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Lore Episode 21: Adrift (Transcript) - 16th November 2015

tw: death, drowning, ghosts Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I have a confession to make. Keep in mind, I write about frightening things for a living. I haven’t read a horror novel yet that’s managed to freak me out, and yet, I’m deathly afraid of open water. There, I said it – I hate being on boats. I’m not even sure why, to be honest, I just… am. Perhaps it’s the idea that thousands of feet of cold darkness wait right beneath my feet. Maybe it’s the mystery of it all, of what creatures (both known and unknown) might be waiting for me, just beyond the reach of what little sunlight passes through the surface of the waves. Now, I live near the coast, and I’ve been on boats before, so my fear comes from experience, but it’s not the cold, deep darkness beneath the ship that worries me the most. No, what really makes my skin crawl is the thought that, at any moment, the ship could sink. Maybe we can blame movies like Titanic or The Poseidon Adventure for showing us how horrific a shipwreck can be, but there are far more true stories of tragedy at sea than there are fictional ones, and it’s in these real life experiences, these maritime disasters that dot the map of history like an ocean full of macabre buoys, that we come face to face with the real dangers that await us in open water. The ocean takes much from us, but in rare moments, scattered across the pages of history, we’ve heard darker stories: stories of ships that come back, of sailors returned from the dead, and of loved ones who never stop searching the land. Sometimes our greatest fears refuse to stay beneath the waves. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

Shipwrecks aren’t a modern notion – as far back as we can go, there are records of ships lost at sea. In The Odyssey by Homer, one of the oldest and most widely read stories ever told, we meet Odysseus shortly before he experiences a shipwreck at the hands of Poseidon, God of the Sea. Even further back in time, we have the Egyptian tale of the shipwrecked sailor, dating to at least the 18th century BC. The truth is, though, for as long as humans have been building sea-faring vessels and setting sail into unknown waters, there have been shipwrecks. It’s a universal motif in the literatures of the world, and that’s most likely because of the raw, basic risk that a shipwreck poses to the sailors on the ships, but it’s not just the personal risk. Shipwrecks have been a threat to culture itself for thousands of years. The loss of a sailing vessel could mean the end to an expedition to discover new territory or turn the tide of a naval battle. Imagine the result if Admiral Nelson had failed in his mission off the coast of Spain in 1805, or how differently Russia’s history might have played out had Tsar Nicholas II’s fleet actually defeated the Japanese in the Battle of Tsushima. The advancement of cultures has hinged for thousands of years, in part, on whether or not their ships could return to port safely, but in those instances where ancient cultures have faded into the background of history, it is often through their shipwrecks that we get information about who they were. Just last year, an ancient Phoenician shipwreck was discovered in the Mediterranean Sea near the island of Malta. It’s thought to be at least 2700 years old and contains some of the oldest Phoenician artefacts ever uncovered. For archaeologists and historians who study these ancient people, the shipwreck has offered new information and ideas. The ocean takes much from us, and upon occasion, it also gives back. Sometimes, though, what it gives us is something less inspiring. Sometimes, it literally gives us back our dead.

One such example comes from 1775. The legend speaks of a whaling vessel, discovered off the western coast of Greenland in October of that year. Now, this is a story with tricky provenance, so the details will vary depending on where you read about it. The ship’s name might have been the Octavius, or possibly the Gloriana, and from what I can tell, the earliest telling of this tale can be traced back to a newspaper article in 1828. The story tells of how one Captain Warren discovered the whaler drifting through a narrow passage in the ice off the coast of Greenland. After hailing the vessel and receiving no reply, their own ship was brought near, and the crew boarded the mysterious vessel. Inside, though, they discovered a horrible sight. Throughout the ship, the entire crew was frozen to death where they sat. When they explored further and found the captain’s quarters, the scene inside was even more eerie. There in the cabin were more bodies: a frozen woman, holding a dead infant in her arms; a sailor holding a tinder box, as if trying to manufacture some source of warmth; and there, at the desk, sat the ship’s captain. One account tells of how his face and eyes were covered in a green, wet mould. In one hand, the man held a fountain pen, and the ship’s log was open in front of him. Captain Warren leaned over and read the final entry, dated November 11th, 1762, 13 years prior to the ship’s discovery. “We have been enclosed in the ice 70 days”, it said. “The fire went out yesterday and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again, but without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief”. Captain Warren and his crew were so frightened by the encounter that they grabbed the ship’s log and retreated as fast as they could back to their own ship. The Octavius, if indeed that was the ship’s name, was never seen again.

The mid-1800s saw the rise of the steel industry in America. It was the beginning of an empire that would rule the economy for over a century, and like all empires, there were capitals: St. Louis, Baltimore, Buffalo, Philadelphia. All of these cities played host to some of the largest steel works in the country, and for those that were close to the ocean, this created the opportunity for the perfect partnership – the shipyard. Steel could be manufactured and delivered locally and then used to construct the ocean-going steamers that were the lifeblood of late-19th century life. The flood of immigration through Ellis Island, for example, wouldn’t have been possible without these steamers. My own family made that journey. One such steamer to roll out of Philadelphia in 1885 was the S. S. Valencia. She was 252ft long and weighed in at nearly 1600 tonnes. The Valencia was built before complex bulkheads and hull compartments, and she wasn’t the fastest ship on the water, but she was dependable. She spent the first decade and a half running passengers between New York City and Karakas, Venezuela. In 1897, while in the waters near Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, the Valencia was attacked by a Spanish cruiser. The next year, she was sold and moved to the west coast, where she served in the Spanish-American war as a troop ship between the US and the Philippines. After the war, the Valencia was sold to a company that used the ship to sail between California and Alaska, but in 1906, she filled in for another ship that was under repair, and her new route became San Francisco to Seattle. They gave the ship a check-up in January of that year, and everything checked out good. For a 24-year-old vessel, the Valencia was in perfect working order.

She set sail on the 20th of January 1906, leaving sunny California and heading north. The ship was crewed by nine officers, 56 crew members and played host to over 100 passengers. Somewhere near Cape Mendocino off the coast of northern California, though, the weather turned sour. Visibility dropped, and the winds kicked up. When you’re on a ship at night, even a slow one, losing the ability to see is a very bad thing. Typically, without visual navigation a captain might fall back on the celestial method, using the stars in the same way sailors did centuries ago, but even that option was off the table for Captain Oscar Johnson, and so he used the only tool he had left: dead reckoning. The name alone should hint at the efficacy of the method. Using last known navigational points as a reference, Captain Johnson essentially guessed at the Valencia’s current location. But guessing can be deadly, and so instead of pointing the ship at the Strait of Juan de Fuca, between Vancouver Island and Washington State, he unknowingly aimed it at the island itself. Blinded by the weather and faulty guesswork, the Valencia struck a reef just 50ft from the shore near Pachena Point on the south-west side of Vancouver Island. They say the sound of the metal ripping apart on the rocks sounded like the screams of dozens of people. It came without warning, and the crew did what they could to react by immediately reversing the engines, backing off the rocks. Damage control reported the hull had been torn wide open, water was pouring in at a rapid pace, and there was no hope of repairing the ship. It lacked the hull compartments that later ships would include for just such occasions, and the captain knew that all hope was lost, so he reversed the engines again and drove the ship back onto the rocks. He wasn’t trying to destroy the Valencia completely, but to ground her, hoping that would keep her from sinking as rapidly as she might at sea. That’s when all hell broke loose. Before Captain Johnson could organise an evacuation, six of the seven life boats were lowered over the side. Three of those flipped over on the way down, dumping out the people inside. Two more capsized after hitting the water, and the sixth boat simply vanished. In the end, only one boat made it safely away.

Frank Lehn was one of the few survivors of the shipwreck. He later described the scene in all its horrific detail: “Screams of women and children mingled in an awful chorus with the shrieking of the wind, the dash of rain, and the roar of the breakers. As the passengers rushed on deck they were carried away in bunches by the huge waves that seemed as high as the ship's mastheads. The ship began to break up almost at once and the women and children were lashed to the rigging above the reach of the sea. It was a pitiful sight to see frail women, wearing only night dresses, with bare feet on the freezing ratlines, trying to shield children in their arms from the icy wind and rain”. About that same time, the last life boat made it safely away under the control of the ship’s boatswain, Officer Timothy McCarthy. According to him, the last thing he saw after leaving the ship was, and I quote, “the brave faces looking at us over the broken rail of a wreck, and of the echo of a great hymn sung by the women through the fog and mist and flying spray”. The situation was desperate. Attempts were made by the ship’s remaining crew to fire a rescue line from the lyle gun into the trees at the top of the nearby cliff. If someone could simply reach the line and anchor it, the rest of the passengers would be saved. The first line they fired became tangled and snapped clean, but the second successfully reached the cliff above. A small group of men even managed to make it to shore. There were nine of them, led by a school teacher named Frank Bunker, but when they reached the top of the cliff, they discovered the path forked to the left and the right; Bunker picked the left. Had he instead turned right, the men would have come across the second lyle line within minutes and possibly saved all the remaining passengers. Instead, he led the men along a telegraph line path for over two hours before finally managing to get a message out to authorities about the accident, making a desperate plea for help - and help was sent, but even though the three separate ships that raced to the site of the wreck tried to offer assistance, the rough weather and choppy seas prevented them from getting close enough to do any good. Even still, the sight of the ships nearby gave a false sense of hope to those remaining on the wreckage, so when the few survivors onshore offered help, they declined. There were no more lifeboats, no more lifelines to throw, and no ships brave enough to get closer. The women and children stranded on the ship clung to the riggings and rails against the cold Pacific waters, but when a large wave washed the wounded ship off the rocks and into deep water, everyone was lost. All told, 137 of the 165 lives aboard the ship were lost that cold, early January morning. If that area of the coastline had yet to earn its modern nickname of “the graveyard of the Pacific”, this was the moment that cemented it.

The wreck of the Valencia was clearly the result of a series of unfortunate accidents, but officials still went looking for someone to blame. In the aftermath of the tragedy, the Canadian government took steps to ensure lifesaving measures along the coast that could help with future shipwrecks. A lighthouse was constructed near Pachena Point and a coastal trail was laid out that would eventually become known as the West Coast Trail, but the story of Valencia was far from over. Keep in mind there have been scores of shipwrecks, tragedies that span centuries, in that very same region of water, and like most areas with a concentrated number of tragic deaths, unusual activity has been reported by those who visit. Just five months after the Valencia sank, a local fisherman reported an amazing discovery. While exploring seaside caves on the south-western coast of Vancouver Island, he described how he stumbled upon one of the lifeboats within the cave. In the boat, he claimed, were eight human skeletons. The cave was said to be blocked by a large rock, and the interior was at least 200ft deep. Experts found it hard to explain how the boat could have made it from the water outside into the space within, but theories speculated that an unusually high tide could possibly have lifted the boat up and over. A search party was sent out to investigate the rumour, but it was found that the boat was unrecoverable, due to the depth of the cave and the rocks blocking the entrance. In 1910, the Seattle Times ran a story with reports of unusual sightings in the area of the wreck. According to a number of sailors, a ship resembling the Valencia had been witnessed off the coast. The mystery ship could have been any local steamer, except for one small detail: the ship was already floundering on the rocks, half submerged. Clinging to the wreckage, they say, were human figures, holding on against the wind and the waves.

Humans have had a love affair with the ocean for thousands of years. Across those dark and mysterious waters lay all manner of possibility: new lands, new riches, new cultures to meet and trade with. Setting sail has always been something akin to the start of an adventure, whether that destination was the northern passage or just up the coast, but an adventure at sea always comes with great risk; we understand this in our core. It makes us cautious, it turns our stomachs, it fills us with equal parts dread and hope, because there on the waves of the ocean, everything can go according to plan, or it can all fail tragically. Maybe this is why the ocean is so often used as a metaphor for the fleeting, temporary nature of life. Time, like waves, eventually wear us all down. Our lives can be washed away in an instant, no matter how strong or high we build them. Time takes much from us, just like the ocean. Waters off the coast of Vancouver Island are a perfect example of that cruelty and risk. They can be harsh, even brutal, toward vessels that pass through them. The cold winters and sharp rocks leave ships with little chance of survival, and with over 70 shipwrecks to date, the graveyard of the Pacific certainly lives up to its reputation. For years after the tragedy of 1906, fishermen and locals on the island told stories of a ghostly ship that patrolled the waters just off the coast. It’s said it was crewed by skeletons of the Valencia sailors who lost their lives there. It would float into view and then disappear, like a spirit, before anyone could reach it. In 1933, in the waters just north of the 27-year-old wreck of the Valencia, a shape floated out of the fog. When a local approached it, the shape became recognisable; it was a lifeboat. It looked as if it had just been launched moments before and yet there, on the side of the boat, were pale letters that spelled out a single word: Valencia.

[Closing statements]

#lore podcast #podcasts #aaron mahnke #shipwrecks #the odyssey #the octavius #s. s. valencia #at sea #greenland #canada #phildelphia #hauntings #transcripts #21

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mintyoongiskookie · 7 years

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not what you needed.

Member: Min Yoongi

Genre: Angst(of course), fluff?? Kinda??? Badboy!Yoongi, soulmate!au

Word Count: 2,666

A/N: Tbh there will be a lot of Yoongi and Kook fics, bc their by bias and bias wrecker, and I feel a bit more confident writing with them. (And my writings kinda fit their “personalities”, since y’all know my stories ain’t all sunshine and fluffy unicorns and rainbows.) The thing with this au is that instead of your soulmate’s first words spoken to you, it’s their last so you’ll never know if they were the one until you loose them. SO THIS MEANS MORE ANGST YAYYYY THERE WILL BE A FUCK TON OF THIS TOO!!!!! And this also means I’m still not doing the ones I said I would. Great. AND I’M STILL DOWN FOR YOUR GUYS’ REQUESTS!!!!

Song I based this off of here. (EDEN - drugs)

Those three words. Those three words that tortured you. Those three words that were etched into your skin, the ink drowned out by the other paintings all across your body. Those three words that follow you everywhere, reminding you that any love you have, might not be the one.

Just let go.

They were lost in the other tattoos on your body, but it was still there. On the right side of your neck, next to the image of a band-aid. Everyone else’s were, “I love you”, or, “Never forget me, okay?”. But not yours. It looked like everyone watched you, pitiful eyes staring at those three little words. So you stayed away from people, living a carefree life, trying to forget how cursed you were to society. You knew your own words were placed on someone’s body, dragging them down with you. You followed you own path, ignoring everyone’s comments on how sorry they were. Don’t be fucking sorry, live your own picture perfect life, with your two kids and white picket fence. I’m not letting three words control what I do.

If only you knew that made it worse.

It was the first day of winter break for college, and for the people staying here, there was a party being thrown. You lived on the other side of the country and, quite frankly, hated your family. They always set these low standards for you, all because of those damn words. How do they know you won’t live happily ever after? So, you moved as soon as you could. Got into a nice college, met some nice people, and got a nice job. All is going well, and you honestly don’t listen to the commentary you get.

You headed over to the frat with your friends, Hoseok and Namjoon, walking down the middle of the streets with them. Coming up to the building, the bass was beating through the walls, drunks already fucking around on the front lawn. There were colored lights flooding through the windows, silhouettes of jumping bodies visible from your placement on the street. Sharing a look with the both of your friends, you lead the way inside of the cramped building. Weaving past people, you made your way up the stairs to the balcony. There was your friend, Seokjin, having an uncomfortable conversation with a drunk girl. His head shot up to look at you three, his lips moving to form the words, “please, get this bitch off me.”

“Seokjin! There you are. We’ve been looking for you.” Namjoon said, leading your group up and shoving past the girl pressing against your friend. Stumbling back, the girl clumsily disappeared down the stairs.

“I honestly don’t see how you always get yourself caught up with girls.” You say, sipping from a cup you picked up along the way.

He scoffs, leaning against the wall. “Neither do I…” Seokjin was your old friend, who’s already out of school. He’s working for a model industry, and always gets dragged back to the college parties by a majority of the classes. He’s a pop, but a sweet one. You’ve always admired him for who he really is.

Two hours and three beers pass, and the bodies around you are finally calming down. Or passing out. You didn’t really care to notice. Because you eyes had been locked with that of a stranger’s. A stranger with a head of blonde hair, and piercings everywhere that glimmered in the flashing lights. A stranger with an ice cold stare, but a smirk placed on his pale pink lips. A stranger with tattoos crawling up his neck, spreading over his knuckles, which are scarred red. Fights, you presume.

“Bad choice, (Y/N).” Looking up to see Seokjin’s eyes casting to the man you were looking at, you glanced back to where he previously was. He was already gone. “You know when the party got suddenly silent? That’s ‘cuz he got here. Min Yoongi. He’s dangerous (Y/N), watch out for him. He won’t stop if he’s got his eyes on you.”

Staring at the empty space, you tilted your head. “What’s his mark?”

“No one knows.” With a sigh, he pats you on the shoulder and gives you a worried look. “Just… Don’t do anything crazy, okay?” As you nodded, he smiled and slithered off through the crowd to get another bottle.

By three A.M, you decided you should head home. Walking down the sidewalks, you tightened your grip around your leather jacket. You didn’t live in a bad part of town, you could say, but all parts were bad at this time. The roaring of engines passed you, cars speeding down the empty streets, racing as fast as their modified engines could go. You had watched some street races, but it wasn’t any fun unless you were in the driver’s seat. All known from personal experience.

“I guess I expected you to be in one of the cars. Well, I must say, you’re full of surprises.” Whipping your head around, you were met with those same dark eyes. It was him.

“And I thought you would be shoving your tongue down a girl’s throat.” Turning on your heel, you heard a deep, gravely laugh come from him. His footsteps followed you as you walked, the heavy sound irritating you. Sucking in a breath, you turned and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Look darling, I suggest you stop following me before I stick a knife in your gut.”

He let out a breathy chuckle, closing his eyes and holding his hands up in defense. “I’m helping you, darling. I’m making sure no one rapes you.” He pulled himself from your grasp, motioning for you to go forward. “But if you insist, I’ll head home now. Goodbye (Y/N).” His smirk made a presence again, and he turned and walked the other direction.

You never told him your name.

By the time spring rolled around, you had ran into Yoongi many more times than planned. Upon further inspection, you found out that he was a well known senior, a music major. His parents were killed when he was young, and he lived on the streets for a while. Someone rich found him, heard his music, and got hooked. Hence his ability to get into a nice college. He was a player, breaking girls’ and boys’ hearts for years. And yet he’s still got one of the biggest reputations on campus.

It was a dark, rainy day when you encountered him. The day where everything had changed. You two had somehow got this whole, “I hate you but I don’t, so come over for pizza but you’re paying” relationship going. He had told you to meet at a cafe with him, for your daily arguments to wake the both of you up. Today’s topic was… Unusual.

“What if we’re soulmates?” His proclamation caused you to spit out your black coffee, the liquid dripping down your chin.

“There’s no way in hell that I would ever get with you.” He laughs, that rare and beautiful smile spreading over his features.

“So you’re saying that the times where we made out in the corner of kitchens at parties, and those times where I fucked you, were all accidents?”

Fuck. He got you there. Nothing had really changed, no dates or anything, you two were basically friends with benefits. There was always the occasional flings with each other, and the drunk kisses at parties, because hey there’s a creep over there staring at me we’re gonna kiss now. Well, at least that’s your excuse. It’s usually because you just wanna kiss him. “Fuck yourself and die in a hole.”

He laughs again, his smirk clear on his face even from behind his cup. “What ever you say darling. What I’m saying, is that normal people still wouldn’t be talking to each other. You threatened to fucking stab me when we first met. If that doesn’t scare someone off, I don’t know what would.”

“It’s probably just because we’re both ignorant assholes who hate everyone here. Except for a few people.”

“Just let me prove my point!” You laughed, and leaned back, nodding for him to continue. “I’m just saying, that if I was any normal person that night, I would’ve said the words on your neck. But I didn’t. Make sense?”

You knew that was definitely a possibility, you just didn’t want to believe it. Him? You told yourself that there was no way, even if he was hot and really sweet to you. Well, sweet in his own way. “Sure babe. Totally.”

Totally was right.

Once you both finished at the cafe, he walked with you around town. You were someone who loved the rain, so you ran out and danced in the downpour while Yoongi was dragging his feet behind you. Which ended with him hugging you when you refused to stay under the umbrella

“Yoongi, what the hell are you doing…”

He laughed, the sound vibrating against you, the feeling sending shivers down your spine. “I’m making sure you don’t get sick. Or too wet. Because that’s my job.” You roll your eyes and he laughed, a quiet, pervert slipping your lips. He took you to hang out at his apartment for some movies, and for you to possibly kidnap Holly again. In your defense, you didn’t know that the little pup was sleeping in your bag as you left last time. Let’s just say Yoongi didn’t talk to you for a week after that incident.

Throwing open the door to his apartment, you kicked off your soaked shoes and fell onto his couch. “Get your soggy ass off of my couch and go change into one of my shirts, I’m not washing those damn cushions again.” He kicks you off of the couch, your frame landing face first on the carpet. Sighing, you heaved yourself up and walked down the hall to his room to find something. Opening the door, you were met with an eager Holly jumping all over you.

“AHHH HI BABYYYY I MISSED YOU!!!!!” Leaving kisses all over her face, you ruffled her fur and went to find your favorite shirt of his in his closet. You changed into an old ripped up and bleached black shirt, and walked back out to where he was seated. He looked up at you from the TV and rolled his eyes, sitting up so there’s room on his lap for you.

“I give you the chance to change into my clothes, and you pick something like that?” Sitting on his lap, you made sure to drop onto him hard enough to hurt him, dick or not.

Laughing at his strangled yelp, you squirmed and made yourself comfortable, curling up under the blanket spread over top of you both. “You have no right to critique me on my fashion sense. Almost everything you own is ripped.” Looking back at the screen, you both watched The Corpse bride on Netflix before dozing off in his arms. You couldn’t help but notice the way your heart tugged when he would subtly compliment you, or the heat that rose throughout your body from that night on. You had fallen in love with Min Yoongi.

Four years later, you two had been dating and took the world by surprise. Scratch that, universe. You found yourself thinking more and more about his mark, that was probably effecting you more than him. I can’t love myself if I can’t love you.

You found out that those words weren’t really the tattoo he told everyone about, but in fact, his mark. You really hoped that he wasn’t your soulmate now, just so that you wouldn’t have to think of hurting him in that way. You played out every scenario in your mind, thinking of how or why either of you would use those phrases in an argument that could lead to no words ever being spoken between you two again.

You didn’t plan out that it would happen today. Today was one of those days, where you pushed anything bad out of your mind and just focused on the tasks at hand. It was one of those days where the memory of both of your marks was completely stripped clean.

You had made some dinner for him, the delicious smell filling up the entirety of your shared apartment. You knew how hard he had been working at his studio, the process draining all energy from his body. As soon as you finished, you plated everything and went to go sit on the steps outside. You had tamed a few strays, so you sat there, playing with the slim and scrawny cats, feeding them some old scraps. Next time you check, it’s midnight. Where is he…? You thought, your eyes looking around the streets in front of you. There, you saw the figure of a tired man, trudging his way home. The figure of the man you called yours.

Standing, you jogged over to him, a worried smile on your lips. “Hey baby… Come in, we’ll get you relaxed.” Walking straight past you, he didn’t bother to even spare you a glance. You knew something was up; he never did that. Following him, you lightly placed your hand on his shoulder, only to have it shoved off.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” His voice was dangerously low, the sound striking your body with panic. And, of course, you just had to argue. Because that’s what the two of you did.

“What the actual fuck, Yoongi? What’s wrong?”

“You, (Y/N), you’re what’s wrong. Your always being super distant one second, and then clinging onto me for your damn life. You don’t know how to let go, you think that this needs to work. And, in all honestly, I’m just saying what I need to say. Because I don’t have anything for you.” His voice falls at the end, cracks spreading over his words like wildfire. His eyes show his torn heart, they show how it cracks, the pieces just slipping through your fingers. You weren’t fast enough.

“Yoongi-”

“Stop, (Y/N), don’t try.”

“Yoongi, without you I’m fucking nothing. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you were gone, I just need you happy. I know it sounds selfish, but I need you to love. I can’t love myself if I can’t love you.” Tears were streaming down your cheeks, your chest ablaze from holding back your sobs.

“This isn’t you, and you know it. I won’t say shit, because I know I’m a mess. And I’m whatever you want, but never what you need. Especially when you need me. So, please (Y/N)… Just let go.” He didn’t even look at you as he turned, heading to cross the street. You realized the last words you two had shared, desperate to change them. But no one can rewrite fate.

Your voice ripped through the air, the call of his name loud enough to shatter glass. But you were too late.

Again.

The sound of his body being thrown against a windshield cracked through the sounds of squealing rubber. Your eyes were locked with a stranger’s, a stranger of whom you loved, laying lifelessly on the road, blood coloring over his pale skin. A stranger who’s head of bleached blonde hair was slowly reddening. A stranger with piercing covered with a crimson red liquid. A stranger who’s pale pink lips were slowly loosing color, as scarlet fell from them and pooled onto the ground. Your eyes were locked with that of a stranger’s, who’s glassy eyes were staring out at you as a singular tear dripped into a puddle of blood forming just underneath his head.

The stranger you once knew was dead.

#yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi smut #yoongi au #yoongi scenarios #bts yoongi #bts au #bts scenarios #bangtan #bangtan sonyeondan #beyond the scene

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monabela · 7 years

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no one told me it was femslash february before the month actually started, but I managed to throw something together! I present a series of AUs (loosely) based on Sonata Arctica songs bc I'm always a slut for Sonata Arctica (and femslash). there's ten of them, all different f/f Hetalia pairings. with canon female characters :D I hope I can actually finish all ten before the end of the month! we shall see.

a chapter starts anew

part I of the femslash Sonata Arctica AUs

Now when you think it's all over, you find love A flower stars to bloom, a chapter starts anew The greatest moment in life

- Larger Than Life

characters/pairings: Belgium (Manon)/Hungary (Erzsébet), Spain (Antonio), Netherlands (Martin), Luxembourg (Noah)

word count: 2114 summary: Manon Leclercq is a world famous actress who never had time to build a life between her roles. Until she meets Erzsébet Héderváry.

warning: character death (but not in a tragic way? just because the characters are old)

She had been one of the first of her kind. Some people would argue that she was the only of her kind, but she never believed that.

Her name had buzzed around theaters and smoke-filled bars, hummed to the tune of rock-n-roll hits, whispered reverently by young girls putting on bright red lipstick and young men trying to get to them.

She had wondered if it was all worth it, at that point.

Manon Leclercq. Was that her? Was she the person going on stage to collect award after award? Were those her arms heavy with flowers? Who was Manon Leclercq?

She flitted from role to role without pause, without consideration for much else. She always had been a hard worker; sometimes, she could feel the blisters on her fingers from the factory work she had done during the war still, as clear as she could see the scar on her elder brother’s face or the guarded closeness on her younger one’s.

She had only been 21 when she’d done her first movie, and sometimes Manon felt like she hadn’t sat down since. Like, maybe, she had forgotten to build something of her own in-between the lives of Lady Jane and Detective Michelle and her series of sequels.

Her brothers, bless them, spread out across the world, but wrote often of their amazing travels. Martin, the oldest of them, sent pictures and short poems. Noah sent souvenirs and foreign words. Manon read their scribbly handwritings on film sets in America, Iceland, Spain and Japan and had the feeling they were taking her more places than she was taking herself. She loved acting, didn’t doubt that she always would, but sometimes she thought that her entire life had become a movie, and not a particularly exciting one to watch.

In the late fifties, as her roles grew more prolific, she acquired a co-star in this strange movie. Well, Antonio liked to call himself her right-hand man. Or her friend. It took her a while to come around to that one.

The first full feature in color she did was with him, and the audience had been enamored with his bright green eyes. Manon liked him, and recognized that he was very handsome, but felt as though she was missing the real appeal.

People assumed they were together. They never were. It was strange even to them sometimes, that something that seemed so natural was not, in fact, the case, but they could laugh about it.

Manon was offered her first role as a mother in 1961, when she was 35. Antonio laughed at her. She accepted the part. Critics were loving. She stuck her tongue out at Antonio when she finished her Oscar acceptance speech. He swung her off the ground afterwards and probably started a whole slew of new rumors. She didn’t really care, even if Martin ranted in his letters that Antonio wasn’t good enough for her and she should watch her back.

Manon grew older, and her roles grew, but she wasn’t sure that she did so herself. Even on her fortieth birthday, she still felt like the country girl coming into the big city she’d been at 21, albeit with dyed hair and crow’s feet around her eyes. She watched Antonio and Martin snipe at each other affectionately, Noah trying to defend his beard by saying it was fashionable. There was still so much life stretched out before her, god willing, and she was happy but wanted something more.

Over the years, Manon had been with a few men. Because they were nice, and it was what was expected of her. It wasn’t until 1972 that everything fell into place.

Her name was Erzsébet Héderváry, but almost everyone called her Liz. She was from Hungary and told the most interesting stories about life on the other side of the Curtain, and even if some of them seemed completely unbelievable, Manon kept listening to the woman’s accented voice, enraptured. Familiar words took on new shapes on her tongue and smiling lips. She worked on the photography for Manon’s latest movie and didn’t seem to grasp how big Manon was around here.

It was refreshing.

Erzsébet had green eyes too, and Manon finally saw the appeal, though it wasn’t because of the color. It was because they crinkled and lit up with sparkles when she smiled, sometimes shone with repressed longing for her distant home country. They seemed to see Manon for who she was, which was as confusing as it was thrilling, because who was that, anyway?

Manon Leclercq, 47 years old, properly in love for the first time in her life. With a woman.

She wondered if Erzsébet saw that, too, and what she thought of it.

She told Antonio, because god knew Antonio was enjoying the sexual revolution as if he were 26 again and being proclaimed the country’s most eligible bachelor. He laughed, but quickly turned serious when he realized that Manon was.

He said, as he almost always did, to let everything flow its natural course, which sounded hippie-ish enough that Manon hung up on him in a huff.

Still, she took the advice.

It led to a friendship with Erzsébet, who was, so it turned out, two years older than Manon, and gladly taught her Hungarian words, had a habit of dropping by whenever she was around and calling at odd times when she wasn’t. She was as dedicated to her art as Manon was to hers, which Manon admired immensely.

And, as Antonio miraculously settled down and started doing musicals – playing a surprising amount of villain roles before moving on to directing –, Martin published his poems and Noah fell in love with a woman on a faraway island, Manon passed fifty and only fell deeper for Erzsébet with every laugh, every flick of brown hair and every word about her performances, positive or negative. Erzsébet was never afraid to tell Manon what she truly thought, which was just another good thing about her.

Manon’s roles slowly dwindled down, and she decided to take some time off – take some time off! – when she had been offered three witch parts in a row.

Erzsébet laughed, told her that she was far too beautiful to be a witch, and came with her without her having to ask. They went to see Antonio and Manon’s brothers and travelled through as much of Europe as they could.

When Manon came back home in 1980, she found that the press didn’t wonder en masse where she’d been like they once would have. Thing were coming to an end, apparently. There were new faces to wear the masks she’d donned, and even if red lipstick and petticoats had long since gone out of style and it was all jeans and neon now, she was certain much remained the same, and was happy to give advice to younger actors playing her children, or even her grandchildren, when she got back to her job.

Still, there was more free time now. Time to sit back and reflect on life. Time to drink wine with Erzsébet and Antonio and listen to them banter about the latest musicals or the cinematography of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, which Manon still hadn’t seen after eight years despite Antonio trying to drag her to special showings every year.

She finally watched it on VHS with running commentary from Erzsébet. The commentary was the best part – she wasn’t sure about the movie itself. It was strange. Erzsébet had a lot to say about the camera work but also sang along to all the songs, horribly.

When it was 1983, and Erzsébet had not stopped singing Africa in months, Manon won an Oscar for Best Actress. It wasn’t her first, but she knew with certainty it would be the last. She wasn’t old, but she was old enough, and that year off with Erzsébet had shown her what she wanted for the rest of her life.

Erzsébet followed her into retirement, no questions asked, and with a minimum of protests about Manon covering most of their expenses.

They saw the country together. Erzsébet followed the situation in Hungary with apparent anxiety. Manon learned to play the guitar and went to see a musical Antonio was directing that had songs written by Martin. Noah came back from his island with two daughters, and dressed in all black.

Erzsébet kissed Manon on her fifty-ninth birthday. It was so surreal that she forgot to kiss back, leading to Erzsébet pulling away, face stony but beautiful green eyes panicked. They flitted around the garden nervously. There was a smudge of Manon’s red lipstick on her lips.

Manon touched her own mouth, then pulled Erzsébet down when she tried to stand up.

Her hair was soft between Manon’s fingers, her lips dry beneath hers, and the soft sound she made when she kissed back would be seared into Manon’s memory for the rest of her life.

Antonio screamed at her in excitement when she told him. Martin just hummed as he tended to do, but he looked pleased. Noah and Manon’s nieces were quietly happy. It was more than she possibly could have hoped for.

The press staunchly refused to acknowledge the mere possibility of Manon and Erzsébet being anything beyond very good friends. While Manon scathingly thought they probably didn’t want their precious piece of movie history sullied by the fact that she happened to be in love with a woman, it also suited them quite well like that.

They traveled to Hungary in 1990, and Erzsébet cried for the first time in all those years Manon had known her. Her shoulders shook when she sank to her knees in the place where she had grown up, love and hate and sadness and bliss spilling out while her grey-streaked hair curtained her off from the rest of the world.

Yet, she had never been more beautiful to Manon. She loved this woman.

1995 marked the first time Manon’s relationship with Erzsébet was acknowledged without a hint of malice or underlying criticism.

Manon, who had by then earned the status of ‘icon’, which she loved and hated – it made her feel very old, but it was an honor – took her to a gala, and who said no to an icon of the film industry when she said the woman by her side was her life partner, right?

The press were mostly neutral on them. Manon attributed it to the fact that she really wasn’t that interesting anymore, no matter what Erzsébet told her with that gorgeous, familiar face of hers.

Manon was often told that she’d aged with grace, but she dyed her hair still, and her hands were quickly becoming alarmingly unsteady. Erzsébet, even with grey hair, looked every bit as youthful as the day Manon had first met her. And that wasn’t Manon’s prejudice talking, no matter what she said about that.

Noah disappeared in the spring of 1997, on one of his aimless trips around the world. His last postcard was sent from Slovenia, saying he was traveling east and sending much love to his grandchildren, and then there was nothing. Manon reckoned that was probably the way Noah preferred things. He’d always been fond of the mysterious.

Antonio forgot who Erzsébet was, but never Manon, not once. He recited a line from their first movie together with his last breath.

Martin did a surprisingly heartfelt poem at his memorial. Erzsébet held Manon’s hand, stroking the frail skin wordlessly. She didn’t cry. Erzsébet Héderváry didn’t cry, except for that one time in Hungary.

The second exception to that rule happened in December 2005. Manon told her to stop it, then. She didn’t want the last thing she saw to be her teary face. Erzsébet laughed through her tears and complained that Martin had taken way too long with her. Manon told her he’d been writing a poem as quickly as he could, which wasn’t very quick when his fingers never stopped shaking and the words could take minutes to find. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful poem.

Wasn’t it cruel, that Martin was the last one of them left, when he was the oldest?

Rather than telling her he wasn’t the last one left yet, Erzsébet told stories about her childhood and about their life together, some heavily embellished as always. It made Manon smile.

Manon Leclercq, iconic movie star, passed away aged 79, in the company of her life partner, Erzsébet Héderváry.

No one but them ever knew that she opened her eyes a last time, felt time slipping away as Erzsébet grasped her fingers, and whispered to her.

“I love you.”

#aph yuri #hunbelg #aph hungary #aph belgium #hetalia #w: 2500 #u: human #u: actors #u: historical #fin #fssa #I love hunbelg it's like. my second favorite femslash pairing #also I just remembered that like a century ago I promised to dedicate the hunbelg I was writing to scarlettlillies #this is not that one but here you go #my mom after I explained this story to her: so the lesson we learn from this is that even lesbians die?

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