#live up to the expectations others have placed upon you like a funeral shroud and the freedom and agony alike in that and just-

[glupblorbo]

hi i'm not dead i'm still alive just. been sick. and busy. and busy and sick. both good and bad busy but i will have cult au out when i can :,) in the meantime uh. have this. snippet of an au that's been tugging at my mind since the very first episode of toh that i've finally started to develop this summer? may get the first bit of this posted before cult au but. do not think i will have forgotten cult au bc of that.

//||\\

Edalyn’s always been a bit more fond of things of the wood with sharp teeth and pointed claws and over-glossed appearances than her sister. Lilith has always been rooted to other people. Eda has always been left to drift and tie herself to whoever will hold her rope for long enough.

And the fae, at least, have always been happy to take it from her.

“I…it was supposed to work,” she says at last, grasping at the words like straw blown about by a wind coming off the Spine. “It was supposed to work. I’m not…I shouldn’t be able to come back here.”

“...Eda, what…was supposed to work?”

She does look at them now, at the line of their nose, not quite meeting their gaze; this has always felt less like lying to them.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Life Goes On

This if for @buckybarnesplumwhore​

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape; grieving, funeral, breeding, handcuffs, warnings are not exhaustive so read at your own discretion.

This is dark! Andy Barber x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You volunteer at the local youth center but when one of the kids meets an unfortunate end, you cross paths with his father. No stranger to grief, you try to help him cope but find it a bigger than task that you expected.

Note: When I started writing, I had no plan. When I kept writing, there was still no plan. And then it just all kinda happened.

Thanks to everyone for sticking around and putting up with me and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

It was too sunny for a funeral. A funeral come too soon.

The service was held out in the sun, rows of wooden chairs and a sombre old priest. You never knew if the Barbers were religious but it was easy to find a holy man in Massachusetts, as easy as those early years of settlement found in textbooks. 

There were no flowers, only two oblong caskets shrouded in black cloth, the name of each of the dead on silver placards, no pictures, no souvenir of who they were.

It was like Andy was already trying to forget them. He was at the front, the grieving widower and father. You were lost somewhere in the middle with his co-workers, there out of propriety more than empathy, and distant relatives who attended out of courtesy, some passing acquaintances who followed the story in the papers more than out of compassion. It was a spectacle and Andy had done his best from feeding the leering onlookers.

You knew Jacob more than his parents. He was younger than you, almost ten years apart. You knew him from the youth group you volunteered for, the same one you'd been in at his age. He was out of place there, he was from a better neighbourhood than the other kids, they called him the rich brat, and he resented himself more for it than he did them.

His attendance kept his mother happy. He didn't like the individual counseling, he didn't talk, so she put him in the group and he talked there. Sometimes. The kids never went on philosophical monologues but they understood each other and shared what they needed to.

Laurie was always late to pick him up. So he stayed to help stack the chairs and you ended up waiting with him, making sure he wasn't alone in the dark. He hated that at first too, until he realised you weren't on the stoop to council or judge. You were just two people, chatting to pass the time.

Sometimes Andy picked him up. He was friendlier than Laurie. Jacob's mother was always in a rush, even on her way home where there was no deadline. She said thanks, maybe, and drove off as she began to lecture Jacob about how he wore his hat. Andy offered you a ride, every time, as if he had some compulsion to be the good guy, the saviour. You always said no, the bus was a five minute ride to your building, fifteen minutes if you walked.

Now Jacob was dead, his mother too. Another tragedy inflicted upon those least likely. Even death didn't stop the whispers, even that venue, the priest's collar, the Biblical dirges, the grim family man in black did not silence them. It sickened you as the service ended and the people rose in a hushed murmur.

Andy left without talking to anyone. The procession of cars would drive through the streets with flags to mark the grieving on their way to the interment. It was as if Andy was doing what was expected more than what he felt he owed the deceased. He was ever the lawyer, formal and curt.

You followed the grey parade. Not out of obligation but out of genuine regret. Jacob seemed like a lost kid, even in death. The rumours, the accusations, the suspicion, followed him. The people didn't watch the dirt fall from the shovel to see him at peace, they watched it as some grand finale to the great show of the Barbers.

When the metal no longer cut and scattered the soil, the crowd thinned out. You stayed as the diggers packed up. You were sad for Jacob, for Laurie. Andy hadn't been there to see the burial. You couldn't blame him but you were surprised. He just disappeared after the service, apparently done with his part in the play. 

You went closer and stared at the new stone that stretched above both plots. Laurie Barber… and her son, Jacob Barber. May they rest. It was as short, as minimal as anything else about the affair. You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. You didn't know if Jacob was a bad seed, it wasn't your job to make that call, but he had just been a kid and all that potential was now six feet down.

"Didn't think anyone would stick around," the dark figure stepped up beside you, his steps muted by the grass, "least of all, you."

"I'm sorry, I…" you looked at Andy and then the dirt, "I'll go."

"Wait," he said before you could move, "I thought-- I thought I wanted to be alone for this…" he shoved his hand in his pocket, "but I've been alone since it happened and I'm realising, I'm gonna be alone from here on out."

You didn't say a word. You didn't know what you could say. He'd heard a hundred apologies, a hundred condolences.

"I'm happy someone stayed, that someone cared," he cleared his throat, "thank you."

You nodded and played with the buttons on your cardigan.

"He was too. Happy, you know, that someone cared. I think back now and I realise that you probably saw him more than me. He was always excited to go to the centre but he got in that car and he just… deflated." He shook his head, "maybe this is better. One way or the other, he wanted to get away from me but he never could get away from Laurie. She wouldn't let him go."

He chuckled sardonically but it quickly fizzled in his throat.

"Sorry, I'm rambling…"

"You're processing," you said, "a lot of the kids down at the centre, they lost parents, one way or the other, orphans, fosters… I always told them that they didn't have to make sense because grief never really does."

"Now that makes a lot of sense," he said, "but you shouldn't have to listen to me."

"I shouldn't or you don't think you should say any of it?"

"Hmmm," he hummed, "yeah, maybe."

"I don't get paid to listen to those kids, I just get a time and a place to do so. This isn't different. It's just talking and a lot of that is just figuring things out. Listening is easy, you're doing the hard part."

"Jeez, you come up with this stuff on your own or is there some sort of how-to book?"

You lifted your chin and sucked in your lip. You could tell where Jacob got the bite from.

"Sorry, that was… mean," he said after the silence settled with the dirt, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure," you said.

"You got somewhere to be?"

"No…" you answered cautiously.

"Do you think you might wanna listen to me a little more? I'll buy you a coffee for the trouble."

"You wanna talk? To me?"

"Better than anyone I do know," he snorted, "they all just give me that dumb look. They pity me, judge me. You don't have to say yes but I started now, if I stop, I'll...stop."

"Coffee?" You glanced over at him, "I'd rather tea."

"I'm sure they got that too," he fiddled with the trim of his pocket, "anytime you wanna bail, let me know."

"If I can handle teen angst, I think I can handle you."

🖤

That afternoon wasted away in the corner of a café. It felt like any other day but for Andy, you knew, it was likely the worst day of his life. Likely a day he wouldn’t forget. You sat patiently until the last of your tea was cold. He didn’t finish his coffee, he hardly even touched it. When you checked the time, he looked down embarrassed.

“It’s late,” he said, “I… I’m sorry for keeping you so long.”

“I didn’t have anything to do. I doubt you did either,” you swept up the paper cup and your purse.

“No, really, I mean, you don’t know me. You knew Jacob and I just sat here and talked your ear off for hours. I--” he looked out the window, “I know that when I go home, the house will still be empty. That’s why I’m here.”

You looked past him as he turned back. You chewed your lip, “Andy, have you looked into counseling yet?”

“It feels… too early for that.”

“Too early?”

“I don’t want to let it go. Don’t want to let them go,” he sucked his hands in his pockets, “if I go, that’s what they’ll tell me to do.”

“No, they’d help you live with it, not forget it,” you said, “but I know, it’s scary. Have you done anything? Read anything?”

“Read?”

“Self-help isn’t for everyone and those dummy books aren’t great I admit, but sometimes a start is better than nothing. What about… a routine? Do you have one?”

“I work, I come home, I sleep, and try not to notice they’re gone,” he shrugged, “and repeat. Lot of overtime.”

“You’re still working?” you went to the door and he followed.

“Well, I talked to you. That’s what I’m going to do about it.”

You stepped out into the evening din and spun to look at him. You crossed your arms and stood across from him on the pavement.

“Well, unfortunately there’s an age limit down at the centre,” you said, “but I could give you a number for an adult group.”

“No, I don’t wanna talk to a group of sad parents and widowers. Just remind me how pathetic I really am,” he scoffed.

“Do you think that what you’re doing right now is better?”

“Do you have a degree in this?” he wondered, “what are you doing down at that youth centre talking to degenerates?”

“I have a certificate that says I’m good at listening, but no, I couldn’t afford a degree,” you dropped your arms, “but, will you come down? Sit in on a session. Just listen… for Jacob? It helped him, I think, after a while?”

“With the kids?”

“Yeah, with the kids,” you said, “maybe it will help you decide.”

“Decide what?”

“If you’re going to keep doing what you're doing; nothing, or if you’re going to try. Trust me, after a while, just sitting there, ignoring it, it gets old and it won’t get better.”

He looked down and stared at his leather shoe as he ground his toe into the pavement, “is that allowed? Am I allowed to do that?”

“I don’t see why not. I have parents sit in all the time.”

“But I’m not-- not anymore,” he gulped.

“You are,” you patted his arm gently, “you always will be.”

“What time?” he raised his head.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays at four-thirty. We do accept late arrivals. Kids come in and out. Usually hang out til seven before I let them go.”

“I think I can make that work,” he exhaled deeply, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For putting up with me.”

You nodded and gave a bittersweet smile, “I miss Jacob too. I might be little more than a glorified babysitter but it means something to me. The kids… they feel like they’re mine sometimes. At least on those two nights a week.”

“Well…” he peered down the street, “you need a ride?”

You chuckled quietly, “you now, I think this time, I do.”

🖤

Andy was early. He took a chair near the wall as the kids flopped on the low sofas and into the colourful armchairs. A government grant had seen an upgrade in the lounge, although the kitchen needed some work as the cooking classes were still short on supplies. Dark circles darkened his eyes and the hairline wrinkles around them added to the hollow effect. He wasn’t sleeping.

You waited for the room to quiet. You greeted the kids and went through the usual ice breaker; one bad thing, one good thing, and one way they could improve the bad. Many of them were reluctant at first, they resisted what they thought were cheesy and inane exercises but they all came around. They were able to voice things that otherwise would be kept to themselves and they were afforded a respectful and often rapt audience.

When you finished, you kept from naming your own three. You looked at Andy.

“I’m sorry, everyone, I’m so forgetful. This is Andy,” you gestured to him, “he’s sitting in with us today. Andy, why don’t you tell us your bad thing, your good thing, and one thing you can do to improve the bad.”

He looked startled but he stood and cleared his throat. He glanced around at the kids and the shadow left his face. “Well, I lost a file, there were free bagels at work, and… I guess I could try to look again tomorrow.”

“Very good,” you smiled, “alright, my turn at last. My bad thing is I spilled tea on my shirt, my good thing is it’s a dark shirt, and my thing to improve is… wear a bib.” You laughed as you audience stay stone faced, “alright, alright, I’ll just be more careful and not run with hot liquids.”

You sat and started with Danica. She was always the most talkative, that encouraged the other kids. Today was no exception and you had to remind her to save some time for everyone else. Erik was next, then Andre, and Shamea. You almost didn’t notice Andy as he stood and sidled against the wall. Not until he was at the door, he looked back darkly and you saw his chest fall heavily. His nostrils flared and he was gone.

You tried not to show your disappointment, tried not to let the kids notice. They were all caught up in the circle and breaking it was never good. Shamea passed the stuffed bunny to Naima and you focused on her. Maybe it was too soon for Andy, you understood that, but you hoped too that he might have found a piece of Jacob there.

Before the kids left, you handed out the coloured markers and they each scribbled down a few words before a high-five. They passed through the open door in pairs and singles, and you bent to add your own note. You tucked the card into your bag and locked up. Jacob was usually the only one to hang around. Not anymore.

You headed out the front door with a wave to Martha at the front desk and took a gulp of the fresh evening air. There was someone sat on the flat stone at the bottom of the broad rail of the stairs. You recognised Andy as you neared, much too big to be a teen.

“I’m sorry,” he dabbed his nose with his sleeve, “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay in that room.”

“But you’re still here,” you said.

“I didn’t wanna just leave you hanging but… they all remind me of him,” he stood, “I’m sorry.”

“No more apologies,” you opened your purse and searched, “I had the kids put this together. Actually, it was Milo’s idea. He didn’t know it was you but he wanted to send it in the mail--”

“What?” he took the card and opened it. He turned so he could read it in the yellow light of the street lamp, “oh my god.”

“Is it too much?”

“No, no,” he ran his thumb over the ink, “it’s…” he closed it and tucked it into his jacket, “the only other thing I’ve got is the bill for the caskets. It’s… amazing. Thank you.”

“Not at all. They always surprise me,” you said, “most of the time, in good ways.”

“You need a ride?” he checked his watch.

“I don’t live far,” you waved him off, “but I always appreciate the offer.”

He nodded and frowned, “and if… if I didn’t want to be alone? Would you grab a burger with me? Have you eaten?”

“Not since lunch, I, uh… I guess it couldn’t hurt,” you said.

“You gotta be up early?”

“Nah, not too early.”

“What do you do? I mean, outside of this?” he turned and directed you to his car.

“Data entry,” you sighed, “it’s not very exciting but I work remotely and the pay is decent and I still have time for the kids.”

“It’s a living,” he said as the door locks clicked and you grabbed the handle, “no judgment. Trust me, being a lawyer, it’s really not as glamourous as it seems.”

🖤

Andy’s routine changed. He came around every Thursday and listened. After a few weeks, the kids figured out who he was. They didn’t treat him any differently and even invited him to join in on the teambuilding games you arranged. He wasn’t bad help as you welcomed a few new members from the group home.

That night, you weren’t feeling great. Even the kids hadn’t helped much. You were exhausted and nauseous. You blamed it on the late night shawarma. You said goodbye to the kids and packed up. Andy stacked the chairs without you asking, even when you told him not to.

You leaned heavily on the table and checked your phone before slipping it into your bag. You wiped your forehead and shivered. Some gravol, ginger ale, and sleep would be your indulgence that night.

“You okay?” Andy asked.

“Stomach thing,” you rubbed your middle, “nothing major.”

“You don’t look great,” he said, “well, I don’t mean it like-- are you sure--”

“Oh, gee,” you slid past him and out the door.

You ran to the restroom across the hall and into a stall. You wretched and the acid seared your throat. The bile bubbled in the toilet water and you shuddered. You heaved a few more times and rinsed your mouth in the sink.

Andy was waiting for you in the hall, “let me drive you tonight,” he insisted, “even if it’s just a block away.”

“I can’t even say no,” you grumbled as he handed you your purse.

“What’s wrong? You eat something?”

“I think,” you groaned as he held the door open and the cool air outside chilled the sweat on your neck, “urgh, I hope it’s only that.”

You got to his car and fell heavily into the seat. You slumped against the console as he started the car. He paused as the engine idled and felt your forehead. He nudged you back against the seat and turned his hand to press the back of his fingers to your cheek.

“You got a fever,” he said, “I don’t think it’s food poisoning.”

“Oh, those kids carry bugs like rats,” you muttered, “just take me home, I’ll get over it.”

He pulled out of his spot and you closed your eyes. You leaned against the window, frigid against your forehead and hugged yourself. You dozed off before he even turned out of the lot, the belt keeping you from folding over entirely.

🖤

You woke up between fresh linen. The sunlight was soft in its early hues. It wasn't your bed. You rolled onto your side and your stomach ached from how empty it was. You pushed back the thick duvet, you were sweating. You didn't remember more than the car ride and a few fuzzy glimpses of the bottom of a bucket. 

You were cold again and pulled the blanket back. The door was open and Andy filled it as if he'd heard your grumbles. He stood at the bottom of the bed in a pair of plaid pants and a blue tee.

"Why am I here?" You asked. 

"You fell asleep. You're sick. I couldn't just leave you outside your building," he said, "how are you feeling?"

"Bad," you replied curtly, "I can go," you sat up, "stop by the pharmacy, go hide in my own bed."

"You should stay here," he insisted, "just until the fever breaks."

"Really… ugh," you moaned as your belly clenched, "Andy, I should--"

"Lay down?" He came around and caught your shoulder, "I used to call in sometimes when Jacob was home sick. When he was a lot younger and… I stir up a man cup of noodles."

"You don't have to--"

"It's completely selfish," he interrupted, "it's been a long time since I had someone to take care of or at least it feels like it."

You were light-headed as you tried to stand but he kept you from getting to your feet, "I guess I can stay a little longer."

"Don't act like I don't owe you," he tutted, "now relax. I'll get you some soup. You need something in your system. I got some anti-nausea pills in the cupboard, too."

"Thanks but you don't owe me anything. I'm gonna owe you big."

"Why don't we just call it even then," he backed up, "seeing as that's my bed and my couch, it's really not made for sleeping." He stretched his arms and his shoulders cracked, "especially at my age."

🖤

You stayed another night. You tried to convince Andy to let you take the couch instead but he was a lawyer and rarely lost an argument. It was easier to eat by the evening but you were still dizzy and you couldn't stop yawning. You'd never been so tired.

Despite your uneasiness at overstaying your welcome, you slept more heavily than before. Your guilt didn't keep you awake for long as you sank into a deep sleep and you woke slowly, a murmur escaping your lips as grogginess weighed you down. You were still so very tired but it was already morning.

You stretched and your wrist caught. You winced and tugged at your arm. You sat up in horror as you stared at the metal cuff attached to the hoop drilled into the headboard. You tugged until your arm hurt and your hand throbbed. What the fuck.

"Andy! Andy! What--"

"Shhhhh," Andy hushed you as he entered, "it's okay, you're okay."

"No, I'm not. What did you do?" You pulled again and the metal pinched your skin.

"You're going to hurt yourself," he said calmly.

"Unlock it. Let me go," you struggled as you kicked off the blankets, "Andy, what the fuck?"

"Hey, don't talk like that. It's...nasty."

"I don't understand," you began to pant, "why are you doing this?"

The panic crawled like tendrils up your neck and back. You twisted and pulled but the metal cuff didn't budge. You felt the bed shift and Andy grabbed your shoulder. He forced you down, pinning your other hand beside your head.

"I'm taking care of you," he said, "don't be so ungrateful."

"I can take care of myself. Let me go, please."

"No, you need me," he snarled, "like I need you."

"Andy, you're wrong--"

"Stop!" He covered your mouth, "stop! You don't know what you need. Now be still. Be quiet." He squeezed until your jaw hurt, "don't make this difficult."

He slowly lifted his hand and you didn’t move. You stared at his hand then looked at his face. There was a desperate anger in the depths of his oceanic eyes. He sat back and his jaw clenched as he watched you.

"I'm going to make breakfast. Be good. You need to eat." He backed off the bed and went to the door, "I mean it."

He left you and you listened until pans clinked and clanged in the kitchen below. You folded your thumb against your palm and tried to wiggle free of the cuff. It was too tight. There was only one other way out and you couldn't do it alone.

"HELP! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE!" You screamed, "someone help me!"

The footsteps hammered up the stairs and Andy stormed in. He grabbed you and clamped his hand over your mouth again.

"Listen, no one can hear you, you got that? Windows are soundproof, but I really don't want to hear it so it's up to you if I gag you."

You blinked and your lip trembled against his hand. Your eyes rounded and you nodded stiffly. He tore his hand away and sighed as he clapped his hands on his legs in frustration.

"Good," he said quietly, "now, let's just hope," he stood and strode to the door, "that the bacon didn't burn."

🖤

You fell asleep again shortly after eating, even with the adrenaline and panic surging through your veins. You woke again in the afternoon. Your limbs were heavy but the fever was gone and your stomach felt better but you were still terribly tired. 

Andy was there. He had a leather file in his lap as he looked over papers and scratched his beard. He sensed your movement and looked over at you.

"Hungry?" He asked, "you slept through lunch."

"No," you smelled your sweat on the duvet, "but… can I have a shower? I haven't...since I got here."

"A shower?" He closed the folder and stood. He set it down and pursed his lips as he thought. "Fifteen minutes," he said as he dug around in his pocket, "I'll be here."

He unlocked the cuff and you rubbed your wrist as you sat up. He stayed close as you rose and stayed between you and the bedroom door as he pointed you to the bathroom.

"I don't have much for you to wear yet but you can take another one of my shirts," he said.

You nodded and closed the door between you. You closed your eyes and pressed yourself to the wind. How was this the same man that you spoke to that day at the cemetery?

🖤

He slept beside you that night. You were on your side, your arm bound again by the cuff with the pillow between it and your head. You were uncomfortable, more so with him against your back. He wore only a pair of boxers. You shied away when he undressed and never looked at him again.

You dozed despite your nerves. You couldn't shake the drowsiness. You just felt more and more tired. When you opened your eyes, his arm was around you. He ran his fingers over your stomach, fingers crawling beneath the baggy tee shirt. You shivered and he nuzzled the back of your neck.

"I was thinking… well, I've been thinking for a while now, how happy we could be," he said, "I'm still young enough to try again, do it right and you… you're young, ready." His hand brushed up to your chest and he cupped your tit, "you're kind, you're caring, you're...beautiful. You’re my second chance."

“Andy,” your voice was brittle as your pulse beat furiously, “what you’re doing, it’s not right. You need to let me go.”

He went rigid and his hand stopped. He unsnaked his arm from around you and the springs coiled as he fell heavily onto his back. In the silence, you could only hear his steady breaths and a low growl.

“No, I’m helping you,” he said, “like you’ve helped me.”

“Andy, please,” you eased onto your back and looked over at him, “this isn’t how you fix this.”

“How do I?” he snarled, “huh? How? You don’t know!” he sat up and glared down at you, “you can’t know.”

“You think hurting me is helping me? That’s what you’re doing.”

“No, no, no,” he bent his legs as he grasped his head and gripped it as if it would crack, “No! I haven’t hurt you. I feed you, I keep you clean, I… I take care of you!”

“Andy,” you reached over shakily and touched his bare shoulder, “this isn’t what I want and I know you don’t want it either. You want someone who really loves you--”

“You love me!” he turned so quickly you yelped. He gripped your jaw tightly as he held himself against you, “you love me,” he pressed his lips to yours and you murmured in surprise, “you love me,” it was a maddened chant as he pulled back, “...love me.”

“And--”

His hand flew up to smother you and he lifted himself over you. His knees pressed to your legs until they parted and his other hand explored your curves through the rumpled cotton. You squeaked and tensed against his touch, your wrist chafing from the cuff.

“Shhh,” he hushed as he pushed the shirt up.

He kept his hand on your mouth as he slid down your body and left a trail of kisses along your torso as he unveiled it. He bunched the tee above your chest and bent to dote on your tits. You shuddered and pushed on his head as you mumbled into his palm.

His fingers tickled along your side and hooked into the side of the drawstring shorts he gave you. He tugged until the string snapped and edged them down as he continued to tend to your chest. You kicked around him and felt his bulge as he leaned into you.

He ripped his hand away and sat up. He grabbed the waist of the shorts and wrenched them down your legs, quickly taking his between them again. You wriggled and batted out at his chest as his thumbs pressed against your hip bones and his hands crept down to knead your thighs.

“I can start again,” he brushed his fingers down your vee and you trembled as they danced along your cunt.

“No, Andy, please, you can still stop--”

“Shhhh, honey,” he pushed between your folds and you gasped, “it’s okay. I’ll still take care of you,” he glided over your cunt and made you twitch, “and the baby.”

He poked along your entrance and you whined helplessly as you reached to the cuff and pulled with both arms. Every muscles in your strained as you tried to break free of the headboard. He pushed a finger inside of you and you cried out.

“Andy, stop, please, no--”

He added another finger and slipped them in and out of you as he purred. You looked at his face and it sent a chill through you. His eyes were dark and clung to the movement of his hand, his brow set and his jaw squared with his intent. He wasn’t the grieving widower, he wasn’t the man lost and lonely, he was a monster.

“That’s it,” he turned his hand and flicked your clit with his thumb, “you want me. I feel it.”

You looked away as your wetness spread to his knuckles and along your folds. He kept his thumb moved as he curled his fingers inside of you and the pressure built as the tip of his touch. You gritted your teeth and shook your head helplessly.

“No,” you whispered, “no, no, no…”

He took his hand away suddenly and you felt empty. He lifted himself on his knees and rolled down his boxers. You didn’t look at him, you couldn’t, you only saw the silhouette of his nudity.

He pushed your thighs apart and spread himself over you, his elbow just beside you as he felt around between your bodies. His hot breath grazed your cheek and he kissed it firmly as he angled his tip between your folds. Your thighs clenched around him in a futile act of resistance as he found your entrance.

He pushed inside slowly and brought his other arm up beside you. He forced your head straight and you squeezed your eyes shut. He cradled your head between his hands and his lips brushed yours as he spoke, “open your eyes. Look at me.”

“Andy,” you murmured as he slowly got deeper, “please--”

“Look at me,” he demanded, “look at me!”

Your eyes snapped open and met his stormy blue ones. He bucked his hips and impaled you completely. You exclaimed and grasped his thick bicep in shock, your other hand balled above the cuff. Your legs bent around his thick thighs as you tried to stop him.

“God, you feel so good,” he purred as he began to rock, “don’t I feel good too?”

Your lashes fluttered away the rising tears and you sucked your lip in to keep from making a sound. You could look away as he held your head straight, his hand clamping around your jaw as he other arm bent beneath yours.

The room echoed with the noise of his flesh slapping yours as he sped up, his grunts and groans interlaced with the sickening symphony. You quivered as his pelvis rubbed against yours and stoked the heat in your core. You could not hold back the illicit response of your body as he ravaged it.

Your breath grew heavier and he gulped it down as he kissed you again, forcing his tongue between your lips as he devoured you. The whole bed moved in time with your body and the headboard knocked against the wall as his thrusts came closer and closer together and he buried himself as deep as he could with each tilt of his hips.

He drew his mouth away and pressed his cheek to yours as his muscles tensed and he puffed into the pillow, “this is it, honey. It all starts here.”

“Ah, please…” your voice fizzled and smothered your moan against his shoulder as your body spasmed. Your legs bent around him firmly as you orgasmed and your body arched beneath his desperately.

“That’s it,” he cooed, “that’s it. You take me so well. See… it was meant to… be.”

His breaths grew more rampant with his rhythm. His hand slipped down to cradle your cheek and his thumb stroked your flesh tenderly as he dipped into you over and over. His deep groans grew louder around you. He jerked into you sharply and his motion stuttered. He gripped your hip and held you down as he sheathed himself in your walls. 

He quaked as his hips slowed and he flooded you. He exhaled and as his lungs emptied, the strength left him entirely and he lowered himself over you weakly. His body pressed yours into the mattress, your sweat and his turned sticky as the air settled over you.

He stayed like that for what felt like forever. He moved slowly to lift himself up and he sat back, watching his dick slide out of you. Your thighs shook as your legs splayed around him. You felt his cum leak from you and he dragged his fingers along your cunt and scooped it back into you, coating his fingers in as he pushed them past your entrance once more. He smiled at the wet sounds of your cunt.

“That felt like the one,” he said, “but we can try again...”

He pulled his fingers out of you and admired the slickness that glistened over them. He reached down and gripped his dick, half-soft and spent. He winced as he began to stroke himself and let out stifled moans between his teeth.

“Maybe this time,” he purred as he angled himself inside of you again and lifted your legs against his torso. He bit his lips as he trembled, his cock oversensitive and overworked, “as many times as it takes, honey.”

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Chapter 18

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter | Next chapter

THE NEXT MORNING

SIGURD’S CHAMBERS

Eivor pried his eyes open to a slit, immediately squinting in the sunlight that hit his face.

His fingers twitched with movement as his body returned to a state of consciousness, and his dreams vacated the stage that once sat in his mind. A subtle itch tickled the surface of his skin due to the strands of hair that dangled in front of his nose, and out of the corner of his eye, Eivor could see lingering smoke trailing from the dead embers of a torch once set aflame.

It was a calm morning, despite the mournful nature of the clan. A light breeze traveled swiftly throughout the empty halls of the longhouse, and distant chatter could be heard from the villagers who had already risen. It was the start of an ordinary day, and yet, Eivor had no motivation to see it through.

He just couldn’t stop thinking about Thora and Ulfar. 

Even though he managed to distract himself for a while with Sigurd’s company, the pain was inevitably sinking back in, and it felt as if a boulder had planted itself on top of his chest. 

There was no way to fill the new absence stalking his every move; no way he could ever see Thora or Ulfar again. Both of them were gone, and he had been left behind. He was stuck in this realm with nothing but the memories of those he had lost, and the only thing that could help him was the hope of putting Kjotve down for good.

Thankfully, Eivor wasn’t completely alone just yet. 

Resting gently over his hip, the young man felt the weight of Sigurd’s arm pressing down on him like a protective shield, holding him close in a world that was constantly trying to separate them. His breath kissed the back of Eivor’s neck at a steady pace, and a soothing warmth surrounded their bodies due to the blankets barricading them from the cold.

It was surprising to see that Sigurd hadn’t taken his leave, Eivor thought. Part of him had been expecting the prince to vanish like he did on the day of the wedding, and yet, he was here, keeping him company without any worry of judgement. His mind remained buried under dreams of war and mayhem, and his eyelids fluttered with the vivid images that flashed in his head.

He looked to be at peace, despite the turmoil brewing inside him. His expression was devoid of any usual disturbances, and Eivor’s comforting presence only helped to bring him more solace.

In addition to the relief Eivor felt upon seeing Sigurd however, the young man also couldn’t ignore the guilt he carried for taking the prince away from Randvi.

Gods only knew what that woman was going through right now. In a single day, she had lost both her blood-sister and father figure -- and unlike Eivor -- she had to deal with the pain alone.

She didn’t have anyone in her chambers to provide her with company or a shoulder to lean on, and Eivor began to wonder if he should’ve been ashamed of himself for robbing her of that. 

Perhaps it was a mistake to stay with Sigurd for the night. Perhaps he should’ve simply gone to the temple like he planned, and left the prince to his own devices. Maybe then, Randvi wouldn’t be forced to endure all this grief alone.  Eivor may have cherished every moment he spent with Sigurd, but he didn’t wish to do it at the expense of his sister’s well-being.

It was Randvi that Sigurd was supposed to be with, after all. And Eivor couldn’t help but question the morality of what he was doing. 

“...Eivor...?” The older man suddenly murmured, causing the Wolf-Kissed to glance over his shoulder.

He came face-to-face with a pair of heavy-lidded eyes, and smiled faintly upon hearing the man’s words.

“Good morning, love.” Eivor said, rolling onto his side. “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

Sigurd chuckled, though it came out more like a grunt due to the sleep that still fogged his mind.

“...You didn’t wake me up. Truth is, I barely slept. My dreams were plagued with nothing but nightmares. I hope you had a better night.”

“I’d be lying if I said I did. All I could think about was Thora and Ulfar. About how they died.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t stop thinking about Dag either. It’s been hours since he first went silent, and yet... his final words refuse to leave me. It’s like he’s still here, berating me for everything I’ve done. Every time I close my eyes, my dreams take me back to the Tears of Ymir. Part of me feels as if I never left.”

Eivor snuggled up in Sigurd’s embrace, bringing himself closer to the other man.

“...We will get through this, love.” He reassured. “I know it wasn’t easy, but you gave us a chance at victory when you slew the traitor. Now, Kjotve has no allies within our walls. He’s completely by himself. And we have his son as a prisoner. We still have hope of winning this war... and it’s thanks to you.”

Sigurd raised a hand to Eivor’s cheek, gently caressing it with the back of his knuckles. 

“I hope you’re right. The last thing I want is for all our sacrifices to be in vain. We can’t accept defeat now. Not when we’re so close.” The prince sat up from the bed, causing his hair to slip from his shoulders. “But for now, let’s simply focus on honoring our dead. There are many farewells that need to be said before we take things further with Gorm, and I’d like to see Dag off on his journey to Hel. He may have been a traitor, but even he doesn’t deserve abandonment in death.”

Eivor’s mood soured at the mention of Dag’s name. In spite of his agreement to granting the man a place at the funeral, he couldn’t help but feel contempt for him after everything he and Gorm did to Thora.

“Do you think Dag would’ve done the same for you?” Eivor questioned.

Sigurd hesitated, not failing to notice the sharpness in his tone.

“I... I honestly don’t know. Did he even love me in the end? Or did he view me as an enemy? A foe that he needed to eliminate?” The prince combed a hand through his hair, letting out a sigh. “I’d like to believe that he would stand by my grave in death, but in reality, I suspect he would’ve been the one to send me there.”

Sigurd rose from the bed and reached for his shirt, shaking his head in sorrow. “Gods... how did things go so wrong...?”

He pulled the piece of clothing over his torso, preparing to take his leave.

“Anyway, I’ll let you get dressed. I imagine my father will be awake by now, and I’d like to have a few words with him before we depart. Meet me outside when you’re ready to go. We can walk to the funeral together.”

The younger man followed suit and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, dreading the near-future. He didn’t want to attend the ceremony alone, but he also worried that he wouldn’t be able to keep his composure in the presence of Thora and Ulfar.

“...Alright.” He said plainly. “I’ll find you when I’m ready, Sigurd.”

The prince leaned down and placed a kiss on Eivor’s forehead, bidding him farewell.

“Take care, Eivor. I’ll see you soon.”

~~~~~~~~~~

ONE HOUR LATER

THE DOCKS

Walking along the edge of the ship, Ingrida’s boots quietly thudded against the wooden floor as she tended to the pyres, preparing them for their final departure. She scattered a mixture of herbs and petals at the base of the structures, whispering a series of prayers under her breath.

Her heart ached beyond words to see three of her beloved clan members sharing a ship to the gates of the afterlife. Thora, Ulfar, and Eirik all lay side-by-side in the center of the vessel, decorated with an abundance of gifts that the villagers had left for them. They had axes, shields, food, riches, armor -- every possible boon they could use in the next realm. Their bodies had also been adorned with a handful of sweet-scented flowers, and their hands had been arranged to hold the swords in their grip.

Meanwhile, Dag rested alone in a separate ship docked on the other end of the harbor. His boat had been left barren of any gifts or offerings, and the only attention he received was from scornful villagers who were irked to see his presence at the funeral. His pyre looked about as empty as the frozen sea before them, and it appeared just as cold.

Luckily, despite the animosity the clan held for Dag, Ingrida hadn’t yet forbade herself from saying a prayer for the man. Even though he was directly linked to the death of her son, she still saw it fitting to bless him with one last prayer, as well as the dignity of being sent on a proper vessel. She carried less than no love for the dishonorable traitor, but did not wish to defile his grave, lest she cause Sigurd even more pain.

“Wherever the bridge may guide you,” Ingrida whispered, walking up to Thora, “whatever obstacles you may face, know that your memory has been marked in our clan, sister. Your words, your thoughts, your actions -- they will all continue to live among us even though you have returned to the gods. Your spirit will become as natural as the trees around us, and your name will be shrouded in the honor that was robbed of you in death. May you find peace under Hel’s gaze, and may your axe never thirst for battle. You are free now.”

The woman brought her attention to Eirik, crumbling at the sight of her son.

“Oh, my son...” she murmured, “forgive me. I never thought it would end like this. I never thought it would be me who tended to your pyre. I wanted to watch you grow old. I wanted you to enjoy the life I had given you. I wanted better for--” Ingrida’s voice faltered, causing her to pause briefly, “--you deserved... better than this. You deserved happiness. I only pray that the gods will grant it to you someday, and that we will meet again when death takes us both.” She slid a hand down Eirik’s cheek. “Rest well, my son. Your struggles will not be everlasting.”

Turning to Ulfar, Ingrida cleared her throat and took a deep breath, regaining her composure for one final farewell.

“And my dear friend, Wulfgar,” she said. “I know you were fueled by hatred for many years before you came to us. I know you carried an abundance of regrets. But as the Valkyries guide you to the Hall of Valor, I hope you can find forgiveness for yourself. Even though you were not exempt of flaws, you were one of the best men I had ever the pleasure of meeting. You were a venerable husband to Linnea, and a loving father to many of the children here.” 

She sighed, placing a delicate hand over the hilt of Ulfar’s sword. “I do not know whether you will meet the Christian god or be accepted into the Allfather’s arms, but either way, remember that redemption walks with you, drengr. Your faults have been amended, and your shackles have been broken. May your freedom guide you home.”

Stepping away from the pyres, Ingrida said the last of her prayers and decided to leave the bodies alone for now, admittedly somewhat overwhelmed by the grief that was starting to sink in. For days, she had been focusing on the preparations for this funeral, and yet, nothing could’ve fully braced her for the severity of their losses.

The old völva had overseen multiple burials in the past, but she had never attended one with so many familiar faces. Thora, Ulfar, Eirik -- they were all vital people in her life. She watched them grow, she watched them cry, she watched them change. A part of her soul was attached to the three of them, and now... she had to watch them leave.

It was the hardest farewell she ever had the burden of bidding, and she hoped it would be the last.

“Ingrida?”

The seeress whirled around at the sudden greeting, not realizing that she had company.

“Oh, Eivor,” she said upon seeing her guest’s face. “I didn’t notice you were there.”

The young man approached her, keeping his hands linked in a respectful manner.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” he explained. “I saw that you were saying a prayer for them.”

Ingrida glanced back at the fallen warriors’ bodies, nodding morosely.

“...Indeed. I just finished saying goodbye to Wulfgar.”

Eivor cocked a brow at that. “Wulfgar? You mean... Ulfar?”

Ironically, his question only seemed to garner more confusion from the old woman.

“He never told you?” She asked, clearly surprised.

“Told me what?”

A look of understanding spread across Ingrida’s face. “Forgive me, young cub. I assumed you knew of this already. The two of you were like father and son, so I simply thought...” she shook her head, returning to the topic. “Anyway. Tell me, did Ulfar ever reveal that he originally came from a Saxon family?”

“Yes,” Eivor recalled. “He mentioned that before.”

“Well, his name was Wulfgar before he was adopted by the Norse. He always asked me to refer to him as that in private. It may seem like an odd request, but I think it helped him preserve some semblance of who he once was.”

“I... I never knew that. Ulfar didn’t tell any of us.”

Ingrida gazed at the raider’s lifeless face, tilting her head out of empathy.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. He had a dark history before he married Linnea and joined our clan. He probably didn’t want to frighten you.”

Eivor’s curiosity got the best of him. “Can you tell me what he did, exactly?”

The seeress fell silent due to hesitance. “I... don’t think I should, Eivor. I don’t believe it would be my place. If Ulfar felt the need to keep it hidden from you, then perhaps that’s because he meant to take the secret to his grave.”

A hint of disappointment sank into Eivor’s mood, but he respected the secrecy nonetheless.

“...I understand.”

Ingrida offered another possible answer. “If your curiosity is truly piqued though, I’d recommend asking your father. Arngeir is also aware of Ulfar’s past, and he was much closer to him than I. I think he would be more suited to tell the story -- if you are willing to hear it.”

“I am. I’ll ask him about it later. Thank you.”

The woman crossed her arms and took a moment to examine Eivor, suddenly switching the subject when she noticed that he was alone.

“But enough about that. Where is Sigurd?” Ingrida questioned. “I expected him to come here with you.”

The inquisitive spark in Eivor’s eyes dimmed at the observation, and he took a slow glance at the nearby longship.

“He’s paying his respects to Dag.” He said, gesturing to the traitor’s pyre. Ingrida followed his gaze, watching as Sigurd said his goodbyes.

The downhearted prince was currently kneeling in front of the wooden tomb with his head hanging low, and a hand over Dag’s wrist. His face was hidden from the world due to his crouched position, and at the moment, all Ingrida could see was a slight quiver shaking the stillness of his shoulders.

“...His eyes burned bright with the heat of Muspelheim itself...” Ingrida whispered in revelation. “Oh, that poor man. I now understand what my vision meant. I understand what it was trying to say.”

Eivor gave the woman a puzzled look, intrigued by her train of thought.

“What do you mean?”

Ingrida brought her focus back to the young man and closed the distance between them.

“The night before Sigurd arrived, the gods sent me a dream about him. Do you remember? It was just before Freya’s statue fell at the temple.”

Eivor nodded. “Yes, I remember.”

A hint of caution took hold of her tone. “...Dag’s death will only fuel the fire already raging in your prince, Wolf-Kissed. I know I advised you to stay away from Sigurd in the past, but now, I suspect you’ll be the only one capable of pulling him back from the edge. Do not allow him to get lost in the dark. He’ll be leading us into battle not too long from now. Please, do what you can to ensure that his mind stays whole.”

“Of course, Ingrida. I--” he stuttered for a second, hesitant to be completely open, “...you know how I feel about him. I’ll try my best to help him.”

That seemed to bring relief to the seeress. “Thank you, Eivor. We need both of you if we’re going to win this war. Take care of yourselves in the storm to come. We’re almost through the brunt of it.”

Bringing their conversation to an end, Ingrida placed a soft hand on Eivor’s arm and guided him away from the pyres, stepping back onto the docks as the clan gathered for the final farewell. A line of archers had already taken their position at the front of the shoreline and set their arrows aflame, preparing for the upcoming ceremony.

“Come, young cub. It’s time to say goodbye.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Standing just beyond the tide’s reach, Eivor and Sigurd watched the funeral from afar as gusts of icy wind danced throughout the village, causing their capes to billow in the breeze. Specks of snow fluttered from the muted sky hanging above them, and in the distance, Eivor could see a number of dockhands pushing the ships away from the piers.

It almost would’ve been beautiful, if it weren’t for the morbidity of their gathering. The ships glided across the glassy surface like swans in a lake, and their hulls split the sheets of ice blocking their course. Ravens soared alongside the majestic sails as if Odin himself were guiding their departure from Midgard, and within moments, the archers had already prepared their first volley of arrows.

“Aim!” One of the warriors commanded, his voice thundering across the beach. A chain of flames immediately rose into the air, pointing directly towards the clouds.

The ships ventured a bit deeper into the ocean, causing waves of white foam to spurt around them.

“Loose!”

Releasing their grip on the bows, the archers sent a storm of arrows flying into the sky as their fiery tips set the heavens aflame, painting the atmosphere with what looked like a thousand suns. Their reflections bolted across the sea like streaks of ember, and soon after, the ships were engulfed in a cloak of fire.

Little by little, the sparks spread throughout the vessels’ entire structure, igniting everything they could touch. They easily latched onto the fallen warriors who occupied the pyres, and consumed their hollow shells like webs of frost crawling across the ocean.

It was a display fit for the gods themselves. The ships wandered like a pair of beacons shattering the dark, and Eivor could only hope that the divines would accept their new arrivals with open arms. These souls had officially traveled beyond the mortal realm, and now, their threads in the tapestry of fate had been cut.

It was finally time for Eivor to let them go. The very same war that had taken these people in the first place still burned with an unbridled fury, and it wouldn’t be long before they had to confront it once and for all.

The only thing they had to do now was get Gorm to talk. His forked tongue hid behind a guise of feigned ignorance, but Eivor knew better than to believe his twisted claims. 

That man knew where Kjotve was, and he knew how to lure him out of the shadows. His information was the key to winning this war, and neither the Wolf-Kissed nor the Raven Prince would back down until they got what they wanted.

It was their only chance of survival at this point, and the last obstacle blocking their way.

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

THE DUNGEON

Shoving the barred door open with a firm push, Sigurd ducked under the low frame and slipped into the room, lighting the way with a torch as Eivor followed him from behind. The weathered hinges of the door squeaked sharply in the looming silence, and a soft rattle bounced off the walls as their prisoner struggled in his chains.

Gorm was completely alone down here. Not only had he been deprived of any human contact, but the tight bricks of the dungeon had also sealed out any intruding sunlight. His hands and feet had been tied down by harsh shackles, and a rough cloth had been wrapped securely around his eyes.

Despite Gorm’s recent arrival though, it looked like someone had already visited him. In the flickering glow that radiated from Sigurd’s torch, the prince spotted fresh cuts and bruises littering the prisoner’s skin. Tiny droplets of blood stained the collar of his shirt, and by now, a slick sheen of sweat had formed on the man’s bony chest.

It wouldn’t be difficult to interrogate this man, but that didn’t mean Sigurd would go easy on him.

“Heh,” he said with a chuckle, holding the torch closer to Gorm’s wounds, “looks like someone had a talk with you already. You been having company lately, Kjotvesson? Or were our men just a bit too rough when they dragged you off the longship?”

The prisoner groaned in irritation, recognizing his captor’s voice. “...Gods above. As if my first conversation wasn’t bad enough. Now you’re here too? I’m not going to talk, Sigurd. The jarl couldn’t beat it out of me, and you won’t either.”

“Ah, so it was Arngeir who did this. I should’ve guessed.” The prince paused briefly. “...You’re lucky, you know. Not many people in this world have the same level of patience as our jarl. If it was my daughter you had killed, I would have flayed you alive.”

Gorm scoffed, shifting in his seat. “You? Everyone knows you’re soft, Styrbjornson. You couldn’t even save the jarl’s daughter from being killed. What makes you think you can get me to talk? Just throw your punches and leave me alone. You won’t get anything from me.”

Sigurd knelt down, leaning towards to the man as he spoke. “...We are one step away from winning this fucking war against your father after decades of suffering because of it. This is the closest we’ve ever been to victory in years, and the only thing blocking our path right now... is you. If you think I’m going to walk away after everything we’ve sacrificed, you are sorely mistaken.”

The prince stood up from the floor. “You can either tell me Kjotve’s location, or I can make you scream it. Either way, we’re not leaving this room until you give us what we need.”

Gorm picked up on that. “We?”

Eivor stepped forward, joining Sigurd’s side. “I’m here too, Gorm.”

“Ah, the Raven Prince’s whore. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. I know you follow Sigurd around like a lost pup, always pining for his attention. Word spreads quickly, you see--”

Sigurd threw a quick jab at Gorm’s cheek, silencing the man in an instant.

“Well you won’t hear anymore about us from now on. Your ally is dead, Gorm. We found him.”

That seemed to instill a sense of alarm in the prisoner. “...Ally?”

“Yes. Dag.” Sigurd clarified. “I know he was aiding you. I know he told you about the assault on your father’s fortress. But he’s dead now. You no longer have any friends here, Kjotvesson. There’s no one who can rescue you.”

The pace of Gorm’s breath quickened at the news, and his jaw clenched in fear.

“...So. What is it you want, exactly?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said? Tell me where Kjotve is, and all this comes to an end. It’s that simple.”

Sigurd reached down, ripping Gorm’s blindfold off with a harsh tug. 

“We’re running out of time...! I’m giving you one last chance to tell us the information we need, but after that--” he yanked out his axe, “--I start hacking.”

Still, the prisoner resisted. “...Y-You wouldn’t. You don’t have the stones.”

The prince smirked. “Don’t I? Let me tell you something, Gorm.” Sigurd raised the axe to the other man’s face, positioning it right underneath his chin. “Just yesterday, this axe was buried in the heart of my brother. I put it there... after he confessed his treachery.”

It didn’t take long for Gorm to put the pieces together. “...Dag was your brother?”

Sigurd nodded slowly. “Not by blood, but that didn’t mean anything to us. We were still family. We still shared a bond. In the end though... he proved to be a danger to our clan, and so, I cut him down in one strike.” His eyes narrowed in rage. “...I was willing to execute a man I had known for all my life, purely for the sake of protecting this clan. He meant the world to me, and yet, I still killed him with my own two hands. What makes you think you stand a chance?”

Gorm scooted back in his seat, plastering himself against the back of the chair in an attempt to get away from the redheaded viking.

“You’re out of your mind, Sigurd.”

“All the more reason for you to give me what I want.”

The prisoner was quiet in response, leading Sigurd to shrug in a casual manner.

“Fine. If that’s how you wish to do things...”

The prince brought the torch’s flame to his axe, heating up the edge until it was red hot.

“W-w-wait!” Gorm exclaimed. “Wait!”

“Having second thoughts, Kjotvesson?”

“I-- look, I can’t tell you!”

Sigurd removed the axe from the fire and grinned, brandishing its scorching blade to the man.

“What’ll your father do? Kill you?”

Eivor laughed lightly, undeniably amused by Gorm’s squirming. “He’ll be lucky if he’s still alive by then.” His tone hardened. “Maybe we should string him up and leave him outside. Give him the same treatment he gave to my sister.”

Gorm shot him a glare. “Oh, you’ll join her soon enough, Wolf-Kissed. Don’t think this is over. Just because you’ve survived this long doesn’t mean--”

Sigurd pressed the axe down on his arm, causing the man to let out an anguished shout.

“Shit!” Gorm yelled, jolting violently in his restraints. The prince removed the blade after a moment and stepped back, leaving a prominent burn on the surface of his skin. 

“If you’re done barking, I’d like to hear what we came for.”

“...You’ve lost your mind, Sigurd...!” The prisoner panted out, still dazed from the pain. “I’ll kill you for this. You and your whole clan!”

The redheaded man grabbed him by the collar, yanking him closer to his face.

“Tell me where Kjotve is! Now. Unless you want me to start slicing.”

Gorm turned away from Sigurd, doing his best to avoid eye contact with him.

“I... can’t!”

“Well, you will. I don’t care what kind of threats your father has made. You will tell us what we need to know, one way or another.”

The prisoner hesitated. “But why should I? You’ll kill me anyway! I’m as good as dead no matter what I do. I may as well keep silent.”

“Because your fate has yet to be determined. Cooperate with us, and perhaps I can grant you a faster death. But if you resist, I’ll have no choice but to keep this going. So save us both the trouble, and just tell me where Kjotve is.”

Gorm trailed off into silence once again, reconsidering his approach. He still appeared reluctant to comply with Sigurd’s demands, but his eyes flicked around the room in a way that made it clear he was slowly changing his mind.

“You... you promise you’ll give me a swift death if I tell you how to find my father? Is that what you’re saying?”

Sigurd looked directly into Gorm’s gaze, taking on a more sincere tone.

“...You have my word.”

The prisoner took the answer to heart and cursed quietly under his breath, frustrated at the dilemma that had been presented to him. He knew he was dead regardless of how the future unfolded, but he wondered if there was a chance he could find mercy in the hands of a proper executioner.

“...Damn it all.” Gorm finally said. “Fine. I’ll... I’ll tell you what you want to know. But you must keep your word.”

Sigurd waited patiently for a response. “Well? Where is he?”

The other man’s head drooped in shame. “...My father is sailing west. To England.”

That took the prince by surprise. “England? What in Hel’s name is Kjotve doing all the way out there?”

“He has allies in that country,” Gorm explained. “And they’re more than just simple raiders. His allies in England are part of something far bigger than you could ever anticipate. They will destroy you if he manages to rally them in time.”

Eivor crossed his arms in thought, suddenly feeling less confident. “...Shit. He must be miles ahead of us by now.”

“Actually, he could still be within your reach. I don’t think my father has officially embarked just yet. He mentioned stopping by an island along the way; to gather food and supplies before making the journey. You could still catch him.”

Sigurd stepped away from Gorm. “Then we need to leave immediately. We can’t allow Kjotve to sail into Saxon waters. If he makes it there, we’ll have lost him for good. There’s no way we could hunt him down in English territory without sparking another war.”

Eivor brought up another subject, slowing the prince down before he could get too far ahead of himself.

“Wait, what do we do about him?” He asked, gesturing to Gorm with a jerk of the head.

Sigurd eyed the prisoner up and down, contemplating how to dispose of the man. When he first set foot in the dungeon, he had originally planned to finish Gorm off with an axe to the chest -- similar to the method he used for Dag -- but now, he was having second thoughts.

“...We’ll let my father decide.” He settled with.

Eivor had to admit, he wasn’t expecting that. “Your father?”

Sigurd took a calming breath, thinking back to his conversation with his lover earlier that day. “He’s right about me, Eivor. I’m too impulsive. If I’m going to inherit the crown someday, I must learn to wield more restraint. Gorm murdered someone from our kingdom, so my father will determine his fate in a trial. Seems only fitting, seeing as how he’s the king.”

The younger man was pleased to see that the prince had taken his advice so seriously.

“A wise choice. We should inform Styrbjorn right away, then. We have no time to lose.”

Gorm jumped back in. “Wait! What if the king doesn’t allow me a quick death like we agreed?”

“I’ll explain to him the deal we made,” Sigurd assured. “My father is a man of honor, despite some of the things he does. He will understand.” He brought his attention back to Eivor, continuing their conversation. “Anyway, could you speak to Arngeir while I find my father? If we’re going to catch Kjotve on time, we’ll need everyone to be prepared. Everyone.”

“Of course. I’ll let him know of the plan.”

“Thank you.” Sigurd walked past the Wolf-Kissed, halting in his tracks to whisper something in the man’s ear. “Meet me on the hill outside the longhouse when you’re finished. There’s something I want to show you.”

Eivor nodded, whispering back to him. “I’ll be there.”

“Then I’ll see you soon, my love. But for now, let’s just focus on preparing for the upcoming battle. This war isn’t going to get any easier in the next few days, but if we’re lucky, it’ll end soon. Kjotve is hiding just beyond the horizon. We can’t let him escape.”

[hyucksong]

nct dream as princes

mark lee [the war-time prince]

     -Forbidden love was tracing your fingers down his scarred and heaving chest. It was letting your ruby red lips leave purple seas from under his jaw to the edge of his torso. It was being the Princess and Prince of rivaling war-time kingdoms. It was telling your parents that you were leaving to observe the townspeople, and instead, meeting Prince Mark Lee at the bordering river embankment and lifting up your dress dangerously high as you waded into the water. It was his eyes trailing from your water-soaked milky white stockings to the frilly edges of your lacy lingerie. Forbidden love was letting the poison juice from the apple drip down your chin and onto his lips, and willingly licking it all up like a succubus in love. Forbidden love was kissing Prince Mark, only to command troops to invade his kingdom later the same day he whispered he loved you. It meant ignoring how your hearts beat for each other and kissing your fiances when you returned home, thinking about how good the forbidden love had tasted upon your lips. 

huang renjun [the prince of thorns]

     -When the sunrise swept across your tranquil kingdom, you would always be at the forest clearing furthest from home. It was the most breathtaking area, the birds chirped for hours on end, serenading you to no end, and the sun would always flitter through the leaves, beaming rays of warm light hitting your skin and lulling you into a mid-day nap among the green grass and fuzzy caterpillars. The clearing was on the edge of the well-traveled portion of the forest, and just across a small lake, the forest was shrouded with shadow. Dead trees with thistle and thorn acting like a shield taunted your curiosity. But the glittering figure that would stand at the other side of the river every morning, watching the sunrise with you, taunted your love and made your heartstrings go taut. You wish that he’d be there after you woke up from your mid-day nap, but he never was. Prince Renjun only appeared to watch you sleep, wondering how such a delicate flower such as yourself could ever be attracted to the harsh, prickly thorns of his kingdom, and his heart. 

lee jeno [the prince of light academia]

     -The library was your domain to clean. The shelves, always untouched, needed to be dusted once every day to prevent the allergy-prone king from sneezing. Books were always out of place despite your hard work, and the chairs were always warm with dents from being sat in, yet to your humble knowledge, no one ever came up to the attic library. One early morning, before the start of a huge party the Royalty throws annually, the staff are rushing to find the crowned prince. You were nonchalant of the missing prince, from your memory, he often disappeared at inconvenient times, and you were just glad to not be his personal butler or maid. As soon as you walked into the old-smelling room, you began to dust. But the sight at the top of the loft made you stop. There, in front of the large circular window that overlooked the kingdom, was Prince Jeno, his nose buried in a book, still clad in his silk white pajamas. He seemed so...ethereal. You decided to clean the room later and walked out of the room to leave the prince to his hobby. Not without putting a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door, just to make sure no one else barged in on his alone time. He could come out at his leisure. 

lee donghyuck [the fatherly prince] 

     -Prince Haechan was first in line to the throne, and he had been anticipating the title, excited to rule with his queen. He had loved her more than all the stars in all the kingdoms and wished nothing more than to rule with her forever. When she announced her pregnancy, he had sobbed tears of joy. And when she died at the hands of childbirth, he had sobbed tears of pain. He assumed the crown by himself, his daughter in his lap. She was his whole world, and he'd be damned someone could take that away. However, the strong desire for sweets from his princess forced him to hire a Royal Baker. And there you were, messy flour-coated hair and all, a passionate and enchanting smile coupled with a charming gleam in your right eye. The lack of care for formalities and the love his daughter quickly gained for you, a beautiful mother-like figure, made his heart endearingly warm. But the moment he realized his heart could love two people at once was when you complimented his naturally curled hair, stating that the soft-brown curls looked up, reaching for the sky like angels. He couldn’t deny his love for you then, and he discreetly wondered if your lips were as soft as your meringues. 

na jaemin [the prince of dark academia]

     -Being the personal maid of such a brooding male required utmost discipline and an equally nihilistic mind. Most of your time was spent sitting by his writing desk as he scribbled away at a piece of yellowed parchment paper, brushing his raven-black hair out of his face whenever he got down with a particularly emotional scene. Your eye would always shrink like his cat’s when you walked out of his room, the light outside contrasting with the dark and dingy quarters of the cold prince. You switched mindsets as soon as your feet passed the door frame, there was more work to be done around the castle. Your back didn’t realize the stares Prince Jaemin would give it. Watching you walk with such elegance set his heart and hand ablaze, automatically reaching for the well-loved quill, writing about a brooding prince who loved an intelligent girl who had no interest in him other than her duties. He’d let you read the chapters as he finished them, and he lived to watch the glint in your eye at your eyes skimmed across the words. Maybe life had a meaning, after all, there was his own reason, sitting in front of him with their finger gently turning the page. 

zhong chenle [the light-hearted prince]

     -The image of metal clashing against metal and the strong smell of blood-rusted iron filled Chenle’s senses whenever you walked into the throne room. It made him shift uncomfortably, knowing that you were probably just slashing some poor lad before you arrived. The dried blood on your cheek made him certain he didn’t want anything to do with you. But the bruise along your lip and the still-bleeding cut on your arm, where your armor could not protect, set his eyes ablaze. The intense want to care for you, someone who could care for themself quite sufficiently, riddled his heart and thoughts. But Chenle always knew you’d never let him touch you outside of command, you were strict and loyal to the crown and its rulers, much like your bloodline who served for generations before you. But when the King raises his hand to hit the boy for his joyous laugh, effectively silencing the bruising prince, you can’t help but pull the prince aside into the secluded area of the royal gardens. You promise to always protect him, even if it means killing the abusive king and taking the prince away from the filthy, sin-filled world. For a moment, Chenle is afraid of the violent glaze of your eyes; but then his heart swells, and he promises to always let you protect him as long as you let him love you.  

park jisung [the broken-hearted prince]

     -Kingdoms across the world loved you. The people rallied at your smile, your beauty penetrating hearts, your effervescent aura knocking the breath out of all suitors, especially your fiance, Prince Jisung. His palms would sweat when you held them, and his eyes would quiver when you stepped closer to him. The twitch his mouth did after you would kiss him made flowers bloom in your heart. As did other things bloom in your chest. Your sickness came suddenly and took over your body greedily. It pained Jisung to watch you grow weaker day by day, your hands not having enough strength to squeeze his back when he lay in bed with you. He remembers the last kiss you gave him, and how your lips were so weak that the muscles couldn’t push back to reciprocate the warm feeling. It felt like kissing a corpse. It would soon come true, the bitter death falling upon his ears like anvils. The world came to rest by your marble gravestone when the news got out, and Jisung could barely speak at your funeral. He cursed the world. His words turned bitter, and so did his rule. The now-King ruled with an unloving iron fist, and the citizens, himself included, wondered what it would be like if you had lived. Maybe the blood would still be flowing through his desolate heart. 

[nikkywrites]

Decision (Jo pt. 2)

Summary: Jo goes to the funeral. It goes like she expected it to. She makes a decision in her grief.

Part One

Prompt: open casket by @writing-challenges-and-prompts

Warnings for a funeral, death mention, a dead body and a gore description, cursing, grief, passing out due to panic, overwhelming grief, and questionable decisions made about future while in the midst of said grief). This one has been edited. Not hugely so, but a few things have been tweaked.

*****

They bury him in an open casket and it’s the most horrifying thing Jo has ever seen.

His lifeless body isn’t a new sight, of course, she’s the one who found him, but it’s sick how they’re putting it up on display like there’s something beautiful in the horror of it.

There isn’t.

He used to be pretty enough to be displayed, but now he’s a sick caricature of what a human is. He’s not pretty enough to be admired anymore, even if a part of her still tries.

His veins bulge, blue and black and thick. She physically recoils when she sees the lifted lid, the ghost of the boy she loves held within like a piece of art on display. Like a statue of a hero. Carved marble instead of rotted flesh.

If he is art right now then he’s only a horrid, despicable piece fit only for the abandoned ruins of a cursed castle. Nothing else, more or less.

His face is ashen, lips faded so they no longer hold color, no longer share the shade of a half-bloomed rose petal. His hair -- once golden, once shiny, once beautiful and thick -- lays limp like a slain snake against his forehead, covering the scar she’d placed there when she was eight and threw a rock too hard with poor aim in a game they made up. He’s dressed in the finest clothes he’s ever been in, simple plain casual wear freshly sewn and unsoiled except by his body.

Behind the obvious signs of his death -- the rot on his tongue, his veins, his rigid fingers and yellow, shattered fingernails, the way his mouth is held half-open like an undeclared secret (one she knows well, he always promised his last words would be of his love to her and she heard the way he choked on them) -- he’s almost pretty. She hates -- loathes, fire under her skin, that it’s been turned into an ‘almost’ instead of a given.

Even when poor, deprived of sleep and beneath layers of dirt and dust, hair browned with filth, he was pretty to her.

She used to think that nothing could sully his beauty.

Now she knows better. Now, with death upon him in such a visual way, she knows otherwise. Pretty, to her in regards to him, means alive. Breathing. He’s not and she can’t bring herself to find beauty in his corpse and the horror of his final moments she will never be rid of.

Her mother jabs her with an elbow to lead her to her place to kneel, the dirt soft and swallowing under her. Her mother tears her eyes from the boy she’ll never marry, glued to his form like -- well, like it is the last time she will ever see him. She does so in cold callousness.

She’s acting as though this is just an act they must play, another scene in some tragedy where the only reward is more grief.

The preacher recites some long-winded, pretty, shining speech about sacrifice and honor and bravery. Jo drones it out and stares at her hands clenches in the folds of her skirt, fighting a useless fight against her own grief and the lack of other’s. She curses how they gloss over the humility of his selflessness -- he’d given himself to people who didn’t care about him until he was dead and a threat was slain.

Her sobs are the only ones that tremble against the drowning silence of the preacher’s speech and everyone else’s obedience to play their part.

Her own mother, beside her, sits demurely with her eyes closed and her hands folded, like he was merely a boy she used to pass on her way to the shops that she never spoke a word to but saw everyday and not her future son-in-law. She too, the only other person who had spared him kindness and pity, does not truly mourn him.

It just makes her grieve all the more.

Jo stays kneeling as long as she can, tears drying under her stubbornness, damned back until later, when she can release them in peace, in the mindless comfort of the forest. (His battleground, where his last breath had shuddered, warm on her neck but wrong, where his soul had dropped from his body like a glob of half cold porridge; the last place he was pretty and living and loving. The last place where he was hers).

She flinches when his casket is closed and he’s lowered into the ground. They nail him shut right there and every smack of the hammer is a blow to her heart.

She stares unseeingly as they begin to pile shovelfuls of dirt over him like he’s a sapling about to grow into more, but he’s not. This is an end, not a beginning, though she wishes it was. She wishes that this was just a new beginning, him succumbing to her pleas, a rebirth of him and her and their love. A fresh start that continues with their hands linked together, a city before them promising peace, but it’s just an epilogue, a mere footnote of despair to the hundred-odd people living here.

Nothing is ever as she wishes and hopes.

If he’d listened, he wouldn’t have been here when the Drowned showed up and maybe he’d still be breathing right now. But that was something she wished for. Something she hoped would happen. His stubborn streak was as thick as hers, though, and he’d ended up winning that battle.

She wonders if this is the price of her losing.

She stays after everyone else leaves, no one asking her to say a eulogy, to paint him as he truly was, not caring that she was his closest companion and that she should have been the one leading all of this. They leave her to her silence, shrouded over her like the dirt now covering him. Six feet of distance no one will ever cross. 

They’re content with him being a caricature of heroism and not someone they knew who used to be as alive as they are now.

The buriers leave, stamping their boots into the dirt like a seal of his newfound deadness, the Reaper’s signature on his warrant, pearly gates clicking shut behind him. They eye her oddly, but let her continue to kneel. It isn’t their business.

It’s the end. Finally.

It’s her last chance to speak to the lingering life in his ghost, the air of people’s false care hovering in their relief about not having to worry about being dead or losing crops to poisoned algae in their rivers.

She crawls forwards and slumps her forehead against his headstone, biting cold.

“You,” her words shake, her sorrow returning in her solitude, hand fisting at the dirt beneath her, freshly buried, freshly moved and loose, “you lied to me.”

There’s a moment of silence where she waits for his rebuttal, useless, but it also serves to allow her a moment to steady her breath. Or, to try and to fail.

“You promised.” She bites her lower lip and struggles to keep her words decipherable. “You promised you’d come back. You promised we would get married.”

Her tears slide, damping the dirt staining her skin. It’s her version of the bloomed rose that people are supposed to throw in with their lovers, but there are no such flowers in this season and she wouldn’t have had the chance or spare coin to, so her tears will have to do. She hopes he can hear her, if nothing else.

If ghosts truly do not exist and he cannot remain to haunt her, to stay by her side even in death, she hopes he can stay long enough to hear her out.

She blinks and lifts her eyes to gaze at the neatly etched lettering on the stone. His name, his dates, the word ‘Hero’ that was going to wash away after a decade of miscare.

She wasn’t going to stick around to tend to his grave like she wishes she could have tended to him.

No, she already knows what she has to do.

It just… has to wait. For her to finish her goodbyes (she never wants to, wants to keep words rolling off her tongue like if she says the exact right thing, he’ll rise from the earth like a phoenix from the ash). For her sorrow to fade away and for her to temper herself into something stronger.

She balls her fist and strikes against the stupid four letter word that’s true, but that no one but her really cares about.

“I love you,” she hisses, too afraid to spew the misplaced hate in case he can hear her (she hates the situation, hates the town, hates the townspeople, but not him. She could never hate him). “I loved you and you had to go and...” her words wobble, “...and be a fucking hero when you knew--” she pinches her eyes shut, chokes on her own tears, fights to finish, “you knew you weren’t going to come back because--  you didn’t have the sword or the help or the coin or the armor or, anything, to keep you safe enough that you’d come back.”

Her vison blurs, a senseless swirl of brown and gray.

“You had nothing and you knew that, didn’t you? You knew you that that was going to be the end and you still...” she hits the stone again, knuckles throbbing with her frustration. “You left me. Like you promised you wouldn’t.”

Her grief rises higher, a mountain at her back, sitting on her throat and strangling the words she’s killing herself with to turn to the air.

“You kissed me and promised that you’d come back when you knew.” 

Her throat seems to shatter, breaking, as she relinquishes to the weight. The sky presses against her, the world oppressing her with its unfairness and its scrutiny.

It knows and she knows and there’s a terrible, terrible secret she must now take to her own grave. 

She— she had let him wander alone. She’d let him delude her with his worry for her and she let him walk into his death and promise her things she knew he wouldn’t keep (his chances were none, unless he gave up and ran and he wouldn’t do that, not if he had the chance and the thing was still living).

She let this happen.

Everything’s crashing around her, hyperventilation darkening her vision and stealing away her awareness. Allowing her a brief reprieve from her own grief.

She could have helped. She’s not useless in a fight even though she should be. She could have tried, but instead she’d spent every minute on her knees praying and she’d offered herself to gods that gave her nothing.

She had to leave before her own emotions swallowed her whole.

While she was gone, she was going to have to make something of herself. Make living without that part of her heart worth it. Fall into the backup plan she never should have planned anything on.

She tried to convince him to move to Numir. It was a good stepping stone for anything. To get a man out of poverty. To turn a demure girl into a weapon.

Whatever the need was. 

He died to save her. He died fighting a monster for people who didn’t care whether he sullied around the streets or rotted in their fields. She can think of nothing more fitting, more binding, than living in the way he failed to. A way that a part of her has always itched for, despite the scandal of it.

Consciousness slipping under the grief cinched around her heart, she vows to become like him so she doesn’t have to really grieve him. So she can’t lose him. So she doesn’t have to feel so alone in the drag of days.

She’ll do everything he couldn’t. Become what she’d hoped he would -- a savior. Someone worth the gold in their pocket. Someone who was worth all the air they breathed.  Someone who was living and rich enough to purchase a wedding ring and spend forever with the one they loved, who breathed enough to be able to return home and warm the bed their partner leaves cold out of worry-induced insomnia.

The last part is lost -- he’s dead and there will not be another -- but she can live the former. She’ll live it or die trying and they’ll be the same, be reunited, together as ghosts.

Either way suits her. As long as she’s settled, she could care less what her day looks like. She can adapt.

She can live.

*****

Remember when I first posted this as a standalone thing? Those were good times. This is no longer a standalone thing. Also realized in the editing of this that I never specified how Jo prefers to go by Jo instead of Joanna. It just swaps here. I meant to put something in about that. Curse my forgetful brain.

[capricities]

Part 3 C:

(Here’s the masterlist! Happy Reading!)

Yuu knocked furiously on her grandfather’s room, completely ignoring the fact that it was such an ungodly hour to even be up, especially for someone as old as his Sobo, but what he witnessed would certainly be engraved in his head for the rest of his days. As Yuu continued his furious knocking, the lingering thought of bothering Hatsuko instead came to mind. 

After all, who needed beauty sleep when Yuu probably witnessed one of the most life-changing earth-shattering moments of his life.

As he thought of retreating and running to his sister’s room, the sudden realisation that he’d have to pass his father’s office room halted that train of thought completely. He now felt even more panicked. Did his father see him? Did that person see him? Yuu felt tears well in his eyes as his hands tightly scrunched the hem of the sweater he was wearing.

He gritted his teeth as he sniffled sadly, his eyes trailed on the door. He never expected that. He heard rumours, he heard people bad-mouthing his father, but he never thought that those rumours could be true. 

Did his mother know? It was a horrific question that had dawned upon the Eshima, and he really didn’t want to follow that train of thought. Was that why she always looked so miserable? Did his dad seriously know what type of damage he’s caused?

Did Yuu even want to call the man he saw in that room his father?

He sat down, curling into himself as he leaned on his grandfather’s door,. Crying as tears spilt from his eyes. He sometimes wished magic could do more than just parlour tricks.

Yuu woke up in a tufted sofa bed, curled into a pillow. He was aware that he fell asleep ––he actually collapsed due to shock–– outside his grandfather’s room...which was why his current disposition puzzled him. He slowly sat up, yawning as he looked around. Was this a loft? No, this isn’t a loft this was-

“Ah, you’re awake èr bǎo,” Sofu said as he sat down on the ottoman beside the couch, placing the tray of pancakes and hot chocolate on the table. “I suppose you know what room this is?” He asked as he faced his grandson, a melancholic smile on his face.

“It’s Sobo’s study room…” Yuu trailed as his sights set on the tray of food beside him. 

“I made sure to keep it clean, it’s a great place when you want to sort out your thoughts.” He said, his voiced laced with melancholy as he sat on the ottoman beside the couch.. Yuu kept his head down, his hands on his lap.

The study was still the same as always. A large bookshelf that spanned from floor to ceiling, a beautiful chandelier that wasn’t obnoxiously oversized, a large bay window that gave a view of the beautiful bustling city from the comfort of the Eshima estate. It was humbling to know that Sobo didn’t use any overly expensive furniture in this room, nor did she waste her time decorating her private rooms with priceless items, and other useless objects. 

It really showed how simple she lived, and her rather clear pursuit for knowledge.

His Sofu smiled at him, urging his grandson to eat up. “I won’t ask why you decided to knock at my door at such an ungodly hour, considering how dishevelled you were when I saw you. You can say it in due time.” Yuu sheepishly looked up, taking the food from the tray and started eating. He enjoyed the silence his Sofu was giving him, it helped him sort out his thoughts. 

Yesterday... was haunting. It felt scarier than the moment they found out about Sobo’s illness, it filled him with more anxiety than the time he and Kalim rode on the magic carpet ––which was an actual national treasure–– and it filled him with all sorts of emotions ranging from rage to disappointment. He was glad he knew the things that were happening around him but, at the same time, ignorance was bliss. He knew that from Kalim, who was awfully oblivious to things at times.

His father’s absence in his life was rather prevalent. He wasn’t neglecting him per se. He was always present during things that came to him and his sister, but Yuu could remember clearly how his mother waited for his father to come home during their wedding anniversary, having prepared something for him.

He didn’t come home until a week after, with a lacklustre excuse that anyone with an eye and half a brain could see through. 

Yuu awkwardly cleared his throat as he turned to face his grandfather.  “Sofu...did fùqīn ever tell you why he wasn’t at Sobo’s funeral?” He asked his grandfather, who had set the book he had down on the table. 

“I never asked, though, I think I know why.” He answered with chagrin, his smile faltering as his eyebrows creased ever so slightly. 

Yuu froze as he set his fork back down on his plate. He met the somber gaze of his grandfather, who was looking rather abashed, mortified, though not in the same way as he did when he saw his father yesterday. “What do you mean?” He whispered.

His Sobo exhaled a sigh. “You’ve heard of arranged marriages, haven’t you?” Yuu nodded, already dreading the rest of Sobo’s words, already forseeing the only way it could end. 

“Your father and mother were great friends, a bond thicker than blood, so when the topic of marriage was brought up, it seemed natural to just, place them together. Your mother could follow your father to the ends of the earth and vice versa.” He paused, shakily inhaling.  “But I'm afraid that I, both as his father and the head of the clan, made the wrong move. A move that damaged whatever they already had.” 

Yuu stared at his grandfather. He wasn’t aware that his parent’s marriage was an arranged one, and it seems neither his father nor mother had any say in it too. Not even the right to object to it. He was also aware of the very customs the clan had. An arranged marriage just wasn’t the way to go, never had their been an arranged marriage ever since the horrible death of Sakusa over 10 generations ago. Marriage wasn’t a thing to be arrayed with, so why?

Sobo was already well aware of the question’s going through Yuu’s head. “Your father came out to me when he was 17, he told me he was bicurios and demiromantic. This family has a history of homosexuality, and as much as we keep patriarchy, the family has grown to respect it. However, as the son and the direct descendant of the clan head, he had to at least try to provide children who were related to him by blood. And he still hadn’t found someone by the time he was 27...” He trailed, clearly ashamed of himself.

Yuu didn’t need the rest of the story for everything to be pieced together in his mind. “So...the marriage never had any love in it?” He finished, his voice slightly laced with venom and rancor. 

“I’d like to say there was, but I’d be lying. Maybe your mother loved your father, she was smiling during their wedding after all. And she really tried her best to give both you and your sister a healthy family experience.” He answered with a sad smile on his face. His eyes were crinkled in a way Yuu had never seen before.

Yuu bit his lip, letting all this new information sink in. For nine years, he didn’t know about his real family situationfor nine years. It sunk into him that the tears his mother shed, and the constant absence of his father in his life, was the result of a decision way beyond their control. And the man who did have control, disregarded the possible doom that could come with this risky decision.

It was...a hard slap to the face. A wake up call of sorts.

A deafening silence befell the two. His grandfather, who’s sights were set on the picture that hung on the wall adjacent the large shelf. Sobo looked on the verge of tears as his eyes fell on the framed family photo. It looked so unbelievably fabricated. “I’ve never regretted something more in my life.”

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“So now your brother knows, Hatsuko.” Ryoichi stated as he stared at the papers on his desk. A few more contracts, a leave request, and a few charts and graphs with the company’s progress.

“Yeah, it was bound to happen with how much you’ve been sneaking off. It’ll be harder for me to out him on a leash now,” Hatsuko said as she tapped her foot on the floor.

“I really do think that you shouldn’t do this. You still get huge shares once he takes over, you’ll even be controlling a good portion of the company. You and your brother can live in peace, without the need for your interferance.” He stated as he glared at his daughter. He was severely disappointed with the actions she was willing to take. It was all so..desperate. The again, he couldn’t judge her he had made many mistakes himself.

“May I remind you that I have blackmail on you?” She stated.

“May I remind you that I’m still your father? At least treat me with an ounce of respect.” He retorted, signing his name on the renewal contract with the Shrouds.

Hatsuko rolled her eyes. “I don’t respect men who can’t keep their word.”

“Then perhaps you should humble yourself, because you’re being a hypocrite.” He responded to her. Venom laced in his words. He didn’t know how deep her utter desperation ran for, but it wasn’t healthy.

Hatsuko chuckled, bemused. “Learn how to hide your hickeys better then, Fùqīn.” She smiled at him, though it was evident how it didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Learn how to hide your motives better, Achi.”

I hope you all had time to spend the holidays with the people you love, whether they were present physically, or bonded with them over the phone. I posted this a day before the new years so I can say to myself that I managed to finish it before this hellhole of a year ended. Just because we’re finally leaving 2020 doesn’t mean it will automatically revert and go back to normal. For now, let’s just hope 2021′s a better year! Happy Holidays and Happy New Year!

[pookapics]

Steve Rogers x Reader - The Safe Place - Part 1 of 2

Part 1 of 2

Warnings/Ratings - Endgame canon divergence, Steve x Reader, Bucky x Reader (platonic), family man Steve Rogers, Say nope to that endgame ending thanks, Bucky needs comfort and love, Fluff just fluff

Summary : Everyone is back, but Bucky fears that as soon as he got his best friend back, he’s going to lose him again. But what if Steve didn’t leave? And why did he stay?

All from Bucky’s POV - It will make sense as you read!

Everyone was back, after 5 years of grieving, the team had brought everyone back. Tony gave his life to end the fight against Thanos, he’d sacrificed himself so that everyone would be safe from Thanos’ tyrannical rule. Everyone was standing by the lake which was next to Tony’s home as the wreath containing Tony’s old arc reactor drifted off on the waves of the lake, the memory of Tony Stark and the man he’d become would never die.The funeral was shrouded in trees as everyone gathered to celebrate the life and death of Tony Stark. Everyone had been gathered, Fury was there to remember the man they would never forget. 

Steve was brought back when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, it was Bucky. Steve smiled softly, it felt so good to have him back here beside him. Sam wandered over, it felt good to Steve to have two of his closest and best friends beside him once again. Steve adjusted his stealth-suit as he was handed the case containing the infinity stones, he withheld slight nerves and so did everyone who was gathered there by the lake to see Steve go return the stones. Bucky gave Steve a look, as if expecting something from his long-time friend but Steve simply didn’t understand what Bucky was instigating. 

“Don’t do anything stupid till I get back.” He joked as he stared into the eyes of his oldest best friend, Bucky retorted with a smile “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” A moment of silence broke before the two men embraced, Bucky silently spoke “Gonna miss you Buddy.” His voice solemn, Steve sighed “Its going to be okay, Buck.” Before turning away to approach the chamber, Steve prepared to be sent back into time to return each stone to their rightful place in time, Bruce gave the signal and Steve disappeared into time and space. 

Bucky POV

My stomach churned, I had a feeling he wasn’t coming back, that he was going to return to Peggy and that he would leave me here. As selfish as that sounded in my head, it was true, this was a chance for me and Steve to move on with our past and live in this time but i’m not sure if Steve has let go of his first love. 

Steve hadn’t returned yet, my internal fears were rising their heads as Sam and Bruce panicked, trying to get him back as he’d been gone longer than he was supposed to. I bit the inside of my cheek and clenched my fist, I knew this would happen. But it still hurt. I turned away as I heard Bruce and Sam worry about Steve

“Sam.” Trying to get his attention

 That’s when I saw the silhouette of a man sitting on a bench further away from us, his back turned and faced towards the lake, his face looking at the water. I hadn’t talked to Steve last night before all of this, he’d been in his room for a few hours, seemingly on the phone with someone but I couldn’t tell exactly who. I guided Sam to walk over first to see him first, I stayed back and watched the two interact, I kept my eyes on the lake before me. 

That was until I saw them rise to their feet and turn to face me. Steve. He was still the same Steve, not aged a moment since I saw him seconds before. He didn’t leave, he stayed here. I was shocked as the two men sauntered over, Sam’s arm had Steve’s old shield strapped to it, strapped onto his forearm proudly. Steve walked over, face to face with me when he joked “Buck. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Still same old Steve. Quickly, I wrapped my arms around him and embraced “You Punk!” holding onto my long-time best friend of over 70 years “You stayed…” was all that left my lips as I heard Steve chuckle “Of course I did, I belong here Bud.” patting me on the back and smiling as he continued “My family and my home is here, in the 21st century.” I knew in that moment what he meant, the life back in the 1940’s and 50’s was long-gone. We’d changed, we couldn’t fit back in when we’d experienced so much that couldn’t be pushed aside, we knew too much about the future, we belonged in this time and place. 

Steve had got his closure, I think I’m on my way to finding my own now I suppose.

 As I looked at Steve, I could see his body completely relaxed and at ease, a side of Steve I hadn’t seen of Steve since before he became Captain America. It was as if when the title of Captain America was relinquished onto Sam that it lifted a weight, a burden that was on his shoulders for far too long. 

I preferred this side of him.

Sam broke the comfortable silence “I need a vacation before I can start throwing this thing around.” pointing to the shield strapped to his arm, smiling gently. I shoved him gently “We just got back and you want a vacation?” I joked, though me and Sam usually fought like cat and dog, we knew that we were close friends deep down. Steve smiled and watched us as Sam spoke up “I need a break okay?! We’ve been gone for 5 years, Bucky! A lot has possibly changed!” laughing and shoving me back. Steve intervened quickly “Sam’s right, you both need a break before going back. A lot has changed in 5 years…” Steve sighed which made me quirk a brow but Steve spoke up again “And I happen to know the perfect place.” Steve seemed to brighten when he thought about this place he was suggesting “Oh yeah? Where’s that?” Sam spoke up and stared at Steve, awaiting an answer “Its a couple states over, a bit remote.” he smiled and walked with us back to the cabin.

 I was shocked, Steve left Brooklyn and D.C?

I spoke up “You left Brooklyn and DC?” Steve simply nodded “I came back and forth for the others but I needed a place away from it all, I guess. I needed quiet.” I understood, Steve deserved a break and with his now retirement he would get just that. I spoke up “I’m in, for this vacation I mean.” Sam nodded to which Steve smiled “We’ll leave in a couple of days.” he walked towards the cabin to see how the team was doing. For some reason, something in my gut made me feel as if Steve was up to something, I blame it on Steve being a hassle back in the day for doing reckless things. I couldn’t pinpoint what he was hiding but it definitely had something to do with the house. 

Time-skip~~~

It had been a few days since the funeral and Steve, Sam and I were en route to the place Steve had a couple states over, the place seemed surrounded by trees and resembled a large log cabin. The trees shrouded over the cabin, keeping it secret and tucked away, like something out of a fairy tale. I couldn’t help but smile, this place was perfectly tucked away and it felt almost undetectable and secret to outsiders, perfect for a superhero trying to stay low and out of sight in his private and quiet time. Steve ushered us out of the rental car which was parked in the driveway, leading us around back to a white-picket gate that surrounded a large garden which backed onto the large expanse of woodland, it was beautiful. Wildflowers bloomed in every direction, rose bushes littered the large garden, all varied in colours with some yellow, pink and red. I felt so at ease here, until a soft voice rang out from the other side of the garden 

“James? James?” the feminine voice spoke out, seemingly getting closer to where we were standing, I glanced to Steve quickly in shock “Who is that? Why are they calling out my name?” I was shocked as I simply saw Steve smiled and whispered “Wait.” Sam was also shocked and beyond confused, just watching as a figure walked into our field of vision. My eyes widened.

There in the midst of the grass was a woman, dressed in dirty dungarees, stained by what seemed to be soil on the knees, from what I could tell she’d been gardening for sometime as her hands were holding her also dirtied gardening gloves which she stuffed into one of her dungaree pockets, the shirt she wore underneath the dungarees was oversized and hung loosely on her body, a men’s shirt by the looks of it just by the mere-largeness of the garment. The woman’s hair was swept back, sweat upon her forehead probably from working in the garden for some time before we came, her eyes fell upon us. She raised her hand to her mouth, two rings graced her ring finger, her eyes as wide as mine and Sam’s.

“Steve?” She managed to speak as she walked over, putting down the rake she was holding in her other hand as she got closer to us. Steve stepped forward and looked at her with what I could only express and explain as pure admiration and love as he spoke “I’m back.” the woman leapt into his arm, legs wrapped around his waist “Its over! You did it!” she nuzzled her face into Steve’s neck, smiling wide and her arms coiled around his neck. I watched with Sam beside me, Steve had found someone. I smiled, that punk had got his dream, the one he never thought he’d get after he was retrieved from the ice, the couple pulled back from their embrace and turned to face the two of us. The woman’s bright eyes looked at us in shock as Steve wrapped his arm around her waist gently “This is Sam Wilson and James Buchanan Barnes, but I think you already know that don’t you honey?” he smiled down at her and turned to Sam and I “Sam. Bucky. This is my wife, (YN).” 

The little punk had truly hit the jackpot, I was proud of him.

(YN) stepped towards us “Its so good to finally meet the two of you.” she spoke with a smile, she meant every word that left her lips, I smiled and watched as Sam stepped forward to hug her, she took the embrace with a smile and pulled back and turned to me “And you… Its so good to finally meet you Buc-” just as you were speaking a small bundle came running and bumped into my knees, thanks to being a super soldier, I was steady but watched as the small figure began rubbing their little head, a head of golden curly locks which had some dirt in it, matching the colour of Steve’s hair perfectly. The little figure lifted their heads and locked eyes with me, it was Steve’s eyes staring back at me, the large baby blues which were rounded by the chubby cheeks.

(YN) quickly leant down to pick the boy up and balance her upon her hip with ease as the little boy stared at me with wondrous eyes, somewhat hiding in (Y/N)’s hair. (Y/N) smiled at the little boy and then to her husband who was now walking over to stand by his wife, kissing her cheek gently “The last person to introduce. Sam. Bucky. This is my son.” the little boy squealed at hearing his dad’s voice and gave grabby hands out to him, wanting to be held. The pass-over of the child was made between Steve and (YN) gently as not to jostle him too hard. Sam’s jaw was on the floor, I merely smiled again.

A son. 

The little boy played with the zippers of his father’s jacket and babbled about something, forming small sentences already which were rather clear and understandable. I turned to (Y/N) and asked “What’s his name?” not wanting to spook the little boy who was so enraptured by his father being back. A single word left the woman’s lips

‘James’...

[soundofez]

We Fill the Skies

Oscar Ford grew up traveling between his father's lowland town and his mother's desert tribe, but his favorite stories were the ones from the mountains. He loved most the idea of vigilantes, of people doing good even when it was illegal.

Jack Lantern had been born in the mountains, where tales of heroes chased children around the schoolyards. Jack didn't care so much for the heroics, though, just for the helping.

Harvey Clair hadn't expected any herowork in his career. Sages often didn't.

J. Kim wanted nothing to do with heroes at all.

Rating: G | Characters/Pairings: Ox & Harvar & Kim & Jackie Warnings: kidnapping, slavery mention, self-loathing, minor character death, minor gore (sometimes nightmares suck)

read it on ao3

guess what i love @azroazizah‘s art and i love @azroazizah, you pinnacle of perfection you. [ art ]

go worship at @arialis‘s feet bc without her this fic would be 90% less comprehensible. ( @happyisahabit, @goonlalagoon, @mystery-shrouded, and @victoriapyrrhi account for the remaining 10%. betas, folks. they save lives and also fics.)

additionally!! this is a crossover fic with Leagues and Legends (the book series, not the video games) by @ink-splotch. it’s also free, fancy that, maybe give it a shot.

prologue under the cut.

:

A boy walked into golden fire and emerged unscathed. His mother guided him safely through; his father waited on the other side. He dreamed of heroes and stars.

A boy burned with questions but did not trust the world with them. His parents did not have all the answers, but they taught him how to find them. He dreamed of love and feathers.

A girl walked out of a war and vowed to return. Her father was already lost; her mother looked for him anyway. She dreamed of justice and swords.

A girl was stolen from the place she called home. Her parents had been desperate and unkind to each other, but they had both loved their daughter. She dreamed of nothing at all.

:

In a parched city built upon a coastline, a boy with no siblings and no promise ran away from home. In a wealthy retreat miles up the same coastline, a boy with an older brother and too much promise attended a funeral. Farther still and up a river, in a city half-drowned yet still lively, two sisters with no home promised to carve out their futures together.

:

A woman from the mountains descended upon her desert family like a sandstorm, like a misplaced gale. She enchanted the children there with stories of her home and its heroes, stories filled with courage and dragons and men, good and bad. She climbed the smooth desert trees and dared anyone to join her, and when the children tried and fell she soothed their hurts and called them brave.

A woman from the mountains, estranged from her family, traveled the world in a truck that stained her long fingers with motor oil and grease. She kept her son at her side with books to distract him from his questions, so that he might never have to learn what his family had done. (It didn't work.) The day he left, overflowing with curiosity she hadn't the heart to contain, she finally gave him a name to guide him home.

:

continue on ao3

[halycondaze]

death, mourning, and femininity in adrestia

trigger warnings: death, superstitions, sexism, victorian germans i mean, adrestians being wild

to start: i have modeled (and borrowed heavily) on the victorian idea of death and the public nature of mourning on the victorian idea of these things. victorian culture has been described as death obsessed, which is where we get the macabre works of artists contemporary to the time.  the fall of house usher, the bronte sister’s haunting works, these were influenced and indeed, perhaps spawned by this cultural obsession with death. 

the ideal death in victorian culture, as described by mortician c*aitlin d*oughty, was to “[meet] eternity with eyes open, bravely facing god and judgement, thought provoking last words of wisdom poised on their lips,” and “was the hope and goal of every person.” 1 she then later goes on to explain that the process associated with “victorian mourning” would have really only been practiced in higher class / upper levels of society. 

therefor, the same will be true throughout this headcanon. these are the truths for upper society, the nobles and, given fódlan’s strict social hierarchy, mainly available to those born into crest bearing families. however, much like fashion trends, what is considered standard by the upper echelon is often seen as aspirational by those below them. after all, appearance is the way the world perceives you, and if you can make the world perceive you as higher than your actual standing, you have the chance (the smallest, slightest chance) of achieving said place. respect can get you into a lot of places. 

especially in death. death is that last chance to be seen as respected, especially as unclaimed bodies in victorian times were often used for medical study.... and, given the canonical banning of autopsies 2 done by rhea, this probably, paradoxically, becomes more of a worry. the lack of official ways to study a body and doctors desperately needing to understand why people are dying might turn to stealing unclaimed corpses. and even if there aren’t surreptitious autopsies, unclaimed bodies would have had their teeth pulled to make dentures, were the teeth in good shape. 

if you’ve got even one family member, or a close friend, or simply a presence in a community, in adrestia, you’re buried and publicly mourned. it’s respect, it’s dignity, it’s about eternity. it is also, yes, a safety net, and, if someone is an unburied, unclaimed person, it’s a condemnation. and yes, this does happen more to immigrants, women, and the poor than it would to men, those born in fódlan, or the rich. unless you were truly despised by your own family, a rich man was getting buried.

unlike the victorians, however, embalming doesn’t really catch on in adrestia. the use of harsh, poisonous chemicals is seen as desecrating the body, which should be treated as gently as you would treat a living person. there are three expected processes for death in adrestia, and they depend on where the person dies: at home, out of the home in a civilian setting, or at war. 

when someone dies at home, it is expected that their family members / those they live with will record the time of death, either generally using the position of the sun/moon, or if they own / are near a sundial, will use that instead. then, all mirrors are covered with sheets or turned down, to prevent the soul from getting lost on their way to the afterlife. a black wreath will be hung on the door so anyone coming to visit will know to knock softly. 1

afterwards, it is expected to keep the body in the home, as preparations for the wake and funeral begin. the woman of the house, or a close female friend, is expected to prepare the body. they will wrap a gentle cloth around the mouth and close the deceased’s eyes with cotton pads, so they have a reserved countenance at the wake. then they will be washed, again gently, from underneath a sheet, to preserve dignity. the cloths used are burned. 1 3

from there, the deceased will be dressed, usually in their burial shroud, which the deceased would have already had, or if they did not have one, then they would simply be buried in their sunday best. while the ladies of the house prepare the body, the man (or, a male family friend) would go and fetch a casket for the burial and wake. upon return, the body would be moved into the casket. from then on, no more preparations or changes are made to the body, except for the use of ice magic to slow decay. this is the only form of preservation allowed in adrestia. 

after, letters are sent out, sealed with black wax and if the person is rich enough, on papers prepared for their death with small copies of a portrait of them. the wake lasts about five days, no longer than seven. one cannot show up at a funeral uninvited. that is considered beyond preposterous, and if you did not get an invitation, you could politely send a letter to the deceased’s family / caretakers to request to show up. 

the funeral itself is very familiar to one who grew up in the american tradition - people in black (or muted colors, see below) with their heads held down, crying and talking about their virtues. they will have a procession to the graveyard, taking as convoluted a route as possible, to prevent the spirit from simply following the family home. afterwards, they return for refreshments, usually sweets, and people will talk for a few hours and return home. 

for someone who died outside the household, the police must examine the body visually to make sure they did not die due to murder, but the rest plays out namely the same once they’re brought home. they’re washed and treated with care, and eventually brought to a graveyard. 

someone who died in battle is buried differently. they rarely have a body, and if they do, then it will proceed as above. however, if they do not, it expected for their chosen burial shroud or sunday best to be buried in their place, and the expected mourning period is elongated by a month, due to the lack of the body to bury. 

mourning (+femininity) 

now, as with actual victorian mourning, there are a lot of rules. particularly for women. so let’s roll back and place the role of women in fódlan over all:

the expectation of noble women in fódlan, is to get married and produce children who bear crests. however, this also places them as the center of the household no matter where you go. rarely is one married for love, particularly in this higher society. however, adrestia has a very large performance aspect. and of course, this expected more of women than it is of men.

for instance, an adrestian widow is expected to be in full mourning for a year, but a widower is only expected to mourn six months. after all, a widower must find another wife to continue to produce heirs, and hasn’t the time to be in full mourning. after the full mourning period, it is expected for the widow/er to be in half mourning for a few months after, but again, men are given far less scrutiny. 1 3

full mourning entails: all black dress, thick black veils, and for men, a specific kind of mourning coat. as said, these are in all black, and sometimes it is expected to have a piece of cameo jewelry, (made with the deceased’s hair) or a handkerchief on the person at all time. it is considered uncouth to go out into society during full mourning. 3

half mourning entails: muted colors (grey, lilac, navy) but in the typical, day to day style. the silhouette tends to change once a decade. one may socialize as expected of your station, but you are expected to never show intense happiness or joy if you are in half mourning. 3

servants of the household where a death occurred are expected to wear a black band around their arm until the grieving family is out of mourning. 3

there are, of course, other rituals and superstitions. copied verbatim from the source below / taken from the first source, they are: 1 3

one must cover all mirrors in the house when someone has died, because the spirit will get lost. it is bad luck to meet a funeral procession head on. If you see one approaching, turn around. If this is unavoidable, hold on to a button until the funeral cortege passes. if you hear a clap of thunder following a burial it indicates that the soul of the departed has reached heaven. if you don’t hold your breath while going by a graveyard, you will not be buried after your death. if the deceased has lived a good life, flowers would bloom on his grave; but if he has been evil, only weeds would grow.

femininity, part two

as i alluded to above, the care taking of a corpse is coded feminine, in both victorian life, and adrestian culture.  in fact, young girls are given “death kits” and expected to train to understand how to properly prepare a body, and understand why such things are done. 4 while no one seems to consider the effects of this kind of culture on the girls, it is a standard way of raising them that prepares them to be the face of a noble household. 

this leads to a very interesting form of femininity. as women in fódlan are allowed to be warriors as well (though really, only in adrestia and the alliance) there is very little expectation for a woman to be squeamish about... anything. women caretake bodies and they are trained to kill, if they’re lucky enough to go to school. however, there is also always the expectation that a noble daughter - and a poor daughter - will marry a man, hopefully above her station, to elevate the family’s status and produce heirs with a crest. and many women - namely in the holy kingdom - will actually turn to becoming nuns to avoid this fate. and if they don’t, then they run away from home, or hole themselves up to be considered unmarriageable or tear at yellow wallpapers as they slowly grab for freedom. 

to be raised in this culture is to become aware of mortality so early on, particularly for young girls, and to become either hardened to it, or more sensitive to death. the four girls we see from adrestia (edelgard, dorothea, bernadetta, and mercedes) reflect this well. they were all raised with this pressure of being the face of a future household, and have become almost perfectly poised to never be that face - the newest generation of adrestian girls is like this. they are girls ready to overthrow the system, from one point of view or another - girls who know how to kill and are ready to stop the system’s breath. 

and even if they’re not, they still grew up finding tiny porcelain corpses in cakes, the unavoidable hand of death. 5

SOURCES:

1. we recreated a victorian funeral  2. screenshots from the fe/3h dlc 3. the rules and regulations of mourning in the victorian era 4. victorian death dolls 5. happy birthday, there’s a corpse in your cake!

[snowfall-fanfictions]

Tangled in Frozen Week day 5- Life After Happily Ever After

My final submission for @showurselfelsa‘s Tangled in Frozen Week! Big thanks to her for the inspiration this week! This one’s a tear jerker, folks. Fair warning

She could feel it everywhere; her bones ached, her pace slowed, her face showing the effects of age. She knew her time was short. Anna had seen one too many funerals in her life. Elsa’s was the first, followed shortly by Kristoff’s. Freya was still there, looking much like her mother all those years ago, along with her husband Jakob and their son Alec. Markus, the crown prince, was home from his studies to help take care of his mother. The boy reminded Anna of her Kristoff, his warm brown eyes filling her heart with love. But even then, everything still ached.

It was a bright and sunny day in March, like those long past. Anna looked out of the window of her study with a kind grin on her face. In the castle courtyard, children were whooping and playing to their hearts’ content. It reminded her of the days Freya and Jakob would do the same thing with the village children all those years ago. A rapid and light knock stirred her from her memories.

“Come in,” she said weakly. Freya emerged from behind the door, dressed in a flowing green dress and hair in a copper bun. “Oh, sunflower! What brings you here?”

“Everything’s ready, mama,” Freya said, “Ready to go?”

Anna let out a small sigh, “I was born ready.” Freya let out a small chuckle as she walked over to her mother, taking her hands in hers. Anna followed Freya through the castle, taking it all in one last time. For years she had only seen this place as a prison, and her its only inmate. After the Great Thaw, the return of the Fifth Spirit, her marriage to Kristoff and the wonderful family they raised together, the castle felt like a true home. And now, Anna was leaving it once and for all.

At the stables, Jakob, Alec, and Markus were readying a small wagon, big enough to fit all five of them comfortably. Jakob helped his mother in law into the passenger’s side as he took up the reins of the white horse in the lead. As soon as they were all situated in the wagon, Jakob snapped the reins and the horse trotted forward. All throughout the streets, people applauded as the wagon passed by, saying their final goodbyes to the elderly queen. Everyone knew that once Anna went up North, she would never return.

With the industrialization of Arendelle, roads became more modern, allowing a trip to the Northuldra to take mere hours, rather than a few days. The family reached the edge of the enchanted forest by nightfall, as they were greeted by an elderly Honeymaren, now chief of the People of the Sun. In her advanced years, she came to resemble Yelena, with her once brown hair turned snowy white and her skin wrinkled from the erosion of time. Anna greeted her old friend with a warm hug.

“So, it’s finally time,” the Northuldran woman said, “The Spirits were eagerly awaiting this day, you know.”

“I bet they were,” Anna chuckled, “It’s not everyday they get someone new into their circle.”

Just then, a small purple fire danced atop one of the trees before landing on top of Markus’s head. Bruni quickly doused his fire, patting his small feet in the man’s blonde hair. Markus delicately raised his hand up to his head as Bruni leaped into his open palm. Ever since Markus was first brought here as an infant, he and Bruni shared a deep connection with one another, and the two became the best of friends. Elsa would even bring Bruni whenever she visited, allowing the two of them to cause a heap of mischief together.

“I missed you too, Bruni,” Markus said as he rubbed his finger on the salamander’s back. Bruni let out a pleased squeak as Jakob and Alec were greeted by swirling leaves all around them.

“Hi, Gale!” Alec said as she playfully puffed out his shirt. Alec loved the forest as much as his uncle, asking to go whenever the opportunity arose. There was something about magic that intrigued the boy from a young age. The same couldn’t be said about his father, Jakob. Ever since he started courting Freya, he had only met Elsa on the occasion that she visited the castle, and each time was… awkward, to say the least. It wasn’t outright mistrust, but something about her magic powers didn’t sit right with him.

“Uh, y-yes. Hello, mysterious sentient gust of wind…” Jakob said as she swirled around him. 

“It’s alright, Jakob, she won’t bite you,” Honeymaren reassured, “She doesn’t even have teeth.”

Jakob nervously giggled at the Northuldran’s joke as Gale moved onto Freya and Anna. 

“Where’s the Nokk?” Freya asked as she looked over to the stream.

“The North Sea, where else would he be?” Honeymaren let out an incredibly loud whistle as a reindeer approached her. It knelt down low as Honeymaren climbed on its back, “I’ll take you to him.” The five Arendellians returned to their wagon and proceeded to follow the Northuldran leader through the forests and streams until they were on the black seashores of the North Sea. From the foamy waves crashing on the shore, the Nokk appeared before them, trotting over to Anna. The queen placed a wrinkled hand on the Water Spirit’s head as she climbed out of the wagon. Off in the distance, the faint glow of Atohallan was visible, moved closer by Elsa after she took up residence there. Anna walked up to the shore, followed by her family.

“So,” Freya said as tears pricked the corners of her eyes, “I guess this is it, then…”

Anna gave her daughter a great squeeze as Freya lightly sobbed, “It’s alright, baby. I know it hurts, but remember, love is forever.”

Markus, Alec, and Jakob came over to say their goodbyes, tears flowing down their faces. Anna hugged each one of them before climbing onto the Nokk’s back. The water horse galloped across the sea towards the glacier, leaving Anna’s family a small speck on the shoreline. Upon reaching Atohallan, the Nokk dissipated into the waves, leaving Anna alone.

“Okay, Elsa,” Anna said, taking a few steps forward, “Past the symbols, down the ramp, and into the chamber, just like you said.” With that, Anna proceeded through the small entryway into the glacier.

In the years since Elsa moved up here, she had taken great lengths to turn Atohallan into a proper living space. She used her magic to build familiar sights; her old bedroom, the dining hall, she even made a replica of her study. All of this she even made accessible to Anna and her family. Elsa was Ahtohallan incarnate, so it made sense that she could do all of this. Anna slowly walked through Atohallan’s halls, down a rather large ramp, only to be greeted by a room of pure darkness. Stepping into it, vivid lights began dancing around her, taking the various shapes of the Spirits. The lights convened in the middle of the room, forming a massive snowflake on the ground. As Anna stepped towards it, the lights jumped again, this time forming into the shape of Elsa in her younger years.

“Anna!” Elsa’s spirit exclaimed, extending her arms out.

“Elsa…” Anna muttered, dashing forward before her old age forced her to casually trot.

“Not as athletic as you used to be, hm?”

“I’m old! What did you expect, you dork?” The two of them began laughing as Elsa’s spirit stepped forward, taking Anna’s hands in her own.

“How did Freya take the news?”

“There were some tears shed, but she understood. It was explaining it to Alec that was the difficult part.”

“Well, it’s not everyday someone’s grandmother becomes an honorary spirit, now is it?”

Anna grinned at her sister’s apparition, “Right as always, dear sister.”

Elsa let go of her sister’s hands as she conjured up some magic. “Ready for life after happily ever after?”

“More than ever! Now, do the magic.” Elsa shot a blast of magic up to the ceiling, surrounding Anna in a shroud of light. In a matter of seconds, Anna felt lighter as the breath left her body. Once the lights had vanished, the room lit up with various memories of events long past. Looking down at the floor, Anna was taken aback. It appeared as if she hadn’t aged since she destroyed the dam! She shot a look up to Elsa, only to be surprised yet again. Kristoff, Sven, and Olaf were standing right next to her, each with the biggest grins on their faces. Anna felt tears stream down her face as she ran to them, arms extended as they embraced each other.

Life may be short, but love is forever.

[snoozejoon]

Fools | Park Jimin

pairing: park jimin x black female oc (featuring jung hoseok)

genre: angst, cheating!jimin au

word count: 1.8k

ongoing series!

04 - APATHY

So what are you gonna say at my funeral, now that you've killed me?

Here lies the body of the love of my life, whose heart I broke without a gun to my head. Here lies the mother of my children both living and dead; rest in peace, my true love, whose life I took for granted. Most bomb pussy, who because of me, sleep evaded. Her shroud is loneliness, her God is listening. Her heaven will be a love without betrayal.

Ashes, to ashes. Dust, to side chicks.

THE LESSON that Rosalie received from this experience the most, was that smiles hurt. When they are up for too long, when they shine in your dreams and haunt your nightmares. When they are forced, and even when they aren't. Smiles cause pain, even if your heart is the most joyous and content; even if those same smiles are from your very own. They hurt. More than you'd expect.

Of course, she hasn't forgiven him. His name only brought a scowl to her lips and a complete 360 on her happy mood, and she didn't know if that'll ever change. He still got to see his daughter, who was oblivious to their situation; she'd never want their daughter to suffer from a broken household. Her childhood had been a mere blueprint for her marriage so far, and she refused to let it affect Haeran.

This was depressing. She had to go on, day by day, faking happiness for a child that didn't know her mother was really broken. A child who only deserved love, so that was exactly what she'd receive. Even if her mother felt anything but lovely. She'd do her best to assure Haeran that she had an abundance of happiness; but Haeran - despite her young age - is no fool.

As small as her age is, she's still able to comprehend simple sadness. Simple tragedy. What her mother had been stricken with was much more than simple, perhaps, but Haeran comprehended enough to ensure that whatever her mother was, it wasn't happy. Sure, mommy still smiled, mommy still laughed and tickled Haeran so hard tears escaped her eyes, and sang her lullabies before bed. Mommy still acted as she always did; but mommy's hands were colder. Mommy's heart hurt. Haeran just couldn't see through her chest well enough.

“You’ve got this," Rosalie muttered to herself as she gripped her car's steering wheel and peered outside to see children running into the school's doors. Haeran looked outside her car window - as much as her short body would allow her - and then looked at her mother. Then her gaze drifted to her hands.

They were so tight against the wheel's leather, almost as if Rosalie could pull the whole thing off with one tug. Her breathing was calm, almost too calm for a Monday morning. Her hair was up in a lazy bun, barely resting upon her head. the bags underneath her eyes were poorly covered with makeup.

But once it was time for Haeran to exit and get into school, her mother turned to her with a warm smile, a kiss, and the usual tug on her most defined curl. If anything her behavior was just confusing. As if someone else had her mommy's smile, but that was all they could take from her.

"Have a good day at school, okay Haeranie? Mommy loves you." Haeran reluctantly unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned up on her knees from her seat to look her mother in the eye. She held her face, and narrowed her eyes, searching. For her mother behind this mask. School was about to start in the world that stood outside of the two of them, but then it was only Haeran, and her mother's eyes.

Rosalie chuckled lowly, confused at the young girl's actions. "Sweetie, what are you-" she reached for Haeran's hand but it left her face before she could get ahold of it.

"Nothing mommy,” the girl said meekly. “ I just thought i saw something on your face."

Rosalie confusedly stared at her daughter, knowing that she wasn't telling the complete truth, but not prying further. She knew that her daughter wasn’t dumb; as hard as she may have tried to be as normal as possible around her, she knew Haeran would slightly catch on. Her eyes cast down to Haeran's own, casting a questioning gaze but smiling as well. "Oh. thank you, baby."

When haeran nodded and let herself down, she heard her mother mutter quietly, along with a small break in between her words; almost as if her throat was sore or similar to her voice in the morning: tired and distressed. "Daddy picks you up today. Be a good girl for him, okay?”

At that, haeran nodded, smiling and waving a final goodbye to her mother, and opened the car door and set out into her daycare. One of her teachers were already waiting to guide her into the school. Haeran turns one last time to blow her mother a kiss and wave before finally walking alongside her homeroom teacher. Rosalie watches her daughter's walking figure retreat into her school before finally driving off.

Starving is an understatement for Hoseok. He's famished. On the literal brink of death if he doesn't consume food within the next hour. He marched into the nearest market with such a brisk pace, the wind from his footsteps blew his hair to the side. His destination was the noodle aisle; because he was too hungry to make anything that took longer than 20 minutes. Meaning: anything other than instant ramen. His footsteps move with an unexplainable urgency; but they halt when he sees Rosalie.

She wasn't doing anything at all. Just standing, staring at the the various brands of instant ramen without making an effort to choose a package. She was frowning deeply, with her hands still lying on her basket. Her hair is falling from a lazy ponytail; curls enshrouded her face, making her face appear smaller. She hasn't noticed him, but he greets her anyway.

"Hey, Rosalie!" he can tell he's started her, and immediately regrets being so loud when he sees how hard she jumped. She smiles when she sees him, and it strikes so many questions in his brain; it was as if the reaction was rehearsed. as if it was her go-to facade in place of what her real feelings would've been.

But it wasn't any of his business.

A hand was placed onto her chest as she composed herself, "Geez, Hobi. Startled me. But hi, how are you hun?" She turns around completely, giving him her full attention.

He frowns playfully, pushing his basket closer to hers, "You know I hate when you call me that. Makes me sound like an infant. I'm a grown ass man, Rosie." He mocked how she taught the phrase to him, his pronunciation on point.

She laughs at his remark, smiling widely, "I know, i just do it to mess with you." At this Hoseok rolls his eyes, reaching behind her to grab a package of beef flavored ramen; his favorite.

"Whatever. You've been in this aisle for a minute, why is your basket still empty?" He points in the basket's direction, raising a brow. She wasn't someone who shopped for long. When they first met, one of the first things he learned about her was that she had a phobia of stores, despite her constant rebuttals against that claim and saying she was merely uncomfortable in stores, he would always make his point seeing her shop faster than anyone he knew.

He sees discomfort pass through her eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "Um-" before she answered, a phone call interrupted her speech. A routine ringtone rang in her pocket, and her hand reached down to answer it. "One second," she said.

"Yeah, Juno?" Hoseok watched her face contort into discomfort again, but this time it stayed. "I'm on my way," she said, before ending the call.

She looked back up at hoseok, apologizing. "Sorry about that, something happened at the restaurant and I need to take care of it. I'll see you later, okay?"

He nods, "yeah, no problem." she's already leaving their shared aisle, but he says, "you're still coming to the gala the firm's holding, right? You and Jimin?"

He almost wishes he didn't even ask. Her eyes held a small trace of agony when she looked back at him.

"Yeah. Bye, Hobi."

The drive is nerve wracking; Juno wouldn't have called her if it wasn't something serious. Rosalie's calloused hand releases its grip on her steering wheel and rubs down her face, already ridden with facial creases from how hard she's been thinking. What more could she be punished with? She forced herself not to believe the worst; this restaurant was her everything. She remembered being so so happy when she first got approved to build it, Jimin wouldn't shut up about how smiley she was. Sales boomed immediately, people loved her clash of soul food and Korean barbecue. If anything happened to it, she'd be heartbroken. Another thing she'd failed at keeping together.

Her car finally arrives in front of the restaurant, the big "Rosie's Place" sign coming into view. It was closed already, and she saw Juno sitting on the small steps of the entrance with a two glasses in her fingertips and a bottle of wine in her other hand. When she sees Rosalie's worried face through her windows, she smiles gracefully, walking up to Rosalie's windows as she pulled them down slowly, confusion ripping through Rosalie harshly.

Rosalie's eyes narrow as she looks at her friend from outside her car, who wore the biggest smile. "Hi." she says it like a child, biting her lip with how hard she was smiling.

Juno can literally hear the wheels turning in rosie's head.

"Junie, whats with the wine?" She steps out, already taking out her key from her purse to unlock the restaurant's doors, "and what exactly happened here that you needed to call me?"

She didn't catch Juno's shrug, but she caught everything else; her little dance of sudden happiness as she stepped towards rosalie. "Nothing. but I knew you'd need a day, and, I — like a good friend, came through. Knowing you, you'd want to be in the place you love the most, next to your house — and you definitely don't want to be there, so I thought i'd invite you here."

Rosalie can't help the gratitude growing inside her, and Juno does another one of her happy dances when she sees her reaction. Immediately dragging rosalie to the room after she unlocks it, Rosalie couldn't help her child-like giggles seeing Juno actually run towards the karaoke room. "We can have the karaoke room to ourselves! Cmonnnn, Rosie, you need this! No one's here but me, and I'll let you scream all you want, that's what the wine's for."

The karaoke room was always a small, secluded space for guests that knew their voices were... worse than most. Soundproof walls were an amazing plus, and Rosalie will probably thank herself later, because she was so drunk and so ... loud. She could hold a tune, but none of that mattered while drunk. Nothing did. All rosalie felt in that room with her best friend was the jewelry she wore that day, in an effort to impress the world and tell it that she was okay — although no one was really listening. But she felt like it was real, then. That everything was.

Rosalie could barely remember the last time she let a swear word slip before what happened with Jimin; a toddler shouldn't be around such words. But everyone of them ripped through her tonight. In Korean, English, French, Spanish. Any language she could communicate in, she let the degradation of Jimin roar. Juno clapped her hands with glee as she listened, being drunk as well.

A microphone seemed to be her saving grace, because it voiced her fuck him's and fuck her too's louder than she could, and that was all she wanted then. For someone other than herself to see her pain. For something to happen the way she wanted it to, because hell — didn't she deserve it?

Yes. I deserve it. I know I do.

So nothing stopped her as her voice was raised to octaves she never even knew she could possibly hit, nothing stopped her from taking swig after swig and seeing stars — the alternative for her marriage life. Nothing forbade her from crying after realizing she'd have such a terrible time explaining this in the morning; and absolutely nothing stopped her ferocious laughter when she realized she didn't care at all.

Juno has been asleep; it wasn't her fault rosalie decided to get the most comfortable chairs in the world for this small ass room and definitely not her fault for being a lightweight. Rosalie however, doesn't even hear her snores, being too busy indulging in her pain in search of sheer happiness.

She still doesn't know what exactly told her brain to swipe hoseok's name on her phone either.

Jimin loved the sea. As a child, it was his most desired place to be; crashing waves and salted hair were the things that roamed his heartbeats every summer, so naturally, Haeran loved it just as much. To say that her father was an admired figure in her life was such an under exaggeration of what he really was to her. Her father never seemed to fall from perfection; he could literally do no wrong to have her change her views of him. He was a savior, the smile she was most proud to share — but she loved her mother's cheekbones — and her most favorite laugh always came from him. He was her best friend.

Jimin knew this. Just by looking at her: prancing around in the sand, getting her hair wet in the waves and not worrying about washing it because daddy can do it now. She lets the sea carry her, all while falling back into his arms when it was time to go home. To mommy.

But why was he so ... not happy today? Better yet — why was her mommy unhappy too? Why wasn't anyone happy anymore?

Haeran finally decided after playing around and begging her father to chase her that she'd had enough. Whatever dark cloud above her parent's heads had better be gone by the time she was through. She walked determinedly to where her father sat; he held a dampened towel in one hand and a hair scrunchie in the other, doing nothing, looking sad. "Daddy."

She said it jokingly, trying to startle him. Instead she got attitude. His eyes cut to her harshly, whatever she did interrupted whatever he was thinking about so deeply. "What, haeran?" he notices a pout immediately, "A-are you ready to go already?" He opens the towel up but she doesn't step into it.

She crossed her arms and shook her head, "no, daddy. I want answers. Why are you so sad? This is the place you like too, you should smile!" She reaches up to him and pulls at his cheeks, making a makeshift smile, "Like this. see?" she gets even more frustrated when he says nothing and removes her hands, "Dad-dy. why are you so sad? What did haeranie do?"

That's when his eyes finally connect with hers, regret and remorse filling jimin's mind immediately. What did she do? What did she do to hinder his kindness? Was this her fault?

"No," Jimin reaches for her face, locking their eyes firmly. "You did nothing, Haeran. Nothing, baby. Nothing. This is daddy's fault. Not yours, not mommy. Daddy." He pulls her into him closer than she expected; his clothes dampen when they make contact with her wet body.

When she hears this, another question is sparked, "Why? why would you make mommy sad? Mommy always wants you to be happy, why would you make her cry? She cried today. She doesn't think I know, but I do. I know everything." She removes herself from his tight hold and looks up at him, her eyes reflecting Jimin's exact feelings.

Despair, confusion. Discontent. She wanted to know why, too. 

“Why would you do something like this over her?!”

Haeran could never have a question and be satisfied when it isn't answered completely, she always yearned for a complete understanding. He could smother the situation all he wanted, but Haeran would always find a way to bend it so that she could understand. He'd admit, it was an admirable trait. An annoying, admirable trait.

He sighs. "I know, Haeranie. Daddy made her sad because..." he swears he sees the waters retreat from him for a while, because did he know either? What was the reason? What could ever validate betraying your wife? The one that loved him with everything she knew? The one that would sit and bleed out her adoration for him with mere words?

Nothing.

"...Because daddy lost his mind." It was a phrase they both knew from Rosalie early on, he almost refrained from using it. Perhaps he doesn't even have that right.

Haeran blinks. That was it? "Well. Uh, let's find it? I'll help you daddy, don't worry! Before mommy gets even more sad. And it'll be found quicker, with the both of us!" She smiles up at him then, a solution was finally found, and everything would be okay.

Instead, Jimin feels tears well up as he looks at his daughter expressing her unwavering love for her parents. His hand strokes her hair, pulling her into an even tighter hug, earning a joyous laugh from his daughter in his embrace.

"Thank you," he says, a tear escaping his eye and landing into her hair, "I'd appreciate that.”

[tetsuwan-atom]

Atomite Incarnates - Rokuro Hengawa

DISCLAIMER: You may have seen some other muses on this blog that haven’t actually been given bios before. These are new side muses that are part of the whole Mighty Atom Lore. Bowen Chuuno is of course still the main muse of this blog and always will be, these are just additional muses that are used in certain stories and RPs. Due to the nature of these muses (Powers, Story arcs, etc) they are considered Request Only. 

Rokuro Hengawa

As the name suggests Rokuro Hengawa was born in Japan, during the era of the Samurai. It is not entirely clear what period he grew up in, though sources suggest it was around the middle to late eras.

Born as Rokuro Yomatsu to a noble family, his father, Unmugou Yomatsu, was a Samurai himself, well respected in his village, and by the Daimyo at the time. It was clear to his birth as to what the young Rokuro would undergo, once he was old enough to. For many many years he trained, under the watchful eye of his father and the Daimyo, bearing the black Yomatsu armour, studying in the way of the Samurai, to serve one's master, to fight in his name.

Such skills he bore were staggering to everyone. He fought faster, stronger and far more agile than any human could ever achieve. There were great hopes for him, when he completed his training and took his position with his father, earning that coveted title of Samurai, under the Daimyo. However, things would soon be put to the test upon being called to battle, a fight that he wasn't prepared for. Misinformation had underestimated an army that was far larger in size.. and capability. It was gruesome.. tiresome.. and well and truly from the start, a losing battle. It was in that experience he came to a realisation. Samurai, were supposed to die in battle. If you did not win, you were not a warrior.. and you must take your life, in your own hands. He saw the carnage, the destruction.. and throughout his whole life, had been conditioned to a tradition so barbaric, so wasteful, it didn't sit with him as honorable, to end one's life short, just because of one fight, when they can come back and fight again, for a different outcome. Not only that, but as his comrades fell, the armies would turn on him.. and as much as he could fight, he felt he wasn't in a position to take them all down single-handedly.

...So he ran.

It was against all of his teachings, all of his father's beliefs. He had guilt, that such an action would bring dishonour to the Yomatsu name, but at the same time, he felt betrayed by his father, teaching him such a warped custom, of perceived honour, perceived shame, throughout the whole of his life. He wasn't going to face them, he knew he would face his own death if he went back, whether it's at the hands of his own father, or forced to use his own. Instead he fled into a forest, densely populated. The sight of the fields fading as he drew deeper and deeper, escaping the assailants that tried to find him. One can imagine they would have given up eventually, leaving him on his own. Lost, in an unfamiliar place, thick with trees and wildlife. This wasn't like the orderly forest he trained in, this one was messy and unpredictable, trees growing so high to block the sun and cover the ground in a fake darkness. He didn't know where to turn at all.

Who knows how long he had been wandering around for. Days? Weeks? Months? Sleeping on the rough ground, or in a tree, avoiding death by goodness knows what. This place was clearly dangerous.. and anything could be out to get him. But then, as if it might have been a mirage, he came across... stairs? Stairs of furnished stone, so perfected, like man had come and created something here. Clearly curiosity got to him. Where did it go, where would it lead to? He went up those stairs, higher and higher, like climbing a mountain, light was seen at the end, spurring him on faster and faster.. until he reached the top.. the floor of a wonderfully crafted temple, a shrine, lit in candle light. He did not expect this here, in this forest, a man made shrine of this extent. Maybe someone lived here? He couldn't turn back now, he had to move forward, exhausted, in need of hospitality. You can see in his eyes, the lost cause in him, that everything he had been taught, was wrong.. and that no matter what, he could not ever go back to his old life again.

Whom should he find but a hermit, an old man, who had been living in the shrine for many, many years, all on his own, with his pets to keep company. Such would be normal, if those pets weren't tigers. The man's name was Oeyasu Hengawa, and he took the young, lost Rokuro under his wing, teaching him beyond the way of the Samurai, to learn to respect and serve the world, not a single person, to learn about the innocence and the corruption of humanity, as well as to fight like never before. Oeyasu became a second father to the young Samurai, in fact, he was the father he should have had, caring, teaching, intuitive, unlike his real father, who was stern, cold and ruthless. Rokuro learned so much, more than what anyone else ever could, from Oeyasu. He would come out not only a truly remarkable, unmatched warrior, with unparalleled insight into the world, who can appreciate the small things, like the rise and fall of the sun, and the starry sky at night, but despite all that, he still had not reached his full potential yet.

But, as the hands of time moved forward, this stage of life was not to last. Oeyasu was old.. and ill. Wiry at his best, but soon his health would deteriorate. The young Rokuro, clearly worried and fearful of what could happen, did everything he could, tending to the old man as much as possible, but as such stories go, it would not be enough. He was by Oeyasu's side when he passed on his shrine, his land, all to the young man, whom he believed had grown so much since he first came to the shrine.. that such would be his responsibility now, to care for it.. and to one day use his new skills, his new discoveries, to make a difference in the world. Under the starry sky, Oeyasu died in his bed, with the young blonde in tears. Prior to his death, it was agreed to carry his body into the forest, to a site where his relatives and those before him were taken to, to be cremated under the stars, to be one with the universe.

And so, he carried his master's body, wrapped in a shroud, with the materials needed, the long trek to that fated spot, laying him to rest on a bed of sticks, lighting up such a fire.. watching the body burn. It was no doubt a sad sight, one that he would never forget, as the smoke and the flames cast a light in comparison to the night above, as Oeyasu turned to ashes.. and scattered throughout the entirety of the forest, thanks to the wind that would carry him, to the vast corners of the jungle that had protected him for so long.

But once the ceremony was over, as the fire was put out, as the young Rokuro walked back to the shrine that was now his own... he was ambushed, by creatures in black... demons. Hordes and hordes of demons, creatures so abhorrent, the likes of which he had never seen before. It was truly a struggle in itself, fighting so many at once, truly worse than the armies that brought him here. It seemed like this was the struggle that might finish him off for good... but there was a force, a fire, burning within him.. something was about to be unleashed, that would realise who he is, who he really is, whom he's meant to be. It is unclear what had fully happened, but the loudest roar, the roar of a tiger, filled the entirety of the desert... and with such a roar, the demons had gone, disappeared. What was left, was not the blonde who had just come from the funeral of his master. No, there stood a new man, with grey hair and golden eyes, risen from the insecurities of the blonde, the person he was meant to be all along. With time, he would grow accustomed to this change, this new self, but he knew, there really was no going back now. Gone was the boy who was fooled into a barbaric tradition, that disregarded life, in favour of false honour. Now stood a man, who had a full insight of what was right and wrong.. who looked at the world the way it should be, who would serve not one person, but many... who would serve humanity.. and the world that they all inhabited.

There was one gift, two gifts, actually, that the late master had left the new owner.. and such he would not know until he got home, seeing a note by his bedside, to go check a closet that had never been opened, or shown, to the young man, when Oeyasu was alive. Inside, was a full Samurai outfit, decked in yellow and black, with markings on the shoulders.. and a black cape, with a tiger motif. There were two swords, katanas, with blades of gold, clearly never used, made for him.. and only him. This, was Oeyasu's parting gift to Rokuro, to become the real Samurai, that people can look up to, whenever he did good. Thanks to his master, the male had decided to change his name, not just in tribute, but because he knew, this was right. With the fading of the young blonde, so did he discard his old surname. No more did Rokuro Yomatsu exist. From now on, the name Rokuro Hengawa will forever be with him, and forever be him, the man he will always be.

For a good period of time, did he remain at the Shrine, almost a hermit like his master, but he wanted to get fully accustomed to his new life first, before venturing back out into the world. He grew to take care of his tiger pets, who grew to respect him as their new master. It was quite the learning curve, living on his own, but he managed with what was available. Eventually he would need to venture out, out of the Shrine, out of the forest.. and back to the villages, to restock on what was needed, for one thing, as well as to see what the world was like, since the day he had fled.

Careful he was, in ensuring nobody could recognise him.. and he succeeded, his new identity a fresh face, instead of the face of a dishonorable man who had cowardly run from battle. With new insight, he would look into how the villages and the province were run, realising the man he had served under, the man he fought for, almost died for, the Daimyo, Hontatsu, was a tyrant, truly self serving, someone who had bigger ambitions than his little province.. and was clearly training an army of soldiers to do his deeds.

It would be his first real test as a new man, to break the boundaries of his earlier conditioning, to turn his back against the traditions he was taught.. and to fight the system, for a new way, for the people. He made his moves carefully, not wanting to fight for more than he had to. At a rally for the Daimyo, where he was rousing new and old troops, the man would make his move, pouncing on the stage, declaring the Daimyo to be a ruthless dictator, who only looked out for himself, and that he was building an army to conquer Japan. Of course, one would expect the people around to dismiss such claims, referring to it as nonsense, the Daimyo himself clearly not impressed with such a surprise assault, intending to make an example of the male, in a one on one fight. Rokuro didn't care about opinions, for he knew what was right.. and what was right was deposing this narcissist. It was of no surprise, that the fight was easy for him. Sure, he was extremely skilled as a human, but against Rokuro, he had no chance whatsoever. Hontatsu was humiliated in the fight, in front of everyone.. and thanks to their beliefs, they saw that their leader was not the strong, ever victorious leader they had come to serve. No doubt after such a fight he was deposed, taking his own life, as the way of the traditions goes, with Rokuro finding a replacement who would do things differently, who served the will of the people.. and would do great things for the province. People would now know his name, Rokuro Hengawa.. and realise he was a force to be reckoned with. No doubt word would spread, with mixed opinions throughout. Many praise was found, for him being a hero, but at the same time, he was also demonised, for breaching the peace and causing chaos. Regardless, he had done his first deed.. and had made a name for himself in the process.

While such a name, such a reputation, earned him accolades and popularity, he was always humble in his work, never accepting any gifts for his services.. and never boasting. Such was part of his teachings from his old master, never be consumed by fame. He always sought to help people out when he had the chance to, when he wasn't tending to the shrine or his tigers. He was also keen on reading about what might be happening, if there were other threats in the country that had to be taken care of. Many moons would pass, before the need to stand up, the need to fight, would rise again.. and see him in an even bigger fight than before.

Rumour had it of a man.. no.. a giant, only referred to as the Great Terror, causing havoc amongst the provinces. Real name Gonohura, he would use his sheer strength and powers to claim provinces for his own, to use them to generate income to create a new empire. Those who cooperated were left alone. Those that didn't... were reduced to rubble. Clearly a bully.. and someone he had to take care of quickly. Again he had to leave his Shrine.. and go further distances, who knows how far, in search of this beastly creature. One day he would find him, after such a long search, hearing of his next move and reaching such a destination before he did. The rumours were true, this man was of a size incomparable, truly a giant.. and one who indeed threatened the next province with terror and destruction. Someone who was too big for his boots.. and someone who underestimated the 'cockroach' that was Rokuro Hengawa. Those who saw him fight, saw him fierce, quick, almost like lightning, dodging every hard punch, save for the first one, just to show that such was meaningless. This opponent angered the Great Terror, whose rage lifted the earth, to consume this worthless rat.. but even then, Rokuro just kept on avoiding his attacks, wearing him out.. and striking him at the earliest opportunity. His final attack, the one that would finish him off, involved lunging.. no.. pouncing on the giant... like a tiger ready to devour it's prey... roar and all. The sight was an unfriendly one, but the fight itself garnered him a title, one that he would forever be known for. Rokuro Hengawa, The Lighting Tiger.

Now he would be known throughout the country.. and more than just someone who deposed a controversial Daimyo. He was a warrior.. and a renown giant killer. The accolades now were unanimous. Even still, he was humble, still never boasting, still never accepting more than he should. After the long trek home, he would resume his life, tending to tigers, meditating, forever learning, even going to the villages when he needed to.. until the next threat would come.

It took quite a bit of time, who knows how much time, but the first instance of something new occurred in the village, while he was shopping for food and other supplies. In an instant, a passer by would instantly stop... turn unnaturally.. and just like that, lunge at the Samurai with new found strength. While quick and easy to take care of there and then, the hallmarks of darkness were evident, that this poor person had been possessed, with a dark aura.. and red eyes.. and it seemed it had happen without warning. Already he was worried.. and quickly set to work in finding out why... noting every time it occurred, a person suddenly losing all sense of self, becoming a puppet, all to somehow ensure the Samurai’s death... or maybe these possessions.. were only the beginning of something far more sinister. No theory was to be discarded, but rumors were coming from the mountains.. of a tyrannical king, who had somehow garnered the ability to possess people.. not just one at a time, but hordes and hordes, to do his bidding, villages falling so easily, with all it’s inhabitants falling prey to his power. It seemed he had a new enemy to face.. one who already knew about him.. and sought to take him out first.

At first on his journey, he’d find villages were already plagued with a few of these ‘zombie-like’ people, but the closer he got to the hellish mountain tops, he would end up finding villages completely filled with these possessed people, that he had to swiftly weave through to get to his goal. How thoughtful he was not to kill them, but to just do what he could to get past them. The mountains were filled with them too, even beastly animals were possessed, to try and keep him at bay, to hinder his progress, but he would still get closer and closer, until he reached the fortress at the highest peak, above the clouds, to the hall of the Demon King, the hellish tyrant who started all of this mess.

The Demon King was unlike any adversary he had face before.. and one who might have almost had him. He seemed to have energy radiate from him to fight and fight and fight, with abilities and powers that fit his name. How he strove to reach his goal, to take over the world, wrapped around his finger.. but Rokuro wasn’t an easy pushover.. and he kept at it.. and at it and at it, up and down the peak, although mainly trying to fight upward. He would use the energy of the world, the universe and the stars, to overcome this horrific adversary. As much as the Demon King tried to have the upper hand, the fighting eventually took a toll.. and soon he would expose a weakness that the Lightning Tiger would take chance of.. and easily claim the fight. The fight was brought to the top of this peak, beyond the fortress... how convenient that such was actually built on a volcano... and while Rokuro didn’t want to do it, the end of this fight would come... by ensuring the Demon King would slip to his doom, to be consumed by the lava... what would have been the only way to defeat this seemingly indestructible despot.

How unfortunate, that with his death, the Lightning Tiger would have to descend the volcano at such a rapid rate, as the Demon King had been absorbing it’s destructive energy to keep it at bay. Without it, the volcano would fire up... and erupt with such force. Even back on ground, he still had to flee, from the mess it would create, completely obliterating the fortress that was built on it, for one thing. The good thing about it? There was no village in range of the volcano’s destructive radius.. and the end of this saga would come in the aftermath of the eruption, the possessed people and animals regaining their sanity.. and themselves. From strength to strength, Rokuro Hengawa was making leaps and bounds, saving the world from greater and greater threats.

However, his last adversary, would bring his own demise.

One day the sky would be covered in clouds, clouds that were never seen before, of pure black darkness, hiding the sun.. and plunging the world into a permanent night. An entity the likes of nothing ever seen before, had arrived to such a planet, in such a universe, to find the fated samurai, the one who had deposed the Demon King. Such an entity knew of Rokuro, more than what the Lightning Tiger even knew of himself. The entity knew of what he was.. and why he was a threat to it’s plans.. how it had grown to a point where it felt like it might well be unstoppable... if this one individual was taken out now. Armies of pure darkness he had to trudge through, to fight, tirelessly, ending up in an open field, where the entity, known as the Embodiment... would reveal itself... as well as what it knew about him.. and what it’s ultimate objective was... to consume.. everything, to rid all the multiverse of light and life.. and to turn the Void, a natural occurrence, into something far, far bigger.. an eternal singularity.

When the ultimate fight would come, the clouds would shroud everything in darkness, with only lightning to light up the field.. and thunder to echo out into the distance. This was the fight of all fights... and truly something Rokuro himself would always remember, how it seemed like he had been training for this very moment, the strongest enemy.. fighting with everything he had, in defense and offense. A battle on so many fronts, of strength, of speed, of agility, of stamina.. of everything. It was like in that moment the multiverse itself hung on with fated breath, waiting for the outcome of this fight.. and while it may have seemed impossible, hope, still remained, that light would indeed prevail.

Then there was the psychological front, how the Embodiment, even in the midst of such an intense battle, would taunt the samurai, how it wanted him to feel hopeless, that everything is hopeless, that this is how everything will end up, consumed by darkness... and that the Void was infinite.. that it was eternal... but Rokuro refused to believe that.. and he would keep fighting, trying to lay hits on the being, while at the same time, not exposing any vulnerabilities.

It seemed like this could go on forever and ever.. but Rokuro was an Atomite, an incarnation of the original God that first fought the Embodiment, along with it’s army. It was a copy.. but one that may not be as strong as the original. It would seem, that the fight may well be lost eventually, until he heard a voice in his head that would tell him one thing.

Go for the chest.

..And so he made his effort, a last ditch effort, an onslaught of energy as he managed to find a way to one up the Embodiment in the heat of the battle, waiting for it to try and taunt him one last time.. and in a moment of distraction, managed to impale the dark being, with not one, but both his swords... straight through the chest.

Even then, he knew that would not be enough... but he knew what must be done. The Embodiment was a being of darkness... one that had a weakness... an anti... and he would give such a creature an overdose of such a kryptonite. The swords glowed as he took energy from the world, the stars... everything he could... filling the being as it groaned in sheer pain, but still managing to taunt the man, how the only way to win this was to use his own strength... and that the samurai will die during the process. Rokuro had only one answer to such a taunt.

“If I have to give my life to breathe life to the world.. to all that is living... then so be it!”

With that, he added his own energy, all of his energy, as he consumed the being in light. The result of such pressure, all of that light in a being of darkness, it would no doubt result in the Embodiment’s shell, it’s body, bursting with such light, the immense pressure like an explosion, filling all in it’s range with it’s bright, white light. No doubt the male was knocked backwards.. and for a brief moment.. everything was a blur.

He knew that when he would wake up, that he would struggle to move... but what would he wake up to? When his eyes opened, struggling at that, he would see a bright blue sky. All trace of darkness had gone.. and the sun shone brightly upon the Earth once more. With his last inch of energy, he would reach out, as if wanting to touch the sky.. or maybe he was reaching for something else.. before his hand would drop back to him.. and his eyes slowly closed.

in death, he would be described as the legend that fought the darkness, forever hailed as the warrior who saved the world.. and to some people, the multiverse in itself. He did have an afterlife, starting out in a cramped building, before it would expand, to great detail. In such an afterlife, he had his own home, exactly as it was, the way it always was, on the same hill, in the same forest... everything replicated exactly.

While in his living years, he never got to experience love and intimacy.. and while he would on occasion wonder what that would have been like, he had felt that he had lived his life to the full, seeing so much and accomplishing more than most, being one of the only few Atomite incarnates to perform a feat on a multiversal scale. His afterlife is content... and while he longs for more exploration, to see and do more... he would live in peace... and happiness.

Rokuro Hengawa is a very friendly, courteous individual, who is always happy to talk and lend a hand if his help is required. He is very wise, full of insight.. and spending time with him can lead to one learning a thing or two about a range of topics. He has very strong beliefs about justice and the light, completely intolerant to violence and abuse towards the innocent.. and he will clearly make his point known, through words or through physical retaliation. When not required for anything, he lives his life in peace, doing day to day things at home, while also meditating, training and enjoying the night sky. Even in the afterlife, he keeps his skills sharp, in case he might be needed in the future. He is a legend written in many tales, in many books.. and is widely regarded as one of the Atomites to look up to, along with Hydal Bartis.

[ayellowbirds]

Second night of writing! We’ve hit a total 3352 words, on schedule so far. Thus continues the clandestine activities of one Belaset Alazraki, professional grave-robber. How does a 3 meters tall half-giant manage to sneak around? It helps if you don’t need to carry around a lantern.

i’m currently only able to work for 14 hours a week; donations to support this are welcome! Feel free to let me know when you’ve donated, I’ll see about including a tribute of some sort to you in the text of the story:

https://www.paypal.me/ayellowbirds

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As always, keep track of the tag for updates!

(logo fonts are Bradley Gratis and Yiddishkeit Bold)

Click the Read More to continue, or click here for the first part!

With that done, she got to work. From the bag on her left hip, she pulled a sheet of canvas, a compass, and then a short wooden trowel. While not the most durable material, nor the easiest to work with, it made for silent digging where a metal spade would have clanked and clunked against any stones in the soil.

With the compass as a guide, she determined the direction of the head and laid the canvas near to it: even the poorest burial would have made a point of orienting the body towards the Valley of Origin, unless the deceased had been an Icosan, or some other kind of zarim*.

* Literally, “foreigners”—any person not considered one of the “people of the land”, and thus not beholden to the covenants with the divine. 

The work went quickly. Although the soil around her was denser packed, the newly buried body was covered only loosely, in part owing to the low budget gravedigging, and in part due to having been completed just before sunset and not having had much time to settle and become compacted from rain and time. It was not usually this easy; Belaset had lucked out. Work that would have taken a team of diggers at least forty minutes was done in under fifteen, particularly with Belaset’s own prodigious strength and stamina.

It helped that she was not digging up the whole grave, but only a deep hole at the head’s end. The soil went right onto the canvas as she worked, the size of it being enough to ensure not more than a grain of dirt was out of place.

As her trowel struck the coffin with the clack of wood on wood, she uttered one more prayer, this time a simple thanks to the Lord of Dust. Her kohenet would have given her the evil eye for the informal wording of it, but it had been a while since Belaset had attended services, so she would probably have a lot more to make up for than just that. Especially considering how she was keeping a roof over her head and her belly full, of late.

Now, she took out a pair of hooks tied together with a rope, and levered the points beneath the lid of the coffin until they caught. She planted her feet on either side of the hole, and with a bit of tugging at the rope, she pried up the lid until it snapped out of the way. Thankfully, the soil muffled the sound of it.

She looked down, and saw her target. Or rather, saw the linen tachrichim it was wrapped in. The one thing that kept burials egalitarian when people could afford a nice memorial in a pleasant plot—every person of the land was buried in the same kind of shroud. Belaset reached down again with the hooks, and pulled enough of the wrappings away to see what was within.

It was the body of a woman who looked close to her own age, with a shock of short blue hair gelled up with pomade or grease in a style that was popular with the more rebellious sort. That bore out with what she knew; the deceased had come to her attention as having been found among the dead in a revolutionary cell that was raided by the Imperial Army. A grisly business, apparently with a lot of confusion. The body showed the expected trauma from the rumors and eyewitness accounts Belaset had overheard with a bit of eavesdropping and a few coins in the right hands.

Greasy, loose skin—to be expected. The burial had been rushed, and the body wasn’t even past the early stages of decay. But it was unmistakably dead; a living person wouldn’t have laid there with those kinds of injuries.

The details were unclear, but it sounded like she’d been hit in the jaw by the butt of a soldier’s gun—that explained the dislocation and fractures—and then, in the confusion, set upon by a crazed comrade. _That_ explained the tissue damage. The skin and muscle of the neck and lower jaw were gruesomely rent, with the burial wrappings only lacking significant blood stains due to having the loss of it being the cause of death.

Even having been practiced at this work, Belaset shuddered a bit. She’d only seen injuries like that, this kind of tearing of flesh and meat, in people who had been attacked by wild animals. And the woman who did it was still said to be at large.

With a bit more care than usual because of the nature of the damage, Belaset looped her rope around the neck, and then, to be extra sure, through the body’s armpits and around the chest. Taking one more look around to make sure she was still not discovered, she began to pull the whole corpse up through the hole in the dirt.

This was the “resurrection” bit, and the reason some of her competitors called themselves “fishermen”. It took the same kind of patience and caution; pulling too hard and fast would have damage the body and made it worth far less.

At last, she had the body up and out. If it had been anyone other than a person of the land, she might’ve had to deal with removing fancy funeral attire, to say nothing of a more expensive coffin making it harder to get at the body inside. As it was, she simply had to unwrap the remains, and then carefully fold the body up to tuck it into another bag, which she pulled from the one at her right hip. It was the sort a porter might carry more mundane goods in, and Belaset took one last look at the body to make sure that she’d brought one big enough.

“He’ll be especially interested in you,” Belaset mumbled, thinking of her employer’s interest in certain uncommon characteristics that the body displayed. Even with the damage to the face and throat, it was apparent that this girl was of an uncommon sort—the formal terminology might have been ‘androgynos’, or ‘tumtum’, or maybe ‘saris’. Or perhaps the identification as a woman had been a mistake of the witnesses Belaset had spoken to, and this person saw theirself as a man, or something else, and had simply been attired in a manner that defied expectations of that. There was something of a current of that, in the young people of the cities.

Thinking about all this made Belaset’s sideburns itch. She’d dealt with enough frustration over her own body, and while talking to people in the coffeeshops and tea houses helped, there were ways that it just made everything more complicated. Especially because most of them were completely human, and could only understand things in human terms.

Well, at least she could talk to her employer about it.

And her employer could certainly put the body to better purposes than sitting in the dirt without a name or anyone to set stones atop the grave. Maybe help more people to be who they were on the inside.

She eased the body into the bag, tied it up, and began making things look as they had when she arrived. Stuffing the tachrichim back into the coffin wasn’t strictly necessary, but it was one less thing to deal with, and she was able to bundle it up so that the cloth gave the broken section of the lid something to rest on when she moved it back into place and started pouring dirt on top of it, made all the easier with the canvas. She simply held it up to funnel the soil back into the hole.

Finishing up, she used her trowel to shift the uppermost layer of soil around in a way that made it look undisturbed and continuous. She looked over her grim work, lifted the body bag over her shoulder, and looked up into the night sky.

It was hard for her to tell sometimes, with the way her eyesight worked. The full moon had come out through a part in the clouds, and was hanging high over Mutneberg Hills.

Of the gods that she had prayed to that night—Yodelbeymer, the northern god that some claimed even joined the raids of outlanders against the Icarian Army; Q’dushah, the first thing to die and Baal’apar, the first murder victim, the gods of death and the soil respectively—there was one more to consider, and to offer thanks for success.

There were several deities† of the moon, just as there were of the sun. Among those, one of the more obscure was Baal Tsachor, who was called “the Strange Moon” even by most of those who knew of him.

† The ancient covenant of the people of the land forbade them to place any one deity above others, as did Icosans, and even in its strictest interpretations deemed it a transgression to treat a few as favorites. Most kohanot found it convenient to keep a set schedule for prayers, and some specialized in keeping track of as many deities as possible. That there were several hundred known to the people of the land could make this time-consuming, especially for the deities related to the passage of time. 

But Belaset had known of him well enough to offer another prayer, this one silent, up to The Moon of Loneliness, to the The Bandit Moon. To the Moon That Howls Back.

[yueqqi]

Lost Requiem - Chapter 3

Summary: A man from New York seeks a new life after a terrible mistake that locked him in eight years of imprisonment, only for him to be greeted again by the gates of Hell.

A wrist with a warm, metallic wetness pressed to his lips, and there was whispered command into his ear, “Drink.”

New York City, New York, August 28th, 1996

The gentle rain chorused against the rooftop of the worn three-story building, red brick dim beneath the shrouded skies. Only a yellow light lit the small establishment from within, bright yet still quiet as pedestrians carrying umbrellas walked past in their busy ways.

Splash.

Rain soaked his brown leather jacket as his motorcycle quieted to a dull hum when he turned from the street into the alleyway beside the building. Parked outside the white metal side door, he pulled his keys from the ignition and pocketed them with a flourish.

Ezekiel removed his helmet, letting his hair fall into place where he had tied it back early in the morning, and popped open the back container behind the seat. Reaching in, he pulled out a black sheet and laid it over his motorcycle, shielding it from the rain that cascaded from above.

The break room was dark when he unlocked and entered through the white door. Reaching beside the doorway, he felt for the switch and flipped it on, showering the room in an incandescent light. A tiny thing it was, with a fridge, cramped counter space, a sink, and a circular rustic table made of ash wood. He slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it on the wooden coat hanger, where a navy peacoat was already hanging.

Old Memories was a tiny bookstore with a tiny clientele, but the business owner had managed to get by the past ten years—how, Ezekiel wasn’t sure, especially during their first meeting almost a year ago.

Bjorn was a quiet man with a strange intensity behind his amber eyes, with a strange habit of speaking in riddles, so Ezekiel was more than skeptical accepting the job as a store associate. Of course, it was the only job that responded to his application within three weeks of his job search, so he didn’t have much of a choice.

Aside from Bjorn’s oddities and his rare appearances outside the third and second floors where black blinds were pulled shut most days, Ezekiel found himself at home amongst Bjorn’s collection of books. Bookshelves upon bookshelves dominated the first and second floors, and customers would find cozy reading areas with a sofa and coffee table throughout the store. The third floor, Ezekiel had visited only once for the interview, lacked the warmth of the lower floors: it was a cluttered one bedroom apartment, beige walls covered in hanging paintings ranging from abstract to realism, all of which had been done by Bjorn’s hand.

Ezekiel often wondered how the man had managed to juggle his art with his business, but when he voiced this to Bjorn, the pale, frail man merely had smiled and said, “Passion is only a vice when you allow it.”

Ezekiel didn’t know if Bjorn meant his art or his store.

There were no customers when Ezekiel tied his navy apron around his neck and waist, branded in white with Old Memories in a delicate cursive, and stepped out onto the floor. He supposed it wasn’t abnormal, as it was the usual dead hours on a Monday afternoon. He sat down at the chair behind the front desk near the back of the store, feeling it creak beneath him as he leaned backwards.

On the wall beside him was a bulletin board pinned with newspaper and a worn, yellowed Now Hiring sign in bold black print. Toward the bottom was pinned an old newpaper clipping, not for the customers, for for Ezekiel.

22-year-old black man killed in a warehouse fire on 18th Street during a drug bust

Since hearing of Karael’s death five years ago, a piercing cold hand had gripped his insides and permeated his heart and gut with a sense of icy dread and guilt. His death was attributed to a near drug overdose which incapacitated him before the fire, caused by a scuffle between police and the gang members on the scene, and no one had come back for him. Like most articles, journalists pinned it on Karael voluntarily overdosing; according to what Duma and Hasielle had heard from the police, they had suspected foul play—not that they had much evidence.

When Karael’s body was recovered, it was mostly ashes. No DNA evidence could be found, but according to witness testimony, Karael was the only one left behind.

It was very much an open-shut case, and Ezekiel couldn’t argue with that as a lawyer. While he personally found the evidence unsatisfactory, it wouldn’t be a case he could win even if he went to pass the bar (if he could in spite of his criminal record).

Yet, something kept nagging at from from the deep recesses of his mind, a whisper of “but maybe.” Ezekiel often found himself wistful with thoughts about Karael using this as a cover to escape to someplace far away, where he wouldn’t be a puppet for the city gang, but an ache squashed those thoughts down every time. Through the years knowing his brother, Ezekiel doubted Karael was smart enough to pull that off.

That damn weed killed brain cells after all, and Ezekiel had once found a stash in 15-year-old Karael’s backpack.

The sky beyond the windows darkened once more, and rain pounded more ferociously upon the city, a cacophony of falling bullets to Ezekiel’s ears.

“Afternoon, Ezekiel.”

The smooth voice, a Latin yet not quite-so lilt to it, spoke near Ezekiel’s ears, and he flinched, sending the tilting chair falling backwards. He flung his arms out, sending the chair falling back forward, and landed itself evenly on four legs with a loud thud. He cursed, “Holy shit, Bjorn!”

He would’ve expected the man to be leaning over him with that mysterious, teasing smile, but instead Bjorn was standing a good five feet away on the other side of the desk, with lips only ticked up in a faint smile and immaculate platinum hair braided from his delicate, yet almost gaunt face.

Ezekiel squinted in disbelief at the store owner. How?

Bjorn drew his attention away from him to the window, gaze penetrating with unknown thoughts. “A storm draws near, yet unfortunately I don’t believe an eye could be found this time around.”

“...Yeah, well, we don’t get hurricanes of’en.”

Bjorn gave Ezekiel a sidelong glance and hummed. “How goes your search for publishers?”

He let out a sigh and slumped back in his chair. He replied, “Not well at all. Not a single company in th’ area is interested in my novel.”

A hum of disapproval. “Certainly not a satisfactory outcome. It’s truly unfortunate that the youth of this generation lack an appreciation for the darker, grittier aspects of the human experience. Our souls are like the petals of lotuses blooming from the dark recesses of the past; it is a shame that we choose to ignore our roots.”

Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, nodding, “Uh-huh…”

“Here,” a pale hand reached into Bjorn’s trouser pocket and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the desk to Ezekiel, “A friend of mine would be interested in publishing a novel like yours. They’re based in Las Vegas, but they’re still transitioning offices from their old one in Hollywood. It may be a bit out of the way from where you are intending to go, bit I figure you might want to give it a try.”

Ezekiel’s eyes widened and he leaned forward in his seat to look at the business card, linen-textured and inked in blood red.

Crescent Publishers

Akiho Yorihara, Head Editor

XXX-XXX-3294

1234 Jefferson Rd, Hollywood, CA 90038

Bjorn added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I shared with them the general basis of your novel. They were immediately intrigued, so your chances of getting published with this company would be quite high, I’d say.”

Ezekiel stared up at Bjorn, finding himself at a loss for words. He stuttered, “Well, uh, thank you, but you didn’t have to do this. I’ll give ‘em a call later today.”

“Truly, it was my pleasure to help. I wish you luck.”

Before Ezekiel could speak another word, the doorbell jingled with the entrance of a customer. He smiled and welcomed them to the store, but when he looked back, Bjorn had vanished.

New York City, New York, September 24th, 1996

The church was quiet, hushed whispers among family and friends only accompanying the open space.

Ezekiel, donned in black, sat at the front, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared blankly ahead with red-rimmed eyes. His body felt numb as Duma let out a sniffle and patted his shoulder, murmuring, “I’m gonna see everyone out, I’ll be back.”

The funeral for Hasielle was a quiet affair, though Ezekiel couldn’t say the same about her death.

Through his childhood, he had seen Hasielle battle her anemia with a ferocity unmatched by even a professional wrestler. A strong woman, she had been, but even time had begun to wear her down to where Duma, and now him too, had to support her like she had with them. Just one day weeks ago, she collapsed on a grocery trip. A hospital visit in an ambulance and two days later, she whispered to Duma and Ezekiel on the white bed, “It’s ‘bout time this lady sleeps. Don’t worry ‘bout me, promise?”

Since then, Ezekiel couldn’t stop worrying. First, their father. Then Karael. Their mother. Since their other relatives rarely interacted with them, it was now only him and Duma. Now, more than ever, his sister needed him and he needed his sister, not just to pay the funeral and hospital bills but also to try to restabilize their lives.

He had always dreamt of a new life, a new future where he could restart after his time in prison. That was precisely why he powered through and started his novel one night in the library with a journal and pencil three years before his release, and later finished and polished a manuscript just four months ago.

Now, he supposed it’s not such a bad idea to stay in New York with his job at the bookstore just so Duma could finish her degree smoothly. In the end, as it would, his dream was too grand, too far out of reach for his fingers.

He gulped down the dull ache in his chest, fingers tightening on his cheap black trousers. A cold hand rested itself on his, gentle yet tight like an anchor. A shiver ran down his spine at the icy touch, like the sharp wind coming through the door in the dead of winter, yet it was… Comforting.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” a voice murmured from beside him. Ezekiel smirked bitterly.

“That has to the first straight thing I’ve heard from your mouth, Bjorn.”

A chuckle. “What is straight may not be so, Ezekiel. But truly, it seems that a typhoon would drown a lotus at every given chance.”

“Well, I suppose life would throw shit in your face; that, or death pulls the rug out from beneath you.”

“Perhaps not so crudely put, but yes,” Bjorn hummed, “The abyss swallows you and you are bound and blinded for eternity.”

“How dark.”

Bjorn paused before clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “My, Ezekiel, one to jump to conclusions. Yes, it is dark, until you remove the cloth the abyss has tied around your eyes yourself, and you might just find that the abyss isn’t an abyss at all, but rather an ocean of light.”

Ezekiel let out a breath, “If this is supposed to be some motivational speech—”

“It’s not, but rather the truth I have discovered through the ages,” Bjorn interrupted, voice firm and sharp. His grip on Ezekiel’s hand tightened. “It is up to you to decide what you do with it.”

Ezekiel blinked at Bjorn. Rarely had the other man ever spoken with such a tone: for the whole year they’ve known each other, Bjorn always had this wistful gaze and light, almost carefree tone. After a pregnant pause, he glanced down at their hands and sighed, “I think it’s best for me to stay here and help Duma for awhile.”

The look in Bjorn’s eyes was unreadable as he remained silent after Ezekiel’s admission. He finally nodded, removing his hand from Ezekiel’s and reaching out to tuck a curl in Ezekiel’s hair behind his ear, fingers lingering a second too long as they dropped down and brushed against the side of Ezekiel’s neck where his pulsepoint was. “If that is what you wish; you were given a chance at a new life and you have many paths to follow. I have to commend your loyalty.”

“You don’t have any family?”

Bjorn was silent for a moment as his eyes unfocused. He shut his eyes and let out a sigh before smiling faintly at Bjorn, “Once, long ago. We haven’t been in contact.”

“Maybe you should take a vacation one week and see them.”

“...Perhaps. I’ll see you next week, Ezekiel. I hope your plan goes well,” Bjorn stood and nodded to Ezekiel in farewell.

Hollywood, California, October 10th, 1996

The flight had been a long one, landing at 11 pm in the bright, bustling city. It was a tiring night, and Ezekiel was supposed to meet up with the faceless Akiho Yorihara at noon the next day, yet a whole hour after his face met the pillow in the hotel room, he could not sleep.

A race through the streets in a used motorcycle he bought from a local man he saw an advertisement for in the news clippings two weeks ago, and two bars later, he found himself being pushed with unexpected strength against a wall with newspapers and magazine covers pasted to it, covered in multicolor graffiti. A spicy drink on his breath, he found himself tipping forward with lidded eyes, close to the pale, shorter man dressed in black leather and buckles.

Well, goths weren’t exactly his type, but something was just so enthralling about those burgundy eyes that peered up at him from thick black lashes.

A hiss of frustration. He was shoved more roughly against the wall so he was straightened.

“Dammit, that wasn’t part of the deal. How much of a lightweight are you?”

Ezekiel mumbled, “Y’make my heart lightweight w’them nice thighs.”

Burgundy eyes glared at him, speechless. A deep sigh and cold lips pressed against his neck, tongue dragging against his skin until they hovered over his pulse.

Ezekiel let out a soft hum, hand reaching up to tangle against short black hair.

A sharp pain. Flames coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t scream. He could only let out a gasp, eyes widening as the smog cleared from his mind. Fuck, what is this?

The flames dulled to a molten gold that rippled down his spine, leaving behind tingles in its wake. Warmth pooled all over, like the swath of an ancient linen brushing against skin, like the embrace of a lover after climax.

No, it was better. Like enlightenment, like the feel of power surging through like a tide.

A lotus bursting through murky waters.

The touch against his neck was familiar. Flashes of platinum thread, soft amber glimmering in the church’s light.

He could distantly remember watching a movie Duma had dragged him to a month after his release—something with 18th century vampires. Could it be…?

Ezekiel was slumped against the wall as his eyes slid shut, his heart slowing to a stop. A wrist with a warm, metallic wetness pressed to his lips, and there was a whispered command into his ear, “Drink.”

And he did.

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Remnant Burial Headcanons

Vale

- Valerians place heavy value on remembrance of life as well as dues to the dead.

Even for high-profile people, funerals are an extremely personal affair; only close family and intensely close friends are usually allowed. Wakes/viewings are rare, and if there is one, it’s typically held in the home. Discussion of what will be done with one’s remains can be considered a casual topic of conversation, as it’s important for loved ones to know.

Public cemetaries are available and coming more into popularity, but the majority of the population prefer to keep grave sites near the home, sometimes in favorite places of the deceased (hi, Summer’s scenic cliff plaque). A select few of the older/wealthier families have tombs built on their property.

Most people opt for actual burial, but there are many who choose to be cremated and have their ashes mixed into something special, like jewelry, a painting, a tree, or anything else that will last. Such things tend to end up as family heirlooms of sorts.

(Crocea Mors is one such heirloom; the ashes of Jaune’s great-great-great-grandfather are mixed into the blade. Combined with the metal taken from Pyrrha, there’s a whole lot of death in that sword.)

Personalizing your grave marker is also a high priority. It’s rare for two to look very much alike. Most Valerians view it as the final and most important way of letting everyone know what you wanted to leave the world when you fell, and how you intended to keep your memory alive. The unremembered will fade into oblivion, after all.

Mistral

- Mistrali traditionally cremate their dead.

They prefer to do so ceremonially on funeral pyres, but if none are available, they will make do with other fires. (ex. bandit tribes, if they bother to collect their dead, will usually just throw the bodies into a bonfire.) Variations on grave-related idioms such as “from cradle to pyre” or “build one’s own pyre” are common, and often take foreigners by surprise to hear.

Once the fire has burned out, the deceased’s ashes are either taken to a very high place and scattered to the wind, or scattered into a river or the ocean, in keeping with the kingdom’s traditional respect for the sea and sky. This is intended to guide the person’s soul safely to the afterlife, so any alteration of the process or desecration of the body is believed to endanger the safety of that soul, and is considered to be a truly appalling show of immorality and disrespect.

(This is why Cinder incinerated Pyrrha’s body and let the ashes fly after shooting her. It wasn’t an act of respect, per se; to her it’s just what you’re supposed to do with a dead body, especially one from Mistral, and they were in a perfect place to do so anyway.)

There is a specific set of prayers to say over the fire/ashes, but while they are encouraged they are not technically mandatory. Singular, personal memorial sites are rare; there are public shrines set up around the kingdom where people can pay their respects to the dead and, with the recitation of a second set of prayers, speak to them.

Atlas

- Atlesians tend to treat death very impersonally.

The general terrain does not exactly lend itself to actual burial, what with all the snow, ice, and rock. Mantle tends to stick to the older burial customs designed for the cold and brutal weather, such as leaving the body out on the mountains (think the corpses on Mount Everest, in a way) or burying them at sea in the freezing water. The body is wrapped in a burial shroud for both. 

Atlas opts for a more...efficient approach. Its people are expected to face death with dignity and strength, and not allow their grief to affect their lives, so if funerals happen at all, they’re quick and largely impersonal affairs. Exceptions are made for the upper class, who tend to take the same attitude to the death itself, but make the funeral as much of an ostentatious event as possible, to garner the living family attention.

There’s an area in the city for industrial crematoriums where the majority of dead are sent, to have their ashes returned to their familes in nondescript urns. A new fashion among the extremely wealthy, however, is to have the body embalmed and kept on display for posterity. 

(Jacques Schnee is one of these people; he plans to be preserved and his coffin kept as a front-and-center fixture of the Schnee manor, as a testament to his legacy. Whitley sneaks a peek at his updated will and thinks he’ll stick him down in the basement instead.)

Vacuo

- Dealing with the dead gets tricky for Vacuons, and there’s not really a set cultural norm for it.

Since Vacuo is a desert country full to the brim with criminals, countless murder victims end up left out in the middle of nowhere to decompose under the elements or be eaten by animals (Grimm don’t go for the dead). There’s no cemetaries or tombs to be found; shallow graves in the sand are common instead, as is coming upon human remains while out in the desert. It tends to be difficult to tell who was killed by another person and who succumbed to the harsh environment. 

Some Vacuons share their nomadic ancestors’ belief that when they die, their souls will go to an oasis paradise for an eternity of plenty, their worldly suffering over. However, the majority have no belief in any afterlife at all.

The deceased are traditionally supposed to be buried with their prized possessions, in order to bring them along into the afterlife. However, more often, anything useful or of value is taken by the living; resources are scarce and pragmatism triumphs over sentiment.

One place you’ll never find a stray corpse, however, is underwater. To Vacuo more than any other kingdom, the idea of contaminating any source of water is absolutely horrifying, and just isn’t done, except by the very lowest of the low.

[a-travels]

taken: 10 aug, 2017 Tian Tan Buddha, Lantau Island, Hong Kong

baby don’t hurt me

Well, I thought I had written all I could on the topic of “love” last time, but I guess that just shows how dumb I am because that post opened up a few more channels in my mind that I was curious to explore/think through. 

I’ll start off with a disclaimer that this post is most likely going to be about the philosophy of love or its base motivations or whatever. At least, that’s what I want it to be as I’m writing this sentence. Every post is pretty much thought up as I write so the end of this post could be very different from this point. Who knows. I’ve gone from talking about horses to snakes. Anything is possible when the writer as the attention span of a gerbil. But in the spirit of the disclaimer, I will try to stick to what I said.

What is love? In my effort to avoid making this a high school paper and following that question with the Oxford dictionary definition (though I don’t find my writing to be quite so far beyond that of a high schooler), I’ll tell you what the dictionary won’t: I don’t know. 

Post over. 

tl;dr - wtf is love lmk

No, in all seriousness, it’s something this week, in particular, I’ve been asking myself. To humor my weak-sauce STEM background, I’ll just mention the take that love is a series of chemical reactions in the brain that makes a member of the species want to procreate with another member of the species to pass on their genes. Sure, if you want to see love that way, by all means, go for it ya weirdos, but I don’t think it's fair to limit something so complex into the confines biology and chemistry. Love is a cocktail of biology, chemistry, and some of the most intricate, nuanced and deliberate animal behavior on the planet (like a honeybee’s exploding genitalia, yes it’s real). Love is not exclusively a human quality. Elephants, dogs, cats, I think even cows (don’t quote me), I believe demonstrate behaviors of love for members of their herd or their family. I can obviously only talk about the love from a human perspective, and not say from an elephant’s perspective because I am unfortunately not an elephant. 

Love is flexible, and the way I see it, tiered in its delivery. The love you feel for a friend is different from the love for a sibling, which is different from the love for a parent, or teacher, or significant other, or an extended family member. You can also “love” a show, which is different from loving someone or you can “love” a certain food, which is different from “loving” a place you traveled. Each of those people or things elicit a different set of emotions and expectations. You tend to expect more from someone in your family than a friend. You expect different things from playing your favorite board game than visiting your favorite vacation spot. Every “love” you have demands a different feature-set and you tend to learn that just from living life, like the different tiers of a subscription plan or something.

Ultimately, I just see love as an expression of your connection to someone or something. A connection sounds fairly surface-level shallow, but what separates an association from an acquaintanceship from “love” is something more profound and deep. It’s that profundity or “it factor” that I can’t really wrap my head around. What is the threshold, the tipping point or moment that transforms something into something more?

Something I’ve been thinking about is how love expresses itself. How does one person convey that feeling to someone or something? Do you give them flowers and a heart-shaped box of chocolate? Do you go to your favorite restaurant and enjoy that food you love so much? Do you maybe take your future family to a place to visit that you loved when you were a kid? And how do you know when you’re loved? I think one of the most hallowed and time-honored traditions of expressing love for someone is at a funeral.

Ok before you think I’ve gone all emo on you, just hear me out (or don’t it’s your life). Kind of like how you’ll remember “the good times” but never realize it once they’re over, you never really understand that feeling for someone you care about till they’re really gone, sometimes. Especially with a family member with whom you’re close to, it’s sometimes taken for granted that they’re just someone in your life that has always been there. Their presence is comforting, but your feelings might be shrouded with a fog of their own, namely reality. You might get upset with someone sometimes, busy with your own life, move away, not talk to them for a few years and that feeling of love which you tell yourself is there isn’t always outwardly facing or something you overtly feel sometimes until that presence is gone.

I’ve talked to a few people about it, but I was mostly prompted on this post because two different family members passed away this week. It’s been interesting grappling with the different emotions I have towards each of them, as well as seeing my parents reactions, who were much closer to each of them, respectively, than I was. And I don’t make this post because my parents were hidden about their feelings towards the family member or nor, but mostly to see where my headspace is through all of this. Why do or don’t I feel the way I do? 

This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with the loss of a family member. I know what it feels like to lose someone close to me. It’s perhaps the only time I’ve cried till it hurt to breathe at a certain point. It didn’t hurt more to lose them but more to realize the inevitability of it all. If not now, then it would have been later. No matter how many more years I had with them, it would eventually come to an end. It hurt to feel helpless, especially when as kids we’re taught our whole lives to be the masters of our own destiny. And yet, you can’t control death and you’re just left questioning everything. Why now? Why not later? Why them? Why didn’t I wake up early on the weekends to speak with them one last time? 

I didn’t mean to subject you to more emo Anant, but briefly touched upon the emotions I felt when I lost someone I deeply loved and cared about. And of course, I feel terrible for my family, for my mom and dad who are hurting, for their friends. And yet it doesn’t hurt that same way, and I’m left to question my relationship with those family members and why it feels wrong to not feel worse for family members who were so close in terms of relation. Of course, it could simply be attributed to that “tier system” I mentioned. My relationship with these two was just on a different level than with my other family member. One hand it feels wrong to just move on. On the other hand, I don’t want to be ingenuine in my feelings. It would be unfair and disrespectful to my parents who care, and other people who are affected strongly by their passing.

But regardless, I think that sense of “love” that may not always be outwardly expressed from my parents towards those family members definitely showed itself this week. And I don’t know, I’m not saying that’s the only time that should be the case. I’m also not saying to tell everyone you love them constantly. What I’m saying is that every connection seems to fall to its own equilibrium. Some loves need constant attention. Like a temperamental classic car you love to drive, or maybe an overly needy SO, maybe that’s the love you can give for that. Some things probably don’t need that kind of regular validation, like your lovely succulent on the window sill that needs little water, or that imaginary friend that you swear is still just hiding in the attic and hasn’t just left you or something. 

I don’t think there will ever be a definitive answer to what love is, because inherently it means different things to different people. Maybe it means big, romantic gestures and maybe it means sitting silently across a dinner table eating a meal together. But there’s a beauty to something that’s that powerful and indescribable. It’s probably what people refer to when they talk about “God”. I won’t go deeper with the theology stuff other than to say that maybe God and love are just the friends we made along the way.

I also could be like 500% off base here so I invite any of the four of you to tell me I’m flat out wrong, bc it wouldn’t be the first time.

tl;dr (for real) - still, wtf is love lmk