#yellow stone river

[shotsonsight]

Yellowstone river

Wyoming, august 2018.

Photo : © Julien Rouvel on • Threads • Instagram • Behance • Dribbble

[pellinni-photo]

trees on the shore of a mountain river. autumn scenery on a sunny day

[quitealotofsodapop]

[Jade Emperor would explode if he ever found out since by Celestial law, Wukong is his firstborn daughter's son, aka his Heir]

XD Goodness, imagine if Azure'd just reveal that tidbit to the Jade Emperor - no fighting needed, just a cardiac arrest of celestial proportions.

Though, granted, if no actual fight for the throne, wouldn't that just mean the power goes to the next in line? Hmm...

Damn, this family tree is complicated - add in reborn JE as Freenoodles River Baby Bao and we're gonna be needing to make this tree 3-dimensional.

Wait, does Luzhen also count as JE's and Queen Mother's grandkid?

referencing.

Probably would XD

Atleast in the AUs he has his wife to back him up emotionally, during the Brotherhood's siege he's on his own in the throne room.

Heck, if Azure managed to dig up that dirt while in Diyu, then he'd double down on his infatuation of Wukong. Cus, a strong powerful leader AND the legal heir to the Celestial Throne!? He want for political clout. Full on Gaston-level; "I'll make this go away if you marry me and I become the Emperor"-type manipulation. Not conciously at first.

When the MKrew and Wukong are released at Camel Ridge, Azure would make a point of proposing to Wukong then and there with the knowledge he's found. Wukong thinks its all nuts and refuses, leading to his recapture.

Meanwhile...

The Jade Emperor - Yudi - Emperor of the Celestial Realm Cause of Death: Heart Attack from Shock of hearing that he's a Monkey's Grandfather.

Every demon, immortal, and mortal feels a skip in their chest when it happens.

Also in terms of baby Bao from the Mother River Tang AU; you suddenly have a situation where by celestial law, Tang is now considered Wukong's great-grandmother. Also Pigsy is the reincarnation/decendant of Zhu Bajie, who in turn used to be Marshal Canopy - Xiwangmu's brother. Pigsy is now considered both the brother of the Queen Mother, and the brother-in-kaw/father of the Jade Emperor. Not even time-travel family trees get this weird. Again its all Celestial/Immortals not understanding the differences between reincarnations, and/or that the new incarnation doesn't have the memories or personality of the "originals".

As for Luzhen its a little complicated since while his birth parent ("The Consort") was the Stone Matriarch's mate/marriage partner, he himself was partially formed from the Matriarch's shared Dao due to being an asexual stone egg. He's considered the genetic brother (nearly twin) of Sun Wukong despite not technincally being "blood" related.

The Queen Mother and Jade Emperor would consider him a grandchild just to avoid the headache of trying to understand Stone Monkey reproduction methods. They'd also see him as a "second chance" to raise their daughter's child, as they had failed with Wukong. However, Luzhen is very confused and clearly prefers his fellow monkeys over the royals, and Wukong in turn has taken him in as his own cub. They argue a lot about the proper way to raise Luzhen.

[scoutingthetrooper]

[colorsoutofearth]

Water flowing over weathered rock with natural patterns, Northumberland Coast, England

Photo by Guy Edwardes

[dimalink]

Duckling Pseudo 3D - Bonus Levels Demo Show 2 [ Work in Progress ]

Example of bonus levels. They are same levels, as a normal levels. But, here, there are no decoration effects (grass, stones). And, just, background. Background is the same as normal level. And, here, already, runs, not a big duckling, but small one. And, he can move up and down and left and right.

After level - additional animation, as duckling runs beyond the screen. And, it is shown game menus. Green and summer by colors!

There are sounds in game, now. Duckling speaks - quack! Random way. Quack! Quack-quack! And, when you get little coin - then, also, a sound of funny ducklings!

Basic Pascal version 1.17 "BLOCK" – most newest version. In this version there are 4 new games! Platform Ball, Cabin Pilot, Free Blocker, Free Bee. And even more retro games! It is a pack of retro games with modern versions of Basic and Pascal.

It is now in development new version Basic Pascal pack games. This game will be included in a new version.

Basic Pascal: http://www.dimalink.tv-games.ru/packs/basicpascal/index_eng.html Website: http://www.dimalink.tv-games.ru/home_eng.html Itchio: https://dimalink.itch.io/basic-pascal

[sleepysomnia]

💙☁️💧/🐈🐱/🥮🍦🌼

[uaninja]

Environmental Orb!³ #aiart #digitalart #nature #landscape #orb #environment #elements #city #rocks #stones #river #stream #bonfire @nightcafestudio #hyperdetail #hyperdetail #BlueYellow #Blue #Yellow #fire #water #balance #floating #unreal #stablediffusion #colorful https://www.instagram.com/p/CpVEjmxOzBC/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[solliciiti]

Pathway Landscape

[passionoverfashion]

Kitchen in San Francisco

[flannelshirtandjeans]

I designed my own Monster High ghoul doll! She is the daughter of Näkki, a water spirit that can camouflage itself as rock or driftwood and drowns people who are careless in water. She is Finnish, loves metal music and coffee, and cares deeply about sustainable fishing practices and protecting lakes and ponds and rivers. Her pet is a skeletal seal pup, who once died in fishermen's nets, but was brought to a new life by Lumme's sadness and anger. She's a part of the metal club at MH, but doesn't play or sing, more just enjoys listening to it and bonding with her fellow students. She my seem quiet and reserved, but won't stop talking if you get to know her properly!

Some design notes under cut:

Also I'd like to add design notes to this:

- fishing nets and hooks & related things are a big design note in her doll because she did almost die by drowning stuck in a fishing net, and she has Feelings about questionable fishing practices.

- there's a permanent tangle of netting around her neck to represent the way she technically died

- her purse is a glass float

- her hair is a light ashy blonde-brown - dirt road brown as we call it in Finland, which is a common hair color in Finland, with accents of darker brown, green, and blue.

- blue eyes, cloudy iris, dark eye whites. Netting eye-shine

- her base skin tone is a light grey, but she has rocky camouflage and birch-tree camouflage on her limbs, ears, and forehead to represent her camouflage/shapechanging abilities

- Luunappi is a skeletal "kuutti", baby northern ringed seal, who died of getting stuck in nets, and Lumme's anger and sadness at the injustice magically revived it

- frappe bc Finns drink ridiculous amounts if coffee per capita but I didn't want to give her straight up black coffee

- Karelian boo-strie is a Karelian pastry but made to look like a fish with big teeth

- her object heel is a fishing loom stone, a type of a fishing weight

- her phone is not an iCasket bc she's _Finnish_ and obvs reps Nokia instead. Hence Noakiasket

- sea glass bottle bottom sunglasses. Seaglass is frosty so that's a little funny for sunglasses but listen.

- the CD is "Nemo" by _Nightfish_ which is obviously a silly riff on Nightwish, which is a Finnish metal band, and she loves metal (Finland has so many metal bands. We just really love metal.). I decided on a CD-player purely for nostalgic reasons.

- "Land of a thousand lake monsters" refers to Finlnd, and you can see the shape of Finland on the cover. Finland is called the land of a thousand lakes, so we probably have a lot of lake monsters too.

- yellow comes a little out of nowhere for this, but I like raincoat yellow and it reminds me of fishers, so I can have it.

[selinay-in-wonderland]

The princess and the jester pt.1

ART THE CLOWN X F! READER

Slow burn

**************************************

Once upon a time, in a prosperous kingdom nestled between towering mountains and deep forests, there lived a kind and beautiful princess. She was the light of her father’s heart, the king’s only daughter, and he adored her beyond measure. Her laughter filled the castle with warmth, and her kindness spread through the kingdom like sunlight, brightening even the darkest corners. Her people loved her, and her father, a strong and protective king, would do anything to ensure her happiness and safety.

But darkness knows where joy lies and seeks it out.

One winter, a terrible plague swept through the land. Crops withered, rivers dried, and sickness gripped the people. Nothing the king did could save them. Physicians, healers, and magicians from far-off lands tried their best, but each left the kingdom defeated. The people grew sicker, the fields turned barren, and the warmth of life seemed to drain from the once-lively kingdom.

Desperate and brokenhearted, the king spent countless nights in his chambers, searching through ancient scrolls and texts for any last hope. With every passing day, he watched as the light in his daughter’s eyes dimmed, as her laughter became a rare and fragile sound. “Please,” he would whisper to the heavens, his hands clasped in prayer. “Not my daughter. I cannot lose my only diamond. I would give anything to see her smile again.”

His pleas echoed through the halls of the castle, reverberating against the cold stone walls. Each night, he stayed awake, tormented by visions of a future without her, imagining the kingdom’s beauty turning to ash as the plague took hold. In his darkest hour, he came across an ancient tome, its pages yellowed with age, detailing a desperate solution—a creature known only as the Jester.

The tales spoke of him as a being of pure mischief and malice, a shadow draped in a twisted jester’s attire, marked by his ghastly painted smile and silent laughter. He was known to wander through sorrowful places, delighting in suffering. But it was said that if one were desperate enough to summon him and make a pact, he could grant wishes—for a price.

Haunted by his daughter’s weakened smile, the king cast aside his fear. That night, he crept from the castle and ventured into the cursed forest on the outskirts of his kingdom. There, beneath the twisted, ancient trees, he followed the ritual instructions he’d read, whispering words forbidden by time. And then, from the darkness, he heard it: the soft, squeaking honk of a horn.

The king turned to find the Jester—a terrifying creature standing just beyond the firelight, his face painted in a grotesque grin, his eyes dark and dead, yet somehow glinting with a twisted joy. The king swallowed his terror and took a step forward, clutching his sword. But Art the Jester didn’t move. He only tilted his head, his silent laughter seeming to fill the night air, a soundless mockery that turned the king’s blood cold.

Summoning his courage, the king made his plea, his voice trembling with urgency. “Spare my people from this suffering. Heal the land. I… I will give you anything. I will pay whatever price you ask.” Each word tasted bitter, the weight of his desperation hanging heavy in the air.

Art watched him, eyes glittering with dark delight. Then he pointed at the castle, at the highest tower where the princess slept, innocent and unaware. The meaning was clear.

The king’s heart broke. “No…” he gasped, voice cracking under the weight of his realization. “Please, not her. She is my only child… my light. I would give anything but her.” He fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Please, I beg you! Not my daughter!”

Art’s gaze remained fixed, his grin unmoved, his finger still pointing toward the tower. The choice was clear: either his daughter or nothing. The king staggered back, feeling the ground shift beneath him as despair threatened to consume him. He had to think of something—anything! But with each passing moment, he saw his daughter’s face, so fragile, so innocent, fading before his eyes.

“Tell me what you want, and I will give it to you!” he pleaded, desperation dripping from each word. “I will sacrifice my throne, my treasures, my very soul! Just… just not her!” He choked on his sobs, the torment of losing her washing over him like a tidal wave.

But Art’s cruel smile widened, reflecting the darkness that enveloped the king’s heart. The king sank to his knees, clutching his chest, feeling as if his heart was being ripped from him. “I accept your terms,” he finally managed to choke out, each word a knife twisted in his soul. The weight of his choice settled heavily upon him.

With a low, mocking bow, Art vanished into the shadows, leaving the king alone in the night, a shell of the man he once was. The pact was sealed ,leaving a devastated King behind…

[apiswitchcraft]

altars for titans and protogenoi

This post more than any of the others is going to be mostly upg or spg. Hardly anyone in antiquity spent a lot of effort worshipping most of these deities, especially the protogenoi, so resources are limited. If you have suggestions or personal addendums, feel free to leave them in the comments. I made a lot of decisions based on what the herbs/crystals are usually associated with: for example, black tourmaline is associated with Nyx (the night) therefore Chaos (the embodiment of the primordial soup and basically the universe) has black tourmaline too.

Also, all the deities on this list can be honored with libation of wine, milk, honey, and oil; offerings of meat or desserts; and burning frankincense/myrrh.

Disclaimer: this is not all of the protogenoi or titans that exist, these are just the most recognizable ones that have the most lore attached. I used theoi.com to research all of these deities.

CHAOS: the first to emerge at creation, the protogenos of the space between heaven and earth, and the air

Colors: black, grey, purple for the concept of chaos Offerings: feathers, burning incense, cinnamon, anise, cardamom, clove, black pepper, representations of the four elements Crystals: obsidian, tourmaline, labradorite, lava rock, angelite, amethyst Animals: birds

PHANES/EROS (the elder): protogenos of procreation

Colors: red, pink for love/procreation. blue, green for nature and creation Offerings: heart shaped objects, eucalyptus, flowers, egg shells Crystals: rose quartz, rhodonite, rhodochrosite, malachite, azurite, garnet, desert rose selenite Animals: birds

NYX: protogenos of the night

Colors: black, dark blue, purple for association with the night, anything galaxy patterned Offerings: blackberries, blueberries, plum, dew (morning is fine but after sunset is best), dark feathers, dark chocolate, night-blooming flowers (like moonflower or wisteria), black tea/coffee, mugwort Crystals: obsidian, black tourmaline, labradorite, moonstone (especially black moonstone), selenite, lapis lazuli, amethyst, smokey quartz Animals: owl

also, she is associated with symbols of keys and veils/cloaks

EREBOS: protogenos of darkness

Colors: black for darkness Offerings: dark chocolate, black pepper, black salt, charcoal, asphodel Crystals: black tourmaline, obsidian, smokey quartz, lapis lazuli, azurite, red jasper Animals: moths

AETHER: protogenos of light and the heavens

Colors: yellow, orange, white for sunlight. blue for the sky Offerings: sunflowers, bee pollen, morning dew, fruit, feathers Crystals: honey/blue calcite, yellow/bumblebee jasper, angelite, celestite, milky quartz

HEMERA: protogenos of the day

Colors: blue for the sky, white for the heavens Offerings: chamomile, sage, lavender, basil Crystals: angelite, blue calcite, selenite, celestite, milky quartz, sapphire

GAEA: protogenos of the earth

Colors: blue, green, brown for the earth Offerings: flowers, wood, dirt, anything from nature, really. doing good deeds for the environment Crystals: unakite, jaspers (various), agates (various), lava rock, tiger's eye, bumblebee jasper, jade, nephrite, serpentine, amber Animals: serpents, bull, pig, bees

OURANOS: protogenos of the sky

Colors: blue, white, grey for the sky Offerings: rosemary, sage, mint, leaving your windows/curtains open Crystals: angelite, celestite, selenite, blue calcite, moonstone, sunstone, star jasper, blue lace agate Animals: birds

OCEANUS: protogenos of the ocean

Colors: blue and white for the ocean Offerings: shells, gull feathers, fish scales/bones, sea water, pearls, sand from the ocean Crystals: larimar, aquamarine, turquoise, lapis lazuli, azurite Animals: gulls, pelicans, fish

TETHYS: protogenos of fresh water

Colors: blue and green for fresh water Offerings: lake/pond/river water, fish scales/bones, cattails, sand from a fresh water beach Crystals: larimar, aquamarine, fluorite, amazonite, petoskey stone Animals: fresh water fish, dragonflies

THEMIS: protogenos of divine law and order

Colors: white, silver, gold for law Offerings: thyme, rosemary, anything resembling scales Crystals: pyrite, bloodstone, smokey quartz, obsidian, alexandrite, lapis lazuli Animals: owls

TARTARUS: protogenos of the depths

Colors: red and black for the underworld Offerings: sulfur, saltpeter, black salt, charcoal, deadly nightshade Crystals: jaspers (various), obsidian, black tourmaline, bloodstone, garnet/ruby, pyrite (contains a lot of sulfur) Animals: bats, black dogs

KRONOS: titan of time, harvest, and abundance

Colors: yellow, gold for his scythe. white, grey for the concept of time. green, brown for fertility Offerings: grain, bread, clocks/watches, vervain, poppy, nightshade, clove, allspice Crystals: jaspers (various), agates (various), labradorite, quartz (various), amethyst, honey calcite, serpentine, amber Animals: snakes

RHEA: titaness of motherhood, fertility, and generations (like of family)

Colors: red, pink for motherhood. green, brown for fertility Offerings: menstrual blood, milk, red clover, raspberry, allspice, clove, cinnamon Crystals: rose quartz, rhodonite, rhodochrosite, amethyst, pink opal, jade, nephrite, tiger's eye, cat's eye, amber Animals: lion

PHOEBE: titaness of bright intellect and prophecy

Colors: blue, white, and grey for intellect. purple for prophecy Offerings: sage, bay leaves, lavender, tests/quizzes/homework, yarrow Crystals: lapis lazuli, amethyst, labradorite, howlite, celestite, moonstone, selenite, celestite

LETO: titaness of motherhood, modesty, and womanly demure, protector of children

Colors: pink, red for motherhood. white for modesty Offerings: raspberry, allspice, clove, cinnamon, lavender, flowers, Crystals: moonstone, sunstone, selenite, rose quartz, carnelian, lepidolite, howlite Animals: wolf, rooster

also, she is associated with veiling

ASTERIA: titaness of falling stars, night time divination, and astrology

Colors: blue, black for the night. white/galaxy pattern for stars. purple for magic Offerings: star charts, feathers (especially quail), lavender Crystals: celestite, selenite, star jasper, amethyst, azurite, obsidian, black tourmaline, labradorite, jade Animals: quail

HELIOS: titan of the sun

Colors: yellow, orange, white for the sun Offerings: anything that refracts sunlight, sunflower, st john's wort, sage, cow pelt, chicken feathers Crystals: sunstone, yellow jasper, honey calcite, carnelian, citrine, milky quartz, celestite, angelite, amber Animals: cattle, sheep, white horses, rooster

SELENE: titaness of the moon

Colors: white, grey for the moon Offerings: yarrow, moon shaped objects/food, lavender, night-blooming flowers (like morning glories), nighttime dew Crystals: selenite, celestite, angelite, moonstone, labradorite, smokey quartz, howlite Animals: horses, oxen, mules

EOS: titaness of dawn

Colors: blue for the sky. white, yellow, orange, pink for colors of dawn Offerings: morning dew, morning glories, lavender, yarrow, sage Crystals: rose quartz, citrine, honey calcite, yellow jasper, milky quartz, moonstone, sunstone, selenite, celestite Animals: horses, cicadas

MNEMOSYNE: titaness of memory

Colors: red, yellow for memory Offerings: forget-me-nots, myrtle, rosemary, jasmine, Crystals: jade, amber, turquoise, fluorite, red/yellow jasper Animals: animals with good memory, like an elephant or raven

PROMETHEUS: titan of forethought, creator of mankind

Colors: red, orange for the fire of creation Offerings: fennel, burning things, charcoal Crystals: bloodstone, carnelian, citrine, amber, jaspers (various) Animals: eagle

divider by @vibeswithrenai

[lucifersgurl444]

Elemental Stones

Earth 🌍

-Agate (Not blue)

-Apache Tears

-Apatite

-Aventurine

-Boji Stone

-Orange Calcite

-Carnelian

-Cats Eye

-Diamond

-Flourite

-Granite

-Iron Pyrite

-Jade

-Jasper(Not red)

-Jet

-Malachite

-Morion

-Moss Agte

-Onxy

-Petrified Wood

-Rutilated Quartz

-Rhodinite

-Ruby

-Salt

-Staurolite

-Smokey Quartz

-Sugilite

-Tiger eye

-Tourmaline

-Unikite

Air 💨

-Amethyst

-aquamarine

-azurite

-beryl

-blue lace agate

-carnelian

-chalcopyrite

-chrysocolla

-chrysoprase

-citrine

-diamond

-flourite

-hemitite

-kyanite

-lazurite

-moldivite

-opal

-pearl

-snow quartz

-sapphire

-silver

-sodalite

-topaz (blue)

-tourmaline (blue)

-turquoise (blue)

-vivianite

Fire 🔥

-amber

-beryt

-bloodstone

-calcite (gold)

-carnelian

-citrine

-coal

-diamond

-flint

-geodes

-gold

-jasper (red)

-lorimar

-obsidian

-peridot

-pumice

-quartz (smoky) obsidian

-rhodochrosite

-sunstone

-topaz (yellow) peridot

Water 💧

-alexandrite

-aqua-aura

-auricalcite

-beryl

-calcite (green

-chalcedony

-diamond

-dioptase

-emerald

-jacinth

-jade

-jet

-kunzite

-lapis lazuli

-magnetite

-moonstone

-onyx (black)

-opal

-quartz (rose)

-river rock

-rock crystal

-sardonyx

-topaz (blue)

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 2: Choose Love Or Sympathy]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra's wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook's Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother's life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting...

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, extreme babygirl energy, violence, serious injury, Larys Strong, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Crab Family lore.

Series title is a lyric from: "7 Minutes in Heaven" by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: "XO" by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 5.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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

A moment of clarity, something he’s having more of lately: eyes glassy but open, voice husky, words slow. His vast bedchamber in the Red Keep always smells like honey and rose oil and the brackish golden air that blows in off the ocean. Sounds float weightlessly through the open windows like feathers on waves, music and shouts and creaking wagon wheels, gull cries and sails cracking in the wind. Late-morning daylight is an aisle across the stone floor, a river, a channel. Aegon’s bed has been moved away from the windows; when his wounds are uncovered, direct sunlight can ravage him in minutes, fresh blisters, thickening scars.

Aegon winces as you sit behind him and knead warm rose oil into his back and shoulders. His flesh is a grisly mosaic: pink and crimson and white, knots of burgeoning scar tissue, spots that are still raw and weeping. “It itches like hell, does that mean it’s infected?”

“That means it’s healing. Do you want more?” You mean the goblet of pearlescent milk of the poppy on his bedside table. It’s always there, and refilled frequently.

Aegon shakes his head, groggy, slumped, white-blond hair loose and disheveled. “I should probably be sentient on occasion. You haven’t been helping me piss into chamber pots or anything, have you?”

You smile. “No. You’ve got servants for that.” Although they report their findings to you; Maester Arthur of Claw Isle once taught you that organ failure is a common cause of death for burn victims, even if they survive the risks of shock and festering. All appears well enough on the outside, and then they start pissing blood or their skin goes yellow as their innards lose their secretive divine cadence, that vital rhythm, and then the poor soul is gone within days.

“Thank the gods,” Aegon says. “A speck of dignity remains. It’s tragic enough that I now closely resemble an overcooked meat pie.”

You chuckle as you massage rose oil into his wounds, keeping the scars moist and supple so they do not split open when he moves, so his joints are not locked in place. He will need them when he is out of bed again. He will need them if he truly is the king. “I don’t think you look that bad.”

“Because you’re used to sifting through guts and corpses all day. I’m an improvement. I’m only half dead.” And just weeks ago, he was pleading to be all the way dead. He glances back at you, brow knitted into thoughtful furrows; you can see it between the messy locks of hair that shag over his face. “What made you want to study something like this? It’s gruesome. It’s miserable, thankless work.”

“I was never good at anything,” you tell him. “My sisters were, but I wasn’t. I couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t embroider patterns unless they were humiliatingly simple, and even then I loathed it. My father grew so desperate he encouraged me to try archery with my brothers. I accidentally put an arrow in the foot of a squire and that was the end of my bowwoman career.”

Aegon laughs, then groans at the pain it causes him. He turns around so he can look at you, clumsily repositioning himself on the feather mattress, propping himself up on his palms. He squints down at his left hand where his ring should be: gold wings, jade eyes. You will have to remind Aemond to give it back to him. “I was never good at anything either.”

You can’t imagine that to be true, and yet it’s what you’ve always been told, that he was gifted at drinking and whoring and nothing else. You cannot reconcile those stories with the man in front of you. You keep trying, keep failing. You slather your palms in rose oil again the then begin massaging it into his chest. Aegon watches you with muzzy, drugged interest, eyes like cold ocean currents. “Then, five years ago, my brother…” You hesitate. A real name, an imagined one? You decide there is no harm in this small truth. Aegon will not remember the name of a younger son of a Crownlands house; he barely recalls the men of his own Kingsguard, who now spend their days trotting around the castle after Aemond. “My brother Everett was burned very badly, just like you were, although his wounds were mostly to his legs. And we all thought he would die. People advised us to show mercy by giving him enough milk of the poppy to kill him. They said it would be a sin to let him suffer so terribly. Yet our maester believed he could save him. My father and eldest brother had other responsibilities to attend to, and my mother and sisters could not bear the sight of Everett’s injuries. But I watched the way the maester worked on him, and I just…I thought it was the most captivating, beautiful thing I’d ever seen. The way a body can be taken apart or put back together like stones in a wall. Place one here, remove one there, and then like magic you’ve changed the course of someone’s life. Our maester taught me how to clean burns and change bandages, and when Everett was well again, he taught me about broken bones, fevers, childbirth, wolf bites, dry drowning. I read every book on the subject of healing in my father’s library. He kept having to order me more from the Citadel. I think I would have liked to be a maester myself, but…”

Aegon grins. “You have to go marry your mystery nobleman.”

“And women can’t be maesters.”

“They made me king of the Seven Kingdoms but you can’t be a maester? Fucking ridiculous.” He studies you as your fingers—tenderly, carefully—press rose oil into the red scar that creeps up over his right cheek. “Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

He means your betrothed. Aegon keeps asking about him in his moments of lucidity. You quip: “I don’t want you to have him murdered.”

“That would solve your problem.”

“I preserve life, I don’t take it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Aegon says with a soft, tired smile. Very slowly, he reaches up with one hand to pat at his silvery hair. “Can you give me my braid back? It seems to have been washed out again.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you start doing that?”

What is the truth? Something you can’t tell Aegon. No matter how often I touch him, I want more. “It’s a war braid. You’re a warrior. You’ve earned it.”

“So I am good at something after all,” he murmurs. You rebandage Aegon’s wounds and help him lie back down again. You give him a sip of milk of the poppy, which by now is badly needed; Aegon’s face is sweated and pale and agonized. Then you clean the rose oil from your hands and begin weaving a small braid into his hair. He gazes vacantly towards the open window, bright warm light he cannot walk into. “I assume Aemond is…handling things.”

“Yes, he’s…” How will Aegon take this? Is it a relief, or a slight? There was a great ceremony. You did not attend; you were here tending to the Greens’ broken king. It’s where you spend most of your time. “He’s been made Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm.”

Aegon nods, his expression unreadable. “How’s Sunfyre?”

“Still at Rook’s Rest and gaining strength. He was climbing the cliffs as of a few days ago. But I’ll ask Aemond when I see him today.”

Now Aegon smiles again. “Sunfyre is fierce. He is extraordinary.”

“You both are,” you say as you fashion his silver braid; and Aegon stares as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

Her steps are so light that at first you aren’t aware she’s entered the room. You see her out of the corner of your eye and immediately stand, moving away from the bed, from Aegon. You feel strange touching him this way—unnecessarily, self-indulgently, greedily—in her presence. She is his wife, after all.

“Your Grace,” you greet Helaena, bowing. She does not look at you. She looks vaguely in Aegon’s direction instead. She is wearing a turquoise blue dress and her long hair pulled back from her face. The servants have dressed her, or Alicent; she cannot do it herself anymore. In her hands she holds a large glass jar of sticks and leaves.

“Hello, Helaena,” Aegon says, more like a sigh than a welcome.

She scurries towards him and sets the jar down on his bedside table with a clunk, right next to the goblet of milk of the poppy and a number of other drinks, things you ply Aegon with to keep him hydrated. Then Helaena speaks, her eyes on the contents of the jar. There is something else in there, you see now: a fat wriggling green creature, a caterpillar inching along the length of an upright stick. "For you."

“It’s very nice,” Aegon tells her, in a tone like a parent losing patience with their child.

“It takes nourishment and then rests,” Helaena says. “It is wrapped in a cocoon and stays there for a long while. But when it emerges, it is not just well again. It is greater than it was before. And it can fly.”

“Oh, I understand now.” Aegon makes no attempt to touch her—not even her hand, not even for a moment—but his words are kinder. “I am the worm. Thank you, Helaena. This comforts me.”

She is satisfied. She turns to leave.

“Your Grace,” you begin, and hold out your hands to her. She does not take them. She does not meet your eyes; she stares instead into the golden luminescence of the open window behind you. You can hear crashing waves and the screeches of swooping gulls. “I wanted to express…I cannot even begin to tell you…I am so, so sorry for your suffering—”

She spins away from you and sweeps out of the bedchamber. You are left looking at the empty place where she stood, heartsick and sorry. What did I do wrong? What should I have said?

Aegon offers you an apologetic smirk, but his eyes are sad. “It’s not personal. She doesn’t really like touching anybody.” This is an irony, and one that must read on your face. A king and queen—by definition, by necessity—do an inordinate amount of touching. He invades, she endures, they knit heirs together out of threads of blood and sweat. “What we have between us, it’s not…romantic. It never was.”

This is not something he should be telling you. It is not a jest but a spilling of deep, sacred truths. “I didn’t ask.”

“No. But you were wondering.”

You were. You return to the bed and sit down beside Aegon, finishing his braid. You choose your words precisely before you speak. “I don’t believe I have a right to know certain things, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about what you’re thinking.”

“Then let me unburden myself so there is no confusion,” Aegon insists, drowsy but fighting sleep. “There was no joy in it for me or Helaena. I tried to make it as quick and painless as I could, but still, her disdain for the task was obvious. It happened just often enough to conceive the children. And we haven’t even tried in months, not since…” He doesn’t need to say it. Everyone knows, Greens and Blacks alike. A son for a son. The murder of Jaehaerys, six years old and utterly powerless, in exchange for Aemond slaying Luke.

Do you think such a thing was just? No, of course not, how could anyone? Very few things that happen in this world are just. They come with passionate defenses but no mercy, no vision for a less violent future. The wheel goes around and around, and everyone takes their turn being crushed. “Aegon, I’m so sorry,” you tell him softly.

He shakes his head. He will not discuss it. Aegon’s remaining children, Jaehaera and Maelor, do not ask about him; on the rare occasion that Alicent brings them to his bedchamber, they do not seem to know who he is. In fairness, Aegon does not seem to know them either; he regards them with a dull sort of bewilderment, like one might peer down at a page written in a foreign language. In the hallways of the Red Keep, the children clutch at Alicent and Otto, and sometimes Aemond will take a few minutes to play with them, stacking wooden blocks or arranging cloth dolls in a miniature castle. But if ‘mother’ and ‘father’ are words the children know, you’ve never heard them spoken aloud. “Can I have some wine, please?”

“Did you finish your goat milk?”

“Resentfully.”

“Then yes. I’ll get it for you.” You pour Aegon a cup of red wine and then tilt it against his lips. He slurps the cup dry before his eyes dip closed. You set the empty cup on the bedside table, feel his forehead for fever—longer than you need to—and then rise to leave him. You are almost to the door when you hear him say: “Thank you for changing my mind.”

You turn back to Aegon, puzzled. “About what?”

“About wanting to be dead.” He grins and waves, a weak miniscule motion of his left hand. “Come back soon, angel.”

“I will,” you promise.

And only then does he surrender to blessedly numb unconsciousness, the only place in the world that doesn’t hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~

You find Aemond in his own rooms. He is sitting in front of the large circular mirror on his vanity. His hair is long and straight and painstakingly neat, his tunic made of black leather. He is wearing the crown of Aegon the Conqueror. Rubies fracture the sunlight and scatter it against the walls; Valyrian steel glints.

Aemond marvels, knowing that you’re here: “It looks better on me than it ever did on him.”

“I need more rose oil.”

In the mirror’s reflection, his lone blue eye darts to you. “You always ask so politely.”

“I didn’t want to waste your valuable time. I can be more loquacious, if you prefer.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He stands, taking off the crown and placing it—gingerly, with both hands—on his vanity. “I’ll see that you have everything you require.”

“I am eternally appreciative.”

Then he does something that he thinks is amusing, a little joke you share. He grabs for your arm and you yank it away just before his fingers can close around your wrist. This makes him smile; it’s one of the only things that does. “Now follow me,” he orders, striding past you and through the doorway.

You hurry after Aemond, dashing through corridors and archways. You know where he is going; this has happened before. As you ascend a staircase, Alicent is leading Jaehaera and Maelor down to the gardens. She has one tiny hand gripped in each of hers; the hem of her emerald green dress drags on the stone steps. She keeps losing weight. You stop to scoop Maelor up and hug him—he giggles, squeezing at your cheeks as you smack kisses onto his face—and then turn your attention to Jaehaera. She has just learned the rules of curtsying and loves to practice. You bow to her, and then she does the same to you, and while her head is bent low you ruffle her silvery hair until it is in hopeless disarray and Jaehaera is laughing hysterically. Then you kneel down so she can sabotage your hair however she sees fit. She pulls strands out of your sensible low bun until you give up and shake it all loose. Alicent—large dark eyes, demurely veiled auburn hair, somber and suffering—gives you a grave, grateful smile. Aemond has waited at the apex of the stairs for you. When you rejoin him he continues onward to the council chamber.

Inside men are taking their seats and already beginning to quarrel: Criston Cole, Otto Hightower, Grand Maester Orwyle, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, the knights of the Kingsguard. Sir Rickard Thorne pays no attention to you. Aemond once mentioned off-handedly: ‘Sir Rickard, I believe our healer is a distant relation of yours.’ The knight had glanced at you and produced some noncommittal reply, oh, indeed, sure, is that so. You had met before, you realized when you saw his face, years ago, at some event that brought together the houses of the Crownlands, a wedding or a funeral or a feast. He has a hazy recollection of you, but he cannot pin it down; he spent the evening with boisterous young men like your eldest brother Clement, while you had spent it with other noblewomen. Sir Rickard’s mother or sisters could probably identify you as a Celtigar. To Rickard himself, you can masquerade as some unimportant cousin he is ashamed to have forgotten. You assume your usual place in the council chamber: standing in a corner, trying not to be noticed, only there in case specific questions involving Aegon’s medical treatment arise.

“Is he dying?” Otto asks Aemond. “He must be. He has no interest in whores.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow at you. “Actually, I’ve been informed he is improving.”

Maester Orwyle beams at you. Upon your arrival in King’s Landing, he had confirmed to Aemond and Criston what you already knew: that while the Citadel’s guidance several decades ago was indeed pork lard or cow dung to treat burns, now there is a growing consensus that vinegar, honey, and oil for scar tissue are the best available remedies. You nod back. You are natural allies; the Greens’ king is under your joint care. You both have much to lose if he dies.

Now Otto Hightower addresses you. He is a stern, weathered, shrewd man. He reminds you of your father, though far more humorless. “When will he be able to fight again?”

“Fight?” you echo, stunned. “In battle? Months at least, my lord. Perhaps a year.”

“A year!” Otto bellows, then turns his wrath on Criston and Aemond. “I told you, I told you! I urged him to exercise caution, over and over again I warned him of the danger, and while I was penning letters to every possible ally you were pouring poison into his ears, convincing him that I wasn’t doing enough. Now look at him! Look at this goddamn fucking mess!”

“How fares the dragon?” Tyland Lannister says.

“I received a raven from Rook’s Rest today,” Aemond replies. “Sunfyre is eating well and ambulatory.”

“Useless,” Otto hisses. “Can’t fly. Can’t be moved. A waste of the livestock he’s being fed.”

“We may yet find a purpose for him,” Aemond says.

“Two dragons!” Otto explodes. “Can you count them?! We have two dragons capable of combat, and one of them is ridden by a fifteen-year-old. The Blacks still have Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, Tyraxes, and Moondancer. And gods help us if they find someone to ride any of the other unclaimed beasts on Dragonstone. Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, Grey Ghost, the Cannibal…”

“I hope they try to tame the Cannibal,” Criston mutters. “If we’re lucky, he’ll eat them all.”

“My lord,” Larys Strong says to Otto, clutching his cane; he has a habit of lacing his fingers overtop the handle and resting his chin on them. Larys is a watchful, quiet man who speaks rarely yet with great consequence. He is the Master of Whisperers, he is the Lord of Harrenhal, and aside from that he is an enigma to you. “I hate to be the bearer of unfortunate tidings, however I must speak plainly. I have just obtained reports that the Blacks are pursuing precisely the course of action that you fear. Jacaerys Velaryon is offering land and knighthood to any man who can mount a dragon and join their cause. The realm is littered with Targaryen bastards, I’m certain it is only a matter of time until they find at least a few candidates suited to the task.”

Otto slams his fist down on the table. You startle at the noise; Aemond glances over at you. “No king. No Sunfyre. Dreamfyre in the Dragonpit, who Helaena cannot fly into battle. A fucking disaster.”

“We have Vhagar,” Aemond says confidently.

“She is worth two full-grown dragons,” Otto pitches back. “Not four or five.”

“Daemon is the real threat. If I can eliminate him, the war is over.”

“Daeron should be prepared for combat,” Jasper Wylde says. “He is travelling with Lord Ormund Hightower’s army in the Reach, but he can easily be called back to King’s Landing. He could assist Prince Aemond in his pursuit of Daemon and Caraxes.”

“I don’t need his help,” Aemond replies darkly.

“Then perhaps he could safeguard the city once you’ve gone.”

“We cannot sacrifice military strategy on the altar of personal vendettas,” Criston says. “Dragons are best used on the battlefield against soldiers and castles, not on meandering quests to find one lone enemy, that’s a needle in a haystack, it’s a misallocation of precious resources.”

Aemond counters: “But if I can kill Daemon, nothing else matters—”

“It does matter, Aemond!” Criston roars. “I matter, the armies matter, winning the confidence of the houses you hope to rule matters!”

“How is Corlys Velaryon handling all of this?” Otto asks Larys. “The defeat at Rook’s Rest, the death of his wife?”

Larys answers: “He blames Rhaenyra for the losses. He has taken it badly. It is my understanding that he intended to withdraw his support from the Blacks, and was brought back only by Jacaerys giving him the title of Hand of the Queen. I am under the impression that Corlys may be willing to reconsider his allegiance if the circumstances were right—”

There is a knock at the council chamber door, not a knock but a pounding, not a pounding but a frantic drumming like the marching of soldiers’ boots. Sir Criston Cole unlocks and opens the door. Alicent stands there with her face flushed and shiny with tears. Instantly, Criston is at her side asking what is wrong, one hand resting protectively her shoulder, the other on the hilt of the sword he wears everywhere he goes.

“Come quickly,” Alicent begs you, only you. “Please. It’s Aegon.”

You race with her to Aegon’s bedchamber, hearing the screams long before you reach him. This doesn’t make sense; he shouldn’t be in pain this severe, not yet, not for hours. You are aware that there are footsteps thundering behind you, Aemond and Criston rushing to see if the king really is dying this time. In his bed, Aegon thrashes and moans. He needs to stop moving so violently; he will split his scar tissue like burst seams. Already you can see blooms of crimson appearing on his bandages where the wounds beneath have reopened: his neck, his waist, his ribcage. He is out of his mind. He is destroying himself.

He is shouting for Sunfyre, for Aemond, for Criston. He is back at Rook’s Rest being roasted alive in his own armor. Not dying, then; just having a nightmare. You kneel at his bedside and smooth his hair back, his braid threading through your fingers, and whisper to him that it’s alright, that he’s safe, that he needs to wake up now. Alicent is weeping, both hands covering her mouth. Aemond and Criston are watching you, mesmerized, transfixed.

Aegon’s oceanic eyes fly open, wide and panicked. “Where am I?”

And you smile down at him, your palm cradling his unburned left cheek. “The end of the world.”

He blinks. He remembers. His lips stretch into a grin. “There you are,” he tells you, voice gravelly and low. “I dreamed everyone was gone and you were too.”

“I’m here.”

“You aren’t in a hurry to abandon me for your burly betrothed?”

Cregan Stark must think I’m dead. “No, Aegon.”

“You can’t leave without telling me.”

Everett, Clement, my father, my mother, Piper, Petra, Penelope, they must all think I was burned to ash on the battlefield or murdered and tossed into the sea. “I know. I won’t.”

“You can’t leave,” he says again, a half-awake whimper as he sinks back into unconsciousness. You give him more milk of the poppy, enough to make his sleep deep and black and dreamless.

You reclean and rebandage Aegon’s wounds. It takes hours. Aemond fetches Maester Orwyle to assist you. Criston comforts Alicent, wanting to do and say far more than he can. When it is done, only Alicent remains in the bedchamber with you. She visits Aegon frequently, but she does not know how to speak to him; she always stands there clasping her own hands together, praying and stalling, desperate to show him love and yet incapable of it.

“Thank you for what you’ve done for him,” Alicent says, tears glistening in her umber eyes. “Not just the hours, not just the medicine. For everything that you’ve done.” And she embraces you, and when she does you hold her like she wishes her own daughter could.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the night you see it repeating like a chorus of a song in the shadows that crawl across the ceiling: one year ago, stray snowflakes in your hair, stars in a black sky and air like metal.

The Celtigar fortune is older than the Targaryens’ conquering of Westeros, older than the Doom of Valyria. Where did the money come from? Friends of the Celtigars would say distinctively cunning maritime trade; their enemies would say piracy. Perhaps the two are not always so different. Is there any mechanism of accumulating great wealth that does not involve stealing in one form or another, of wringing out some other soul like a wet cloth until every drop of them disappears down your throat? Your ancestors did not tame dragons, but they had a different sort of gift: for every coin, they could find a way to make two or six or ten. Repeat that process for centuries and there are vaults filled to the ceiling with gold coins like pieces of the midday sun.

When Daenys the Dreamer had a vision of the Doom over a decade before it left Valyria a smoldering, fragmented wasteland haunted by demons and plague, only three Valyrian houses heeded the warning. Her own family, the Targaryens, relocated to Dragonstone. The Velaryons, having already long occupied Driftmark, resolved to stay there. And the Celtigars—merchants to some, pirates to others—crossed the Narrow Sea to settled on Claw Isle.

Crispian Celtigar served as Master of Coin to Aegon the Conqueror. Alton Celtigar was his Hand of the King. Edwell Celtigar was chosen to be Hand of the King to Maegor I, and later Master of Coin to Jaehaerys I during his minority. The Celtigars have never been far from the Iron Throne…though perhaps none were ever as close as you are now.

One year ago, your father embarked upon a trade mission to White Harbor. Never a man to squander an opportunity for new business, he added stops in Oldcastle, Cerwyn, and Winterfell, and brought along his four maiden daughters to stoke the desires of Northerner lords. Piper fancied a son of Lord Manderly, Petra caught the attention of a Cerwyn boy. But no offer was advantageous enough for Bartimos Celtigar’s liking; no deal could be struck.

In Winterfell, Lord Cregan Stark was already married. His wife, a childhood friend before she was a bedmate, trudged around the castle heavily pregnant and dragging layer upon layer of furs to guard her against the cold, often biting even in summer. Lord Cregan took little notice of your giggling, gossiping sisters, and even less of you…until he broke his sparring partner's arm in the castle courtyard. As the other women fled with nauseated faces back to their needlework, you asked Winterfell’s maester if you could watch how he set the fracture and managed the man’s pain. The maester was delighted—Northerners, as a rule, lack intellectual curiosity—and even allowed you to help bandage the wound once the split bone had been popped back into place. And it was only then, as you knelt there with your forehead creased with determination and blood coating your hands to the knuckles, that Lord Cregan Stark began to see you.

You have a fear of marriage, not a general aversion but a specific and powerful dread. When you were fourteen, you asked your mother if she enjoyed lying with her husband, and you had known as soon as she spoke with a careful sort of reticence—‘I enjoy feeling close to him, I suppose’—that the answer was no. When you were sixteen and your cousin Theodora married into House Bar Emmon, you went with the other noblewomen to inspect her bedsheets the next morning, and were horrified by how they chuckled at the large rust-like stain and recalled their own initiations into sex, this unavoidable rite of passage, this ultimate surrender. At breakfast, the men toasted wine and hooted and sang, while Theodora stared down with glazed eyes at her untouched bacon and duck eggs and said when Piper asked how the night went: ‘He wanted me three times. Is there anything I can do to make him stop?’ And you had thought: Aren’t unions like this supposed to be holy? What the hell do the gods have to do with it? Are they in the sweat, in the bleak resignation, in the linen of the sheets? Do they fill the man with blind lust like an animal’s, do they help hold the woman down?

Your eyes close as you lie in bed in the Red Keep, your room adjoining Aegon’s, and suddenly you are back in Winterfell again. You are making notes as the maester shows you the herbs growing in the Glass Gardens when Cregan finds you. He is tall and broad, made more so by the furs that engulf him like mist drapes the stony cliffs of Claw Isle. His voice is booming, thunderous, cataclysmically formidable. He is used to being listened to. He has never been expected to sit quietly as other men charted out his life like the route of a trade ship: here you will go, here you will be emptied of every scrap of value. He says he will give you a tour of the Library Tower. It is not an invitation; an invitation can be declined.

You walk together through the Godswood—dark water, blackberry bushes, crows squawking, gods you do not believe in—and Cregan tells you fond memories of his childhood. He likes hunting and archery. He spars in the courtyard for hours each day. He never stays still, he never goes quiet. He wants to know where you learned to marvel at the ghastly art of piecing broken bodies back together again. He wants to know why you are so different from other women. And he inquires with great fascination about the legendary treasures of your house, not just gold but rubies, jeweled cups, Myrish carpets and Volantene glass, a horn said to summon krakens from the sea, an axe made of Valyrian steel.

Winterfell’s library is sparse and dusty, cobwebs in shadowy alcoves. Cregan Stark thinks you will not notice. As he slips books about anatomy and herbology off the shelves to show you, you cannot help studying his hands, large and calloused and always stained with black patches of ink or soil or soot. They make yours look tiny and defenseless, skin of silk and bones like glass. You picture him claiming you, owning you, climbing into the marital bed knowing that you cannot refuse anything he asks for. You envision him forcing your thighs apart with those huge filthy hands, leaving smudges like ash. You imagine him tearing his way into a part of you that feels so small, so vulnerable; you imagine the suffocating burden of his interminable weight.

A moment of clarity, in the library beathing dust and Cregan’s scent, a woodsmoke musk, a wolflike wildness: I don’t know this man. I don’t trust this man. I’m glad he’s not free to marry me.

This was before the war began, before Cregan’s wife Arra Norrey died birthing their son Rickon, before Jace Velaryon arrived in Winterfell to forge the Pact of Ice and Fire. And when Cregan agreed to support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne, and Jace pledged to marry his firstborn daughter to Rickon, the Warden of the North decided there was one last thing he wanted inked into the covenant. He wanted an ally in the South, bottomless wealth, his future children to have Valyrian ancestry. He wanted a woman with vigilant, unflinching eyes and blood on her hands.

He wanted you.

[youryanderedaddy]

When The Flood Comes

tw: female reader, cannibalism, starvation, murder (not reader), religious imagery, hinted past sexual assault, imprisonment, hinted jealousy, slut shaming, dark!Cassian, disturbing descriptions

You used to love Easter as a child. It was the only time your mother would spare money on something as non - essential as chocolate or food dye. She would take a short break from her needlework, or whatever sewing project she had going on, and she would sit down to paint a few eggs with you, barely a carton, with whatever charge her client had left the day before. The first egg was always as red as blood, and she would rub a small cross across your forehead while the paint was still warm. For luck, she would say - and may the year ahead be fruitful. 

These days you think about your mother more often than you’d like. Sometimes you dream about her - you’re brought back to the tiny yellow cottage in the middle of the forest, so very close to the river that started the whole mess. You can feel her hands caressing your hair, the warmth of her long skirts soaking into your bare legs as she sings you a lullaby and rocks you to sleep. You can almost hear the melody in your head - you don’t remember the lyrics anymore, but you know it must be something soothing. Something suiting of a soul destined to go to Heaven. 

It makes you chuckle - but it also makes you cry, the thought of it all. Your mother probably thinks you’re up in the sky now, naked and running in a flowery field surrounded by angels. You wouldn’t blame her, you decide, if she has already given up on finding you. You’re not sure how long it’s been, but you’ve bled three times already - so it must have been three whole months at least, and that’s enough for the heart to grow weak, for the mind to forget. Especially those not worth remembering. 

Cassian doesn’t let a single day pass without reminding you just that. He explains that once you enter the catacombs, you become part of the church. You melt together with the stone and the marble, you blend in behind the old dungeon bars just like a martyr nailed to a cross. Nobody knows you’re here - nobody knows that this place still exists. As far as the public is aware, the catacombs burnt down to the last peg during the Saturah war. 

And yet here you are, chained like a dog. Your stomach hurts again. In the beginning of the Lent you didn’t feel much different, some phantom pains here and there, a wave of nausea washing over you as you woke up, but now the emptiness is almost ever - present. Just like a bitter past lover it doesn’t let go, leaving you curled up and aching more often than not. You can’t remember the last time you had something solid in your system - something different than watered down soup or herb tea. Chamomile. Hibiscus. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal. Pennyroyal.

It’s hard to see in the utmost dark - but Cassian’s candle burns bright, illuminating everything around. Once your eyes settle into focus, you make out his face - his eyes sparkle with cold reflected light, but he’s not looking at you. His entire focus seems to be directed at the plate before him. He runs a finger through the white satin tablecloth, wrapping his digits into one of the knitted holes, and your heart stops beating for a second, anticipating the crumble of the table and everything on it - but it never happens.

The deacon eats in absolute silence for what feels like eternity - the only sounds that leave his body are muffled moans of perverse appreciation as he cuts into the bloody meat and brings the piece into his open mouth. It’s utterly disgusting - the warm scarlet essence of the poor animal drips down his chin, his cloth, his hands, it smears all over the beautiful handsewn cover, and yet you’ve never felt such intense hunger in your life. All you want is to sink your teeth into the rich pithy texture, to tear into it until you feel the vein pop under your teeth. Your mouth is watering.

“He has risen.” The man finally smiles, a nice warm smile, but his eyes never leave the meal. You look up, keeping your hands on the ground to retain balance - even such small movements are enough to make you dizzy and you end up falling backwards. Cassian holds up something you barely recognise as a glass, greedy to gulp the liquid inside. It leaves a purple stain down his jaw and he quickly wipes it with the end of his white sleeve. “You must be hungry.” He purrs as if talking to an animal, and you nod with unhidden desperation. You’ve never been so hungry in your entire life.

He makes a gesture for you to come closer and you crawl towards the bars, opting to get your head out despite the tight gaps between the metal sticks. The man caresses you with one hand, calling you a good girl and a hundred other sweet names you’ve never heard him even utter before. It becomes increasingly hard to follow his voice as your stomach growls louder and louder, filled up with acidic emptiness to the brim. He finally takes pity on you and throws a ripped piece of the slab towards your feet.

Your past self would have laughed at that. She would have smiled mockingly, turning her back on this depravity. She would have broken the rusted grates with a shove - and then she would have strangled the fucker with her bare hands. But you’re not her anymore. You’re not the woman who could fall asleep under a cloak tree, who could smile and sing during a rainstorm, who could skip with the wind. You can pretend to be her all you want, but you doubt she’d want to share her skin ever again. The body you’re stuck in, her body, is wretched beyond repair. Covered in belts and bruises, melting into a puddle of pain and scarcity, begging for the tiniest moment of mercy. And what a mercy it is.

What a mercy it is to feel the raw, dense flesh on your tongue, to be able to bite into something instead of slurping salt and broth from someone else’s hand, someone else’s spoon. What a mercy it is to tastе the grease and the fat, the sweet, tangy bite, for the meat to stick in between your teeth and not flow through. To chew slowly because there’s something to chew on, to drink the fluid oozing out of each nip and abandon the bones hidden beneath. It tastes… divine. 

“Do you like it?” Cassian asks eventually, voice full of amusement as he brings his hands together. He’s covered in stains from head to toe, but somehow he still remains as proper and pure as a tear. You don’t want to break away from the pigsty on your lap - you want to bury your face in the meaty red goodness, to savour each and every bite, but the singular surviving thought in you tells you to obey the man, lest he takes the food away. You don’t want him to take it away. You don’t want to die. Despite everything, you don’t want to die. So you nod - with your whole body, and you bow, because you need him to understand that this moment right now is essential. Fateful. 

“What is it?” You rasp breathlessly, unable to hide the excitement in your tired, sluggish movements. You feel a spark of energy building up inside your chest and you want to scream with joy. Maybe the next bite is what gives you the strength to break out of this hell. Maybe the next bite will bring her back to life. “It tastes like lamb.” You mumble, tapping your knee impatiently - waiting for the man to speak so you can return to devouring the remains of your… dinner.

“You can call it that.” He chuckles, eyes glowing with pride. “It is a sacrificial lamb of sorts.” His finger grazes the flame, but the man seems oblivious to the burn. “Although, I’m surprised, dear. I mean, I knew you were an insatiable whore…” He finally looks at you. His eyes are inhumanly cruel. “But to forget your own lover...”

“W-what do you mean?” Your heart skips a beat and you immediately freeze in place. As your ears ring with uncertainty, you become painfully aware of the stench of blood soaking into the collar of your filthy robe. “Don’t you find the taste familiar? Come on, darling… I know you’re going absolutely crazy with starvation, but it wouldn’t hurt to use that pretty little brain sometimes.” Cassian sneers, ever so malicious, picking up the wine glass again.

You inhale sharply as your chest tightens with panic. Someone is screaming at the back of your mind, threatening to tear your head open. Your thoughts are racing. Places, places, men, meat, sweat sticking, drenched in… You don’t have a clue what he’s getting at.

“Aww, my love. You really don’t remember? You must be completely gone by now.” His voice is sweet, but nothing like chocolate. Nothing like butterfly kisses and sugar, nothing like a warm hug on a cold night. It’s so sweet it hurts your throat. “You’ve had his lips,” The deacon grins with all his pearly teeth out - it makes you shiver. “And now you’re having his heart.”

“Who the fuck are you talking about?!” You scream, unable to take the suspense any longer. You should be used to it, you should be used to his stupid love for theatrics and tension just like you should be used to the rats crawling around at night, and his hand gripping your neck until you see stars, and the stinging pulsing pain between your thighs, but you’re not, and you never will. Maybe that’s why you still have it in you to get angry.

“Michael, of course.” Cassian spits the name out like a curse, breaking the play - pretend once and for all. “That fucking tub-thumper you stole from Martha.” He laughs loosely, shoulders going up and down with ferocious madness. “I figured, if you love him so much, why not become one with him?” His voice drops to a sinister mumble. “Eve was created out of Adam’s rib. I wonder if his flesh will compose a new form inside of you and me.” He steps closer towards the bars, taking a hold of them like a man possessed - and for a moment you’re not sure who’s the prisoner and who’s the warden. “We’re born from blood and blood we become. His death will mark the beginning of our love.” 

His tone is gentle, his arms are soft, digging into the metal grates with the patience of a saint - trying to pull you outside through sheer will alone, but you don’t budge. You can’t. You’re stuck in place, tied down to the stone - cold filth you've already spent forever in. And before you know it, you’re emptying your guts upon the ground, watching the warm bile settle into each crook and nanny. Yellow, green and red mix together, painting the tiles all odds of brown. The reek of sickness fills the damp air, and you wish you could sense the mayor’s perfume beneath all the vomit, but there is nothing more to it now. He was a man and now he’s acid. He was loved, and now he’s less than meat. 

“How ungrateful.” Cassian hisses, letting go of you. He takes a second to brush the vomit off his shoes before turning back to you. “I decided to do something nice for you despite your betrayal, and this is the thanks I get?” He scoffs, crossing his arms. 

“You’re sick.” You clench your eyes tight, drowning in a storm of tears and snot. You can’t comprehend what just happened, what he told you. You’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or if you’re awake, if your reality has turned into an endless nightmare. Like crickets inside of your temple, the screams never end. “If I’m sick, then you must be poison.” The man bites back with venom, but you can see the smirk waiting to spill at the end of his lips. There is an air of conspiracy, of shared obscenity that should unite you, but instead it only makes you want to choke on your own spit. 

“I tried to cleanse you, my girl, I really did.” He squints, drowning whatever is left of the wine in one go. “I kept your body pure for forty days and forty nights. It’s the Last Supper. You can become one with me, or you can rot away.” He leans down, pushing himself closer to you. “All I ask is that you erase him from your soul. Devour whatever’s left of him, and let the memory go once and for all.” He speaks slowly as if he’s performing a ritual. You can feel yourself go drowsy, falling under his trance. “Then… Then come back to me. I’ll be waiting.” He kisses you deeply, urgently, letting you taste the blood off his tongue. 

The hunger is back.