#ice crypt
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
trainerjames-reads · 9 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
Ice Crypt (Mermaids of Eriana Kwai #2) by @tianawarner (my book review)
Note: This review is from my Goodreads account back when I originally read the book in 2016 and I still stand by it.
----------
Have you ever read a book or watched a movie or played a video game and thought to yourself, 'I could stay in this world forever?' Upon finishing Ice Massacre by Tiana Warner, that is exactly how I felt with the world she had created. The story was gripping, the characters felt real, and despite being a male and probably one to be lured to my death by the mermaids, I wanted to be on that ship with those girls battling those sea demons for Eriana Kwai! Ice Crypt takes all the pros from Ice Massacre and tells an even more amazing story, this time with not only Meela’s point-of-view, but with Lysi’s as well.
Ice Crypt is a return to Tiana Warner’s wonderfully crafted world. It’s been two weeks since the Massacre from the first book and Meela has been ordered by King Adaro, the king of the merpeople, to find the Host of Eriana and in return he will give her Lysi. Unfortunately, Meela doesn’t know where or what this host even is. With the help of a few of her friends, Meela becomes wrapped up in a detective story wherein she must uncover clues as to the location of the Host of Eriana. It’s thrilling and gripping and with each passing chapter you find yourself wanting to know more about Meela, her people, her island, and all of the history that comes with it.
Along with Meela’s story, now we get a look into Lysi’s life and what it’s like to be a mermaid. For as excited as I was to return to this world--to return to Meela--Lysi’s point-of-view and her story was what intrigued me most. Lysi’s story starts where it ended in Ice Massacre. King Adaro has her locked away as per his agreement with Meela to find the Host of Eriana. However, Lysi is feisty, fierce, and determined and no one is going to hold her from getting back to Meela, or so she thinks. Being the king of the merpeople, King Adaro has many loyal subjects all throughout the Pacific, but when Lysi is taken to the South Pacific army, she runs into an old friend, Spio, and discovers a treacherous plot that if gone wrong could get her killed.
Reading Lysi’s chapters and seeing Warner’s exquisite attention to detail and the care she put into making her mermaid come to life had me thinking more than just once that perhaps if mermaids truly are real, then maybe Tiana Warner is in fact one of them. Everything about Lysi made sense to me: the way she moved in the water, the way she interacted with other merpeople and other sea creatures, her struggles and her emotions, it just all felt natural which is a testament to Warner’s incredible expertise at writing.
The supporting characters are also a treat! It's nice to have Annith back along with Blacktail and Tanuu and while I wasn't expecting to like Tanuu all that much, he grew on me. Some new supporting characters include Spio, Coho, Nobeard, Pontus, and Junior--all friends of Lysi. They add more humor to the story which I'll be getting to momentarily, but more importantly they all feel real. The camaraderie between Meela, Annith, Blacktail, and Tanuu and Lysi, Spio, Coho, Nobeard, Pontus, and Junior is a real treat and adds more scope to the overall story.
Something Warner adds to Ice Crypt that I felt I missed from Ice Massacre is the humor. This story isn’t a comedy by any means, but when you have a story as dark and as atmospheric as Ice Massacre it’s nice to balance it with a bit of humor every once in a while and Ice Crypt does just that! There are several lines all throughout the book that had me laughing at just right times, especially a little scene involving Tanuu, Meela, and getting Meela out of her pants. Warner knows how to use her characters to tap into your emotions and she knows when to make you smile, laugh, when to feel upset, when to feel anger, and she does it spectacularly.
Ice Crypt will reel you in from the start of chapter one and have you enjoying every moment until the end. Warner does a beautiful job of continuing her story with the characters you loved from the first book while also adding in new characters to have you fall in love with as well. With action, adventure, romance, some humor, and a few twists along the way, Ice Crypt has me excited and looking forward to the third book in the Mermaids of Eriana Kwai series.
The strongest of recommends!
Para la reina!
-My rating: 5/5 stars
2 notes · View notes
freckled-lili · 2 years ago
Text
Ice Crypt: *(describes mermen as being ugly/monstrous in comparison to the more humanoid and beautiful mermaids)*
Me, a Disaster Bisexual Beauty-and-the-Beast /Monster-Romance Fan: lol I’d still tap that.
6 notes · View notes
fanofspooky · 1 month ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Scream King - David Warner
113 notes · View notes
ilreleonewikiart · 5 months ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Alysanne and Alaric in the crypt of Winterfell
for @targaryen_the on twitter
141 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
04_Juego de tronos_Eddard I
—Juré matar a Rhaegar por esto —dijo el rey después de tocar la mejilla de la estatua y acariciar la piedra áspera como si ésta tuviera vida.
  —Y lo hicisteis —señaló Ned.
  —Sólo una vez —dijo Robert con amargura.
  Se habían enfrentado en el vado del Tridente, en el centro mismo de la batalla, Robert con su maza y su enorme yelmo astado, el príncipe Targaryen con su armadura negra. Llevaba en la coraza del pecho el dragón de tres cabezas de su Casa, todo recubierto de rubíes que refulgían a la luz del sol. Las aguas del Tridente enrojecieron en torno a los cascos de sus corceles mientras ellos cruzaban las armas una y otra vez, hasta que por último un golpe de la maza de Robert destrozó el dragón y el pecho que había debajo. Cuando Ned llegó al lugar, Rhaegar yacía ya muerto en el río, y hombres de ambos ejércitos se zambullían en las aguas turbias para buscar los rubíes que se habían desprendido de la armadura.
  —Lo mato cada noche en mis sueños —admitió Robert—. Pero un millar de muertes siguen siendo menos de lo que merece.
20 notes · View notes
kaoribriefs · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media
“Jon. The thought of Jon filled him will an immeasurable sense of regret. If only he could see the boy again. Talk to him. Explain things.”
-Eddard Stark, AGOT
266 notes · View notes
Text
Tumblr media
50 notes · View notes
jonsnowunemploymentera · 1 year ago
Text
There’s something so…gorgeous about how the story of Vermax laying dragon eggs in the crypts of Winterfell works as piece of symbolism. It doesn’t really matter if physical dragon eggs exist down there imo because this story adds so much meaning to Jon’s status as a hidden dragon and also his status as one of the last remaining scions of House Targaryen. Plus it does a lot to contextualize how Ned’s action of saving his nephew’s life is in line with centuries old magic, even though he never intended it to be such.
Because Jace and Cregan quite famously made a pact which was called the “Pact of Ice and Fire”, in which they promised to join their houses through the union of marriage. We also have the canonical representation of Starks as 🧊 and Targaryens as 🔥. Two opposing sides that could do harm to each other have decided to come together through marriage and procreation. Through this pact comes a new life that will be a balanced union of ice and fire.
Then we get the story of Vermax laying eggs in the Winterfell crypts. An act that symbolizes the continuation of life. It’s so interesting because we know how this story ends. We know that after this, the dragons will die and will be no more in Westeros….BUT there’s the exception of the eggs in Winterfell. They may be unhatched but they are like a promise of life. And it’s Winterfell’s crypts that keep them hidden from danger and Winterfell’s heated walls that cover them.
What’s even more gorgeous is that this pact is made in a period of civil war that threatened the survival of the Targaryen dynasty. And like… isn’t that Jon Snow’s life story?! He was born at the tail of of Robert’s rebellion which saw the death of the Targaryens. Aerys and Rhaegar (and Rhaegar’s children were dead). A child Viserys, Rhaella, and an unborn Dany were all that was left of the Targaryen legacy.
And then comes the unexpected Jon Snow. Born of the union of Stark and Targaryen, ice and fire. Ice and fire were on opposing sides in the war and killed each other. But then comes Jon Snow to mend that rift and heal that divide. He is born after a period of death to represent new life and new beginnings. He’s just a little baby but he symbolizes so much!
It’s why I think Jon serves better as a symbol of spring and not winter. Because everything about him represents the promise of life after death: born at the end of a civil war, him being represented by a winter rose, him being symbolized as the corn king (a mythical figure who represented the cycle of life and death), his presumed death at the end of ADWD but the promise that he will be resurrected, etc.
And then we have Ned Stark being the unwitting proxy to his ancestor Cregan. Ned took this dragon egg and hid him away within Winterfell’s walls. Then he took Jon’s mother and also placed her in the crypts. It’s no wonder that Jon has so many strange dreams regarding the crypts. Symbolically, the secret of his birth being hidden away in the crypts ties in quite nicely with Vermax’s hidden dragon eggs. In both cases, a symbol of Targaryen life is hidden within the walls of the Winterfell crypts. Then there’s Summer’s strange vision of a winged serpent as Winterfell burned. Many fans has often wondered what this vision meant. I’m not sure either, but it would be a nice touch if this is a symbolic representation of Jon Snow. As it was with Summer’s vision, Jon is the dragon that has hatched and left the confines of Winterfell’s walls, and he is ready to do some damage.
#jon snow#asoiaf#valyrianscrolls#i don’t believe physical dragon eggs in the winterfell crypts will be an important plot point#I think this story is mainly there to symbolize jon#a little dragon - scion of house targaryen- hidden away by the Starks of winterfell#Also wonderful that we’re told so many times that the crypts represent the power and legacy of the starks#It’s where the dead stark kings reside- the kings of winter with their stone direwolves#Then we have the dragon - the symbol of house Targaryen’s power#These two things come together and bam we have mr jonathan snow#An unassuming inheritor of the legacies of these two houses#But he is something special because he’s something that has never existed before#Ice and fire coexist with him and within him#He was not intentional but he is here#And he is here when it matters most - after all the world needs a savior#I think this puts quite the spin on the idea of a promised prince#Because there was a pact many many years ago that didn’t come into fruition in its intended time frame#But it’s been realized now when darkness threatens the land#Oooooh the ~Jon is the prince who was promised ~ truthers win every single day 🎉 🪩 🕺#It’s so interesting that the original pact was between a Targ princess and a Stark lord#At most the children born of this union would’ve only been lords or ladies#But with the union of Rhaegar and Lyanna it’s switched#Jon not only is a prince through his father but he has also been made an inheritor of winterfell#He is more powerful and important than the original pact intended#He’s both prince and lord - he’s a KING#And he has claims to both sides#No one is doing it like him I fear#canonjonsnow
63 notes · View notes
mildelectrocution · 5 months ago
Text
They mowed down my native plant flower garden, some of them were even blooming and they just mowed them down. Fuck everyone I hate it here, I want my own house so bad just to have a garden, but nooo even the most average house in this city costs over a million.
9 notes · View notes
brothersgrim · 10 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
SEND 'WHAT IF' SCENARIOS FOR MY MUSES TO REACT TO! || ACCEPTING
Anonymous asked: What if Taker was in a situation in which he felt extremely confused by something 👀  sorry, I’m not that creative with asks
He shifts in his bed, scrunching his face in displeasure at the hazy notion of waking up. He's tired. He's sore. He knows his duties will summon him soon, but for now, his bed is comfortable, and that is enough. It is so much more than he had for so long. 
There's a noise from out in the hall. Footsteps. Now, enough people came and went these days that that noise wouldn’t normally bother him. But even with so many people, the Undertaker knew them all - he wouldn’t bring them here otherwise. He knew their voices, their habits, their rhythms, and, while he wasn’t as keen at it as Kane was, he knew their footsteps. He could usually tell who it was walking past his door.
He does not recognize those steps. 
The Undertaker opens his eyes with a frown, brow knotting as he sits up, and–
And this isn’t his room. 
This isn’t his room, even if it feels painfully familiar. It’s still small, though he wonders if it feels bigger simply because there are more things in it than usual - where did they come from? The rug, the desk, the chair, the lamp… The posters were different, but he recognized the room itself. He knows, if he were to look out the window to his left, he would see the Yard. His Yard. He pushes carefully off the bed and freezes when his feet brush something soft. He looks down, and things get stranger still. A set of slippers rests against his feet. Soft ones, hand-made by a matron in town for a church fundraiser.
He remembered these. He didn’t know why - they should be inconsequential - but he remembers them. And the feet that brush against them move when he wills them to, the toes flex and curl, but these aren’t his feet; they lack the weathering and callouses, the scars on the sides where poorly-maintained boots had worn skin away to bloody messes more times than he could count. He raises his hands to his face, and they’re similarly smaller, unblemished, nails neatly groomed without any traces of grave-dirt or blood or motor oil stuck underneath. This–
This didn’t make any sense. There was an answer, an explanation, to all of this, but it danced and spun and swirled around in illogical circles until all it looked like was a dream. This was a dream. This was a dream, it had to be, it was the only thing that possibly made sense. He pushes off the bed (the blankets felt too soft, too real, and wasn’t this different from how these dreams normally went?) and is halfway to the mirror in the corner when the footsteps come back, and there’s three steady knocks on the door. The voice comes through the door just as he catches his reflection - just in time to see the agony flash across his younger self’s features as recognition twists the knife of grief. 
“Hey in there. You ready for bed yet?” 
That’s his father’s voice. A voice he had longed to hear and failed to properly remember for so long. Any response is caught in his throat, stopped by the lump and the sickly taste of bile that he clamps his jaw against, by breaths that trip and stumble as they make a rapid escape from his lungs without leaving any oxygen behind. 
“Adam?” Another knock and he knew, he’d known for so long, that he hadn’t quite gotten it right in his mind, but he hadn’t realised how many little details time had worn away. That was his father’s voice. The way his accent shaped each vowel, dulled the edge of some consonants and sharpened some others. The hint of concern mingled with confusion, so genuine and authentic and different, so different from how Paul had spoken of them. “You there?” 
This had to be a dream. It had to be. The door handle rattles and his entire body tenses. He knows what will happen next. The door will open and he will see his father’s face, burned and disfigured, and it will tell him that everything was his fault and he will wake up for real, in the master bedroom in his own– His grown– body. That’s what will happen. That’s what will happen because nothing else makes sense. That’s what will happen because he does not know what he will do if it doesn’t. The door opens and it is not his father’s corpse he sees. It is his father. Just his father, but like his voice, the memories of his face, even the photo kept hidden away, lacked so many details. The faint scar on his lip. The furrow in his brow. The way his hair flopped when he tilted his head, the creases at the corner of his eyes from a lifetime of smiling and thinking and squinting alike. 
“Ad-?” His father begins, but cuts off when he meets his son’s eyes. The Undertaker - Adam - does not move. He’s not sure he can. His father’s eyes widen a bit, and he reaches in the room to set his mug (his favourite mug, off-white and coffee-stained from years of use, it had a soup recipe on the side but he always filled it with everything but instead) on the dresser (handmade by Grandpa Abe, years and years before Adam was ever born and longer still before the fire claimed it and everything else). 
“Whoa, whoa, easy.” His father closes the door behind him and crouches down, close enough to study his son’s face but far enough to not crowd. The Undertaker - Adam - studies him in kind through wide, shellshocked eyes. Green eyes, not like his father’s brown. A soft green-and-navy flannel shirt hung on shoulders made broad from ranching, from grave-digging, from casket-building, a strong nose wrinkled just enough as he frowned down. This was his father. “What happened?” (You died.) “What’s wrong?” (I killed you.That’s what’s wrong. You died, I killed you, I didn’t mean to but I did and you’re dead and I lost you and–) His father’s hands, work-rough but gentle, come to rest on his shoulders and he flinches. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he did now. This is his father.
This is his father, and this is not a dream. 
“Jesus, c’mere.” His father sighs and pulls him in for a hug. It’s crushing, it’s suffocating, it’s ensnaring, it’s safe, and it isn’t until his father holds even tighter that Adam realises he is leaving tear stains on his father’s shirt. Oh. He’s crying. He’s crying, and he’s not sure he will ever be able to stop. He is Death. He is the Reaper. Men the size of mountains ran at the mere idea of his presence. His name was a legend, a warning, a curse, a promise. He is the Omega, the ugly truth of the world, and the truth he cannot bring himself to accept is just how much he had wanted this for so, so many years. His hands shake as he takes tentative fistfuls of flannel, then grips hard enough his knuckles turn white as he presses his face against his father’s shoulder.The shuddering, messy inhale that he forces smells like coffee and wood chips and spiced aftershave, fabric softener and earth and embalming fluid. It smells like comfort. It is a smell he had long since forgotten, and even though his lungs don’t work and his chest burns he forces himself to breathe it in again. 
“You hurt?” His father asks and the Undertaker has no idea how to respond, so Adam doesn’t. Only manages another breath that sounds deceptively like a hiccup. His father hums a single note and stands, tightening his arms just enough to lift Adam up off his feet. “Think there’s a bit more cocoa in the pot downstairs. Why don’t we get you some?” The offer only makes Adam cling to him even tighter. (How long had it been since anyone had offered the Undertaker cocoa? The Devil Himself did not need comfort. The Pale Rider had no use for warmth.) “C’mon.” His father opens the door with one hand and shuts it as they step through, leaving the soup mug behind. (That’s right, he had a habit of forgetting where he left things, hadn’t he? Another detail long forgotten.) He clings to his father and one of the boards creaks, and oh, right, he’d always had to be careful of that when he was young, right? And then there’s another creak as a door opens. Another voice the Deadman had resigned himself to never hearing - at least, not like this. Another set of spectral hands ripping into his chest.
“What’s wrong with Adam?” 
“Nothing, Fireball.” His - their - father says, reaching down with one arm to tousle Kane’s hair. His little brother looks up and his throat seizes again. The eyes he meets are grey - both grey, not mis-matched by smoke and flame and infection. His brother, little brother, baby brother, is just how he had tried to remember him for so many years and even through blurring vision he can’t look away. It’s how he was always meant to be. How he should have been, until– “Just a bit under the weather, is all. Go turn down your bed, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” Kane says, not bothering to keep the frown out of his voice. The door closes and Adam thinks more than feels the nudge through the air, that voice he had grieved so deeply peeking in through the disoriented haze of his own thoughts. 
You okay?
Kane. He sent back, squeezing his eyes shut and once again burrowing his face into his father’s shoulder. Is it really you?
It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Kane. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. A lie. It would all fall apart because it always did. It would go wrong and twist and he would lose it - them - again because he always did. 
It’s me. Kane’s voice says and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Why? Did something get out? Do we need to find Mama? 
Mama.
Their mother. 
Was she here, too? The last time he had seen her had been when Kane - grown, scarred, furious Kane - had thrown him into her casket. Before that, it had been when Paul had brought him to the other funeral home. When he had seen a skeletal grin and blackened glass and bloody, charred flesh– Another shudder wracks his too-small body as the revulsion hits him anew.
“You’re okay.” His father says, carefully setting Adam down on a chair. It feels so much bigger than chairs are supposed to. He doesn’t let go of his father. He wasn't sure that he could. If he does, his father will slip away again. If he does, he will wake up as he was yesterday and he will never see his father again, outside of photographs. If he does– 
His father rests a hand on Adam’s head before pulling away. 
“Sit tight.” His father says, moving to a pot resting on the stove. He rummages around for a mug and finds one, smaller than the now-discarded soup mug with two little mice painted on the side. He lifts the pot by its long wooden handle, pours cocoa into the mug, then returns to Adam’s side. “Here y’are. Drink slow, but see if it helps you any.” Adam takes the mug in his hands and stares.
“It’s warm.” He says, and even he notices the incredulity in his voice. His father lets out a surprised snort. 
“Well, yeah. It’s hot chocolate.” And yes, he’s right, the name should make its temperature obvious, but that’s not the point. The point is that Adam - the Undertaker - can feel it. The point is that it’s another sign that this is all, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably real. He hesitates a moment longer before taking a sip. It’s warm, yes, but it’s rich, sweet, comforting. Something homemade, from scratch, not from a packet. 
“My mama - your Granny Jules - used to make this whenever my siblings and I had a rough night.” His father leans against the counter with a grunt belying stiff muscles. “‘Course, when we started getting bigger, she put whiskey in it. … You still got a few more years before you can give that a try.” His father offers him a smile, and though it still twists at his heart, Adam manages a smile back. This is real. He has to accept that. Maybe… Maybe everything else had been a dream? No. That didn’t make sense, either. It had been fifty years, and he had felt every second of it. … Maybe he should give up trying to rationalise this. His mere existence had defied logic for so long; why would this be any different? (But at the same time, nothing good, logical or otherwise, ever lasted with him. Everything he loved had been taken away over, and over, and over again. Accepting this as reality would only make it hurt more when it was ripped from his grasp.) It’s a debate he’s still having with himself when he takes another sip of his drink. Then there are more footsteps, and these ones are not difficult to recognize. 
“JT! You down there?”
Paul. 
So many things happen at once. Adam chokes on his drink. The light overhead explodes. His father flinches back into the counter and curses. Paul bangs into something upstairs and says something similar. He comes downstairs and Adam cannot stop staring. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. Paul is here. Why is Paul here? Paul stares at him with a furrowed brow. 
“The hell was that?” Paul asked. Adam gripped the mug so tightly his hands shook. 
“Just a light.” His father said, but there was a different tone to his voice. His words were just a bit slower, a bit more thoughtful. “Think you can go find Iza for me? We’re gonna need to clean this up, get a replacement. She’s out back.” Paul watched Adam a moment longer, then shrugged and made his way to the back door. Adam did not take his eyes off him, nor did he loosen his grip. Paul was here. Paul was here. Paul was here. It’s a thought that consumes him so much he doesn’t realise his father has moved until they’re in front of each other.
“Adam.” His own name makes him jump again, sloshing cocoa onto his fingers. It burns. The sensation, unpleasant as it is, helps ground him. His father carefully pries the mug from his grasp and sets it on the table, before work-worn hands rest on Adam’s shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, but I need you to be honest with me. Did he do something to you?” Adam didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain forty years of torture to the father who only knew him as– How old was he? Ten years? Eleven? 
“I-” He starts, then stops. Forty years of suffering. Forty years of misery, of slavery, of pain and fear and what he had done to Kane and– Without being aware of it, his hands had moved to his throat. And then he swallows, looks down, and clutches at his own hands. “I…” His father’s jaw clenched and he looked over his shoulder to the back door. After another beat, he turns back and scoops Adam back into his arms. 
“Y’know what? Grab your cup, Mr. Man. We’re having a sleepover tonight.” 
It’s almost robotic, the way Adam does as he’s told. It’s easy to fall back onto that old habit. It’s familiar. Far more familiar than the way his father carries him up the stairs, stopping only to knock on Kane’s door. 
“Hey, Kane! C’mon. You’re sleeping in our room tonight.” His words were met with some shuffling noises from the other side of the door, before the knob turned and Kane’s ruffled head poked out. 
“I am?” He asked, blinking groggily. He must have been settling down already. Their father reached down to smooth Kane’s hair back into place. 
“Yup. Sleepover night.” Their father nodded. “Grab your bear if you want, but hurry it up. It’s getting late.” 
“Okay.” Kane disappeared into his room again, then reappeared and trotted after their father. Adam found himself deposited on their parents’ bed. His father squeezed his shoulders one last time, pressing a kiss to the crown of Adam’s head. 
“Stay here, I’m gonna go find your mama.” And then he leaves. He leaves, and those words cling to Adam like an embrace, like a security blanket, like brambles, like a noose. The bed shifted behind him, but Kane’s voice still almost made him jump.
“You’re not sick, are you?” He asked. Adam worked his jaw, then carefully set the mug down on the nightstand.
“I dunno what I am.” He said after a while. Kane flopped against his back. The warmth, the pressure, helped. The closeness to his brother helped. It didn’t chase the tightness in his chest away, but it helped. 
“You’re scared.” That did not help.  
“Kane-” He started. He didn’t need his brother digging through his head. Not now. He didn’t want Kane to see. Kane didn’t need to know. (He didn’t want Kane to know.) 
“It’s okay.” Kane said, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t smushed against his brother’s back. “It’s like Mama always says. Nothing can hurt us in this house.” … Adam was glad his brother didn’t see the expression that just flashed across his face. How he wished that was true. How he’d used to believe that was true. How many years he had desperately, desperately longed for it to be true. But it wasn’t. He grips the mug tighter and leans back against Kane. The warmth of both and the weight of his brother feel a million miles away. His chest is tight and he closes his eyes as though that will banish the pain. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to breathe, but this is all too much, too much, too much– The creak of the stairs.
He’s not ready for this.
His father’s muffled voice.
He’s not ready.
“... Look in his eyes, almost didn’t look like him.” His father was saying. “I’ve only seen that look two other places. Soldiers, and the pigs you bring in on Halloween.” The pigs. Livestock only in the loosest sense. Shepherded in from death row, or rounded up in the wild if they hadn’t been caught yet. Serial killers, repeat abusers, the worst of humanity, and they all squealed when they realised what was going to happen to them. He knew that well enough from his own experience. (He’d had to keep the tradition going. He had to. And he had done it, like all things, alone.) And the door opens. And the air leaves the room again. And he no longer feels the cup, or his brother. And he knows he’s shaking but he doesn’t feel that, either. And he imagines he’s crying again but even that escapes sensation. There’s an image juxtaposed over his mother’s face. One he’d never forgotten, not in forty years. Charred, blistered skin. Lips peeled back to reveal ash-coated teeth. Glass lacerating through reddened skin. Patches of skull where hair had been eaten away. A hole where her nose was meant to be. And only congealed, half-boiled pits where her blue, blue eyes had once been. That is what his mother had looked like, the last time he’d seen her face. And he sees it now. And he feels sick. And his head is spinning. And it’s too light and too dark and his heart is pounding, deafening in his ears and that’s his mother. And he feels like he is falling apart and compressing all at once and his own hair feels hot and itchy against the back of his neck and that is his mother. 
That is his mother. 
That is his mother and she’s getting closer. 
That’s his mother and he still remembers how her charred flesh smelled.
That’s his mother and she’s in front of him. And he can’t breathe. And it smells like smoke and cooked flesh. And it smells like cinnamon and lavender. And she is burned and she is beautiful. And she is in front of him. And his vision is blurring so much it no longer matters what her face looked like; he couldn’t make it out anyways. She folded her hands on the blankets near him - an invitation for comfort, but not making contact yet. 
“Addie, baby?” Her voice was a lance through his heart. “What’s wrong?” The floorboards creak (so loud, so shrill) as his father moves to his mother’s side. Another fuzzy shape in front of him. 
“I’m sorry.” He manages. His voice croaks and it hurts to say the words. He tries again anyway. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” The indistinct shape of his mother shifts, likely looking up at his father, but she will find no answers there. He wouldn’t know. Neither of them would know the blood and soot that stained their oldest’s hands. They wouldn’t know how badly he’d hurt them. How he’d-
“I’m sorry.” He repeated, though even he barely understood it. “I’m sorry.” It’s a mess of syllables, fumbled together and dropped from the shaking grasp of his lips until they fell on a floor in a heap. He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as though that might stop the last pieces of his heart from shattering further. 
It doesn’t work. 
“Oh, baby.” His mother says, wrapping him in her arms and pulling him close. She kisses the top of his head and it aches, it burns, it’s agony and it’s a redemption and a forgiveness that he has done nothing to deserve. He does not deserve her love and yet he has craved it so desperately he can’t bring himself to pull away. She holds him tighter still and at some point, he had started clinging to her in kind. He doesn’t remember when. All he knows is if he tried to hold on to the back of her blouse any tighter his hands would break. He tries anyways. He tries another apology, too. Neither attempt is successful. His mother holds him anyway. And just like with his father, eventually, he wears himself out. He does not let go, but the tears slow down. His breathing steadies to shaky hiccups. But he doesn’t let go until she pulls away and he has to. Her hands find his face and her thumbs brush away the lingering moisture on his cheeks. He raises his own hands to hold on to her wrists, pressing his face into her palms. He had tried to memorise this feeling after she had been gone. (He’d had no way of knowing he’d be forced to forget.) 
Feeling the real thing now, his memories didn’t come anywhere close. 
His mother sighs. It’s not an annoyed sigh, nor is it condescending. It’s a release of tension. It’s permission to relax. She leans in and kisses the top of his head again. For another moment, she stays with her face pressed against his scalp. He blinks; his eyes still sting. 
“You okay, baby?” She asks. He sniffs, and for the first time since he could remember, he answered that question honestly. 
“I don’t know.” 
“And that’s okay.” She smooths his hair and smiles down at him and he sees her face, and it’s even more beautiful than he remembered. “Why don’t you stay here with your brother? I gotta talk to your daddy for a minute.” She moves to stand and the ‘no’ that leaves him is involuntary. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, not again. I just got you all back, don’t go. 
I need you. 
Her lips flicker into a frown, concerned and- angry?- but it vanishes just as fast. There’s a fluctuation in temperature, a drop that he swears must have been his, but her hand is freezing when it runs through his hair again. 
“We’ll be back, Adam, sweet boy. I promise.” And despite the warning signs, she was as gentle towards him in tone and action as she had ever been. She turns and leaves quickly, their father following behind. The door closes behind them. Adam sniffs and wipes at his face again. There’s silence, filled by the staccato ticking of the clock on the night stand and the soft rustling of Kane squirming around in the sheets. Adam keeps staring at the door. Then Kane plops his chin on Adam’s shoulder and speaks. 
“Would it make you feel better if we listened?” He asked. “Then we won’t be so far away.” Adam scrunched up his faze and scrubbed at his eyes one last time. Kane was right. Adam didn’t want to know how much he’d picked up–
“Not a lot.” Kane shrugged.
“Cut that out.” Adam mumbled into his own sleeve. Kane huffed, flopping backwards onto the thick down-stuffed pillows his parents enjoyed. 
“Well, you won’t tell me what’s going on! I’m worried.” He said, pouting at the ceiling. “You’re never like this.” And maybe he was right. Adam absolutely hadn’t been that way when he had stopped being Adam. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to be before the fire. Apparently, not like this. 
“Yeah.” Adam ended up saying. “Let’s go listen.” Anything to avoid letting his brother know what he was thinking. They both slipped off the bed, their socks helping to muffle the impact of their feet against the floor. And the door opens slowly, quietly, careful of the potential squeaking hinges, and Adam leaves first, finding his spot at the top of the stairs. He can’t see his parents, no matter how he manoeuvres. They must be in the back entryway. But he can hear them, and hear them well. 
“What happened, JT?” She was asking. She sounded mad again. “What happened to my little boy?”
“I don’t know.” Their father said. His voice was more level than their mother’s, but had a hard edge. He’d had enough time to gather himself. “I was doing the usual bedtime routine and found him like that, just like I told you. Had him calmed down a bit, but…” Their father sighed. 
“... What is it?” Their mother still seemed agitated, but concern had returned to her voice. Adam leaned forward, grasping the bannister for support and pressing his face between the beams. He could just see their shadows in the butter-yellow light that spilled in front of the staircase. It was a good thing he’d leaned in, because his father spoke much more softly now. 
“I think it was Paul.”
“What?!” He could see their mother’s shadow take a step back. “What do you mean? What did he do?” 
“All I know is, he showed up, and Adam looked like someone just walked over his grave. Pale as anything, kept staring, I swear, I called his name three times and he didn’t hear me. Something happened even if I don’t know what.” 
“You’re sure?” Their mother asked, and this time, their father replied instantly.
“Sure as I need to be.”
“Fine.” Their mother says. “So we get rid of him, then. Nobody gets to hurt our boys, I don’t care who they are.” Their father hummed his agreement, and his shadow nodded. 
"I’m with you on that. Only thing I'm hung up on," his father says, a creak of wood belying a shifting of weight, "is what we tell Keith." 
"Why does he have to be told anything?" It's mama's voice, a coldness in it he isn't sure he ever heard. 
"Because. No more disappearances, remember?" 
"J." His mother tuts. "It's only a disappearance if someone comes looking." Adam tightens his hands on the bannister. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing quiet. It's them. It's really them. And he still does not know for how long he will have them back, so he is determined to re-learn their voices. Even if they are talking about murder. They are going to kill Paul. It is a thought that calms and terrifies him in kind - Paul is a monster. He deserves what he is getting. But what could someone like him do when cornered-? 
“Got a point.” His father says with a sniff. “Don’t think I’ve heard him really talk much about his family, so I don’t imagine they’re close.” 
“So we should be fine.” His mother replies. There’s a moment of silence that he imagines is filled with his father nodding. 
“Mind if I take the shovel?” His father’s voice again. “I just-” And then his father’s voice lowers and Adam has to strain even harder, leaning forward to not miss a single syllable. “The way Adam was when I found him-” 
“It’s all yours, J.” His mother said. “But that’s my baby too. So I get his heart.” In spite of the nature of the situation, a faint smile tugs at Adam’s face. He had been told before that he took after his mother; apparently they were right. Then he heard Paul’s voice, muffled and unintelligible, and the smile vanished as he shrank back. 
“Yeah, Paul, we’re coming.” His father called, loud enough to be heard in the back, and loud enough for Adam to hear easily. And as the door slid open, his mother’s voice, in a promise that would be terrifying if it was aimed at him, but as it was, carried a sense of security, of safety. 
“We’ll be right behind you.” 
And then the door slides closed. Adam lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and eased away from the bannister. His fingers ached when he uncurled them. He glances behind him, and Kane is peering out the door to their parents’ room. 
“What was that about?” He asks, but Adam just shakes his head. 
“I dunno. I’m tired.” He slouches into the room, and as much as it’s a deflection, it’s the truth. He’s tired. No, he’s exhausted. His eyes ache and his head throbs and his shoulders feel so heavy he feels like he’ll collapse at any moment. 
“You still feel sick?” Kane asks, clambering up into the bed. Adam nods.
“Yeah. But I think I’ll be better soon.” 
“That’s good.” Kane says as they both make themselves comfortable under the old duvet (one Nana Tulip had embroidered herself, if Adam remembers right). “It’s always boring when you’re not feeling well.” Adam closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow even as he shifted closer to his brother. 
“Night, Kane.” He mumbles. 
“Night, Adam.” His little brother, his happy, healthy, safe little brother, replies, and it’s the last thing Adam hears before he starts nodding off - aside from some screams that might have been a coyote, if you didn’t listen closely enough. 
He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears his parents enter the room. They’re trying to be quiet, and if he slept like he used to, they’d have succeeded. But he still has the world-weariness from the life he lived, so he peeks his eyes open as they approach. His mother sits on the bed first, sighs, then notices his stare and smiles. 
“Hey, baby.” She says, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You can get some sleep now, alright? You’re safe.” And somehow, somehow, he believes her. It might have something to do with the flecks of red on her teeth when she leans down to kiss his head - the same red he catches traces of under his father’s nails when a strong arm pulls him close. Whatever the reason, he feels safe - safer than he had in decades, even with the immense power he’d held. Regardless of the reason, he feels safe enough that this time when he sleeps, he sleeps heavily, and does not wake up until morning. And when he does wake, he’s still in his parents’ bed. And it is their bed. It still has the duvet his grandmother decorated, with the jewellery strand his father had made for his mother perched on the vanity. He’d been convinced he would wake up and find it all had been a dream, or hallucination - that it would vanish when he opened his eyes. That the other shoe would drop. 
But it didn’t. 
Every day, he would wake up and check his hands, check his face, check his surroundings. And every day, aside from the ordinary signs of time’s passing, he stayed the same. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The other shoe never came. Eventually, he stopped waiting for it. Yes, he would still get dreams. Yes, some things still scared him more than they should. (He never truly reconciled with the smell of burnt meat.) But he carried less tension in his shoulders, he stopped thinking he would lose this new chance, he stopped worrying so much about the future. Somehow, this was just going to continue. Something about gift horses and mouths or whatever. But he was happy. 
He was happy. 
His days became too busy to worry about a forgotten past and a discarded future. Going to school (again, in some aspects, but for the first time as he grew older), tending the yard (under his parents, not alone), spending time with his brother… Taking care of the dog. They hadn’t had a dog before. But a few years after the fire should’ve happened, a stray mutt had shown up on their doorstep. Now the mutt - lovingly named Fish - was a fixture of the family. And now, years later, Fish was running around the yard, barking happily, while his humans sat about getting various graves dug, cleaned, or otherwise looked after. So it was that Adam found himself in a hole, six-by-eight-by-three, shovel in hand as he dug with his brother. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, as well as a comfortable silence after the usual chatter had died down. (They didn’t have to bury that.) The weather, homework, the upcoming school dance (now that they were both in high school) and what to watch on TV before bed had all been discussed. Now they just worked. The sun beat down mercilessly and left sweat beading on their backs and dripping down their necks. Neither light clothing nor trying back their hair had helped any. There weren’t even any clouds to offer shade. But Mama had a fresh pitcher of home-made strawberry lemonade in the fridge waiting for them, and the thought of it was enough to spur them on. (Though Kane had asked a few times if Adam would cause a storm - just enough to block the sun. Adam had refused, though he was tempted to agree, now.) It was shaping up to be another usual day, until his brother almost bowled Adam over with one simple question. 
“Are Mom and Dad supposed to be dead?” Kane doesn’t look away from his hands, but Adam’s head snaps up.
“What?”
“I dunno. I get these… Dreams, sometimes. But they’re not dreams. They’re hazy, but they’re real.” Kane shakes his head as though he might dislodge those thoughts and find the answer underneath. Adam hopes he doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are, how his breathing has quickened.
“And I feel like you know something you’re not telling me.” Here, Kane does look up. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We don’t do secrets.” Adam runs his tongue across his lips like that could change the dryness in his throat. He can’t look at Kane. Can’t stomach whatever he thinks he might see, so he looks anywhere else.
“Kane, I-”
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?” 
He could argue that it is. That before, he had never gotten this chance. The chance to watch his brother grow up, the chance to ease into their future as the caretakers. This was new. But that was not what Kane meant, and they both knew it. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his chin drop to his chest, gripping his own hand so tight the bones in his fingers creak.
“No.” The silence that follows the admission is infinite, an abyss, stretching out to swallow him whole. He wants to beg Kane not to hate him. That he’s sorry for what happened. That he’s worked hard, so hard, to leave that reality behind and just be happy for what they had now, their home, their family, their freedom, but those words don’t come. Much like his brother in a faded world, he cannot speak.
“Well,” Kane says after an era, “I don’t know how you did what you did, or- Really, I don’t even know what made you do it. But I’m glad you did.” That makes Adam open his eyes again. There’s a weight off his shoulders and an ache in his heart as he looks at his brother, his baby brother, his little brother who he had once sold his soul for (who he would sell his soul for again, should this life demand it). Kane isn’t looking at him, now, using his teeth to stretch a hair elastic over his fingers before he continues. “Like I said, it’s hazy. I don’t really understand it. But I get the feeling I wouldn’t’ve liked it much.” The absurdity of the thought, the wild understatement, makes Adam laugh. It’s quiet and surprised, but it’s still genuine.
“No,” he says, wiping his hand down his face and sniffing. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.” 
“So thanks.” Kane finishes tying his hair back and butts his shoulder against Adam’s, then bends to grab his shovel. He jams it into the earth, stomps it lower with his foot, and throws his reward back over his shoulder. Adam does the same. Once, twice, three times. He steals another glance at Kane, then frowns down at the dirt. 
“How much do you…” He trails off. ‘Remember’ isn't right. Kane shakes his head. 
“Not the word for it.” He agrees. Another shovelful of earth moved before he answers. “I dunno. It’s dark, mostly. Sometimes it’s the opposite - just blinding white. But it always feels like- Like I can’t move.” Adam grits his teeth and represses a shudder. Kane nods. “Yeah. And I wake up hungry some nights. Real hungry. And there’s this weird taste in my mouth I can’t place. It’s almost like the time we went to the Davids’ barbecue, and the burgers weren’t cooked all the way.” Adam grimaces. He has an idea about why that might be. He doesn’t say it, though. … He doesn’t need to. Kane coughs. 
“Please, please tell me there’s a different reason you’re thinking about rats.”
“I dunno for sure.” Adam says quickly. Judging by the pathetic look his brother gives him, it doesn’t make him feel any better. “I could be wrong.” Kane wretched and choked back a gag. 
“I hope you are.” He manages. Adam shrugs. Another moment where the silence is broken only by the sound of their shovels impaling the earth, the distant croak of ravens lounging on a tree somewhere overhead. 
“It’s the opposite for me.” Adam finally says. “It feels like every day, more and more of- ‘the other time’, it’s fading away. There are some things I still remember really well, but other parts… Ain’t nothing there anymore.” 
“Huh. Weird.” Kane mumbled. More silence, more work. At some point, they’d gotten close to being finished; just needed to sharpen up the corners. Take pride in the details, their parents had taught them. It’s the family business. It’s our reputation. Gotta do it right. It had been strange to relearn everything. It had been eye-opening to see how much he had missed. The little tricks he had never been taught. Even just having the extra hands helped more than he could say. There’s a dull chink as Kane’s shovel hits a rock. He frowned, stooped down, and dug the rock out with his hands. With a grunt, he heaved it out of the hole, then reached to pull in an armload of the dirt they’d removed and fill in the dent the rock had left. Adam shoved his own shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead again. He was exhausted - from the work, yes, but from the conversation, too. Kane looked over at him again. 
“Can I ask one more thing?”
“Shoot.” Adam replied, even though he wished they’d never broached the concept. (On some level, he was glad that someone else knew the truth. Kane was right; they didn’t do secrets. And it made him feel less crazy. But he didn’t want to think too deeply about that, not now.) 
“How did they–”
“Boys!” There were few times his mother’s voice had been more of a mercy than it was now. 
“Yeah?” He and Kane call in unison. They look up just in time to see their parents approach the edge of the grave. They were silhouetted by the sun, but if Adam squinted, he could make out their faces. 
“It’s almost noon; we’re going inside.” Their father said, tilting his hat up. “Break time.”
“Come on, both of you, before you wear yourselves out.” Their mother crouched down, tilting her head with a smile. 
“Don’t gotta twist my leg.” Adam said. Their father reached down, and Adam accepted his hand as he clambered out of the grave. Kane was given the same help, and then, after dusting themselves off, they headed back to the home. Adam knew what his brother wanted to ask. He hoped he would never complete that question.
He hoped they would both forget before it ever came up again. 
Fish trotted up beside them, whuffing a greeting. Adam reached down to scratch his ears. Well, if it did come up, he would have to address it. For now, he could focus on living the (relatively) normal life he had been gifted. A normal life that included lunch breaks and lemonade with his family, and dinners together later in the night, and regular school, and homework, and weekends, and high school football games - kind of like this one. 
The whistle ran through the air, sharp and splitting. 
“Let’s go, get your warm up in!” Coach shouted. Across the field, Victoria’s coach was barking similar instructions at his players. Adam was aware of this because he’d been staring in that direction since they’d gotten off the bus. 
“Careful,” Kane said in between up-downs. “Look any harder and your eyes’ll fall outta your skull.”
“Shut up.” Adam grumbles. He strands and rolls his shoulders; a moment later, Kane stands with him and stretches his neck from side to side. 
“How do you know he’ll even be here?” He asked. “Everything’s so different now. Maybe he doesn’t play football anymore.” 
“I guessed.” Adam narrowed his eyes at the opposing team, searching for any hint of the person he was looking for. It was hard to make anything out. That was the point of a uniform, but it didn’t stop it from being annoying. Had he ever mentioned a number–?
“Hey, witchblood!” Chester’s voice. Adam and Kane rolled their eyes and turned in unison.
“What, Hanson?” They said. Chester knew them well enough to not be put off by this. He stopped a few steps away from them, helmet under his arm. The light breeze blew his fluffy blonde hair out around him, and he scrunched his face in annoyance as he pushed it back behind his ear. 
“Stop drooling over the enemy and get in position. Coach wants to give us a pep talk.” He says. He shoots one last glare towards the opposing team, one more glance at the brothers, and jogs back to where the rest of their schoolmates were gathering.
“Told you it was obvious.” Kane bumps his shoulder against Adam’s, who rolls his eyes and scoffs in return. 
“‘Drooling over the enemy’, shut up. Why’s he gotta be such a dipshit when he talks?” 
“Yeah, sure sounds like an asshole.” And the voice is younger, not as gravelly, but Adam would know it anywhere. He turns, shock melting to hope melting to a brilliant grin on his face. Pale blond hair, big blue eyes, a lopsided smile - that’s what greeted him. He reached for the person he’d been looking for, and his hand was accepted, held close, stroked with gentle movements of his forever’s thumb. 
“There you are, Cueball.” Any bite left in the insult was erased by the pure relief in Adam’s voice. He was greeted with a laugh, genuine as ever.
“Missed you, too, ya big dead bastard.” Steve Austin - Stevie Williams, toughest player on Victoria’s team - smiled back. “You too, little brother.”
“Oh, my god.” Kane said, letting his helmet hang at his side. “You had a bowl cut.” 
Of all the things that had changed, sometimes, it was those that stayed the same that reassured him. It reminded him that he wasn’t losing his mind. By now, most of what had been was gone. It had faded away - and he didn’t make any effort to think about it. Not before, not now, not ever. But even with so much of those memories leaving, he never forgot her. 
Coming here had been half his idea, half Steve’s. He’d been talking about her - he wasn’t even sure how she came up in the conversation - and how he wondered if she was okay. What she was like in this version of reality.
“Why not find out?” Steve had asked. It was a thought Adam had humoured more than once, but it had been different. He and Steve had still been married when whatever happened had happened. Adam and Kane’s parents had died. In each case, he knew how that story ended. He knew what happened to them. But Liz… He’d been the one who left her. In a way, she’d died because she met him. So, if he never met her, would she live longer? Would she get the chance to grow old like she deserved? (But what about his boy? What would happen to Jon? His son, his perfect boy who he had failed in a different world–)
“All you can do is try. You changed so much, why not change that?” And Steve had said it so confidently Adam couldn’t argue. Nor did he want to. (He missed her.)
And so he came to the coffee shop. He hadn’t been sure it was the right one until he stepped inside and got hit with the nostalgia. This was it. This was the place. … But he had no idea what the date had been when he’d first seen her. He’d been nineteen, that much he knew, but beyond that? He had no idea. So he’d become somewhat of a regular here. Whenever he went to the city, he’d stop for a coffee. Sometimes he’d bring Steve or Kane or both up just to pass time. Every visit would be at least thirty minutes, but he’d always try for longer, just in case. It had been a fluke meeting before. Fate, chance, whatever you would call it. Not something he could plan for. But he hoped for it. And that hope kept him coming back, time after time. This time was in June, about midway through the year. He’d come up to get some cosmetic supplies and a few replacement parts for the cremation oven (his parents had wondered, once, why he was so thorough in maintaining it, but had settled on it being good practice and leaving it at that), and he’d stopped in at the coffee shop for a full meal. He’d finished his sandwich already, and worked his way through two cookies (his treat to himself for surviving the Bywater funeral last week). Every time the door opened, he looked up, like he always did. Every time he looked up, he was disappointed, like he always was. She still wasn’t here. When had he met her-? He’d asked himself that so many times. He sighed, let his head drop in resignation. He downed the last dregs of his coffee and crumpled the sandwich and cookie wrappers into a ball. A quick glance to make sure he hadn’t left a mess before he made his way to the recycling. He stopped one last time, looked over his shoulder on the off chance he’d missed her. Still nothing. (He wondered if he would recognize her. If maybe he’d passed her a hundred times and the fading had taken her face from him–) The bell jangled as he pushed through the door. His Harley was where he left it, still gleaming from the last polish. Dark blue paint that he retouched when needed, the custom V-and-skull hood ornament Dad had made him for his birthday that year (difficult to get in all the nooks to clean, but worth it). And the saddlebags, black leather, sturdy and reliable. He crouched down, ignoring the gravel that tried to bite into the knee of his jeans. He just had to put his wallet away, and then he’d head home. Maybe he’d come back another day. Maybe he’d see if Anything Else knew where she might–
“Hey.” And that voice immediately sent a flush of calm through him, of security, even if he hadn’t been afraid, even if he hadn’t heard it in so long. “Cool bike.”
And he did what he could to keep the emotion off his face as he looked up at her and gave a nod.
“Thanks, nice to meet a fellow Harley fan. I’m Adam, by the way.”
11 notes · View notes
accultant · 1 month ago
Note
oh, it's dark down here, isn't it? (from Wyll)
“Very observant. Cold, too,” Iago grumbles their complaint, only emerging from their bundled cloak far enough to cast a spell of light on an outstretched hand. Their illuminated surroundings do very little to quell the rising anxiety, highlighting just how close all the walls seem.
Unlucky as always, they had been standing just close enough to Wyll that they went tumbling into the collapsed underground catacomb together. They only had a few scrapes, but the two were solidly trapped and would likely have to spend some time traversing the decrepit mausoleum to find a way back out.
Tumblr media
“Is now a good time to mention I have the tendency to see dead people? How do you feel about ghosts, brave Blade of Frontiers?”
2 notes · View notes
freckled-lili · 2 years ago
Text
Just finished Ice Cyrpt, and now I’m experience that vibrating high I get when I finish a piece of media and can’t focus on anything else because all my brain wants to do is think about what I just finished.
It was so good. Now I want to read the 3rd book, but I don’t have it. 😭
0 notes
visenyaism · 2 years ago
Note
Because you've been talking about Jacaerys, that reminds me of a passage from Fire and Blood that really stood out to me. There's the possibility that Vermax laid eggs while at Winterfell apparently? Do you think there might be dragon eggs in the Winterfell crypts? I feel like the crypts of Winterfell are vast and mysterious, so why not. But I love dragons so I'm biased.
Tumblr media
let’s see here. i feel pretty neutral towards dragons but i appreciate a good egg hunt. I’m just not sure what they would like. do with them other than the classic “hidden dragons underneath winterfell? who could imagine such a thing? am i right jon snow?” the others are coming in like a month and a half who has time to find and hatch them. verdict: of course i have dragon eggs cregan i just threw them into the crypts during one of my dark moods
71 notes · View notes
thehightower · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
Vermax’s Eggs artwork by Francesca Baerald for The Rise of the Dragon
Autumn was well advanced when the Prince of Dragonstone came to Winterfell. The snows lay deep upon the ground, a cold wind was howling from the north, and Lord Stark was in the midst of his preparations for the coming winter, yet he gave Jacaerys a warm welcome. Snow and ice and cold made Vermax ill-tempered, it is said, so the prince did not linger long amongst the northmen, but many a curious tale came out of that short sojourn. Munkun’s True Telling says that Cregan and Jacaerys took a liking to each other, for the boy prince reminded the Lord of Winterfell of his own younger brother, who had died ten years before. They drank together, hunted together, trained together, and swore an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood. [...] (Mushroom also claims that Vermax left a clutch of dragon’s eggs at Winterfell, which is equally absurd [as his claim about Sara Snow]. Whilst it is true that determining the sex of a living dragon is a nigh on impossible task, no other source mentions Vermax producing so much as a single egg, so it must be assumed that he was male. Septon Barth’s speculation that the dragons change sex at need, being “as mutable as flame,” is too ludicrous to consider.) This we do know: Cregan Stark and Jacaerys Velaryon reached an accord, and signed and sealed the agreement that Grand Maester Munkun calls “the Pact of Ice and Fire” in his True Telling. —Fire & Blood
72 notes · View notes
classicasongoficeandfire · 2 years ago
Text
Tumblr media
Meera Reed by Thaldir
59 notes · View notes
hostiae · 10 months ago
Text
Tumblr media
( @esoterium asked: ❛ i had it under control. you didn’t need to do that. ❜ (Louis to Armand—is novel okay? I only know them. I…yep! Love me! It’s been 84 years since I wrote Lous! You can use show Armand tho! Catch me up??? If you want!) )
for a moment, armand is still — listening to the sounds of the dismissed vampire's footsteps as they create distance. he could have predicted what was said next, just as quickly as he can write it off. it doesn't matter. he turns back to face him with deliberate slowness. he locks onto louis, the amber hue of his dark eyes catching the candlelight.
❝ did you? ❞ it's rhetorical. armand excuses louis's protests as little more than a younger vampire's clinginess to pride and he does nothing to disguise the disbelief clear in his expression, eyebrows raising with question, and the compassionate ( sympathetic, not pitying ) exhale that follows. he perceives him as almost-human in sensitivity, in the emotions that drive him — he's fascinated. and with it, he yearns to shield, to protect ( to keep him ).
they have so much they could learn from one another.
louis isn't the same as those within his coven. he's so severed from the old ways, born detached — completely of the new world. armand craves a deeper understanding, something to light him from the inside out again. the giddiness of the macabre dramatics of the theater was beginning to wane. and if armand senses any discord between him and any of the others, he won't hesitate to intervene. did he know how easily he'd turn them to ash for him? all that he built leveled for one.
❝ that isn't what i saw. ❞
it should be proof of the devotion he was willing to offer. crossing closer, it's as if he barely touches the floor, eyes locked on louis's, standing a breath away. ❝ why do you refuse my help? ❞
Tumblr media
10 notes · View notes