#it is a blessing to see a pain slowly begin to leave the world

[kabretoss]

dinosaur kid in the 90s, never accused of being a tomboy and used to love dresses until I went 180 and rejected them when I realized they were compulsory Girl Formalwear

blissfully don't think about gender throughout most of my teens

straight because boyfriend? have a minor panic when said boyfriend comes out to me as bi. have a Homophobic Moment(tm) when I think about my boyfriend leaving me for a boy

promptly eat my words about a year later when I'm having a sleepover with my bestie at the time and the thought occurs, unbidden, "if she were down I'd have sex with her"

(never made a move on that one. though later I'll find out a couple of my Girl Crushes at the time were queer)

cautiously and tentatively start thinking of myself as bi

start discovering I enjoy wearing masculine fashion

the hammer comes down hard on that one from my mom

for the next 10+ years I dress almost exclusively in baggy pants and hoodies. i am still undoing this damage.

BUT: the next time I end up with a Bestie Crush, I make a move and it goes well (hi @cherrehc!) (I end up marrying her. like 15 years later) (we like to take our time with things)

20s are an occasional sexuality buffet (with Cherry's thumbs-up) and I confirm that yes I do enjoy sex, and yes I do enjoy it with multiple genders

still not thinking about gender: am aware by this age of Transgender People and am cool with them but I've never felt like a boy so that's not what I am, right?

(Even if, when puberty really took hold, I felt completely alienated from my secondary sex characteristics? that's normal, feeling like your body isn't yours but is a barbie's, right? I'm hot and I like being hot, so I'm a cis girl, right??? people like my tits and I like that so I must be a cis girl, right????)

at the same time find myself playing nonbinary characters in RP situations before they are in vogue in the wider community.

(reading some of my old RP logs is wild. it is all RIGHT. THERE. in text from when I was 20 and had never heard the word nonbinary.)

(I have avoided RPing men up until about this point because "I don't know how to play a guy". women are already strange to me: men must be aliens.)

(then a particular character occurs and something clicks.)

fast forward to my early thirties. one of my best college friends is on T, has been calling himself a male name for years, and comes out first as nonbinary and then as a man.

wait.

wait.

wait.

if I'm not a girl I don't have to be a boy? I don't have to be a boy to not be a girl? well that's closer, but what does that leave me?

I hear the word agender.

grief.

the loss of so much time. looking back on this timeline of events and feeling the most profound sense of something gained, late, not too late but still so late. It's never too late to know yourself, but you lose time. You lose the ability to experience parts of your life, ones you can never relive, as your genuine self. In my case, I also may have lost the window in which I can safely medically transition, as other health issues have cropped up since I was young.

I will never get to be a young nonbinary person: I never was, because I was never allowed to imagine myself that was.

I was a "girl". I was an alienated, lonely girl, who didn't understand why she felt, even when invited, that female spaces were wrong and strange. There are other reasons for that too, but I think a huge part is gender. I was invited repeatedly into the world of the feminine by good women in my life, but I never went there. I didn't feel the pull of it, even when I wanted the friendship and companionship that seemed to live there.

I lived in limbo. I felt like -- not a gender failure, but a kind of nothing. An empty space. a void. I didn't have something missing, I was something missing.

it's a big grief. It's ameliorated by getting to see young people living as the people they are, watching others grow up with the self-knowledge I was never allowed to come to.

I don't know where all the agender people my age are: odds are good that attrition bore them into silence or suicide, or that life has not yet introduced the opportunity for them to learn better than how they were raised, or they're (like me) just so very fucking tired and unable to build community themselves. I know a few of y'all here fall into that category and I'm quietly collectively rooting for us, here; I know one or two others from my union and animation work.

But it brings me so much joy to see younger queer communities embracing gender diversity. Treasure it. It may still be an uphill struggle, and newly dangerous in a different way to be visible, but at least you're not lost alone and blind in the dark woods thinking that sight is a myth: you have each other, and you know what you are.

LGBTQ+ folk what was your gender/sexuality pipeline?

[thelov3lybookworm]

As a slut for angst today “tolerate it” has been stuck on a loop and now I am imaging an angsty fic where Az just slowly begins to forget about reader and she threatens to leave but he doesn’t take her seriously and is so utterly destroyed when he comes back home and she’s gone…

Like I feel like it’s on brand with him and his duty to his job and whatnot. Plus the lyrics are so him coded “while you were out building worlds where was I” / “took this dagger in me and removed it” LIKE HELLO???

(But I also love a good happy ending so I feel like if azzy groveled hard enough… 👀)

Tolerate it.

Summary: She is fed up.

•○●⛦●○•

A/n: ehehehehehe angsttttt yummy yummyyyy

Enjoy!

•○🌑○•

Y/n laughed at Feyre's pathetic attempts at skipping the large puddle on the ground accumulated due to the rains that had Velaris freezing overnight.

Feyre failed miserably, her boots and leggings getting wet from the splash that signalled her downfall against the watery enemy of hers. But Feyre was not fazed. She simply laughed alongside Y/n, her eyes crinkling as the two of them made their way back to the river house.

It was visible already now, Y/n could even make out the grains in the wood of the door as it opened, and her brother in laws, along with her mate, spilled out.

Y/n could see from the corner of her eyes as her sister lit up at seeing her mate, her husband and the father of her child. The moment his eyes met her, she took off, her arms spread as she ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck. Rhysand did not hold back either, clutching Feyre to her chest with as much enthusiasm as she held him.

It made Y/n smile.

Y/n then glanced behind the embracing couple to her mate, the overwhelming urge to hug him too and to claim him in front of anyone watching making her start walking towards him without even realising.

Which was reckless, as the moment he realised she was walking towards him to hug him? He took a step back.

Y/n knew that he hated being affectionate in front of others, but this was cruel.

So to not get embarrassed by his rejection, Y/n turned swiftly towards Cassian, her other brother in law, who stood not too far from where Azriel did, and hugged him instead.

Cassian, Mother bless his heart, did not even question it.

He wrapped his arms around Y/n and literally lifted her off the ground, cackling when Y/n's fist made contact with his shoulder over and over again as she demanded to be put down.

Y/n had to stop herself from thinking back to that day. She did not want to relive the pain she had felt, the sadness and anger.

Y/n watched his eyes fluttering, wondering if he was dreaming. Wondering who he was dreaming about.

It definitely was not her, that was for sure.

Y/n, feeing a little sadness taking root in her heart, returned to the portrait in her hands, questioning if it would even be worth it finishing it up when he sure as hell wouldn't even acknowledge it. Or her.

Y/n glanced at the paint supplies she had placed on the coffee table next to her, having wanted to capture a moment of him letting his guard down, of him being vulnerable using her best paints, knowing he would not care.

She guessed living for as long as he had, life and the small things didn't matter as much anymore. Maybe that was why he loved to go on the missions Rhysand, Y/n's brother in law, gave him.

It probably gave him the thrill nothing else did anymore.

With Y/n's sister just having given birth to the starlight of the court, Rhys had become more and more protective, sending his brothers and anyone and everyone at his disposal to check and report about every trivial thing that made his primal mate and father side get protective.

Slowly, Y/n reached for the brush that rested in the cup half filled with coloured water, deciding to finish the half done portrait. If he did not care... she did not now what she would do then, but she did know she was tired of being tolerated by him.

But what could she even do? It was not like she could just up and leave.

Y/n blinked.

Or... could she?

Y/n shook her head, as if to dislodge the though, and with a sigh, she let herself get lost in the soft skill of painting her sister had taught her long ago, when staying up and huddling under worn blankets was the only thing bringing any warmth.

Trying not to think about the fact that the last time she remembered him caring for her, genuinely caring for her, was only when the two had been in their early stages of relation ship and the mating bond was a very new experience to a newly made fae Y/n, she continued using the soft and strong, long and short strokes to finish up her latest masterpiece.

Of course, Y/n never would call herself a creator of masterpieces, but any and all art that included her perfect mate was destined to be a masterpiece.

Time lost its meaning, and all that mattered was capturing the perfect angle for his eyes, nose, lips, shoulder.

Nothing existed but Y/n, her art, and her muse.

Nothing existed but the soft rise and fall of his back as he lay sprawled on his stomach, the effortless way his wings draped across the whole bed, taking up space three wingless fae could have slept in.

Where Y/n would have slept in, on days when everything had been filled with stars and dreams, wrapped under his warm wing like it were a living blanket.

When he pretended he was nothing, absolutely nothing but her mate. Her husband. Not a spymaster, not a shadowsinger, not a brother. Just her mate, her lover.

Those days were far gone now.

•○🌑○•

Despite the fact that she knew he would most definitely not care, Y/n was excited.

And that was downplaying what she felt.

The wait was killing her, the amount of adrenaline in her bloodstream making her want to jump around to get rid of the energy that made her shiver, her limbs going cold and warm at the same time. She had to push her fists together and shove them between her thighs to keep them from shaking, which did not help at all.

So Y/n waited, her body clenched in anticipation as she stared at the doorway that led into the living room, a big grin on her face.

She glanced once at the sketchpad in front of her on the table, admiring her artwork for a moment.

She never liked whatever she made, always feeling like it lacked something. So for her to be excited to show off her art to her mate was a huge indication to how much she loved the portrait.

The familiar scuff of worn boots drew Y/n's attention, and she shot to her feet, pressing her fists to the back of her thighs.

It had become a habit of Azriel's, to purposefully make some noise before he stepped in view so as not to startle her with his appearance.

The action melted Y/n's heart every single time.

He stepped into view, as ethereal as the day Y/n had first seen him as a human, just as beautiful as he had looked that day as he tried to get comfortable on the small chair in the manor on the other side of the wall, just as loveable as that day when she had ended up losing her heart to the low born fae that should have intimated her.

He was fumbling with his armor, making sure it was all secured properly before he left for whatever mission Rhys assigned him for that day.

He glanced up just as he walked past Y/n to the kitchen counter, a small smile gracing his face before his attention was again diverted.

Y/n tried not to deflate at his lack of enthusiasm.

"Good morning love. Look-"

"Good morning Y/n." He cut her off, his voice void of emotions, as if he was tired of saying the same thing every morning and wanted to get it over with. He didn't even glance at Y/n as he said it, and Y/n pretended not to notice that he used her name instead of whatever endearing name he would have picked before.

"I will be on a scouting trip to Illyria, and after I have a meeting and dinner scheduled with Rhys and Cass, so I will be late coming home. Don't wait up."

Y/n's smile faded. "Don't wait up or stay out of my way?"

Azriel froze. "What?"

Y/n released a humourless laugh. "Nothing. Go have fun."

Azriel turned, giving her a hard look. "You know I would rather stay at home with you."

Doubtful.

Y/n so badly wanted to say it to his face, but she did not want to fight with him so early in the morning, so she sighed, smiled and nodded.

He started walking towards the door, and despite her anger, Y/n walked forward to kiss his cheek.

She did not miss how he recoiled.

Y/n masked the hurt before he could see it, and he gave her an awkward smile before he maneuvered to walk around her, careful not to brush against her.

Y/n watched him walk away, staring hard at the door even long after he'd left.

She then glanced at the portrait she had abandoned on the table, and, her heart hardening, turned away.

She was tired of having her love be tolerated, and she would not have it be that way anymore.

Either he accept her love the way it was, loud and clear, or he go find someone else.

And so, she turned, walked up the stairs to the bedchambers she shared with Azriel, and began to turn it back into just his bedchambers.

She would no longer be tolerated only because some godly entity thought she and him would make great, powerful kids and tied them together with a string.

She deserved to be cherished.

•○🌑○•

Part 2

Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686 @cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1 @hnyclover @minnieoo @sidrapotter @piceous21 @mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @eve175

Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (IV)

Chapter 4 : ‘For he gave all his heart and lost’

Hi, everyone!!! Chapter 4 is here! Lots of angst in these first chapters, but we need to get the plot fully plotting!

I hope you like this series! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 2888

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Never Give All the Heart

Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that’s lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost.

W.B. Yeats

You decided to meet in a pub. Frank was staying with his brother for now, you were keeping the flat you used to share. It felt empty without him, filled with blank spaces. Clothes missing in the dresser, a shelf unused in the bathroom, empty spaces on the bookshelves. Every time you looked up while you ate, you expected to see his face and found nothing but a wooden chair instead. And it was killing you slowly, how much you missed him, how much you missed your lives tangled together, sharing space and habits and everything in between.

Frank’s brother’s place wasn’t an option to meet up, and the home he left seemed unfitting, you reckoned that it had witnessed enough farewells already. So, a neutral land it was, a pub you knew but had spent few nights at. Laughter had been shared, along with kisses and drinks, but only a few times, nothing worth crying over.

Only, when you stepped into the pub, easily spotted Frank sitting there, on a chair at a small table with one spot left empty for you opposite him, you could feel the tears rising to your eyes…

It had been two weeks, since Frank had left, and you were still in shock. Reality had started sinking in, you were beginning to understand what it truly meant to lose him. You were beginning to realise that he was truly gone. And what a terrifying thought that was…

He smiled when he saw you approaching, welcoming, like he was genuinely happy to see you. Was he though? Then why did he leave?

You had broken up your engagement, you had to announce the news to your family, had broken down on the phone with them as you did so. You had warned all the people you had invited that this was over, that you and Frank were breaking up, that there would be no wedding, after all. The humiliation was almost as painful as seeing him again. Almost as dreadful as the knowledge that you would not hesitate to take him back, you were hoping to make him change his mind still… that was how desperate you were to get your life back on track, to set it how it should be again.

You said your hellos, you smiled to each other, he seemed emotional to see you as well. You sat down and took off your jacket like you were on autopilot. Something happening outside your own mind, your own chest, your own body. You expected him to tell you about his day, to say something about sport and any of his interests, to order some drinks for you both and to ask you what you wanted to eat tonight after you got home together. Instead, he smiled, asked you if you wanted a drink, and then he looked at you in silence for a moment.

“You look well,” he said, and you congratulated yourself for the efforts you had put in earlier that evening to look somewhat presentable.

“Thanks. You too.”

It was true, he looked surprisingly well, considering he had shattered the last six years merely a couple of weeks ago.

“Thank you for meeting me tonight, it means a lot.”

“Sure, I… I’m glad you called to ask for this. I… I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

There was so much hope within this stupid, lovesick heart of yours after those words…

You gave him a weak smile, imagined him apologising and asking for forgiveness and begging you to take him back after this crazy mistake of his…

Instead, he asked you about work, you asked him about his day, you chatted for a while, dragging the moment along as if you knew already that things weren’t meant to last anyway, that he was about to break your world again, that you were wrong to hope…

… and eventually, you got to the reason behind his call, to what he wanted to get out of this conversation.

“Look, Y/N… you know you’re important to me. So important… I’m sorry about the wedding. And I’m sorry to have ended things the way I did. I reckon that I should have handled this better, ease you through it better so you wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Every word was a slide from hope to pain, a slope that got steeper and steeper, that pushed you towards the edge of a cliff, to a pit you knew you would fall into because you loved him too much not to.

“I really hope you won’t hate me. I… I know that it was sudden, I know that it might have looked like a shocking decision, and it was, even to me. I really meant to marry you when I proposed, but then, I… I just realised that we weren’t meant for each other. We weren’t meant to spend our entire lives together. And I think that’s okay, really. I still have so much love for you, it’s just… it’s just not strong enough for us to go through with this wedding. Do you understand?”

Slowly, you nodded, trying hard not to cry.

He didn’t love you enough…?

“It’s just… Sometimes, it’s a lot to be with you, to take care of you. It’s not that you’re too much to handle, that’s not what I’m saying. You’re grand, Y/N, you really are. But your career takes a lot of space, you’re moving regularly, and you just… I don’t know. I just want something else, I think. I want… I want someone else.”

He heaved a sigh, rubbing at his forehead like he was the one breaking, like he was the tired one, like it was he who suffered when you struggled not to cry, when you felt the pain of rejection and heartbreak wash over you all over again.

“I still care about you, Y/N. It doesn’t mean that all of my love for you is gone, it only means that… I… I can’t be with you romantically anymore. Do you understand? But I… Y/N, I don’t want you out of my life. I care about you too much, you are too important to me. So, would you… What would you say if I asked for us to remain friends?”

Friends… the word echoed in a mixture of horror, pain and disappointment.

Friends… you should have been about to get married, engaged, in love… and instead he wanted friendship?

It was such a blow to your pride, your self-esteem. But then you thought about it, and a glimmer of hope was alit again, foolish and sickeningly in denial.

But if you remained friends, you would keep in touch, you would keep on seeing him.

And if you remained friends, perhaps you could make him see reason, show him that you were the one he belonged with. You wouldn’t be able to do that if you didn’t talk or see each other.

Friends…

He reached for your hand across the table, sneaking his arm between his drink and yours, hand warm against your cold fingers.

“I don’t want to lose you, Y/N. You’re so important to me. I just… don’t think that it would work out for us if we keep on having a romantic relationship, that’s all. It doesn’t change the fact that I care about you. So much, Y/N…”

You stared at his blue eyes, the blond hair you used to run your fingers through. He was making a mistake, and that was all there was to say about it.

“Okay,” you breathed out, the word escaping without you even noticing its passing of your lips.

He raised a surprised eyebrow, and yet he had a relieved expression painted over his features.

“Really?”

“Yeah, okay. We can still be friends.”

“Oh, Y/N! You can’t imagine how happy I am to hear you say that!”

Happy…

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, forced a smile.

You would make him see reason, he was making a mistake, nothing more…

Things would get back to normal, and you would have your life back. You would have your life back…

She wanted to come over, Andrew wanted to refuse at first. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see his partner, of course he longed for her company. Except, tonight, he was busy. Busy sorting out his thoughts, busy worrying about the sadness that surrounded his colleague, busy worrying about his father, whose medication had been slightly changed, busy trying to write and coming with nothing but a blank page.

It used to be easier, to fill up blank spaces. When he was younger, in his late teens to early twenties, he filled notebooks after notebooks with song lyrics and poems. When Sam and Andrew had met, it was so easy for him to write about love. He was awestruck by her all the time, and he still was, in a way. But then they had grown out of the naïve phase of youth, into proper adults; ones that thought about rent, about food, about taxes, about sacrifices, about laundry and grocery lists and the work to be done the next day. She had turned him down when he had offered for them to move in together, had always refused to speak about marriage. And Andrew tried hard to hide how much her reaction saddened him. It turned off a switch in him, the words were harder to find these days. Growing up, or rather, starting to grow older, that was tough work, tricky work. The kind that left all poetry behind.

He still wrote, the two books he had published were proof, as well as the poems he published regularly in journals. But these days, he couldn’t get a word down, and how was he supposed to communicate and let his feelings out when he struggled so much saying them out loud? Speeches had never been his strong suit, it was through the mask of metaphors, the rhythm of rimes, the cadence of alliterations that he managed to express himself. It was therapeutic, in a way.

But in the past few weeks, Andrew had not written a word. He was too worried for that. There was something off with Sam, and he didn’t know what it could be. It made him anxious. He tiptoed around her a lot these days, worried about what would happen if they started fighting over anything, no matter how small the issue. Perhaps that was why he couldn’t write, he wasn’t sure… No matter the reason, his sudden inability to produce anything even vaguely decent made him spiral into doubts and anxiety. He didn’t need that to second-guess his decisions, to doubt his own worth…

He heaved a sigh, closing his laptop, checking the time. Almost 9 p.m, Sam would soon be there. As if on cue, Elwood barked twice when a knock on the door broke the silence of Andrew’s flat.

She was early, as per usual, when he was always late to everything. It annoyed her to no end.

Andrew went to open the door, welcomed Sam with a forced smile, but she seemed not to notice. She merely hummed a hello, let him kiss her cheek, before walking inside the flat. Elwood approached, unhurried, looked up in hope to be petted. Sam granted him a few scratches, before turning away. The dog merely huffed, and walked over to Andrew, rubbing his side against his human’s leg, looking for the attention he craved for. Andrew granted it to him easily.

“How was your day, baby?” he asked Sam in a sweet tone, but she shrugged, waiting for Andrew to move out of the hallway and into the living room.

“Not much. You?”

“I’m fine, yeah.”

He wanted to talk about his research, and how he wanted to start writing a new article, how he was almost done planning out his class for Yeats’s poetry, how sad you looked still, how worried he was for his family these days. Instead, Sam claimed the conversation, and he didn’t try to fight against it so he could speak again.

“I wanted to talk to you, Andy.”

“Sure, what’s up?” he asked back, standing straighter, quitting Elwood’s petting and following Sam to sit on his sofa.

She seemed nervous, in a way she rarely was around him. He was nervous too now, had a bad feeling about all of this.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she spoke in a weak voice, he reached for her hand to reassure her.

“Straightforwardly,” he answered with a smile.

He pushed back a strand of hair behind his ear, tiredly adjusted his glasses. Slowly, she nodded, took a deep breath before speaking.

“Andy… you know how important you are to me. You’re… you’re the first man I ever truly loved, the first person I could see myself with on the long run. And I care about you, about your happiness… I care so much. And this is very hard for me to do this to you, to us, but…”

She took another deep, slow breath, and Andrew could see the tears in her eyes, the way she struggled to hold them back. He knew what was coming, didn’t want to think it true, but it was.

He knew his world was about to get shattered before she spoke the words he dreaded.

“I’ve been happy with you, genuinely happy. But this… I’m so sorry, Andy, but I think we need to break up.”

Andrew blinked at her, his brain refusing to understand her words, refusing to work now. He forced himself back to the present, forced himself to repeat her words.

Break up…

“What… What do you mean? What do you mean ‘break up’? You… you want us to take a break?”

“No, Andy. I want us to break up. For good. I’m so sorry.”

“But, I… I love you. We’re… we’re good together, we… we belong together.”

“I’m sorry, Andy. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.”

“What triggered this? Did I do something wrong? Are you angry at me? I… I can change for you. I can make things better. I can make you happy, do whatever you want me to do…”

“I’m sorry… there’s nothing to do. It’s not… it’s not you. I just feel like… we’re not on the same page, anymore. We were so young when we got together, we’ve grown into different people. I… I’m sorry.”

“Why now? What happened?”

“Nothing…”

“I know you, Sam. I know you better than anyone. I know you’re lying. What happened? What triggered this?”

“Andy…”

“I don’t want you to leave… we can make things work!”

“We can’t…”

“We can make efforts, we can…”

“I don’t want to, Andy. I’m sorry. I just… I love you, but… not enough, anymore.”

These were the words that made him break, that turned his desperate tone into silence, his begging eyes into teary ones. He started crying.

She didn’t love him anymore…

Not enough…

“But I love you…”

“I’m sorry, Andy.”

He let tears overcome him, drown him into silence. Sam was crying as well, but not as violently.

“Why? Why now?”

“I just… nothing, I just…”

But she fell silent, and Andrew wasn’t a fool.

“Is there someone else?”

She looked away, looking guilty.

This couldn’t be happening…

“We met just about two months ago. I just… I think I’m falling in love with him. And if I can love him, it means I don’t love you the way I should anymore…”

He buried his face in his hands.

This could not be happening…

He refused to ask her if she had been having an affair, Andrew knew he didn’t have the strength to hear her answer.

He was falling; falling into an endless pit and he would die once she would have left with the ground in her care.

They fought after that, he tried to hold her back. And perhaps she didn’t deserve it, but Andrew was in love, and he had thought for years that she was the one, that them, their couple, was the constant element in his life. He fought for her, there was nothing he could do. When she said she would only be happy with someone else, he let her go.

He cried all night, called in sick the next day. He answered your worried email, explaining what had happened in a clear, concise way that left out any detail. You said you were sorry. It didn’t make him feel better at all. In the evening he got so drunk he had no memory left of that night in the morning. For a moment he thought none of this had happened, the pain through his skull was too vivid for that. But then reality came back, and when he hurried to the bathroom to throw up, he wasn’t sure whether he was sick because of the remnants of alcohol in his system or because of the pain of losing her.

When she texted a few days later asking if they could still stay in touch, Andrew was too heartbroken to see the red flags. He answered yes, dreamt of having Sam back in his bed, thought about ways to win her over again, and fell asleep that night out of exhaustion and too many tears.

[wisteriadaydreams]

Hello! Hope you’re doing well!

I absolutely loved your Tanjiro x Haganezuka’s daughter piece! It was just too cute!

May I request one with Tanjiro x Urokodaki’s daughter? She’d probably be really strong and train with Tanjiro, finally convincing her dad to let her become a Slayer, only to get lectured after accidentally falling on top of him or something because Urokodaki can just smell the puppy love brewing between the both of them!

Sorry, got a little carried away! 💗 Tanjiro is just too cute!

I’m most likely going to come back here, so if it’s alright, I’d love to be your 🌺 Anon! Sending lots of love and good vibes your way!

TANJIRŌ W/ UROKODAKI’S DAUGHTER!READER

pairing: Kamado Tanjirō x fem!reader

genre: angst in the beginning, mention of canonical character death, fluff later on

Words: 7.5k (buckle up ppl, it's a long one)

a/n: I was so excited when I first read this ask! I’m sorry it took so long for me to get to it! And yes, you can 100% be 🌺anon (≧▽≦)

Urokodaki and his wife have had a hard time conceiving, and as they grew older, they resigned themselves to accepting that they will not have a child of their own, no matter how much it pained them.

In a way, they had tried to fill the void by adopting and taking in orphaned children, but that doesn’t mean they don’t come to love them any less. Some of them eventually leave to forge their own lives when they become adults, while some decided to follow in Urokodaki’s footsteps and become a Demon Slayer.

Knowing the dangerous nature of the job, he vehemently denied the request, but after seeing the relentlessness and determined nature of his child, he finally relented. When it came time to send his first student off to the Final Selection, he and his wife did so with a heavy heart.

When their child never came home no matter how long they wait, they buried their memories and a piece of their heart at Mount Sagiri.

(Urokodaki would refuse to train anyone else for years to come, but there are always those who managed to convince him otherwise.)

Nevertheless, his household is one that always ring with laughter and joy, a household that sticks together through the hard times, holding each other close and wiping away each other’s tears.

So when you came to this world, it was to a home overflowing with love.

You were their miracle baby, a blessing from the gods, the light that makes their world brighter. When the news was announced, there was not one dry eye in the house. Suddenly, everyone became even more overprotective of your mother when she was pregnant with you, and she had to scold her husband and her children several times for coddling her.

When you came into this world, your brothers and sisters take turns holding you, cooing and feeling their hearts bursting from the sight of your smile.

You grew up in a world like that — protected and loved and never lonely.

They would sneak you sweets and gifts they got from the nearby town, and sometimes those training would let you hold their swords for a moment, at the expense of being reprimanded by Urokodaki.  You were spoiled beyond compare.

When your mother was taken by a swift but deadly illness while you were still too young to register death, your family did what they always do — mourn in each other’s arms, and slowly piece everyone back together.

If possible, your father became even more protective of you. He has lost too much. His comrades, his friends, his wife, his students and children. It would break him entirely to lose you, too.

You grew up in a home that protected and love you, but also a home that grieves for the lost souls that will never be able to find their way back. Over the years, you’ve watched all of your father’s apprentices leave the safe embrace of Mt. Sagiri, a sword by their hip, a fox mask by the side of their face, and hope shining in their eyes.

“Otou-san.” You tugged your father’s sleeve. “Where are they going?”

“To hopefully make the world a better place.” “When are they coming back?” “Soon, my daughter. I pray every day that it would be soon.”

Many of them promised you that they will come back and play with you. Many of them broke their promises.

One year, your father rescued two boys, Sabito and Giyū, whose families were both eaten by demons. You immediately took to them, constantly trailing behind them and jumping onto their backs. They in turn dote on you, keeping you company whenever they weren’t training. You would sit on the ground to watch them spar with your father, twirling the grass under your fingers and giggling when they were swiftly disarmed.

You didn’t really understand why they were training. You had an inkling of the demons beyond the safe vicinity of the mountain from the stories your other siblings would tell you, but other than that you couldn’t grasp why they were serious about it.

“Sabito-nii, why are you and Giyū-nii training with father?” You asked him one day.

“Because there’s dangerous creatures out there who would stop at nothing to kill humans, and there are only a select few who could deal with them.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, (Y/N)-chan, maybe that’s just the way of the world. We’re no matched for the strength of demons, so we must become stronger.” “But why you and Giyū-nii?”

He patted your head softly, a tender but sad look in his eyes. “So that no one would have to go through what we went through.”

Their training continued, progressing from proper breathing lessons to when their blades are suddenly embraced by foamy, cerulean blue waves that twist around one another. Your eyes would shine with delight whenever you catch their fluid movements.

The day comes when both of your brothers have to leave, just like all the other apprentices before them. Your heart sank to the pits of your stomach the night before, making you unable to sleep even a wink. What if they don’t return as well?

The next morning, you stubbornly cling to them, refusing to let go even when your father scolds you.

“But I don’t want you to go!” You exclaimed.

“Come one, (Y/N)-chan. It’ll only be for a little while. Sabito and I will be back before you know it.”

“Promise?” “Promise.”

About a week went by without any sign of them returning, and you’ve never felt so on edge. You started to stand outside diligently to hopefully catch a glimpse that peach shade of Sabito’s hair and the deep blue of Giyū’s eyes, only coming inside when your father urged you.

Finally, one misty morning, you were out pulling weeds in the garden when you spotted a head of thick jet-black hair from up the road. Your eyes widened when you saw the familiar figure trudging down towards the house.

“Otou-san!” You shouted as you ran towards him. “Giyū-nii is home!!!”

You resisted the urge to tackle him into a hug once you saw his fatigued and wounded state. Nevertheless, your heart soared in happiness.

“Giyū-nii! You’re back! Are you hurt anywhere?” Your eyes roam over him, wincing at the amount of dirt on his clothes. But your brother was unresponsive and dazed, even when your father put a hand on his shoulder. Something itched in the back of your mind, and your stomach twisted unexpectedly when you felt like something was not right.

“Giyū-nii,” you began slowly, your eyes darting all over the place. “Where is Sabito-nii?”

His silence was answer enough.

Nothing was ever the same after that. You’re no stranger to lost, but it didn’t stop your heart from cleaving into two and the tears from running down your face at night. Not when a piece of you seems to die every time you’re met with your father’s silent grieving, or heard the sobs from your brother that he so desperately tried to hide.

You were both just children grasping with death.

When it was time for him to leave and officially embark on his journey, it was pouring like they had never seen before. Perhaps that was best. Perhaps then none of them would notice the tears.

Your home became quieter. Still filled with love, but more somber somehow. Laughter came a little harder for you, and each time you watch the sunset, you can’t help but feel your shoulders become heavier, as if the twilight was a corporeal thing that weighed down on you.

For a while, it was only you, your father, and the silence. But that all changed when a little girl around your age stumbled into your lives.

Like many siblings before, Makomo came to your home unexpectedly, and yet it also felt like fate. She lit up the whole house with her gentle smiles and brightness, restoring some of the warmth that have been lost.

You take to her immediately, spending your days braiding flowers into each other’s hair and running through the mountains until you can draw a map with your eyes closed. You felt your soul healing in the presence of her calming demeanor. She became a sister that you could unconditionally trust to always have your back. Imagine your horror when she too was determined to walk down the same treacherous path.

“Makomo-chan! You can’t!” You tearfully protested. “It’s too dangerous!”

‘What if she doesn’t come back?’ The sentence replayed over and over in your head like a broken mantra, and you were once more squeezed by multiple stabs of fear and anxiety. Your father shared the same sentiments as you, and firmly denied her request.

How could he forgive himself if he let someone as young as her entrench herself into such a cruel world.

But Makomo was resilient and stubborn. She would sneak out and practice with a sword and had even somehow been able to grasp the basics of Total Concentration Breathing. When asked, she only smiled mysteriously and told you that she had some help.

When your father saw that his warnings fell on deaf ears and after seeing how much she improved, he finally caved in and took her as his apprentice.

To say that you were unhappy with the decision would be an understatement. You watched her train and become more graceful and quick on her feet, dread pooling in your stomach with every progress and injuryYou and your father hugged her and sent her on her way, and it felt like goodbye. You prayed to any gods that were willing to listen to protect her and bring her back to you.

You stayed by her side, occasionally offering her tips from what you’ve observed from the other students. You bandaged every single wound, lightly chastising her and telling her to be more careful next time. Her only response was to smile and thank you. The more you did this, the more you couldn’t help but wonder about her willingness to put herself on the line to help fight demons, and whether if there’s anything more that you could do.

As you had expected, she passed your father’s final trial. That night, you sleep in the same bed as Makomo, putting your arms around her and pulling her so close that it was difficult to tell where you end and where she began. You didn’t want to let go.

You and your father hugged her and sent her on her way, and it felt like goodbye. You prayed to any gods that were willing to listen to protect her and bring her back to you.

The gods too, did not answer them.

The pain coursed through your body like a beast made of liquid fire, clawing at your insides and erupting from your throat as you cried in your father’s arms. You cried until you became numb, until every muscle in your body feels like it had been crushed by the weight of your grief. Her grave was marked alongside the others. Wherever she was, she held a piece of your soul with her.

It was you, your father, and the silence, once more.

One afternoon, you return from working in the garden to see your father reading a letter, Giyū’s crow perch on his shoulder. Your spirit lifts momentarily, relieved that he is still doing well.

It’s hard to read your father due to the mask he wears, but from the way he grips the paper tightly and crinkling it, it can’t be good news.

“Otou-san, what is it?”

He lifts his head to look at you, then fold the letter and tucking it into his kimono before going back inside. “I need to go for a bit, (Y/N). Stay here, and prepare for some visitors.”

You only manage to blink a few times before he’s out the door again. Even at his age, he is still as fast as a Demon Slayer at their prime. As you prepare the ingredients for dinner, you wonder who the visitor could be.

You get your answer later that day, when your father comes back with a young boy in tow. Your father looked like he didn’t even break a sweat, but the boy trailing behind him seemed as if though he’s fighting for every breath. With a basket strap to his back, you can understand why that’s the case.

“Otou-san, who is this?” “This is Kamado Tanjirō. He’ll be staying with us for the night,” he says simply. “This is my daughter, (Y/N).”

You bow in greeting as he walks through the door. You watch in curiosity as he unwraps the basket, unveiling a sleeping girl tucked inside.

You would have reacted in horror if not for the fact that your father is being so calm about it, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering what’s going on.

“This is my sister, Nezuko. She’s…um…” Tanjirō looks to your father, asking for help.

“We’ll take care of her,” your father says. You quickly catch on and run inside to fetch a pillow and blanket, temporarily laying her on the ground until you can arrange a futon for her. “But for now, you and I will be climbing the mountain.”

With those words, it dawns on you. Here’s another person hoping to become your father’s student and become a Demon Slayer. All of his prospects go through the same process, and climbing the mountain is only the beginning of the trials they will face.

When your father returns, he fills you in on the situation. Your heart drops in sympathy when you hear that their family was killed by demons, and flinch when it’s revealed that the girl sleeping so peacefully near the crackling hearth is a demon.

“Otou-san, how can this be? She seems nothing like the demons you would tell me about.” “You feel it too,don’t you (Y/N)? She’s different from any demon I’ve encountered before. It’s like she’s still human somewhere in that body of hers.”

You look back down at Nezuko. It’s difficult to reconcile the image of blood-thirsty demons that has been instilled into you since childhood. Those that pillaged villages and killed without mercy. Those that…

You clench your hands into fists. It’s definitely difficult, and if both your father and Giyū are willing to put their trust into her, then you can try as well.

The first threads of dawn are beginning to slip through the horizon, and Tanjirō has yet to return from the mountain. You fidget in your seat, your eyes flickering every few minutes to the door, ears train to see if you can pick up the sound of any footsteps. You’re torn between wanting to see him succeed and fail. If he does, then you’re afraid that he’ll become another lamb on its way to slaughter. But if he doesn’t, then which other path can he walk on to restore his sister’s humanity?

In the midst of battling with yourself, your ears perk up at the sound of heavy footsteps. You whip your head to the door the same time your father does, and a second later it slams open to reveal a dirtied and injured Tanjirō, blood flowing from his head and shoulder.

“I’m…back…” He pants and is only able to utter before he collapses by the door frame. You rush to his side, preparing to carry him inside and treat his wounds. You look to your father, who stands stoic and in silent contemplation. You know that he has made his decision.

Every early morning, even before the sun rises, your father and Tanjirō would make their way up the mountain to begin their training. You would look after the still slumbering Nezuko, and then bring lunch to wherever they are. After having lunch with them, you would stay for a while to watch them train. In the evenings, you would take care of any injuries Tanjirō incurred throughout the day.

Your talks with him are often short, something to fill in the silence while you bandage him up. You’re grateful that he isn’t the type to pry, and instead is content with letting the conversation flow wherever it may. Your heart is still healing, and you’ve yet to recover the strength to open those scars again.

But the more time you spend around him, the more you realize that it’s terrifyingly easy to put your guard down around him. It’s like he has a soothing and warming aura radiating from him, causing you to unable to resist melting in his presence. It feels both familiar and so wildly foreign to you, that at times you’re unsure how to act around him.

Your father is harsher on Tanjirō than with any of his other students, and you can understand why. His improvement is gradual, and it’s clear that he doesn’t have the raw talent that Sabito and Makomo had. But what he lacked in talent, he made it up with determination.

Even on what is supposed to be his rest days, he would be out swinging his sword and working on his breathing. During those times, you would make sure that he’s eating and not neglecting yourself.

“You’re thinking too hard about it,” you say as you watch him try to master Total Concentration Breathing. “You have to be more subtle about it. Here, close your eyes.” You stand up and approach him. “Try to imagine the air as water. Let it enter you.” You close your eyes and breathe along with him. “Imagine it moving through every part of you.” You trail your fingers down his arms. “Feel it in every cell and vein, feel it touch you and flow around you. See the difference?”

“I-I think so.” You open your eyes to smile, and that’s when you realized that his hands are now clasped tightly in yours, and the distance between you two is too close for comfort.

You drop his hands like they’re hot coals, a blush quickly rising to your cheeks. “Sorry!”

“N-no, it’s okay.” As opposed to your worryingly flaming face, his cheeks only had a tinge of pink. “But thank you, (Y/N)-san! I understand now.”

“It’s-it’s nothing. Just something I picked up while watching others train.” “Just from watching? That’s amazing! I’m surprised you’re not training already. You would leave me in the dust.”

“…You think so?” “I know so. Just last week you helped me with my stance and how to properly swing my sword. And you seem to already know how to do Total Concentration Breathing.” He pauses and begins his next sentence tentatively. “Sorry if this is rude of me, but I’m just wondering why you haven’t become Urokodaki-san’s student yet.”

You tilt your head, giving thought to his question. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I guess it’s partly because I know how it feels to be the person on the other side. I don’t think I could bear putting my father through having to worry about me like that. But at the same time, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it before. I don’t know though…”

Can you do it? Can you actually take up a sword and leave everything behind? Knowing that you're risking everything and never come back?

But…maybe then you can go and explore beyond the mountain. Maybe you can help other families sleep better at night. Children won’t have to look behind their back in fear of things creeping in the dark. No one would have to go through what you went through.

“Well, whatever you decide.” Tanjirō pats your shoulder reassuringly. “I believe it’ll be the right decision.”

“No.”

You’ve expected this response from your father, but it didn’t cause you to flinch any less. “But otou-san–”

“No means no, (Y/N). I will not allow you to become a Demon Slayer.” “But I’ve been watching you teach for years! I know how to do Total Concentration Breathing, and I basically know all the stances by heart. If only you would let me try, then I know I can master them!” “And you know perfectly well how dangerous is it.”

“Of course I know!” You can’t help but raise your voice a little. “And how many more have to lose their lives? I’m sick and tired of sitting around and doing nothing, waiting for the next bad news. I want to do something to help!” “And you’re already doing that by staying here and being safe.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be coddled and safe anymore!” Your chest heaves and you turn around, unable to bear looking at his masked face any longer. “I just wish you would believe in your daughter a little more.” With that, you walk out the door, ignoring the words of your father.

Your legs take you to the huge frothing waterfall a distance away from your house, a favorite place of yours when you want some peace and quiet. It’s just you and the sound of rushing water to drown out your thoughts. Or so you thought.

“(Y/N)-san.” Your soul nearly left your body. You wildly turn around to see that Tanjirō had followed you.

“Tanjirō-san! You scared me to death! How did you even find me?” He taps his nose and that’s all you needed to know. “…Right. Well, you’re welcome to sit next to me, since you’re here already.”

He takes your invitation. “I just want to know how you’re doing.” You hug your knees to your chest and sigh. “Thanks. Sorry you had to hear that, by the way. I understand where my father’s coming from, I really do. But at the same time, I can’t help but think he thinks I’m not enough in his eyes, like I’m still a baby that needs to be cocooned. But I’ve been by the sidelines for so long, always watching and worrying and feeling useless. If I have the ability to, I should stand up and do something. Shouldn’t I?”

“Hey.” Tanjirō places a warm hand on your shoulder. “You’re not useless. You take care of the whole household. You cook for us and remind us to take a break. You give me advice, encouragement, and always take care of me when I get injured. I think you’re already incredible as you are. But if you believe you can do something more, then I say go for it! I’ll support you!”

“Really?” You ask, eyes wide in wonder at his words. He nods, and you know it to be true. You feel your fingertips become tingly, and all the water in this world could not wash away the bubble of warmth in your body. “Thank you.”

You scoot a little closer to him, content to be in his presence. Nothing needed to be said that isn’t already felt in the blank spaces of your words.

When you return, your father is waiting for you, his arms crossed. You gulp, knowing that you’re in big trouble, but you stand your ground anyways.

“Tanjirō, go inside. I need to speak to my daughter privately.” “Yes, Urokodaki-san.” He gives you an encouraging look and heads inside, leaving you and your father alone. The tension is so thick you can cut through it with a sword, and your foot fidgets in anticipation of who will be speaking first.

“I made a promise to your mother,” your father begins, and that makes everything you’re going to say go back down your throat. “That I would keep you safe, and make sure no harm comes to you.”

You hang your head, that familiar wisp of sadness creeping up on you. Over the years, you’ve heard many stories about your mother, wanting to know everything about her to fill in the gaps of your memories, selfishly clinging to the last vestiges of her presence that you can remember.

“But I’ve also made another promise to her, that I’ll always make you happy,” he continues. “And if this is truly the path you want to take, then I’ll fulfill your wish.” You whip your head up at his words, surprise overtaking your face. “But just because you’re my daughter doesn’t mean I'll go easy on you, do you understand? If at any point I deem you not suitable, I’ll pull you from training.”

“Yes, otou-san!” “Good, then be up by 4 am tomorrow.”

If he’s already hard on Tanjirō, then he’s hard on you 10 times over. If Tanjirō has to swing his sword 1000 times, you have to do it 2000 times. If he only has to descend the mountain 2 times, you have to do it 5 times. If he has to stay under the waterfall for 5 minutes, you have to do it for 15. But you take it all in stride, finally being able to find an outlet for your pent up energy over the years.

You and Tanjirō becomes closer due to this, bonding over your shared misfortune of being tortured mentored by the former Water Hashira. One some days you would spar with him, eager to see how much you’ve improved.

Today, you’ve managed to disarm him and goes through the motion to pin him to the ground, but a miscalculation quickly cause you to lose your balance. Before you know it, you let out a yelp and is dragged to the ground with him. You brace for impact, but your fall is broken by a soft weight below you. That weight being of course no one else but your sparring partner.

You open your eyes and is mortified to see Tanjirō staring back at you, your noses almost touching one another. From this proximity, you’re able to see the closer the soft gradient of his dark maroon eyes, like embers blazing in the hearth. Your body is pressed against his, his arms settled lightly at your waist no doubt to soften your fall. Your eyes unconsciously travel down to his lips for a brief moment, but enough for you to begin scolding yourself incessantly for the intrusive thought that runs through your mind.

“Kamado Tanjirō!” Your father’s voice booms through the field. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You and him immediately scramble away from one another, faces so red that even a ripe tomato would be jealous. Your father stares down at the both of you, the silence even more unbearable with the menacing aura radiating from him.

“1000 sword swings from you, Tanjirō. And you, (Y/N), I’m going to properly teach you how to stay on your feet.”

You both shiver, the calm way he said it making it sound even more cold to your ears. “Y-yes sir.”

6 months go by, and Nezuko have yet to wake up. Even when the doctor assures that there’s nothing wrong with her, you still can’t help but worry about her. 6 months go by, and your father declare that he has nothing more to teach you.

You and Tanjirō look at each other with surprise. While you know what’s coming next, you’re astonished when instead of leading you up to the mountain towards a boulder like Tanjirō, your father leads you to the waterfall where you’ve spent countless days training.

You look to your father for answers, but he is quiet against the mighty rush of the water.

“This will be your final task. With your sword, part this waterfall in half. Do this, and I will allow you to attend the Final Selection.”

Your eyes nearly pop out of your sockets at what he said. Water in its essence is fluid and flexible, capable of taking any shape or form. It flows wherever it wants, unyielding to the obstacles in its way. How could you hope to conquer it with your blade?

“Otou-san! But–” “Prove yourself to me, my daughter.” With that, he turns around and leave without another word, no matter how many times you shout and urge him.

True to his words, he did not teach you or give you any more explanation. The first time you attempt to do what he wanted, all you got back was a mouthful of foamy water. You’re hit with the realization of how much you still have to learn. For the first 6 months, you devote yourself to honing your knowledge and fortifying your previous training. You work until you feel your arms fall off every night, until all the breathing forms are engraved into your very bones. And still, you make no progress.

There are days when you feel worthless, and the last thing you want to do is hold a sword. During those times, you resign yourself to sit by the river, skipping stones and filling your mind with questions and memories. You wonder how Tanjirō’s doing. Has he made any progress with the boulder yet? You can’t help but miss him. You’ve only realized how much time you spend with him once you’re apart. You miss having him there to encourage you when the training becomes too much, miss laughing whenever both of you would end up on the ground, tired beyond belief. Miss eating meals with him and sharing happier stories about your childhood. Miss tucking him into bed and sitting by him in this very spot even on nights when you’re both yawning.

Your father has forbidden you to go see him to allow both of you to focus on your task, but what’s the harm in one little peek? You know the way by heart, and soon you arrive at that familiar clearing. As you’ve expected, he’s already hard at work, but the person he’s fighting makes your blood turn cold.

You would recognize that peach shade anywhere. You see it every day in the sunset. You open your mouth, but no words leave them. You’re frozen, unable to do anything but watch as Tanjirō and your (dead) brother encircle each other. Blood rushes to your head and you feel like you might faint. Your vision becomes blurry, the dance of their swords become streaks of light. You brace against a tree, and out of the corner of your eyes you see another sight that makes your world tumble and your heart to lurch into your throat.

“...Ma...komo?”

Her smile is as gentle as you remember it. Everything about her is just as you remember it, like a pristine memory come to life. She nods at you and gestures for you to follow her deeper into the woods. Against all reason (of which you have none at this moment), you follow her drowsily. This has to be a dream. You’ve hit your head while making your ascent and now you’re dreaming. This has to be the only reason.

But then she leads to a spot so familiar to the both of you, and for the first time since you’ve seen her you have to wonder if you’re not actually hallucinating. She turns, and her voice is just as you remember it. “Hi, (Y/N)-chan.”

Gods, you feel like throwing up.

“Makomo...how...? How?” You’re only able to mutter. She sits you down and explain everything, about how she’s tied to this mountain, and how countless students before her have also found their way back here.

“So the person who helped train you...” “Was Sabito, yes.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I wanted to, I really did. But Sabito wanted me to focus on my training. And...he didn’t want to stop you and Urokodaki-san from moving on.”

You twist your hands into the grass, sorrow coiling tightly around your stomach. “So...I’m guessing that Sabito-nii is helping Tanjirō grow stronger.” “He is. Tanjirō has a lot of potential, he just has to learn how to unlock it. As do you. We’re all so happy when you began training, you know. You’ve become so strong.” “But not strong enough to finish my father’s trial.”

Makomo sits pensively. “Maybe you’re approaching it the wrong way. Remember what Urokodaki-san told us when we were learning the forms?” “Become one with the water. Do not resist its flow. Embrace it, and it will answer your call.” “I think that’s something to think about.”

You let her words sink into you. “Okay, I’ll give it some thought.” Makomo stands up. “It’s time for me to go back. But (Y/N)-chan, I must ask you a favor. Can you keep the truth from Tanjirō? We don’t want him to be distracted from his progress.”

“But can I see you again?” She shakes her head. “No, (Y/N)-chan. You must also focus on your own self. But know this. We are all watching you, and we will always be by your side.” “...Then this is goodbye.” “Only for now, we will meet again.”

“Tell Sabito-nii I still think of him. That every time I make mushroom nabe I would still remember him, and that there will be a day when I watch the sunset and feel happy.” “I will.” “Goodbye, dear sister.”

A few more months pass, and despite Makomo’s advice, you have still yet to put her words to good use, no matter how much you’ve tried. But you can’t give up now, not when you know you have everyone’s trust in you. 

It is near the hour of twilight, and you’re sitting on a rock underneath the waterfall, letting the waves pour down on you. Your eyes are closed, and all the sounds of the world are lost on you. You tune out the sensations of your body, your heart, your mind, every muscle and vein, until they’re nothing but water. You slowly rise to your feet and lift your sword, but instead of resisting, you succumb to the weight. You let it guide you, trusting it to show you the way. It answers your call. You swing.

You open your eyes, and your jaw drops. The current of the waterfall is perfectly split into two, the resulting drops of water flying from your blade like bejeweled dew against a backdrop of pink that extends its darkening arms toward the golden sunset. Entranced by the sight, you only notice your father and Tanjirō when they’re by your side. Tanjirō’s eyes are as wide with wonder as yours, while your father is hard to read as ever. 

“I had no intention of sending you or Tanjirō to the Final Selection,” he finally says. “I could not bear to lose any more of my students, nor can I bear to lose my only daughter. But you’ve surpassed all of my expectations. Perhaps it’s time for me to realize you’re not that same little girl who would cling to me anymore.”  He takes you into his arms, and no matter what he says, you’ll always feel like a little girl when you hug him. “You’ve become so strong, my daughter.”

That night, you’re barely able to sleep, and even though you should be sick of the waterfall at this point, you can’t help but sneak out to it one more time. It’s not long until you hear a pair of familiar footsteps joining you.

“Hey Tanjirō-kun. Can’t sleep?” “Yeah, I can’t help but feel anxious about tomorrow.” “Me too. Congratulations on completing father’s final challenge, by the way.” “That’s nothing compared to you. You were incredible! How did you do that?” You blush at the compliment. “I had some help.”

You rest your head on his shoulder, the action as normal as breathing. “What do you think will happen tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. But whatever happens, we’ll face it together.” You nod. “Together."

What makes Tanjirō so different to you? Why do you feel so drawn to him? Why does your heart sing when he is near? When did your eyes come to search for him, and why do you crave for these moments like they’re the air that you need to breathe? In the back of your mind, you think you have the answer, but you’ll have all the time in the world to decipher it.

You lift your head and stand up, extending your hand to him. “Come on, let’s go back.”

He slides his hand into yours, and it feels right.

The next morning, you and him are all packed and prepared. You never thought you would be the one on the other side, a sword by your hip and your father’s fox mask by the side of your face, saying a bittersweet goodbye to him.

Just before you two leave, Tanjirō turn back one more time, mentioning Sabito and Makomo in his farewell. You wince, and you can only imagine what your father’s reaction was.

“How come you’ve never mentioned them?” “...You’ve never asked.”

Thankfully, he didn’t pry anymore into the subject, and your journey to Mount Fujikasane is smooth. You’re amazed at the sight of the wisteria blossoms before you, so abundant that it falls like rain. You arrive at the main area, and after hearing the rules, the actual challenge begins.

You and Tanjirō agree that it would be best to head east in order to receive sunlight the quickest. Along the way, you encounter two demons, both of whom you two quickly dealt with. You watch as he prays over the disintegrating corpses, and at times like these you have to wonder how he manages to remain so kind when he has been broken by this world.

You proceed, when suddenly Tanjirō stops you in your path, holding his nose as if he smelled something foul. A scream from the darkness sends chills down your spine. The next thing you see fills you with horror. A demon far too big and monstrous to be considered befitting the level of an amateur slayer trudges through the forest, each of its heavy footsteps thrumming in your ears. Each of its limbs are veiny and as huge as your entire body, twisting and coiling around it like mangled flesh. You can barely make out where its main body is, let alone its neck.

It holds a dead man in one of its horrific hands, devouring him in one motion. Bile rises to your throat at the sight, and you feel your legs tremble and rooted deep to the ground. The demon seizes another man with its extended arm, your breath quickening when it opens its gaping mouth. Fortunately, Tanjirō recovered before you, and rush out to slice its arms with the second form of Water Breathing. You snap out of your fear only a second later, even out your breathing and sprint out to push the man behind you, your swords drawn alongside Tanjirō.

The demon becomes incensed when it spots your fox mask and rages as it curses your father’s name over and over. You listen in horror when it reveals how many humans it has eaten, but that is nothing compared to the fire burning in your blood when he says how many of your father’s students it has devoured.

Thirteen. Thirteen of your brothers and sisters. Thirteen souls that will never come home. Thirteen names that you can recite in your sleep.

The fire blazes into a vengeful inferno when you hear it describes the deaths of Sabito and Makomo with glee, as if they’re as trivial as bugs. As if there are not still those who mourn for them.

You advance with rage and with only one working thought in your mind. Kill.

The demon is even more amused at your reaction, and to your dismay no matter how many arms you and Tanjirō cut down, more would just grow back. One of them lands a hit on Tanjirō, sending him flying and hitting a tree.

“Tanjirō-kun!” You shout, your heart dropping at the blood on his forehead and his unconscious state. You’re left to fend the demon by yourself.

“Control your breathing, (Y/N)-chan. Do not worry about us, focus on saving Tanjirō.” You hear Makomo’s voice inside your head, and only then did you realize how you’ve essentially forgone every lesson your father has drilled into you. You quickly chastise yourself and regulate your breathing, standing your ground and working to divert the demon away from the unconscious boy.

“Tanjirō-kun! Wake up! Please, I need you!” You exclaim as you sliced another limb, your muscles starting to ache from how many times you’ve done so. You couldn’t severe every one of them all alone, and to your terror one of them escaped your attention and is targeting right at him. “Tanjirō!”

As if answering your prayers, he finally opens his eyes and move out the way. But you’re barely able to let out a sigh of relief before more come at you. You dodge and run to his side, your sword brandished and held tight, face-to-face with the enemy. You spare a quick glance to Tanjirō, both of you nodding.

“Together?” “Together.”

You advance, cutting down any obstacle standing in your way. At a warning shout from Tanjirō, you both leap in the air to avoid the arms underground. A limb lashes out to grab Tanjirō, but he’s able to utilizes that hard head of his. You both land on the arm, ready to execute the final attack.

“Tanjirō-kun, I’ll take care of its arms! You aim for the neck!” You carry out the Fourth Form and destroys anything blocking his path, and in a fast flurry of the First Form, it is done.

He is no more.

When there is finally time to rest and you’re done taking care of his forehead injury, you’re left to grasp with the ugly truth displayed right before your very eyes. So many lives lost, all of it fueled by hatred so deep that it makes your heart sinks. What would your father think when he realizes that a small decision of his may have led to his students’ demise?

“I’m sorry for not telling you the truth,” you whisper as you rest under the shade of a tree. Tanjirō turns away from you, and the action makes your stomach twist. He is silent for a moment before speaking. “It’s not your fault. To be honest, I had my suspicions, but I didn’t want to face them and realize that they’re true.” Another pause. “Do you think they’re at peace now?”

You grip your kimono where your heart rests. “Yeah. Yeah, I think they are.” You don’t lie about this, you feel your soul getting lighter.

“Will you tell me about them?” “Later,” you shuffle next to him, curling into his warmth as your eyes become heavy. “I promise.”

You spend your mornings like this, sleeping after a long, arduous night. Moving ever closer until you two fit like puzzle pieces, hands gripped tight in search of the other’s warmth, a confirmation that you both are still alive.

Against all odds, you both survived the 7 days.

Drained of all energy and adrenaline, the trek back home is just as taxing for your weary bodies. You support each other by lifting the other by the shoulder, praying with every step that you’ll soon see that thatched roof that you call home.

Your journey comes to an end when you see the light from that lone house near the mountain. Your shoulders sag in relief, and you would have buckled if not for Tanjirō’s arm around you. Suddenly, the door is kicked down, and out comes the girl that you’ve only ever seen in deep slumber. She looks even more beautiful under the moonlight, and you gasp at the recognition in her still human eyes.

“Nezuko!” Tanjirō rushes down to meet his sister, and at the halfway point she cradles his head into her chest, so gentle that it makes tears well up in your eyes.

You spot your father, his arms full of firewood, and a tired smile makes its way up your face. “Otou-san...”

Uncaring about the wood he just dropped by his feet, he pulls all of you (his children) close, and there is no stopping the torrent of tears from flowing down all of your cheeks.

“You’ve survived. You’ve come back to us.”

The days that followed allow you to recuperate and come to terms with what you have learned at the Final Selection. You all devote an entire day to clean and make offerings to the graves of those that are gone and spend the entire night reminiscing your memories about them.

It also allows you to bond with Nezuko, and once again you’re convicted to help Tanjirō find a way to turn her back into a human.

But those halcyon days are short-lived, and after receiving your Nichirin sword, uniform, and first joint mission, it’s finally time to leave.

("That’s a gorgeous shade of blue, huh Urokodaki?” “Of course, she’s my daughter, after all.”)

You stand on the other side, hugging your father and promising that no matter what, you will come back to him. This is a promise that you intend to keep. He fixes your uniforms, his fingers lingering as if he’s still not ready to let go.

“Take care of her, Tanjirō,” he says, and unexpectedly pulls him closer so that he could whisper something. You don’t know what he said, but whatever it was, Tanjirō becomes deathly pale and shivers uncontrollably. You look at them curiously, but none of them would meet your gaze.

Finally, you take your first few steps down that dirt path, sparing one final look at your world and everything you’ve ever known. But you’re not afraid, for you have Tanjirō by your side.

“We’re in this together.”

“There’s no one else I would rather do this with.”

©️ wisteriadaydreams

➺ All of the following works belong to me. Please don’t repost, copy, or steal my content off of Tumblr. Plagiarism will not be tolerated.

[cheynovak]

The shadowsinger  part 6  

Final part  

Characters: Azriel x F/Reader Y/N     

Summary:  Y/N, the niece of Lucien, has fled an arranged marriage, only to find herself hunted by her cruel uncle, Beron. Lost in the cold woods, she is discovered by Azriel, who is reminded of his own painful past. He brings her back to Velaris, but the journey is only beginning. 

Warnings: None 

English is not my first language 

*This story is my own original story, please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated* 

Many years had passed since that fateful night under the stars when Azriel and Y/N first acknowledged the bond that had always existed between them. Now, they lived in a serene house by the river, a place that mirrored the quiet strength of their relationship. Their home was surrounded by nature, with the gentle sound of the river providing a constant backdrop to their lives, a place where they could retreat from the world and simply be together. 

Despite the peace they found in their home, Azriel noticed how Y/N’s demeanour would change whenever they visited Feyre, Rhys, and their son, Nyx. She adored Nyx, her eyes lighting up whenever she held him, her laughter bright and full of joy as she played with him. Azriel could see it in the way she looked at the child, the quiet longing in her gaze. Y/N was a natural mother, nurturing and gentle, and it broke Azriel’s heart to see the sadness that lingered in her eyes when they returned home to their empty house. 

A few years back, they had decided to try for a family of their own. But while Feyre and Rhys seemed blessed with ease in that regard, it hadn’t been the same for them. Decades had passed, and each year that went by without a child only deepened Y/N’s fear that they might never have one. Azriel could see how the worry and disappointment wore on her, no matter how much she tried to hide it. 

He loved her more than anything and wanted to show her that his love wasn’t tied to whether they could have a child. She was his mate, his partner, and the light of his life. He had been thinking for a long time about how to show her just how much she meant to him, and the idea had slowly taken shape in his mind: he wanted to ask her to marry him. 

It wasn’t that they needed a ceremony or a title to define their relationship, but Azriel knew that this gesture would mean something to Y/N. It would be a way to show her that he chose her, not just because they were fated to be together, but because he wanted to, because he would choose her every day, in this life and the next. 

Determined to make it special, Azriel met up with Rhys and Cassian to discuss his plans. They gathered in a secluded spot overlooking the city, the night sky spread out above them like a blanket of stars. 

“I want to surprise her,” Azriel said, his voice steady but with a hint of vulnerability that only his brothers could detect. “I want to show her that I’m with her, not just because she’s my mate, but because... Well, you guys know what I mean.” 

Rhysand’s eyes softened with understanding. “I think this is a wonderful idea. It’s a way to show her, in a way that’s meaningful to both of you, that your love is a choice, a commitment.” 

Cassian grinned, clapping Azriel on the back. “It’s about time, brother. She deserves to be reminded of how much she means to you. And we’ll help you make it perfect.” 

Together, they planned the details, ensuring that the proposal would be something Y/N would never forget.  

-- 

A few days later, everything was set. Azriel returned home that evening, finding Y/N in their garden by the river, the twilight casting a golden glow over the water. She looked up as he approached, smiling softly as he took her hand in his. He said nothing just picked her up and flew her towards town.  

All the lights were out. 

He put her down softly, “Az, what is this?” She asked but he flew away again, leaving her standing in the town which usually was filled with small lights but was dark now.  

Azriel’s shadows filled the streets. She heard music and started to walk towards it. Y/N walked to the centre of the square, surrounded by the warm glow of candles and the soft petals of golden brown, almost orange roses that had been carefully placed by everyone she loved. Her favorite colour, they were rare, only blooming in autumn court, but it reminded her of Azriel's eyes.

The whole town seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her reaction. "Guys? What is this?" She asks looking at her friends.

Nyx's footsteps echoed in the quiet square as he walked up to Y/N, his bright eyes full of excitement, he turned into a beautiful young adult, but his eyes gleamed like a young child in a candystore. With a beaming smile, he lay a single rose at her feet. Y/N's heart melted at the sight of him. 

Next came Feyre, her smile warm and filled with sisterly affection as she placed another rose at Y/N's feet. Rhysand followed, his presence regal yet comforting, as he added his own rose to the growing circle. One by one, they all approached—Nesta with her fierce loyalty, Cassian with a grin that spoke of brotherly pride, Elain with gentle encouragement, Mor with a wink of approval, Amren with a rare, soft smile, and even Lucien, whose gaze held a mix of emotions as he set down his rose. 

The roses formed an almost perfect circle around her, each one laid with love and care by those she held dear. Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she stood in the centre, looking around her, the significance of the moment dawning on her. The soft glow of candlelight reflected off the petals, casting a warm, golden hue over everything, making the scene look like something out of a dream. 

And then, through the sea of faces, Azriel emerged, his wings tucked close to his body, his gaze never leaving hers. In his hand, he held two roses, white and black, its purity a stark contrast to the vibrant colour that surrounded her. With every step he took, Y/N felt her heart race faster, her emotions a whirlwind of disbelief, love, and overwhelming joy. 

When Azriel reached her, he gently handed her the roses, his fingers brushing against hers. The world seemed to fade away as she looked up at him, her eyes already glistening with unshed tears. He knelt before her, the sight of him—a warrior, a spymaster, her mate—kneeling in such a vulnerable, loving gesture nearly took her breath away. 

From his pocket, he pulled out a small box and opened it to reveal a ring. The stone, a rich golden-brown that mirrored the depth of his eyes, caught the light in a way that made it seem almost alive. Y/N stared at it, too stunned to fully comprehend what was happening. 

“Will you do me the honor,” Azriel began, his voice steady but filled with an intensity that made her heart skip a beat, “of making me the happiest male in existence and marry me?” 

Y/N’s mind whirled, her thoughts a jumble of emotions that she couldn’t quite untangle. The square was silent, everyone waiting with bated breath for her response. But she was so overwhelmed, so caught up in the sheer beauty of the moment, that all she could manage was a small, squeaky, “What?” 

Azriel’s smile was soft, understanding. He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. “Will you marry me, Y/N?” he repeated, his voice a tender caress against her frazzled nerves. “Will you be my wife, my partner, and stand by my side for the rest of our lives?” 

The sincerity in his words, the love that shone in his eyes, finally broke through the haze of shock. Tears spilled down Y/N’s cheeks as she nodded, her voice growing stronger with each word as she whispered, “Yes… Yes, Yes, YES!" 

Unable to contain her excitement, she swung her arms around him, pulling him close. Azriel, caught off guard by the sudden burst of emotion, lost his balance, and the two of them tumbled down onto the bed of roses that surrounded them. Laughter erupted from both of them as they landed softly among the petals, the fragrant blooms cushioning their fall. 

Y/N didn’t waste a moment. She leaned in and kissed him deeply, pouring all her love, joy, and relief into that kiss. The world around them seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of them lying there, surrounded by the glowing candlelight and the warmth of their shared happiness. 

Azriel pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, a grin spreading across his face as he whispered, “Of course I will.” 

Their laughter and the cheers of those gathered around them filled the night, but all that mattered to them in that moment was each other. 

-- 

Azriel stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of his suit for what felt like the hundredth time. His outfit was a perfect blend of Illyrian leathers and a tailored black suit, symbolizing both his warrior spirit and the importance of this day. Despite his composed exterior, a current of nervous energy coursed through him, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts. 

Rhys and Cassian, who had been with him through countless battles and challenges, stood by his side, offering their usual support—though in their own way. Cassian, ever the jokester, couldn’t resist making light of the situation. 

“What’s the worst that can happen?” Rhysand said to ease his friend’s mind, Cassian clapping Azriel on the back. “Yeah! Worst, let's see, maybe if some other high lord would claim her as their mate and whisk her off to another court. No big deal, you can handle that.” He chuckled, giving Rhys a knowing look. 

Rhys shook his head, but there was a smirk on his face. "Cassian, you're not helping," he said, though his tone was light.  

Azriel, however, wasn’t in the mood for jokes. He turned to look at his brothers, his expression serious. “She can still say no,” he muttered, the thought clearly weighing on him. 

Rhys, sensing the genuine anxiety in Azriel’s voice, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Az, she’s not going to say no. She loves you. We’ve all seen it.” Cassian nodded, his earlier teasing fading as he added, “You’re right for each other, Az. She’s not going to change her mind.” 

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to steady the nerves that refused to settle. "I know. But...” Rhys smiled softly. "It's real, Azriel. And you deserve every bit of it." 

Azriel glanced back at his reflection, the nervousness still lingering but tempered now by the support of his brothers. He nodded, more to himself than anyone else, and straightened his suit one last time. 

"Alright," he said, his voice more determined. "Let's do this." 

-- 

Azriel stood at the altar, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to maintain his composure. The soft murmur of the gathered guests, the warm glow of the twilight, and the gentle breeze that stirred his wings all seemed to fade into the background as he focused on the moment ahead. Rhysand and Cassian flanked him on one side, their presence steadying him, while Feyre and Mor stood on the other, their smiles warm and encouraging. 

The altar was a simple, elegant structure adorned with flowers and draped in soft fabric, perfectly framing the scene. Azriel’s gaze remained fixed on the path ahead, where any moment now, Y/N would appear. The anticipation was almost too much to bear. 

Then, as if on cue, the music began to play—a soft, lilting melody that seemed to echo the emotions swirling inside him. The crowd turned, and Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as he saw her. 

Y/N appeared at the end of the aisle, her dress flowing gracefully around her, catching the last rays of the setting sun. She looked radiant, her smile nervous yet filled with love. Every step she took brought her closer to him, and Azriel felt his heart swell with a mix of awe, joy, and disbelief that this moment was finally here.  

Her gown was a breathtaking masterpiece, combining elements of elegance, fantasy, and intricate design. The dress was white white copper details, the bodice was fitted, with a delicate blend of golden embroidery that wrapped around her torso and regal floral patterns. The neckline was an off-the-shoulder style, gracefully framing her collarbones, shoulders and curves with soft, flowing fabric, giving an ethereal look. 

The skirt was full and layered, cascading in waves of rich, luxurious fabric, adorned with three-dimensional floral appliqués that seemed to bloom as she moved. The layers were asymmetrical, creating a sense of movement and depth, while golden accents shimmered with every step she took. 

The train was long and dramatic, with sparkling lights embedded within the fabric, twinkling like stars against the night sky. The intricate golden details extended down the train, creating a visual spectacle that was both enchanting and awe-inspiring. 

As she stepped forward, the entire ensemble came together to create an image of Y/N as the last shining star in Azriel’s universe, radiant and glowing. Azriel couldn’t believe his eyes, captivated by her beauty, his heart swelling with emotion as she approached the altar. 

He took her hand as she stepped up beside him, his breath catching in his throat. His mouth opened, but the words he wanted to say seemed to escape him, leaving him awestruck by her beauty. "Y-You... you look..." he stammered, struggling to find the words that could truly capture what he felt. 

Seeing his stunned expression, she smiled warmly, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "You do too," she replied, her voice full of affection and a touch of amusement. 

Their fingers intertwined as they stood together, the ceremony passing by in what felt like the blink of an eye. Vows were exchanged, and they slipped the rings onto each other’s fingers—rings as black as coal.  Mor, standing nearby, seemed momentarily confused by their choice of rings. But to Y/N and Azriel, it made perfect sense. 

As they sealed their marriage with a final, tender kiss, they both felt the familiar warmth of the magic that bound them, a new tattoo forming on their arms—a symbol of their promise, their eternal bond. 

Y/N hadn’t wanted just a ring, and neither had Azriel. The rings matched the ink on their arms, symbols of their unbreakable connection, a visible sign of the promise they made to each other.  

To be together,  

Forever.

--

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Taglist: @paintedbyshadows @lilah-asteria

[rasendamn]

like daylight

🌀 i once believed love would be burning red- but it's golden. 🌀

uzumaki naruto x reader

warning: angst

Rivals (noun): a person or thing competing with another for the same objective or for superiority in the same field of activity.

-> Synonym: Uzumaki Naruto

He was the bane of my existence; his annoying cackle and proclamations of his future as a Hokage.

Yet, he was as warm as the sun, if not warmer.

His nagging attitude gave me headaches whenever we were together; his protector complex and daily combat challenges.

Yet, his eyes were the most calming shade of blue I have ever beheld.

His constant need to one-up me was tiring; his inability to let me fight for once and prove myself.

Yet, he motivated me to become a better person, like he was always capable of doing with our enemies.

He was someone who never gave up no matter how dumb it seemed; his embarrassing need to persist in what he sets his mind to.

Yet, he lead the world into a new phase of hope.

He gave me hope.

His smile, his hair, his strength, even the whisker-like lines adorning his face. They screamed daylight.

A pure, golden beam of warmth. So addicting, and so, so dangerous.

I would be lying if I said I didn't begin to find him attractive after his 3 year absence from Konoha- and if his ninja way was to never go back on his word, mine was to stay true to everyone else and myself.

You can say that it's shallow: switching up from scoffing, arguing and competing to blushing, bantering and protecting. Why? Because of his looks?

Maybe it is, but one should know that it was his character that illuminated mine. I didn't have a wonderful childhood either. But like a coward, I let myself drown in it, while Naruto swum to survival.

He just happened to be the hand that pulled me out with him.

I don't know when he himself changed his mind about me, but I thank whatever God there is that he did.

And here, even as I lay staring up at the mourning sky, I thank that same God for making me strong enough to protect him. Even if it meant breaking his heart by leaving.

The once searing pain in my stomach subsided, and I like to think it's because he's holding me.

They say that the manner of a Shinobi's death is what measures their character. And what a wonderful way to die.

His tears are blessing my fragile state, and his hands are pouring his life into me, and his eyes are urging me to stay.

And despite all that, all I want to do is memorise every inch of him- his beautiful face, his admirable physique, his can-do attitude. What a wonderful way to die.

"Don't cry."

I hear myself say.

I see my hand cup his battle-ridden face, the dimmest I have ever seen it.

"You'll be okay," I bless him with.

He shakes his head furiously, breathing so intense with quivering lips.

Oh, his lips. One of my favourite things about him. I still remember when he first pulled me in. When both of us could no longer hold back.

Dinner at Ichiraku, like always. Only that we couldn't stop the tension from building up anymore.

He walked me home, even though I lived the opposite direction. We even took our time.

Glances here and there. Hands brushing. Laughs permeating the quiet air.

And when he suggested that the night was still young, he brought us to a breath-taking spot overlooking our village.

We talked. And talked. And talked.

Then, under the moonlight and stars, we told each other what we'd been hiding from each other even as teammates.

And slowly, every so slowly, he pulled me towards him. In that moment, I questioned how I was able to live all these years without him with me like that.

He brings me back from my distractions, telling me to stay awake. Telling me that Sakura will be here soon. Telling me that he can't let me go. That I can't leave him.

"Please."

Who is he begging? Who is he asking mercy from? Who is saving me, when I saved him?

Sasuke, my old friend, the person I used to confide in, the little boy I grew up lonely with. Even he stares in disbelief from a distance.

What have I done?

The question is written all over his face. But I forgive him. I understand his hurt. I just wish it could have gone differently. I think we all do.

I hear Naruto curse Sasuke out. And I feel his arms wrap tighter around me. So I kiss his tears away. But they keep coming. I tell him to find it in his heart to forgive, because my sacrifice was not only for him, but for the boy whom my sympathies went out to as well.

"I can't do this without you," he gulps, holding me with such care, like I could break into a million pieces. With him here? Never.

He makes me complete. Whole. Or half? Since he makes up the other.

"Yes," I smile, "You can."

"No-"

"You must." I urge softly, stroking his whiskers, line by line. Stroking his fluffy blonde hair.

"Please," he begs with my name; I love how he says my name.

"Let me bring you to Sakura-chan."

I shake my head again, holding his hand down as he makes a move to leave his fated battle.

Stubborn as ever. What did I expect?

"I gave you an opening, didn't I?" I say with as much grit as I can, trying to sound like my cocky self, "Now what are you gonna do about it?"

He ignores me, the azure in his eyes roaming my face.

"Please," his tears glisten with so much pain, "I can't let this happen. I just got you- I can't- please- I can't lose you now."

I wipe them away again, not caring if my own ran down my face.

"You always had me, Naruto," I whisper to him, "My heart and all. Ever since your annoying self at thirteen declared you hated me."

He cries even harder, hiding his face from me in agony.

"And you'll never lose me," I bring him back to bless me with his gaze, "You think you can get rid of me this easily?"

We both know what I plan on doing, but this man, this boy, isn't only mine. Everyone looks at him to create change in this dark world.

If he was my beam of hope, then he can be everyone else's.

I reach up, swiping a finger gently against his headband to keep it clean, Konoha's symbol adorning him in pride.

"I'm so proud of you, you know?" I focus on fixing stray blonde strands- he can't end this fight with hair I nagged him to cut in fear of obstruction; turns out I am always right, "I just know you'll make a fine Hokage."

He just watches me, freely crying over me, as if protecting the both of us from the rest of the destruction.

“You know, you’re as beautiful as when I first met you,” he plays with my hair out of habit, smiling in reminiscence.

And it seems, he’s also trying to drink in every single detail of me, unwilling to look away in fear of my departure.

"You liar."

I can't break down anymore. For him. I change the topic, needing to let him know that this? This is inevitable. I would much rather spend my last moments in peace with him.

"I can't wait to meet your parents," my voice cracks, for I can't help it any longer.

He sniffs, fighting against his closing throat.

"They'll love you."

We smile at each other, even daring to share a laugh.

He presses his lips to my forehead with so much love, even if it is the gentlest touch he has ever graced me with, "Just like I love you."

He leans in. I wrap my hand around his neck, and we close our eyes to savour this moment.

"I love you." I proclaim.

I pull back, letting him hear the words I have always wanted to say to him.

"Thank you," I say to him, "For everything. For strengthening me. For loving me. For fighting with me. For fighting for me."

All of my feelings, my unspoken words, my hopes and dreams.

No, he is all of that himself. He is everything I feel, every overwhelming thing I can't bring myself to say, every hope, and every dream.

With these parting words, I kissed him one last time, pouring my all into him.

I feel the power of the Tatsu, hidden in me as the only thing I have of my clan, empowering him; this will do well with Kurama's strength. How I'll miss that sly fox, too.

Both of you, keep each other safe.

Then, he can win as I hold his hand, letting him know that he will never rid of me despite his fears.

The will of fire, like it always has, burns brighter than ever.

For he: my rival, my teammate, my loved one, is the flame of hope.

He is the daylight that this world waits to see once more, over the horizon of a new dawn.

🦊🍥

[smollbean42905]

Out

Aphrodite Hart was a girl known for her style. Before the world ended, she was always in dresses and bows since her parents taught her to always look put together. In this world, soulmates are a thing, only a few a year that are born get one. Aphrodite was one that was blessed to have one, she's been searching for them since she found out. But the search was put to a halt when the world ended.

Aphrodite Hart tries to keep the things she grew up with, but stopped that mentality when her parents were bitten and she had to kill them. With no siblings or friends by her side she had to take on the world by herself.

Aphrodite walked around, blood soaked and rusty knife in hand, and her favorite dress on caked in blood. The dress was to small seeing as she's grown, it's been a few years since the end so she's grown from 12 to 16. Her chest presses against the fabric tightly so tight she can barely breath, she looks around in the city she's wondered into and found a store free of walkers. She goes inside and sees no one, she holds her breath while walking around. What she doesn't notice is the person in the corner, a young man who looked at Aphrodite with hunger.

Hunger that could only be fed sexually, the man stood and slowly went to the oblivious girl. She looks around the small building and sees clothing, she goes over and picks up another dress. She shoves it into her large black bag and keeps walking around, not knowing of the strange man. She steps on glass, which hurt her bare feet, and she takes a step back to look at what she stepped on. The display case nearby was shattered and glass was strown everywhere, she looks at the bottom of her foot and sees a cut, she ignores it for the time being and straightens up.

As soon as she straightens up, she's taken to the ground and flipped onto her back. She lets out a scream, a scream that almost deafens the man on top of her. He looked crazy, bloodshot eyes and dark eye bags. He has some cuts on his face and his arm was bloody, he had been bit...

"Please no..."

"Please yes" he moves her hair out of her face and sees that she's missing an eye, no bandage, just an empty cavity. Almost like someone dug out her eye... The man ignores it and looks down at her body. The man tried to rip off her dress to have some fun...

After those excruciating 20 minutes, Aphrodite is left on the floor in pain. From the glass in her back, and from in between her legs, where blood stained her skin. She curls up onto herself, feeling disgusted. This isn't the first time an event like that has happened to her but she still felt gross. Her skin crawled, and itched like bugs were all over her body. The girl stares up at the ceiling as tears slowly fall down her cheek. She sniffles once then sits up and tries to cover herself. Dite looks around and sees a cardigan, she gets up quickly, regretting it, and grabs the cardigan. It's very big on her so she hopes it'll provide some comfort and warmth. She hugs herself and finally leaves the building with her knife in hand. She sees her reflection: long black hair with slight waves, a deep blue hue under her almond shaped eyes, some hair pulled back into a white blood stained bow hair clip, her hair was messy and her eyes were puffy.

"Gotta look good for my soulmate, no matter what" she fixes her hair and keeps walking, everything is bare, to bare, it's ominous how quiet everything is. She can hear as wind goes by and the ground beneath her feet. Her, already growing, anxiety spikes as her mind runs and she decides to leave the city. She runs out and goes into the woods, a sanctuary and has been for a while.

Aphrodite has been alone since the beginning, especially after finding out that she's immune to zombie bites. She met a doctor very early on and she explained that all those who have soulmates are immune. Speaking of soulmates, the girl looked down at her wrist, the outline of a sheriff star staring at her. She touches it gently slowing her walk creating a shiver down her spine, a pleasant one, she does this every few days since soulmates can contact each other using the mark they were born with. She does it so her soulmate knows she's alive, after a few minutes of waiting she gets the same shiver again and smiles. She continues her walking as she ventures deeper into the woods. She smiles a bit to herself and looks around, she starts to hum softly, so softly it's just above a whisper to try and not signal to anyone or anything where she is.

But, Aphrodite starts to feel light headed. She pauses her walk for a moment as the world begins to spin, her head gets heavy and her eyes feel weird. Her body feels cold as she leans and her eyes roll back as she slams against a tree. Her side stays against the tree as her head goes forward, the bark keeping her up as she passes out from blood loss.

[poemsbypel]

A Word From A Bird

By PEL

PEL. A Word From A Bird. (London, United Kingdom.) Acrylic.

Sound Effect of blackbird birdsong by Der_Sternfahrer from Pixabay.

Now here is a little and large poem Which we hope, in our hearts will find a home. And if we love it and give it our blessing, It will have the freedom, to roam and roam. Now, to bring it to life, with colour and sound, We found, it's meant to be read or sung aloud. For strange to us, as it may seem, We may get the feeling, we're talking to a crowd. We may get the feeling, we are talking to the unseen. For it carries its own hidden music and rhyme, Which seems to get better and louder in time.

And as we know, we all like good news, Because good news creates more good news. So we have taken care, to use kind and thoughtful words. We listened to our trees and we listened to our birds. We listened to the Oceans and to the free herds. We listened to the Fire, burning brightly. We listened to the Wind, blowing lightly. We listened to the Earth, day after day And here's what they, all have to say.

"Let's forgive the mistakes of the past And stop worrying about the future, For the die has been cast. Just live in the present, to see what it brings. For the times that are coming, will show us, Some amazing new things."

But first a big thank you for the paper, That carries this poem. For we must remind ourselves please, Who really pays without a murmur or a moan. It is not you or me, Nor the birds nor the fish in the seas, But rather, our courageous and caring, terrific trees. Though we give it little thought, our trees pay the price, Every single day, so let's be nice. Let's give them in this poem, one free page, For our fast oncoming Magical New Age. To listen to them, to let them have their say.

And though much of our World Is in such a big and scary shamble. It only takes one with courage, To take a little gamble. To believe the trees; To listen to the breeze within the leaves. And if we believe, their simple little message in this. We may find our life in time, could become just bliss. We may find, we might even fly like a bird. After all, it's only one colour, one note, one word. So why not try it. Test it out. We have nothing to lose, except our pain, And if we don't like it, we can throw it back out, Until we're ready, until it comes around again.

So now it's time, to clean up the Planet. Come on John, it's up to you and Janet. Let's start right now and begin to plan it. There's no time to wait for the rest. First we're going to end starvation, Then it's more conservation, re-forestation and preservation And that's just one solution. We’re so fed up with our own pollution. It's time for our gentle revolution. So come on, it's up to us, let's do our best.

And when we decide just to, let go our Hell, For those that have fallen, for those that fell. And when we decide to let go our fear and sorrow, To create for our children, a safe and happy tomorrow. And when, to our frightened and excited surprise, We begin at last to slowly realise, That sometimes, we are the Devil in disguise And sometimes, we are as bright as Angel's eyes. Then we can help us all, let go the war, As we learn and grow and have some fun, Like we know we did, many times before. After all most of us, are in the dark, travelling blind, Searching for that spark, which one day, we're bound to find, Waiting for our children, to discover their own happy pilgrim.

So attention Trees. Stand at ease God's Grace. Our Grace Hurray, thank you. Now we've had our say. And with no further ado, Here's our little Fairy Story, For us and for you.

PEL. Walpole Park. (London, United Kingdom.) Acrylic.

[wickedsrest-rp]

Name: Theodore "Teddy" Jones Species: Spellcaster Occupation: Temp Worker Age: 34 Years Old Played By: Lou Face Claim: Avan Jogia

"Karma is a busy bitch, sometimes she needs a little help."

Chuck and Lydia Jones had a plan. It had an incredible cost, but if it succeeded they would have the entire world in the palms of their hands. Except as often with demonic summonings; they didn’t read the footnotes nor the fine print, and it went bad. When the portal was opened and the greater demon appeared before them in an endless ocean, they didn’t quite realize that control was not part of the spell. And that the demon had a choice, and a temper. On a whim, it decided to take their first born, but in a more literal sense than what they had in mind.

Teddy was adopted by the Leviathan, who went on to assume the identity of Chuck Jones. They traveled around, often. Never really being able to stay in one place too long either because someone saw something they weren’t supposed to, or hunters of the area grew suspicious of the pair. Teddy never cared though. They had all they needed. Levi fed their ravenous curiosity and rewarded their quick learning. Taking on the mantle of a ‘lesser demon’ at a fairly young age. Levi’s wants and goals became theirs, but that didn’t mean the child was an exact copy of the big guy.

Only demon and human physiology didn’t always mix so well. As the kid grew, shapeshifted, built and rebuilt themself new bodies Teddy slowly drifted away from their human self. Until daily pain in their joints and an overly flexible body basically left them with a supernatural hypermobility disorder.

Recently, Leviathan had to return to its home dimension. After a…scuffle with another greater demon that would have put both it and Teddy in danger if it was not at full power, and if the kid was still attached through the magical tether. So together they devised a ritual, and they were able to sever the connection without killing Ted. Levi, not wanting to see anything bad happen to its now completely human ward, left a little blessing behind. A new kind of siphon. One that would take any injuries that they sustained and give them to someone else where physical contact was made. A sort of necromantic healing but completely out of Teddy’s control. 

The ritual did something else though too, something surprising to both Joneses. It unlocked a potential that neither knew that Teddy had. That of a spellcaster. It had been hidden away by the powerful demon magic. And they are only just beginning to understand what it means. While they were experienced in performing small rituals with the well of power they had to draw from before, this new magic is so vastly different they are basically learning from scratch. 

Adjusting to suddenly being human again is hard. Every day comes with a host of new challenges, new obstacles. Unfortunately, Teddy’s problems didn’t leave with their demons. Unbeknownst to the new caster, old trouble that they stirred up when they thought themself immortal has started to surface again. How long before it catches up with them? Will they be able to figure out their new powers before they end up getting someone they care about hurt? Who knows.

Character Facts:

Personality: Compassionate, imaginative, protective, witty, resourceful, childish, fickle, impulsive, opportunistic, stubborn

They specialize in protection magic, but right now it’s mostly manifesting as shields that pop up when Ted’s in emotional distress. 

Human and demon physiology didn’t super mix, the strain of shapeshifting had taken a toll on Teddy’s body. They’ve got a lot of chronic pain that just won’t go away even with the healing siphon.

Teddy loves cooking. It’s one of their biggest hyperfixations. But they never really learned the ‘human’ palate super well. While they have a surprisingly good grasp on the technical skills that go into cooking or baking almost anything, their choices for flavors are…. Fishy. To say the least. Don’t ask them to make you dinner unless you want homemade pizza with peaches and shrimp, hot fries with chocolate peanut butter sauce, or bananas stuffed with jalapenos and cream cheese. 

[dvrast]

a thing about jesper is that he is constantly afraid. angry and frightened— that's what the fjerdan had called him. what had matthias and inej seen in jesper that he didn't understand ? / [ stop treating your pain like it's something you imagined. if you see the wound is real, then you can heal it. ] / you taught me to lie. [ to keep you safe. ] i had a gift. you should have let me use it. [ it's not a gift. it's a curse. it would have killed you the same way it killed your mother. ] i'm dying anyway, da. i'm just doing it slow. it's a genetic disease, father to son. inheritance. power, from his mother. fear, from his father.

it was one thing to be born zowa in his father's house, a weight impossible to tip - toe around with the old farm floorboards creaking under every step, something reaching deep down in his chest to hold his breath from a young age. it was that easy, as breathing, as long as it kept the fear off his father's face ; even easier, whispering truths like pearly whites tucked inside unassuming seashells with his mother. she was brave, braver than the both of them, and she made it easy, until she couldn't. after her death, colm's fear deepened, widened, and it swallowed jesper whole.

the world was always too small for jesper, too big, for grisha of any kind, an open range with traps and snares littered every few feet like landmines. you're born as prey animals native to every continent, or trained into predators in ravka. there isn't a single hill or meadow that's safe, not really. this is a part of why he leaves for ketterdam in the first place, no matter how afraid he is to leave his da, alone in a haunted house. but he can't stay there, not when it feels like the same thing that killed his ma is lurking under the floor, hiding in the rafters, breathing down his neck. but it wasn't the house. it was a part of him, some heavy, extra organ, and he takes it with him wherever he goes. it begins to feel like some kind of birth defect, something somewhere just a millimeter out of line, killing him slowly with every too - fast beat of his rabbit heart. sleeping, waking, this inescapable, primal paranoia. it'll kill him, just for being born.

jesper has what we would call generalized anxiety disorder on top of his attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and it's at its worst once he realizes this feeling isn't something he can leave back home in his father's house. one could go mad with it, not a single place in which you can feel yourself, safe, whole, and he feels a little mad, at first, digesting this revelation ; this is his life, a blessed death. this is what it means to be zowa, his mother's son, his father's prodigal, home or far from it, everywhere, anywhere in the world. he can't ever catch his breath in ketterdam, since before even that, light and heavy all at once, a freedom you can only feel from falling. he feels like a dead man walking the streets, less to lose than even that, and it's easy, easy as breathing, to lay down what little money fit in his pockets with or without the promise of it earning any of it back. ketterdam is alive, though, and he learns quickly how fear is in the very air, but with it, an immunity in its people. something fearless in the water. it was almost inevitable, then, that the most fearless creature in the barrel is who jesper finds himself drawn to even more than the promise of a light burning brightest before it goes out, like a moth to flame. kaz brekker makes him feel like he could be brave for the first time since his mother. like he could survive.

fear is a lot easier to face if you don't ever look away in the first place. if you never come down from the high, there's never any crash - landing, and life with the dregs is a rollercoaster of ups and downs to simulate a freefall that's in his actions instead of his bones. joining the dregs, joining kaz, it gives a name to the grip in his chest— a false one, but a name all the same. he can't be afraid of living if he's dodging death left and right. this fear he has is for a bullet in his head, a knife in his back, dime lions or black tips or stadwatch or debt collectors instead of slavers or drüskelle or ravka or poisoned little girls in need of saving or his father's scared, scared eyes— ketterdam is where taking a deep breath could get you killed anyway, and it's the first place he feels he can live in. the first place he feels he could survive, because living in ketterdam demands it.

[solar-siren]

Angstpril Day Twenty-Six: Storm

The scan is blinding in its intensity, grating and invasive. Tron flinches away as if it’s something physical he could ward off. Even that small movement causes a bright flare of pain. 

“Easy,” Cyrus says, gentle, as if  he’s  the beta. “Try to keep still.”

For a moment Tron has the clarity to wish he’d derezzed. This is mortifying. He’s not supposed to be broken, and if he is he’s not supposed to let others  see . Especially not a program he barely knows, clad in enemy orange. 

The scan blinks out, leaving Tron in blessed isolation once more. 

Cyrus goes quiet. He sits back against the wall, processing the results of the scan. After a micro or so, he says, “I need to see your disc.”

“No.” 

Not again. Never again. The mere suggestion is enough to bring back sensations of  Dyson  rooting through his code, planting that wretched  virus—

But Cyrus is without a trace of that malice. “I need to patch you if we’re going to get out of here. I promise I won’t touch anything else. You have my word.” 

And who are  you?

“How do you know? How to patch?” Tron grates out. 

The beta shrugs, barely visible. “I’m good at fixing things.” 

And breaking them, Tron thinks. He still doesn’t know how the kid took down a recognizer by himself. Apparently he’s full of surprises. 

What are the odds that all of them are good? 

Then again, as far as odds are concerned, his options are either to trust this program or die. And if he’s honest with himself, he’s probably going to die either way. 

The notion is far more frightening than it should be.

[Before I change my mind,] he pings. He can’t bring himself to say it out loud. 

Tron raises up as much as he can muster, then collapses scant nanos later. It’s just enough time for Cyrus to unlock his disc. He thinks the kid says something, but he can’t be sure. 

His audio inputs ring with agony. He can barely breathe. That was a mistake. A horrible mistake. All the energy he has left goes into trying not to derezz. Half hysterical, he wonders if he can hold himself together through sheer force of will. 

(‘If anyone could, it would be you,’ he practically hears in Yori’s voice, and that is worse than the pain.) 

“—still with me? Tron?”

A grunt is the only acknowledgment he can afford this time. Cyrus takes it. 

Tron screws his eyes shut as he scrolls through his code.  Don’t flinch. Don’t react. Don’t scream —

“Just patching,” Cyrus says absently. He could take advantage, could dig through Tron’s memories of Flynn, of the ENCOM system. But he doesn’t. 

Tron grits his teeth as the first patch blooms into place. It hurts when they compile, but he slowly begins to feel less and less like he’s going to fall apart. Physically, at least. 

Exhaustion is starting to catch up to him. He feels himself slipping into standby, his systems deciding he’s safe enough for now. (He  must  be damaged to even have such a thought.) 

He’s not sure how long it lasts. He’s half dead to the world when light splits the darkness of the cave. The ground shakes. 

Searchlights. Another recognizer. He can’t fight, can’t even stand—

“You’re safe,” Cyrus mumbles, not looking up from his work. “It’s just a storm.

“...You can rest,” he adds. “I’ll keep watch.” 

Tron believes him—trusts him far too easily.

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S FATE - CHAPTER 24

*Warning: Adult Content* 

"That necklace. What is it? You never take it off."

Martin Hunter touches a finger to the amulet and the gem pulses with heat in time with the beat of Skylar West’s heart. 

They lie in Skylar’s bed, unclothed and the young art teacher leans to kiss the smooth brown skin of Martin’s shoulder. 

Martin’s scent fills Skylar’s lungs and he lets his eyes roam his form, committing every detail to memory. 

There are some things about life on land for which the sea offers no equivalent and lazy mornings in a warm bed are among them.

"My mother gave it to me," Skylar says.

"Tell me about her. Tell me everything."

The open trust in Martin’s expression is more precious than gold to Skylar and rarer, he must take care with it.

"Have you heard of Circe?"

Martin frowns. 

"From The Odyssey?"

"The same. She was a real person, if you believe the stories, anyway."

Martin laughs. 

"If you believe the stories, so was everyone else in the old myths."

Smiling, Skylar trails his fingers over Martin’s chest. 

They lie face to face on their sides, the sheets pooled at their waists and Martin's amusement fades as his eyes travel Skylar’s skin.

"Those aren't tattoos," Martin says, fingertips brushing the faintly iridescent scale patterns just visible on Skylar’s forearms. "Are they?"

"No, they aren't."

Martin blinks and his eyes flick up to Skylar’s, the warm amber of his irises alight with curiosity. 

"So, Circe, huh?"

Skylar nods. 

"It's said she was the daughter of Helios, the sun god and a sea nymph named Perse. A powerful sorceress, she's best known for turning men into swine."

Martin snorts. 

"Not much of a stretch, sometimes."

"Indeed. But that is merely one example of her talent for shifting shapes. She had many children and those with human fathers became the first merfolk, born of two natures, the sea and the land and with the gift of choice. When we find the one to whom we wish to wed our soul, we may choose to embrace the land and leave the sea or to bestow the gift of the sea upon our human lover."

"You have to choose?"

"No. But our population has always remained small, several thousands at most. Originally, the children of Circe took human mates to prevent inbreeding. Now it's merely tradition for the eldest of each house to do so."

"You said the eldest child inherits the throne. If your mom's the queen, that means your dad was human?"

"Originally, yes. He was born in Norway in the early half of the 18th century."

"In the early...?"

"Around 1725, we think. He wasn't sure of the exact year but..."

With a shallow gasp, Martin sits up. 

"Seventeen..." 

Martin chokes and doubles over, coughing. 

Skylar rubs his back between his shoulder blades. 

When he recovers, he draws a ragged breath and blinks watering eyes at Skylar. 

"How the fuck old are you?"

"I was born in 1897," Skylar says.

"You're immortal?"

Skylar smiles. 

"Not immortal, no. The oldest mer-folk I'm aware is a few years shy of seven hundred and probably won't live to see that number. After such a long life, we tend not to draw out our decline. Once the aches and pains of old age begin to outweigh the joys, we bid the world farewell on good terms."

Martin thinks about this for a moment and Skylar takes his hand.

"You see why, more often than not, it is our human lovers who join us in the waves, they, too, are blessed with long life once they've taken the gift of the sea. We, on the other hand, will share a human life-span if we choose to walk on land."

Slowly, Martin withdraws his fingers from Skylar’s grasp, his expression gradually going cold, like the sun dimmed by clouds.

"This is impossible, then," Martin says.

"What is?"

Martin moves to sit on the edge of the bed, facing away from Skylar. 

"Us."

"I don't follow."

Martin’s shoulders hunch. 

"You're the heir to the throne, so of course you'll return to the sea. That's what you're looking for, isn't it? A bride to take back home, one who can give you heirs of your own. You're just killing time with me."

Skylar frowns at Martin’s back. 

"You're wrong and you're right."

Brow furrowed, Martin twists to look at Skylar. 

"What do you mean?"

"You asked about my necklace. The truth is, it's a curse."

"A curse?"

"Not all love stories are fairy tales, even among the Mer-people. My father may have been born human but he hated his own kind. He believed all humans were inherently corrupt and would always turn to violence and destruction when the chance arose. For him, it was an easy choice to join my mother in the sea. His hatred for humanity did not wane with time, however. Instead, with industrialization, it intensified to the point he believed a war with the land was inevitable, ironically proving himself right about his own kind."

"What happened? If there was a war with the mer-folk, I missed that day of history class."

"No, there was no war. As my mother's consort, my father was her general. What 'forces' we have, he commanded. He plotted to overthrow the throne and take the crown for himself. Fortunately, he was... stopped."

"Stopped?" 

Martin lifts his brows at Skylar, who smiles at his natural astuteness.

"You think you have wronged your father? To save my mother, I betrayed mine to his death."

"It sounds like you didn't have much choice." 

Martin has turned back to face Skylar and this time it's he who reaches and gives the young man’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. 

"Is the curse a punishment?"

Skylar fiddles with the amulet. 

He had been wearing it so long, he is hardly conscious of its weight any longer. 

"No, it's not a punishment. More a lesson or a precaution, maybe. I think my mother was troubled by the apparent ease with which I delivered my father to his fate. I think it gave her cause to wonder what sort of king I'd make. She placed this gem about my neck and banished me to the land, where I must walk until, as you rightly guessed, I find a 'pure heart' and return therewith to break my mother's spell."

"Spell?"

Skylar nods. 

"She was heartbroken by my father's betrayal. Like you Wolves, we Mer-folk share a deep bond with our chosen mates. Unable to bear the pain otherwise, she turned herself to stone and even now sits as a statue upon the throne, guarding it and hence the line of succession."

Martin shakes his head. 

"Thank you for telling me this but the problem remains. Why are you wasting time with me when you should be out searching for this 'pure heart?'

""Ah, I haven't explained that bit, have I? The amulet's purpose is trifold, you see. It prevents me from returning home, allows me to live upon the land and also, according to my mother, at least, will guide me to the one I seek."

"So, you're waiting for it to give you a sign or something?"

Skylar smiles and sighs.

It seems Martin is determined to be dense. 

"No, Martin. I'm no longer seeking a 'pure heart.' According to the amulet... I've found him."

His eyes widen and he shakes his head again. 

"No. I'm too old for games of love, Sky. And even if it were true, I'd never leave my kids."

"I know," Skylar says gently. "And I would never ask you to."

"But you said..."

Smiling, Skylar move a little closer and smooths his hands over the sides of Martin’s face. 

"I've been searching without knowing what I really sought for a long time. Now, I've finally found something I want and I'm not about to give it up. I'll find another way to break the curse, I'll abdicate my position as heir and the crown will pass to my eldest sister. My mother is not cruel, she would not deny me happiness. And I shall be more than happy to enjoy what remains of my life with you."

"Sky..." 

Martin blinks back tears. 

"It's too soon to talk like that. You can't give up everything for someone you've only known a few months."

"Maybe you're right or maybe the heart knows better than the head. Fortunately, there's no rush. Now you know everything but nothing needs to change. For the moment, let's focus on you and on taking care of this paternity business, shall we? Let me see the list of doctors again."

Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Martin unlocks and passes Skylar his cell-phone. 

Martin has been upset the night before after receiving the list and seeing that none of the labs were within a hundred miles and several were in neighboring states.

"This one," Skylar says, tapping the screen. "Dr. Braden Howard of Bodega Bay. We'll make a vacation of it, a little trip to the sea. I've been away from salt water for far too long and it will give you the chance to see me in my natural element."

Martin lets Skylar pull him back down into bed with him. 

"I can't just take the kids out of school," Martin mutters, still unwilling to submit entirely.

"Sure you can. People bring their children on vacations all the time."

Martin frowns. 

"Are you using your voice on me?"

"It's a reasonable argument, my dear, not magic." Skylar says, kissing Martin’s shoulder and sliding his hand down to his lover’s waist. "What do you say?"

With a few more sniffles, Martin nods and allows himself to rest in Skylar’s embrace. 

It makes the young art teacher quite happy and he would lie like that the whole day, if time and duty permitted it. 

Unfortunately, neither does.

Nothing Skylar had told Martin was a lie but there is another reason he wanted to visit the sea. 

He had glimpsed storm petrels twice more in the past week. 

It seems someone, probably one of his sisters, wants to talk to him and this will give him the perfect opportunity to give them the good news.

Perhaps they can help him find another way to break the curse and then, with a bit of luck, one of them will be queen. 

[petalstumblingdown]

Fallen Friendships.

It’s not ideal, but it seems like I’ve stumbled into a dark tunnel that I can’t seem to muster the will to get out of. Metaphorically speaking. I’ve been blessed with the ability to easily connect with people, but unfortunately my brain is attached to the idea of what friendship should look like. Most importantly: friends should want to be around, and they should want to move passed disagreements because having the other person in their lives is most important. I haven’t followed my own idea, and now I’ve left a trail of broken friendships on my path to today. Now I’ve even started breaking bridges of social and familial relationships.

A few months ago, my brother’s wife told me she was hurt by a joke I made, but that’s just me. I joke and tease the ones I love, because they do the same to me. As does she, usually. I think I was just hurt that she took offense to some ‘I’ said, since she should know I think the world of her. Something so small made my walls fly up, and I ended up telling my brother it was easier to just not interact with her, because I couldn’t handle the situation. A fundamental part of my personality was causing pain for one of the people I love most in life. I can’t sensor myself. I talk a lot, I have almost no secrets, the only things I keep to myself are things like this, depressing thoughts that aren’t going to help anyone I love to know about because they’re not just going to go away. It’s easier to stay away than risk hurting her again. This is one of the most frustrating facets of my personality.

My insecurities have too much power over me, and many have come into existence through my experiences and strong emotions. Honestly, I’m tired of being disappointed by friendships. I love fiercely, deeply and I’m loyal to a fault. But that love is not unconditional. I’ve disagreed with choices people have made, and these points of contention, no matter how trivial, have ended those relationships. It takes little more than one time for this to happen before a person can begin to wonder if they’re so easily thrown away. And let’s just say that it’s happened to me a lot. I can only see a perspective as I am able, and it just leaves me waiting. I’m always waiting for them to turn up one day, so that I can mend whichever bridge has broken. (Yes, I am a bit of a doormat for people I love.) But, they have to make that step towards me. I feel too insecure in my own self worth to chase them because I don’t believe that I am worth the effort. Some have probably sensed this anxiety and stayed away because of it. It’s a lot to expect the other party to be the bigger person when both parties are hurt and disappointed.

Honestly my self worth is through the ground, it really couldn’t get any lower. I’m alive by the grace of my parents’ love, and how fiercely they’ve instilled the idea that they need me to exist and be around. Thankfully, no one could tell I’m like this just by looking at me, or through conversation; it would kill my family if they knew how easily I’d throw away my life if it meant they were able to be unburdened. But no price is worth the grief and shattering of my family. Unfortunately that also keeps me trapped here, slowly wasting away. And since I’ve managed to push away all my friends and am not seeking more people to befriend, I’ve stuck myself in a difficult position. But I’m just really, really tired. I have a lot to give, but I also ask so much. Besides, I’ve met a lot of good, amazing people, so the fault is entirely my own. I wish I wasn’t born this way. And for so long I’ve wished I was never born at all, I’d rather someone else more worthy of this blessed life were here in my stead. The concept of erasing someone from existence I feel, would be freeing, with no grief or guilt to worry about. Everyone deserves a trial at life before they are expected to go on for an unknown amount of years until the people who love them are gone; or worse, if they are to be at the mercy of worse circumstances.

On a lighter note, I know a lot could improve in my life if I gain some self confidence. Unfortunately, I’m scared to work on myself, in order to love myself more. I’m terrified by what I know about the world. In my opinion, it’s easier to be ugly and hate yourself, than be beautiful and risk the dangers that come with it. An amazing mix of personal experiences and an overactive imagination. Thankfully I’m able to manage the worst of my depression with said overactive imagination and love of stories and games. It also helps that I’m blessed in many ways. It’s easy to remember why I need to keep working and keep smiling, in darker moments like these.

Well, since I’ve now basically broken all the bridges that have ever existed in my life, it means I might be writing here more often. I think I’ll skip the tags though. There’s no advice needed for this, not that I’d probably take it anyway. I just have to hope my ability to immerse myself in hobbies will tide me over till the next time I’m mopey enough to post again.

[probablymystories]

[retrieved 2]

I will never be twenty five again

I am blessed, and I am grateful growing up and never losing my inner child, my inner spark and most important of all my ugly laughter of joy.

2022, You have been so kind and gentle to me from the beginning to the end. I am nothing but with immensity of gratitude. This year feels like gentle breeze, gentle waves crashing and splashing with tons of sunshine. The first time in many long years I feel at home once again in my own body.

I still can recall the torment of 2017, took my first step into 20s and lost my loved one who was all along three quarters of myself. With both my grandparents gone, my world was torn apart and I was lost to pain to the point of retorting to medication for saving. I needed saving. Support system matters, kind words heal, but know when to seek professional and medical help if things really go south. It's terrifying to acknowledge that our thoughts do take forms. I did not even have enough conscience to worry that if i dwell, I will lose my future after all the things I have worked so hard for. Sadness has no bound, and it consumes you whole. With everything slowly comes together and I once more feel the life inside the veins and belong to myself again, it's a relief to finally put all the torment behind the veil.

It was a tough year, and years that followed were periods of healing. Some days were sunshine, and others were thunderstorm. "I never wanted to die, but I no longer wanted to live." was best described my grief. I spent my entire childhood with my grandparents, and with their passings, it was not just the fully grown me that suffered, but my whole happy memories of being a kid and carefree was shattered into tiny fragments. I made it each day collecting and retaining the piece. It is a work in progress. I'm not lessening the importance of others I still have in life, but when a person grieves, they lose all the big picture.

During those difficult months of covid, I came across a line from the internet 'living everyday with gratitude.' So I explored further, giving thanks to every little things in life, people who matter, and people who make you see you matter. When you were stuck at home with limited access to have fun, you spent more time with yourself. Saying this as though my entire life, I haven't already spent time with myself more than with anyone else. It definitely wasn't the best period of life or the proudest accomplishment to be remembered, but without the pandemic I wouldn't have had all the time in the word to dig within, reconnect and get to know my inner self this much. I discovered what brings me peace and what brings me pain. For certain, to put astray all the things and people that hurt. Leave them on the page we already flipped through and progress forth. I do not do the forgive-forget ceremony, I just carry on. Similarly to people who walk the grief, we don't move on, we move forward.

Being grateful for all the things that went right, people that did our heart good, and moments we were so happy that the heart inflated has been a healthy way to cope and live abide, rather than lingering over the sour experiences that wear us down. My way of seeing and living in the world has been altered as I used to be so clouded of worries and insecurities. I still have tons of them, but they cannot affect me as much. Metaphorically and of personal observance, for a plant's life, all energy are gathered and sent to that part of a new growth. Then the sprout begins to make appearance and forms another healthy stem. Very similar to the human mind, we grow thoughts we focus on. My concentration has shifted from loathing myself for everything that goes wrong, to appreciating and being grateful for every small thing that goes right. I am less heavy and I am free. Somewhat, we all want to keep having more sprouts that grow into a healthy plant.

This year, I have learned to understand and accept not only myself anymore, but all things. I learn to embrace and honor my vulnerable traits which I have been advised to work on, change, adapt, so I can become 'better', reach out and reach within, practice gratitude, learn the art of indifference, open up and connect. A child of dreams and fantasies, I continue to have faith.

It all started with a scribble from my gratitude journal:

I am idealistic and a dreamer, but for certain, I am capable of weighing opinions and decisions. I wear my heart on my sleeves, and I have done plenty of embarrassment of myself for being vulnerable and breaking down in public. I am highly sensitive and empathetic since birth and the traits seem to grow stronger as I age, but without them, I will lose the very core foundation of what makes me, me. I soften and I will continue to soften in a domain that teaches "if you want to survive, you need to toughen up".

I cry so often, and I get hurt very easily, which I despise very much because it makes me undependable and weak. But at that very same time, it allows me to fully understand and experience the fragility of life. I aspire to be nothing of great importance, but to grow old with grace and compassion.

I am grateful for everything now and for everything that will be.

You cannot really accept anyone if you haven't already accepted yourself. I am beyond words when told that around me, they feel safe. Being the harbor for others when I didn't get to have the harbor myself, that is perhaps my life's greatest milestone.

Never an act of following the bandwagon of trends or attempting to have them worn as accessories or mimicking someone of idolized figure, regardless. I just shut out the chatters and listened to the little voice from within, so i went to get my first tattoos at twenty five. The tiny drop of ink is a healing mantra. I feel light, connected and whole. It's an important takeaway, sometimes all healing we need is to listen to ourselves. We live on a borrowed time, so we might as well just do 'it'. The it can be diverse to all of us, but as long as it does not cost anyone's harm and their peace, and it makes you happy,

do.

Allow people to feel joy because being happy is a true luxury.

Learn to love and see yourself as you are, so you can do the same to others for who they are beyond the ugly, the discreet, the unwanted we all try so hard to conceal.

After all, in the vast cosmos, we're only specks of dust.

There are words from books I have picked quite a while and got to finish this year that have helped me stay afloat. I'm grateful to have have crossed those beautiful lines, experience and wise words of advice.

The beauty of what remains

Stoicism and the art of happiness

The empath survival guide

You are psychic: the art of clairvoyant reading and healing

Chatter

Attitude of gratitude

It's ok than you're not ok (my absolute favorite. a book understands me more than anyone could.)

Farewell, 2022. Farewell, twenty five.

In the years that will come, I hope to laugh just as much.

"the longer I know you, the more I don't know you"

How do I respond even. Same goes for me.

31.12.22

[barovianbitches]

Stasis - Constantin Vasiliev

FOREWORD

Death is a funny thing. It’s terrifying, even when peaceful or violent. In the real world, it is a primordial fear, the end and the death is what brings us all together, makes us equal. In Dungeons and Dragons, however, it takes on a different form. Death is often impermanent, when powerful Clerics and mighty Sorcerers can wrest life from death, in pure or necromantic form. In the case of this game we’ve all come to love, countering death is beyond the party’s ken, by a long stretch. This turns death from a triviality into a crisis. The death of Constantin Vasiliev marked itself as the first great tragedy to befall the Fellowship of Freaks, a moment that forced the party members to come to grips with the danger of a foreign land, as well as the loss of one of their companions. For the players, it was a reminder that no matter how attached we may be, how deep a backstory goes, death comes for all.

Constantin’s death hurts me deeply. I have written probably almost a hundred pages of lore about this young fellow in the time I’ve played this beautiful game with you all. Watching his tensions spike with Yvan, his protectiveness over Tyyran blossom, his friendly rivalry with Rorali, adoptive older-brotherhood of Bettany and growing adoration of Thalassia develop has been an utter joy. Sending him off is bittersweet, but in D&D, death is more than an end. It is also a beginning. The birth of story, the foundation of development. I trust that Constantin’s passing will lead to character growth on all sides, even for those not the closest to him, as they have now been forged in the crucible of crisis. 

I want to thank you all for engaging with Constantin, reading and giving feedback on his stories, and accepting him as a member of the Fellowship of Freaks family. Playing him for these months was one of my greatest joys as an actor, writer, D&D player and gamer in general, and I hope that you all look back on our time with the Barovian Brick as fondly as I know I will. In time, Sterling will (hopefully) be warmed up to, but even I know that Short King Sterling cannot fill the void that Constantin Nikolaevich Vasiliev leaves in the hearts of the party, as he does in mine.

With this, I present to you Stasis. The final Constantin Vasiliev story.  

Yeah, lol. I lied. CONSTANTIN LIVES!

Stasis

The void is unforgiving. Pitch black night, all-encompassing, darker than a Barovian night and colder than the most brutal Balinok mountain winters. The void, often reserved for the souls of the damned and the restless dead gave host to a new resident, a foreign object floating in the great nothing. Constantin Vasiliev simply... Was. He was and was not in equal measure, his grasp on reality waxing and waning in the all-encompassing dark. A voice rang through his mind, a brutal sneer, a blade driven straight to the core of his soul. “Really? A Night Hag? You swore an oath to destroy Strahd Von Zarovich, and all it took to kill you was a Hag?” The memory was hazy, but he felt a burning pain from his neck. Bringing a hand to it, if he even had a hand anymore, he could not feel a body, nor a wound, but there was pain. Constantin knew he was real, but he could not see himself. There was nothing. A spirit floating lost in the worst, starless night.

As Constantin existed, memory began to return, slowly but surely. A stone room, a tattooed man, no, God, chained to the rock floor. His hateful gaze, contempt unknowable save for Constantin, the victim of a God’s ire. The curse spat towards him, admonishments of weakness, and the promise of a boon. “As my Ward, I must give you at least ONE blessing. This is it. Your time is not yet over. This is your second chance, Vasiliev.” A second chance. Was Constantin dead? This was no normal sleep, that much the man knew, and as the pain in what should have been his neck seared white-hot, his soul sought to scream, but there was no mouth with which to do so. The blackness faded away to memory, charging headlong to meet the Hag Matriarch, multiple failed attempts to knock her over with his mass... He wasn’t strong enough.

I wasn’t strong enough.

Never strong enough.

The images of his last moments flashed in his mind. A Hag in front of him, a Hag behind. Scorching flesh, melting chainmail. Constantin was dead on his feet, surely, but he raged. Raged against his own fate, against those who would see his friends, his family dead before their feet. And then in a flash, searing agony, the worst he had ever felt in his entire life, and then nothing. As far as he was concerned, and as far as it surely must have appeared to his friends, he died immediately. Was there even anyone alive to save him? Had Sancus given him the blessing of eternal purgatory as a cruel joke, a punishment for his shame disguised as a godly boon? Panic crept at the ends of Constantin’s mind, worming their way past his steadfast demeanor to settle in the heart of his uncertainty. Tyyran, Bettany, Rorali, Thalassia, Yvan...

Yvan.

The last words he would ever say to his brother, his best friend, was an admonishment. A childish outburst, in both measures of genuine worry and juvenile jealousy. 

The way Yvan so simply formed relationships, allowed himself to become attached to people. It gnawed at Constantin, seeing how quickly so many melted to Yvan’s charms, how brazenly Yvan loved and reveled in life, in spite of the ever-present danger. The ways in which he was free. The last words he ever said to Yvan were full of anger and spite. How horrid an end to such a bond. Constantin’s spirit shook, as if having suffered a fatal blow at the mere thought. 

I hope.... I hope you will forgive me for such an outburst. I should not have spoken out against you so openly, when you’ve done no wrong, to me or to Tyyran in the loving way with which you treat him. If only I was strong enough to confront my own feelings, rather than lay that burden on you.

I am sorry, Yvan. I love you, brother, and I am so, so sorry. I pray you will not carry the burden of my memory. I pray it will not weigh on your heart in the way Estella did. If there is a merciful God that watches over us both, let it be so that my anger towards you resolves itself in spite, and that you may cast my memories aside and be free of sorrow. Sing to the Heavens that I earned my fate, and carry forward with your new companions, towards the adventure you always seek.

I only regret that I did not get to say goodbye. 

Failure weighed heavily on Constantin in life. The failure of his ancestors, of his father, an everlong list of Vasiliev men who had struck out against the Dark Lord and died. Flashes of memory came to Constantin, legends of his forebears told by his once-loving and gentle father. Stories of mighty men sacrificing everything for the people of Barovia, unsung heroes lost to history, save for the traditions of his family. As these thoughts raced through his mind, form came to being. The dull, throbbing pain in his neck found a home in a gaping needle-wound, tendrils of magical poison spreading through his neck and down his shoulder. He felt the weight of splint mail lay itself across his chest, as thick leather boots landed heavily on uneven ground. His hands drooped with the weight of a steel shield and a battle mace. 

All around him, sound exploded. Beasts screeching, men yelling commands and requests for aid, the din of warfare deafened the young man, as he found himself thrust into warfare. Looking to his left, he saw a man in black plate armor, his shield bearing the symbol of a golden hawk. Behind him, back to back, another man fought alongside him, the same mark emblazoned on his chestplate. Four of these titans of black steel surrounded a cloaked figure. Deep red fabric flowed down his shoulders, cape clasped with bright gold. From under the cape lifted a mighty hand, grasping a glowing sword. A magical relic blade, of indistinct make, likely lost to history. The man strode forward, tearing his helmet from his head to reveal a mop of dark hair and a bushy beard surrounding carved, ancient features. As the battle raged around him, a ghoul passed through Constantin, startling the man back to ‘reality’ as it charged one of the imposing general’s honor guard, cut down without a second thought. The man issued a challenge, yet no sound left his moving lips, none that Constantin could understand. 

Constantin’s spirit knew this face. This face was inscribed in ancient holy scrolls. The Great Ancestor. Constantin’s father had told legends of the first of the Vasilievs to rise up against Strahd’s control, mustering the great armies of Argynvostholt against the Vampire, a conquering army sweeping across Barovia to fight at the gate of Castle Ravenloft. History would not tell if this legend bore any truth, as over six generations had passed with multiple failed revolutions, some ending in sackings or destruction of the Vasiliev holdouts. It mattered not, as Constantin knew deep in his heart he looked upon a vision of Anton Vasiliev, the Solar Hawk. Hailed as a champion of the Sun, he was heralded as the Church’s greatest weapon against Strahd. Constantin watched as his Honor Guard escorted him through the tide of war, before fanning out to form a defensive line while Anton tore through Ghoul and specter alike, stepping to Strahd Von Zarovich in single combat. 

With heavy swings of the gleaming greatsword, Anton took the fight to the Count, reaping heavy, crushing blows across the vampire’s ornate chestplate, which earned a sneer and a response of fang and claw. Sharpened talons met reinforced chestplate and sparks flew, as the respective champions exchanged blade and bite, fist and talon. The battle seemed to slow around them, as all eyes fell upon the mighty leaders at the center of this doomed revolution. Anton’s blade swung wide, the deft vampire ducking low and stepping to the side, forming his hand into a blade and driving it through the chestplate. Anton’s eyes went wide, his face turning pale as the vampire count tore his heart from his body and crushed it in his bare hand. Their General defeated, their revolution at its’ end, Constantin could only watch as his ancestors’ warriors were savaged, mauled and cut down en masse, a desperate retreat not nearly enough to save them the wrath of the summoned undead. 

Failure. A long line of failures. 

Constantin was a Vasiliev, through and through. From the deepest recesses of his spirit, to the broad features carved into his face, there was no doubt of his heritage. Was it a heritage of failure and weakness? Was it truly Constantin’s fate, that he was born to die in agony and defeat, never truly rising against Strahd and his minions? Perhaps there were worse fates. As the battlefield began to fade away, the sound of water dripping on stone echoed through all that Constantin knew, as through the darkness, a stone hallway formed. Heavy, pounding footfalls rang with the trademark jingle of plate armor segments colliding together. Turning towards the sound, the incorporeal Constantin saw his father sprinting towards him. Sword gripped tightly, the elder Vasiliev beat feet down the hallway, with a wild emotion in his eyes. Panic. Fear. Abject, pure terror. A deep sickness spread through Constantin, a feeling of pure... Illness. Seeing his father, the titan of strength of his youth, reduced to a panicked, fleeing soldier, it turned his stomach.

No. This is not real. Sancus tortures me further. My father did not die a cowardly, fearful death. 

A second set of footsteps echoed down the hall as Nikolai Vasiliev found himself trapped. A dead end. One of what Constantin presumed would be many in the twisting maze of Ravenloft, where Strahd could pursue his prey and lead them to their doom. Nikolai hit the wall, turning with a wild glare at his pursuer, who slowly stalked from the gloom into view. Tall and imposing, with sharp, angular features. Eyes glowing a deep red set into a sunken, pale face, curtains of black hair framing it as the monster bared its fangs. Strahd. Constantin watched in horror as his father brandished his sword, driving it towards the Vampire. In response, Strahd surged forward, moving faster than any normal being should have been able to, rippling through the space between them, disappearing in one blink and reappearing, his hand gripped around Nikolai’s throat in the next, slamming him into the wall. 

The Count whispered something to Nikolai, the priest bringing his hands up to try and guard himself, to strike at Strahd, something, but he could not muster the strength. Constantin could not hear their conversation, sounds echoing as if he was underwater. Drowning. Constantin watched as Strahd bared his fangs and tore into Nikolai’s neck. He tried to turn away, but this purgatory had other ideas. He was forced to watch as his father slumped to the floor, lifeless. Ghouls appeared from the darkness, having followed behind Strahd, surely, and on his command, began to drag his father’s corpse away.

Sancus did not lie. 

Constantin could not know if what he saw was reality as it happened, but to the man, nothing was more real. A sense of defeat washed over the Barovian as his vision faded to blackness again, once again floating in nothingness. More than anything, Constantin felt... Weak. What use was mighty bulk, or channeling the light of the Morninglord, when he was trapped in the eternal void between life and death? Yvan always spoke of the great tapestries, sure, and in this moment, Constantin knew his thread was fraying. His spirit flickered. An indistinguishable amount of time passed, in pure nothingness. 

Reality warped and flexed around the suspended Vasiliev, as sense and feeling began to reform. He saw and felt thick hair on his chin, cheeks and upper lip. A collar. Tight, but not choking. Looking at a reflection of himself, Constantin watched an older, more priestly image of himself tend to a member of what was presumably his congregation. He took the elderly woman’s hand, wrapped in bandaging, in his own. Unraveling the cloth binding, he looked down upon a nasty little cut, a kitchen accident. Shaking his head slightly with a smile poking through his bushy beard, Constantin clasped his hands over the wound and with a faint flash of holy light, pulled away, revealing a mended wound. The old woman bowed her head, muttering rapidly things Constantin could not hear. All he caught was a faint “Спасибо, батюшка Васильев.” ‘Thank you, Father Vasiliev.’ 

Constantin stared intently, in confusion. This had never happened. Constantin was no priest, and he did not know this woman. Was this, perhaps, another life? Something that could have been? Certainty never found him, as reality waned again. 

Was it seconds? Or could Constantin have missed the rise and fall of Empires, the birth and death of Gods? No one could know. He once again found himself slammed into reality as he realized his fist was bearing down on someone’s face. Not just someone... Father? Nikolai dodged the punch, reaching out with one of his own, tapping Constantin in the gut. It hurt... But not badly. “Excellent try, son. Care to go again?” The man intoned with a warm smile, and Constantin could not help but grin. “Yes, papa. I think I’ve got it this time.” He replied, stepping into a martial stance, raising a fist and lifting a flat palm, a posture of discipline and preparedness. With a deep exhale, Constantin launched forward, leaning into his forward foot and throwing a series of rapid punches at his father’s heavy chestplate. His fists almost seemed to move unnaturally fast, and as they impacted the plate steel in several places, the armor began to vibrate and ring harmonically, forcing the Paladin to stumble backwards with a chuckle. “Khorosho, Constantin! Your stunning strikes are coming along nicely. You are well on your way to mastering the ancient martial traditions.” Nikolai declared, patting Constantin on his bare, muscled shoulder. Constantin inclined his head in quiet thanks, before turning to look to his mother with a smile. The slender woman smiled warmly, lithely descending from her perch on a stump to stalk over to her son, leaping at him with a laugh, to catch her son in a hug, patting him gently on the back. “Amazing work, my son.” She said with warmth to her husband, the armored titan of a man who crossed his arms, looking on with a twinkle in his eye. “We should make camp.” Constantin said, patting his mother on the back as she hung from his neck, toes barely touching the wet grass. Nikolai nodded, walking towards the caravan.

Reality set low in the pit of Constantin’s stomach. This was a life he could not have. His family. Happy, together. Constantin allowed to pursue martial discipline and fitness, without the burden of being a holy warrior like his father. Nikolai, free of the burden of Sancus. Anastasia... There. With them. Happy. Constantin felt a few ethereal tears streak down his incorporeal cheeks, as he shut his ‘eyes’, returning to the void, as he could not bear the jealousy he had towards the spectral image of him.

After a split second of eternity passed, Constantin could hear again. He felt rough stone under him, grass poking through holes in his chainmail. His eyes shot open to a cloudy, stormy sky, and a hand reached out towards him. This hand was attached to a massive body, a positively giant man smiling at him from behind his helmet. “Up, boy! Now is no time for rest!” The man shouted mirthfully, and there was no doubt he was shouting, as for the second time since he died, Constantin could hear clearly. He recoiled from the sound, before taking the hand and being yanked to his feet. The man took a moment to observe familiar sensations. He was himself again, shield in hand, bedecked in chainmail. He was handed a warhammer, a familiar weight catching in his grip.

Constantin looked up to this man and squinted, attempting to conjure any sort of recognizance, yet it escaped him, save for a dull familiarity. 

Around him, various sorts of undead crashed against a small army of men in various states of armament and armoring, while four black steel statues dashed between groups of undead, slaying as they went. The giant patted Constantin on the shoulder, before hefting an immense Greathammer from a nearby rock. “Come, boy! The Dark Lord sends a scouting force to repel us, he fears our arrival at his Gates!” He roared, before heaving the massive bludgeoning weapon in a wide arc, and Constantin watched as it crashed into the side of a ghoul’s head, causing an explosion of gore and skull fragments as the body dropped limp. The monstrous man took several heaving steps, throwing himself into the movement, swinging his hammer left, right, left again on the backswing, before leaping into the air, propelled by the tree-trunks he had for legs. Hefting his Greathammer high with both hands, Constantin could smell the ozone and hear a crackling, as lightning streaked across the head of the implement. As the hammer came crashing down on an armored Vampire Spawn, a deafening thunderclap exploded across the battlefield, accompanied with a storm of holy lightning, a divine smiting delivered to the unholy monstrosity.

Constantin’s jaw fell slack as recognizance forced its way into his cloudy mind. It was not the face, nor the weapon, but the technique. He knew it as well as he knew his own hands. His father’s voice rang in his mind, and years of training and study came rushing back to his memory as the realization set itself in his mind, like a warrior-king returning to their throne after a long, long war.

Grandfather.

In the ashes of his weak, dying heart, embers glowed. Watching this spectral visage of Anatoliy Vasiliev wage war, in the same ways his father had imparted on him, from the ash, something began to rise. A renewed fury was stoked in Constantin. He was NOT READY TO DIE. Sensation rushed through the young Vasiliev as an impassioned flame roared in the engine of his heart. Hurtling himself towards his grandfather, Constantin swung his hammer wide, collapsing the skull of an undead soldier as he rushed the front line. This was as real as Constantin had felt in what seemed like eternities. Bursting through a phalanx of skeletal warriors, the young Vasiliev sprinted with the fury of a thousand men, racing to catch up with his immense Grandfather at the heart of the combat. 

The young man’s eyes were locked on his ancestor, watching his father’s father unleash ruin upon Strahd’s undead army. His eyes widened in surprise and awe as he bore witness to something he could hardly believe. His Grandfather held the Greathammer with a tight grip, his right hand near the head of the hammer, rendering a wide swing near impossible, but as he tore the Hammer across the body of a large ghoul, Constantin watched as the hammer slid out from his grip, slingshotting forward to what was almost the end of the haft where he again white-knuckled it, catching the beast off-guard. 

It was as if Constantin’s Grandfather spoke to him from beyond. Reaching out through the veil to teach him something his Father never could. And as any good grandson would do, Constantin imitated. Swinging his own hammer from a close grip, allowing it to slide through his grip wide, he caught an armored skeleton from an angle which it clearly did not expect as its skull exploded into a thousand fragments. “Excellent, my boy! You learn well!” The shout exploded from Constantin’s left, where his periphery captured the image of Grandfather Vasiliev tearing through a horde of zombies, as with all of his ancestors, four plate-armored men at his side, though it almost seemed as if he was there to protect them, rather than the reality of the situation being the inverse of such an idea. 

The sky slowly darkened, the torches at the ends of the war-camp as well as the flames of a warzone illuminating the battlefield and casting fell shadows as the undead force was slowly yet surely repelled by the army under the Vasiliev banner. The fury of the men waned under the relentless assault. Priests and Clerics set up holy wards, guarded by strike teams of Paladins who held off an endless tide of the living dead. Constantin stood with a small group, forming a shield wall with three other men as a young woman scrambled to draw holy inscriptions on the ground in salt. 

As a band of skeletons crashed against the shields, Constantin heard a scream from behind. Craning his neck as far as he could to see without lowering his shield, his eyes fell on a Dire Wolf tearing the priests apart with claw and fang. The men at his sides nodded to him, and as Constantin backstepped, their shields slammed together, closing the line as the young Vasiliev whirled around on one foot, letting his hammer slide through his grip to slingshot out, extending his reach to catch the giant beast in the ribs. 

The beast yelped, thrown from its prey, before another leapt for Constantin, driving fangs into his neck before he could even react.  The towering general of the forces of the living turned around, shouting a command at nearby soldiers who almost moved in slow motion, dragging through the air as if it were water, maneuvering to respond to the order and aid Constantin. He collapsed to the ground, a gaping wound in a very familiar place, as his vision began to blur.

Anatoly and a woman in priest’s robes knelt over Constantin, as in the corner of his vision, he saw Anatoly’s bodyguards fighting tooth and nail to give him time. Anatoly planted his hands on his grandson, and channeled holy light. There was a mighty glow, and Constantin felt pure agony. Grandfather Vasiliev looked on with a somber expression, as the priestess frowned and looked to him, shaking her head. “Tch.” Anatoly scoffed frustratedly, exchanging quiet words with her. All Constantin could hear was ‘out of time’ and ‘peace’. “I don’t want to die...” He mumbled. “Rest, mal’chik.” Anatoly rumbled. “Now is not your time... You do not belong here.” He said, looking at Constantin with surprisingly piercing eyes. Looking through his body straight to his soul. All the young man could see as his sight faded to blackness was the somber, grandfatherly gaze of the old man, the creases in his eyes an accessory to a sad smile.

The void again. Complete and total sensory deprivation collapsed around the maimed form of Constantin, as visions of bloodshed left his eyes. Tears silently streaked down his face, or did they? He couldn't tell. The anguish burned in his chest like acid, tearing away at what remained of his spirit. Had Sancus lied to him? No, certainly not. This was his blessing. Purgatory instead of Hell. A chance to return, for his friends to save him, undeserving as he was of such a thing. He had failed to save them from danger, why should they risk themselves again? These questions ran through his mind as the spirit of the Barovian merely.... Was. No longer could he smell the iron-rich scent of bloody battlefields, the mildew of the stone halls of Ravenloft's basement. For someone who was so deeply engaged with his world around him, such deprivation, senselessness, it was torture. After what seemed like hours, days, years, or perhaps mere seconds, a warmth began to creep around Constantin's shoulders and neck, before the feeling of curly hair draping down his right side and a gentle chin resting on his shoulder snapped him back to as close of a reality as he could snap back to. A familiar feeling, a presence.... Mom...? 

Before he could even see her, he was entirely enraptured with a scent all too familiar. One he had not experienced in seven odd years. Black raspberry, bergamot incense, and a subtle yet sweet dark vanilla at the very bottom. His mother's perfume, of which she kept in a delicate red bottle at her bedside. "Costicǎ." An old nickname, one of a boy who had been snuffed out long ago. "My son. How you've grown." She looked just as she did all of those years ago. Thin stress lines set into her strong features, crow's feet stamped at the outer corners of her glimmering blue eyes. Her hair fell in long, dense curls down her back, many set into small braids. The edges of her form blurred a bit though, as if he was looking at her through water. A reminder of how long it had been since he had seen his mother. She took his face in her hands, looking Constantin over. "You look tired, ursuleț. Tell your mother what is wrong." 

Constantin turned to face her, still feeling the phantom of her embrace. He could not meet her gaze, and he choked on his first inhale, a shaky breath. "I was not strong enough to save them, mama." He replied weakly. "I left my friends to... To die." He brought hands, again vaguely corporeal, to his face, as tears began to well at the corners of his tired, sunken eyes. "I broke my promise to them. I failed in my oath to Sancus, I failed my father... I failed you." He choked, still unable to look his mother in the face, even as she held his face in her hands. "I lost focus, I was not ready, and now I am... Here. Here in this nothingness. I don't even know if they are alive, if they are trying to save me, why would they? I've given them nothing but another burden to carry."

"Oh my son. You are far too hard on yourself. You could never fail me, I am your mother. You blossomed from my very bones." Anastasia tipped her head, her dark brows furrowing a bit at the pitiful display. She wiped the tears from his eyes with her thumbs. "If anything, my boy, I failed you. I should have whisked you away from that church long ago, once your father became someone I didn't recognize." Something crossed her blurry features, a pained expression as it seemed she herself held back tears. After a moment, it melted back into her steadfast features.

"All of that is said and done now. Regrets are left with the earthly body, as they may not pass into the next realm. Come, let us walk together one last time." Her hands fell to Constantin's, the many delicate rings across her fingers feeling cold against his skin.

Constantin heaved a shaky breath. “Father became what Sancus demanded of him.” He said weakly. “He needed a warrior. Not a parent or a husband. A warrior.” He looked up to meet his mother’s ethereal gaze. “What would have become of me if you had taken me from that place? Who would I be…?”

The young man’s thought trailed off as his mother took him by the hand. His grip fell gently over hers, as if cradling a delicate flower as he relented, following as Anastasia led.

"You recognize his folly. Good." Her voice fell into a whisper, almost a reassurance to herself. "I'm glad." Anastasia stole a glance over her shoulder to her grown son, leading him along an unwinding path that faded further and further from the battlefield hellscape behind them. "I do not wish the same fate for you. You are already a better man than he was. When war consumes all of you, it leaves nothing left for the things most important. For him, that was his family. We were left with the scraps of his affection that only ever followed his misguided anger. You are half his age and you already understand more of what truly mattered than he ever did."

She paused, standing before a looking pool assembled from the roots of an ancient tree. Looking down, she fell quiet. Before them, stretched across the surface of the inky black water, was a blurred scene of fire, smoke, and combat. Unlike the battlefield before though, this was enclosed in a cluttered room, the ceiling coming down around the colorful faces surrounding the point of view. Constantin recognized it as what he last remembered, just before the icy pain and the world fading to blackness.

"You gave yourself for what mattered to you. Your friends." She gestured down to the sequence. "You could have been more careful, more reserved with your actions for the sole purpose of preserving yourself and your own quest against Strahd. And it very well may have ended with one of them in your place." Anastasia finally looked up, glassy tears welling in her eyes. "You do not understand your sacrifice, my son. It will not go unnoticed."

“I could have done more. Sancus, my… My friends. They needed me to be strong. To bear the weight of the danger collapsing down on us. I should have brought the mother hag down but I couldn’t break her stance. I was weak.” Constantin muttered, shoulders shaking as he silently choked back more anguish. 

“All my life I have fought to be enough and have always barely escaped coming up short. When those undead ambushed us and you nearly died, I barely managed to save you. When Father left for Ravenloft, I was hardly the warrior he had tried so hard to raise…”

Constantin turned his gaze to his mother. His eyes drying, taking on an almost empty gaze. A man who had no tears left to cry, nothing left to give. The raging embers in his heart, so recently stoked by the visage of his grandfather, they began to dim again. “I had nothing left to give when they needed me the most. If they had sense, they would have left me there and carried on in their mission with Ireena…” 

Constantin placed his face in his hands, wiping his eyes and hiding his sorrowful, shame-ridden gaze from the visage of his mother.

She simply shook her head, her full lips pressing into a line as she turned away from him. His heart squeezed, an awfully familiar feeling snagging at his throat. Disappointment. He could feel the cold claws rake across his skin, drawing crude purple lines across his flesh. Anastasia took a step, and then one more, drawing away from Constantin and piercing into the yawning darkness in front of her. He was losing her once more. 

Another step. 

No. This time, she was leaving him.

He was growing colder, the shadows whispering at his back. Suddenly he felt like a child again, afraid of the dark and of all the unseen things that only the presence of his mother could ward away. He had to follow her, to chase the warmth. He had been so long without it, the longing to be held and safe tearing up his insides.

Constantin shivered, feeling the cold creep over him. “I don’t want to die.” He mumbled almost inaudibly. He looked up, face wrought in pain and fear as he watched his mother walk away. He took off after her. “That is it?” He spoke, as he moved to catch up with her. 

“You come to me… To tell me I was enough and then leave? Why?” He pleaded. “What is the meaning of this, mama?” Cried Constantin, calling after his mother. “I never should have left you, mama. I’m sorry. Please, don’t go.” He reached out for Anastasia desperately, nearly tripping over himself in his desperation.

His hand passed through hers like a ghost, her palm dissolving into mist momentarily before reforming. She was fading, and fast. Anastasia took off into a sprint, that of a rabbit. Desperate, wild. She lifted her long skirts, darting back and forth like a spark from a fire. Constantin soon realized she wasn't from him, but searching for something instead. His mother seemed to radiate light while the darkness tried to consume him, her aura the only thing keeping clammy hands of shadows at bay. 

The void surrounding them morphed into more tree roots, tangling into each other to form solid walls, a small, cramped hallway. It was nearly pitch black, save for the dim light emitted around Anastasia. She barreled down the hallway, as if her very life depended upon it.

Constantin was strong. But not particularly fast or dexterous. Even in this spectral form, he was clumsy and crashed after her in desperation. Luckily, by pure length of leg he kept a relatively solid pace. 

Constantin was a stoic man, a man of grit and tenacity. But in this moment he ran with fear and desperation. He felt the clutch of death, the pain in his neck and chest, rippling through purple veins. His mother was his lifeline and by the Gods above and below, he wouldn’t let her go. 

He just wished she’d slow down a bit.

She turned sharply, allowing Constantin to slam into the gnarled root wall. The hallway began to narrow, the walls closing in and the ceiling dropping lower. As he turned and recovered, his eyes fixed on the visage of his mother, standing still at the very end of the small passageway. He was so close. Closing the distance between them, he watched as she grabbed at a cloth covering the wall. A curtain, perhaps? He didn't have the time to process as she tore it from the wall, spinning as she did. The fabric engulfed her, and the sheet fell to the floor, Anastasia nowhere in sight. Constantin was alone with a dark mirror, staring into his reflection. That of a dead man. 

A single violet, unblinking eye met Constantin's, the iris foggy from oxidation. Pallid skin peeled off muscle like wallpaper, revealing oozing purple masses beneath that had consumed most tissue it could get a hold of. The body was fairly far into the decomposition process, and it looked like it may have been left somewhere forested. Fungi already took to making small shelves along the cheeks of the corpse, and the acidic decay of the poison had not stopped carrion beetles making home in every orifice they could reach into. Insect activity had already eaten up much of the soft tissue, taking the other eye and exposing the bone of the skull behind it where Constantin could see more purple veins ebbing their way across the body. Despite the terrible condition of the body, it was still so easy to recognize.

The haunting eye was only present for a moment, though, as it faded into the silver backing of the mirror. He stared into his own blue eyes, dim light still occupying his gaze. "They mourn you." Anastasia's voice reached his ears, barely above a whisper. She was behind him now, tipping her head. "Look and see."

Constantin stared in horror at his own corpse. Truly it was a pain worse than death to see your own fate after you died, and Constantin bore witness. As the image of his death mask burned itself into his mind, the idea of his corpse being abandoned in the forest to be reclaimed by Barovia filled him with dread, an ache burning in his heart where flames of passion and hatred once roared in equal measure. As his mother’s voice whispered to him, he turned to look her in the face, sorrow stricken across his visage as he looked upon his mother. He could not bring himself to look away, tears welling in the corners of his dull, sad gaze. As she nodded for him to look again, he cast his eyes back to the mirror.

The corpse now gone, Constantin watched as his own reflection warped, moving and changing. Soon, it looked as if he was sleeping, eyes shut and hair tousled like any other night in the camp. The heavy silence that hung in the air was broken by the echo of voices, warbled in nature and extremely difficult to make out. Images formed slowly around his sleeping reflection, forming into the faces of his friends. Each of them were starting in different stages of grief. The scene became clearer- They sat around him, staring down in horror at him. The mirror's surface rippled, shifting to the group splitting. Tyyran and Rorali made their way down into darkness, their shouts being swallowed up by the void. Thalassia, moving out of the hut with two forms in tow, one of Constantin and one of Bettany. Scenes continued to appear across the mirror, bombarding Constantin with overlaying cries, conversations, and hushed whispers. He watched as they carried his body through thick and thin, out of the rain, tucking him in the wagon, and even allowing him a bed in an unrecognizable location.

"Can't you see? You meant so much more to them than you realize."

“I… I did not know.” Constantin murmured, staring blankly at the reflection. A stream of tears flowed down his sullen cheeks as he watched Tyyran’s anguish, the Dragonborn cradling his burned, poisoned corpse.  

“Was I.. Was I enough for them?” He asked, turning towards Anastasia once again.

She nodded slowly, giving him a soft smile. "Plenty, ursuleț. As much as you could in the little time you all bonded. You deserve to rest." Anastasia murmured. Constantin could feel a soft glow of light on his back, and upon looking at the mirror again, the surface glimmered with a warm, holy light.

“What? Mama, what is this? Sancus… He gave me a chance. Another chance. Did they not help me? Did it… Did nothing work?” Constantin looked hesitantly at the light, before fearfully gazing back at his mother. “What is happening?”

She shook her head wearily, looking over his shoulder to the light. It lit up her deep tan skin, her eyes glimmering like ice in the sun. "It is time, my dear. Time to join your ancestors." Figures barely stood out against the bright backdrop, peering with indiscernible faces, all of their eyes resting on Constantin in wait. Constantin pulled his mother tight into an embrace. He cast his eyes away from his ancestors, denying their gaze. “No…” he murmured, a choked cry escaping him as he buried his face into his mother’s small shoulder, like he was again a child. Faced with death, his reality laid bare, Constantin could not help but grasp one last moment with his mother. If this was to be his death, he would spend his last moment in the arms of someone he loved.

The images of his companions echoed in his mind. The warm embrace of the afterlife called to him, as the Hag’s poison snaked its way into his heart. But where the poison sought lifeblood and flesh to rot and bring ruin, it met a burning ember. Constantin heaved a heavy breath. “I’m not ready to die.” He murmured, still locked in his embrace with Anastasia. As he made his declaration, sorrow melted to the heat of an indomitable fury. “They need me.” He said, pulling away to look his mother in the face. He turned to his ancestors behind the veil, breaking free of his mother’s arms. As the flames of his spirit roared in the engine of his heart, he shouted. “I’M NOT READY TO DIE!”

Anastasia watched, concern and pain in her features before an eerie serenity consumed everything. She observed silently for a beat, before her form liquidated into pure shadow, pooling on the floor. It stayed like that for several moments before a tall figure rose from the blackness, stretching to an impossible height in the cramped space to the point he had to curl and contort his body to fit. His piercing eyes, two wells of reflective green-white, regarded Constantin with little emotion. The figure's presence was cold, like a black hole threatening to absorb all astral light it came across. "Sancus's ward. what a curious creature you are."

Constantin was consumed with a righteous flame, his spirit burning bright as it possibly could in the darkness. “Who speaks?” He demanded defiantly. The flames flickered, but did not die. His heart ran hot, and his eyes were full of an impassioned rage

The man chuckled, a hollow noise that reverberated through Constantin's very bones. "An old friend of your patron. He called in a favor to me. You are fortunate he is able to maintain such connections despite his... Situation." His eyes narrowed a bit as he held out his hand, a large bident gleaming to life in his very palm. The man was like no god Constantin had observed across Barovia's faiths, much like Sancus. 

“You are a friend of Sancus?” Constantin challenged. “I know not how he could keep friends.” he continued. “But it seems I should be grateful to you.”

"The ties between gods are concepts far deeper than you could perceive, child." He hummed back, seeming almost bored with the conversation. "Your gratitude is superfluous, I have come here out of obligation to an equal. If it had been my decision, your soul would have already been harvested for its next vessel. I'm making an exception." The way he spoke was entirely unnerving. "Do not worry, though. We will meet again, perhaps in a week, perhaps in a decade." The man stated. It sounded like it was supposed to be... Comforting? But the intention was more or less lost by his serene, monotonous tone.

“I will come bringing the head of a vampire.” Constantin declared boldly. “Tell me. Who are you?”

The roots around them began to unravel, leaving them in an endless black expanse. He rose to his full height, towering over Constantin, who was able to observe the rest of the man. Cascading black robes wrapped and fastened around his person with clean chains. The collar of the garment was alight with green flames that licked at the air around him, a similar glow at the bottom hem that dragged in the shadows. 

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Tread carefully, child. Not many receive a second chance. No one gets a third." His deep voice rumbled as he lifted the bident, allowing the blunt end to click at the ground. Constantin felt whatever that was beneath his feet give way, allowing him to freefall down, down, down. The man did not spare him even a wave, only following the Barovian's descent with his keen eyes.

[catra-writes]

In The Forest

Warning: mentions of death, corpses, decay. If anything like that disturbs, frightens or triggers you in any way, I advise against reading this short.

--

In the woods, far far deep into the thickest and darkest part of the woods where the threes grew wide, tall and plentiful. In the woods where it was peacefully quiet and void of the noise of pesky chirping and squabbling of critters. 

In the woods, somewhere in there, lay a woman. This woman was waiting. She had just laid there only recently and was waiting for something to happen.

You see, this woman wasn't out there on her own. She was laid there to become part of the earth. This woman was dead. But she wasn't dead by any natural cause it seemed. Her body appeared to bet perfect, untouched and unharmed, but how she died is a complete mystery. No one knows how, when or why she had died, but she was.

The woman's body laid still and unmoving on the Forrest floor, staring up at the canopy of lush green leaves and the light peeking through them. Sometimes she'd be staring at the stars that glimpsed through the leaves. Sometimes the leaves changed colour and sometimes the sky cried. Her dull, lifeless eyes observed all the changes of the world they could view. 

The body of the woman with no name waited for the forest to take her, but her body remained unchanged, much unlike the world around her. The world around her grew, died and grew again as seasons came and went, the forest shifting ever so slightly every time the seasons had made a full rotation.

Ever so slowly, moss and roots began growing over her pale and cold body. The plant life beginning to cover her body as the Forest tried making her apart of the world, but as roots, moss, vines and other things of the like grew and covered her...that corpse just refused to rot and decay. She wouldn't let herself, she didn't want to.

Mother Earth wanted to take her back but she wouldn't let her body become apart of the world that so rudely stripped her of the life it initially granted her. One day, this world would understand. But she'd never give in as long as she still could fight. That corpse just simply refused to decay.

There were rumors of a woman who had made her body immoral. she had gone and moved into a cottage deep in the woods. everyone who knew of the woman called her the witch of the wood. there are many variations to the story of how she got her immortality. some say she angered the fates so they cursed her, some say Athena blessed her.

No one knew for sure but we were sure she was a witch. Her magic had been witnessed many a time. She healed the woods, the animals and the travelers. She fought every threat that had faced the woods, being deemed it's guardian. Where the woman came from was just as much a mystery as her past and everything else about her.

Her mystery was just as enticing as the sweet smell of a baker's fresh pastries. Many wished to steal her magic and immortality for their own greedy selves. Some disliked her entirely and wished her gone, though it may just have been jealousy as not everyone had the gifts she did.

Witch's from many other places saw her as both a sister and a rival. They may have competed for magic, items and whatever else a witch could compete for. They sent each other things whether it be harmful or helpful.

The reason I bring all this up is because any one of these could be reasons for her passing, but none of them were right...because I am the real reason for her passing. I am always visiting the witch of the wood, long after her spirit has passed on but her immortal body remains with the forest, surrounded by her favourite flora and fauna.

I regret it of course. I loved her, but I envied her too. Looking at the witch has no longer been as painful as it first was. Her damned corpse just refuses to decay.