#we are mice in the midst of things

[woundgallery]

Mary Jo Bang

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 2: I’m The Son Of Rage And Love]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Jesus Of Suburbia” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

On the shores of the Susquehanna River, just north of Harrisburg, you find a Wawa with no gas: bags on all the pumps, cars with their fuel caps unscrewed and dangling. This is a common courtesy adopted en masse, like rationing during the World Wars or flying American flags after 9/11. It signals that a car has already been siphoned, no gasoline to be found here, no transparent flammable gold made of eons-past decomposition. You wonder if in a few million years, some unfathomable new apex species will be drilling your liquefied remains from the lightless layers of the earth to power their spaceships.

“Then we got sent to Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling,” Rio continues, gnawing on a piece of beef jerky, Jack Link’s in a red bag, teriyaki. Mercifully, whoever took the gas left some of the food. You are sitting in the parking lot, a quaint zombie apocalypse picnic, trail mix and Rice Krispies Treats, Herr’s potato chips and Tastykakes, warm soda sipped from plastic bottles. Luke and Rhaena are on the roof of the Tahoe. Jace is tearing the convenience store apart; he is convinced the employees must have kept a gun somewhere in case of robberies. You know he’s fine. You can hear him banging around and swearing in there.

“Then we built some schools and a hospital in Djibouti,” you say.

Aegon is baffled yet intrigued. “Djibouti…?”

“It’s on the Horn of Africa, near Ethiopia and Somalia.”

Luke snorts. “It’s nice of you to assume he knows where Africa is.”

“Huh.” Aegon tosses a green M&M into his mouth. “Djibouti is horny.”

Rio says: “And after that we spent like six months in Key West, and then we got shipped to Corpus Christi, where Chips very narrowly avoided getting impregnated by, marrying, and inevitably acrimoniously divorcing a Marine.”

Everyone laughs except Aemond, who gives you a teasing smirk. “Did you really?”

“Uh, no. He asked me out, I ghosted him, that’s as far as it went.”

“Why’d you ghost him?” Baela says, crunching on Utz Cheese Balls.

Aegon turns to Rio. “You want a Honey Bun?”

“You’re my Honey Bun,” Rio replies. Aegon smiles, his sunburn flushing darker.

You shrug, eat a handful of candied almonds, tell a half-truth. “I just didn’t like him enough.”

Rhaena yelps and points: a snake, black and maybe five feet long, is slithering across the parking lot. It passes beneath the shade of the Tahoe and then continues towards the bushes. A moderate amount of panic erupts.

Helaena glances up from her notebook. “Rat snake. Not venomous.”

Rhaena shudders. “Well, I still don’t like it.”

“Where were you stationed next?” Daeron asks Rio.

“Chinhae, South Korea. Wicked cool place. The people love Americans, the food is incredible. We were there to rebuild a pier that got wrecked in a typhoon. They have these cute dolphin-looking things, they’d swim right up to the edge of the water with fish in their mouths to try to give to us. Like cats bringing home mice for their owners.”

“Finless porpoises,” you say.

“Yeah, those. And after Korea, it was Diego Garcia.”

“Diego…what?” Rhaena says.

Aegon turns to Luke. “Try to act like I’m stupid for not knowing where that is.”

“Diego Garcia is a tiny little island in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” you say, a bit wistfully. “It’s technically owned by the British, but we share a base there, we use it for airfields and to refuel submarines, things like that. We were renovating the housing facilities for Camp Thunder Cove. At night we’d go to the beach, have a few beers, look out into the ocean and it was just…nothing. Wide open dark nothingness for as far as you could imagine.”

“That’s what we need now,” Helaena murmurs as she makes elegant cursive annotations in her notebook, the cover picturing different species of spiders, a pinktoe tarantula, a green lynx spider, a black widow. “Someplace to go where no one will find us.”

“So you’ve known each other since basic training.” Aemond’s remaining blue eye shifts between you and Rio, like he’s still trying to puzzle it out. There’s really no mystery. You’re friends, and you’ve always been friends, and you’ve never been more than friends, despite many of your fellow seamen’s jokes to the contrary.

You tear open a Slim Jim. Aemond rebandaged your hands this morning, though they barely hurt anymore; he touches you with a clinical, focused restraint. “Not quite that long. Rio enlisted a few months before I did, so we weren’t at Great Lakes together, and then carpenters do technical school in Gulfport, Mississippi near Biloxi, and electricians train at Sheppard Air Force Base in Texas. We met after we were both assigned to Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 1.”

“The First and The Finest,” Rio quotes the motto, grinning. “The original Seabees, founded during World War II. People called our battalion the Pioneers, which…is kind of ironic now.”

Aegon says, munching noisily on trail mix: “It’ll be so appropriate when you end up dying of a broken leg or the flu or in some other totally preventable way.”

“It’s so crazy, people died of anything back then,” Luke marvels gravely. “Tuberculosis, pneumonia, infections, starving, freezing, poisoning, getting kicked by a horse, giving birth…”

Rhaena shoots him a fearsome look and Luke shuts up, but of course he can’t take it back. There is a long uncomfortable silence punctuated only by birdsong and Jace’s muffled outbursts from inside the Wawa. Everyone looks at Baela, concerned, pitying, entirely unable to do anything to improve her situation. She is still eating Cheese Balls with one orange-stained hand, but the other rests on her belly.

“Clearly, the timing is less than ideal,” Baela says after a while, and if she’s terrified she doesn’t sound like it. “It wasn’t planned to begin with, but I was determined to make the best of things. I figured that I could still finish up my master’s degree with a baby, and Rhaena and our parents could help, and Jace would be done with law school soon, and it might be stressful for a while but we’d all get through it. And now…” She shrugs wryly. “Now all those plans are gone. Just gone.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Aemond says; a fierce low determination, a promise, a vow.

Baela smiles at Rio. “How old is your baby?”

He is caught off-guard, clears his throat, averts his gaze. Aegon looks over at him, alarmed. “Oh, he, uh…he’s little. Really little. He…” And Rio, so rarely at a loss for words, can’t continue. He eats his beef jerky instead.

You explain for him. “Sophie’s due date was right around the time the phones and internet went down. The last we heard, she was headed to Odessa to stay with Rio’s parents.” Aemond and his companions nod and don’t say what they’re thinking, but it’s swimming in their eyes: Sophie could have died, the baby could have died, they both could have died, you and Rio might be risking your lives to cross the continental United States for nothing. “Rio’s parents live in this…well, I joke around and call it a doomsday prepper cult, but that’s not really what it is, it’s just a farming community out in the middle of nowhere. People who have their own chickens and gardens, churn their own butter, don’t wear deodorant, make medicine out of tree bark…and a lot of them have kind of a survivalist mentality, they stock pantries and collect guns. So we figure we can reunite Rio with his family and then carve out lives for ourselves in relative peace.”

Rio reaches over to bump his fist against your shoulder. He is grateful. You punch him back, fairly forcefully; it’s like hitting a brick wall. Rio is as tall as Aemond but probably outweighs him by a hundred pounds.

You ask Aemond: “What’s in the Bay Area?”

“Our parents have a beach house. It’s up on a cliff by itself, pretty isolated, and surrounded by state parks. That’s where they were when everything shut down. I assume they’re still there.”

“Beach house?” Rio raises his eyebrows. “On a cliff?”

Rich kids. REALLY rich kids. “Your parents couldn’t just fly you to California in a private jet or something?” you say.

“Our pilots stole the jets,” Aemond replies, not realizing you were joking.

“Oh.”

“Jace and Luke’s parents were home in London, so getting there isn’t really an option, and then Baela and Rhaena…”

“Mum and Dad were on a business trip to Moscow,” Baela says. “I’d like to think they weren’t eaten, but…they were probably eaten.”

“I am so sorry,” you manage awkwardly.

A single zombie goes shuffling past the Wawa on the main street, a woman in a floral church dress, hair falling out of its curls, one pink high heel that clicks on the pavement, blood all over her mouth and chin. She notices the nine of you and begins to hiss, lurching closer. Daeron shoots her down and then trots over to retrieve his arrows, yanking them out of her cheek and eye socket. Rhaena winces. Aemond, distracted, bites into a Nature Valley granola bar. Aegon opens a can of Pringles, pizza-flavored.

Luke is peering through his binoculars, looking south towards Harrisburg. Faintly, you can see sunlight glinting off the gilded statue of a woman—the Spirit of the Commonwealth—that tops the green clay tile dome of the state capitol building. “What is that?”

“The sculpture?” you say.

“No. Farther away. Those big concrete towers, right on the water.”

Now you know exactly what he means…and you’d forgotten all about it. It’s an oversight you hope doesn’t cost too much. “That’s Three Mile Island. And we should leave so we can put more space between it and us.”

“Oh, fuck me…” Rio mutters.

Now everyone else is squinting to see the facility, barely visible from the Wawa. “Why?” Aemond asks you.

“Because it’s a nuclear power plant. And since the electricity is out everywhere, as soon as its backup generators fail, it will melt down and the whole area around it will become radioactive.”

Aegon puts two Pringles into his mouth so they look like a duck bill. “How do you know?”

“Did no one else go through a Chernobyl obsession phase in high school?”

“The professor mentioned it in one of my chemistry classes,” Aemond says, but he sounds doubtful; this must have been years ago, when he was consumed by med school prerequisites and had no space left in his brain for mere curiosity.

“Okay, listen up.” Rio knows the key points; he’s had to study different sources of electrical power. He demonstrates with dramatic hand gestures. “You have super radioactive reactor fuel, usually uranium or plutonium. You have a pool of water around it that circulates continuously. The heat of the fuel evaporates the water, which makes steam, which spins turbines, thus creating power. But if the external electricity fails, the water stops circulating, and the heat vaporizes all of it, and when there’s no more water the reactor fuel overheats and melts through the floor and poisons the earth, air, and groundwater. Any questions?”

There is a chorus of distressed chattering as people swiftly rise to their feet, clutching armfuls of snacks for the road. Jace comes trudging out of the Wawa, conspicuously not in possession of a firearm.

“No luck?” Daeron asks.

“Obviously not.” Then Jace snaps at Aemond: “Why were you stomping around all pissed off in the medicine aisle earlier? What were you looking for?”

“Nothing,” Aemond says quickly.

“Seriously, dude, what was it?”

“Nothing!”

“Damn, Plankton, calm down.” Jace shields his face from the sun, following Luke’s nervous eyeline towards the concrete cooling towers to the south. “What’s that?”

“Three Mile Island,” you say. “And we’re leaving now.”

Aegon yawns loudly. “I’m so full! Rio, can you carry me to the car?” And before anyone can tell Aegon to shut up, Rio has crouched down to let him scramble onto his back. Aegon cackles and waves his can of Pringles around as Rio sprints to the Tahoe. Now there are a few more zombies stumbling up the street, but you don’t waste arrows or bullets on them. Baela runs them down as she swerves out of the parking lot and drives northwest, heading towards Clarks Ferry Bridge where you will cross the Susquehanna River in a less populated area and commence the long slog to the Ohio border. She turns up the volume on the CD player: London Bridge by Fergie. Immediately, Rio, Aegon, Daeron, Rhaena, and Luke are singing along.

Baela checks the fuel gauge and looks at Aemond in the rearview mirror. “We have half a tank left.”

“We’ll find gas somewhere.”

“Aemond, it’ll be alright. Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not going to be able to walk to California.”

Baela can’t think of a response. He’s right. Outside, the miles roll by in a blur of radiant, reptilian, early-summer green.

~~~~~~~~~~

Each time the interstate is blocked by a snarl of crashed vehicles or a backup too thick to navigate through—both common occurrences—Aegon digs the folded map out of his shorts and charts a new course for Baela to follow. This particular divergence might prove fortunate. The Tahoe has rolled into Distant, Pennsylvania, an Appalachian speck of a town, churches, coal mines, dilapidated old sheds. On the outskirts, perched on a hill and surrounded by oak trees, you find a small single-story brick house with a myriad of banners on the flagpole: an American flag, a Confederate flag, a black POW/MIA flag, Don’t Tread On Me, Trump 2024.

“Yeah,” Aegon says, scratching his scruffy chin as he peers up through the windshield. “I feel like they probably owned guns.”

“How do we know they’re not still home?” Baela asks warily.

“No car in the driveway,” Aemond observes. “No windows boarded up. They probably ran into trouble while they were out somewhere and never made it back.” Then he waits, the question upspoken. Are we going to risk it?

“We’re down,” Rio says after exchanging a glance with you.

Aemond turns to Jace. Jace—curly dark hair down to his shoulders, eyes on the house, chewing his full bottom lip apprehensively—doesn’t reply at first.

“You said you wanted a gun, Jace. All the Walmarts are cleaned out. This is what shopping looks like now.”

“Fine. Okay. Let’s go.”

Baela parks the Tahoe in the gravel driveway and tells Rhaena and Luke to stay inside with Helaena until the property has been cleared. The rest of you climb out, afternoon sun and mountain wind, dandelions crushed under your shoes. There’s a barn behind the house, you see now, gaps between the wooden boards and flaking red paint.

Luke is standing up through the open sunroof, inspecting the scene with his binoculars. “No movement.”

“We’ll take the house, if you want,” Rio tells Aemond. You’re clutching your borrowed baseball bat with bandaged hands, though it still feels unnatural; your M9 is in its holster in case of emergencies. Jace, Baela, and Daeron start plodding across the yard towards the barn. The grass is tall and mostly shaded, the oak trees decades old, massive, weaving a patchwork canopy of leaves.

Aegon trots over and slaps Aemond on his left shoulder, his blind side. Aemond says without looking at him: “I’ll go with them. You wait out here.”

Aegon drives an imaginary ball with his golf club. “I’m very sensitive to rejection, you know.”

“You’ll survive.” Then Aemond follows you and Rio to the house.

Rio tries the knob, locked. He doesn’t waste a bullet by trying to shoot the lock off the door, something that is far less reliable than movies would have you believe. He kicks it open instead, three tries and then the screws that secure the latch give way and the door swings ajar. You wait, counting seconds in your head, listening for growls or footsteps. There are no sounds except the breeze sighing through the trees, the warbles and wing flaps of birds. You steal a glimpse of the barn. Jace, Baela, and Daeron have unhooked the rusted iron latch and are venturing inside, Daeron last and glancing around watchfully, his compound bow already drawn. Rio steps into the house.

It’s hot, stifling, all the windows shut. But this has its advantages. You inhale deeply: no trace of decomposition, no black swampy nauseating rot, just dust and lemon Pledge and old-people staleness.

“Smells fine,” Rio says. And then, loudly: “Anyone home? We’re just looking for supplies. We don’t want to hurt you. If anybody is here, just let us know and we’d be happy to leave. And, uh, sorry about the door.”

You stay close to Rio as he sweeps through the living room—floral couch, television turned off, crosses on the walls—and then the kitchen, where bananas are turning black on the counter. Aemond is to your right; he’s placed you on his blind side. He trusts me, you think. When did that happen? You haven’t heard anything from Aegon or the barn. That must be going well.

In the bedroom, Aemond pulls the curtains open to let some light in. You search the drawers, the closet, under the bed. No weapons. The bathroom has 1950s-style pink porcelain, the dining room table is set for a meal that never happened. There is a deer head mounted on the wall, ten points, not bad.

“I can’t believe these fuckers didn’t have guns,” Rio says. “But where the hell are they?!”

You have always watched more than you’ve spoken. That’s why you’re good at shooting things, and why you’re still alive. Rio talks and you listen; Rio acts and you reflect. “Wait.” You turn to Aemond. “Did you see a cellar outside?”

“A what?” He is perplexed. “Like…a wine cellar…?”

“No. A regular cellar.” You walk back into the midday heat and circle the house, Aemond and Rio hurrying to keep up. Over by the barn, everyone else is stretched out across the grass, joking, relaxing, Baela with her hammer on the ground and her hands laced over her belly, Helaena cradling a praying mantis in her palms and showing it to Rhaena. Aegon is teaching Luke how to smoke with a pack of Marlboro Golds he found at the Wawa. Luke, game yet somewhat anxious, takes a puff and then immediately coughs until he starts retching.

“I want to try too,” Daeron says.

Aegon shakes his head, taking a nonchalant drag off his own cigarette. “Nope. Not for you. Illegal. You’re under eighteen.”

“I want to try!”

“Shut up, you can’t even vote.”

“Nobody can vote, the government has collapsed!”

You find it at the back of the house: a pair of large metal doors leading down into the underground cellar. The weeds have begun to encroach on them, wild violets and black nightshade.

“Awesome!” Rio says, lifting the doors open one at a time, the hinges shrieking. They’re heavy, but they cause him no trouble. Underneath is a staircase and a room dark with shadows; you can see a light switch that won’t work, the electricity long gone. Rio unclips the flashlight from his  belt—taken from Saratoga Springs, waterproof with a 90-degree head so it doesn’t roll, known as a Moonbeam—and ducks down into the cellar. It’s a small room, easy to clear, and then you can start inventorying your findings. Rio is laughing, ecstatic. There is a workbench, a coil of thick rope, an array of tools—screwdrivers, wrenches, hammers, saws—some homemade leather wallets and holsters, cans of Brillo color spray…and then a treasure trove of weapons mounted on the walls.

You scan the collection. “We got Marlin .22s, we got Ruger Magnums, we got Remington 12 gauges, we got hunting knives…and one Glock 20.”

“A lot of ammo under here, Chips,” Rio says, yanking boxes out from beneath the workbench and stacking them on the floor, organized by caliber.

“No scopes?”

“Not that I’ve seen yet.”

You lift one of the Remingtons off its hooks and examine it: dusty, unloaded, vines of rust on the receiver. “We’ll have to go through and sight all of them. I don’t think they’ve been used in a while.”

“That’ll be a lot of noise. But here’s the place to do it, I guess. Low population, and we’re not staying.”

“Exactly.”

“Sight them for close range, like ten yards?”

“Yeah, that should work.”

Aemond says, eyebrow raised: “I didn’t know the Navy used shotguns.”

“Everyone hunts where I’m from.” You put the Remington down on the workbench then pick up the Glock, a box of 10mm ammo, and a can of Brillo. “Come on. Grab one of those hammers. I’ll show you how to shoot.”

You bound up the cellar steps and out into the shade of the oak trees, not stopping until you are at the edge of the property. Across the backyard where he lounges on the grass, Aegon gestures to the barn and asks Luke: “What’s in there anyway?”

“Nothing. Saddles and a few dead horses.”

“Oh, dynamite, I gotta see the dead horses.”

Jace says: “Aegon, man, what is your diagnosis?”

You use the can of Brillo to spray a large chocolate-colored circle onto a tree trunk, then make another two feet above that. You count your steps as you walk back towards Aemond: approximately ten yards. You load a single bullet in the Glock, aim for the bottom circle, and fire. A hole appears at the very edge of the circle. You take the hammer from Aemond and give the rear sight a few knocks. “This isn’t recommended, but it usually works.”

Aemond is smiling. “Okay.”

You load the full magazine and try again. The bullet hits closer to the middle this time. “Here. Both hands.”

Aemond takes the Glock but hesitates. “Is…my eye…?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem. A lot of people close one eye anyway when they’re aiming. I always do.”

He is relieved. “Oh. Good.”

You tap the underside of the Glock. Aemond obediently lifts it. “The line of sight is slightly higher than the barrel, so you have to account for that. And then gravity will pull the bullet lower, and the longer the range of the shot, the more it will drop. So when you fire, the barrel should be angled upwards just the tiniest bit, not horizontal.”

“Like throwing a football.”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s an arc, not a straight line. At first it’ll feel like you’re trying to do all these calculations in your head, and it will be overwhelming, but then it becomes muscle memory and you don’t even have to think about it.” Jace, Baela, and Daeron are now eagerly crossing the yard to help Rio carry the guns out of the cellar and receive their own lessons. “Alright, we’re going to start with a really terrifying enemy. I want you to shoot that tree.”

“What a formidable tree.”

“Aim for the top circle. And if you hit it, then you can practice on Jace.”

Aemond laughs, butter-yellow sunlight filtering down through the trees, the shadows of leaves flickering over his skin, a mosaic of flesh and earth. You ghost your open hand down the length of his arm as if adjusting the angle. Really, you just want to touch him, to feel his warmth and his stillness, the tension of his muscles, the rhythm of his pulse. He’s watching you, lips parted, goosebumps rising beneath your fingertips. Birds are chirping, sparrows and blue jays. High above, squirrels leap and scrabble through the branches. You pull your hand away.

“Look through the sights. The rear sight at the back of the barrel is shaped like a U, and the one at the front is an I. Is the I in the middle of the U?”

“I have no idea.” A pause as he reconsiders. “Yes.”

“Right, it is, and the bullet should go exactly where you want it to because I already sighted that Glock. I’ll show you how to do it later. Now shoot the tree.”

Aemond aims but doesn’t pull the trigger. He’s nervous; he doesn’t want to seem incompetent, pathetic. You imagine it is rare that he isn’t the one with the solutions.

“Hey,” you say softly, and he looks over at you. “You don’t judge me for not knowing how to cure people. I won’t judge you for not knowing how to kill them. Deal?”

Now he’s smiling again. “Deal.” He returns his attention to the tree, lets a few more seconds tick by, and fires. He hits one of the branches. “Oh, that is…embarrassing.”

“It’s not that bad. You hit something. Try again.”

More seconds, more birdsong, more wind through the grass and the leaves. Aemond’s second bullet pierces the trunk about six inches above the top circle. “Yes!” he cheers, boyish triumph on his scarred face.

You resist touching him. It is startlingly difficult. “That was really good.”

He lowers the Glock, and you click the safety on for him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” you say.

“Why’d you ghost that Marine at Corpus Christi?”

“I told you. I didn’t like him enough.”

“Okay, sure, but actually. What was wrong with him?”

“I’ve known you for like twenty-four hours. You think you’ve earned all my secrets?”

“Well, not all of them,” Aemond says, grinning. Rio is showing Jace, Baela, and Daeron how to load the .22s. Aegon is swinging his golf club in circles as he follows Luke into the barn. Helaena and Rhaena are giggling as butterflies land on their outstretched fingers. “But our time together could be very finite. It seems unwise to waste it by trying to preserve some amount of mystery.”

“You’ve convinced me.” You want to be known by him, you want to be understood. That is a frightening thing to realize. It’s like handing a stranger the keys to your home. Will they visit graciously, or will they rob you, ruin you, burn you down? “I haven’t seen many examples of love working out for people. I’ve seen couples who hated each other, and couples who split up, and a lot of women having to raise kids all on their own and turning into these…bitter, exhausted, hollowed-out versions of themselves. I never wanted that to be me. And for as long as I can remember, I’ve felt like that was just one wrong choice away from becoming my life. I don’t want men to disappoint me. So I don’t give them the chance.”

You think Aemond is going to say something cheap, flirtatious, awful: Give me a chance, baby. I won’t disappoint you. Instead he says: “I haven’t known many happy couples either. I mean…Luke and Rhaena would be the closest, I guess. But they’re so young. I’m not sure if they count.”

“Rio and Sophie seem happy. But they’ve also barely seen each other in five years.”

“It does things to you, when you start to believe love might be doomed to end or tear you apart or turn to hatred. If it’s just an evolutionary mirage to trick us into reproducing, what’s the point of giving someone that power over you?”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like one of us should be trying to talk the other out of being so fatalistically cynical.”

“Yeah, totally. Okay. You talk me out of it.”

He chuckles. “No, I don’t think I can. You talk me out of it.”

You’re watching Aemond, realizing you like everything about him—his smirk, his height, his hands, the clear direct blue of his eye—and wondering what the hell you’re going to do about it. Then there is a scream from the barn.

What?? Who??

“Luke!” Aemond shouts, and takes off across the yard. Now you’re all running, even Rhaena and Helaena who don’t have anything to fight with. Everyone is yelling, their lungs heaving in wild June air, their shoes pounding against the earth.

Inside the barn, on a wooden floor strewn with hay, Luke is shrieking as he tries to push a zombie off of him with his bare hands. She’s an older woman, grey hair in rollers, yellow nightgown stained with gore. Something has happened to her feet. Both of her legs end in exposed tibias and flapping strips of purplish, rotting skin. Aegon is beating her with his golf club, but he can’t get a good shot at her head. If he accidentally hits Luke, he could make it worse, he could stun him or even knock him out, and he’ll be bitten in the few seconds it takes anyone to remove his undead assailant. Rio lunges to grab the zombie. She snaps at him with bared teeth and he retreats, drawing his M9.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace is saying. The air is putrid: dead horses, dead people. “You’ll hit Luke!”

Your own M9 is suddenly in your hands, the safety clicked off, one eye closed. “Luke, don’t move.”

“Kill it, kill it!” he pleads hysterically, pushing the zombie as far from him as he can, his palms sinking into the decomposing bruise-colored tissue of her chest and throat.

“Don’t shoot!” Jace orders, but you ignore him. He fades into the background with all the other frenzied voices. Your finger on the trigger, a boom like thunder, bits of bone and brains against the wall. Luke shoves the corpse away, trembling, sobbing. Rhaena flies to him.

Aegon spots the fresh blood on Luke’s right hand and panics. “Is that a bite?!”

Luke notices the wound for the first time. “I don’t know!”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“I don’t know!” Luke wails, tears flooding down his pink face.

“I thought you cleared the barn!” Aemond roars at Aegon.

“It fell out of the loft, we didn’t think anything was up there!”

Luke is blubbering: “I hit my hand against one of the stalls, I think that’s how I cut myself, I was just…I was pushing it away…I didn’t think it bit me…oh my God, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t want to die…”

“It only takes once, kid,” Rio says grimly, fidgeting with his M9, looking at Aemond as if for permission.

“Don’t touch him!” Jace hisses, stepping in front of his brother and clutching his bat. “No one is going to hurt him, it’s not a bite, you can’t prove it’s a bite!”

You reach for Luke’s bleeding hand. “Can I see—?”

“Get away from him!” Jace swings his bat. The tip of it connects with your skull, just a graze fortunately, but still enough to rattle you. Rio charges Jace, tackles him to the floor, starts throwing punches. Baela has apparently forgotten she’s heavily pregnant and is trying to pull them apart. You join her.

He’s going to demolish Jace. He’s going to break his nose or jaw or something. “Rio stop, I’m fine, stop!”

There is another gunshot, a cataclysmic earth-shaking explosion that makes the pain in your head surge from a ripple to a wave. Aemond is aiming his Glock skywards; a hole has appeared in the roof of the barn. “Stand up!” he commands. Rio and Jace reluctantly comply. You help Baela to her feet.

“Aemond,” Jace says. “You have to stop them, they’re going to kill Luke—”

“No one is killing anybody.” Aemond lowers his Glock. “Maybe he’s been bitten. Maybe he hasn’t been. And even if we knew for sure that he was going to turn, we don’t just execute people like this, threatening them when they’re terrified. We have humanity. We have compassion.”

There is a silence that strikes you as heavy, laden, holding meaning that escapes you. Aegon points at Luke. “So what the fuck are we going to do about him?”

“We’ll tie him up,” Aemond decides.

“What?!” Luke exclaims.

“There’s rope in the cellar. We’ll tie his arms and legs so he can’t do anything and keep him like that for a few days until either his hand heals up or he turns into a zombie. Someone will always have to be with him to help him eat and take a piss and also…you know. Deal with it if he turns.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says immediately.

Aemond’s voice is now gentle, sympathetic. “I don’t think you want this.”

“If Luke has to die, I should be the person with him.”

“You’ve never had to put someone down before.” And in this statement lives another: Aemond knows what that feels like. Aemond has had to kill someone when they turned.

“I’ll stay with him,” Rhaena says again, this frail harmless doe-eyed girl, and you see a steeliness in her that you hadn’t thought existed.

“Okay,” Aemond relents. “When you’re asleep, Jace or I will take over.”

“It’s not a bite,” Jace murmurs, like he’s trying to convince himself.

“We’ll all find out soon enough,” Rio says, casting him a glare, then goes to fetch the coil of rope from the cellar.

Aemond cleans and bandages the wound on Luke’s hand. Then the weapons, ammo, and newly immobilized Luke are loaded into the Tahoe. Aemond asks you once everyone else is inside: “How’s your head?”

“Fine, I think.”

“Hurts?”

“Just a little.”

“Dizzy? Double vision?”

“No, nothing like that.”

He takes a quick look, parting your hair with his fingertips, feeling gingerly for blood and swelling. And this is becoming a serious problem: every time he touches you, you want more.

“Aemond…who did you have to kill?”

He doesn’t answer. For another moment his hand lingers by your temple, then Aemond turns away and climbs into the Tahoe. This time, no one sings along to the next song on the mixtape. Heads rest on windows, eyes are vacant and misty. Baela steers the Tahoe westbound on Route 1004, the Chainsmokers drifting through the speakers: All We Know.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Pick a card, any card,” Aegon says when he’s done shuffling. He fans out the entire Uno deck face-down and offers it to Rio, Aemond, and Jace. They each select a card, then Aegon picks one for himself. Finally, he holds out the deck to Luke, who stares up incredulously from where he’s still bound with rope and sitting on a curb in the parking lot of a Burger King just outside of Yarnell, Pennsylvania.

“Are you serious?”

“You’re an adult male, aren’t you? You think being in the middle of transforming into an undead murder machine exempts you from gasoline siphoning duty?”

“I’m fine!” Luke insists.

“Great. Then pick a card.”

“I can’t move my hands, you idiot.”

“Pick it with your mouth.”

“I hate you.” Luke bites his card of choice and waits with it clasped between his teeth, glowering.

“I want to pick a card,” Daeron says cheerfully.

Aegon refuses. “No. Too young. A baby.”

“Aegon, I’m seventeen!”

“Can’t enlist, can’t do jury duty, can’t buy lottery tickets, can’t sign up to drink gasoline. Okay, everybody show their cards.”

“I got a three,” Jace says, then yanks Luke’s card out of his mouth and reads it. “He got a skip.”

Aemond’s card is a nine, Rio’s a five, Aegon’s a reverse. “That means you lose, Jace,” Aegon announces, admittedly rather gleeful. “You had the lowest number.”

“This is bullshit, I had to siphon last time!”

“Then stop picking bad cards.”

“Jace, I can do it,” Aemond says.

“And get to be the martyr, as usual? No thanks. Give me the damn hose.”

Aegon roots around under the Tahoe seats and produces a long, semitransparent siphoning hose. “All the ones with the little pump attachments were sold out everywhere by the time we thought that might be useful,” he explains to you and Rio.

“That sucks, Jace,” Rio says. “I mean, literally, it sucks.”

“Next time we cross a bridge, I’m pushing you off it.” Jace takes the hose from Aegon, pops open the gas cap of the Dodge Ram 3500 you’ve found, and threads the hose down into the tank. He sucks on the other end and then shoves it into the Tahoe once the gasoline starts flowing. The fuel gauge was hovering just above E. Hopefully you can get at least a few gallons out of the Ram, another fifty or a hundred miles, maybe even two hundred, enough to get you across the Ohio border.

Jace is bent over and vomiting gasoline onto the pavement. Rhaena and Baela sit with Luke as Aemond feels his forehead and peers into his eyes. Daeron accompanies Helaena as she goes to scavenge inside the Burger King, her burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Rio is now holding the siphoning hose and watching the liquid gold pour into the Tahoe, his smile growing with each passing second. Your eyes fall on Aemond and stay there, his careful hands, his brow knitted with concentration.

A whisper from behind you: “We could fake date to make him jealous.”

You whirl to see Aegon, mischievous smirk, neon green plastic sunglasses. “That is a super generous offer and I appreciate the thought you put into it, but no.”

“Why not?”

“It’s dishonest. It’s manipulative. If something is going to happen with Aemond, I want it to be real.”

Aegon sighs. “No, you’re right, it was a dumb idea. I just figured I have a lot of experience.”

“Experience with what?”

“People pretending to love me.” He flashes a strange, sad smile, then follows Daeron and Helaena into the Burger King.

[extraordinaryhistories]

#22 - 'Far Physician's Son' (non-album track, 2001)

Somewhere early in his career, Sufjan Stevens discovered something incredible: acoustic guitars could be strummed. Before this point, Sufjan did one of two things on the acoustic. He would fingerpick, which made up the bulk of his nascent folk material, and it sounded great (just as it would later in his career, when he became iconic for this sound.) Or he would bash. The sound he gets out of his guitar on a song like ‘A Winner Needs a Wand’ isn’t a strum, it’s an attack, ugly chords getting hammered out of his guitar. There was rarely an in-between. If you want a soft song, you pick; if you want a loud song, you bash. Such was the binary along which he operated for a while.

Then something changed. There was a realisation. There was no need for all this abuse; just sit with it and strum. Listen to the word escaping from the guitar – strum. Listen to all the beautiful resonances. Listen to the syllables as they play across the strings. Listen – really listen – to how the sound fills the space. Listen to six notes interacting as they choose. And then: out of it let music pour.

When Sufjan finally lent himself over to this most traditional of folk guitar styles, he created some really gorgeous work. His feel for writing chord progressions was developing rapidly, and that’s essential for strummed guitar, one of the more direct ways of conveying complex harmonic movement. Suddenly he was evolving out of elementary uses of the instrument, like those we see on ‘Happy Birthday’; the melodies were now being supported with a harmonic framing that served as the yin to their yang, a complementary – but slightly distinct – source of light and colour. A less immediately evident source of the refinement of Sufjan’s music, but one that’s present nearly everywhere, if you care to look for it.

Find it, if you will, in ‘Far Physician’s Son’. This song’s provenance is typically obscure: it was released with three other Sufjan songs on 8.21: A Blue Bunny Compilation, and if you haven’t heard of it, it’s because just about nobody has. On it you will find ‘Woman at the Well’, an early version of ‘Year of the Ox’, and then this, sandwiched between a tinny slacker rock song and a long slab of musique concrète. Listening to it in sequence is quite striking. Sufjan spent about fifteen years of his career (up until Carrie and Lowell) relishing in the fact that he was sort of uncool, an oddball English major writing knowingly kitschy songs based on musical tropes that were very much not in vogue, certainly not in the indie sphere. 8.21: A Blue Bunny Compilation is the perfect microcosm of what Sufjan was becoming as an artist. In the midst of all this wild laissez-faire experimentation comes this, a precious, beautifully-performed folk ode to Jesus. Not quite the recipe to win the alternative glitterati over, is it?

So yes, like ‘Joy! Joy! Joy!’, like ‘Woman at the Well’, like ‘God’ll Ne’er Let You Down’ and a host of others, ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is orthodox in just about every sense. The one daring element here is the time signature. It is our second-ever Sufjan song to feature 5/4 metre, and he continues to demonstrate here his natural gift for making non-standard timing sound like nothing out of the ordinary. This is one of those uncommon songs in five that sounds as effortless as the flowing of a stream – it might take several listens (around five, in my case) before you pick up on any strangeness at all.

We can attribute that effortlessness to the guitar playing. There’s that word – strum ­– wide, yearning chords, played at a confident pace, that fill up both channels with their close-miced honey. The assuredness of the rhythm draws the ear away from the metric oddities perfectly, make it sound orthodox despite being anything but. This is the first time an acoustic guitar has sounded this rich on a Sufjan song, and thankfully by no means the last – but songs like these are the origin point of so much of Sufjan’s later sophistication. The arrangement here is otherwise remarkably tasteful. Some flutes here, some vibraphone there, all following the vocal melody, nothing feeling garish or out-of-place. ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is not a song designed to challenge you. Sometimes, orthodoxy can be undervalued.

Thus we are encouraged to focus on the symbiosis that underpins all the finest Sufjan songs: the slow-dance between lyrics and melody. Predictably for this man’s early work, ‘Far Physician’s Son’ is a song about Jesus. (As an aside, I have at times theorised that Sufjan was considering a full-blown career pivot to Christian contemporary music around the turn of the millennium, given how nearly every vocal track written between A Sun Came and Michigan is explicitly religious. Religion as a thematic focus came back in a big way on Seven Swans, of course, but there it is treated with more complexity and metaphor than ever before. Early throwaways like ‘Far Physician’s Son’ accept the premise of God’s fundamental goodness without question. Simplistic? Yes, but then again, so many beautiful things are.)

‘Far Physician’s Son’ is a mostly straightforward song that references a passage in Luke 4, where Jesus goes to the synagogue of Nazareth (‘Went to Galilee / With the scroll again’) and announces himself as a saviour – the man who will save humanity from the ills that befall them (‘Heal the poor and stung / Steal the hurt and hung’.) The song emphasises Jesus’ fundamental humanity, and thus his staggering glory; he is ‘Joseph’s son’, child of a common man but saviour of the wider world. Again, there’s not much to this one, but there doesn’t need to be. Jesus’ goodness – his ‘is’-ness – is self-evident. It is written that the person who speaks to God in a few honest words is blessed over the person who speaks to God with ego and articulation. No more words are really required in a song like this than the repeated refrain, the ideological core of the song that inhabits its latter half: ‘he will arise, he will arise’.

It's that phrase, and the melody attached to it, that always beguiles me when I listen to ‘Far Physician’s Son’. This is a feathery song, with lighter-than-air melodies and effete instrumentation – and yet we find this great counterweight at the end of the song, ‘he will arise’, repeated ad infinitum, with its doggedly deep and flat melody. It takes me out of the song sometimes. And yet there is a keen reason to it. ‘He will arise’ is the final truth of the New Testament, the promise and end state of Christianity, the thing above all things. Of course it has to sound weighty. Of course it has to read like a mantra in the context of the song, Sufjan singing it over, and over, and over. It’s only logic. It’s only everything.

Addendum: literally mere weeks before I wrote this, a Sufjan show from the year 2000 was unearthed, and a rendition of ‘Far Physician’s Son’ was in it. A pretty standard version, but a version nonetheless. Massive news for annoying people.

[ethereance]

In the mood for some secret relationship allurance.

When they get together after some intervention from the mice—the tiniest wingmen you ever did see—they don’t even mean to keep it secret, they just. Don’t make a big deal about it. Because this is a them thing, and they’re content with that. They’re not even very secret about it and it’s a wonder no one catches them kissing in the castle halls. But Lance is his normal enamoured-with-Allura self, dating her has not changed that, and they’ve been subtly gravitating towards each other since long before they made things official. So them continuously opting to sit next to each other, hands intertwining beneath the table, slipping into each other’s room at night for face masks, it all goes unnoticed. Except by Coran because Lance let it slip when he came to him asking about ideas for a meaningful ‘month-aversary’ gift. It had taken a moment for protective father mode to disengage, and a few words from Allura, but Coran is pretty supportive (and Coran maaay have a soft spot for Lance out of all of the paladins, not that he’s picking favourites or anything).

So here they are. At some fancy ball-like event to improve diplomatic relations, each of the paladins dressed in whatever altean formalwear Coran and Allura could pull up out of the castle ship’s storage. Even with several washes, the outfits are still a bit musty smelling, but are otherwise in pretty good condition for 10,000 decaphoeb old clothes (both the material, and the airtight storage helping with that). And Allura is starting to believe this was a terrible, terrible, terrible idea, oh so incredibly distracted by Lance in altean formalwear. Maybe he doesn’t have the ears, but it suits him well, blue quite simply his colour. In fact, she’s starting to wonder what she even found hideous about his ears when first they met.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers to her, something shy in his smile. He looks at her with the utmost adoration, such an open expression that sends a cosy wave of warmth through her heart. Allura never wants to lose this feeling, never wants to lose him.

She hopes, this once, the universe will be kind.

“So do you,” she whispers back, watching as red begins to lightly dust his cheeks, his eyes widening.

“You think I—” He grins, boyish and giddy. “Holy crow. Sweet. Think I can keep the suit when this is all over?”

Again, a terrible, terrible, terrible idea. And yet. “Well I hardly see this being our last event.”

They spend the vast majority of the night away from each other, never far, but always caught up in conversation with the people of Cobraqua—their reptilian-skinned hosts for this evening—many curious about the exploits of Voltron, and some, more well versed in diplomacy, wanting to know what being a part of the coalition would mean for their home. Though he clearly hasn’t had the thousands of lessons of etiquette that have been drilled into Allura’s brain through the castle’s somewhat violent projections, Lance has always been good with people. An event like this brings that out in him.

So good, in fact, that the Cobraquelien Prince Bokar decides to make an announcement in the midst of the festivities.

“Father,” he says, directed at the planet’s king. “I believe it is in our best interest to accept their offer and join the coalition.”

And for that, Allura is thankful. The next part, less so.

“And you, paladins. Allow me to thank you for protecting our planet with the most prestigious gift my people can offer. If I may.”

He motions to one of the service staff who presses a small, black box into his hand. The prince clicks it open, revealing what from this distance appears to be some kind of ornamental trinket, a blue sapphire sitting at its centre.

“Blue paladin, I extend my hand to you, and ask that we bind our lives together with a romantic union.”

Now, it’s not like Allura is unfamiliar with being proposed to, once a princess of a planet of diplomats. A future throne to a planet with that much influence was enticing to many, despite it being common knowledge those of her lineage often found partnership with other alteans, and so it wasn’t unknown for nobles to nudge suitors her way during visits with her father. Often, she was left unimpressed, none of them matching up to the prince—or princess—her inner romantic heart had envisioned, captivated by the idea of a love so true, so magical, she’d fall for them the moment they met eyes.

But, just like her mother, she had fallen for someone who wasn’t a prince at all. Not even close.

No love at first sight.

Just Lance being Lance, growing into a person she can trust with her life, who’s so genuine with his faith in her that she knows he feels the same.

And somehow, despite such grandeur fantasies of love, what her and Lance have rests so dearly in her chest she would never have it any other way.

(One quintant, she thinks. One quintant she’ll be the one doing the proposing, when the war is won, and their future assured.

And maybe this can end better than any dream).

So, no. It’s not that Allura is unfamiliar with being proposed to, back then and even now, still, with Lotor having tried talking her into a union of them both.

But this other prince springs this upon her so suddenly, no lead up, that it comes as a shock, putting a dent in her diplomatic persona for just enough time that Lance reacts first, coming to stand defensively at her side like a paladin in shining armour. A very jealous paladin in shining armour.

As if he has anything to worry about.

“Woah, woah! Nu-uh buddy. You can’t marry Allura!”

Off to the side, she hears Pidge snickering. “Oh here we go again.”

“Seconded!” declares Coran, popping up out of absolutely nowhere to stand next to Lance. “As the Princess’ primary guardian, I object! I object I say! … Not that I mean any disrespect to you, Prince Bokar, but I can’t hand Allura over to someone without any notarised certificates of commendation,” Coran pauses, and looks at the prince with renewed interest. “Actually, as a prince, do you have any certificates?”

“Coran,” says Allura in time with a similar protest from Lance.

“Yes, right! Sorry. I just thought it was worth an ask.” And to the prince, Coran says, “Not that it would matter if you did, of course. I cannot in good conscience approve when the princess is already being courted.”

“She is?” asks Shiro. He turns to her. “Is this true, Princess?”

“Yes that’s… correct,” Allura says, realising that this is the first time the matter of her and Lance’s relationship has been brought up in front of the other paladins. “I apologise, Prince Bokar, but I will have to decline your proposal.”

“I knew it!” she hears Hunk say to Pidge, “Her and Lotor really are a thing!”

Allura inwardly winces at the name. She knows they must keep a working relationship with Prince Lotor, but they’ll never become anything more than that. There’s something about the way he speaks, almost as if it’s exactly what you want to hear, charmed words a distraction from his real goal. She may have had a passing attraction, but was all there was to it.

“That’s not…” she tries, only to catch sight of Lance and his pouting face. Allura stifles a laugh.

“I believe there has been a misunderstanding,” says Bokar, this baffled look on his face as he stares Lance up and down. “You’re in blue. Are you not the blue paladin?”

Oh?

Oh?

Lance blinks, his face going blank. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and leaves it like that, speechless, as if trying to catch a Jartulio fly in there, only nothing is caught, and nothing is said. After some pause, he tries again to find his voice, managing a pitchy, “Huh?”

“Hold on, hold on,” says Hunk, stepping forwards from the buffet table in which he and Pidge had been snacking from, their eyes darting back and forth as if watching a live dramatisation of a play. There’s this amused sparkle in his eyes, like he’d full on guffaw if this weren’t a professional setting. “So what you're saying is you want to marry Lance?”

“Yes, I find his company to be delightful. Even if he’s not the blue paladin, red is such dashing colour for a dashing man,” says the prince, taking Lance’s hand in his own to press a kiss to it. If it had been Allura preforming the action, she knows Lance would be a flustered red mess right now. As it is, he isn’t, though there does in fact seem to be a slight trace of red on his cheeks. “Please, paladin Lance, consider my offer.”

“As generous as your offer is, he cannot accept,” says Allura with as much professionalism as she can muster. She’s glad others are able to recognise Lance’s good qualities as she has, but it’s best they shoot down this man’s attempts as courting Lance as soon as.

“Yeah,” agrees Pidge wholeheartedly. “You’re really not his type. I’ve only ever seen him try and flirt with girls before and—”

“Uh, Pidge…” says Hunk, elbowing her in the side. She casts him a quizzical look and Hunk starts whispering in her ear. Nothing that Allura can pick up, even with heightened hearing. A crowded room like this is full of all sorts of muttering.

“Look, I’m really flattered, okay? I am,” says Lance, scratching his neck. He gives the prince an oddly bashful—yet endearing—smile. “It’s not everyday a prince gets charmed by my… me. But I’m going to have to say no. Sorry. And it’s nothing to do with you being a guy or anything, I mean, that’s fine. But I’ve already promised myself to this incredible woman and I really, really want this to work between us. Soooo… we’re cool right? This won’t affect the alliance… will it?”

Two rejections in a row has the prince looking out of sorts. There’s something to his smile, tight, pinched, that makes Allura believe that was less of a proposal and more of a demand.

“You could take us both,” insists Bokar, trying once more. Unsuccessfully, of course, as Lance uncomfortably shifts on his feet, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here right now.

“Yeah, uh, we’re good.”

“No, I insist,” presses the prince, forgoing any pleasantries. The crowd around them starts muttering even louder, noises of disapproval directed at Bokar. “You can’t refuse a proposal from a prince! I’m me!”

“He said no,” says Allura, sharp, her glare even sharper. She notices Coran is giving him a similar expression, a rare sight indeed.

“But—”

“Enough Bokar,” comes a booming voice, sending an invisible tremor throughout the people in the crowd, guests jumping in their skin. “You cannot treat our guests this way.”

“But father, you said I could have anything I wanted,” protests Bokar, now less charming, more whiny brat. “And I want a lion! He’ll give me his lion.”

The way Lance deflates at that has Allura making mental note to shower him with love and appreciation once this is all done. Right now, she has half the mind to fling this spoiled prince across with room, consequences to the coalition be damned.

“No way man,” says Lance. “I’ve been here before and it involves being tied to a tree.”

Oh how could they forget.

“Your majesty,” says Shiro, addressing the king. “If this is the condition for joining the coalition, we won’t be able to accept. This isn’t right.”

“Hmm, yes. I apologise for my son,” says the king, another glare directed at Bokar. “Worry not, I have every intention to join the coalition. As for Bokar, he has a little more growing up to do before I marry him off, so it seems.”

***

“Eugh. What a jerk,” says Pidge over the lions’ comms. “He could not take no for an answer.”

“Indeed,” agrees Allura. She has absolutely no time for people like that.

“Yeah! I mean, he basically forced Lance into making up a girlfriend to get him to back off,” says Hunk. He narrows his eyes. “… You did make up a girlfriend right? I would know if my best friend was dating someone, wouldn’t I? Are you dating someone? Is it that alien from that planet of mermaids? Did she give you her number?”

A guilty wince. “Well…” Lance says, trailing off.

“No way,” says Pidge, no lack of disbelief.

“Oh my gosh! Lance, Lance,” says Hunk, a flurry of delight. “You’ve gotta spill the beans. First Allura, now you? When did this even happen? I mean, there’s just so much to tell Keith now! Usually all our blade phone calls are like ‘I found some new spices that don’t melt your insides’. And ‘we fought more galra.’ But now this. I mean, talk about a coincidence.”

“Err, about that,” Lance tries again. “See, there’s a reason for that. I was talking about Allura. We’re dating each other. Surprise?”

And with a flourish of his hands, the secret is out.

How this manages to be so exhaustingly dramatic an experience, yet simultaneously underwhelming, Allura doesn’t know.

“Oh!” says Shiro, an amused twitch to his smile. “Congratulations, the both of you.”

Hunk’s eyes are wide, impossibly so. “… Huh?”

“Sorry for not telling you before. It just… never came up.”

”No—it’s just. Wow. Didn’t see that one coming.”

“Me neither. Huh, weird. I didn’t think Allura would… yeah,” says Pidge, a strange expression on her face Allura can’t quite distinguish.

“He’s right, Pidge,” Allura admits, looking fondly at Lance on the screen. He returns the look easily.

“Gross,” says Pidge, that expression disappearing like it was never there at all. Pidge rolls her eyes. “Get a lion, guys.”

Lance just laughs, a sound that has Allura wondering just how they managed to hide this relationship at all.

It is truly a beautiful sound.

[connorsui]

This has to be one of the most cutest and most fantasy driven fics of aemond I have ever read 🩷…my author my beloved I don't know how I can make my words sound as pretty and you have written down but …hey…it's as expected …you can never copy a beautiful and whimsical poetry when you can only read it with your own eyes

You gotta experience it to luv it ✨️

THOOO MAKING AEMOND A LITTLE DOLL!? THAT WAS PROBABLY THE ONE THING THAT HAD ME GIGGLING ALL THE WAY 😭😭😭🩷🩷 — but its the little details that u add in the midst of it all that makes it even more beautiful and yet – most questionable ..like Luke deliberately and not wanting to – destroys aemonds eye by accident ..but in real aspect ..true aemond has his eye gone ..so then the whole debacle comes in …was it real …or we tripping?

Did we get so drunk that we started seeing little mice fighting other bby mice?? Or did Aemond really have a tiny sapphire eye ?? 💀

ALL HONESTLY THOO U WOULDNT CARE ✨️ LIKE IMAGINE HAVING A TINY KINGDOM WITH A TINY PRINCE AND A MAGICAL DRESS??? –. . . 🧍🏻‍♀️🩷.. .

I would keep dousing myself in melatonin gummies to pass out – each adventure gonna be comatose moments inside a hospital

Dance of the Sugarplum Prince

Nutcracker!Aemond x Clara!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: violence, character death, smut, tiddy sucking, oral (f-receiving), uncle-niece incest, unprotected sex, piv sex, breeding kink, possessive Aemond, obsessed Aemond

A/N: I may not be the first nor the last to do a nutcracker au, but I’m doin it anyways! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All rights go to HBO and George RR Martin

The snow falls heavy and thick outside the window. You watch the snowflakes dance to the ground while your family makes a ruckus behind you. The adults Gossip amongst themselves while your brothers laugh and joke amongst themselves. You love your family, but you’ve grown tired of your overbearing aunties trying to set you up with “nice boys” they know.

You notice a figure making their way towards the front door, making your own way towards it to greet them. Right after the doorbell rings, you open the door, smiling at the woman on the other side.

“Aunt Alys,” you smile and embrace the older woman.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, but it’s nearly impossible to make one’s way through that,” she replies, indicating to the storm outside. Other family members come to greet Alys, so you move to the side and let them. She pulls a large case out from under her coat. She reveals several beautifully made dolls, winding them up and letting them dance across the carpet. Your family is in awe. While they’re distracted, Alys approaches you.

“I have a special gift for you,” Alys says. She opens her bag, gingerly pulling out a final doll. He was a beautiful man with long silver hair and black armor accentuated with gold.

“This,” you aunt explains, “is no ordinary knight. He is a prince of a faraway land.”

“Oh Alys, she’s too old for dolls!” your mother calls from across the room.

“Oh, but he’s so beautiful!” you rebut. “Couldn’t I just put on on my shelf and admire him?”

“You can put these dirty dishes in the kitchen,” your mother tells you. You sigh, setting your doll on the windowsill. Alys follows you into the kitchen.

“Perhaps you should’ve brought me a real prince. That would’ve made mother happy,” you laugh. Alys simply smiles at that.

Suddenly, a loud crash sounds from the sitting room, followed by your mother shouting “Luke!” You rush into the room. Your doll is lying on the floor at your brother’s feet.

“It was an accident!” Luke explains. “I only wanted to get a closer look!”

You rush over, picking your doll up off the ground. One of his eyes is broken. Luke apologizes profusely while you carefully extract the broken pieces. Alys approaches.

“I couldn’t find a spare eye, but this should fit,” she says, handing you a small sapphire. You slip it into his empty socket; it fits perfectly. She provides a small strip of black fabric that you use as a makeshift eyepatch.

“Thank you, Alys,” you say, giving the older woman a hug. You don’t notice the worried look she gives your doll.

BONG

BONG

BONG

Was it midnight already? You must have nodded off at some point. You look down at your prince, admiring his handsome face. Perhaps it’s the dim light, but it looks as though his mouth twitches.

You’re about to go to bed when something moves at the edge of your vision. A small man walks out from under your Christmas tree! For a moment, you think it’s your prince. However, this man has two eyes and looks older. He wears a crown that looks like it’s made of wood. He’s looking around, clearly searching for something. You stay as still as possible, hoping he doesn’t notice you. Theres a possibility you’re still dreaming, but you’re not willing to take that risk.

“Looking for someone, Daemon?” a voice calls out. Both your heads snap to the corner where it came from. Your mouth falls open. It’s your prince! But he’s alive! He approaches the man, sword drawn.

“Aemond,” Daemon greets. “It appears you’ve suffered a horrible accident. Shame. I was hoping for a fair fight.”

“And you’ll get one,” Aemond snaps. At that moment, more figures storm into view. You recognize them as your brothers’ toy soldiers.

“Alright. Two can play at that game,” Daemon raises a hand, and several mice scurry out from nowhere. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to scream. Daemon and Aemond draw their swords, circling one another. Daemon strikes first, but Aemond is quick to block. The mice and toys launch at each other. You’re enthralled. Though bloodless, the battle is intense.

Suddenly, Daemon strikes Aemond’s blind side. He’s sent flying to the floor, his sword clattering away. Daemon smiles viciously, standing over his nephew. He raises his sword to strike the killing blow and—

WHAM!

A giant slipper knocks him off his feet. Aemond glances at you, noting you are now missing a slipper. He grins, then springs into action. He draws a dagger, races to his uncle, and plunges the blade into his neck. Daemon never had time to regain his senses before he bleeds out, choking and clasping at his throat. The battle stops. The now leaderless mice scurry off, and the toy soldiers return to where your brothers left them originally. Aemond walks over to you. As he does, he grows until he’s the height of a normal man. You stare up at him, lips parted. He’s tall, and even more handsome as a man.

“You saved me,” he states, kneeling at your side.

“I-it was nothing,” you stammer, blushing. “I didn’t want him to…kill you.”

Aemond’s lips curl into a smirk. “Such a sweet thing you are,” he muses. He reaches out, winding a lock on your hair around his finger. “It’s not every day a man can say he was saved by someone so beautiful or kind.”

Your blush deepens. “You’re too kind,” you whisper.

“You must come back to the castle with me. My family will want to meet the girl who helped defeat my wicked uncle and his wretched mouse army,” he stands, extending a hand to you. You look around the empty sitting room, wondering what to do.

“It’s only for tonight. I promise to have you back by morning,” he assures you. You bite your lip, not noticing the way his gaze darkens. Then, you smile and take his hand. When you stand, you notice how much taller he is. you look down shyly, but he tucks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to his. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he says, “let’s be off then,” and leads you to the Christmas tree. With each step, you shrink until you can easily walk under the branches.

You spot a castle in the distance. A beautiful red fortress perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sprawling city. The faint ringing of bells can be heard.

“It seems word of our victory has spread,” Aemond observes. “I imagine the celebration is well underway.

“Oh, but I’m not dressed!” you realize.

“Look down, little one,” Aemond replies. You do, and you gasp. Your simple nightgown had been replaced with a beautiful white dress, tied by a large red ribbon. The skirt floats in light layers down to your calves. Your feet are covered by red slippers with ribbons wrapped around your legs.

“How…?” you start to ask, the question dying on your lips when you look up and see Aemond had changed as well. He’s wearing a black and red jacket adorned with golden epaulettes, and also matching breeches and shiny black boots. His hair is loose, and the swath of ribbon covering his eye is replaced with a proper eyepatch.

“Come,” he requests, extending his hand. “We don’t want to miss out on the festivities.”

The walk to the castle is filled with merriment as the small folk throw flowers over your heads and dance and cheer. Inside the castle is even more merry as ball is in full swing. You spy the king and queen at the end of the hall, their matching silver hair catching the light.

Aemond leads you to the middle of the dance floor and leads you in a waltz. The night passes in a series of twirls and lifts, until a hush falls over the crowd.

The king leads his queen off the dais into the center of the crowd. Everyone pushes back, forming a wide berth around them as they lead a solitary waltz. You feel a large hand on the small of your back.

“Come with me,” Aemond whispers. His breath tickles your ear.

He leads you out of the room. The two of you race down the halls. You haven’t felt this exhilarated since you were a child chasing your brothers outdoors.

You’re lead into a bedroom that you presume is his. You don’t have time to take in the decor, as he grabs your face and kisses you hungrily. You kiss him back, hands tangling in his soft hair.

He deftly undoes the bow on your back. He tries to untie the laces, but he gets impatient and just tears your dress open. You gasp as your dress falls from your body.

Aemond scoops you up and lays you on the bed. He looks over you like a lion about to devour his kill.

“Have you ever been with a man before little one?”

“N-no,” you stutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Well,” he starts, “allow me to show you.”

He tears the rest of your underthings off, leaving you bare before him. Without breaking eye contact, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. Your head rolls back as he sucks on the sensitive flesh, kneading your other side.

“So beautiful,” he gasps, switching to the other tit.

“So perfect.” He trails kisses down your torso. He fingers swipe through your folds. He brings them to his lips and sucks them clean; his eyes roll back and he groans.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he purrs. He lowers his head to your mound and drags his tongue through your folds. You gasp and instinctually shy away, but he pins you with this hands on your hips. You can only moan as he relentlessly devours your cunt.

“M-my prince…”

“Aemond. Call me Aemond,” he breathes, sending a shiver through you. You feel your peak approaching, closer and closer. It’s just about to wash over you when he pulls away. You whine at the loss of stimulation.

“The first time I make you come, it will be on my cock,” Aemond states, once again leaning over you. He sheds his clothing with ease. He’s truly one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. His cock is long and thick, and already leaking. He strokes himself as he gets into position.

“What if it doesn’t fit?” You ask innocently.

“It will fit.” He replies. “I’ll make it fit.”

He angles his cock and enters you with one sure thrust. You gasp loudly, clinging to his shoulders.

“Gods you’re tight,” he whispers. He begins to rock in and out of you, setting a steady pace.

“So wet, and I’ve barely touched you. Such a needy little thing. Absolutely begging to be fucked.”

You babble incoherently in response. Aemond chuckles and starts playing with your pearl.

“Already cockdumb are we?”

He pinches your pearl.

“I could keep you here you know. Fuck you—breed you— day and night, until your belly swells with my child. You’d like that wouldn’t you? My perfect little princess. My broodmare. Mine.”

You’re a little frightened by his declaration, but you’re to overwhelmed by pleasure to do anything about it. You can only lay there as you climax, the pleasure melting your bones and heating your blood.

“That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” he groans, and you feel his cock pulse followed by a sense of warmth. He keeps his cock plugged inside until he starts to soften, then he pulls out. You feel a mixture of your fluid and his seed leak out. He hold your legs open, admiring the sight. Then, he lays down, pulling you into his arms.

“You’ll want for nothing. I’ll make sure of it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You lay against his chest, and it isn’t long before sleep claims you.

“Sweetheart, wake up!” you hear your mother call. You reluctantly open your eyes. You’re in your own bed, in your own room.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we have some surprise guests waiting downstairs,” she pulls open the curtains, and you wince at the sudden brightness.

“Get dressed quickly! I need to get back downstairs!” she rushes out of your room, closing the door behind you.

At first, you don’t move. There was a heaviness in your chest. It had all been a dream. Of course it had been a dream. Mice soldiers, living dolls, and princes could only be the product of dreams. This is the real world, and there are guests waiting for you.

As you get dressed, you realize your prince doll is nowhere to be found. You must have left him downstairs.

Voices could be heard in the sitting room as you make your way downstairs. Unfamiliar voices. You round the corner and freeze. Sitting around the room are three very familiar faces.

“Darling, these are my half-siblings.” She leads you to the Sugarplum King. “This is Aegon,” then to the Queen, who smiles sweetly at you, “Helaena,” then finally to the most familiar of them all, “and this is Aemond.”

He takes your hand in his, planting a kiss on your knuckles. You stare up at him with wide eyes. He’s wearing an eyepatch. Over the same eye your brother broke. Was he hiding a sapphire under there?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you breathe.

“Please, the pleasure is all mine, niece,” he purrs, looking at you in a way an uncle should never look at a niece.

“What happened to your eye?” Luke asked abruptly. Jace whacks him on the shoulder, admonishing him.

“Ow!”

“It’s alright. It was an accident long ago,” Aemond replies.

“Oh, let’s not dwell on unhappy memories,” your mother says, turning to Helaena. “How is Alicent? It’s been too long since I’ve heard from her.”

The conversation carries on, but you’ve stopped paying attention. You’re not looking at him, but you feel his gaze on you. Just as intense as it had been when he made love to you in your dream.

A dream.

It had only been a dream.

Right?

[fordecree7]

THE BIBLE BOOK OF GOD

Isaiah 66

The Humble and Contrite in Spirit

66 Thus says the Lord: “Heaven is my throne,     and the earth is my footstool; what is the house that you would build for me,     and what is the place of my rest? 2 All these things my hand has made,     and so all these things came to be, declares the Lord. But this is the one to whom I will look:     he who is humble and contrite in spirit     and trembles at my word.

3 “He who slaughters an ox is like one who kills a man;     he who sacrifices a lamb, like one who breaks a dog's neck; he who presents a grain offering, like one who offers pig's blood;     he who makes a memorial offering of frankincense, like one who blesses an idol. These have chosen their own ways,     and their soul delights in their abominations; 4 I also will choose harsh treatment for them     and bring their fears upon them, because when I called, no one answered,     when I spoke, they did not listen; but they did what was evil in my eyes     and chose that in which I did not delight.”

5 Hear the word of the Lord,     you who tremble at his word: “Your brothers who hate you     and cast you out for my name's sake have said, ‘Let the Lord be glorified,     that we may see your joy’;     but it is they who shall be put to shame.

6 “The sound of an uproar from the city!     A sound from the temple! The sound of the Lord,     rendering recompense to his enemies!

Rejoice with Jerusalem

7 “Before she was in labor     she gave birth; before her pain came upon her     she delivered a son. 8 Who has heard such a thing?     Who has seen such things? Shall a land be born in one day?     Shall a nation be brought forth in one moment? For as soon as Zion was in labor     she brought forth her children. 9 Shall I bring to the point of birth and not cause to bring forth?”     says the Lord; “shall I, who cause to bring forth, shut the womb?”     says your God.

10 “Rejoice with Jerusalem, and be glad for her,     all you who love her; rejoice with her in joy,     all you who mourn over her; 11 that you may nurse and be satisfied     from her consoling breast; that you may drink deeply with delight     from her glorious abundance.”

12 For thus says the Lord: “Behold, I will extend peace to her like a river,     and the glory of the nations like an overflowing stream; and you shall nurse, you shall be carried upon her hip,     and bounced upon her knees. 13 As one whom his mother comforts,     so I will comfort you;     you shall be comforted in Jerusalem. 14 You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice;     your bones shall flourish like the grass; and the hand of the Lord shall be known to his servants,     and he shall show his indignation against his enemies.

Final Judgment and Glory of the Lord

15 “For behold, the Lord will come in fire,     and his chariots like the whirlwind, to render his anger in fury,     and his rebuke with flames of fire. 16 For by fire will the Lord enter into judgment,     and by his sword, with all flesh;     and those slain by the Lord shall be many.

17 “Those who sanctify and purify themselves to go into the gardens, following one in the midst, eating pig's flesh and the abomination and mice, shall come to an end together, declares the Lord.

18 “For I know their works and their thoughts, and the time is coming to gather all nations and tongues. And they shall come and shall see my glory, 19 and I will set a sign among them. And from them I will send survivors to the nations, to Tarshish, Pul, and Lud, who draw the bow, to Tubal and Javan, to the coastlands far away, that have not heard my fame or seen my glory. And they shall declare my glory among the nations. 20 And they shall bring all your brothers from all the nations as an offering to the Lord, on horses and in chariots and in litters and on mules and on dromedaries, to my holy mountain Jerusalem, says the Lord, just as the Israelites bring their grain offering in a clean vessel to the house of the Lord. 21 And some of them also I will take for priests and for Levites, says the Lord.

22 “For as the new heavens and the new earth     that I make shall remain before me, says the Lord,     so shall your offspring and your name remain. 23 From new moon to new moon,     and from Sabbath to Sabbath, all flesh shall come to worship before me, declares the Lord.

24 “And they shall go out and look on the dead bodies of the men who have rebelled against me. For their worm shall not die, their fire shall not be quenched, and they shall be an abhorrence to all flesh.”

Isaiah 66

Diane Beauford

[solarpunkpresentspodcast]

Some Sights From Lutherstadt Wittenberg and the Elbe River

In the thick of the family trauma that was going on at my in-laws’ over Christmas, I tried to escape once a day to go on a long walk with the dog. I wouldn’t have survived it otherwise. But it was also amazing, because for the first time in years, the Elbe River began to flood. (Of course, the downside of that was the ceaseless rain that was causing the waters to rise.)

The day we arrived at my in-laws’ (Dec 20th), things were still relatively normal. It was still possible to walk the mile over the flood meadow to the river in its normal channel. The river was running a bit higher than normal, but not unreasonably so.

By the 23rd of December, it had risen high enough to cover the groins that jut out from the shore of the Elbe to slow down its flow near the riverbanks, accumulate passing sand, and in general prevent the erosion of the banks.

By the 25th, the water had marched the entire mile across the flood meadow to start lap at the base of the dike. From there, the water level kept going up. It was… exciting! (At least because here, unlike in other areas of Germany, the flood never reached the point where it was a problem. Here it remained well within the confines of the flood meadows and the dikes.)

I just wanted to share some of the pictures and videos with you, because it was so impressive.

Here’s what things looked like on the 23rd:

By the morning of the 25th, the situation had notably escalated:

By the 27th, the water had reached the dikes all over and was rising slightly and falling slightly depending on how many hours it had been since the last deluge.

I was in the midst of wondering about all the poor mice and earthworms—all drowned?—and all the deer—wandered off to… where?—when I got interrupted by a feral nutria swimming through the water then nonchalantly hauling out on a log and giving itself a good scratch.

In the 1950s and 1960s, people here—like Spouse’s grandmother—used to raise them for their pelts to make a bit of extra money. When it quickly became clear that this was not a lucrative endeavor, however, they then either slaughtered all the nutria or, presumably, set them free. They’re quite a pest all over Europe and normally local councils set traps and then euthanize them. But this is not the first nutria I’ve seen in this general area! They seem to be surviving here just fine.

Here’s a beautiful submerged tree from the 28th of Dec:

Later on the 28th, Spouse and I had to head into town to get a large photo of FIL printed and framed for display at his funeral. Seeing FIL’s healthy, joyous face in the picture hit Spouse like a sledgehammer. After dropping the picture off at the mortuary (because they’re organizing the funeral), we numbly followed our feet down the cobblestone streets, braving the frigid wind, paying no attention to where we were going. Suddenly, we found ourselves standing in front of the church where Martin Luther tacked up the theses just over 500 years ago. I mean, it’s not so surprising. It’s a small town and a big church. But with all the stress and trauma of his dad’s Alzheimer’s, we hadn’t had the freedom to while away time in town, and so we hadn’t seen it in years. And the tower was open!

How could we not climb all the stairs to have a look around at the flood from above?!

Here are some “highlights” of our long tromp up the stairs.

And then lastly, and far more interestingly, here’s a video of a trip around the circumference of the tower.

[jcmarchi]

Night In The Woods Follow-Up Revenant Hill Canceled Due To Developer Illness

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/night-in-the-woods-follow-up-revenant-hill-canceled-due-to-developer-illness/

Night In The Woods Follow-Up Revenant Hill Canceled Due To Developer Illness

Revenant Hill, the next game by the makers of Night in the Woods, has been canceled. The reason is that the game’s narrative designer and writer Scott Benson is battling a severe illness that has forced him to step away from the project.

Benson reveals on his personal X account that he’s been battling severe heart failure over the past 12 months, which has greatly limited his ability to work. You can read his post below. 

So. Over the past 12 months or so I got very sick and it didn’t go away. Eventually I was diagnosed with severe heart failure, most likely from a virus. It will continue to greatly limit me for the foreseeable future and as such I’ve had to stop working in the manner I once did.

— Down Here For Your Soul (@bombsfall) November 7, 2023

The Glory Society posted a statement on Twitter (which is now the sole image on the studio’s website) explaining that Benson’s absence requires the team to not only end the development of Revenant Hill but for the studio to suspend operations. The indie studio was founded by Benson and his wife Bethany Hockenberry, who has also stepped away to support him. The statement explains that with such a small team of employees, losing two key staff members was too much of a blow for work to continue as planned. The Glory Society’s statement reads in part, 

Making anything complex poses challenges along the way. Games take a while to make and usually require a good team working together. We’ve been lucky to have one such good team. Unfortunately, recent serious health issues have necessitated two key members stepping away from the project indefinitely. We are a small team and we each wear multiple hats. This is a loss of several hard to replace hats in an environment where all hats are needed. Given the realities of schedules, budgets, and the fraught task of reworking the whole project within those parameters, the team has amicably decided to suspend operations. For all intents and purposes, this is the end of the development of Revenant Hill.

[embedded content]

Benson is known as one of the writers and artist/animator of 2017’s critically acclaimed Night in the Woods, which he made alongside co-writer Hockenberry and late designer Alec Holowka. Following the game’s success, he and Hockenberry formed The Glory Society in 2019 alongside musician/artist Wren Farren. Revenant Hill, the studio’s first project, was revealed in May during a PlayStation Showcase. Set in 1919, it starred a cat named Twigs who, after its barn home burns down, is forced to take residence in a log near a graveyard. Unfortunately, an owl begins demanding that Twigs pay rent and the game focuses on the cat performing odd jobs to make ends meet. You can read a section of the game’s PlayStation Blog synopsis below. 

Grow crops to sell at the secret market or use for your own purposes. Put down roots. Run through the fields and the trees. Watch the seasons pass. Make friends who become neighbors who become family. Also make enemies. That’s unavoidable sometimes. Figure out what the ghosts want. Host increasingly ambitious parties for witches and demons and other things that don’t have proper names. Get tangled up in a world in the midst of violent change. Build a community by accident. Square dance with a possum. Eat mice.

Revenant Hill was slated for PlayStation consoles and PC and had no release window. While it’s unfortuatnte that Twigs’ adventure may never see the light of day, Benson’s health is infinitely more important and we at Game Informer wish him a speedy road to recovery. 

[woundgallery]

Mary Jo Bang from The Last Two Seconds

[the-missann]

While I'm in the midst of posting my college romance *ahem*here*ahem* I'm also working on like 20 million other stories, very specifically two stories I'm revising from my childhood.

I need to stop gatekeeping my damn stories so I figured there's be no harm in brain storming here.

👏

So, there are two stories somewhat connected as they share the same universe. My main issue is I need better world building. Rn, both these stories are just BOTW or OOT, and I don't wanna copy them.

I'm not set on having a world with extreme climates but just a world with a lot of mystery to tie in with bith the stories themes.

Oh, what are the two stories about? Well I'm glad no one asked.

One is titled Kingdom of Bumalia and it's a origin story, since I like Zelda think of it as the Skyward Sword of my universe. The people of this world are de-evolutions of the "normal" humans that show up later. It's a spin on the classic thought of evoultuon that humans evolved from monkeys or lizards. My species are called Bumalians, their defining trait is they all have some animal apendage. For ex. My MC Cassie is a rabbit born from a rabbit mother and a wolf father, which every trait was more dominate, is what the child ends up with. So far I have:

Rabbits,

Birds (specifically hawks)

Wolves

Insects (I'm terrified of bugs so I really only have one that's been described -_-')

Aquatic animals (Dolphin, mermaid, and an Orca)

And Mice

During the course of revising this story, I added a TON of animals. Originally, I really only describes the main characters which were three wolves, two rabbits, the family of hawks, and a Dragonfly. I know now I need to add more and that's what I did. However, I can't just have animals, I need other things.

I creates a fruit called a Magadear and a herb called Grayseed for tea. I of course need more, but I'm just too disorganized to actually come up with some.

I wanted to make a staple flower for a certain scene that involves the Kingdom's current Queen, so I'll be thinking about that along the way.

Really I'm posting this (and a few others) in case anyone has any good ideas. Some people come up with things that get my brain flowing and it's always nice to discuss fictional worlds, who knows maybe we can start some kind of thread of ideas and play around with stuff!

I usually have a ton if fun discussing stories and I'm honestly missing that. This is a good way to get back into it.

All the Screams World Building >

[memelleity]

hocus pocus sentence starters

❝ oh, look. another glorious morning. it makes me sick! ❞

❝ wake up, darling. ❞

❝ you’re right, i’m wrong. ❞

❝ stop that! i need to concentrate! ❞

❝ i smell a child. ❞

❝ open up your mouth. ❞

❝ get away from my potion! ❞

❝ there are not enough children in the world to make you young and beautiful! ❞

❝ dazzle me, my darling. ❞

❝ witches? there be no witches here, sir! ❞

❝ this is terribly uncomfortable. ❞

❝ we seem to have a skeptic in our midst. ❞

❝ would you care to share your california, laid-back, tie-dyed point of view? ❞

❝ everyone knows that halloween was invented by the candy companies. ❞

❝ it’s the one night of the year where the spirits of the dead can return to earth. ❞

❝ well, in case jimi hendrix shows up tonight, here’s my number. ❞

❝ look, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to embarrass you in class. ❞

❝ what am i supposed to do with my afternoon? ❞

❝ hey, how was school? ❞

❝ don’t be such a crab! ❞

❝ it’s a full moon outside! the weirdos are out! ❞

❝ couldn’t you forget about being a cool teenager just for one night? ❞

❝ we used to have so much fun together trick-or-treating. remember? ❞

❝ the old days are dead. ❞

❝ hurry up! the bewitching hour is about to begin! ❞

❝ can we go home now? ❞

❝ you should’ve punched him. ❞

❝ this is your home now, so get used to it. ❞

❝ give me one more chance? ❞

❝ whoa. check that out— something just few across the moon! ❞

❝ i love your costume. ❞

❝ well, come on, make a believer out of me. ❞

❝ look, just do this one thing for me, and i’ll do anything you say. ❞

❝ oh, come on. it’s just a bunch of hocus pocus. ❞

❝ how time fies when you’re dead! ❞

❝ it’s been great fun, but i— i guess i’d better be going. ❞

❝ you leave my brother alone! ❞

❝ she poisoned him and sewed his mouth shut with a dull needle, so he couldn’t tell her secrets even in death. ❞

❝ ____ always was the jealous type. ❞

❝ i hate halloween. ❞

❝ you explained it beautifully. ❞

❝ you will fail to save your friends, just as you failed to save your sister! ❞

❝ are you okay? ❞

❝ relax. i’ve hunted mice down here for years. ❞

❝ think soothing thoughts. ❞

❝ i need one of those instant ice packs. you girls are giving me a fever! yeow! ❞

❝ anybody ever tell you you’re very easy on the eyes? ❞

❝ i told you, i can’t die. ❞

❝ what would mother say if she could see us like this? ❞

❝ what kind of costumes are these? ❞

❝ haven’t seen you for centuries. ❞

❝ what the heck, why don’t you come in?  ❞

❝ they thought i was a real cop. ❞

❝ aren’t you a little old to be trick-or-treating? ❞

❝ get out of my house! ❞

❝ something terrible happened. ❞

❝ how much candy have you had, honey? ❞

❝ don’t you see how crazy this sounds? ❞

❝ your kids are in danger! ❞

❝ i’m serious! it’s not a joke! ❞

❝ thank you, ____, for that marvelous introduction. ❞

❝ i put a spell on you, and now you’re mine. ❞

❝ i have an idea. ❞

❝ what is this place? ❞

❝ read any good spellbooks lately? ❞

❝ you can’t keep blaming yourself for that. that happened so long ago. ❞

❝ take good care of ____. you’ll never know how precious she is until you lose her.❞

❝ you’re a ____ now, buddy. one of us. ❞

❝ you wanna smash some pumpkins? ❞

❝ i don’t feel so good. ❞

❝ why was i cursed with such idiot sisters? ❞

❝ i remember it like it was yesterday… ❞

❝ my parents are gonna kill me. ❞

❝ i wish you could stay. ❞

❝ what harm could it do? ❞

❝ do you wanna hit me? would that cheer you up? ❞

❝ we are doomed. i feel the icy breath of death upon my neck. ❞

❝ take me to the window. i wish to say good-bye. ❞

❝ good-bye, cruel world. ❞

❝ nothing good can come from this book. you got it? ❞

❝ something’s not right. ❞

❝ don’t listen to her! ❞

❝ we need a miracle. ❞

❝ it doesn’t matter how young or old you are! you sold your soul! you’re the ugliest thing that’s ever lived, and you know it! ❞

❝ she bit me! ❞

❝ prepare to die! ❞

❝ there’s one thing that i know that you don’t! ❞

❝ oh, don’t say it. don’t even say it. ❞

❝ she really hurt my feelings. ❞

❝ i killed you once! i shall kill you again, you maggoty malfeasance! ❞

❝ you’ll be safe in here. ❞

❝ i’ve had enough of you. ❞

❝ i’m going to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget! ❞

❝ are you okay? ❞

❝ you saved my life. ❞

❝ i love you, jerkface. ❞

❝ come on. please don’t be sad for me. ❞

[dcviated]

It’s not so much that Eira isn’t willing to touch a mouse, Sonia. More so that the idol does not have the confidence to catch the cat in the midst of her playing with it. And. Further chasing of said mouse invites the possibility of guts or other… disgustingness getting spread around the house!! She’s heard some horror stories from her friends, you know. No, they couldn’t hold a candle to the things that Sonia oftentimes so enthusiastically recalled, but this is reality. Different! Would Sonia make the distinction? Maybe not the case. But at least the princess was going against the grain enough to afford respite from the cat’s claws.

The dress would survive this day. Promptly returned to its place on the hook in her wardrobe and closed off from those prying claws of the usually lazy cat. The sigh that follows is one of relief, to counter the frustration Kletski surely felt. Having been robbed of now two sources of improper amusement.

“I don’t need that look from you. There’s plenty of other things you get spoiled with. Do I need to remind you how fancy your food is, hm? Oh, no no. I’m not the only one who needs to be watching what they eat you know!” The one-sided conversation is a familiar one. The white Norwegian remains silent in the face of the mostly playful chiding. After offering a stare she decides to plod over into the living room and sit herself on a random patch of patterned rug.

Right, back to reality.

A burial and funeral for the mouse.

“A burial?! Or in the-- ?!?! Sonia what the fuck are you suggesting?!” The rare curse is recited in an uncharacteristically heightened voice. One that immediately has Kletski’s ears pin back in surprise. Yes, frightening. But it’s Eira with the wide eyes and hand over her mouth as she looks back to her kitchen. Stainless steel appliances as of yet unmarred by mouse meat. “I don’t want to put it in the oven either! Ohhh my god we are absolutely not baking or broiling or doing anything else with that thing! It’d smell so bad! Oh my god. I’m going to be sick.”

Some shakes of her hands at the thought of handling the pest in such a … reverent and unholy manner.

“You’re kidding, right? And no I don’t have a shovel. Nor am I going to risk someone seeing me outside burying a mouse in the common yard. C-can’t we just flush something like this?! Or. Call maintenance or something and have them take it?” Eira wasn't sure what was the bigger obstacle here. Getting the mice out of her walls or disposing of the creatures. That Sonia was thinking of food after all that talk was almost more nauseating than the matter at hand itself for Eira.

True, they had no idea where else the mouse and its cohorts had ventured off to in the building. The only thing Sonia could say with clarity is how differently she and Eira saw the situation: her friend was panicked at the idea of mice, and Sonia felt sorrow for the dead mouse and wondered if there might be more to befriend. Singing, cooking, and cleaning were out of the question for her, but befriending various animals? Well, she wouldn't want to admit it, but she did have that in common with fictional, animated princesses. And Kletski was being such a good girl, stalking and pouncing on her (dead) prey.

"But she is being such a wonderful little huntress!" Sonia replied brightly. She couldn't exactly reward a kitty on the move, with a mission: to protect her findings from her mother. But she could at least praise her resourcefulness, and how amusing it was watching Eira run around her apartment in pursuit of cat and mouse. "Yes, she is doing a good job keeping you both safe! You are brilliant, Kletski-chan!" Even if Eira didn't share in her amusement, the kitty deserved to be praised. Even if it was through barely-suppressed giggles on Sonia's end.

She watched Eira disappear from the kitchen, Kletski soon following eagerly in her wake. Sonia smiled at the cat's retreating back: for as independent, if not standoffish, as both women were, the cat and her human truly had bonded with each other. She'd learned enough from Gundham years ago to recognize it. "How very sweet," She murmured, overhearing Eira playing with her pet. True enough, the mouse was forgotten in favor of a dress and perhaps more importantly, her human's full attention.

She peeked her head in, though Sonia was only partially greeted with the scene she'd crafted in her head. Both Eira and Kletski seemed to be having a good time, but instead of being entirely attuned to her cat's needs, Eira's gaze, pleading and desperate, was cast to Sonia. Sonia exhaled and gave her a soft smile and a nod: she'd rather sacrifice one of her dresses than touch the dead animal. Just as well, as Sonia had no problem with the latter.

Shuffling back into the kitchen, she retrieved a wrinkled and worn tea towel from Eira's kitchen counter and carefully scooped up the dead mouse into it. It wasn't quite a funeral dress nor a coffin, but it would have to do. Carefully wrapped in her hands, she set it on the counter before peeking her head back into the room where Eira had successfully distracted her cat. "Should we give our rodent friend a proper burial outside? Do you have a shovel?" She inquired. Not that Sonia had ever used a shovel herself, but based on what she'd seen in movies, it couldn't possibly be that hard. "It seems wrong to dispose of the body any other way. I do not think your oven is fit for animal cremation, though I suppose we could not ask our mouse what sort of end of life plan it would have preferred. Maybe it would prefer a celebration of life instead: we could go out for or order in dinner and drinks!"

[scroll-of-thought]

Curse Week - They’ll be expecting you

I’ve given it some thought and I think one of the most important things we can start curse week off with is what to expect in terms of resistance and how to not get messed up in the process.

If your targets look anything like my targets, or have a lot of enemies, there’s a good chance they’re under layers of protection. People like this (politicians and corporate heads especially) are probably more superstitious than us witches, and it’s a pretty open secret that many of them employ protection from a plethora of spiritual practitioners and services. This might be a fellow witch, a spiritual leader of their religion, occult specialist, and they probably pray to someone or something for protection from exactly the likes of us.

If you’re going to curse a high value target you have to expect them to be protected and possibly dangerous to curse. Here we’re going to discuss what kinds of defenses they might have and ways to get around them.

Return to sender spells - When you curse someone who has a return to sender spell on them, the curse does just that. It comes back and curses you instead.

Ways around - Knowing this is a popular method of protection, you can build the spell around the idea of it being returned. Include an envelope with the targets address (often totally legal and easy to obtain) in both the address and return address locations as an ingredient of the spell could be enough to confuse the logic of a return to sender spell. This would at very least keep it hovering around them until the other defenses get taken down.

Decoys - Decoys are a great way to trick a curse into attacking the wrong target. It’s a fake target, often a vessel filled with a taglock and something to either trap the curse inside, or  even harm the caster.

Ways around - Specify the target in time. When crafting the spell, your taglock needs to be chronologically more recent than the decoy was made, and the spell needs to specifically target that. So, say the decoy was made with old hair from a year ago. That version of the target is a constant, but the target in this moment isn’t that person anymore. Use a picture taken this week, find their twitter or whatever. Specify with laser accuracy exactly who and what the curse is meant to target.

Negative energy collection - They take your curse and use it to fuel a different spell. Often times that other spell will be to power their own defenses, or achieve the goal your trying to stop, and don’t put it past them use these like charged return to senders.

Ways around - My first thoughts are to be very specific with the conditions of your curse, so the energy can only be used in the way you specify. But then I got a random thought. Has anyone tried making a malware/virus spell to get past one of these? The concept is that you make the spell with a condition expecting it to possibly get absorbed by one of these energy collection spells or objects, where once inside you can redirect the energy to your goal of cursing the target. Just some food for thought, and maybe something to be developed more later.

Barriers and wards - Literally just walls you have to get through or around. The challenge is in the simplicity.

Ways around - You could try breaking them, but it’s likely they’ll have thought of that. You could make a spell specifically to sneak in though any crack they can, or even hitch a ride on any mundane thing crossing the barrier (insects, mice, other critters), or wait for them to be in a place where you think they’ll be away from their barriers. Mid day most people are in transit, and you can ward your car, but warding spaces between parking and the front door is a lot less common. Construct your spell like a pathogen and the second they let their guard down they’ll be in it’s midst.

Deities, spirits, etc - A lot of us work with these, and a lot of them do too.

Ways around - You’ve got a couple ways. If you’ve got your own god, familiar, or spirit, ask for their help. I’m sure many of your ancestors would want you to succeed and may have fought for causes like this in their time, so ask their help if you work with them. Additionally, you could try appealing to their gods. It’s not unreasonable to imagine some of their deities are not happy with their actions, and won’t grant or will revoke protection if asked respectfully. Many spirits aren’t senseless in who they protect and you might be able to reach a deal or agreement. Be warned, you never know who the target is dealing with, so if you always hope for the best and prepare for the worst.

I was also thinking a potential way around a few of these would be a Reverse Scapegoat, but considering how many people are probably cursing these assholes daily right now, I don’t think it would be smart to accidentally attract any of that.

There are definitely more defensive methods, but I’m finishing writing this at 4am and I’m not going to have time to add more by tomorrow. Start by thinking of your own protections and how you’d get through them. Add some thoughts and ideas in the comments and reblogs, browse the comments and reblogs. I don’t expect these posts to blow up or anything, but someone always has something interesting or clever to add, so take a second and look or add your own for others. If people are serious about cursing a high value target than they need to prepare and we need to pull knowledge and resources.

Additionally in all situations where you’re cursing a high value target, you should have a bunch of your own defenses set up and ready to protect yourself. Do you expect someone who knowingly voted to kill women and is excited to take away more rights isn’t going to retaliate against you? I’d assume when they hired that black book occultist to protect them they paid extra to ruin you in the process.

If anyone has any questions, topics I should cover, ideas or whatever, asks are always on so let me know. I’ll try to answer everything and make many more posts throughout the week whenever I have a minute here or there.

[starshipsofstarlord]

Could I request a Jaskier x female reader where the reader is a princess who during daylight, is condemned to be a bear, after being cursed by an evil sorcerer At night she become a human again. Which the curse can only be broken by a man (who would be Jaskier) who pledges his heart solely to the reader (something like true love’s kiss). Please and thank you!!!

Bruin

jaskier x reader

masterlist

Warnings; mentions of witcher killing, mentions of death and angst, curses, nudity, some fluff, implied smut

“G-Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice shivered, as he saw a great mountain of brunette fur, wading through the long grass, heavy breathing exhibiting from its wet snout. “There’s a bear!”

“If you’re that scared, try to speak quieter.” The Witcher’s speech remained monotone, as he continued walking, leaving the bard to catch up with his hardy footsteps. “We need to leave before nightfall, that is when the true monster is unleashed from the bruin vessel.”

“You kill monsters, we’ll be fine.” The bard waved off, though he was terrified, and Geralt was all but convinced with his dismissal. “We will, won’t we Geralt?”

“It’s bad luck to remain out here at night, it’s an old wives tale, however, no one survives the night out here. Not after the disappearance of the princess of Arafell.” Jaskier remembered that tale, he had even seen the princess at a banquet once when they were both young in age.

Neither of them had the opportunity to converse with one another that evening, it was the night she had ran away. and he certainly had regretted never asking her dance. Before that though, they had often strode through the gardens hand in hand, conversing on the beauty of the petals that veiled around the stems, and she, unlike most people, listened to his descriptive forms of poetry. Back then, he had been shy, and not to mention, she was of sought after royal blood. That evening was the last that anyone from the kingdom had ever been seen, after the slumber of eternity wept over their souls. One thing he severely remembered though, was that she loved dandelions.

The princess had ran away, leaving the king and queen in search of someone that could find her, and thus they hired a private sorcerer to complete their wishes. But instead of seeking out the lost girl, the old man took the gold and the lives of old, wallowing the land in distress that clambered into a delving of madness.

A shout bellowed from the bear, and Jaskier found him to “How long will it be til we reach the borders?”

“The bad luck will loom over us Jaskier, we will not make it out of here in the span of the next countless hours. There will be a moon in the sky, but perhaps we’ll be able to seek out cover in the old guard’s tower.”

“Where are we Geralt?” The brown haired poet feared to be met with the answer “What makes you think that we’ll survive the night?!”

“This is what remains of Arafell.” Stated the white haired hunter, as he continued to plod through the thick foliage beneath his dark boots. He stepped on the dull green life form, not encouraged to pursue any further into the depths as he heard the destination that they were travelling through.

“Arafell, great.” Huffed the irritating bard, clutching his lute as he spoke the haunting name. “There’s no need to be afraid, when you’re in the land of torn bodies, because the witcher is by your side. He’ll slash and dice, protect the mice, from the darkness that falls from above. The people are dead, I am filled with dread, in the land of Ar-afellll.”

“Stop singing.” Whenever there was any fault present in their adventures together, Jaskier had a tendency, wallowing similar like a pie without filling to sing. It shrouded Geralt with epitomised frustration, his betrothed follower sure knew how to pull his strings, it was as though he were a moral lute, a practice run of socialisation for the noble’s son.

“Sorry.” Apologised the traveller, with a shrug encompassed by a spark of coldness affecting his posture. There was a breeze, filled with the pinching of icicles in the air, and it clawed through his clothes, clashing with the meat blanketed warmth of his bones. “It’s just- we’re in bloody Arafell, or what remains of it, and you are so calm. Have you maybe perhaps forgotten what happened here?!”

“No. I was here when it queen Ara and her kingdom fell. And that bear has lurked every inch of these demolished castle lands searching for scraps, and if you cannot tell, it is almost night fall, and she has come up sufficiently short of anything, for all these decades.”

The listener frowned, bears did not live so long. It was a curious prospect, it remained loyal to these grounds, although it was empty. There had to be a reason why, a pattern that supposed why it, or she as Geralt had divulged, remained to lurk in the midst of the overgrown forestry. And then another thought (yes, Jaskier had the ability to do that despite what his protective travel mate may have wondered), hit him, like a bolt of lightning.

“Um, Geralt, where is the bear?” He gulped, hearing the rustling of the thick foliage metres behind them. The moon scourged the sky with its global presence, inducing another shot of ambient fear through Jaskier’s veins. “It was-“

“Shut up a moment.” It was almost impossible half the time to silence Jaskier, but this time, he actually obliged the command. Geralt drew his sword, the one that glistened a predominate silver and was made from the compound, clutching the handle in his vice and skilled grip, as his feet took him closer to the imposter that was imbedded within the weeds.

“Oh.” Jaskier covered his eyes, he couldn’t look as Geralt pointed the weapon at the beasts throat; a whimper escaped it as Geralt took a step back, alerting his companion. “Kill it Geralt, it’s a bear, it’s going to kill us.”

“It was a bear.” Geralt elaborated as he watched the beast transform and lose its course coat of brown fur, turning into a less monstrous beast. It was only a girl, with unruly and wild hair that was matted in all directions, her face contorted into fear. “Of whom are you, my lady?”

“A witcher.” It trailed from her lips as a whisper, her tone alerting Jaskier that it indeed was not a bear, rather it was a woman, laid on the forest ground, in nothing but her own layers of skin. His eyes widened for a moment, until he earned an elbow in the rib from his friend for his long and convicted ogling. “I have only heard legends but...

“You speak english?” Jaskier wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, hinting at his subsequent misunderstanding of the situation. “but you were a bear?!” This was all growing more confusion with each passing second, there were too many angles of the world.

“I’m cursed.” It was an easy consequence to admit, for the lady of the worlds already lived through them. “Each day, I am forced to pad about in the brute body of a bruin, a sorcerer brought by darkness himself to this dimension damned me to this abomination, his name was-“

“Lament.” From hearing that name, the woman on the ground was taken aback as the women, trying to prevail some decency, attempted to cover her breasts with her arms, as she crossed her legs over one another. “Your parents sent me to find you, lady. I came up empty handed in my search for you, there was no trail that I managed to find, nothing that would point in your direction. And that night, as I returned with short of nothing of any news of your whereabouts, Lament was there.”

“He killed them all, didn’t he. My family?” The answer didn’t require any verification from Geralt, the solemn, yet usual expression on the Witcher’s face was all the confirmation that she needed. “Of course he did, he’s a poisonous shadow, when he finds something he wants, he takes away its home, so that it can’t run back to the hearth whence it came from. I regret every running away from home...”

“Wait a moment.” This was all beginning to add up in some mind boggling way. Jaskier flitted his gaze aside for a moment as Geralt pulled a fine blanket from his luggage, knowingly seeing the movement out of the corner of his curious eye that she was pulling the material that conducted warmth over her shoulders, and across her sachet of flaunted skin.

"Shut up Jaskier." Instantaneously stated the bard, whom had returned his cerulean gaze back upon the y/h/c woman, depositing a composition of interest to her form.

"You're the princess of Arafell, aren't you. Y/n, it's you, isn't it?" Y/n's expression was one of shock; how did this man know of her identity? She understood how the witcher did, though with considering he was condemned with the duty of finding her. The brunette man was slightly familiar, and so he revealed why that was. “it’s Julian.” Jaskier held his hand to his chest, almost hurt that you didn’t recognise him, but it had been years, so many, none of which had been kind to you. “My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Dandelion!” The reprised title spun from y/n's tongue, remembering the nickname that she had given the now gentleman all those years ago, when he was nothing more than a persisting boy that made her flash an unashamed laughter in the midst of poised quality showrooms of noble gatherings. "I remember you." She dwelled on the fact, if she weren't clothed in only a shrill and frayed blanket that was pebbled with small dots of soil, from where it had been laid on the ground, y/n surely would have jumped up and spun her arms around his 'sexy goose' neck.

"You've got to be kidding me, it is just my luck that the pair of you know each other." Geralt crossed his arms, shaking his sleek silver head, being deprived of attention as he spoke. "Is there any way to get yourself out to get you out of this prospected curse of turning into a bear, y/n?"

"To be betrothed to a man, confirmed with a kiss resonating true love, though, nobody with any sense would put themselves in that position for me, there is no wealth to my name anymore, nor is there relevance with my heritage, for there is nothing that remains, as you have confirmed for me. This man must certainly be one of a kind, for he has to pledge his loyalty solely to me, forbidding himself from ever being with another woman again."

The mention of a lack of sense reminded Geralt of one man in particular, and he was stood right beside him. But it couldn't have been Jaskier, of all people, and- Geralt found himself overcome with dread as the bard stepped forward, crunching his shoed feet into the withered grass, closer to the rediscovered princess.

"I have waited my whole life to see you again." Oh god, here he went, Geralt thought. "When we were younger, I was infatuated with you, and here we are, united again in a union. If my betrothal means nothing then you will remain in this shrine of gloom, but to me, it would mean everything to me."

"Y/N come on, have some sense, it-" There was lack of reason for Geralt to continue speaking, as y/n sprung up, the blanket flowing down from her shoulders, baring her body cold to the crisp air, as her hands clasped both sides of Jaskier's face, and pressed her lips to his.

The witcher cringed, turning away as the pair practically ate the other's face, like starved animals that had been distanced for many years, which in their case was true. "Do you know if the curse is broken, is there any indicator if so?"

A hum fell from y/n's mouth as Jaskier's hand traced the curve of her spine, causing Geralt to scoff. That was the only response he earned, and to a high stake, it disgusted him. "I think I'm just gonna let you two have some time to yourselves, I guess we will see in the morning if you're being mawled by a bear you flippant."

And thus he walked away, leaving the two to pursue their primitive instincts, under the blessed moon, and on the routed curfew on the dark and dead land of Arafell.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 25th

And here we are, at the last day of the Quest. (And the last consistent day of this blog-series. I may or may not make more posts later on, but I won’t be making a point of consistently covering each day, as many have no specific events.) It’s hard to know what to say here, because we all know the events so well that any summary can only seem bland, and there is little to add that has not already been said.

So I will note a few things I hadn’t noticed before. First, the change to a wind from the north is noted in three different places.

For the army of Gondor and Rohan: As morning came the wind began to stir again, but now it came from the North, and soon it freshened to a rising breeze.

For Frodo and Sam: The wind had fallen the day before as it shifted from the West, and now it came from the North and began to rise; and slowly the light of the unseen Sun filtered down into the shadows where the hobbits law.

And for Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith: A wind that had sprung up in the night was now blowing keenly from the North, and it was rising.

These winds help to carry the Eagles of the Misty Mountains south fast enough for them to come to the Battle at the Black Gate, and then to rescue Frodo and Sam.

Second, the comparative briefness of the battle at the Black Gate - and the number of men of Rohan and Gondor who survive it, along with Pippin and Gimli and Legolas - is due to Sauron indulging in spite. He could easily have loosed his assault against them at dawn, or even during the night when they were camped near the Black Gate. But Sauron had a mind first to play these mice cruelly gefore he struck to kill; he uses up a substantial portion of the morning by sending the Mouth of Sauron to taunt them (with gratuitous use of contemptuous-thou) about Frodo’s supposed capture. Given the disparity in forces, if he hadn’t done so the army would likely have been destroyed before the Ring was, and even victory would have left both Gondor and Rohan kingless and heirless. As Gandalf says at Isengard, Often does hatred hurt itself!

Third, related to the above, everything is over fairly quickly - the Ring is destroyed before noon. Again returning to the battle at the Black Gate, there is just time fir the first assault from Mordor (including hill-trolls) to hit the front lines, for Pippin to kill a troll and save Beregond, and then he hears the cry of “The Eagles are coming!” And at that same moment Frodo puts on the Ring in Sammath Naur, and the Nazgul turn and fly for the mountain; and moments later the Ring is destroyed.

Finally, the fall of Sauron, from four perspectives. First, Sauron’s:

And far away, as Frodo put on the Ring and claimed it for his own, even in Sammath Naur the very heart of his realm, the Power in Barad-dûr was shaken, and the Tower trembled from its foundations to its proud and bitter crown. The Dark Lord was suddenly aware of him, and his Eye piercing all shadows looked across the plain to the door that he had made; and the magnitude of his own folly was revealed to him in a blinding flash, and all the devices of enemies were at last laid bare. Then his wrath blazed in a consuming flame, but his fear rose like a vast black smoke to choke him. For he knew his deadly peril and the thread upon which his doom now hung. From all his policies and webs of fear and treachery, from all his stratagems his mind shook free.

Second, Frodo and Sam:

A brief vision [Sam] had of swirling cloud, and in the midst of it towers and battlements, tall as hills, founded upon a mighty mountain-throne above immeasurable pits; great courts and dungeons, eyeless prisons sheer as cliffs, and gaping gates of steel and adamant: and then all passed. Towers fell and mountains slid; walls crumbled and melted, crashing down; vast spires of smoke and spouting steams went billowing up, up, until they toppled like an overwhelming wave, and its wild crest curled and came foaming down upon the land. [The imagery of the final destruction of Sauron recalling the diwnfall of Númenor feels very fitting to me.]

Third, the army of Gondor and Rohan. Gandalf calls them back from the tide of battle that has turned in their favour, and bids them stand and wait.

But Gandalf lifted up his arms and called once more with a clear voice.

“Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

And even as he spoke the earth rocked beneath their feet. Then rising swiftly up, far above the Towers of the Black Gate, high above the mountains, a vast soaring darkness spring into the sky, flickering with fire. The earth groaned and quaked. The Towers of the Teeth swayed, tottered, and fell down; the mighty rampart crumbled; the Black Gate was hurled in ruin; and from far away, now dim, now growing, now mounting to the clouds, there came a drumming rumble, a roar, and long echoing roll of ruinous noise.

“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.”

And as the Captains gazed south to the Land of Mordor, it seemed to them that, black against the pall of cloud, there rose a huge shape of shadow, impenetrable, lightning-crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the world, and stretched out towards them a vast threatening hand, terrible but impotent: for even as it leaned over them, a great wind took it, and it was all blown away, and passed; and then a hush fell.

And fourth, Faramir and Eowyn in Minas Tirith:

And it seemed to them as they stood upon the wall that the wind died, and the light failed, and the Sun was bleared, and all sounds in the City or in the lands about were hushed: neuther wind, nor voice, nor bird-call, nor rustle of leaf, nor their own breath could be heard; the very beating of their hearts was stilled. Time halted.

And as they stood so, their hands met and clasped, though they did not know it. And still they waited for they knew not what. Then presently it seemed to them that abive the rudges of the distant mountains another vast mountain of datkness rose, towering up like a wave that should engulf the world, and about it lightnings flickered; and then a tremor ran through the earth and they felt the walls of the City quiver. A sound like a sigh went up from all the lands about them; and their hearts beat suddenly again.

“It reminds me of Númenor,” said Faramir, and wondered to hear himself speak.

“Of Númenor?” said Eowyn.

“Yes,” said Faramir, “of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it.”

“Then you think that the Darkness is coming?” said Eowyn. “Darkness Unescapable?” And suddenly she drew close to him.

“No,” said Faramir, looking into her face. “It was but a picture in the mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny. Eowyn, Eowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!” And he stooped and kissed her brow.

And so they stood on the walls of the City of Gondor, and a great wind rose and blew, and their hair, raven and golden, streamed out mingling in the air. And the Shadow departed, and the Sun was unveiled, and light leaped forth; and the waters of Anduin shone like silver, and in all the houses of the City men sang for the joy that welled up in their hearts from what source they could not tell.

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

AGOT: Daenerys II (Chapter 11)

Drogo had called his khalasar to attend him and they had come, forty thousand Dothraki warriors and uncounted numbers of women, children, and slaves.

Oops, there they are again.

+.+

Yet that night she dreamt of one. Viserys was hitting her, hurting her. She was naked, clumsy with fear. She ran from him, but her body seemed thick and ungainly. He struck her again. She stumbled and fell. "You woke the dragon," he screamed as he kicked her. "You woke the dragon, you woke the dragon." Her thighs were slick with blood. She closed her eyes and whimpered. As if in answer, there was a hideous ripping sound and the crackling of some great fire. When she looked again, Viserys was gone, great columns of flame rose all around, and in the midst of them was the dragon. It turned its great head slowly. When its molten eyes found hers, she woke, shaking and covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

Viserys, thighs slick with blood, and molten -- eerily similar dream in ADWD.

I don’t know, you guys figure it out.

+.+

The warriors were watching too. One of them finally stepped into the circle, grabbed a dancer by the arm, pushed her down to the ground, and mounted her right there, as a stallion mounts a mare. Illyrio had told her that might happen. "The Dothraki mate like the animals in their herds. There is no privacy in a khalasar, and they do not understand sin or shame as we do."

Dany looked away from the coupling, frightened when she realized what was happening, but a second warrior stepped forward, and a third, and soon there was no way to avert her eyes.

If I have to read this again, so do you.

+.+

Her brother Viserys gifted her with three handmaids. Dany knew they had cost him nothing; Illyrio no doubt had provided the girls.

Same energy as me going to my father's closet, grabbing a tie, wrapping it, then giving it to him Christmas morning.

True story.

+.+

One egg was a deep green, with burnished bronze flecks that came and went depending on how Dany turned it.

Rhaegal's egg changed colours depending on how you looked at it?

Lol, k.

+.+

The khal's bloodriders offered her the traditional three weapons, and splendid weapons they were. Haggo gave her a great leather whip with a silver handle, Cohollo a magnificent arakh chased in gold, and Qotho a double-curved dragonbone bow taller than she was. Magister Illyrio and Ser Jorah had taught her the traditional refusals for these offerings. "This is a gift worthy of a great warrior, O blood of my blood, and I am but a woman. Let my lord husband bear these in my stead." And so Khal Drogo too received his "bride gifts."

Same energy as my ex-boyfriend gifting me an emergency road assistance kit for my birthday.

True story.

+.+

and a gown made from the skin of a thousand mice.

Pardon?

+.+

Drogo stepped forward and put his hands on her waist. He lifted her up as easily as if she were a child

You are a child.

+.+

"I am the blood of the dragon," she whispered aloud as she followed, trying to keep her courage up. "I am the blood of the dragon. I am the blood of the dragon."

She will cling to that identity until the very end.

+.+

Illyrio told them over platters of honey duck

x

Honey and grease ran over his fingers and dripped down into his beard as he nibbled at the tender meat.

x

They gorged themselves on horseflesh roasted with honey and peppers

x

So she sat in her wedding silks, nursing a cup of honeyed wine

Lots of honey in this chapter. 🤔

Sweet, sweet, honey.

Final thoughts:

Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way romanticizing their relationship, but their wedding night was a lot more... tender than I remembered.

That's the last nice thing I'll say.

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