#miss patina

[fannyrosie]

Purple and yellow

Outfit rundown Dress: old Miss Patina (with added ribbon from a IW dress) Cardigan: thrifted Hat: vintage Shoes: old Fluevog Brooches: thrifted/Design Festa Earrings: present

[stylestream]

Taylor Swift | Miss Patina dress • Jimmy Choo pumps • Serapian bag | Street Style: New York | 2015

[fashionseenontvblog]

1x04

Miss Patina Love Cat Shirt - $85

Patou Pleated Virgin-Wool Midi Skirt - $626

[ilium-ilia]

kiss the skin that crawls

john price x fem!reader | the surrogate au | masterlist

part one: help wanted

It starts with the shattering of iron. 

Manmade structures can only withstand the test of time for so long before nature swallows what was once hers. Arms growing, invading, reclaiming what was stolen. You’re very much aware that you are the problem as you stand in your bathroom, eyes glaring at your clogged shower drain, yet you only pity yourself. 

Tree roots, the plumber says. Common with these old houses, an old cottage just on the fringes of nowhere and somewhere, something that was bequeathed to you when your granny passed. Its charm is quaint, though far from opulent, you took it in a heartbeat, excited to start your life as a true adult. Yet, after all these years, you’ve yet to find a partner to settle down with, or a job that pays you well enough to travel the world, and now you’re footed with a bill that reminds you just what it means to be an adult. 

You pick up more hours at work—as many as you can from a remote position, anyway. Tapping away on your computer, trying not to shiver too much from your drafty windows, you chip away at the cost bit by bit. Eating away decay. Willing it away in an attempt to have your dream home. You tear down the floral wallpaper in your office and coat it with a shade of green that reminds you of old copper—a patina that lingers on your fingertips—all while pretending that the bathroom sink isn’t leaking half your wells worth of water. You pretend that your drops in the ocean make a difference; a ripple large enough to feel. 

Of course, something else shatters. 

Ancient windows crack. The gap between the front door and its frame is too big. Electricity and gas blows through your bank account worse than groceries. You’ve cut your hands on the logs you tried to chop for the fireplace. When winter bleeds into spring and summer, the heat is unbearable—stuck in a furnace that cooks you, tender flesh and all, you are dying in this home. Alone, working to fix every chip that cracks from the stones that build your house; you need something more. A breakthrough, a promotion, a favor. 

Salvation presents itself to you on your third hour of browsing online forums and social media for odd jobs. Mind rotten from pyramid schemes and near slave labor, you almost miss the post entirely. Her name is Kate Laswell, and she has—perhaps—the oddest job of them all; a need for a surrogate for her and her wife. 

Initially, your eyes gloss over the post. Pregnancy is exhausting, and with the state your home is in, the last thing you need to do is get pregnant—lumbering around, swollen like a balloon, attempting to make renovations on your dilapidating cottage. If you were at any other time in your life—more settled, steadier—maybe you’d seriously consider it. 

All your qualms dissipate the moment you read the foot of the post. 

Compensation starts at £100,000.

The zeros are almost more than you can count—more than you can comprehend. It burns into your eyes, urging your fingers to twitch. How anyone could afford to pay this much is beyond you, but you suppose children are expensive either way; certainly it’s nothing to this woman and her wife. 

With that type of money, you wouldn’t even have to do the renovations yourself. 

After an evening of deliberating, you blindly decide to shoot off a private message to Kate Laswell. Her profile is odd—void, and blank. No pictures, hardly any posts. You tell yourself it’s likely a scam, and you’ll receive some sketchy link back from her during some odd hour in the night, if you even get anything in response at all. Yet when you wake in the morning, that pictureless account has sent you a message in response: 

We would like to speak with you in person. When can you meet? 

Stupidly, you meet with Kate and Lottie Laswell the following weekend deep in the heart of London in the cozy embrace of a coffee shop that does nothing to settle your nerves. Caffeine is thick in the air, nestling in the weaving of your clothes, sticking to your hair and skin. Though you’ve never seen Kate before, you recognize her instantly. Her stern, straightforward gaze beams at you from beneath her mousy brown fringe the moment you walk through the door, prompting you to awkwardly wave in greeting before she motions you over to the table. 

If Kate Laswell is the moon, then her wife, Lottie, is the sun. Her bright blonde hair scintillates, and it only grows in intensity in the sunlight that seeps through the perforated curtains drawn over the window on her right. Pale blue eyes framed by florid cheeks crease as you take your seat across from them, and you note the way she buzzes in her seat, hands politely folded on the table, manicured nails tapping against the wood grain at her fingertips. She tilts her head to the side, soaking you in, and her smile only widens. 

“It’s so nice to meet you.” Her voice is pitchy—draws long and soft. She’s American, you realize. Southern, you think. Blinking in surprise, you return the gesture. 

Though Kate is kind and cordial, she is much more business oriented than her wife. Once curt introductions are out of the way, she gets on with her questions. Her low, even tone and keen eyes have you sweating—this feels more like an interrogation than an interview. She asks everything about you, prodding the deepest part of you, poking your skin just to see how far she can push before you wince. Her questions about your health history and sex life come blunt, and it pairs oddly with Lottie’s airy giggles, but as the questioning drones on and you see more nods of approval from Kate, you find your nerves slowly mending themselves back together again. 

Eventually the questions fade into something softer—easier to spit out. Tastier to swallow. They ask you about your life; the hobbies you partake in and the work you do. How your family is, and if you’ve been well. You tell them about the garden you attempt to keep in the flowerbeds lining the cottage, and the administrative tasks you do and the office you just painted. You try to avoid the topic of your home—the isolation, the exhaustion, the yearning—so you slap your life with buttercream frosting and pray it doesn’t melt under the heat of the conversation.

They indulge you when you ask questions about themselves, too. Lottie stays at home—has been dreaming of a child to dote after for ages—but she bakes for shelters and spends time volunteering at their local retirement home. It fits her, you think. Her bubbly attitude, the bright sheen in her pale eyes; a literal princess among mongrels. The patience of a saint, but with a wit sharper than most tongues you’ve seen.

“I work for an intelligence agency,” is all Kate says when the conversation points towards her. It’s stiff—firm enough for you to not question any further. 

“So, what made you interested in being our surrogate?” Lottie cuts in, saving you the grief of backpedaling. 

“Oh,” you chirp. Your explanation gets caught in your throat as a rosy heat settles at the base of your neck. Embarrassment. Evil, vile—you hate begging. Crawling, groveling. “If I’m being honest, really, it was… well, the payment…”

Kate nods in agreement, hands curling around her coffee mug, though the liquid has long since gone cold. “There’s no shame in that. It’s a big favor that we’re asking for, and we have the means to compensate accordingly.” 

She reads you like a book, and despite all your flaws, welcomes you. It comforts you knowing how strictly professional this is—you have no skin in the game. Nothing to hold on to. You’re simply being a good person. Doing a good deed. Helping their dreams come to fruition. In turn, they help you with yours—an equal exchange. 

“So, what made the two of you come to England?” you prompt, leaning back in your seat. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve noticed the accents. Did you two move here recently?” 

“What, oh no,” Lottie giggles, hand floating in the air, waving as if pushing away the very notion. “Oh no, I don’t think I could ever leave Georgia.” 

“The donor lives here,” Kate explains simply. “Figured it would be easier to coordinate with a surrogate who lived nearby.” 

You nod, but it’s not enough to knock the confusion free from your brain. It’s visible on your face—your question. How you place two and two together; why would you need to be close to the donor? 

Before your mind can wander too far into that hole, Kate interjects. “We like meeting everyone in person. To ensure that it’s done right.” Then, her hands release her mug. “But he’s an individual I’ve worked with several times before. He’s a good man. Someone I trust.” 

“I imagine trust doesn’t come easy for someone in your line of work,” you quip. 

Kate cracks the first real smile you think you’ve seen from her this entire interview. “You’d be right.” 

“Oh, John’s such a great man. He’s been nothin’ short of sweet to us,” Lottie chimes in. As if suddenly remembering something, she begins to rustle through her purse until she successfully fishes out her phone. “We’ve been staying in a rental while we’re here—a beautiful thing—but we had some issues with the sink and cupboards and look! Fixed them right up for us, good as new!” 

She turns the phone towards you, revealing the kitchen and attached dining room that lies in their rental. Scrolling through a few pictures, you spot the before and after of their mini house project, and you try not to turn green with envy. Unhinged cupboards quickly screwed back into place, water damage mopped clean and patched up, good as new—almost every issue that’s been plaguing you in your cottage has come and gone within a blink of an eye for them, all while you’ve struggled to gather the means and the skills to bestow such a fortune like that upon yourself. 

Then, you see it—

—him. 

There, in the back, leaning against the granite countertops, blue jeans sitting on his hips, this donor—this John—wipes his hands off on a tea towel with a tight lipped smile. Thick patches of dark, coarse hair line his arms in hatch marks, thickening towards the swell of his forearms as he dries his thick fingers off with cotton. His head is lowered as if in prayer, crows feet on display, obscuring the color of his eyes, but you see the way his trimmed beard lines his jaw and upper lip, how it blends into the inky locks of his hair. 

He’s a large man—you note the way his iliac crest rests on top of the counter rather than beside or below it, a towering creature with a soft smile that stands out against his broad frame. Swelling biceps, flexing fingers—

“Such a beautiful rental,” you comment before your mind can wander any further. 

The sharp corners of Lottie’s cupid’s bow flattens as she clicks her phone off, lips curling into a near-smirk. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night at our place with John. Just a little get together is all, but we’d love it if you joined. Might be easier to flesh out all the details with everyone together. I promise I’ll cook you up the best chicken pot pie you’ve ever tasted.” 

Something tickles the back of your mind. It unsettles, wiggles, writhes where it shouldn’t. You feel how it crawls around on the inside of your cranium, slices through your brain and prods at the back of your tongue—it’s incessant. It urges you to speak before you can even think of the words. Meeting with donors—having the donors meet together... 

Then your mind thinks of that number. The zeros make your head spin, jumbles it up enough that you don’t even bother to question the circumstance or terms and conditions before you’re nodding. 

“Dinner sounds perfect.”

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[ghoulphile]

no use cryin' over spilled milk | c.h./the ghoul

➥ pairing | cooper howard/the ghoul x f!reader ➥ word count | 2.8 k ➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, frottage, lactation kink, pregnant!reader, fingerfucking, praise kink, breast play, the ghoul calls reader pretty mama, he's a pervert who wants to lend a 'helping' hand ➥ summary | based off this ask; oops being an experiment from vault 4 where you may be the first rad resistant human pregnant with a possibly rad resistant baby, and you come across the ghoul who helps you get to a safe place but then he gets attached with you and the baby 🥺 (this is just me trying to insert a lactation kink somewhere i'm sorry) ➥ notes | uhhhh pls let me know if i missed anything, my brain is dribbling out my ears (its 3:44 am and i have work at 8 am rip) but the parasites persist. i'll do the tag list when i wake up ❤️ masterlist | feel free to send in thots, questions, requests! | feedback is always appreciated ❤️

Going topside wasn’t an easy decision.

In fact, bile bitter regret often lingers in the back of your throat - a lump that stifled the air in your lungs.

And while you might’ve been bioengineered to survive better under these harsh wasteland conditions, every time you find yourself in a less than ideal situation, you're catapulted headlong into paralyzing self doubt; alone and rudderless.

No one lives in the vaults - not truly.

Birdie (and the others) warned you of what awaited beyond those lead-lined walls. But you couldn’t abide spending the rest of your life trapped in a cage, albeit a gilded one.

Not anymore.

Oh no, you wanted to feel a real breeze instead of air pumped through the HVAC. Experience the sun baking warm into your skin like fresh bread instead of the artificial heat of the UV lamp used for mandatory light therapy sessions. Complain about the chafe of sand in your shoes and hear the crunch of dirt under foot instead of a hollow clunk of sterile metal.

To witness first hand all the sights, sounds, and smells this world offers. 

Only… you didn’t expect it to be this hard.

Nor did you expect to be pregnant when setting off into the great unknown on your own (a definite oversight on your part [you really shouldn’t have had one last hurrah before hitting the road]).

Through trial and error, motion sicknesses that swing into crippling nausea as manic energy - your first taste of true freedom! - dwindled into dragging fatigue, you found a happy medium. None of which would have been possible had it not been for the most unlikely of companions.

Ghouls; who knew, huh?

Sure, you’d heard of them from the rotating door of visitors that found themselves at Vault 4, but you’d never seen them. While you grew up surrounded by visible mutations, seeing the battlefield of his body was off putting; how a person could survive a patina of burns and patchwork slices without unraveling at the seams was beyond you.

And kind of frightening.

But he took it in stride, introducing himself as Ghoul. Refused to divulge anything else of substance no matter how much you poked and prodded.  His life pre-bomb was a complete mystery filled with plot holes and unanswered questions (which is exactly what he preferred).

You learned to be comfortable with his meandering conversations, and all the words he spoke that said much of nothing. And what you did glean, you did so through observation alone. 

He was alone - had been for a very long time.

He was very old - one of the last of his kind.

And he was, in his own way, very kind - at least by wasteland standards.

“The fuck you doin’?”

Pausing, you stop mid push and hover awkwardly on your hands and knees. The vault suit pulls taut across your hips, pinching behind your knees uncomfortably. Your toes squeak in your shoes, socks thoroughly soaked through with sweat.

It’s been unseasonably hot (or it’s the hormones). Whatever the case, this is the first semi-decent lodging you’ve camped in for weeks, and you’re not about to miss an opportunity to freshen up.

And maybe find a way to soothe the building ache in your tits - flesh swollen tender and nipples rubbed raw.

“I’m just, uh, gonna,” you motion towards the back of the house, the askew bathroom door clinging to its hinges by a corner, “y’know, f-freshen up. See if they don’t still have some water.”

The Ghoul scans you up and down, gimlet-eyed. “S’that so?”

You huff, your knees starting to ache.

Being five months pregnant throws your center of gravity for a loop, the atmosphere weighing extra heavy on your bones. It doesn’t help that the baby’s decided sitting directly on your bladder with a foot tucked under your ribs is the best position.

“Didn’t know I needed permission to take a piss now,” you snipe. Usually, you try to reign in the hormones but the day’s been too long and you’re in pain. Anyone would be a little snippy (right?). “Can I do that on my own or do you need to watch, Mr. Ghoul?”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his gaze glinting from beneath the rim of his hat as he tips his head. “Better watch it, sweetheart,” he says. “Otherwise, I might have’ta wash your mouth out with soap.”

Pushing yourself up with a grunt, you determinedly ignore the raspy chuckle that follows as you waddle towards the bathroom. Cussing him out all the while in your mind.

While he’s been ‘nicer’ today - stopping for extra breaks, even packing it in several hours earlier than usual because he noticed how weary you looked - he’s still an asshole.

The toilet’s gone, the tub’s tipped sideways, the linoleum’s cracked, and closing the door sounds like a pack of howling mole rats but its functional. When you catch your reflection in the spider web fractures of the mirror, you grimace.

The wastes have certainly left their mark on you. Gone is the prim-and-proper vault dweller, replaced by a gremlin of a woman Overseer Benjamin would surely scowl at.

A true ‘surfie’ now.

“Great,” you groan, scrubbing a palm over your face. “Just - ugh!”

You’re caked in grime, a steak of dirt smeared across the bridge of your nose. Mysterious stains darken the blue fabric, the golden stripes of your suit an off-putting grey.

Your hair clumps in greasy chunks. You’re glossy with sweat, and while your curves have plumped up over the last few months, you didn’t realize just how much until now.

The vault suit’s always been tight - now it clings and creases in unflattering places. And there’s nothing you can do about it, unless the Ghoul is willing to spare a sewing kit.

You could let the waist out some…

What the hell am I gonna do if he won’t? There’s no way I’ll fit if this baby gets any bigger. Shit, I look like a fucking sausage. Your hand cradles the side of your stomach, stroking over the bump with a frown. This is all your fault, you little parasite.

“You better be so fucking cute - the cutest goddamn baby in the wasteland. Or I will riot.”

Tugging down the zipper over your breasts is heaven, the swollen flesh spilling out of the parting fabric, no longer compressed. It’s almost enough to make you cry as you struggle to tug the lycra off your shoulders, the fabric putting up a fight.

After some awkward contortions that pull uncomfortably at the muscles of your shoulder blades, you manage to wrangle yourself free.

The temptation to burn the stupid goddamn suit is almost too much to resist, but then you’d really be traipsing around the wasteland in the nude and just… no.

Peeling off your undershirt is another story altogether, the soft cotton feeling like sandpaper as it scrapes over sensitive skin. Your nerves tingle with awareness, bolts of pain shooting through your nipples with every shift.

Quick like a bandaid, you think, taking a steadying inhale.

It’s a miracle you don’t scream.

Tears cling to your lashes, your nose running as you toss the shirt to the side with one hand and cradle your chest with the other. Sure, you’ve had tenderness with your period but this kind of pain? A whole new level.

You almost don’t know what to do with yourself.

How is this fair - aren’t you suffering enough?

Sniffling, you peer down at your tits and gingerly cup them with your palms. Swollen hard and warm to the touch; a heavy weight crushing your ribs.

Do I really have to milk myself like a fucking brahmin? Another bolt of lightning crackles through your nerve endings as if in response. Fine. God, this is embarrassing.

Only any attempt at touching your nipples produces pure agony, shards of glass biting into delicate skin.

No matter how slight your touch, no matter how gentle your fingers - it doesn’t work. Leaves you more distraught and in pain than when you began as inflamed nerve endings crackle and burn.

And when the tears truly start, the dam breaks. It’s not long before they drip down your cheeks in fat rivulets, your breath hitching from you in pathetic little exhales.

Your fist shoves against your mouth in an attempt to smother the sounds, teeth sinking into your knuckle until you leave sore indents.

But you should know better, not only does the Ghoul have heightened senses (he’s taunted you constantly with this fact like the asshole he is), but he’s uncannily perceptive in a very annoying way.

You don’t hear the squeal of the door, but you do sense his presence behind you; the rad warm burn of his body as he stops a scant few inches away. You feel his breath against the nape of your neck, the barest brush of his chest as he inhales.

“You ready ta stop bein’ stubborn?” he hums. “I thought I told you not ta wait s’long.”

Your voice warbles from you, “G’way.” You curl into yourself, shoulders hunching as you hang your head. “Don’t need your help.”

The Ghoul snorts. “Cuz you doin’ so well on your own, huh?”

“I resent that.” You shoot him a weak glare, the animosity ruined by the crumble of your lips. “I really, really do.”

You hate always having to rely on him, so desperate to prove that you can take care of yourself only to have every effort to do so thrown back in your face.

Shit, you hate how right Birdie was, “Honey, you won’t last five minutes on your own. Please stay here with us where it’s safe.”

“Well, maybe so. But pickers can’t be choosers, sweetheart,” he shrugs with a languid roll of the shoulders. “Ain’t no use cryin’ over spilled milk. C’mon, the longer you wait, the worse it’s gon be.”

“I just - you don’t understand…”

He reaches around you to set his hat on the sink, the dwindling light of twilight creeping in through the holes in the roof to bathe him in its bloody light.

He looks like a grotesque demon that clawed its way from the depths of hell. It gets your pulse thudding, electric awareness an unwelcome visitor as it roosts behind your navel.

“I understand plenty. Now, let me.”

Not an offer - not really.

More akin to a demand, one wrapped up pretty like a gift. You’ve been here many times before, and while the Ghoul proffers his help under the guise of not wanting to hear your bitching and moaning, the hungry gleam of his eyes as they rake over your face say otherwise.

If it’s one thing you’ve learned in your travels with him, it’s this: he is entirely self-serving. He offers because he wants to suck on a set of pretty tits. If you happen to cream your panties while he does, well, he counts it as a win-win.

Quid pro quo.

And what you hate more than how utterly correct everyone is about life on the surface, is how needy he makes you. How desperate and dumb and dripping he’s got you by the end, drunk off the flick of his tongue and the rasp of his touch.

Because it’s so hard to be strong in the face of pain when the solution is right there; open-palmed.

“...Fine, just don’t - don’t leave marks this time, okay?”

A slow waking smile creaks across his face, and he says, “I ain’t makin’ any promises, sweetheart.”

Your stomach swoops, and your thighs clench.

Shit.

Scarred lips work over tender flesh as a talented tongue flicks and swirls over the bumps of your areola, the tip digging into your nipple and drawing the swollen nub into a hot mouth. You whimper, arms tossed over the Ghoul’s broad shoulders.

Cold ceramic digs into the base of your spine, your body crowded back against the sink as he plasters himself to your front. Cuts off any escape routes and refuses to let you squirm away from the overwhelming sensations as he suckles.

Heavy palms grope at the plush curves of your hips, fingertips digging into the fat.

His lips pop off your nipple with a sticky smack. “Always taste s’fucking good,” he groans against your sternum. “Got the prettiest set a tits in the wasteland.”

“Hnn! N-Not so hard.”

While you say that, you don’t mean it - not really. Your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat, clit swollen and aching for friction. Your inner thighs are a mess of slick, your vault suit caught around your knees.

He never touches you below the waist directly (some boundaries still exist between you two), but at this point in your pregnancy, you’re so sensitive a gentle breeze could set you off.

“Heh, ain’t you know lyin’s a sin?” he says.

A scarred cheek drags over the swell of your breast, the rasp of rad burn alighting your nerves. Bolts of desire ricochet down your spine, fizzle like Nuka Cola on your tongue. He presses an open mouth kiss to your nipple, his tongue flicking out to massage the tender bud.

At the taste of your skin, his cock twitches where its grinding against your thigh. You feel him through his ragged pinstripe slacks, his shaft a thick line of heat.

It’s probably the hormones (you refuse to admit its anything else) but just the thought of touching him, of sinking down onto his erection - feeling how fucking good he’d stretch you out and fill you up - makes you dizzy.

You pant, your voice distinctly whiny when you say, “Please, d-do something. It still hurts.”

His grin reminds you of the mongrels roaming the wastelands. “Sh,” he hushes you. “I got you, sweetheart.”

The tips of his fingers brush along the side of your swollen stomach. Your heart flips in your chest, your breath catching as he follows the contours of your body, reaching down to brush over the skin of your mound. This is new, he’s never done this before. It’s simultaneously as arousing as it is terrifying.

“Can smell how wet you are for me,” he says, tone low and gruff. “You gonna be a good girl for me, ain’t you?”

“I-”

Then his mouth is slurping at your tit, his teeth biting down on your nipple gently as those strong fingers dip between your thighs. Blunt nails scratch through your pubic hair, a calloused pad swirling circles around your slippery clit. Your hips jump, your head rolling back between your shoulders as a loud moan rips itself from your throat.

You arch back so far your belly presses against the Ghoul’s, your tits smothering his face.

You think, half deliriously, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have a nose otherwise you might’ve broken it.

“Shit, that’s so - oh, fuck, please, please, please!’

Your legs widen to make room for his hand as yours fly up to grab his biceps, nails biting into the rough leather of his duster.

His tongue flutters across your areola. “C’mon, pretty mama, give it ta me.”

“Oh.” Sparks dance behind your eyes, your knees shaking as the Ghoul strokes over your folds, tests your wetness and the give of your cunt as he plays with your entrance. “Right there,” you gasp. “I’m gonna…”

He grunts, tugging on your nipple with his teeth.

The sharp bite of pain shoots through you, deepens the kindling warmth behind your navel that steadily builds and builds and builds. You feel on the very edge, nerves plucked like the keys of a piano.

So close you can taste it.

Then a tingling starts in the tips of your fingers.

Burns its way up your arms to settle in the weight of your chest, pins and needles pricking across the skin of your tits, lancing through the swollen buds of your nipples.

You tremble, the relief bringing tears to your eyes as tears the heaviness releases in a warm flood, your milk letting down to flow into the Ghoul’s eagerly pulling mouth.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he moans, chasing after the taste by nuzzling into your chest. His cock ruts against you. “Took you’re sweet damn time, didn’t you, darlin’?”

Your head spins, hazy thoughts scattering like confetti.

Endorphins simmer through your veins as you float on a cloud of cotton softness. Reality seems worlds away, your vision blurry as you focus on the points of contact between your bodies. The stretch of his fingers plunging into your pussy to stroke over the front wall.

Mouth slack, your hands creep up the Ghoul’s arms to trace over the sides of his neck, watch the dance of your fingers over his skin. “It feels s’good,” you slur. “Please don’t stop - wanna cum just like this.”

“Heh, wouldn’t dream of it.”

[fluffbruary]

FLUFFBRUARY may be over, but INFINIFLUFF is on the way!

Because February is just not big enough to contain all the fluff, we have fluffnapped the 14th of every month and appended those dates to Fluffbruary.

The INFINIFLUFF 2025 prompt list has arrived!

For the 2025 Fluffbruary: Extended Edition we adopted a theme: creative arts of all kinds, since that's what we all do in our tumblr / AO3 sandbox.

All fandoms, all ships welcome! Tag @fluffbruary in your posts so we can reblog your fluffy creations--and please reblog THIS post so your tumblr community sees it and comes to play in the fluff.

March 14 : postcard | pie | sketch

April 14 : contrast | architecture | shade

May 14 : charcoal | mural | perspective

June 14 : translucent | performance | shadow

July 14 : brush | collage | stain

August 14 : ink | horizon | canvas

September 14 : sculpture | improvisation | coda

October 14 : bronze | harmony | textile

November 14 : light | score | patina

December 14 : portrait | ephemera | wings

January 14 : landscape | opaque | proof

With so many creative forms out there, if we've missed a prompt that makes your heart sing, how about a "fluffer's choice" option?

[petermorwood]

Hi there I have an arms question for you that I'm hoping you might be able to help me with. So it is commonly accepted that swords should not be kept in their scabbards long term, especially wood and leather ones as they absorb moisture and can end up trapping moisture on the blade and cause it to corrode. Which makes sense and is why most museums seem to try and store their swords out of the scabbard. My issue is I haven't been able to find any hard sources about if this is true or not. Whenever I try to find any sources I just find forum posts and nothing with research to back it up. Are you aware of any sources on the proper care and storage of historic swords?

Storing any carbon-steel blade - kitchen knife or antique sword - for a long time in a possibly damp container - drawer or scabbard - is not a good idea, and the kitchen knife is far more likely to be taken out for use and any incipient corrosion dealt with.

The sword is likely to just hang there, being admired from a distance, until one fine day it's brought down, drawn and OMG Look At The State Of It...!

But, am I aware of any (reliable) sources for care and storage of historic swords?

Unfortunately, no. :-<

*****

What I know is the care and maintenance of modern reproductions, so rather than give incorrect information which might potentially cause irreparable damage to some genuine artefact, I recommend that you send this same question to:

The Royal Armouries, Leeds, England (enquiries@armouries.org.uk).

The Wallace Collection, London, England (enquiries@wallacecollection.org).

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA (enquiries@metmuseum.org).

Conservation advice from any of those sources will be reliable and, based on past experience, they'll all respond.

*****

NB - I've seen "how to restore..." info on-line which is destructive to both historic and monetary value, and I can't shake the feeling that some - though not all, though THEY often require fully equipped workshops - YouTube channels deliberately create "aged items" which they then "restore".

*****

Japanese shirasaya ("white", i.e. undecorated) scabbards are used for storage and transport, though blades stored that way would certainly be inspected on a regular basis.

Blades in museums are frequently displayed "bare", with neither scabbard nor hilt furnishings, though that's as much to exhibit tang / blade inscriptions and hamon (edge pattern) detail as to avoid corrosion, like so:

AFAIK most "complete" swords alongside bare blades exhibited like this...

...are the blade's hilt and scabbard mounted on an insert to hold them together and show what the weapon looks like when fully assembled.

*****

A scabbard's function is threefold:

To carry the sword in a convenient manner.

To protect the blade from adverse conditions.

To prevent the blade from doing accidental harm.

Re-enactment back-carry scabbards which work by having big slots in one side or being hardly there at all ignore (2) and (3) in exclusive favour of (1). They never existed IRL.

*****

I've read a few articles by museum staff about conservation of old swords and when to stop - how much cleaning is enough, how much would be too much, preservation rather than removal of patina etc. - but nothing about the whys and wherefores of scabbard storage.

This may be because as history goes further back, original scabbards become much rarer than original swords, and often when a sword and scabbard ARE found together, they've corroded into one another to such an extent as to be inseparable.

This Etruscan bronze sword and its bronze scabbard are very unusual, not just two separate items but almost completely intact, with only the organic (horn or wooden) parts of the grip missing:

It helps that the Etruscan example is bronze, which doesn't degrade in the same way as iron or steel.

This iron or steel Iberian falcata shows the more usual fate - organic material like its hilt scales are gone, as is the wood and leather of its scabbard, leaving only metalwork behind. Despite that, the blade is in remarkably good condition.

Here's a repro showing how it would have looked when complete. A small utility knife mounted on the main scabbard wasn't unusual, and was also done in the late Middle Ages and Renaissance.

The same happened to this Roman gladius: its blade and scabbard frame remain, but the leather, wood and horn of the rest have vanished, taking most of the tang and deep bites of blade with them.

Again, a repro showing how it would have looked when new.

*****

However, sometimes scabbards survive.

This sword was found a few years ago (2020) in the Oder / Odra River in Poland, and though the grip - wood, probably bound with cord then covered in leather - has rotted away, its scabbard is in a remarkable state of preservation.

What the blade's like, and whether it will ever see the light of day without destroying the scabbard, is another matter entirely up to the museum staff dealing with it.

I suspect non-invasive methods such as X-rays or ultrasound will be used: intact period blades are (reasonably) common, intact period scabbards are not.

Scabbards for Important Swords owned by Important People, including - supposedly - saints are another thing, often far fancier than what originally went with the sword, and tend to be looked after appropriately...

...although a couple of these (centre and right below) have survived remarkably well despite just being entombed with their owners.

The non-metal parts of any working sword were, of necessity, replaceable.

If used in battle they would get stained, sticky and smelly. Over the passage of time they might get chipped, torn or broken. Or they might just be "great-grandad's old clunker", not thrown out yet but not maintained any more, because the style of swords has changed since his day so why bother?

Take a look at this drawing by Albrecht Dürer. That's a one-handed arming sword at least a century out of date and maybe two, while the state of the scabbard speaks for itself.

However though definitely not an elegant hand-and-a-half longsword as seen in other Dürer illustrations...

...that old clunker will still work as intended if sharp enough, and the tatty scabbard means bumping into its uncovered point will not be fun.

Been there, done that, Ouch!

*****

Storing / displaying swords out of their scabbards is sound, for the reasons you mention in your Ask.

However this recalls scabbard purpose (1) as listed near the top, since it exposes the bared metal to other risks such as humidity or inquisitive fingers, so some sort of coating is a good idea.

Oil or grease is messy and wipes off too easily, frequently on things better left without it such as clothing, cats etc., so try "Renaissance Wax" which I believe is used on original pieces by actual museums.

I've even read that it was developed by the British Museum though have no solid proof of that so YMMV, but I've been using it on my own repro swords for years, and can confirm that when properly applied (rub on, let dry, buff lightly with soft cloth) it adds a near-invisible layer of protection and does no harm.

*****

Hope This Helps!

*****

ETA (1) - Thanks to @librarianmouse and @pagecommando for reposting this with links to, respectively, the American Institute for Conservation and Forde Military Antiques Sword Cleaning Guide, links I've added here for completeness and my own convenience.

NB that the Forde Guide is very rightly peppered with warnings about what restoration can do to an antique, and that the swords it deals with are (mostly) mass-produced army-issue sidearms rather than one-of-a-kind weapons.

ETA (2) - @dduane asked "Why didn't you mention Blood Rust Guy?" I mentioned him very thoroughly Right Here. If you want an example of sword "care" not to follow, that's a good one.

[fannyrosie]

Apple picking in early October 🍎

Outfit rundown: Apron-skirt: second-hand Pink House; Cardigan: Fint; Blouse: old Miss Patina; Beret: thrifted; House brooch and nut earrings: handmade by a friend; Pretzel brooch: Design Festa; Boots: old Sperry Topsider

[wumblr]

the way house of leaves has been revived for a cult following is so funny. it's completely backwards! it was a music industry book. the singer poe, who made waves with her debut for having a few tracks produced by j dilla and then if i remember correctly doing a 500+ show tour, essentially tanked her career to promote the book (written by her brother)

not like on purpose but it was supposed to be a paired project and there was a remix with a book excerpt read by mark (the kyrie bmw sex scene) and like, i don't know, a tie-in website -- but then her label got sold or merged or acquired and the project was eventually cancelled after languishing in limbo for a few years. there's also an aspect of this where like, a texas oil executive posed as a friend of her late father (possibly true) in order to manipulate legal proceedings (?) to ultimately own her writing and recording copyrights post-acquisition (dubious allegation, which also relies on her having signed away both types of copyright to her label in the first place, arguably a larger problem spanning the whole industry, even today, still coming up in legal proceedings from kesha and taylor swift and so on)

anyway the album (haunted) and the book were both inspired by the same event (death of their father, tad danielewsky -- as an aside, a professor of theater at brigham young university). the album features samples from a box of cassette tape recordings of his voice. and also some fake samples from a couple of guys pretending to be tad danielewski with an obviously ridiculous accent and a couple of kids pretending to be her as a kid. and it takes place inside the house. the growl is there and everything i swear

it really was one of the top tier 90s concept albums (it was released in 2000 actually) but it is usually FAR too much to handle for casual listening and a lot of it comes across difficult for being so sincere and so unfocused (it is a love letter to her dead father where one of the songs is a list of places she's gotten fucked, because, uh, this is a conversation she wanted to have with him. shrug). and yet it's hard not to take it as it is because it's so consistently well produced

so i know nobody's computer comes with a cd player anymore but to read the book without listening to the paired album implicitly packed in the back of the book jacket is kind of like missing the whole point. there's a whole second act of rashomon you guys are missing. and a third act hello the etsy teleplays. ANYWAY the point i wanted to make is that there are a couple of things about the album sticking to the roof of my mouth as being somehow prescient. there's a distorted "why (are you) so serious" sample that would have come across VERY differently post-joker, but there's also "tell me something dangerous and true," a far more interesting variation on the theme currently circulating. and i'm speaking to an empty room here because it's only the celibate 60% of this website who is reading the book because it allows them a patina of literary validity and several nested unreliable narrators to distance themselves from the sex scenes, but haunted is very authentically, directly and exclusively written in first person and to be honest it fucks too hard for you guys. i'm sorry

[bookofthegear]

Grandma didn’t raise a quitter. You go back to square one of the hopscotch course and start again. Sure enough, a little over halfway through, you find yourself watching yourself from above.

It is surprisingly difficult to hop in the third person. You flail your arms and stagger and you miss the jump on square 89 twice, but now you’re committed, dammit. You start over and finally, finally get to 108.

Something happens in your brain that smells like THWONNNNG and sounds like pickle brine, or maybe the other way around. For a second there’s two of you (Shouldn’t there be more? Where are the rest?) and one of you walks into the room with the peeling wallpaper and the other one walks out and shuts the door and you thought you were the one going in but apparently not and now you’re standing on the walkway (which you?) looking down and Jimmy comes flying out of the dark calling “Boss? Boss?”

“I’m here,” you say. You feel very weird, as if you were having a migraine with someone else’s head. You take a few deep breaths until the metaphysical nausea passes.

Jimmy lands on your shoulder. “Are you okay, boss?”

You reassure him that you’re fine-ish. Mostly.

The walkway is metal and unlike most of the metal in this place, there is only a faint patina of rust on the railings. It runs east-west, though the eastern wall has a closed door on it.

The railings are solid enough to anchor a rope so you could climb back down to the room below, though you wouldn’t get your rope back if you did.

[letsgobarbs]

Chapter 1

INDEX Chapter 2 Warning: They are provided on the Index page.

It was time for a Vestal to die. All the signs pointed towards it. Rome festered with sickness, poverty, desperation and death. It lingered, Death, like a stink that refuses to dissipate; it tittered in the corners with the rats— laughing at the hubris of man. Death circled the air, like the sharks in the Colosseum, looking for its next meal. You wondered who would be caught within its jaws. 

There was Aquilia, she had a lover waiting for her— one who had also made a vow of chastity, taking no other woman except her. They were to marry as soon as she had finished her service to Vesta, so she could not die. There were Junia and Marcia, two women who had spent the last two decades arguing whether chastity was only violated by a man’s phallus or also by… whatever they did in the dark of night, hidden from the eyes of others. They were dearly beloved and stupidly in love— so they could not die. Then, there was Licinia who had hands blessed by Edesia and could make the humblest of ingredients into the most delicious of meals. The world would be bereft without her patina cotidiana so she could not die. Tuccia, of course, could not die because she was your best friend. Which left… you. As it should be. 

Publius hoped that none of the Vestals died, poor man— his tenure as the Pontifex Maximus was pushing him to an early grave. The six of you were not the most biddable of women. But he remained kind and fatherly unlike the previous chief high priest who had a taste for little girls and had died an unfortunate and untimely death— that had nothing to do with the vial of poison your brother had gifted you. 

Publius had ordered the priestesses to recede from the public eye; tend to the fire of Vesta, perform the ceremonial rites and do nothing else in hopes that the murderous winds of change blowing through Rome spared them. But you had begged him for one last outing, not wanting to miss the Naumachia— they were living on borrowed time anyway, it would be a waste to miss the biggest spectacle. 

Acacius’ victory at Numidia ensured a brief moment of respite, just a bit more time, a few extra breaths. The Emperors were insatiable, they dreamed of conquering India and Persia— a pipe dream and a symbolic expression of imperial power while Rome crumbled under its own weight. Another defeat, another military loss, very well could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. The discontent and anger that was only simmering and stewing would finally boil over. And instead of the greed, tyranny, and madness of those in power; the death, destruction and ruin will be pinned on an innocent woman and her chastity. Such was the way of the world.

The ship swiftly spun around and you slipped to the edge of your seat, it forged ahead and rammed the other ship. Hanno, you brilliant bastard. No… not Hanno. Lucius. Lucius Verus Aurelius. Lucilla’s son and the heir to the throne of Rome. The smoke obscured your view of him while he fought his way down the second ship, pushing his opponents into shark-infested waters. You watched Lucius pick up a crossbow, staring at the raised box where the Emperors sat. Would he dare take an aim at them? The arrow released just as another soldier grappled with him. It lodged itself into Geta’s seat, narrowly missing… Acacius. How dare he?

A hand gripped your arm, preventing you from following when Acacius helped Lucila, bracing his arm around her to pull her away from danger. Desperately, you watched their forms disappear, and with it your well-laid plans. They would fail. Just this morning, their servant Leta had informed Thraex of their plans, who was bound to tell someone— most likely Macrinus. He would trade the information about their plans to rescue Lucius, and their plot to arrest the Emperors to erase some of his debt. And Macrinus would use this information, you didn’t know exactly how just yet, but he had ambitions— big ones. He could trade this information with the Emperors for a seat in the senate. 

Regardless, this would mean certain death for Acacius. They must not be caught tonight. You had hoped to speak with him and Lucilla today, tell them how they had been discovered, and to exercise caution, perhaps, even delay the rescue; Lucius seemed to do just fine in the arena. You would have even offered to rescue Lucius yourself if Lucilla refused to take your advice. But you had missed your opportunity, and you couldn’t very well show up at their home— you had never even spoken to them before. It would be too suspicious, raise too many brows. You could only mutter a whispered prayer to Vesta that at least Ravi found Acacius with the information before he was surrounded by the Praetorian guard tonight. 

You were locked in your room. A maelstrom of dread churned in your gut. It made you nauseous, your throat hurt from bottling up the roiling emotions threatening to rise, and your mouth felt dry as if someone had shoved a large piece of linen in there. Publius had not appreciated your attempts at contacting Lucilla and Acacius yesterday, locking you in your chambers for ‘your safety and that of your sisters’ as he had put it. Of course, you knew he was right. But Acacius was caught. And you had no idea what had become of him. 

You lowered the knotted sheets down your window, there was no other way. The height made your head spin which did not bode well for your descent. You would brave this, you had to— Acacius’ life depended on it. You clutched a purse full of a few dinarii to bribe the stablehand for your horse, stuffing it into your bosom, before swinging one leg out of the window. 

Your family was one to believe that women should be educated just as men were. Even with your initiation into the Temple of Vesta, they had bribed the temple to send you tutors to teach you the art of fighting, horseriding and politics in addition to your languages and household management. While you had abhorred anything that required excess physical labour, the stamina and muscles you had built supported you as you slid down the sheets. 

The people weren’t rioting in the streets, that was always a good sign. It meant Acacius was not dead yet, nor was he being taken to the gallows to be executed. You strolled for a while, keeping close to your horse so it would conceal your form, listening to the whisperings and murmurs on the streets. They had imprisoned Acacius at the Colosseum. What were they thinking? It posed far too much risk for the Emperors. Should the Gods look kindly on him, and he survived whatever cruel, gruesome game the editors had devised for the arena, the Emperors would never be able to turn their thumbs down to kill him— it would turn the people against them. 

Frustration, and what felt very much like desperation, prickled under your skin. There were far too many people, you could not spur your horse any faster without hurting them. You took several deep breaths, hoping to stave off the flood of panic at the thought of being too late. But all your mind could picture was Acacius— dead on the grounds of the arena. 

By the time you reached an entrance by the side of the Colosseum, tears stung your eyes and your breath came in short jagged gasps. The horse echoed its owner’s anxiety as he stomped his foot and trembled under your legs. A hand reached out to take his reins, another gently soothed him with wide comforting strokes along his neck. Ravi.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” 

“Tell me what is happening, please. Is Acacius still alive? Is he fighting? What are they doing to him?” You refused to dismount the horse, in case you had to rush onto the arena. It wasn’t the best plan, but it was your only plan. 

“He fought a few of his own Centurions. But they are putting him against Hanno, from Numidia, to allow him a chance at revenge.” No. They were putting him against Lucius, son of Lucilla, and Acacius was going to give his own life for them.

“Pick it up,” Lucius demanded. Acacius stood unarmed, refusing to attack him, only fending off his blows. He reached for the staff, instead of the sword. Him and his stupid honour. Both men grappled as Lucius attacked relentlessly. You knew Acacius could win this fight, it was evident in the way he only had to push Lucius away for him to fall to the ground. The wars had shaped him into a powerful warrior who had fought and survived worse. Yet he refused to fight. 

“I’m sorry I could not reach him last night, the Praetorian Guards had already killed Acacius’ men by the time I arrived,” Ravi explained, but you could not focus on his words because Acacius had raised his hand in surrender— kneeling on the ground. Fury and anguish engulfed you, and you tightened your grip on the reins of your horse, waiting for the judgement. He was a soldier, a General, you would not allow him to die on his knees like a criminal. 

Geta raised his arms to the sky, languidly bringing his arms forward to… turn his thumb down, “The Gods have rendered their judgement.” NO. No, no, no. 

Acacius took deep, heaving breaths; blood and gravel smeared on his wounds and bruises formed against his face and arms. He was speaking to Lucius, you were too far away to hear the words but the Colosseum was shrouded in a silence of shock and disbelief. The wind carried parts of his words and you read his lips to know the rest. 

“... you have to know, I love your mother Lucilla… and your father Maximus. I would have died for him.” You could feel your heart shatter, it bled out in the form of tears. Of course, of course, he loved her. She was his wife. He belonged to her. You weren’t doing this so he might turn to you. How could he? Acacius had never seen you. 

Lucius dropped his sword and joined Acacius to kneel— an act of mercy, of forgiveness. But Rome was not merciful, it did not forgive, it only plundered and killed. Geta turned to the captain of the Praetorian Guard as your own horse reared back on its hind legs before shooting forward into the arena. The guards had notched their arrows at Acacius. And you flipped your veil while you circled the ground, allowing everyone to see who you were. 

“Kill him.” Caracalla insisted impatiently. But none would dare to launch an arrow while you stood in their way. Spilling the blood of a Vestal was sacrilege and an act against the Gods, it could ruin Rome. Because so long as your bodies remained unpenetrated, the walls of Rome would remain intact. You brought your horse closer to Acacius— shielding him from the arrows, the Emperors, the spectators, and the very sun itself that inflicted its scorching heat onto his wounds. You would shield him from the Gods if you had to, he will not die today. You gently patted your horse, the wonderful friend that he was, understood your gesture and brought his neck to the side of the ground, curling around Acacius to further cover him in safety and shade. 

Acacius was tired. He had been weary for a very long time, from the wars, the bloodshed, the devastation. The cries of the bereaved mothers, wives and children as they mourned their loved ones echoed in his mind, ringing in his ears until he could not sleep. Admittedly, he was terrified when they had been caught last night, but only for Lucilla and her fate— not for his. He felt an odd sense of relief at being discovered. It would mean no more fighting, no more wars— in death he would be freed from this burden of guilt and duty.

Alas, death never came easy. It had pained him to fight the four centurions. He remembered them as boys when they had joined the legions— he had trained them himself. They had protected him through countless wars, threw themselves in front of swords for him; they had ensured he returned home safe. He had vowed to not sacrifice another generation of men for the greed and vanity of the Emperors. Yet, he had been forced to take their lives himself. 

So the sight of his saviour was a little unwelcome. He had prepared for his end when he agreed to rescue Lucius. She was one of the Vestals judging by the red bands that adorned her hair and fell over her shoulders. One of the most powerful women in Rome was interceding on his behalf. Why? 

He glanced at her feet in the stirrup of her saddle, wrapped in elaborate swirls of leather with a soft sole; clean toes then a delicate arch and a smooth heel— the feet of someone unused to the harshness of the elements, of poverty and hard work. Her stola modestly fell over her legs in soft lavender folds, and a deep red woollen palla, embroidered with gold flowers and leaves, draped her form. Wealthy, very wealthy. She openly flouted the convention of priestesses being dressed simply— which meant a powerful family backed her. Despite all the wealth he had accumulated as the General of Rome, he would not be able to dress Lucilla in these clothes. 

Acacius reached up to pat the head of her horse that was nosing around his thighs. It wasn’t a superior breed, as he had expected, not flashy like the ones used for chariot racing, nor was it powerful like the horses provided to the military. A local breed— strong, dependable, loyal. Why was a woman like her standing between him and the Emperors? Ideals? Some romantic notion of heroism? Did she believe herself to be impervious to their rage? 

“You accuse him of being an enemy of the state and threaten the lives of its Emperors. But the people have yet to see a trial! He is a Roman hero… guided by the spirit of Vesta to watch over Rome from its furthest corners, fighting your wars. After over thirty years of his unflinching loyalty and abiding service to Rome and its people… you would label him a traitor?”— There was a moment of stillness, as everyone stood nervous and unsure of how the situation would proceed. Acacius also felt the knots of tension tighten in his stomach—“In the name of Vesta, the patron Goddess of Rome, the one who watches and presides over all our homes. I pardon Justus Acacius for any of his imagined crimes.” Her voice carried through the Colosseum, open and light but betraying the underlying fury in her words. 

A murmur arose swiftly morphing into a roar. The people chanted his name, begged for mercy on his behalf. And above all those voices rose the voice of the priestess, “THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN.” 

The arrows changed direction to face the agitated crowd, the spectators of his near-death raged against the Praetorian guards. Acacius prayed they would not fire their arrows into the crowd of people. He glanced at Lucilla, chained to her seat next to the Emperors who looked alarmed at the reaction and anger of the citizens.

“Furthermore. I free this slave, Hanno of Numidia. For his honour and strength. And for his refusal to harm those Vesta holds dear— Rome and its General.” Most in the Colosseum did not hear this declaration, but Macrinus flew to the ledge of his box staring at the woman as she dismounted her horse. Suspicion curled in his gut. There was no reason to pardon Hanno— unless she was aware that he was Lucius. There was a conspiracy afoot and this woman was at the centre of it. 

She reached out and pulled Lucius up by his arm, pulling him behind her and offered her hand to help him stand. He eschewed touching her to take the reins of her horse instead before leading them all out of the arena. She stumbled over the front of her dress as soon as they were out of the public eye. Lucius steadied her, and Acacius considered pulling the man away from her. She had saved them, but her safety was not guaranteed for too long.

Vestals had the power to free slaves and rescue condemned men from execution. But the privilege was so rarely used out of fear of retaliation. The most powerful women in Rome had an Achilles’ heel so easy to pierce that a whisper of rumour could destroy them— as it often did. Their chastity and virginity were synonymous with the safety and welfare of Rome, and they could be killed for violating their vows. 

She had challenged the Emperors, they would blame the woeful state of Rome on the failing of the Vestals and insist one of them had violated her vows. Then find this woman guilty of unchastity. And she would be killed for it. She had rescued them, and should one of them be groundlessly accused of being her paramour they would be publicly flogged to death by the Pontifex Maximus. He was grateful for her aid, truly, he was but she was a danger to them.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” came a shout as someone rushed towards her fuming with anger. She flinched at the shout and leaned against the wall, barely standing on her shaky legs. Acacius drew himself up to full height and stood between him and the lady. It was the Pontifex Maximus; this man held the right to discipline and beat a priestess for a violation of etiquette or rules. He stood alert, with hands rolled into loose fists, waiting to jump into action if the chief high priest dared to lay a hand on her. 

She had curled her hand around her heart, struggling to breathe; he recognised these signs, had seen them before in the soldiers who returned from war— had suffered from them himself. Contrary to his expectation, and even the fury that still painted the senator’s reddened face, he handled her gently and tentatively like one would hold a child.  

“It is worse, Publius. So much worse than I imagined.” She whispered. Acacius struggled to make sense of their conversation.

“It is done. Nothing we can do about it now. You’ve… just, why?” Publius asked, anguish evident in his tone. He had the same question, why save them?

“I’m going to die.” She said it much more calmly and he had to appreciate the strength that coated her voice even when she was breathing unevenly, the grace with which she faced her future. His heart ached for her, she would lose her life for trying to save his. He owed her a debt he could not repay.

“No, no, the Pontiffs are meeting to discuss your actions, we will make sure nothing happens to you for this. We will figure out a way.” Publius insisted. 

“No, don’t make promises you cannot keep, it is done, nothing we can do about it now.” She echoed his words back at him. 

The priestess turned to him, “Acacius—”

“I need to find my wife, Lucilla, she’s—” She gave him a hurried dismissive nod before turning away from him. 

“Hanno, you will follow me.” No, the boy should come with him.

He needs to take Lucilla and her son out of the city and reunite with his men in Ostia. His plans to arrest the Emperors had been discovered and the Praetorian Guards were alert. They had lost their element of surprise and would have to plan another attack. But Lucilla and Lucius’ safety came foremost. They were the future of Rome. He tried to signal Lucius to decline her offer. But he was too busy staring up at the priestess, helping her mount her horse again. Acacius had to hold back his sigh of irritation. Not the right time, not the right woman. 

“I was hoping Hanno could help me…” All three of them turned to look at him as if he had grown a second head “I might need to—” 

“Rescue Lady Lucilla? And flee to your troops in Ostia I suppose? She is under house arrest in your home, kept under continuous surveillance. They will let you in easy enough but they will not let you leave. Even if you managed to escape with her, that army of yours has not reached Ostia. Leave Hanno out of your mess.” Acacius felt his blood run cold. Just how much did she know, and more importantly, who else knew of their plans? Did Hanno and her know each other beforehand? Was that why they were rescued? 

It was his turn to feel that tightness in his chest, his wounds burned, his bones ached and the exhaustion was catching up to him now that he was no longer fighting. He looked at her for the first time, studying her features, looking for a sign of… anything. She wore a mask that concealed every emotion, even the trembling in he limbs had subsided. He had no idea what she was planning and how they all factored into it. There was a game being played, but he was unaware of the rules, or the moves of his opponents. And the sight of her tugged at his mind, she was so familiar, he knew her from somewhere. A whisper of a memory lurked in the back of his mind, yet the image remained unclear. 

“You will make sure to go straight to the Temple, all the other girls are to be confined to their rooms. Ravi, make sure she and the gladiator reach there safely.” The senator issued terse orders.

“I am free, am I not?” Lucius interrupted. 

“Yes, Lucius, you are free to go as you please.” Was her parting reply before she rode out of the Colosseum refusing to wait for her escort. Was nothing a secret from her? Her knowledge could have Lucius killed, he was the only living heir to the throne. 

“But I suggest you follow her, my friend,” Ravi counselled Lucius, “Macrinus knows who you are. He will not let you go. But he will also not be able to pull you out of the Temple easily.” 

Macrinus? Macrinus knew of Lucius’ identity and had not told the Emperors. But he had informed them of his plans of treason… What game was he playing?

“Forgive me, General, she had asked me to pass on the information that Thraex had betrayed you to Macrinus. But I was too late last night…” He silenced the man with a hand on his shoulder. At least for now, the priestess seemed to be on their side. 

Acacius reached a decision, “Go to the temple. Keep in the public areas, always be within sight of somebody else. Do not, listen to me carefully, do not be seen alone with any of the priestesses… Your mother and I will join you there.”

You stoked the fire on the altar, seemingly deep in thought but the dread had settled so deeply into your bones that none of your thoughts registered in your mind. You had abandoned Lucius somewhere in another part of the temple, but somehow he had followed you here, you can still feel his eyes on you. 

There was a rush of footsteps, you would know them anywhere, Marcus. Another figure flew into the room with him, Lucilla. You were overwhelmed, on edge and agitated— you had no patience for her today. It wasn’t fair to her, especially because your frustration with her stemmed from a deeply personal issue; it wasn’t her fault that Acacius loved her. The very thought of it tightened your chest with misery and grief. You had loved him for so long that the emotion had receded like an old wound that only ached and twinged when one was overworked, or when the seasons changed. And today, you were exhausted from the physical and mental strain, and a storm was on the horizon that ominously heralded death.

You watched her embrace her son, refusing to look at Acacius still standing by the entrance of the room. Lucilla turned to you, gaze heavy with weariness and tears of gratitude, the years after her father’s death had not been kind to her. 

“Thank you, so much, you cannot know—” You stayed her with your palm outstretched, taking a step back to prevent her from touching you. 

“Please, you do not need to thank me. If you will excuse me… Marcia watch the flame.” You did not want her gratitude. After all, you hadn’t wanted to save her husband, you had only wanted to save the man you loved. You moved to leave the room— just needing time alone. 

“I remember you.” You abruptly halted. These were the words you had wanted to hear all day. But… the voice was wrong. The person was wrong. You turned to face Lucius anyway.

“You were there the day I was sent away from Rome”—he pulled a ring off his finger—“You gave me this ring…”

You remembered the day incredibly well, and you had given him the ring, “Yes, it was my mother’s.”

“I gave it to my wife when we were married… It must have meant a lot to you. This ring. You told me that it would be alright… that going away wasn’t scary at all. And that I was only being sent away for my own protection and to make me stronger. You assured me that my family would miss me just as much as I missed them… said you knew because your family missed you just as much as you missed them… you also promised to miss me too.” He finished with a mischievous grin. 

You huffed a broken laugh, you hadn’t kept that promise. All thoughts of that little boy had left your mind that very day when you were beaten for speaking to him. You had only been twelve. But as someone who had been training in the temple for six years by then, you should have known better than to talk to a boy, it was immodest. It had not been a selfless act to comfort Lucius for being ripped away from his home, you had only lingered because he was being watched over by Acacius— hoping to spend more time in his presence. 

“Would you… like the ring back?” You met his eyes, he was very different from the boy you remembered. You wondered if he saw how different you were from that innocent girl of twelve.

“No, once we give away something, we do not take it back. The ring means far more to you now.” 

You hadn’t wanted to reminisce about the past, but Lucius’ words had taken you back to that day. Death lingered in the air even then, but you had been too young to notice it. History was in the making, winds of change had uprooted what was in place to make space for something new, an Emperor and a hero had died in the arena; and you only had eyes on Marcus. 

He had been Marcus to you then, just Marcus, not Acacius, not Justus, and not General. He was just a young man, your brother’s best friend. They had both trained under Maximus when your eldest brother served as a Centurion. Your brother had been elected by the Senate to the post of Centurion because yours had been a military family; while Marcus had been promoted from the ranks of common soldiers for his valour.

You had loved him from the day your brother had brought him home as a guest; at your tender age of five, you had not known what love is, but you loved him anyway without rhyme or reason. Or perhaps there had been a reason. You had been a demon as a child, climbing trees and walls, chasing after your brothers, breaking priceless decorations, and hiding from your wetnurse and tutors. Marcus, your senior by a decade, had been unfailingly kind and endlessly patient. No matter how busy he was, he always had a smile for you, gently rubbing his knuckle over your plump cheeks in greeting.

When you were too afraid to descend from a tree you had climbed, it was only him you trusted to catch you. He could entertain you for hours, seating you atop his shoulders while he walked around the gardens with your brother. He took the blame when you had broken your mother’s priceless vase. He could find you no matter where you ran to hide. 

You had been all of six when you were told that you would be joining the temple of Vesta. Commodus had demanded your hand in marriage to command your father’s loyalty. And when your father had denied him, staying true to Emperor Marcus Aurelius, Commodus had conspired to steal military funding and rations and accused your father of this crime. While your father was proven innocent, his career never recovered and it was safest for the family to retreat from political life. 

Your father had been a general who commanded the loyalty and trust of the entire army— not unlike Marcus who he had adored. The family had far too much military influence and wealth, it would have been a threat to any reigning monarch. Men would covet you, their only daughter, as a way to force your family to do their bidding. So it was safest for you in the temple, where you symbolised Rome itself; any man who touched you had assaulted the very embodiment of Rome and would be killed with impunity.

But you hadn’t understood all that at six and had chosen to run away from home to your dear Marcus. You had followed him all the way to his insula— apartment blocks made out of wood and mud, unlike your palatial domus. He had lived on the highest floor, you would later learn these were the ones with the cheapest rent, sharing a home with countless other men also learning their trade. 

It was the first and only time he had been angry with you— out of fear for your safety. He had never raised his voice, but you could tell he was angry by the furrow in his brows, his pursed lips and the clench of his jaw… just like today at the Colosseum. The disappointment rolling off him in waves had caused you to burst into tears, much like it made you want to do today. But today, he would not have comforted you as he had then. Marcus had gently washed your soot-covered feet and dirty cheeks before carrying you home in his arms. It was only a day after this tantrum that the chief high priest had taken you away to the temple.

For years you were sequestered in the temple, learning how to be a priestess, that day at the Colosseum was the first time you had been allowed to attend a public event. You remembered fluttering with excitement at the idea of seeing Marcus again. He had looked beautiful and just as you had remembered him; kind, protective, strong. 

You had watched him comfort Lucius and help him onto the horse before sending him away to the safety of distant lands. You had waited, patiently, for him to turn around and notice you. Your training would not allow you to call out to him first. There had been a large grin on your face when he had finally turned around; but he had glanced at you, bowed his face in deference and walked away from you. He did not remember you. He had left you standing there with tears washing away that beam. You could not remember ever having smiled that way again. Which had not been Marcus’ fault, no, that was because of the beating that had come after.

Twelve had been the age you were finally, and unfortunately, to the previous chief high priest’s tastes. And while he may not have touched you out of fear of the consequences, there were ways a grown man could terrify a child. The temple hadn’t been the refuge your family had hoped it would be. You had killed him. It was a fact you didn’t regret to this day. 

You were not built for the temple, it was the truth no matter how hard you had tried to carve a place for yourself here. But you had endured. You had endured the training, the rites, and the ceremonies. You had endured the beatings and the whippings when you made mistakes. You had endured having to lower your gaze demurely and not look around at the world around you. You endured when your mother passed away in the countryside but you couldn’t see her because Vestals could not leave the city. You had endured losing Marcus. Never even receiving the chance to attain him. You had endured until he could no longer recognise you. Worse, you had endured until you could no longer recognise yourself. But this was the last of your endurance. You were exhausted. 

Loud banging was heard on the doors of the temple, your judgement was here. You smoothed the folds of your stola, and gathered your palla around you. Instead of pulling it over your head like a veil as was expected, you draped it over your left shoulder, under your right arm and then folded it over your left arm in neat pleats just like your mother would have worn it. You allowed it to cloak you in her courage, and called forth your father’s strength that resided in your bones before walking out to face the Praetorian Guard.

The courtyard was filled with people as you descended the stairs. The lamps had been lit, the guards had brought torches and the altar blazed with heat behind you. Vesta was watching. Your sisters glared down at the guards, the younger initiates were standing by the columns looking afraid. Marcus, Lucilla and Lucius were noticeably absent.

“Flavia, escort the young ones to their rooms, please.” You requested the maidservant, they did not need to see you be sentenced to death.

“What brings the guards to the temple this evening?” You finally asked once the girls had disappeared down the corridor. 

“Vestal, you have been found guilty of unchastity. You have angered the Gods and endangered the lives of the people. You will be punished for your crimes against Rome—”

“Found guilty? I have served this temple for almost thirty years. Will there be no trial?” You addressed Publius, the Pontifex Maximus stood deflated, shoulders hunched and head bowed in defeat beside the head guard. You knew there would be no trial. 

“We have many witnesses who have seen you with that foreign barbarian, Hanno.”

Lucius materialised from the shadow, summoned by both his name and accusation, “I have not touched her!” None of them acknowledged his outburst. 

“Who are your witnesses?” 

“Senator Thraex, Senator Gaius, Senator Dalius…” The names of senators kept on being read. And it was telling, so telling of the move Macrinus had played. 

“... General Justus Acacius.” The world stilled around you. Marcus Acacius? A witness to your unchastity? A hollow broken laugh left your mouth. The sound was jarring to your own ears, it rankled in the silent and oppressive air. 

“Did the General witness me in a compromised position before or after his fight in the Colosseum?” Your words were accompanied by a derisive sneer. There was a twitch in your cheek and a tremble in your hand from your barely contained rage. How dare they use him against you?

“He witnessed it after we had escorted Lady Lucilla to her home.” The guard leered. The threat in his words was clear. Lucilla was under house arrest, should Marcus Acacius stand in your defence, Lucilla would suffer. They did not know that Marcus and Lucilla had escaped their watch and taken refuge within the temple. 

The announcement of death had brought new clarity. It was in this very courtyard, before the fires of Vesta, that Maximus had made Marcus take an oath to protect Lucilla and her son. You had watched them then not understanding the weight of that oath. Marcus, protective and honourable, would keep that vow to his dying breath. 

Even though Lucilla was not within their grasp, Marcus would not reveal himself and come to your defence; they would know she had escaped and where to find her— it was a threat to her safety. Silence once again shrouded the courtyard. Heartbreakingly, and to your expectation, Marcus was not forthcoming in denying his addition to the list of witnesses. 

Had he not made a similar promise to your brother of protecting you? You know your brother had asked him to watch over you, fearing that you would be alone and helpless in the city without your family. But Marcus had not kept this vow. Why was an oath for you inherently less important than an oath for Lucilla? Because you weren’t the woman he loved? Because you weren’t the future of Rome?

Very well, Marcus. You had chosen to trade your life for his; there was no retreating now. It was not an act you would ever regret because it was the truest you had been to yourself. All your past endurances had been for your family, friends, Vesta, and for Rome itself. But this last act of endurance was solely for yourself, and the love you had sowed and nurtured into a towering tree that shaded you in times of loneliness. 

You would give your life and then nothing more to him. Perhaps in the afterlife, you would ask the Gods to sever your ties with him, to never allow you to love him again in another world. You could not spend another moment, let alone an entire new lifetime, begging for the scraps of his affection and attention. These last few hours of your life you would spend with those who loved you, who saw you. 

Marcus was ashamed. He never considered himself an honourable man. He had committed far too many atrocities, and killed too many people in pointless wars to ever lay a claim on honour. He had sworn to protect Lucilla, had made his choice and he could live with it. But that did not mean the chain of his oath did not weigh heavily on his soul; it did not mean every life he took did not weigh down his conscience like boulders on his chest. The life of this Vestal on his conscience might just be the thing that breaks him. 

He had stopped believing in the Gods a very long time ago. Because had they existed they would have put an end to him and the destruction he had brought. And if they existed then they were just as vengeful and hateful as the Rome they watched over. But if there was ever a God who was honourable, gracious and compassionate then they would take her image. Strength and tenacity clung to her form, her chin proud and resolute as she stared down at those who would kill her. She faced death with more grace and dignity than any soldier he had ever seen— himself included. 

“I accept the edict. Tell me how have they decided to punish me?” Her voice was light and steady.

“He has decided you will be sealed in the crypts near the Porta Collina with some bread, water and a lamp as the ancient tradition demands. You will be left to the mercy of the Goddess you betrayed, you will live should she spare you.” There was no goddess who would come to her rescue. 

“So, I am to be buried alive then? How kind.” She spoke the words through a barely contained smile. He felt tears sting in his eyes. 

“Your funeral will take place tomorrow.” A jagged sob pierced the air, one of the other priestesses was sobbing into the palm of her hands. Another priestess embraced the crying one with tears in her own eyes.

“As they wish. Escort the guards out, please.” She turned to Lucius with a brilliant smile and large, lustrous eyes— shining under the light of the lit torches. That smile tugged at his heart, he had seen it before somewhere. Who was she? 

“I have been a terrible host, haven’t I? Come it’s time for dinner.”—she turned to the healer from the Colosseum—“Ravi you will join us tonight?” 

“I cannot, it is not pro—”

“I’m sure I can afford a few breaches of propriety tonight. If anything, I intend to be entirely immodest.” 

She tugged him along to their dining room, “I hope there’s honey cakes, the kind with hazelnuts and figs. Can’t have a last meal without them.” Her last few words were interrupted by another gasping cry.

She turned around with a mildly concerned but teasing look, “Too soon?” Far too soon.

Dinner was laid out across a long table, it was a meal fit for the Emperors. The Vestals preferred to take their meals sitting at the table rather than lounging on the couch and being served by their servants. The priestess sat at the head of the table furtively and tentatively glancing at the others around the room who were somberly submerged in various levels of shock, anger and grief. The senator had already helped himself to several cups of wine as he stared into the hearth. Ravi sat to her right, serving her food on her plate, and Lucius to her left. But nobody touched their plates. 

“You are selfish, you always do this.” One of the Vestals accused her. 

“I—”

“Who told you to go off to be a hero? Didn’t we agree to stay out of this mess? We would have hidden until this all played out. We would not have been killed.”

“Yes, we would have—”

“No! We didn’t know for sure.” Her voice grew louder, angrier. 

“The senators were already discussing the idea after the rebellions in the western empire. There is famine and poverty. The people are angry and we are convenient scapegoats.” His priestess still answered gently. Acacius paused… she wasn’t his anything— except his saviour. 

“Yes, but General Acacius’ victory at Numidia bought us time. We only have six more months of service left. We could have avoided this.” 

“And then what? One of the little girls we trained dies?” The question was entirely rhetorical and for a moment Acacius believed the other Vestal would not argue further. 

But she continued through a burst of tears, her voice wobbling, “Then we should have talked about this? Any one of us would have rather given up our lives instead of you!” 

His priestess blinked back several tears and looked away to take a few deep breaths. He felt a sliver of compassion as Acacius finally had a few answers, she had been trying to rescue her sisters, give up her own life instead of theirs. But why rescue him? 

“I know…” His priestess smiled through her tears before quickly wiping them away, “In six months, darling, you will be free to marry that man who has been waiting for you for the last thirty years… He even took a vow in front of Vesta to take no other woman but you. You have to live, all of you do.” 

“You deserve to live, too. They should have given you a trial, at least.” 

“Nothing short of a miracle would save me now.”

“You can carry water in a sieve from the sacred springs to the temple. I’ve seen you do it before.” Acacius raised his eyebrows in disbelief. A miracle.

“It’s candlewax.”— she huffed a laugh—“you rub candlewax on the sieve.” The secret of the trick broke through the strained air as some of the priestesses shared an affronted laugh.

“I cannot believe I let you convince me you could perform miracles.” 

“Yes, yes, now let me be entirely selfish and request that you postpone your grief until after I am dead and let me enjoy a meal with friends.” She turned to Ravi, “And can I have some food that is not laced with opium?” 

Acacius keenly watched their exchange, how did a highborn wealthy woman know a Freedmen like him? There was an ease and familial affection between them. 

“No, I promised your mother that if you were ever in real danger I would help you. Eat, and you will wake up on a ship headed for your mother’s homeland. You have family there, they will be very happy to have you home.” 

“How did you know her mother?” Lucius interrupted, receiving a mischievous smile from his saviour. 

“Yes, Ravi, how did you know my mother?” Her words were coloured with a teasing lilt. 

“I worked for her. She bought me from my previous master and then freed me.” Ravi sounded resigned to the ribbing coming his way. 

“He was in love with her.” She excitedly informed Lucius, eyes glinting with mirth. 

“Yes, that is why I will keep my vow. You will be sent away, willingly or unwillingly.” 

“Ravi—”

“He is right.”— The high priest interrupted—“your father has also made arrangements for an event like this. You probably already guessed but it was the only reason I was given the Pontifex Maximus post, he bought it for me.” Just which family was she from?

“I will not run away. It would be a testament to my guilt.” 

“Better guilty than dead.” A vestal offered, and he wholly agreed. 

“This was my life’s work. I worked hard to be a good Vestal. I will not have that hard work be wiped away by aspersions on my character. I would prefer to be remembered in history as an innocent woman killed for the political agenda of men rather than having broken my oath. And if I ran away, what would happen to my family’s honour? To their lives? I have made my bed, I shall lie in it.”

“You could join us,”— Lucilla spoke beside him—“We have plans to arrest the Emperors and hand over the administration of Rome to the senate, then you could argue your innocence and be cleared of your charges.” 

She gave a scornful scoff, “Oh? Defend myself in front of the very senators who saw me lose my virginity on the senate floor it seems, while eating… what was it Thraex had? Ethiopian bull heads.” 

Her thumb and finger came up to press between her brows, “Forgive me, I do not mean to… Most of the senior senators had signed to be a witness to my unchastity. The only reason the junior ones haven’t signed, I’m sure, is because they ran out of paper. They will never admit they were coerced or manipulated into signing.” 

“I have heard your father’s dream of Rome. It is not a bad one. Certainly better than what we are living now… But the highest echelons of Rome have rotted to their core. It was a senator that betrayed you. They will all only look after their own interests and their own wealth. Even in a republic… if you held new elections, whose vote will actually count? It will not be your average Roman who barely has a roof over their head or food in their stomach. Their fate will still be decided by a few hundred Patricians.” 

Acacius didn’t know what emotions she had read on Lucilla’s face, but she leaned forward to gently grasp Lucilla’s hand with a soft, comforting smile, “Although it might not be perfect, it is a good ideal, a worthy goal to strive for. Ideals make life easier to live. Perhaps, in the future when we are all long gone, the world will be a more fair and just place because of it. It will be a step in the right direction for Rome.” 

A servant entered carrying several scrolls and handed them over to her, “But ideals cannot help you survive the present. So, I have written wills.” 

The declaration brought forth more tears, “We do not want to read your will.” one of the Vestals exclaimed in a fit of temper.

“I see…”—she raised an exaggerated, mocking brow—“So none of you want my enormous amounts of wealth?”

“I have made three wills. This one”—she pointed the scroll towards Lucilla—“is in case Rome is declared a republic.” 

She picked up another scroll, “This one, you will open if there is a civil war.” Civil war?

Then she moved to the last scroll, “This one, has instructions on how to move forward should Macrinus become Emperor.” 

Acacius felt momentarily speechless, and so did every other person in the room. Macrinus?

“Macrinus?” Lucius voiced. 

“Macrinus.” She confirmed. 

“He is a former slave…” Publius trailed off. 

“Yes, I feel ashamed for having underestimated him.” An odd fervour gripped her voice. 

“I had grossly miscalculated, you see. We thought that Macrinus wanted a seat in the Senate. But that was not the case. I only realised when I was in the Colosseum. He was the man behind the Emperors, leading their strings like a puppeteer. He doesn’t want a Senate seat, he wants the throne.” 

“I do not follow,” Publius confessed. 

“Well, we know that Macrinus has been in business with many of the senators until they are riddled with debts— he took over Thraex’s domus just yesterday morning. I had assumed he would leverage these debts to be elected into the Senate. But he made no move, he was waiting for the right opportunity.” 

She stood to pace across the length of the table, “And then the opportunity came when Acacius and Lucilla shared their plans to arrest the Emperors with the senators”— she turned to face him—“terrible move, by the way. A secret that has left your mouth is no longer a secret, even if it is only whispered in an empty room. I knew of your plans by dawn.” How did she know?

She plucked a grape from the table, popping it into her mouth, “Macrinus did not know then, but he encountered an obstacle in Lucius—”

“Who is Lucius?”

She turned to face the Vestal who had interrupted and gestured towards Lucius, “Hanno is Lucilla’s son Lucius. Macrinus noticed Lucilla’s reaction to him on the first day of the games. I noticed as well. So he paid you a visit the next day, do you remember?” Lucilla could only softly gasp in acknowledgement. 

“It was probably that bust of Marcus Aurelius that gave him away, I am told Lucius looks very similar to his grandfather. But then you went to meet him secretly that night, so our suspicions were confirmed— Hanno was your lost son.” 

“You know far too much about what happens in other people’s homes.” Acacius felt vexed, she had spies in his home. 

“Your servant Leta has grown expensive tastes that Thraex cannot afford with his debts, I merely supplement her income. She overheard your plans to rescue him from the Colosseum, and passed it onto Thraex the next morning. I knew Thraex would tell Macrinus everything… the rescue, the troops at Ostia, everything… to erase his debt and prevent his home from being seized.” 

“Is that why you wanted to speak to them at the Naumachia?” Publius asked. 

“Yes, but they left before I could, all because Lucius wanted a shot at Acacius.” She levelled an accusing stare at Lucius. “Just after that battle, Macrinus came to know of the plans. I had sent Ravi to intercept the General and his men before they were caught. But it didn’t work as planned.” 

“But that still doesn’t explain why you think Macrinus could be king.” Ravi urged. 

“Aah, this is where things get exciting”—there was an excited gleam in her eyes, her hands grew more animated as she explained—“at the Colosseum. Geta would look to Macrinus before he issued any orders. I knew he had sway over the Emperors, but I believed anybody could misguide them, they are quite easy to manipulate. But it was the first time I glimpsed the naked ambition in his eyes. He was instigating Geta to kill Acacius.” 

“Killing Acacius would leave us without support,” Lucilla admitted, “It would weaken the dream of a Roman Republic.”

“Well— yes. It was killing two birds with one stone. Killing the General would instigate the people against the Emperors. The people are tired of their madness and tyranny, but most people are too busy trying to survive, feed their families. His death would enrage the public enough to riot in the streets. There is already an uproar in a few parts of the city because the Praetorian Guards turned their weapons on the crowd.”

“Macrinus would then act as the saviour of the people and get rid of the Emperors. But that would not mean he would get to be the Emperor. He is still a former slave, the Romans would never accept him as Emperor.” Publius countered. 

“No, it’s worse, Publius. This story is not about Macrinus becoming the Emperor at all…” The vestal looked accusingly at his priestess, and an undercurrent of agitation rippled through the room.

“General Acacius’ death was supposed to spark a revolution which did not happen. Without the revolution, Macrinus does not have the final leverage over the Emperors. Change demands blood. If it is not Acacius, it will be you.” 

His priestess adorned a resigned, heartbreaking smile, “And if I run, then it will be one of you…” Acacius did not understand what her words implied, would the people truly care about an innocent Vestal’s life? 

A far more likely victim would be Lucilla. If Macrinus killed Lucilla, who was beloved by the people, and blamed the Emperors, then he would have the uproar he required. But would he have the resources to pull off such a conspiracy? He and Lucilla had already escaped house arrest, would he be looking for them? Could he trust the Vestals to not hand them over to the Guards to save one of their own? 

“But to answer your question Publius, the Romans wouldn’t have a choice.” He watched her once more. 

“If I was Macrinus, I would kill Geta.” The admission stunned the room. Acacius was astounded. This woman was not suited to the staid temple life, her family had done her a disservice. A mind like hers could change the political landscape of Rome. 

“It would leave Caracalla alone, who is not always in a present state of mind so he would naturally appoint Macrinus onto the Senate. Ideally, Lucilla and Lucius would die in the arena in some spectacle supposedly ordered by Caracalla. But since Macrinus no longer owns Lucius, and Lucilla is not under house arrest that plan is foiled. Nevertheless, once the riots start, the Senate will allow him control of the Praetorian Guards in hopes that he can calm the public. The Guards are already loyal to him because the Captain earns a heavy purse of dinarii every month from Macrinus. Somewhere in the chaos, both Lucilla and Lucius would need to be assassinated. And once the dust settles, Macrinus is Emperor with the Praetorian Guards for his personal army, and a Senate deeply in financial debt with him.”

She lathered a layer of cheese on a piece of bread, dipping it into honey before guiding it to her mouth. Acacius faltered when she let out a satisfied hum, did she not realise the enormity of her words? He had spent years planning his rebellion against the Emperors, and she was making it sound so easy. A guest burst into the room in a shock of red, gasping for air. 

“He has killed him… Killed the Emperor.” The newcomer exclaimed. He reeled with the declaration, the situation was spinning out of his control.

“Fortuna… dinner?” His priestess offered. 

Their new addition slumped in the seat his priestess had emptied at the head of the table, “He has killed Emperor Geta… just… sliced his head off…” She still looked shocked, her gaze went to the meat on the table before her face took on a sickly, green pallor. And she turned to vomit all over Lucius’ feet. 

“I suppose he sent you to keep watch over me?” 

The woman looked up from the floor to give a distracted nod. 

“He probably knows you are here, Acacius, but I don’t believe he will do anything until my funeral tomorrow. He needs me to die without a hitch.” He faced her with the alertness of a soldier taking commands. 

“Stay here, rest. He cannot reach you in the temple tonight. You can try and escape now, but your troops have still not reached Ostia, it only means that Macrinus will be able to hunt you down. Darius and his men will probably arrive tomorrow afternoon, we will have my funeral in the evening…” 

She gestured for a servant to fetch her a cloak before turning to him once more, “You will be attacked after my funeral, Macrinus will not care whether you die in the public eye or not, either way, he will scapegoat Caracalla. But I think you should be part of my funeral procession because Lucilla would be safest with the Vestals. The temple will be empty during my funeral procession so she will be left defenceless, it is best if she joins us. None would dare to harm one of us to reach her—” 

“How can I trust that they will not hand her over to the Guards out of fear or to protect themselves?” 

His priestess shared a deep look with another Vestal who turned to him and proclaimed, “Because it is the last thing our sister has asked of us.”

“Lucilla will return safely to the temple with the other vestals. The burial grounds are just south of the city gate. If you and Lucius fought your way over there, the Praetorian Guards would be forced to follow instead of controlling the crowd because their instructions would be to kill the both of you. You should send someone you trust with a message for Darius, and ask him to meet you at the city gate. This way, the Guards will be faced with your troops in the front and blocked off by the angry mob behind them.” 

Acacius could admit it was a brilliant strategy, pulling the guards away from the crowd and drawing them to the city gates would also minimise civilian deaths. And it would also leave an opening for the public to dissipate should things get too bloody. 

“Ravi, go to the Colosseum and recruit a few of the gladiators, see if they would like to help their good friend Lucius. Have them follow the funeral procession. That city gate has an iron grating, the gatekeepers could lower that grating and crush the people under it. Take a few of those men, quietly and discreetly, replace the gatekeepers. Do not let anybody discover you. But also do not kill the guards, tie them up and lock them somewhere. Use your opium if you must, grant them a nice, healing rest.” 

It seems his priestess was well educated in the art of battle and warfare, her strategy was prudent and detailed. He was amazed she had deliberated over their attack in such a short time. The iron grating was their biggest danger, had the gatekeepers seen them leading the skirmish towards the gate, they would have lowered it and blocked off his access to the troops. He and Lucius would have been crushed against the gates— and died. Respect and gratitude filled his chest. 

She donned her cloak, pulling its hood over her head. 

“Where are you going?” 

She gave a dazzling and roguish smile, “To find someone, or perhaps multiple someone’s, who will show me what I have been missing with this whole chastity thing.” She strutted out with a playful kiss to Publius’ bald head who only sighed at her audacity. 

Acacius could not hold in the laugh that broke free from his chest.  

INDEX Chapter 2 

[peachjagiya]

The tableware is one of those things that’s not really important but it is interesting when you dig into it and now you add JK’s brother to it so does that make it more meaningful or less? Idk? The company makes all of their stuff by hand in Italy and I searched and they don’t make their stuff available to buy at other retail outlets so it’s unlikely that they both just happened buy the exact same dishes so my guess has always been that Tae bought two sets of the of the Fondaco and gave one to Jk mostly because I can’t explain why they would share one set of dishes.

Also JK’s brothers plates look like they could be from the Ducale collection but it’s kind of hard for me to tell because those 2 collections look so similar to me so maybe someone else can look and see if they can tell them apart.

https://vbccasa.com/en/collections

I think the glaze is the only difference between the two sets. Ducale is a regular glaze and Fondaco is a reactive glaze. There's also Incanto but it's pure white and none of what they've posted looks crisp white.

Ducale has a more uniform finish and Fondaco has the patina/texture. The pieces are all very similar, barring nuance in the hand finishing but you can see how there's more bronzey colour and depth in the Fondaco:

Hard to tell which set they have but I think the patina is missing from Taekook's collection so I'm Team Ducale.

JK posted Ducale mug in Stone:

And they both posted Ducale side bowls in stone:

JK posted Ducale bowl in teal:

And Ducale plate in stone:

JKs brother posted Ducale plate in teal:

Tae posted this bowl in stone but I can't find the match:

It's hard to tell though when the website doesn't have individual product photos and detail isn't clear.

Honestly, I think JK is the commonality here and that he owns a mix of stone and teal and sometimes this tableware has been on Taehyung's marble dining table.

We're not really learning much here, to be honest, but I've had a delightful time matching crockery up ☺️

[dulcidyne]

On the Care and Grooming of Gentleman Necromancers

Rook x Emmrich Volkarin/ /Rating: T/ / Spoilers: None

“Manfred has remarkably fine motor control in many things, but his skill with a straight razor leaves much to be desired for those who wish to remain among the living.” Emmrich reached up for the hand towel tucked protectively around his collar, accepting defeat, but before he could loosen it, Rook strode forward and plucked up said razor from the desktop. “Well then, allow me to do the honors,” she offered, unfolding the blade with a decisive flick of her wrist. “Just…try not to fidget. I’m not used to shaving people who can move.” (Emmrich’s straight razor shave gets surprisingly intimate. Feelings ensue.)

Featherlight fingertips brushed over his lathered jaw before flitting away again. She inhaled, sharp and sudden, as if startled.

“Sorry,” she said, and the word was shallow too, syllables breathy and catching on that near-gasp like petals tossed into the breeze. “I’m not…it’s so much different than I’d thought it’d be.”

Her skin was flushing all the way down to her neck in splotches of feverish red and her eyebrows knit together furiously, dark slashes against the riot of color. ”You’re—well, warm for one and—”

She sucked in another audible inhale, this one long and slow, as she flattened her unsteady palm against her stomach with a tremulous smile. “It’s just different, is all.”

Before he could move or assure her she needn’t push herself, needn’t continue, Rook squared her shoulders and reached forward to press her trembling fingertips to his jawline. Visibly gathering her bearings, a no-nonsense, well-worn patina of professionalism settled into place. She swallowed and fit her thumb more firmly to the underside of his jaw to tip it back for her expert examination. Then she reached for the razor.

Emmrich could only go utterly still, not daring to speak, not daring to breathe. Rook maneuvered his jaw left and right and up and down, thumb and forefinger skimming up over the soapy line of his mandible towards his stubbled cheeks, stretching the skin taut. He was acutely aware of her gaze following in their wake, feeling it as surely as he felt her touch—gentle and skilled, with eyes that missed no details. 

And then he felt the blade. A quick, even stroke with the grain. 

Read on AO3

[dear-mrs-otome]

Chapter One - Ansare

Pairing: Silvio Ricci x Emma...eventually Word Count: 2.1k+/??? Author's Note: If Cybird won't give me a proper Beauty and the Beast story, I'll write it myself. This is a slowburn fairytale AU that hews closely to canon, but veers when needed.

Summary: A curse, of sorts. A rose, of sorts. And one prince's long, tangled journey to answer an eternal question...What separates man from beast?

It all began, as so many things do, with a love poem.

Emma lifted the top off of a crate, and was greeted by the rich waft of old books. Leather and glue and that indescribable patina that only the echo of many long years could leave behind. Wisdom crowning wisdom.

“There’s so many,” she said with amazement as she dug through the first layer of packing straw and pulled a title free. Running careful hands and a practiced eye over the condition of the bindings and the gilt lettering that traipsed up their spines, she began sorting them into loose categories. Histories, the classics, poetry and novels, geography and the sciences. She paused long enough to linger over a detailed map of the continent in one of the gorgeously illustrated atlases, a wistful sigh escaping her.

The bookstore was her life - she knew every nook and cranny of this shop like the back of her hand. Had skinned her knees tripping over the single uneven floorboard in its stacks as a coltish child, had stained the pages of more than one romance with tears while nursing the first tender bruises of young love curled up in the nearby battered armchair. She’d scrimped and saved and squirreled away every penny she could pinch, ever since Akatsuki had handed her the first of her wages, determined to buy it from him one day when he retired. She knew that would make her the happiest woman in the world.

But some days, it was hard not to wonder what was over the jagged rooftops of town, crowded and gnashing the skyline like snaggled teeth. What mysteries might lay just beyond the hills that cradled their city so gently, rolling away towards the horizon as she imagined waves upon the sea must. In her dreams some nights she tasted the salt spray of the ocean, only to awaken, baffled to find it was tears on her tongue.

Some days, it was hard not to wonder if she was settling her future comfortably…or merely settling.

Putting the atlas and those maudlin thoughts aside, a delighted grin stole over her face as she plucked the next book from the box, a slim volume of poetry with an aging, cracked cover and worn edges. The obscure missing volume in her exhaustive collection of Benitoitian sonnets. She flipped eagerly through the pages, her gaze devouring the metered lines upon them, lingering over one poem in particular that was redolent with the bittersweetness of longing. “You found it! You actually found it! Is that what took you so long this time?”

“Partly. I didn’t want to disappoint you, not when you’ve been looking to round out that collection for so long.” Akatsuki’s ever-stoic face thawed with the first hint of a smile as he wove a far defter path through the piles she was creating than one would expect from a man of his years. But then again, the passing of time never seemed to touch him, she’d noticed, beyond kissing a few more strands of silver into his dark head of hair. He still moved as spryly as men a third his age, and had never in all of her years of working for him ever taken a single day off ill. “And partly I was busy with business meetings.”

“Business meetings?” She slipped a bookmark at the page with the poem that had caught her eye and looked up, wrinkling her nose at the implications of that. “Oh, no. No. Don’t tell me that means-”

The rest of her sentence was robbed by a resounding crash, the deafening clatter of a door thrown open - or rather, kicked open, as she knew better than to believe otherwise of the man who sauntered in. The violence of his entrance setting one of her nearby newly built towers of books swaying precariously. 

“-Him,” she finished flatly, before plastering on a smile even more obviously fake than the forgotten vase of forlorn silk orchids gathering dust in a nearby corner. “Welcome in, Your Highness. Thank you for testing the resilience of our hinges. Again.”

His Highness in question - Silvio Ricci, the crown prince of Benitoite - drew to a halt and spared her a scathing look, shaking his fur-lined cloak back imperiously. “I’d start charging for the service, but there’s no way in hell this dump could afford me.”

“Strange. For being such a ‘dump’, it sure seems to keep you coming back,” she returned fire, cloyingly sweet, before forcing herself to take a deep breath. She would not let this goblin masquerading as royalty get under her skin and ruin the high of a delivery day. Not this time.

He snorted. “It’s the impeccable customer service, clearly.”

She ground her teeth together and shot Akatsuki a pleading look, noticing the amusement that clung to the wrinkles fanned around his eyes as his attention bounced between the two of them. Spectating his favorite sport. 

“Prince Silvio,” Akatsuki said at last, wading into the fray.

Dismissing her, the prince turned a dauntless, charming grin on the man who owned the shop, and she did her best to ignore the nip of envy that inspired. 

He’d never smiled once at her like that. But then, why did she possibly care?

“Signore.” Prince Silvio inclined his head ever-so-slightly in the older man’s direction. “I trust you found the details of the documents I had couriered to you acceptable?”

“Well, yes. But I…” He broke off, and his gaze bounced off Emma before landing back on Silvio. “Wasn’t expecting you quite this soon. I had hoped for a bit more time to explain things.”

“Explain what?” Emma interjected, unease a cool hand curling fingers around her stomach.

Akatsuki seemed at a loss a moment, gathering his thoughts. “Circumstances being what they are and all…”

 Silvio made an exasperated sound that bordered on rude. “This bookstore is the second-most profitable one in the city. I could make it number one.” He paused a moment, and lifted his chin imperiously. “I will make it number one.”

Emma shook her head. “We don’t need any advice from the likes of you. I’m certain.”

“You may not want it, but you’re getting it. And it won’t be advice…it’ll be orders.”

“Says who?” she countered, eyes narrowed in challenge.

“Me. The soon-to-be owner of this enormous heap of paper.”

She’d heard the words, but they rang hollow, refusing to make sense. She whirled towards Akatsuki as if he might somehow be able to translate. 

He had the good grace to wince. “Emma, this isn’t how I wanted you to find out. But I’m not getting any younger, and the traveling of a merchant’s life gets harder and harder every year.”

“So you sold the store to Prince Silvio? Of all people, him? But…” She’d never felt betrayal before, but this nausea that clawed acrid at the back of her throat couldn’t be anything else. “I was going to buy it.” 

The forlorn admission slipped free before she had time to snatch it back, falling helplessly to the ground. A fledgling taken to wing too soon.

Silvio blinked, and chortled. “You? You were going to buy the shop?" 

Her cheeks stung pink at the slap of his incredulous laugh. “Yes, me.”

“You wouldn’t know the first thing about running a business like this,” he scoffed.

She shook her head fiercely. “No, you wouldn’t know the first thing about running a business like this. Could you recognize an incunable if you saw one? Do you have the faintest idea what an octavo is? Or who Madame Rochefort’s favorite author is? What genre you can sell Monsieur Martin on without fail when he comes by every Tuesday afternoon? All you see is coin to be made. Numbers in a ledger. Profit and loss. Not people. And certainly not their stories.”

“This ain’t a library, lady. It’s right there in the name - bookstore.” He paused, as if considering something. “Although, if you’re so eager to make sure things are done in a certain way, I suppose I could let you keep your job.”

“Let me…” A logjam of words crowded her throat for a moment, indignities all clamoring for space at once until one finally jostled free. “You want me to work for you?”

A petty smile slanted his lips. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it.”

That expression of his was like a door being thrown open on a smoldering fire. Rage exploded through her in a backdraft, a mindless wave of fire and fury that vaporized the calm logic she prided herself on. “Listen to me, you tacky, tasteless, tawdry, tinsel-clad affront to the eyes. I wouldn’t work for you if you were the last thing standing between me and utter destitution.”

Answering sparks flew from a blue gaze turned flinty, as the blood drained from his face. “That could be arranged. One word from me, and I could make it so that you never work in this city again.”

Her mouth fell open, eyes stinging from the salt he had just rubbed into every last one of her open wounds. “And now you think you can threaten me into keeping the job that I already have? All while you buy the shop I already planned to?”

“Oh, I don’t think I can.” His grin was more a macabre baring of teeth than any thing of mirth. The snarl of a hound treeing its quarry. “I know I can.”

“Forget it. You can own this shop, you can own this city. You can own this whole damn country. But you will never, ever own me.” The world had gone strange around her, red and wavering, like water spilled through wet paint. It took her three tries to see through it well enough to snatch up her book of poems from the top of the pile. “I quit.”

It occurred to her, as she took her first wobbly step towards the door, that it might have hurt less to have simply driven her paper-knife into her own heart. She clutched the book tightly to her chest, as if it could staunch the blood she swore poured from some wretched wound, though her blouse remained as pristine as ever.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His snarl stopped her in her tracks, but she didn’t do him the courtesy of turning around to reply. Etiquette when dealing with royalty be damned.

“I’m leaving. Like I said, I quit. Have a nice life, Your Highness.”

He lunged forward, snatching at the book she held. “You can’t just walk out. That’s store property. Which means it’s my property now.” They tussled over the tome, wrestling, neither willing to back down - until finally it fumbled from their grasp and fell to the ground, open to the page she’d slipped her bookmark in.

They both dove for it at the same time, the childish squabble continuing until they were brought up short by the harsh sound of tearing paper, freezing where they stood.

Emma forced herself to look down, dread a swallowed lump of lead sitting queasy in her stomach. Gaze shifting from the book in her hands to the page now crumpled in Silvio’s fist, a forlorn flap of ragged paper still standing accusatory in the spine she held. 

“Look what you’ve done,” she managed, through lips gone stiff and numb.

“What I’ve done? You started this. If you’d just handed over the book - or better yet, not thrown a tantrum and tried storming out - this wouldn’t have happened at all,” he retorted fiercely. But when she found herself at a loss for any sort of response, and the silence drew out long and stilted and awful, he thrust the rumpled page at her abruptly. Refusing to meet her eyes. “Here.”

She glanced down at it, and let out a humorless laugh. It was the only reaction she could muster when she saw familiar words of poetry between his fingers. The exact one that had warranted a bookmark from her in the first place.

Would I could come, O lovely one, to you just in a thief’s disguise, unknown to all!

It figured that he'd manage to ruin even this for her, too.

“I bought this book. It belongs to me. Akatsuki’s been looking for it for me for almost five years now. But you know what? Keep the page, and the poem. My parting gift to you,” she told him, no longer trying to keep the bitterness coating her tongue from seeping into her words. She was too sick with it, choking on the wretched feast as she ever-so-carefully closed the book. Ever-so-carefully tucked it under her arm, before flinging a razor edged glare at him like a flechette. “It’s the closest to love you’ll ever get, Your Highness.”

He flinched, as if struck, but made no reply. Made no other movement at all, as she left him holding those words and walked out.

Next Chapter >>

If you’d like to be tagged for future chapters, let me know!

(Dividers courtesy of @/cafekitsune, header image commissioned from @/sbeep)

[krispyweiss]

Album Review: George Harrison - Living in the Material World (50th Anniversary)

Give Paul Hicks a gold medal, a Grammy Award and five stars for his work on George Harrison’s Living in the Material World (50th Anniversary).

Hicks’ 2024 remix brings the 1974 album into the present without sacrificing the aural patina befitting an early, post-Beatles solo offering. It’s both subtle and striking - like the restoration of a classic painting - as Hicks takes great care with the songs that captured the internal wrestling match between Harrison’s spiritual and secular sides as the guitarist went all in on big arrangements featuring slide guitar, brass and organ to loudly erase his Quiet Beatle persona.

If disc No. 1 is masterful, No. 2 is a mostly superfluous collection of takes (Nos. 3 through 93) and alternate versions. Remarkably similar to their finished counterparts, these studio-floor sweepings provide no sonic insight into how the songs evolved. Or perhaps they simply confirm Harrison wrote immediately to finished format.

Whichever the case, there are two big exceptions tacked on to the end. The first finds a joyful Harrison laughing his way through the non-album cut “Miss O’Dell.” The second features the formerly Fab Harrison and Ringo Starr exploring Canadian Americana with the Band, minus Richard Manuel, on the previously vaulted “Sunshine Life for Me (Sail Away Raymond).”

And suddenly, a disc that seemed destined to collect dust becomes collectible. But Hicks’ remix is where the magic lies.

Grade card: George Harrison - Living in the Material World (50th Anniversary) - B

2/10/25

[iamnottoph]

My fic for @sparingiscaring for the @fallenlondonficswap! Sorry its a little bit late. (576 words)

Things in Parabola rot much the same as other things rot. It is a process, not of destruction per se, but of reclamation. Putrefaction. Transformation. Bacteria and fungi, bugs and worms, rain and wind and soil and sunlight; all take their piece, eat their fill of blood and skin and marrow, make a dead thing into a fractal of new life. On the other side of the mirror too, does its reflection die. Its name is scattered to the ever-whispering wind and among the ever-mumbling trees, syllable by syllable. Its walls are colonized by slim vines of poetry and metaphoric wildflowers. Its tiles sink into the mud of allusion and memory. Mushrooms in viric and cosmogone sprout upon dead nightmares, frothing with the uneasy but ultimately comforting relief that comes when one awakes from a bad dream, its visage already slipping into nothingness. A whole becomes fragments, and the fragments become wholes - divorced of context, scrubbed of their past by the wear of a thousand hands. Stripped down, bit by bit, until only what is utterly indigestible remains. GANT. The colour that remains when all else is eaten. The remainder-colour, the one that stains bone and offal. That which is left behind at the bottom of the Waswood's waters as the present burrows unceasingly into the future. The colour of that which has been abandoned - unimportant, undesired. The Wizened Silverer studies it carefully, the cosmogone of his spectacles shielding his eyes from the otherwise undeniable desire to flick it to the ground as unwanted garbage. A broken fragment of something - smooth, and shiny. Red, once - the patina of something-not-quite-black hasn't quite spread around to all of it. The only clue to its origin is its rather more dramatic partner - a skull, jawbone missing, its back shattered. a bullet, half-buried in the damp earth beneath it. All of them consumed with that selfsame colour. A rejection occurred here. A brutal, final, undeniable one. Something unloved died here. Not this man - at least, not just this man. There is a reason he found this here, in a half forgotten little pocket of Parabola, seemingly shunned by the roads and paths that would usually swarm and slither so eagerly to it. This was the betrayal of a promise. The shunning of a past, the murder of a future. Everything this man was and represented, was rejected earnestly and utterly. An absolute excision. What else was there for his remnants to do then, but reject themselves? The Wizened Silverer shivered, despite the jungle's eternal heat. This was not a good place. Good men who had lived good lives did not die such deaths. Still. He had found this place shunned and tucked away, an ugly scar hidden from sight - but he had found it. The Is-Not, in the end, truly rejected nothing. For every Wasn't, there was, somewhere, a Was; for every choice, there was a twin. If every mirror must have a reflection, then every reflection must have a mirror. Parabola had many roads, and none, in the end, were untaken. Nothing had loved this unfortunate fellow; and yet, someone, somewhere, must have. He did not know who, or where, or why. He did not know what kind of life this skull's twin lived. But it was good, the Silverer felt, that he did. He stood, and strode off from the clearing; there was nothing suitable for his work here. Let these bones rest, and dream of somewhere else.