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herculeanlabors · 4 years

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The Valley of Youth // cnf [004]

I was ten when I met twelve-year-old Andy in the valley of my youth. He was the happy kid; with his bright smiles, his chipped tooth, and eyes as radiant as a thousand suns. However, he was also a sickly kid, always coughing and tired. I didn’t mind, I had a friend. In no time, he became my closest friend, my confidante. We could spend hours with each other without ever growing tired, and the world could pass by without either of us noticing. He came at a time in my childhood that was at its darkest and stayed in my heart ever since. That’s the thing about sanctuaries; they come when you least expect them and they stay with you forever.

Everything changed when his uncle died of lung cancer in September 2016. His uncle had always been his cornerstone, and he looked up to him for all his life. He was fifteen, and god knows how terrible being fifteen is while you grieve. In the valley of our youth, it was then that he dove head-first into using substances to ease the pain of grieving. With that and the fact that he was never far from being sick, I was terrified. Here was the one constant thing in my life and he had changed in the blink of an eye. Ravaged by desolation and suppressing grief, all that was left was a stranger that yelled at me whenever I tried to seek help for him. The valley only grew deeper then.

I never wanted to lose him. He was the first kind thing that existed in what felt like eons. I felt safe with him, and I felt found. Oh, to be lost in the valley of my youth and to be found by someone who asks nothing of you, but to be okay.

He was diagnosed with what the doctors called as Small Cell Lung Cancer four months later. I was naive then. I didn’t know then that it was one of the most brutal forms of the illness. Imagine a swimming pool filled with gasoline and hypothetical match lit deep within it. Now imagine the pool was your lungs and the match was the cancer. Instant and deadly, almost assuredly spreading beyond the confines of the organ. He cracked his first smile back then. A fake one, of course. “Come on. If Hazel Grace could live with it, I could too,” he said then. I knew him too well at this point and I could almost see the shock and fear seeping through. I remember that day so clearly; the room, his mother whispering hushed appellations to an exhausted doctor, and the regrets burning in his honeyed eyes.

I used to see him as an unmovable figure in my life. He could have walked with the gods, his youth spilling out of him like a thousand suns. He was golden. Almost like the son of Apollo and the best of gods and men. Only he wasn’t. He was human. And I felt the bile in my stomach while watching him change into just another dying man.

He started treatment and radiation three weeks later. We all know how it goes, and I desperately want to tell you he took it like a champion. Woe to the lost hair, the will to live beaten down by angry attacks of chemotherapy and radiation. He didn’t tell me much during those days. He always came back to the room sleeping. A small reprieve, I suppose, for everyone. We wouldn’t have to see how much it was hurting him.

He told me how it was sometime later. It’s like a dozen men with fists just pummeling down on you like a meteor shower. Like your bones are made of glass. Like a never-ending fever. That’s how it was in the valley of youth, no sunlight came to destroy the darkness. But despite all that, he fought for two more years.

The worst came in December of 2018. It was almost the holidays. I went to a theme park with friends from school. It was there that I received news that sweet Andy couldn’t breathe on his own anymore.

It was hard seeing someone battle for their life while hooked up to a thousand machines. It was even harder knowing you loved that person, and that you would’ve given anything for them to live. By that time, the cancer had spread beyond his lungs. They reached his liver, his bones, and probably his brain.

I had my last conversation with him around ten in the evening just as I was about to go home and cry myself to sleep. He had managed to calm down and his mother told me he wanted to speak with me. Two years. Two years of believing that day wouldn’t come. I felt betrayed. By god, by the doctors, by him. I was the age he was when the whole ordeal began, and he was leaving me.

“Shine on,” he said. “You shine on.”

He died later that night. At 2:57 AM. His father called sometime around then and I knew. I knew before I ever answered. I’m always so surprised with the swiftness and suddenness of death. You exist for a moment, then you are gone forever. All your hopes, your dreams, your pains; all that you are returning to dust.

He left at the young age of seventeen. Right now, I’m just as old as he was when he went through as much pain and suffering. It’s been almost two years and I miss him everyday. It’s hard, having spent so much of your life with someone to the point that they feel like a sibling you never had, only to have fate snatch them away from you.

Nobody at school knew him. And instead of grieving, I poured my heart and soul out into the academics until I had nothing left to give. I grieved later on, at the dawn of my time in Senior High School.

That’s how things were here in the valley of my youth. It was like nothing had changed. But deep within me, I knew. Nothing would ever be the same.

#cnf #writeblr #spilled ink #grief #pathography #patient narrative #eumakesart

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spider-bih · 7 years

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Not Your Fault [Peter Parker]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Female!Reader

Warnings: Much angst and some slight fluff, mentions of violence and crimes (also cursing) etc

-It’s 2 am and I hate how this came out. I didn’t edit shit so sorry for mistakes.-

Home is where the heart is.

Everyone knew the saying and just so, everyone knew the meaning. If you didn’t, just about anyone could explain it to you. They would tell you that home is not a building or a place, really. It could be, but it doesn’t have to be. Home is family- or someone who holds your heart dearly. Though we all know what it means- you never really know what it feels like, at least not until you find your home. Your place.

It was hard being him.

No, not Peter Parker (though some days it was a little difficult being him too), but Spider-Man.

Yes, he loved being Spider-Man. He loved helping his city and doing hero-like deeds. He loved the praise and the wonderful feeling he got knowing people loved him for what he did- especially when some people were cruel to him outside of the suit. Being Spider-Man was great, it was freeing and it let him do things he never dreamed he’d be able to. He wouldn’t trade it for anything- but, even the best of things have their downsides. Some days, things didn’t go the way they should.

Some days, he couldn’t save or help everyone.

He’d seen so much pain- heard so many cries and watched so much life drain away from strangers eyes. He had always hated failure- but he hated it infinitely more as Spider-Man. He hated it with a passion because any small mistake of his could cost him a life- specifically one that did not belong to him. He was always cautious, always careful- but sometimes it just wasn’t enough. He’d get beaten and slung around. He’d be shot at and just barely pricked or sliced with knives or other makeshift weapons. He would come home with healing cuts and fading bruises- but the pain always stayed. It never really left because for the beatings he’d be given, sometimes he got nothing in return. Sometimes he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough.

Sometimes he simply wasn’t enough.

He ached to know that. It was a deep dull ache, one that didn’t hurt much, one that wasn’t felt unless it demanded to be felt. It crept up at ungodly hours of the night when all seemed fine. It dragged him down and kept him trapped- alone and cold, with no one around to free him but himself- and some nights he couldn’t even do that.

It was a hard thing to live with- a hard and large pill to swallow every morning. Their screams and lifeless faces haunted his dreams and waking thoughts. Only one thing could really will them away- only one person could tame the storm that sometimes raged inside of him.

You.

You were the only one to keep him sane. The only one to remind him that he could not blame himself. It wan’t his fault, he didn’t know that one gang would be packing high-tech guns. He couldn’t have been able to tell that that one piece of shit man had already poisoned himself and his victim and that the commotion was just for show. There were so many things out of his control. He wasn’t the one to pull the trigger- wasn’t the one to start the fire or decide that someone should no longer live. It was the criminals that did this and he was as much a victim as the people wronged. Peter wasn’t a bad man. He had no ill intentions. Mistakes happen to even the best of people, its what made everyone human- what made them normal.

You always reminded him of this.

So on these awful nights- ones where he was left shaking and letting out choppy breaths while he swung away from the sirens and screams he couldn’t fix, he made his way to you. Quietly and carefully, he landed atop your fire escape, being sure to go unseen and unheard as he tapped on the glass of your window and swiftly slipped inside. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes..

“Peter..”, you’d whisper softly, a small frown of concern pulling across your features as you took in his beat up face and puffy eyes. Those beautiful pools of brown you’d grown to love looked so pitiful on these nights. They looked so sad and distraught, so unlike their usual look.

He’d just sniffle, wringing his mask in his hands as he tried to find the words to tell you what had went wrong tonight, “I- The guns- and- I-I dodged- and I tried to- she wouldn’t-”

Your frown would deepen and it only made him feel worse, “Peter. It wasn’t your fault-”

“It is!”, he’d insist in a harsh whisper.

“It isn’t.”, you’d counter, “It never is. You always do your best. You always do what you’re capable of and then some. You can’t win every fight, Peter. You’re not invincible or indestructible. You have your limits, we all do. Every hero has a limit- even the best of them. You’re not the only hero to lose a life and you won’t be the last to. The world isn’t fair, Peter. Things happen, people get taken and sometimes we can’t do a damn thing about it. You did what you could, I saw it on the News. You saved countless lives tonight-”

“I still lost one-”

“One. One out of what could have been hundreds. It isn’t your fault that woman did what she did. You can’t control people’s actions. I know it hurts you- I know it sucks. I can only imagine what you’re feeling and just barely at that-”

“I’m not the only one who blames me-”

“If anyone blames you it’s because they want someone to blame. Someone other than themselves- they want a reason why the person they loved had to be taken. A reason better than the world being horribly unfair. If I got hit by a car while crossing the street because I wasn’t paying enough attention, you wouldn’t blame me, you would blame the driver. We all want someone to blame- some reason why. It’s life. You’re a superhero. You do everything in your powers to help others and do right by the world. It’s not your fault.”

He remained silent, staring at you with watery eyes, ones that were much less sad and even a little softer. He’d always feel guilt and you couldn’t blame you for it, who wouldn’t? Though, you did lift him a little. You took away some of the hurt for tonight and he loved you so dearly for it. He pulled you into his shaking arms and buried his face into your neck, taking in your warmth and sweet scent. He held you close, sighing at your softness and the way you wrapped your arms around him.

“I love you, Peter. I love you so much..”, you would whisper softly.

He’d just burst, right there where he stood. Every emotion he’d forced back while underneath the mask came pouring out, bursting at the seams, but you held him together. You let him feel, let him grieve and feel sorrow. You always did, always had. He quickly learned that you were his home- that right here, in your warm embrace was where he belonged. No, it didn’t take nights like this for him to realize- it just made the realization that much more real and impactful.

You were his home- his world. He loved you with all he had, and no matter how many mistakes he made (which weren’t many), he knew there was no mistake in you being his home.

Home wasn’t a building or a place for him. It was a girl with dazzling eyes and a breath taking smile. His heart didn’t reside in his own chest, but inside of a warm and loving girl by the name of ___.

He loved you, and you loved him.

For tonight, that’s all he needed.

#peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter x reader #spider-man x reader #Spider-Man: Homecoming #fics #my fics #its the babe #its like 2 am and i wanted to write #blah #ari writes

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leahdarkspear · 7 years

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Nightmares

It has been quite a while since I wrote a story about Leah! I figured it was time to change that.

About a month ago, Leah and her friends ventured into Karazhan to put her former mate to rest. Leah thought once it was done that she’d be able to just move on with her life, as if she’d simply checked off something on her daily to-do list. But afterwards, Leah found she wasn’t in such a good place mentally. Unfortunately her friends, both seeking to give her space to grieve and being busy with their own lives, left her alone to deal with the pain. With no one to lean on, the stress began to get to her, and she started having nightmares. This story reveals one such nightmare.

*Please note that these events occurred only in Leah’s imagination, as a product of her grief, fear, and insecurities. Each character mentioned in this story is still safe and sound!*

Tagging those with characters that are directly mentioned: @heroya-of-the-warsong (I’m so sorry), @thewardancer, and @juambi (you aren’t mentioned directly, but Juju’fi is ^^).

Do you dream while you sleep or is it an escape from the horrors of reality?

-Puzzle Box of Yogg-Saron

Alone in her hut, Leah shifted and moaned in fitful sleep.

In her dreams, she found herself on a lone hill, single-handedly battling a score of Legion minions. Exhausted, muscles burning with over-exertion, the hunter continued to slay demon after demon. With nothing but her fury and her desperation to survive to aid her, she pressed on. Abruptly, the onslaught ended. Panting and covered in demon blood, Leah searched for more enemies. They couldn’t have just stopped; the Legion never stops.

“Surrender,” came a voice from the darkness overhead. Leah was sure it was a demon, but instead of the usual menacing tones, this one sounded almost soothing.

Leah squinted with confusion. “What? Nevah. So long as I be drawin’ breath, so long as de Legion stands, I will fight. I’ll crush any demon ya send at me.”

“Are you sure about that? What if we could give you back something you love?”

Leah pondered what this could mean as she was enveloped by blackness. As she crouched warily, a light appeared ahead of her, seemingly focused on –

“My ‘Jin!” Leah cried as Vol’jin came into view. He sat upon his throne as he had in Orgrimmar, leaning to the side and resting his head upon his fist. She knew it must be a trick, but still Leah felt compelled to run toward the Darkspear chieftain.

She threw herself at his feet, only to look up and be repulsed by his visage. The Warchief did not move, and his eyes were as hollow and empty as the day the life had left his body. Leah drew herself away, ashamed that she had fallen for this ploy. Taunting laughter sounded from the blackness.

“What’d you mean by dis?” Leah cried angrily into the dark. “My ‘Jin be dead. De Legion doesn’t give life, it only takes. Ya insult me wit’ dis.”

“Well, if you won’t let us give you something, then perhaps we should take something away?”

Leah started to make a scathing retort about how the demon hadn’t truly given her anything, but she was cut short. Heavy chains snaked around her, clamping down on her neck, wrists, and ankles, causing her to drop to her knees from the weight alone. A perverse grin crossed her lips. The hunter did value her freedom, as do all trolls, but enslaving her would only increase her desire to fight. The Legion would need to do better.

Once again a spotlight shone in the darkness. As Leah peered ahead, something in front of her caught her eye, and the color drained from her face. “Loas, no. Please,” she whispered.

Before her was her best friend the War Dancer, bound and beaten, broken in body and in spirit. Nothing remained of his proud yet cheerful countenance. Leah felt her heart shatter at the sight. In vain, she struggled against her shackles in an attempt to reach him. Realizing her efforts were futile, Leah bared her teeth and hissed angrily in the direction of the voice, following up with a string of Zandali curses for good measure.

“Oh, touched a nerve, did I?” inquired the voice - still calm, but with a hint of mockery. “His fate can be avoided. Surrender, and he goes free.”

Leah’s body slumped against her chains, and her head dipped low as if she’d been given a heavy burden. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to avoid her gut reaction of screaming out her surrender.

“Take me in his stead,” she pleaded.

“Those are not the terms. Only by your surrender can he return to his mate and his children.”

The hunter closed her eyes, garnering every ounce of her will. Surrender would be easy - so great was her desire to see her friend released from his bonds. Leah drew a deep breath. Though it pained her dearly, she spoke, “He would not have me place his life above de lives of othahs, nor would he have me compromise my integrity by bargainin’ wit’ de Legion. No.”

There was a pause in the darkness, then the voice spoke again. “The lives of others? Perhaps you mean these lives?”

The scene shifted one final time.

Leah found herself free of chains, fully armored, with her weapon in hand. She walked among the fel-touched ruins of Argus – Korkruun, she guessed by the landscape. What lives? she wondered. Dere be no one here. With trepidation the hunter moved forward, her keen eyes carefully scanning the unnervingly quiet scenery.

Just ahead, Leah spied signs of a recent skirmish. The hunter quickened her pace to inspect the area in the hopes of determining what happened. Leah was shocked by the sight of a tattered banner bearing the colors of the Azazi Empire lying on the ground spattered with blood. It was then she saw them - the mangled bodies of her fellow Azazis lay scattered like garbage all over. Strangely, the all faces seemed to be staring at her, their milky, dead eyes blaming her for what happened. Leah was no stranger to death and battle, but this – why did they have to be looking at her? The hunter attempted to escape their gazes, but everywhere she turned, more faces stared; all of their heads twisted in her direction, all of their expressions asking why.

Leah wasn’t sure she could take much more. The Empire had become her family, and in an instant they’d been taken from her. Just like Vol’jin, just like her parents, just like Boaris, and the child she’d never even had a chance to hold. As she was about to give in to her grief, the realization hit her.

“Ja’mez.” Leah jerked her head around to look for her lover, whose face had not been among the rest. Filled with hope that he’d somehow escaped, the hunter raced to search for the druid. When she finally found him, face down, dead in the dirt, she dropped to her knees and wailed like a wounded animal. Clutching his lifeless body, she sobbed pitifully. With tear-stained vision, she beheld his face. His eyes, unlike the others, were closed. Leah allowed herself to take comfort in that mercy as she pulled him to her chest once again; at least he wasn’t accusing her too.

“You… did…this…” choked a raspy voice a short distance away. Leah looked in the direction of the sound to find Nazazi barely clinging to life, his throat torn open as if by a beast. Leah moved to kneel beside him, gaping in horror at his injuries.

“To be… a troll… is to… fight… you said,” he gurgled. “You killed… us…”

Leah plunged her dagger into his temple. She told herself it was to put him out of his misery, but deep inside she knew it was just as much to silence him. She had been the one who rallied for the Empire to fight the Legion on Argus. Several agreed, but she had easily been the most outspoken. Nazazi had angrily conceded, though he said they’d be marching to their deaths. The guilt already weighed heavy on her without his accusations.

Leah heard the voice again - calm, soothing, perhaps even sympathetic. “You’ve lost everything now. Why continue to fight? Surrender.”

Leah felt the defiance rise up within her. “I said it before, but ya must not’ve heard me, mon,” she snarled. “I will crush any demon ya send at me.”

“Any demon?” the voice inquired as if it were trying to determine her certainty. “Would you fight this one?”

A low growl came from behind a nearby rock. Leah jumped to her feet, clutching her spear. She narrowed her eyes and readied herself to slay yet another of the Legion’s many monsters. Only this time, she recognized the monster.

“Tak…” Leah said breathlessly. Her friend who’d fought so hard and so long against the fel-corruption in his blood had finally lost the battle. Tak’jik now walked on all fours like a beast; his fangs and claws were stained with the blood of Leah’s tribe. Looking at him, it was clear that this time there would be no talking him down, no bringing him back from the dark. He no longer recognized Leah, even though he’d once called a sister. Baring his blood-stained teeth, Tak’jik began to snarl as he circled the hunter, sizing her up for an attack.

Tears stung Leah’s already grief-weary eyes. “I be so sorry, brothah,” she cried. “I failed ya. I told ya I wouldn’t let ya hurt anyone, dat we’d fix dis. I told ya I wouldn’t let ‘em take ya.” She choked on her words. “I was… too proud… ta realize dat I couldn’t help.” Leah expertly spun her spear in her hands as her voice and her expression turned cold. “But I’m gonna make it right, brothah. Ya not gonna hurt anyone else.”

Leah jolted upright, wide awake and drenched with sweat. In momentary confusion, her eyes darted around her hut. Her gaze settled upon her faithful hunting wolf Ash, curled up around Juju’fi, her colorful marsuul she’d named after a friend. As she watched them sleeping, the hunter exhaled heavily with relief, grateful that she’d not had to continue her nightmare to its obvious conclusion.

#leah stories

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queenofchildren · 7 years

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Through the dark side of the morning

I got impatient waiting for the new episode, so I wrote a thing. It features poor bean Benvolio and Rosaline having a slow change of heart a little after their wedding and angsty fluff and slowly coming to understand each other.

[also on ao3]

Who's gonna walk you through the dark side of the morning?

Who's gonna rock you when the sun won't let you sleep?

Her husband was sneaking out again.

Rosaline heard the sound of his boots on the stairs, recognizable by the little spring in his step despite the heavy spurred boots, then a few murmured words to the guard at the door, and then the door of their new home, a modest Palazzo near the river, creaked open to allow him out into the night.

For three weeks, Rosaline had been married to Benvolio of House Montague. And for three weeks, every night without fail, he had snuck out of the house. She would have suspected a sweetheart somewhere, a lover that had been torn from him in Escalus' peace-making scheme. But the servants brought back only reports of him spending his time at the taverns around Via Frata, where he used to head for a night of revelry with his friends all too often before their deaths.

In truth, she did not care either way – was glad to have him out of the house, in fact, where grief and resentment seemed to poison the air around them whenever they were forced to spend time together. They kept up the facade of a reasonably content couple for the sake of their servants, many of whom were no doubt being paid to report back on their every move to either of their houses. They had lunch or supper in the garden together when Benvolio wasn't called away for some duty or other, and dined together in the evening when they were not invited to some social gathering. They even slept in the same bed, though they hardly spent any shared time in there in any case. Rosaline usually went to bed early, for lack of anything to occupy her time now that she suddenly found herself mistress instead of serving girl, and by the time Benvolio returned from his exploits near dawn, reeking of wine, she was almost ready to get up again, still used to early mornings and enjoying the peace and quiet they brought.

But it was precisely the fact that they put so much effort into appearing a successful match that made it so irritating to see her husband pursue his own pleasure so shamelessly. What was the point of making stilted conversation at the dinner table and putting up with his snoring when all the servants talked about were his nightly adventures away from the marriage bed?

No, Rosaline decided, she was going to put a stop to this. She hadn't abandoned her dream of retreating to a nunnery and living a life of her own choosing to wed this... toad, only for him to continue in his debauched ways as if nothing at all had changed.

She'd go after him and drag him back home by his ears like an unruly child if necessary – but she'd have to be careful about it. Their marriage may have forged a temporary peace between Verona's warring families, but it was a fragile one, and one which too many people were dissatisfied with. Quickly, Rosaline dug out her old, modest servant's dress from the bottom of her trunk and put it on in exchange for her much grander evening gown. Over it, she put on a dark brown cape, pulling its hood over her hair, then walked over to the bedroom door to peer out through the keyhole.

Unlike her husband, Rosaline had spent enough time at home to know what the staff were up to, and had learned that the guard tended to get a little drowsy around this time of night, at which point he would head to the kitchen to talk the cook into indulging him with a luxurious cup of caffè, an invigorating brew the merchants of Verona had recently started to import from Venice.

As soon as the guard set off for his refreshment, she slipped quietly down the stairs and out the door, momentarily reminded of the many times she had snuck out of her parents' house years ago - though it had been to see a different man for different reasons back then, and it had been excitement making her blood race rather than anger.

But there was no use in such thoughts, she told herself, focusing instead on the street before her. Concealed by the wide sleeve of her cloak, she clutched a slim dagger - not much of a weapon, but better than nothing. Ever since her close encounter with a blood-thirsty ruffian in the street, she had taken to carrying the weapon with her, usually concealed in the folds of her dress. She had received unexpected help from her now-husband on that bloody day, but she would not allow herself to count on his protection in the future, even if she was now legally entitled to it.

But though her hand trembled around the dagger and she flinched every time she heard approaching footsteps, the trip was a quiet one, and soon Rosaline was making her way door to door down the few particularly infamous streets of the city, peering into taverns and brothels for a glimpse of her missing husband.

He would be easy enough to find, she expected, no doubt surrounded by a crowd of people, holding court and boasting of his heroic deeds, with an adoring woman on his lap perhaps. But to her surprise, he was alone, and her searching gaze almost passed over him before doubling back.

Tucked in the darkest corner of a particularly seedy establishment, Benvolio was peering forlornly into a half-empty, lead-rimmed glass beaker of rich red wine, looking for all the world as if he was trying to disappear into the dirty wall behind him.

And then she took a few steps closer and saw something that made her stop in her tracks as realisation dawned on her: Benvolio was not making merry, not carousing or whoring around.

He was grieving.

Half-slumped across a filthy table, he was staring emptily ahead through glazed, heavy-lidded eyes. One hand was clutching a thick glass beaker tight enough to make her fear that the glass, sturdy though it was, would crack and burst under his grip any second, but apart from that, he seemed completely devoid of any trace of the youthful vigor with which he had carried himself just a few scant weeks ago.

He looked tired, lost, and terribly, terribly alone.

And, she realized in that moment, he truly was.

Lord Montague had never seemed a particularly kind man, and she wondered how much of Benvolio's growing up with Romeo's family had been because his uncle genuinely cared for his happiness, and how much of it had to do with the usefulness of having a spare heir around in case any harm should come to the intended one. Benvolio's presence here, tonight and too many nights before, suggested that returning to his childhood home in these hours of grief was either not an option, or not one he expected to find comfort in.

So, where Rosaline had, just this very afternoon, had a visit from her sister to weave a new wreath of flowers for Juliet's grave and exchange stories of their cousin's youthful misadventures, Benvolio had had nothing to sustaing him but the company of strangers and the comfort of strong, cheap wine.

For one instinctive moment, Rosaline wanted to close her eyes and harden her heart against this display of vulnerability, as she had learned to do over the years. He was, after all, a member of the family who had taken her father's and, indirectly, her mother's life. Should not that be alone for him to deserve every morsel of pain and regret now showing so clearly on his face?

But, with shame washing over her, she became aware of how callous such thinking was, how hard-hearted. Benvolio was not his family, and for all that they had hurt her, he never had. He had, in his own way, tried to prevent the tragedy of Juliet's and Romeo's deaths, and if he was to blame for them, so was she. He did not deserve to suffer like this.

Before the thought was even fully formed in her head, she was moving again, weaving through the crowd of revelers to his table – only to find herself blocked at the last moment by a large, bull-necked man wearing the crest of House Capulet and clutching a sword in hand.

He was not, of course, blocking her specifically but rather, had simply beaten her to her target – with the clear intention of making it his target as well.

“What have we here? A Montague dog!”

From what little she could see around the man's broad back, Benvolio did not react with much more than a soft grunt, although that did not deter the man.

“You dare to show your face in this city, after all your family has done?”

Now, unfortunately, Benvolio did choose to answer, although Rosaline would have much preferred it if he had continued in his near-stupefied silence.

“I'll have you know, I single-handedly brought peace to this fine and noble city. Married a shrieking harpy to do it too,“ he squinted up at the family crest emblazoned on the other man's doublet. “One of yours, I think, which I dare say makes me doubly punished.“

Despite this flippantly insulting description, a part of Rosaline was reluctantly amused by the statement – there was something to be said for seeing the grotesque humour in their situation, she had to admit.

Unfortunately, the man still standing between her and her half-drowned fool of a husband was not so amused.

"I will gut you like a pig, Montague."

He seemed intent on making good on that threat, for all the good it did at spurring Benvolio into action – her inebriated husband only shrugged, and made no move whatsoever to even arm himself against the looming attack.

Clearly, if anyone was going to defend him, it would have to be her. Steeling herself, Rosaline tapped the man on the shoulder, hard enough to make him whirl around.

“There will be no need for gutting. The harpy in question can defend her own house.“

For a moment, the man seemed flabbergasted, before he seemed to recognize her.

“Miss Ro... Lady Rosaline!“ Then realising that he was essentially being sent away from a clearly anticipated fight, he began to defend himself. “This man was insulting your honour. Allow me to teach him a lesson.“

"And where would be your honour in that? He's so drunk he can barely stand. You might just as well fight me."

The man seemed unsure what to reply to that, but was apparently still in need of some convincing. Placing a light, placating hand on his arm, Rosalone leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"Take a word of advice from me, good sir. This man, whom you are so eager to teach a lesson, is the current heir of House Montague. Prince Escalus places high hopes on him to keep this city at peace, and would not be happy to learn of his death - at the hands of a Capulet, no less, who have sworn to keep the peace with their old enemy. When I say leave him be and continue on your way, it is not him I'm doing the favour. It's you."

And while the man still contemplated this, clearly not one of the fastest thinkers among the fighters sworn to her house, Rosaline quickly slipped past him, bent down by Benvolio's side, and slung his arm over her shoulder to heave him up.

He was heavy, despite having shed his padded leather jacket, and for a moment, she swayed on her feet.

Then Benvolio seemed to muster what little strength he had left in him to at least try and keep himself upright, and together, they managed to lurch out of the tavern, with only a quick stop to throw some coins down at the counter - "for his tab, and your discretion", as Rosaline pointed out to the barmaid, though she doubted the latter would be covered by the amount of silver she left behind, generous though it was.

She dragged him as far as she could, not wanting them to stay out here any longer than absolutely necessary while he was in this helpless state. But eventually, on a thankfully deserted little piazza near their home, her legs threatened to give out, and Rosaline decided she could allow them a short respite. She was tempted to simply drop her burden like a sack of flour, a fitting punishment for his excessive drinking, but pity won out and she gently lowered him on the steps of a nearby fountain, arms burning with the strain of it.

"I guess you can add 'drunkard' to your list of my faults," he slurred, not managing to keep an edge of bitterness out of his voice.

Hunched against the stone base of the fountain, his face grey in the dim moonlight, Benvolio was truly a pitiable sight. But stronger even than this current impression was the memory of how he had looked earlier, when she had first laid eyes on him at the tavern: how hopeless, and how utterly alone.

"I'll do no such thing," she replied and sat down next to him. "But I might have to add 'heartless' to the list of mine."

He indicated his surprise with a little jerk of his head, perhaps too exhausted to do much else, and she elaborated: "You lost the two people nearest and dearest to you in the world, and I left you alone with that loss. For that, I am sorry."

It was strange: she had imagined that it would be excruciating, impossible even, to say those words to him, to anyone bearing his family name - but it wasn't. The words did not come out easily, no, but come out they did, even if Benvolio did not seem to appreciate how much it had cost her to say them.

Instead, he merely stared at her silently for a long moment, face expressionless, eyes still a little clouded.

Then he scrambled to his feet, turned around, and dunked his head in the fountain behind them.

Startled, Rosaline climbed to her feet to watch with increasing worry as he held his head under water, air slowly bubbling out of his lungs. Only when she was contemplating pulling him out of there herself did he come up for air, gasping and sputtering.

“Are you mad?”

“I was afraid I am, for a moment. Surely you did not apologize to me?”

Now it was her turn to stare wordlessly. All these theatrics, to poke fun at her for overcoming her pride? Clearly, he was doing better, and could fend for himself for the rest of the trip.

She huffed and set off down the road once more, confident that they'd both make it the short remaining trip to their house.

Within a few steps, he had caught up to her, though still so unsteady on his feet that he needed to catch himself on her shoulder.

“Ah, don't be like that, sweet wife. I only jest to soften your anger.” He looked at her for several lurching steps, studying her profile intently. “You are angry, are you not? Why else would you come after me like this?”

“I am angry, yes. Or at least, I was. But perhaps...” she hesitated. If she revealed her moment of weakness, of compassion only to be laughed at once more, she would personally push him back into that fountain. “Perhaps I was too harsh with you.”

They had reached the gate to their estate in this moment, preventing him from joking about her once more. But perhaps it wasn't just the creaking of the gate that kept him from replying – perhaps he was mulling the words over, as stunned by hearing them as she was by hearing herself say them.

With the astonished guard's help, she managed to get him up the stairs and into their bedroom, where he flopped down heavily on the bed. Half out of habit, she sank down to start unlacing his boots, before she realised how easily he could misjudge the gesture for one of subservience.

But Benvolio, she assured herself, was hardly equipped to analyze or judge any of her actions in that moment. He was staring ahead with glassy eyes, and when he did speak, it was with considerable effort.

"My memory is a little hazy, but if I'm not mistaken, I owe you my life."

"You do. It seems we're even now."

"Still, I feel like I ought to repay you somehow."

"You can repay me by trying a little harder to look like a dutiful husband. And that means no more trips to the taverns and brothels."

"A steep price," he whined.

"A fair one for both our lives and the peace in this city."

"Very well", he murmured, eyes beginning to droop, "if only because you were willing to fight one of your own for me."

And before she could make it clear that she would have been in no way ready to do any such thing, he slumped backwards onto the bed, sighed, and promptly fell asleep.

The next day, everything was the same as always – so much so that Rosaline began to think she had only imagined the night before, imagined seeing the depth of her husband's suffering and feeling her heart soften at the sight.

Benvolio was called to his uncle's house some time in the afternoon, and stayed so long that she had dinner without him. But just when she began to think he was ignoring her wishes and had set off for Via Frate once again, he appeared in the doorway to the rose garden nestled in their courtyard, where she liked to spend her evenings reading.

“Is there room here for one sorry drunkard and his bottle of wine? Apparently, I am forbidden from frequenting the city's more entertaining establishments.”

Again, reluctantly and against every principle, Rosaline had to smile. She picked up the small pile of books she had deposited on the chair next to hers, unsure which to read first, and set it aside on the table.

“There is. But only if the drunkard in question makes it up the stairs by himself tonight.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely shocked that she would joke back like this. Then he smiled. It was hesitant and, she felt, a little rusty, but a genuine smile nonetheless.

“My sincerest promise.”

With that, he set down not only a bottle of wine but two glasses as well, filling them both to the brim before sliding one over to her.

“I thought we could speak a toast to our cousins, and spend an evening remembering them. No big funeral, no statues and swordfights – just two people who loved them sharing an evening in their memory.”

He looked at her earnestly as he said it, a little nervously too as if expecting to be rejected, and she understood: This was him making her prove that she meant last night's apology. She had said she regretted not being there for him in his grief – now it was her time to prove that she would be from now on, if he wanted her to.

Without hesitation, she lifted her glass.

“To Romeo, of House Montague, and Mercutio, of Verona.”

He clinked his glass against hers softly.

“To Juliet, of House Capulet," he replied, the name ringing out across the silent garden. “May they rest in peace.”

Just saying the names of those they had lost was unimaginably painful, and from the look on his face, she could tell it was the same for him. But perhaps, saying them together made it just a little easier to bear.

#still star-crossed #rosaline capulet #benvolio montague #rosaline x benvolio #rosvolio #rosvolio fanfiction #is that the actual ship name or not? someone help me=#my writing #angst and grief and a little bit of fluff #married!Rosvolio

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far-east-orient · 7 years

Text

Gin's Journal Part 4

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Under the fading light she approached me Pair of eyes made of gold enthroned emerald, the desert wind hides her words. She stops and gently tug my heart strings, revealing fate to be unveiled. Suddenly ten years passed... just like a rain in the middle of a spring.

-Written in the stillness of the Kugane summer night-

I once dreamed of calling her name in familiarity, then i would wake up. Dismissing it as mere flowers of thoughts. Until that sunset in Sagolii. In the middle of the casual conversation, she showed me the jade her mom gave her. Now coming from anyone else, i would ask them twice or probably suspect in disbelief...but at that time, as dusk fall over the desert the soft jade reflecting the light elaborates everything to me. Of ten years of searching Of cold night under the stars Of land foreign and visions of wonder

Yuuqi and me were at lost for words, she tries to find reasoning why her mother gave her the necklace. She had thought it is just a gift to hold on to until they meet again. For me it is the end of my journey, and i did not even dare to imagine it would end in this lifetime but nevertheless, the piece fits together perfectly. I was in shock i did not even consider how she might felt... The exchanged words after that were full of questions, apologetic words, and all the what if. I wonder if she realized that i never looked any other way from that point on, too entranced by the truth. On the other hand, the logical part of my mind manage to remind me that the person i am talking to is a Chieftess of a sovereign tribe. Fiancee or not. Thus, i address her as proper.

Yuuqi's parents send her and Caqi to Eorzea for their safety, from what it seems to still be unclear at that time. Whether from the encroaching Garlean influences, the politics of the steppe, or from an unknown danger. She and her sister had lived by themselves and working in various places before they decided to form the Uragshi. The clan's philosophy is to move forward. Tradition and old ways need to give room and ways toward newer ones if Xaela is to survive. I admire their resolve and often find myself drawn to their causes.

Having lived in Eorzea for a while, had changed Yuu's in many ways. Her views of marriage is one that includes love in it. She dont want to marry out of duty or forced feelings. To be honest, i would not want her to marry me just because of the promise between our parents. I admit i admire her a lot and as much as i want to deny it, i am started to get smitten with her. Her demeanor, the way she speaks, also her mind and ideas. We decided to explore more of this relationship. Giving chances for us to know each other and see if love can bloom from understanding.

The fact that i am accepting of the idea seems to calm her down a lot. I am glad that i was raised by my parents with principles, not to force our will towards others. I also believed that day if she were to marry me out of obligation then one day she might regret it and walk away. Perhaps maybe even blaming me and our parents for making such ridiculous promise. After the talk that night, i escort her back to the Uragshi encampment in La Noscea. We talked while watching the full moon on the way. Laughed at each other jokes and share the story of our parents. I hope to one day meet aunt Bolormaa and reunite her with mother.

A few days after our meeting, Chief Algun approached me to talk about that item he recovered in Gridania. I tried to dissuade the man but he remains adamant on his path. The same day, Yuuqi came to the encampment. She is leaving on the same day to Othard and was asking if i want to come. In reality, i have had already packed. Planning to ask if it would be fine by her clan if i camped outside of their border. Unconsciously the thought of me staying far from her somehow makes me uncomfortable. I grabbed my belonging and within a few hours i am onboard a ship sailing to far away Kugane. Perhaps if luck would have it, the Uragshi may return to the steppe and i can accompany them. I wonder how my parents and siblings are doing?.

The first few days were sunny and smooth sailing. I spoke with Yuuqi and get to know her some more. Most of the Uragshi are staying below the deck since they are not feeling well. After a few days sailing, we started to enter the Jade sea and into the Storm Corridor. It was raining for few days and the sailing was rocky and dangerous, i tried to help the crew as much as possible. Yuuqi and her sisters stayed below deck for their own safety, i myself are used somewhat from the many ventures over the five seas. When the ship stabilize somewhat, the Uragshi come out of their cabin. I converse with them and it is also where i was introduced to Yuuqi's twin sister, Khatun Qurcaqi, her wife Sarnai and another woman named Sara.

Khatun Qurcaqi have a sharp tongue and a no-nonsense attitude. A trait that is needed from a leader like the other leaders i have met before. I have to admit, sometimes she left me wondering if she dissaprove of my advance to Yuuqi but i learn to admire her straightforwardness. Her ways of joking is sometimes beyond my grasp and i learn to take her words both seriously but at the same time thinking of possibility if it could be a joke? she still baffles me sometimes. Sarnai gives me good impression the first time i met her, she is calm and understanding. She also wanted to test me in a fight as soon as we have chance to do so. As former Jhungid, i will need to win her approval to court Yuuqi and to prove my worth to the Uragshi through this test. The last member, Sara, teased me somewhat. While i do not dislike her i also have no fondness towards her. The best feeling i can describe is neutrality.

Sara asked me several questions to reveal my intention, to which i replied honestly. From the first impression, it looks like they are still wary at me and my intention to court Yuuqi. It is completely normal and i would not feel oppressed nor will it stop my effort. Midway into the conversation, i had to leave the group to speak with Malqir un Dash. Our host who allowed us to sail with him to Kugane. I discussed with him the current situation and the route that we may possibly take, advising him to stay away from Sirensong sea. Dash is not a stranger to traveling and he concurs with me, he also informed me that we are skirting the outside border of the same sea. Perhaps it explains why i keep hearing a sad song from afar? they said the spirit of the dead haunt the sea and creature of darkness inhabit the water.

Just as i was about to join the Uragshi again to continue the conversation, i heard a loud splash and a shout mentioning someone went overboard. I rush to the location on the ship and found a little girl crying, pointing to the sea where a Xaela boy is fighting for his life. Bobbing amidst the violent water. I look around and all i saw was hesitation....noone want to risk their life to save the boy of course. In that slim moment, i saw the crying girl and somehow she reminds me of my youngest sister Bolormaa. My mind was saying that this is foolish and going to be the death of me, on the other hand my conscience clearly told me that if its my brother down there, i would not hesitate to jump in.

The water was cold...yet it feels slimy and tepid when i jumped in to save the boy. At first he violently struggle, however after i reminded him that his sister is aboard the ship waiting for him to come back alive it somehow calmed him. The next thing i know was the people pointing to something on the water and my instinct told me we are not alone in this water. I started to swim towards the ship when Khatun Qurcaqi thrown a rope. Grabbing to it, i immediately climbed up just as something tries to snatch me and the boy out of the sea. Coming on deck, i faced a very furious woman. She was half my size and beautiful as her sister, but i can still remember my head ringing from her backhanded slap. I did not protest as i knew my actions were foolish. If time were to be turned back however, i would still jump in to save the boy. From the story i heard, it seems that the boy name is Nergui and his sister is Sara. They stowed away from Eorzea to return to Othard. Orphan as they are, they were following their mother's last words to seek their birth tribe. The Arulaq.

Khatun Qurcaqi was furious at the drunken sailor who didnt watch Nergui and caused him to fall down to the sea. He was beaten to an inch of his life by her before given over to the ship security to be punished.

The rest of the journey was smooth, nearing the end of our trip, i had a talk with Yuuqi under a full moon. I told her about the little girl in my dreams that always shown me where to go and she would reveal to me her gift of Aethersong. She is able to hear the very sound of the Aether itself and dub it the Aethersong. She was worried i might think she's going mad but in contrary, i truly believed she has a wonderful gift. I tried to encourage her to learn more of it and this seems to make her happy. I realize i love watching Yuuqi smiles. We spent the rest of the night watching the dance of the wavekin, talking about life and her previous lover. She was hurt and grieving deeply from the lost love. Her last lover chooses his shield and duty over her, not to mention he is a Miqo'te and seems to be difficult to gain approval of the entire clan because of this.

I feel sympathy for her, not pity, because i know she is a strong woman who decides to carve her own path onwards after that harrowing experience. However, most notably i also feel a pang of feeling that makes breathing a bit difficult and i find my hand grasping on the railing a bit too hard and i realize this happens every time she talks fondly of the man. Could it be the first sign of jealousy? but i was no one to her at that time, if not for the Jade. With this fact, i suppress such feelings because i have no right to be jealous other from the reason that it is improper that i feel that way when she herself is still hurt deeply by the breakup. We said goodbye that night, i took her hand and we walked around the ship before i escorted her to her cabin.

The next morning, i woke up hearing the sound of the gulls. From afar, the archipelago of Hingashi beckons...with the peak of Tenzan volcano steaming from afar. We have finally arrived...

#gin x yuu #i swear i will catch up #one of these days

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noldorianprincess · 7 years

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“Grief” //Im so sorry

Send “Grief” for a drabble about my muse grieving when yours has died.

(I suggest listening to these songs if you want more feels, 1 2 3)

“I’ll be alright,Fintuilasse…you always worry too much.” He smiled, giving her a soft kiss onthe hand.

“I have good reason to! You alwayscome back home with some sort of scrape or new injury I have to patch up!” Sheflicked his nose while he was still close, causing him to recoil in anoverdramatic manner and pull away from her, stomping over to the armor cabinetas if he were falling and needed something to grab onto. Fin just playfullyrolled her eyes and followed after him.

“My cousin is leading us,along with some of Elrond’s men. We’ll be okay…just think, we’ll finally be ridof what is causing all of this world so much grief…we could finally live inpeace, not ever having to worry about anything turning the corner and harminganyone.” He uttered, placing his hand against her cheek, which, sheinstinctively leaned into.

“Haldir may be strong, butthis is war, Galadir. Not someskirmish on the forest’s line. And you’ll be in a dead end. What are you to doif they get inside the fortress? Helm’s Deep isn’t as impenetrable as everyonebelieves…weak spots could be anywhere and you’d never have the slightest idea…”She looked up to him, concern laced with every fiber of her features. A smilejust came to his lips and he shook his head at her before leaning down andpressing a tender kiss to her lips.

The air was still aroundthem, each second their lips stayed connected, felt like an eternity she neverwanted to be without. When his point was across, they pressed their foreheadstogether and stood that way for a moment longer. She laced their fingerstogether and squeezed tight, wanting to continue arguing with him, but knew hewas set in his ways.

“…Believe in me,Fintuilasse.” He uttered, lacing his arm around her back and pulled her closer.She did her best to hold back the emotion that dared spill over her lips andher lids. But, she knew far too well about what happened when forces anddefenses weren’t strong enough.

“I do…just come back to mein one piece…okay?” She breathed, her arms wrapping tightly around his waistand buried herself in his shoulder. His hands ran soothingly along her back,his lips pressed to the crown of her head before he squeezed her shoulders andpulled her back so he could look down at her.

“I promise, Fin. Cross myheart.” He made the silly little gesture which made her heart thrum withanxiety. She took his hands and kissed along every knuckle and nodded.

“…okay, then. Let’s get youall ready to go…I can hear them getting ready outside.” Finduilas murmured asshe opened the closet up and removed the armor from the stand. “Come on. Let’sget all of this on you.” She smiled solemnly. He nodded in return and held uphis arms, happy that she was assisting him with getting ready.

When all was said and done,she followed him out to the gate, and as they approached the other Galadhrim,her eyes found Haldir, and she stared him down for a long while, making sure heknew to keep her love safe. Turning her head to look up at Galadir now, sheraised a small blossom of heartsease and gave it a kiss before tucking it intohis breast plate.

“Be safe now, darling…Iexpect you home in a week’s time, just as Haldir has promised…” Her voice waslow as she fixed his armor, her hands smoothing over his cloak upon hisshoulders just to make sure everything was alright. She began to back away fromhim so that he could leave, but he drew her up and into one more tight embrace,their lips connecting once again in a loving display, emotion just spillinginto each little movement and reciprocation of affection. Haldir gave a loudwhistle that broke their endearment, a bright blush upon each their cheeks. Shecupped his face once more, doing her best to keep the tears back once more. Sheknew he would do everything in his power to be safe. So, she had to trust him.

“I love you, Fintuilasse…”His voice was low as they stood there a moment longer, just enjoying the feelof the embrace.

“And I love you…” Her voicequivered as she stroked his cheeks a bit more, memorizing his features for theweek he would be gone. She would’ve said more, but in the next moment he wasgone, already trotting along right beside the rest of the warriors, his handwaving to her as they marched out the gates. Finduilas gave him the bestreassuring smile as she waved her arms at him as well.

Now it was just a waitinggame.

The elleth was knelt in thedirt, hands going to work on removing the weeds and what not that grew withinthe gardens of her little flet in the kingdom. She had grown this one, withhelp from Galadir, of course. She barely had a green thumb. She could doeverything else but keep a plantalive. But, so far, so good. She sat up and on her knees, the sound of hoovesand a carriage catching her attention. Were the soldiers home already?

Excitement welled in herchest as she quickly scrambled up from her position and her feet carried hertowards the entrance of the kingdom, but she slowed as she saw not those thathad left, but strangers carrying cloaks and personal belongings to those whohad left just a week ago. Where was everyone? This wasn’t right. She watched asthe red cloak of the marchwarden was handed to Galadriel, and it seemed asthough her light seemed to dim, the cloak in her hands feeling almost like aheavy stone. She sat upon the stairs, the burden of her adopted son’s deathalmost too much to handle at this point in time.

A young, mortal soldier,came up to her and gentle tugged on her sleeve. Her already glossy orbs found hisfeatures, and he too seemed sad. He handed her a folded silver and blue cloak.She almost handed it back to him and told him he was wrong, but as she foldedback the hood, she saw a heartsease blossom, it’s petals stained dark withblood. It took almost everything in her not to break down right then and there.She could barely hear the mortals as they said that the carriage carrying allthose who were deceased would arrive within a few days’ time. Her hand smoothedover the cloak like it had the day he left; that’s when the tears began to flowfrom over her lids and down her cheeks.

This was all wrong. Thisshouldn’t be happening.

Her mind replayed him makingthe silly little gesture, that bright smile and gleaming eyes.

They were all wrong. Galadirwasn’t dead. There…she couldn’t believe that there was any way he could be.They’d been training so hard! They’d been teaching each other so much!

Finduilas thanked the youngsoldier in front of her, held the cloak to her chest, and made her way out ofthe square.

She followed the river,followed the beaten path, and when she could smell honeysuckle and rose juicefilled her senses. Fin closed her eyes, letting the warmth and smell of theirlittle area fill her senses, but she lost her footing on one of the rock beds,and she fell, barely catching herself at the last minute. The cloak and blossomhad fallen just some little ways away, but she couldn’t bring herself to getup. She let her forehead rest against the grass, letting her tears run freelynow that she was in the silence. Her fists struck the ground, her sobs unableto be stopped. She pulled herself up and onto her knees, but couldn’t get upfrom her crunched position.

Everything felt heavy…itfelt like she would just wake up from this nightmare and everything would beokay. Blindly, she reached around for the cloak, and when she found it, shebrought it back to herself and held onto it tightly, his essence filling her senses,but that only fueled the tears to fall faster.

How could he do this to her?He promised…he said everything would be okay. That mellifluous voice promisingthings she wanted to hear, whispering sweet nothings to her the night before.Her fingers wrapped tightly in the fabric, holding it close to her, begging theValar to give her back the only person she had left.

She could see that smile,the gleaming sunlight behind him as he laughed at her ridiculously stupidjokes. She could just imagine his fingers running through her trusses, lullingher to sleep after a bad night. The way they had been adding onto the shack tomake it so much bigger for them, for a familythat they wanted to have.

The ache for his skin uponher own was felt, her heart feeling as though it was being ripped from herchest as she just sat there in the dirt. Her sounds had ceased, but the tearsdid not. They still fell, as if waiting for a gentle, calloused hand to runalong her skin and wipe them away.

But she knew it wouldn’tcome.

The sun fell behind theclouds, and not soon after, did the rain begin to fall. She sat up straightthis time, her eyes finding the sky, and she lifted herself into the cool dropletsof the rain. They hit her skin, the chill not seeming to bother her now. Maybethis was the Vala’s sign that they, too, were weeping for the loss of all thosewho had perished in Helm’s Deep. She sat back on her heels, keeping the cloakjust underneath her own, so that the rain could not was away what was left ofhis cologne. For a long while, she sat there, just beneath the trees, lettingeach and every last drop of rain water fall upon her without any hesitation tomove.

When all had stopped and theair was still around her, did she begin to stand. She moved towards the shack,opened up the door, and moved inside. All of their belongings they shared justwithin, the space just having been big enough, so far, to fit their bed, a fire pit, and a few areas for cookingand dining.

She placed her hand againsthis handwriting along her side of the bed, the ink having since long dried, thewords he spoke to her often, now resonating in her head.

‘I love you. For all that you are, all that you have been, and have yetto be’. It’s scrawl in perfect Quenya. Though, she had written it down forhim, but he painted it out one day while she was gone in the market. She leanedher head against the wall, letting her fingers gently trace the loops and dotsof the words.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Galadir…but without you, I fear I willbecome nothing more than an empty shell…’ Her heart felt so heavy, it didn’teven feel as if she could lift her head from looking at the sheets that hadbeen strewn about from their last position of when they got out of bed the dayhe left. She sat on the edge, holding the cloak tight in her arms once more,thinking, trying to remember every detail she had burned into her memory. Hiseyes. His nose. His cheeks…the way that if he smiled, you could see just a hintof a dimple. The way his brow would furrow if she said something strange, theway his hands would trace her back to make her feel better…the way his voicewould crack if she said something that flustered him.

‘…will you wait for me in the halls, or shall I see you again inValinor? I hope you can wait just a while longer…for I don’t believe I’m toofar behind you…wait for me, Galadir…’

#HOLY FUCK #I'M A SOBBING MESS #WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF!?#I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT YOU MONSTER #CAUSE I KNOW FEELS #AND DEPRESSING SHIT #UGH #WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MEEEEE #warden-of-lorien

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