)

Thinking of the costumes in tcw for too long makes my blood boil so i won't linger too long, but the moment Padme takes off her wig to reveal long flowing hair underneath, implying that the short bob she wore for much of the show is also a wig, is incredibly important here. This is a girl who finally got one thing for herself. She got her summer fling turned secret marriage, the first thing in her life that isn't controlled by appearances. and the mask is starting to slip. she wants the freedom, she wants the dreamlike lakeside romance back. she's wearing a middle aged mom wig over her childish waist long curls.

The traditional, deeply ingrained in so many cultures in the world narrative of young girl with flowers in her loose hair, then braids, then cut short and/or covered with a scarf is entirely flipped here. We're introduced to her when she's barely a teenager, but already wearing the elaborate, heavy headgear of a medieval queen. Even when she's "undercover" as a handmaiden on Tatooine, her hair is up in tight, elaborate braids.

There are a lot of obvious east asian influences in her royal costumes, bordering on appropriation in some cases (like, frankly, the entirety of star wars) which I would not feel comfortable ignoring, but don't have nearly enough knowledge about them to properly explore their meaning and symbolism.

In aotc, she's 24, she's no longer a queen, but even when she's trying to act and look young, her hair is still pinned tightly up. Her gowns on coruscant are still elaborate and restrictive, but we start seeing her in more intimate situations, at home on Naboo, by the lake. (And she spends a good chunk of the last two movies in her pajamas)

I had originally written "she can quite literally only let her hair down around anakin" here, but on second thought, no. Not really. In the scenes I was thinking of, the scenes she's in a nightgown, her hair is loose and long, yes, but always in a half up half down situation. Even in her simplest nightgown, in the first ever pajama scene, the one in her apartment in aotc, a basic white chemise, without any of the capes and tiaras and lace we see on her other sleepwear, her hair is still pinned up.

She's at her most vulnerable, sleeping, literally acting as bait for an assasin, without any of her senatorial regalia to protect her, but her hair remains controled. (I could say something here about that being the scene where Anakin barges into her bed waving his lightsaber, but lets just keep things tasteful and move on.)

In rots is where we first see her hair actually loose for the first time, though it's still covered by the hood of the velvet gown. Her costumes become simpler, less decorative, to create a cohesive image with the entire galaxy becoming more drab and colorless as the war goes on, heading towards the fully grey hellscape of the original trilogy. And we see padme specifically in more intimate, personal situations, most of her screentime is at her home. She's growing up into her housewife role, but for her that means freedom. For her that means letting her hair down and sinking into the fantasy of running away to Naboo with Anakin and raising their 2.5 kids. But the first, and only time we truly see her with her hair fully loose and uncovered, is at her funeral.

another thing unworthy of a whole tangent here, is that corde dies with her hair falling apart, out of her updo. All the senatorial power that the costumes and the headdresses afford dissolves in death.

I could note here also that this is a weird way to emphasize the tragedy of a 27 year old woman dying in childbirth by associating her with youth. this is tragic regardless. the tragedy here is she never got to have that stage of her life. she never got to grow up, to be a mother. She remains, in anakin's memories, the 14 year old angel, the 24 year old rolling in the grass like a teenager, or rushing alongside him into battle without fear, and the wife in her sexy nightie waiting for him to come back from the war. In the galaxy's eyes however, she will always have been the strong queen, and the tragic martyr, taken before her time. Not a child soldier and a woman who died because she broke the rules and dared to fall in love.

Padme never gets the freedom of childhood. She only gets to let her hair down in death. Did she want it? Is it Naboo releasing her from her responsibility posthumously, or is is another denial of her freedom. She was a ruler when she should have been a girl, and she dies a child when she was ready to grow up.

[zombiequeenblog]

I was thinking about what the Cardinal must have thought when he saw Terzo carrying a bleeding Mouse and I imagine it was one of many instances where he wondered if he could get away with committing murder in the middle of the hallway. 😂

Here's a brief account of the Cardinal’s day before he turned down the hall and spotted Mouse, carried in Terzo’s arms, bloody and hurt from her fall outside.

You can read it here on ao3 if you'd prefer...

The Cardinal wrenched up and out of his dream, sheets clammy and twisted. His bare chest rose and fell, shaky breaths filling the dim room, early dawn just beginning to thread through the cracks of the dark heavy draping, and he realized he had wound his hand so tightly in the top-sheet his fingers were numb. Copia swallowed and allowed himself to fall back on the crimson bedding, staring up at the canopy above. He felt entirely unrested. 

She was dead, and he had been left to be vivisepultured within the coffin of a desolate life.

No. This was insanity; he was merely recalling the nightmare. Letting his eyelids drop, the smudges of black that never entirely left him still adorning his lashes, the Cardinal let himself remember.

A darkened chapel, hushed with grief. White candles burning with timid, reproachable flames, and pale flowers everywhere; lilies with sallow pitying hearts, and unbloomed roses, the Grenache blush within unseen. The thorns less so. All petty adornments utterly unworthy of what lay on the altar underneath a sheer white sheet.

Copia felt himself retch, and he quickly disentangled himself from the bed’s trappings of comfort, sitting up on the edge with his feet on the floor. His room was cool in its grandness, empty of idle folly and wretched fears in the stark beginnings of the day. Satanas. All was well. 

She was fine, he had seen her only yesterday, had he not? And he would most likely see her again today. Busy with her various tasks, clipping around corners in those darling mary-janes she liked to wear inside, her pleated skirt swishing. Or maybe she’d wear her more fitted one, and he could better enjoy the little curve of her ass when she wasn’t glancing nervously behind her. 

Copia breathed out slowly, running his hands down to rest on his knees, soothing himself with familiar thoughts of lust and debauchery. The girl lying helpless beneath him, her clear eyes wide if he wanted her to witness his cruel satisfaction, or closed in a purposeful stupor if he didn’t. Fine dark lashes fluttering, beginning to wet with budding tears he would cause her regardless. Delightful. Complete and utter control. Even as this indecent vision interspersed with the one of her in white, the Cardinal felt himself stiffening below in his boxer briefs. He let out a sigh, almost chuckling to himself. He really was monstrous, wasn’t he? Perhaps this was why the apparently and suddenly judgemental aether was tormenting him with the most wretched nightmares he had ever had in his life. His fists suddenly clenching, Copia almost smashed the crystal water glass he’d left there on his nightstand, feeling the frustration rising almost greater than his now throbbing and rigid cock. 

A shower then, both to wash away the terror sweat and to house a violent emptying into his furiously stroking fist, painting the tiles hot and thick as he groaned out his ghastly desire. Lest he rush downstairs to seize her at the gates, to ravage her on the front steps like a brute as soon as she arrived. That wouldn’t do. 

He whispered out his name for her, into the room’s emptiness, and setting a grim smile on his currently pale lip, the Cardinal shifted carefully and stood up to begin his mundane day of sin.

Later, the Cardinal stepped with purpose down the hall, cutting a commanding figure indeed in the black paint and cassock which denoted his station. Tall, dark, and handsome, in every way that said traits could be possibly simplified. But Copia was not a simple man; he juggled multiple roles within this subversive faith he truly respected, had dedicated his life to. Many facets of his position were presented in turn, to whomever required his skills, and in this way he went through the morning like a meandering but accurate arrow. Buffeted now and then by a trifling problem, a question in need of an answer, or guidance to come to the answer oneself. He handled it all; counsellor, comforter, educator, administrator. All these roles he employed, and employed fairly well, even with a niggling dread in the back of his sharp mind.

Not a dread of her, but rather of the thought alone of the absence of her; this vexing little creature who had captured his heart. Who haunted his very dreams. It was maddening how he couldn’t be free of her, and she didn’t even yet share his faith! This very faith which gave him the conviction to administrate to her in his own personal way. Passing the doors of the chapel, alone for one unblessed moment, he forced himself only to recall what he wanted; the sounds he could coax out of her lips when he was slowly sliding his cock inside her. How tight the feeling was, how her tense body responded to make his heart thrill. The little trembles, the gasps, the screams. How she would shake just before she came. Uncontrollable; she couldn’t hide it from him, he knew. How she loved the ways he could hurt her, and how she kept coming back to coax further hurt from him to suffer sweetly through.

He had never suffered under such a dark obsession before in his life, much less acted upon it. As he continued to walk the abbey’s passageways his thoughts were consumed with her; perhaps he was going insane.  He didn’t see her every day, but he could swear sometimes that he could smell her, taste the sweetness of her mouth, and her cunt, her very blood; could hear her own tremulous heartbeat running frightened, and utterly threaded throughout his own. Perhaps that was just his own fear, intertwined forever now within this terrible love so new to him.

He turned a corner and saw her covered in blood. 

Her face white as a sheet, her body limp in Terzo’s arms. Terzo, who was calling to him now. Her own mouth silent. Copia felt his entire world shattering around him. 

“What the hell happened?” he heard his own voice say. Suddenly he was with her, inside the medical room, and she was breathing, she was alive, she was looking right up at him with those eyes of light illuminating his entire purpose. 

Those same eyes dropping in shame, she explained how she had fallen and been hurt, like it had been simply trivial, no big deal. He wanted to strangle her, to kiss her until she begged for a breath. Perhaps he’d satisfy himself with slaughtering Terzo instead, in this very room.

“What the fuck was she doing up a ladder?” he snapped over at his distressed colleague. He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood flowing from her poor leg, it really wasn’t serious; his educated hands knew what to do on their own, but inside his mind he thought he might go mad with strain.

Everything was eventually sorted, even her stitches, his poor mouse suffering through that with an exquisite grace all her own. He almost took her right there on the cot, almost lost himself in the intoxicating beauty of her agony. And then it was done, she was safe and needed rest, and he needed to flee from her shivering breaths and the pulse in her delicate throat and the tears drying in rivulets upon her pale cheeks. 

He needed to remove himself from her, and go prepare. And later, when she thought herself safe still, upstairs in a room all alone in the dark, he would come to her. He would come, and he would attend to her again. He would drive the idling nightmare from his mind by indulging himself in his want of her, his need of her body and her soul. Her mind would remember nothing, but he would have something excruciatingly sweet to mull over until she came back to the abbey. Back to him, back right where she belonged. 

And he would give her exactly what she needed as well. 

[iviarellereads]

Nona the Ninth, Bonus Material: The Unwanted Guest

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

In which the fandom goes wild.

Laid out as a stageplay, surely setting us up (one might say, setting the scene) for impromptu fan performances, Tamsyn Muir gave us just one bonus in the Nona paperback, but it's a doozy. I am operating under the assumption that you have read (or listened to a fan assembled live or recorded performance of) the whole play in my comments. If you haven't, you can now read it yourself here for free!

Scene One

The stage is set: a funeral, with seven coffins, a row of six and one at the front distinguished from its fellows by its many gold and violet flowers(1) and wreaths, and being propped open at the top. A tray of meat sits on the closed bottom. Mourners(2) in gaudy masks take a piece of meat, then lean into the open head, though the view obscures whether they're kissing or feeding the presumed corpse.(3)

Palamedes Sextus is the final mourner in the line, his mask plain, wooden, shattered and pieced back together. He almost looks like he belongs. As the last mourners file out, he considers the meat, skips it,(4) and reaches into the coffin.

A hand grabs his arm and the corpse sits upright. It's IANTHE TRIDENTARIUS. Her face is covered in bloody kisses. Ianthe You're fucked, my lad. The lights go out.

Scene Two

The room is now empty, except for a fireplace with no fire, and the door at the back. Ianthe stands by the fireplace, dressed as a butler. Pal enters, in a ruined grey suit with a purple tie,(5) though his body isn't apparently injured at all.

Pal is calling upon "the lady of the house", for at least the second time. Ianthe-butler says "the master's answer"(6) won't have changed. Pal would still like to hear that for himself, and offers a whole skeletal hand(7) when Ianthe-butler asks for his card. Ianthe-butler says "If you'd be so good as to stay here", and steps out through the door.

Pal faces the audience at the front of the stage. He speaks of the grammar of "if", and how sometimes it's used for permission and sometimes used to command while pretending to acknowledge another person's agency.

In the background, Ianthe returns, now dressed in an "ooh-la-la" maid costume with "an enormous purple feather duster",(8) flicking it at the dead fireplace. Pal continues his monologue on "if", finishing with the assertion that the phrasing Ianthe-butler used is over-the-top in its politeness, so it circles back to being rude again.

Palamedes A pretty silk glove over a fist of iron. Or, in this case, gold. He turns to the maid for the first time. Palamedes Don't you think? Ianthe No, sir.

Ianthe-maid curtseys and leaves, stage right.(9) Pal is examining the dead fireplace when the butler returns through the door, and says the master will see him in "the Almond Room". (10) Pal doesn't move, but robed figures wheel the coffins from the first scene back in, now numbered 1 through 7, standing upright in a semicircle in the center of which is placed a chaise longue.(11) Pal pays no attention to the action.

The door opens again and Ianthe enters, this time in a rather daringly unbuttoned shirt and a pair of leather trousers, plus a Lyctoral rainbow robe draped over her shoulders.(12) The whole affect is louche;(13) she carries a small clutch bag. Ianthe walks over to the chaise longue and drapes herself across it artistically.

Having made her true entrance, Ianthe says it's so good of the "Inspector" to call so late.(14) He says it's not that late, she affirms that it is quite late, given how he's in tatters and can't last much longer. Pal says she's been saying that for the last three visits.

Ianthe asks what Pal wants. He says the same thing he's been asking for, the body of Naberius Tern. Ianthe finally agrees that he shall have it, if he can win a simple game. Pal is surprised, but goes along with it. She says he only has to guess which of the seven coffins, after asking her no more than five questions, none of which can be directly asking which coffin he's in or anything about the coffins themselves. He debates with her about how many questions it would take under those other circumstances, and she observes that he must have been great fun at parties.(15)

Palamedes asks his first question unintentionally: will Ianthe play fair? She says she never does, and he has four left.

Palamedes pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, turns away, and walks downstage. The curtain falls behind him--leaving him alone with the audience. Palamedes Ianthe's sparkling personality aside . . . this doesn't really make much sense. A new VOICE answers from the back of the auditorium. We do not see the speaker.(16)

The voice asks why it doesn't make sense. Pal says logic questions depend on a set of rules, and Ianthe hasn't set any. The voice suggests thinking more broadly, because logic isn't the important piece here: psychology is.

Pal almost talks himself out of this, but then the voice asks what would happen if he asked Ianthe to pick a number from one to seven. Pal realizes she likely would pick that number, trying to outfox him.(17) The voice says it won't be quite that easy, but Pal can get Ianthe to open herself up unintentionally and expose herself so he can get the answer. Pal nods and turns back to the stage as the curtains rise.

Voice I mean, more than she's already exposing herself with that shirt. (Pause) I'm kind of into the trousers, though.(18)

Scene Three

The curtain rises on the same scene as before--seven upright coffins, chaise longue, Ianthe--except that a robed and masked figure is now standing beside each of the coffins. Palamedes walks upstage to stand next to the chaise longue.

Palamedes says he has his first question. Ianthe corrects him, second, but invites him to ask. Pal asks if Ianthe believes in "the permeability of the soul?" Ianthe is dismissive, as the robed figures move the coffins. They place coffins 2 and 6 on their backs on either side of the chaise. Pal sits on coffin 6 awkwardly, as an attendant crowns Ianthe with ivy and sprays her with perfume, and another puts a gold cup in her hand and fills it from a gold jug.(19)

Ianthe wanted Pal to ask something more fun, maybe something sexual in nature. The attendants offer Pal a cup, but he covers it with his hand before they pour anything in.

Ianthe (Despairingly) You don't even drink! Palamedes In my defence: I'm dead, and this wine doesn't exist.

Ianthe suggests this improves it, as the false can have a "piquancy"(20) that the real lacks. Pal asks if that's a quote from something, and Ianthe, acting increasingly drunk,(21) goes on about pétillance(22) and asks if Pal's "tingue" ever "toungle[d]" when he was alive. Pal says they're not here to talk about his tongue, and makes to repeat his question, but Ianthe remembers. She addresses the attendants to say there's nothing the Sixth won't turn into a seminar, and she "shudders to imagine their pillow talk." Pal says "pillow talk is a science" on the Sixth, and Ianthe responds that she's not interested.

Getting back to the matter at hand, Ianthe admits(23) she does not believe in permeability of the soul. Pal asks if that means she believes "that the soul is both indivisible and impermeable", which she does. He asks if Ianthe believes the soul is malleable, can be altered or deformed. Ianthe says it must be so, or a revenant wouldn't behave as it does. Pal asks then if the soul is only imperfectly elastic, able to return to its original shape. Ianthe agrees to this as well

Pal summarizes: one would expect that a revenant would act like a newborn child in its behaviour, but there are cases where revenants clearly act in ways informed by their adult lives.(24) Ianthe accepts this, and with no reference made to the query about being in agreement being Pal's last question.(25)

Thus, Pal comes back to his original question: if you accept that the soul can be changed, and never fully recover, does it not follow that it can be diminished as well? Ianthe says that's not at all given. Pal says that surprises him, because most objects that can be deformed can be diminished. He compares it to a stone and a sculptor shaping it, and the stone can't regrow what was chipped off, and indeed someone who works around stone work will wear a mask to avoid breathing in the stone dust and damaging himself.

Tried beyond her patience, Ianthe takes off her garland and flings it irritably across the stage.

Ianthe can't do it anymore(26) and says the soul cannot be diminished because it's the underpinning of Lyctorhood. If the soul could be diminished, it couldn't be the perpetual fuel for the Lyctor's power, and only a soul can be used without being consumed in the process. Pal says that they don't know it, but Ianthe says she's a Lyctor, and she studied under Augustine who was a Lyctor for ten thousand years, and Pal has no idea.

Pal suggests that the rate of decay might be infinitesimally small, a soul might last a hundred thousand years before anyone noticed a change. Ianthe dismisses this as lacking evidence. Pal keeps trying to argue, but Ianthe says she's eaten a soul, and he hasn't.

Palamedes So your best argument boils down to "I know more about this than you do." Ianthe It's a very strong argument. Unless we get into "what's it like to be weirdly codependent with your dead-eyed cousin," I'm more or less guaranteed to win. Minions! Clear all of this garbage away; my guest has to go and take some deep breaths for a while.

The attendants move forward, and Pal walks to the edge of stage so the curtain can come down once more, hiding the action behind him. He says that went well, but the voice says the argument went nowhere.

Palamedes Ouch. Voice Sorry, babe, I can't compliment-sandwich this.(27)

Pal says it wasn't nowhere, he has a better idea of Ianthe's philosophical stances, and he thinks he can exploit them. The voice asks if jumping into Ianthe's "pet body" was Camilla's idea.(28) It continues that the Third are very good at giving people what they think they want, and Pal's best bet might be to stop asking Palamedes-questions, which she expects, and start asking Ianthe-questions. Pal isn't good at those, but the voice encourages him: play to your own weakness, everything here is Ianthe. Pal protests, not the bit that's Naberius Tern, which the voice points out is the part Pal is trying to find.

Palamedes considers this. Palamedes Ianthe questions. Okay. He turns upstage as the curtain begins to rise. Voice I believe in you. Palamedes (Over his shoulder) You didn't always. I had to fight for that.

Scene Four

The curtain rises on the stage, reset, with Ianthe on her chaise once more. The order of the coffins is now changed to 7-2-3-4-5-6-1.(29) Ianthe asks if Pal is feeling better, Pal says he doesn't feel much of anything, being dead, but he has his next question.

Ianthe Oh, Lord. Something juicy about pneumatic apocope,(30) I expect. I feel like I'm playing strip poker with Harrow; shyly unbuttoning her baggy black robe to reveal a baggier, blacker robe(31) underneath . . . (Pause) Yuck. I hope that hasn't awakened anything in me.(32)

Instead, Pal asks if Ianthe regrets murdering Babs. All seven attendants strike the lids of their respective coffins, once, together, then pick up coffins 2-3 and 5-6 and form waist-high barriers on either side of the stage by stacking them. Pal stands behind the one on the left, Ianthe behind the right, facing center stage.(33)

Ianthe gets a little up in arms over calling it murder. Pal says if she has another word for killing "intentionally and with malice aforethought," he'd be glad to switch. Ianthe says there was no malice involved.

Palamedes slams both hands down flat on the lid of the upper coffin, then thrusts his arm out to point an accusing finger at Ianthe.(34)

Pal accuses Ianthe of avoiding the question.

Ianthe is somewhat taken aback. So, after a second, is Palamedes.(35)

Ianthe asks why Pal did that, but Pal doesn't know. Still, he gets back on topic, and asks if Ianthe really denies she murdered Babs. No, it's a fair enough accusation,(36) but society is really to blame.(37) The cavalier's whole purpose is to die for the necromancer, though Cam's got "an element of horse/stable door confusion".(38)

Pal counters that the cav's role is to protect their necromancer, so what did Tern die to protect, Ianthe's ambitions? Ianthe says she is the sum of her ambitions, and that's why she and "Harry" are Lyctors, and Pal is "a little bag of bones."(39) Pal suggests Ianthe must be a real catch for salespeople, because she never stops to look at the price tag. If she came into his shop, he'd triple the cost of everything, and Ianthe would be too careless to notice the label swap. Ianthe retorts that if Pal came into her shop, she'd have security throw him out when he tried to haggle.

Ianthe states outright: the cost is the cost, and if blood must be shed, you demean yourself by arguing over how much. Pal asks if that's her answer, then, that Tern had to die, so she regrets nothing? Ianthe pivots and says she was very fond of him, and she thinks he was fond of her.

Pal is surprised, and Ianthe says Babs had some good points. He was always a good source of drama, for example. His tragedy was that he looked like he should be very interesting, but he never was. He was loyal, though it was to Coronabeth. He was sworn to serve before Ianthe and Corona were even conceived,(40) but he never shirked his obligation to it. Not like Harrow's original cav, who couldn't come to Canaan House because he was too sad. Pal says he heard it was because he got blown up, and Ianthe says yes, blown up for being too sad. And look at Abigail Pent, bringing her husband, and where did she get?(41)

Pal is flabbergasted. He says, so Ianthe was raised with Babs, since before Pal even knew Cam, and she still doesn't regret killing him? Ianthe pauses, then says no, and claps her hands.

Ianthe (Brightly) That's all, folks!(42) Back after the break.

Pal wanders downstage, distracted, as the curtains descend behind him.

Palamedes Do you know the worst part? Voice Tell me. Palamedes From her point of view, it all makes sense. Tern was shaped over years to be nothing more than--than-- Voice A perfect tool? Palamedes --a resource.(43) Something to be saved up and then spent at just the right moment. [...] Voice (Reproachfully) Cam would have smiled at "perfect tool." Palamedes Yes--she would have.(44)

A long paragraph is spent describing Pal pulling out, lighting, and smoking a cigarette. The voice draws attention to it, which makes Pal stare, with no described emotion or expression, at the cigarette between his fingers.

The voice brings him back, asking if he has any ideas for his last two questions. Still distracted, he says he thinks he does. The voice warns, he needs to use these wisely. If he doesn't turn up something, he'll lose. At this, Pal comes back to himself, drops and stomps on the cigarette, wipes his hand on his jacket. He wishes he had more time to think. As he turns away, the voice says he "used to say that a lot."

Scene Five

The stage is back to neutral, but the coffins in order 3-2-7-4-1-6-5. Ianthe asks Pal if he's had any insight. Pal asks what Ianthe made of Gideon Nav, at Canaan House. Ianthe asks why the curveball, and Pal says he had a question to spare, and was curious. Ianthe is reluctantly kind of proud of Pal's sudden trash talk.

The attendants take coffins 3, 2, 7, and 4, making a rectangle of them on the stage, a dueling ring. Attendants bring two rapiers, offering the more ornate to Ianthe, who accepts, and the less ornate to Pal, who refuses politely. The attendant is confused but takes up a dueling stance with Ianthe in the ring.

Ianthe asks where she should begin on "sweet Gubbins."(45) Pal asks for first impressions. Ianthe and the attendant duel, the latter poorly. Another attendant takes the place. Ianthe says she was intrigued, because everyone else was exactly on script for their Houses. Harry playing her part to the hilt, but Gideon dawdling behind her? Not the Ninth brand.

Palamedes "Harry"? Ianthe It's my little name for her, you know. Palamedes I can't think of a single thing she'd hate more. Ianthe You lack imagination.

Another duel with an attendant, another win to Ianthe. Pal asks what was off. Ianthe says, well, everything! The sunglasses, the vow of silence she only barely kept, the way she handled her sword. She accuses Gideon of wandering around "like she was the protagonist and we were all there to give her something to look at."(46)

Another duel, another win. Pal asks when Ianthe knew she'd underestimated Gideon. Ianthe says she estimated Gideon Nav exactly right from the first moment she laid eyes on her: a hilarious moron. Pal suggests Gideon "was smarter than even she realised."(47) Ianthe is dismissive: Gideon lived and died a dope.

Another duel, another win. Ianthe says that's all Pal will get out of her on this one. Pal says it was "tremendously helpful" actually, and thanks her. Ianthe looks suspicious, but Pal is already walking downstage, his hands in his pockets, the curtain already falling.

Voice Poor Gideon. I think she sounded fun. Palamedes Mm. You'd have liked her, I suspect. I did, once I stopped being jealous.(48) Voice Can you do this with one more question?

Pal stares at the audience for a moment, and says he thinks so, though he'd have liked less... the voice supplies, psychology, and he agrees. The voice, addressing Pal as "my child", says "there's no shame in a bluff."

Pal, on the subject of shame, says he does feel ashamed of rooting around in a dead man's body like this. He didn't like Tern, but the man deserved better than this fate.

Voice "Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?"(49) Palamedes (Surprised) I like that. Is it from something? Voice Yes. It's complicated.

Pal asks if she still thinks of him as a child. Her problem was always reminding herself that he was one, as she told him often. He apologizes for not saving or avenging her or Pro. She says she couldn't save Pal either, and Cytherea was so fast, Pro couldn't even touch her. And, at least "we both"(50) were killed by the same person. Pal isn't comforted. The voice says it'll work out "in the wash."

Pal says he wants to believe, so much, that she is who she says she is, but she can't possibly be here. He asks how she did it. She says she gambled on the truth,(51) then died.

Palamedes You died . . . again? Voice Truly, wonderful news for my haters.(52)

Pal asks if he can know what happened. The voice says yes, but she's not allowed to tell. It was awful, "in the old sense of the word."(53) Pal asks if she can give him something. She describes a letter Pal wrote that delighted her.

It convinces him, and he tells her, though she says he doesn't have to, that he loved her, still loves her, and would have loved to learn to love her better. She says it would have been beautiful, and "Camilla would have had to cook."(54) But she didn't just want beautiful, she wanted it to last, and knew it could never. She didn't want to steal Pal's youth and potential for love away from him.

Palamedes This again? From you and her both?(55) That merely by loving you, I added to your torments? Voice (Encouragingly) Yes, and also my agonies. Palamedes Dulcinea . . .

Dulcinea, finally named by the structure, says that Pal and Cam were her best friends, and she "loved real, ugly, unfinished things." There's a freedom in being incomplete. Now she's not in the River, and will never be again.(56) Pal says if she's on the shore, he can find her. She asks which shore. Pal asks her pardon. Dulcinea says a river has two shores(57) and he might find that out for himself if it ends well.(58)

Pal asks to see her. She asks if he's sure. He is.

Blackout on the stage. Then a light on Palamedes--a Palamedes who is completely dazzled, and staring blankly outward, at nothing in particular.

Pal recites a Bible verse(59), then the lights black out again, then return to normal. Behind him, the curtain starts to rise.

Dulcinea Was I cute? Palamedes turns and moves upstage. Palamedes You're perfect.(60)

Scene Six

The stage is back to neutral, the coffins replaced but reversed, leaving the order 4-7-2-3-1-6-5.

Ianthe says the tension is killing her, or really, killing Hect. Pal says he has a question left. Ianthe says it better be a whopper, because right now she estimates he has nothing upon which to base an answer. Pal asks if she's ready, and Ianthe makes fun of him for it.

Pal asks, if Babs had died at Canaan House, before completing the Eightfold Word, would Ianthe have eaten Corona instead?

The attendants all hit their coffin lids together, once, then pick up the last three coffins and set them in the middle of the stage, like two benches and a table. Pal sits on the left hand one, Ianthe on the right, where she gets a pack of cards from an attendant and starts shuffling slowly. Throughout the scene, they play and pick up cards.(61)

Ianthe says it would be "rather peculiar" to eat Corona, seeing as she's not a cavalier. Pal doesn't understand why. Ianthe explains that the cavalier's spirit is not just a power source, it's the Lyctor's body's defence system when their consciousness is elsewhere. Pal knew that much. Ianthe says her sister is not a swordwoman. She'd have lost to Magnus, not as a cavalier, but as he is now.

Pal says Corona's compatibility as a power source would have been even higher than Tern's, and surely you could train some more sword skill into the cav's spiritual remains. Ianthe says that no, the cavalier is essentially frozen at the moment of death. Pal wonders...

Ianthe Oh, no. We're not going through this again. The soul is a diamond, Sextus. You can leave it in a glass of wine for as long as you like, it's never going to soak anything up. Palamedes (Mildly) I thought you objected to analogies.(62)

Ianthe says the point is that she wouldn't have used Corona to finish the job. So, Pal asks what else she would have done, perhaps using someone else's cav. Ianthe says that would be terribly inefficient. Pal says, better than nothing, and she'd still be a Lyctor. And, Harrow's situation was "unorthodox" but she still has power on a scale her mortal self couldn't have dreamed of. Ianthe admits, alright, she might have used another cav, and starts going through the others available to her.

Pal pulls Ianthe out of that line of thought and back to the subject at hand. Now, he wishes Ianthe to imagine a situation where things at Canaan House went almost as wrong as they could have, Cytherea coming up the steps, and Ianthe and Corona the only survivors, the Eightfold Word on Ianthe's lips. Does she fold or raise?

Ianthe refuses. She says Pal couldn't understand the bond between twins. Pal, for his part, says that won't work on him this time, and demands to know why Ianthe's answer. Ianthe says nothing.

Pal continues that Ianthe has stated that the goal is always worth the cost, so either that was bravado, and there are costs Ianthe won't pay, or Corona is part of her goal. Will Ianthe tell him which it is?

Ianthe plays her last card. Softly, she says Pal can believe what he will, but she's won: he has no idea which coffin Babs's body is in. She stands, and an attendant clears the cards. Pal says she hasn't answered the question, but she insists she has: no, she wouldn't have killed Corona, and she doesn't have to justify that answer.

Pal stands, and the attendants put all the coffins back, again in reverse order, leaving 4-7-2-3-5-6-1, then all leave the stage, leaving Pal and Ianthe alone. Pal says he has one last question, it's yes-or-no and if Ianthe can answer it, he'll surrender immediately. Ianthe is suspicious, but Pal insists, all he needs is for her to be able to say yes or no. A question about Naberius.

Ianthe accuses Pal of trying to buy time, but Pal says if that were the case, he'd start another argument about how souls work.

Ianthe So, what--if I can't answer this question of yours, am I expected to do the decent thing? Applaud politely and retire? Palamedes Ianthe, I've been in your head for what feels like a week. I would never insult you by expecting you to do anything either decent or polite. Ianthe inclines her head in graceful acceptance of this point.

Pal says she has nothing to lose by answering, and she owes him a question from before.(63) Ianthe says she owes him nothing, but they look at each other, and she gives in, and tells him to ask. Pal's final question is whether Ianthe knows where Babs's body is.

The two move to stand at either end of the row of coffins. Pal starts explaining how the little signs, like the purple tie, started to tip him off, but he assumed it was Ianthe setting the rules. He opens coffin 4, which is empty.

Really, it was the cigarettes that did it. They don't exist on the Sixth, because of the fire hazards. He has never learned how to smoke, but he did it by reflex. Ianthe opens coffin 1, empty again.

Pal continues his exposition, that he wasn't sure until question four. He opens coffin 7, next one in, empty again. He asks how Ianthe knew that Gideon used her rapier like a racquet. Ianthe protests, she saw Gideon fight, but Pal got the full details from Cam, and by the time Ianthe showed up at the end, Gideon had her two-hander back.

Ianthe says she might have watched the duels. Pal says it's not possible, as Gideon only fought two duels, and Ianthe wasn't in the room for them, nor at any other time Gideon might have used her rapier. Ianthe says Babs and Corona both told her about it. Pal says that's unlikely, at least in such detail as about the racquet. It's not even a comparison Ianthe would make.

But it is the one Babs might.

Ianthe opens coffin 6, empty. Pal continues that Ianthe expresses little to no respect for rules, but in her ranting about Gideon, she said Gideon didn't know how to duel as a negative. But, Ianthe Tridentarius would have found that punch at the end of their fight funnier than anyone. He opens coffin 2, empty.

Palamedes You only got one question wrong, Ianthe, and it was the very first question. You can't admit what's happened here because you're fixated on this idea of the soul as inviolate and inviolable--this perfectly solid, impervious thing, the diamond sitting in the glass of wine. But souls are permeable. When they rub up against each other, they bleed--they mingle--they contaminate each other. Just from the handful of real-life seconds I've spent wrestling you for Naberius's body, I've picked up the knowledge of how to light a cigarette and a disturbing new enjoyment of trash talk. Ianthe opens the lid of coffin number 5. It's empty. She and Palamedes are now facing each other from a few feet apart, standing on either side of the last remaining closed coffin, number 3.

Pal says it's messier than he expected. He's started remembering things he never saw, from Cam's point of view, just from spending a few months in her body. Lyctorhood isn't swapping out a battery, it's a transplant. When she took Babs into herself, she ate a piece of meat, and that meat is digesting and its component parts mixing in with hers, to become indistinguishable. He knocks on the lid of coffin 3, and says if he's wrong, if Babs's body is inside, Pal will end his career "with a truly spectacular cock-up" and death will be welcome. If it isn't, then it's nowhere.

Palamedes turns downstage and starts to walk away from the coffins. Ianthe remains staring at coffin number 3. Palamedes There's no body left to find, Ianthe. Or, as I gather they call you now . . . Ianthe Naberius.(64) Palamedes keeps walking, away from the stage toward the back of the auditorium. Ianthe stands like a statue next to coffin number 3. She reaches out and places one hand against its closed lid as the curtain falls.

=====

(1) Our first hint at the occupant, really. Violet eyes, gold arm, and the gaudiness (affectionate) of the Third House in general. (2) Who are the mourners? The robed figures? For that matter, who are the audience? We have Ianthe, we have Palamedes, we have Dulcie in the audience from kind of across the River. Does that imply something about the audience versus the mourners as representing different things? Are they all just figments of Ianthe's imagination, background characters of her life, or is this something more? (Knowing what we do, probably both.) (3) What did you assume it is? I don't think the bloody kisses actually answer the question very satisfactorily, because, from whence cometh the blood? I do love the symbolism of the meat platter though, because that's all Babs ever was, and Ianthe is still eating him up. (4) Pal passing on Babs's meat is perfection, to me. He does consider it, maybe because of the desire not to stand out, maybe because of permeability starting to influence, maybe just because he's not yet aware of what it means. But he decides against it, because he's the last one there, because unconsciously he knows it's not his impulse to eat, because he recognizes on some level that Ianthe's meat platter is and has only ever been Babs. (5) Funny how much this stands out on immediate reread, eh? (6) The lady of the house, the master of the house, just another play on the gender fluidity that's easy for the eye to slip past. (7) I can't help but feel that this is related to Harrow's scene with Cam in HTN. See, Pal's soul was anchored to part of his skull. But if you recall, Harrow was spinning it out into a skeleton, starting with a hand. And I can't pinpoint right now, but I think I recall someone in the fandom wondering if the powder that caused Paul's transformation in the end derived from Pal's bones, even though he was at that point anchored fully to Cam. But, either way, the hand feels meaningful here. Hands so often are in this series.

(8) So, one reason I gesture at this is because the purple accents continue throughout, and it's impossible to ignore them with the Tridentarius natural eye colour being the most obvious parallel. The second reason is because Pal isn't the only one who picks up pieces of his companion in this sequence: Pal specifically said he finds the outfits nurses wear sexy, but those are so close to the stereotypical maid outfits as to justify a little eyebrow raising at Ianthe picking up a piece of Pal, I think. The final reason I gesture at the feather duster is because it's described as "enormous" specifically in the text. How big do you think it is? How big do you think you could make a prop for this performance? Grab a few purple feather boas at the Spirit Hallowe'en or something this autumn, fold them in half, tie them at the fold point to a sturdy stick. Just, you know, in case anyone's thinking about a cosplay, since this will be the defining feature. (9) I'd love to see a deeper examination from someone with theater experience as to what the stage directions might indicate, the comings and goings from each wall. (10) Why is it almonds? Is this a reference to a piece of media, a name of a nut as one or both go "nuts", or something else? I saw a compelling argument that it's related to the amygdala, two almond-shaped lobes in the brain that relate to memory, decision making, and emotion processing. (11) A note: not a lot of Americans in particular ever hear the original pronunciation of this word, so for the wise, it's "shayz", not "chase" or any of the other ways I've heard it. "Long" isn't quite the same as the French "longue" (it's got a sort of w in there, lowng, with the g a little more present) but it's close enough. It's "chaise" that really got the short end of loanwording. (I'm not saying anyone has to change how they do it, language is defined by use, not by origin, but a "chaise longue" comes from literally being a long chair in French, and if anyone DOES want to honour the original pronunciation over where it's gone, I want to help them.)

(12) I have no idea what this is referencing, but I feel sure that it is evoking something. An outfit of Augustine's that I can't find referenced in the text? Generally the male leads on historical romance novels, to play again with gender presentation? Some other specific thing? (13) Louche - indecent, disreputable. Think a neighbourhood of dive bars. (14) Flipping the script, keeping Pal off his guard as much as she can by jumping around a story and reassign the roles and the lines. (15) We know he actually probably was fun at parties, because according to the Cohort Intelligence Files, Judith met him at one once, and thought he wasn't serious enough about his role and title. Which, given that Judith has had a stick up her ass her entire life about duty (again, affectionate) I think we can take to mean that he was genuinely trying to be personable and fun at the party. (16) Dulcie is literally and figuratively separated from the stage, just as her spirit is now, apparently, if she's to be trusted, across the River. Does that mean beyond the stoma, or is there a more literal-figurative other bank? Is it that distance from the situation that gives her this insight, or was she always this good at reading people? (I'm asking here now to save myself another footnote later. Conservation of energy.) (17) Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line. This little sequence gives me very third-party Princess Bride vibes, though it's far from exclusive to that title. (18) Dulcinea, you naughty lady, I love this for you.

(19) I'm currently ignoring all symbolism that might be contained in the numerology of the doors because I don't understand it and I haven't seen anyone unravel it. However, I do feel like I'm right on the edge of recognizing what the ivy crown and perfume are supposed to represent. Ivy was often associated with Dionysus, the god of wine, fertility, ecstasy. The indulgence of the perfume and the further pouring of an ambiguous liquid into a goblet hints toward this end of things, but ivy was also a crown for Thalia, the muse of comedy, which would be perhaps even more apropos given the stage play of it all. But also, ivy was known outside Greek influence to be associated with fidelity and marriage, because it's green year-round and cleaves so sweetly and strongly to that upon which it grows. And all of these layers, every single one, comes back to permeability of the soul, and Ianthe's consumption of Babs, despite her skepticism. (20) Piquant - having a sharp or otherwise stimulating flavour. (21) I feel confident that this is what's intended by the tingue toungle bit, the implication that Ianthe might be getting drunk on her false wine, or at least is pretending she might. (22) Pétillance is much as Ianthe describes it, a light sparkle in a drink, or a sense of very mild fresh tingling from a very low carbon dioxide concentration. (23) OK I really haven't seen anyone mention this before but there's a fascinating thing going on with quotation marks as Ianthe replies here. Her direct responses to Pal, that she does not believe in permeability, all the way through to her aside, it's all in extra quotation marks, which Pal's statements don't have. (24) Pal was personally privy to one in the Doctor Sex story, after all. (25) Yes, I counted. Didn't you? It's very gracious of her to let all this stand as the one question for the sake of the narrative. (26) And here, indeed, is where the mysterious scare quotes end.

(27) I bet NONE of us guessed that this line belonged to Dulcinea when Tor did the pre-reveal puzzle. (28) Ah, but Dulcie, they've been slowly becoming Paul all this time. (29) I know I said I'm ignoring all the numerology, but I find it interesting that 7 and 1 are the only swap here, when Pal has just agreed to try to be more Ianthe. (30) This one's tricky. It's not an actual condition. In modern usage pneumatic just means engineering relating to air and air pressure, like pneumatic tires. But likely here it relates to the lungs (like pneumonia). And "apocope"… now that's a real puzzler, because it means the loss of the final sound or vowel in the pronunciation of a word. But, it comes from the Greek term for cutting off, like an amputation. So, I think Ianthe is referring to cutting out of the lungs. (31) I don't have the full context, and search engines are… really, really bad right now, but I do know that "a bigger, blacker dick" is a white response card in Cards Against Humanity, meant to outdo the card "a big black dick", and outdone itself only by the card "the biggest, blackest dick". This game was very popular a decade or so ago, because we were all edgelord jerks. (Yes, I have regrets.) At any rate, I assume they got the reference from somewhere, possibly a Chris Rock comedy routine title? But I can't find anything, er, definitive on the subject. (32) This, on the other hand, I can very much point at definitively. A scene in the TV show Community had the dean of the school hoping that watching a person in a dalmatian costume flex doesn't awaken anything in him. (33) Anyone who suspected the Phoenix Wright reference from this stage direction, job well done.

(34) OBJECTION! Alright, that's not the best video, but I couldn't find a simple one from the games that included both the slap and the pointing. There are compilations of the pointing animations of all the characters who ever object, but not the slap that comes first. (35) I do sort of love that they call attention to it to make sure you understand that it's a reference, but… Look, LOOK, look me in the eye and tell me a little of Jod isn't rubbing off on Ianthe already, that proximity to him isn't melting things across a little, and tell me you don't believe Jod absolutely played those games. Permeability of the soul need not be limited to literal contact with the soul: I think Muir is hinting that every time you let someone into your life, your souls are connecting, exchanging. And, isn't that true in real life? Can you say, for absolute certain, that your friends, your interactions, even your experience on social media, haven't changed you? I'm all about looking at the Watson and the Doyle, and I think this carries the weight of both. (36) What she says is "It's a fair cop, guv'nor." which has proven very difficult to run down as far as a specific reference, with guv'nor on the end, but generally is used to mean "I admit it, you caught me". (37) See, besides being a fairly common excuse given for committing crimes, I think this might be more evidence of Jod's influence. He's really good at blaming his problems on anyone but himself. I feel like I don't know as much about Ianthe, despite spending almost as much time with her. I could believe that she had a habit of it before… but given the whole point of this story, why not read more into it? For funsies. (This also makes the previous line a loose Monty Python reference, a skit of theirs included the line "All right, it's a fair cop, but society's to blame.") (38) Closing the stable door after the horse has already escaped. Ianthe sees the quest for a better Lyctorhood as pointless. If you recall, even she had the good sense to be awed when Paul emerged, but I like the context this gives to that.

(39) As a bonus question, when this scene takes place within the storyline of NtN, do we think that Ianthe still believes that Harrow's body is Harrow returned to the fold? Questions I have to ask myself the more I think about them… (40) Well, and left unsaid is that Corona was the older twin, the rightful heir, and Ianthe's jealousy has probably always been mixed evenly with her superiority because she got the power and Corona didn't. (41) Insert all the exaggerations here, because I'm fascinated at Ianthe's implications, as I see them. Abigail Pent ended up exactly where she wanted to be. Ianthe only seems to see the death, the wasted ambition and potential. She didn't know Pent at all. (42) I'm just glad Muir didn't try to write out Porky Pig's speech impediment to get this one across. (43) We joke a lot about Babs only ever being for consumption, never being a person, just an object. But it's also very much the truth. Ianthe never overestimated his worth to her. She just underestimated what he had done and would do to her. (44) Is this Dulcie hinting that Pal is already subject to his own permeability, even right before the cigarettes? (45) Gubbins - a collection of useless bits and bobs. Ianthe is so mean about Gideon, considering the friendship bracelets. Then again… Kiriona is the saddest girl in all the world, so she probably knows Ianthe doesn't really mean any of it. (46) Which is, of course, true. She was the protagonist of her story. But it's so interesting to see Ianthe, of the clever, quiet, observantness that still managed to miss so much, catch that behaviour. (47) Saw a post about how Pal makes this astonished face with Kiriona starts spouting necromancy facts, and how this line gives it new context. I just. Love. These books. I love Muir's brain. Every line can be looked at under a microscope and then the entire book totally recontextualized by ten words in a bonus story.

(48) Once he realized that Cytherea was not Dulcinea, and he had nothing to be jealous about, really. (49) The line from Hamlet is "Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping?" The short version of the context is Hamlet chastising Polonius for saying he'll give the guests what they deserve, because if we all only get what we deserve, who gets anything more than corporal punishment? So, where did Dulcinea get this line? Some force across the River? (50) This line is driving me feral. We both? Is that Dulcie and Pro, or Dulcie and Pal? Which we, Muir? (51) I want to believe this is a reference to Fullmetal Alchemist, but I have no supporting evidence for the case, just a suggestion that you go watch Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood or read the manga. (52) Another observation from a post I saw, but, what an incredible way to reframe a lack of success. "I missed the bus. Truly, wonderful news for my haters." It's a silly thing, but I bet if you tried, it would lighten the burden of a lot of everyday "failures" into a much more average sort of vibe. (53) Awful, as in awe-ful, as in filling one with awe. Incredible how THAT one twisted over the centuries, amirite? (54) I think this definitely confirms the part where both Pal and Cam were in some sort of polycule-y thing with Dulcinea. (No, I don't think Cam and Pal are in romance or sex with each other, but I do think that some relationships defy the simplicity of the labels we have access to.) (55) His conversation with Cam, earlier in Nona, that Nona heard on the tape. That Cam would rather carry his soul than live in a world that didn't contain him. They're such a mirror for Harrow and Gideon. (56) Does that mean she's beyond even a Resurrection? (57) I want to start singing that old, old song. Somewhere, beyond the sea, somewhere, waiting for me… It's a river, not a sea, but I must wonder if Muir ever smirked at the thought of it regarding Dulcie and Pal here. But, this recontextualizes a TON. One, Pal not telling Cam before the Paul-ification that he'd spoken to what he truly believed was Dulcie. Two, his saying "beyond the river" in that same final exchange. Three, everything we've ever been told about the River in the narrative... (58) If what ends well? What does "well" entain?

(59) Daniel 10:6, Douay-Rheims translation as Muir is so fond of it: "And his body was like the chrysolite, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as a burning lamp: and his arms, and all downward even to the feet, like in appearance to glittering brass: and the voice of his word like the voice of a multitude." Daniel, speaking of having seen an angel. I got goosebumps when I realized. (60) Cute is insufficient to the moment, Dulcie. And you well know it. (61) Has anyone guessed at what game they're playing? It's not proper poker that I can tell, because you don't play that many cards down in it and they're not betting per se. Also, they play more cards than they're described being dealt or picking up. (62) Pal confirming his suspicions as we race to the end. (63) One assumes, her playing unfair up front and interpreting his first clarification as a question. (64) It was never just about her use of Babs as a puppet, adding his name to clarify to the readers of Nona that it wasn't Ianthe's body on the page, it was her somehow retrieved cav. It was always for this. She was always Naberius. Fuck.

[stalkedbytrains]

Stone Face Sorrow

The mourners were all there, in their elaborately carved masks. Each carved face covering was unique to the person, to the family, to the emotion the wood conveyed for flesh. All of them showed sadness or regret or, in a few cases, sorrow.

All of them were draped head to toe in black, not a piece of skin showing, only masks, frozen in a single emotion. The procession started, passed the freshly dug grace, passed the coffin, passed the crying masks of a tall figure, passed the three smaller sad masked figures, the husband and the children of the deceased.

A processional of carved mourning faces moved passed the grieving family, offering flowers on the grave and hushed, muffled words of condolences. The masked family nodded their acceptance of the comforts but didn’t say anything, the masks conveying their emotions for them.

With the processional was almost done, only one person was left. There was no billow of breath rising from beneath the elegantly carved sorrow mask. Not a single indication that it breathed, or if it did, the breath was warm.

Empty, sad eyes of the mask looked over the small remains of the family and placed a small statuette on the coffin, before turning to leave. The footprints left behind in the semi-frozen mud were much deeper than the others of the processional.

The tall remaining figure, the husband of the deceased woman, looked at the statuette only to see the small representation of the Wailing Father.

That would mean…

The man quickly turned to see where the last person went, the one with the heavy Sorrow mask, but they were gone, off into the late evening mist that was rolling off the mountains.

He was nervous now, was it possibly they were just visited by The Sorrow?

He didn’t know, didn’t want to know.

With the processional, and the funeral over, the husband took his children out of the cemetery and back to the house.

Once inside, in private, the family could remove their masks and cloaks. They sat together in silence. The twins hugged the little one, a girl no older than four.

The father was just about to rise from his seat to fetch something. He was dimly aware that the girls needed to eat, but he wasn’t hungry. That was when they heard the loud footsteps on the front porch. Slow, heavy footsteps.

Then the door burst open revealing in the Sorrow masked figure, dressed all in black, with a cold, late winder wind blowing in behind it.

The figure stepped in, crossing the threshold with heavy, steady steps. Then with a black clad hand, reached back and closed the wooden door behind it before standing in silence.

In the absolute silence that radiated from the being’s presence the family could hear a quiet, raspy, labored breathing despite seeing no breath coming from it earlier.

The father moved, stood in front of his daughters and yelled, “We don’t want you here! We didn’t pray to the Wailing Father! Leave us in peace! Please!”

But the hollow eyes of the Sorrow weren’t directed at the father, or at the older girls, the twins with the dark hair, past them to the smallest girl, the four year old with the shock of bright blonde hair. The instant girl felt the attention on her she ran away from her father and sisters and into the back bedroom.

“Just leave us alone! We thank the Wailing Father for sending you in our hour of despair but we don’t need your services, please. My wife… my wife is dead. There’s nothing to be done. She drowned,” the father choked out.

Suddenly the younger girl was back, this time she was holding up a much too large mask of dark wood, painted red, with an angry snarl carved into it.

With the wooden barrier between herself and the masked Sorrow, she spoke up, “Will you find out who killed mommy?”

Sorrow descended, resting on knees that were hidden the large dark robe. With a voice like air escaping from a long sealed tomb it answered, “Yes.”

“Good,” the girl said. “I’m mad at them. Mommy was supposed to come home. We was gonna read the end of the Princesses story together. But now she can’t.”

Sorrow’s empty eyes stared back at Anger held up by the four year old. For a long moment there was silence.

The Sorrow stood up and exited the house with a slow but determined gait.

The next night was just as cold and windy as the night of the funeral, but today had a sleety, half frozen rain to add to it.

The tavern’s fireplaces were all roaring and the food was hot. All of the patrons were dressed in their warmest, their masks were often the woolen or knitted variety, politely hiding half their faces while leaving their mouths exposed as to better talk and drink.

Through his informal, dull, half-faded mask that showed off his cheeks and mouth and chin, the bartender surveyed the bar.

All of the masked faces turned when someone burst through the door. All of the people that were usually here were here, and everyone else was in the safety and warmth of their own houses. It was either an out-of-towner or bad news.

The new arrival threw off their clock, soaked with freezing rain and before the tavern stood a tall, red cheeked, auburn hair elf with pointed ears, high cheekbones, bright eyes and no mask.

After shaking out some of the water from their curly and graying hair, the elf took a seat at the bar.

“What do you want here bareface?’ the bartender asked unkindly.

They always started with the maskless insults before they moved into the racism.

But the elf was tired and having none of it. They reached into their pocket and produced a hand sized piece of metal. The second they slapped it on the table it glowed, white, and brilliant and outshone everything else in the tavern. After a second the light faded and the metal returned to being just a highly polished metal star.

The bartender’s attitude changed. “What can I offer you Lady Investigator?”

“Whiskey,” they said. “You may refer to me as Investigator Stalking Heron.”

“Start with what?” he asked nervously, adjusting his mask to sit correctly over his face.

“I heard Sorrow is in town. Has anyone in town died recently? Or anyone seen the Sorrow faced being?” they asked loudly.

Once again the silence filled the room like smoke, choking out the sound.

“I’ll take that oppressive silence as a yes. Any one seen The Sorrow? Anyone pray to the Wailing Father?” Heron asked.

They were only greeted with more silence.

“Do you want me to break out my mask? I’ll get it and conduct this investigation all proper like if that’s what you all want,” they threatened.

When the elf was met with only silence, the mysterious Investigator started to reach for their coat when the man slumped on the bar next to them drunkenly raised his head.

“It was me! My wife died three days ago. Drowned in that damn lake out back. My littlest prayed to the Wailing Father himself and he sent The Sorrow down on our heads. Maybe we’ll find out if a godsend can fight a lake.”

Heron sighed heavily. “I’m sorry,” they said with genuine sadness. “But if Sorrow is here, then I hate to tell you that your wife was murdered.”

The drunk and bereaved man broke out into a fresh round of sobs.

"I’m going to need a room somewhere,” Investigator Heron said. “I’ve got to solve a murder quickly before you’re burying someone else.”

“If they killed my wife,” the drunk shouted. “They’ll be lucky if there’s anything left to bury!”

“Alright Elijah, I know you’re grieving, but it’s time you went home,” the bartender told him.

The drunk was already asleep.

“Silah is dead, someone prays to your damn elven demon god, Sorrow is here, and now a barefaced elven Investigator here. How can it get any worse?” the bartender muttered as he looked at the passed out man on his bar.

“The barefaced elf is Inspector Heron,” they said with a menacing finger pointed at the bartender. “And as if your ignorance couldn’t show any further, the Wailing Father is one of the very few gods that exist in all six major pantheons. Now, if you’re done choking everyone with your extreme aura of stupidity. I need to get to the bottom of this, get to the murderer before Sorrow does. If I do, there’s a chance that Sorrow will back off. They usually stand down when the murderer is brought to justice. Otherwise it’s just a death sentence. And it’s only a matter of time.”

At that moment, outside the bar, the figure in the Sorrow mask stood silent into the rain, empty mask eyes fixed on the bank of the slowly defrosting lake.

It stood there for some time, just looking without eyes or perhaps waiting.

Elijah stumbled out of the bar, with the help of one of his neighbors. The light spilled out of the open doorway for just a moment, illuminating the Sorrow, but in the next moment it was gone.

The two men walked through the slush and frozen rain towards Elijah’s house, masks keeping out the worst of the rain.

Neither of them noticed the Sorrow outside the house down the small lane from the both of them. If Sorrow had eyes to read it held the posture of something reading the name sign posting on the outside of the house.

But the men were too drunk and too eager to be out of the weather to notice the dark figure lurking.

Back in the bar, Investigator Heron started questioning patrons. They held the shining star in their hand at all times, metal gently pricking into their hands, as they passed from patron to patron. The human’s masks and half masks made it difficult to tell if someone was lying to them, but that’s why they had the star.

Every time someone lied to them the star started to glow. It made it easier for them. Even though Heron was a master liar at one point in their life, mask or no mask. But it still didn’t change the fact that they were no investigator, not really. So they held on to the star all the tighter.

They discovered that the deceased Silah was in the bar the night she died. Her husband was at home with the children. Silah and some of the other wives met once a month in the tavern for some time away from their usual duties. The last one to see Silah alive was the barkeep since she stayed till the tavern closed. The innkeeper was rapidly moving up the list of Heron’s suspects. He was right behind the husband, because it was always the husband.

Heron moved to put on their own mask, the terrifying bird shaped mask all investigators wore, their head a bit too small for it, even with their hair. The long beak and dark wood made it the long and thin elf look even more avian.

They’d barely got it on when someone burst into the tavern looking terrifying.

“Sorrow! It’s here!” the frightened young man yelled. “It’s in the cemetery!”

Heron swore, not bothering to take off their mask, and ran out into the driving rains, barely taking time to put on their clock as they ran.

If Sorrow was in the cemetery, then there was a chance. A slim chance, that maybe Sorrow would be occupied with the body of Silah. Hopefully they’d get there before Sorrow left.

They spoke a quick word that rolled off their tongue and a bright little marsh light appeared before them, lighting their way through the darkness.

Sorrow was in the cemetery, seemingly looking at headstones. Black shrouded fingers traced lettering on gravestones. The figure stood for several moments surrounded by the dead, a bit of it was touching their gravestones as if absorbing their lives through the tiny little epitaphs that sum up entire existences in as few words as possible.

By the time the marsh light got to the cemetery, Sorrow was already gone.

Heron swore, their tongue flying other lilting syllables in elvish, cursing everything, mostly themselves.

There was a statue of the Wailing Father in the cemetery, for the dead center. A grief stricken father kneeling over all the graves in the cemetery. Permanent, unending anguish over his finely sculpted face.

“You’ve already figured it out haven’t you?” Heron asked the statue, dropping the mask in the mud. “I’m not even half the investigator you were. Not even close. I don’t even know if I should go after the bartender or the husband.” They sank to their knees, falling into the freezing mud. “I know I’ve said it before, but I’d give anything to trade places with you. You should be the investigator everyone knows and fears. I should be the one that’s… that’s… Why? You were always the good one, the better one. I was the fuck up. I never wanted your job, your name, but you’re gone. And I’m trying, I’m trying so hard to be a better person, to be you, but I’m not. I’m just still me, and I’m awful at it. Just… just come home? Please? I can’t do this without you.”

The elf with the assumed name Heron knelt in the half melted snow and mud and midnight night rain before the Wailing Father. They knew it was too late. Sorrow had their target and was probably on its way. And they didn’t even know where to begin.

The rain blurred away the tears as soon as they fell, but it didn’t wash away the cries of anguish and failure.

Heron was alone, cold, tired, and failing more than they succeeded. All of that barefaced, raw emotion was coming out as they mirrored the emotions set in stone before her.

The weather did not care. If the Wailing Father cared, he didn’t show it.

“We’re closed!” the tavern keep called as he heard the door open and shut behind heavy footsteps.

He turned around to repeat the phrase, but instead found himself face-to-face with a pale weeping mask of sadness and stone.

“Fuck!” he cried and fell backwards.

“Murderer,” whispered the voice from behind the mask like a stale breeze being let out of a cave.

“I did nothing!” he yelled as he reached beneath his bar for the short sword hidden there.

He held up the sword between himself and Sorrow. The being did not move, save for the masked face that followed him as he slipped out from behind the bar.

“I did nothing! Ya hear!” he yelled again.

Sorrow took a single step towards the tavern keeper but he slashed out with steel.

That rebounded. Bounced off whatever passed for flesh beneath the black shroud.

“Cursed, demon elven gods! I didn’t kill her!” he cried once more before attacking.

But the blows bounced off once again. This time Sorrow reached out and grabbed the blade in one hand and ripped it from the half masked man.

The man yelped as the other hand rose and knocked off his mask revealing all of the barkeep’s worn, terrified, scratched face. He had several scratches by his eyes, which were concealed by the mask he wore.

The touch of the frozen hand of Sorrow caused him to leap out of the way and over to the fire. Her grabbed the hot iron poker from the dying embers and brandished it like a sword.

Still Sorrow advanced slowly.

The tavern keeper lashed out with the glowing poker. It connected with Sorrow causing a dull thud.

Nothing seemed to even affect it till the hot poker caught the robes on fire, then it only warranted a brief look down.

Sorrow took another step forward. It continued advancing, unceasing.

Until the tavern keeper struck with the heavy iron rod, right in the mask of Sorrow.

Two blows in quick succession and Sorrow stopped moving. The stone mask cracked. Heavy cracks like scars spread across the mask.

The tavern keeper laughed and smashed the iron into the mask once more, deepening the cracks and wounds.

A dark, thick red substance started to pour from the mask and a sound like rocks groaning before being split under pressure escaped Sorrow.

Another attack came from the over confident tavern owner. He tried to strike the figure with the bleeding stone mask, but Sorrow’s hand intercepted his own.

The hand was heavy and strong and it squeezed and the small bones in the attacker’s hands snapped loudly.

Sorrow took the weapon from the man and threw it into the bar, shattering liquor bottles and catching it on fire.

“Oh shit,” he swore.

The blood was pouring out of the cracks in the mask. Sorrow reached up and removed the wounded mask, dropping it heavily on the ground, then removed the burning, smoldering clothing.

Before the tavern keeper stood an ethereal beauty.

An elf, naked, pale skin looking exactly like porcelain stone. But the stonework was so perfect, so smooth, it looked like flesh transmuted or, perhaps, silk made stone.

Slowly, with all the ease of chiseling stone, Sorrow’s face turned from one of neutral interest to one of abject rage.

The figure raised its hands and advanced upon the innkeeper.

Sorrow didn’t stop until the murderer’s face matched the Sorrowful expression on the mask it wore.

A little while later Sorrow knocked once on the door of the residence that once belonged to Silah.

The father was passed out in his bed. The twins were up in a moment, the little one rising a little slower.

Sorrow entered the cabin, shrouded in black with the sad, broken expression on the mask it wore.

“It is done,” wheezed the voice behind the mask.

It held out a hand towards the youngest girl.

She nodded solemnly and turned back into the bedroom.

A moment later the girl returned and placed a well worn, much loved stuffed bear into Sorrow’s waiting hand.

“Thank you,” the girl said. “Take care of him. His name is Bubbles and he needs lots of hugs.”

Sorrow’s hand disappeared with the bear back inside the robes, then it turned and left without another word.

Once outside Sorrow’s mask turned towards the smoldering tavern fire. Heron was watching, forlorn and sad. Another missed opportunity.

Sorrow stood in the dark, watching the light for some time until the rain had stopped.

Then, as dawn was breaking, moved on.

In a little network of roads beneath a great tree, in a small area that formed a little cave Sorrow built itself a little fire, hung up the cloak and mask beside it.

It sat down, orange flames dancing across the pale porcelain skin that was gently reflecting it back. Then, very carefully, like it was reaching for a holy object, Sorrow grabbed the stuffed bear. In the dim firelight Sorrow examined the bear, almost as if it was trying to remember the object’s significance.

After several seconds the stone lips parted and Sorrow said in a rough, cracked voice becoming a being of stone, “You need lots of hugs.”

Then gently embraced the bear like Sorrow was once a small child with an animal.

[fangsandsoftgrass]

Soft music and indistinguishable chatter filled the air around her as Cirwedh stepped onto the balcony of Beragon's townhouse, Gladriel in tow as the previous noise died down.

All eyes were on her as Beragon began his toast, and when they all called her name, one voice, in particular, caught her ear. Standing off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back was Fennorian, Ursilia standing beside him and conversing with some Skingrad noble the Count must have brought; glass of wine in hand. Their eyes met, and while the rest of the party faded they shared a moment of relief, having found each other amongst strangers. They would have time later, but Cirwedh could already feel herself being pulled in different directions as those gathered clamored for their chance to thank her. For what? they'd never remember.

Cirwedh weaved through conversational checkpoints like a needle and thread, exchanging clasped hands and well-practiced pleasantries until the sun sank low behind the trees, and the last few people trickled back into the townhouse proper (to continue the party somewhere with more food, she was sure). She had settled into a heated debate on the floor with Gladriel when the sound of her name caught her attention, just in time to see Ursilia close the door into the parlor. Fennorian was just as soon crossing the floor and pulling her into his arms. For a second, Cirwedh thought she smelled strawberries.

"I've been waiting all afternoon to hold you." the sentiment had her knees weak. As she pulled back to look him over, she noticed just how nice his clothes were. Fennorian had ditched the leathers altogether and instead opted for silken pants and a tunic, both dyed black and accented with silver closures that matched the coffin dangling from his neck. An almost opulent vest of deep maroon and scarlet florals brought it all together, visibly aged but still a fine piece of clothing. He noticed her staring and spoke up, "It was Verandis'. Seen plenty of court intrigue and ballrooms, I'm certain."

"And I thought I'd overdressed." A sparkling laugh spilled from her lips as she smiled and cupped his cheek with a sprouting hand. The only thing Alea had told her was to dress finely—well, as finely as she could, considering how she'd been covered antlers-to-toes in everything by the time she had returned to the city—so she draped herself in borrowed silk and leather, keeping it all on with living vines and the same blooming peonies she'd seen growing in the Skingrad gardens. Vibrant leaves and scars covered whatever skin was exposed, and beneath them lay enough freckles to make the stars envious.

"Considering some of the collars here were bigger than Glad's head, I'd say we're doing about average for this place." This earned a light chuckle. Somewhere below them, a gentle melody played, and muffled cheering could be heard from some other part of the city as people danced in the streets below. The arms around her tightened before releasing, and Cirwedh watched with a raised brow as Fennorian bowed deeply, eyes never leaving hers as he extended his arm for her to take.

"Would you give me this dance, Love?" a single pearly fang peaked from behind smiling lips. Small flowers crept up her antlers, and a deep blush settled across her cheeks as she took his hand and fell into his arms once more. The movements were slow and fluid, similar to a waltz she'd seen before in Alinor but never tried, and the setting sun painted everything golden as the stars shone like diamonds in the hazy dusk.

"I'm sorry I waited." She felt a pit of guilt begin growing in her gut. "I Saw Ursilia just standing there, and I think if I had gone over, she would have left with a few nasty scratches."

Fennorian sighed and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I know she's told you she's using my guilt over the engagement—I'll take that up with her later—But we did burn a lot of profitable stock. The least I can do is make sure the vineyard's workers are properly safe." He squeezed her hand in assurance and pulled her closer before, somewhere in the distance, a loud snore from Gladriel interrupted. Laughing breathily as he held her near, Fennorian dipped down to capture her lips in a kiss full of love and shared longing. It was true that Cirwedh had given some rather colorful opinions on the Lady, but here, on this balcony, she remembered why she'd put up with that blighted vineyard in the first place.

"If she takes any more than what is owed, what you feel is owed," her voice was a raspy whisper as she spoke against the soft skin of his lips, "I will turn her into soup." She pecked his cheek, mischief dripping from her tongue.

"I'm sure she would taste awfully bitter, my dear." His eyes glinted, reflecting in them a shared amusement as he shook his head.

"That is why I'll feed it to her, of course." her eyes wrinkled as she flashed her signature sharp-toothed grin.

Fennorian's chest rumbled against her with warm laughter as he spun her around and took her hands in his own, kissing her deeply once more. She had mourned the Paths not taken; it was true. But here, in the heavy, humid air that smelled of strawberries and peonies, Cirwedh felt in the hands of her Lover that she'd made the right choice.

IM FUCKING LOSING IT ANYWAY THANK YOU @saatoruus FOR ALWAYS SEEING THE VISION AND MAKING IT MORE BEAUTIFUL THAN I COULD EVER IMAGINE MWAH MWAH I LOVE U FOREVER

[milliestars4]

All the time they had

Azriel x Gwyn

Read on AO3

“They thought they had time - all the time in the world”

Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, DepressionGrief/Mourning, vomiting

This was the fifteenth apartment they had looked at, and it was raining outside.

Melodic scatters of thin and fat raindrops tapped against the old, peeling windowsill - they would need to re-paint that, Azriel thought. Once they'd moved in. The windows themselves were lovely: a mahogany-looking wood stretched across the four large glass window panels, from which provided the perfect view of an elderly lady perched on a bench outside, despite the drizzle and dark clouds looming above.

In the singular bedroom, Gwyn was accordioning the carpeted flooring, crouching and running her slender fingers atop it, when Azriel walked in. "It's the wrong colour." she said.

"That's not a problem," Azriel said. "It matches the drapes."

"Well, I suppose you aren't wrong." Gwyn smiled, rose colouring her freckled cheeks, her teel eyes glimmering as Azriel smiled back.

"I think this is the one." He told Gwyneth. "It's lovely."

“It needs a lot of work,” Gwyn started, but was soon cut short as her husbands’ lips pressed gently against hers. She pulled back, “It needs time.”

"Something we have a lot of," he gazed down at her "we can do it together."

++

It was raining outside, the sky's tears hit the top of the umbrella as a numbness washed over him.

The vague scent of sodden mud underneath the squelching of dark shoes overwhelmed his ears.

There was a sting at his already-sodden cheeks - another tear falling, mocking the wish to bleed dry of them. Many tears fell after that.

The stings brought him back to reality - back to the view of the mahogany coffin littered in flowers and soil. A final goodbye that he'd rather face burning tears tenfold than to glance at once more. A final goodbye burning greater than the haunting of a piercingly empty sky - vacant of any light.

A firm, calloused hand grasped his shoulder, then another the other side - holding tight. A grounding sense amongst a drifting mind, numbness the only grasping emotion as a cry broke from a sister's lips. A sister that felt the great vacancy as vividly as he did. He assumed.

"Goodbye," he told the coffin, "I love you, always." he told the sky.

++

"The place is a work in progress." Gwyneth said, folding her arms. Azriel found her enthusiasm admirable - she hadn't even been affected by the horrors of moving day; the two of them had been stranded in the elevator for three hours. Gwyneth laughed during the entirety of the whole ordeal.

"I'd hope so," Cassian laughed from the place on their new couch - most likely basking in the smugness of helping to load it in. "I am surprised Az's germaphobe ass hasn't had an aneurysm yet."

Gwyneth huffed a laugh, moving to sit beside him, shoving at his shoulder, "you'd be surprised to hear that Azriel only had positive things to say about this place, much to your dismay."

"There's a first for everything, then," his brother replied, "shove that in his face every time he cries about getting paint on those overly expensive gloves he wears."

Azriel finally cracked a smile, "shove it up your ass, Cass. This is mine and Gwyneth's work in progress." he said as he took the last remaining place beside his wife, draping an arm over her shoulders, before placing a kiss to her temple.

"Just don't let little Gwynie do all the heavy lifting, okay?"

"I’m bored of this banter, where is my best friend?" Gwyn got up and wandered over to adjourning kitchen - small to some, perfect for those important.

Cassian stretched his arms above his head, letting out an exasperated sigh at the action, "they're calling themselves sisters, you know?" he smiled.

"So, I have heard." but Azriel could only smile at the thoughtfulness of his wife. And he couldn't wait for their time together, while watching her soft, joyous features twisting into gleaming smiles, and bright eyes.

++

The dim light of the musty motel room he was staying at was the first he'd seen since she left.

Cassian and Rhysand dragged his sorry ass out of their darkened apartment claiming he was unwell and needed to sort himself out.

The floral-prints scattering the old wallpaper had been his warping entertainment for the past five hours - with substances now running rampant through his body, he finally felt sane.Normal.

Who even used off-white, flowery wallpaper nowadays?

A key turned in his door, but his head was too heavy to move - by the sounds of a muffled fuck and approaching footsteps meant it was most likely one of his brothers there to lecture him; tell him that she wouldn't want to see him like this.

"It doesn't matter," he slurred, the whites of his eyes bloodshot, "she can't see me anyway." he said to no-one. He said to the world.

"Who are you talking to?" his older brother asked him as he emerged from the completely dark foyer, moving to crouch In front of his sprawled form against the wall.

His hair hadn't been washed since the hospital - shed run her perfect fingers though it for the last time that day - he couldn't wash her touch away. his shirt fit him like a second skin - drenched in sweat after his body flushed the last of his escape out of him, before he relapsed once more. His hands still clutched his spliff limply, between two fingers - unfinished and idle.

"I think you should stay with me for a bit, hey?" Rhysand placed a hand on his cheek, moving his face to look up at him, "so we can help you. Properly."

Azriel couldn't find it in him to respond, to accept the grace that 'help' would entail - if it meant her memory wouldn't chafe at his every pore, every cell he didn’t want it. He didn't want to lose the only thing he had left of her.

"Come on," Rhys stood, hauling Azriel up with him, supporting his waist so he wouldn't keel over. "Nyx is waiting in the car for you, too."

++

Azriel held her copper hair back for the fifth time that night as she hurled her guts up in their newly renovated bathroom.

"Nesta will be smug at the fact she was right about your light-weighted attributes." He laughed, stroking her back in methodical circles as she dry-heaved the remains of her stomach. Hopefully for the final time that evening.

"I am never drinking again." she said, her skin flushed and clammy, as she sat back on her heals - her shoes completely discarded in her hasty escape to the bathroom.

Azriel stood for a moment, leaving the room before shortly returning with a cool glass of water, and pressing it against her lips. "You're okay, Gwyneth, I will stay with you." he passed a gloved hand though her copper strands, soothing his wife as she regained her breath.

++

Azriel stumbled into Rhysand's bathroom, a drunken attempt to empty his stomach of all his mistakes, but he didn't make it in time. Instead, he vomited across the tiled flooring and immaculate matte-finished shower, crumpling into a ball onto the floor. Completely covered in it all.

Someone must have heard his commotion as footsteps sprinted up the two flights of stairs to the guest bathroom, almost knocking the door for it hinges in the entrance. Azriel was too tired, too ashamed to look up.

"Oh, Az," they sighed sadly, "let's get you cleaned up, hm?" Feyre's motherly voice sounded in his ears, before she took one of his scarred hands in hers, and grabbing her phone with her other.

Rhysand was home ten minutes later.

++

"I don't know how to make it better." Azriel whispered brokenly to Rhysand who sat next to him on the couch - Rhysand has cleaned both Az and the bathroom before dressing his brother and easing him to sit. "I only feel her."

"You will heal, you will get better, Az. This will get easier. With time."

[onedaughterofman]

You, forever (Chapter VIII: Spawn of pure malevolence)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus IV x g/n reader

Summary: The Clergy takes something from Copia, but he refuses to let go.

Warnings/tags: descriptions of corpses and deaths, implied/referenced murder, discussions of Luciferianism and religion. I'll probably edit it again another day, but if I don't post it now I'm afraid I'll never will. Around 4K words!

PREV CHAPTER HERE

“I heard the wind has changed in Har Megiddo.”

Below the surface, the Necromancer’s boots emit a thunderous sound against the ground. The echo travels through the chamber, vibrating in the walls before getting lost in the distance.

In slow motion, they stride around the room. Those dim eyes examine the surfaces, rapidly bypassing the decorations and statues that clutter the corners before centering on the glass coffin in the middle of the place.

Oh.

Huge pupils expand even more inside the light irises when the Necromancer takes a step forward. Then, another. Gaze locked, they move cautiously towards the casket. It's not an ordinary occurrence to find a corpse so carefully curated, so beautifully cared for. There are flowers and gold jewelry surrounding the body, delicate silk and velvet enveloping it like a fine cerecloth.

Those are not merely bloody, mangled human remains.

No. That is a piece of art and there’s nothing the Necromancer wants more than to lay their hands on it, to make it twirl under the midnight sun. All it would take it'd be a twitch of their fingers...

Of course, they can’t do anything for as long as Papa Emeritus stands in the way.

Such a shame.

Such a pity.

“I love what you have done with the place.” The words are devoid of emotion, completely empty. Indifference coats each syllable, extending the spaces with air. “I can’t believe this has been down here all this time.”

Papa Emeritus IV continues to be silent. Guarding him, stand two ghouls. They all stare in the Necromancer's direction, following every slight movement.

The leather of Papa’s glove creaks when he tightens his fist, muscles tensing upon the gesture. His clothes are spotless, carefully tailored to drape around his body in a way that it wouldn’t fit anyone else. The Necromancer has a good eye for details and they must admit that Papa radiates a strong aura of power and royalty, to the point it’s almost intimidating.

Fortunately, the Necromancer laughs in the face of authority. The glass is cold when their hand falls flat on the surface, nails grazing over the smooth material.

Tap.

“This is nice.”

Tap.

Papa doesn’t reply. The black polish on the Necromancer’s nails is chipped and messy, a somber color on the extremely pale skin. It requires a considerable effort not to react when they move closer, face almost pressing on the coffin and head leaning to one side. The warm breath fogs up the glass, coats the surface that shields your body from the dust and humidity of the underground tunnels.

“The mortician did a good job with this one.” Dark hair falls flat on the Necromancer’s forehead, casting shadows over their eyes. Yet, it does nothing to hide the undeniable glint in them. “Looks like they sleep peacefully.”

Too peacefully. The Necromancer practically feels as if they could rouse you up with a few snaps of their fingers. Over your nose, the black nails tap once and then twice, waiting for a reaction.

Nothing happens, there is no fluttering of eyelashes or twitch of your brows.

You’re dead.

That’s good.

It’s better when they are dead. The deceased can’t judge, complain or do anything but follow orders and dance round and round. To be the puppet master, the one who controls and possesses, that’s a distinctive type of privilege very few have.

It’s a gift, something that must be appreciated and exploited to the full potential.

Not everybody agrees. Looking back, the Necromancer finds Papa Emeritus IV standing a few meters away, jaw tense and burning gaze. Another short sound emerges from the glass when their nails tap again, never averting their eyes.

“Stop it,” Papa barks, and the ghouls bare their teeth at the command. The infernal creatures are practically as tense as he is, ready to jump and attack at any threat. The Necromancer fears no ghoul or Papa, but they have to admit this one is different from the rest. Historically, Papas have inevitably been nothing but a figurehead, a puppet in the hands of the Clergy.

Not this one.

Papa Emeritus IV possesses a certain air of danger surrounding his body and the unmistakable scent of Death holds close to his robes and skin. When he moves, the screams coming from beyond the grave sound louder, rising in a never-ending chorus of misery.

The voices inside the Necromancer’s head never shut up. It’s annoying, terribly so. The damned crave violence, blood, yearn for more destruction. Everywhere Papa goes, the shrieks follow him, for he has sent so many souls underground, condemned many to burn and decay until the end of times.

A hollow laugh escapes their lungs. The Necromancer remains still, back straight as they take half a step to the side. “I don’t think your lover minds it,” they affirm. “But I have to admit I’m a bit saddened at the fact that the body is unburied. Digging them up is the best part."

“I’ll give you everything you need to work with.” Copia assures hastily, moving a hand to motion at the other. “But don’t test my patience.”

The Necromancer’s teeth shine under the pale glow radiating from the old lamps. Oblivious to the threat, their lips stretch in a grin before they let out a few bitter chuckles. Even if their shoulders shrug, the hand never leaves the glass. Their palm lays flat on the surface, as a blatant provocation. “If you don’t like me, you can always get yourself another necromancer. I know the Clergy occupied some. They used to bring Nihil back all the time.”

Papa’s reply comes rapidly, brimming with poison. “I have already asked them.”

“Is that so?" They mock, elongating the words. "What did they say?”

“Bringing my love back is not the same as the old man.”

Naturally. Reanimating a corpse to perform an action for a few minutes at most it’s not a complex task. It’s children’s play. Now, to bring back someone for an extended period, both in body and soul…

That’s a whole different story.

That’s insanity.

Fortunately, the Necromancer rejoices in it. “The underworld is very possessive of the souls that fall into it.” They explain, circling around the box. “If you don’t know where to search, you might end up roaming in the dark forever.”

Papa Emeritus is unimpressed. He merely huffs, a hardened expression plastered on his face. “You will find the way," he states, nonchalantly, but it still sounds like a command. 

No. It sounds like a threat.

The Necromancer’s hair moves to follow the soft nodding of their head, as they muse over the situation. “This one has been gone for a while,” they say, examining the body. “An ordinary human with no spiritual influence or important connections to the occult. Their soul could be anywhere. We’ll have to search for weeks, months even, and if we find them we’ll have to gamble with Death,” a pause. “Shit. It’s going to be a mess. Are you sure you want both body and soul? Can’t it be only the body? It’ll feel just the same.”

“I demand for all of them. Don’t play games.”

It’s not easy. Necromancers prefer to summon the recent departed, since they still retain some lucidity. Usually, that timeframe is limited to twelve months following the death of the physical body. Even so, a big part of the success will depend on the circumstances around the demise.

The circumstances, as far as they heard, are messy. “Like I said. If you don’t appreciate how I work, find another person.”

Papa’s touch burns like hellfire. His leather glove is harsh over the Necromancer's skin, fingers curled tight on their forearm. They try shaking him away to no avail. Under the hazy lights, his white eye casts a strong, almost blinding glow. Waves of energy emanate from his body, shaking the Necromancer to the core.

That’s the power of an Emeritus.

It’s terrifying, intoxicating.

“I searched everywhere! Nobody wants to do this,” Papa yells, pulling them closer. The following words are muttered through his teeth, barely discernible. “You are the only one crazy enough to accept, Goore.”

“That I am.”

Mary Goore. Expert necromancer, a brilliant person with a prosperous future, cradled by fortune and the promise of wealth and honor since birth. Goore, the first born of an influential family within The Clergy.

Also, Goore, the teen who was expelled from the Academy of the Occult for questionable necromancy practices and devoted the rest of their days performing in rundown bars, doing everything in their power to spit in the faces of the higher-ups.

Mary Goore, who died more than a decade ago and then without any forewarning came back to life. The story says a corpse covered in cemetery dirt and hair full of maggots rose from an unmarked grave during the snow moon.

How could that happen, nobody knows. “Not even Death wanted them,” Mary said with pride upon questioning. Not even the cold, unforgiving grip of the Undertaker could halt them.

Hell spat them up.

Now, Mary is in front of him; an unhinged smile tattooed on their lips. The gesture does not match the desolation inside their deep pupils and the mix of those two things does nothing to bring peace to Copia. Yet, he doesn’t have any other choice.

Copia is desperate, restless. It’s either Goore, or letting his lover go.

He can’t do that.

You belong with him.

You belong to him, not Death, not Satan.

You belong to him only.

“Is it true?” Papa asks, this time in a more subdued tone. He allows them to go, and Mary clutches their forearm with their left hand. “Can you bring anybody back?”

Mary’s chest expands with pride. There’s arrogance in their body language, oozing from each pore. Goore can detect the smell of his despair, his need. They know they have him right in their palms. “I can. I was the only necromancer talented enough to bring myself back, after all.”

“So it wasn’t a lie, then.” There are many versions of the story. Copia has got wind of most of them. “You fell ill and died, but managed to perform a ritual before exhaling your last breath. How?”

It’s an unfortunate thing. Goore was young. At the time of their death, they were only in their twenties. A fresh corpse was buried on unmarked ground, without a gravestone or a funeral. No one wept for them, not even their parents. The Clergy didn't want to be related to Mary Goore anymore.

The day they died, it was just another Wednesday.

A slow, hollow sound emerges from their throat when they laugh. Underground, the echo is louder, more distinct. Copia feels shivers down his spine, and the ghouls must sense some change in his demeanor, because their muscles immediately stiffen. A slight gesture from his fingers informs them to remain in place, not to attack.

“Is that what they say?” Mary questions, brows furrowed and head tilted. “I fell ill?”

No emotion can be found in that laugh. How such an empty sound can harbor so much bitterness and anger, Copia can’t thoroughly comprehend. He stands still, fingers curling and uncurling. The ghoul on his right growls, letting the deep rumble carry an explicit warning.

Below the surface, the earth screams for blood.

Goore’s energy is overwhelmingly negative, intense. Stinging like ice, but with a burning tinge in it. When their mouth shuts, those black pupils return to Copia’s face. “The stories about my demise are too lame, man. Do you want the truth?”

There’s no reason to say yes. Still…

Copia wants to know. Knowledge is power. He nods.

“Good boy,” Goore says, mockingly. Papa Emeritus bites his tongue not to react. “After those old men got rid of me, I did a bunch of things to piss them off.”

Stealing corpses from the Ministry’s cemetery and forcing them to play songs for their band, for a start. Goore didn’t recall their names. They merely knew those cadavers were important to someone, because they had the best tombs full of lovely flowers and glistening gravestones.

Then, the papal paint. Messy and greasy, tainted with blood and dirt. That was blasphemous, a spit on all their faces. Mimicking and tarnishing something so holy arose a wave of outrage and shock, making a few old men and women clutch their crucifixes in dismay.

Naturally, the open mockery played a good part. Repugnant was on its way to become an established band and they were about to make it big. Someone had to stop them.

“I was doing just fine playing my shit. One day I drank something weird and blacked out. Then, I woke up inside a coffin, mouth sewn and so cold.”

Being buried alive is a dreadful way to die. At the beginning, the desperation clings to your body and heart. The blood flows rapidly, so hot it makes you believe you are capable of opening a way through the wood and dirt.

You can’t.

When the lack of oxygen hits, there’s only despair. It becomes so bleak inside the coffin, frigid to the point you feel your joints slowly freeze. However, Death doesn’t come until your body starts decomposing, while your heart is still fighting.

Lost in the darkness, drowning in your own voiceless screams, you wish you could die faster. It’s torture, a terrible punishment. Goore seized all the dread, clutched it between their palms and reversed it into a spell.

They transformed their death into a rebirth.

Goore finds it funny but also sad. The process of decomposition is fascinating, they investigated and memorized it when they were merely a child. 

An old poem in a foreign language, nine beautiful pictures burning in their memory. 

After the heart stops, the body temperature drops but it will require hours until it becomes completely cold. Initially, the hands and feet get cold, then the lack of blood circulation causes the skin to look pale. Purple spots commence to appear, born from accumulated stale blood. The dehydration and acidification of muscles make the whole corpse stiff.

What once was a lovely face fades quickly like flowers after the summer. As the autumn leaves, life falls to the ground and evanesces into nothingness. There is no difference between the old and the young, no escape. Sooner or later, faster or slower, everyone dies.

The first step is recent death, then distension. Faces turn dark and lose their characteristic rosy color and the hair withers before tanging with roots and wood. As the organs rot away, the gasses push beyond the grave.

In a deserted tomb, the spirit goes to the other world in solitude.

When exudation comes, the melted fat, blood and fluids emanate from the corpse, coating the surface with disease. At this point, the corpse is beyond recognition. The rotten skin begins to fall, mixing with the body’s impurity.

The wind, sad and cold, is the only one who continues to mourn the dead.

Remaining skin and flesh will soon be gone as well, turning purple and blue before vacating space for the bones to appear. The necrophages will feast and devour for long days and nights, white maggots and green flies covering the dirty remains.

It arrives the time when there is no more flesh, blood or fat. There are only bones, lonely, empty. No one recognizes the name of the person they belonged to or the story behind them. The plagues disappear, wilt and die.

Everything becomes dust and only the trapped spirits cry at night by the grave, waiting to see if the ashes bring new blossoms or more decay.

That didn’t happen to Mary Goore. They ruled over putrefaction and decomposition, remaining petrified in time.

They conquered Death and came back.

“Was it the Clergy?”

Copia is the first one to shatter the silence. His eyes are lost in the distance, staring at ghosts no one but he can see. They dance like shadows, round and round, hitting the walls and falling on the floor, crawling around the dirt and dust, damned.

“Who else?”

A cold grave and sudden death. That’s the sole thing The Clergy can offer to their detractors. Goore knows it well. To become a threat and a distraction, someone who goes against those old men wishes… That’s something no one desires.

A cruel fate. One that both you and them shared.

“I don’t care anymore. I knew who I was provoking, but did they? Were they willing to sacrifice their life for sticking with you?”

The saliva is thick when Copia swallows, but his throat remains dry. The weight in his chest becomes more intolerable than before, burdened with the pressure of Goore’s accusation. Copia’s poor heart beats once, then twice before ceasing.

He’s speechless, silent. Something dark moves behind his back, a shadow with sharp nails and putrid breath. The claws scratch at his nape, grazing the arteries in his neck. A sonorous, guttural screech escapes its throat.

“You promised,” it whispers. “You promised we’d be okay.”

“Murderer.”

Guilt is a faceless monster, a spirit that perches on your shoulders and squeezes tightly until there’s no oxygen in your body and your lungs burn and cry for relief.

For a brief moment, Copia wonders if Mary Goore can perceive it too.

They do. “I bet you also knew it. You look dumb, but you are not that dumb.”

Anger is a good motivator. Copia’s jaw is clamp shut, tense. His teeth press on each other as a low growl erupts from his throat. To his right and left, the ghouls imitate the gesture, celebrating the promise of fresh blood, tender flesh and violence.

The energy permeates the room with an oxidized crimson color, almost like rust.

“Of course I didn’t,” Papa spits through his clenched jaw.“I thought they were safe. Everything was going great. Ghost was becoming more and more popular, the tour was a success, we had so many projects and…”

“And? Where’s all that, now?”

Gone.

It’s long dead and gone.

“I’ll kill you,” Copia whispers softly, after a bit. If the statement is intended to threaten Goore or to bring a resemblance of comfort to himself, he doesn’t know it. There’s no power in his words, no strength in his voice. There’s only coldness, a biting lot of it. The raw indescribable emotion should be capable of paralyzing anyone, but Goore stands their ground.

“You could try, right. Hell will spit me back out, just like it did once.”

One step, then another. The heavy combat boots sound like ground mines in Copia’s ears, exploding louder and louder as they get closer.

“I can hear what they say,” Mary confesses, hushed like it’s a secret no one else should know.“I hear the voices.”

“Hear them?”

Copia must have said it out loud, in a tone full of confusion, because Goore replies. “Of the dead, inside my head. Are you curious? Do you want to know what your lover says?”

No, his soul screams. No, Copia doesn’t want to know it. He doesn’t trust Mary Goore, doesn’t even trust himself. Knowledge is a gift from the Dark Lord, but also an onerous burden not meant to be carried on weak, weary shoulders.

Copia’s head barely shakes, breeze caressing his hair. Goore disregards it, leaning closer to whisper in his ear. The warm, wet breath hits his skin like needles. “They want to return to tear the flesh from the living.They are so fucking pissed.”

For the first time in weeks, months even, Copia is scared. No, not scared. Terrified. Your anger and hate are something he never had to confront. He rejoiced in your love, your tenderness and mercy. He embraced all the sacred and divine you gave him.

The dark, the bad, the ugly… He’s not prepared to witness it, to experience it. You must love him, forever.

You must adore him as much as he does.

When Mary’s laugh dies, the gleam remains in their eyes. “That’s a spawn of pure malevolence, the one you got there.”

A rabid fury, a corpse corrupted with malicious energy that fills the veins and permeates the tissues like embalming fluid. Anger consumes this cadaver, tormenting the spirit even far beyond the grave.

According to ancient scrolls, it is believed that in the event of a premature or violent death, the corpse retains part of that unused vitality. Stored deeply inside your guts, Goore can feel the complex whirlwind of emotions. It’s exhilarating, intoxicating.

“That’s enough.”

Papa Emeritus never pleads. Not anymore, but his voice sounds a lot like a plea, a prayer. His gaze is lost again, somewhere far. Still, when his pupils focus on the present, they feel a shiver run down their spine. Mary Goore doesn’t know when to shut up, but the threatening aura of Papa forces their mouth shut.

“I’ll do it,” they start, taking a few steps back.“Give me a few months, and you’ll have them again.”

“Weeks,” Copia spits out, through clenched teeth.“You have three weeks. No more. Don’t fail, or I’ll have you on your knees begging for death.”

An audible sigh. Goore leans forwards, tilting their head down in a short reverence, a mocking gesture. “As you wish, Eminence. You’ll get exactly what you are asking for.”

Before Goore leaves the underground room, an entourage of ghouls behind his back, Papa raises his voice one last time.

“Do you think they regret it?”

“Who?”

“Do you think the infernal divine regrets granting you this power?”

Goore’s laugh is boisterous, but again there’s no cheer in his eyes. “Infernal divine, you say?” They growl, biting down each word. “No, you got it all wrong. It’s the necromancer the one who demands the obedience of demons and other spirits, thanks to the power that was conferred upon them by a god.”

“God?”

They are ridiculous. Copia feels the air freeze in his throat as he struggles to understand the delirious rambles of a crazy person. When Goore continues, their pupils are completely black, an empty vortex.

“Yes,” a long pause follows. “I am my own God.”

Essence of the Sun, brighter than any other before him. A dual star, an Angel of Immortal light so beautiful and free. Hidden within old scrolls and ancient rites, He is the one who can awaken those who call, who reject the emptiness of a fake god and yearn for a liberal spirit.

He, who loves those who love Him, who comes for those in need. Through air and aether, from fire and earth, coating the water that makes us humans, He exists and can be sought within. Clothed in the sun and yet awakened in utter darkness, He rose as a beautiful man who will break the enemy’s will and uplift the strong who embrace Him.

Then, why?

Why is he alone?

Why is he lost?

Why is he the one to suffer, when he did everything right, followed every rite and prayer to perfection?

Why?

“Lucifer,” Copia mutters, lungs devoid of oxygen.“Lucifer, offer me guidance.”

Please.

What would become of life without a lighthouse on the horizon? Nothing but darkness. Lost as his soul is, Copia clings to safety. These old transcripts in his hands are safe, just like the sacred books that weigh on his lap.

“Hail Lucifer, rise Lucifer, come Lucifer, descend upon me, Lucifer manifest.”

Recite from the text.

Renich

Pray for guidance.

Tasa

For strength.

Uberaca

For mercy.

Biasa

For fortune

Icar

For glory

Lucifer

For absolution.

A man like him, bathed in blood and destroyer of empires, should seek no absolution. He has tarnished everything sacred and unsacred, both holy and unholy. He has tested and bypassed the limits of generations, delivered nothing but death and decay to his Church of Satan.

If the Old One is pleased or displeased, Copia doesn’t recognize it. He’s not like Primo, who used to hear His voice, or Secondo, who saw through His eyes. No, Copia has always been alone in this world, consumed in the dark, crawling blindly like a parasite.

Not even Lucifer is willing to walk by his side. Not even Satan or King Belial. There's no King Asmodeus, no Beelzebub, no Astaroth or Stolas.

No one is here to save him or laugh at his demise.

Copia is completely alone. Yet, he recites.

“Lucifer, Lord, King and emperor come and rise”

Among the rubbish from the ruins.

“Lucifer, The Fire of the south, The Air of the east”

Rise from putrefaction and waste.

“Lucifer he who is eternal, Lucifer come unto me".

Unto a servant, a believer.

Unto a fool.

NEXT CHAPTER HERE

Ps: the art Mary remembers is called Kusözu or "Painting of the nine stages of a decaying corpse". The poem (Kusôkanshi) is based on those paintings and was written by a Buddhist monk named Kukai.

The prayers at the end are based on "The Bible of the Adversary" and invocations from the Temple of the Ascending Flame. Will they work? Who knows.

I worked hard on this chapter and I'm still not sure if I like it. It was a big challenge, something different than the past chapters, but I hope you enjoy it. Mary is here.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for not believing that someone was dead and digging up their grave to prove my point?

(AU/Fanfiction post)

Okay, I know the title probably makes me sound bad, but hear me out.

For context: I (43M) have been trying for almost eight years to expose and kill the man, a person I’ll just be calling J (40M), who caused the death of my wife, B. That bastard did things to B that I can’t say here, but she’s been missing for eight years, the police think that she’s dead, and I won’t ever be convinced that J isn’t the reason she’s gone.

The problem with just putting J’s head on a pike in Central Park like the fucking animal he is was that he was a world-famous superhero, and he was a pretty goddamn powerful one. Flight, laser eyes, impenetrable skin, superstrength, all those works, and he’s backed by a massive corporation (we’ll call them V) which will cover up everything he does, which includes what he did to B. And apparently, J’s corporate creators have thrown everything they can think of at this fucker to see if their science project was a success, and none of it put a dent in J. If I was still a believer, I’d say that God is laughing His white-robed ass off at my expense.

J sounds like the kind of wanker that could never be killed by anyone, right? That’s what me along with all my friends in on the plot to take J down thought too at this point. I’d just given a contact in the CIA some incriminating evidence about V’s corruption, only to be seemingly proven wrong. V announced that J had been KIA by some bullshit rival organization with a potent nerve gas.

Nerve gas, killing J. What a bloody joke. I didn’t believe it for a second, but the others? They all were happy to accept it and move on. To them, J was dead and V was being nailed to a plank like Christ on Good Friday after their shitstorm was exposed to the public. But I still wasn’t happy. Despite what my friends and the CIA tried to tell me I didn’t believe that J was dead. V saw what was coming and gave J some bullshit fake death and now he’s living somewhere in the Caribbean or somewhere like that getting lap dances from a conga line of exotic tarts. I would have bet my left bullock on it.

The funeral was soon after, almost too soon, and it was diabolical. V threw a lot of money I didn’t think they’d have after all the allegations into this thing. A gold-plated coffin, massive service with J’s ex delivering the eulogy (judging by her face and flat acting I’m pretty sure she was forced by V) along with a fling (we can call her S, she was on J’s team too) of one my friends performing a music number in J’s memory. They even had an American flag draped over his coffin along with the flowers, like J was some great military leader and not a spoiled manchild they fed powers to out of a bottle. Over the top cock-up, if you ask me.

But I was gobsmacked during the wake to see an actual body in the casket, I was expecting it to be closed. It definitely looked like J, down to every last detail, V had him in that stupid hero uniform and everything. He looked almost like he was peacefully sleeping. I wanted to jab at his skin with a pin from my sister-in-law’s hair to see if it would go through, I would know then if it was really him because there’s no way a pin would be able to go through J, even if he was dead. My in-laws and the friend with me wouldn’t let me though, bloody cowards that they were. They just forced me to give my SIL her pin back and to go sit down with them.

I watched the whole service, watched them carry out that golden monstrosity and lower it into the ground. I even stayed after the service to watch them pour dirt into the grave. It wasn’t enough. I’d seen J’s body, but I still wasn’t sure that it was actually real. That it wasn’t fake or some kind of double. Everyone thought that me going to the funeral would give me closure, but it only did the opposite. Even going to my aunt’s house for a cuppa and seeing my dog wasn’t enough to calm my nerves.

It was after a few pints and getting proper trollied that I got the idea to go back to the city and then break into V’s tower for some answers. So the next morning I took my pistol and crowbar and got into the tower, but I guess I wasn’t careful enough and set off an alarm or maybe walked past too many cameras because their security caught me before I could even make it halfway up. I may have lost the plot a bit, I may have threatened to kill the rest of J’s team, the police found my pistol on me when they got there. They charged me with felony trespassing and, later, tacked on assault for shooting S with my rifle in an earlier incident (she has powers just like J does, give me a break) after she ID’ed me. I got five years and a pile of restraining orders.

I was out on parole after almost two years, so as soon as I got my clothes, money, and the rifle I hid I cut my ankle monitor and legged it. I was on a mission; I was going to find out what killed J, if he was even dead at all, and my friends were going to help me. It wasn’t hard to find them, they’d scattered after J was announced dead but apparently decided to have a meeting of sorts after hearing about me getting out of prison. S was there, so I ended up violating my restraining order, but what the fuck ever. We got into an argument and S threatened to drag me to the nearest police station. It turned into a sudden intervention with everyone insisting to me that J was dead and that I had to let him go. S kept vehemently insisting that he was gone, that he was never coming back. And then I got a call on my cellphone.

My first thought was that it was my SIL or maybe my aunt, so I answered, ready to have to defend myself for violating parole. It wasn’t any of them though. I knew that voice, that fucking voice. It was J, saying my name like he wasn’t sure it was me he’d reached. It was him, I swear on my dead brother’s grave that it was him. My first thought was that J called to taunt me and the first thing I asked him was what the fuck was going on. He didn’t taunt me though. J sounded… scared. I’ve never heard him sound like that, not even in any of the movies he’s starred it. That wasn’t right, J doesn’t get scared. He told me that he couldn’t think of anyone else to call, that V were pieces of shit (no kidding), that his teammates betrayed him, and that he was being held against his will out of the country and some pretty awful things were being done to him. J was calling me from a payphone and the call cut before I could get any meaningful information out of him.

I was raving at that point. S had gone quiet, but the others were trying to convince me that it must have been a prank call, with the one who went with me to the funeral pointing out to me that we saw the body. That made me remember the body, and I yelled at S when the realization hit me before running out of the room. I took some tools and got back into my car before peeling off to the cemetery J was supposedly buried in.

It was right in the middle of January in New York when this happened, so actually digging into the dirt after I’d hopped the cemetery wall and found the grave was a bitch and a half. I used a pickaxe to break apart the frozen dirt, then the shovel to scoop up the pieces and toss them aside. My friends showed up soon after, I guess they followed me. S wasn’t with them. They kept on trying to get me to stop digging and kept calling me crazy. They must have accepted that I wasn’t letting up though when I just kept digging and let me keep going, but they kept telling me that if I turned out to be wrong they were going to turn me in themselves. I just told them that it was a good thing I wasn’t wrong then.

It took me all night, but I got all the way down to the concrete box the casket was in, and I busted the seams with a sledgehammer before having one of the others who has superstrength help lift it. The others just wouldn’t shut up about how messed up this was as I used my crowbar to pry open the coffin. The body was all sunken and decayed and smelled like shit, but I just slid down J’s uniform and exposed his chest. I couldn’t help but hold my breath when I hovered my pocketknife over the body, then I sank it in.

The skin broke with little resistance. I knew right then, but I cut the chest all the way open just to prove my point. The others didn’t seem at all convinced though, so I cut off one of the body’s fingers and put it in my coat pocket and took some pictures of the cut open chest. We all left after that; the sun was rising and we didn’t want to be there when people started showing up.

After that, I found my CIA contact, R. I couldn’t just walk into her office, I was already wanted for my parole violation and apparently the security cameras at the cemetery caught my face, so I was also wanted for “desecrating the resting place of a national hero” (the media has always been V’s personal ball-ticklers). So, I got into the back of R’s car and waited. It didn’t take long for her to show up and start driving, I guess I scared her when I sat up because R almost crashed the car, then she started yelling at me and made a U-turn, telling me that she was going back to the station to turn me in. She changed her tune though when I explained the phone call from J that I got, showed her the pictures, and gave her the finger to take and run a DNA test on it. She made me get out of the car, but agreed to test the finger under the same conditions my friends gave me: if I’m wrong and the DNA is a match for J’s, I’ll spend the rest of my life in a black site.

To make a long story shorter, while we were waiting for the results to come in I had one of my friends, F, pull some contacts and trace J’s call, which we tracked back to a payphone in Russia, and S fessed up to V getting sick of cleaning up J’s messes and agreeing to sell him out to some private research company based there. Everyone on J’s team was in on it because of how he is, the only one who wouldn’t agree was blackmailed. S insisted that she didn’t know anything about J possibly being mistreated, and that she’d been told that he was going to be held in a maximum security prison for supes with experimental technology to keep him contained. That still might be true, we don’t know for sure yet. All I know is that J sounded terrified of the prospect of being caught by his captors and he described some heinous things being done to him. If J was lying and pretending that he was being treated horribly, I don’t think he’d pretend to be afraid, his head’s too inflated for that; he’d pretend to be righteous and angry about it.

It only took three days for R to get back to me with results from the DNA testing, and I put her on speakerphone with everyone except S (she had to go back to V’s tower) in the room. She confirmed my suspicions; the DNA did not match. In fact, while the DNA did match with someone in the database, it wasn’t J. It was another supe, one with shapeshifting powers. Apparently V made them take the form of J, then they killed them so that they’d have a convincing corpse to put in the casket and show the world in order to convince everyone that J had truly died.

Despite me being right though, my friends are still looking at me weird and calling me crazy, saying that I’m bonkers. I turned out to be right, I don’t think I did anything wrong, but they won’t let up. So, am I the arsehole?

TL;DR: scumbag’s corporate overlords claimed he died and held a funeral, I didn’t believe that bullocks so I broke into their tower, got thrown in prison for it, then once I was out I cut my ankle monitor — because fuck parole — and dug up his grave. Turns out I was right, but everyone else thinks I’m crazy.

[lec743]

Bloody Flora AU (FNAF Fanfic)

Goal achieved for the reader, but plans don’t go as planned. Also, thank you everyone for your likes and comments and especially your reblogs. I enjoy writing @oobbbear’s Bloody Flora AU. It’s like a really fun slice of life thing that has that little dash of magic that I especially love. I’ve been writing them as friends for the most part, but I’m going to be pushing more and more the romantic route in the future updates.

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

           You don’t know if it’s the change of winter turning to spring or if it’s all the rain that’s been pouring down, but the customers that have been visiting your shop, The Bloom and Gloom, have been incredibly rude. Customers have insulted the way your bouquets are arranged. Customers have insulted the competency of your workers. Customers have insulted your establishment, and the final straw on the camel’s back was when a customer decided to throw a bouquet of flowers into your face after some man, that he was trying to woo, rejected him. You closed early after that.

           Mumbling and muttering to yourself, you cleaned up the mess, and you sat the flowers to the side for Moon and Sun to eat as a snack for them later. Once you were done you trudge down to your basement. You squinted through the gray darkness as you looked at the homemade coffins that sat on the cold concrete floor. Sun and Moon made them, themselves. They didn’t want your help in buying materials for their coffins, so they’re made from scrap wood and scavenged items that they found around the city. Though you did convince them to accept your “already on hand” blankets, pillows, and colorful house paint, that you most certainly didn’t buy while they weren’t looking.

           You were debating on which Vampire to bother when you heard a rush of water coming out of the basement bathroom. You listened to the normal shuffling of a person going about their business in the bathroom before the door creaked open. Illuminated by the nightlight in the bathroom was Moon.

           Moon looked up at you with a tired frown and asked, “What’s wrong?”

           “The customers haven’t been the nicest today, so I closed the shop early. Can I cuddle with you for a little while?”

           Moon yawned wide, his fangs making him more intimidating than he really is, and he nodded at you as his left ear twitched like how you’ve seen cat ears twitch.

           You walked over to a coffin decorated to look like the night sky in a dark forest. It contrasted Sun’s coffin that was painted to look like a sunny flower field. You understood Moon’s taste in wanting his bed to look like what would be the safest place for them to be in, but you had to have Sun explain his decorating choice. As you laid down in the coffin with Moon, you smiled to yourself as you remembered Sun telling you that it was a wish to be able to see what actively hurts him. Like how people go to space. It’s possible, but it’ll hurt you immediately if there aren’t proper protections. He doesn’t have access to proper protections yet.

           The lid to the coffin thumped a bit as it sat into place, and you wrapped your arm across Moon’s middle and buried your face and other hand into his chest fur. His winged arms draped over your frame like a thin but warm blanket. Not that you needed a blanket with the way the coffin was lined with soft blankets and pillows, making the coffin nice and cozy, like being in a pillow fort.

          ��You were already drifting to sleep for a little mid-day nap when Moon’s soft voice spoke up. Through a yawn he asked, “So what happened?”

           You mumble about crappy customers and their bad taste in flora décor and themes. You don’t tell him about the insults, but you do inform Moon that there’s a bundle of flowers that him and Sun can have in the evening.

           Moon yawned again as he shifted his hold to comb his clawed hand through your hair; lightly scratching your scalp with them and lulling you faster into sleep.

           “You need a vacation,” Moon huffed lightly as he drifted back to sleep.

           You could only give a tired, “Mm-hm,” as your answer before you went unconscious.

           You dreamed of floating through the stars and of having tea parties with pine trees. When you were startled awake by Moon as he tried not to wake you up, you sprang up with an enthusiasm like you hadn’t just woken up from a six-hour nap.

           “Let’s go camping!”

           “Now?” you heard Sun ask behind you.

           “No! Just—” you were interrupted by your own yawning, “Look. Because of your help, I’ve been able to make more money, and all three of us can take a vacation. Let’s go camping as our vacation, next weekend, what do you two think?”

           You looked through the gray darkness between the green and orange neon Vampire fruit bats. You could see the outline of Sun and his ears were pinned to the side of his head. Moon, since you were still in the same coffin as him, was easier to see and he was nodding while his ears were perked high on his head.

           “I like the idea of going camping,” Moon stated.

           “I don’t.”

           You and Moon turned to Sun.

           “Why not,” you asked.

           “Well, technically, Moon and I have been camping for most of our lives.”

           “Ah.”

           Moon tsked, “Oh, come on. Being homeless and going camping isn’t going to be the same thing.”

           You saw Sun cross his arms over his chest and ask, “Oh, yah? How?”

           “Well, obviously, now we have a home to return to,” you felt your hair being pushed behind your ear by clawed hands as Moon asked, “Right, Moonflower?”

           You grab Moon’s hand and say, “Of course we have a home to return to. I don’t want to live in the woods forever. I just want to visit them for a while. For the weekend, specifically.”

           You could see Moon direct his wide smile at you through the gray darkness and you got out of his coffin and pulled him out. You turned back around to see Sun with his arms still crossed, as it looked like he was still thinking about it. You bobbed on your tip toes as you waited for his answer.

           Sun sighed, then said, “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

           An involuntary squeal was squeezed out of you from your excitement, and you rushed Sun to give him a big hug, “I promise I’ll make if fun for you two. Okay? I promise! I promise! I promise!”

           Sun wrapped his winged arms around your upper back and pulled you close to him before flipping you and pulling you into his coffin. He snuggled his face into your hair as his long spindly legs wrapped around your waist and he pulled you even closer to his chest.

           “Okay. Okay. I believe you.” Sun chuckled into your hair.

           “Sun, come on. We need to eat then get to work,” Moon complained as you felt the Vampire shake his brother’s shoulder.

           “You got to sleep with Lavender. I want my turn,” then lowly in your ear he asked, “If that’s okay with you.”

           You yawn again. “I could sleep for a bit longer. Ten more minutes, Moon. Pretty please?”

           Moon sighed, then said, “Fine, I’ll start the night first.”

           “Thank you, baby bro,” Sun called out as Moon walked away.

           “Yah, yah,” Moon’s voice echoed from the stairwell.

           You smiled at their interaction as you snuggled further into Sun’s warmth since the coffin lid was left open. As you drifted into simi-sleep, you felt Sun breath you in deeply as he nuzzled against you.

           The weekend came sooner than you thought, but not soon enough as you planned and bought things that you would need to accommodate yourself and your roommates. You made sure you had shades and big old umbrellas and that your truck’s shell had the windows covered. You had snacks and a fire starter kit and pool floaties for the lake and all kinds of things that should be fun not just for yourself, but for your giant bat friends.

           Right before the rising sun, you and your roommates loaded into your truck; them in the very back being covered by the shell and window blinds that you put up, and you, up front, driving the truck. Since it was so early you didn’t think you’d be delayed by traffic. You were mistaken. First there was a traffic jam that lasted three hours. Then your truck popped a tire, and because it was the middle of the day, your friends couldn’t help you change your tire, so you struggled for an hour and a half with the changing. When the three of you finally made it to the campgrounds, you were late for your scheduled meet up with the campgrounds worker and they gave away the campsite that you reserved to someone else and so you were forced to be in a shitty backwoods area instead of being by the lake.

           The troubles didn’t end there. You tried to go on a nature hike with your friends by having them poof down to their tiny bat size to hide under your wide brim hat, but you ended up getting lost and Moon accidentally got burnt by the sun when you stumbled over a log. Then when you tried to take a nature hike with Sun and Moon at night, you got attacked by an angry raccoon. Then when you tried to go to sleep with them in your truck, Sun’s rays accidentally popped your air mattress with his head frills and the three of you ended up sleeping on your hard truck bed instead.

           The next day wasn’t any better. During the night it rained, and it got so cold that everything froze over. You were so mad. The news said that it was going be a sunny warm spring weekend. You didn’t have the means to cook anything or to make a fire because everything was wet and coated with a layer of ice. You could still eat your food that you brought; it just would have tasted better cooked.

           In some semblance of trying to make things fun again, you pulled out all the board games that you brought and played like a fun smash up of every game you got. Like every time you say sorry in the game of Sorry you had to pull a block from the Jenga Tower and if you made the tower tip, you had to draw ten cards from the Uno deck. That kind of elaborate game playing made your mood and your friends moods lift.

           So, feeling a bit cocky and wanting to show the boys a good time out in the woods, you took them to the lake to go moonlight ice skating. The ice was sturdy, or so you thought, as the three of you slipped and danced on the ice together, but eventually you fell through the ice. You were lucky that you only fell through ice where the water only went up to your hips, but it wasn’t the best feeling in the world. Moon and Sun rushed you back to your campsite and sat you in the truck, blasted the heaters, wrapped you in a blanket, and then cuddled against you in the truck’s front seat.

           When your shivering subsided to the point where you could speak without chittering, you sighed, defeated, “I’m sorry. Let’s go home early.”

           “Okay,” they both said. Moon sounded sad while Sun sounded neutral.

           You scooted off their laps and double checked that there wasn’t anything that you three were leaving behind, then you drove home. It was quiet the entire drive back. You didn’t unload anything as you parked in your parking place, you didn’t have the energy for it, and the three of you went inside. You immediately went to your room to take a hot bath and sulk.

           Now warm, but not feeling any better, you went to your living room, flopped face first into your couch, then turned on your tv to watch a re-run cartoon that you and Moon like to watch together sometimes. You were alone for a few minutes, moping to yourself, when Moon’s legs came into your view.

           “May I sit with you?”

           You lean back so that he could sit down and then you rest your head and arms in his lap. He smelled of fresh strawberries and his fur was lightly damp against the back of your neck. A few minutes after that, Sun was asking to sit on the couch too as he was carefully running a slightly torn towel over his damp head. You lifted your legs up and when he sat down, you draped your legs over his lap.

           The three of you sat silently in the dark as you watched the tv. Then with a sigh, you said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen, for not keeping my promise to make the camping trip fun…”

           “What are you talking about. I had a lot of fun,” Moon stated.

           “You got sunburnt,” you reminded him.

           You felt Moon shift uncomfortably from the memory. “I mean yah, that wasn’t great, but that wasn’t the only thing that happened. We got to see the starry night sky shining down on us through the woods. I got to hold and pet a raccoon that’s kind of like a fat angry cat. The board game sessions were a major highlight, and I didn’t think I’d like raw cheese, yet here I am, perfectly happy to chomp on a block of cheese whenever I want… Especially if it’s with an apple.”

           You sigh then said, “Well, that’s good, I guess, but I’m pretty sure I ruined Sun’s opinion on camping in the future.”

           “No. I think I’d like to try again some time,” Sun stated.

           You sat up to look at Sun. “Really?”

           “Really. I was nervous, but it was nice being out there with you two. I liked seeing the sunlight dapple the forest floor. I also liked the board game session, that we should definitely do more often, here. And it was nice, ice skating with you. Your smile seems even more beautiful under moonlight, Lavender.”

           You found yourself pouting at your living room floor, unable to look at Sun after that complement. “Well, if that’s the case, we’ll try again, but maybe sometime during the summer instead of in the spring.”

           You felt winged arms wrap around you from behind and Moon pulled you into his lap. “That’s great! When it’s warmer, Sun and I can show you our fun games that we made up.”

           You giggle at the idea of Moon and Sun being younger and making up silly kid games. “I would like that.

           Sun scooted closer and rested his head on Moon’s shoulder and he dragged your legs over his lap. The three of you continued to watch tv until you fell asleep on them. Maybe it wasn’t the best first camping trip you’ve ever been on, but you did enjoy going out with them, and no matter the troubles you faced, that’ll always be a plus in your books.

[rebelliousstories]

Snow Day

25 Days of Ficmas

Relationship: Lestat de Lioncourt x Reader

Fandom: Interview With The Vampire

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Fluff, Slight Angst, Mentions of Blood and Vamperism

Word Count: 2,956

Masterlist: Here

Summary: Another Christmas had come and gone, but not without Lestat telling his tales of his favorite, and least favorite, holidays of the past.

Snow danced outside the window that Lestat sat at. His golden curls were loose, like his shirt. The chill didn’t bother him unlike his companion who was currently bundling up and starting the fireplace. Snow in New Orleans was rare but not unheard of, however it was interesting for the vampire. He was so used to warmer temperatures that he forgot the cold. And he wouldn’t be here had it not been for his companion.

She walked over and draped a blankets over Lestat, before setting down a steaming cup of hot cocoa. The man looked quizzically at the lady who now snuggled up to his side in the blanket.

“So, how do you enjoy the snow?” She asked as Lestat’s arm came around her shoulders. She reached for her cup of hot cocoa, enjoying the way it warmed her hands and her body as she drank it.

“It’s been some time since I have seen snow. I’ve been in New Orleans for so long that I had nearly forgotten of its existence. Although it did snow back in the 90’s there. Normally snow is during February though. It has been a lifetime since I’ve experienced a white Christmas.” He continued to stare out the window, as his companion stared up at him instead.

“Les,” he hummed, “can you tell me about some of the Christmases you’ve experienced? Surely you have some good stories to tell.” She sounded so hopeful, and who was Lestat to deny his lover anything?

“That I can do, Mon amor.” He took a minute to collect his thoughts and think about Christmases past that he could remember. Only a few stood out.

“Well, let’s start with one of my earliest.”

~

December 25th, 1771

A young boy with golden curls greeted his cousins in the living room for the large French mansion. He was dressed in his favorite royal blue outfit, with frills and lace. It was a normal Christmas in the home that he shared with his parents. There was nothing that mattered to him at that moment, except the presents underneath the Christmas tree. They always saved one present to open when the rest of the people got there, so there was always an element of mystery in the day.

The ten year old Lioncourt traded books, candy, and stories with his cousins. They did the same with him, and he consumed the knowledge that surrounded him. A distant memory of his mother’s face calling him for dinner. Lestat sat next to her at the table, and enjoyed Christmas dinner. He enjoyed the turkey, and rolls. Vegetables dawned the remaining parts of his plate.

But what he couldn’t wait for the most, was opening that final present under the tree. It was always something that was worth the wait. Usually a book, but Lestat didn’t care. A present was a present, and books that he hadn’t read were rare. However, once dinner was done, and the maids had cleared away the table, the box for the young man wasn’t shaped like a book. The box was tapered, resembling more a coffin than a book. He opened the box slowly, and was greeted with himself. Or rather, the reflection of himself. An ornate silver mirror was nestled gently in a plush interior. The boy picked up the beautiful object and observed it carefully. There were gems and crystals embedded in the back of the mirror, along with engraved flowers and vines.

He couldn’t stop staring at himself in the mirror or the mirror itself for the rest of the night. It was easily his favorite present he had received that Christmas.

~

“Do you remember what happened to the mirror?” His companion asked; Lestat was still staring outside at the snow falling down.

“I do not. After I ran away from home, the last I heard about my family was my mother and father died. My little brother was locked up in a mental hospital.” He seemed to have to think hard about what happened, like he hadn’t really thought about it for a while. But, suppose that’s what happens when you are alive for over two hundred years.

“What was Christmas like once you became a vampire? Can you even celebrate such a holy holiday?” His lover questioned from underneath Lestat’s arm. Said vampire began to chuckle.

“Oh I can certainly think of a few ways for us to celebrate.” He looked towards her with his eyes full of mischief. She groaned and gently hit her lover in the side.

“But yes. I remember my first Christmas as a fledgling. My own creator didn’t care enough to stick around after he made me. So it was a lonely Christmas.”

~

December 25th, 1781

Snow flitted on the streets of London. A fresh fledgling wandered said streets, looking for food. No one was nearby to show him what he was or what to do. All he knew was that he was hungry. His boots crunched the snow beneath him as he walked. Normally, he despised wearing shoes as common as boots when he wasn’t around to ride a horse. But winter was here, and he was on the streets.

Lestat was so hungry. He was on the hunt for food and shelter. If he was able to charm someone for the evening, he could find the solution to both problems. And maybe get a little more for his troubles. As he ventured down the dirty streets, lights greeted him as did the smell of freshly baked goods. The young vampire remembered having fresh cookies at his home for Christmas. Jam, and different sugars made the cookies sweet and delicious.

There was a tree in the middle of town, strung up with tinsel and paper decorations. His legs dragged him over, and dropped him in a heap at the base of the tree. Exhaustion filled him, inside and out. The hunger seemed never ending, and he was starting to regret ever talking to that strange man that made him the way he was. This was unbearable.

A hand gently placed itself on his shoulder, and Lestat’s head slowly turned. It took all of his remaining strength to do so while the mysterious figure draped a blanket over his shoulders. A woman, no older than he, was dressed impeccably, clearly having money and status. He remembered her honey sweet voice asking him if he’d like a warm place to stay, and a warm meal. He remembered meeting her husband and his friend that was staying over at the house for the holiday.

He vividly recalls the silent shock on the men’s faces as he tore into their necks, but he doesn’t remember destroying hers. A haze had made itself present over his vision and reasoning. When Lestat came to, it was a massacre in the home. But he finally felt alright. He wasn’t hungry, wasn’t exhausted, wasn’t cold. Blood drenched the clothes he wore, the carpet in the room, and the people that now lay dead. He went over to his gracious hostess and made sure to lay her down properly. She was kind to him, but he needed to eat as well.

Lestat remained in the home over night and left before anyone could find him the next morning. The man’s clothing fir him well enough that he could continue to find lavish homes to spend the night in for the rest of winter.

~

“That was the one death that I regret, truly. But when in a frenzy after going so long without food, it’s hard to contain.” Lestat was genuinely upset at the kind woman’s death. He’d forgotten her name after all these years, but he never forgot her generosity.

“She seemed like a lovely lady.” His lover was now pressed into his chest, Lestat was on his back. The snow outside kept coming down, slowly burying the home and roads in the icy white substance.

“She was. Did you know that Louis was absolutely insane over Christmas the first year he was turned? He was so concerned that he couldn’t celebrate the holiday because of the dark gift I gave him.” Lestat began to chuckle lightly at the memory, which caused her to start laughing as well.

“Tell me about that Christmas, Les. Please.” Who was he to deny her?

~

December 25th, 1791

Night falls across the plantation in beautiful and busy New Orleans, Louisiana. A young vampire, only twenty years turned, slowly wakes up from his peaceful slumber and takes in the sight of his coffin. His own prodigy, his very own fledgling, was curled into his chest, and had yet to wake up. In the dark of the coffin, Lestat could just barely make out the man’s full lips, prominent cheekbones, and soft skin. The brown hair on his creation flowed over his shoulders and tickled the man’s back lightly. His red eyes were shielded but the elder vampire knew that once he woke up and opened his eyes, Lestat would hear the incessant whining of him.

Speaking of which, his fledgling was beginning to wake from his peaceful rest. Just like he thought, his eyes opened and he realized what day it was. But Lestat was determined to keep the whining down today. He opened the coffin gently and helped himself and his companion out with care. Louis walked over to the portrait of his late wife and daughter, and spent several minutes just staring at the paintings. Lestat busied himself with having the maids set up the table for dinner, and the decorations for the evening.

Once Louis had emerged, he couldn’t believe the image that greeted him. Lestat could hear his thoughts from a mile away, and he was pleased to hear them. Louis was slowly taking in everything; lights, garland, paper decorations on the tree in the adjoining living room, and Christmas plants littered the room. He was so nervous and upset that he wouldn’t have been able to celebrate Christmas now that he was what he was. Lestat came over and took his hand gently in his own, and pulled the stunned man to the table.

They enjoyed Christmas dinner together, and Lestat brought out a special flask and crystal once the maids had retired for the evening. The two vampires made their way to the living room, and settled on the couch. Winds roared outside the home, while they enjoyed their post-dinner treat. Once they were satiated, Louis curled up to Lestat’s chest as they stared outside at the flurry outside. It was too cold for it to be rain, but too warm for the flurry to stick and become snow. While no words were said, Louis made sure to let Lestat know how much he loved being able to celebrate Christmas, even if it was different than how he usually did. His face when Lestat pulled a present out from underneath the tree was worth it.

~

“Did you continue to celebrate as you journeyed together?” His companion was so full of questions, but it made Lestat happy to talk about his life.

“Of course we did. And when we had Claudia, oh the Christmases we had with her. While she was a brat towards the end, in the beginning, she was sweet.” The vampire didn’t even need to have her prompt him anymore to talk about this kind of thing. So he begun the story of Claudia’s first proper Christmas of her life.

~

December 25th, 1794

Once the calendar showed that December had begun, Lestat was fully wanting to spoil his little family. He went full boar into decorations, planning, and prepping for the holiday. It was their daughter’s first Christmas with them; Louis needed to get on board. All it took was the two blondes to look at Louis with puppy dog eyes, and he was on board. It was more Lestat that did the actual convincing, but Louis couldn’t and wouldn’t deny Claudia when she looked so cute.

They made a new home ready for the holiday. Claudia talked about how before her mother got sick, she always tried to make her life better during that time. That admission tugged on his heartstrings, and made him want to give her the Christmas she deserved. Lestat took over most of the preparations while Louis rented the bill. It was all for Claudia anyways. The night before Christmas Day, Claudia kissed Lestat goodnight and took off to Louis’ coffin for her sleep. Louis stayed up for only a moment longer to put her presents underneath the tree, while Lestat watched him. He even put some underneath for the other blonde vampire but he didn’t need to know that until tomorrow.

He didn’t see Lestat go to bed, but he knew that as Claudia slept, Christmas Day would be perfect for this little girl. A gentle hand opened his coffin lid a few hours later, after the sun had gone down. Louis smelt actual food in the home, and saw Lestat holding open his lid. The elder vampire smiled down at his family that he had made. Their little girl had yet to wake up, but soft words were exchanged over her head. Making sure that everything was done and ready for her to experience. The rumbling underneath woke up the young fledgling, and she lept from the coffin to Lestat’s arms, begging for presents. While the other man woke up, they had already begun to sit at the dinner table.

They enjoyed their usual Christmas dinner, complete with their usual post-dinner treat in the best crystal they had. After Claudia had calmed down from her drink, that’s when she was allowed to open her presents. She tore open the paper on each present with childlike wonder and got excited each time the gift was revealed. Lestat sat with Louis on the couch and they watched their little girl have her first real Christmas. It wasn’t until Claudia saw a present with Lestat’s name on it that she got curious. She brought it over to her sire and turned back to discover if she had any more presents. But she just found one for Louis instead.

It was their first perfect Christmas as a family. Lestat remembered how happy he was when he saw how excited Claudia got over everything, and how Louis was excited for his presents. He just remembered being happy.

~

“That was the first Christmas I spent with both of them being happy with me. Claudia tried to kill me a while later.” His hand carded through the hair of his lover, who stared up at him as he spoke. There was a pause as she took in his words. She felt the mood drop, and she wanted to keep him at least happy.

“When was the last time you saw snow on Christmas Day?” There was more silence from the vampire. He really had to think about it. Lestat had spent most of his immortal life in New Orleans as he never got used to cold temperatures during parts of the year. It still got cold in Louisiana but never freezing except-

“1953. It was… that was the last time it snowed on Christmas Day here.” That far off look came back onto his face and she strapped in for the tale.

~

December 25th, 1953

It was cold. Freezing cold. Staying in one place for too long, Lestat tried desperately to keep himself warm with the thin blanket he had. Once it became summer, he’d be able to move far easier but for now, he was confined to the small rocking chair he called home. Hopefully next year got warm quickly, because this was painfully cold.

Lestat sat and reflected on his life and how it came to be. His lover and daughter both betraying him, killing him twice. But you can’t properly kill someone that is already dead the normal way. He was thankful that the house had the drapes still up so the sun didn’t get to him. Word of Claudia and the woman she was with being turned to ash. While he hated how much of an awful child she had become, he couldn’t be happy she was dead. She was his prodigy, his creation. And all the great memories they had made along the way flooded his mind.

He wondered where Louis was nowadays. He had always been the more responsible of the two, and much more attached to Claudia. In the span of a hundred years, Louis had lost two children. That has got to take a toll on a person, living, dead, or in between. Lestat wished he could see him one last time. He missed his family.

As he reminisced, snow danced outside of the window he sat nearby. The snow reminded him of every winter he spent with someone. Every Christmas he spent with his family, feeling like an actual family.What he wouldn’t give to go back to those days.

~

“I thought about going into the sun from time to time during the winter months, and especially at Christmas. But I could never bring myself to go through with it. It made me wish that I had held them a little closer to my heart.” While Lestat had a neutral expression, his companion heard the sorrow in his voice. She turned his face towards hers with a soft hand on his jawline.

“I’m glad you’re here with me, Les.” Her eyes sparkle din the dim light, while the man leaned in just a little closer.

“As am I, Mon Cher.” He bridged the gap between them, and shared a loving kiss with her. Maybe he didn’t have the perfect family with Louis; but he sure had something good going for himself.