#gravesite marker

[crossmanufacturing]

personalized memorial cross

blue personalized gold

[puppmeo]

My favorite thing to do in an open world game that gives you quest pins is to do anything except the quests

[floralmemorials]

A Quiet Hillside in Kansas

I went to Coronado’s Castle just outside Greensburg Kansas recently and this quiet beautiful cemetery was next to the castle entrance. First I should explain that the castle was built during the 1930s as part of a WPA project and Coronado had nothing to do with it other than to use his name. The cemetery is along a rolling hillside and even had a few cattle grazing at a distance.

[rageprufrock]

Superposition | The Devil Judge WIP

Just a sneak peek into the inevitable outcome of me finding out that I can write a story about a 17 year age gap.

After the fire, Yohan wakes up every morning knowing that Isaac is dead. 

Elijah wakes up every morning convinced her father is alive. 

It's the crush damage of new grief each day, too big for her tiny body and too heavy for her to carry. It's worse than all of Yohan's years under his father's belt; it's not until he loses Isaac and Heejin, until Elijah cries herself unconscious in his arms, that Yohan realizes that his father had been a clumsy jailer, that for all his cruelty he'd been a blunt instrument compared to all the ways suffering can visit itself upon a person. 

It's a miracle Elijah is alive, surviving multiple complex fractures and then delayed treatment. They save the flesh and bone of her legs, piece her back together with literal pins and needles. Her x-rays are difficult to look at; the scarring across her ghost-pale skin is worse. She hurts, in a relentless way that is at first impossible to explain to a child, and then is so ordinary she goes quiet with it, turns it inward. She stops crying. She's too weak and immobile for her once-infamous tantrums. She goes quiet instead. She throws books, toys, anything that Yohan brings into her beautifully appointed private room to try to distract her. 

"It will be hard, and it will take time," her doctors say, with an infuriating paternalism, as if their performed empathy could dampen constant burn of searing fire across Yohan's shoulders, cut into the shell of him. "But she's young and she's resilient—she'll surprise you." 

For the first six months, Yohan spends his limited waking, functional hours desperately trying to hold back the flood with his bare hands. He wakes and he's in too much pain to function. He sleeps and his doctors adjust his pain management regimen. He wakes and he tries to comfort Elijah. He sleeps and he dreams about the skin grafts he's been informed are needed. He wakes and he calls Lawyer Ko. He sleeps when he knows Isaac's Social Responsibility Fund donation is canceled. He loses hours and entire days in the labyrinth of the hospital, winding between the VIP ward and the children's wing, meeting with Elijah's orthopedic surgeon, her occupational therapists, the revolving cast of nurses that transport her from procedure to scan to bedside. He arranges Isaac and Heejin's funeral, and ends up back as a patient when Elijah's meltdown at the gravesite has him tearing one of his barely healed graft sites trying to contain her flailing arms, to swallow all of her screaming pain into the bottomless well in the base of his spine. 

It's eight months and six days after the fire that Yohan hears Elijah laugh again. 

***

Later, he'll get a comprehensive readout from the hospital grapevine, but the day he meets Gaon for the first time, all he knows is that he's been summoned by the terrifying peds nurses because Elijah and her new friend have committed some kind of juvenile crime.

Yohan's not ignorant to the fact that Elijah is a nightmare child, but he's still a little confused about how a five year old who is—frankly—abysmal with her new wheelchair is any kind of threat to society. He fetches up at to the pediatric OT clinic fully prepared to act like a complete entitled asshole about this, because while Elijah is a monster, she's his monster and therefore completely innocent of all sin, original or otherwise. 

Except halfway down the hallway there, he hears the sharp cackle of Elijah's laughter, a goblin shriek of pure wicked joy. It lands like a punch, like a blessing, it leaves him lightheaded. 

When he rushes the door, it's to find Elijah in full glory, giggling so hard she can't speak. Her hair is tied up in a series of tiny ponytails that frame her face like a lion's mane, her face is covered in marker, and she's clutching a filthy orange cat to her chest. 

"Kang Yohan-sshi," says one of the nurses, who is trying and failing to look severe, from the way her mouth keeps wobbling and her voice is trembling. "As you can see, we have a situation."

"I—where did she get the cat?" Yohan asks, faint.

Another nurse, who is making no effort to hide her grin, says, "Apparently, they found him behind a trash can in the garden and snuck him into the hospital." 

Yohan slants his eyes toward her. "They?" 

"I'm really not sure how you missed her very obvious partner in crime," the nurse tells him, actively laughing now, and when Yohan turns to look again—turns to see anything other than the miracle of Elijah's smiling face—he sort of understands her point.

Because sitting next to Elijah is a skinny teenaged boy wearing Elijah's headband, all of his short hair pushed back and sticking out like a massive frill around his thin face, his nose colored black and whiskers drawn across his cheeks. He looks less embarrassed than he probably should be, and more incriminating, he's holding some contraption made out of stolen hospital supplies that looks like one those little fishing toys for cats—a single inflated glove hanging from the end—that the fat orange on Elijah's lap keeps reaching for with outstretched paws. 

Standing in the doorway, surrounded by staff and other parents who are barely containing their hysterics, the whole thing is even more batshit. Nurse Woo Yeji, the iron fist of the pediatrics ward, is looming over Elijah and the kid on the ground, hands on her hips as she booms out:

"Kang Elijah-sshi, give me that creature immediately." 

Elijah narrows her bright little eyes. "Oh no," Yohan mutters.

"My cat," she declares, her chin stuck out in defiance.

"He was so sick and skinny, we had to rescue him," the boy chimes in, with the admirable application of a pair of doleful, sweet eyes. It might be more effective if his face wasn't covered in washable marker and he didn't have a purple heart drawn over his left eyebrow. 

"That cat is at least 4 kilograms overweight," Nurse Yeji tells them both, unmoved. "And let me say: Kim Gaon, I thought you had better judgment than this."

The boy, Gaon, takes the comment with the ease of long familiarity with disappointment, but Yohan still sees his eyes go briefly flinty, briefly cold, before he pastes on a smile and says, "I rode my motorcycle into a wall. If you thought I had good judgement, that's your own fault." 

"Yah! Kim Gaon!" the nurse yells, which just sets Elijah off again into pealing laughter. 

And from the back of the room, Yohan watches the way this mouthy kid, this little punk, glances over to his niece, watches how the fake grin on his face dissolves for something softer—something run through with tenderness too old for his years. 

***

Kim Gaon is 17, orphaned, and a frequent flight risk from the group home he's been remanded to with both his parents dead. In the 13 months since his father had died by suicide, and the 10 months since his mother had followed, he's been picked up by the local cops at least a half-dozen times: for smoking, for drinking, for fighting. Yohan looks up photos of Gaon's once-happy family, reads SNS posts mourning the closure of their family restaurant, the police reports about the suicides, the note in Gaon's hospital file that notes that he's going into arrears for his parents' funeral costs. Kim Gaon's social worker talks about him with a sort of resigned apology, approaches Yohan's interest like another black mark in the boy's service jacket. She looks at Yohan's suit and briefcase, takes his business card and calls him Lawyer Kang, spills the whole of Gaon's history, reassures Yohan that however self-destructive, however volatile, Kim Gaon's never displayed any violent tendencies toward children, that Lawyer Kang should feel free to reach out immediately if he feels concern that Gaon has become Elijah's friend.

"If you'd like me to speak to him, to tell him you're not comfortable with him spending time with you niece, I completely understand," his social worker says. 

Kim Gaon has been treated for two different STIs and tried to kill himself with a motorcycle three months ago. The only people he has left in the world are a childhood friend from down the street and Judge Min Jeongho, who used to eat lunch at the Kim's restaurant every day. 

Kim Gaon is 17 and entirely alone.

Yohan smiles at her. "No need," he reassures her. "I'll handle this on my own." 

***

Too much of Kim Gaon's character reference is ultimately hearsay. Yohan doesn't trust himself, exactly, but he trusts his judgement, so he watches quietly from the sidelines, collecting data. Yohan hears all the nurses talk about how Gaon is achingly polite, how they can't understand how such a nice boy could be such an evident wild child he would ride motorcycles with reckless lack of self preservation. He watches Gaon do other peoples' homework, quizzing them on Joseon history and showing a middle schooler who's learning how to write with his left hand trigonometry. Kim Gaon plays Smash Brothers with a flock of elementary school kids and ruthlessly kicks their asses every single time.

The Kim Gaon that's considered a neighborhood menace, the one sends his teachers into a blind fury, that's the protective armor. Yohan knows from defensive adaptations. 

But being a nice kid isn't the same as belonging in Elijah's life in any meaningful way, Yohan acknowledges, and spends a pointless day drafting soul-killing discovery motions and wondering why he's devoting so much time to this distraction. Maybe it's how Elijah's sleeping through the nights better, communicating her pain and what she needs better. Maybe it's how she tells stories about her friend Gaon, and it briefly feels as if they've traveled backward through time, that Yohan's watching her for the night, hearing and becoming deeply invested in all of her day care drama. 

"Elijah-ah, why do you like Gaon so much?" Yohan asks her one night, midway through the intricate ritual of her bedtime routine.

From her bed, Elijah says, "Gaon is funny and cats like him and also his parents are dead, so someone has to take care of him," and without missing a beat, points her sparkling princess wand toward the closet, commanding, "Check there, too." 

Yohan climbs off of the floor where he'd been checking under the bed and goes.

"Would you want to see Gaon even outside of the hospital?" he asks her, doing a careful four-point inspection of the closet: more clothes than one child could ever wear, 200 pairs of shoes, a stuffed sheep the size of a horse—no monsters. "Closet's clear."

Elijah makes a considering noise. "Gaon-oppa said he was a really good cook, so I want to eat his food," she decides, and shy now, she waves Yohan toward her, tiny hands flapping. "Samchon, come here. I want to tell you a secret."

Yohan cherishes every secret he has with Elijah. Since she was born, he's kept so many for her: that she stole a cookie, that she's really really not scared of thunder, that she loves her uncle best, that church is boring. 

"I'm ready," Yohan promises, and sits at the edge of her bed with his most serious expression. 

Elijah looks left and right, as if there are spies around every corner, before she cups her hands around her mouth and Yohan curls over her so that she can whisper:

"Sometimes I forget I'm sad about Mom and Dad, but Gaon-oppa says that's okay because I never forget that I love them." 

It lands somewhere in Yohan's soft underbelly, in the forever ache of his scare tissue. He looks down into Elijah's solemn little face, her riverstone eyes, and he wonders what kind of benevolent God allows this—forces children to patch one another's broken hearts. He used to wish that he would have died instead, that he could trade himself for Isaac, for Heejin, but he's comforted Elijah through too many nightmares of his own death to entertain it any longer. Love's always been a chain, whether wrapped around his wrist with a cross or trapping him in his father's house. 

"You will, you always will," he whispers back. 

"And they love me, too, of course, in heaven," she tells him, with the haughty confidence of a spoilt only child, who'd grown up with three adults circling around her in constant adulation. 

"And I love you here, on Earth," he says, and does not add, your grandfather loves you, too, from where he's burning in hell.

Elijah goes suddenly quiet, thoughtful and a little distant, and Yohan waits patiently until she says at last, "Gaon doesn't think his parents love him in heaven." 

Yohan stills. "Did he say that?" 

"He told his friend, the unni that visits sometimes," Elijah reports, and staring dead into Yohan's eyes, she adds, "I was hiding behind a curtain listening. He also said he can't be her boyfriend." 

"Okay, well, time for little goblins to go to sleep," Yohan says, because he absolutely cannot start laughing about this because somewhere out there, in the beautiful hereafter that Isaac so fervently believed in, he would be furious if Yohan encouraged this kind of behavior.

***

For all Yohan's been investigating the mystery of Kim Gaon, he's wholly unprepared to be confronted by the reality of the boy while sitting in the hospital cafe at half past five, working his way through a stack of files for court the next day.

"Kang Yohan-sshi?" comes a voice, and when Yohan looks up, it's into the shaggy bangs and thin face of the boy who makes Elijah laugh, standing awkwardly at the edge of his table.

"Ah," he says, flipping his pen across his knuckles. "You're Kim Gaon."

Gaon's eyes round. "You recognize me?" 

"The nurses tell me you're friends with Elijah," Yohan says, and waves at one of the empty chairs at the table, shuffles a few folders around to make room. "Please."

It takes more than a little maneuvering for Gaon to take the offered seat, between his backpack and his crutches, his leg still in its cast, and Yohan offers him a steadying arm, takes his bag, helps shift the table this way and that way. Gaon looks mortified the whole time by these small courtesies, stumbling over thank yous and apologies. It tells on him in ways Gaon can't possibly know, but that Yohan can't possibly ignore.

"What brings you to my temporary office?" Yohan asks, when he's sure the kid isn't going to tip over and break anything else, and is only in immediate danger of blushing to death.

Gaon squares his shoulders, and taking a deep breath, says, "I wanted to talk to you about a cat."

This is how Yohan learns that the orange furball that he's first seen that day in the OT room all those many weeks ago is a stray that's been named Gam, and that Elijah's youthful enthusiasm for petty hospital-based crime has undergone a metamorphosis toward more elaborate heists.

"Not that I don't admire her ambition, but I'm pretty sure you'd notice the yowling lump in her sweater when you pick her up from OT," Gaon says, still nervous and too polite, darting wary little glances upward at Yohan. "I tried to talk her out of it, but she started arguing about how cold it was going to get and I had to admit defeat."

Yohan feels the corners of his mouth curl up, reflexive. "There's wisdom in recognizing when you're beaten," he says. "And I appreciate your letting me know."

"Sure," Gaon says before going quiet for a long measure, some unfinished sentence still hidden behind his lashes. Yohan's patient, waits him out, and is rewarded when a half-minute passes and Gaon says, with a brittle courage and poorly concealed vulnerability, "I—I'd take him with me if I could. I like Gam. But the house where I have to stay won't allow pets."

Yohan can hear a universe in between the confession here: that Gaon must have been worried about the cold weather long before Elijah even noticed, that he'd tried to find an answer all on his own. Yohan feels, tugging in the hollow underneath his breastbone, a hurtful recognition of a younger version of himself, all those raw edges fraying, and maybe—sitting here—he can understand a little of Isaac's quiet sadness, the way Yohan had carried all his suffering alone, as a matter of course, without ever trying to ask for help. 

He looks at the slope of Gaon's shoulders, the wrinkled collar of his school uniform shirt, his terrible haircut, the little divot of a piercing in his ear. Yohan thinks about the sunburst of Elijah's laughter and all the terrible things he's willing to do to sustain it; it's strange to realize he hadn't anticipated something so easy, something that wouldn't hurt at all. 

"Do me a favor," Yohan sighs.

Gaon's head darts up. "Um—if I can?" he says.

"Back me up when I tell her that I thought long and hard about this, and that I'm going to be a strict taskmaster about this cat," Yohan says, with a rueful certainty that there's no way in hell that Elijah is going to buy this narrative, because it looks like the sun is rising in the brightness of Gaon's eyes, the pink happiness of his too-thin cheeks. This kid couldn't lie effectively if his life depended on it. In this light, Gaon looks a little like Isaac, if Isaac was too thin and too hopeful, all gamine pleasure; it makes Yohan feel his bones creak just to look at him. 

"I will, I absolutely will," Gaon promises, smiling now and still shy, but so achingly sweet that it makes Yohan want to buy him hot chocolate, to tell him he's done a good job, to ask if he's eaten dinner. 

He forebears, and starts packing up his work documents instead. 

"Come on," he tells Gaon. "If I'm going to make a fool of myself trying to trap a feral hospital cat, you're coming with me."

Yohan ends up scratched to hell and back, his hand-tailored wool trousers covered in mud, while  Gaon laughs at him with a wide-open happiness that makes something in Yohan's chest feel too big for his rib cage. He decides not to think about it in favor of fetching Elijah from her PT and ferrying her down to his car, where Gaon is waiting for them both, a sulking Gam zipped into the front of his hoodie like an uncooperative child. His smile could light every building in Gangnam. Elijah's shriek of pure joy when she spots him leaves Yohan half-deaf for the drive home, and so the warm patter of Elijah and Gaon talking in the backseat rolls over him in indistinct syllable noises until he drops Gaon off at his group home and helps him to the door. 

"Thank you, for today," Gaon tells him, starry and still rosy, covered in cat hair. 

"Elijah's already drawing up plans for shared custody, so don't be a stranger," Yohan warns. 

He'd been ordered by Elijah to participate in an exchange of contact information with Gaon because everybody in the car had a unique and unaddressed relationship with the trauma of abandonment, and so of course Gam could not be suddenly bereft of one of his humans.

"I won't, I promise," Gaon swears, and nods back toward the car, where Elijah is holding Gam up against the window and waving his paw at them. "You should get her home."

Elijah talks nonstop during the drive out of the urban density of Seoul into the forested beyond where their family home is perched on a melodramatic cliff above a lake. Yohan hears about her nurses, her rivalry with another little boy in OT who sounds like he has a world-ending crush on her Gaon-oppa, and listens to the way Elijah sometimes stops mid-sentence when Gam meows at her and then replies, as if she can understand cat. 

Whatever is bubbling in his veins, its too violent to be the warm kindness of joy. This ferocity feels like some holy gratitude, feels like the way Isaac used to talk about God. Yohan has never any good at faith, but he thinks—to himself, so loudly he hears it over the roar of blood in his ears and the chattering happiness of Elijah, vividly alive—he thinks, thank you, thank you, to whoever is listening: to God, to fate, to fortune, to the fucking cat—to Gaon, waving at Elijah with both hands, a smile on his face and Gam curled close against his chest. 

[burningvelvet]

"Sarah Hannah Jones was buried there after she died on September 5, 1909. There, behind St. Peter’s Church, among the markers on the grassy hill that slopes down into one of the main cargo routes to Ireland, a Celtic cross designates her gravesite. It features the curious inscription 'POET PHILOSOPHER & FAILURE.'

There is little explanation to be found about the cryptic words. The church was consecrated in 967, and the oldest parts of the physical building date back to the 8th century. Sarah’s husband, James, remarried another woman named Sarah. She died in 1929, and a year after James followed. All three are buried in the spot, their stones stacked under Sarah Hannah’s cross. James’ inscription is strange but a little less mysterious: 'ALAS POOR YORICK.'"

- via Atlas Obscura

[bleedingcoffee42]

Cleadith C. Smith (1922-1945) of West Virginia was killed in Belgium Jan 2, 1945.

This is the Sgt. Smith that is referred to in several letters by Ronald Speirs, i.e. the 'Sgt that died in my arms'. (Also meantioned in Fierce Valor.)

He is listed as a Corporal on official documents, but as a Sergeant on his obituary. His headstone marker lists him as a member of Dog company, 506 PIR.

His Bronze Star, Purple Heart and personal effects are viewable here.

His gravesite here.

Ron Speirs's mentions of him here.

It is possible Smith received a promotion and wrote home about it, but paperwork was never officially done. (Or he could have been demoted as well) In the grouping of his medals there is a photograph of a German officer and his wife that he took off the man after he killed him, sent that back home with a note about the wife probably needing a new man. Seems like a kid that would have gotten along well with Sparky.

[angelasscribbles]

The Crown and the Shield Chapter 8: Healing

Series: The Crown and the Shield

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings: Constantine x Jackson

Word Count: 922

Rating: PG

Warnings for this chapter: none

Special thanks to @aussiegurl1234 for her input.

A/N: So, we finally come to the final chapter of this “one-shot” lol. I hope it meets expectations.

My other stuff: Master List.

“Today is the one-year anniversary of the Madrid Peace Summit Massacre,” the news anchor addressed the camera.

“It was a dark day for all our countries,” His co-host replied nodding her head sympathetically, “Isabella Hasapis was forced to take the Auverness throne when both her parents were killed, making her the youngest monarch in their history, ascending the throne at only sixteen. In Monterisso, the late queen’s sister was appointed as regent until crown princess Amalas is old enough to rule.”

Constantine turned the volume of the TV up as his mind ran back in time to the worst day of his life.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the white-coated doctor stood with his hands in his pockets as he delivered the news, “We did everything we could. Heroic measures were employed but the injuries from the gunshot wounds were too grievous, and we were unable to save him.”

Constantine’s body shook with sobs. He let himself be led to a chair. He sank into it and dropped his head into his hands. He gathered his emotions as best he could and lifted his head, “And her?”

“I’m sorry, sir, again, the extent of the injuries-“

“So I’ve lost them both?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Would you like to see your wife now?”

“Connie, why are you watching this?” Eleanor took the remote from his hand and clicked the TV off just as the footage of his remarks from the south lawn of the palace earlier in the day began to play.

He turned to her with tears in his eyes, “It was the day I lost both my parents. The day I almost lost you. I don’t know how Leo and Liam would have-“

“Hey, we don’t have to worry about that. I’m here. I made it and so did you.”

“Thanks to Jack.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “Thanks to Jack. Speaking of him…don’t you have somewhere to be?”

He glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped to his feet, “Shit! Yes! I have to go!”

“It’s fine, go!” She shooed him out of their private living room, one hand at the small of her back and the other resting on her burgeoning stomach as she felt the baby kick. “Settle down, Lena. You have a month left in there.”

She missed her in-laws, but she was grateful that both she and her husband had been spared. The bullet had hit her in the side. There had been a lot of blood, but no major organs had been damaged.

She would have joined the king, but she was on partial bedrest for the duration of the pregnancy. She had told Constantine to give her love to the Walker family. She would be forever grateful for the sacrifices made that day.

Constantine stepped out of the limo and approached the group gathered around the gravesite. He made his way to Bianca and swept her into a hug before doing the same with Drake and Savannah in turn.

He stepped forward and touched the cold marble of the marker, his fingers tracing the etching. His throat constricted as he croaked out, “He died a hero.”

“That he did. He stepped right in front of that bullet.”

Constantine turned toward the voice with a solemn expression, “So did you.”

“Damned straight I did! And I’d do it again!”

The king pulled the other man into a tight embrace as he fought back the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, “Don’t joke about that, Jack, I almost lost you that day!”

It had been touch and go for two weeks. Constantine had never left his side.

“I’m not joking,” Jackson hugged him back.

Constantine had tried to get him to transfer to a less dangerous position, but Jackson had refused. There was no one else he trusted to safeguard the man he loved.

“Eleanor sends her love to all of you,” Constantine pushed out of Jackson’s arms and turned back to the monument, “We know how much Bastien meant to you.”

“He was like family,” Bianca agreed.

“He didn’t hesitate to take that bullet for her,” Jackson removed a flask of whiskey from his jacket pocket and held it up to the monument in salute, “Here’s to the best junior officer I ever had the privilege of training.”

“To Bastien!” the little group chorused.

When the gathering was over, Constantine and Jackson walked back to the limo together, hand in hand.

The perpetrators of the attack had all been brought to justice and The Liberation Core dismantled. There was some amount of closure in that.

Eleanor had taken the news of his relationship with Jackson in stride.

“I suspected, Connie. But it doesn’t change anything for me. I love you, and I love our boys.”

The only thing she had asked him for was another child. A chance for a girl and he’d given it to her.

In return, she’d given him complete acceptance of his relationship with Jackson.

He was as happy as he could be while still grieving his parents. He would always miss them, but he had a baby on the way, a queen who understood him, and the love of his life by his side.

Next year for his birthday, Jackson was getting that white water rafting trip. Constantine had already booked it. Just the two of them…give or take a few dozen guardsmen.

He glanced at the man next to him with happiness in his heart. He was healing, Cordonia was healing, and the future looked bright.  

~fin

[itsnotcontagious]

I feel so fucking ridiculous about how I want to cry about it.

My mom passed away the end of 2018 and it was very sudden and unexpected.

She is buried on another island nearby where she grew up next to her parents and her brother- and we got a headstone that my dad has kept in storage for like 5 years and I’ve told him a thousand times that it needs to go to her gravesite because there’s no marker, no nothing on her grave.

Well today the warehouse my dad uses for storage and also works at burned down and I couldn’t get a hold of him wondering if he was okay is he safe and then when we finally find out he’s okay he finally admits the headstone was still in storage and it’s been destroyed.

Yes it’s just a rock. But my mom passed away and she was my best friend and her birthday is on Friday and I sit here thinking about it and I’m sad and angry and I want to cry about I’m sorry I’m crying over such a stupid little thing but fuck why is everything so awful all the time

[cinderellatype]

andromeda stands ankle deep in the icy, salty beach sand; white curls whipping around with the salt breeze. the others are cleaning up, removing those who had foolishly given their lives for a blind devotion to a thing that discarded them the moment they became useless.

a foot in front of the other. and she stands, shoulder to shoulder with flayn in front of the monument- a marker that would one day be swallowed up and erased by saltwater. andromeda carries herself with a quiet, solemn air in the whipping wind; at a glance it would seem that the familial namesake seemed to have returned to the land of the living.

briefly, andromeda's mind drifts to her mother. she can't help wonder if her mother's spirit is restless- buried far from her siblings, and her land of birth. andromeda and her father spent many hours at her mother's gravesite- she wondered if it caused worry to flayn's mother that they were so far apart.

baroness aina von glaes couldn't be interred in the glaes family mausoleum; on order of the church- so the baroness rested amongst the many blooming roses of the estate; at her favorite spot, under a tree she had brought and planted from her homeland. it was a far more fitting place for aina nakamura-glaes, than a granite and stained glass tomb that andromeda would probably, hopefully, only enter twice more while alive.

"your and s-sir seteth's mother is b-buried nearby, r-right?" andromeda turns to look at flayn. "i h-heard you get u-upset during th-the battle," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at the mess behind them. "about them d-disturbing her r-rest. sh-shall we g-go and check o-on on her g-grave together?"

@amreality's flayn💖'd

[businesspikuk]

Honoring Memories: The Importance of Headstone Services

Headstones serve as enduring symbols of remembrance, providing a tangible link to our loved ones long after they have passed away. These solemn markers not only identify the final resting place of the deceased but also serve as a testament to their life and legacy. As such, selecting the right headstone and engaging in thoughtful headstone services is a crucial part of the grieving process.

Headstone services offer families the opportunity to personalize the memorialization of their loved one in a meaningful and lasting way. From choosing the design and materials of the headstone to selecting inscriptions and artwork that capture the essence of the deceased, these services allow families to create a fitting tribute that reflects the unique personality and significance of their loved one.

Moreover, headstones serve as a source of comfort and solace for grieving families, providing a physical space for remembrance and reflection. Visiting the gravesite and seeing the headstone can evoke cherished memories and offer a sense of connection to the departed, helping loved ones navigate through their grief and find healing in the process.

In addition to their emotional significance, headstones also play a practical role in preserving the memory of the deceased for future generations. By marking the gravesite with a durable and well-crafted headstone, families ensure that their loved one's legacy will endure for years to come, allowing future generations to pay their respects and honor their memory.

In conclusion, headstone services play a vital role in the grieving process, offering families the opportunity to create a lasting tribute to their loved one's life and legacy. By engaging in thoughtful headstone services, families can find comfort, closure, and a sense of peace as they navigate through the difficult journey of loss and remembrance.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Sanjana Karanth at HuffPost:

The Gold Star families who invited former President Donald Trump to Arlington National Cemetery issued a statement defending the Republican nominee’s controversial visit and claiming it is Vice President Kamala Harris, not Trump, who is politicizing fallen members of the U.S. military. On Sunday, the Trump campaign released the statement made by relatives of some of the 13 American military service members who were killed in a suicide bombing during the chaotic U.S. withdrawal from Afghanistan in 2021. The statement is the latest in what has now been a weeklong spat between Trump and Harris in relation to the former president’s conduct at the cemetery.

“President Trump was invited by us, the Gold Star families, to attend the solemn ceremonies commemorating the three-year anniversary of our children’s deaths,” the statement read. “He was there to honor their sacrifice, yet Vice President Harris has disgracefully twisted this sacred moment into a political ploy.” The Republican faced public backlash on Monday after NPR reported that his campaign staff “verbally abused and pushed” a cemetery official who was trying to stop them from filming and taking photographs at the gravesite while the candidate participated in a wreath-laying ceremony at the personal invitation of some Gold Star families. The cemetery official has reportedly declined to press charges over the matter.

Harris accused Trump on Saturday of staging a “political stunt” at the cemetery that “disrespected sacred ground” where hundreds of thousands of U.S. service members, veterans and their families are buried. She also mentioned the many examples of her 2024 opponent, who himself evaded the military draft, disparaging service members, including those who are dead.

[...] Federal law prohibits “political campaign or election-related activities” within Army National Military Cemeteries, according to a statement from ANC. Defense officials also maintained that Trump’s campaign team was informed of those rules, which include no photo or video around a section specifically reserved for those recently killed. Despite those rules, Trump’s campaign still distributed photos and video from the visit, including a TikTok video of the ceremony that shows the former president making clear political statements. Trump also posted video testimonials on social media from some of the Gold Star relatives who signed the Sunday statement. “Disgusting. Donald Trump, the grave markers veterans and military families drop a knee to are not your political props,” the narrator in a fiery ad by progressive veterans group VoteVets said. “They represent the heroes we’ve served alongside, men and women you could never measure up to, friends who lived and died by the oath we all swore to uphold.” In a post on Sunday, the former president thanked the families for thanking him and wanting to “take pictures, that it was your request, not mine, but it was my Great Honor to do. I WILL NEVER FORGET!” He also inserted politics into the post by saying that the families’ service member relatives are dead because of Harris and Biden.

Some of the Gold Star Families who invited Donald Trump to Arlington National Cemetery defend him in the wake of Trump’s grotesque disrespect of the sacred ground by doing filming and photography for campaign purposes in Section 60 of the cemetery.

See Also:

The Guardian: Trump shares posts of Gold Star families praising cemetery visit and criticizing Harris

[crossmanufacturing]

personalized memorial cross

[fllagellant]

Thinking about those etching you can find to show you were Witcher diagrams are hidden . Finding the head of the Bear and knowing there is something here . But also thinking about everything else that could be used for .

Since the etchings either have to be carefully studied for by a non-Witcher, they can litter cities ( like the Cats do ) and no one would be none the wiser . Entering a city centre, not knowing what tavern would throw you out if you enter or what neighbourhoods are safe to ask for work in . So you pace, keep your eyes on the walls, waiting for something . You find an etching of the Griffin , as you walk the alleys, on the back wall of a tavern. The barkeep doesn’t turn their nose up at your entrance . The prices do not increase due to who you are . If you’ re lucky, they’ ll be people like you already inside . A place of safety for all , all like you . You may never meet the Griffin that left the etching , but you thank them all the same .

Or having to track a Witcher who’ s fleeing from the crown . Wrongfully accused and convicted, running from execution . They hide their trail well, well enough it’ s impossible to track via scent or sight. The only proof you’ re going the right direction is the etchings . The militia has intel you could never access, but you have proof they past through a cave system, etchings guiding you in and leading you out, you know they’ re in the area, you know places they would hide out to rest . Too dangerous to leave letters, but safe to mark travel .

Or it being used to mark gravesites . Usually a smaller etching, a rock used as a makeshift grave marker. Bundled with dried flowers and final offerings, hidden in tree burrows or thickets of grasses . Not for others eyes, only for Witchers to pay respects too, littering the Path. You know when you found another Witcher who has buried another . They carry two medallions . They etched the name of the fallen onto the back .

Younger Witchers use the etching to mark meeting places for them and their pack, not quite fully accompanied to the land yet . It’ s not yet memorized , so they make their own landmarks . Older Witchers littering etchings on the walls of nobility , marking who not to work for . No matter the pay . Etching from the older generations are respected , when they’ re found they’ re restored to keep them . Proof of their past existence. Witchers that pair off together from the same or different schools finding a tree somewhere secluded and leaving duo etchings together . Their own form of marking love .

Witchers may not know why an etching is there at first . But they always learn why . And it’ s always something to remember .

[floralmemorials]

Decorating family graves for the holidays 2022

Decorating family graves for the holidays 2022

[iamthecomet]

Ough, cemetery walks my beloved.

There's one that I used to take driving lessons in that was on top of a hill, and you could just cruise around for a couple hours without being bothered.

The other one, that I actually have pictures of, is this small, like, family cemetery that's actually a local landmark:

I don't have any recent pics, so this is an old one, but I'm also, like 98% sure I've talked about this place before.

Traditionally speaking, the maternal side of our family doesn't do burials, at least not in the last, like, I guess three generations, maybe four, now, so we don't even really have grave plots (Mom is still in an urn upstairs actually), whereas my dad's side does, but we typically don't have displayed grave markers like headstones or decorations even.

I dunno how to explain why my dad's side doesn't go for headstones other than that that side doesn't like, uh, post mortem adornments? My grandmother actually forbade the idea of having even a flagstone marker for her gravesite.

With my mom's side, though, it's more of a matter of the "soul being trapped", but I think it also helps our family, which has, historically, lead a very mobile life (housing instability, work related moves, being kicked out of an entire country for... reasons... etc) to not feel guilty when leaving our dead behind.

So cemeteries and graveyards are interesting to me personally, because the lengths other families go to to preserve the memories of their loved ones in the way they decorate their gravesites/the existence of them to begin with.

Oh that cemetery looks so lovely and peaceful! Cemeteries really are one of my favorite places, maybe that's weird. I love to learn about people's death traditions. Every family is so different--and sometimes, like you, you end up stuck between two sides that are sort of oppositional. And it certaintly makes your relationship with cemeteries that much more interesting. I've been in three cemeteries in the last day. One, for an actual funeral. The other two just for a walk. There is something magical about them. Peaceful and mournful and sacred, but not in the religious sense. I also love history. And I love that something of all of these people persists. The old cemetery in my town is 1700s old, and there is something so human about being able to stand in front of 200 year old peice of marble and be able to know someone's name who lived that long ago. To be able to visit the grave of the guy who built the house I grew up in. It's special in a way I can't explain well. Two of the cemeteries I was in in the last two days have people I was close with buried there. And whenever I go for a walk in the one that's right near my house, I have people I have to visit. Even if it's just to brush the grass clippings off of their stone, or untangle their windchime. It doesn't feel sad to do it either. It just feels like ritual. Like it's important to me do what I can to take care of them. Because there is love between us that has nowhere else to go. Genuinely, cemeteries are so so so important to me. Because they are peaceful and because they are beautiful, and because they are so undeniably human. And it is so strange and wonderful and sad to see lives marked by stone. Little monuments that say I was here. I was real. There's a little girl, who died in the 1800s. Whose stone I pass every time I walk through the old cemetery. Her name is Josephine. I have this really strange fondness for her that I cannot explain. But every year forget-me-nots bloom on her grave and it makes my heart hurt in the best way. I just really really love cemeteries and I'm glad you also find them interesting and also love cemetery walks. People think I'm crazy, but they are genuinely some of my favorite places.

[impossiblescissorspeachpaper]

Silent Night

Every year, approaching the winter Solstice, he would make his way to that spot perched high up on the hill overlooking the twinkling lights of Velaris, spread out below like scattered stars.

No winnowing, no wings, no magic. As if the hours long trek to the mountain side they rest within would somehow bring them back.

It never did. But he persisted all the same.

Historically, royal members of the Night Court were laid to rest within the most illustrious crypts deep within the bowels of the Hewn City. Regally laid amongst their coffers of jewels and gold and hoarded riches. But he could never bear the thought of them spending eternity so far beneath the ground, where they wouldn’t be able to glimpse the night sky. Where the infamous Night Court starlight was nothing but murmured legend.

No. they did not belong in those dark, miserable grottos.

Not his mother, who had loved her wings and flown with him for hours upon hours each night she could sneak away. Always chasing the feeling of the breeze in her hair whenever her punitive husband was not paying attention. Not his sister who had loved the city of Velaris, its citizens loving her just as vehemently in return. Even if she had only been granted such preciously short time to do so.

No. They deserved better. They deserved to be under the stars, to be free.

Cresting the final grassy peak, the two onyx tomb stones marking their resting places came into view. A withered wreath of white chrysanthemums lay on his mother’s plaque. He knew Azriel and Cassian occasionally visited this site too. His brothers in everything but blood sporadically coming here to rest a small symbol of their sorrow, their devotion, their gratitude.

Clearing the gravesite of the browned blooms with a flick of his wrist, he fell gingerly to his knees before them. Laid his weary soul on those mountains and stars inked into his skin.

Resting the bouquets of forget-me-nots and calla lilies upon the graves of his mother and sister, the black stone of the simple onyx markers winked back at him.

“I miss you.”

The words croaked from between chapped lips. He always uttered the same greeting, never expecting a response. He would never get a response from either one of them ever again. Their voices only existed in his dreams now, but not even hundreds of years could dim the memories of them.

“Nyx grows stronger every day. He keeps us all busy running after him now. His uncles are already knee deep in his flight training.”

Silence.

“We are well looked after, Azriel and Cassian and I. And Mor.”

Not since his mother had cared for them in Windhaven had he and his brothers been so cherished, so loved. Feyre and her sisters had been a damn blessing. The three Archeron women had saved their pointless, wretched lives when fate had decided to bring them to Velaris. He would be forever grateful. For his mate, for everything that she had given. For what Nesta and Elain had given.

“You would love them all. Both of you…”

From his place kneeling atop that quiet hill, he watched as two stars chased each other across the midnight sky. The clouds parting to make way for those two strokes of iridescent light to playfully make their way across the open heavens.

Rhys peered up into the vast indigo sky, exhaling a breath from deep within his lungs, a small smile crawling up the corners of his mouth.

“Yes, yes, I know. You were always right.”

*******

@feysand-month @unofficialfeysandmonth2022