#or stories where he wept as he watched his son fall
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Blue Moon
Alright, It's time for my individual post! I'm not gonna post every chapter, because I have better things to do, but here's the first chapter of the @batfam-big-bang fic I wrote for @magpie-murder's stunning art piece. It was a blast working with you!
The whole thing is up on AO3 Click on the link to read the rest!
Chapter 1: Harvest Moon
[warning for: death]
(Harvest Moon: The transition from fall to winter, celebrated as the earth slowing down and "dying" to become something new. A time for reaping.)
Back in the circus, Dick had felt completely at home, surrounded by his own kind, as well as humans who knew what vampires were like and didn't mind. His life—or, his undeath—had been perfect for those few years. Those years where his parents had loved and cared for him, had taught him, had trained him. Those years where he and his parents, and the handful of other vampires in the circus, could all drink their fill and be gone before the local police could finish scratching their heads.
When he watched his parents fall from the trapeze, his greatest concern had been how they would explain surviving a fall from such a height without exposing the secret of vampires to the world. He hadn't realized they'd been poisoned before the show. They hit the ground with a sickening, horrible crack. Their bones breaking, skin splitting, blood oozing out onto the floor of the tent. If he'd been capable of vomiting, Dick would have lost his lunch.
He waited for them to get back up. Waited while Mr. Haly evacuated the big top. Waited while the other performers made up excuses as to why onlookers couldn't call the paramedics. Waited while his friends shouted up to the platform, coaxing him to come down. He didn't. He stayed right where he was, forty feet up, staring at the broken, unmoving bodies of his parents.
Someone was climbing up the ladder, but Dick didn't bother to look at who it was until they sat down next to him. It was a man in a suit more expensive than anything Dick had ever owned. He cautiously placed a hand on Dick's shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, son," the man said. "I watched my parents die, too, when I was about your age. No experience could ever compare to the despair I know you're feeling. If you need anything, I'm here."
Finally, tears welled up in Dick's eyes and began to fall, pouring down his cheeks as he wept. He turned and buried his face in the stranger's expensive shirt, bawling loudly. It had finally sunk in. His parents wouldn't be getting back up again. They were well and truly dead. And Dick knew exactly who was to blame.
His parents had been so sure they'd thrown that vampire hunter off their scent. They'd triple checked all the equipment they'd seen him so much as stand next to. Turned out it wasn't him, but them who'd been duped. Somehow he must have done something to them, or their equipment, or costumes, or something. That damned vampire hunter had killed his parents, and if he wasn't stopped, he'd be coming for Dick next, that much was certain.
"I'm Bruce," said the man in the expensive suit as he awkwardly wrapped an arm around Dick, the other holding tightly onto a safety rope to ensure neither of them fell from the high platform. "Your name is Richard, right? I saw on the posters."
"I go—by Dick," the boy responded through gasps.
"I see." Bruce was awkward, and not very good at consoling or comforting, but he was still trying, even though Dick was a stranger. Empathy was one hell of a drug. Dick had no idea how humans could keep that up all the time when he himself had trouble even faking it. "Well Dick, you just go ahead and cry, let it all out. I won't let you fa—ah... I'll... I'll hold onto you."
"This wasn't an accident," Dick whimpered, and sniffed. "Someone—messed with the trapeze. We thought we fixed it." Sobs interrupted him, and he let it go for a moment before he pulled himself together enough to keep talking. Fabricating a story as he went. "He was threatening—Mr. Haly. Said if he didn't pay him—something bad would happen." Mr. Haly would corroborate the lie, he always covered for his people, no matter what their stories were.
"Do you know the man's name?" Bruce asked. Dick allowed himself the smallest upturn in the corner of his mouth. Got him. Bruce was clearly rich, meaning he'd have connections, and that empathy of his would drive him to help Dick get 'justice' for his parents.
"Mr. Haly knows," Dick said, and that much was true. "I just can't believe anyone would—would do something so h-horrible!" Dick blubbered into Bruce's chest.
"Don't worry, Dick," Bruce said solemnly, holding the boy a little bit tighter, his grip much stronger and more secure than Dick would've expected of some random rich guy. "I'll make sure that man faces due process. He'll see the consequences of what he's done. I promise."
Dick mumbled out a teary thank you, and tightened his own grip around the man to seal the deal. Blinded by his emotions, Bruce had bought the story hook, line, and sinker. If Dick's life was about to change forever, then at the very least he could move forward without constantly having to look over his shoulder. Vampire hunters were a rarity these days, but that didn't make them any less of a pain in the ass.
"I know it's sudden, and you don't know me very well," Bruce said gently, his deep voice cutting through Dick's sobs. "But if you'd like, you can stay with me from now on. I'm more than happy to take you in, and care for you, now that your parents...." he trailed off. "I just... I wouldn't want you to have to be alone."
That surprised Dick, although he supposed he should have expected something like this from a bleeding heart like Bruce obviously was. He considered the offer for a moment. The circus was likely no longer safe for vampires.
Within a week, that vampire hunter's friends would descend on the big top like vultures on a rotting animal, and Dick was young and vulnerable, especially compared to his parents, whom the hunter had already successfully killed. He definitely didn't want to still be within these three rings when that happened, and they came nosing around with holy water and silver daggers.
If he went with Bruce on the other hand, he'd be protected. Firstly, Bruce was obviously the type to keep anyone remotely dangerous away from the kid in his charge, and secondly, because, in Dick's experience, rich people could get away with pretty much everything, up to and including murder. That made being this guy's charge a very convenient position for a creature like Dick to be in.
When the silence had finally gone on long enough to be truly uncomfortable, Bruce started to backtrack. "If you don't want to, I understand. I just wanted to give you that option so—"
"Okay," Dick said, a victorious smirk hidden in their embrace, though he couldn't stop the tears still trickling down his cheeks. "I'll go with you."
#dc#batman#dick grayson#vampire dick grayson#vampires#fic#things i wrote#batfam reverse big bang 2023#batfam big bang
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The Ark before Noah
Genesis Flood Narrative
In the flood myth of Genesis, God decides to send the flood because the descendants of Adam have become corrupt. He warns Noah, a righteous man, of the flood and tells him to build a boat for himself and his family and 1 pair of every animal. The floodgates of Heaven broke open and filled the world with water. The ark lands at the mountains of Ararat where Noah builds an altar and gives a sacrifice to God, who in return makes a promise to Noah that there will never be another flood that destroys all life.
Flood in Enoch and the Book of Giants
The Book of Giants is an apocryphal Jewish text meant to expand on Genesis, the earliest known texts were found among the Dead Sea Scrolls. In short, Azazel, Samyaza, and a group of angels called the Watchers/Grigori were sent to Earth to watch over mortals. Soon, they fell lustful for the mortal women and began to have giant children with them (Nephilim) and teach the humans forbidden knowledge such as cosmetics, herbalism, astrology, and weapon making. The giants begin to be troubled by dreams, “one of which a stone tablet is drenched in water and emerges with only three names still inscribed (presumably the names of Noah’s sons).” After archangels were sent to slaughter the giants, a flood was sent to kill any giant or corrupt human left. Similarly, 1 Enoch sought to give a moral reasoning for the flood as well, it also serving to clean the slate
Epic of Gilgamesh Flood Narrative
The Gilgamesh flood myth is a part of the Gilgamesh Epic thought to have been added on later after the writing of the Epic. The first tablet depicting the flood was found by Hormundz Rassam in Nineveh during his expedition in 1852–54. In 1872, George Smith began to translate the tablet and (as the story goes) as he realized what he was reading he dropped the tablet on the table and began undressing himself and running around the room screaming, seemingly going into an epileptic episode. In 1873, he found an additional tablet containing the missing portions of the story. In the Epic, some of the gods were sworn to secrecy over their plan to cause a flood but Ea told Utnapishtim about their plans. He commanded Utnapishtim to break down his house and build a boat, giving instructions for the construction. He and other builders constructed the boat and Utnapishtim gathered his family and “all the beasts and animals of the field” into the boat. Adad rumbled the sky as many other gods began to stir up a strong storm in the sky and sea, so much so that they frightened some of the other gods. Ishtar shrieked, saying the storm was destroying her people who fill the sea like fish. The other gods joined in her weeping in grief and thirst, presumably from the lack of offerings. The flood lasted six days and six nights, it was then quiet as all humans turned to clay. Utnapishtim wept and sought land, landing at Mount Nimush. He then performed a sacrifice for the gods, Enlil appeared and became furious that a human survived the flood. Ea then shows up and argues back to Enlil, "It was you, the Sage of the Gods. How could you bring about a flood without consideration?" Ea then blesses Utnapishtim, grants him eternal life, and allows him into the mouth of the rivers.
The Ark of Gilgamesh
Irving Finkel translated a cuneiform tablet that gave instructions on the construction of the boat in the Epic of Gilgamesh and mentioned animals going into the boat "two by two", something previously thought to be unique to biblical texts. He set out on a quest to recreate a scaled-down replica of the boat which was nearly identical to a kuphar. The boat was about a third of the size described in the text since the original instructions would cause the weight of the boat to fall in on itself. Finkel commissioned about 40 men in India to create the boat, which they all did by hand. Finkel is an incredible academic and his lectures n conferences are SO COOL, he’s done a significant amount of research on ancient Mesopotamian religion and culture AND he’s a funny little wizard man. Here are two of his speeches on the Ark Before Noah !!
"Irving Finkel | The Ark Before Noah: A Great Adventure" at the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_fkpZSnz2I
"The Ark Before Noah | Decoding the Story of the Flood | Dr. Irving Finkel | Origins Conference" at the Megalithomania Conference: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqBQKHl5PeA
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Apollion was many things, a prince of Vallhan. The young uncle of Tisiphone, but right now he was a killer. His parents had trained him well for these types of scrimmages.
That's what they were, scrimmages. He let the last of the Loyalists fall at his blade. His light twining and swirling around his fingertips.
He turned looking to the palace of Dawn, Aleksander's forces weren't here yet. He supposed it was up to him then to -
Apollion stumbled the magic slamming him back. He used his staff of valerian steel to dig into the ground to stop him.
He didn't recognize the other Daglan before him but he could smell the magic off him - lightning and storms.
"What side are you on?"
Rigelus hissed stepping toward the other. Apollion raised his head.
"Yours. I am Apollion son of Maeve."
He wished he knew of his lineage but then Cassandra's wars had wiped so much of their history from the world.
The other stared at him for a long moment the magic disapated.
"I am Rigelus son of Carynth, daughter of Vega."
Apollion sucked in a breath. Old lineages then like his he presumed. Vega and Altair were famous not just for their devotion to each other - they had painted the Night Sky. The stars their map and story of their lives and losses. He wondered if Rigelus could read them like it was rumored Cassandra could.
He looked to the gathering dark, Rigelus gave a small scoff.
"I can't read it, my sister claims to understand bits and pieces but the stars do not reveal themselves to me."
Apollion knew enough of Daglan culture to know his friendliness was a good thing. Daglan were divided into 3 clans since time immemorium. The clan Rigelus and he came from were known for their Seers, their religious devotion to the Allmother. Their clan boasted the most mystically gifted of the Daglan clans. Once he assumed this fact had given their elders immense pride when Cassandra was born. One of the most gifted Seers in a generation - he wondered if the elders wept now thinking of her actions.
Rigelus wandered closer rolling his shoulders back.
"Have you had your Calling yet Apollion?"
Calling, exactly as it sounds your mind and body would be called to another. It was always on the male to find them. It was always on the male to piece the bits of dreams he had to find his Beloved. He sighed and shrugged.
"I'd felt it for years but I haven't found her yet. Now with the war I assume she's long dead."
Rigelus winced and opened his mouth to counter him when an explosion rocked the earth. They looked to the palace.
"The loyalists are trying to hold a last stand Rigelus! I -"
Apollion looked to the ridge to see a female crest it. His breath hitched in battle armor and with the sun the way it was - she looked like an avenging goddess. Rigelus looked to Apollion..
"Hold this for Aleksander's forces. My sister will help. I'll nullify the loyalists."
"Wait I -"
Rigelus didn't wait moving through the rubble as a ball of lightning. He seemed to give the same words to his sister and rushed inside.
Apollion picked his way more slowly up the broken wall to where she stood.
"He always bark orders at everyone like that?"
//during the war!! For Sirius!!//
She had long since gotten over the romanticized stories of the Calling, she would not be like many of the females she knew who would wait around for a male to come her way. Why should she sit still and wait? Why waste her entire life waiting?
That was why she was out there, that was why she lent her sword and her skill to this. Battling along side her brother, bringing those to challenged them to their knees. Loyalists, those who did not deserve the freedom they boasted.
Sirius looked towards her brother as he approached her, his command caused her to roll her eyes before she watched him rush off into battle. All the while she ignored the pull she was feeling, ignoring the summons towards the male who she was left with.
She looked towards him when he approached. "That is his way, though some would say it is his endearing way of saying he is taking care of it so relax."
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06/01/2022 DAB Transcript
2 Samuel 18:1-19:10, John 20:1-31, Psalms 119:153-176, Proverbs 16:14-15
Today is the 1st day of June welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I am Brian and welcome to a brand-new month. Today is the 152nd day of the year and the first day of the 6th month of the year. So, we’re just getting going in the 6th month which leaves us…well…leaves us seven months to go with the five months behind us. For me to think about that, t's like wait a minute, how did that happen so fast? But it just does step-by-step day by day and we have covered so much ground in the Bible and so much of really having a look at ourselves as the Bible becomes a mirror into our souls that we should be able to look back at the beginning of the year and see that, yeah, the Bible…if you do this every day it really actually does change the way we look and feel. I mean, we can still fall under the old ruts, we can make a mess of things but now we clearly know better, and we know where a lot of these roads that we have been on for so long, we know where they're going. And, so, the Bible indeed is a lamp to our feet and a light for our path. And, so, here we are moving into the sixth month together. We have been working our way through second Samuel, which is where we’ll pick up today. King David is on the run from his son Absalom who is trying to kill him. And that's the weird thing. David was just a shepherd boy tending sheep and he just so quickly became a national hero when Goliath fell, and he’s had to be like a fugitive and on the run from Saul and now from his own son Absalom. So, it’s not like he doesn't have experience being on the run, but being on the run from your own son, what a horrible thing. But as we recall, David taking Bathsheba the wife of one of his most loyal soldiers Uriah the Hittite, that just really undermined David in his own family. And, so, it's come to this. Absalom wants his dad dead so he can take his throne. And that's where we pick up the story. David's on the run and Absalom is in pursuit. We’re reading from the New Living Translation this week. Second Samuel chapter 18 verse 1 through 19 verse 10.
Commentary:
Okay. So, in today's reading we have one death, and we have one resurrection. What a way to begin our sixth month of the year. In the book of second Samuel, we have the death of Absalom. The battle between the forces of Israel under Absalom's command and the forces loyal to David who were protecting him…well…they met in the woods and a lot of people died. In fact, the Bible tells us 20,000 people died over this. One of those people happened to be the king's son and the Prince of Israel, Absalom who had beautiful hair and it was his downfall. Hung him up in a tree and he was killed while hanging from that tree. And from the narrative, we see that when King David lost his son he lost heart, like he wept bitterly to the point that all of those people, all of those who were trying to keep him alive and stay loyal to him came creeping back in ashamed like they had done something wrong. This is one of those situations where you look at King David and go man, like there's just no…how do you respond correctly when you've lost a child and it's so convoluted that that child wanted to kill you? Now that child is dead but that's still your son. And then all the people who are loyal to you are grateful to be still alive but you're so heartbroken over the loss of your child that you have this kind of erratic feeling like it would better off if I had died because the pain is so great. And, so, that is what we’re seeing happen in the life of the king as the people restore him to the throne and he takes over the kingdom again. And as we move toward the end of second Samuel, we’ll watch David now after this. We've gotten to see David go through a lot of trauma and a lot of hardship and then just a lot of heartbreaking stuff and then we've been able to witness his responses and his character and integrity, or for that matter lack of character and integrity the whole way. And, so, there's so much for us to learn about ourselves. And we’ll take the next step forward in King David's life as we…as we come back to the Scriptures tomorrow.
And then when we flip over into the book of John today, we have the accounting of the resurrection of Jesus. It is a beautiful retelling. This is the one retelling of the resurrection when Mary is in the garden and she…she comes face-to-face with Jesus not recognizing Him. She recognizes Him as a gardener and that is…I just find that to be beautiful. The whole thing. Our whole journey started in a garden back on January 1st when we were in the garden of Eden and with the resurrection of Jesus so much has been restored to mankind. And, so, for her to see him as a gardener is very poetic and very very beautiful. And, so, let's meditate upon and drink in this story today of the resurrection, because as we've said a number of times this is the last time we’re coming this way and the last time we’re moving through these stories this year. And we will be concluding the gospel of John, with the final thoughts of Jesus in tomorrow's reading. And, so, tomorrow we finish the four Gospels, which will award us that Gospels badge if we’re using the Daily Audio Bible app and keeping track of our readings but we can talk about that more then. Let us rejoice today as we meditate upon the resurrection.
Prayer:
Jesus, we love You. We thank You. We adore You. We worship You, we bow before You, and humble ourselves under Your authority and ask that You lead us. We ask Spirit of truth that You lead us into all truth as Jesus promised us, that You would guide our steps and direct our ways and that we would slow down enough to pay attention. We pray this in the beautiful name of the risen Savior Jesus our Lord. Amen.
Announcements:
dailyaudiobible.com is home base and so is…so is the Daily Audio Bible app. That's home base as well. Either one of those will get you where you’re going. And that's where you find out what’s going on around here.
And I mentioned yesterday this coming Friday, which will be the third day of this brand-new month that we are moving into Jill and I are going to get on Facebook and do a Facebook live for a little while. That'll be at 6 p.m. central standard time, same time hear the rolling hills of Tennessee and that will be on the Daily Audio Bible Facebook page which you can find facebook.com/dailyaudiobible. And, so, we look forward to seeing you there for little bit in a few days. Mark that on your calendars.
And then reminding you, if you want to partner with the Daily Audio Bible, if the mission here is bringing good news and hope and life and community into your world, then…well…we wouldn't be here if we weren't in this together. That has always been the story. And, so, thank you for your partnership. There is a link on the homepage at dailyaudiobible.com. If you’re using the app, you can press the Give button in the upper right-hand corner or the mailing address is PO Box 1996 Spring Hill Tennessee 37174.
And, as always, if you have a prayer request or encouragement, you can hit the Hotline button in the app. That's the little red button up at the top or you can dial 877-942-4253.
And that's it for today. I’m Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here.
Community Prayer and Praise:
Hi everyone, this is Susan from Canada God’s Yellow Flower calling and I just want to share such a beautiful praise report. I'm three weeks past my surgery now but recovery is very very slow but it's progressing which I'm just so thankful for. Anyway, I have two sisters and we are very close. One lives five hours from here and she came and helped while I was in the hospital and stayed, you know, for a long time looking after the place and my son and did a wonderful job. Unbeknownst to me they had works in the plans to bring my sister down from the Yukon which is by Alaska, and I live by Toronto right on the opposite side of the country. And yesterday they surprised me with bringing my sister Diane and my niece down from the Yukon to here. I was so shocked I screamed. Oh, what a delight. What a delight. God is so good. I'll tell you I haven’t seen my sister Diana since COVID because, you know, it's the same with everybody right? And I've just been missing the three of us being together so much. I just praise God. Thank Him for wonderful sisters and family and all your prayers as well. Praise the Lord.
Hey DAB family this is Danny from Southern Oregon. Hey, I live in a really small town with farmers ranches and dairymen and when tragedy strikes it really affects our whole community and we just had another tragedy. So, I'm lifting both of these up to my DAB family and ask you to pray. The first one happened in the middle of March where a 15-year-old boy named Jesse was driving his car at a high rate of speed and hit a tree and he has some brain damage. He's not able to walk or talk. He had a helmet on thankfully or he probably would be dead. But he is a twin, and they celebrated their 16th birthday recently. It's just been really hard on the twin. It's been hard on the parents. He is in Randall's Children's Hospital in Oregon and it's just quite a distance from where we live. So, it's hard on the family to go back and forth. And then two days ago we have a 12-year-old boy ironically also named Jesse who was walking down the street with his sister, and he was hit by a car. He's got a broken pelvis, broken ankles and he is also in Randall's Children's Hospital and his dad is a single dad of five I believe and it's just been very very difficult for that family also. So, if you guys could please pray for both Jesse's from Bonanza I would really appreciate it. Our community is really just wrapping our loving arms around these families, but you know we just we need prayer for these guys. So, thank you so much. I love you. Bye.
Greetings DAB family this is Pamela Hopeful in Oregon it's May 30th and I just listened to the prayer request from the father in Southampton England for his daughter Emily that's being bullied and I just wanted you to know that I am praying for you and for her and I understand that we can certainly ask for prayer for her to be free from this mistreatment but in the heart I began to think that Jesus told us that we would face trials and tribulation and that He would equip us and so to face those. And, so, right now I pray in the name of the Lord Jesus that Emily would be equipped with power upon high, that she would be strengthened in her inner woman, and that she would be able to be…able to look at these people and have assurance in her heart that the things that they say to her don't go into her heart, that she is approved and accepted by the Lord Jesus and that You would grow her into a strong and mighty woman of God, that she would be able to have Power over the intended hurt. And I pray for You dad too, that You would be able to give her over to the hands of the Lord daily and watch Him do what He's famous for in Your daughter's life. Love you all family. I pray for you. Have a blessed day.
Hi Daily Audio Bible family this is Tara in Montana. and I would just appreciate your prayers for my daughter. We just celebrated graduation yesterday which is a happy time for many many families and Tori has a bit of a broken heart and is quite angry. Her dad which was my husband died a year ago and I think she blames me for that. I sent her home to take him to the doctor and she ended up having to do CPR and he died. So, there's trauma there. And obviously he was not here with us for graduation. And Tori is quite angry with me, and she didn't want me a graduation. She hasn't really talked much with me, and I have three other children and it's just a very disheartening and troubling and full of conflict on her end time. So, I would appreciate prayers for her heart, for our family, and for my heart as well. Thank you.
Hey DAB fam this is K from Columbus OH I'm calling…I'm just praying for the mom. I did not hear a name, but you asked for prayers for your daughter who's in 7th grade and wasn't making great choices but now she's deciding to and the friends that she decided not to be friends with did beat her up. God we come before You right now in the name of Jesus. I ask that You give this daughter spirit of David to be courageous when everything is falling apart. When it seems like all hell is breaking loose God give her the spirit of David, that You will surround her with Your angels, that no matter what we see what her daughter sees in the natural those kids are going to hear a roar from You the lion of Judah and they will back the heck up and they will not touch her, they will be scared and they will flee. The daughter’s not even going to understand what's going on, but God I ask that You just deposit that strength and that power and that holy boldness in her heart, that she will realize that God came and fought for me, He came to see him above me. Middle school is hard. My oldest son went to the same thing he did not want to tell me what was going on, but I prayed over him I fasted over him I anointed him with oil. Each and every day I had to trust that God heard my prayers and that He was taking care of my children and He did. So God I ask You go before this daughter and this mother and that she will make ways plain, those crooked ways straight, and that You would remove those bullies that are attacking her God, that You would do what You need to do, that they have to go before the principal’s office, whoever, make it plane God that she doesn't have to deal with them and she doesn’t have to live in fear, but I thank You that she gets up each and every morning and that she decides to worship You to go to school knowing that this is what she's going to have to…
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None Like You (Geralt x Reader) [Request]
hi! can you do a geralt one shot with fem reader where she's a princess and they start falling for each other? tysm! — Request by anon
Warnings: blood
Gif Source: frodo-sam
Your mother had raised you to believe you were someone of importance, but life on the farm had said otherwise. You toiled just like everyone else, bleeding and sweating. You were soiled, not spoiled. Yet your mother insisted you were a princess and told you outrageous bedtime stories to lull you to sleep in your youth.
You should have paid better attention.
When King Henselt’s only son died, leaving only a marriage and no heirs, you woke one morning to the pounding of a mailed fist on the door. Your mother answered and then hurried into your room, fluttering about like a mad woman.
“It’s time,” she cried, shoving you into your best dress and raking her fingers through your hair.
“For what?”
“To be someone.”
Then she bundled you out the door into the arms of a military escort carrying the Kaedwan sigil on their shields and tunics: a red-horned unicorn on a yellow field.
It took you the whole day to finally coax information out of your escort regarding the whole ordeal. When they told you what you were, you nearly fell out of your saddle in disbelief.
The king must be desperate, you thought as you tried to fall asleep beside the campfire.
Then the night turned bloody.
~~
Something crunched underfoot to your right. You huddled deeper in the hollowed tree, clutching the steel in your hands. The edges had sliced open your palms, but you didn’t care. It afforded you some protection, even if the creature had snapped the blade it came from like a twig.
Tensing, you waited for the sound to draw nearer, coiling to spring. It was just like killing chickens, you told yourself. One neat slice to the throat.
You leapt out of the hollow, slashing up and across.
The witcher caught your wrist easily, flinging the steel out of your hand. Stifling a cry, you cradled the injured hand to your chest, backed away from him. His eerie yellow eyes tracked you as you pressed yourself against the tree trunk, searching for an escape.
“What happened?” His voice rasped like feet dragged over gravel.
“Death,” you whispered, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the massacre. “Some…thing.”
“It’s dead now.”
You fixed him with a wary glance. “Truly?”
He grunted.
You nearly sank to your knees in relief. Pressing a hand to your mouth, you felt the cuts in your hand spasm. Fresh blood wept from the slashes, trickling down your arms. The witcher swept his gaze over you, eyeing the wounds. You fumbled with the hem of your dress, trying to rip the dirty fabric into strips.
“Did you fight it?” The surprise in the witcher’s voice drew your ear.
You wheezed. “I slashed it, yes, but fight? No.”
Rummaging around in the leaves on the forest floor, the witcher retrieved the broken steel, examined it. He swore.
Unease coiled within you. “What is it?”
“Come here.”
You hesitated. The witcher rolled his eyes and strode over to you, grabbing you by the wrist. His touch was firm but not tight, much to your surprise. You followed after him, feeling a little dizzy as he led you over to the road. A horse stood idly there, kind eyes inquisitive. It didn’t shy away as you drew near despite the smell of blood.
“Good horse,” you murmured, appraising it.
The witcher fumbled through a saddlebag, searching for something. At last he pulled out a vial and took your hands, tearing off the strips to get to your wounds. He poured the grey contents of the vial out before you could protest.
You nearly screamed, the pain in your hands was so excruciating. Lighting shot up your arms as the vial’s contents fizzed on your palms and in your wounds.
“To prevent the venom from killing you,” the witcher explained.
“If the pain doesn’t kill me first,” you hissed through gritted teeth.
A smirk tugged on the witcher’s lips, followed quickly by a frown. “What were you doing traveling with those soldiers?”
You hesitated again. What had you heard about witchers? That they fought for coin and hunted monsters. You had no coin, but neither did you know where you were or how to get home.
“King Henselt sent them,” you confided slowly. “They believe I am his bastard daughter.”
“A princess.”
You elected to ignore the mild groan in the man’s voice. “Can you take me home? The farm, not Aed Carraigh.”
His yellow eyes fixed on you again, white eyebrows beetling together. “You don’t want to go to the castle?”
“Is it safe? As safe as home?”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Then take me home,” you insisted. “I’m no princess.”
~~
The witcher smelled. You couldn’t ignore it, not with your face pressed into his back. He wasn’t made for traveling with someone sitting behind him. You could feel it in the tension of his shoulders and back, as though he couldn’t relax beneath the touch of your arms. You did your best to relax your own tense grasp.
You had run nigh over a mile before collapsing in the hollowed tree trunk. The horse covered the distance easily, passing by the smoldering, bloody encampment you had settled down in the night before. You watched it pass, glimpsing the heaps of bodies scattered about.
It took several hours to draw near home. Joy fluttered in your chest as you approached.
You crested the ridge overlooking home and went still, horror rolling through you. The farm house was ash and rubble, still smoking. The animals had been let from their pens, taken for livestock by whatever had rolled through the farm.
“Bandits,” the witcher noted.
Fighting nausea, you wandered down to the burnt house, searching in the ruins. The ash burned your hands and legs, but you sifted through it, yanking aside a crumbling beam.
Beneath lay your mother. What was left of her.
You retched off to the side, stumbling through the ash. You stood bent at the waist for an eternity before you felt the witcher watching you. Turning to face him, you wiped the sick from your chin. “I can’t stay here.”
He frowned.
Your mother had raised a practical woman, fantastic fantasies about your lineage aside. It was all you could think to do as you stood in the ashes of your dead life. One foot in front of the other.
“I have no money,” you confessed, “but if King Henselt sent for me, he can pay you to ensure my arrival.”
The witcher considered it. At last he growled and nodded.
~~
It would take four days to reach Aed Carraigh. The horse—named Roach, you learned—could only manage that distance in a shorter time if not burdened with two riders.
You sat close to the campfire, warming yourself in the flames, shaking not from cold but from fear as the night closed in around you. The night held terrors untold, but until the night before, you had never seen them in the flesh. Knowing they lingered out in the dark set your teeth on edge.
“I’m sorry to burden you,” you told the witcher, the silence too much to bear. You watched the horse warily for signs of attack, knowing the animal was likely to hear or sense it before you.
“Why don’t you want to be a princess?”
Taken aback by the unexpected question, you shrugged. “Why would I want to be one?”
“Riches. A comfortable life.”
“I had a comfortable life with riches untold. They just weren’t gold.”
“Gold is necessary.”
“Gold means nothing if your life is miserable.”
The words hung heavy in the air. The witcher averted his gaze, surprising you. Frowning, you rubbed at your arms, trying to make the hair on your arms stand down. His averted face gave you the opportunity to study his features. They were rough and worn, his brow creased from excessive glowering. He was all hard edges, a larger man than even the largest farmer you had seen. He appeared both comfortable and uncomfortable in his own skin, or perhaps your presence was upsetting him.
“Am I keeping you from work?”
“Are you always so concerned for witchers?”
You shook your head. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Yet there you sit.”
You bit your tongue, surprised by the sting of his barb. Something flickered across his stern features as you ducked your head. “Then tell me where to go and I will get there myself.”
“The road is dangerous.”
“Being a woman is dangerous.”
He almost smiled in surprise. You could see it dancing on his lips.
“So tell me where to go,” you insisted. “Then I can leave your remarkable hair.”
His eyebrows twitched. The silence stretched between you both for a minute, the fire crackling in the quiet. At last, he said, “I will take you.”
You almost gave away your relief with a sharp exhale.
~~
Though the witcher was a man of few words, you found you were able to read more from his face and the set of his shoulders than from anything he said. His silences were full of information, though you couldn’t be sure of what exactly. You merely knew that he radiated safety as much as he did danger.
“Do you know many princesses?” you asked him.
He grunted.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“I know one or two,” he said. “But none like you.”
You frowned, glancing down at your soiled dress. “Yes, I suppose I’m nothing like one. The people will be overjoyed with a farmer’s daughter.” You snorted.
“I think they could use one.”
Frowning, you glanced up at him. He didn’t quite smile, but the glower on his face had shifted into something softer.
“Well, when I am princess,” you said, “I will remember at least one person believes me suited for the job. That’s all that matters.”
A faint smile touched the witcher’s lips. You matched it with a slow smile of your own.
#Geralt x Reader#Geralt#Geralt imagine#Geralt of Rivia x Reader#Geralt of Rivia#Geralt of Rivia imagine#Henry Cavill x Reader#Henry Cavill#Henry Cavill imagine#The Witcher#requests
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Hey guys!
So a while back an idea entered my head and I wrote a fic on it and decided to post it here...... mind you this is my first ever fic and I'm super nervous about it 😶
Also, shoutout to @khaleesiofalicante for helping me with this ❤
Anyway, hope y'all like it 😄
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MAX’S FIRST BDAY
The doorbell rang, he was finally here. Alec opened the door and saw his parabatai standing on the other side. “What took you so long?” he asked Jace.
“What? I came here as soon as I could. What’s the emergency anyway? The party doesn’t start until later” Jace replied coolly.
“Yes the party doesn’t start until later," Alec said with a little exasperation “but there’s a problem with the cake”. He took Jace to the kitchen and opened the cake box.
“Um, Alec this is- “
“I know.”
“It’s explicit. Inappropriate!”
“I know” Alec sighed “I ordered a Smurfs cake and instead they sent this”. Ever since Max had watched Smurfs with his aunt Clary and uncle Simon, he had become obsessed with all things Smurfs related. So, getting him a Smurfs cake was a no-brainer.
Jace looked thoughtfully at the cake for a moment and then said “You know Magnus could just change this magically, you don’t need my help”.
Alec had considered this option but unfortunately for him, Magnus had gone to Queens to buy some potion ingredients for an important client. "By the time Magnus comes back, the party would have started and everyone will have seen this inappropriate, butt-shaped blue cake," Alec said.
Jace took out his phone and called up Clary. “She says she’ll be here in a few minutes, she’s an artist so she’ll know how to turn this cake around” Jace told Alec who now seemed a little relieved.
A few minutes later, Clary arrived with Simon in tow. “Simon was with me when you called so he tagged along. So there's a cake emergency I hear" she asked no one in particular and walked towards the kitchen so she could examine the cake. Simon followed her. She opened the box lid and peered inside. She looked up at the two men utterly scandalized.
"Wow, that is um… that is some cake I tell you," Simon said with a nervous chuckle.
“I ordered a different cake and the bakery sent this instead. Please just rectify it before everyone arrives” Alec pleaded.
Exactly at that moment, the doorbell rang again and Magnus entered. He was looking particularly majestic today, wearing a blue-green shirt with a peacock feather print on it.
He looked around and greeted them. “Hello angel-blooded ones, the party hasn’t started yet why are you here so early?”. He looked from one to another until his eyes fell on the cake. His eyes widened in horror/amusement.
Alec immediately jumped in. "There was a mix-up at the bakery and they've sent us this. I wanted to call you up but you were busy and I didn't want to disturb you and now we have this inappropriate-looking cake which will probably scar our son for life” he lamented.
Magnus looked pityingly at his adorable boyfriend. “Alexander dear, if something indeed scars our child for life, I assure you it won’t be this cake”.
Alec had an inkling that Magnus was referring to the treatment Max would eventually face in the future for being a warlock. He made a mental note to address it later.
Magnus took the cake out of the box. “Don't worry my darling, I will fix this cake in a jiffy". He rolled up his sleeves, took a knife from the knife stand, and got to work.
A few minutes later, Clary peered over Magnus’s shoulder. “Wow Magnus, you’re surprisingly good at this. Have you done this before?”.
Magnus snorted. “Yes I have biscuit, but it’s an old story involving me, a faerie, and a bunch of horny vampires”.
For some reason, Jace looked sideways at Simon when the horny vampires were mentioned.
Magnus stepped back and pointed at the cake with a flourish. The cake didn't exactly look like a Smurf but it was much, much better than the original. Alec could have wept tears of joy.
******************************
It had been almost an hour since the cake debacle. The living room was full of people. The whole gang was here along with Catarina, Maia, Bat, Lily, and his mother. Robert too had portaled in from Alicante. Jem and Tessa had appeared in projection form 10 minutes ago to wish Max and give him his present, which was a baby superhero cape.
They were currently cutting the cake. Izzy was clapping and hooting loudly, nearly scaring her mother and everyone was singing 'happy birthday’ in a slightly off-key tune. Magnus had picked up Max and was taking him around the room, helping him feed cake pieces to everyone.
Alec took a step back and looked at the room full of people with a warm feeling in his heart. Every person in the room meant a great deal to both Magnus and Alec. If 12-year-old Alec had known that he would grow up and fall in love with a warlock, much less have a family with him, he would have found it unbelievable. But then again, 12-year-old Alec had never dared to dream of having a future for himself. The Clave and its backward mentality had made sure of that.
They were all busy opening the presents and Max was joyfully squealing at the sight of so many gifts. Alec himself had spent days finding a gift for max and finally settled for a blue sailor onesie. Magnus, who always had a thing for giving the best gifts, had gotten Max a set of Smurfs plushies.
He was not as awesome as Magnus in the gift-giving department, but deep down he knew that the best gift he could give his son was acceptance and respect within the shadowhunter community. A kind of future where Max would not be unfairly judged for his demon heritage. That would require changing the Clave from the inside out. And he would do it. One day, Alec Lightwood would change the world for his boys. But that day was not today. Today was a day filled with laughter, joy, cake, presents and most importantly - love.
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tagging a few peeps-
@khaleesiofalicante @readingwonders @josiecarstairs @lxdyblackthorn @youngreckless @lqdyofroses @beclynn-herondale @jesse-is-spiralling
#pix's stuff#malec#lightwood bane family#tmi gang#max lightwood bane#magnus bane#alec lightwood#fluff
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It is not a dream, whatever they say afterwards.
...
She is born at the stroke of midnight, on the hottest day of the year. Anaire sweats and curses through the last week of her pregnancy. Fingolfin claims to have hauled blocks of ice down the Calacirya for his wife’s comfort, balanced on his broad shoulders.
But none of it matters, because the moment that little Aredhel, blood-slicked and howling, slips from her mother’s body, lightning flashes, thunder claps, and the heavens open up around her.
...
She is born in rain. She is born into a tempest that shatters trees and warps stone. She is born into the kind of elemental fury that cannot be taught, only experienced.
...
“There is not only joy to be had in life,” says her mother, once, tending to cuts on Aredhel’s back that were carved by a bear that Aredhel had attacked, armed with nothing more than a knife and her own courage. “There is duty as well, my little girl. Duty and kindness and love.”
Aredhel laughs instead of screaming. “The day I find love shall be the day of my death.”
“Do not say that!”
“I have seen it.”
“Aredhel!”
“Wish freedom for me, if you must offer me something,” says Aredhel, and rises, ignoring the blood staining her gown and the pain. “But not love, and certainly not duty!”
...
The gown had been white before it was ruined. Aredhel washes it in her own bathroom, scrubs and scrubs until her blood and the bear’s blood finally fade, until the sun has bleached the stains to nothingness.
Then she wears it again, braids her hair out of the way, and stalks into the forest.
She doesn’t return until she has tamed the bear into friendship.
...
Forever after, she wears white.
...
It is a reminder: life is a stain. It might begin clean, but it shall never end that way. The only thing to do is to wash it out, and to scrub until one’s arms ache, and to let the cloth dry out before being stained once more.
Aredhel learns many, many tricks to removing the stains.
...
I will have vengeance, or I shall have death, Feanor had snarled in the courtyard of Tirion.
Anaire does not ask any of her sons to remain. She does not even speak to Fingolfin. But she is in Aredhel’s rooms when she returns, sitting in the silent darkness.
“Do not go,” she whispers.
Aredhel remembers bears and blood and bitterness on her tongue. Her life in Aman has been a cage, glittering and golden, and if the world outside it shall be dangerous- well, she has a knife, and her own rage, and the knowledge to scrub out stains.
“Do not try to stop me.”
“Have you no love for a mother?”
“I will have freedom,” says Aredhel levelly, and watches her mother’s face crumple, and refuses to feel guilty for it. “I will have freedom, or I shall have death.”
...
(She does not tell that story to her father. The one time he asks- they all know where Anaire was, that last night in Tirion- Aredhel looks at him, steadily, until he turns away.)
...
There are unforgivable things. Those boats- well, Aredhel has never been a forgiving person, and she does not wish to become one now.
...
There are immense storms on the Helcaraxe. Aredhel hears, sometimes, Lalwen laughing so loud it sounds like a scream. She does not weep: she has not wept for many, many years. Even as her people- those she trusted, those who trusted her- fall like flies, Aredhel does not falter.
The tears would freeze on her face, and she has no time to brush it off.
...
When Elenwe dies, Aredhel allows her brother one night to mourn. She holds little Idril in her arms, soothing the shudders away, and doesn’t release her to anyone else. Her brothers are with Turgon; her father is tending to their people. What Idril needs is someone who remembers her.
The next morning, Aredhel wakes Idril, and she brushes the little girl’s hair out until it shines, casting more wood than strictly necessary to ensure it doesn’t freeze. Aredhel’s fingers are not nimble enough for the proper braids, but she manages a reasonable enough facsimile for her niece.
Then she takes her to Turgon’s tent.
“Get up,” she says coldly.
Argon is curled around Turgon, trying to keep him from fading through sheer force of will. He sits up when he sees Aredhel, eyes wide, and she bares her teeth.
“Get him up,” she says flatly.
“I don’t think that’s...”
“Get out, then,” says Aredhel, and doesn’t watch him scuttle out. Argon will bring someone- either Fingon, or her father- and all that means is that she doesn’t have too much time. She glances down at Idril. “Watch.”
It is four steps from the entrance of the tent to the bed. Aredhel takes the steel knife she once used to attack a bear with- the knife she’d left deliberately exposed to the elements- and places the flat very cleanly against Turgon’s throat.
Turgon jerks at the chill. Aredhel goes with him, fluid as water, so she doesn’t cut his throat but keeps the knife against his skin.
He is stronger than her. Aredhel lets him finally throw her off- though it takes longer than she’d expected- and waits, because Turgon’s thrashing has finally led him to catch sight of his daughter, his little daughter with her braids done in the Vanya style, looking like the miniature of her mother. The grief in his eyes is simply awful.
Aredhel waits.
And when he finally draws himself around Idril, sobbing but not the terrible, bone-chilling silence of an elf on the verge of fading, Aredhel leaves.
...
“You cannot save anyone,” Aredhel tells Idril, when Turgon finally allows her out of his sight. “But you can offer them a path back. Whether they take it or not is their choice.”
“The Burners,” says Idril, then- that’s what she calls the Feanorians, precocious child that she is- “will you give them a path back, then?”
Aredhel had loved Celegorm, and Curufin, and the twins, too. But she is not a forgiving person.
“If someone burns their bridges,” she says finally, “you do not owe them more tinder.”
...
(That is a lie.)
...
It is not that she is unforgiving.
It is that she does not wish to be forgiving.
...
When Fingon saves Maedhros, Aredhel visits the healer’s tent in the dead of night. She watches the agony of her cousin’s hroa, etched into his skin, and she does not feel triumph.
If she sees Celegorm again, she will fall into his arms, and she will forgive him everything.
But Argon is dead, and so is Elenwe, and so had they all come through the ice, embittered and betrayed. It is not that Aredhel does not want to forgive her cousins; it is that she fears what will happen if she does. She cannot spend her life waiting for a knife in the back.
Turgon wants nothing to do with them.
Fingon will not leave them behind.
And Aredhel does not wish to see another brother dead. She kisses Fingon, and she kisses Fingolfin, and she kisses Finrod and all his siblings, and then she disappears into the night with Turgon, having not spoken to any of her Feanorian cousins since before the Helcaraxe.
...
“Freedom is not a dream,” she tells her mother, once. “I don’t want it. I need it.”
“If what you wish for is total freedom,” Anaire had replied, “you will never have it.”
Aredhel thinks about her mother, who had loved to dance but been forbidden from it by her grandfather; she thinks about how beautifully Anaire dances in the privacy of their home. She thinks about the way Anaire has chained herself down to the thunder and fury of the House of Finwe, and she laughs.
“You would say that,” Aredhel tells her.
...
She builds Gondolin and she leaves Gondolin and she returns to Gondolin.
The day she finds love- the day she knows she finds love- is when she takes a spear meant for her son. It all cracks open and bleeds away, all the rage seething beneath her breastbone, all the fury she’s spent centuries tending to, all the anger that she’s never known the beginning or ending of, and Aredhel is burning with it, blazing, bright as the father who would soon ride to his death and the brother who would collapse under betrayal and the gods she’d once rejected.
She dies from it, of course, but Aredhel has never feared flame.
...
She is set free upon the river, her corpse dressed in the hands of the niece that she’d once cradled so tightly, her hair braided by the brother she chose to follow. To her son she has given her hairclasps; to Idril she has given the knife that once saved Turgon from fading.
(They say steam rose from her body, so great it enveloped all of Gondolin in a great fog for weeks to come.)
...
That knife- that trusty, small little knife- saves Idril and Earendil from Maeglin, atop the wind-battered tower of Gondolin, when Morgoth finally attacks.
...
Later- years later- Ages later- Aredhel falls into her mother’s arms once more. She is a mother now herself, and she has watched and walked beside and touched and loved dark things, and she is not the girl who’d walked into a forest to conquer her fear with not even a knife to defend herself. She was born in rain and died in a river, a High Lady of the Noldor. She was not felled by Morgoth. Poison took her at the end; not hatred, and not blood, and not flame.
She is the first of her family to be reborn.
“Was it worth it?” asks Anaire, once and only once. “Your dreams of freedom- was any of it worth it?”
Aredhel tosses her hair, bares her teeth.
Smiles.
“It was,” she says, “necessary.”
#my writing#silmarillion#tolkien ladies#anaire#aredhel#ig what i'm trying to explore here is how to live with the tragedy of never getting your heart's deepest desire#aredhel spends her entire life wanting freedom and never getting it#not in valinor and not in hithlum and not in gondolin and not in nan dungortheb#eol says in his speech to turgon 'let the bird go back to the cage where she will soon sicken again'#and that is just one of the saddest lines that i've read in the silmarillion#so instead of that i've made aredhel this gal who's absolutely furious abt everything all the time#we can deal w the sadness later
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#5 and SessKag 😬
HELL YEAH SESSKAG. Also hello best friend 🥲 you’ll be seeing this when you wake up so good morning 🥲
This one ended up a wee bit longer than the others lol
“Home stopped being a place when you entered my life”
#5 on the fluff prompt list
She’d met him at a party.
A Christmas party.
He stood stiff and awkward in the corner, a head and shoulders taller than everyone else, his crisp, fitted suit clashing with the silly holiday sweaters the rest of them wore.
“That’s my brother,” Inuyasha, her best friend and brother-in-law, whispered to her as he passed her a cup of punch, “we just reunited and the family aint too happy about it.” and she understood.
She made her way over, determined to bring him into the fold, or at least make him feel more at ease and welcome.
“Hello,” she greeted, his golden eyes slanting her way. “I’m Kagome, Kikyo’s sister. You know, Inuyasha’s wife?”
“Hn.” He responded with a nod in her direction. “Sesshomaru.”
“It’s so nice to meet you! Can I get you a drink?”
She watched his nose twitch discreetly as he scented the drink in her hand, and then his lip curled up just slightly in disgust.
“Oh, not one of these.” She giggled in response, “I know where they keep the key to the liquor cabinet.”
He relaxed just the slightest iota, and she practically beamed.
“Whisky on the rocks.”
“Coming right up!”
He sipped his drink slowly as she filled him in on every name, occupation and marital status.
Aside from Kikyo and Inuyasha, they had Koga, the bachelor bartender, Sango and Miroku, the married couple who owned a sweet shop, and..
“Me, and I’m a nurse.”
“No significant other?”
His voice, deep and rich, made the hair stand up on her arms in a pleasant way, but she resolutely ignored it.
“Nope! It’s just me.”
“Hn.”
He said little else, but she didn’t get the impression that he was annoyed, so she stayed near him as the party progressed.
“Bye everyone!” She called from the door when it was time to go. “It was so good to finally meet you Sesshomaru, I hope you’ll be around more often!”
He gave her a nod and a little smile, and she went home for a peaceful night’s sleep.
——
He was there for their next group dinner. Inuyasha warned them in hushed tones before he arrived that he may be in a foul mood.
“Things with the family have gotten worse. He barely talks so it’s hard to know what’s happened. I know they don’t like that he’s reconciled with me after they tried to completely shut me and my mom out for not being yokai, but I think there’s more he hasn’t told me. Just don’t be surprised if he’s moody this time.”
“As opposed to how warm and conversational he was at the Christmas party?” Koga quipped, laughing with Miroku and igniting Kagome’s fe mper.
“Well I thought he was nice!” she cut in, blushing when several sets of stunned eyes turned on her at once. “He was!”
“Yeah we saw you two getting cozy in the corner all night.” Miroku said, waggling his brow suggestively.
“We weren’t ‘getting cozy’ you insufferable letch. He looked lonely and uncomfortable so I talked to him. That’s all. And he was nice.” She shrugged, and then the conversation died as Sesshomaru himself swept in.
He took the only seat open, the one next to her, and Kagome felt her heart twist as he simply sat and covered his face with his hands, ignoring everyone else as they chatted and cut up.
Enjoying time with her friends felt hollow with such a wounded soul sitting next to her, but she knew so little about Sesshomaru she worried she might cross some unnamed boundary.
She took a large gulp of her drink and laid her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Sesshomaru… are you alright?” She asked quietly, speaking soft enough to avoid getting the attention of her friends but loud enough that he would hear. After a long moment where she was sure he wouldn’t respond, he pulled his hands away from his face and slowly reached into his pocket. He pulled out his cellphone and tapped the screen once, lighting up a photo of a cute, smiling little human girl with melting brown eyes.
She looked between him and the phone screen, unsure what he was trying to communicate, but certain it was connected to the cause of his dark mood.
“This is Rin.” He clarified, voice pitched low and for her ears only.
“She’s adorable.”
“Hn. She is my daughter.” He met her eyes, and the gold of his glowed firm and defensive.
Suddenly, everything made a lot of shocking sense.
“They don’t like that you’ve adopted a human, do they? Your family?”
“No. They do not.”
Pulling her purse off the back of her chair, Kagome retrieved her own phone. She scrolled through her pictures for just a moment, until she found just the one she was looking for: a grinning little Fox boy holding up a scribbly crayon drawing.
She tilted her screen over, and Sesshomaru leaned nearer to see.
“My son.” She said simply, and though his reaction was so subtle no one sitting any farther away from him than her would notice, Kagome thought she’d seen him sag in relief.
“We should get them together for a play date.” She suggested, and they exchanged numbers with plans to do just that.
————-
Rin and Shippo got along swimmingly, and, surprisingly, so did she and Sesshomaru. He’d grown comfortable enough with her that their conversation consisted of more than just her babbling at him and hoping he was listening. They shared their adoption stories, how they’d found their children and came to be their parents, the challenges that came with adopting children outside your species, he opened up about the backlash he’d faced from his family when he first brought Rin home, backlash he’d expected but hoped against hope he was wrong about.
“Once she warmed my heart and showed me the folly of clinging to the prejudices I’d been raised with, I reached out to Inuyasha in hopes of establishing a relationship with my only sibling. I’d never even met him before, as he and his mother were never allowed around the family before father died. Afterward, everyone acted as if neither ever existed. Likewise, Rin will never meet the rest of her relatives.”
Kagome watched the two children chase each other as they squealed with laughter. Uncomplicated fun between a yokai child and a human child. Completely different species, but alike enough to play.
“If she ever needs a grandmother, I’m certain my mama would take her right in. She’s loved getting to spoil Shippo.”
He smiled, small but true, and she went a little starry eyed at the beauty of it.
“Hn. I will keep it in mind.”
————
Play dates evolved into real dates, and though her friends teased them, they took it in stride. Quiet and controlled in public, Sesshomaru was soft and demonstrative with her in private. She’d never felt so secure in a relationship before, and the firm but nurturing hand he had with both children made them all feel safe.
They spent more time all together than apart, and soon life felt empty if they weren’t all together.
Sesshomaru occasionally came over with a dark cloud over his head after a particularly nasty clash with family, but she’d simply run her fingers through his hair until the knots of tension were soothed. He was a strong, yokai influence for Shippo to learn from; she was a tender human mother for Rin to thrive from, and when Sesshomaru asked if they could join their families together permanently, no question in her life had ever had an easier answer.
And no answer had ever had such drastic consequences.
News got out and around fast, and one night, less than a week after their joyous engagement, Sesshomaru and Rin showed up at her door with a suitcase each, and dour faces.
“We need a place to stay…. A place to live.”
“Oh my gods, come in both of you.”
They spoke nothing of it at first.
Kagome kept busy feeding the children, getting them bathed, and tucking them in together to giggle h see their covers before falling asleep.
As soon as their door was firmly shut, she sat at the table across from Sesshomaru and laced her fingers through his.
“I have been disowned and disinherited.”
Unsure what to say, Kagome simply squeezed his hand.
“They tolerated the fact that I’d adopted a human daughter, but they would not stand for me falling into my father’s footsteps and marrying a human woman. My choices were my standing in the family, or you.”
Tears filled her eyes as him being here could only mean one thing: he’d chosen her.
“Oh Sesshomaru. I’m so sorry.”
“As the house I resided in was family property I was no longer allowed to stay, and I was fired from my father’s company and stripped of all my rights to any part of it. I’m afraid I come here with nothing to offer you now.”
She stood and rushed around the table and into his arms, hunkering down into his strength, hopefully lending her own.
“Stop that. I don’t want anything but you and Rin. That’s all I need. I’m just so sorry you had to lose your home because of me.”
He rested his chin atop her head and let her scent calm him.
“My home.” He mused, looking around the tiny apartment he’d hoped to move her out of soon when they were able to merge their lives into one. It would be cramped with all four of them there full time, but it was already chock full of their memories. They would figure it out.
“My home stopped being a place when you entered my life, Kagome.”
She wept and he held her, one of the only treasures he had left in the world, while the other two slept soundly and happily in their bed.
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Suptober Day 3 - Rainbows
Somehow he is waiting for the Deluge to begin. Herds of animals are being loaded onto the Ark, and despite the stories that will be passed down generation to generation until they are transcribed as holy scripture, there are actually more than two of each species there.
Castiel counts at least a dozen goats being cajoled up the ramp and into the massive ship, followed by eight camels. Noah is a smart man; he knows that inbreeding is not good for the animals and so he and his family lure as many creatures onto the Ark as possible. Two is actually the bare minimum for every species.
Castiel stands far away, like last time. He is invisible to the eye, sent to observe humans, but not interact with them. Sometimes, far too often for his liking, he is forced to bring down God's wrath upon them. Castiel does not have free will, as Zachariah so often likes to remind him. Therefore, Castiel must follow the commands of the archangels without hesitation or question.
Yet Castiel has questions. He has doubts.
But he does not dare disobey.
The last of the animals are rounded up and Noah's family darts into the Ark, peering up at the ugly grey sky with worry. Only Noah himself remains outside, facing the crowd who has gathered to jeer at him.
"Listen to me!" the old man pleads with his fellow villagers. "If you will just trust me, I can save you! All of you!"
But his warnings fall on hardened hearts. Noah is too different from the crowd, too odd in their sight. Castiel has the feeling that if he were allowed to speak to the prophet, they might understand one another. They both, Castiel thinks, know what it is like to be an outsider.
The first heavy raindrops begin to fall, soaking Noah's tunic. The water does not touch Castiel, and as he looks, sorrow and regret fills Noah's eyes. The prophet turns, and has his sons and daughters raise the plank. No one else can join them on the Ark now.
The rains get heavier quickly, soaking the dry earth. The villagers grumble as they leave, trudging through squelching mud toward their homes, unaware that they will never make it back. They will have drowned long beforehand.
Noah, his wife, and children weep for the villagers who will die as the Ark begins to float in the swiftly flooding valley.
Then, Castiel notices some commotion in the distance. A young woman is struggling to wade through the deep rapids. In both of her arms she carries a child, in one arm a little boy, and in the other an even littler girl. The whites of the woman’s eyes are wild as she stumbles through the water, struggling to reach the Ark. The heavy satchel on her back is packed for a long journey - she alone had listened to Noah and believed, but traveling barefoot and carrying two children has slowed her down. She has arrived too late.
She screams something indiscernible to the far-away figures on the Ark; the water is up to her rib cage now. They do not seem to hear her. She will drown, along with her babies.
Castiel was sent to Earth to watch the human beings and to bear witness to Heaven’s eventual triumph over Hell. He is supposed to watch and report back on whether or not the humans are following the straight and narrow path that leads them ever closer to Armageddon.
He is not supposed to interfere.
The mother wails as she hoists her children up on her shoulders to save them, even if only for a few moments from the angry, churning water. Noah and his kin have spotted the struggling woman: they are trying to lower a rope or a basket. Whatever they do will not be fast enough.
Castiel cannot stand to watch. He shuts his eyes and moves.
He has no vessel to contain his raw Grace; the touch of him would instantly kill the woman and her children. But just a sweeping push of his massive wings in the water causes the Ark to bob wildly, juddering up and down on the waves with a sickening motion, and the sea rolls the mother and babies on a cresting wave that spits them out, just in time, onto the Ark’s upper deck.
Castiel is overwhelmingly relieved. He has saved them. He knows it has happened down to the very depths of his being, and so he opens his eyes.
But he is wrong. Where the woman and children had been moments ago, there is now only rushing water and the woman’s satchel, floating like a rotten log in the water. The people on the Ark howl with grief.
No, Cas thinks to himself in shock. No, that isn’t right - I’ve done this before. I saved them. They lived. This isn’t how it was supposed to happen!
Icy doubt seeps into him, a chasm opens somewhere in his heart.
Noah and his Ark float for forty days and forty nights in their wooden prison. The stories that will be passed down get that part correct. Noah communicates daily with God through prayer, and Castiel watches him with something that resembles envy.
On the day the Ark reaches land, Castiel feels one of his brethren approaching. It is Uriel, his grace fluttering just with as much hostility to equal the amount in his expression.
“You interfered, Castiel. It goes against The Plan. You knew this.”
Castiel looks over at Noah and his family, who are kissing the dry ground with reverence. “I could not save them anyway,” Cas replies, but the words feel somehow bitter and wrong in his mouth. Last time, he did save them, and when Uriel confronted him, he was unrepentant.
Last time?
This has happened before.
How many times have I been here?
What is happening to me?
Uriel cooly meets his brother’s eye. “Castiel. You are to report to Naomi, a specialist, for your insubordination.”
Castiel nods with reluctance. He has never heard of this ‘Naomi,’ but he has disobeyed, and has no doubt he is to be punished.
Before Uriel can force him to fly back to Heaven, Castiel looks up at the clear blue sky, the first one he’s seen in forty days. Something new and beautiful shines there, between the puffy clouds and the warm sun. It is a dazzling array of colors.
“It’s a rainbow,” Cas remembers, and in that moment, is struck with sudden unmitigated horror.
He has seen this before - no, not before, after now, after this particular day. After this first rainbow that shines for Noah, Cas will see rainbows thousands upon thousands of times in the following millennia. He lived through eons of loneliness and confusion, watching humanity and helping them when he could. And each time, Naomi re-wrote his brain, editing his angelic programming in efforts to fix something that was only considered broken by his superiors.
“I can’t be here,” Cas says aloud, sick to his stomach. “This is the Diluvian era. I’ve been through this already, thousands of years ago. I need to get out, I need to find, to find - Dean.”
The memories flood back. How he’d saved Dean, confessing his love in a desperate life-or-death gamble, and how Dean had wept as Cas had admitted that Dean was his one true happiness.
And then, Cas had been swallowed up by the Empty.
“Oh, figured it out again, already? Such a clever widdle angel.”
Cas whips around. The Entity, or Shadow; whatever It’s called, is standing behind him, wearing Meg’s face. It looks extremely displeased despite the bored tone It’s using.
Cas faces Not-Meg wearily. “You are going to keep tormenting me.” He’s not really asking, but rather waiting for confirmation.
“Yeaaahhh, probably,” It smiles, but there is frustration in Its eyes. “You’re just too much fun to mess with, Clarence. You’ll sleep once I know you’ve actually given up. I just have to break you first. But in the meantime,” It says, clapping Meg’s hands with false cheer, “Let’s send you back to that time you broke down the barrier in Sam’s mind! That one is classic!”
The ancient world around Cas fades to pitch black once more, but he stares at the rainbow in the sky until he can no longer make out the colors, repeating the same phrase to himself over and over each time he is shattered anew:
I love you, Dean.
I love you.
Dean.
I love you.
#Destiel#100000 destiel fics#castiel deserved better#castiel appreciation#ANGST#Sorry!#post 15x18#suptober21#othervorld writes
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KISS ME GOODBYE
pairing: daishou suguru x gn!reader
genre: angst, smidge of fluff, historical au
warnings: major character death, mentions of blood, war, death, and vomiting
word count: 1.1k+
dedicated to: the lovely @oikirstein and @hajigumi. i hope you both cry <3
You were used to seeing men like this—bloody, bludgeoned, and hanging onto their last breath. The first time you were sent as a medic on the battlefield, you nearly vomited from the sight and the horrendous smell. Even worse was the agonized cries of men who swore they’d return home from war only to lie on a cot made of wood and linen, tears running down their dirtied faces, praying to the higher powers to grant them one last chance.
After months of the same sights over and over again, you grew accustomed to these painful circumstances, but the soldier you tended to now was a bit of an oddball. Rather than glassy eyes and dry wails, a coy smile remained on his face even as you pulled bits of metal and wood from his damaged skin. His scuffed iron and bronze armor lay at the foot of the cot, covered in mud, blood, and vines.
Daishou read his family crest, gold and shiny under all the grub. He didn’t once scream or yell as you pressed a clean cloth to the gash on his side where a sword had gone through, nor did you hear any prayers or pleads fall from his lips. You didn’t expect him to turn his head towards you, watching you treat him with delicacy. You didn’t care for the stares you received from these men, numb to their wistful eyes, but something about his gaze made goosebumps rise on your skin despite the humidity of the camp.
If it weren’t for the war, you could picture the type of man he’d be. Young, charming, and cunning. The snake-like features that appeared once you wiped the sweat and soot from his face made your heart skip a beat, and it was then that you realized he was no older than you were. You grimaced; he should’ve been out living his life, not fighting the battles of the so-called leaders who promised safety if the nation worked themselves to death.
As you reached for the medicine on your work table, the gentle weight of his fingertips fell upon your wrist. You hummed in response, and the sight of his eyes, now dark compared to how bright they were earlier, made a lump form in your throat.
“Don’t,” he murmured. “It’s okay.”
You raised a brow, brushing off his words as a product of his head injury, but his hand wrapped yours, tighter now.
“Don’t,” he repeated. “Save it for someone else.”
You glanced around the camp, noting the other medics tending to the dozens of other soldiers. Most of them were in the same condition as he was, worse even, and you couldn’t think of anyone else to use the last of your resources on. What shocked you more was the fact that he even offered, compared to the previous soldiers you’ve had who begged for a little more ointment, a bit of gauze, or a drop of liquor to soothe the pain.
But Daishou pulled your hand away from your kit and kept it close to his chest where you felt the slow, faint beating of his heart. The longer you stayed, the weaker the beats became. You had a job to do, an oath you swore upon taking the job. There was no way you could let him die, not when the troops were growing smaller, and he had barely reached his twenties. Yet you couldn’t pull away, the gentle smile on his face locking your line of sight with his.
“Daishou-”
“Suguru,” he jumped in. “Call me Suguru.”
“Suguru.” Though you had only known him for less than an hour, his given name flowed naturally off your tongue, like it had been in your vocabulary for years.
“That sounds better,” he sighed. “I like it when you say it.”
“You don’t even know me or my name,” you snorted to which he smirked.
“Then tell me.”
You huffed. “L/N Y/N, and don’t you dare call me by my given name.”
“Y/N,” Suguru parroted. “That’s a nice name for a nice-looking medic.”
“Are you trying to flirt with me while you’re on the brink of death?” Your eyes widened as your teeth clamped down on your tongue. “Oh no, I’m so sorry. I didn’t-”
“’S okay,” he laughed, voice weaker than it was minutes ago. You had to crane down to hear him, your ear grazing over his lips. “It’s inevitable now. I will say this is quite intimate, though.”
Heat bloomed across your cheeks, equivalent to the glimmering sun that rose above the top of the camp’s tent.
“Say,” Suguru whispered. “As a dying man, I’d like to have one last wish fulfilled.”
“Oh?” You leaned back to look at his handsome face, idly brushing away the strands of hair strewn over his bruised forehead. “What might that be?”
“A kiss from the medic sitting beside me before I go.”
If the request had come from anyone else, you would’ve fought the urge to crinkle your nose in disgust. But something about these last few moments with a man you barely knew, how he managed to share a handful of laughs and charm himself into your heart before his would stop beating made you tip your head down until your soft lips pressed against his rough, chapped ones. You didn’t care if he tasted like salt and blood, or if this would be the next topic of discussion at dinner—you hoped to bring Suguru some peace of mind in his final moments, especially if they were with you.
As your mouth moved against his (he was idle by then), the tears unknowingly clumped in your lashes fell down your hot face, down to his cheeks that began to lose their warmth. This was the job you chose, you reminded yourself. Suguru was one of many soldiers whose stories ended before they began, and he wouldn’t be the last. Once you sat up again, his eyelids covered most of his irises, but you could still see the playful shimmer in them before it faded.
“Thank you, Y/N” he murmured, keeping your hand against his chest. “Thank you.”
He gave his final breath as his heartbeat faded until there was nothing left to feel. It was after you laid the honorary white cloth over his body, adorned with gold trim, and carried his armor to the basin of water outside the camp that you let yourself weep. You wept as you scrubbed the grime away, polishing it for his parents who couldn’t see their son’s face for the last time. You wept until it pained your throat, and your lungs burned with each breath, for the tears you spilled would be the first of many for the young soldier whose final moments lay in your hands.
#hanimehub#hqcorenet#daishou suguru#daishou suguru x reader#daishou suguru x you#daishou suguru x y/n#daishou x reader#daishou x you#daishou x y/n#suguru daishou#suguru daishou x reader#suguru daishō#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu x gen reader#haikyuu x you#daishou fanfic#daishou suguru fanfic#haikyuu angst#daishou suguru angst#daishou angst
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swoon june day 9: fairy tales
loosely based on the greek myth of orpheus and eurydice
rating: general (warning for character death); kanan jarrus/hera syndulla; 3.5k words
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There once lived a man who was blessed by the gods, and his name was Kanan.
Kanan was one of the Kasminauts, the fabled heroes who travelled with Janus to retrieve the Golden Flight. His skill with a blade was considerable and helped the group out of many a tight corner over the course of their quest, but it was his silver tongue that proved to be his most valuable asset.
Kanan’s divine gift had been bestowed upon him by Depa, goddess of the spoken word, and his was the gift of storytelling. When Kanan began a tale, all would stop in their tracks to listen. Men would pause in their work; beasts of the forest both great and timid would emerge from their dens; even the trees would inch closer to hear him. It was his way with words that allowed the Kasminauts to pass the Golden Flight’s devaronian guard, Jondo, as well as surmount countless other obstacles on their journey.
When their quest came to an end and the heroes returned home, Kanan decided to settle down. He found a cottage at the edge of a forest and he made it his home. Now this forest was not an ordinary forest, for it was inhabited by a clan of twi’lek nymphs, and it was during a walk along the forest’s border that Kanan’s ears caught the sound of the loveliest voice he’d ever heard. Enraptured, he sought out its source, and that was how he met Hera.
Hera was the daughter of Cham, the leader of the forest twi’lek. Her beauty and grace were indescribable, and Kanan fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. From that day he would come to the forest every morning to tell Hera one of his many magical tales, hoping to win her affections. What he didn’t know was that Hera already returned his feelings; she had heard of Kanan and his silver tongue, but wanted to see how far he would go for her.
The first tale he told was of an ancient order of noble warriors. His words painted pictures of elegant figures in flowing robes protecting the weak and caring for the needy. In his attempt to impress Hera he made it his best performance to date. So inspiring were his words that the forest itself felt inclined to grow. The trees pushed their roots further than they’d expanded in years and new saplings shot up in every direction, increasing the area the forest protected.
Kanan’s second tale was a tragedy, one of betrayal and loss and hardship. He made this one even better than his last, delving into his deepest reserves of emotion as he told it. So moving were his words that the ground itself wept. A new stream sprang from the forest floor, feeding the forest’s new growth, and the trees grew lusher than ever.
His third tale was of new beginnings, describing friendships forged and purpose found. His voice soared with his most powerful story yet and carried through the whole forest, uplifting every beast and being who heard it. That night there was much celebrating, with everyone who lived in those woods rejoicing in the life they had and the ones they shared it with, and by the following morning the forest’s population was inexplicably larger.
Hera, seeing her home revitalised and strengthened by Kanan’s tales, held no doubts in her mind of his devotion. She revealed her heart to him and they were married in a beautiful ceremony by the stream. The wedding was well-attended, with music and dancing from her people, drinking and laughter from the Kasminauts, and a special performance from Chopper, a bird that Hera had once nursed to health and who had stayed with her ever since. Kanan and Hera moved into the cottage at the edge of the forest, and they were blissfully happy together.
But it was not to last.
They were not the only ones who lived by the forest, and a man by the name of Azmorigan also desired Hera. His covetous feelings drove him to pursue her relentlessly, but never within sight of Kanan. One day, he waited for Hera to take her daily walk outside of the cottage and snuck up behind her. Hera, having been raised in the forest and knowing its sounds like her own heartbeat, heard Azmorigan approaching. She fled before he could touch her, but in her haste to escape, she did not watch her step. Her foot fell on the back of a ysalamiri lizard and it bit her ankle. The lizard’s lifeforce-suppressing venom seeped into her blood, and Hera fell to the ground.
Azmorigan fled, and it was evening before Kanan came to look for his wife. The man of such beautiful words was silent when he found her lifeless body. He was silent as he carried her back to the home they had shared, and the silence stretched for three days and three nights. Trees wilted, birdsong was half-hearted, and instruments would not hold their tune without Kanan’s words to lift spirits.
Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Kanan re-emerged. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn on his voyage with the Kasminauts, with his sword strapped to his hip and a small travelling bag slung over his back. He said not a word as he departed for the hills.
Kanan’s journey was a long one. He travelled out of the forest and over the hills, through fields and between mountains until he reached the sea. He took a boat and sailed over the horizon and beyond, until he found land again. He crossed arid deserts, frozen tundra and lush jungle. He saw fishing villages, market towns and cities in the clouds, but he never stopped, and he never spoke.
Eventually, he reached the cliffs at the edge of the world. There he found a cave, an opening that descended into darkness, which he entered without hesitation. The tunnel took him deep underground and far away from the land of the living. He walked, his footsteps echoing off the stone walls, until he reached a gate. Standing before the gate was a fearsome sentinel, the honourable guardian Garazeb, his eyes wide and alert.
It was now that Kanan finally broke his silence.
“I wish to pass into the Land of the Dead,” he said softly.
“That is forbidden,” Garazeb growled, his deep voice like grinding rocks. “Only the dead may pass this gate. As long as I stand guard here, no living thing shall pass me, in or out.”
Kanan thought for a moment. “Very well. Then perhaps I could make your endless watch a little less dull. For I am Kanan, a storyteller of great renown.”
Garazeb did not respond, merely fixing Kanan with a stony stare, but he was not deterred.
Kanan began his tale. For the gate guardian who saw people from all walks of life pass him on their way to the Underworld, he recounted long marches to battle, legions of feet falling in step, their thunder echoing around them. He drew his sword to emphasize his words as he described endless repetitive days of marching, camping, marching, camping, always surrounded by the same faces. Garazeb’s eyes followed the blade as he swept it from side to side in an almost hypnotic fashion, drawing the same shapes over and over. Soon, the mighty guard’s eyelids began to droop. Kanan did not end his story until Garazeb finally slumped back against the wall, slid down to the ground and let out a deep, rumbling snore.
Silent once more, Kanan stepped over the sleeping sentinel and passed through the gate. He shivered as he felt the change in the air that signified he had done what no other living mortal had done: he had walked into the Land of the Dead, the World Between Worlds, the Underworld. Only his blessing from Depa protected him from Death’s icy embrace here.
The tunnel continued onwards, filled with chill, damp air, and Kanan with it. As he walked he became aware of a distant noise, a rushing, roaring sound that grew steadily louder as he proceeded. The tunnel turned a corner and Kanan emerged into an enormous cavern through the center of which thundered a wide river.
On the near shore, where the rocks were wet with spray, a man waited with a boat. Kanan approached him and spoke once more.
“I wish to cross the River of Souls.”
The man looked at Kanan. His face was young, but his eyes were old, and his expression was as cold as the waters of the river.
“I only ferry the dead over this river, and only in one direction.”
“Has anyone living ever asked you for passage?” Kanan challenged.
The man narrowed his eyes. “No. Garazeb does not allow them to pass the gate.”
“So why would you not take me across? I have made it this far, after all.”
“This river washes away all souls who are not worthy of eternal life in the fields beyond,” said the boatman. “If you attempt to cross and are not worthy, you too will be washed away into nothingness.”
“That is a risk I am willing to take.”
“Hm.” The boatman considered Kanan. “Then you will pay me for your passage. I ferry the dead for free because they have nothing, not even their lives, but this is not the case with you. What can you offer?”
After his long journey Kanan had only the barest of essentials, but he knew that what he needed he always carried with him.
“I have no money with me, but I am known for my skill with words,” he told the boatman. “I doubt you have much cause for joy down here; if I can make you smile, will that cover my trip?”
“I suppose it will. But I cannot remember the last time I smiled, and you will not be able to change that.”
“We shall see. Before I begin my story, might I have your name?” Kanan asked.
“I am Ezra, bridger of the River of Souls,” the boatman replied.
Kanan began yet another tale. For the man who had companions every day but not a single one who would stay with him, Kanan told a tale of families, of belonging, of love. His words brought warmth into the air that was chilled by the river’s spray, and light into the cavern that was out of reach of the sun. When he reached the part of the story where the father went back for his son, the corners of the boatman’s mouth twitched upwards.
When Kanan pointed it out, the boatman grumbled. “It was barely a smile. More of a spasm. Doesn’t count. But I’ll suppose I’ll allow you over. Keep telling the story though, it’s a long crossing.”
So Kanan did; he told of the father rescuing the son, and taking him home, and wrapping the boy in blankets and reassuring him that he was safe now, that nothing bad would ever happen to him, and that he was loved. By the time they reached the other shore, the boatman was smiling widely, and a few tears had run down his smooth cheeks.
“That is your second smile,” Kanan told him, “and I will want to make the return trip.”
“Fine,” Ezra agreed, still smiling. “You have earned it.”
There was no tunnel on the other side of the river, but great, rolling fields under a black sky. A road wound between them which Kanan started down. Dimly, he could see pale figures wandering aimlessly over the land. None of them drifted close enough for him to see their forms clearly and he did not deviate from his path forward to investigate. He was close to his goal now; he could feel it.
The road crested a small hill and there before him was his destination: a towering construction of smooth black stone that glinted with a mysterious light. The Palace of Malachor.
The road to the palace entrance was not empty, however. His way forward was blocked by a young woman in full armour. In the dim half-light of the Underworld the armour’s markings were greyscale swirls of shapes and patterns. A matching helmet was tucked under one of her arms.
She caught sight of him immediately.
“You are not dead,” she accused. “You do not belong here.”
“I seek an audience in the palace,” he told her.
“And I seek justice, as I did in life. I will not let you proceed until you are dead.”
Having come so far, Kanan would not let this stop him. Not when he was so close.
“So we will duel,” he said, “and if you win, I will die. But if I beat you, you will let me pass.”
She considered him for a moment before nodding. “Very well. I accept your terms.”
She fitted the helmet over her head and unsheathed the blade at her hip. It was even blacker than the land around them, so dark it seemed to absorb light. Kanan drew his own blade, and their duel began.
The warrior was strong, and quick with her blade, and Kanan soon realised he was outmatched in skill alone. So he began to talk as their blades clashed, and for someone so young who needed so much armour, he told a story of acceptance. He described a young girl forsaken by her family, forced to strike her own path before she was ready. He saw his words have an effect as the warrior’s blows faltered.
He continued, describing the comfort and safety the girl found in the arms of people who accepted her for who she was, and who loved her unconditionally. Her parry went wide and Kanan’s blade slipped past the warrior’s guard to press against her neck. The tear that had blurred her vision fell from under her helmet to splash on his blade. She yielded, and true to her word, allowed him to pass her.
It was not far, then, to his final destination. The doors of Malachor opened to his touch and he stepped into the throne room. Before him sat Maul, Lord of the Underworld, and it was he Kanan addressed.
“O Great Lord of the Dead, I have travelled vast distances to come here before you. My wife, Hera, the light of my life, was taken from me too soon and now she walks in the fields outside this very palace. I have come before you to humbly beg for her return.”
Maul regarded Kanan with utter indifference.
“And why should I do that?”
Kanan took a deep breath and opened his mouth. He told Maul a story, the tale of his long journey to the Underworld, the lands he had crossed and the sights he had seen. He told of how he had surmounted the obstacles from the gate guard to the boatman to the warrior of the fields. He told all of this with his most magical of gifts, but Maul was a god, and unmoved.
He did, however, recognise Kanan’s voice.
“I care not for the trials of mortals before their demise, but you have done me a service in the short life you have led so far. In your love for your wife, you told stories which grew a forest and the numbers of those who live in it. Many of them have, in turn, died, and their souls have come to me. In return for this act I will grant you the chance to see your wife again.”
For the first time since finding Hera in the woods, Kanan allowed himself to feel a spark of hope.
“She is indeed in the fields outside,” Maul continued. “Go to the doors and tell one of your famous stories; she will hear your voice and will come to you. If you then walk back to the land of the living she will follow, and I will make sure none will stop you. But be warned: if you are to see her complete her journey, you cannot look at her while she is still in the Underworld. Do not turn around until you are both standing under the sun once again, or you will never see her again.”
Kanan bowed deeply in gratitude and thanked the Lord of the Underworld before departing his presence to do as he suggested.
Kanan went to stand just outside of the palace doors, and he knew exactly which story to tell: the story of his life. It was one Hera would know well, because she knew him better than he knew himself. He began his telling, and the slightest brush of wind encouraged him to start walking.
As he crossed the fields, he passed the warrior again. It was as he was telling of his childhood and of the importance of family and standing together. Her helmet was tucked back under her arm and she nodded at him respectfully, the faintest of wistful smiles at her lips. She gave no acknowledgement of anyone following him.
He reached the river and the boatman, whose face was back to its stony mask. The man did not hesitate as Kanan approached, remembering their agreement and giving Kanan passage back to the other shore. During the crossing Kanan told of the heartbreak of having everything he knew ripped away from him, and the boatman nodded along mournfully as he steered the boat. Neither when he boarded nor disembarked did Kanan feel the boat respond to anyone else’s movements.
He was telling the legends of the Kasminauts when he came up to the gate. The guardian was awake again and watched him impassively as Kanan approached, recounting his adventures with his brothers. The honour guard gave no indication that anyone was following Kanan but made no move to stop him from leaving the Underworld.
It was as Kanan started the uphill climb through the final tunnel that he reached the best part of his story. This was the part where his travels ended and he met Hera. The most beautiful, perfect woman, who healed him and loved him and gave him everything he needed. His words echoed off the tunnel walls along with the sound of a single set of footsteps.
Kanan had no idea if Hera was following him. He knew, he trusted, that if she had heard him and been able, she would have come to him in the field and would have stayed with him since. But what if she hadn’t? What if Maul had tricked him? What if the warrior had blocked her way, or the boatman had denied her passage, or the guard had closed the gate on her?
He could see the brightness of daylight just ahead of him. If he returned to the overworld now, he would never be able to return. If she wasn’t behind him, he would lose her forever.
He had to know. He could not leave without her.
And so Kanan turned, and was overjoyed to see Hera’s wraith-like spirit only a short distance behind him. But her expression turned to dismay as he looked, and even as he opened his mouth in reassurance, a shadow fell over her.
Maul.
“I warned you not to look,” he spat, face twisted in anger, “and what have you done? Now, you will look no more!”
There was a flash of red, a blinding pain, and Kanan felt himself flung backwards and out of the tunnel. He landed on soft grass and felt the warmth of the sun on his face, though no light came through his eyes. He knew he was back in the mortal realm. He knew he could not return to the Underworld. He knew he had shattered his chance to retrieve Hera.
He cried out in pain and frustration and grief.
But then warm arms gripped him and pulled him into a solid embrace, and a voice spoke in his ear.
“Kanan?”
The most beautiful voice.
“Hera?”
He reached up to where the voice had come from, and his fingers traced an achingly familiar face. Tears tracked down her cheeks, but she was here, with him, alive again.
“Oh, Kanan, your eyes!” she cried. “He has ruined your eyes! How will you see?”
But Kanan smiled.
“I do not need my eyes to see you,” he told her.
And so they returned to their cottage at the edge of the forest, and to their happy life together. Though he was blind, Kanan could still tell his stories, and Hera still loved him deeply. The tale of how Kanan’s love for his wife had driven him to retrieve her from the depths of the Underworld was one he told to many generations of twi’lek in the forest, and it was even more popular than the legends of the Kasminauts.
He was still telling it when, well into old age, he recognised that his time had come. This time, Kanan and Hera travelled together into Death. They greeted the gate guard, the boatman and the warrior like old friends, and hand in hand they stepped into the fields, ready to spend eternity together.
#kanera#kanan jarrus#hera syndulla#orpheus#eurydice#orpheus and eurydice#swoonjune2021#star wars rebels#star wars: rebels#swoon june#pretchwritta#fic
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What was your first?
So a horse walks into a rehab and says “ouch”. And not a lot. Then a great deal. While also saying nothing. It’s BoJack, in rehab, and going about as well as you might think!
“The Stopped Show” may not have been much about BoJack, but “A Horse Walks Into A Rehab” makes up for it by being 99.9% BoJack, setting aside the brief appearance of the other characters to set their stages for when we get back to them. Diane’s in a shitty motel, Todd’s in a seedy alleyway, Princess Caroline has her porcupine baby, and Mr. Peanutbutter continues to deliver cheer while everything around him burns AND drowns. I’ve now touched base with them about as much as the season premier, and we’ll get busy ignoring them.
As I said, BoJack is the star today, and we continue his quest for ... what, exactly?
Trying to pin it down, that “what is BoJack looking for” question, it’s a lot harder to answer than I expected, which marks another instance of me fucking myself, GOOD JOB ME.
I initially said “punishment”, but that isn’t true, or a least, is too easy. BoJack wants accountability for his actions -- which is a very different thing than punishment -- but he wants it in a way that also absolves him from having to do any work to rise above it. So you’d think he’d love this, the constant claim in rehab that he’s powerless. It seems like the answer to everything, a blanket pass to excuse his behaviour because he’s powerless. Why doesn’t he? I’m not sure I’m entirely clicking with the heart of that, so come with me as I have a poke at it.
For one, I doubt very much rehab would begin and end with “you’re powerless, oh well”. Addiction is some nasty business, but in and of itself, it’s a symptom, not the problem. That in mind, we swing back then to BoJack having to put in the work, only now it’s with the removal of his favourite coping mechanisms.
I think what he was hoping to get out of rehab was more along the lines of “Vodka is a naughty irresistible siren who topples even the most noble of men, but if you cross your eyes and click your heels, you’ll be free from her spell forevermore.” And yeah, no.
I think we get some of that in how, for a while, rehab seems to suit BoJack.
To the point I very specifically said to Doc as I was watching this, “Oh shit, did BoJack just become even MORE insufferable?” He’s okay so long as he has the comfort of the scripts and the regimented plant therapy and the same hike every day. When he starts to get fucked is when he has push further, when he has to work harder, when the treatment demands MORE.
“I notice you tend to deflect when I ask you about the source of your addiction,” his therapist says, causing BoJack to immediately deflect, first with a joke and then, when that doesn’t work, attacking the entire system. Getting to the root of his problem is the last thing BoJack wants, to the point where the entire episode ITSELF is one giant deflection. I made a joke in passing up there about our passing moments with each of the other main characters, but that’s actually it, that’s the heart of this episode.
Each of these are efforts by the episode to deflect what’s going on NOW, tempting us with something shiny and interesting, if only we’d take the bait. I ONLY JUST MADE THIS CONNECTION WELL FUCKING DONE SHOW
And of course, there’s Jameson’s story, which is part deflection, part contrast. She’s intended to appear at first like someone BoJack can relate to, a Sara Lynn Pt. 2 that he wants to save and in whom he sees so much of himself. In equal parts, he’s the adult trying to guide her and the force enabling her, and I’d have to do a bit more thinking on whether I thought his success with her was about him walking both sides of that line, or Jameson just, at the end of the day, being lucky. Either way, it’s also not really about her, so much as BoJack talking a really good game at her, while giving her all the tools to make the worst choices.
Which is, I think, where the episode finally settles. BoJack’s choices have been his own, but they aren’t made in isolation. Throughout this episode, we get moments, presented in reverse chronological order, that could on their own answer that key question: When was the first time you drank?
To settle your nerves to get through a scene everyone was counting on you to nail?
To fit in with the cool kids at high school?
To win your father’s approval?
What’s brilliant to me about each of these flashbacks is that the further into the past we go, the more willing we are to absolve BoJack. In the first, he’s a professional actor required to kiss an attractive and consenting fellow professional in the course of a performance. Nervous? Makes total sense. Getting plastered to do it? LESS SENSE.
The high school one is the most damning, which I adore. BoJack’s the butt of some light bullying by the jock, and I don’t mean to completely dismiss that it sucks, but the remainder of events before he starts in on the beers shows he’s hardly an absolute social pariah. And even if he were, once he begins to drink, BoJack doesn’t just become the life of the party, he becomes cruel (demonstrating quite well that jokes aren’t his only tool of deflection). Worse, that he KNOWS he’s doing it, but cares more about his positive attention than their negative. Still, BoJack’s a kid and peer pressure is a hell of a thing. This isn’t a good look, but it’s also not damning, if he’d come to learn from it.
Now we jump the line to, I’d guess, ten or eleven year old BoJack, who walks in on his father having an affair with his secretary, but too young to recognize what he’s seen. Butterscotch can’t take the risk though, so he effortlessly manipulates little BoJack into getting drunk and passing out, then uses BoJack’s shame about it to keep him quiet on the whole evening. UNDER THE GUISE OF BEING HIS FRIEND AND DOING HIM A FAVOUR BY THE WAY. No question, Butterscotch is a son of a bitch, and the only thing BoJack did wrong here was crave his parent’s love.
Even with the high school one being a little more grey, they’re all pretty cut and dry. Remember that we’re following the thread of “When was the first time you drank?” and to land on the answer “When my unrepentantly dickish father lied to me to save his own ass” puts a pretty solid punctuation mark on the whole affair. Addiction may not be at fault, but Butterscotch Horseman is. Case closed, we can go home.
BUT WAIT WHAT’S THIS
Right at the end, when you think we’re done, there’s one more flashback. A party of some sort, possibly New Year’s. The house sounds empty, there’s only the looping of the record player, stuck repeating the same five seconds again and again and again. Butterscotch and Beatrice are passed out drunk, judging from the empty bottles around them. Was it a good party? A bad one? She has her back to him and they’re about as far apart as they could get while still remaining in the room, but also, nothing’s broken? It’s impossible to know.
What we do know is that BoJack, aged about where we saw him in the “Free Churro” flashback so maybe seven or so? Very young, at any rate, and he’s alone. There doesn’t appear to be anything in the room for a child, so it’s probably fair to say he wasn’t included in the festivities. Did he have something to do instead? His own party maybe? Friends to play with, someone to watch him? Did he even get dinner? From what we’ve seen, “no” is a much more likely answer to any or all of these.
AND NOW THE FIRST TO PUNCH YOU IN THE HEART
Tiny BoJack knocks back several gulps of vodka (like a fucking pro, may I add), then crawls onto the couch next to his unconscious mother, pretending for just a few minutes that she’s cuddling him until he, too, will fall into a drunken slumber.
RIGHT SO WHAT THE FUCK DO WE DO WITH THIS JESUS WEPT
Had you told me “Just wait, seven year old flashback BoJack is going to muddy the hell out of this” I wouldn’t have ... okay, well, I know the show, so I probably would’ve believed you, but I would’ve been preemptively grumpy.
This isn’t his fault! But it is! This isn’t his parent’s fault, but it super super is! Nobody MADE BoJack drink the vodka, as the scene goes to great lengths to show. There is nobody to tell him to do anything at all. Beatrice is three fucking sheets to the wind, she has no idea he’s there and he could have pretend cuddled all night AND stayed sober. Did baby BoJack, like adult BoJack, take the drink to calm his nerves for an expression of physical intimacy? Would baby BoJack have even known that was an option? Remember, this is framed as the answer to the question “When was the first time you drank?” Not “took a drink”, but “you DRANK”, the phrasing of which I think is important. It’s all about the root of the problem. What I get out of that question is then is “the first time you drank to numb yourself”.
Baby BoJack is looking at this disaster, this mess that is his every day no matter how many party hats and streamers you stick on it, and he wants anything else at all. So he turns to the easiest thing he knows will take it away the fastest. The situation isn’t his fault. The opportunity isn’t his fault. But the response IS, in a way that EVEN AS I SAY IT, makes me feel shitty.
CONGRATS BOJACK HORSEMAN FOR MAKING ME SEE A LITERAL CHILD SLAMMING BACK VODKA STRAIGHT FROM THE BOTTLE AND MAKING ME GO “okay, but”.
SEASON SIX SHOULD BE A WALK IN THE PARK
#jet wolf watches bojack#it’s no wonder the answers for bojack are so hard to find#when even the goddamn QUESTION requires a dissertation and three hundred caveats#oh i didn't have a place for it really in this essay#but i love the use of the space/planetarium overlay when bojack is really wrestling with his urges
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“Basile's "She-Bear" is of further interest for its depiction of a mother's involvement in her son's choice of a bride. The portrayal of the mother-son relationship, in this aspect, is much less common in the romantic folktale than the like situation between father and daughter. In Basile's story, the matter is highly comical. The intensity of the mother's devotion is evidenced by her consent, at her lovesick son's request, to allow the pet bear to serve as his nurse. Preziosa is thereby able to demonstrate her own devotion to the prince and her virtue as a prospective wife, thus winning the mother's blessing for their union.
Most striking, though, is that Preziosa's resumption of her human form occurs in connection with her granting of the mother's request (at the son's urging) that she kiss the prince in his sick bed to keep him from fainting, out of unfulfilled desire. As the she-bear is kissing him, the splinter falls out of her mouth--"I don't know how," so the narrator roguishly avers. Thus, the mother's role here, like that of the father in a number of stories of the animal suitor type, is that of matchmaker or go-between (the type of the ruffiana from the commedia dell'arte); and the fun concerns the point that a doting mother would accept even a female animal as a daughter-in-law should this be her beloved son's passionate wish.
A variation on this theme of the mother as go-between is found in another of Basile's stories, "Belluccia" (III, 6), where the mother helps the son discover whether the youth who has been sent to keep him company during an illness, and with whom he has fallen in love at first sight, is not in reality a maiden. Portrayals of mothers bending their efforts to see that their sons are not disappointed in love appear to be lacking in the Grimms' collection. There are, however, depictions of true and tender love between a mother and a son. In "The Little Shroud" (KHM 109) a mother grieves so over her seven-year-old son's death that he appears to her in his funeral dress and begs her to desist, because her tears prevent the shroud from drying and he thus can find no peace in the grave. Prior to this scene, the child returned from the grave at night to visit the places where in life he had sat and played, and when the mother wept, he wept too.
A similarly touching love between mother and son is depicted, as we have seen (Chap. 1), in "The Juniper Tree" (KHM 47). There the mother's wish for "a child as red as blood and as white as snow" is fulfilled with the birth of a son (not a daughter, as in the Snow White story). Her joy at his birth is so great, though, "that she dies" and, according to her wish, is buried beneath the juniper tree under which her cutting of her finger while peeling an apple gave rise to the wish for a child. Moreover, she appears to have identified with that tree during her pregnancy as she watched it, too, blossom and bear fruit. When the son then suffers under the resentment and abuse of his stepmother, his halfsister Marleenken's devotion compensates him for the loss of the mother whom he never knew.
The association of the stepsister with the dead mother is suggested, however, only after the stepmother has murdered the boy. Marleenken ties up his bones "in her best silken scarf" and lays them on the grass under the juniper tree: "And when she had laid them there, she felt at once so much better and did not weep any longer. Then the juniper tree began to stir, and the branches spread themselves apart and then came back together again, just as when someone is so very overjoyed and does the same with his hands." A mist came forth out of the tree, and out of the mist a beautiful bird that "sang so magnificently and flew high into the air; and when it was gone the juniper tree became again as it was before; and the scarf with the bones was gone. Marleenken though became quite happy and delighted, just as though the brother were still alive."
The half-brother's reincarnation as a bird and his subsequent return to human form, after his revenge on the stepmother, thus result from a collaboration between Marleenken and the dead mother, and as a token of their shared devotion to him. The half-sister therefore appears almost to be the dead mother's agent, as the boy's angel of rescue (cf. Marleenken as "Little Mary Ann," i.e., as a little heavenly and virginal mother). Portrayals of a mother's reunion with her son in connection with his discovery of a bride are found in at least two of Basile's stories. In "The Padlock" (II, 9) there is, indeed, a hint that the mother's feelings for the son, on his arrival at manhood, involve a tinge of incestuous desire, since at the end we learn that the son's absence from home and his amorous involvement with his eventual bride resulted from a witch's curse to the effect that he "should wander about far from his homeland until he might be embraced by his mother and the rooster would not crow any longer."
The spell is broken only after the following events have occurred: the girl with whom he has slept finds her way unwittingly to his mother's castle; she gives birth to a beautiful son, whom her former lover comes mightily to adore; a lady-in-waiting overhears him exclaim during these secret visits, "Oh, my most beautiful little son, if my mother knew! She would wash you in a basin of gold; she would wrap you in swaddling clothes of gold. If the song of the roosters were silent, I would never leave you"; and the youth's mother, on hearing about this from the lady-in-waiting, has all the roosters in the city killed, and when the son returns the following night, she embraces him. As the narrator reports, "As soon as he found himself in his mother's arms, the spell was broken and his affliction was ended."
This enigmatic close of the tale suggests that the earlier developments in the story--which concern the youth's appearance to the girl at the well as a handsome Moorish slave boy, her seduction by him, his rejection of her when she contrives to discover his true appearance, and her subsequent wanderings while pregnant with his child--are the result of an emotional crisis regarding his attachment to his mother and his awakening sexual desire. What causes him to show himself again to the girl is the birth of the son, and evidently because the boy's arrival fills him with sweet memories of his relationship with his mother. The words of devotion he addresses to the infant son project his longing to be adored and embraced by his mother; and now that he has become a father, this proves indeed to be possible again.
That the mother, though, first takes the precaution of seeing that all roosters in the town have been slaughtered suggests that she feels the danger of incestuous desire is still present. In any case, it would appear that the son had to become a father before the "curse" of an incestuous desire could be broken, laid to rest, or sublimated. In Basile's other tale of a mother's happy reunion with her son, "The Dragon" (IV, 5), the nature of her relationship to the youth appears far less enigmatic, and seemingly quite innocent. Here the mother, Porziella, is protected from starvation and death, and ultimately released from solitary imprisonment, through the loyal efforts of a magical bird. The bird is actually a fairy whom Porziella, in turn, had saved from being dishonored by a satyr as she lay slumbering in a forest.
The fairy's motivation in her efforts on Porziella's behalf is somewhat ambiguous, however. In rescuing her benefactress, the fairy also wins Porziella's son Miuccio as her husband. Moreover, it is odd that the fairy did not manage, or even attempt, to repay Porziella in kind by preventing the latter's violation by the misogynous king of Altamarina. Instead, she only restrained the king's arm when he attempted to slay Porziella with a dagger after he had raped her. Miuccio is the fruit of the king's violation of Porziella; and the fairy's secret feeding of her during her ensuing imprisonment makes possible the boy's birth and his survival.
Therefore, we may suspect that desire for an ideal mate lies behind the fairy's actions. When Miuccio reaches adolescence, he is "adopted" by the king as his page. The queen's envy of this rival for the king's affection is thereby aroused; and this paves the way for the happy ending. The envious queen is destroyed; the king marries Porziella; the fairy asks, as her reward, to have Miuccio as her husband; and the two couples presumably live happily ever after. The whole of the fairy's involvement in the story may be read, too, as magical wish fulfillment on Porziella's part. Her rescue of the fairy from violation by the satyr may hint at virginal sexual fantasy in anticipation of her own rape by the king.
The fairy's restraint of the king when he is about to slay Porziella after having violated her may reflect a fantasy on Porziella's part that her beauty alone would suffice to save her from death (the king, at least, believes that it is Porziella's beauty that held back his arm). Her rescue through the magical powers of the fairy may represent a dream of being saved by her son. And the fairy's marriage to Miuccio may fulfill Porziella's own vicarious wish. In the stories discussed above, the mother tends to be instrumental in bringing about the son's marriage to his beloved. One also finds, however, the opposite situation in which the mother somehow stands in the way of the son's further involvement with, or marriage to, the maiden of his choice. This potentiality of the mother-son relationship is usually depicted in connection with the motif of the false bride.
Thus, in "The Drummer" (KHM 193), a youth who has just rescued a maiden from imprisonment by a witch takes leave of the girl to go home so that he may tell his parents where he has been. The girl warns him not to kiss his parents on the right cheek; but then, in his joy at seeing them again, he fails to think of her admonition. Having greeted his parents with that fateful kiss, he promptly forgets the beloved entirely. The mother meanwhile has selected a bride for him; and as a devoted and obedient son, he agrees to marry the girl of his mother's choosing.
This same situation is found in Basile's "The Dove" (II, 7). Here, though, it is specifically a kiss from the youth's mother that causes him to lose all conscious memory of the maiden he has just rescued from the clutches of a jealous witch (in this case, the witch is the girl's mother). Moreover, the girl's mother, because of her own possessiveness regarding the daughter, is responsible for that result, because it is she who places a curse on the youth to the effect that with the first kiss Prince Nardaniello receives--from whomever--he will forget his beloved Filadoro completely.
In another of Basile's tales, "The Golden Tree Stump" (V, 4), the youth's mother--here it is she who is the witch--sets about openly to destroy his desired beloved and attempts to marry him to a repulsive bride who brags about her promiscuity. The youth, Tuoni-e-lampi ("Thunder-andLightning"), takes both his beloved and the revolting bride to the wedding chamber, slays the bride with a knife, and sleeps instead with Parmetella. His mother, on discovering this (and that her sorceress sister and her child have perished in an oven) repeatedly rams her head into a wall until she has burst her skull.
Finally, in Basile's "The Face" (III, 3) another case of direct intervention by the mother ends tragically. On the wedding night, the son stabs himself after having kissed the false bride and then having recognized, in the page whom he had invited into the bridal chamber, the true bride (she died of a broken heart at witnessing his betrayal of her love). The mother, having already picked out a wife for the son, had summoned him home with a letter claiming she was on the point of death--a letter that arrived when the lovers were, as the storyteller reported, "in the midst of their pleasures." As we have observed, depiction of fathers' attachments to their daughters is more typical of the romantic stories in Basile's collection than in the Grimms' tales of love.
Moreover, such depictions as are found in Grimm's Fairy Tales tend to occur in stories that the later German collection has in common with the earlier Neapolitan one, such as Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and Thousandfurs (Allerleirauh). The reason is surely that the subject easily offended the sensitivities of a later age and more northern, puritanical climate. In late Renaissance Italy, by contrast, a father's, guardian's, or uncle's foolish love for his pretty daughter, ward, or niece became the dominant subject for comedy. Pantalone, the old fool in love, was the principal figure in the commedia dell'arte of Basile's time. While magic usually plays a role in Basile's tales of the father and daughter type, it is not employed to veil the father's passion nearly to the extent it does in the Grimms' stories.
The Neapolitan Renaissance author depicts the older man's devotion or jealous love openly as well as more frequently. In Basile's Sleeping Beauty tale, "Sun, Moon, and Talia," as in the Grimm and Perrault versions, the daughter pricks her finger and falls into a magical, deathlike sleep. Basile, though, has the father and daughter in a more intimate relationship, living together in a secluded sylvan palace, while Perrault and the Grimms have her living with both parents in the father's royal residence. And in Basile's other story about a father's worry over a curse or prophecy about his daughter, "The Face," the father goes so far as to lock her away in a tower. The Cinderella tale, meanwhile, represents a case in which the father's devotion emphasized in Basile's "The Cat Cinderella" has been transferred almost entirely to the dead mother in the Grimms' story, while Perrault completely did without this element in his version.
Further, Basile employs the Cinderella story a second time, in "The Little Slave Girl," to depict an older man's devotion to a maiden, in this case an uncle's passion for his adored sister's daughter. To be sure, both the Grimms' "Allerleirauh" and Perrault's "Donkey-Skin" baldly depict a father's incestuous love of his daughter, as did Basile earlier in "The She-Bear." Here the exception proves the role, though, because this tale renders the father's passion less offensive as resulting from his grief over the death of his beautiful, beloved wife, with whose beauty only the daughter can compare. Moreover, Perrault and the Grimms made the fathers' feelings toward the daughter very tender. Thus, Basile's father does not bother to prove his devotion and try to win his daughter with gifts, as he does in the Grimms' and Perrault's versions, but simply and immediately orders the daughter to come to his bed.
Whereas the existence of a type of story focusing on a father's devotion to, or jealous love of, a daughter is evident, the same cannot be said for the theme of a mother's passion for a son. There are, to be sure, occasional depictions of at least innocent devotion of a mother to her son, as in the second half of Basile's "She-Bear"; and his "The Padlock" and "The Dragon" may hint enigmatically at even deeper, illicit emotional currents. Yet while fathers are expected, by popular tradition, to be sweet on daughters and mothers to dote on sons, and while, in a patriarchal society, a father might be excused or accepted as a fit subject for comedy if his passion for the daughter exceeded the bounds of propriety, depiction of a mother's incestuous feelings toward a son was wholly unacceptable, in the poetic imagination as well as in the prose of everyday life in early modern Europe (and basically remains so even today).
Thus, in the commedia dell'arte the older woman's role was quite different from that of Pantalone, the older man chasing "sweet young things" who were usually his daughters, nieces, or wards. Instead, the older woman was typically the ruffiana, or matchmaking hag, who participated only vicariously in young love. This role as go-between, or facilitator, is indeed that played by the mother in Basile's "The She-Bear." The older woman's place in fairy tale romance, however, usually was involvement rather in the affairs of young maidens in love; and it is to the description and analysis of this role that we now turn.”
- James M. McGlathery, “Fathers and Daughters.” in Fairy Tale Romance: The Grimms, Basile, and Perrault
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An Enchanted Kiss (Part 1)
An Enchanted Kiss
Alright, let’s see if I can do this…
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This is a story that took place long ago.
A story of about loneliness... sadness… understanding... love...
Between a young Winter Sprite and a Spring Nymph...
This is their tale...
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Once there lived a young couple, a summer Fae named Ava and a Winter Sprite named Trent. The two were madly in love with one another and desired to start a family together.
For many years, the couple have struggled to conceive a child.
Until one day, Ava felt something stir in her womb. This both shocked and delighted the pair, for now they had a chance of starting the family they longed prayed for.
The pregnancy, however, took a toll on the Summer Fae. She could feel ice build within her veins with each passing month of her pregnancy. Her unborn child is already proving to be a powerful Winter Sprite.
Strong enough to freeze her from the inside out...
With a steely resolve, she knew she wouldn’t survive long after the birth. With this in mind, she informed Trent of her possible demise.
The Winter Sprite was heartbroken to her the news that he would be without his beloved, but heeded her words of wisdom about how to care for their child when he or she was born.
Despite the pain, Ava still glowed with the warmth of the summer sun. She constantly doted on her expanding belly, singing and speaking kindly to her unborn child.
It wasn’t until one fateful day, she felt a painful contraction and liquid leak down her leg.
Her child was ready to see the world.
In their home, Ava went through several long hours of labor. She could feel the cold spread more rapidly, causing her blood to grow sluggish. Trent attended to his weakening wife’s every need.
Even suffering a mangled hand and she pushed their child into the world.
Their faces lit up at the sound of their child’s first wail of life. Trent quickly cut the cord that connected mother to child and proceeded to clean the babe.
“It’s a boy,” he whispered to his tired wife, tears of happiness and heartbreak running down his face. Ava raised her arms.
“May I...” Never one to deny his lovely wife anything, Trent handed off their son to her. Ava gazed down at her son, whose cloudy red eyes gazed sightlessly back at her.
“He... he has your eyes,” she whispered, caressing the babe’s soft cheek. Trent pressed a kiss to her temple.
“And he looks like he’ll have your hair color,” he whispered back as the young boy fell asleep in his mother’s arms.
“He’s beautiful,” Ava said softly, the cold began to slowly numb her senses.
“What would you like to name him,” Trent asked, gently squeezing her freezing hand.
“Talbott... his name is Talbott,” Trent smiled.
“Talbott... it’s perfect,” he said. Ava gave her husband one last adoring look, squeezing his hand back.
“I love you, Trent,” she whispered. Trent willed himself not to cry in front her, knowing she wouldn’t want him to feel sad.
“And I you, my beautiful Swan,” he replied, placing a chaste kiss to her cheek. A week giggle escaped Ava’s lips at the gesture.
She placed a kiss to her son’s forehead.
“I love you, my little Talbott. Forever and always,” she told the sleeping babe. Ava could feel her heart slowing down and suddenly felt immensely tired.
She gave her husband one last smile before closing her eyes, submitting to her eternal slumber.
Trent pressed another kiss to his wife’s cold forehead, a lone tear running down his cheek. He then took his sleeping son in his arms so he could rest in his nursey.
Then there were two...
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Years would go by and Talbott grew up to be a quiet handsome boy.
He inherited his father’s red eyes and sharp facial features but had the same skin color and hair color from his dear mother.
He was told what happened to his mother after he constantly questioned his dad about her whereabouts. Trent didn’t want to break his son’s heart by telling him what really happened to her but when he asked if she abandoned them, he broke.
Talbott balled in his father’s lap when he understood what has become of his mum. It was almost impossible to calm the weeping child. Until Trent remembered a gift left behind by his late wife. Leading his son to his bedroom, Trent searched the drawers until he found what he was looking for.
He dusted off the box before handing it to his sniffling son.
“What’s this, dad,” the young boy asked, wiping his teary face. Trent gave his son a small smile.
“A gift from your mother...” Talbott stared at the plain brown box before tentatively opening it. A white feather necklace.
“Your mum was an Animagus, meaning she could transform into an animal. Her Animagus form was a Swan. She wanted to leave you something to remember her by,” his father explained. Talbott gave his dad a teary smile before on the necklace. The young child hugged his sire.
“Thank you, dad. I love you and mum,” he mumbled into his chest. Trent let out a shaky breath before returning the hug.
“And we love you, Talbott. Always...”
-----------------
“Dad, dad! Guess what, I can d-” The excitement that flooded the young Winter Sprite was replaced with devastation.
There laying in bed was his father. He held a wood drawing of his late wife to his chest. A single tear streak was found on his ashen face.
Talbott quickly rushed over to his side, trying to find a pulse. But there was none.
Talbott wept over his dead father’s body, pleading with him to come back. To open his eyes so he could show him his new ability to turn into a Golden Eagle. That he inherited another gift from his mother. To watch him smile and laugh as he flew overhead.
A gaping hole was felt right where his heart was. Frost was building in his veins as a snow storm quickly began to form outside his home.
Pulling away, Talbott stared sightlessly at his father. With a flick of his wrist, Trent’s body levitated under a cushion of snow flurries.
Talbott got up and walked out, with his dad’s body trailing behind him. With his destination in mind, the young man walked in the snow that was quickly picking up speed. But he paid it no mind.
For it can’t compare to the cold emptiness building within his chest.
Some time would pass until Talbott reached a lake. Heading towards the massive weeping willow, Talbott stood in front of a familiar ice gravestone.
This was the place his mum was laid to rest.
It would only be right if he were to give his dad the chance to be with her again.
Using his magic, Talbott slowly lowered his dad’s body towards the ground, watching as nature seem to swallow it body home. As if they were claiming one of their own once more.
Talbott erected another gravestone of ice, this time with his father’s name one it.
The young Winter Sprite stood there for some time. Not saying a word as his magic swirled around him.
The only thing he could think of was now his parents were together again.
But he was left alone.
His passive face morphed into glare.
And if he had to be alone, then the entire world will feel his loneliness as well…
————————————
Few days later, miles away from the Winter Sprite’s home was a Spring Nymph. Her name was Judith.
The young girl was her father’s pride but her mother’s disappointment.
Kendrick, a Summer Fae, and Sade, a Fall Pixie, only were together out of circumstance.
The Summer Fae had intentions on leaving since he didn’t believe the relationship was going anywhere until the Fall Pixie said she was pregnant with his child.
He cared the pregnant woman and helped her through the birthing process of their child. Kendrick may have not knew love with Sade but he couldn’t help but to fall in love looking into his daughter’s droopy gold eyes.
While he was happy to have a daughter, Sade detested the young babe. She knew Kendrick didn’t love her.
Last thing she wanted was a child that reminded her of this.
Few months after the birth, Sade left.
She didn’t leave a note as to why.
Kendrick wasn’t sure how to feel about her disappearance. While he wasn’t sad or angry, he felt worried that his child wouldn’t have a loving maternal figure.
But his little princess didn’t seem bothered at all. So neither was he.
Judith grew up to be a beautiful young woman, almost her father’s twin.
The Spring Nymph proven to be a ray a sunshine. Kind and gentle. Graceful and beautiful.
She was singing and dancing in the forest. Birds responded to the sound of her voice and flowers blossomed by her feet where she danced. Even some of her magical creature friends came out to play with her.
She giggled as she watched her Knarl, Porlock, and Fairy dance around her.
Though it all came to a halt when a cold breeze brushed past her. Her body shuddered at the sudden cold touch.
“How odd… Winter ended not too long ago, why is suddenly getting cold in the beginning of Spring,” she mumbled aloud. Her creature friends took note of this as well, huddling closer to her for warmth.
She gently hushed them and quickly made her way home where they could stay for a bit.
“Papa,” she called out as she walked inside. Her father popped his head out from the kitchen.
“Hello, baby girl. Is something wrong?” Kendrick can see the crease of worry in his daughter’s brows as her lips were pulled down in a small frown.
“I think there’s something wrong, Papa. The temperature outside seems to be getting colder for some reason… do you mind if Ash, Baron, and Lily stay here for awhile?” Kendrick cocked his head to the side upon hearing this. Of course he allowed the creatures to stay in their home.
It was the cold he was curious about.
Stepping outside with his daughter beside him, Kendrick let out a full body shiver. Gold eyes narrowed out of concern as he spotted dark snow clouds rapidly coming their way.
“This is no ordinary winter snow, baby girl. This has to be the work of a powerful Winter Sprite,” he informed as he quickly ushered his daughter inside again.
“Papa, there’s something different about this… it’s like I can feel loneliness and heartbreak mixed in with the magic,” Judith told her father. Kendrick rose a brow at this.
He always knew Judith was a sensitive soul, so to hear this was intriguing.
“I want to find the person behind this,” Judith said. Kendrick looked like he was ready to argue but stopped when his daughter hugged him.
“Please Papa. I promise I’ll be safe…” Kendrick frowned, slightly conflicted. He didn’t want his only child to get hurt, or worse, freeze at the hands of this Winter Sprite. But he know how determined his little girl was. She would probably sneak out on her own if he said no.
He let out a sigh.
“Fine. But you better stay safe, you hear?” The Spring Nymph nodded against her father’s chest before getting on her toes and placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.
“I will, Papa. I’ll be back soon…”
——————————
Talbott was trekking through the snow, watching his power cloak the world in ice and snow. The cold temperature didn’t faze him as it did the wild life around him. Magical creatures ran away from him to seek shelter from the bitter cold.
“Hey!” Talbott paused at the sound of a female voice calling out to him. He turned to see to a girl around his age.
Judging by her attire, she was a Spring Nymph.
‘A beautiful one at that...’ the Young Winter Sprite thought with narrowed eyes.
Still.
Just because this girl was one of the most stunning creatures he ever seen, he can’t find it within himself to get close to her.
“What?” Judith blinked at the harshness in the Winter Sprite’s tone. One of the first things she noted was how handsome the boy was, ever with his glaring red eyes...
“Please Winter Sprite, cease this journey for eternal cold.” Talbott’s lips formed a sneer as he let out a hollow laugh at the sound of her plea.
“And why should I do that, little Spring Nymph? I was left alone! My mother died bringing me into this world and my father joined her just days prior. I have nothing but this ice in my heart! And this world will feel the same as I,” The Winter Sprite snarled, stepping menacingly towards her.
Gold eyes widen at the ice flurry building in Talbott’s hand. Judith was quick to dodge his attack, wide eyes staring at the ice shard that now stood in her place.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I want to help! You can come and live with me and my father,” she said slowly as she saw the Winter Sprite charging another attack.
“I don’t want your pity. And I don’t wish to hurt you either... but I will if you continue to stand in my way,” he replied smoothly. Which was true. He didn’t want to hurt her at all.
Something about her felt right. Like if he were to be wrapped up in her arms and see her smile, he’d melt like an ice cube on a summer’s day.
But he feared growing attached to her. People in his life will always leave. His fragile heart couldn’t take another hit if he let her in and she did the same.
“I can’t let you freeze the world,” the girl said, pulsing green energy came to life in the palm in her hand.
Talbott gave a cold smirk.
“I would love to see you try to stop me, darling,” he chuckled.
And the battle begun.
------------------
“Come out, come out wherever you are, little Spring Nymph...” Judith could her the taunting sound of the Winter Sprite’s voice as she hid behind a tree.
She has no idea how long they’ve been fighting but she could feel the exhaustion being to set in.
Along with the biting cold surrounding her.
Her magic helped kept her warm enough to handle the cold but with her spending energy in putting up shields and attacking, she began to numbing cold. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep this up. She would have to escape and try to fight another-
She gasped with she felt a cold hand on her shoulder and was swiftly turned around to meet red eyes.
“Found you,” Talbott purred. Talbott had no idea why he made his presence known to the Spring Nymph.
He could’ve just froze her on the spot without her trying to fight back.
But he wanted to get closer for some reason.
He could smell the sweet fragrance coming from the flowers in her hair. Despite her shivering, he could still feel the gentle warmth radiating from her soft skin underneath his hand. Even with the panic in those pale gold eyes, they reminded him of the sun on a summer’s day.
Radiant and warm.
Judith could feel a blush steadying rising in her cheeks as the Winter Sprite seemed to being studying her face. With him even closer now, she could see his handsome features up close. His ombre hair was slicked back to reveal the sharp features of his face. The intense glare of those red eyes reminded Judith of thorny red roses.
Beautiful but harmful if you’re not careful.
Not even the frown on lips can hide their fullness. Judith licked her lips out of nervousness, which grew worse when Talbott’s eyes zeroed in on her’s.
‘They look as soft as the petals in in her hair... maybe even softer...’ Talbott silently mused to himself as he unconsciously leaned closer. Judith’s eyes fluttered closed as the Winter Sprite got closer. Both unsure where this was going but eager for the possibility nonetheless.
She could feel the coolness of his lips brush against her warm ones when the Winter Sprite was blasted away from her.
“Judith!” She gasped when a pair of arms scoop her up bridal style and she was carried away. Judging by the familiar warmth, her Papa found her.
Peeking over the man’s broad shoulder, she could see the glare being sent their way by the Winter Sprite.
As well as the hand touching his lips...
-------------------
Talbott didn’t appreciate the sudden attack from the towering man who seemingly came out of nowhere, stealing the little Spring Nymph away. While he never saw the man’s face, judging by same locs and skin tone, that man could’ve been her father.
Talbott couldn’t help but to rub his lips out of wonder.
He didn’t plan sharing the near kiss with the Spring Nymph, who he now knows goes by the name Judith. He acted out of impulse.
Something in him shattered with he caught the motion of her tongue wiping over her plump red lips.
He only wanted a taste. A taste of what being with her could mean.
He was no fool. He knew he couldn’t truly harm her like he threatened to do. Some small part of his frozen heart wouldn’t allow it. A small part that she thawed.
Despite his harshness towards her, she meant what she said. She didn’t want to hurt him. While he threw ice daggers and beams at her, she didn’t retaliate.
She mainly threw up shields to protect herself, aim her magic near him so the snow would engulf him or for her plants to grow in attempts to restrain him.
Talbott can see the kindness in her heart. After all, who offers their home to a stranger?
His hesitance to harm her and the almost kiss proved that he felt something towards her.
While he was still planning on cloaking the world in ice and snow, he was considering on making her his Queen.
He knew she felt the connection between them, she wouldn’t have gave into him so easily.
He would just have to find out how much...
Transforming into his Golden Eagle, he flew after the retreating pair.
#hphm#harry potter hogwarts mystery#hogwarts mystery#hphm au#hphm mc#hphm jacobs sibling#jacob's sibling#jacob's sister#judith harris#kendrick harris#hphm talbott#hphm talbott winger#hogwarts mystery talbott#talbott x jacob's sibling#talbott x mc#talbott winger x jacob's sibling#talbott winger x mc#ava winger#trent winger#an enchanted kiss#an enchanted kiss au
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Forever’s Not So Long
(hi, major apologies but I actually wrote something canon compliant and it hurt lol. also preface: this is not me advocating for or demeaning religion or Catholicism. my family is Catholic but I don’t call myself religious. I just listened to DeVotchKa and cried over Billy)
TW: mentions of Catholicism, questioning religion, implied/referenced domestic abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, major character death
(it’s also on AO3 if you’d rather read it there)
---
Billy never understood it: going to church every Sunday when he had cartoons and corn flakes and PJs at home. He never understood having to wear his fanciest, itchiest shirt, especially because only the one would do so his mother had to wash it and iron it every week- even though she burned herself on the iron a handful of times through all her distractions. He never understood wanting to go somewhere where they told you what to do. It was all they ever did there, and there were few things he hated more than being told what to do. Stand and sit and stand and kneel and sit and stand and sing and speak speak speak. There were too many words he didn’t understand. There were too many people talking at once. There was too much and yet not enough going on to the point that he felt under stimulated and overwhelmed and desperate to crawl out of his skin and that incredibly itchy shirt.
There was no sense to be found in his grandmother either, and the way she clutched at her bible on her way to church. They used to drive her every Sunday, but then they moved further away and trips to church got less and less frequent until they stopped altogether. Still, she walked herself to church every week, some weeks every day. Billy only knew because his mother complained and worried herself sick over it. His grandmother insisted she wanted to. She had to.
“Just because you lost your devotion doesn’t mean I’ll lose mine.”
It took a couple years for Billy to understand the words.
And still it was nonsensical. So many questions of why sped through his head.
Billy would spend some weekends at his grandmother’s house and on those weekends, she’d drag Billy to church with her small wrinkled hand on his limp and sore arm. It didn’t matter how old he got- he was 9 and insisting his parents had let him stay home before and still she made him walk with her there. Stand and sit and stand and kneel and sing and speak and speak and speak.
“It’s good for you.” She insisted. Billy thought wistfully of TV and his grandmother’s pet cat that would lay next to him on the couch.
And on those Sundays, as Billy stood bathed in the bright light of the morning sun slipping through the colorful windows, somewhere in the middle of all those serious people, in his itchiest shirt that had wrinkles in it because his mother had been too sad to work the iron lately... his grandmother wept. Every time. Wept silently, tears spilling down her cheeks in rivulets of quiet emotion Billy couldn’t understand for the life of him. Eyes shining brightly, drowning in something indistinguishable, speaking the same words as everyone with a hushed voice like a promise to the world or herself or maybe someone Billy couldn’t see.
Billy never understood. More than that- he never forgave. He couldn’t help but turn angry eyes onto the building around them and the man at the front and the book gripped tightly in her hands. Too many factors in his grandmother’s anguish over something he couldn’t even understand.
But some moments etched themselves in Billy’s mind, and brought themselves to light on quieter days, in quieter moments of reflection and wondering. Moments when she would grasp his face… when she held out her shaking hands and stilled them on his cheeks, wet with tears because he was just a toddler and he watched a cat die in the street and he couldn’t understand. When she looked deep into his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like one of those promises and shed a tear for him and pulled him close. When she brought him over to light a candle to whisper a promise. When she gripped his shoulder and guided him to the kitchen to get a treat. When she prayed over her ice cream and over his too… maybe it made sense.
The time she introduced him to friends at church that smiled bright and friendly smiles and said “what a good kid”. The time she guided him through the church in the early morning when they got there before the service and she explained every picture and every story. The time she made him that fish pot pie that warmed him up from the inside out, because Easter was quickly coming and she explained why they couldn’t eat meat as they sat in front of the window and listened to the rain.
All the times she gripped her beaded cross over his bedside when he would fall ill, and closed her eyes tightly and rocked back and forth with it when one of the sicknesses got more serious. When he recovered just fine, and she laid a necklace with a woman on it over his neck and onto his chest- that same woman he saw everywhere in the church, the Mother. And then she looked at him with teary eyes and a watery smile as she allowed him to run off to play.
Maybe… maybe then, it made sense. In fractured moments of love and cherish, he could understand somewhere inside of him. Sometimes the devotion he saw in her eyes and felt in her actions made his heart feel right in ways words couldn’t describe. And those times, he could almost understand, as her passionate belief licked his wounds.
And he tried to hold onto that. Damn did he try to hold onto it- he’ll tell that to anyone. But it angered him still. Kind and beautiful moments never overshadowed the pain. It drove him wild with confusion and sadness and maybe something close to fear if he thought about it. At times he saw her as a woman possessed- obsessed and clinging to words and wishes and pleas of humanity. She clung to her book instead of taking her medicine. She yelled at his mother as she cried to her, begging her to listen. She walked and walked and walked even when she could barely keep herself up. She accepted rides only when she was begged to.
She gave her book to Billy’s mother one morning, after she had finally convinced them all to join her at church again. She handed it over with shaking hands and healthy eyes- healthier than Billy had seen them in a long time. Bright and clear. A smile that was a comfort. A look that was so serene.
She died suddenly the next day. His mother got a call from the neighbor who had gone over to check on her and ask if she wanted some baked goods. His mother wept the rest of the day and tried desperately to hide her tears behind smiles in front of Billy.
And Billy feared the book. Then he hated it. Then… he craved it.
A classmate mentioned the death of her own mother in class. She walked like she was in shock still. There was sadness in her movements. Billy learned the word “mourning”. He felt the despair encapsulate his heart as if he was mourning too- could imagine the pain and the sorrow and feared ever losing his mother. He remembered when his grandmother helped him understand death, so he wandered to his parent’s room and over to the book. He snuck in and stole it away and read what he could- the start of the world and the good deeds and the stories his grandmother once told him in the church.
He read about sacrifice.
Seven feet…
He read about hope.
You told her…. The wave was seven feet.
He read about humanity, and compassion, and understanding.
You ran to her… On the beach.
And he wanted that with him.
Yelling matches began. Infrequent until they weren’t. Crashing and shattering began. Quiet until it wasn’t- until it made its way nearer and nearer to his room. Until words became wails of despair and agony to “stay away from him”. When Billy began to clutch the book in shaking hands, began to rock back and forth, began to mumble words to himself he still wasn’t sure he understood.
Until he started taking sacrifice seriously. When his mind decided things were literal.
Stop it! Don’t hurt her!
Because she sacrificed. He heard so much. He figured sacrifice happens in lots of ways, in many forms. And he could sacrifice, too- get between it as well as his small body would allow. For the good in the world, and he saw a lot of good in the world, and she was the brightest.
So he could sacrifice.
But then she stopped. The book didn’t prepare him for when she would give up.
He wrestled with it for years.
How long? How long?! I miss you…
He thought sacrifice was a thing that always happened for the good. She told him he was all the good in the world- he was the sun and the moon and the stars and the Earth. He was every fantastical being. He was the light in her days.
But then she was gone- in a sudden and dizzying whirl of memories and pain, she became intangible. He watched, tired and dizzy from sleep, in the late late hours of the night as a cab raced her away from their home and into the darkness. It was an attempt to sneak away. Not even one last hug.
She left without her son, and Billy couldn’t fight the thoughts that in her flight, he became her last sacrifice.
I don’t understand… why not? Please Mom, don’t do this…
And he fought with himself more than anyone. In less than a month he was dodging jeers and anger and resentment and pain. He found himself mourning. He clung to the book while his ears rang from the yelling. He clutched it with red and shaking hands, clawing into the cover with desperation. He held it to his chest and begged for it to help him. He laid in bed and listened closely for the sound of the liquor bottles being slammed onto counters and he held the book. He mumbled the words he knew. He wondered if his grandmother could hear him up in the better place- if she was disappointed that he got the words wrong or just proud of him for trying.
Phone calls were frequent until they weren’t. Bruises weren’t frequent until they were. Billy clutched at his chain and the pendant and let hot tears hit his arms for the only Mother he had left.
And then the anger rose again. He quickly realized how he never forgave, and never should. How he couldn’t. Tears to books weren’t worth it- they only wrinkled the pages and blurred the words.
Sacrifice wasn’t worth it. Not when it involved leaving him in hell anyway.
Loud music drowned it out. He could make his ears ring all on his own.
Fights numbed it. He could bruise his body up on his terms, or bruise another body just the same.
Pushing away feelings fixed it. It can’t hurt to be someone’s sacrifice if you don’t care about them.
There were seagulls.
And he didn’t care.
He shoved the book in the back of his closet. He berated himself for ever thinking the words were real. He kicked himself for believing words and pleas were safeguards against anything physical. He sat and wondered to himself angrily, angry as all of Hell and every wretched being inside it, how he could remember his grandmother’s empty tears and think it was sane. Think it was reasonable. How he could experience her death and think it was understandable.
Fuck feelings and wanting and pleading. He didn’t care.
Not then.
But now...
She wore a hat… with a blue ribbon.
Now now now...
A long dress… with a blue and red flower.
Days have been gray for years. He also left his sun. He didn’t pack it with him.
She left him then she left him and then he left her too. Left it all behind.
Y-yellow sandals… covered in sand.
But he never found a way to leave behind the memories. Even when they fade in pulses, they don’t leave him. In the dark of night, he sees them. In the light of day, he sees them. In the sunshine and the shadows.
He sees them now.
She was pretty.
He sees her and her smile. Feels her and her warmth. His body has been so cold for so long… has been freezing for days but maybe also for years. He’s been cold for so long. But the chill of the ocean that he remembers like he turned 9 only yesterday… he remembers that differently. He remembers that’s different.
Her laugh is a song and her eyes hold prayers. The sand is so soft beneath his feet. The seagulls are calling him home.
He feels tears and he sees them too… on another face, bloodied and saddened and desperate as the flames of Hell themselves. Desperate, perhaps more like the clouds of a more promising place, beckoning him to something better.
Maybe desperate like the Earth. Like the trees and the leaves and the grass. Desperate like a human.
She was really pretty.
Yes… yes she was.
She was the sun… she was the sun and the moon and the stars and the Earth. She was every fantastical being. She was the light in his days.
And just because light fades, doesn’t mean it can’t come back. The book has told him. Told him light can return. Told him light is there if you only search for it. Told him sacrifice is for light.
Oh god that book… Where is it....
He’s been in the darkness for days. Weeks months years. There’s been so little light. But there was one… one that came into his mind when he was wallowing and forgetting himself. A girl, who held her hand out and looked at him like a human. Made him feel human for the first time in a long while. Let him shed a tear before the monster took over him. Let him show her all the fears of his life.
And that light is here now, talking him out of himself… now now now-
And you… you were happy.
Yes.
Sacrifice is for others. Sacrifice is for those who depend on you.
Sacrifice is for the light brushing his cheek. For the child in his heart still, begging in pleas he’s borrowed from his grandmother.
He stands on shaking legs, with the light of the sun in his heart and with hot tears filling his eyes, and he wishes with all of him that he had that book. His fingers twitch at the memory of feeling it in his hands. His heart lurches at all the memories- memories of women who held him close and begged to some invisible force that his life be easy.
He remembers, briefly and vaguely, the pleas of his grandmother. That he be happy and healthy and safe. That life be easier for him than any of them because he deserved it. She begged and pleaded all the time. She hoped and she wished.
His body aches standing here, staring down the monster that mirrors the evil that’s taken over his body and made it its own. And still, he’s within himself again. He sees it as clearly as he can with tears and with headaches and with every last memory and every last strike of pain.
There’s fear coursing through him… but that’s what comes with sacrifice. He knows that better than anyone, he thinks. He allows himself that last, tiny bit of selfishness.
Sacrifice isn’t easy. It’s pain and it’s fear- it’s the worry that maybe it won’t work. Maybe it won’t be worth it. Maybe the pain searing his hands at holding every evil thing back is only giving mere seconds of grace before the world ends anyway, putting all his actions in vain.
But this monster is him too. It’s the thing consuming him. With every strike it takes to his body, it’s attacking itself, and he knows this. Even mere seconds of grace can be worth it… maybe sacrifice isn’t always about success, just for the chance of hope. Isn’t that right? Just for a chance...
It’s violent… does sacrifice always have to be so violent?
His body falls… does sacrifice always have to end with someone fallen?
There are shrieks, distant and muffled…
Light fades and enters and fades, pressure appears on his arms and his name is being spoken. His mind briefly registers the face, the face of a girl he’s sacrificed himself for enough times he couldn’t count. A girl he’s stood in front of, metaphorically, to block any pain from reaching her. A girl he’s inflicted pain on, despite.
“I’m sorry.” is all he can force out, even through the desperation licking at him to say more. Say it all. Say everything.
In his last breath, the pain fades until all he can feel is the stickiness of the pendant on his sweaty and broken chest- the Mother pressed to him.
And he thinks of his grandmother. Thinks and wonders, with the wispy, fleeting thoughts going dark and black… thoughts of a place of hope and how his grandmother must be there- waiting with her clear eyes and kind smile and shaking hands to help him through it. To grab his arm and show him around. Just like she always did.
He wonders if he should thank her for the book.
#Billy Hargrove#Stranger Things#fic#writing#major character death#religion#angst#uhhhhhhh#i'm sorry? LMAO#i'm writing fluffier things i SWEAR#i've got a year old project i'm still working on for my beautiful friend#i just heard this song and i wrote this in a fit#in a daze#i had to get it out of my system#canon compliant#canon compliance fuckin sucks my dudes#also like.... don't let the pope come after me for this LOLLL#i'm not trying to make a big statement about religion#or offend anyone#i just wanted to talk about my own reflections on religion through the pain of Billy#bc it's so interesting to think about him and his mother#and also him and religion#and how it must all feel for him#y'know??????#anywayyyyy#i'm sorry i've been gone so long i've been struggling a fuckin lot okay bye
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And That’s How We Became a Legend...
Bakudeku alpha/omega fantasy AU written on Twitter based on this idea: I plan to clean it up and post it on AO3 later :)
Think of the story as an origin to the Bridegroom’s Oak.
The old alpha worn with time sat his grandpup on his knee. “Shall I tell you a bedtime story?”
“Yes!” The green-eyed child beamed brightly.
“Very well. Once upon a time...”
In his tiny village, Izuku Midoriya was just born to be unlucky in love. As a tiny male omega he was at the bottom of the marriage pool because alphas preferred buxom stock with firm child bearing hips, as they called it, so a skinny choice like him would never get chosen. He wasn’t ugly... many even called him cute with his curly green hair and bright emerald eyes. But cute didn’t guarantee a brood. Izuku was more fated to be a lonely servant or a whelping docent for another family. His poor mother could only look on in sadness at her sons pain.
So, by the time he’d reached adulthood, Izuku stayed mostly to himself on their small farm. Tending the crops his mother would sell to support them. During heat cycles, the lowly omega locked himself away and made due through the tears and desire he alone could soothe.
There was one thing he could do to bring himself some happiness. With little to no friends, the forest became his second refuge. When chores were completed, Izuku would wander the dense woodlands surrounding the village, or trek the nearby mountain and its hidden waterfall. He loved the peace and quiet even the remote and darkest areas because it wasn’t any worse than the loneliness he felt in his own home. There was always a chance of running into a wolf or other animal, but so far they stayed clear. Perhaps even predators thought he wasn’t worthy a kill or pitied the omega. Some say animals can sense such sullen energies. That’s okay, at least he could commune with his thoughts in these woods to the sounds of birds chirping or bullfrogs croaking.
Of all the areas he’d roamed, there was one particular tree he loved. An old oak tree, twisted and worn who’s trunk was so large Izuku couldn’t wrap his arms around it. The top branches melded with the canopy high above his head, and during spring and summer it’s leaves sheltered all that rested beneath it. He spent many a day resting at its base.
In its trunk was a deep hollow, weathered by time and the creatures that once created it. Perhaps a squirrel or woodpecker, who knew but the gods who watched over these forests. For Izuku, this hollow became a treasure chest where he could write about anything and hide away those words in a journal that only he would read. He poured his heart out into that notebook. All his pains and anguish, of forlornly outlooks, and heartaches desiring but one thing in this world... a family of his own. The omega in him wept to fulfill its purpose.
This journal allowed him to bury his sadness so when he went home he could put on a brave face for his mother. ‘I’ll be okay,’ Izuku would smile brightly at the woman. ‘I have you’ and I have my forest... fear of making her sad was the only thing keeping Izuku going.
Then one day in his eighteenth Spring, Izuku ventured out to his tree as he often would to vent. This season always left him saddened for it represented new beginnings and new life, something he believed he would never experience. But once he reached the tree, he immediately noticed something amiss. Izuku always tightly wrapped his journal in a thick bear skin to keep the weather from reaching it, and made sure it was pushed as far into the hollow too. But not only was it too close to the edge, the wrapping was messy as if re-bound hastily.
Izuku growled. People were so irritating! His refuge was violated and it left him feeling vulnerable. Now he would need to find a new hiding place! He pulled the journal out and inspected it to see if anything else was wrong with it. It better not be damaged! But his eyes zero in on a ripped piece of parchment that was folded and tucked into the first page of the notebook. The intruder had left him a note?! Why?! He unfolded it, eyes widening, and moisture gathering as he read the poorly written words someone had left behind.
‘Damn runt you sound like a mess, what the fuck happened after I left? If this is who I think it is and based on the simpering rambles and scent I think I’m right, be here at high noon each day so I can find you.’
The letter lowered in Izuku’s hand as he processed its contents. Who was this mystery person and why did they want to find him again? They seemed to know who he was just based off his words. He had vague memories of a possibility, but after all these years had chalked it up to an imaginary friend for a lonely three year-old. Plus it made little sense since a three year-old couldn’t write, so how would this stranger know he tended to talk a lot or ramble?! His brows furrowed, or it could be a trap. Slavers were not unknown in these parts, which was why only alphas tended to roam the woods or hunted. But Izuku wouldn’t make for a great prize either. This was certainly intriguing to say the least. The prospect of someone wanting him too good an opportunity to pass up. Though he was no fool.
The next day, Izuku trekked early to the tree and hid away in the brush. He wanted to see just who this stranger was, but if it was someone he didn’t recognize, he’d slip away again. As he waited, he wrote in his journal, chronicling the whole situation. His emotions, how the pangs of loneliness and longing for love fueled his curiosity as well as anxieties to sit there and unravel the mystery.
He hears the cracking of fallen branch litter and sure enough a form rounds the tree. Izuku’s heartbeat paused in recognition of the platinum blonde hair, and once the man turned to where he could see ruby red eyes glaring, he knew exactly who it was. His imaginary friend! But this was no child’s fantasy, for the virile male standing beside the tree was as real as the blood in Izuku’s veins flowing south.
“Come out,” the man commanded. “I can smell you.”
Izuku stepped out with the journal clutched to his chest and walked slowly towards the alpha.
“By the gods, you’re still as tiny as I remember,” the male snickered. “Do you even remember me?”
“I thought I’d made you up,” Izuku stammered.
The man came closer, grabbing the omega by the chin. “Oh, I’m very real.”
Izuku swallowed thickly, “what do you want from me?”
“What was promised,” the alpha responded. “You may be weak, but your scent was the only thing that calmed me as a child, so our mothers arranged for our betrothal at your 18th yr.”
Though a true statement, being called weak still upset Izuku. He pulled his face away from the alphas grip. “You need not pity me. I release you to choose a more suitable dame if you feel I am too weak.” Never mind the fact his mother has never mentioned him being betrothed!
“Tch! I don’t want another and your writings speak of family desire. What fool would refuse my offer to give them what they long for?!”
The tears well up in Izuku’s eyes. “I don’t even know your name.” And so many more questions ripple through his mind. Why hadn’t his mother said anything? Why had this man disappeared all this time? How did he even find him here?! Because this tree wasn’t even close to the village.
“You called me Kacchan cause you couldn’t say my name back then. But my family name is Bakugou.”
Izuku shook his head with all his thoughts and confusion. “Still, why wasn’t I told?!” He looked dead straight at the man, “and why’d you leave the village in the first place?!”
“Tch, fool, like I had a choice! I was five! This village is small so my parents moved to a bigger township with better opportunities.”
“But you could have kept in touch...” Tears now fall freely. “All my life I was so lonely. If I’d known you existed I would’ve had hope!”
“Look, I can’t help—“
“Don’t!” The omega roared cutting the alpha off. “So many nights I thought of ending my misery. How would you feel if you’d come back to find me dead?!”
The alpha snarled. “I can’t fucking change the past! Screwed up or not, at least I’m here now!”
But when the omega flinched and a flurry of fearful pheromones hit the alphas nose he stopped and took a deep inhale to calm himself. “Izuku, I’m here now, that’s all I can do to start things over. So, will you accept my proposal or not?”
Izuku hung his head, how could he say no?
To say no would mean throwing away the best chance he’s had for the life he’s craved. An opportunity to have a family, a sire for the pups he desired to bear. This alpha was a perfect specimen, and Izuku would be a fool to turn him down. But all his life, he’d only known disappointment. What if this turned out to be too good to be true? This alpha would take him away from all he’d known, granted he wasn’t happy there, but what of his mother? As a widower she had no one to care for her in old age. What if he couldn’t bear pups? Would this alpha cast him away for another? To go from loneliness to heartbreak? Which would be worse? And on top of that, he doesn’t know this man, or at least doesn’t remember much. The memories are vague, children playing, maybe some bullying, that’s all. He didn’t hate nor love him... yet.
But he could grow to love this alpha.
This Kacchan has a wondrous scent of spice and power brimming from within. He’ll produce fine pups for sure.
“Are you really sure you want me?” Izuku’s voice was meek and full of hesitation. “Nobody else has ever wanted me before.”
The alpha sighed. “Nobody makes me do what I don’t want to. I’m here by choice.”
“But look at me.” Izuku gestured at his body. “People say I won’t be able to carry a litter, I’m too small. You even called me weak. Why take a chance on me when surely you could find better?”
“Pfft, ignore these foolish villagers. In the larger cities I have seen many just like you do perfectly fine. Have produced perfect broods. These small-minded fools know not about such things and only believe in superstition. Give your answer now for I grow tired of this banter.”
After a brief pause, Izuku decided to accept his fate, whatever that may be. The alpha wanted him and only him. If in the end it doesn’t work out, at least he got to experience what he’d longed for, and that was better than never having to at all.
“Okay Kacchan. I accept.”
“Good. Then we shall pack up your things and travel to my home post haste. I’ve arranged for a horse and cart to transport everything, so you won’t need to return.”
“What of my mother? I-I cannot leave her alone.”
“She’ll come with us as a docent. You’ll need help to raise our pups.”
True to his word, the alpha took the Midoriya’s back to a sprawling estate located a four days journey away. The Bakugou clan had done well for itself in the fifteen years since they’d left the tiny remote village. On the property, the alphas parents lived in one home, a second was built for the young couple, while Izuku’s mother had a smaller one next to theirs. There was a farm and ranching enterprise along with trade that Bakugou senior engaged in to grow their wealth.
“Wow...” Izuku’s eyes lit up as he walked in. “It’s so much bigger than back home.”
Through the long journey, Izuku caught up on many of the questions that plagued him, such as how his mother thought when the Bakugou’s left the arrangement had been canceled, so that’s why she never mentioned it. But the alpha he knew now as Katsuki had never forgotten about him.
A beautiful nest had already been prepared and scented for the omega. It would need to wait until their formal ceremony took place the following day, but Izuku was just excited this was taking place. All the pain of the last fifteen years dissolved away in that moment. He turned to his alpha with tears streaming down his face and his scent filling the air of lavender wildflowers. It’s been so long since Izuku released a happy scent, even he’d forgotten what it was like. His eyes twinkled, crinkled in delight. “It’s so beautiful Kacchan, like in a fairytale.”
The alphas eyes roll back as he purred from his omegas pheromones filling their new home. He pulled Izuku to his broad chest. “That’s the scent I remember. The scent I loved as a child. How could anyone not snatch you up just for that?”
“Maybe because no one else has smelled it?”
Such a statement makes the alpha growl low from happiness, his chest rumbling with content. “Good.” He tipped Izuku’s chin up, red eyes boring down as he swept away tears. This scent belonged to him alone. “It’s all I wanna smell from now on. No more sadness or fear, understood?”
Izuku nodded his head as he smile grew. “Yes, my alpha.”
Katsuki placed a long, lingering kiss on the omegas lips that made Izuku’s heartbeat soar. For such a large male, the alpha was gentle with him. He knew the man had a fiery side, but Katsuki also knew how to love....
As autumn leaves made an entrance, tiny cries broke the air as two newborn pups came into their world. The pregnancy had been a bit difficult for the tiny omega, but with the support of his mate and family, Izuku accomplished everything he’d been told would never come to pass.
“Kacchan...” the omega, flushed with exhaustion, but beamed with pride, and shed tears of joy as he rested his head against his alpha’s supportive hand.
“See, I told you those villagers were fools.” Katsuki smiled, while lovingly soothing his omega. “You gave me two beautiful pups.”
“I love you Kacchan...”
“And they lived happily ever after,” the old alpha stated. “The end.”
“But grandpa, that’s nothing like the stories.”
“What do you mean?”
“Izuku didn’t leave a letter in the tree, a-and he knew Katsuki as a kid.”
“Well, you see over many, many Springs the true story was lost and all that remained is the story of an alpha finding an omegas sad love letter. People thought if that omega could get lucky, maybe I can too and began leaving letters in the tree. Today, the tradition continues.”
“Then how do you know the true story?”
“Izuku had green eyes right?”
“Yeah, like me!”
“Because he’s your great, great, great grandpa.”
#bakudeku#bakudeku fan fic#bakudeku fan fiction#bkdk#katsudeku#ktdk#angst with happy ending#bakugou katsuki#midoriya izuku#alpha/omega
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