#stone calendar circle

[oberynmaartell]

Container Garden Landscape in DC Metro Photo of a mid-sized traditional partial sun backyard concrete paver landscaping in summer.

[emmagibney]

Landscape DC Metro day daydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydaydayday

[meganlovesyou56]

DC Metro Natural Stone Pavers Design ideas for a mid-sized traditional partial sun backyard stone landscaping in summer.

[vox-anglosphere]

Sunrise at 4:51 am illuminates the ancient megaliths of Stonehenge

[milkandxyz]

Slán le grian an tsamhraidh. Mar a cheiltíonn sé taobh thiar den chnoc. Anois tá mo domhan socair agus fós. Moladh agus áthas agus filleadh slán. #autumn #autumnalEquinox #seasonal #feasting #harvest #feast #harvest #calendar #mattBerry #fairwellSummerSun #gratitude #reflection #kealkil #cork #megalithic #stoneCircle #nature #ireland

[liveontelevision]

MY FAVE POOKIE.... BY ANY CHANCE CAN.. CAN YOU WRITE FOR A VAMPIRE LUCI?? <3 I FEEL LIKE YOU'D CAPTURE HIM PERFECTLY

YOU'RE ONTO SOMETHING HERE BBG

(You're drawing of vamp Luci is literal eye candy and I'M IN A SUGAR COMAAA) I got way into the lore here I literally did nothing but write and edit this today - THAT BEING SAID this may need a 2nd part but lmk what y'all think

CW: He's a vamp, so.. blood in suggestive situations obvi

♡♡♡

Bite Me | Vamp Lucifer x Reader

"Isn't it just amazing?" You hold a book, opened to a certain illustration, far too close to your friend's eyes. They push the book back a bit just to get a peak, considering their nose was essentially in the pages. The paper reeked of dust and mildew. They subsided a sound of disgust to inspect the illustration you were so eager to show off.

"Oh! This is that weird mansion on the other side of town, but.. it looks..." 

"Stunning? This was what it looked like when it was first built and look-" You excitedly point out a certain tower, it was so thin and far back, that not even the pencil of the original artist could capture its true detail.

"Wait,  that's not there anymore, is it? Weird." Your friend shrugged it off, clearly not as invested as you. You scoff, pulling the book to your chest.

"Well.. not in the daytime, at least." You muttered. This was your hometown's rumor that's been spread for centuries. On the highest hill, past the overcrowded forest, sits the darkest and most foreboding manor anyone has seen. Even the oldest living relatives of those who have seen it, never recall what it looked like in its glory days. No one's quite sure when it was first built. It's as if it had always been there.

No one would really talk, only the seniors and the more.. eccentric.. People would even mention it. A tower that exceeded the height of the full moon, which was the only time it was visible to the naked eye. You've seen it yourself. But you were too inspired, too invested, to be satisfied with a little rumor and a single sighting.

You did your research. You scowered the forest, only to get lost for hours. You managed to find the manor, but in its close proximity, there was no sign of that tower. You found a book, shoved away under some shelf in your public library, depicting poorly written journal entries and illustrations. From what you could decipher, it was older than the town.. it must belong to its original tenants.

The handwriting was almost entirely illegible, which was disappointing, but the pictures inside.. they were crafted beautifully. Scenic drawings of the forest, animals, and a few of a stunning woman were scattered throughout. Every historian you tried to contact left your messages unopened. Any townspeople you'd show the pictures to, to see if they’d recognize the woman at least, looked at you like you were crazy.

Well.. crazy or not, there's only one real way to settle this.

You mark your calendar, circling every full moon for the rest of the year. And it nearly took that long to finally spot the tower, again. After all this time, restless nights where you'd fall asleep with the book in hand, strained sessions of trying to decipher the wording, yet it all got you nowhere. You'd lost friends because of this. You've skipped dates. All because of this damned tower. 

But finally, here it is! Ready to throw yourself from your bedroom window, you take the bag that had been packed for months in case of this very instant, but decide it best to leave through the front door.

You had memorized the path to the manor at this point. What could possibly be drawing you in so deeply? What history could this place possibly hold? Who was the woman drawn in this book.. and who was the artist? You stood in awe, finally seeing the tower up close. The manor itself seemed to be made of an entirely different stone. You jot down your notes and the differences you're seeing in a small book.

You nearly squeal at the sound of the creaking double doors, as you step inside. It wasn't your first time here, you reach into your bag to obtain the little map you had drawn out a few weeks back. Were you going insane? Who's to say? You traced your finger across a path you had drawn, then with determination, went towards the corridor that should lead you to whatever you were looking for.

You stopped and took pictures on occasion, observing things you have seen countless times over the past few months. It still managed to take your breath away. You turned around, stepping backward, to observe the intricate detailing of the high ceilings, letting out little ooh's and aah's you'd assume no one would hear. But you couldn't be sure.

You nearly stumble, turning to face the corridor head-on. A crumbling noise had sent a shock of fear and curiosity into your heart. Was this place ready to cave in? Did something else cause the destruction?

As you continue on, you decide it best to place headphones over your ears. With one ear still slightly free, you do your best to distract your fears and keep exploring. As you hum along, occasionally breaking out into song, your eyes are drawn to a small doorway that definitely was not there during your previous visits. It's made of a different wood than the other doors. It looks.. newer. The handle seems used as If the oils of a hand had worn down its clean coating. This has to be it. Your hand is shaking as you reach for the door, and your heart drops for a moment. It’s warm underneath your touch. With a final breath, you open the door.

It’s.. not exactly what you were expecting. The door led to an impossibly long spiral staircase, you weren't sure if you could make it to the top before daylight. It's too late to go back now, though. You dredge on. As you start your climb, the music from your headset turns to static. And what you expected to be a mile-long staircase ended in mere seconds. Confused by the distortion of the building, you pull out your little journal to document your new discovery as you continue on. 

The steps lead into the tower, you were sure of it. The bricks of the walls and the wood of the doors, it was all different than the manor below. It opened into a short hallway, with a few doors on either side. Opposite to you was a window. It wasn’t shattered or cracked, or even dusty. You press your hands against it and lean forward to see the view of your town. In a stereotypical, I can see my house from here! moment, you pull out your phone to take yet another picture, but.. it's dead. After being fully charged before your arrival. Of course. It's a magical tower that only appears on a full moon and has disappearing staircases, you weren't too shocked by sorcery after what you've exposed yourself to.

As you take in the terrifying height of the structure from the window, something happens that officially startles you for the first time tonight. You hear a gruesome cackling from behind a nearby doorway.

You quickly find its source, pressing your ear to the wooden door. You couldn't make out any specific words, but there was a voice. It was a man's voice. He seemed to laughing, then groaning and complaining about something, then talking some more.. quite a blabbermouth for someone who seems to be alone, you don't hear any other voices.

You have a weapon in your bag. It's nothing fancy, just a little switchblade, but you assumed it'd be enough to ward off at least a single person. Just in case. You decide to go in.

"Oh, who am I kidding, this sucks!" An exacerbated groan, and the sound of something crashing, can be heard as you crack the door open a bit. You peek inside.

A pacing man is surrounded by trinkets, books and tools in some kind of workshop. He looks human.. almost. You notice his skin is nearly paper white. It has a beautiful glow to it, that contrasts against his mostly black wardrobe. You clock his clothes as almost Victorian, a puffed blouse that cinches in at his waist with the assistance of a red-laced vest. His heels seem a bit tall for the time period, but even then, he's actually rather.. short. Despite that, his hair was slicked back but seemed to be coming undone. You watch him pace around for a while longer, finally capturing his arms running through his hair. They're tapered black, as if his hands were dipped in soot. How odd. You want a picture. You want to talk to him, to ask him questions.

You're too engrossed in the view you were spying on to notice he had stopped his jabbering and was now frozen in place at the sight of you. An awkward amount of time passes before either of you make a decision on what to do next.

You decide it best to just forget about this random encounter. This was obviously just another dream. It wasn't, but this wouldn't even be the strangest one you've had. You finally break eye contact, pulling the door shut behind you.

You lean your entire body against it, desperate to keep him contained until you can get your thoughts straightened out. Maybe he's nice! Maybe he's not an insane, inhuman, tinkerer who talks to himself. Before you can think a moment longer, the door opens and thoroughly knocks you to the floor. You scuff your knees and palms against the stone floor, hissing at the wounds before turning on your back to face your attacker.

Okay, it wasn't an attack, exactly. He just opened the door you were standing in front of. You were a little shocked, considering you were putting your full weight on it and he swung it open like nothing was there at all.

your widened eyes were met with his yet again. They seemed different than before. His irises were suddenly glowing a crimson red, staring down at you with a look of disgust. Your heart rate quickens as you finally catch more of his features. The glow of his eyes and the moonlight from the window show off a set of demonic horns, twisting and turning from his temples, and pointed ears. Then finally, you spot his frown- then his fangs.

You slowly crawl backward, making as much distance as you can before your back hits the cold stone of the wall. Your breathing rapidly as he kneels down, continuing to observe your tense body language from such a close distance.

"What is this- how did you get in? I made a whole fancy labyrinth for you little humans and you still manage to pester me." He seems curious now, still annoyed by the interruption, but curious. He catches the sight of your blade, taking it from underneath your hand.

"And you thought this could kill me?" He scoffs, tossing it to the side. "I thought the ones smart enough to get in would put more effort into their weapon of choice." He finally stands, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at you. His piercing red irises had you staring for an inappropriately long time. He looks around, then behind him, in disbelief that you'd be this lost in his eyes. He clears his throat to get your attention.

"N-no! I don't want to kill you, I swear! I just.. I wanted to..." Why were you here again? To find what's inside the haunted tower? To explore a rumor and find the truth? You'd hate to consider it.. but could you have been wasting all this time after finally being faced with the anticlimactic answer? Your silence doesn't seem to amuse the stranger.

"What, you just stumbled upon my hidden tower? That doesn't sound right. Well, I'll tell you now, I'm not some genie or wizard- I won't grant you wishes or anything stupid like that." He starts to head back to his office. "I have nothing to offer you, so just pretend this is a nightmare or something and go home." You see a little flame puff from his lips as he speaks, clearly irritated by your presence. 

"Wait- wait! I forgot!" You stumble to your feet, wincing at the pain in your scraped knees, but still going on to fumble through your bag. You find your tattered book. The relic that started this all.

"Is this yours?" He takes the book from your hand, skimming through the pages then glaring back up to meet your eyes. 

"Did you steal this?" You shake your head with haste, watching him continue to examine the book. "Then.. yes. This is mine. I'm surprised it's still in one piece." He stops at one of the drawings of the woman. He brushes his hand across the illustration with a dreamy sigh.

"She's beautiful." Your voice breaks his concentration and you see his pale skin turn ever so slightly pink. 

"She is, isn't she?" With a warm smile, you almost forget his threatening nature.

"Who was she?" He looks away from you, letting the book shut.

"It's not important. You need to leave." He leads you to the door. You try to keep up with his strides, only to fumble, your knees weak and bruised from the previous fall. He spots the bleeding scuffs and groans.

"Good lord, you humans are so fragile." You hear him grumble before he's turned on his heels and is dragging you back towards that workshop you intruded on. He grabs you by your arms and guides you to sit down at a little table he had set up. You examined the room after he had walked away. You saw his workbench. It held numerous little springs and gears, paints, and brushes. Looking to the side, you see a shattered figurine, probably what he had thrown during his little tantrum you spied on.

Seeing him standing above you stops your wandering eyes. He kneels down, already wrapping your wounded knees in gauze. You watched him silently. You were surprised at how comfortable the space seemed, considering a man with a demonic presence was currently tending to you like a nurse.

"So.. what are you exactly?" You finally blurted out. You had so many questions, but this was a good place to start.

"Oh. Um.. I think I hear humans referring to me as a vampire." Your blood runs cold and you squeeze the edge of your seat on either side. You feel his hand tremor for a moment, letting his eyes linger on your legs before finishing up one knee with a neat tie. He moves on to the next.

"So you're immortal and drink blood and all that?" He scoffs at your questioning shaking his head. You sound like a curious child.

"That’s.. Mostly correct. Actually, your human literature seemed to accurately portray a lot of my abilities. I'm almost impressed."

"Should I be scared?" You ask with an almost teasing tone, as if that weren't possible.

"Why? Do you think I'm scary?" He looks up for a moment, meeting your eyes. Its subtle, but you see them glowing just slightly. And it almost makes you nervous. Enraptured in an emotion you have to assume is fear, you watch his hands trail around and calf to bring your leg a bit closer. He sticks out his tongue. It's similar to a serpents’. Your eyes follow his tongue to your knee, where he licks the entirety of the wound.

In a state of shock, all you do is tense in your seat, wincing from his action. His tongue reels back, stained with the blood from your own wound. He lets out a breathy hum, before realizing his place.

"E-excuse me, I uh.. have healing properties..?" You cock your head to the side, the confusion in your mind quickly replaced with curiosity.

"Woah, really?" He finishes off your other knee.

".. No. Okay, all patched up. You have to leave." He said hurriedly before the realization could set in. He was embarrassed by his actions sure, but the sunrise softly lighting the room seemed to make him anxious.

"Wait- no! I have so many questions! Why do I have to go? How does this place just vanish in the daytime? Why are you here all alone?" You start to ramble as he manages to move you with ease. "A-at least tell me your name!" You say quickly, breaking from his grasp just before he can shove you out the door. He stops and lets out a sigh.

"Fine. Here." He reaches into his shirt and pulls out a small golden crystal attached to a necklace. Forcing your eyes down to his dipped neckline made you a bit red in the cheeks. With a quick motion, he swings it over your neck.

"This is an Asmodean crystal. You'll be able to see and enter my tower on any night now. You.. you're welcome to return when you see fit." You stare at the small gem in amazement.

"And.. you're just trusting me with this?"

He shrugs, smiling at you for the first time tonight. "You haven't given me a reason not to. You're definitely not a threat." You hum in response, despite his obvious condescending nature. giving the gem one last examination, you tuck it away into your own shirt.

".. And it's Lucifer."

You can't help but grin. “Okay! Time to go! The sun’s almost up!” He rushes you.

"Hm! I'll be back, then, I promise! I'll see you, Lucifer!" You excitedly wave and head back down the stairs. Lucifer.. Your mind was running with possibilities as you left. You turned to the door before leaving, but by the time you looked back, it was simply.. bricked over. You felt almost disappointed. But feeling for the necklace and twirling it between your fingers reminds you that this was all real. He's real.

Lucifer said you could visit. And so you did. While you passed out almost immediately once you returned home, you waited eagerly for the sun to set the next night. You check your window, again. With the crystal squeezed tightly in your fist, you see the familiar tower yet again, despite the full moon being nowhere in sight.

Unfortunately, you are human. You do have a life to live. It took you a few days before you could visit, again, but eventually you did. And it was perfect. Looking down upon in your hometown, it was refreshing to have a new friend. You told him about your own life, giving him some brief history lessons on things he might not know, and bringing him the stereotypical vampire merchandise from current media. He deemed it offensive.

You got him to talk about his past after some pushing. He was one of many brothers, all of them were bloodsuckers of their own accord.

"Wow.. so you came from a whole family of vampires? I mean.. if you don't mind me asking, why aren't you there? What brings you to my glamorous little town?" You say your last question with an eye roll. You were seated at a little bench, a comfortable nook that was set at the window in his workshop, as you watched him working on some sort of mechanical toy. You notice a slight frown tugging at his lips in response to your question.

"Hm. My brothers aren't exactly a fan of me. And you speak sarcastically, but it is actually quite nice here. The air is clearer, and there's much less fire." You look out the window as he's talking.

"Wait.. less fire than where?" He slipped up. You've noticed over these past few visits that he's not too keen on disclosing certain parts of his past. You see him stop what he's doing and curse under his breath.

"I.. I'm from a different realm, of sorts. It's dingy and dark and everyone there cares for nothing but bloodlust." He explains carefully.

"Damn, that sounds like Hell." You pull your knees to your chest, just attempting to sympathize with him by your words.

"You have no idea." He chuckles in response, seeming disarmed enough to continue his tinkering.

"Do you ever go back there? You have to see your family sometimes, right?" He's groaning quietly at your questions.

"Well, yes and no. I'm always here in my tower. And I put a lot of work into making it my own. I'd keep it here forever if I could, but it takes quite a bit of energy from me to keep it in good shape in this realm, so when the sun is out-"

"You return to your own realm! Wow.." you wished you had your book on you to write all this down. But it seemed unnecessary to bring a survival kit here. You felt so safe. 

"How about that lady? In your book? Is she someone from that realm? A family member, maybe?" You bombard him with questions yet again. You do that a lot. He looked over at you with an unenthused glare. You laugh nervously and wave your hands. "N-Nevermind, sorry."

He's made it clear that he doesn't appreciate all these questions. But when he does open up, you can't help but appreciate his fantastical stories.

Looking for a change in topic, you approach his bench, looking over whatever he was working on. With one final screw being turned in, he looks up to you and shows you the small trinket silently. You take it, a bit nervous of its delicacy, and examine it.

"It's fine, it won't break." He rolls his eyes at your nerves. "Like this." He places a hand below yours to steady your grasp and lifts the top of the little round structure to reveal a little sculpted scene. It’s of a pond, with some fish and ducks visible on the pond. It looked so real, despite its size. He smirks at your enthralled expression, reaching for a small key on the back and turning it. It releases a gentle tune, the ducks suddenly spinning and dancing across the pond.

"A music box..?" You question. You look towards him and notice his reaction. He looks almost nervous like he was expecting some harsh critique.

"It's beautiful, Lucifer! Did you use magic or something? This is so cool!" Your outburst leaves him slightly surprised, and just a bit blushed.

"Y-Yes, it is pretty, isn't it?" He says softly, looking away with a smile. By the time he's looking back to you, still enjoying the little trinket, the sun is just peaking from the hills. He should rush to get you out of there. Humans don't belong in his realm, definitely not this one.. but he doesn't want this to end. He wants to show you more, while he listens to you rant about something useless. He shakes his head to reality. He can't have these feelings. Not again.

"It's morning. I'm afraid you have to go, dear." You look just as disappointed as he does, but follow him to the exit either way.

"Wait, here-" You hold the intricate music box back out to him, but he closes his hands around yours, encasing it in your grasp.

"Keep it." His hands are cold. You notice that his skin is always cold, no matter the weather. You wonder if he thinks about the warmth of your hands just as much. Your hands are held together for a bit too long, but the sight of your face in the golden light of the sunrise has him frozen in place.

"What happens if I stay?" Your hasty question snaps him away, quickly tucking his hands behind his back.

"Absolutely not." He says sternly, reaching around and opening his door. "Sorry.. I just.. It’s not safe. You’ll be back though, right?." He smiles, and it always disarms you. Briefly disappointed, you nod and give him a quick wave. You head back to your regular vampire-free life for the time being.

You find yourself back in his workshop, a few months later. The visits were becoming more frequent and neither of you seemed to complain about it.

Since then, the room has been decorated with pillows or blankets you've brought. On occasion, you'd go to see him just to sleep uncomfortably on the small cushioned nook near the window. He never seemed to mind. He'd wake you up carefully before the sun rose.

Other times, you'd bring him tools or gifts from your hometown that he might like, and occasionally you'd get him to eat actual food.

One night you set out one of your blankets on the ground and forced him to sit with you, after seeing him get flustered with whatever he was working on.

"Can you actually eat? Does it do anything for you?" He shrugs in response to your question, popping a little chocolate confection into his mouth.

"Not really. It's more for enjoyment than anything. And these are definitely enjoyable." As he hums at the sweets, he moves to lie down across the blanket, resting his head in your lap. "Where are they from?"

You look down at the little heart-shaped box you've both been taking the treats from and cringe.

"A.. uh.. person. It was a gift. Someone tried to take me out for Valentine's Day, but I wasn't interested." You say quietly.

"Right.. it’s Valentine’s Day… Well, what was wrong with them? Were they rude to you? Ugly?" He asks between bites. You laugh and take a chocolate for yourself.

"No, nothing like that.. they just..." They weren't you. "N-not my type is all." You stammer, quickly shoving the chocolate into your mouth. What are you thinking? He's laughing at you now.

"So you'd rather spend your Valentine's Day with an old crone?" He was joking, but he was right.

"Yeah.. I think I would, actually. I love visiting you." You said calmly, trying your best to keep the compliments.. platonic. Peeking down at him for a second, you notice his tense posture and pink cheeks.

"I-I just- it's not that big a deal, I mean, I've never really celebrated Valentine's Day anyway, so.." You start to fidget with your crystal necklace, picking at the thread and running your thumb along its smooth surface.

"Well..! Then... I'm glad you're enjoying my company, I suppose." He tries to de-escalate the brief tension. You change the subject matter.

"Well, if we're getting on my social life, then I have a question." You finally say. He seems nervous for a moment but is playing it cool to the best of his ability.

"Shoot."

"So, you stay in your tower all day, don't see your family, I don't even hear you talk about that woman from your drawings.. Have you just been alone this whole time?"

He freezes for a moment, before putting a chocolate back into the box and clearing his throat.

"No.. not the whole time." He sighs, standing and going to fetch something. He returns to sit across from you and you’re a little disappointed he didn’t return his head to rest in your lap. It was a journal, it had a similar binding to the one you had found over a year ago.

"Her name is Lillith." He starts, flipping the pages and stopping at one of her drawings. "She's from my realm, and.. we fell in love." For some reason, your heart ached at his words. "I decided to show her this place many years ago, and she wanted to see a nearby village, so.. we went down there together. It was disgusting. People were treating each other so foul, it was loud and dirty, and there was no sign of intelligence." His voice goes dark for a moment, allowing you to flip through the book. "But Lillith loved them. She saw their potential and.. wanted to stay with them. So we made a deal. She'd explore the village when the full moon was out and then return to me the rest of the time."

You look up from the book, seeing that her drawings had stopped about halfway through. The rest of the book was empty.

"So is she.." you mutter, letting the book drop to see his pained expression.

"I haven't seen her in years. Might be decades at this point, but.. it's hard to keep track. I have no idea where she could be, but if she ever returns then-"

"You're waiting for her?" You interrupt, your voice has a hint of irritation to it.

"Hm. I guess I am. I've given up trying to find her, but I still keep this place standing. Just in case." His face reads dejected as he speaks.

"Do you still love her?" You ask. Of course, he does. He's a romantic, waiting for his long-lost love to return. But he looks at you, with a worried expression. Like he wanted to reassure you that wasn't the case.

"I..I do." He says softly. You feel your chest aching still, and you clench the blanket in your fists on either side of you. "I think so? I-I'm not sure." He groans, running his hands through his hair. "Is that terrible of me?" 

You think for a moment. You have to tread lightly. If he truly loves her, it might be best for you to keep your distance to avoid any.. confusion. You let out a defeated sigh, placing your hand on his shoulder to bring his panicked attention back to you.

"Not at all. It's.. nice. That you can love someone that much, especially after all this time." He smiles in return, placing a hand over top of yours.

"How long has it been, do you think?"

"Hmm.. From what I remember.. when were hot air balloons invented?" He genuinely questioned.

"Good lord."

(The answer is over 300 years ago)

You stopped visiting him for a while. After that night, you needed to step away and consider what you were really doing. He's not just an immortal vampire, he's an immortal vampire still holding out hope for a woman he hasn't seen in centuries. And you're just a human. That kind of relationship only works in movies. The sleep schedule you've created has nearly destroyed your social life and you barely have energy in the daytime anymore. Maybe it was for the best to keep your distance. But you have to tell him that. You can't just disappear, he doesn't deserve to feel that pain, again.

You enter his tower as usual, bringing an empty bag to escort some of your belongings back home. To your apartment, your awful tiny apartment. You avoid comparing it to the elegant manor, it's only making you want to back out. You go through the hall, swinging his workshop door open.

"Luciferrr! Sorry to be away for so long, but I think we should talk." You look around to realize you are speaking to an empty room. You look back to the hall. You've never been through any of the other rooms, but he had to be somewhere. And he wasn't responding to your calls.

You open each door carefully, seeing mostly empty storage and cobwebs. One of the rooms was filled to the brim with clothing from all decades. You make a mental note to tease him for playing dress up, later.

You knock at each door, finally opening one that greets you with the warmth of a bedroom. And by warmth, you mean it. You take any coat you were wearing off, finally spotting Lucifer lying in the elegant bed in the center of the room.

"Huh.. I thought you said vampires don't need sleep." You call out, letting your eyes scan the room as you approach the bedside. He's curled up and unresponsive. His sudden panting briefly eased your nerves, at least he’s breathing.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to just barge in, but.. Lucifer? Are you okay?" You reach out and place your hand to his shoulder. He's hot to the touch. You move his body so that he's lying on his back, and he seems even more distressed.

"L-Lucifer..? Lucifer!" You try to speak quietly, but his actions are making you nervous. He finally shoots upward, gripping his bare chest in an attempt to calm his rapid breathing. He does a double take, not believing that you were at his side. Not to mention your scared expression, which is only causing him more concern.

"I-I'm alright! I'm okay.." He lets out a sigh, brushing his hair back. He scans the room, peering out the window. "Ah, nighttime already? I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean to worry you." He turns back to you, seeing your still-shaken expression. "I slept in! It's okay!" He reassures, patting the side of his bed. You hesitate, but sit down either way.

"I thought.. You didn’t need sleep." You say softly, looking to calm yourself.

"I don't, but it is relaxing sometimes."

"That didn't look relaxing at all."

"Well.. I did say only sometimes." You let out a quiet chuckle and it brings a smile to his face.

"I rest when I'm feeling a bit weak, usually a quick nap helps. But.. sometimes I get nightmares and they're-" You interrupt him.

"Weak? Why are you feeling weak? Did something happen?" You lean in, still feeling uneasy.

"... Just a bit. Don't get me wrong, I am quite powerful-” He loves to gloat about his abilities, your usual reactions of amazement never got old. “-but.. this tower takes its toll on me sometimes. It takes a lot of energy to set up illusions and tricks to keep humans out. I just needed a quick pick me up, that's all." That seemed to calm you a bit, but it did bring up another concern.

"Lucifer.. why do you keep coming back here? Is it worth the trouble? Is.. she worth the trouble?" You ask timidly. His eyes are soft, looking in your direction. It turns you a bit red, you hope you can blame it on the heat of the room if he asks.

"I don’t know.. I’ve been thinking. I-If Lillith has any plans on returning, I'd think she would've done so by now." You feel hopeful, but you attempt to not let it show. "But, I've been here for centuries and I've grown rather fond of... the atmosphere." He tries to reason. He pulls your chin forward, greeting you with a sweet smile. "I'm alright, I promise."

You can't help but return the smile, but you miss his touch once he pulls away. At this point, you're finally taking in his appearance. He's covered in sweat, the bags under his eyes are tremendous and his lips are trembling a bit to keep up a smile.

"Are you sure? You still seem.." You reach your hand out, as if you were about to touch his face, but you see him reel back.

"Clearly, I didn't get a good night's rest.. maybe you should head home, dear, I'm not much fun to be around when I'm like this.." He sulks, making it a point to avoid looking at you. With just the sight of you, he might as you to stay.

"No!" His wide-eyed expression shows that you've clearly just embarrassed yourself. "No, I mean- I don't want to leave. Can I help? Can you.. drink my blood or something? Would that do anything?" He's immediately blushing at your suggestion, right to the tips of his ears. He quickly declines.

"No. Nonono.. That is not happening." He crosses his arms over his still bare chest, which neither of you has mentioned yet. That’s not to say you haven't been staring.

"Would it help?" You ask. He sighs and nods. "Would it kill me?" He shakes his head. "Not if I'm careful.."

"Will it turn me into a vampire or something?" He shakes his head, again.

"Then do it. I want to help you! It's the least I can do since you’ve been so sweet to me." You say sternly, beginning to move the strap of your shirt, revealing a bare shoulder.

"Woah woah, okay. Fine.. I’ll just take a little. Since you're so insistent." He moves your strap back up your shoulder carefully. "And there's no need for that, dear, don't get too excited." He teases. He looks like he’s on the brink of death, yet he still manages to make fun of you.

"I-I'm not excited! Shut up.." you stammer, as you feel him pull your hand towards him, keeping a grip just below your wrist.

"Whatever you say." His smirk has you blushing, again." you ready?" You nod your head, attempting to keep a straight face despite the reality of the situation.

He leans forward to face you, and you move closer to be more comfortable. With his clawed hands still holding your arm delicately, he brings your palm to his lips. You feel his hot breath against your skin and instinctively flex your hand. He stops abruptly and looks at you.

"I-I'm fine, just do it already!" He rolls his eyes and positions his fangs right at the pulse point on your wrist. With a deep breath from both of you, he sinks his teeth into your flesh. The skin is thin there, so it wasn't as painful as you thought it would be.

It's awkward for a moment, you don't feel any different at first. But looking towards Lucifer, you see his eyes turning that glowing crimson red that had startled you when you first met. Sure, it still startled you now, but it was Lucifer. He's not as scary as he looks, you tell yourself. You feel a breath of hot air from his nostrils, realizing he had been holding his breath this whole time. His eyes fluttered shut, and that's when you felt it.

It felt like getting your blood drawn, but his fangs were less painful than the needles somehow. You'd only notice your hand start to fall asleep after a while. But his expression stopped you from saying anything. His heavy breaths against your skin, as he occasionally pulled away to lick the wound clean, only to sink his teeth back in the same spot. You placed your free hand over your mouth to prevent any noises from escaping your lips. He pulled off for a moment, then sunk his teeth in another spot, feverishly placing multiple bite marks across the entirety of your wrist. You attempt to speak up through your hand.

"L-Lucifer.. I-I'm..!" He stops almost immediately, sitting up straight and blinking his eyes back to their usual hue. He looks down to your wrist, a mess of bite marks, all still leaking your crimson blood. Your hand had fallen slack.

"Sorry! Sorry-" He runs his tongue across the wounds, it seemed to stop the blood for now. "How do you feel?" Your eyes are dazed a bit, and when you go to prop yourself up on your previously ravished wrist you fall forward. He catches you by your arms, before you can fall away from the bed. You shake your head, finally looking at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm okay.." you say weakly. He's nervously trying to keep your head up, and brushing hair away from your face. He moves to the other side of the bed, and brings you along to lie down beside him. He sits on his knees to examine you, keeping a hand cupping your cheek. It's cool to the touch again, a relief for you. You shakily place your hand on top of his, then look towards him. "You look amazing, Lucifer~" You say with a dizzy smile. Despite the wording, you were right. His skin had brightened up, and he instantly lost the bags from his eyes.

"I might've done too much.." He mumbled, tracing his free hand across your wrist. "You're starting to sound crazy."

"No..! I mean it, you're just.. beautiful.. quite a sight." You're delirious. He starts to worry, suppressing his excitement for the oncoming compliments. He'll have to let you rest, no matter how disappointed that made him. He'd missed your company these past few days.

"Whatever you say, darling. Go ahead and rest, I'll get you some water." And he does just that.

You had left some water bottles and snacks here a few months ago, so he hastily took those and brought them back to you. He set everything on the nightstand and went over to open the glass doors to the balcony of his room, bringing in a fresh night breeze. He put an actual shirt on, finally, on the way to look over you from the side of the bed. 

You were just sitting up, leaning against the headboard as you took a very needed gulp of water.

"So? How did I taste?" You tease, stretching your hand now that you’re regaining feeling.

"Delicious." He sounds flirtatious but almost serious. It has you blushing.

Lucifer had gone off to work on something after you insisted you'd be fine and just needed a few more minutes of rest. That didn't go how you expected. You came here to set some boundaries and here you are in his bed, covered in bite marks. The implications alone made you groan from embarrassment.  And slightly in disbelief. You huff and attempt to stand, it’s not too bad, then move to the balcony and lean against the railing. The breeze ran through your hair and across your heated face, you let out a sigh of relief.

"Feeling better, dear?" His voice has you turning your head a bit, and you greet him with a smile. You nod your head before returning your eyes to the town below.

“I’m glad. Thank you, for.. Letting me do that.” He says, sounding a bit shy. He joins you, leaning against the railing by your side. You both stand in silence for a moment.

"I think I'm in love with you, Lucifer." Maybe it was the blood loss or the sheer exhaustion, but something just forced those words from you. You keep your eyes away from him. If this could be the last time you see him, bringing this dream to an end, then you might as well let it out.

"O-Oh..! Hm! Well, that's uh.." He hoots, and you see his hands flexing against the railing. He can't even form a real response.

"It's stupid, I know. I'm a human, and you're this crazy immortal being. Plus, you just drank my blood. Maybe I'm still delirious.." You continue to toy with your gifted necklace, still keeping your eyes low. You don't know how you would react if you could see his expression right now.

"So.. you would... you want to be with me?" That's what he asks? That's his response?

"I-I mean.. yeah. You're my best friend, you're handsome and smart, and you're inventive and... I just love being around you. I want to.. I want to make you happy, but I just don't know if that's something I can do." Your gaze is finally brought to his when his claws gently guide your chin towards him. His expression is that of pure infatuation. You'd never expect to see him look like this, not when looking at you.

"You make me plenty happy, darling." Your eyes go wide.

"You're bright and fun, and you're adorably curious- I just worry as well. I'll outlive you. I've been locked up here for so long, I don't know how much I can offer you.. but it's definitely less than you deserve." His words send a pain to your chest. You both know, based on fact alone, it just wouldn't work.

"I only want you to be happy as well, love." His words force a nervous sigh from you. This seems like a night for bold decisions, so you decide to make another. You turn to face him, bring him in by his collar, and press your lips against his in one fell swoop. Giving him no time to comprehend the situation, he lets out a muffled exclamation into your lips. It felt like hours before you feel his hands on your waist, and his lips desperately ravishing yours. He pulls you closer to him, his hands now reaching your hips and gripping you tighter. You pull his lower lip down with your thumb, keeping a hand on his jaw as you do so, and begin to explore his mouth with your tongue feverishly. A small yelp at the boldness comes from Lucifer before his forked tongue is dancing with yours. You can still taste your own blood on his lips.

He turns the both of you, having your back pressed against the railing of the balcony, giving him the chance to corner you into being as close as possible. He leans his chest into yours, moving in even more. You're leaning over the railing just slightly, but one of his hands is firmly planted against your back, giving you a sense of security. The other is still gripping at your hips, occasionally slipping upwards to brush the bare skin beneath your top, his cool touch acting as a reminder that this is really happening. He props his knee between your legs, having to force them apart gently to do so.

You pull away with a deep exhale after realizing you've been anxiously holding your breath this whole time. Even leaning away from him, your mind was running rapidly with thoughts of his body. You trace your thumb over his lips, parting them just slightly to examine his fangs. He's turning red with the close inspection.

"W-What are you doing..?" You understand what he's trying to say, but his words are still muffled by your hold on him. He sees your eyes ponder for a moment before you look back to him.

"Bite me." You say sternly. Your hand slips away from his mouth and you start speckling small kisses across his forehead and cheeks, lifting his head slightly with a kiss to his jaw.

"Excuse me?? You want-" You hush his stammering by pulling back, to look into his eyes one more time.

"I want you to bite me.. my neck, I mean." You clearly weren't budging. He still seems hesitant but proceeds to move any hair away from your shoulder

"What, does someone enjoy being bitten?” He asks in a teasing tone, looking at you with a smirk. With a deadpan expression, your eyes brimming with lust, you take a hold of his collar again and pull him into a messy kiss. When you pull back, you see a dazed Lucifer, struggling to keep eye contact.

“Yes.”

He huffs, completely enthralled in your enthusiasm, but still seeming nervous. He pulls the strap to your shirt to the side, examining your collarbone and neck. You hear him gulp, as he runs his hand upward until it’s cradling the back of your head.

“I tend to lose myself a little. You saw what happened before, are you sure-"

"I'm sure. I'll tell you if you have to stop." Still very adamant about it, Lucifer pulls your head to one side as you keep your grip on his shirt, balling the fabric in your fists with anticipation.

He places a small kiss first, the action causing you to flinch slightly. You feel him smile on your neck, clearly enjoying your reaction. He kisses every inch of you, each one becoming sloppier than the last.

After thoroughly leaving you in a dazed state of affection, he traces his face to the softest part of your neck, just above your collarbone, and quickly snaps through the skin. With a startled yelp, you glide your hand upward until you've taken a tight grip onto his hair. You barely have time to appreciate how soft it is before you feel the sensation of his fangs piercing a different spot of flesh.

He doesn't seem to be taking much blood.. Definitely not as much as before and not as quickly. It's leaving your head slightly fuzzy, making any sensations, any marks he's leaving on your body, blur into an overall bliss. You're thoughtlessly letting out little moans and gasps at each bite, only encouraging him to keep it up. You feel the vibrations of his groaning against your skin as he moves to hold you tightly around your waist. After a few moments, you start to feel a bit woozy, your body completely melting into his touch. You tap his shoulder quickly,

"Ah.. Lucifer-" Just as before, he made sure to clean any wounds that were still dripping with blood, but he went on to embellish each one with a kiss before pulling away. He looks at you with concern, cupping your cheek and bracing the weight of your lulling head. You smile and hum into his palm.

"How are you doing, darling?" He actively inspects your entirety before meeting your eyes again.

"Lovely~" You say with a drunken chuckle. He pulls you in for another kiss, before easily scooping you up.

"Alright, then.. let's get you to bed, you little perv.” You hit his chest to the best of your ability in your weakened state. His laughter is music to your ears. You’re too tired to worry about how this will affect your relationship. Or your physical health for that matter. But for now, nothing has felt more comforting than his arms wrapped around your body, the cold soothing the heated moment, and your dizzy mind.

♡♡♡

!Taglist!

( @vififofum / @thornwolfy235 / @tinywolfiegirl / @chipper-chip / @bat-boness / @misfitgirlwrites / @nayomi247 / @lonelynmisunderstood / @escapistoftherealworld / @b4ts1e / @hamthepan / @kyo-kyo1 / @looking1016 / @polytheatrix / @littledolly2345 / @lillianastuff / @yourlocalcryptidbee /@0strawberrysorbet0 / @themageofblood / @jayyyayaysblog / @floralsightings / @azmosposts / @8har0ley8 / @actuallyspiderwoman / @sirenetheblogger / @christineblood / @kaytemchugh / @cimadreamer / @simpdevil66 / @azmosposts / @m3ow1 / @acrazyartist / @redfoxwritesstuff / @4k1to / @meesachan / @corvusskid / @alientee /@xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx / @alon3lylov3r /@sapphireravensworld / @mjmdragons / @catticora / @the-maladaptivedaydreamer / @carrie0-1 / @shamblezzz / @cassandras-nest )

[greenwitchcrafts]

July 2024 witch guide

Full moon: July 21st

New moon: July 5th

Sabbats: None

July Buck Moon

Known as: Berry Moon, Blessing moon, Fallow Moon, Feather Moulting Moon, Halfway Summer Moon, Hay Moon, Hewimanoth, Maedmonat, Medow Moon, Moon of Blood, Moon of Calming, Moon When the Chokecherries are ripe, Month of the Ripe Corn, Raspberry Moon, Salmon Moon,Thunder Moon & Wort Moon

Element: Water

Zodiac: Cancer & Leo

Nature spirits: Harvest Faeries & Hobgoblins

Deities: Athena, Cerridwen, Hel, Holda, Juno, Khepera, Lugh, Nephthys, Neptune & Venus

Animals: Crab, dolphin, turtle & whale

Birds: Ibis, starling & swallow

Trees: Acacia, ash & oak

Herbs: Agrimony, hyssop, lemon balm & mugwort

Flowers: Honeysuckle, jasmine, lotus & water lily

Scents: Frankincense & Orris

Stones:  Carnelian, malachite, moonstone, onyx, opal, pearl, ruby, sapphire, spinel, tourmaline, turquoise & white agate

Colors: Blue-grey, green, silver &yellow

Energy:  Childbirth, divination, domesticity, divination, dreamwork, fertility, home matter, meditation on goals/plans, mothers, preparation, relaxation, stress & success

The full Moon in July is called the Buck Moon because the antlers of male deer (bucks) are in full-growth mode at this time. Bucks shed and regrow their antlers each year, producing a larger and more impressive set as the years go by.

• Several other names for this month’s Moon also reference animals & plants

Other Celebrations:

Neptunalia-July 23rd(approximately

The Neptunalia was an obscure archaic two-day festival in honor of Neptune as god of waters, celebrated at Rome in the heat and drought of summer. was one of the dies comitiales, when committees of citizens could vote on civil or criminal matters.

Neptune’s festival (Neptunalia) took place in the heat of the summer when water was scarcest; thus, its purpose was probably the propitiation of the freshwater deity. Neptune had a temple in the Circus Flaminius at Rome; one of its features was a sculptured group of marine deities headed by Poseidon.

Respecting the ceremonies of this festival nothing is known, except that the people used to build huts of branches & foliage(Umbrae), in which they probably feasted, drank, and amused themselves. Ancient calendars describe the days. Entertainment would have probably also included horse racing, with competitors racing round the track & circling ‘turning posts’ (metas) at either end of the Circus.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[noncrush]

☀︎☁︎ — MILES MILLER: druxy

(“It's winter. You ask me about love and I tell you about violence. I'm sorry. I thought that that's what love was.” — Katie Maria, ‘I used to be a hole in the ground’.)

miles miller x reader | 8k | mentions of death&guns, angst, fluff, yearning, very introspective, lots of backstory, MDNI 18+.

⤷ desc. when you get hired at the el royale, you don’t imagine you’ll be staying there long. you don’t imagine you’ll find the love of your life, either. as it turns out, you’re wrong two for two.

here is my submission for “quiet winter nights” with miles miller in @lewmagoo’s wonderful holiday celebration!!! enjoy this monster (that i blacked out for most of! this is perhaps not the best prompt fulfillment lol) tis the season of yearning everybody :)

Druxy — (adj.) something whole on the outside, but rotten inside; of timber, having decay in the heartwood.

i.

Working at the El Royale used to be easy. When you were still starry-eyed and bright, not yet overtaken by the suffocating, roiling waves of that horrid hotel.

“This job is just a stepping stone, that’s all,” you’d told Miles after your first rough week. He eyed you wearily then, knowing the grim unreality of those words—he’d done the very same, just happy to have a job at all after discharge… before quickly succumbing, a noxious fate he wouldn’t wish on a single soul. But he couldn’t warn you either, not when you started on the Californian bar: forced to deliver rounds of bronze booze and burnt sienna spirits with your piercing steel shaker until the end of the night. There were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, and later he’ll tell you he hates himself for it; later, you’ll hold him close and tell him you could never hate him for it.

You used to pray that promise beneath your breath, just a stepping stone, while staring up at the swelling water damage of your popcorn ceiling. It was a kind of foreshadowing in the tapestry of your life, telling you the longer you worked the harder it’d be to keep your head wading above water. Those early days at the hotel had you reluctantly settling into a seedy dingbat shoebox a few blocks away, the dip of your chin already beginning to sink into high tide. It’s odd to think of that part of your life in retrospect when you were first starting at the El Royale living all by your lonesome-- familiar head of tawny chestnut locks not yet lying beside your own at night. 

That hopeful, almost manifest, mantra was repeated again and again: in quiet hallways, collecting the pieces of your shattered morale off the wooden epoxy bar top, after a customer yelled at you for giving him too little ice. In a dank backroom corridor, after you caught Miles stumbling around with a heavy Vidicon tripod.

“What do you actually do here?” 

“I… I can’t tell you. N-not before you’ve been here for longer than a year. It’s standard procedure, and- and Management doesn’t trust part-timers.” 

Panicked circles paced into the carpet at your discovery, his burdened shoulders growing ever heavier; some sudden shimmer of pity overtaking your words, “Miles-- Miles, it's okay. Just a stepping stone, remember? You… don’t need to tell me, and I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

After you parsed Miles' calendar at the clerk's desk and caught a glimpse of the date. The frustrated heel of your palm digging into the nasal bone: “It’s November, Miles, it’s been-- god, this was supposed to be a stepping stone, something temporary…” Suddenly realizing your life still hasn’t picked up the slack; stranded, your job inquiries left unreplied, buried beneath the unsavoury status of your currentemployment. 

“I have an address. I-- have an entire year's worth of paystubs. I have everything they could possibly ask for.”

“Did--did you tell them you worked here? B’cause… the El Royale’s been losing its prestige day by day, and—Management’s sayin’ we’re lucky we still get our cheques.”

Finally, letting “just a stepping stone” die on your tongue when rent was jacked up, and the thin string of normalcy in your life went frayed. You made little as a bartender at an understaffed hotel, just enough to pay the current rate, and the increase would quickly make your wallet grow ugly and barren. Suddenly, you had found yourself forced to choose between the hotel or your apartment block’s curb; meagre belongings packed up and trailing behind, head growing dizzy with smothering waves of shame clawing up your throat. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to ask, but I--“ Shoulders wilt. Head hung low. The hotel lobby light flickers above you; once, twice, a spark cinders. “I have nowhere to go.”

His mouth, slightly ajar. What could crawl out of there, you wonder: a laugh, an apology, an insult? “California is full, and- er, Nevada’s under renovation.” 

A rejection. Beads of sweat trickled down your trembling spine. Heart sinking into the pit of your stomach; nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere to exist—

“B-but I have a room. In the back. If… if y’don’t mind sharing.” 

Kindness, in a place as consuming as this. You thought every dreg of it had long since been digested, surrendering to the dreary structure of the ogee pattern walls. The fact it existed in the heart of Miles, however minuscule, made your own flicker with light. Hope stirring, unafraid despite how brutally it was beaten down; it was always so stubborn, ceaseless, almost Sisyphean.

However, uncovering Miles’ poor living conditions while shuffling into that one untouched room in the entire hotel made your lips pull into a tight line. You were left completely aghast, as you realized he had not simply been leaving early before you could say goodbye, but had been ducking behind doors and slinking into his closet home. Esteem quickly overtook you: for that shy man, who was awkward, but just as well sensitive, gentle and compassionate to the very bone. Who offered his room up for you, sacrificing a part of his life for the hundredth time without remorse, because it was kind. 

You lay elbow to elbow with Miles that first night, not looking at each other but just speaking, letting the low timbre of tones fill the air. A figurative ball dance: persuading information out of one another and testing the boundaries–akin only to seeing how low you’d let him drag his palm against your back in that imaginary hall, how tight to ischemia he’d let your hand squeeze his own. 

Him, warning you of the worst aspects of the job; giving you an out, because taping others in the privacy of their rooms weighed like lead. “It’s a sinful thing,” said Miles, the words mumbled and scraped off the backs of his teeth, stuck to the enamel like taffy shame. “To reveal other people like this, even if they’re helpless. Even when my meddlin’ realizes the worst consequences.” Consumed with fear his soul would only grow darker by tainting your own. “Those tapes… those tapes are never pretty. Sometimes they’re downright… ugly.”

You, knowing for a fact it was dirty and invasive— but also that you were really very small and very poor, a wretch whose dreams would be out of reach for eternity. A wide-eyed housekeep and a listless bartender having to band together to maintain the El Royale’s realm of order after the other staff left sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. However, choice was a privilege you no longer possessed–you were there entirely out of necessity: “Who else will hire me? Certainly nobody in this town, nor the next one over.”

Two sets of drooping eyes drifting across his clean ceiling, so unlike the swelling, waterlogged one back in your apartment. There's something here, you thought then, something to be said about having an odd heart-to-heart with the man you’ve had less than five full conversations with in an entire year. All the while feeling an odd comfort at the faint cracks littering his ceiling tiles—like pockmarks had existed, once upon a time, but were cared for and repaired with a familiar gentle precision.

Alas, duty continued, and Management swiftly utilized you—now trusted, for you were thought to be living and breathing the El Royale just as Miles did. But being implicated in the true nature of the hotel's existence, via the increase of sordid dignitaries — fortuitous in their decision to stay at the hotel, but brusque and oddly knowing in such a way you knew the El Royales’ name was being recommended in dangerous places — made the job so very hard. You became thoroughly equipped with the all-consuming fear you could spend another lifetime being good, scrubbing yourself clean of the hotel, and still have your fingers stomped on trying to reach the pearly gates. 

As though you could spend mere hours in there and come out thinking a decade had gone by, time in that decrepit hotel served as a mere suggestion. Perhaps, that’s why moving into the hotel seemed to make so much time alone with Miles. It seemed more impossible for a connection not to foster: that quiet night sent your relationship journeying from an acquaintance, to coworker, to dear friend. Shyly circling one another’s empty orbits before growing inseparable. A lifetime of affinity condensed into years, compacted by common sin and mutual memory. A bond that grew ever proximate, stunned by having someone just like you, right there—just as tormented, just as unfulfilled. 

A friendship of comforting one another in the dark: Miles tenderly coaxing you out like a feral animal unused to attention that didn’t quickly follow with a beating, or your attentive fingers gently working the self-imposed restraint out of his muscles, unthreading traumatic memories from beneath his skin. (“You don’t have to say sorry, Miles—I know you don’t have a mean bone in your body.” “Shh, shh, just listen to the sound of my voice. The thunderstorm’s din has nothing on me.” “When you have a nightmare, tell me—I don’t mind, promise.”) Understanding the fear that gripped you at the sensitive scruff, why you woke up floundering beside him in the middle of the night like the weight of your unfulfilled life was pressing itself on the nape of your neck. Uncovering Miles' extent, and what set him off—what made him dig his fingernails into the bed of his palm or bite his sharp canine into his lower lip. Settling your head onto Miles’ left pillow at bed— your pillow, finding that you knew his heart betterthan your own. Fondly remembering the time spent winding the words out of him until your palm recognized him like it did scars marring your skin. 

Naturally, you grew protective of him. How Miles’ remained so tender is a mystery – it felt impossible to live there for so long and not come out the other end worse off; chewed up, spat out, torn into two and put back together all wrong – but that very kindness had invited you into his home, and you worked to protect it like nothing else. Only ever manning the bar when the need was immediate, more content to linger close behind Miles when he checked in customers. Learning to bare your teeth, going from, “My complete apologies for any offence I’ve caused,” to “The El Royale provides poor patience toward guests who threaten the welfare of our establishment.” 

Slowly, the thought bleeding through the air, you began to worry your love for Miles would die in this black hole. Extinguished in the very same place it was first lit, unable to survive the hotel’s suffocation. Nondescript was your relationship, blurred lines wavering between romantic and platonic at every turn—but love nonetheless. For days on end did a familiar chill wrack your spine: some primal, precognitive feeling of guilt, of dread, that something bad was going to happen and you would never be free of it. How your ears pounded, blood rushing because it felt like if you didn’t leave now you’d rot in that hotel’s hollow, refrained to the point of murder or madness. 

You desperately tried to quell that feeling, chalking it up to years spent with your guard up. Thought you’d merely turned spiked and jagged; rough around the edges, making others jerk away at the gentlest touch. The way a Venus flytrap withers and dies, because nobody is brave enough to care for something so biting. Several severe years turned you into the serrated rim of a broken carafe glass—like the chipped Blendo one Miles kept in his room for safekeeping, after you sold off all the other expensive china just to keep the hotel lights on for another exhausting day. Just… paranoid, your fear of losing Miles — and being completely alone again as a result — merely growing insistent and anxious. 

But the last straw was in December of ‘68; a frigid winter, practically turning the hotel subnivean with its wet and heavy blizzards; snowing the place in deep. A night at the El Royale and a quiet night in general, the kind with long, exhaustive hours– a shift that never seemed to end, despite the small number of customers (a group of skiers on the Nevadan side and a family on the Californian) before finally resigning away from the clerk desk at a bleak four in the morning. You’d long since shooed Miles off, “You first, or I’ll take all the blankets in my sleep,” content to man the place on his behalf. He’d gone so long without support, persevering through fatigue and illness with no choice, it was the least you could do,--and you would always rather he woke up with light eyebags. 

You were locking up, stashing the bell in the desk cavity with your neck craned low—when you felt the trained gaze of another over you. You pressed back up to meet eyes with a customer, his horn-rimmed glasses decorated with slow melting flurries: “If you would be so kind to check me out for a back-cabin along tha’ trails, that’d just about make my night, kid.”

“Unfortunately, sir, the bungalows are unserviced and unavailable in the off-season. Our frontward facing lodges, however, are wholly available—“

“You mean to tell me they’re off limits? Why, I jus’ saw someone leavin’ one of those cabins.”

A shiver traipsed down the column of your vertebrae. No door was open to let in a draft, and no winter winds hit your form; it was pure intuition making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The week before last, Management thrust a sudden assignment onto you two— Nevada room 7, tenured professor travelling across state lines for a conference, democratic and incredibly vocal about it— and Miles’ was supposed to develop the tape yesterday, mail it off this morning. But Miles didn’t develop the tape yesterday, no, there’d been a burst pipe in the casino bar instead, and the two of you spent lunch till early dawn fixing it. 

The man shot you a discomfiting smile. Stretched wide across his plain, glib face. “Say,” and he leaned in just as your heel planted you an inch back, gesturing to the photographs of celebrities strewn around, “September ‘63. Sinatra owned this place, and let politicians mingle with Hollywood’s leading ladies. You know anythin’ ‘bout that?”

Anxiety dragged upon your skin. Where was he going with this? “I didn’t-- work here in 1963, sir. Suffice to say I didn’t know much at all about the comings and goings of the El Royale yet.”

He studied carefully; mandible still tilted into that barren smile, but eyes set and stony behind the thin frame of glasses you weren’t even sure were real. The customer set his suitcase down with one hand and his briefcase down with the other, before patting down the wrinkled fabric of his suit—intentionally, or unintentionally, flashing the hilt of a Black Eagle Ruger slung low on a belt holster. It wasn’t uncommon for customers to be sporting some kind of self-defence, especially in dark hotels such as these–but still.  “Your associate, then?” 

“What?” Your blood ran cold, freezing into thin slivers like icicles hanging from the roof outside; like the one that pricked you in the shoulder, and made Miles aid and soothe the wound. 

Miles entered through the front door of the lobby, hair silken with powder-soft snow, murmuring to himself as he dragged his work-issue loafers in. The man jutted his thumb unceremoniously toward him, a calculating sheen lighting his green eyes. 

“Hey, you—“ and he waved Miles over like he were cattle or a dog, “d’you remember any blonde Hollywood Ingenue’s rooming here in September ‘63? You’d know her—hell, she’d have you stumblin’ over so bad you couldn’t just forget her.”

The look on Miles’ face — wide-eyed and perturbed, tired steps creaking to a stuttered stop at the digestion of the man’s words — made the pit of your gut swelter: how cruel to make him flounder, for Miles was skittish. You’d learned to slow your movements and keep steady to ease him, but this would surely frighten him. “Sir? I-I don’t know what you’re…”

You swallowed thickly. “He didn’t— he didn’t work here yet either. Alright? I mean, look at him—he’d barely be out of school.”

The customer’s stubborn smile dropped into thin-lipped obscurity. “Well, it was wortha’ try. Made a bet with some of my buds who heard I was stayin’ here– those sonsabitches thought some kinda tape existed.” He regarded you suddenly with a plain look: acknowledging, bored, seeking your professionalism rather than your conversation.

His look sobered you, making the tremouring buzz of your thoughts (get miles get out of here something bad is going to happen) go quiet. You snapped back into smooth, managerial tones, swiftly checking the man in and handing him the logbook. He hoisted his luggage and left just as suddenly as he’d arrived, leaving you in possession of one odd Laramie Seymour Sullivan signature in cursive. There was something… off about that salesman—be it the thin, almost prescription-less distortion of his lenses, or his odd accented twang of no particular origin—and you hoped his stay in the Nevada room was short-lived.

“Miles?” your gaze snapped up from the logbook you were inspecting to find Miles gone. Fortunately, not out into the thick pillowy avenues of snow from which he came, but forwards: his thin loafers tracking wet stains onto the floor. You set a mental reminder to mop that melt before morning, but Miles’ panic took precedence. He had the habit of scampering away in the face of danger, like a rabbit through dry autumn leaves–and you would never let him deal with it alone.

Finally, you traced your dear friend's prints to the maintenance room you shared; slightly ajar, warm lamp light filling the room, his soaked shoes haphazardly strewn by the doorway. There, you saw him crumpled upon the threadbare cot: on his knees lying down, almost in prayer with his silver rosary wrapped tight around the dry skin of his knuckles. It shone like the glimmer of the sun under that incandescent bulb, and you could hear a panicked recital of scripture along his tongue.

“Hey, hey,” you slide past the door gently, descending onto all fours so as not to box him in or raise the height of his fight-or-flight response. “C’mere, hold my hand,” you crawled over and laced his free fingers into yours, settling into a criss-cross apple-sauce position; knee bumping into the ankle that never healed right after he sprained it gardening last summer.

“Just listen to my voice, okay? Remember what we were doing last winter? Remember when every customer had left two evenings before to make it home in time for Christmas? We were sitting here, reading a book together. You told me the print company made a mistake after you saw a thread pop out of the inner hinge’s book bind. I was massaging your crown, then… I miss your long hair sometimes. The radio was playing, too–an auditory rerun of that musical you like so much. “A Christmas Carol” for "Shower of Stars", was it…”

You were fully equipped to spend the rest of the night coaxing Miles’ out of his panic, soothing tones drowning out the tantamount alarm running circles in his mind–but then, he lifted his head from the clothed caps of his knees and brought your intertwined fingers up to his warm cheek. “That man.. the-the- tape, he was talking about a ta-tape with- with…”

Your hand squeezed his in time with the patterned buzz of his pulse, pressed along your own wrist; thump-squeeze, thump-thump-squeeze… “It’s just you and me, Miles. Take your time.”

A shaky breath. Then another; better, easier. “The tape he’s talking about. It’s, it-t’s real. B-but nobody was ever-- supposed’t know it exists-- how did he know about it, how?”

“Miles… a tape? He knows about what you sent to management?”

“No, no, I never sent it! I never did, I kept it… I kept it because he was kind, and-- and…” And Miles is letting go of your palm, instead wrapping his lanky arms around the circumference of your waist, collapsing in your lap. He’s murmuring still, mere vibrations lost to the human capacity of Hertz, as your mind spun: once upon a time, Miles confessed to you a certain 60s starlet coupled up in Nevada 5 with one of the most influential and married politicians of that decade, before their deaths in– 

That was the tape?

Your heart hammered in your ears. Miles’ sobs simmered down into stammering breaths; his ever-softening palms gripping the fabric of your shirt between his fingers in some sort of self-soothing measure. Has your heart swapped with your brain? Is that why you’re so suddenly remembering how cruel it'd been for Miles: how he’d been at the El Royale so much longer than you, been beaten down so much smaller, was much closer to the edge? That Miles was crumpling atop you now with the rumblings of great, inescapable despair because the weight of these corrupt secrets was toppling him over?

It was then that you pet him, the man your heart swelled far past capacity for, fingernails tracing over the splattering of freckles along his neck–and then, that your survival instincts overtook.

“Miles, Miles, it’s okay. Don’t say sorry, s’not a problem. We can… well, we can… leave. Take the tape with us; burn it, destroy it, whatever you want. But we leave.” Deciding at last that enough was enough because you could either leave now or suffocate in silence forevermore. Curl into yourselves, like far neglected flora, until one of you dies and the other quickly follows.

In the hours before dawn, you’d suddenly pieced together a jilted, desperate plan of escape. You’d head an innocuous journey from the El Royale to Reno, wandering eccentrically so as not to leave a tangible trail. In that tawdry tourist town, you’d gather yourselves and map another path out again: to a smaller, quieter place, like Waterford, or Dunsmuir, where you could build yourselves a life anew. It would be hard, and frightening, and cold, and unkind—but above all it would be worth it.

Above all, this chapter would draw a close, and you could have the rest of the pages in your life to be selfish. The thought made your stomach flutter and clench with the foggiest of dreams, fluffy fox-tailed feelings beginning to run through the dim corridors of your heart: ideas of being free, of coming into your own, of maintaining a gentle realm together without the enduring pressure of the hotel. Of being able to sleep in and graze over the bony ridges of Miles' spine like you were allowed to—like you were supposed to, and would never be struck down for it.

That glassy night in late December of ‘68 was your final one in the hotel. You barely remember it: just the important stuff, the why and the how and the coaxing of two lonely souls who occupied the El Royale like ghosts from out of the shadows. You can’t remember the few days after very well either, not with the fear still so deeply imprinted on your souls– and certainly not with the anxious hush that fell over you: a silly vow of silence, to keep yourselves from revealing too much to potentially dangerous strangers. Words were chalk in the mouth then; you barely got them out before you were coughing, gasping, heaving for soothed breath-- then quieting, swallowing, holding back your voice in the crevice of your cords.

You did, however, remember the generous days that came after the fleeing and the hiding… and, understandably so: why allow your memory to remain preoccupied with the same dread you’d digested for years when you could keep space for the rest of your life to arrive? 

You sat atop that beat mattress in Miles’ drab room with him in your arms, halfway through dreaming up the rest of your life away from the hotel… and soon, sooner than you could’ve ever thought, you blinked and opened your eyes to find yourself living that merciful existence. Like the colour television channels Miles’ would always call you over to watch: you got a sparse glimpse once a year, the kind of magic you always swore you’d catch up to, but were always so busy with the bar (and the gardening and the kitchen and the–) to see. The hotel had the all-consuming quality to draw you away from any fulfilling aspects of life: friends, a better career, happiness, and like some sick inside joke, colour television.

Now, you were living the sweet life NTSC colour system shows portrayed—and were able to watch colour television whenever your heart damn well pleased. 

No longer did you let the days twist and swell around you without recognition, no– you allowed yourself the selfish possibility of listening to the day's whistle by, drinking in every peaking pitch: the dull flutter of Miles’ steps along your oak floor, your kitchen laminate, your soft bathroom rugs. The wispy rustle of crinkled grocery lists, checking through them in your kitchen on an early Sunday—shopping right when the supermarket opened, because the both of you cringed at the sight of busy aisles and overworked lanes. (The raspy, sniffled laughter of the elderly lady who ran the store, remarking, “Still in the honeymoon phase, huh?” as she checked you out. The squeak in Miles’ throat when you played along, pressing a peck to his cheek in mock confirmation.)

The stream of water from the creaky yard hose, sometimes pressurized to the point of injuring Miles’ poor petunias, and other times so frail you had to lug out his otter-shaped turret sprinkler to keep them healthy instead. The howling wind against your house walls on autumn nights, bouncing along the window sills as though ghosts roamed your halls. (Having to build a fort in the living room with Miles, after a “ghost” had spooked him on his nightly tread for a glass of water. He refused to brave the hallway to your bedroom again, and you refused to leave him there.)

The gentle snip-snap of scissors along Miles’ delicate head, telling him, “I’m not going as short as last time, even if you ask me to, ‘cause you’ll get cold and snag my earmuffs again.”  The sleepy purr of Miles’ in the morning, wrapping a lithe arm around your waist and greedily tugging you back to bed; grown spoiled with the days that go by so sweetly, used to having you all to himself. 

Drinking in these little moments, appreciating the mundanity of it all. How you simper, when doing laundry with Miles, sorting whites from colours as you regale him on the time you mixed in a blue sock by accident; is that why my button-up turned blue? When gardening side by side in the spring, Miles cooing to perennial flora as he packs down healthy fertilizer nearby; grazing a gentle finger over an unfurling petal and promising, you’ll grow up nice and strong when m’done with you. When sitting on the counter and watching Miles bustle about, trying to perfect his Tunnel of Fudge in time for the holidays and handing you the battered whisk; honey, you know I don’t care that there’s raw egg. 

Going through the motions of this post-hotel life, practically epilogic, with the relationship’s lines of platonic and romantic ever wavering. Ever thinning. Warbled by the merciful existences you reap: why focus on the status of your relationship when you could focus on the love itself, focus on your now-uninhibited freedom to love? 

But a rubber band snaps eventually. The lack of labels stretched wide and narrow around your intimate forms; never relieved, never named—never agreed upon, therefore just as well never reciprocated. Years after the hotel faded into a mere memory, just a faint speckle among the colourful mosaic of your existence, you wake with a pit drowning in your gut. Love burns in the bottom of your belly: no longer that comfortable love that rested so sweetly in the smiling swell of your cheeks, but more so a love that swallowed you whole—sudden, voracious, terrifying. You loved Miles, and you had for years… but just now did you realize you were in love with him. 

The distinction makes your heart hammer against its cage, starving for any kind of answer. The two of you never acknowledged it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there—it was always there, always lingering, providing the very allowance to be so intimate, be so loving. You’ve slept in one another’s bed for more than half a decade, for Christ's sake: tenderness is all you’ve ever known of each other. A deathly nerve deep within your gut strikes, begging for either reciprocation or rejection, not this limbo you’ve been living in. Imploring a tangible answer, an exacting label you can build the rest of your life upon.

Because the thought of staying trapped like this forever? Never fully friends and never fully lovers? That mortified you. It could all fall between the gaps of your fingers, even after decades, because none of it had ever been said aloud. 

The realization of being in love, and not just loving was kept under tightly wound wraps as best as you could. But Miles notices the little things over time: how you draw away easier, hugs growing brisk and polite rather than long and hearty. The tension in your shoulders, and how you no longer accept his tender offers to massage familiar knots out—even when you both know he can map out your problem areas just like that. Brushing off touchier advances, resolve greatly disturbed by Miles’ ever-constant need to hold hands, cling to your hip, hang onto you at all. He’s funny about that kind of thing: somewhere along the way, between the farm he grew up on, Vietnam, and the El Royale, to now, he picked up the miraculous ability to tune into moods at the drop of a hat. 

It gets worse as the week goes on, however. Not that you’d been very inconspicuous about your gloom—you sat up the fourth day quietly strained, trudging to the bathroom like a wet t-shirt that’d been wrung out and hung to dry in all the wrong ways. Misshapen, wrinkled, too burdened for the clothesline to hold up; the briefest of winter winds trickles past the window Miles forgot to close last night, and makes you shiver as you step in. But he doesn’t get the chance to intervene, not when you were heading off to work (there were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, and later he’ll tell you he hates himself for it–), and the two of you only see each other again when you’re back home. 

His first instinct when he sees you, mumbling your arrival in the frostbitten doorway, is to take your coat and set it on the wooden hanger; shuffle your fur-lined boots onto the shoe rack beside his own tassel loafers; dust the flurries off your clothes. Clean and take care of you, because that’s what he knows best. You half expect him to extend his arm out and point down either side of the hall, “Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east,” on the tip of his tongue.

“Hi,” mumbles Miles, lip quivering as some semblance of a nervous smile inches across his face. “Um, welcome home.” 

That man is far too sweet for his own good. His greeting is the product of an offhand comment all those years ago, “It’s always the sweetest thing when the husband comes home and his wife welcomes him back.” Winter nights in the hotel when there were so few customers, management would skimp on paying the bills, and you’d huddle chest to chest with Miles to conserve heat. Breath visible, palms splayed beneath one another’s shirts to extinguish the chill racking through you. A random channel on his old RCA Victor Sportable playing a Brigitte Bardot special, if just to distract yourself from the very real, very harrowing possibility that you could fall asleep and never wake up.

“Miles,” out comes a dull whisper, scratchy and unreal in your own throat. You’ve tried all week to make a habit out of biting back too-sweet words, letting your blatant adoration die in your lungs. Speaking to him should be an activity gone stale, lest you forget yourself and allow you two to fall back headfirst into that exhausting will-they-won’t-they purgatory. 

But then you notice his clothes–an old cream cable knit and dress trousers, his Sunday best for weekly visits and the obligatory holiday ones–and his hair, neatly coiffed along the smooth crown of his head. You raise a brow–it’s incredibly unlike the pajamas and chestnut bedhead he usually sports; mussed and ruffled with the telltale stylistic edge of blankets and cotton pillowcases. Had he gone out, or is he going out now? 

That thought makes your heart thump and clench in its cavity: of Miles being swept off his feet by someone other than yourself and having to accept it with a choked nod, because you’re dancing around asking him “What are we?”, in paralyzing fear that you are the only one truly head over heels. You resign yourself to asking, “Going somewhere?” whilst gesturing to his unusually formal state of dress.

His rounded cheeks flush. Cobalts widen in tune with the sandy brows along his forehead rising. Your gaze hasn’t made it there yet, but you can bet his lips have slid ajar into a tiny “O” shape-- and there it is. His delicate expression of surprise is the same as it has been for years (and you fear how easily you predict it. You know him too well, and it’s never the one who knows another too well whose heart remains unbroken. But then again: between Miles’ delicate heart and your own… you’d rather you devastated.)

“Yes, well-- I’m going out with someone.”

“You’re going on a—“ How interesting. “…O-kay.”

Your offset okay has the tips of Miles’ lips twinging upward into a tiny, knowing smile. Smug, almost, if you pretended it wasn’t how Miles simply looked when content. It makes you frown instead. “Oh,” you mumbled, wincing as you brushed past him, hearing just how monotone; crestfallen; stupid you sounded. “Have fun, then.”

Your own cheeks burn, your harried footsteps clattering against hallway hickory wood: he was taking someone out? Miles’ had been venturing out on his own more often — your heart preened prideful praise at this, as he’d downright avoided public outings like the plague since his discharge all those years ago — so you knew it wasn’t at all unlikely he’d caught someone’s wandering eye. Miles was rather handsome, too (even downright pretty, which he rarely let you say aloud, since it made steam practically fume out of his ears) with the gentle brush of his blond lashes, framing the brilliant sheen of blue eyes, and that captivating curve of his nose, sloping high and elegant. 

But for however proud you were, the hurt still made your throat swell in its tender column. Suddenly, you realize it’s never going to be you who accompanies Miles in that way: because you are slow and cowardly. You are the decay that would make Miles’ heartwood go druxy– and for his sake, it cannot be you that accompanies him. Like understanding a language but never being taught to speak it, you can spot love easily even when it’s unspoken and barely there, but you cannot replicate it aloud. I love you is an unintelligible language twisted wryly on your tongue; you miss accents and mess up grammar, and before you know it those words as old as myth have gone sour. 

You’ll hurt him worse than rejection hurts you. But rejection, any kind of it, is still a quiet, burning thing that overtakes you like the wash of high tide. Digging its claws into the rapid flesh of your palpitating heart, you can’t help but desperately seek isolation. The balls of your feet practically jump over the threshold where the hall and your shared room meet… but he’s quick to follow.

Miles’ sock-swaddled thumping is slow at first, before speeding up and careening to a stop at the door of the bedroom. His fingers (originally rough with domestic work but grown soft in the simple life you’ve built around each other) cling shyly to the side jamb: “Are…” and his words warble at a pitchy high, like they’re curling around a pitiful lump balling up in his throat, “are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” your reassurance is fast, uttered quicker than you can think or blink or even turn. But because your back still faces him, he asks again, are you mad at me? Murmurs, I’m sorry, a moment later, polyester-padded steps inching over the sill. Miles continues closer, appearing in the background of your mirror while you shed your outside clothes off; practically undergoing chrysalis into your pyjamas.

His words are childish, almost, and you have half a mind to shoo him out of the room for privacy–but you know Miles. Though his words are uttered gingerly, the nervous apology of a scolded child, he isn’t any less desperate, any less earnest; he’s genuine, and that genuinity has no bounds. 

The bed creaks behind you, and your mind buries the consuming temptation to look. Desire calls out your name, supplying imaginary images of cranberry Christmas sheets straining beneath Miles’ pretty, slow crawl. And the apology is part way through stumbling out of Miles’ mouth yet again when you finally turn to meet him: slim torso folded along the long edge of the bed, knees planted on the hardwood. Looking up at you with an impossible expression that pleads, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Are you mad at me? Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m– 

His sweet head buries itself into the clothed cushion, and you can hear him sniffle; holding back a worried sob, are you mad at me? filling the ridges of his tongue. It’s so hard to seek solitude, to want to soothe yourself at all, when Miles is falling apart in front of you; fingers curling possessively into the sheets like he usually would your clothes. 

The tear that escapes the corner of Miles' eye dribbles into your bed. It makes your obstinacy waver. And then, you’re descending onto the bed too, scooping his weeping form into your arms, gently soothing him with shapes drawn into his cheek. Coaxing the tears away with a low hum cooed into the shell of his ear, shh, shh. M’not mad, just surprised. Just tired. 

Cries that finally dwindle into stuttered sniffles and tiny pecks along your inner wrist. The drag of his bottom lip on the ulna bone makes a ribbon of warmth run through you, and you cringe—you should be normal about this kind of thing because he’s perpetually starved for touch. This intimacy is nothing special, and you just happen to always be there. But it starts to feel less than normal: kisses growing hungry and adventurous, desperate to litter your skin with his presence… eventually reaching up to the top of your shoulder, just so gaining the confidence to sink his canines into your skin…

“Miles!” You yelp, squeezing at the nape of his neck and peeling his rebellious teeth from your side like you would a puppy. You bring him face to face, grip sliding to the mandible; his eyes half-lidded, lips wet with a doggish, slobbery sheen of saliva, brows knitted tensely in the middle. You meant to comfort him, rid the alarm from muscles that held memory so tightly. Instead, an entirely different neediness is roused out of him: he’s crawled halfway up your body, rigid knees subconsciously brushing between your thighs, pressing you to the mattress with the thick weight of his utterly relaxed lower body. 

He begins to slowly blink, as if coming out of a feverish daze, going ever-scarlet in realization. “Sorry, I– didn’t mean to…ah, just missed you so much, that’s all—” squirming to hide and bury his face into the pillows again, whining when you stop him with another squeeze of his cherubic cheeks.  

“What,” You’re breathless, and you reckon your pulse is beating as fast as Miles' is beneath your fingertips: rapid, floundering, like a marathon has been run four times over. “What was that, sweetheart?”

The nickname makes Miles shiver atop you; his head swivelling low to rest upon you, his everything pinning you down. Your huff of gentle (confused, frustrated, coy) air breezes along his brow bone, and he looks up to peer puppyish up at you. 

“Wanted to make you feel better,” he supplies, head tilting to rest the side of his face upon your skin too. “You-- you've been t-tense—and don’t lie, I can tell. So, so I was tryin’ to ask you on a date in the doorway… but then y-you stormed off on me! I thought you— I thought, maybe you don’t want thatkinda relief, so… so…”

“Oh, Miles.” you melt, hand cradling his face gently, thumb brushing against his lower lip, crooking the bed of your palm closer when he turns in to provide a chaste kiss. “I… didn’t realize you were trying to ask me on a date,” and your gaze darts away shyly, voice dropping to a ginger murmur, “in all honesty, I thought you were going out on one.”

“Me?” he asks, head tilting again in pure confusion. Cobalt blue eyes glistening with a disbelieving curiosity–like he couldn’t entertain the prospect logically in his mind long enough for it to make sense. “Who would I be going on a date with but you?”

Who would he be going on a date with but you? 

The silence of the room rings swirls in the junction of your ear. You think you hear a pin drop, but it might very well be your heart; trudging up the shaky interior of your ribcage, softly parsing through the meaning of his words… and finding it to be completely genuine. No sarcasm, and nothing of rhetoric: a true, confused question, uttered from those gentle lips. Who would I be going on a date with but you?as if the very notion was impossible. Like you just told him you’d reached up and plucked the sun for his garden. Like you just said, I miss the hotel.

For some odd, unknown reason, that is what makes your heart roar to life again. Makes your stomach churn with the familiar achings of hope. Those simple words, that glaring confusion, twist your entireviewpoint. How blatantly he says it: that there's nobody on this planet Miles’ would rather be with but you. This may not be very clear right now, but the path to it is, and one thing remains certain: you’ll be loving each other, no matter which way.

A small laugh tumbles out of your mouth, transforming your solemn features into something of silly belief. How foolish were you to think otherwise? That this gentle man, who offered his tiny room to you all those years ago, would suddenly let you slip out from his fingers at the prospect of someone else? Just as there's never been anyone else for you, there's never been anyone else at all for him but you.

How slow your realization was, too: you had been shying from Miles for days, worrying deep in your gut that he’d eventually disappear at the drop of the hat. Whereas, he had been entertaining big dreams of spending the rest of his life curled into your corner; cheering you on for all the world to see. Completely understanding that nobody better could be found; could be loved, could be known than you. 

Your laugh seems to make Miles’ smile twitch up too, and you can’t help but snicker a little louder when you catch his murmur: what are we laughing about now? Because that’s the kind of man Miles is, and always has been: a gentle lover, but fiercely loyal, tender to the very bone; happy to ask the silly, stupid questions when you don’t want to. 

“Nothing,” you shush him, letting your cold, fresh-from-work feet dip beneath the edge of Miles’ soft trousers, toe trailing along his bare Achilles and making him wince. 

“Y’cold,” he whines but doesn’t push you away. Miles doesn’t think he could ever push you away; even through a bout of worrying, self-imposed distance that made panic rise in his heart this week, because Miles’ knows you better than that. You know one another far better than that—and one thing you taught him, bits and pieces of philosophical advice littered into your early conversations, rings true now. Never stop trying. You never stopped trying to fulfill yourself at that trepid, consuming hotel– and you came out the other side with the love of your life tucked gently into your side. So Miles learned never to stop trying for anything at all– and certainly not for you. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. But you’re not for very long, especially when he sidles up real close to you, ducking his head right into your Plender gap and breathing you in.

You don’t know where the years went, but love peeled the layers back from Miles so quickly: paring away his skittish demeanour from back then, when he’d been afraid to leave any mess at all, afraid to give into his mild intrigue of you, to even stir the air with the gentlest inhale of his breath. Continuing to unravel him, until he was the greedy man caging you in now, unabashedly needy and unafraid to stake claim on what’s his. Wanting you by his side has never changed, and never will. 

Slowly, the two of you shift, roll, twitch and tug until the sheets are furrowed, comforter wrapped oddly around your legs-- but also until you’re comfortably in one another's arms, foreheads grazing every time one of you breathes. It gives you the most explicit look of his face, into those cobalt blues, through the brush of lashes you so admiringly yawp about when he puts lotion on his face — to the point Miles has to shut the bathroom door on you in the bedroom, just to continue his bedtime routine without melting out into a stammering pile of goop — and of the faint dustings of freckles you noted all that time ago.

Barely noticing the window Miles’ has the terribly endearing habit of keeping open—even on this quiet winter night—because in the summer it coaxed you to sleep and you thanked him for it the next morning. Eyes resting as you focused on the comforting murmur of Miles’ familiar breathing pattern, wrapped in silence so thick it was almost palpable—making you two feel like the only real things in the entire world.

You may have thought your love was nondescript and barely there — imperceptible if not for the top notes of intimacy and adoration lingering on the pulse points of your skin like perfumed oil — but it’s always been noticeable. Always been rich and heady, forever dabbled on the dip of your neck where he lies his head; a fervent scent of pure love blooming, caught on the hem of yourself like you sprayed a pump too much. And nothing, not even Miles’ cries or your own misunderstanding, would ever change that. 

[ginjones]

An ending (Ascent)

It’s probably not normal, Hob will reflect later, to walk in on your boyfriend sitting cross legged on the floor, wearing a giant pair of headphones, clutching a spoon in one hand, and staring into the middle distance in what can only be described as a state of divine rapture.

Perhaps it is for celebrities who have access to all the really good drugs, but celebrities don’t leave their partners bundled up in bed while they nip to Tesco’s to buy more milk.

It’s also not normal that he’s completely naked, save for one black sock which sits defiantly on his left foot. That would explain the detritus of clothing which greeted him on his way down the hall, but not whatever…this is.

Dream is sitting with his back to the living room bookcase where Hob keeps his vinyl, a selection of it discarded around him. He’s playing absently with the cord of the huge Bose headphones, weaving the coils around his delicate fingers, lost in thought. And there’s nothing to suggest he’s noticed Hob’s presence, no questioning whether Hob has remembered to pick up his favourite snack. For a moment, Hob wonders if he should whip out his phone; take a sneaky picture of this ceremonious event. Then he notices the shimmer of tears falling serenely down his partner’s cheeks and discards the notion entire.

“You okay, sweeting?”

No response. He shrugs off his messenger bag and sits down to join him, scooting over the laminate floor in a graceless bum shuffle.

A soft, white light from the overhead lamp illuminates the scene. It pours over Dream like a sheet of pure silk, highlighting his nakedness and the paleness of his skin. There’s a wonder to his expression; something soft in the way his mouth is held slightly open, his hair mussed from sleep. Like a renaissance painting, he thinks, in the way that all academics conflate one thing with the other. like Iris in the land of Hypnos and yet, he looks so human.

Because of course, he is.

It’s been 4 months and 3 days since he’d chosen to join Hob in the earthly realm of humanity. Hob’s been keeping track on the calendar, trying to offer him one new experience a day. They’ve watched classic movies, read each other poetry, (Dream still has the perfect voice for orating) and early last week Hob had introduced him to modern music (the Beatles were a hit, the Stone Roses were not).

Hob’s immediate presence must break Dream out of his reverie because slowly, sapphire eyes meet his and wordlessly he places the spoon down, picks up the sleeve of an album and holds it out to Hob like it’s the Turin shroud.

It’s not immediately identifiable. The artwork a scant wash of beige imposed over an image of moon craters; aesthetically pleasing yes, but not particularly noteworthy. Hob’s collected vinyl for the better part of five decades but his visual memory’s not the best. Without being able to hear what Dream’s listening to he’s drawing a bit of a blank. Then he sees the sparse red writing at the top and the name down the side and all at once, it clicks.

Brian Eno has broken my boyfriend.

It’s not the first time Dream’s had such a visceral response to artwork in these acclimating months. It had been very sweet to find him weeping over local artwork in the coffee shop they’d visited in Coventry. The issue was the shame he’d felt afterwards. In the car park outside, Hob had soothed him, rubbing gentle circles across his back as he listened patiently to Dream’s lament that it was all too much, these…feelings. I cannot hide them like I did before.

This time however, the tears seem to have stopped and a hazy sort of smile plays at the corner of his lips. He’s coming back to himself and in the privacy of this moment, shared only with Hob, he may be able to appreciate this outpouring of emotion for it is, something human.

“Want to take off the cans so we can talk, love?”

Hob’s pretty sure Dream hasn’t learnt to read lips, but the headphones are slowly lifted away, leaving the tinny echo of the song playing in the background. His expression changes to imitate something of his former status, a furrow of the brow, a regal upturn of his chin.  

“Ah, you have return to me. You woke me when you left you know?”

He does, in fact know this. When he had risen gently from bed that morning, Dream had moved to pull him back; a flow of pale arms moving like water, muscles softened from sleep. He’s still getting used to it; the sense that Dream belongs here. That he won’t apparat back into endlessness, leaving the bed cold, the tea undrunk, the rooms quietened by his absence.

“And I’m guessing that’ll be the reasoning you give when I find arse prints on my lovely, new laminate floor?”

“You were gone for too long; I decided to entertain myself.”

“By listening to Brian Eno naked?”

“Yes”, his eyes trail down slowly to observe his current state, “I realised clothing was detracting from the experience.”

He can’t help but chuckle at that.

“So, you like Brian Eno, and I can see that he’s affected you,” Dream nods slowly, looking down to the album on the ground. “What is it about this album in particular, because I can tell there are some big feelings here. I want you to know we can discuss them.”

For a moment, Dream is silent, playing with the cord in his hands. He’s sitting a little straighter now, his shoulder muscles tightened in a familiar stance. Weighted by the question perhaps, a wish to answer dutifully, but still, he pauses for several seconds longer, worrying his bottom lip.

“It is… soothing I suppose. I enjoyed the piece Mata from this composition. It is nightmarish in its construction, recalling a jungle swollen with noxious blooms, but this one?”, he places a finger to the title, An ending (Ascent). “It remindsme of the space between form and thought where I once spun the diaphanous silk of my creations. It was where I was most at peace and upon listening, I found myself reminded of those moments.”

That is, quite frankly, a lot to unpack.

At his core, Dream remains a storyteller, weaving an elaborate web of seemingly disparate ideas. Hob finds it all a bit overwhelming. How he can take a piece of art, deconstruct it, and recraft it into something new. Pulling inspiration from the air, plucking its strings, and finding where the vibrations cross paths with his own experience. And Hob must be getting better at reading his partners mind because, in a quiet, searching tone, Dream asks:

“Has it been written for me?”

This man, Hob thinks This man who has come back to me, who has crept into my life and reads my books and listens to my music. This man who lays himself out to me in naked candour.

“Oh love, come here then. Give us a cuddle.” He’s blushing now, a pink hue spreading across the lily paleness of his chest. His skin is warm when Hob pulls him closer, and it smells sweet and living from sweat. “I mean, maybe? You tell me. Ever pay Mr Eno a visit like you did Shaxberd?”

“No,” Dream continues, “but it is as if this man has looked upon me and glimpsed a fragment of my being.”

“That’s a common phenomenon of the human experience I think. Lots of people feel like songs speak directly to them. Yours just happens to be written by Brian Eno-which doesn’t surprise me,” he chuckles affectionately, “he’s quite a conceptual artist-it’s all very ethereal.”

“Ethereal…” Dream pauses, his brow crinkled in thought. “Yes, there’s an otherworldliness to it I suppose… but a tangibility all the same. How the counter melody sits low in the mix-the bass notes appear rooted to the earth while the top notes look towards the sky. What did the first humans wonder when they looked towards my mother? I do not know…. I did not care for them as I do now”.

“Well,” Hob continues, “perhaps they thought about their own existence? Their place in a world which is confusing and often painful. Perhaps they wanted to feel like they were being protected by something bigger than themselves. Spirts; angels.”

“Angels?”, Dream scoffs “Angels do not sing like this. The holy choir is faultless in its melodies. It lacks the vibrancy of imperfection, the subtle intricacies of the human spirit. No; this piece holds far more divinity.”

“Ever thought about taking up music journalism Dove? Pitchfork would have a field day.”

As predicted, there’s no response to that.

So, Hob bundles him up and they sit on the sofa listening to Apollo together. Tomorrow, he’ll try and convince Dream to watch 28 days later, with the promise that An Ending (Ascent) is in the soundtrack. They’ll eat nothing but comfort food and Hob will remind Dream to brush his teeth before he goes to bed and in an otherworldly Parthenon, the muses will smile fondly down, and kiss the brow of a kindred aesthete.

[chasingshadowsblog]

"I've seen suffering in the darkness. Yet I have seen beauty thrive in the most fragile of places." - History, Culture and Identity in Cartoon Saloon's Irish Mythology Trilogy

Written accounts of Irish history and culture only begin to appear from the 5th century onwards and what came before we are left to piece together from archaeological remains whose meanings and motivations we can only guess at. What is clear, though, is that during that broad stretch of time between the Early Mesolithic and Late Iron Age, a distinctly Irish identity had been established and cultivated through by the craftsmen, artists, hunters, foragers, farmers and warriors that populated the country through their housing, weaponry, metalworks and stone monuments. The development of the Christian church throughout the Early Medieval period brought its own beauty to the art and architecture of the country, but also adapted its culture to suit the needs of an integrating religion and sites and ceremonies of pagan worship were amalgamated into the Christian calendar. Following this were Viking raids, Anglo-Norman settlement, English conquest, plantation, oppression, rebellion, famine and civil war. From the Early Medieval period to the present day Ireland has experienced an almost constant shift in leadership and identity with little time in between for the dust to settle. Culturally, a "Celtic Revival" in the late 19th and early 20th centuries sought to re-invigorate the arts and history of Celtic Ireland (a broad, problematic concept in itself) as an expression of nationalism and to bolster a distinctly Irish artistic and literary identity. All of this is to say that wading through Ireland's history of social upheaval, religious and political conflict, and loss and confusion of identity is no mean feat. To take those threads and conjure up original stories for modern audiences, embracing the suffering and celebrating the beauty, is impressive. To do it three times is witchcraft.

In their films depicting Irish history, culture and mythology, animation studio Cartoon Saloon have approached their stories with a respect for the past, both fact and fiction. By evoking the artwork, legends and real history of Ireland's past and combining it with their own fresh, unique visual style, Cartoon Saloon brings some much needed authenticity and vibrancy to the depiction of Ireland in mainstream culture. Absent are the twee figures of backwards island folk or the commercialised idolatry of a St. Patrick's Day parade. What we get instead is something more personal, recognisable on the surface to every child and adult who learned about Fionn, the Fianna and fairy circles in primary school and with nuggets of information and visual cues for explorers of Ireland's broader history.

"I can't tell you which parts of this story are true and which parts are shrouded by the mists." - The Secret of Kells and the line between history and mythology

Set roughly in the 9th century AD The Secret of Kells is the earliest depiction of Irish culture in the trilogy. This period saw the introduction of Christianity and the eventual integration of the religion among the native Irish, a relatively smooth transition when compared to later events as noted by historian Jo Kerrigan: "And so the people of Ireland combined the new ways with the old…not bothering too much that the names had changed." Although the main character, Brendan, comes from a Christian monastery and carries those beliefs, The Secret of Kells does well to capture this balance between a new religion and old beliefs with the inclusion of Aisling and Crom Cruach, and without dismissing them as a childish or archaic. "Pagans. Crom worshippers. It is with the strength of our walls that they will come to trust the strength of our faith." The threat of Viking raids is what spurs Abbot Ceallach's desire to build a wall around his monastery, but, underlying his actions is another aspect of a monk's work - converting the natives. In The Secret of Kells the abbot's wall not only protects them from invaders but cuts them off from the forest beyond - the domain of shape-shifters, wild animals and pagan temples, a world that Brendan can only glimpse through a crack in the wall. A staple of the entire trilogy is this depiction of wilderness in some form and its association with Ireland's symbolic wilderness and pagan ancestry. When Brendan enters the forest for the first time it is dark and frightening until Aisling, an ethereal Sídhe figure who can shape-shift into a wolf, shows him how to navigate it. Brendan's fear is eliminated and Aisling quickly becomes his friend, each amused and fascinated by the other.

Hidden throughout Brendan's trek in the forest are old, moss covered ogham stones and stone circles, allusions to native practices, but deeper in, the colour palette changes from bright greens and natural browns to a wash of dark greys and black when Brendan stumbles across a temple to Crom Cruach (a deity who, in Irish mythology, is eventually destroyed by St. Patrick). Aisling tries to warn him away, "It is the cave of the Dark One," but Brendan dismisses her worries, "The abbot says that's all pagan nonsense, there's no such thing as Crom Cruach." At the sounding of the deity's name, black tendrils emit from the cave and pull on Aisling as she stops them reaching Brendan. Later, Brendan returns to the cave to steal Crom's eye - a magnifying crystal that will help Brendan and Brother Aidan with their illumination. In a beautifully animated sequence Brendan battles Crom Cruach in his cave by trapping him in a chalk circle and stealing his eye. Crom Cruach is depicted as a never-ending snake (in a geometric pattern reminscent of both pre-Christian art and the knotwork of Christian manuscripts) possibly in reference to the 'snakes' (demons) banished from Ireland by St. Patrick. What's most fascinating about this sequence is that Brendan experiences it at all. Although the experience is supernatural it is never implied as anything other than real. Brendan is a committed monk in training who will spend his life in service to the monastery and creating the Book of Kells; even after meeting Aisling and battling Crom Cruach he never questions his faith or his elders and when he returns to the monastery with the eye no one disputes the story of how he came by it, "You entered one of the Dark One's caves?" At this time, at the edge of a growing monastery and with a direct reference to the abbot's desire to convert the natives, there is still space for pagan ideas to exist. Whenever Brendan is punished by Abbot Ceallach it is for disobedience not a lack of faith. Similarly, Aisling using Pangur Bán's spirit to free Brendan has an effect on the real world. There's an argument to be made that this is a film and anything can happen, but for problems to be solved by magic, the way Aisling frees Brendan, firm world-building rules must be established; in this world, 9th century Ireland, spaces exist in which otherworldly figures reside and actions beyond the mortal realm occur and these spaces exist alongside this film's version of civilisation, the monastery.

"I have lived through all the ages, through the eyes of salmon, deer and wolf." As an animated feature, there is a lot the film can tell us through visuals alone, and The Secret of Kells does a wonderful job capturing an Ireland in transition. The prologue opens with a close-up image of the Eye of Crom with abstract shapes swimming around it, followed by a glimpse of Aisling hiding in a tree as she narrates over these images in an eery whisper. Following these we see a salmon, deer and wolf, three animals important to Irish mythology, identity and history; the salmon, related to The Salmon of Knowledge, represents mythology, the deer is the national animal of Ireland, and wolves (in the world of Cartoon Saloon) represent its wildernes and history (the elimination of the wolf population became more active in Ireland during times of English occupancy, a theme that is explored more deeply in Wolfwalkers). Even the waves crashing around Iona as Brother Aidan escapes morph into wolves, futhering their symbolism as something wild and dangerous, yet they are never associated with the Viking raiders; the wilderness is as equally affected by change as the people are. The monastery is littered with Iron Age motifs existing alongside Early Christian imagery. Spiral motifs occur in trees and plants, in the ropes that bind the wall's scaffolding together, and circular, semi-circular and zig-zag shapes continue to appear with knot-work patterns and religious figures - even the snowflakes during the raid are strands of knot-work. The monastery itself is accurate to the period with its round tower, beehive shaped structures (called clochán) and the town growing around it, while outside its walls Brendan crosses a stone circle. We even see a game of hurling, the ultimate unifying bridge between pagan and modern Ireland. The walls of the abbot's cell are covered in his own drawings of plans for the monastery's construction. These are exquisitely detailed and clearly a plan for the future but drawn in a style that cannot escape the past; zig-zags, spirals, circles, semi-circles, dots, triangles, sun and star motifs and something that looks like an alignment chart. The style is evocative of the insular La Tène that preceded the arrival of the monks in Ireland; a combination of abstract and geometric, seemingly random, but clearly symbolising something greater.

"You must bring the book to the people." In their last interaction as children Aisling helps Brendan recover the pages of his manuscript as he flees the Vikings. In this gesture Aisling aids Brendan on his religious journey - during the montage later on she even guides him home. Faith never comes between these two, their relationship is one of mutual curiosity and sharing their differences. In Irish mythology, female figures (particularly shape-shifting ones) are often symbolic of Ireland itself and to have the support of these figures is, for kings and heroes, a mark of validation. At this time, these two worlds still live alongside each other and Aisling is allowed to support Brendan's work as a monk while maintaining her own natural way of life. Although Brendan's final journey home shows the spread of Christianity across the country we get one final image of Aisling, changed to her human form in a flash of lightning, that shows us she hasn't disappeared just yet. Brendan, now an adult, returns to Kells and although Abbot Ceallach is old and sick, the monastery stands strong and Brendan brings with him the completed Book of Kells, ready to continue the abbot's work.

"This wild land must be civilised" - Wolfwalkers and the taming of Ireland

Set in 1650, Wolfwalkers occurs roughly 800 years after The Secret of Kells and presents a vastly different universe. The monks' Christianisation of the natives was a far more gentle affair and one founded in a desire to educate people. Ireland under the Lord Ruler (a stand-in for Oliver Cromwell) is a world of service, punishment and fear. By chopping down trees and employing hunters to cull the wolf population the Lord Ruler is attempting to 'tame' the countryside and, most importantly, the people themselves. References to "the old king" and "revolt in the south" place us, historically and politically, in the Cromwellian Conquest, when Cromwell was sent to Ireland to quell uprisings against the newly established English Commonwealth. Heavy stuff and this is a simplification of a period of major conflict in Ireland but Wolfwalkers impresses on us the feeling of living under the thumb of an active oppressor on a much smaller, more personal scale. The Lord Ruler wants the people of Kilkenny afraid and complacent so that they support his efforts to cull the wolves and cut down their forests. Although the wolves pose no threat to the city, people have been made to fear them, resilting in the loss of their connection to the forest outside the town walls. Any reference to a world ouside of the current mode of conduct is cause for immediate punishment and suppression. Even Bill and Robyn, loyal English citizens, are punished. When one of the woodcutters talks of "pagan nonsense" he is confined to the stocks and Robyn is forced to work as a maid in the castle when she does the same. When Bill fails to cull the wolf population (and control his own daughter) he is stripped of his rank as hunter and forced into the role of soldier, robbed of the little freedom he had.

"This once wild creature is now tamed, obedient, a mere faithful servant." Although this line is spoken in reference to Moll, held captive in a cage in her wolf form, it is the human characters who suffer the most from this ideology - even the nameless background characters are confined to the walls of the city. What comes to mind when hearing this line is Robyn in her maid's uniform, once lively and imaginative, now returning home with lines under her eyes after a long day of hard, monotonous work, and Bill, shackled at the neck and forced to march behind the Lord Ruler's horse ("we must do what the Lord Ruler commands"). Although Moll is held captive too, it is in the form of a humongous wolf; she is locked away in the Long Hall for fear of the danger she represents because the Lord Ruler is aware of how poweful she is and so he must keep her locked up to show the people of Kilkenny just how much control he can wield, quelling any potential notions of power they might have held in themselves. In the case of Moll, Robyn and Bill, each time they are held captive by the Lord Ruler their captured bodies submit to the wolf form to escape: Moll uses its strength to break free of her chains, Robyn leaves behind her human body to launch an attack against the soldiers with the rest of the pack, and Bill, who had no idea what being bitten by Moll would do to him, submits to a primal instinct within him to protect his daughter and attacks the Lord Ruler. The Wolfwalkers are able to draw on this power but the people left behind in Kilkenny have no such escape.

"What cannot be tamed, must be destroyed." The ending of Wolfwalkers is bittersweet. Robyn, Médb and their parents are safe after defeating the Lord Ruler and his soldiers and ride off, not quite into the sunset, but onto horizons new. "All is well," Bill and Robyn tell each other and the family appear content, but, before now, leaving the forest was not on the agenda; leaving the forest meant retreating from a threat, as Moll desperately wanted Médb to do, and this is still the case. Médb wanted to save the forest, but, after everything that's happened, the family are no longer safe on the borders of the town. Robyn, Médb, Bill and Moll all save each other but they can't save their home and their retreat from Kilkenny is just that - a retreat. The Lord Ruler may have been killed but that doesn't mean the end of his conquest. Historically, this period saw Ireland amalgamated into the Commonwealth and Irish Catholic landowners ousted by English colonists, as well as a high level of deforestation and the elimination of the wolf population. By having the family leave their home, together and with a bright sky and grassy hills ahead of them, Wolfwalkers' coda balances the narrative conventions of a story by giving the viewers their satisfying ending without sanistising the history it's based on.

"Remember me in your stories and in your songs" - Song of the Sea and loss:

If Wolfwalkers is the taming of Ireland then Song of the Sea is Ireland tamed. Set roughly in the 1980s it is the closest depiction of a modern Ireland in Cartoon Saloon's ouevre. In contrast to The Secret of Kells and Wolfwalkers, which represented Ireland's native identity in the forest, here it takes the form of (drumroll) the sea, but while those other films depicted the battle between the wilderness and civilisation Song of the Sea depicts its defeat. The last of the Sídhe live in hiding in a rath disguised as the centre of a roundabout and use a sewage system to get around. In their diminshed forms, Lug, Mossy and Spud also resemble more closely what we might think of as 'fairies' in Ireland today, not the imposing figures of mischief and chaos the Sídhe really are in mythology. Still, Lug, Spud and Mossy wear torcs, brooches and earrings of gold and strewn about their home are ogham stones and hurls; in a nice marriage of modern and ancient tradition, they play the bodhrán, fiddle and banjo, singing a version of the Irish language song 'Dúlamán'. Only in this one pocket in the middle of the city do different aspects of traditional Irish culture survive.

All throughout Song of the Sea we see iconography of modern Ireland. Conor drinks a pint of Guinness (unlabelled but unmistakable), the front of the pub he sits in is decorated in proto-typical Irish pub fashion. On the wall in Granny's house sits proudly a picture of Jesus with the Sacred Heart lamp as she warbles along to the classic Irish children's song, 'Báidín Fheilimí'. Ben and Saoirse take refuge in a shrine to a holy well with a rag tree outside that is bursting with religious iconography as well as a toy sheep. Symbols that are as much a part of the national identity as those pre-historic and mythological ones. There are also references to the assimilation of pop culture outside of Ireland in a Lyle's Golden Syrup tin, the Rolling Stones poster on Conor's old bedroom door and Ben's 3-D glasses and cape, an emulation of a superhero costume. These images are, ultimately, harmless but have overtaken their native counterparts. Although we see statues of the Sídhe in the background, these are not shrines but detritus, and they lie forgotten, covered in plants and moss, in the company of bags of rubbish and old televisions. The diminishing of one era of Ireland's history to make way for a newer more powerful and modern identity is just one kind of loss that is portrayed in Song of the Sea, but each character experiences their own version throughout. The loss of Bronach that has affected Ben and Conor; the potential loss of Saoirse as she grows sicker; the loss of Mac Lir that drove Macha to such despair she literally bottled her emotions and those of others until they turned to stone. All of this comes to a climax at the end of the film when these tragedies are laid bare. As in Wolfwalkers the greater connotations of this theme are presented on a smaller scale: Ben and Conor's pain by the loss of Bronach.

Ben and Conor are representative of the human world and so suffer her absence more visibly than Saoirse who approaches her mother's world with curiosity and ease. In contrast, Ben, although he misses Bronach, rejects the sea (her home and symbolic identity) and his sister, a physical as well as spiritual reminder of what's been taken away from him. He turns his back on his past as much as he mourns its loss. We see it less obviously in Conor who wallows in his own memories and grief and tunes out Ben's references to his mother "It's as though I've been asleep all these years. I'm so sorry." Ben's grief is more expressive compared to the inwardly focused Conor and even towards the end of the film when Ben is trying to help Saoirse, Conor brushes over his insistence that only her selkie coat can save her. It's only when Saoirse is finally wearing the coat and wakes up from her sickness that he finally engages with Ben on the subject of Bronach, "She's a selkie, isn't she? Like Mam." "Yeah." (Which looks like a weak conversation written down but it's the happy smile on his face and the emotion in his voice that give the single word weight). "Please don't take her from us." During the film's final sequence, when Saoirse sings her song and wakens the sleeping Sídhe, Bronach returns but only to take Saoirse away. With tears in her eyes she begins to lead Saoirse along until Ben and Conor stop her, not forcefully but pleadingly, "she's all we have." All they have is Saoirse, all they have is a thread connecting them to Bronach's world and their memories of her.

"All of my kind must leave tonight…" As the Sídhe are wakened by Saoirse's song we watch them rise joyfully to form a glowing processional in the sky as they make the journey across the sea to their home. This scene is so beautifully animated and so filled with a sense of magic and wonder that we are charmed into believing this is a good thing. The Sídhe are returned to their noble forms and going to their home "across the sea"; they fill the sky with a warm, mystical light, but they are taking that light and their magic with them. As Bronach quotes in the film's prologue, "Come away, o human child, to the waters and the wild, with a fairy, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand." This is a world that can no longer bear the force of two identities. Unlike The Secret of Kells where Brendan and Aisling were allowed to live alongside each other without compromising their beliefs or ways of living, Bronach, a spiritual being, is forced to leave, while Ben and Conor have no choice but to stay and Saoirse, who walks both worlds, is made to choose between them. Although this is a happy ending it is still being depicted on a personal level. On a grander scale, the country has lost something that isn't coming back and this is depicted as a relief for the ones leaving it behind. On the other hand, Saoirse's decision to remain shows that, in small pockets of the country, the magic remains.

It is fitting that Song of the Sea, as a representation of modern Ireland, draws on loss; Ireland has been experiencing loss on a grand scale for centuries. Although the march of progress is mostly positive, in some cases it has altered our respect and interest in the past. Today there is a nihilism attached to Irish heritage; the spirituality that is associated with airy fairy hippies dancing naked in a moonlit field; the language that is almost universally despised by every secondary student forced to grapple with the Tuiseal Ginideach; its disappearing and continually exploited ecological landscapes; traditions and tales that grow more twee and archaic with every tourist bus that passes by; the preservation of archaeological sites in frequent battle with the progress of industry. In the interest of leaving behind the worst of our past we are at risk of losing the best. The writer Manchán Mangan suggests that this desire to forget lies in the pain we feel when we consider our history. Some, like Conor, try to push all reference to this pain out of their lives, others, like Ben, divert their pain into misplaced anger. Mangan cites the Famine as a source of generational pain and its effect today on our use of the language, but really it can be attached to many events and periods of time, "English was the future; Irish would only bring suffering and death." This is a sentiment that carries through to this day; despite encouragement from schools, local councils and the government, Irish remains a least favourite subject for most people who dismiss it as unuseful for success in the wider world. By proxy, anything to do with the notion of "Irish", the language, history and culture, is old-fashioned (suffering and death) while success and the future lie outside of the country. Mangan goes on to suggest that only by confronting the pain of our past can we unlock an ability in ourselves to engage more fully with our identity, "We might stop blaming our failure to learn on teachers, or the education system, or Government policy, and realise that we have no difficulty learning any other subject…" Ben and Conor are given the opportunity to say goodbye to Bronach before she leaves, allowing them to carry on with their memories of her and the last strand of their connection to her as represented by Saoirse. More and more people today are looking to Ireland's past, ecology and language for whatever it is they need or want to find. It isn't necessary to convert to paganism and live on the shores of the Connemara coastline to achieve this connection, but actively disengaging from your past can only hurt more than it can help. In their respective stories Brendan does not compromise his beliefs but still builds a friendship with Aisling, while Robyn and Bill integrate fully into Médb and Moll's world. There is no right way to engage with this side of our history and identity, but in contrast to Ben and Conor, Brendan and Robyn have balanced and fulfilling relationships with their native counterparts - the threats to their world come from outside sources. Ben and Conor were stuck in their pain over Bronach's loss and it is only after getting to see her one last time that helped them to move on and heal. Conor tells Bronach that he still loves her, he will carry his love and memories of her forever; Ben lets Saoirse into his life and is able to move past his grief and fears of the sea. Here, the threat of loss and destruction in modern Ireland comes from within, and can only be treated by engaging with the past - its rich heritage and tragic history - and moving on with all of the wisdom and experience it provides.

[agirlandherquill]

oc felony bingo

i can hardly believe i've never done one of these before they look so fun - thanks for tagging me @thatuselesshuman and @theink-stainedfolk

for this one of course i have to use fenley, but i thought i'd include reid too (check out the calendar project if you want to know more about him)

blue is for fenley, red is for reid, - can i just say dui is for driving a carriage whilst drunk, so in my world where cars don't exist that's as good as it gets haha

excuse the horrific circling it is not easy to do on a phone screen

here's the template!

~ ~ ~

tag list time! open tag as always too!

@the-ellia-west @willtheweaver @tildeathiwillwrite @drchenquill @365runesofthesystem

@coffin-hopping @godsmostfuckedupgoblin @a-mimsy-borogove @frostedlemonwriter @i-do-anything-but-write

@r-u-living @thatuselesshuman @lead-to-code @sunflowerrosy @theaistired

@phoenixradiant @autism-purgatory @corinneglass @tiredpapergirl @patheticexcuseforawriter

@missmisanthrope @littlestchildofthemoon @morganxduinn @thebrownleathernotebook @rmhashauthor

@lamuradex @fantasy-things-and-such @glasshouses-and-stones @hattonthehatman @humbly-a-doppelganger

@ramwritblr @s-pendragon7 @thelastneuron @heartreactor @ihauntmyhouse

@shiningstars-world @scaewolf @just-emis-blog @joeys-piano @ramitola

@yrndrgn @riveriafalll @lawrencespen1777 @theverumproject @zackprincebooks

@justjariel @orion-lacroix @jupiter---daydreams @vinniehorrible @stars-forever

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[talonabraxas]

Tonatiuh, the Sun or the Sun God. Symbol of the Fifth World, the present era.

The sun was a god to the Aztecs, a Mesoamerican civilization, for several reasons:

1. Life-giver: The sun was seen as a source of life, warmth, and energy, essential for crops and human survival.

2. Cosmic order: The Aztecs believed the sun's daily journey across the sky maintained the balance and order of the universe.

3. Warfare and sacrifice: The sun god, Huitzilopochtli, was also associated with warfare and human sacrifice, which were crucial to Aztec religion and politics.

4. Creation myth: The Aztecs believed the sun was born from the sacrifice of the god Nanahuatzin, who leapt into the fire to become the sun, symbolizing the cycle of life and death.

5. Agricultural cycles: The sun's cycles were closely tied to agricultural seasons, and the Aztecs believed the sun's rays fertilized the earth, ensuring fertility and abundance.

6. Imperial ideology: The Aztec emperor was often depicted as the sun god's earthly representative, legitimizing his power and authority.

The Aztecs worshipped the sun god through rituals, sacrifices, and ceremonies, believing that these actions ensured the sun's continued journey and the maintenance of the cosmos.

The Aztec sun stone - Aztec calendar stone

Aztec calendar stone showing the face of Tonatiuh, the sun god, at the centre.

(Aztec calendar stone)

The Aztecs were fascinated by the sun and carefully observed it, and had a solar calendar similar to that of the Maya. Many of today's remaining Aztec monuments have structures aligned with the sun.

In the Aztec calendar, Tonatiuh is the lord of the thirteen days from 1 Death to 13 Flint.

The preceding thirteen days are ruled over by Chalchiuhtlicue, and the following thirteen by Tlaloc.

Detail of the two innermost circles of the monolith.

The sculpted motifs that cover the surface of the stone refer to central components of the Mexica cosmogony.

Central Disk

In the center of the monolith is the face of the solar deity, Tonatiuh,which appears inside the glyph for "movement" (Nahuatl: 'ollin'), the name of the current era. The central figure is shown holding a human heart in each of his clawed hands, and his tongue is represented by a stone sacrificial knife (Tecpatl), expressing the need for sacrifices to allow the sun to continue moving across the sky.

The Four Previous Suns or Eras

The four squares that surround the central deity represent the four previous suns or eras, which preceded the present era, 4 Movement (Nahuatl: 'Nahui Ollin').

Each era ended with the destruction of the world and humanity, which were then recreated in the next era.

The top right square represents 4 Jaguar (Nahuatl: 'Nahui Ocelotl'), the day on which the first era ended, after having lasted 676 years, due to the appearance of monsters that devoured all of humanity.

The top left square shows 4 Wind (Nahuatl: 'Nahui Ehecatl'), the date on which, after 364 years, hurricane winds destroyed the earth, and humans were turned into monkeys.

The bottom left square shows 4 Rain (Nahuatl: 'Nahui Quiahuitl').

This era lasted 312 years, before being destroyed by a rain of fire, which transformed humanity into turkeys.

The bottom right square represents 4 Water (Nahuatl: 'Nahui Atl'), an era that lasted 676 years and ended when the world was flooded and all the humans were turned into fish.

Placed among these four squares are three additional dates, 1 Flint, 1 Rain, and 7 Monkey, and a Xiuhuitzolli, or ruler's turquoise diadem, glyph.

It has been suggested that these dates may have had both historical and cosmic significance, and that the diadem may form part of the name of the Mexica ruler Moctezuma.

Detail of the two innermost circles of the monolith.

Mexican anthropologist Antonio de León y Gama (1735-1802) wrote about the Sun Stone.

One aspect of the stone is its religious significance. One theory is that the face at the center of the stone represents Tonatiuh, the Aztec deity of the sun.

It is for this reason that the stone became known as the "Sun Stone." Richard Townsend proposed a different theory, claiming that the figure at the centre of the stone represents Tlaltecuhtli, the Mexica earth deity who features in Mexica creation myths.

Another feature of the stone relates to time, hence the name, "Calendar Stone."

Some of the circles of glyphs are the glyphs for the days of the month. Further, some of the symbols may represent the five ages that the Mexica believed the earth had passed through.

Yet another characteristic of the stone may be its geographic significance.

The four points may relate to the four corners of the earth or the cardinal points. The inner circles may express space as well as time.

Moreover, there is the political aspect of the stone.

It may have been intended to show Tenochtitlan as the center of the world and therefore, as the center of authority

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

here is a little introduction to the original fantasy world i came up with for the eflorr trilogy.

series masterlist | pinterest board | playlist | masterlist

Welcome to the world of Tyhmalaa. Our stories take place on the continent of Aton where the two major kingdoms (Eflorr and Obelón) have had a feud spanning decades. 

here is a little list of facts to give you a sense of what kind of realm this is:

currency: platinum, gold, silver and copper 

monsters: yes

magic: no

calendar: the year is just divided by the four seasons (each with 90 days in them) with 7 days in a week (Moonsday, Tidesday, Windsday, Thundersday, Fogsday, Stormsday and Solarsday) and the year shift is on the longest night of the year on the 30th day of winter

year the first story begins: 856 PR (post-rimesunder, an ancient white dragon that once froze the entire continent of Efira for 2 centuries till he was slain)

climate: the weather in Aton goes through all four of the standard seasons (sping, summer, autumn and winter), though most of the stories take place on the northern side of the continent, so it is on the colder side.

religions: there are multiple gods people worship (some notable ones are: Apa – goddess of wilderness and the sea, Kotris – goddess of knowledge, Cicero – god of war and peace, Zondür – god of atonement and love, Sona – goddess of life and death)

kingdoms on the continent: Eflorr (capital: Borün) and Obelón (capital: Ingorn)

maps and doodles:

it took me around 30 hours of work to draw all of these, but it was super meditative.

map of the continent of Aton.

⊠ squares = capitals

⊗ circles = smaller towns

△ triangles = speciality locations

the continent of Efira is located to the north east of Aton.

Fort Borün. The ivy-covered stone castle on the top of the cliff is home of the royal family of Eflorr.

Elm Square. The beating heart of Borün, it is not only a central meeting place for all, but also the district where the majority of the city's shops, taverns, etc are. The town square gets especially sparkly during the seasonal festivals with booths are stalls crowding the market.

Willow Grove Cemetery. As the name would suggest, a large weeping willow tree grounds this cemetery that it is built around. Although Eflorr as a whole commonly isn't very religious, this graveyard does house a few alters and shrines to various deities.

The Valerian Ward. You'll find all manner of schools, museums, as well as Borün's beautiful aquarium in this part of town.

The Port of Borün. The city's docks are always bustling with excitement and possibilities.

The Western Farms. Up on the hill that swiftly blossoms into The Noll Woods, are a plethora of rolling fields and cosy cottages.

The Beach. Down the little steps on the northern side of the docks is not the only way to access this cove. Though the steep path some way further north is no secret, not everyone is privileged to the knowledge that the castle's cellar opens up into a cave system that leads out onto the beach. Created as a safety measure and a last resort for the royals to escape, the tunnels most commonly got used by the young royals as a daring playground.

The Tulip Neighbourhood. The homes in this part of town have generous courtyards that bring the households together.

The Dandelion Quarter. Part residential, this neighbourhood also houses a grand park (The Riverview Public Park), where combat courses/training are held every weekend, as well as The Water Lily Orphanage.

The Snowdrop Sector. For those not inclined for the bustle of the city's centre but still want to live close enough to the action often settle down in a little cottage out in this district. Many also chose to retire out here, living out the rest of their days in a cabin by the sea.

The Barracks. Through the main gate lies a grand courtyard to welcome you to the castle. The surrounding buildings are designated mainly for the wardens. There are living quarters for them, training areas, armoury, small stables that also house the royal horses, as well as the city's small garrison.

The Western Wing. In here lies many of the more public spaces: throne room, ballroom, banquet hall, servants quarters, the kitchen, war room, the meeting room that's utilised mostly for gatherings with the town council.

The Conservatory. This secluded greenhouse was built as a memorial to King Edward III. who apparently had quite the green thumb.

The Topiary Garden. A private courtyard separating the two main buildings is a serene space where one can come sit on a small bench and listen to the trickling water of the fountain in the centre.

The Eastern Wing. This part of the castle is home to the royal's private chambers as well as numerous other spaces such as the library.

The castle also has a basement that's not only utilised for storage (both of common items as well as the most precious that's kept safe in the grand vault) it also connects to a tunnel system that leads all the way out onto the beach.

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[mamamoon92]

List of Druid Gods and Goddesses✨

Aine - (AN-yuh) Goddess of love, summer, sovereignty. Some said she was the daughter of Manannan, some said she was the Morrigan herself. Aine is very vengeful, and offending her is not wise.

Amaethon - God of agriculture, animal husbandry. Enemy of Arawn. Brother of Gwydion and Arianrhod.

Arawn - God of the dead, hunting, revenge. King of the underworld. Enemy of Amaethon. Possessed a magical cauldron of regeneration. Possesses many hounds who hunt for the souls of the dead.

Arianrhod - Goddess of beauty, fertility, reincarnation, the sky, weaving, enchantment. Keeper of the circling "silver wheel" of stars, a symbol of time and karma. Sister of Amaethon and Gwyddion.

Blodeuwedd - Goddess of flowers, lunar mysteries, wisdom.  She was created from flowers by Math and Gwydion as a wife for the god Lleu. Gwydion later turned her into an owl for killing her husband.

Brigit - Goddess of fire, healing, motherhood, agriculture, inspiration, learning, divination, poetry, prophecy, the forge.  An  ever-burning fire is kept in her honor by nineteen priestesses. Imbolc is sacred to her. Sometimes considered a triple goddess: the Three Mothers. Also known as Brighid.

Cailleach - Goddess of disease, plague, sorcery. A hag, strongly associated with the crone aspect of triple goddesses. The goddess of winter, she brings snow until Brigit (spring) turns her to stone each year. The name means "veiled one."

Cernunnos - God of the hunt, animals, fertility, warriors, nature, commerce, love, the underworld. Known as "the Horned God." Stags are sacred to him.

Cerridwen - Goddess of enchantment, death, initiation, wisdom, inspiration, regeneration, dark prophecy. Moon Goddess, Great Mother and Grain Goddess. She brewed a magical potion of wisdom in her cauldron and forced the young Taliesin to stir it for a year and a day. When he accidentally swallowed the last three drops, he was transformed into a bard and grew very wise. Welsh bards once called themselves Cerddorion "sons of Cerridwen."

Dagda, The - God of the arts, knowledge, magic, music, prophecy, prosperity, regeneration, fatherhood, protection. Known as the "Good God" and "Lord of the Heavens," he succeeded Nuada as high king of the Tuatha De Danann.

Danu - Goddess of the elements (particularly water), magic, wisdom, the earth, cattle. Mother of the Tuatha De Danann, she is the most prominent mother goddess.

Diancecht- God of healing. Crafted a magical well which would resurrect to life anyone thrown into it, although the Fomorians filled it with stones. Had a son named Miach and a daughter named Airmed. See "Herbalism, the Legend."

Druantia - Goddess of fir trees, passion, protection, knowledge, creativity. Queen of the Druids and creator of the moon calendar. Often associated with motherhood.

Epona - Goddess of healing, prosperity, maternity. Protector of horses. Strongly associated with fertility.

Goibniu - God of the forge, brewing, thunder. Smith of the Tuatha De Danann, his weapons could not miss and were always fatal. His brew made the Tuatha De Danann invincible and healed all illnesses.

Gwyddion - God of enchantment, illusion, magic, music, shapeshifting, learning. Sometimes called the Druid of the Gods due to his interests. Brother of Amaethon and Arianrhod.

Gwynn ap Nudd - God of war, death, fallen warriors, the hunt. King of the Sidhe and the Otherworld.

Llyr - God of sea, water, the underworld. Father of Mannanan, who is generally considered more prominent. Also known as Lir.

Lugh - (Loo) Sun god of all crafts, the arts, healing, journeys, prophecy. His skills were without end, and they won him a spot in the Tuatha De Danann. He had a magic spear and otherworldly hounds. Lughnasadh is held in his honor. There are many tales about Lugh's exploits.

Manannan - God of the sea, weather, underworld. Son of Llyr. Shapeshifter. Separated the worlds of humans and faeries.

Morrigan, The - A shapeshifting goddess of magic, prophecy, revenge, war, death. Known as "Great Queen" and "Specter Queen," she often takes the form of a crow. Sometimes considered to be a Triple Goddess, her aspects are listed below.

   Nemain - Maiden. Known as "venomous" or "havoc," she can

      create hatred where there was none.

   Macha - Mother. Known as "battle," associated with horses,

      cunning, and protectors.

   Badb (Bibe) - Crone. Known as "fury," "battle crow," and

      "boiling," she confused warriors to increase slaughter.

Niamh - (Nee-av) Name means "radiance" or "brightness." Daughter of the sea god Manannan, she rode a white horse which could walk across the seas. See "Niamh's Story" for more information.

Nuada - (Noo-ada) God of harpers, healing, historians, magic, poets, warfare, writing. King of the Tuatha De Danann at one time, he had to step down when he lost his hand in battle; it was replaced by a silver one by Diancecht then one made of flesh by Diancecht's son Miach.

Ogma - God of eloquence, inspiration, language, magic, music, physical strength, poets, writers. Invented the Ogham rune alphabet and carried a huge club.

Taliesin - God of magic, music, poetry, wisdom, writing. Known as Prince of Song, Chief of the Bards of the West, and Patron of Druids, he was a great magician, bard, and shapeshifter who gained his wisdom from a potion brewed by Cerridwen.

[eri-pl]

Silm Advent calendar 11: Eagles

Warnings: some late Númenor, but not descriptive.

Tagroval landed on the mountaintop which still smelled of freshly-hewn stone, and, of course, of hallowed ground. Maybe rock would be a better word. Was rock a ground? Surely it was something to sit on. Below, at the roots of the mountain, Lady Yavanna and her Maiar planted the forest.

Yes, this would be a good place to live. Not as far as Middle Earth, but not in Valinor proper. Somewhere more quiet and a little more subdued.

He took to the air again, circling around the mountain, seeking a good place for a nest. 

Some years later — a dozen or two — a fleet of ships appeared in the distance, like a white flock, and it wasn't long until they landed. A multitude of Men came on the shores, and into the land. Their exclamations of awe rose into the sky. In a few years, they built the first cities, and a road to the mountain. Fortunately it wasn't too close to the nest of Tagroval’s family. 

One day the Edain came to the mountain: a perfectly silent crowd led by a descendent of Melian. There was something about them that felt both ancient and new, and none of the eagles dared to land. Instead they circled above, silently pondering what it could all mean. 

Since then the Men came often, but rarely in such a large and profound group. 

Years passed, the trees grew and so did the cities of Men, and eventually a new king led the procession. And later, another. Tagroval didn't pay much attention to those changes. 

On the distant sea, ships grew bigger and started leaving for long. He had to look really carefully to see them — visible only in good weather — at the distant shores in the east. Then a great war was fought there, but the eagles did not concern themselves with Middle Earth much, except to agree that they'd made a good decision to not live there.

People came to the mountain less often, and Tagroval appreciated the peace, but a shadow darkened his thoughts. 

The cities grew bigger and richer, and the Men became restless. They sailed back and forth, talked louder and often smelled of fear. One day a brilliant ship came from the West, and Tagroval saw glimpses of his friend, but they did not talk. The visit was short and focused on the king's palace, and the shadow thickened. 

Years passed and Men stopped coming to the mountain almost completely. They spoke to each other more angrily, and not in the melodic words of Sindarin. But the forest was still green and full of game.

The ships sailed back and forth, but most didn't resemble birds anymore, they were more like dragons — full of gold and yet greedy for more. The smaller, birdlike vessels sailed east from time to time, but never came back.

One spring a new king came to the mountain. His company was much less numerous, but his eyes were sharp almost like Tagroval’s and his heart willing to take flight — but too many burdens weighed him down and with each season he grew more tired. And the processions weren't getting any bigger. One day he did not come again. 

Not long after, the fleet went to war.

When it returned, the wind smelled of fire and Tagroval shivered in apprehension.

Soldiers patrolled the low part of the mountain road, and a new silver dome shone in the city. Nimloth screamed wordlessly in fire and soon many Men followed her. 

It was time to leave. 

Storms came and later earthquakes, and one day when a host of his brothers and sisters appeared on the horizon, Tagroval joined them, and with him all the Eagles of the island.

The fleet followed them. 

The Eagles flew back and forth, seeing, remembering, witnessing. The screams. The smoke. The laughter. The fleet. 

It finally landed and — like a rat into a nest of much nobler creatures, the king led his army into the white shore.

Unseen, brighter than Taniquetil, higher than the flight, both ancient and new — and the world broke. 

Somewhere beyond the storm a queen climbed, too late. 

Even further, a flock of ships took flight.

[vilevenom]

I got some sad news this morning, so I wrote something sad to make me feel better.

Not the best start to the new year but here we are.

Shadow grunted as he sat up, rubbing at his eyes as sun poured in through the window, having forgotten to close the curtains the night before. He sighed as he slouched against the head board, glancing to the empty half of the bed with a slight frown, before turning his gaze towards the calendar tacked up on the wall. The day was circled in red, bringing attention to its importance. Not that he'd ever forget.

Slowly, he dragged himself from the bed and shuffled into the kitchen, stabbing at the buttons of the coffee machine as he shoved a mug under the nozzle. He had hoped that over time he'd figure out how it worked properly, but Sonic was always better with technology than he'd ever be. Eventually, however, the machine sputtered to life and began to pour a cup of coffee, allowing him a minute or two to wander into the bathroom to brush out his quills and brush his teeth. Once satisfied, he headed back to the kitchen, dumping the mug of coffee into a thermos before slipping his gloves and shoes on and heading out the door. With the early hour, he was hoping that the sooner he headed out, the less likely it would be that he would potentially run into any of Sonic's friends.

It wasn't too long of a jaunt to his destination, as it was a familiar path that he'd run on many an occasion by now. He was relatively certain that if he just closed his eyes and let his air shoes go, they'd still take him to the right place. He huffed out a quiet breath as he trekked up the small, grassy hill, only pausing once he was beneath the giant willow tree that called the top of the hill home, taking a long sip from his thermos as he settled himself beneath its boughs. No one else was here yet, nor did it look like they had been, given the lack of the usual decorations that they had a tendency to put up. But this was better. Shadow preferred the quiet.

"It's been quite the year, hasn't it?" Shadow murmured as a breeze shifted the branches above him, sending flower petals dancing through the air. Silence answered him, but that was to be expected. After a few moments he let himself list to the side, his shoulder coming to rest against cold stone. It was a sensation he was fairly certain he'd never get used to, but he was grateful for it. It gave him something to ground himself with. On especially bad days he'd press his whole back to it, just to keep his mind from wandering away, like it did when he stared up at the ARK.

"There's been so much that you've missed. So much that I wish you'd been around for," he continued, staring off into the brilliantly blue sky, the day looking like it was going to be perfect for a party. "You know, I finally figured out how to use the coffee machine?…More or less, anyway. It spits out coffee, so that's all I really need." He chuckled quietly, tapping the bottom of his thermos against the stone gently. "Your friends will be here soon to celebrate. I won't be staying, but you're used to that by now, aren't you?"

Silence continued to reign, the soft sound of birds waking up to the morning the only other noise around. Shadow finished his coffee and turned to the stone he'd been leaning on, brushing his fingers reverently over the words etched into it. He could easily recall arguing with Tails over what it should say, but in the end he was the more articulate and sentimental of them, so he'd ultimately won the argument. They were words he'd long since memorized, but he still let his eyes trace over each letter with a heavy heart.

'Here Lies Sonic the Hedgehog. Brother, Partner, Friend. The Hero of Mobius. May the winds of change never slow you down.'

"Happy birthday, Sonic," Shadow murmured, leaning in to press a short kiss to the top of the grave stone, "I miss you."

With that, he could hear the distant sound of children squealing and loud conversations. Sonic's friends were arriving with their kids in tow to have their annual celebration of life. Shadow had hated the idea of having a party at Sonic's grave at first, but Amy had made a good argument about how Sonic wouldn't want to be mourned with crying. He'd want people to celebrate the life he allowed them all to live.

"I'll see you soon," he murmured, rising from his spot in the grass, red sparks already dancing around his shoes as they powered up, "enjoy the party."

The only evidence of Shadow's visit, as the rowdy group of freedom fighters crested the hill, was a streak of red and gold energy zipping away from the graveyard, and a single sprig of lavender laying across the base of Sonic's grave stone.