#southern words of wisdom

[this-is-me19]

Now that I live in the Deep South, I thought I would find some interesting information and post it here. Luckily, I found this wonderful advice, and while some doesn’t make sense, it’s interesting to read.

Southern Folk Magic

I’ve already posted about how you should paint your mailbox yellow and your porch haint blue, but I wanted to share some Southern folk beliefs that I’ve heard throughout my life. By no means exhaustive, will hopefully add more later. 

Speak your sorrows to a weeping willow. The breeze in the branches will make it whisper them away. 

Willow bark is also good for inflammation remedies. 

Never gift someone a knife or scissors lest it cause a deep cut between the two of you.

Plant your garden on Good Friday.

Plant lavender by the front door. 

For remembered dreams, put a mugwort leaf in your pillowcase

To tell the gender of a baby, use a needle and thread pendulum over the pregnant woman’s stomach. Up and down is a boy. Side to side is a girl.

Only fertilize watermelon on the side where the dirt is highest.

Keep reading

[floridagrowngirl]

@floridagrowngirl

[saintcande]

"I weep because you cannot save people. You can only love them"

[appalachiasferaldaughter]

From the Keeper of the Tales

CW: Death, mention of alcohol.

Note: This is a long one. Also, I would like to preface something for my own sake. If you are uninterested, you may skip directly to the tale. It's under the keep reading tab.

I am writing this out because I have recently suffered some terrible heartbreak... which you may have guessed from reading my writings featuring one I call, "Señor." Everything finally came to a head earlier this week and now we are no contact. Although it is an answered prayer because the cycle has finally ended, it still hurts. It hurts so much.

As I heal from this, I am going back through the wisdom I have received from the gods and Landvættir, since hindsight is 20/20. I offer this wisdom to you all as well, given to me by a kind spirit some weeks ago. I hope you may find some benefit. And whatever heartbreak, hardships, or suffering you are currently going through, I am praying that you will find relief. If it's any consolation from a stranger on the internet, Daughters, Sons, and Children: I love you. Please keep going.

ᛉ

In Southern Illinois, there is a state park known as Garden of the Gods. It is a beautiful park with amazing views that you would not expect to find in a state like Illinois. Although it is quite a drive for me (about 1.5 hours), I find myself going there often. It reminds me so much of where my family is from in Appalachia. My most popular writing, a hail to the Spirit of the Mountain and Landvættir, was written for that land. The Landvættir there introduced themselves to me as a herd of deer. I offer them incense whenever I can.

A few weeks ago, I went to the Garden of the Gods to present an offering but also just to connect with the spirits some more. I found a cool, shaded rock that was away from the main touristy crowds and sat down to try and connect with the spirits. Using twigs scattered on the rock, I made the rune of Algiz (ᛉ) and offered the incense.

After a few moments of meditating on Algiz, I heard the Landvættir speak: "Go deeper into the woods." I extinguished the incense and did so. I followed the main hiking trail until I found a not-so-trodden path veering to the left. I went off course (what I thought was off course, I should say) going downhill a good way, until I found a dried up ravine. I followed it to the left some more until I realized it was leading back up and around. I was going in a circle. Okay, cool, I guess. I started to trek back uphill (ugh) until I was stopped dead in my tracks as I came across a rock that was shaped as a human ear.

"Wait and listen," I heard the Landvættir say. It was a beautiful resting area as the sun was waning in the afternoon sky. I lit the incense and offered it to the rock, introducing myself, and asked permission to sit on the boulder in front. I felt acceptance of the sage and permission to do so. So, I sat. And I waited. For what, I wasn't quite sure. All I could gather was this was a place to sit and wait to hear something.

I saw many beautiful things as I sat and waited. There was a Luna Moth that flew and stopped at every tree. Earthly deer herds were making their way through. Crows and birds were singing their songs. Even if nothing was going to happen, it was nice to take a pause and appreciate the beauty of the area. I'm not quite sure how long I sat there before The Keeper of the Tales approached me.

As I was growing stiff and considering getting up to leave, the presence of... a man, perhaps, sat opposite of me. I sat with my back turned to the ear rock and he sat facing it. Startled, I greeted him(? I'm honestly not sure what gender this spirit was or if he even conformed to a binary, but it felt like a masculine presence so for this recounting, I will refer to the spirit as he/him) and he returned the greeting. I shouldn't have been surprised that he already knew my name.

Without warning, after his greeting, he immediately went into a tale of wisdom. Below is a transcription of the tale written to the best of my memory and as I heard and understood it:

In a herd of deer, a doe gave birth to twin fawns. It was a rare occurrence and unexpected, for this doe was in the line of elders that would oversee the protection and sanctity of the herd. Her son would replace the elders who passed on—but there were two! The elders gathered to discuss how they were to handle this situation because it was unprecedented. After much deliberation and council, they decided on the fate of the twins: when they grew up into manhood and their antlers had come in, they would fight each other to the death. The winner would take their rightful place as leader of the herd. The loser would be gored by the other.

When the mother of the twins heard this, she was greatly displeased. Being wise in her own eyes, she decided that she would not prepare the twins for this upcoming battle. She would work hard to keep them from fighting with each other by teaching them to greatly respect and love each other as brothers should. That way, when the time would come for them to fight, they would not. Their lives were not worth the leadership role.

As the twins grew, so did their tempers. As much as the mother of the twins taught them about love, peace, and brotherhood, she could not keep them from fighting amongst each other. It was in their very nature to quarrel, it seemed. Despite their quarrels, the twin brothers still loved and respected each other very much. They carried this within them to the time of their manhood, when their antlers grew in. Their mother still kept their destiny hidden from them until she could hide it no more.

As their antlers grew full, the elders were crossing over. It was time to pass on the leadership to the next generation. It was time for the twins to face their destiny. The remaining elders approached the twins and told them it was time to face each other in battle. The twins were surprised and therefore unprepared for this. Fight my own brother? To the death? Never. They couldn’t possibly do such a thing. But something stirred within their souls—the call of destiny, perhaps? Or their egos? They knew that this had to be done because the herd could not continue without a leader to guide them. Each brother felt that they were fit to take on the title and were willing to fight the other for the sake of the title. But they cursed their mother for keeping this hidden from them for they were both unprepared to take on such a task.

And so, the twins fought. Because neither had a chance to train, to prepare, to seek council for this tournament, one was not able to overpower the other. Their antlers remained twisted, tangled amongst each other. They were deadlocked. Their power was equal as if of one buck. They remained this way for seven days and seven nights, until, finally, they both collapsed from exhaustion and died. Their mother failed to prepare a winner for their destined encounter and so the herd was leaderless—much to their detriment. The remaining elders were also unprepared, for they expected a leader to rise from the quarrel, but they died without passing their heritage to the next generation. Therefore, the herd was scattered, to each their own and without the protection of all.

Well, that was depressing.

The spirit must have known my questioning of why this tale was spoken and so he turned and asked me, "What is your interpretation of this tale?" I sat there for a moment in silence, processing what I just heard. Immediately, my human mind wanted to question the plot holes, the nihilistic and pessimistic worldview, and why this has anything to do with me.

I replied, "Well, the mother took away the twin's opportunity to prepare for their fated encounter," I began thinking aloud, "The elders could have come up with a different solution–surely, there could be two rulers. I mean, there were multiple elders! And the twins could have chosen not to fight. They could have let the herd break apart while they saved themselves. There were so many different ways to handle this."

"Of course, how can one truly prepare for what they will face in this life?" The spirit asked, "Is wisdom gained through knowledge or experience?"

"Both," I responded. "Right? It has to be both."

"Is what you experience the same as somebody else?" he asked. "Would two people who have the same knowledge but different life experiences be prepared to do the exact same thing with the exact same enthusiasm?"

I didn't respond. It felt as if the spirit took a deep breath in, and then said, "You appear to have a lot of experiences you were not prepared for. You've also encountered people who have judged you harshly for handling the situations the way that you have..." another inhale, "and will. They are aware but not experienced in the same way you are. My dear, knowledge is knowing that alcohol can be deadly, and those who abuse it can wreak great havoc on those around them. Wisdom is understanding why the alcohol is being abused to begin with as you, yourself, stare down the neck of the bottle."

I felt my lip quiver but held back the onslaught of emotions coming through. "Sir, what is your point?"

I couldn't see his physical form, but I could feel his smile as he said, "My point is sometimes, there is no right or wrong answer. Only what is, and we won't know until we're in the moment itself what is right and what is wrong. What is right for you could be wrong for the other person... in the moment."

"So, what we feel is right could change as we gain wisdom?" I asked. I felt a hand grip my shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Sir, what is your name?"

"You can call me The Keeper of the Tales."

"...Thank you."

And with that, the presence left me. I sat there for a minute longer on my own, digesting the experience. Then, I thanked the rock, the Landvættir for guiding me to that place, and then I continued upward and back toward humanity.

ᛉ

You have made it to the end.

[peachessndreamss]

Weirwood Tree

Summery : While in labour with their second child, Cregan and his wife take s short walk to the Weirwood tree to help get things moving.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Pregnancy and childbirth (nothing explicit)

Word count : 3k

A/N : Turns out you never shake being a Stark girl, Ily Cregan so much.

“I’m sorry t’say it, my lady, but your labours have slowed up,” the midwife said softly as she drew the sheets back over Lady Starks bent knees before dipping her hands in a bowl of water. 

“Slowed up?” Lady Stark repeated incredulously, dropping her head back on the feather pillow, “but it's been hours already,” she added, tears burning her eyes. 

The second child of Lord Cregan stark and his lady wife was in no rush to make their way into the world. Despite the frequency and strength of her earlier pains once the midwife and maester had been sent for, everything seemed to have come to an uncomfortable halt.  

The midwife had brought her ancient grandmother along with her, known through Winterfell and the winter town as Auld Joan, she had been a midwife in her own time and had delivered Cregan's father and uncle. She was mostly blind and deaf now but still attended births but spent most of the time sitting as close to a heat source as possible and dispensing wisdom if necessary. She was currently sitting in a chair next to the roaring fire, her ancient hands clasped on her lap, knuckles bulging out of shape and fingers curled like claws. 

“I know it's been a while,” the midwife said soothingly, placing a warm hand on Lady Stark's knee, “but sometimes it's just like this,”. 

“The last one wasn't like this,” Lady Stark grumbled, her mood darkening as she tried to shift around into a more comfortable position. 

“You mustn't compare one with another,” the midwife soothed before touching a cold cloth to the lady's forehead. 

“A walk will geyit moving ,” the old woman wheezed from her seat by the fire, “no’ this lying about,”. 

The maester, who had been mostly disinterested in proceedings up until this point shot the old woman a dark look, he was standing in the far corner of the room, a leather case of vicious metal tools clutched jealously to his chest. His grey robes matched his grey and sickly looking skin. He wasn't particularly interested in births or deaths or the everyday ailments of life and resented being summoned to the birthing room of any woman. 

“This position is agreed upon as being the correct way for labouring mothers,” he said coldly in a clipped southern accent. 

“Agreed by men who know nothing about it,” the crone grumbled. 

“What does she mean?” Lady Stark asked the midwife who was now gently feeling the swell of the lady's belly. 

“Baby's not quite in righ’ place, that's why things have slowed,” she explained as she pressed on the left side of the belly, Lady Stark winced, “but grandmother thinks a little walk might get things moving again,”. 

The midwife glanced over at her grandmother who had closed her eyes and was now looking peaceful in the flickering light of the fire, she looked back at her lady and dabbed the cloth over her cheeks before putting it back beside the bowl of cold water. 

“What do you think?”Lady Stark asked. 

She shrugged, making a point not to look towards the maester before replying. 

“It helped me with mine, and it wouldn't do you any harm,”. 

The maester opened his mouth to disagree and lady stark held up her hand to silence him. 

“Just walking through the keep, out into the godswood for the fresh air should do it,” the midwife continued. 

The lady nodded and lifted herself up onto her elbows, she addressed the maester, privately enjoying ordering the sour faced man about. 

“Lord Cregan is outside the door, fetch him in,” she said. 

Cregan Stark had paced the halls outside of his wife's rooms since he'd been asked to leave them several hours before. While he wasn't accustomed to being removed from parts of his own castle he respected that father's, even lords, were not expected to be present at the births of their children,so he was surprised to hear the door opening when he was fairly certain nothing much had happened yet. 

“My Lord?” The voice of the maester echoed off the walls as the lord strode into view, “your wife would like to see you,”. 

He nodded, his face stern as he stepped past the man and into the warm, dark room. 

“Seven Hells,” he murmured as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, instantly feeling the heat of the room rolling over him like a wave, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. 

As he looked around the room he was surprised to see the midwife helping his wife into her fur boots, a long, heavy cloak already covering her shoulders. 

“Going somewhere?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

She turned her flushed face to him and smiled. 

“Yes, we're going for a walk,”. 

Cregan’s brows rose but he nodded without further comment, knowing better than to ask questions.  He watched nervously as the midwife helped his wife to her feet, ready to spring forward at any moment if it looked like Lady Stark might lose her balance. 

Once he was happy she was safely on her feet, Cregan stepped towards them, offering his arm to his wife, who took a small step and linked her arm through his. 

“Twice around the godswood’ll do it,” Auld Joan spoke from the chair, she opened one ancient eye that could just be seen through the folds of skin that made up her face. 

“Or as far as you need’t,” the midwife added, her eyes flicking towards the maester. 

From the darkest corner of the room the maester muttered under his breath “foolishness” but no one else could hear him or pay him a moment's more attention. 

As the Lord and Lady of Winterfell stepped out of the stifling room and into the cooler corridor of the keep they both gave a sigh of relief. As they walked they instinctively drew closer to one another. Finding comfort and strength in each other's presence. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Cregan said as they stepped through the door of the keep and into the much colder air of the inner bailey. The ground was a mess of mud, straw, snow and grey brown slush that cracked and crunched under their boots. 

“Yes,” she agreed, her hand tightening on his arm as her foot slipped a little on a patch of hidden ice, “Auld Joan felt this would be the best way to get things moving again,”. 

Cregan nodded, “She's seen a fair few babes born in her time, she knows what she's talking about,” he paused and took a deep breath of cold air, “I think she might have even delivered my grandfather,”. 

“Surely not!” She exclaimed, looking up at her husband's handsome profile, “that would make her more than a hundred years old,”. 

“I've heard of stranger things in these parts,” Cregan said with a shrug. 

They walked quietly together, moving slowly and carefully through the slush.

“Not as easy as last time then?” He asked as they made their way past the archery butts where the young men of the household were practising and past the stables with their snorting horses and young boys shovelling straw. 

“No, this one seems to have an obstinate Stark streak in them already,” she replied with a soft laugh that sounded like music to Cregan's ears. 

“I seem to recall your own family are known for their stubbornness so I won't be taking all the responsibility for that,”. 

“Pigheadedness, I believe my father called it,” she replied with a laugh, Cregan gave his own snort of laughter. 

“Your father certainly has a way with words,” he agreed. Recalling a few choice phrases her father had used for him during their courtship. 

As the pair crossed into the godswood the sounds of the keep and the town beyond the walls seemed to fade away and they became the only two people in the world. The ground was covered in a dusting of snow which had frozen overnight and now crunched under foot. From the dark canopy of the trees small birds sang between themselves and bounced from branch to branch, leaves rusting and falling to the ground in their wake. 

“Aly is worried we won't have enough time for her when the baby arrives,” Lady Stark said as they passed under the first dark boughs, “she kept asking me if we were going to send her away when I was putting her to bed last night,”. 

“She's a sensitive soul,” Cregan replied with a soft laugh, his mind wandering to the little girl who was at that moment playing in the same nursery he played in as a child, waiting for his own younger sibling to be born. 

“I dread the day we do need to send her away,” she lamented, drawing her body even closer to his in the cold air. Her free hand resting low on the swell of her belly. 

“We've many years before that day, my love,” he soothed, “and perhaps many more babes to fill our home,”. 

Lady Stark laughed softly, feeling the dull ache of her labours growing in strength as they followed the well known path through the trees.

“You are insatiable, always wanting more,” she said softly and Cregan laughed. 

They had been married 6 years and now were as comfortable with one another as any married couple could expect to be. Having been friends before they’re union had made things easier but the months after Cregan’s return from war had tested them to their limits. The time spent apart had been long and difficult for the both of them, when Cregan had left he was already old beyond his years but on his return he was darker and colder than the longest winter night. He’d forgotten laughter, softness and gentleness and his first few months back in Winterfell had been fraught as the two learned to live with one another again and find their way back to the happiness they’d briefly shared before the dragons tore the realm apart. 

The followed a well trodden path through the woods, her arm wrapped tightly through his and his hand resting over hers, warm and solid. As they walked, Cregan listened to her breathing, noticing every change to her breath and hitch in her voice. He was ready to take her in his arms at any moment to rush her back to the midwife if was necessary. 

They turned a corner in the path and were now on course to the weirwood tree, its ancient face seemed to watch their approach and its blood red leaves reflected in the black water at its roots. 

Suddenly Lady Stark stopped, her free hand going to her belly with a sharp intake of breath, she groaned, her teeth biting into her top lip as a strong contraction wracked her body. Cregan tightened his hold on her, fear gripping at his heart and twisting his stomach. 

After a few seconds of pain her face relaxed and her eyes opened, her cheeks were flushed with colour and despite the cold there was sweat at her hair line. 

“I think this might be working,” she said with a small smile, “or perhaps the baby can feel the tree,” she added, glancing toward the weirwood. 

“A good Stark then,” Cregan replied, forcing a lightness in his voice he didn’t feel. 

She stepped toward the tree and he followed her closely, never letting her more than an arm's reach from him. Once close enough she placed her hands on the tree, feeling the rough bark rasp against her skin. 

“Do you think the old kings of the north were born under this tree?” she asked, turning her face up as a shaft of wintery sunlight broke through the dense leaf cover, “snow and leaves for their midwife?”.

Cregan raised his eyebrow in thought for a moment before replying. 

“They were certainly conceived under it,” he smiled.   

“Yes, I remember the stories,” she agreed, turning to look at her husband and seeing the playful glimmer in his eyes. 

During the long months of the war she’d found comfort in the thousands of books in the Winterfell library, starting with the histories of the North going all the way back to the first men and how those ancient kings of the North did everything important in their lives in sight of a weirwood tree, they were born, married, made oaths and died as close to the trees as they possibly could. The histories had included stories of rituals the ancient peoples had contrived to conceive their children under the boughs of the weirwood trees, they believed these children would have the gifts of prophecy or live impossibly long lives because the powers of the tree flowed through them. 

“Perhaps, when you’re healed, we should try it ourselves,” Cregan teased. 

“When this one is delivered I’ll let you know if you’ll be welcome in my bed again,” she replied with a sly smile, before adding “my lord,”. 

Cregan gave a bark-like laugh, stepping closer to her and slipping his arm over her lower back and around her waist. She turned to face him, moving her hands from the ancient and cold bark of the tree to the living warmth of his shoulders, she studied his features before taking a deep breath and letting her forehead press against his. Another contraction wracked her body, she groaned and gripped tightly at the fur and wool of his cloak, taking strength from his body into her own. 

“I think we need to go back,” she said softly, their foreheads still pressed together. 

“I think so,” he agreed without hesitation.

Keeping his arm wrapped around her waist the two of them turned, she leaned heavily on Cregan as they completed the loop around the godswood and headed back through the castle courtyard. The space now almost completely empty as most of the household had been summoned for the midday meal. 

The progress was slow but they soon made it back to Lady Stark’s chambers, the room was cooler now, the windows had been thrown open but the coverings drawn across them to keep the room dark. The two women were sitting by the fire, talking quietly while the maester was still standing in the corner of the room, glaring. 

The midwife jumped to her feet and took Lady Stark’s arm, allowing her to slip from Cregan’s hold and move toward the bed. 

“How are you feeling my lady?” the midwife asked softly. 

“It helped, the pains are coming much more quickly now,” the lady replied. 

“Baby will be here soon,” the midwife agreed, “perhaps before the noon meal is over,”

Lady Stark glanced over her shoulder at her husband pausing by the door. His broad shoulders blocked out almost all of the hallway behind him.

“I want you to stay,” she said softly as she was helped back onto the bed. 

He smiled but shook his head. 

“This is not my place” he said softly, as he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat and in his eyes as he fought the sudden overwhelm of emotions. 

“Thank you, my lord,” the old crone said from her seat, “we’ll take care of them,”.

Cregan nodded, knowing well enough when he was being asked to leave, he gave his wife a final look before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind himself and resuming his pacing. He wondered if his own father had paced nervously or if he had taken to the woods to hunt until the deed was over with and the child was cleaned and neatly wrapped in a blanket. He couldn’t imagine being any further than the castle gate while Lady Stark laboured. 

As the midwife predicted the midday meal hadn’t finished before there was the high pitched, squalling cry of a newborn that caused Cregan to stop in his tracks and lean heavily against the wall of the hallway, his hand clutching at his heart that was beating fast enough to burst. 

The door to the chambers opened and the midwife stepped out, a smile on her face as she saw her lord in a moment of unguarded emotion. 

 “A son, my lord, hale and hearty and with plenty to say for himself,” she said, the sounds of the crying child still coming clearly from the room behind her. 

“God's be praised,” Cregan said, his voice cracking with emotion. 

“Come meet him,”. 

Cregan felt his knees turn to water when he stepped into Lady Stark's rooms, the sight of his beloved wife cradling a squalling newborn was a joy that pierced his heart like an arrow. 

“Your son, my lord” she said with a tired smile, turning the bundle just enough for Cregan to be able to see the child's face. 

He stooped and took the child, cradling him close to his chest, for a few seconds the child stopped wailing, his blue eyes opening wide and taking in his first sight of his father. The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, Cregan's own eyes filling with tears. One hot tear was about to track down Cregan's face when the baby in his arms screwed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and started to howl, his cries even more desperate than before. 

Lady Stark laughed from her seat on the bed, holding her arms out to take the child back. 

“Give him back, you're upsetting our son,” she said, grinning at Cregan who jealously clung onto the child, rocking him gently and trying to sooth the screaming babe. 

“Sorry my boy,” Cregan said softly, “but you'll just have to get used to me,”.

[serpentface]

WE WERE ONCE GEESE

A story explaining the origins of the far southern Tamitiil people, and how they stay in their lands year-round through the harshness of the polar winter while other feathered creatures fly north.

---

Many, many lifetimes ago, our people were geese. We had short little legs and webbed feet to swim in the sea, beaks good only for eating grass, and wings that let us fly whenever and wherever needed.

This was very important to the rhythms of our life. Every winter, we would journey far north to distant lands where the days are warm and the snow never falls. Every summer, we would return to this land to mate and raise our children.

We built our summer homes on the high cliffs of a mountainside, safe from the foxes, cats, and humans who walked beneath. Our cliffs became great cities bustling with life. We carried up sweet grasses to eat and we fermented summer berries into wine to drink. Our men danced in the sky, not on land, and our women chased off hawks and gulls that threatened our children from above. We sang to the sun like we still do today, though our voices have changed.

Among our goose ancestors, there were twin brothers, Chliletiisma and Chlilalok.

Chliletiisma was a gentle and kindly soul, renowned among his people for his generosity and beautiful singing voice. Chlilalok was clever and tricky and generally regarded as a scoundrel. In spite of their differences, they were hatched from the very same egg, of one mind and one flesh. They could not bear to be separated. They shared a mate each season, and raised each other's children as their own.

One year, Chliletiisma and Chlilalok paired off with a woman named Amlitl, and they had a clutch of ten eggs that hatched into ten healthy boys. This was a cause for celebration, but the joy was short lived. The winter came early that year. The first icy winds blew in from the sea when many of the goose children were still in their baby down. And yet all the goose people felt the tugging in their veins. It was almost time to fly north to follow the departing sun.

The children of some families were ready for flight. Their fathers and mothers leapt from the cliffs, and so the goslings followed. They flew down, shakily at first, from the mountain to the sea. There they would gain strength for the great flight north.

The children of many families were not ready for flight. Their fathers and mothers leapt from the cliffs, and so the goslings followed. One by one, they would plummet to the ground, and there be eaten by the fox and the cat who waited beneath. Their parents circled above, but there was nothing more to be done. They left singing songs of mourning on the great flight north.

Eventually, the twins, Amlitl, and their children were the last family left on the cliffs. All ten of their children had hatched late, and they had none of their flight feathers. They would not stand a chance at surviving the departure from the nest, much less the journey north.

Amlitl despaired for her children, but she could not wait any longer.

“It’s over,” she said to her mates. “We need to leave them behind or we'll perish here ourselves. It's no good for us all to die."

There was harsh, brutal wisdom in her words, but few men can bear to hear such wisdom when it comes to their children. The twins refused, and Amlitl left without them.

And so Chliletiisma and Chlilalok stayed behind with their ten children after all the other geese left. The winds changed from a gnawing chill to a biting cold, and the first snows soon blanketed the lands. And still the children were not ready to fly. Even if they were, it would be too late. Not even the twins, with their powerful wings and warm feathers, could hope to survive the winter storms that would block their way.

The children shivered in their baby down, and the body heat of their fathers was scarcely enough to keep their crevice nest warm. Chliletiisma began to pluck feathers from his stomach to line their home and to warm his children against his bare flesh. The days grew ever darker, and their nest grew ever colder, and he plucked more and more of his feathers until he had nothing left to give.

One bitterly cold day, Chliletiisma's spirit was cut from his body and he fell dead. Chlilalok and his ten children sang songs of mourning all day, and they all tore feathers from their faces and tails in their grief.

The eldest moon Talit looked on the gentle twin with kindness, and so he snatched him up in his jaw and placed him into the sky. The star Chliletiisma still stands there today.

Chlilalok realized his children would have no hope of surviving the long winter if he just stayed in his nest. Chliletiisma's feathers were just warm enough to keep them from freezing, but they had little stored food remaining and all forage was buried beneath the snow.

There were other peoples who lived in this land throughout the winter, and those who seemed to thrive were the hunters. Chlilalok decided that he had to seek them out and learn from their ways. He packed a satchel with a little grass and a bladder of wine, said his goodbyes to his children, and flew out into the darkness.

He first came upon a young fox, who was chewing at an old rabbit carcass that was little more than bones. Even a little fox could be a dangerous foe, but would rarely face up against a full grown goose without the advantage of surprise. Chlilalok puffed himself up as big as he could and approached with a strut.

"Hail, cousin!" He said amicably.

"Hail, cousin." The fox said, with a curious tilt of her head. "What are you still doing around these parts?"

"My people have banished me from our winter home, I fear," Chlilalok said. "All a big misunderstanding, but it matters little now. I'm starved half to death, and here you are, healthy and strong. How do you survive the winter?"

The fox sat on her haunches and swished her long tail.

"Quite easily," she said. "Winter might be tough on you grass eaters, but I have the teeth of a hunter. I can eat anything I can kill."

She yawned, showing off her wide jaws full of small, wickedly sharp teeth.

"I hardly need them, though. I'm the best hunter there is. My legs carry me swifter then the wind, and I can sneak up on my prey silently enough that they never even see my teeth."

"…Like so," came a voice behind Chlilalok.

He turned his head, and there was another fox! She had crept up behind him without so much as making a sound. Outnumbered, even by these two young, inexperienced foxes, Chlilalok was not so confident. He had to think fast.

"Wait!" He said. "The two of you could certainly overpower me, but I won't go down without a fight. I could break those swift legs of yours with my wings, and then you won't be able to hunt at all."

"That would be a shame…" the first fox said.

"…But I think it's worth the risk," the second fox said, stepping closer.

"Hold on," Chlilalok said, and he turned his back to the foxes and pretended to rummage around in his satchel. Instead, he picked up a smooth white stone from the ground and presented it to the foxes.

"This is my only child, still in the egg. I will give it to you without a struggle if you let me go," he said.

"That is a mighty big egg…" said the first fox, licking her lips.

"…We'll take it," said the second fox.

Chlilalok, head bowed in a show of sorrow, placed the stone before them. The foxes fell upon it eagerly and shrieked as a few of their teeth broke against it. They fell to the ground, moaning and groaning, and Chlilalok swiftly grabbed up their teeth and flew away.

He next came upon a cat in his prime, prowling at the base of the mountain in search of any leftover gosling carcasses. The cat was the biggest creature around, and Chlilalok wasn't taking any chances. He fluttered up top of a large boulder, out of the mighty beast's reach.

"Hail, cousin!" He said from his safe distance.

"Hail." The cat said grumpily, annoyed at this clear mockery from a potential juicy meal. "What's a goose still doing around here? Why haven't you fled north with the rest of your cowardly people?"

"That's just the thing- my people are horrible cowards. It embarrasses me, frankly. I've stayed behind to learn teachings from far braver peoples such as yours."

"I can give you a few teachings right now if you come down from that rock," the cat said, impatiently twitching his long tail.

"I never said I wasn't a coward," Chlilalok replied. "I just have one question to ask. How do you survive the winter?"

The cat yawned and stretched, exposing his massive teeth and long, hooked claws.

“It’s easy. My fur keeps me warm, and I have plenty of options for food. My claws can kill anything that moves." He yawned and stretched again. "I'd be just fine without them, though. I’m the strongest beast that has ever lived.”

“The strongest ever?” Chlilalok said. “I don’t know about that. The first goose once lifted this very mountain and placed it here so my people would have a safe place to raise our babies. I’ve never heard of a cat accomplishing such a feat.”

The cat shook with laughter. “A goose? Lift this mountain? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“The stories are quite firm in this matter,” Chlilalok lied, “but if you’re truly stronger than even the first goose, pushing the mountain over will be no trouble for you.”

“You’re damn right it won't,” said the cat.

He hoisted himself up on his hind legs, and pushed at the mountainside with all his might.

“I think it’s starting to give,” he huffed, as he scrabbled and scrambled against unyielding stone.

The mountain, annoyed at this minor nuisance, sent a pile of rocks crashing down upon the cat. He yowled in pain from beneath the rocks, and Chlilalok quickly snatched a few of his claws and went on his way.

The cat found his way out eventually, but the rocks had bruised his skin and severed his tail from his body. Even today, his descendants bear the spots of his wounds and the tiny stump of his lost tail.

Finally, Chlilalok came upon an old human, sitting outside of his hut and whittling strange carvings into bone. The human was a large and fearsome creature that wore the cat's skin as his own, but his people mostly hunted and fished the sea and did not often trouble the geese.

Chlilalok approached with caution. "Hail, cousin!" he said.

"Hail, cousin," said the human. "You're certainly a strange sight in the dead of winter. What's keeping you here?"

"I injured my wing and my people had to leave me behind. It's been dreadful, and I've come to you for advice. How do you live through the winter?" he asked.

"Come to my hut and I will show you," the human answered.

Chlilalok nervously followed the human into his hut, and the answer soon became apparent. At the center, an oil lamp wicked with moss burned as warm and bright as sunlight.

"I stole fire from the sun long ago," said the human, shrugging off his catskin. "It burned off most of my fur, but that hardly matters. The fire keeps me warm on even the coldest days."

It was clearly true. The human was as ugly and naked as a baby sparrow without his furs, and yet he stood comfortably in the presence of the flames.

"…I don't truly need it though," the human continued. "My hands can carry weapons that put the cat's claws to shame. I can wear his furs and go out to catch my prey even in a blizzard."

He paused to scratch at his great, whiskery beard. "Though I'll admit, I've been unlucky in my hunts up until now. I think I'm just going to eat you."

Chlilalok thought quickly, and produced the bladder of wine he carried in his satchel.

“Cousin, if you’re going to eat me, at least be civil about it. I am your guest, after all,” Chlilalok said. “Why don’t we share a drink beforehand?”

The human could agree that some level of propriety to his unfortunate guest was warranted. He handed Chlilalok two of his great ivory cups and watched with curiosity as the goose poured the wine. The human had never tasted such a thing before, and took great pleasure in the way it calmed his mind and warmed his belly. He drank and drank until he flopped onto his back and fell asleep. Chlilalok then crept to the fire and carried a lit clump of moss away in his beak.

And so Chlilalok had taken the teeth of the fox, the claws of the cat, and the fire of the human. And he brought back the wisdom of valuing these gifts, for even the fiercest and strongest of peoples struggled in the winter, and their troubles were only deepened by foolishness and vanity.

But by the time he reached his nest, he was exhausted near to the point of death. Chlilalok taught his sons the use and wisdom of his three gifts, and then his spirit was cut from his body and he fell dead.

The eldest moon Talit looked on Chlilalok with admiration, and so he snatched him up in his jaw and placed him into the sky. The star Chlilalok still stands there today, right next to his twin.

The ten brothers took their father's teachings to heart. They donned the teeth of the fox and became like her, able to survive on the flesh of animals in the cold times when all plants die. They wore the claws of the cat and became like him, capable of fighting with great ferocity and bringing down prey and foe alike. They learned to tend the human's fire and became like him, always having a place of safety and warmth to retreat to in the long night. And they used these gifts with wisdom, always thoughtful of how precious they truly were and bearing them with great gratitude.

And so they became the first Tamitiil.

When our cousins, the geese, returned, they were surprised at what they found. The twins' children were still alive, but they were changed. They had the teeth of the fox and the claws of the cat. Their wings were small and they could not fly, but they could climb and run and leap more than well enough to make up for it. The geese greeted these new relatives as friends, and the two peoples mingled for the summer.

The Tamitiil brothers divided themselves into pairs, and each pair took a goose woman as a mate. When winter came yet again, they could not fly away with the geese, but they didn't need to. They built their nests as huts and warmed themselves with fires. Like Chliletiisma, one man in each pair stayed with the children and plucked feathers from his belly to line their bed and warm them against his skin. Like Chlilalok, the other man in each pair left the home to search for food throughout the winter. The people became clever hunters who kept their families well fed with game, and nurturing fathers who tended warm homes and raised healthy children.

They lived this way for many years, until they had their own women and no longer took geese for mates. And we have lived this way in the lifetimes and lifetimes since, greeting our goose cousins when they return for the summer and staying where they cannot through the long, cold dark.

[enyaliuswrites]

➽ Turning The Pages of Time

Prince!Zayne x Librarian!fem reader 100 followers special. 1.92k words.

Prince LADS Masterlist

Prince!Zayne, who has always been serious about his royal duties, paying attention to every class, every meeting, every charity work to attend to. He’s praised and loved by all, his professors, family members, generals, soldiers, commoners. The prince often visits the infirmary, with his broad knowledge in medicine, he’s able to help greatly and also win the hearts of injured civilians and knights. 

Prince!Zayne, who got into medicine because his mother was a nurse and her dream was always to be a doctor but was unable to, so Zayne became a Doctor for his mother’s happiness. The prince has a nickname by the common folk, “The Crowned Doctor”, everywhere he went people would call him that. 

Prince!Zayne, who turned down every single marriage proposal, whether it be a recommendation from family or for politics. He believes that if it has anything to do with politics then he can make a peace agreement with other kingdoms without marrying and he always tells his family that he would like to focus on preparing to be the next king instead of worrying about small things like love. 

Prince!Zayne, who carries the weight of everyone's expectations. The army depends on his strategic thinking. The infirmary trusts in his skilled hands. The councilors look to him for his eloquence and wisdom. The prince, now nearing the end of his third decade, feels as though nothing has changed since he was 16—the same heavy expectations still weighing on his shoulders.

Prince!Zayne, who visits the Imperial Library whenever his head throbs with stress or when he seeks answers hidden within the countless shelves of books. The prince feels grounded every time he sets foot inside. The scent of parchment and ink eases his mind, and the nice librarian—who always seems to know where every single book is—makes herself seem helpful without overstepping.

The quiet clicks of Zayne's shoes against the marble floor instantly calm him as he takes in the familiar, comforting sight of endless rows of shelves stretching across both floors. The elegant designs of white marble and gold linings serve the furthermore image of the Imperial Library. 

“What books are you looking for today, Prince Zayne?” You say, emerging from behind the crescent-shaped reference desk. 

Zayne's lips tug into a barely noticeable smile. Just ‘Prince Zayne’—a simple title. Unlike everyone else, who calls him ‘The Crown Prince’ or ‘The Crowned Doctor,’ you don’t dress him up in grand titles. He’s always hated those flashy names so when you say his name like that, he’s never felt more at ease. There was a silent comfort between you—something unspoken, yet understood between only the both of you. 

“Something that’ll take my mind off things.” 

Well, that’s a first. Zayne has never stepped back into the world of nonfiction since he turned 7. For as long as he could remember he had always been reading documents of medicine, war strategies, economics, politics, history, the list goes on and on. 

You raise your eyebrows in surprise for a moment before you start to think, “I think I know just the perfect thing for you.”

Zayne follows you as you lead him to another section of the library, somewhere he has never been before. The Southern Wing is drastically different from the Eastern Wing. With wooden cutouts of mythical creatures and characters, it feels like a setting of the fairy tales his mother used to read him when he was a child.

You stop and scan the shelf in front of you, taking only a few seconds before recognizing the familiar title and spine of the thin book. Pulling it out and handing it to Zayne , you start to describe the basic plot, “This book is about a little prince who finds a village boy who looks exactly like him. They switch with each other, both eager to see how the other person lives. And well, you’ll have to read to find out more.”

Zayne rips his gaze from you, looking at the sea green cover instead as he flips through the pages. With a small nod accompanied by a hint of a smile he walks out and you’re left alone in the world of books again.

It doesn’t even take three days before Zayne finds himself back in the library, his mind full—not with thoughts that make his head throb, but with ones that bring him peace. He finds you with your nose buried in a book, sitting in the worst posture possible. Clearing his throat, Zayne quickly looks away as you snap upright, startled at being caught.

“Oh! Prince Zayne! I didn’t see you there..” Zayne looks back once he sees your now more composed state, though a little red in the cheeks. 

“I’ve finished the book you recommended to me.” He hands the sleek book to you, smiling as his gaze lingers on the cover. A sea green clothbound cover encases the whole book despite its thin width, hinting that it holds something special within.

“What did you think of it?” You asked, a little hopeful as you stood up to return the book where it belonged. You weren’t sure if it would suit his tastes, but you hoped he’d get lost in a world of adventures. To preoccupy him with someone else’s struggles instead of his own. To live fully through the main characters in books, without facing any of the dangers himself. 

In the story you recommended to Zayne, the two boys became sworn brothers. Despite their different upbringings and interests, they always stood by each other. They both were able to achieve their dreams in the end—the village boy was able to rise into power and gain a high ranking while the prince ventured off into the faraway lands with the purpose of adventure.

“I was able to see a new perspective in things. I understand why you like to read these books now.” The clicks of Zayne's shoes are much louder than the one on your feet but they both equally echo around the whole library, “But I’d like to know—why do you stay here? You have more than enough skill to aim for higher positions and grander titles.”

“As much as I’d love to experience the hardships and adventures of these protagonists, I’d much rather do so from the safe walls of this library. I know I might sound like a coward, but life is precious. I can’t just throw mine away. Especially not after everything the people I love have done to raise and protect me.” 

The cogs in Zayne's brain are turning faster than usual, trying to find the right words to respond to you. He wanted to comfort you, praise you, and somehow do it all at once.

Just as Zayne opened his mouth to speak, the massive doors of the Imperial Library swung open with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the vast halls, startling you both. Zayne's personal knight rushed over as he fell to his knee when he approached Zayne,

“I apologize for the interruption, Your Royal Highness, but urgent matters require your attention, Crown Prince.” 

Zayne nods as the knight stands up and straightens before walking out. Zayne turns back around to face you, his eyes softening from his earlier serious demeanor, “I hope you’ll have more books for me the next time I’m here. You seem to know my tastes.” 

As the prince walks off into the distance you follow suit. You weren’t following him or sending him off. You had to be back to the reference counter either way! However, just when Zayne's about to step out of the library, he holds the door and his body lingers for a few seconds before turning back to you for the last time. 

“I would like to know more about your world. I hope you’ll allow me to.”

Prince!Zayne, who spends most of his day thinking about you even as he’s attending to the urgent matters of some rebels in the North. As the prince lies down in bed he realizes that you’ve been occupying his mind for the past few months. Your smile. Your gaze. The way you speak and the way you act when you think no one can see you. It makes Zayne smile as he drifts off to sleep with a mental image of you.

Prince!Zayne, who fulfills his duty as the crown prince, arranging troops and strategies to take down the rebel group, but also showing the people in that village compassion by giving them more food and care. He avoids the library for now, wanting to visit you only when he can fully focus on you and not other stressful affairs. 

Prince!Zayne, who slept for almost an entire day after easing the kingdom’s troubles and solving the rising inflation. He had spent days without rest, traveling to the main cities to calm the common people. But as he woke up that night and saw the moon, full and shining brighter than ever, he couldn’t resist freshening up and heading to the Imperial Library, with hopes that you were still there. 

Prince!Zayne, who felt his heart flutter for the first time when he found you asleep, surrounded by books, your head resting on the counter as you sat in your chair. He didn’t wake you up that night. The prince draped his royal robe over you, the rich satin shimmering in the moonlight as he carefully picked up the book your head rested on. Looking at the cover he started to read it, making sure to put a bookmark in where you had left off. 

Prince!Zayne, who’s halfway through the book when you start to stir awake. You were rightly surprised to see him sitting on the floor, reading the same book you were, and in your sleepy state, you accidentally hit him. You apologized, and he did too, and it was surprisingly cute how you both said sorry about different things. That night, the two of you spent time talking and listening, watching the moon together.

Prince!Zayne, who now visits you everyday instead of his usual once a week. Though he never finishes your book recommendations in that timeframe, he always talks to you about them—his thoughts, questions, and views. And he always asks about yours too, interested in your perspective.

Prince!Zayne, who whenever he ventures out to different cities or outside land always remembers to bring a book from that place—when he had to go to the Northern lands and negotiate a peace treaty with them, he asked for a few popular books of their homeland. Whether it be fairy tales, fantasy stories or nonfiction. He would accept it all and bring it back to you. 

Prince!Zayne, who arranges his schedules so he has one whole day of just reading in the Imperial Library with you. The rest of his week is packed full to the brim now, but he can power through with the knowledge that you’ll always be waiting for him in your shared sanctuary. 

Prince!Zayne, who promises you that one day he’ll make you queen. You’ll be able to read every book in the world, live every adventure and experience every story. And if you ever wanted to experience an adventure for yourself, he’d drop the crown in an instant to venture out with you, ensuring your safety and protection. He has yet to say it, but he hopes you know how much he loves you.

A/N: Rafayel's fic being posted within the next three days! I should've posted this yesterday but well, life. Also I was binging AOT, that's my bad. 😓 THANK YOU GUYS FOR 172 FOLLOWERS?!?!?!? HELLO!?!!?!?!? ILY GUYS SO MUCH <3333333 Dividers by @mikeykuns

[777bae]

SWEET AS HONEY WILL SMITH

Summary :: Will’s distracted by everything about you—the way you talk, your hands, your smile—until you call him “darlin’.” It’s enough to short-circuit his brain, and when he finally blurts out his feelings, your knowing smile says everything. (REQUESTED :: prompt 21 with southern!reader)

Warnings :: none

Word count :: 1.9k

It happens so fast he almost misses it.

Will should be listening. Really, he should. But there’s a problem—you.

You’re standing in front of him, fire in your voice, conviction burning in your eyes, speaking with so much passion that it fills the space between you like something tangible. Every word, every syllable, is laced with that unmistakable Southern drawl that always seems to catch him off guard, always seems to sink into his skin and settle somewhere deep in his chest.

And Lord help him, he finds it fascinating.

Your hands move as you talk, slicing through the air, shaping your words in ways that make them feel even bigger, even more important. You’ve always done that—talk with your hands, as if words alone could never quite hold the weight of what you’re trying to say. Like your thoughts are too alive to be contained by your voice alone.

But it’s not just the way you speak that’s got him hanging onto every single moment like it’s something to be memorized. It’s everything.

The way your fingers dance midair, sometimes curling into a fist when you get really into what you’re saying, only to relax a second later. The way your brows furrow when you’re serious—like right now, as you try to drill some kind of wisdom into his thick skull. The slight curve of your lips when you’re teasing him, that flash of mischief in your eyes before you force yourself to stay on track.

He notices all of it.

Every shift in your expression. Every flicker of light in your eyes. Every movement, no matter how small.

And the way you’re looking at him now? It’s got him teetering between actually listening and just watching you, like you’re something out of a dream.

He should focus. He knows that. He wants to focus on the words, on what you’re actually saying. And he’s trying—he really, really is.

He catches fragments, little bits and pieces of your voice cutting through the haze in his mind. Something about how he needs to be more careful, more aware. Something about how you’re just looking out for him, and how he never takes things seriously.

And he knows you mean well. Knows you’re saying all of this because you care.

But the problem—the real problem—is that Will has been distracted by you since the very first day he met you.

And tonight is no different.

“Are you even hearin’ me?” you ask, exasperation creeping into your tone.

And then it happens.

“You hearin’ me, darlin’?”

Will’s brain short-circuits.

It’s instant—like someone pulled the plug on his entire system, like his mind just slammed on the brakes so hard it sent his thoughts skidding in every direction. He stops. Completely.

His breath catches. His heart stumbles over itself, then picks up again at double the speed. His ability to think, to process, to function as a normal human being, is gone.

Because darlin’ just left your lips like it belonged there.

Like it was effortless. Like you didn’t even have to think about it. Like maybe—just maybe—you’ve been calling him that in your head for a while now, and this was just the first time it slipped out into the world.

And God help him, Will doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You said it so easy, so natural, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like you didn’t just shake the very foundation of his world with one little word.

And now? Now he’s completely useless.

He just… stares at you. Like a damn fool. Like you just hung the moon and he’s only just now realizing it. The conversation? Gone. The reason you were even talking to him in the first place? Couldn’t tell you. The time of day? Not a clue.

The only thing he knows—the only thing—is that you called him darlin’, and now he’s completely, utterly, hopelessly ruined.

Somewhere, in the very distant part of his mind that still has a grasp on reality, he registers the way your hands drop to your hips. The way your head tilts ever so slightly. The way you’re waiting for him to say something.

But how—how—is he supposed to respond to this?

How is he supposed to function when you just—when you just called him darlin’?

You’re right there, looking at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, and Will can’t do a damn thing about it because his brain is still rebooting.

“Will.”

You snap your fingers in front of his face, trying to pull him back to earth, but he’s too far gone.

“Are you even listenin’ to me?” you press, your voice carrying that familiar mix of amusement and impatience, like you already know exactly what’s happening in his head.

And it’s that damn accent again, lilting, teasing, wrapping around the words in a way that makes his stomach do a ridiculous little flip.

Will opens his mouth.

Then closes it again.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

It’s humiliating, really, because Will Smith considers himself a pretty smooth guy. He’s never been the type to be at a loss for words, never been the type to just freeze up like this.

But you—you—have gone and made a complete idiot out of him with one little word.

And the worst part?

He likes it.

You huff out a small laugh, tilting your head at him, eyes glinting with something dangerous—something knowing. Like you can already see the mess you’ve made of him, like you can tell exactly what’s happening in that scrambled brain of his, and you’re just waiting for him to catch up.

“What’s wrong with you?” you ask, teasing, a slow, amused smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You.

You are what’s wrong with him.

You and that voice of yours, that accent that curls around every word and makes his chest feel too tight. The way you’re looking at him right now, like you already know the answer to your own damn question. Like you already know exactly how gone for you he is.

Will tries—really tries—to gather himself, to do something, anything, other than stand here like some love-drunk fool. But it’s useless. His brain isn’t cooperating, his body sure as hell isn’t cooperating, and his heart? His heart is pounding so hard it drowns out every logical thought in his head.

He swallows, hard.

His hands feel too big, too clumsy, like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with them. Should he shove them in his pockets? Cross his arms? Do something that doesn’t make him look like an idiot? It doesn’t matter, because all he can think about—all he can feel—is the way you just gave him a pet name, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part? He knows, deep in his bones, that if you wanted to call him darlin’ for the rest of his life, he’d let you. Happily.

He’s already drowning in it, already too deep, and there’s no coming back from this. No saving himself.

And then—before he can even stop himself—he blurts out, “Say it again.”

Your lips twitch. Oh, you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And Lord help him, you like it.

There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes, a tease, a challenge.

“Say what again?” you ask, all innocence, but there’s something in your tone, something light and playful, and it only makes him sink deeper.

Will exhales, slow, like he’s really trying to hold onto the last shred of composure he’s got.

But it’s slipping.

“You know what,” he murmurs, voice lower, rougher than before.

And then it happens again.

That damn smirk of yours grows, slow and sweet, curling at the edges of your mouth like you know exactly what’s happening to him—and you love it. You lean in just a little, not enough to close the distance completely, but just enough to make his pulse do that stupid little stutter, like it’s trying to keep up with the hammering in his chest.

If he wasn’t already completely lost in you, this would do it.

But the thing is, he’s already gone. You’ve already wrapped him around your finger with that little word, with that damn accent, with the way your eyes twinkle when you know you have him exactly where you want him.

And then—then, just like that, you say it again.

“Darlin’,” you murmur, low, soft, like it’s meant just for him, like you’re whispering a secret only the two of you share.

Will swears—swears—his heart actually stumbles in his chest, like it can’t keep up with the chaos you’ve set in motion inside him. His breath catches, lodged somewhere in his throat, and for a second, he feels like he might not even be able to breathe. His knees feel weak, wobbly, and it’s completely ridiculous because he’s literally just standing here, trying to hold onto whatever shred of sanity he has left.

But you just called him darlin’ again—and now, he’s done for.

There’s no coming back from this.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He’s frozen, stuck in place, watching as your eyes gleam with that quiet satisfaction. It’s like you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him—and you’re not rushing it.

“Will,” you sigh, a soft, teasing sound that somehow only makes everything worse. You shake your head, like he’s the one being ridiculous now, and you’re still waiting for him to catch up, waiting for him to snap out of the daze you’ve got him in. “Focus. I was sayin’—”

And then—without thinking, without any idea where it’s even coming from—he finally opens his mouth and the words spill out.

“I think I love you.”

The second the words are out, it’s like time stops.

Will feels the weight of them in the air between you, feels the way they hang there, heavy and impossible to ignore. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might burst, and his mind is racing to process what just happened, but it’s already too late. The words are out—there’s no taking them back.

He freezes.

He swears he’s suspended in time now, waiting for the reaction, for the response that’s going to tell him whether he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life, or the best decision he’s ever had the courage to make.

He holds his breath, watching you, waiting for something—anything. The seconds stretch out longer than they should, stretching into an eternity, and for a moment, he thinks maybe the world has stopped turning altogether.

Then, slow as honey, you smile.

That smile.

It’s knowing. It’s patient. It’s like you already knew this was coming, like you’ve always known how he feels, even when he didn’t have the guts to say it aloud. Your lips curve into that smile, and it’s warm, almost lazy, like you’re in no rush, like you’re savoring the moment.

You take a step closer, just enough to close the gap, just enough that Will can feel the warmth of your body, the soft scent of your perfume, the way you seem to own the space between you two. Your fingers—your fingers barely graze his wrist, but it’s enough to make his breath hitch all over again, like your touch has a power he can’t quite explain.

“Well,” you murmur, voice dripping with that teasing warmth, “it’s about time you figured that out, darlin’.”

And that’s it.

Will feels like he might collapse. His heart is still racing, but now it’s not from panic—it’s from the soft, lingering joy that spreads through his chest, the joy that only comes from hearing those words from your mouth, knowing you’re not backing away, knowing you’re not running from what he just said.

No, you’ve just pulled him closer, and everything in him surrenders.

[this-is-me19]

They had more! Had to share.

More Southern Folk Magic

A follow-up to my post on Southern Folk Magic. Many of these are known, but I want to put all the ones that I’ve heard in my life in one place. 

To find a lost thing: Trap an insect under glass and recite Luke 8:17. The insect will point you in the direction of what you’ve lost. 

Never accept a gift from one who practices magic, not even through someone else’s delivery. Give nothing to them and take nothing from them lest they be able to work magic on you. 

For a fertile harvest season, make love on the freshly turned fields. 

If you wake up exhausted, dirty, or with your hair tangled it’s because you’ve been ridden by a hag. Make a dummy to lie in your place the next night and go off to salt the hag’s skin. 

Visitors must leave your house through the same door they came in.

Never tell a dream before breakfast. 

Keep reading

[floridagrowngirl]

Instagram: balancedbettydesigns

[leirastar]

new world | prologue

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: A tragic accident left you unable to use your wings and, with that, claimed your father's life, leaving you in the care of your noble uncle. In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 1.6k | 7 minutes Warning: wings, weapons A/n: Hello everyone! i'm very glad to you meet you! I hope you enjoy reading this as much i loved writing it.

Beneath the vase expanse of the golden-hued sky, where the sun and moon dance in harmony, located in the heart of an endless sapphire sea lies Hala.

A chain of islands said to be molded by the hands of ancient gods, each whispering a story of creation, balance, and power.

Its skies shimmer with the iridescent glow of the Aetherion, whose bearers are gifted the ability to soar between earth and sky and serve as the stewards of the land.

At the center of the land, Kaizo Kingdom, the Heart of Hala, stood tall and unyielding, its golden spires reaching for the heavens. Its black bat-winged ruler was renowned for his keen intellect, ensuring that the kingdom remained both the center of commerce and an untouchable entity. Ruled by the sovereign Kim Clan and led by King Hongjoong, descendants of the Shadow Monarch, Kaizo was a beacon of unity and wisdom.

Kaizo city is alive with activity, its streets teeming with merchants, scholars, and travelers from every corner of the seven kingdoms. Though neutral in the wars that raged around it, Kaizo’s alliances carried weight, and Hongjoong’s choices could shift the tides of battle in an instant. Proudly safeguarding the Pact of the Eight Kingdoms, the kingdom was heavily guarded, as its borders touched all seven kingdoms. The bustling markets of Kaizo showcased goods from every corner of Hala, and its rulers, known for their impartiality, served as mediators in times of strife, making the city a beacon for those seeking opportunity—or refuge—if they could survive the journey.

To the Southeast, Leon kingdom stands proudly. Ruled by the Choi Clan, where endless golden sands meet towering forests and deep, labyrinthine caves. Its ruler rumored to possess the strength and cunning of a lion.

King Jongho, adorned with powerful wings veined in shades of earthy brown and sunlit gold, rules quietly. Known to have mastered their diverse terrain, using it as both a sanctuary and a weapon. Their castle, built high within the caves, overlooks the forest canopy and sprawling deserts, offering an impenetrable vantage point against any threat.

These landscapes are more than barriers—they are the foundation of Leon’s economy and culture, offering rare gems from the caves, unique herbs from the forests, and spices from the desert.

To the northeast, dense forrest and rolling fields mark the lands of Caius.

Presiding over this serene paradise is His Majesty King Seonghwa, whose gentle yet unwavering leadership mirrors the tranquility of his lands.

Caius flourishes as a fertile haven, where crystal-blue seas and shimmering lakes weave through lush forests and vibrant fields. The kingdom’s unique geography provides abundant resources year-round, renowned for its blooming herbs and medicinal flora, which grows in endless cycles, fed by the fertile soils and pristine water resources.

These natural gifts not only sustain its people but have made the kingdom famous across Hala for its healing remedies and restorative traditions.

Southern to this estate lived the Kingdom of Satriya. Famous for their silver-armoured knights known as the most disciplined defender in all of Hala, their fortresses carved into unyielding stone. Every path through Satriya is a calculated defense, its people prepared for any threat.

Presiding over this fortified kingdom is King Yeosang, a ruler whose strict discipline and formidable presence inspire both loyalty and fear. Known as the Demon of the Silver Wings, his piercing gaze and unrelenting expectations command respect. Tales of his terrifying battlefield strategies and unwavering enforcement of order have spread across Hala, deterring enemies and ensuring Satriya remains impenetrable.

Satriya remains as the most private of all kingdoms, its gates closed to anyone who is not born of Satriyan blood. This exclusivity fosters a deep sense of unity and loyalty among its people, but also shrouds the kingdom in mystery to outsiders. Despite his fearsome reputation, his people trust him implicitly, knowing that his rule is the cornerstone of their survival.

Satriya’s eastern border meets Kaizo, while its westernmost cliffs descend into treacherous seas. The kingdom’s trade in sturdy weapons and tools extends its influence far beyond its borders, solidifying its position as an indomitable force in Hala.

Bordering the southern of Kaizo lay a united land of Charadyn and Kian. Despite their distinct identities, the two kingdoms share a deep bond, their rulers united by friendship and a shared appreciation for life’s riches.

Charadyn Kingdom belonged to the prestige Jung Clan. Notorious for their eternal bonfires, Charadyn thrives on the never ending celebration and wealth.

From a young age, King Wooyoung embraced the lively spirit of his kingdom, forging a reputation as a leader who rules not just with authority, but with the joy and vitality that inspire his people. Festivals in Charadyn are legendary, attracting visitors from every corner of Hala, who come to revel in the kingdom’s unending celebrations.

Charadyn’s economy is built on its vibrant cultural exports. Its exotic spices, rare jungle plants, and handcrafted artifacts are sought after across the realm. The kingdom’s thriving tourism, driven by its grand festivals and fiery traditions, further fuels its prosperity. Its northern border touches Kaizo, while its southern coast provides access to maritime trade routes, strengthening its position as a cultural and economic powerhouse.

Not far from the buzzling, lively, vibrant city of Charadyn lies the Kingdom of Heritage, known as the Kingdom of Kian. Ruled by the noble Choi Clan, Kian’s people hold a deep belief that their lineage is blessed by divinity. Adorned in jewels and celestial artifacts, King San governs with pride. The kingdom flourishes through its abundant natural resources and exceptional craftsmanship. As a leading exporter of diamonds, sacred relics, and luxurious textiles, Kian’s wealth is unparalleled. Its fertile plains provide plentiful harvests, sustaining its people and fueling trade with neighboring lands.

Far to the Northeast of Kaizo, high above the clouds, nestled among breezy mountain peaks, lay the Aeros Kingdom, home to the dragon breeders. Composed of multiple floating islands suspended in the skies, Aeros is a breathtaking spectacle of nature and magic. At its heart, perched in the middle of the heavens, stands the grand palace of Aeros, a shining beacon visible from every corner of the kingdom.

King Mingi, with his tundra-like wings, presides over this aerial wonderland, where the roar of dragons harmonizes with the gentle whispers of the mountain winds. The skies are alive with the majestic flight of dragons and their caretakers, whose unbreakable bond with the creatures defines Aeros’s spirit.

The kingdom thrives on the trade of dragons and their rare, coveted scales, used for crafting armor, ornaments, and magical items of extraordinary value. In addition, Aeros exports sky-bred textiles, lightweight yet durable, imbued with the essence of the breezes that carry the kingdom’s legacy across Hala.

Bordered by the icy seas and blanketed in perpetual mist, lies the Reed Kingdom. This land is cradled by the ocean, its shores wrapped in an ethereal veil of fog that rarely lifts. Yet Reed’s true majesty lies above, connected to the lowlands by a towering, frost-covered bridge. High in the frigid mountains stands Reed’s capital, an unyielding fortress of ice and stone nestled among snow-capped peaks. Here, the cold is relentless, and the winds howl like the spirits of the mountains themselves.

King Yunho, with his indigo wings, embodies the kingdom’s cold, unwavering resolve. His strength and endurance mirror the icy resilience of his domain, and his piercing gaze leaves little room for doubt or defiance. Under his steadfast rule, the people of Reed have flourished despite the harshness of their environment, adapting and thriving where others might falter.

Reed’s economy thrives on trading its unique resources to other kingdoms. Rare ice crystals, harvested from the deepest caverns, are prized across Hala for their enchanting properties, beauty, and magical applications. Additionally, frost-forged metals, tempered by the frigid climate, are crafted into tools, weapons, and armor of unparalleled durability, making them essential for kingdoms facing harsh conditions. Reed’s expertise in producing cold-weather goods sustains its prosperity, exchanging its treasures for resources it cannot cultivate within its icy domain.

Reed is a kingdom of stark beauty and unrelenting strength, where the sea meets the mountains in a breathtaking display of nature’s extremes. To venture into its icy wilderness is to face a world that demands respect—and a king who commands it. Outsiders who dare step into Reed often find themselves frozen in more ways than one, humbled by the cold and the unyielding presence of King Yunho.

The royals held immense power over Hala for a reason. The rulers of the eight kingdoms were no ordinary beings; they bore the mark of True Aetherion, a glowing imprint on their foreheads that pulsed with celestial energy. This blue blood, shimmering with the essence of the heavens, set them apart—not just in authority, but in being. It granted them the ability to command the skies, their wings reflecting the power and pride of their Country.

You paused in your step, the vibrant hum of life around you fading as a sudden stillness overtook the air. The faint glow of the Aetherion above pulsed rhythmically, and a powerful gust swept past, bending the trees and rippling the waters in its wake. A dark silhouette descended from the clouds, cutting across the horizon like a falling star, its form too grand, too perfect, to belong to mere mortals.

Your breath caught as the figure moved with otherworldly grace, its wings glinting with hues that mirrored its domain—golden like Leon’s sands or indigo like Reed’s icy peaks. As it passed overhead, you caught a glimpse of the faint glow on their forehead, unmistakable and radiant, the mark of their celestial lineage. It was rare to see a royal so far from the cities, their presence in such remote lands a reminder of the power they carried, bound to the skies.

Though you couldn’t tell which kingdom they hailed from, you knew without a doubt it was one of the eight royals.

Since only they bore the mark of the Aetherion carried from the blue blood of the Primordials, their very existence was tied to the elements that shaped Hala.

They are Hala Core itself.

Masterlist One

Taglist (OPEN):

@caratiny-latte @pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchling @dumplingsyum

[1800titz]

COME TOUCH ME TOO | Best friend’s dad

age gap. 11.2K on patreon

second part to LIQUID SMOOTH

You’d catch him over the sink sometimes. Or the stove. At the dinette, shirtless. Big bear, you thought, still only half-awake (starving), staring at his skin, swathed in ink that traversed limb, to torso, to limb. You’d catch the smattering of dark hair pooling over his sternum, and the hair beneath his navel, darker, more wiry, seeping into the band of his pajama pants. And later, you’d wonder if it was the substructure— torn out from you— that you were chasing (the surfeited rift between your ages, the sage wisdom you lacked), or if it was just the shape of him, the way he fit into your life, the subtle domesticity of a morning. The pantomime of a distant daydream. (Pretending this was your life you were living, and not taking a page from someone else’s.)

preview

The bar you’re at feels congested. Sticky, shoulders brushing shoulders, feet bumping feet, and the music is loud enough that you feel it droning along the skin of your bones. Past max-capacity; something you anticipated. Accepted on a Friday night— no sort of discomfort that couldn’t be waterlogged into an unconcerned bliss with enough alcohol. 

And that’s what it started as. 

One shot to ease the restless hypervigilance (when you shuffled in, sliding between clusters of bodies), that burned at the back of your throat, heat flaring across your crinkling sinuses. Then, a second, that radiated warmth along your chest, under your skin, that settled as a weightless feeling beneath the soles of your feet. Loosened the arc of your shoulders. 

(You never buy your own drinks.)

A third, cupped from a stranger’s fingers, with bright, powder blue eyes that lingered on your throat, the line of your jaw when you tipped your head back. Inkpools stuck to your tongue when you smeared it out across your lips, the bridge of your nose rucking. He gave you a wolfish, glimmering grin and told you what a pretty thing you are.

(And you think, staring up at him through the misting crest of intoxicant smog, he’s too young. Feels like a boy— one you can’t re-mold even in the haze of alcohol— in the absence of crows’ feet and shallow smile lines, the glinting, tawdry rhinestone stuck to his incisor. Skin speckled with ink that resembles zealous impulse rather than an aged, carefully-crafted tapestry. You doubt there’s any worthwhile story behind the dice in the nook of his elbow; RICH across the front, C and H tipped perfectly on their southern edges to show the S and K that could fill the word out, instead.)

(You can’t even pretend.)

You seldom find regret in the sea of a familiar gyre (the world spinning, and you, finally, spinning with it), but the spindrift crashes across in a misty fog of discomfort. The riptide lures you out to swallow you whole. You’re not sure when the euphoria mutates into anxiety— maybe somewhere along the fourth and the fifth— but it coagulates in your esophagus, in your stomach. Cakes in the warm, soft spot under your ribcage, until your bones feel like they’re wobbling with the pulse of your heart. Vibrating.

You showed up with a coworker. Admittedly, one you didn’t know too well, to a bar you haven’t been to before. But going out is going out, and a bar is a bar. You don’t need a babysitter, you don’t need to know her well, and you don’t need to scope the the pub, but—

Last you saw her, she was propped against the corner of the bar, and now, as you sweep your bleary gaze over the mass, she’s nowhere in sight. You’re alone. You’re alone, and the world is spinning, screaming, chattering over the pulsing base, and you feel like you can’t keep up. 

When you swallow, it lodges in your throat. You feel like you can’t breathe, nearly tripping over your own feet, brushing between tangled musculature, limbs like gnarled, warm roots for you stumble over. And you feel like you’re trying to part the sea to make room for your clumsy steps. Like you’re trying to move mountains. 

By the time you make it outside, your lungs are aching, and your shoulders are quaking. You don’t know where it’s coming from— what it is— but it feels like a flame licking its way up under your dermis, and you want to shed your skin off the bone. The gulp of air you take is welcome. Cold. Wet. 

It’s raining. 

Pouring. The gust drenches your bare legs in spittle off the sky, even under the awning. Helplessly, you pat around for your phone. 

And you don’t know what possesses you. You don’t know if it’s a clumsy swipe of your thumb across the glowing screen, or a cruel form of divine intervention, when you scroll and stutter along his contact. It’s a number you should’ve deleted. Haven’t pressed in months. 

You flung yourself out of orbit, and seeing his name feels like you’re a piece of star-shed that’s slipped too close— a hair from homecoming. It feels like the inevitable, crushing weight of gravity snagging you into the miserable ouroboros you’ve spent every evening running from. A tidal wave, reborn, swallowing you whole. 

And you know the repercussions— the potential there. The consequences of sticking wet fingers into electrical sockets, but you tell yourself, he won’t pick up. It’s too late. You’re too late. Too—

Your finger lingers. 

You don’t know what would be worse. Abandonment in another shape, or hearing his voice on the other end of the line. 

You call him. 

You regret it a split-second too late, staring down at the screen dialing. When you press the phone to your ear, with the rain spitting, the thrum of the bass behind the door— your heart rattling in your ears, your head spinning—

You barely hear the three rings before the line clicks. It’s quiet. 

And then—

“Hello?”

You suck in a gust of air. You expected his voice to hurt. To ache— you anticipated, maybe, a lot of things, with variegated hypotheticals spelled out in misty shapes through hours spent staring at your ceiling. 

But every chimera crumbles when the words stick to the back of your throat. Part of it is the slurry in your veins, the hard liquor, the way it’s all kicked in, all at once. And part of it is the realization that, despite the biramous conjectures you’ve crafted— the what if’s— it’s the heavy thought that all roads lead to this.

He sounds hoarse. Mean with sleep.

“Um. Hi.” The words sound garbled, like you’re underwater. Tinny, wet, strained. 

Eager in the shape of unrequited pining; a mangled fruition of all the nights you’d spent, thumb hovering over the call button, wondering if he’d pick up on the other end of the line, stockpiling the heap of broken wishes. The ones you cradled in your hands like jagged fractures of your rib bones, cracked from how hard your heart was pounding. 

(If only he could see the lovelorn tar in your marrow, leaking out in a rotting treacle and pooling in the crevice of your love-line; tragic, broken down a long gap right under the wedge between your pinky and ring finger.) 

The awning does a poor job of covering your toes, and they soak in the torrent that spumes from the midnight aether, shimmering against the wet asphalt. Silly, little girl— woman, nowadays— one ear corked with your forefinger to stifle the downpour spitting from the same sky you’d crane your neck and spill orisons at, the other fisting at your phone like a lifeline. Dangling onto the thread off this unspooled hope. 

You sound ditzy. Soporific. Lost. You wonder if he picks up on it on the other end of the line. “Are you, um. Are you busy?” 

The speaker crackles.

Finally, he rasps from the other end of the line— a thunderclap, like a gunshot, “You’re not callin’ me at one in the morning to ask me if I’m busy.” 

“I—“ the words stick to the back of your throat. 

Something seals up in your lungs with the breath you try to take. 

Bitter recrudesce, a reminder when it wakes back up in the slotted teeth of your heart— an ache, alleviated in his absence after time, that throbs at the sound of his voice. Your jaw quakes on what you want to confess, snarled in your throat. I love you— Please— I’ve loved you since—

Your lip wobbles. Teeth clack, staring at the wet asphalt. “Uh. Sorry.”

You settle for a middle ground— some compromise in the clouded welter of your docket— something you’ve been meaning to say for months.

(Sorry for being a silly, little girl that fell in love with you.)

You’re met with a beat of silence that eats into your marrow. Has your guts twisting, chest tight. Then, (solace) a sigh— surly— oozes across the crackling speaker. 

“Where are you?” 

The question reminds you why you called in the first place. That you’re sopping up dirty rainwater with your boots on the outskirts of town, outside some seedy bar you came to, to drown your demons (him) in burnt amber. A thunderbolt ripples across the pitch aether, zagging electric chalky across the swollen plumes. All at once, you…

Crumble. 

“I’m, um. Ah…” your chin quivers. You nod, “I’m here. At a, um. At a bar. Outside a bar.”

“Which bar? Who are you with?” 

The slew of questions nearly makes you laugh. 

The concern, there, throttles you and the tension in your shoulders like you expected anything less. You did. And you would laugh if hearing his voice, for the first time in months, wasn’t a sobering maelstrom on your psyche. Despite the way your tongue feels sticky, and useless, like it's caught on the roof of your mouth, you clear your throat.

“Um. It’s called, ah— Southbound,” your eyes slip shut. The wobble at your feet clicks in your knees. “I came with a— with a coworker. But I can’t find her. And I just— sorry. Fuck. Sorry. I got, um. I’m… sorry.”

You set your teeth and stare down at the rainwater speckling the toes of your boots. Gusting against your bare legs, and you don’t realize you’ve been hanging onto the phone with both hands cupped, like a lifeline, until his voice comes through.

“Y’alright?”

He sounds a little more awake. No doubt at the quiver in your tone. The way you can’t cohesively suture the words together. You roll forward on your toes. It’s a miscalculated motion on your part, because you nearly topple forward. 

“No. Yeah. M’really— um. I’m a little, um. Drunk. I think. So—“ you slur. Take a breath. “No. I don’t—“

The words come out small. Tired. There’s a crack in your voice, like you’re on the edge of keeling over the precipice. You feel it in the burn at the back of your eyes, raw in your sinuses, when you admit, softly, “…I wanna go home.”

He doesn’t say anything. You take another breath, and feel it against the enamel of your teeth. Expect the sear of ice. Your fingers feel strained on your phone. Crushing. Taut. You think about his next words before he says them. Before the surly crackle from the other end of the line hits you, imagine it— call an uber. 

I’ll call you an uber, at best. At worst…

You swallow. The line crackles again.

“Send me your location. I’m coming to get you.”

[spacelazarwolf]

Qinat Be'eri (A Lamentation for Be'eri) by Yagel Haroush

Yagel Haroush is a singer, a kamancheh and ney player, a poet, a composer of piyutim (traditional religious songs) and a teacher of Middle Eastern music. After completing his studies at the Jerusalem Academy of Music, Yagel earned a master’s degree in philosophy at Ben-Gurion University of the Negev, and was awarded the Daoud Al-Kuwaiti Scholarship for musical excellence. Yagel specializes in performing and composing music based on maqam, the Middle Eastern modal system. He studied the Persian form of maqam, known as dastgah, with Prof. Piris Eliyahu and his son Mark Eliyahu, and Arab maqam with Prof. Taiseer Elias. As a child, he absorbed the liturgical poetic tradition of the Moroccan piyut (religious song) at his grandfather’s home in the southern Israeli city of Dimona, where every Shabbat, a group of paytanim (composers and singers of piyutim) would gather. Later, he delved into the secrets of the baqashot (“supplications”), a Sephardic mystical singing tradition practiced by Moroccan Jews. Yagel’s ensemble, Shir Yididot, performs original reinterpretations of this tradition that situate the baqashot within the broader context of Middle Eastern mystical song. The group released its debut album in 2016. Yagel is also the founder of the Study Center for Makam and Piyut, where he teaches composition and performance, as well as theoretical performance studies based on Jewish sources – philosophy, Kabbalah and Midrash. He also founded the School of Oriental Music in the Negev in the town of Yeruham, and Kedem, a school for composition in the spirit of maqam in Jerusalem.

Qinat Be’eri was written by Yagel Haroush in the month of Marḥeshban after the massacres on 7 October and disseminated on social media. (The text of the qinah here is as shared on the website Kipa on 7 January 2024.) The initial English translation and notes was shared by Yosef Goldman and Josh Fleet. (These notes were very lightly edited for clarity.) On Tishah b’Av, a second English translation was offered by Dr. Susan Weingarten. –Aharon Varady

Eikhah [1] – Alas! my well [2] has turned into my grave. And the day of my light [3] has become my darkness And all fruit has been destroyed and my singing overturned. My eyes pour forth water [4] from the depth of my brokenness.

Eikhah — Israel on a day of calling to God. Life was requested but chaos received Elder and infant wallow in blood. [6] His festival desecrated by a merciless enemy. My eyes pour forth water from the depth of my brokenness.

Eikhah — mothers, girls, and young women Taken into captivity as in the days of pogroms And fences were breached righteous sheep And the dancing ceased and the songs of my singers My eyes pour forth water from the depth of my brokenness

And eikhah — I wonder, you who enobled her — How long shall a nation live in upheaval How long shall her stature be brought low to the ground And now, arise to kindle my lamp [7] And from the wellsprings of your mercy heal my brokenness And my eye [8] that pours forth will water Be’eri

The opening word of the Book of Lamentations, “איכה” — translated as “alas!” or “how?!?” — is often used in Jewish poetry of lament — ḳinnot — that memorialize the Jewish people, from the liturgy for mourning the Temple’s destruction to today.

Be’eri means “my well.” [Be’eri here also refers to Kibbutz Be’eri, the site of one of the massacres that took place on 7 October 2023. — ANV]

A reference to the festival of Simḥat Torah on which the massacres took place. In TaNaKh and Rabbinic literature, Torah is compared to both light and water. “For the commandment is a lamp, the teaching of Torah is a light” (Proverbs 6:23) and “A flowing stream, a fountain of wisdom” (Proverbs 18:4). Also find Shir haShirim Rabbah 1:2.

"For these do I weep, my eyes flow with tears; far from me is a comforter who might revive my spirit; my children are forlorn, for the foe has prevailed” (Lamentations 1:16)

i.e. Simḥat Torah.

Find Ezekiel 15:6, “When I passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood, I said to you: ‘Live despite your blood’…”

It is you who light my lamp; YHVH my elo’ah lights up my darkness” (Psalms 18:29).

Hebrew, עין (‘ayin), means both “spring” and “eye.”

[shadowsndaisies]

hangman meets 'thena

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: word is, there's a new pilot on board carrier air wing nine, and she flies for the VFA-14, the Tophatters.

main masterlist

athena-verse master post

a/n: the highly requested hangman and athena meet blurb, let me know what else you'd like to see from this universe, especially things that exist outside the storyline. or even if you just want more of certain characters. This serves as a precursory understanding to Jake and Athena, it probably doesn't answer every question about them, but it might help you see their foundation a bit better. but special shoutout to @djs8891 @tgmreader @rory-cakes and @fanreader75 for asking specifically about hangman and athenas dynamic (mentions at the end as well)

You’d heard of him, everyone active had. The only active aviator with a confirmed kill, never mind that your dad had two.

Hangman was exactly what you expected if you were honest.

Phoenix, who had taken an instant liking to you as soon as you’d been reassigned to the Tophatters, had filled you in on all the Lemoore gossip. Phoenix flew with the VFA-41, the Black Aces, also based out of Lemoore, and in fact, on the same carrier as you, Commander, Carrier Air Wing Nine. Her first order of business was getting you caught up on the carrier, that included learning the players, and while she was happy to introduce you to different Naval officers, the only one she warned against was Hangman.

Someone really should have told her that at your core, you were your father’s daughter.

Let it be known, you did not go looking for him. He appeared in all his Ken Doll Aviator glory as you were doing a morning check on your F/A 18E. Apparently he also flew an F/A 18E, ‘Nix on the other hand had an F/A 18F, as she normally flew with a WSO.

He approached, full of cocky attitude, and maybe it was all the years being raised by both Ice and Mav, but when he spoke it was like you could understand him just as fluently as you did with them. You could see where Nat was coming from with “honestly, Athena, Hangman in two words? Texan Douchewad.”

“Well, Howdy, darlin’, scuttlebutt was that there was a new girl on board, glad to meet you, name’s Hangman,” was his introduction.

You couldn’t help the smirk when he said girl, “Isn’t the hallmark of a proper southern boy, that he’s, well, proper?” you shoot back, eye brow quirked. “I’m a woman, not a girl.”

It was fun, watching the way his smirk melted, how his brow furrowed, as he tried to catch up.

“You-”

“Phoenix gave me a run down, but to be honest, I’ve always preferred forming my own perceptions,” you shrug, as you continue your check.

As you brush past him, you aren’t surprised to hear him following after you. “Ah, so my reputation precedes me then?” he muses, and you can see the way he uses his charm and humor to cover, a shield of bravado, too bad he didn’t realize you were raised by bravado.

“Not exactly, though I did see your plaque at Top Gun, to be fair, I saw Phoenix’s too,” you shrug again.

“So you’re the fresh blood, huh?” he prompts, and finally you turn and smile at him.

“I guess fresh blood is better than being called new girl. Name’s Athena, you’d do well to use it,” you tell him, smile in place.

“Athena? As in th4e Greek goddess of war and wisdom?” he asks, brows furrowed down.

“That’s the one,” you nod, moving to check the landing gear.

“Athena as in, the Naval Aviator who climbed through the ranks and had two separate stations before she went to Top Gun?” he follows up and you turn.

You turn to face Hangman, and now your brows are pulled, “How’d you know that?”

“I keep tabs on things that pique my interest,” he shrugs, and your lip curls on the end. “Rumor was you had Admirals arguing over who got you under their command…”

“Nice to meet you Hangman,” you decide finally, climbing back from under the plane, and offering him your hand.

“Pleasure’s mine, Miss Athena,” he smirks back. “It true your old man flew too?” he tacks the question on as he shakes your hand.

You can see it in his eyes, nepotism, you know it’s where is brain’s gone. It’s like you couldn’t escape it, everyone assumed that’s how you got as far as you have, as quick as you have. They were wrong.

“Yeah, mostly f-14s though, nothing with the juice of my baby,” you straight up lie, so what if your dad was still flying? So what if he was probably flying f/a-18s or something experimental? No one but you needed the specifics, and you’re pretty sure it wouldn’t help you fight against the nepo-baby claims. Too bad no one realized how much of a detriment being attached to Maverick actually was. It made most of the higher ups uneasy about taking you on, unsure if you’d inherited your father’s need for speed and reckless streak, you had, but you were just better than him at keeping it in check, if Ice taught you anything, it was that — “ice cold, kiddo, no mistakes.”

“Must’ve been nice, having a leg up like that,” he’s still smiling as he talks down at you.

You match his smile and catch the flicker of confusion in his eyes as you walk up closer to him. “It was, see, it prepared me for a lifetime of dealing with cocky naval aviators and their inflated sense of bubble wrap bravado.”

“That all?” he presses, staring down at you, the two of you now face to face, staring hard at each other, but you caught the little twitch of his eye at your term.

“No,” you smirk before turning and walking away, “but I’ve got a hop to prep for, see you around Hangman.”

…

He finds you in the Mess later that day. You’d just returned from morning drills with your squad, and was eating with Phoenix.

“Ladies,” he greets, setting his own tray down in the seat opposite you.

“And I’ve officially lost my appetite,” Phoenix decided, standing up. “Athena, I’ll catch you later, I’d say it’s nice to see you, Bagman, but we know better,” she states, grabbing her tray, patting your shoulder and walking away.

“You sure know how to clear a room, Hangman,” you note, eyes flicking to Phoenix over Hangman’s shoulder, Nat was clearing her tray and pauses to look back and roll her eyes dramatically as she looks at Hangman’s back.

Your lip twitches and you lift your glass of water to cover up the smile threatening to split your lips.

“Bubble wrap bravado,” Hangman repeats back to you, echoing your statement from yesterday.

“What about it?” you challenge.

“Explain it to me,” it’s not a question, not in how it’s phrased, but you understand that he is asking.

“Protective to an extent, easier to pop than you think, so long as you apply the pressure properly. Problem is, everyone knows when it does, it’s usually a bit loud,” you explain, and he seems so incredibly focused on you.

You didn’t mind the hyper-focus though, you’d coined the term a long time ago. It had originally been for a different boy, one with a temper, but who you’d watched grow up. Ice had thought it an apt descriptor, he’d even taken it to describe a few officer’s he’d interacted with over the years.

“Hmm,” he hums, eyes glued to yours.

“You disagree?” you ask.

“No. I think you hit it on the head,” he admits and your lips curl up just the slightest bit, at least he seemed honest… cock sure and stubborn too, but honest.

“A naval aviator for a father was a lot of things, Hangman,” you admit, hesitating for a moment, deciding how much you wanted to say. “It was limited time, and firm goodbyes. It was getting behind a yoke for the first time when I was 12. It was learning ranks at the same time I was learning how to do multiplication,” you say, and you study how his expression changed which each revelation. “Having a Naval Aviator for a father might have given me a home field advantage, but that’s all it did. The rest, the wings, the assignments, I earned those,” you tell him seriously.

“Sure you did,” he nods along condescendingly, but his eyes betray his curiosity, and for now, that was enough for you.

You smile again at him, though this time it is a bit sour. “You don’t believe me, that’s fine, fair even, to be skeptical. But you should know, you’re gonna eat crow when you realize how wrong you were,” you tell him seriously, before standing up with your plate and glass, and walking away.

…

You get your chance to prove him wrong just a few days later when the Tophatters get assigned to a drill with both of the other squadrons on board the carrier, the Black Aces, and the Vigilantes. Meaning both Nat and Jake are in the air with you.

After is the first time Jake looks at you with something other than cocky contempt. As if seeing you fly up close resolved some of his concerns, but there’s still something there. He was waiting for the other shoe, too bad no one told him that you’d had both feet firmly on the ground since you signed your life to the Unites States Naval Services.

You get paired with him about a month and a half later for a cover assignment for an emergency evac of a SEAL team.

Normally assignments were set within squads, but it was an emergency evac and the carrier was docked. You and Jake had been the closest to the carrier at the time who were qualified, and so you were the two who were sent off. You flew south into South America, and while a lot of the details were later labeled as redacted, Jake never questioned your ability after. Nor should he. You saved his life.

He did however decide that meant you were friends, much to the immense annoyance of one Natasha Trace.

Considering the entire mission had been classified and redacted, you weren’t able to explain a lot of it to her, but when Jake started choosing his words a little more carefully she did her best not to start anything either. When he started sitting with you in the mess, she eyed him carefully. And when he started following you around in any downtime that lined up, she kept her mouth shut.

She found a new case study in the two of you, the outward and obvious differences between Hangman with Athena, and Hangman without. Her eyes jumping from how easily you let your guard down with him, and how utterly soft Hangman could be when he thought no one was paying attention.

Natasha, to her credit, had tried, desperately tried, to get more information out of you regarding your budding friendship, but all you would ever offer was a simple, “people tend to be more complex than what meets the eye, ‘Nix, I’m proof of that. So is he, and so are you.”

She decided then and there, you had way too much tact and patience, and maybe, just maybe, that was what Hangman needed.

...

everything: @butterfly-skinnylegend

athena’s tags: @omgbrianab @smoothdogsgirl @bazellawriz @sbrewer21 @inky-sun @djs8891 @rory-cakes @geeksareunique @je6291 @whoismurphyslaw @kee-0-kee @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @thespillingvoid @youdontknowe @burningcoffeecupp @mrsevans90

...

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[slut4megantheestallion]

Geto with a girl that has the cutest southern accent and it’s so heavy and he thinks it’s like the most amazing thing to bless the earth and sometimes does the most about it. Like he will literally have you talk in meetings and stuff just to hear you say stuff

⋆ ☆Geto Suguru with a Girl Who Has the Cutest Southern Accent Headcannons

-pairings: suguru geto x reader

Warnings ⚠️: fluff, heavy emphasis on accents and dialogue, mild teasing and playful behavior, over-the-top admiration for the reader's accent, cute and affectionate moments, lighthearted humor.

☆Geto's admiration for your accent is off the charts. He had heard many accents in his time, but none quite like yours. Your southern drawl is thick and sweet, like honey dripping from the words you say. He genuinely finds it the most charming thing in the world. He swears it's like music to his ears, and every time you speak, his heart skips a beat.

☆He will literally ask you to repeat yourself. If you say something like, "Y'all got any sweet tea?" or "Ain't nobody got time for that," Geto will just stare at you with an adoring look in his eyes and say, “Say it again. Please.” He doesn’t even care if you’re ordering food or talking about something completely mundane—he just loves hearing you speak.

☆In meetings, he’ll intentionally ask you to speak up. Geto’s known for being a rather composed individual, but when you're in a meeting and he feels like things are getting too serious or dry, he’ll deliberately ask you for your opinion or to explain something—just so he can hear your voice. "What do you think about the plan, darling?" he’ll ask, only to be mesmerized as you casually drop some southern wisdom or a simple remark.

☆He calls you "sweetheart" or "darlin" constantly. Every time you speak, Geto’s mouth just can’t help but form affectionate nicknames. He calls you "darlin’,” "sweetheart," or "sugar" in that low, amused tone that only you can get from him. It’s his subtle way of showing how much he adores you and your southern charm.

☆He’ll interrupt conversations just to ask you to talk. You’ll be in the middle of explaining something important, and Geto will, out of nowhere, interrupt with, "Wait, wait, wait... Could you say that again?" His grin spreads wider as he waits, practically bouncing with excitement to hear your voice. Honestly, he doesn’t care if it’s important or not; he just loves hearing you speak.

☆He gets genuinely lost in your voice. Whenever you’re talking, especially when you go off on a tangent, Geto will zone out completely. He just can’t focus on anything else when you speak—his eyes will glaze over, and he’ll get that dreamy look in his eyes as if he’s listening to the most beautiful melody in the world. He can’t help it. You could be talking about a random trip to the grocery store, and he’d still be entranced.

☆He’ll get unreasonably excited over simple words, you say. If you mention something typical, like "biscuits and gravy" or "sweet tea," Geto’s reaction will be nothing short of exaggerated excitement. He might even go as far as to ask you to say it again or repeat it with a slightly different intonation. He finds it endearing that such simple things sound like poetry coming from your lips.

☆He’ll flood you with affection. Every time you speak, he’ll shower you with compliments. "Your voice is a gift, you know that?" or "God, I could listen to you talk all day long." It's as if your southern accent has an actual power over him, making him fall a little more in love with you every time you speak. He’s proud of your accent, and he makes sure to let everyone know that.

☆He loves hearing you give directions. Whether you're telling him where to go, giving him advice, or just pointing out a place, Geto will focus entirely on the rhythm of your voice. “Oh, sugar, you don’t have to tell me twice. Just keep talkin’, I’ll follow you anywhere,” he’ll say, his smile growing as you lead the way.

☆He’s obsessed with hearing your laughter. Your southern laughter is just as precious as your words. When you let out a genuine laugh, whether it’s from a joke, a funny story, or just something you think is silly, Geto is completely hooked. He’ll listen with a smile on his face, quietly enjoying how your laugh sounds—it’s his new favorite sound, and he’ll do anything to hear it more often.

☆You’ll be the most important person at any event, because he’ll have you talk just to entertain him. If you’re at a gathering, whether it’s a casual event or a serious meeting, Geto will find any excuse to ask you to talk, especially in front of others. He just wants to hear you speak and will purposely put you in the spotlight, even if it’s not necessary. “Go ahead, baby. Tell them about that time you had to fix the truck,” he’ll say, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he waits for the magic of your voice to enchant everyone around.

☆He gives you all his attention when you talk. Whenever you speak, whether it's a simple phrase or a long explanation, Geto gives you his undivided attention. His focus shifts completely onto you, and his usual confident demeanor softens as he watches you with those intense eyes. He’s fully present when you’re talking—nothing else matters.

☆He’ll tease you lightly for your accent, but it’s all in good fun. Occasionally, he’ll poke fun at you in an affectionate way, saying things like, “God, you sound even more adorable when you try to be serious with that accent.” He’s always grinning, never making you feel bad, but just teasing you because he finds it absolutely charming.

☆He tries to mimic your accent—badly. After spending so much time with you, Geto might even try to mimic your southern accent—poorly, of course. His attempt is always exaggerated, and it makes you laugh every time. "Ya’ll, y'all gotta try this," he’ll say in the thickest accent he can muster, causing both of you to burst into giggles. His southern impersonation might be terrible, but he’ll do it just to make you laugh.

☆Geto’s possessive of your voice—no one else gets to hear it quite like he does. When others try to engage with you or ask you to speak, Geto’s eyes narrow just a little. Not in jealousy, but in a protective manner, like he knows that your voice is his special gift. You’re his person, and he’ll guard every word you say as though it’s treasure.

☆He absolutely loves when you teach him southern sayings or expressions. Geto’s always eager to learn more about your background, especially your southern phrases. Whenever you teach him something new like "bless your heart" or "hold your horses," he’ll be so proud of himself when he uses them, but in the most over-the-top way. “I swear, darling, I’m just tryin’ to be polite—bless your heart!” He’s always looking for excuses to sprinkle in these phrases and will wait for the perfect moment to drop them into conversation.

☆He loves when you use “ain’t” in casual conversation. “Ain’t” becomes a pet phrase for you in Geto’s eyes. He’s always so charmed when you casually throw it in: “Ain’t no way that’s happening” or “Ain’t that the truth?” He’ll mimic it with an exaggerated southern accent just to make you laugh, though it doesn’t sound quite as cute coming from him. “Ain’t that right, sweetheart?” He’ll ask, only to get a playful eye roll from you. But he loves the way it feels coming from you, like you’ve known the world in your own uniquely charming way.

☆He can’t get enough of the slower pace of your speech. There’s something about the way you draw out words that he finds irresistibly calming. Your speech is a steady rhythm that, unlike the fast-paced, sharp conversations he's used to, feels like a lullaby. He’ll often lean in close, hanging on every word, waiting for you to take your time to say something. It’s as if the whole world slows down when you talk, and he’s never in a rush to move on.

☆He'll fall in love with the way you say his name. Hearing your southern accent roll out his name—especially with that sweet, soft "Geto," makes his heart skip a beat every time. "Suguruuu," you’ll say with a playful tone, and he’ll smile, eyes soft and filled with affection. That’s his cue to come closer and plant a kiss on your cheek, just to show you how much he appreciates everything about you, even the way you say his name. It’s his new favorite sound, and he’ll never get tired of it.

☆He’s the type to ask for help with something just to hear your voice, even if he doesn’t need it .Let’s say you’re cooking together, and he’ll ask you to tell him how to stir the pot or how much salt to use, even though he’s fully capable of figuring it out himself. Why? Because he just wants you to say it. “So, sweetheart, what’s the best way to do this again?” He’ll ask, with a grin, completely entranced by your voice.

☆He asks for help with things that don’t even need help just to get a glimpse of your sweet side. Maybe you’re folding laundry or packing for a trip, and Geto, ever the playful tease, will walk over and casually say, “Hey, darling, could you help me with this?” You could be handling it just fine, but to him, the real reason he’s asking is so he can have another moment to hear your voice and get a little closer to you. He’ll linger around, pretending to “help,” just to be near you and listen.

☆When you're having a casual conversation, Geto will add “darling” or “sugar” in the middle of your sentence just to hear it again. If you’re chatting about something simple, like the weather or a movie you’ve both seen, he’ll sneak in a “darling” or “sugar” at the perfect time, just to get you to repeat it. “Yeah, sugar, I love that movie too,” he’ll say, even though he knows the conversation’s moving on. You’ll give him an exaggerated side-eye or a playful response, but his eyes will twinkle, and he’ll just wait for that sweet sound to spill from your lips once again.

☆He’ll low-key try to find ways to spend more time with you in public just so he can hear you talk to other people. If you’re out in a crowd or at a gathering, Geto will naturally gravitate toward you, but it’s not always just because he wants to be close—sometimes, he just wants to hear you talk to others. He’ll watch as you interact with people, enchanted by how your accent shines through, especially when you're explaining something or telling a story. He loves how you light up when you speak, and it makes him even more proud of you.

☆He thinks your accent makes you extra cute when you’re flustered or shy. If you get shy or flustered, maybe when he compliments you or you’re put on the spot, your southern accent comes out even more—making Geto fall for you even harder. He’ll take note of the slight increase in the drawl, the way your words get a little slower when you’re embarrassed, and he’ll love you even more for it. “Look at you, sugar. You get more adorable every time you blush,” he’ll say, making sure you know that your accent and every part of you is exactly what he loves.

☆He has an embarrassing nickname for you based on your accent. Geto will come up with the most ridiculous yet loving nickname based on your southern accent. Maybe something like "Southern Belle" or “Miss Magnolia” because to him, you are the essence of southern charm. “Hey, Miss Magnolia, come here,” he’ll call, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you roll your eyes, but deep down, you secretly enjoy it.

☆He’s incredibly proud when others mention your accent. If someone comments on your southern drawl, Geto’s chest puffs up with pride like he’s the one responsible for it. “That’s my girl you’re talking about,” he’ll say, his voice carrying a hint of possessiveness, though it’s all out of love and admiration. It’s like you’re his personal treasure, and he’ll never stop showing you off.