#he suffered more than our lady of sorrows

[beliscary]

terence finalfantasy you would have loved chappell roan's 2024 vma performance of good luck babe 😭😭😭😭

[we-all-horny-here]

You know, for a series that apparently wasn't meant to be like, lore heavy, they really did a great job of making a guy doomed by the narrative

[madame-fear]

*ೃ༄ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈 𝐄𝐍𝐃, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐈𝐍 .ೃ࿐

˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : with the joyous birth of your baby boy, soon comes mourning. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 746.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : angst. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : Lord!Lucerys Velaryon x Wife!Reader

WARNING.ᐟ THIS FIC CONTAINS ; mentions of blood loss during birth, reader’s death.

A healthy baby boy was given to young Lord of Driftmark. The realm prayed for a male heir to safely come to life. And while prideful joy was vibrantly felt across the entire castle the moment his child was placed in his arms, along came great sorrow.

The birth was a difficult one. The beige silk sheets of your bed leisurely turned into dried crimson, as you had an excessive loss of blood. Anxiety consumed Lord Lucerys as he noticed how much you were suffering, sitting by your side and whispering words of comfort to you while your hand tightly gripped his own; his other hand brushing away strands of your hair covering your features.

Your grip lost force with the passing of the minutes, until a loud baby wail was heard. Yet, the birth of the healthy boy, strongly kicking with his small arms and legs, was no indicative that you’d recover easily. In fact, his nervousness only increased when you barely had any force to move, open your eyes, or mutter a word. Child bed fever had quickly crashed upon you, as if the weakness you had been left with shortly after the birth of the heir wasn’t enough.

While you preferred for Lucerys to tend to the child, he had maids take care of your baby son. He was insistent in staying by your side, caressing your forehead and playing with your hair. His hand was placed on top of your own, his fingertips brushing gently against your cold skin with longing, knowing you could part away, and his green hazel eyes were fixed on you. They stared at you with a mix of adoration, and despondency.

Deep down inside, the hopes of your safe recovery were fading away, along with his courage of not having you by his side. He wanted to cling to the bit left of hope he had, but with the pale expression on your features, it was impossible.

“Find someone that will love you, and our baby boy, as much as I did. Or even more.”

But the truth was, no one could love him, or your sweet boy, any more than you did. Nor Luke would love anyone else as much as he loved you. His devotion and adoration remained untouched, even years after your passing — perhaps even until his last breath. It had taken great effort to not break down by your side, and collapse in tears as he had to witness your slow death.

A shallow hole had been left on his chest. A tense stillness loomed in the atmosphere of Driftmark when your death was announced. There had reached a point where he had no more tears left to cry, as he had already cried enough for you, and still occasionally cried himself to sleep. It wasn’t the same without you — his best friend, lover, wife, mother of his son.

It had been expected of him to take another wife for the realm to have a Lady, and the child a stepmother; but how could he? It felt disrespectful. He remained a dowager Lord in your honour. Even when the maids tried to tend your chambers by cleaning it and keeping it as a free space, Lucerys dismissed them away. Your chambers remained with the clothes, sheets, and objects that were there even before your death — it was a shrine that he would often visit during the late quiet hours to mourn, and honour you. If any of the objects had been moved from their place, your essence, your existence, your presence would soon be gone for him.

A locket with a strand of your hair remained near him at all times, clinging to it desperately as it brought him to you. It was a strand of hair you had cut off a few days before your official wedding ceremony, and gave it to him inside the locket as a gift. Ever since, solitude burdened him, but found solace in small things that for him, they represented you.

Emptiness lingered dreadfully, sitting down in a hefty manner on his chest. Lucerys wished things were different, it felt as some sort of unfair punishment from the Seven above.

The only place where he could keep seeing, touching you, hearing your comforting words and precious laughter that spurred from your kissable lips, was on his dreams. As well, as on the eyes of his son — which, fortunately, the boy took after you.

♡ taglist : ♡

@jjamieberry @anemicroyalcore @countsmoon @tickle-euphoria @beeebo234 @manuholland6 @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @dopepersonacloudllama @phantasyy @tasty-nutella @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1

[novaursa]

Idk what yo could do with this but it's been floating around in my head for a while and I love your writing so when I saw requests open I thought I'd send it in.

Plwase could I get Aemond or/and Aegon x reader who is betrothed to one/both but is unable to have children of her own and she thinks that they won't want her because of it (cue bucket loads of angst) but he/they end up proving her wrong and that he/they actually care about or even love her and that they will work things out (cue bucket of fluffy smut)

Shattered, Yet Whole

- Summary: It was a secret you thought would drive him away, but he stayed. Because he loves you.

- Paring: arryn!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The announcement of your betrothal to Aemond Targaryen was made with all the pomp and grandeur expected of royal families. The great hall echoed with the cheers and well-wishes of lords and ladies alike, and yet, even amid the joyful occasion, you felt a weight pressing on your chest.

You had known for years that this day would come. The union of House Arryn and House Targaryen was a match both noble and advantageous. But the ache of your secret, buried deep within your heart, made the joy of your betrothal bittersweet.

As the feast ended and the festivities began to dwindle, you found yourself alone in the gardens of the Red Keep, the cool evening breeze offering a fleeting sense of peace. The flowers swayed softly in the wind, but the weight of your thoughts was heavier than the sky above.

You didn't hear Aemond approach until he was standing beside you. His presence was strong, commanding even in the silence, his one violet eye sharp and focused on you.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice as steady as ever, but with a gentleness you hadn’t expected. "Why have you sought solitude when our union has just been announced?"

You turned to face him, your heart racing, your throat dry as the words you had been dreading to speak threatened to surface. His tall figure loomed over you, but his expression was not one of coldness. His features, sharp and angular, were softened by the moonlight. The dragon prince, they called him. But to you, in that moment, he was something more than the man bound to you by duty.

"I needed a moment to myself," you murmured, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. You felt the familiar sting of tears begin to well in your eyes.

Aemond narrowed his eye slightly, studying you with that piercing gaze. "What is it?" he asked, his tone firmer now. "You seem... troubled."

Your resolve crumbled. You had spent years hiding your pain, your shame. But now, with the betrothal announced and the reality of what was expected of you as Aemond’s wife, the weight of your secret was too much to bear. You couldn’t deceive him any longer.

"Aemond," you began, your voice breaking as you spoke his name. "There is something I must tell you... something I should have told you before any of this was arranged."

His brow furrowed, concern flashing across his face. "What is it, Y/N? Speak plainly."

You swallowed hard, feeling the tears slip down your cheeks as you finally voiced the truth that had haunted you for so long. "When I was a child, I suffered an accident... a fall that left me... unable to bear children."

The silence between you was deafening. Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you awaited his response. You had imagined this moment over and over in your mind — the shock, the disappointment, the inevitable breaking of your betrothal.

"I understand if you wish to break the betrothal," you whispered, the words heavy with sorrow. "You deserve an heir, Aemond. A wife who can give you children. I cannot... I cannot give you that."

You turned away from him, unable to bear the sight of his reaction. But instead of hearing the cold, dismissive words you had prepared yourself for, you felt Aemond’s hand reach out and gently take hold of yours. His touch was warm, steady.

"Y/N," he said softly, his voice no longer filled with the authority of a prince but with the tenderness of a man who cared deeply. "Look at me."

Reluctantly, you turned your tear-streaked face to him, and what you saw in his eye was not anger or disappointment — but something that made your heart ache even more. There was no judgment, no coldness. Only a warmth you hadn’t expected.

"I did not ask for your hand because I seek an heir," Aemond said, his voice firm but gentle. "I asked for your hand because I want you. You, Y/N. Not for what you can or cannot give me in terms of heirs. That is not what matters to me."

You blinked, your breath catching in your throat as you searched his face for any hint of doubt, any sign that he might be lying to spare your feelings. But Aemond Targaryen was not a man known for falsehoods. His sincerity was as sharp as the sword he carried.

"You are... more than enough for me," he continued, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand in a way that made your skin tingle. "I want you as my wife, my partner. The rest... it does not matter."

A sob broke from your throat as you collapsed into his arms, the weight of your guilt, your shame, finally releasing its grip on you. Aemond wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. His touch was firm but comforting, his hands tracing soft circles on your back as you cried into his tunic.

"I feared... I feared you would hate me for this," you choked out between sobs.

"I could never hate you," Aemond whispered into your hair, his voice low and soothing. "Never."

You looked up at him through tear-filled eyes, his face so close to yours now, his silver hair falling over his shoulder as he gazed down at you with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. You had never seen this side of him before — this quiet, unguarded affection.

Without thinking, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his, a desperate, fragile kiss filled with all the emotions you could not put into words. Aemond responded immediately, his lips moving against yours with a fierce, unspoken promise that he would never let you go.

The kiss deepened, your hands tangling in his hair as he pulled you closer, the heat between you growing with every passing second. His hands, once so careful, now moved with a burning need, pulling you closer, pressing your bodies together.

He broke the kiss only to whisper against your lips, his voice rough with desire. "I want you, Y/N. All of you."

Your heart raced as he lifted you into his arms, carrying you back into the shadows of the garden, where the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you beneath the stars. His hands were everywhere — gentle yet insistent — as he laid you down on the soft grass, his body hovering over yours, his gaze locked onto your own.

"Are you sure?" he asked softly, his breath warm against your skin.

You nodded, your fingers brushing against his cheek. "Yes," you whispered. "I'm sure."

Aemond's touch was gentle, as if he feared breaking you, yet his hands moved with purpose, tracing the curve of your body beneath the layers of fabric. He kissed you softly, his lips exploring yours in a way that felt both tender and urgent, like he needed you as much as you needed him.

With each touch, each brush of his lips against your skin, the world around you dissolved, leaving only the warmth of his body pressed against yours. His fingers slid down to the laces of your gown, carefully loosening them as he pressed delicate kisses along your jawline, then down your neck, the feel of his breath against your skin sending shivers through you.

"You're beautiful," he whispered against your throat, his voice thick with emotion, the words barely louder than a breath.

You closed your eyes, letting the sensation of his lips and hands wash over you, and for the first time in so long, you felt no fear, no doubt. Only him—his warmth, his steady presence grounding you in this moment.

The soft rustle of fabric filled the air as your gown fell away, and Aemond’s hands roamed your exposed skin, slow and reverent. His gaze never left yours, his single violet eye filled with something that made your heart ache, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from him. He lowered himself beside you, his lean body warm and firm against yours, his hands tracing the lines of your body as though he were memorizing every part of you.

"Y/N," he whispered again, his lips brushing over your collarbone, "I want you to know this isn't a duty or an obligation." He paused, his hand cradling your face, thumb brushing away the tear that had slipped down your cheek. "This is because I love you."

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. Love. You hadn’t expected that—not now, not so soon. But you saw the truth in his eye, felt it in the way he touched you, as though you were something precious.

"I love you too," you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He kissed you then, slow and deep, pouring everything he couldn’t put into words into that kiss. His hand slid down your waist, exploring your curves with a tenderness that made you ache for him even more. He was so gentle, so patient, as though he wanted this moment to last forever.

You reached for him, your hands slipping beneath the fabric of his tunic, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his skin. He groaned softly at your touch, the sound vibrating through you as he shrugged off his own clothing, letting it fall to the ground beside you. His body was warm and solid against yours as he settled between your thighs, his touch careful, reverent.

When he entered you, it was slow and gentle, his movements careful as though he wanted to be sure he didn’t hurt you. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he allowed you both to adjust to the sensation. The connection between you was overwhelming, the intimacy of it sending a rush of emotion through you that left you breathless.

"Are you alright?" he asked softly, his voice thick with concern.

"Yes," you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pulled him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him against you. "I’m alright."

He kissed you again, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust filled with a tenderness that made your heart swell with emotion. His hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his lips pressed against yours, soft and loving.

The rhythm between you was unhurried, each movement a gentle expression of the affection he felt for you. His body moved against yours in perfect harmony, his touch grounding you in the moment, making you feel cherished in a way you hadn’t thought possible. The intimacy of it, the gentleness of his touch, was overwhelming, filling the spaces of your heart you had long thought empty.

Aemond’s lips moved to your ear, whispering your name in a breathless sigh, his voice low and filled with emotion. His words were a balm to your soul, each one filled with love and care as he continued to move within you, never rushing, never demanding more than you could give.

And as the night deepened, you found solace in his arms, his body, his love. You held onto him, knowing that in this moment, you were more than the sum of your fears, more than the woman unable to give him heirs. You were his, and he was yours.

When the world around you faded, leaving only the sound of your shared breaths and the warmth of his body pressed against yours, you knew this was more than just a union of houses. This was a union of hearts, and no matter what came in the days ahead, you would face it together.

Aemond held you close long after the moment passed, his arms wrapped securely around you, his breath warm against your hair as he whispered softly into the night.

"You are all I’ve ever wanted," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "And I’ll never let you forget that."

[bitter-me]

Pookie please!

At first I'm fine with the open ending of Welt x Reader ome. But then you go on ahead and make a sequel with a cliffhanger. Please my heart can't take it.

I won't force you t continue it if you don't want to. I just wanted to say it's amazingly written. And if you did ever wanted to go back continuing that, I'd be looking forward to it. (Be it more angst or bittersweet ending or even happy one. I'm content because I'm just that starving for Welt x male reader)

The very long awaited part three

Yes, Your Excellency

Part One | Part two | Part Three (You're here)

----------

Welt Yang | M. Reader

----------

"I will gladly play the part, so that you may shine, my sun."

----------

Once upon a time in a kingdom far away..

Lived a princess only 14 years of age.

There wasn't anything this princess couldn't have with a boy just like her serving as her right hand man..

"Yes, Your Excellency."

Those are the words he have said to her multiple times, from the very beginning. He was there as he watch his Lady build an empire from nothing. Her anxiousness... her fears.. her loneliness... her suffering..

He saw it all.

His dear Christine.

She was truly.. the light in his tunnel..

Even after everything, she still smiles and answers to her people. Truly a kind and thoughtful ruler.

And he's more than happy to be by her side. To guide her. And comfort her at her lowers.

She was everything to him.

----------

The Stellaron Crisis brought many disasters and ailments. The suffering the people felt, their loved ones who are clutching their last straws. It breaks his heart. Truly it did.

It breaks his heart that Her Excellency has to watch her people suffer.

Her face which was once filled with joy was replaced by a somber expression. Her tone was so soft and full of life has turned sorrowful.

It breaks his heart... Truly... it did..

How could they.. turned such a beautiful person who's full of life into.. this..

It's unforgettable!

And as her right hand man, he will solve this Crisis and finally... bring back that smile that once adored her face.

He endured many sleepless nights and devoted himself to his research. He doesn't care what it takes. He will save her. The Stellaron Crisis is out of control, what if Her Excellency gets infected by its disease? What if she was suffering from the ailment this entire time! He has to! He has to save her! Whatever it takes!

"You worked so hard on trying to solve the Stellaron Crisis. I can see why you're Her Excellency's right hand man."

The day the Nameless arrived at their humble planet, claiming wanting to help and lend their aid. He was skeptical. How could these... people.. be as what they claim to be? How could he know they won't harm anyone? How could he know they won't harm her?

He didn't say anything as he kept vigilant.

They complimented him. Calling him a responsible and caring man for devoting himself to his research on the Crisis that had plagued his home.

Of course.

How could he not?

When she is also affected by it?

She doesn't deserve this.

She doesn't deserve any of this.

Her beloved kingdom.. on the brink of collapsing..

Oh how heartbroken she must be..

Which is why...

He's taking things into his own hands.

He can't just sit idly and see her suffering like that everyday.

----------

"Whatever it takes?"

"How bold~"

"Then why don't you accept our offer?"

"We can help you!"

Their voices are loud. Oh so loud. They begged and persuaded him. Trying to get him on their side.

"We can give you power.. so you can protect her."

Their offers are very tempting. Very very tempting.

----------

The Nameless.. as righteous as they are.. never would he thought one of them could be so interested in him. That man talked to him so casually as if they're old friends, maybe more.

He was never good with names.

But his name seems to stick to him for some reason. The chatter and the gift that man had given. It somehow.. stuck to him in a way he never knew existed.

He felt like he had gone insane.

They're strangers and yet.. it felt like.. they knew each other for so long..

"Oh? What's this?"

"Have you found another?"

"How cruel of you.. to forsake your beloved.."

No... No.. No!! Nonononononononononono!!! He can't!! Her Excellency!! She's—!

"You can't deny it though."

Shut up.. just shut up!

Their voices grew loud as their demans became more tempting by the second.. The Nameless.. as righteous as they may be.. Could he truly trust them..? Trust them to.. solve this Crisis..? Trust them to.. save her..?

Of course not.

How could he? How could he trust them? They're just some random people!! They came uninvited claiming they wanted to help!! Who do they think he is?! He's Her Excellency's right hand! Christine's right hand!

"You know what..? Sure.. I accept."

.

.

.

.

.

"They're nothing but fools."

"No one can save her."

"No one but me."

[butterflies-dragons]

Hi! What are your favourite quotes/moments that showcase Sansa’s romanticism? 😊

Here we go:

Alone and humiliated, Sansa took the long way back to the inn, where she knew Septa Mordane would be waiting. Lady padded quietly by her side. She was almost in tears. All she wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way they were in the songs. Why couldn't Arya be sweet and delicate and kind, like Princess Myrcella? She would have liked a sister like that. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

~~~

"Joffrey, perhaps you would be so kind as to entertain our guest today." "It would be my pleasure, Mother," Joffrey said very formally. He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders. The touch of Joffrey's hand on her sleeve made her heart beat faster. "What would you like to do?" —A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

~~~

Sansa rode to the Hand's tourney with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole, in a litter with curtains of yellow silk so fine she could see right through them. They turned the whole world gold. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised beside the river, and the common folk came out in the thousands to watch the games. The splendor of it all took Sansa's breath away; the shining armor, the great chargers caparisoned in silver and gold, the shouts of the crowd, the banners snapping in the wind … and the knights themselves, the knights most of all. "It is better than the songs," she whispered when they found the places that her father had promised her, among the high lords and ladies. Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling. They watched the heroes of a hundred songs ride forth, each more fabulous than the last. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

~~~

To the other maidens he had given white roses, but the one he plucked for her was red. "Sweet lady," he said, "no victory is half so beautiful as you." Sansa took the flower timidly, struck dumb by his gallantry. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, his eyes like liquid gold. She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the rose and sat clutching it long after Ser Loras had ridden off. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

~~~

Lord Baelish stroked his little pointed beard and said, "Nothing? Tell me, child, why would you have sent Ser Loras?" Sansa had no choice but to explain about heroes and monsters. The king's councillor smiled. "Well, those are not the reasons I'd have given, but …" He had touched her cheek, his thumb lightly tracing the line of a cheekbone. "Life is not a song, sweetling. You may learn that one day to your sorrow." Sansa did not feel like telling all that to Jeyne, however; it made her uneasy just to think back on it. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

~~~

"Who cares about your stupid dancing master?" Sansa flared. "Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies." —A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

~~~

Perhaps I will die too, she told herself, and the thought did not seem so terrible to her. If she flung herself from the window, she could put an end to her suffering, and in the years to come the singers would write songs of her grief. Her body would lie on the stones below, broken and innocent, shaming all those who had betrayed her. Sansa went so far as to cross the bedchamber and throw open the shutters … but then her courage left her, and she ran back to her bed, sobbing. —A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

~~~

"Better if we are never seen together." Nodding, Sansa took a step . . . then spun back, nervous, and softly laid a kiss on his cheek, her eyes closed. "My Florian," she whispered. "The gods heard my prayer." She flew along the river walk, past the small kitchen, and through the pig yard, her hurried footsteps lost beneath the squealing of the hogs in their pens. Home, she thought, home, he is going to take me home, he'll keep me safe, my Florian. The songs about Florian and Jonquil were her very favorites. Florian was homely too, though not so old. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa II

~~~

"I'm honest. It's the world that's awful. Now fly away, little bird, I'm sick of you peeping at me." Wordless, she fled. She was afraid of Sandor Clegane . . . and yet, some part of her wished that Ser Dontos had a little of the Hound's ferocity. There are gods, she told herself, and there are true knights too. All the stories can't be lies. That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking, a maddened beast with a thousand faces. Everywhere she turned she saw faces twisted into monstrous inhuman masks. She wept and told them she had never done them hurt, yet they dragged her from her horse all the same. "No," she cried, "no, please, don't, don't," but no one paid her any heed. She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard. Women swarmed over her like weasels, pinching her legs and kicking her in the belly, and someone hit her in the face and she felt her teeth shatter. Then she saw the bright glimmer of steel. The knife plunged into her belly and tore and tore and tore, until there was nothing left of her down there but shiny wet ribbons. —A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

~~~

Ser Dontos disappeared. She could hear him huffing and puffing as he began the descent. Sansa listened to the tolling of the bell, counting each ring. At ten, gingerly, she eased herself over the edge of the cliff, poking with her toes until they found a place to rest. The castle walls loomed large above her, and for a moment she wanted nothing so much as to pull herself up and run back to her warm rooms in the Kitchen Keep. Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, like a lady in a song. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

~~~

Her maid rolled herself more tightly in her blanket as the snow began to drift in the window. Sansa eased open the door, and made her way down the winding stair. When she opened the door to the garden, it was so lovely that she held her breath, unwilling to disturb such perfect beauty. The snow drifted down and down, all in ghostly silence, and lay thick and unbroken on the ground. All color had fled the world outside. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same. Her boots tore ankle-deep holes into the smooth white surface of the snow, yet made no sound. Sansa drifted past frosted shrubs and thin dark trees, and wondered if she were still dreaming. Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes. She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams. When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me. —A Storm of Swords - Sansa VII

~~~

Alayne took Robert's gloved hand in her own to stop his shaking. "Sweetrobin," she said, "I'm scared. Hold my hand, and help me get across. I know you're not afraid." He looked at her, his pupils small dark pinpricks in eyes as big and white as eggs. "I'm not?" "Not you. You're my winged knight, Ser Sweetrobin." "The Winged Knight could fly," Robert whispered. "Higher than the mountains." She gave his hand a squeeze. Lady Myranda had joined them by the spire. "He could," she echoed, when she saw what was happening. "Ser Sweetrobin," Lord Robert said, and Alayne knew that she dare not wait for Mya to return. She helped the boy dismount, and hand in hand they walked out onto the bare stone saddle, their cloaks snapping and flapping behind them. All around was empty air and sky, the ground falling away sharply to either side. There was ice underfoot, and broken stones just waiting to turn an ankle, and the wind was howling fiercely. It sounds like a wolf, thought Sansa. A ghost wolf, big as mountains. —A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

~~~

It was clever. The tourney, the prizes, the winged knights, it had all been her own notion. Lord Robert's mother had filled him full of fears, but he always took courage from the tales she read him of Ser Artys Arryn, the Winged Knight of legend, founder of his line. Why not surround him with Winged Knights? She had thought one night, after Sweetrobin had finally drifted off to sleep. His own Kingsguard, to keep him safe and make him brave. And no sooner did she tell Petyr her idea than he went out and made it happen. He will want to be there to greet Ser Harrold. Where could he have gone? —The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

~~~

Thanks for your message ❤️

[aloneandforsakenbyfateandbyman]

I know it sounds crazy but whenever I feel like I can’t go on I meditate on how Christ suffered on the cross and his wounds, pain, humiliation, and the injustice and l feel humbled to realize that pain is an intrinsic part of the human reality.

If He suffered so much as the literal son of God, and the purest being, what makes me think my pain is anything compared to his? I used to think Christianity was this weird masochistic religion, but now I see the esoteric significance behind the Crucifixion and Resurrection and have embraced Hermetic principles.

Our Lady of Sorrows is so beautiful to me. So is medieval religious art. I finally get why Catholic nuns are obsessed with stigmata, why the saints’ fates were often so gruesome, why Christ had to be crucified, why humanity has to suffer, and so on.

The story of Jesus in the Gospels taught me humility, which was something I was lacking as a victimized Reddit fedora atheist nihilistic angry femcel. I just couldn’t bring myself to kneel to God and I was a know it all. Now I’m happy to admit I’m an insignificant roach on this earth and nothing makes me happier. I spend a few minutes a day mentally going thru the Hail Mary and Our Father prayers, and I can’t imagine my life before this.

I do understand Catholic sadomasochism and the passion of the Gospels. And not in a corny Protestant American televangelist weirdo way but like actually loving the Virgin Mary and Jesus more than life itself, lovingly painting Christ’s wounds and admiring Baroque cathedrals kind of way.

Which I guess is still crazy to materialists and modernists but oh well. Just wondering if anyone else feels the same.

[feyhunter78]

Trials of a Tribute pt. 5

Description: You have a chat with the Dowager Queen, and Aemond fears you regret marrying a monster such as him, unknowing that you are still unaware the two of you have been married.

Previous part here, Next part here

You sat across from the Dowager Queen Alicent, clutching your teacup for dear life as she inspected you. Her brown eyes filled with sorrow swept over you, as she sipped her own tea.

“I do feel for you, dear girl. Being traded like an object is a cruel fate that we as women often find ourselves suffering.” She said, giving you a sympathetic smile.

You nodded, unsure of what to truly say, Aemond hadn’t been cruel to you, nor had he forced himself upon you. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but it could’ve been far, far worse.

“Drink up, lest you fall pregnant within your first moon here.” The Dowager Queen urged; her lips pressed into a tight line.

Your eyes widened as you realized exactly what kind of tea this was. “Your Grace, King Aemond has not bedded me.”

Her entire body relaxed. “Thank the Seven, he is still my son.”

You assumed she feared Aemond had taken on the traits of his father and brother now that he had become king, and couldn’t blame her for it. You yourself still feared he would one day soon act upon the Targaryen need for depravity.

“His Majesty, has been very respectful, a true gentleman.” You don’t tell her of how you woke up today with your body half atop Aemond’s, his fingers splayed on your lower back possessively, the smell of parchment and eucalyptus surrounding you.

Dowager Queen Alicent nodded, a small smile on her face. “My Aemond has always been a man of honor.” Then her eyes go to your hand and her eyebrows furrow. “Did you injure yourself?”

You had worn a gown with extra long sleeves, more of a winter dress than was appropriate for the season, with the intention to hide your injury, but obviously your efforts have failed.

You held your hand close to your chest. “No, Your Grace, it’s from the Valyrian ritual.” At her look of confusion, you continued. “With the septon, and the dagger? King Aemond and I mixed our blood together. He said it was common ritual in House Targaryen.”

 The dowager queen was silent for a moment, then she nodded, plastering a smile on her face. “Ah, yes, there are so many rituals, I forget them from time to time.” She glanced at Sir Criston who avoided her frantic eyes. "Sir Cole, escort Lady y/n back to her chambers, then fetch Aemond and tell him I wish to speak to him.”

You stood and took Sir Criston’s arm. “A pleasure to speak with you, Queen Alicent.”

“You as well, dear.” She called as Sir Criston all but strong-armed you from the room.

“Sir Criston, did I do something to upset the dowager queen?” You asked, as he led you down an unfamiliar hallway.

“Why do you ask that?”

“She ended our tea so abruptly, and she simply seemed to be troubled by something.”

He stopped you in front of a door you didn’t recognize. “The queen mother has many things on her mind, but I can assure you her anger sits not with you.”

 You followed him into a barren room. “These are your quarters; I’d advise you to stay out of sight. We had many noblemen attempting to bring their daughters as tribute, and they are quite angry at being turned away.”

Dowager Queen Alicent had pulled you away from Aemond, leaving him to accept tributes alone, as she kindly but thoroughly interrogated you on every aspect of your life.

You bid the night a farewell and looked around the room. It wasn’t much to look at, but it had a lovely view of the gardens.

 Pushing open the window, you carefully sat on the windowsill, breathing in the fresh air. You gazed down at the meticulously planted flowers, imagining how happy your sisters would be to see such a sight.

You didn’t know how long you sat there before the door slammed open, and you jumped, scooting backward, further into the room, suddenly afraid of the distance between you and the ground.

Two strong arms pulled you from the windowsill, caging you against a hard chest, the silver hair that brushed your shoulders made you relax.

“Aemond? Is everything alright?” You asked, turning your head to look at him.

His shoulders were tense, his eye filled with a frantic fear and rage. “What in the Seven Hells do you think you’re doing?”

“What?” You said, letting out a small noise of surprise when he threw you onto the nearby bed and quickly hovered over you. Caging you in with his arms, his hair falling forward and shielding your faces.

“You were going to jump, because you couldn’t stand to be married to such a monster, but your life is mine, prūmia. No one, not even the Stranger himself, will take you from me. I care not if you call him yourself, or another attempts to, no one will separate us.” He seethed, his eye burning into yours, his voice was low and rolled across your skin like a storm, the hairs on your skin standing upright in response.

“I wasn’t trying to take my own life; I was merely admiring the gardens.” You explained, before your mind fully processed his words. “Wait, married?”

“I’m aware that my mother informed you of the true nature of what occurred last night.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “No, she said nothing. Aemond, are we married? You shouldn’t have—” You were cut off by Aemond’s warm lips brushing down your neck, stopping at your pulse point when you let out a small whimper.

 His acknowledging hum vibrated against the sensitive skin. “You’re mine, I told you that. As of last night it was made true, the septon bore witness to our union, so did Sir Criston.”

“But I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have done it if I knew.” You protested lightly, still afraid to upset Aemond.

“Because you don’t wish to be married to a monster, I know.” He snapped, pulling back to glare at you.

You shook your head. “It’s not that at all, I don’t think you’re a monster, nor do I have any personal qualms about marrying you but, it’s not truly up to me.”

“You’re correct, it’s not up to you, it’s up to me, and I wished to marry you.” He spoke his words into your skin before he attached his lips to your sensitive spot, nipping and sucking until a red mark bloomed, its sting soothed by his tongue.

“But you shouldn’t have, I’m from a small house, there are much better options and oh…” Your voice dissolved into nothing as Aemond continued his ministrations, his fingers running through your hair, his lips latched onto every bit of exposed skin they can find.

“I’m king of the Seven Realms, I will marry who I wish.” He said firmly, his eye flickering up to yours as his lips made their way to the swell of your breasts.

Your face burned once more, and you attempted to push him away. “Aemond, please, this is not proper.”

He stopped and sat up, a distant look on his face. “You’re right.”

You sat up as well, smoothing down your hair. “Thank you, now we really must get this marriage business straightened out.”

He frowned. “Do you not wish to be queen?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t think I have the education to be a good queen.”

This series masterlist here!!!

Tag list: @svtansdaddyx, @fan-goddess, @dc-marvel-girl96, @shintax-error, @bellameshipper, @the141bandicoot, @the-phantom-of-arda, @haydee5010, @partypoison00, @serrhaewin, @issshhhaa, @pax-2735, @malfoytargaryen, @sahanna, @dellalyra, @mxrgodsstuff, @jkhomes, @unusual-raccoon

Strikethrough means I couldn't tag you for some reason!

[inlovewithregencyera]

transcript under cut : )

Thornfield House, July 7th, 1818

Isabella: And you did write to her father informing him of this, right?

Max: Yes. He wrote back to me an hour ago, and they're leaving for Hollow directly after her birthday. I've asked him to keep this in confidence of himself and Lady Grey, and he says he will as it would break his heart to tell Aurelia himself.

Isabella: *clutching hand* When will you tell her?

Max: I don't know, and I don't know why you're all tasking me with the impossible. It's not fair, truly. *sniffling* If I had a lover and I lay dying of consumption I wouldn't have Frederick tell her. It should be an intimate moment between them.

Isabella: I think she shall be very upset.

Maximilian: *voice quivering* She'll be plagued with perturbation. Perhaps it would be easier if that idiot thought about how his actions effected others for once in his damn life. He overwhelmed her with affection and now I must tell her he's dying.

Isabella: Oh, please don't cry. More than anything, I hate seeing you upset. I don't care much for people's emotions, but yours always tug at my heart.

Max: Luckily for you I have no more tears left to cry. My eyes have been soiled with tears for the past 12 hours, I believe I'm done for today.

Isabella: Dear Max, crying that long isn't good for-

Max: Don't you stand here and tell me what's good for me and what's not. I don't expect you to understand. You've rarely been emotional a day in your life.

Isabella: have been emotional many times in my life, I just know that crying *THAT MUCH AT ONCE* does you no service!

Max: *scoffs* You are heartless sometimes, you know?

Isabella: How am I heartless for telling you the truth?

Max: I cannot help crying if I am again watching someone I love die.

Isabella: *scoffs* He's not dead! And there have been cases where people overcame this disease.

Max: And you think he will be an exception?! That he's some sort of miracle and will prevail through?

Isabella: He could be. Why you've given up on him I do not know.

Max: He's given up on himself! Why should I have hope for his survival if he's not going to even fight for it!?

Isabella: Because he's family, Max! You don't give up on someone even when they've given up on themself. When Eleanor gave up on herself, you-

Max: Damn it don't you bring her up. I told you I was done crying for today, so stop wherever you're going.

Isabella: Your tears won't bring her back, so what use is it?

Max: You are heartless! When you love someone, and they die-

Isabella: Damn you Max if you are trying to insinuate I didn't love her! I loved her more than anyone ever to walk this Earth!

Max: That's not at all what I meant Isabella and you know that! I just can't believe you're telling me that I shouldn't cry now. Name a time when any one of our household was dying and I didn't?

Isabella: When Uncle Percy had a stroke! He was as good as gone right after and I don't recall you ever shedding any tears then. And there's hope for Frederick, he's not coughing blood.

Max: Frederick is much thinner than the last time I saw him and that cough tops it all off. So no, I will not tell myself there's any hope. And I apologize for not crying in front of my sickly, invalid Father, SOMEONE had to be strong for him.

Isabella: Are you saying I wasn't Maximilian? Really? When you went off to do Ducal business and whatnot who sat with him that whole time until you returned? I endeavored just about as much as you to ensure his comfort, *voice cracking* and how can you accuse me of not being strong when you and I suffered the same trials?

Max: Bell…

Isabella: WHAT?! *covering eyes*

Max: I didn't mean to upset you, dear. I'm sorry, and you're right, we experienced the same sorrow. Perhaps we go about it differently when reacting to it.

Isabella: *sniffling* It just hurts that you'd call me heartless for saying crying does you no good. I'm not saying you shouldn't cry, because Lord knows I have moments sometimes, but I know it's not helpful in the long run. He's not dead yet, t-that is to say, *eyes welling up* if he was truly dying, *burts into tears* in which he is-

Max: *extending arms* Come here.

Isabella: *sobbing into chest* Oh Max! Whatever will we do?

Max: *kisses forehead* What we always do I suppose. Deal with whatever God throws at us.

Isabella: *sniffles* Yes. Let us not quarrel as we shall need each other more than ever in the coming weeks.

[appl30fmy3y3]

Draw My Life (Part 3): Hell

In my early 50s, I died and fell face first into Hell. Lucifer found me almost immediately after, and I suspect it wasn't just a coincidence that he happened to be nearby at the exact time of my death. He's never confirmed my theory, but I've caught him secretly using scrying spells to view Earth on a few occasions, so it's not hard to put two and two together. A little creepy, but also sweet.

Lucifer brought me to his palace where Cain was waiting for me. I can't describe what I felt in that moment. It was a mixture of love for my son, uneasiness over what he had done to his brother, relief to see him again, sorrow that he had been damned to an eternity in Hell, and selfish joy that I had one of my children in Hell with me, though I feel bad admitting it. What mother would be happy that their child would suffer for eternity? Perhaps I'm less selfless than I like to tell myself.

My son and I were granted nobility, and we stayed in the palace with the Morningstar family for centuries. I was appointed as Lilith's lady-in-waiting, and although I sensed she harbored resent for me in the beginning, a fact my naivety in the Garden of Eden made me blind to, she eventually grew to trust me. We became something like friends, but the knowledge that she her intentions for giving me the forbidden fruit may not have been as pure as Lucifer's was always in the back of my head.

I remember one evening, after a particularly difficult day, Lucifer can to my room, crying. He told me about the guilt he felt for giving me the forbidden fruit and dooming me and all of humanity to a life of sin and damnation. He apologized over and over again for "doing me a great evil." I took his face in my hands and told him that he had not done me evil, but that he had saved me and all of humanity, my children, from a life of endless servitude to a God who would send his children away to burn forever over the slightest fault. I was truly grateful to him for the gift of free will, and I told him so.

Lucifer and I grew to be incredibly close friends. He gifted me many things, beautiful treasures of Hell and Earth alike: Tyrian purple dyes, precious silks, saffron and other spices from Gluttony, and sweet perfumes from Lust, amongst other things. Of course, the finest of richest were given to Lilith, but there was always something put aside specifically for me. The most precious gift he gave me, other than free will, of course, was Rimon. He created a living viper out of pure gold for me, a counterpart to his own golden desert snake, whom he had named Tapuach. I carry Rimon with me everywhere as a reminder of our friendship.

When Lilith became pregnant with Charlie, I had been planning to leave the palace with my son to live a peaceful life in the darkly beautiful yew forests at the farthest northern point of Hell. Lucifer convinced me to stay until Charlie was born so that I could meet her, and I agreed. Lucifer seemed hopeful that I would forget my plans to leave over those nine months, and I did end up staying at the palace for a few more months after Charlie was born to help Lilith take care of her while she recovered, but eventually it was time for me to leave. Over 200 years later, and I'm still enjoying my well-earned rest in my makeshift Garden of Eden, or the Garden of Eve, if you will!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Thanksgiving History

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

November 23, 2023

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

Thanksgiving is the quintessential American holiday…but not for the reasons we generally remember.

The Pilgrims and the Wampanoags did indeed share a harvest celebration together at Plymouth in fall 1621, but that moment got forgotten almost immediately, overwritten by the long history of the settlers’ attacks on their Indigenous neighbors.

In 1841 a book that reprinted the early diaries and letters from the Plymouth colony recovered the story of that three-day celebration in which ninety Indigenous Americans and the English settlers shared fowl and deer. This story of peace and goodwill among men who by the 1840s were more often enemies than not inspired Sarah Josepha Hale, who edited the popular women’s magazine Godey’s Lady’s Book, to think that a national celebration could ease similar tensions building between the slave-holding South and the free North. She lobbied for legislation to establish a day of national thanksgiving.

And then, on April 12, 1861, southern soldiers fired on Fort Sumter, a federal fort in Charleston Harbor, and the meaning of a holiday for giving thanks changed.

Southern leaders wanted to destroy the United States of America and create their own country, based not in the traditional American idea that “all men are created equal,” but rather in its opposite: that some men were better than others and had the right to enslave their neighbors. In the 1850s, convinced that society worked best if a few wealthy men ran it, southern leaders had bent the laws of the United States to their benefit, using it to protect enslavement above all.

In 1860, northerners elected Abraham Lincoln to the presidency to stop rich southern enslavers from taking over the government and using it to cement their own wealth and power. As soon as he was elected, southern leaders pulled their states out of the Union to set up their own country. After the firing on Fort Sumter, Lincoln and the fledgling Republican Party set out to end the slaveholders’ rebellion.

The early years of the war did not go well for the U.S. By the end of 1862, the armies still held, but people on the home front were losing faith. Leaders recognized the need both to acknowledge the suffering and to keep Americans loyal to the cause. In November and December, seventeen state governors declared state thanksgiving holidays.

New York governor Edwin Morgan’s widely reprinted proclamation about the holiday reflected that the previous year “is numbered among the dark periods of history, and its sorrowful records are graven on many hearthstones.” But this was nonetheless a time for giving thanks, he wrote, because “the precious blood shed in the cause of our country will hallow and strengthen our love and our reverence for it and its institutions…. Our Government and institutions placed in jeopardy have brought us to a more just appreciation of their value.”

The next year, Lincoln got ahead of the state proclamations. On July 15 he declared a national day of Thanksgiving, and the relief in his proclamation was almost palpable. After two years of disasters, the Union army was finally winning. Bloody, yes; battered, yes; but winning. At Gettysburg in early July, Union troops had sent Confederates reeling back southward. Then, on July 4, Vicksburg had finally fallen to U. S. Grant’s army. The military tide was turning.

President Lincoln set Thursday, August 6, 1863, for the national day of Thanksgiving. On that day, ministers across the country listed the signal victories of the U.S. Army and Navy in the past year and reassured their congregations that it was only a matter of time until the United States government put down the southern rebellion. Their predictions acknowledged the dead and reinforced the idea that their sacrifice had not been in vain.

In October 1863, President Lincoln declared a second national day of Thanksgiving. In the past year, he declared, the nation had been blessed.

In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, he wrote, Americans had maintained their laws and their institutions and had kept foreign countries from meddling with their nation. They had paid for the war as they went, refusing to permit the destruction to cripple the economy. Instead, as they funded the war, they had also advanced farming, industry, mining, and shipping. Immigrants had poured into the country to replace men lost on the battlefield, and the economy was booming. And Lincoln had recently promised that the government would end slavery once and for all. The country, he predicted, “with a large increase of freedom,” would survive, stronger and more prosperous than ever. The president invited Americans “in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea, and those who are sojourning in foreign lands” to observe the last Thursday of November as a day of Thanksgiving.

In 1863, November’s last Thursday fell on the 26th. On November 19, Lincoln delivered an address at the dedication of a national cemetery at Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. He reached back to the Declaration of Independence for the principles on which he called for Americans to rebuild the severed nation: 

​​”Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.”

Lincoln urged the crowd to take up the torch those who fought at Gettysburg had laid down. He called for them to “highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

The following year, Lincoln proclaimed another day of Thanksgiving, this time congratulating Americans that God had favored them not only with immigration but also with the emancipation of formerly enslaved people. “Moreover,” Lincoln wrote, “He has been pleased to animate and inspire our minds and hearts with fortitude, courage, and resolution sufficient for the great trial of civil war into which we have been brought by our adherence as a nation to the cause of freedom and humanity, and to afford to us reasonable hopes of an ultimate and happy deliverance from all our dangers and afflictions.”

In 1861, Americans went to war to keep a cabal from taking control of the government and turning it into an oligarchy. The fight against that rebellion seemed at first to be too much for the nation to survive. But Americans rallied and threw their hearts into the cause on the battlefields even as they continued to work on the home front for a government that defended democracy and equality before the law.

And in 1865, at least, they won.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[imminent-danger-came]

Hi there! I don't really see the appeal of tragedy because to me it means everyone dies, the end is just defeat, and there are no resolutions whatsoever to the conflict, but that might just be a me thing.

And! If you're into tragedy and badass woman in action, you should give the webseries RWBY a try! You like tragedy, heavy thematic shows, gray morality, and consequences? Also badass women. This show is also hopepunk, if you don't mind that.

Do you mind elaborating on SWK's self-isolating, self-sacrificing, and terrible communication issues? Those puzzle me but it may be because I'm denser than a black hole.

Have a great month! Sleep early regularly.

Let me just quote the Wikipedia definition of tragedy:

"Tragedy is a genre of drama based on human suffering and, mainly, the terrible or sorrowful events that befall a main character. Traditionally, the intention of tragedy is to invoke an accompanying catharsis, or a "pain [that] awakens pleasure", for the audience."

For me, tragedy isn't just about the inevitable end—it's about the love and effort that was there despite it. I find real catharsis in that I think. But I also don't think a tragedy has to be full of death to be a tragedy! To me, MK's s4 arc of feeling that no matter what he does, he's just going to cause more pain and suffering is tragic. I think Wukong hurting the people he cares about while trying to protect them is tragic. But then there's also Azure, who died barely fixing the world he himself broke, ultimately failing to bring about the change he dreamed of. That's tragic!

So, I wouldn't say tragedies are only about death and defeat and that there are no resolutions. I often think of Orpheus and Eurydice, where every time you hope Orpheus won't turn around, but he does, and he does it out of love. And Eurydice can't blame him, because what can she blame him for except that he loved her. Both you and I and everyone we love are going to meet that same inevitable end, but our love and hope and passions still matters. A tragedy only hurts because someone cared.

Okay, completely switching gears here lol.

I watched the first...maybe 6 volumes of RWBY forever ago in high school, and I remember liking it! I got a really full list of things I need to get through at the moment, but maybe one day I pick it up again.

And, here's a meta where I talk about SWK's flaws (written post-s4 and pre-special)! I only go into his terrible communication and his self-sacrificial nature there, but when it comes to Wukong isolating himself I think that goes hand in hand with his tendency to run off ("I'm going to do what I should have done initially: stop the Lady Bone Demon—alone."). It's also what he did after sealing DBK—he disappeared and isolated himself on flower fruit mountain. It's just kinda what he does.

[gonguji]

chaos   surges   through   the   veins   of   Inazuma,   each   day   reaping   rewards.            the   Visions   are   but   flowers   falling   with   sickles   waving   around,   leave   people   in   shambles   &&   disbelief   for   their   deity's   actions.   the   prayers   reflect   just   how   much   they   are   confused &&   hurt.     with   this   crisis   of   faith,   some   unruly   Yōkai   may   be   born.       some   may   even   return,   to   participate   in   the   sorrow   &&   cultivate   it   like   weeds   in   the   garden   of   her   Excellency   the   Narukami   Oogosho...     he   mustn't   let   that   happen!        the   times   are   already   dire   on   the   front   &&   his   help   is   more   needed   than   ever   before   with   unknown   party   constantly   devastating   the   protective   wards   established   by   the   Grand   Narukami   Shrine   —   little   holy   shrines,   essential   in   maintaining   the   Tatarigami   on   Yashiori   Island.   so   very   close   to   the   people   of   Watatsumi   &&   the   soldiers   stationed   in   Kannazuka...   the   situation   between   the   islands   becomes   more   heated   witch   each   passing   day.

❛   forgive   me,   Lord   Kamisato,   but   I   did   not   come   here   to   bargain.   ❜   the   gongūji   clarifies,   his   gaze   usually   so   soft   now   focused   &&   fortified.   he   cannot   turn   his   back   on   the   suffering   of   the   people...   even   if   not   the   rightful   ruler,   he   is   nevertheless   a   kami.   the   lightning   answers   to   him   as   well...   but   to   go   against   the   protector   of   Inazuma,   to   change her   mind,   is   a   task   only   humans   could   unite   in.   it   has   to   be   their   decision   &&   their   will.               Kabukimono   can   only   offer   his   services,   as   despite   everything,   he   is   nothing   more   than   another   servant   of   Inazuma   &&   the   Archon   herself.       ❛   the   Mighty   Narukami   Oogosho   isn't   our   enemy,   I'm   sure   of   it..   just   like   the   people   I   cannot   hope   to   understand   the   motives   of   our   Shogun,   let   alone   influence   change...   even   Gūji   Yae's   sacred   presence   is   not   enough   to   change   our   god's   mind.   ❜

Kabukimono   then   touches   upon   his   chest,   right   where   the   golden   feather   befalls —   the   beloved   possession   bestowed   upon   him   by   his   Creator.       ❛   I   wish   not   to   ask   for   the   Clan's   blade,   my   Lord.   the   solution   is   too   extreme   &&   the   matter   —   too   delicate   to   handle   with   a   katana.   Lady   Sangonomiya   had   already   chosen   to   follow   such   path   by   rebelling   &&   offering   shelter   to   those   against   the   Shogunate...   ❜      the   fingers   clench   suddenly,   his   thoughts   perhaps   straying   towards   a   matter   somewhat   painful   to   him   in   particular...     ❛   I   wish   to   extend   my   help   if   needed,   Lord   Kamisato.   though   the   Grand   Narukami   Shrine   cannot   interfene   in   our   Archon's   wishes,   I   cannot   stay   idle   when   the   people   I   love   suffer...   I   wish   to   be   of   use   to   you.   do   whatever   is   in   my   power   to   end   this   war   &&   abolish   the   decrees.   ❜

[monarch-of-weird-girlboy-nation]

@auroraofthesun1

Diary of a teenage Christian girl

Monday 1st August 2024

Writing late at night so this makes no sense. I’m under the covers in Esther’s bunk bed and she’s drawing me. She draws me much prettier than I am and she says I write her much prettier than she used to. I am truly blessed by the lord for such a good friend.

So here’s what happened when we arrived

Apparently we have a room switch up, after we’d unpacked which was annoying but expected. Camp is apparently always sorta unorganised like that! I’m still with Esther, Praise the Lord on high, but with an entirely different group.

In the group there’s 4 other girls, and my sister isnt here. I don’t really mind though. It’s not that we don’t get along, but me and Darlene aren’t very buddy buddy. We chat but run in different circles, it’s fine. I have 8 siblings, I don’t have to be super close with all of them.

The four girls are : Rachel, Mary, Ruth (not the other Ruth, we have a lot of Ruth’s in our church) and Sarah.

It’s kind of encouraged to talk bad about your roommates. Me and Esther do it a lot, and I know they do it too. It seems ingrained into church culture. I see mom do it, I see the ladies at church do it. Everyone’s a judge.

Like how Mary’s a glutton who probably loves food more than the Lord and Rachel’s a slut who admitted to wearing a certain outfit for male attention and Ruth has a necklace with a crystal on it which she swears is fake but I don’t believe it.

Me and Esther are sinners too, everyone is. I think I am the worst and ye the best, I think that I am so much better but the scum of the earth, I am the best Christian in this room and yet the most unworthy in the eyes of the Lord. Ive done a lot for christ, and so has Esther. Esther fasts. She fasts most of her time, and barely eats. I admire her dedication. I fast a lot too, and supliment never eating with praying. Praying so much. I scream to the Lord. Always

If I’m not thinking about God then what am I thinking of? Picture God and Jesus standing on heaven looking at me and judging me. They see everything and every thought. They KNOW!

But other than that I chatted with my roommates and other than the stuff I mentioned they all seemed great. We went to the sermon, which was powerful.

We spent the first hour thirty minutes singing worship songs and praise. I might have permanent hearing problems sorry Lord that last comment was ungrateful for even if the Lord brings sorrow I will rejoice and rejoice in my suffering suffering suffering. I am not suffering. I have the Lord.

I cried during the sermon, when they talked about how Jesus died for me. The guilt could have crushed me and I felt so happy. Happy that I was feeling the right emotions, guilt. Esther was crying too, and I knew she wouldn’t eat tomorrow. Good for her. I should fast too. I would, praying and fasting and praying and begging to be forgiven. Forgiven for what? The crime of existing.

A couple kids collapsed, sobbing, touched by the spirit. It didn’t happen to me. I felt awful, why didn’t I happen to me. It happened to Rachel and she cried about her parents divorce tainting her. At least she’s self aware. I’ll fall to the ground next time. We’re here for threee weeks.

The sermon was on sacrifice. I remember hearing a similar one when I was 7, the day I knew I would gladly die a martyr. I had my martyrship perfectly planned since I was 7, and with a bit of tweaking I’d made a perfect death.

It would be when I was still young, because it would be more inspiring that way. Id be in a situation of oppression. A shooter would come in to my class room, a big scary atheist who hated Christian’s and wanted us dead. And I wouldn’t hide, and would sing Amazing Grace. I would sing amazing grace while he shot me and my final words would be praising the Lord. I would be loved and adored even in death. I would certainly go to heaven. That was my dream. My greatest wish is to die.

Esther showed me her drawing. She’s a great artist, and drew me adorable . She says I am adorable.

She’s adorable too. I’m gonna sleep now.

Forever the Lords

Grace

[donnerpartyofone]

I went to Star of the Sea a few times a week all February, which means it took me like a month to look up and discover the giant pipe organ over the entrance. It's crazy how habitually I only look where I'm stepping, I'm constantly missing the most obvious (and interesting) things. I wonder if anyone ever plays it! There's a piano and also an electric keyboard of some kind up front that they use on the weekends, when music is played by an older lady with bright red hair and an absolutely wild operatic soprano. Every single person who comes here is an absolute capital-C character. I've even started to see these cool strega types in black furs with chic wigs or dye jobs and cateye glasses; with any luck that's what I'll be like when I'm their age.

I usually say that I'm going to this place, never having been to church in my life, because of an art history-related project I'm working on, but it feels like a lot of different converging paths have led me here. When my husband and I first moved to this neighborhood ten years ago, we stumbled upon the procession of Our Lady of Sorrows aka Mater Dolorosa aka La Maria Addolorata one day, and I immediately thought...man am I in the right place. Here is her statue in the Italian social club garden (which is cut back for the winter in this image, but when it's in bloom it's like a vibrant little jungle), and here is a photo from Wikipedia of the procession:

Naturally this introduction to the local traditions made me very interested in what could be in the church, although I took my time getting there. Bizarrely, when I finally checked it out last month, almost the first thing I heard was a reading in which Mary is told about how she's going to suffer for her son's fate, using the wording: "And you yourself a sword shall pierce". The phrase has a beautiful musicality to it, but it really caught my ear because it so obviously inspired the imagery of the Dolorosa. If I had gone on any other day, I wouldn't have received this strangely meaningful-to-me welcome. This pincushion version of Mary is strikingly gothic, and often garbed in black and gold:

I'm sure that when I first started coming to Star of the Sea, creeping around sneaking pictures, it might have been perturbing to at least some of the old time neighborhood retirees who come to weekday masses. But, I eventually became a familiar face, and I brought my husband to this wine and cheese thing they offered after last Saturday's service. We went around and introduced ourselves to the main regulars plus the monsignor (who is really sweet and good-humored), and that seemed to help; when I came back on Tuesday, one of the main ladies introduced me to more people and told them about our Saturday visit, it really seemed to mean something to her. Maybe it's pretentious of me but I feel like it might be good for them to see me around, like maybe if they get to know a punk-looking chick like me a little bit, then it will make them feel like they might have more in common with really different-seeming people than they think. And vice-versa, of course.

At the end of yesterday's mass, I got to meet the extremely sharp and charismastic Father Patterson who comes on Thursdays to help out, since the church's original guy passed away. Patterson came out and met everybody this time, and I was excited to tell him that I had never been to church before the week that he himself started coming to Star of the Sea, and his homilies were part of what kept me coming back. He stunned me by saying something like, "Keep coming, because while you might be inspired by this place, people around you are being inspired by you at the same time. You won't see it yourself and you don't even have to, because it's just you, your you-ness is what's inspiring." I was so humbled, I didn't really know how to act. It was an interesting insight; often when we feel bad about ourselves, we get served this condescending rhetoric about how your low self-esteem prevents you from seeing yourself as wonderful the way others do--but this was more like, you have to spend all your time with yourself, so you never experience yourself as novel, you can't possibly see what other people see. It's like how you can't smell yourself, basically. Up at the top I was saying how everybody who comes here is a big time Character with unique personalities, and suddenly it occurred to me that I am now one of those Characters. I have the feeling Patterson was sent to Star of the Sea like Mary Poppins, to uplift everybody who lost their pastor and are worried about the future of the parish. He's doing a really good job and it will be a bummer when he's gone.

Meanwhile, baby's first meme:

[theawkwardvirgin]

So I was praying the Seven Sorrows Rosary (Our Lady of Kibeho said to pray it on Tuesdays and Fridays) and I had a realization: We have a LOT of nerve asking Mary to be our intercessor, and she has an ASTONISHING amount of mercy and love to actually do it. Because it’s OUR FAULT that her son suffered so horrifically, and that she suffered watching him. It’s because of our sins! And yet she intercedes on our behalf, encouraging God to be even more merciful than he already has been!