#most bewitching tale

[baeshijima]

being married to duke!blade is a feat inconceivable to many.

overseeing the northern region where monster outbreaks are high and temperatures are low, he is feared by many for not only his undeniable battle prowess, but also his cold and dismissive demeanour. from all the stories and rumours passed down from those who battled alongside the duke, it wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say his mere presence alone is sufficient enough to take on an entire army.

but despite his infamous personality, the young duke had made rounds within high society when he first showed his face. he was handsome, having that rugged appearance expected of a blood-soaked warrior residing on the battlefied, yet beautiful with a haunting allure — those crimson-marigold eyes of his can simultaneously bewitch an unassuming victim and bring the most prideful of monarchs down to their knees.

and, as expected of someone with such descriptors, many of the nobility found themselves drawn to him in spite of the rumours which clung to his very being. noble ladies wished to be the first he ever danced with, while many families seeked to gain even a morsel of his power through arranged marriages. relentless as they were, none succeeded in swaying the stone-cold duke.

and stone-cold he was upon your first meeting, albeit in… less than fortunate circumstances.

having meandered around the foresty northern borders not too far from where your family estate is, you certainly were not expecting to stumble across a rotting corpse smack-dab in the middle of your path! okay, well, rotting may not be the most suitable term, but the slumped body, battered and bruised and bloodied, you accidentally kicked was very much a corpse.

you had contemplated leaving the body there but, upon seeing a bloodied insignia of an all-too familiar ducal household, you decided you wanted to live a little longer. of course, this led to you lugging a slumped, muscle-packed warrior of a man all the way to where your estate was, heaving and huffing with your body trembling under the weight.

(to say you were just about ready to collapse when the family knights spotted your emerging figure was no understatement!)

whisked away into a guest room near your own, your parents called for the family doctor immediately. when the blood was cleaned and his wounds were wrapped, the sight of his injuries mending themselves was sure to be a sight you would never be able to rid your mind of. it was a strange but intriguing phenomenon to see his skin stitched anew, that horrid sight of him collapsed in the forestry almost like that of a dream.

your father immediately sent word to the duke’s estate to notify them of the circumstances. in the meanwhile, the man of the hour was unconscious for three days. seeing as how you were the one to find him, you took it upon yourself to help look after his well-being. changing his bandages, regularly wiping the accumulating sweat with a freshly damp cloth, ensuring the room is well-ventilated — you did the lot!

(sometimes you would stare at his resting face, wondering just how much more handsome he would be with his eyes open; only to retract that sentiment when recalling the tales about how his eyes could burn a man alive. exaggerated or not, he is still a dangerous individual you would rather not further entangle yourself with.)

with his people having retrieved their master from your care, promises of hefty compensation for taking care of their lord ringing in your ears, you were ready to sweep the whole ordeal under the rug and never get yourself involved with a man like him again! after all, he is the fearful duke responsible for your region, while you’re just another noble within his domain.

so, naturally, when you first heard of your soon-to-be marriage, you thought your parents did something to offend him and were sending you as a sacrifice meant to appease his wrath.

because, well, why else would the very same duke infamous for having zero interest in romantic and political marriages be sending a letter for your hand in marriage of his own accord? being unconscious the entirety of the time made him unable to see you, let alone know your family, so of course that meant his staff had filled him in on what happened. but why would he initiate this proposal without even knowing who you are first???

(did you get a say in this? no. would you have refused? yes. did your parents care about you and your well-being? aside from their apologetic gazes at your slack-jawed reaction and somewhat rational reasoning of “his grace may have an infamous reputation, but he is not a cruel ruler nor man,” you would like to deny the parental affection they have given you thus far in favour of objecting the claim.)

well, no matter. there was little time to prepare for his arrival to your estate, as the letter stated he would be arriving to escort you himself.

after much fuss over your clothing and luggage, the day arrived; you were going to see him again, except this time, he would see you as well.

a regal carriage entered the estate’s gates. the door swung open. a black gloved hand was the first to appear, followed by a ducked head of long navy hair, a familiar figure donning a freshly pressed suit and black overcoat, and finally — finally — a pair of burning crimson-marigold met your own gaze.

you weren’t sure if it was the adrenaline of your fight or flight response kicking in or the butterflies which ruptured within you that caused your heart rate to increase, but you found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from him.

he stopped in front of you, the features you once saw up close felt more complete than ever with the addition of his eyes open.

and thus, with your palm settled atop his outstretched gloved one, your fate was sealed.

(man. was this the compensation the staff were saying to you as they left…?)

that was two years ago.

savage. cold-blooded. inhumane. brute. monster. these were some of the ways in which duke blade was described. the man who currently sits on the edge of the bed watching you dress his wounds, however, is much different than the public opinion.

ever since exchanging vows at the altar and slipping sacred rings of matrimony onto each other’s fingers, you have come to know many sides of blade you never thought possible.

and while he rarely spoke in the beginning, his actions spoke louder than any voice could ever hope to measure up to. and, eventually, he became more vocal in regards to his feelings for you, just as you have with yours upon witnessing firsthand his true character.

from his battle-haggard, near manic state when on the verge of succumbing to the curse before falling into your healing embrace, to his tender fleeting touches and ever-adoring affection repressed within his gaze when in the presence of others, you have seen it all.

the process of getting to know and understand the intricacies of his life is almost like unravelling layers upon layers of thin bandage wrapped tightly around a gaping wound, hoping to block out the vulnerabilities which could be exposed. it was rocky at first, you being in an unfamiliar environment while he had his own inner battles to deal with first and foremost, but time carved its path for the two of you to partake in talks lasting late into the night, a subtle fondness growing more pronounced as familiarity grew alongside it.

and, of course, the time he returned from a subjugation battle-worn and mind having been overriden with mania. it was the first you’d seen him in such a loss of control. knights were rushing to subdue him while the servants desperately tried to usher your bewildered form some place safe, as though this had been a common occurrence well before you came into the picture. that hadn’t gone as planned, however, as the moment blade’s heaving figure locked eyes with you, a state of chaos ensued the moment he broke through the wall of knights with ease and appeared in front of you. no time was wasted when he lunged, a panic chorus of cries following suit as you remained rooted in place.

while you would never forget the blown-out, near-animalistic look in his eyes as he drew closer at an impossible speed, the gentle — almost reverent — manner in which he embraced you then, rigid body instantly relaxing against you, would forever be the turning point of your relationship, as well as a long-cherished memory of his first true feelings.

a dull sensation poking the space between your brows snaps you out of your thoughts. “stop frowning. i’ll be fine like always.”

your hands pause in their ministrations, hovering over his bare torso where you finished tying up a bandage. a blink and a sigh, another swab of disinfectant is in your hands working at the wound on his bicep.

“but that doesn’t mean i like seeing you return to me wounded,” you mutter bitterly, blatantly ignoring his stare. “i know you can take care of yourself, what with that regenerative ability of yours, but i still worry over you. you can still feel the pain, after all, and not to mention that curse—”

a swift tug forward abruptly cuts you off, your words fizzling on the tip of your tongue as a familiar warmth encases you in its entirety. instinctively, your hands grip onto his shoulders, the coarse material of bandages not unfamiliar to your touch, while blade’s hands are splayed across the expanse of your back as he holds you against his seated form.

his nose nudges along the slope of your neck, the shape of your jaw, the contours of your face, a trail of soft kisses leaving searing imprints in its wake.

a deep breath, a ticklish sensation, a thrumming heartbeat.

and when he rests his forehead against your own, crimson-marigold eyes dyed with devotion and seeping ardour, you think the world will be okay.

(even if it were to burst into flames and be reduced to ash, if it means you would be by this man’s side for a little longer, you think it will be okay.)

[serene-faerie]

Thinking about the gradual corruption of the Lay of Leithian in late-age Númenor.

The King's Men tell the story of a Beren who is "bewitched" by Lúthien's dancing. He is enamoured not by Lúthien's singing, but by her Elven beauty. They speak of a Beren who rescues Lúthien from her treehouse, stealing her away from Doriath. To the King's Men, Lúthien is a damsel in distress, oppressed by the ways of the evil Elves, and Beren is just a mortal man who "liberates" her. The King's Men erase Beren's genuine love and respect for Lúthien. They get rid of Beren's oath to Thingol. And most of all, they erase Lúthien's agency in the tale; they erase her own brave deeds like fighting Sauron and singing Morgoth to sleep. Instead, they give the credit to Beren alone. At this period, Elves aren't yet completely hated, but they are exoticized and fetishized by the King's Men. And they exoticize Lúthien so much until she is just a submissive Elven princess who is nothing more than a prize for Beren to "win".

The King's Men erase the sacrifice of Finrod Felagund and the ten brave Elves of Nargothrond. They ignore the hunting of Carcharoth, Beren protecting Thingol at the cost of his own life, and Lúthien's pleading song to Námo. To the King's Men, the Quest for the Silmaril ends when Beren takes the Silmaril from Morgoth, then brings it to Thingol and Melian. To the King's Men, Lúthien's immortality was stripped from her by her cruel parents, and she was banished from Doriath for daring to love a mortal man. They erase Lúthien's own choice, they ignore how Thingol and Melian accepted Beren in the end. And fundamentally, the King's Men misunderstand the lesson of the Leithian, that Lúthien chose mortality of her own free will for love.

Under the King's Men, the Lay of Leithian is stripped of everything that made it so beautiful and poignant. It's no longer a story of love and hope, but a story about a submissive Elven princess who runs away with a strong mortal man to escape the tyranny of the Eldar.

But thankfully, the true Lay of Leithian was well-preserved by the Faithful Númenóreans.

[wings-of-ink]

What are some IFs you recommend on steam? I played arcadie second born (very good game btw) and I'm trying to find some, but I don't really know where to look :C (big sad) so I ask of you, for you thy guidance dear great one 😌

Oh, this is a fun question. I have some VNs as well that I will include. I LOVED Arcadie too! Most IFs I read multiple times, but I devoured that one especially.

I typically use Steam to purchase some Hosted Games IFs or VNs. I don't typically like to read on my phone as much, so it works for me.

I'll list Wayhaven Chronicles & Blood Moon though I feel like they need no recommendation since most know of them, lol. But they have a special place in my little heart.

Another fav of mine is The Passenger, it's one that I read over and over too.

Let's see I also loved, Fields of Asphodel, The Midnight Saga, Vampires Kiss, Royal Affairs, Noblesse Oblige, Creme de la Creme, The Golden Rose, Fernweh Saga, and Fatehaven.

If you like VNs: Gilded Shadows (personal FAV), Bewitching Sinners, Changeling, Crimson Spires, Demonheart, Divine Speaker, Error 143, Obscura (demo-but soooo good already), Royal Affairs, Touchstarved (demo-also soooo good), Tailor Tales, Trouble Comes Twice, and When the Night Comes.

I hope you find some gems in there that you will love, my dear! ^_^

Wait, did you really just call me great one? LOL

[honeylullaby]

You have bewitched me, body and soul.

(Rivals) Rupert Campbell-Black x Reader

Suggestion by my sweet @megangovier 🫶🏽 / Although he finds dates terribly tedious, Rupert has to show up for his lady…

18+ FANFIC / Super sweet date with Rupert! Short Work. Reader character aged at 21. Hope you enjoy! 🩷

To put it bluntly, Rupert had been awful recently. Not returning your calls, smugly dismissing your idea of a date, jetting off to The Maldives right before your important appraisal at work. So you were more than surprised to hear the raucous beeping of a car outside your tiny cottage nestled into the bosom of Rutshire, and even more surprised to see Rupert — dressed impeccably in a two-piece grey suit — draped into his Porsche convertible on this fresh, bright Summer morning. Dressed rather elegantly in a loose white linen dress, blindingly white kitten heels and your tawny hair scraped into a bun, a few tendrils of loose curls escaping.. you pulled open the door and laughed defeatedly as Rupert wiggled his eyebrows towards you suggestively.

“What on Earth are you doing here?” You asked, feigning displeasure and crossing your arms over your chest. “I’ve been a terrible shit lately, angel. I’m sorry. Get in.” He called out to you, watching on smugly as he saw you spin to lock your door. Clambering into the passenger seat, you giggled in delight as the Porsche sped off, rolling over the hills of Penscombe. “Where are we going?” You question, closing your eyes and basking as the sunlight enveloped you like a warm embrace. “You’ll see.” He teased, waving every few moments to passer-by’s who undoubtedly recognised him and swooned at being noticed.

You paid no real attention as the car approached the heart of Cotchester, slowly beginning to halt outside the library. Cotchester Library was most certainly a grand building — made of limestone and magnificently large. “The library? You told me this was the worst idea for a date you could think of.” You tutted, hopping out of the car and frantically trying to maintain Rupert’s pace as he wandered through the doors. Whilst he did think the library was excruciatingly tedious, he would most certainly endure it to see that twinkling smile on your lips. You were most certainly in your element.

-

Meandering through the library’s aisles at a lackadaisical pace, Rupert began to tear books away from their shelf. “1801 - I have just returned from a visit to my landlord… Dear God, this is just a diary. What is this drivel?” He questioned, rolling his eyes pompously. “Wuthering Heights,” You whispered, prising the book from between his fingers, “It’s a love story. Between a strong-willed heroine and the Byronic hero that falls in love with her.” You inform him, an air of a chastising tone in your voice. Rupert rolled his eyes once more and continued to silently judge the literature section. “Do you… have a favourite book then?” Rupert attempted to whisper, and couldn’t quite believe he was asking such a mundane question. “I do, actually.” You mutter, and pull out Pride and Prejudice. “I’ve read this.” Rupert enlightened you as his eyes scanned the title, and your heart could’ve flipped itself over in delight. He took a hold of your hands and cupped them over his chest, allowing you to feel his heart thumping rhythmically in his chest. “You have bewitched me, body and soul. And I love, I love, I love you.” He quoted before planting a soft kiss on your lips.

There was no love story that you adored more than that of yours and Rupert’s — the intimacy written between these lines forever immortalising your fairy tale.

[draco-dormiens]

FOR ALL THAT IS RIGHT AND JUST - Chp. 1

auror!draco x auror!fem!slytherin reader / post-war au

a/n: sorry about my inconsistent ass. i'm hoping you enjoy this first chapter after i changed it a little, makes better sense for the story to come. sit back and relax cos this is nearly 4000 words bby ♡

warnings: talk of the war, people missing/kidnapping, strong language, mutual pining

wc: 3984

tags: @yeolsbubbles @send-me-styles @shinytalent

tag list open!!

masterlist

Ministry Mayhem

London, 1st May 2007

In the early hours of Tuesday morning, as the sun rose and began to cast it's orangey glow through the gaps in the bedroom curtains, the first ring of an alarm blared a rather unwelcome sound throughout the quietness of the small London flat that you called home. Sleepily, you peel your eyes open to read the time; 6:15am. With a soft grunt, you reach out to slam the snooze button with all the strength you could muster. A typical day, no less, was awaiting you at the Auror office of the British Ministry of Magic, and it was about to wait a little longer, too.

Besides, it wasn't as if anything was in dire need of solving. For the last ten years, the wizarding world had come to know a peace that had long escaped it. The fear and uncertainty that comes with nasty rumours, shadowy figures and the whispers of war was long over now. Harry Potter had fought and won against the most fearsome Dark Wizard in all of history, and now he was keeping the peace as Head of the Auror Office. Although, it wasn't all that exciting nowadays. The more gripping cases ranged from bewitched broomsticks to Oblivating Muggles in the wrong place at the wrong time. It certainly wasn't taking a whole team of Aurors to clear the workload, with most officers getting fidgety and frustrated. It was as if they wanted something to happen; in your eyes, you'd rather be Oblivating an elderly woman who saw a young boy riding a broomstick over London than some raging lunatic.

The clock blares again. Another tap of the snooze button. For a moment, you thought you'd heard knocking at your window. No, you think, I'm just tired. Five more minutes and I'll get up.

It wasn't your first choice, becoming an Auror. During your school years as a young Slytherin, you were certain it was Ancient Runes that you would pursue. That was long before the brewing storm started to reach its boiling point, clouding up any chance you had of finishing school. The prospect of war had reached civilians, and along with it a great fear of the unknown. It was perilous to venture outside of your home; your parents had been cautious to send you back for sixth year. The rumours were terrible. Frightening, even, especially when it was becoming clearer that most of them were true. Even the ones in your own family. A vivid memory of your father arguing in hushed whispers with your uncle one night over Christmas break, had solidified a fear that had been nagging your parents for a long while.

"You can't," your father said, almost spitting the words as you pressed your ear to the door, "don't go to him. Don't give your life away for something so ludicrous."

Your friends began whispering amongst themselves. Troublesome tales of someone you had known your whole life had started circulating around the school. A hard pill to swallow, but one you had to force down eventually.

"My parents said he's right," Pansy had muttered one night in the common room, the glow of the fire just lighting up her face, "I'm starting to think that following him is the better way to go."

"Have you seen Draco lately? He looks dreadful. His attitude is somehow worse." Daphne whispered, and then gulped, "you don't think... surely not, right? He's only our age."

"Dunno, heard his father was a follower during the first war," Blaise then added, looking around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "I wouldn't hold your breath. I think he's one of them."

You stir in your sleep as if an unpleasant dream had began to plague your slumber. The clock blares its final warning, and with it, a series of sharp, jarring taps at your window that only grow in volume the longer you lay there. Groggily, you get up, slamming the alarm clock as you make your way to the impatient visitor. As you pull back the curtain, you see a familiar owl perched on the window sill with a letter secured in its beak. You open the window and gently take it from it's grip, and with a mighty swoosh of its wings, it soars off over the city. Ripping open the letter, you hadn't bothered to notice the wax seal of the Auror office, and begin to read:

Get down to the office as soon as you can. Sending this to everyone. It's serious.

From the handwriting you can tell who the sender is. Though still half asleep, you understand the urgency and begin rushing to get dressed. As you button the last hole on your blouse, readying yourself to enter the Ministry through the Floo network, you hear a knock at your door. Grumbling about who it could be and marching across the living room, you swing it open to be met with your, quite literal, partner in crime.

"Draco." You say simply, a smile ghosting your lips. He beams back, his attire as pristine as if he just walked out of the store. His white hair not an inch out of place, his black suit and white button down completely creaseless, and a glimmering Auror badge on his jacket to top it all off. He flashes a pearly white smile, leaning against the door frame with that same old cocky demeanour. Draco appears in some of your earliest memories as a child, and even now in work, he was a significant part of your everyday life. Growing up as children of wealthy pureblood families, it was a regular practice to mingle with those of your kind. Even though his personality was an acquired taste, despite your differing views and childish bickering, he was still both a thorn in your side and a priceless friend.

Friend. For as long as you can remember.

"Morning, take it you got Potters note?" He said, sauntering in to your apartment like it was his own, "reckon he's being a bit dramatic, don't you? Probably just dropped a biscuit in his brew."

"I doubt he'd send an owl all over London for a biscuit, Draco," you call back, hurrying to get the rest of your things together before leaving, "I think something is genuinely wrong, and I'm a little worried if I'm honest. We haven't had anything major in... well, forever."

"You know, if you'd told me in like, fifth year, that one day I'd be clambering out of bed before seven in the morning for Potter, I'd probably have pitched myself off the highest turret." Draco said dramatically, just after accusing Harry of being equally as ridiculous.

"Stop moaning and get in the fireplace," you said as if it were something normal people say on a regular basis, "we need to get down there and find out what's happening."

Draco, still mumbling, clambers into your fireplace and waits for you to squeeze in next to him. Much smaller than his own, he's bent doubly to get in, and ushers you to get the Floo powder before his back gives in. His moaning is only met with a rather stern look from yourself. You take a handful of Floo powder from the little bag sitting on the hearth, and take Draco's hand in yours. With a chant, you fling the powder down at your feet, and with a puff of green smoke, you both disappear, leaving the small flat empty and silent.

In the blink of an eye, you're no longer standing in your living room, but instead in the shiny, emerald tiled entrance to the Ministry. Draco dusts himself down, tutting at the slight specs of soot on his jacket, not noticing how you've become stiff with shock.

"Bloody Floo network," he mumbles to himself, coming to stand beside you, "how are you spotless? It's always me that gets-"

He stops his rambling when his eyes follow your line of vision to see the hoard of people just up ahead, swarming the foyer like ants, an incoherent jumble of noises filling the air from cries to shouts. All extremely well dressed and rather wealthy looking, you both got the impression that these people were not average witches and wizards: they were, in fact, much like yourselves - from old, pureblood money.

"What in Merlin's name is all of this?" You mutter, mostly to yourself, as your feet start to carry you towards the mess, Draco following behind. In the midst of all the chaos, is Delphina Sallow, the lady that usually operates the front desk of the Auror office. Delphina was a tall, slender woman with very dark hair and pale blue eyes, which were a striking contrast to her rather ghostly complexion. A nervous sort of woman, she was struggling immensely in a heated conversation with a man you recognised as Mr Selwyn, whose son was in your year at Hogwarts. Much larger than back then, with his pointer finger jabbing the air furiously, he seems to be, at best, enraged.

"This is a travesty, young lady!" He bellows at Delphina, who has resorted to using her clipboard for protection against the wave of saliva, "my son has been taken, taken I tell you, right from under our noses! Sleeping soundly he was; I can see him sitting there during third supper, not a care in the world, enjoying his fourth lamb chop like the innocent boy he is. I demand justice, young lady, or so help me I'll sue the entire Auror office for all it's bloody well worth."

"P-please, sir, I'm only the receptionist, I-I don't have any authority to help you-"

"No authority?" Mr Selwyn shouts with such force, his large moustache almost flies off of his round, purple face, "I do not care for your position, young lady, get me someone who can find my son or I'll be in the right mind to get you fired. I know people in high places, you know!"

"Excuse me," you interrupt as you reach them, Delphina's face washing over with absolute relief, "can I ask what's going on here? Miss Sallow is not an officer, sir. If you have concerns, please take them up with someone clearly wearing a badge."

You point abruptly to the shining Auror badge on your jacket. Mr Selwyn scoffs irritably.

"Well, miss badge, I demand you find my son. At once." He rounds on you, his large, bulbous belly almost touching you before he can get any closer. Draco appears almost instantly, standing just in front of you, the most condescending smile curling at his lips, trying and failing to hide the clear desire to swing a fist into Mr Selwyns beetroot coloured face.

"If you get any closer, sir, I may have to resort to unsavoury means. All in the name of law, you understand." Draco stood completely straight, towering over the stumpy Mr Selwyn, to which the angered man grunted something under his breath before waddling off to his next victim.

"Thank you," Delphina sighs, dabbing the sweat on her forehead with a handkerchief, "he's not the only one I've dealt with this morning. So many reports of missing persons, all within the last few hours or so. I-it's my day off, I'm only here on Mr Potter's orders."

"As are we, Miss Sallow," Draco smiles at Delphina, to which she blushes furiously, "I think you should head back up. Tell Potter we're here, would you?"

As if the Minister himself had instructed her, she scurries off to the lifts.

"Honestly, you could tell Del to jump off a cliff." You scoff lightheartedly, turning back to see a rather smug looking Draco, as he simply fixes his tie and winks down at you.

"It's the charm, darling. Don't say it doesn't affect you, too."

Before he can bask in your flustered reaction, off in the distance, amongst more distraught civilians, you spot Cerberus Langarm, fellow Auror, rushing through the crowds of people with a look of pure determination on his face. You tug on Draco's arm, inciting him to follow you, as you battle through to chase Cerberus. Amid the madness, you hear a mixture of complaints and angry voices from the hoard of people. As you close in on Cerberus, you call out to him, causing him to halt and turn at the sound of your voice.

"I take it you both got letters, then?" Cerberus says as you reach him, "didn't know what we'd be walking into, but this is something else. Somehow, I don't think it's about a bewitched broomstick this time."

Cerberus Langarm was a tall, well built man with sun-kissed, olive skin and dark, shaved hair. He kept a very neatly trimmed moustache, and under his left eye was a deep scar that covered most of his cheek. He was a man dedicated to his duty, and other aspects of his life came second to it, which Draco often made a joke about. Cerberus was a well accomplished man of the law, and highly respected amongst his fellow officers and higher ups.

Sometimes, you wondered if Draco was a little jealous of Cerberus and his undeniable ability to walk into a room and make it sing for him.

"Delphina said something about missing person reports," you being to explain as the three of you make for the lifts, "and I have noticed something; most of these people, they look like a certain group of wizards. Don't you think?"

"You mean rich, pompous purebloods who have nothing better to do than flash their money and complain about Muggles?" Cerberus said, "yeah, they seem the sort. All I know is that Potter better have an explanation for all of this."

The lifts were especially busy; people were squashed like sardines in a can, garnering irritable tuts and mumblings amongst the staff trying to reach their destinations. The three of you manage to squeeze into a lift heading for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; whispers of the going's on in the foyer filled the usually awkward silence, as the relatively short journey felt like an eternity.

Once the lift had landed at the correct floor, the three of you took no time in squeezing out of the overflowing space and into the open air. For what felt like a moment of relief, was soon overtaken by the mayhem that you were presented with. The department was practically torn apart; papers everywhere, frantic officers pacing back and forth between rooms, folded notes in the shape of paper airplanes zoomed up and down the hallway, narrowly missing your head when one bolted for the lift doors, making it just in time before they slammed shut.

"Salazar's mother," Cerberus muttered, looking back at yourself and Draco whose eyes were transfixed by the sight, "we better find Potter."

Meanwhile, inside Harry's office, stood Harry and Auror Penelope Fawley, assessing the multitude of reports from that morning. They could hear the muffled sound of panic outside, the office workers were working relentlessly to try and get some sort of order in the place. Piles of letters sat upon Harry's desk, as the two of them read aloud the contents of the reports.

"During the night we heard strange ongoings in the neighbours backyard, sounds of magic and a man's voice," says Penelope outloud, "my husband got out of bed and lit up the room with his wand, before trekking down the stairs to peer out of the kitchen window. He thinks he saw two people appartating from the neighbours garden, but his eyesight is not what it used to be. Then, at around 5:30am, we received a knock on the door. It was Mrs Selwyn. Her son was missing."

Penelope, a fair-haired, pretty woman with dark blue eyes and black rimmed glasses, ran her perfectly manicured finger across the parchment as she read. Harry, now pacing up and down the office with his chin in his hand, listened carefully to what Penelope was reading aloud. She places down the parchment and picks up another letter, tearing it open and unfolding the note inside. Penelope clears her throat and begins reading once more:

"I received an owl from my sister a few days ago. She was worried that someone had been outside her house during the night, but couldn't seem to undo the Colloportus charm her husband casts on all the doors when he works nights. She has young children, and they live in a relatively secluded place." Penelope read, and then perched against the desk, "I owled back immediately, but didn't seem to receive a reply. Then around 6:00am this morning, her husband, Blaise Zabini, showed up at our door. My sister, Daphne Zabini, was missing from her bed when he returned home from work. The children were still sound asleep and seemingly untouched."

Harry comes to a halt at the window overlooking Muggle London below. With a great sigh, he rubs his tired eyes that had been awake since the early hours of the morning. As he turns to speak to Penelope, they both hear heavy, hurried footsteps beyond the door, and within a few seconds, you burst in, all guns blazing, Cerberus and Draco in hot pursuit.

"I do hope you have an explantation, Harry," you pant slightly, "what on earth is happening? Missing witches and wizards - and what was Delphina doing in foyer; she was getting practically spat at by Mr Selwyn, and not to mention the hoard of people downstairs, and the office-"

"Thank you, officer Y/L/N, I'm well aware of the situation both outside my door and in the foyer. In fact, I've been well aware of it since three this morning, so, if you’d be so kind as to ask one question at a time, I'd really appreciate it." said Harry, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Draco stifles a laugh behind you.

"Potter," Cerberus advances forward with urgency, "any kind of light you can shed."

Harry composes himself, and then walks over to his desk, pushing forward what looked like a collection of personal files from the Ministry of Magic Archives; somewhere that a person would need all kinds of permissions to enter. It contained many records - such as historical records, every single published issue of The Daily Prophet, various magical projects and, most importantly, personal files of every witch or wizard that comes into magic across the country.  Draco, his interest now peaked, gently brushes past you with a hand at the small of your back, his eyebrows knitted together in a very curious expression. He begins shuffling through them, his features relaxing into more concern than curiosity when he realises each and every one of them have a big, red stamp across the front that read: Missing.

"These," he breathes, looking up at Harry, who's expression was more exhaustion than anything else, "these are all purebloods... I know half of 'em. Nott, for one. Scrawny devil."

"They all look the sort in the foyer, too," adds Cerberus, "lots of old money and questionable bloodlines down there. Odd coincidence?"

"Not likely," pipes up Penelope, who lifts herself elegantly off the edge of the desk, "every single one of these witches and wizards have gone missing during the last few hours. All of them, and without a single trace. No signs of break ins, no signs of struggle or injury at the locations they went missing from. It's a fair assumption to say they have been kidnapped - and not by some amature."

"So you're saying that a whole bunch of wizards from pure bloodlines have just miraculously been taken from their beds in the night. For what reason, exactly?" Draco raises an eyebrow at Penelope. She doesn't look too impressed by his questioning of her theory.

"Malfoy," Harry said, not with his usual air of authority, however, it was far more pleading, "Penelope has a point. Let me give the bigger picture," Harry slumps down onto his office chair with a heaving sigh, before tucking himself under the desk and resting his elbows on the surface, hands intertwined, "I was called in by the Minister at three o'clock this morning. That's when the first report came in about a missing person. Not long after that, they started coming in troves. One after the other, we couldn't keep up. Hence why I owled," he took a pause, "Penelope was first here, and with her help, we retrieved the personal reports to further investigate the missing persons. We made the connection of their blood status quite quick, and have since then been trying to theorise as to why it only seems to be witches and wizards of a certain blood status."

"I'd say that was quite obvious," said Cerberus, who was a rather serious and right-to-the-point kind of officer, "someone out there has a grudge against them, surprisingly," he said with an air of sarcasm, "but it can't just be one person that has done all of this; there must be some sort of group or organisation. No one, even with magic, can be in all of those places at once."

Penelope suddenly gasped, and everyone looked around at her.

"What about Hogwarts? They need informing immediately. The amount of students, and faculty, that could be in danger tomorrow," she said with the utmost seriousness, "I can go, Harry. I can fly to Hogsmeade, they won't know a thing unless-"

"Thank you, Penelope, but I have already considered Hogwarts," Harry cut her off gently, and her shoulders slumped in relief, "in fact, I need to speak to Y/L/N and Malfoy. Langarm and Fawely - you go down into the foyer and tell the public to go home and rest. There's nothing more we can do right now without some more information."

The other two left, leaving Harry, Draco and yourself alone in his messy office. Once the door had been shut softly, he ushers you both to take a seat in front of him. You both do so, as Harry relaxes a little in his plush office chair, relishing of the quietness for a moment. 

"As you may already be aware, it's the tenth year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts tomorrow and a memorial service is being held at the school," Harry begins to explain, "myself and Ron were invited by McGonagall as guests to represent the Ministry, and well, for other obvious reasons," he waves a dismissive hand, "however, with all this, I think it best we stay here. I'd much rather be there to support McGonagall, but I feel it's necessary that I'm accessible. So, instead, I'm sending you too to keep watch."

"Me?" Draco exclaims. Harry raises his eyebrows at the sudden outburst, "I hardly doubt they'd want me there, Potter. Can you imagine their faces?"

"I'm not sending you as guests, Malfoy," Harry reiterates, "I'm sending you as Ministry officials. You won't need to do anything drastic. I just want you to keep an eye on things. I'll send other officers too, as we might need to change protocol slightly to ease McGonagall's mind. Merlin knows she'll panic when she receives the owl I'm going to send."

"You can count on us, Harry." You say with utter confidence, "If anything happens, I'll inform you immediately. My owl is rather good at finding me in a tight situation."

"Thank you," he smiles kindly, Draco now completely silent, "now, you'll need to take the train to Hogwarts with the guests of the ceremony. I'd feel much better if you were on that train. I can't have eyes everywhere, so be my eyes. Got it?"

With a very sure nod, you rise from your seat, pulling an extremely quiet Draco up with you by the arm. You could tell he was bothered about returning to the school, even after all this time, but you had every bit of confidence in him. Even if he had none in himself.

disclaimer: i do not own harry potter or any of the characters or storyline associated with it.

[anika-ann]

Ocaruj me (Bewitch Me) - S.R.

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; drabbl-ish; a part of this pseudo-medieval-fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 2k

Summary: Knight Steven Rogers is a man with love. That love is you. His beautiful lady who bewitched his soul even without the supernatural powers you possess. He'll follow you anywhere.

It that means bathing in a lake in a moonlight, so be it.

Warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, unprotected sex (shocking in medieval times huh), bit of angst, fluff, knight Steve ‘cause he’s a warning, Slovak language ‘cause I can

A/N: Actual title is Očaruj mě (Bewitch Me) ...tumblr cannot handle a "č" and an “ě“ in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; inspired by THIS ask (you can find headcanons and a playlist there)

A/N 2: Chronologically fits before the events of Pomiluj mě, but if you read this first, you will spoil some of the reveals.

Magic is a dark evil thing; that is what all knights of the kingdom are reminded during their studies and training.

Magic is the wicked twine that curls around your wrist when you reach out a hand, grips you tight and drags you towards perdition.

Magic takes face of a twisted beauty, a temptress, and leads you down the path of sin with a smile worth of the Devil himself.

Magic only knows curses and wrongs.

Sir Steven Rogers knows these axioms by heart.

Steve knows they are horseshit; or at least fail to fulfil the basic rule of an axiom, which is supposed to be universality.

In Steve’s eyes, people are corrupted by many things, amongst which there is the power that comes with magic. That much is true. But the nature of magic itself is pure; t reveals the person wielding it and amplifies who they already are.

Steve would only agree with part of the axiom second to last, assured whenever he sees you. He would now too, standing near the bank of a lake, still fully clothed, his gaze inevitably drawn to the enticing image in front of him.

You, standing to the waist in the water, dressed in but the luxurious robe of moonlight caressing your skin and wearing the lake like the richest skirt; your hair cascading down freely like an elaborate veil, the commonly dark ink of your tattoo reaching from the side of your neck down your shoulder shinning bright.

When you glance over your shoulder, eyes glimmering more entrancingly than the moon and the stars combined, lips curling in a smile, the last thing Steve would compare you to would be the Devil, a dark evil thing.

The truth, however, is that if you did decide to drag him towards his end, he would follow voluntarily, heart pounding just as hard as it is now, with warmth in his chest and searing heat in is gut.  

When you speak his name, a sweet ‘rytier moj’, you indeed are every bit of a temptress, the seductress steering him toward the most beautiful of sins; but not in the name of evil.

In the name of love.

“How is it that you are not cold, bosorka moja? And by gods, remind me, love, why is it that I should follow?” he asks with a grin on his lips, as if he does not feel every ounce of his body being pulled to you by the alluring image of you alone, by the promise of the feel of your skin under his fingertips, of the taste of your lips, of your wickedly delicate hands touching him in ways no unwed lovers should.

You have told him there was a deeper meaning in bathing in that particular lake on this very night, but as fascinated as he always is by your faiths and magic, you have been convincing him with your lips whispering to his own, causing his memory to be considerably less reliable, his mind much more pliant.

You turn around to face him fully, your watery skirt swirling; Steve’s mouth turns dry at the sight of your stiff nipples and plump breasts, his last reservations dispersing as his pants become uncomfortably tight.

“For this lake is believed to possess supernatural properties, rytier moj. For I know it does,” you remind him gently, your gaze trailing down his body in appreciation as he sheds his cloak, his tunic and pants.

You once told him what you saw when he did and have aided him in recalling it quite frequently.

Beauty.

Strength.

Goodness.

Safety.

Home.

And desires personified.

Steve is only a man; all these are virtues in his mind, privileges, and the one that is not makes him preen all the more.

Dark eyes glimmering in the moonlight, your smile earns a teasing edge even as your words begin with gravity.

“Bathing in the light of the full moon nearest to the summer solstice makes one stronger. Something my knight might appreciate. I know I for sure would, since he insists on recklessly risking his life.”

His own lips curl up, heart humming with tenderness; he is cared for. He is worried about. He is loved. He is not the only one who has the comfort of a lover on their mind. Perhaps it is for ‘lovers’ is not quite the word fit for where his heart quivers in the matter of you and him. Not the only word.

Desire personified.

Gorgeous temptress.

But also beloved.

Láska moja.

Bosorka moja.

Home.

“All knights do, bosorka moja,” he says as he steps into the water, the liquid welcoming him with an unexpected sensation of cold and warmth combined.

Where his skin meets the water, immersed deeper with each tentative step on the invisible rocky floor, he is enveloped with an unfamiliar sensation, the warmth seeping into his skin almost violently, leaving gentle tingling in its wake.

His lungs expand. His heart thunders. His muscles ache until they feel as light as a feather. His large bones seem to harden, his joints feel stronger but pliant. His blood pumps vigorously, forcing a shuddering breath out of his chest.

Well, he’ll be damned; he would be if he wasn’t so blessed. He would never doubt you again. Not that he ever truly did.

You watch him, a hypnotic and hypnotizing gaze, soaked in the satisfaction and desire having thickened your tenderness. Your skin almost glows and Steve understands that his eyes were not deceiving him earlier. He is not the only one absorbing power; yours might be different in nature from his, so different and ethereal, a true force of nature, but a power nevertheless. And as you soaked in the water, your immense power grew further.

“And yet, I have not seen any knight, soldier or mercenary, nor the clumsiest commoner with as many scars, nor I saved them from so many,” you oppose him, still playful; yet, your voice has earned a husky quality Steve is drawn to like a mot to a flame, his steps growing confident.

For almost every step he takes, you take one back, away from him, sinking deeper, hiding your tempting body from his hungry sight. A delightful feigned chase begins, one of which you both know will only end in bodies intertwined. A dance Steve knows, for he has felt its thrill before, for he has danced with you before; he has danced lips to lips, hands to hips, hips to hips, lips attached to your mound with hooded eyes too, senses enveloped with heady primal need, laced with love both corporal and intangible.

It all hums within him, pounds with force bolstered by the magic surrounding him. You feel it too; he reads as much in your features.

“You haven’t seen them naked either,” he notes, a slight smile remaining.

The conversation continues even as it fades.

You hum with a smile of your own, stopping at last as takes three long strides and catches up with you, gazing up at him with a sweet challenge he cannot refuse. “That is true, rytier moj.”

But that is not what your body whispers, already miles ahead when only inches from him.

Touch me, it coaxes him instead.

Hold me.

Love me.

Have me.

Fill me.

Make me sing for you. Only for you.

Do as you crave; I crave the same, just as much.

Who is he to deny a lady? Who is he to deny you, especially when the wordless pleas entice him, please him, echo his own?

The slight prickle of strength reborn, one unknown to ordinary men, still heats his very core, his lips speaking on their own even as his fingers wander with purpose, over the skin of your waist, down your hip, over your belly button, to your sternum, over the swell of your breast, stepping closer to feel your hardened peaks brush against his chest, eliciting a breathy sound of his name amongst his questions.

“What of other blessed nights bathing in this lake? Equinoxes as well?”

Your hands move with purpose too; mapping the constellations of freckles and moles on his body, caressing the planes of strengthened muscle with teasing lightness. Your touch is surprisingly warm, Steve realizes distantly, his head and hands full of you; if he did not know better, if he did not know you were a witch, he would think you an entirely different magical species.   

As you nod and explain, your hand rises above water, stroking over his shoulder – the water follows seemingly effortlessly, swirling and curling around your palm; even as you speak, he shudders under the touch where your hands could not have possibly reached him, not at so many places at once; and yet, every single of these caresses are just as warm, loving and teasing as those of your own fingers.

With how you bended the water to your will, Steve would have thought you were born to do so. He would have thought he found himself a water nymph instead. His breathtaking, enchantingly playful water nymph.

“Bathing in the lake on a new moon nearing the spring equinox breeds rebirth, ridding of all old aches, body and heart,” you explain quietly, intimately, as your fingers tease along the dip along his hips, his own hands grasping your soft flesh with urgency growing. “First new moon after the autumn equinox calls upon the forest spirits, their protection, bringing the wiseness of our ancestors with their blessings.”

Steve’s head is full of you; your words, almost fairy-tale like, but spoken with reverence of a person who knows them true, whose rituals has called upon the forces of nature and has been rewarded for it, blessed by them.

His hands are full of you too and as his heart sings.

The rest of his body vibrates with need, impatient fingers slipping lower, towards your core, teasing alongside your slit. Even as he asks the only natural question, his focus is elsewhere, fingertip dipping into your welcoming heat, his lips whispering against yours, your hips eagerly meeting his touch.

“And what of winter solstice, bosorka moja? Tell me,” he coaxes, revelling in your playful touch turning into a grip on his hip instead, other hand wrapping around his own to urge him to sink his finger deeper, for another to join.

Who is he to deny you again? His bewitching water nymph, whose heat would envelop him just as welcomingly as the water of the lake and fill him with just as much exceptional powerful sensation...

Love her.

Take her.

Protect her.

Make her mine.

“It keeps your heart warm,” you sigh, mouth chasing after his, fingertips finally brushing over his hardness, curling around the length and squeezing and twisting enough for his strained muscles to melt, rushing to lift your leg to wrap around his waist, opening you up for him, your taste, your scent, your husky voice like the most tempting trap he rushes into with vigour and pride. “Keeps your love safe. On the full moon close--- oh Steve— closest to the solstice- preserving it even through the— the harshest of winters----Steven!

The steady movements of his fingers stutter at the needy pulsing grip around them, eliciting another and another, his thumb brushing over your clit, mouth slanting over yours to swallow your cries of ecstasy, cradling your head to his as your hips keep rocking into his hand. You’ll feel like heaven, like you always do, but the burst inside him at feeling your pleasure coaxed by him is almost, almost enough.

“I’ll be here,” he promises against your lips, kissing you again, tipping your head back, your body so gorgeously pliant to his greedy touch. “I will be here, with you, every quarter a year. Every month, every day, love.”

“Ľubim ťa,” you gasp and Steve makes another promise, to not meet you here, but bring you. Bring you from your shared home at last, because even by the damn equinox, he will have done you right, a ring on your finger, his everything made yours, as you deserve.

“Ľubim ťa, bosorka moja,” he whispers back, a chuckle escaping him when his eyes flutter open, offered a sight of soft sprinkles and curls of water rising above the surface and glimmering in the moonlight.

Your magic exploding outside of you as pleasure fills your veins.

Steve is certain it will never cease to amaze him; or spur him to coax something even more fascinating when chasing his own peak and yours together, even as that alone is a gift he cherishes.

Your hands slide to his shoulders for leverage as his fingers leave you empty, moving to your bottom to lift you up, sliding in almost effortlessly.    

No words are needed then. As you connect your bodies and souls alike, the water keeps dancing.

You glow behind Steve’s hooded eyes, tattoo shining as bright as your affection, beauty and goodness, a reminder that no, magic could not be further from the darkness in corporal form. In every waking moment, he would swear he has never seen, nor heard, nor felt anything more beautiful and lighter than you, even with a face and voice of a temptress you embody.

The only sin you have led him to, the only speckle of shame on his honour, is the one he will remedy soon and has nothing do with your magical nature.

No, not the Devil; a goddess in your own right.

And you have not cursed him, no. Sir Steven Rogers, tvoj rytier, entirely bewitched, feels blessed.

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Terms of endearment from Slovak language: Rytier moj (My knight) Bosorka moja (Witch mine) Láska moja (Love mine) Ľubim ťa (I love you)

I hope you enjoyed, loves 💕 Please consider leaving feedback/reblog/anything if you did 🥰

May April be kind to you 🌼✨

[marwen-prince-of-dusk]

To Soothe A Burning Heart

A Messmer the Impaler x Reader Fanfiction, written at the request of a dear friend.

Debut work by Marwen, Prince of Dusk. ---------------------------------

A once radiant sun, dulled by the velvety shroud of the Erdtree, looms overhead.

Warm and dreary the land may seem, a dry coldness bites through the air.

Certainly a cool that would be alien to those held warmly within the bosom of Shadow Keep, nestled firmly atop the rolling hills just past Castle Ensis. 

The black fortress was helmed by a great, red maned serpent; Known by most as The Impaler, he was formerly embraced by the matriarch of the golden lineage, Queen Marika.

Yes, indeed, Queen Marika was once mother to the infamous red prince.

The tale known to few that it may be, The Impaler has indeed lived a long, ghastly life.

However; Therein lies your purpose.

Your duty within Shadow Keep, an attendant to The Impaler himself, is to ease his suffering. To tend his wounds, to mend his heart, to lend your gentle touch and whisper into his ear nothing but the sweetest songs of comfort and ease.

Yet, you would not dare call him “The Impaler”, no; Such an action would see his spear through your heart.

The only name of your lord, of course, is Messmer.

Messmer..

Oh, Messmer..

His beauty had ensnared you once more. His marred body had started to clear slightly whilst under your supervision, and after so many centuries, you had begun to develop an appreciation for his gaunt features. Of course, a son of Queen Marika was sure to be no less than tantalising; However, a chill runs up your spine while you are lost within your thoughts. 

The fiery gaze with which he pierces the solemn darkness of his chambers..

The very same fiery gaze that seems to be meeting yours at this very moment.

Of course, you’d been staring at him. Watching him. Observing him during a rare period of rest… You must have drifted off into thought, as you often do while admiring his figure from afar.

Messmer seems unbothered by this, if a bit curious.

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade through mortal flesh. With his attention gained, his crimson snakes flourish, as their flames light his face dimly.

He speaks out to you;

“Your eyes. They’ve been loath to leave me, for quite some time. Whyever wouldst thou glare at me in such a manner? With such.. want?”

You are startled by his voice, as you’ve rarely heard him speak. After all, there is little that needs to be communicated to those who understand their role.

You attempt to respond to his admittedly forward line of questioning, but you are unable to utter a single word. Perhaps it is the duality of his beauty that has caught your tongue? You can not say for certain, although what can and can not be said matters little when faced with further inquisition from such an intense man.

“You would draw attention to my wounds.. To my scars. With intent to ‘fix’.”

Still stricken soundly by a heavy silence, you can barely turn your head.

“Such is your duty as my attendant, I suppose. You are bewitched by silence, and yet the expression upon your face is singing me a song carrying with it not an inkling of subtlety.”

Messmer extends his hand to you with slight caution, owing to his little experience in being the first to engage.

You place your hand in his palm, gently feeling over his calluses. They were surely formed as a result of the constant battles from ages past; It had been clear before that Messmer was no stranger to violence, but to feel even a fraction of the toll it had taken on his body left a feeling of pity somewhere deep within your heart.

A sea of warmth comes over you, as you feel the urge to embrace him. Unsure of the consequences of doing so, there was indeed hesitation.

Understanding fully that such a deed could possibly end in your likeness haunting him as nothing more than another mounted corpse among the countless others, you place your hands upon his face.

It’s softer than you had thought it would have been. As you caress his cheeks softly, Messmer’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

It’s true; He had never experienced a love such as this, even from his own mother. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about her~ He had spent a vast majority of his life taking orders from the woman, and the series of events that led up to the two of you sharing each other’s company in this very moment were indeed events that weighed heavily upon his mind.

This feeling was something new. A warmth that he had never experienced previously, not in all of his thousands of years of life.

A flame unlike any that he had used in his crusade against the towerfolk of Belurat.

“You’d..”

He looks down towards the stone floor, then back up slightly.

“You would have…”

He pauses, taking a moment to think to himself.

“Me?”

He looks you in the eye, and places his hand on yours.

You nod to him slowly, bringing him in as you wrap your arms around him and rest your head over his shoulder.

He seems bewildered, caught off guard.

With hesitation, he brings his hand to your back and presses you gently against his chest, mindful of the serpent protruding from his body.

You break away from his chest after a few minutes, looking into his golden eyes.

You slowly lift the helmet from his head, running your fingers through his coarse hair. It’s lost its vibrancy and lustre over the centuries, having been resigned to solitude in Shadow Keep away from the kiss of sunlight.

With your fingernails, you brush it carefully so as to not break any of his fragile locks. Messmer seems to relax slightly while you care for his hair, letting out a quiet, if shaky, sigh of relief.

He closes his eyes slowly, allowing himself to be vulnerable. You let him down slowly, setting his head down on your lap as you continue to brush through his hair with your fingers.

After a while, you stop and lean down to kiss softly the head of the sleeping prince.

This was your purpose.

Having exchanged no words, Messmer understood it just as well as you did.

For the first time in his life, he had felt fulfilled, though he knew not the word for such a strange feeling.

As the dark sun sets over the Land of Shadow, a moon rises in it’s place and shines through the entrance, lighting Messmer’s face. He looks.. Content. At ease.

There is no telling what will happen when dawn breaks.

What he will say, what he will do. If he will even acknowledge today’s events.

But even he, in his slumber, knew this much…

“Contempt..”

“Hatred..”

“Guilt..”

“Shame..”

“All burns away when your kindly hand meets mine.”

“For this, I couldn’t, with any worldly power, let you go;”

“I’d sooner let our lands of shadow burn than live an eternity parted with you.”

“Perhaps I’d even forsake her, yes, it is true…”

“If it meant that you and I could start a life anew.”

.

..

…

Thank you for reading.

This is my first complete work of fiction, as may be made clear by its short length.

However, I hope that you found it pleasurable to scroll through.

Since I am not content with the length of this fanfiction, I will likely continue to add onto it until I’m satisfied.

I had an excellent time writing this, and hope you enjoyed reading it just as much.

-Marwen

[otrtbs]

Hi I hope you're doing well 🌷

I had a question. I'm totally asking out of pure curiosity, it's not a criticism or anything of the sort.

In ahb (this masterpiece of yours) Sirius's favorite painting is Degas' Dancers.

I wanted to know if you knew the background of this painting and if making it Sirius' favorite was a deliberate choice or if you had no idea at all.

Because the Ballerinas in Opera Garnier in Paris were all really young and mostly, they were poor. The dancers were often their family's hope to crawl out of misery.

The audience was full of men.

In fact, the sad flip side was that there was a whole prostitution network behind the scene. With these young girls. Men could pay for backstage access to watch ballerinas change and sometimes rape them.

So Degas was a big customer.

That's how he painted the dancers and most of his works.

That's again how he sculpted the ballerina, her tutu was added meaning the 14 year old girl was posing nude.

Degas is also suspected of being Jack the Ripper, there are a certain number of credible leads and potential evidences.

That's why I was wondering if you knew.

Since there is this whole chapter where they insult Picasso (as they should) I found it strange that Degas being a known major p*do did not receive the same treatment.

Ps: I'm french, I don't know if I made any mistakes writing this, if I have please excuse me I tried my best 🙏

Okay hi, hello! I am doing well and I hope you are as well! You have unlocked Art Historian Thesis Nat, so I am going to put an extremely lengthy post under the cut, I'm so sorry (this is literally my area of study,,, i fear i am incapable of being brief about this)

I do want to clarify that right off the bat, I don't necessarily think many of these art historical figures are "good people". Like none of them are the best, most moral, upstanding citizens you should model your life after (but they're also dead sooooo). But I also understand that I did take some time in my fanfiction to make my hatred for Picasso very clear, and so I can also understand the confusion in not extending that same hatred towards Degas. But there are a few reasons for that, that I'll try to explain below!

The direct historical documentation of Pablo Picasso's violence towards the women in his life is vast and damning. If you want particularly good insight into his violence and abuse, then I recommend reading Marina Picasso's (Picasso's granddaughter) memoir titled: Picasso: My Grandfather. I also recommend Françoise Gilot's (romantic partner of Picasso) books, Life with Picasso and Picasso and Matisse. It is through the memories of the people who loved Picasso and who loved him in turn, that we hear of his sadistic nature that drove his lovers to suicide and we get personal letters that he wrote to Gilot in which he says things like "Dora, for me, was always a weeping woman… And it’s important, because women are suffering machines" and "For me there are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats." His granddaughter has this to say about him: “He submitted [women] to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence, once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them.” And Gilot says: "I am the only one to not have been sacrificed to the sacred monster(…) and is alive to tell the tale. He was a wonderful person to be with, it was like fireworks, amazingly creative, so intelligent and seductive(…) but he was also very cruel, sadistic and ruthless with others and with himself (…) It was the greatest love of my life, but you have to protect yourself (…) The others did not, they clung to the powerful minotaur and paid a very high price."

Why this matters: The evidence for Degas being so virulently misogynistic and cruel towards women is extremely less substantial and more speculative in nature.

Degas being Jack the Ripper. Degas being Jack the Ripper started off as a tiktok theory posed in early 2024, (though you can find an article as early as 2004 written by The Guardian's art critic here) and while fun to think about and speculate, it isn't true. August and September and November of 1888 is when the Jack the Ripper crimes were committed in London and Degas was in the South of France at that time receiving medical treatment because he was in extremely poor health. (Which you can find in The Letters of Edgar Degas edited by Theodore Reff (I'm sure there's. free PDF version out there somewhere)). Also, self-admittedly speculative, but Degas didn't visit the East-End of London when he did make his excursions to London because he was classist 😭. So, it would be odd for him to know the ins and outs of the streets where the murders took place. And also he had failing eyesight starting at 36, so the odds of him being Jack the Ripper are extremely slim.

The Ballerinas Yes, while it is true that the ballerina's were often subject to horrific conditions and were prostitutes for the "wealthy" patrons of the opera house, this does not mean that Degas partook in that. in fact, most historical documentation surmises he didn't. Degas considered himself a "realist" painter rather than an impressionist painter, wishing to document "real life" in all of its ugliness, beauty and unstylized truth. Therefore his primary concern was documenting the opera house and ballet in all of the moments, not just when the girls were dancing on stage. And in many of his paintings, Degas captures the opera patronsn in his ballerina paintings as lurkers behind the stage curtains as sinister black shadows, or as men predatorily watching in nice suits (e.g. Ballet, 1876 and The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (1874)). But Degas himself, was NEVER a ballerina patron, he is even quoted as saying "People call me the painter of dancing girls. It has never occurred to them that my chief interest in dancers lies in rendering movement...". (now this is not because Degas was morally outraged at what was happening to the ballerina's, but because he viewed the men abusing the girls as committing a sin against God by sleeping with prostitutes). But while Degas had access to backstage, he was never a customer. And in fact, Degas is a notorious, well-documented celibate. This is because Degas believed sleeping with women would make him lose his special painting ability. No lie. Here's a direct quote from Vincent Van Gogh in his a letter to his brother Theo about the artist: "Degas lives like a little lawyer and does not like women, for he knows that if liked them and went to bed with them, he would become intellectually diseased and would no longer be able to paint." Degas was also known to reject ballerina's advances as well (again, fearing women would take away his magic painting power).

Feelings towards women By all accounts, Degas friends describe him as being reclusive towards women to being jovial with them, but always kind to them outside of a working environment. He even developed friendships with his fellow contemporary women painters. In a working environment, Degas was obsessed with perfection, demanding ballerinas contort their bodies in painful positions, and making them hold those positions for hours at a time. By all accounts, this was not because he hated them, but was obsessed with capturing their movements, the limitations of the human body, and he demanded perfection from himself. (x x x) (i.e. his obsession for his work and drive for perfection as a painter made him demanding and harsh towards his subjects, not his pure hatred of women).

Conclusions: So by many accounts, Degas was not particularly fond of women, and had little regard for his dancers. But the claims that he must have slept with the ballerina's and been a patron/customer "because that's what all men did back then" are not backed by any evidence. only evidence to the contrary. I went in on Picasso because those that were close to him have written first-hand accounts of his monstrocity. This is not the case with Degas. So, while I didn't tear him down like I did Picasso, I wasn't lauding him as a saint either. I highly recommend reading the article called Degas's Misogyny by Norma Broude which details the ways in which modern times have run away with this idea of Degas being a sadistic woman-hater and how we've gotten to this point. Anyway, TLDR; I was aware of the dark "underside" of the Paris Ballet at the time in which Degas was painting his works. Do I think he is Jack the Ripper and a man who participated in ballerina prostitution? No, not at all. At the end of the day, I am just an art history girl, telling anyone who will listen that there is not enough documentation on Degas to take these claims as 100% truth, or put that man up there with Picasso. Peace and Love! <3

[armandisdaddy]

I Will Break You

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen (Pirate) x Fem OC (Mermaid/Siren)

Word Count: 1,700

Content/Warning(s): !!18 PLUS!!, Non-Con/ Dub-Con, Violence, Descriptions of Blood, Attempted Drowning, Abduction, Obsession, Toxic.

Author’s Notes: This is set within The Golden Age of Piracy (1650 to 1726). I don’t know why I thought of this, but I think the best stories are the ones that just pop into your head. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 1.

King’s Landing knew him as “Aemond One-Eye” or “The Kinslayer”. He had become a well-known enemy of the monarchy. After killing his nephew; Lucerys in cold blood he escaped his execution by a hair and in the midst of his exile he created a band of the most ruthless criminals he could find to sail across The Narrow Seas and reek havoc on any unsuspecting ships and pillaging any lands nearby. Many men aboard “Vhagar” spoke of the mysterious sirens that plagued the seas and took many men to an unpleasant death.

Aemond listened to the tall tales and wondered if they’d ever encounter a swarm of them and if they did would they live to tell the tale? It was a rather misty night with the moon high and the entire crew was asleep. Aemond did not sleep often he was usually up planning his next attack. The sea was strangely calm putting Vhagar on a steady course. The sounds of faint splashes against the small waves and soft singing alerted him and he left his cabin to go on deck.

He held a lantern in his hand as he walked across looking out into the thick haze and he saw a glimpse of feminine face. He called out into the darkness. “Hello is anyone out there?! Do you need to come aboard?” All he could hear was the sweet sounds of a woman singing. It was alluring; seductive. He started to lose his train of thought with the melody wrapping itself around him. The sounds of the sea became muffled once those sea green eyes found his and his body moved uncontrollably toward the port side of the ship desperately climbing over it to get to that sickeningly sweet voice.

Without warning one of his men pulled him back aboard just as he was going to plummet into the darkness which was not an easy task. Aemond fought him tooth and nail trying to get to that sound. “No! No! She’s calling me!!!” He finally held his hands over as his ears. “Captain! Fight it!! Ye’ cannot follow the sound. It will lead you to your death!” He pulled him below and smacked the living daylights out of him. He finally stopped wailing like a mad man. He realized he was drenched in sweat and his chest heaved heavily.

“Daeros..? What…what happened?” He ran his fingers through his hair feeling as though his heart was longing for something that he could not reach. It was a dull ache that he wished to be rid of. “Captain..ye’ were bewitched by a sea devil. Ye’ must resist the lot of them or it will be eternity in Davey Jones Locker for ye’.” This particular creature had been following them for quite some time. She had the sapphire within Aemond’s skull by chance one night and she wished to pluck it from his eye socket and save it for the rest of her collection of shiny or precious things.

She had been observing him for quite sometime noting how the darkened circles under his eyes never left and he often seemed without rest. He was the only one on board who didn’t use precautions and stuff his ears like the rest of his crew. Obviously he did not believe in her kind’s existence and his ignorance would be the death of him. But tonight she was deterred and obviously angered by the interference of another. She almost had him she thought. She found refuge within a nearby cove and thought of what to do next.

Daeros left Aemond to get some rest but instead he stared at the ceiling of his room thinking of that voice and those eyes he would never forget them. The next day the sky was clear and the mist dissipated. Aemond wandered into the deck tired as usual still not finding rest. He sighed with that creature still on his mind. It haunted him so such a dreaded creature with eyes that pulled him closer and closer to his demise and yet he would risk it just to see them again.

Nights had passed and there was no sign of her, but she was there watching and waiting. He was expecting her again and she knew it she could tell by the way he roamed the deck when the moon was high. He paced back and forth and stayed there until dawning hoping to hear her song again. Finally, after days of them pillaging another unsuspecting village they stayed docked for a while making plans to set sail the next day and she knew this was her last and only chance. He had decided to take refuge as large water pool where it stood stagnant away from the harsh waves. He knew he was being watched small splashes alerted him, but he stayed calm and never showed that he knew she was there.

He smirked to himself whistling while the reflection of the moon rested on the body of water. Then in the distance he heard her and his heart fluttered with anticipation. He would finally have his chance, he could see her head peaking from the water far enough for her to swim away and deep enough to pull him to a watery grave, he stood to his feet instantly become captivated by the sound of her voice. Her voice pulled him in and the feeling the ice cold waters didn’t even make him flinch she had him where she wanted him so she swam forward wrapping her arms around him.

He finally saw her face. She was alluring and ethereal. He’d travelled the world and he hadn’t seen such beauty until her. Her wet tresses were as black as the sea and her eyes as deep as the ocean itself. She reached to pull away his eye patch, but was met with the dull sting of a knife being pushed into her tail. Her cries of pain were inhuman it almost sounded like a banshee screeching. He smiled at his victory and the pain her eyes held. She thrashed about trying to escape him and he didn’t fight to let her go, but just as she thought she could flee a net was thrown her, tangling around her.

She fought with all her might, but the pain and loss of blood began to slowly deteriorate her energy. His crew pulled her ashore and carried her away onto his boat. She was to be held below deck within a tub like a pet. Aemond came down to see her and help the wound he caused and she wasn’t happy to see him in the slightest. She hissed at him as her body laid with something that gave off the look of a tub. Her right arms was chained to the floor. Her instinct to push back and make herself smaller as he came closer made her feel helpless. She looked for an exit anywhere being inside of this thing.

“I will not hurt you again. So long as you don’t try to drown me again. Deal?” If looks could kill hers would rip him apart. He chuckled to himself and took the rag with ointment on in and began dabbing it against the wound. “I guess…you don’t speak my language…hmm..I heard your kind looked grotesque and hideous, but you….you are far from hideous.” She flinched and hissed from the stinging pain. “I’m sorry about that, but you would’ve gotten away from me…I couldn’t let that happen.” She stayed silent listening to him talk all the while planning how she could somehow find her way back to the sea.

“Don’t get any ideas…you should get used to seeing me. We are headed back to my home and you are to stay with me. I heard that after some exposure to the dry elements you sprout legs. A painful transition I suppose, but it can’t be helped. You will never see the sea again, well from your window you will.” She could feel tears flowing down her face something rather unfamiliar. She detached from the moment thinking of her sisters that she was leaving behind and the ocean that she loved so dearly. He was to hold her captive like some prized possession and she was going to be helpless.

“P..please…” She muttered lowly. He looked up in surprise. “So you do speak…Wonderful. You will learn to get use to what will now be your life. I can be very pleasant if you can learn to behave.” Her face twisted and she bared her fangs and extended jaw at him. “There she is…you didn’t like that word. I know you don’t know what it is to be tamed…but I will bend you to my will one way another.” He dug his fingers into the wound causing her to screech trying to pull away from him but she was too weak. “Please!!!!” Was all she could say unfortunately it was the only word she knew.

He pulled away and savoring the sounds of her screams. “I will be back to check on you…we will be home soon.” She fell into the tub wrapping her arms around herself and shaking. The rocking of the boat reminded her of the push and pull of the ocean and eventually she fell asleep. She thought it was all a nightmare. But she was awakened by excruciating pain. It felt as though her tail was being ripped apart. She screamed out, tears pooling in her eyes. Hearing her screams he ran to her aid and saw the most gruesome scene.

Her tail was becoming two and her scales were falling off blood pooled within the tub and she reached for him hoping he could make it stop. He for a second felt empathy wanting to throw her back into the dark sea, but he wanted her with him and he could not let her get away. Instead he pulled her from the tub and into his lap wrapping his arms around her as they sat on the floor. It was to be a long night and an even longer day once they got to his home.

To be continued….

@izzy-the-ginger

[lamemaster]

Loving the Maelstrom

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Perks of marrying a writer. Nelyafinwe pov.

AN: Istg I get the most random ideas while working out.

Curvo bounced the fussing Tyelpe in his arms, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, his voice laced with worry.

Maitimo sighed for the what felt like the hundredth time that evening. He glanced across the room at you, your face lit by the flickering firelight. A vicious smirk was etched upon your lips, your eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity as you stared into some unseen distance. "She's writing a villainess," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

The murmur seemed to quench everyone's curiosity, at least momentarily. Except for Tyelkormo, who perked up at the revelation. "A villainess?" he echoed, his eyes wide with fascination. "Is that why Kano's been playing such… ominous tunes lately?" he asked, directing his question towards a very tired-looking Nelyafinwe.

Before Nelyafinwe could muster a reply, Moryo, ever the impatient one, interjected. "Makalaure, for the love of Illuvatar, can we please have a normal tune?" he pleaded, his voice laced with exasperation

Both you and Kano paused for a fleeting second. Your minds snapped into the present world before grinning widely and Kano launched into another melancholy somber tune. This time, accompanied by your booming evil laughter. 

Such perhaps was the fate of loving a writer. He had known it well as Kano’s brother. A songwriter and musician's angst was familiar to Maitimo. And yours was similar yet, so achingly different.

Where Kano’s music seldom bled into his life, your words lingered in a pervasive presence. The angst of separated lovers, fervor of a brewing war, or the grit of a dwindling hero, you were lost in your worlds even before Maitimo met you. 

And when he did meet you, he also met your worlds. Gay, morose, bleak, grand, your worlds were his now. Your character settled into his thoughts. And sometimes, they carried a part of him or his family. Small fragments of your life that bled into your worlds. 

He liked your never-ending ramblings about a crooked character or exceptionally hard-to-write down plot. And he witnessed your fall into the world who possessed your mind and heart. 

Despite the differences in art, you and Kano were inseparable in the creation of art. His tunes often rang out from your and Maitimo’s home as you scribbled away another tale. While Kano’s music was given a direction of melodies from the stories you wove into the tunes he tinkered around with. 

And this was the rare occasion where both you and his brother were taken by a story so bewitching that from the strums of Kano’s harp to the rouge of your lips- all was tainted with a lingering shade of sinister. 

It had been a week since your robes had been swapped for uncanny dark silken gowns, very much not your usual choice of color, your nails were painted a hue darker almost bloodlike. Even the decor of your study had shifted ambiance similar to that of the Maiar of Namo.

On several occasions, Maitimo had seen you stir your dinner with a smile so venomous that he sniffed his food twice before eating it. 

You donned a gait so seductive that he, almost was tempted to discard the weekly family dinner with his parents. Yet, despite the unease that gnawed at him, Maitimo couldn't deny the jolt of excitement that shot through him when your newly painted nails, tipped with a crimson that seemed to mock innocence, brushed against his arm.

“I just hope sister-in-law and Kano are not going down the Mairon route of life.” Curufin’s words brought Maitimo back to the present. 

The dinner had ended surprisingly well. Kano’s company had perhaps allowed you to shed the world that captivated you these days for a few moments. You were back to your normal self smiling by his side. Helping his mother and brothers set up the dinner table as twins climbed all over Maitimo.

It was only later in the night when his breath shuddered. He gasped as your lips ghosted over his ears. Filthy words spoken without a care of the oddly lonely alley on the way back to your home. Words so daringly sacrilegious that they would have sent a Vanya to the halls of Irmo. 

Maitimo however, was nothing if not immune to the intricacies of your play and definitely not a faint-hearted Vanya. Pulling you closer in his arms, he indulged your little world. Tracing the shape of your lips with his fingers, he kissed you with a wicked smile. 

Nelyafinwe loved every part of you. Even the fucking crazy ones. 

(This one definitely more than the angsty lovers)

[technicolorfamiliar]

Der Student von Prag (The Student of Prague) Dir. Henrik Galeen 1926

So I'm going back and rewatching a handful of the titles from the initial 50+ film journey into Conrad Veidt's filmography. Some I'm revisiting because they made such an indelible impression on me the first time, others because I want to give them a second chance. The Student of Prague was among the first films on what wound up being a year-long deep dive into Connie's work and history. I loved it then, but even more so now.

I want to live inside this movie. Galeen and his crew made a hell of a picture, made all the more special by Conrad Veidt doing the literal most.

There is a bewitching quality to The Student of Prague, from Conrad Veidt's dual performances as both Balduin and his Double to the atmospheric cinematography and special effects. It's a dreamy film that really sets itself apart as a dark and lovely supernatural period piece.

Despite some very minor issues, over all it's genuinely pretty perfect. It's one of those films that, even with its faults, sweeps me effortlessly into the gothically Romantic world of the story.

Maybe the film could have benefited from tighter editing, cutting some of the longer sequences and unnecessary shots. But an argument could also be made that these longer scenes aid the spell the film is casting over its audience, the way Sciapinelli weaves his spell on the hilltop to draw Balduin and Margrit together.

The cinematography by Günther Krampf and Erich Nitzschmann is really something special. Shadow was a big motif and standard tool filmmakers used back then, especially those working in the Expressionist style, but for 'Student, maybe because of the early 19th century setting and the proximity of the natural world (both real and fabricated), the use of shadow here makes the film feel more like a fairy tale illustrated by Arthur Rackham than the Uncanny Art Deco of classic German Expressionism. The digital restoration really highlights how successfully they worked with value and contrast to create such a visually rich film.

And it fucken WIMDY. The use of wind throughout the film is really effective -- Sciapinelli's coat billowing out behind him on the hilltop, the rustling foliage behind Balduin after the duel, dead leaves blown into the Countess's bedroom, and the gales that follow Balduin through the city in the film's final act. Whether used on a studio set or in location shots, wind here feels not only atmospheric but also supernatural; it's Sciapinelli's invisible presence when he's not even in the shot.

Even the relatively minimalist score works. It's mostly piano supplemented occasionally by one or two other instruments, a flute or an accordion, and there are only a handful of repeated themes. Apparently the music that's in the most recent restoration was composed only a few years ago by Stephen Horne, so it's really anyone's guess what the original soundtrack by Willy Schmidt-Gentner was like. Regardless, the new music definitely feels appropriate not only to the period the film was made but also the overall Vibes.

On my first watch about a year ago, I was struck by the special effects used in this film. For the time it was made, the effects had to be incredibly impressive. The transitions where the Double appears and disappears in a ghostly fashion are fun, but there's an especially cool shot where he appears to walk through an iron gate, and a really great close up dolly shot towards the end of the film where the Double appears to float toward the back of the room. And I don't know if this was something they touched up in post-production or if the lighting on set was chef's kiss perfect, but Connie's eyes literally glow. There are shots where his eyes, especially as the Double, are like two beacons set in the shadows.

The other performances… they're fine. I mean, everyone who wasn't playing Balduin has to have known it wasn't their movie. Except for Werner Krauss as Sciapinelli who looks like if Alfred Molina was sent back to the 1920s and did as much cocaine as he could find. He's so creature coded that I genuinely don't know what to make of his performance. Everyone else, including Connie, is kind of doing a riff on realism to varying degrees of exaggeration but still relatively tame for the era (compare the acting in 'Student to The Hands of Orlac just two years earlier). But I guess Werner Krauss didn't get the memo, or because Sciapinelli is a supernatural character it's ok for him to be a little out there. He does some really delightfully creepy and borderline upsetting stuff especially in the scene when he makes the deal with Balduin. It's all very weirdly sexual and I hate it. Otherwise, there's unfortunately very little of note in the other performances. Elizza La Porta as the flower girl does the pathetic-cute thing well, but Agnes Esterhazy's Margrit is sadly pretty forgettable.

But the Balduin of it all. This is truly a groundbreaking role for Conrad Veidt at this time in his career. I feel like this film alone slingshot him into his meatier and more interesting roles in the late 1920s. Sure, Connie was doing some interesting and versatile stuff around this time (Ingmarsarvet and Carlos & Elisabeth come to mind), but this just hits different. Everything kind of lines up perfectly for him as this character, and the story is that unique Poe-inspired blend of the uncanny and capital R Romance that really suits him. Because of the nature of the story itself, Connie's free to play big when it works for the character, but also works in these incredibly vulnerable and subtle moments as well. I don't know if this is thanks to the director being hands-on with Connie or just letting him do his thing. Whatever the case, it works.

It's maybe worth mentioning Connie was 33 when they shot this. I don’t know how old Balduin's supposed to be, but he's probably at least ten years younger than Connie was at the time. And I buy it, I buy that Balduin is a young man, foolish and naïve in the way only someone that young could be. His youthfulness isn't just suggested in the character's decisions but also in his physicality. When we first meet Balduin, Connie's doing this sulky, pouty, petulant thing that I love for him. In the first act, he's clearly beloved by his fellow-students and by the flower girl, and he easily slips out of his misery about his money problems into a more lighthearted mood. He's moody one moment and playful the next, joining in a low-stakes fencing match for fun when just moments before he was brooding alone full Morrissey style in the garden. This initial lightness about the character sets him up for his eventual inevitable hard fall into shame and helplessness.

I'm afraid to admit it took me a whole 24 hours after watching this a second time to realize that Balduin is kind of a dick. But Connie's performance is so good and so empathetic that I didn't notice right away. He himself is stunningly, Byronically beautiful in this film. He's like a painting of a tragic, Romantic hero come to life, I can’t even handle it. And, my god, the yearning! It's palpable. In the wrong hands, I would probably hate this character. I haven't seen Wegener's or Walbrook's versions, but I can't imagine they're as charismatic as Connie is in the role.

But what I love even more than Connie as Balduin is him as the Double. I am FASCINATED by this performance and this character. I have SO MANY QUESTIONS. The way he consolidates his movements so that he practically glides through the frame, the way he keeps this performance distinct by slowing everything down and keeping a lot of the Double's anguish internal… it's so good.

I think we only see the Double four times before the last act of the film: first when he steps out of the mirror; much later outside the Countess's party; in the graveyard; and after he kills the Baron in the woods. Initially, when the reflection steps out of the mirror after Balduin signs Sciapinelli's contract, the Double seems pretty soulless. His dead-eyed, mask-like expression as he stalks out of the room makes it seem like he's just going to be a mindless puppet Sciapinelli can use to torment Balduin. And certainly in their first two encounters, Balduin's mirror image slinks out of the shadows as a reminder of his Faustian bargain but also as something of a stand in for his conscience. The first two times we see the Double out in the world are when Balduin is at his happiest, in his most romantic moments with Margrit, who is not only completely out of Balduin's league but also promised to someone else (even if that some one else is her cousin...). Nothing about the Double's presence in these scenes suggests that he's anything more than a phantom, a specter to haunt the protagonist from a distance.

But then, something changes. The Double isn't just a ghost that only Balduin can see; he's just as real as his counterpart, and his actions have consequences. Balduin promises Margrit's father, the Count, to spare her cousin-fiancée in a duel the Baron knows he cannot win -- Balduin is, after all, the best swordsman in Prague. They even say the fight is supposed to be with heavy sabers, which sound like they could really mess you up. But when dueling day arrives, Balduin is delayed by the wheels inexplicably coming off his carriage. He races through the countryside on foot in order to make his appointment, but it's too late. He stops dead in his tracks, frozen in fear, as the Double appears, approaching him slowly from the tree line. When the Double reaches him, Balduin sees the bloody sword and immediately recoils, fearing the worst. But what's most interesting about this scene is that, when the Double finally looks up, his expression is not that of a mindless zombie. When he looks up, the Double looks horrified. Realization slowly rises in his face, and he turns to Balduin with this look of abject horror and helplessness while Balduin cowers in fright. And as the Double turns to walk out of the clearing, he hangs is head in pained resignation and I AM OBSESSED. There are no intertitles in this sequence, but the anguished look he gives Balduin says, "Do you see now? This, and worse than this, is going to keep happening." Connie's performance in this scene suggests the Double may not be able to control his actions but he certainly has feelings about them. So does this mean the Double is in fact Balduin's soul? His goodness? His innocence? I NEED TO KNOW MORE.

The Double is also consistently dressed in the student costume Balduin wears at the beginning of the film. After Sciapinelli gives Balduin the money, Balduin buys a whole new wardrobe (honestly, who wouldn't?). But the mirror version of Balduin doesn't change to reflect Balduin as he is in the present; the Double wears the clothes of a student -- the cap, the velveteen jacket -- because he represents who Balduin was. He's the boy, the youth uncorrupted by excessive wealth and privilege, now made to do horrible things because Balduin so easily handed him over to Sciapinelli when they made their deal. UGH.

The final time Balduin sees his Double, his mirror self hounds him with measured steps, pushing him away from the fragile security of wealth and opulence back to his abandoned student flat. And the expression on the Double's face now is grimly accusatory, it's deeply solemn disappointment, it's a final judgment before an inevitable end. There's sorrow and resentment in the Double's eyes, but kept restrained and subtle, gradually building in wordless intensity until Balduin must finally face himself, literally, in order to end his torment, finding a pistol and shooting his mirror image and therefore killing himself.

Maybe a lot of the descriptors I use for Connie are hyperbole, but his work in this film is remarkable. Anyone interested in getting to know him as an actor, hell, anyone interested in film history period, absolutely should watch The Student of Prague at least once.

Final thoughts: For real, though, it would suck to not have a reflection. I recently had a whole conversation with my (straight, cis male) family members about this; not a one of them owns or even sees the need for a full length mirror. And maybe the big mirror in Balduin's student room came with the place when he moved in, but you get used to having something like that. I know it would drive me crazy not being able to check my whole outfit to make sure I don't look like a doofus before leaving the house.

[hopefulidiocy]

Writers block..? SAME! I’ve had this idea for WEEKS and just never write it lol.

So imagine there’s this like legend of The Great Targaryen (reader) who lived before Rhanerya and them and she was called The Great Targaryen because she commanded like 4 dragons instead of one. (kinda like Daenerys)

So maybe she was like so powerful or whatnot a witch (idk if they rly had those back then but like, there’s dragons so bare with me lol) cast her to sleep, saying she’ll only awake in 100 years OR SOMETHING IDK YET.

But anyways, team black realizes that if they want to win they’ll need her or something so they go looking.

The find her asleep in a cave off the coast somewhere and somehow she wakes up (haven’t rly gotten there yet) and they’re all like woahhhh but she has no dragons?

They get to the top of the cliff and she kinda just faces out towards the ocean and stands there, everyone is confused. She raises her arms like A GODDESS and BOOM flying out of the ocean is DRAGONS!!!

Idk it’s a really weird concept but I had a dream like that and that’s where this came from lol.

Watcha think???

The Dragon Tamer

House of the Dragon x OC!Female!Character

Warnings: mentions of child loss, death, destruction and disease.

Characters that are my own: Efflestead the Warrior, Alina the Dragon Tamer/Demon Queen, Jocelyn the Great

A/N: I have never written something like this before and I looooved doing it <3 part two?

MINORS DNI 18+

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉🐉

Many tales graced the darkened walls of Westeros. They flew, invisibly, through the air as folk songs or poems; they were words, spoken from generation to generation. Efflestead’s siege on the North, battling it to great victory until all that was left was rubble and dirt and dead bodies. He was celebrated, a day commemorated to him and how he savagely killed thousands of innocents for being in his war path to the Iron Throne. He was crowned on the 10th of the Third Month, creating catastrophe and violence in his stead. But no one remembers that part. They don’t remember how he killed his way to the top, tortured those who dared to whisper in the corners of every house, how he employed spies who could’ve well been your father or brother and they would let loose their secrets and you’d be on the Wall within the hour. Most people remember him as Efflestead the Warrior King, a family man with fifteen children of his own, all just as ghastly as he was, a man of great honour - being with his wife for more than 40 years, but everyone forgot he had mistresses and often beat his wife to the point she lost more than five children. No, people forget the bad parts because they want a story they can be proud of. Efflestead’s children went on to become monarchs, Heiron being the first and rather boring King, contracting Green Fever before the Winter. Jocelyn became Queen after he died, she was a beauty, to all accounts of people who knew her but, of course, when she was murdered in the comfort of her own bed; her own brother, Aegon, was the one who distributed horrific lies and propaganda. She was a witch and bewitched a plague amongst the Smallfolk with her sixth finger and long, hanging nose that drooped over her upper lip. No one remembers that she was kind and generous to the Smallfolk, no one remembers that she cared for the health of her people and sought to change all of it.

History and myth are not kind to those who actually do good, they would rather remember those with an intriguing story that they can pick apart and leave out the bad bits.

There was one though, no recollection in any chronicle of history, no written records, just a song. Sung in the streets of the Red Keep.

A dragon descended upon the River;

His claws long and his mind clever;

A woman with eyes so black;

Came onto the shore with a crack;

She said, “Who hath come to fight?”;

When one man stepped forth, she cackled to the night;

“Is that all you have?” And so she unleashed her fury onto the innocence;

Letting them have her anguish and misguidance;

Four wild beasts arose from the dark;

Fire, blood and fury from their violent arc;

She tried, as she must, to fight with her life;

But the Smallfolk were full of strife;

They killed her with one switch of a blade;

And off her head rolled in the shade;

They rejoiced and called out;

“At last, the Demon Queen is dead! And so she will be forever at rest!”

Of course, the Smallfolk only knew the lines to a wretched song that kids would learn as they grew up in the parks and the bakeries. They would be told the Demon Queen will have you for supper! If they forbade any law. But, of course, the Demon Queen was more than a ruthless woman. First of all, she had a name… Alina Targaryen. Born to the bastard grandson of Efflestead. She was known to be a beauty, long white hair always in a braided crown, dresses that puffed around her and always glided along with her. She was kind, generous and full of wit. Many men wanted to have a slice of her, but she never allowed it, she kept herself neat and tidy for any man that would marry her.

She never did marry.

Instead found her love elsewhere. With multicoloured eggs that she grew with affection and suddenly… she was the most powerful woman in Westeros.

Being so powerful, she became a target. A target for war, for assassination, for love and temptation. But she hid out in the caves, away from human life and settled with her dragons. The song got one thing right, she did tame four dragons, she loyally loved each dragon.

Fate is a funny thing. It is what’s meant for you, even if it’s not what you want. Alina didn’t want to sleep for one hundred years, she was completely oblivious to it until the day came when the waves crashed harshly against the cave, the dragons looked at her with perplexity and so, being the brave soul she was, she opted to explore on foot. The grey waves curled up into the sky with every crash against the rock, she clung to the edge as she watched spurts of water form a woman, no eyes and no mouth, just a plain black face with wispy hair like a witch. Alone and cold, the witch whispered under her breath that sent Alina into a sleep, never to be heard from again. Until Westeros went to shit.

Around the Queens’ table at Dragonstone, Daemon sat with his elbows propped up, chewing onto his fingernails as Rhaenyra stood, stoic and strangely calm whilst Rhaeyna spoke of the dangerous plans the Greens have for Dragonstone.

“He will surely arrive with Vhagar, even with the three dragons we have cannot take her on. We all know that.” She said, sitting straight. Daemon looked up at her worried face before switching to Rhaenyra’s face, she was deep in thought, Jace behind her, pacing up and down.

“Jace, stop. I can’t think right now.” Daemon ordered, but Jace didn’t stop. He rarely answered to his step father, he was deep in thought like the rest of the room. A hanging shadow was hanging over Dragonstone with Aemond’s threat to burn it to the ground. The Blacks may have the Dragon Queen but the Gods themselves couldn’t defend Dragonstone against Vhagar.

“You know…” Jace trailed off, Daemon looked at him disinterested. Rhaenyra turned her head slightly towards him, as he thought of his next words.

“What is it, Jace?” Rhaenyra spoke, slightly impatient.

“Alina Targaryen.” He said. Everyone exchanged glances, some confused, some surprised. They hadn’t heard that name in ages and perhaps some people had never heard it before.

“She’s been dead for 130 years.” Daemon said, matter of fact.

There had been a grumbling amongst the smallfolk, something was occurring and no one had the answer and it was something bigger than Aemond and Vhagar. The grumbling was like something was rising, coming alive and word on the street was Alina was planning to come back to slay all the sinners. She had not yet made an appearance.

“The prophecy. There was a prophecy.” Jace pointed out even though he couldn’t remember the full details of said prophecy.

“Yes. They said Alina was to die amongst her dragons, safe within the caves in the North, to protect the eggs of the future but if she was to come alive we would have to gain dragon fire.” Rhaenyra said impatiently, crossing her arms and not looking at her son. “It could never work, Jace.”

Later that night, Jace awoke in his bed from a fitful dream of Vhagar tearing his home to shreds and he knew he had to do something about it. The prophecy of Alina Targaryen was difficult but it was not impossible. Many people at the time did not own dragons or their dragons weren’t used for warfare, just simple fun, so of course the prophecy would be hard. He wrapped a warm robe around his body, keeping the cold chill at bay, thinking over his plans as his bare feet slapped against the stone flooring. His mind was on Alina, the beautiful blonde that was etched into law scriptures, there had even been an execution method in her style for those less fortunate: partially burned by dragon fire and then strangled over several days. It was a gruesome way to end and many people had been subjected to it.

Vermax was asleep when Jace entered the Dragon Pit, he watched him for a while before whistling to awaken him. Vermax was always grumpy when he woke up but actively being woke up was a whole new level of grumpy so Jace was in for a long, long night. In High Velarian, he told Vermax of the old prophecy, of the High and Mighty Alina Targaryen who could help them from being torn into pieces.

Deep within the breathing caves, Alina was still, flat on her back on a spacious rock table; her hands clasped at her stomach, still in her riding gear; her peach coloured mouth relaxed into a soft line; her halo hair scattered around her like a wave as Jace began commanding Vermax’s fire, miles away from the caves. The walls began to move, shaking ever so slightly at every will Jace gave to his dragon and with that push, Alina began to rouse. Not awaking properly, her eyes hadn’t opened but her toes squeezed against her leather sandals as Vermax breathed his hot rage into a vat of iron; quickly, Jace covered the top, burning himself but keeping the fire closed within the jar. He could’ve sworn Vermax rolled his eyes when he thanked him and ran off.

Rhaenyra hardly slept. It wasn’t uncommon. There was much to think about. She was sat at her desk, rifling through some parchments when her eldest son came battling through the door; evidently struggling with his barrel.

“What in the Seven Gods have you got there?” Rhaenyra asked, standing up.

“It’s a vat of fire, Lady Mother. For the prophecy.” He was so unfit.

“The prophecy won’t work, Jace. Don’t be a fool and fall for it. Alina was killed by a Sea Devil. It is in the history books.” She batted her hand away and sat down, not wishing to listen to him.

“Mother, when I was commanding Vermax, it felt like something awoke within me. I could feel this cold chill run right through me, I’m telling you, I don’t think this prophecy is fake.”

“You felt the cold chill because it’s midnight and it’s cold and you’re wearing nothing. Go to bed. I don’t want to hear about it anymore.” Defeated, Jace dragged his vat of fire back to his room.

Defeated by his mother he may be. But something happened and it was unmistakable. So when day broke, he climbed onto the back of Vermax and rode off into the North.

The cave was located amongst a rocky terrain, hidden behind a jagged rock that had dried blood, possibly Alina’s, coated over the tips. The waves crashed against the rocks as Vermax flew onto the hanging cliff, denying to put himself and his rider in danger on the rocks. Jace sighed, noticing the jagged rock, his vat of fire on his back as he slowly, incredibly slowly, bum shuffled down onto a flat rock just to the side of the cave, trying to find a different way to enter but the gap between the rocks was too small, even though he was a particularly skinny young man, he could not fit between them. So he had to go around, the wind whipped around his hair, flowing it into all directions as he clutched onto the sharp edge of the jagged rock, cutting diagonally across his palm as he hauled himself onto a small foot cove when his toes fit perfectly. The waves crashed against him, throwing him into the rock at full speed, cutting the side of his face. He groaned into the cup of his hand, trying to keep his composure as the pain seared through him. Once the waves had ceased for just a moment, adrenaline shot through him and he jumped from the foot cove onto the flat surface at the entrance of the cave.

There was a few spots of water, deep enough to drown in, due to the land shifting over the century she had been dead. At first it was dark, he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face but slowly a light was forming in front of him. Two fawn columns created an archway where a beam of yellow light flooded onto a flat rock, washing over the body of a still woman who was wiggling her toes and small groans escaping her pursed mouth.

“Alina.” He whispered, running towards the rock and finding a beautiful woman, forever twenty three in front of him. The Great Dragon Tamer. Alina Targaryen. He opened the vat ever so slowly, wondering what would happen if the fire was to consume her surroundings, whether she would come to life again. The fire cascaded up and above, touching stalactites and flowing over, somehow it did not touch Alina or Jace and he watched as the Dragon Tamer twitched her eyes. He knelt down beside her, watching her intently as her pale grey eyes opened and took in the fire above her.

The prophecy had worked. The second Alina saw Jace, she shot to her feet, her hand on the sword attached to her leather belt.

“Who are you?” She asked, her voice rough after a century of non speaking.

“I’m Jace… Jace Velarion.” He stumbled across his words, straightening to his feet. Her face was thunderous, her lips straight and almost snarling as she took him in.

“You work at sea.” She spat. “Have you come to kill me once and for all, Jace Velarion?” She unsheathed her sword, the glinting point at his face.

“No, it’s not like that.” He cleared his throat. “I am the son of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen. I have come to ask for help.” Her sword lowered ever so gently as she inquired him with her eyes, narrowing them and looking him up and down.

“A Targaryen Queen? You must be a bastard. Where’s your white hair?” She was vaguely amused by this. In normal circumstances, Jace would not be able to control his anger and although he could feel it bubbling, he didn’t want to say anything; this moment couldn’t be ruined.

“We are under threat. It’s complicated but Queen Rhaenyra is technically Queen of Dragonstone but she is the rightful Queen of Westeros, in the Red Keep. But her younger half brother plotted against her, the Hightowers, and now he is on the throne and there’s a threat Vhagar and his bastard rider will detonate us all. We need you.”

“The Hightowers.” She spat, tucking her sword back into her sheath. “I’ve always hated them.” She slapped her thighs, she was incredibly masculine, and drove herself to the entrance of the cave. Jace watched in awe as she screamed in Old Valyrian, something he couldn’t understand himself and saw four dragons rise from the rocks. They had been disguised for 130 years as these jagged rocks, the ones that Jace cut himself on, they roared and they were ten times bigger than Vermax. The wind blew in at a high speed when Alina turned around, a mischievous glint in her eye and the first smile he had seen.

“Are you ready, Prince Jace?”

[creature-wizard]

This is your reminder that alter programming/trauma-based mind control is a Satanic Panic conspiracy theory. The stuff you might have heard about gem programming, ribbon programming, Greek letter programming, etc., specifically comes from Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler, two far right conspiracy theorists who claimed, among many other things, that:

A global satanic conspiracy intends to enthrone the Antichrist in the year 2000. The push toward gay rights is part of this plan.

Said global satanic conspiracy has been practicing trauma-based mind control/alter programming for thousands of years.

The Nazis' eugenics program wasn't actually about eugenics. It was actually a front for researching mind control, and that Project Monarch was based on research conducted by Dr. Josef Mengele (whom they claim was an "adept in Caballistic magic.")

Fairy tales, fantasy media, movies, and television shows are full of deliberate programming. Some (but not all) of the media they implicate includes The Wizard of Oz, The Chronicles of Narnia, Alice in Wonderland, Disney films in general, A Little Princess, Star Trek, Star Wars, E.T., Tiny Toons, The Simpsons, Frankenstein, Bewitched, and Labyrinth.

Basically, anything that doesn't fit the most narrow-minded picture of Good Wholesome Christian Entertainment is is part of the Illuminati's plan to corrupt the youth and lead them down the patch of witchcraft and into satanism.

They claim, and I quote, "drugs, torture, hypnosis and MPD all work to enhance memory" and "most slaves have some photographic memory capability." They also claim that systemwide photographic memory can be created through brain stem scarring.

Babies can learn to read by six months old with the use of subliminal tapes.

Direct quote, "Vice-President Al Gore is a vampire and carries a briefcase of blood with him."

Hillary Clinton is an Illuminati Grand Dame and programmer.

Adrenochrome is a secret black market drug. (Adrenochrome isn't a drug at all.)

Fritz Springmeier and Cisco Wheeler's work is basically a modern mishmash of antisemitic conspiracy tropes and witch panic tropes. Fritz cites fucking Edith Starr Miller as one of his sources.

So why do people "remember" TBMC/RAMCOA? Because they've been coached into it. You can coach people into remembering all kinds of things, as we can very easily see by observing the starseed movement, where people remember past lives in nonexistent places like Lemuria.

If alter programming was a real thing, literature on it would have to exist. I'm talking like, actual manuals that describe in full detail how to conduct all of these rituals and whatnot without killing the victim. The first people who claimed to have experienced this claimed they were programmed back in the 50's, which means it's been seventy years. Not a single manual on this has turned up anywhere; not even in the most depraved child molesters' homes or laptop computers.

RAMCOA is repackaged SRA is repackaged antisemitism and witch panic, end of story.

[liora-vespera]

Eclipsed by Shadows - Taehyung ff

Genre:

Dark romance

Warning:

Manipulation, Stalking

-------------------------------------------------------

The clock struck midnight as Y/N stood alone in the quiet library, her fingers tracing the leather spine of an ancient book. She had always been drawn to stories of the supernatural, tales of creatures from another realm. Little did she know, her fascination was about to become a reality.

From the shadowed corner, a man emerged. His appearance was captivating—dark hair framing his sharp features, his eyes glinting like obsidian under the dim light. His voice was smooth, laced with a charm that sent shivers down her spine.

“Burning the midnight oil?” he asked, his lips curling into a subtle smile.

Y/N looked up, startled but intrigued. “I could ask you the same. Do you always lurk in libraries at this hour?”

The man chuckled, the sound resonating like a melody. “Call it fate. I had a feeling I’d find someone interesting here tonight. I’m Taehyung.”

There was something about him—an inexplicable pull that made her feel as if the world had shifted on its axis. They talked, the hours slipping away as Taehyung’s enigmatic charm wrapped around her like a silken web.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, Taehyung was not human. He was a demon, sent to the human realm on a mission. But he hadn’t expected to find her—a mortal whose presence stirred something ancient and powerful within him. For centuries, demons had been forbidden to fall for humans, yet Taehyung found himself unable to resist.

Over the following days, Taehyung appeared wherever Y/N went—at her favorite café, in the park where she walked, even in her dreams. His interest in her was intoxicating, his gaze lingering a moment too long, his words dripping with allure.

One evening, he invited her to his home—a secluded mansion on the outskirts of the city. The air inside was thick with a strange energy, the flickering candles casting long shadows on the walls.

“I want to show you something,” Taehyung said, leading her to a room filled with ancient artifacts. He handed her a pendant—a dark stone encased in silver. “This belonged to someone very special. I want you to have it.”

Y/N hesitated, sensing the weight of his words. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

Taehyung stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you’ve bewitched me, Y/N. You’ve made me feel things I’ve never felt before. Let me show you what it’s like to truly be alive.”

His words sent a thrill through her, but there was an undercurrent of danger she couldn’t ignore. Before she could respond, Taehyung’s lips brushed against hers—a kiss that ignited a fire deep within her.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, the pendant was enchanted. By accepting it, she had unknowingly tied her soul to his. Taehyung’s power coursed through her, binding her to him in ways she couldn’t yet comprehend.

That night, as they shared an intimate moment, the boundaries between their worlds blurred. Shadows danced across the room, and Taehyung’s true form briefly flickered—a glimpse of horns and blackened wings before his human guise returned.

Y/N pulled back, her breath hitching. “What…what are you?”

Taehyung cupped her face gently, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. “I’m yours, Y/N. And now, you’re mine.”

Realization dawned on her as the pendant around her neck pulsed with a faint, eerie glow. She was trapped, bound to him for eternity. Yet, as she looked into his eyes, she felt an inexplicable sense of belonging.

“I should be afraid of you,” she whispered.

“But you’re not,” Taehyung murmured, his lips curling into a dark smile. “Because you feel it too, don’t you? The pull between us. You were always meant to be mine.”

As the night deepened, Y/N surrendered to the inevitable. She couldn’t fight the darkness that had wrapped around her heart, nor did she want to. Taehyung’s love was a curse, but it was also the most thrilling thing she had ever known.

And so, under the light of the waning moon, a human and a demon became bound together, their fates entwined in a love that defied the laws of both their worlds.

[sergeantsporks]

Hi!

Until this day, I'm still confused: At what age did the Wittebane brothers go to the boiling isles? Teenagers/Child as seen in the portraits or Adults since Gravesfield has statues of them as adults? What do you think?

Great question! [leaves]

I think every single interpretation of what happened with the Wittebane Brothers/the WB timeline has SOME kind of hole poked in it by SOME aspect of canon.

I believe the most solid answer we have is when Phillip got to the Isles. He's a liar with a penchant for revisionist history, so his journal can't be trusted for... most things... but I think one thing he had no reason to lie about is the fact that when he started the journal, he'd only recently arrived in the Isles. So, we can somewhat safely assume that Phillip got to the Isles (or, at least, got stuck there) in his early adulthood. From there, we know he ate a palisman at some point, found Caleb and Evelyn, killed Caleb, ran off. Done and done.

When Caleb jetted for the Isles is a bit more up for debate. The pictures in Hollow Mind seem to imply that he hadn't seen Phillip for some time, so if they DID go to the Isles at the same time, they were quickly separated. The more popular interpretation is that Caleb left Phillip when he was younger, Phillip spent some time in the human realm alone, he finally worked up the courage to follow/a portal finally opened up, he entered as a young adult, timeline proceeds from there. However, like you said, the statues are of them as ADULTS, and the two of them TOGETHER, which makes this theory a little shakey. But hey, maybe the statues were made way later by people who didn't really know them. At the very least, by the time the story gets to modern day, it's been distorted into a cautionary ghost tale, so who knows what the tale was when the statue was carved?

The question of "when did Caleb leave" is also deeply tied to the question of "WHY did he leave." Was it simply that he finally got fed up with witch-hunter society? Did Phillip hit some arbitrary age that he considered as no longer needing him, so he felt safe leaving? Was there a catalyst that FORCED him out? Did Evelyn get pregnant at that point, and Caleb left to be a father to his kid? We know he and Evelyn passed notes and titan's blood back and forth to each other, so SOMETHING must have happened to escalate the situation and get Caleb to leave instead of continuing that way.

A personal favorite theory of mine is that Caleb was going back and forth, a dumb teen, as one does with one's illicit girlfriend, Phillip caught him going into the portal (the image from hollow mind of Caleb going in while Phillip trails behind), and Phillip, thinking his brother was bewitched, rounded up the witch-hunters. However, instead of them catching Evelyn, they caught Caleb, and put him on trial. They planned to hang him, but Evelyn came to his rescue, burning down the town hall in the process (since Jacob mentioned the fire, I imagine it’s a LITTLE significant). With it no longer being safe to stay in Gravesfield, Caleb went with her to the demon realm, happily unaware that Phillip was the one who (accidentally) got him arrested. However, the statue pokes holes in this theory AGAIN. Again, it's them as adults, and why would the town have such a positive view of CALEB if they viewed him as a probable witch or witch accomplice?

I do like the thought that the fire was a catalyst for Caleb to leave though, so another theory is that Caleb was going back and forth, as previously stated. He is incredibly successful in pretending that he is still a gung-ho witch hunter. Phillip is kinda sorta aware of what Caleb's up to, but he's also a kid, and as he gets older, he dismisses memories as fantasy as Caleb gets better at hiding it, OR he actually, contrary to popular fanon belief, really really really doesn't want his brother to get hung for witchcraft, so he's willing to keep the secret until he can figure out how to "break Evelyn's hold on Caleb" (because he absolutely believes Caleb is bewitched; especially if he successfully acts like a normal witch hunter most of the time. Obviously, when Evelyn's there, he's bewitched, and the witch hunting facade is what he'd be without that. Surely the witch-hunting isn't an act).

The town hall burns down. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not, but either way, Gravesfield goes on the hunt for the Witch, and they are 100% gunning for Evelyn. Caleb finally comes to the conclusion that it is no longer safe for their relationship to continue the way it is, so he has to make a snap decision to either break off his relationship with Evelyn and stay in the human realm with Phillip, or he has to leave Phillip and go with Evelyn to the demon realm. He picks the latter, and Phillip sees. Still intending to "save" his brother from Evelyn and get everything to go back to the way it was, Phillip spins a story about how Caleb heroically chased after the witch that burned down their town hall, but the door to her home closed behind them.

Timeline then goes to what we know: Phillip enters the Isles, finds Caleb, finally admits to himself that Caleb is a "lost cause," and the witch-hunting was an act, not Caleb's true self, the stabbening, etc, etc. This would account for the fire, for the overall positive feelings the townsfolk must have for Caleb and Phillip in order to build a statue, Phillip's memories of Evelyn and the portal in his early childhood coinciding with the statue of them as adults (that one definitely still is a little wonky, but we'll put it up to artistic license. After Phillip disappeared as a young adult, someone carved a representation of Phillip finding his lost brother [who would also be an adult at that time.] Yeah, we'll say that).

Masha implies that the rebuses are a more recent find, so I think it's safe to say that from those rebuses, they extrapolated a more true version of the legend, like the secret codes, and the undertone of Caleb being "dazzled" rather than a heroic guy chasing down a witch, although the idea that Phillip went to "save" Caleb remained. Since Masha seems to be a practicing witch themself, it makes sense that they'd spin the tale with the information they have from the original legend and the new information from the rebuses to make it a little more witch-friendly while still sort of "respecting" the original tale of witchcraft spiriting away two boys. They have a more modern take, even going so far as the "sounds like big bro got a hot witch girlfriend" statement at the end. The statue is reminiscent of an older take possibly based on lies Phillip told to protect Caleb. Neither are a complete story, but if you take the common ground between them, account for the agendas of both parties, and fill in the gaps from Phillip's memories, we can sort of see a full picture.

[starrypawz]

AO3 What can I say I had an idea

On the shore of The Dreaming he senses something that ebbs and flows with the tide.

Whatever that something is very…

Small

Tired

With a broken heart… 

But the heart still beats strong. 

Curious. 

Gently he reaches out and

A crow? Most curious.

The crow, more than a little bedraggled, tilts their head as they stand.

“Caw?” (weakly) 

“Easy now,” 

Caw…. Caw?... Caw!  (Slightly panicked)

“No you are not, much longer though and you likely would have met my sister,”

Caw!! (Profanity) 

Caw (Apologetic) 

“That’s an… understandable reaction… although I will say she is actually… very nice.” 

Caw? 

“I am known by many names but… Often I am known as Dream,” 

“Caw!” (Introductory) Dream gives a faint smile, “I am aware,it is a  pleasure to meet you Monty the Crow” 

He regards the Crow who has just informed him that he is known as Monty (although he knew that already)  some more and then asks.

“What was your aim?” 

“Caw,” “London?” 

“Caw,” and then “Caw?”

“Unfortunately you didn’t get very far,” 

“Caw,” (Dejected) 

“Agreed, that was a rather foolish idea,” Dream tilts his head, “I must ask why did you undertake this fool’s errand?” 

“Caw?”

“I… can only sense fragments, you are rather weak right now,” 

“Caw,” (Panicked)

“Do not worry, you are safe here,” “Caw,” (Grateful) 

Dream pauses.

“So Monty the Crow what was the goal of your fool’s errand?”

“Caw?” 

“I only sensed fragments, you are… rather weak right now,”

“Caw,”

“You are safe here,”

“Caw,” (Grateful) 

Monty pauses and the way his feathers ruffle translates as a sigh before he takes a couple of hops that translate somehow as ‘pacing around whilst trying to get your thoughts together’

“Caw…” Another hop, “Caw… Caw…. Caw,”  Another hop, “Caw” (Dejected) 

“That… that is a rather noble cause,” Dream reaches out and then pauses, “May I?”

Monty nods. 

Dream lightly scratches him on the head, feather soft under his fingers and Dream feels a soft rush of affection run through him as Monty leans into his touch and ruffles his feathers and gives the faintest hint of a smile. 

“I… I sense you have not been treated kindly,” He offers his hand and Monty struggles to hop up. 

“Let me,” He soothes as he carefully guides him into his hand and lifts Monty closer to his face.

“I am sorry that has happened to you,” Dream stiffens, “Who… Who did this?” 

“Caw,” “A witch?” He pauses and… feels, “One named Esther Finch, I know of her and… I can sense she has met her long overdue fate,”

“Caw,”

“Maybe that offers you some comfort?” Monty moves his wings in a way that somehow reads as a shrug.

“I… I know what it is like, to be trapped,” Dream sighs, “Taken by someone who seeks power they do not deserve.. Let alone understand.” 

Monty tilts his head again.

“Tell me Monty, Tell me your story,”

“Caw-” 

“I am fond of long tales…” Dream smiles, “And we have all the time in the world whilst you are here,”

Monty ruffles his feathers and then 

“Caw-” 

And then after some time. 

“That is… quite the tale.” 

“Caw?” 

“Yes… now what,” Dream sighs, “I think I can aid you?”

“Caw?”

“Do not worry, I would not pull you into such a bargain, I would also not expect you to serve a new master so soon after gaining your freedom,” 

“Caw?”

“So…The Witch Esther Finch turned you into a human, tell me Monty do you wish to be back in that form?”

“Caw… Caw…” He pauses, “Caw?”

“I see… Understandable you do not want to be bound to one form… even if you found thumbs incredibly useful,” He gives an amused snort and gently scratches Monty on the head, “I believe… I believe I know someone who can aid you,” 

“Caw?”

“No he is not a witch… although I guess he is bewitching in his own way,” “Caw!” (Teasing) Dream swallows, “I am… incredibly fond of him.” Dream pauses, “You… you remind me of him, he is… an incredibly kind soul, eternally joyful,” He smiles, “Even if he is a little foolish at times, His name is Robert Gadling although he prefers to go by Hob, ” Dream pauses, “So Monty The Crow if you agree, once you awake you will find yourself in London,” 

“Very well them,” Dream pulls him against his chest, “Now rest,” 

Monty rests.

Hob awakes to early morning light through the window and realises he forgot to shut the curtains again as he winces  whilst in the background he can hear the ever present drone of the traffic of 21st century London. He finds his laptop in the bed and connects dots he was planning to grade just a couple of more papers last night, but judging from the Turnitin page that greets him when he wakes up the laptop that he’d fallen asleep about a quarter into grading the first one.

Later… later. Deal with that later.  At least two cups of coffee later. 

He’s just about to pass through to the kitchen when he notices something at the living room window.

Matthew? 

No that’s not Matthew.

Wait… that’s not a raven anyway, the beak’s the wrong shape and they’re too small that’s a… 

Crow. 

Oh. 

There hadn’t been A Visit last night (It’s actually been a while but not quite long enough that Hob is worried) but Hob had in that point where reality is a little… loose between waking and sleeping had heard a whisper. It’d been somewhat cryptic (He didn’t expect anything less) but the pieces start to slot together. 

Hob shakes his head with an affectionate snort as he lifts the sash window. It’s thankfully a warm morning. 

The crow tilts their head at him. 

“Well… come on in?” 

Hob takes a step back and watches as the crow hops through the opened window, carefully he shuts it behind them. 

There’s a pause for a moment before they hop from the windowsill and then

Falll  to the ground. 

Hob is caught off guard for a second before there’s a ruffle of feathers and then. 

Ah

So that’s why there’d been something about ‘spare clothes’ that’d sounded rather out of place coming from Dream. 

Hob now looks at the dark haired teenager who had been a crow moments ago who sits on the sofa. The borrowed t-shirt and shorts hang loose on him in a way that looks more ‘Handmedowns from an older sibling’ than ‘fashionably baggy’ 

The teenager looks up at him through curtain bangs with dark eyes that are bright and… oddly captivating.

Just like someone else I know. 

“So… Monty, right?”

Monty nods. 

“Dream?” They say, voice still croaky, “Sent me to you… somehow? Said you could help me?” 

“Hopefully?” Hob clears his throat, “So… are you hungry?”

“I’m starving,” 

Breakfast. Right. That’s at least a problem he can fix. 

“Ok,” Hob smiles, and hopes it looks less nervous than he feels. “I’ll go make us something and you can tell me all about… whatever’s going on,”

“Sounds great!,” Monty’s voice is bright, almost a little too bright for this time in the morning and gives him probably the softest smile he’s ever seen before Hob turns into the kitchen. 

What the hell have you gotten me into this time?