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biscuitbox23 · 4 months

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Dead weight.

summary: you run into the woods to get away from the group, you were reaching the end of your life as you suffer from aplastic anemia, only to get stopped by Rick.

A/n: I’m not a medical expert, i have no familiarity with the field of medicine I am just an idiot who is a sucker for terribly made sad stories. This may be a very long opening to the actual climax so im sorry for that :( please do DM me for advice on how i can make my fanfictions better!

Warnings: inaccurate depictions of the illness, non-established relationship (rick and reader), mentions of death, angst, cursing. (Not much due to me being a minor.) somewhat bad grammar since English isn’t my second language.

words: 1.3K

It has been a while, well, a while since you had a good stock of medicine. You had been in an abandoned cabin a few months after the outbreak. During it, you got stuck in a pharmacy in Atlanta. The law was gone now, so you hoarded a ton of antibiotics, capsules, injections, and anything you could get your grubby hands on.

When Rick and Daryl saved you from a trio of men who were trying to take advantage of you, you joined them and did not stay inside forever, especially when blood stained the floors of your shelter. It was a mistake.

You wanted to stay with yourself, isolated from the horrors and sacrifices that the world has offered now. It was harder to find medication now that most stores were stripped clean. It was easier for you to catch minor fevers, and you tended to have more rest than the others in the group. The only reason you were there is because you knew how to survive.

In the woods, in the apocalypse, no problem. Whatever your dad knew your dad would teach you, he was an outdoor person and loved to forage different shrooms and plants. God knows what happened to him.

You grew closer to the group, helping them find food and clean water, scavenging what you can find in abandoned retail stores (even if it does not have much importance.)

Now you find yourself walking out of Alexandria by attempting to climb the steel borders to the outside of the wall, your head spinning as drowsiness has consumed you to your very core, yet you still have the urge to continue. Or else you are just dead weight. You had a few foot slips —you swear, Enid makes it look easy— but managed to get out. You can sense your muscles aching as if you did not even have the strength to pull yourself up despite climbing trees more than a million times when you were a teen. You needed to disappear

from the people, the group. Rick.

Rick was a leader, for sure. He had all the correct morals and cunningness and looked up to him for it. You were no longer the person of any use to him and his group. You could not even defend yourself without stumbling down to the ground.

You were around when T-dog and Lori passed away. You

remembered falling for Rick when you first saw him, only to discover he had a pregnant wife and a kid. It started like a rocky road. You were so used to the isolation that it took a lot of convincing to get you to come with them to the prison.

You took a liking to his daughter Judith. You loved babies. It was a surprise. You thought that you would never find a baby in this world again. Carl was the closest to you. You tell him stories about your life and would do the same, reminiscing about the world that used to be. He praised his father a lot and got a good idea of what Rick was like as a father. Hershel would check up on your health while Rick would stand beside the old sport as Hershel examines you.

Making your way into the woods, you stopped by a tree to take a breather. Your hands were on your knees as you stared down to the ground, crinkles of the leaves crushing on the bottom of your shoes. The night was cold and airy. The chill on the tip of your nose was evident as you took one more glance at the haven that shielded the real outside world from its inhabitants. The sour stench of rotting meat was not detectable and gave some fresh air — It is not like you cannot get fresh air in Alexandria. You want to be alone most of the time.

“thought I'd find you here." A voice called out, the voice echoing in your ears sounding familiar as the crunching of leaves has gotten closer and closer.

“fuck” you curse under your breath, “how did you find me?”

“Carl saw you tryin’ to climb the walls.”

“huh,” you playfully scoffed but was met with a chill and a cough, “thought I was being sneaky…”

“what're you doin’ out here?” Rick asks out of the blue, staring you up and down as you lean back into the tree.

“Rick," you sighed heavily, “go back.”

“I'm not goin’ back till you tell me what happened, y‘know that, don’t you?” Rick asked with a twinge of concern mixed with his southern drawl.

You paused.

“I'm leaving, Alexandria,” You rubbed your forehead as your stomach grumbled. Sliding down to sit as your back leaned onto the tree further.

“If this is about your illness we can make—“Before Rick could finish his sentence you interrupted.

“Make it work? Yeah, I don’t think so…” You retorted, “You don’t understand, Rick. I have a condition where my bone marrow doesn't produce enough blood cells, and I have no meds to help me, what are the chances of finding a pharmacy? A pharmacy where it has all the things I need to survive?” You spat, frustration filling your mind like hot liquid.

“Denise can help you, Y/n, you have seen her efforts in helping you,” You can sense Rick’s desperation to get you back to Alexandria’s infirmary. His voice remained gentle but firm.

“Why, Rick?” Your eyes stared into Rick's ocean blue orbs, frustration, and confusion, “I’m not strong, anymore. I can’t go on runs, anymore. I can’t protect anyone.”

“Because we still need you—“

“Maybe it’s you who still needs me, Rick…” You spat, leaning your head on the wood as you got the strength to finally stand up, with the support of the tree, of course.

“Y/n we can discuss this once we get back,” Rick sighed, coming closer to you as he held both your arms gently.

A rush of adrenaline painfully scours into your veins as you push him away with all the remaining strength you have.

“GODDAMNIT RICK, WHY CANT YOU JUST LET ME DIE OUT THERE!” You yelled at him. “YOU KNEW I WAS GOING TO BE A BURDEN AND YOU SAW HOW MANY PILLS I HAD ON THE TABLE!”

Rick scoffed, “You're giving up now? After all that has happened? The prison, terminus… and you decide to end it all here? Where we’re finally safe?” His tone wasn’t as gentle but it was now harsher, deeper.

“if you think more treatments, will change anything, it won’t. I'm done and I won't let you guilt me into continuing this charade.”

“then what’re you gon’ tell Carl, hm? That you’re sick of bein’ alive so now you’re gonna leave?”

“This isn’t about Carl, Rick it’s about you keeping me to fill in the gap of what Lori gave you,” you glare with poison in your very eyes. “Leaving you to care for a child that was never yours.”

Rick went quiet, as you realized what you had said, “i-I’m sorry… Rick…” you pleaded, holding his hands.

Rick sighed, “Maybe you're right."

You nodded, your breath becoming shorter as your legs finally give in. You feel your body starting to shut down. Rick helped you sit down comfortably on the ground. You were paler and had many bruises on your arms and legs. You were heating up again.

“I'm sorry, Rick,” you breathed heavily, clutching the hand he gave you.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” Rick comforted you, kissing her knuckles as her legs trembled. Rick’s voice was shaky, almost labored.

“I don’t wanna turn, you can ask Daryl to keep my gun, you’ll need it,” You softly chuckled. Rick looked at you, taking his revolver from his holster.

“Get back to Alexandria, to Judith…” you smiled as you felt bile in your throat, blocking your airway and your heartbeat becoming more abnormal.

Rick gives you a final kiss on the head as an act of kindness and comfort on the edge of a quick and painless death.

—————————————————————

a/n: Hello everyone! This is my very first Fanfic and I thought about it on the spot 😭 Reading it for me makes me kinda cringe but don’t we all? Anyways hope you guys enjoyed it (cuz I didn’t but I’m a sucker for tragic love)

#rick grimes #the walking dead #twd #twd x reader #rick grimes x reader #the walking dead fanfiction #andrew lincoln #first fanfic #the walking dead universe #BiscuitWrites #twd oneshot

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redgoldsparks · 2 months

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February Reading and Reviews by Maia Kobabe

I post my reviews throughout the month on Storygraph and Goodreads, and do roundups here and on patreon. Reviews below the cut.

Ruthless Vows by Rebecca Ross read by Alex Wingfield and Rebecca Norfolk

This book started a little slowly for me, as I waited for Roman to regain his memories and for Iris to get back to reporting at the front. Luckily, the magical typewriters once again play a major role in this story as they did in the first one; Roman and Iris's letters are the emotional heart of this series. I also love how it fore fronts the importance of journalists during wartime. Iris's bravery and constant willingness to move towards danger and the unknown in service of sharing the truth makes her a very compelling character. Unfortunately, the magical divine conflict behind the war just didn't compel me very strongly in this book. I think the gods were introduced too slowly into the narrative, and that a lack of a human motivation behind the war simplified the conflict in a way that sucked some of the tension from the text. If you are looking for a solid romance with a strong epistolary element and the aesthetic of wartime setting, this series delivers; if instead you want a complicated, devastating, deeply emotional story of young people surviving a real historical war, pick up Code Name Verity or Rose Under Fire.

Mamo by Sas Milledge

Jo has lived in her small seaside hometown her whole life, and loves it there. But then things start to go wrong- curses, bad luck, mysterious illnesses. She seeks out the town witch and finds a teen girl about her own age, named Orla, who Jo has never met before. It turns out Orla has just returned to town after the death of her grandmother, the previous witch. She wasn't buried properly and her bones are scattered around the town, stirring up bad energy, disturbing the local fae and trolls. Jo and Orla set out of lay the old witch properly to rest, but there's more going on than either of them realize. This is a fairly short but well told tale, queer and magical, and with a little bittersweet edge.

Look on the Bright Side by Lily Williams and Karen Schneemann

This is a very charming follow up to Go With The Flow, taking place over the friend group's following high school year. Brit, who was diagnosed with endometriosis at the end of the previous book, had a surgery to remove it over the summer. When she goes back to school, she finds her affection caught between two different boys. Christine has finally admitted to herself that she likes Abby as more than a friend... but telling Abby that is another matter. Abby is still working on her campaign of menstrual justice on campus, while Sasha struggles to balance her homework, sports, and time with her boyfriend. The girls learn, grow, make mistakes, and support each other.

Gathering Moss written and read by Robin Wall Kimmerer

It took me a little longer to get into this one than Braiding Sweetgrass, mainly because I had much less personal knowledge of mosses than the larger types of plants which Kimmerer wrote about in Sweetgrass. It doesn't help that mosses do not have common names, so are referred to mainly by scientific names, and I was rarely able to picture them well in my head. However, by about a third of the way through I had fallen into the miniature world of mosses and the striking and insightful ways Kimmerer links them to all other organisms in their ecosystems. I loved learning how mosses, like tardigrades, with which they probably co-evolved, can survive desiccation and be revived by water even after all seeming signs of life have disappeared. I was intrigued by the story of a moss species which changes its gender over its lifespan, starting out producing only female reproductive stalks in its early days, shifting producing a mix of male and female stalks as it matures, and then producing solely male stalks as the patch reaches peak density. I was frustrated by stories of the illegal moss harvesting which is stripping Oregon rain forests bare. And I was once again completely charmed by the beauty and generosity of Kimmerer's writing and worldview. She's a bestseller for a reason; I highly recommend everyone pick up at least one of her books at some point.

The High Desert by James Spooner

James' white mother and his black father divorced when he was in elementary school, and he moved around a lot. For high school, he moved with his mom to Apple Valley, a barren small town in the desert an hour inland from Los Angeles. Already a skater, James encountered punk music just went he needed it most: as an isolated and angry teen in a racist town with little to no underground scene or counterculture. The music, and later, the politics, of punk raised James in the semi-absence of parents and role models. This memoir, chronically roughly a year, is an unflinchingly honest look at the cruelty, creativity, friendship, and solidarity of teens. It has the density and scratchy texture of a 90s zine without ever sacrificing clarity. I was very impressed by how clearly and in what detail Spooner was able to recreate his high school angst and activist awaking in this coming of age tale. Punk wasn't the music that found me, but I still remember the high of finding a new favorite band or song that felt as if it spoke right to my teen soul. This book is a testament to the power of music to reach into the dark and pull someone out into the light.

Falling Back in Love With Being Human written and read by Kai Cheng Thom

Short and sweet, this book is half confession, half spell book. Each chapter is written as a letter- to trans women, to activists, to sex workers, to johns, to those contemplating suicide, to TERFs, to children's book writers- each followed with a little action or ritual. I listened to it as an audiobook and loved hearing the letters in the author's voice, but I can also see how reading it in print and lingering over each letter one at a time would be wonderful too.

The Great Beyond by Lea Murawiec translated by Aleshia Jensen

Manel Naher is an anti-social and idiosyncratic young woman living an endless city in which everyone advertises their own names on street signs, sandwich boards, at social events, on business cards, and by simply shouting them at strangers. This may not sound so different from our own world except that it's driven by an even more intense desperation: if one's name is not known, and one's presence fades fully from people's minds, and the forgotten person will literally die. Manel wants nothing more than to escape the city into the wilds beyond it, but her presence is so low she suffers a near fatal heart attack and is scared into a fearful scramble to gain enough fame to live. Her attempts to claw her way into people's memories is surprisingly successful, and in the process of becoming one of the 1% she leaves behind everything and everyone she loved. Never before have I read a comic that felt so much like literary spec-fic. The concepts are fascinating and the cartooning knocked me off my feet. A visual masterpiece I'll be thinking about for a long time to come.

The Spectred Isle by KJ Charles read by Ruairi Carter

Saul Lazenby is a disgraced archeologist who served time for a war crime during the recent WWI. Back in England, disowned by his family, he struggled to support himself. The only job he is able to secure is as a personal assistant to a batty old major who believes in fairy stories and keeps sending Saul off to various parts of London to investigate supposedly occult sites. Saul knows it's all fake but he keeps investigating anyway... and then a tree bursts in flames in front of him. And a mysterious gentleman keeps showing up at the same sites of sacred groves or ancient wells which Saul's been sent to look at. That gentleman is Richard Glide, who just happens to be the heir to one of the oldest arcane families in England. And he can't tell if Saul is causing the spiritual problems that keep occurring around him or if it's all an unlikely coincidence. This historical romance is a fun and quick read, shorter than most of the KJ Charles books I've read before. Be warned, the end sets up a sequel which has not, and may not, ever actually come out- but I still enjoyed this one on it's own.

Red at the Bone by Jacqueline Woodson

A gorgeous, nonlinear novel about three generations of a Black family living in New York between roughly the early 1990s to the mid 2000s. The chapters rotate between multiple POVs, covering moments of change, tension, or reflection for the family. The opening scene is the evening of a debut party for sixteen year old Melody, who wears the dress her own mother was supposed to wear at her debut... except that she was already pregnant. From that moment, the narrative spins back time to how each character arrived there: Iris, a teen who refused to give up her baby but also refused to settle into motherhood; Aubrey, a young man in love with a girl who was already leaving him; Iris's mother Sabe, a daughter of a survivor of the Tulsa massacre, a women who stores her money in gold bars hidden around the house; Iris's father Po'boy, who as a young man ran races, and as an old man holds more love for his family that his body can carry. The character work here is so strong- I was immediately swept away into the cares, worries, secrets, and longings of the family. I read the whole book in one day, but I'll be thinking about it for a long time.

We Are The Land: A Native History of California by Damon B Akins and William J Bauer Jr

It took me a long time to read this book, as it was challenging to read a history of genocide while also seeing genocide in my phone every single day. But I'm ultimately very glad that I finished it. This is a well researched, approachable, indigenous-authored history of the native people in the land now called California. I enjoyed how place specific this book is. I felt much more connected to the history recognizing nearly every place name, and once the book got passed around the year 1900 I started to also recognize names of organizations that still exist and activists who I'm familiar with. I have a much better understanding of the patchwork creation of and the broken promises of the reservations, land allotments, and rancherias. I was happy whenever the book mentioned Pomo master basket weavers Elsie Allen and Mable McKay, who my mom has been telling me about for years, or Greg Sarris, Santa Rosa based chairman of the Graton Rancheria and author. I have a better understanding of this land where I have lived and worked all my life after reading this book.

Zodiac: A Graphic Novel by Ai Weiwei, Elettra Stamboulis and Gianluca Costantini

I've been following Ai Weiwei's work since about 2010, and was absolutely delighted to learn he was releasing a comic memoir. I managed to snag a signed copy though the Comix Experience Graphic Novel of the Month Club and I will treasure it. This book is organized into 12 chapters, each themed around one animal from the zodiac. It weaves together slice of life moments from Ai Weiwei's day to day life, stories of his father (the revolutionary poet Ai Qing), memories of Ai's time as an art student in New York, his incarceration, time spent with his mother, his partner, and his son, conversations with artist friends and some of his international exhibitions. It is not a tight narrative; it wanders, it indulges in myths and fairy tales, it is open ended and I enjoyed it so much. It was written along with Elettra Stamboulis, and draw in a delicate lose line art style by Gianluca Costantini. A few of the lines from the end of the book haven't left my head since I read them: "Freedom of speech and human rights are not given to anybody for free. They always come through fighting and struggle" (101); "Any artist who isn't an activist is a dead artist" (165) and "... the purpose of art, which is to fight for freedom."(166)

Witchy Vol 2 by Ariel Salmat Ries

This volume was just as beautifully drawn as book 1; the cartooning is masterful, but I don't have a very good sense of where the larger plot is going. This book was mostly a long side quest in which Nyneve learned how to make a broom under an exiled gay broom making master. I enjoyed this! However it didn't particularly seem to move the story forward. I will keep reading, but the sense of drama and urgency from the beginning of the first book is slightly missing here.

No Gods, No Monsters by Cadwell Turnbull read by Dion Graham

What a ride! I went into this book knowing almost nothing, and I think that was the right way to go so I shall not summarize the plot. This is the first book of a series; it's ambitious, it's weird, it's got a very large and extremely diverse cast; it is such a fresh and original take on a contemporary sci-fi in which the world realizes that monsters, gods, and magic have existed all along. I worried a little in the first third that the book maybe had too many POV characters, most of whom seemed very unconnected from each other except by geographical proximity to either Cambridge, Mass, or the island of St Thomas. However by the end almost all of the characters had been at least tenuously linked by plot events in a way that really worked for me. The book also has trans, nonbinary, asexual, queer, and poly characters whose identities are only revealed slowly, and usually after you've known the character for a while. I am very impressed by the scope of this story and definitely plan to continue with the series.

Arrive In My Hands by Trinidad Escobar

Sensual, at times tender, at times haunting, this beautiful little book is a collection of lesbian erotic comics from a poet artist at the top of her field. I am definitely biased, having been friends with the author for years, but I also deeply admire this work. The women, witches, and creatures in these stories yearn for pleasure and for freedom; they chase both through oceans, forests, broken suburban towns, and through dreams. The book is perfectly sized to hold close to your heart.

Bird by Bird by Annie Lamott read by Susan Bennett

I've been hearing about this book for years as a writing guide, but it is almost equally a memoir or collection of anecdotes about the writing life. Parts of it worked for me and other parts didn't. The author has a very different type of brain than I have, and the chapters on working through the anxiety, neurosis, and depression she suffered from when trying to write didn't really speak to me at all. I also did not enjoy the handful of flippant jokes about killing yourself when the writing isn't going well. However. There are also some genuinely really moving pieces about writing books as gifts to loved ones, especially loved ones who are soon to leave us. I thought a lot of the advice in the middle about focusing on details, on recording memories, on research, and on character development was really solid, and I want to keep some of it in mind when I start developing my next book. There was also a set of lines in the introduction, about how writers are able to participate in public life while also working from home and without leaving the house which hit the nail on the head of why I entered this career!

Recitatif by Toni Morrison read by Bahni Turpin with an intro written and read by Zadie Smith

I've been wanting to try another Toni Morrison, since the only one I had previously read in high school went completely over my head at age 15. Recitatif is Morrison's only short story, and this audiobook version is read by the wonderful Bahni Turpin (who you might recognize from Angie Thomas or Akwaeke Emezi's audiobooks). Also included in an excellent essay written and read by Zadie Smith. This comes first in the audio, but if you are new to the story as I was, skip the essay and listen to the story first! Then go back and listen to the essay afterwards. This way the cleverness and impact of the story can hit you fully. It is so smart, so well crafted, and such a master class in writing that both reveals and conceals so much about the complicated relationship of two damaged women.

Delicious in Dungeon vol 1 by Ryoko Kui

I can immediately see why so many people are charmed by this world and these characters! This is the start of a really fun D&D infused adventure story, with a small group of down on their luck adventures deciding to cut their adventuring costs by eating the monsters they kill in the dungeon. The man behind this idea, Laos, is also searching for a missing sister who may or may not have already been eaten by a dragon. I already have books 2 and 3 on hold; I haven't been so captured by a manga series since starting Witch Hat Atelier.

Delicious in Dungeon vol 2 by Ryoko Kui

I devoured this book as quickly as book one. Our adventure party gets a bit deeper into the dungeon and begin to have more meaningful interactions with the beings who dwell there, including an Orc family just trying to get by, golems which grow vegetables on their backs, and living paintings which might reveal more of the buried castle's history.

Delicious in Dungeon vol 3 by Ryoko Kui

A flashback reveals more of the school friendship of Marcelle and Falin; a deep underground lake leads to many encounters with watery monsters of various types. I continue to have a very fun time with this series!

Bunt by Ngozi Ukazu and Mad Rupert

Molly grew up in Peachtree, Georgia, in her lesbian moms' hardware store, in the shadow of the town's prestigious and expensive art college, PICA. Every since she can remember, she's wanted to attend PICA- despite the fact that her best friend dropped out last year and says the school chews people up and spits them out. But Molly got a full ride scholarship, so her first semester should be a breeze, right? No! Because when she shows up to orientation, no one can find her scholarship or even her registration. It turns Molly will have to pay for her first year after all; she takes out some dodgy loans and scours the financial aid booklets for any other scholarship she can apply for. It turns out, if she can scrape up a full team of softball players... and they compete against other college teams in the same division... and they win at least one game over the course of the semester... the whole team gets a free tuition! Is it possible to win one game with a bunch of big-ego, burned-out, athletically-challenged artists? I loved the energy of this story, with many well-informed digs at art school culture and hypocrisy. The team has great chemistry and the art style is full of action, physical humor, and delightfully expressive cartooning.

#comics #book reviews #reading #comic book reviews #book recs

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eccentricgamercl · 6 months

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So Near and yet So Far

Alright, to preface this angsty thing:

From a young age, I’ve been fascinated by the story of the RMS Titanic—not just the 1997 movie, but the actual ship as well.

For the final day of @sabezraweek, I decided to make this AU of Ezra and Sabine as if they had just been through the ship’s sinking. This one-shot takes place the morning after, as the lifeboat approaches the rescue ship, RMS Carpathia. Both Ezra and Sabine have spent a considerable amount of time in the freezing cold water (not unlike Jack and Rose in the movie), and while both of them have been picked up by one of the lifeboats, Sabine is suffering from severe hypothermia and needs immediate medical attention…

~~~~~~

“Just stay awake for a little longer, Sabine,” Ezra reassured her, “We’re almost at the rescue ship.”

“I’m fine, Ezra, really,” Sabine responded weakly. “I feel so hot—you need these blankets more than I do.”

Ezra grimaced. Her hypothermia was getting worse. He shivered as he felt another gust of freezing sea air buffet the lifeboat and its occupants. Desperate to keep Sabine warm for just a little longer, he clutched her even tighter.

Slowly, agonizingly, the lifeboat rowed its way towards Carpathia’s open gangway door. For Ezra, it was more torturous than their struggle to stay alive in the freezing Atlantic just hours earlier.

Rescue for them—for Sabine—was so near, and yet at the same time so far away.

But at long last, the lifeboat made its way alongside Carpathia’s hull. A rope ladder descended from the gangway door above them, as did a makeshift sling from one of the ship’s onboard cargo cranes, ready to receive the surviving passengers.

It was finally over.

Gingerly, Ezra and some of the lifeboat’s other occupants lifted Sabine into the sling, ensuring she was secured to it before she could be raised to the safety of Carpathia’s deck.

“You’re going to be okay now, Sabine,” Ezra reassured her. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

Sabine said nothing, but gave him a faint smile at his words. He leaned over and planted a kiss onto her lips—one that she barely mustered enough strength to return. With that, she began to ascend towards the deck.

Ezra couldn’t keep his eyes off of Sabine as she was lifted higher and closer towards Carpathia’s deck. When she was high enough, the crane began to swing around so she could gently be lowered onto the deck…

And then one of the sling’s straps came loose.

Ezra’s heart stopped. In the span of just a few seconds, only a few feet shy from the deck—from salvation—the sling holding Sabine gave way, sending her plummeting back down to the ocean below.

Adrenaline took over. The instant that Sabine’s body hit the water, Ezra had already dove in after her. Once again, the ocean’s icy grip enveloped him, but this time, he couldn’t feel it. Only one thing was on his mind.

Sabine.

Ezra swam over to her, scooping her up in his arms. “Sabine!” he screamed, trying to rouse her.

She didn’t answer. She wasn’t conscious.

Acting fast, Ezra dragged her back to the lifeboat, where Officer Lowe and others were waiting to pull them out of the water, just as they had the previous night. Once they were back in the boat, Lowe and other crewmen began to strap Sabine into a second, much more secure sling.

Ezra didn’t wait this time. As soon as Sabine was lifted off the lifeboat for the second time, Ezra scrambled up the rope ladder, boarding Carpathia under his own power. His heart still racing, he ran for the first stairway he could find and rapidly ascended towards the upper decks.

He emerged onto Carpathia’s forecastle, brushing his way past other Titanic survivors and Carpathia’s own passengers and crew as he tried to find where Sabine had been deposited. For Ezra, every minute that he spent apart from her felt like several hours.

Ezra finally spotted Sabine’s limp body lying on the deck and rushed over to her, but stopped dead in his tracks when he realized that the ship’s surgeon had reached her first, fingers on her throat as he checked for a pulse.

“How is she?” Ezra asked, his voice quivering.

A moment passed before the surgeon pulled his arm away from Sabine, glanced up at Ezra, and shook his head sadly.

The realization hit Ezra like a ton of bricks. His knees buckled as he collapsed to the deck, and he felt his entire world shatter around him as he did.

Sabine was dead.

#i apologize for the angst #and at the same time i do not apologize for the angst #sabine x ezra #ezra x sabine #ezrabine #sabezra #bluebean #star wars #star wars rebels #sw rebels #au #titanic #titanic au #sabezra week #sabezraweek2023

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blackjackkent · 1 month

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Jaheira quirks an eyebrow up at Hector as he approaches and gives him a fastidious look up and down. "Well now," she says teasingly. "You *can* make yourself presentable, when you have a mind to."

Hector rolls his eyes at her and grins. With Jaheira, as with no other member of his companions - even with Karlach - he has always had a strangely bantering, teasing relationship. He has always, almost from the first moment they met, felt comfortable with her, and has missed her wisdom and her steady presence tremendously in the Hells.

"That makes one of us," he shoots back, equally teasing.

She barks a laugh. "Hah! Forgive me... I am simply excitable. It is good to be out under an open sky once more." As Wyll did, she takes a long and appreciative sniff of the open forest-scented air.

"My first since the reconstruction began," she explains. "We left quite a mess behind, but the city begins to look something like itself once more." She scoffs mock-dismissively. "Same twisting alleys for purse-pickers. Same wooden buildings, ready to get burnt by next year's dragon. Same cisterns overflowing..."

Hector smiles. She speaks dismissively of the city but he knows, deep down, that its survival is important to her, and not just because of her children tying her down there.

"How do you think the rebuilding is going?" he asks.

She chuckles. "Baldurians simply... get *on* with it," she says. "Stubbornness? Civic spirit? Plain stupidity? Perhaps all three - but nothing I will sniff at any longer."

She waves her hand as if to indicate a wide crowd of gathered forces. "Harpers have come from half the world over to lend aid. Farmers, masons, healers... My own son Jord has been wooed to their ranks. Already he plants crop cycles in Wyrm's Crossing."

He can hear the pride in her voice, mixed with affection - and some frustration as she goes on: "Not so for my daughter. Rion's rejoined the Flaming Fist - temporarily, you understand, to 'organize the craftsmen.'" She snorts. "Though she spends more time locking up comrades for pocketing aid funds. They might learn a thing or two - if they don't expel her. Again."

He nods, listening intently, drinking in the news of the city, of her family, of anything she wants to talk about. "All well and good," he prods, "but what about you? I want to hear what you've been up to."

"Honestly?" she quips. "Much more sitting down than I'd like." She grins, seeing the smile this elicits on his face. "Mistake me not, there is still much to be done. Plans to make. Maps to be frowned over." She shrugs. "But my children are more than capable of doing it. Even the young ones tire of me peeking over their shoulders. This night offers them a brief respite from me, at least."

She looks around thoughtfully, taking in the small campsite, the people thronged through it. "And this place, now I look at it... it is where you all spent your first night together, no? A fine spot for an adventure to begin... a fine spot indeed."

Hector's smile fades and he watches her keenly, reading the expression in her eyes. "You're not going back to the city, are you?" he asks softly.

She chuckles, feeling herself so easily read. "Of course I am," she says mildly. "Perhaps just... the long way around. It would be good to stretch my legs for a bit." She shakes her head. "I'll find my way back, as I always do."

She gives an exaggerated sigh. "I admit defeat. Baldur's Gate is my home." She tips her head to one side, in an attitude he has noticed she uses when she feels she has a lesson to impart. "But that is the thing about home," she says gravely. "The only way to see it clearly is to leave and look back - for a little while at least."

She fixes her eyes back on him, and it is his turn to be read, her eyes seeming to look through him, searching out his thoughts. "For all your travels," she says gently, "I hope you have arrived where you want to be. Home, whatever that means to you."

He has given a lot of thought to this, over the months. The definition of home. Once, it was the monastery, without question, but that was before the nautiloid, and he looks back on it now as something that is of his past, somewhere he cannot return in the same spirit in which he once lived there. Avernus, for all that it has housed them for some time now, is not really home either, not where there is no moonlight. And this camp and the others like it, the travels that made him who is is now... for a time they were home, but that time is past as well.

But there is only one real answer. His home and his heart are within Karlach now, in the life they build together, wherever it happens to land.

"Karlach and I are each other's homes," he says quietly, just a little sheepishly, "in wild Avernus..."

She reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder, a warm touch of reassurance, solidarity, wisdom. "Karlach is lucky to have you," she answers. "And know that you are not forgotten; if your friends don't drag you from the hells, it will only be because you've freed yourselves first."

She must see the emotion in his face, the lump rising in his throat, because she gives him a gentle shake and releases his shoulder, stepping back. If he needed to cry on her shoulder, he suspects she'd allow it, but the sentimentality is not in her nature either.

"But there will be more to discuss on that matter," she says lightly. "First - I must inspect the refreshments." She gives him a teasing wink. "You never know. Some ne'er-do-well might have tampered with the wine."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #i love jaheira so fkn much you guys #if it weren't for avernus i'm pretty sure hector would be with her helping to rebuild the city #<3

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dingusbalingus · 8 months

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Olimar's Voyage Log: Day 1

My name is Captain Olimar.

While traveling through space on an interstellar vacation, my ship was struck by a meteor. The collision had knocked me out, but when I awoke I found myself on the surface of a strange planet. Though I appear to have been mostly unscathed from the impact, the same cannot be said for my ship, the S.S. Dolphin. My diagnostics indicated the Dolphin had lost 30 of its most critical parts across this planet's surface upon entry into the atmosphere. To put it simply, I've been stranded here.

To make matters worse, my atmospheric sensors indicate this planet's environment contains high levels of poisonous oxygen. The life-support systems in my suit are able to keep me alive for now, but without a means to recharge them they won't last for much longer than a month. If I can't repair the Dolphin by then....

....There is hope in this dire situation, however. Shortly after I came to, I discovered a curious bulb dormant in the ground. When I approached it, the thing shot up from the ground as if it were waiting for me, and firmly planted long, slender struts into the soil below. Though I haven't a clue as to what this object even is, whether its alive or simply a machine, it resembles a vegetable on my home planet of Hocotate that we call an onion, thus I've taken to calling it an Onion, as well.

After this discovery, a second discovery immediately presented itself. The Onion had sputtered a seed shortly after its awakening. This seed took root in the soil and, after a brief moment in time, rapidly grew into a developed sprout. This sprout emitted a soft glow, and it swayed back and forth without benefit of wind. I don't know what exactly, some instinct or gut feeling, but something compelled me to uproot the plant from the soil. And when I did, I discovered something most extraordinary....

....what came out of the soil was a living creature, not a plant. It sported a leaf on its head supported by a long stem, and featured a pointed proboscis at the end of its face. The shape of this creature resembles the Pikpik brand carrots on my home planet that I adore, so like the Onion before it I've taken to calling this creature a Pikmin.

Despite my harrowing circumstances, I could not help but be intrigued by this Pikmin... It stared at me longingly, as if awaiting my beck and call. I quickly surmised a few key things about these Pikmin. The Onion seems to act as an incubator for Pikmin seeds. A local variety of flower near our location yielded a nutrient-rich pellet, in which the Pikmin seemed to instinctively know to harvest by the Onion. This is how the Pikmin reproduce; soon enough, I found myself with a small army of Pikmin under my command. The Pikmin seem to have a natural inclination toward cooperation, they form groups to perform tasks that would be impossible for an individual. Using their skills, I was even able to retrieve the Main Engine, the single most important part of my damaged craft. It was a stroke of pure luck I even found it nearby.

Nightfall on a foreign planet frightens me a bit, so I decided that the safest thing for me was to head for the sky. Though I obviously did not expect escape from this planet to be feasible at this point in time, I can at least hover in low orbit above the planet's surface. What I did not expect, however, was the Pikmin to follow suit. The Pikmin's Onion miraculously followed me into the stars. Perhaps the Pikmin cannot survive overnight on the surface, or maybe they've decided to join me for other reasons. Regardless, It seems they will help me again, tomorrow.

A dense forest is visible on the surface below. As it holds the keys to my survival, I name it the Forest of Hope. I explore it tomorrow.

#pikmin #pikmin 1 #pikmin 4 #pikmin fanart #olimar #olimar's voyage log

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imagine-darksiders · 1 year

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How would the horsemen react to another catastrophic event headed towards earth, like a giant meteor that would definitely end all life on the planet, and their human decides that they don’t want to escape earth, but stay behind to die with everyone else, because they already cheated their way out of one apocalypse, and can’t bear to be the last human on Earth once again?

You underestimate the lengths those Horsemen would go to protect you.

You've been through a lot together. You're practically family by now, and they take care of their own.

Death did not go through all that trouble to resurrect humanity just to lose it again to a natural disaster.

They get to work on their plan - an evacuation on a planet-wide scale. It's the largest in history.

Makers are all too eager to provide their services, building enormous cities in the unpopulated ares of their realm, or assisting with cultivating other worlds that have long been abandoned.

Humans are notoriously adaptable and acclimatise themselves to new environments remarkably quickly.

Heaven holds a vote as to whether or not they should open the gates of the White City to Earthen refugees, but the vote goes in favour of keeping the gates firmly shut. However, there were a surprising number of angels who rallied behind humanity. Chief among them is Azrael, who makes the unprecedented decision to give a derelict Eden back to the humans.

Samael can see the strategic advantage of 'allying' himself with Humanity, and he offers a portion of land of the fringes of his realm for them to settle on. The Horsemen are rightly suspicious and are reluctant to even allow this, but humans need the space.

The Dead Lands are out - nothing can survive there for very long because there's so little water and no plant life will grow from the ash. Humans would starve to death before they gained any sort of foothold.

Of course, the problem arises when it turns out that a shocking number of humans simply... don't want to leave Earth? Death no longer frightens them as it once had. They've been to the other side once before, it isn't so scary the second time around.

Much to the Horsemen's distress, you're one of those stubborn, humans. Earth is your home. You'd abandoned it and its people once before and the guilt had nearly eaten you alive from the inside out.

Besides, there are more people you know who are among those who just... won't go down and leave their beloved planet.

The Horsemen offer slightly different methods of extracting you. Ideally, it would be your decision. But after you inevitably put your foot down about leaving, they start to get serious.

Death has already demonstrated the lengths he'll go to protect his siblings, even against their wills. Why do you think you'd be any different?

He gives you every chance to see reason. He gives you the illusion of choice... But as time passes on and you remain unflinching in your decision to stay, he's the first to buckle.

Death resolves to ask for your forgiveness later as he drags you by the arm through a portal into his home real, somewhere safe, somewhere he can keep proper tabs on you.

He gets an earful from you, of course.

You hate him. You'll never forgive him. Why won't he let you die with dignity? How dare he try to decide what's best for you?

But the Horseman has heard it all before from his siblings in similar situations. He does know what's best for you. You deserve a full, gentle life, whether you want it or not...

Strife is ashamed to say that he plays the guilt card pretty early. You're the best friend he had. How could you even think of leaving him? What's he supposed to do when you're gone?

It drives him to the brink of insanity when you refuse to leave Earth, even if it means certain death. Strife can't lose you.

He won't lose you.

He's too selfish. He'd rather have you hate him for the rest of your life, so long as his friend is safe.

He clutches you possessively against his chest with both arms wrapped like vices around you to keep you from wriggling free. Unlink Death, your words cut far more deeply into this Horseman, because your opinion of him is one of the few that actually matters to Strife.

But it's okay. He'll look after you. It'll be great!

You can't stay mad at him forever, can you?

... Can you?

War respects your decision to stay on a doomed Earth... but he doesn't condone it.

The Horseman is ferociously loyal. You'd been his companion in his quest to clear his name, and over time, he felt your alliance with him grow more and more potent.

You've risked your life to help him. He's risked his to protect you.

The bond is unshakable now. It burns him fiercely to deny you your right to a noble death... but it would downright kill him to watch you die and do nothing about it.

He doesn't give you nearly as much time to explain yourself as Strife or Death. Instead, War listens to your reasons for staying on Earth, he considers them for a moment, and then he asks you if you're going to change your mind.

His stomach twists into a ball when you tell him no. You won't. You're sorry.

That was your last chance to leave with him of your own free will. War simply hoists you up onto his shoulder and carries you effortlessly from your home, his jaw set and a wall coming down around his heart. He has to steel himself against your icy tongue and your cries and pleas for him to let you go.

He's an honourable Horseman. And honourable Horsemen don't let their friends get themselves killed.

Fury is the least patient of the Four Horsemen.

She's always been quick to anger, but you didn't expect her to quite literally explode on you after you informed her that you'd be staying behind on Earth.

She hurls insults at you, calls you a fool, growing more and more heated as she works herself up into a frenzy. It's all just fear, badly disguised as outrage.

"WHY BOTHER SAVING ALL OF HUMANITY IF WE AREN'T SAVING YOU, TOO!?" she bellows.

You're disgusted by that The very idea that you're the only reason she helped her brothers find humanity a new home is not only galling, it's a blatant lie. She's only trying to hurt you because that's what she does when she gets scared.

She lashes out.

She doesn't want to listen to your attempts at consoling her. You insist that it'll be okay, you've thought about it a lot and you're at peace with your decision.

You want her to be at peace with it to.

But, what about her!?

Barring Rampage, Fury doesn't have any friends. Her whole life, she's been convinced that she's find on her own, she's better without someone holding her back or tying her down. And then you had to come along and ruin that! Ruin her solitude by being her first, last and only friend.

You opened her eyes to a world she'd been blind to for a long, long time.

Fury doesn't wait for you to come to your senses. She hauls you up over her shoulder and takes you to her home, off-world, where, in a fit of selfish abandon, she locks you away, deaf to your pleas to return home. This is home now. With her.

#darksiders #darksiders 3 #apocalypse #horsemen #reader

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messagefound · 28 days

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The Roots

This is a storybook-style piece involving adam in the form he takes in his eve's main timeline. because of the differing circumstances, he looks and acts different, but he is still a loving being at heart.

lilieve belongs to @crashstanding

Summary: The Mother Tree feels a tugging at her roots. Following it, she meets her counterpart again.

One day, the First and Many felt a tugging against her roots. She had dug them far, far below the earth, and not once had anyone got tangled up in them.

Because why would they? Nothing except the most adapted of creatures can survive down there. Humans were not one of these creatures, and yet they would often stray down there anyway. They would overestimate their adaptability, and wander until the Tree ushered them away.

She did not dig life out of the ground for it to come back in again.

Yet the nature of the tugging was not that of a lost fleshling. It had been around for quite some time. Even the Children were noticing and growing restless. “Something’s crying down there, Mama,” they would say, in their little whispering chirps. “Enough to drown any plant. What will happen to you?”

“You needn’t worry.” She would reply. “I will see who’s causing such a fuss.”

So, she descended, down, down, to the depths she dug through all that time ago. She knew there had been remnants down there, life she could resuscitate. As long as she was around, nothing could remain lost and dead and forgotten without her consent.

She had worked much too hard to allow that.

So, what had possibly remained down there, tugging on the roots so? How had it escaped her notice? She had been very thorough before. She must bring it out to join the rest of creation. It can’t hide forever down here, not after all her work.

What she saw wasn’t anything she ever remembered existing in the Before.

He was a man, that much she could tell, and he was certainly crying. But his proportions were…altered. All his limbs were elongated, stretched to be of equal length like a quadrupedal ape’s. Even his fingers were longer, clawed like a skeleton’s with the flesh thinly wrapped on. His feet no longer retained any semblance of humanity, looking more like a bat’s, handlike with all the grasping capabilities that implied.

His body was gaunt, but the average onlooker wouldn’t realize this at first glance. He was covered in layers and layers of moss and leaves and tiny flowers that clung to him like algae on a sloth. They were wilting and browning ever more steadily it seemed, thirsty for a sun that didn’t exist in this darkness. They even spread to his hair, which itself seemed to droop in scraggly black and white strands that covered his face like a drooping weeping willow.

(Perhaps that was what he reminded her of. A weeping willow…)

But the strangest thing of all was his upper body, or rather…the lack of it. No flesh nor sinew covered it, nor did his ribs house any vulnerable insides. It was just that, ribs.

His body posture was closed, curling up inwards as much as he could when he was clinging to the roots for dear life. Even if his insides were gone, his ribs seemed just as precious.

But on closer inspection, the Tree noticed something that might’ve been the most precious to him. A little bundle was in the crook of one free arm, limp and dangling its pale limbs and wispy black hair but alive. But only barely.

The two locked eyes. The man’s tearstained dark eyes met her bright gaze, and all she could read in it was a brief flash of aggression before it seemed to sink back into a raging pool of fear.

The man’s mouth opened, showing unusually sharp teeth, but the Tree didn’t feel like she was being snarled at. It wasn’t a challenge, but a feeble warning.

(Do not come here, for I have teeth and I know not what they will do)

“Do not be afraid,” the Tree said, as quiet as her matronly voice could allow. “I come not to harm you. I will not harm your little one.”

The man clutched the bundle closer, whimpering a scratchy coo out that sounded like a branch knocking against a window.

“I’m sorry”

“Whatever are you sorry for?”

“I didn’t know these belonged to you”

He nervously loosened a foot’s grip on the roots, before clinging back to it in a panic.

“How long have you been down here?” the Tree asked, ever patient.

“Hiding”

He seemed to shrink into himself, scrunching up and tensing and curling to prove the point. His grip on his child seemed more important than that on the roots.

“A long, long time”

The bundle seemed to shift, letting out a pained groan that seemed barely audible even with the silence. The man let out a strangled, yet quiet cry, angling himself so that his own tears fell upon it.

“My little flower, my boy”

He paused for a second, as if awaiting a response from his little cargo. Upon his silence, the man resumed his weeping.

“He’s sick”

“Why do you cry on him?” asked the Tree.

“Flower, water flower”

More tears dripped upon the little boy, all without a single response.

“Things are supposed to get better when I cry on them, like the plants”

“A child is not like a plant, I’m afraid.”

The Tree thought for a moment.

“May I see him?”

The man suddenly flinched, loosening all his grips on the roots and landing upon the ground. As big and as odd as he was, the action made nary a sound, nor did it jostle the child any. Both arms were holding him now, and the man’s…entire being seemed to grow “thorny.” Suddenly every part of him seemed sharper, more predisposed for hurt like the thorns on a rose.

“no”

“Do not fear. I will not hurt him.”

“but you come from above”

“And what’s so wrong with the above?”

“It’s dangerous”

He pointed down to his ribs. On the lower rungs, a rib was missing on one side. Its counterpart, much darker than the rest, remained.

“No matter how many times I try, I can’t make both sons live”

He cradled the child close once more, nuzzling him and blubbering.

“One lives on, but this one keeps coming back to me”

The not-quite-thorns receded, and all the Tree could see was a creature deeply bent and contorted with pain.

“And now he’s sick, even as he’s still with me”

The Tree’s gaze softened, and she knelt as if beckoning a baby chick.

“I have children too. Myriads like leaves on a tree. Sometimes, the slightest breeze would sweep them off to places unknown. Sometimes those places are terrible, the most terrible. And yet…”

This time, a few tears dripped from her eyes.

“I can only watch and wait for them to come back. But even being their universal constant can be the comfort they need the most. When they come back broken and bruised with their feathers plucked and weeping mud, they know I will clean them up and let them be in a warm nest again.”

She extended her hand, gently, slowly.

“Let me take care of your dear one. Up above, where I live, there’s fresher air than down here. I will tell my children to be gentle with him, and surround him with their feathery down until he’s warm enough to wake. I will grant him fruits from my boughs until his strength returns to him. Not once, never once, will I harm him. If anyone even thinks to, I will have my brood swarm them until nothing remains.”

“you promise?”

“Always.”

There was a pause, a prolonged silence.

“okay”

Inching closer, little by little like a tiny earthworm, the man placed his son into the arms of the Tree. She held the little boy with the utmost care, taking note of every tear in the cloth of his tattered dark coat to sew back together later. Putting a hand on his forehead, it was certainly warmer than anyone would like.

“You needn’t worry.” She said, faintly smiling. “He can rest, and breathe the air above, and he will open his eyes in due time.”

There was a shaky cry from the man, letting out a sigh-like breath as he swept some hair from his son’s face.

“I’m glad, so glad”

There was another pause, not broken by the shaky warbling sounds from the man’s throat.

“can I stay with him”

“Of course.”

“and, and even after”

The man’s arms slowly moved to cradle himself, and the shivering created a rattling of the ribs.

“can you stay with me or, or rather, can I stay with you, up there”

“Of course. As long as you want.”

“I don’t want to be alone anymore”

“You don’t have to be. I promise.”

The man has stayed ever since, even as his little son opened his eyes and played with the Children as much as any other would. The tunnels have stayed, as they always have.

But now, whenever an unwelcome guest enters, someone sees them. They would make every precaution to be quiet, they would lower themselves to as much of a beast of the dark as they could while still being human, and someone would still notice.

From then on, no one with evil intentions was allowed to pass. No one was allowed to go anywhere near his son. No one was allowed to go anywhere near the Children. None were allowed to go near the Tree.

He will protect them. That was his debt of gratitude.

#surrealism #original mythology #dreamcore #weirdcore #idk what your main story is called psi im sorry :sobbing emoji:#original writing #oc writing

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deathbydarkelves · 8 months

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As much as I think the whole Amirdrassil plot is happening WAY too fast in the in-universe timeline (Teldrassil was, like, 5 or 6 years ago as of DF? I think? Less than a decade, anyway), I think it could maybe work if it were on a longer timescale. I don't buy that an until-very-recently-immortal people would be so quick to be like "oh no! okay let's plant another tree and try again :)" I'm not that invested in it, mostly because Amirdrassil's existence relies on Shadowlands and thus clashes directly with my AU, which I just inherently find more fun because I designed it to be fun for me, but I do find the contrast between Blizzard's "kaldorei healing" plot and my "kaldorei healing" plot interesting. Blizzard's is all about them trying to move forward (at least at its center), which is fair enough, that's totally reasonable. And mine is... kind of them going a little bit backwards, actually. They outright leave the Alliance and become a semi-isolationist nation and work to rebuild/reclaim/heal the land they have, versus,, well, whatever's gonna happen after 10.2.

Neither's better than the other, I think they're both valid ways to approach a story like this. I like mine more, of course, but I don't actually think it's objectively superior. On principle anyway, I don't think it makes any sense for the kaldorei to stay in the Alliance even in the canon timeline but fine, whatever.

Like I said, Blizzard's plot would work better for me if it was on a longer timescale and, uh, if Shadowlands hadn't been so tone-deaf about the entire Teldrassil plot </3 And if they would actually address the still war-torn kaldorei territories in northern Kalimdor and also the giant, horizon-splitting husk of a once-thriving city and ecosystem that would realistically be visible for miles inland. It feels very weird to move on to just making a new tree without addressing the remains of the one before! I know that's a really fucking heavy topic but even I, random autistic internet user, have some ideas! Like:

You know how after forest fires, the seeds that were safe underground or were brought in by wind and birds start sprouting? And the odd tree that miraculously survived starts putting out little branches of bright green, startling against its own blackened bark?

yeah... Teldrassil itself isn't gonna regrow, mind you. It's gone. But the island will. Lichens and grasses will start growing around the base again, then flowers, then bushes, then trees. And I would cry if Blizzard did that. And I WILL cry when I eventually write the scene revealing that.

I suppose there's a bit of a parallel "new growth" theme there, but in my opinion it feels a lot more cathartic and almost rewarding(?) to have that regrowth coming directly from the injury itself, as opposed to just growing a whole new tree. But that's me, and I like my fantasy a bit more grounded and emotionally-driven. WoW is... WoW lol.

#au lore #i told myself i was just gonna outline this post because i really wanted to get it out and then go to bed #but i ended up just writing the whole thing lol #anyway. spoilers for the au i guess?#but tbf by the time i write the fic where we actually see teldrassil again we'll have forgotten i made this post probably

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anachronistic-falsehood · 10 months

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HELLO!??!!?!? I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR THE FUN FACT ABT THE RADIATION MAN.

HI HELLO. HIIIII :3 I’M GONNA TALK ABOUT THE 1999 TOKAIMURA NUCLEAR ACCIDENT <3

ok so it’s been a hot minute since i’ve delved into this so don’t take everything as fact I HAVE FORGOTTEN A LOT OF THINGS. but basically a nuclear plant in Tokai-mura, Japan went critical because of unsafe work practices, there were so soooo many safety issues. like this company didn’t give a FUCK about its workers. BASICALLY the 3 technicians working at the time had to pour nuclear material BY HAND in stainless-steel buckets into a precipitation tank. which triggered a critical mass level incident. THEY MIXED CHEMICALS IN STAINLESS STEEL BUCKETS FOR EFFIFIENCY’S SAKE.

The technicians working on it were Hisashi Ouchi, Masato Shinohara, and Yutaka Yokokawa. Yokokawa i think was standing further away from the tank while Shinohara stood on a platform to help Ouchi pour it in. so like. Hisashi was DIRECTLY over the tank while pouring chemicals into it and he got the biggest blast of radiation. Yokokawa survived as far as i’m aware but the other two died unfortunately. Hisashi’s condition was. fucking brutal. not saying that Shinohara had it easy at all in his last few months but like. dude Hisashi went through some SHIT

i’m gonna put this under a cut because this gets GROSS

Hisashi seemed like. totally fine for the first few days. his family had hope that he would be fine and the doctors were optimistic too!! he had the best doctors in Japan helping him but shit went downhill QUICK. His white blood cell count dropped to almost nothing which left him with no functioning immune system. They transplanted white blood cells from his sister which kind of helped briefly?? but it just kept getting worse bc the leukocytes produced by the transplanted tissue got mutated by the residual radiation, which made his immune system basically start attacking itself and his body in general and his white blood cell counts began to decrease AGAIN. but transplanting new cells helped a little just to keep him alive so they kept doing it but they did have to put him in a secluded sector so he wouldn’t get sick and die from a common cold

in any case his body was trying to attack the radiation but the radiation was EVERYWHERE so it began to eat at tissues, including his intestines, digestive system, and his skin. he had huge weeping sores all over and his skin began to peel off when nurses went in to clean him. Also everything he ate just went right through him so they eventually had to put a feeding tube in him just to keep things constantly going through, which means he could no longer speak to his family when they visited

His heart stopped i think about a month into his treatment?? they only managed to revive him because a doctor was passing by his room and saw the flatline, but by that point they didn’t know how long his heart had been stopped so they didn’t know how much brain damage there had been. he stopped responding to stimuli after that. so best case scenario, he couldn’t feel much pain for the rest of his time in the hospital.

his left arm (which received the most radiation) was absolutely awful to look at or even be near because of the smell, his body was rapidly decaying around him and it was TERRIBLE. surprisingly though, his right arm and most of the right side of his body was pretty okay!! not GREAT obvi but minimal damage in comparison, but the residual radiation was spreading and it probably would have gotten there eventually. His heart was constantly going at above 110bpm, and he couldn’t even breathe without it hurting like a bitch because of the fluid building up in his lungs so they had to hook him up to a machine that would force him to breathe

he was in there for 83 DAYS!! it’s insane that the doctors were able to keep him alive for that long n they all wanted him to miraculously pull through and there were moments where they had hope

ALSO every article out there likes to villainize his family by saying “they kept Hisashi alive against his will and wouldn’t let him die :(“ but like. imagine how his wife and kids must have felt. they didn’t push the doctors to do anything!! in fact, when the doctors showed them all the damage that had been done and finally said there was no way they could save him, they understood!! they decided not to revive him the next time his heart stopped. they kept making little paper cranes and leaving them in his room and in the hospital and they basically lived inside that waiting room for those 83 days. he died on Dec 21, 1999 and i think there are still paper cranes from them in that hospital waiting room to this day

Shinohara went through some similar things like skin grafts and organ failure, but he managed to pull through for SEVEN MONTHS!!! His radiation wasn’t as bad as Hisashi’s but man he still went through it. Yokokawa was released with mild radiation poisoning and faced negligience charges afterward

#whiskey yelling into the void #friend tag :3 #whiskeys word soup #AND THAT IS THE WORLD’S MOST RADIATED MAN!!!!#i love radiation i love talking about nuclear disasters and accidents :3 #i could research for hours about shit like this #i could talk about the elephant’s foot who wants to hear about the elephant’s foot #OH there was another nuclear accident i’m thinking of that was especially gruesome but i can’t think of where it was or when #but it was BAD lemme tell u #anyway. there u go <3

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gre-chankas-stuff · 1 month

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Oc? 👀

YOU FOOL, YOU ACTIVATED MY TRAP CARD !!! NOW ALL OF THE TUMBLR WILL KNOW I HAVE NO ARTISTIC TALENT!!!!!!!

On the serious note, thank you. Now, i can

1. Lok, a guy with amnesia

Appearance

I do not have a full ref of him because i cant draw coherent pictures as a reference.

Heres his colored floating head and a bunch of sketches i did in class with a pen and was still motivated to draw

And a silly little stickman rendition in that style i use in comics sometimes

Personality

Surprisingly good leader

A little cocky at times, but does know how to gain leverage against strong opponents

Does, in fact, like fighting. Weapon of preference is a sword, although he's also proficient in any object that can be used as weapon

Relies a lot on his reflexes though, sometimes maybe too much, which is a byproduct of the fact that his body knows more than he ever will.

Moderately caring person, although cannot pass by someone in distress without feeling a little guilty

Would die to save friend. Had died to save a friend. The world died for him to save a friend.

His teeth are not for show. Do not threaten what is his.

Story

His story is just as incoherent as are my attempts to give him full ref, only thing time it's intentional.

The premise is such: he wakes up in a world he only particularly recognises (but it feels Extremely off) with little memory of who he is, what he's supposed to do or go. The story itself is a journey to uncover his previous life, find his forgotten friends while gaining new ones, and discover the secrets of the world he inhabits!

What actually happens to him (as the story goes) is that he has a panic attack shortly after waking up, - because he doesn't even remember his own name! - fights a Big and Deadly Bird™ with his bare hands, face-plants in a mud puddle, has another panic attack after seeing his face in a river, kills some monsters with his teeth, dies, tears more monsters with the tools he scrapped from nothing and dies again. Yes, in that exact order. And it's not even the end of his first week here.

He's... Going through it

As of his ✨ mysterious backstory ✨.... It's incomplete :p

And by incomplete i mean that i have some bare bones structure of it, but its still mostly just... In the air. Because i love him as a blank slate that Knows something he Possibly Shouldn't (like craftsmanship, weapon usage, farming, ect.) that are so integrated in his muscle memory that it's literally so freaky actually. Man freak

Meta stuff

His appearance and general plot of his journey is actually based on a minecraft youtuber and his modded-mc-with-plot series that i watched at the time of creation. However, unlike the guy that won't allow his character to have any magnitude of personality and reflection of the inflicted trauma all his shenanigans surely caused, i'm rerouting the story Completely south of what actually happened there.

Although it is still happening minecraft, yes. Live with that.

Also, i classify my ocs in my head as siblings, from oldest (created earlier) to youngest (created later), and Lok is the fifth and the youngest in the family.

2. Enais "Ena" Crovn, girl that can survive Armageddon

Appearance

Imagine a generic long haired girl oc of a 11 years old that thought foxes and wings were cool, and you have basically Ena imagined fully

As you can tell.... This one is from 2017? Ish??

These ones are obviously new-er, although they are still entirely incomplete

I do not have Any new references of her except these rough sketches, and she needs Tremendous redesign because Generic Girl White Dress no longer fits, although not much have really changed with her design through the years

Design pending.

Personality

Honestly one of the least traumatised people out there. She's just living her life man.

She's just Just Some Guy.

Positive person, sometimes soft-spoken. Thinking if Fluttershy had to deliver mail instead of caring for animals, although, obviously, not to that extreme

Good with kids

Can fight but really, REALLY would rather just deliver mail, thank you very much

Loves flying

Story

Entirely unknown. Little me had at least 2 different stories for this gal, one of which was that she's an undertale-esque monster that just happened to look deceptively human and works as a mailman for the entire underground, the other being that she was a Freak Experiment of her insane scientist mother that sew wings and fox ears on her and gave her trauma

Surprisingly, the mailman (mailwoman?) one was the first one i actually came up with myself (while the Trauma route was influenced by a lot of gore mlp edits yt recommended me a lot around that time) and even there she was still cool and, by design, in genocide run would still fight the player somewhere in snowdin. So i think i will go with that one

Meta stuff

She IS actually second least traumatised oc i have. As per my ocs family tree, she's also the oldest - in fact, the very first to ever be made, so her knowledge of children comes from wrangling some ptsd and hyperactivity havers in the lot

There's actually third, secret backstory she has, which includes utdr multiverses we all know about. Although she still delivers mail there, she's actually the very same person who sends the asks to askboxes for character to receive through the entire multiverse, and she Is quite strong - because some universes are WILD and very much deadly and it was a necessity to learn to protect herself; which means she can survive anything under any circumstances.

Little me was based af for coming up with this

It is only two for now because i had not expected for it to take So Much Fucking Time to type out this little bits. Ugh

I need to make a list

#greching origins #my ocs #never used the tag before but might as well

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boombambaby · 2 months

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Drabble; Squeaken Squeak squeaker.

Question #1: ‘Squeak squeaken squeak squeaker.’ Oh, you have GOT to be kidding me. Squirrel Language Class? Seriously– – What’s the point?! Kuzco groans and tips forward to lean his forehead against the desk, eyes slipping closed in an effort to prevent his slowly budding headache from getting any worse with his mounting frustration.

According to the Royal Record keeper, Squirrel Language Class is a required course that he will need to graduate and become Emperor– despite how completely ridiculous and unnecessary it actually is. What good will it ever do HIM to know how to say ‘Squeaky squeaker squeaken. . . squeak?’ Don’t they know he has a royal translator for that sort of thing? Not that he’s ever going to need the translator to negotiate a deal with the Squirrel Kingdom, or whatever. Hah. Squirrel Kingdom. He’s hilarious. It’s also highly unlikely that he’s ever going to need to converse with the stupid, flea riddled little tree rats for any reason and he sure isn’t going to save an actual person's life by knowing how to say ‘where did I bury my acorn?’. “This is ridiculous.” He grumbles, the words coming out muffled against the table top. Back when he was a child and just after he’d lost his parents, the Royal Council suggested Kuzco take part in activities with children his own age, to become acclimated with other people and to potentially learn something that could better shape him as the future Emperor. One of the suggestions was to join a group, and Junior Chipmunks was at the top of the list. Junior Chipmunks is a ‘scout’ group, one that’s famous for their ability to converse with all of the woodland creatures– which there were a ton of, since they lived in the middle of a jungle. Obviously. They also taught other basic skills, like cooking, archery, sewing, navigation and survival.

Yzma wouldn't allow it, outright refusing and insisting the council had lost their minds. What use could he, the future Emperor POSSIBLY have for conversing with peasant children and learning how to sew!? In reality it was more than likely that she preferred him sheltered so that she could mold him into the figurehead she wanted him to become so that she could take over in the future, but her indignance on the matter prevented the council from being successful– and Kuzco was never forced to join such a pointless cause.

Idly, his mind wanders back to the furry little rat he met in the jungle just after he’d been turned into a llama. If he remembers correctly, he’d tried to give him an acorn? And was highly offended when it was chucked back at its stupid little head. What was its ‘name’ again? Something with a B. It probably would’ve been helpful for him to have known this back then, maybe he could’ve prevented the little rat from siccing those jaguars on him and almost having him KILLED. He still has the occasional nightmare from being chased through the jungle by those bloodthirsty beasts, thanks for nothing tree rat. Kuzco lifts his head with a huff, planting an elbow against the table and leaning his chin against it while he glares down at the paper as if it had personally offended him. Which in all honesty, it had. Maybe he should try to find Kronk– he’s a ‘Junior Chipmunk’ scout leader. . . thing. He’ll probably know all the answers. Or Malina! She’s a smart hottie, he wouldn’t be surprised in the least to find out she was fluent in it.

After several moments of just staring at the blank page before him, Kuzco shrugs and starts to fill it in to the best of his ability. The only ‘phrase’ he vaguely remembers from class is ‘Where did I bury my acorn?’ Hah. How lame. But, it’s better than nothing. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Moleguaco will see all the writing and assume they’re different answers. He’s very much looking forward to the day when he graduates, and no longer has to worry about any of this stupid homework or school stuff anymore.

Squeaken, squeaker– puh-lease.

If he never sees another squirrel again, it’ll be too soon.

#Kuzco #The Emperors New School #Drabble #Disney RP #roleplayer #MENTIONS:#Bucky (kind of)#Yzma #Kronk #Malina #Mr. M

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lost-technology · 6 months

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You Can't Outrun Your Past, No Matter How Hard You Try...

So, I got a DM from someone looking for an old fanfic of mine - or, they didn't know if I was the author, but were looking up stuff from the old Live Journal days and found me somehow - managed to connect my regular pename to my account here - well, I do mention it on my pin-post. They were looking for a particular old fanfic and I was all "Okay, that sounds vaguely familiar" but I couldn't find it. I googled the title mentioned and... promptly had a thousand-yard stare. I used to get up to some seriously fucked up shit in my early Trigun fandom days in the early 2000's. So, I had one of those experiences that fell into the annals of "this is why I do not do co-writing." It took a bad experience in the She-Ra and the Princesses of Power fandom to finally solidify that, but I really should have learned back then. I have had more bad experiences co-writing than good ones (although there is a Zelda fic I do not regret co-creating and a pretty good Super Smash short I did with someone I'm still friends with). Anyway, I did this fic back in the day with someone whom I eventually had a huge falling out with and hope to never see hide nor hair of again in my entire life - and, if possible, I'd like to continue that relationship of no-contact into the afterlife, should one exist. The falling out wasn't over this fic we created together, it was over a variety of other things that happened later and I can admit that there were two assholes in the equation, not just one - I was just as much of an asshole as my former friend. Anyway, indeed, I am the co-author of some fic that... people still talk about, I guess? titled "Dark Mirror." As I remember it - being that I erased its presence from the Internet as much as I could and no longer retain files (if I ever kept any, they were several computers and virus-attacks / hard drive reworkings ago), it was a WEIRD fic. I remember it being a take on the "Dark Vash" toy repaint. It involved Vash going evil, but not of his own choice. He basically got Plant-rabies. He got a fungal disease that was slowly killing him and eating his brain. He also found a somehow Survived!The!Big!Fall! Rem (coldsleep pods, baby)! who reunited with him, tried to help him find the cure and they fell in adult-style love. BLECK!!! WHY?! YOUNG SHADSIE, WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!!!! YOU WERE INSANE! (In my defense, I have figured out exactly what mental illness I had / have and have gotten medication and treatment, thank you). I also seem to recall that most of the idea - certainly the structure of the Plant-fungal disease (which was actually one of the cooler ideas in it) was courtesy of the person known as "MillyFan" (or as I'd like to call them today, the Motherfucker). I think Vash / Rem was their idea, too, but I can't be sure. It was entirely my fault for going along with it. Certain stupid cameos from other animes were my fault, I recall that. (I was trying to insert Haibane Renmei characters into the whole mess for some reason). I... feel like taking a shower now. I already took one today... Anyway, I have a lot more weirdness and "What was I thinking?!" stories that do actually still exist on my old fanfiction.net account if anyone is interested in those. I have one where Legato propositions Vash for sex in a dingy hotel (Vash runs away very quickly). I have one where a woman that Midvalley got pregnant confronts him and he preforms an abortion by saxophone. I have this one really annoying anti-Vashwood piece back when I was an annoying little shit about Vashwhood. I have one that I actually recently re-read in thinking I could transfer it to Ao3 that isn't so bad, but I was overdramatic and predictable about Vash getting a pet cat. (You know the cat is doomed from the start, right? Very "Does the Dog Die?" stuff. Blech). I really like to think that I have become... a much better writer than from my early days. Please stick to my Ao3 page to see anything that I think is actually halfway decent in this fandom.

#trigun #personal #my old trigun fanfiction #I am Shadsie #if you see old Trigun stuff under the username Shadsie it is me #unless there is another person by the same name I don't know about #I know that there is some author who goes by Shadsie in Harry Potter fandom from googling #that is NOT me #I was never into HP fandom #I was also LadyShadowcat #Shadowcat #and LushDesolation #I have apologized to both Vash and Rem for Dark Mirror #just in case they actually exist in another universe #or will exist in the future

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argent-l-p · 1 year

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Facets of a Shattered Memory

One Shot based on my interpretation of the Encanto Madremonte AU by the lovely @c-rose2081

Fun Fact, I actually had to split the story into two parts because I wrote too much! Part two will be posted when its finished.

Pt. 2

WARNINGS!: Blood, Violence, Child Neglect, Harm to Children, Permanent Memory Loss

______________________________________________

When Isabela had been born the candle flared and danced in the confines of the lonely sill it had sat on since the night of its creation. Every person had been in the birthing room when she came screaming into the world, but the magic which had anchored itself into the very walls and ground also bore witness to the next generation taking its first breath. Golden wisps trailed off the flame and when the night became quiet and the child slept in her cradle, it coiled within her very soul, her future waiting to bloom and bring life to the world.

As she grew, that golden light grew within her, a spring of life bubbling in her blood, ready to break the mortared walls of the barriers keeping it from overflowing, but even then, it slipped out in ways that revealed themselves later. At the tender age of three, the gardens around her home were bountiful as she tended to them at her mother’s side, the fruit trees grew a sweeter harvest, and the fields sustained the Encanto twice over. Of course, the townspeople saw this and thought of the blessing of the candle, worshipped it more and the family alongside it. How were they to know that this was all just the excess magic that dripped from the palm of a child not even old enough to comprehend the tragedy and the divinity that gave rise to their Eden? Isabela's, aunt was the one who tended the fields most often, her rain reaching far and her sun beaming down unto their little piece of paradise. The little girl who had dug her hands into the soil and listened to the very earth sing to her, its voice the deep, lilting, could not have been the reason no one starved. After all, magic only existed when given by the candle and she had never been allowed to see her Familia work.

But the miracle of their continued survival began to grow heavier in its weight and the minds of many believed that their sanctuary was derived from the gifts of a family scarred by the death of its father and his blood that had seeped into the earth. As a child, Isabela was not privy to the innerworkings of her grandmother’s mind and was never exposed to it until she was older. As such, she never saw the weight of expectation settle on her shoulders or her mother bend to the will of the town. Her aunt’s moods had always been erratic so she did not see the difference when the sky clouded over and the light grey clouds begin to darken further. Her uncle’s habits were silly to her, so when they began to multiply Isabela was none the wiser to the change.

She was young and she would be a child for a little longer. Children are not privy to the oncoming storms that fate has ordained or the death of the future which they had looked forward to.

On her fifth birthday, three years after the birth of another Madrigal, a Prima whose magic called her Familia, the candle flared again and that ball of golden light unfurled in her chest, spilling past the confines of her body in unseen strings and the plants around her bloomed. When her door flared in a golden array of light and inlaid itself with it her grandmother called it a miracle and the flowers blooming in her hands a gift; Isabela herself called it a gift. But the creeping jaws of expectation had circled and surrounded her on that night, cutting off any chance for what was to come to be avoided.

(Where no one could hear, the stars wailed and one fell from its place as the very sky grieved for a child who would never be again)

At seven years old, two years passed the night her magic revealed itself, and the oldest of her generation, she began to assist in the Encanto. At first it was in the town proper with her mother at her side, adding decoration to the newer buildings and brining the dead greenery back to life, then it was in the smaller gardens withing the homes of the town. Isabela had loved it then and was eager to help in any way she could and be like her mother. Her mother whose eyes began to look more and more tired as the days passed and her hair began to turn from the stress-

She wanted to be like her mother and her grandmother who told her it was their job to serve their people, so she wanted to help them too. Isabela sped ushered along the growth of the crops, the fruit of the trees, and when Luisa Madrigal was born, she took over her care when their mother was called back to work. She created a cradle of vines wherever she went and a bassinet appeared at her bedside within the hour of learning that she would help take care of her sister. She used her gift to entertain and teach, even if she had been tutored privately since the gold of her gift strengthened and didn’t know how the teachers taught at the school anymore. When her Luisa began to talk her first words had been Mama to their mother and then Isa, her name being too long and hard for a little mouth learning to form words.

And it was as she carried her sister around the town and into the fields that Isabela began to feel that itch in her soul. The very jungle called out to her, a choir of sirens and nymphs singing out to her, and the earth adding in her own teasing warmth to the voices. She wanted to explore and she did so during her moments of rest. When Luisa was taken from her after her mother returned to Casita, she snuck off and explored the edge of the tree line, the reaching branches and hanging vines her own playground. The plants at her feet clung to her skin and the roots lifted themselves from their places, gentle fingers brushing against her hands.

Their voices were warm golden heat, bubbling laughter and fond sighs, “Nuestro pequeño amor...”

Because that’s what she was to the Earth and its spirits, their Little Love. In that same vein, they were hers in ways that she could never really articulate to others who asked what her gift was like. It was a truth so profound that all she could really say to her mother was that it felt warm and safe and home.

(Julieta Madrigal would never understand and neither would her siblings. Their gifts had long since felt cold and any memory of a time when they had felt warm had been lost as they began to feel more and more like a burden-)

For hours on end, she would lay in the grass and listen to them, lulled into the space between the waking world and sleep, but even when she walked about the town, she could hear them all. Sometimes when she tended to the bushes and the flowers at the center of the town, she could hear the whispers of the plants growing around her, their speech small compared to that of what awaited her beyond the buildings, but still distinctly golden. But for all that she tried to resist the calling when she was given more and more places to help, she would still sneak out the windows and crash into the waiting arms of the roots and vines.

At the age of eight, though the days were longer and more difficult as she worked the soil, she would always find time to lay at the feet of the towering trees and listen to those voices sing to her. Isabela loved to hear the stories carried there from far away and the daring that would fill her mind made her wish that she was out there alongside the heroes, but following that wish was an image of her sister and the Encanto. No, she would think and though she would wonder what it would be like to see the seas and the faraway lands that she dreamt of, she was content here in her home. So, instead she would write the stories down and tell them to her sister, eventually creating her own when she realized she could, but every story she had ever been told was tucked away carefully in her room.

A year passed, then two, and within the Encanto life flourished, but perhaps this is where things began to turn. Yes, the people were able to provide food for their families and the families of other, businesses opened, and the last lingering fear of not having enough to survive died, however, with this peace came far reaching consequences. Though Isabela’s gift was revered and though she no longer had to walk the fields at her aunt’s side, her abuela ushered her into the homes of the more renowned families and into the streets. Where she had been able to see her gift’s value in aiding their people and listening to the plants in order to help in other ways, she began to see imperfections in the reasoning of her new role.

Sitting at the table and watching her mother, her mother who looked more worn than she had years before, she asked “How do roses help the Encanto? Or the lilies in the rivers, Mami?”

“No se Mija. Ask your Abuela; I'm sure she has a good reason.”

At nine years of age Isabela had known to follow her elder’s commands and when her grandmother told her not to worry, she didn’t ask again, but in her mind, she began to doubt. So that night as she lay in the cradle of vines and roots, she expressed her worries, the earth quiet and the Choir humming a low lullaby in the background, “I just don’t understand.”

The Choir hummed and the vines began to gently rock her, “Amor, has Pensado si puede ser que tu don trae felicidad a los que to miran? Se que tu hermanita sonría mas cuando tu la cuidas.”

And that soothed her soul and the gold in her chest, but a child is not privy to the worries of those who love them.

While she herself could not hear the trembling not being sung in the background the Choir did. They could hear that discordant note and as they nudged their pequeño amor back home a few hours later, they and the earth could hear the wailing of the stars. The trees creaked violently and off in the distance the earth rumbled lowly. Something was coming, something that could rend the golden ropes connecting the Choir to their amor or strengthen them in turn, but either way they would not let anything take her away from them.

(And for a moment the stars flickered and then their wailing grew a bit quieter. While the evets to come would not cease to happen, they would change and a child would live.)

When Isabela turned ten a month later, the gold threads and ropes tightened and the Choir called out to her more loudly. Even when she was inside her home or in the center of the town, she could hear them as if she were laying in the roots and even though her Abuela would scold her for standing still for too long, the gold in her chest unfurled a bit more. It felt like the song was within her and that incandescent feeling inside her felt like more as it tangled with the gold.

Within a few weeks, the first vine appeared on her wrist. It was delicate thing, so thin it could have broken with a too harsh hand gesture, but when she listened, she could hear a faint song coming from it and it felt like love. She surrounded it with flowers, bracing it against her skin, and in the moments throughout the day when she sat down to relax after hours of work, she would gently stroke it, the Choir singing to her and the gold light dancing in her chest.

From then on flowering vines would sprout from her skin and Isabela loved them because they were hers and she was theirs. Each moment was like being coated in the love shared between them and the golden ropes connecting them, but the beauty was not just something that she could feel. Others watched this and it felt holy watching a Madrigal whose gift was more visible be covered in the proof that the magic was strong, but in turn their renewed reverence for the miracle which saved them was flawed.

How could they have known what their actions would inspire? How could they have guessed what the Madrigal matriarch would do to save face? How could Isabela have predicted that her year of happiness would be followed by her fate?

None of them could have known what was to come, but for the year that they had in the sun, it was spent in bliss. The Madrigals were busy but the day that Luisa’s door appeared, a few weeks before Isabela’s eleventh birthday, Alma Madrigal looked over her family and in looking to her oldest granddaughter saw the vines wrapped around her arms and saw imperfection. She walked over to Isabela, put a gentle hand on her head, and with a soft smile she asked, “Mi Flor, se pueden quitar estos vides? Your dress is getting messy.”

(The Choir and the earth heard the heavens wails pierce the air and in a second, the vines under their Pequeño Amor’s blouse tightened around her torso; She was theirs and no one would take her from them.)

The first battle in this war between expectation and agency begun. In her soul, a revulsion at the thought of hiding her vines coiled and she had half a mind to curl her lip in disgust, but she looked up and in the eyes of the woman above her, she saw something ugly. So, with a smile on her lips she agreed and though she wanted to scream, the Choir shushed her and the vines slowly retreated under her blouse, coiling around her chest over the covered spaced of her shoulders, and clung to her legs. Whatever it was lurking in the eyes of that woman was too volatile to poke at.

Any resistance would lead to hurt and that was something that they could not abide coming to Isabela; Not if they could avoid it.

They sung to her as Alma tuned away and said, “Amor, seria mejor hacer lo que quiera por ahorita. No nos gusta lo que vemos dentro de ella. Lo dorado se mira muerto.” And what could she say about that? The golden ropes within were supposed to look vibrant and strong; Not withered and dead. Maybe now was not the time to truly fight back, but she worried for what that meant. As the days passed, the occasional request to remove the vines from different places became more frequent until they were daily occurrence. Isabela, after discussing the issue further, had just decided to keep the vines wrapped around her torso at the Choir’s insistence and the flowering plants in her hair. It was around a month later that the pain really began.

She had been at the kitchen table, pencil in hand to write down notes, when she felt a pull at her temple and heard the snap of a stem. She had quickly spun around just in time to see the frown on Alma’s face, the contempt n her eyes, as she stared down at the blue flower that had been nestled above her ear. Isabela had watched as she looked up and that frown was quickly replaced by an artificial smile and scolding look.

She watched in disbelief as the matriarch lectured her about the more appropriate flowers to wear and when Alma plucked the others from their places, she was too stunned to stop it, but she heard the all-consuming anger in the voices of the Choir and the hate in the rumble of the earth. Isabela had been used to the soothing song from her infancy, but this? This wasn’t the loving music she’d heard since the gold had bloomed. This was the echoing war song and the dripping malice from the lips of the grieving. It took all she had to reign in the vines and prevent what she knew could only be a possible trip to her mother.

From then on it when she was in a constant state of avoiding her grandmother and the removal of her plants, but eventually she would be caught and was forced into her seat and her flowers were cut from her. For every time she had to endure this the pull on her skin worsened until a sharp sting began to be felt. The very first instance of this she almost couldn’t believe what was happening, but then she felt it again and again until the session was over. Even the Choir and the earth quieted to the lowest volume she had ever heard it at and only swelled back to what it usually was when it was over.

Back in her room she carefully touched her head and felt a left-over burn from where her lilies had been, but when she pulled her hand away there was the smallest trickle of blood. From within, the gold writhed and anchored itself further and the ropes tightened. It was an understatement to say that she was afraid, but before she could begin to cry vines swooped down from above her bed and pulled her into their cradle. She was cocooned in the place where she felt safest and there, she let her tears flow as she was rocked and cooed at. The song turned into her lullaby and the last thing she could really remember clearly was thinking that she was no longer safe in Casita.

(A child is supposed to be safe. A child is not supposed to be afraid and alone and bleeding-)

The next morning when Isabela woke to find the slightest bit of bark over the small wound the Choir sang to her comfortingly, “Para protegerte y para que tengas parte de nosotros contigo en una manera menos visible al ojo, Amor. Si no puedes tener nuestras flores, entonces tendrás nuestra armadura.”

The bleeding had stopped and the bark though small, brought her sense of comfort in the wake of such a disorienting discovery. How long had it been since she had been comforted? Her own mother was too preoccupied by the needs of the town to pay attention to her daughters and her father was, though eager to spend time with them, always out of the house. It’d been quite some time since she had seen either of her parents outside of the first meal of the day and even then, they did not stay for long.

None of the adults stayed for long anymore and the children all had to fend for themselves.

As she went about her days, in the blue skirts and white blouses instead of whatever pink monstrosity her grandmother insisted she wear, she would touch her temple gently every time she thought about what happened and the Choir would sing, accompanied by the low bass of the earth. Of every being Isabela had ever known, they had been the only ones she could remember truly caring for her in a consistent manner. Her own parents had been absent in recent years, leaving her to raise her sister when they weren’t around, which was often. But the Choir had been constant and the earth steadfast in their care, never once leaving her to the dark.

They were hers and she was theirs, her very being tied to them in such profound ways that exceeded and surpassed the relationships she had with the adults in her life. Where her parents had only ever given flimsy words of comfort, el Monte and la Tierra had cradled her and curled around her when she was in pain. It became all the more evident as weeks went by, that tuned into months, until the night came where the measure of love was tested and found wanting.

(The sky was screaming and the constellations were shattering, breaking themselves apart in their grief. A shrieking symphony that heralded the arrival of the coming choice.)

Laying in a pool of her own blood and staring listlessly into what was beyond her sight, listening to the war cries of the Choir and the calls for blood from la Tierra, Isabela could not have predicted what the day would end like. Only an hour ago she had been telling her sister a recent story the Choir had sung to her, grinning wildly and promising to bring her out to the jungle the next time they both had time away from any duties.

She had privately thought then that any notion of rest would have been put off to when they were their mothers age, but seeing her sister happy on her birthday was far more important and to shatter it on a day of celebration and such a momentous occasion felt wrong. After all, a new gift was something wonderous to see and one of such calibers was wonderous and relieving; Dolores could hear a pin drop from the other side of the town, but Luisa could move bridges. It was the first gift since Isabela’s that was useful and could benefit the Encanto.

It’d been close to dinner and they’d been washing their hands when her blouse had ridden up to expose a sliver of her side. It was only when Luisa had pointed it out that she realized the danger she was in.Her sister had excitedly pointed at her vines and had even tugged her blouse up a bit to see better in the waning light, “Isabela your vines are giving you a hug!”

“Que?”

The moment she heard that voice her stomach dropped and she felt cold, hollow and so distant from her own body. The echoes of Luisa’s excitement should have been so close to her ear, but everything felt so far away and all she could focus on was the slow anger flooding her grandmothers face. The tightening and flexing of hands that wanted to slam onto the counter and the straining chords of her neck, a product of wanting to scream, but all Alma Madrigal did was take a breath turn around and say, “We will speak about this later Isabela. I am very disappointed in you.”

That dinner Isabela could hardly restrain herself from bolting for the stairs, her only consolation being that she would be able to lift herself onto the second level using her vines. While she was always seated closer to her grandmother, she had the advantage of being younger and closer to the stairs, where Alma had been almost blocked into her seat at the head of the table. She had a free range of movement and the advantage of her gift and the gold light that writhed inside her wanting to protect-

Any hunger was transformed into nausea and though Luisa raised the oppressive mood, Isabela could see the uneasy looks between the adults. Tia Pepa had a softly rumbling storm and Tio Felix alternated between running a soothing hand down her back and shooting a concerned glance towards her. Her mother and father were pale and she could feel the tension mount slowly between them as their cena grew closer to finishing. Isabela could feel her heartbeat skyrocket as the plates grew empty and the moment her Abuela set down her utensils she quickly excused herself, ignoring the calls to return, letting the flowering branches and vines along the railing of the second floor to wrap around her and pull her up.

She had quickly entered her room and what used to be a bright and sunny clearing with light streaming down from above was now dimmed in mimicry of the sky. The room barricaded itself from the inside and trees groaned as they sifted blocking as much of the entrance as possible, roots raising out from the soil ready to entangle anyone who dared come inside. Like a frightened animal, she curled herself up in the thickest tangle of vines in her room watching the door. Of everything that had been whirling around in her head, one stood out screaming in defiance; She didn’t want to give up the Choir or la Tierra anymore, so why couldn’t she keep them? The bark had only multiplied in the months since they first appeared on her skin, her very own armor and protection; Why couldn’t something that kept her safe stay?

That’s when the knocking started, then the calls for her to answers, and all the while she lay curled up, ready to spring away at a moment's notice. Alma Madrigal called for her to answer, but everything that Isabela had seen and had been sung to her made her want to bare her teeth. Alma Madrigal was her grandmother, yes, but she was also a danger that Isabela had been fearing would turn its gaze onto her. She’d barely scraped by this long without having to prune her vines, not even long enough to let Alma’s reverent belief in perfection to pass by.

She almost missed the next person to try and reach her, but her father’s voice is so rare in recent memory that her mind latches onto it, remembers feeling safe and loved and whole.

“Isa? Can you open the door for me?”

And there’s nothing but concern in the way he talks and she feels like he really means it, and it's been so long that she ignores the warning bells. The vines loosen and in the second she realizes what she’s done, they’ve gotten in and the fear comes back stronger. Her father approached her with arms raised and that smile he had in her childhood memories-

(They watched in horror as her father betrayed her, her mother tried to soothe and harm, and as the wretched one watched impassively, chiding the screams-.)

She doesn’t remember much after that, it all looks like a blur in her memories and though she tries to remember how it was that led to those painful hours, all she really knows is this: she was held down by her parents as flowers and bark were meticulously removed from her body. The only persistent fact, made all the clearer with the aching of her body, was that it was agony. It was like the entire event was left unremembered and all she knew was that her parents looked down at her in horror as the bleeding didn’t stop.

She heard the yelling begin and when they had reached out to her, to help, and heal, she violently flinched away from them, roots shooting out from beneath the ground and wrapping themselves around the adults. They’d been unceremoniously and rather forcefully launched out of the room, hitting the second-floor railing, a loud crack sounding as they impacted. The door slammed shut and flickered, the gold steaming off the wooden surface and sparking erratically.

Though the Choir and la Tierra sung her to sleep with a lullaby so soft it hurt, all she could still hear the dripping of blood and the tearing of her vines. Here in the cradle, where it was safe up high and away from the hands that harmed, she could cry and scream; so that’s what she did.

(A child is supposed to laugh and sing, and play, not scream and writhe and bleed-)

The days passed and then a week had gone by, any attempts to get into the room failed and then that day came. It was dark inside her room, the creaking of vines and the groans of trees the voices of those who loved her fiercely telling her to hide, to be weary. Her family had tried to get her to open the door again, but that trick had been used once and she wouldn’t be letting them in again. Her father, then her mother, and then her uncles and aunt, all telling her to come out, that she was safe...

Why did they lie?

(A child is sacred and beloved. A child is to be protected. A child is t-)

The yelling outside her door all sounded the same, well, that was until she came to the door. It was something out of her nightmares, the never heard yelling and the present anger replacing the frustration normally used.

“Isabela Madrigal! I don’t know why you’ve chosen to act out young lady, but that is enough! You will come out here by the time dinner is done tonight or I will force this door in whatever way I can!” The sentence echoed in her mind, the Choir hissed, la Tierra roared, but all she could hear was, “I will force this door open!”

(She is a CHILD!)

I will force this door open, I will force this door open, I will force this door open, I will force this door open, open, open.

Open.

Oh.

Oh, Dios!

NO!

(The heavens were deafening, the Choir reached its crescendo, la Tierra bellowed with sound of continents rending open, to RUN-)

Isabela jerked out of the tangle of vines, eyes wild and wide, but before she could reach the door, the roots redirect her. Weak legs stumble, and though a spark of furious desperation makes itself known, she turns in that direction and from the wall, a window appears. At first, it’s the moving of the stone and then larger and larger pieces start to crumble, carving out a divot, a dent, then a hole. It was quick in reality she was sure, but every moment she was not out, Isabela felt like every second lasted hours.

Then all at once the hole took form, peeking out from a frame of tree trunks was golden, blessed daylight and oh-

The jungle, verdant leaves and alive in ways that she had missed is right there at a straightforward run, how long had it been since she felt this much relief?

“Amor,” the Choir sung, “Aunque no estén tu familia, seria mejor irnos por atrás de Casita. Ella nos esta ayudando.”

The house’s walls poked tiles out into a staircase, its darkening shadows in the setting sun set to conceal her way down. Isabela didn’t think twice before she was scrabbling down the side of the building, nearly slipping in her haste, but when she reached the ground there was no force on this earth that could stop her from sprinting into the tree line. She never looked back to see the window closing up again or watch Casita’s roof tiles wave a slow, sad goodbye, but the moment she crashed through that invisible line of no return, she felt the golden chords binding her to her family snap.

She was free.

(The very heavens blazed brighter, the constellation grieved, but a new star was being born shining against the backdrop of black and raging against the what could have been.)

She ran and ran, so long that she lost feeling in her legs, but she didn’t stop not until she felt safe. Isabela didn’t know how long it was until she stumbled and then fell to her knees, but when she did the shadows were long and the last bit of daylight was slipping away. Turning onto her back she watched the breaks in the canopy slowly lose their brightness until she was overcome with the exhaustion of the last week.

Her head felt heavy, but even if she lay on the damp earth, she felt unrestrained for the first time in many, many years. Here the Choir was all encompassing and la Tierra a thrumming palpable presence, the vibrations of their voices felt deep within her soul, “Amor, todavía estás adolorida. Duérmete. Nosotras te cuidamos mientras estés soñando.”

And that offer was so tempting, her eyes drooped and her body was already going lax as vines and roots rose up to wrap around her, but before she could drop off completely, she whispered, “Promise?”

And the resounding answer was, “Siempre, Amor.”

(Invisible to the eye but felt in the soul, lengths of gold stretched around her forming a cocoon to shelter her a little longer from her own mind.)

The Choir hummed and la Tierra wrapped her presence around her little family, staving off the world around them for a little longer, but it wasn’t long before He came to speak with them. Though he may have been a younger spirit than she and the Choir, the River’s Son was draped in the same gold though his was inlaid in his skin. She knew who he was, how could she not? She was the one who built the mountains with his sacrifice, who shaped it into the Eden which had been Isabela’s home. But for all that this started with him, he was not hers, not the magic, nor the soul.

She watched as he came closer stopping just a short distance away, eyes sad and face full of grief, and looked over the tangle of roots and vines. All three of them stood there for unaccountable amount of time, but just as the moon reached its peak he spoke, “This was never supposed to happen.”

The Choir looked over, a soft look in her eyes, “No fue tu culpa, Niño del Rio. Nadia hubiera podido saber que esto iba a pasar.”

A solemn silence permeated the area until he spoke again this time to the thus far silent being, “Her mente is fracturing Madre Tierra and I fear that she will be lost to her memories. My ieta was supposed grow up happy. Not in pain.”

It was the way he mentioned her memories that tipped both of the women off to something brewing in the golden intention of his mind. His gold was not as bright as their Amor’s, but the way it roiled and reached out with loving strands was the same way Isabela’s used to be before she could hear them. La Tierra and the Choir looked at each other a silent conversation between them. For all that he was the reason why they were a family of three and his sacrifice a catalyst to their situation, la Tierra was hesitant to hear him. But he looked so much like their Isa and for the love they had for her, she would allow him to voice his intentions.

(Fragments grinding against each other, breaking further and further, a trap ready to spring come morning-)

As she turned to look at him, eyes a dark green, she regarded him and bid him to speak, “Habla plenamente, Hijo del Rio. Digame lo que estas insinuando.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his eyes on his grand-daughter, avoiding the eyes of green and gold so much older than he, “I’m afraid that my Alma is no longer the woman who I loved anymore. She took our treasure, our miracles, and twisted them to her whims.” The Son breathed in sharply and spun around just as quickly to face them, eyes to the leafy jungle floor, “I may not have been able to save Isabela from what happened then, but I can give her a new life.”

Eyes the color of the river he fell into as he was cut down looked at them, “Her memories are harming her, but if they are taken away then she could live happily.”

(Fragments put back together, not fully but still together, their sharp edges cutting the hands that try to fix them-)

“Entiendes lo que sugieres, si?” Eyes the color of gold looked at her from where their owner kneeled at Isabela’s head, “Al hacer esto tendríamos que quitar toda memoria de su vida pasada.”

The decision was easy to make: lose Isa to her mind or give her a new life and a new start?

Was there ever really any choice? Even if the River's Son hadn’t suggested it, the likelihood that they would have had to do this eventually was almost absolute. Isabela was a child who had suffered a form of torture that no person sound of mind would have even thought about inflicting on someone so young. La Tierra knew that this was the only way to give Isa a chance to truly live as she should have, so even as her heart weighed heavy in her chest, she looked into the Choir’s, the Jungle’s, eyes and resolutely nodded her head.

“Estoy segura.”

(Molten, golden metal poured into the cracks, binding the edges. Veins revealing themselves as the liquid metal reaches the broke places unable to be touched by even the most skilled mortal hands.)

It was easy for beings like them, the great power within them capable of raising mountains and trapping villages, truly what the myths speak of. All the Choir and la Tierra did, golden and green eyes burning in the dark, was each lay a hand on the heart and the head. As they kneeled down it became so clear how affected their Isa had been by the events leading up to this moment.

Were there should have been a layer of softness that came with childhood, there was a gaunt cheek and where they should have had to press harder down to feel bone, they readily felt her ribs. It had been only a week of hiding within that dark room held together by failing magic, but this? This was damage was the kind that took longer to appear. They had been unable to do anything before now, the golden ropes preventing them from interfering so much due to the ties being strong, but in breaking apart from her family, Isabela had allowed them this opportunity.

To live here in the world where their claim was stronger than the sacrifice she would change, mortal and Others would be able to see how much she was theirs and in turn, how much they were hers. As she built up and weaved her power into the form she needed, she leaned down, kissed Isa’s cheek, and whispered, “Que tengas sueños buenos, Amor. Cuando despiertes las estrellas te saludaran.”

The Jungle echoed her sentiment, laying a hand on Isa’s forehead and then all at once everything turned gold.

(Jagged teeth smoothed down and softened for little hands to touch, memories fading completely, the hurt swept away in a torrent of warmth.)

The action took seconds, minutes, hours, but when it was done the earth split open, the Choir hopping inside the cradle, and Isabela's slumbering body was pulled into the primordial womb lined with soft leaves. Ever so slowly the roots and vines carried her within, wrapping around her until no limb was left without a plant winding itself around it and when she was laid at the center, the Choir curling around her, the earth closed itself up over them leaving no sign as to what had happened.

The Son stared at the spot where a miracle had occurred not ten minutes before and his shoulders slumped, his face falling, and sad eyes turning sadder as he realized that what needed to happen was done. His- No, Isabela would have a chance to live and thrive under the watchful eye of her protectors and though it pained him that it had to be like this, he understood that his familia was a broken thing. Too long had his wife’s firm hand turned from guidance to punishment, and from that change had pain been born.

Form behind him he felt more than heard the footsteps approaching him, the silent tremble of the ground heralding la Madre Tierra, “Dormirá por un tiempo, pero tendrá que ajustarse a su cuerpo otra vez.”

She stood beside him, a fair bit taller than he, but for all that he was a spirit, la Madre Tierra was not like him. Not really. Having died brought perspective to how small he was in comparison to those who inhabited the land beyond the scope of human sight and how odd he was in comparison to them. He was mortal claimed by the river he was born beside and when he had passed on the claim allowed him to reside here allowing those who needed shelter to cross the more dangerous parts of the river, his father.

A firm hand fell on his shoulder and guided him away, “How long is ‘some time’?”

“No se. Todo depende de ella y que tan rápido el cambio es.”

The silence that followed was solemn and accepting, nothing to be done other than letting the change take its course and allow time to pass. When they arrived at the river his father stood at its center, waiting for him to return. Before he stepped back into the water he turned to her, “Gracias. For taking care of her when I couldn’t.”

She smiled at him, a faint thing ghosting across her lips before it vanished, “Es nuestro Pequeño Amor, traeríamos las estrellas a la tierra para ella.”

The Son smiled at her and turned away, walking into the river to his father who cupped his face and brought him under his arm. As the two of them walked off to where their home was the deepest, the briefest glimpse of the river bank revealed it empty, the being who had been there having vanished.

As is the way of the gods, they did as well.

#encanto madremonte au #encanto au #isabela madrigal #luisa madrigal #alma madrigal #pedro madrigal

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