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#and now LOREENA!!!!

asterdeer · 3 months

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i know the original poem is over 100 years old and loreena mckennitt's rendition is nearly 30 but i don't think i'll ever get over "the highwayman", it gets better every time i listen to it. just the parallelism of the way he and she strain to reach for each other -- he for her hand, she for the trigger -- and the descriptions of their faces -- "his face burned like a brand" when she lets down her hair, "her face was like a light" when she hears him on the highway (and then, rule of three, "his face grew grey to hear" when he finds out that she's dead). it's unbeatable romance for me, this is my "the gift of the magi," this is my orpheus and eurydice

and the way both characters are framed...........it's named for him but she's the closest we get to a hero. we see and feel from her perspective, she's attacked and abused and she keeps her composure, she bloodies her hands to either free herself or free him, she wields the weapon, she is the one who gets a win over the redcoats. she's noble, she's strong, she's faithful, and, you know, she's in love with a highwayman. meanwhile, he does not keep his composure, he goes wild with grief and rage, his emotions overpower him -- and when he dies, it's not heroic, it's an anticlimax, it's undignified and abrupt and almost shameful. but they're both so HUMAN, it's not a lovely innocent woman wearing white waiting, faintingly, for him by the window, and he's not a strong brave hero who sweeps her away to safety. the romance is in the fact that they are not Romantic. the romance IS her bloody hands and her undone hair and his shriek of grief and his death like a dog in the highway. does any of this make sense, am i coming thru. orpheus and eurydice want what they have

#also the fact that she is named and he isn't!!!! what a departure!!!!!!#i can't stop listening to loreena mckennitt and i'm going to make it everyone's problem #oh the highwayman by alfred noyes we're really in it now..#aster chat

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shou-jpeg · 1 year

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Hellooooo for that music ask game I got 3 for you: 9, 13 and 29 pls!

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee

9: A song that makes you happy

Talk About You by MIKA! this song is cute and the beat is so much fun.

13: One of your favorite 80’s songs

So much good music from the 80s but Mad World by Tears for Fears is such a classic (also I love the video clip it's so weird).

29: A song that you remember from your childhood

This is hard because there is so much music from my childhood. But these two are sticking out the most for me right now:

Dante's Prayer by Loreena McKennitt.

Macchine Da Guerra by Aundrea Botchelli

Music ask game!

#asks #music #my childhood had a weird mix of music in it and my tastes now reflect that lmao #for a lot of years my mum played exclusively loreena mckennitt in the car

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voidartisan · 1 year

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So I've had this song stuck in my head for the last few days. Bonny Portmore. My mom listened to it when I was little and I still listen to it sometimes. The only words I can find to describe the feeling it inspires in me are profound melancholy. I can't explain why.

Anyway, today I looked up the song's origins. It's Irish. Probably about 250 years old. Unsurprising. If the sources I found were accurate, though, Bonny Portmore is essentially a lament for the old growth forests of Ireland.

And it's just---

This song. This mourning tune. Hundreds of years after it was first sung, it still stirs up this deep, inexplicable sadness in my very soul.

And it's for the trees.

#talking into the void #i don't need to be crying about this right now but i am anyway #it's the version by loreena mckennit btw #and it's not just the trees #there's a lot of subtext (and actual text) about british rule #it is irish after all #but still #the fact that they use the trees to illustrate what it did to ireland #it just has me very emotional

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pearwaldorf · 13 days

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When we were watching Dead Boy Detectives, Husbando was confused why the kids didn't know who Lilith was because Lilith Fair, right? and I was like "They weren't alive when it happened."

A beat, then "I need you to stop talking about this right now."

I know I'm not the most unbiased party here, but the amount of weird shit that was popular in the 90s was super great. The weird Gregorian chant phase was extremely sudden. And thence bands that sampled Gregorian chants (Enigma), Loreena McKennitt and Enya (who was certainly popular before but she got played on actual pop stations in the 90s).

I liked it a lot more than the neo-swing phase, at least.

#pear text #i am feeling v nostalgic due to the pure moods post

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ride-a-dromedary · 3 months

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the darkest of nights, in truth, still dazzles.

a halsin fanmix [listen]

#BG3 Musing #BG3 Fanmix #Halsin BG3 #Halsin #Halsin Posting #my fanmix #i give up this is about as done as it will ever be - i've been talking about this enough i need to get it away from me #i could have made at least one or two other playlists with the number of songs i cut from this #there were some things that hurt me to cut but i figured others had them in their playlists so they're out there #(the impossible dream you will always be famous i am so sorry :(()#i had three goals with this 1. make it more of a timeline in that it follows a narrative order (which hopefully is easy enough to follow)#(it makes sense to me about as much as it is ever going to lol)#2. try to avoid using songs that other individuals have used in their playlists (with a handful of exceptions - i highly encourage you also #take a listen to the others around! lots of good stuff and i figured if you were missing it from this one you can find another with it)#(and if i did use one the context might be different #'closer here is being used in a different way than i usually see it - it's putting more emphasis on the 'you can have my isolation' bit use #in context of the matron and patron for example)#and 3. focus as much as possible on non-romance path elements of halsin's character - i.e. again that's a topic that is highly explored #in other fanmixes to great success - this one is about the childhood he references and the adventures and the capture in the underdark #and the shadow curse and the burying of people he loved and the uptaking of the archdruid position and the healing he did #and possibly did not do #and the radicalization he comes into when his goals are met and he's faced with injustices #and the struggle he has of redefining himself and figuring out who he is after all of it #hopefully the 'eras' are clearly defined but hey it's all gravy from here #honestly if there is one song to listen to that encapsulates halsin for me it's tapestry - highly recommend that #anyway i am blabbing - let the lyrics and such talk for themselves jemi please #but if fanmixes aren't your speed have a kinda nice edit i guess #edit: now with bonus song i just had to add after shamefully forgetting it

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beaft · 8 months

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october 13th

happy friday the thirteenth, everyone! and to celebrate, here's that poem you probably read at school that one time! today's spooky poem is "the highwayman", a delightfully melodramatic ballad by alfred noyes. there's an analysis of it here and a sung version by loreena mckennit here. and once you've listened to that you can watch this, if you're so inclined.

THE HIGHWAYMAN

Part I

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees. The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. the road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding— Riding—riding— The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh. And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked. His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter, The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

Part II He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching Marching—marching— King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say Look for me by moonlight; Watch for me by moonlight; I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain. Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up strait and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding Riding—riding— A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard, And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

—Alfred Noyes

#october poems

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docholligay · 5 months

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Dr. Holligay Tries Things That Aren't Running: Oula One

So, continuing with my very sexy and respectable journey to win a high-priced and totally unnecessary kitchen item, I come hot off the heels of my hilariously and gloriously slow three mile run to the noble choice of: Whatever class is available to me at 9 am and in a decent spot on my bingo card.

That's Oula One, babes! Do I know what Oula One is? Not even fucking REMOTELY. Do i know that it is a stepping stone to winning really stupid kitchen appliances? Oh fuck yes. Let's go.

An incredibly kind woman greets me by introducing herself, shaking my hand, and explaining that it's a yoga dance fusion class.

Excellent! I hate yoga! I scream with my entire mind.

She must have heard me with her third ear or somethinking, because she's smiling and telling me not to worry, because it's all about doing what feels good in my body. Great! I hate doing what feels good in my body! Part of the reason I hate yoga is it is neither fun nor punishing. I LOVE to be taken to the end of my tether. One of my favorite activities of last year was our 24 hour run, where I ended up with cactus spines through my toe. Running lets me take myself to the redline and see if I can cross the finish line before the engine explodes. Boot camp tells me that I'm fucking weak, and I can drag myself in a full plank across a gym floor, can't I? Work harder, it screams. This is great for me! I love feeling like I could not possibly have given one more inch.

Yoga, on the other hand, is both very difficult, and not punishing. I can't touch my hand flat palmed to the floor, but neither do I feel broken by pushing to it. I am just bored! I am an extremely hyperactive human being and sitting cross legged grounding myself is probably against the Geneva Convention. I want to crawl out of the classroom like an inchworm.

But here I am! In a dynamic yoga class, sitting on the floor in my damn booty booty ass ass running shorts, which are very practical on a track but less so here. I was wearing sloth underwear today and everyone knew it. You're welcome. Since I'm here, I am going to give it my best try, and I am going to go in with an open mind.

Twist ending for me most of all: I actually sort of enjoyed it! It moves much faster than a normal yoga class, but you repeat the moves a lot and can get deeper and deeper into them. It's extremely hippy-dippy, which I absolutely am not, and I had to muffle my laughter when she was like, 'This song is about keeping our shadow self near us" but...I am somewhat older than y'all so i don't know if you have this experience.

So picture a party, and there's a lot of weed at this party. Now, you don't smoke weed because it makes you strange in ways you don't like, but you do like partying, and there's some extremely suspect but deeply alcoholic Homebrew "mead" and you're making the best of it, and besides you need a favor from the guy you came with because you want to buy shrooms for the meteor shower backpacking trip a few weekends from now (I realize I have touched the absolute heart of tumblr right now, and you all are nodding in agreement at this very relatable scenario) This person is like a lot of the people who always had weed before everyone did, and so there are dyed silks hanging from her walls, and Loreena McKennitt is playing in the background, and you're definitely a little buzzed, and getting kind of a contact high, and then people start to dance. They dance with these big, open swirls of their body, and almost certainly someone is wearing moss green.

That is how I would describe the yoga-dance fusion at this class. Easy to follow, very vibes-based, and heavily based in big, open moves that give good stretch. Seeing as it takes an act of God and Congress for me to stretch, forcing myself to go do it every week or ever every other would not be the worst thing.

I cannot BELIEVE I am saying this, but I would go again.

Definitely without the ass shorts though.

#things that aren't running

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artofmaquenda · 9 months

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I asked my dad to go to Loreena Mckennit concert next year. It made him very emotional and for me this is also a special father, daughter thing, something very special that we shared a love for together. He always had hers and Enya's CDs on with incense burning.

He is 70+ already so I don't know how much time is left to make good memories together. Sounds dramatic, but time is fleeting and I rather remember all the good things we had. :') now I have to period cry haha.

Music connects...

#Loreena Mckennit #music #concert #feels

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etherati · 5 months

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Taproot - (1/25)

To celebrate finally finishing this monster of a fic after 4 goddamned years, I'm going to be posting the full chapters here on Tumblr, serialized like in the olden days, to make it easier to digest a bit at a time. Expect an installment once a week. This is a sequel to Wellspring, and is a post-S2 AU with, at this point, established Trephacard--plus some historical flashbacks, family drama, bloody showdowns, and a lot of secrets waiting in the wings. And feels. All the feels. If you like those things--or, for reasons I cannot disclose at this time, dear old Leon Belmont--consider giving this one a spin.

Summary from Ao3:

Taproot (n): The oldest, most central root; that from which all else arises.

Every family has its roots, diving down into the shadowy, secretive earth--and there's no such thing as a bloodless inheritance.

🎵 Music pairing: The Old Ways - Loreena McKennitt

Next -- >

Sunrise over the Black Sea—golden light spilling into the water like its own sort of glowing, glittering liquid, diffusing through the brine and illuminating it in hues of orange and amber and violet-pink—is one of the most beautiful sights the natural world has to offer. There are other striking sunrises to be had, and other bodies of water prone to making a person feel overwhelmingly small, but nowhere else do the two combine into such a spectacle, delighting the eyes even as it harrows the soul.

At least, nowhere else that Sypha has been, and she has been a lot of places.

She twists the end of her walking stick into the damp sand and gravel. This means that she’s close; she can tell by the particular mineral-laden smell of the salt and the angle of the light that she’s still a bit north of Enisala, but not by very far. There’s no shame in having arrived at the sea slightly off from her target. The only truly accurate navigation is by the stars—and the lingering presence of the night creatures and the winter’s bitter chill have had her travelling mostly with the sun.

Overhead, the keening cries of shorebirds as they dip and weave, coming in low to gather at the waterline, to pick over the tide pools and sandbars. The breakers beat the rocky shore, relentless. There’s a stark beauty to the place, to the way life struggles forward despite its days being filled only with further struggle. Tenacity. Tenacity, she understands, and all the spoils it brings.

This would be a lovely place to bring Adrian and Trevor to, she thinks; let them see this dawn, let the three of them roughhouse in the waves and drink sweet fruit wine in the sun and make love in the cool, damp sand once twilight settles in, all softness and blue-black shadows and the murmur of the tide. When the weather is warmer. When the sea is greener than it is grey, and the wind coming off of it doesn’t threaten to peel the skin from her face and hands. When they feel safe, leaving the castle unguarded for a while.

That time is, with certainty, not yet now. But she’s working on it. She’s still not gotten used to travelling alone, honestly hopes she won’t ever have to, but sometimes needs must. And that’s the entire point of this, of having to be away from them for so long.

She misses them—misses her family, too, but that’s an old ache that she’s grown accustomed to. Missing Adrian and Trevor is a different kind of hurt, sharp and fresh, made worse by knowing how badly they’re missing her in return. When she was growing up, travelling constantly on journeys measured in seasons, a month had felt like nothing. Now, it feels like an eternity.

There’s no snow and ice out here, this close to the water; there never is, in her experience, until you get to the deep, deep north. The sand is wet and the coarse stone crushed into it grinds under her staff. It’s blunt and thick, as writing implements go, and there’s no way to get any detail—and anyway, she’s no artist.

She still leaves a chunky, lopsided heart in the sand, as if marking the spot to return to later—as if the waves won’t wash it away mere hours after she’s left this place.

The sun is high overhead by the time the crumbling stone fortress of Enisala comes into view on the horizon. It feels wonderful, even if winter sun never warms one through the same way summer sun does; she drops her hood to bask in it, shifting her pack on her shoulders.

The ruins themselves are all beige-grey rock, the sky even more devoid of color, stormy and brooding. As she gets closer, though, she can see little pops of color all around the perimeter of the old fortress—blanket-draped caravans, colorful paper lanterns, artifacts of every culture the trains have come into contact with over the past year. Anything to make the space lively.

This place has always felt oddly significant to her—with its ruins that no one will claim ownership over, that seem to belong only to themselves, like slumbering giants from the birth of the world. Really, anywhere on the eastern edge of a landmass would do, for the Speakers’ winter solstice celebrations. But this is where her family group has always come, and so she knows she will find them here. For a week on either side of the solstice, many trains gather here in the sprawl of the mysterious ruins, and they eat and dance and share stories, all the stories of the year before, and Sypha knows she has a few that will make even the elders jealous.

She smiles to herself, framing the narrative in her head as she sets off down the narrow, meandering path to the gathering below.

“Sypha!” a familiar voice calls out, along with the clatter of scattered and dropped firewood; she’s barely made the edge of camp, is still lost in thought, but that voice would snap her out of just about anything.

“Kiri,” she oofs out, as the woman barrels into her, catching her up in a crushing embrace that’s more robes than anything else—layers and layers of them, to keep out the damp chill. Sypha hugs back just as hard; she’d been expecting her family and the others, the ones she’d watched leave Greşit all those months ago and then had to say farewell to again late in the spring. She hadn’t been expecting Kiri, Kiri who knows all her secrets and remembers what she looked like when she was young enough to go about with her hair unshorn, who she spent more time with growing up than she did her own family—throwing rocks into rivers and climbing trees and playing rough games with the boys. Testing every limit, challenging every rule, pushing for every wild dream.

Kiri, who’d been away from their clan for at least three years now, off studying the healing arts with the Ottoman scholars in the east when their own collective knowledge had proved insufficient for her. Three years that now feel like nothing—and isn’t it odd, how the friends of childhood are so often forgotten when the demands of adult life catch up, but the body never forgets what it’s like to hold them?

“I’m so glad you made it,” Kiri says, her face buried in Sypha’s hair. “My first Solstice back with our people and you weren’t here! I was getting worried.”

“What, did you think I would miss it?” Sypha asks, faux indignation through her own laughter. “Never.”

“Well, I’ve been told that you have your hunter, now,” Kiri says, pulling away, a sudden swell of distance blooming between them. No wonder—too often, Speakers who marry outside the tribe never quite find their way back. She and Trevor hadn’t been that to each other the last time she’d seen her family, had just been circling ever closer without quite making contact, but fair assumptions could be, and often were, made. “And your sleeping soldier?”

“Mm, yes,” Sypha says; it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Adrian that way, though he’s never stopped fighting for them. “But this is important, being here. And seeing everyone again! How have your studies been?”

Kiri’s eyes flash with excitement, bright against the wind-bitten redness of her cheeks; her skittishness evaporates in an instant. “It is incredible, Sypha! The things they know, in the south—the things they’ve kept track of, that others have forgotten. There is a book one man there has written on how to repair a person as if they were a torn garment or a broken wagon. It’s remarkable.” Adrian probably has a copy of that, somewhere in his mother’s medical library—if not, she’ll have to remember to track one down. “I understand why we do not record our stories, but after three years there, I wonder if we are foolish to not record knowledge itself? Raw knowledge I mean, the kind that is hard to frame in the context of a story.”

My people are idiots, she remembers saying, during that

interminable stay in the Belmont hold; she’s usually more inclined to be generous, but there’d been an infectious kind of frustration and cynicism they’d all been fighting, after a certain point.

“I’ve wondered that, too,” she says now, far more diplomatic; the journey has done her outlook a lot of good. “About an entirely different body of knowledge! Not something that would be as useful as the medicine you’re learning, but yes—if having something written down can save a life, how can that be wrong?”

“Don’t let the elders hear you say that!” Kiri admonishes, laughing.

Sypha blows a dismissive breath through her nose. “I am sure they already think I’m a terrible member of our tribe, just for raising a hand against the enemies of humanity. I cannot imagine their opinion of me can get much worse.”

Kiri throws an arm over her shoulder, pulls her in. “It’s not that bad,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but there's a tension there. “Our Sypha, the warrior of Wallachia. But I always knew you were destined for something special.”

Sypha frowns in thought, takes a few steps in silence. Did you? She wants to ask, and she wants to ask, Why?

Destined. Destiny is too large an idea, is the sort of thing that hovers around other people, people with remarkable families, with mysterious pasts. Sypha is a magician like any other Speaker magician; her father was the same, and his mother before him, and there is nothing unusual about any of it. These things run in families, and magic users are common, and sure, she'd gotten herself sucked up into an epic story because of it, but it could as easily have been another.

Couldn't it have?

Would another scholar of magic have done just as good a job? Would another magician have melded into the team as well as she did, have communicated in battle so effortlessly, have picked up the slack the other two dropped and protected them when they needed it? Could just any magician have snatched Dracula’s castle out of the aether like it was a feather on the breeze?

Would another Speaker have tossed aside the principles of a lifetime to stand up and fight, or is there really something dark and burning in her that sets her aside?

If there is, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that even the question to be asking?

“...how does it feel, to fulfill a prophecy?” Kiri asks, as they start to make their way toward the rest of the camp. It’s clear from the suddenly uncomfortable undercurrent in her voice that she’s not talking about the whole killing Dracula part; that story, her family has already heard, and it’s surely made the rounds. No—she’s talking about the rest of the prophecy. The part that’d had Sypha so uneasy clambering down into the catacombs and so defensive when she awoke there in the face of a hunter; the part that she’d like to believe any random magician would not have been able to fulfill.

“Strangely?” Sypha says, pitching her voice low. “Like I did have a choice in the matter.”

“Truly? You did not feel fate’s hand pushing the issue?” A pause, a few scuffing steps in the snow. Then, carefully: “Or another hand entirely?”

And oh, Sypha understands why her old friend is concerned, understands all too well given the way the world has sometimes treated their people. How non-Speaker men have often regarded them—worldly and experienced and incapable of ever saying no, as if rejection of the church’s self-loathing, oppressive morality somehow made them into succubi. But the implication is so absurd in context that she still laughs, conspiratorial. “No. My God. I had to push them. I thought I was going to go crazy.”

A smile then, more genuine. The tension drains out of the arm across Sypha’s shoulders. “What kind of heroic warriors are they, if they’re not fighting for the hand of maiden fair?”

“In what world, I wonder, would I be considered a fair maiden?” Sypha asks, smiling despite herself. Her robes are ragged with wear, her hair recently chopped short again, her feet swathed in cloth bandages beneath her sandals to keep out the cold. Fair indeed. But she knows that society outside of their caravans frames the world in certain ways. “And they were fighting with me, not for me.”

“Still. Most would expect some sort of reward for saving the world—even if only from fate.”

Sypha shakes her head, remembering that sunrise through the castle doors, the way they’d all started drifting apart before she’d pulled them back together. Those first few hours of having no idea what to even do with themselves, in this tomorrow that they hadn’t expected to see. “We were all shocked to still be alive, in the end. I imagine that would be reward enough for anyone.”

Kiri looks to her feet, swallows. They walk in silence for a moment. It had, perhaps, been unfair to go into such dark territory—to invoke how close they’d all come to dying that night. But these are the stakes Sypha has gotten used to, the way she’s become accustomed to thinking of the world. Speakers don’t fight; they are always in danger from those who don’t understand them, but that is a danger that brings itself to one’s door. The memory of choosing to walk across an enemy’s threshold, certain she would not ever cross it again, is uniquely hers.

“If you met them,” she says, gently bringing the topic back around, “you would understand. They honestly are good men. They understand what trust and respect are.” And they have enough baggage to fill an entire wagon, between them both, but that’s not for her to say. She’s not so dense as to think that they’d been dragging their feet just to frustrate her. “They do respect me, and I had to do nothing extraordinary to earn it—only what I’m truly capable of. We are equals.”

“Enough so that they trusted you to make this journey alone,” says a voice from her other side, mild and gentle, and Sypha turns without thinking, throwing herself into her grandfather’s arms.

“My angel,” he says, stroking her hair, and as it always does, the endearment makes her heart clench up a little around something—something hard and painful, like a rock in her chest, that she has never understood.

She huffs a laugh against his robes, pushes through it. “It was more a matter of whether I trusted them to survive a month without me.” Kiri laughs then, and her grandfather does too, and it warms her to know, with this kind of certainty, just how lucky she really is.

“…and it was in this way that the houses were joined, the scorched land of one family and the usurped fortress of their oldest enemy, and from the ashes of tragedy and loss and centuries of discord arose the hope of an unexpected and brilliant future.”

A long silence, broken up by the crackle of logs in the fire, by the quiet rustle of voices from elsewhere in the camp. There’s no need to pronounce the end of a story here, not if one is half decent at telling it; Sypha knows that they are just letting it sink in.

“A remarkable story, more so even than the first telling, which we have all heard,” one of the elders says, one she isn’t familiar with. In front of the old woman’s feet, a pair of young children are still staring raptly at Sypha. The elder’s voice is warm, pleased. “It will be quite a thing to add to our memory stores. And quite a thing to know that one of our own played a role, in such a difficult time for our country.”

“One of ours, one of Dracula’s, and one of their own that they threw out,” says a young man a few places to Sypha’s left; his voice carries the twist of a smile. “I wonder how the church must feel, in the face of such irony.”

And oh, that’s a thought that has given Sypha much satisfaction over the last year—to be a fly on the wall when the heads of the church met to discuss what had happened!—but the old woman frowns. “I imagine they feel as though they nearly caused the extinction of all human life in Wallachia,” she says, a touch sharp. “Perhaps that is enough?”

One of the children at her feet giggles, a Look who’s in trouble kind of sound, and the man ducks his head. But he’s not in trouble. That isn’t how they do things. “Pardon me, Elder,” he says, “but I disagree. That they made a horrible mistake is knowledge that can fade or be downplayed over time. That they were saved by the very people they ostracized and cast out—that carries weight that cannot so easily be shrugged off. Even if we cannot share this with the rest of the people of Wallachia, that lesson should at least be preserved.”

Because it is about hubris as much as it is about blame, she can remember saying, after that first meeting they’d had with Acasă’s strange new church. Blame can be washed away with a convincing enough apology, and hubris will make the same mistakes over and over again. Both must be undermined if any progress is to be made.

It had been a hard sell. Adrian tends to want to place blame if only to have something to aim all of his anger and sadness at, now that he’s allowed himself to start navigating them; Trevor only wants the world to feel more just than it is. But in the end she’d brought them around: more needs to be done than to just rub the church’s nose in the mess it’d made.

Which is why they’d agreed, in the end, for her to finally tell the story in its entirety—nothing masked or obfuscated, no details left aside. Only for her people’s ears; a closed telling, a rarely invoked practice used when the full story needs preserving but would put the participants in danger, should it get out into the general populace. The people of Acasă are just now starting to truly accept Trevor for who he is; tolerating a witch and a vampire is a bit much to expect of them, just yet.

“For whatever it’s worth,” she says now, “as a participant in the story? I agree. How this was ended, and by who, is just as important as who started it in the first place. There are lessons in both of those things."

The elder regards her for a long moment, thoughtful. Then nods, just a tiny dip of her face into the firelight. “Very well. This story will sit alongside the previous version. The nature of Wallachia’s saviors is to be preserved, as a means of emphasizing the church’s shortsightedness and the need for it to not repeat that mistake.”

Sypha nods deeply, a long and slow dip of her head nearly to her knees. “My thanks, Elder. May your tribe live happily and well, in the coming year.”

“And yours.”

The crowd disperses, some going to hear or tell other stories, some retiring to their caravans for the evening meal. One figure stays nearby, hunched over a nearby fire, close enough to have heard her telling but not actually part of the group receiving it. In the fading light, the shape is just that: a shape, a silhouette, blue-black against the blue-white of the snow, limned in the cold violet light of sunset. They have a branch in their hands, are stripping it of its side-shoots methodically, tossing them one by one into the fire.

It’s a silhouette Sypha would know anywhere.

“What stories have you to tell,” Sypha asks, settling down alongside her, the ritualistic question feeling strange in her mouth, “since this time last year?”

Kiri huffs a laugh. “None as exciting as yours. You’re a hard act to follow, Sypha.”

“You seemed excited about all the knowledge you’d gained, earlier.”

Twist, pull, snap. “That’s nothing, compared to having a grand destiny.”

“I still say that destiny is too strong a word. We basically fell down a hole.”

“Directly into the vault of Greşit’s sleeping soldier. At precisely the time the three of you were most needed. That sounds like kismet to me.”

Sypha can’t help but laugh, remembering. “It felt more like incredible clumsiness, from where I was standing.”

“Falling.”

“From where I was falling, yes.”

A stretch of quiet, then, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“So,” Kiri says after a while, tossing an entire handful of twigs into the flames. There’s a smile on her face but the firelight has turned it bitter, all shadows and edges. “Your soldier is a vampire.”

“Dhampir, really,” Sypha corrects, kneejerk. For so long, it’d been Trevor she was correcting, then after a while, Adrian himself; she’s used to being quick on the draw with it, because either of them saying vampire had generally been a sign of badness brewing.

Kiri breaks another few twigs free from the branch, twists them in her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”

Right. Of course she doesn’t. “It means his mother was human.”

“Oh,” Kiri says, seemingly still not sure what to do with this information. “I knew that, I guess. From the story itself. I didn’t realize the distinction mattered.”

“Yes, it… it matters. A great deal. I do not think a true vampire would have ever sided with humanity.”

"Still. I wonder if I would have been able to guess, had we met in the summer instead of the winter."

Sypha plucks at the scarf around her neck, the wool scratchy but warm, dyed in a hundred vibrant colors. It’d come from the market in Acasă, knitted by an old blind woman, and had been a gift—gratitude for the work they’d done securing the town against the demon attacks. They had saved her son’s entire family, and gone home that night and celebrated it, a battle with no casualties save the demons themselves. She’s wearing it because of the cold, but she knows what Kiri is asking. "Perhaps."

A huff of breath. “So much for your gentle warriors.”

“You would probably be surprised,” Sypha says with a shrug, not even bothering to take offense on Adrian’s behalf, because she can tell this isn’t what Kiri’s actually upset about. Some people compare words to weapons, and it’s truer than they know; you can dodge and feint and mislead with them as well as you can with steel. “But that isn’t—Kiri. What’s going on?”

For a long moment, no reply. The fire cracks and pops, splitting the wood apart in a spattering of sparks. Kiri throws the whole branch into it like a spear, a hard burst of frustration.

“Taerna married, this summer,” she finally says, the words quiet.

That stops Sypha cold, her fingers poised in mid-reach for a branch of her own. She curls them back up around the empty air, feels the nails bite into her palm. “She always said she would wait for you.”

“Why should she have bothered? We were only friends.”

“You were more than that.”

“She married,” Kiri repeats, short, face tightening as if to hold something inside. “Like all of my friends and sisters did. Marriage and children and… it’s all anyone does. We had plans. We were going to, to travel, and she was going to hunt our food and I was going to heal people and we were going to see the world together. But this is the only life anyone seems to care about.”

And even you’re going down that path, Sypha can hear, unsaid. You and your prophecy, your exiled hunter and your inhuman soldier.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “She cares about you.”

“She also cares about her hound.”

“She loves you,” Sypha says, insistent.

Kiri laughs, bitter, tears threatening. It’s like watching an old dam crumble, flawless limestone threading through with cracks and stress fractures, and then: an outrushing of things held back for far too long. “Not enough,” she says, curling forward over herself, arms tight around her belly. “Not more than she loved the idea of having a child. Not enough to be with me.”

“Oh, Kiri. I’m sorry,” Sypha says, threading an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in. “I’m sorry.”

“Do yours love you?” Kiri asks after a moment, muffled by the layers of robes. “Enough to change the world, to defy everything for you?”

Sypha thinks about Trevor punching Dracula in a ridiculous, suicidal attempt to keep him away from her, thinks about Adrian in her garden, enduring the sun to make her happy—about a castle and a watchtower and the ending of the story she’d told, and her grasp on her friend tightens. “They do. And each other.”

A laugh into her shoulder, rough and wet. “I’ve always thought it would be terrible, to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, barely audible. “I never thought I’d be so jealous.”

There’s a stream that runs past the ruins, a narrow but swift-moving current that cuts through the ground here like a knife. It leads into the tough, gnarled pines and firs that grow this close to the sea, into these dark and uninviting woods that are nevertheless filled with a thousand secret places.

Sypha follows it, as she always has, year after year.

Things are different, this year.

She finds them by the water, bundled up and talking quietly. There’s a fire burning, but it’s been banked and allowed to subside down to embers, giving off heat but very little light. In the heavily filtered winter moonlight, they look like faery folk—Arn with his delicate, dignified features, Lily with the luminescent white bone beads threaded into hair the color of pitch, both of them beautiful and earnest.

They look up when she steps closer, their faces dark, shadowed. Painfully anxious.

She sits down on the ground, near to them, facing them. She is just as filled with anxiety. She has never done this, has no idea how to approach it—she knows they are not being blindsided like Kiri was, knows they have had time to adjust to the idea of this, but all she can see is her old friend’s face, broken up in grief over a friend-love she—and everyone else—had thought was something more. For once in her life, Sypha cannot find the words.

Then Lily smiles, the brilliant, passionate smile Sypha remembers, and holds out her hands, and Sypha lets herself fall into the woman’s arms, nearabout crushing her in the embrace.

“It’s all right,” she whispers, against Sypha’s ear. “You’ve found your loves. It was always bound to happen to one of us.”

Sypha nods against her, feeling the tears welling up. Turns to embrace Arn, the familiarity of his touch painful in this context, in knowing what she has to do.

“Are you set to marry?” Arn asks, quiet, solemn.

Sypha shakes her head. “I haven’t brought up the subject yet. There are a lot of complications—no human establishment would ever welcome us. But...”

“But you would like to.”

“Yes.”

“Will you come back to us then, for the ceremony?” Lily asks, and her voice sounds like the fear of paths diverging, not knowing if they will ever converge again. “Or even just to visit? You know there are none here who wouldn’t welcome all of you—or if there are…”

“Lily will convince them to change their minds,” Arn finishes for her, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sypha closes her eyes, takes Lily’s hand. “Of course. I could not stay away for long. And you can always visit us—we’ll have a lot of space, once we rebuild.”

Visiting, seeing old friends: it’s not the same, won’t ever be the same. And sometimes things change, and people change and what they are to each other changes. But these two were always dear friends first and foremost, and that will never—can never—be any different. She gathers them both into her arms, and it’s a sweet, comfortable place to be.

“Please tell me,” Arn whispers into her hair after another long moment, “that Belmont at least bathes regularly, now?”

And like that, the seriousness of the night vanishes, goes up like a twist of smoke into the black. Sypha laughs, and keeps laughing, until it turns to tears again and she can’t sort out which she’s feeling more of.

“Yes,” she says, with a little hiccup of sob-laughter. “He does. He fights the darkness and protects the innocent—like he was born for. And washes the monster blood off, after.”

“Good,” Arn says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We could tell from the beginning, that he was capable of being more than he was pretending to be.”

A long measure of silence, only the water rushing past, too swift to freeze even in the heart of winter.

“Will you let us give you a proper farewell?” Lily asks, hesitant. “Do they know—”

“They know,” Sypha says, biting her lip. “I talked with them about it before I left. They don’t mind.” As long as it’s a farewell, she hears Trevor saying, laughter in his voice even as he’d tried to be serious about this. And not a ‘till next time’.

Adrian had just been quiet, and had smiled softly in that way that is always disarming to her, and had simply said that traditions, and closure, are important. For everyone involved.

“Do you want this from us?” Lily asks. “Whether they mind is not the only question.”

It’s secluded in the little copse of trees, even the starlight blocked by the arching branches thick with green needles, and warm from the banked fire. Sypha nods, and reaches out with both hands, palms up in invitation. They each press a kiss to her open hands, and they hold her and she holds them, all of them swathed in the shadows of this secret place. She lets them say goodbye to this part of their collective lives, lets them put their hands and their mouths on her and push her to giddy exhaustion—one last gift from her youth, and one that will have to hold her over through the winter chill until these two weeks are out and she can begin to make her way home.

When they wander back to camp late that night, appetites sated and tension shaken away, things are different between them, always will be different, now—but that’s all right, in the end. Change, like liquor in a wound, can sting, but it is sometimes the only thing that makes the blood run truly clean.

The next day passes quickly and well. She gives her grandfather the gifts that Adrian and Trevor had sent along with her; scouring the castle library, Adrian had found a rare volume of supposedly true stories from the far east that he thought the tribe would appreciate having to add to their memory stores, and Trevor, feeling some cabin fever in all of the early season snow they’ve gotten, has taken up carving—which is to say, he isn’t very good at it yet, may never really be. But the two simplistic figures he’s sent are easily recognizable as rough caricatures of priests, one missing a finger and one missing an eye. In memory of the day we all met! he’d said, performative, trying to disguise the sentimentality as tactless humor.

Her grandfather laughs to himself as he holds the figures up, and she can tell he’s trying hard to mask how entertained he is; violence is so anathema to their people and yet, somehow, this particular act of violence never seems to have unsettled him. Context, she supposes; Trevor had been acting specifically to save his life, and he could have done far worse.

She wanders the camp, looks at all of the lovely exotic decorations, and plays with the children, an odd pang in her heart as she watches their innocent games. She helps prepare lunch, lighting the fires for the ones doing the cooking, chopping vegetables and kneading dough for flatbread, and she goes into the woods with Kiri to gather more firewood—they will need a lot of it, tonight.

They don’t talk, while they gather. It’s not awkward, just an understanding that the space between them needs some quiet, needs time to breathe.

She visits with the others in her family, with the surrogate aunts and uncles that are not actually related to her by blood, with the childhood playmates and the mentors, and with Taerna and her husband, a man from another tribe who’d chosen to join hers

instead of the other way around, had chosen to take her name. He seems sweet enough, and Taerna seems happy, if a little haunted around the edges of her eyes. Everyone she asks says that yes, of course they will be there, tonight.

Last night had been for stories, and tomorrow will be as well. But tonight is for celebration. All things in equal measure.

Hours in, Sypha drops onto one of the logs around the edges of the clearing; she slumps forward with a happy groan, reaching to rub the knots and strings out of her calves. Her walking muscles are conditioned like no others, but dancing muscles are a different story. It’s a good ache, though, like that burn in the cheeks that comes from too much smiling, too much laughter. She feels overheated from the exertion and the fire, no matter the chill in the air, and she unwinds the scarf, loosens the top layer of her robes to let the air move through.

Between where she sits and where the fire burns, silhouettes move, a chaotic display of human joy and beauty. They have no structured dances, really, though longtime partners often grow into each other’s steps. She can smell warm food nearby, bread and stew and hot mead, sees all of her family and friends and the strangers that come here as well, all her people, all dressed as she is, and wonders again: could any of them, the ones with magic at least, have done what she did?

She stares into the fire, remembers the feel of the castle’s engine between her fingers, the way she’d felt reality bending and brittle fracturing around her, so much more power at her disposal in that moment than she’d ever brought to bear conjuring fire or ice—and she thinks that no, maybe not. She’s met other magicians; she’s not sure any of them have ever trapped an eldritch monstrosity or blown apart an Enochian ward or—or done the things she’s come here to learn how to do. The things her father and her grandmother could do.

Later. Later, when the Nasaii tribe arrives. They should be here by morning. She will learn what she needs to, and she will go home, and she will be able to protect that home more thoroughly than she ever has before.

In the meantime, she watches the dancers, contemplates getting some stew, contemplates whether her legs will fall off if she tries—watches Arn and Lily together on the far side of the clearing, twisting in a tight curl that makes Lily’s hair lift, the fire lighting up her bone beads and glinting in Arn’s eyes. Watches the children imitating the adults, the youngest pairing off with their siblings, stumbling all over each other. Watches strong, tough Taerna with her husband, insisting on leading him, as much as anyone can lead in this sort of dance.

Watches the elder she’d told her story to last night, sitting across the fire from her, watching Sypha right back with a gentle smile that says Don’t worry, that says You will be with them soon.

And there’s nothing inherently romantic about these dances on the solstice—friends dance with friends, parents with children, and many dance alone—but she remembers being young and everything being about those early, tentative relationships, remembers that there was a thrill in getting the chance to dance with those people she called heart-mates, or to be asked to dance by someone she wished to be that close to.

So she can’t help but smile when she sees Taerna whisper something to her husband and break away from him, sidling hesitantly up to where Kiri sits. She’s poking at the dirt with a crooked, bare stick, and her sandals haven’t touched the dance ring—are clean of the dust and soot that coats the ground here, the

remains of a hundred years of bonfires.

Taerna holds out a hand, uncertain.

It won’t solve all of the problems, won’t make Kiri’s love hurt less or magically mend things between them. But there’s something of healing in Kiri’s eyes as she reaches up to take that hand, leaves the stick behind in the dirt, lets herself be pulled up and into the ring of dancers, the two of them falling into each other’s space with an ease that says We belong here, that says Even if we must change, there is still us, that says You will never be a stranger in these arms.

Next -- >

#castlevania #fanfic #netflix castlevania #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #adrian tepes #alucard #fanfiction #taproot #wellspring #trephacard #post s2

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karahalloway · 4 months

Text

The Highwayman: Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

Fandom: TRR (Historical AU)

Pairing: Drake Walker x F!OC (Harper Gale)

Series Summary: On a dark, moonlit night, a highwayman's luck runs out...

Masterlist: The Highwayman

Chapter Summary: Drake arrives, but it's too late...

Word Count: 4,100

Rating/Warnings: M (swearing, physical violence, murder, grief, suicidal thoughts, main character death) Do not read if you are triggered by any of these things!

Chapter theme song:

A/N1: As with Part II of this series, this installment is also quite grim and dark. So read at your own peril. There is no happy ending. As before, I have made some changes to the original, but hopefully, these are for the better.

A/N2: This is my third and final submission for @choicesprompts January 2024 Song Rewrite Challenge. The song I chose to rewrite is The Highwayman by Loreena McKennit.

Part III - The Highwayman Comes Riding

The crack of a musket explodes out into the night.

I duck instinctively, pistols primed and itching to return fire...

...until I realise that the shot had come from the casement.

My throat constricts. "Harper..."

But she has vanished behind the plume of powder smoke that now obscures her window.

"Shit..."

I'd known something was wrong the moment I laid eyes on her. She'd been too tense, too still, sitting on that ledge, more akin to a doll than a flesh-and-blood woman...

...but I'd spotted the silvery gleam of the barrel too late, and now all hell has broken loose.

Fucking Beaumont.

I should never have let my guard down.

Heedless of the preservation of my own skin, I leap forward, fingers on triggers, desperate to reach her.

Another flash of orange...

...and my hat sails from atop my head as a bullet goes just wide of its mark.

I raise a weapon, volleys of lead peppering the thatch to my left and right...

...but I am quickly forced to confront the obvious.

I cannot risk it.

The darkness, in combination with the smoke screen being kicked up by the 'Coats flintlocks obscures my sight into the room, and Harper's location within.

And though I desire nothing more than to dispatch each and every one of Beaumont's whoresons to the depths of hell, the truth is that I'd be firing blind. And I wouldn't be able to live with myself if my bullet found Harper instead of a dragoon.

So, I have but one choice.

Flank the bastards.

Spinning 'round, I dash back down the length of the roof, bullets nipping at my coattails. Diving to the side, I return a pair of retaliatory shots in the general direction of the inn — careful to avoid the actual window — so the 'Coats are under no illusion as to the direction of my retreat.

Sliding down the thatch, I push off from the roof to land bodily atop the muck heap.

Not the most graceful of my escapes, I have to admit, but beggars can't be choosers. And I am pressed for time that I do not have.

Rolling off the pile of shit, I quickly sheath my spent pistols and lope towards the barn with sabre drawn instead.

Emile, the stable hand, had paid back my previous generosity by making me wise to the unsavoury nature of the guests that had descended on the inn. So, instead of hitching Drogon and the new palfrey up in a stall, I've taken the added precaution of hiding the horses out in the gorse.

But where I erred was thinking that the Greencoat patrol had sought the inn out for benign purposes. Because it sure as hell hadn't been me who'd plotted the course for them. In fact, I've always taken care to ensure that my tracks never led directly back to Harper.

Which begs the question... How the fuck did I end up walking into an ambush? With Gale strung up as bait?

My grip tenses on the hilt of my sword.

Someone had let the cat out of the bag. They must've. There's no other explanation.

Who? I have no clue. As there are a grand total of two souls who are privy to the secret that I frequent The Crown, and neither would betray me.

Not willingly, at least...

But, first things first.

Skirting along the shadow of the structure's perimeter, I arrive at the stable doors.

It appears quiet. But after being greeted by gunfire once already this eve, I am loath to take further chances.

Pinching up a handful of peddles, I toss them through the doorway. Only when no shots fire in reply, do I dare slip inside.

"Sir?" comes the hesitant query from within the shadows. "That ye? I heard musket fire an'—"

My sabre slices through the night. "Thought I'd be dead?"

The boy's countenance morphs into a mask of horror as the blade comes to rest 'neath his jaw. "Nay, sir! I'd never! I—"

"Care to swear on that?" I interject with a dangerous edge.

"On a tower of Bibles stacked on my parents' graves, sir!" Emile vouches with a tremble to his voice.

I assess the lad under the pale light of the moon. His face is ashen but his eyes glint with steadfast surety.

I lower my blade. "The 'Coats have Harper..."

The hand emits a gasp of disbelief. "Sacré dieu...!"

"...and I could use your assistance," I add, moving to the closest stall that houses a mount bearing Greencoat livery.

"Anything, sir," he proclaims earnestly. "Yerself an' Mistress Harper ha' always been good t' me!"

"Fetch a bag of oats," I direct as I grab the reins of the bay gelding. "And a length of rope if you have it."

"Right away, sir!"

While Emile sets about his task, I lead the Greencoat mount out onto the gangway. Reaching for the girth, I tighten it back up before slipping the bridle off and tossing it into the straw.

"The things ye requested, sir," huffs Emile, reappearing once more.

"Good," I approve, taking the sack of feed from him. "Now, help me lash this to the saddle."

Working in tandem, we quickly secure the decoy atop the horse. Shrugging out of my justacorps — on top of the retribution for Harper, that cunt of a Beaumont also owes me a new hat and coat — I sling the muck- and bullet hole-ridden covering over the sack to complete the trick.

"Think'll fall for it, sir?" asks Emile as he meets my eye from across the horse's neck.

"Better pray to God they do," I reply, slapping the mount on the rear to send it galloping out into the night. "Else this might very well be our last meeting."

Emile's throat bobs in consternation. "Best o' luck to ye, then, sir."

"Christ knows I'll need it," I accede, grasping his palm to press a gold ducat into it. "Now, make yourself scarce afore the dragoons show up."

With a quick nod, the lad disappears back into the gloom of the barn.

Withdrawing from the stables once more, I skirt 'round the far side of the building, careful to keep to the shadows. Hopping the low fence of the vegetable patch, I make my way towards the low door that leads into the kitchen.

Trying the handle, I find it unlocked. Pulling the heavy wooden door back, I slip warily inside.

The crash of boots above me confirms that the Greencoats have fallen for my ruse. But there is no guarantee that every last one of their dastardly lot plans to depart the inn.

Belvedere Beaumont may be a godless dog, but he is by no means a fool.

Which means I'll need to keep ahold of my wits... and weapons.

Pausing at the bottom of the short set of stone steps that lead up to the main hall, I spare a moment to quickly reload my flintlocks.

Slotting one gun back into my belt, I grasp the hilt of my sabre in one hand, and the second pistol in the other before ascending the stairs.

The hall is dark... and quiet.

Whatever patrons there may have been must've made themselves scarce upon the discharge of the first shot.

Honestly? I cannot blame them. I certainly would not wish to be caught on the wrong side of the dragoon's crossfire.

I clench my eyes shut. Please, let her be safe...

Moving through the hall like a ghost, I arrive at the main staircase.

Cocking my pistol, I proceed onto the first step with as much care as I can muster, even as every fibre of my body is raring to dash upwards as quickly as humanly possible.

Sticking to the wall, I inch my way slowly towards the second floor, flintlock before me, on guard for the faintest sound or movement.

Reaching the landing without incident, I am greeted by the wanton destruction left in the wake of the dragoon besiegement.

My jaw piques in ire.

This had been punition — pure and simple. The setting of a heavy-handed example to put the fear of God into the hearts of all those who may cross paths with Beaumont and his men.

A warning of what will befall those who dare defy the letter of the law.

I shake my head. I should never have involved—

A shadow moves in one of the rooms to my left.

Flattening myself against the wall, I sneak a peek through the doorway...

...and what I see roils my guts.

Robert Gale — the inn-keep — is hunched over the chest standing in front of the large, four-poster bed, his hands bound behind him, his shirt and hair matted with sweat. A dark puddle of blood pools at his feet.

Two 'Coats root through the things in the room, pocketing anything that catches their eye and fancy, sniggering amongst themselves.

A hiss of chagrin escapes me. "Putain de merde..."

There is punishment, and then there is persecution. And Harper's father is — without a shadow of a doubt — a victim of the latter. The extent of his wounds provides ample proof of Beaumont's abuse of his authority.

And I cannot allow myself to stand idly by in the face of this atrocity.

I step out of the gloom and into the doorway.

A floorboard creaks beneath my boot.

One of the dragoons glances up...

...but by the time his faculties have clocked the fact that I am foe, not friend, I have already splattered his brains onto the wall behind him.

His compatriot meets the same fate half a breath later, as he fumbles ineffectually for his musket, his body thudding to the floor as the second of my bullets also finds sharp and swift retribution.

Robert Gale's voice croaks out from the foot of the bed. "Ye should'a left them alone, lad..."

But even that simple act is too much for his broken body, and he starts to hack violently.

Taking three quick strides 'cross the room, I manage to grab the old man 'fore he keels over. "Easy now..."

He heaves a shuddering breath 'gainst my breast. "Now, we'll be strung up fer sure..."

"Nay," I counter softly, reaching behind him to loosen the bonds that secure his wrists. "You just lay the blame at my feet. Where it belongs."

Robert twists his neck up to regard me with bruised eyes and cracked lips. "Yer him... The Raven Rider..."

"Amongst other things..." I admit, lowering him as gently as I can to the floor.

The inn-keep hacks out a strained laugh. "Aye... I can see why she likes you..."

"Have you seen her?" I demand, shrugging out of my waistcoat to press it to the wound at his side.

"Nay," Robert replies hoarsely. "Not since they found the gold in her room..."

The icy hand of dread grips my heart. "Sweet Jesus...How the bloody hell did they even know where to look?"

"Théo..." comes the raspy confession. "He... He heard—"

I nearly choke on my own breath. "The window..."

We never closed the damn window...

Springing to my feet, I dash from the room, heedless of the sound of wood striking wood as my booted feet pound the length of the hallway.

How could I have let myself be such a careless fool!

Not only have I tarred the woman I love by virtue of our association, but I've unwittingly led the bastards right to her! And if they found out about the gold, then...

I cannot allow myself to even think on that.

Skidding to a stop in front of the last doorway, I throw myself inside...

...and skid to an abrupt halt as I lay eyes on the horror spread out before of me.

"No..."

The dogged denial slips from my tongue in a whisper.

But my lack of acceptance does nothing to assuage the merciless truth of the reality that assaults me like a thousand knives to my chest.

Harper lies prone in the moonlight, bound and gagged, her golden tresses soaked in the slick crimson of her blood.

"No... No..."

My feet carry me unthinkingly to her listless form beneath the casement — the window of which sits still ajar — and I crash to my knees at her side.

Grasping her by the shoulders, I pull her to me with trembling hands, praying under my breath, hoping against hope that it's a mere trick of the night, a cruel misjudgement, a sordid nightmare that I have somehow stumbled into, soon to awake from...

...but even though her skin still feels warm to the touch, no breath issues from her chest and those hazel eyes that once sparkled with magic and love now stare dully out into the night.

My nails dig into her flesh as my body bows over hers. "Oh, God... Please... No..."

But if the Almighty Lord hears my plea, He is either a heartless bastard or an impotent fraud because He ignores my beseeachment. And she remains unmoving 'gainst my heart.

"NO!!!"

The delegation roars forth from my chest with a force that is naked in its brutality. The heathen keen echoes out into the night as the bitter taste of anguish engulfs my throat and my soul shatters 'neath the stars.

I am too late. And she is dead.

Shot in the heart and left to bleed out on the cold floor like a dog. Alone. Without any assurances or prayer.

All because I'd allowed my heart to sway my head. Convincing myself that despite all my prior misdeeds, I could nevertheless steal a future for myself. A future I had no right or claim to. A future that was more akin to the spectre of a mirage than any flesh-and-blood destiny. A future that was doomed from the start.

Yet my covetousness knew no bounds. And blinded as I had been by the promise of the lie I'd weaved not just myself but Harper as well, I'd led us into the mire of disaster.

"It should've been me..." I rasp into her neck as anguish blurs my vision. "It fucking should've been me..."

I hear the floorboards strain behind me. But I care not. I have no words or sentiment left. And if it's one of Beaumont's enterprising men come to shoot me in the back? Well, then at least they'll be doing me the favour of putting me out of my luckless misery.

Because the knowledge that I have doomed the woman I love cuts deeper than any mortal knife could.

And I've lost the right to live anyway.

"Imma sorry, lad..." says Robert Gale, laying a calloused hand on my shoulder, his own voice cracking.

I shrug the gesture off. I don't deserve his pity. Let alone his succour. I am the one holding the body of his dead daughter in my arms. If anything, he should be setting on me to tear limb from limb in payment for my sins.

Yet, he does no such thing.

"Had I know afore tonight 'bout ye..." He heaves a hoarse breath from above me. "But I s'pose we all had our secrets... And I know it inna any consolation as of now, but we'll bury her 'neath the oak tree. Next t' her mother. That way ye can—"

"Them," I bite out through clenched teeth.

The old man shifts. "What do ye—?"

"She was with child," I grit, reaching up to pull the bloodied gag from her face.

Robert falls into deathly silence beside me.

"So, raise your hand," I tell him bluntly as I pull her eyes gently closed. "Beat me. Wring my neck. Kill me, for all I care. For this is the only opportunity I'll afford you to exact your just vengeance upon me."

"Ye must think very little o' me, if ye think I'd strike a grieving man," rebuts the inn-keep with a hint of steel. "Let alone one who loved my daughter so."

"Then you are a better man than me," I reply solemnly, leaning in one last time to lay a kiss on her lifeless lips.

"Imma'n older man," he corrects as I gently return Harper's head to the floor. "Who's stood where yer standin'. So, I can afford some clemency. 'Specially in this bitter hour."

"You might come to regret your choice," I reply, forcing myself back to my feet. "As I bring nothing but death. And our paths will not cross again after tonight."

"Where ye goin'?" comes the flummoxed query as I push past him.

I throw my reply carelessly over my shoulder. "To exact vengeance of my own."

"They'll kill ye, lad!" Robert calls after me as I stride from the room. "They'll hang ye fer murder! And her death will've been fer n—!"

"I'm a dead man anyway."

Without caring to look back, I let my boots carry me back 'cross the corridor to retrieve my weapons from where I'd left them in the master bedroom.

Reloading the pistols on the fly, I stash them in my belt and I beat a determined path back to the lower level of the inn and out into the night.

The crash of the door 'gainst the wall catches unawares the pair of dragoons that had been left to stand watch on the exterior. But by the time they turn towards me, I have already run both of them through.

Leaving the sods to bleed out in the mud, I plunge into the darkness rising before me.

The cold, winter air whips through my hair, stinging my eyes and my lips in sharp contrast to the hot blood slithering between my knuckles.

But I pay it no need. For I have but one goal. One mission.

To take every soul I can into the night.

Because death? It is all but assured for me. As whether I go by my own bullet or a Greencoat's, it is simply a matter of choice at this point. For I have no reason left to live.

My world turned to ash the moment she died. And there is nothing left to salvage.

Coming to a halt some ways off from the inn, I shoot a sharp whistle into the depths of the murk. A shadowy form raises its head from the gorse, and in the next instant, Drogon is trotting eagerly towards me, the new palfrey in tow.

"Change of plans, mon gross," I advise as he comes to a stop in front of me, breath steaming in the moonlight. "And I don't think you're going to like it..."

The Merèns regards me for a moment, as if sensing the shift in my soul, before letting out a world-weary sigh.

"You always were far too opinionated," I tell him dryly, reaching up to untether the palfrey from his saddle.

Turning the bay towards the stables, I give it a slap on the rump to send it on its way. With Harper gone, I have no further use for the horse. And Emile will ensure it is well cared for.

The stallion shakes his head at me as I swing myself onto his back. But I allow him no further opportunity for protest as I gather the reins in one hand, and point him north.

"Hue!"

Upon command, Drogon leaps forward, and the night becomes a blur as we fly across the moor, like an ill wish upon the wind, seeking our quarry 'neath the path of the stars.

I have no clue for how long we ride. The silvery eye of the hunter's moon casts an eerie pall over the land, distorting any earthly sense of time or distance as its lunar magic stretches shadows and swallows minutes.

Eventually, though, from out of the darkness and the mist appears a ghostly glow, bobbing on the brow of the hill.

"Beaumont," I growl, watching the company ride closer.

They must have caught the horse and realised the nature of the ruse they had fallen prey to.

But it matters not. The time for tricks and cons has passed. There is no more running... No more hiding. No more trying to cheat or contrive our fates. The last of the road has run out.

It is judgment hour.

Wrenching the flintlocks from my belt, I press Drogon forward, down into the valley, down into the well of our doom.

Yet a strange sense of calm blankets me as we draw level with the oncoming troop. Perhaps because my heart already stopped beating the moment I laid eyes on her. And this last, earthly act is merely a formality. Or, I'm so drunk on the potent potion of grief and bloodlust that swirls through my veins that I've become numb to all else.

Either way, I am a shadow of the man I once was. And welcome the sweet promise of release.

The reins slip from my fingers as I raise the pistols to sight my shot.

The figures of men and horses coalesce from out of the gloom, torches borne aloft.

I reach the edge of the sphere of light...

... and let the first shot fly.

The lead dragoon's eyes widen in surprise as the crack of flint 'gainst frizzen ignites the black powder in the pan, splintering the calm of the night.

The lead round explodes out of the barrel in a flash of smoke and fire, hurtling through the air to imbed itself in the soft flesh of the man's cheek, shattering teeth and bone as it goes.

The shock of the impact causes the 'Coat to jerk back on the length of his reins, pulling his horse into the path of its neighbour.

Taking advantage of the confusion, I fire another round into the heaving mess of bodies, catching a horse in the shoulder, causing it to throw its rider from its back.

Cries of horror and surprise rise up as the precisely stacked formation careens into itself, turning both man and beast into a maelstrom of panic.

Slinging the spent weapons into the night, I whirl Drogon back 'round, his hooves rearing into the air as he seeks to redirect the sharpness of his momentum.

Whipping my sabre from its sheath, a hellish howl erupts from my throat as I point the tip of the blade across the narrow divide in vengeful promise.

"BEAUMONT!"

A glint of gold flashes in the middle of the fray as my target snaps his head up at the sound of his name.

"Shoot him, you whelps!" screams the captain, grabbing for his own pistol. "Blast him dead!"

But I am already charging forward.

Shots crack out into the night as I bear down upon my mark...

...and there is but one prayer on my lips.

"I am coming, mon coeur..."

I am almost upon the wall of dragoons when I feel Drogon stumble. Another round pierces my gut a breath later. A third lodges in my shoulder.

But still, I urge the stallion on...

...until his knees give way in the face of the desperate volley of bullets and he careens into the mud, taking me with him, mere steps from my goal.

A thousand pounds of horseflesh crashes down on me, pinning my leg 'neath the weight. My sabre clatters from my hand to vanish into the tangles of the gorse beside me.

The back of my head collides with the ground, and I find myself staring up into the black expense above me, my body broken, my senses reeling.

Drogon lifts his head briefly, attempting to pull himself to his feet, before succumbing to the inherent futility of the exercise with a mournful sigh.

"It's alright, mon gross," I whisper, attempting to comfort the wounded beast lying atop me, even as my vision skips and my lungs struggle for breath as a familiar wetness drenches my shirt.

This is not the way I planned to go. But it seems I left what remained of my luck in that cramped room where my love had blossomed and then died.

Fitting, really...

A pistol clicks above me.

With the last of my strength, I reach beneath my shirt, where Harper's talisman lies coiled 'gainst my heart.

Twisting the damp silk 'round my finger, I close my eyes with a final exhale.

…look for me by the moonlight.

They say that in the depths of the dark — when the moon is high and full — that the sound of hooves may be heard, galloping 'cross the moor...

And though you may not glimpse it, a ghostly rider's there. Searching for his love, they say, who gave her life for his...

If he finds her, 'tis not known; but he made a solemn vow to her. And a promise bound in blood and silk, is a promise that must be filled...

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#harper gale #drake walker #the royal romance #the highwayman #trr au #song rewrite #choicesprompts #historical au

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sleepyowlwrites · 3 months

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writing prompts! lyrics: ordinary magic and delight edition

Paper wings and silly things we wore, paper wings and silly things we swore (Snowbird - EllaHarp)

Bounded by the gravity, of all the other dreams that I was given (In the Kitchen - Mree)

Walk out into the sultry evening, cotton breathing when the sea winds brush the hair down around your neck (Savannah - Relient K)

Remember laughing when the days were long and summer was a never ending fire (All You Are - John Mark Nelson)

Chasing all the things that are keeping us young, we won't stop running 'til we reach the sun (Woodland - The Paper Kites)

There's something 'bout the way you the city when the lights come up as the sun goes down (Nightlife - Old Daisy)

The smell of old cedar and jasmine perfume, fig trees, bottles of milk, and sewing machines (Clay & Cast Iron - Darlingside)

My hope was just in season and that's the truth of it (A La La - Jukebox the Ghost)

The accent in your voice, and all the words you use, I like the way you talk, I love you (The Drums - Tanya Davis)

Something 'bout May makes it all feel better, baby, Summerland holds what I want right now (Summerland - half•alive)

A wild world sharpens its claws, as the nightfire burns, the shadows fade, and at the blush of dawn we'll be okay (Nightfire - Juniper Vale)

Like the angels in the submarine, we'll hold water with our weighted wings (Cassiopeia - Anju)

The universe is an open door, a cosmic retreat beneath my bedroom floor (Starry Eyed - Linus from the Stars)

We were young, I used my paper telescope to show you the stars and then win your heart (Make This Leap - The Hunts)

Oh the places you'll go, with your eyes so wide, with your heart in your hand and your sword at your side (Ih the Places You'll Go - I Fight Dragons)

One time I shook hands with a pirate, he gave me a map to all his gold (Long Way Down - eleventyseven)

When the owls call the breathless moon in the blue veil of the night, the shadows of the trees appear, amidst the lantern light (The Mummers' Dance - Loreena McKennitt)

I'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home, oh carried on a breeze, you'll never find me gone (Storm Song - PHILDEL)

Let's stay awake and listen to the dark, before the birds, before they all wake up (Birds - Emiliana Torrini)

If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky, you can hide underneath me and come out at night (Boats & Birds - Gregory and the Hawk)

Give me the song inside your soul, give me the words to sing along (Hold Us Together - WILD)

I was there when the rain tapped the way down your face, you were a miracle, I was just holding your space (Big Black Car - Gregory Alan Isakov)

'Til the stars all fall down, they empty from the sky, but I don't mind, if you're with me, everything's alright (Everything's Alright - Laura Shigihara)

We're far from home, will you come to me, oh weary soul, we can make it through it (Untitled - The Lighthouse and the Whaler)

The darker the night, the brighter the stars ( Sweeter the Heart - Julian Moon)

#writing prompts #prompts list #writing prompt #prompt list #lyric prompt #lyric prompts

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yutopia-eleftheria · 22 days

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"Better Late Than Never"

Since I will most likely never continue it because I have too many things to do right now, I'm posting the drawings I did so far.

These drawings were for an Inazuma Eleven Story I started to write called "Better Late Than Never", and it was about Edgar and Thiago, as well as Edgar's family and some cameos from Aaron Adams, Paolo Bianchi and Levin Murdoch.

I'm posting the parts I did there at last because, well, better late than never !

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Part 1 : The last match which was between England's Knights of Queen and Argentina's The Empire.

The only match that England managed to win, but at some costs...

Part 2 : The aftermath of the match.

Thiago was afraid to lose the one he actually loves. (Yes he finally realized it !)

Part 3 : Waking Up

Waking up to an awful nightmare about his younger sisters, but it may not be just a dream...

Part 4 : Finding Loreena

The only sister that managed to escape is the one that was supposedly dead in an airplane crash 10 years ago. Paolo finds her and brings her to safety.

Part 5 : Reunited after 10 years

The 2 siblings are finally reunited, but in a terrible way not gonna lie.

I guess the upcoming parts were gonna be saving the 2 remaining sisters. Honestly I didn't really know how to do those parts. And due to the fact that I had a lot of things to do (and still have to this day), I didn't work on it, so that's why I am at least putting them here because it's still a lot of work I've done back then.

DM me if you want to have the entire story that I've written for these parts : I will be happy to send it to you ☻

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cozza-frenzy · 2 months

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I know some of y'all's tastes, but I'd love to know what everyone's favourite bands/artists/musical genres are. <3

Tough question to ask! For some of these we've gone for vibes more than solid genres; since we're all parts of what should be one personality, we're like a group of people that grew up together. So we've kind of narrowed it down to what music makes us think "X would like this" or "this is X's vibe", as well as a few songs they (sometimes exclusively) like. Terry Moods: Duality, contradiction, mix of soft & harsh sounds, pass the aux cord at your peril because it's going to get weird Genres: Experimental, Glitch, Prog Rock, House Music, Nu Disco, Vaporwave, Outsider Music Examples: Deuteronomy - Clair De Lune Pink Floyd - Brain Damage Blank Banshee - Eco Zones

Chaos Moods: Psychedelic, Chaotic, Bassy, bouncing-off-the-wall madness Genres: Hair Metal, Bass Music, Moombahton, Drum & Bass, Jungle, Plunderphonics Examples: Bassnectar feat. Amp Live - Ugly The Prodigy - No Good (Start The Dance) Extreme - Play With Me Taffy Moods: "Spacey" vibes, themes of isolation, distance, and nature Genres: Braindance, Psychedelic Rock, Prog Rock, Prog House, Ambient Examples: Greenhouse - levällään David Bowie - Space Oddity Peter Gabriel - Down To Earth Andy Moods: Hyperactive, colorful, happy and nostalgic Genres: Speedcore, Happy Hardcore, Chiptune, Bubblegum Pop, Rock Examples: Anamanaguchi - Endless Fantasy Furries In A Blender - Wind Me Up Galactikraken - Best Band In The Universe Roy Moods: Lust, anger, violence, dark and moody, lyrics about yearning to be understood Genres: Dubstep, Power Metal, Harsh Noise, Neurofunk, Metalcore Examples: Bring Me The Horizon - Can You Feel My Heart Powerwolf - The Sacrament Of Sin Cookie Monsta - Mosh Pit VIP Dagwood Moods: Party time! Anything that's catchy or good to sing along to; happy, nostalgic, with a sense of bringing people together Genres: Pop, Parody, Electro Swing, Jazz Examples: Dexys Midnight Runners - Come On Eileen Lionel Hampton - It Don't Mean a Thing (Jazz Reconstruction Club Mix) Weird Al Yankovic - My Bologna Martin Moods: Simple and comforting; songs that are good to sing along to or emphasize a sense of togetherness, simplicity, and nostalgia. Genres: Indie, Melodic Pop, Europop Examples: Sleeping At Last - North Sigur Ros - Hoppipolla ABBA - Mamma Mia Vivien Moods: A sense of longing, or waiting for better times. Also likes songs that are good to sing along to, maybe to overcome those feelings that form the "basis" of their tastes. Genres: Synth Pop, Alternative, Britpop, Disco, Glam Rock Examples: Gorillaz - Melancholy Hill Coldplay - Paradise Red Hot Chilli Peppers - Black Summer Jenova Moods: Soft acoustic guitar and drums, soft lyrics, magical and fey-like Genres: Alternative, Indie, Pop, Folk Examples: Nirvana - Something In The Way Dodie - Ready Now Loreena McKennitt - The Mummers' Dance Thirteen Moods: Heartbreak, loneliness, distance, but with a hopeful tone Genres: Alternative, Pop, Geek Rock, Prog Rock, Jazz Fusion Examples: The Cure - Just Like Heaven Ludo - Drunken Lament Journey - Faithfully

Roses Moods: Feeling dissatisfied, leaving things behind, soft 80's-style synths and heartfelt lyrics and melodies Genres: Electropop, City Pop, Synthwave, Synth Pop, Melodic Rock Examples: Magic Dance - Restless Nights Porter Robinson - Something Comforting The Killers - Human

#Adventures in OSDD #The Magbox Idiot Box

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