#lenore sharp

[hcreath]

The urge to change Tamar's voiceclaim.

[benevolentcalamity]

Beautiful Little One [Dad!Mihawk x Fem!Reader]

A quick note before we get started, I am only at a certain point in Enies Lobby. (You may know the one.) So like with Crocodile, please refrain from spoilers/fan theories.

Kay thanks, enjoy! Also hot diggity dog I vibe with this aesthetic so hard.

Btw I'm not confident in writing Mihawk since I haven't seen much of him, so pointers would be appreciated. Thanks fam! ^^

Content warning: Childbirth, breastfeeding (I don't know if that needs it, just in case.)

CURTAINS!

Labor was long and torturous.

Blinking in and out of consciousness, you don't recall if you've seen the sun rise and fall even once. The days leading up to this point have all raced together, melted like wax until they're indiscernible. For all you're aware, this baby had been ready to come out since Roger's execution.

A nurse takes the little red mass from beneath your hips, carrying it over to the bucket. Wearily you attempt to lift your head, squinting to see it through the fuzzy world of colors. Violent tremors overtake your body, forcing you back down, another nurse at your side in seconds.

Light pierces into your eye, your lips parted and your tongue pulled out. Your neck and wrists are prodded along the faint sensations of wiping along your legs. Sucking in a breath through your teeth, your one hand comes up to your forehead, eventually your arm falling across your eyes like limp noodles.

"Congratulations, Miss [Name]," You hear through the haze. "She's a healthy little princess."

Eased upright and propped against some pillows, you tear your eyes open, finally beginning to regain focus. Reaching out, you watch the little red blob being carried back to you. As the fog clears, you gaze upon her face, calming from cries you could not hear, and her little hand grips your awaiting pointer.

"... Is he still outside...?" You vaguely recall him coming, or trying to.

"Hawk...eye?" A nurse trembles. "Um... let me go look..."

Your gaze falls to the baby. She's calm and serene, finally in your arms. As her soft coos fill the air, the previous days become but a fleeting dream... No, the pain and sickness of pregnancy is all beyond you, all of it having lead up to her being here. It's all worth it - she's here, and both of you are fine.

Her eyes slowly pry open, gazing up at you. Their amber hue doesn't pierce you at all, but rather it's a warm glow. Not as sharp, not as striking as her father's, but one day, they will be as strong. If she's anything like him... which is quite the opposite of a far cry.

creak

Your head lifts back up, turning towards the opening door. Shadowed by the trembling nurse, Mihawk comes in a bit slowly, as though waiting for you to tell him 'not right now'. To be frank you'd be chuckling if you weren't absolutely drained right now. Gently stroking the child's head you manage an assuring smile.

"Dracule..." You murmur, the nurses leaving to give you some privacy. "Come here... hold her..."

Picking up the pace, he leans over to kiss your brow. "Forgive me, that I wasn't here for the whole thing."

Shaking your head, you maintain your smile, delicately passing her into his awaiting arms. At first it's hard to gauge his expression even with his hat off. His one hand comes up, stroking her little head as her eyes gaze curiously up at him. With a coo from her he brings her up to his face, peppering her little cheek with tickling kisses.

"Hello, little one..." He breathes, an uncharacteristic softness in his voice.

Through her giggles you sigh, relieved. "Isn't she beautiful...?"

He nods, holding her to his chest. "She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Given how much he's seen on the seas, that's a hard accomplishment, surely. "... We haven't decided on a name for her."

Simpering, you reach to put a hand on his arm. "Well, you have so many good ones."

"As do you." He kisses her forehead. "... I've had Lenore in my mind."

Your senses return fully. "That's a beautiful name. I like it, too."

Holding her up, you notice his cheek crease with a smile as his beard tickles Lenore. For a moment he's completely lost, taking all of her in. From how his head tilts to foil her attempts to grab his beard, to the way his poking fingers tickle her belly, he's spellbound by her. Bringing her close, he kisses her forehead, noticing her beginning to fuss.

Delicately he passes her back to you, and for what must be the first time, a genuine smile is on his lips as you tug the blanket down to breastfeed.

"... Thank you."

Your eyes flicker up to him from her latching. "For what?"

"For the love you've given me, for the light you've brought to my heart..." His hand reaches forward, scooping yours up. "... And for Lenore."

"You..." You falter. "... Dracule..." Lucky you, Lenore has eaten her fill, drifting back into slumber.

"Oh." He notices your exhaustion, kissing your forehead. "I'll find the nurses, worry not. Here, allow me..." Gentle he pulls her from your lap, helping you lie back down. "Get some rest. You've done well."

As you drift off into the stillness, you feel him pull the blankets over your shoulders.

"... So long as I live, you and Lenore will be safe. I promise."

[lina-studen]

I was drawing pluto's portrait the other day and it got me into thinking: does he have a left eye or not? and a bigger question: do in-life disabilities transfer into the academy?

let's take a look at the other character — lenore. for a long time she couldn't walk at all and needed a wheelchair. it was also stated by the doctors that her legs could never fully heal. and even when she finally felt better, lenore still had to use a cane.

but in nevermore she's able to run, jump and do all kinds of other cool tricks. I could remember only one scene where she felt a sharp pain in her legs — in the arboretum. but from a bad landing like this any healthy person could feel the pain too. or maybe it's more of a phantom pain.

so, if we assume that lenore's injury didn't carry over into the afterlife, then what about pluto? when he was still alive, he clearly lost his left eye. and after that he probably started covering it with his hair.

and I wonder: does he wear emo bangs now just out of habit or is his eye still missing? what do you think?

or maybe I'm just overthinking and lenore's injury did fully heal and everything stays as it was in the afterlife...

[tequiilasunriise]

Okay yall lemme cook‼️‼️‼️

I really, really like the parallels of ‘she fainted and now I’ll fan her’ here with White Raven:

Annabel caught Lenore when she almost fell and tried to remain in this untouched and happy facade while still subtly trying to fan Lenore because Annabel believed her to be upset and needed some air.

Lenore caught Annabel when girlypop straight up fainted and more obviously fans her in an attempt to care for Annabel, her face full of open concern for the fallen woman, there’s even a whole panel that draws attention to the fan specifically.

Why does this even matter, you ask me? Because I love the stark contrasts between Lenore and Annabel, even down to the most minute details they’re opposites.

Annabel is trying to be more discreet in her affections for Lenore, her pretty smile and chipper words a diversion from the way she holds onto Lenore’s arm to steady her, bright eyes a complete distraction from the way her fan is flapping away. Her carefree attitude makes it seem like she could easily play off these attempts to care fer Lenore, like she could flippantly brush it off as ‘nothing big’ and that she ‘doesn’t really care this is just a throwaway whatever action’ (but we all know the calculative Annabel Lee doesn’t just do whatever fer just anyone).

On the complete opposite side of the spectrum, Lenore cares about Annabel. She cares a whole lot, actually, and she’s extremely open about it. From angrily calling Annabel a dratted liar fer claiming what they had to be fake to very clearly worrying about Annabel as she fans her. The delicate care, the way Lenore does not hesitate to grab that fan and start gently fanning Annabel, how she doesn’t try to set up a facade that gives her an ‘out’ if questioned why she’s doing all these things for Annabel. Lenore gives no shit about mindgames and appearances dude!!! Yeah she cares about Annabel, so what??? Lenore is just SOOOO acts of service as a love language, each time she reaches out is open declaration of, “love you love you love you”.

That kinda contrast kills me, man!!! Bright moon x dim sun, the sun does care but she needs to show it in a way where people don’t think she’s that invested you know you know she’s Just A Friend™️, meanwhile the moon says, “fuck it we ballllllll” and snitches her bleeding heart across her entire sleeve right before diving in with affections on full display.

That being said, I also really like how Annabel’s fanning is the last kindness she gave Lenore right before she left and Lenore ‘died’ and by sharp contrast Lenore’s fanning is one of the first kindness she gave Annabel when she came back from the ‘dead’ all resurrected like a funky butch lesbian Jesus.

Kindness as a last resort, as a final parting gift when the time’s up, vs kindness as an instinct, as a greeting call, as your first move.

[nereidof40k]

This is Chapter 1 of the sequel to the Abyssal Edge interview rewrite, tentatively titled “The First Captain’s Dilemma”, which is a nod to one of my favorite Star Wars fics, “How A Romance Novel Saved The Galaxy.”

Now, there’s a plot twist here. Do you get a cookie if you guessed the twist?

Nope, you get a cookie either way. You’re not here to perform for my entertainment.

This contains Night Lords, a dead body and Sevatar being Sevatar. Do feel free to critique my characterization, I’m running on the understanding he isn’t very good at understanding people and how they think.

@beckyninja , @justanothermemestrider , @yanagikou , hope you like. Had to stop writing because my hand was hurting too bad to continue, but I have more planned.

The massive chainglaive stopped less than an inch from her shoulder, she was certain she could feel the teeth against her skin.

Sevatar tilted his head, looking at her with an expression so familiar it made her brain itch.

“Say that again.” She repeated her statement, feeling as if she was almost but not quite remembering something very important. Looking up at the towering Space Marine looming over her, she slipped her hand into her skirts, retrieving the knife she always wore strapped to her thigh.

At the sight of the knife in her slim hand, Jago froze, a long buried memory dragging itself from the lowest depths of his mind.

He was back on Nostramo, standing in a back alley on the edges of the city. A shiny, sharp bone handled knife in his hand.

In front of him was a young woman, smiling brightly at him, looking up at him with clear admiration.

“Father says I shouldn’t muck around with knives.” She sighed.

“He’s an idiot. You, of all people, need to be able to defend yourself, little vixen.” She chuckled softly in response.

“Thank you, Jago. I love it.” She clutched the knife as he laid it in her soft hand, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He turned his head as she did, catching her lips with his own. It was all too brief, but he couldn’t resist. Neither did she, leaning into it.

She smiled. “Stay safe, my dear.” Straightening, knowing she couldn’t remain. Pulling her shawl over her pale blonde hair, wary of discovery. “Do Svidanya, Jago Sevatarion.” It seemed almost too formal, too final.

“You too, Lenore.” He wanted to hold her back. This was the last time he saw his little Vixen. It was like she had ceased to exist. And then the reeducation process Astartes went through made him forget.

As the chainglaive was resting on her shoulder, it had ripped her robes slightly, uncovering a lopsided birthmark on her pale shoulder. He knew that mark.

Two children were standing on the edge of a small pond, wringing water out of their hair and clothes.

“Only way that looks like a bat is if you smashed the bat with a hammer.” The boy grinned teasingly.

The girl laughed and swatted him. “Jago! You’re impossible.”

”And you love it, Vixen.”

She was the only one he ever let call him Jago. He hated his name, but somehow it sounded good in her voice.

Dropping the glaive, he picked her up, looking at her very intently.

Under the scars, he knew that face. It pained him to see the long line across her throat, but yet, it was a miracle.

“Vixen.” He murmured. “You kept my knife?”

Those lovely dark eyes widened in recognition at last. “Jago? My Jago?” Her arms went around his thick neck as far as they would go.

“I thought you were dead.” That wry smile on her face at his words was a welcome sight.

“I almost was.” She buried her face in his neck, shuddering. “The Count discovered I was sneaking out.”

Sevatar snarled. This was the first time he had heard her refer to her father by title. Which, knowing her loyalty to family, said a lot.

“What. Did. He. Do?”

“Tried to make me forget about you. Went as far as getting a Drukhari ‘friend’ of his to wipe my memories of you.”

That explained a lot. If he gritted his teeth any harder he might break his jaw. But he wasn’t going to draw attention to what was going on. Plan. He needed a plan. His Lenore must live.

“Talos.” He voxed his friend. Talos would help.

“Sevatar?” Surprise evident in his voice.

“Get me a corpse from somewhere and meet me in the archivist’s room. As similar to her as possible.” To his credit Talos didn’t argue.

He put a finger on her lips as he ended the call. “We’re faking your death. I’m keeping you here with me.”

She eyed him for a long moment, then nodded. “I wouldn’t want to leave. Not when I can remember you again.”

Sevatar put her back down carefully. “Anything you really can’t replace, grab it.”

It was odd seeing her so serious. And the pitiful pile of little trinkets she piled on the table was painful.

As she grabbed the blanket from the bed, a blush spread across her freckled cheeks.

Jago plucked the rolled up poster from her other hand, unrolling it. Smiling to see one of those damned propaganda posters. He hated posing for them, but it was cute how she was apparently drawn to him even without conscious memories of him. “Got a pen?”

Of course Talos had to arrive just as he presented Lenore the signed poster.

Dropping the fresh corpse on the carpet, the apotechary waved his scanner over Sev’s head. “Your head is no more messed up than usual. Now will someone please explain what is going on?”

Lenore just chuckled.

“We’re going to fake her death. I’m not letting the first woman I ever cared for go.”

“This is insane even for you, Sev. “ Talos rubbed his forehead with a grimace. “But let’s do this.”

Sevatar turned to Lenore with that grin. Obviously up to something.

“First off, get those clothes off.”

She stepped back, eyebrow raised and arms crossed, until he elaborated. “We need to dress the corpse like you.”

Grabbing the blanket, she wrapped it around herself, keeping herself completely covered while removing her robes.

Talos, that traitor, just laughed at Jago’s face. No, him looking like Sanguinalia had been cancelled wasn’t that funny, was it?

Lenore eyed the corpse while they worked. “Anyone you don’t like we can blame for my death while we’re at it?”

The two Astartes looked at each other, with matching grins. “Nikolai. Had another injured serf this morning. He needs to stop crippling serfs.” Talos suggested.

“Perfect. He’s an arrogant, self absorbed shitboot. He was about to have an ‘accident’, but getting Curze on his case is much better.”

Once the stage was set, Jago picked up the blanket bundle containing his girl and her things.

“Don’t worry, nobody is going to question me walking around with a mysterious bundle.” He smirked.

“Just like home.” Good, she sounded amused. “Just remember, Jago Sevatarion, I have a knife.” Definitely feeling better then.

Nobody was outside the room, so Sevatar headed for his quarters, smiling to himself, while Talos went for Operation Framing the Idiot.

On his way Sevatar saw several of his least favorite Astartes. Letting out a laugh sent them scattering, evidently convinced the world was ending. Which only made him laugh harder.

Arriving at his quarters he locked the door behind him before depositing his Vixen on the bed.

“Welcome to my humble quarters, my dear.” He bowed theatrically as she poked her head out of the blanket.

[zeebreezin]

Before leaving for the Neath, to find his daughter’s killer, August Shaw told only one person: his wife. His letter was poorly worded, rambling, and utterly incoherent. Before leaving to complete his Ambition, heading into Parabola on a quest he does not think he will return from, Shaw did not want to make the same mistake. The following messages were addressed to (In order): @neathyingenue ‘s Silvia Salcedo, @gmalaart ‘s Emon Cavendish, @elleryhart ‘s Ellery , @viric-dreams ‘s Robin Jones, @letheology ‘s Mina Azoulai, @capn-twitchery ‘s Twitch, and @t6fs, here addressed as Logan.

[You haven’t heard from Shaw in several days, any mail you sent has gone unanswered. A letter arrives out of nowhere, written in his curling handwriting. The script is messy, blotted with ink and wine.] “Dear Silvia, I apologise for the state of myself as I write this, though you must understand that this message is of the utmost importance. The time for half truths and polite obfuscation is past, between us. I will not insult you by dancing around the truth. When I first came to London, I came with only one purpose: to avenge the death of my daughter, Lenore, and to meet my own end in the process. Since then, well. I’ve found something quite worth remaining for. I set off now to end what I have started, and I may not return. For that I am so, so sorry. You have become… so much to me, Silvia. In all your endeavours, I wish you the best. Your talent and passion for what is right has inspired me, and I’m sure you have inspired many. I am proud to consider you family, a bond not forged by blood but by ink and will. I… I hope you will be well. No matter what happens. If I do not return, know that I am deeply proud of you. Your Friend, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[The letter does not arrive on paper. It is scrawled across the cosmogone sky, familiar handwriting curling across the surface of parabola like a rock skipping across the surface of a lake.] “My Dearest Emon, it rends my heart to know that I cannot send you this letter. I dare not post it, knowing the reflection that takes your place.” [A few words are heavily scratched out.] “I have no idea if I will see you again, you as I know you, vibrant and sharp and maddeningly brilliant. I wish, more than anything, you were at my side. If I return from the journey I now set out to take, know that I will find you. My window of opportunity is brief, and I cannot linger, though I know how selfish it must seem. I set off now to defeat the ghosts that haunt me, to lay my daughter to rest. When I began, I thought that this would be my undoing, a death I welcomed. Now, though. I must succeed. I will find you again, Emon. These words will reach you - they must. I have to return. Wherever you may be, know that… I will find you, my love. Yours, Always, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[A stained letter is delivered to you by an anonymous urchin. It’s dated to a few days after you left on your trip… the handwriting is familiar.] “Dear Ellery Hart, I hope this letter reaches you well. I’ve scheduled it to be delivered as soon as you return, as its contents are quite important to me. Once you receive this, I will have already departed on a journey. I dare not tell you where I go, or why, but know that-” [A section of text is scratched out.] “I may not return. In such a case, I… Where do I begin? You’ve come so far in the time I’ve known you, Ellery. In all senses, I’m deeply proud of the man you’ve grown into. Wherever your path takes you after this hunt, I know you will do well. If this is goodbye, then know that I count you both amongst my finest pupils, and amongst my dearest friends. Hunt well, Ellery. Your Friend, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[The dead drop has remained quiet for a while now. The next missive you receive from the Black Rook isn’t encoded, or tucked away - it’s left in your mailbox, like any other letter.] “Dear Jones, I apologise for the unorthodox - or perhaps more accurately, deeply orthodox - method of communication. This message has nothing to do with our work, though I understand if you dispose of it as if it was. Simply put, I am… leaving London, for a time. This journey is not one I had expected to return from for a long time, but I know that I will be fighting to return to the city now. Should all go wrong, well, I know that we have not always seen eye to eye. I know that I may never truly win back your trust, something that would be well within your rights. But I could not leave in good conscience without saying goodbye. The letters we used to send, as Suzette and Jacques, they provided me a great deal of light during my darkest days. After everything I am, in truth, not sure what to call us. But whatever you are to me, Robin Jones, I hope I get to see you again, once all this is over. Play Well, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[Shaw hasn’t been at the university for a while, now. A letter is slipped into your desk when you return to Benthic, tucked neatly into the top drawer. No cipher, plain script - this isn’t a game.] “Dear Mina, I hope the Khante has been treating you well. I’m unsure as to when you’ll be back, and a part of me hopes that this letter will be quickly corrected by my presence at your door, but nevertheless. I’m setting off on a mission, you could say, one of great personal significance. One I am unsure if I will return from. In the case I… do not return, I leave my network to you, Mina. Take this letter to Demirkan, he will know what to do. …We can do great things with this Game we play. We have done great things. I trust you to carry on that, if I cannot. You have been a great friend to me, and a most trusted confidant. I can only hope that I do not betray that trust now. Your Friend, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[A letter from your former protege arrives, carried by bat. It’s uncommon enough that he’s writing to you, but the contents of the letter are stranger still.] “Dear Captain Lazaret, I must apologise for the suddenness of this letter. I hope it finds you well, and in a space where you can read it without fearing immediate retribution. Though I know we only occasionally brush paths these days, it seemed unwise to not inform you of my current state of affairs. Simply put, Captain, I’m going to be away from London for some time, and I am unsure if I will ever see home waters again. For all my gripes and bristles (and indeed, all the years I fear you’ve taken off my life) I could not have become the man I am today without your guidance. I know I may have seemed ungrateful, but… well, thank you for all you taught me. And for all the times we have spent together, many of which were at the worst lows of my time down below. You are vexing, and caustic, and I dare say my days in London would be a great deal duller without knowing you. Let none of my sarcasm lead to you forgetting this fact, Captain - as you are indeed someone I owe a great deal of happiness to. I hope to see you again. Your Friend, August Shaw.”

- x - x -

[Shaw’s not home, when you return to London, but tonight, six apocyan eyes beckon you to the window. Laying out is a phonograph, one Nigel plays, though there’s no music recorded - just Shaw’s voice, thick with emotion.] “Logan, I- /ˈdæmɪt/, I hope this thing is working right. I hope you’re well? The Tomb Colonies, can be quite draining, I know. I… I’ve left this for you, as I didn’t quite trust my No`çuk" script, and… well, this is quite serious.” [A pause. The sound of drumming fingers on the table.] “This is harder to say than I thought, I, ah…” [A deep, shaky breath.] “The reason I first came to London was not a good one. My daughter had been- she had been taken from me. I came here for revenge, to find the one who’d… and, in all honesty, to lose myself in the process. Now, I’ve left to finish what I’ve started. If I do not return, I… Logan, you’ve become so dear to me. The kindness you’ve shown me, all of it… it is something I will never forget. You are impossible, magnificent… and I love you. Terribly so. What else is there to say?” [A laugh, clearly through tears.] “I will find you, if I make it back. I swear. Xïmo`tu`no` szokh, Muszhka`. If I can’t, I… no. I will. I love you, Logan.” [The recording ends there. Nigel offers it to you.]

- x - x -

[orphanheirs]

Fun facts

Thanks @kaylinalexanderbooks !!

Share some fun facts about some OCs!

Idk how "fun" these are gonna be lol but here's some tidbits of info I don't think I've shared yet about my two protags:

Tristan

Didn't start walking till he was around 5 years old.

Used to put on little plays where he acted every part.

Was particularly fond of his sister Lenore growing up.

When he lived at home he used to spy on his family members and the household staff and knew everyone's secrets.

Would sometimes pretend to be dead/to pass out to get attention.

Every so often just actually faints. Passes out. For real.

His hair gets lighter over time after he runs away from home. The sun exposure turns it from black to more of a deep chocolate brown.

Uses a face cream "to improve the complexion" that has lead in it👍

Saw apparitions his whole life, including a recurring one of a sopping wet woman at the foot of his bed.

Snores when he sleeps. Loudly.

Crispin

Has rounded, human-shaped ears, even though everyone else in his family/species has pointed ears.

Does, however, have extremely sharp teeth.

Had to have a spell cast on him in order to survive off human food.

When first meets Tristan, lies and tells him he's a species of fairy.

Really good at making shoes.

Had to learn how to laugh. Sounds more like a cackle.

Speaks in an archaic English accent, an accent spoken in the 1600s. If you've ever heard Shakespeare performed in "original pronunciation" that's sorta what he sounds like.

Food that is stolen or otherwise "ill-gotten" or cursed tastes the best to him.

Didn't learn to read or write until he came into the human realm.

Tagging to share some fun or not so fun facts: @indoorghost, @armentas, @seastarblue, @theeccentricraven, and @gaslightwestern !!

[pupsmailbox]

VAMPIRE ID PACK

NAMES︰ acheron. adelaide. adonis. adrian. adrienne. aero. alaric. alfonso. alistair. allure. alluria. altair. amber. ash. asher. ashlin. avenal. bara. batte. belladonna. bianca. bitelle. bitte. blade. blaine. blair. blaire. bloodette. bloodie. bloodier. carmilla. cathedral. cecilia. celeste. chatelaine. ciel. claude. claudia. coffina. corbin. count. countess. crimson. crowley. dali. damienne. dirge. dorian. drac. drusilla. eleleth. elisabeta. elizabeth. elspeth. eve. fangcheska. faustus. felix. feronia. gorey. gossamer. gothita. guinevere. hemlock. hesperia. ivy. james. jasper. jericho. juliet. karnage. kings. lenore. lilith. louis. luci. lucian. luciel. lucien. lucienne. lucious. lyn. magnus. marce. melancholy. mercer. miriam. morcant. mortem. mortis. muse. nikolas. nosferatu. onyx. orpheus. pandora. princely. raven. rhys. rosalie. salem. sangue. scarette. selene. shadow. silas. silhouette. silvias. stoker. suckite. talon. valeria. vamp. vampira. vampiress. vamplita. vampress. vampyr. vampyre. velvet. velvette. victor. victoria. viktor. viktoria. vile. ville. vincent. virtue. xander. zak.

PRONOUNS︰ bat/bat. bi/bite. bit/bite. bit/bitten. bite/bite. bite/vamp. bleed/bleeding. blo/blood. blood/bled. blood/blood. blood/bloody. bloody/bloody. bur/bur. clo/clot. cof/coffin. coffin/coffin. cor/corrupt. corp/corpse. cro/cross. crypt/crypt. curse/curse. cy/cyr. dae/daemon. dark/dark. dea/dead. dea/death. drac/drac. dri/drink. en/tombed. evil/evil. fa/fang. fang/fang. grave/grave. gri/grim. grime/grimey. hau/haunt. hex/hex. horror/horror. it/it. ix/ix. kill/kill. mist/mist. mor/morbid. ne/nem. ni/nightlife. night/night. ny/nyx. pale/pale. phan/phantom. pyr/pyr. re/red. red/red. rot/rot. roy/royal. scare/scare. sharp/sharp. si/sire. spook/spooky. stake/stake. su/suck. syl/syl. teef/teeth. tomb/tomb. un/dead. un/un. undead/undead. upir/upir. va/vamp. vam/vamp. vamp/vamp. vamp/vampire. vampi/vampire. vampir/vampiric. vampire/vampire. vampy/vampyre. vampyre/vampyre. ve/vir. vex/vex. vile/vile. wi/wine. xi/xir.

[26nine]

ABOUT EPISODE 100.

Do you think that if Lenore hadn’t provoked the Raven by holding him back, she would still be safe? At least for a little longer. Or was it something that would’ve happened regardless? Because he does say something’s been stalking her outside the gates.

“No, the hunted meets the hunter. Tonight.”

“You’ll be bones by sunrise.”

He speaks as if he could do something about it. He also reveals that he was a guide, so I guess maybe he can? I don’t know what to do with that thought though. Or maybe it might be like, the Raven was somehow preventing it from getting closer, but then decided to stop after that interaction?

I also think it’s neat how the Raven’s appearance changes slightly. He becomes much more beastly, gaining sharp teeth, plus the spots on his feet. Not to mention his eyes are all weird. It almost looks like he has several eyes like those creatures outside the gates, and we all know he’s capable of taking the form of something else outside. Pictures of the Raven are under the cut.

[leporellian]

Every dog has his day.

Carlos Vargas was never supposed to exist, and for the first two years of his life it was as though he never did. The product of alcohol, boredom, and his father’s wandering eye; Carlos was initially cared for by his mother and was only turned over to Martin Vargas once she no longer had the means to raise the boy. The discovery of the affair child damaged Martin’s reputation, but at least in this regard Martin tried not to hold that against his son (although when he got heated, blame would slip out). 

But what Martin did hold against Carlos was that he was half-Mexican via his mother’s side. To Martin it was a great kindness to let Carlos keep his birth name and know what he was, but beyond that Martin was often quite racist towards his own son, blaming his son’s failures on his “other side” and palpably caring about his fully-European daughter Lenore more than him. This abuse led to Carlos developing a complex of always, always needing to prove himself to his father no matter what- as well as a load of resentment towards his sister. Carlos shuns his identity in an effort to appeal and be as “good” as he can, although it leads to him always feeling a bit out of place to some extent or another. While he doesn’t hate Lenore per se, he sees her as squandering the opportunity that he should have had, and that he should be in her position and would do a much better job with the family reputation.

Strangely, Carlos does not look down upon his father- from the way he speaks about him, you’d think the man was God. Every abuse and transgression is justified- Carlos is certain that all the wrongs he went through will be justified and meaningful at the end of the day.

Near the end of Martin’s life, he and Carlos were actually on somewhat good terms with one another; Martin had promoted Carlos to being a minor executive in the Calatrava Rail Company, and Carlos thought that this meant he would soon finally get the chance to win his father over. But then when Martin was shot out of the blue by Lenore’s would-be eloper, Carlos had many reactions. Sharp grief for the father he never got to please. Fury towards his sister, whom he saw as personally responsible. Panic over the lingering questions that he doesn’t want to face. And most of all, a burning need to avenge his father by killing his murderer. 

Carlos sees vengeance as his grand destiny and fashions Alvaro, said murderer, into his mortal enemy that he must vanquish in order to finally prove himself once and for all. The world is a righteous revenge plot and Carlos just happens to be its protagonist; Alvaro’s judge, his jury and his executioner. Sure, he never actually knew the man prior to his declaration of vengeance, but he knows enough about the outlaw Peruvian to despise him. (If Carlos were perhaps more self-aware, he’d realize he describes Alvaro the exact same way he describes himself at his most self-loathing…) And as Carlos realizes who Alvaro is, and how Alvaro feels about his own identity- questions are raised that Carlos is too busy raising his pistol to answer to.

[shachaai]

[Hetalia Version] The Lindworm’s Lullaby

Chapters: 2/14 Rating: Explicit (For Gore) Main Relationships: Arthur Kirkland (England)/Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal) Characters: Arthur Kirkland (England), Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes (Portugal), Original Child Character(s), Ludwig Beilschmidt (Germany), Julia Blumenschien (Fem Prussia), Kiku Honda (Japan), Lovino Vargas (South Italy), Assorted Others Other Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe - Human AU, FBI Murder Mystery/Thriller, Case Fic, Adapted from a Hannibal Fic, Baby Fic, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha Gabriel Fernandes, Omega Arthur Kirkland, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Single Parent Arthur Kirkland, Violence and Gore Canon-Typical to Hannibal Levels, Cute Moments and Murder, Murder Scenes, Dead Bodies, Poisoning, Discussions about torture/infidelity/rape

The FBI is called in to investigate when a series of bodies shows up around Ohio: all of them alphas, and all of them skinned alive. With the killer’s motives a mystery, Ludwig Beilschmidt pulls Arthur Kirkland from the classroom and his vigil at the comatose Madeline Williams’ bedside once more to lend his insight to the case - with very little mind paid to the fact that the busy Arthur, omega and single mother to a six month-old daughter, might have some scheduling issues. Necessity - and pressure from Ludwig - drives Arthur into reluctantly asking Gabriel Fernandes for a favour at short notice. Gabriel is delighted to help Arthur with babysitting - once he has, of course, recovered from both the surprise of learning that Arthur Kirkland even has a baby to care for and, presented with the adorable armful that is a sleepy Lenore Kirkland, feeling a little skinned raw himself.

*****

CHAPTER 1

*****

*****

Chapter 2: Lenore

Gabriel spends longer than he would care to admit - even to himself - simply standing there in the Quantico lecture hall after Arthur Kirkland leaves him. The minutes pass like seconds and the seconds are inconsequential, Gabriel outwardly calm even as his thoughts churn and roil, a frothing storm surge sweeping through the ordered corridors of his mind.

Arthur Kirkland, truly, is a force of nature: wild, chaotic and difficult - if not impossible - to predict. As much the swift stream running, silent, calm and deadly, through the forest as the lightning-struck pine crashing down into the undergrowth. Not one for subtleties outside of his own sharp mind, his general speech and attitude are as forthright as his behaviour.

In lesser creatures, Gabriel might find such conduct to be rude, but Arthur Kirkland is no lesser being. Fascinating, diverting, uncouth and inconvenient, the omega is ever true to himself. One cannot blame the wind for blowing, the sea for its tumultuous waves or the thunder for its rumbling and roar - and so to rage against Arthur Kirkland’s nature seems as pointless and arrogant a pursuit as Cnut and the tides.

The evening’s events are only proof of concept: Arthur Kirkland - with not more than a little assistance from Ludwig Beilschmidt - has, once more, upended so many of Gabriel’s preconceptions of him. Thrust news of his motherhood, of his six month-old daughter, at Gabriel with the same fumbling gracelessness as his itchy scarf (some mixed wool and polyester blend. With too much emphasis on the polyester).

Gabriel rubs the scarf’s fabric between fingers and thumb, resisting the temptation - for now - to raise it to his nose and inhale all that it has to offer. The texture of the material makes his mouth twist but pulling lightly at the weave releases a little of the scent trapped in its fibres - of bittersweet tea, of woodsy apples roasted in a smoking campfire, of the clean sharp tang of the cold fresh air. Arthur. Chaotic nature distilled… and then doused in a gallon of some truly appalling aftershave. Another one of Arthur Kirkland’s forts against the world: perhaps one of both his simplest and strongest in a society where so much is observed and assumed about an individual based upon the scents emanating from their skin.

The cologne - cheap, mass-produced, and likely marketed to nose-blind betas - had hidden the manifold scents rearing an infant would leave on a parent from even Gabriel’s keen nose: the particular floral odours of baby shampoos and lotions, the unfortunate but necessary smells of spit-up and dirty diapers. The cologne had even hidden the scent of lactation on Arthur until the omega had stood close enough to Gabriel for the doctor to hold or bite or kiss, close enough for Gabriel to take in great lungfuls of Arthur’s natural scent and all the hormones thrumming under Arthur’s skin. The deep collar of Arthur’s shirt that day had gaped open just enough for a little of the rich, mingled perfume of milk and warm skin to escape, the wrap-style of the clothing no doubt making it easy for Arthur to either pump or breastfeed his child whilst leaving one side of his chest still covered, the double-lined material of the front an aid in hiding accidental leaks.

Put on the spot about the existence of his infant daughter, Arthur had been self-conscious and yet refused to be shamed. Defiant in his status as a single mother with no ring on his finger, no bonding bite left on that lovely long neck of his, and no glimpse of marks left by fangs on the scent glands - just - peeking out from under Arthur’s tight cuffs. More embarrassed, in truth, by the need to rely on another person in the care of his child, by the practicalities such an endeavour requires, than being known as used goods to society, the flustered bloom of blood rising up Arthur’s throat and across his cheeks like red dye drawn up the stem of a thirsty white rose.

Gabriel had had plans to make a hearty Italian beef stew for his dinner that night, a dish meant to be simmered for almost an hour. It would have been a time-consuming creation but one more than worth the wait, the stew enriched with butter, juniper berries, herbs and a generous splash of a robust red wine, served on a bed of buttery polenta stirred with Fontina cheese. Another large glass of wine on the side.

Now, instead, Gabriel must gather all his whirring thoughts together and focus on a child. Because Arthur Kirkland has a child - and not just any child, but an infant still on the teat. A daughter at that.

(How much of his girl does Arthur see when he looks at the still sleeping Madeline Williams?)

The Quantico Academy crèche is more prepared for Gabriel’s arrival than Gabriel himself is. Naturally, with Arthur’s text messages already in his pocket confirming the Kirklands’ address and other such important information, Gabriel is the very image of perfect composure as he reaches crèche’s reception, tacking an amiable smile onto his face even as a frustrated toddler located somewhere in the establishment’s confines begins to let out an ear-piercing shriek.

“Dr. Gabriel Fernandes.” He introduces himself to the crèche worker fronting the desk, both of them pretending that the screaming going on somewhere in the closed-off area behind her isn’t trying to drill a hole in both of their skulls. “I’m here to collect Lenore Kirkland. Professor Kirkland informed me that he would call ahead…?”

The crèche worker - an omega, by the sweet pheromones Gabriel can scent from her as she ducks her head, and called Katya according to the hand-written name-tag pinned high on her shirt - bends over to consult the screen of a nearby computer.

(Politely - and not unsympathetically as a fellow member of the Overworker of Shirt Buttons Society -, Gabriel averts his eyes. There is no way to avoid noticing that Katya is particularly well-endowed when it comes to her bosom, and, when she leans forward, her breasts do their best to fall out of her straining shirt.)

Katya chews on her lower lip as she clicks the mouse once, twice - and then smiles, looking back up at Gabriel. “I have you on the list. If I could just check your ID?” Gabriel unclips his visitor badge for a moment to show her more closely. “Thank you, doctor. If you’ll just give me a few moments, I’ll have Lenore brought out for you.”

Gabriel nods and the crèche worker disappears into the restricted area behind her. Distracting himself by silently critiquing the terribly ugly cartoon clown someone has painted on a nearby wall until another worker returns to the reception to hand Gabriel a large leather bag in dark blue.

“Miss Kirkland’s go-bag. Katya’s just getting her into her cardigan.” His name-tag reads Valentino.

Valentino leaves again, and Gabriel checks the bag - clean diapers and baby onesies, baby wipes, medicated cream for diaper rash, two pacifiers, and one full bottle of milk with its cap screwed tightly in place - before slinging the main strap over his shoulder. One arm now fully occupied with the go-bag and his own briefcase, breathing a sigh of relief when the one-toddler shrieking disaster siren finally quietens down.

Katya returns, her own arms full with what looks like nothing more than Little Red Riding Hood in miniature, a pair of big, drowsy green eyes and a mop of dark curls. “Somebody decided to take an unscheduled nap, so they’re a little sleepy right now.” She smiles at Gabriel conspiratorially, mock-whispering: “Should make for a quiet ride home.”

“We can hope,” Gabriel answers on autopilot, inwardly marvelling at the curious blankness of his thoughts in that moment as he is handed the terribly precious, warm little flour-sack weight that is Lenore Kirkland for the first time.

Lenore has no such vacuity to worry about; her opinion on being disturbed from dozing off again and then transferred from the arms of the familiar Katya to those of a stranger is obviously and immediately clear. Small starfish hands immediately splay themselves on Gabriel’s chest and push to put as much distance between Lenore’s little baby body and Gabriel’s as possible, Lenore screwing her face up at Gabriel in a perfect imitation of her mother’s little thundercloud of a scowl.

Something strangely soft and curious blooms in the space behind Gabriel’s sternum. He examines it, turning the emotion this way and that as he settles Lenore more comfortably into the crook of his arm, and is surprised to realise that it’s fondness.

It really has been some time since Gabriel last held an infant. At some obligatory social event celebrating the birth of a new baby, perhaps? Surely not so long ago as his days as a surgeon, but long enough that he feels mildly confounded by how much attitude the six month-old that has just been transferred into his care manages to convey. Lenore has, it seems, decided upon continuing to scowl at Gabriel rather than cry about the strange alpha holding her, continuing to push indignantly at Gabriel’s chest with her red mittens dangling from the sleeves of her hooded cardigan. 

What had Gabriel expected when he had first learnt that Arthur Kirkland had a child? Gabriel isn’t sure now, cannot quite say if he ever reached any definite theory to settle upon - but is not surprised in the slightest that Lenore Kirkland is a beautiful little girl.

She has her mother’s pale, English Rose complexion, dainty snub nose and eyes of absinthe-aurora borealis green. Her features do, of course, have smaller proportions than Arthur’s and she has soft, round baby chubby cheeks in place of his high, thin bones, but the main thing that differentiates Lenore from her mother is her hair. Rather than Arthur’s messy fluff of relatively straight blond locks, Lenore seems to have inherited a head of longer wild curls, her tresses glossy black in colour, with all the gleam of a raven’s wing.

Arthur, too, has dressed his daughter in more stylish clothes than he wears himself: dark blue footed pyjamas, covered in embroidered red roses, over her cotton bodysuit and socks, and a hooded cardigan in red cotton over that with mock-wooden buttons. The cardigan’s hood has a face knitted into its weave and small floppy ears attached, but the tail sewn to the back of the clothing is too stubby for Gabriel to tell whether the animal depicted is meant to be a red panda or a fox. A wooden pacifier with a silicone bead clip is attached to Lenore’s pyjamas, tucked underneath the cardigan, and a stretchy red headband keeps Lenore’s tousled curls from off her face. Dangling red mittens - their string threaded through the cardigan’s sleeves - complete the look and do their best to keep the infant wearing them warm.

A rose, a red panda, and a fox. A princess, a pixie, and a dumpling.

The strength in Lenore’s young arms gives way at last, and the little girl flops forward against Gabriel’s shoulder and chest with a small and huffy yah. A little chirp of confusion follows: Lenore has found herself with a faceful of her mother’s brown scarf, the familiar smoky apple-spice-and-pine scent imbued into the fabric completely at odds with the strange alpha wearing it.

“She took her evening bottle as usual,” Katya says as Lenore reaches up with one hand to begin curiously patting at Gabriel’s face, Gabriel clearly having passed a silent test from both of them, “so she shouldn’t want her next until the usual time.”

Gabriel has no idea when the usual time might be, but he is quite sure that Lenore will let him know when she is hungry again.

Lenore smacks Gabriel on the nose, and then squeals in ticklish delight when Gabriel blows a long stream of breath onto her palm to make her take it off again. Her little covered feet softly kick-kick Gabriel under the ribs - and the mitten attached to her one flailing hand decides to whap Gabriel in the eye.

“You will make your mother jealous if you manage to give me a black eye before he does,” Gabriel quite seriously informs the child, blinking away the brief pain of synthetic wool smacking into his eyeball. If they’re at the point of grievous bodily harm already, formal greetings are probably long overdue. “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Boulette. Enchanté de vous rencontrer.” He means it too. Surprising himself once more.

Lenore blinks back up at him for a moment before bursting into a burbling stream of - what sounds approximately like - kikiahyah.

“Oh, of course,” says Katya as though this pronouncement makes perfect sense to her. She beams at Gabriel. “Let me just grab you her kitty.” To Gabriel’s blank look: “Her comfort toy.”

Gabriel is beginning to wonder whether babysitting Arthur Kirkland’s child will require him to surgically attach a third arm to his body. “Of course,” he echoes Katya with draining optimism, sighing as the crèche worker leaves him - them - again.

Lenore pats him consolingly on the chin, and giggles when Gabriel playfully bares his fangs at her. She reaches up to touch those too, wholly unafraid and laughing again when Gabriel gently nips at her inquisitive fingertips. Fearless little thing. (So much for her being sleepy.)

It is easier to scent Lenore now that she is more comfortable with Gabriel, this soft, sweet little sucking pig made plump and tender on her mother’s rich milk. As an unpresented child, she has no real scent of her own outside of that creamy smell of milk and the mild, almost powdery scent all infants share, but, under the bright apple-and-pear scent of her shampoo, beneath the apricot, vanilla and sandalwood of Lenore’s body lotion, Gabriel can detect traces of Arthur: the spiced apple, ink and old paper notes from Arthur holding his child, the same laundry detergent and softener that Arthur uses on his own clothes. The scent of Arthur’s love all over Lenore, holding her even when Arthur cannot.

“Ba,” says Lenore in response to Gabriel’s nose tickling her temples, squirming around in his hold until she can snuffle him back. She squishes her small - and thankfully, after some minor miracle has no doubt been worked by the workers at the crèche that day, clean - face up against Gabriel’s jaw, clumsily copying what the alpha is doing to her and scenting Gabriel in return. Picking up the scent of her mother at the same time, Arthur’s scarf marking Gabriel as safe.

Gabriel resists the urge to rub his cheek over the crown of the little girl’s head, unsure what Arthur’s response might be should he return and find his infant daughter with Gabriel’s scent mark on her, smelling so strongly of an unrelated alpha. Omegas have - quite instinctively - murdered for less in the past when it comes to protecting their beloved offspring.

“I haven’t introduced myself to you properly yet, have I?” Gabriel inquires of Lenore instead, setting down his briefcase for a moment so he can gently tug Arthur’s scarf out of the infant’s mouth and place her pacifier there instead. “That’s rude of me. I am Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes, a colleague of your mother’s.”

Lenore, eyes wide now, has nothing more to say to that - but erupts into a delighted stream of kikikiki when Katya returns from the back area of the crèche with a small brown stuffed toy in her hands.

The worker spares Gabriel from a display of his juggling skills by handing the toy directly to Lenore, the infant bubbling over in delight with a pronounced “Kiki!” as she spits out her pacifier and stuffs one of her toy’s soft floppy ears into her mouth to replace it.

“Couldn’t let you go home without her now, could we?” Katya coos to the child, giving one last pat to Lenore’s round cheek before she retreats again.

Gabriel does not wish to imagine the kind of baby temper tantrum he might have had to endure if they had. He pulls Kitty’s ear from out of Lenore’s mouth and tries to give the girl her pacifier back - sighing inwardly when he realises Kitty is actually a small stuffed dog.

Arthur Kirkland, contrary as always.

Katya looks at him expectantly, friendlier than ever with one more of her charges safely dispensed with for the night. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Dr. Fernandes?”

“We should be fine from here,” says Gabriel as he picks up his briefcase again. “Thank you.” He has his work, all the keys he needs for Arthur’s home and vehicle, the diaper bag and Lenore Kirkland, and Lenore has her dog toy named after a cat stuffed in her mouth again.

They head for the Academy parking lot. Much like Gabriel expects her mother might be, Lenore is terribly unimpressed by Gabriel’s lecture en-route on the oral phase as presented by Freudian psychoanalysis. She doesn’t stop chewing on Kitty, at any rate.

Arthur’s Volvo presents a much more riveting diversion for both of them, as Gabriel must first find where Arthur has parked the vehicle before he can set down his bags and begin the calculations for how he’s going to get Lenore’s seat from the back of Arthur’s car and across the parking lot into his own Bentley. Strapping Lenore into her seat, locking the Volvo and then going to bring his Bentley around seems like the most sensible option to Gabriel - but he has no idea where to even begin when it comes to removing the baby seat from the back of the Volvo. It might as well be riveted in place for all the movement it makes when Gabriel jiggles at it, and the fabric covering the backseat of the car strains ominously under pressure. Gabriel imagines the same forces at work on the luxury cream leather covering the seats in his Bentley and winces.

“Huh,” says Lenore from her vantage point against Gabriel’s shoulder, Kitty dangling from one of her chubby little hands and smearing drool all down the arm of Gabriel’s overcoat. “Ahnooyah.”

“You said it,” Gabriel sighs, looking down at her - only to have some immediate concerns that, judging by her face, the little one may be concentrating on a particularly complicated bowel movement.

A moment’s consternation and a blink later and - Lenore blinks as well before she resumes staring up at Gabriel’s face with rapt fascination. She’s… trying to mimic his expression, her young mirror neurons hard at work to improve her social skills. Gabriel makes it easier for her by smiling a smile he hardly feels and Lenore smiles too - but not without tilting her head curiously, those big green eyes of hers bright with a keen sort of understanding that Gabriel is more accustomed to seeing in the gaze of her mother.

How marvellous.

“‘Thou art thy mother’s glass,’” Gabriel murmurs to the child, brushing a rebellious lock of dark hair from off her forehead even as little flapping hands, mittens and a stuffed toy come up to bat at his fingers again. Only time will tell how much of her mother’s skills Lenore retains as she grows older.

Gabriel accepts the inevitable (or least disastrous) option and buckles Lenore into her seat in the back of the Volvo. Sliding behind the driver’s wheel of the car himself and placing both his briefcase and the diaper bag in the passenger side’s footwell beside him.

A very faint note of dogs hangs in the air inside the Volvo alongside the scent of Arthur, but the car’s seats are a great deal freer of canine fur than Arthur’s person might - occasionally - make one assume they might be. It speaks volumes as to Arthur’s dedication for cleaning - though Arthur’s taste in music is still a lost cause, Gabriel’s face twisting as the radio comes on as he’s still readjusting the driver’s seat to accommodate his legs.

In the interests of lulling Lenore into sleepiness again, Gabriel switches the radio over from the local soft rock station Arthur had had it on to a classical one instead. Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu in C♯ minor should be a soothing enough piece to send Lenore off into a light doze at least, Gabriel’s eyes flicking between the road in front of him as he pulls out of the Academy parking lot and the little girl still idly chewing on her toy in the car seat behind him. Lenore smiles and burbles a nooba around Kitty’s ear when she meets Gabriel’s eyes in the front mirror, but otherwise seems quite content in her car seat, watching the world pass by the Volvo’s windows. A much happier little soul than her mother.

And just as stubborn. (Perhaps the world-altering effect of the Kirklands is something genetic?) Fantaisie-Impromptu fades into Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, Prélude and still Lenore is awake.

“I will talk about Freudian psychoanalysis again,” Gabriel threatens her half-heartedly as he sets them on the road to Wolf Trap. “I have a degree.” He has several degrees to his name, in fact, not that any of them will mean much to a six month-old except as something new for her to chew on.

Lenore only gurgles with another bout of baby laughter, her cheeks pink and eyes bright as she squishes Kitty to her chest. Charming but vexing - and infinitely preferable to her filling up her diaper.

“Ma boulette,” Gabriel sighs at her. Fofinho. He knows a lost cause when he sees one. “What am I to do with you?”

*****

*****

Katya - Ukraine Valentino - Seborga

With thanks, still, to the FAD server who originally helped me brainstorm ideas for the name of Lenore’s plushie, and Doc who came up with Kitty!

Gabriel is less likely to specifically name his recipes than Hannibal is, but the Italian stew he mentions in this chapter is a Carbonade Valdostana: https://www.greatitalianchefs.com/recipes/carbonade-valdostana-recipe

Thou art thy mother’s glass - Sonnet 3, by William Shakespeare

I’ve always headcanoned Port as a polyglot, and it’s partially why he works so well for the Hannibal role in this adaptation. In this ‘verse, there are dark places in his mind associated with his childhood where he spoke Portuguese, so his babytalk will tend more towards the language of his early adolescence - French.

NEXT CHAPTER

[mojo-bro-tho]

A Paean of Old and Present Days... Ch.4

Note: I said I would slow down, but the temptation to double post was too great. This one is a bit easier to digest since the next one will be back to being hefty.

Fic content warnings at large: Blood, violence, gore, explicit content with so much plot

Word count: 1.722

Summary: After an impromptu invitation, Emmrich finds a solution to the growing issue Rook's self isolation.

Link to previous chapter

And here lies the AO3 link

A Balm For No Wounds

It had been a few days since Lenore agreed to visit the Necropolis on Emmrich’s spontaneous request. He had gone back and forth on it several times since. It was too late to cancel it now, what if she was looking forward to it? But in truth he was entirely befuddled over it at this point. Feeling more and more like a fool for every moment the thoughts tossed and turned in his head.

Several times they had shared passing conversations, nothing quite as of note as some of their previous ones had been. She was letting herself get rather busy. Once, she even apologized to him for taking so long to get herself in order. He was quick to deny the need for it. After all, he still was unsure what his plan even was, something entirely uncharacteristic of him. Putting together these sort of outings was usually a strong suit of his. 

But a nick of doubt clipped at his mind, telling him this was a foolish idea all together. It wasn’t as though he was the only person who had asked Lenore for one on one activities. It also wasn’t as if the others hadn’t done the same with each other, not just her. Still he was beside himself. A simple stroll and just her observing his work? That was the best he could come up with? Then again, the whole point of him asking her to begin with was to give her a moment to relax. But what if a walk wasn’t engaging enough? He could ask about the wisps as he had originally intended, pivot her focus. That seemed like a good idea. 

Emmrich eventually found himself outside her quarters, having paced about a good portion of the Lighthouse without seeing her. He hoped no one had truly caught on to what had riled his nerves. A quick knock on the door. Silence. He knocked again. More silence. 

The Watcher was fairly certain she had not left through the Eluvian today, he had seen everyone else already and she did not seem to make it a habit of leaving alone. He must have missed her somewhere. As he trotted back down the stairs, he found Lucanis and Neve taking seats in the library. 

“Good afternoon, you two. Have either of you seen Rook today? I had a question for her.” Lucanis raised an eyebrow to the man’s inquiry, mid sip of coffee. 

“Have you checked the kitchen? Or Davrin’s room?” Lucanis responded once he sat his cup back into his lap. 

“Why would she be in Davrin’s room?” Neve glanced at him quizzically. Lucanis shrugged, which made her form a tight lipped smile. “Rook is in the infirmary.” The tone she used caught Emmrich from guard. Even more matter-of-fact than usual, and uncharacteristically lacking the quippishness that proved she cared.

“Oh goodness, she isn’t hurt is she?” Emmrich brought a fretful hand to his chest. A confused expression passed over Neve’s face before something flickered in her pupils. 

“No, she’s completely fine. She just likes to sit in there sometimes.” 

“Ah, she’s talking to the crossbow again.” Lucanis retorted, and then came another voice that mumbled in a malformed hiss. 

“A sharp tongue to match the wit. She sits by the broken string and waits for him to respond. Laughs when she is sad, wishes he was well again. Another teacher gone. But advice he whispers in her pointed ear.” The voice muses. Lucanis’s nostrils flare. 

“May I ask why exactly there’s a crossbow in the infirmary, and why is Rook talking to it?” He wondered, allowing his words to pad like cautious footfall. Neve takes a breath and flips the book in her hand from side to side. A quiet debate forming in her mind. 

“Grief does weird things to people sometimes.” She finally replied. “Before all of you joined in on this, it was a job with me, her, Harding, and Varric trying to stop Solas’s ritual. One of us didn’t make it out…” Her gaze follows up the fall and over the balcony. “We thought about moving his stuff. Sending it back to Kirkwall or to the Inquisitor. But Rook likes to sit in there sometimes. Talks to him, I think it helps her cope with… everything. Process and come up with ideas, that sort of thing. So, we leave it there.” 

Grieving. Emmrich had no idea. His brow knit together as the revelation occurs to him. And suddenly, many things made sense to him. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t rest. This likely had something to do with it. Why someone as young as her would be taking on this much responsibility at all, a thought that had fastened to him since their introduction. She may blame herself, even on a subconscious level. That would actually explain quite a bit about how she could keep herself going without a second thought. Empathy swelled in the man’s chest, and the spirit Emmrich had come to know as Spite chimed in again. Purple and swirling across Lucanis’s hands. 

“She smells like sour blood and wolf’s fur. But under it, there is lavender so sweet. Crushed under shambling feet as she cries out. Ash and honey laced. In that room, the blood goes still. No longer boiling.” The poor thing, he must be referring to Lenore again. Lucanis pushes out a sharp exhale, as though trying to ignore a sudden scent. 

With that in mind, something else struck Emmrich. Why do it alone? Emmrich had never met this Varric, obviously. But it was clear that Harding and Neve knew him. Why not seek comfort with them? As if sensing the very ponderings that haunted him, Neve decided to continue. 

“Davrin says it isn’t uncommon for Wardens to ‘be bad’ with death. Try to move past it as fast  as possible. I guess that isn’t too strange for you though, is it? Talking to the dead for comfort.” Her observation held true once again. 

“That’s right. It is common for Nevarrans to commune with the deceased, even if not literally.”

Which was part of what worried him. As far as he knew, Lenore was not too familiar with Nevarran customs and his country’s practices were very different compared to other Andrastian nations. In his homeland, families may gather to have discussions with the dead, seeking their presence in their tombs to soothe the ache of loss. But this wasn’t quite that. 

Lenore was hiding herself away. Talking to what was left behind, clinging to it just to feel any amount of relief. That isn’t something anyone should shoulder alone. He understood that better than some would guess, especially considering his place of birth. 

“When she does this, speaks to him, is it always with the door closed?” He asked. 

“I walked in on her doing it, after the ritual. Harding has interrupted her before too. She just pretends like she wasn’t doing anything at all. But she looks a lot better every time she talks to him, so I think it’s for the best.” 

On that point, Neve and Emmrich agreed. Although Lucanis seemed skeptical. This was emphasized by a small grumble and the shake of his head. 

“Are we sure the way she’s going about it is healthy? It doesn’t seem right to just act like she isn’t doing it.” There was also some level of truth to that sentiment. 

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass her. And like I said, if it helps, it helps.” Neve argued. Lucanis conceded for the time being, leaning further back into his chair. “We’ll send his things back once all this mess with the Gods has been cleaned up.”

“All I’m saying is that if Teia or Viago caught me talking to Caterina’s jewelry for comfort, they’d think I’d lost my mind. But…” He sighed. “What do I know, huh? Crow’s aren’t exactly good with death either, at least not outside of making it happen.” 

Perhaps that was part of the problem. Shame. Emmrich saw nothing wrong with her wishing to speak to Varric, especially if it was relieving her stress. But Lucanis was right, her insistence on putting up a wall of dishonesty as though she isn’t is indicative of a deeper issue than the grief itself. It did give him an idea, however. 

“I suppose that means my question will have to wait for now. I wouldn’t want to disturb her.” Neve nodded along to his statement. 

“Appreciated, Emmrich. I’m sure she’ll come around to you when she has a second, you know how she is.” 

Indeed he did. At least, he was starting to see a large aspect of the picture she painted. He left the library without further delay, going out to find Manfred outside. There was much planning to be done. He had originally assumed Lenore would simply observe him as he performed the rites as needed, but now his thinking was starting to shift.

She may very well need to participate with him. Rites in the Necropolis were often meditative in nature, as a way to make remembrance more of a pleasant experience rather than a painful one. In essence, Lenore was doing something similar. But the purpose of him recentering her focus, perhaps it would be best to ensure she knows that he understands what she’s going through. It may not open her eyes to just how much she’s hurting, but it could be enough to open her up to the idea that she has nothing to feel ashamed over. Especially not if this was a new experience for her. 

Others could share in her burden, he could if she wished it. She need not put on a brave face all the time or deflect other’s worrying over her the way she had with Bellara. Things of that sort, they were much harder vices to pull oneself away from. All the more difficult when done alone. 

His mind rattled on, thinking of how best to go about it. She could light the candles. Yes, that would do nicely. He wondered what sort of tea she might like, he could find something comforting to help console her after the ceremony. She said she spent a lot of time in the Anderfels, Davrin might know something. Once Emmrich retrieved his faithful assistant, the pair got to work.

[lafcadiosadventures]

So, there's this scene in Cousin Bette, which has a pretty striking line:

– On a marché, dit le vieillard en se retirant, et les morts vont vite à Paris !

(Honoré de Balzac, La cousine Bette, 1846)

“The world moves on,” said the old man, as he withdrew, “and the dead move quickly in Paris!”

(tr. James Waring) (given the implications, I would translate the first half of Vautrin's reply as “We have made our move”)

and I was like, critique of capitalism, etc etc. My friend @madmerchant said she was pretty sure she'd read something very similar in Dracula. Was Stoker referencing Vautrin? Was it a coincidence? There's a persistent shroud of the Fantastic surrounding Vautrin, it would not be surprising if someone would have thought of him as a vampire, or an immortal creature of some kind... however:

“You are early to-night, my friend.” The man stammered in reply:—“The English Herr was in a hurry,” to which the stranger replied:—“That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift.” As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger’s “Lenore”:— “Denn die Todten reiten schnell”— (“For the dead travel fast.”)

oooh. this lead to discovering that Lenore, is one of the cornerstones of Romanticism. So it wasn't that Stoker was referencing Vautrin's last incarnation, but rather, the same originary poem Balzac hismelf was referencing. The influence of the poem was huge, and epsecially the french went crazy over it. The first translation was published in the Journal des Débats in 1811, translated from English. The newspaper published it, not without adding the poem put in display "the most odious vices of the German School".

It was not until Mme de Saël (she of the North vs South temperaments fame) wrote an article trully valuing the work as the poetic masterpiece it was, that the fever for Lenore started to root on the young minds of a Certain Group of Artists-and their readers- in 1820. Madame de Saël had thrown the gauntlet:

"No french translation, be it prose or verse, could express all the nuances and detaild of the German original."

and one Gérard de Nerval picked it up, offering FIVE translations of his own throuout the years...

The poem collects a German folk story, and as soon as you read the summery you *know* why the more edgy Romantics were crazy about it. Like other German folk tales (as Der Erlkönig) it features a frenzied ride through the forests, and a lover that is not what he seems to be (he is DEATH. The RIde is A TRAP) Embroildled in the poem are some anti nobility aspects:

"(in Lenore, we hear) The powrful and pained voice of a Titan, tormented until death by the aristocracy. (...) In German language, 'Bürger' (the poet's name) is synonimous to citoyen"

(Heinrich Heine)

and a desire to revindicate the autochthonous, popular poetry from the lower classes -the Lenore poem is recolected from a popular song Bürger heard a young peasant singing- as the true voice of a nation:

It will remain eternally true that if we have no Volk, we shall have no public, no nationality, no literature of our own which shall live and work in us. Unless our literature is founded on our Volk, we shall write eternally for closet sages and disgusting critics out of whose mouths and stomachs we shall get back what we have given.

(Johann Gottfried Herder)

So, what I'm saying is, I must read Lenore, and also, it is very likely that that Vautrin line is a direct reference to that icon of the dawn of French Romanticism, something the then elders (cousin bette was published in 1846) would have remembered and understood...

[gentrychild]

Not me nodding along with all your theories of Nevermore until the last one about Theo sucker-punched me in the face. LENORE ACTUALLY MEETING THEO AT THE VERY BEGINNING, IGNORANT OF THE TRUTH AND UNWITTINGLY RUNNING AWAY FROM HER BROTHER?? I can see you are a seasoned writer, as you can spot the perfect ways to create angst and anguish in a story. On another subject, what's your opinion of Annabel Lee? She's such a fascinating character that can be polarizing for some readers but I ADORE having a problematic, complex sapphic character and I CAN'T WAIT to see more of her mask crumbling down as the story goes on. And your theory that Lenore died thinking she betrayed her sounds so plausible, especially because of Annabel's greatest fear. I bet Annabel died last, witnessing Lenore's death and that's why her spectre is malevolent.

It's always a pleasure to suckerpunch you in the face, Anon. I have no clues for my "The deer monster is actually Theo" theory, just a hunch, but I love it to bits.

On another subject, what's your opinion of Annabel Lee?

I love her to bits. An absolutely brilliant mind, a chessmaster, a wonderful manipulator and such a sharp intelligence that it's making her bleed. But despite all this talent and despite having died already, she is still shackled by that same ruthless intelligence and the expectations placed on her and that she accepts.

She didn't have to ignore Lenore, didn't have to play the role of the queens of the Manifested and the enemy of the misfits. But she has to win.

And of course, it makes sense, both because she righfully guessed that this was a game with only one winner or none and because Lenore and her probably played one hell of a charade when they were alive, partners in crime as they were fooling everyone long enough to elope. But she is closing the door on so many opportunities, so many more people she could gain from and lead and instead, she is stuck with Ada and Montresor.

I have no doubt that Annabel is in love with Lenore, loyal to Lenore, and has faith akin to worship on Lenore. We had several instances already where Annabel loses it when she thinks Lenore might be in danger or is just outright simping when Lenore isn't watching.

However, I am not sure Annabel knows Lenore as much as she thinks. (More exactly, I don't know if Annabel doesn't know some things about Lenore or if Not Amnesic Lenore has some key differences with Current Lenore.) And that is probably going to blow back in their faces because Lenore and Annabel aren't currently living in the same story. Lenore wants to save everyone and to discover if she can trust Annabel. Annabel is already beyond the "Should I trust her?" stage. She might be already married to Lenore and she is living a strange dream-like adventure with her wife where she will not hesitate to sacrifice as many pieces on the chess board as she can if it means they can both be happy.

All that to say that I love Annabel, she is a perfect, calculating, loving disaster-waiting-to-happen.

And your theory that Lenore died thinking she betrayed her sounds so plausible, especially because of Annabel's greatest fear.

More exactly, I think Lenore died metaphorically alone, betrayed, and thinking she was abandonned by everyone.

Annabel doesn't seem to know how Lenore died, though, as she says "Perhaps" when Lenore asked her if she died after her.

An event that could be recreated if the misfits, let's say, abandoned her after they learn she might have intended to betray them through some colluding with Annabel.

[yallemagne]

Lenore Posting

One of the most influential lines in vampire literature was in a poem that features no vampires: "Denn die Todten reiten schnell" from Lenore by Gottfried August Bürger.

For fun, I must first address that this phrase also appears in what is considered Bram Stoker's first draft of Dracula: Dracula's Guest.

Impelled by some sort of fascination, I approached the sepulchre to see what it was, and why such a thing stood alone in such a place. I walked around it, and read, over the Doric door, in German: COUNTESS DOLINGEN OF GRATZ IN STYRIA SOUGHT AND FOUND DEATH 1801 On the top of the tomb, seemingly driven through the solid marble—for the structure was composed of a few vast blocks of stone—was a great iron spike or stake. On going to the back I saw, graven in great Russian letters: “The dead travel fast.”

Why it is in Russian when the engraving on the tomb is in German and why proto-Jonathan is able to read both languages when his first draft self knew not even a lick of German, I cannot say. What I can say is that Styria is a reference to Carmilla, of course, and we know from the engraving: "sought and found death" that the Countess likely committed suicide, which is often deemed a sin in Christianity that can condemn one to vampirism. Eternal life as punishment for seeking death against God's will. You could take this paired with the quote as a reference to Bürger's Ballad of Lenore, in which a grieving woman curses God for the death of her beloved and is punished with death... but it doesn't fit as well as it should. That bitch Dolingen ain't travelling nowhere.

Okay, okay, right to the book:

The parallels to Bürger's ballad start before the line is spoken. The driver drives dangerously fast, urged on by his other passengers, much to Jonathan's chagrin. How was it that Lenore was led to her death? A man resembling her beloved, Wilhelm, appeared on a horse and bid her to join him to go to their marriage bed. On the way, he rides wildly, distressing her. He inquires:

“What ails my love? the moon shines bright: Bravely the dead men ride through the night. Is my love afraid of the quiet dead?” “Ah! no;—let them sleep in their dusty bed!”

(By the way, here, "Denn die Todten reiten schnell" is translated as "Bravely the dead men ride through the night")

"You are early to-night, my friend." The man stammered in reply:— "The English Herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:— "That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are swift." As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore":— "Denn die Todten reiten schnell" — ("For the dead travel fast.")

Here, the reference is a better fit. Jonathan's fellow passenger makes the comment in reference to the stranger, who we know is the Count, being one of the dead, or rather, Un-Dead. He's travelling. Rather fast. As the dead do.

As the ballad goes on, "Wilhelm" invites a passing funeral procession to drop their mourning and sing him and his bride cheery marriage songs, which they do.

The driver and passengers (who could, in a way, be described as Jonathan's funeral procession), do not follow the Count, instead leaving for Bukovina, lamenting their failure to outpace the dead. But no matter, they are replaced by the wolves, whose singing is praised by the Count:

"Listen to them—the children of the night. What music they make!"

Now, Dracula isn't putting on the familiar face of Jonathan's dear Wilhelmina, but he does still come in disguise. And even when he introduces himself properly as Count Dracula, his hospitality is a façade to trap Jonathan and lead him to his doom.

[ninadove]

Nina reads Dracula 🦇

May 5th

My good friend Jonathan has made it to Dracula castle at last! Although his travels were a little more stressful than he would have liked. I’m not worried though!!! He’s always sooo dramatic!!!

So what do we start with?

There are many odd things to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly.

Of course. 🤦‍♀️ I sure hope this love for food won’t be used to quiet his survival instincts later in the evening…!

I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them were "Ordog"—Satan, "pokol"—hell, "stregoica"—witch, "vrolok" and "vlkoslak"—both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire. (Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions) (😢)

As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory. One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's "Lenore": — "Denn die Todten reiten schnell"— ("For the dead travel fast.") (😡)

THIS IS NOT NICE!!!!! We don’t judge people based on appearances!!! So what if he has fangs and claws and turns into a bat when he thinks no one’s looking? Down with these unrealistic beauty standards!!!

As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. […]

Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. […]

The only light was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which the steam from our hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. […]

It grew colder and colder still, and fine, powdery snow began to fall (!), so that soon we and all around us were covered with a white blanket. (!!!)

Environmental storytelling… snow like a shroud over my good friend Jonathan… I’m not worried at all! ❄️

[…] but just then the moon, sailing through the black clouds, appeared behind the jagged crest of a beetling, pine-clad rock, and by its light I saw around us a ring of wolves, with white teeth and lolling red tongues, with long, sinewy limbs and shaggy hair.

🎶 TAAAAALE AS OOOLD AS TIIIIIIIIIIME 🎶

Was this a customary incident in the life of a solicitor's clerk sent out to explain the purchase of a London estate to a foreigner? (Completely customary. Please carry on.)

Solicitor's clerk! Mina would not like that. (🥺) Solicitor—for just before leaving London I got word that my examination was successful; and I am now a full-blown solicitor! I began to rub my eyes and pinch myself to see if I were awake.

Oh so we do find out what he came here for!!! I love that Mina supports his career and that the thought of her brings him comfort… even though there’s nothing to fear:

"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own will!"

"Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!"

For this is perfectly normal alive human behaviour!!! 🦇

The Count himself came forward and took off the cover of a dish, and I fell to at once on an excellent roast chicken. This, with some cheese and a salad and a bottle of old Tokay, of which I had two glasses, was my supper.

You may fascinate a human by giving him a piece of cheese 🧀

His face was a strong—a very strong—aquiline, with high bridge of the thin nose and peculiarly arched nostrils; with lofty domed forehead, and hair growing scantily round the temples but profusely elsewhere. His eyebrows were very massive, almost meeting over the nose, and with bushy hair that seemed to curl in its own profusion. The mouth, so far as I could see it under the heavy moustache, was fixed and rather cruel-looking, with peculiarly sharp white teeth; these protruded over the lips, whose remarkable ruddiness showed astonishing vitality in a man of his years. For the rest, his ears were pale, and at the tops extremely pointed; the chin was broad and strong, and the cheeks firm though thin. The general effect was one of extraordinary pallor.

Hitherto I had noticed the backs of his hands as they lay on his knees in the firelight, and they had seemed rather white and fine; but seeing them now close to me, I could not but notice that they were rather coarse—broad, with squat fingers. Strange to say, there were hairs in the centre of the palm. The nails were long and fine, and cut to a sharp point. As the Count leaned over me and his hands touched me, I could not repress a shudder. […]

I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul. God keep me, if only for the sake of those dear to me!

MY GOOD FRIEND JONATHAN YOU HAVE A FIANCÉE/GIRLFRIEND/MINA

You know what, I’m sure it’s just exhaustion talking. He’ll see more clearly after a good night’s sleep! 💤

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