#not even cremated remains are safe from her

[notsoftysof]

Brennan at a stranger's funeral is just a recipe for disaster. She undressed the corpse twice and was called a whore once.

[epicthemusical]

A Man with a Trail of Bodies

WARNING THUNDER SAGA SPOILERS

@theultimatenonbinarynerd here is the prompt you sent me!

“Choose, you or your crew.” Eurylochus watches as Odysseus is given the choice and he already knows who they would choose. Why would he die for the crew after everything they have done?

No it's not the crew's fault but his. He is the one that opened the wind bag and openly argued with Odysseus in front of the crew. He is the one who led the mutiny and the crew followed him, stabbing his brother in the back. Even after all that they had been through He is the one that decided to ignore Odysseus’ begging to leave the blasted cows alone. The longer the silence goes on the heavier he feels the guilt weighing on him.

“Eurylochus, will you swear to keep my family safe?” It takes a bit to process the question

“…Captain? What do you mean?” He couldn't really be choosing to die right? He watches Odysseus grit his teeth with tears in his eyes.

“The prophet said there will be a man with a trail of bodies near my wife and I need to know you will do anything in your power to keep my son and wife safe. Please swear to me that you will not let them be harmed!”

“I swear I will keep them safe.” No wonder Odysseus was different after the talk with the prophet. The one thing that would cause Odysseus to disregard the lives of the crew to get home would be him knowing his family was in danger. The only thing that would have him change so drastically.

“But Captain, what about you? Wouldn't they need their husband and father there?” That's the one thing he can't understand. Why is he choosing the crew now after what they had done? Why would he not fight to get home to his family?

Odysseus turns to face Eurylochus and he is obviously fighting back tears and his eyes are full of guilt and exhaustion.

“Because… I have become a monster. I can't let them see what I have become. I am worried that I will end up hurting them. It's best they never know about the blood on my hands. I'm sorry..for everything.”

Eurylochus grits his teeth and blinks away tears. “Okay Captain….. I swear I will take care of your family like they were my own. Thank you for everything Captain.” Odysseus nods with a grateful smile and takes a deep breath before turning back to Zeus.

“I choose myself to die.” Zeus looks shocked at his decision before an amused smirk spread across his face

“Very well then Odysseus of Ithaca. You shall die for the sins of your crew.” Zeus forms a lightning bolt and throws it at Odysseus. The crew looks away from the blinding light, the sound just barely covering the screams.

Zeus leaves at last his job done leaving the crew to grieve for their Captain. Their Captain, in the end, chose to save them.

---------

They cremate Odysseus on the next island they reach making sure to show him the respect he deserves. There are no storms on the way to Ithaca, Poseiden having been satisfied with Odysseus' death.

When they finally return to Ithaca they all head to the palace. Along the way they hear whispers of the terrible suitors polluting the palace and they frown. They reach the palace and are shocked to see just how many suitors there are.

After listening and watching their fury grows at the disgusting men that wish to claim Penelope like she was a prize to be won. They are all in agreement as they slaughter them all making sure to leave none alive. Before long Eurylochus finds himself kneeling before Penelope.

“Queen Penelope, I regret to inform you that your husband, Odysseus has passed away on his journey home.” Eurylochus hands the urn with Odysseus ashes to her.

“I would like to know how he died…. but first I will have the servant girls set up rooms for you so you can clean up.” Eurylochus nods in understanding. She was obviously trying to stay strong.

“Of course I swore to Odysseus to keep you safe so I intend to make good on that oath.Both me and the remaining crew will give our lives to keep you and your son safe. Thank you for your hospitality and we are sorry for your loss.”

The men are each assigned a room and Eurylochus sends away the servants before starting to wash off all the blood and grime. As he stares at the red and grey tinted water a realization hits him.

HE Is the man with his captain's wife, the one with a trail of bodies. The guilt and grief become overwhelming, feeling like it is choking him. He breaks down in the bath letting out all the emotions that had been locked away.

Once he calms down he finishes bathing and he swears, to himself this time, to keep Penelope and Telemachus safe in Odysseus' place. It's the least he could do after all.

[lxmelle]

I think it’s safe to say both Gojo and Geto had a problem opening their hearts after they separated. Like an emotional scar they never resolved.

It’s kinda Husband & Wife-coded imho. (Husband&Husband, Wife&Wife, whatever - you get my drift).

Geto at his death asked about his family. He wasn’t concerned about how they’d mourn for him or considered if they’d want him saved, etc. Like the scrolls adorning the back of the temple, he didn’t view himself to be much if he couldn’t be strong - punishment to the weak and foolish.

Gojo upon the lead up to the battle seemed to believe he would win either way (aligned with what he told Megumi) and that wasn’t bothered with his body - but he admittedly did feel annoyed that his longest living friend, Shoko, wasn’t upset on his behalf. (I HC that I think he understood that there was no other person who had love for him like with Geto.)

Spoilers for 261:

Given the circumstances, Shoko also had to do what was necessary to support him, regardless of her feelings towards the request. She has always been respectful of boundaries I think. More avoidant with her feelings (remaining stoic) rather than ambivalent. She is a medic after all... you have to put aside your personal feelings.

To some extent both Gojo and Geto it difficult to regard themselves as worthy of loving and genuine care. People may have cared like Geto’s family etc. but the problem lies in their ability to recognise and reciprocate it. He felt alone and couldn’t smile sincerely in his life. It was easier for him to give love than to receive it.

Gojo had a few students who did, but they perhaps came at a time too late (it was mere months after Geto died?) where he didn’t have the time to actually open up his heart too much in the end... before he was sealed, and then had to make the decision to enter the battle. Fortunately, by that time, he didn’t feel lonely anymore as he said in ch236 after death, but there was certainly a line where he didn’t feel he could be understood by others. He was born too different, perhaps? His pragmatic and callous facade made it difficult for others to get close enough to see the real Gojo Satoru. A part of it was about unparalleled strength. The magnitude of it. It wasn’t something Sukuna understood either, since he never knew love and lost it.

We can see that Gojo held different standards for Geto than he did himself though. In the anime many speculated that he was bringing the bouquet for Geto’s grave (or something similar). He must’ve given his body back to Mikiko and Nanako (or hidden it) because he didn’t have it processed & cremated by Shoko, (which would’ve been completely adhering to the orders of the institution). He also wanted to reclaim it for a proper burial from Kenjaku.

This feels so much like a husband & wife thing.

Widowed Husband goes: “Ah, just toss my ashes in the river.” But will get his wife flowers for her grave, ensure she has a clean gravestone, no weeds growing on her plot, leaves a plate out during anniversaries, etc.

Gojo’s love for Geto is also very Yang-coded (which is inherently more male) where he will cling on unwaveringly and there is something about reverence in how he patiently accepts Geto and tried to fulfil everything he wanted. In this sense, where he is portrayed as a loyal widower, he may surround himself with friends, activities, look after the kids, etc. but he will always honour and cherish his wife until his dying day.

Geto who is Yin-coded loves maternally, self-sacrificially. She will be willing to make sacrifices for the sake of her kin. Even if separated from her husband, she will nurture and build a family around her, uncomplaining. She may appear to cope on the surface, as she is used to her emotional needs being unmet without her partner/Husband, until her own dying day.

This is totally anecdotal of course, but to give myself some credit, I’ve talked intimately with more than my fair share of people in grief to see a pattern (and understand it in a personal level too)... we all grieve differently, love differently, value different things...

This is just my two cents. Any thoughts?

Feel free to comment or reblog with your own take.

[blossom-works]

Goodbyes Are Forever

For about two decades, Christopher Redfield has dedicated his life to eradicating the use of bioweapons. For two decades, Christopher Redfield has lost unit after unit. Witnessing the deaths of over a dozen people per-mission. When does it all end? When can Christopher Redfield finally put down his gun and leave this life behind? To leave that part of him that died when you did and lay it to rest, just like what he had to do with the woman who took his heart to the grave with her.

"Hey, Chris! I just wanted to call and let you know that you shouldn't worry about me. I don't know when you'll hear this, but I love you. Come home safe, okay? Oh, and Leilani had her baby on Tuesday! Can't wait to meet the little stinker! Alright, I'll let you get back to your job, macho man. I love you."

You sounded so tender despite worrying about your boyfriend. Chris never really told you the truth behind his jobs and constant disappearance, and somehow, you always had faith in him. He never really knew why and even to this day, Chris does not understand where your faith in him came from. Claire told him that it was because you loved him. You loved Chris so much that you put blind faith in him. Crazy, right?

Maybe that is why Chris never felt alone with you. You could be countries apart, and your little voicemails and texts would make Chris feel like you were right next to him. Sometimes the man thought that you were a witch in that sense. You put some sort of a spell on Chris, making him unable to live and forget about you. A curse, because now Christopher Redfield is surviving, not living. He has had to survive before, but this is different. He no longer has that special someone waiting for him. Chris lost everything the day you perished.

It was not supposed to happen, no. Not if Chris could do anything about it. And he tried. He really did try to save you. Chris did everything he possibly could to bring you to safety, but it was not enough. You ended up turning into the same monsters he had killed countless times before. Chris' heart broke, shattered...disintegrated. The future that had whirled in Chris' mind for months disappeared. The invisible red string connecting your souls together was severed. Chris lost his love, the woman who nuzzled herself against his heart, keeping it warm and accompanied.

Killing you...Killing you was the same as killing himself. Would it have been better to let you bite and turn him? You both would be dead but together. That is all Chris ever wanted, to be with you. It was the whole reason why he bought a ring in the first place. In the end, Chris killed you. He killed his beloved. He remembers, clear as the dark day, holding your body with a bullet in your head. The bullet that Chris put there. He cried, wept, mourned, wailed. How could he not? Everything that truly mattered to Chris was gone.

Chris kept asking your dead body to forgive him. To forgive him for killing you because he could not protect you. He asked for you to forgive him for being a lousy protector, a lousy man. Your body had to be cremated so he and your family buried an empty casket. Your parents took your cremated remains once it was cleared of the virus, leaving Chris with his memories of you.

Months after your death, Chris still cannot find it in himself to throw away or donate your belongings. You did not live together when you died so he hauled everything to his place. He did it by himself. A broken man going through your apartment, the woman he loved more than he ever thought he could, and packing your things into boxes...What a picture.

Your favorite picture together is from one of Chris' birthdays. Claire was busy that day and no matter how much she tried, she could not make it to the celebration. You did not really know Chris' friends because they were all in the same job field as your boyfriend, so it was just the two of you. You bought a small cake and set up a movie night. If someone would have asked, that birthday was is Chris' favorite birthday celebration. He only ever needed you to be happy.

One of your hobbies was reading about human civilizations and history in general. You were a history nerd. Sort of makes sense because you taught second graders. You loved those obnoxious brats and they loved you. In a box are all the gifts your students gave you over your teaching career and their farewell notes and gifts. Your second graders were crushed when they heard that their favorite teacher died. Such a tragic death to someone who just wanted to teach the world's next generation. You taught future doctors, soldiers, lawyers, police officers, bakers, fashionistas, and so many more.

"Babe, the store didn't have any more of your favorite snacks so I got something else. I'll pop by again in two days to see if they restocked them."

A seemingly, meaningless explanation but not to Chris. You hated going grocery shopping so the fact that you would willingly go again for him made Chris feel giddy. Same thing with dishes. You hated doing dishes but would always do them so Chris did not have to when he came over. You wanted your boyfriend to relax since he never really had the time to. His job always kept him on his toes. Through every way possible, you showed Chris that you loved him. He can only hope that he showed you how much he loves you.

Chris misses you. He misses you so much that it physically hurts him. He buys the same detergent you bought so his clothes and linens will smell like you. He will spray your perfume on his cold bed to warm it up, even only for a fraction of a second. Pathetic, right? Well, Chris Redfield is a pathetic man. A man who could not save hundreds of innocent lives, his men, and the woman he wanted to call his wife.

Every now and then, Chris finds himself pulling out a glass frame. In it is the dried flowers from the first bouquet Chris ever got you. No man had ever given you flowers before so Chris' sweet gesture meant a lot. When Chris saw the frame of dried flowers, he asked about it because he had not seen it before and you told him. It was a special moment between the two of you. Flowers were not just flowers to you, they were special. They have meaning. Chris Redfield was not just any man to you, he was special. He as a person, had meaning to you.

You were always around when Chris needed you the most. He had nightmares. When sleep was supposed to be the most peaceful, it was terrifying to him. If you were next to him, sleeping away, you would wake up and comfort Chris. You would cradle him in your arms and whisper sweet nothings to him. You would wipe the sweat away and kiss him. If you were back at your apartment, sometimes Chris would call you in the middle of the night. You would talk him out of his terror and whisper sweet nothings to him. You would even go out of your way to go to his place to be there with him. Even if you had to go to work at six in the morning.

You never minded the baggage Chris carried. Sure it got frustrating and it even led to some arguments, but you were persistent. You wanted to be his rock and you wanted to pull Chris away from his nightmares. But now...now you are his nightmares. The same scene loves to infect Chris' mind. The scene where you turn and Chris has to be the one to put a hole in your head, and right after he pulls the trigger, you get up again and ask Chris why he did what he did. You always ask Chris that one question that shakes the man to his core. Pale, crying, and covered in blood you ask "Why did you stop loving me?"

Oh, darling...Chris never stopped loving you. To this day the man still loves you with whatever is left of him. Chris will never be able to love another woman like he does you. Chris' body, mind, heart, and soul belong to you. No flings. No dates. No "You're cute. Can I get your number?" To minimize women coming onto him, Chris bought himself a silicone ring. It does not matter that you two were never married, Chris is yours and yours alone.

After another long and grueling mission, Chris makes his way to a couple of shops. Once he gets what he needs, he heads to his final destination. The drive is long and quiet. Halfway through it, the sun starts to set and the road becomes more deserted. Chris' car tires bump along the gravel driveway that is on the side of the road. Arriving at the end of the driveway, Chris gets out of the vehicle.

Standing in front of the captain is an empty house. It was the home he was going to surprise you with. The whole plan was to show you the house and propose. Chris had set a large sum of money to the side so you two could renovate the old thing, but he never got to. You died not knowing this, of what could have been your lives. From the trunk of his car, Chris gets out a couple of containers. He pours its substance all over the inside of the building, making sure it does not splash on him.

Standing outside, right at the foot of the front porch, Chris lays a bouquet of flowers down. It is a replica of the first bouquet he got you. A bundle of blue forget-me-nots and white roses. Chris takes a couple of steps back and lights himself a cigarette. Puffing its toxic air, Chris thinks about what could have been. He wanted to marry you. Big or small wedding, Chris did not care. He just wanted to marry you. He wanted two boys too. No girls. Chris knows how men think, but it would be nice if he had a little girl. A mini-you running around in this house.

Chris wanted to grow old with you in this place. He wanted to go through the stages of life normal people do. What is that movie called? The Notebook? Yeah. Chris wanted to die like that. Peacefully in his sleep, lying beside you.

Puffing the last bit of his cigarette, Chris flicks the bud to the porch. Its ashes touch the gasoline puddles, lighting the house on fire. Chris watches the house be engulfed in flames. In his all-black attire, Chris just stands and watches. The roof starts to cave into the house from the weakening structure. Reaching up, Chris snaps off the necklace around him. A simple chain with what would have been your engagement ring. Kissing it, Chris tosses it into the fire.

For five hours Chris just stands there as he watches the house become nothing but ashes. Seeing only flickers of amber, Chris gets back into his car and drives away. He has no intentions of looking back at what could have been with that place. During your funeral, Chris did not shed a tear. Why? Because he cried everything he could the same moment you died. Besides, Chris will be mourning your death until he inevitably perishes.

"I miss you, Chris. A lot. I know you can't tell me what you really do, but that's okay. Stay safe 'cause if you don't I'll kill you myself. I know you're like twice my size and all, but I'll do it. And you better not do anything stupid. Alright, I'll stop nagging you for now...I love you, Christopher."

[killed-by-choice]

Denise Holmes, 24 (USA 1970)

California’s early legalization of abortion was hazardous to young Californians and their mothers, but the damage wasn’t limited to those living in the state. Travelers from across the country— or even those from overseas— were also killed by “safe and legal” abortion.

Denise Joy Holmes was an Australian citizen living in Texas. She was planning to go home for the holidays with a stop on the way. On December 21, she was checked into Avalon Hospital in Los Angeles, California.

Despite the name, Avalon Hospital was an abortion facility. It was a chain location owned by Edward “Fast Eddie” Allred, the owner and founder of Family Planning Associates. His abortion corporation and owned facilities are responsible for at least 18 client deaths.

Thanks to Allred and Avalon, Denise never made it home for Christmas or saw her family again. She was pronounced dead by Allred himself at 5:00 PM that day. She was only 24 years old.

An autopsy was performed and confirmed that the abortion killed her. Denise suffered an amniotic fluid embolism, but it wasn’t just amniotic fluid. Pieces of her dead baby had been left inside of her, as shown by the pieces of fetal bone marrow found in her lungs.

After Denise’s autopsy, her body was cremated and the ashes sent to her grieving family. Her remains were buried 3 days after Christmas.

After killing Denise, Allred was welcomed into the National Abortion Federation. He was widely known for his 5-minute abortions, which were in fact reckless and caused severe internal injuries in many cases.

Denise Holmes was the first known abortion client to be killed by Allred’s facilities. She was nowhere close to the last. Others include 16-year-old Patricia “Patty” Chacon, Mary Pena, Josefina Garcia, 13-year-old Deanna Bell, 17-year-old Laniece Dorsey, Joyce Ortenzio, 19-year-old Tami Suematsu, Susan Levy, 18-year-old Christine Mora, Kimberly K. Neil, Chanelle Bryant, Ta Tanisha Wesson, Maria Leho, 16-year-old Nakia Jorden, Maria Rodriguez, Emmeko Reed and Kenniah Epps. In addition to all of the abortion clients, Barbara Plenger also died after an FPA facility’s IUD insertion caused an infected abscess that was eventually lethal.

Los Angeles Death Certificate 55459 (Affadavit 702792)

"California, County Birth and Death Records, 1800-1994", database with images, Denise J Holmes, 1970 Document 55459 page 56

"California Death Index, 1940-1997," database, Denise J Holmes, 21 Dec 1970; Department of Public Health Services, Sacramento.

"California, Los Angeles, Angelus-Rosedale Cemetery/Crematory Records, 1884-2002", database, Denise Joy Holmes, 1970.

[bcxsanson]

A Halloween thread — Part 1/12

—Probably rate e for horror and thriller elements—

It is supposed to be the season of change, of art. But this year's Shūbun is a chilly dreary affair, quite atypical for the time of year. The autumn equinox stars have just passed the firmament, skipping the milder weather all together. The seasonal changes are already underway and the leaves have started to turn. Luscious vibrant greens make way for shades of gold and red as the temperatures drop and the days grow shorter. It is an all too familiar sight to Katsuki who walks his usual rounds over the cemetery grounds. Briskly he strides past graves of Christians and Buddhists alike, eyes wandering the space impassively.

Of course nothing ever happens around here, he is good at his job. He has been doing it for decades at this point and takes pride in his work as a Kirk Grim.

It has been long since believed that if one buries a dog on newly consecrated ground, its spirit would guard the premises. When the westerners came across the sea, wishing to trade for teas and silks, so too did they bring their new religion of the singular almighty god that offered absolution. Missionaries were quick to erect churches and share their beliefs despite the shogun's disapproval. Although initially intriguing, the fad died quickly due to the prosecution and now, even though there are officially no more Christians or gaijins and missionaries to be found on the land of the rising sun, he still remains as proof, guarding those who had not been cremated as per Buddhist or Shinto beliefs, but rather buried according to the wishes of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.

For many years nothing much changes on his dutiful watch. Once or twice a grave robber tries his luck, but they are quickly chased away when he shifts his form into that of a big golden fur wolf and snaps at their ankles, but that had been the height of excitement. Rumours quickly spread of a ‘wild dog’ on the ground and thieves had veered clear of the space since. The only visitors are those of the people still secretly practising the hidden religion in the dead of night, praying to the deceased and the lord under the cover of the moonless night. When they come, he takes the form of a tall man, with spiky blond hair similar to those who have bound him to this place. Upon saying the deceased’s name, he guides them across the plot to their loved ones so they may speak in private. When they are done, he guides them safely back to the living, offering safe passage so as to not be spirited away.

Tonight is supposed to be a night like any other. The orange harvest moon rises high and shines brightly, illuminating the low hanging mist swirling over the ground, which is stirred by the faintest wind from the sudden shift in temperature. That is when his ruby eyes spy her in the latest hour, at the peak of the moon’s bearing across the zenith. Silently she stands just beyond his realm, beyond his church’s consecrated ground.

A girl, as pale as the full moon itself with round cheeks.

He watches her.

It has been years since there has been a new arrival, even more since someone has been buried on his turf.

The new arrival herself is still. The wind, however, makes sure she grabs his attention. Chestnut brown hair billows with the cold wind and whips around her face. Her torn white dress, stained with blood and dirt, hangs loosely on her small frame as she simply stands there, gazing at the cemetery, while wordless tears tumble over her cheeks.

“Oi!” Katsuki calls out, but she does not move.

“Oi!”, he shouts again, and this time she slowly turns to him. The white fabric is torn at the front and reveals several stab wounds to her chest. The gashes run deep and messily overlap. As his eyes wander over her, he finds her neck is bruised with large dark blue hand marks.

Katsuki swallows against the lump in his throat.

It has been a long time since someone arrived unscheduled and in such a manner - dying a death so obviously violently.

The consecrated ground he watches is rich and sanctified despite the dead resting beneath the surface and the missionaries no longer tending to them. Doused with holy water and purified with psalms spoken to guide and help restless souls, they are a beacon to the lost. Those not buried here, wandering and lost spirits, often make their way here to try and find peace and safe passage.

To where, he does not know. The great beyond? The next life? Salvation?

Perhaps she is one of them. Searching for something he can never attain, eternally bound to this place. He should assist her before she turns, before she becomes a ghoul and haunts the living, and torments the innocent, but it does not fall within his responsibilities. He is to guard the ones within his realm, not beyond. Still, he can’t help but think she looks familiar.

“You can’t be here!”, he calls out.

From the distance he sees her open her mouth but not a single word falls from her lips despite them moving. Her pale hands race to her throat, as her eyes grow wider.

Sufficiently intrigued, Katsuki jumps down from his perch and steps closer. Slowly he approaches the fence - the border of his abandoned forgotten domain, the ever eternal yokai and that of the fleeting living mortals.

“If you’re not buried here, you cannot enter.”, he explains with his hands in his pockets and a shrug. “I don’t make the rules.”

He does not know if it is a spell or something else, but no spirit of the dead can enter the holy ground he guards. For all he knows it is a charm the gaijin have etched into the wood that he is unaware of or the fancy iron fence marking the fringe of his responsibilities.

Lifting her hand, she points to the far side of the graveyard, towards the mound with the withered sakura standing and he frowns.

“Either you talk or you fuck off, I can’t read minds.”, he mutters.

The night is long and he has duties to fulfil. He does not feel like spending the night trying to explain to a ghost that she cannot enter. Her lips tremble and the tears spill, shimmering like sweet water pearls in the moonlight as they trickle down ghastly pale, round cheeks. As she tears her mouth open, a piercing wail fills the air.

He flinches.

The howling screech accompanies the wind and simultaneously sends the crows to the heavens in an uproar and him to his knees. His hands shoot up to cover his ears, he slams his eyes shut and curls in on himself as much as possible to save himself from the cacophonous onslaught.

Inexplicably, and all too suddenly, the gust of wind lets up and the piercing sound disappears as instantaneously as it began. Looking up he blinks, the girl is gone, as is the moon which is now hiding behind the thick dark clouds.

Where she stood remains a bloody pair of footprints and is all the proof he has of her visit, though they do not last long. The first drop of rainfall douses the land in a chilly embrace, muddying and erasing all trace of her ever having stood there.

[reassambled-dragoon]

21: Shade

   Stasia and Storm were comfortably perched on a secure cliff ledge, overlooking Storm’s village. As always in Coerthas, it was cold and the ground snow-covered, but the sun had come out for awhile, giving light and life to the flora below. Both women were comfortably quiet, simply enjoying the view.

   After awhile, Storm broke the silence, keeping her voice soft. “You’ve settled in well, my friend. How does Eitherys compare to your Azeroth?”

   “It’s difficult to make a comparison, as both planets are so different,” Stasia replied in Thalassian. She preferred to speak it when she was alone with Storm, as she knew Storm could easily understand her. “Azeroth was shaped by Titans and Old Gods. Eitherys…wasn’t.”

   Storm watched the village far below, the people made so small by distance. “That’s not entirely accurate. Millennia ago, a race called the Ancients lived here. Perhaps not all, but a great many of them had immense power, and decided to play god by creating whatever they wished. Oh, surely they claimed to be perfecting what nature had given them, but…”

   “But people are people and always will be, and those who have power will always seek to make the world bend to their whims.” Stasia’s lips twitched into a wry smile. “That seems to be a universal truth.”

   Storm huffed a laugh and stretched out her bad leg. “Aye to that.”

   Another comfortable silence grew. Stasia generally preferred to be alone, but Storm was a remarkably quiet person when she wasn’t surrounded by people. Perhaps the Roegadyn also welcomed time to be with her own thoughts.

   This time, it was Stasia who broke the wind’s song. “Your world doesn’t have a lot of undead. Alata and I haven’t even sensed any for miles around this village. Why is that?”

   “Hm? Ah, ashkin.” Storm sipped from an insulated canteen that, naturally, held warm tea. “Our star, sadly, has its share of unsettled souls, but one of my people’s traditions and duties is helping them to their deserved rest. The first thing we did when we were permitted to settle here was to retrieve the remains of those long dead, give them a proper burial, and eliminate any shades that lingered as respectfully as we could. Every year, we honor those souls along with our own.”

   Stasia frowned at her friend. “I hope you don’t take offense to this, but…wouldn’t cremation be safer? There is less chance of someone…resurrecting them.”

   “Oh, aye.” Storm idly waved her canteen at the frozen landscape below. “After the Calamity froze Coerthas, we shifted to cremation. Instead of burying the ashes, they’re usually incorporated into our greenhouses’ soil, so those who are lost can still care for those who are still here. We believe they approve, as we have yet to see any bhoots, shades, what have you. And, besides, we send teams out periodically to assess the countryside. Our first Halonic priest wasn’t pleased and called us blasphemous, but even he couldn't argue with the results.”

   “I should think not,” Stasia muttered as she shook her head. “Who could argue with a land that feels so safe and peaceful?”

   “Egotistical fools who refuse to see past the constraints of their own religion.” Storm shrugged and tucked her canteen away. “The priest we have now is far more understanding. …though he isn’t aware of what, precisely, feeds the vegetables and fruits he enjoys.”

   Stasia gave her a falsely-shocked gasp. “Lying? You can lie? To a priest? I didn’t think you were capable of it, Storm Dancer!”

   “Why not? It’s not like the religious leadership didn’t lie for a thousand years to their own people before we came along. At least, unlike the Dragonsong War, this omission won’t harm anyone.”

   Stasia huffed a laugh of her own, raising her glowing eyes to watch Hekaarn and Fleetwing lazily soaring overhead. “Indeed not.”

[sacredtime]

Ok so I want to say Gabe was cremated even though it’s more than likely he was just buried but-

David gets handed the small urn of his dads ashes for safe keeping until the funeral can be situated.

Him crying in the passengers seat silently as Asher drives the two of them back to their apartment. One arm secured around the urn and his free hand white knuckleing the handle as he tries not to have a panic and grief induced meltdown.

Marie and milo being there waiting for them to return and the instant David walks in and puts his dad down Marie envelops him in a hug and comforts him like her own child. For the first time in his life he’s alone, no one to look up to or guide him or comfort him during his grief.

David having to sit through meeting with the older members before his status became official listening to them debate his funeral processions and how Gabe should be honoured. David worn down by grief, not feeling worthy enough to be considered his replacement just wanting to wither away and cry.

Even better: David has to sit through meetings and justify why he should be the one to take the role as alpha in the pack trying his best to be bold and confident like he was ready before he really was.

Not being able to pass his dads house even in present day without remembering the day he brought the ashes home.

Being the one to lower the urn into the ground as other watched pityingly feeling all the guilt crash and suffocate him at once yet he tried to remain as stoic as possible.

Now in light hearted yet bitter note what I imagine his mothers grave to look like:

I imagine certain cemeteries are designed for the empowered community in mind so that they’d be able to grieve in peace without breaking covert and in turn the families have more control on what they do with the plots of their deceased family/community members.

When David’s mom first get sick and the outcome wasn’t looking positive Gabe took most of the responsibility for preparing her passing so she could spend as much time with David and not worrying about her death.

His mother, and subsequently Gabe’s, plot is more secluded from the other plots in the cemetery. Not long after his mothers death Gabe planted various flowers around her grave and headstone.

I like to imagine that her headstone is more of a statuette type thing and he planted honeysuckle (I think that’s Her favourite?) and it ended up climbing it and growing strong. At the point of Gabes death it’s spread and covering the grave.

David and angel regularly visit and tend the impromptu garden. It’s a amazing site to others and they claim they regularly feel a presence watching them warmly.

The grave is worn down and her name is covered by the honeysuckle the only way they found the family name was the addition of Gabes grave.

The setting of his mothers grave is set perfectly that it has like the halo of the sun and despite the dreary atmosphere of the graveyard it feels angelic and mystical despite being a empowered graveyard.

[ask-de-writer]

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THE FISHERMAN'S LEG (Part 15 of 20)

A sequel to Dee 1/2 Demon

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

16914 words (work in progress)

© 2023 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Minami, Ichuru's body in his arms, began to stride determinedly along the street toward the Shop of Repairs. Tanira was about to try stopping him but Magistrate Lim prevented her with a silent raised hand.

Brow knitted in puzzlement she backed away. Bobbing his head in a bow while walking, he whispered to her, “He is greatly distraught. Folk who are so upset often reveal more than they intend. He has already let me have one thing that he has never let out before this.”

Minara overheard and quietly took Takahara aside to explain.

Nodding thoughtfully, she followed along.

Minami stopped just outside the door of the Shop of Repairs and cried out, “Murderers! You must restore life to my son! You have to undo your evil act!”

Dee looked up from her anvil where she was working on a set of kitchen knives. Her clear inner eyelids slid up over her golden, snake like eyes. She simply shook her head, her usually slowly undulating flame orange hair slowed.

“That is something that no mortal being can do, Minami,” she hesitated before adding, “san. He has been drowned and dead for hours. Only necromancy could bring him back and that is unlawful Sorcery.”

“So is murder! That gives you no trouble at all, does it Monster? I have seen you and your six evil witches do it with my own eyes!”

Patsu made a comic stare about the Shop, shading her eyes with a hand. “We seem to be a bit short of evil witches here. Mind explaining where the others are?”

Satsuna set aside the leather wet weather boot that she was repairing to step up close and take a look at Ichuru's body. Her face pinched in puzzlement, she asked, “Why was he not wearing his floats? When he fell in while playing the straps made marks in his clothes that would last until they were dried out. There are no strap marks on these clothes.”

Minami gave no bow at all as he snapped, “He needed no floats! All that he had to do was stay in the boat to be safe! Your evil magics toppled him into the sea to drown!”

Miko had put aside the calligraphy that she had been working on and stepped close, shaking her head. “Minami san, that makes no sense at all. Even if it were true, which it is not, you had what? Four or five men besides yourself in the boat, of whom at least four could swim. Even without his floats, any of you could have easily extended a pole, like a boat hook for him to grasp. Failing that, a swimmer could have gone in and pulled him out.

“Why would you ignore him at all? When any child is in any boat, you must pay attention to them. It is a basic safety precaution.”

Before Minami could retort, Magistrat Lim intervened. Bowing politely, he stated firmly, “This has gone far enough. My good Constables, Canra san and Horichi san will take Ichuru to the Temple of Two Trees to be prepared for cremation.

“You, Minami san, and you young ladies of the Shop of Repairs must all come with me to the Tribunal. There we shall hold a proper Inquiry into this distressing situation that has resulted in the death of Ichuru san.”

The whole lot trooped up Sabo's tidy streets to the Tribunal. After all had taken their places, kneeling before the Magistrate, he laid his sword across the black lacquered table that he knelt behind.

He signaled with his hand, saying, “Miko san, I wish you to keep the record of this Inquiry.”

She took her place, taking from a drawer in her table the inkstone, brushes, Tribunal Chop and paper needed for the record.

Dipping her brush in a small cup of water, she wiped it on the inkstone and sat ready. “What shall I write?”

The Magistrate replied, “Seal the upper right corner of each page and title it INQUIRY INTO THE DEATH BY DROWNING OF ICHURU SAN, aged ten years.”

He composed himself carefully and went on, “These are known facts. More may be found later but we must begin with what is known and proved. First, Minami san, sentenced to a moon at labor on the Roads of this Province, escaped after only two weeks of his sentence. Second, Minami san engaged crewmen who were used in the theft of the boat Sea Lion.”

Minami started to object but remembered in time to raise a finger and bow. “The Sea Lion is my boat! I cannot steal what is mine!”

Magistrate Lim quietly raised his hand. “You owe a great deal of money to your crew. They took out the Lein on it. The Tribunal holds the ownership and the crew has full rights as owners until the whole of the Lein is paid. Only then will you own the Sea Lion again. The taking of it without the permission of her proper crew is theft.”

Exasperated, he inquired of Miko, “Did you get all of that?”

She bowed politely and replied, “Every word and who said it.”

“Good. Thirdly, Minami san abducted Icchuru san from his home and the custody of his mother.”

He interrupted himself to explain, “The Order of Protection served to you, forbids approach to the house, Fish Market or the persons of Tanira san and Ichuru san. The violation of that order makes taking him an abduction.”

The Magistrate took an exasperated breath and added, “Fourth, entering the Fish Market and taking Ichuru's floats and his toy boat. It is known that he would not enter a boat without wearing the floats.

“Fifth, you took the Sea Lion to the fishing grounds.

“Sixth, his floats were found neatly folded and dry when you returned. His clothes showed no sign of the float straps and were deeply soaked. Two of the men with you were also soaked.

“Seventh, and last for now, you accused Dee san and her friends of murdering him.

“His body was sent to the Temple of Two Trees to be examined for any sign of witchcraft or Sorcery before being prepared for cremation. High Priest Nandi san will do that and we shall have his report in person soon.”

To be Continued

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[lya-dustin]

Someone will remember us

Chapter 85

Gif by @bonniebirddoesgifs

Taglist: @mercedesdecorazon @stargaryenx

Queen Rhaenyra and Ser Criston Cole died a week before Sunfyre choked on Lady Ida Strong, the last of Lord Lyonel Strong’s daughters, and followed suit.

In the meantime, Tyrstane Truefyre had rose as king, the Shepherd as his rival and Borros Baratheon made quick work of them before the moon was over.

Corlys had not been freed by any of the three kings, although Trystane had given him good food and a better cell hoping to get the Seasnake to bend the knee.

Borros had only come after Viserys’ by-blow had been cruelly executed along with his oh so loyal retainer and arrested every damn lamb following the Shepherd.

“You think her Rhaenyra, but she is all Rhaenys.” Corlys said when Borros came down for a visit. “Better than your new son by a league.”

Poor Cassandra Baratheon, humiliated by her own husband who could not even get it up.

But eight and ten year old Cassie gets a crown, and her father gets to become Hand, who knew Baratheon would want to follow Otto Hightower’s example?

“Your Silver Queen is just a girl like mine or worse, a mad little queen, or so it’s said.” Borros countered and passed him the wineskin.

A gift from Aegon, stolen from Laenor’s prized collection Rhaenyra had kept for the children.

“They called Daenys mad too and look how that turned out.” Corlys pointed out.

In retrospect, revealing Aemma’s ability had given their enemies ammunition, but then again, what did they have except stories the Clubfoot and Rhaenyra’s fool made up?

“So you say, Velaryon. But she is still just a woman, controlled by her husband like you controlled my cousin.” Borros smirked.

To say such a thing was to invite a gruesome death by Corlys’ own hand.

He and Rhaenys were equals in their marriage, something Borros would never believe given he thinks women only exist to serve men.

“Aemma is still your kin, the blood of Jocelyn Baratheon runs through her veins and that of her baby boy. Do you really want to risk the life of your sons, the living and unborn one, for a man who cannot make a wife out of your sweet Cassie?”

Baratheon could not afford to lose his precious sons. Royce had been a miracle in itself and Elenda knew her husband’s sudden good nature depended on this last baby to have a cock between his legs.

Maegor had been cursed to lose any child sired by him, even the bastards sired before he murdered Aenys all died unnaturally young.

“You play well, Seasnake, but unless Laenor’s precious little girl comes with her army, you are going to have to bend your knee to my new son.”

“We could just take the city and be done with it.” Aemma suggests and their council thinks her insane.

The city had descended into anarchy and many loyalists had been killed during the past moon.

The Greens had taken it back thanks to Borros Baratheon a week ago, and the current strategy was to have them bring Aegon out of hiding and then descend on him with fire and blood.

The Rivermen and Northmen would draw Baratheon and his fresh army out of the city, Aemond and Aemma would fly to the Red Keep and finish his brother once and for all.

If they are lucky, Cassandra will kill him for them.

If they are not, they become kinslayers in truth.

“And when the Usurper’s army closes in on you, your grace, what will you do?” Sabitha asks her as if she were one of her children and not her sovereign.

Criston had left plans that the remaining council had fine-tuned in his memory.

He died with her mother’s name on his lips, or so it was said.

Him holding her as they died together while her baby brother screamed at the horrific sight before him.

The fishermen were knighted for their service, mother cremated by Moondancer and Ser Criston’s bones sent to his parents out of gratitude.

If Lord Baratheon and Lord Dondarrion had something to say against it, they were very welcome to discuss it with them when they meet in battle.

Aegon was safe in Driftmark, with Baela and Vaemond keeping Dragonstone trapped behind a blockade.

Grandfather was languishing in the Black Cells, Aunt Alarra had been smuggled out when Perkin the Flea and his puppet king had taken the Red Keep and rumor had it that Aegon would execute him today if he did not bend the knee.

“I do not like this waiting, Lady Frey, that is all. I just want this to be over once and for all.” The princess acquiesced with a half-meant apology.

“No one does, but we must.”

Morning comes with bad news.

“If you do not bend the knee, they will kill them.” Baratheon warns.

Driftmark had been taken.

Aegon captured a heavily pregnant Baela and Alyn who remained on the island as a last line of defense.

Vaemond had managed to take little Aeg to Duskendale, but Baela had refused to leave and said Aegon had no dragon to defeat them only to have Aegon’s sailswords kill Moondancer in the air.

“My knees are old and stiff and do not bend easily,” Lord Corlys responded, before setting forth terms of his own.

Terms Aegon would never accept but would buy them all time.

He demanded pardons for himself and all those who had fought against him. Especially his grandchildren and Rhaenyra’s son.

He asked for Meleys’ head to be given to him and displayed in a place of honor in High Tide, for a betrothal between little Aegon and Aegon’s daughter, Jaehaera, and for Prince Aemond to be reinstated as Aegon’s heir.

“The realm has been split asunder,” he said feigning loyalty. “We must needs join it back together.” Lord Baratheon’s daughters did not interest him, but he wanted his family freed at once.

As expected Aegon would refuse and would do so the moment he came into the city, so he could have the pleasure of taking the Seasnake’s head in person.

In the last days of the 130 after conquest, Aegon the Second, more commonly remembered as Aegon the Usurper, returned to the city he lost to retake a throne that was never his on a trading cog called Mouse given as payment to Marilda of Hull for birthing Ser Laenor’s bastards.

It is the last day of the year when two dragons are sighted on the Kingsroad.

[addicted2coke-theothercoke]

The Revenant

Sirens screamed like an old Drekavac now immortalized in cold steel, their cries accompanied by violent red lights of warning which shone upon blood that bathed dead corridors. Once soldiers of courage fled down winding halls in panic, more, in dread. Rightfully scared scientists, engineers, cooks, janitors, piolets, all that remained, that is, crammed themselves into every tight corner that provided a haven of safety. God-fearing roars of resident announcer Micheal Shirk bellowed out mechanically an omen that all could see. The Revenant had arrived once more.

As hell broke loose, and the stranger from across the stars massacred the occupants of Travelway Haden, Captain Philip prepared to take his own life.

Philip thought first of despair, of agony, of pain soon arriving and to be delivered by his own pistol. A vellian shot through the chest would be the force of a raging bull, the shock of the electric chair. Millions of volts were to course through his body instantaneously on impact. A violence beyond nature that would evaporate hair, burn skin, twist bone in sudden spasm, and partially cremate upon corpseification. Even all this would not act quick enough to prevent Philip from the second pain. From feeling the gaping hole in his chest, lungs popping and hearts punctured, muscle dropping to the floor, blood pouring.

As the Revenant drew near, and the last dying screams of attempted hiders vibrated upon metal, the choice became clear.

Philip's next thoughts were of regret, for Cassandra told clearly of the knife in her hand, and how she would come to exact payment in pain. It was clear from that start that whatever was trapped within the vessel, its construction of solid tungsten and alien alloy, was never meant to be. Yet Haden had welcomed the unknown stranger, nursed it, taught it. Taught it science, and religion, and history, and culture, and politics, and above all the purest way of man, the greatest pastime of humanity, how to kill. It so passively demonstrated its clear lacking need for instruction, standing idly and with disinterest at every world not involving food, until we had come to the topic of death. Foolish as children, we were but toys that interested it, animals barking such funny noises, but when a dog bites an owner, the dog must die.

Screams had all died down now, even the howls of Shirk. Not even the Drekavac and its fellow red dared announce the coming presence, for without warning Haden was silent and dark. Silent, that is, except for the soft foot prints of the Revenant outside the command rooms very door.

Steeled, prepared, Philip turned the gun rapidly not at the mortal monster beyond but towards his own life. Pulling hard the clicking trigger so that a finger paled from pressure. Dying. Alone. One billion miles from family. But safe from the Revenant. Safe.

The Revenant did later then open the heavy door to find a bloodbath. Mangled and burnt body that smolders atop fine carpet now dipped in red, half the chest thrown against the wall. It surely smiled at this site.

--the end

[winterdeepelegy]

A Favor Owed

Ciel had been tending the flowers in her yard when Glace arrived unannounced. There was no hello, no mention of her name to get her attention, but an eventual clearing of his throat to serve the same purpose. She lifted her head and tipped up the brim of the woven hat she wore to see who it was, only to scoff at such a greeting. "Really? Well, hello to you too. Let me guess, you need my help for another job?" "Well yes... and no," he answered. She hadn't seen him in months and by now the trail of Artoire Boniface had gone cold. Glace had other matters in mind which were more important in the moment. "Actually... it's a bit of a personal matter, and kind of a big ask." Taking a breath, Ciel dropped her trowel onto the ground and brushed bits of grass off of her knees as she stood. She was sure she'd more than paid off her debt by now, but what was one more favor? "Alright, I'm listening," she confirmed in an even tone, neither elated nor annoyed, at least not until she knew what this request consisted of. Glace lowered his head but hesitated. He wasn't sure how best to ask for what he needed, but after another beat he got on with it. "Listen, Plum... you know a bit about me an' mine already. Things didn't exactly go as planned with bringing them home and... well, more than a few of my Siblings died." At that, she removed her hat and held it in front of her chest in a solemn gesture for his grief. She waited quietly for the rest of his request. "You may not know but I've seen you on more than one battlefield. In the aftermath, when all the fighting's done, when the ground's still smouldering under your feet. I've seen you walk through like it's... a meadow or something... a field of flowers. And you whisper and you sing and play your harp, all the while pluckin' motes out of thin air where people died." Her eyes shifted away in search of anything that might keep her from meeting his eyes. He wasn't wrong, but realizing she had had an audience at all suddenly made the breath stop in her throat. "And then... you smiled in that way you do when you're about to part ways with an ol' friend or loved one, like you'll see them again just a few moons later. In the next moment, those motes blinked out one by one. You set them free." He paused to watch her, noting her uncertainty. "I don't doubt what my own eyes saw, but that's all I'm asking for. Well, that's part one... the place where they died, I don't want them to linger. They've suffered enough." Only now did Ciel lift her green eyes to him again, but there was no change in her expression. "The second part is, we recovered what flesh remains we could and they've since been cremated," he went on. "I was hoping you might be able to do some funerary rite for them, too, an' scatter the ashes. Mere formality, but some of the survivors might benefit from the closure." The songstress closed her eyes and softly shook her head. "Funerary rites are a specialty of Arrzaneth Ossuary. Alas, I'm no priestess of Thal." "I can't go to them and you know it," he huffed, "I've done my damnest to keep the others safe by not exposing the location of our new home. I don't trust those Ul'dahn blokes, not to mention the exorbitant prices they ask for services like that. Please, Plum, I'll do anything you ask of me if you'll do this." He wasn't wrong about this, either, and she knew quite well what their fees typically ranged. "Glace, I'm but a humble devout of Oschon. Although formal funerary rites aren't normally my forte, I am called by Him to grant comfort to they that wander." She dipped her head once in a nod of agreement, "Very well. I will do what you're asking, but I can't in good consciousness ask aught in return." The Duskwight stood there in stunned silence for a few breaths before finally stammering, "Are you sure?" "Aye. I'll not deny anyone peace at a price that benefits only myself. But tell me where I need to go and it shall be done."

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

Thank you to everyone

The fire seems to have been electrical and started in the kitchen. No appliance was on or used in the last 24hrs so it might have been the qiring itself.

My beautiful girl was asleep when she succumbed to smoke and wasnt burned, when they found her. She just Went apparently. After a days distance, i take that a s consolation.

She is with the pet funeral service as they are goi g to cremate her, and she will return in a scatter box to be buried under a tree or plant that suits her personality when the grief is less like a throbbing wound.

Theres a cat tree comingfor her and i think it will be devastating when it arrives. So stupid, i know.

The whole place is torched. Even items not directly hit by flame are smoke damaged or crumble to the touch.

All my books, my clothes, the furniture. And i dobt really care. Its stuff,i will start again bc i have family and friends willing to help

But if i could have had one thing saved, it would have been my bubba, my little girl Zarya my family is distraught over her loss too, they saw her most weekends and when they visited. She was The Baby.

And of all things i was able to save something silly. A little tapastry thing id seqn to hang my badges on. Zarya 'helped' by trying to sit onit with the pins in and was offended when i moved her.. teenagers right? And then helped by playing Attack each time i moved itto putthe badges on.

I will miss her silliness and playful spirit.

Most of them were smoke coated but it came off well enough, a few are still damaged but i am going to try with a rough cloth or something. I cant replace most of them, they were from random kickstaers and shops and such over the years.

I have no undies and myboots melted and my daughter died and all my comics and manga are destoyed... buti got some of my badges back. Stupid isnt it?

The biggest issue is that mosthad thoselittle rubber backs and no qmount of scrubbing will remove the smokey firey smell from them meaning they arent safe to keep. Havr to replace them, have to get new things. Thinking about the safest wayto dispose of them i trash to prevent them ending upchoking fish or wildlife etc

And i think thats the worst part of grief, i have lost people and pets before to time or illness, but never anything like this. So young, so unexpected. So random.

The guilt eats you alive qith WHAT IFs and Could i have's...

There are moments you sob u controllably at a thought like knowing shell never snuggle up in bed like she did every night before... and then moments where everything is neutral and quiet and average. And you feel guilt for actingg like nothing has happened.

Life has to go on, but it hurts to see the wheels turning when shes noton the train anymore.

I have family qho i can be with, qork who will help me find somewhere new to stay as they hold the leases, and coworkers and friends who are sourcing things. I am luckier than many, 3ven with most things gone.

Its just that theres a switch inside that will hit grief at random times, and then snap back to nromalacy for hours until another reminder comes through.

Its so.stupid.

Its not fair and its fucking awful, but it happened and nothing can change it or bring her back. And that is just how random and cruel thw world can be.

My computer was annihilated so the typos are likely all through this. Its silly ut the idea of posting on social media where my friends and mutuals ive had for years are felt selfgratuitous in the worst way.

And over a day from the incident, i feel like srolling through tumblr ot twitter or whatever else is degrading her memory bc thats a normal activity, etc

Which is silly, but grief and anxiety and guilt are all buily into the same package and you never know which one will pop outof the box when the handles cranked.

But again, thank you for holding her little face in your hearts and memories.

She remains so fucking loved its like a physical pain, and that will never change. Forever the baby girl, forever Zarya.

[gigglingcloud]

Story of a mother,, rei

A hero is someone you feel safe with Even in the depths of the darkness A hero is the light A hero is the anchor

But rei never felt safe when he was around.

It's ironic how his presence has this duality to it , one moment he is the epitome of piece and the other he brings nothing but pain and discomfort behind closed doors, Hypocrisy at its finest…

Rei never imagined things to turn out the way it did, no one has ever raised their voice at her when she was back home and here is she now throwing herself at her husband and getting beat to not let him hurt her oblivious weak children.

Right, her children, Her "hope" she once thought, when she fought for her life at that bed to meet the same blue eyes that haunted her later on , a carbon copy of his father, bright red hair like no other, at least my husband will be proud she thought.. But all hope crumbled when her first flame tore and went with the. Winds , when he told her " he is your responsibility now" He gave her a lifeless clone of her son, the comforting flame turned into cremation and a storm full of anger. Right then and there she knew she fuck up. She knew when the warm blue turned into a raging red, bloodshot even, he wasn't going to stop And said husband won't letting go off the hook either.

𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦

She was supposed to feel bad, when her second and third flame of hope were declared quirkless, to their father at least, the case being their ice was too much for their bodies to bear, but it didn't matter to him he saw them useless, nonexistent one might say, but she was secretly happy or maybe she did.good to mask it all too well but she didn't care, at least two of her children were spared the pain, she was spared their rage, Touya died, even before his body was found as nothing less than ash. It was when he attacked her and shouto, when fuyumi and natsu were at the back but she never realized they were there, she was more focused on who's faster, her child's sanity slipping out of his grasp or the same hand that usually brought her pain to try and shield her from the unexpected revenge's heat. It didn't matter, the damage has been done, she lost him, and now she focused on trying to keep shouto alive at least, it's not his fault his quirk was powerful it's not his fault he was born in such a family, it's not his fault she unconsciously gripped the boiling pot and poured it's content on the same blue that haunted her evry nightmare, maybe it'll go away now? And then she knew she fuck up again She knew she finally cracked and there was no going back

𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦.𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭

She was supposed to feel bad, but that little selfish voice at the back of he head said it's for the better to detach for a while, to take a "break", for natsu and fuyumi were there for shouto so she could rest assured, as for Enji the letters were enough,

𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦.𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳

Her two little flames came in regularly, and she can't help but feel guilt deepens for not spending much time with them back in the day, but who was she fooling? Her self perhaps? There was no such a thing since her supposed home was never a home, it was that of she couldn't be taken back at the himura household, they sold her willingly, as for the cold long corridors and the rooms that were big for nothing were her only shelter, Sadly he was the only reason she had a roof over her head, and she wishes everyday she coud have more cozy time with fuyumi, and bring touya and natsu closer to herself after along day of them arguing about evrything and nothing and maybe enjoying more of the cold soba with shouto but she knew that was never going to happen.

𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵

Thus she apologized, For the three of them remaining flames she apologized for what she did and what not, And to her surprise, they were feeling just as guilty but never blamed her for a thing for them all going through hell and more together, bless shoto and him never guilting her of the permanent evidence that she too went insane.

𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦

Turning and tossing in the bed, between lingering thoughts she knew she could never forget him Her son Her pride Her child Her flame Her hero But he was gone, once and forever.

Perhaps she had to tug him and grope the tip of his ear giving him a much needed scolding then embrace him in a much more needed hug Yes, that what was supposed to happen, but instead he spat out hateful words and got out full of rage and sadness that he had to be back in a coffin to prove he was suffering too.

𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

"Mother " He called her, the hairs at back of her neck rose whenn shem stared at the grown man in the screen, a man that death lingers wherever he lands, a mann that you think of suffering and burnt bodies if someone happened to utter his name, a man that once used to be her child, her child who she was told died and nothing was left of him expect a couple of bones. He called her mother, He reminded her that she ones fucked up evrything and she wasn't able to run away from the truth no matter what, at that moment tears rolled down her cheeks but she wasn't going to step aside and watch hell unfold, no Now she got up and headed to her husband, Her children are waiting for he She needed to save him "mother" They called..

[navree]

Hey I saw your post of rhaenys and the dornish letter that her body was returned to aegon and all that stuff but wouldn't that be traumatizing like it s defo bones not even flesh or normal face just abroken skull body not even like full one every piece of her bones.... wouldn't that make aegon more enraged like how you imagine his first reaction while holding her remains ??

Oh, sorry if it wasn't clear but I'm of the opinion that Rhaenys was either returned to Dragonstone still living or having only recently died. So, the sequence of events as I see them is:

1) Rhaenys and Meraxes are shot down but, as seen with Baela and Aegon II, you can survive your dragon falling from the sky so she lived

2) She was then taken into the custody of the Ullers as she was shot down over Hellholt, their keep (whether there was torture or just imprisonment is a complete unknown so I flipflop as is narratively convenient)

3) At some point the Martells, a more egalitarian society in Westeros who at the very least respected the Targaryens as warriors in their own rights and Rhaenys as a warrior in her own right as well, found out that Rhaenys was still alive and captive and were Not Pleased

4) As the Ullers' liege lords, they pulled rank and then took custody of Rhaenys from them and likely attempted to give her better care than she was getting at Hellholt

5) Rhaenys likely wouldn't have survived that fall without serious injuries, and if there was torture involved, the situation would have been even worse, and at some point around the war's stalemate it became clear she wasn't going to live for very long

6) Nymor, as the Prince of Dorne, decides that, while offering peace, he'll make a gesture of good will to Aegon as well to keep Dorne safe from Targaryen wrath for at least his and Deria's reigns

7) Nymor writes a letter to Aegon in which he says that the Martells found Rhaenys at Hellholt and, being decent folks, they're going to be sending her on a ship to Dragonstone so she can at least spend her final days in the place where she was born, or at minimum, can have a funeral there with the family who loved her

8) Deria gives this letter to Aegon, which explains his emotional reaction, his desire to keep things under wraps until he could verify the thing, and his immediate flight to Dragonstone, essentially stalling all peace talks until he returned the next morning, and his immediate agreement to Nymor's terms, as well as his subsequent good relations with the Martells for the rest of his reign - he went to verify the Martells' claim and found it both true and cathartic

9) As mentioned above, Aegon goes to Dragonstone, and considering that a journey both by land to King's Landing and by ship to Dragonstone would take a while but still be of the same length to each other, likely did find Rhaenys either alive on the brink of death or her recently deceased body, had her cremated according to Targaryen tradition, and then went back home

10) Also as mentioned above, Aegon is both sick of the war for various reasons I've outlined in other responses, and grateful that the Martells at least tried to take care of Rhaenys while they had her, kept her in relative comfort in her last days, and allowed him the opportunity for some closure, so agreed to the peace, and because of how they acted when it came to this, was willing to be amicable and even visit Sunspear himself later in his reign.

So, it's not that the Martells were returning to him a couple hunks of shattered bone in my view, they either were giving him a proper and not decomposed corpse that he could honor in accordance to Targaryen funerary customs and other ways that might be important to him, or it was actually Rhaenys herself, allowing him an opportunity to say goodbye and tell her loved her and at least get, as I said, closure, certainly more closure than he got from hearing about her getting shot out of the fuckin sky thousands upon thousands of miles away. As for whether it'd be traumatizing, I don't think so necessarily. For one, Aegon's fought in battle, he's seen dead people, so that's not the issue. For two, even if it's Rhaenys specifically, probably not. Aegon ended the war in 13 AC and Rhaenys died in 10 AC, and for that entire time up until the second he read Nymor's letter, he has very much presumed Rhaenys dead. He has likely gone through the cycle of grief as best as he can, he likely came to some kind of terms with himself over the fact that she was dead, that he loved her dearly and will always love her dearly, but she's gone now and he'll only ever see her again in dragon heaven or whatever. So it was far enough away that it wasn't as incredibly raw as it had been when he was burning the entire countryside over it, but not so far removed that it was ripping open a completely healed wound (not least because that likely never fully healed for him). I'd imagine that his reaction that wasn't enraged, it was relieved, that he was getting this briefest of second chances with Rhaenys before she died for good. We also know that, even if it was just the body, that she'd died en route, that probably still wouldn't have bothered him. The Dornish delegation did bring remains with them canonically, they brought Meraxes's skull as a more public token of goodwill and as a gesture of peace. And while others in his inner circle, like Orys and Visenya, publicly took that badly, Aegon very much didn't, he's not recorded as having had any issue and defended the Dornishmen's ability to be safe while in King's Landing. There's no reason to believe that a more intimate and far more important gesture of good will from the Martells specifically wouldn't have engendered a similar reaction.

As to your question on his reaction, I think he was just likely very sad. Aegon's a private person, and appears to have been reserved just as a trait, not someone who would be open with his emotions even in private, because he keeps things close to the vest (same buddy). So his reaction likely wouldn't have been overt, but moreso akin to quiet devastation. Tears, most definitely, but tears only in utter privacy, and some form of stoic blankness in public (Aegon's reaction to Nymor's letter is emotional for him, and that's just holding onto the barbed monstrosity of the Iron Throne so hard he was bleeding while reading it, this man has a master poker face in public settings). And then I think he went and spent a long time with Aenys, just the two of them.

[a-typical]

Everywhere I traveled I saw this death space in action, and I felt what it means to be held. At Ruriden columbarium in Japan, I was held by a sphere of Buddhas glowing soft blue and purple. At the cemetery in Mexico, I was held by a single wrought-iron fence in the light of tens of thousands of flickering amber candles. At the open-air pyre in Colorado, I was held within the elegant bamboo walls, which kept mourners safe as the flames shot high. There was magic to each of these places. There was grief, unimaginable grief. But in that grief there was no shame. These were places to meet despair face to face and say, “I see you waiting there. And I feel you, strongly. But you do not demean me.”

In our Western culture, where are we held in our grief? Perhaps religious spaces, churches, temples—for those who have faith. But for everyone else, the most vulnerable time in our lives is a gauntlet of awkward obstacles.

First come our hospitals, which are often perceived as cold, antiseptic horror shows. At a recent meeting, a longtime acquaintance of mine apologized for having been so hard to reach, but her mother had just died in a Los Angeles hospital. There had been an extended illness, and her mother spent her final weeks lying on a special inflatable mattress, designed to prevent the bedsores that can develop from long periods of immobility. After her death, the sympathetic nurses told my acquaintance that she could take the time she needed to sit with her mother’s body. After a few minutes, a doctor strode into the room. The family had never met this doctor before, and he did not choose to introduce himself. He walked over to her mother’s chart, read it briefly, and then leaned down and pulled the plug on the inflatable mattress. Her mother’s lifeless body sprang upward, jolting from side to side “like a zombie” as the air left the mattress. The doctor walked out, having not said a word. The family was far from held. As soon as their mother took her last breath, they were spat out.

Second, there are our funeral homes. An executive of Service Corporation International, the country’s largest funeral and cemetery company, admitted recently that “the industry was really built around selling a casket.” As fewer and fewer of us see value in placing Mom’s made-up body in a $7,000 casket and turn to simple cremations instead, the industry must find a new way to survive financially, by selling not a “funeral service” but a “gathering” in a “multisensory experience room.”

As a recent Wall Street Journalarticle explained: “Using audio and video equipment, the experience rooms can create the atmosphere of a golf course, complete with the scent of newly mowed grass, to salute the life of a golfing fanatic. Or it can conjure up a beach, mountain or football stadium.”

Perhaps paying several thousand dollars to hold a funeral in a faux “multisensory” golf course will make families feel held in their grief, but I have my doubts.

My mother recently turned seventy. One afternoon, as an exercise, I envisioned taking my mother’s mummified body out of the grave, as they do in Tana Toraja in Indonesia. Pulling her remains toward me, standing her up, looking her in the eyes years after her death—the thought no longer alarmed me. Not only could I handle such a task, I believe I would find solace in the ritual.

Holding the space doesn’t mean swaddling the family immobile in their grief. It also means giving them meaningful tasks. Using chopsticks to methodically clutch bone after bone and place them in an urn, building an altar to invite a spirit to visit once a year, even taking a body from the grave to clean and redress it: these activities give the mourner a sense of purpose. A sense of purpose helps the mourner grieve. Grieving helps the mourner begin to heal.

We won’t get our ritual back if we don’t show up. Show up first, and the ritual will come. Insist on going to the cremation, insist on going to the burial. Insist on being involved, even if it is just brushing your mother’s hair as she lies in her casket. Insist on applying her favorite shade of lipstick, the one she wouldn’t dream of going to the grave without. Insist on cutting a small lock of her hair to place in a locket or a ring. Do not be afraid. These are human acts, acts of bravery and love in the face of death and loss.

I would be comfortable with my mother’s dead body precisely because I would be held. The ritual doesn’t involve sneaking into a cemetery in the dead of night to peek in on a mummy. The ritual involves pulling someone I loved, and thus my grief, out into the light of day. Greeting my mother, alongside my neighbors and family—my community standing next to me in support. Sunlight is the best disinfectant, they say. No matter what it takes, the hard work begins for the West to haul our fear, shame, and grief surrounding death out into the disinfecting light of the sun.

From Here to Eternity: Traveling the World to Find the Good Death — Caitlin Doughty